It’s been about seven days since we’ve had a full-fledged Witch move into our house and the results are dramatic. We have saucers of salt and corn meal at the door. Incense burns constantly, handmade incense at that, since Abuelita couldn’t fathom buying it from any witch shop after what happened the other day. Candles of many colors are stacked and stationed on tables and counters and bookshelves. Fresh lavender, mint, aloe and blood root have been planted in the front yard. Even our neighbors have noticed something is different and I’ve caught a few of their wandering glances fall over our house, the bored and the retired peeking their nose through half shut blinds, assuming discretion, seemingly unaware of their failure to be discreet. I can catch their invasive thoughts from a mile away.
‘I don’t know what that woman was thinking,’ Percy tells me as she cracks a few eggs into a mixing bowl. I stand next to her in the kitchen, taking my first sip of a freshly brewed cup of coffee. I consider shoving the mug into the fridge to chill it before drinking it again, but I feel lethargic, and I know that there’s nothing like the taste of coffee, sharp and pungent, to really light up the senses like the Fourth of July. ‘Moving in without a moment’s notice, invading our space, pretending to run things. Who does that?’ Continue reading December 13th
Three of Hearts, a love long lost, three swords stabbing a bright red heart, with dark rain clouds in the background. The Heirophant, Reversed. Bohemian lifestyle, non-conformity, the Pope’s frown now turned upside down, his dark red coat gleaming in disapproval. The Fool, a new journey, the beginnings of an odyssey, Heracles ready for his twelve labors. Jason climbing aboard the Argo. The peasant boy in the card looks sufficiently untested in battle and wit. A white dog is at his feet, egging him on. Toto and Dorothy on the cusp of Oz.
Archetypes. That’s what they are. They’re all archetypes. Thank Joseph Campbell for lampooning that into societal consciousness, though his other ideas are very much so out there, and that’s probably where people should stop giving him credit. There’s always a heartbreak. Always a scorned lover. A knight riding off into battle, a veteran returning from victory. A saddened queen, a vengeful king, a backstabbing page, a wise old man. Archetypes.
I can see why people might mistake this for divination, for fortune telling. I can Continue reading December 10th
‘You need your own cards,’ she tells me, as the large, white bus we’re riding comes to a sluggish stop. She stands up, grips my bright red umbrella so tightly in her hands that they turn white, and begins filing out of the bus, holding herself carefully as she lunges down those three, incredibly steep, stairs.
I do not reply. Instead, I follow after her, thank the bus driver, and step out onto the curb. It is drizzling, coming down lightly on the quiet street, and though the clouds look thick and gloomy, the storm of the last few days has for the most part moved on. The wind is different, too. Calm. Serene. Full of bliss. Continue reading December 7th
There she stood, small, about five-feet-two-inches, her dark curly hair neatly secured with countless bobby pins, her wide smile cackling with energy. Her eyes met mine, fierce, burning with all the fires of the next world and the few of this one, the excitement of a thousand Arabian nights and the somberness of a Hundred Years of Solitude, ones who knew everything and anything. Ones that knew exactly what I was up to.
‘You’re here!’ she said, carefully, her thick, Nicaraguan accent bleeding through in English. ‘Como estas, mi muchachito?’ Continue reading December 5th