They’re having some big thing up in Kentucky which I am neglecting to link to because I closed the tab and cannot figure out how to get it back, though it seems like it should just be in my history, and… I don’t know. Clearly I’m fucking it up somehow. It’s there, I just don’t know how to get it.
Anyway, if you go to this think in Kentucky, you’ll get to meet the guys from Ghost Adventures, which is, hands down, the best ghost hunting show on in America right now. I mean, if by “best” you mean most hilariously ridiculous. Every show they yell at ghosts and someone gets possessed and things that should scare the shit out of folks fail to while noises that are clearly just the noises the world makes are cause for screaming.
But anyway, at this Kentucky thing, you can also meet a demonologist. I really love that word. Demonologist.
I think it’s the three different ways the “o” goes–uhn, awl, oh. It’s just nice.
I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what I want to write about at Feministe and I’d like to talk some about tarot card reading, I think. I don’t know what I want to say, exactly, but I’ve been thinking about this post I saw over at Mary K. Greer’s, showing some Harry Hermon Roseland pictures of tarot readers. And seeing them all together is really cool, I think. You get a real sense of the kind of intimacy that develops in a reading, just a a first look, these women all leaning in and touching each other.
But if you look more closely, I think you can see the reason that Roseland’s images are unsettling. Though the reader has a lot of power–she has a kind of literacy that the women she’s reading for don’t have–there’s a lot in each photo that gives you an indication of just how precarious a position she’s in. Clearly, she’s much poorer than the women she reads for. In every image, the reader seems to have been interrupted while knitting. Look at how she has balls of yarn at her feet in each picture, like she has to put down her work to attend to these wealthier white women. And look at how many of the women being read for leave their hats on, as if they have some sense of themselves as being in a public space, where just anyone might come. And how they all have umbrellas, most of which are pointed sharply at the readers’ legs, as if to provide a kind of weaponized barrier between them.
I don’t know. I started off someplace and have ended up here.
My mom has poison ivy, too, and I have had to hear about it for two nights in a row. Which is fine, I just find it funny that my dad will call me and tell me something and then the next night Mom will call and say the same thing.
I am covered in calamine lotion and it smells like summer.
I don’t know that I’ve made any progress towards having goals, but I guess I have one goal–to have goals. And that’s something.
Tiny Cat Pants 