Goetia on Mother's Day

I passed a sign today on the way into New York City: "Lincoln: great President, crappy tunnel." Indeed.

I went into New York today for a workshop on Goetia with Lon Milo DuQuette. Lon has that gift of imparting real learning and information while being entertaining at the same time.

Before I get into that, no doubt some of you are wondering about Mother's Day. Did I blow off my Mom for Lon Milo DuQuette? Actually, no. We went to dinner on Saturday night, and I visited her on Sunday morning before catching my train. She told me this wonderful story: In the early years of her marriage to my father, they were out shopping and looking at flowers. My mother saw some daffodils, and told my father, "Oh, we should get these for your mother." My father replied, "Oh no. Daffodils aren't good enough for my mother." Fast forward to Mother's Day. My mother was in the kitchen visiting with my aunt and uncle. My father walked in with--daffodils. He said, "Happy Mother's Day. These are for you." My mother did not forget that these were not "good enough" for his mother. She laughs about it now.

As for me, the cat didn't get me anything for Mother's Day. Not even a dead mouse. But he has the sniffles, so I'm assuming he's distracted.

Back to Lon's workshop. I had lots of questions about Goetia. Why would someone invoke demons? It didn't make a whole lot of sense to me. I'm mired in the imagery of the unconscious, so I was sure it had something to do with that. But the notion of pacts with evil spirits is a weird idea. And if it goes wrong, what does one do? I didn't have to ask Lon a single question, and he answered all of these.

By drawing on his own experiences, and explaining things with very useful metaphors, he clarified Goetia for me in a way that other writers have not. The best metaphor had to do with machinery. He started with Solomon. In the Bible, Solomon is called upon to build the perfect Temple for the Most High. He appeals to Jehovah, as he has no idea how to begin such an operation, and asks him for the wisdom to build the Temple and rule his people. God responds by giving him the wisdom, and as part of that he gives him the "key" to his Temple building labor union. This happens to be 72 legions of demons. Demons are the heavy-lifters of the universe, and are as much a part of things as anything else. He drew comparisons with the Titans in ancient Greek mythology--these are a race of giants. (I think the Bible also has a race of giants--nephilim--the spawn of human women and angels. It's the reason for the Great Flood--God wants to destroy them). Psychologically, demons are our "problems". They are externally real in some sense, but don't manifest except through our weaknesses. Solomonic Goetic operations often allow the operator to confront their own weaknesses, and stand up to them. The idea of making a "pact" with them is absurd--you don't make "pacts" with your problems.

But I have not told you the brilliant metaphor. He compares demonic evocation to operating heavy machinery--bulldozers, backhoes, Caterpillar equipment. If you turn them on and let them run amok with no operator, they will charge along and destroy things. However, if properly operated, they can build useful structures. A woman in class raised her hand and asked, "Is the only difference between angels and demons that angels already have a job?" And Lon laughed and said we could end class with that comment. (We didn't, but it summed up a lot). Angels apparently are connected with specific forces. Demons have to be assigned tasks. They are the blind, chaotic (Qlipotic) forces of the universe, but they are part of it nonetheless.

Psychologically, the demonic relates to our Shadow. It is the weak areas of our psyche, and performing evocations is one way to confront these weak areas. I would still submit that it's not for everyone, but giving it a psychological context makes it less fearsome. The demonic are the things we do to ourselves to limit ourselves. And we can tell it "no" and not give in to it. And it will generally say, "okay".

Lon also talked about an experience where he was asked to exorcize a school building, and this answered my other question, because he described how he went about the operation, and what he confronted as a result. Every evocation is a confrontation with oneself and one's weakness. Each one is like an initiation.

I would recommend Lon's book, "Low Magick: It's All in Your Head...You Just Have No Idea How Big Your Head Is" for more discussion of Goetic operations. I can say that I learned a lot.

Normal

I drove to work yesterday morning and saw a sign that said "Organic Insect Buster". I thought it said "Organic Insect Butter" before a second look.

I wasn't the only one misplacing letters. I posted a link from Mental Floss magazine, and a friend thought it said "Mental Loss". As she said, why advertise the fact by buying a magazine?

I stare at my computer, and words blur before my eyes. I do not wish to admit that I am tired. My eyes are tired; my spirit is not. I look under my shirt, at the remains of my surgical incision. It curves around my nipple like a smile. I am tempted to draw eyes on the other side of my nipple, and make a smiley face. I resist the urge.

I finished an article yesterday evening on magical operations and the Jungian concept of the collective unconscious. I was fishing about for a particular reference, and came across a Catholic catechism site--not the official Vatican site, but clearly one of those Catholic community sites. I glanced at a list of questions from "laity"; they were all the same kinds of sniveling questions I heard when Father Lampert (the exorcist) spoke at Montclair State. "Father, is it true that all yoga practitioners are really devil worshippers?" That sort of thing. With equally bad and ignorant responses. I want to smack the questioners in the face and say, "wake up and stop being an idiot, already!" I want to double-smack the answerers, and say, "Stop feeding people's fear of the unknown!"

Living on the fringes means you have few friends, and are largely invisible. I find myself surprised at certain behaviors of others, behaviors that indicate that I am largely invisible to them. I remind myself that I shouldn't be surprised. This isn't new. I don't live a life that most people I interact with regularly can relate to. Most people in my demographic are married with kids, and discussing normal married-with-kids kind of stuff. They read mainstream books and go to mainstream movies. Even if they're a little off the beaten path, the kinds of things that interest me (largely forbidden, scary, and strange things) don't interest them at all. Similarly, I can't relate to their lifestyle, and can't speak to their issues with personal experience. I don't spend a lot of time with people who don't share my interests, so why should they?

Still, there are days when you crave ordinary conversation, and do mundane things to keep yourself from floating away. Worlds with too many words and thoughts get mixed up, and it's hard to know what's actual and what's potential. Wesley Stace said at the recent WAMFEST that the writing life is a lonely life. You spend a lot of time with your thoughts and ideas.

My non-writing time is often taken up with mundane tasks--keeping up with the housework and the yard, doing the washing, buying groceries, et cetera. Some weekends I am very tired and not in the mood to do all these things. My friends will tell me, "you don't HAVE to do those things." What they don't realize is that I DO have to do those things. I can't tolerate disorder in my life. Sure, to a certain degree, there is a creative chaos that can be wonderful. But not in my house. The bed is made every morning, the sink is never full of dishes, floors are regularly vacuumed and washed, things have to be put away. My home is my oasis, the place where I do my creative work, and where I get away from the rat race. If it's in disarray, then I become depressed. If my relaxation place is also overwhelmed by chaos, then so am I. I operate knowing there's a place to put my feet if my arms get tired.

My love life has a similar psychological trend. I find love, sex, and relationships to be infinitely more complicated than necessary. It's simple for me--either I'm attracted and would take the risk, or I don't. Most of the time I don't. I meet lots of men who I think are terribly interesting and make wonderful friends, but I'm not feeling the magnetism. I hate the social dictum that says that a woman's involvement with a man must necessarily be of a romantic or sexual nature. And the one that says a woman doesn't travel or do anything social alone. I try not to pressure others or put any expectations on them, and I have to say that I like it when others do the same.

I had a dream about a month ago, in which a voice said to me, "You are Sophia, and create the world alone." I was staring at a lush forest behind a waterfall.

I had lunch a couple of weeks ago with one of my former students. He happens to live alone as well, and he says it can be just as difficult for men as for women. The world is designed with the assumption that people live in pairs or groups. Ironically--people I encounter every day live in their own worlds. The social structure doesn't match the social reality. I am suspicious of people who are too ready to accept me as their best friend on sight--they're either drunk or belong to a cult-like Christian group. It's like men who tell you they love you after talking to you for 5 minutes. Somehow I don't accept their sincerity. At the same time, there is something disturbing about the lack of awareness of others that people demonstrate every day. There has to be a happy medium somewhere.

Nature is beautiful right now, and the weather is perfect, but the pollen is lethal. I am ever so sleepy. Even the cat is not immune; I hear him snuffling away. Spring is like an hallucination, all the pretty colors viewed through a haze. Tomorrow is Mother's Day, but I'm celebrating it with my mother this evening. Tomorrow I go to New York for a workshop downtown with Lon Milo DuQuette. It is on Goetia, which I have been reading about extensively, so I am most interested to hear what Lon has to say.

For now, I am going to take a nap--and then a long walk.

Amber

On Friday May 6 (tomorrow), "Animus" will be published in Danse Macabre magazine. This is story 5 in the archetype series.

Danse Macabre May Issue Publicity

I finally received my copy of Geosophia Volume 1 from Scarlet Imprint Press. I'd mentioned this book by Jake Stratton Kent in my post on Goetia and Vibration. I am reading this book amid a flurry of Ficino, Agrippa, and Paracelsus. Among the many things I am learning from this book, I learned that the Greek word elektron means "amber". Yes, this is the root of Electra, electron, and electricity. Amber (or elektron) is so called because its yellow color is reminiscent of the sun. The sun is the source of all life--at least it was thought to be by the ancient philosophers. Amber, in effect, bottles up the sun and its energy--it's captured fire. And this was the word chosen to represent the currents of energy that permeate everything.

I've often wondered about the connection between electricity and the paranormal. John Foxx pointed out once that our inventions leading to the use of electricity came from experiments in spiritualism and spirit contact. Paranormal investigators use electromagnetic frequency readers, and often report a spike in electrical energy when paranormal events occur, energy that cannot be attributed to another natural or man-made source. Electricity is said to drive consciousness. Kundalini meditation is based on the ancient Hindu ideas about "shakti", which is the electrical energy of our consciousness, moving through our spine through chakras, or energy centers. Most women know about hormonal rises and drops, which can lead to energy drain, hot or cold flashes, and mood swings. I've been able to track my own bad moods to a substantial drop in energy. In the 1960s and 1970s there was a lot of talk about the pineal gland and its electrical effects,especially during adolescence. Poltergeist activity is thought to center around the energy generated from this gland when hormones are becoming activated during puberty. It doesn't happen to everyone, or at least it doesn't manifest as external phenomena in everyone. But the connection between "mind and matter" is interesting, and not explored enough anymore.

Nonetheless, it has always been clear to me that this is why one must be careful when playing with the energy of consciousness. I've suggested before that bursts of consciousness are like sticking your finger in an electrical socket, and this is likely to be more literally than metaphorically true. Deep kundalini meditations can leave you with headaches, body aches, and nausea--similar to electrical shock, if your body isn't prepared for the experience through yoga. You may also be left with this feeling after hours in front of a genuine guru or satguru. A real guru is an emanation of perfect consciousness, and that emanation is experienced as electrical energy.

This is also the reason that Hinduism tends to steer the average householder away from Kali worship. Kali is pure electrical consciousness in its rawest form, and invoking that energy regularly is like cleaning your house with a blowtorch. You don't want to burn it down unless you're really ready to renounce the world and the ego. Or, you have to know how to handle the energy with care. Most of us are not experts. The magician is one who strives to be an expert in handling and commanding pure energy.

Cultural and collective evidence certainly does more than suggest a connection between what we call "spirit" or perhaps "soul" and electricity. But since everything is electrical, including our thoughts, it still doesn't answer the question of whether or not spirit manifestation is a phenomena that is "separate" from us or part of our unconscious psychology. Do we "see" things because the mind is picking up on unusual or intense pockets of electromagnetism, or are these separate electrical beings with a consciousness of their own? In some larger sense all consciousness is connected, but does such a thing have an identity or ego? Is it a fragment of one, unrelated to the "soul" or "spirit" of a person?

For more thoughts on electrical beings, I recommend John Foxx's recent blog posts on Grey Energy vs. Green Energy (Thought Experiment 1 and Thought Experiment 2).

Symbol versus Function Take Two

I saw two headlines this morning. The first said, "The world is safer" (The Philadelphia Inquirer). The one immediately underneath it said, "TSA on Security Alert after Bin Laden Death". Which I think nicely sums up everything that needs to be said about the death of Osama Bin Laden. It's hard to tell who's delusional--the press or the TSA. I'll put my money on the press. It's entirely possible that taking out Bin Laden will take some of the wind out of al Qaeda's sails. It's also possible that we'll see a resurgence in terrorist activity.

With regards to the current celebrating over Bin Laden's death, a lot of people are disturbed about the celebrating of an event like death. When it comes to killing, two wrongs don't necessarily make a right. On the other hand, as a Facebook friend put it, "Bin Laden was not a Muslim leader; he was a mass murderer". Those who lost someone in the World Trade Center attacks almost 10 years ago may feel a sense of relief or justice. Regardless of viewpoint, the death of Bin Laden is the second example in less than a week of symbol preceding function. I mentioned it in my last post in connection with the royal wedding, and it applies here, too.

On some shadowy level, all of us have the potential to be hateful, all of us have the potential to kill. It's innate in human nature; it's innate in life. Life on the most basic biological level is killing and eating. But that's just a small part of what drives celebration over death. In this case, Bin Laden had become a symbol of fear. He was a symbol of America under attack, of Muslim fundamentalism at its worst, of everything that is supposed to be the antithesis of national values. He has ceased to be human in the collective mind. Killing the source of fear brings about a collective psychological relief. It doesn't matter that there are other terrorists out there. It doesn't matter that al Qaeda is likely to continue its existence, with other extremists. It doesn't matter that someone else could gain prominence and be like Bin Laden. Facts DON'T matter when it comes to the collective psyche. It's the old scapegoat ritual, where all of the sins of a community are symbolically put into an animal, and that animal is either killed or banished. If you think ritual doesn't count for anything in the 21st century, think again. We've just participated.

I'm not interested in delving into the ethics of the situation. This is simply the psychological fact, regardless of where one stands on such killing, on war, and on life. Your personal ethics will naturally dictate your response to the event. NPR ran an article today asking, "Is it wrong to celebrate Bin Laden's death?" Certainly it is an ethical conundrum for those who believe killing is wrong under any circumstances. They have to struggle with the collective response.

I would suggest that sometimes, to choose life means choosing death. They're not as mutually exclusive as you would think. You can give that some thought.

As for me, I need to get ready for work. I've been trying to cram too much into my days, and it tends to make me irritable. I don't like when my sense of ambition lags behind my growing to-do list. The cat has worked hard at being helpful, sitting in the middle of piles of papers while I'm working, and hiding under the sofa to make sneak attacks when I walk by. Now he is contentedly washing his face while simultaneously watching for mice in the corner of the living room. Apparently he is much better at multitasking than I am.

Wedding

So, today was the Royal Wedding in London. No, I did not fly over to see the fanfare; only John Foxx is worthy of a $600-$1000 plane ticket. I did, however, catch a bit of it on Channel 13 as I was getting ready for work. The whole phenomenon raises some interesting questions.

The first and most obvious question is why they do it at all. Why is there still a monarchy in Great Britain? Their political duties are largely ceremonial, and they’re really a wealthy family being kept in zoo-like conditions. They are expected to behave in a certain way that is somewhat less than human, and ironically, they are held up as being better than other humans (they are “royalty”, others are “commoners”). This is because they are living symbols.

I like this example because it demonstrates something that I have great difficulty explaining in a “rational” sense—the force of symbol over function. The British monarchy is a symbol of British history, which is a huge force, not only for citizens, but for the world. They are an archetype unto themselves, and even though there’s no functional reason for them to be there (other than tourism, perhaps), they are still supported. You will always hear an outcry against getting rid of the monarchy when it is suggested. State occasions are loaded with symbol, and the royal weddings are the ultimate symbol—they bring together the notion of union/conjunctio (the marriage) with the religious symbolism of a place like Westminster Abbey (2000 years of Christian symbolism), with the royal symbols that carry hundreds of years of British history. It’s like an orgasm for the unconscious. People react to it in a very emotional manner—either they are very excited, or they are very opposed. Either way, it has an effect on British citizens, and on others around the world as well.

Americans have a real love affair with British royalty. They just love the aesthetics of the beautiful palaces, decorations, and regalia. They love the archetypal notion of being a “queen” or a “prince” or a “princess”—anything with a title, really. And they can do this easily because they are outside the system. (I say “they” even though I’m American, because I’m not really that bowled over by all of it, though I can appreciate the aesthetics and symbolism of the whole thing). It’s very much romanticized.

For the British, it’s a different story. Certainly the monarchy has its staunch supporters. But among regular middle class and working class people, the impression of the monarchy and their feelings about it may be rather different. Since the industrial revolution, Britain has had quite a violent history of class warfare—parallel in some respects to what went on in the United States in the early 20th century with the beginnings of the labor movement, but much more intense—and going on for a much longer time. There was a reason punks were angry at the time of the Queen’s first jubilee in 1976. All this money spent on fanfare when there was poverty, unemployment, and scarce resources. The symbolism of the royalty affects them as much as anyone else—you almost can’t help it if you are of European descent at all. But the British often struggle with that archetype versus the resentment over fiscal realities.

As I was watching the motorcade from Buckingham Palace on the television, one of the female British commentators made the statement, “Michael Middleton must be so proud of his daughter, being the son of a Yorkshire pilot, and coming to this.” Since this is a bit unclear, let me re-state: Mr. Middleton is the son of a Yorkshire pilot. Now he is part of the aristocracy, due to his daughter's marriage. I think I threw up a little in my mouth. It’s an illustration of something that I don’t like about the UK—a caste-like class distinction. It is accepted that what one’s parents did determines one’s place in society, regardless of anything that person may have achieved on their own. It’s as if feudalism never died out, and we’re still in the era in modern Europe where one can only change their social status by the partner they choose. And even still, that person is considered to occupy a “lesser” place, whether that is conveyed overtly or subtly.

It’s particularly offensive to me as an American, partially because of our own collective mythology in this country. In America, the idea is that anyone can become successful if they work hard enough. This is utter nonsense, but it does permeate the elementary ideas of our culture. As an idea, it has its advantages and disadvantages, like any myth. It can prompt someone to overcome difficult circumstances. As we are seeing in this country today—it can also be an excuse to disenfranchise those who are not rich, by suggesting they have not been hugely successful because they are “lazy” and “entitled”. All myths have a dark side. And no one should be fooled into thinking there’s total equality in this country—anyone who is not white, male, and Protestant (and wealthy) has a real set of challenges to deal with if they occupy any position of authority. But the British love to come here—as I was once told, coming to America for the common British person is like losing 15 pounds right off—the weight of “hereditary (and geographic) racism”.

When John Foxx visited New York in November of 2009, I had someone ask me what Americans thought of his Northern accent. I laughed, because the average American can’t tell the difference between a Lancashire accent and a posh London accent. For that matter, Americans can’t tell the difference between English, Irish, and Scottish accents. It’s all “British” and all wonderful to them. (Of course, the Scots and the Irish are often offended by being lumped in with the English). Americans don’t care. If you have a British accent, they love you. It may be the most hated accent other places in the world, but not here. The Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 have been long forgiven. I happen to love John’s Chorley accent, but it subjects him to a lot of prejudice at home (which he has indicated in interviews, and is evident in the way many English interviewers talk about him). Americans don’t get that—it seems stupid to treat someone differently because of their accent. And I’ll go out on a limb and say we’re right for once—it is stupid. Not that we don’t discriminate and judge in other ways. Humans are funny that way.

In any case, the wedding fanfare was colorful and interesting, and I’m very glad the British got a bank holiday out of it. I hope the royal supporters and detractors both had a good day, and if you’re one of those obsessed people that bought a Kate and William commemorative refrigerator, may I suggest you get professional help.

WAMFEST at FDU: Visconti, Marsh, Escovedo. And, Thoughts on Association

After work today, I went to the first event in Wesley Stace's (John Wesley Harding's) "WAMFEST" for this year. WAMFEST is a remarkable musical and literary event that takes place at Fairleigh Dickinson University every year. You can check out the WAMFEST blog here.

This event featured Alejandro Escovedo and his band, rock critic Dave Marsh, and superstar producer Tony Visconti. The whole event was amazing--Escovedo is an amazing musician, and I say that as someone who is not a particular fan of his genre, which is sort of a rock/country kind of thing. (That may be unfair, but take it as a loose interpretation). He was produced by Visconti, who spoke about the production process with Escovedo, and compared it to the experience of producing acts like David Bowie and T.Rex. If Escovedo did a very simple tune live, Visconti explained how he would suggest certain chord changes to Escovedo to bring out the chorus and other features of the song, to make it less like a song with "campfire chords". They played two different versions of the same song, to demonstrate how they sounded pre and post production. It was fascinating.

There was a question that I wanted to ask Tony Visconti, but they took 3 questions, and there wasn't time for another. I wondered how easily he could switch between genres--from Marc Bolan's initial "hippy" phase, to the electric glam rock, to the R&B of Bowie's "Young Americans", to the music of someone like Alejandro Escovedo. I didn't get to ask him, but my friend and colleague Harry suggested to me that a good producer is probably a good facilitator. They should be open to what the artist is doing, and go with the flow. Suggestions ought to enhance the sound, not totally change it to something inauthentic.

They ended the event with a rendition of "All the Young Dudes", which you may remember as the hit song for Mott the Hoople. This was an emotional choice for me, as this song makes me cry. Since I've driven home, I've debated whether or not I should publicly say why. I've concluded that I should, as it's an excellent illustration of how music has an impact because it is associated with much bigger things, in spite of its original intention. Literature can have a similar effect, but sound can make a world of difference.

I will start by telling you that "All the Young Dudes" reminds me of my brother, even though I have no memory of my brother being a particular fan of this song, or ever playing it in my presence. My brother died of AIDS at the age of 23. It's funny to even mention that, as we were strictly instructed to remain hush-hush about the cause of death (which ended up being complications from pneumonia). The reason I was given was, "there are people who would burn our house down if they knew." To which I say with all great sincerity, to such people, if such people are out there: Fuck you and go to hell.

"All the Young Dudes" is clearly a song relating to gay culture, and there is a sadness to it, as it definitely has a minor key in its notes. Thank God they didn't have an organ or other synthesizer there, because if I heard the synth part I really would have lost it. Being of a somewhat "English" temperament, I'm rather embarrassed by public displays of emotion. I'm not interested in carrying on in front of others.

As I mentioned, my brother never showed an affinity for this song. He liked the kind of disco/techno music that was being played at the Palladium and Studio 54 in the early 1980s. I think my association with this song must have come from a documentary, or some event, where I heard this song and connected it with him.

But it's bigger than just him. I don't tend to dwell on death. To me, to mourn a person too long is an act of selfishness. (I apologize if I offend anyone with that statement). I feel that if I care about the person, I let them go, and let them move on. I say that as a spiritual person. If I hang on, then they may hang on for my account. There's no reason they should do this. I need to contend with my own void, and use it as a learning experience.

It's more about the bullshit he put up with as a gay man coming out in the early 1980s. About the prejudice and intolerance shown by his job, and even by members of our family. The lasting impact this has had on my mother, which has had a lasting negative impact on family relations. It was destructive in many ways, and did not need to be. It was because people are stupid and fearful and prejudiced. That makes me sad and angry. I include myself in this, because I am human and not immune to bad behavior. The song has a bit of fight to it, and I suppose it makes me think of fighting prejudice, and loving yourself in spite of the fact that society does not accept you. The fact that society is this way makes me cry. Freedom is something I value above all else, and I don't like to see others limited or deprived of it, for reasons spoken or unspoken.

So, if I read this over, I say "Wow". One song reminiscent of one event remembered vaguely triggers a whole world of symbolism and association. That's how powerful the unconscious is. I don't think about these things every day. But it's clear that they still affect me.

Ground

Spring has taken us by surprise. The weather outside is often damp and chilly, yet everything is blooming. Now that oil is becoming obscenely priced, I am looking forward to the days when I can turn off the heat and open the windows in the house.

This week I turned 39. I also had a tumor removed from my left breast. I have not called about the pathology, but it seems certain that the tumor was benign. As my sister noted, "If it wasn't, you definitely would have heard by now." Besides--the nurse that did the ultrasound, the doctor that stuck a wire through the tumor using ultrasound, and the nurse that did the subsequent mammogram all told me that they could see it was benign, so I am satisfied that it is. I will see the doctor next week.

Needless to say, this is why I've been quiet on the blogging front. I'd hoped to do more while I was home recovering, but I spent more time sleeping and reading. The surgery wasn't too painful (except when they did the mammogram while the wire was in my chest), but my body was traumatized nonetheless. Hence, the rest of me felt equally traumatized, and not with worry. The old cliche is that idle hands are the devil's workshop; in my case, you can replace "hands" with "brains". It's like getting fitted for new glasses; some things come sharply into focus, other things become blurry. Things that were uncertain before become even more uncertain, and somehow nothing is familiar anymore. You start to feel like you are shimmering and disappearing. All is forgotten, there are only the afterthoughts.

At such times, it is necessary to ground. When the brain starts acting like the air traffic controllers that are talking on their cell phones and watching movies instead of helping planes land, it's time to get practical and focused. The brain is a filter, designed to keep one from becoming overwhelmed. Sometimes it has to be beaten into shape. (Figuratively speaking, of course.)

I was excited to learn that my nephew ordered these for my birthday. They are chocolate Cthulhus. They haven't come yet, and that's a good thing; I haven't decided whether I want to eat them or just admire them. My week has been rather Lovecraftian. I was reading Jung's writings on Paracelsus, the Renaissance physician and magician. His discussion of the filius regius somehow reminded me of the Cthulhu mythos, though I'm not sure that's entirely accurate; the filius regius is that "king" hiding in the depths, that which is worth risking destruction and chaos to bring to light. Lovecraft suggested the opposite--that we should seek the peace and safety of a dark age. Of course, Lovecraft lived in rapt terror of the unconscious, and was not interested in risking himself to confront it.

Paracelsus talks about the lumens naturae, which is the Divine Spark in humans. It is a light within the darkness, that actually self-illuminates the darkness. Jung suggests that we need to find the illumination in the darkness in order to have the sense of peace and security that comes from awareness. The trouble is that you have a lot of groping in the darkness before you find it, and you could lose your way. Hence the need to keep a foot in awareness. On the ground.

The Miskatonic Books blog noted a great find this week--a postcard found in some old Arkham House books written by H.P. Lovecraft to Clark Ashton Smith. The postcard is difficult to read in the scan on the blog, but I am told that Lovecraft appears to be speaking about Aleister Crowley, and refers to him as a "queer duck". Probably one of the nicer things he was called in his lifetime.

My sister has two pet ducks; one of them died suddenly on Monday. Another friend of mine lost her sister-in-law over the weekend, at the young age of 41. I learned today that two of my co-workers lost a parent and a grandparent respectively. Death knows no season; it is the only certain thing. April has been a death-month for many of my friends. It reminds me that things do not stay the same, and indeed they are not the same. Situations and circumstances also die. Then there is decay, followed by new birth. In between there is a void, an unknown. Here too, it is necessary for the living to ground.

Grounding should not be about wealth and worldly business. Grounding should be about connecting to nature. Jung talks about science and technology, and how our insistence on scientific method as the determiner of truth has had a negative impact on the psyche. It is necessary to remind ourselves that we are part of a larger system. And then to get out of our own way.

Automatism

There’s a great blog that I have on my RSS feed called “Sunday Magazine”. It shows Sunday New York Times articles from 100 years ago that day. This week, there is an article called “Palladino Outdone by a Non-Professional Medium”. The gist of the article is that a medium is proved to be a fraud, but the person writing the article wants to believe that Miss Burton (the medium) is not a fraud. She says and does things in a trance, and wakes up claiming no memory of it. David, who writes the blog, concludes, “At worst she’s a fraud. At best she’s self-delusional,” and questions the value of dedicating newspaper space to such things.

In reading Jung’s “occult” cases, he describes an interesting phenomenon called “automatism”. This is a psychological term that has been around forever, and basically describes any activity performed unconsciously. A blatant example of automatism would be sleepwalking, but there are more subtle examples. After reading the Sunday Times piece, it occurs to me that the case of Miss Burton is quite similar to at least one of Jung’s described case studies. I mention it because it is often not a case of fraud, and not exactly self-delusional in the way we usually think of that phrase. The debunkers are right (it's not spirits but the medium's actions), but so is the medium (he or she is not being consciously deceptive).

Certainly there are many mediums who are outright frauds, but the phenomenon of automatism is entirely legit. Jung cites experiments in auto-suggestion that demonstrate how the mind tricks itself into believing in things like a table moving of its own accord, or how a subject can “hear” messages of the person who begins the auto-suggestion by an almost imperceptible movement of a table or surface where the subject is resting their hands. The subject comes out of their hypnotic state, and both they and others present will swear that objects have moved, and that messages were received from a spirit. In fact, it is nothing more than a psychological trick that stimulates the personal unconscious.

That said, Jung points out that psychology uses a phenomenological approach; the psychiatrist is not there to prove whether or not supposed spirit communications are real, they are they to observe authentic psychological phenomena. And anything dealing with “spirit communication” is of interest, because it suggests a direct connection with the collective unconscious if it reveals archetypal ideas.

It is interesting to read Jung’s take on spirits, because he starts out assuming they don’t exist, and his later writings suggest that he believes they do exist. Their connection with the collective is sketchy; it’s unclear at times whether he thinks spirits are manifestations of the psycho-archaeology of humans, or something in a separate class just outside the collective.

Of interest here is the idea of fakery; even when something is being faked (i.e., the medium is seen physically moving something that was claimed to be moved psychokinetically), it’s not always because the medium is a deliberate fraud. In many cases the medium is doing something without consciously being aware that they are doing it. That doesn’t make it a spiritual manifestation, but it shows how much the unconscious affects us without our knowledge. In the case cited by Jung, the 15-year-old medium who was his patient knew things that she “could not know”, and supposedly manifested spirit personalities, but all of them could be attributed to things stored in her personal unconscious (complexes often appear as different “personalities”), and he was able to prove this point by point.

And herein lies the secret of Tarot cards and other forms of divination (astrology excepted). Jung coined the term “synchronicity” to describe the associations that revealed unconscious content. Synchronicities are often mundane things that we notice that seem to bear relevance to an event or crisis in our lives, and it is often the unconscious trying to “point out” something to us that we can’t consciously see. When someone lays out Tarot cards in a spread, they are activating the collective through the use of collective imagery. The symbols on the cards connect with an unconscious symbolism, and you are able to “predict” astonishing things that on some level you are already aware of. Jung points out how things related to the collective defy space-time constraints, and this is what makes them interesting. They point to a super-psychological non-linearity of time.

So—in the case of the medium, she may have been receiving unconscious messages, but these are in no way involving spirits—just as Tarot cards don’t involve any manipulation by spirits. It’s an entirely natural psychological phenomenon.

“Parapsychology” deals pretty exclusively with the collective unconscious, at least according to original definition. The existence of spirits is difficult to prove as we know, and psychology does not even attempt to answer the question. It can’t be answered any more than the “Is there really a God” question can be answered by any scientific methodology. All you can do is gather case studies.

That said, I’m personally inclined to believe in the existence of spirits and other beings, though the border between what is an unconscious manifestation and what is a legitimate separate phenomenon is not clear. It’s not entirely clear what a “ghost” or “spirit” is, either. I do think there are legitimate mediums out there, though I haven’t seen many. What they are contacting is also unclear, but it seems they are able to directly “hear” what may be remnants of personalities, or perhaps actual intelligent beings. It’s a perpetually interesting question, and one for which we’ll never have a definitive answer. The only way to know for sure is to actually die—and then there’s no way for us to report back. Not a way anyone would accept scientifically, at any rate.

Judging the Book

Another story of mine has been published at “Long Story Short”. It’s a very short piece entitled “Just Like”. This is not a horror story, it does not fit into the archetype series. It’s just a vignette I wrote while feeling somewhat literary. The benefit of this piece is that it’s something I can share with my colleagues without them thinking I’m a deranged lunatic.

It’s interesting how people judge the personality of the author by their writings, as if every piece were autobiographical in some fashion. Certainly some thoughts and feelings of the author will manifest themselves in stories, but it would be a mistake to think that the characters are literal reflections of real life people and events. The exception would be if the author tells you that a fictional piece has some autobiography, or is autobiographical. Besides that, I wouldn’t assume anything.

A good example of this is H.P. Lovecraft. He was often vilified as a deviant, perverse and monstrous for his writings. Yet Lovecraft was extremely mild-mannered and conservative in most respects. You probably wouldn’t meet a more normal person in your life. His writing was how he grappled with his terror of the unknown. This is certainly a motivation that I share with him.

I’ve been reading a collection of Jung’s writings on psychology and the occult. Jung talks about spirits, demons, and all sorts of manifestations that come directly from the collective unconscious. Early on he describes the collective as being separate from individual consciousness and personal unconsciousness. In earlier writings, Jung suggested that we should have nothing to do with the collective—it should not intrude on conscious life. By his later years, he spoke more of integrating collective content with our ordinary consciousness.

Jung tackles something in his introduction to Moser’s book on ghosts that has always been a pet peeve of mine. He says “Rationalism and superstition are complimentary. It is a psychological rule that the brighter the light, the blacker the shadow; in other words, the more rationalistic we are in our conscious minds, the more alive becomes the spectral world of the unconscious. And it is indeed obvious that rationality is in large measure an apotropaic defence against superstition, which is every present and unavoidable.”

Thank you, Dr. Jung. While I think skepticism has a place and can be healthy, there is often a rationalism applied to things that don’t lend themselves to logical processes, a seeking for statistical data on occurrences that are often entirely random. And the inability of these things to be rational and orderly causes the skeptic to dismiss them as false without a second look. But we only dismiss out of hand those things that make us uncomfortable. I have seen hardcore skeptics who scoff at the idea of anything “paranormal” be the first to freak out when they witness a “paranormal” event that is obviously not a trick and defies any normal explanation.

Psychological truth is different from physical truth. Regardless of the interpretation of the event, the fact that one authentically experienced something makes it a psychological truth. It doesn’t matter if they saw something “real” in a material sense, if they were hallucinating, or if they were simply mistaken or tricked. Psychology is never about “proving”; it is (or should be) about mapping the processes of the unconscious, and their interaction with consciousness.

Unconsciousness and the contents of the collective unconscious are part of my lifelong study and personal quest. We have become split by dismissing the unconscious to an alarming degree. If we don’t explore what’s there and tackle it—especially the negatives—then during a crisis, those things will control us, and we won’t have a clue as to where it comes from or what to do about it. It’s not psychologically healthy to be that unaware. We try to fight things off by being “clinical” and “scientific”, or by clinging to dogmatic religion and/or xenophobia out of extreme fear. In this sense, the atheist and the evangelical may have something in common.

I am over-generalizing again, of course. Certainly there are those in religious and non-religious camps who cultivate awareness of themselves and their cultural context. But there needs to be an openness, one that doesn’t shut down every strange thing as “demonic”, or “false”. Psychological truth requires a different kind of study and understanding.

Wish me luck as I move on to the writings of Henry Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus.

In the meantime, I leave you with a recent Cthulhu comic. It’s animated, so watch the last panel for at least a full minute. If Cthulhu really existed, he couldn't be more horrifying than current news and reality TV...

London Trip--Everything But the Troxy

Here is my “everything but the Troxy” post on my recent trip to London. It should be subtitled "The joys of traveling during Mercury Retrograde". Some of you may scoff at astrology, but I live in fear of Mercury Retrograde. And it began promptly on the day I left for London.

I have to say this adventure did not start well. I arrived at the airport and checked in, no problem. Discovered I still had Elite status, even though my recent update didn’t mention it. However, it didn’t matter—I went upstairs to find only 1 security checkpoint open in all of Terminal C at Newark, with one line extending for what seemed like miles. No special Elite lines. And in front of me on line were approximately 8 million Hasidic Jewish boys. When I saw how much stuff and how many accessories they had (hats, belts, coats, etc.), I imagined that I could be there for awhile. Fortunately, things moved much more quickly than expected. Not that it mattered—I got to the gate in time to sit around for several hours. I got to spend at least one of those hours listening to a 3-year-old scream at the top of his lungs. The flight ended up being about 2 ½ hours late, and there was a Nor’easter going on outside.

There is always music playing when you get on the plane and take your seat. The new fad in this equivalent of “hold” music is 70s and 80s songs that were pretty decent being re-done by auto-tuned female vocalists, and thus becoming horrible. I never thought I would miss Muzak—at least no one sings on that.

In spite of the shaky start, I wasn’t too late getting to London. The walk to Passport Control from the gate at Heathrow was longer than my actual time with the immigration officer. He asked why I was there, I told him it was for a concert. He asked what it was. I said, “It’s called Back to the Phuture, but I’m really going to see John Foxx.” He gave me two thumbs up, handed me back my passport, and said, “Enjoy”. I’m guessing he’s a Foxx fan.

So, here I am in London, and now I have the hurdle of making my way over to the East End. I know this will take me almost another hour, longer if I take the Picadilly line from Heathrow. So, grumbling, I take the more expensive Heathrow Express to Paddington, and make my way over to Bank via the Central line.

The Bank tube station was designed by sadists. Yes, I know about all the “major escalator work”, but you can tell this station is horrible even with escalators. It’s just an endless maze of stairs, and by the time I got to the Docklands Light Rail, I was certain that I was going to run into the Minotaur. The trip to Limehouse was mercifully short from there, and I didn’t have too much trouble finding the hotel. By now, it was about 3:15 in the afternoon, and I was meeting my friend Gem for drinks and dinner around 4. We met near Euston and ended up in Bloomsbury. I didn’t end up staying out too long—I had that vague sick feeling that occurs just before I’m about to get a massive headache, so I thought it prudent to go to my room and go to sleep.

I was supposed to meet my friend Paul the next morning, but a quick call the day before pushed plans back to the afternoon, so I decided to visit the Tower of London. Heck, it was only 2 light rail stops away, and I’d never been there. A lot of people are surprised when I tell them that. But most of my time in England has not been spent at tourist attractions. When I was in school back in the 90s, I spent most of my time visiting out-of-the-way stone circles and other weird places. I didn’t hang out in London much except to do shopping, and I think a friend and I caught a show once at the Old Vic. Now I spend most of my vacation time there book shopping. So—I can tell you where to find books in London, but I’m not an expert on tourist attractions.

Right. So—it was a beautiful day, probably close to 70 degrees, and everything in bloom. Spring has definitely arrived in London. It occurred to me that when I left New Jersey, we were expecting more snow (which didn’t materialize in a big way, apparently). Seems to me that the U.S. has some catching up to do on the weather front. Ahem.

Obviously I did not get to do the most thorough tour of the Tower, as you could probably spend all day, if not days, there. I didn’t go on a formal tour—I preferred to explore the buildings on my own. I like places like this, charged with tragedy—you can feel as you walk past the stone walls. Stones are like sponges, and they seem to soak up the energy of emotion and trauma. This was certainly true here—the Bloody Tower, the Wakefield Tower, parts of the White Tower—I actually found myself wanting to get out after awhile. It’s hard to describe that kind of magnetic overload—I imagine that it’s like sticking your finger in an electrical outlet, or perhaps what severe radiation exposure would feel like.

I stopped at a pub nearby for lunch, and then headed back to Limehouse. You know the story from there, and if you don’t—read yesterday’s blog posting.

The day after the Troxy, I had to get up ridiculously early, and I was feeling decidedly unwell. I had to leave before the hotel breakfast started, so it was an unnerving ride from Limehouse to Bank to King’s Cross, to the Picadilly Line. The swaying motion of the train did not do wonders for my headache or nausea.

Fortunately, I started to feel better by the time I got to Heathrow, and I was starving by the time I sat down to breakfast after going through security. The plane was on time—we boarded early, in fact—and not that full. There was an empty seat between the myself and the woman I was sharing the row with, much to the delight of both of us.

This is probably a good time to mention one of my long time observations in the “Murphy’s Law of Travel” category. Turbulence can occur any time on flights, but it only tends to occur at one of the two following times:

-During the beverage service
-When there is a queue for the lavatories

I can add a third one to this after Sunday’s flight—when you’re circling the airport waiting to land. This is a deadly, cruel Mercury Retrograde joke played after you’ve had a reasonably relaxing flight, and are just starting to feel normal. I should note that the woman next to me was 4 months pregnant. So, here we are circling the Catskills (Hi, Bruce) and then Sussex County, New Jersey. I have had inner ear problems since I hit my thirties, and I don’t take going in dizzying circles very well. Add turbulence to the mix, and you’re liable to turn different shades of green. And I realized that if I was nauseous, the pregnant woman next to me must have been hellishly worse. And she was. Fortunately neither of us got sick, but it was close. By the time we landed, I was dazed and unwell again. God forbid you get off a plane feeling normal—it would violate some cosmic law, I think.

Anyway, that’s my trip—short, sweet, and exhausting. I imagine I’ll feel normal again just in time for my surgery on the 18th.

The Troxy--John Foxx at Back to the Phuture, April 2, 2011

I've decided to do just one blog posting about the Troxy, and do it first. Tomorrow I will write about the rest of my London trip. I think many readers who want to know about the Troxy aren't that interested in the details of my trip, and vice versa. And if you're interested in both--well, you'll have that too.

So--without any more ado, here is my account of the Troxy gig.

First--what we like to dub "Foxxgate" started a bit after 3:00, when I went to the Queens Head pub, the official meet-up place. It took awhile for everyone to show up--myself and Phil were the first two to show up, then Fons, and then Chris, Brian, Gem, Garry, and Tapio. I took some pictures, but many of them came out blurry for some reason, so my apologies to those of you I know on Facebook--only 2 or 3 photos came out.

We headed over to the Troxy, arriving at about 7:30. Mark Jones was in the middle of his set, and I had missed Mirrors, who were supposed to have been very good. I sat up in the VIP balcony, as I wanted a good view of the visuals. John Foxx came on at 8:00, opening with "Shatterproof". Here is a clip I took from my vantage point:




The set list was excellent--here it is, direct from the Maths Facebook page:

Shatterproof
He's A Liquid
Burning Car
The Running Man
No-One Driving
Underpass
Catwalk
Dislocation
The Quiet Men
Walk Away
The Man Who Dies Every Day
Hiroshima Mon Amour
Slow Motion

The band seems to have been the same one playing with John at the Roundhouse last year--John, Benge, and Serafina Steer managing most of the synths, and Robin Simon on guitar. As most of you know, I am hardly a technical or sound expert; however, the set really sounded fantastic, like there were no misses. (Judging from how relaxed Steve Malins looked later in the evening, I'm guessing that everything went as it should musically). I'd never heard John do Hiroshima Mon Amour live, so that was a treat. And while I love Interplay, I'm glad he mixed up the setlist. Makes sense, really, as the audience is not just Foxx fans. The audience also seemed better behaved than the Roundhouse audience last year.

The only negative was the visuals. The set started with Jonathan Barnbrook's visuals, but then about halfway through, there were no visuals at all, or just sporadic ones. I asked John about this later, and he said that Karborn's visuals "wouldn't go"--they did not work for some reason. That was a bit disappointing for me, as the visuals are part of what makes the set. (Mercury Retrograde strikes Karborn again--last time was Liverpool). In the grand scheme of things, though, everything that went right went really right. So, kudos to John and everyone else for an excellent show.

Here are some good photos of the entire show by Matey Bloke.

After John's portion of the show was over, I spent time at the VIP bar talking to Rob Harris. Rob then left to take some photos of Mark Daniels' set, and I sat down. Gary Numan came on after that--he opened with "Down in the Park" I was recording it with my digital camera, when suddenly towards the end of the song, I saw John Foxx walking up the stairs. He saw me and said hello, and then stood at the back watching the visuals. I got up and joined him, as I'd wanted to chat with him a bit, and doubted I'd get much of a chance at the aftershow. We talked mostly between songs, and that was when he told me about Karborn's visuals. He was up in the balcony to get a good view of Gary's visuals, which were well done. We were there through much of the set, then John had to go backstage again. I went and joined Steve Malins, who I saw sitting just a couple rows ahead of where I'd been before. He was sitting with a man whose name I don't know, but who I recall seeing at the DNA exhibition in July of 2009, the man that Karborn thought was Steve's brother ("Brigid--is that Steve's brother?" "I have no idea. Why don't you ask him?" "No--no, I can't ask him. I want it to be Steve's brother. I like the idea that he's Steve's brother. If he's not, I'll be crushed. We can just say he is, right?"). I did shake hands with him, but it was really difficult to hear him when we were talking, so I didn't get his name. Steve's wife was also there, a row ahead of us, and as we were heading to the aftershow, she rather cryptically mentioned a trip to New York this year. Sounds more definite than last year, when Steve said it was "indefinite", so I'm hopeful.

Incidentally--I should note that the trip to New York would not be a gig, so American fans, don't get too excited yet. The last time I talked to Steve about it, he said it wasn't likely before 2012. It's incredibly complicated to do substantial gigs if you're a foreigner entering the U.S., especially on the tax side, and I'm sure they're not overflowing with copious amounts of cash, so it takes more time than you would expect. It's easier for John to do small things like exhibitions, but even that has an associated cost--Lord knows that I know it's not cheap to travel regularly between countries.

John showed up rather late to the aftershow, and then left early. I did talk to him briefly, but as always, there were many others who wanted to talk to him, and as usual, I didn't want to monopolize. This is probably the first time he's asked me if I was going to get back to the hotel safely--Limehouse is what you would call a "mixed" area, and that particular area is not so good, from what I could see ("Dodgy" is how my British friends describe it). I did end up walking back to the hotel with other friends staying there, so it was fine. I didn't see Steve or his wife again, and I ended up leaving about 15 minutes before the aftershow was over, so I don't know if they ever made it.

As we were leaving, we saw security throwing someone out, and realized quite suddenly that it was Rob Simon. We looked at each other, and said, "What the f**k?" I don't know what the Troxy security was up to that evening, but they had this more-than-aggravating habit of hassling those with AAA passes. (That's "access all areas"). They were arbitrarily deciding who could be certain places, and who couldn't. They apparently decided that Rob Simon didn't belong there, even though he had a pass and showed it to them, and when he argued, they threw him out. Rob told them that they were a bunch of a-holes, and I was certainly on his side--there was no reason for the forcible ejection, especially not someone in the band. Rob Harris intervened to keep a fight from starting, as I don't think anyone wanted to see him get arrested. He then came over to where I was standing with friends, and said, "Sorry for that," but was clearly still pissed off, and with good reason. He went over and was talking to the organizers when we left. I found out later that he was let back in through the stage door, so I'm glad it was sorted, but it was very unnecessary.

I ended the night having a drink at the hotel pub with the same friends, and went to bed around 2:30 am. When I got up at 6:30 am I was ridiculously dazed and hung over, but had to begin the trek home. I'll talk more about the other details of the trip in my next post.

Secret

I’ve been reading a lot of writings by and about Medieval and Renaissance alchemists and magicians. I was struck by something in Johannes Trithemius’ “Apologia”, which is a defense of his “Stenographia” and “Polygraphiae”, two works on cryptography that were viewed as demonic by the Church. He insists that his works are not demonic at all, and within the purview of Church doctrine. He deliberately hides the truths in his writing as codes, so that average folk won’t be able to discern their meaning.

Whether Trithemius’ writings are truly “occult” or not (I think the conclusion is that they are, especially since Agrippa was one of his students), the idea of hiding truths from “common people” is the thing of interest.

Since we are talking about “occult” things (and occult means “hidden”), you might think I’m re-stating the obvious. So, I think I should back up and talk about why this is of interest.

In recent years, a new theory of religion has emerged, suggesting that religion is a form of “terror management”. The unknown is frightening, especially the final unknown of what happens after we die. On the simplest level, we could say that believing in a beneficent being that will make sure we are happy after we die as long as we follow a set of rules is a comfort to many people.

Go beyond that—and consider that the God of the Western world is often fearful. We are warned that there are dire consequences for making certain choices, choices that God wouldn’t want. (Whatever those are—you often find that those choices are the ones that those giving the warnings wouldn’t make themselves). God Him/Her/Itself is something to be feared.

This leads to confusion and contradiction in most believers. How can a God who loves us also be so strict about punishing us for transgressions? Why would God “save” people in one form of religion and not another?

Welcome to the conundrum that is “popular” religion. This doesn’t just exist in the West; there are plenty of believers in the Buddhist faith that believe Buddha is a god, and that they will experience ill luck or a bad life if they don’t follow certain rituals. Et cetera.

Now, go visit a monastery or contemplative community. Talk with those who have renounced the world, or read their writings, and you will get a much less contradictory view of religion. The more you pursue your path, the more you realize that God isn’t a “person” at all—it is a personification of a Mystery. I run the risk of oversimplification here, but the bottom line is that “popular” religion is much different from “contemplative” religion. This is not news, and I’m sure I’ve blogged about it before.

What about all those rules? They’re designed to keep a social order within a specific community. Some modern communities like to borrow those rules. Some are obvious, like don’t kill or steal. Others don’t seem suited to the modern community—which is a problem if you’re Christian, since most churches take an all-or-none view of their rulebook, the Bible.

In any event, believing that “God” is the rule-maker, and trying to minimize your anxiety about the unknown, you may choose to simply go along with what you’re told the rules are, bending the smaller ones here and there because, hey, you’re human.

Now we turn to the occult. Just as your catechism class doesn’t teach you what the contemplatives will teach you, your Church is not likely to look kindly on occult philosophy—especially since it more or less says that most “rules” can go out the window (not that there are no guidelines for dealing with life successfully). As I mentioned in my last post, the Church was not necessarily opposed to the occult teachings; its problem was that the “untrained” would not know the difference between what is angelic and what is demonic. There was also the danger that magicians would use magic for material ends, and to control others (what Walker calls “transitive” magic).

Two things to think about here. First—occult ideas not only stand on the fringes of religion, they also stand on the fringes of science, without entirely belonging to either camp. Modern medicine and psychology are outgrowths of alchemy. But most religious clergy AND scientists today would reject occult teachings, either because they could lead to the “demonic”, or because they are “irrational”. The second thing to think about is the birth of religious literalism. Whatever other doctrinal issues existed prior to the 1500s, Biblical literalism became an issue AFTER that time, when you had both the printing press and the translation of the Bible into languages like English. Oh yes, and that minor event known as the Protestant Reformation. The authority of the text became primary, and the Church had the same objection to the masses being able to read the Bible that Lao Tzu had to letting the masses read the law—they would read it out of context.

Add to the mix the fact that most people have very materialistic aims—to make money, have a nice house, have a nice car, have some worldly prestige. Nothing wrong with this per se, but combined with a lack of understanding of either themselves or the nature of Consciousness, and it might not be difficult to imagine why “occult” knowledge is preferred to remain “occult”. There is less of a danger of being possessed by any outside demons (though their existence has been assumed since at least the 12th century in Catholicism, and long before that in some form), and more of a danger of being possessed by the inner ones.

The occult spiritual path is designed to bring a direct experience of the Mystery, and to bring the magician knowledge. It has to be approached with full understanding of oneself, and with humility. One does not have to deal with demonic evocation to be a magician, but one does have to be aware of their own demons. And we all have them, regardless of religion or non-religion. They are part of the mind. If one isn’t willing to do the work involved to prepare, then it should be left alone.

The secrets of the occult are the secrets of the Unconscious. It doesn’t take much to recognize the power of the Unconscious. Just think of a time when you were coolly moving along, and someone said something to you that made you burst into tears or get very angry and lash out. On a larger scale, think about serious addictions or obsessive behaviors that control the person, rather than the other way around. Whether it’s the personal or collective Unconscious, it still affects everything you do. It is good to explore it, albeit carefully.

Demons

When my politicians tell me to rest assured, I usually start to worry. If anything, I can rest assured that my views will be ignored, unless they match the view of the politician. I'm hearing that a lot from my Congress representatives lately, and it's a bit unsettling.

Life is a bit unsettled these days. Spring begins, and we promptly have a week of snow. Car trouble (now fixed), the sudden prospect of surgery--it reminds you that things can change at any moment. I remind myself that things could be worse--look at the situation in Japan, for instance, and what those affected by the tsunami, the nuclear difficulties, and the shortages have to deal with. It's back to the story of the angel and the field of rocks (a man complains to an angel that his life burden is too heavy. The angel shows him a field of rocks and tells him he can choose any of them as his "burden". He picks the smallest pebble he can find, only to be told that this was the burden he'd just put down). My friend Phil's father told that story. To which Phil's mother retorted, "Don't minimize my burden."

It's not the big things that get us, it's the little things. Physiologically, our bodies jump into action and everything just flows when big things go wrong. But little things are like a paper cut--minor, but still hugely annoying, and more painful than serious wounds.

Being the strange person that I am, I'm unwinding this week by reading D.P. Walker's "Spiritual and Demonic Magic." He starts with two articles on Marsilio Ficino and his works on magic. Ficino was a philosopher at the time of the early Italian Renaissance, and is one of main threads in the continuation of a magical tradition that starts with the Hermetica and Hermes Trismegistus. Walker notes Ficinio and Giovanni Pico's distinction between "good astrology" and "bad astrology", with similar distinctions regarding magical practice. The difference revolved around whether either practice "safeguarded or infringed human responsibility and divine providence." (p. 55).

It is interesting that the Church used to allow such a distinction, and allowed the practice of certain types of magic and astrology. Ficino suggests that magic should be reserved for those who are more educated and holy, as the poor and common folk would tend towards demonic magic and materialistic aims. (I am reminded of the introduction to Geosophia here, and the reason for goetia's ill reputation). Walker gives the original Latin in the notes, and the word for demon is "daemon". The translation as "demon" is interesting--you may think it's evident, but not really. We think of demons as agents of Hell, minions of Satan. But "daemon" had a different meaning in classical times. Plato defined "daemon" as a beneficent spirit, existing between mortals and gods. It would be interesting to know the history of the word and its connotation by the time of the Renaissance. (Can any linguists out there offer any insight?)

In any case, the ambiguity of the word makes me wonder about the author's premise. I generally agree with his conclusions, but I'm not sure I agree that "daemon" refers to demons. Of course, if we're talking Catholicism--the doctrine is that any spirit not in Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory is necessarily demonic. Since Ficino was a Catholic, it may not be a stretch to assume this meaning. But--if certain types of magic were acceptable at that time, that may also throw the "daemon as demon" idea into doubt.

Walker devotes a great deal of the first section to idea of music in magic, referring in particular to the Orphic Hymns. It's not strange to any magical practitioner that one would use incenses, colors, stones, and talismans related to the planetary influence they are trying to evoke. Ficino adds music to the mix, though he is unable to give any kind of practical advice on its use.

Here is a modern interpretation of one of the Orphic Hymns:



In thinking about music and magic, I found myself listening again to "Voices of Thelema" by K-11 (Pietro Riparbelli). Riparbelli's work is fascinating. He records short-wave radio signals inside various places--cathedrals, parks, and in the case of the CD I was listening to, Crowley's Abbey of Thelema in Cefalu. He then took those short-wave signals and made them into compositions. Here is a sample from "The Sacred Wood":



You can check out more of Riparbelli's work and philosophy here.

That's all from me until next time.

Sounds of Everything

I've written before about vibrations, and the vibrations of things. I've written about how sonar can kill a person. This post is a collection of things that sing--on Earth, in space, everywhere.

Singing Sands:



Singing Trees:



Singing Planets:



Singing Rocks:



Ocean Sounds:



Cicadas Singing:



Earth Singing:



Sun Singing:



Stars Singing:



Toute chante.

New Story Published, and My St. Patrick's Day

Let's start with some good news. A new story of mine, "Magna Mater", has been published in Uninvited Press's "Open Magazine", issue 1. This is the fourth story to be published in the archetype series; others are still pending responses. Here is the complete short list of what's available:

Magna Mater

Trickster

Anima

Senex is not available anymore--after some consideration, I decided not to ask Writing Raw to repost it. I am hoping to finish the series and publish them all in an anthology next year.

Moving on to other adventures...

I've never understood St. Patrick's Day. It's supposed to be an Irish celebration, even though St. Patrick was not Irish. In school I'd learned he was from Italy, but a friend of mine corrected me, showing that more recent research suggests he was Welsh, and was captured and brought to Rome before coming to Ireland. Still, Welsh is not Irish. You might get past that, saying that St. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland, which is why he's celebrated. Why he is celebrated by reinforcing every negative Irish stereotype is beyond me. I like a good Guinness as much as the next person, but really, I can drink that anytime. And probably not in Ireland; I hear that they water it down there. Which is why everyone there drinks Budweiser. A sign of truly desperate times.

Anyway, I started my St. Patrick's Day the way anyone should, with a mammogram and breast ultrasound. I had an early appointment, and I sat in a very nice waiting room listening to a radio station that seemed to consist entirely of castrated male singers. Either castrated or total wusses--sometimes it's hard to distinguish when it comes to music. In any event, this is not my music of choice, so I was actually happy when they brought me to the mammogram room. You know that music is bad when you prefer getting your boobs squished to having to listen to it.

In a previous blog posting, I described getting a mammogram as "having your boob slammed between two metal plates". I stand corrected on this--you get your boob slammed between two PLASTIC plates. Even better is when they take nipple shots; they use a smaller plate, and as the technician said, "just to warn you, the smaller the plate, the nastier it is, so brace yourself". To her credit, she never took more than 10 seconds to take a picture and release the plates. I asked her how flat-chested women fared during the process. She said, "Oh, it's much worse; you're practically scraping their rib cage." She also noted that women who see her in the grocery store tend to run the other way. As if they expect her to give them a mammogram RIGHT THERE in the cereal aisle.

The mammogram showed nothing, but the ultrasound revealed a small tumor, likely a fibrous adenoma, which is benign. I have to meet with a surgeon, but it's likely I'll just have them take the whole thing out rather than do a needle biopsy. Idle tumors are the devil's workshop. Or, something like that. Anyway, I don't want any cells living in my body that are not natural born citizens. Sometimes they start uprisings.

When I mentioned my results to my friends, a lot of people were worried. I've had a tumor like this before, and it's really not a big deal. However, this is the second tumor that will have to be extracted from my left boob. I don't believe in a personal god, but if there happens to be one, I want a refund on that boob, as it's obviously defective.

Speaking of defective, my car is acting up again. I had a problem over the weekend where the whole car would start to shudder, first when braking, then it would happen during acceleration as well. The mechanic looked at it, and naturally found nothing. A tune-up made it run well for exactly 2 days, and then it started the same thing that afternoon. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, as my car has 255,000 miles on it. But I have this ominous feeling that I will have to get another car, something I really can't afford. Everything I've researched on my problem suggests a variety of possible problems (water in the tank, fuel injection problems, spark plugs, distributor cap, etc.), but usually the problem isn't fixed even after fixing those things, and not even with a new transmission. I unfortunately need a reliable car for all of my travels, so I'm going to have to find a way to get another one in the not too distant future.

I did stop at the local Irish pub for lunch, and was just about ready for that Guinness after such a fun-filled day. I didn't go there because it was St. Patrick's Day; I went because it was close and I was craving their food (which is excellent). I went fairly early to avoid crowds, but was still surprised to see about 50 people in a restaurant that normally has maybe 5 people at lunchtime. The owner popped in and asked me why I didn't order corned beef and cabbage. I told her that 1. I hate cabbage even more than I hate Don Henley, and 2. corned beef and cabbage are not Irish. Seriously. Go to Ireland on St. Patrick's Day, and try to find corned beef and cabbage in a restaurant. I assure you that you won't. They'll probably be eating lambburgers and drinking Budweiser, a gastronic ritual that I'd prefer to avoid.

Wild Flag at RCMH, March 8, 2011

Tuesday night I went to New York City to see Wild Flag. I've delayed my review of the show due to the weather. Really. We're expecting 3-5 inches of rain here today, which means my basement will have its own tidal flow if I don't prepare. So, I've been replacing broken pumps, moving the cats' beds and such to higher ground, and making other preparations. I am ridiculously exhausted, but I wanted to slip in this post before things get chaotic.

Okay. First--Wild Flag was opening for Bright Eyes. I know absolutely nothing about Bright Eyes, and I did not stay for their set, nor for Superchunk, who also played after Wild Flag. The show was at Radio City Music Hall. At first I was grateful for this, because I am getting to be an old lady and I like to sit, but quickly I realized this was not the best arrangement. You should not be forced to listen to Wild Flag sitting down; their music requires a crowd and a venue that I can only describe as "New York Sleater Kinney". Anyone who ever went to a New York Sleater Kinney show knows what I mean.

I'm not looking to compare Wild Flag to Sleater Kinney--they're not doing the same kind of thing. That said, Wild Flag really kicks ass. It's hard to put a label on their style--it's a bit punk/psychedelic/experimental, which is what you would expect given the band members. Most, if not all, members of the band are known for musical experimentation.

A writer from Brooklyn Vegan got to see them at the Rock Shop, and has some good clips of the band, which you can see here.

I could not find a setlist for this show, and because the band has no album, I can't identify all of the songs in order. I did find setlists for other shows, which probably consist of the same songs in a different order. You can look at the setlist for Brighton Hall here.

The only song I knew going in was "Glass Tambourine", which I put up a couple of blog posts back, streamed on NPR's site. One advantage of Radio City was the acoustics--it was amazing to hear the band without being too close to the speakers (a perennial problem of small venues). I thought they sounded pretty good when I heard the streamed song, but the live experience is different entirely. I haven't figured out exactly what it is--whether it's watching Janet Weiss play drums, or the interactions of Carrie Brownstein and Mary Timony onstage, or just the music itself--there's something indescribable, but it's like having an ecstatic experience. The music just gets under your skin and takes over; and, like great sex, you find yourself wanting more once it's finished. Carrie seemed more comfortable onstage than she did in the past, even though she noted they were used to playing living-room sized places (or actual living rooms). You find yourself walking out with your jaw on the floor, and all you can think is "holy f**king sh*t. I think I've seen God."

Yes, they're really that good, which is something I did and didn't expect. I approached Wild Flag with the same trepidation I used to have with a new Sleater Kinney album--I was terrified that it would not be as awesome as I thought it would be given the band members, or given the last album. And of course, every time, I am amazed at how well-crafted all of the songs are, and how they affect me.

I left the venue after Wild Flag played its short 30-minute set. Nothing anyone could play after that could have topped it. And I find myself strangely unsatisfied by the thought of a 7" single coming out next month--I'm craving an album. I am hoping I won't have to wait too long.

Clarification (Rant)

A word of warning--this is a rant. If you don't want to read a rant, go visit another blog for today.

I have to wonder if Ergot fungus is on the rise again in our grain supply. Being a conservative lawmaker is one thing, but some of the things being proposed can only reasonably be accounted for if the proposers were having demonic hallucinations. So, here's a reality check.

1. Abortion is LEGAL in this country and should REMAIN legal. Yes, abortion is a sad choice to make. No, women do not make that choice lightly. Any woman that would use abortion as a form of regular birth control is as psycho as someone who would have their internal organs removed for fun. You forget that WOMEN bear the brunt of the social, health, and financial consequences of having a baby. Perhaps the man involved could be on the hook financially, but he doesn't typically suffer other consequences. As a woman, I am offended by the notion that an unborn blob of cells has more rights, or at least as many rights, as I do. You can talk about making abortion illegal when you've also guaranteed that rape and incest will never ever occur again, or that a woman's life will never be in danger during a pregnancy, and that every child will be wanted by society and fully paid for. Oh yes, and that men are always as fully accountable for a birth as a woman in all respects. When you can guarantee all that, we'll talk.

In the meantime, don't talk to me about the "preciousness of life" when you introduce legislation allowing for the murder of abortion doctors, and criminalizing miscarriage by making women who miscarry eligible for the death penalty. You're going to deal with what you believe to be the taking of a life by taking another life and you call yourself pro-life? Explain to me how that works. And clearly you are a psychotic freak if you advocate such a law for miscarriage. Most women I've known who miscarry actually WANT their children, and have severe fertility issues that bring about the miscarriage. Or, they have an accident, and the miscarriage occurs (this is where this legislation is really sketchy). And you're going to treat someone already grieving for the loss as a criminal? I think whatever brilliant legislators suggested this law ought to be taken away in straitjackets. You don't criminalize miscarriage; you stop treating pregnant women like they're a burden and making reproductive choices ridiculously expensive.

2. Speaking of, the same miscreant party that suggested the foregoing is also keen on eliminating funding for Planned Parenthood. We are not living in a Margaret Atwood novel. Women are not here as breeding slaves. You don't like abortion, but you also don't want to provide any pregnancy prevention, nor do you care about women's reproductive health. We are taxpaying citizens, and we have our own needs and rights. You don't tell me what to do with my body, or who I can sleep with under what circumstances. And don't trivialize our special health issues--insurance companies do enough of that. I can only conclude that conservative Congresspeople hate women who are not barefoot, pregnant, and subservient.

3. Stop attacking workers' unions, and acting like they're the cause of your economic problems. Your unwillingness to tax the wealthy and big business are the cause of our financial problems. My accountant told me last week that I pay 25% tax in my tax bracket. When I hear that billion-dollar corporations don't pay anything, I have to scratch my head. Make those greedy twits pay their fair share, and stop chipping away at the little I have to maintain my middle-class lifestyle. Don't give me a lot of BS about "working hard"--I work no less than 3 jobs most of the time. And forget about "trickle-down economics"--that DOESN'T WORK. And stop referring to teachers' jobs as "cushy" because they only work 9 months out of the year. They work 9 months and don't get paid for the other 3, and are often looking for employment during those other 3 months. And during those 9 months, they're working double or triple hours compared to a normal 9 to 5 job. Add that to all the psychological evaluations, assessment, and extracurricular work they have to do (and keeping up with the latest crushing barrage of educational standards), and they don't make nearly enough. People have this habit of looking at other jobs dismissively and saying, "oh, they have it easy". I hear that in the library world all the time as well. And to those people--I challenge you to do the job of a teacher or a librarian for a week and see just how "easy" it is. They don't require a buttload of education and training in these jobs for nothing. I would bet money you'd be over your head and begging to get out before the first day is over.

4. Stop trying to get rid of public broadcasting. I do not want to get my "news" from corporate toadies. I want a non-partisan, publicly funded news option that is unbiased. If we're going to get into broadcasting laws, we should have one like Canada's. I was pleased to see that Fox News was kept out of Canada by a law that says news broadcasters cannot report "false or misleading news". Even more interesting is that Canada's right-wing PM tried to get around this by CHANGING the law (he wasn't successful). Fox didn't even try to fight back by saying they were truthful and unbiased. They know they're a bunch of liars. If I want to be lied to, I can go stand at the bar during just about any happy hour. If I want news, I go to NPR or PBS (or BBC).

5. Trying to bully the public into accepting your hateful legislation does not make you "dedicated" or " a strong leader", it makes you a power-hungry sleazebag, with less morality and integrity than a slime mold. (Maybe we should vote for slime molds; apparently they're better at making decisions). You don't win votes by abusing your constituents. The use of force of any kind against the populace demonstrates your inability to lead.

Lastly, a reality check for citizens--stop voting for these morons who are swindling you. Obama may not be a perfect President, but he's not the Antichrist, and he's not Hitler. Trying to get people their fair share and trying to guarantee things like jobs and health care do not constitute totalitarianism. News outlets that promote this view are usually paid for by corporate billionaires who would like to take all of your money and see you with nothing, because they couldn't care less about you. You're a means to an end. And don't talk to me about religion, either. People who start spouting Christian rhetoric clearly have missed the part about compassion and serving the least of your brothers. If you're going to spout this selfish nonsense in the name of Jesus, all I can say is that you'd better HOPE your religion is wrong, or you're in trouble.

If there's a silver lining to all of this, I would imagine that it is unlikely the Republicans will take over in 2012. If "democracy requires vigilance", then you're going to see any angry populace fight back against this kind of insult to our rights and intelligence. I know I've had it. As an old friend of mine would say, "Stop the madness!"

Seriously Not Seriously

Clear and warming days do a lot for my sense of clarity, and my productiveness. Seven and eight foot mountains of snow have been decimated in this weather, thus proving that winter really does end in spite of all previous evidence to the contrary.

I’ve been told not to focus on the future, but sometimes the present is discouraging. This is especially true if you want to start on some project or goal, but can’t yet do so. Sometimes you don’t have all the resources you need, you haven’t heard from all necessary parties, and can’t begin no matter how revved up you are to get going.

These are cases where the unknown is my friend, as things often end up much differently from how they presently look. The Trickster is not always the bad guy.

Europe is more heavily on my mind these days. I will be in London again in another month, and I’m discovering doctoral programs in France, England, and Holland that are so precisely in line with my studies, they are difficult to ignore as future possibilities. Not only that, but jobs exist in my subject area, which is shocking. The same old problems remain of what to do with the house, the cats, finding the funds—but there is no need for an immediate solution, as one will present itself if it is “in the cards” for me, as they say.

In the midst of everything I’m working on, I feel like my attempts to brush up in French are sadly lacking. Therefore, I am going to try to do one blog posting a week in French. If I don’t keep up with reading and writing, I’m not going to gain the proficiency that I would like to have. Of course, this will also mean getting software for my Mac that actually recognizes diacritics; the ones on my Macbook do not work for some reason.

But that is all about work, and it is the weekend. I am having difficulty focusing on serious things, so why bother?

Here are some links for the weekend:

Bobcats (from The Oatmeal)

Sneaky Hate Spiral (from Hyperbole and a Half. Not new, but still funny)

Some Kumail Nanjiani standup. He's one of the newer comedians that I think is hilarious.


Did You Read? Another sketch from the Portlandia TV show on IFC.


Jimmy Kimmel combines Charlie Sheen with Charlie Brown (from the Jimmy Kimmel Show)

These are not humorous, but they are entertaining:

Fire waterfall at Yosemite National Park

A review of "The Man Who Collected Machen", which looks like a great horror read.

6 Ways That Crows Are Smarter Than You from Cracked.com. Good thing I only throw breadcrumbs for the crows that nest outside my house.

And, finally--

The first single from Wild Flag, "Glass Tambourine". I will be going to see these ladies on Tuesday in New York.

Enjoy the weekend! I will post again tomorrow. Or not.

Depletion, or, The Struggle for Balance

Wisconsin 14. Fred Phelps. Ohio. Koch Brothers. Libya. Gaddafi. Rising oil prices. No real reason for rising oil prices. Boycotts. Demonstrations. Donations. MoveOn. Credo. Progressives. AFL-CIO. Petitions, petitions, petitions. Planned Parenthood. NPR. PBS. No funding. Making miscarriage criminal. Making murder of abortion doctors legal. Anti-labor. Anti-woman. Greed.

The preceding have been circling my mail inbox, my Facebook page, and my Twitter feeds for some time now. I’ve signed more petitions, sent more letters to my congress representatives than I have in my entire life. I have no money to donate. I’m anxious about the outcomes of these things. I think I’m stunned at how the greedy, selfish, and entitled don’t even try to hide what they’re doing anymore. They don’t try to cloak it in respectable language. They just give the poor, the middle class, all women, and anyone who has to work for a living the middle finger and call them vile names. Even more incredible is how many people go along with them. Ever since Obama took office, the undercurrent of hatred in this country has risen to the surface like scum on boiling pot of turkey soup. It’s not news that I’ve been feeling a lot like I live in one of those horror movies where the family ends up in a strange town where everyone turns out to be vampires. Or perhaps like Carnival of Souls, only I’m hoping that I’m not actually dead myself.

It’s no wonder that I’m more interested in burying myself in reading and writing. There’s something Lovecraftian about it—if I stare at the horror for too long I will go mad. There’s no point in reiterating the ironies of everything. You can lead zombies to facts, but you can’t make them think.

In other news, the prevalent theme has been breaking things into small pieces. Things can only be achieved by taking small steps. When I look at the projects I have at hand, they’re daunting. I have self-imposed deadlines, and can only meet them by doing a little bit each day. I’m tempted to plan tasks far in advance, but I know I can’t plan for more than a week at a time realistically. My energy level after work is unpredictable at best—you’re often lucky to get a blog post out of me. And even though I write every day—I don’t always like what I’ve written.

Writing happens in fits and starts; you have days when you can charge ahead and get multiple chapters written, and then there are other days where you can barely get through one chapter and you hate every word you’ve committed to the doc file.
I suppose these are not new complaints—I sound like every writer at some time or another. But between the pressure to produce and the external pressures of democracy these days, it’s no wonder I’m on edge a lot of the time.

My days are punctuated by some fun and social events, but also by obligatory doctors’ appointments. I scheduled my mammogram yesterday, and the receptionist noted that I’d scheduled it for St. Patrick’s Day.

“Yes,” I told her. “By the time you’re finished with me, I’ll need to go out for a Guinness. Hopefully they’ll be having specials.”

There’s very little I hate more than getting a mammogram. For those of you who have not experienced this—they take your boob and basically mush it between two metal plates, vice-style. Then they take x-rays of it. Boob size does not matter—it’s painful whether you’re barely endowed or well-endowed. I had a friend who once said you could practice for it by slamming your boobs in either a. a doorframe, or b. the Oxford English Dictionary. I’ve been told that’s an exaggeration, but I really don’t think so. In any case, I am sure I will need a drink after it’s all over.

Today is the International Day of Peace. You are supposed to celebrate by refraining from disrespectful thoughts and actions towards anyone. That will be tough. I may have to stay home and not log onto my computer. I certainly shouldn’t go out driving. Someone always does something so ridiculously inconsiderate and absurd, it’s hard not to bring out the choice words to describe them. I don’t know if I’d be able to restrain myself for “Peace Day”. The only way I could not get annoyed at someone while driving is to be totally distracted while I’m behind the wheel. Which, as you might imagine, would not be a great alternative.

On the way home from work yesterday, I passed a driving school student. I recalled being a driving school student, more than 22 years ago now. My first teacher was a woman who was very nice, but only showed up once. She continually blew off our appointments. My brother was sick at the time—very sick, and I missed seeing him in the hospital because I had driving lessons. Then she would never show up. And then he died while I was home waiting for her another time.

The driving school gave me another instructor when my mother complained, but it was too late by then. I don't really blame them, ultimately. I don't think I was meant to see his last days.

2 years later I had my first breast tumor. It's always frightening when you're not experienced with the frequency of benign cysts and tumors. In the face of recent young death, it didn't seem irrational to worry about more terminal illness.

Sleep might make me peaceful, unless the cat switches off the thermostat again. His new attention-getting tactic is to sit on top of the sofa and wrap his paws around the thermostat. The other day he knocked the cover off. I put it back on, but I didn’t notice that he’d flipped the switch from “heat” to “off”. I sure noticed it at 4 am when it was 50 degrees in the house.

Cats are different, though. When they do bad things, forgiving them and forgetting takes mere hours. Whereas with humans it could take a lifetime, and you may never do either.

I am reminded of the story where the god Shiva scolds Brahma and Vishnu for believing that they are responsible for their own attainment. Attainment, says Shiva, comes from grace and detachment. Grace is the natural outcome of surrender.

Speaking of—yesterday was Mahashivaratri. May Shiva bless all who celebrate. And all who don’t.