Et in Arcadia ego. And Piero Blows Away Honduras.

“Et in Arcadia ego.”

There was a Samhain circle Saturday night, but I was still fighting off the effects of the (now tossed away) steroid-laden muscle relaxers – slash – pain killers – slash – neurological de-stabilizers.  It takes a long while for the effects to dissipate, and it was exhausting keeping it completely suppressed and out of public view.  I suspected that I would not benefit from a high-energy circle swirling around me; I think I sorta need exceedingly low energy, dead silence and soft music right now.  So why I thought it was a good idea to download the latest Joan Jett and the Blackhearts cd I have no idea.  Shoulda downloaded Mel Tormé. 

Hey ... what a great idea.  Let me go look in the I-Tunes store ...

Later ... listening to Mel Tormé singing, “Til the Clouds Roll By”.  He was before my time, but Harry Anderson’s character on “Night Court” was so obsessed with him, I went and listened to him, and have been listening to him ever since.

Besides, I had to spend the entire morning getting my car fixed.  Supposedly, they replaced the defunct emissions filter; as soon as I got to Methuen, the “Service Engine” and “Security” lights went back on.  Return of the white-hot rage and bloodshot eyes.  Squealing tires as I made an angry U-turn in a semi-empty gas station parking lot.  Back to dealership repair shop.  “Explain this to me,” I snapped at them, pointing at the lights.  To their credit they didn’t blame ME for it.  Unfortunately, the guy who runs the “error lights analysis machine” – or whatever they call it – had left for the day.  I have to go back again NEXT Saturday.  I don’t believe I’d be happy about that even if I weren’t under the influence of steroids breaking bad on me, among other issues.

There was something else.  The morning after the serious meltdown, I had to get up and go to work.  Reason:  whatever time off I still had I needed to coordinate a move.  I wandered by my tree at about 6:30AM almost ashamed of what she must be seeing in me; I felt compelled to stand under her branches as though she had whispered, “Come stand by me” – under the umbrella of her still verdant canopy of leaves, where I always find peace.  I can’t touch her trunk – the way that the groundskeepers have her set up, she’s planted in a fenced-in dirt mound, surrounded by yellow chrysanthemums.  To get near enough to touch her trunk, I’d have to squash the mums.  So I have no choice but to stand on the sidewalk under her canopy, although ... I longed so much to put my arms around her and lean on her trunk and just cry.

The moment I came under her canopy, I felt such an embrace I wanted to burst into tears again, but these were the good tears this time, and I knew what else had gone wrong.  Yet another learning failure:  one I had learned a year ago after returning from seeing Il Volo at the Beacon Theater with my twisted face, and had then learned again in the WC1 class (not to mention a few circles) and yet had forgotten completely after both lessons:  if you’re going to raise energy, do not fail to ground it when you’re done!

I had been allowing it to accumulate.  The occasional “wipe down” in class had dissipated some of it, but nowhere near all of it because I had raised energy in other ways away from class.  I had to be consistent and vigilant, and I hadn’t been – at all.  It had just built up, again and again, until the meds triggered the downside of it, and I exploded like a volcano.

One thing I love about my tree:  she loves me unconditionally, no matter how massive of a screw-up I am.  She just poured compassionate love into me, took a huge chunk of energy out of me and grounded it herself.  Then she suggested I do the same, so that I could recognize the sensation of grounding.  When she was done, I was trembling and near tears again.  Everyone should have a tree who loves them.

So after the new set of dashboard lights incident, I came home to continue packing and perform a grounding ceremony.  That plan was squashed when the phone rang.  It was the floor guy.  “Hey, where are you?” he wanted to know.

Another example of communication going completely awry in this new version of hell that was my life under the influence.  My version:  he was supposed to call me back at the office Friday afternoon to verify our appointment for 3:00 pm Saturday and never did.  His version:  we were meeting at 3:00 pm Saturday.  Fine.  I’d jump in the car, drive all the way to New Hampshire and be there in an hour.

No keys.

The white-hot screaming rage was back upon me in an instant.  I threw things across the room, breaking things, hearing them shatter as they hit the wall with intense pleasure ... trying to find those keys.  I knew exactly where they were 24 hours earlier; now I couldn’t find them.

If you’re tired of reading about one screaming temper tantrum after another, imagine how tired I am of flailing around in them – over and over and over again.  I’m also extremely tired of the reasons I felt I had for perpetuating them.  Chaos.  Disorder.  Things completely out of control.  Things lost and missing.  Miscommunications.  If these things were happening once every few weeks or so, it may have been tolerable.  But these were happening in succession, one right after the other – and sometimes simultaneously, for weeks on end.  I had no chance to solve one dilemma before the next one hit me.  I had no recovery time.  And it was killing me.  I couldn’t even find time to develop an affirmation against it, or – obviously – to ground it, although I did try a fast, hurried version, and you can see how well that worked.  Things just kept piling up.

An example:  I found the keys and sped off to Seabrook at 3 in the afternoon, but not before finding yet another notice from AIMCO on my door.  Now, understand that it was an AIMCO employee who set up the automatic rent payment, via which they were to get paid every month (and sometimes twice a month, being the chronic thieves that they were).  I made SURE they were the ones who set it up because I didn’t want to hear from them ever again about the monthly rent.

The notice read:  “You underpaid us!  Send more money!” despite the fact that they were the ones who set up the payment deduction in the first place.  I screamed, “What the f ...!” in the mailbox room.  These freaking jackasses!!!  That wasn’t the end of it.  In the mailbox was a check for “overpayment of rent money” in the amount of 14 cents.  So, to summarize: on one hand I owe them more money, but on the other hand I overpaid them by 14 cents.

Blood sped through my arteries up to my head again.  GET ME the *(^&* OUT OF HERE!!!  I hit the road in yet another state of rage, thanks to the perpetual, abject stupidity and ineptitude of the North Andover, Massachusetts Royal Crest Estates leasing office (AIMCO).  Got there before the floor guy.  And found a notice from the Seabrook, New Hampshire tax assessor’s office on the door.

JUST purchased the thing.  Hadn’t even moved in.  And already I’m getting notices from the Tax Man.  Or in this case, Mary Dow, the Tax Lady.  (Figures.)  I just stared at the notice in bewildered shock.  Not a “Welcome to Seabrook!” welcome wagon notice.  Not a “How can we help you?” offer.  An order – a DEMAND – that I show up and let Mary Dow, the Seabrook, New Hampshire Tax Lady tramp her muddy stinking shoes through the house, sniffing and peeking into corners, so I could pay her money to buy more muddy, stinking shoes.

Like I said.  One thing after another without a pause to recover.  I stood at the front door, reading the command performance notice, trembling and hyperventilating, no longer feeling welcome in New Hampshire.

Only one other moment calmed me back down again:



Only time I’ve tried not to scream with the audience ... at a video.  I have no idea how he manages to stay grounded faced with that audience reaction ... girls and women screaming for him ... to him ... all this ... and that body!

The Night I Almost Murdered All of Boston ... or Fun with Steroids, Part II

I had no idea what of what would happen yesterday, but so many things went so badly wrong that all of the affirmations in the world weren’t able to save me.  The car not starting was the cheery tip of one spectacularly dismal iceberg:  I didn’t get to work until 10:00a.  Now we’re talking at least 4 hours of work on the other side of the day.  Finally got ahold of the contractor, no he wouldn’t be doing the floors.  Called the floor guy.  MAYBE he could stop by Saturday afternoon.  Unfortunately, Saturday morning was the freaking car appointment and I had no idea how long that was going to take.  I’m already stressed out at the time constraints.

I leave in plenty of time to catch the 6:55 pm train.  I miss one bus by less than a minute.  Of COURSE I did.  The next bus was supposed to arrive in 8 minutes.  It did not.  It arrived closer to 25 minutes later, and I’m watching my window for catching the 6:55 grow smaller and smaller.  Despite the fact that city traffic is being horribly re-routed onto other roads to support repair on a critical bridge, Boston has inexplicably decided to do construction on at least 3 supporting roads at the same time, while scheduling a baseball and ice hockey game simultaneously.  I’m beginning to understand why people might storm into, say, Boston city planners’ offices with bloodshot eyeballs, threatening mayhem and civil disorder at the very least.  There are no cabs at all at the Marriott Residences across the street.  None.  Not one.  Of COURSE there aren’t.

I blame myself for taking so long to pee before I left the office that it’s my own damn fault I missed the bus.  My body betrayed me, THAT’s why I missed the bus.  Standing alone in the dark, I start viciously slapping my own face in punishment, berating myself for being a bald-faced, retarded slow-peeing c*nt.  It feels good, doing that.  I deserve the punishment.  Once I start, I have difficulty stopping.

The stupid bus FINALLY shows up and proceeds to inch through congested traffic.  No explanation as to why the fool is so late.  It takes the full remaining 20-minute window of time to make a 6-minute trip to North Station.

Where I am blocked by crowds of drooling, drunken Boston Bruins addicts and can’t even get into North Station because just as Boston has no concept at all of traffic planning, the TD Garden has no concept of event and foot traffic planning.  I miss the 6:55 train by :30 seconds.  Next train:  90 minutes later, at 8:40 pm.  I am now in a state of white hot rage.  I will not be getting home until 10:00 at night.  I will have to forego all of my medication.  I will lose hours of sleep.  The next Bostonian who even touches me was on the verge of being punched so violently in the face, they’d still be picking up stray teeth this morning.  I am literally cursing people out loud. 

I go back outside, praying for a cab to pull up to the station.  It will cost me $100 to get home, but at that point I don’t care.  Not a cab in sight.  Of COURSE there aren’t.  I gimp back into the hell hole that is North Station, cursing people out as I go.

The first stupid woman who plops her fat wobbly ass down on a bench next to me and shoves a pizza slice reeking of garlic and onions into her drooling mouth gets, “Get the F*CK away from me with that disgusting sh*t!” and scurries away like a rat.  The next stupid cow who wanders over babbling into her cell phone gets the same thing.  I’m in such a state of rage I’m starting to double over with stomach pains.  If I could lay my hands on something sharp I’d stab myself in the gut with it, just to get the pain out.

Courtesy http://www.baggelboy.com/category/cartoons/

Tears are blinding me.  I keep saying, “I hate this place, I HATE this place,” because I genuinely do.  I have never hated any place in the world as much as I hate Massachusetts and Boston.  And thanks to all the crap doubling up on me, I can’t get out!  Then I start in on, “I’ll pray for your death on a daily basis,” to everyone I find distasteful, which is just about everyone.  I keep telling myself to stop, but it gets worse.  And then worse.  I’m mumbling curses at people around me like a bag lady.  I don’t care.   I hate everyone and everything in the hell hole that is Boston.

I rarely see rage like this.  Not saying I never have, but it’s rare.  And once it started escalating, I couldn’t swallow it back down.  I didn’t know how.

On the train.  Trust me, no one sat down next to me because I glared ferociously at each and every onboarding passenger, and I’m sure they anticipated being stabbed to death on the train.   They weren’t far off.  Conductor:  a powerless fat woman wobbling up and down the aisles, acting like the Queen of England.  Ugly as sin.  I’m PRAYING for a weapon but didn’t have one.  I suppress urges to stick out a foot and trip her so she goes sprawling in the aisles, hopefully breaking her neck on the way down and dying a painful death on the dirty floor.

She doesn’t help her own cause by grabbing a microphone and whining nasally into it that due to an “accident in Andover”, we’ll be even further delayed.    (The accident was caused by another stupid woman in an SUV doing a U-turn on the tracks.  Of COURSE it was!)  My white hot rage ratchets up another notch.

Women all around me on the train are screeching into their cell phones in at least 3 languages.  I’m PRAYING for a pistol to materialize in my hand, so that I could shoot each and every one of them in cold blood.  No weapons materialize.  The small voice inside of me pleading, “Stop it, stop it, please stop it,” is so faint I’m only dimly aware of it.

I know I’m not psychotic, I know it, but it’s the closest I have ever come to a psychotic breakdown in my life.  Tears are still trickling down my face as the violent rage consumes most of the conscious part of me, so out of proportion to the trigger, it is complete insanity.  When I finally get home I collapse in numb exhaustion on the bed and sleep in my clothes, including my coat.  I wake up once with what feels like a high fever, but I am unable to get up and verify that.  I fall back into a deep, sick, pond-scum green colored sleep.  The next morning the fever is gone.  Both eyes are completely bloodshot, and I still have a stomach ache.

I finally getting around to tossing the Special Edition of Mas Que Amor on my I-Tunes, hear “Little Things” for the first time and burst into sobbing tears.  It’s a One Dimension … One Direction … whatever the British group is called …. Song that Il Volo chose to sing and they couldn’t have picked a song better designed to elicit just that sort of reaction.  I can’t believe I’m bawling like this.  I’m completely out of control at the moment.

I still can’t figure out what happened.  The last time I remember an emotional meltdown this out of control was … (enlightenment slowly dawns) … when they put me on steroids to kill off the Bell’s Palsy … only to discover that I have a serious tolerance issue when it comes to steroids.  Which is to say, no tolerance at all.  None.  Zip.  And my PCP knew that.  I’ve just had my leg cramp medication changed on Monday, to something much stronger.  They’re trying to treat the severe tendon and muscle cramps that are rendering me more and more lame as a neurological issue.  Like the BP was a neurological issue.  I pull out the bottle and frown at the label. 

Son … of … a … how did I miss this?

Damiana Tea, Round Two

Ahhh ... back to the Damiana Tea.  As you’ll recall (or perhaps not) I had started an experiment with the Damiana Tea (and not the Damiana steeped in liquor); Peanut died the next day and that was the end of the experimenting for a while.  I decided to try again last night.

Let’s see: this morning, my car refused to start, I missed a meeting I’m supposed to be leading, the AAA guys was late so I missed the third train, when he arrived the car started without difficulty (WTF??!!??), I misread the train schedule and missed the fourth train, the refrigerator light just went out, and my affirmations so far are a complete disaster.  Why is it that all hell breaks loose after I field test the Damiana Tea?

Example:  I’m driving out of the apartment complex to the train station and reach the intersection of roads where school busses pick up passengers.  A bunch of mothers are “supervising” their kids, and by “supervising” I mean standing in the middle of the road babbling with each other, ignoring the spawn altogether and setting an excellent example for the kiddies on how to stay out of the path of oncoming cars.  I’m not the only driver thoroughly pissed off at this gaggle of idiot mothers; I am (probably) the only driver who decided to start doing positive affirmations that morning:

The other drivers are honking, yelling out of their car windows at the women and in general being really annoyed at them.  I’m affirming:  “I react to challenging and stressful situations with peaceful tranquility.  I react to challenging and stressful situations with peaceful tranquility.  I react to challenging and stressful situations with peaceful tranquility.  I react to ... GET THE &*^& OUT OF THE ROAD, YOU IDIOT, NARCISSISTIC C*NT!  WHAT ARE YOU, STUPID??  GREAT EXAMPLE FOR THE KIDDIES, COW!”

Yeah, I’m doing great.  That doesn’t excuse the Idiot Mothers of Royal Crest Estates, North Andover, Massachusetts – all of whom should be herded into “Responsible Parenting Remedial Re-Education School” and taught stern lessons in how to act like responsible parents ... as it’s obvious none of them know how to do that.

Meanwhile, Mr. Signpost made me feel even smaller and more useless with his post:  “The last bigotry of the open-minded is their bigotry against those they see as closed-minded.”  OK, FINE.  Guilty as charged.  Actually, I suspect I have even more “bigotries” than that (see above), but I’m having a hell of a time breaking those.

But none of this tells you how the Damiana Tea worked.  Awesomely.  And I have two weeks minus one day to go with the field testing, which makes me suspect that by the end of the two weeks I’ll be ... I don’t know – in bad shape?  In good shape?  Wide-eyed and sleepless?  Jittery and jumpy?  Rubbing against trees?  Who knows?  But I basically had the same issue I had last time:  one hour later, I found myself fantasizing about you know who and why and suddenly catching myself doing it.  Looking at the clock.  Bursting into laughter.  Stuff is great.  I wish I know where Enchantments got it from, so I could give someone the Recipe-credit.

Blood Moons, Witch's Pyramid and Will I Won't I Will I Won't I Will I Go To Salem?

I’ve now de-evolved to the point where I lost track of yet another day …five days ago I could have sworn it was Thursday …. Nope!  Friday.

 From Damien Echols (“Mr. Signpost”) (whose tweets are so encouraging:  “The universe is going to take you to a level you have never seen before. Amazing things will find you,” and OMG, I believe him completely!) described the full moons which lit up the sky over the last several nights: “Tonight's full moon is called the Blood Moon or the Hunter's Moon. The only one I love more is the full moon of December.  In November it's called the Dark Moon. In December, it's the Cold Moon.”

And he’s right, today was the Blood Moon, which I wasn’t able to see until I was driving to the commuter rail lot in the morning.  What a greeting!  Initially, I could see only the reflected light behind a long line of clouds, when suddenly the moon burst forward from behind those clouds, and it felt so like a happy greeting!  I could only think how lovely it will be when I can free myself from the basement apartment and actually see the beauty of the moon from my windows ... or from my backyard!  Or front yard!  What an incentive to continue packing with anticipation.  Moon water!  Cleansing things!  Moon tonics!  Spells!  Possibilities are endless.

Speaking of Damien, he offered tarot sessions for people near Salem; I responded, “Sure, I’m near Salem”, before it hit me that maybe he meant I should COME to Salem.  Said, “D’oh!” because you all know how desperately I don’t WANT to go to Salem.  (The Massachusetts one.  New Hampshire one is fine.)  I was right in the midst of hoping he (or his rep) would say, “Ooops, changed my mind!” so I wouldn’t need  to show up for the session crying hysterically.  Instead, the response was that his next appointment was a workday – yay!  I’d forgotten that I was probably one of the few witches who worked first shift and couldn’t sync up with anybody, even if I had no problem meandering up the road to Salem.

Personally – given how thoroughly and near magically he whipped all the pain out of my back with just a hand clasp – I think his tarot reading would be awesome.  I just can’t bring myself to go back to Salem, Mass since my brother died.

They say (regarding affirmations) that they should be positively charged (“I have a beautiful, flawless body!”), as opposed to the negatively charged (“I hate these ugly warts on my toes and want to banish them.”)  And no, I do not have any warts, ugly or otherwise, on my toes, I’m just sayin’.  I flip through our current textbook (Christopher Penczak’s, The Inner Temple of Witchcraft, now dog-eared, stained and completely un-re-sellable, as if I would anyway) using his affirmations as templates for mine.

As he said, you must know what you want before you can make it happen.  The first affirmation you know as well as I do, because this blog started out as a Search for a Soul mate up until April of 2010 when I was riding a bus that was broadsided by a jeep, and nothing was ever afterward the same.  The Search for a Soul mate came to a screeching halt as I went through all of the agony, the surgery, the side-effects and the aftermath, followed by the deaths of everyone I loved.  And I still haven’t recovered (see entries on screaming leg cramps).  So I went from trying to envision the love from a human soul mate coming right around the corner to realizing I still wanted a soul mate, desperately, but I needed to re-envision him in a big way.

I needed a lover that could do everything a human lover could do without the pain.  Inadvertent pain, obviously, but just hitting the apex of that roller coaster and momentarily freezing in place while I  enjoyed the ride was enough to disable me for a week.  All of the muscles and tendons of my upper legs, lower legs and feet muscles cramped and twisted so violently and for so long I would leave teeth marks in pillows, trying not to scream so horribly the neighbors would dial 9-1-1 and I would have to explain myself to the friendly neighborhood gendarmes.  (That would be the armed and dangerous North Andover police swat team, to those of us who don’t live in France.  Which I don’t.  And I’m not even French, so I have no idea why I said that.)

The second affirmation?  No, not releasing my sudden strange affinity for faux French affectations, like, you know, “gendarmes” and “faux” instead of “fake”, but ridding myself of an emotion I seem to have in abundance.  You might have guessed that one, too, just reading this blog.  Releasing the anger.

No doubt you’ve seen the anger I hold for really stupid, narcissistic and obnoxious women and really evil corporations (not to mention dumb twinkie witches who can’t spell), but you may not have seen the self-directed anger, which I also seem to have in excess.

Now to think of a third affirmation. while my mala beads wind their way through the post.  A WCI classmate wisely suggested tying knots in a string (there will be a pause while I try to figure out how long it would take me to tie 108 knots after losing track of the number after every third knot). 

Okay, maybe I do need a memory retention affirmation.  I had actually purchased a skein of yarn to make a witch’s girdle (not the same thing as a Playtex girdle, sorry) and still haven’t managed to find the time to do it, so I’m guessing having someone else count up and connect the mala beads is probably a better idea.

Later:  noshing on a BLT (with yummy sweet Vidalia onion and kosher dill slices in there) on a sandwich-sized toasted (as Americans would say) English muffin, and as the British would say, crumpet, and the last of the Vina Temprana 2012.

I’m contemplating, as I nosh, on the origins of the “Witch’s Pyramid”, which seems odd, as I’m wondering why witches don’t more respectfully refer to it as an “Egyptian pyramid”, as that seems to be where the concept originated.

Some theorize that the theory goes back to the hieroglyphics on the Sphinx – I have yet to find a citation for that – others from 1896; still others think it originated far more recently, in 1981.

As I said, the Sphinx hieroglyphics source has a big question mark after it.  In Transcendental Magick, Its Doctrine and Ritual, written in 1896 (Arthur E. Waite, trans), Eliphas Lévi wrote:  "To attain the Sanctum Regnum, in other words, the knowledge and power of the Magi, there are four indispensable conditions - an intelligence illuminated by study, an intrepidity [dauntlessness: resolute courageousness, fearlessness] which nothing can check, a will which cannot be broken, and a prudence [the ability to govern and discipline oneself by the use of reason; sagacity or shrewdness in the management of affairs; skill and good judgment in the use of resources; caution or circumspection as to danger or risk] which nothing can corrupt and nothing intoxicate. . .” [Definitions added by me].
Source:  http://hermetic.com/osiris/onthepowersofthesphinx1.htm

I suspect the four conditions began with Levi in 1896 and were then given the “concept or model of the Pyramid” in 1981 by Clifford Bias, Spiritualist minister and founder of Universal Spiritualist Association and Ancient and Mystical Order of Seekers (A.M.O.S.). 

In his publication, The Ritual Book of Magic, Bias writes:

"The Magus, the Theurgist, the True Witch stand on a pyramid of power whose foundation is a profound knowledge of the occult, whose four sides are creative imagination, a will of steel, a living faith and the ability to keep silent."  Already the four “sides” have changed in significant ways:  we now have “creative imagination”, “a living faith” and “the ability to keep silent” – all of which in no way resemble the first list. Supposedly, the four indispensable foundations of magic weren’t attached to the physical diagram of the pyramid until 1981. 

Christopher Penczak has a terrific diagram of the concept in The Inner Temple of Witchcraft, but here’s another one.  The advantage to this one is the Latin (Italian), although the Italian is a little different (i.e., volere instead of ‘velle’) and the accompanying symbols.

Penczak’s version of this has the elements:  To Dare=Air, To Keep Silent=Water, To Know=Earth and To Will=Fire.  At the apex:  Wiccan Rede=Spirit.

This is probably one of the few times I haven’t gone ballistic at “Wiccan Rede”, which I believe to be wholly invented by Gerald Gardner and the furthest thing possible from “traditional” unless you follow Gardner’s beliefs religiously.  As I said, I have no problem with Gardnerians; I do have problems with people presenting Gerald Gardner’s invented stuff as “traditional” when it isn’t. 

The TOW is far more Celtic than I am; so .... let’s just say my affirmation to stop going ballistic at everything is working even before I started using it.  Woo-hoo!!

On the Cusp of the Hunter's Moon and Shrines to Piero Barone's Nude Torso

You know, if I were the whining sort  (and I’m sure I’m not!) (okay, you can all stop laughing now), I would swear I was still being blocked as far as accomplishing anything magickal goes.  October is turning into one of those months so crammed full of conflicting obligations I’m nigh close to flinging things at walls in frustration.  Week long business trips, moving, packing, high school reunions, FDA inspections (again!), WC classes that get me home at 10:30 at night, followed by four hours of sleep, followed by an FDA presentation, broken clothes washers, workshops, car engine lights going off, doctors insisting I make appointments with them NOW, a dentist demanding $900 to finish a root canal, my credit union’s online banking system crashing so I couldn’t pay my home refurbishing contractor, my landlord stealing my rent twice … did I forget anything? 

Oh yeah.  The evil slumlords from Royal Crest Estates (AIMCO) left another note on my door when I came home last night, “Right in the middle of everything else, we decided to perform another home inspection invasion TOMORROW, and we’re hoping you’ll be so flummoxed by having another one scheduled a mere two months after the previous one that you’ll give up, go to work, and leave us to pillage and steal from your home at our leisure.”  Well, they ARE evil, doing something this evil is right up their alley.  In Worcester, they heisted a book of checks off a bookcase, so apparently, they perform this thieving scam all over Massachusetts.  Who knows what they could steal in a home full of packed boxes.  I sent a shrieking note to my boss.  Fortunately, and unlike AIMCO, she’s a decent human being.

But the most important pathways for me in all of this relentless chaos?  Studying, learning, practicing and getting into the new house to build altars and sanctuaries and peaceful places to learn  everything, watching the sun move through the sky and planning herb gardens for the spring, embroidering sigils … so many things.  And yet I seem to continually be running in place and hitting brick walls … it’s frustrating.

I decided to consult my tarot deck, the Crowley Thoth, asking the rather open-ended, “WTF?”, or more specifically, why are all these critical dates and events converging on and conflicting with one another?  I need peace and tranquility, I need the ability to meditate, calm my inner voice, learn valuable skills, and everything seems to be deliberately blocking that, forcing me to juggle appointments, run from one event to the next, worry as to whether I’ll make it on time.  Doing that makes me forgetful and upset.  And these convergences are SO deliberate – really, there’s no other word for it – I want to know why.  What is the purpose of this relentless chaos?  Good example:  this vicious home invasion by Royal Crest Estates/AIMCO every two months means that I now need to cancel a desperately needed doctor’s appointment on Monday, cancelling a flu shot and new scrips for medication because I can’t go two full days without pay.  And I NEED the flu shot; rheumatoid arthritis and diabetes makes you susceptible to all sorts of things.  This is a return to the days of the Sky Sadist.

Background, current situation, future state:  Emperor – Hanged Man (R) – Prince of Disks.

Emperor:  “Thus, this card indicates that you have a strong desire to see your ideas manifested on the physical plane in the form of material gain or accomplishment. An opportunity will arrive that could be the foundation of a very successful future.”  From the biddy tarot .

“Hanged Man usually indicates a lack of ability to help oneself through independent action. This energy is arrested and awaiting judgment. With this card, there is no avenue for the will to regain control until the situation has passed.  This represents a good time to be philosophical, to study and meditate upon the position you find yourself in, and form resolutions for the moment you become free again.”  From the Old English Tarot: 

Prince of Disks:  ... the Prince of Disks is slow in following and developing his plans and ideas, yet he is steady and unwavering - once on his path, he is going forward towards his goal.  Great.  (*sigh*)

Second WC1 class yesterday, in the middle of the FDA inspection and on the cusp of this sadistic and evil AIMCO Home Invasion.  The third class, next month, falls on the day when the new director pays a visit to Cambridge, which is the same day as a court appearance in Lawrence, wherein I will attempt to regain a house full of stolen property!  What the …?  This is so consistent, it has begin to veer back into “find me some chicken entrails, I have to kick the gypsy curse” territory.

Sorry, fleeing chicken!  Just joking!  I really don’t want your entrails!

I discovered that I do really well on guided meditations; much better than solo ones.  We were learning to focus on shapes and colors; tastes and smells … the teacher had led us all calmly and quietly into visualizing an orange against a white background, peeling it, and tasting it.  It was going surprisingly well … when all of a sudden, a delectable, delicious and verrrry recognizable nude male torso appeared without warning in my field of vision and *pop*!  The orange disappeared in a splash of juice and all that was left was me, breathing heavily and thinking, “Oh yessss, peel me one of THOSE grapes, please.”

Zepar!!!  (“Zepar is a Great Duke, who tries to seduce women, and if requested by them, he can change his shape into that of their beloved man” ... see an entry or so ago.)  You know, this could be very useful, indeed.  This one, this one, this one, this one!!!

I don’t know how he could live up to the perfect prototype that is Piero Barone (all this – and that voice!), but ... ohhhhh myyyyy.  Please, please, please do try!  I realize that fortunately, every woman has a different and subjective view of “the perfect male body”, but for me, this is it.  This is the paragon of male perfection.  Given a choice, I would have constructed an anatomically correct version of this one from clay, fired it up, and built a shrine to it in my living room.  After all, I know it was the Sicilian Greek Euhemerus who theorized that all gods originated as super-stellar human beings, like my awesomely sexy Piero, here ...

OMG!  I can’t stop lusting after Piero Barone even while I’m trying to visualize an orange!  I definitely need to get my trains of thought under control, here.  Arrgh.  The Hunter's Moon is tomorrow night, and I'm wondering what sort of spells work well with a full moon so close to the veil.  If I could find a "learn to focus!" full moon spell, I'm all over it.

Affirmations.  As part of my homework assignment this month, I have to select and repeat three of them.  In repetitions of magical numbers, like  3, 9, 33, 108.  The assignment brought up another term I’d never heard before:  mala beads.  Like rosary beads, used for counting affirmations, mantras, prayers, although the mala beads were invented first, by a millennium or so or three … or four … or maybe more.  Went and looked them up.  Tibetan. Japanese.  Hindu.  Traced way back to BC, the first known ones.  Used for meditation.  Just went online and found a rose quartz one I really liked.  And so, now that the mala beads are on their way I need to select three affirmations to recite.  My choice.  This may take a while.

Affirmations.  I hear Billy Burke as Charlie Swan snapping an irritated and disgusted, “You want me visualize,” at his daughter when she asked him to picture her in a healthy state.  But after class was over, I discovered that there were components of “instant magic” that actually worked.  One was creating a trigger from within a deeply meditative state and using it later.  I questioned whether or not it would work right away, although the psychological principle behind the act was sound.  I just didn’t expect it to work so quickly.  I tried it the next day, and was astounded when it worked.

And this is why you should probably not use it in an elevator the first time – I can no longer recall why I felt I needed it!  So much for the spell journal!

Find a place of power in nature.  That was a no-brainer!  The rock in my back yard in Seabrook.  The first time I saw it I gasped in awe of its size and beauty and radiating tranquility.  I adore that rock – although technically speaking, it’s more of a large boulder than a rock!  I need to have Dana devise some way of (gracefully) climbing up on the rock (when I tell you it’s huge, I’m not kidding) so that I can meditate up there.  But can I get back to it before the next class?  Who knows?

Eko, Eko, Azarak!

On the other hand ... I still wonder why we pass things down without explanation or (probably more importantly) translation.  For example, Maxine was describing the witches’ rune or chant, which I’d never heard of.  It was supposedly a method of raising energy in a circle.

“The drumbeat intensified as we chanted the witches’ rune over and over again.
Eko, Eko, Azarak!
Eko, Eko, Zamilak!
Eko, Eko, Karnayna!
Eko, Eko, Aradia!”
Sanders, Maxine, Fire Child, Mandrake of Oxford, 2008 p. 97

She provided no explanation as to what was actually being chanted, which – to my mind anyway – is at best never a good idea, and at worst a possibly dangerous idea.  Who or what are we invoking with this?  Aradia I knew (I’m Italian, after all, and she’s ours thanks to Charles Leland), but who was Azarak, Zamilak and Karnayna?  And what did “Eko, Eko” mean?  “Hail, Hail” or “Come right in, have a spot of tea and take over my body!”?

Frighteningly enough, even Doreen Valiente didn’t know what it meant, and she was one of the witches passing it around!

The mention of Aradia made me think we were veering into Latin or Tuscan with this chant, “ecco” (correct spelling) meaning “Here is”, in the sense that you’re either holding up things and saying, “Here is a wand, here is a knife”, or in the sense that we’re welcoming a being into the circle, as in “Here’s Zeus!”  I could be wrong (and please correct me if I am), but I think the same word, perhaps spelled differently, means much the same thing in Greek.

But translating “eko” as “ecco” is just an educated guess on my part.  And it still didn’t answer the question as to who or what Azarak, Zamilak and Karnayna were.  Not in the Encyclopedia of Spirits, or Dictionary of Demons, but I had packed some of the other spirit resources, naturally.  In any event, I had no wish to raise energy by chanting a list of names or words unknown to me.  The gods alone knew what would happen if I did; I sure had no idea and had no experience yet in banishing things I inadvertently invoked.

Luckily, there’s another version of it, a little less intimidating.  Not sure where this one came from, but at least this one is understandable.  As it fell off-metre during a few lines, I took the liberty of strengthening the beat:

“Darksome night and shining moon,
Hearken to the Witches' rune;
East, then South and West, then North,
Hear ye! Come! I call ye forth.

Powers--earth, air, fire, sea,
Turn now and come forth to me;
Wand and Pentagram and Sword
Hearken ye unto my word.

Candle, Censer, Cup and Knife,
Waken all ye into life;
Powers of the Witches blade,
Come ye as the charm is made.

Queen of Heaven, Earth, and Hell,
Send your aid unto this spell;
Horned Hunter of the night,
Work my will in magick rite.

By the power three times three
As I will, so mote it be.
By the might of Moon and Sun,
As ye will, it shall be it done.”

Naturally the word “hell” comes with a lot of christian baggage and here means “underworld”, as in Demeter and Persephone, not the one falsely recreated in “Constantine”.  (And a gigantic ‘oh, pu-LEEZE’ to that one.)  Imagine the other false one created by Carol Markus and her son in “The Wrath of Khan”, located in a huge underground cave.  Also invented, but closer to my idea of the pagan underworld, anyway.

Michelle Belanger, Sekhmet, Phobias and Sex Magick Again

Ran out the door of a terrific workshop conducted by Michelle Belanger on Psychic Vampires, dashed home, frantically packed a suitcase and was back out the door at 4 the next morning after 2 hours of sleep.

I seriously dislike flying.  Sekhmet was burning away a phobia of flying, but I was still suffering from air pressure changes, and usually staggered off the plane with blinding headaches and a runny nose.  This time I had to be delightfully pleasant and charming as one of our VPs was on the same flight and graciously chauffeured me over to the Raleigh office.  Last thing you want to do on a business trip is puke all over the shoes of senior management, so I managed not to.

Fortunately we didn’t sit together, so I was able to distract myself somewhat by reading,  without having to explain that I was reading the biography of the woman who was married to the King of the Witches of  the Alexandrian line, in England.

At the suggestion of the WC1 class instructor, I was now reading Maxine Sander’s biography, Firechild.  I didn’t think I’d enjoy it all that much, but it turns out I did, because she describes initiation and instruction that is exactly what I think it should be … and not the twinkie nonsense women are spewing out ad nauseum in their frustratingly inaccurate and nonsensical Tinkerbelle wiccan books (“Clap your hands if you BELIEVE, boys & girls!”) every time I turn around.  She both received and then delivered serious initiation training that was, in turn, amazingly intense, enormously valuable and sometimes almost cruel.

Still, those are the events that were  real learning events, the ones that stuck with you.  They taught her things she could use.  They let her pick the wrong herbs out in the wild and watched dispassionately as she retched them all back up again.  They left her in a trance in the woods all night – alone.  The hard housekeeping work – brass polishing, robe laundering, cleaning floors, walls, altars ... each act done with focused intent and enormous concentration.  I was finding myself more and more inspired and despairing of ever finding initiation instruction here in the USA like that.  (Actually, the first WCI instructor did initially strike me as a bit of a slave driver, but then she also told me a lie about Charles Leland which irked me a bit.  Okay, it irked me a lot.  She’s going to really work hard to get past that lie.)

But back to Maxine.  On the negative side, a lot of her talents seemed to be inherited … for example, astral projection came really easily to her from a very early age, while others of us need to struggle with simple things like basic meditation and feeling energy between the palms of our hands.  Her mother wavered between the occult and the rigidity of the catholic church ... which had to make for an odd upbringing.  And lastly, the book devolves into being insufferably British now and again, obsessed with “knowing your place” and dubbing people “royalty” within the occult world.  I find that difficult to get past ... especially when women here in the U.S. demand you call them “Lady Such and Such”, which generates in me a raised eyebrow of disdain, mainly because it makes women sound like they never grew up past their fairy tale-believing days when they really wanted to be a “princess”. 

Be that as it may, so far it’s fascinating.

I had raised the spectre of sex magick again last entry, and came across the three spirits Sitri, Beleth and Zepar, three of the so-called “demons” that the Judeo-Christian Solomon controlled.  And you know how defiant I am about taking a definition (i.e., “demon”) from the judeo-christian-islamic world without first doing my due diligence on their personality and what they do.  The majority of them, (so far anyway) seem to be completely – or mostly – free of malice or anger or hatred or any other personality trait that would earn them the title we now know as “demon”.

I am of the belief that those of us in this generation need to be the ones who research these beings and systematically strip the title of “demon” from them.  Until proven otherwise, they will be “spirits”.  So, here are three conjurable “spirits” I found:

“The 12th spirit is Sitri, he is a great prince & appeareth at first with a Leopards face, and wings as a griffin. But afterwards at ye command of ye exorcist, he putteth on a humane shape very Beautifull, Inflaming Men with womens Love, and women with mens love, and causeth them to shew themselves Naked, if he [it] be desired, &c. he governeth 60 Legions of spirits, and his seal to be worne is this.”
http://www.esotericarchives.com/solomon/goetia.htm

Original Purpose:  Sitri is a lust spirit and causes men and women to be passionate and get naked around one another.

Author’s Notes: Invoke Sitri for seduction rituals (become Incubi or Succubae). Invoke Sitri during sex magick to boost the energy raised. Sitri can also be called up when you seek to infuse any creative project with passion.  (Connolly, S. (2010-09-02). Daemonolatry Goetia (p. 60). DB Publishing. Kindle Edition.)

Then there is Beleth:

He can breathe fire.  He can shape shift, and can manage about three shifts in a day before he wears out. Human (winged or not) is his favorite and most-seen form; his true form is slightly beyond human comprehension and for the sake of interaction is not used often.

He can transport himself and other people between summoning circles, even if it means crossing between dimensions. Beleth is capable of moving between a highly technological location to a magical location and back again, though this requires a great deal of energy and leaves him exhausted afterwards.

If someone successfully makes a contract with Beleth (which not only requires the agreement of Beleth and the character involved in the contract but the agreement of the players of any third parties), he can do more. His specialty is that he “causeth all the love that may be, both of Men and of Women, until the conjuror hath had his desire fulfilled” (LKS).

Finally, Zepar:

Zepar is a Great Duke, who tries to seduce women, and if requested by them, he can change his shape into that of their beloved man, but makes them sterile. He has twenty-six legions of spirits under his command. Other sources say that he makes women love men and brings them together in love.  He is depicted as a soldier with red clothes and armour.

Now comes the fun part - learning how to invoke .... and not forgetting the controlling and banishing part ... one of the three of them.  More later.

Il Volo at Radio City, Piero Barone in a Jacuzzi and Everything Else Breaks Down

In so short a time, a little over two years, they had gone from a small “Meet Il Volo” performance in the Los Angeles outdoor Americana mall to selling out Radio City Music Hall.  I knew I had to be there to witness this.  I know I would rather see him in New York City than in Boston ... until Boston gave me a front row seat, and New York gave me a seat in SS after a mere 15 seconds of ticket sale time had passed, that is.  THEN Boston was irresistible.

I didn’t know they had sold out until I got there.  I knew I had to get out of the awful hotel for dinner – OH MY GOD that hotel was disgusting.  Manhattan at Times Square.  And it was actually a Sheraton!  Absolutely disgusting.  I swear I thought I was going to the other Sheraton across the street (7th Avenue and 51st-52nd Streets), and how I ended up in the garbage pit I ended up in I had no idea – another Sky Sadist gut-busting giggle fest, I’m guessing.  Hit the wrong button, ended up in hell.  No pool.  No room service.  In the middle of dangerous renovations.  Filthy walls, filthy bathrooms, broken bed springs, angry employees - everything that could be wrong with the place WAS wrong with the place.  I walked in the front door and went into shock, it was so awful.

I ran out to dinner and ended up at Morell’s Wine Bar & Cafe on 49th, just across Rockefeller Center from Radio City.  When I came around the corner of 51st and saw “SOLD OUT” on the Radio City marquee, I swear, I grinned like a lunatic.  My boys!!!!  SOLD OUT!  They claimed they were speechless.  I wasn’t.  Right at the corner of 51st and 6th, I shrieked, “Yes!”, and didn’t care who heard me, or even looked at me oddly.

Best dinner I’d had in ages, pan seared rock cod, shitake mushrooms, broccoli florets, sitting on a white wine and spinach puree; everything sprinkled with clover.  Heavenly.  Absolutely heavenly.  A Tempranillo (which I should have written down but didn’t – and ask me if I care if it was a dark red with fish!  No really.  Go ahead and ask me) rounded it out, and the wine was exquisite.  I should go get some.  If I could remember what it was.  Argh!  But really.  Heavenly.

Came back to the world’s most expensive and filthy garbage dump, eyed male urine droplets on the bathroom fixtures,  tried not to puke, and took a shower.  Then started dressing.  Then realized I hadn’t packed any extra bras.  (*sigh*)  Oh, of course not!

The blessing?  For once, my make-up went on flawlessly.  Not a smudge on me.

Radio City was so bursting with people they sent us around to the side door to check bags and run wands up and down your clothes to make sure you weren’t  sneaking a meth lab in under your coat in honor of “Breaking Bad”.  Another blessing:  my seat, even if it was an SS row, was on the aisle, so I didn’t have to trip over anyone to sit down.

They didn’t go with the silhouette opening, but did a live opening … and when those magnificent golden curtains lifted and everyone could see them, the entire hall erupted with cheers and shrieks.  Thunderous.  One of the first things Piero did was walk in an intense circle and you could see he was trying to ground an excess of frenetic energy

The concert was awesome.  They were awesome.  Don't believe me, go watch some of the videos on YouTube.  I adore Il Volo - can you tell?

Losing track of an entire day in my inner mind’s calendar meant all sorts of other things went haywire.  I realized on Sunday I should have picked up my newly cleaned comforter back on Wednesday, and had put it off thinking I had an extra day.  Now it was Sunday and the store was closed.

The clothes washer in my apartment was now broken (of course it was!!); I’d never used the hell-on-earth that was the communal laundry room.  Threw the dirty clothes into the machine along with the goop only to THEN read the sign on the wall that said, “No clothes washing after 8 am”.  THEN discovered you had to pay a ridiculous $2 per load with a “card”, but no sign told you which “card” they meant.  Credit card?  Laundry card?  What?

I had a washing machine in Seabrook, an hour away, but a car with a “service engine soon” light that kept going off and no way to get it looked at until the following weekend.  I could have done my grocery shopping up in Seabrook, too, were it not for the fact that I needed ice cubes.    The credit card didn’t work in the laundry room, so I now needed to get into my car and find a &^%$#@ laundromat.  And I am so not happy about it I’m shaking with pissed-offed-ness.

Losing a day also meant that I would not have the time to get my blood work done as planned.  I had to wait until next Saturday; messing up my ability to get the car worked on ... messing up my ability to get to Seabrook on the cusp of my having to fly to Raleigh for an entire f*cking week and sing kum-bah-yah in yet another bonding event.

Piero Barone:  The King of Atlantic City

I sat trembling in my apartment on Sunday morning, trying not to cry, desperately trying to think of blessings to recite. 

Piero was kind enough to post photos of himself in Atlantic City, where they went post Radio City Music Hall ... in bed with a mirrored ceiling, and in a jacuzzi in his bedroom... both of which he found so refreshingly astonishing, he had to take photos of himself in both, looking like the King of Atlantic City.