I wander down to a beach on the Bay. A beautiful day--rippling dappled little clouds over streaks and diamonds of black and brown and pale sand. Millionaires' houses stud the beach, atop concrete columns, like stone mushrooms. A tall thin man, dressed very elegantly, beckons me up to one of these terraces. He wants to talk to me: "I need a totally outside opinion on... well, I can't discuss it out here."

What the hell. I've always wanted to tour one of these mansions. I climb the ladder. Wonderful view of East Bay, Marin, bridges. The Bay looks as clean as the ocean--improved since I was down here last. His house has big open greenhousy rooms with computers and synthesizers, ferns and trees, and antique Chinese vases. Pleasant.

One odd thing--his environment, from the clouds and sand to his house to his clothes to his own skin, all have similar, complex textures: sandy, pied, freckled. Sparkles or grit of one color on another. Gives an elegant, spacious, restful feeling, I like it--and lack that spaciousness in my life.

Yet he's an anxious and troubled man. He's a professional wizard--a good one, commanding fees as high as a top surgeon. Despite the prestige, the money, the gorgeous house and trophy wife (I'm being catty, her aura is nice), he's clearly unhappy. That's what he wants me to confirm or deny. And explain!

He's reduced to asking random strangers!

Well, no. He asked me. I'm not exactly random. His magic may have tipped him off I'm a good one to ask. I am.

For when people ask me for advice, I tell them the blunt truth. "It's obvious you're cooking up your own misery. Objectively, your life is fine. The aura here is clear, good, clean."

Don't think it's the cause of his anxiety, but his obsession with spots is a side of his character that I suspect he takes for granted, so I ask him about it.

He's bewildered. Might as well mention water to a fish! Of course objects must have texture!

I casually mention that years ago I did a similar "naive diagnosis" for the millionaire sorcerer next door. He leaps up in alarm, and runs me through a spell detector, terrified that I'm a sort of stealth virus or bomb carrier, from his rivals, or the guy next door--even though HE asked ME in.

I roll my eyes and walk through it, saying "I already know what you'll find--same as the last wizard! Strong native ability, a few prosthetic magics I set up unconsciously myself, but no professional stuff--no SPELLS. I'm a shaman, not a wizard. Maybe some traces from meeting other wizards like you--they tend to confide in me. But I'm not a bomb, and YOU'RE not an idiot." By now, I know the routine. I meet a lot of professionals like this--jealous of their skills and prestige, secretly scared of rivals.

They can't imagine someone who doesn't want to use magic...

Just be magic.

MORNING NOTES

• Great views, great insecurity:
  1. In life-drawing, my classmates busily put down their own work!
  2. My friend Dawn's apartment has a high view like this, but her high-tech workplace has an over-competitive, nasty atmosphere.
  
• So being poor but independent wasn't so dumb. If I'd pushed to make it professionally, I might have become this rich, paranoid man. His fear's not a personal quirk but institutional; and I've escaped it. I could have ten times the money I do, and a nice house, a cute lover, pretty views... no difference! Not if I still fear everyone and barricade myself, see rivalry where it isn't! My dream thinks I was right to drop out.
• Yet that rich wizard had some good things, too. For some time I've been trying to dream of myself in various futures. His house felt good--like home. Possessions are problematic for many folks, but his didn't feel toxic to me at all. The dream's saying I CAN handle money and possessions without them possessing me. If I can avoid working with dog-eat-dog paranoids like this wizard! His ambition won him the wealth to build a good home--one he now can't enjoy! Paradox! And one I've narrowly avoided living... so far.

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