Margaret, my psychic friend (or friend who is psychic), told me I'm all yellow bursting solar plexus, right now. I'm hiding out at home with a low-grade fever and sore throat and can feel my flesh burn, chill and hum and letting dreamland envelope and possess me on my couch all day, again and again.
Once upon a time, I was a psychic friend. Sad and freaked out people would call the 900 line and they would get to talk to Mia (one of my AKAs) and she would tell them yes, of course, the cards and the stars and my guides say yes, you will be loved again. That's what most callers wanted to know.
Then, I moved to New Mexico because it was new, said so in the name. I used to do romantic things like move across the country to a place with a poetic name and get paid to be a charlatan with an AKA and sleep with strangers named Krishna I met at the river and believe the stars could guide me to my heart. (Now, I'm logical and practical although I still believe in dreamland and evidently my solar plexus has started bleeding yellow in the psychic plane.) Anyway, in New Mexico, I met Margaret an expat Scot who lived in a trailer in the foothills and owned a store called the Lyceum where she read playing cards. Really, she had you pick seven cards and she would hold them to her cancerous breast and recite all of the harder truths you knew but didn't feel like realizing and you could fit them into whichever context you felt you could hold in your palm without spilling them on the floor. Later, she cut off her right breast and started predicting with amazon precision via telephone which is how I learned to always bet on green and that today I am pouring yellow.