The Psychic View – Worlds Apart

By Marjorie Young

I recently had a peculiar encounter at the Ballard Sunday Market, where I go (weather permitting) to do psychic readings. A nice looking young man approached, asking if I believed in a ‘spiritual realm.’ I replied that I did. Then he demanded to know if I was a follower of Jesus. I politely answered that I wasn’t. His reaction was to launch into a harangue, warning that I was ‘doing evil’ and that I’d better change my ways before it was too late. I observed that I was glad that he’d found ‘his truth.’ He retorted that what he believes is THE truth. Again, I said I was happy for him. Dissatisfied, he eventually went on his way…only to reappear on subsequent Sundays to interrupt my sessions, delivering ominous warnings to my clients that they were ‘joining a cult’ and ‘listening to Satan’ by engaging with me. Fortunately, they took it in stride, one telling him pleasantly that she didn’t believe in his religion. (I’m still scratching my head over the ‘cult’ accusation)!

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Amanda's View: Photographing Women: Taking the plunge Part 2

By Amanda Knox

In my limited modeling experience, the most difficult thing has always been the face. So much can be conveyed through a facial expression. It’s not as simple as deciding to smile. Minute muscles may compose all kinds of smiles—ecstatic, ironic, indulgent, concerned, condescending, embarrassed, communicative—the difference between them so subtle and yet so legible. Usually I don’t think about what my face looks like while I’m emotionally responding to a context which might make me smile. When modeling, suddenly I am made aware of not just one, but two simultaneous expressions: 1) my face in context, self-conscious about the act of playing pretend in front of a camera; and 2) my intended face, conveying the character of the composed image. If I’m not careful, the self-consciousness of the first will eek its way into the second, compromising my expression entirely.

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Amanda's View: What was lost

By Amanda Knox

Some things are irrevocably lost. The time I spent in Perugia—when I was just another young college student in the crowd—feels that way. I had been there for only a little over a month before tragedy struck. I couldn’t say that I knew even my own roommates deeply. There is only so much you can know about a new place or person in so brief a time.

And then, for circumstances to turn on their head… It’s difficult to reconcile Perugia, the paradise, with Perugia, the prison, especially when the duration and intensity of prison dwarfed my experience of paradise. For that reason alone, looking back on my memories of blossoming friendships, cultural discovery, and delicious food feels painful. It’s as if wrongful accusation not only physically removed me from Perugia, but by redefining me as something I was not, it also stole from me who I had actually been in Perugia, and everything I had actually done.

Long ago I gave up dreaming that any piece of Perugia, the paradise, would ever be restored to me. Because that’s life.

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