Tarot Girls: The Major Arcana

Photo by Lilly1975 Everyone seems to have their own interpretation of tarot cards. Something about those little pieces of paper seems so mystical, so omnipotent, and every card seems to have a life all of its own. Some cards are tiny girls with swords unsheathed, some are boys with electric manes like lions - nevertheless, these seemingly harmless cards can be potent parts of our lives; fortune tellers and iconic figures. They can be girls and boys who we know and recognize - maybe best friends, maybe strangers; they can be ourselves - and whether we lay out ancient spreads every morning or play "pick-a-card" with our baby niece, tarot cards can spill their secrets to those willing to listen. Each card has a life of its own, and through this on-going series here on Cocoa I'll share what each card says to me in lullaby highs and hushed lows. This is the story that the Major Arcana tells. The Fool

- A daydreamer - Full of potential and possibility - Almost blind to impending dangers - Childlike - Optimistic - Naive Emily believed that the absolute best way to calm a charm bracelet of jittery nerves was with a big bowl of chocolate gelato and a night spent whizzing around the nearest roller rink. The gelato wasn't hard to find - there were tiny gelaterie everywhere, boasting spectacular names like "Michaelangelo's" or "La Dolce Vita", tucked away in the sullen corners of sleepy city streets. The roller rink, though - that was a whole different story. In this glorious age of twenty first century thrills and chills, she found that most folks had long ago traded in childhood classics like roller rinks and ice skating for more the age-appropriate pursuits of Blackberries and pub crawls. While other women her age spent their weekends picking out Yves Saint Laurent lipstick in deep raspberry shades, she sucked down ballerina pink cherry sodas and gazed dreamily at glossy magazines, transfixed by the fizzing whirlwind of electric color. She realized that in this ever-changing marquee of a city, even children weren't allowed the luxury of childhood - it seemed as though everyone had already grown up before they even had the chance to be foolish and wild. Staring wide-eyed at her favorite childhood roller-rink, plywood nailed to the doors and neon spray-painted pictures of high-rises and superheroes thrown across the walls, Emily vowed that she would never fall victim to the disease that is adulthood. With one hand on her magazine and another over her heart, she swore to swing through the childhood that, much like her favorite roller rink, everyone else had abandoned. The Magician

- Self-confident

- Powerful

-Skillful/talented

- Provides the tools for change

- Creation

- Smooth-talker

- Open/revealing

The very first trick Kate learned, at the all-grown-up age of eleven and a half, was to make a coin disappear. After French lessons and piano practice and college level calculus taught by a charmingly tousled tutor - a sweetly awkward English twenty-something to whom Kate felt superior to in every way - he would lead her out onto the peppermint-scented lawn for a lunch of mushroom pate and warm baguettes and pineapple salad and chocolate mint eclairs and, between the rows of honeysuckle and baby's breath, he would show her magic. He palmed coins and produced scarves and turned cards into flowers, and deep down inside, rumbling with the aftershocks of not fully understanding something for once in her life, Kate burned to do the same. Her head, with its world-class education and radiant sharpness, purred that these simple parlor tricks were child's play and could be deconstructed into their smallest parts, and so snuck quietly to her room, her tutor's coin in hand, and practiced until the sky darkened and her hands ached. After the next morning's Mandarin and classic literature and viola lessons in the parlor, she pulled the coin from her dress and, like a seasoned magician gracing a crowd with mysteriously foreplay, waved her hands until the coin shimmered out of existence. Her tutor, a glint of pride in his eyes, clapped politely, but it wasn't until he began searching for his coin (of which he assumed she had palmed or slipped into her sock the way children often do) that true confusion began to set in. Opening the piano seat, peeking behind keys, plucking at each taut string until they confirmed, with a polite D, F, or G minor, that the coin was not there, he turned his gaze on her and demanded the coin. I made it disappear, she declared, smoothing out her dress - isn't that the trick? The coin, by now most likely tarnished by age, was never found, and even Kate can't quite account for the items that she makes disappear. All she knows now, standing on stages and in front of tail-coated gentry, is that she found her magic, and no textbook could ever teach her the same.

The High Priestess

- Beauty

- Mystery

- Omniscient

- Intelligent

- Psychic powers (intuition and secret knowledge)

- Secretive

- Eccentric

- Insightful

- Unpredictable

Sadie was a curbside prophet, a Saturday-morning dreamer who spent every weekend exploring the city that she loved like a first-time lover. She would wander barefoot through farmers markets that blocked off entire roads and come home with funny hats and bohemian scarves and vegetables still wet with morning dew. She would watch passion plays in the park and sing along with every musician she passed, beating with them on bongos or slapping at her thighs. She bought tickets to independent movies playing at theatres no bigger than her flat, only to give them away to strangers on the street right before showtime just so she could stand under the marquee and its hundred-year-old bulbs and watch the crowds rush in. At night, she would swing through cafes that seemed aglow with dim electric light, sipping cafe au laits and holding existential conversations with complete strangers, only to slip out quietly when they weren't looking and do it all again somewhere new so that when they turned back around they could only wonder if she was there, with her wild hair and crow-black eyes, or if she was just a strange and wonderful dream.

Always,

Penelope ♥

Underoos: Fabulous Stories For Every Style

Bikinis

Audrey was a spunky superstar, a sparkling belle of the forgotten borough. She was that serendipitous moment that brought people together, a real life school yard merry-go-round that seemed to always be spinning in slow-motion until it was your turn to ride. She painted her toes the color of bubblegum and hummed the lyrics to Sweet Jane during the previews of movies. She crowd surfed at jazz shows and knew that good lip gloss, when applied properly, could solve any problem. After glorious nights, she would wake her lover by playing the ukulele in bed - slowly he would rise, eyes still fuzzy from the warm kisses of his dreams, and find her propped up next to him sitting criss-cross applesauce, wearing nothing but a string of pearls and her favorite bikini underwear.

Briefs
Emma was born of pale blue blood, at an early age her family moving permanently into a five-star Parisian hotel. Even into her early teens she would dash up and down the stairs, racing the century-old elevators that wheezed like sleepy old men, and blow bubbles from the balcony at starstruck tourists below. But every Sunday morning she would put on her best gingham dress, tuck her room key away safely in her pocket and climb down the stairs into the lobby. Peeking out from behind frosty marble pillars, she found herself fascinated by the English high tea that took place there every weekend, and sooner or later she began to eavesdrop on the pretty Parisian women, taking down notes on her Hello Kitty notepad. In her best script, she wrote the tiny things she learned like "never be completely bare in the company of others" and "always know the proper fork to use at dinner", socialite essentials that she willed herself to follow. At the age of nineteen when she finally broke free from that glorious hotel and ran away into the real world, she found herself quickly falling in love with a quiet boy who worked at a nearby neon gelateria. They chatted, courted, and when she was finally pulled to bed she found there to be quite a bit of controversy over her choice of underwear. Despite the pages of formality whirling around inside of her, shouting to follow all those flowering rules and be that perfect lady, she pulled herself out of bed, strapped on her Mary Janes, and strolled out of his flat, strutting home in nothing but a cashmere sweater and her best pair of briefs.

Boyshorts
Georgia was a daydreamer who worked in a sleepy tea shop during the day, serving steaming pots of mint-soaked tea and bite-sized treats to artists and authors. She dreamed of writing pocket novellas about modern-day mermaids and boys who turned into wolves with a single kiss, but for some reason could never find the right words. She pondered why the words wouldn't come over teacups the size of a baby's palm and eventually came to the conclusion that before she could find the right words, she would have to find herself. But where did she begin? She wasn't even sure when she had lost herself in the first place. It was only when a street-side fortune teller read her palm on her way home from work, whispering in lush, hushed tones that the real her lay underneath, that she discovered what needed to be done. The next day she parked her bike in front of that dreamy tea shop, pulled off her coat, and strolled inside in just a camisole and a pair of boyshorts. And the real her really was underneath...

Thongs
Lily didn't believe in marriage. In a cruel, upside-down world where boys in love with boys and girls in love with girls couldn't be wed, she decided that she too would never marry until those weeping couples were given the right to. She told herself this while lying on her back in bed, carefully scrutinizing the sleeping boy sprawled out next to her, but really even then she probably wouldn't marry. Lily was a mustang of the plains, an all-night wild child who got tipsy off of Shirley Temples and always danced in the arms of strangers. Looking at her curly tangle of hair and big baby blue eyes she wondered, was marriage really meant for girls like her? Instead, she promised herself that she would become a tousled yogini, doing sun salutations on the roof of her flat, usually in the nude. She would loiter around the "sex & relationships" section of bookstores, staring intently at the watercolor illustrations that accompanied every pose and posture, and go out dancing in her best pink leather pumps at least once a week - she would shine, all shaken up like a Christmas snowglobe, and mystify those hazy lovers around her. Maybe she would kiss the necks of all kinds of boys, surfer boys and rocker boys and poet boys and painter boys, but at the end of the night she would keep that promise she made, crawling out of their beds in her high heels and underwear, and fall in love only with herself.

Always,

Penelope ♥