The Old Man of Winter

August 18, 2017

At the withering of the year
There stands a tree in black silhouette
On a background of snowy white

Bent-backed, twisted and knotted
Like a man of great age
Wizened by the passing of time

Joints swollen
Limbs ending in gnarled fingers
Grasping icy teardrops come the dawn

Breath wheezing through
The leafless bough
Rasping and laboured

Can you hear him?

Whispering words of
Death and the darkness

Can you hear him?

Sammi Cox

Summon the Serpent

August 18, 2017

It may well be enough just to stay on the potent parts of The Lizard (in Cornwall) in order to “Dream dreams and see visions”. But there are mantric invocations which can help. Or so say the eerie shamanic Lizard cult “The Katchinas, Keepers of The Ancient Dream”. One such powerful ‘Dragon spell’ is an invocation to the dark serpent Goddess, which the Kachinas believe to be the mistress of the hidden secrets of the Lizard. It requires a rock-pool, or rock-chalice to carry it out properly. One inside a seacave inside the earth is best of a1l. If you find one with an s mark on the rim, or overlooking the bowl, it will be especially powerful, as it is already dedicated to the Serpent Goddess. The intention is to communicate with this entity, by seeing pictures, either in the pool, or in your mind. This can supposedly be achieved by intoning aloud the following invocation. It can be repeated as often as you like, until you feel contact has been established.

TO SUMMON THE SERPENT OF THE LIZARD

Treasures that no mind can comprehend,
That no man can harm.
Dream on with tripled powers,
Shining One, your strength is in the stars. Great is the Moon Glow,
And the Moons’ Powers!

Keepers of the Ancient Dream,
Come, Dream in here with us.
If I cry, CAR-AW, CAR-AW!
Show thy self! If I cry, CAR-AW, CAR-AW!
Take it to Yourself!

From the Ancient Dreaming,
The Wise Goddess speaks!

(Here meditate for awhile)

Oh, Mother of Light and Dark.
You who know mercy.
May your moon visions be with us,
As with our ancestors of Horrendous Powers.
Take us now to the Threshold,
Of the Otherworld.
But do not leave us there!

(Again meditate)

Robin Ellis
Dream Weavers of The Lizard

The Matriarchs’ Charm

August 16, 2017

Take hungry grins full of spittle
place sticky, beating hearts in the middle
and twine with salt and pepper hair
through endless days and nights laid bare
Add pebble, bone, root and feather
then wrap in tales and bind together

Wipe your brow and bow your head
spill blood upon the marriage bed
Now cross yourself – once, twice, thrice
and you become the sacrifice

Mary Bach

Reshape his mind

August 13, 2017

Still, however desexualized, minimalized, and distanced, the crime is a rape, and the question is why – what, in other words, the male viewer’s stake might be in imagining himself reacting to that most quintessentially feminine of experiences. The answer lies, perhaps, in the question: it is precisely because rape is the more quintessentially feminine of experiences – the limit, care of powerlessness and degradation – that is such a powerful motivation, such a clean ticket, for revenge. I have argued that the center of gravity of these films lies more in the reaction (the revenge) than the act (the rape), but to the extent that the revenge fantasy derives its force from some degree of imaginary participation in the act itself, in the victim position, these films are predicated on cross-gender identification of the most extreme, corporeal sort.

Carol J Clover
Men, Women and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film

concealed charms

August 13, 2017

At the suggestion of a friend she searched her own bed looking for possible concealed charms, and found such strange things as nails, needles with threads of damask and sendal, finger nails, bones, long strands of hair curiously wound together.

Carlo Ginzburg
The Night Battles: Witchcraft and Agrarian Cults in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries

11th August

The truth is she’s tired of men not treating her like the gift she believes she is. It’s a problem she wants to correct – starting now! She has dogs, a pair of Airedales raised from pups. Both are as neurotic as she; as vain as she, in my opinion. The dogs guard the only exit from this room.

Often her mind lays open like a drawer of lethal kitchen knives. She touches the blades one at a time. Her touch is that of a lover, lingering on cold steel. Who ever saw such grace? Such monstrous longing for blood? With such blades as these she could shrieve a soul from the pangs of hell.

‘I have something here,’ she says, smiling like one driven mad by desire. ‘Something I want to show you. Come look. You’ll never be the same again, I promise – ’

Has beauty never had any other purpose than to cause those who wish to possess it to rise up against each other, and, in the end, between them, tear the beautiful object to shreds, or failing that, destroy each other instead?

Jenny Erpenbeck
The End of Days

fighting something

August 3, 2017

How I suffer. And no one knows how I suffer, walking up this street, engaged with my anguish – alone; fighting something alone.

Virginia Woolf
diary entry, September 1929

There’s a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town.
There’s a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of ‘Mad’ Carew,
While the yellow god forever gazes down.

He was known as ‘Mad’ Carew
By the subs at Kathmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell.
But for all his foolish pranks,
He was worshipped in the ranks
And the Colonel’s daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along
With the passion of the strong,
And that she returned his love was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty one,
And arrangements were begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present
She would like from ‘Mad’ Carew,
They met next day as he dismissed a squad.
And jestingly she made pretence
That nothing else would do….
But the green eye of the little yellow god.

On the night before the dance
‘Mad’ Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him
As they pulled at their cigars,
But for once he failed to smile,
As he sat alone awhile
Then went out into the night..beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn,
With his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temples…dripping red.
He was patched up right away,
And he slept all through the day
While the Colonel’s daughter
Watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked her
If she’d send his tunic through,
She brought it and he thanked her with a nod.
He bade her search the pocket,
Saying ‘that’s from ‘Mad’ Carew’
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew,
In the way that women do,
Although her eyes were strangely hot and wet,
But she would not take the stone,
And Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he’d chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height
On that still and tropic night,
She thought of him…and hastened to his room.
As she crossed the barrack square
She could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing through the gloom.

His door was open wide,
With silver moonlight shining through.
The place was wet and slippery where she trod.
An ugly knife lay buried
In the heart of ‘Mad’ Carew…
‘Twas the vengeance of the little yellow god.

There’s a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town.
There’s a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of ‘Mad’ Carew,
While the yellow god forever gazes down.

J Milton Hayes