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