It is said that Steven Hawking had a daily routine where he would ask himself six questions while planning his week. I’ve been reading about setting goals and goal planning and this is his list:

• Am I excited to be doing what I am doing or am I in mindless motion?
• Are there trade-offs between work and my relationships?
• How can I speed up the process from where I am to where I want to go?
• What big opportunities am I not pursuing that I potentially could?
• What’s a small thing that would produce a disproportionate impact?
• What could probably go wrong in the next six months in my life?

I’ve been in mindless motion for some time now. There is not much motion involved, just my sedentary self surfing the internet, wasting time. The trade-offs between my work and family are minimal; my dad would like to see me do more.

Some of the things I would like to do are listed in no particular order:

• Improve my credit score
• Buy a car (I totaled my Subaru)
• Make some presentations on Ancient Mexican Sorcery to sell as a side hustle
• Write a self-help book
• Bootstrap my business idea

When I totaled my Subaru, I should have bought another car right away, but I was stranded in Denver and I didn’t know how to drive back (I didn’t want to, either). I could have brought more stuff, which would have been nice. I had my Subaru full of personal belongings. I thought I would relocate back to Denver, but that isn’t feasible. My latest escapade and road trip sobered me up. Both my brothers are moving from Denver, leaving me with no resources to fall back on, so returning to Ohio seemed a logical choice–I will be with my Dad.

This picture represents the feeling of my spirit being fast and light. It has been 15 years since I first got sick. It isn’t a car, it isn’t a plane…what the hell is this? I can feel the tin can shake and hear the blades whirr. Maybe it needs a parachute. Zoom.

Online friends who follow each other across platforms. You may never meet, but you want to be known. You find mutual admiration in each other, the group overlaps, convenes,.changes, dies.

I found this quote to be very thought provoking.

“…When a man decides to do something, he must go all the way, but he must take responsibility for what he does. No matter what he does, he must know first why he was doing it, and then he must proceed without doubts or remorse about them.” -Castaneda, Journey to Ixtlan, pp 61

When you decide to do something, you must try your utmost and shine. Shining is a factor here, for it shows the difference between imposing your will on others and self-discipline. Ours is not the job to mold the world to our conceptions but to flow with Power. Every step of the way we can choose to stop, or pause, or begin anew in a spirit of doing our personal best, which may vary day by day just as it does man by man. If he should fail in his endeavor, he will know he gave it his best.

Knowing why you are doing something may take some self-reflection. Knowing why you’re acting is key to ensuring you understand your personal motivations, even if that comes from a place of being broken. Seeking healing and wellness is a good intent, and we may act out thinking our behavior is for the best, only to find that we are defeated in our goals, which only serves to underscore the point that we must act for Spirit and Spirit alone. When acting for Spirit, the goal is not to act impulsively but with deliberation and clarity.

I went to a Morcheeba concert one work night. I went alone, hoping a guy from work would show up (I almost invited him, but didn’t). I like to move around shows, but while watching the second half, two men approached me. Both were tall, one blonde, the other Mexican. Big guys. The Blonde introduced himself by full name, Something Something Something III. He cut in close to me and pushed me to the right, hard, and I moved away from him.

Then he pointed to a guy, “Is that your dad?”

To which I replied, “No, my dad is cooler.”

Then he pushed me to the left, full on hard on the whole time, and said, “We’re going to kick you down the stairs.”

And then the Mexican guy says, “Don’t worry, we’ll pick you up.” with a flashlight in his hand.

Then they left. But I followed and I saw them get into a short white limo and leave right away.

This was a couple of months before I went MISSING.

I’ve been paying attention to how often I fantasize. I seem to use this as a coping mechanism when I am nervous and trying to work things out.

• When I regret a choice, I tend to fantasize about alternate endings and possible futures where the choice is modified or annulled (same as a missed opportunity). For a while, I regretted all the while drinking my morning coffee all the way through. I would just spend an hour regretting everything I hadn’t done, that I didn’t say, that I didn’t want to do. Not a very good way to live your life.
• Sometimes I “hear a voice” about the reality of a situation. This is somewhat complicated to explain, so I’ll just say I can use my imagination as a kind-of forerunner, like maybe useless magic or premonition.
• I imagine so much that I take the “magic” out of a moment, ruining my own joy. I can imagine the trajectory of entire relationships. If it doesn’t end well in my head, there is no hope.
• I Imagine that everything turns out all right and I am the hero. When I was younger, I would imagine myself acting in some heroic fashion; now I imagine I have Super Powers, mostly because I am too tired to leave my chair.
• Imagination is not my only expression of anger and resentment, thankfully. I try really hard to address issues, even if things have blown over, have been forgotten, or have changed. Sometimes even years later. I know many people use imagination for retribution and flagellation, and for those moments that stick with you, a few words can reset the moment and put another back at ease, allowing them to move on. Maybe just allowing me to move on.
• Fantasy is a large part of my mental time when things are going fairly well. I use my imagination to create Hollywood stories in my head, but I have noticed over the years my thoughts are less positive and more violent.

I think my personal mood has changed, and I am more prone to despair than optimism, but, on the other hand, I seem more able to express a darker, drier sense of humor about my life and my prospects.

Ejected, Rejected. I’ve nowhere to turn. I alarm my friends and family, yell out for help, cry wolf again. Who wants me dead if not those in my own head (or my own family)? Who would dance on my grave? A lot of people, probably. 

There’s my brother’s girlfriend who hates all of creation, I think. We’ve never gotten along. My unhinged brother played a large part in my going MISSING, as I learn now following my mother’s death. Then there’s the ex-boyfriend, whom they directed the police toward. As far as I know, he is gone now, but I am confident he would do a little jig. There’s this guy I dated in high school, C., who raised his ire after I stuck my foot in my mouth and laughed when I should have cried. I’ve done that often. My sense of humor doesn’t serve me. He went on a SpaceFace tirade back in the day and clearly directed five posts to my demise. Then there’s my first boyfriend, whom I see now as a kind of a creep. He would probably be happy to know I am dead. Who else? There’s this guy from jr. high who has managed to work his way into every nook and cranny in my life, but he is far away now, so I am not so worried about my safety, but man is he invasive and he just won’t move on.

All my ex-boyfriends… probably. Let’s not cherry-pick the few evil ones. 

My life is so weird, on top of having mental illness problems, I also seem to have a lot of problems with stalkers. I recalled this guy at work who was introduced to me by a good friend and co-worker, Gary. Oddly, I had met Christian before, from work, too. But that isn’t all. He managed to pop into my life several times over. I remember this guy because I found him to be very cute, but definitely beyond my pay grade. Like Gary, I ran into him in other states as well. Obviously, we ran in the same circles, but these seemingly chance encounters now have me wondering if he wouldn’t be relieved if I just left the planet with all my awkwardness, and creepiness, too.

I don’t know. I don’t feel compelled to live a longer, more healthier life to ensure they get no satisfaction from the notification when I kick the bucket. I always wonder who would miss me? I think of my friends now and the relationships I’ve formed in response to some of these life events. I’ve reconnected, forged new paths, but now I always wonder about the new guy I meet. Who the hell is sane anyway? Seems we all have problems, don’t we? I can only hope that if there is anyone who would seek pleasure from my misery simply have bigger fish to fry.

Each one of us is born under different stars. From me born here to you born there, the stars align for each of us differently. To tell you how blessed or cursed you are, you have to walk your path, and your attitude matters here. 

Contemplating our place in the universe isn’t new. Cosmology gives us astronomy and the people who dedicate their lives to understanding our universe and beyond.

The natural world is also affected by the placement of the stars, the planets, and the moon. Stars trail from the equator and the southern hemisphere. Your place in the world determines what you see and how you see it. We are all unique: star fingerprints, each mirroring the cosmos. The stars are seemingly fixed in place, but the planets move and our Earth moves with them through time and space.

A look at the stars brings us to astrology, where the placement of celestial bodies is said to yield a map of how our life will unfold. The stars influence human affairs just as much as your personality and each one of us can say we are born under different stars, and that is simply our fate.

What about the irony of fate, where the outcome implies some sort of artistic measure of the universe. There’s the twist of fate, where the outcome can be good or bad. Then there’s a fickle fate which should be the fucking deadly hand of fickle fate. I relate to this most poignantly. How the universe shines upon some random soul, you will never know. But you will know when fate cracks through the air like so many whips that have hurt wild horses.

How you relate to Fate shows your level of optimism. Isn’t acceptance when you come to terms with your fate? And isn’t ingenuity the denial of one’s fate as final?

My friend, Jon, wonders about the difference between fate and destiny. “Fate is what life gives you. Destiny is what you do with what life gives you. People can leave their lives to fate or be inspired by a sense of destiny.” Are you at the mercy of fate or do you follow the path of destiny?

What is my Destiny, I ask? And all I can think of is me made of starlight mirroring the constellations. A time beyond this life. Death. That’s the ultimate destiny, isn’t it? It is hard for me to imagine a destiny as a greater, final completion of my life. Maybe a book?

I don’t turn outside myself to change my stars, like literally, go outside, look at the stars, and think about my place in this vast, marvelous universe. I am afraid of the dark now. I act out in weird ways instead, like hanging out at RiteAid when I need some kind of spiritual intervention.

I’ve always thought that Fate has two faces: if you look upon her favorably when you first see her, Fate is beautiful, but because Fate is, more often than not, tragic for many people, perhaps they turn in fear, and Fate is scary. Fate is not unkind, though. In the end, there is death. 

Unless it is a fate worse than death.

How humble I stand, knowing my place in the world.

Centuries ago people used to take their children to see the Magic Man to be blessed. Rites of passage cementing affinity to the spirit world happen at a very young age. Just as the world over there are rituals for birth and life’s milestones, so too, are there rituals for magic. This still happens in the mountains of Colorado where some enchanted families still exist. I know because my dad took me to see a Magic Man. 

We drove up into the peaks to a small town with hand-built homes. This home in particular was curved, with a humble entrance and round foyer. My dad met a man, I don’t recall his name, but he was tall with striking long, white hair. In the West we call them mountainbillies, like hillbillies of the South, or simply hippies who have embraced the austere cabin-living lifestyle. 

The man asked me a series of questions that even I, at the age of five, found weird. He then abruptly ushered my dad in and told me to stay put. He shut the door between the foyer and the main house. I was left stranded in the cold vestibule with a stove that wasn’t lit. It was winter. I tried to settle in, but it was freezing. I busied myself in the icy room, being awed by crystals in the windows making rainbows in the light. There were mysterious artifacts all around: minerals, gemstones, altars, curiosities, bones. I looked at everything while I waited. And waited.

When under normal circumstances, it is said the mind can produce fabricated recollections, that we can misconstrue situations and recall events differently in our minds. This is pretty common as a source for arguments between lovers. I had a philosophy professor that always talked about false memories; we might remember the tone wrong, or the words spoken may be different than what we recall. In some more extreme circumstances, an entire memory may be untrue, illusion, but yet we operate as if it is true and accurate. As such, these misperceptions can influence future behavior, carrying with them the weight of the past.

I knew this hippie was a Magic Man because of all the relics he had, like in movies when you see sorcerer Merlin or the wizard Gandalf, you know the artifacts are magic, not just to a child, but to everyone.

When leaving, the eccentric old man asked me, “Do you want Irish in you?” And I remember because the was a particular feeling of concern in his tone.

I responded, quite affirmatively, “No, and you shouldn’t either.” to which he quickly withdrew and turned away.

Little did I know he was talking to me in code, and that this would all make sense to me later.

In Western medicine, my story is viewed as delusion. Delusions are like this, long stories intertwined with reality. Some delusions are obviously false; say perhaps you think your innards have been replaced by aliens. Other delusions can technically be true, like a meth head being followed by the police. According to the researchers, these stories arise from overactive dopamine receptors, but how do we bridge the gap between the supernatural, creativity, and madness? 

What makes delusions so strange is that they do anchor in reality, and reality bolster’s their believability. The story is enhanced by real-life occurrences. While the meeting with the Magic Man is true, maybe after all he was just my dad’s weed dealer.

I was born into the “Grandfather” lineage of the Chevy magical family. They are a magic, smoking car family.

The Magic Man, as both a member and role in the Chevy family, sees to the hand off for magic from generation to generation. The handoff occurs when someone dies and passes on his magic or when someone comes of age and claims their magic. Coming of age, you learn who you are by a series of ultrapersonal psychic insights.

Part of what makes you Chevy is that you go to their Magic Man; It also means you know there is a Magic Man for you to see. Who is this person who blesses children in the ways of the old school, if you believe in that? 

At some point in your life, you are ushered in to the magic Family in which you’ll play a larger part. This typically happens at maturity, but full psychic abilities can come much later, depending on your taxonomy. The taxonomy is a series of blessings put upon the child that will eventually manifest into their greater adult life. I was ushered in at the 18 by my Family, Chevy, and again at the age of 38 by Spirit.

The onset of psychosis is what is called a prodromal phase, where you’ve not quite yet stepped out of reality. It is the onset of illness. You haven’t reached full psychosis, but everything seems alive in a new way and meaning is instilled in everything. People who have experiences this have said it is like suddenly learning a foreign language, when language meets memory and different memories take on whole new meanings. There’s code people talk and you are instantly immersed in a whole new world.

The story of delusion unfolds and recasts our memories by adding definitions and tiers, layer upon layer. As you get deeper into psychosis, a hierarchy of relevance emerges, giving greater importance to the new story. For each person who has experienced psychosis, there is a unique story, though some may be cultural. These types of delusions born of psychosis are referred to as Delusions of Grandeur because they are just too fantastic to believe and the untenable reality isn’t born out. But what of our magic man who was talking in code?

As you recall, the taxonomy is a series of blessings put upon the child that will eventually manifest into their greater adult life. The taxonomy Irish—the Irish blessing—refers to the “sad path” when making someone magic; it is the opposite of the “happy path” of the Grandfather lineage and indicates illness, pain, suffering, attack, and other unhappy occurrences that may befall a person. So, the “Irish Blessing” is actually a curse.

But what I’ve witnessed is my own “Knock of the Spirit” where Spirit saw fit to make me a Magic Man at an age I could handle it. These children we bless are the same kids that will grow up to be cursed as adults. We often hear about Spirit taking one off one’s course to their true calling, life events that usurp our plans for mundane living. Isn’t this how spirit works?

Memories are a weird thing, but delusions are even more strange. All this came to me as I sat for one evening and listened to a story unfold. Just a few hours and all the details come pouring out, which are too technical to remember well but are repeated often enough with great cohesion and clarity that it becomes an ingrained thought process over the years. People are afraid of schizophrenics because their reality seems impenetrable when there is just too much information to convey with coherence.

George Barris was buried in a gold casket.

I think there should be a new class of delusion: how your story is just insane enough to be real.