materal reverie of the tarot

A few years ago I cut the Thoth tarot deck to pieces. Recently those remnants re-surfaced and so I thought I would begin putting them back together in my own way and maybe learn about the tarot and its principles along the way. In dialogue with fellow travellers that cross fertilize in the virtual space, and chance encounter, here are some of the budding images:

A handkerchief for the lunar sneeze

or a spritz of perfume that says: 
“look for the woman in the dress, if there is no woman, there is no dress”

Facebook as daydreaming vanity box, as the private theatres of the cottingely fairies:
maternal reverie as the forming and reforming of the vessel.
‘the vessels are on the move’
the nested realities of Kurt Cobains heart shaped boxes
that feeling of being made from one instant to the next
of breath
and those minor subtleties
glancing the glamour of ghosts

queen of disks

turning and churning soil

princess of disks

watching over the saplings

Debauchery

is a fertile bucket of nuclear waste sludge
its children are miasmic
its waters intoxicating
because:
the methodical description of a cocktail being made takes me along with it; I am shaken, stirred and iced.
I am Alice’s “drink me”
and drink me is the disharmony of a girl ejected from her vessel:

a resolution follows in the…
princess of cups

here scissors are like sword-wands
not the cut of castration.
in contrast her uterine waters do not repel like the inebriating waters of debauchery.

Art
“a girl should be two things, who she wants and what she wants” -coco chanel
the two of the mother-infant make a mental apparatus
a dialectic

Abundance

Tagging

Until recently I had no idea what 'tags' were, I still do not really know now. But I noticed signature repetitions throughout the city which I called 'sporadic channellings'; likening them to my initial automatic mark makings, that fleeting gesture that produces a lacuna to be elaborated.

A particular tag I admire from around Newcastle.

Sporadic doodle that then found its object:

Sporadic doodle that then found its object:

Tag found in Leeds which seemed to me architecturally fitting:

making sense of

some partial demonstrations of on-going sense making in its nascency.

Sense-making cards: fugitive constellations of images that have a
phrasal quality.

I misunderstand her a lot. For example she has a poem in her pocket, handwritten on lined paper and folded several times. It is a poem by Rilke and she ought to remember it for protection later. But people are caught up on this poem. When her understanding of it is more in the folding. And she likes it in her hand. She would be happy to forget all the rest. Forget it is in her pocket. Later found washed up on a beach.

My contemporary, I saw her, a glance,
always doing something with her hands
 

gently come shy creatures of sleep;
 I must make of my body a sleeping surface if I am to host them.
a gathering of flies

wombs-to-let

This entire world is me and always moving. And parts of my body are dying with it and I am you, and you are me, can you feel that? that little moment of exasperation, or is it just me? who is out of breath.

a womb to let is an ‘I am smoke’
Now watch as weeping shifts the walls.

Feel the city, its cycles. The cafes playlist over and over turning. The tugging conversations make me gluey clay to dig in on all fours.
Down, get down on all fours.

My tits are never milky but instead the powdery non-chalance of a never enough: ‘dig in’.
The city is my mourning.
Dig in and chew on my abdomen. Bite on my matrix; it is not an invisible question mark but a plain to see navel. Everything you say translates as ‘will it be okay?’ and what if one day I say the final, silencing ‘no’?

 and take another apologetic draw.  ‘don’t take a draw. Stop. Shhh.’
But the smoke is not smoke. I am smoke.
What if i cease to be smoke?
Smoke say No.
what if one day.
No.

... and make a run for it.

Because ‘yes’ is the cities on-going drop of a cry, crying caught on repeat, glitching, and there you go on, mouth twitching and drilling at my centre. My guts are screaming ‘this wishing well is bottomless’, you’ll never hear the penny drop; the drink wont touch the sides. The sides are ever receding as the I, keeps fleeing away away from you, and lifts another bloody heart to the sky.

Your ghost is smoke and smoke is my ghost.

But today I am about to make a run for it despite all that. Why should I shatter?

goodbye starry hand

A blind light catches her and on touching the bumpy braille of her shadow concludes; She is a 24 year old smoker dressed in loose clothing, slim build. Well kempt. Inappropriate smiling and laughing at points. At points; those are the grainy clusters on her skin that feel like incongruous laughter.
Appropriate eye contact throughout.
Rate, volume and tone of speech normal.
Strong smoky accent.
Limited insight. 

...Its limit being my sight.
She says “you are in on it”
how could I not be?

Blindly, lightly, i touch her milkless nipples and this squirmy mess in my hands is trying to free some of the animals. And meowing responses to police and street triage. Twisting and turning, resisting my attempts to engage.
She is grappling with trays of animals and trying to free them. 

Here on her underside I feel an alignment of factors, environmental and institutional, coming together. Colliding in her navel; impoverishing her.
 How can the centre be the fade out zone? 
In vague language she keeps repeating ‘simultaneous’ as I press this point on her anatomy, again and again.
As if everything were happening at once, and I press and press and press.
She says that I know the answers to ‘why?’

Gone.

the colours all collide here

the closer I get

and pink knots

surfaces surfacing surfaces

I would just like to touch 

you

a star

cord cutting conceptions

Dream from early morning of the 14^th:
‘I was walking with direction in a house, looking for something, I recall stairs leading down to a small box room. On approaching it seems I was looking for someone and wondering if they were still living there, as I had the distinct impression they were on the move; shifting. On entering the room the dog and man are meant to be here, but the man is not here, just a dog on a leash, sitting, waiting. Then I notice a mobile phone on charge in this same empty room, the internet connection on and off as I try to look at it. The charger wire and internet connection correlates with the dogs leash but now the dog is out of focus as I focus on engaging with the phone. I am trying to read something off the phone, then it is Sean who is infact reading off the phone, maybe I was trying to speak to Sean? I know it is Sean, but everything is something ethereal as our positions are shifting in flickering connections. Sean, reading from the phone is reading excerpts from a caricatured dogs perspective, comedic, Dogs being with dogs, he has on a posh accent that apparently is meant to perform ‘dogs’ (like when we make fun of political readings, satirical) He is saying “he pissed on me and…”. This is becoming somewhat unsettling, sad, as Sean flickers into being both the dog and himself, the dog he is impersonating. But there he is, in that room, on a leash. Connection line is contact line with ghosts. And it reminds me of the knitting.’
Awake.
I read from the phone Sean as ghosting through a flower:


Not him. his mouth is still dry and bloody. As dry as an advertisement:

Set it spinning

Following, on the way to the train station I find an umbilical cord tied around a polarity.
The cord is cut:

How was the cord cut?

memory of gutting squids. The gladius I am sure is plastic, synthetic. And in that moment the chord is cut by the uncanny disruption of organic continuity, slipping; I thought I was born and grew from a Darwinian big bang. No. all lies. The squid does not contain a prosthetic, it is not partially artificial, it is entire and demands I synthesize my aversions to make space for it in the cosmos. Maybe it instead mutates as it ventures through a series of post-nuclear explosive zones? There is no gradation here. Just a series of cuts.

Mutation looks like this:

From: Maybe she is born with it? Maybe its Maybelline? 

To: Maybe she is born with it? Maybe its an eyelash.

maybe she is born.

the advertisement on becoming sentient reclaims itself in the statement "wings give you redbull"

Maybe she is born.

If so, speculating,

conception in the war zone looks like:

shifting slipping salience

is her falling into her lap

Curling into herself

  conceiving a found object
is spinning into herself
like this:

and out of herself.

plasticity, another cut. she cuts herself out of and into the next...

flowers give you ghosts.
&
Advertisements become sentient.

CUT

 tentacles from another dimension:

I am in love precisely because I cannot locate or trust myself, or remember myself or how it happened, started. No clues. Or maybe just one clue, atmospherically entire. The state of me changed. I remember walking and it was like I could walk forever, so long as I was in the particular humidity of this present. I walked like I knew where I was going, even though the destination was inconceivable. Magnetoception? And then I felt fear. Fear of my irrational certainty, fear of my decisive direction. And I wanted, desired to be stopped. And I said “you will have to stop me because I wont stop”, or at least I wanted to say that, did I say that?
You were chosen the moment a tentacle wrapped itself around my waist.
CUT

severance seizes the tentacular means of production. and here is a compensatory relic.

More mutations to be conceived in zones to come...

a charitable dream

A dream from the early hours:

My mams friend is asking me if she can borrow money off me. I begin to feel conflicted as the price goes up and up, and I am trying to negotiate the amount I can borrow her bearing in mind my own financial circumstances. I am thinking of my future study and how I will need to keep money aside for that. I grow increasingly uncomfortable with this dialogue, the exchange of money is no longer just a matter of practicalities, but it takes on an emotional dimension, like it alone regulates my entire human contact with this person; my emotions themselves become valued.

I then pass a poster on a letter box. It is an advertisement for a charitable organization, maybe Oxfam. On it are various people’s faces, maybe those the charity gives to. I peel at the poster somewhat and then leave it. I head towards a charity shop, with intention to just walk straight through as I seem to be going somewhere. Passing through, I see Sean in there. He seems withdrawn, and just aimlessly standing there, almost lost in limbo. Me and him used to go to charity shops a lot together to source books. Him for reading, and me for making collage with. But here in this dream he is not really looking at anything, he doesn’t know where he wants to be. I hadn’t planned on hanging about here, I had planned on walking through, though I stop on seeing him. I see his mouth is dry and chapped, his gums bloody. I make conversation with him, I say this is a good charity shop. He asks me what makes it good. I say they have lots of books. And also, I gesture to a leather couch and say ‘they have a sofa’. Then, on him seeming so aimless, and his mouth in such a state, I invite him on a detour, for a fruit smoothie. Maybe that will make him feel better. He follows me out and I wake up.
On waking from this dream I recall the words spoken at the church the preceding day. The word ‘immortal’. At the funeral it was asked that instead of flowers that money be collected for a mental health charity. As if this would redeem something from death, as if death was not a complete irredeemable waste. I assert that it is.
It doesn’t matter where the money goes. It matters where we go. This morning I had the distinct preference for money to be ‘wasted’ on an irredeemable plethora of flowers. For those flowers to die, and for none of those flowers nor the money that purchased them to return to me. Revolting against the threat of scarcity, which I feel conflates the irreplaceability of each life with ‘what it can offer’ or ‘earn’ beyond and despite its own specificity, sacrificially, I ask the judge, “how can I be of ‘use’ to you?”. Save the environment? can Sean be recycled back to us? Resurrected? No.
I don’t want the flowers returning as his spectre. He is dead. The irredeemability of death today haunts. The living propagandas a ghost in place of more freshly cut bouquets and this is mourning: 

fuck off to the fist

solar boat

"I am not a water witch, I am a mermaid!"

What is not to love?

cutting atopos

too impotent to create but not to produce, the surrealist cheerleader, or sass-squatch,
is an anti-existence
she is atopos materializing,
the side-lines exalting
to the sound of cold meat slapping against the walls.
she is a sentient advertisement
who thought the orphanage was a refrigerator
not a place full of bare-legged teenage girls,
like herself and all in her likeness
is her highness!
She is maybe the inability to distinguish the like from the like?
sirens singing: “to exist is to persist”
in likeness"quantity has its own quality"
shaven pins marching in uniformity.
the frustration of noise!
hides me in unsafe-safety
for if you are like wallpaper you too will peel away when it rains
just like her.
so lets make the cut:

pins in the head...to keep it together?

oh, don't worry about her. she is just sharpness.

and helps cut you out of...

this dream...

and into a yellow ribbon of atopos likeness...