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I will say that I will visit babalorixás, gypsies , astrologers, tarologists and ODFAs (otherworldly digital forescaster & analyst). And in the next sentence I’ll find myself thinking that someone might be right now condemning me for reducing racial, ethnic, and religious communities to stereotypes. I will shrug off my reflections and move on with the text. And I’ll start talking about babalorixá’s predictions for natural phenomena.
Without many later on, I’ll tell you how babalorixá received me in his “futurology studio”: he laughed at my skepticism. I will describe the environment in minute detail. And, as soon as the cowries are released, I will be forced to quote the words of the large African descendant with the voice of a boy in puberty: “The world will be devastated again by catastrophes. In the Pacific, a volcano will erupt. Or will it continue to erupt, this excerpt of the prophecy is erased here. There will be at least one earthquake in the world. I also see floods and droughts, hurricanes and tornadoes. And on absolutely every occasion there will be at least one expert to say that global warming is to blame, I mean climate change.”
Then I will pay the man, ask for a bill and forward it to the department responsible for reimbursement, anticipating the explanations I will give to justify the expense. I will get into a taxi after five udders (sic) cancel my call and I’ll go to the astrologer. In this case, an astrologer – or at least I think she is. She’ll tell me about aspects and angles and cusps and planets, and she’ll point me to the lunar nodule. Everything will seem so scientific and she’ll talk so well and with such a mellifluous voice (!) that, without believing, I’ll even end up believing it. Or almost that.
The astrologer will start with bad news: we will lose celebrities from cinema, music and literature. From politics too. Because I don’t know what the Sun, I don’t know what in the eighth house in a trine with Mars. If I understand correctly (and there is, yes, a g big chance I didn’t understand), she talked about variants of the coronavirus and a lot of fights about the booster doses of the vaccine. “At least one celebrity will be canceled after stumbling over words,” he predicted. Noticing my frown in the face of so much pessimism, however, she will open the most beautiful smile (I hope it is she will to say that my team will win at least one game in at least one of the championships it will play next year. Phew.
From the astrologer I’ll go to the tarot card. For some reason that escapes me, he will be in a hurry. Much hurry. So running as if the world were going to end tomorrow (will it?), he’ll shuffle the cards and lay them out on the table. Not even a little incense will he light. He won’t even play a little Enya song. To be honest, I’ll barely have time to adjust myself in my chair before he starts to blurt out that the Hanged Man or the Tower (everything will be so fast I’ll jot down almost unintelligible scribbles) indicate a hot summer and a cold winter. I will complain, of course, of such a vague prediction, to which he will respond aggressively (tarologues are considered the pitbulls of the divinatory arts).
