spatulas

i just remembered the time i went to moe's and there was this hip, drunk lesbian out with her 'ms. right now' (i s'pose they'd say), this gentle and soulful portugese math teacher- "here, in the heart, here is where algebra lives!"-, and some of their visiting buds from brazil, sunny and philosophical black, black men. she turned out to be the daughter of a brooklyn palm reader, and was something of a tipsy and reluctant relayer of the meaning of others' hands that night. she sat illuminated by the window's red neon ( i can't think of a more appropriate use of neon than at that bar- it epitomizes the lustiness and buzzing raw beauty of that particular neighborhood) and held a whiskey in one hand and mine in the other.

so, here's the deal- i have spatulated fingers and my head and heart line go parallel, never touch. and the other one,- life i think? - just comes out of nowhere, fading from nothing to nothing.

before i get to what that apparently means, what stayed with me was the fascinating, and certainly profound at the time (certainly all the more so as we sipped jameson's and had our heads dipped intoxicatingly close), was that the study of palms has little to do with the future- the lines represent who we are right now. our lives are reflected in the palms, and they tell us maybe what we should do next, not what we will. how you close them, what you hold in them every day, when we make fists instead of opening, thats where it comes from. thus, you change the course of your life and your palm changes too. this girl told me that when she wakes up in the middle of the night and she has to unclasp her hands from whatever she was dreaming about, she needs to rethink things.

onto me:

so the heart and the head don't match- i'm sure there's no metaphor that needs to be explored, there. the life line means that early on there's something i didn't want to deal with, so nothing showed up on my palm. and the spatulated fingers represent a violently passionate personality. apparently wifebeaters often have spatulated fingers.

i'm not going to comment on any of that.

also, she said my hands were reddish, but did add that might have been due to sitting directly under the neon.

i said she was drunk.

why did i think of this?

A fucked up dream I had last night

i see this girl come out of a dark alley and she looked like the first 3 minutes of Law and Order: SVU, like obviously had been attacked- clothes torn, makeup running.


so i run to her and grab her and say, "oh my god, are you ok???" and she smiles and says,"oh, i'm fine!" and i'm like "... but...it looks... like you've been raped". And she goes,"oh, yeah, I was, by all these guys."


So I sputter something, confused and freaked out.


And she laughs and goes, "No, it's totally fine; I was only scared because I thought they were pulling me in there to tell me I was FAT!"


Realy bad dream.


I think it was somewhere on Roosevelt Island, where I lived for my first two years in college. There was a pier that was gorgeous in the day and a little frightening at 3 am. Same thing with the food at the all night diner.