Itchy palms

Have you ever experienced itchiness so drop-everything and get-down-to-it you end up biting your palm? Not drawing blood, mind you. None of your kinky middle school settings in a dark, dank wood with corn starch makeup and extended eye teeth sensuously pulsing against the ever-so-closed lips... Nope, just downright primitive cat and dog to hell with scratching that damned itch, I'm going to bite it to death. Will that cancel out the chance money is coming my way? What a strange association, as if playing the palm of one's hand like a flamenco guitarist suggests to the observer a certain money-lender in Venice by the name of Shylock who dwelleth in the country of Shakespeare's imagination. It's a profound sensation, itchy palms. What could it be? You won't or most likely won't be receiving mosquito bites on that toughened epidermal region with its Mound of Venus, plains and deltas, not to mention the life line and all those cross-hatchings representing children. I remember well the full-bearded chiromancer, Karl Marx come back as a gypsy, up three steps inside his caravan, okay, the image is coming in stronger now, I'm seeing Portabello Road on a Saturday during that market of elbows and musty books among the vegetables. He took my palm and suddenly, disarmingly, took on a rather paternal, caring tone. He gave me assurances that my time had not yet come and that I would likely excel at some unspecified sport much to my own surprise. I'm still waiting. But it's enough that he was on my side. He actually got the number of children right, if you count a miscarriage and an abortion, two memories which sadden me instantly and deeply with their memory. My two beautiful daughters bring me back right away to the light. How we tuck those painful experiences away and grow thick skin overall, as if each wound, each splinter of fate will eventually get swallowed up by that first point of contact we call our skin. No wonder it presents us with insatiable itches from time to time. I'm afraid the money explanation goes empty handed. I'm here gnawing like an animal on my own hand, tasting and attempting to devour some small demon who works his or her way from inside out. After a small frenzy where nothing like a protein or a carbohydrate materializes, I stare at my outstretched palm, a bit reddened beneath my Line of Intuition. I'm looking at a map of my destiny as if it's day one. So many lines and no signs to go by. How am I ever going to find my way?