You want me to perform this?

September 30, 2017

Anthem

September 9, 2017

The birds they sang at the break of day
Start again I heard them say
Don’t dwell on what has passed away
or what is yet to be.

Ah the wars they will be fought again
The holy dove she will be caught again
bought and sold and bought again
the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

We asked for signs the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood of every government –
signs for all to see.

I can’t run no more with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places say their prayers out loud.
But they’ve summoned, they’ve summoned up a thundercloud
and they’re going to hear from me.

Ring the bells that still can ring…

You can add up the parts but you won’t have the sum
You can strike up the march, there is no drum
Every heart, every heart to love will come
but like a refugee.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen

Music and Witchcraft

September 3, 2017

Many witches use music to aid in their craft; music can help boost your energy, put an edge to your spell, get you in the right mood, help connect you to your deity/energies/elements/etc, and just create a good atmosphere!

Remember, you don’t have to use just whimsical spiritual music with lots of flute and wind noises. Any music can be used for magic, from pop to rock to classical to jazz. Use music that you connect with and works well with what you’re doing! When doing a spell for strength, and the song Boss Ass Bitch makes you laugh and feel ridiculous, don’t use it. But if it makes you feel empowered and confident, perfect! You don’t have to be a pop culture pagan to use songs like that, just use whatever feels right.

There are an infinite number of ways you can use music.

• while reading tarot, to put you in ‘the zone’
• while dancing, to heighten your energies and unify your body
• while performing curses, to sharpen and manifest your rage
• to make your will more specific when doing luck spells
• to cover up the sound of your verbal spells or chanting (if you’re not out as a witch)
• to feel more connected to your deity
• while meditating to drown out the world

Music is an invaluable resource, and for those people who feel music to a big part of their life, it can be a perfect asset for their witchcraft!

pictures of the music

August 17, 2017

You ask me how these pictures are evolved? “They are not pictures of the music theme – pictures of the flying notes – not conscious illustrations of the name given to a piece of music, but just what I see when I hear music – thoughts loosened and set free by the spell of sound.

When I take a brush in hand and the music begins, it is like unlocking the door into a beautiful country. There, stretched far away, are plains and mountains and the billowy sea, and as the music forms a net of sound the people who dwell there enter the scene; tall, slow-moving, stately queens, with jewelled crowns and garments gay or sad, who walk on mountain – tops or stand beside the shore, watching the water – people. These water-folk are passionless, and sway or fall with little heed of time; they toss the spray and, bending down, dive headlong through the deep.

There are the dwellers, too, of the great plain, who sit and brood, made of stone and motionless; the trees, which slumber till some elf goes by with magic spear and wakes the green to life ; towers, white and tall, standing against the darkening sky –

Those tall white towers that one sees afar,
Topping the mountain crests like crowns of snow.
Their silence hangs so heavy in the air
That thoughts are stifled.

Then huddling crowds, who carry spears, hasten across the changing scene. Sunsets fade from rose to grey, and clouds scud across the sky.

For a long time the land I saw when hearing Beethoven was unpeopled; hills, plains, ruined towers, churches by the sea. After a time I saw far off a little company of spearmen ride away across the plain. But now the clanging sea is strong with the salt of the lashing spray and full of elemental life; the riders of the waves, the Queen of Tides, who carries in her hand the pearl-like moon, and bubbles gleaming on the inky wave.

Often when hearing Bach I hear bells ringing in the sky, rung by whirling cords held in the hands of maidens dressed in brown. There is a rare freshness in the air, like morning on a mountain-top, with opal-coloured mists that chase each other fast across the scene.

Chopin brings night ; gardens where mystery and dread lurk under every bush, but joy and passion throb within the air, and the cold moon bewitches all the scene. There is a garden that I often see, with moonlight glistening on the vine-leaves, and drooping roses with pale petals fluttering down, tall, misty trees and purple sky, and lovers wandering there. A drawing of that garden I have shown to several people and asked them if they could play the music that I heard when I drew it. They have all, without any hesitation, played the same. I do not know the name, but – well, I know the music of that place.

Pamela Colman Smith
Pictures in Music
From the Strand magazine, July 1908

To dream without sleep

March 25, 2017

Diary 24th / 25th March

Question: What is the hardest thing to write about?

Answer: Happiness – anyone car write about misery, it’s easy. But real happiness with all its stubborn imperfections is the subject matter of great writers (unfortunately, I’m far from being a great writer).

My own writing evokes an inner world, a world of projections, fantasies and demonic illusions – or such is my intention. It is a world of emotionally greedy women, men whose incredible egoism is pushing them towards madness, and precocious adolescents who form an integral part (whether willingly or not) of the “ME” generation, which we seem to have created during the past three decades. All in their own way are seeking love and happiness; and all are sublimely selfish, considering only themselves in the paths they choose to take.

#

In good art we do not ask for realism; we ask for truth.

#

Pussy is a good moisturiser for the whole face. I like to apply it nightly. Even daily if the opportunity presents itself.

#

I have some sympathy with Oscar Wilde when he said: ‘I have no objection to anyone’s sex life as long as they don’t practice it in the street and frighten the horses.’ No one should ever want to frighten the horses.

#

‘As a musician I tell you that if you were to suppress adultery, fanaticism, crime, evil, the supernatural, there would no longer be the means for writing one note’ – so said Georges Bizet, and I totally agree.

Play It Glissando

December 1, 2016

moor

Diary 1st December

More fragments from a splintered mind –

O the sisters of mercy they are not
Departed or gone,
They were waiting for me when I thought
That I just can’t go on,
And they brought me their comfort
And later they brought me this song.
O I hope you run into them
You who’ve been travelling so long

Leonard Cohen

#

Have you observed how closely our shadows sit together? Now and again they touch like lovers. They think we can’t see them, but we can, can’t we? Their desire, one for the other, is very apparent to me.

#

Yesterday, a grey sky lowering the horizon. The leaves have finally fallen, but still gorse bushes are flowering in places on the moor. Surely the frost must finish them off?

This morning, cold. Minus five on the thermometer in the garage.

Steam rising from my cup of coffee causes my thoughts to stray. Schooldays. Boredom and melancholy and endless bouts of wanking. Everyday a fresh opportunity to fail. Teachers with dead eyes. The walking dead. “Jessie” James with his nicotine yellow fingers, and his spiteful attempts at humour. Mrs Laite with her following of invisible but strange spirits, still in mourning for a long dead husband, and teetering on the brink of dementia.

Oh, what tough little roughs we were.

But even then, despite everything, I was easy prey for the seductive darkness. And the darkness in winter is so absolute, isn’t it?

#

Memory of an evening in Thame years ago. Dead and alive sort of place. What on earth was I doing there? Don’t know now, but I was with H – her of the long neck and smouldering glances – and we’d both had a drink or two, for sure. There was one of those prefabricated, aluminium-framed, bus-stops, in part windowless where once there had been windows. A rank and urine-smelling place, where tramps congregated late at night.

To my utter amazement, H said to me: ‘Have me here…here on the floor.’

‘Whaaa…’

And before I knew what was happening, she was on all fours, skirt up, wriggling lace panties down.

Just the smell in that place put me off. It was dark and there was no one else about. But I couldn’t comply with her demands. It was impossible. I tried to explain but she was furious with me.

#

And then a Saturday night at The Bell, Apsley. Much later, this. The “Tree-Fellow” was there, with his squint and his evil-smelling cheroots. H, more than a little intoxicated, told him she’d like to screw him. ‘A good night out for me,’ she said, ‘would involve a variety of sexual partners.’

I could tell he was deeply shocked.

I intervened, and she turned on me like a rabid dog. Eventually, I suggested we call it a day. Go home.

‘Fuck you both,’ she said, getting up from the table. ‘I’m outta here…’

All good things, inevitably, come to an end.

#

And then another time, with the woman I love most in the world. Our first ever date. In the King’s Head, Harrow-on-the-hill. The two of us sitting together, earnestly talking about life, the universe and everything. I with one leg awkwardly folded under me, excuse myself to go to the toilet.

But disaster always awaits the unwary.

On standing, I realise my leg has gone numb. I should sit back down, let feeling return to it. But no. I try to walk through that crowded bar towards the Gents. I make it, yeah – after hobbling and flailing about like one who’d just received a hefty kick to the balls. So very embarrassing. At one point, glancing back over my shoulder, I see the look of total shock on that poor girl’s face…

How to make a good first impression, eh?

What Will I Remember?

November 30, 2016

snow

What will I remember?
What will I forget?
When this life is ending, and gone
What will I regret?
If tomorrow I don’t wake up, what happens?
My sunrise, or sunset?

If I never were born
If I never died
Would it even matter at all?
What should I decide?
I always imagined I’d mean something to someone
If I won’t, ‘least I tried

When my body suffers
When to breathe is pain
Is it really madness to think…
Think of breaking this chain?
Is the future mine?
God knows I have a past
Where’s my second chapter?
Or will the first also be my last?

Is my story over
If I fall asleep?
Would anybody find me?
And would anybody weep?
I can’t even pretend I care
But songs I’ll never sing…
Well that means something…
Yes, that means something…

Emilie Autumn

slow pizzicato strings

November 29, 2016

lena-sotskova-lead-violin

Vivaldi was dry, rational until slow pizzicato strings described hard claws tiptoeing across a striated sandy floor. Bach’s contrapuntal lines entwined in his head like smooth tubular growths…

Christopher Harman
Deep Water
From: Terror Tales of East Anglia – edited by Paul Finch