A non-fiction story about that time I went to a psychic

My dear readers, I really wish I could tell you that this isn’t a true story. Like even a little bit. Unfortunately, I can’t do that. This is the very real story of that time I went to a psychic (and some other bits and pieces of my life around that time and afterwards). I found it in an old blog of mine and spent a good 3 minutes laughing so I thought it qualified for re-posting, no matter how embarrassing.

*it was also written two years ago today when I found out so that’s pretty neat

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March 3rd, 2013.
March 2011. One year after I had finished high school. Working a job I didn’t like much but kept me busy. Saving money, biding time in a town by the sea. It was before I knew that I’d know you and then suddenly you were there. Hey listen, I’m sorry I started that fire in your kitchen. I guess that’s what I get for putting an electric kettle on a hot burner.

I have decided that it is true, the whole thing about leaving parts of yourself everywhere that you go. I think of myself at 10, starting fights with boys in the school yard and getting dragged into the principles office for disturbing the peace. In my defense though, they were always pulling on my hair. I think of myself at 12, riding bikes around the neighborhood in Washington. All the palm trees in LA. The jumping beans that jumped until they died on the dashboard in my Aunt’s car while we drove through Mexico. And then summer last year, side by side in the kitchen. Your hand on the small of my back. While you cooked I rubbed my bare feet together, cranked up the radio, tugged at my slip, chewed on my hair. The kitchen door was ajar, the floors were dusty. I didn’t have any men in my life but I had you and the long, hot nights. Your hand across the table. A cold meal. A closet full of lace slips and a house to lounge in while wearing them.

I always write about people as if they were so important. The thing is, I can’t remember how important you were or anyone else really was. I forget 240 days out of 365 and what I do remember, I piece together. I keep thinking lately about the man who might come along at some point and how I don’t know him yet. I wonder sometimes, in bed alone, if he be made up of all the men I’ve known so far. I really hope not. For his sake and for mine. I confess that I have not had the best taste so far.

I’m not ready to face him yet but I know he’s out there. I feel him sometimes when I wake from lonely dreams. I know there is an embrace somewhere in this world that will bring me back to earth. Remind me to be salt always. First, I have to be my own hand, my own heart and then it can be his hand, his heart.

Everyone I know is falling in love. I am falling (literally) into books. Into myself. All things about me are still hypothetical but I pursue everything with vigor. I am particularly in love with my new tattoo. The flood, the flood and now suddenly all this rain. I want to yell and run through fields naked. Instead, I settle most nights for whiskey and my friends. Their warm bodies on my bed, talking while flipping through books or staring at the ceiling, hands on legs on faces on shoulders. Home is where the heart is and that happens to be somewhere in the tangle of our bodies after a bottle of decent liquor.

I will tell him about the summer I almost broke my foot after being dared to jump off the highest ledge of the pier. Still swam around like it was nothing. Hurt like hell. How the city was caked in heat and there was nowhere to run. Always at the beach, in the ocean. Watched the sand collect in my navel, down the sides of my sharp hips. How pale I was even underwater. I want to be moved. Not by a lover but by life. By the mountains. My own skin. Words. Books. Places. Everything. I have been so many people.

When I turned 18, I went to a psychic with a little bit of urging from one of my house mates at the time. I had been feeling so disjointed after graduating high school that she thought a “decent tarot reading” would do me good. Whatever that meant. It was hard thinking of things to ask the woman once I got there. Life stuff without getting too dark. I purposely avoided romantic questions. I wanted to know what would get me out of my funk and had no interest in love or romance. Still don’t. Probably used to tired, older women with someone in mind, she couldn’t resist talking about it before I left. I remember her grabbing my hands and rubbing her thumbs over the lines.

“You’ll meet someone when you are both too young. It won’t be the right time. You’ll fall apart after a couple years. Go off and do some growing up, it looks like. Then, you’ll find each other again in Newfoundland. Or he will have some kind of connection to Newfoundland. Something to do with Newfoundland. Newfoundland is going to be involved. Work? Family? Friends? Something.”

I had laughed, trying to pretend like it wasn’t directly at her. She dropped my hands then. “All my family is from Toronto and Montreal,” I couldn’t help giggling, “And this is the West coast. We live on the West coast. I don’t know a single person who has ever been to Newfoundland like even once.”

She sat back, pointing a finger at me, “Time’s up.” Then she stood and walked around the table to me, “Newfoundland. Just you wait.”

She did give me a tape of the session for whatever reason. It was like, thanks a heap lady but it’s 2010 and very few people actually have cassette players anymore. I did try to find it a year or two later with no luck. Sucked into the vortex of shit I didn’t care enough about to even bring home.

I wish I could remember more of what she’d said but it was all so ridiculous and stupid that I pushed it out of my head. Everything she’d told me had been vague but the last part was too specific. It had ruined the entire thing. Whatever man I was seeing at the time (or not seeing?) did not fit that description and had nothing to do with fucking Newfoundland.

I laughed afterwards. I cried. Not because I thought I’d find anything in Newfoundland but because I realized I’d visit one day, remember the psychic and feel stupid. The woman who discredited herself. I left that little room feeling more bewildered than I ever had in my life. For a week afterwards it was like someone had tacked an extra sentence onto a story I’d read 150 times before. Her room smelled like crushed flowers and she didn’t tell me anything with her tarot cards that I didn’t already know.

It’s the 3rd day of March in the year 2013. I am 20 years old. I’m dating the worst man. Literally. That is what my friends have nicknamed him. “How’s the worst man in the world?” My friend Nicole will say after he leaves our apartment or sometimes just before. She wants him to hear her. I skipped out on my first bar tab the other day, accidentally. Two years and two days ago you were standing in my door and how monumental that must have felt. I can’t really remember it now.

And then to think, one day I will meet someone. We will find ourselves on the same beach, in the same bar, library, house, backyard and find our way to each other. I want to warn him now that I am all trouble but I don’t think he will believe me. Even if he did I don’t think it would stop him from a single thing. Funny how life is like that, just a rodeo that keeps on going. And our memories, the things that stay with us, decide when and where to make themselves known, if ever.

Catch Me Running

It is without much ceremony, the act of
living so I am bored enough to fall
madly in love with myself.

In all honesty, I have been
known for showing a little skin under
short sundresses, some thigh
and a handful of summer freckles

But I am as much of a play on words
as the next person, never stopping
all this changing and the second
everything moves upwards and
onwards is the second that I
forget that someone new
is breaking out of me to make
a name and a place
for all this mess and all this joy
and every moment of our
humanity

She looks every year
of my twenty-two birthdays so far
which
is to say, she looks like nothing
at all but the height of the mountains
in a city that she was born in
but hates with a passion
and the litre of ocean water that was poured
into her eyes the day that she came into
this world? Well that can be followed
anywhere on the globe
with a coast to it.

So, what can I say now except
I have turned my chin up at less
and you know by now that
my skin is braille, each beauty
mark mapping a different world
in my mind than the one I’m in
and so I write
to get it all out of me, like turning
your palms upwards
and putting a knife to your
own skin
just for the blood.

I find fewer and fewer reasons
to do anything but hustle
in this place, flatter than my
grandmothers porch, busier
than the busiest day
of the year, with everyone
always moving to you, around
you or through you.

I have known only a few things
in my life but I know that I am
made for something more like
this, the crowds, the tastes
and the smells, the faith
that pulses under each
street lamp and on every
corner that we are all
alone but together

now, I am softer and softer
like a flower in the sun, looking like
something
blooming and with it I find
such intimacy in all
the places that I had never thought to look
and isn’t that where it all begins?

and lights and burns out and lights again
with every carton of cigarettes
that I have ever tasted.

With a smile sharper than my own tongue
and almost velvet charm
like my favorite black dress
that shows more of my back than of my
thighs
there is no where
and I have no idea
how it is
I could have learned all these new habits
and desires that come from my mouth,
and ring in my ear, the very
kinds of things you truly have
not one word for

It is only in the way I watch myself in
mirrors like I might escape
that I realize
I am not a creature to be known
or understood anymore, the word
used to catch my attention
is one one syllable too long, always
mispronounced or missing a letter
and it has no solid meaning.

I am serious about nothing more than
myself, than the weather
and poems that speak of
passionate sex
while these parts, foreign
settle themselves in
and I begin again
anew as the girl buttoning up
her shirts, still showing a little
too much skin, shaving my legs
in the middle of winter with
the simple truth
of change and changing, filled
and filling with the weight
and the lightness
of a different woman now
and the cold here is not as bitter
as it once was

So I have started running again
and that is how I find my new language, entire
beginning with
the way a man comes up
behind me and zips my dress closed from
the bottom of my spine and afterwards
leaning in to taste the nape of my neck,
and ending with my favorite flowers lined
up in rows
all down the avenue on the snowiest
afternoon of the year,
handed to me and later thrown
into the trash
a sunflower for every letter
of the alphabet so just

catch me if you can, using old textbooks
on biology and art history. I’ll be somewhere
In this big old city with my hand outstretched
grazing my own, blood-red mouth
and
wearing a dress shorter
than the time it takes to sin,
not caring if you call me or not

The Slow Dance to Love (Or Why I Like Black Turtlenecks)

Valentines day is still well over a month away but somehow it’s already everywhere. Hearts, chocolate, roses and big fuzzy teddy bears galore. Unlike most other holidays of the year, I have no sincere memories of February 14th. It’s never been a thing that I have taken super seriously which is kind of weird since I consider myself a closet romantic. I mean.. ew gross everything. There just hasn’t been a good moment or the right person where I’d find myself vulnerable enough to open up to celebrating a silly, made-up day. Not yet anyways.

However, all this Valentine’s day stuff has me thinking about the celebrations of love and the meaning of romance in a day-to-day context. It always fascinated me how people say I love you in unique ways. Sometimes that’s a hand on the shoulder at the right moment or a cup of hot coffee in the morning or sharing their lunch with you. You see, I’ve always been a very vocal person. I think that I show my love in tangible ways. I’d bake cakes for friends and cookies for co-workers or remember the blazer my friend picked out at Value Village and surprise her with it. I have and always will take tiny mental notes about the people who are closest to me (likes: kit-kat bars, belly rubs, good whiskey).

As I get older, I realize that different and yet equally important ways of loving are more needed from me than the take-home stuff or knocking the ball out of the park kind of gestures. These are the scarier things. Letting someone see me cry. Telling a story about my childhood that I’m embarrassed by or a trivial fact of my existence (hates: olives, certain kinds of mushrooms, doesn’t trust lettuce from Subway). The thing is, these kinds of admissions feel so similar to confession. The kind they used to shove me in every Friday at my Catholic school. Back then I would make up sins to repent for but twenty-two years into this life thing, I have enough to account for. I confess that I am not always the kindest person. I confess that I sometimes need to be alone. I confess that I am terrified, tired, in love, broken, whole, a person, a woman. I confess that I have no idea where I’m going next. I confess. I confess to you. So, I’m reminded of a Syvia Plath quote, “And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter – they are so rusty, so ugly. So meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small, cramped dark inside of you for so long.”

When I was small, I always imagined I’d meet an Englishman and flee to the countryside where I’d write novels and he’d do … something. Or when I was twelve that moved more towards an Englishman and I (at this point, decidedly I would have short, dark brown hair and wear only black turtlenecks) living in London while I wrote madly successful plays and he also.. did something. Whatever. The specifics were never that important. I imagined we’d be passionate about each other to the point of insanity. We’d be in on that shared secret and oh yeah, we’d have that untouchable, lusty flame. The timing on everything would be perfect. We’d never be faced with challenges and we’d never hurt each other. We’d always be that train arriving at the station at exactly half-past eight in an exciting yet reliable way. My earliest fantasies of love are things that everyone should strive for but, like bad television, exclude famine, fire and flood. I use that phase in relation to the fact that really caring for someone is a constant admission of flaws and willingness to step back and tinker things that might not be working as well as they could. I’ve never been able to believe that there is someone out there that’s perfect for you but I have always believed that everyone has a person. In my mind, the person is a someone that you meet who really makes a lifetime of flaws and fixings (… and famines and fires and floods) totally something you’d really do for the first time in your life. Real love requires fluidity. Change. Willingness. It requires us to confess. To be as we are, whatever that is in the moment and it builds only with time.

In an every day way, you practice the passion to be preached in your exploration of the world, in likes and dislikes  that may last longer than any relationship you could have. For instance, I grew up in the film industry (more on this later). It’s a huge part of my life and my personality and most of my past. I don’t really know much else and for me, that ritual is a labor of love. I value tradition and I secretly find a lot of passion in the field (shh, don’t tell anyone) which is probably why I will succumb to it’s magic at some point. I’ve always loved the smell of books which evolved into reading which somehow further grew into a Canadian literature major. My favorite poet is Leonard Cohen which is why I started writing in the first place which seemed just as natural and important as eating or breathing. These are all things about me and about my life that I couldn’t ever have anticipated and yet I hold them closer to me than anything else. I confess them here. I would confess them to anyone in person. It is love in action to find the things you are passionate about and not just people. What a waste a life would be if spent entirely chasing other people.

In short, this year I might be thinking of Valentine’s day a little differently than I have in the past. No more packed, sweaty clubs where I’d kiss a strange boy at some point in the night to feel important. Maybe I’ll bake a cake or spend the night skype calling my friends at home. I’m not sure. But I am so grateful for Valentine’s day and its cheap reminders of all the things in my life that radiate love and persistence and for making me question it all. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like resisting my truths. I still hold some crazy ideas about love, don’t get me wrong. I want to travel the world with someone and come home together, a little tired, a little sunburned and a lot in need of a shower but from the best trip of our lives. I want to challenge someone and be challenged like level 25 on tetris, challenged. Challenged because they know I can handle it and then some. I want to be opened up in a way that needs four hands instead of just two. I want time and trust and kindness to help me build something I can be proud of in my professional life and my personal life. I want to be with someone who creates and who inspires me to create and create and create because there’s never an ending to art. It is a way of life. It is life. I want to find ways to say I love you that are more about sharing and talking and being supportive and small and soft than they are about always having to knock it out of the stadium. It’s never easy. It gets hard sometimes and it gets raw but if I’m lucky (and a little of all the headstrong, hearty person I am), one day I will meet someone who isn’t afraid of getting knocked around a little bit.

After all, life is about falling in love with yourself. It’s about pursuing your passions, it’s about constantly willing to tinker things. It’s a challenge to open yourself to you and to the people around you. It’s not always liking yourself but resolving to love yourself no matter what. As I learn more of this world, I can’t wait to unfold with it and to experience as much of it as I can and to applaud the parts of that come out with every new discovery. It’s a life-long confession. I aim to stay inspired, to inspire. I will. I am already. And one day maybe, I’ll meet my person. Hopefully he’ll be someone who offers me his hand in the middle of the kitchen, with the kettle nearly whistling and loads of writing deadlines approaching, to slow dance with me (crucial it be in our socks) to some Frank Sinatra song from my childhood.

Until then, I’m going to enjoy every moment of this journey from broke university student to grown woman. Incredible things take time and apparently plan on acquiring a plethora of black turtlenecks at some point in the future and an Englishman that does … something. Whatever. Details are never needed. Besides, he’s not the important one here, I am.

Love,

Zandria