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The Woo-Woo Factor in Predictive Science
Jan. 27th, 2015 08:41 amWell, it did turn out to be a historic snowstorm – historic in the sense of exercise in mass hysteria: After all that media-driven hype and panic, and opportunity costs that will total tens of millions of dollars by the time everything is added up, New York City got about five and a half inches of snow. We got two.
Moral of the story?
Ya can’t predict the weather!
Or maybe my particular brand of magick actually works, and the storm was talked to death.
In other woo-woo-related news: I got an email last night from the Beautiful Historian telling me that the predictions I made last August had come true. She and I and L had gotten tipsy one night on several bottles of foul-tasting Austrian liqueurs, and L had cracked out the Tarot cards.
The Beautiful Historian was frankly amazed.
I didn’t actually tell her half of what I saw in those cards – the Lesbian affair coming in late spring, the automobile accident in the fall – because, you know, what is the point?
I’m one of those super-observant types – the hypervigilance of the formerly abused child, doncha know – so it’s never clear to me when I’m leveraging my hypertrophic intuition or when I’m really channeling. I do channel from time to time (and I also see auras and sometimes even ghosts), although it’s never been what you might call a dependable talent, and Stephen King gets these kind things all wrong. It’s not as though you see things illuminated in neon lights on a flashing marquee. It’s more as if you’re walking quickly down a street, preoccupied, with your head down and you see something out of the corner of your eye. By the time you register, “Hey! I saw something!”, it’s too late to take a closer look.
It doesn’t work at all when I’m trying to peer into my own future. And only rarely, when I’m trying to peer into the futures of those closest to me.
It works best when I’m seeing things that will happen to people with whom I have absolutely no karmic connection.
Like the Beautiful Historian.
To whom I’d said, “Hmmmm. It looks as though you’re going to spend November having a big fight with your mother –“
The Beautiful Historian snorted. “My mother is dead.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well. Then I guess I’m wrong.”
Except that in November, the Beautiful Historian was contacted by a woman who told her, “I’m your birth mother.”
And this is how the Beautiful Historian discovered she’d been adopted. Which fact, apparently, she’d never suspected before.
The Beautiful Historian now wants me to do another Tarot reading. Not gonna, though. That well is dry. Although I will go to the Tenement Museum with her next time I’m in NYC because, you know, what could be more fun than having walking through NYC history with an honest-to-God historian?
No, let the Beautiful Historian experience all that Sapphic bliss and get scripts for all those great pills without forewarning.
Moral of the story?
Ya can’t predict the weather!
Or maybe my particular brand of magick actually works, and the storm was talked to death.
In other woo-woo-related news: I got an email last night from the Beautiful Historian telling me that the predictions I made last August had come true. She and I and L had gotten tipsy one night on several bottles of foul-tasting Austrian liqueurs, and L had cracked out the Tarot cards.
The Beautiful Historian was frankly amazed.
I didn’t actually tell her half of what I saw in those cards – the Lesbian affair coming in late spring, the automobile accident in the fall – because, you know, what is the point?
I’m one of those super-observant types – the hypervigilance of the formerly abused child, doncha know – so it’s never clear to me when I’m leveraging my hypertrophic intuition or when I’m really channeling. I do channel from time to time (and I also see auras and sometimes even ghosts), although it’s never been what you might call a dependable talent, and Stephen King gets these kind things all wrong. It’s not as though you see things illuminated in neon lights on a flashing marquee. It’s more as if you’re walking quickly down a street, preoccupied, with your head down and you see something out of the corner of your eye. By the time you register, “Hey! I saw something!”, it’s too late to take a closer look.
It doesn’t work at all when I’m trying to peer into my own future. And only rarely, when I’m trying to peer into the futures of those closest to me.
It works best when I’m seeing things that will happen to people with whom I have absolutely no karmic connection.
Like the Beautiful Historian.
To whom I’d said, “Hmmmm. It looks as though you’re going to spend November having a big fight with your mother –“
The Beautiful Historian snorted. “My mother is dead.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well. Then I guess I’m wrong.”
Except that in November, the Beautiful Historian was contacted by a woman who told her, “I’m your birth mother.”
And this is how the Beautiful Historian discovered she’d been adopted. Which fact, apparently, she’d never suspected before.
The Beautiful Historian now wants me to do another Tarot reading. Not gonna, though. That well is dry. Although I will go to the Tenement Museum with her next time I’m in NYC because, you know, what could be more fun than having walking through NYC history with an honest-to-God historian?
No, let the Beautiful Historian experience all that Sapphic bliss and get scripts for all those great pills without forewarning.
