Celebrating Theatre: Edith O’Hara Celebrates 95-Years-Old

Edith O’Hara is 95

Unfortunately, for the first time in about three years — I did miss the celebration of the incomparable Edith O’Hara. She just turned 95-years-old. I need to go by and see her. She has kept Off Off Broadway theatre alive for nearly forty-years on 13th Street.

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Happy Birthday, Edith . . . !!

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In Case You Were Concerned: The World Will Go On

As a psychic (a person who accurately sees the future: which I am) and one who speaks to dead people (I’m also a medium) — I know that, yes, some people will leave the world on Saturday, May 21st at midnight because of reasons that are NOT associated with any rapture(s). Some people it will 1) be their time, 2) or some wacko decides the rapture prediction is true and whacks him or herself off, 3) some wackos will believe all the hype and before their suicide, they’ll take out a few family, friends and strangers [coward afraid to die alone], or some folks will 4) get into an accident and pass on from injuries.

As for the so-called rapture, of course. Two words . . .all right, a few words, mostly dirty words, come to mind. Thus, let’s skip those . . .I might go to hell!

See what freedom of speech does! Gives the people crazier than me;  yes, coming from one who speaks to dead people and sees the future (for a long freakin’ time, too), there are those crazier. This gives them an outlet to 1) gain fame, 2) get crazier people then them to donate $$$ (which the leader will utilize for his own mansion when it doesn’t happen) and 3) to try to convince himself (probably) he’s not the craziest person still walking on the planet.

Of course, he and his followers (99% of the time, I think, it’s been a man, too), give people like me a reason to laugh. And laughter cures all things! Thank you for the laughter, whack jobs!

The other reason is, for 99% of my clients — nah, make that 100% of my clients — I see you all living well past May 21, 2011. Sadly, we will also still have all these so-called “saved” followers of ‘he doesn’t deserve me to write his name (the guy who predicts this crap) hanging around and throwing us another date, I’m sure.

I think they should pick 11/11/11. More fun that way! Of course, we still have 12/12/12 or the “twelfth of never”. Much better. As for the Mayan date 12/21/2012 — again, I see 98% of my clients in the world way beyond that date, as well. We have so much time, folks!

Three separate psychics and myself (at the age of 12) predicted I would live to be 110 [I said 112-years-old]. Thus, if the three different psychics [who did not know each other or the other premonitions of me living to be older than god] — we have until, at least, September 28, 2073 (my 110th birthday). Or we have until, at least, July 4, 2076.

At the age of 12-years-old, on July 4th, 1976, my mother grounded me and I missed the Bicentennial fireworks. I swore to her, that day, in a fit of rage that I would “show her” and live to see the Tricentennial. Thus, I’m going to be around a helluva long time! And that means so are most of you!

Party on!

Love, Light & Laughter,

Angela Theresa

A New Year: September 28th, 2010

It’s a couple of days later . . . nevertheless, Tuesday, September 28th I celebrated my birthday in New York City!

I had my “Annual 29th Birthday Bash” at the lovely restaurant East of Eighth in Manhattan. My wonderful guests were my friends: Christine St. Pierre, Erica Hawkins, Jordan Auslander, Eileen Murphy, the Berg family (Ira, Caroline & Rebekah), my beloved buddy, Mozz Mendez, Joseph Fusco, Jason Brook and Loretta Dalesandro.

After the festivities at the restaurant . . . Christine, Loretta, Mozz, Joseph and I went over to Jordan’s place, which overlooks Chelsea. He lives on the 21st floor with a lovely balcony overlooking Manhattan.

Loretta, Christine and I sat on the balcony and chatted on this beautiful day and evening.

My new friend, Helen Schneider, from Switzerland, was unable to attend as she not feeling well. We made plans to meet tomorrow, before she flies back home to her husband and four children.

Love, Light & Laughter,

Angela Theresa 

Day Ninety-Seven (97): Honoring My Father

Day NinetySeven (97): Saturday, June 5th, 2010

97) Christian Mystics Understood The Law

The Law of Attraction works in the pursuit of spiritual desire just as it does for worldly things. Christianity emphasizes total submission of one’s will to the will of God. Christian mystics have understood how the twin engines of faith and belief could merge the spiritual self into alignment and even unity with its Source. Some say that through divine grace they entered transcendental realms and moved closer to God.

Mystics of all religions have exhibited paranormal powers, gained knowledge and perceived truth through an inner knowing. That is not to say that all mystical experiences are pleasant. However, the understanding that mystics come away with from time spent in transcendental states have sometimes enabled them to manifest or create from spiritual desires (often to help others).

Today, my Daddy, Michael Egic, would’ve turned 97yearsold

…he made it to 73-years-old, nevertheless. He died on February 4th, 1987. The same day as Liberace. My father died that morning, Liberace died that evening.

Get this…my father was born on June 5th, 1913 in McKeesport, Pennsylvania. At that time, it was almost all immigrant families from Yugoslavia. Daddy’s family was no exception. Grandpa, Petrov Egic and Grandma, Anna Svilokos Egic spoke little, if any, English. In fact, whatever port they arrived on in 1912 or early in 1913 (we think Grandma was pregnant with my father on the ship) — our last name was changed by the English-only speaking port authorities.

As far as I understand, our last name, was Egich. And from what I learned from Daddy, he was the first-born American; we were from Belgrade, Yugoslavia. There’s rumor that one of my grandparents may have been Croatian. And look, with some geneology, we may even be Russian Jews somewhere in the line.

Nevertheless, Grandpa and Grandma were Serbian Orthodox (Christian) as was my father. In fact, that’s how my father met my mother … at the Serbian Hall in Phoenix, AZ in 1962.

My father was the first, as stated, of eventually eight (8) children: Peter (a real-life gold prospector), Samuel (yes, I had an Uncle Sam), Nick (ended up an NYC businessman), Violet, Mary (adored her, most of all), George (everyone’s favorite) and the youngest, Angelina (changed her name, though — to Dorothy).

I really didn’t get to know many of them well . . .with the exception of Peter, Mary and Violet. I barely met Nick and as a child, I spent some time with Dorothy, Sam and George (mostly on vacations).

In fact, Uncle Pete was the first death I experienced at a conscious level. I was only 7-years-old. Uncle Pete lived in the very rural, desert area of Wickenburg, AZ in a shack. My cousin, Vincent (we were raised together from 1965-1973), and I loved Uncle Pete. In his shack, I may have developed my phobia of old and dirty bathrooms — but, he had all sorts of animals; living animals in cages — rabbits, snakes, prairie dogs, etc. He generally let them free after a while. But, he collected them to show to Vince and I. We loved it.

Uncle Pete, on his gold-prospecting trips into the deep desert of Arizona, he also brought back lots of different rocks, stone, minerals, etc. including our favorite “fool’s gold” and some parts of Arizona’s famous “painted desert”. The stones turn colors due to pieces of crystal-like covers on them. All natural! Every now and again, Uncle Pete found real gold. Somewhere, all of us were given an ounce of real gold by my uncle. Still, I think in the 1970s one of my foster sisters stole it when she ran away.

In 1971 or 1972, Uncle Pete went prospecting, as he often did. On his trips, Pete would check in with his closest neighbor and tell him how long he’d be gone and to watch his shack. About two weeks after this trip, my father received a call from the neighbor saying that Uncle Pete was overdue by one whole week.

All I remember is both my parents being very upset that the neighbors waited so long to call them — and that, considering it was the desert, Uncle Pete was gone. Nevertheless, my family and I drove the two hours or so to Wickenburg — to an area Uncle Pete frequented on his trips — and Daddy and some area residents went on a search party for him.

I wanted very much to with Daddy. I felt I could find Pete, because, even then, I had this psychic connection to people. In fact, I remember telling Daddy I knew where Pete was waiting. Of course, not sure I understood he was dead. Dad wouldn’t let me go as I was only a small child. Mom, Vince and I sat in the car — with lots of water and drinks — while Dad went out walking.

Vince and I did love playing out in the desert — throwing rocks at the Jumping Chola Cactuses. Jumping Chola’s are fun — they will actually jump at you, if you come too close — and insert the needles under your skin like a fishhook. Painful as hell. If you throw rocks at them, you can hear the needles trying to lodge into the stone! It’s like a Venus Fly Trap! Vince and I thought that was so much fun.

And you know, we both had our share of needles in our arms, etc. Mom would have to pull them out as we screamed and cried.

Dad came back, not too long, really, with tears in his eyes. I remember this because it was the first time I saw Daddy cry. They found him, only about a mile from the nearest ranch. Apparently, Uncle Pete left his van (mistake #1) and tried to make his way to this ranch he knew about. Pete had forgotten his water (mistake #2). As Uncle Pete walked in the right direction — he must’ve grown tired and decided to sit underneath a tree (mistake #3) for a minute. He died of exposure.

As I listed those mistakes, let me tell you why. When you grow up in Arizona, in school, they teach us desert survival. Desert survival comes with rules — 1) If you are with your vehicle: NEVER LEAVE YOUR VEHICLE. It’s easier for rescue to find a car than a person, in the desert. 2) NEVER FORGET WATER (brings jugs and jugs for you and jugs and jugs for your car) and 3) Once you are walking — NEVER STOP UNTIL YOU FIND WATER and/or PEOPLE.

Uncle Pete knew all these rules too well. Why he forgot his water or why he left his vehicle, we’ll never know. Or even why he stopped only a mile from his destination.

A short while later, I attended my first funeral. A Serbian Orthodox funeral in the middle of a desert cemetary in Wickenburg, AZ. Uncle Pete loved the desert. I remember kissing the cross on the casket (closed) and feeling like Uncle Pete was watching us and told him “I’ll see you later.” My father was devastated. My father inherited Uncle Pete’s purple heart from World War II. Today, I have that purple heart and it’s very dear to me.

After that, I was closer to my Daddy than ever. I wanted him to never hurt again and I wished Uncle Pete would come back. We also inherited his panel van. My Dad put our little rocking chair in the back of it and Vince and I loved riding in them. We’d flip the rocking chairs on purpose while on the road.

As I think back to the 1970s, when that was illegal and there were no laws about child seats, etc. — it’s amazing we never were injured in that van! LOL! This is also before safety equipment was used while riding our bikes or roller skating on the cement. I have plenty of scars to show how dangerous our world was then . . . and lived to talk about it, as you can see!

As the years went by, I tried to learn more about my father. He married my mother when he was already 49-years-old and only knew her a year or so. Thus, he had some sort of life for 47 years before Mom and me and Vince.

My father never really went to school — yet, he could read and he loved to write and take pictures. Daddy was an avid photographer and I still have camera’s of his dating back to the 1920s! By the time Daddy was 12 or so years old, in McKeesport, PA, he went to work in the coal mines with his father. The family was poor and my father may have attended a school for a short while. He never could remember if he did or not.

Daddy had severe asthma or developed it in the coal mines. At some point, probably before he was even 18 and having no diploma, he was still able to join the Army. In those days it didn’t require any formal education. By the time he joined the Army, maybe he was 16 or 17-years-old, he could read and write. He served during peace time and had his honorable discharge.

In this interim, he attended Air Conditioning School. Then, a doctor told him, if he didn’t leave Pennsylvania, his asthma and the air would kill him ten to twenty years early. My father was told he had to move to Death Valley, California or Phoenix, AZ. This was probably in the 1940s.

I have a picture here, of my father with a radio microphone in his hand. This may be from the Army days or the 1930s. But, he once told me, he worked at a radio station. I think it was in Pennsylvania.

My grandfather died young (heart attack or black lung from the coal mines?), in Pennsylvania, maybe in his 40s. So, after that, my father had to support his mother and the seven remaining children.

Somewhere in there, Daddy moved to Phoenix, AZ and applied for and was hired by the United States Post Office. A job he would hold from 1940-something until 1985. He was hired as a Letter Carrier, a job he loved and kept him going his whole life, really.

In Phoenix, and remember he never had a high school education or diploma; he was smart enough to land a job with the postal service. He once told me he probably learned to read at the coal mine or someone taught him somewhere along the line. My father loved words, reading and writing. He kept journals for years, which Mom and I have in storage in Florida.

Late in the 1940s, my father met a woman named Jeannie. She was a divorced woman with two children. She was American Indian. My father went to a place for Army veteran’s, called “The American Cantina” — but she had TB (tuberculosis) when it was still incurable. Jeannie was placed in an asylum, as they were in those days, to die. What we would call a hospice, now. Although, these asylum’s were quarantined and no visitors that were healthy could get close w/touching or kissing — TB is much too contagious.

Somehow, my father married Jeannie. Jeannie died eight months later in the asylum. My mother and I do not believe there was any way for that marriage to have been consummated in the time they knew one another. Of course, there’s no way to know previous to Jeannie’s illness. Sex was not spoken up in those days. 

In the storage, of my father’s life, there were dozens of letters that my father wrote to Jeannie while she was in the asylum. At some point, I think my mother threw most of them away — but there’s a couple that were saved.

In fact, a year after my parents married, my mother discovered that every year, since Jeannie’s death — my father placed an ad in the Phoenix Gazette saying “We miss you, Jeannie.” My mother made him stop when she found out.

Mom and Dad met at the Serbian Hall. My mother had gone from the Roman Catholic Church to Serbian Hall because they would let her sing solo. She had to learn how to sing in Serbian by sounding out the words, though! She did well! Daddy was the only single guy left, so she kept putting herself in the front seat when Dad drove all the single ladies home.

According to Mom, Dad was not a romantic or very smooth. In fact, she really set everything up. The way he proposed was interesting . . . not necessarily romantic. Mom and Dad had been doing the “driving home from choir” thing and had dinners. She said Dad would drive her to her apartment and on occasion tried to get together with her — but Mom, at the time in her late 20s, wanted to wait until marriage for that and would stop Dad’s advances. He respected her (he would often say that as the years went by — that he respected my mother) and didn’t try again.

One day, they were walking in downtown Phoenix and were walking by a jewelry store. Not sure, but Mom may have stopped to admire the engagement rings or look at something. Anyway, while looking in the window with Dad, he said, “Which one do you want?”

That was his proposal.

They were married on October 13, 1962 in the Catholic Church (St. Mary’s, I think) in downtown Phoenix. Dad was 49-years-old, which Mom did not discover until they were filling out their marriage license! She had never asked his age . . . Mom was 30-years-old and would be 31-years-old on December 23rd of that year. 

For years and years Mom told me she was 29-years-old, but her math was off — because she was born on December 23, 1931; thus, she was already 30-years-old in October 1962.

I was born 11 months later, on September 28th, 1963. My father was 50-years-old and I would be his first and only child.

Today, I honor him by saying “Happy Birthday, Daddy“. And I wonder what he would be like if he had made it here to his 97th birthday. 

On another note — Today, in email, I heard from my cousin, Clara Collins. . .

A few years ago, Clara lost all four of her children to foster care. It’s a long messy story. Anyway, her two oldest were adopted out by the state of Arizona. She contacted me and said she found those children on the internet and send me updated photographs.

Her oldest child, Sadie and her 2nd child, Tyson. I have a photograph of Tyson and my mother together from when Clara still had him.

Love, Light & Laughter,

Angela Theresa

 

Day Eighty-Nine (89): Lori Comes To New York

Day EightyNine (89): Friday, May 28th, 2010

89) Spiritual Journeys and Aboriginal Manifestations

The Australian Aborigines went on “walkabouts” to a “belonging place” (sacred place in the landscape) where they sought access to the Dreamtime. In such practices, they could tap into a great power much as a Law of Attraction practitioner might move into harmonious alignment by undertaking a spiritual journey and specific meditation practice in order to manifest a desired result.

E. P. Elkin, an Australian anthropologist, called the aboriginal medicine men of Australia “ment of High Degree” in his book Aboriginal Men of High Degree, and he admonished against devaluing the importance of their emphasis on psychic power as primitive magic.

This was the most exciting day for me . . .

Since I met my “little sister” Lori, I’ve wanted to bring her to New York and have her experience Broadway. Today, my wish came true.

A little history of our Big Sister/Little Sister friendship:

When Fredy and I moved to Pennsylvania in 2004 — to attempt to gain custody of his then 7-year-old daughter, Anika: He and I met, as happens when you get involved with new places, some of the deaf community of Lancaster, PA.

One of the deaf women I met, at a little get-together with many other deaf people, was Michelle. Michelle is, technically and functionally, HOH (Hard-of-Hearing).

Very quickly, speaking with her, she voices a lot as she is HOH and not full deaf. This was a relief, though, as my American Sign Language was, at that time, still improving. Yes, I lived with a deaf man since 2000; nevertheless, there were and are many things I do not know.

It also didn’t take long to figure out that Michelle was and is . . . mentally and emotionally like a teenager (even though she is only about 2 or 3 years my junior).

Michelle told me she had an ex-husband, a full deaf person and a young daughter, Lori. At that time she, Lori, was only 10-years-old. I told Michelle I’d love to meet her as I enjoy working with children. Lori is hearing.

Michelle asked me some questions about Lori and how to talk to her about . . . important matters. Michelle and her ex-husband had grown-up attending deaf schools and had no clue about public schools. I happily volunteered, at Michelle’s approval, to befriend her daughter and help her talk to her about anything she needed help [talking with the child] about, i.e. sex education, dating, creativity, grades and scrapbooking (which I did and do professionally, at times).

Lori and I were introduced at my apartment when she and Michelle came over to do a scrapbooking class. Lori and I hit it off immediately. In some way, she was my way of practicing to raise little Anika; whom, undoubtedly, wasn’t too far away from the same age.

Much has happened since that time, of course . . . and Lori is now 16-years-old. A very mature teenager. She had to grow up fast as she was interpreting for her deaf/HOH parents since about the age of 6. Even talking to lawyers and case workers at such a young age.

Lori and I became closer when her mother, a real mess, would cause emotional havoc to the girl. She’d turn to me for comfort, advice and just chatting.

One of my favorite moments was when Lori was about 12 or 13 years old. I was already in New York. We were chatting on the phone. I asked her, “Do you have a best friend?” [I wanted to order her a special book where it would put the name of the child and her real life friends in the story.].

I asked, “Do you have a best friend?”

Lori replied, “Yes, of course!”

I asked, “Who?”

Lori sincerely said, “You.”

I was moved and it made my heart feel great. Gotta love her!

Lori no longer speaks to or visits with her mother. Her father has been the full custodial parent since she was very young. A couple of years ago, Lori decided she didn’t want to see Michelle anymore.

There are many reason why . . . and they are all valid! Let me tell you!!! But, Michelle is another story for another time. Not only is she HOH, she’s also, as I stated, emotionally and mentally about 14-years-old. An irritating, disturbed 14-year-old.

Lori was older than her own mother by the age of 11 or 12, if not before!

Michelle will tell you that I did that to her daughter . . . or her father. She cannot and will not ever believe it is her and her actions. But, it is.

Now the happy times begin:

Her train arrived on time and I was a bit late . . .we called and she was right behind me. Lori felt nauseas from her first train ride and thought she might throw up.

I had, earlier in the day done something stupid. I left some frozen (cooked) shrimp out to thaw for a couple of hours (covered). Later, calling my friend, Diane; she explained that one shouldn’t thaw shrimp outside the refrigerator. I put it in, after the few hours already out. Later, when I opened it, it smelled fine and I ate it.

Thus, nerves or reality, I was feeling a bit queasy myself. I thought, perhaps, I had a case of food poisoning. By the time I picked up Lori . . . both of us queasy, we went over to Tick Tock Diner. She could only stomach hot tea. I had some food.

One day belated: I need to also acknowledge someone very important to me, Nick Atonna. Yesterday was his birthday. Nick was my boyfriend, the first man I wanted to marry, really. We dated for about one year and a half in 1983-1985ish. He is an identical twin. His brother, Bryan, died in a tragic accident just over ten years ago.

Happy Birthday, Nick!

Love, Light & Laughter,

Angela Theresa

 

Day Sixty-Nine (69): A Lazy Day in Queens

Day SixtyNine (69): Saturday, May 8th, 2010

69) Outer Reality Mirrors What Is Within

The Law of Attraction, according to its proponents, mirrors your interior world, manifesting in your life experience your thoughts because the law is always working whether you are conscious of it or not. This idea, argue the law’s critics, suggest that a person who has been a victim of adverse circumstances has brought calamity upon herself. Whether she fell prey to identity theft, was laid off or recently fired from her job, involved in a car crash, bitten by a poisonous snake or attacked by a bobcat while running on a woodland trail, she became a victim. Critics assert that Law of Attraction believers fault the individual for such misfortunes. How, skeptics ask, does an unsuspecting, perhaps vulnerable person draw upon herself such calamity?

Laziness or rejuvenation . . .

On days when I don’t have to go to the theatre for rehearsal or do the tour guiding thing . . . I hardly leave my apartment. No doubt, I may have homework to catch up on or get to playing on the computer.

The comes up, though. Am I lazy? Do I lack enthusiasm? Am I depressed? Not always sure . . . it’s not like me to be agoraphobic. I wonder, if I didn’t have theatre or the tour guide job, would I ever leave my apartment?

Yes, I leave, of course . . . to shop or drop off and pick up laundry. Otherwise, though, I’ve become something of a homebody.

What bothers me most is I have a whole day at the apartment and a million and one things to do here. 1) Go through my boxes, 2) clean my room or 3) defrost the freezer. Things I need to do.

We will move on to happier thoughts and law of attraction:

Considering I am doing this a couple of week beyond the actual date … Fredy was visiting at this time and we spent the day in the apartment watching tv, mostly. Thus, I wasn’t alone, really.

Fredy set up the video phone on my computer and used it a lot to contact friends and his relatives in Guatemala. He is isolated over there in Lancaster, PA being without a job and living in the mission and with friends.

Because I am behind, I will post this and few more photographs . . . and get up some more days.

On another note, I recall that today is my high school best friend, Karen Zuppiger Groves, birthday. I believe she turns 47-years-old today. I have her email somewhere and need to say “Happy Belated Birthday“.

Love, Light & Laughter

Angela Theresa

 

Day Fifty-Five (55): Happy Birthday, Fredy Gonzalez De Leon

Day Fifty-Five (55): Saturday, April 24th, 2010

55) Replace Negative Self-Talk

The twelve-step programs that are often key to the recovery of substance abusers advocate that people must take responsibility for their actions but they can find help anytime by trusting in a higher power. Those who suffer addiction must learn to let go of negative self-talk as it defeats the good they are trying to manifest in their lives. Self-talk is the perpetual driver of behavior. It tells half-truths and untruths. Replacing negative self-talk with the statement reworded into a positive affirmation can literally change a life.

Although, I do not recall the events of this day now (some weeks later): It is my ex-boyfriend, now friends’ birthday. Fredy Adolfo Gonzelez De Leon turns 47-years-old today. His story, which I’m working on in a play version [for a Father’s Day theatre piece called TESTOGENIUS in NYC] is moving. The story of him and I, in brief:

We met a couple of times in 2000. We met via a girl I met on the streets of Burbank, California. A woman named Lisa who loved Madonna and karaoke (she is hard-of-hearing — HOH). She had a roommate in her trailer in 2000; a deaf man named Fredy.

Lisa Madonna’s boyfriend was getting out of jail soon and she needed Fredy to leave. So, I was living in a motel in Burbank at the time and was seeking a roommate (only). We discussed it a little bit.

One afternoon, about three month after meeting Fredy a couple of times . . . Lisa, Fredy and I met and walked aroung Burbank. It was apparent there was some attraction between Fredy and I. That night, a bunch of us, including Lisa, Fredy and some of my hearing friends went out to karaoke.

Fredy was sitting there, the only deaf person, nursing a beer and very, very bored. I remembered how to sign all the dirty words and began signing them to him. He was intriqued and smiled at me a lot. . . wrote me some nice notes on a napkin, including “I love you“. I laughed it off, but it was apparent we were both attracted. We kept holding hands in the car.

The next day, September 2000, Fredy and I met up, alone, to see about an apartment (two bedrooms) and one thing lead to another. The day after that, since Fredy needed to move and was collecting worker’s comp; I invited my new lover to move into the motel with me until we could find a place. He did!

We stayed together for the next six years and went through a lot in California, moved to Pennsylvania and now, ten years later . . . we are friends.

I do recall calling him today on VP (videophone) and wishing him a happy day  . . . or he may have called me first. I wanted to bring him here, to New York, to visit; but didn’t get the money together in time.

Currently, he lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania and lost his job months ago; he resides in a homeless mission in Lancaster, PA. He has no ID, it was stolen when he lived in a tent . . . I wish I were richer and could help him more. At this point, that is not possible; at least, not at the level he needs help.

My roommates will not let him move in here . . . as he’d be willing to work hard, off the books, anywhere.

Again, a long story for another time. I promised to bring him here in a week or two, for a visit.

Love, Light & Laughter,

Angela Theresa 

Day Fifty-Two (52): Beings Of Light

Day FiftyTwo (52): Wednesday, April 21st, 2010

52) Beings of Light and Truth Appear When They Are NLOA_Key01eeded

According to Hindu thought, all of creation expands and contracts in cycles. Certain cycles are characterized by lightness and darkness. When darkness is  upon the earth, holy beings such as the Buddha, Mohammed, and Jesus appear on Earth as light bearers to lead humankind out of the darkness, depravity, and despair back to light and truth. Some people believe that great and holy beings are always present and anonymously working to manifest good for the well2010_04 ChristineST Pierre01-being of all.

  Today is Christine St. Pierre’s birthday . . . she told us all she is 27-years-old, again! We had plans to celebrate tonight at an Italian restaurant with Eileen Murphy, Chantel Catapano and myself.

 

But, my job messed me up . . . bad. I was all prepared to join my friends to celebrate Christine and all. As I came off of my 3rd tour at 3:30 p.m. there were no other guides available. Problem! Big problem. Not only on this first day of spring, officially, was I sniffling, sneezy and wheezy…I had worn something a big nicer for the dinner.

We waited nearly half an hour for another tour guide; they kept swearing there were none (which I hardly believe) and I was pissed off. Finally, my tour took off, which would make me late for dinner – if at all. When we arrived at 42nd Street a downtown tour with ONE person passed us. They could have, if they had any heart, taken the one person off that tour and put them on mine and sent me home!!! There was another tour guide . . .

1996_AZ RainStorm01 In the middle of our tour, of course, it began to rain. Our bus had a bottom section; but the bus filled up with tourists and a bunch of us had to sit on top. I was soaked from head to toe and everything underneath!

By the time we came back it was 6:30 pm (dinner was planned for 6:00pm); I was soaked through and needed to go buy dry clothes (pants, undies, socks, everything). I called Christine, and I was sniffly . . . from my endless sneezing today. Since they didn’t want to hold dinner more. It was decided. I went home to get dry clothes I already own.

Bad day, but I did work, hard, for ten hours without a break!

Love, Light & Laughter

Angela Theresa

 

Day Fifty (50): Tim Curry Is 64-Years-Old! Woo Hoo!

Day Fifty (50): Monday, April 19th, 2010

50) Imagine the Source as Infinite Abundance

The great sages and saints of all religions learned to rely on the Unseen Power at work in the universe. That power provided them not only with wisdom and, in some case, enlightenment, but also took care of the food, clothing, and shelter needs of their human bodies.

In India, today, yogis or rishis still make pilgrimages to the forested mountains of Rishikesh in order to meditate undisturbed in natural settings of caves or under trees or near water. They depend upon the Unseen Power of the universe to take care of them while they perform their sadhana (tasks associated with devotion to a deity), undertake anusthans (spiritual practices to achieve a specific result), or spend untold hours in meditation, contemplation, and the recitation of chants.

Today is the birthday of someone who means a lot to me . . . and because I fell behind; I have very little recollection of the activities of today!

So, I will talk, briefly about Tim Curry and my connection . . . which, in this blog, has been only mentioned in passing, right?

This will be very brief, for now . . .soon enough, I will share some more of my adventures in the land of Curry.

I met him, for the first time, in 1987. Yet, my journey, my wish to meet him started in approximately 1982. Following is a poem I wrote to him, back in 1983 (circa) which expressed my feelings about him, at the time.

FANTASY MAN

Fantasy Man, on the screen above,
One that so many grow to love… 
How can it be it happened to me?
When “in your life” I can’t possibly be?
 
Fantasy man, are you real?
In your world, do you feel?
Or have they hardened your heart away?
Come to me, then . . .
I will make you okay.
 
Fantasy Man, in the world of stars,
Wine, food and publicity scars . . .
Alone . . .
in need . . .
I see in your eyes,
Your smile and laughter
cannot hide the lies.
 
Fantasy Man, you always have me,
to your heart,
I hold the key . . .
Be ever strong and see me here,
Sending you light, to ease your fear.
 
Fantasy Man, you don’t even know,
From Heaven, I am sent . . .
to this Earth below;
To guide and love you as I do,
 

Our souls must touch . . .

before this life is through.

And in many ways . . . my prayer was heard and I met Tim, and I was able to let him know my thoughts and my nickname: “Curry’s Angel”. So, he calls me ‘Angel’ and that makes me incredibly happy!

Love, Light & Laughter

Happy Birthday, Tim!!!

Always, Your Angel