Jan. 15th, 2010 at 6:03 AM
There’s something to be said for being assigned things to do, as opposed to just sitting around, as Dusty Springfield once warbled, “Wishing and hoping and thinking and whatever that last one was …”, to the point where you’re concentrating so hard you have a bad headache from the intense squinting and look more constipated than hopeful.
The first assignment was to keep track of everything I was doing in a journal. I was hoping “Live Journal” counted as a journal, but apparently, they were looking for a lined, bound, paper-based journal, I have no idea why. I do know I didn’t have one.
I also know that you can’t just write in an elegant leather-bound journal with any handy 2-cent ballpoint pen; for this you need a fountain pen. A good fountain pen. I actually had a fountain pen, but it was a cheap knock-off picked up on sale at Staples and was poorly made; requiring a good shake every five words, along with constant cleaning – end result being that I ended up spattered with so much black ink that every attempt at writing with dignity and grace and trying to look like Queen Victoria ended with a hot shower and a good loofah scrub. In fact, I’m wondering if Queen Victoria ended up roaring for a loofah scrubs and hot baths every time she wrote letters with crappy fountain pens.
So I definitely needed a good working fountain pen. Off to Joon’s website for a pen. Trust me – if anyone’s going to entice you to mortgage your home just to own a magnificent fountain pen, they’re the ones who are going to do it. And then to Journaling.com for a journal.
I love Joon’s … where you can ogle Caran d’Ache of Switzerland’s Ganache Limited Edition for $11,650 (complete with solid gold plating and rubies), or the Cartier Dragon Decor Limited Edition Fountain Pen for $9,300; a Dunhill Sentryman Swarovski Crystal Limited Edition Fountain Pen for $5270, a Krone Forbidden City Limited Edition Hand Painted Fountain Pen for $5,100 – and a bunch of them so expensive you have to request the price … and we all know what THAT means (“if you have to ask the price … leave now and retire quietly to your hovel.”) After sadly acknowledging that I am SO in the wrong income bracket for most of these beauties, I settle for something a little less awesome, but still pretty pricey because … well, because they’re Joon’s. Anything else, and it would be like walking into Cartier’s and asking for a plastic keyring or something.
I’m realizing this soul mate is going to cost me big bucks before I even meet the guy.
The second assignment is going to be slightly annoying anyway, because I’m notoriously inept with scissors and paste: making a Treasure Map. Strikes me as a silly name anyway – why not just call it a collage? You take a poster board, you cut out pictures, you grab a tourniquet and stem the blood flow from your gruesome accident with the sharp scissors, you cut out more pictures and words a little more carefully this time and paste them on the board. Easy! Collage! Am I right?
Why no, I’m wrong, it isn’t a collage, says the author, who is backed up by Shakti Gawain on the internet: “A treasure map is an actual, physical picture of your desired reality. It is valuable because it forms an especially clear, sharp image which can then attract and focus energy into your goal. You can make a treasure map by drawing or painting it, or by making a collage using pictures and words cut from magazines, books or cards, photographs, drawings, and so on. Basically the treasure map should show you in your ideal scene, with your goal fully realized.”
Ah. See? Collage! I knew I wasn’t nuts. As for “drawing and/or painting” it seems unlikely that I could wander into a local art supply store and find a personal “paint by number” treasure map, and my drawing barely passed the stick figure level of skill. I’m pretty much stuck with the cutting and pasting and tourniqueting. And even that’s a challenge, because had I known I would need them later, I wouldn’t have tossed out all the magazines I read and then discarded.
“Be sure to put yourself in the picture. For a very realistic effect, use a photograph of yourself. Otherwise draw yourself in. Show yourself being, doing, or having your desired objective.
Show the situation in its ideal, complete form, as if it already exists. You don't need to indicate how it's going to come about. This is the finished product. Don't show anything negative or undesirable.
What, you mean like this?
“Yes, I mean like that! That’s negative! A runaway bride reflects a latent hostility and fear! Completely undesirable! Bad student! Bad! You’re the worst student I’ve ever had! The absolute worst! Are you really serious about this? Because if you’re not, you are wasting MY time and …”
I slam the book shut. Having a book abuse you in your own shrill voice is really disconcerting.
“Use lots of color in your treasure map to increase the power and impact on your consciousness. Include some symbol of the infinite which has meaning and power for you, that represents universal intelligence. This is an acknowledgment and a reminder that everything comes from the infinite source. Put affirmations on your treasure map. "This, or something better, now manifests for me in totally satisfying and harmonious ways, for the highest good of all concerned.
The process of creating your treasure map is a powerful step toward manifesting your goal. Now just spend a few minutes each day quietly looking at it, and every once in a while throughout the day give it a thought. That is all that's necessary.”
So, while I’m shuffling groggily around CVS waiting for my industrial-strength antibiotic prescription to be filled, I stock up on poster board and glue sticks. I still can’t envision what I’ll make with these items, but I’m hoping the creative impetus will kick in once my sinuses clear up. Meanwhile, I return to the abrupt questions meant to judge my “Soul mate IQ”, which I have to admit, seems to be placing me squarely on the “moronic” end of the IQ scale, so far.
Question #3: If your soul mate had the ability to observe your life right now, would you be proud of what he would see?
Well, first ... talk about your spooky scenario! I now imagine some strange, unknown man hovering over a witch's crystal ball like Judy Garland observing her Auntie Em, or Frodo gazing trancelike, into Galadriel's water basin, watching the Shire burn up while his eyes bug out in horror. Meanwhile, the subject of his voyeuristic observation - which is to say, me - isn't aware I'm being watched. Proud??? I'm supposed to feel proud? Creeped out is more like it. And who is he to judge, anyway? Like he's so perfect??? How come I don’t get to spy on HIM on this scenario? What does HE do, when he doesn’t think anyone’s watching, huh? Fart? Scratch himself absentmindedly in weird places? Belch? Sneak a peek or ten or fifty at the Playboy Channel? Down a fifth of whiskey and fall over dead drunk in rose bushes? I’ll bet HE doesn’t have much to be proud of either, the creepy low-life!
(Ah. I see the man in the black suit - see last entry - has returned. Stop. Take a deep breath, sweetie. Inhale. Exhale.)
Darn. I thought I got rid of that guy. Went straight from thinking “Soul mate” to thinking “Unsanitary, Drunk and Unkempt, Porn-Addicted Psycho Peeping Stalker” in a blink of an eye, didn’t I? Almost as bad as the entrails-covered beggar on the hand cart. (*sigh*)
Okay, well, if the imaginary Bruno Santos didn’t work, we’ll try replacing the stubbornly tenacious Man in the Black Suit with an imaginary David Midthunder. True, the real item is already happily married, but he’s actually here to represent “The Coolest Last Name to Inherit – Ever! - if You’re Going to Marry A Soul mate.” Midthunder … sort of rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it? … and with apologies to the real Mrs. Midthunder, I have to say, imagine the pleasure in being able to introduce yourself to the ladies of the Snooty Blue-Blooded Tuscaloosa Garden Club, who are all busy eyeballing your gorgeous husband’s intense bedroom eyes with their tongues hanging out, fanning themselves with wilted handkerchiefs.
“Helllllo, ladies. Ah’m Missus Midthunder.” Then you watch in silent amusement as they all frantically thumb through their DAR Blue Books, looking nervously bewildered and wanting to know, “Ah say, are you’ all the Midthundaaahs who came ovah heah on the Mayflower?” – to which you get to smile sweetly and reply, “No, dahlin’, we’re the Midthundaaahs who met your li’l ole’ rowboat at the dock!” But that’s another day’s entry.
On to Day #4.
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