The Mysterious Stranger

In my mind's eye, this is a version of me, Marylinn's Giant Book of Manifestation under my arm, sly glances about the street, off to make all my wishes real.

Illustrator:  N. C. Wyeth,
July 1916, from Mark Twain's The Mysterious Stranger. "On the fourth day comes the astrologer from his crumbling old tower."

With an infinite capacity for self-delusion or, in less abrasive terms, self-confusion, we (by which I mean I) believe it is not only my assignment to figure it all out, but that it is within the realm of the possible, ignoring all natural laws to the contrary. Townes Van Zandt knows this territory well.

The longer I keep my passport current for this galactic voyage, the greater my awareness that I have one choice if I am  to be anything other than in opposition with my own life.  That choice is surrender.   That this is true for me does not assure me it is true for you as well, but signs point to yes.  Surrender is letting go, so different than giving up.  Surrender is acknowledging that there is an answer but that it hasn't shown up yet.  No amount of effort or intellect, will or desire can change that.  Last night I dreamed I was explaining to a child, impatient for some happy outcome, that things take a long time.  A very long time.  I felt myself as both characters, asking and receiving the unwelcome response, breaking the not-really-bad news, making smoothing motions with my hands to show how it does, eventually and miraculously, come level.

My art for today will be something yet unknown.  It will not be the magical lettering for the cover of my Giant Book of Manifestation.  It may be performance art: a rubber band around my wrist to remind me to snap out of it.  We are not intended to sink into our dreams but to soar along side, carry them under our flared and fraying sleeves, not the book of wishes asking them to come, please.  Soon.