Last night was one of those fundamentally  peculiar henna gigs, but I was expecting such.  Anything "Crazy Maggie" hosts is bound to have a significant chaos factor.  She said her annual party drew 700, and many camped out on her 5 acres for a fortnight before and after. There were 2 bonfires and 3 live bands.    I would calculate that the 700 people comsumed 6000 beers plus pharmaceuticals, allowing for 100 designated drivers. There were two indoor loos.  You figure the odds.  The trees had no chance.

I arrived an hour after I planned, because I followed Maggie's directions, assuming that she knew where she lived.   Two counties off target, I realized she had the directions  wrong, so I stopped and bought maps. She had said she was very keen to have me there, and I am fond of mad scenes (in a "Dada"ist sort of way), so I perservered and found the place.

When I arrived, Crazy Maggie was glad to see me.  I got the comfy sofa by the fire, near the food, so life was good. Outside was crunchy with frost and stars were brilliant; beautiful, with naked people trancedancing around the bonfires.   It was a lovely scene,  but one I was happy to relinquish to the young and toasted.  When I went into my work space, a  drunken Dark Warrior accomplice of Darth Vader had gotten himself stuck in a big overstuffed sofa because his complex boots and weaponry had sunk deeply into the cushions and he couldn't get his balance well enough to stand back up. A Pixie was trying to haul him out.

Maggie wanted to show "the incredible henna artist" off to all her friends.  No takers.  Not a single one.  Her friends didn't know what henna was and didn't give a damn about it.  I said I also did palmistry, hand readings ...... my " $5 hand job that tells you more about yourself than even your mama knows".  The people lined up right away.  No one ever wanted henna the whole night.   If I can't "red" hands, I'll "read" hands.  It was just as well.  It was cold as lawngeese in January, so the stains would have been  tragic pumpkin.  People were shitfaced, and I hate wasting good artwork. So, I looked into dozens of hands proffered by drunken owners, and told them what was in their hearts.

I've done pro palmistry for near 40 years, and I've gotten better at it as I've gotten older.  Half of palmistry is reading the roadmap on the hands.   The other half is knowing the species you're dealing with.  That part takes experience, love, wisdom and compassion. 

Crazy Maggie seems to have more men friends than most people.  There are a couple of possiblilties of why ..... mostly not my business..... but ..... this was the first gig I recall where most hands thrust out to me for palmistry readings pull up jockey shorts every morning. Usually, women have a lot of questions.  Guys rarely stop and ask for directions.  American guys don't patronize psychics unless they've got to the  maudlin level of blood alcahol.  They were right up there. The readings  went well.  As old as I am, and as many hands as I've seen, I can read a person dead on, fast, with no bullshit;  I take a lot of pride in that .

But, masculine hand after hand went by, big bear paws with that "guts and glory" configuration, I kept seeing the same sad question in their hands: "I'm being such a good guy, why do I feel so empty inside?".  "Why do I have to get drunk before I can say what I'm feeling?"   I don't know the answers for their questions. 
Long night.  Lonely Knights.
Henna would have been easier.

I left at 5 am.  AAA towtrucks were busy  hauling manly red jeeps out of ditches .... but where was the towtruck for their souls?  When I pulled into my driveway home, the radio played "You can't always get what you want, but if you try real hard, you'll find, you can get what you need. " That may be all there is. 
 

The Arabic Calligraphy hennaed on the palm of the hand is "Wisdom", with "Love"under the little finger ; the calligraphy on the back of the hand is "Compassion".

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