Who cuts the psychoanalyst?

She had three options on her website. 20min / 40min / 60 min. I figured I'd go for the 40, closer to the cut of my usual psychoanalytic session.

I arrived, located next to a vegan café, got a coffee and a toasted sandwich. I see a lady carrying a large, green IKEA-style tote bag. As I finish my toasted sandwich, I get a text from her with a photo of the impromptu table setup. Her office, being in Australia, was just on the path, between the street and the backyard.

I arrived, wearing my ‘80s navy suit, a polka-dot tie, and a blue-striped white shirt. Located in an upper-middle-class white part of town. Mostly retired-age Aussies.

Psychic, relatively young for my imagination: mid-30s. She had a dark blue cloth over a round table. Her cards, not the Marseille deck, but some fantasy-style, with three variants. She asked if I knew how it worked. If I've had a reading before, was she nervous? I felt more in an analyst position in this dynamic.

I said yes, but many years ago.

The last reading was with my deceased friend, actually. The cynical part of me wanted to say, Did the cards tell him about his upcoming death? Instead, I just smiled at her.

What do you want to know? She asked. She did look nervous.

The classics. Career. Identity. Love. And since I'm Asian, how's my health?

She laughs. Cool cool.

She laughs uncomfortably. Style, an Australian kind of airy-fairy aspect. Hesitant.

I wondered about her discourse. I found myself in the seat, with my analyst hmms. Assuring smiles and egging her to go on, making sure to get my 40-minute worth.

After the first section, she commented, Well, that went fast. We were only about ten minutes in.

She apologised frequently for the news she was delivering. That adds to the sincerity and truth warranty.

I pulled out the baby card question, then came a definitive no. She apologised again. Have you made a woman happy in the past?

I would say so. But…have I made myself happy? I responded.

Shit, let her do her job, I thought.

Maybe not, she says. It was mostly about her.

I gave her very little to work with. Is this a flex for psychics? To make maximum predictions with minimal inputs. Opposite to shrinks. No predictions with maximum input.

Many a temporal deferral followed the session. Postponing satisfaction and stabilising present anxiety through promised eventuality.

Imaginary anchoring. Narrative imagery. Authority claims of the universe, which both has my life within its care, but also consistently tells firm no’s. Disclaimers and insistence on free will, as well as just guidance. Blending master discourse (assertion of truth) with the hysteric (apologetic, anxious delivery).

Affectively, rapid, pressured speech. She oscillates between reassurance and apology. My affect became quieter, less anxious. I sat there like a Zen monk—transference relief through externalisation of uncertainty.

She spoke from S1, while disowning responsibility by attributing statements to external forces.1 I particularly like the sound of the thick deck knocking. Similar to that of Wall Street orders, the sound of wood knocking on the trading floor. Authority not through cuts, but through sound. Relieving the pressure to produce truth on my usual hysteric position.2

She held off as long as she could. But in the last moment, until she was unable to help herself, ...so may I ask what you do for work?

Psychoanalysis.

Ah, psychotherapy?

No. analysis.

I came out of the session feeling relieved. The anxiety was given away. Trust the universe was frequently the insistence. Or trust in her? The Subject did know. Maybe.

The hairdresser who fixed the previous hairdresser's mess. The psychic who cleans up the analyst's work.

What were my fantasies? Waiting for her to scream, dramatically. It would be better if she were blind; it was strange. I was the other. Not Jewish, but an immigrant. She is the white woman. Slightly plump. Very Australian. Very white. I received her words.

Her parting words were a vision of greens. Lots of greens. Maybe eat more greens, she suggested.

I had a session with a dominatrix, who cured my mistreatment of my stomach with a bit of shaming. Perhaps the psychic restructured my relationship to my diet today. But unlike my GP, she told me, I have nothing to say to you regarding your health. You’ll be fine.

Her cutting words were, OK, nice to meet you.

Nice to meet you, too.

I left and bought a coconut water. Outside, a woman from the café slung a floor mat over a tree branch and sprayed it with a hose, the water spattering on my car. I almost told her that if she was going to wash it, she should at least wash both sides.