An Awesome Tarot, Piero Barone and Greek gods, and Strange Egyptologists

I don’t know who it was who said never to do a tarot card reading on yourself ... whoever it was:  pfffft!

I’m not really sure what the objection is ... if you’re shuffling the cards face down, it’s not as though you can pick and choose your favorite cards to toss into the spread.  Perhaps it’s because you tend to interpret cards in favor of your own best outcome and may not see things realistically, or something?

Nonetheless, as I didn’t have anyone around to do it for me, I pretty much had no choice but to toss Piero Barone singing “No Puede Ser” into my earphones for erotic inspiration (I mean, c’mon – he’s Piero Barone!  He  sings “No Puede Ser” like a Greek god!*  Who better for erotic inspiration, I ask you!) then ask a question and see what happened.  (*Fine.  You're right.  I have no idea if Greek gods sing like that.  They should, if they don’t, I’ll say that much.)

If you’ve been reading the last few entries, you’ve no doubt read my lovely experience with a certain spirit who dazzled me completely with a glance.  This particular lovely spirit is known for his gift at orchestrating memorable romantic erotic sizzling hot encounters ... I just could not figure out why someone (which is to say, moi) had to go through the entire Enochian catalog of nonsense just to ask him a simple question.  In my (albeit rather limited) experiences with him (2 at last count; 3 if he actually WAS the ankle grabber, which I doubt) – if he was comfortable enough to suddenly appear without all of the circle-drawing, sigil drawing and unpronounceable name yelling that Dee and Crowley thought necessary ... why did I have to go through all of that, myself?  (Although his sigil is rather attractive, I’ll give it that).

Basically, the question I asked of the cards was, “Is asking him to help me accomplish what I want to accomplish in my best interests?”  Truthfully, I was rather hoping he’d take on the task himself, but if not – help me to find what I was looking for.  The cards could just have easily answered with an obvious, “That would be the most disastrous thing you could possibly do!” – and as the gods can verify, I have had plenty of those types of spreads before.  So, I really didn’t anticipate the response before I shuffled and laid out the celtic cross.

Don’t you love it when you get an answer that looks like the equivalent of winning the World Cup singlehandedly?  Well, I suppose if you’re not a soccer fanatic, you probably wouldn’t know what that did feel like, but trust me, it’s awesome.  In order:  Prince of Disks, Ace of Wands, Hermit, Five of Cups, Ace of Disks, Knight of Wands, 4 of swords, Queen of Disks, Queen of Cups and The Fool.  (The 5 of cups, by the way represented my unconscious thoughts about it – I guess I was semi-expecting disappointment, wasn’t I?)  The only other non-court, the Four of Swords, was my attitude.

I couldn’t help it – I burst out laughing.  Way to undermine myself, isn’t it?  All of the outside influences were awesome.  YES!  GO FOR IT!  DO IT!!  TIME FOR A NEW ADVENTURE!  Well, ok, I’m paraphrasing somewhat.

One of the things I try to do with important readings is record them in the BOS, with interpretations, which takes a bit of work to pull together.  Still working on that, but in a very happy state of mind.  And I’ll let y’all know how it goes.

The Real Witches’ Year uses this day’s entry to discuss creating an astral temple.  In a way I already did that – although I neglected the part about filling it with intent and protecting it with blessings ... which will come in handy with the exercises on protection and talismans.  I won’t go into many more details, beyond saying it’s in Venice, where I find such inner peace, and near the space where I experienced one of my most powerful past-life regressions.  I even mentioned it in this blog a few years ago although at the time I was considering it a “dreamscape” more than an astral temple ... or maybe they’re the same thing, I’m not sure.  I certainly don’t use it regularly, although I should.

Meanwhile, The Witch’s Book of Days says, “Seek wisdom in water.  Gaze  into a cup or bowl.”  The Pagan Book of Days, somewhat similarly mentions this, the Nones of February, as a day honoring Tyche, Fortuna, Wyrd and (in another usurpation by our friends) St. Agatha – a day potent for fortune telling and all forms of divination.  Hmmmm.  Well, this was the day to shuffle the tarot deck, wasn't it?  Oh yes, and Between the Lights, which often provides lovely poetry and quotations chose instead to sing praises to the virtue of obedience.  Right.  I harrumphed and tossed that one aside pretty quickly.  Obedience is definitely not one of my stronger innate qualities.

Sir William Matthew Flinders Petrie (1853 – 1942), "commonly known as Flinders Petrie, was an English Egyptologist and a pioneer of systematic methodology in archaeology and preservation of artifacts." according to Wikipedia.

That may be, but he was unfortunately also a dues-paying member of the Plymouth Brethren ("Among other beliefs, the group emphasizes sola scriptura, the belief that the Bible is the supreme authority for church doctrine and practice over tradition...")

And yet this is the swashbuckler who thought he was eminently qualified to write Religion and Conscience in Ancient Egypt in 1898 ... filled with such sweet observations as, "We must feel that the greater part of mankind has ... systems of religion which may be a horror to us; ideas of gods which would be monstrous to us; their ways of life would make them flee into the fields from our dwellings; their systems of propriety would bring them into the police court; and their systems of morality would land them at once in the law court." (pages 12-13)

Actually, no – to me, that sentence was more horrifying than anything ancient Egypt ever produced, or maybe  that’s just me.  (Fling)  So much for Mr. Petrie.

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!

Piero Barone: After Damiana Tea and Dressed in Black, He Looks like a Hot Cross Between a Priest and a Gunslinger

Ahhh, another day at Salisbury.  No sunburn this time.  No obnoxious brats.  Peace.  Closed-eyed tranquility.  Refreshing.  I was going to say, “no bird-brained women”, until I remembered the two morons who left a plastic bag of snacks laying on their beach towel before wandering off – completely forgetting that seagulls aren’t stupid.  For those two women “bird-brained” would have been a compliment.  The resulting squabble among the gulls over who got the last piece of red licorice (who knew gulls liked red licorice and cheesy-bites?) was pretty funny ... as was the expressions on the faces of the two dingbats when they returned and found their food bags spread out all over the sand – minus all the food.  Gulls looked happy, though.

For those wondering about Piero’s version of  “No puede ser” – I’m guessing if you asked Carlos Marin of Il Divo, he’d know exactly what you were talking about – “No puede ser” is one of Spain’s most favorite tenor arias from the zarzuela world, and Carlos came directly from the operatic and zarzuela world himself, so you know HE was familiar with the number.

Think Gilbert and Sullivan – operettas with a common touch; that’s the Spanish art form known as the zarzuela.  One of the most popular zarzuelas is  La tabernera del puerto, by Pablo Sorozábal, written in 1936, with libretto by Federico Romero and Guillermo Fernández Shaw.  Christopher Webber of Blackheath, London, UK provided the full synopsis of the zarzuela, providing the context of “No puede ser”.  Some background:  Marola is the beautiful barmaid, Leandro is the handsome young sailor (who is madly in love with Marola), and Leandro has just been told an untruth:  that Marola is using him as bait to smuggle illegal drugs.  Leandro (wise little cutie that he is ... or maybe I’m thinking of Piero) doesn’t believe a word of it, and sings “No puede ser” ("It cannot be!")  Lyrics and translation follow:

"No puede ser" (Leandro)

¡No puede ser! Esa mujer es buena.
¡No puede ser una mujer malvada!
En su mirar como una luz singular
he visto que esa mujer es una desventurada.

No puede ser una vulgar sirena
que envenenó las horas de mi vida.
¡No puede ser! porque la ví rezar,
porque la ví querer,
porque la ví llorar.

Los ojos que lloran no saben mentir;
las malas mujeres no miran así.
Temblando en sus ojos dos lágrimas ví
y a mi me ilusiona que tiemblen por mí.

Viva luz de mi ilusión,
sé piadosa con mi amor,
porque no sé fingir,
porque no sé callar,
porque no sé vivir.

TRANSLATION
It cannot be so! This woman is good.
She cannot be a bad woman!
In her look, like a strange light,
I've seen that this woman is unhappy.

She cannot be a cheap siren
who has poisoned every moment of my life.
It cannot be so! Because I've seen her pray,
because I've seen her love,
because I've seen her cry!

Those eyes that cry don't know how to lie.
Bad women do not look like that.
Glinting in her eyes I saw two tears,
and my hope is, they glint for me.

Vivid light of my hopes!
Take pity on my love!
Because I cannot pretend,
because I cannot be silent,
because I cannot live!

http://www.zarzuela.net/syn/taberna.htm

And here’s another example of l’uno e solo singing it, this time in Phoenix.




Update:  Witchy Brew (haha) Evaluation

Love Potion #9

Now, this is not the same thing as the Damiana aphrodisiac steeped in alcohol.  I need to find a container for that.  This was the damiana tea:  equal parts Damiana, Angelica root and Saw Palmetto berries.  Instructions are to take one cup per day for two weeks.  “Seems to have stimulating effects on sexual performance.”

It actually sorta worked after one cup, so I am seriously looking forward to 14 cups.  By “sorta worked”, I mean that I was actually involved in something else an hour after I drank the tea, which was actually delicious.  Really!  I think it was the angelica root that added the very delightful and distinctive flavor to the tea – it was excellent!  In any event, I was in the midst of packing, when all of a sudden I found myself thinking about ... sex.  I actually thought, “Why the &*^& am I thinking about ...?” and then I looked at the clock.  One hour exactly.  I have to admit, I burst out laughing.

Of course the general state of arousal could have also been encouraged by Piero posting another photo of himself – dressed all in black, looking like  a cross between gunslinger and a priest.  Or, to put it another way, if you’re an Italian tenor, “sembra lei un incrocio tra un pistolero e un sacerdote”.   Mmmm-mmmmm!  I almost lost consciousness he looked so hot:  the dangerous bad boy crossed with the [supposedly] unattainable. 

incrocio tra un pistolero e un sacerdote

Lucky for me he isn’t the latter, or I would have been moved to confess all the lustful thoughts I have had about him since he was 17.  And thank goodness he isn’t the former, either, or he might have shot me.  And someday he wants to have 6 kids??  Some woman is going to be delirious with joy when he starts THAT program!

And so, back to the Incubus.

It occurred to me ... and I have no idea why it took me this long ... that it didn’t matter what christians thought of incubi, or what qualities they attributed to incubi, or even what Enoch said about them.  The ONLY thing that mattered was what I – me – myself – thought about incubi.  If I (me-myself-I) did not believe them to be bad news, then they weren’t.  It was that simple.  They were bad news only if I bought into the nonsense spewed out by the church ladies with the pointy hats brigade.

It’s getting near bedtime again.  Back to the teapot, and some lovely experimenting!

Piero Barone's Hard Body and Snake Charming

September.  This is turning into one of the busiest – and most emotional - months so far this year.  Aimco did it AGAIN – took two months rent instead of one.  Replay of Property Bridge and Grand Theft Rent. 

When the slumlords at Royal Crest Estates in North Andover FORCED all of their tenants to pay rent by automatic bank account deduction, I told them this was going to happen.  They made up some appalling story about how they were cutting down on their office staff (they haven’t) and were too lazy ... sorry ... too BUSY to process the checks people delivered by hand, and this was why they were forcing all of their tenants to sign up for this automatic deduction thing.

And here we are!  Woke up Tuesday morning to discover Royal Crest Estates had taken two rent payments instead of one, and were balking about handing me a refund check that same day – which you would think anyone with a conscience would promptly do.  This is Saturday morning and I still don’t have the money back.  Nice interest garnering scheme, wouldn’t you say?  Is the Massachusetts District Attorney listening or is he/she in on the scheme?

But there are better moments in September than battling Royal Crest Estates and AIMCO over grand theft rent ... I start the year-long witchcraft studies in New Hampshire.  I go to New York.  I spend the night in Boston – same place as last year.  I see l’uno e solo (“The One and Only”) not only once but twice and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you who THAT is.

And if that weren’t enough, I am preparing to move again – sometime in the next (mumble, mumble) months – a decision made when the Evil Slumlords took it upon themselves to raise the rent to a whopping $1400 per month (and then deduct it twice – AGAIN!), and so have begun a slow, very methodical sorting of possessions.  Things to keep, things to discard.  Exhausting, carting empty boxes and bins back from the storage shed – my late brother being the one who took them there. 

I decided to transfer notes from the witchcraft course at Enchantments all the way back in 1988 from a three-ring binder to a file folder, to save space.  Half way through the process, I had to laugh ... I have no idea why, but I had decided at the time to hide what I was doing (“ooooh!  Witchcraft!  Naughty, naughty!”)  from prying eyes ... although goodness knows what set of prying eyes I thought I had to be worried about.  In any event I decided to record some things (fortunately not all)  in runes.  Or code.  Something symbolically unintelligible, anyway!  The only problem was:  I neglected to keep the key to the code with the notes I was keeping, so I have no clue now what I wrote.  I need to look up some runes to see if maybe I used a standard set of them and hoped “prying eyes” wouldn’t know what they were.

WORD OF ADVICE:  Keep a reference to the location of any code you choose to use – in the same place you keep the notes, lest all of your brilliant thoughts and stunningly intelligent ideas are lost forever!!  (*sigh*) 

Or, more accurately:  “D’oh!”

On the other hand, one of the many fascinating handouts from 1988 caught my attention:  a recipe for Best Aphrodisiac - ever.  This one uses whisky as a base; I am not at all fond of whisky and should find something else; I’m thinking of my favorite Old Ipswich Rum or spiced rum.  Problem:  in this lengthy recipe, the author is switching back and forth between tablespoons and liters, to ounces,  to milliliters to centigrade.  [Insert heavy sigh of annoyance].  Oh goodie.  Recipes like this should come with conversion tables ... this is as bad as the unintelligible runes.

Reminder to myself:  THIS IS WHY you purchased saw palmetto berries and angelica root – which arrived on Thursday.  What didn’t arrive, unfortunately, was the food scale.  Was planning to purchase one anyway, but now – thanks to the annoying recipe – I needed one, to measure the aphrodisiac ingredients properly.

Although – did I actually need it?  “Some users of the combination tea (Damiana and Saw Palmetto) report that, taken an hour or so before sexual activity, helps to produce a more satisfactory experience.  One cup per day for 2 weeks.”

So, regardless of the food scale, perhaps I only needed to use the same volume of Saw Palmetto and Damiana leaves in the aphrodisiac recipe using the liquor. Hmmmm.  Shall report on tremors in the sexual earthquake scale ... when I actually experience any.  And speaking of lust ...

Piero Barone has returned to the USA for Tour 2013, and so far he and the Il Volo boys have Vancouver, Los Angeles, Fresno, San Francisco and Phoenix under their belts.  Better still, the One and Only has a new solo that knocked my socks off:



 So tonight, I’m going to start mixing the aphrodisiac and investigate the properties of horsetail.  This one makes me smile.  It sounds so “witchy”, as though I’d snuck into a pasture in the middle of a stormy night and deprived a skittish horse of its tail.  No.  (And I wouldn’t do that even if the spell DID call for a horse’s tail).  “Horsetail” is actually a grass – shavegrass – and, according to http://www.ancient-wisdom-herbs.com/proddetail.php?prod=Horsetail has the following magickal associations: 

“Feminine, Saturn, Earth. Snake charming, fertility. To summon snakes, make a whistle of the stems & play. The plant may be used in fertility rituals, mixtures or sachets, & can be placed in the bedroom to achieve the same purpose. Health, Fertility, To Strengthen Work and to keep focused. Bring out the self's own Stable Emotions, prosperity protection. Snake Charming.”

Snake charming and summoning.  Hmmm.  Ahhh, zee plaizure zat comes wiz zee double-entendre, non?