“Is this a tarot deck?” I asked, afraid to even touch it. A friend I was visiting had just presented me with a cup of tea and a box of cards with a dove hovering in sunbeams on the front and the words Gaia Oracle. Everything, it seemed, could be read, if one let her sight adjust to the darkness.Ī few years ago, I discovered a more sophisticated Magic 8 Ball: oracle cards. I probed the cosmic mysteries with charts I gleaned from astrology books and consulted my Magic 8-Ball with the seriousness of a soothsayer. I consorted with midnight skeletons of light that danced on the walls. In the pitch dark of the bathroom, I dared to summon the local legendary specter Black Aggie in the mirror. I grew up watching ghosts rise in swirling gusts of autumn leaves. We were proving that supernatural levitations don’t require strength. With the lightest touch, we were pretending to reach across the veil. “Light as a feather, stiff as a board,” we chanted in hushed voices, as we slid our first two fingers beneath the “victim” and lifted her up, up. “Here lies Jennifer,” one of us would narrate as we all knelt around the “deceased,” “who wandered onto a dark and deserted road on a rainy night…” Though our stories varied, the ends we met were always ghastly and usually attended by at least one of the following: 1) madmen, 2) ghosts, or 3) beasts of obscure origin (BOO). At slumber parties, my childhood friends and I used to take turns being dead.
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