Monday, 9 September 2013

So Here's The Thing...

It's taken me a while to write this, to even come to it with words, but here goes... and if it makes no sense, I apologise in advance.

So, I went to the psychic evening. I did my research and I had an open mind. Clearly that phrase 'open mind' is always a pause for thought. No one's mind is truly open. We see everything through our own version of rose-tinted spectacles. The ones we put on that we hope no one else notices.

So that was the evening. And fun it was, too. Nothing happened to me. Nothing. I observed other people affected, altered, taken up with what was going on. It was fascinating, intriguing, confusing, wonderful. And as I said, I'd go again for sure.

Next day? Well, the evening was a run in to the following day, a psychic day. And I wasn't going to let that pass me by. So with writer's head and satchel, off I went.

It was, more than the evening really, what I expected: cloth-covered tables, crystals, cards, and a fair spattering of fairy-type stuff. I at that point could've giggled and left. But that's not me, really. I wanted to just soak it up, so I did. And I got the chance to sit with a seriously well known palm reader (he's the one the celeb's go to) (and now me!) and see what happened.

So, here's the thing. Most of what he said I could, easily, say that it was generalisations, clever motivational speak, excellent reading of body language. The man is a life coach born and bred. He could change lives simply by talking, because he's clearly got a skill and talent for saying stuff not necessarily that you want to hear, but stuff that might make you think and change what you do.

But one word stood out: Troubadour.

Just a word, right? Nothing special.

Well, the trouble with this word is that it has cropped up before. My dad was sitting with an old friend. A friend in a coma. been out for weeks. It was a regular visit. Dad was doing his job as a friend and as a minister. Then this friend in a coma wakes up. Has a message he tells my dad, about his sons. Tells him. Falls back to a coma. What he said about my brother is irrelevant (accurate, as it turns out, but irrelevant). Anyway, for me, he used that one word: troubadour.

And so did the palm reader. The man stared at me and used that word. 'You're a troubadour. You can't help it. You can't do anything about it. That's what you are.'

I honestly don't know what that means. I'm not some bloke who runs around singing poetry. But I do write. And I can't help but write. It's not just something I do. It's what I am. Not for money (hahaha...) Not for fame (more of the hahaha...) It's simply something I do because if I don't I actually stop.


Troubadour though. That's a random word. It's like meeting a stranger and saying 'Castanet' and the stranger saying 'holy cow - it's the one instrument I've always wanted to play'. Or something.

I am not suggesting anything here. At all. But what I am saying is that a man who has no idea who I am, has never met me, doesn't know me, spoke to me, and used a really rather specific word, and one that's haunted me for a long, long time, to describe who I am, and what I cannot escape being.

Read in to that what you will. Something or nothing.

Intriguing though, isn't it? And that undeniable part of it all is what fascinates me. And also - as I've already said - keeps my mind open.