Ask the Medium
Skiatatuk Speaks:
Communiqués Nos. 18,372, 18,373
Warning to the
Reader: Skiatatuk, as far as we can
determine, is the world's only foul-mouthed spirit guide.
In fact, his frequent descents into gutter language seem
to be something of a point of pride.
Background:
One of our staffers, who chooses to remain anonymous, has for several decades (long before
the channeling fad) been able to alter his/her consciousness (he/she refuses to use the
term, "go into a trance") and then speak with a different voice and a different
personality. His/her partner has dutifully recorded all sessions. As you will note from
the number above, this has been going on for a while. The personality who speaks long ago
announced that it wished to be addressed as "Skiatatuk," with--please note--the
accents on the second and fourth syllables. Thus: skee-AH-tah-TOOK. Pretentious? Who's to
say.
Readers are invited to submit questions.
Because of the volume of submissions, Skiatatuk will respond only to queries which we
publish.
Query No. 18,372
Dear Skiatatuk,
Two questions for you.
1. If you're so fucking omniscient, how come you
waste your "time" responding to idiotic queries like the one I'm about to lay on
you (see No. 2, following)?
2. Everything's hunky-dory. I cashed my vested
stock option before the NASDAQ plummeted; I'm working now not because I have to but
because I like the job; my partner and I have matching wine-colored, pin-striped Lincoln
Navigators (which we will of course replace with IMOG's as soon as our Mercedes dealer
gets them); our only real indulgence is an annual two-week extreme-sport vacation (we've
roller-bladed UP Kilimanjaro, we've sky-dived off the Petronas Towers--twice, we've
paraglided to the South Pole). But, but, but I'm not, well, you know, h-a-p-p-y. It's like
there's an itch I can't scratch.
Young Mr. Got Rocks
San Jose, CA
Response No. 18,372
Dear Young,
Well fuck me with a splintery two by four. Suppose, Mr. Got Rocks, you came stumbling into
an emergency room with a deep gash in your leg and arterial blood was pumping out. Would
you be "happy" if the ER people said, "Oh, we have just the thing for
you," and took out a cute little purple Band-Aid with tiny pictures of huggable
dinosaurs on it and applied it to you gaping wound? Huh? Huh? Would you? That,
motherfucker, is basically what you've done with you alleged "life". An itch you
can't scratch? Jesus, Mohammad, and Moses! Shitkickers we shall always have with us, and
it matters not a whit whether they sit around blowing foam off Budweisers or sniffing
virgin Colombian snow or playing endless hours of virtual bridge on Yahoo. I actually went
to the trouble of tracking you down through levels and levels of shit-filled matrices. No
doubt, to others on your level you are one buff dude. But to my multi-dimensional,
almost-all-seeing eye you are a misshapen, dingleberry-covered, brown-splotched THING that
would challenge the graphics abilities of even those much-admired special-effects guys you
hang with in San Jose. I've seen better-looking vermin in the bottoms of Appalachian
outhouses that haven't been cleaned since the days of Davy Crockett. An itch you can't
scratch? You, Mr. Got Rocks, are somewhere beyond suppurating. You left mere festering
behind about five years ago. And that's the good news. The bad news is that the only thing
you know to do for your "condition" is to get on the Internet and email a
question to ME. Help? You want help? OK. Get thee to your nearest Whole Foods Market. Buy
the cheapest, ugliest, marked-down little plant you can find. Bring it home. Watch it.
That's all. Just watch it. Sit. Watch. A minimum of four hours a day. Do this for a year
and then write me again.
As for your first question: Beats the fuck out of me.
Your benevolent trans-galactic correspondent,
Skiatatuk
Query No. 18,373
Dear Skiatatuk,
So I come out of my office the other day (let's just say I have a professional degree, am
third from the top in a solid practice, and my income is the kind that used to get
egalitarian theorists upset back in the days when people cared about such things) and
there's this mid-20s woman waiting for her very expensive 2 o'clock appointment with me.
If you'll check your Akashic records, somewhere you'll find a 1940s B-movie semi-star by
the name of Gail Russell. Gail, not Jane. Almost lissome, eyes that couldn't care less
about lissome, a voice that should spend all its time declaiming the poetry its owner
should write.
My point? My point is that until the moment I saw her, everything seemed important
and worthwhile. But from the moment of seeing, all that-- the money, power, the clothes,
the toys, the prestige-- that all disappeared and the only thing of value was being with
her. Am I crazy? Is it mid-life crisis? Schoolboy crush? My gut, which I've trusted more
often than not, says no, I'm not crazy. But I'm baffled. Old, hard-won patterns of
behavior, which have proved rewarding in the past, seem empty and pointless.
I'd be grateful for your earliest response. I have her phone number. I'm afraid to
call. I'm afraid not to call.
Baffled in Boston
Response No. 18,373
Dear Baffled,
You got one choice, you fucked-up cradle-robber. Yeah, I checked the records, found this
Gail Russell personage. Long gone. While I was there, I checked up on you. Found out
you're TWICE as old as this vision who walked into your shithole of an office... One
choice, asshole: You sublimate like hell (think Dante and Beatrice) or of Plain of Pain
lies in front of you like nothing you're privileged life has known. You got that?
Sublimate. Means "hands off." Means "worship, but at a distance, at a great
distance." Got it? Lord, I hope you do. It's a mystery to me why They let her come
anywhere near you, but then I'm just navel-fuzz on some Zeus's bloated belly.
Your ubiquitous thousand-eyed servant,
Skiatatuk
END
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