It's been a few months since I've instituted this Deity-animal guide model a la the Mayan Calendar, and I need to say a few things about it. I'm not sure that I have the animals right, so I think I'd better let them take over and say "It's me today" vs. my trying to impose an order. I have a feeling that some of them will stay right where they are, or they'll switch around slightly. I particularly have difficulties keeping track of the 8 and 9 and 18 and 19. For all I know though, the critters might decide to totally change things around. I could use a shake up.
(I am in a burner zone btw. My next burner day is Sunday, July 2 which will be a Hades-Sphinx day. Sphinx seems to work at #16. By my calendar, my boyfriend would be an East-Goddess/Sphinx. (Most likely Athena, in his case.) But #6 might be Wolf or Bear or Otter. I'll have to let that decide itself.)
As far as the Deities go however, I think the system works pretty well. The order does seem appropriate to me personally, and that's where things should stand. Today definitely feels like a Hekate day, and yesterday was a Cerridwen day. The deities seem pleased that they rotate over 13 days.
Now I'm beginning to wonder if they also fit with the planets, and perhaps even the signs of the Zodiac. Perhaps with the addition of Ophiuchus to the menagerie, there's another level of correspondence. Again, I'd have to go with the intuitive there, and I wouldn't think of the signs as being "ruled" by the deities. There's affinity, but not necessarily dominance.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
8 Cups Cerridwen Beaver
Edit: I wrote this poem over lunch hour, and it's about today's Goddess.
"Cerridwen"
I'd like to know more stories of you,
mystery goddess of the cauldron.
The first time I heard your name, a snap
of recognition puthed into awareness.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, say your name, a talisman
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, I ask your touch to guide me!
Yes, you had the most beautiful girl,
the son whose face only you could love.
Chased over land, water, air and ate
Gwion Bach with a flap of your wings.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, say your name, a talisman
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, I ask your touch to guide me!
After the chase ended with stomach
full of corn, your belly later became full
with a new life, that would become he
of the Shining Brow, Sexy Taliesin.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, say your name, a talisman
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, I ask your touch to guide me!
Mother to great bard, what else is known?
It's as if all the other legends
of your deeds fell into that boiling
vat that holds the keys to your healing.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, say your name, a talisman
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, I ask your touch to guide me!
I know you as Steward, the Mountain
of Playwriting. I've visited there
many times without knowing. I trek
to you, Inspiration Dispenser.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, say your name, a talisman
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, I ask your touch to guide me!
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, bless this hand that holds pens.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, push this hand 'cross the page.
***********
Over at astroworld.us, the latest thread is called "Had Enough?" This apropos question has hovered over the world for the past six years or so, since that fateful night of November 2, 2000 when the old fan's fecoflagellation started happening. Because of my awareness of the addiction process, I know that some people have a bottomless appetite for misery. They can't get enough suffering it seems. They're like alcoholics, but instead of booze, it's just suffering that gets them all high--though it takes more and more of that misery to get them into "the zone."
Personally, for the rest of us, I hope that fatal dosages of TheoBelloThanatoCorporate MiseryTM inoculates these people into the arms of deathelz and soon. Perhaps I'm venting a bit here, but I feel ensludged by the toxicity that surrounds us all. Am I supposed to eat all this biliousness and send it away, like shamans of old? Or am I supposed to do something else with it?
Last night I went to an Al-Anon meeting just so I could try to get a perspective on this mishagoss. Perhaps I need to go on a media fast, I don't know. It does get to be a bit much. In the meeting I realized how much of my perspective has been formed in the crucible of the dysfunction I grew up inside, that all of us grew up inside whether it had infected our families via the mechanisms of booze/drugs/compulsive eating/compulsive sex/toxic belief, what have you. Television injected the Dys into our homes, as the messenger of Empire. And I guess ultimately it really does come back to working on my own stuff in conjunction with living alongside this sick and twisted Empire that interpenetrates with my evolving-gnostic self.
I need to own that I've undergone a gnosis myself. Recovering from food addiction was the single most important thing I've ever done, and it cleared away so much of the muck of my life. I want to own my power and connect with the best and brightest future self now possible. I sometimes see that fellow, actually. For some reason, he/I look(s) like a throwback to shamanic cultures or a native medicine man. At least that's how my point of wisdom appears when I meditate on the Pearl Pentacle. This gnosis is ongoing, however. It's not something that I do once and it's done. As we say in "the rooms", I can't keep it unless I give it away.
"Cerridwen"
I'd like to know more stories of you,
mystery goddess of the cauldron.
The first time I heard your name, a snap
of recognition puthed into awareness.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, say your name, a talisman
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, I ask your touch to guide me!
Yes, you had the most beautiful girl,
the son whose face only you could love.
Chased over land, water, air and ate
Gwion Bach with a flap of your wings.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, say your name, a talisman
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, I ask your touch to guide me!
After the chase ended with stomach
full of corn, your belly later became full
with a new life, that would become he
of the Shining Brow, Sexy Taliesin.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, say your name, a talisman
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, I ask your touch to guide me!
Mother to great bard, what else is known?
It's as if all the other legends
of your deeds fell into that boiling
vat that holds the keys to your healing.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, say your name, a talisman
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, I ask your touch to guide me!
I know you as Steward, the Mountain
of Playwriting. I've visited there
many times without knowing. I trek
to you, Inspiration Dispenser.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, say your name, a talisman
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, I ask your touch to guide me!
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, bless this hand that holds pens.
Cerridwen, Cerridwen, push this hand 'cross the page.
***********
Over at astroworld.us, the latest thread is called "Had Enough?" This apropos question has hovered over the world for the past six years or so, since that fateful night of November 2, 2000 when the old fan's fecoflagellation started happening. Because of my awareness of the addiction process, I know that some people have a bottomless appetite for misery. They can't get enough suffering it seems. They're like alcoholics, but instead of booze, it's just suffering that gets them all high--though it takes more and more of that misery to get them into "the zone."
Personally, for the rest of us, I hope that fatal dosages of TheoBelloThanatoCorporate MiseryTM inoculates these people into the arms of deathelz and soon. Perhaps I'm venting a bit here, but I feel ensludged by the toxicity that surrounds us all. Am I supposed to eat all this biliousness and send it away, like shamans of old? Or am I supposed to do something else with it?
Last night I went to an Al-Anon meeting just so I could try to get a perspective on this mishagoss. Perhaps I need to go on a media fast, I don't know. It does get to be a bit much. In the meeting I realized how much of my perspective has been formed in the crucible of the dysfunction I grew up inside, that all of us grew up inside whether it had infected our families via the mechanisms of booze/drugs/compulsive eating/compulsive sex/toxic belief, what have you. Television injected the Dys into our homes, as the messenger of Empire. And I guess ultimately it really does come back to working on my own stuff in conjunction with living alongside this sick and twisted Empire that interpenetrates with my evolving-gnostic self.
I need to own that I've undergone a gnosis myself. Recovering from food addiction was the single most important thing I've ever done, and it cleared away so much of the muck of my life. I want to own my power and connect with the best and brightest future self now possible. I sometimes see that fellow, actually. For some reason, he/I look(s) like a throwback to shamanic cultures or a native medicine man. At least that's how my point of wisdom appears when I meditate on the Pearl Pentacle. This gnosis is ongoing, however. It's not something that I do once and it's done. As we say in "the rooms", I can't keep it unless I give it away.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Moon Krom Goat
"Strange Choices #1"
Our choices are so strange today.
I don’t honestly know sometimes.
Do I believe what some would say?
That I must choose security
over freedom? That multiple
options of toothpaste availing
takes precedence over water
that’s free to everyone? Scoundrels
are looking to patent sunlight
and even the air we breathe, as
if they invented oxygen!
Satan-Jehovah works overtime
to insert his archons everywhere
and pollute each mind with ego’s
gossamer rewards. I say no
thank you. Give me liberty
I crave, or the other freedom
That lies in death’s sweeter embrace.
************
Strange Choices #2
Our choices are so strange today.
Sometimes I find myself at loss.
These folks whose sole business it seems
to provoke rage, fear, despair
to pack flocks into their churches,
who bleat intolerance at us
because their vinegar language
turns us off to their Saklas-God.
Clearly a form of insanity
holds by the wee-and-curlies these
self-styled Godly ones (O whither
that most unfortunate trademark).
The thing I don't get is how
these corrupted thuglatans go
unquestioned by the erstwhile
guardians, the fourth-estate whores
seem willing to receive Reverend
Almond Tinfoilhutte-Toller
and all Brittany and Tyler
Christofascist-Whites on the air
as the defenders against fact.
"On the left, we have the ocean
and its suspicious supporters
and on the right, the Right Reverend
will assail the seas for their grievous
mischief wetness! Watch the debate
over water's ev'lest wetness
How do we curb the ocean's onslaught
wave after wave, wicked moisture
pounds at the poor beaches! Tonight
at 11, join the Dream Team
Caspar Leche and Blanche Brotchen
take on this most potent issue.
You depend on them. Bet on it."
************
Strange Choices #3
Our choices are so strange today.
Where I wish to go is oddest
I'll admit--I'm looking forward
to seeing the Tower collapse
entirely. O Salamanders
Sylphs, Undines and Gnomes, please unleash
your elemental energies 'gainst
Black Iron Prison enslaving
our hearts, our spirits and our minds!
Cast a thunderbolt at Babel's
ivories and return us all
to our earthsome origins
where we can once again steward
this mystaculous orb and make
it shine with verbundance once more.
Guide my choices toward the simpler
and the greener options. I will
write poems and plays to that end
perhaps showing what's possible
in these improbable and dark times
even as I let myself out to help
you till the soil to grow the crops,
as I exert my back to lift sacks
of grain and vegetable onto carts
to give nourishment to others
as I sustain myself. I long
to cast off my civved persona,
and be in fertile nakedness
with you in your nudity grand
on this wholesome feast of planet!
I'll admit this fondest dream
seems impossible, impractical now.
rising oil and gas prices point
attention to where and how we
grow food we need to feed ourselves.
And thus I act as if the peak
of our technic heyday is past,
and seek now to be kind to you.
Let me be the stranger, dearest
Blanche du Bois's unknown to me now
within earshot of this poem.
I hope you remember kindness
with your simple version thereof
should either of us be in need,
for even that problem upcoming
is overcome when together
we come to meet it in common.
No one's smarter than all of us.
Our choices are so strange today.
I don’t honestly know sometimes.
Do I believe what some would say?
That I must choose security
over freedom? That multiple
options of toothpaste availing
takes precedence over water
that’s free to everyone? Scoundrels
are looking to patent sunlight
and even the air we breathe, as
if they invented oxygen!
Satan-Jehovah works overtime
to insert his archons everywhere
and pollute each mind with ego’s
gossamer rewards. I say no
thank you. Give me liberty
I crave, or the other freedom
That lies in death’s sweeter embrace.
************
Strange Choices #2
Our choices are so strange today.
Sometimes I find myself at loss.
These folks whose sole business it seems
to provoke rage, fear, despair
to pack flocks into their churches,
who bleat intolerance at us
because their vinegar language
turns us off to their Saklas-God.
Clearly a form of insanity
holds by the wee-and-curlies these
self-styled Godly ones (O whither
that most unfortunate trademark).
The thing I don't get is how
these corrupted thuglatans go
unquestioned by the erstwhile
guardians, the fourth-estate whores
seem willing to receive Reverend
Almond Tinfoilhutte-Toller
and all Brittany and Tyler
Christofascist-Whites on the air
as the defenders against fact.
"On the left, we have the ocean
and its suspicious supporters
and on the right, the Right Reverend
will assail the seas for their grievous
mischief wetness! Watch the debate
over water's ev'lest wetness
How do we curb the ocean's onslaught
wave after wave, wicked moisture
pounds at the poor beaches! Tonight
at 11, join the Dream Team
Caspar Leche and Blanche Brotchen
take on this most potent issue.
You depend on them. Bet on it."
************
Strange Choices #3
Our choices are so strange today.
Where I wish to go is oddest
I'll admit--I'm looking forward
to seeing the Tower collapse
entirely. O Salamanders
Sylphs, Undines and Gnomes, please unleash
your elemental energies 'gainst
Black Iron Prison enslaving
our hearts, our spirits and our minds!
Cast a thunderbolt at Babel's
ivories and return us all
to our earthsome origins
where we can once again steward
this mystaculous orb and make
it shine with verbundance once more.
Guide my choices toward the simpler
and the greener options. I will
write poems and plays to that end
perhaps showing what's possible
in these improbable and dark times
even as I let myself out to help
you till the soil to grow the crops,
as I exert my back to lift sacks
of grain and vegetable onto carts
to give nourishment to others
as I sustain myself. I long
to cast off my civved persona,
and be in fertile nakedness
with you in your nudity grand
on this wholesome feast of planet!
I'll admit this fondest dream
seems impossible, impractical now.
rising oil and gas prices point
attention to where and how we
grow food we need to feed ourselves.
And thus I act as if the peak
of our technic heyday is past,
and seek now to be kind to you.
Let me be the stranger, dearest
Blanche du Bois's unknown to me now
within earshot of this poem.
I hope you remember kindness
with your simple version thereof
should either of us be in need,
for even that problem upcoming
is overcome when together
we come to meet it in common.
No one's smarter than all of us.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Hierophant Dian-y-Glas Iguana
I have a burner day coming up in 5 days. Yippee for me
Here's a poem I wrote yesterday (Knight of Wands Xochiquetzal Jaguar):
Xochiquetzal
Flowers have to be tough! Who knew?
This goddess takes no prisoners,
that much is for sure. No sappy
bitch of brood-tits she! Ho ho ho,
she’ll slap me upside this empty
space I call my MFA’d head,
send me on solo committee
toward unasked-for resolutions.
Like that other Little Flower
of small-town France, Xochiquetzal
may inspire the insipid ones--
annualéd pansies, snapdragons
froth out blither-nanities
as they will. I seek thorny rose
return or tulips’ recurrent
perennial philosophy.
“Thanks very much, Quaff my fragrance,
but take care of my sharpened pricks,”
she seems to say, Aztec goddess
of spring’s awaken and budding blooms.
She stared me down this grand morning
after my Ha Prayer and writing.
Nothing hostile, but not warm-fuzz
either. No nonsense, day-by-day
growth from one sunrise to the next.
That’s what I can expect these six
weeks from Litha to Lughnaghsad
with my visiting East Goddess
who’s with me from Midsummer to
Fall’s begin. Ah, bounty! Thou hast
a lyrical and dulcet name
I trill it into this northern
air and welcome the moments when
I’ll dance naked in the rainfall
to celebrate your arrival.
Xochiquetzal, Xochiquetzal!
Bless me with your supplest strength,
Ye lover of women and soft
men who love other fellows. I
Catch your scent and send it beyond.
Here's a poem I wrote yesterday (Knight of Wands Xochiquetzal Jaguar):
Xochiquetzal
Flowers have to be tough! Who knew?
This goddess takes no prisoners,
that much is for sure. No sappy
bitch of brood-tits she! Ho ho ho,
she’ll slap me upside this empty
space I call my MFA’d head,
send me on solo committee
toward unasked-for resolutions.
Like that other Little Flower
of small-town France, Xochiquetzal
may inspire the insipid ones--
annualéd pansies, snapdragons
froth out blither-nanities
as they will. I seek thorny rose
return or tulips’ recurrent
perennial philosophy.
“Thanks very much, Quaff my fragrance,
but take care of my sharpened pricks,”
she seems to say, Aztec goddess
of spring’s awaken and budding blooms.
She stared me down this grand morning
after my Ha Prayer and writing.
Nothing hostile, but not warm-fuzz
either. No nonsense, day-by-day
growth from one sunrise to the next.
That’s what I can expect these six
weeks from Litha to Lughnaghsad
with my visiting East Goddess
who’s with me from Midsummer to
Fall’s begin. Ah, bounty! Thou hast
a lyrical and dulcet name
I trill it into this northern
air and welcome the moments when
I’ll dance naked in the rainfall
to celebrate your arrival.
Xochiquetzal, Xochiquetzal!
Bless me with your supplest strength,
Ye lover of women and soft
men who love other fellows. I
Catch your scent and send it beyond.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Devil Hermes Deer
The Devil card in the Tarot is quite interesting, and I liked The Gnostic Tarot's take on it--that it does represent darkness and things that we'd rather not face, but that also in the path toward integration and wholeness, we need to shine a light on these things.
Like with the notion of cleaning my home: there's still this "abyssal" feeling (as opposed to abysmal?) that feels like I'm dangling over a precipice. There's some incredibly powerful "force" that really doesn't want me to go to the place of having a clean home. I don't get it, it's not something rational, and it doesn't want any part of that. And so I have to patiently shine my light on the "demon" that clutches at this illy behavior.
I have encountered these critters before and I'll probably continue to encounter them as I move on this path to becoming whole. This one feels particularly repulsive, but there's some gunk-covered beauty underneath the slime, just as there was when I went on that Medicine Walk last year and discovered "Soporis" clutching at my point of passion. This lizard creature has been set free and who knows where he's awandering these days!
Like with the notion of cleaning my home: there's still this "abyssal" feeling (as opposed to abysmal?) that feels like I'm dangling over a precipice. There's some incredibly powerful "force" that really doesn't want me to go to the place of having a clean home. I don't get it, it's not something rational, and it doesn't want any part of that. And so I have to patiently shine my light on the "demon" that clutches at this illy behavior.
I have encountered these critters before and I'll probably continue to encounter them as I move on this path to becoming whole. This one feels particularly repulsive, but there's some gunk-covered beauty underneath the slime, just as there was when I went on that Medicine Walk last year and discovered "Soporis" clutching at my point of passion. This lizard creature has been set free and who knows where he's awandering these days!
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Sacredness and Everyday Reality
The past few days I've been of low energy, probably because I have a wee case o' pink eye. I started feeling sluggish on Sunday night truth be told, and I carried myself around feeling "unnecessarily" burdened. I'm so quick to judge myself.
As I've noted in the last cycle of poems on this blog (my interruption of the "6 Death Pantheon" cycle), I've had to address a very common situation of late, that being my aversion to cleaning my own house. My boyfriend made certain choices a couple of weekends ago that amounted to manipulating us to not spend anytime at my house that weekend. I confronted him about it the next day, and while he acknowledged his manipulation, he was just as clear that he didn't like to be at my place because of the level of squalor I'm comfortable with. While I can rationalize this all sorts of ways, the thing I still needed to face was the pain of this realization, and the pain is complicated.
There's something really disturbing and primal behind my reluctance to clean up after myself. I've been doing little things over the past few days--scrubbed the kitchen floor one day, the bathtub the next, swept the floor of my 'droom today--with the intention of "sweeping the temple" as one Jungio-gnostica has described. That orientation to sacralizing the ordinary has helped quite a bit.
I'm sure that some day soon the deep, dark primal energy will make itself known inside my space, but on some level I'm creating a container for that Familios-like being to emerge. (Or will it be more like Saporis or the demon-turned-angel I encounted at the CBE workshop at Easton last August?) Having approached the broom, the dustpan, the mop and the bucket (and it now occurs to me that I need to BLESS these implements), I am enlarging my sphere in ways I don't even know. It's odd, but I feel that over the past ten days or so, as I've aligned my triple soul a la Starhawk/Thorn Coyle, I am noticing that my Sticky One and my Talking Self are blazing white. I seem to be aurically all aglow for some reason, perhaps because something true and appropriate and potent is taking root inside me as I root myself in my world--O Albany! indeed!
Today as I walked to work, I felt that everything I'm doing and that others are doing is mysteriuosly sacred, even those people who are sitting in front of their TV sets watching Beelweh-Yahzebub knows what and stuffing their faces with non-food, or those people who are actively plotting to sever us all from our inalienable rights (and to forbid the ocean from manifesting wetness in the process and ordering the desert to grow networks of hydrangea next to cactus and morning glories, and, oh yeah, forcing me into heterosexuality).
I wonder if this is how Dumbledore must have felt on his good days.
As I've noted in the last cycle of poems on this blog (my interruption of the "6 Death Pantheon" cycle), I've had to address a very common situation of late, that being my aversion to cleaning my own house. My boyfriend made certain choices a couple of weekends ago that amounted to manipulating us to not spend anytime at my house that weekend. I confronted him about it the next day, and while he acknowledged his manipulation, he was just as clear that he didn't like to be at my place because of the level of squalor I'm comfortable with. While I can rationalize this all sorts of ways, the thing I still needed to face was the pain of this realization, and the pain is complicated.
There's something really disturbing and primal behind my reluctance to clean up after myself. I've been doing little things over the past few days--scrubbed the kitchen floor one day, the bathtub the next, swept the floor of my 'droom today--with the intention of "sweeping the temple" as one Jungio-gnostica has described. That orientation to sacralizing the ordinary has helped quite a bit.
I'm sure that some day soon the deep, dark primal energy will make itself known inside my space, but on some level I'm creating a container for that Familios-like being to emerge. (Or will it be more like Saporis or the demon-turned-angel I encounted at the CBE workshop at Easton last August?) Having approached the broom, the dustpan, the mop and the bucket (and it now occurs to me that I need to BLESS these implements), I am enlarging my sphere in ways I don't even know. It's odd, but I feel that over the past ten days or so, as I've aligned my triple soul a la Starhawk/Thorn Coyle, I am noticing that my Sticky One and my Talking Self are blazing white. I seem to be aurically all aglow for some reason, perhaps because something true and appropriate and potent is taking root inside me as I root myself in my world--O Albany! indeed!
Today as I walked to work, I felt that everything I'm doing and that others are doing is mysteriuosly sacred, even those people who are sitting in front of their TV sets watching Beelweh-Yahzebub knows what and stuffing their faces with non-food, or those people who are actively plotting to sever us all from our inalienable rights (and to forbid the ocean from manifesting wetness in the process and ordering the desert to grow networks of hydrangea next to cactus and morning glories, and, oh yeah, forcing me into heterosexuality).
I wonder if this is how Dumbledore must have felt on his good days.
Chariot Persephone Bear
IV. Stern King Navigator, the 6 Death Speaks
Plunge right in, I guess. What else
can I do? I don't want to. Really don't.
It's coming up now for a reason. I could
choose to blame X, 1A, 6G6, Mars
for this turn of events. Waste my time though.
It is the right time, that noisome awareness
of Divine focus on raising my character
mumbles its inchoate insensateness.
Even in my oracles, Judgment appears
in the 6th House of health and hygiene.
Ancestors point their bony processes
at the floor, demanding I clean up after
myself. Mayhap it's a sign of more to come
to be removed from my lie? Or just that
I'mve crossed a new threshold wherein
the old warp of working and writing amid
squalor no longer works. The adjustments
made for meetings, food prep and new
commitments, budding relationships, needs
for fun and relaxation and my difficult
schedule must make its way around
the sweeping of the temenos, to sanctify
my abode for The Work as it Continues
As we say in os cuartos, I can't, the Gods
and Goddesses can. I think I'll le them.
Blessings!
Plunge right in, I guess. What else
can I do? I don't want to. Really don't.
It's coming up now for a reason. I could
choose to blame X, 1A, 6G6, Mars
for this turn of events. Waste my time though.
It is the right time, that noisome awareness
of Divine focus on raising my character
mumbles its inchoate insensateness.
Even in my oracles, Judgment appears
in the 6th House of health and hygiene.
Ancestors point their bony processes
at the floor, demanding I clean up after
myself. Mayhap it's a sign of more to come
to be removed from my lie? Or just that
I'mve crossed a new threshold wherein
the old warp of working and writing amid
squalor no longer works. The adjustments
made for meetings, food prep and new
commitments, budding relationships, needs
for fun and relaxation and my difficult
schedule must make its way around
the sweeping of the temenos, to sanctify
my abode for The Work as it Continues
As we say in os cuartos, I can't, the Gods
and Goddesses can. I think I'll le them.
Blessings!
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Hanged Man Krom Salamander
III. Voice of G6G
I’m not running away, you’re not pushing
me are you? Yes, we’re in a rough patch
and I’m at a loss as to what to say.
This is something you’re going through, and I
don’t understand, but I understand, you know?
There’s something really deep and really
painful. I’m concerned that you may be
wallowing. You say you’re not. You’re grieving
the fact of your forty-hour a week job—
not that you’ve lost it, but that you’ve even
got one. I don’t have a job like that, though
I work as you know, on my own. I bring in
the rent and the gas and the food and extras.
Oh, there is so much in you, honey! I’m amazed
at all that you’re capable of, but this cleaning
your apartment thing—well it does affect
me. I don’t like being at your place. You say
you want to clean, you’d like to put together
a home-business and do your creative stuff
which I support. The reality is though, you work
for a living. Lots of people balance the forty
with cleaning their houses, with going to meetings,
with working out, meditating, doing their writing,
working their food plan, taking and giving calls
to sponsors and sponsees, fixing up the backyard
having fun, laundry, getting enough rest,
looking for a decent therapist, moving to set
up your own business, and of course, being
in a relationship. You’ve got to pick up the slack,
sweetums, and stop paying attention to how
our culture’s going bye-bye bam-bam, which you
know I hate hearing about. Anyway, I’m tired
of this area of talk. Let’s move on to something positive?
I’m not running away, you’re not pushing
me are you? Yes, we’re in a rough patch
and I’m at a loss as to what to say.
This is something you’re going through, and I
don’t understand, but I understand, you know?
There’s something really deep and really
painful. I’m concerned that you may be
wallowing. You say you’re not. You’re grieving
the fact of your forty-hour a week job—
not that you’ve lost it, but that you’ve even
got one. I don’t have a job like that, though
I work as you know, on my own. I bring in
the rent and the gas and the food and extras.
Oh, there is so much in you, honey! I’m amazed
at all that you’re capable of, but this cleaning
your apartment thing—well it does affect
me. I don’t like being at your place. You say
you want to clean, you’d like to put together
a home-business and do your creative stuff
which I support. The reality is though, you work
for a living. Lots of people balance the forty
with cleaning their houses, with going to meetings,
with working out, meditating, doing their writing,
working their food plan, taking and giving calls
to sponsors and sponsees, fixing up the backyard
having fun, laundry, getting enough rest,
looking for a decent therapist, moving to set
up your own business, and of course, being
in a relationship. You’ve got to pick up the slack,
sweetums, and stop paying attention to how
our culture’s going bye-bye bam-bam, which you
know I hate hearing about. Anyway, I’m tired
of this area of talk. Let’s move on to something positive?
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
9 Disks Dian-y-Glas Lamb
"Grief #1 (Cont'd)"
A glade beckons? It is the "Fen of the Civilized"
Tranquil it is where the ferns and make grow.
An ecosystem beauteous, balanced, delectable?
It sits atop a dung heap. But take a closer
look... Why it's not a mound o'feces at all!
Urbanity teems inside its busy hiveness.
Lok at the wars being fought, and over what?
So terribly rote, so blandly manufactured.
War? Is that the best these miscreants
can come up with? To keep this whole
pile of self-defined crap going? Oh, but it does seem
to keep the glade beautiful. Yet there's
the smell of plastic about it all. Now that
I look closer, the artificial texture of fronds
dwell close to what was mistakenly taken
for moss, but is just a green chemical slime.
All of it arranged so tastefully to present
"gorgemousness." And now let's catapult
you, dreamer, away from this infernalé
to something more tangible. Take a look
at the Ruined City, your true parayso.
Perhaps it seems just boarded-up buildings
and free-floating refuse, but everywhere
you turn, my sleeping groom-bride, nature
reclaims this fever swamp. Behold your future
changeling! Liberated from indenture
you trudge beneath the ground, your earth
Mother-Father, longing to fly above it
and you can. But it's standing in that grace
(paradox's fine alias) to comprehend deep
mystery of the subway cars shuttling
you between stations of your cross.
You must immerse yourself in the waves
of undulating soil as if Poseidon himself
was surfer king of dirt rather than ocean.
Your choice is more clear dearest one:
Choose your ruination consciously
rather than succumbing to the mere miscues
of the misguidedly leisured. That ant
heap will soon see the revolt of the lower
berths who will break the chains barring
their egress shut, forcing they way upwards
only to discover that the Titanic
ship of maquinacultura Carried itself
an iceberg too far, and without the supports
to ensure significant survival. Nay sleeper
as you waken, remember to flee into ruin
itself, and let Boreas and Notus learn you
their firm, loving, hard lessons and drape
you with their breaths, in recognition
that only through acceptance of what IS
can your human species move through all of it.
Monday, June 12, 2006
8 Cups Vesta Sphinx
(Hmmm... mysteriously, interior-fire day this. And yesterday was Lugh-Phoenix, while Saturday was Hermes-Fairy. I got myself all aroundgeturned.)
GRIEF
I. Gabriel's Voice
He doesn't stop to think about it.
He gets up, he does his morning
routine, he walks out the door--
is he ready for the day? Never
really quite sure what that niggle
is that crawls around underneath
the skin of his chest. Somehow
he gets to the door of That Building
that houses his daily amnesic draft.
Other people drink, some eat, some others
have compulsive sex to medicate
that maw, that hole in the soul.
He used to partake--they don't work
anymore, so he must attend to that raw
emptiness he chooses not to name. (It's
all right, I've named it for him--Angel
of mercy that I am, I have clear eyes
to d.x. the civilization disease.)
He types, he faxes. He takes messages.
He stares off into space. He takes in
work, revises that which is not his own,
that he can not own, nor wishes
to take on for himself. He eats lunch.
A brief respite, whatever the weather.
He returns to That Building, and repeats
his morning. He connects sproadcially, he
squapes his true Self haphazardly
affixing a persona off a random trademarked
rack of masks approved for the enslaved
class. Then at some point, this Lethe
fog lifts and there he is again, walking home.
His cat is there. His boyfriend has his own
place, unable to tolerate teh accretions
of an unliving existence (and its reminders
of whatever the love is not doing) to be respon-
sible for his own life-force suppuration. Feeds
cat, calls boyfriend--"Hi, bye, love"--makes
dinner, muses about death. Ethylly-deathel
death, bat man, bat man, he sing-songs.
Wondering what a life might be like
post-collapse of all decrepit and old-old-old.
Nostalgia for necros and apocalypse
arrive as the two true loves of his life. A pipe
dream? Perhaps. Only the oil-clock knows
for sure. Even so, he takes off his clothes,
thinks about a clothing-optional town, dreams up
public fucking and jerks out a couple white
ribbons o'cum. Wipes the viscous away and
turns over, determined not to feel what then
washes over him in the land of Morphic Renaissance.
GRIEF
I. Gabriel's Voice
He doesn't stop to think about it.
He gets up, he does his morning
routine, he walks out the door--
is he ready for the day? Never
really quite sure what that niggle
is that crawls around underneath
the skin of his chest. Somehow
he gets to the door of That Building
that houses his daily amnesic draft.
Other people drink, some eat, some others
have compulsive sex to medicate
that maw, that hole in the soul.
He used to partake--they don't work
anymore, so he must attend to that raw
emptiness he chooses not to name. (It's
all right, I've named it for him--Angel
of mercy that I am, I have clear eyes
to d.x. the civilization disease.)
He types, he faxes. He takes messages.
He stares off into space. He takes in
work, revises that which is not his own,
that he can not own, nor wishes
to take on for himself. He eats lunch.
A brief respite, whatever the weather.
He returns to That Building, and repeats
his morning. He connects sproadcially, he
squapes his true Self haphazardly
affixing a persona off a random trademarked
rack of masks approved for the enslaved
class. Then at some point, this Lethe
fog lifts and there he is again, walking home.
His cat is there. His boyfriend has his own
place, unable to tolerate teh accretions
of an unliving existence (and its reminders
of whatever the love is not doing) to be respon-
sible for his own life-force suppuration. Feeds
cat, calls boyfriend--"Hi, bye, love"--makes
dinner, muses about death. Ethylly-deathel
death, bat man, bat man, he sing-songs.
Wondering what a life might be like
post-collapse of all decrepit and old-old-old.
Nostalgia for necros and apocalypse
arrive as the two true loves of his life. A pipe
dream? Perhaps. Only the oil-clock knows
for sure. Even so, he takes off his clothes,
thinks about a clothing-optional town, dreams up
public fucking and jerks out a couple white
ribbons o'cum. Wipes the viscous away and
turns over, determined not to feel what then
washes over him in the land of Morphic Renaissance.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Tomorrow for me is Lugh Fairy
Because I won't be posting tomorrow, most likely, I decided I needed to post this poem today:
"Lugh"
I dno't know you all that well yet
But I understand some things.
You've decided to be with me
And you'll carry me forward.
Newer projects are emerging--
for example, new abundance
of a different sort I'm used to
which you'll lead me to somehow.
I sing your praises, Lugh,
God of sunlight and warmth
You shed your light into darkness
spread your goodness over me.
Even though I hardly know you
I feel we've known forever
of each other's simple beings
we rekindle our kinship.
Unassuming, you stole back inside
Before I was aware I'd missed
you. Your quiet way like light
you inform me you're here to stay.
I sing your praises, Lugh,
God of sunlight and warmth
You shed your light into darkness
spread your goodness over me.
Lugh, I now make a home for you
It's your place, yes alongside
in the vanguard of my quickening
toward the life in your light.
You and a certain wisdom goddess
appeared now to assist this man
as he transforms himself amidst
planet's metamorphosis
I sing your praises, Lugh,
God of sunlight and warmth
You shed your light into darkness
spread your goodness over me.
"Lugh"
I dno't know you all that well yet
But I understand some things.
You've decided to be with me
And you'll carry me forward.
Newer projects are emerging--
for example, new abundance
of a different sort I'm used to
which you'll lead me to somehow.
I sing your praises, Lugh,
God of sunlight and warmth
You shed your light into darkness
spread your goodness over me.
Even though I hardly know you
I feel we've known forever
of each other's simple beings
we rekindle our kinship.
Unassuming, you stole back inside
Before I was aware I'd missed
you. Your quiet way like light
you inform me you're here to stay.
I sing your praises, Lugh,
God of sunlight and warmth
You shed your light into darkness
spread your goodness over me.
Lugh, I now make a home for you
It's your place, yes alongside
in the vanguard of my quickening
toward the life in your light.
You and a certain wisdom goddess
appeared now to assist this man
as he transforms himself amidst
planet's metamorphosis
I sing your praises, Lugh,
God of sunlight and warmth
You shed your light into darkness
spread your goodness over me.
Chariot Odin Beaver
"Od(e)in"
One-eyed, divine one
Driver of Sleipnir
Iggdrasil's brooder
Norns or no norns!
He's a coolish god,
inside from the cold
Bard of the Aesir
My heart he does hold
Originator of runes
Diviner of Wisdom
Integral, universal
Now your presence descends
He sees more than most
Medicine of Old
Healer from Dreamlands
My life becomes gold.
O he sometimes plays tricks
Divide the slain with Freyja
Ice wolves and frost ravens
Nestle at his grand feet.
He's a wiseass god
and a wise guy to boot
Odin of the Northern skies
Bring in change from root.
One-eyed, divine one
Driver of Sleipnir
Iggdrasil's brooder
Norns or no norns!
He's a coolish god,
inside from the cold
Bard of the Aesir
My heart he does hold
Originator of runes
Diviner of Wisdom
Integral, universal
Now your presence descends
He sees more than most
Medicine of Old
Healer from Dreamlands
My life becomes gold.
O he sometimes plays tricks
Divide the slain with Freyja
Ice wolves and frost ravens
Nestle at his grand feet.
He's a wiseass god
and a wise guy to boot
Odin of the Northern skies
Bring in change from root.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
5 Wands Persephone Goat
U Que Fazer Cumar?
Todar, rialetto fajul la quila.
Bejuma piarosa que la vija for?
Bolsa mirandu fejula triassi,
corraju xire la torega missa.
Ben traxessi pod' a lemma
firuca bexaala ensomno
foren dissa morrer fazer, taz
que micolu fencha bistecca.
**********
My Friend, the Cracks
Shells are meant as temporary.
We harm ourselves when we make
them permanent, epoxying fisures
when they appear. Better to allow
the breaking apart to proceed
on nature's schedule and align
ourselves with divine timing to creat
the life beyond our wildest dreams.
*********
Time-Freedom #1
It's all really happening at once--
French Revolution, Constructing
the Great Wall. World War VI--
whatever. All these lives came
and went, come and gone, will
come and will go, all currently.
Step with me into Real-Myth Time
with Thoth. Let us laugh at it all.
*************
Time-Freedom #2
I've got work to do, still
haven't quite gotten the lucid
dreaming down. I fall asleep
and I'm in the reality of THERE.
This is the Other World, and each
night I lay down to awaken
to Reality, where I feel truly free.
What's the next step to break down that wall?
*********
Who knows why #060806
I dream a lot about subways.
For some reason to get to where
I need to go, I need to travel
beneath ground level to pop up
from below at my chosen point
o'destiny. Other people dream-fly
across skies to their arrivals. Me,
Mother Earth pushes along. Don't mind. Much.
**********
On the Road to Xibalba Be #1
We are stepping into our shells,
this ravenous time's end approaches.
I am just one imaginal cell
on this huge larval badoy.
And I've appeared to herald what's next--
we will crystallize a chyrsalis
inside of which we will transform
into a brand new form of beauty.
**********
On the Road to Xibalba Be #2
"Acceptance is the answer to all
my problems." So says O Libro Grande.
I'm just another post-American-to-be,
other post-Americans-to-be thereamongst,
no guru, though I have things to teach.
More of a wayshower really.
I share that unfortunate history
of having gone through something.
*********
Could I be a 6-6-6?
It's kind of academic
at this point, as there have been
translation errors from before.
"6-1-6" evidently
is the "true" number o' da Beast!
But I'm a 6-Death, two-thirds
the way there. It's possible
I could be 6 trio
depending on how many
years after a new-fire fest
from the Mayan calendar
which I believe was '60.
"Is it I, Lord? Is it I?" --
I certainly have the laugh!
Todar, rialetto fajul la quila.
Bejuma piarosa que la vija for?
Bolsa mirandu fejula triassi,
corraju xire la torega missa.
Ben traxessi pod' a lemma
firuca bexaala ensomno
foren dissa morrer fazer, taz
que micolu fencha bistecca.
**********
My Friend, the Cracks
Shells are meant as temporary.
We harm ourselves when we make
them permanent, epoxying fisures
when they appear. Better to allow
the breaking apart to proceed
on nature's schedule and align
ourselves with divine timing to creat
the life beyond our wildest dreams.
*********
Time-Freedom #1
It's all really happening at once--
French Revolution, Constructing
the Great Wall. World War VI--
whatever. All these lives came
and went, come and gone, will
come and will go, all currently.
Step with me into Real-Myth Time
with Thoth. Let us laugh at it all.
*************
Time-Freedom #2
I've got work to do, still
haven't quite gotten the lucid
dreaming down. I fall asleep
and I'm in the reality of THERE.
This is the Other World, and each
night I lay down to awaken
to Reality, where I feel truly free.
What's the next step to break down that wall?
*********
Who knows why #060806
I dream a lot about subways.
For some reason to get to where
I need to go, I need to travel
beneath ground level to pop up
from below at my chosen point
o'destiny. Other people dream-fly
across skies to their arrivals. Me,
Mother Earth pushes along. Don't mind. Much.
**********
On the Road to Xibalba Be #1
We are stepping into our shells,
this ravenous time's end approaches.
I am just one imaginal cell
on this huge larval badoy.
And I've appeared to herald what's next--
we will crystallize a chyrsalis
inside of which we will transform
into a brand new form of beauty.
**********
On the Road to Xibalba Be #2
"Acceptance is the answer to all
my problems." So says O Libro Grande.
I'm just another post-American-to-be,
other post-Americans-to-be thereamongst,
no guru, though I have things to teach.
More of a wayshower really.
I share that unfortunate history
of having gone through something.
*********
Could I be a 6-6-6?
It's kind of academic
at this point, as there have been
translation errors from before.
"6-1-6" evidently
is the "true" number o' da Beast!
But I'm a 6-Death, two-thirds
the way there. It's possible
I could be 6 trio
depending on how many
years after a new-fire fest
from the Mayan calendar
which I believe was '60.
"Is it I, Lord? Is it I?" --
I certainly have the laugh!
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Magician Hades Jaguar
Toxicity seems to be everywhere about today. I don't know if it's that stupid 6-6-6 thing or what, but I just feel ecchelly-blechel-blech right now. Part of it's that I haven't been getting the best sleep of late. I've been wanting to read, and I did make it to a bookstore to purchase The Gospel of Judas last night. It has done something to me, that much I can say--just what that is, I'm not so sure.
(Funny to read that particular book on 6-6-6. I didn't really think of it till just this minute.)
I feel better now that I've typed these particular words into my blog. The toxic crap just seems to pile higher and higher, and I know it has little to do with me really. I know I'm contributing to it somehow, but the pathway through it is being slowly but surely revealed. Earlier today I went to Facade.com and received three quick tarot readings. Each one featured the 10 of Swords. I don't really put too much stock in Facade's interpretations of the cards. They're a tad too cookbooky for my taste. I think of the 10 of Swords as being over-the-top aggressiveness and calling people on baseless grandstanding. It's actually a card of high comedy. Ten swords in the back of a fellow laying on a beach under a black sky? Bwaah!
I also think of the 10 of Swords as the Satirist's card. In the Cosmic Tribe, a beauteous naked fellow is being hoisted on "his" own petards. It's called "Delusion" there. It seems that with all the horrific stuff out there, the thing to do with the archonic consciousness is to laugh at it. Just laugh at O'Reilly, laugh at Rumsfeld, laugh at Pope-on-a-Rope etc. The risk sometimes is that the intellect can get too carried away, and people can get hurt. "Ill-dignified", I'd say the card could also be that of the Lynndie England and the Abu Ghraib abusers. It could also be the card of Andersonville and of the prison guards at Auschwitz and other camp-like places, who use humor "to vent." Yeah, like "look at how that prisoner's balls bounce when we kick them off his body--hi-larious, bud!"
That's the kind of toxicity I feel I'm experiencing btw, and I don't know exactly from whence it comes. I just got up and did a quick banishing of the energies I'm experiencing. Interstingly enough, someone has a window open and I'm letting the negativities be blown away.
May this message find you well and toxin-free. Blessings.
(Funny to read that particular book on 6-6-6. I didn't really think of it till just this minute.)
I feel better now that I've typed these particular words into my blog. The toxic crap just seems to pile higher and higher, and I know it has little to do with me really. I know I'm contributing to it somehow, but the pathway through it is being slowly but surely revealed. Earlier today I went to Facade.com and received three quick tarot readings. Each one featured the 10 of Swords. I don't really put too much stock in Facade's interpretations of the cards. They're a tad too cookbooky for my taste. I think of the 10 of Swords as being over-the-top aggressiveness and calling people on baseless grandstanding. It's actually a card of high comedy. Ten swords in the back of a fellow laying on a beach under a black sky? Bwaah!
I also think of the 10 of Swords as the Satirist's card. In the Cosmic Tribe, a beauteous naked fellow is being hoisted on "his" own petards. It's called "Delusion" there. It seems that with all the horrific stuff out there, the thing to do with the archonic consciousness is to laugh at it. Just laugh at O'Reilly, laugh at Rumsfeld, laugh at Pope-on-a-Rope etc. The risk sometimes is that the intellect can get too carried away, and people can get hurt. "Ill-dignified", I'd say the card could also be that of the Lynndie England and the Abu Ghraib abusers. It could also be the card of Andersonville and of the prison guards at Auschwitz and other camp-like places, who use humor "to vent." Yeah, like "look at how that prisoner's balls bounce when we kick them off his body--hi-larious, bud!"
That's the kind of toxicity I feel I'm experiencing btw, and I don't know exactly from whence it comes. I just got up and did a quick banishing of the energies I'm experiencing. Interstingly enough, someone has a window open and I'm letting the negativities be blown away.
May this message find you well and toxin-free. Blessings.
Monday, June 05, 2006
9 Disks Freyja Butterfly
Interesting dream: I was involved in a discussion of The Lost Gospel of Judas. What was particularly curious about the dream, which wasn't interesting in and of itself per se--in fact, I don't remember what happened in the dream--was that each time I awoke due to my natural callings, I went back to sleep and picked up almost right where I left off. It was as if I was in a dreamtime seminar that was happening for several individuals communicating through dream space. I had asked my dream source what my next step is regarding my creativity. And this is the dream I had. I'd also had another dream about an address: 1300 Cook Street. Have no idea where this is. There might be a 1300 Cook in Denver, on the corner of (guess what?) 13th and Cook. Or perhaps a 1300 South Cook somewhere near the Cherry Creek Shopping Center. Just kinda interesting stuffels.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Princess Cups Dian-y-Glas Hawk
"Dian-y-Glas: I, Devotee Hereof"
He called to me young.
I was eleven
when I had a dream.
Was watching TV
Afternoon movie.
It was at the break.
Kitty Carlisle, guest
chatted up the host
Giddily gushing
over this wondrous film.
Set my world ablaze
it did! He showered.
The film would cross-cut
and fade from one part
of his sexy blue
body' to another.
Water clung to his
amazing broad chest.
It showed everything!
His butt, succulent
c*ck and balls. I felt
touched by Lord Jesus
himself. Christ can
send mesages in nude
men taking showers
in deeper blue tones.
Many years later,
I was now forty--
whole Saturn cycle
gone, surfing the web.
A practitioner
of Feri Wicca
Had a blue god shrine.
Aha! Here he is!
Dian-y-Glas instead
of Greco-Jew name
He imbues many
men with his substance
irresistible.
I sat at my desk
subterranean
in awe and in tears.
I had no idea
that he'd been with me
all this time. I breathe
him in every day
now. His special blue,
a color of twilight
sky right after sun
sets in the lonesome
west. I throw open
my heart doors to you!
Dian-y-Glas, known too
as Melek Taus, I--
Devotee hereof.
He called to me young.
I was eleven
when I had a dream.
Was watching TV
Afternoon movie.
It was at the break.
Kitty Carlisle, guest
chatted up the host
Giddily gushing
over this wondrous film.
Set my world ablaze
it did! He showered.
The film would cross-cut
and fade from one part
of his sexy blue
body' to another.
Water clung to his
amazing broad chest.
It showed everything!
His butt, succulent
c*ck and balls. I felt
touched by Lord Jesus
himself. Christ can
send mesages in nude
men taking showers
in deeper blue tones.
Many years later,
I was now forty--
whole Saturn cycle
gone, surfing the web.
A practitioner
of Feri Wicca
Had a blue god shrine.
Aha! Here he is!
Dian-y-Glas instead
of Greco-Jew name
He imbues many
men with his substance
irresistible.
I sat at my desk
subterranean
in awe and in tears.
I had no idea
that he'd been with me
all this time. I breathe
him in every day
now. His special blue,
a color of twilight
sky right after sun
sets in the lonesome
west. I throw open
my heart doors to you!
Dian-y-Glas, known too
as Melek Taus, I--
Devotee hereof.
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