A Tale of Tarot.

A Tale of Tarot:

Today I read my Tarot cards online.

Reading them I thought of the first two times I’d tried this. By that I refer to my first readings.

The former I can recall more clearly, of course, of the two, yet both I would have preferred, and I would gladly have traded for either. This is not a testament to the ‘inefficiency’ of the cards; in fact, I do not even say the word ‘yet’, for it is no cause even for irony. It is not that *I* simply am unsatisfied by them; beginning with the Devil, and including Death and other omens, this third reading was ubiquitously dark. Nor is it either TOO dark to be valid, for it was in fact a sleepless desperation that had brought me to such dire straits. The very fact that I would trade this reading for either of those that past is evidence now of the cards’ validity. I have had too few readings to dismiss this one as just ‘generic’, yet I’ve had too many, just as well, to think its meaning interchangeable.

Ironically, the very LONGING to exchange this fate for prior fates is what precludes its interchangeability; were all fates interchangeable, they would be equal, and the longing would be absent. Placebos invariably make us feel good, but omens take a long time to get used to; often they are bitter medicine.

What stands out most: the Death card, which is set apart subtly by the Scorpio symbol [with]in its bottom corner.

This symbol seems inextricable from the cards’ theme, and both my Scorpio obsession and the consequent (or contingent) theme of re-

Birth are quite the reasons that I chose the Tarot for this night, though they by no means are inevitable to whomever chooses them. (This is again, of course, to Tarot’s credit, for it’s clear that the conditions for this visit were here represented by the cards themselves, though not each visit gets this representation, and one done in more frivolous spirit would have yielded probably a less heavy card.). Then looms the first card, that of Devil, and its mark is Capricorn, corroborating my suspicions that the Goat of the Zodiac and the Goat-shaped Archfiend are related. Even in my enter-

Prise, I worry for the sanctity now of my Soul. I can’t deny it; I am taking risks I had not often taken, and the Stress is such that I have importuned upon the I Ching, only to receive the same warning time and again: that I am a Wanderer, and I must show respect to forces alien. The third card to hold my attention in my memory now is that of an austere goddess. Under the main description for it is a note for males, pertaining to relationship of an erotic nature. The description as a whole corroborates my hopes in the Occult, but it all so depicts my fears with its stark ambiguity, a vagueness not to its discredit so much as to my bemusement.

Of the present it is breath-taking in its precision; of the future, it remains a mystery.

I followed up my reading with an other visit to the I Ching. I think now on how this Oracle, the cards, all so discourages obstinate use. A scientist would scoff, yet to his discredit, for such a mockery would only serve to remind us how callous science really is, sapping resources so relentlessly that little can be found and then dismissing the whole project for its ‘inconsistency’. No oracle should have to tolerate constant, repetitive examination, for it has to deal then only with impatience and with artlessness.

As it turns out, enough had changed since my last I Ching reading that a fresh set of six lines, unmoving as the last, greeted me and gave me some joy.

The hexagram was 48: the Well. The story I know well: a prince comes home to marry, is rebuked by his own wife-to-be, but when she learns who he is all becomes resolved.

The omen is bright, but its meaning deeper. It invites us to examine the Well of our psyches. So I set pen to paper to record what little I could still remember from the dreams of the last two nights. In truth, ‘still’ is a misnomer, for even upon waking I

Knew that I would remember little; there was not much to be lost, so no surprise to find what had not been lost to be ‘still’ available. Still, it had helped to set these sparse accounts to paper. Even now a darkness and a glory colour my writings as I’ve not seen for several years. And now I understand why all my bullies criticise it; they had quaked before it.

And it was a power greater than my own.

Pity that they should blame me for it, as though to my credit in Resentiment.

And I suppose the Tarot cards were all ready the first step down the Well.

Dm.A.A.

[After I wrote this I took my dog for a walk. It was near Witching Hour. I beheld a sky of stars, naked as man’s first light of consciousness, the gems embedded twinkling in primordial blue that science had not yet made gray of tint. And as we strolled down the street, my dog’s nose to the ground, his leg rising at each stop, my eyes continued to gaze upwards, and I then glimpsed a shooting star fall like a needle flashing in the patchwork quilt between two of the glowing pebbles. It was falling. And its light was a pale yellow.]

Dm.A.A.