Divination through the ages…

Back in the early 1990’s myself, Super Ralphie, and his sister piled into her vintage VW hippie-mobile and made our way to a psychic fair somewhere in downtown Vancouver.  There were healers and crystals and reiki and tarot readers and all manner of tie-dye and hair-wraps.  I’d had my own tarot deck for close to six years at that time, but I’d never had a reading.  I chose a plain, balding, middle-aged fellow wearing half-moon glasses and a mustard yellow polo shirt over all of the bright gypsy veils and heavily-ringed fingers.  Because I wanted to believe that it wasn’t all showmanship and shilling –  someone who looked like an actuary couldn’t possibly have the imagination to fake it.

My first impression was half right, the guy had no imagination.  After a half hour of leading questions, the big take-away was that I would be moving ‘across water’ and that my path ‘would not be smooth’.  Dude, even a small glimpse of my path should have come with a giant warning sticker, flares and a hazmat suite.  Also, I was a Newfoundlander living in North Vancouver, there are bookmakers in Vegas who wouldn’t give you odds on my moving ‘across water’.  It was a more solid bet than a cheerleader putting out on prom night.

That was my only brush with fee-for-service clairvoyants, until this week.  I was offered a psychic reading from PsychicSource.com. in exchange for a blog review.   I had two thoughts, the first was completely unrelated and involved a picture I had just seen of John Cusack as EA Poe…you don’t need to know about that one.  The second was, “Sure…what the heck?”.

 When I logged on to the website, there were options to liaise with a psychic by phone or IM.  I puzzled about how your psychic energy would transport itself over the internet, so I decided on a phone consultation.  The site details the different tools used by its practitioners, and features a list of psychics, complete with biographies, that you can choose from.  Fees start at $1.00 a minute for the first visit but jump to between $4.15 – $6.75 / minute if you return.

I was wondering how much I could squeeze into a ten minute consultation.  I mean, I’m pretty complicated, how much of the wonder of me could be distilled in such a short time?  

Turns out, I was fussing for nothing. 

My psychic advisor, asked me my birth-date, my occupation, and then cast the runes.  I wanted to know what my career path looked like (’cause there are days when I wonder if ‘hobo’ is a viable option).  Looks like my practice will increase over the next couple of years and I’m doing just what I’m supposed to be doing.  Also, I will be teaching somewhere at some point in the future.  That took all of three minutes, so we delved into the complex and utterly murky architecture of my love life.  Do I have a partner?  His name & birth-date?  The runes are cast…and it turns out that SR and I are perfectly balanced and destined to live in mediocrity until we die.  But wait!  He should really watch his cholesterol and we should both get outside more and exercise. 

My greatest fears have been realized…I think I bored the psychic.  The phrase ‘vanilla reading’ was thrown out there.  By the time we’d reached six minutes, there was nothing left to say.  We talked about her days as an insurance agent, exchanged general pleasantries and bid adieu.

For me, the entertainment value of this ‘for entertainment only’ service ranked higher than watching paint dry, but slightly less than reading the technical manual for my tankless hot water heater.

That first reading, when I sought out the nerdy accountant type, I thought I wanted realism and discovered that what I really wanted was the gnarled crone who would allude to some dark mystery.  This time I expected the dark mystery and ended up with the impression that I really need to get out more.  For the love of the gods…will someone just throw a bit of dark mystery my way?  Just not on a weeknight, I can’t function without a full eight hours. 

PsychicSource.com provided me with a free 10 minute consultation in exchange for a review – the opinions are my own and there was no financial compensation, coercion, shenanigans or skullduggery.

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Thomas the Wondercat disapproves of my long absence from the interwebs.  There have been bouts of heavy sighing, looks of anguish and disgust, threats of job action.  

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…and now, in other news…

From Reuters.com, March 2, 2011 – quoted from  Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi’s speech to followers on Wednesday:

 “We put our fingers in the eyes of those who doubt that Libya is ruled by anyone other than its people.”

Western leaders, anxious to assist the Libyan people, quickly arrange widespread distribution of their most sophisticated defense systems:

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Belated love…

This if for you…you know who you are…and why. 

You’re welcome.

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There they are, full-on progressive lenses.  My nemesis.  That giant lens area is like a billowing white flag…the undeniable sign of surrendering style to comfort and practicality. 

In addition to accepting rapidly declining eyesight, regular creaks and groans and the fact that my mothers hands have attached themselves to the ends of my arms, for the first time I felt the full force of a real Canadian winter, and it knocked me on my ass.  

I’ve spent the past several weeks buried under a thick wool.  The average temperature in these parts hovers around -30.  It feels as though the sky has been a uniform grey for months.  Today there’s a sunbeam falling across my desk and it’s like surfacing from a coma.  I looked around at a pile of abandoned projects, blew the dust off and started to wade back in.  Today I feel like high-fiving the universe.  The end is nigh, the sun is returning and I’ve managed to make it this far without breaking a hip. 

Today I can nod knowingly as I read Alden Nowlan’s poem Canadian January Night: 

Canadian January Night

Ice storm: the hill

a pyramid of black crystal

down which the cars

slide like phosphorescent beetles

while I, walking backwards in obedience to the wind, am possessed

of the fearful knowledge

my compatriots share

but almost never utters

this is a country

where a man can die

simply from being

caught outside.

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Ripped from Today’s Headlines…

With all due sensitivity…isn’t this the equivalent of St.John’s holding a ‘day of fog’?

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Just enough to hold you over…

Am I the only one who buckles under the weight of January?  SR and I have, collectively, come down with plague.  Subtle, insidious, plague bringing exhaustion and excessive mucus .  Clever, clever plague.

To fill those hours of immobility and drool, we turned to Netflix; specifically – Survivors.  BBC once again leads the way in post-apocalyptic squee.  A pandemic flu virus rampages the earth, eradicating well over 90% of the population.  Then it’s all Lord of the Flies meets the Swiss Family Robinson.  If you haven’t watched it; time’s a-wastin’, there are two seasons to get through. 

(If you’re down-loading, you need to know that this is a remake of a 1970’s series…I can’t vouch for the original.)

Hypochondriacs might want to forego watching pandemic disaster series while battling flu symptoms…not that I’ve been excessively checking my temperature or looking for weird lumps.  *cough*

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Setting the tone…

There are times when I sit at the computer and start typing a litany of personal injustices,  frustrations and general craptastic irritants that cause my innards to churn.  It’s a Mulligan Stew of reaction. There’s a bit of whining, a generous helping of righteous indignation, a dollop of self-pity, maybe even a pinch of guilt seasoning the fare.  I type and then I delete,  I type and then I delete. 

Why do I delete?  Because the total of what is created can be summed up with “Life’s not fair”, “S/He’s mean”, “I’m tired”, and – my personal favourite, “People are poop-heads”.  Sometimes, I use those words.  Sometimes I use large, polysyllabic words that are rarely seen outside a thesaurus.  I create mellifluous orations about how right I am.  I metaphorically pout and stamp my feet. Ultimately, though it makes me feel better to write them, reading them isn’t very interesting – not even for me…because it is not unique to feel sad, frustrated, angry, wronged.  It’s universal.  And easy.  And reliving it, clinging to it, doesn’t resolve it.  So I delete…

…and then pull out my voodoo dolls.

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Solid protocols…

It’s come to this…the British have started enforcing idiocy laws.  I hear they’re also arresting folks for publicly debating the merits of anything aired on TLC.

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Calendars, Ho!

This time of year lends itself to retrospection.  Retrospection and butter.  Perhaps in equal proportion.  Too much of either will cause chest pains and the irrepressible urge to wear stretchy-pants.

I’ve always loved the hope and possibility held in a fresh new datebook.  Clean pages waiting to be filled with deadlines and meetings and a kaleidoscope of notes archiving the mundane day-to-day things that fill a year.  This year I’m swearing off the backward glances and jumping straight into the crisp, unmarked sheaths of the new year.

This is Brighid.

Brighid showed up via my baby sister.  She looks like the kind of gal that would spur you on to adventure, doesn’t she?  She’ll be overseeing the forward momentum of the next twelve months, advising me in the filling of those calendar pages, and providing general counsel.  Questions? Concerns? Grumbles? Lob them in Brighid’s direction.  She will hold all of the blame and the glory on her soft, cushy shoulders. 

Crossing fingers, with Brighid’s help, this time next year we’ll all be chest pain and stretchy-pant free.

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