#tarocs

[tarocchilla]

my oc Lou, king of the sea...this was supposed to be an halloween drawing lol i got sidetracked

[tarocchilla]

oh my god why did i split account its too complicated

minoan character..... id like to write more about him one day :3

illustration inspired by:

[tarocent]

shadowsight lightning scene┈ ✩

time taken; 3hrs

[wildcmbcrsupdates]

Adelaide Kane, Georgie Flores, Juliana Herz, Mary Miller St. Louis and Shawn Taroc via georgieflores Instagram stories, 11/12/2024.

[anonbeadraws]

Art Fight Day 17: Betel, Duselle, & Astarot for tarocent 🪴 🪴com info in source!🪴

[madtrender]

[ID: A flag with 9 horizontal stripes. The center stripe is light gray and large, bordered by small, slightly darker stripes followed by two larger stripes, each progressively darker than the last. The final two stripes on the top and bottom are large and very light gray, almost white. There's a solid white vertical rectangle in the center of the flag, outlined in black, with two thin black lines going outward from it in both directions horizontally. /End ID]

the -taroc gender system !!

(pronounced t-air-oh-cuh)

a gender system related to tarot, or tarot cards. this gender system can be used for individual cards, the act of drawing cards, interpreting cards, and all things involving tarot!

(note: if you coin using this gender system, i would love to see it! please tag and credit us :D)

planned genders underneath the cut

so far, genders that i plan to create within this gender system are:

a gender for every major arcana

a gender for every minor arcana

a gender for every suite

a gender for every divine pairing (sun and moon, emperor and empress, kings and queens, etc)

[blaithnne]

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck    And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew.

Or, Chapter 12 of Lauren’s backstory is finally here.

[bgrantt]

DADDY

You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one grey toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat moustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two-The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

12 October 1962 - Sylvia Plath

[deanjohn]

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot

For thirty years, poor and white,

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

You died before I had time—

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,

Ghastly statue with one gray toe

Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic

Where it pours bean green over blue

In the waters off beautiful Nauset.

I used to pray to recover you.

Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town

Scraped flat by the roller

Of wars, wars, wars.

But the name of the town is common.

My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.

So I never could tell where you

Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.

The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.

Ich, ich, ich, ich,

I could hardly speak.

I thought every German was you.

And the language obscene

An engine, an engine

Chuffing me off like a Jew.

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.

I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

Are not very pure or true.

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.

And your neat mustache

And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You—

Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot

But no less a devil for that, no not

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I’m finally through.

The black telephone’s off at the root,

The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

[tarocchilla]

my oc haika ! art from 17/06/2023

hes baby baby little baby, a jojo oc

[teeter-beetle]

The Scorpion & the Frog

source: Myths and Magic of Mezal Taroc

read our book! Frogiverse.com/Padhopper

[tarocent]

sdr2 two man comedy routine cg ┈ ✩

time taken: 20 hrs 46 mins

[lait-de-lune]

Daddy

BY SYLVIA PLATH

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot

For thirty years, poor and white,

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

You died before I had time——

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,

Ghastly statue with one gray toe

Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic

Where it pours bean green over blue

In the waters off beautiful Nauset.

I used to pray to recover you.

Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town

Scraped flat by the roller

Of wars, wars, wars.

But the name of the town is common.

My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.

So I never could tell where you

Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.

The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.

Ich, ich, ich, ich,

I could hardly speak.

I thought every German was you.

And the language obscene

An engine, an engine

Chuffing me off like a Jew.

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.

I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

Are not very pure or true.

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.

And your neat mustache

And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot

But no less a devil for that, no not

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I’m finally through.

The black telephone’s off at the root,

The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

[dreamforte]

Discerning a Father’s Role Through Confessional Poetry: An Explication of Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy”

Throughout literary history, art has been characterized as a tool for exploring the intricacies of the human condition. In regards to the art of poetry, the poet Sylvia Plath holds an oeuvre that employed such approaches through her disconsolating works; shameful in presentation, but unshy with the implications. In Plath’s poem, “Daddy”, penned just a few months preceding her suicide, she unveils a fervent yet ambivalent female speaker who strives to achieve revenge through an introspection of the self, then, ultimately, a violent retaliation.

Accordingly, Paul Bentley wrote a critical survey on Plath’s “Daddy”, drawing heavy emphasis on the speaker’s identification with the Jewish people in World War II. This identification, as Bentley contends, presents a query into whether that is an overstepping of ‘proper art notions’, or it can be justified (28). Thus, Bentley ultimately debases the pivotality of this identification with the rest of the poem’s content, consequently defocusing the reader away from the issues Plath put out through her female speaker by utilizing such rhetoric. As questions arise concerning the legitimacy of Plath’s works, it becomes imperative to delve into the various issues addressed by and throughout “Daddy”; intentionality behind the speaker’s identification with historically marginalized communities, the father-husband figure against the daughter speaker, and the necessity for art to continue addressing dire events of history through nuanced comparisons.

It is often claimed that Sylvia Plath’s persistent exploration of ‘self-possession’ notions devalues the scope of her work; branding her as a limited and controversial artist (Bentley 28). Designating Plath’s creative identity as a mere narcissitic ‘confessional’ poet further undermines her legitimacy as a female poet, and disregards the strong brevity of her works– especially in a piece that calls upon specific, and dismally tragic, incidents in her own biography, such as; suicide attempts, father’s abrupt death, and crippling matrimony. Moreover, debates of this nature do not do more than disparage the complexities behind the images and themes permeating through Plath’s works, which, according to an interview she gave in 1962, “[came] out immediately out of the sensuous and emotional experiences [she had]” (Bronfen 62). Due to such, the reader is compelled to sometimes conflate Plath’s own experiences with that of her speakers.

In creating art, specifically poetry, incorporating references or comparisons to uneasy historical elements should not be outright rejected without first assessing the intentions behind the work containing the metaphor, or the artist’s positionality in regards to the presented historical aspects. In a work as rancorous as “Daddy”, a daunting image of a patriarchy-mastered girlhood is effectively portrayed through contentious metaphorics. In the opening stanza, Plath establishes the speaker’s tone as ceding of being mastered by the passing father-figures in her life– “you do not do, you do not do” (line 1). More so, with an anguished tone, the speaker refers to previously marginalized communities; “Chuffing me off like a Jew / A Jew to Dachau, to Auschwitz, Belsen,” (lines 32-33), and the harmful stereotypes that were often the core of their endured discrimination; “With my gypsy ancestress, [...], my Taroc pack.” (lines 38-39). Here, it is imperative to note that, although Plath considered herself to be American, she was intently aware of her German and Austrian ethnic backgrounds– allowing her to tap into the transgenerational haunting between the two strains (Bronfen 29). In “Daddy”, Plath seemingly transferred the burdens of her gender and genealogy onto the speaker, resulting in a poetic catharsis and bold identifications. This, for the speaker, induced a release of ambivalent feelings and a violent reaction to her role as a daughter in a patriarchal household that is overruled by a German father, similarly to the Jewish or Romani people in a Nazi Germany. The identification with such groupalities is reiterated throughout in approaches that Bently calls notorious, and deems farcical (31). More so, the speaker pairs such tortuous historical events with her own painful experience as a daughter, then incorporates a more intimately-leveled experience of pain; “[...] black shoe/ In which I have lived like a foot,” (lines 2-3) with ���one grey toe” (line 9), where the use of the word ‘grey’ implies a dead, bloodless limb. Additionally, if the reader was to conflate this exact point with Plath’s life experiences, it would be noted that Plath’s father’s death was due to a leg amputation (Bronfen vii).

In regards to Bentley’s discussions on negative dialectics in regards of Plath’s “Daddy”, and whether or not her works can be considered legitimate due to her lack of self-forgetfulness (29), Plath, in 1962, says; “I think that personal experience shouldn’t be a kind of a [...] narcissistic experience. I believe it should be generally relevant, to such things as Hiroshima and Dachau, and so on.” (Bronfen 62). Consequently, this is a perspective that aligns Plath far from relying on ‘self-absorbed narcissism’ as a source of poetic expression in her speakers, as claimed. Instead, Plath employs tortuous elements through use of agony and rage, of revenge and an understanding of the ordeals incorporated onto the psyche of women by their supposed masters. Hence, the approaches present in Plath’s poem “Daddy” ring with the speaker’s violent resentfulness towards her dire position within her family, and in society– as a girl, a woman–, paradoxing Bentley’s query on the legitimacy of her confessional poetry. The question of legitimacy here disregards the brevity and intentions behind Plath’s works, as poetry has not been solely concerned with initiating a change, and although it sometimes strives to do so, it does not need to make something happen for it to be considered legitimate. Specifically, when the work attempts to explore personal intricacies, like those of being a daughter under duress, through nuanced comparisons and metaphors.

Whilst the poem’s closing line may demonstrate a possible success in achieving revenge and reaching a transgressive point; “Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through,” (line 80), there’s also an ambiguity in the expression ‘I’m through’ as it carries a concerning connotation, as in passing a barrier; is it implying overcoming the father’s absence, or insinuating passing through a ‘veil’ – perhaps self elegy, or suicide– due to a the overbearing conquering of the father’s influence– either from the speaker’s childhood, or her current surroundings. Regards of the true connotation, including this ambiguous expression after the contentious identification with torture of the Holocaust depicts that, although the Holocaust is over, its violent events will continue to ring through the nations, and so will the speaker’s father’s impact on her soul. Furthermore, in lines 58-59, the speaker says; “At twenty I tried to die / And get back, back, back to you,” where the repetition of ‘back’ three times offers a different perspective into ‘through’; the first ‘back’ possibly referring to the traumatic disturbance that the father’s passing had caused, the second refers to the speaker’s first suicide attempt, then the third insinuating a final suicide attempt– which, in Plath’s case, came only a few months after writing this poem. Additionally, the preceding few stanzas imply that the confrontation between the speaker’s mind and the suffering endured might have been futile, due to the speaker “[making] a model of [the father]” (line 64). This portrays a possible short-lived relief of overcoming the father’s looming presence in the speaker’s life, only to be replaced by another father-husband figure– a circular narrative, a dismal ending note.

In a sense, Plath’s self-administered comprehension of her ethnic background and the historical events empowered her to exemplify a twist of disturbing themes by having the speaker of “Daddy” stage imaginary dialogues with her hypothetical masters that end in a violent retaliation against herself, overcome by the ordeals inflicted upon her. This further contradicts Bentley’s claim that Plath’s confessional poetry comes out of narcissistic experiences, as this ending note is not of pride, but disquiet, making the poem a patron saint of the manifestation of manic depression in women, aggravated by figurative masters. Daringly, Plath regarded her ambivalent speakers as tools of liberation from the constrictive desire for a coherent final narrative, enabling her intense identity to continue rising through her strikingly contentious, but influential, writings.

Works Cited

Bentley, Paul. “‘Hitler’s Familiar Spirits’: Negative Dialectics in Sylvia Plath’s ‘Daddy’ and Ted Hughes’s ‘Hawk Roosting.’” Critical Survey (Oxford, England), vol. 12, no. 3, 2000, pp. 27–38. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/41557061. Accessed 05 December 2023.

Bronfen, Elisabeth. Sylvia Plath. Edited by Isobel Armstrong. 2nd ed., Writers and Their Work, 2004.

Plath, Sylvia. “Daddy” The Broadview Introduction to Literature: Poetry, edited by Paul Lumsden et al. Broadview Press (eds.), 2016, pp. 317-20.

[losergendered]

hi. back w/ more reanimator/INK related genders :) /silly /bpd+autism

Requests for more INK genders being: gorture, kenochoric, allion, genderfreak, and genderloser, bitchgender/genderbitch

Requests for more Reanimator genders: vesil, gendervirtual/digital, bitchgender/genderbitch.

Gender systems for both Reanimator and Ice Nine Kills: gender corpse, gendervamp, -taroc gender system, -canis gender system, genderpearl, GENDERMALWARE, Gendercard, Retroxgender gendersystem, genderslasher, and gendermurderer*

(*Ik there are two versions of gendermurderer, so for less confusion I prefer the one made by @/acetrappolaswife)

all are posted, except reanimator vesil, since you requested that last time hehe (its posted here!) and the taroc, gendercard and retrox genders cause i didn't really have a ton of ideas for them </3 but everything else is posted!

[sanguepisado]

You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time—— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene

An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I’m finally through. The black telephone’s off at the root, The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—— The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through

Daddy da Sylvia Plath (Ariel, 1962)