This entry is going to meander through Waking space for a bit. There is only one dream in this entry, short and devoid of colorful scenery. But it is enough. Very much enough.
At the Mexican chain grocery store today, I spied an unusual pack of playing cards. I picked them up to take a closer look and the cashier saw me. “Oh you don’t want that. Those aren’t regular playing cards.”, she said.
“They’re not?” They were in Spanish and had an usual face card. It was a black Ace, but I couldn’t tell if spades or clubs.
“Some Spanish game. They’re numbered a little differently.”
I took a shot in the dark. “Tarocchi?”
“Yea, something like that! I could call a manager…” Her face lit up in recognition at the sound. “Yea, I heard lots of Spanish speakers say that word about the cards.”
A line was starting to form. I put the suspect pack back. “I have quite a few Tarocchi decks already, and a regular playing card deck as well. I’ll look them up later, thank you.”
The cashier offered again to call a manager over to confirm or deny. But I declined. “Oh you know how it is, come in for one thing…”, I said while pointing at the goods she saw scanning. She laughed and nodded and rang me out with a smile.
I didn’t have the cell phone with me or I’d have taken a picture. Sorely tempted to go back and get the deck, tarocchi or not!
“Baraja Espanola” Found the deck style on the first google image search of “Spanish Playing Cards”. Used for games and divination.
They’re $2.99 each at that grocery store. Taking bets if I can walk out with just one.
So as Dter is teasing me for not picking up the deck after all (she was with me at the store), I’m explaining that I already have a nice stable of Tarot decks thank you very much, and I really shouldn’t be jumping into yet another divination system. But I’m curious, and I start reading up on baraja espanola on different websites.
And it’s making my boriquena blood itch.
I’m getting blood-feels that I have never had before and I’m almost beside myself about it.
I come across a site that says plainly the baraja espanola is not to be treated like tarot, and that traditional tarot spreads (Celtic Cross, et al.) should not be used with the baraja espanola because there are different belief systems involved. And I read. And my blood flows. And I swear, I feel a hand reach across the veils, rest on my shoulder, and gently nudge me.
This is my heritage. My blood heritage. No matter what my father’s living kin has done to disconnect me from the familial bonds, this is my blood heritage. I already have communication with various espiritos santos on my own. I just don’t call them that, but any brujo or palero would recognize them the moment I open my mouth to talk about them, or show the work of my hands. A blade by any other name cuts just as deep.
I walk alone. I don’t have the covering or teaching of any House. I’m still heavily influenced by Old White Money Western occultism. I’m a bastard and an outcast. Getting this deck would be the first steps in a completely new country for me, and I know it.
And I am feeling so pulled to this deck, I realize I’m typing this all out to keep from crying from the desire of it.
I got shit to think about. It’s only $2.99 but the implications are blood thick.
Do I want something really bad? Yea? Automatic 24-hour cooling off period begins. I’m not going to go back to the store and get that deck. Not today. I’m going to chill with the tarot decks I have here, and let my too hot blood cool off before jumping into something that could be a call from my boriquena blood, or could be a trap baited with sentimental bullshit, or could be nothing at all.
I am also going to not read up further about baraja espanola until after the mandatory cooling off period has passed. No sense stoking a wasted fire, right?
What are these feels…
And now… the dream.
Him: “So what do you write of me?”
Him: “Tell me. Tell me how pretty I am.”
Me: “You ass! I might mention your cane, your hat, or your broken glasses. I always mention your rum, Rummer John.”
Him: “Do you mention your disrespect of me as well?”
Me: “Every fucking time. I figure one day you’re gonna haul my ass up about it. Might as well earn that beating!”
Him: “Anything else you mention?”
Him: “Nothing else?”
Me: “Not a damn thing if I can help it.”
Him: “But what about [no we ain’t going there] and [this ain’t 50 shades] and [calling all bokors]?”
Me: “Nope. None of that.”
Him: “But why? I happen to think those are fine attributes of mine.”
Me: “God dammit, the rum went up my nose. If my readers want to experience these fine attributes of yours, they can run the gauntlet to you themselves. I don’t do guided tours. And I hold no one’s hand. What I have with you is between you and me and I’m a jealous bitch. Those that know you on that level know you because you have allowed it. They wink with me in Waking and smile to shame the Mona Lisa. Those that don’t know you won’t get to play Vicarious Living through my words. You never told me not to write. But I understand now why and what I shouldn’t. Having said that, if you want me to include something, I will.”
Him: “Jealous bitch, eh?”
Him: “You ain’t the only jealous bitch here. If los espiritos santos ever forget at whose table you drink, I will gladly remind them.”
Him: “You walk many nachons, and are a sitaden of none. Hell, you’re not even mine! But I happen to like sitting at the President’s table. Yes, I like it indeed.”
Me: “Well then.”
Him: “More rum?”
Me: “Yes, please. Then coffee after.”
Him: “Sí, Señorita.”