But really, these past few nights have been spent tossing and turning in bed, fighting a losing battle against my sheets. If I feel cold, I grab a blanket and am too hot; my toes then become sweaty and even more tangled as I flail my body from side to side. If I am too hot, I take off the blanket and awake to the jackhammer that is my mouth, clattering incessantly in the dark. And, even when I finally reach that desirable lukewarm temperature, the pillow is always too warm. Consequently, I wake up in the mornings with hair matted to my face, and the casts of the beads on my pillows adorn my face like the dry, earthen cracks in the Sahara desert. I mean, Christ. My name is Savannah; shouldn't I wake up like my African namesake: lush, fertile, and crack-free?
Anyway, upon nourishing my face and making it more malleable, more putty like, I can arrange the pieces and decorate them in a way so it resembles less desert and more grassy plain: less Sahara, more Savannah. It works, and generally I'm happy with the result, but the ordurous odor still lingers in my nostrils. The cesspool still stinks.
And, like a fly latches on to an African elephant, I would stop at nothing until I reached the source and sucked out the stench. What was plaguing me, I wondered. For the first time in a while, I knew it wasn't my job, it wasn't my friends, and it wasn't a boy. Actually, I'm generally content with all aspects of my life at the moment. It's Nothing that bothers me. The fear of Nothing is what keeps me scowling, cursing, furrowed and, well, cracked. Not in the sense that I am fearless, mind you, but rather that I am afraid that the only thing that lays quite contently in my future is Nothing, the only thing of which my past is composed is noxious Nothing, and fear of the hopeless realization that Nothing is expanding its cozy nook in the corner of my mind and stretching its sharp claws, soon to establish dominion over the entirety of my current thoughts. Nothing will soon become my sour and stalemate, and there is not a thing that can be done about it.
So, to exterminate this parasitic Nothing, what did I do? No, I didn't read Nietzsche. No, I didn't listen to Radiohead. I saw a palm reader. I consider myself a rather well-adjusted individual, and I realize that these "clairvoyants" are quacks who happen to be good at judgments. And ambiguous statements are generally the most powerful and persuasive ones.
See?
But really, I do understand all of that. However, looking to my palms, I noticed that they are in fact the most akin to the desert with their indelible lines and cracks. So, I thought, if there was any way to figure out why I stink and if there was any way I could finally get that proverbial fly to shoo and stop bothering me, this would be the way to do it. I was curious.
I went on a Saturday with a friend. There was nothing particularly special about the day; both the wind and sun seemed to have tucked themselves away for a summertime siesta, so the weather, static and grey, captured my general demeanor quite well. I found that cute in a pessimistic sort of way.
While the idea of mingling with a medium for an afternoon sounded somewhat intriguing, the execution of it was not so. As we walked to the building (which was no more than a shabby house with a commercial license), I averted my eyes from passersby, hoping not to see anyone I recognized. To me, buying into astrology is about as stupid as listing a personal ad. At the end of the day, you're still single, and it's still a lie; you're just reading it or writing it.
Anyway, as we made our way to the entrance, we knocked on the door. No answer. To be honest, I was actually somewhat relieved, I thought that perhaps we could just go get coffee instead. Caffeine provides me just as much clarity as any kind of psychic reading. Alas, the worn door began to creak, and we were "greeted" by a stern brunette in dingy sweatpants. "Come in," she muttered.
The room wasn't nearly as exotic as I had hoped. The closest thing to any kind of Indian kitsch was a red lava lamp lackadaisically placed on the mantle of the fireplace. Maybe this woman didn't need a fancy atmosphere to prove the merit of her craft, I wondered. Nah, not really. We told her we wanted our palms read, however I felt like she already should have known that if she truly was one of those Chosen Ones. Regardless, she sat me down in the plastic upholstered dinette chair, and had me reach out my left hand.
A casual glance or three at my palm gave her enough information to tell me the following things:
I will write when I'm older (as will the majority of those with hands).
I've been disappointed by people lately (as most people have).
I have several negative influences in my life (they are called vices, and we have them because we are human).
I am about to "get with" someone and not even realize it.
I will have three children (do dogs count?).
I will be married once and live a long and happy life (post or pre- divorce?).
I have a good Chakra (Khan?).
Her words spewed out like a broken faucet, and I was left drenched in this newly found enlightenment. However, these words didn't quench my cracked hands' thirst, and certainly didn't flood my mind and drown Nothing. It still reigned supreme and dry as ever.
She then read my friend's palm. And, from her gleaning, she was able to tell her:
She needs to trust her instincts more (we all do).
She will not marry for some time (well, duh. She isn't even twenty).
She is artistic.
She will work with chemicals (I applauded my friend for this, she frowned and told the reader she hated that and would never consider it. To this, the reader had nothing to really say).
The reading lasted all of twenty minutes, and we were out $50 total. Highway robbery. Upon exiting, we were slightly amused and disappointed, which I must say is an odd and unhealthy combination. I felt similar to the night I mixed vodka and an energy drink: my heart was beating fast but my emotions faded faster.
So, to distract myself, I examined my hand. Lined and cracked like the various tributaries and streams that eventually lead to the ocean, there was no pattern to it. I looked at my friend's palm. Her lines were erratic as well; we only shared the single thick fjord-like line in the center of our palms, but that is just because we are human and are capable of balling our hands into tight fists. While sipping various caffeine laden beverages, we shared our disappointments and mutual wishes and fears. How funny, I thought, that although we share similar thoughts, this "psychic" was able to slice us apart and put us on two completely different paths, because of the way our palms wrinkled.
She was full of shit. I looked closer to my palm, and realized that Nothing didn't dwell in my mind, but rather on my palm. The lines on my hands mean absolutely nothing, the act of living put them there. My thoughts, however, mean everything. They give us purpose, they give us an artistic sensibility, they give us a good chakra and the ability to have a happy life. And, so long as we are thinking, Nothing simply cannot establish a permanent residence anywhere in our lives.
And so, as I was sitting there in the pinkish blue evening sky, the wind began to pick up, and dead leaves began to skim the concrete sidewalk and disappear into the dwindling sunlight. And with the leaves left the stench. I looked to my hands. Nothing about their physical appearance had changed. They were still reminiscent of an African desert: dry and cracked. However, I realized that no matter what damage time and Nothing may do to my body, my mind will always be lush and thriving. And so long as I think, I will always be Savannah.
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