Besides knowing a thing or two about the ideas of the famous -- and infamous? -- Swiss psychologist Carl Jung, being the son of Jungian-trained therapists can have other, more surprising side effects. For instance, earlier this month while on vacation in Istanbul, I discovered that all those times my parents asked me to make "associations" to everything from a figure in a dream to the shape of a rock I came across while going over girl problems also meant that I have the makings of an excellent reader of coffee grounds. (Turks have a tradition of reading fortunes from the shapes created by leftover grounds at the bottom of their tiny coffee cups).
Before I tried my hand at this ancient practice, however, I had my own fortune read by a woman -- a Turkish experimental video artist -- who I'd met earlier in the week. (Obviously, whatever leads a person to become an experimental video artist is akin to being raised by Jungians). She gave me a superbly creative reading. There were some airplanes, a visit to a beach that "is not exactly for work but not just pleasure either," and a man I would soon meet who she called "a person of the night."
"Like a pimp?" I asked, but she was silent, concentrating.
Then she concluded with the most mysterious of her prophecies: "I see you holding a dark bag... and you are throwing it into something. Ah yes, you are throwing this dark bag into a hole. Once you toss the dark bag into the hole, things will open up for you. Things will get better."
I thought about some of the dark bags in my life: a recent divorce; anxiety about what to do next after having recently completed my first book; a general sense of existential ennui as I neared my mid-thirties. I wondered which one of these I would be casting away, and where was I going to find this hole? Perhaps the hole was a creative writing project into which I would vent my undigested emotions? Or maybe it referred to a process of returning psychic content in my life to The Self -- my father taught me when I was seven years old that The Self has for thousands of years been symbolized by a variety of circular forms. Jung's favorite, he told me, was the mandala.
I couldn't remember for the life of me, though, if this was a good thing. Were you supposed to move further into The Self as you aged and matured or away from it? Moving too much towards it would mean you had a narcissistic personality disorder, would it not?
Anyway, my new friend interrupted my speculations by insisting I read her fortune. "Okay, but I'm no fortune teller," I told her, secretly believing the opposite. Growing up as the son of Jungian therapists means thinking that you really can divine something about the psyche of someone that you've just met -- all you have to do is tap into the collective unconscious. (I know, I know... nobody claims to take fortunes that seriously. But deep down, you know you do. Admit it: You read your horoscope and hope it's true.)
I squinted and peered into the cup. I saw a mess of vines and branches. "There's a jungle," I told her. "You're going to be surrounded by lots of activity and lots of different types of people." Then there was a large area where the white of the cup was uninterrupted, which I told her was a period of silence that would follow all the commotion.
"Oh, good," she said.
There was something else too, a shape like two people wrestling. I remembered, though, that this experimental video artist had mentioned to me that she was waiting in frustration for approval of a travel visa so she could take a trip to see a lover. So, like the best fortune tellers, I told her what I knew she wanted to hear: "Also, I see two figures copulating."
"Copulating?" she said. "I don't know that word. What does it mean?"
"It means having sex."
She smiled.
"And it will be in lots of different positions." Then I handed her the cup back.
A few days later, I got struck by a stomach bug that my travel guide said was pretty much inevitable if you ate street food, which I foolishly did on a daily basis. The timing was not so good. I'd been feeling nauseas all day, but it wasn't until I was on my way to another new friend's apartment for dinner that the fun began. I couldn't even make it to a public trash can in time before puking my guts out in front of the McDonald's near Taksim Square, where a steady stream of commuting Turks had a spectacular view of my performance. As I wiped my mouth, I noticed my jeans had quite a large and interesting-looking shape down the front of one leg. If I had been asked to make an association, I probably would have said, "It reminds me of my favorite Istanbul lunch spot, but I'd rather not think about that right now."
I stood up, covered my face in shame, and hurried back to my hotel where I changed into clean jeans and brushed my teeth before heading off again to my friend's apartment.
"I'm sorry... I, um, need to use your washing machine," I said when she opened the door. I was holding the black plastic bag into which I'd thrown my pants.
"Hello to you, too," she said, kissing me on both cheeks as the Turks do. "Here, give it to me. I have some stuff to wash as well."
"No, I think I should do it myself." I explained to her what had happened and she gave me a sympathetic look while simultaneously holding back a smirk.
She went away. I looked out the window at the Istanbul sunset. It was gorgeous. But I was still feeling awful.
"Okay, it's ready," she called from the laundry room. I joined her.
"Just throw it in there," she said, pointing to the washing machine, the circular door open and waiting for the contents of my bag. To the utter surprise of my friend, I burst into spontaneous laughter.
My fortune was fulfilled, and I was feeling better already.
