The Psychic Blues

I’ve always thought of myself as one of the world’s greatest sceptics. Having said that, I did just spend $23 on lumps of aquamarine to aid creativity, self-expression and the accumulation of knowledge. I’ve got a little silk bag for them, as a 54 year old Californian woman with purple hair told me that I should wear it in my bra, as being prodded in the nipple by a shard of gemstone will no doubt transform me into a fount of motivation and literary genius.

At this point in my unshakeable Odyssey of Writer’s Block, I would try anything to get the creative juices flowing. If someone told me that in order to attain creative domination I need to smear dog shit all over my face and howl at the moon, I’d grab the nearest terrier and give it a try.

 

I’m in Western Australia, on holidays, and just spent the day wandering the streets of Fremantle looking at jade Buddha’s and drinking beer, interspersed with random women waving crystals around my head. I feel like I’m back home in Byron Bay.

 

Earlier in my stay, my friend took me to a ‘psychic brunch.’ I’ve never really been the biggest believer in clairvoyance, as it all seems to be about intuition, the shrewd reading of personal trappings and bullshit to me. Your psychic probably wouldn’t say “I sense that you’re battling some financial troubles” if a driver shielded you with a giant umbrella as you unfolded yourself from the depths of a Rolls Royce. I was pretty excited to go – secretly hoping that she’d hold onto my hands and exclaim “Oh my God!!! You’re going to be the future of British writing – the voice of your generation – one of the Greats of the 21st Century!” She didn’t.

 

As we walked into her little psychic lair I made the mistake of gushing “I’m so excited!!” in a kind of high pitched poodle squeal. With hindsight, I probably came across as a blonde haired halfwit that loves fluffy bunny slippers and making cupcakes.

After taking my hands, she laughed condescendingly and said “OK Amy, you are VERY gullible.” This annoyed me quite a bit. She elaborated for me. “People know that you’re not the first one to catch onto the joke, and they take advantage of that. People you know are always playing pranks on you,” she bulldozed on. “Don’t let them make you the butt of the joke.”

She looked at me with a self-satisfied smile, as though I was supposed to chuckle knowingly and say “Yep! You pegged it! The village idiot, that’s me!”

Who says something like that to someone?! “You’re a milk bottle short of a full crate and all of your friends think that you’re about as intelligent as a dust bin lid. That’ll be $50 please.” Especially if it’s definitely not true! Hopefully it’s not true. Oh for God’s sake please don’t be true. I’ve read Ulysses! I’m really good at guessing the end of movies! Who goes around playing pranks on people anyway?! I don’t live in a Dennis the Menace comic strip.

“Do you see that in yourself?” she simpered. “No, I don’t.” I hissed through clenched teeth. I hoped that she could by some miracle read minds, as all I could think about was that the only gullible thing about me was that I was choosing to give her a crisp banknote as opposed to headbutting her.

“OK,” she continued, seemingly a little miffed, as though she was irritated by the fact that I wasn’t thrilled to hear that I was a complete mong. Taking my hands again, she said, “you are really stubborn. When you know that you’re right, you dig your heels in, and you will not budge.”

Now she was just describing 86% of the human population.

Closing her eyes, she ploughed on. “You’re going to fall down the stairs. Try to watch your step in future because, you know… you can be a bit of an accident waiting to happen.”

Oh, come on. Just come out with it and call me a retard, why don’t you.

“The name Paul keeps flashing up.” Does he push me down the stairs?

“Someone is planning a surprise for you.” Is it Paul? Is it pushing me down the stairs??

“You’re a mother, but you’re not.” Oh, for fucks sake – now you’re just making this up as you go along. I don’t want to have kids, I tell her. “Yes, that’s why I said that you’re not. You’re just a fusspot.” Trust me lady. I do not give a shit about people enough to be a fusspot.

“Someone is going to crash your car.” I don’t have a car.

“Avoid romance, it makes you lose your focus.” Alright, no comment on that one.

“You’re a travel bug – you get restless easily. I see three big trips in your future.” Is one of them down a staircase? Apparently she sees me in the Middle East. Maybe someone uses my gullibility to lure me there.

She reads my tarot; talks about how I need to make more friends with connections, need to drink less, and am terrible with money – Wanky, Yawn and Blah – and then looks me square in the eye and says, “You are a brilliant photographer.”

Finally! She’s onto something! She must have read my last blog post.

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