A Different Kind of Reading

12 questions, 36 answers, and no sex The Ladies' and Gentlemen's

A Different Kind of Reading

I've never quite figured out how Salem, Massachusetts, became a magnet for witches. Yes, yes, I know about the Salem Witch Trials, the cautionary period in American history that we have been doomed to repeat in our xenophobic paranoia of others. And there's no gainsaying that Salem does have a witchy feel, especially in autumn when dying leaves fall to brick sidewalks outside the delightfully old clapboard houses and the briny fog rolls in from the harbor, shrouding the town in mist.

It's hard not to get in the mood even, as in the case last weekend, when the atmosphere was almost tropical thanks to a strange warm weather pattern.

Still, the way I see it, witches would want to avoid Salem at all costs. Not only were their predecessors ill treated here, but there's the whole question of what caused the persecution to begin with: a bad winter, short food supply, last grasp of Puritan hold, fermented rye? All of these are possibilities. But witchcraft? Nah. I don't believe it.

So why did I fall under its spell and have my Tarot cards read?

I blame the Salem Literary Festival co-hosted by our own fabulous Salem resident Brunonia Barry. Brunonia is one of those writers who gives back to the community, cheerfully and lovingly. She supports the local bookstores and brings in new writers, including Erin Morgenstern a Salem native whose book, The Night Circus, is rocking the shelves. Plus, she's really nice and warm and generous and just...yummy.

Brunonia wasn't the only Tart there. Joshilyn Jackson cracked up a room with the story of how she found her agent. Hank Ryan, beautiful and poised as always, winged - just winged! - a job as moderating the Lipstick Chronicles panel and just when things were getting dull, Cornelia Read would stir it up with a few comments about her love of Prozac.

We're an odd buch, we Tarts. Like crazy aunts who carpool to Thanksgiving, cackling all the way.

But I have to admit to feeling a little intimidated. There was a lot of talent there last weekend - Julia Glass, Jenna Blum, Joss, etc. A girl can get to feel, well, lost. So, after the panel was done on Sunday,
I took Joss and Brunonia's advice and went to see a Tarot reader because, hey, I was in Salem and where else are you going to find witches willing to work before noon on a Sunday.

The witch I saw - if you can call him that - was hardly what I'd expected. Richard arrived riding a motorcycle, helmet under his arm, gray ponytail dangling down his back, tude galore. I booked him for a half hour, but he ended up giving me 45 minutes.

Now, I'll admit right off that I am the least psychic person on the planet. I can't move a Ouija thingamajig or a dowsing rod no matter how hard I concentrate. Richard begs to differ. It's not that I'm not psychic, apparently, it's that my energy is all blocked up mostly - if you believe his reading - by my family.

Let's just say that hit home. Then again, what 48-year-old woman asking about her career would NOT be surprised to find that her great creative energy is trapped by laundry, dinner, tuition bills or, to put it in Richard's parlance, "psychic vampires." I knew exactly what he meant as soon as he said the phrase. Psychic vampires are people who suck your time and creative energy until you're left dry. I protect my family from them so, hey, yay for me!

But now it's the time in my life to tell them to wash their own socks and make their own sandwiches. My energy is unblocked and it needs to come out.

Oddly enough, this reminded me of another article I just read in The Atlantic about the power of menopause by the hysterical Sandra Tsing Loh. Message? Women losing their estrogen are really just coming out of the fog of fertility and losing the urge to polish silver and fix three-course turkey dinners. We can say to our loved ones, it's been great doing business with you, but now you're on your own. We can now lie around on Sundays reading the paper instead of getting the family ready for the work week ahead. No clean underwear? Not my problem. I'm writing a masterpiece.