In the Tent – Behind the Veil
The next one in line looks to be a tough nut to crack. I always take a sneak peek through my series of dangling mirrors. They never guess I know them well before they even set a foot into the tent.
Often the ‘seekers’ as I like to call them are nervous, overwhelmed and excited about getting a reading from me. I admit to vamping up my surrounding, setting the mood, if you will.
I am an old-fashioned gypsy who has been working the carnies since my eighth birthday. There was a high expectancy of talent and therefore a high expectancy of income right from the day I was born. You see, I was born with a veil, a caul to those who may know the term. This fact in addition to the fact I was produced from generations of salty Pavees before me was almost a guarantee of a life of good fortune for the people who raised me.
Of course, the good fortune lay in the amount of money my ‘caretakers’ had the good fortune of making from my sixth, seventh and eighth senses.
I say this without bragging on my part. I say it as pretty well the only real truth in my life.
Fake eyelashes, dyed black hair, tin bracelets, gaudy jewelry of all sorts … these all make up my persona. These are things that my seekers need to give themselves a feeling that they will receive an authentic gypsy reading and experience. I have of course perfected this persona working forward from being eight until now, almost twenty years later.
As I pulled my thin white veil across my nose and mouth, ready to receive the tough nut I wondered again how much longer I want to play this game of foolery. I knew instinctively what they wanted to hear. They needed the candy coated version of their life and I complied. If anyone ever guessed just how much I really knew there would be a fast retreat and a severe bash on my stellar reputation. The world would travel the circuit faster than a bright red Ferrari.
For instance, this one twisting her wedding ring off her finger as we speak. Just one glance through my mirrors at her puckered mouth, shriveled breasts hidden beneath an over-sized fishman knit sweater and darting eyes tells me she is bitter (the mouth), ashamed of her womanhood (the sweater), rich (the sweater and diamonds on the ring) and nervous her tennis or golf partners will spot her outside of the gypsy’s tent (the eyes). That with a glance. That with not hearing her potentially high-pitched voice. Before seeing the sadness and appreciation when I tell her she is right in her suspicions – Her husband doesn’t love her.
No, today I’ll stick with what she wants to hear. Not what she needs to hear.
I lift my voice and call for her to enter, ready to read my crystal ball. That’s what the lady pays me to do after all.
I wonder how others feel when they are put on the spot to write along with strangers, read out loud, and then critique. Does it create a bit of an adrenalin rush?
Bye for now – Namaste.
Lesley Fletcher is a writer (freelance, books, content, lyrics,stage plays) as well as a visual artist specializing in monoprinting. To learn more about her please visit the tabs here on WordPress or her website athttp://www.LesleyFletcher.com
- Midnight Heart(s) #FWF (inspirationimport.wordpress.com)