I keep having this dream. I’m sitting alone in the middle of my living room floor cross legged and listening to Van Morrison and scratching Galadriel behind the ears when suddenly the music stops; I look around, wondering where the music has gone, but as I stand up, bright lights shine out of my window, with all the force the sun can possibly have, blinding me momentarily. I hear a shuffle and a click and the couch side table’s drawer flies open and my cards shoot out like missiles, surrounding me and enveloping me. I blink and the floor beneath me is gone and I’m just falling down, down, down, way down, to the center of the earth and back perhaps, into the unknowable void, my cards surrounding me again and again and again and again…
Ten of Swords…complete and utter destruction, death, death, death, DEATH…
I’m blinded by the dark and the only thing I can hear is Rocio Durcal singing Amor Eterno, and then I watch Mother, smiling brightly at me through the dark void, swaying to the song and singing with tears down her face and then everything is black; I am blind again.
And I hear the sounds of chains, thick, horrendous chains whipping out and being Continue reading December 16th
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