Psychic Dharma Bums

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Morning at the crash pad. Nicknamed “The Maxi-Pad” where Lydia and her coven of alt-rock punk friends squat around the breakfast nook and share the rent.

Lydia happens to agree with the funny news-bait that reveals psychotics like their coffee black, according to a study. A perfect conversation as she knocks back a sip with her porcelain-white fingers and looks up with a murky “in-joke” and touch of devilish irony.

Strange and unusual– though she doesn’t make any claims just to stand-out, or “feel special” as half the law of attraction is saying little and letting them come to you.

Lydia befuddles the psychiatrist who doesn’t know what to make of her, and the fact she sees ghosts. He calls her schitzo-affective though the patient agrees: “yeah, very effective” like some kind of back-handed compliment as you have to be a little crazy to believe in yourself, or refuse “to settle-down” and give-up the goth thing.

It comes and goes “in spells” where the phase of living worlds and the netherworld come into concomitant alignment.  Just take it for granted that around the kitchen table with the cat slinking in and out of your ankles that she can take your hand and lift-off together on some journey of astral-projection, or psychic transference to another dimension like an LSD trip shot through the cosmos.

Strange, invisible energies– as people have reported batting around balls of light like a mutually-shared table-tennis hallucination and other weirder effects.

Be careful that the astral-strings that root you to a physical-body don’t fray– otherwise keeping your soul moored back in bio-living principle. Say “a homeless spirit” looking in through the eyes of another and possessing them or showing-up at a seance.

Meanwhile, the super-galactic heads of Warner Bros. hash over ideas in a board-room as Lydia and the players “poke in and out” of the narrative in funny ways, even personally appearing at script-meetings as they’re chewed-out over loose ends in the story.

Do you call upon the dark? Spirits may drop by and kick your Ouija board, aside. They say that if you talk into a CB-radio and advertise yourself out in the middle of a dark highway it won’t be long before you’re smashed-under by a honking truck.

But as Lydia gets further into the world of the dead and gains ghostly, transient qualities she begins to fade away– calling to her friends out the window of a shut-off room, upstairs though they can’t hear her or see her. Is it worth the price for an LSD-like show, or making the cereal-boxes twirl around on the counter all by themselves?

Being dead is not all flower bouquets and laudatory obituaries as then you have to call limbo your home and report your eerie activities to the office of quotas to justify keeping you around, feeding off the frightened energies of the bio-living and ascending up to higher levels of haunting professionalism. You think “it’s all a picnic”?

Maybe one day you graduate to genie, angel, or demi-god like a multi-level marketing scheme of universal order. Don’t count on it. . . . .

On a side note. . . . .

Psychic Dharma Bums

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