Thursday, June 02, 2005

Lesbians, Lightworkers, and
other Makeup Fearing Women

A little mascara won't kill you. It may keep you tethered to your ego in an oppresive way, but for crying out loud, you're an albino.

I lost myself in a crowd of New Agesters last night, listening to renowned energy healer Dr. Eric Pearl at New Renaissance book store.

Packed into a shoebox of a room with our knees to our chins and the smarter ones coordinating our breathing so as not to offend or be offended, we listened as Dr. Pearl explained his background as a chiropracter in Los Angeles before strange and wondrous healing abilities were visited upon him, and eventually through his patients.

His demonstrations were impressive. His delivery was worth the price of admission alone. This man tells the best jokes. He has a kind of David Sedaris air--a nasaly lisp and slightly ethnic features. I wouldn't have cared if none of the demonstrations worked; I honestly kept forgetting that he wasn't Sedaris.

In between my feelings of adoration for Dr. Pearl, were my normal, everyday, bitchy, catty judgements of everybody else in the room. The guy behind me who kept burping. The woman in front of me who kept scratching her head, making me itchy in turn. It seemed like the entire tofu-eating, incense-burning, kaftan-draped, disciple-of-somebody community had crammed their patchouli reeking selves into the lecture.

I was one of two women wearing makeup. And I was probably the only meat-eater, hopelessly devoted to my ego and all things material.

Before the first demonstration, Dr. Pearl asked everyone who wanted to be a candidate for the demo to raise their hands. "I'm going to scan the room, because I'm looking for something in particular, so keep your hands up for a minute," he instructed.

I thought, and others may have assumed, that he was tuning in to a certain auric vibration, or that he was looking for a particular ailment or blockage to use for the example. He picked a darked haired, pumpkin-hatted woman from one of the front rows.

He waved his hands over her as she lay on the massage table. We were instructed to file up to the table to observe, looking for a physical register which indicated that she was responding to the particular energy Pearl exudes or channels or whatever. He didn't tell us what the register was, we were to notice it ourselves, but some of his teaching aids clued us in, whispering "eye-flutter" in our ears on the way up or the way back.

Her eyes were indeed fluttering. The right one faster than the left, as a matter of fact. From the foot of the table, one could see that her eyes were partially opened.

She sat up after the demo, recounted her experience, then Pearl revealed what he was looking for when prospective participants raised their hands.


He was scanning the room looking--not for someone with a golden aura, or a sparkling etherial double, or incurable cancer or leprosy. He was looking for someone with big, dark, spider lashes that would render the tiny flutters visible to observers.

I smiled a naughty smile. I laughed a mocking laugh at the natural 'beauties' as their spineless, drum-circle life partners must surely call them. I'll bet they show up at tomorrow's lecture with freakin' huge drag queen lashes--all glittered up and hussied out.

Hey Cover Girl, Maybelline--if you're paying attention, there's a new market for a lash enhancing product called Masc-aura.

(humble devotee of the revered and ancient discipline of Ka-ching.)


Blogger porchwise said...

Read most of your blog this evening (when I should have been composing yet another synopsis) and I believe you probably are a guy. Couldn't help it, just had to throw some crap at the fan just for the hell of it. Yep, sure hate the marketing and don't remember ever having this much trouble with articles or my column. And I certainly get tired of agents and editors complaining, crying and whining about 'how busy I am'. The nice thing is, I'm retired and the money isn't the thing, thank god. Looky here, are you doing a novel? You seem to have the attitude of a good humourist.

8:23 PM  
Blogger Cindy St. Onge said...

There are times when I'm convinced I'm a guy too. And other times, I'm sure I'm dead and haunting what I believe is my house. I don't know what to believe anymore.

I see you're a writer, so naturally you can relate to the submittal process. And good for you; you get to write for the joy of it.

I'm so far from even contemplating a book. Trying to get that first essay published in a national paper or magazine.
Thank goodness I still have delusions of grandeur. And the internet.

Thank you for commenting.

8:36 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I feel confident that you are a woman. I have enlarged and enhanced the photo posted on your site, and I'm fairly sure I see boobs.

Great post, Cindy.


11:14 AM  
Blogger annush said...

I had never seen your blog, but I'm glad I found it! I loved this post. People underestimate the power of mascara!

11:42 AM  
Blogger Cindy St. Onge said...

Ok, everyone, enough with whether or not I'm a man. Sex and Sexuality--two different things. But whatever keeps those SiteMeter numbers climbing is fine with me. I am all genders to all people.

Thank you for reading & commenting, and an especially big thank you to Jon for taking the time--and I know it took a while--to find the boobalitas.

Carry on.

11:54 PM  

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