Wednesday, March 12, 2014

sway

this is what is going on when i lay out the solitaire.

i try to minimize my commitment to any particular line of play until the issue is forced. i want to build some end sequences. until i get some kings down, i have to weave these into one another. there are some cards you want to get out early because there is another you will have to bury.

try to get a four onto a ten seven and keep it there. but if it is raining threes, play it and hope to be able to bury another. and so on, through fifty-two cards.

and then another hand, and then another. but just three.

as each hand is ending some recurring pattern in the play or some aspect of how the last few cards fall will echo as a narrative.

for example, today. after the first hand, which was successful, i heard "four holding onto two, looking for six." so i wrote it down. and after the second hand it was "eight wands withheld." and after the third hand i wrote "forced to choose the seven [wands], at the expense of seven pentacles."

and i left a few lines between each of these phrases, to go back and insert interpretations of these observations.

under "four holding onto two," i noted "trying to preserve the sense of having just started," and for "looking for six," i wrote "reacting to the perceptions of others." after "eight wands withheld," i put "cannot let go of the rough and tumble, the need for excitement." for "forced to choose the seven [wands]," i wrote "each asserting precedence (or is it just me)," and for "at the expense of seven pentacles," i put "indecision."

and then i wrote a narrative based on this, which read,

i feel i am trying to be open to seeing L. in ever new ways. but there are many habits of behavior and communication between us. many center around my neuroses. not also hers? who is to say.
 
how to drop the neuroses.
 
again, i think the exercise is to take each day anew as much as you can. even in the awareness you can't quite. identify your triggers and ride them out instead of reacting. to the extent you can. and then keep trying to raise the bar.
 
the cards say maybe it's you. can you give it up? why seven pentacles? is it like an addiction?
 
in suares' system seven would be lovers rather than chariot. discernment within rather than control without.
 
maybe it is a fear of material success. self-sabotage, which actually L. has mentioned, though it is a meme i have recounted to her many times. but apparently she has adopted the view.
 
nine, breaking off versus enduring or complacency.
king clubs blocking jack spades

and then i sit and reflect on how this particular narrative emerged. it is a meditative practice, reminding me how my thoughts arise and how this chatter shapes what i imagine is going on. we are telling ourselves these stories all the time.

by identifying these patterns, we can see them for what they are and maybe begin to free ourselves from their sway.


Friday, March 7, 2014

seven spades, six clubs

i am a liar.

i am not certain i have been a liar all my life, but i have been a liar for as long as i can clearly remember.

like anyone else, i have constructed a narrative explaining myself to myself. and in this narrative, i became a liar because i knew i did not deserve the high opinion others had of me. i did not want others to see the selfish, weak, slothful, even depraved person i inwardly knew myself to be.

i probably was a liar before the event i will describe here, but the event figures large in my personal mythology.

when i was i guess six years old, first grade in a public elementary school in 1950s suburbia, some other boy and i were throwing rocks at the edge of the playground. the game was to throw the rock as nearly straight up as possible and, i dunno, watch it fall or something. i don't remember who the other kid was.

one of my throws went wrong. i knew immediately the rock left my hand it would fall not where we where playing, by the fence, but somewhere on the playground among the other kids.

so i assumed the attitude of someone who had nothing to do with it, put my hands in my pockets, and began walking away from the fence.

the rock came down. it struck a teacher in the head, and she fell to the ground. miss w., second grade. tall, thin, angular, with a mass of curly dark hair. i had what i guess you would call a crush on her.

i don't remember what happened next. she was pretty badly injured, i guess. probably they herded us all inside. probably an ambulance was called, etc.

what i do remember is some days later, or maybe it was later that same day, standing with the other fifteen or so kids in my class, all lined up in the classroom facing the teacher, mrs. r., who was asking for a confession. there was a roaring in my ears, and i could see only directly in front of me.

if she had asked us one by one, i don't think i could have stayed silent.