Edition #170: Everything Psychics Ever Told Me
Please, give me all the answers. Plus, how to like yourself more, money doesn't exist, and Oscar Issac in a delicious short directed by his wife.
PROGRAMMING NOTE: Please excuse the day-late send. I was waiting on permission from my medium to include the voice notes from our session below. Enjoy!
A Note From the Editor
Have you ever known something was going to happen before it happened? I call them gentle pings and I’ve had them since I was young; knowing my number would be called for a specific prize in a raffle, knowing a man I made eye contact with at the grocery store would be waiting for me outside. Those pings, combined with my loosely Catholic upbringing and the occasional sense of holiness I feel during ordinary moments, have always made me spiritually inclined. Not quite religious, but the vague brand of modern spirituality that doesn’t follow a firm doctrine.
I believe in aliens and ghosts, a loving higher power, and an afterlife that I figure is likely reincarnation, though I’m open to other possibilities. This cocktail of loosely held beliefs makes me the ideal client for psychics of all sorts. I’m not trying to stump them or test their actual future-telling abilities. I’m just along for the ride, waiting to lap up whatever is poured into my proverbial bowl. And over the years, said bowl has been filled with all sorts of stuff.
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The Psychic Who Scared the Sh*t Out Of Me
Kissimmee, FL, 13-years-old
This is one of those childhood memories that feels foggy around the edges, but certain facts I know to be true. I was 13 dating a 17-year-old. He was a bassist in a screamo band, and he would pick me up in his red truck at the end of my block so my parents wouldn't see. This older boyfriend ran with a darker circle of people than the ones I was exposed to at my little performing arts school, which is probably what drew me to him in the first place.
One hot Sunday, he brought me to meet the unofficial leader of his group. The sun was blazing as we pulled into the block, tatty houses and trailers scattered about. I remember the leader being a fully grown man. He sat in a plastic lawn chair in front of his trailer, and I could feel his eyes on me from the moment I exited the truck. A few others loitered around. They were impossibly grown up and a little dangerous, the sort of people I would cross the street to avoid if I were walking home alone. The man’s toddler-aged daughter waddled around in nothing but a diaper. After her, I was the youngest one there.
This part I remember most clearly: the man’s icy eyes peering into mine. Long, black hair hanging around his face. He told me he had visions of the future. My boyfriend had shared this already on the ride over, but it felt more serious coming from the man's mouth.
“I can see your whole, life back to front,” he said. “I can see the day you’ll die. Wanna know?”
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The Psychic Who Swindled Me
New York, NY, 19-years-old
Many years later, I was visiting New York City for an internship interview at a fancy PR firm. It was my first time being in the city overnight and without *real adults* around, so everything delighted and enticed me, including a sign for a psychic.
She was located on the third floor of an old walk-up building in Midtown. For $15, she would tell me my future. I eagerly handed the cash over. She said I had a guardian angel, family problems, and that I was here for a reason.
I am here for a reason, I confessed, a big internship interview. I really want it. Will I get it?
“Times up,” she said, “but I can give you a second reading if you want the answer. It’ll be $20.”
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The Psychic Who Broke My Heart
Maui, HI, 23-years-old
One evening at the resort where I worked slinging timeshare tours, a slight old man approached the concierge desk. He beelined straight for one of my employees—a blessing in the timeshare world, for every person you speak to is another person you can convince to attend a tour. The employee in question was a 19-year-old girl. The old man told her he was psychic and offered to read her palm. She happily laid down her hand.
He spoke quietly but with authority. She would get very sick one day, he said, but she would survive and reach a full recovery. The woman she was with wasn’t the one. My mouth hung open, for the girl hadn’t disclosed her relationship status—she was in a serious relationship with an older woman, much to the chagrin of her family. At this news, the girl began to cry. The man consoled her. By the end of it, their conversation felt intimate and familiar.
I asked if he could do me next. My reading lasted less than five minutes. I asked whether I had met the person I would end up with yet. I was newly out of a secret relationship with my first love, a man twelve years my senior who worked for the same timeshare company as me. We broke up because of my move to Hawaii, but I secretly harbored fantasies of us getting back together, moving to Northern California, and growing old in a big house with lots of windows.
He answered no without hesitation. It was my turn to cry. I did so stealthily in the resort bathroom.
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The Psychic Who Told Me My Dead Grandpa Thinks I’m A Slut
New York, NY, 30-years-old
I’ve had some strange readings over the years, but this was by far the most bizarre fifteen minutes of my psychic client life. The psychic was a friendly-faced bald man with glasses and a giant tub of colorful antacids on his desk. He told me I was a crab spirit, that I should print out a picture of a king crab and sleep with it under my pillow. He asked, several times, whether I was a hairstylist or a makeup artist. I assured him I was neither.
I should get headshots, he said, because I belonged on a stage. I was very funny without meaning to be. “It’s your delivery,” he said. Also, I was a touch psychic. I had several spirits surrounding me. They didn’t want to hurt me but they were definitely there, just something to be aware of.
“Anything with depression at all?” he asked. Sometimes, yeah. “Do you take medicine for that?” No. “Should you?” I don’t know. Maybe? “Ask your doctor about that. I can’t diagnose anything. Because I’m not a doctor.”
At the end of the reading, he called upon my father’s father, a man who died before my parents met. My long-dead grandpa wanted to know if there was ever a rendezvous with a married man. Once, when I was 21, I made out with a man at a bar. I didn't find out he was married until his friend told my friend after the fact, and I was mortified. It was the first time I fully realized married men sometimes cheat on their wives.
I said not really. Once, sort of, a long time ago. Nothing serious.
“Grandpa says you should get tested,” he said. “No judgment!”
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The Psychic Who Helped Me End a Relationship, Quit My Job, and Make a Film
New York, NY, 29-years-old
This was my first profound psychic experience. My life situation was in shambles at the time. I was in a dysfunctional relationship with a man who was living in my apartment just two months after meeting, working a full-time job on top of doing a bunch of unpaid writing work for bylines, and trying to build enough confidence to take the plunge into full time freelance life all the while. My home felt hostile, my work felt difficult, and I wanted out of it all.
The medium immediately picked up on a dark energy looming in my house; the relationship. She guided me on how to end it, giving specific instructions to keep things as conflict-free as possible, otherwise the situation might escalate. She advised me to give notice at my job in three months, which I did, and promised me I would be just fine freelancing, which I am.
The most memorable portion of the session happened when we turned to my writing. I’d told her how I loved writing as a child and started up again as an adult out of desperation, seeking meaning in the monotony of life. At this point I was mostly writing short fiction and informal essays. I had never before written a script but had quietly fantasized about it.
She saw me in a dark theater, she said. I was in the director's chair. There were two men, one tall and one short. It would be a meeting of the minds. Here, I would find deep satisfaction.
Two years later, in a dark theater, I met a tall Argentinian actor who would star in my debut short film alongside his friend, a shorter man whom I also met in a dark theater.
The (Same) Psychic Who Told Me Maybe I’m The Love Bomber | Cape Town, South Africa, 31-years-old
I thought about seeing that prolific medium many times over the next few years, but I always found a reason not to. When I was struggling to cope with unforeseen changes to my plains in South Africa back in May, I knew just who to call.
Our first (technically, second) session was so helpful that I decided to work with her in a different capacity, as an intuitive counselor. This was my ideal situation; talk therapy with a therapist who spoke my semi-spiritual language and whom I could ask direct questions to. The most profound insight came when I disclosed a dating pattern I had discovered earlier this year:
This behavior had earned me a few nicknames with the less-kind men I'd dated. Ice Queen and Miss Hot-and-Cold, respectively. Though it pained me to admit it, I told the medium, a part of me understood where these men were coming from.
She asked me whether I had any experience dating people with narcissistic tendencies. I did. And after I told her about my tales in narcissism Narnia over the past two years, she offered an insight that completely blew my mind:
I had gotten so used to the immediate gratification that came with all those early onset feelings that I might struggle when a person I'm newly dating tries to put up boundaries, she said. The task ahead: learning what my own energy feels like, devoid of approval from anyone else. That way, when I meet someone new, I'll be able to gauge my feelings about the person from a steady, grounded baseline.
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Cheers, my dears, and as always thanks for reading. I’m currently visiting family in Florida, and it is proper toasty. So many bug bites!
I’ll be keeping it low key this weekend—introducing my nephews to the cinematic masterpiece that is Holes, going on some sweaty walks, and trying my hardest not to open this laptop. Have a wonderful weekend! Drink a glass of lemonade, watch a second-tier baking show on Netflix, and go stargazing.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
Dark Secrets of Instagram Husband’s Death on Millionaire Row. This reads like a modern-day Grimm’s tale meant to serve as a warning—and an HBO mini series waiting to happen. We seem to comprehend that what people project on social media is rarely a reflection of reality, yet the platforms still illicit a deep sense of envy and comparison. Between stories like this, the emergence of sophisticated AI, and the increasingly polarized media landscape, it'll be interesting to consider how our relationship with reality will shift in the coming years.
How To Like Yourself More. I love this idea, especially for those of us who tend to be harsh self-critics. It can be difficult to notice the way you talk to yourself about yourself, and it can be equally difficult to transmute that dialogue to something more positive. This seems like a good first step.
Money Doesn’t Exist Anymore. There’s this coffeeshop I frequent in Williamsburg for all its endearing quirks—the motley crew of Brooklyn dads who meet up for a coffee chat each morning, the daily newspaper horoscopes cut out and taped up near the register, and the ATM robot man. It was several visits before I actually read the robot's speech bubbles. I laughed, but also, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. This video expounds upon the robot’s sentiment. They’re not wrong!
Perhaps You Should…Watch This Short
I remember seeing this narrative short in theaters when it was nominated for an Oscar a few years back, but I somehow didn't realize the lead character was Oscar Issac. A recent Oscar Issac Wikipedia rabbit hole led me to discover 1. He is, in fact, the star of this film and 2. It was written and directed by his wife, Elvira Lind, and 3. This was her first fictional short. So cool and impressive!
**Bonus Content** (The Illusive Lake House)
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We’ve all been there. BUT WHEN?
Also, the vibe in the US currently feels like this, so I’m mentally escaping via and this list and this novel. Guaranteed mood lifters: dancing around to this song and getting warm and cozy feelings over this Brooklyn home tour.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“He paused and tried to feel into himself to see what was really there.”
-The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury