A Stick or a Swab


I am a puzzlement.

Everything evolves – including, and particularly – your pain.   I have eaten, though, so I think the best medicine for a weird body is to be distracted while you wait it out.  Distracted and full.  There will either be yogurt or mug cake in a minute.  Gonna get all filled up with egg and bean and meat.

All I can do is wait for the morning on this.  What was better yesterday I may have exacerbated today with jiggery-pokery.  Or something.  When I get that distraction, it is entirely forgettable, when I realize how long I have allowed myself to look away, a zing!  More curatives: Another hot bath.  But still, we do the exercise, we do the work, because eventually we do get better and we can’t rage at ourselves for having lost the plot in the meantime. I’d rather not.

So…games are distractions and I am just at Trespasser so that Dragon Age can sit still in my mind for a bit.  Then, more writing of my own.  There’s all these expectations pressing on my head and I press back in the weirdest of ways.   I lay very still and wait for you to give up.  But I heard the Faithful Light today and she hasn’t, so I won’t.  I won’t.

Instead, we will do the work.  We will cheer her mightily, we will thank her for her participation, her good hope and for showing us the way to San Jose.


The scene goes like this: Amelia brings a most unwilling Jean to Madam Atanasov’s parlor, ostensibly to get a fortune told.  Madam Atanasov looks rather young for her title, and for her claims as a mystic.   While the parlor looks, on the surface to be entirely respectable, a few simple questions and Amelia realizes the girl is using the guise of a gypsy to mask a far more suspect operation.  It is small, though, and Amelia decides to continue playing along to see what she can intuit.  She settles Madam Atanasov’s table,  offering up a story of a broken-hearted shop girl who is now on the skids in life.   Madam Atanasov is not terrible as an actress herself, and asks for her palm to be crossed with silver.  Amelia sighs that it is her very last coin, but she m ust know the future.   The woman begins poking at her hand, asking her rather pointed questions about her status and financial situation.  She clearly is looking for dimwitted ingenues like herself who can take up the other business through the velvet curtains in back.  She makes some terrible prophecies about Amelia’s straits becoming very dire unless she takes on the advice of new friends.  There are a few oddly correct statements in and amongst the blatantly cheap trickery.   Amelia reaches a point of curiosity and disdain and grabs the girl’s wrist with the sort of aggressiveness that women in polite society would never use.  Jean,  who is no actress and is frightened by every occult convention she sees, excuses herself and runs out of the room.

Amelia cannot be bothered to chase after her now.  She stares down the wilting Madam Atanasov,  and explains a few of the palmistry things she got most egregiously wrong, suggesting that she has no interest in joining the criminal enterprise she has running nor making note of it to the police.  She does want to know if she knows a man of the same description and build as Carlisle.  That when she asked him about winning one night at cards he spoke of a clever little gypsy out in South London who gave him his luck. White as a sheet, she nods.  She says that he told her Amelia might come and if she said a word, he’d cut her throat.

Or something like that.

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