More Spooky Coincidences and the Witches Ball

Back to the Daybook.  Things are not going well in that quarter.  I opened Kate West’s The Real Witches Year to July 4 and read, “Curse Breaking.  It is worth pointing out that real curses and hexes are extremely rare as Witches are mindful of the Wiccan Rede and the law of Threefold Return.”

[Blink]  Run that by me again?  Does she realize that there are other people out there besides her strange nicey-nicey version of witches?  Hell, I met some of them in my Wicca 101 class at Enchantments.  One lunatic literally made me nauseous she described so many curses/spells, and how she obtained animal parts for them.  True, the girl was probably unhinged, psychotic and a potential serial killer, but trust me:  they’re out there, Katie.  And here’s hoping that psychotic witch from my past is now in jail casting evil spells on the warden.

The Witches’ Book of Days ordered me to “be a mountain spirit”.  Yeah.  I’m in Massachusetts for one thing, a state known more for its swamplands than for its mountains.  Sure, I could get in my car and drive to northern New Hampshire or Vermont, but this is the Fourth of July, when every drunken yank or yahoo between here and the west coast jumps into her or his car and aims like a scud missile for the highways.  And she wants me to jump into my car and hunt down a mountain so that I can “feel the power of wind and air and space from the breasts of Gaia”?  I think not.  And that sounds a little weird and kinky to me.  Let the authors of that book go stand on someone else’s tits.

Nigel Pennick’s The Pagan Book of Days is completely empty on the fourth of July.

The one dismal idea I got from Kate West about deflecting negative energy was something called a “witch’s ball” to hang in the window.  She didn’t say WHICH window, but let’s leave that knowledge gap unanswered for now.  I googled “witch’s ball”, and naturally – of course I did! - ended up back in Salem, Massachusetts for the dance called the Witches Ball – the 2012 one is going to be held in October of this year, with a month’s worth of festivities leading up to Halloween.  Was just about to back out of that page at the speed of a greased meteor, when something caught my eye – again.

Connecting with the departed.  My heart cinched a knot in my chest.  The last time I tried this, it had worked, after a fashion, but my brother was still alive, at that time.  My grandmother had certainly shot some arrows of truth into the woman’s head and Sekhmet had sent a visual, although the psychic had gotten confused about the recipient.  And – the spooky coincidence in that case – the woman had picked up something about Damien Echols, even though I had never met him, and he was in New Zealand anyway.  The whole thing struck me as strange at the time.

But it had worked for the most part.  I wondered if being drawn to that event had actually been a precursor of sorts, getting me familiar with the idea.  And now here it was again.  In Salem, this time.  The place Damien felt drawn to, and the place which I will always associate with my brother’s untimely death and my role in it.  And the emotional upheaval of self-loathing and guilt that both Damien and Sekhmet had addressed, even though I doubt Damien was aware of it.  I think Sekhmet used him to smack me upside the head.  (And now the guilt was two-fold:  guilt over my brother, and guilt for not listening to either Sekhmet or Damien, which I usually do).

The only problem was that all of the “events” were from 9-10:30 at night, way past my usual bedtime, unless I did what I did the night I saw Il Divo:  spend the night in a nearby hotel, which I sooooo didn’t want to do.  Not in Salem.  I didn’t even want to go there; I was pretty sure I’d end up curled in a fetal position under a chair somewhere, sucking my thumb.  But it did make me think, maybe I should try it again.  I wasn’t sure about trying the Andover ladies again – the basic information they gave me was correct, but they had trouble determining who it was meant for, which seems to me part of a good, solid reading.  But maybe I should look into it – somewhere.  At least I had some time to think about it.

Luckily, Damien provided some thoughts for the day – I love that guy! – for his next book, he should write “Damien’s Book of Days”!  I’d buy it.  The “Daily Coincidence” – seems to be happening a lot lately, I have no idea why – was his re-tweeting of a Lauri Cabot one – I assume a witchy prediction of something to do on the fifth of July– tomorrow.  I’d never heard of her, either, but I learned she’s connected with Salem as well.

“Thursday, July 5: Wear Turqoise (sic). The moon is helping your majick. Use it.”


Well, OK.  You'd want to hope that powerful witches would want to set an example for others by being born with an internal "spell check" function, but misspelling of “turquoise” aside, I had just finished attaching the sleeves to my turquoise shirt that I mentioned for the first time on the “Sekhmet and Damien Join Forces” post – although I’m sure that was just another spooky coincidence ... and I doubt very much I’ll be able to procure 5 matching buttons and turn up all the seams by tomorrow.  Damien’s posts were these:

“In just a couple hours you'll be able to see the full moon. Want to give her a gift when you make your wish? Put out Milk and honey for her,” and “Full moon, folks. Make a toast to her. The full moon in July is called the "blessing moon". Make a wish. Better than a shooting star.”

Both from the third of July, but I could live with that.  Blessing moon.  I wonder why it’s called that?

According to Ask.com

It's nearly time for July's full moon, and it's the one we know as the Blessing Moon. In addition to being the perfect time to take inventory of the good things you have in your life, use this moon phase for magical workings related to dreams and divination. It's also called the Meadow Moon, so go for a stroll in your favorite fields, smell fresh flowers as you walk in the night, and just enjoy the chance to be outside!

Color correspondences for this month include green and silver, gemstones are opals, pearls, and moonstones. July's moon is associated with the deities Venus and Cerridwen, as well as Lugh, whose day comes up in just a few weeks. Find a way to celebrate the watery magic of this month's cycle -- maybe hold your Esbat celebration at the beach!

According to Llewellyn:

Color of the day: Yellow
Incense of the day: Cedar

“The old-timers knew July’s Full Moon as the Blessing Moon, because this is the time when Mother Earth begins to bless us with her richness. The monarda and tall garden phlox fill the flower bed with a heavenly fragrance. Tomatoes fatten and the corn tassels out. By day the hummingbird dashes from flower to flower; by night the mysterious sphinx moth haunts the garden border sipping nectar. At night above the ripening fields, the Blessing Moon of July rises.

She glows like a copper disk, shining with a warmth like no other Full Moon. Honor her beginning at dusk. On your altar place as many vases of flowers as you wish. Burn burgundy and green candles. Fill a clear glass bowl with spring water; stir in a clockwise direction with your finger. Carry the bowl outdoors, or at least to a window where you can view the Moon. Raise the bowl until you can see the Blessing Moon through the water and speak these words:

You who have been known by many names, and have shed your light on our Earth since time began, bless us with the bounty of the field and the vine. Gently swirl the bowl while gazing at the shimmering moonlight. In simple ritual, respectfully pour the water onto the Earth. Pause and be aware of the summer night—the stars, the crickets, and the fireflies.”

Last Saturday, off on another adventure.  You have to understand:  Massachusetts doesn’t believe in cross street signs, so every time you decide to hunt down something new, and have only the address to go by, it’s an “adventure” just getting there.  Of course, if you actually need to get there in a timely fashion, “adventure” quickly turns into “yet another reason to hate this freaking state” because you never know where you’ll end up, although you can pretty much guarantee that you will end up pounding the steering wheel in enraged frustration and screaming at the top of your lungs.

Fortunately, it was due to be a scorcher.  I figured I’d run errands in the morning and get home before the serious heat kicked in.  And you’d say, “Hey!  Why not go on Sunday when it may not be that hot?”


To which I reply:  actually, it WAS that hot on Sunday, but more importantly, Sunday was the day when Italy met Spain in Kiev for the 2012 European final.  So in preparation for the big day I decided to try and make some arancini di riso, which I’ve never made before because ... well, because I’m not Sicilian, and I’m pretty sure it’s a Sicilian street vendor specialty.  So the adventure was an attempt to hunt down an Italian deli in Methuen, and see if they have any canestrato fresco – also a Sicilian specialty – and other things I could nibble on in an attempt to send emotional support to the Italians.  I was hoping they were actually a decent Italian deli – I’d been spoiled rotten as far as Italian deli’s go by being a New Yorker.

Summary:  Pttoeeey!  Blech!  Ach!  Ick! 

I now know where the Italian section of Methuen is.  As I predicted:  an adventure.  I had to turn around and retrace my route at least four times, thanks to road signs like, “If you’re looking for Route 110, you should have turned left two intersections ago.  Sorry we forgot to mention it!  Bwaaaah-haha!”

Not that I was all that impressed by the food I came home with, but I can at least say I know where it is, so that I can throw an untranslatable Italian gesture in their general direction.  Okay, maybe it IS translatable, but not on this blog.

I really was spoiled by the Italian grocery stores in New York, because this one was borderline ridiculous.  Heck, I often went to one in Goshen, New York that was infinitely better than this one – and was always packed, back to front, that’s how good it was.  This one? 

Being the moron that I am, I forgot the grocery list.  Turned out that it didn’t matter – all they had was pasta and olive oil stuck on some rickety metal shelving in a corner anyway.  They did have frozen arancini in a freezer.  I thought, “Okay, well – at least I’ll get some idea of what it tastes like.”

Ha!  Not likely!  I don’t even have to be Sicilian to know better than that.  Really?  A mushy, soggy, soaked ball of gooey rice you have to eat with a spoon it’s so messy, filled with a few chopped bits of chicken for the filling, provolone for the cheese, and drowning in tomato sauce?  That’s a Sicilian delicacy?

Well, let’s see, based on that experience, our two possibilities are:  an Italian deli in Methuen has no idea how to make Italian food – which is pitiful for an Italian deli – or Sicilian food is vastly overrated.  Let’s take a wild guess, here.  I’m voting for kicking the deli owner out of the Sons of Italy.  If he was ever allowed in it to begin with, that is.

I also made the mistake of visiting an Italian bakery on the same road.  Result:  their “Italian bread” (and I mean the pane di casa bread) is nothing more than Wonder Bread with sesame seeds on it – oh my GOD is it disgusting! – and excuse me, but how many native Italians make cannoli with vanilla pudding in them?  Not ricotta, people - your choice of cannoli filling from an ITALIAN BAKERY was vanilla pudding or chocolate pudding. As in “Jell-O” pudding!  I just stared at them in horror and walked out.  There was one thing from the bakery I did like:  two single serving boxes of La Florentine® torrone.  Oh, right.  They taste right because they’re IMPORTED (from Italy)!  I’m not saying they were healthy – just saying they tasted the same way here as they did in Italy.

No wonder all three members of Il Volo were stumbling around the United States politely trying not to disrespect the Italian food.  They SHOULD have dissed the American Italian food, if it was anything like this!  It’s disgusting!  Hey!  Methuen Italian Americans!  Turn in your “Italian Pride” membership cards!  You’re a disgrace!

End result:  Spain 4, Italy 0.  I was seriously bummed when that game ended.