“I can teach a monkey how to do a psychic reading.”
We’re alone in Michael’s office, the rent-to-own photo-oak desk between us. A beautiful winter sun slash catches co-mingled cigarette smoke, key-lighting his face and upper body, a perfect studio portrait:
Tough-Guy Spiritual Teacher
Berkeley, late 20th century
Berkeley, late 20th century
Perfect except for the sweat stains pushing out from the pits of his “Institute for Psychic Development” tee. It isn’t hot, so, what? Is it nerves? Is it me? Could I, his re-hab-fresh devotee, cause the holy man to sweat?
Not according to Reverend Sandy.
If this were the White House, Sandy would be Michael’s Chief of Staff. He’s married to his cabinet, the Reverends Linda and Janice. Yes, at the same time, a configuration that looks as enjoyable as a three-pronged Dran-O enema. To avoid any overt student-witnessed bloodshead, Sandy serves as Right Hand. And one of her many duties is to explain things, like Michael’s oh-so-natural pit stains being, in fact, super-natural
“Michael’s running at a higher vibration than 99% of the rest of the planet.”
I’ll hear a variation of this applied to everyone and everything involved in this organization – myself included – over the next 3 years of my training. The value isn’t always identical, but hovers in the high 90’s, i.e., 98%, 95% - today, it’s 99.
One thing the three female staff agree on is the style in which to answer student’s questions. It begins with a faux-patient chuckle played over an ever-so-slight trio of nods. The chin tucks in, the eyes roll earthward, almost closed, like praying. A beat of silence indicates yet another near-futile inner search, like you were looking for, say, an instruction manual to teach your goldfish Spanish. Each of these short performances is designed to invoke the aroma of Ancient Hidden Truth thru a mist of Au de Neo-Vatican. And it works – usually. When it doesn't, it smells more like K-Mart superiority mingling with notes of flop-sweat.
“Sometimes it takes awhile for the physical to evolve, you know, catch up and adjust to the higher energy vibration your Teacher’s running in his body.”
To translate for the mortals: Michael has more God running thru him than the rest of everyone and it’s fucking up the t-shirts.
And I fully accept this, believing the too-powerful spark of Divinity operating the very human vehicle I sit across from, this 31-year old Bodhisattva, does indeed vibrate higher than the rest of us because, while the spritzing says one thing, the face needs no explaining: There’s so much light in his naturally near-black eyes they appear gold, and such genuine peace in the bearded Wall of Pompeii face that I believe. I believe that this moistly over-amped man with the Christ-like calm can indeed teach a monkey to not only see an aura, but to report upon it with complete certainty, the primal monkey-mind flash-evolved by the Miracle Man – and, no, not just another dime-a-dozen psychic talking monkey - but one who can lay it down in the same tone and demeanor us human students are being taught to, as a cautiously friendly metaphysical professional.
I’m meeting with Michael this afternoon because, after mere weeks of training, I’m scheduled to perform my first psychic reading tonight and I’m shitting my pants. That’s because shitting my pants - this display of pop-eyed, jerky fear - has always served me well, and, as applied to Michael in present, how I hope to get over.
Crisis! Panic! Freak Out!, a continuously projected loop entitled “One Long Emergency” that’s worked it’s magic for years, convincing parents(other people’s), employers, dope connections, cops and Hell’s Angels: “I’m freaking out here! I’ll fuck it all up! Have some charity.”
Oddly, somewhere behind this billowing curtain, another ‘me’ knows I’m capable of the task at hand, but the shitting of pants is my default setting, the first place I go. It will take sometime longer for me to realize that my staged heebie-jeebies are really a demand to be talked down off the victim precipice while forcing my hostage to convince me of just how amazing, capable and superior I am.
Today, however, I’m not hitting the right notes because Michael mocks me with his version of the knowing little chuckle, the gold-flecked gaze unmoved by my display.
“I can teach a monkey to do a psychic reading”, he tells me.
I am left with no choice but to respond in kind.
“Okay, I’ll get a monkey and let’s see.”
He smiles patiently, refusing to take the bait.
“You can do this, Randy”
A nibble after all?
“You know why? Because, with the exception of my Teacher, you’re the most psychic man I’ve ever met.”
And there it is again, the comparison to that Man of Spiritual Legend, my Teacher’s Teacher, The Reverend Bill Duby, The Chain Smoking Coffee-Swilling De-materializing Former Street Hustling Archangel.
Michael’s monumental compliment quells my professional protestation, the Bill Duby reference fellates my ego like a glossy porn star, a bronzed, glistening pro full of heat and promise that I can feel and see, yet, as usual, is just out of reach.
Now that I’m sure my old panic construct is up and running, it’s time to make Michael fight to convince me I’m a fucking STAR! A hot, familiar rhythm pressure-hoses endorphins up my brain stem.
“But what if I don’t get any pictures, Reverend Michael?”
Let's freeze the frame a moment, right before Michael answers.
The “pictures” I’m asking about are simply those constant visual images playing on that bank of monitors in the center of your brain called your ‘mind’s eye’. For example, the words printed on this page spark your own pictures: you’ve seen your unique version of Michael’s office, envisioned his sweaty t-shirt, enjoyed my naturally good looks, and so on. These inner visions are vast, continuous, and yet so commonplace, few people are even aware of them. You could say it’s like sleeping with the TV on.
With this reality in mind, us psychics-in-training are taught how to connect - energetically - with specific people, places or things . Then, once that connection’s made, the corresponding pictures begin to fire across our ‘mind’s eye’ (what we now refer to as our 6th chakra). And once the pictures start rolling, next it’s time to, not just report on, but interpret these images.
Put it all together and you have what’s known as a psychic reading.
Ironically, the harder you try to see these images, the faster they'll disappear. See, in the realm of spirit, effort is anathema. The trick is to relax into a meditative state and let the pictures come to you.
And this is what I’m scheduled to perform tonight, sitting 3 feet across from a skeptical stranger who’ll want me to tell her all about her inner gifts, little secrets, love life, career and true worldly purpose - all in a glib and profound 60 minutes.
Now back to Michael, doing what he does best.
“The last thing you should worry about is getting pictures", he soothes. “I don’t get pictures all that often."
Wait - what?
"When I read, it’s more a clear certainty that’s actually not so visual. But you... "
Michael let's it linger, activating a hidden magnet that pulls me across the desk.
"Your sixth chakra’s so open I could drive a truck thru it."
My nipples rip thru my t-shirt, a vainglorious arousal exceeding the strata of human experience. I'm propelled into some ego-erotic 4th dimension - and here's why: In the Institute for Psychic Development, it's founder/my Teacher, has just deemed me Most Psychic! My jewel-like epicenter of ‘psychic’, my 6th chakra, is the greatest in all the land!
And now, I, the clairvoyantly hung Donkeysaurus, fill the frame for the Money Shot, about to soak the set in a camera-loving eruption of radiant, smug superiority.
Michael adds, almost a purr:
“Getting pictures isn’t your problem.”
What the FUCK?
I’m rendered flash-flaccid and flea-dicked as the sadistic director yells, “Cut!”
And there it is, the ol’ trap door beneath the stained sheets. Right. We’re back to that omni-present reference neither he nor his staff of trained super-psychics will actually explain, though it’s obviously meant to let me know “They know”, can see some as yet unnamed evil lurking in me.
“Fuck you”, I telepath.
Didja get that one, Mr. Supreme Being, Junior?
“So, what is my problem, Reverend Michael?” I’m almost whining. My silent ‘fuck you’ is immediately regretted, partly out of remorse for dissing someone I am positive – even still – is the man of God he says he is, but, trumping shame, is my cellular dread of being punished.
He sits stone-still, backlit eyes opium-calm, the smile still compassionate and patient, but pointedly refusing to answer my question. Either my disrespectful ‘fuck you’ has been picked up on the all-seeing radar, or it's a silent “You’ll find out when it’s time’.
One thing’s for sure: This meeting is over.
“Thanks for taking your time with me, Reverend Michael”, my obsequious smile distorted, shrink-wrapped over a massive inner wince.
I grab my Camel straights, careful to step over the deflated phantom condom near the door.
