Is It In The Cards?

I've started reading ordinary playing cards.  Here's what happened.
Last week I watched two videos featuring Doreen Virtue and Radleigh Valentine discuss reading tarot cards.
They were mildly interesting, but one thing did strike me. Each said the interpretation of the card is what you feel about it, not just the denotative meaning of the card.
I've tried tarot from time to time and I've had more misses than hits. The key to understanding what I was attempting was missing.
After the videos I got it.
Once I had the key I had the feeling that ordinary playing cards would work just as well as a dedicated tarot pack.
I played with the tarot a bit, then dug out the playing cards.

I cleansed them, went through the deck thanking each card for its help, and then asked the All Of The Above* for guidance in receiving and understanding what the cards said.

What a blast.

It was cold and wet on Saturday with a bit of snow so I asked the cards if the Saw-whet evening was going ahead. The cards said yes. If you look at the post underneath this one, you'll note they were correct.

This could easily be coincidence. When you ask a yes or no question you have an equal chance of being right or being wrong.
But I still call it a win.

I've been using the cards almost every day and am still learning what each means to me. I don't know that I would ever do this for a living, but it could happen. Over the years I've asked the All Of The Above what I will do and I've always been told it is something I'd never think I'd be doing.
This certainly qualifies.

No matter what this is a fun tool for receiving guidance and I will keep at it until I decide not to anymore.

Meanwhile, I asked the other day who would win the federal election Oct. 19. According to to the cards it's Justin Trudeau.
Two weeks from now we'll know if that was in the cards.
--
I used to go through the long list of God, Angels, Archangels, Higher Self, All That Is, Universe, Guides, Helpers, Spirit, etc., All Of The Above is easier.

Gratitude Monday - I Can Read

I can read.
I am a happy about it.
Reading means worlds open up to me that might not if I didn't know what all those weird squiggles on the page meant.
I can lose myself in a book, communicate with friends and relatives online, and read a note from my husband telling me where he went while I was out.
Without reading it is unlikely I could write. I could dictate stories for others to put on paper or computer file, but I would never see for myself what I said and neither could I check the accuracy of what was written for me.
We often forget to acknowledge our basic skills. We may not need reading to survive, but it does help considerably.
It is something to build on, to use to our advantage, and to enjoy.
It's right under our very noses all the time and I've been taking it for granted.
Today I'd like to rectify that.
I can read, and I am grateful for the skill.

Something Weird is Happening

Kootenay Lake during one of the ferry crossings. The idea suited the post.

I'm not quite sure what to make of this. Now that I'm back reading I realized that the 50 or so books on my To Be Read pile were nowhere near enough. I had to go to a bookstore and I had to get story books. Novels. Stuff talented folk made up.
Most of the TBR pile is non-fiction and that's wonderful, but I want characters and dialogue and a plot or three.
My happy if perplexing problem was what interests me now? I stood amongst the shelves and wondered what do I like? Do I still like science fiction and fantasy?
Yes. I bought the first three books in Terry Pratchett's Discworld series.
What else?
Frankly, the choices were overwhelming. It's been so long since I hung around the fiction and literature section of the store I felt like a neophyte. Hell, call it what it is: I felt like a virgin.
I settled on The Shack by Wm. Paul Young to see what all the fuss is about, then Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray and decided that was enough for my first trip back in years.
When I got home I rooted through my TBR pile to pick out the novels and found I had a hardcover collection of Wilde from a yard sale last spring. Sigh. That'll teach me to rescue books and then ignore them.
It's not just reading. I don't know what to eat now either. A few months back I decided to make a point of eating oatmeal for breakfast every day. I usually manage it 5-6 times a week. It keeps my blood sugar even so I rarely crave sweets now. That is good and not so surprising. What did surprise me was it cut down my need for salt. I hardly add any to food on my plate and I rarely want to eat any salty snacks.
I'd also decided to cut out excess fat just to see what would happen. So I gave up butter and found I actually like dry toast. It was only supposed to be an experiment and it was only supposed to be for a few weeks. That was back in August.
I no longer know what to read, and by my own hand I have no clue what to eat.
It's weird, and that's usually good so I'll presume this is good, too.

Two Sentence Tuesday – Eight Side Shoed Edition

I haven’t done much reading lately. The time goes too quickly and I keep having other things to do first. This must stop.
We still have our bedtime stories though. There’s always time for those.

We’re on book three of Warriors: Forest of Secrets, by Erin Hunter (Avon Books, 2003). The series is largely about warring clans of pussycats.

Two sentences from a recent night’s read:

"Halfway down the hollow she paused, stiffening as she sniffed the air. 'There are Thunderclan cats here!' she hissed."

I recently finished correcting the obvious mistakes in my NaNo novel from last year. I was tempted to use two sentences from it for what I’ve read, but that’s too much like navel gazing from the inside.
I’ve managed a bit of rewriting. Much more awaits.
One mistake was compounded by my use of auto correct during writing. I had to stop and think the other day what “eight side shoed” really meant. I decided it was probably “each side showed,” but now I want to write a story calling for octagonal footwear.

My current opening paragraph from my WIP, The Legend of Shallal:

"Atlal ran her fingers lightly over her breasts confirming they had restructured. The transformation to female from male went swiftly and appeared to be without incident. It usually was, but she still checked each time. "

For more, or to find out how to participate, please see the Women of Mystery.

**

The photo is of the morning sun peeking through the fog. It reminds me of my writing.

Twofer Tuesday - Another Sign, Another Prohibition

In this installment of Twofer Tuesday I'll share with you yet another sign. This time, I hope someone can explain to me why our National Park Service is so dead set against this.
My two sentences that I read, and I have the sign to prove it, are:

"Please do not use feet to flush the toilet."
"Push and hold the handle to flush!"

While I'm sure the Parks have a reason for this it brought out the rebel in me. I followed the regulations, but I tell you what, I sure wanted to use my feet.


As for my sentences, well, I was away for a few days so I haven't added much to A Fly on the Wall recently, but I managed to put a few words together.

My two:

“Soap opera?” Brelyan’s brows threatened to meet in the middle. “Soap sings? It has a story to tell?”
His eyes widened and his brows went back to their proper places. “There’s so much about this time I have to learn. So much.”

For more, please see Women of Mystery.

Twosday Triumphs

The fine writers at Women of Mystery have something going on called Two Sentence Tuesday.
I've played once or twice, but put my sentences up over there. Today, for a refreshing change of pace, I thought I'd foul my own nest instead.
Offerings are to include two sentences that I've read over the past week and two I've written.
What I've read:

"Some people, for example, think spirit sounds spooky; they may find consciousness more appealing.
Soul sounds ominous to some; extended self-awareness, though, can convey the same meaning."
-from Edgar Cayce Answers Life's 10 Most Important Questions, by John G. Fuller, Warner Books, 1989.

And my offerings for the past week:

“Arturs, are you sure you should use the word living?”
"It makes my point. And I can be killed therefore I must be alive. Anyway, I’m not going to argue the finer points of my existence. Especially given that you can’t die at all.”

It's a bit more than two, but they go together and I didn't want to break things up.

Thanks for reading.

On The Lighter Side

I'm rerunning these Prozac Palace posts with the hope that anyone who needs to read this sort of thing will find it.
The material will also form part of my memoir. Offering it out is difficult, but necessary. Responses are probably also difficult, and not required, but they are appreciated.
**
From June 2007:

Can good things come out of mental illness?

Certainly they can. It varies from person to person of course, and it depends on what you do with what life hands you.

For me, my sister’s illness led to reading. I bought my first science fiction paperback at one of her sessions and was later introduced to Mad Magazine.

If memory serves my sister’s first visits to a psychiatrists began in the spring of 1968. I went along and waited in building lobby with an aunt. I can’t recall if there was drugstore or what, but there was a rack with paperbacks. I went over to it a few times. Eventually I decided on E. E. “Doc” Smith’s Masters of the Vortex. I never did finish reading it. It was the final installment of a series that I’d never heard of and wasn’t invested in. That doesn’t matter. I loved science fiction from that moment forward.

It seems to me that Dawn saw this psychiatrist for about a year. Her problems were eventually written off as growing pains (or so I was told) and she didn’t get any further help for several years.

Back to the good point. One fine day in the winter following the sessions my mom came home with Mad Magazine. Both parents had read it and both were smiling. They thought it was hilarious. It was and I was hooked.

From that day until sometime in my 20s I faithfully bought every issue. Its satire has stuck with me. Every so often I’ll recall a movie song or TV show title they skewered and smile.

Yes, it reminds me of life with Dawn. But it’s a good memory. Without her insanity I wouldn’t have been exposed to Mad.
**
Notes on the republishing of this post.
It didn’t literally lead to reading. I was already an avid reader. It affirmed my love of the written word and books gave me somewhere to go.
My use of “One fine day” and the post title “One The Lighter Side” are made with a very deep, reverential bow to Mad Magazine.

Bedtime Stories

For 17 years now my husband has read me a bedtime story. He thought everyone needed a bedtime story and to this day I can’t find a reason to disagree. We even took a book along on a camping trip to Inuvik, NWT. It was June in the Canadian north and natural light was abundant so a bedtime read was easy.

We’ve gone though many, many books over the years. We’re just in the home stretch of finishing Manda Scott’s quadrology on Boudica, England’s warrior Queen. Next is the final installment of Harry Potter.

He switched jobs recently from running a small health food store to driving a truck. Days are long and he is usually very tired. He’s up early and therefore has to go to bed early.

The fun in the mix is my circadian rhythms have altered a wee bit. I get a minor energy surge right in mid-evening. Right around the time he needs to sleep I feel like writing.

I have a choice: write or spend time with my husband.

If I absolutely must write I can scribble out a few notes and attend to them in the morning. I can get up after the story and write if need be. Certainly there are those moments when I feel I should just get the writing done. I can always have the story tomorrow night.
Well, maybe. But the day will come when I won’t have that option.

What it comes down to is how would I rather spend my time and which would I regret later?

The only thing that matters in life is how we treat people, ourselves included. Work and money and gaining more stuff are secondary. Yes, work is important. If I didn’t think my writing was important I wouldn’t be doing it. Certainly it’s important to me.

But stack it up against time with my husband and a bedtime story? No. That’s just not a real choice.

Story time is sacred. It’s time together and it adds to our quality of life. It’s relaxing and helps us both sleep.

And who would turn down a bedtime story?
Not me. Especially now that the Boudica is about to boot Rome out of Britain and Harry Potter is waiting in the wings.

It Was Once

I used to hide when I read. Not physically, but I’d lose myself in something so completely, so wholly, that it took me away. I was sure that I’d melted through time and space, that I was within the pages, that I’d become one with the story itself.
I’ve hidden in many books, stories, and poem over the years and I was fortunate to have found so many of them here:
The Canadian Readers Book IV, W.J. Gage & Co., Limited / T. Nelson & Sons, Limited, 1931. Copyright 1921.

It was my dad’s school reader. I found it when I was seven or eight and discovered it contained everything I ever needed in a book and everything that made me know I was a writer.

I still have it. It’s got one of my favorite poems, A Hindu Fable by John Godfrey Saxe. It’s been around for quite some time in slightly different versions, but you’ll know it. It’s the poem about six blind fellows who happen upon an elephant and, after feeling a different part, each describe what the elephant is like.

It’s got famous stories and excerpts from well-loved books. I read Damon and Pythias and King Arthur’s Sword. I learned of Phaeton and The Hammer of Thor, and Christmas Dinner from A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens
There’s an excerpt one of favorite books, Heidi, by Johanna Spyri, and my favorite poem, The Walrus and the Carpenter, by Lewis Carroll.
But it was the Brothers Grimm who transported me with The Shoemaker and The Elves.

I could feel myself in the poor shoemaker’s shop. I felt cold and dark and it was so real to me. I’ve read the story countless times and never tire of it.

Back when I was young it spoke to me of something half-remembered as if I’d lived in the time of the poor shoemaker. I felt this familiarity in my cells.
I love this story and the feelings it evoked in me. Years ago I studied German and learned enough to read a simple version of this story, Die Wichtelmänner, in its original tongue. For practice I translated it back to English. It took me 10 evenings to do it.

Out of curiosity I compared my version with a translation in a child’s storybook and found them very close. It was a satisfying find.
It is my favorite story. I’ve let the German go although I like to believe I can still get through Die Wichtelmänner.

Even if I find I can’t, those first few words, “Es war einmal” literally “It was once” our “Once upon a time,” still transport me.