The Future is in Plams

palm at mayaro

Show me your palms and I will tell you if you need to wash them

~ aka_lol ~

Contrary to popular opinion, a person’s eyes can say more about them than any other visible body part except the palm, which can be read like a book at school bazaars in classrooms that were redecorated to look like a wizard’s den but somehow only managed to end up looking like a harem.

There are probably more books published about the art and science of palm reading than published about eye reading and I can’t say why the anomaly. A certified palm reader can tell the future with the same degree of extremely vague accuracy that was made famous by politicians and astrologers. For example, a palmist can predict at what age you will die, – plus or minus a couple scores – how many children you will have and with how many women or men – give or take a half a dozen -, your future happiness or misery, and even which artery will be clogged by KFC and which by cow heel soup. Palmists are extraordinary people but their customers are even more so.

Despite being able to easily find out what the future holds for me, I have never been curious enough to find out. It’s not that I don’t believe in palmist, or psychics but it’s just that I am afraid to find out for sure what I already know – I will die when I cease to live and the garbage truck will fail to make an appearance on nine out of ten Fridays. I also know if I leave Port of Spain between four and five in the evening to get to St. Augustine it will take two hours. I will take even longer if there was earthquake at three and everybody decides to leave for home instead of checking for cracks in the building or if the boss was knocked down by a falling beam.

That is all I really wanted to say and maybe next time I will publish my palm reading results.

5 thoughts on “The Future is in Plams

  1. I’ve always been a bigger fan of ye’ old fashioned Magic 8 Ball. You can always get the future you want as long as you’re patient enough to repeat the question often.

    also, my palms need washing…

  2. Brings back fond memories. I was in the sixth form at a certain convent school and the annual fund-raising bazaar was imminent. A strange boy from the college across the street offered to teach me the art, which he did, and for a few hours one Saturday afternoon I sat in a darkened room, my head wrapped gypsy-style, and bamboozled unsuspecting ‘clients’ as I held their palms and surveyed those all-revealing lines. The weird part was that they were really impressed with the accuracy of my readings.

    The bazaar ended, I went home, and that was the end of my brief career as a psalmist.

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