RUBY'S TAROT CHAMBER

Two of Wands

2011-09-06T20:55:00.000-07:00

Everyone tells him he's got it all. The world in the palm of his hand - like God in that bible song. The difference being, God gave a good 2 cents about his people. Looking out on the Mediterranean panorama, in his royal robes, this guy's not so sure he's got it together.

He's holding the world at eye level, but looking past it, to what might be, or what he's lost in gaining the world. He used to be one of those bohemians - apprenticed with Michelangelo for a while, until he got bored. Then he served as a deckhand on a ship to India. Had a lot of fun - dallying, eating well, making a killing with the loot he scored.

Only now, he stands alone in his glory, between the two staffs. Behind him, the lower, stand for his past adventures. The higher one stalwart before him, he envisions a life where he ends this hedonism. All is vanity. He misses his friend, whom he fought with back in India. They used to be two gentlemen of Verona. (Shakespeare may be a brilliant writer, but he had to go scrounging for plots, so he used this old friend.) Now there is one gentleman, back there on the villa terrace.

If you look, you'll see that the mountains are in the background, in the past. He's done struggling. Except for a couple of remaining demons that claw from within. Although he doesn't buy into the entire premise that ' a man may gain the world, but lose his soul. ' He holds to the white rose of purity. These, as in the picture, are crossed by red roses that drip with the pain of experience.

Edna O'Brien talks about her new short story collection, Saints and Sinners | Irish America Magazine, Irish American | IrishCentral

2011-08-12T19:06:00.000-07:00

Edna O'Brien talks about her new short story collection, Saints and Sinners | Irish America Magazine, Irish American | IrishCentral

Minor Arcana: The Wands/The Ace of Wands

2011-06-26T16:25:00.000-07:00

The Wands...

are flammable, knobby, occasionally sprouting green, stiff and pliable by turns.

The Ace of Wands:
a single wooden branch materializes from a disincarnate hand, which is itself sticking out of a cloud. (Like you needed me to explain! But, OK, I'll continue, since you've probably been watching too many Jennifer Aniston movies where everything is explained for you...) This is all happening on a slightly overcast day, far from the castle below, where someone in the turret is surfing the New York Times, grumbling because they finally were forced to buy an electronic subscription. (See? You wouldn't have known that unless I told you!)

The queen reading the NYT just got done searching craigslist for cheaper digs. The feudal lord was supposed to supply firewood - this was written in owl's blood on a scroll that is now flattened at the bottom of a basket where she keeps all such necessary but pointless deeds. However, he has failed to hold up his end. Castled her queen. It were a cold winter. And then - her bathroom ceiling fell in.

All it took one really good piece of kindling, just one flicker of discontent, only one really worthy incense stick to smudge her out of that dump into someplace decent. She is ready for something new, of her own making.

Wands are all about assertion (and sometimes, in-sertion). Sometimes about aggression, and sometimes they represent really stupid notions - like war. Their highest intent: fuel for your dreams. Kind of strange that they are at the beginning of the minor arcana, as they might suggest - as does the Nike commercial - Don't just sit there, do something! (whatever that was.) Such headlong urgency will cause one, for example, to post to a blog without proofreading the entry, and, exhilarated that they finally sat their lazy ass down to write, send the link to even their most remote email contacts, and all their facebook "friends"... only to have an actual friend point out that Kafka, not Chekhov, wrote Metamorphosis. Something so obvious!!!

You are cautioned to sit, just for a little bit - even with the tacit permission of this divine gift of fire (what someone went to the trouble to steal from the gods, remember?) Just hold your horses long enough to get an idea about how this action would benefit you - and the world beyond you - outside of the pure adrenaline rush.... Get the idea. Let it rest. And then... go for it!!!

The King of Swords

2011-06-18T22:14:00.000-07:00

He wields a mighty sword indeed. And, forget it: the pen isn't mightier than the sword...it is the sword! K of S is the master of wordplay, which is kind of like being the master of swordplay...or chess, or wargames. (An ex-husband used to stay up all night playing RISK. When I beat him, one night, he didn't speak to me for 24 hrs.)

This king doesn't mince words - he goes for the jugular. Look at him staring you down (oh! a sudden resemblance to my landlord, as I raise the peephole - yikes!)

James Bond, cool calculator

Manipulating language can be a beautiful thing - who doesn't admire a fine writer? - or it can be a lot of theorizing, a lot of bamboozling. Shell games...Foucault, Derrida, or your local ambulance chasing lawyer. The theory guys can sound as if they are talking in circles...and yet they also made us pay attention to what is important - our place in the universe - the order of things. The lawyer boasting on the side of the bus of all the money won for clients - hey, he might be a courtroom raptor of sorts, but he might also have brought down Goliath for the Daniels he goes to bat for. Here's the point: the sword must not stray to the dark side, grasshopper.

Sometimes, though, the only way to get through to folks is playing headgames on them. Judge Solomon faked out the fake mom with the threat to split the kid in two. Kafka, in his Metamorphosis, doesn't leave us any clues, doesn't tell us what to think about a slavish clerk becoming a beetle. The story affects us somehow....and how? Sometimes, you have to razmataz in order to wake 'em up.

The instrument longer than wide - I'm not going there.... You get it right? This K of S gets turned on by navigating the airy realms of words, thoughts, possibilities. He needs to be set to the great task. Send him off to find Yeat's golden apples of the sun - tell him it's an essential ingredient for your Epicurious recipe. Let him practice his speeches on his trusty nag for a while. (His horse, that is.)

King of Pentacles

2011-06-18T20:34:00.000-07:00

Loyal followers, (including those of my imagining) forgive my long hiatus. Let's continue straightaway with the mensch of the court kings - the big catch. If he likes you he will put a ring on it. This fine fellow is the best to curl up on a couch with. He will even enjoy shopping for said couch - since he's likely to be spending a lot of time there. There is a heavy sensual Taurean vibe going on here.

And the King of Pentacles very likely will have the change to buy a nice couch...crib...ride....castle. He likes nice stuff. And he will appreciate your stuff too - the couch isn't the only place he enjoys getting horizontal.... (Notice the horned creatures atop his throne?) If you are a woman of child bearing age, and into it, why, this may be your guy. He is invested in the sperm bank, if you will. The whole domestic scene is his bag, baby. This is the guy pushing the baby stroller in the park, with one kid astride his shoulders, and enjoying having soda spilled on his head, wiping the tears, the one who is tirelessly forging on from the seals to the gorillas at the zoo. The one with the wife who is applying sunscreen, enjoying the scenery as they promenade. (He cooks, too!)

Jamie Oliver, food revolutionary

This king probably plays an instrument - some down home thing like the acoustic guitar or the harmonica. Or else, he listens - to roots rock. Or Beethoven. Music is his therapy. So is food. Whatever he can touch, taste, smell, rub up against. A feast for his eyes. Break out the silk undergarments. You'll be glad you did.

This is getting predictable, right? It's not rocket science. Not that the Coin Man isn't bright, very intelligent even. It's just that he feels his way there. He's in touch with his feminine side. He likes philosophy, new age rituals - or football rituals.

He might be a banker, a baker, a construction worker, an engineer, a painter. Pragmatic. Also, romantic...and generous. And if he's among the sea of unemployed, in this non-recession we're in, he will not be freaking out over it. He is resourceful, perhaps entrepreneurial. Or else he will have a ritual (he loves ritual) of pounding the pavement, sending out resumes, for X hours a day until synchronicity and vigilance trump the collapse of capitalism.

And, by the way, he is a good friend, a model citizen, a patriot in the truest sense. i.e. - he is a non-scoundrel.

sez Ruby.....

The King of Wands

2010-05-08T10:16:00.000-07:00

The King of Wands. He's nothing if not phallo-centric. Like the guys on the bus who you have to squeeze in between because they have their legs spread. It's not like they necessarily have rolls of fat flowing over onto my contracting butt muscles. It's a matter of principle - that inaliable right to let their boys breath. These myths about how guys become sterile die hard....

Like the guy this morning, the one to my right. He didn't look menacing. He didn't glare at me when I wedged in beside him and the other guy. Nothing particularly misogynist-looking I could intuit. He was reading a book. I pulled out my book to see if I could forget about my bum wedged up between these two guys' bums. The man on the right had reddish hair, glasses, a canvas windbreaker. But still - I had to practically do Kegels in order to not feel like I was infringing on his space.

Finally, half-way over the Triboro Bridge, I'd had enough invisible Thigh-master exercises. Enough being lady-like. There were no nuns watching. I just let 'em hang out. My thighs, on either side, into the sides of dude left and dude right. And then I felt it - their muscles tensing up, growing more compact. It was too intimate. 0 tolerance for my outspread ham-gams.

The guy on the right and I were getting off at the same stop. He glanced at my book as he got up to leave. Checkin' out what I was readin', yeeah! Roddy Doyle, "The Snapper". Would I recommend? It's good for the chraich. He held the door for me. He was wearing jeans and tan workboots. Maybe a carpenter. Someone who works with wood. I lost him as he turned the corner.

Liam Neeson, milking Hollywood

The King of Wands is always looking ahead. Led around by....something longer than wide. The king here is staring into his glorious future. Like the fire element represented by the little salamander there at his feet (cute, ain't it?) he will use whatever oxygen - or leg room - you give him to expand. I mean - to build Mc Mansions. Or, to burnish a wooden music box until it is perfect and smooth, cobbled together from scrapwood. It's a kind of magic.

The King of Cups

2010-04-26T18:00:00.000-07:00

Sensitive New Age Guys - Chris...

This is the original Sensitive New Age Guy. A friend explained to me how this variety came about. I was telling her about someone I adored, who was artistic and smart, handsome and charming, but for all that, he didn't seem to be emotionally available. Her response was, now that men didn't hafta cough up fancy dinners, expensive baubles, or to get down on one knee, even, in order to get you to...you know.... Once women started earning their own bread, well, that's when these carpetbaggers started bagging women with their words alone. Words like..."You should see me when I get nervous before I have to speak in public!" or, "It hurts me to see how women make less than men for doing the same job!" Or you notice how he feeds all the stray cats in the neighborhood, while you're waiting in the car. Or lends $100 to the first friend with a good pitch. Then forgets your birthday. Stuff that used to make women slightly sick, she explained, is now a turn-on. And these guys...they know they only have to do the bare minium to get lucky.

Viggo Morgenstein as Tolkien hero

HEY LADIES: when this dude comes up in a reading...don't be fooled by the jewelry ("oh, I'm so sensitive I can wear a necklace and it doesn't threaten my masculinity!"). And don't be fooled by him holding out the cup to you. He might have drunk all the cheap wine, and is waiting for you to fill it up with Chateau Saint Michelle. Yeah, and don't listen to him when he starts singing like the dolphins - especially that! Cover your ears, and run, don't swim, the other way!

On the other hand, if you don't open your heart to one of these guys at some point, you might be missing out on a whole lot of fun.....

The Queen of Swords

2010-04-24T10:03:00.000-07:00

She is of the air, and carries the sword of detachment. And yet, as she lets approacher know: she is not one to fool around with (unless she feels like it...) What she wants is to tawk. To connect, to relate, to share images. This queen brings her feminine power to the element of air. She sits high above the earth, the sea, the fire of the earth's core. Like the holy men and women who relish their caves for the world they find within. To be in this refined air requires a quantum lung capacity adjustment. It's kinda scary looking down from the mountain, and one can get dizzy. But rising above those more primal elements that can pull her into desire and drama helps her to 'see clearly now', as the song goes. And hear clearly too. The words "non-attachment" for example. And yet her clarity imbues her with leadership potential.

Joan of Arc heard voices. Some people thought she was off her nut. But the soldiers who followed her into battle - she dressed in men's armor in order to be taken seriously - believed her to be the liberator of France. And as with liberator Che Guevera, her martyrdom only served to create a more steely etching of her heroism into our collective unconscious, our mythology.

In response to...[a]...theory alleging that she suffered from bovine tuberculosis as a result of drinking unpasteurized milk, historian Régine Pernoud wrote that if drinking unpasteurized milk could produce such potential benefits for the nation, then the French government should stop mandating the pasteurization of milk. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_of_Arc

So there! Hail to all the Queens of Swords, past, present and future! May they all live long and prosper, the more so for their heroics.

The Queen of Pentacles

2010-04-23T19:25:00.000-07:00

Meditating on this queen makes me feel like I just had a cup of Droste's hot chocolate. All cozy and safe. She's the queen of earth matters. As distinct from an Earth Mother, per se. That's too ponderous a role for her to assume. She is just aware of her kinship with the incorrigible claw-like grasses growing right up to the cliff edge; of the bunny that rushes by her like fuzzy white ghost; the roses above her wafting down their scent. She appreciates the things of the earth. Heck, she just likes Stuff! And to watch stuff multiply, be it money, bunnies, chickens (like the one on her hat), the tunes in her head, tomato plants. She's not out to make waves, just...cookies!

The Queen of Wands

2010-04-19T21:16:00.000-07:00

The Queen of Wands - she's fiery. Think Scarlett O'Hara. Or Tina Turner. She's got nothing to hide, and there's nothing demure about her. She's the only queen of the 4 four suits that is full frontal. When you get her in a reading, you are looking at a woman who is ready to challenge the status quo. She is holding the sunflower that measures the sun to be at high noon. This queenie knows how important it is to seize the day, the hour, the minute. But not withough reinforcements (the lions behind and beside her) and loyal fans (the black cat, her familiar). She's got a bit of an ego, and likes an entourage...although she can be generous in return.

The Queen of Cups

2010-04-18T20:00:00.000-07:00

Queens: They are goddesses, empresses, they rule...sweetly.

The Queen of Cups for example...

She has mastery over water. It's her element. She is borne of the sea.

But she doesn't want anyone getting into her business. Why she kept the lid on her little talismanic doll. Look, she has pebbles on her robe, melding with the ones at her feet. Don't call her home for dinner, she's gonna watch the sun go down, talk to the doplhins when they saunter in to buss her toes, perhaps take her for a brine ride. (Don't try this at home). She is like the dolphins in that she loves the water, but requires air. Note the cloudless sky.... Actually, she is a mean chef - when you can pull her away from the shore. Her forte is sauteed mussels. But she has to be in the mood....

Current Moon Phase

2010-01-02T06:53:00.001-08:00

CURRENT MOON

moon phase info

The World

2009-12-21T20:07:00.000-08:00

December 21, 2009. The winter solstice. Out with the encroaching dark - in with the burgeoning light. This nearly naked lady is creating her own solstice ritual, as she dances through the Christmas wreath. Twirling batons as she comes. She just happens to have forgotten her Majorette hat and boots. (And if you missed that decade....it's OK!)

But really, consider the timing here, the synchronicity. I didn't plan on writing my last Major Arcana blog about a woman dancing through a mythic portal on the last winter solstice of the first decade of the new millenium. It just happened that way. Sometimes we're just tools in the great cosmic blogosphere.

The two wands she stands between are white, meaning that their potential has been expended. The die have been cast for the new day, new year...(new age?) They are two double flames. She has figured out how to transmute matter into light. Also, how to put on a marvelous show, even if she did forget her baton-twirling costume. (These details!) Unlike the ying/yang-binary-black/white towers of the high priestess, the symmetry of the wands indicates a perfect resolution. Indicates that the voluptuous yet weightless woman is sensitive to the vibrations around her. At the same time, if she needs to, she is can kung fu the dark away with her light sabers.

Notice that wreath removes her from the beastly forces of the mundane world, as glorious as they might be. The stubborn, powerful ox. The noble lion. The eagle who sees all. The sexy, princely dude. The winds of change.

She has been there, baby, yes, and done that. She began the journey as the fool, who was leaping from a cliff, ready to fly. His black staff had yet to spill its many colors. He has evolved into She. The divine feminine. (God is a woman after all!) She is in the world, but wears it very lightly indeed, as she simply glides through the final threshold with no effort or hubris, no fear posing as courage.

She owns it, now, having earned it.

The World

2009-12-21T19:18:00.001-08:00

Judgement

2009-12-12T08:24:00.000-08:00

This angel means business. He's making a fearsome noise with his horn. It's the great call that Cannot Be Ignored. It's a call to look at ourselves naked in the full-lenth mirror, and then, to shrug, and maybe give a Buddah-belly-laugh.

Muslims answer a call to prayer in the evening. Tibetan monks make tremulous bleats on conch shells - another tool for waking up. Sonny Rollins played his sax on the Brooklyn bridge alone for two years - because he had to. The Irish used to pay women to keen at wakes, to mourn out in high-register, inarticulate moans. Ella Fitzgerald scats all crazy, but - guess what - we get it! We get it in the way we get poetry, which bends language to a new purpose - and slows time, stops thinking, opens our hearts.

That trumpet is the connection between heaven and earth, between the ephemeral unseen and what can be seen, heard, felt: a manifestation of pure Knowing, of higher vibrations. The souls are being attuned by the great blast. They know now that they always were. Got no more axes to grind, no more shyness, no more regrets. They are so ready. They are done crying. They are as dumbfounded as new babies.

We don't have to wait until we are dead to be called. Besides, death and rebirth are partners in a life-long process. You're being called every day. Put down your I-Phone, log off of Facebook, pull out your earphones and listen. Just lie down on the floor and listen, for Crissake! Be glad for your fake Persian rug, all cozy with cat hair, or your kitchen linoleum, all cool and non-judgemental. Close your eyes, feel the floor and your breath. What do you really Really want? How do you want the universe to make use of you? What did you tell your third grade teacher you wanted to be?

I want you all to go to your window right now and call out -"I'm glad as hell, and I'm not really sure why. But that's OK!"

The Sun

2009-11-30T18:52:00.000-08:00

The child is carried on the pony's back,
his own back to the sunflowers
that now tilt at noon.

The kid has ripped the heads
off posies for his crown,
has seized on them like Goliath
in a garden. Otherwise, like the beast,
he's clothed in skin alone.

The play horse knows the way:
first go round
then round.
Then go round again.

Everything is peaked
and perfect. Two nipples and a navel:
simple fulcrum, unmounded skin.

The boy sprouts a red feather,
practicing. His open arms
size up the universe.
The sunflowers yearn toward the blonde head
that holds the notion of now.

And the Sun beams golden S's
that ripple the toy flag.

The Moon

2009-11-23T19:17:00.000-08:00

I'd be lying if I said this card hasn't always creeped me out a little. Maybe it's the expression on the moon's face, like someone conjuring negative energy. And the spikes that indicate the moon's rays - as if the moon's intention is to goad you, prod you, get under your skin. And the net of moon-drops cast beneath it suggest her work is done surreptitiously (yes, the moon's a Her) by osmosis, by intention. The air is suffused with moon-essence. It's all so nebulous.

Check out those darkling towers. I imagine hooded gollum-type creatures splitting 12 hour shifts in a land of perpetual night, keeping watch for....what?! See? That's my anxiety with this card! Where's the hope, piping in a tree? Where's the payoff, the sure thing?

The two dogs here are absolutely wired. They don't know what gives, but they hear the call of the wild. I gave birth during a full moon. I get up to drink hot milk and read archaic novels during the full moon, hoping for sleep to return. Sometimes she is beautiful to me, spilling silver on the sea, or defining a tree's thousand leaves. And unlike the sun, you can look upon the moon without fear of having your retina burned out. She is generous like that.

What's interesting is that the lowest creature in the card - both graphically and evolution-wise - is the one that's bound for glory. While the people in the towers nod and start, while the dogs drool and sound menacing and run in circles, the crayfish silently feels its way out of the water. This crustacean is setting out upon the good gold road. It's not a straight road...it curves every few yards, winding up and down hillocks. But eventually it weaves its way to the top of the mountain peak in the distance. The one we can barely see. The one the crayfish only senses is there, urged on by her negative capability.

Speaking of Moons....http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/samrockwelloscar. Petition for Sam Rockwell to be nominated for the Best Actor Academy Award for Moon -

The Star

2009-11-16T20:13:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not talking about Liam Neeson or Colin Farrell. Not Javier Bardem or Gael Garcia Barnel either.

Writing about stars for me is like writing love poems: you're inviting literary disaster. As a creative writing teacher, I forbade them. So, you're warned.

There is sunlight without which we would literally die. There is moonlight, which, everyone knows, causes babies to be born in threes, insomniacs to lie awake all night, lovers to remember why they had to have it to begin with (not to mention pole-vaulting cows). All great stuff. But starlight?

Starlight cuts through light years of dark, winking in the velvet, timed with our pulse and breath. We are honor-bound to wish upon the brightest one. Sailors - the good ones - steer by them still. They are equated with diamonds in nursery rhymes - that adamant stone that will cut glass, and turn the fiercest bridezilla into a salamander as she gazes at her left hand. "Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art!" Go ahead, Google Keat's poem right now. You won't be sorry.

My grandmother told my sisters and me to 'follow our star' - to go for that wild dream. She mailed me - Queens Village to Wellsville, NY - the most beautiful statue of the Virgin Mary, with a blue velvet sari, and a halo of stars on a tin frame.

Why is the star-lady naked? Because she's protected, and therefore, unafraid. Not brave - a trait that requires some kind of threat to elicit. She's simply serene. She knows she is good - all parts of her. A little like Jesus, she's resting one foot on the water - utterly supported, because she believes. One pitcher spills into the earth, the other replenishes the waters. She is the Water Bearer of the sign of Aquarius. Although that's an air sign, the overlay of water on the quality of wind (relationships) urges an awakening to the fact that all beings are made of the same big soul. What Whitman called the "me myself." While you're at it, open that anthology from high school to "Leaves of Grass." It's a tear-jerker, I tell ya!

When I was twelve, my family had moved to a ginormous old house on the top of a hill in a new city. We had left our friends behind. I was beyond lonely, not helped by the fact I had a ginormous bedroom all to myself. More space to be lost in. One night, in my pajamas, I walked to the window. It was deep winter, but a clear night, too cold for snow. I rested one hand on a tile of leaded window, feeling the leak of cold air. The snow on the ground was star-encrusted. But when I looked up, one bright star mimed to me that everything was alright. And the star saw itself reflected in my tears.

Look at the bird atop the tree. OK, I won't even send you searching. Here:

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254

Emily Dickinson

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

And don't forget to vote...or email!

The Tower

2009-11-09T19:39:00.000-08:00

I was goofing around with the Tarot the eve of 9/11/01. Really annoyed that I kept getting The Tower. Impestuously kept laying new spreads in order to get something that did not fortell disaster. The Tower came up 5 times in a row. The cards were trying to tell me something too horrible to infer.

Interesting that The Tower card succeeds The Devil. The latter is about being addicted to the low life, the least common denominator, the same old-same old safe thing. And being imprisoned by that routine. The former is about being hurled from the stronghold in the middle of a nice game of chess (or a less wholesome but equally routine activity) and having no say in the matter. Up is suddenly down. What was, ain't anymore.

It's the Humpty Dumpty card. Someone is losing their crown. There is no piecing things together again. Not in the same way, at least. Maybe this upset was a long time coming. Must The Tower spell out a catastrophe - even if only personal? No. Because it is an archetype, it bears multifarious meanings. Is The Tower gonna point to a snuggly evening sipping tea and watching the telly? I DOUBT IT!

The person on the left - the crown-less one - is flying, Superman Cape ruffling madly in the winds of change, literally facing his fate, arms extended to greet it, as awful as it may be. He is one with this little death, even if it's only a temporary death. He is present and alert. After that, there's not much you can do to him. The person with the crown, on the other hand, is in big-time denial, hands 'raised' to protect her chunk of gold, eyes bulging in shock. Her present terror is worse than the impending landing will be. Of course, we are dealing with some archaic tropes here: the brave man and the frail and frivolous damsel. But we know that fear is gender-neutral, as is courage. (Don't we?)

Look at the little golden teardrops. That's what they look like, don't they? They seem to be attending the human who is in the moment of terror. They seem to be obscured from the human who is trying to hang on to the goods. "The quality of mercy is not strained/ it droppeth like a gentle rain from heaven....." Shakespeare said that. We have to break our hearts to find out what's inside them. I said that.

The Devil

2009-11-02T18:30:00.000-08:00

As in...THE DEVIL. Be afraid. Be very afraid.... Except, the couple at his feet don't look scared. They look like they're leaning up at a bar on a Saturday night. Only minus the martinis. And the clothes. He's all like, "Hey, good-lookin', didn't we meet at a party thrown by Caligula? ....or was it at a witch-hunt in Salem? Yeah, that's it: you spurned me, so I told the elders you were cutting deals with The Big Dude there." And she's all, "Tee-hee, I was going to say it was that lifetime that my name was Delilah, and you were this strongman named Samson." And he's like, "Well, whatever, baby. I say, since we're chained together, why don't we take advantage...?"

See how Devil is giving the high-five? He's inviting you to a secret hand-shake. If you get it wrong, there's a trap door beneath you he'd love to open up. Actually, he's saying 'stop right there, have you thought this one out? There are no give-backs, once you enter here.' If you take a good look at his raised palm, he's exhibiting the lines that determine our fate. But they aren't lines that we didn't tattoo ourselves, every time we got caught up in in our desires. What Buddhists call kleshas. What we cling to that ends up taking us down. Our cravings. "There will be cursing and gnashing of teeth." There will be kleshing. There will be karma.

Bats can't help it. Neither can goats. Or vultures. This bird looks like he's made from a variety of critters, making himself the ultimate Beast. But animals aren't bad. They just don't have the same options as we with 'soul's'. And once you get to hell...well, you have limited options.

I'm re-reading "The Scarlet Letter", which I hated in high school. Huh - I thought - reinforcing the notion that women will be punished for having a good time. But, the literal embodiment of Hester Prynne's good time is her daughter Pearl. Innocent, as the gem she's named for, little Pearl is a still a hellion. She goes around in red satin dresses (17th century baby-style) and throws stones at the brats who taunt her, as well as at the high-hatted, becollared men who locked her mother up. Vengeance is mine, sayeth Pearl! That's purity talking...in tongues of fire. Sometimes we have to embrace our devils....

Death

2009-10-19T16:40:00.000-07:00

Relax. It's nothing personal. Look at the white flower on the flag of the victor. It's five perfect snow white petals, like the heart of the golden mean. It may look like the end of the world, but everything is really in perfect order. You were sick of that gig anyhow. Death is just hastening along a badly needed change.

He's like the meter maid. Everyone fears him. They try to negotiate with him when he's standing next to their car/carc, softly shaking his skull as he assesses the damage. He'd snear, if he could raise a lip corner. But he drives a hard bargain. And heaven help you if you lose track of time. Going for the mani-pedi special, or making an extra stop to pick up your dry cleaning. Excuses, excuses. He's heard them all. You think you have all this time. Snap out of it!

But really, do you think it's fun, being the harbinger of doom? Do you think it pays well? Not on your life! Don't even mention the dumb uniform they make him wear. Well, he likes the armor better than the silly black robe and sickle. (What a cliche!) The white horse makes him even look chivalrous. Knight of the Living Dead.

And even though he doesn't exactly fill out his armor - let's face it, he's not exactly ripped - the service he provides is noble. Think of of the Knights of the Holy Grail. They didn't have any guarantees they were gonna find it. As bad a Don Quioxote with his windmills. But they were all tireless, these knights. Incorrigible. Loyal beyond all reason. Longing for what they can never have, in service of some lady eating berries and cream somewhere. And this particular knight has nothing but time on his hands.

Speaking of negotiation - look who's really schmoozing. That's right - the man of the cloth, trying to buy some time. Or if that's not an option, how about some plenary indulgences? Meanwhile, the king is face-up in the mud, his glassy eyes spelling 'shock'. A very untidy passing. I don't think even the Salvation Army will salvage that ermine. Not like the graceful woman, who looks like she is going into a deep sleep. (Poppies. Paawhhh-pees!) She's not fighting it, so it's no big deal. And the child? The child survives death. Well...we all survive death. As a wisp of light, as an echo reverberating through the ether's. As much more, I believe. But the child already knows that this clown on the horse is so much spectacle...like Santa Claus. On some level the kids knows it's fiction. He lives in the present moment. Which is the same thing as eternity.

The Hanged Man

2009-10-12T10:36:00.000-07:00

I used to work a nurse. I used to have to sum up my patient's condition by doing a "cephalocaudal assessment." From head to foot. Do their pupils contract equally when lit? Can they give your hands a good squeeze? When you press your thumb on their calves, for how many seconds do the dents remain? What color are the toenails?

We can't do a cepalocaudal on this guy, cause he's upside-down. The whole procedure must be canceled. The apple is falling back up. No dice. He's not exactly compliant. Maybe we should get a psych consult, because we can't be the crazy ones!

OK, just for kicks, we'll read him upside-down. Well, first there's the cross he hangs from. But...it's not a cross, exactly, since the mast doesn't 'penetrate' the horizontal beam. So...it's a kind of non-violent cross. Or a 'not invested' cross. A "T". Sounds like "tree". Something that knows which way is up, with deep roots, head in the sky. And this hanging-beam, like a tree, bears live foliage, there's still plenty of sap flowing. Not like the splinty wood from the Gothic passion plays of Immaculate Conception School...not their conception.

His slippers are gold, like the halo about his head. There is is light coming and going, no matter what color the nail beds.

His red tights: his legs - what he stands on - are soaked in sanguinous fluid. (Yikes!) Except, guess what? He's not standing on them - they are taking the place of his head. So he is willing to sacrifice, to give away what he was standing on. He is assured in his groundless-ness, in his breeze-swinging.

He's also willing to put his feet where his mouth was. To...well...not walk his talk. Plus, notice his right leg - the one ascribed to correct action - is taking no action, since it's tethered. His left - amoral - leg is contracted, resting behind this decision to be passive.

He wears a sky blue shirt. What's he got to be so perky about, especially with his hands behind his back? He must be really off his nut! But then...why is he smiling so serenely? Maybe...because he knows that up is the same as down? That the tree, Great Nature, has his back.

Check out:

The Waking, by Theodore Roethke

Justice

2009-10-06T18:38:00.000-07:00

Many years ago in religion class at Immaculate Conception School, Wellsville NY, the idea of the judge as Great Equalizer impressed itself upon me, to the point, even, of a little OCD. King Solomon was the first judge. Said Sister Mary Frances. These two women came before him, fighting over a baby, since one woman's child had died. Both women claimed the squirming, screaming infant as her own. But this being way before genetic testing, no one could say for sure who was lying.

The judge said the answer was simple: he would just split the kid between them. And we're not talking shared custody, either. Solomon hoisted up his big sword with one hand, and with the other, held the baby down on a table. Just as the heavy weapon began to slice the air in its downward heft, one mother - the real one - began to wail and grab for her son. Solomon put the sword back into its sheathe and handed the kid over to his rightful owner. Case closed.

Those Old Testament stories scared the Behjezus out of me. That's because they were so lacking in compassion, and Jesus was The Savior. Except I remembered that mother screaming, as if her child dying would be her own death. Wise awl Solomon had a knack for drama, for getting people to react. Not unlike Judge Judy, who knows how to bring people to their knees by pushing the right button, long and hard enough. There's your 5 minutes of fame - how'd ya like it???! Perhaps these judges have iron nerves. This is how it's gonna be. Why? Because Father knows best. Or Mother. Flip a coin. These aren't who you would classify as Highly Sensitive People to be able to make such assured calls. Damn complexities! Binaries rule! Is there a mite of compassion in righteous judgments made for the good of the many? Maybe.

Recall, if you will, The High Priestess. She's in a similar setup: between two columns, staring without wincing, crowned by the moon. But she is not of this earth, as Justice is. While High Priestess's robes seem to transmute into water around her feet, and she is nearly encased in a beehive of breathing pomegranates, the judge is a glorified civil servant. Her robes are serviceable, but not ostentatious. She has the golden light of righteousness in back of her, but a dull and heavy tapestry is tacked up between the columns somewhat obscuring that light of wisdom. Even Justice here doesn't know - or remember - how she figured out who weighed in as guitly, who came out smelling like a rose. Pay no attention to the light behind the veil - just attend to the word of this world-weary bueracrat. She's done her homework.

The columns that circumscribe tireless Justice are equally dull grey, unlike the trippy ensignia'd black and white columns that embrace High Priestess. All things are equal when Justice gets done with you. The scales don't even whisper. The Sword may as well be stuck in stone. Her shining right foot is forward. The left - or errant - foot is safe asleep behind the robes. There is nothing gauzy about this woman. While High Priestess is clothed in multifarious shades of moonlight, this sage is wearing blood-red (for swift and merciless edicts?) and a cloak of lizard-textured green (for chameleon-like mutability? Just what do I have to do to get you into that prison cell? Or out of my courtroom by 2pm? )

But check it out: our judge has a clunky, yet authority-rendering crown. And in the center of it? A jewel. Where her third eye would be. She is just hooked up. We just have to trust her.

The Wheel of Fortune

2009-09-27T18:08:00.000-07:00

Lets see what we have here. 3 animals and an angel reading books. The Sphinx, holding a sword. A snake slithering down the left side of the wheel, and Anubis riding the wheel back up on the right. We have storm clouds brewing, but not yet bursting. We have change. If you read counter-clockwise, the letters read (from 12 o'clock) TORA. There is a YOD at one o'clock. What's a YOD, you ask? It's a little tear-drop, symbolizing grace, or compassion . There is a symbol for change at three o'clock on the inner circle. Dunno what the other stuff means.

The Sphinx holding a sword. The sphinx is a riddle: the unknowable, the paradox. The sword is everything you thought you knew being cut loose. Sayanora, baby!

The critters reading books: "It is written...." In the Akashic Records? A fat lot of good that does you or me! They are sitting on that information. WHY: did the economy tank; did that guy who professed intense attraction to me stop emailing; did they turn my rent-controlled apartment into an overpriced condo? I couldn't tell you. 'Tis a mystery. But, comeon, you hated that job; you had a feeling the dude was internet-wooing other women anyhow; and you were sick of being run into by texting NYU students, so you took a job in Syracuse where you can afford to buy a house.

The stormclouds: electricity is in the air - you can smell those negative ions. The deluge is coming any minute!

The snake: transformation. What bit The Little Prince, and his soul went somewhere else. What sweet talked Eve out of her sweet little garden. What encircles the staff in the symbol for healing. What tempted Christ in the desert. The daily challenges that seem so important are really transient. The snake leaves little replicas of himself on the wet morning grass. Change happens. Everybody must get stoned, and sometimes it's for one's own good!

Anubis was the son of Isis and Osiris. He was the demigod who weighed your heart when you died (this is in Egypt) to see if it did not weigh more than a feather. THEN you could get into heaven. Otherwise....not so pretty. In any case, what we have here is some serious transmogrification. Anubis is the pagan patron saint of embalmers everywhere. Their job is to bring the dead back to life - for the funeral anyhow.

Basically - as my Irish grandmother used to say - "Never a sunny day came, when a rainy day wasn't just behind." She also said "Come Merry, come Sorry!" Don't get so high on your horse, lest you be cast down. But on the plus side: "It's always darkest before the dawn" and "Every cloud has a silver lining." (Just don't count on Irish proverbs for the good news.)

In summary.... change is the nature of all things. Just ask Buddha. His name means 'awaken' or 'bud'. Essentially, if you subscribe to past, present, and future - to drama - vs. Here and Now, well, you are going to lose. Of course humankind must buy into practical matters - otherwise we would never get out of bed. Is it really just an illusion that I dread Monday mornings? I can't always convince myself! But... I feel better when I can treat this life like the game that it is - a merry-go-round. When I can place myself at the still point in the center of that rolling wheel. Round and round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows. It's a rush!

Check out this Roseanne Cash video: The Wheel!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVy8kSUl520

The Hermit

2009-09-21T18:26:00.000-07:00

One of the first things to note about The Hermit card is the limited color palette. Grey, grey-blue, yellow. A little flesh-tone, but this card isn't about flesh. Or flash.

He is up high - above the highest frozen peak. How can he stand it, being all alone in the cold and dark? Stuck with just himself. No one even to play chess with, and he sure isn't holding a laptop, or electricity - so no virtual games either! Facebook? He never heard of it - nor is he missing it. He is here on this mountain bluff by choice. Just watching the wheels go round and round, as a Beatle once said. Everything seems to slow down when you stand and watch: time....vital signs....thinking.....

Think about the star being locked up. About inspiration being caged and disciplined. The late Allen Ginsberg might have frowned upon that. What advice did he give poets? "First thought, BEST thought." Just write, no censoring! To suffer for art - or betterment in general - is nonsense. Right? Well perhaps, but who said this guy's suffering - or asking us to? The difference between him and the Hierophant. He is in a monastic order of One. You have to climb the mountain in order to talk to him. And he can take or leave you.

IX (or 9) is the number of completion. It's the last single digit odd number. (And this guy may not be so odd as we think.) Astrology informs us that the ninth house is about higher things: education, philosophy, going global (traveling), philosophy and religion. Poetry. It's about thought matrixes that are not self-serving, but intended to lend their light to humankind. Bold initiative - the courage to stand alone (#1) plus seeing infinite connections - 'string theory' of All That Is (#8) equals holding up the lamp to reveal those cosmic connections to all who will see. That's the hermit's job.

Think about the interned light as a sort of eco-generator: he's getting the maximum fuel with minimum effort. He's learned how to harness pure bliss. Of course he's got a grey beard - it takes centuries to learn how to be happy just standing still. Yet there's a dash of Mage in him. See how his staff glows gold!

Strength

2009-09-14T19:20:00.000-07:00

The eighth house of the zodiac is about sex and death and all manner of merging. This eighth card of the Major Arcana is about what continues. See how our goddess is crowned with the eternity symbol? She ain't scared of the lion snapping her head off. For she is the alpha and the omega. Or...she is the alpha and the lion is the omega? They are opposites that complete each other. She would be really super boring, all shiney white and gliding through the Serengeti, without making us wonder how she got Mr. lion to go all gushy just because she knows where to scratch. And the lion growling ferociously is so... Metro Goldwyn Meyer. But a lion rendered of his fierceness, forgetting his primary purpose of pouncing and shredding and generally inspiring dread - now that's scarey!

How does she stay so clean? Her only adornment - what?- garlands of roses, and some springy ferns growing from her head. Tender and untrammeled. If you look at that garland hanging from her waist...it seems to circle her womanly parts - kinda like a chastity belt. (Stay with me here!) And the white...she's the quintessential virgin. Yet that fecundity, all bottled up, imbues her with an assurance as to just how sexy she is. She will make a man into a beast, the beast into a puppy dog! (All kinds of politically incorrect...!)

The beast and the woman are two parts of a whole. The beast is quite capable of killing her with one swipe. But who would twirl his curly little mane? She is all service and compassion in her nurse's whites. Which is why she needs the surge of adrenaline that the knowledge she is toying with death affords. Why nurses need E.R's. Birth, death, general chaos, 12 hour shifts, a little sleep, lots of coffee, come back and do it again.

I can't resist:

TIGER, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake

We know which hand and which eye!

The Chariot

2009-09-09T18:57:00.000-07:00

This guy is a hunk, right? What other Major Arcana character is so got-up in armor, so flaunting of his fine physique? And he's even got his own portable telephone booth in order to change from Joe Schmoe into Super Courier. Oh, wait, that's a chariot....

Our boy has sun, star, and moonlight to guide him through the moors and mountains, 24/7, in hail or sleet. He's got all of the planets, too, not just Mercury. He's a hero, a warrior. His mission: to deliver dee letter. (Remember letters?) He's kinda like the Terminator, as far as being on a mission goes. An android: he's programmed to succeed! (And notice the Feng Shui mirror over his heart - he's a machine, ladies. Fuhgetaboutit!) The only thing is, he forgets where it is he's going, or gets lost. He's in such a fat hurry that he misses the signs. (County Road 67). He whizzes right past Ferdinand the Bull, sniffing flowers in the meadow. What the heck, since I'm mixing my metaphors - he's also not noticing Bugs Bunny playing the uke under a palm tree. He needs an internal Garmen. Or an awareness of the speed inherent in standing still.

Notice that he seems to separate the city in two, as though he is at the head of the outgoing road. Part of his mission is to level out communication, to keep us all on the grid. There is further symmetry in the two wings, the perfectly balanced top that serve as insignias (and as talismans) on his craft. The two sphinxes of inverted black and white are emblematic of the Taoist Yin and Yang sign. What is full will be made empty. Maybe I'm wrong about him. Maybe he's not just a bimbo on wheels. Maybe it's by moving at a magically fast speed - by doing what he's best at - that he causes the world around him to slow down.

7 is the number of the spirit, and of solitude. This fellow is a loner, a seeker. Look at the wings again. The spirit is weightless, and this dude knows how to fly!

This is c-c-cool! Props to Mary K. Greer for finding...

2009-09-07T11:35:00.000-07:00

The Lovers

2009-08-29T18:17:00.000-07:00

The Lovers

This is the card everyone thinks they want. (Or at least me.... )

The sixth card of the major arcana. Numbers are significant in Tarot. Think about the Sixties (the decade). Doesn't this look like a couple at the Woodstock festival that found a place under some apple trees to enjoy each other? And then, the windowpane they dropped made everything get all crazy? And the mountain turned violet? And the tree caught fire....and...then they began to see angels? At least the chick. The dude is looking at her. She's his angel.... But then, this snake started talking to her, and it got to be bummer! (Man....)

OK, one version. But it does speak to more than two hetrosexual people living happily ever after. Here I go on Dante again. But...the woman, (like Dante's Beatrice, when he finally caught up with her in heaven) is looking at God...or God's emissary. She gets to do that without frying or melting or something. Because she is pure - and maybe because, like Beatrice, the naked lady is (that's right) intuitive! And the dude is catching her rush. Like Dante, who could only gaze upon God through the reflection in Beatrice's upturned eyeballs. It's like he's having a three-way with God and his lady friend. Or like, she gets to grok with God, but he has to do it through a surrogate. Beatrice, or the Virgin. (Otherwise, his masculinity would be threatened otherwise, right?)
Well, maybe...

This card is about what we thought we wanted, and what comes in to wreck it for our own good. It's about The Garden, and being cast out of it. And longing for it, but not knowing where to find it. It's about becoming realized - brought closer to the divine within each one of us. Even if we have to get bitten or burnt or shamed in the process. It's about seeking communion - wanting that deep bonding, but with the tough work of love done for us already, leaving only Disneyland. And finding Disneyland wanting....

The Hierophant

2009-08-03T18:36:00.000-07:00

The Hierophant.

He's ready to excommunicate me for being away from the one, goofy, and apostolic blog for so long.
(Did ya miss me?)

Hier...archy. That's what he's about. Orthodoxy as opposed to mysticism. The hat is about hierarchy, look at the tiers one must run through to get to heaven - get a promotion - get shagged...whatever that thing that is worth prostrating oneself for. Yes, look down at the downward cast ones. On either side. One to kiss each foot.

OK, that's the frankly cynical take on Mr. My-Hat-to-God's-Ear... Let's face it, sometimes we can't tesseract to where we feel we SHOULD be RIGHT NOW! Sometimes we have to make ourselves humble, shuttup and listen already to someone who's been around the block. What did Virgil say to Dante, stumbling down the mountain after trying to get to Paradisio by going straight up - and he done got run down by 3 scarey growley sorts? "You have to go another way!" (or close to that.) And did Dante suck it up? Yes he did, and got paid off in the end by learning lots of stuff and seeing Lady Beatrice and god reflected in her eyes and all manner of trippiness.

Is Hierophant delusional? Mislead? Has he listened his entire life to his parents tell him they would not forgive him if he didn't grow up to be Pope? Is he in it for the gold?

He's got crosses on his feet. Not very grounded, going around channeling God's word all day. But he has the keys to the kingdom, see? down at the base of the alter. And look at his monks: one is wearing red roses - passion - and the other is wearing lilies - purity. This humorless fellow's red robes and white garments echo the theme that passion for the lord is the one just passion. Note that you don't see much of his skin - his flesh. (Wassup with that?) Just go back to La Commedia. Ulysses was trapped somewhere for his passion for going where he had no business - which was everywere! Paolo and Francesca are doomed, for their infidelity, to chase each other on the wind, and to never, ever kiss. Ha, ha, very funny!!

The danger here is thinking such severe lessons are always the way - or are the only way. This guy is but one prostration on the fool's journey.

The Emperor

2009-06-20T11:49:00.000-07:00

When I was rifling through my deck just now to find the Emperor, I couldn't. I went right past him, though he was the fourth card from the top. I think I didn't want to find him. He scares me a bit. This is Big Daddy from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. He is All Male. Which, let's face it, is kind of unrealistic, in these days of encouraging men to embrace their inner softie.

This is the fourth card of the Major Arcana. Think "square" for the 4 points, which conjures rigidity...confines...boundaries...rules. Think solid foundation. Think of Maynard Krebs and predecessors calling something stodgy "real square, man!"

In astrology the fourth house of the zodiac stands for...well, a lot of things: family and ancestry, history, self-esteem, one's homeland...and just plain land. It's considered one of the 'depth' houses. Also taking a cue from astrology: elements here are earth, fire, metal...but not much water. (Those mountain look like icebergs.)

So let's look at this king. He's the sort who may have headed a clan in Ireland in the early middle ages. In a recent trip to Galway, I got a feel for the kind of home he may have claimed: a cold and drafty stone 'tower-house', that had convenient "kill holes" above the front entrance (from where one could remain unseen while hailing an intruder with arrows.) It had a tiny prison space next to the main banquet hall, where starving prisoners would be subjected to the smells of suckling pig and whiskey cake, and the sounds of all manner of merry-making. He's wearing some finery, but the armor underneath says he's ready to rumble. And note that he's swathed in red - the color of life, fire...and blood.

The background is a hazy orange sky - post battle smog? The color is reflected in the adamantine mountain ranges that reveal no green growth, and mirror the fortress theme, replete with a river/moat encircling the peaks.

The throne is carved from stone, and the 4 ram's heads (that look much like skulls) are the only adornment. He's had to come into full maturity to earn this seat - note the white hair. The scepter and globe he holds in either hand are weighted evenly. He stares out at us dead-on, holding these symbols of his leige-ness as if daring someone to try and snatch them away.

It's difficult for him to unclench.

All this would signify staunchness, certainty (or at least a posturing of 'lack of ambiguity'.) Signify being owner of one's turf, master of all one surveys, etc. Sure, he'll tap his foot while the fiddler plays...something he recognizes. Just don't ask him to dance. He will not be moved, except Billy-Goat-Gruff-like, to leap up and use his horns to hurl contenders back down the mountain. Then he will plunk himself back down into his cold, hard seat. He may have some ale with his mutton leg, but he sleeps with one eye open.

The Empress - III

2009-06-11T16:32:00.000-07:00

The third card of the Major Arcana. Three, numerologically, means expression, the first departure from the stasis of two. It's a happy number. The three graces, dancing. "Third time's the charm."

She wears a filigree of stars. She is soo-o-o-o lined up with her crown chakra. And yet her feet are comfortably slipper ed, resting on the bare earth. She holds her scepter askew - if you play your cards right, she may bend the rules for you. If you mess with her, you may get clunked when you're not looking. If you take a careful look, you'll see her wand is shaped like, well, womens' parts. (You decide which.) The luxurious, "exotic" pillows she leans back into suggest what I, as a child (spurred on by Saturday matinees) thought life in the harem must have been like. Laying around, eating grapes, waiting for the big man to select YOU for your particular charms. (No, we know it wasn't like that...now). But...she has no competition. She rules. And yet, she rules from her intuition. She is in her body. And how! Am I hungry? Am I tired? Am I ... randy? Here is a woman who shops at Lane Bryant. Or maybe Chico's, or Eileen Fisher. I am sorry, but the clothes are going to conform to her and not the other way around! Her legs are hanging open like she just came from doing hip-looseners at yoga and cannot be bothered if her mother-in-law is uptight. She combines romance (the stars, the roses strewn across her dress) and pragmatism. Of course you can have both. And a baby too (doncha think she looks about 5 months along?) Have your head in the stars and your feet firmly planted. Be in the earth and of it. Then weave some dreams. She leans on the astrological symbol for the planet Venus. OK, we know Venus = Aphrodite in Roman/Greek deity transfer. The goddess of love, the mother of Cupid. The seducer of men, the Botticelli painting of the lady being born on a clam shell in full naked glory, attended by putti. Venus in a chart indicates: romance, flirtation, the arts, pleasure, CREATION, children, play. Yes, she is a goddess, she is totally powerful, because, like the Magician, she's got all the elements about her: air (the stars) earth (everything blooming around her) the waterfall in the background. And the wand is fire. (So are those fiery-colored pillows. So are those soft-looking roses!)

Perhaps most important: she does not toil or spin or lug water. Yet is she worried about money, or Stuff? Did you see the 24 carat necklace? She does as she pleaseth, and coins roll to Mama.

The High Priestess

2009-05-11T18:22:00.000-07:00

I told you we would giving the powerful women of the Rider Waite deck their due!

The High Priestess

Second card of the 22 Major Arcana. Roman numeral II. Like sign Gemini: the twins. The old saw: "these women, I never know what they're thinking!" Duality. Mystery. She has antennae. Her crown is a cradle for the world. Her nurturing is cerebral. She is in the center of the yin and yang, the light and dark: she is neither and both.

Her throne is in a secret chamber. It's Within. There is power there: Within.... The H.P. sits in a jungle of pomegranates. The experience of her is intended to be psychedelic - like getting lost in an Indian raga. However, her fecundity is not like the Empress...voluptuous and ready to roll around in the corn with the nearest lusty gardener. (You'll meet her next)

No. The H.P. is not a prude, nor 'frigid', 'uptight', frustrated...etc. You get the feeling she is having spontaneous orgasms in her various chakras all the time: explosions of the heart, as I once heard meditation described. She doesn't have red shoes to click together like Dorothy when that farm girl figured out everything she had was Within all the time! In fact, the H.P. doesn't even have feet, perhaps. Her feet are one with the element of water, as are her flowing robes. She is mutable...a divine shape-shifter, like the Holy Ghost I came to know in catechism. OK: no feet, but she still knows 'there is no place like home' (in your own soul). No feet - but if she had them, she'd be using them to master the watery moon.

The High Priestess is facing us front-on - she's not without ego: she knows who she is, unlike the humble Hermit, who is anxious to dissolve into the universe like the invisible man. The High Priestess is here to serve us, to show us the way. The Hermit isn't that invested in you climbing up his mountain to sit at his feet. The H. P., however, sees herself as a teacher of the true disciple. She's here to help. Yet she's all about silence. Not an entity of this world, she is the soul-coach you meet when you dream. Listen to the sea surge through her. You might learn something. How to write poetry, for example. Go ahead, ask for her help. No, she's not the breathtaking muse, like Juliet or Guinevere. But she Knows.

She Knows.

Rider Waite as Madonna 'Reinvention Tour' lightshow

2009-05-09T18:59:00.000-07:00

Props to the material girl!

(Although I'm not sure what the tarot has to do with being ill-used by Hollywood....)

My readings aren't this scary, promise!

2009-05-04T19:55:00.000-07:00

The Magician

2009-05-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

The first card of the Major Arcana, The Magician is the first kooky character that The Fool meets up with on his journey. Kinda like Dante hooking up with Virgil to help him navigate through heaven, hell, and purgatory (not in that order.) Although one is a newbie and one is masterful, these two have lots in common, just as those medieval Italians were both poets. Dante aspired to be sage and chill like Virgil, just as the fool - with his black staff, (albeit yet untried), and his connection with All That Is. However, The Fool is mesmerized by the great Wah, whereas The Magician has learned to channel the elements.

He's standing under a bower of red roses. He has 'bent' nature to his will. The roses woven into a trellis represent artifice.

Take a look at the line made with his arms. It's sideways. Like he's circumventing the vertical/horizontal cross of Christianity. Stepping around the misery of sacrificing by taking control. OK, meddling. Or, to be less spooky, his human orientation borrows from pre-Christian religion - mainly, cooperating with nature so as not be be crushed by nature. And yet...the wand in his right hand is vertical, and his left hand (intuitive, non-dominant) points to mother earth.

The symbol of eternity is what crowns him. He is aware of his connection to the eternal to the extent that this symbol is imprinted on his auric field. Notice that though he is facing us, his gaze is not bracing - it doesn't even engage us. He is meditating. Focusing. Conjuring.

The colors RED and WHITE are repeating themes here. Remember how The Fool held one perfect [white] rose*? Well, this guy isn't settling for simplicity. He is glorying in an abundance of florid roses. He is blending passion and purity. The dirty business of the first chakra (from dust thou...[showed up]....) empowers spirit to seep into every tender new shoot - stuff of the 8th chakra, which is floating above his head.... Neruda was getting at this when he juxtaposed 'lilies and urine' as necessary ingredients for poetry.

He holds a white magic wand - not the untapped potential of The Fool's black wand. The wand here is white because the mage has released all the colors into space, to do his bidding. He also has a little knife in his belt. He gives life and he taketh it away.

The elements of fire (wood), water (cup), earth (coin), and metal (sword) are laid out on his table, the way a carpenter has his tools lined up on the workbench. Because his will is pure, his passion is sanctified. And, Lo! many lilies appear at his feet, next to the red roses.

And I promise - there are women to be reckoned with in the Tarot, and we'll get to them soon!

*WE LOVE YOU, DOROTHY PARKER!

The Fool

2009-04-30T16:01:00.000-07:00

A friend (a sister, actually) invited me to help her brainstorm about 2 Rider Waite Deck characters: The Fool and The Magician. We'll start with this guy, and then go to the mage. Then we'll let them have a conversation.

Taking it from the top: he's a big ZERO - and happy to be nothing, nowhere, at the beginning, in beginner's mind.... This card comes BEFORE the other cards - before the Major Arcana heavy hitters, and the Minor Arcana royalty and the little dramas that take place in each suit card. He might be a neophyte, but he came along first - or since we're stepping outside of linear time - he is perpetually first.

The Oruborus is the ancient archetype of a snake eating his tail. (You know those 60's Cleopatra arm bracelets! No???) Anyhow, that's a big zero too - the alpha and the omega, the number that isn't a number. It's the Tao - a great emptiness from which all springs. Etcetera.

So The Fool stands against a sunny yellow background, under a white sun - the purity of the divine is shining down on him. (White is the color that isn't a color, just as zero.... NOW you've got it!) And the sun echoes the zero motif.

Our youth is wearing a hat with a red feather - he's full of that adolescent passion, and yet wearing it lightly. He's gazing upward because he's a cockeyed optimist. The black staff he hold is emblematic of potential yet to be tapped. Sure, it's a magic wand, but he's putting it to pragmatic use - it's holding his little knapsack. He doesn't require much. He's a backpacker, on gap year, traipsing through Tibet. Looking for a guru, maybe. Speaking of which, check out the white mountains behind him. What do they look like? Yes! Several teats! He should worry when mother's milk - manna from mountains - is there for the taking?

He carries a white rose. The guy's a romantic, and yet he's not jaded. He's got a drop of Lancelot, seeking his Guinevere. Well, or he envisions himself as Lancelot - it's written on the clouds he's staring at - even as what we see is a goofy kid about to go over the cliff! But, look, he's got wings - those honkin' big sleeves won't allow him to fall - or at least his plummet will be buffered. God's got his back, y'see. Like fairy-tale Jack who spent all the money on some beans instead of a reliable, milk-giving cow (he saw no reason to see evil in anyone including the charleton) he does ok for himself in the end. It's because he took a wild risk that he cleans up. No guts, no glory. God loves fools, babies, and drunks, and so do we!

His feet -what tethers him to this earth - are dressed in yellow, too - the color of daffodills and giddiness. It was a favorite color of the hippies. They call me mellow yellow he tells us. Quite rightly!* Even as I write this, I ask myself: why am I blogging about a fool, when I should be doing the dishes? Perhaps I understand him? Todo es possible, nada es seguro. (Thanks to my rambling brother from that Columbian aphorism).

And look at his companion. The little white dog has descended from wolves who used to roam the mountains. He's pretty nimble, got his animal instincts about him. He's in the Present Moment, unlike the human master who is gazing at an eagle or just daydreaming. So the universe has given him a totem dog animal to bark at him when he's about to do himself in. Now if he'd only cleaned out his ears recently....

*Thanks Donovan Leitch!