Charles Bukowski Does Tarot Reading of the A-musement Card

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He flicks the card down like it owes him money.

Eight sticks—no, not sticks, more like crooked little antennae—tilted in different directions, each one catching a different frequency of joy. Not the clean kind. The messy kind. The kind that spills its drink and keeps dancing.

Krishna’s in there, but he’s not blue like a postcard. He’s more like a nightclub shadow with a grin, surrounded by women who aren’t saints or symbols—they’re just people who said yes to the music for once.

He squints at it.

“a-musement,” he says, like he’s chewing on it.

This isn’t about being entertained. It’s about removing the “muse.” No guide, no script, no clean meaning. You don’t get to blame the gods for this one. You stepped onto the dance floor yourself.

And that’s where the nine moods start crawling out of the woodwork.

In the old language they called it the Navarasa—nine flavors of feeling. Sounds fancy, but it’s really just what happens when you stop pretending you’re one thing.

First there’s love—not the postcard kind. The kind that sweats. The kind that forgets time. You see it in the circle. Nobody owns anybody, but everybody’s pulled in.

Then laughter—loose, sideways, a little off. Someone trips, someone spins too hard, and instead of stopping, it gets better.

There’s sorrow too. Always is. You can feel it under the music, like a bassline. Every dancer knows this won’t last.

Then comes anger—jealous glances, sharp edges. Somebody wants more than their share of the moment.

Heroism shows up quietly. It’s not about slaying dragons. It’s just staying in the dance when you’d rather walk away.

Then fear—that flicker when the music dips and you realize you’re exposed. No mask. No role.

After that, disgust—the sudden awareness of bodies, sweat, imperfection. The illusion cracks a little.

Then wonder—how the whole thing holds together anyway. How chaos keeps making patterns.

And finally, peace—not at the end, but right in the middle of it. A still point while everything spins.

He taps the card again.

“In the West,” he says, “we try to pick one mood and build a life out of it. Happiness, usually. Maybe success if we’re feeling ambitious. But this—”

He gestures at the mess of movement.

“This says you don’t get one. You get all of them. Rotating. Overlapping. Like bad radio stations bleeding into each other.”

He leans back.

“The trick isn’t to clean it up. It’s to stay in it without lying to yourself.”

The card doesn’t promise anything. No enlightenment. No happy ending.

Just the dance.

And the understanding that if you’re in it—really in it—then you’re already carrying all nine flavors, whether you like it or not.

He shrugs.

“Better than sitting alone pretending you’ve got it figured out.”