There's nothing like flirting with satanic power. Tarot, as I was taught in my Mormon-upbringing, is just that. Apparently satanic power has a higher likelihood of manifesting metaphysically than the powers of Mormon righteousness. I was taught that flirting with satanic things, like tarot, would necessarily yield metaphysical phenomena, which would cut me. This teaching worked well to dissuade me from dabbling with the relics of Satan, like the tarot, for most of my life. I started to get bored.
A few years back I bought me some satanic relics; a box-set of commercially retailed fortune-telling devices: a pocket-sized palm reading book, a box of tarot and how-to booklet. I'd actually done palm-reading before, learnt at a young age from another pocket-sized booklet I stole from my older brother. It didn't impress me much. The palm is pretty unchanging, you get an idea of what may happen to you in a broad sense, but not much of an idea how to deal with life's next crisis. If you didn't like that fortune you just scar your palm good and change your path. Tarot is different. Dennis Fairchild and Julie Paschkis, the box-set creators, explain that tarot "forecasting probably began with the elderly—those who had lived long enough to learn that everything in life changes in cycles." Tarot seems a more practical satanism on an existential level than does palm reading. "The seasons come and go, the wind's direction swings from north to east, the constellations move through the sky, there are births and burials, plantings and harvests."
I followed the instructions, keeping in mind the evil-nature of it all, the inevitable metaphysical manifestation. Truth is I expected disappointment. Middle class American life could use a metaphysical manifestation occasionally. The spice of life, novelty, is wanting. Most Americans these days, these parts, seek the spice in soft-porn, alcoholism, social-networking, all poor replacements for the folk magic of "the elders." We all sense this wanting, this yearning for lost magic of a technological-less age. Philosophers and scientists, men of letters, have tried to understand it with analytic reason. The bright minds of epistemology, rationalism, existentialism, emptied gallons of ink upon the pages of history regarding life's purpose. They hoped to discover a scientific method for maximizing a reason governed life.
Spinoza called it God and received the highest ecclesiastical censure, a cherem, in the Jewish community. Spinoza's God resembled more the god of the natives of america than the Christian or Jewish gods of the east. Everything in nature and the universe was one reality, one substance, God. Thus nothing was disconnected. All that happened in the universe was the result of intention, "cycles" if you will. It seems the elders of the tarot held something in common with the apostate Jew, Spinoza.
My first card, King of Pentacles, "Stop trying to be a jack of all trades. Specialize. You have strong sensual and physical desires just now. Don't let your sense of self-discipline interfere with your personal happiness and fulfillment." The words were a veritable kick to my existential groin. My adulthood may be defined as the desire to be a jack of all trades. The fear that not understanding everything, not having tried everything, not being the best at everything, will be my greatest regret in old age. Case in point, I was trying my hand at fortune telling. Jack of all trades, from harmonica playing to bird watching, break dancing to tarot reading. Variety. The spice of life. The tarot was telling me variety was holding me back.
The following three cards, the explanatory cards, compounded the relativity of the first card. They reiterated the idea that I was holding myself back. Back from what? Can satanic counsel received through satanic devices possibly give good advice? If the devil, long gnarly horns, goatee, red skin, pointy-teeth, foul breath, or as Mormons like to describe him, the handsome SOB that deceives you with his handsomeness, tells you that not jumping off a cliff is best for you, should you jump off a cliff? I'm just saying, it seemed old Beelzebub's advice was sound. It seems his guidance, wrought upon me through the tarot nova, is sound.
I'm taking his advice, I'm going to try and focus on what I do best, mediocre art. That's what this blog is all about, mediocre art. My art is pretty much that, mediocre. It sure isn't Vermeer, and it sure isn't Chuck Close hyper-realism, but it's the result of years of study, passion, spontaneity, principles, an end. It's art. Mediocre. But art. So this blog will be about my mediocre art, your mediocre art, other folks mediocre art, who may think they're Vermeer, but certainly aren't ... Vermeer. But they art. That's right, they art. Not business. Not numbers, t-charts, liabilities, assets, reality TV, social networking ... not City Creek. Art. Mediocre, but not t-charts.
This blog would be cliche if I lived in, if you lived in, Paris. We don't. We live in Utah, most us. No-folk care about art in Utah, unless you aren't adequately paid for what you do. In that case you probably do care 'bout art, or don't know that you should care 'bout art... or you care about artwork, have become successful caring about artwork, and are on the verge of caring more about t-charts than artwork. To this latter class, I invite you to care about t-charts and never visit this blog again. To the former class, the underpaid art appreciators, the misfits, the wannabe Parisians, I welcome you.
Anybody own a ouija board?
A few years back I bought me some satanic relics; a box-set of commercially retailed fortune-telling devices: a pocket-sized palm reading book, a box of tarot and how-to booklet. I'd actually done palm-reading before, learnt at a young age from another pocket-sized booklet I stole from my older brother. It didn't impress me much. The palm is pretty unchanging, you get an idea of what may happen to you in a broad sense, but not much of an idea how to deal with life's next crisis. If you didn't like that fortune you just scar your palm good and change your path. Tarot is different. Dennis Fairchild and Julie Paschkis, the box-set creators, explain that tarot "forecasting probably began with the elderly—those who had lived long enough to learn that everything in life changes in cycles." Tarot seems a more practical satanism on an existential level than does palm reading. "The seasons come and go, the wind's direction swings from north to east, the constellations move through the sky, there are births and burials, plantings and harvests."
I followed the instructions, keeping in mind the evil-nature of it all, the inevitable metaphysical manifestation. Truth is I expected disappointment. Middle class American life could use a metaphysical manifestation occasionally. The spice of life, novelty, is wanting. Most Americans these days, these parts, seek the spice in soft-porn, alcoholism, social-networking, all poor replacements for the folk magic of "the elders." We all sense this wanting, this yearning for lost magic of a technological-less age. Philosophers and scientists, men of letters, have tried to understand it with analytic reason. The bright minds of epistemology, rationalism, existentialism, emptied gallons of ink upon the pages of history regarding life's purpose. They hoped to discover a scientific method for maximizing a reason governed life.
Spinoza called it God and received the highest ecclesiastical censure, a cherem, in the Jewish community. Spinoza's God resembled more the god of the natives of america than the Christian or Jewish gods of the east. Everything in nature and the universe was one reality, one substance, God. Thus nothing was disconnected. All that happened in the universe was the result of intention, "cycles" if you will. It seems the elders of the tarot held something in common with the apostate Jew, Spinoza.
My first card, King of Pentacles, "Stop trying to be a jack of all trades. Specialize. You have strong sensual and physical desires just now. Don't let your sense of self-discipline interfere with your personal happiness and fulfillment." The words were a veritable kick to my existential groin. My adulthood may be defined as the desire to be a jack of all trades. The fear that not understanding everything, not having tried everything, not being the best at everything, will be my greatest regret in old age. Case in point, I was trying my hand at fortune telling. Jack of all trades, from harmonica playing to bird watching, break dancing to tarot reading. Variety. The spice of life. The tarot was telling me variety was holding me back.
The following three cards, the explanatory cards, compounded the relativity of the first card. They reiterated the idea that I was holding myself back. Back from what? Can satanic counsel received through satanic devices possibly give good advice? If the devil, long gnarly horns, goatee, red skin, pointy-teeth, foul breath, or as Mormons like to describe him, the handsome SOB that deceives you with his handsomeness, tells you that not jumping off a cliff is best for you, should you jump off a cliff? I'm just saying, it seemed old Beelzebub's advice was sound. It seems his guidance, wrought upon me through the tarot nova, is sound.
I'm taking his advice, I'm going to try and focus on what I do best, mediocre art. That's what this blog is all about, mediocre art. My art is pretty much that, mediocre. It sure isn't Vermeer, and it sure isn't Chuck Close hyper-realism, but it's the result of years of study, passion, spontaneity, principles, an end. It's art. Mediocre. But art. So this blog will be about my mediocre art, your mediocre art, other folks mediocre art, who may think they're Vermeer, but certainly aren't ... Vermeer. But they art. That's right, they art. Not business. Not numbers, t-charts, liabilities, assets, reality TV, social networking ... not City Creek. Art. Mediocre, but not t-charts.
This blog would be cliche if I lived in, if you lived in, Paris. We don't. We live in Utah, most us. No-folk care about art in Utah, unless you aren't adequately paid for what you do. In that case you probably do care 'bout art, or don't know that you should care 'bout art... or you care about artwork, have become successful caring about artwork, and are on the verge of caring more about t-charts than artwork. To this latter class, I invite you to care about t-charts and never visit this blog again. To the former class, the underpaid art appreciators, the misfits, the wannabe Parisians, I welcome you.
Anybody own a ouija board?
