The Devil

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!