Alsied

Last night, when I picked up my tarot pack from its place upon my shelf, a card fell, face down upon my velvet-covered tablecloth. This has been happening more and more frequently as of late. I do so hope there cannot be anything the matter with me.

When I finally overturned it, I found it to be the same card, the same configuration that has been presenting itself to me over the last few days: always I turn up the holy image of Les Amoureux; The Lovers. It has been a strange few days, for I have never cast myself a fate involving love. Perhaps it is meant to signify another’s fate. Perhaps it is an image of the past. Either way, I have accepted that my life as a cartomancer is a lonely one, and therefore, it cannot be my own destiny.

In the waking somnambulism that follows a tarot reading, I have succumbed to a series of imaginary reveries; each one involving a partnership between two beautiful children. One is raven haired and the other’s head is covered with the flaxen remains of a honeyed sunset, as pale and fair as one of the Alseid, from Homer’s verses. How beautiful they both are, and yet, I am filled with despair when I see their painted image atop the card. I will go to my window alone and look out at the mountains through the counterpane, for I am very sad.

Love is a strange entity, forever changing. Some of us merely prepare a lover for their next relationship. Some of us travel as far as we wish to go before leaving in a plaintive display of profound irritation. Some of us cannot seem to find a way out of the subaqueous depths that a lover has left us in. All the tarot card tells me is that: when love is what propels you, for your partner as well as yourself, then you find the right answer. How strange of me, but on this night, I do not think that I am capable of believing it!

 

 

 

 

The Crow

For the past few nights I have been plagued with such bad dreams. Each morning, I wake up crying, and not even the beautiful fusillades of light that spill in from the window can sedate me. I am unable to remember what happens in these dreams; but certain images do present themselves to me. I can recollect a pair of lips – painted scarlet and containing all the truculent crenellations of a crushed raspberry. A black horse, blowing out great plumes of breath from its nostrils as it lays dying. A hand, reddened with blood.

I fear that these images are the souvenirs of the future, for my curse is that I must see those abhorred images of moments that have not yet come to pass. But O! How sad, how bereft of life things seem in my imagined dream-state! Why must I be beset with these images if there is nothing I can do to prevent them? Must I resign myself to merely knowing the future, but being forever unable to divert such a desolate future from becoming reality? I am unsure what to do. I have consulted the tarot, but each spread that I lay seems confused and empty. It is like looking into the face of a cracked mirror. I can see what is there, but everything is distorted by the broken glass, which cuts through every inch of flesh with such a jagged ferocity…

I have been invited to a party by the Lady Marie, but I fear that it is my presence which will call these visions into being. I have been a cartomancer for as long as I can remember, but I am unsure what is my best course of action to take, now.

Outside the moon sets, the rain comes down and it is like any other winter’s night, but look! Above, in the swirling black sky, see! A crow, that black-plumed harbinger of death roosts on the roof-tree!

 

La Papesse

The reading of tarot cards is my most accurate form of divining the future and, atop my velvet-covered tablecloth, I count out the cards of destiny, endlessly constructing a constellation of possibilities in order to improve my night-scented vision. I have been a cartomancer ever since I became a young woman, and now, each one of the cards are so worn and deformed from years of constant shuffling that it is difficult to make out the image on any one of them. This seems somehow more ominous, for each of the cards are marked with the depredations of age and so, each future that I divine always seems to be marred by the devastated face of the card itself. No matter what image appears, it is always the same: always I see sorrow, death, dissolution.

Recently, I have only been able to cast myself one fate. Always, the first card I turn is La Papesse: the curvilinear shape of sagacity herself. Is my future so irreversible?

My friend, the scribble spectre has asked me to divine the future for him, yet I am not sure that I am able; for the future is such a difficult study to be thoroughly acquainted with and his future is far too important for me to misinterpret. Still, to his wise speech I could give no answer and so, I reluctantly agreed to lay out the inevitable cards of the tarot. I am unsure as to when I will see him, but each time the wind howls and the rain lashes against my window lattice, every nerve in my body is thrilled, for I know that he is coming.

The strength of the entire gendarmerie came to my door a few nights ago, asking about his whereabouts of which I said nothing. I have sworn my allegience to the spectre and no silver-plated formality can break an oath that I have placed within the perennial recesses of my heart.  All I can say is that his destiny is like a permeable sunstance, and I feel the power of it now, beneath my own skin. I pray that he is safe.

The Multiversal Spring

When divining the future, there are certain things that must be considered. First, the images that present themselves are autonomous and of the Multiverse and because of this fact, they are illimitable. They are not merely the small sum of finite human experience and to think in this way is to be foolishly unarmed. Secondly, objectivity is paramount when interpreting the future and this can only be attained by remaining open to other perceptions.

Although all of the writing you will find on this page was written by my hand, I am not the sole creator. Instead, I am merely a perceptive scribe, translating the independent frequencies that present themselves to me. If this is honoured, each of us can transcribe literary experience from the Multiverse, but only if we can remain open to this divine source. Instead of needing to be the only creator, we can channel this Universal wellspring and wait for it to reveal its secrets.

I will endeavour to present perceptions I have made that I feel are worth your time.