Year of the Horse
by angeliska on December 31, 2013
The tail end of the year is about to brush past us, this imagined point between now and then that keeps me feeling like I’m dancing on the head of a pin – trying to keep up, to push forward, stay with the beat of the heart of the world. Stay on my path. I feel like the snake’s egg broke this year, and all the most strange and unexpected things kept emerging, slithering through my fingers, too quickly. I remember at the beginning of last year feeling so wobbly and new, sticky winged and winded by the mystery of it all. So many aspects to my life at this point that I never could have predicted or imagined – and I think that if anyone had been able to tell me about them all, I doubt I would have believed them. It’s a funny thing, being involved in the work of fortune-telling – as so many people to me hoping I will tell them their futures, and all the things written in the book of fate. But that book hasn’t been written yet. We write it every day, with every action, every word, every thought. We create our own futures, moment by moment. Nothing is carved in stone about your fate, except that one day, you will die, and everyone you love on this earth will die. Nothing else is predestined about life. Knowing anything about our deaths, the whens and wheres of them – well, that’s useless too. In both cases, I believe that those kinds of knowing do more harm than good. To have your life foretold robs you of your free will, your ability to manifest and create the life you want for yourself. We are the creators of our own realities. But manifestation rarely goes as simply or as quickly as planned: oh no, because then we would lose the surprise of it all! That is one of the biggest and most valuable things I’ve learned this year – that I can still be surprised. Some good ones, some bad – but all things I never would’ve believed if they’d been predicted. I can appreciate surprises so much more now, than when I was a little child. Too much was unknown then, terrifyingly mysterious about the world around me. I wanted to know exactly what Santa was bringing me weeks ahead. Now, I wish deeply to have that sense of wonder and possibility in my life at all times. I want to believe in Santa, still – and the tooth fairy, the Easter bunny, fairies, elves, little green men, and all manner of invisible magics at work in the world. I believed fervently in unicorns, largely due to this book: De Historia Et Veritate Unicornis/on the History and Truth of the Unicorn.
I was a horse girl – only, one with no horses. No live ones anyway, although I begged my parents for one constantly (It can live in the yard! I’ll feed it apples! Pleeeeeeeaaase can I have a horse?) We were far too poor for anything like that, or even lessons, but I wasn’t aware of that at the time. I made do with drawing them obsessively, collecting Breyer figurines, and lurking around the stables in my neighborhood (I even stole the faded ribbons off the stalls and hung them on my wall, pretending I’d earned them.) By the time I actually got to ride on anything more proper than some old exhausted carnival pony being led around the ring, I was nearly twenty, and sitting nervously astride a big dappled mare named H.B. (which stood, appropriately, for Hell-Bitch.) We were atop a mountainside in Colorado, and the scent of a bear or puma nearby, combined with being taken out prior to feeding time after a long day on the trail meant that the horses were skittish and pissed. Which is a truly terrible combination of horse moods for an inexperienced rider. I had no clue how one might operate this flesh and blood vehicle, other than coercion with sugarcubees. I suppose that all those years of reading Black Beauty and Serendipity books lured me into the fantasy that the first horse I rode would swiftly become my best friend, and that we would immediately develop a powerful psychic mind-meld, and certainly would both want to go frolic in fields of clover and waterfalls together all day. Imagine my horror when it was suggested to me that I needed to kick my horse harder. We were warned that the horses might try to rub up against a tree trunk in an attempt to break your knee-cap, or find a low-hanging branch to knock you the hell off with. I don’t know why it was so hard to conceive of up until that point that these majestic beasts might have a will of their own – and might not really want to cart you around on their backs. After many misadventures that day, I had to concede humbly that horses were something I had loved and studied from afar for nearly my entire life, but that I truly didn’t understand at all. I respect them now, immensely, in a way that my childish adoration could never fully encompass. They are mighty, and standing next to one always makes me feel puny, curious and shy. I didn’t realize until fairly recently that I am year of the Horse, in the Chinese Zodiac (January birthdays revert to the previous year, so I thought I was a Sheep for a long time!) I felt a thrill when I realized that this is year of the Wood Horse – because I have a hopeful sense that this year will be a game-changer, even more so than the last one. This year is going to be full of surprises, and as much as possible, I want to be completely present with them. My main wish for 2014 is to be more in my body, more in the moment, and more consciously present in every way. I think about dancing a lot more than I actually do it, and I want to change that this year. I want to be more immediate, responding to messages as they come up instead of letting them get buried. I am the most impatient procrastinator, who is learning how to be a very patient do-er.
Horses have no patience for procrastination. This moment is all we have. Expand into it. Breathe deep. Toss your mane and kick the stormclouds open! My mama said she felt a strong kick right before her water broke – I was ready to be born! But when I got here, it took me years to feel like I belonged in my body. As a child, my consciousness always floated outside me, above me – I would narrate my actions and thoughts in the third person instead of just doing and thinking. And I was aware that that was odd. It bothered me, because I was pretty sure that most people didn’t have these kinds of conversations with themselves. Sometimes my awareness would slam back into my body with a shock, knowing: “This is me. I am nine. This is my name. I live in Texas. This is my life, and it is real, and not a dress-rehearsal for some play, or a game. It is real. This is real. I am real. I am this person now.” It’s a really hard thing to explain, but it makes a lot of sense for me now. I don’t have too many memories of my mother, but one of my very favorites is the lullaby she used to sing to me:
Hush-a-by, Don’t you cry
Go to sleepy little baby
When you wake you shall have
All the pretty little horses
Blacks and bays, dapples and grays
A coach and six little horses
When you wake you shall have
All the pretty little horses
Hush-a-by, Don’t you cry
Go to sleepy little baby
When you wake you shall have
All the pretty little horses
I want to be kind and wild and strong and free this year. I want to rest deeply when I sleep, and dream. I want to love my body, and treat it with love. I’m digging in, and unfurling wide. This is just the beginning. In a year, we will stand baffled at how far we’ve come. I’m extending these wishes to you, that you may be kind and wild and strong and free, and that your dreams be sweet. I’m going out to the country to stamp my hooves in the soft old dust and whinny songs to the stars. I leave you with some horse art and music to inspire and delight you. Some star things and word things. Leaden hollows and glancing lights. Fireworks and thick clay. A new day.
Giant ‘Kelpies’ Horse Head Sculptures Tower Over the Forth & Clyde Canal in Scotland
“Currently in the last stages of construction after nearly 7 years of development, the Kelpies are a pair of gargantuan horse heads by public artist Andy Scott that now tower over the Forth & Clyde canal in Falkirk, Scotland. The sculptures measure some 30 meters tall (99 ft.) and are meant as a monument to the horse-powered heritage of Scotland.”
I’ve been marveling at the captured images from Google Street View curated by 9-Eyes (aka. Jon Rafman) ever since he was covered in Coilhouse awhile back (Old 9-Eyes Is Back In Town…) I especially love the pictures of horses.
“My work is not so overtly about movement. My horses’ gestures are really quite quiet, because real horses move so much better than I could pretend to make things move. For the pieces I make, the gesture is really more within the body, it’s like an internalized gesture, which is more about the content, the state of mind or of being at a given instant. And so it’s more like a painting…the gesture and the movement is all pretty much contained within the body.” – Deborah Butterfield
Ulrika Kestere — “The Girl with Seven Horses”
“Once upon a time there was a girl who had 7 invisible horses. People thought she was crazy and that she in fact had 7 imaginary horses, but this was not the case. When autumn came the girl spent a whole day washing all her clothes. She hung them on a string in her garden to let the gentle autumn sun dry them. Out of nowhere, a terrible storm came and its fiercefull winds grabbed a hold of all her clothes and all seven horses. The girl was devastated and spent all autumn looking for each horse spread around the country, wrapped in her clothes.”
Arion on a Sea-Horse – 1855
Wild white horses of the Carmargue
Let us build an expendable day
without winding the hours, counting
only the salient clarity – that day
of all days that came bearing oranges.
The columns close on the niggling particulars,
leaving their chewed scrap of paper
spinning off in the sand,
devoured by winters.
Not a leaf in the forest
survives our recall, though its scent and vibration
stay in the memory: in that forest
I put forth my foliage
and carry its sighs in my veins
with no thought for the hour or the day.
The years and the months betray us
month follows month in the vast of the tunnel
October and April clash like two lunatic stones,
the apples rain into one basket,
the silvery catch into one net,
while night with rapiers precision
cuts through the days splendor – the day
that is ours if we are there to retrieve it tomorrow.
— Pablo Neruda
Uffington White Horse
Photo by Terry Hancock
“Part of the Orion Molecular Cloud, an immense star forming region very close to earth, The Flame and Horsehead Nebulas offer a glimpse into the process from which stars and their planets are created. The colorfully lit areas are being irradiated by the young stars which have formed in the recent past and as a result, the ionized hydrogen in the clouds glows. The dark regions, on the other hand, are areas of dusty material in the interstellar medium dense enough to obscure the glow from behind. The Horsehead is such an object and from our vantage point on Earth, it bears a striking resemblance to the head of a horse.”
“Rigel, Betelgeuse, and Orion. There was no finer church, no finer choir, than the stars speaking in silence to the many consumptives silently condemned, a legion upon the dark rooftops. The wind came down from the north like a runner in lacrosse, violent and hard, to batter every living thing. They were there, each one alone in conversation with the stars, mining ephemeral love from cold and distant light.”
― Mark Helprin, Winter’s Tale
Mark Helprin’s Winter’s Tale is one of my favorite books, ever. It is so, so gorgeous. I am so grateful to all the people in my life who, at one time or another, insisted that I read it. It is being made into film that will come out on Valentine’s Day. Even watching the trailer made me sob, so I’m hoping that the film similarly slaughters and elates me half as much as the book did.
Here are three quotes from the novel about the horse:
“He moved like a dancer, which is not surprising; a horse is a beautiful animal, but it is perhaps most remarkable because it moves as if it always hears music.”
“Truth is no rounder than a horse’s eye.”
“The horse could not do without Manhattan. It drew him like a magnet, like a vacuum, like oats, or a mare, or an open, never-ending, tree-lined road.”
I discovered The Wild Horses of Newbury via Tom Hirons/Coyopa and it stunned me. Please watch:
From the film-maker:
“‘The Wild Horses of Newbury’ was shot by me, Mark Carroll, very early on a single morning in February 1996 at the building site of the Newbury Bypass. (UK) This controversial road was to cut through some beautiful, ancient English countryside and had met with massive and radical direct action protests, hence the number of security guards. The whole episode only lasted a few minutes.. nothing was staged. The security guards and police had circled two very old Oak trees and were preparing to chop them down , when two scruffy, seemingly wild horses appeared and began to interfere with the felling. One of the horses even confronted one of the police horses…..
It was a very magical moment.”
NEW MOON in Capricorn January 1st 2014 (SuperMoon)!
Oh and – for the first time ever, I’ve not been plucking or dyeing my here and there grey hairs. My friend Abe Louise Young is on the same page, and just posted this sentiment, which I share whole-heartedly:
“In preparation for 2014 I am becoming a silver fox. Embracing mortality and the time-limited nature of all of us. Letting my hair grow wild, eau naturale and starlight–full moon-colored. Ask no permissions, hide no facets, grab aging and kiss it.”
Croning on up.
Learning to Measure Time in Love and Loss
By CHRIS HUNTINGTON
“and for all our believing, bastards in church alone dry heaving, searching for truce to feed the fear, near the beginning of the year”
Hello Lovers has a new album out, and it is brilliant: Glorified
And here’s a mix I made for your prancing pony disco and dreamytimes. Happy New Year!
More to read from New Year’s Eves of yore:
✶ NEW YEAR’S EVE FOXFIRES AT THE CHANGING TREE
✶ FUCK THE PLAN 2012
✶ AN EPICALLY EPIC AND FAIRLY TARDY YEAR IN REVIEW – OR, HOLY SHIT: 2011!
✶ A Bright Blue Wish
✶ New Year’s Redux
✶ Stargazer Honey
✶ Blue Moon
✶ Lone Grove New Year
✶ Pink Moons
✶ The New Year
✶ Lucky Stars and Garters
✶ La Nouvelle Année
Pomegranate Star Ritual for The Winter Solstice
by angeliska on December 21, 2013
My heart-sister and friend Brenda Francis has generously revealed the secrets of her sacred pomegranate star ritual for all those who desire to honor the Pumica grantatum’s skin as ornament. They are really special, and look beautiful dried and garlanding your parlor or tannenbaum. Today is the Solstice, and when night falls, we will be together in the darkness, lighting candles, lighting the fire, lighting the way. May your darkest night find a bright source of warmth, a sparkle and a glimmer in your heart of hearts.
“About the pomegranate I must say nothing,” whispered the traveller Pausanias in the 2nd century, “for its story is somewhat of a holy mystery.”
1. Put on an apron because pomegranates splatter red droplets on your dress.
2. Put on pretty pretty music. I went with Laura Marling. She is young, but she was born on Imbolc.
3. Choose a knife. This is a ritual.
4. Assume the space of clear intent. This is a ritual. Banish the circle, or at least spray some lavender water on your face.
5. Make the first incision, cutting the first petal of the star toward the center.
6. Make 4 or 5 or 6 more cuts, depending on how many points your star has. 7 sided stars can get tricky and thin-armed.
7. Empty the seeds into a bowl, carefully cut the white away. Maitain the integrity of your star. Don’t let any of its arms flop off.
Note::These are sacramental fare or altar offering or party food or breakfast (Fruit Salad Of Light recipe following)
Fruit Salad Of Light: 7 bananas, thirded and sliced. Eggs of dragon. Pomegranate seed. Vanilla extract. Salt for that salty flavor. A gopping heapful of coconut butter (not oil, butter or manna as it is called). Stir with restrained passion. Do not add maraschino cherries. Ever. Spoon with the family crest.
8. Don’t eat any pomegranate seeds while you do this operation! You might get stuck with a old man Hades…If you start to, spit them out back into the bowl and cross yourself, or say fuck it, that myth does not apply to me.
9. Trim the edges neat. When you are done, wash the stickiness off your star and pat it dry gently with a tea towel. Run a red thread through one arm of the star, the one that looks like the top. Add beads to the thread if desired.
You can do this ritual tonight if you like, or anytime between the Autumnal Equinox and the Winter Solstice. Or anytime, really. But this is when the pomegranates are naturally ripest. Tonight, whatever you do, light a candle. Light a fire. Be warm, and remember that the light is in you. You live!
Have you been feeling sad? Bone-tired and soul exhausted, like you might like to just sleep until Spring? Me too. Go read these things:
WATER IMMERSION DAY By Thea Elijah – from TRYING TO BE GOOD
Winter Solstice: 21 Alchemical Reflections from Carl Jung to Pema Chödrön.
December 18, 2013 Pele Report, Astrology Forecast
Venus Retrograde in Capricorn: Heart Shaped Box
I like listening to Finnish folk music all year round, but it’s especially perfect in this season, and for the Solstice. Here are some of Brenda’s current favorite selections:
Tallari – Sydämestäni rakastan
Karelian Folk Music Ensemble “Tui Tui Tuomen Kukka”
Finnish Folk Song, MeNaiset – Kuulin aanen (I Heard the Voice)
Karoliina Kantelinen “Ellös huolta huomisesta”
Karoliina Kantelinen “Soittelen soutusalmen suorimaista”
Vallåtar från gammelboning (Swedish kulning)
Happy Winter Solstice!
Related posts:
THE COLOR OF POMEGRANATES
PERCHTA
COLD WINTER MOON, SOLSTICE BLUE
WINTER SOLSTICE – BRIGHT STARS + FIRELIGHT
WINTER SOLSTICE – BLOOD MOON
Winter Solstice – Messe de Minuit
Winter Solstice – Dark Season
The Color of Pomegranates
by angeliska on December 20, 2013
This recent autumn was the best year for pomegranates. The tree planted by the pond in the garden seven or so years ago has been flourishing in this strange weather we’ve been having. Oft times, at harvest, the fruits would be cankered with the befouling kisses of some strange bug, with brown patches and tell-tale black pinholes on the thick red rinds. No such plague this year, thankfully! The pomegranates I plucked were larger and far sweeter than ever before – crimson globes hung like giant Christmas ornaments on the tree that’s grown nearly taller than the house. I’ve been fixated on their magic this year especially, and feel so grateful to have this gorgeous tree growing near me, feeding me and my loved ones with her bounty. In honor of this grand tree and her marvelous fruit, I’ve compiled some of my favorite poems, writings and images inspired by the magic of the pomegranate.
In modern times the pomegranate still holds strong symbolic meanings for the Greeks. On important days in the Greek Orthodox calendar, such as the Presentation of the Virgin Mary and on Christmas Day, it is traditional to have at the dinner table “polysporia”, also known by their ancient name “panspermia,” in some regions of Greece. In ancient times they were offered to Demeter and to the other gods for fertile land, for the spirits of the dead and in honor of compassionate Dionysus. When one buys a new home, it is conventional for a house guest to bring as a first gift a pomegranate, which is placed under/near the ikonostasi (home altar) of the house, as a symbol of abundance, fertility and good luck. Pomegranates are also prominent at Greek weddings and funerals. When Greeks commemorate their dead, they make kollyva as offerings, which consist of boiled wheat, mixed with sugar and decorated with pomegranate.It is also traditional in Greece to break a pomegranate on the ground at weddings and on New Years. Pomegranate decorations for the home are very common in Greece and sold in most home goods stores.
“In order to eat a pomegranate you need this many things: a pomegranate, a knife, a cutting board, a bowl and a towel.
Also, two hands. These help with the making of the pomegranate.”
― Tahereh Mafi
“This is our Central Texas fall, blue skies, an occasional floating shower that is gone too soon, luscious ripe prickly pear fruit,black juicy native persimmons, and pomegranate trees loaded with sweet heavy grenades.
The pomegranate utterly drips with symbolic significance beyond our physical senses. It is also at once pleasing and teasing our taste buds – with that sweet pop of its edible ruby seeds, attained through the laborious task of consuming a few morsels at a time.
The illustrious Punica granatum has an ancient pedigree. Not only does it appear in the Old Testament, but circles of Jewish scholars believe that it is actually the pomegranate and not the apple that is the forbidden fruit so fatefully consumed in the garden of Eden. According to same tradition, the pomegranate (rimon) is considered to be a holy symbol due to the held belief that the number of seeds contained in the fruit are equivalent to the 613 mitzvoth (commandments). The sacred rimon is used abundantly in Jewish ritual for a variety of symbolic implications.
Our eminent pomegranate is called “Granada” in Spanish, meaning “grenade”, which its physical shape resembles. In the Major Arcana of the Tarot, the High Priestess and the Empress are both illustrated with imagery of the pomegranate. The High Priestess sits in front of a curtain adorned with the fruit’s likeness and represents intuitive knowledge and femininity, among other attributes. The empress, the mother figure, sits in the gown of pomegranates on her throne in a field of grain. She represents the seed and the harvest, and reminds us that we reap what we sow, to say the least.
Punica granatum is universally a symbol of femininity, fertility and abundance. This long held belief is reinforced each autumn, when the pomegranate reaches its peak of maturity, coinciding with the season of plentiful harvest. Her majesty of fruits reminds us once more, that no plant is ever merely a plant. but an entire mythos unto itself.
May you in good health, continue to follow the beckoning of their provocation to explore ever deeper the enchantment of their ways.”
– From Season of The Sacred Pomegranate
by Carla Vargas-Frank, as featured in the most recent La Botanica
A behemoth pomegranate, just plucked from my tree. I took a bundle of them as potluck offering for a Full Moon Story Circle and potluck.
Once when I was living in the heart of a pomegranate, I heard a seed
saying, “Someday I shall become a tree, and the wind will sing in
my branches, and the sun will dance on my leaves, and I shall be
strong and beautiful through all the seasons.”
Then another seed spoke and said, “When I was as young as you, I
too held such views; but now that I can weigh and measure things,
I see that my hopes were vain.”
And a third seed spoke also, “I see in us nothing that promises so
great a future.”
And a fourth said, “But what a mockery our life would be, without
a greater future!”
Said a fifth, “Why dispute what we shall be, when we know not even
what we are.”
But a sixth replied, “Whatever we are, that we shall continue to
be.”
And a seventh said, “I have such a clear idea how everything will
be, but I cannot put it into words.”
Then an eight spoke–and a ninth–and a tenth–and then many–until
all were speaking, and I could distinguish nothing for the many
voices.
And so I moved that very day into the heart of a quince, where the
seeds are few and almost silent.
The Pomegranate ― Khalil Gibran
In the Garden of Eden grow pomegranates bigger than your head. Have a bite, won’t you?
“I felt like a seed in a pomegranate. Some say that the pomegranate was the real apple of Eve, fruit of the womb, I would eat my way into perdition to taste you.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
One of the greatest masterpieces of the 20th century, Sergei Parajanov ‘s “Color of the Pomegranate”, a biography of the Armenian troubadour Sayat Nova (King of Song) reveals the poet’s life more through his poetry than a conventional narration of important events in Sayat Nova ‘s life.
“Parajanov made films not about how things are, but how they would have been had he been God.”
— Critic Alexei Korotyukov
“Its rich, deep colors remind us also of the fall – midnight blues, blood reds, rich yellows. It really is a feast for the eyes. The whole film is a poem, both visually and cinematically.
Sofiko Chiaureli, the main character(s) in the film and thought of to be Parajanov’s muse, is incredible to watch as she shifts between male and female seamlessly, morphing and gliding across the screen with such elegance and grace, its impossible to keep your eyes off of her.”
– RECSPEC – THE COLOR OF POMEGRANATES
“The pomegranate is the symbol of Armenia and represents fertility, abundance and marriage. One ancient custom widely accepted in ancient Armenia was performed at weddings. A bride was given a pomegranate fruit, which she threw against a wall, breaking it into pieces. Scattered pomegranate seeds ensured the bride future children. In Artsakh it was accepted to put fruits next to the bridal couple during the first night of marriage. The pomegranate was among those fruits, and was said to also ensure happiness. It is believed the couple enjoyed a pomegranate wine as well.The symbol of the pomegranate is connected with insemination. It protected a woman from infertility and protected a man’s virile strength. Currently, pomegranate juice is famous with Armenians in food and heritage.
The pomegranate gained a new symbolism after Armenian Genocide that left millions of Armenians spread all over the world; Armenians use the pomegranate and its many seeds to symbolize the Armenian people and their resilience. The pomegranate is also seen as the fruit of life for Armenians because during the genocide the only food they had came from fruits on trees. It is said that there are approximately 365 seeds in each pomegranate and the Armenians survived by eating one seed each day during their exile.”
“It was the face of spring, it was the face of summer, it was the warmness of clover breath. Pomegranate glowed in her lips, and the noon sky in her eyes. To touch her face was that always new experience of opening your window one December morning, early, and putting out your hand to the first white cool powdering of snow that had come, silently, with no announcement, in the night. And all of this, this breath-warmness and plum-tenderness was held forever in one miracle of photographic is chemistry which no clock winds could blow upon to change one hour or one second; this fine first cool white snow would never melt, but live a thousand summers.”
― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
“My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these,
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a daïs of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.”
― Christina Rossetti, Poems of Christina Rossetti
“And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine
Burned like the ruby fire set
In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,
Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,
Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet
With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.”
― Oscar Wilde
“Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.
Song of Solomon 4:3
The Tamil name maadulampazham is a metaphor for a woman’s mind. It is derived from, maadhu=woman, ullam=mind, which means as the seeds are hidden, it is not easy to decipher a woman’s mind.
You tell me I am wrong.
Who are you, who is anybody to tell me I am wrong?
I am not wrong.
In Syracuse, rock left bare by the viciousness of Greek
women.
No doubt you have forgotten the pomegranate-trees in
flower,
Oh so red, and such a lot of them.
Whereas at Venice
Abhorrent, green, slippery city
Whose Doges were old, and had ancient eyes.
In the dense foliage of the inner garden
Pomegranates like bright green stone,
And barbed, barbed with a crown.
Oh, crown of spiked green metal
Actually growing!
Now in Tuscany,
Pomegranates to warm, your hands at;
And crowns, kingly, generous, tilting crowns
Over the left eyebrow.
And, if you dare, the fissure!
Do you mean to tell me you will see no fissure?
Do you prefer to look on the plain side?
For all that, the setting suns are open.
The end cracks open with the beginning:
Rosy, tender, glittering within the fissure.
Do you mean to tell me there should be no fissure?
No glittering, compact drops of dawn?
Do you mean it is wrong, the gold-filmed skin, integument,
shown ruptured?
For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken.
It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.
From “Birds, Beasts, And Flowers: Poems By D. H. Lawrence.”
“If the authors of Genesis envisioned any one particular fruit dangling from that infamous tree in Eden, scholars argue it was likely the pomegranate. In the Greco-Roman tradition, those same ruby seeds cursed Persephone to an eternal half-life, consigned her to winter after winter with her abductor-husband, Hades, among the pomegranate groves of the dead. From Jerusalem to Athens to Rome, this is the fruit you get when love spoils into lust, when desire goes to seed. This is not a fruit you want to crack open.”
THE POEM STUCK IN MY HEAD – D. H. Lawrence’s “Pomegranate”
My contribution to Thanksgiving dinner last year: persimmon, pomegranate, squash, orange pepper, robusto cheese, asian pear, golden cherry tomato salad. It was so delicious, I might have to repeat it again soon…
If you buy a pomegranate,
buy one whose ripeness
has caused it to be cleft open
with a seed-revealing smile.
Its laughter is a blessing,
for through its wide-open mouth
it shows its heart,
like a pearl in the jewel box of spirit.
The red anemone laughs, too,
but through its mouth you glimpse a blackness.
A laughing pomegranate
brings the whole garden to life.
Keeping the company of the holy
makes you one of them
Whether you are stone or marble,
you will become a jewel
when you reach a human being of heart.
Plant the love of the holy ones within your spirit;
don’t give your heart to anything
but the love of those whose hearts are glad.
Don’t go to the neighborhood of despair:
there is hope.
Don’t go in the direction of darkness:
suns exist.
The heart guides you to the neighborhood of the
saints;
the body takes you to the prison of water and earth.
Give your heart the food of holy friends;
seek maturity from those who have matured.
THE LAUGHTER OF POMEGRANATES ― Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi
pomegranates + mushrooms
Love makes of each moment an eternity
And tends the garden of the heart’s desire
When love mocks, ruby tears fall heavy as pomegranates
And when love looks, it sees your deepest mystery.
Love seeks out the tears of hidden hearts
And turns not from the Lovers of the Dawn.
Is there a remedy for the pain of love?
Or is it too unbearable for thought?
One taste of the medicine
And you will realize just how sick you have been.
Those who plead in the defense of love
In love’s judgement shall find grace
And to that court, Hafiz
May your heart fly…
― Hafiz
“In older myths, the dark road leads downward into the Underworld, where Persephone is carried off by Hades, much against her will, while Ishtar descends of her own accord to beat at the gates of Hell. This road of darkness lies to the West, according to Native American myth, and each of us must travel it at some point in our lives. The western road is one of trials, ordeals, disasters and abrupt life changes — yet a road to be honored, nevertheless, as the road on which wisdom is gained. James Hillman, whose theory of ‘archetypal psychology’ draws extensively on Greco–Roman myth, echoes this belief when he argues that darkness is vital at certain periods of life, questioning our modern tendency to equate mental health with happiness. It is in the Underworld, he reminds us, that seeds germinate and prepare for spring. Myths of descent and rebirth connect the soul’s cycles to those of nature.”
― Terri Windling
“Take from my palms, to soothe your heart,
a little honey, a little sun,
in obedience to Persephone’s bees.
You can’t untie a boat that was never moored,
nor hear a shadow in its furs,
nor move through thick life without fear.
For us, all that’s left is kisses
tattered as the little bees
that die when they leave the hive.
Deep in the transparent night they’re still humming,
at home in the dark wood on the mountain,
in the mint and lungwort and the past.
But lay to your heart my rough gift,
this unlovely dry necklace of dead bees
that once made a sun out of honey.”
― Osip Mandelstam, The Selected Poems
“Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be;
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee;
Say to her, “My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Poems
Cold Winter Moon, Solstice Blue
by angeliska on December 18, 2013
The Full Cold Moon in Gemini is still soaring above as I write this, casting a bright purity of blue light over the trees grown bare with the season. I am always shocked by how much stronger the moonlight seems in winter, with no leafy canopy to dapple the stone paths and altars in my backyard. I set my stones and crystals out there tonight, to charge and bathe in that light. Little rituals, small things we can do when more formal gatherings are waylaid by sniffles and holiday whatnot. With the Solstice right around the corner to be celebrated, it was lovely and peaceful to have a bit of quiet time to contemplate, to write, and to do these tiny works that make such a big difference to my sense of inner calm and well-being. The full moon can stir up a lot of energy, and I’m feeling this one particularly. The Winter Solstice’s approach brings with it for me a sense of hush, a quiet that steals over the land, honoring the moments in-between, the midnight vigils of the only person awake at night. I’ve reverted back to my nocturnal habit, up until dawn nearly, every night – alone and writing, or reading. This is a holy time, a sacred season – the light in the darkness, a single candle’s flame illuminating expectant faces in the dark cave, the longest night of the year. How do you honor the Solstices? What do you do when the moon is full?
I’ve been feeling hibernatory, and lulled towards slumber at all times lately, save late at night when I really ought to be abed. I’m giving in to whatever strange rhythms my body seems to be dictating and sleeping in after staying up into the wee hours, when all is quiet except the owls, a stray cat in heat, and my hounds breathing, dreaming doggie dreams at the foot of the bed. No memorable dreams for me lately, though apparently I’ve been getting ’round a good deal – showing up in the dreamscapes of friends far and wide. Tonight I’ve taken melatonin, and will have some mugwort tincture and dream oil to see what lays on the other side of the mirror. For myself. I’m using these stunning images by the Pre-Raphaelite painter Edward Robert Hughes (1851-1914) to guide me on my journey, into, ideally a world inhabited by angels, valkyries and moon maidens…
Twilight Fantasies
Night with her Train of Stars and her Great Gift of Sleep
The Valkyries Vigil
“As we near the Solstice, the longest night of the year, it is helpful to remember that we too are being called into our deepest dark. Down to the places we hide from view; where we keep our grief, where we brace and hold, where we are ashamed and unforgiving too. We are asked to acknowledge our untruths, to bare our fragile stories in the open, to be seen – which is also to release. Without any proof, we trust that a way will be born then in the dark, out of nothing, by this braving forward.” – Toko-pa
Dream Idyll (A Valkyrie)
Heart of Snow
Pack Clouds Away and Welcome Day
Radiant Moon
DECEMBER FORECAST 2013 – by Lena Stevens
December 16-22: The energy shifts as we approach the Full Moon and then the Winter Solstice. You may feel jerked around by things seeming one way today and upside down tomorrow. This is a time of sudden adjustments often made by others but affecting you. There will be many lessons around attachments to how you think things ought to be and how you think people ought to behave. In this somewhat emotional time, stay out of negativity and judgment and accept the adjustments.
December 17: Full moon is at 2:28AM MST (Mountain Standard Time). You may wish to celebrate it the night of December 16. Use this full moon to expand your sense of what could be. The time between this full moon and the Winter Solstice should be honored and quality time should be carved out to do what brings you joy. What brings you joy? What feeds you spiritually? What do you still need to adjust and revise and modify? What do you need to let go of? What needs expansion and more inspiration? Ask these questions and then go for it!
December 21: Winter Solstice is at 10:11AM MST (Mountain Standard Time) Do a ceremony around honoring yourself and your own truth. Your desires should be given top priority. Remember you cannot fix or create intentions for anyone else. Don’t be afraid to dream big. If you are still feeling the weight of what you have carried, changed, released, processed, started or created in these past months, release it somehow in a fire or other ceremonial way.
Moonlight – Alphonse OsbertFrench
The Dream – Pierre Puvis de Chavannes
Blue Moon – Photograph by me
Full Moon in Gemini – December 2013 – Singularity – by Leah Whitehorse
“The Sun sits on the galactic centre and just meditating on the chart for a few minutes blows my mind. The Galactic Centre is postulated to be a supermassive black hole so heavy that the entire galaxy spins around it. Everything revolves around what’s inside and anything that comes too close is absorbed and transmuted into something else entirely, including light. It’s as though the Sun is absorbing the energy of the galactic core and shining it on the Moon – like holding your face up to the midday Sun with your eyes closed. It’s too bright, too intense to be able to open your eyes. With Mercury sitting nearby, it’s like receiving divine cosmic instruction but the instructions are written in God script. Some part of you recognises it but it’s a language you forgot.”
Astral Insights from Mystic Mamma: FULL MOON in Gemini December 17, 2013
Photograph by Margarita Kareva
Our annual 12th Night Celebration in Austin is right around the corner, and we’re getting very excited preparing for a beautiful welcome to the carnival season and a sweet farewell to winter and hexmas times!
I’ve been contemplating some new wintery scents for the season, and have a hankering to try these lovelies out:
Serge Lutens Fille en Aiguilles
Fille en aiguilles contains notes of pine needles, vetiver, bay leaf, spices, fruit and incense. The memory of pine forest under sunshine, a very feminine sensuality. Adventurous, sexy, intriguing, witchy, smart and serious.
D.S. & Durga Eau de Cologne – Siberian Snow
Rare, narcotic, jasmine, crisp mint, Oriental amber, sandalwood & powdery incense. Worn by Countess Anna Vladoska at her legendary balls.
Slumberhouse Cologne- Norne
Fog caked needle, lichen, fern and moss perfume the nocturnal air beneath grandiose canopies of fir and hemlock – a headspace captured in perfect equilibrium. Containing not one single essential oil nor synthetic, Norne is luxuriously composed with entirely 100% pure forest absolutes; a connoisseur grade fantasy/surrealist recipe of incensed coniferous woodsy resins inspired by the catharsis of self worship.
‘
This video of a big Russian crow using a scavenged lid as a toy to slide down a snowy peaked roof is one of my favorite things ever. Not only is he using a tool (something only very highly developed and intelligent animals do – which crows are indeed), but he’s using it idly, not out of necessity – to do something FUN! Remember, this is a creature that can FLY! Who discovered that it’s fun to go sledding! So wonderful.
An English Ladymass – Anonymous 4
Music for your Solstice.
From winter solstices of yore:
WINTER SOLSTICE – BRIGHT STARS + FIRELIGHT
WINTER SOLSTICE – BLOOD MOON
Winter Solstice – Messe de Minuit
Winter Solstice – Dark Season
In Fallow Fields
by angeliska on November 28, 2013
The harvest has been brought in, and now we feast on the bounty of the earth – but how many of those potatoes waiting to be mashed were dug out of the ground by the same dirty fingers who will later wash and peel them? How many of the full bellies will have known what it is to be truly hungry? I ask these questions because I find myself thinking all the time lately about how we got to be where we are, and what came before. I have a thing about holidays – not just enjoying them (though I really do), but honoring the turning of the year, all that it brings, and all that it means. What it really means, underneath all the layers of sedimentary history, stories, old traditions with forgotten origins. It’s impossible for me to overlook the fact that Thanksgiving in this country is a bogus holiday built on the myth of friendship (and eventual betrayal, genocide, slaughter) between white settlers and the people who were here first. But before that story, there was an older one – a simpler one, about the ones who tilled the land, who gleaned the fields, who huddled close to the fire, to each other. I feel that we instinctively need our fall festivals, our moment of fullness before winter’s fingers dig in. It’s an ancient ritual, celebrating the abundance of the fertile earth goddesses, Ceres/Demeter/Isis/Inanna – and all the accompanying symbols come from what was sacred to those who practiced the old ways, in the old days, right down to the cornucopia. In Greek Mythology, the horn of Amalthea (she was the kind goat who suckled Zeus) became known as the cornucopia or horn of plenty. Before the frosts turn everything green and gold to gray and dun, we stop to pause and feel grateful for our stocked larders, our fattened pigs, our fields ready to lay fallow for a season. This is everything we worked for. Of course, in this current day, there has been a massive disconnect from that way of thinking, and many of us go through the motions: loading our carts in bustling grocery stores, stuffing ourselves, and merely enduring the company of our families. How to reconnect to that sense of belonging with the land, when almost everything we do is destroying it? I am curious if we will remember days of plenty so vividly when food shortages come to be widespread again. We used to live together, in tribes, in villages, in big groups. The old ones and the young ones, the strong ones and the fragile ones. We used to always be together like this, breathing each other in, listening to all the stories, working and living and loving and fighting and sleeping and waking. Now we live apart – connected by ether, but disparate, solitary. Some part of me remembers, though – what it’s like to lay sleeping on the ground, in a circle of other humans, firelight dancing on the cave walls. Curled into myself, but listening to the night sounds of breathing, whispering, a baby’s cry – and thinking, “This is how we are supposed to live – together. This is how it used to be, everywhere, for humans on this planet.”
I’ve been thinking about the wise old grandmother turkey I met recently, a grey and elegant crone named Chincha who lives on my friend’s farm. She is eleven years old, and mostly blind. She is friendly, though the other birds pick on her, because even with her still formidable size, she has grown weak with age, shrunken. Does Chincha know that the number one predator of her species is us? I never had met a turkey I liked and respected – though I suppose that really I had just never been properly introduced to any turkeys before. Will I still eat them? Yes, I think so – but I will be thinking of her bright black inquisitive gaze, and wondering if the bird on my plate had such spirit. I am a dedicated carnivore, but I do think about the creatures I consume – and I don’t know if that makes it better or worse. Both, I guess. I’m grateful for their gifts.
Before this week, I don’t think I’d ever known anything about the The Occupation of Alcatraz by Native Americans, or about Unthanksgiving Day (also known as The Indigenous Peoples Sunrise Ceremony), an event still held on the island of Alcatraz to honor the indigenous peoples of the Americas and promote their rights. This coincides with a similar protest, the National Day of Mourning, which began in Massachusetts.
“From November, 1969 to June, 1971, a group called Indians of All Tribes, Inc., occupied Alcatraz Island. This group, made up of American Indians relocated to the Bay Area, was protesting against the United States government’s policies that affected them. They were protesting federal laws that took aboriginal land away from American Indians and that aimed to destroy American Indian cultures. The Alcatraz occupation is recognized today as one of the most important events in contemporary Native American history. It was the first intertribal protest action to focus the nation’s attention on the situation of native peoples in the United States. The island occupation ignited a protest movement which culminated with the occupation of Wounded Knee on the Pine Ridge Reservation of the Oglala Sioux in South Dakota in 1973. Because of the attention brought to the plight of the American Indian communities, as a result of the occupation, federal laws were created which demonstrated new respect for aboriginal land rights and for the freedom of American Indians to maintain their traditional cultures.”
ALCATRAZ IS NOT AN ISLAND
“Before AIM [American Indian Movement], Indians were dispirited, defeated and culturally dissolving. People were ashamed to be Indian. You didn’t see the young people wearing braids or chokers or ribbon shirts in those days. Hell, I didn’t wear ’em. People didn’t Sun Dance, they didn’t Sweat, they were losing their languages. Then there was that spark at Alcatraz, and we took off. Man, we took a ride across this country. We put Indians and Indian rights smack dab in the middle of the public consciousness for the first time since the so-called Indian Wars…. AIM laid the groundwork for the next stage in regaining our sovereignty and self-determination as nation, and I’m proud to have been a part of that.”
– Russell Means (Oglala Lakota)
Photograph by Mitchell Kanashkevich from his series, JOURNEY THROUGH RURAL ROMANIA
If Chincha were a human, I like to think she would look like this woman.
Also, I highly recommend reading this today: IT’S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERFUCKERS.
“In the Hollow”
I recently came across the incredibly powerful paintings of Michigan artist Andrea Kowch. Her paintings speak to me on so many levels: something about her fascination with those yellow fields, gray skies, the hard-bitten faces and floating hair of her women, staring sharply, consorting with animal visitors. I’ll let her work speak for itself, though:
“An Invitation”
“The Visitors”
“Sojourn”
“The Merry Wanderers”
Much of what I wanted to share here began on a Thanksgiving a few years ago, trying to explain my love for eerie, slightly barren landscapes, and the art and films that take them as themes. Hungry outsiders lost in golden fields, haunting big white farmhouses, making bad decisions. I can’t leave any of that alone, it seems, so here it is again – expanded upon. Andrew Wyeth, Terence Malick, Philip Ridley, and now, Andrea Krowch – all making this art about a specifically American place and feeling – and it’s not entirely a good place or feeling. They all go there, though, again and again – wandering around between the rows, under that big horrible sky.
You see strange things hurl past you at high speeds on those backroads.
Faded signs whose obsolete messages you still struggle to make out,
beautiful abandoned houses, and dead trees that read as sculpture against
the big sky – black-limbed and bony, reaching up in agony with hundreds
of twisted wooden witch-fingers. I wish all the time that I could just bring them
all home with me to hang blue-bottles from. There’s got to be a way to do that.
I saw an old black limousine with bashed in windows parked in the middle of
a tawny cornfield. It looked like a lost still from The Reflecting Skin, and made
me think again of some of my favorite films that take place in the weird liminal
space that is a fallow field. They are all tied together in my mind – that one,
and Tideland, and also Malick’s Days of Heaven and Badlands. All favorite
films of mine, and all masterpieces of wrongness set in tall yellow grass
with decrepit old houses. A lot can happen in the terrifying wide open of
a prairie. That grass can whisper to you of terrible things. All of those films
come from this place, I think:
Andrew Wyeth. Christina’s World. 1948.
The woman crawling through the tawny grass was the artist’s neighbor in Maine, who, crippled by polio, “was limited physically but by no means spiritually.” Wyeth further explained, “The challenge to me was to do justice to her extraordinary conquest of a life which most people would consider hopeless.” He recorded the arid landscape, rural house, and shacks with great detail, painting minute blades of grass, individual strands of hair, and nuances of light and shadow. In this style of painting, known as magic realism, everyday scenes are imbued with poetic mystery.
EDWARD HOPPER [1882–1967] – House by the Railroad, 1925
“Malick’s closest creative relative as an American artist may not be other filmmakers, but rather Andrew Wyeth, a realist painter who nonetheless offered such intensely studied, obliquely conceived pictures that they always seem to vibrate with a sense of hidden elements and forces. In much the same way, Malick constantly alchemises images into emotions, which is the very aspect of his films that remain hardest for the more literal-minded to grasp.”
– From Ferdy on Film’s piece about To The Wonder (which I still haven’t seen!)
Badlands is one of my top ten favorite films ever. I love Terence Malick so much.
Oh Sissy. I love her because she’s brilliant, and I love her because she reminds me so much of my mom. In this still, she makes me think of Jeliza Rose, below – beautiful and precocious innocents dazzled by a strange and dangerous new world.
Tideland is reviled by many as being a pointless exercise in depravity by Terry Gilliam, but I loved it immensely. It is disturbing, and often uncomfortable to watch, but it is also beautiful and powerful. Most of my favorite films are a combination of both (see The Reflecting Skin, below).
The Reflecting Skin
“Like an irrational but beautiful dream, The Reflecting Skin unfolds with a clarity that’s disturbing. It’s a true American Gothic, a movie in which breathtakingly blue skies and Van Gogh-gold wheat fields are unlikely witnesses to the horrors confronting eight-year-old Seth Dove. For Seth, the world of childhood is one of nightmares in broad daylight: his friends are being senselessly murdered, his tormented father incinerates himself before his eyes, his half-crazy mother abuses him, his beloved brother returning from World War II is mysteriously wasting away, and the strange woman living next door must be a vampire.
Even with its obvious flaws, however, there’s something oddly compelling about this weird, weird movie. The Reflecting Skin may befuddle you by what it’s all about, but like a vivid dream, you’ll have a difficult time forgetting it.
Director Philip Ridley has stated that his film is heavily inspired by the paintings of Andrew Wyeth in its visual style.”
From NO MORE HEROES ANYMORE
Fall Plowing, by Grant Wood (1931)
I honestly can’t remember where this is from.
Or this. But here they are. Happy Thanksgiving.
THE REFLECTING SKIN
BADLANDS
DAYS OF HEAVEN
TIDELAND
Related posts:
VULTURES + PERSIMMONS
Huexoloti Honey
Russet + Bone
Lone Grove Lullaby
The Erl-King
by angeliska on November 15, 2013
It’s the season for reading my most favorite story from my most favorite book by my most favorite author… The Erl-King, by Angela Carter, from her astounding anthology of dark fairy tales, The Bloody Chamber. It’s the very best thing to read around a wood-fire on a chilly evening, which is exactly what I shall be doing this upcoming full moon, for the Moon Language Story Circle. It’s the Mourning Moon in Taurus, and the theme of this month’s circle is Sadness and Relief. I love reading stories aloud, and don’t often enough get the chance to do it, so I’m very excited to get to participate in this gathering. This one, though – ach! It’s just such a pleasure to let those words roll off your tongue, almost musically. It’s a hypnotizing tale, about the magic of the woods, hunter and prey, and a strange kind of love.
I came across a sort of random assortment of fashion-y images stashed in one of my various inspiration folders, and thought their autumnal glamour might illustrate some lines from the story well. I forget where they’re all from, alas. But aren’t they lovely?
I walked through the wood until all its perspectives converged upon a darkening clearing; as soon as I saw them, I knew at once that all its occupants had been waiting for me from the moment I first stepped into the wood, with the endless patience of wild things, who have all the time in the world.
A young girl would go into the wood as trustingly as Red Riding Hood to her granny’s house but this light admits of no ambiguities and, here, she will be trapped in her own illusion because everything in the wood is exactly as it seems.
He smiles. He lays down his pipe, his elder bird-call. He lays upon me his irrevocable hand.
His eyes are quite green, as if from too much looking at the wood.
There are some eyes can eat you.
The woods enclose. You step between the first trees and then you are no longer in the open air; the wood swallows you up.
There is no way through the wood any more, this wood has reverted to its original privacy.
The clearing was cluttered with dead leaves, some the colour of honey, some the colour of cinders, some the colour of earth.
The trees stir with a noise like taffeta skirts of women who have lost themselves in the woods and hunt round hopelessly for the way out.
What big eyes you have. Eyes of an incomparable luminosity, the numinous phosphorescence of the eyes of lycanthropes. The gelid green of your eyes fixes my reflective face; It is a preservative, like a green liquid amber; it catches me. I am afraid I will be trapped in it for ever like the poor little ants and flies that stuck their feet in resin before the sea covered the Baltic. He winds me into the circle of his eye on a reel of birdsong. There is a black hole in the middle of both your eyes; it is their still centre, looking there makes me giddy, as if I might fall into it.
Your green eye is a reducing chamber. If I look into it long enough, I will become as small as my own reflection, I will diminish to a point and vanish. I will be drawn down into that black whirlpool and be consumed by you. I shall become so small you can keep me in one of your osier cages and mock my loss of liberty. I have seen the cage you are weaving for me; it is a very pretty one and I shall sit, hereafter, in my cage among the other singing birds but I — I shall be dumb, from spite.
(Artwork by Kristina Carroll)
Erl-King will do you grievous harm.
The two notes of the song of a bird rose on the still air, as if my girlish and delicious loneliness had been made into a sound.
(Artwork by Chloe North)
Piercingly, now, there came again the call of the bird, as desolate as if it came from the throat of the last bird left alive. That call, with all the melancholy of the failing year in it, went directly to my heart.
I had to buy another copy especially for the occasion… I’ve had soooo many copies, but I’m forever lending it out…
Randomly came across this beautiful signed copy, but trying to warrant a $125 expenditure proved paining, horribly tempted though I was (and still am!)
Had to restrain myself mightily from not only buying this, but also passionately caressing her signature. There’s something magical about the fact that she was here in Austin, also – even though I was just a wee one at the time. She was here! Yes, I’m a little obsessed with her genius. I was only partially successful in not making a scene. Minor tantrum, but escaped sans book, bank account intact. Still ravenously coveting this treasure.
11.11.13. – Mending
by angeliska on November 11, 2013
A year is come and past, 11.11 winking bright and then gone again – and here I am, whole and hale and maybe a tiny touch wiser? There are certainly more silver threads in my crown now. Today, I feel remarkably at peace. Everything is changed, and nothing has. My life fell apart so spectacularly, it seemed completely insurmountable to even imagine how anything would ever knit back together. And yet, astoundingly, by infinitesimally slow increments, it has been doing just that. Not by accident, nor exactly by design – but by necessity.
S is for serpent. R is for rosehips.
Seems like all the same pieces are on the chessboard, just at different removes, and not at odds anymore really. Just living, turning in our own odd orbits. Getting on with it. We fall apart, tumble together, some smash to smithereens and reform in unfamiliar patterns. Everything turns, and time brings with it a slow mending. I didn’t believe it a year ago, no matter how many times I was told: that time heals all wounds. I still don’t. It’s not just time, the accumulation of sand in the glass that makes our memory of the sharp shock of it hazier, more bearable. The lines of those rough edges may have grown indistinct, but the outlines of the scars are still there. Just like any other injury – the way you take care of a wound matters. A dirty, unchanged bandage leads to infection. Ignore it, let time do its work, and you’ll end up with something nasty under that old rag. It’s not enough to let dust collect there, sticking to the scabs like gray pollen – not enough to just leave it up to the passage of days to do all the repairing. The work is ours to do, assiduously; the careful cleaning, a thorough scrubbing off of dead skin, the hardened eschar. Thick layers of illusion and denial slough off after repeated treatments. Daily, we must inspect for putrefaction; we try and stop telling ourselves the same bleak bedtime stories, to stop the spread of those poisonous narratives (my life is over, I’m going to die alone, no one is ever going to love me, et cetera et cetera ad nauseam.)
Steady applications of various salves, unguents, balms of gilead; in my case, these most often come in the form of long baths, puppy kisses, and dedicated headlong escape into the realms of fantasy fiction. Licking at the wound frantically like a scared animal, alone in a dark cave won’t do any good. To properly heal, you have to stretch that old scar tissue, rebuild the muscle memory, not let it all go slack, curl in on itself. This is the emotional equivalent of regular physical therapy – talking with good friends helps, especially if they are patient and understanding enough to listen to you tell the same tale of woe over and over, and particularly if they are wise enough to ask you the hard questions. Going to an actual heart/mind/soul therapist is a good idea, if you can find one that you really connect with – preferably someone who is smarter than you, can see through your crafty guises and pretenses, and who will call you out on your bullshit. A year of changing the bandages, going through the motions, spooning oatmeal into your mouth in the mornings, washing your face in the evenings, and somehow, we begin to heal.
A deceptively life-like serpent, subtly flattened.
I found this in the road a few weeks ago
on a walk in the redwoods with two old friends.
One of whom, I was once engaged to.
The heart naturally leans towards forgiveness, acceptance. A mending. Amends.
When we are all turned to dust, it will matter that we were kind, that we let it all go.
People come to me every day, holding their broken hearts out in their hands, red and raw. They want to cards to tell them all about how their lost love will change their mind, come back to them. They want me to make it all better, to tell them that it’s not over. I tell them what I learned from one of my teachers: that relationships don’t end, they just transform. It didn’t seem possible, to me then, either. At the time, I remember being incredibly skeptical that I could ever feel anything but complete devotion to my relationship, that I could ever not be in love with my partner. I resisted it, railed against it. Because honestly – it terrified me.
I hated thinking that an undying love can just one day fade away. That someone you felt so passionately about can eventually melt into the background of your life, or ebb away completely. What does that mean for true love, enduring love? I’ve been forced to examine why that version of love has come to be the gold standard for me – the only one worth considering. Seeing an elderly couple, still in love after decades together, always just kills me. They’re crossing the finish line together, winning the black belt of romance, sticking it out and eking every last drop of time they have together. Making it count. I know we all die alone, but the things I love most are built to last: houses, furniture, friendships – and love.
A letter from my grandmother to my mother, in her amazing spidery script: “I suppose your Daddy and I are two of the most happy persons in the world! We have each other! We love each other! We love our four good lovely offspring, and their sweet spouses; and oh! How we love our darling grand-children. The best thing that ever happened to me was marrying your Daddy. He is so good, and so sweet – so industrious, talented and helpful. So dear!”
I was lucky enough to have two sets of grandparents who loved each other fiercely until the day they died. Maybe it was seeing my dad lose my mom to cancer; learning from a very young age how fragile the promise of a lifelong bond really is. So often, it’s not a choice. To be able to choose to be with someone, to stay by their side for as long as you possibly can – seems like such a gift, such a luxury. To me, it’s this kind of love, the forever kind, that I’ve always hoped to find. But I wonder now – does that make every other kind of love invalid? I think of myself often as being unlucky in love, because my relationships eventually ended. They didn’t make it, didn’t survive the heart’s cruel vicissitudes. Does the lack of longevity render those affections meaningless? Or is it because I was young and dumb, because it was really lust, or infatuation, or because we don’t talk anymore, or even think about each other, ever. What about the people you fall madly in love with, for the span of a few blocks, on the bus or the subway? What about your best friend who you had a burning crush on but never told? Well, I guess that I just don’t know.
A friend of mine told me a few months back that thing about how some lovers are for a reason, some for a season, and some for a lifetime. It stuck with me, that thought, kept me awake and thinking, until I flung off the covers, turned on the light, grabbed my magical information device, and tracked down this:
“People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.
When you figure out which one it is,
you will know what to do for each person…
When someone is in your life for a REASON,
it is usually to meet a need you have expressed.
They have come to assist you through a difficulty;
to provide you with guidance and support;
to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually.
They may seem like a godsend, and they are.
They are there for the reason you need them to be.
Then, without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time,
this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end.
Sometimes they die. Sometimes they walk away.
Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand.
What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled; their work is done.
The prayer you sent up has been answered and now it is time to move on.
Some people come into your life for a SEASON,
because your turn has come to share, grow or learn.
They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh.
They may teach you something you have never done.
They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy.
Believe it. It is real. But only for a season.
LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons;
things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation.
Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person,
and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life.
It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant.“
— Unknown
I guess that I do know some things now.
I know that I’m still just a fool on the hill.
I know that you can always be surprised.
I know that you just never know.
I know that these words have helped me, immeasurably:
“The greatest gift you can give somebody is your own personal development. I used to say, ‘If you will take care of me, I will take care of you. Now I say, I will take care of me for you, if you will take care of you for me.'”
– Jim Rohn
“I spent my life learning to feel less. Every day I felt less. Is that growing old? Or is it something worse? You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.” – Jonathan Safran Foer
“Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
“There is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. It is a duty to take this risk, to love and feel without defense or reserve.” — William S. Burroughs
“Ninety percent of the people in the world end up with the wrong person. And that’s what makes the jukebox spin.”
– Willie Nelson
Words of wisdom from folks I wish I could claim as my friends, but also I think of the truths from friends, the wise things they’ve told me to get me through. I’m so grateful for them. Even today, a perfect gem fell from the lips of my girl Nicole, quoting a song I’ve never heard, “just because it’s real, don’t mean it’s gonna work.”
And this precious diamond from Bridget Lanterna Magica via papercutting wizard Jack Wittenbrink in New Orleans:
“‘How fine to think the thing that’s coming will make this calibre of good look so shabby and impoverished. You’ve seen nothing of love’s riches. And what second best for you will be richer than the likes of me shall ever see in this life. You are destined for a love that is so rare and fine, few ever get it. I wish you were a rich woman and doubted me, that I would be rich when I won a wager with you on the fortune that awaits you. You have only to choose what chocolate to first eat from a rich assortment. Only your aching heart forbids you to see this. There is nothing holding you back.’
I hope you too take these words to heart, because they are true, true, true.”
and this:
“When things fall apart, consider the possibility that life knocked it down on purpose. Not to bully you, or to punish you, but to prompt you to build something that better suits your personality and your purpose. Sometimes things fall apart so better things can fall together.” – Sandra King via Bean
It’s kind of strange to think that it took me so long to get around to getting tattooed, especially when I had wanted these particular symbols and placements for so very long. I was just waiting for the right time, and the right person, I suppose. Kai Smart at Chimera Tattoo Studio in Santa Cruz was just that very person. She did an amazing job with the white ink (which many tattoo artists eschew), and is an amazing artist, and lovely friend. It was the right time. I felt so much stronger than I had in a long while – but also ready to embrace everything I’ve been through as part of the journey. Full circle. Sitting with pain, finding a new path, a measure of grace.
First tattoos. I’ve wanted these fervently since I was about 15. They are the alchemical symbols for glass & eggshells. These elements have always been powerful materials and sigils for me. Honoring what is fragile, yet strong. Both are vessels of transformation, capable of containing a multitude of possibilities.
Glass. Earth made liquid, mutable, transparent. I think of the wonder of Greek amphorae, the precious vessels that have survived here and there, at the bottom of the ocean – somehow, for centuries. I think of windows. I remember when I first saw this symbol, it made me think of the vévé for Ayizan Velekete, the Vodou loa who serves as archetypal Mambo, or Priestess. She rules over initiations, the marketplace, divination, and herbal healing. She dresses in white, wearing an apron with deep pockets, where she keeps candy and coins for the children who flock around her in the market. Her face is hidden by palm fronds. Her name means, “Sacred Earth”. Ayzian’s veve is comprise of her initials, the “A” and the “V” intersecting across each other. It also resembles the Norse rune Ingwaz, which represents harmony, fertility and sacred marriage – with the specific message being that love, harmony or peace may be hard to achieve, but to persevere!
Eggshells. The Romans had the proverb — Omne vivum ex ovo / All life comes from an egg. The egg is an ancient symbol for the universe, for creation – it is the seed, the nurturing capsule for new life. Eggs has always been sacred to me. It is the ultimate beginning, the zero, ouroboros, tabula rasa. An egg can protect an embryo, nourish the hungry – it is fragile, and yet can withstand immense pressure. A potent symbol of fertility and promise, the egg is featured in Spring resurrection festivals. Is it any wonder I love Easter so much? There’s a superstition that instructs children to crush up their eggshells, so that witches would not be able to use them as boats, and bring tempests to the sea to drown sailors. In witchcraft, crushed eggshells are mixed with salt, and used for protection, for the drawing of circles and sigils. This is commonly called cascarilla powder, or peace powder, and is used in Santeria, Haitian voodoo, and South American folk magic.
The Witch’s Egg
THE THEOSOPHICAL EGG
Gypsy Sorcery and Fortune Telling, by Charles Godfrey Leland, 1891
“The present was an egg laid by the past that had the future inside its shell.”
– Zora Neale Hurston
On 11.11.13, I didn’t go out to the woods. I didn’t build a fire and throw things into it, or light candles. I wished on 11:11, though, yes. I woke up early, and met with an old and dear friend. I attended to my neglected feet, and had my legs massaged and toes painted by a smiling stranger. I remember how crushing it felt last year, to go through these motions of self-care. I can recall so clearly sitting in the parking lot of a deserted shopping center in my cold car, a thin sliver of crescent moon high above, observing. I rested my head on the steering wheel, wondering if that horrible hollow feeling would ever go away. It felt like my chest was caving in under a great weight.
Today, I sat in the parking lot of a different shopping center, feeling something totally different. Not riotous happiness, per se – more like a sense of being reasonably content (as well as unseasonably hot). I shopped for food for my animals, and food for myself. I bought a package of rainbow colored pens, thumbtacks and a red rosebush. Also some pansies, a cyclamen and later, a bouquet of nearly black roses. I romanced myself in mundane ways, and took care of business. I ate supper, and read movie reviews in the paper. In the evening, I sat on the porch in the gathering dusk and talked with the man who I once shared a life with, about this and that – hard things and easy things. Mosquitoes danced around our heads in thick halos. My heart did not hurt in a huge way. His face was full of shadows, clinging to his fine bones like moss, his eyes bright in the twilight. He left, after a bit, and I planted borage seeds, the air grown dark, my fingers pushing into the earth blindly. Earlier today, chatting over coffee about the all the stupid shit of life that sometimes births wonders, I said, “No mud – no lotus.”
Later, I opened a gifted book (thank you, Elly…) at random to this poem:
The day lay like a pearl on her lap
she licked at it w/ the edges of her brain
The day shone in her lap like a promise
of lotuses sprouting from warm worm-eaten mud
11.11.13. This is what they looked like today, healed.
11.11.11 – ELEVEN ELEVEN ELEVEN – A WISH.
11.11.12. – INSTEAD
SPIRIT SONG ROCK
Day of the Dead in Austin, Texas
by angeliska on November 1, 2013
One of my biggest dreams is about to come true. For years, (nearly 8 now!) I have dreamed of somehow making a Day of the Dead parade like the one that happens every year in New Orleans occur here in my hometown: Austin, Texas. Ever since Katrina blew me back this way, I’ve sought to preserve the magic that my many years in the Crescent City showed me: the incredible experience that reveling in the streets can bring, The joy of elaborate and creative costuming, and the reverence for the spirits of the dead, combined with an awareness that they are never truly far away from us.
I have a deep desire in this life to change somehow the way that we approach death and grieving in our society – whether through my interactions with individuals, or within a larger community. I also feel that the meaning of life boils down to singing and dancing while you may, and making the time and space for that to happen – especially on significant holidays, particularly in public spaces, and absolutely surrounded by likeminded folks who are ready to go on that journey together. These are acts of ritual significance that have been eroded by our modern existence – we have forgotten: how to mourn our dead, and how to express the joy of truly being in the moment, moving our bodies, our bones. I feel that helping to create a Day of the Dead Parade here in Austin (at last!) is not only something I’ve been wishing for for ages, it’s also a beautiful culmination of these two aspects of life that I’m intensely passionate about exploring and experiencing. I’ve been involved in creating special parties and events pretty much continually over the last decade of my life, and it is an act of creation that I have always perceived as a particular kind of magic making: bringing people together, casting a glamour and weaving a spell into the ambiance to ensure an evening that will be remembered. I love doing that work, but in the last year or so, my focus has shifted. I’ve felt called to quieter pursuits: reading tarot, working as a witch, and of course – writing. I want the parties I participate in not solely be only for pleasure, but also to have a deeper spiritual meaning, an anchor for the year, to mark the days that seem to spin past us like wind.
It began last winter with 12th Night. I joined forces with four of my very favorite lady dynamos to create a midwinter celebration to kick off the carnival season and shake off the dark doldrums – which it definitely accomplished, and then some!
My year would never be complete without experiencing Mardi Gras the way it’s done in NOLA, and I hope to always make that pilgrimage back to my heart’s home no matter what – but this is my home too, and it’s important to me to try and share as much of the beauty and sparkle and wisdom that I learned by the banks of the Mississippi River with all the people I love here in Texas. Holidays are sacred. There is powerful magic in paying attention to what they represent, and doing your best to do it justice. And so, it begins. New traditions, old ways: marked on the calendar, honored and delighted in. I can’t believe it’s finally happening. I hope that if you can, you’ll come and be part of it.
Krewe du Bisoux presents a DAY OF THE DEAD Procession & Celebration
November 2nd traditionally marks the Day of the Dead (Día de los Muertos or All Souls’ Day) which is honored in cities and villages all over the world. This year, the ladies from Krewe du Bisoux would like to bring you a special celebration of this sacred holiday, and to hopefully help this beautiful tradition have a place to blossom again, here in Austin, Texas. Inspired by the parade arts and culture of New Orleans, the procession is a big part of the magic of this holiday – bringing to mind the jazz funeral parades in Louisiana where loved ones would accompany the coffin-bearing carriage or hearse to the cemetery to be buried. The path to the boneyard was a solemn one, but upon leaving, the band would erupt in a joyous riot of dancing and music – an affirmation of life for those who must go on.
Day of the Dead is celebrated in the Bywater/9th Ward of New Orleans every year with a wild and rag-tag procession that is always somehow somber, heartfelt, and joyful all at once. The parade wends its way through the dark streets to the Mississippi River, between houses and over train tracks, carrying ashes, lanterns, photos and memories. Instead of ending at the river, our procession will be complete at Tillery Park, a new eastside locus for finding treasures, tastiness, green growing things – and much magic. There, we will will have altars set up to honor those who have passed on, inspired by many cultures, but most especially in the vein of pre-Columbian Día de los Muertos rituals honoring the Aztec goddess of the underworld, Mictecacihuatl, who keeps watch over the bones of the dead, and presides over the ancient festivals of death. Known as the “Lady of the Dead”, she has come to be represented by the elegant Catrina figure, in her feathered hat and beautiful gown, represents the equalizing power of mortality over rich and poor alike. Sugar skulls (calaveras or calacas) and other treats, such as as pan de muerto, candles, photographs and marigolds, are part of the traditional offerings on the altars for the dead, to satisfy their sweet tooths and welcome them home. We will be creating several altars at Tillery Park which we hope you will contribute to with your own special offerings.
Making sure some of our favorite customs are upheld within the community and making it something to be shared publicly, is a very important aspect for us. By taking this festival to the streets and into our neighborhood, we hope to revive an ancient tradition dear to our hearts, a remembrance of all those we have loved and lost. We aim to create a parade for dashing fellows, sparkling queens, urchins and mamas and their little ones and elders and sisters and brothers and lovers. And, of course, for our beloved dead – invoked, unseen, everywhere.
They’ll be dancing with us, through the streets of East Austin.
For more info, please check out our website: www.dayofthedeadatx.com
As a special feature of the altar & celebration at Tillery Park, we’re going to have a projected slideshow of photos of our loved ones that have passed. Guests have been invited to submit photos of their own, and have been sending in the most touching stories and images.
Hay más tiempo que vida!
ALL LIT UP: DIY PARADE LANTERNS AND TISSUE PAPER DREAMS
We also had an awesome lantern-making workshop in preparation for the parade – so many lovely folks came out and got crafty. Many gorgeous lanterns were made, and a wonderful time was had by all.
Invoked, Unseen, Everywhere – Krewe de Bisoux brings NOLA style to Dia de Los Muertos celebration
Happy Día de los Muertos!
Day of the Dead in Bywater New Orleans 2012
Day of the Dead March New Orleans 2011
Posts from years before:
✂ FEAST OF ALL SOULS
✂ LAS CATRINAS
✂ Day of the Dead in New Orleans
✂ Cempasúchil por los Muertos
✂ Día de los Muertos – R.I.P. Studs Terkel
✂ Santissima Muerte!
Dark Spirit Honey
by angeliska on October 30, 2013
In honor of the season, I’m making an effort to revive my honeyed treasure trove of findings and wonders from all corners of the web. I’ve been collecting little bits of spookiness and spectral delight for a little while now, and am happy to finally have a moment to share them here – beginning with the wonderful portrait Darla Teagarden took of me one sultry summer, lordy – a couple years ago, now. She’s a genius, and so amazing to work with. I felt extremely honored to have the opportunity to be transformed by her eye.
The Winter Witch, by Darla Teagarden
☾ Killer Cave May Have Inspired Myth of Hades
Mourning ring with two trees in hair, 1770. The Trustees of the British Museum
☾ A truly stunning collection of mourning jewelry: English Mourning Rings in the British Museum from Material Cultures
Image by Emiliano Boga
☾It’s odd, but I’ve grown snapdragons for years, and never noticed the little skulls formed by the dried pods until I saw this: The Dragon’s Skull: The Macabre Appearance of Snapdragon Seed Pods
☾ The Molecatcher from Feral Strumpet
“A couple hundred years ago, a mole was a mouldywarp or ‘dirt tosser’. These chthonic beings are suspect, or so says Leviticus. They are counted among the unclean ‘creeping things that creep on the earth.’ Apollodorus of Athens tells us that the ancients believed eating the heart of a mole would give one the gift of divination– the ability to metaphorically see into darkness, and Pliny the Elder claims moles can hear you talking about them. Moles are of the dark company, the sort that make pacts with witches. Isaiah tells us enlightened men will toss their idols of gold and silver to the moles and bats.”
Moles tied to a fence outside of Bolton Castle.
But Mole stood still a moment, held in thought. As one wakened suddenly from a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall it, but can recapture nothing but a dim sense of the beauty in it, the beauty! Till that, too, fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly accepts the hard, cold waking and all its penalties.
― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
☾ A CONVERSATION WITH BERND HEINRICH
Death and Dying, the Animal Way
“But now I began doing little experiments on my property. I’d been working on a book about beetles and I thought this might make a chapter. So I put out roadkill — mice, raccoon, a shrew — and then watched for who came and how nature’s undertakers — burying beetles, maggots, gorgeous green bottle flies — broke the carcass down.
The entire scene was about transformation. A mouse would die and get eaten and it became beetles. Or its molecules could become part of a hawk or an owl. I looked at a moose and a deer carcass and I was fascinated by how quickly even big things disappeared in nature.”
Death and the Patron – Preamble to the commentary on the esoteric meaning of Hieronymus Bosch’s painting Death and the Miser
☾ Death and the miser – an esoteric analysis of the painting by Hieronymus Bosch
From the Paris Review – Abandoned House, Frankfort, Maine
☾ Corinne May Botz – Haunted Houses
“My sister and I always heard our names called. My father always said it was the wind, but the wind don’t say your name. I didn’t like going up on the third floor, that’s where I saw a man sittin’ in an easy chair. Sometimes it sounded like people were walking around the house and running down the halls. When we first moved there the floor in the back room was all cluttered with love letters. Maybe that guy died there or somethin’. That place made me feel so weird. My mother died in the house the day we were moving out; I feel like a part of her is still there. It was always cold in the house so my mother was happy we were moving to a warm place. The moving vans had just left, she was finally gettin’ out of the house and she never got out. As bad as I wanted to leave cause it’s creepy, I miss it. I’m not sure if it’s true but I heard that the man who bought it won’t stay there ’cause it’s haunted. The place has been empty for a long time.”
— Cheryl, who lived with her family in the house from the 1950s until the 1970s
☾ An inspiring collection of elegantly gloomy interiors: Dark, Darker, Darkest… from The New Victorian Ruralist
☾ I want this book very, very much: Dark Spirits: The Magical Art of Rosaleen Norton and Austin Osman Spare, Dr. Nevill Drury
“Although they never met, the Australian witch Rosaleen Norton (1917-1979) and British visionary artist Austin Osman Spare (1886-1956) shared many points in common. As occult practitioners operating within the Western esoteric tradition, both artists were well versed in the literature of Western magic, Theosophy, kabbalah, Eastern mysticism, and modern psychoanalysis. Fascinated by mediæval magical grimoires, they also explored the ‘seals’ associated with elemental spirit-beings and developed unique forms of sigil magic. Perhaps even more significantly, Norton and Spare utilised their own personal techniques of self-hypnosis and trance in order to produce their distinctive visionary artworks. As this book demonstrates, there is a clear parallel between the trance states associated with the Zos / Kia cosmology of Spare and the trance magic of Norton. Profiling both artists in detail, and with in excess of 120 colour and black and white images, Dark Spirits explores the unique contributions of both Spare and Norton as visionary outsiders and is necessary reading for anyone interested in the nether regions of the magical psyche.”
Dr. Nevill Drury passed on October 15, 2013 – a last interview with him is posted at Occult of Personality.
☾ A 70-song introduction to one of the greatest record labels of all time: 4AD
☾ Also, I must go here one day: The History of Icelandic Sorcery
☾ Any Animal That Touches This Lethal Lake Turns to Stone
☾ Another book I’m very much looking forward to reading: The New Uncanny
‘Vampires in the Lemon Grove,’ by Karen Russell
“Bats in a cave are ‘a chandelier of furry bodies, heartbeats wrapped in wings the color of rose petals or corn silk.’”
Hope your Hallowe’en is marvelous! Here are some olden posts from spookytimes of yore:
✪ LITTLE BLACK APPLES FROM HURRICANE STREET
✪ I dressed as Vali Myers (one of my very favorite witches, ever) for Halloween last year…
✪ QUEENS OF HALLOWEEN
✪ New Orleans Hallowe’en
✪ Spookhouse Honey
✪ The Witches’ New Year
✪ Ha-ha-halloweenie
✪ ECTOPLASMIC HONEY
✪ WITCHNESS
Wild Blue Yonder
by angeliska on August 8, 2013
August 8th is the twenty-seventh anniversary of my mother’s death. Every year when this day rolls around again I take stock of the condition of my heart, and pause to consider my path – the one that has led me from the womb to whatever I may find on the road ahead. Two infinite eights, a snaky double lemniscate, always a fierce harbinger of sweltering dog days and thick dark storm clouds, heavy with memory. Although this year, something has changed – the air has shifted somehow, and I find a weight has been lifted off somehow. Somewhere in the depths of my broken heart, a strange and solemn joy has been unfolding feathered pinions. I think this is what’s known as… healing. Every year that I’ve taken the time to honor the day of my mother’s passing, I’ve grown a little, learned some, healed a bit. I realize how angry I was at her, for so long – for leaving me, for not saying goodbye properly, even though she had plenty of opportunity to (or so I thought). Children are self-absorbed, thinking the whole world revolves around them – and so, for a long time I never took the time to imagine what it must have been like for her. How terrifying, to be dying, to be leaving everything you knew and loved. The enormity of saying goodbye. I didn’t realize then how many people dying from a terminal illness are so consumed with their sickness and pain, not to mention contemplating the imminent termination of their mortal sojourn, that tying up loose ends and saying impossible goodbyes often go by the wayside. What words could possibly make it better, anyhow? Well, I can think of a few. All my life, people who were close to my mom have informed me about how much she loved me. My brain registered their words, but my heart wasn’t convinced. I thought that if my mother had truly loved me, she would have fought harder to stay alive, to stay with me. Or, at least, she would have taken me aside and said all the things that would prove that she really cared. I think now that maybe she’s been saying them to me all along, whispering them in my ears, brushing my hair out of my sullen face – I was just too hurt and mad to hear it.
I randomly came across the last letter my mother ever wrote to me on July 3rd of this year. It was written about a month before she died – dated July 3, 1986. I found it 27 years later, to the day. You can tell she was really hurting because her handwriting is so shaky. Her words reaching out to me from across the void, through the ether. I had read it plenty of times before, over the years – but it had been awhile. I saw different things in it than I was able to perceive before – reading between those lines meant for a child’s mind, the pain and longing bleeding over into her penmanship. She wanted to hear from me so badly. I did see the fireworks, and I did go to the Watts Towers, which I loved and still love. Somewhere I have a cassette tape we recorded as an audio letter to my parents. I’ve only ever listened to it once, because it’s so painful to hear my squeaky little voice trying so hard to sound jubilant and brave. We were all hiding our hurt and longing from each other, too well. Every night that I curled up on my cot in my grandparent’s North Hollywood guest-room that summer, I ached for her, calling to her with every fibre of my tiny heart. They had sent me away while she was settled into hospice in Lone Grove, preparing for the descent into the underworld. It was too much for me to have to see her that way, and they were protecting me, I suppose. Years later, my grandmother told me that around the time she wrote this letter, that she had called in the middle of the night and begged for them to put me on a plane the next morning, to send me back to her. She needed to see me, wanted me near. My grandmother told her that we had big plans to go to Disneyland the next day, and that there was no way she could disappoint me and my cousin Caleb, because we were so excited about seeing Mickey Mouse. Grandma said it was one of the biggest regrets of her entire life, not just calling a halt to our plans, and heeding my dying mother’s last wishes. Hearing that story from her was like being punched in the gut. I never knew. Maybe if I had come then, she could have told me all the things I wanted to hear from her lips in person, but by the time they finally sent me back to Texas, she was so weak and diminished. Her seizures had gotten bad, and her mind was clouded with painkillers. She died not long after. Even before I knew all that, I had found Disneyland to be hugely disappointing. None of the magic was real. Everything was plastic and robotic and overpriced and crowded and stupid. I hated everything about it (except for the haunted mansion, pirates and abominable snowmen, I guess.) So that’s why I loathe Disneyland. Because I could have seen my mother one last time when she was still able to talk to me. And Mickey Mouse fucking stole that from me.
Maggie’s Original Silver & China
Truth & sass, courtesy of my mom. She was proud of the fact that her jewelry was entirely handcrafted. Now that I know some of the magic of silversmithing, I share her pride.
I wear this chrysocolla flower cuff she made all the time. Her work was so exacting, every detail thought out and perfectly executed. Every piece I make is an exercise in following in her footsteps. I’m not so much a perfectionist myself, but in my mind, I imagine her scrutinizing my handiwork. I want everything to be as flawless as possible, to meet her high standards of aesthetic and craftsmanship.
I inherited all her tiny treasures, her precious bits and bobs.
I used to paw through this box of jewels when I was a child, imagining that my mother was some kind of royalty in hiding, to be in possession of such marvelous gems… All glass & paste, but precious to me.
My mother collected broken china plates that she had my Grampy grind and shape on a wheel into cabochons for her jewelry. I inherited this legacy from both of them, and am continuing their work as best as I am able.
I made this sterling silver & porcelain cuff for Mlle. Dana Sherwood’s birthday. The china piece was one of those cut by my Grampy for my mama back when she was alive & making jewelry. She didn’t live long enough to use them all, so that’s partly why I wanted to learn how.
Another piece I made for someone I love. None of these pieces will ever be sold, but instead only go as gifts to those I consider to be family. In giving them a piece of jewelry made from this old china, I am sharing a piece of my mother, of my grandfather with them. These silver threads connect us.
I think you can tell a lot about who someone is by what they love, by their taste, by what they collect & are drawn to. Material objects can be powerful emblems of identity & memory. With that in mind, I present to you, my mother. I didn’t find this list until a few years ago. It’s kind of crazy how similar we are in our tastes, and so many other things. Though, it’s really no surprise that what she loved, I also adore. Acorn, meet tree.
Things I Really Like
Perfume (certain brands) esp. “orientals”
Scented soaps and powder
Rhinestone jewelry
Sexy panties and bras (black + red)
Cotton clothing
Black suede
Mary-jane-type shoes
Oriental furniture
carved stones
Art deco
Blue Mirror glass
Flowers – especially “old” roses, iris + carnations
Cactus
Western stuff
Nice cowboy boots + hats
Books (art, architecture, cars, plants + music)
Like to read: social commentary
Fine tools
Cadillacs from 1948-1952
Lamps and light fixtures
1940’s + 1950’s stuff – especially music, cars, + housewares (clothes too)
Jackets that look like riding habits
real cotton velvet
Baroque pearls
“Hotel” dishes (esp. Syracuse China)
glass-stopper perfume bottles
unusual rocks
cats + some dogs; horses
Hank Williams
fine stringed instruments
hand-made stuff
colored aluminum dishes
celluloid
Spanish anything
Shoes with ankle straps
fine leather goods
opalescent glass
“worry objects”
glass buttons
Flowered chintz
pastels
Glass brick, spanish tile, stucco
Today, instead of doing what I normally do on August the 8th – (isolating myself with my grief, processing, crying over old letters) I decided to treat myself nicely for a change, to celebrate her life, and do things she might do if she were still alive. I got my hair did the day before, got a massage from a dear friend, went out for gelato, hung out with my dad, and made a pilgrimage to the Elisabet Ney Museum – one of my mama’s favorite places, and mine too.
Sursum! It is such a magical place. If you’re in Austin & have never been, I highly recommend a visit.
There’s a really sweet man in my life who knows me better than I know myself sometimes. He brought me fancy breakfast and roses (with the best moniker ever: HIGH AND MAGIC!) this morning because he knew that today is often a hard day for me. I usually don’t tend to share this day with anyone, but it was so nice showing him around my mom’s old stomping ground. We drove past the house where I was conceived and lived until the age of 3. He was so sweet and kind to me, and it felt good to go on adventures together instead of just brooding by myself all day. I think about this piece Cheryl Strayed (aka. Dear Sugar) wrote to a man asking how he could better be there for his partner who had lost her mother. I think it’s a really helpful thing to read for anyone who loves anyone who’s ever lost someone:
DEAR SUGAR, THE RUMPUS ADVICE COLUMN #67: THE BLACK ARC OF IT
Or, if you’d prefer to hear her read it aloud to you, there’s this:
The Black Arc Of It – from Tiny Beautiful Things, by Cheryl Strayed
And by the way, if you haven’t read that book yet, please do. It has saved my life a hundred times over, and taught me so much. Oh, and yeah – I do quote something or other from it pretty much every year on this day. She just knows. Cheryl Strayed is the official President of the Motherless Daughters Coalition for Healing Your Own Goddamn Broken Heart. Pretty much because I say so.
My mother’s best friend was a magical woman named Lenore Nier, who lived in New York and loved purple and was a poet. She died of cancer, the same scourge that killed my mother, less than ten years later. She always used to send me postcards and letters from museums with her favorite paintings. Such a lovely woman. This poem to my mom was sent amidst a flurry of sympathy cards (which I used to disdain as mere Hallmark pity, but now wish people still sent each other. It’s a nice gesture, dammit.) It was inscribed on the inside of a card with a holographic rainbow unicorn on it, which I remember coveting. I have it now.
Roses and Crystals (To Maggie)
Go in love, go in peace.
You’ve left your love
Everywhere.
Across the miles,
My house is filled with your souvenirs,
Your rings and your art.
You saved my cat when she was hurt.
Oh, Maggie…
You were a rainbow,
Roses and crystals,
Now you lay dying across the miles.
In love you die, to love you go.
Sad vigil’s end.
Oh, Maggie…
You were a prism of colored lights,
But now you’re light. Your love will live –
Your crystals and roses,
Your art and music,
Your husband and child.
In the end we all follow our lonely roads.
I wish you peace
At last…
Love,
Lenore
(August 2 and 12, 1986
Brentwood, New York)
A valentine from my mama.
For so long, I have longed to communicate with her spirit, to hear her voice again. In dreams and visions, I manifest antique telephones and elaborate devices to facilitate our otherworldly conversations. I recently reread a vivid dream I had a while back, where I found her standing in my kitchen fiddling with an archaic radio set. She firmly tells me that it is time to put this thing back together, to get it working again. Her hair is hennaed even redder and pulled up into a bouncy ponytail. She’s wearing little shorts and a t-shirt and looks so young and cute. She’s intent upon the pieces of the communication device in her hands, and in her familiar voice and cadence, she says, “Oh, it’s fallen into disrepair – the metal has become corroded over time.” I grab her hands as she’s inspecting it closer and stand up to embrace her, saying, “Mommie, I miss you so, so, so much. I’ve missed you every single day.” I hug her and kiss her face all over. We are the same height now. I think she’s too surprised to know what to say.
I feel like recently, I finally broke through the membrane separating us: I had a profound experience where I was able to deeply commune with her spirit. During a powerful meditation, I found myself focusing on the mystery of motherhood and the magic of the crone. I was thinking especially about the amazing old women in my life, and how much love and respect I have for them. I was imagining myself growing elderly, my body’s inevitable decay. I thought about my aunt, who I adore – my mother’s sister. She lovingly took care of both my grandparents until their deaths, and I thought about what an honor it is to get to be present with someone you love, to return the favor of the care they bestowed upon you when you were small. To tenderly wash the aged body, the sagging breasts that you once fed from, the withered belly that you lived in, the weakened arms that once held and carried you. It hit me for the first time that I would never have the chance to experience my mother that way – that I would never, ever see her as an old woman, her auburn hair turned to silver, her face creased with lines, skin turned to crepe paper. I wept and wept for her, for the deep longing, the raw missing of her. So visceral, the clutching, reaching towards the body that you came from, the door where you came in. I grieved for her like a lost infant, and felt that ancient child’s cry bubbling up in my chest: “I…WANT…MY…MOMMIE!” She was the one I screamed for in the middle of the night when I was scared after a bad dream. I remember realizing with sorrow and shock soon after she had died that I would never be able to call to her in the night again. That she would never be able to come to me and comfort me, ever, from this point forward. The finality of death is hard for a little kid to comprehend, but I understood then what it meant. She was gone, permanently.
In the night, in the midst of that vision, I feel like she came to me: first, through her emblems, the sweet roses painted on fine china. Her symbols, the images that embody her spirit now – they flooded through me in psychedelic sunset waves of cactus flowers swirling like galaxies, emitting cascades of sparks and shooting stars. Fiorucci angels winking behind heart-shaped sunglasses and glamourous starlets with their hair in victory rolls, chorus lines of pink flamingos, and roseate flaming vintage dreamboat cars arcing through the sky like comets, like fireworks. She came to me through all this glory, and held me close. In her mimosa honey and tabasco voice, she told me everything I ever wanted to hear, everything I ever wanted to know. I know, now, completely, incontrovertibly, utterly: how much my mother loved me, still loves me. How precious I am to her. That I am the best thing she ever made, the rarest jewel in her treasure chest. I know that now, and I have to remember to carry it with me all the time, and never forget it. I told her how sad I am that she’s not alive right now, that she’s not in my world, awake and breathing in this life. She would be 66 years old. She tells me, “Y’know, it’s okay, baby. It really is. I’m at peace with it.” She tells me that she had had enough of the wisdom found in pain and suffering and sitting with the reality of her body breaking down, that she’s glad she died at her prime, when she was the most beautiful, that she didn’t have to know what it was to be an old lady. If she had, she would have been someone else, and I would have become someone else, too. It would have been a different story. And her story ended right where it was supposed to. She tells me that she’s free now, that she can go anywhere. In knowing that, in hearing the echoing truth of it resounding deep in my bones, I was able to finally let her soul go fly off joyfully to where it wants to be. For the first time in my entire life, I felt a sense of acceptance, and peace. It was so simple, and so profound – I watched her kind of shrug her thin white shoulders, and lips curved in that secretive Mona Lisa half-smile as she waved goodbye. Before she flew away, I caught a glimpse of that place where she lives eternally now, and it is so unimaginably goddamn beautiful.
My mother’s blue heaven is this: her fantasy dream car, a 1949 Cadillac Series 62 Coupe de Ville is pulled over on the side of a lonely country road, out in between the corn and cotton fields. It is dusk, the sky a pure Maxfield Parrish periwinkle, deepening into cobalt and indigo, where silvery stars have just begun to glitter. At the horizon, the last shades of a brilliant sunset are fading into gold and dusty rose, and the bats and barn-swallows are chasing junebugs and mayflies in the darkening air. The headlamps of the Caddy illuminate my mother’s cowboy boots, and her favorite Hank Williams song is playing on the radio, competing with the fiddling crickets. She’s laughing and dancing with a long tall stranger, kicking up her heels in the dust of this perfect deserted twilight place. Out there in the wild blue yonder, where she’s dancing now – forever.
Me and my mama. One day I’ll see her again. Someday, beyond the blue.
Hank Williams – When God Comes and Gathers His Jewels
If you’d like to read more about my mama, here you go:
NO ROOM IN MY HEART FOR THE BLUES
FAMILY VACATION – HANK WILLIAMS’ GRAVE
STAR-CROSSED TROUBADOURS
Foxes in the Rain
Triumvirate Lemniscate
Gustav + Mama – August 8th
