You need some healing hands, Sistah, big time. This is my visual virtual prayer for the Sessums, for whatever it’s worth.
this one’s for you, Jeneane
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the magic of chaos
Cybermagic and the beginning of shifting the universe for r@d@r and his family:
The conjuring goes on here on the mountain, with the digging of roots, the finding of wings, the weaving of shield, the sewing (yes, SEWING) of seeds, the winding of vines.
Intention and will. It all begins in chaos and it ends in connection and creativity.
More to come.
finding myself in chaos
Chaos is the theme here. And magic.
I live in a state of chaos, a slave to my mother’s elusive mind. My own living space is a shambles of clothes and crafts, books and dishes and paper.
And so I’m fascinated to have been introduced to “chaos magic” or, as it is known, “Kaos Magick.” From a link that r@D@r sent me to, I found out
Results are what count. Try something. If it works, try it again to verify. Continue to practice the technique until you perfect it. If the technique doesn’t work for you, drop it and try something else. Explore – and don’t accept as truth anything you haven’t experimented with yourself; you are your own laboratory. “Everything else is mysticism,” according to Pete Carroll. Phil Hine is a little more elaborate: “Rather than trying to recover and maintain a tradition that links back to the past (and former glory), Chaos Magick is an approach that enables the individual to use anything that s/he thinks is suitable as a temporary belief or symbol system. What matters is the results you get, not the ‘authenticity’ of the system used.”
[snip]
Most chaotes recognise three basis models of magick: the spirit, energy and psychological models. Recently, a number of leading-edge chaotes have begun to integrate the magickal models of other eras into a new model: the Cybernetic model…
The whole article is fascinating to me because, until last night, I never heard of Kaos Magick, but apparently that is close to what I do — except I only subscribe to the bolded half of this assertion:
Since life is meaningless, be the artist of your own destiny. Create your own meaning, rather than be enslaved or conditioned by anyone else’s. If nothing is true, then everything is permitted.
Interesting notion, this Kaos Magick. I don’t like putting labels on myself, so I’m not putting this one on either.
But it sure is “interesting.”
out of the funk and into the fire
I’m feeling fired up, thanks to Ex-Liontamer, r@d@r
I don’t know who “r@d@r” really is. That is I don’t know his real-world name. But his blog has been on my radar since I started blogging, and he sometimes leaves comments here, the last one being on my previous post.
So, he’s got me fired up about creating something to urge the universe to give him and his family some well-deserved changes in fortune. And we’re both going to blog the process. He’s already begun.
(As a relevant aside, I heard Keith Olbermann today report on an Oxford professor’s assertion that planet earth and those of us on it could be a simulation that some greater intelligence is playing on his/her computer. A sort of truly complex version of “Sim City.” Heh. God as some ultimate computer geek; or else the ultimate alien invasion. The point of my aside being, if that’s the case, all the more possibility for the effectiveness of ritual, prayer, and ordinary magic.)
It also helped to fire up my spirit that a friend from Albany called this morning and invited me to join her and her aunt for lunch at the Culinary Institute of America (which, it turns out, is only about 15 miles from where I live). My brother agreed to take over my day shift, and off I went for a gourmet lunch that ended in some Tiramisu the way it should be made.
My taste buds are in ecstasy and my right brain is in overdrive. That pretty much makes a perfect day for me.
Stay tuned as r@d@r and I connect to instigate a shift in the universe.
sending success
There was a time, when time was mine, when I would gather sticks and feathers and beads and stones and whatever other relevant and symbolic objects I could find and do my own little bit of magic making. Over my years of blogging, I even have created and snail mailed some to other bloggers from Colorado to South Africa to Australia.
But, time and access being what it is, I am resorting to the virtual this time, as I send my good energies across the country to my son in Portland, Oregon, who is making every effort to land the job he wants.
Instead of poking around for substantial objects that I can wind and weave, I search around for images that have no substance except what I give to them with my hopes and wishes. And so this virtual talisman for success. To my son.
An Open Letter
The following post is by MYRLN, a non-blogger who is Kalilily’s guest writer every Monday.
Dear President Mr. Gee Dumbya Bush:
This is a letter to you but also many others may read it ‘cuz it’s an open letter. One of your aides can explain to you what that is. And I know you’re on vacation right now, but maybe one of your aides will read this to you anyway.
Well, President Mr. Etc., I am a lifelong citizen and fan of the United States of America, but lately it’s more like the Un-United States, and that troubles me. You said you’d be the uniter. But instead of a Union, we seem to be more like an onion — with layers being peeled away ’til all that’s left are you, your dog, and Laura (she’s your wife). And 2 people and a pooch are hardly enough to be a country as I think even you could see. (If not, one of your aides could explain it.)
The reason for our problems, in part, is that you’re, as you like to say, the 911 prez. To you, that refers to the terrorist attack on the U.S., but what it’s really more like is the other 911, the emergency number we need to call almost every day ‘cuz of the trouble we’re in since you got elected and somehow re-elected. (I won’t bring up the election cheating business right now.) Like the dumb war you started and can’t figure how to finish (and your aides are obviously no help there).
Then, too, there’s your trimming away at the Constitution (no, not the ship, ask your aides) and hiding behind your Executive Privilege (which someone told me you think is a car) or the line about Need to Know. That last I understand some ‘cuz where your presidency’s concerned, I have a similar need, too: NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!
And you oughta stop trying to scare people with those “maybe” terrorist threats you announce so as to keep some kind of hold over folks (like all terrorists do) by yelling “BOO!” at them every once in awhile when you feel the heat creeping up the backside of your presidency. Try remembering this is the land of the FREE and the home of the BRAVE (which one of your aides etc). It’s only you and your VEEP who duck into hidey-holes when some kind of trouble threatens.
Anyway, that’s what I wanted to say.
Sincerely,
Myrln S. Orcerer
p.s. My daddy read this over and says it shouldn’t be “Dumbya” in the salutation ‘cuz that’s plain wrong. I told him if he thinks it’s not Dumbya, he hasn’t been paying attention the last couple of years! (If you don’t get it, one of your aides…oh you probably know the drill by now. If not, one of your…….)
I could have written
This poem is one of Jim Culleny’s daily poetry emails:
Killing the Plants
Jane Kenyon
That year I discovered the virtues
of plants as companions: they don’t
argue, they don’t ask for much,
they don’t stay out until 3:00 A.M., then
lie to you about where they’ve been….
I can’t summon the ambition
to repot this grape ivy, of this sad
old cactus, or even to move them out
onto the porch for the summer,
where their lives would certainly
improve. I give them
a grudging dash of water – that’s all
they get. I wonder if they suspect
that like Hamlet I rehearse murder
all hours of the day and night,
considering the town dump
and compost pile as possible graves….
The truth is that if I permit them
to live, they will go on giving
alms to the poor: sweet air, miraculous
flowers, the example of persistence.
After I read it, for a moment I thought: “I could have written that.”
Maybe. But I didn’t.
I could have written about how my plants have always been “survival of the fittest.” Anything that withstands my haphazard care has a home for life, even the phallic piece I saved from the dead 5 foot cactus that I threw in into the woods last fall. I stuck the piece in the corner of some other pot, and the damned thing took root. Lopsided and blighted, it’s still growing.
I could have written about the avocado pit I rooted last year and actually made an effort to nurture. It’s dying now, and sometimes I see it as a mirror of my own spirit these days. The leaves dry up, one by one. Fall lightly from the grace of the sun.
I could have written about the seeds I never planted, jambed, envelope by envelope, into an old shoe box, waiting for a better planting season.
I could have written about my shoes — not only the never ending quest for the most comfortable pair of black dressy shoes, but also the compulsive buying of shoes that I probably only will wear in my fantasies.
I could have…
so, now it’s skin tags
As I stood in front of my full-length mirror after my shower, commending myself on losing almost 15 lbs over the past four months, I noticed them. I ran over to my computer and googled “tiny skin flaps cause.”
Skin tags.
It’s not bad enough that my gums are receding. It’s not bad enough that, despite losing some extra pounds, I can’t get rid of the (neck) waddle. And don’t get me going on the state of my upper arms. Now I have skin tags.
Yes, yes, I know. I’m not only getting older, I’m getting wiser. (At least that’s what we like to tell ourselves.)
But I’m GETTING OLD! I’m developing all of those obvious signs of old age. Why does that bother me — after all, I consider myself smart enough to keep it all in perspective and be proud to be an “elder.”
Actually, I think there are two reasons I am bothered by those obvious signs of aging (of course, I’m not bothered enough to have what body I have left carved up).
The first reason is my own sense of what I want to look like, my own personal sense of vanity and aesthetics.
The second reason is more valid. These physical signs are reminders of the time that is passing in my life, time I can never get back. What if my mother lives ten more years. I’m taking such good care of her that it just might happen.
In ten years, I will be 77. My dad died when he was 72.
What will I look like at 77? What personal joys will I have missed having during those 16 years that I will have been my mother’s primary caregiver? What will I still be able to do? Drive? Dance? Blog? Knit? Read?
Maybe. Maybe not.
And that made me think about how I would rewrite this poem of Jane Kenyon’s (another of Culleny’s daily poetry emails). I would have to turn it inside out and upside down.
Otherwise
by Jane Kenyon
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
It’s otherwise for me now. And then I’ve got skin tags on top of that.
sometimes it’s a Disney world
A shower-clean sun-dappled morning in our small back yard. Goldfinches cover the feeders, haphazardly spilling seeds at the base of the post, around which squirrels, mourning doves, and one male cardinal share the wealth. Then two chipmunks literally gambol across the clover, and our resident woodchuck shuffles his weight from around the edge of the fence. The scene, enhanced with rain-cleared colors and the musical score of the flighty finches, is right out of a Disney movie. I expect to see Thumper and Flower arrive any minute.
It is my fifteen minutes of solitude while my mother naps. I indulge myself with the brightest-hued, ripest, juiciest mango that has ever dripped down my chin and onto my favorite hang-around-the-house t-shirt.
Now, if those moments had extended far into the day, if I had hours in which to daydream, ponder, imagine, I might have come up with something I’d feel passionate enough to write about. But that’s not how my days go.
When I check my email just before my mother wakens, I find this poem, sent as one of Jim Culleny’s daily offerings. and it strikes me as just right. For me. For today. For the todays still to come.
Trippers and Askers Surround Me
From: Song of Myself
Walt Whitman
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Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet….the effect upon me of my early
life….of the ward and city I live in….of the
nation,
The latest news….discoveries, inventions,
societies….authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, business,
compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman
I love,
The sickness of one of my folks – or of myself….or
ill-doing….or loss or lack of money….or
depressions or exhaltations,
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle,
unitary,
Looks down, is erect, bends an arm on an impalpable
certain rest,
Looks with it’s sidecurved head, curious what will
come next,
Both in and out of the game, and watching and
wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through
fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments…I witness and wait.
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I believe in you my soul….the other I am must not
abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass….loose the stop from your
throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want,….not custom or
lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
Ramble to Utter Confusion
MYRLN is a non-blogger friend of mine who is the guest-poster here on Mondays. It’s another MYRLN Monday.
RAMBLE TO UTTER CONFUSION
by MYRLN
Diminishing daylight hours recalls the ambivalence of the first day of summer. It’s that longest day of the year on which we celebrate reaching the peak of daylight’s supremacy. But at the same time, it’s also the day when we begin again the slide into winter’s cold, dark dreariness. Oh, some will say, what a pessimist. They will ask, is the glass half full or half empty?
Well, actually it’s both at the same time…from an holistic viewpoint. And from the same viewpoint, the first day of summer is both a beginning and an ending. No matter how much you might want to ignore the duality, it’s there: the summit of light and warmth but also the descent towards dark and cold, a pattern likely the basis for the myth of Sisyphus. Push the stone to the top of the hill only to have it roll back down and require another and endless repetition of the task, while knowing full well its eternal nature.
So the glass is always both half full and half empty. To insist on one or the other is to require factionalism, partisanship — those things that inevitably lead to disagreement and extremism (e.g. al Qaeda terrorism vs. U.S. terrorism) and often to war between the extremes. So how does the holistic viewpoint deal with such extremes? Not well, actually. Simplify the question: is murder good or bad? The holist must say it’s both. The opposite viewpoint insists it’s a moral matter; it must be one or the other. So is holism amoral? If it refuses to distinguish between good and bad, then yes, it is, the partisan would say…if not downright immoral. And if no distinction, then humanity’s response is paralyzed when it comes to extremes of behavior or event. So the glass must be either half full or half empty. No holism allowed. Partisanship required. Like the Pope recently declaring Roman Catholicism the only true path to salvation, all other aspects of Christianity and other religions, in fact, false and useless. Or like the good prez, George Dumbya’s, “I’m right and everyone else is wrong so follow me or die.”
It’s a tough world for holists. The first day of spring or fall are the best days of the year for them: days and nights are of the same length, the glass half full and half empty at the same time. The Pope and prez must hate days like those. Or maybe not so much the Pope since he recently took a nice holistic view in declaring Evolution and Creationism not to be exclusive of each other. It’s sort of like the holist pointing out the obvious truth that the human animal is and always has been good and bad in one and the same body/mind. Hasn’t it?
Although…well, remember the Garden of Eden? Remember the admonition its inhabitants were given? “…of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it….” They were not to know of good and evil. See, even God didn’t want us to differentiate, wanted to keep that knowledge away from us. Or for us to know about it and not know about it at the same time? A holist? Hmmmm….
And poor Sisyphus, that first day of summer. All he can do as that damned rock begins to roll away from him, is watch, maybe cast a “Why me?” glance heavenward, and take a swig from his half-full/half-empty water bottle before starting after the rock…again. “At least it’s all downhill from there,” the eternal optimist would say, never realizing the irony of the remark.
Confusing, ain’t it? Or is it confusing and clear at the same time?