tarot

You, The Marionette

you, the unstrung cello, with your factory hands and your crazy pale hair, what do you think you're doing? knives for the kitchen and kisses for the bedroom. you're supposed to be a healer. what else did you think would be any use? no physician heals the self

you, the bad actor, you live in a sea of mirrors, you're running through streets paved with faces cut from friends and family, you're always lost in someone else's labyrinth. you told yourself you were a chain on an angel but did you really think about it? your storm-smashed glass, your excuses to be angry. you, the maker of the sea. smiling shining everlasting if only it could always be that way



like furrows for planting seeds, red lines on your forearm. you, the unimportance of damage. so what does it mean when you stand in the empty white kitchen imagining yourself torn to pieces by knives. something is calling you - let me go. you said it was the closest thing to your dreams of flying, weaving through the rushhour animals with a mind like a razor, a razor through meat. let me go past the ring of hills into the psychic woodlands where dead pine needles crunched under the soles of my shoes in the silence of sleeping shadows. let me go out of the gravity well to swim in your space hotel.

you, the imaginary one. you met your twin and he told you the truth. he loved you and gave you the truth. where were you when the sky froze and the neverending mirrors toppled into the darkness of the sea, when the girl with no face danced the other universe open, when the star maker was visible in the eyes of every living thing, where were you when the fox screamed in the early morning through the fine mist of the woods, where was your heart when everyone else was given theirs. you, the island of the sun. you'd like to be marked. you'd like to be special. you'd like to be noticed. you'd like to tear yourself apart. you'd like to disappear. you, the one who was supposed to be loved and never hated, the gazer upon the face of the dark waters. Nero was an angler in the lake of darkness. we love for so many different reasons. we are shaken through space and time until we are free.



you, the mercenary. a visionary in the pounding aftermaths of your dreams, you're awake when you're invisible, forget what you think you know. your blood solves nothing, your thoughts are telegrams sent too late: when the door to the world of light closes stop you've seen all this before stop you've pushed the demons back a million times stop what new thing could you have to say now stop I broke myself, I lost myself, I wanted to eat the tendrils of the sun, they were made of gold sugar stop she told me I wouldn't ever die if I would only love

black windows falling. cold metal on your arm that you wish would bite deeper than you meant. oops - an accident. It's nothing. something bloody to show for all the wars you're going through. scars from someone else's battle. you, the healer. two homes high above the clouds, one a darkened pool of water that you fish in for tools, weapons, secrets. one a bright, quiet house, hidden between two leafs of a book with infinite pages. the clawed hand from the sky, the thousand-fired city catacombed through a mountainside. you, the hero, letting your friends pay the restaurant bill while you stare at the new continent in the sky. so strange you never noticed it before. I've been asleep all my life. crestfallen, ashamed, guilty. you stare at their faces full of love, at your own hands, twenty years older than you, the hands of someone shocked into silence and oblivion by a dead baby, a dark-eyed girl. never meant to hurt. you. anyone. dust and blood in spirals at the bottom of the broken staircase. the dread ringing in your ears fading with the grateful, lying thought, this is a dream as you give up the struggle and slip under the waves with your dark sister. sometimes it's true. if it's false, you lose everything, and start again with empty hands and a little more confusion. isn't it better for everything to be real than unreal?

your little comforts. the blue sky at the top of the mesa, the gravestones they turned into pavings for a park, dead acorns painted gold and hung on a string for Christmas. you, turning death into life. The mirror tells you that you’re dying with every second. life into death and death into life, the skeleton dancing in the valley of skulls and snowdrops. baby heads pushing out of the frozen soil of the suburban parks, the arcs of the suspension bridge lurking in the fog, bubbles and frogspawn collecting in the corners of the shattered cesspool. you, the witness, desperate for understanding. you, the mariner. you, the firm grip, the knife, the cut, and the end of the cut. you, the one who isn't harmed. you, the liar, the lie, and the truth the lie tried to hide. you, the menu and the meal, the map and the territory, the hand and the glove. you, the spiral flower.

offerings in the morning darkness to the empty chair, crying for a mother who never existed. you held her out of the bathwater until her death turned to life again. later by the wild shore raindrops closed your eyes, shouts from the hillside from friends hidden in the ferns and grass, hunting lemons and papaya for when the beach is set on fire. we'll set it on fire. we'll offer it up if you want. anything but what you're asking. you, the one who knows what the fire rituals mean, you, who kissed the sand at the centre of the universe, you, the only other person who saw the rainbow's end in the trees near the jetty, while the storm rains churned the sea and you floated with no dreams left.



the dreams came back. I am their playground, writhing between pillars of lightning. I, astronaut, caught in the birth of something that howls with flame and darkness. silent absolute zero burning through your bones. you, the one in the sun's heart. this is my mind. this is my gift and what it costs. to build bridges across a shifting sea, to link the cold cores of stars. this is the other world you wished for. I don't know how I didn't die.

The Unnameable Generation

I don’t know if I belong to Generation X or Generation Why, I don’t know retro-chic from ironic meta-retro, and I change too often to be branded and settled into a nice groove, another chilled statistic for the detached demographers who are so concerned with what life symbolizes that they don’t ask what it IS.

If you’re looking for the old symbols, the old man with the hidden lamp, the ever-cycling sun, the girl pouring spirals on herself from a water-jug, the dying prince, the lovers and the egg of the universe, you’re fading into a past that exists only in memory: we’ve changed the symbols, mutated them, thrown them into the kaleidoscope and snowed the fragments of the new on to an unsuspecting culture.
 
There is no wise old man with his lamp of wisdom; there are our own unanswerable questions, the spark of flame as we light the end of a spliff, the nonsense we speak to each other at 3 a.m. when we no longer know what is happening. Our sun does not cycle and return; it is one of billions of equal suns that we have seen streaking past impossibly from where we stand on the decks of starships. The girl pouring water on her hair is trying to sell you shampoo. The dying prince is an actor; we know he does not die. We know he lives in Beverley Hills with his wife and pays people to protect him from harm. As lovers we are not doomed to the eternal return of the marriage bed and shared grave; we are learning new ways to love each other that do not send echoes of debt and Karma backwards and forwards in time. The universe is not an egg; we do not know what the universe is. We have measured it in every way imaginable, and we have no idea what it is, except that it is definitely not an egg; physicists are quite adamant on this point.

We are here to wake up to who we are, AS who we are. We choose to learn our lessons as warriors, lovers, artists, rebels, monks, jokers, healers, priests, players, actors, runners, singers; we bring our knowledge of ourselves and of truth and love into all the worlds after this one; we have nothing to fear in any world, for all we can learn is to be who we are.

No one can tell us how to choose to be ourselves. No symbol or message or idea can be followed by us to its proposed source, because we are no symbol, we are no message, we are no idea. We are not corrupted by irony because we are not something that can be defined or represented or referred to. We are not old or new; we don’t know the answers to our most important questions; we don’t know where we came from or where we are going. We belong to the realm of the unknown, a mystery in our existence and our actions, always utterly free in every moment: in THIS moment, which we never leave.

As individuals our minds, our pathways through the funfair of this world, are made of combinations of character, story and symbol so complex and unique that no path of one person to their understanding of any thing will bring any other person to the same understanding . In us there are billions of different worlds that somehow interact and play through time. All we have to guide us is the remembrance of who we are. We are not ‘right’ or ‘wrong’, we committed no sin and we are confined to no punishment. We have the right to demand to live in a world in which we can be awake, in which we are not told that to love as we want to love is forbidden. We are not mistaken; we are NOT asleep. We choose our world, and no one has a good reason to tell us we are wrong.