She grinds over a hundred gallons of chalk that she’s liberated in bulk from the Book Depository. She wears a bandana over her face. Later, she won’t be sure why she did it. She won’t even be sure when she decided to do it. All she’ll remember is that she did it, that it took a day to grind the chalk, and then the following night she went to a hill you could see through the busted out windows in the Packard Plant and got to work.
Her horse is only twenty feet long, but it takes three hours to get the outline right. She debates herself, then pulls out the can of yellow chalk she ground just in case, adds a horn. She makes the eye. She stands on it.
Act II: Rising Action
Two of Mirrors ᴥ Injustice
She has her eyes closed to make the wish, partially because her culture instructs people to close their eyes to make wishes and partially because she is a very visual person and is visualizing her wish as hard as she can so there will be no mistake about what exactly it is she wants. She smiles while she wishes. When she opens her eyes, The Tarot Reader is there, holding out a card. Two of Mirrors ᴥ Injustice. She frowns. It isn’t at all what she wanted. She doesn’t understand, and she is suspicious of the card and The Tarot Reader. Tarot isn’t about going in order through a deck, and her first card was the Ace of Mirrors.
She says, “What the hell, man?” But, of course, The Tarot Reader is already gone.
She goes home and reads up on the Two of Mirrors and feels generally grumpy and shitty about the whole thing. She feels like The Tarot Reader is trying to tell her she wished for something wrong or did something wrong, but all she can see that is wrong is Injustice itself and the fact that it is represented with a human white female form, as Justice is in her culture, and she feels alienated and irritated because part of her thinks she should be working toward social justice with her art, but most of her figures enough people are already doing that. What she really wants to do is bring whimsy back to the people, take them somewhere beautiful and calm, not ragged and real.
20 | Psychopomp Magazine