return the homies
bibliomancy forecast for the week of June 9th
the three of pentacles, and I Am Not Ashamed by Barbara Payton:
“His death, and his life, too, made a great impression on me. He had a compulsion to do good. Yet Fate decreed differently. I think after that, more and more I stopped planning. I did what I had to do. I felt a providence was directing me along a predetermined path. I didn't think I could fight it. And so it turned out. I think of Joseph all the time. I think I loved him.”
the aleatory
Change doesn’t happen at the anxious bequest of a single person. It doesn’t happen when it would be nice for it to happen, or when the first person who can see across the tide senses its potential. It doesn’t happen in time to make anyone look like a good person. A compulsion to do good is sometimes a compulsion to seem good (though not always).
I confess—sometimes I have let my frustration get the better of me. The first time Trump got elected, I couldn’t believe everyone just woke up the next day and went to work. I actually wore a black veil when he was inaugurated—even on the elliptical machine at LA Fitness! Which is kind of amazing? And kind of silly? But the reason I mention this is that I let my certainty about what needed to happen and who was wrong also tell me that others were being stupid and cowardly, when they were a million things other than that.
I couldn’t create change by yearning against the bit by myself. And I no longer let the sense of what I think I should be seen doing or saying invoke my action. And I don’t pretend that everything needs to be done by me. But I trust that my heart will make me part of the tide when it’s time.
Perfection is inherently cold. Arrogance is a lonely art. If you don’t want to practice it, you need to hold someone’s hand.
the forecast
Hold hands with a tripartate god at the salad bar.
writing prompt
Sit up straight and try to be cheerful.
a chune
“There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” by the Smiths
At the Rose Bowl Flea Market there are packs of 20-something boys who all sell T-shirts. (Mainly, it seems, to each other—because I don’t know what civilian is buying a $200 Cars T-shirt, but this morning I saw it switch from one T-bro’s stall to another before the first kid could even get it on the hanger. Yeah, and that My Bloody Valentine shirt is five. Hundred. Because what’s an economy? Although, should it interest you, the saturated T-bro market at the Rose Bowl does drive the price down from where you’ll usually find it at Long Beach flea and Pasadena City College flea.) Of a humid June gloom morning at 6:30am, they’re roaming each others’ stalls in packs. It’s kind of cute. This morning I overheard them awestruck, admiring some nice single stitching. Enthusiasm saves it from just being capitalism—although there are those guys, too, in the T-bro world, but they’re older, sweatier, and talk too loud. Not that I’m claiming any aesthetic purity for the bros. But they’re just so serious. Anyway, they all really love the Smiths.
credits: small spells tarot deck by Rachel Howe
I Am Not Ashamed by Barbara Payton
The Queen Is Dead by the Smiths
dear diary, I love LA. X S