DAY 128: Going to see a psychic

MY MIND’S been awash with flotsam and jetsam this week, hence the tardy upkeep of the Daily Waffle. While I’ve had my tea leaves read before, I’ve never sat down for a psychic reading – main reason being I don’t believe in them – so I decide that now is as good a time as any to at least have a good offload onto someone. Marnie has a kind voice on the phone, so she seems like a top choice.

At Marnie’s psychic boudoir in Bendigo, though, surrounded by flashing angel paraphernalia, I wind up saying little more than “mm” in an increasingly weighty tone. I want to believe, I really do, but the more she talks, filling my silences with a decisive “…yes, that’s what you’re going to do”, “…that’s what that’s about”, “…that’s what’s going to happen”, in a tic-like fashion, the more I keep loudly thinking, “Crook!”

Naturally, I then have a guilty fear that she’s heard me – kind of like when you boldly claim not to believe in God as a kid, and then mutter a little “I didn’t really mean it,” while tapping out an almost imperceptive cross upon your sternum.

This in turn makes it hard for me to control my face from laughing, so that I’m seemingly doing a samba of emotion to every point she makes.

Stoically, Marnie peruses the angel oracle cards. Every time I pick one, she punctuates the moment with a throaty, knowing chuckle.

Things I learned:

* “Your hair is going to get longer.”

* “You’re good with words.” (NB: Marnie did ask me my profession before we started, and before she pressed record. This is where the chorus of “crook” started up.)

* “I’m being told ‘France’ quite strongly. You’re going to move to France…” (I am an English, so obviously this is NEVER going to happen.)

* “…or New Orleans. You’re going to study the history of black music. And there will be costumes. Mm.”

* “You’re a great talker. I can see you in lecture halls. Mm, definitely.” (Please see Day 42 – Shaking at a Detox – for the likelihood of this.)

Keeper? I was focusing on the words “Can I go now?” for three-quarters of the reading… but still there’s that unquenchable desire to be understood; the hope that the next psychic would utter some specific name, phrase or date that implies they have insight into your hopes, fears and experiences, can hear the low, rumbling moan of your psyche, and can validate it all. Maybe I should just work harder on those interpersonal relationships, eh?