My Bed, The Shaman and Bloodsucking Vampires

My bed is the most glorious place in New York City. My sheets are fresh and clean, the mattress is wide and expansive, and I have it all to myself. My subletter left my apartment in better shape then he found it, and according to my friends that came by yesterday, put a lot of positive energy into the apartment.

I visited a shaman before going to Israel. He read my aura and gave me a protective ceremony. He and I focused on the road I had ahead, the work I faced and keeping grounded and safe in my explorations and my filmmaking. He told me to be aware of vampires, men and women, those who will take my energy. He told me that this was not a time in my life for love.

I just got an email from a woman who tracked me down on the internet to warn me about someone we both know. Perhaps a vampire, perhaps a journalist. She described him as hollow, someone who spins little stories and carries around his empty shell, and seduces women like a virus. I'm not surprised, and I appreciate her honesty. Is it something about journalists?

But here we are in New York... where people are too busy to spin little stories unless they get paid for it, and everyone looks pale and strung out except me. So I'm going to work my little advantage until I join the pale neurotic army, or spring comes.