Last year at this time, things were not looking good for Le Meg.
My Chinese horoscope told me that I "should not expect to have any achievement in 2007." And The Onion, not one to mince words, predicted that I would shoot myself.
On the bright side, the Chinese advised that I "would enjoy much satisfaction and happiness from 2008 onwards." I had only to wait twelve months. True to their word, 2007 was indeed full of shit challenges.
I was mugged. I had a two month-long root canal. My widowed landlord went a bit nuts and threatened that her "husband the Préfet" would be coming for me. My carte de sejour was not renewed and I was instructed to return to the U.S. And while I left in late '06, 2007 was the Year of the Divorce.
With decidedly wobbly knees, I consulted those same stars again today. It was no small relief to read that the naysayers are now singing a different tune:
Love: "You are blessed by Hong Luan, the most powerful star of positive relationships. With this star shining on you this year, your romantic future looks all set to flourish and bloom."
Work: "Are you a freelancing Rabbit or do you own your own business? If so, there’s good news for you. You may have to work hard but the rewards you reap will be phenomenal."
Paranoia: When choosing friends and business partners try and determine whether that person loves you or hates you."
Even The Onion seems, in its own special way, to be rooting for me:
"Love awaits you where you least expect it in 2008—anatomically speaking, that is."
And a french version tells me that "the stars support me in taking professional risks, but that I can expect to suffer from headaches."
Taking these three together, it's clear that The Year of the Rat will be good for me. I should be ready for love, success, and perhaps aural penetration. But not by anyone who hates me.
We parked the car at 9pm outside a low slung cement block building. After knocking three times on a window, a man wordlessly opened the front door.
Adam appeared as my boss had descibed him: short and stocky, like a sports trainer. Not so different than the other men I'd met in Warsaw. What set Adam apart was his brow line - two hairy thickets that twisted upward toward the flourescent bulb.
A man in a suit hovered behind Adam, his function unknown. The suit motioned for me to sit down, and Joanne silently followed Adam into the bedroom. After a few minutes the suit mumbled something in French. "Not many people from Poland in Quebec," he said. Then he stood up and walked out of the apartment.
Alone now, I could examine my surroundings. In addition to the bare bulb, there were plenty of other "mood elements." A television, muted, showing rugby. A phone that rang off the hook and a cassette answering machine. Decorative knives. I heard footsteps in the hallway and then the flimsy door was flung open. Joanne emerged looking woozy, but gestured for me to go in. I followed dumbly and the door was closed behind me.
"Stand here," he said in French. "Close your eyes."
I had agreed to see the energy healer because my boss had offered to pay. She had her own appointment during my visit, and I was "lucky enough" to be added on. Adam had been in the papers recently, and was very much in demand.
At the very least, I thought, as he stood behind me doing God-knows-what, there is a blog post in this. And I began to imagine the opening lines.
"You're very sad," Adam said, interrupting.
"Am I?" I replied, imagining a serious poker face.
"This here," he said, passing open hands near my sternum, "is your (something-or-other) channel. Immediate family. Boyfriend, husband. Very ......"
The last word was represented only by a gesture. An anguished face, like he had stepped on something sharp. Or eaten Marmite.
"I see."
"This here (moving southward) is your spirit channel." He spent some time pawing the air in front of my belly, and then moved on.
He started in about digestion and I had to call him back.
"Excuse me, Adam... my spirit channel? Did you, uh, find anything there?"
His impressive brow collapsed into itself. He started to say something and then thought better of it. He moved his hands down and continued to talk about intestines.
Parlor tricks followed, with Adam pointing to my physical ailments. He correctly named all the current ones (a bad cough, a sore back) and even forecast a few that "will follow."
He then told me to sit, and looked directly into my eyes. His face hung with the over-wrought sincerity of a high school guidance counselor.
"You're very sad," he repeated.
Isn't everyone? I thought. "But what about my spirit channel?"
He started again to explain, stopped, and then called for Joanne. He took her in the corner and spoke very quickly.
My mind wandered to various versions of this story - the sad expat learning that she has, after all, no soul. It could be done like Lost in Translation with good music, Polish art students, and sexy casting. Or in a Sci-Fi direction, with a vampire soul! Or...
"It's your third eye," someone interrupted.
Joanne was explaining to me that it's broken. My third eye. And that this is very, very bad. "It's the way you relate to the world. It's the interface between you and everybody else. Or something like that. We can Google it."
The good news, she assured me, is that Adam can fix it. Only 2-3 more visits, and only 15 euros a pop. I could be a much better person before the summer.
I came back to Paris last night, dropped my bags, and went to an Andrew Bird concert. And the dashing multi-instrumentalist peered out from beneath his hair-mop, looked right into my eyes (so I imagine), and sang:
Do you wonder where the self resides Is it in the head or between your sides?
I decided this morning, after a proper night's rest and five cups of coffee, what this third eye business is really about.
It is not about me being soul-less. Or selfish. Or any other unflattering word that begins with S.
It is about grammar!
My interface with the world, like a radio dropped in water, has been cutting out. I am third eye blind mute as a result of speaking french like a six year-old.
My next trip to Warsaw is in May. This leaves me plenty of time to master the subjunctive and return triumphant to Adam's "office."
"All clear," he will say, brows twitching happily. My sternum will reveal that I am good.
All morning long I've been having these fantasies.
I have them while I'm making coffee. In the bathroom. On the Métro.
I especially have them while I'm walking.
It's evening in the dream, and unseasonably warm. A tall stranger encircles me from behind, saying something in French that I cannot understand.
I turn around to face him, breathless, and realize that he's not alone.
Five men in total - all for me?
I smile to myself, step forward, and proceed to beat the EVER-LIVING CRAP out of them.
Hiiiiii-YAH!
I am flying through the air. Jaws are cracking. Noses shattering. I am wielding some kind of pipe. They are running. I am chasing.
THEY HAVE MESSED WITH THE WRONG GIRL!
(I got mugged last night)
In my dream it matters not that the expletives are in English. They know exactly what I mean when I ask if they're my bitch.
SAY IT!!
I am spent, at the end of it. I collect my things, smooth my skirt, and replace the earbuds on my iPod. I press play and step delicately over the bodies. And old man on a balcony nods approvingly. The night is cool on my cheeks - I am happy.
An unassuming Billy case lurched from its cardboard box, ripping through my forearm and punishing my toes.
Wiping blood from a faux chêne finish is simple enough. A newfound fear of IKEA, however, may not be so easily erased.
The first time I heard about IKEA was in the movie Fight Club. "What kind of dining set defines me as a person?" asked a soul-less Ed Norton while flipping through a catalog on the toilet.
IKEA hadn't yet come to Chicago, so it would be years before my first sojourn to the giant blue box. On that day, I came away cash poor but rich with all the barware that a graduate student could need.
Outside of one or two "experimental" visits, however, IKEA was never a habit while I lived in the States. The objects in my life came from thrift stores and alleyways. Dressers were found and re-finished, not ordered and assembled.
That all changed when we moved to France. The logic in shipping cast-offs across the ocean was questionable, so we sold the old lamps, wobbly table and velvet paintings.
We arrived in Paris planning to buy new, but there weren't many affordable options. Beyond IKEA was a world in which objects were either ugly, expensive, or undeliverable. Without a car or much money, we needed IKEA if we were going to live with more than an inflatable mattress on the floor. So we swallowed our consumer conscience and set out to fill the apartment with particle board.
In a single afternoon we ordered everything - bed, dressers, bookshelves, tables, and chairs. We waited for weeks in our empty apartment until the delivery company finally turned up.
I spent days assembling the lot of it, including a bookcase that was missing a third of its shelves. Those parts never arrived, and their sister bits were transformed into a kitchen counter. We swore we would never order from IKEA again.
Our next pair of bookshelves came from Conforama. Twice the cost and doubly fugly - they now lean dramatically to the side. IKEA cases may be shoddy, but they don't require kitchen twine to keep them from falling over.
The ban on IKEA was lifted last week to buy more shelves. The boxes arrived without incident and I found myself wondering why I'd ever made such a fuss. IKEA wasn't the devil, I reasoned. They were just a private "foundation" offering affordable solutions for better living.
That was before I was Billy clubbed - before I saw the hidden evil lurking within these objects.
I tremble now in my Noresund bed, wondering when the next attack will come. I scan the room and realize that I'm vastly outnumbered. IKEA has successfully infiltrated every corner of this apartment. Perhaps tonight I will sleep with the Kroby light on, or put a Herman chair in front of the door.
Last year at this time, things were not looking good for Le Meg.
