Tom Stewart's Open Salon Blog

"Did You Learn Anything?" For my Father and Will Eisner

Thu, 6 Oct 2011 12:10:15 -0400

“Did You Learn Anything?”

For my Father and Will Eisner

                                             By Tom Stewart.

My Dad gave the game away. He was supposed to stick to the Iowa stubbornness that has been celebrated in word and song, and go along with code of dying: don’t talk about it, don’t mention it, just act naturally. We were spending three days with him a couple of weeks before he died, and he rallied to see me, my brothers and sister again, trying hard to pretend that he didn’t know why we were there, trying not to think it unusual for us to have come from different points in Washington State and Colorado to Dunlap Iowa, a town that defines ‘wide spot in the road’. We must have been just passing through, and stopped off to see the old man. That must be it. I can play along, sure. There was Dad, standing outside on the walkway to my aunt’s house where he’d been living with her and my 96 year-old Grandfather, he was just coming home from another doctor’s visit. I walked over, smiling, it was the first time I’d been in his physical presence in a long time, and he grabbed my arm with a strength I wouldn’t have credited his body capable of, pulled me closer, and said in a weaker version of his husky whisper “Gee, it’s good to see you, Tom.” Not too many people used the word ‘gee’ anymore. I helped him inside to his chair, held him to keep him from keeling over, like it was an ordinary day, just a thing I would have done anyway.

He screwed it up though. He acknowledged that something was not right. After our arrival, he came out of his little bedroom with an armful of, well, junk. He’d decided he needed us to have his binoculars, old GE cassette recorder, assorted over-the-counter spy gear (my father had decided the government was not only inordinately fascinated with his pile of clipped and photocopied knowledge, but that they were coming for it, and him, any day now), and his clock radio. He didn’t need the hoard anymore, and he was sure we would. My brother Jeff and I looked at each other and well, what could you say to a dying man? No? We took it. He led us outside, his pale and yellowish body shaking with each step, to a prefab shed loaded with his old tools. For 30 years he was a cement mason, crawling on his hands and knees, making thick, rough concrete smooth. He had buckets of trowels (each with a cross carved into the handle, his mark to show the world, and borrowers, that it was his tool), his old bee gear (he was also a bee keeper, a money making business that never made much money), and assorted other junk from his last 30-40 years. Junk. He laid it at our feet. “Take what you want, it’s all yours.” He talked of the times he smoothed the Grand Coulee Dam, how he helped build houses, buildings, walks and walls. He cussed those damn bees some more as he dragged a bee smoker from a gallon bucket. We asked him about this tool, or that job, as the day left. Dad liked talking about it, but not too much. It was getting cold, and after all, he wasn’t well.

As Dad made his way back inside, Jeff and I looked at the pile in the fading light. We didn’t say much, except to sort out what we wanted. I got the bee smoker and bonnet. Jeff got the branding iron Dad used for marking his beehives. We each took a trowel for ourselves, and Jeff took one each for his three kids. The rest would go to the family members who hadn’t showed up yet. We packed it all away again, and stored what we were taking in the car trunk. When we first picked up Dads tools that twilight, the things he used to ‘keep you kids in shoes’ (people who grew up during the depression have a thing about shoes), we had the memories of having seen and handled them before, when Dad was a cement mason and we were dumb kids who sweated in 100 degree heat alongside him, getting our butts stung by those damn bees. Now we won’t be able to pick up one of those trowels without remembering a poor dying man who wanted desperately to give one last thing to his kids, and gave them what he had, priceless ‘junk’.

            You’ll have to excuse me. When I first heard about the death of Will Eisner, so close the the death of my dad, I couldn't help but think of them as nearly one. Both have been gone for over six years now, but I still think of dad everyday, and of Will whenever I pick up a comic book, or sit down to write something. They both had such an impact on me, more than I ever realized. My parents divorced when I was about 7 years old, and Dad would come by once a week or so, give me my allowance (most of which I blew on comics), and during the summer, I would help him with his beehives. We would put on our coveralls, tape the sleeves and legs shut (the little bastards got everywhere) and spend hours in that 100 degree weather, in the desert that is Pasco Washington, smoking out the bees and moving those stupid, heavy hives from one row to another. It was about the only time I could spend with my Dad. It was also extra money, comic book buying money. Money to spend on Will Eisner Spirit comic books.

            You see, if we finished at a decent time, Dad would drive me to Richland, to the Bookworm bookstore so I could buy comics. He would warn me not to blow all my money, but hey! I was a dumb kid who loved comic books, I was going to buy as many comics as that 20.00 would let me. I would walk in, sticky black with sweat and honey, smelling of smoke, and head for the bathroom. That was where they kept the old comics, on shelves on either side of the toilet, from floor to ceiling. One side Marvel, the other DC, and on the floor was the old Warren magazines. I was always hunting for something in there. Sometimes it was Batman, sometimes Green Lantern or the JLA, sometimes Captain Action comics, but always I would check for Will Eisner’s the Spirit.

It was 1974. I had picked up my first copy of the Spirit (#4, with a cool oil painted cover) and headed to the counter when I was stopped by my older brother: “You don’t want that.” he said. “It’s in black and white! And it’s a buck! You could buy five other comics for that!” Well, he was right about spinach, and he was older, so he must be real smart. I put the magazine back. I didn’t give it another try until issue #9. This time I made it to the counter, bought the comic, then spent the rest of the afternoon hiding out in the refrigerator box that I had snagged from the neighbors and installed in the my room, reading the Spirit. Reading Will Eisner. I couldn’t believe it. The Spirit was a man declared dead, who wore a mask, gloves and a blue snap-brim Fedora to disguise his identity while cleaning up the underworld. Reading the Spirit was like watching old Cagney or Bogart films, the ones where Jimmy would try to go straight, but Bogey kept getting pulling him back into the life. Exotic people like Ward Heelers, sweaty city councilmen, union bosses and cheap, mob controlled building contractors walked the streets in a black and white, ink drenched, noisy, smelly, El-Train rattled, crumbling Central City, (call it what you like, even I knew it was New York) living a life that would ultimately place them in the path of the Spirit. It was serious, it was funny, and the imagination of the stories, of the art, blew my little boy mind. Each Spirit story was seven pages long, but was a window on a world I’d never heard of in tiny Pasco, WA. I was fascinated. Not only did reading the Spirit make me want to immediately pick up my pencil and draw, it made me want to know more, to find each and every issue I had missed, to know more about the Spirit and his world. This was first printed in the 1940’s? Holy Geeze! Most of all, I wanted to know more about the guy who signed each story with a sweeping brush signature, this guy who told stories of the Spirit, who drew in this wonderful cinematic style, who conceived each and every seven page lesson in storytelling that was the Spirit, this ‘Will Eisner’. I was ten years old, and I’d found my calling. No, I wasn’t going to be the Spirit, I was going to be Will Eisner!

Already I was famous for my drawing. Not for being any good (I was better at it than most of the other ten year olds, but that wasn’t a huge feat). No, I was famous for drawing on anything. Tests, books, desks, tee shirts, paper bags, walls, anything within my reach (and momentarily out of the sight of adults) would end up with a Batman drawing on it. Sometimes Robin, sometimes both, depending on the amount of time I had. Now, that all changed. Now everything would have the Spirit on it. Just drawing Batman smacking the Joker was no longer enough, everything now would be a story in pictures. I started drawing whole pages of panels. I filled sketchbook after sketchbook with my Eisner swipes. Everyone had blue masks and the best hats and suits I could draw. My dad didn’t know what to make of it, but he encouraged me. He got me more sketch books when I had Eisner’d and Spirited out the last one, he enrolled me in a weekend art class to help me learn to draw something besides masked crimefighters. He even encouraged me when I was trying to save up enough to buy that first big Eisner purchase, ‘A Contract With God”.

I’d been seeing the ad for weeks (months?) in the comics. Will Eisner, the creator of the worlds coolest strip was putting out an all-new book, a BOOK, not a just a COMIC book. Hardcovers, nice paper, all new stories about life in a tenement in the 30’s! It wouldn’t have the Spirit, (Eisner had moved past guys in masks, even if I had not) but I didn’t care, I had to have it. Signed and numbered by Will Eisner himself? I had to have it! I don’t even remember what it cost, I just remember that I had to save for it… and I couldn’t tell my mother I was getting it. You see, my mother has a habit of reverse-encouragement. The more excited I was about something, the more Mom thought it was bad, horrible, doomed to fail and just down right wrong. This applied to comics in general, and Mr. Eisner in particular. (It also applied to the Beatles and Buddy Holly, but that’s a different story). My mother couldn’t believe someone would publish such a thing, “and for HOW much? They must have seen you kids coming!” So I didn’t tell her. I reserved my copy, saved the money out of my allowance, and waited for the announcement to send it. I gave the cash to Dad on one of his weekly visits, he wrote the check, and I sent it off. And waited.

And waited.

Oh, of course, my sister ratted on me. No honor among siblings. My mother was sure I’d been ripped off. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of months, but to me it seemed like years. When it finally came, I carefully took off the wrapper, and there it was. A plain black binding with gold leaf letters ‘A Contract With God’ by Will Eisner, lettered in that great signature of his (one I copied so many times myself). Inside it was signed and numbered, just like the ad said: #955/1000, Will Eisner. I couldn’t believe it. “Let me see that.” My mother took it and ran her finger across the signature, “I bet that’s not real.” I took the book back and went to my room to sit against the door and read it, and re-read it. The only person impressed with it was Dad.

“Now, that’s a nice book. You should keep it nice. Handle it with care.” I could take my wannabe Eisner sketches to him and he’d put on his glasses, standing there by the door in his dirty blue Dickie workclothes, and look over each one. Even when I copied a whole Eisner story, line for line, he looked at it, over praised it, and asked me, ” What did you learn?”

“Well, I learned I’m not Will Eisner.”

He laughed. “And Will Eisner isn’t Tom Stewart. And when he was your age, he was probably copying old comic strips!”

Probably. Probably better then I could copy Eisner comic strips.

Dad helped me keep up my Eisner fix when Warren Publishing stopped publishing the Spirit by writing me a check to Kitchen Sink Press when they picked up the rights (I paid him back, of course). Dad was not a comics fan, but he would occasionally glance over an issue of the Spirit, something he remembered reading when he was a kid. “Yeah, I had ‘em all, yer Superman, Batman, the Spirit, but yer Grandmother threw ‘em out.”

He’d shake his head, I’d shake mine (grandmothers!). As I grew older, I would discover other artists like Neal Adams, Alex Toth, a whole wealth of them, but I never forgot Eisner (my Adams swipes looked like Adams inked by Eisner, lots of shadows and ink). Dad would look over my pages, praise them, and point out the panels he liked best, almost always the Eisner swipes. The man had taste.

After high school, I moved away, then moved back. I started college and took art classes, but had switched to mostly acting classes (posters I designed for the plays looked like Eisner-lite). Dad left the cement masons due to arthritis in his knees. His health was failing, and he started getting, well, a bit paranoid. He pulled me aside one day to inform me he’d solved the Kennedy assignation. He had proof, Kennedy was killed by a Cuban hit man who’d fired 26 shots at him. I said I’d hoped they got their deposit back, because, well, that must have been one lousy hitman.

Dad didn’t speak to me for two weeks.

I won a scholarship to an acting school in Seattle, and had to leave in a week. I packed up everything I could, and left the rest for my brother to gather up for me. When I saw my dad to say goodbye, I gave him a drawing I did. It was a portrait of me, in a blue mask and fedora... of course.

Soon after, Dad, no longer feeling safe in a state he was sure was going to slide into the ocean any moment, left Pasco, Washington to move to Dunlap, Iowa, where his family still lived. We wrote letters back and forth, mine filled with tales of the school, and little drawings, his with tales of government surveillance and dire news of the end of all life… any day now. We talked on the phone, but didn’t see much of each other, both too poor to make the trip to Iowa or Seattle.

Years later, I finally met Will Eisner. I’d written him a few letters, telling him of a play I’d written and performed that was dedicated to him. His letters back were always kind and gracious. When I met him in San Diego, I reminded him of our correspondence. He laughed, shook my hand, and signed the old Spirit comics I offered him. As he commented on the stories, I told that I’d once copied an entire Spirit story. ‘Really?’ He leaned forward and peered at me through his glasses,

“Did you learn anything?”

“I learned I was no Will Eisner.” Will laughed like my father had.

After my Dad passed in May of ‘04, my brother found all the letters I’d ever written him. Jeff was going through Dad’s things, and here, among the end of the world pamphlets and ‘how to not pay your taxes or license your car’ books, were all the envelopes, notes, cards that I’d sent him. In an honored position, tucked inside a cardboard holder to keep it safe, was that drawing I’d made of myself as the Spirit. On the back was written, in my Dads spider scrawl, ‘Tom as Will Eisner’. Close enough.

Both are gone now, my Father and Will Eisner. I thought of both of them last night, as I worked on a play based loosely on Will, and one that I know my dad would love to have seen preformed. I was no Will Eisner, but I was never meant to be. I was John Stewart's son. And that's what I have learned.

My Mom. DC Comics and the Very Dirty Basement

Thu, 21 Apr 2011 22:04:48 -0400

My Mom, DC Comics and the Very Dirty Basement

My mother is dying. The years of smoking and abuse caught up with her and she was given around six months to live. This was about three years ago. I figure she’s too stubborn to go, but she told me she's wanting to hold a copy of my first book and read it before even thinking of going anywhere.

Part of leaving this earth and its pleasures of Winston 100's and liter bottles of Diet Coke is getting rid of an accumulation of 70 years of stuff, of treasures, of irreplaceable memories, of just plain junk. A whole house full. She gave me her stacks of old records that we kids and mom would listen to (Marty Robbins, Roger Miller, Nat King Cole, Johnny Horton), her autographed picture of Jim Reeves (signed on a 'Grand 'ole Opry' tour with Homer and Jethro, Baker Oregon, 1954), and all my crap I left behind when my circus of teenhood left town. Yearbooks, stacks of drawings and sketchbooks (covered in Batman drawings, of course) and my old comic books.

Oh I have plenty of comic books already. Years of writing for comic history magazines, going to conventions and collecting had left me with boxes of the precious things. These Mom had, however, were the ones I bought at the Seven-Eleven when I was a kid, the ones left after me and my siblings finished with them. They were in the basement, or what was left of the basement after several floods (mostly brought on by my sister and her epic battles with the washing machine) all I had to do was go get them. This was a three hour trip, so I had an excuse to put it off. My moms house reminds of the show Hoarders, so walking into the house proper, let along the jungle of cities that is the basement is not something I undertake lightly.

Finally, the stars aligned. My wife and I packed the car for the trip (Diet Pepsi, chips, Snickers, and a change of clothes from all the smoke and dirt of the basement) and we headed off to Pasco WA, the Tri Cities, land of my people, with the old cars in yards and trucker caps to prove it. No, that’s not a dig.

My mom was in her usual place, her old chair in front of the console TV, surrounded by empty or near empty plastic two liter soda bottles and heaping piles of cigarette butts. Yes, even with COPD and on oxygen, she still smokes. This is what addition is. My mom and I caught up, which never takes long, as we don’t always know what to say to each other, and I wandered off to find my youth, hopefully still neatly stacked in cardboard boxes.

I found several boxes of my old comics, about fifteen years worth, all smelling of my mothers' smoke, (and I know my little sister and her friends were down there lighting up too, thinking they were getting away with something) and tattered from reading and re-reading. I would read them, my brothers would read them, and sister would read them. My two little sisters would shred them, if they could get ahold of them. My wife couldn't believe how many there were (I couldn’t believe how many were left), and she couldn't figure out how they were going to fit the things into the car for the trip back. I am the packing master, I knew I could make them fit

I, of course, would have to sort them out. No, really. I had to force myself to go through and touch, caress, smooth and thumb through each and every one of them. How would I know what to take back and what to throw away? (Ha! Like I was going to throw anything away.)

As I dug through these 70s-early 80s piles, I found that, back when, I loved comics. I still do, but then, from the age of around six, until I left high school, I really LOVED comics. I knew every twist and turn of DC Comics continuity (the many different Green Lanterns, which Flash was in the JSA which in the JLA), I bought almost every DC title from 1974 to 1982-83 (Except those stupid love books, some of which are now the most valuable) and read them into submission. I found The Bookworm in Richland, a used bookstore that sold old comics and bought them by the foot. I memorized obscure facts and issue numbers. I understood the multiple earths othe DC universe, it made perfect sense. To me. I was obviously a nut of the greatest proportions, or a kid with no life. These heroes were my friends, and I knew them, knew them well.

I was excavating a kid that I had almost forgotten, and it worried me a little. I found that, yeah, I still like comics, I mean I buy a ton of the things every week, don't I? But...

But the years, as years must, had jaded my view. Working in comic shops and huge conventions had blunted my passion, rounded my love, The enveloping darkness in comics had veiled my heroes, and I had mentally moved on. I was reading comics to keep up with the numbers, rather then the story. It took a bunch of musty, smelling stale smoke, four color paper to make me remember that kid.

I made a vow that I was going to re-read every one of those books, and replace the ones that had been loved to dusty death. I was going to figure out who that kid was, and what he knew. It would be a challenge...

You see, that kid read every comic he got his hands on, memorized the Overstreet Comic Price Guide cover to cover, collected every mention of comics in the paper and pasted it in a scrapbook... he was a comics nut.

I hugged my mom goodbye, (we Stewart’s are not really huggers, no matter what, it always looks like we really don’t quite know how), and she chastised me for not coming by more often. I agreed to try to make it home more, not easy with my life across the mountains, and I picked up and carried the last box out, holding the bottom so it would burst.

As I loaded the boxes in the car, (I TOLD her they would fit), I wasn't sure I could live up to the pace that kid set, he was a few years younger after all, but I was going to try...in my jaded way.

Interview With a Very Rich Boy

Thu, 21 Apr 2011 16:04:12 -0400

Interview with a Very Rich Boy

By Tom Stewart.

TS: Well, we should start at the beginning. Where were you born?

RR: At the Richard Rich Hospital, in the Regina Rich Pediatric wing, grounds of the Rich Estate, sometime in the 1950's.

TS: Really.

RR: Yes really. This is the point where you make some rather lame joke about how 'well preserved' I look.

TS: Uh, let's just say I it made and move on.

RR: Let's.

TS: Well, you do look freakin twelve.

RR: Bone structure.

TS: Well, I just thought with your money…

RR: Bone structure.

TS: Moving on…

RR: Yes. Good idea.

TS: So, how did you get started in comics.

RR: I started as a back up to Little Dot...

TS: Yes, how did you get that gig?

RR: Talent.

TS: Yes, of course, but I've heard your father...

RR: Talent.

TS: Right. So... how was it working with Miss Dot?

RR: All right, once you got past that sick dot obsession of hers.

TS: Obsession...?

RR: Of course they cleaned it up for the comics. We were selling to kids, you understand?

TS: Of course.

RR: Of course. Did you know that she chased cars?

TS: Nooo....

RR: Tires. They look like dots.

TS: Ah.

RR: She disappeared for a week once. Almost missed an issue! We had Little Lotta standing by just in case...

TS: Really! What...?

RR: We found her finally. She was holed up in coin vault # 2,104. She'd had been in there the whole time, stacking coins...

TS: Ah...

RR: 'Dots'.

TS: Yes, well, after working with Dot, you got your own title.

RR: Well, it was obvious she was too far gone to keep doing all those books. Stretched too thin, and with her fragile condition...

TS: Right...

RR: So I stepped in with my own book.

TS: Now, here again I've heard...

RR: Talent.

TS: Talent. Yes, of course. Uh, now, it seems that most of the Harvey comic characters had certain...'obsessions'?

RR: Yes, SOME did.

TS: Yes. Dot with uh, 'dots'.

RR: Yes.

TS: Little Lotta with food.

RR: She always claimed she was big boned.

TS: Really.

RR: Gluttony. Is that funny?

TS: Well, she was popular.

RR: I can see her featured in one story, maybe, MAYBE two, but there were reams of the stuff!

TS: Well, I thought...

RR: And the mountains of food! Good Lord man!

TS: About your own...

RR: And the belches out of her! That's not comedy!

TS: About Richie Rich #1...

RR: Yes. I thought we should start out slow, then branch out into other titles.

TS: Well, you had quite a few titles...

RR: Yes, that was part of the strategy, move out slowly into the market, see what was selling, than give the public more of it.

TS: Sure.

RR: Sound business planning.

TS: Again, I heard that...

RR: Talent.

TS: Talent.

RR: And popularity.

TS: Of course. Now, while you expanded your titles, some of your fellow Harvey characters lost some books...

RR: Again, business.

TS: Little Dot lost most of hers...

RR: Hmmm

TS: Little Lotta became a secondary character in the back of Dot's book I believe.

RR: I've already stated my feelings about Lotta...

TS: Characters like Hot Stuff, Stumbo, Spooky, and even Casper lost books...

RR: Now really! I should feel bad about this? It's business! If people wanted their books, they would have bought their books! What they wanted was Richie Rich! Richie Rich Cash! Richie Rich Millions, Billions! Zillions! Gems! Diamonds! Bank Books, Vaults, Vaults of Mystery, Gold and Silver!

TS: Super Richie?

RR: That was for tax purposes. In short, they wanted Richie, they got Richie!

TS: That's a lot of Richie.

RR: It wasn't ALL me, though. I did do the team up books...

TS: Richie and Jackie Jokers...

RR: Great guy, a prince.

TS: Professor Keanbean...

RR (laughter) Oh yes! Nice man.

TS: Billy Bellhops...

RR: Good kid. I ran into him the other day!

TS: Really?

RR: Yes. I gave him a good tip.

TS: Cadbury…

RR: Good fellow! We were just talking about doing a new project together, soon!

TS: Gloria…

RR: Just friends.

TS: Friends?

RR: She just could never get used to the whole money thing.

TS: Uh...Your cousin Reggie?

RR: Tax fraud. Should be out in two years.

TS: Thank you so much for this…

RR: Think nothing of it dear boy! Enchanted!

TS: I have here a document I wanted to show you before the end of this interview...

RR: Wait a minute, this wasn't in the approved questions...!

TS: It's a sales statement showing millions of comics purchased by one company...

RR: What! I never agreed to this!

TS: I have proof that the company, the RR Rules Company, was wholly owned by a Mr. D. Dollar...

RR: I don't see...

TS: Mr. DOGIE Dollar! Your own dog!

(inaudible remarks. Several lawyers appear as if from nowhere)

RR: This interview is over! (Richie rises, stalks off, throwing mic on the floor)

TS: But we haven't covered your involvement in the suspicious death of Casper! We know he wasn’t always a ghost!

RR: (expletive deleted)

The Secrets of the Tarot! Not for the Faint of Heart!

Wed, 4 Aug 2010 21:08:53 -0400

Tarot Cards

“The tarot is one of the most wonderful of human inventions. Despite all the outcries of philosophers, this pack of pictures, in which destiny is reflected as in a mirror with multiple facets, remains so vital and exercises so irresistible an attraction on imaginative minds that it is hardly possible that austere critics who speak in the name of an exact but uninteresting logic should ever succeed in abolishing its employment.” Grillot de Givry (1971):

Part 4 of my Sometime Series on the Mysteries of the Unknown!

Again, those who wish to find fresh pastures and fields new, who wish to think outside their the tiny truck gardens of their minds and invest time, effort, money and wisdom in something outside the ‘norm’ is pummeled by thick louts who cannot see beyond the sidewalk of their ‘knowledge’ and ‘reason’. These are the people who demand things 'proof'and 'evidence' who refuse to belive the truth of the painted pictures on hunks of cardboard, randomly shuffled, delt and interpeted by those with the gift and a online course on Tarot. I pity these weak fools.

Mock the cards, at your own risk.

The Tarot is a tool for guidance and advice, for solving problems and for finding out how the future will affect us, in the future, where we will live the rest of our lives. Each of the cards has meaning, sometimes changing between readers, but always with a high portent of its own. This is why you should find a reader you are comfortable with, as that can be a big part of the earth connection between you. It also helps to give the reader a lot of information, which they can then reveal back to you.

The history of the tarot is known, we don’t have to consult the cards to divine it. But we so could, if we wanted to. Picture-card packs are first mentioned by Martiano da Tortona probably between 1418 and 1425. He describes a deck with 16 picture cards with images of the Greek gods and suits depicting four kinds of birds, not the common suits, and no naked people (which were probably the first cards. Everyone likes naked people). However the 16 cards were regarded as "trumps" as, about 25 years later, Jacopo Antonio Marcello called them a ludus triumphorum, or "game of trumps". And he should know.

Three mid-15th century sets were made for members of the Visconti family, because they weren't so hot at the sharing. The first deck, is called the Cary-Yale Tarot (created between 1442 and 1447) by an anonymous painter for Filippo Maria Visconti. The cards (only 66) are today in the Cary collection of the Beinecke Rare Book Library at Yale University, in the U.S. state of Connecticut, where you cannot touch them without gloves and one heck of an excuse. I tried, they got very mad. The most famous deck was painted in the mid-15th century, to celebrate Francesco Sforza and his wife Bianca Maria Visconti, daughter of the duke Filippo Maria. Probably, these cards were painted by Bonifacio Bembo or Francesco Zavattari between 1451 and 1453. This was considered a good wedding present. Don't try it today, stick to the Macy's registery. Of the original cards, 35 are in The Morgan Library & Museum, 26 are at the Accademia Carrara, 13 are at the Casa Colleoni and two, 'The Devil' and 'The Tower', are lost or else never made. But come on, if you could paint a card of the devil, and everyone was cool with it, you would. It is thought that if all these cards are reunited, then there will be several of them in one place.

Because the earliest tarot cards were hand-painted, the number of the decks produced is thought to have been rather small, and it was only after the invention of the printing press that mass production of cards became possible, also the prices went down, almost killing the ‘hand-painted’ card market. The Beckett Guides for this period list a Devil rookie going for several gold pieces. It is believed that dealers were hoarding all the good ones, you know, in ‘the back’. Decks survive from this era from various cities in France, and the most popular pattern of these early printed decks comes from the southern city of Marseilles, after which it is named the Tarot de Marseilles. And why not?

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Learning the Tarot

As you learn the cards and they get to know you better, you'll become a more effective reader. Anyone can learn to read Tarot cards, tis’ true, and anyone can just pull nonsense out of thin air to make a reading, but it does take some practice to learn how to be true to the cards and to yourself, and still be able to make a buck. It’s a highly intuitive process, one that relies on your feelings toward each card, which of their various meanings you wish to follow, and the history you might have with each. Like that one card, with the motorcycle, the one that broke your heart. It knows who it is… Books and charts come in handy, (I find the laminated chart I have taped to my side of the table, just out of view, comes in handy) the best way to actually learn what your cards mean is to handle them, hold them, fondle and caresses them, to feel what they are really telling you. Bending the corners of some of them for easy re-finding helps as well at times.

Let us look at the Major Arcana, and the four different suits of Tarot cards found in every deck. These are the definitions for the tarot that I use, but you should feel free to expand on them as needed:

The Major Arcana

There are 22 cards in the Major Arcana, each showing some aspect of the human experience. The cards of the Major Arcana are focused on three themes: the realm of the material world, the realm of the intuitive mind, and the realm of change. There used to be a whole ‘realm of death’ thing, but that didn’t go over so well. Depending on which deck you're using, you may find that your cards are not in the order presented. Don't worry about that -- go by the meaning of the card and how you feel about it, not by the numeric order. You can put them in order later. Or not.

The Suit of Cups

The suit of Cups is associated with matters of relationships and emotions. As you may expect, it's also connected to the element of water, and subsequently, the direction of West, as West is the direction of Water, of course. In some Tarot decks, you may find the Cups referred to as Goblets, Chalices, Cauldrons, Grails, dippers, scoops, mugs or something else, but this is wrong. I know, I’m writing this article. This is where you'll find cards that relate to love and heartbreak, choices and decisions related to emotion, family situations, STD’s and anything else that connects to how we interact with the people in our lives. Like that brother in law that is always showing up at dinnertime. Jerk.

The Suit of Swords

The Suit of Swords is associated with matters of conflict, both physical and moral, which can be a lot of fun. It's also connected to the element of air, and subsequently, the direction of East, as this is direction of all airflow. Even when it really seems to be coming from somewhere else, it isn’t. Trust me. Hopefully the airflow is not impeded by movement of the sun of stars, but then, why would it? This suit is where you'll find cards that relate to conflict and discord, moral choices, physical or emotional tawdry affairs and ethical quandaries. Like I said, the fun stuff.

The Suit of Pentacles or Coins

In the Tarot, the suit of Pentacles (often portrayed as Coins) is associated with matters of security, stability and wealth. It's also connected to the element of earth, and subsequently, the direction of North, as this is the direction most wealth flows, also known as downhill. This suit is where you'll find cards that relate to job security, educational growth, investments, home, money, wealth, hookers and blow.

The Suit of Wands

In the Tarot, the suit of Wands is associated with matters of intuition, wit, smart alecs and thought processes. It's also connected to the element of fire, and subsequently, the direction of South, as this is the direction of fire, heat, Lynyrd Skynyrd and secession. This suit is where you'll find cards that relate to creativity, communication with others, and physical activity, like sexual relations, sports, gambling, and Summer grilling. Hmmm, maybe this is the fun one…

Once you have mastered the art of the tarot, you may start reading for yourself and your friends and loved ones, but be careful! The secrets of the tarot are not for everyone, and skeptics love to point out things like ‘why should I believe a set of mass produced, would-be playing cards controls and predict my life and future?’ Ignore these fools for they will not see, and forgive them if you can, or just look at them smugly and nod with the ancient knowledge that you possess. Fools.

Reading Auras Part 2:

Fri, 23 Jul 2010 18:07:49 -0400

Reading Auras

There are several ‘guidelines’ or ‘steps’ you should follow when you begin reading auras for other people. These range from picking out a specific location in your house for conducting spiritual work so as to keep this area free of negative energy and kids toys, to making sure you have comfortable shoes. Lords knows how you screw up auras when your feet are being pinched. You should also ask yourself what you are trying to accomplish, the same question that your parents would ask when you were doing something they believed was a total waste of your time. Now of course, since you’re moved out you don’t have to put up with that stuff.

Preparation Techniques

Because thought is energy, and thinking it makes it so, the images you visualize are manifested or created on the ethereal (spiritual) plane. While on that plane, take a look around: you may never know what you may find. People leave all kinds of stuff in the seat pouch. I practice this with friends’ couch cushions as well. Meditation can be used to provide added focus and positive energy for the creation of these images. Using positive meditation, and visualizing your goal, can help protect you from any negative energy that the client may bring into your dojo. They can track in negative energy like a dog tracks in mud. Beware.

Selecting an Environment

Informal readings, those you do for a pet, a plant, or your '67 Mustang (see other posts), may not require or even be practical for these guidelines. Formal readings, those you do for yourself or others, are typically done in a home, alternative medicine clinic, or at parties to show people up. The actual place doesn't really matter, as long as you are comfortable and feel secure, there is a restroom near for emegencies, maybe some handy snacks (chips, but not too crunchy, it might disturb the air and morph the colors you're supposed to read), and you can control the energy flow in the room. You don’t want people getting sprayed by drive-by energy.

There are many methods to prepare a room for a reading. Native American traditions use smudge sticks to replace negative energies with positive forces from the Great Spirit. They are also pretty good for making charcoal sketches of the energy for your clients, which usually goes over pretty big. Many people use select crystals arranged in specific patterns throughout the room to ward off any unwanted energies. Sorry, fake plastic ones don’t work nearly as well as real rocks. Some people use candles and meditations, while others use a combination of these, these are showoffs. Some use Febreze to cleanse the room, others may light a match, but that doesn’t really fool anyone.

If you're reading for someone, you may consider taping the sessions for your client. This provides them with a record of their reading for future reference. It also gives you evidence in case of any legal actions.This should be considered extra, and added to the bill later.

If the reading is for yourself, tape your perceptions. This will give you evidence in case of any legal action you may take against yourself. Check back with your notes after a week or so (if there are no legal actions) and see if what you saw has come to pass. If it doesn't fit, force it until it does.

Before your client comes, you might do a little meditating to get your own aura out of the way, so you may better see theirs, otherwise it’s like looking out through aura colored glasses. You might be able to will a hole, or ‘viewing screen’ in your aura as well, rather than having to move the whole thing, because them you’ll have to find a place to put it.

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Preparing the Client

After you have set-up the room, lit your match and waved your burnt sticks, yourself a few moments to calm down. Breath in, breath out, have a Fresca. If you're reading for a client, allow time for them to calm down and relax from the drive. Don’t schedule clients during rush hour, or radio drive time, as this can cause stress. Spend a few moments in pleasant conversation. Ask them about their day, how things are going, how their team is doing, what their brother is up to, gathering as much info as you can to use later. Explain what an aura is and how it can help a person decipher and address any current issues they may have. Discuss fees later if possible, as you’re trying to keep them calm.

When your comfortable with their energy level, light a small white candle to symbolize the joining of conscious minds, or light a match. Imagine the flame is being lit from within your spiritual body and is reaching out to connect with your client. Imagine your ex is the wick, as the flames lick up ad burn… Sorry.

Concluding a Session

When you have completed a reading, for yourself or for a client, be sure to ask if there are any outstanding questions. If not, close the session with a prayer of thanks to your guide(s), and then present your bill. Your spirit guide doesn’t get a cut, unless they ask, of course. But then, what’s a spirit going to do with twenty bucks?

Providing information about an aura is an admirable quality and beats working. But if no action is taken to alleviate any problem areas, then the reading is generally pointless, like not charging. Schedule many return visits, or ‘spiritual check-ups’, just to be sure things are all right. Offer a discount for return visits as an incentive. Think of yourself as a sort of 'aura chiropractor'. When you practice reading yourself, you must set your ego aside and trust your first impressions. You also don’t have to charge yourself your full rate, but come to an agreement with yourself. Do this before hand so as not to be upset with yourself before the reading, or you’ll be in danger of throwing yourself off, impeding your accuracy…which what it’s really all about. Don't second guess what you see, simply record it and determine what its implication is to your life later on. Or not.

In closing, let me say that reading aura's is as hard as you want to make it. Squinting, nodding and staring off thoughtfully into the middle distance helps you look like you know what you're doing as well.

Next, we discuss tarot cards. Grab your decks and meet us there.