For those of you who need a little extra help, a little extra information, a hand up, a bit of assistance, a little extra time, and glossary to read this, (in other words, for those of you too stupid to keep up,) please enjoy the following post — now with subtitles!
We will be discussing the tarot,
[PRONOUNCED teh – ROH]
a special deck of cards used for: divination,
[FORTUNE-TELLING],
thoughtful contemplation,
[THINKING ABOUT THINGS],
or, on occasion, fraud
[INTENTIONAL DECEPTION.]
We will be discussing one card in particular, and that tarot-card-on-the-table
[CLEVER WORD PLAY]
is the 7 of Swords, as it was created for the Rider (William, the publisher) – Waite (Arthur, the occultist) Tarot Deck by artist Pamela Coleman Smith in 1909 —
[I AM REFERENCING THE 7 OF SWORDS FROM THE RIDER-WAITE TAROT DECK.]
as presented here:
]
[THIS IS A PICTURE OF IT.]
Oh, don’t we all wish I would just say things more simply? –Sorry, it’s not in the cards.
Hahahahahaha
Like myself, the 7 of Swords is quite a card. On the face of it, a young knave steals the weaponry of 7 sleeping swordsman, who bask unseen in lavish tents. Whether they’re distracted by rest or hedonistic pleasures, we will never know. What’s important is that they’re unaware of what’s happening right under — what I presume to be — their prodigious noses.
The subject of this card, our hero, the thief, is a jaunty, smiling, curly-headed imp. He tiptoes off with more than half a dozen hot and heavy broadswords like they were made of paper (– which in truth they are. They’re not real swords, but an artistic rendering of swords, printed here on card stock in the vein of “Ceci n’est pas une Pipe.”)
[THE PREVIOUS REFERS TO THE TREACHERY OF IMAGES, A 1929 PAINTING BY RENE MAGRITTE, OF A PIPE WITH THE WORDS “THIS IS NOT A PIPE” WRITTEN BELOW IT IN FRENCH. BECAUSE IT IS NOT A PIPE. IT IS A PAINTING OF A PIPE. SEE?]
[THIS IS A PICTURE OF IT.]
[NOW BACK TO OUR TAROT DISCUSSION:]
The thief on the 7 of Swords is deft and dancerly. His leg extends with graceful poise. He’s not stealing out of need. Judging by his fur-trimmed boots and hat, both of which are red, (Pamela Coleman Smith’s color-cue for wealth,) he doesn’t need the money. No, he’s stealing for joy — pure joy — and the pleasure of two-stepping out of the shadows with a shit-ton of other people’s things.
According to whatever blah blah blah rules of society, our hero is a thief and as such, a very bad man. — Of course I’ve never thought of him that way, but for divinational purposes, this card represents deceit, along with fraud, betrayal, disloyalty, and theft, making it a boon for confidence workers.
[CONFIDENCE WORKERS ARE CON-MEN, CON-WOMEN, AND CON-OTHER-GENDERED-HUMANS (see chapter 6)*]
[A SUBTITLE FOR A SUBTITLE (REDUNDANT, BUT NECESSARY): *THE PRECEDING SUBTITLE USES MULTI-GENDERED WORD PLAY IN REFERENCE TO POST 6, “SIX FOR SEX.” PLEASE RE-READ FOR REFERENCE.]
The confidence workers to whom I refer, employ themselves as “psychics,” who make good u$e of this card. Along with the uber-obvious Death card, the 7 of Swords is one of the sharpest tools in your neighborhood “psychic/medium’s” belt.
[“PSYCHIC/MEDIUM” IS IN QUOTES TO DIFFERENTIATE THE MARAUDERS AND DEFRAUDERS FROM THOSE PERSONS WITH LEGITIMATE GIFTS, OF WHOM I’VE ONLY MET ONE.]
Now, imagine yourself entering a fortune-teller’s lair. I’m not judging, everyone has their weakness, and sometimes getting taken by a mystic’s penetrating eyes is exactly what one needs to hone their pain into a healthy sense of rage. (I’m sure you’re not surprised to learn I number several psychic-mystic con-thems
[CLEVER NON-BINARY PRONOUN WORD PLAY FOR “CON-MAN”]
amongst my dearest ken, and have even worked in the occultic arts myself. So if you like, you may cast me as the psychic in the following scenario:
Through hanging beads, you enter her abode. Light-illuminated dust creates a mystic blizzard in the air, all designed to up-end your beliefs and tip your sense of what-is-real off balance. It’s dark in there to hide the dirty carpets, and musky from the penny incense burning underground. Like so many psychic dens, this one is also in the basement and surreptitiously wreaks of water damage under all the perfume.
The psychic, with her raven eyes, leads you to a concave chair and offers you some tea. As you try to regain your height, squirming yourself upright to escape the squashy poof, she takes your full measure. She sizes up your clothes, your wealth, your station, caste, and clique. Tallies up your bag, your shoes, your posture, age, and muscle tone; your dental work, your jewelry, and the color of your skin. But most of all she intuits your desire to believe. How educated are you? How thick to lay it on? She uses every clue you give her and formulates a plan. After handing you a cup of tea (that tastes like weeds and melted snow), she sits high across the table, and sets in staring at your eyes.
“How may I be of service to you? What is it you wish to know?” Deep-voiced and wild-eyed, she asks.
You mumble “I don’t know” with vague concerns about your love life or your business. (And yes, you really will. Romance and money are the only things about which anybody asks, for they are the only things about which everybody wants to know.) She listens deeply to your question, such concerns, she’s never heard the like before! She rolls her charcoal-ed eyes to the beyond, and slowly, loudly sighhhhhhhs. The sigh is meant to show profound compassion and relax you. Clearly you are troubled, and of course, she understands. Her eyes wobble heavenward so you can watch her as she consults her guides, the angels, ghosts, or demons — whomever’s or whatever’s counsel you expected her to ask. This is the magic portion of the show, designed to ease you into taking her suggestions. Slowly then, she blinks her eyes nine times………and looks at you as if she’s been away.
You clear your throat, sweating under her unwavering gaze. You reach for your phone, for its comfort, its reminder of when and where you are.
“Put that away,” she barks and you’re so surprised, you do.
Her eyes pour glue over your every movement until you locomote more slowly.
She smiles at you pocketing your phone, then lavishly unwraps a ratty tarot deck from fifteen shabby scarves. She asks you how you like the deck. Does it please you? If not, then perhaps you brought your own? Since (of course) you didn’t, you agree to using hers. At which point she bids you cut it thrice, (a move designed to gain your confidence through participation. Nothing could be rigged, you think, after you have cut the cards three times.) She takes the cards and drops them heavily from hand to hand. Watching as you watch her, she never looks away.
She holds them to her heart, and removes all light and heat from the room by shutting her enormous eyes. Again, she sighs, and takes a card out of the deck: the 7 of Swords, I’ll be… She lays it out profoundly on the table. You grow nervous as she audibly breathes. Her eyes a-blaze, inventory all of your uncomfortable reactions.
“Hah,” is her first utterance; followed by a thoughtful “mm.”
“What?” you ask. You can’t help yourself. You feel so strange there in the moldy dark. Like you’ve fallen to the bottom of the sea.
“The 7 of Swords,” she says. “Ah,” she says. Her eyes illuminate. “I think I understand.”
“What?!” you ask more urgently.
She speaks. Her voice is low at first, then shouted, as if she is guiding you to safety through a storm:
“You cannot trust those around you,” she says.*
(*Which is absolutely true, since primarily, you can not trust her, the one with the thick mascara sitting right across from you; the person in your nearest proximity; the woman shuffling the shabby deck of tarot cards with long, chip-nailed magician’s hands. That’s who you cannot trust.)
But oblivious to the ironic wisdom from the preceding parenthetical, you shudder with the impact of her words. Somehow, a chill wind blows your hair. You think and think, you cannot trust those around you. But who? You cough, from the magical effects of all-too accurate information or from incense asphyxiation, you can’t be sure, but you begin to accept the premise that she knows, she knows…
She says again more sternly, “you are being deceived by someone that you trust.*”
(*Again true. Clearly, you trusted her enough to pay her for the consultation.)
She watches you so closely now, it’s difficult to breathe. She watches as you inventory everyone you know, trying to discern which is the betrayer.
What you do while you search your mind is gold; it tells her everything she needs to know. Then, like a polygraph, she uses words to hone in on the details; watching which subjects garner no reaction and which ones make you squirm. Now she is home free, as hand by hand, she follows all the rope you throw her, and reads you with unspeakable ease. So many secrets tumble out of you, it’s like the over-used cliche of taking candy from a baby. Only here you are the baby, so innocent and fat, and your money will succor any mystic’s sweet tooth — of this we can be sure…
“I’m sensing… a lover’s betrayal,” she will say if you look down or fiddle with your ring, touch your necklace, adjust a strap, or fasten buttons on your shirt. If you make a fluttery movement to touch a vulnerable place on your body — face, skin, lap, heart, hair, then you suspect your lover has betrayed you. And, of course, there is a script for that.
“I’m sensing… a matter of money.” She will say if you grab your bag, sit harder on your wallet, reach for your phone, shove your hands in your pockets, cross your arms. If you make a defensive movement towards your valuables, then you believe that business is your arena of deceit.
She watches as you faintly nod. You didn’t even notice that you had.
She will next confirm her strategy by giving you a compliment:
“He is cheating on you, deceiving your good, kind, open heart.”
OR
“You are so trusting, those you work with are stealing from you, taking advantage of your generous nature.”
Again you nod, more broadly this time, for darn your kind and trusting heart! Your good and open nature! Wouldn’t you know your best qualities have landed you in trouble yet again. How fortunate the spirits see the truth! How lucky you have come here to fan the flames of your suspicion.
If she needs more information, she will ask: “Do you understand what I’m telling you?” And you answer yes, of course you understand, to let her know that you’re not stupid.
For feistier clients, she demands, “Do you hear what I say?” This confrontational approach will nearly always reap an information-rich reaction.
If no reaction is forth-coming, she will say, “You come to me for help. [LONG, DRAMATIC PAUSE] I can see the sorrow in your heart.” This nearly always bring the tears.
For those who think grandiosely of themselves, she offers praise, “Your suspicions are correct. You were right to sense deceit. It is good you have come to me to verify what you yourself suspected all along.”
For those with doubts, she merely has to tap a finger on the card, which is still sitting on the table, waiting for its cue. “Look!” she will say in a voice designed to scare you. “Do you see this man is stealing?” she points at him then looks at you, making sure you understand. “He steals from you — the things you need, the things valuable to you.” She pauses for reaction. “The things that protect you.” She pauses again. “Who is this man to you? Who did you trust that betrays you now?”
You don’t know what to say.
She tap, tap, taps her finger on the card. “I drew this card before you even asked your question.”
You gasp; she’s right, it’s true.
She nods. “This is how I know this is the truth.”
Now your words flow thick and fast; your blubbery lips run afoul of good sense, confirming everything she’s said. You have swallowed her suggestion like a capsule. She listens deeply now and nods. Her eyes like the blackening sea, take in water and begin to warm.
“Good,” she says. “Good.” She pauses one last time, to let you sit with all the things you’ve said. Things you never thought before, but now thoroughly believe.
“Now,” she says, “now,” preparing the finale. “This man has done you harm.”
Before you finish taking your last breath, she goes in for the kill, “Now we will set things right.”
She strikes, “if you wish it, we can make him pay for what he’s done to you…”
Yes, you say, nod, think, feel. Yes, yes. Make him pay.
“But…” she uses perfect diction, making the word long and a delicate, floating it out of her lips like one adept at blowing glass. You hang on it, watching it spin. [Long pause.] “It will cost some money…”
And that’s why our dear 7 of swords is the fortune-teller’s ATM; by the book, its interpretation is deception. And what’s the cure for theft, betrayal, and deceit? Why, a little ritualistic revenge, a high-colonic cleansing of the magical variety, all administered by yours truly, upon payment of an avalanche of money.
And who’s to thank for this this mystic windfall, but our lovely little thief, the charming child, the precocious doxy sneaking in the shadows and then stepping out all smiles with the goods.
I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that sneaking around has always been a lifelong skill of mine, but then you know so little about me, I may as well explain. Sneaking around has been my practice, my fine point of finesse. It’s a way of having and of eating my delicious cake, or whatever else I take when no one else is watching. So fancy me an iteration of this tarot superstar, an oft girlier version of our dear, dear thief. I am the 7 of Swords, here, in the type-written flesh, somewhere in the swirl of the internet’s temporal words. I am the 7 stolen swords and the lovely one who took them. I am the 7 of Swords, the 7 Swords, 7 Swords. And since we’ve come this far, let’s just shorten it to 7.
So there, Rumpelstiltskin, now you know my name.