Picture the scene – a bedroom in a medieval castle. Sumptuous red and gold draperies around the four-poster bed. Dust motes dance in the shafts of sunlight from the tall, narrow window slits. Pale, nubile young beauties cavorting naked among the tapestries laughing and carefree with their vaginas made of feet unashamedly on show.
A sense of foreboding begins to weigh heavy in the air. A feeling of dark dread in the pit of the stomach. The young women look at each other with wide frightened eyes and dart about the room frantically searching for a way to escape – panic freezes them, they stand huddled, paralyzed and hopeless in a shadowy grey corner.
Enter looming presence. A young man in his physical prime. Flaccid penis wafting around and slapping on his thighs like blind, white deep water sea worm with testicles of two tiny feet. He’s searching. Predatory. He has violence boiling his blood, pressuring his temples and rendering him adrenalin blind.
In his desperation to find the target of his rage he picks up and flings the maidens’ chamber pot and its contents across the room.
As a passive observer I’m afraid. For them, and for me.
And then my partner turns over in bed, stealing the quilt and waking me up. Dazed, confused and somewhat relieved I stumble through to the kitchen for a calming cup of tea and a little vape.
Tarot. Help me out. What on earth is this all about?
That helpless feeling as you sit there watching them under seige, their piss flung as if their fear meant nothing. It’s soul destroying realising you aren’t a superhero who can rid the world of all its ills or rescue the afeard from what they fear.
So nothing about the feet then?
Perhaps this is actually a good reminder not to eat cheese before bed.
The deck used in this post is Tarot of the Angels published by Lo Scarabeo