Back from Vacation

At long last I was on vacation ... a real vacation, unlike the four day frantic packing and unpacking “vacation” when I moved here at the end of April.  I finally made my way to the beach, after a few days packed with a barrage of thunderstorms rolled through ... although I had made the mistake of trying to investigate a useful spot one hot and sunny afternoon (Saturday, I think it was) and had never seen so much traffic in my life.  Took me forty-five minutes of stop & go bumper-to-bumper misery before I turned around and came home, vowing never to try THAT again.  Lesson learned:  mornings only!  (Which is what my skin tone prefers anyway, as prone as it is to sunburn.)

I’ve never lived at oceanside before, so was thrilled when something unusual (for me, anyway) happened:  it is a beautiful sunny morning, cool and breezy.  The beach was fairly deserted at that hour (9:15 am) and I had enjoyed wading in the water, strengthening my legs and core by walking through the pleasant waves ... back and forth.  All of a sudden I looked out to sea and saw a huge fogbank out near the horizon.  Next thing I knew, the bank had rolled onshore, and I couldn’t see the people 15 feet away from me.  The sun was still shining down on me; the fog was all at ground level, and you know me and fog – I love fog.  It always feels like a cool, enveloping blanket to me.  It was such a wonderful experience, although I’m sure it happens fairly regularly.  I’d just never experienced a ground level fog bank rolling in off the ocean like that, on a clear sunny day.

I was just thinking, “This feels like being embraced by the universe,” when I looked down at my feet only to find a sparkling, flat stone shaped like a heart laid directly in my path.  Welcome to the seaside, it said to me.  At last, I was where I was supposed to be.

And yet ... I spent a measly two hours that morning in an awesomely sunny fog bank and still had a sunburn by morning's end - again!  Go figure.  I decided I’d stay out of the sun the next day and try to recover.  Of course I didn’t listen to myself.

The next day, I took one of my periodic tumbles in an incoming wave I wasn’t expecting – rolled around in the surf for a few minutes, and was forced to take a day away from the beach recovering from the resulting bumps, bruises and scrapes.

The next weekend, I ventured further out and had a wonderful time swimming.  In fact, I had such a  wonderful time, swimming around and diving into waves, I lost all track of time ... with the expected results – sunburn on top of fading sunburn. I finally took my own warnings seriously, and sat at home avoiding sulking by listening to Juan Diego Florez.  Well, maybe one of these days, my skin will toughen up and I won’t be so sunburn prone.

While I recovered, moaning and groaning, I also re-re-discovered The Cowsills.  For those who don't know who they are:  they had started out as four brothers from Rhode Island with dreams of being  a brilliant r&b, rock band – (“who, the Cowsills?”, “Yes, THEM!”) – for those unfamiliar with them, they were the family who inspired the Partridge Family television show.I had re-discovered them for the first time after a documentary done about them; now I discovered they were on You Tube.

Once they’d gotten various monkeys off their backs ... and by monkeys I’m referring to the idiots in their various record companies, and their abusive, fist-wielding, mentally unstable baronet of a father ... the rock music began to force its way back out of the bubblegum pop veneer they had been forced to wear; Barry and Bill, when they weren’t battling demons you can trace back to childhood terrors their father inflicted on them, turned out some really astounding hard rock songs that knock your socks off.  Bob, who was forced to take over as lead singer when their father fired Bill (their brilliant lead singer on such songs as “The Rain, the Park and Other Things” for saying he smoked pot) became a solid lead and still is.  And even Susan has turned out some memorable songs with her Susan Cowsill Band.

I went out and bought every Cowsill album I could find and had been wallowing in them.  Now I was able to see them on You Tube performing the songs I only heard on the radio back in the day.  The more I listened to them, the more I thought that, had they been able to sing the material they actually wanted to arrange and sing, they would have shot themselves directly into the musical stratosphere and stayed there.

I found a current version of one of their hits, performed in 2004 or thereabouts, when Barry Cowsill was still alive (he drowned in Hurricane Katrina, 2005) – they still sound awesome.  That's Bob singing lead vocals (brother Bill, who sang lead on the original song, was desperately ill; they're performing a benefit concert for him); Barry is in the hat, Paul is on the keyboards, and for any Beach Boys fans out there, yes, that's brother John Cowsill, drummer for the Beach Boys, on the drums in the rear.  Susan wasn't on the original song, but has taken over the lyrics sung by both Barry and John, when they were boys.  Barry now has taken over Bob's role, who has taken over for Bill.  Following all that?  And yet, despite all of that role switching, they sound exactly the same as they did when the single first exploded up the charts.

That discovery led to Barry’s gorgeous version of “Going Home” (have no idea when he wrote that), and the Cowsill album “Global” which came out in 2009 ...  in fact, they are probably one of the most underrated bands of the 60’s.  Its surreal, spiritual quality comes from its creation after his death; Louise Palanker had created a documentary on them, from which this was taken.  I love this performance – he looks so happy.





But back to Il Volo, who, by the way, recently dashed over to Mexico and performed before a monstrous crowd of 25,000 people in Chihuahua, after winning the Latin Billboards “Best Album” award for “Mas Que Amor”/”We Are Love”.  Hell, I can still remember them performing before a crowd of 50 in a New York Barnes & Noble!  Their next accomplishment was a series of sold out concerts in Italy, who had ignored them for the most part – and then decided they wanted to join the rest of the world in loving the boys from Il Volo.  Taormina was their first Italian concert – a spellbinding performance before an adoring home crowd.  The world is waiting breathlessly for their next album.

And The USA is still listening to relentless crap.

Speaking of music, I had the strangest experience a few days ago – all of a sudden a song popped into my head.  I realize that in itself isn’t strange at all – what was strange was the fact that I hadn’t sung this song since I was probably 7 or 8 years old, I sang it maybe one or two times (at summer camp) and it isn’t a well known song, so I’m quite sure I hadn’t heard it since then.  It just appeared, full-blown, with all lyrics intact, in my head.

    I'll sing you twelve, ho

    Green grow the rushes, ho

    What are your twelve, ho?

    Twelve for the twelve Apostles

    Eleven for the eleven who went to heaven,

    Ten for the ten commandments,

    Nine for the nine bright shiners,

    Eight for the April Rainers,

    Seven for the seven stars in the sky,

    Six for the six proud walkers,

    Five for the symbols at your door,

    Four for the Gospel makers,

    Three, three, the rivals,

    Two, two, the lily-white boys,

    Clothèd all in green, ho

    One is one and all alone

    And evermore shall be so.

Other things I’ve been doing in this period of uncharacteristic silence:  had the pleasure of attending a lecture by Raven Grimassi; had to apply for my own job at work and created a video presentation for it, lost my iPod (now THAT was a disaster), have to create another presentation for a kumbahyah event in September, had my dvd player in the television stop working and had to buy a new television, even though the TV works perfectly; am facing our final exam for my first year as a student of witchcraft and an initiation ceremony; so far, everyone in the WC1 class is planning to continue in WC2; I suspect I’ll decide to join them.

And, while all of that was going on, I had a blood test come back with problems.  You don’t want to know what the problem is, but I was not happy when they told me.  I hate not being healthy.

Fake Commenters Must Die, Part II

I will repeat:  I will not post any comments that include your non-relevant website on it.  Nobody comes on here to read about your websites for car parts, drugs, Japanese doodads, Russian booze, penis enlargers, hot models for hire (and if any guy is dumb enough to fall for that one, he hasn’t understood a word I’ve said since I started this blog and deserves to be ignored on general principle) and whatever else you’re hawking.  They will be deleted.  They will not see the light of day, I don’t care how much flattery you stick on the front end (“This is the greatest blog I’ve ever read!  You’re so witty!  You’re so intelligent!  I read you every day, I live for your stupendous insight into issues that mean the world to me and I weep with gratitude!  Oh by the way, I sell drugs from third world countries that could easily kill you thanks to our lack of hygiene, here’s my website!”).

Comments that are actually relevant or in response to something specific are more than welcome.  Now go away!!!!  (Not you, average reader; you have no idea how many fake comments I had to delete this morning.)

I’ve been spending the last few days saying “WTF?” a lot.  Big things, little things.  E-mailed the handyman guy last Wednesday – who has been terrific (so far)  - to ask about his schedule, I needed to clear the bags of packing material and broken-down boxes out of the front room.  He said Friday; I said “Cool!” ... little bit of a short notice, but okay.  I planned to come home Thursday night, pick up some final boxes from the storage shed, unpack those, and move all of the stuff that needed to be cleared away in one end of the room; move the plastic bins to the other end, because I wanted to use those to pack things I didn’t have room for in the storage shed again.

Came home Thursday night with the boxes to unpack, opened the front door and said, “WTF!?”

Instead of Friday, he had come on Thursday during the day, and cleared out everything ... including the stuff I actually needed.  I’m not saying I lost anything valuable; just things that I needed to get organized.  All of the bags of packing material that hadn’t been moved into the front room were still where I had left them.  I just sat down on the floor with a moan and tried to take stock.  Why people tell you one thing and then do another, after you’ve re-arranged your schedule to accommodate them, and made plans, and carried heavy boxes in the rain, and everything else ... I am desperately trying to release my anger before saying anything to him.  He meant well ... I guess.  But ... WTF?

Because of THAT screw-up, I hadn’t picked up my mail.  I actually needed the mail because TD Bank was sending me ... something ... having to do with the new account I was forced against my better judgment to open with them.  I had populated the account with my business trip refund check – with which I intended to buy a portable air conditioner, because I DIE in here when the temperature soars.  When I had a few more bucks, I would start looking at central air options.  It’s extremely difficult to get to the UPS mailbox before it closes on weekdays.

Drove to the UPS Seabrook store ... stood outside screaming “WTF???!!!”  Sign on the door.  Gee golly whiz great gosh awmighty, he was really sorry for the inconvenience but he had decided to close on Saturday, tra-la-la, oh well, tough titties on you, customahs!!!  Inconvenience?  INCONVENIENCE???!!!???  Fucking prick.  Well, that’s UPS for you.  Up with the middle finger at everyone who depends on them for things like, OH I DON’T KNOW, checks, bills, information, vitally important things like that.

In a thoroughly foul mood now, I went over to Market Basket.  “WTF???”  San Pellegrino in glass bottles not the unbreakable ones I use when I carry the bottles to work.

Went looking for mozzarella cheese.  “WTF?”  Sargento, those faux Italians who try to pretend they know from cheese, had actually printed “CUT FROM THE BLOCK” on their shredded mozzarella cheese.  Really.  “BLOCK”.  Anybody from Italy out there?  How often do they sell you real mozzarella cheese in blocks???  Mozzarella cheese doesn’t come in blocks – it comes in balls, Sargento, preserved in liquid to keep it moist.  Blocks.  WTF?

I came home in high heat, laughing hysterically, unable to buy an air conditioner without my mail, utterly miserable.  It was too late in the morning to go to the beach because I’d fry like a lobster – remember last year?

Trying to get ahold of myself, I figured, okay.  Since the front room was now cleared of everything else, I would try to` put my dining room table together on the large, newly available floor space.  Stood there for about 45 minutes, muttering “WTF?”, as none of the pieces seemed to fit.  There was no way the heavy table top could be screwed into the base.  I gave up, unhappily.  Have no idea how I’m going to get that thing together, and I’m still annoyed at the handyman guy, so don’t even WANT to call him, right now.

Finally, I dragged a long card table into the room; the intent was to set up a seed starter table. I had planned to get it going a long time ago, like March or something, not anticipating that it would take this long to get into the house. Went to open the box of seed starter equipment and materials, and it was  stapled so tightly that when I finally was able to pull the ends of the box free, I did it with such force that I literally punched myself in the mouth.  Not just a bump.  Not a slap.  I punched myself in the mouth, staggered backwards with my eyes watering and my upper lip already starting to swell.  Couldn’t even pronounce “WTF?” that time.

The next morning, I finally got the seed starter equipment together and went looking for my chest of seeds.  This was the fun part – deciding which seeds to start growing, planning where in the new garden they would go, what their requirements were.  WTF?  No seed chest.  In fact, I hadn’t seen it since I moved.  I went from room to room, looking in closets, drawers ... this was a gorgeous antique chest, now missing.  I had to have packed it somewhere ... didn’t I?  But where????

I shuffled over to the storage room in Salisbury in high heat and rifled through the remaining boxes and bins.  Nothing.  WTF happened to my seed chest???

I went to Lowe’s and bought two larger containers to re-pot the Salvia and North Korean Lilac that had been sitting out back in their original containers.  Filled both full of potting soil and repotted the plants.  WTF???  One of the containers was lopsided when it was full of potting soil ... and the poor Lilac was poking out of the container at a lopsided angle.

Needless to say, I gave up entirely,  came back inside, poured myself a juicy Malbec and got tearfully soused.

WTF indeed.

But at least Il Volo is having a better time of it – presently performing up and down the West Coast (just sold out the Greek Theater a few nights ago), and is still celebrating their Latin Grammy for Best Album.

At least I can be happy for somebody!

Sekhmet Stolen, Fluid Condensers and Sneaking into Men's Bedrooms

Woke up this morning to the news that thieves had stolen the statue of Sekhmet from her shrine in Nevada.  Have a memory of reading about what happened to some desecrators/thieves in Egypt, who tried the same thing ... it was not a pleasant outcome (for the thieves), who in that case, were starting to desecrate the statue, “in the name of Allah”.  Apparently, “Allah” did not have their backs when Sekhmet awoke within the statue, impregnated as it was with magickal power from centuries of Egyptian magick and worship.  I’ve always said, Sekhmet is not a Goddess you want to be messing with.  Never.  (That’s not the statue they stole by the way.)  For more information: 
https://www.facebook.com/letecia6

Woke up one recent morning (April 16th, if I recall) to find snow on the ground!  And may I say, on behalf of everyone in the path of whatever storm it was that dumped snow on us after all of the flowering trees and bushes had begun to blossom so beautifully:  W ...T ... F?

Llewellyn’s Moon Sign calendar for the same day told me to “plant biennials, perennials, bulbs and roots.  Prune.  Irrigate.  Fertilize (organic).”  Right.  Let me just get out my snow shovel first ... well, more like a broom, there isn’t that much of it ... and my handy-dandy frozen ground pile driver, and I’ll get right on it!  Actually, I’m mostly crabby because I had packed my winter coat and am going to have to dig it back out again.

Was reading Franz Bardon (Initiation into Hermetics) which, in addition to getting me completely confused and bewildered about electric v. magnetic body parts (have NO idea what the guy was going on about), led me to the topic of scrying mirrors and fluid condensers.  Had never heard of the latter before; that led me to reading up on tincture of gold … which struck me as appallingly expensive for a tincture, since I had such a bad surface allergy to gold that I didn’t have any, even in my jewelry box.  If I wanted such a tincture, I would have to buy some for this purpose alone – I certainly could never wear it.  Somewhere else in a discussion of fluid condensers, someone added,

“Sybil Leek says you can use blood or semen in place of gold tincture.”

Well!  Alrighty then!  Sybil has spoken! Blood it shall be!  One of the many advantages of needing to prick your finger 4 times a day is you end up with magical materials you never knew you could use in place of gold, so let’s hope Sybil knows what she’s talking about.  (Actually, I should probably go look her up to see if she DOES know what she’s talking about.  “Witch”, “England”.  That’s about all I know, I’m sorry to say.)

As for semen:  Right.  Entertained a brief image of hiring some guy to perform the hand in glove dance followed by him then gracing the surface of my brand new scrying mirror with his … er … whatever.  Yeah, not a pleasant image.  May I say for the official record, “Ew.”

Class again this week.  A guided chakra activation exercise ... and I am going into such a deep level, I had difficulty coming back to full awareness.  Here’s the fun news:  next month is astral travel!  I am so psyched.  I was telling them of my long-held desire to participate in the Eleusinian Mysteries.

And no, I’m not going to go visit a man in his bedroom.

MORALITY PLAY IN 8 LINES

DEVIL:    Yeah, but if the guy runs around in his bedroom naked with the curtains open, he obviously has no expectation of privacy.

ANGEL:    True, but would you want people to fly unexpectedly into YOUR bedroom if you’re naked, even and especially if you can’t see them and don’t even know they’re there? 

ME, after a lonnnng, thoughtful pause:    Hmmm.  That would definitely depend on who was flying in the window.  Could be a memorable experience.

DEVIL:    Great answer!!  Do it!  Do it!

ANGEL:    DON’T DO IT!  Have some consideration for the guy!

ME:    Why?  HE started it!  HE’s the one who put that incredibly erotic and exhibitionistic image in MY head.  Really, when you think about it, that was almost an open invitation to join him.

DEVIL:  Hear, hear!  She speaks truth!

ANGEL:    “Almost”, eh?  THAT’s your justification for going against your own principles?

ME, after an even lonnnnger, agonizing pause:    ARGH!  Having a conscience sucks!

End of Morality Play ...

... proving that (1) witches, magicians, sorcerers, etc. don’t need Twinkies to set rules and regs, since we are all perfectly capable of struggling to live by our own ethical standards, as frustrating as those standards are at times.  And by “at times”, I meant, “RIGHT NOW”.

Meanwhile, somewhere, a man wipes his brow in relief.

Man:  (*whew!*)  That was close.

(Or, possibly, DOESN’T wipe his brow in relief and instead remarks, “Darn!  That could have been a hot, steamy  night!”, in which case, I will kick that dumb angel around the block for a year, and don’t think I won’t do it; *bleep* the consequences!)

And (2)  I suck at writing morality plays.  But this is not news.

Piero Goes to Venice, I Contemplate Cesare

This has been such a week of synchronicity ... not sure why Piero is in Venice, but there he is ... in my second home, more or less.  (New York is first, Venice is second, Boston isn’t even on my radar, I’m just in exile here; the jury’s out on New Hampshire until I move there.)

(Addendum:  Ah.  Performing at The Venice Film Festival.  Makes sense!)

And, of course, since I’d just finished discussing Venice in my past life discussion, suddenly I’m seeing this, and could hear the music of the water in the canal in his ears right now; could smell what he was inhaling at that moment; got tears in my eyes.  I love this city so much.

Mr. Signpost, meanwhile, was in Paris and made mention of the home of medieval French hermeticists, just as I was reading about them.

And it occurred to me watching re-runs of “DaVinci’s Demons” in anticipation of this week’s new episode, that since 2011, the painting over my head here in the study watching over me – another serious hunk from Italy of course – was of the one and only (another l’uno e solo) Cesare Borgia, who, like Lorenzo (see reference to Elliot Cowan, the seriously hot hunk playing the role of Lorenzo), was a patron of Leonardo DaVinci’s for a time.

Watching Over Me From Above (On the wall, that is): 

Cesare Borgia

I think I just won this year’s award for a run-on sentence.  Sorry about that.

Thought:  “Ooooh!  I wonder if they’re going to introduce Cesare in this series!”  If they do, I hope they do a far better job of casting him than that other series, “The Borgia” did – that actor was definitely not up to Cesare Borgia-esque standards of attractiveness.  The real guy had women falling all over him ... which is probably why he ended up with a bad case of syphilis, or whatever STD he had ... although I suppose he was fortunate in being killed in battle before it really started eating away at him.

The family crest was a depiction of a bull in red – believed to represent the Apis Bull – which is appearing in “DaVinci” in their discussions of the Book of Leaves ... which I don’t believe is based on a mythological artifact gone missing.

“The Apis Bull was originally the Herald (wHm) of Ptah, the chief god in the area around Memphis.”, sayeth Wikipedia ... and Ptah was the spouse of ... Sekhmet!!  Who Mr. Signpost posed with, in New York.

In any event:  back to the color red.  Lorenzo’s clothing (always red), the Apis Bull in red and Z always wearing red as well.  I seem to be in a red phase, surrounded by symbols and colors and images that all tie together in one way or another, overlapping, resurfacing.

Z, by the way appeared ever so briefly in a black scrying mirror a few days ago.  I couldn’t bring myself to pack it yet, so was sitting on the bed, peering into it during a meditation.  I didn’t see the clouds everyone supposedly sees, and which I was looking for; I did see a faint red glow, far off into the depths of the mirror – I knew the glow came from the mirror, as there wasn’t anything around to reflect a red glow.  A few twinkling red lights ... I knew who I was seeing – or who I supposed I was seeing, I should say – and smiled.  Still haven’t evoked, but I did buy him a red onyx goblet, by way of a future offering of wine.

In a way, I keep wanting to wait until I’ve moved and am settled into my new home ... the chaos here (boxes upon boxes upon boxes and an inability to find anything I’m looking for) ... has been utterly  distracting.  Not to worry ... I’ll be moving with a few weeks.  I also be working my ass off, going on a business trip, and generally in a state of high pressure.  Not the best time to be focusing on more important things, like actually developing a meditation schedule or Rite of General Offering or invocation schedule.

My horoscope of a few days ago:

You take your commitment to love quite seriously today and want to share your perspective with anyone who will listen. [That means you, readers!]  But the reflective Moon in your busy 3rd House of Communication can create logistical cross-currents as everyone distracts you from your agenda. Don't change directions now; just temporarily operate on blind faith. Your unwavering devotion should bring you closer to your goals sooner than you expect.

Cross-currents.  That’s a good word for it.  Every time I go hunting for a specific book, I’ve already packed it.

So I contented myself reading American Gods (Gaiman, Neil, 2001)  on the train  … and I have a vague memory of reading it on the bus out of Port Authority.  Have no idea why I never finished it, and suspect it is packed in a box somewhere in New York.  Premise:  all of the European gods brought over with immigrants are forgotten and left to their own devices.

I enjoyed it, up to a point, because it seems that Gaiman never quite grasped the reality of his own premise – those gods have NOT been forgotten, by a long shot.  In every town in America, you will find someone, somewhere (if not many someones in many places) who still worship them, quite fervently.  Every time there was a whiny discussion between, say, Odin and Ibis (Thoth) about no one loving them anymore, I could only snort, “What a pinhead!”  (“Pinhead” being directed at the author, not Odin or Thoth.)  In this author’s twisted fictional world, all of the old gods spent all of their time killing people.  He probably should have done a little more research on what each of his gods actually did before he started writing THAT novel, IMHO;  it would have been more appealing and a lot less stupid, I think. 

So this was my next question:  I was staring at the Invocation of the Bornless One, which came from the same book as The Rite of General Offering  (see last entry).   I must have read about four versions of this same invocation, all of them varying slightly, one from the next.  But all invocations were full of words without translations.  I know I mentioned here once before, discussing Maxine Sanders and her chant of “Eko, Eko, Azarak” that,

“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!”?”

The same applies here.  I make it a rule never to chant anything – not a single word! – until I know what it is I’m chanting.  Dangerous, dangerous idea.

And yet here are all these so-called “nerd wizards” passing THIS around without translating a word of it, as though it was another daytime outing, skipping in circles and singing “Mary had a little lamb” in the park.  Ask almost any one of them what those words actually meant, and I almost guarantee you they’d stare at you with their best “deer in headlights” expression.  “*Duh* I read it in a grimoire and decided to use it ...”

Yeah.  Great idea, dumbass.

Secrets from Sorcerers, Il Volo Naked, and The Barone Brothers' Chests

Was recently reading Jason Miller’s The Sorcerer’s Secrets, doing my usual griping and whining about moronic titles, as in, “Well, if you’re going to publish a freakin’ book about them, they’re not quite secrets anymore ARE THEY??!!??”  And actually, they weren’t “secrets”, anyway – if you're  thinking of shelling out your hard-earned bucks for it, be warned that you’re not going to read something so unique and original, you’ll leap up and cry, “Eureka!” or something.  You won’t.

That said, I’ll give him credit for one thing:  taking practices that may read like a twisted garbled version of Latin and Old English from other sources, and printed backward at that, and making them much more comprehensible.  I particularly liked his Rite of General Offering (pages 53-55), even though – in goosestep with the Twinkies I always grumble loudly about – he didn’t cite any sources for it.  As I said on numerous occasions, I don’t care if he made it up himself!  Just say so.  If he took the general idea from other sources and revised it for the contemporary tongue, that’s fine, too.  But say so!

I mean, come on, people.  How difficult is it to cite your damn sources???  Do us all a favor and make THAT your “Sorcerer’s Secret” for the day.

(Deep breath)

Moving on ... as I said, I liked the idea of the Rite of General Offering.  Basically, the Rite involves offering a basic form of offering that all spirits could accept (he suggests incense and liquor), OR, making a gesture of energetic offering with your hands and allowing the spirits you’re inviting to take what they prefer from your energy offering.  What I particularly liked (in part) was the spoken invitation that supplemented the Rite – he basically invited every possible spirit he could think of to partake of the offering, the point being that even the crabby ones might think twice about messing with you if you’d treated them as an honored guest.  I liked that concept.  Open, non-judgmental, polite and (hopefully) beneficial for all concerned.

There were a few spots in his spoken invitation that I questioned, like “Spirits of the firmament of earth and of ether!”  That bothered me, so I double-checked “firmament” – and my memory was correct – “firmament” was the (now proven erroneous) biblical term to refer to the vault of the sky – and by that I mean the solid vault of the sky, from a time when everyone thought the sky was solid and arched over the earth, with the stars embedded in it (more or less) – a relic of geocentricity.  So how did he get “firmament of earth” out of that concept?

I can’t recite that line without wincing, so I may need to re-write it into something like, “Spirits of the cosmos and of ether”, or something along those lines.

The idea behind it, though, was to respectfully gain their good-will and attention, before invoking any of them.  I liked the idea.

Il Volo Naked
I recently looked at the blog stats for this blog and discovered why at least 2 people ended up here.  This tells me what they were searching for:

“Il Volo naked”???

Hey – whoever you are!!! – if you find photos of Il Volo naked, you let ME know!  At the present time, I can’t help you with that, I’m truly sorry to say.  No, really.  TRULY SORRY, you have no idea.  Even worse, I have the misfortune of living in the U.S. which has been overrun by a bunch of super-fundamentalist twits who see a naked body and call the local chapter of the Spanish Inquisition.  So I doubt I could post them, even if you did find photos of “Il Volo Naked”.

One of the other search terms was, “Piero Barone shirtless”.  That one I’m happy to say, I could provide.  Here.  Here. And here.

Wow, I had no idea I had such a collection of “Piero Barone Topless XXX” photos.

Anyway:  glad to help.  No, really.  VERY happy, you have no idea.  The guy inspires more fantasies with those shirtless photos than he could have possibly imagined when he took them.

Ahhhh, the joys of the human female imagination.  And mille grazie again for the photos, Piero ... women all over the world thank you for them!

Il Volo, by the way, naked or not, has not announced any appearances in New York or Boston during their June tour ... I’m only semi-devastated by that.  I’ll be in the middle of moving, unpacking, taking business trips, so it’s probably a good thing that they’re not contributing to the general state of chaos I’ll be experiencing in May and June, because – naturally – I’d be compelled to go see them.  And there’s always YouTube, so I hope everyone plans on doing what they usually do:  take videos of everything!

Back to business!

Synchronicity
 – I happened to catch a photo of the brother of the deliciously shirtless  l’uno e solo, by whom I mean the guy with the naked torso.  His brother: Francis or Francesco Barone by name.  Not important.  (Well, unless you’re him, and in that case – I apologize, your name is extremely important  to ... somebody, I’m sure; it’s just not relevant to this discussion.)

Anyway, he posted a photo of a tattoo he received on or about July 9th of last year, but I didn’t see it until a few days ago.  Apparently he has a beautifully constructed design of an ouroboros tattooed on his upper chest.

Francis Barone's Chest

Among the many things this symbol (“Ouroboros”) represents?

Reincarnation.

Now, Francis said it meant “eternal life”.  But it also stands for Kundalini energy, which is part of the ... chakra system.   Just as I’m getting ready to begin learning about chakras.

According to the second century Yoga Kundalini Upanishad, "The divine power, Kundalini, shines like the stem of a young lotus; like a snake, coiled round upon herself she holds her tail in her mouth and lies resting half asleep as the base of the body" (1.82). Another interpretation is that Kundalini equates to the entwined serpents of the caduceus, the entwined serpents representing medicine in the west or, esoterically, human DNA.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ouroboros

I would love it if someone could read the letters on the belly of the snake’s body.  I cannot read them.

Looks mystical or even hermetic to me.  Damn!  Francis is as mysterious and interesting as his younger brother is vibrational, IMHO.

March
I woke up in the rain today
Gentle pearlescent jewels
Black twigs against leaden sky
Dark stains on cold Earth in pools

Slow slumbering spring awakens
Changing from snow to rain
Leaf and twig on burgeoning bough
Wheel of the year turns again

Gentle watery sunlight
Leaps and sparkles on rippling lake
As glistening ice retreats
Low cast light in pink cloud break

To wake to joyous chorus
Earth softens now free of ice
Nesting birds with eggs to hatch
The air a-twitter with expectant life

Light lasts longer now
Lingering late in the lane
And I will walk along the hedge
To the warmth of my hearth again

“Greenman”, http://www.pagan-heart.co.uk/poems/march.html

As pretty as that is, I’m used to my Corn-Maiden song ... which is sort of a combination of ancient Greek and native American mythology condensed into a song I’ve been singing every year since I learned it at Enchantments in Manhattan.  I tried to look it up, but can’t find who wrote it – my apologies to whoever did:

Hail to Koré, divine maiden
She who grows all things above the ground.
Hail Corn Maiden, lady of the fields,
She is beauty and bountiful love.
Koré, Koré, Koré,
Keep us all safe, keep the evil eye away.

Very simple melody; just a song of joy, really.  It went through my head a few days ago when I saw my first forsythia bush of the season, covered with yellow flowers.  If I hadn’t been on a bus at the time, I would have burst into song.

I still haven’t progressed beyond the fuzzy whitish-grey outline, but we did practice seeing auras in class.  I know I’m going to keep getting better at it, because I’m seeing a (very) slow but steady improvement already.

Vatican Heresies, What To Do About Vibrations ...

Help me figure out what to do about the vibrations.

Was listening to the wonderful Blake singing "Being Close to Crazy".  Great song, BTW.

I had been listening to my "vocals" playlist - I'm sure I don't have to repeat that I'm a passionate fan of classical crossover:  Blake, Il Divo, Russell Watson, Mario Frangoulis, Josh Groban, Andrea Bocelli, Teatro, G4, Vittorio Grigolo (his one classical pop album was so awesome I still can't get over it - a pox on the evil opera world for stealing him back - and him, for allowing them to!), Rhydian Roberts (and whatever happened to him, anyway?) - I could listen to them all day, really, and have on occasion.

But as wonderful as they are - and they are wonderfully glorious to listen to - there was only one voice in all those years and years that made me vibrate inside; but as I once said, until he made me vibrate, I just thought he was "cute".  I did.  Then he opened his mouth and that voice came out of it, and I nearly collapsed.

It wasn’t just that he made me vibrate; it was that everything vibrated inside of me.  Everything inside of me first vibrated and then turned to jelly, and I doubt I could have stood up on my own two feet, so let's be thankful I was sitting down when I first heard him.  I heard the line in a movie once:  " ... my own personal brand of heroin."  Addictive.  A craving beyond craving.  One man's voice.  No one has ever duplicated the effect.  Vibrations pouring over me and through me like water, unsettling everything, setting everything from my skin inward on delicious fire.  I can't describe the all-encompassing pleasure.  Meglio di sesso, in my honest opinion.

Being close to crazy.

So then – after I’d calmed back down - I thought, ok, so what do these vibrations mean?  Why did I react to those particular, specific vibrations?  Obviously I can’t kidnap the poor guy and make him sing to me all day, so how can I recreate those vibrations that his voice manages to send out through the air like … Eros’ flaming arrow?

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t hold him personally responsible for the quality of his singing voice, beyond the hard work of developing it and maintaining it.  He really did luck out, being handed a set of vocal chords that put out an amazing, unique sound that I happened to vibrate to.  And, as I said, I’m not alone in that, or you wouldn’t see women and girls swooning and screaming at the sound of his voice, all over the world.  It’s a subjective thing – I’ll bet there are a different set of girls feeling the same way about, say, Bruno Mars’ voice.  Or another set hyperventilating over, say, Keith Urban’s.

So, this is not an obsession with HIM, per se – and no, he doesn’t need to call the local carbinieri and say, “Um … would you mind standing outside my house for the rest of my life?  I’m getting a little nervous, here …” – but an obsession with the sound his voice makes, and the impact of that sound on me personally.

And since this was the first time that ever happened to me, it made me begin thinking about why.  Why THAT sound, why THAT type of vibration, why now?  And more relevantly, what else is capable of sending out those exact types of vibrations?

Not all that long ago, by way of investigating, I sat on You Tube and listened to Tibetan monks  singing, or chanting or whatever it is they do … “Ommmmmmm…”

Not only did the sound NOT make me vibrate; it was actually uncomfortable.  I stopped listening after only a few minutes.  There are other male singing voices that give me the creepy crawlies – for example, while I love Michael Franks’ song “Popsicle Toes”, I can’t stand to hear him singing it, because I don’t like male “folk-songy” voices; they make me think of wimpy-clingy neediness, I have no idea why.  I must also have a decidedly anti-women side to my nature (“No!  REALLY?”) (Oh shut up) – because I can’t stand to listen to the vast majority of women singing; women’s voices go right through my head like an ice pick, and by the time we get to the operatic sopranos and the bimbo pop queens, I’m clutching my head and screaming.  There are a few exceptions:  Rosemary Clooney, Diana Krall, Joan Armatrading, maybe a few others, probably because their voices are melodiously lower.

Sounds I really like:  “Nessun Dorma” – makes me cry; does not make me vibrate.  I adore any Rossini overture – ditto.  I have no idea why, but I adored Eddie Jobson’s Theme of Secrets – I actually see colors and movement of shapes behind my eyes when listening to that.  The theme of Cinema Paradiso, but that has more to do with the film than the soundtrack.  There must be others, I just can’t remember what they are, now.  But what else besides his voice will make me vibrate??  Sure, a vibrator, but actually, I’ve never tried one, and would that vibrate your entire body?  I’m thinking not.  Sitting on a washing machine???  (Actually I’ve never tried that either – any other women out there ever tried sitting on a washing machine?  Would love to hear what happened!)

Is there something I could change in me so that I wouldn’t vibrate?  (But do I really want to?)  Maybe so, if only so that it wouldn’t feel so perpetually intense, the way it does now.

Meanwhile, when I’m not vibrating, I’m reading The Vatican Heresy:  Bernini and the Building of the Hermetic Temple of the Sun (Bauval, Hohenzollern, 2014) – which is almost a rehash of everything Frances A. Yates wrote in Giordano Bruno.  It appears to be proof that everyone in the Vatican is either (a) naïve and gullible for being unaware that Bernini designed parts of the Vatican to celebrate the same Hermetic principles for which they tortured and burned Bruno and others, and threatened Galileo, or (b) appallingly hypocritical for being fully aware that Bernini designed parts of the Vatican to celebrate the same Hermetic principles for which they tortured and burned Bruno and others, and threatened Galileo.

Which way do we want to go with this – gullible & naïve, or spectacularly hypocritical? - and is anyone on the planet even remotely surprised?

Historical issues:  the author appears to have not done any research into the burning of the great Library at Alexandria, instead blaming the “fanatical christian mob” for all of it without a single caveat.  Far be it from me to defend “fanatical christian mobs” (trust me, I would love to be able to blame them unequivocally), but there are some other culprits who might also share responsibility for the appalling loss of world knowledge – one of them being Julius Caesar.  Do I think christians are blameless?  Hell no, they did attack the Library at Alexandria and that alone is unforgiveable, but I do think the jury is still out on the extent of their wanton destructiveness.

ANCIENT EGYPT THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD
It may have been a Million years ago
The Light was kindled in the Old Dark Land
With which the illumined Scrolls are all aglow,
That Egypt gave us with her mummied hand:
This was the secret of that subtle smile
Inscrutable upon the Sphinx’s face,
Now told from sea to sea, from isle to isle;
The revelation of the Old Dark Race;
This was the wisdom of the Bee and Bird,
The ancient darkness spake with Egypt’s Word;
Ant, Tortoise, Beaver, working human-wise;
Here was the primal message of the skies:
The Heavens are telling nightly of her glory,
And for all time Earth echoes her great story.
BY GERALD MASSEY 1907

But speaking of the Source of All Good Vibrations, l’uno e solo was back in the USA (in New York for a time, naturally; then in L.A.) and hopefully now back home and recovered from freezing his a** off when he landed in NYC.  His first tweet upon arrival in New York:  “It’s coooooold!”  Yes it is, darlin’; no argument there; it was 9 degrees the morning he tweeted that.  Bad news is:  it’s STILL freezing, and we’re 12 days into March!

They performed with Laura Pausini at Madison Square Garden, which – despite the fact that it was Madison Square Garden! – was still not worth the trip to go see them, if I also had to listen to a roster of other people.  Of course, my decision to not go see them was before they published their 2014 summer tour schedule, with New York and Boston nowhere on the list. 

So I was finally able to file my income taxes without having a nervous breakdown.  Done!  Done!  Done!  Felt like having a glass of wine and celebrating, even if it was 7:30 on a Sunday morning.  (I don’t mind paying taxes, particularly – well I do, but recognize that it is something of a necessary evil, let’s put it that way - , but I do hate trying to figure out all the paperwork and filing them.)  Usually I end up twitching and near hysterics.

I still can’t quite figure out what Saturn being in retrograde means, beyond “a time to cultivate discipline, patience and self-restraint.” Unpack the flogger and handcuffs?  HAHA, just kidding – I don’t even own any handcuffs.

I have noticed that I am dropping things more often than I usually do, bumping into things, knocking things over, tripping over things … although I’m not sure that has anything to do with anything.  For example, just this morning I reached into the dishwasher to retrieve a teaspoon and came within a hair’s width of impaling my wrist on the tines of a fork – I still have a line of red marks on my wrist, but consider myself lucky I didn’t need to explain to the emergency room why it LOOKED like I had decided to end it all – suicide by fork.  I followed that up with barking my shin, banging my knee ... I’ve been spending most of the time since Saturn went retrograde screaming “WTF??!!??” and “OMG!!!” every few hours.  I’m also oversleeping horribly in the morning.  Saturn being connected with my sun sign (Capricorn), I suspect the impact of retrograde is:  “your entire life is going to unspool and start going backwards!”  Or something along those lines.

Let the unspooling begin.

My Car Casts a Spell, Marsilio Ficino Explains Vocal Vibrations and Piero Barone Meets the Pope

The day before the Full Snow Moon – already the moon is so beautiful in the night sky.  Interesting sky news:  star gazers are able to see Jupiter quite near the moon, and Venus is also visible in the night sky.

Back from class last night.  My poor car is sounding pitiful – muffler issues, I hope? – but couldn’t take her to the doctor ... by which I mean the GM guys in Haverhill ... until I got my PIN number.  Explanation:  on Friday the 31st of January, 12 days ago, my debit card was either lost or stolen, I’m not sure which.  I discovered this late on Friday, when I had de-trained from the Haverhill line in Andover and opened my wallet in preparation for a visit to Sunoco and a tank of fuel.  No card.  Anywhere.

This is not a reassuring turn of events for a Friday night – had I left it in the office?  Had someone taken it?

I had many years earlier switched from the Bank of America – just as they tried to roll out a $5 fee for something absurd and I decided enough was enough – to a local credit union.  I’d liked their sales pitch:  no fees, no minimums, etc.  Have had no issues with them since.  But then I hadn’t lost my card before.  At the BOA, if you lost your card, they (for a modest fee of course) would hand you a replacement to use until they could send you a new one.

But the Merrimack Valley Federal Credit Union did not.  You could call an 800 number and report the card lost or stolen, but you had to call the bank for the replacement card.  And the credit union had no weekend customer service.  I had to wait until Monday just to ask for a new card.

They sent you a new card of course (with the PIN number to follow a few days later to activate it), but there was no interim card.  You had to withdraw cash and the gods help you if you ran out of it before you could get back to a branch (which was local to the Merrimack Valley; no branches in Boston or Cambridge where you worked, and no extended hours for the commuters who worked in Boston) and withdraw more cash to tide you over.

And then you sat and waited.  And waited.  And waited for the U.S. Postal Service to deliver your new card.  Adding to the anxiety:  all of the mailboxes in our building had been torn out of the wall, and no matter how often you called, Royal Crest Estates, North Andover refused to repair them.  A bunch of us finally took pictures of the vandalism and reported Royal Crest to the Postmaster General after a full month of mail being left out in the open for anyone to steal.  And both my replacement card and pin number was coming via the U.S. mail.

It took 7 days for the card to arrive, which I couldn’t use without the PIN.  And the PIN number still hadn’t arrived ... 12 days after I discovered the card was missing.  I finally advised my office that I would be coming in late – I had to wait until a branch opened and withdraw more cash.

This I explained to the car, who has a puppy-tail wagging personality, as we drove to the bank.  “You have to help me cast a spell,” I told her, “to get my PIN today, so that I can call the doc and get you looked at.”  A minute later, a teller told me she could activate my card and give me a PIN number right then and there, so I wouldn’t need to wait for the mail.  Is my car awesome or what???

In gratitude, I filled up the tank to the brim, so she had a full belly, and she purred all the way to the train station.

The spiritual side of this:  my habitual reaction (and you’ve seen this in this blog!) is to rant about the “Sky Sadist”, berate myself for not paying attention and causing this mess and carry on in a state of rage.  I saw the first glimmerings of that back in the parking lot after detraining, an urge to blow up in fury.  Instantly – I stopped.  Remembered everything I had learned in class and in my readings.  Remembered I had power and was not a victim of anything.  Reminded myself that I was a witch and had the ability to protect myself.  Reminded myself that exploding in rage only sent a world of hurt out into the universe and solved nothing.  Took a deep breath.  Cast a spell of protection over the card – where ever it was – and over all my incoming mail that no one would touch any of it - and let it all go.

And am still amazed at having done that.  I guess I am changing, aren’t I?  And nothing unexpected happened as far as my bank account went.

Class:  So last night we worked with color; sending it out, immersing ourselves in it, and sorting through the sensations and associations of the different colors, and jotting down brief notes while in meditative trance – I’m lucky I could read my notes later; I did it with my eyes closed..  Later, I was comparing my associations with Christopher Penczak’s in The Inner Temple of Witchcraft.

I particularly liked his opening words in the entry for black:  “Black is a highly charged color.  People either love it or hate it ...”  I had jotted down, “I don’t like this.” as I was visualizing black bubbles raining down upon my head.  So I probably fall in the “hate it” category, although I’m not sure why.  I wear the color on occasion; have comforters with black in them; don’t ever recall thinking, “I really hate the color black!” – I just didn’t like the sensation of black surrounding me – at all.  Wasn’t all that fond of lime, orange or yellow.  Loved red, green, gold and indigo.  And of course the aquamarine, which immediately reminded me of the ripples of the lagoon surrounding Venice.

So it was interesting.  Next month:  auras and chakras!  Can’t wait for that one!

Am finding it fascinating to learn how John Dee equated poetry with hermetic magick … as he believed mathematics to be part and parcel of the same, the rhyme and meter of words could perform works of magick as well … I’d be interested in the examples he used.  (You know me and poetry …)  I suspect he was analyzing the earlier Greek poetry when he had this revelation, but I’d still like to read his thoughts on it.

And, Marsilio Ficino!  I didn’t start reading him as much as I read a quotation of his in D.P. Walker’s Spiritual and Demonic Magic from Ficino to Campanella (2000, The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA, p. 9), which is, despite the title, more of a Medieval and Renaissance history of the development of hermetic magick via humanist philosophers like Ficino, attached to the de Medici household.  I'm really enjoying reading the biographies of men like John Dee and Giordano Bruno from the same time period.  This book focused more on continental (specifically Italian) thought, which developed out of the rediscovery of Plato, among other Sophists.

The quotation described the vibrational power of music.

I immediately thought of (who else?) Piero Barone, whose voice sent such vibrations through my entire body the first time I heard it.  Don’t get me wrong, I love all sorts of music – my iPod is filled with days’ worth of music.  But hearing Piero’s voice the first time was the amazing, astonishing and (yes) erotic experience it was, as I might have said elsewhere, because it made me vibrate.

And not just my skull, or my teeth or anything like that ... but because it was as arousing an experience as (women would appreciate the analogy) sitting on a washing machine.  Now that may be a subjectively personal thing, meaning he may not have that type of impact on everyone, but whatever it was in my physical body that was in tune with the vibrations that his voice sent out began to vibrate with (for want of a better term) sympathetic magick ... I still vibrate helplessly when he sings.

I can’t be the only one ... I’ve heard women in audiences scream out loud when he hits some of those notes and holds them.  Now – maybe they’re just impressed with his lung power, and it isn’t though I can hunt them down afterwards and ask WHY they screamed in ecstasy just as he hit a certain note ... but if they’re letting loose with a shriek just as I’m having my “sitting on a washing machine” moment, and both happen on the same note?  I’m figuring there has to be some similarities somewhere.  In any event, I always thought I was weird, physically vibrating at the sound of his voice, but Marsilio Ficino certainly described the sensation to a “T” in this.  And I also loved the quotation because even in 1536, writers knew how to start out slowly and rhythmically, increase the tempo bit by bit, toss out images like "penetrate strongly", "flows smoothly" and then the climatic "seizes" and "claims" ...!  Actually, I should probably thank the translator as well, unless Walker translated it ... but thank you for this lovingly constructed observation, Marsilio! (pant, pant, pant).

“... Musical sound by the movement of the air moves the body; by purified air it excited the aerial spirit which is the the bond of body and soul; by emotion it affects the senses and at the same time the soul; by meaning it works on the mind:  finally, by the very movement of the subtle air it penetrates strongly; by its contemperation it flows smoothly; by the conformity of its quality it floods us with a wonderful pleasure; by its nature, both spiritual and material, it at once seizes, and claims as its own, a woman in her entirety.”
Ficino, Marsilio, Commentary on the Timaeus, 1536, (Paris, 1536).  Timaeus vel de Natura divini Platonis, Marsilio Ficino interprete: per Franciscum Zampinum recognita.  And, for the sake of issue continuity, I changed “man” to “a woman” in this.  So sue me.

But I have no intention of sharing this confession with the young tenor in question, trust me when I say this.  Ignorance is indeed bliss sometimes.  Let him labor under the false impression that women are just awed by his good looks and charm – or perhaps his lung power - lest he be grosseth out-eth.

(Besides, he’s feeling very holy right now; he just met the Pope, so this is hardly the time to explain to him in broken Italian what a woman sitting on a washing machine means.  I’d probably have to resort to gestures and moans and doing a pitiful “Meg Ryan in the diner” impression.  Some things are just better left unsaid, as they say.)

But back to Dee.  I’ve finished Peter French’s bio of him ... the bibliography and footnotes were awesome, by the way and bear investigating further ... for now, it’s on to back to Yates’ Giordano Bruno, which I’d begun but interrupted to read the Dee biography.

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.

Messages in Water, More Moments in the Quantum Sea and I Miss a Dinner with Piero Barone

Used my “trigger” to briefly transfer consciousness again while I sat down beside my beloved Dogwood outside the office yesterday morning; the result was so pleasurable I almost didn’t make it into the office – I could have sat there all day.  So busy inside of her!  I heard a slow, rhythmic and deep whooshing and gurgling and felt warmth and sparkling movement all around me (cells, I think); and what a sensation of belonging, of oneness and of joy!  Even in her wintery and leafless dormant state, she is so full of radiance inside.  Truly, truly amazing to experience.  Thanks to her, I was so cheerful and happy when I walked into the office, I swear that my co-workers were left wondering what moonshine cocktail I had whipped up for breakfast.

Meanwhile, at home, I’m reading with no small amount of astonishment Masaru Emoto’s The Hidden Messages in Water.  I had no idea these studies had been conducted!  For those unfamiliar:  Emoto is a Japanese scientist, whose area of expertise is water.  Emoto’s study was as simple as it was mind-boggling:  he photographed the ice crystals formed by water from different sources – and water exposed to various vibrations and types of light.

Then, he tried exposing water to spoken words, thoughts, different types of music and sounds and then looked at their ice crystals … and the results were staggering.  What he discovered was that water is alive and capable of aligning itself with the consciousness of human beings – which is to say, in so many words, that that glass of water most people pay absolutely no attention to, other than as a sure-fire method of quenching thirst, is capable of loving you.  I’m telling you, I will never look at water the same way again after this book.  It was truly a consciousness-altering read.  In fact, I immediately began to sing songs and gratitude to my glasses of water before I drank them!  It was apparently on the New York Times Best Seller list for a while, too.

The book had such an impact on me I immediately considered methods of water collection for my new home – to make certain I was watering indoor plants with rain water and not fluorinated water – and because, unlike some poor homeowners out west, New Hampshire has no restrictions against collecting rainwater on your own property.  I also remembered that the home inspection had turned up an unused but possibly serviceable well on the property … which might be worthwhile investigating further.

The next object I’m going to try for my visualization homework is a container of water!  (I know, I’ve lost my marbles.  Go ahead, you can say it.  But really, read the book before you judge!)

Meanwhile, on the train, I had begun to re-read Christopher Penczak’s The Plant Spirit Familiar.  He had written of apprenticing to a (for want of a better term) green witch who had taught him valuable information on the recognition of, planting, gathering of herbs and flowers to use in potions, tinctures and other magickal mixtures.  Since he’s from the Massachusetts-New Hampshire area, I wondered who he was referring to.

I can tell you at least one challenge I’m having to face this lifetime:  learning to react to the loss of critically important things without panicking.  Example:  we just got a snowstorm Saturday.  I’m estimating 6-7 inches.  Went outside on Sunday to dig out my car in preparation for today.  So I have my set of car/house in my gloved hand as I manually wiped off the back window and trunk top so that I could open the trunk and get the shovel out.  When I finished, I no longer had the keys and had forgotten that I had been holding them.  I  just know I had no keys.

I had already used them to open the drivers’ side door, so my first search was in the front seat of the car.  Not in the steering column, not in the passenger side seat.  I had no holes in my pockets.  I looked under the seat, between the seats, behind the seats.  Nothing.  I got out and walked behind the car, thinking I had dropped them.  Nothing.  It was as though they had vanished into the ether.  House keys.  Apartment keys.  Car keys.  Two sets of mailbox keys.  On a Sunday, with no way to get back into my apartment where I actually did have a spare car key.  I could feel myself start to panic.  WTF???

Like everyone else, I started calling for St. Anthony.  I have no idea, now that I think of it, how St. Anthony got associated with lost things, but he did, so he’s the first spirit you call on*.  I got out of the car again and started kicking away the snow near the driver’s side door, thinking I’d dropped them.  I couldn’t figure out how I could have dropped them without hearing them fall – they should have jangled when they fell and I’d heard nothing.

Finally – after a good 10 minutes of bewilderment, confusion and the start of a panic mode, I remembered my “pulling things from the Quantum Sea” success I mentioned in a previous post.

I got back in the car, sat very still for a few moments and then, using the trigger, sent myself into a light meditative state and visualized reaching into the Quantum Sea and retrieving my keys.  Then I spoke to the keys directly, asking them to make a sound that I could hear.

Then I walked slowly around the car, brushing aside snow with my foot as I went.  Near my rear right tire, I kicked at a mound of snow and – sure enough – heard a jingle.  The thing that was weird about this area of snow was that it hadn’t been touched before.  The area was still white and flat and looked for all the world like no one had moved it, shoveled it, or buried snow from elsewhere on top of it.  There was no indentation in the surface to indicate that something had fallen into it.  In fact, just before I brushed it aside with my foot, I distinctly thought, “This snow is untouched, but I’ll try it anyway.”  That’s when I heard the jingle.

How an entire set of keys on a key ring fell into this untouched snow without making a mark or a sound seemed almost ... well, magickal.  When I described the incident to my long-time bus companions the next morning (leaving out the part about the Quantum Sea), one of them – a physicist - used the exact same word:  “sounds like magic.”  Which is what made me think that the incident was part of a learning episode.  I still experienced a few minutes of upset before trying the Quantum Sea, so I suspect I still need to learn to go for the Quantum Sea immediately, rather than later.  But it was a memorable experience.

*Note:  I went and looked it up.  Apparently a novitiate in St. Anthony’s order stole his psalter and left the monastery.  Anthony initiated an intense prayer session asking it be returned, and the novitiate suddenly turned around, returned to the monastery and returned it to him.  Hence Anthony’s association with the finder of lost or stolen things.

L’uno e solo was in Boston not all that long ago – apparently, they had a “Meet & Greet” at Fogo De Chao, a Boston restaurant.  Makes you wonder why you turned over your e-mail address to their record company’s official site, if they never use it to let you know that, oh, just as an offhand example, Piero Barone was seven blocks away and you could have had dinner with him!!   Small, unimportant things like that. Arrggghhh!   Grrrrrrr ... ayieeeeeeeee! 

Just breathe, girl.  Calm down.  BREATHE.  Calm down.  Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.  Okay, I’ve lost any sense of calm I once had.  Pardon me for a moment while I tell his record company – or whoever runs their web site and asked for my e-mail address which raised false expectations of actually being notified about anything -  what I think of them.