The psychics are angry.
I’m noticing a weird pattern. And I’ve deduced that either
a) I’m evil
b) I’m dying very soon
c) They can read my mind (as in they are all telepaths)
Because every time I pass a psychic on the street in Bali, which I have to tell you, is quite frequently, say every tenth person or so, I am being given death stares. The kind of avert eyes very quickly, drop gaze, shudder shoulders type of look that you normally associate with how people greet Sarah Palin.
At ecstatic dance, where several self-labelled psychic type people congretate, I’m being avoided like the plague. This could be my dancing. Or it could be any of the three options above.
I take my problem to my friend and ask her whether she thinks that the psychics in town have it in for me, that they can see something in my aura or my future or my irises or if they’re just reading my mind (in which case they’re probably hearing, oh my goodness if she speaks to me shall I call her by her Native American name or by her name which makes her sound like a floor tile? I don’t think I can keep a straight face, just keep looking her straight in the eye, smile, smile nicely not like you’re paranoid that she can read your mind because la la la la la la crazy la la la stupid name la la la la can she hear this oh dear).
My friend takes a deep breath and tells me that I’m just being paranoid, that if anything they’re just picking up my very grounded vibes. She tries to tell me that people who are spiritual (and I’m thinking, but not saying hey I’m spiritual, kind of, I mean I know I eat cows and stuff and I struggle to meditate but um, I’m spiritual… ) can feel intimidated by people like me who are so grounded in reality. I bite my tongue from saying, ‘basically you’re calling me a cynical, eyeball rolling bitch with no connection to anything remotely spiritual or deep.’
And then I think about it some more and I realize that maybe all these psychics aren’t seeing me dying. And they’re not reading my mind.
No. They’re reading my blog.