Lydia Aswolf

He was afraid.

I could feel the fear coming off of him in waves.

Yet, he was also hungry.

He’d had to fend for himself on the streets, you see.

I could see, as he approached, the scar tissue.

So many fights.

Too many nights without food.

Caution is a inborn trait.

A fine one, really.

It protects us from ourselves at times.

At other times, it protects us from others.

He was cautious, yet hopeful.

Perhaps this night he would not go without.

There was a chance he might even fill his stomach.

Yet he still used the caution bred in him before getting closer.

I provided the food he needed.

He ate whilst keeping one eye on me.

I felt pity.

I wished I could do more.

But you can only do so much with one who has been hurt too badly to trust.

Time is needed.

Great care, so as not to rip open any scar tissue that hasn’t quite healed.

He was riddled with it.

I could see patches of scar tissue on his shoulder.

Part of a ear was missing.

It’s no wonder he didn’t venture out more often.

He looked a wreck.

He felt a wreck.

Being an empath comes in handy sometimes.

It allows you to feel what others feel.

In doing so, you can see what can be salvaged, if anything.

When the world has continued to rape and pillage one’s soul.

So little hope in the world today.

All about oneself.

Never about the other.

We learn fear of the other at our parents knee.

Sometimes, we fear for ourselves at our parent’s knees.

This only increases the self preservation genes we are born with.

We know we must do for ourselves.

Do we ever realize others feel as hopeless.

Need as much as we do?

There are people who care.

I’m not going to say I’m necessarily one of them.

Because it depends on how you feel to me.

If you live for yourself, you can fuck off.

If you try to do for others as well as yourself.

If you have seen some shit in your life.

Been through some shit.

And survived.

I’ll do just about anything I can for you.

If you sacrifice for others.

Specifically if you sacrifice for others and always put yourself last.

I’m gonna have some problems with you.

There is a fine line between sacrifice and becoming a door mat.

For others to step on.

Many give too much, taking little or nothing at all.

Take some for yourself.

All this and more flew threw my mind as he shoveled the food in.

He looked up at me.

Our eyes met.

His a shade of blue that matched the dawn sky.

He opened his mouth, as if to speak.

Then fled.

I knew I would see him again.

One of the many perks of being a psychic.

I sat there, pondering our world.

The world that let him down.

The world that lets us all down.

As well it should.

Life is not meant to be pretty.

The worst experiences create wisdom.

I got up and walked into my house.

Did my thing.

The next few weeks, he came back every single night.

Every single night I gave him food.

Then I went on vacation.

I felt I might see him again.

But I was not sure.

I thought about him on vacation.

Him and others like him.

Good souls.

In the worst of circumstances.

Good souls perhaps because of the worst of circumstances.

If life does not test you.

You do not become strong.

How do you tell the good from the utterly self absorbed, stinking messes we all encounter?

You don’t.

For today.

He came back.

I brought food out for him to eat.

He did something different this time.

In the midst of eating.

He left his meal.

Came over hesitantly.

Mounted the steps where I was perched, smoking a cigarette (hey, nobody’s perfect).

I gingerly reached out my hand.

First physical contact is always rife with uncertainty.

He rubbed his head on my hand.

Scent glands are located on either side of a cat’s jaw.

He marked me as his own.

I stroked him gently, getting rid of all the fur needing shed for summer months yet to come.

He purred his delight.

I thought again about good souls and not so great souls.

I thought about how one can’t always tell which is which.

I thought about trust.

Trust must be earned over time.

It is not a given in any relationship.

Nor should it be.

Trust earned is the sweetest fruit of all that exist.

I earned White Cat’s trust today.

As so often seems to be the case.

I find myself writing yet again about an animal.

Yet I find it fitting.

Many believe animals were put on this earth for our use.

Believe in the concept of “dumb animals.”

I see and believe something very different.

I see souls that need love, touch, affection.

Connection.

As much as we do.

How can one tell good from bad in humanity.

If they cannot see humanity in animals?

Within every experience.

Lies a lesson.

From the smallest lessons do great things burst forth.

Be willling to see and learn from the smaller things.

From observation and examination.

Wisdom comes.

May we all be wise.

You might recall our radio show, Psychically Correct, went on hiatus so I could write my first book (which is done; busy submitting to literary agents) and just enjoy time with my lovely co-host, Suzanne, and mingle our families…which went almost too well.

As in, our kids are making plans to move us to Texas, while Suzanne’s kids are making plans to ask neighbors to vacate their homes for us. In the meantime, a home is up for sale in our neighborhood; of course our kids asked if Suzanne and Co. could move in, preferably this week.

In any case, working on second book now even though first is merely being submitted to literary agents (God hates a quitter, lol), kids will be in school soon, so Suzanne and I have decided to bring Psychically Correct back to life..albeit on a new network.

Because we want kids settled in school first, we will be booting up Psychically Correct sometime in September; in between me beating kids with lightsabers, charging bitches who block my way to clearance racks, and getting tossed out of palmists place, lol!

Our first guest will be Bethanne Elion, who has Memoirs of the Bathtub Psychic coming out on October 16, 2009….I have her link on the right hand side of this page, terrific book, amazing seer, and killer person, check it out if you’re a mind to, and especially if you are a animal lover.

Stay tuned…only about a month left til we get our asses in gear and back on the air with our special guest, Bethanne Elion!

You might recall my mischief in Texas with my best pal, Suzanne.

If one reads my blog at all, they are fully aware I don’t need to be elsewhere to cause trouble.

So it was two days ago.

I found myself glaring out of my large picture window.

Watching Swallows (of Neighborhell 1021 fame) run after kids with a lightsaber in his hand.

The kids were terrified.

I was furious.

Mind you, to be fair.

He wasn’t hurting them.

He was just intimidating them, forcing them to run under his thrusts and parries with the lightsaber.

Swallows is the biggest kid in the neighborhood.

He is also the most obnoxious kid in the neighborhood.

Swallows will cheat to get his way in any game.

He favors his siblings over everyone else, even when they have done wrong.

This is a child who, after a day of playing in my waterslide, trampoline, and pool.

Deigned to call me a bitch under his breath whilst sitting on my trampoline eating the snacks I provided.

All because he couldn’t jump as high as he wanted.

There were smaller kids on the trampoline, and I didn’t want them getting what little sense they possessed knocked out of their heads.

He didn’t return to my waterslide, my pool, my trampoline after that day.

Swallows is also the kid who has made both my sons cry on several occasions.

This has done little to engender any respect or caring for him in my mind.

I told myself, glaring at Swallows out my picture window.

That I would not engage him.

I then told my husband I would not give into temptation.

Not five minutes later, out the door I went.

Apparently, they were having a lightsaber competition.

Three hits with lightsaber, you were out.

I volunteered to play immediately.

Swallows began to look frightened, and his brothers dropped out of the contest.

They had good reason to do so.

You see, I have played street hockey with Spits, Swallows, and Puke of Neighborhell 1021 fame.

On one memorable street hockey occasion.

I whacked Spits in the calf, hard.

When he complained.

I answered his piteous “That hurt!” comment with one of my own.

“If you wanna play, you gonna pay.”

He shut up…but dropped out of the game.

That’s rather the mark of a bully, isn’t it?

To drop out when victory over smaller kids isn’t assured.

Puke, Spits and Swallows, all brothers, utilize this behavior day after day.

I am not a patient person.

I am incapable of refraining from action when I feel something is wrong.

So, with Swallows looking frightened, I joined in the competition.

He was my target, but I had to go up against others first.

I took it as easy as possible on them whilst ensuring I’d be around to take on Swallows.

Still, I am a competitor at heart, so it wasn’t THAT easy, if you catch my drift.

In such a way is respect instilled in the young who believe all adults do is sit around eating bon bons all day.

I’d rather they know, given half a chance, I can and will kick their ass.

I’d rather they realize if I exist, other adults like me must.

A little fear is not a bad thing.

After my last match, Swallows actually admitted to fear.

This was good, and a wide, evil grin stretched across my face.

If you’ll remember the rules.

Three lightsaber touches, and you were out.

When Swallows stepped up, trembling slightly.

Evil grin still on my face.

I went after him with a will.

I should mention that Swallows is working his way on twelve and only a couple inches shorter than me.

I suppose I add this because I want you to understand the other kids are significantly smaller, and he needed a real opponent to show him his posturing was useless against a more experienced opponent.

He soon learned this.

I had Swallows running as I whacked him mercilessly with the lightsaber.

So now he knew what I’d set out to show him.

What it’s like to run from someone who never lets up.

In a game, one should give and take.

What I viewed…what infuriated me, watching from my picture window earlier.

Was that Swallows gave nothing.

He took, then swaggered back to take on another child.

A child smaller, weaker, and less skilled than him per virtue of her years.

In turn, when I faced Swallows.

I gave nothing, so that he would feel as powerless as he willingly made others feel.

My favorite part?

When I whacked him upside the head not once, not twice, but three times.

With my handy dandy lightsaber.

I was grinning fiercely as I did it.

He greatly resembled someone about to soil themselves.

It might not have, in all truth, been the shots to the head that caused this.

I’d gotten a few jabs close to his crotch.

Just to make him dance to my tune, if you get me.

That said.

I am nothing if not fair.

Swallows lightly jabbed me three times.

Shortly after I liberally applied my lightsaber to his head.

As soon as I felt the last touch.

I announced “You beat me, fair and square.”

And bowed out.

As Swallows was considerably out of breath from the running I had forced on him.

He could not exactly reply with dignity or grace.

I take it as a point of pride that he was more out of breath than I was.

I again acknowledged that he had won, told him good job, and went to smoke a cigarette.

Hey, I never claimed to be pure as snow.

The mere fact that I’ve smacked kids with hockey sticks and now lightsabers should have clued you into that.

As I sat and grabbed my smokes.

I looked to see how Swallows was taking his “victory.”

A empty victory indeed, as while we jousted, we were surrounded by a ring of laughing, cheering children.

Who do you think they were egging on?

These children who had just been running away from the bully Swallows.

Were screaming at me to hit harder, faster, lower, higher, and so on.

I didn’t blame them.

Justice comes all to little to children in their dealings with bullies.

Justice often comes all too little to children in life, period.

I was glad to have played a part in the hand Justice dealt out.

I noted whilst lighting up (bad psychic, BAD psychic)).

That Swallows was outside the circle of giggling children.

Still breathing with difficulty, he turned.

Walked into his house.

And wasn’t seen for two hours.

His departure went unnoticed by the other children.

Who had busily began a game of hide-and-seek, a game no bullies participated in.

Swallows, Spits, and Puke had all went in after my defeat (for that’s what it really was) of Swallows.

All too soon, they would come back out.

I still hold the slow motion image of the lightsaber smacking Swallows face once, twice, three times in my mind’s eye.

Too glorious a image to erase, really.

Puke, Spits, and Swallows know they play their own game with me.

They attempt to hide what they do to the other kids.

I seek…then find.

Hard lessons teach the most.

Seems hockey sticks and lightsabers do, too.

Well, I finally joined Facebook.

I’d forgotten what a bitch it is to add friends.

It’s a real bitch.

So, for anyone out there who wants to listen to my inane comments, just look up Lydia Aswolf.

Hell, I’m even on twitter.

But I don’t promote myself.

I just mutter whatever inane shit comes to mind.

Sometimes I go missing for days.

Which should come as a relief.

Too much of me is NOT a good thing.

So you know, I understand if you don’t run right out and add me as a friend on Facebook.

Or become a follower on Twitter.

I mean, sure.

I’ll be bitter and traumatized for the rest of my life if you don’t.

But then again,

I was pretty bitter and traumatized anyhow.

I was relaying this tale to a gaggle of little girls today who laughed uproariously, so I figured what the hell?

I suppose I was ten years old.

Gangly, and a helluva tomboy.

I loved to climb trees, play football with boys, and beat the living shit out of anyone who got in my way.

Not a glowing recommendation, I know.

Nevertheless, it is one  of many reasons I got a tattoo of a wolf ripping it’s way out of my skin.

My temperment isn’t what you would call sedate.

In any event, my twin brother and I enjoyed swinging from trees in a apelike fashion.

On our favorite tree, we had what we deemed a “elevator.”

This was a branch that we reached out, grabbed, and swung on to reach yet another branch.

As we were lowered onto the branch, thus the name “elevator” seemed appropriate.

We spent hours upon countless hours riding the elevator, a good ten feet up in the air.

At risk of sounding elderly and infirm.

These were the days in which you could safely play outdoors when your parent’s had not one goddamned clue where you happened to be.

Those were heady days.

Pack a picnic lunch, head out for the day, and not be seen til dusk or later.

My youngest sons have never had so much as a taste of this sort of life.

My oldest had a limited taste, and I’m sure one day, they shall reminisce over it as I reminisce over the good old days of my youth.

it is perhaps a sad thing that we live in such fear for our children’s sakes.

Perhaps it is necessary, perhaps not, that is a topic for another day.

Back to the tree.

One humid day when the clouds hung low and dark with the promise of rain soon to come.

My twin brother and I were dinking around in our tree.

Luckily the threat of rain had kept my brother from his original purpose, which was to start a fire.

That dork liked to start fires.

Not in a creepy, omg, he’s crazy way.

In as responsible a way as any ten year old boy starting fires can be.

In his defense, I will say that my own father had started fires that brought out the fire department, after sweeping over a acre of our property, and our neighbors.

My twin’s plans were never so ambitious.

Given the fact I have personally witnessed my husband pile branches higher than I thought was humanly possible.

Squirt three full cans of lighter fluid on the trees remains.

Leap back whilst throwing match.

Then watch as a living tree a full fifteen feet away was incinerated by the shooting flames.

Smiling in a decidedly neandertal fashion the whole time.

I think all men love fire.

It’s why they grill, and I’ll grant them that it was a wonderful discovery.

Yet again, I digress.

My apologies, but if you have read my blog at all, you are familiar with my wandering thoughts.

On this particular sultry day, as my brother was taking yet another swing on the elevator.

We heard a crack.

Now, I have mentioned we were ten, yes?

So, what fucking ten year old pays mind to a little eensy cracking sound from a tree branch.

My twin brother didn’t even hesitate.

No, off into space he flew, right down onto the branch he intended to hit.

My turn came next, with my brother looking up at me.

I grasped the elevator branch, swung…

And fell a good ten feet.

Apparently, I should have paid more mind to the ominous grinding sounds the branch made when my twin swung on it.

This was the last coherent thought I remember having as I hurtled towards the ground.

I hit.

When I came to, not that I’m completely sure I lost conciousness.

My twin was nowhere in sight.

Not that I blamed his ass then, or to this day.

When some shit goes down, the absolute best thing to do is run away from whatever form said shit is taking.

I did it.

He did it.

Any kid with a brain in his head does the same thing, and I don’t hold it against them, either.

I got up, and stumbled up the hill, still shaken.

As I approached my brother, I noted he was playing a game with a neighbor kid.

This told me I had to have been knocked out for a bit.

Either that, or he was involved in one of the greatest camouflage moves ever.

Both our neighbor kid and my brother stopped and stared when I approached.

Not aware quite what they were looking at, I did what seemed best at the time.

I asked them what the fuck they were looking at.

They asked why I was holding a ginormous tree branch aloft over my head.

Apparently, I had been holding the ginormous tree branch above my head for the entire march across our yard.

In the exact same pose with which I had fallen with it.

Lacking anything else to hold, apparently I had hoped against hope it would somehow save me.

I looked up, dazed, at my outstretched arms, attached to hands that were grasping the branch in a death grip.

My twin brother had to help me pry my fingers off.

Now, this true story is good for two things.

First, it establishes that trees are not huge fans of mine (another blog posts concerns me falling ass over head out of a tree, down a considerable slope in my yard. But perhaps that was my fault, not the trees)

Second, it makes a good case for me being in some way mentally affected by the fall.

I’m sure my clients would be at least willing to admit I lack a tact gene.

Perhaps they can assign this incident as responsible for that lack.

I myself believe I was born without a tactful bone in my body.

As to the trees.

I think they are taking their frustration out on the wrong person.

I hope they find the fucker responsible for their upset.

Soon.

I don’t quite agree with the sentiment in the title of this blog.

Of course, that might be because I had a total blast in Texas with Suzanne and her family.

In spite of the chigger attack.

In spite of smacking my pinkie toe into Suzanne’s bathroom door so hard it turned black.

In spite of being kicked out of a palmist shop.

In spite of nearly charging a peroxide blonde who blocked my way to a clearance rack.

NEVER block my way to a clearance rack.

Truth is, I miss the bustling activity at Suzanne’s.

Our kids kept occupied, the men drank beer and watched movies that always included gunfire.

While Suzanne and I talked on and on…so much so, we often forgot what the hell we had been setting out to do before getting distracted.

I seriously miss talking to Suzanne, in person.

Instant messaging and texting are not comparable.

As all things must, however, our time came to a end, and here I sit.

At home, composing this blog.

A blog about nothing much.

Perhaps I don’t agree with the sentiment there’s no place like home, because when we arrived home.

After a nineteen hour journey.

We found that our basement had flooded, and every single piece of furniture had up to inch of mold on it.

That we discovered this at 4am after having been on the road since oh gosh, 8am or 9am, did not help.

But by now we’ve toted all furniture upstairs and out the door.

Arranged for city to pick it up.

Bleached the living shit out of the basement.

Then again.

It could be because my lovely tattoo is itching like you wouldn’t fucking believe.

Now, I can “do” pain.

It doesn’t get me off or anything, but I can handle it.

But itching?

Sweet God, the itching is killing me.

I know it means I’m healing really well.

I just don’t give a shit.

I haven’t scratched once, a miracle in and of itself.

But oh God, I want to.

I’ve had yeast infections that itched less (file that under tmi, but hell, you read it, I just wrote it)

I’m still shopping for literary agents.

Nine rejections so far.

But you know what?

Thank GOD these literary agents were polite enough to reject me in writing.

Rather than letting me hang, unaware, biting my fake nails.

It won’t deter me.

I will continue to submit.

In fact, I will be starting on my second book, dealing with all aspects of love in my own unique style this week.

I will continue to submit to literary agents.

But why not put the time to good use by writing another missive, on something everyone wants to know about?

I will keep blogging…as I seem to be incapable of staying out of trouble.

As do my kids and husband.

I figure a laugh is a good thing, so I’ll keep inadvertantly providing them.

It’s funny.

I dreaded coming home and starting on second book.

No literary agent in place for first one.

But for all I know, I might sell second first, before first.

It’d be just like me.

Bass ackwards.

Wow, Suzanne and I didn’t even get kicked out!

Love, love, loves it (my best Gollum impersonation)!!!

I did not, in case anyone is wondering, cry, puke, or soil myself.

I have, after all, given birth, so having yet another needle inserted into me didn’t make me flinch.

Special thanks to Paul Boatright, the kick ass artist who gave me this beautiful piece.

If you ever want to check out Paul Boatright’s work, go to http://www.americantattoocompany.com

Better yet, if your sorry ass is anywhere near North Houston, Texas, head on over and see Paul’s amazing work, or better yet, let him lay one on you (a tattoo, sicko).

Calm dude, didn’t mind my incessant cursing, and even dredged up a laugh a time or two.

Paul Boatright works with you, and I do mean WITH you, he took a half a hour or more to get what I wanted exactly right.

I just want everyone to know I paid him and tipped nicely, so I’m not kissing his ass for a gratis job.

I never kiss ass.

You might note I don’t have a brown nose in the pic of me making a goofy face.

This is because no ass has touched my dainty nose; one never will.

The wolf in so many ways has always represented me; for those clients who know me well, and my close friends and family members, the wolf on the attack ripping it’s way out of my skin is something the poor dears see all too often….then again, it’s often for their sake, so they know not to complain too damn much!

Adios, amigos….I now have my own personal warning label if anyone gets too close.

As my wedding anniversary is tomorrow, I intend to plow through a few crowds, causing riots if possible.

Be careful if you’re out there.

I bite.

I just got thrown out of a palmist shop.

Shortly after having my money thrown at me by the palmistry reader.

I don’t know how I get into this shit.

I know I have no tact.

I know I have low (make that zero) patience for bullshit.

But damn.

Still in Texas, with my best pal Suzanne.

We thought it would be a treat to go see the palmistry dude.

Said palmistry dude specialized in Taoist palmistry, which I am not trained in.

So we made the appointment, and set out with high expectations.

We get there, dude is nice enough, goes over my palms, tells me some right things.

Some wrong things.

Then he tells me that I must meditate to open my mind and help clients better.

To open myself to get more information.

To be healthy, happy, and whole.

I have tried for years to meditate, as has my best pal Suzanne.

We can’t do it.

I’m so fucked up, I’ve tried being hypnotized four times.

Never works.

When I told him meditation was out of the question, he looked at me like I was a praying mantis.

A larger than life praying mantis drooling gooey, most likely infectious shit.

A praying mantis that might bite his head off.

Then he made a mistake.

He told me “You’re not special”

Suzanne knows me very well…upon his uttering this, she began to shrink into the wall.

It offered no protection, but she gave it her best effort.

I am not special.

I will never be special.

I don’t want to be special.

I want to be my vulgar, flaw filled self, along with all us other humans.

As a psychic, I NEVER want to be thought of as special.

To think of yourself as something special can result in the loss of your psychic-medium abilities.

It absolutely will impair your ability to read accurately, or at all.

It’s best for psychics and mediums to think of themselves as lesser than everyone else.

In doing so, they run no risk of buying into the hype and losing their ability to help people.

I let the palmist know as such.

He was not happy.

He would not shut his face about meditating, but he also mentioned sea salt baths.

Soley for the purpose of shutting him up, I said I’d do sea salt baths.

He then added “Practice meditation, too”

I said, “I can do sea salt, but I cannot do meditation”

Suzanne wisely sat up and asked if perhaps meditation might assist me in writing my second book.

He stared at my best pal blankly, at a total loss.

I don’t know if he was having a aneurysm or just a brain fart.

All I know is it looked painful.

He then proceeded to try yet again to convince me meditation was the only course of action for someone as obviously out of control and damaged as I was.

That I needed it to be open.

Whereupon I informed him that any psychic or medium worth their salt keeps a shell of protection around them.

People don’t come to psychics or mediums in good times.

They come to us in the worst times.

We see all the darkness, pain, and suffering the world provides to the inoocent.

We cannot fail to be affected by it, yet we cannot allow ourselves to be affected by it.

So we create a shell that is impermeable around us to most effectively read for and assist our clients.

I told him I don’t want to see or be open to more than I am every day.

He looked at me like I was a piece of particularly pungeant dog shit on the bottom of his shoe.

Suzanne was busily gathering up her purse and cell phone in the corner.

I thought it best to try and retrieve a situation that had gone bad.

I’m a empath, as is Suzanne…and the atmosphere was getting pretty nasty in that tiny room.

So, I said, “Perhaps I’m not understanding you correctly. You must understand, I don’t have the patience God gave a gnat, and I don’t always get what I should at first pass. I’m awfully stubborn, too, so if you could explain what I should do, it would help a great deal.”

Throughout our “reading” the palmistry dude had been steadily moving his rolling chair (handy) further and further away from me and Suzanne.

After I uttered my last admission of guilt in being a NORMAL HUMAN BEING who lacked a little bit..okay, a great deal, if any, patience.

He got up.

Pulled our money out of his back pocket.

Threw it at us (dude owes me a buck in change)

And escorted us out the door of his reading room.

He then waved his arm in the direction of the door leading outside.

Message clear, I apologized to Suzanne, who laughed and said she didn’t care as we made our way to the door.

Before I walked out, I said loudly (I know no other way) and sarcastically (um, can’t help it) “Well, that was fun.

You know what the real miracle is?

Suzanne still wants to go out in public with me.