Pray to the Moon when She is round,
Luck with you will then abound,
What you seek for shall be found
On the sea or solid ground.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

What He Said. (About Me.) (& the Maybe Blood Moon.)

"Mom, you talk to the Moon too much." -- The Changeling

I beg to differ... 
& were I predisposed to arguing, I might...
But I won't.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Poetry for the Esbat: Maybe Moon, 2014

XVII: The Moon from The Lost Tarot of Nostradamus, by John Matthews & Wil Kinghan, a peculiar deck which also contains a Suit of Moons.
XVII: The Moon (& others) from The Lost Tarot of Nostradamus,
by John Matthews & Wil Kinghan.
This is a curious deck which significantly, contains a Suit of Moons.

Maybe it is, Maybe it isn't.

Llewellyn calls it the Wind Moon. 
That makes sense in our desert bioregion...

Here in indecisive Alaska, it seems it might be the Soggy-Except-When-I-Think-I-Might-Snow-Again Moon. Is it Spring yet? Maybe. Maybe we will just call this the Maybe Moon.

A Witch told me that he heard from another Witch who said she heard it from some other Witches who heard it somewhere out in the world that this Moon is very significant to those who believe in the merits of certain ancient prophecies. This was news to me. I am told they call it the Blood Moon & that this is the first of four which are indicative of the END. Or something. Maybe.

Nevermind that this has happened before with no noticeable effects. But, let the dooms-dayers believe what they want to believe... after all, I choose to worship the Moon & Night & Her children among Others & isn't that just kooky too...

And I prefer to put my stock in the prophecies of science fiction writers who, it appears, thus far have the better record. Too bad.

So while we humans are all predicting the END, or not. I will share an incredible piece of poetry written by Welshman Mark Tredinnick. Tredinnick is a former lawyer & book editor who holds both an MBA and a PhD from the University of Western Sydney’s School of Social Ecology as well as numerous awards for his poetry. He is a founder of ASLE-ANZ, the Association for the Study of Literature and the Environment & spends much of his writing time exploring "the attachment to place as well as the intrinsic qualities of landscape."

I have had this piece saved in my Poetry Foundation app (yes, I have an app for reading poetry, on a phone, which is all SO terribly sci-fi...) for over a year now. I read it from time to time, but it is a bit hard on my feelers. This is a challenging piece. This is an extraordinary piece. This seems to me to be the most appropriate response to this first Blood Moon & this stuff about the END that I could ever conjure. So here it is.

Red Moon Eclogues by Mark Tredinnick

Every year the moon inches away from us. In time she’ll swim too far out
to anchor us at our habitual angle to the sun, and that will be the end
of the well-tempered and recursive wildness
                                                             that conceived and suffered us,
and that will be the end of us. We have just two
billion years to thank her for our time here. Eternity has a use-by date

But it’ll be up long before that, and in the meantime,
I sit on the cold step of the cowshed and watch the world throw its shadow
on the moon like a horseblanket;
                                                             in the meantime the moon reddens
in the refraction of all our dawns and sunsets, in a kind of transfigured cosmic
smog. An apocalypse that lasts three hours until it’s time to go to bed.

And in the meantime on the floor of my shed, blue planets sing in the hands
of children as they once sang in war. Two small worlds forged to cry terribly down
like creation unravelling upon one’s foes now
                                                               make a peaceful clangour on my secular desk.
One spins from its orbit and quakes and chips its cerulean shell on the floor
of heaven. The tectonics of play. We are loved like this, and this is how it ends.

I’m arguing a lot with death these days. And last night I found myself
in court poised to clinch the case against the absurdity of life.
Certainly, this was sleeping and certainly
                                                            I was dreaming and I’d been losing the thread,
but all at once I saw where my argument must run, and I was running it there
when my small boy cried and woke me and I went to him and now I’ll never know.

Spring now, and the river has drawn back her bow. The lark ascends
from the cd-player, and black ducks sip brown ditchwater in the yard.
Everything’s in bud or leaf, last of all
                                                              the silver poplars and the Osage Orange,
trees flaring even now in the backyard of the childhood of my friend, the poet,
the poet’s son. The world happens twice. Draw the linen string taut and shoot.

One lives in paradox. Debussy plays; trucks flounder past like gods
who’ve lost control of their machines. In between one makes one’s life up.
The sound is the price you pay for the sight
                                                             that meets you every morning and half
of what you paid for the house. The shed puts the perfect sky in her pocket,
and possums rut in the roof. Eternity is in rehearsal, and this is its soundtrack.

Brad mows an acre an hour. A general at ease on his machine, a banker
in overalls, he’s rationalised our small republic on one tank of gas. And this now—
cutgrass at four o’clock—is how
                                                              hope smells. Some days I can see no way out:
the body of the world in entropy. But today I sit among the ruins
of the afternoon, and I cannot see how it can’t all go on forever.

Meantime the moon has made herself new again, and there has been rain.
The Marulan hills, which had almost forgotten the taste of the word,
are spelling green again this afternoon,
                                                             and there’s water in a lake that’s been a paddock
for a decade. Three black cockatoos, and then three more, fly over as I take
the southwest road. And into all this panoply of hope, the new moon falls.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Sleeping with Jody

The High Priestess, so sleepy, from the Portico Tarot by Elizabeth Jordan Leggett.
The High Priestess, so sleepy, from the Portico Tarot
by Elizabeth Jordan Leggett.

My absence from writing in the last few months has been fueled by several factors, among them, an extraordinarily active three year old, the loss of the charger to my camera (which I realize now, is an important part of my "voice"), copious amounts of dancing, the co-creation of a large public Animist Solstice Ceremony & Ecstatic Dance event & perhaps most importantly, a profound desire to SLEEP.

This preoccupation with sleep & in particular, dreaming, is nothing new, I have always been a fan. How avidly I pursue the occupation fluctuates over time. Right now, I really dig it. 

During the early stirrings of this most recent bout of sleep fever, I revisited a lucid dreaming video I had watched a couple of years earlier & recalling that I had liked it relatively well. When I listened to it again, it occurred to me that this voice that went by the name of Jody Whiteley, may have produced other videos... & by godz, she has. In the two years since I first encountered her work, she has expanded her collection of videos to over 300 (I think). Her offerings span the gamut, from anxiety to wish fulfillment (& plenty of subjects in between). 

After several months of having this quirky, brilliant presence in our bedrooms on a regular basis, everyone in our household is a keen enthusiast. If I were into gurus, I'd sign on as a disciple. But since I am not, I will just make a spot for her on the Dreaded "Guru Board."

I kept thinking I would write her a thank you letter, but during the mental composition, I decided she would prefer if I just shared my appreciation of her & her work with others. So, to keep is short & sweet, I will offer up an abbreviated list of the reasons why I love Jody Whiteley:

  1. She has a wonderful sense of humour.
  2. Her ability to assist with dream recall is remarkable.
  3. She can put the children to sleep with time lapse illustration like no other.
  4. She has helped me markedly improve my skills & confidence as a dancer, while sleeping.
  5. She too believes in magic.
  6. Although I have never actually used one (yet), I just like knowing that she has made 8 & 10 hour (!) long hypnosis videos.
  7. Waking up with Jody is a great way to start the day. Really.
  8. I dig her guided meditations (although I never make it to the end because I fall asleep).
  9. Her hypnotic bedtime stories work, especially for children.
  10. The fact that she has stills of strange, otherworldly rocks set to strange, otherworldly music makes me happy. 
  11. She gave me a name for my ASMR, an epiphany which I will elucidate upon more fully very soon.
  12. Did I mention that she has a wonderful sense of humour? Even in her dreams.

I will close this love letter to Jody Whiteley by sharing the trailer to her epic dream video, Sleep Hypnosis THE MOVIE Full Length Movie 2013 (I never tire of this dream story) & by saying thank you. Thank you Jody. I will go make you a sandwich anytime, with pleasure.

(We listen to the videos in bed using the YouTube phone app. It is a very different experience that way, with out the advertisements, popups & whatnot. I recommend it, if you have the option.)

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