I got an email the other day from a person I’d read for, remotely. It was a thank you email. It was a narrative of astonishment that quite chuffed me, despite decades of doing what they asked for.
That doesn’t read back as quizzical, at all. At first glance. If I was them. We say thank you when someone at the picnic passes the fried chicken. But it’s nothing short of odd, for all that seeming simplicity.
The person was astonished I knew their age. I knew where they’d travelled and with whom. What they ached for and what they were going to do about it. How they’d deluded themselves about love and importances that would never manifest. Their home. When they will move. That they have a new business. Who is dying and when they will be buried. How the leftover possessions of that person’s life will to be fought over like wolves at a kill? By whom? The two brothers and their other sister.
None of the above is unusual. What is perennially unusual is that people think it’s unusual. That strangers are willing to fork out money that could be just once in their lives, on a risk? That I could be a fraud because even though they instinctively know the unfolding present has reactions to epigenetic experience, that it could be predicted? That it’s all real? That the friend who recommended the work could have told the truth? Or lied? Exaggerated? That people like me exist? That they are a readable narrative? That a stranger can open the pages of their story and read beyond page twenty-seven?
That there are frauds? Isn’t that a devastating indictment of what has shaped consciousness?
The risk, then, of a human being who can tell not only what will happen as you live but what is forging those predictable next events, is an oddity. Carnivalé Sideshow Alley material. Some aberrant freakery.
But ask yourselves, what if what I do, we can all, inherently, do? What if I’ve inadvertently developed neural pathways, because I won’t accept the rules and regs laid down like a nun on her face to a long dead maybe man whose unsullied, non-decomposed flesh is endlessly consumable and his blood drinkable, every Sunday, until the believer in a delusion is burned –oops, sorry, cremated is the nicer word—and erased? What if this deus ex machine is our capacity to recognise the pattern in each seed? Each human being as a collective environment of vast cosmology erupting in manifestation of stars-made-animal.
That the atomic resonance at the core of a client’s micro-nebula is able, through some dynamic fusion of mutuality, able to expose it’s one and only Earth to another living organism, light years distant to the vast smallness that underpins the atomic dance of incalculable presence of another Earth, and the language of quarks be interpreted for them because sometimes we are too close to ourselves to see without some mutuality?
For what we eye-wateringly limitedly call “an hour”?
No end to this story…