Stones
It happens to all of us once in a while. You're on this bed, it's way past midnight and next to you there's this Kurdish guy you just met who's about to predict your future.
Doesn't ring a bell? No?
Odd.
Anyways, so he grabs your wrist and starts reading your hand.
"You think a lot... You really think a lot."
So far, so good. Anyone can tell I think a lot, if they're observant enough to notice the lines in my forehead I've had and deepened since I was about five.
Next thing you know he picks up 5 small stones. 5 little boulders in different shapes and colours. He throws them on the bed and looks rather troubled. Breaking the silence by telling me to pick one, I let my eyes wander over the boulders. Eventually I pick the black one, nearly unblemished, shiny and polished by the water. His eyes tell me to pick another one. And another one. And another one. And another one until all five stones are lying in front of us on the bed.
"Why did you pick the black stone?"
"It's pretty and curved and I love black."
He looks doubtful.
"This is not good. This really isn't good."
He keeps throwing the stones over and over as if they might change their minds. But they don't. The white stone lies closest to the black stone every time again. Not good. Not good at all.
Suddenly he starts telling me things about my recently deceased grandmother. And about the uncle I never knew. It's all a bit vague, but ghosts have never made the books because of their eloquence - or are they just being poetic? - but still, he knows more than he could know.
Eventually he decides to tell me. The black stone represents illness, disappearance and death. (I should've known, it's always the black stone! Always!) Bad things are awaiting me in Canada. Maybe I'll want to go back, I'll have a miserable time. On the airplane I should expect to be seated at the right next to the wing, but I should seduce the flight attendant to give me a seat next to the emergency exit instead. (Is it just me or are the words "emergency exit" still not very comforting at I-do-not-know how many miles above the Atlantic?)
As if to end on an obligatory positive note he tells me at least my protective father symbolises health. Oh, okay, see, now I'm comfortable...
Did I ever claim I wasn't nervous?
Believe me, I am now.
Doesn't ring a bell? No?
Odd.
Anyways, so he grabs your wrist and starts reading your hand.
"You think a lot... You really think a lot."
So far, so good. Anyone can tell I think a lot, if they're observant enough to notice the lines in my forehead I've had and deepened since I was about five.
Next thing you know he picks up 5 small stones. 5 little boulders in different shapes and colours. He throws them on the bed and looks rather troubled. Breaking the silence by telling me to pick one, I let my eyes wander over the boulders. Eventually I pick the black one, nearly unblemished, shiny and polished by the water. His eyes tell me to pick another one. And another one. And another one. And another one until all five stones are lying in front of us on the bed.
"Why did you pick the black stone?"
"It's pretty and curved and I love black."
He looks doubtful.
"This is not good. This really isn't good."
He keeps throwing the stones over and over as if they might change their minds. But they don't. The white stone lies closest to the black stone every time again. Not good. Not good at all.
Suddenly he starts telling me things about my recently deceased grandmother. And about the uncle I never knew. It's all a bit vague, but ghosts have never made the books because of their eloquence - or are they just being poetic? - but still, he knows more than he could know.
Eventually he decides to tell me. The black stone represents illness, disappearance and death. (I should've known, it's always the black stone! Always!) Bad things are awaiting me in Canada. Maybe I'll want to go back, I'll have a miserable time. On the airplane I should expect to be seated at the right next to the wing, but I should seduce the flight attendant to give me a seat next to the emergency exit instead. (Is it just me or are the words "emergency exit" still not very comforting at I-do-not-know how many miles above the Atlantic?)
As if to end on an obligatory positive note he tells me at least my protective father symbolises health. Oh, okay, see, now I'm comfortable...
Did I ever claim I wasn't nervous?
Believe me, I am now.
posted by Siska at
1:37 a.m.
1 Comments:
This would be the draw-back to having an open mentality and believing in things. If you were a cynic you could just go "bullcrap, now do a little dance for me" and be done with it.
If it makes you any less nervous, I can do a little dance for you :)
By
Endless Audacity, at 4:52 p.m.
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