![\"Mined](\"\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/minedoverMatter2013.jpg\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
“What happens when you send an atheist to interview a faith healer? You tell me – I can’t watch.”<\/span><\/p>\n The house bearing the address I was given is a drab, neglected ranch, the yard littered with assorted dingy vehicles, tarp draped filing cabinets, and abandoned appliances in various states of repair. It is the kind of yard from which vicious dogs leap, not the manicured, peaceful zen garden of a new-age professional.<\/p>\n I exit my vehicle tentative with caution.<\/p>\n What the hell am I doing here? I hate this kind of thing; meeting new people is bad enough but interviewing them for an article in a spiritual newsletter is even worse. When I took the job as webmaster for the local, new-age bookstore, I never intended to have to pay this much lip service to the dizzying array of beliefs that are the store\u2019s bread and butter. I\u2019m a total skeptic, an unrepentant atheist, yet here I am, about to interview what amounts to a new-age faith healer.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I ease towards the house, avoiding anything in the drive that might rustle or snap. Is this the place or am I about to be dismembered by the neighbor everyone always thought a little odd; cut apart and stored with care in individually labeled freezer bags next to last harvest\u2019s corn and peas?<\/p>\n A sign, printed at low dpi and taped to the inside of a sliding glass door, catches my eye:<\/p>\n The Healing Place \u2013 Welcome!<\/strong><\/p>\n Relieved, I return to the truck and fetch my tape recorder.After a moment\u2019s hesitation I let myself in, the door wheezing in its track. The space I enter has been converted from a carport to a waiting room. There is a clunky old desk with an unconvincing wood grain veneer, a serviceable couch and chair, a few magazines, and a table in the corner displaying brochures, a bowl of candy canes, and a faux quartz crystal lit from within by a low-wattage bulb.<\/p>\n From behind one of four doors I hear the voice of a woman talking to a patient. I cannot help but envision the subject stretched out on a black naugahyde couch, the therapist behind her in an easy chair, glasses up on her forehead, tapping her teeth with a black ball-point pen. The woman\u2019s voice is quite clear in this outer room, indicating walls that are paper-thin. I make an effort to be silent.<\/p>\n Taking a seat on the couch, I peer with no real interest at the wildlife magazines arrayed there and congratulate myself on bringing the handheld tape recorder. The first two interviews I conducted for this newsletter were transcribed onto a notepad and I had a devil of a time discerning my awkward scribbles after the fact. This time I intend to make it a little easier on myself, even if it does feel a bit like a cheat.<\/p>\n I am feeling cheery, confident even. There is no reason to expect this to be difficult. There is nothing to be afraid of. These new-age people are all pretty easy to get along with and love the attention an interview brings. This should be a breeze.<\/p>\n The door leading from the makeshift office to the house opens and a handsome, older man of medium build enters the room. He is wearing slacks and an untucked dress shirt. His hair is white and neatly combed, the pleasant scent of aftershave following close behind him like an obedient pet. He has clear eyes, a strong chin, and a bristling moustache.<\/p>\n \u201cYou are late!\u201d he shouts at me around a mouthful of some food, his Russian accent thick. Pieter takes a slip of plastic from the cabinet, unfolds it, and begins fitting it over the stiff pillow, talking all the while. Well, talking might not be the best description. Hunting would be more accurate. It is obvious that Pieter hopes to someday call English his second language but, at the moment, is in a bit of a transitional phase. I have always been good at understanding the mush-mouthed and the foreign-tongued -a special talent that I think grew from early and lengthy exposure to British comedies on public television- and thus have no trouble picking out the English that Pieter bandies about. His lack of confidence, however, has him stating things three different ways in an attempt to make himself clear. The result is anything but and it takes him five minutes to complete a thirty-second phrase. The tedium is palpable and I am left struggling to come up with various ways of reacting to the same concept put forth time and time again. I nod so much I begin to feel like one of those novelty drinking birds of the seventies.<\/p>\n In the next room the quiet consultation comes to an end and we are jolted out of Pieter\u2019s broken monologue by a woman\u2019s strong voice which crashes through the intervening wall like a cannonball shot through crisp morning air: \u201cPieter he is NOT late!\u201d She is a heavy woman but not morbidly so. The skin hangs from her in gentle flaps like the bright, overlapping folds of cloth she chooses to cover it with. Her eyes sparkle with life and her blond colored hair, styled short, fires erratic off her skull like bolts of electricity. Her confidence, radiant, dominates the room. Freita tells me a bit about the work that they do: she is a motivational hypnocoach and hypnotherapist; helping people through hypnosis to realize their goals, dispel their fears, exorcise their ghosts. Pieter is a remote healer and a medical intuitive. This means he can tell what ails you just by looking at or even talking with you and then, using only his personal will, drive the malady from your body. You don\u2019t even have to be there, he can do it over the phone. Isn\u2019t modern technology amazing?<\/p>\n Freita is proud but Pieter seems less so, muttering and looking around the room as if for his place in it.<\/p>\n During the conversation, Freita refers to a hand-held device, not unlike a calculator, whenever Pieter looks lost. Freita\u2019s office is in contrast with the rest of the rooms in that it is spacious and furnished with newer, nicer things. I note the lack of the black couch I imagined earlier and realize that, while she had been in session, it must have been over the phone.<\/p>\n You can hypnotize people over the phone? Huh.<\/span> I shrug my shoulders.<\/p>\n Sitting on her desk is a hypno-wheel \u2013 a plate-sized paper disc mounted onto an axle and driven by a small, battery powered motor. Printed onto the front of the disc, in black and white, is a swirling design that, when rotating, produces a mesmerizing illusion of unending depth. I have been fascinated with the concept of hypnosis since I was a child, yet have never before found myself in the position to try it. \u201cSorry for the pathetic handwriting,\u201d I comment as she surveys my scribbles. This is a mantra of mine, uttered innumerable times over the years; my handwriting has always been sloppy. \u201cHave you ever driven somewhere and not known how you got there?\u201d she asks. I nod and she asks me to clasp my hands together, fingers interlaced, except for the indexes, which are to be held erect and apart. I am directed to stare at these two fingers and imagine they have magnets on them. Once my fingers are together, Freita starts the old saw about my eyelids getting heavier, does the countdown, the whole bit. When she says my eyes will close, I close them, yet I am as aware as ever. Am I hypnotized?<\/p>\n Once I am \u2018in trance\u2019, Freita tries her hand at inflating my ego. She tells me how smart and strong I am; how attractive, how virile. Her choice of words troubles me and I begin to fear what commands she may utter. After this, she directs me to call up certain parts of my \u2018child\u2019 personality that she feels are responsible for my confidence deficit. Then she asks me to have my \u2018adult\u2019 personality tell them, in effect, to sit down and shut up; very much traditional psychotherapy. After four or five rounds of my \u2018adult\u2019 giving my \u2018child\u2019 a lecture, she \u2018brings me back\u2019, telling me that, when I open my eyes, I will feel refreshed. I get the distinct impression that she is as skeptical of that statement as I am but neither of us remarks on it and, instead, we chat a bit about her past.<\/p>\n She has lead a colorful life, doing all manner of things, in all manner of places, married to all manner of men. At one point she hands me a portfolio of her watercolor art, a passion now long since expired, and I note, with a concealed smirk, that she once signed her name \u201cGladys Freitag\u201d. Freitag – Freita. I get it now: a Russian sounding first name to match her latest surname.<\/p>\n \u201cNow it is time to experience Pieter\u2019s energy work,\u201d she says, ushering me out of her office. In a few moments he emerges from the depths of the house, lips smacking over some morsel yet raring to have a go at me.<\/p>\n \u201cYou have complaint?\u201d he asks, looking me up and down. Freita departs and Pieter asks me to lie on my back on the massage table. My head rests on the plastic wrapped pillow, a rolled up towel behind my knees. Pieter holds his hands over me; lips pursed, eyes closed in apparent concentration. \u201cYou like music?\u201d he asks, walking around the table. \u201cCalm? Soothing? You see Winged Migration? Is good movie, good music. Calm.\u201d He reaches behind my head to the boom box on the credenza and, with the push of a button, the strains of a symphony swell and Nick Cave begins crooning about the migratory habits of waterfowl.<\/p>\n Now it is back to what I\u2019ve decided must be some form of pulse taking. He tries a new position that involves cupping and applying simultaneous, light pressure to both my forehead and chin. It is not uncomfortable, just odd. I imagine my skull pulsing like some character in an early Star Trek episode. Pieter<\/span>, I think silently, can you heeeaaar me?<\/span><\/p>\n The song is only half over when, distracted, he shuts off the boom box so that we can better talk, patient to doctor. He asks me questions about my life habits and tells me little stories with morals as he alternates from my wrist to my chest to my face and back again, always seeming more than a little uncertain about what he is doing, what he is looking for, his incomprehensible vocalizations echoing and hollow in the little room. Then, without warning, he is done. When I arrived the sun was strong but now the light is waning and I still haven\u2019t begun the interview proper. There are no clocks but I am certain I am going to be late to the dinner I promised my wife I would attend this evening. As usual, the thought of attending a crowded social event is curdling in my stomach. As if on cue, Freita appears: a stack of multi-colored, self-help books in her arms.<\/p>\n \u201cI have a radio talk show and these are just a few of the people I\u2019ve had on,\u201d she says, placing the stack in my arms. She begins to name them and then stops herself, saying: \u201cBut I don\u2019t need to tell you! You work at a new-age book store!\u201d Freita and Pieter take their seats on the couch opposite me. They are joined by a small mop of a dog that stretches on the cushion between them in order to be in contact with both. They are the picture of the perfect, loving family: smiling and happy to be near one another. \u201cSo, fire away Mr. Confidant!\u201d Freita grins.<\/p>\n I don\u2019t know quite where to begin. Freita has already told me so much about herself, yet I am supposed to be interviewing Pieter. I\u2019ve already enough information to write a short story \u2013but not quite the kind my boss had in mind, I\u2019m afraid. \u201cI was surgeon. Many years. Forty.\u201d Looking down, I see that my tape recorder has long since stopped working.<\/p>\n cae 2005\/2013<\/b><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" “What happens when you send an atheist to interview a faith healer? You tell me – I can’t watch.” The house bearing the address I was given is a drab, neglected ranch, the yard littered with assorted dingy vehicles, tarp draped filing cabinets, and abandoned appliances in various states of repair. It is the kind […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[10,107],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6643","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-autobiography","category-best"],"yoast_head":"\n
\n
\n\u201cI, I am?\u201d I ask, taken aback.
\n\u201cYes! Is two! You were at one!\u201d
\n\u201cOh! I\u2019m sorry! I thought she said two, that she had an appointment at one.\u201d I say, meaning his wife, whom I set the appointment with earlier in the week.
\n\u201cNo!\u201d he shouts again, gesturing at the calm voice behind the wall. \u201cCan you hear? She is now!\u201d
\n\u201cI, I\u2019m sorry.\u201d I repeat. \u201cI could swear she said two. I must have gotten it mixed up. I am so sorry!\u201d
\nHe grunts and ushers me into an adjoining room. It is small and dominated by a massage table. A cabinet, low credenza, and small chair sit along the wall at the table\u2019s head. There are posters detailing human musculature and acupuncture points hanging on the wall behind him.
\n\u201cI am Pieter,\u201d he says, gesturing for me to take a seat in the chair. \u201cYour name?\u201d
\n\u201cCorey.\u201d I sit and try to find room on the slim credenza for my recorder. \u201cYou want to do the interview now?\u201d
\n\u201cNo. First session \u2013 then talk,\u201d he replies, pulling a pillow from the cabinet.
\n\u201cOh, okay.\u201d I swallow, eyeing the acupuncture charts, trying to determine if there are any points indicated on the figure\u2019s helpless penis.<\/p>\n
\nWhile he speaks, he fiddles with the pillow, picks his teeth, apologizes when his vocal ejaculations spray me with bits of carrot, and paces back and forth around the end of the massage table like a caged animal.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOh!\u201d Pieter jumps and turns towards the door as his wife enters.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI told him to be here at two, not one,\u201d she snaps before turning to me. \u201cHi! I\u2019m Freita,\u201d she beams. \u201cWe spoke on the phone. Don\u2019t pay any attention to Pieter, he doesn’t always shout at visitors.\u201d Her voice is brash and American in a way that belies her Russian sounding name.
\nI shake her meaty, outstretched hand and note the sheepish if still aloof demeanor that Pieter assumes in her commanding presence.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cTranslator,\u201d she says, noting my gaze as she hunts for a term. \u201cIt was the only form of communication we had during our first year of our marriage.\u201d
\n\u201cYes.\u201d Pieter grins. \u201cGood machine!\u201d
\n\u201cSo,\u201d Freita says, \u201cI think we\u2019ll start with a hypnosession and then Pieter can do some energy work, okay?\u201d
\n\u201cUh, sure.\u201d I say, feeling not so. I follow her out of the room, wondering with real trepidation if I\u2019m expected to pay for this unexpected \u2018therapy\u2019. Looking somewhat forlorn Pieter watches us go, the crinkling pillow clutched to his chest.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cA hypno-wheel,\u201d I say with a smile. \u201cI have one of those!\u201d
\n\u201cYeah, they\u2019re real popular with druggies,\u201d she replies.
\n\u201cUh . . . yeah. I suppose so.\u201d
\nShe directs me to the chair in front of her desk and tells me a little about her practice then asks: \u201cSo, would you like to be hypnotized?\u201d<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSure!\u201d I answer with genuine eagerness.
\n\u201cAnd what would you like to change about yourself?\u201d
\n\u201cTo be honest, I\u2019m really pretty happy with myself in general but, well, I\u2019m not terribly comfortable, socially. I could use more self confidence.\u201d
\n\u201cWell, we can do that,\u201d she says, passing me a clipboard and a pencil.
\nIt is a standard form, exempting her from any liability should the hypnosis cause me to act like a chicken for the rest of my life. I fill out the relevant personal information, sign my rights away, and hand back the clipboard.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat\u2019s a defense,\u201d she says, startling me.
\n\u201cIt is?\u201d
\n\u201cYes. People who print do so to remain distant, to avoid intimacy.\u201d
\n\u201cInteresting!\u201d I reply, not mentioning that I never mastered cursive as a student and haven’t attempted to use it since the classroom \u2013 not out of shyness but sheer laziness.
\nFreita then asks me several questions regarding my parents, childhood, and lifestyle – ten minutes worth of standard psychiatric questions. Using the meager data these few questions produce, she makes a number of blanket assumptions regarding the foundations of my personality, and then proclaims she is ready to cure my lack of confidence.<\/p>\n
\nI have but don\u2019t mention it because I was a teenager blissed-out on marijuana at the time.
\n\u201cNo, but I have read whole pages of books without retaining a speck of information.\u201d I reply, instead.
\n\u201cAh, yes. That\u2019s \u2018book-hypnosis\u2019. The other is \u2018road-hypnosis\u2019. You\u2019re a perfect subject. Are you relaxed?\u201d
\n\u201cYeah, sure. I\u2019ve always wanted to be hypnotized.\u201d
\n\u201cReally? I\u2019ve never met someone so eager. This should be quite easy. Ready?\u201d she asks, leaning back to click on an innocuous new-age CD.<\/p>\n
\nI do as she asks and listen as she talks about how the magnets are pulling together, my breathing is getting easier, I am getting heavier, et cetera.
\nI watch my fingers as they begin to close noting that, if I will them to stay open, they do so but otherwise, they approach each other as if there are, indeed, magnets on them. Of course, it takes strength to keep them apart in this position -in rest they naturally fall together, with or without \u2018magnets\u2019. Still, it is interesting and, eager to experience a state of hypnosis, I am determined to keep an open mind.<\/p>\n
\nI try to do as she directs but there are numerous times I can\u2019t think of what to have my \u2018adult\u2019 mind say to my \u2018child\u2019 mind and instead, both begin to wander around the landscape of my thoughts like the couple of idiots they are. I go through the motions, however, ignoring the unhelpful urge to open my eyes and say: \u201cI don\u2019t think it\u2019s taking.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWow, I feel refreshed!\u201d I say, feeling sleepier than when we began and hoping that my use of the word won\u2019t tip her off to what it is I am shoveling.
\n\u201cGood!\u201d she says. \u201cYou\u2019re a new man.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI was married to a Barnes, you know,\u201d she says, as if I should. \u201cThat\u2019s Barnes of Barnes & Noble.\u201d
\n\u201cAh.\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI noticed those charts on his wall,\u201d I say. \u201cDoes he do acupuncture?\u201d
\n\u201cOh, heavens no!\u201d she laughs. \u201cThat\u2019d be illegal!\u201d Freita leads me to the waiting room and attempts to summon Pieter.
\n\u201cPieter,\u201d she calls, her hands cupped around her mouth. \u201cPieter! Oh, that man . . .\u201d<\/p>\n
\nI have to think a bit.
\n\u201cWell, I do find myself fatigued a lot of the time, sleepy \u2013especially in the afternoons- and I suffer off and on from canker sores. I think they\u2019re brought on by stress.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat means \u2018cank . . .\u2019?\u201d Pieter looks to Freita.
\n\u201cCanker sore.\u201d Freita repeats but it is clear Pieter remains baffled.
\n\u201cCanker sore. In his mouth,\u201d she says. \u201cSore. Hurt, wound.\u201d
\n\u201cBump, hole.\u201d I say, pointing at my mouth but Pieter isn\u2019t getting it.
\nFreita is stabbing at the buttons of the translator again and trying to think of other words to shout at Pieter.
\n\u201cGash,\u201d she tries, \u201cpustule, eruption.\u201d
\nPieter knits his brow, muttering in Russian.
\n\u201cOwie?\u201d I venture.
\n\u201cHerpes!\u201d Freita cries.
\n\u201cHerpes?\u201d Pieter asks, looking at me with suspicion and backing a pace.
\n\u201cNo!\u201d I blurt, my hands held up in warding. \u201cLike herpes \u2013but not herpes.\u201d
\n\u201cAh. Lesion!\u201d Pieter smiles, raising an index finger in triumph.
\nFreita sighs and drops the translator to the table. \u201cOkay, then. I\u2019ll leave you to it. Remember Pieter, he\u2019s no virgin \u2013he works at a new age bookstore.\u201d
\nVirgin?<\/span><\/p>\n
\nAfter a moment of silence, he takes my right wrist as if counting my pulse. Then he changes position to cup both hands over my heart, leaning on me with light pressure, again as if counting the beat of my heart.
\nHe then takes out a pair of special tuning forks, designed for vibrational therapy, and smacks them together until they\u2019re humming. These he sets with some uncertainty on the knobs of my wrists. The vibrations run into my bones; a deep, not unpleasant buzz. Having done this, he removes them and smacks them together a few more times before setting them on my skull; one on my forehead and one on my chin. The result is the sense that, somewhere, deep in the meat of my brain, someone has an electric shaver wrapped in a towel. He repeats the process two more times, setting the forks with varying degrees of surety on my sternum and then the caps of my knees.
\nIt is enjoyable and I hope he will continue but after the one round he puts them away, satisfied with whatever data or effect they produced. I am tempted to ask if I am flat, sharp, or natural but decide it would be both inappropriate and misunderstood.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou are healthy!\u201d he proclaims. I sit up as he shakes my \u2018energy\u2019 off his hands into the corner of the room. Who\u2019s gonna clean that up?<\/span> I wonder. And how?<\/span>
\n\u201cNeed get outside more. Exercise, sun, fresh air, breathe\u201d he says, taking a deep, exaggerated breath and whooshing it out between his lips, \u201cthen, you not so tired.\u201d
\nI nod at what is not only sage but rather timeless advice.
\n\u201cWhat about the canker sores?\u201d I query.
\n\u201cFor mouth, iodine. Drink but not swallow. Kill infection. Sore go. Sting means good!\u201d he shouts, clapping me on the back.<\/p>\n
\nThe hefty collection of colorful, hardbound books reflects all the recent self-help and spiritual fads: stopping overeating, improving relationships, learning to say no, channeling the warrior-priestess within, contacting dead relatives, a ham-sandwich for the tater-tot soul.
\nDespite her confidence, I recognize none of the titles, none of the authors. The design schemes of the dust jackets, however, are all too familiar: bright and cheery colors on white with large, non-threatening, sans-serif titles; a more descriptive subtitle below for the less discerning reader; some abstract swoops and lines of color designed to excite and draw the eye, and, of course, the obligatory author portrait; smiling cheery through whitened teeth under a coiffure of perfection or glaring sagacious from beneath beetled-brows and a well-waxed pate.
\n\u201cWow!\u201d I exclaim. \u201cA radio show? I had no idea. Do you have to drive to Seattle or is there a local station.\u201d
\n\u201cHere, I\u2019ll show you,\u201d she says, leading me through a door I had assumed lead to a water heater \u2013and it does- but also to a cramped, concrete space, bare and featureless but for a jumble of wires and computer equipment huddled together on a folding table.
\n\u201cMy internet radio show takes place every Wednesday night,\u201d she beams with obvious pride. \u201cI set this up myself.\u201d
\n\u201cCool, wow!\u201d I notice there is only one chair. \u201cSo the guests . . . conference call?\u201d
\n\u201cThat, or chat \u2013you know, with the keyboard. We do group hypnotherapy sessions and discuss spiritual matters; what have you.\u201d
\n\u201cHuh. Interesting.\u201d
\nWe stand in silence for a moment, allowing Freita to bask in the glory of her technological prowess, and then shuffle back out to the waiting room.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cRags has issues,\u201d Freita tells me. \u201cHe comes from a broken home \u2013his original masters, just up the street, divorced, so we took him in. The pet psychic says he has an anger complex.\u201d
\nRags rolls over on his back for belly pets, gravity pulling his little, fuzzy lips back to reveal a well-timed and toothsome grin.<\/p>\n
\nI click on my tape-recorder, verify that it is working, then begin asking questions.
\nPieter does his best to answer but is impossible. The pauses between his words are seconds long and he is still repeating everything he says in three different ways, getting lost, digressing, glancing about the room as if the concepts he is trying to impart might be pasted somewhere on the walls or ceiling.
\nFreita tries to help but Pieter always interrupts, as if her voice has reminded him of the word he was looking for -but then he\u2019s right back to where he started; shuffling, mumbling, ah-um-ing already fragmented sentences to death.
\nIn short order, the interview spins out of control and, instead of imparting the tale of Pieter Rudnitsky, they are laughing about how he and Freita came to meet in Russia; to move back to the States; to end up here, in Washington.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cPeople would kiss his ring.\u201d
\n\u201cShe was dating KGB.\u201d
\n\u201cA colonel but he was a drunk. I had to lock him out of the house sometimes. He\u2019d be beating on the door and screaming but I wouldn\u2019t let him in \u2018til he was sober. Once I held a knife to his throat. Our neighbors respected me after that.\u201d
\n\u201cI miss Nome. The rain, the light.\u201d
\n\u201cGod, I don\u2019t. The insects, the dirt, the cold.\u201d Freita shudders.
\n\u201cI miss Russia, my sons. No banya here. Your TV, I can\u2019t watch. Your culture! In Russia, sex is . . . evil! Here it is everywhere.\u201d
\n\u201cWe had to escape, to sneak out under the cover of night. We left everything. I snuck $6,000 out in my boots.\u201d
\n\u201cEveryone in Russia is atheist. Acupuncture \u2013 illegal. Energy work \u2013 illegal. God \u2013 not exist.\u201d
\n\u201cHis operations were always clean, no post-op infection. Ever. No one could explain it.\u201d
\n\u201cBoss says: clean. Your work clean.\u201d Pieter shrugs.
\n\u201cYou couldn\u2019t expect a secular society like that to acknowledge his special talent of the healing touch. He didn\u2019t even know he had it. I had to tell him.\u201d
\n\u201cYes, so: here I am. I don\u2019t know what I do. How I do. I just . . . do.\u201d Pieter throws his hands up and looks at me, scrutinizing, uncomfortable.
\n\u201cSee!\u201d Freita laughs, leaning over to squeeze his shoulder \u201cI don\u2019t even think he believes it yet!\u201d<\/p>\n