I stayed too long at the Metaphysical Fair (with apologies to Bonnie Raitt)
The psychic room at the fair. (Is it me or is there a blurry haze hanging in the air?)
I met an old friend from Kansas City at the Metaphysical Fair. She and her neighbors were interested in getting psychic readings. What the heck, I thought. It'll be fun. The readings went quite well, but I was seeking an old school massage for my sore left shoulder. The first massage booth was busy. There was, however, an empty table at the body therapeutics booth in the corner. Close enough, I figured. The practitioner instructed me to lay on the table while she dashed to the registration booth. (Turns out, she was in charge of the door prizes, too.) Soon, she's back, holding her hands above me, breathing, chanting and anointing me with oils. A few minutes later, she asked if I'd hurt my right ankle. "Not lately," I answered. "But in the past?" "Uh, I guess." She placed a stone there and went to work. "Do you want me to tell you where I'm in pain?" I asked. "No," she answered, seemingly annoyed. "I'll figure it out." So, she worked on my ankle, then gave me a stone to hold in my right hand. "Having trouble with the lymph node under your right arm?" "Uh, no." "Well, it needs my help. But it's that ankle we really needed to work on today." Figuring she would get around to the shoulder in due time, I let her do her thing which included digging her knuckles into my ribs to remove self-blame, a pretty good foot massage and lots of whooshing, noisemaker shaking and finger chimes. At the end, she said "Is there anything I haven't addressed?" "Well, I've torn my left rotator cuff and it's been hurting like a motherfreaker." Her sigh was audible. She closed her eyes, put her hand on my shoulder and murmured something under her breath. I paid her in cash and left no worse or better for the wear, smelling like a late 60s head shop. The end.