I haven’t written for a while. Been teaching. A couple of dozen people from around the world got together with me every Sunday for 10 weeks. To learn not only tarot but the intricacies of the difference between ethics and morality.

Did they get it? About throwing away the vulgar metaphors and assumptions made by people on social media, so often? Some did. Most can’t.

The series is currently going up on a YouTube channel HERE and there are 6 episodes so far. Not everything I teach will be available for you because—well—we had to be there together. But heaps is. As much of the meanings of the cards and how to read them will be going up in coming series. Rather better than a book even though you’ll need that sometime (Advanced Tarot, the Voyage of Prophecy, and it’s also at Book Depository which could be cheaper as they don’t charge delivery fees) because none of us have a right to infect others with an uneducated, or limited condescending, better-than-you opinion, during a session, based on personal biases. Because if we retain those biases we will NEVER be proficient at this skilling.

Available online, most outlets


It’s almost funny, that when I read your cards I seem to do all the talking—except I’m not. I’m listening. Listening in the deep. What has been written by you in that seemingly random shuffle that isn’t, because you’ve inherited a few billion years of DNA memory. Listening is underrate. Yes, people do it, but are they hearing and responding accordingly, or are they merely waiting for their chance to say something? Listening is underrated, so-much-so, that relationships of all kinds will fail because we are unlearned about the intricacies of mental mapping another person (or ourselves). Or because we are not questioned to be understood. OR because we do not have the words, OR because we, also, can sometimes not even hear ourselves.


And not always is listening done with the ears. Watch the person opposite you. The lover, the boss, the child, the mother, the brother, the ‘sincere’ person in the ad, the psychic. The nuances of how they cross their arms, or their legs (closing off, self-protection, blocking scrutiny), eye-shielding (lying, evading saying) that slight shrug of one shoulder that tells you there is more to the story than you are getting. The starer who is attempting to convince you whether you like it or not. How close they come to you. Do they penetrate your private etheric field? Interrogators do that, so do lovers. Hmm. It’s all very NLP, but without the con.

Then there’s the people-critters, by the gazillion, in your gut. How they growl, how they gurgle, where the sharp pain comes from, what to know about what you eat, or drink, and the effects. The skill of eating without it becoming a ‘thing’ (a wellness obsession). Your fingers: what they touch and how they feel roughness, rust or spider silk. The terror in the night-noise just outside your window.

The confusion, regarding what we’ve been taught is important, when is it all just hyperbole? That nothing is impossible, just difficult and sometimes not important enough.


Yes, a new book is coming by November 2022. The Changeling. This one is mythic, with a who-dunnit feel. The 4th in the Traveler series. A tase of this:

She leaks towards the night shadow of a six-foot-something high brick wall, wondering if the body she’s wearing will bleed out before the whole story can reach some kind of resolution. Sorry, sort of, that she’s been such a juvenile, playing catch me if you can with the slúag whose job it is to track her. A hunt that no one, or nothing, would ever really want, but that some poor bastards have been tasked with. Well, she’s evaded them so far. Left them lost, somewhere in the ice of the labyrinthine alleyways that will kill a body, unprepared for this kind of cold, for the desperation of those who live in the squats, and how ferocious they get when in need of whatever is their necessary poison. Down here, around the Southside.

Sparrow believes they’ll eventually find her because of those petals. But belief can be stupid.

Like breadcrumbs, she thinks—a throwaway line from a story-gone-wrong, that was just as biased and futile as her own cynicism. Breadcrumbs that Hansel figured were a clever idea when the pebbles didn’t solve the problem set up by hunger, meant to help him and his sister find home again after the shit-show between their father and his new wife. Like always. What he’d been duped into believing was home, but that had been, instead, a brutal place of lies and intimidation. Just like the news. Like power taken, for power’s sake alone. Breadcrumbs meant to be a means to find the way to come back from the old woman’s cottage in the forest, should she be the witch of evil intent that the church made her out to be. Somebody should warn kids about birds.

She snorted what would have been a laugh, had it been a sound and not frozen air.


This update is a quicky, really, to let you know I’m still alive. I hope you are loved. And curious. And if you’re not, then try something. Abseiling. Caving, maybe. Horse and hound love. Maybe that’s advice, maybe you don’t need it. This update message, by the way, doesn’t want anything from you.

As the creature said in Terminator 2: I’ll be back.

Lore de Angeles (also known, in the long-ago before the freedom, as ‘Ly’)

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