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November 2, 2007
Seven of Swords from Alexandra Gennetti’s Wheel of Change Tarot
Part 1 – Observation
Hieroglyphs Tools for writing Slate Chisels Nail Stone Another language … cuneiform? Rosetta Stone? Writing surface Reed mat Flat chisels Pointed chisels Chisels with wooden handles Smooth wooden handles Black slate board White lines Yellow border Black border at bottom Blue border around card Chalk Birds Eyes Feathers Return Ankh Sun Water Squiggly lines
Part 2 – Personalization
I am the Seven of Swords. I am Sevens. I am Swords. I am Hieroglyphs. I am a picture of an idea. I am a tool for writing. I am a thought. I am a tool. I am the written word. I am slate. I am stone. I am a chisel. I am a nail. I am another language. I am cuneiform. I am a Rosetta Stone. I am a writing surface. I am a line of chalk – waiting for the author’s thoughts to spill upon me. I am a reed mat. I am a flat chisel. I am a pointed chisel. I am a chisel, a writing instrument with a wooden handle. I am a wooden handle, smoothed by the writer’s hand. I am a slate board. I am the history, the fairy tale, the laundry list written here to help you remember. I am white lines. I am a yellow border. I am a black border. I am a blue border. I am chalk. I am a bird. I am an eye. I am a feather. I am return. I am returning. I am an ankh. I am a key. I am Sun. I am Water. I am a squiggly line. Writer’s Dilemma
Something happens between the thought and the mind that seeks to translate that thought.
Something happens between the mind and the physical brain, the neurons, the synapses, the nerves that are directed to transmit that thought.
Something happens between the physical brain, the neurons, the synapses, the nerves and the arm, the hand, the fingers that seek to extend that thought into the physical world.
Something happens between the hand, the fingers, and the wood-handled chisel chosen to transcribe that thought.
Something happens between the chisel and the stone.
Between the chisel and the stone, sparks fly, flint is loosened and freed, making way for a symbol that the hand was told by the brain that was interpreted by the mind that was once a thought.
So much space for imagination to shift, alter, change, rearrange, and reinterpret between head, hand and stone. So much opportunity for misinterpretation and translation between all the “something happens.”
Feel me! I am the wooden handle on the chisel, the point where the thought is leaving the body of the author and entering the world outside the writer. The oil in the palm of the hand of this craftsman soothes me. Years of writing have smoothed our connection. I yield to the writer’s hand, and still I know my solid, stolid, earthy nature fights back in some way – works against the writer and the idea that seeks to flow through me.
Something happens here – the writer’s hand cramps, he sets me aside to stretch his fingers and ease his discomfort. Will he hold onto the thought long enough to pick me up once again and continue? Or will he forget?
Something happens here – I am at rest on the table, atop symbols, patterns, words. I know nothing of them, yet I was there at every birth. The writer’s hand chooses me again, and we work furiously this time, gently another, to compel the chisel below to give form to the thought.
Something happens here – between all the something happens.
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