One of the blogs I frequent (sorry, can’t link since momentarily forgotten which one it was) recently mentioned crystal balls and the future.
Don’t. Go there. I did more than twenty years ago. I was waiting, at some boat show cum fairground, for Fiona, a colleague. She phoned and told me to see a woman in a tent to while away the time till her arrival. Why did I listen to her? Five pounds later (1989 prices, UK) my life changed. Not that I realised it at the time. Everything went well. Time passed pleasantly, till my fortune teller set eyes on a particular line in my right hand. That was it: She dropped my hand, looked at me aghast, wished me a happy life and asked me to leave NOW. Since people often look at me either aghast or bemused I didn’t give it much thought. Till years later: When one of my many assignments’ briefs was to look into palmistry. I do not know who to curse more: The editor who assigned me. The palm reader. Or myself.
I, naturally, bloody studied the subject from the wrist up. By way of comforting you now: Don’t believe everything you find on the map: By rights I should have had as many children as I had (in truth) miscarriages. Which suits me fine – since both I and my son are “only” children by nature. Which makes us both more compassionate to other humans than a lot of those who had to fight not only for daily survival in the midst of siblings, but their fair share of affection from their parents.
Yes, so that was brilliant and has confirmed my view that, in order to ensure your anxiety has something to feed on, you may as well go and see a palmist. Tarrot readers (and, yes, you guessed it, Fiona sent me to one of those as well) are harmless by comparison. Though how the old woman knew that the most beloved woman of my life (my maternal grandmother) had died when I was eight beats me. How is that possible? And no, I did not give out any clues. And no Fiona didn’t brief the clairvoyant beforehand because she knew nothing about me other than that I like Sauvignon Blanc, a grape which will go with everything, even Thai or Chinese.
U
But what was it in your hand that frightened her?
My only story along those lines is when visiting a Spiritualist Church and the “Medium” started on about my relationship with my father. No I was sneaky…I didn’t call attention to myself but it could only have been my father as she mentioned something no-one else in the room could have known. But then again it was probably coincidence.
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” and a lot of them don’t exist!
Comment by magpie11 — September 25, 2011 @ 17:44 |
My dear Magpie, don’t ask questions the answer to which I most certainly do not want to know.
No one, apart from me, knows what is on my line. Mainly because the people I tend to exchange brain cells with will severely question my sanity should I so much as admit to giving it any weight. Mind you: I know exactly what would happen if they did [know]: They’d slink and whistle off to the nearest palmiist willing to accept theii money.
Talking about money: I might set up my own little line reading enterprise. Mind you, if I set about it as I do on my blog and other bloggers’ comment boxes I might as well file for bankruptcy now.
Why this should be so I do not know: But last paragraph’s thought reminds me of taking some swimming test. I must have been about 10 or eleven. Why did I even enter it? I am not interested in certificates/contests. Anyway, so there I was; Lake. Cold. Aim to keep your head above water for HALF an hour. Fine, no probs. I am as strong an ox, then and now. Eventually I gave up. I was done, I was finished, I didn’t care any longer. I’d been out there for a long time – with only my thoughts and the odd duck to keep me company, I was exhausted. I hate defeat. But better defeated than drowning – my mother wouldn’t have liked it. Guess what, and now we come full circle back to the “line”: The guy timing me (some Baywatch guard on shark watch he’d have made) had completely forgotten about me. I had swum not for HALF an hour, but three times that. Yes, one and a half hour and my young self staggered out of that water feeling a complete and utter failure. So don’t tell me parents fuck you up. They don’t, or at least not intentionally: But never trust a guy in swimming trunks with a whistle, on a look out.
U
Comment by Ursula — September 25, 2011 @ 19:17 |
I was just talking with my daughter about her recent visit to a tea-leaf reader. What in the world can the connection possibly be between someone’s life and the position of tea leaves at the bottom of a cup? Equally unfathomable is the significance of the length or direction of a crease on the person’s hand. If there really are people who have some kind of mental gift that allows them to understand things they shouldn’t, that (as doubtful as it seems) is a better explanation than attributing the insight to tea leaves or palm lines. At least that’s what I think. Then again, I know some very intelligent people who swear otherwise.
Comment by bronxboy55 — September 25, 2011 @ 19:31 |
Your daughter’s tea leaves a catalysator for her fertile mind. Lots of imagination. Because that’s where we live: Up there. In our minds.
Hope she’ll never misplace her imagination on the way.
I was brought up a purist, despite of which I use (tea) bags (please don’t tell my parents). Bags are safe and don’t make you look into the future before the day has even started. A doctor will certify you as sound of mind when, like me, you do wake up in the morning, with hope in your heart, another glorious day stretching ahead of you. Come, say, nine pm GMT, enter hindsight. You cushion the blow to the post mortem of your day by pouring yourself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc (yes, I know red is supposed to be good for you – I prefer white). Once you have reached rock bottom of the glass there will be NO leaves to be read; instead you will be able to tell one of those truly annoying American Polyannas that your glass is empty. Never bought into that rubbish of half full/half empty. It’s not a matter of perception. It’s a matter of fact. Pass me the bottle.
As to your daughter and the fertile mind: And then there are fairy tales on which I will write a separate post.
And there are dreams (nocturnal). On which I will write a separate post.
Or so I hope.
U
PS No I am not a sucker neither am I being paid to promote Sauvignon Blanc.
Comment by Ursula — September 26, 2011 @ 19:29 |