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The Reverie is a unique deck of cards, resembling the Tarot deck in structure and use, that James carries with him at all times. The cards have a color scheme and design reminiscent of H. R. Giger, but with none of the sexual imagery; in fact, their symbols are very understated, and they often have the initial impression of being blank of all significant details.
MINOR ARCANA
Suits: Faces, Shackles, Whips, Doors
Ranks: First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, Tenth
Page, Knight, Queen, King
MAJOR ARCANA
0. The Blind
I. The Prisoner
II. The Watcher
III. The Murderer
IV. The Searcher
V. The Wanderer
VI. The Sufferer
VII. The Devourer
VIII. The Dungeon
IX. The Court
X. The Underworld
XI. The Nexus
XII. The Labyrinth
XIII. The Altar
XIV. The Abyss
XV. The Isolation
XVI. The Dream
XVII. The Plan
XVIII. The Mystery
XIX. The Lie
XX. The Burden
XXI. The Obsession
MINOR ARCANA
Suits: Faces, Shackles, Whips, Doors
Ranks: First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, Tenth
Page, Knight, Queen, King
MAJOR ARCANA
0. The Blind
I. The Prisoner
II. The Watcher
III. The Murderer
IV. The Searcher
V. The Wanderer
VI. The Sufferer
VII. The Devourer
VIII. The Dungeon
IX. The Court
X. The Underworld
XI. The Nexus
XII. The Labyrinth
XIII. The Altar
XIV. The Abyss
XV. The Isolation
XVI. The Dream
XVII. The Plan
XVIII. The Mystery
XIX. The Lie
XX. The Burden
XXI. The Obsession
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A long time ago, in the underground realm, where there are no lies or pain, there lived a Princess who dreamed of the human world. She dreamed of blue skies, soft breeze, and sunshine.
One day, eluding her keepers, the Princess escaped.
Once outside, the brightness blinded her and erased every trace of the past from her memory. She forgot who she was and where she came from. Her body suffered cold, sickness, and pain.
Eventually, she died.
However, her father, the King, always knew that the Princess' soul would return, perhaps in another body, in another place, at another time.
And he would wait for her, until he drew his last breath, until the world stopped turning...
One day, eluding her keepers, the Princess escaped.
Once outside, the brightness blinded her and erased every trace of the past from her memory. She forgot who she was and where she came from. Her body suffered cold, sickness, and pain.
Eventually, she died.
However, her father, the King, always knew that the Princess' soul would return, perhaps in another body, in another place, at another time.
And he would wait for her, until he drew his last breath, until the world stopped turning...
◾ Tags:
Dear-Mun
Once upon a time, there lived beneath the earth a great race of conquerors. Proud they were, and ambitious. For naught but glory they built a thousand and ten monuments, each stretching hundreds of golden miles down, down through rock and chasm until their tips drew fire from the impassable inferno beneath. Yet still their spirit was unsatisfied, and they hungered for greater dominion. In the flickering heat of that chthonic blaze they forged innumerable iron insects, until they had assembled a swarm that extended beyond the reach of vision. And when the work was done they unleashed their creations upon the darkness around them. To delve into the furthest reaches, to bring light into every crevice. To cross paths a thousand times and ten until every hollowed mile had been claimed for the conquerors. To earn for their makers the right to boast their mastery of all that lay beneath the earth.
Yet still their spirit was unsatisfied.
No direction, then, but up – no path left but toward the vastness above. And so, for the first time, they climbed. Back along their burrowed pathways, back up through their golden glories, until at last the bravest fools had made their way to the place where the earth did end. There, staring out into that endless abyss, they understood for the first time the nature of the world they had believed conquered.
“Surely,” said one, “this is beyond even our abilities.” And another: “Surely no force can bring civilization to this, the demesne of irrationality.” “It is the nature of the element,” agreed a third. “For surely this aether, which according to its own whims first rages then quiets, blows first this way then that, is anathema to the deepness of the earth which birthed us.” “Surely none,” concluded the last, “could traverse this great emptiness and live.”
But even as the words were uttered, the peregrines heard a cry from above them – a piercing, hollow cry, and the flapping of wings.
And then every card was played, and the pieces had nothing left to do but dance out their parts.
The day was still bright and the pool beneath their feet clear, and in it the crow’s reflection clarissima. Understanding, the conversant four seized the fifth, who had been silent. They pressed his face against the surface of the water and with flashing voices demanded “Be our crow!” The fifth trembled and responded “I cannot be your crow, for I cannot bear the weight of its feathers.”
They lifted him onto their backs and brought him to another pond, in which was reflected an eagle. They pressed his face against the surface of the water and with flashing voices demanded “Be our eagle!” The fifth trembled and responded “I cannot be your eagle, for I cannot bear the sharpness of its beak.”
In the third was reflected an ibis, but he trembled against the water and responded “I cannot be your ibis, for I cannot bear the need of its hunger.” In the fourth was reflected a dove, but he trembled against the water and responded “I cannot be your dove, for I cannot bear the span of its wings.”
“Then what,” they asked with frustration, “will you be?”
But by then, the birds had pecked away all that was left.
And nothing answered them
but the whisper of the wind.
Once upon a time, there lived beneath the earth a great race of conquerors. Proud they were, and ambitious. For naught but glory they built a thousand and ten monuments, each stretching hundreds of golden miles down, down through rock and chasm until their tips drew fire from the impassable inferno beneath. Yet still their spirit was unsatisfied, and they hungered for greater dominion. In the flickering heat of that chthonic blaze they forged innumerable iron insects, until they had assembled a swarm that extended beyond the reach of vision. And when the work was done they unleashed their creations upon the darkness around them. To delve into the furthest reaches, to bring light into every crevice. To cross paths a thousand times and ten until every hollowed mile had been claimed for the conquerors. To earn for their makers the right to boast their mastery of all that lay beneath the earth.
Yet still their spirit was unsatisfied.
No direction, then, but up – no path left but toward the vastness above. And so, for the first time, they climbed. Back along their burrowed pathways, back up through their golden glories, until at last the bravest fools had made their way to the place where the earth did end. There, staring out into that endless abyss, they understood for the first time the nature of the world they had believed conquered.
“Surely,” said one, “this is beyond even our abilities.” And another: “Surely no force can bring civilization to this, the demesne of irrationality.” “It is the nature of the element,” agreed a third. “For surely this aether, which according to its own whims first rages then quiets, blows first this way then that, is anathema to the deepness of the earth which birthed us.” “Surely none,” concluded the last, “could traverse this great emptiness and live.”
But even as the words were uttered, the peregrines heard a cry from above them – a piercing, hollow cry, and the flapping of wings.
And then every card was played, and the pieces had nothing left to do but dance out their parts.
The day was still bright and the pool beneath their feet clear, and in it the crow’s reflection clarissima. Understanding, the conversant four seized the fifth, who had been silent. They pressed his face against the surface of the water and with flashing voices demanded “Be our crow!” The fifth trembled and responded “I cannot be your crow, for I cannot bear the weight of its feathers.”
They lifted him onto their backs and brought him to another pond, in which was reflected an eagle. They pressed his face against the surface of the water and with flashing voices demanded “Be our eagle!” The fifth trembled and responded “I cannot be your eagle, for I cannot bear the sharpness of its beak.”
In the third was reflected an ibis, but he trembled against the water and responded “I cannot be your ibis, for I cannot bear the need of its hunger.” In the fourth was reflected a dove, but he trembled against the water and responded “I cannot be your dove, for I cannot bear the span of its wings.”
“Then what,” they asked with frustration, “will you be?”
But by then, the birds had pecked away all that was left.
And nothing answered them
but the whisper of the wind.
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And you never get away,
and you never get to take the easy way,
And all of this is a consequence,
brought on by
our own hand
If you believe in that sort of thing.
And did you ever really find,
when you closed your eyes,
Any place
that was still,
and at peace?
And I guess I just wanted to tell you,
as the light starts to fade,
That you are the reason that I am not afraid.
And I guess I just wanted to mention,
as the heavens will fall,
We will be together soon if we
will be
anything
at all.
and you never get to take the easy way,
And all of this is a consequence,
brought on by
our own hand
If you believe in that sort of thing.
And did you ever really find,
when you closed your eyes,
Any place
that was still,
and at peace?
And I guess I just wanted to tell you,
as the light starts to fade,
That you are the reason that I am not afraid.
And I guess I just wanted to mention,
as the heavens will fall,
We will be together soon if we
will be
anything
at all.
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Housman The point of interest is - what is virtue?, what is the good and the beautiful really and truly?
AEH You think there is an answer: the lost autograph copy of life's meaning, which we might recover from the corruptions that have made it nonsense. But if there is no such copy, really and truly there is no answer. It's all in the timing. In Homer, Achilles and Patroclus were comrades, brave and pure of stain. Centuries later in a play now lost, Aeschylus brought in Eros, which I suppose we may translate as extreme spooniness; showers of kisses, and unblemished thighs. Sophocles, too; he wrote The Loves of Achilles: more spooniness than you'd find in a cutlery drawer, I shouldn't wonder. Also lost.
Housman How is it known, if the plays were lost?
AEH They were mentioned by critics.
Housman There were critics?
AEH Naturally - it was the cradle of democracy. Euripides wrote a Pirithous, the last copy having passed through the intestines of an unknown rat probably a thousand years ago if it wasn't burned by bishops.
AEH You think there is an answer: the lost autograph copy of life's meaning, which we might recover from the corruptions that have made it nonsense. But if there is no such copy, really and truly there is no answer. It's all in the timing. In Homer, Achilles and Patroclus were comrades, brave and pure of stain. Centuries later in a play now lost, Aeschylus brought in Eros, which I suppose we may translate as extreme spooniness; showers of kisses, and unblemished thighs. Sophocles, too; he wrote The Loves of Achilles: more spooniness than you'd find in a cutlery drawer, I shouldn't wonder. Also lost.
Housman How is it known, if the plays were lost?
AEH They were mentioned by critics.
Housman There were critics?
AEH Naturally - it was the cradle of democracy. Euripides wrote a Pirithous, the last copy having passed through the intestines of an unknown rat probably a thousand years ago if it wasn't burned by bishops.
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