PLEASE MOMMA, PLEASE,
WON'T YOU BLESS MY COTTON SOCKS:
I'VE WALKIN DOWN THE WRONG SIDE OF THEM RAILROAD TRACKS.
PLEASE MOMMA, PLEASE
I GOT HOLES IN MY BOOTS,
DON'T CARE THAT YOU LEFT,
JUST TELL ME WHEN YOU'RE COMIN' HOME.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Eight of Cups #5 - An argument about mother.
“You really need to get this place cleaned up.”
Her eyes darted around the room, the musty smell of the windows masking the odour of piles of uncleaned cutlery. Anna had been drawn back to this dingy cottage again, and even though she’d been there for less than twenty four hours, she could already feel her skin crawling at her confinement. She knew that Nickόlaus couldn’t go a week without his candles, and the stormy seasons only made it worse. But she’d stocked up well this time; she’d brought all that she could carry in without falling off her bicycle. There were at least enough to outlast the winter, unless he was trying something ridiculous like lighting a bonfire with them.
---
Anna entered the cottage and where the nostalgia was supposed to overwhelm her vision, she felt nothing. These rooms that she once lived in now felt cold. She was still unconvinced that this was the place Nickόlaus had described. For this empty cavern, filled with half burnt papers and mismatched furniture, she had sold her comfortable house and moved into a nearby villa four kilometres west. Her days were to be generally solitary, but the nights were to be caged in Nickόlaus’ past. Her brother needed her, doctor’s orders. He wasn’t moving and she was called to provide.
---
The wide eyes Anna had seen under the table that night were now reddened and beady, with cause that was more than a lack of sleep. She couldn’t place it. They scanned her packages, wrapped in brown paper (as per usual), and gave her a disapproving once-over before his tight lips parted to release some bottled inner cynicism.
“The mess has been waiting for you. I look after the maintenance, and you do the cleaning. Remember that, Annie?”
The endearing term sounded more of a threat than anything else. It’d been so long since that promise had been made, the farm found and the seeds planted… they’d now rotted. The maintenance he was looking after had been neglected. For her, this house had never been home. As the wooden foundations weathered, so did her patience. She began to stack plates next to the sink, collecting some from the hardwood table. It was then her eyes were caught by the box, detailed with a crudely gruesome drawing of an upside down man. He seemed to be suffering.
“Where’d you get this?”
“It’s none of your business, stay out of it.”
“Something about it makes me feel uneasy.”
“Well, don’t look at it then.”
“You don’t find the image repulsive?”
“Don’t call mother’s things repulsive.”
She swallowed hard.
“Where have you been hiding this?”
His silence was only disguised by the rain that fell softly along the front porch.
Her eyes darted around the room, the musty smell of the windows masking the odour of piles of uncleaned cutlery. Anna had been drawn back to this dingy cottage again, and even though she’d been there for less than twenty four hours, she could already feel her skin crawling at her confinement. She knew that Nickόlaus couldn’t go a week without his candles, and the stormy seasons only made it worse. But she’d stocked up well this time; she’d brought all that she could carry in without falling off her bicycle. There were at least enough to outlast the winter, unless he was trying something ridiculous like lighting a bonfire with them.
---
Anna entered the cottage and where the nostalgia was supposed to overwhelm her vision, she felt nothing. These rooms that she once lived in now felt cold. She was still unconvinced that this was the place Nickόlaus had described. For this empty cavern, filled with half burnt papers and mismatched furniture, she had sold her comfortable house and moved into a nearby villa four kilometres west. Her days were to be generally solitary, but the nights were to be caged in Nickόlaus’ past. Her brother needed her, doctor’s orders. He wasn’t moving and she was called to provide.
---
The wide eyes Anna had seen under the table that night were now reddened and beady, with cause that was more than a lack of sleep. She couldn’t place it. They scanned her packages, wrapped in brown paper (as per usual), and gave her a disapproving once-over before his tight lips parted to release some bottled inner cynicism.
“The mess has been waiting for you. I look after the maintenance, and you do the cleaning. Remember that, Annie?”
The endearing term sounded more of a threat than anything else. It’d been so long since that promise had been made, the farm found and the seeds planted… they’d now rotted. The maintenance he was looking after had been neglected. For her, this house had never been home. As the wooden foundations weathered, so did her patience. She began to stack plates next to the sink, collecting some from the hardwood table. It was then her eyes were caught by the box, detailed with a crudely gruesome drawing of an upside down man. He seemed to be suffering.
“Where’d you get this?”
“It’s none of your business, stay out of it.”
“Something about it makes me feel uneasy.”
“Well, don’t look at it then.”
“You don’t find the image repulsive?”
“Don’t call mother’s things repulsive.”
She swallowed hard.
“Where have you been hiding this?”
His silence was only disguised by the rain that fell softly along the front porch.
Eight of Cups #4 - the first draw
The Ten of Pentacles (Card Number: 74)
The Queen of Swords (Card Number: 63)
The Eight of Cups (Card number: 30)
The Ten of Pentacles indicates the meeting of loved ones, a woman seen in the Queen of Swords. The Eight of Cups tells of buried memory, a card showing the querent ‘running away from the past’.
Eight of Cups #3 - the storm
---
He wiped the dust from the cards.
Darkness grew in the corners of the room.
The thunder protested loudly, and the windows rattled at the sound.
He dealt.
It was as if the room had been swallowed, almost whole. Darkness had clawed its way through the walls. Nickόlaus’ haven had rain pelting down at it from all sides, the wind roaring at him as if it were a personal attack. Nickόlaus’ ears were ringing, his eyes watered with the torment of it. His fear of the dark was one of the few things he had retained from his childhood.
He could not see.
Everything was just too loud.
He could not see.
He’d run out of candles the night before last.
He still could not see.
The door clung desperately to its hinges.
And as the wind grew in ferocity, and as the house shook as if frightened, and as the floorboards creaked and shifted and writhed in agony under the storm that assaulted them, Nickόlaus turned to the comfort of his hiding place, under the table that his father built. He trembled violently, the length of his limbs contorted to make himself as small as possible. The iridescent glow of the moon became sallow through the grime, disappearing completely behind a blanket of dark cloud. A murmur slipped from his lips. Although there was no one there, he was desperate to keep his fear inside. As if the utterance aloud would create a gateway for the real monsters to emerge. His leather shoes poked out from under the table. His neck twisted to fit under the barrier that served him so well for fifteen years.
The door opened, and light footsteps brought in the rain. Nickόlaus caught his breath and closed his eyes tight. Slipped under the table, and into his groping fingertips was a gift, a blessing.
A candle from His Anna.
He wiped the dust from the cards.
Darkness grew in the corners of the room.
The thunder protested loudly, and the windows rattled at the sound.
He dealt.
It was as if the room had been swallowed, almost whole. Darkness had clawed its way through the walls. Nickόlaus’ haven had rain pelting down at it from all sides, the wind roaring at him as if it were a personal attack. Nickόlaus’ ears were ringing, his eyes watered with the torment of it. His fear of the dark was one of the few things he had retained from his childhood.
He could not see.
Everything was just too loud.
He could not see.
He’d run out of candles the night before last.
He still could not see.
The door clung desperately to its hinges.
And as the wind grew in ferocity, and as the house shook as if frightened, and as the floorboards creaked and shifted and writhed in agony under the storm that assaulted them, Nickόlaus turned to the comfort of his hiding place, under the table that his father built. He trembled violently, the length of his limbs contorted to make himself as small as possible. The iridescent glow of the moon became sallow through the grime, disappearing completely behind a blanket of dark cloud. A murmur slipped from his lips. Although there was no one there, he was desperate to keep his fear inside. As if the utterance aloud would create a gateway for the real monsters to emerge. His leather shoes poked out from under the table. His neck twisted to fit under the barrier that served him so well for fifteen years.
The door opened, and light footsteps brought in the rain. Nickόlaus caught his breath and closed his eyes tight. Slipped under the table, and into his groping fingertips was a gift, a blessing.
A candle from His Anna.
The Eight of Cups #2
That was but a prelude, where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people also - Heinrich Heine, 1823
Significator: The King of Wands; Reversed.
(Card Number: 64)
‘As a significator, it indicates a man from the age of thirty onwards. Its reversal depicts their inability to understand or appreciate another’s viewpoint. They are narrow minded, intolerant and have a ruthless streak; caring little for the feelings of others. He is an opportunity for broken promises and argument.’
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The tax collectors stopped coming the year previous. The weight that hung in the air of the open fields reeked of misfortune, the staleness spreading to the remains of barley wheat that had grown and been left to rot after its missed harvest. A grey patching of cloud was smeared over an extensive sky, the plateau in which the house sat provided no backdrop of trees or mountains to relieve the emptiness of such a vast landscape. The air was dry and caught in your throat if you tried to inhale too deeply and all that accompanied the browns and greys was the slow repetitious squeaking of the nearby windmill, corroded to the point of no oil’s fixing.
Nestled in the middle, enclosed by broken barbed wire fencing, was a shack that looked, from the outside, virtually uninhabited. The maroon paint peeled from the timber, flaking as fast as it could to remove itself from the eerie presence that resonated from the walls. The scattered knots in the wood enhanced its unnatural state. The ones that had been smoothed over created dark, oval rings like eyes, tightened with suspicion. The only window that hadn’t been bordered over by scrap planks and mismatched nails was coated in a grime that would have taken years to develop; a whitish glaze over the glass making it difficult to see the interior. The only thing that seemed to be holding itself together on this house’s exterior was the firmly fixed grey door, currently ajar and revealing the legs of an obscured adult man.
He didn’t look so well.
Slumped against the doorframe, Nickόlaus could feel the indecision that had written itself onto his bones. The creaking of the wind against the veranda’s rotted pillars urged him to unearth the prize from beneath his feet, the moveable floorboard propped temptingly ajar. He could picture the ease with which he’d slip it open, freeing it gently but surely, and run his fingertips over the carvings of the box hidden beneath it. The glow of the jarrah wood illuminated the detail of the box. In the middle was engraved a picture of a man, with a foot bound that suspended him upside down from what looked like the branches of a tree. The image was delicate, and precise. As a boy, he had hidden it beneath the floorboards near his nightstand, and there it lay still, ever dormant and alluring, a secret from his father who called it the ‘devil’s work’. He swore to Anna that he could feel it under his feet; that he could hear it ‘whispering’ things to him as he tried to sleep.
A distant rumble could be heard from the sky as he scanned the ever dimming horizons through the grime-ridden window, Nickόlaus straightened himself out. His countenance reeked of a narrow faced precision, this reinforced suddenly by a tightening of lips, a split second decision bringing his insides to the boil. He was going to unearth the box that he had stolen from his father, the treasure an unopened gift from his mother. Each step toward the loose floorboard saw his heart inch further up his throat, nerves surpassing the anticipation, the latch of hands to wood seeing his heart nearly give way under the pressure, Nickόlaus flinching violently at the sound of a nearing wave of thunder.
Simply, there it sat. Lifting it from its resting place, he brought it to the hardwood table and laid it down gently.
---
Her long fingers unlatched the copper hook. She drew the cards, explaining to Nickόlaus slowly, so he wouldn’t forget. “The significator card represents the person you’re dealing for, whether it’s yourself or a friend, although I wouldn’t recommend showing this to all your friends at school, okay?”
He nods. She deals. “The easiest of spreads, in my opinion, is the ‘three, three, three, one’ spread. Pretty self explanatory, I know,” his mother raising an eye comically.
“The last card is the final outcome,” she said.
For a second she looked scared.
Nickόlaus didn’t know why.
Significator: The King of Wands; Reversed.
(Card Number: 64)
‘As a significator, it indicates a man from the age of thirty onwards. Its reversal depicts their inability to understand or appreciate another’s viewpoint. They are narrow minded, intolerant and have a ruthless streak; caring little for the feelings of others. He is an opportunity for broken promises and argument.’
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The tax collectors stopped coming the year previous. The weight that hung in the air of the open fields reeked of misfortune, the staleness spreading to the remains of barley wheat that had grown and been left to rot after its missed harvest. A grey patching of cloud was smeared over an extensive sky, the plateau in which the house sat provided no backdrop of trees or mountains to relieve the emptiness of such a vast landscape. The air was dry and caught in your throat if you tried to inhale too deeply and all that accompanied the browns and greys was the slow repetitious squeaking of the nearby windmill, corroded to the point of no oil’s fixing.
Nestled in the middle, enclosed by broken barbed wire fencing, was a shack that looked, from the outside, virtually uninhabited. The maroon paint peeled from the timber, flaking as fast as it could to remove itself from the eerie presence that resonated from the walls. The scattered knots in the wood enhanced its unnatural state. The ones that had been smoothed over created dark, oval rings like eyes, tightened with suspicion. The only window that hadn’t been bordered over by scrap planks and mismatched nails was coated in a grime that would have taken years to develop; a whitish glaze over the glass making it difficult to see the interior. The only thing that seemed to be holding itself together on this house’s exterior was the firmly fixed grey door, currently ajar and revealing the legs of an obscured adult man.
He didn’t look so well.
Slumped against the doorframe, Nickόlaus could feel the indecision that had written itself onto his bones. The creaking of the wind against the veranda’s rotted pillars urged him to unearth the prize from beneath his feet, the moveable floorboard propped temptingly ajar. He could picture the ease with which he’d slip it open, freeing it gently but surely, and run his fingertips over the carvings of the box hidden beneath it. The glow of the jarrah wood illuminated the detail of the box. In the middle was engraved a picture of a man, with a foot bound that suspended him upside down from what looked like the branches of a tree. The image was delicate, and precise. As a boy, he had hidden it beneath the floorboards near his nightstand, and there it lay still, ever dormant and alluring, a secret from his father who called it the ‘devil’s work’. He swore to Anna that he could feel it under his feet; that he could hear it ‘whispering’ things to him as he tried to sleep.
A distant rumble could be heard from the sky as he scanned the ever dimming horizons through the grime-ridden window, Nickόlaus straightened himself out. His countenance reeked of a narrow faced precision, this reinforced suddenly by a tightening of lips, a split second decision bringing his insides to the boil. He was going to unearth the box that he had stolen from his father, the treasure an unopened gift from his mother. Each step toward the loose floorboard saw his heart inch further up his throat, nerves surpassing the anticipation, the latch of hands to wood seeing his heart nearly give way under the pressure, Nickόlaus flinching violently at the sound of a nearing wave of thunder.
Simply, there it sat. Lifting it from its resting place, he brought it to the hardwood table and laid it down gently.
---
Her long fingers unlatched the copper hook. She drew the cards, explaining to Nickόlaus slowly, so he wouldn’t forget. “The significator card represents the person you’re dealing for, whether it’s yourself or a friend, although I wouldn’t recommend showing this to all your friends at school, okay?”
He nods. She deals. “The easiest of spreads, in my opinion, is the ‘three, three, three, one’ spread. Pretty self explanatory, I know,” his mother raising an eye comically.
“The last card is the final outcome,” she said.
For a second she looked scared.
Nickόlaus didn’t know why.
The Eight of Cups #1
A gypsy girl stole the heart of a farmer.
Eva and Berne.
The wedding was quick and quiet, in a paddock with the horses.
Seeds were planted. Spring brought children.
He was happy.
She grew sad.
She longed to roam past the gates.
Eva taught her boy of the land, the cards and the stars that she missed.
He had her brown eyes and his father’s jaw.
Berne held his daughter close, and told her of the Lord’s kindness.
When the sadness had filled her, she took to the field
A gun and an untamed heart.
It was deafening. It was silent.
Berne was hollow. And then angry.
He gathered her things: clothing, photos, books
And burnt them.
Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
Eva and Berne.
The wedding was quick and quiet, in a paddock with the horses.
Seeds were planted. Spring brought children.
He was happy.
She grew sad.
She longed to roam past the gates.
Eva taught her boy of the land, the cards and the stars that she missed.
He had her brown eyes and his father’s jaw.
Berne held his daughter close, and told her of the Lord’s kindness.
When the sadness had filled her, she took to the field
A gun and an untamed heart.
It was deafening. It was silent.
Berne was hollow. And then angry.
He gathered her things: clothing, photos, books
And burnt them.
Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
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