Something I wish I could find is a boyfriend with a third eye into the spirit world. It must have all started with my first pet, a kitten I named Fred who seemed to always be struggling with dark forces from another dimension. Fred would be alone in a corner, hissing violently before bolting into a cupboard where he would remain for three days, my whole family confused. “Should we take him to the vet?” my mom would propose. “A vet can’t help him, he’s dealing with something from beyond,” I told her peering in the cupboard, “What do you see Fred?” I murmured softy. I loved Fred in a way that was half admiration and half jealousy. “How come Fred is gifted and I’m not?” I’d ask my dad and he would just stare at the television watching golf, pretending I hadn’t spoken to him at all.
Then I met a boy in high school who would sit on his roof and have conversations with a mysterious rock creature. Again, I experienced a love deeply rooted in admiration and jealousy. I would study his dark and creepy drawings of a creature made out of rocks, looking into it’s tiny yellow slits for eyes, “You see this?” I asked, my own eyes growing big and crazed, “I want to see it too.” I would sit on the roof with him, listening as he rattled on about conspiracies to an invisible presence, searching for traces of yellow eyes. “I have to go buy Wonderbread and leave it on my neighbor’s doorsteps,” he told me before cascading down a tree and onto the sidewalk leaving me alone on the roof. “Did you tell him to do that?” I whispered into the dark, “I can serve you too.”
Besides Fred and the boy in high school, it’s been impossible to find a decent man who sees demons. “Why do you want me to be skitzophrenic?” Taylor asked me insulted, “I would never wish mental illness on you or anyone I love.” I threw up my hands in exasperation, “Not mental illness! I’m talking about receiving psychic impressions! You never get it!” Taylor shot back, “Well why don’t you see demons?” challenging me. “Don’t you think I’ve tried” I yelled, completely frustrated with my failure to see into the metaphysical world or to pick a mate who does.
I once asked my mom if it bothered her that my dad isn’t tuned into the energies surrounding us. “How do you know he’s not?” she said and we both looked out the window to the backyard where there he was, crouched on the lawn picking weeds and talking to himself. “Dad is tuned in,” I felt my head start to sweat, “We should test his psychic abilities,” I suggested.
There are psychic readers littered all over my neighborhood but you would never believe how difficult it is to get ahold of a good one who will read your psalm on the cheap. A lot of the higher end psychics, the ones with websites and brochures, will only meet you through a previously scheduled appointment and surprisingly they are booked up. Don’t assume psychics are sitting around waiting for you to come to them. Their time is valuable and if you are going to stroll into their store every time you find yourself in spiritual discontent they are going to charge you so you better plan ahead- similar to when you find yourself in need of medical attention and are seeking care from a hospital.
One psychic I talked to charged forty dollars for one psalm reading. “Two psalms is sixty, crystal ball readings are eighty-five and we have a package deal where we do everything for one hundred and fifty dollars,” she told me sounding bored- she probably could foresee that I didn’t have that kind of money and she wouldn’t ever look at my life through her crystal ball so she wasn’t going to waste her breath. She was legitimate.
I found one woman, Lauren, who would read your psalm for ten dollars but the sign outside her store, Psalm Readings By Lauren, said 98% accurate. Her store was closed so I couldn’t ask her where she came up with that number- did she conduct some follow up research on all of her clients and compile that into a concrete data analysis? Is that just for insurance reasons? A safety number- didn’t you read the sign? I warned you there was a two percent chance I would be wrong. Your money stays with me.
The only male psychic I encountered, I never saw, only spoke to through a home security system. I always pass a huge intimidating house around the corner from my apartment surrounded by a tall fence. It looks like a normal house except for a small sign that says psychic hanging on the door. When I rang the bell at the gate, a male voice came through the speaker, “What?” he said. “Are you the psychic?” I whispered into the gate keypad. “Yeah, what do you want?” I frowned, immediately ready to leave because if he didn’t already know, he must be 98% accurate too.
As I walked home I wondered if I’d ever find the perfect psychic, God gifted spiritual healers are cashing in too, does no one help anyone out without a price? I thought of Fred, the rock man, my dad talking to the weeds-some people are just chosen I guess, they know things that others never will. I passed a man sitting on the curb violently arguing with an invisible person, I watched him for a moment and I just wanted to take a knee and beg him, tell me, what should we be running from?