This spring I biked out into the furthest reaches of Queens to visit a statue I'd read about on Forgotten New York. Planted in front of City Hall in 1922, Civic Virtue failed to channel the spirit of the times, and the portrayal of a virtuous warrior trampling octopoid seductresses (meant to symbolize "civic vice") struck suffragettes as a bit off-message. After a 19 year trial period full of many complaints, the statue was exported to the newly-erected Borough Hall in 1941, which is so far from Manhattan, it might as well be in Pennsylvania.
Charmed by anything octopoid, I was determined to see and photograph the statue myself before it fell completely to ruin. In my photoset on Flickr, you can tell which details charmed me the most: a skull grasped by its face, the suckered tentacles slowly being eroded by pollution, the Black Lagoon-esque gargoyles that once spewed water into the fountain (it's now full of garbage). The best surprise waiting for me was this pair of sneakers suspended in the muck -- it takes very little imagination to wonder whether there's an actual person down there still attached to them. A warning, perhaps, to misadventurers like myself.
Regardless of whether Civic Virtue is a triumph or failure of municipal art, he makes a damned fine King of Swords. If the suit of Swords relates to reason, discernment, awareness, and conflict resolution, then the King shows the masterful application of these qualities at its finest and most effective. This is you at your sharpest, able to make war or peace with your judgments. It will require much discipline and a very strong foundation to stand upon as you move the world with your mental leverage, but the vices coiled around you will cower and despair as you rise up to do what needs to be done.
As for the sexism outcry, which persists to this day, I don't really get it. It's mythology and symbolism -- it is what it is. Justice is always portrayed as a female, is that sexist?
8.12.2009
"Move The World With Your Mental Leverage..."
8.03.2009
"Go Invent Something. That Is The American Message..."
Maira Kalman's unique visual blogging style is such a welcome addition to the NY Times that whenever I see a new post from her, I feel as glad as if she'd sent it to me personally. First she visited the Supreme Court, then Thomas Jefferson's historic home, and now she's composed a tribute to founding father Benjamin Franklin. I always feel really busy and productive until I read about people like Franklin (or Kalman, for that matter). And yet, as the artist points out, Franklin's immense achievements never compromised his joie de vivre.
Initially I was disappointed that I'd already found someone else to be the King of Wands, but the more I browsed through Kalman's insights about Franklin, the more obvious it became that the manifesting concrete, practical results was the man's true gift. Though he was ever a dreamer and a philosopher, he was also quick to remind us that "A penny saved is a penny earned."
The King of Coins enjoys mastery over the most evident realms of reality. He toils and lives sensually, trusts his senses implicitly, in fact. He reigns in his fantasies, yoking them alongside his ambition so that together they pull his plow and feed his family. Most of us aspire to take better care of ourselves, earning our maturity the hard way -- for the King of Coins, maturity is a natural talent, like being left-handed.
Drawing this card doesn't necessarily mean that you're a latent inventor-genius on the verge of founding a new nation (though I do hope that turns out to be the case). However, you can count on the King to help you locate the point in your world where inspiration and obligation intersect. If you settle down at that crossroads for a while, you'll be in an excellent position to pluck ideas out of the aether and point them in the most practical directions possible. As the King, your decisions will wield power -- you're inventing reality for yourself and all who rely on you. Kalman leaves us with these stirring thoughts:
"Everything is invented.
Language. Childhood. Careers.
Relationships. Religion.
Philosophy. The Future.
They are not there for the plucking.
They don't exist in some natural state.
They must be invented by people.
And that, of course, is a great thing.
Don't mope in your room.
Go invent something.
That is the American message..." [Via]
5.24.2009
The King of Coins
1. Toiling, laboring, or working
2. Person who is steady, reliable, practical, and enduring
3. Person who is insensitive, slow to anger, but furious if roused.
-- David Allen Hulse, The Western Mysteries
5.18.2009
"...A Capacity For Action."
"I have only a second-rate brain," Theodore Roosevelt once said, "but I think I have a capacity for action." This and other invigorating quotations have been transformed into a collection of Teddy-inspired motivational posters by The Art of Manliness, in hopes of starting your week off with "a swift kick in the pants of manly inspiration." If you're looking for salient points of view on VIGOR or COURAGE, then by all means, allow the 26th president to rock you in the cradle of his pugnacious wisdom.
Character isn't an adequate replacement for wisdom, empathy, or common sense, but magical things happen when it's added to any of these other qualities. The King of Wands is a card which exudes confidence and control, but there is an underlying passionate nature that adds a kick to the cocktail, resulting in a character so robust that the the even the laws of physics seem temporarily foiled. Whether a person is right or wrong is often less important than whether they are both inspired and inspiring.
We can't all be Teddy Roosevelt, but I'd like to think that we are each capable of bursts of great leadership and unstoppable forward motion. Before you start shoving people out of your way, however, meditate on the importance of character. Teddy may have dominated every conversation he found himself in, but he was able to do it in a way that left people feeling good about it instead of trampled on. [Via]
2.06.2009
"A Steady Protective Influence, However Lighthearted..."
Each day during his lunch break, this dad turns tomorrow's plain brown lunch-bag into a work of art his kids can be proud to carry to school. I can't think of a more awesome way to stay ever-present in the lives of one's kids, inspire them creatively, and remain in touch with one's own childlike sense of wonder and whimsy.
A great many of them seem almost talismanic -- they seem to radiate a steady protective influence, however lighthearted. While Dad's empathetic sense of humor has caused friction with the ruling entities at school at least once, the Calvin and Hobbes imagery that occasionally pops up in his work is particularly apt for the King of Cups -- Hobbes was certainly always the most rational and compassionate protective entity in Calvin's world, reaching across biological boundaries to offer a sane, thoughtful counterpoint (though he sure didn't hold back from demonstrating that his more combustible tendencies were just below the surface). [Via]
12.07.2008
King of Wands
Magician Matthew Holtzclaw has carved out an interesting niche within a timeless profession; he not only mystifies audiences as a performer, but has also become a consultant for theatrical productions who want their special effects to have a magical quality all their own. "I'm often asked to find creative ways to kill people," he told me during an interview this summer. He also quoted Penn & Teller on the beauty of fake blood and violence: "Gory special effects celebrate the victory of art over cruelty." Holtzclaw recently participated in a New Yorker Festival panel discussion about magic, which you can watch here -- if you skip ahead to 25:00, you'll get to see see his amazing work in action.
The King of Wands is quite a multi-faceted character, just like his mate the Queen. After all, it's not just any one quality that's required to keep one at the top of one's game. The King sincerely believes that his battles will be won or lost depending on his own personal investment in them, not that of his troops. So he proceeds accordingly and trains tirelessly, exploring his own ideals and prejudices and techniques for signs of weakness or obsolescence, seeking counsel as well as counseling and motivating those around him. By showtime, he's already several steps ahead of the audience, his apparent effortlessness masking the incredible effort that has gone into every maneuver.
While he epitomizes willpower and visionary strength, he's no steamroller like the King of Swords. He doesn't have to be -- since his own personal inspiration is infectious and encouraging, it sets a standard that people genuinely want to aspire to. The victory of art over cruelty, indeed...
11.29.2008
King of Cups
After a lifetime of saturation in the saccharine Disneyfied version of the Hundred Acre Wood, the alternate universe of Vinni Puh seems both alien and crazily familiar; the characters are practically unrecognizable, and the dialogue is unintelligible unless you speak Russian, so it's an interesting way to absorb the story minus your prejudices as a world-weary adult. Want to watch? Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4.
There are lots of ways to analyze the evolution of A. A. Milne's best-known creation over the decades, but for our purposes it's mainly just important to appreciate the Pooh character as a free-thinker and innovator, a character of surprising emotional depth who is ruled by his imagination. He's in touch with as his baser instincts (which manifest as cravings for pleasure and comfort) but he's also something of a philosopher, constantly experimenting with his own boundaries and those of the community. Obviously the leader of his tribe, he's a harmonizer, not a ruler.
It's hard to see all that through eyes that are shackled to well-worn iconography, but a fresh look at this world in a spanking-new (well, to us) context makes it all apparent again. How do we import that creative spirit into our own lives? How do we train ourselves to lay down our swords and walk into battle holding balloons, valuing experimentation and exploration over conquest? How do we rally others around our cause via inspiration instead of coercion? Perhaps we learned all this when we were very young, and have simply forgotten it. [Via]
9.21.2008
King of Swords
In order to make the eerily beautiful Corpus Clock, inventor John Taylor sought the help of 200 engineers, sculptors, scientists, jewellers and calligraphers. While the show is stolen by the clockwork beast that sits astride it, snapping its jaws and blinking its eyes as it devours the passing minutes, the clock's most impressive elements are hidden away inside:
"For all its apparent eccentricity, the clock is based on solidly traditional clockwork - unusual in these days of digital electronic clocks. It has taken seven years' research and construction, incorporates six patented inventions, and is predicted to run for at least 250 years assuming the world lasts that long."
It may seem like a strange paradox to spend so much time and effort creating a device that symbolizes the brevity of our mortal lives, but this is the essence of the King of Swords. One could say that the fact that he has a contraption like this where his heart should be is what makes him such an effective leader. He may astound you with his dextrous wit and flexibility, he may awe you with the cool air of calm that he brings to any challenge -- but unlike the Queen, whose brushes with injustice and loss have commanded a defensive nature , the King is too inspired by the possibility of perfection to care much about human foibles and failings. They don't come much stricter or straighter than this!
This ideal is one that's very difficult to ever truly attain, but also one that a great many people aspire to. It's bound to leave most of them feeling quite insecure; oh sure, you may occasionally get to revel in being a paragon of mankind's evolutionary achievement -- but being human also means having to blow your nose, or tripping over cracks in the sidewalk, or becoming tongue-tied around people who resemble your ex-girlfriend. Just as Icarus flew too close to the sun, a person can't leap too high or far in a single bound without occasionally landing on their face. For you careerists out there, the King makes an excellent mascot, a force to channel judiciously in key situations. Appeal to him and learn from him to your heart's content. Try to become him, however, and it will sting all the more when you remember that in the end, the Chronophage devours themighty just as readily and steadily as it devours the world's fools, lovers, and paupers. [Via]
5.16.2008
King of Coins
The essay Living Like Weasels by Annie Dillard captures this card's essence more purely than I ever could:
A weasel is wild. Who knows what he thinks? He sleeps in his underground den, his tail draped over his nose. Sometimes he lives in his den for two days without leaving. Outside, he stalks rabbits, mice, muskrats, and birds, killing more bodies than he can eat warm, and often dragging the carcasses home. Obedient to instinct, he bites his prey at the neck, either splitting the jugular vein at the throat or crunching the brain at the base of the skull, and he does not let go . One naturalist refused to kill a weasel who was socketed into his hand deeply as a rattlesnake. The man could in no way pry the tiny weasel off and he had to walk half a mile to water, the weasel dangling from his palm, and soak him off like a stubborn label.
And once, says Ernest Thompson Seton-- once, a man shot an eagle out of the sky. He examined the eagle and found the dry skull of a weasel fixed by the jaws to his throat. The supposition is that the eagle had pounced on the weasel and the weasel swiveled and bit as instinct taught him, tooth to neck, and nearly won. I would like to have seen that eagle from the air a few weeks or months before he was shot: was the whole weasel still attached to his feathered throat, a fur pendant? Or did the eagle eat what he could reach, gutting the living weasel with his talons before his breast, bending his beak, cleaning the beautiful airborne bones?
I have been reading about weasels because I saw one last week. I startled a weasel who startled me, and we exchanged a long glance...
Twenty minutes from my house, through the woods by the quarry and across the highway, is Hollins Pond, a remarkable piece of shallowness, where I like to go at sunset and sit on a tree trunk. Hollins Pond is also called Murray's Pond; it covers two acres of bottomland near Tinker Creek with six inches of water and six thousand lily pads. In winter, brown-and-white steers stand in the middle of it, merely dampening their hooves; from the distant shore they look like miracle itself, complete with miracle's nonchalance. Now, in summer, the steers are gone. The water lilies have blossomed and spread to a green horizontal plane that is terra firma to plodding blackbirds, and tremulous ceiling to black leeches, cray fish, and carp.
This is, mind you, suburbia. It is a five-minute walk in three directions to rows of houses, though none is visible here. There's a 55 mph highway at one end of the pond, and a nesting pair of wood ducks at the other. Under every bush is a muskrat hole or a beer can. The far end is an alternating series of fields and woods, fields and woods, threaded everywhere with motorcycle tracks-- in whose bare clay wild turtles lay eggs.
So. I had crossed the highway, stepped over two low barbed-wire fences, and traced the motorcycle path in all gratitude through the wild rose and poison ivy of the pond's shoreline up into high grassy fields. Then I cut down through the woods to the mossy fallen tree where I sit. This tree is excellent. It makes a dry, upholstered bench at the upper, marshy end of the pond, a plush jetty raised from the thorny shore between a shallow blue body of water and a deep blue body of sky.
The sun had just set. I was relaxed on the tree trunk, ensconced in the lap of lichen, watching the lily pads at my feet tremble and part dreamily over the thrusting path of a carp. A yellow bird appeared to my right and flew behind me. It caught my eye; I swiveled around-- and the next instant, inexplicably, I was looking down at a weasel, who was looking up at me.
Weasel! I'd never seen one wild before. He was ten inches long, thin as a curve, a muscled ribbon, brown as fruitwood, soft-furred, alert. His face was fierce, small and pointed as a lizard's; he would have made a good arrowhead. There was just a dot of chin, maybe two brown hairs' worth, and then the pure white fur began that spread down his underside. He had two black eyes I didn't see, any more than you see a window.
The weasel was stunned into stillness as he was emerging from beneath an enormous shaggy wild rose bush four feet away. I was stunned into stillness twisted backward on the tree trunk. Our eyes locked, and someone threw away the key.
Our look was as if two lovers, or deadly enemies, met unexpectedly on an overgrown path when each had been thinking of something else: a clearing blow to the gut. It was also a bright blow to the brain, or a sudden beating of brains, with all the charge and intimate grate of rubbed balloons. It emptied our lungs. It felled the forest, moved the fields, and drained the pond; the world dismantled and tumbled into that black hole of eyes. If you and I looked at each other that way, our skulls would split and drop to our shoulders. But we don't. We keep our skulls. So.
He disappeared. This was only last week, and already I don't remember what shattered the enchantment. I think I blinked, I think I retrieved my brain from the weasel's and tried to memorize what I was seeing, and the weasel felt the yank of separation, the careening splash-down into real life and the urgent current of instinct. He vanished under the wild rose. I waited motionless, my mind suddenly full of data and my spirit with pleadings, but he didn't return.
Please do not tell me about "approach-avoidance conflicts." I tell you I've been in that weasel's brain for sixty seconds, and he was in mine. Brains are private places, muttering through unique and secret tapes-- but the weasel and I both plugged into another tape simultaneously, for a sweet and shocking time. Can I help it if it was a blank?
What goes on in his brain the rest of the time? What does a weasel think about? He won't say. His journal is tracks in clay, a spray of feathers, mouse blood and bone: uncollected, unconnected, loose-leaf, and blown.
I would like to learn, or remember, how to live. I come to Hollins Pond not so much to learn how to live as, frankly, to forget about it. That is, I don't think I can learn from a wild animal how to live in particular-- shall I suck warm blood, hold my tail high, walk with my footprints precisely over the prints of my hands?-- but I might learn something of mindlessness, something of the purity of living in the physical sense and the dignity of living without bias or motive. The weasel lives in necessity and we live in choice, hating necessity and dying at the last ignobly in its talons. I would like to live as I should, as the weasel lives as he should. And I suspect that for me the way is like the weasel's: open to time and death painlessly, noticing everything, remembering nothing, choosing the given with a fierce and pointed will.
I missed my chance. I should have gone for the throat. I should have lunged for that streak of white under the weasel's chin and held on, held on through mud and into the wild rose, held on for a dearer life. We could live under the wild rose as weasels, mute and uncomprehending. I could very calmly go wild. I could live two days in the den, curled, leaning on mouse fur, sniffing bird bones, blinking, licking, breathing musk, my hair tangled in the roots of grasses. Down is a good place to go, where the mind is single. Down is out, out of your ever-loving mind and back to your careless senses. I remember muteness as a prolonged and giddy fast, where every moment is a feast of utterance received. Time and events are merely poured, unremarked, and ingested directly, like blood pulsed into my gut through a jugular vein. Could two live that way? Could two live under the wild rose, and explore by the pond, so that the smooth mind of each is as everywhere present to the other, and as received and as unchallenged, as falling snow?
We could, you know. We can live any way we want. People take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience-- even of silence-- by choice. The thing is to stalk your calling in a certain skilled and supple way, to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse. This is yielding, not fighting. A weasel doesn't "attack" anything; a weasel lives as he's meant to, yielding at every moment to the perfect freedom of single necessity.
I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you. Then even death, where you're going no matter how you live, cannot you part. Seize it and let it seize you up aloft even, till your eyes burn out and drop; let your musky flesh fall off in shreds, and let your very bones unhinge and scatter, loosened over fields, over fields and woods, lightly, thoughtless, from any height at all, from as high as eagles.
