Sketchbook - Eight of Cups

Often I find I have some item laying around that I no longer want or need, but which I can't bear to throw away -- keepsakes that have outlived their value, token objects no one but myself would ever treasure. But these things aren't garbage, so it seems improper to just discard them unceremoniously among the orange peels and cat litter. So instead, I put them in the river.

My friend Chris was horrified when I let this slip. "You can't just throw your old shit in the river," he scolded me. I tried to explain that I consider the East River to be a sort of long-term safety deposit box. When I put something in it (an old ring, a busted pocket-knife, a pair of underwear I will always have fond memories of) I always know where that thing is -- it's at the bottom of the river. As opposed to when you throw something in the garbage, in which case, who knows where the hell it goes?

Chris remains judgy and unconvinced. Look, I don't do it often. And the river is already full of sewage, dissolved metals, and runoff from Newtown Creek (itself one of the most polluted waterways in the US). I think a pair of plaster antlers is the least of its problems.

The worn remains of this industrial area have fascinated me for years. Right now I live just three blocks away, and visit often. It's a quiet place where people go to sit and think, or drink. Sometimes you even see people fishing there. I often see Canada geese there, looking a little lost and disappointed. It's a desolate, wild place on the edge of a great civilization.

These are the kinds of areas that the Eight of Cups compels us to wander through. The Eight oversees our rituals of renunciation; it illustrates the moment when you finally loosen your grip on a relationship or a vision of yourself that you've been clinging to for far too long. We invest in these things emotionally to the point where we're desperate to keep them even when they don't mean anything anymore.

Walking away is always an option, the card reminds us. Sometimes it's the only option. Why fight a losing battle with the past when nine new cups await just over the horizon?

So I drew a picture of myself throwing the old ones into the river; I can honor their existence without keeping them in my (tiny) apartment, without dragging them around with me from place to place for the rest of my life. It may be hard to let go, but at least I'll always know exactly where they are.

Previously On Arcanalogue: The Eight Of Cups

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"The Last Warning Before Things Turn Inhospitably Toxic..."

A few months ago I bought a bottle of "Cranberry Cordyceps Tea" at my local organic market, mostly out of dread and awe because I'd recently seen this nasty little clip from the show Planet Earth:

The bottle, needless to say, is still sitting in my fridge with its seal intact. I'm convinced it's a trap, that there are human fungus-slaves out there in Vermont intent on spreading their precious parasite overlord to the masses like the pod-people in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

The gorgeous paintings of Nicole Duennebier have a similarly deceptive allure, despite the fact that they are not sweetened with organic cranberry juice. Life-forms seem to blur together, creating one oozing, sumptuous biomass after another. When I first looked at them I admired their decadent, overripe quality, but it wasn't until I read her statement that I fully appreciated what I was seeing. It turns out that Duennebier has been quite inspired by the cordyceps fungus too, and striving to capture the malignant essence of their fruiting bodies in her creations:

"I think of the masses in my paintings as fruiting bodies, malignant growths that take on a lavish formation. They are not lying still but are very slowly expanding out across the terrain, usurping surrounding materials. These figures become garish amalgamations of color and texture. Similar to the forest still-lifes of the 1600's there is the sense of malevolence connected to the living things that move along the forest floor. But this malevolence derives from the uneasy combination of textural pleasure and disgust. Within the delicacy of the masses there is the indication of 'festering' in the form of sodden underbellies and noxious fumes that rise into the air."

Looking at her work, I couldn't help thinking of the way the suit of Cups is illustrated in Crowley's Thoth deck -- the aquatic scenes that initially radiate purity and luxury, but gradually degrade into festering pools of muck. The Eight of Cups shows us an emotional environment approaching a state of terminal stagnation. In fact, it's the last warning before things turn inhospitably toxic. The Waite deck shows a person beating a hasty retreat, presumably striking out in search of clear and nourishing waters. He is sadder, perhaps but wiser -- the glory of the Nine indicates that a valuable lesson has been learned.

This is a complicated card to draw in terms of any relationship. Sometimes a person just needs to face facts and accept that it's time to move on; on the other hand, sometimes you just need to back off long enough for the environment to heal itself from the muddled mess you helped make. You should be able to assess the situation based on other cards in your reading, but either way it's crucial that you put some distance between yourself and this cesspool. Right away.

One of my favorite details in the Planet Earth video is how the healthy ants can tell when one of their own has become contaminated with cordyceps, and to safeguard the survival of their colony they pick up the body of their fallen mate and chuck it as far as possible from the nest. During times when I seem to be determined to make a bad situation even worse, I always make an effort to chuck myself clear before I totally lose my senses and do something unreasonable; sometimes I walk away for good, sometimes it's just a time-out. ("Oh, hey guys, it's me again! Turns out I don't have the deadly brain fungus after all, I was just really grumpy.") The ability to do this has been one of the most valuable tools of self-preservation at my disposal. My challenge to you, via the Eight of Cups, is to recognize the malignancy you're harboring -- however deliciously cranberry-flavored it may be -- and do something about it before it gets the best of you. [Via]

Previously On Arcanalogue: The Eight of Cups

Summary only...

Eight of Cups

1. Emotional regret
2. Abandoned success
3. Letting go of the past to fully meet the present.

-- David Allen Hulse, The Western Mysteries

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Eight of Cups

During the final years of Francisco de Goya's life, when the artist had gone deaf and was rapidly losing sanity, he retired to his country house and began to paint on the walls. Not just any paintings -- these were a notable shift from the robust and colorful work of his earlier years. Referred to as his "Black Paintings," the new works portrayed scenes that festered with unease, lunacy, and malignant humor. Eventually both floors of his home were filled with these dark visions. Two of the most violent, Saturn Devouring His Sons and Judith and Holofernes, flanked one entrance to the house. The painting pictured here, Heads In a Landscape, reminds me quite a lot of the Rider-Waite version of the Eight of Cups. In that card, a stockpile of cups stack up accusingly in the foreground, left behind by a discontented wayfarer. In Goya's painting, your eye would like to roam the gorgeous sunny landscape, but the leering faces distract the eye, crowding up and practically pressing their themselves against the glass.

In actuality, the Eight of Cups represents an important turning point. A certain ill-fated relationship or foolish fantasy has been indulged as far as you dare let it, and the time has come to face facts, and gather the strength to walk away. The fact that your attachment is emotional, not simply practical, will make it far harder to admit defeat -- but once you do, you'll find that every grudging step moves you closer to the new world just past those hillsides which once seemed so far away. It'll break your heart to abandon that weighty accumulation of cups you'd cherished for so long, but if you're honest with yourself you'll admit that it's been a while since they brought you any satisfaction at all.

Forfeit doesn't necessarily equal failure. Goya abandoned one vision of the world for another, certainly begrudgingly and miserably. But I find this collection of paintings even more valuable and profound than his more famous work; the artist was able to communicate the changes that his heart and mind had undergone, and he painted them where he'd have to face them every single day. But the heaviness and hardship of that process is evident in every single panel. They herald a new age, but openly and bitterly mourn the loss of the old one.

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