Minchiate Tarot Magus and an OCD Meltdown

Ahhh. A weekend. Shaving a bar of soap for my month’s worth of laundry detergent (yes, some of us actually make our own laundry detergent !) and checking out my new Minchiate deck, created in Florence in 1725.

While you would THINK this was a typical tarot deck, it is not – this deck has 97 cards instead of 78, and started out as a game of tricks, played in northern Italy. The symbolism is also different in many respects than other decks people are used to seeing. Fascinating deck of cards. Trying to decide how to make best use of them; or interpret cards that I’ve never seen before.

The one I frowned at was the Magus. "Frowned" not in the sense that I didn’t like it, but in the sense that I didn’t understand it. I’m familiar with the powerful Magus of, say, the Thoth deck, or even the Rider Waite, although THAT Magus always looked too young and inexperienced and the infinity sign over his head looked like the path of cartoonish birds flying in circles and tweeting up there, making him look dazed and confused instead of all wise and powerful.

The Magus, as I’ve mentioned before, shows up in my own readings quite frequently. I could shuffle the deck for hours on end, and still get the Magus in consecutive readings, because as I said, it’s the card representing Mr. Signpost. Every time I get the card, I know that I’m going to be sent flying off on a fact-finding mission because of something he wrote or tweeted. Basically it means: "Pay attention. You’re about to learn something." And it hasn’t failed me yet.

But THIS guy, the Minchiate Magus ... I had no idea what to make of him. First, they don’t identify him as a Magus, but instead as a giocoliere, a juggler, except he’s not juggling anything. He looks seriously cranky, for one thing – which I’m OK with – but the turban: is he supposed to be from the far east? One of the original Magi? And who are the other two characters who look so afraid of him? He almost looks like he’s poisoning them.

Minchiate Drama in Three Lines

Giocoliere/Juggler: (sotto voce) Psst! Here. Drink this foul brew and don’t ask questions.
Man #1: No, no, you can’t make me! (*sob*!) ...
Man #2: Yes, he can make you drink that, he can bewitch you into drinking it! He’s a ... juggler!

See? The whole thing makes no sense. If anyone out there has experience with this deck ... I’m all ears.

In my previous post I had mentioned discovering a symbol, and then never described it. I was actually intending to describe a cimaruta ("sprig of rue" ). I’d discovered it in the book on Italian witches, and wanted to get more information on the protective or homeopathic properties of rue.

I ended up in a state of rage. Picture it: 2012. The Internet. A search for "rue" using Google. Result: innumerable cooking sites. Woman #1 perkily announces she uses vegetable broth to make her "rue" for turkey gravy – and why she’s doing that I have no idea. She can’t be a vegetarian, or why would she be having turkey? Woman #2 cheerfully burbles that she’s always wanted to try using vegetable broth for her "rue". This goes on for comment after comment, reply after reply, each dumb woman using the word "rue" for the same gravy base until steam is coming out of my ears. Wait for it ...! The emotional OCD meltdown is coming ... NOW:

"AAARRRGGGHHH!!!! NO, NO, NO, NO! YOU STUPID NINNIES!! YOU ILLITERATE COWS!! "Rue" is an herb!! "Roux" is the flour-butter gravy base! RUE HERB! ROUX GRAVY!" How did this country manage to churn out so many bleeding fools?? No, I am NOT going to calm down!! These women are IDIOTS! BIRDBRAINS! EMPTY-HEADED BUFFOONS! Shoot them! Kill them! Put them in a stew! To start the stew, use a ROUX! Want some flavor? Add some RUE! (Clutching head, running around in crazed circles screaming, "I’m surrounded by idiots! I’m drowning in a sea of stupidity! And these dimwits are raising children!! We are all doooomed!!!" until shot with a tranquilizer dart. Regains consciousness an hour later).

Okay, I’m back.

The Italian Cimaruta, or Witch’s Charm is a charm that Frederich Elworth (http://www.sacred-texts.com/evil/tee/tee14.htm) dates back to the Etruscans or the early Phoenicians, based upon an amulet located in the museum in Bologna. The name means "sprig of rue" – which it is – and from the rue branches at each end is a sprout; out of the sprout comes forth symbols such as a key, dagger, blossom, and moon. The Cimaruta was often placed above the beds of infants, as protection against the "mal'occhio" or evil eye. I’m told it is a very traditional gift for new mothers to hang over babies’ cribs in southern Italy – I just thought it was beautiful!

As I said, Lammas falls on Wednesday of this week, so I’m having two specifically Lammas-style feasts: one this weekend, and the second next weekend. Today’s feast is Mushroom-Barley-Wild Rice soup and a carambola for dessert. I have never tasted a star fruit before, so this should be interesting. Next week: corn fritters! I’m also going to try to make some of the mezzaluna cakes and see what they taste like.

I found this poem which I liked, mainly because he’s something like Damien in his love for the fall and winter weather, rather than moping around when fall creeps around the corner. The poet, by the way, lived in Connecticut from 1796 to 1828, and no doubt enjoyed the New England fall colors. I thought I’d publish it here and dedicate it to Mr. Signpost, the guy who’s hanging on by his fingernails, waiting for Halloween to arrive.

The Indian Summer
By John G. C. Brainard

WHAT is there saddening in the Autumn leaves?
Have they that "green and yellow melancholy"
That the sweet poet spake of?—Had he seen
Our variegated woods, when first the frost
Turns into beauty all October’s charms—
When the dread fever quits us—when the storms
Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet,
Has left the land, as the first deluge left it,
With a bright bow of many colors hung
Upon the forest tops—he had not sigh’d.
The moon stays longest for the Hunter now:
The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe
And busy squirrel hoards his winter store:
While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along
The bright blue sky above him, and that bends
Magnificently all the forest’s pride,
Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,
"What is there saddening in the Autumn leaves?"

Talking to the Dead

First week back at work after my vacation. Nibbling on salsiccia e verde (or salsiccie verde, if you’re mumbling), home-made whole wheat buttermilk biscuits, and sulking. Last Thursday was an infuriating waste of my time, and an embarrassment (for her, not for me – I was merely pissed off) – the dumb broad didn’t "psychically divine" anything until it was fed to her, and by the end of the session I was feeding her ridiculous amounts of crap just to see what brilliant "psychic message" she could come up with. A fraud, basically. And I’m still dragging my feet on going to Salem to meet with one of the other witches in October, and so probably won’t.

Talking to the Dead

She can talk to the dead, she says. "I sweah, I sweah."
I suspect a surfeit of bullshit in this claim
as she follows my leaders through lightening and rain,
claims her hair stands on end from souls’ fire in ether.
At last I feed her crumbs of invention, and there
she nibbles and extends her neck while I exclaim
"You knew that he was a stock broker!" An insane
vision of him rises, smug, at the haberdasher.

She was right about one thing, he stood behind me.
I could hear him, rattling his tool belt, toeing
gravel with his side-slipped boots and wheezing
with laughter. But he did not speak to me. I need
his forgiveness, but he is not forthcoming now, freezing
the lips of a fraud while facing eternity.

©Snake’s Trail, 2012. All rights reserved

Damien’s excitement about Lammas is actually sort of infectious. I wasn’t planning to start thinking about it until probably ... oh, I don’t know, the day before ... so for once I’m actually preparing for it. I also found two curiosities: a book on Italian witchcraft, with references to a source that pre-dates Gardner, and a symbol.

Naturally, the authenticity of the pre-Gardnerian, turn of the century Gospel of the Witches is disputed, but what caught my attention was the name for the harvest celebration, "cornucopia". What popped out of my memory was one of the very few disagreements I ever remember witnessing, when I was very young, between my mother and grandmother, and the disagreement was over that particular word. My mother saying, "It’s a gourd, filled with fruits and vegetables", and my grandmother saying, "No it isn’t, it’s a feast." (or festa, I can’t remember which word she used). My mother – from whom I probably inherited my godawful stubbornness - got up and pulled out a dictionary. I assume she looked up "cornucopia" and found a graphic of the usual image everyone envisions when they hear the word. My grandmother waved her hand in dismissal and snapped. "I don’t care what your book says, it’s a festa." And I remember my mother looking hurt when she did it. Ahhh, ancient family drama.

Now, I’m not trying to say my grandmother and mother were practioners of the Old Religion. Hardly. But I was reminded of that disagreement when I opened Raven Grimassi’s Italian Witchcraft, and found that Cornucopia, in Italy, is something like a sabbat at the end of August, a feast between the May celebration and the first Harvest. A festa, just as my grandmother insisted. The thing was, my grandmother never grew up in Italy – it was her mother or grandmother who emigrated to Michigan from the Veneto with her family, when SHE was a girl, before the unification of Italy - I sat there with the book, trying to figure out if Cornucopia was actually celebrated in the Veneto ... by Catholics. Because I’m pretty sure they went waaaaay back as Catholics. Or perhaps they were both, and just kept the witchiness part pretty much under wraps.

" ... the charm of the forbidden is very great, and witchcraft, like the truffle, grows best and has its raciest flavor, when most deeply hidden."
Leland, Charles Godfrey, Aradia, Gospel of the Witches of Italy, London, 1899, David Nutt, publisher, 270-71 Strand, p. vi

I looked up the nearest farmer’s market and learned we actually have one here, on Saturdays, and looked up corn bread recipes – which could run the gamut from bread with corn in it, bread made out of corn meal, or corn fritters – all a form of corn bread. Trying to decide on the Lammas Feast which is actually fun! Since August 1st is a Wednesday, I’m going to celebrate Lammas on the 4th.

In ancient Egypt, we’d be ... what? ... about a month away from the Inundation: the rising of the Nile, the inundation of farmlands, preparing them for planting. Priests would be preparing for community prayers for a perfect inundation – enough to fertilize the land, not so much it flooded everyone out of house and home and brought plague and disease. In Europe, we’d be awaiting the first grain harvest. Lammas. Same with the Americas, but here in the Americas we’d be watching the corn.

The corn. Place hand over heart, lift eyes to the heavens and all together now: "ahhhh...!" Greatest grain ever. Listening to Clinton J. Miller’s "Return to Mother Corn" off his Rez Boy album. I should find more odes to corn songs. Anyone know any Corn Maiden songs? I did learn a song back in the Enchantments days, although I have no idea who composed it. That song was "Hail to Koré", although one of the lines was, "Hail Corn Maiden, lady of the fields", so that probably counts as a Corn maiden song. Take note that no agrarian society has ever identified corn deities as male. Only one organization is that retarded: The Whole Grains Council – out of Boston, of course! I’m in favor of almost anyone who promotes corn ... unless they’re so obsessed with their own phalli they identify the grain as "King Corn"!

Wednesday of last week was the birthday of Nephthys (the sister of Isis) – recognizable for the two items she usually has on her head: a temple (or a column of a temple; sometimes a structure that looks like a house), and a basket. I’m not quite sure what the basket represented, unless it was to collect body parts: in addition to being Goddess of the Temple, she also accompanied Isis in her search for Osiris.

Another thing I liked about her was a certain similarity to Sekhmet: "Nephthys is sometimes featured as a rather ferocious and dangerous divinity, capable of incinerating the enemies of the Pharaoh with her fiery breath." She is also a deity you could celebrate with beer ... that is, if you happened to like beer, which I don’t, unless it’s in a batter you can use to fry things, like fish. But I wonder if she’d appreciate other forms of grain alcohol that didn’t actually contain hops.

Photo, left:  Nephthys- Musée du Louvre, Paris, France

　
According to the Pyramid Texts, Nephthys, along with Isis, was "a force before whom demons trembled in fear, and whose magical spells were necessary for navigating the various levels of Duat, as the region of the afterlife was termed."

So here we have a tri-fold power in place for the week’s activities: the dark moon, Nepthys, Sekhmet. Damien’s tweet about red wine for the dark moon taken to heart, at least. Last Thursday was the new moon.

Damien, for some reason, tweeted from Brooklyn last week (I have no idea why), before leaving for New Zealand. He was contentedly listening to Frank Sinatra and eating fried chicken. I would be more than OK if he moved there instead of Salem. Not saying that would be best for HIM, but I would sure be fine with it. I will always feel he’s safer in New York. Hell, I always feel safer in New York! But no, he’s tweeting about his days in New York being numbered and his upcoming move to Massachusetts. Damien!!! You can’t buy bolines here! You’re better off in New York if you want a boline or an athame!! (So whineth the native and homesick New Yorker). (*sigh*)

Back to Nephthys. For my purposes, she was also considered the unique protectress of the Sacred Phoenix, or the Bennu Bird. From The Book of the Dead, "I am the Bennu bird, the Heart-Soul of Ra, the Guide of the Gods to the Duat." Sekhmet being the eye of Ra, the Bennu Bird being the heart-soul of Ra; Ra is astoundingly well represented today, which strikes me as fortunate. Not to mention the incredible solar flares going on recently.

As far as I can tell, they really haven’t impacted me – all of my electronic equipment has been working just fine, and the only interruption to my cable viewing was a tornado warning recently, which utterly freaked me out. A tornado WARNING? In Massachusetts? Obviously, nothing beyond a thunderstorm to the south of me happened after that, noticeable only by the sound of distant thunder and a light drizzle.

Return to Search for Soul Mate?

A certain harmony is possible in this world,
where man and woman, strength and weakness, unite with each other.
In the Temple Space (Aeon), the form of union is different,
although we employ the same name for it;
but there exist forms of union higher than any that can be spoken,
stronger than the greatest forces,
with the power that is their destiny.
Those who live like this are no longer separated.
They are one, beyond bodily distinction.

The Gospel of Philip, 103-104, Jean-Yves Leloup, trans.

I was glancing through previous posts and thinking that perhaps it was about time I went back to the search for a soul mate. I almost feel as though I need to start over, given how much time has passed, and given how much emotional flotsam has been kicked up in the interim. I’m not even certain the emotional flotsam has settled, but I’m trying to think positively for this coming Thursday. Which reminds me: I should try to hunt down my tape recorder.

As far The Gospel of Philip goes, I’ve enjoyed reading it. Some of it I have difficulty understanding, and I don’t fully buy into gnosticism either, but some of it I do understand, and find it beautiful. The hysteria in response to the publication of this gnostic gospel was pretty funny. You’da thunk they were afraid people might actually find it meaningful! One of my favorite objections came from a website called "the Christian alert", purporting to alert christians to the wrongness of this gospel by offering their contradictory "truths". In this case their "truth" made me burst out laughing:

"When do liberals claim it was written? 180-250 AD.

When was it really written? Biblical scholar Ben Witherington III dates it to the third century."

Needless to say, all of those silly and well-educated "liberals" who happened to stumble across this website probably spluttered coffee all over their computer screens. Anyone want to ‘alert’ these christians that 250 A.D. actually IS in the "third century"?
http://www.thechristianalert.org/index.php/Bibliography/the_gospel_of_philip

I don’t mean to imply that I bought into the whole Gospel of Philip (I didn’t), but I did love the book’s take on the union of man and woman, which was so completely the opposite of most christian philosophy it was refreshing (and opposite christian philosophers as well, if there is such a thing; I usually think of them as apologists, or squirrely men who are so terrified of women it’s pitiful.)

" ... with the power that is their destiny ..."

Loved it.

Before I can get myself mentally situated, I figured I’d return to getting the space ready again. I’d gone to some effort to prepare the bedroom all the way back in 2011, but after getting injured, and after multiple hospital stays, it had slid backwards a little bit in terms of orderliness and attractiveness. Example: while your spine is healing, you’re not all that eager to pull heavy furniture away from the wall and vacume the carpet underneath. I had venetian blinds in the windows – now, I thought it was about time to take things one step further and ordered curtains. Burgundy – to support the color scheme (if you’ll recall, I’d gone with reds/burgundys and steered clear of pinks, quite a while back).

So today I pulled the entire television cabinet away from the corner, steam-cleaned the carpet, re-situated all of the the cords, pushed it back ... all well and good, except for the monstrous leg cramps that hit me while I was down on the floor, cleaning out the inside of the cabinet.

So, here’s my thought.   Ladies would do a better job identifying with this – I’m guessing that guys for the most part have no issues with women lying under them not moving all that much – but women, if they’re engaged in what they’re doing in the bedroom, would have a real problem if, every time they used a leg muscle, it cramped up rather violently.

The medication they put me on sometimes helps eliminate the middle-of-the-night leg cramps that woke me up screaming in pain – not always, but most of the time – they do not alleviate leg cramps that happen during exercise or strenuous activity. In this instance, all I was doing was getting down on the floor, and getting back up again – it wasn’t as though I were running a marathon.

As far as sex was concerned, unless I planned to lay there like a disinterested trophy wife doing her nails in the midst of, as Sheldon Cooper would say, "coitus" (what a creepy word!) – getting past those awful leg cramps was going to be something of a problem. Was I absolutely certain I was ready to pick up the Search for a Soul Mate where I left off? More importantly, could my soul mate handle an occasional episode of me cursing like a sailor just as he’s laboring up the slopes of Mount Vesuvius?

(I can just hear some doofus muttering, "*Duh*, why duz she wanna marry a vulcanologist?" Wait. A doofus wouldn’t know a vulcanologist from a euphemism, would he? Never mind.)

Talking to Jim and more things I learned from Damien Echols

Listening to Nek. Which is, in and of itself, pretty astounding.

I wonder if I’m the only person who remembers making mixed bean soup in the days before you could buy the "Hurst HamBeens 15-Bean Soup" mix in the grocery store. Or maybe you could buy it when I was growing up; we just never did. Actually, I’m not even that old, but I never recall my mother using a "mixed bean" mix. We just made it whenever we had a collection of bean package dregs and then combined them, along with other types of non-dried beans, like green beans, french green beans, yellow wax (waxed?) beans, etc. The we tossed in a chopped onion, leftover ham, seasonings, and abracadabra! Soup!

There usually ended up being anywhere from 5 to 10 types of beans in the bowl, and it was always something we slurped on in fall or winter, never the high heat of summer. I suddenly had a longing for hot peppery bean soup, so here I am, slurping on some, with some barley thrown in for giggles. Very comforting, earthy sort of meal. As I said, I’m on vacation all this week, so I’m not at all worried about any after-effects of 15 types of beans. And of course, I had no dregs, so had to cheat and substitute the bean mix. Mom usually made cornbread along with it; I’m too lazy to do that.

But because of the vacation, this is another day of writing lists, headed by, "DO THIS OR YOU’LL REGRET IT UNTIL THE END OF TIME!", because I have spent the last three months completely unable to get myself motivated to do anything. Friday was the first Friday the 13th since Jim’s death on Friday the 13th in April. I’m going to try to talk to him through someone.

I don’t trust my own intuition as far as Jim is concerned; my guilt and self-loathing is too bound up in his death. The only thing I heard him say after he died came right on the heels of his death – possibly the day after that, when we were at the mall in Yorktown Heights, and Lauren was debating whether or not to buy new shoes for the memorial: "NO NEW SHOES!" He said it so loudly in my ear that I nearly jumped ten feet in the air. He meant: don’t get dressed up for me; there is absolutely no need to go to all that trouble and waste the money. It was such a "Jim" thing to say I didn’t even question it when I heard it. Well, that, and the fact that he yelled it. I haven’t heard him since, though.

The idea of going to Salem close to Halloween in October for a reading was shot to splinters when I had lunch at Bertucci’s with friends yesterday; one of them lives in Salem. I asked her about Salem during the month of October and she rolled her eyes. She had no issues with the spiritual purpose; she did have issues with the traffic.

"Don’t do it!", she told me, "It’s so crowded, it takes me 45 minutes just to drive around my block!" Apparently, all of the Salem residents grow to despise the month of October, when they’re invaded by people from all over the world celebrating witches and witchiness. Instead I found someone in Andover who does it. I’ll be seeing her on Thursday. And am I relieved I don’t have to go to Salem? Do you even have to ask?

I’ll try anyone once. I would award the last woman 3.3333 out of 10 stars for her reading: out of the three accurate bulls-eyes she tossed out (my grandmother, Damien and Sekhmet), I’d say that only my grandmother was fully accurate. Sekhmet probably was meant for me, but delivered to the wrong person, and why she couldn’t figure out who Damien was – someone I was learning a great deal from, although someone I’d never met and was only familiar with through his writings – I still argue that it sent the accuracy of the reading flying off kilter, despite the bulls-eyes on the Boston Red Sox, horoscope sign and health issues, as there was no way to deliver the message at the time, especially to someone I didn’t know, and certainly no way to verify the accuracy of the message. Maybe I’m being too hard on her, I don’t know.

But it bothered me to such a degree that I picked someone else. This new woman apparently uses the tarot, psychometry and help from the Archangel Michael.

I did have a vague recollection of Damien mentioning the Archangel Michael, once upon a time, although I had to dig around to find the context. It turns out he mentioned Michael several times. My favorite was:

May 16, 2010
"My daily meditation routine is focused on the suit of wands right now. That's the section of the tarot which the archangel Michael rules over. It represents will power, ambition, creativity, fire, and the season of summer."

So – we are in the midst of the season of summer – also ruled by Sekhmet, so I feel supported by powerful energy on all sides. The psychometry gave me pause, until I remembered – I still have a few of Jim’s unopened beer cans in my refrigerator. I haven’t touched them, and he’s the last person who did. I haven’t been able to pluck up the courage to get rid of them, and wonder if you can pick up anything from cold beer cans?

I will tell you one thing about Michael, though: Doreen Virtue was fairly specific about knowing whether or not you’re actually hearing his voice as opposed to someone else’s:

"Of all the angels, Michael has the loudest and clearest voice. He’s definitely the easier Divine messenger to hear. He also has a distinctively blunt speaking style. He gets right to the point, but always with love and a sense of humor.

In a crisis, his pitch and tone are similar to a surgeon demanding a scalpel from a nurse. He’s not trying to be bossy or bark orders at us; rather, he just wants to get our attention and put us into action mode. The archangel always sounds loving and compassionate while he’s commanding us to take lifesaving action.

If Michael needs to get our attention in a hurry, his voice booms with unmistakable clarity. Yet, he can also be soft-spoken when it’s called for."http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Angels/2008/12/8-Ways-to-Recognize-Archangel-Michael.aspx?p=2#ixzz20m1WKH8r

Which I like. I don’t give a crap about the "love" part, particularly, but the sense of humor would reach me. The minute someone starts cooing at me, I’ll get up and walk out because I know they’re "channeling" no one but themselves and their own goofy idea of what an angel supposedly sounds like. Any deity or higher being worth his or her salt would know better than to get all girly-girly-frou-frou on me. You’re reading someone who was raised by two engineers: my mother was an aerospace engineer and my father an industrial engineer. I can’t recall either one of them coo-cooing at me like goofballs, and I never once doubted their love. A "blunt speaking style" would resonate with me completely.

(And I’ll bet I was the only young teen who was given "the talk" by her mother with a matter-of-fact, biological explanation, using all of the scientific terms for body parts and chemical analysis of the reasons for and results of orgasms. My mother was the smartest woman I know.)

Another semi-coincidence: one of the latter sonnets in the cycle was about the blue and indigo colors surrounding Michael.

Concentration
Three months pass; air stops, sun glares at cicada speech.
I turn my head. He listens as she serenades
him, friends called him away, but, his focus unswayed,
he listens as her lips move and slips out of reach.
Grasses browned, faces oily, rainbows sagging, leached
of their jewels. On his face, his lips move though his gaze,
enraptured, never moves, but not watching her face
blushing at his sudden awareness, this young peach.

O! To be the object of such fine scrutiny,
when Michael’s purple and indigo lights the room,
Protecting the unwise with a sword and a tune,
who watched the detonation of the family
and shook his head sadly, although it was not soon
enough to forestall her dull animosity.

©Snake’s Trail, 2012

Meanwhile, Damien continues to freak me out ... although, at this point, it’s less "freak out" and more, "again with the coincidences!", so okay, I’m no longer THAT freaked out ... just a little freaked out ... a month ago, on 18 June, I was being grumpy and brought up alchemy.

So apparently, not only am I a poor excuse for a witch (who flies into trees on her broomstick), I'm in absolutely no danger of turning myself into a skilled alchemist either, as far as being able to make sense of grimoires goes. Too bad, too: I could really use the gold.

And here’s Damien:

Alchemy is about change, destruction & creation. Called the "spagyric art," from Greek words meaning "to tear apart" & "to bring together".

The other coincidence – other than the fact I mentioned it – is that any time he shows up in a tarot reading, he’s always the Magus – in other words, an alchemist.

Next coincidence: was glancing at the Witches Book of Days recently – 2 days ago, actually. It read, "In Asia we celebrate O’Ban, similar to Samhain or Halloween. Trick or treat yourself."

Error #1: it’s not O’Ban, it’s Obon or just Bon, an Asian festival honoring one’s ancestors, and has nothing to do with tricking or treating. Error #2: Obon is in August, not on July 14.

The Real Witches Year wants me to go outside in the high heat, lay down on the ground and absorb sensations. Sure, if by "sensations" she means going into anaphylactic shock from sun stroke and a million and one mosquito bites.

The Pagan Book of Days is actually useful, mentioning that the runic half-month of Ur ("primal strength") begins today, and adding, "it is a good time for beginnings, for this rune is sacred to the Norn Urda, the primal foundation of things, and to the active principle in the shape of Thor, the hammer-wielding thunder god."

I do know that one of the concepts of Ur is "shaping and forcing fortunate circumstances creatively through will and inspiration", which sounds like a waxing moon sort of thing – right now the moon is a waning crescent, so this gives me a little time to prepare a spell I can finally record – keep track of – in my daybook, which is slowly turning into something of a Book of Shadows.

I hadn’t even posted that yet, when Damien (today) tweeted:

"The Dark Moon is this week. On Thursday. Those are the nights that are good for banishing unwanted energy. The ancient Greeks said the Dark Moon is embodied by Hecate, queen of the night. So what gifts does the dark moon like? Red wine. The darker, the better. Leave it beneath the night sky for her ... and ask her to remove any obstacles that may stand between you and happiness."

(After giving that a moment’s thought). I’d need about 100 dark moons to get rid of MY obstacles, but on the other hand, Thursday is the day of the meeting with the tarot-psychometry-Michael the Archangel lady.

Day Book Failures on Friday the 13th

So on Wednesday, July 11, 2012, according to the Real Witches Year (which makes you think, every time you pick it up and look at the title, “as opposed to what? – a fake witches year?”) – we will learn about reading tea leaves.  I’ve never read tea leaves before, probably because ... well, the thought of dumping loose leaves all over the bottom of my cup and almost swallowing them makes me want to start picking things off my tongue and not gag while I’m doing it.  Loose leaves being something of a requirement for tea-leaf reading, this explains rather succinctly why I’ve never read any tea leaves.

This is how I like my tea:  clear, unmuddled, no lemon, no sugar, no milk, cream, no additions of any kind, no clinking of spoons, poured carefully into a delicate bone china tea cup, placed just so in its saucer, so that it doesn’t rattle.  AND NO TEA LEAVES ANYWHERE IN SIGHT!  Hmm.  OCD, anyone?

Thanks to Harry Potter, I now know what “The Grim” looks like – and fer sure I don’t want to see one, unless it presages the arrival of the awesome Gary Oldman into the living room which would be rather cool ... 

... but it almost seems like a blot test, where you’re interpreting shapes that you see in things.  Not quite sure how you could read tea leaves for anyone else, if it’s your subliminal symbols you’re interpreting.

Meanwhile the Witches’ Book of Days publishes yet another idiotic entry:  they claim the 11^th is the “fete of Magdalene the Harlot, in honor of ladies of the night.  Considered to be the greatest prize as wives, they brought experience, compassion, understanding and pride to their homes and family – and a darn good dowry.”

That was so spectacularly wrong on so many levels I have no idea where to start – because even in ancient cultures, such as ancient Greece, for example, street prostitutes were in a lower class of society than many other classes of women, so I have no idea where they got their “great prize” idea from.  If these idiots were referring to hetaerae, they should have said so – and again they’d be wrong, because hetaerae weren’t considered prostitutes, or “ladies of the night” – they were extremely well educated, skilled in the arts, skilled in debate and conversation, and capable of meeting the top-drawer politicians and businessmen at their own level.  Closest equivalent, minus the submissiveness?  A geisha.  Those women WERE good marriage material, and never considered to be prostitutes, or harlots.

More importantly, they are so wrong on Mary Magdalene, it’s laughable.  Even Christian Biblical scholars no longer consider her as a “harlot” – most people actually believe the church deliberately combined Mary Magdalene with the Mary who actually WAS a harlot, an in effort to thoroughly discredit Mary Magdalene, who was, actually, now thought to be independently wealthy and very close to their Jesus.  Why these dimwits would take up the Catholic Church’s misogynistic view of her, now considered to be completely and sadistically wrong, I have no idea.

And the so-called “dowry”?  Riiiight.  Back to Greece again.  Sorry, again they couldn’t be talking about street prostitutes, or even temple ones.  Rome I’m less familiar with, but I doubt there was THAT much of a difference between the two.

I spent Thursday the 12^th getting seriously pissed off.  Took the day off to check in with the oncologist for an appointment made the last time I was in her Salem office praying I didn’t have to show up in Salem again, for obvious reasons.  The appointment was made to see her in the Andover office, and I even called that morning to verify the appointment.  When I arrived, it turns out the surgeon was on vacation.  I told the receptionist to tell the surgeon to, “kiss my ass!” when she bothered to show up, and stormed out.  I was mostly ticked off because next week was another vacation week, and I could have really used the day to prepare for it.  So, if the cancer has returned, I won’t know until it kills me.  YAY!

Today is Friday, the 13^th of July.  Three months after Jim died on another Friday the 13^th , in April.  The Pagan Book of Days is once again completely empty.  The Real Witches Year discusses the power of the chopped off hands of the dead (“Hand of Glory”), which is something I definitely don’t want to read about today.  In honor of Ndlovukaze, the Queen mother Elephant, The Witches’ Book of Days encourages you to walk around like a stately elephant, waving your trunk to the hoi-poloi, like royalty does with their hands.  Yeah.  THAT sounds normal.  I look up Ndlovukaze and can’t even find it.  I think they made it up.  (*sigh*) 

The End of the Sonnet Cycle

Strange day. This morning, I finally came to the conclusion that the sonnet cycle had probably ended. Until the last sonnet was written, writing them was something of a compulsion - every day or so another poem wriggled its way out of me - not quite in the sense of "regurgitated", but more like an itch that needed to be scratched. And then - all of a sudden - it just ended.

Part of it may have been the dream about Jim I had last night. Very strange dream. We were sitting in his van, and he came up with the idea of moving to - somewhere. Right then. Leave. Right now. I said, "What? And leave the cats to fend for themselves?" He thought a moment and said, "Well, yeah." My response: "That is SO not going to happen."

I had completely forgotten that he had died, so the dream didn't seem all that strange to me, that he was sitting there. Also, abandoning the cats was NOT something my brother would do, anyway - he took such good care of them while I was in the hospital, they adored him, and slept on his head much the same way they slept on mine. He was very upset when Dixie died - he really loved her. I could only assume that the meaning of the dream was: he didn't want me - or them - to die along with him, which is what the guilt was doing to me. Fine. But I didn't know that's what it meant while the dream was going on, so didn't ask him any pertinent questions. Beyond that, I have no idea what the dream meant. But it felt to me that the sonnet cycle, when I woke up, had ended. The thought that I ought to try to communicate with my brother was still there. Not quite sure how to accomplish that.

The next compulsion that hit me was publishing it. Which sort of made me laugh, after I gave it some serious thought. "Oh, yeah, THAT'LL be a best seller!" Not sure where I'm going with that idea. 62 pages of ... what? Hysteria? Lust? Weeping and wailing?

While I mulled that over, I finished the sleeves on the turquoise shirt, and have to turn up the cuffs and the bottom hem ... just need to hunt down some buttons. May end up going shopping for them; I don't think I have any turquoise buttons laying around anywhere. Meanwhile I've started a long grey jacquard vest which already looks and feels seriously cool. I love the feel of different types of fabric - some types are annoying, some are sensual, some are comforting. I do love experimenting with different fabrics, though. Haven't sewn anything made of jacquard in a while. I vaguely remember making a jacket out of black jacquard, I think when I was in high school. But I have no buttons for the grey vest, either.

It also occurred to me that the Day Book will have lasted about a year next month. I had already back-dated a few of them to July, which is why I noticed; I had started reading Damien's journal after the nineteenth of August 2011 - can't remember which day exactly - but the nineteenth is when they – the West Memphis 3, I mean - were finally freed.

Yesterday, the seventh of July, commemorated Cernos, protector of the grain silos, so also considered a protector of the harvest. None of which explains why I'm having a day-after delayed celebration of the harvest by eating my first corn-on-the-cob of the season - I'm not sure the New England corn has been harvested yet, but I couldn't wait - and that genuine New England harvest food: Flag Hill Sugar Maple liqueur over ice. Heh! I keep looking for corn-on-the-cob – my absolute favorite vegetable of all time - at the farmer's market every Wednesday in Cambridge but haven't seen any yet. I'm not kidding, we should hold a "Thank the People We Obliterated for Introducing Us to Corn" parade up and down the streets of Boston, with someone worthy serving as the Corn Maiden for the parade. Except I can see some mindless goobers from the pitiful manifest destiny crowd having trouble with the concept.

Speaking of which ... the most self-fulfilling re-tweet I've read in a long time: a tweet by someone named Silver Raven Wolf on 7/4/2012 - apparently someone who couldn't decide which Native American symbol to plagiarize, no doubt because she isn't one. Maybe she should switch to "Dumb Pink Buffalo Twinkie" (white buffalos are too sacred) based on this:

Silver RavenWolf‏@SilverRavenWolf: Angry? Stop. Breath in element of Air, push it out envisioning the anger leaving. Follow with Fire, Water, and Earth. Finish with Spirit.

Naturally, the illiteracy (not to mention the complete lack of logic) of the post pissed me off, even though I wasn't particularly pissed off before I read it. I'm not even going to get into the visual of me breathing water, earth - and fire - in and out of my lungs into my small apartment, except to mildly point out that all I can envision with that scenario is me dying a painful, choking and suffocating death, and, in the case of fire, taking all the men, women and children in this building with me, along with their pets. But, no, we won't be "finishing" with spirit. Instead:

FINISH with grammar-check!!! "Breath" is the noun, as in the example, "You can see my breath in the frosty air." BREATHE is the verb, as in the example, "If I get any more annoyed by illiterate witches, I will have to remind myself to BREATHE!" 

Second witch in a row who couldn't compose a literate sentence or operate “spell-check”. She didn't really say what to do if she's the one who pissed you off in the first place. The second vision I had in my head after reading this was me, kicking a bunch of dumb witches in a circle (widdershins) around Stonehenge yelling, "Citizen's arrest! Grammar Police!"

[Pant, pant, pant] Breathe, woman! Wow, we really do get bitchier as we get older, don't we?

I will point out in all honesty that it's very difficult to learn from anyone who never even made the effort to educate themselves first. Want to teach others? Either do it properly, or have someone who is literate proofread your work. The alternative is everyone tossing your lessons, however well-intentioned, in the trash as a waste of their time, because you appear to them to be poorly educated and - well, stupid. Why should I pay attention to an illiterate boob?

More Spooky Coincidences and the Witches Ball

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

According to Ask.com

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

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

According to Llewellyn:

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Summary:  Pttoeeey!  Blech!  Ach!  Ick! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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