What’s normal?

Who’s normal?

When normal?

How, why, normal?

Who says what’s?

Mine’s as mine as my foot size.

Defined, solidified by National Geographic

Boxes and shelves of people who almost must exist, sort of, because there are pictures

They sorta exist

You know, to be in here, to strike me

Look at that!

So I can dig in the boxes for the most shocking naked, huge, wrinkly, big bright feathery, tiny, adorable or sinking bony.

Curious dark friendly eyes slanting behind skins and furs

Naked painted long breasted moms

All that stuff on their heads taller is than they are

funny expressions

why would anyone move like that?

And in public.

Measuring the world with my foot.

Where Am I When I Need Me?

I’m just want to name, own, describe, and get what I do.

I’m pretty clear who I am.

My gifts are part magic part audacity, part art

Lots of ever kind of composition, strings of intuition, mostly listening, while taking things apart.

Mostly, I just pay a fresh attention, wonder, do research and thought experiments, maybe try a few things, cuz I really do wonder about that, then wonder aloud. Tweak my own perspective if something’s really stuck. Mostly, my client winnies out then names what’s going on. She comes up with answers , then figures out how to see it, feel, think and act. While I just sit there and wonder.

I sit there openly wondering about one thing and another. While also in Wonder and jaw dropping amazement as mere becomes super.

So, you think shifting that this way will cut out the friction over there?


Why can’t I see how that’s working then?

Oh, so you say you just needed a cog there, then, yeah I totally see how that works.

But that’s not the magic.

I guess I market their ideas dreams and themselves to them.

So by the time it’s done, they own it, made it, believe in it. They believe in themselves are right in the middle of their purpose.

I think I sorta allow people to reinvent themselves, their relationships, goals, purpose, system, then I market what I see to them.

They buy themselves and walk away rich.

I think the hardest thing for me is to admit that this is so easy and joyful for me that I’d get on buses just to sit next to someone to see one small part of a life turn around, a brightness, a bounce, a stunned or contemplative look, maybe an aura of joy, before one of us reaches our stop. An addictive time sensitive game. I wouldn’t do it in pursuit of just a smile. Smiles are like snow flakes. Unless my victim hasn’t smiled in a decade. Then, they’ll be smiling when they step off the bus. That would be a win.

The other, and more terribly hard thing for me about thing is the awkwardness of charging of people for a gift that feels kinda magical cuz describing how it’s done in unimaginable and duplicating it is dead.

Also, what if I commit to help, and gasp! charge, and then the genie that actually does all the work doesn’t show up!?

I fear. No, dread and deal dead having to do the same thing every day. I know there’s no magic or future for me in attempting rote magic production. Yet, for some irrational reason I can’t stop feeling it’s to be my fate if I dare put my name out there to get paid for this.

I have this fear of ending up like the farmer’s daughter. The one who got locked in a cellar after her father boasted that she could spin straw into gold. She gets locked up and cornered into weaving more straw into gold, every night. Suck might happen to me too, till I end up promising my soul and my firstborn to to Rumplestilskin. Letting people who are counting on me down is just as terrifying.

I guess when you live in a magical world you have fairytale fears. And just because it doesn’t exist, doesn’t mean I don’t keep backing away from some invisible thing in my imagination.

I need someone like me to help me out. I’m dang good at helping folks kick imaginary shit they’ve been backing away from’s ass.


Where am I when I need me?