Loki is 84 years old, at least. The same age my tarot card reader told me I was supposed to die. Which I think is wrong, by the way. I expect to either die younger, or die older. I think maybe that was meant to fill me with optimism. As 84 is an old age to die. Maybe in Portugal. Maybe that is when I stop being productive. Stop bearing children. Maybe that is when I first begin my beginnings.
Somehow, I needed to convey to my psychic that I already knew what she would tell me before I walked in the door. That everything she said I indicated by my own intent, and that I found her hucksterism insulting. As if she could read me better than the winds of the universe, the ocean of my soul, right outside my kitchen door, right inside me.
Loki is as excited every time he gets to go outside the big door. More so even than when he was a puppy. His vigor amazes me, coupled with the wisdom to know how to sulk. How far he can push for what he truly wants.
We have a basic understanding, a detente, that he can lounge on the porch as long as he doesn't go and scavenge the multi-ethnic food in the neighborhood.
He stays up there. Even Niles joined him today. That porch is getting used. Especially since it is the only place I can get good cell phone coverage.
Loki will be more delighted, I'm sure, as the winter sets in. And I am forced outside to sell what I have to sell.
Removing the stranglehold other people have had on me and my business has been both liberating and scary. It's easier to run a business without taking ultimate responsibility for the bottom line, but without that bottom line, the business, and everyone that believes in it, has nothing to spring forward from.
Now with a team in place I can trust completely, I have no doubts about where my dreams will be made. I just need to look at going outside with the same enthuthiasm as Loki, who knows perhaps how valuable each breath becomes, as the vessel we each ride in begins its inexorable return to the one, the beloved, the ultimate ego, beyond time, beyond self.
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