Back when I drank, I used to love to play the Therapist Game. I’d get whoever I was talking to at a party to lie down and tell me all of his or her problems, and I’d stroke my chin and say “mm hm, mm hm” a lot and “it sounds like you’re feeling [fill in the blank]“.
(I drew this.)
I went to a lovely afternoon Barbeque Sunday. There was a depressed man there with his mom, and I offered to play the Therapist Game with him. I also had tarot cards in my bag. I initially purchased them as another means to earn revenue back when I was a birthday clown, but I’d never actually read anyone’s cards but my own.
So I did a bit of a Tarot/Therapy session with him. I won’t tell you what he told me, for there’s the Code of Confidentiality, but I will say he seemed very mildly uplifted by the experience, though I have no idea why I blurted out half the stuff I did to him.
I told him he was about to go for a hellride and see everything he was attached to get ripped out from under him, that he’d feel tortured but would come to realize he didn’t need any of it anyway. I also told him good fortune was coming his way if he wasn’t too clouded by bitterness to notice.
A group of us sat in a hottub and looked up at Jupiter and the glowing stars and sang at the top of our lungs, and we talked about moving to Mexico. I doubt it’ll happen with me, but it’s nice to entertain the notion…
I’ve written and am writing music for some one act plays that open in a couple weeks. It’s a first for me–pleased as pie about it.
Back to work! Good night!
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