I hate the term “stalker card,” but I also hate that I’m the kind of person who can’t let idiomatic phrases go without focusing on their problematic implications. It’s a tight rope walk between accepting that not every fucking thing we say needs to be scrutinized for the failure of our allyship and recognizing that we say a lot of fucked up shit that deserves some editing. And, let’s be honest: “stalker card” has a similar vibe to it. There’s violence inherent in it. We don’t call them “stan cards” or “nosy neighbor cards” or “mansplainer cards.” We choose the term “stalker cards.” But the nature of communicating is also to reach for the most precise terms in order to make ourselves understood. In so doing, we often reach for major concepts and use them as metaphors. When we say “stalker card,” no one wonders what we means; they know immediately. When someone refers to wearing a “wife beater,” we not only know how they’re dressed, we also have an implication of the kind of person they might be . . . and it isn’t a compliment. I posted something recently and used the term “totem poll” as a metaphor. I can’t quite recall what context I used it in, but it was in the neighborhood of the innocuous “run it up the totem poll.” When I mentioned to a friend that I regretted using that term and hoped nobody was hurt by it, she said, “The English language is full of landmines and it’s difficult to avoid stepping on one.” She meant that the language, but really our idioms, is so full of problematic terms, phrases, and concepts, that it’s next to impossible to go through a conversation without using one—even when we’re relatively in touch with the fuckery of micro aggressions and racist cliches. She wasn’t dismissing my concern or saying I shouldn’t care about hurting people with my word choice; she meant that the English language is riddled with issues and no matter how carefully we might tread, we’re probably going to stumble on a phrase that has a fucked up origin. It’s everywhere. I cannot tell you how often I hear people in the DEI world of all different backgrounds use the g-word for Romany people—and who have no idea it’s offensive. Our language changes rapidly and it should and we are in a moment of revising and refining English in ways that revises out shitty expressions and replaces them with less shitty ones—but that are sometimes more awkward or difficult to wrap our mouths around. (Kinky.) And this is a very good thing, even when lazy-ass white folx (hi, I am one so if you’re one too then fucking unclench) throw our hands up in despair and say “Well I don’t know what to call people anymore.” (By their names would be a good start, incidentally.) Anyway — the Hanged Man might be the “devoted-but-not-violent, yet-maybe-a-little-too-excited fanboy” of this blog. (Does that work to replace “stalker card”?) Because it’s shown up in the initial draws for at least five of the twenty entries here, and might be the most repeated card so far. So I’m prompted to meditate a bit on why. Why this card that, in reality, I don’t see too often in readings? I typically read this card to mean “consequences.” The result of something, usually something not too bright, that comes to bite us on the ass. Before the esotericists showed up this card was often called The Traitor. There are, in early decks, blobs falling out of his pockets thought to represent the thirty pieces of silver paid to Judas for his betrayal of Jesus. And I’ve had an interesting relationship with Judas since childhood. I think my earliest doubts about Christianity came from the treatment of Judas in the gospel. Obviously he’s the villain of Christianity for having betrayed Christ. But, and this might be because I’m a writer by nature, it occurred to me from young age that if Judas didn’t “betray” Jesus, than the whole “miracle” of Christianity doesn’t happen. Jesus in the Bible tells Judas it would have been better for Judas not to have been born. Well, no shit. Except that if Judas hadn’t sold out his pal, Jesus wouldn’t have been caught, killed, resurrected, and deified. So why doesn’t Judas get more fucking credit? He’s the inciting incident, the “reason for the season” (if you will). He is the lynchpin of the Christ myth. He literally makes the whole thing happen. And yet we find him Dante’s inferno after having done himself self-harm. This has led to a bizarre pop culture presence for the “evil” disciple, including the odd plot point Wes Craven chose for Dracula 2000 (a really terrible movie that somehow yielded several sequels—but perhaps the only movie I could stand to watch Gerard Butler in—men with fangs look hotter than without them, so there’s that) in which Dracula becomes a vampire (the vampire, in seems) upon his hanging. (Let’s acknowledge for a moment that some of the the likely parents of vampires are Lilith and Hades—not together, but each is “giving” vampire in their own way. Judas . . . not so much.) Why doesn’t Judas get a divine reprieve? Why is he cursed to hell (and to be played by a vapid actor with very little charm)? Shouldn’t Christ have forgiven him? What kind of pal lets his friend go to hell for doing the exact thing that friend needed him to do in order to reach the apex of his story? “Thanks for helping me move, buddy. Now rot in hell, asshole.” I mean . . . it makes very little sense. Probably as little sense as this lesson is making so far. Well, the first lesson—particularly when reading the cards without a client sitting before you—is that you sometimes need to go on a little discursive joint in order to access a reading. This is particularly true when you’re not entirely sure what you’re reading about and the most prominent card in the spread seems to have said all that it can say of late. Because in the story of Judas, we get another tale of the mortal wronged by divinity simply for doing exactly what he was placed on earth by that divinity to do. His siblings include Pandora and Sisyphus, Job, even Lucifer/Satan (to whom he is often compared). These are (mostly) mortals who followed the path laid out for them only to be condemned for it—as though their lives don’t matter. Of course, we don’t know for sure what divinity has to say about Judas anymore than Pandora, because the stories we know about them are recorded for us by other humans—humans with an agenda. We don’t know what the Christian god thinks about Judas; we just know what we humans think about him, and that’s pretty well depicted in early representations of The Hanged Man—he’s a criminal deserving a violent death. The Hanged Man implies judgment. Something had to happen for him to get up there; in this case, he didn’t do it himself. I think it’s helpful to think for a moment about that. While the esoteric traditions paint the card as an initiatory journey—an ego death—and preparation for the elevation of the spirit, that’s because they couldn’t stomach any of the baser implications of cards that were not created as esoteric tools. (At least as the history indicates to date.) But The Hanged Man can be a stand-in for the times in our lives where we lack autonomy and where we’re forced to suffer the consequences of others’ actions. Sound familiar? The Hanged Man can, in certain contexts, imply our powerlessness over certain situations. And while that can lead to all kinds of things, it usually doesn’t because we don’t like that in modern life. See, the perception shifts associated with the card are only possible once we accept that we’re not in charge. That, in itself, is partly the perception shift the card indicates: no matter how much we want to be, there are times when we’re at the mercy of other entities or energies. We decide to make the best of it because that’s all we really can do. Other than despair. Which, honestly, is a much more accurate read for this card: despair. The Hanged Man is not getting out of this alive. He’s going to die. The next card is death. This is the end. The silly face we see on old cards isn’t clowning; it’s the ugliness of a hanged person dying. His tongue lolls out; his limbs dangle at awkward angles; his blood rushes to his head—and when his body begins losing control, he’s going to end up voiding all over himself. Ideally, he’ll be unconscious when that happens. I said earlier that most men are sexier with fangs. Well, kids, so is tarot. The defanging of divination is an issue that too often takes the possibility of really learning something and castrates it. Sorry for the violent image, but that’s what it does. How many fucking times in life have you had the kind of transcendental experience that the Hanged Man supposedly shows? How many times have you gotten absolutely fucked because of someone else’s actions? Which one happens more often? Unless you’re a shockingly spiritual entity who manages to transcend the banality of everyday life, chances are you’re going to experience the latter exponentially more than the former. And so why do we allow ourselves to read cards almost exclusively in a way that reflects an incredibly rare experience? I wish I had a snarky answer for you, but I don’t: it’s because we’re afraid. Which is a very, very human thing to be. We don’t want to feel what the Hanged Man is feeling and so we try to find substitutions for his lot that make us feel better about ours. But sometimes everything is the worst. Sometimes we are stuck in a limbo not of our making. Sometimes we are playing the part that we’ve been assigned, doing everything by the script we’ve been handed, and we still get fucked. Sometimes we’ve done everything right and we still get shit on. Sometimes, sometimes we are simply stuck in the shit and there’s nothing we can do about it until life changes and we can. And sometimes—well, once—we will face a thing we cannot escape no matter what we do. Death. I’m coming to the conclusion that the other cards in this reading aren’t going to have space to say much, but that’s OK. Hopefully you’re into this deep dive into the card that seems to have wanted our attention most in this bloggy-poo. There are times when we do not have control. There are times when we are not at the wheel. There are times when we are the victims of circumstance. There are times when the good guy goes to jail. There are times when justice is not served. And there are also times when we fuck up and deserve it, but that doesn’t seem to be the vibe today. If your mind hasn’t leapt to where mine has, then what’s on my mind most right now is the recent election in the “US.” We are all, regardless of where we landed in the voting booth (if we even went), at the mercy of politics right now. In very scary ways. And while that may not seem like it has much to do with divination, it does. For two reasons: one, it’s going to impact our general mood a lot; two: it’s going to impact our clients’ lives (including ours, if we read for ourselves). We are a world, in many ways, embodied by The Hanged Man. And it’s difficult sometimes to wonder if we’re not, like the apparent progenitor of the card (Judas), simply playing our role, doing what we think we’re supposed to be doing, while simultaneously setting ourselves up for drama (to put it mildly). Are we simply playthings of divinity? And if we are, is divination then just a clever ploy to distract us from the game and make us think we have power while we obey the rules outlined for us on a game board with movements far more complicated than chess? Or . . . is divination the cheat code? OK, not gonna lie, that thought just blue my fuckin’ mind. I’m not a gamer, so I’m not even sure if that’s, like, the real phrase, but I think it is. Let us open our scope a bit and notice the way this particular Lovers card—with this deliciously seventies pornstar vibe (I would lick the chest hair off that dude given the chance) and the massively prominent presence of Cupid/Eros (or his gloved hands, anyway) pointing the arrow downward—both through the brain of the poor dame in the middle, but also into the Hanged Man’s crotch (based on the cards’ positions). This kind of implies the powerlessness of everything below it in the spread (the entire reading, in this case). This is a good chance for me to remind people that The Lovers isn’t about choice because once that arrow hits, whoever it hits is going to obey its power. Like the lovers in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, they are at the mercy of the magic thrown at them. But, though we’re “at the mercy” of some things, we’re not entirely on our own. We’re not entirely without agency or without guidance. We’ve got divination. Even if we lack autonomy, we can find out what is actually going on. We don’t have to navigate in the dark, we don’t have to shove our heads in the sand (and you could argue the Hanged man has ostrichy aspects, thanks mostly to his posture). We can ask questions and use divination and get answers. And we can find out how much agency we have—because rarely is everything out of our hands. Life, annoyingly, tends to be a combo of fate and free will. We have free will within the constraints of “fate.” In this case, take fate to mean simply conditions out of our control. Let’s consider the central column of this spread: The Lovers, the Hanged Man, the Six of Wands. Dropping through the sequence, the six is arguably a card of movement—if not necessarily autonomous movement. Six are “good” because they suggest beauty (sometimes vanity, which can also be relevant in this context—we tend to think we’re more powerful than we are . . . or we tend to think we’re absolved of responsibility because we can’t control fate . . . the reality being much more nuanced and requiring more energy than either of those assumptions suggests). Fire is good, too, because in this case it suggests the first bursts of energy we get in the Hanged Man’s existence. The Six of Wands is giving knight-in-shining-armor, coming in and burning the Hanged Man’s ropes and carrying him off into the sunset. But wait—so, too, does the Page of Swords, casually striking at the Hanged Man’s tethers. And then what the fuck with the Ten of Cups—these little twinks celebrating(?) together. I had to call that out so I don’t forget, but let’s return to that shortly. In the meantime, the central column continues: “Yes,” it seems to say, “you’re powerless right now. But there’s a beautiful fire burning that will change things.” Or, it might say, “Yes, I’m fucking with you—but if you expend some energy (think of the movement of the six as expending energy—fire being the energy), you’ll be able to make some progress.” In this case, the energy I’m thinking about is divinatory energy. Why? Well, mostly because that’s supposed to be the point of this blog. But I also can’t get the phrase “divine fire” out of my head. It keeps repeating. The divine fire, in this case, suggesting the reality and effectiveness of divination. In religious terms, ecstasy is potent union with divinity. In sexual terms, obviously, it’s a mind-bending orgasm. Both of those can be poetic metaphors for divination. Union with divinity escalating into the climax of an answer. We literally fuck the cards into meaning while we’re working with them—not a sentence I ever thought I would type, but there it is. And we’re not literally doing that; that’s literary hyperbole. We are metaphorically fucking the cards into meaning, but in a literal way. Wink. I’m also noting, now, my comments about the porn star Joy of Sex vibe in The Lovers and giggling at how apt that metaphor really is. The Lovers represents both our powerlessness in the face of divinity, but also our ability to commune with divinity in the act of divination. It is metaphysical congress with the release of intel. And you don’t have to think of that in the annoyingly patriarchal terms of male orgasm. A real divination session frequently reveals lots of little truths (orgasms) throughout, which is far more exciting and far more like non-penile orgasm (from what I’m told, alas). And if you don’t believe me, this whole reading is an example of that. Lots of little revelations and truths. Returning to the crossbar and to the page and the ten: I’m drawn to the Page of Swords’ preternatural curiosity. Of the pages, the one governing the suit of swords is going to be the most inquisitive, the most interested, the most curious; she’s the most likely to ask “why?” to the point of annoying her parents, or of hyperfocusing on a certain topic until she knows about all there is about it (an experience I know all too well). Her sword points up to The Lovers, to the divine, not unlike a lightning rod. “Hit me,” she says. She’s brave enough to ask when others aren’t. She says, “Well, OK, maybe I am fucking stuck, but I’m sure as fuck not going to know until I do some damn research. What if I only think the gods are fucking me with?” The Ancient Greeks were awfully obsessed with hubris (for example see, like, all their myths)—but isn’t it equally hubristic to think the gods give a flying fuck about us? Like the idea that the gods are even aware of us or care what we’re doing or have any interest in the day-to-day doings of what are surely (to them) a little ant colony of probably very little consequence is kind of smug. I’m not saying it’s wrong, just that the idea that we matter is hubris—and so in the telling of the myths, the writers were displaying hubris by suggesting human hubris annoys the gods because that means the gods care about what we do. Again, I’m not saying the gods do or don’t—or even that there “are” gods in the sense that Ancient Greeks understood them. I’m just saying that there’s a fascinating paradox that I had to call out because why the fuck not. Anyway, the Page of Swords is unconcerned with implications of hubris. She can’t know the answers until she asks, and because she’s not worried about what the gods will think of her, she asks. And in so doing, she cuts the ropes of stasis and reaches the apex of the suit of cups—the apex of love and spirituality, one could say. “Ask,” the page says, “because the worst and best that you could wind up with is enlightenment.” Maybe “enlightenment” isn’t a traditional keyword for the Ten of Cups, but could any card conceptually indicate it better? OK, yes, I know for some of you many cards could indicate it better—but that’s not the point. The point is that it makes sense for that card in this reading if we consider cups as spirituality (and because it is the suit associated with the clergy historically, we can make that connection easily—no matter our feelings on the clergy), and ten as “fullness,” than we have spiritual fullness. Thus the entire reading says this: even when—and maybe especially when—we feel the most powerless, divination is the key to progress and enlightenment. Which is a far, far loftier fucking thing than I’d normally allow myself to say, but I’m feeling annoyingly expansive right now. I have spent so much of my life diminishing my own magic, and as someone who will likely be negatively impacted by the impending political landscape, I am in a mood right now where I’m undergoing the kind of Hanged Man experience that I dismissed early in his reading. I am undergoing a transformation. And as part of that I’m coming to the conclusion that divination is a powerful fucking act. I mean I’ve always felt it was a political act—it’s transgressive and marginal and frequently criminal—but to think of it was something that matters is new for me. After spending much of my adulthood bringing tarot “down to earth,” I’m in the process of (maybe?) allowing tarot to hoist me off the ground. I don’t even know what I mean by that, other than maybe to celebrate the gift of having this art form in my life. And of accepting that maybe it’s more than just the simple logic tool that I painted it as in my first book. I do think it’s a logic tool; I think intuition is shockingly logical. But I’m also willing to concede, perhaps, there is some magic—some divinity--at work, too. Do I think divination is the answer to all our problems or the only tool we need to fight the power? No. But do I think it’s an ingredient? Yes. More and more I’m coming to understand that there is . . . import to divination, there’s magic and power and even liberation in it. The very act of doing it is a middle finger to stuffy, christo-colonial convention. And while it isn’t a panacea, maybe it’s still a powerful and healing elixir. And that maybe--just maybe--my ability to do it well is potentially something more than just the ability to (as I frequently say) recognize patterns. Or maybe I just need to feel that potential because I do feel so fucking powerless right now. I’ve been listening to The Haunted Objects Podcast Greg and Dana Newkirk’s delicious, hilarious, and refreshingly respectful and humble exploration of metaphysical topics centered on objects from their paranormal museum. Spiritualism comes up a lot because of course it’s a formative moment in modern spirituality and because it is the lodestar of the skeptics who love to point to the major debunking of just about all the famous spiritualist mediums who, they say, duped the people they were trying to help. I don’t doubt that the con artists were con artists. I don’t doubt that there are a lot of assholes out there duping people. I do, though, have the sneaking suspicion that the issue wasn’t spiritualism as much as capitalism. It isn’t the spiritualism that made people into con artists; it was that it was an incredibly easy way to make a dime. Con artists look for ways to take advantage of belief. It might be belief in a product, a person, or a divinity; it might be belief in a nation or a lie or a job. Whatever it is, they find places where people’s credulity make them vulnerable--and they pounce. But they’re not spiritualists, anymore than most of the people murdered as witches were practicing witchcraft; they were con artists playing spiritualists. This doesn’t mean spiritualism is real—or that it’s not. But the issue wasn’t the idea of spiritualism or mediumship; it was using those concepts as a cover for grift. And I don’t doubt that some of the con artists started as earnest practitioners who, either to serve their ego, stay in the game, or due to the influence of an unscrupulous manager, allowed themselves to be turned into circus acts. I don’t doubt this in the same way I don’t doubt that most priests go into the seminary because of their deep love for god before they’re turned into soldiers in the predatory colonial army of the Vatican. We start out wanting to do good. (To quote Dear Evan Hansen, a musical I can’t stand with a song I love, “We start with stars in our eyes. We start believing that we belong.”) But capitalism forces us to make choices: survive or die. And sometimes survival looks like the theft of a loaf of bread and sometimes it looks like an earnest spiritual medium turning into a sleight of hand magician. The point that I wanted to get to, though, (or really, the paradox of that) is that people were helped—even by the crooks, at least in some cases. They got messages they needed and closure they wanted. Which is the strangest part of it. The spiritualist con artists wouldn’t have had a anyone to con if they weren’t drawing people in with the hope of union with dead loved ones, and giving them some semblance of that connection. And, I have to ask . . . if it helped . . . was it ALL bad? And what if the messages that the consumers received weren’t simply the result of conmen? What if divinity used those frauds to communicate with the grieving? And what if the grieving healed because of it? This is the kind of ethical loop that I typically avoid--and let me be clear: I am 100% opposed to con artists. But it does beg the question we started with: how much are we really in the hands of divinity and how much are we in control . . . ? I don’t know. My own spiritual development is recent. But I’ve been a good reader much longer than that. I didn’t have a relationship with any form of divinity when I started my YouTube channel or wrote my first two books. But the divinations I did worked. I still don’t do any spiritual preparation before readings. I don’t have special sprays or tools or crystals. I don’t consecrate my decks. But my divination still works. In fact, one reason I even allowed myself to deep dive into tarot in the way that landed me where I am is because I didn’t need any of that stuff. Today, though, I wonder (just a little) if that was all “part of the plan.” The gateway drug (another problematic idiom) to embracing my path and practice. I don’t know. That makes me uncomfortable to admit, but it does connect with the overall theme of today’s entry. Perhaps, like Judas, I was on this path all along and didn’t know it; perhaps the divine has been pushing me in a direction and allowing me to think I was in control. Or perhaps that hubris and, like Judas and all other pawns, I will have to suffer the consequences of believing I’m special. Sometimes I wonder, too, if I’m just a con artist. Is divination even real? In fact, one reason my “down to earth” approach was so important to me is because it divorced tarot from spirituality—and, that was important because there’s a part of me that thinks spirituality is grift. I mean that sounds terrible, and I’m loathe to admit it, but it’s true. I grew up Catholic, how could I not? If divination is more than something logical, how do I know I’m serving the right entities? How do I know I’m translating correctly? How do I know that I’m not misleading people? I mean, I’d like to think the feedback I get from clients belies that anxiety, but I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t hit me sometimes. Am I merely a spiritualist pawn? These days, literally anything is possible. So thank gods we’ve got the cards! A read of one’s own Despite the discursiveness of this blog, it is in many ways my favorite so far. And the idea that divination is something to hold tight to as a superpower over the next few years isn’t an unattractive one, even if—well, I doubt that’s actually true. But let’s assume divination is the cheat code, particularly in times of distress and powerlessness. And let’s call this spread, The Cheat Code! Shuffle and draw cards as follows:
I typically say it’s wise to decide what each position in a spread means before shuffling and drawing, but in this case I give you permission not to decide on five’s true meaning until you see the card that falls there. I encourage you to read it both ways. (Also, I encourage you to use three cards per position—but for the sake of quickness I use only one here.) A quick example: Center card, where in my life I’m particularly powerless: King of Swords. I really didn’t expect to see a court card here! Don’t know why. This king’s head is in some very dark clouds. I take this to mean my own self-image, which is a thing I’ve been struggling with a lot lately and which, despite my best efforts, seems to hit me unexpectedly and deeply. The King of Swords knows better, but can’t seem to believe himself. Top card, the major external influence: Queen of Wands. “Oh, well that’s my ego,” I said when I saw this card. Why this particular card associated with ego? Because in one deck of my earliest decks (I can’t recall which), the courts were given astrological signs not names. And this queen was simply titled “Leo.” I just always remember that. And I know the card isn’t associated with that sign in any other places, at least as far as I know, but I always remember it. We might also say that this card represents aspects of people who want to be inspirational (fire) but can’t seem to shake their ego (fire again). Why is the queen given this nasty reading? Only because she’s sitting in a “problem” position: this is the influence taking away my power. So I have to read her as a problem. And let’s not pretend that my love affair with writing and teaching and reading for tarot is entirely about teaching; I get off on the praise, too. So that tracks. There’s a reason that ego death is so central to so many faith ways. Bottom card, representing how divination can be the cheat code to this situation. Two of Cups. (Incidentally, this is one of my favorite cards in this deck. So I’ll put a pic below.) This is one of those times where the obvious answer (“Use it help you fall in love with yourself”) makes me eyes roll with arrogant indifference. Yet, even if I try to interpret the card in other ways—twos are magnets and cups are feelings and sensations. We see this card when we’re drawn toward something without being able to resist. It might mean using divination in ways that helps me attract myself; it might also mean falling into my relationship with divination and my divinatory work to become attracted to myself. A convoluted phrase that really means, “look at what you can do with this art form and let that be impressive to you.” Ironic given the ego above, but it comes down to a quote from the acting teacher Stanislavsky (famous for the much misunderstood “method”—it is not what young white male cis het actors think it is): “Love the art in yourself, not yourself in the art.” Left card, representing one way to defy the “gods” (major powerful influence). Four of Wands. Fours sustain, wands burn—passionate, potent, energetic. “Keep doing your shit despite how much you don’t like yourself, sometimes.” Right card, representing either the eventual outcome and/or the way to work with the “gods.” Knight of Wands. I love this card, too; he looks to me like noted crush Pedro Pascal. I didn’t even notice how most these cards are courts. Woof. See, that’s a sign of progress for those of you reading this (is anyone reading this?) and just starting out. There will come a time for you when a spread made up almost entirely of courts won’t stump or shock you! Anyway, Pedro reminds me, too, that three of the cards are wands. The ego suit, the leonine suit. I think the Knight of Wands is chatty: “Run into the fire,” (he runs into the middle of the reading, not away from it) is one suggestion, and that’s not unlike working with the “gods.” It’s like saying, OK, let’s see how much you think you can take, ego. You’re not as strong as you think you are. Which might read creepy, but I think what I’m getting at is, like, dare the ego to try to fuck you up. I know that might sound bizarre and maybe even scary, but it’s not. It’s like facing the bully and forcing them to back down. Another thing he says is, “You’re a cowboy. Stop pretending to be a pilot.” And that, again, may sound insane—but it means, “be what you are.” He looks like a cowboy. He’s not a pilot. “Be entirely yourself. Like I am.” And you know, when I think of our collective boyfriend Pedro Pascal, he is quite a good example of it. I mean I have no idea whether his persona is an act, but he’s very, very comfortable in his own skin—which I think is one reason why we all think he’s a daddy. He belongs to himself in a way most people don’t. And that’s sexy. Why does the knight get all this juicy goodness and the queen got the crud? Because I’m a misogynist. No. Because this is a “solution” position. We’re looking to this spot for advice (partly), so I have to read the card differently. Actually, you could easily switch the queen and the knight in this spread and get more or less the same reading. There would be subtle differences, mostly in terms of metaphor (the queen does not look like a cowboy). They’re very similar, of course because they’re the same person in different moments of their life. But this blog is already too lengthy to explain more. The knights aren’t static, so the final thing the card says is: “you’re going to move on eventually. Probably quicker than you think.” The speed, of course, coming from the fiery nature of this knight. (Actually, the semi-final thing he reminds me of is that the ego [fire] is part of my nature, too, so I actually have to work with it whether I want to or not. Fuckery, I tell you. Fuckery.) And there you have it! Let me know if you do this spread and what you think. See you next week. 
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AboutEach post is a tarot reading about the tarot, a lesson about the cards from the cards. Each ends with a brand new spread you can use to explore the main concepts of the reading. Archives
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