Working with spirits

May 30, 2017

Spirit work is such an intense and distracting line of work, that sometimes people forget to take care of themselves and think about the effects that it can have on them, mentally and/or physically. Here are some important (and highly UPG) rules/tips that I have come up with.

1. You do not owe the spirits anything.
– It’s important to remember that you do not owe a spirit anything. If a random spirit starts asking you for something, walk away. (Note: This is different from giving offerings/doing something because you want to)

2. If the spirit makes you uncomfortable/hurts you, it is well within your rights to kick them to the curb.

3. Don’t believe everything they say.
-Spirits, just like humans, can lie

4. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.
– Not every spirit is an angel sent to protect you or your ultimate guide, some of them may pretend to be something else to get you to work with them or trust them

5. If they make your mental health worse, then it is not worth working with them.

6. Consent is key.

7. Don’t allow them to pull you onto the astral if you do not want to/are scared.

8. Don’t accept gifts if it is likely that there will be strings attached.

9. Don’t Travel into the Astral without any protections.

10. Discernment is important!
-Just because a spirit comes in claiming a soul connection doesn’t mean you owe them anything or that it’s true

11.You are not obligated to do spirit work 24/7 take a break if you need one.
-If the spirits breach boundaries or try to interrupt your break despite being informed that you need one… They need to go.

12. Most importantly: Watch out for yourself!

Source here

In 1925 Joan Miró embarked on what would be a two year long experiment into the world of ‘dream paintings’, the culmination of which can be seen in his Peinture of 1927. This small Miró painting is situated in the Roland Penrose room of the Edinburgh Dean Gallery, placed unassumingly to the left of a Giacometti sculpture Femme égorgée and above an Andre Breton assemblage Poème Objet. In line with the other two works which push at the traditional boundaries of their discipline, Miró’s Peinture quietly destroys the boundaries of conventional notions of painting. In the words of André Breton, Miró ‘crossed at one leap the final barriers restraining him from total spontaneity of action’.

However, although Miró stated that many of his works from 1925-7 were painted automatically, and indeed many of Miró’s paintings often started out as automatic drawings (with the hand being allowed to move randomly across the paper, or at least without a conscious form of self-censorship), the Fundació in Barcelona possesses an incredibly similar pencil sketch. Hence it would be extremely problematic to speak of this work as solely an outpouring of the much explored unconscious mind.

What Peinture does do, is represent a highly personalized language of pictorial forms and symbols – placed upon a loosely painted, many layered blue-grey background. Blue, universally being acknowledged as the colour of infinity (and a colour which Miró explicitly associated with dreams) is often seen as the background to what could be considered Miró’s ‘dreamscapes’.

Amelia Carruthers
Examining Miró’s Reality

The bird sings because it has a song in its throat
We move because we have a dance in our spirits
The wind blows to play with the rivers and valleys
The raindrops fall as messengers upon the earth
The fish swim because it has an ocean in its belly
The children run because they have the world under their feet

This is the secret of magic
Hidden in our minds
The people and their small things
If all taken, what would we miss?
The rustle of oak trees at dusk
The foaming river from the window
The smell of the children running home
Cheeks red from the snow
The little thing you say that’s not funny
But I laugh anyway just because…

The birds can’t be imitated
The flowers can’t be coloured
The sea can’t be dammed
The mountains can’t be spoken

This is the sound of magic
Running in our veins
Moving the sky and earth
Passing through us like rivers
All the noise on earth will die
But not this silence of faith
This innocence persisting to believe
To see more than what can be seen

Wang Ping

28th May

Sunday: a day for contemplation; for gentle caresses and kisses. A day for love. Today we may defy the abyss together –

Your tongue plays in my mouth. Then the mad trembling of copulation and our shared frenzy – all before breakfast.

Genital pleasure, you know, is a form of ardent religiosity! So very apt for a Sunday, don’t you think?

Then after lunch, carnival masks and carnality. MH sacrifices his wife to us in order to caress your naked breasts. She is pale and plump and wears an ample pair of French knickers, purple in colour. While MH pumps between your spread legs on the sofa, we use his poor wife on the floor. She cums with a series of gasps and a tiny shudder. Her perfume is strong, cloying, not pleasant at all. I can still smell it now…that and the odour of her sex on my fingers –

#

Sex is imprisoned in a gothic fortress of taboos – and these we must continuously transgress to overcome the terrible isolation that faces each and every one of us in life.

#

Drinks follow the crescendo of our clinically engineered sexual encounter. Then food: quesadillas filled with four cheeses, these followed by homemade vanilla and cinnamon ice cream which I serve with toasted nuts and chocolate sauce.

All slightly surreal, I agree.

We sit eating, the five of us, like characters from an Iris Murdoch novel. Gabriella drinks white wine, a rather good Riesling. I drink brandy. MH sips a cold beer, while Mrs MH swills gin & tonic with intrepid enthusiasm – as if to forget her recent distracted quiescence, and her desultory orgasm on the carpet. Or perhaps it’s the sight of her hubby’s pimpled backside between Dee’s spread thighs she wishes to expunge from memory?

We play dress up. Bundles of fancy dress items carried down from the boxroom. Much laughter. Mrs MH’s swaying tits as she tries on a ball gown. MH wants to fuck Gabriella, but she isn’t interested. Instead she offers to pleasure plump Mrs MH with a strapon, while he watches their labouring bodies. Dee in red silk panties will act as his fricatrice. I will fetch the box of tissues and the KY.

The MHs finally leave us about nine-thirty. We go up to shower and change, and after that I fix fresh drinks. We are all a little drunk. And we end this damp, eager Sunday by eating fresh jam doughnuts.

Storm in the blood

May 30, 2017

27th May

Huge electrical storms throughout the night. Lightning flashes all over the moor, as far as the eye can see. Lightening washing the horizon with vivid blood-orange light. One violent rumble of thunder after another above us. Power off, then on again. Internet connection gone…The end of the world!

End of days, at last. Armageddon, Gotterdammerung, ragna rokkr – it has finally arrived with these terrible bursts of forked and sheet lightning! From the west in a ship manned by a phantom crew comes the giant Hrym; his ship rides the waves stirred up by the great serpent of Midgard. From the north another ship, this one crewed by inhabitants of the underworld, Loki sitting at its helm. The wolf Fenrir accompanies him, fire spurting from the beasts eyes and nostrils; blood drips black as ashes from its ferocious jaws. Fenrir’s upper jaw touches the heavens, his lower jaw brushes the earth –

All is finished!

Then: rain falling…a sudden heavy and prolonged downpour that drowns everything in the garden and leaves huge puddles on the patio. A deluge of unprecedented proportions –

With dawn comes final peace, and a thick mist rolling off the moor; it reduces visibility to three metres or thereabouts. Shapes move in that mist: moorland ponies, cattle or creatures from another dimension? You take your pick?

The mist smells of the sea.

It is a morning full of Lovecraftian possibilities.

25th / 26th May

Is it possible I’ve inhaled you in to me? Isn’t that you hiding behind my eyes? I can feel you in my blood, flowing, an impossible heat…

Beside the river bank, jeweled weeds: stinging nettles with translucent stems like human bones in miniature and cow parsley and foxgloves with warm, moist interiors like glowing uteruses.

Hot, sultry weather. At dawn the light seeped like a sigh into the night. Here, in the middle of nowhere, time ceases – or rather, ceases to have meaning. And my thoughts slip into lost infinities –

I hear your laughter, like co-conspirators, the pair of you: children spontaneously giggling. Last night we three drowned in dreams together, and came to realise the distances between stars is vast and lonely. Night remained framed in the bedroom window, while a solitary flickering candle reflected in the glass blotted out those stars and the monstrosities living between them.

I felt your hands running slowly across my memories –

#

Zentai, so I understand, is a term for skin-tight garments that cover the entire body. A second skin, so to speak. I think of those men and women with a latex fetish, smooth as polished black glass, but with access of some sort at the crotch –

#

It is easy to imagine Beauvoir on top of Sartre until she gives that one loud, feminine shriek of pleasure realised. Sartre, of course, is all about suppressed desires, wet dreams, and –

Beauvoir would have hated having him on top of her, stabbing her over and over, until every nerve felt split and bruised. Her pale silver body forced open by him. She would have thought of a new born desperately trying to scramble back inside its mother. She’d have hated that, but would have faked an orgasm anyway. Sartre, of course, wouldn’t have been fooled by her deception –

But he would have remained reasoned, affectionate and polite –

While I would have purchased her a dress of words; she had the most beautiful hands, you know? The slender, flexible fingers of the most lewd fricatrice imaginable. Oh, how I would have loved her to rub me in that special way –

#

Love can be such a fatal disease; kisses infect; kisses kill – like a freakin’ apocalypse of infected lips and words, drowning us all in my disjecta membra.

#

Writing is a battle between laziness and lies which, if you’re lucky, exposes truth.

#

Beside the river in such dreamy weather it is easy to image that ‘golden afternoon’ in 1862 when Dodgson (Lewis Carroll) with his friend the reverend Robinson Duckworth took the three Liddell sisters rowing on the Thames. Lorina Charlotte was the eldest sister, aged thirteen, Alice Pleasance was ten and Edith at age eight, the youngest. They had tea together on the riverbank near Godstow, and Dodgson told them “the fairy-tale of Alice’s adventures underground”. Dodgson who had many ‘child-friends’ and liked to photograph ‘naked little girls’, had a great fondness for writing ‘nonsense’, playing with mathematics, logic and words, and, welding them together, he created on that sun-filled day an immortal children’s fantasy –

Here, today, the hedgerows are a tangled mass of colour: valerian, red campion, common mallow, field ‘forget-me-nots’, and of course blue bells and daffodils grow all around. Nearby woods offer dappled shade and ‘secret places’ where blue bells run wild – as if on steroids! Often we have picnicked here or made love or just sat and contemplated our wild surroundings –

‘For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!’

If ever you feel oppressed by the ‘monstrous mindlessness’ of the cosmos, walk here in the woods beside the river, and that oppression will soon fade away.

Books

May 25, 2017

She was…

May 25, 2017

Truth can hurt…

May 25, 2017

Haunted House

May 25, 2017

Knock-knock –
who’s there? –
You Know Who –
You Know Who wh -!

No more fire-opal October light.

Coq-a-l’anes
twist-tied to neglected dollar store
cobwebs – slow-decomposing leaf hammocks,
cradles of plastic skulls long ago
glow-in-the-dark,
graves of fairy lights, paper hearts, sparklers, solstice-markers
now unglittery, lately unelectric –
one misfit roof tile acting alone might tear all decorations down
and toneless skeleton-tree operettas hound again.
Even in struck dumb snout and dusty ears cocked
spider handiwork.
Tell me again, how came we to live with candelabra antlers,
glass eyed mortuary beauty spellbinding
our hallway?
We never understood clocks,
so hung a head where the clock belonged.
Mama, did you deaden that deer? Distraction did, dear –
he crashed through the wall and just sleeps there. Till real suns rise
and shine him up come spring.

Miranda Field