No Show – 11-12-09

it’s silent on my solo walk
except for in my head
where the demons won’t stop screaming
in spare voices that I dread

they whisper lies that sound like truth
they force me to rebel
against perceived and false infractions
that make this damn life hell

and it’s stupid, and I’m stupid
it’s in my DNA
but being conscious of my problems
doesn’t make them go away

and I’m stupid, God, so stupid
I hate myself like this
all I want is some real silence
some unadulterated bliss

you betrayed me and I hate you
and as such I hate the world
and sometimes hate is perfect
with all my rage unfurled

I hate you and I hate myself
though I know it isn’t real
I know it’s just my chemistry
that dictates how I feel

it’s solo on my silent walk
you can’t ever count on friends
when you live life by your mood swings
jesus, can’t this ever end?

[Black] Columbia Professor Punches [White] Woman

FROM THE ARTICLE: "McIntyre was released without bail at his arraignment last night."

Would you say that the Manhattan police were behaving stupidly, Mr. President?  I wonder if I could slug a black female and walk away with zero bail.  Ahhhhhh, white privilege.

Yesterday I was hanging out down by the river as part of a month-long devotional thing I'm doing to reconnect with the land-spirits. Unfortunately, the last couple days I've been sick as a dog so I haven't been able to manage a lot of the stuff I know I need to be doing to rebuild those relationships - but I think the fact that I dragged my sorry carcass out there anyway went a ways to showing them how serious I am about mending things, since I could definitely feel them in a way I haven't been able to for a while. Nothing intense ... but they were definitely there on the periphery. Plus, the park was absolutely lovely, bathed in a blanket of fiery leaves. I was sitting on the park bench, surrounded by a horde of birds digging for worms, watching the smooth surface of the river rush by, when all of a sudden I got a strong urge to take out my iPod and play some music. The first couple songs to come on weren't really significant (unless you count Disturbed's Down with the Sickness which came right after a nasty coughing fit) but then a song by Basil Poledouris started up. Slow, rhythmic, and a little melancholy - it fit my mood perfectly, especially since the river seemed to be moving in perfect synch with it. Had I discovered a new song for my Nymphs playlist?

Before the thought had fully formed in my head, images of Arsinoe took over. At first I tried to shake it off and get back to being focused on the river and its attendant spirits, my whole reason for being here after all. But the more I resisted, the stronger the images became. Finally I just gave up and let the mental movie proceed. It started off with her lying on her deathbed, accompanied by her grieving husband and their courtiers ... then all went dark. Then light again, as the Dioskouroi descended to gather her up to Olympos. I saw her presented to all of the different gods of Olympos, ending with Aphrodite who welcomed her and bathed her and caused her to be reborn as a goddess. And finally, there was Arsinoe revealing herself to mortalkind as a benefactor, flanked by the Nymphs.

All of this played out to the accompaniment of the music in such a powerful way that I doubt I will ever be able to hear that song again without thinking of that association.

Here's the song, in case anyone is interested:



And don't laugh - the Conan soundtrack is like a modern opera, man!

Anyway, it's kind of strange that Arsinoe is becoming such a strong presence for me. I've been engaged in the cult of the Ptolemies for several years now, and never felt a strong attraction towards her or much in the way of reciprocity. I honored her in the general way I honored all of the non-Dionysian Ptolemies, and totally dug her story ... but that was pretty much it. In fact, the only Ptolemaic Queen I've had anything serious to do with was Kleopatra VII. So, this is new and rather peculiar, especially since the feeling I get from her is very different from anything I've gotten from Kleopatra. At this point it hasn't really gone beyond the peripheral stage. No direct encounters, just a sense ... presence. But the way things are going, that may just be a matter of time.

• 01:11 Gordan wishes he was Blade. #supernatural
• 10:50 is grateful for those who have fought, and are still fighting, for our freedom. May we never forget you.
• 11:01 Watching #GilmoreGirls before I plunge into today's to-do list.
• 11:45 It is sad how much I am squeeing right now.
• 13:26 So I have some ideas for future scenes in my novel. The thing is, I have NO idea how to get there :/ #nanowrimo
• 14:10 Just thought of the perfect name for a comedic werewolf novel. #writechat #writing
• 14:44 Still need to decide what I am cooking for Thanksgiving...
• 14:45 Moody, whining, crying and screaming nephews do not aid in the creative process. #nanowrimo
• 14:57 Okay. Time for a shower & then to lock myself in my room for the rest of the day and night. Words must be, & will be, coaxed out. #nanowrimo
• 19:17 So @jconner05 just offered me his iPhone and to take over his plan. I might take him up on it. *ponders*
• 19:30 Um...I just saw a dominatrix in a pistachio commerical...
• 20:00 RT @Hollidayo: Supernatural was nominated for a People's Choice Award! Check it out and please vote. www.peopleschoice.com/pca/
• 20:19 My novel just said: "Wait did I do that? Here, let me get my celluar. Oh wait, I can't cos I'm a plot hole. Soo..." #nanowrimo
• 20:25 About to watch 'Bruno'.
• 21:50 Bruno was funny. Some parts were a little much but Sacha is good at pointing out bigotry and hypocrisy.
• 22:04 Taylor Swift looks like a prepubscent boy.
• 22:15 Kenny Chesney makes me vomit in my mouth. #cmas
• 22:32 Reba had to have a boob job. #cmas
• 22:49 Hey, Daughtry & Theory of a Deadman are coming to Bham. Already seen both before though :)

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Wow. Just wow!

I cant help thinking we've just seen something quite historic - and a HUGE advancement in disability rights issues. Not to mention very, very funny.

...I'm going to realize that while he probably doesn't hate me, he probably doesn't care as much about me as I do about him, and I'm going to have to live with that. Until then, this will be a constant and nagging pain in my life that shouldn't matter this much to me.

GET THE FUCK OVER IT, KEV.

eta: By the way - I DO realize that other people's worlds are not All About Kev, and there are probably myriad things going on that I don't know about that have nothing to do with me. Although I can't be sure. And I probably... ah, fuck, I don't know.

A while back, Lupa put out a request for guest reviewers to handle some of the overflow she’d gotten through her Pagan Book Reviews blog. Being the shameless book hound that I am, I answered the call and snatched up a couple choice titles to read in between my usual Greco-Egyptian fare. The choicest of the choice was undoubtedly Joseph Peterson’s new translation of Arbatel de magia veterum. Just holding the book in my hands was a pleasure. This is a handsomely designed volume by people who take pride in craftsmanship. The illustrations were lovely; the notes added much without being overwhelming; and the original Latin text was provided for comparison, something I always appreciate in a translation.

 

Although I had never read the Arbatel before, I’d read plenty about it. It’s one of the classic texts of Renaissance magic, influential in the development of the system of planetary or Olympic spirits so important in modern CM. Most of the passages I’d seen quoted from it were fairly dense and dry and a little difficult to follow. They also employed hopelessly archaic language. If ever a book was in need of a clear, concise, and modern translation – it was this one! (After all, the previous translation, from which most of the quotes I’d read had come, was done in the 17^th century.)

 

And Peterson’s translation does not disappoint. He makes this important esoteric text come alive through his simple yet elegant prose. It almost gives one the impression that they’re sitting in at a lecture of learned scholars discussing magic, philosophy, religion and history. In fact, that was probably the most surprising thing about the Arbatel. Most of what I had read about it had led me to believe that the Arbatel was something along the lines of a philosophical grimoire. And there are parts of it like that, but mostly it seems concerned with Neoplatonic theology, providing an overview of the history of magic, and driving home sound ethical advice. In fact, a sizable portion of the aphorisms which make up the Arbatel are devoted to that last topic, which gives a very different impression of magic than many people often have. As Peterson points out in his introduction, throughout the text there are admonitions “to help our neighbors, be positive and grateful, and use time wisely. Above all, it teaches us to pay attention, looking for the wondrous and miraculous. In fact, to the author this virtually defines the magus.”

 

Peterson’s introduction was one of the most enjoyable parts of the book, and would almost be worth the price alone. He traces the history of Renaissance magic back to Late Antiquity and the Neoplatonists and Hermeticists, with a lengthy discussion on the preservation, use, and adaptation of these important texts. Although none of the information was new to me, considering my interests, I think he handled it well and I’d definitely recommend it to someone who was curious about authentic pagan survivals during this time period.

 

Of course, the Arbatel being a product of the Renaissance as it is, the “paganism” that it presents is of a very curious sort. There are nymphs, and daimones, and magical creatures and even gods and demigods as part of its cosmology – but these are all subordinate to the one true god of the Christians. The author may quote Homer and Hesiod as authorities on certain matters, but he defers to the Holy Scriptures above all else. Still, if you can manage to skim past the pious interjections, I think you’ll find a lot of genuine worth and historical curiosity in this text. I’m sure I’ll be reading it a couple more times. 

Are you effing kidding me?

What I'd choose is seppuku.

Contenders for the title would include Kate Bush's The Kick Inside, The Sensual World, or The Red Shoes; the Moulin Rouge soundtrack; Led Zeppelin's ZoSo; the Chicago movie soundtrack; the RENT movie soundtrack; pretty much any of Shemekiah Copeland's albums; or maybe Alabama 3's Exile on Coldharbour Lane. Or, alternatively, a mix CD of my own making with as many of the songs that I *always* love as I could possibly fit.

But seriously, folks, this is like Sophie's Choice here. What kind of demented dystopian future is this, anyway??

The Memorial Service for Michael Hendricks:

Date:	Sunday, November 15, 2009
Time:	3:00pm - 6:00pm
Location:	Pennisula MCC (College Heights Church)
Street:	1150 West Hillsdale Blvd
City/Town:	San Mateo, CA
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I have been asked to help coordinate food service for the event.  If you knew Michael and would like to help out, please let me know.  You can message me on here, or via the Facebook event or via telephone 415-424-9570.  I need four or five folks to help set up food and stuff.  If you can't help set up, but still want to help, you could bring a side dish, salad, finger food, or dessert.  We don't have any facility for keeping food warm or cold, so things that can be served at room temperature would be ideal.  If you can't bring something, but still want to help, a small donation of $5 or $10 to help defray the cost of the entree we will be providing would be great, too.

Michael was a very special man, and his send-off should be just as special!

...I am offering you a small dose of pronoia. =)

rmmcgrath, who is my soul-sibling in matters like this, shared this link: The Friendly Gasoline Machine of Sherman Oaks which is one of those cool little whimsical things that the world tucks away in random corners, an easter egg for real life.

I am also completely loving Gives Me Hope, which was created in response to a site called FML (FMyLife), where people apparently just bitch and vent about how much their lives suck all day. Anyway, GMH is my kind of people. It's a place I turn to when I need a booster shot of my belief that people are, in essence, good. A sample:

Some children went trick-or-treating around my entire neighbourhood yesterday. They'd notified us all a day before that they would be. Why the heads-up? They wanted us to know that all the candy they collected was being donated to an orphanage whose kids couldn't go out themselves. Children GMH.

or

A mentally disabled boy at my high school was nominated for homecoming king. Many of us suspected that it was a cruel joke to humiliate him. When the football team found out about his nomination, they rallied and campaigned for him. He won. Their kindness GMH.

And speaking of pronoia, I did mention that Rob Brezsny's new expanded version of Pronoia is out, right? I seriously gotta order it...then maybe I'll Bookcrossing my old copy so hopefully someone will get introduced to the awesomeness who wouldn't have been otherwise.

One of my favorite pieces from the original book is excerpted here: Glory in the Highest. And another favorite: World Kiss, which is a beautiful practice for staying in love with the world.

A fan of Brezsny's work started a website to collect all the links to "Pronoia Resources" that Rob puts in his weekly newsletter-- there is enough fascinating reading in there to keep anyone busy for days on end! And lots of cool stuff, too-- news sites and science articles, metaphysical philosophy and weird art. Check it out: Pronoia Resources

My World Kisses today go to all who fought for a noble cause; to the medics and chaplains and quartermasters as well as the warriors. To my dad, who served in Vietnam, and my beloved grandfather, who survived four years in Dachau and spent decades as a freedom fighter. To the soldier I corresponded with in high school, who was kind to an Iraqi child when he could've gotten in trouble for it; and to all the soldiers I've written to since then. And to those who led peaceful resistances, those who questioned or challenged the need for a particular war, those who spoke up against barbaric practices or abuses of authority, and those who work diplomatically to try to prevent bloodshed in the first place.

What I’m Reading Now: Under the Dome, by Stephen King

It’s good, sometimes, to be alone, even during the momentous stuff. Saturday night, I was pressed up against the rail with strangers at my first Bruce Springsteen concert in New York City, making friends and sharing M&Ms and screaming along to every word of The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle. And it was satisfying in the way it’s satisfying to go to Walt Disney World alone sometimes; there’s a freedom in getting carte blanche regarding every decision, every nuance of your experience. But, as I unfortunately learned earlier this year in regards to Disney, going it alone is something you don’t want to do twice in a row.

Enter Marty.

“I mean, I know I want us to get there early. He usually doesn’t go on until like 8:15, 8:30, even though it says 7:30 on the ticket, but last night there was this whole thing with the paperless tickets and I had to wait in three different lines before they’d let me in, and I was scared and nervous and I just want to make sure it doesn’t happen again tonight, even though we have our tickets.”

“Kev?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay.” Marty smiled. I like it when Marty smiles. It’s calming and sweet, and makes me feel less frantic. Not not frantic, of course. This is me we’re talking about. Low-grade panic involving my best-laid plans just comes with the territory. Tonight, though, luck was in, and it was good. Well, mostly.

“I NEED THAT SHIRT.” On the way into the Garden, I suddenly veered. You see, last night, they had sold shirts with the full track listing of The Wild, the Innocent on the back with Springsteen’s name on front and I wound up gently bitching at myself for not picking one up. Tonight’s show was all about The River – the entirety of it, from “The Ties That Bind” to “Wreck on the Highway” for the first time ever – and if I could live without a wearable commemorative souvenir last night, mister, it sure wasn’t happening tonight.

And indeed, at the front tables, they were displaying the exact shirt I had in mind: black, with Springsteen’s name in River font emblazoned across the front. On the back, the date of the show, and the entire twenty-song track list from The River. I NEED THAT SHIRT. “Do you have that one in large? That one! The one I am pointing to! Letter C! Do you have letter C in large?”

The guy behind the counted shrugged his bored shoulders. “Nuh. Got XXL.”

“But I don’t wear XXL.”

“Next.”

Dejected, Marty and I entered the Garden at Tower A. At least here, luck was in, and it was good. We handed our tickets over, got them scanned, and went right in. Suck it, paperless ticketing. Suck. It.

At the top of the escalators, a pretty and polite young woman who I hope gets a better job was proffering T-shirts from a small kiosk near the pretzel stand. I jabbed my finger beyond her. “Do you have that in a large?”

She turned and looked at the tags. “Sorry, sir. We have small and medium and that’s it.”

My mind tumbled this over: well, you could lose that gut of yours. I mean, stop eating Twinkies so much. Also, you could cut back to just one chai a day. Ever consider that, tubby? Working out isn’t going to help you lose your gut if you insist on shoveling donuts into your maw every—

“Thank you very much,” I said, bowed a little, and walked away.

Marty touched me on the shoulder. “We have assigned seats. You said he doesn’t usually go on until 8:00?”

“Eight-fifteen, usually!”

More of that calm nodding. Marty would have a good career in wrangling criminally unruly children. “We could walk around the perimeter and see if anyone else is selling shirts, right?”

“You are wise.”

“I know.”

We had made our way almost all the way around before I spotted one tiny alcove by the restrooms selling shirts and other souvenirs. I approached the window dejectedly. “Say,” I said, pointing, “do you have that one in large?”

The guy looked through his stacks and turned back. “No, sorry, I…”

Marty asked, “Can you check the display one?”

Amiably, the man turned back around and folded open the collar of the display shirt. He grinned. “You got the last large we had!”

My eyes went wide. “The last large the whole arena has!”

I slammed my money town and the man handed the shirt over, tucked inside a souvenir bag. My heart cheered. I cheered. ( And now it was time for the show. )

One of my good friends has just released her latest book, which you can find here:

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-fosterling/7905590

A chance discovery in the woods near her home pulls her out of her mourning and thrusts her into a land ravaged by war. With the hope of an entire race suddenly in her hands and the weight of their world on her shoulders, Meghan finds herself embraced by hundreds of people calling her family. Grief is forgotten as Meghan struggles to adapt, and to keep herself – and their future – alive.

Doesn't that sound interesting? Go forth and purchase it.

I'm afraid I'm going to forget something this weekend, there's so much going on. Maybe if I get it all down here I can focus on other things.

Also, I have lost my packing list spreadsheet. Grr.

( list in progress )

On this day, Veterans Day, we salute those men and women who have served in the US Armed Forces.

So special thanks to clintiskeen , gonesurfin , flyboys and others on LJ who have served our country.

And special, special thanks to two of the most important veterans near-n-dear-2-me: the paternal unit and the maternal unit

We’ve been in the new house a year now, and have finished the last of the landscaping, for now. It’s been done in stages, in part because work like this is a bit hard on anyone’s budget. Last week, they completed the stone steps at the back, and made a flagstone walkway up by the back door along the side of the garage.

The downside of getting work done at this time of year is that the shirts stay on.

When we moved in, at the end of one of the wettest summers for years, we were faced with an erosion problem that had to be solved fast. We live on a fairly steep hillside, and the land at the back of the house in particular falls off sharply in to the woods. Not long after the hosue was built, our back yard started to disolve before our eyes. So we had landscaping done which both contained the erosion issue and tied to blend the semi-formality of the structure of the house with the woodland setting. Thanks to the landscaping combined with judicious plantings, everything is stable now.



That combination of practicality and aesthetics has been a challenge, though, and I’m not sure we've been 100% successful. We’re not landscape architects,but we’ve had a great landscaper, whose ideas have been good. We wanted all-natural materials – anything else just wouldn’t have fit in – and I’ve really liked his choice of stone, for the steps in particular. And the effect does produce a nice view from the big window in the living room, which was important to us. But I’m still not 100% sure it’s the ideal solution. I think I would have preferred something a little simpler. Nevertheless, I am pretty pleased with what’s been done.



We never really intended to have a garden here, just a house in the woods. But things sort of evolved. In any event, I’m happy that it’s uber-low maintenance. One of the issues that has marked my getting older is a dwindling interest in gardening. It's way harder than it used to be too, and I just don’t like doing it much anymore.

When we first moved to the country – that was thirteen years ago - I was very much in to gardening. We had a large and bountiful vegetable garden then, lots of flowers and perennial beds, including new ones that I put in, and seventeen acres that we kept somewhat manicured. It used to take over a day to cut the grass. I’m glad we’re over that.

Winston Churchill said “I like work. I can sit and watch it for hours.” I think I feel the same way about gardening. And gardeners.

http://www.adf.org/groups/groves/us/CT.html#184?rss=1

View all ADF groves in Connecticut, including one of our newest groves: Charter Oak Protogrove, ADF

• 10:29 Awoke with no headache, hurrah! What changed? I didn't sleep w/cell phones on my nightstand.
• 10:58 Time for #GilmoreGirls while I nosh on breakfast.
• 11:16 DEAN! <3 Poor unhappy, married Dean. Run to Rory! #gilmoregirls
• 14:40 My mind is carrying some heavy weight today.
• 19:03 On the way home. Soggy, hungry and cold.
• 19:35 Mmm dinner...cabbage, cornbread and a small porkchop. Nom nom
• 20:02 NCIS!!!! *flails*
• 20:18 Gibbs. You could be my dad but I don't care. You be a sexy dilf. #ncis

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"Today, you people are no longer maggots. Today, you are Marines. You're part of a brotherhood. From now on until the day you die, wherever you are, every Marine is your brother. Most of you will go to Vietnam. Some of you will not come back.

But always remember this: Marines die. That's what we're here for. But the Marine Corp lives forever. And that means YOU live forever."

             --Gunny

So in geeking out with a new friend over standup comedy, I mentioned that one tape I really missed was my former NYC roommate Hamlet's VHS of "A Few Bits of Fry and Laurie"-- highlights from Stephen Fry's and Hugh Laurie's (before he was House, you damn kids) sketch comedy show. The stuff on that tape was freakin' genius; not only do Random and I still quote it to this day, but friends of ours who've never *seen* it will quote it based purely on our descriptions, because even describing them, they're still hilarious. Hamlet got rid of the tape sometime after we all moved, and it wasn't available on DVD.

I don't know if that particular collection is, but-- gasp! glee!-- the whole series is now!!!

*pause for happy dance*

I know what I'm picking up in the near future!

(By the way, Hugh Laurie, if you're reading this? I have always loved you. In an intensely carnal and perverted way. Call me.)

In case you haven't experienced the joy, I also found some samples (bless you, YouTube)-- more or less SFW except you might give it away that you're not working when you crack up.

This one's for Random:



This is one of my favorites...and if you hear me, upon hearing someone say something bizarre, say something like, "That sentence has never been uttered before in the history of the English language", this sketch is why:



Also a classic, and sadly still timely:



This one is hilarious but also kind of sad (to me at least):



And finally...




Enjoy!

Hey everybody! This is my first post here, and, as a matter of fact this is my first altar. It's an ancestor altar I made for Samhain. I'll explain the details.
( Ancestral Altar Behind Cut )

I got a call yesterday from a friend who was going through a rough life-moment. "Could I come by? I need to be in the company of friends tonight." I replied, "Of course you can. Come over whenever you can." Between those two bits in my reply was the unspoken sentence that echoed in my head: "You're my student."

I've been teaching an "Introduction to Paganism" class at the Crescent Moon School for the past three years (off and on, depending on the number of students that register). During that time, I think I've had a total of 30+ students, although not all of those students made it to the end of the 18 week course (some drop out due to money/time/interest constraints). Every group is different, making the teaching of the class different each time (although the subject matters stay mostly the same).

Some of those students have become close friends, while others drift away and I only see them once in a blue moon, if at all, although it's always a pleasure to see them again and catch up on their news. I've seen some of my students go through radical changes over the years, in both their spiritual and personal lives. I don't pretend that the course or the teacher is the catalyst, but I was just happened to come into their lives at a tumultuous moment.

So when I think of my friend as "my student", at face value, the relationship seems to have a hierarchical tone to it: I AM THE TEACHER (up here) AND YOU ARE THE STUDENT (down there). But that's not how I see it at all. Having students is not a question of me having the knowledge and them not having the knowledge: it's about the privilege and the honor to be able share a part of my knowledge-self with another human being.

The magical part about that moment is that, in so doing, both us are changed irrevocably. Teaching is not a one-way exchange, not if it is done with the sacred in mind. The difference lies in teaching a student that 1+1=2, or in teaching a student that math is powerful life juju and deserves to get excited about.

In addition to following the course material, I'm also developing my own spiritual wisdom, so I'll often bring an idea to class that I toying/wrestling with to get the student's perspective on it. In so doing, I'll be mixing my own evolving spiritual beliefs in with the static course material, which means the substance of the course material changes over time.

And that is why it's an honor to be a teacher. It's an honor to have that moment where I can expand someone else's experience based on my own experience, but in so doing, my own experience expands as well. In that exchange, both the student and the teacher are affected, which is why they need each other.

The teacher needs the student as much as the student needs the teacher. Their relationship is symbiotic, but both are equals. In this modern society, where many of us buy into the lie that we need to be completely indepedant and self-reliant, we forget the many hands that guide our path, the many teachers that sculpt our psyche, and the many more teachers that lay ahead on our path. Even as we learn from them, we are teaching others, either directly or indirectly, and they are teaching us.

Last summer, during an outdoor ritual in Montreal, I was catching up on the news of one of my ex-students, and teasing her about I might call on her to help with me a public ritual. "It'll help with your studies, young one. Trust me," I grinned.

"Oh Hobbes," she replied, hands on her hips. "You're not my teacher any more. Scarlet is my teacher now."

"You'll have many teachers, my friend, but you'll always be my student."