Catching Up Over Tarot Cards

“If something inside you is real, we will probably find it interesting, and it will probably be universal. So you must risk placing real emotion at the center of your work. Write straight into the emotional center of things. Write toward vulnerability. Don’t worry about appearing sentimental. Worry about being unavailable; worry about being absent or fraudulent. Risk being unliked. Tell the truth as you understand it. If you’re a writer, you have a moral obligation to do this. And it is a revolutionary act—truth is always subversive.”

From Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

Downtown Charlottesville on the last Friday afternoon of August appears... occupied. There are people everywhere: sitting on the wrought iron chairs of outdoor cafes, gathering around the purple Indian pashminas for sale at the street merchant's stalls, going in and coming out of diners whose insides smell like french fries and Mozzarella cheese.

This is my first time strolling down the brick-laden streets of the downtown mall during daylight hourse since last January, before I embarked on a semester of travel overseas. The street seems wider and the oak trees lining the mall seem taller. Do I belong in this town again? Do I know where I am?

I run into acquaintances, first a bohemian pair with inquiring eyes, and next a quirky girl who lived in my suite from first year. We stumble through our lines, trying to summarize what has made our lives real in the past few months, in the past year. I find myself suggesting a reunion, a coffee date, a time to really catch up. Of course we are too busy at this particular moment to delve into anything of substance, but that might all change with the presence of two steaming cappucinos. With skim milk of course.

I walk down to the end of mall, near the white peaks of the Pavillion. I stare at the pastel colored scribblings covering the Freedom of Speech Wall and think back to the time I spent all afternoon creating a chalky mural of paradise on my black driveway only to have it washed away by an evening thunderstorm.

Vote Obama. Monsters are invisible and sometimes suck a lot too. Jackie & Bryan forever. Let's go HOOS! Goodbye, Lover.

I wish I could be the person to sponge down the surface of the wall every day, once a day. Before I would wipe away each message, I might whisper it, barely audible, more air between my lips than sound. I wonder what it feels like to have the power to destroy expression, only to enable a fresh, new batch of creativity.

On my return stroll through the mall, I see the Tarot Card Reader and smile, because he has hardly changed since I first watched him three years ago. His mustache is still white and wiry, standing out bright against the dusty leather color of his face. He wears the pale denim button-up shirt which I recognize, even with a small bleach stain on his collar. No one is with him and so he waits, sitting cross-legged on the brick and staring down at the arrangement of cards in front of him. He need not invite people with his pupils, the ones whose souls are worth reading will be drawn to him anyway.

I feel myself being pulled slowly in his direction. I imagine myself walking over slowly and deliberately and squatting down. Might you read the cards for me?

The man transforms from stranger to friend in the time it takes him to lift his head and smooth his mustache. He concentrates as he turns and flips and counts the cards; I watch. He sighs, then smiles, then looks up at me.

We've got a lot of catching up to do.