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    I've long held the impression that Americans will always trust an English accent.  They're bewitching, legitimizing nearly any situation. Perhaps it's the reason English psychics and the like work in America. But, despite my cynicism, I was so intrigued by the hope that drives clairvoyance, I couldn't have kept myself away from Francesca Kimpton's Demonstration of Mediumship.

    On the drive to Lyndon from my side of the Ville, I was excited. Optimistic even. I began to wonder who might pop in for a visit. My recently departed grandfather? People I'd never met wielding cryptic messages? Some kids I knew who died in high school? Every subsequent thought was creepier than the last, but I realized at some point on the Watterson that there was only one message I wanted. Would I get it? Would it even be possible (assuming that any of it is)?

    Well, as it turned out, I'd never know. Everyone in the room received messages from beyond, except two couples, and me. Among us who were left out, I was the sole attendee who didn't even receive an attempt.  Being rather intuitive myself, I noticed.

    Throughout the 2-hour ordeal, I sat patiently, nearly weeping for the girl behind me who was contacted by her father, recently deceased. She was close to sobbing when Francesca described Dad's personal demeanor, as Mom nodded emphatically at the accuracy. The message from her father was to take off to the west coast for more education, at least for a short while, for which she had no current plans.

    Then, there was the woman annoyed that her childhood friend was contacting her, belting "Oh, don't even go there!" Not only did her friend say she'd admired her hair when they were young, but went on to prove her spirit genuineness by identifying a bum leg and stuffed nostril.

    And, in one of the most astounding messages confirmed by yet another audience member, it's she who wants a divorce, but her husband who does not.

    I spent a great deal of time being fascinated, studying Francesca's technique, and how it correlated with the information the audience provided, unwittingly filling in holes, despite Francesca's instruction that she only needed the answers of yes, no, or I don't know.

    The performance was amazing. Francesca was often spot on, offering up family names that I surely wouldn't have identified with, but other times she was way off (or, the spirits were). Whether it was real or not, though, doesn't matter. The girl who sat behind me who'd just lost her dad gained more than her money's worth. If she can make peace with losing her dad, then it was all worth it. If she believes wholeheartedly that her dad is with her, watching and guiding from some other dimension, there's no harm in that; however, I might take issue with sending the girl 2000 miles west on a whim.  

    So, I left rather disappointed, because I wasn't given the opportunity to form an opinion about messages intended for myself, which leaves me unable to vouch for accuracy. Maybe I was slighted intentionally for the knowledge I'd be writing a review, or perhaps I'm taking it too personally. Either way, I'm skeptical enough and hopeful enough that I'd surely go again.  

    After all, hope is the reason the living attend such demonstrations; if not for hope, no one would've shown up. Not to mention the enchanting accent.

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    Rachel Hurd Anger's picture

    About Rachel Hurd Anger

    Rachel is a freelance writer who enjoys running in our metro parks, drinking local beer, and raising suburban chickens. Most recently she has contributed to a special edition of Chickens magazine.

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