“There was a time when the work I created was more angry and aggressive. I used those emotions. At some point, I discovered that it’s better…what I was doing was I was avoiding my problems through the music, so now I create stuff that actually help me work as a tool. Using music as a tool rather than as a pure expressive point of release, you know. The songs have now become for me, personally, my music and the way I use it as a set of tools to help me through different emotional parts…” -Random Rab
“When Jesus met Mary”
Fiction. Based on a True Goodbye Croatia.
by Mingjie Zhai
All journal entries are inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
It’s been raining and shining, raining and shining, and the Croatian man who carries your luggage makes the comment that the weather has been strange. He has a low, Russian-esque kind of accent when he speaks English to you…like a Russian Mafia who keeps many secrets, especially from the ones he loves the most, to protect them, of course.
His eyes are sharp teal and you can’t help but notice the level of hardness: sharpened, wizened, and psychopathic. You guessed 23 and he looks surprised that you were right the first time.
“You are a smart man too, I’m sure,” you say to him.
“Smart, but my teacher and school friends tell me I’m also lazy,” he says.
“Perhaps, but smart people work smart not hard.”
He and you both have a type of understanding of a rigged system that is beyond any one person’s control. He tells you his brother is in Ireland, apparently having a better life with better things yet both you and him doubt the veracity of this feedback his brother gave him. Perhaps, it is peppered with ego.
He asks you how long you’ve stayed here and you say three months— “well, one month in Montenegro and two in Croatia…”
He sounds surprised.
“Why so long?”
“I work and travel at the same time,” you say, “online.”
That’s not entirely true.
Technically, you’re a retired teacher.
Two suicide attempts and four mental hospitalization stays later, and your disability is now up for review.
You think that perhaps it’s time you wean off and get back into the grind of everybody else’s grind, but you are to win a race. Stop comparing yourself to others and don’t feel guilty about formulating a startup work life you’ve dreamed of building—the work, travel, and self-educational journey.
You sabotaged UC Berkeley Graduate School and you don’t regret it.
“So you have a good life, yes?”
You are getting your first donation from a friend who knows board members of a foundation. It’s a small sum that won’t pay your bill, but at least you’re not in UC Berkeley graduate school debt. You owe your parents the most money. You don’t say any of this. You feign a cool demeanor.
13 months ago you were in a mental hospital in Hawthorne, putting the psychotropic drugs under your tongue and spitting them out since you were mandated to take these crazy meds two times a day, surrounded by white walls, with only 15 minutes of sky time a day. You were a trapped mouse and perhaps that’s what’s driving you to travel and see as many places as possible. You know the best medicine is seeing the mountains, rivers, butterflies, lightning storms, and telling their story as the silver lining of your recovery.
“I would say…better than most,” you say.
And you are right.
Most people will be at the same stand for the rest of their lives.
Most people will be the ward of a prison, a mental hospital, a school made of concrete for the rest of their lives. Travel is a luxury indeed. That is reserved for the 1% and apparently, even making ⅓ of what you used to make, you are still considered the 1%…well, perhaps 2% compared to the rest of the world.
“I noticed the Croatian men here are men,” you say. “What we have back in California are…” you think of something less critical, “…guys.”
You realize why you are so attracted to the men in Croatia…they have the spirit of your father… born in poverty—third world perhaps—a broken system, going through changes, massive changes. Croatia survived the breakup of Yugoslavia, a utopia gone dystopian, and then the suppressed shadow coming out—the genocidal proclivity to accelerate heaven on earth, thinking it’s the “other” that’s the problem when it’s one’s own projection that’s the problem. Yet, the men you have met here are the inheritors of ghosts—the trauma—a nightmare, the distant memory, still palpable in the cigarette stains on their teeth and the trembling flush of their cheeks when historical bloodlines are crossed and conjured up during everyday slights.
He smiles and reminds you of the white boy, Aaron’s friend, who drove the black BMW, a boy struggling to get out of the white trash status he came from and into something respectable through the hustle of selling alternative stock.
“You should try Croatian men,” he tells you.
You almost did.
But you prayed to God for help.
The lust is too powerful for you to fight.
So the Croatian man came down with the flu for a week.
And when the rich man you were dating in Berlin wanted to get intimate with you towards the last few dates, you got struck with the flu.
Do you believe in miracles?
Even if that miracle came in the form of a fever, congestion, and lots of rest in bed?
Says the woman who sat for 14 days in a mental institution.
Yes, I do.
I believe in Miracles.
You’ve always been fascinated by men. You’re eating at an Asian wok restaurant, the only Asian-esque restaurant in a three mile radius of Dubrovnik, and you see a bald headed Croatian ready to strike the sitting man looking up at him, trying to explain away something. The man standing and shaking uncontrollably is handsome—he has a skin head with two tungsten rings on his left ear. You’re facing his left fist, clenched hotly, that’s about to land on the sitting man. You realize that the more the sitting man tries to explain away something that probably offended the skinhead, the more angry the man got. It was his skinny buddy wearing the gray shirt—the one that somehow reminded you of a rat, a yes-man, a suck up—that seemingly calmed down the situation by telling his angry friend to sit down with him and drink some espresso.
Or maybe it was actually you who neutralized the energy in the sphere. You stared at him, but instead of being afraid, you were slightly concerned and slightly amused, like a social scientist observing a social experiment. He notices you noticing him and immediately feels the sexual attraction you have towards him…and this drains the anger out of him.
The color of homicide is now the color of lust. At least you have that effect on homicidal men—it is somehow the same charm that has affected the close calls that were prevented in the heyday of your gangster girl phase.
From an early age, you’ve learned the ways of charm to tame an angry man. The more angry, the more you are drawn to and you stare at him, unmoved, until the man calms down.
There is something about your presence that transforms the energy of the room. The violent attractive man calms down and he instead focuses on the ethereal.
You are art.
You effect aesthetic arrest in men who are prone to violence.
You’re the madonna whore.
That’s what draws bad boys to you.
It’s the only kind of woman that could possibly transform a bad boy into his own self-awareness because the madonna whore is every bad boy’s mother.
You keep looking at him and he is keenly aware that you are looking, but you don’t look away. You are shameless about your stare. You stare in delight, in amusement, in schoolgirl fascination. You play innocent, sensual, and mysterious.
He feels your look on him and this distracts his homicidal rage. You acknowledge, in spirit, that he is capable of killing men. You are not surprised nor amused by this.
What is amusing, you say to him in the soul, is that you are able to contain it.
Now that’s the real mark of a man.
And with that, he sits. But he does not sit where the beta man asks him to sit. He sits directly at the table next to you, so if the beta man did not come to sit with him, he would be staring directly at you. You look at the man who was yelled at earlier—the one that would have been punched in the face had you not transformed the shade of red in the room with your unabashed stare at him.
You are fully aware of the heightened state of sexual attraction in the man whom you are attracted to. It’s a radar. The way gays have gaydars. Hetero hunters like yourself have sex signals—You’ve learned to trust your sextincts.
This discombobulates the man. It always does. You wonder if this sexual energy comes from the kind of Mary Magdalene energy that Jesus now understands when he first felt the way Mary looked upon him.
Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary
Mary is quite a character. She is every sexy, charming, beautiful Jezebel woman on every single billboard, magazine cover, painting—seductive, intoxicating, wizened like the snake yet graceful like God’s Eve.
She is you who have this potential to become that trophy woman of some wealthy man had you fully embraced it.
You were half in and half out. You had judged it.
You stoned Mary by trying to stone yourself—many times over.
It was Mary who gave you the dark humor—the wild woman—enough to carry you through from one adventure to the next.
It was Wild Woman Mary who got you out of the 14 day hold that could have been indefinite.
There is indeed something about Mary.
Disarming Violent Men
Mary could disarm a man by the way she looked upon him. Enough to want him to take his sunglasses off in a subconscious desire for her to see the pupils of his eyes and know him—enough to see the heart of good in the heart of darkness.
What did Mary see when she first saw Jesus at Jacob’s Well?
She saw the man of Adam.
She saw the good in the bad.
What bad did she see in Jesus?
She saw his fate.
The tragedy of an iconoclast such as him to be living in this fallen world.
And yet she saw the reason for his iconoclasm. She was moved by his goodness, so much so that it moved her to want to transform.
Maybe at first she doubted, when he said that he is the messiah.
In the New Testament, it gives no indication that she questioned his authority, but you know her like you know your own shadow and the shadows of all the other tragically beautiful women whom you’ve known intimately—when the heart says “yes,” and your mind doubts what your heart just said.
Yet, even in her doubt, there’s something about this man that is different from all the other men she’s ever studied, embodied, and immersed herself with.
She saw hope, consistency, and a place called home.
She also saw something that his disciples did not see—she saw his vulnerability—his need for intimacy, for breasts to lay his head upon; she saw his desire for her, the basic carnal need for a man to come home and be embraced by the softness of a woman’s body.
If there is one sin Jesus may have committed, it would be the pursuit of Mary Magdalene, that drives him to break any preconceived notions of a perfect game plan.
He is made aware of his vulnerability as human—as but a man before the beautiful tragedy of a woman like Mary Magdalene, with eyes that can see through all men, he is made to feel powerless and naked before her intuitive wise eyes.
He is made aware of his burning yearning for a place called home in the softness of her bosom, to soften his heart in a world that requires such hardening to survive.
He is the message.
The embodiment of the message.
What did the message say in his heart when he first looked upon Mary?
The Three Dots between his thumb and pointer finger
You see three dots between his thumb and pointer finger. You wonder if this represents the Holy Trinity of protection on his life.
He is your type.
The man with the sharpened, sculpted face;
The man with the clenched fist and jaws.
The skin head.
The man who would be more than happy to fight for your honor or for your destruction.
He gives his friend a black bracelet that could represent his gang.
The other man, the rat in grey, sits between you and him.
You pray a silent prayer.
In Jesus name, please bind the spirit of rage, anger, and homicide in this man with the clenched fist. I also ask for you to loose peace, goodness, and transformation in his heart.
A few minutes later, the grey man sitting in between begins sneezing, over and over again.
His continual sneezing reminds you of Puck, the trickster, in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, who keeps creating little pieces of havoc and how in some divine orchestration, the bad turns out for the better compared to if the bad had not occurred in the first place. The negative only highlights the luminosity of light.
Dark creates the depth of light.
The Art of Light on Stage is a book you started browsing through in Mostar, a book that you picked up in Warsaw, in the middle of the woods, where you and Roxy were lost, and stumbled upon an Art House, situated somewhere between where the Japanese Embassy is and the Memorial of Chopin.
In that book, you are made aware that darkness that surrounds light reveals light’s depth.
The New Center
Jesus’ shift from center to new center was when he first met Mary.
And perhaps Mary knew from the first time she laid eyes upon Jesus, that her role in his carnal human life was to build the depth in his personal love story journey. The private space that every man requires to find his garden within the new center of his heart.
Earlier that morning, you finished traversing the walls of Dubrovnik castle/fortress. At first, you were hesitant about spending the 250 Kunas, which amounted to 33.333 dollars and the numbers, the resonance of 3s, reflect communication.
So you did, and you started with the beauty of the sunset in the Northern side of the old city the day before.
Scaling the castle walls you are hit with new insight: Jesus says that he is the Gate. Joseph Campbell says that if you can put five fingers through it, it’s a gate and if you can’t, it’s a door.
You realize that you are walking through the gates of heaven with Christ guiding you…you see glimpses of heaven everywhere.
You know understand the gate. You see heaven on earth, because you can see glimpses of it. Glimpses.
The Psych Ward
Your disability is up for review—they are looking to see if you are capable of working again.
You read your psychiatric documentation. Four hospitalizations for psychosis—the recent one last year, April 2018, and you recall it was a 14 day hold—it’s a progressive illness, but you also are hoping that it can be a regressive illness…like cancer that can recede. You were released a few days after Easter. You had lied to doctor Trickster instead of being direct and truthful to him, because you were attached to leaving early.
You became the rat in the grey suit, acting like he had somehow helped you and you were somehow appreciative of his time, when the truth is he was a fraud.
What had extended your hold?
You were calling out all the medical professionals for fraud on the first few days on lock down. Shouting inside the ER, surrounded by white walls, behind one glass wall, where people just ignored you…pretended you were a non-entity. Or rather, they were just “busy,” acting their part as nurses, doctors, and whatnot. You were looking at them in complete shock and awe.
They’re really attached to their roles aren’t they?
They are focusing on performance, ego-driven performances, rather than just being present with people. This is why you know intuitively that AI replacing humans for healthcare is a bad idea.
There were a lot of electronics beeping and you realized that the machines were talking to each other…more AI are seeping into the matrix of human existence and you are becoming aware of the other force field that aims to control humans, leveraging digital time as a way to get humans to do things on the machine’s time rather than on the spiritual timing…it aims to distract each soul from the mission of their purpose here.
You wouldn’t be surprised if they are already doing human clinical trials on Synchronicity…they need more of the hopeless to wander into invisibility so no one will notice or protest when they become guinea pigs for Darwinian paths of evil-lution.
The other day, you were listening to a journalist that you respected state something that became disconcerting to you.
He states that the homeless don’t want your help.
That’s not true.
It’s just that the homeless do not want the help you think they need.
The homeless want you to wake up.
But perhaps when Dr. Drew announced that the Bubonic Plague in Los Angeles may already be here, there may also be a hidden push to herd the homeless into a DARPA camp so that human experimentation may continue for “the sake of human evolution” or eugenic Darwinism. Eugenics and Darwinism are synonymous…After all, if natural selection is natural, then why is Eugenics considered evil? Eugenics is the man-made speeding up of that natural selection process. Why is one considered neutral and the other considered evil?
Oh yeah… genocide.
Why do we think Eugenics is evil when we have perpetuated this notion that science is the new god—-cold?
Perhaps a cold playbook—the scientist.
The mental ward
Looking back, the 14 day hold at the mental ward is a blessing in disguise because you needed to be reminded of why God had given you the freedom to do what you’re doing—don’t lose focus.
The devil aims to distract, detract, and discourage. If he can’t discourage you, he will distract you with shiny opportunities—five of them, all at the same time.
Look here, look there! Look everywhere except where God wants you to look.
It was after your second psychosis that the nurse had asked you what you did for a living. It was there, God gave you a choice and you said, “I’m a Journalist.”
It was after your fourth psychosis you discovered the true depth of God’s love for all.
The key is in Abraham. The faiths must unite—all 7—like the chakras of the body of each human, there are 7 major religions of God’s people.
Next, you head to the Franciscan Monk Monastery, and when you passed through the ticketing booth, he took your one day Dubrovnik pass and kissed it.
You smile at this gesture.
The monastery carries a heavy light and ethereal aura, in contrast to the international tourists bustling with their phones and cameras snapping away here and there. Being next to them makes you just want to put your phone away and focus on being present.
You notice the murals on the wall, specifically of the angels with expressions of awe by the sight of the newborn—God incarnate. Some angels look so amused that God is now condensed into such a finite from. As if watching a comedy of a superpower take on the disguise of a dog.
Yet the angels all marvel at this incarnate transformation. To see such grandeur now embodied into such a vulnerable soft caterpillar-like newborn, it must have been quite a sight.
This would be like the team of scientists who have seen their boss, the inventor of AI, integrate with the artificial brain stem of AI.
So here you are…the “Journal-Artist,” at the heart of Dubrovnik, the turbulence of medieval, and then a renaissance Croatia now turned into tourism Croatia. It feels out of place. Yes, people from all over the world gather here but nobody is really talking to each other except for the tour guides who are paid to talk, the waitresses and waiters who are paid to serve, and the shop owners who are incentivized to make small talk to sell.
What happened to just getting to know a person just cause? You can’t do that nowadays without coming off as strange, weird, or crazy.
While inside the Franciscan Monastery, you see several black and white photos of young African kids in the Congo, some with guns, some with masks, some staring right at you. Next to the black and white photos, and there is the story of one monk who set up a church at the heart of the Congo, and for the next 17 years, he ministered by bringing education, supplies, and the spirit of God to the children who otherwise would be enslaved by gods that required their worship as prostitutes and child soldiers…he was stabbed 17 times and his survival only made him more resolute in breaking the stronghold in the Congo for so many lost souls in the lower realms of purgatory.
You head to the Catholic Church next to the monastery and there you sat in silence. You are enveloped in centuries of artistic expressions of faith inside this spiritual portal. Namely, you see the fulfillment of Eve’s affirmative Face to Face with the serpent, “You will not surely die,” as true. And there, Mary produced the seed of everlasting life…the seed that dies for the rest of the seeds to live.
The life, death, life archetype like Joseph Campbell reveals in Reflections in the Art of Living.
What is the task as Buddha says? To witness in joyful sorrow while walking through the valley of the shadow of death.
You read Women who run with Wolves and came upon the upside down world where the living dead who are virtuous but did not make the first wave of Jesus’ herd were sent to a realm beyond the River Styx called Elysium, where orchids bloom. Here, in the underworld, it is heaven in hell. There is no night, only illuminated day and the only concern is taking right action, achieving gnosis, and depth. Those who are in the Elysian Fields can come back to earth anytime…you believe that is where you came from and you believe that is where your two children currently are.
There you sit before divine Mary, all the saints, and you feel the holy water, where you had dipped your finger into earlier, cool your forehead. You know the saints are watching, with keen knowing of everything. You hope that they are laughing at you…since you think it’s quite nice to make people laugh because that means you are bringing joy to those watching the world stage.
You also feel a sense of peace, giddiness, and a cleansing kind of joy…tears of joy, the same kind that overwhelmed you with bliss the day you married Sonny at a Tax office. You kept crying because of how much you loved him and still love him, even though the two of you were wearing Jeans and a T-shirt. You were overjoyed with being his life partner…
The bride groom…the apple of love’s eye.
You head to Marin Drzic’s house where you find out about the famous playwright, Marin, based in Dubrovnik, who wrote a famous divine comedy and something tells you that you are exactly where you are supposed to be. Inside his home, you see Tarot cards…the first is number one, who is the necromancer, the magician who communes between two realms. You believe this is a self-portrait of Marin.
Then you come across 13, and it is of The Shadow of Polydoros, which is the darkest illustration among the tarot, whose number corresponds “to the tragic destiny of the character himself. The murder of Polydoros is a symbol of all the negativity that comes to the surface as a result of human greed when accumulating earthly material goods.1”
And there it is.
The Shadow for you to integrate, staring at you, face to face, in the form of a Tarot Card, blown up into a poster-size card, encased in glass, displayed as a “museum” object, when you know better.
This is God showing you the face of the dragon you will slay.
You’ve been seeing the number 13 everywhere, but God did not show you the Shadow face of 13 until you have truly understood the meaning of 1 Corinthians 13.
The true power of 13.
There is a true 13 and a false 13.
For now we see face to face.
You leave the basement, feeling funny because the tingle of divine intervening, both positive and negative valences, are tugging at you in polar directions.
You are about to leave this “museum, ” the House of Marin Drzicá, when the clerk lady at the counter directs you to more “things to uncover” upstairs. You proceed to walk upstairs, but stop in your tracks at the sight of a hard cover red book, displayed in golden foil coverings, of a Dubrovnik aristocrat with a mirror of himself that reminded you so much of the second volume of The Love Story Journal: Multidimensions.
It is titled, “Uncle Maroye,” and the synopsis is of a Dubrovnik uncle who heads to Rome to punish his selfish and self-indulgent son who squanders his inheritance money on a famous courtesan in Rome.
Is the suggestion.
Perhaps it was a mix of magic and miracles that you are pulled in by the color red and the cover of the mirror image. The first few pages you open to are about a woman who is fixated over a man and who burns for the fool.
You think of your burning desire for Rylie, the fool.
She is stubborn indeed, for she is the fool who burns for the fool.
When you approach the clerk lady for the sale, she gives you two more books as complimentary supplements to the main play. The weight of the book is heavy and it is also heavy in the pockets, 250 kunas to be exact, which equates to about $45.
Yet, you tell yourself, listen to your intuition.
You know inside this play contains the hidden knowledge on how to transform tragedy into a divine comedy by the necromancer who wrote an autobiography hidden in fiction, the way James Joyce did for himself in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
You head upstairs and another voice tells you to take a picture of this picture—Fortuna.
Post it on Instagram.
Let it serve as a reminder when you are later in Rome that fortune favors the brave.
You told the fierce 23 year old Croatian man, “If you can fall in love even once in this lifetime—truly fall in love—you will be luckier than most.”
He looks at the rearview mirror to observe your countenance.
You look back and realize that when he had asked you if you are living a good life, and you had answered, “better than average,” you are right. You were able to choose the love of your life and actually fall in love with him, live with him, and cultivate a kind of love that is deep, gentle, and loving for the 6 golden years you two were together.
That is better than most people on this earth—to choose the man you love and for the man you have fallen in love with to love you back in kind.
Isn’t that anything anyone can ask for?
Is just to love and be loved?
He looks at you. One last look—he looks at you in a kind of amusement, admiration, and awe that stirs a deeper part of his soul to awaken.
“Thank you,” he tells you, “the conversation was very eye-opening.”
Perhaps, when it comes to spiritual matters of the heart, you are the 1%.
Waiting at Dubrovnik, Airport
You begin reading act one, scene one and it is Uncle Maroye with his servant who just arrived in Rome from Dubrovnik. You find this kind of interesting since you are at Dubrovnik, Airport, right now, en route to Rome. You will arrive there around midnight, so now you’re drinking hot chocolate and reading, counting down to when it is 7pm where you will be meeting your international editor’s meeting. Now that you are in Croatia, another is in Seattle, another San Diego, one in New Hampshire, and another now in Scotland, you realize that the international startup media org, powered by a virtual portal to unite people, is becoming a reality—yet you don’t want to become a technocrat as Hulu show, Handmaid’s Tale is predicting would happen, so you’re going to trust God to direct you in playing a non-zero-sum game.
You pay the 6 Euros to get fast internet for the meeting. You don’t regret it because the team meeting is refreshing. Each editor has their mentees to hold each other accountable to the journaling process—sometimes, all we need is validation and encouragement and permission…perhaps a witness…a kindred witness.
You began realizing towards the end of your teaching tenure, the secret to great teaching is to be the witness to someone’s being and becoming their highest version and all actions lead towards that purpose…the good, the bad, and the super ugly.
Post Script—Rome, Italy
On the day you met Papa Francesco…
You realize on page 31, the mystery is revealed in the expression, contraria contrariis curantur, meaning “opposite cures the opposite,” in the divine comedy, Uncle Maroye2.
negative (-) multiplied by a negative (-) equals (=) Positive (+)
This is the silver linings playbook.
This is the love story playbook.
Face to Face.
It is a simple algebraic equation.
You attend a Drinker’s Den meeting—your third one since you’ve arrived. You hear the voice of Rylie, spoken through the accent of a Scottish man, sharing in the basement of St. Paul’s Within the Walls Church.
There are many look-alike and sound-alike Rylies—you met one on a magazine cover in Berlin. You met several bachelors while canyoning through the Cetina river. Now you hear him—or at least the accent that reminds you of him in Rome. Yet, you know better. There is only one Rylie. He is somewhere in Los Angeles.
You also saw a picture of Van Gogh in one of the stands and once again you are reminded of the spirit of your soulmate somewhere in this God transforming world.
In tonight’s meeting, to your right is a woman with a baby, who shared about her relationship and confrontation with her mother and you smile because that is the unspoken confrontation you had with your mother. Now, your living and alive mother is making living and alive amends to you by encouraging you to sleep, relax, have fun, and travel. Then, there is the woman to your left, also with a baby and said that when she first started the 12 steps, she was approaching it like an exam—that once you get to step 9, she thought that everything will start being perfect for her. Now that she is wiser, she says, she knows better than to see step 9 as a cure-all of some sorts for her life. She kisses her baby’s forward while in between her talking. It occurs to you, in that moment, that after Roxy passes (on God’s time), she will be reincarnated back as your fully human daughter. You tear up at this thought. Tears of joy and grace.
Then, it was your turn to share:
“Forgiveness is what I’m hearing for today. I also hear that I don’t need to make phone call amends to the men in my life, whom I have had many resentments and many drinks over. I realize that I just need to make the list and really see my part in it and pray for them from a distance. I need to let go, let grow, and let God to move through all when it comes myself and all the men whom I have harmed yet hoped to have fixed.”
The woman sitting directly in front of you said, “I couldn’t bare the thought of being exposed so suddenly, so coldly, so all-at-the-same-time. I projected to the 9th step while I was working my 8th step because I thought that if I would write the things I needed to write down on my 8th that I would be obligated to take action on it on the 9th…but now I know that that’s not always the case. Sometimes, you sit with it for the rest of your life…sometimes, you have to just keep forgiving over and over and over again and make silent prayers for the ones you have resentments against.”
The missing ingredient to the 8th you’ve been stuck on and sitting on is to not take action yet take action. You thought that by writing it down, you’d have to actually call and say it out to him, in person, like a movie script, but no—sometimes, some amends you just have to keep to yourself, for the rest of your life, until death do each other’s part, and one day, the pieces will finally come together like a completed jigsaw puzzle, that bring together a fuller picture.
The woman to your left says that there is no formulaic timing. It’s time when it’s time.
Nobody is perfect, but our process is.
Whoop, there it is.
Tragic 13 and Comedic 13
The key to Shadow Integration.
13 face to face with 13
Tragedy and divine comedy.
You would be worried about this shadow 13 that’s always by your side, but you’re currently in Paul the Apostle’s spiritual portal, and he’s always there…as long as there is light, there will always be a shadow cast, until the day when all have been integrated.
St. Paul’s Church—within the walls.
You’re an insider now.
You’re at Paul’s home turf.
The orange ticket number that got you into the Vatican to meet the pope?
Your birthday, missing a 2, with karmic 9 right in the middle between your birth month and your birth year.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary.
- Reberski, Sinisa. The Play of Vidra. House of Marin Drzica, 2019. p.20 www.muzej-marindrzic.eu
- Drzic, Marin. Uncle Maroye. House of Marin Drzic Dubrovnik, 2018. p.31