Psychic Lilith Dove erases all clichés of hippy-dippy soothsayers who speak in bad Jamaican patois. A small, dark woman, with tight, short dreadlocks, this Brit is all business. In a show that is less theater than speed-psychic performance, 15 members of the audience get a fast and furious past-life reading from Dove, who sits in a chair with her eyes closed, gripping white postcards with numbers written on them. Each number represents an audience member. Conventional wisdom holds that people love psychic readings—they are agiant ego massage— but do they care enough to sit through everyone else’s?

Dove’s readings are incantations—long run-on sentences that weave one colorful tale after another. The skeptic in me thought these mini-tales sounded too perfect and too well rehearsed, as there were a surprising number of people who were plotted against and poisoned. Me, I was a famous, beautiful, Egyptian dressmaker who was deformed in a fire meant to kill me that was set by my nice, backstabbing friends. In this life, I was told, I should take my visual gifts to give the public pleasure. Well, I did just buy a digital camera.


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