Awards

I have added my two awards below the text of these humble pages - The Lemonade Award and the Best Blog Thinker award. I will give some thought to where to display them, but wanted to place them here because I am deeply honored that Linda and Steph think so highly of me. Please if you do not know Psyche Connections and Incurable Insomniac, do click on the award pictures to visit them. It is well worth your time, I promise you.

And now - I also need to think about who to pass these on to. I will do so, but I first need to carefully consider.

Thank you again for the great honor.

The week

Alas, I will be unable to post much until after Wednesday. That is the deadline I set for one of my current projects, and I never miss my own deadlines. But I will tell you about an interesting little thing.

Last week my father brushed against a spider that was sitting on the edge of his chair. I happened to be sitting with him in his outdoor workshop. Inspecting the little lady, I saw that she was a Southern Black Widow, Latrodectus mactans. Oh ye little black haunters of privies and sheds, will you leave a few areas safe for old men and their visiting sons? Well I am glad she didn't bite anyone.

So I put this little lady in a jar thinking I would take a photo, but forgot about her, and now she is all shriveled. I can still make out (barely) the signature "hourglass" on her abdomen. But otherwise she is turning to ick. Goo ejected from her head as she dessicated, and that has her glued to the bottom of the jar.

I'm afraid if I take a picture now, it will be too unsightly. What do you think? Gooey raisiny spider pictures?

I am thinking there are better things I could post pictures of.

Blueberry Imbibements Really Can Be Manly; or, Anything is Possible

Possibility, reality... they are defined by each other, it seems. And yet, both are ever expanding. Are they not?

Now I ask you: is a drink really manly when it claims to be a martini, yet it is diluted with soft drinks and fizz? I say not. Even in this modern age, not. I am still wrestling with the concept of a vodka martini - what ever happened to just Dutch courage and dry vermouth?

But I must keep up with the times, and so I have decided to expand reality, if only slightly.

Oh by the way, please typo any pardons, I am testing several dangerous imbibements here. Maybe a half dozen more than several.

But this is important so pay attention.

Here are two manly variations on the martini. These are manly because I say so, and woe to any who argues the point. Remember my friends, it is not the drink that makes the man; it is the man who makes the drink. (Here I would insert a rugged wink if I had the technological finesse to do such a thing).

This making of drinks is a metaphysical endeavor, truly. Let us proceed.

The first! A Bluberry Simple:

You will feel like a simpleton if you drink too many of these. I think the blueberries make the vodka go to the brain. But I can not be sure in my current state.

It contains Vodka...













And note that the vodka can be any brand. Pour the vodka over ice in a man-sized whiskey tumbler...










This one was given to me as a gift of appreciation for buying much Scotch whisky. NOTE! There is no "e" in the word whisky; the "e" was added to distinguish new-age American whiskies. Ignore your spell-checker! Just as adding corn-syrupy beverages to fine whisky would be a mistake, so was adding an "e" to the word "whisky".

OH hell, I was supposed to be talking about vodka, wasn't I. Alright. I recommend pouring 3/4's of a glass, or maybe 4/5's, depending on the liver of the imbiber. Using my glass, pour 4 jiggers over ice.

Now you need blueberry juice. Note that "juice" and "cocktail" are not synonymous in grocery store lingo. The word "cocktail" is a synonym for "corn syrup" in the US, and should be avoided when making quality beverages. I do not know why we call it "cocktail" instead of "corn syrup;" I have been asking for years. True blueberry juice is a bit sour, truly. Mine looks like this:













Pour over the vodka, but leave just a little room.

Now, you could stop here, but that would be tragic in a way. You see, a manly drink should be shared with a beautiful lady. And that beautiful lady might or might not like dryish, sour drinks. For that matter, you might want to smooth the drink up a bit. You can admit that, can't you?

THAT is why you need raw, unrefined (need I say rugged?) cane sugar, just a tablespoon:













AND you should dissolve this cane sugar in about 4 tablespoons of hot water to make a simple syrup. Add this to your beverage.

Now you have a Blueberry Simple.

Using same proportions, you may make these in a shaker (I license them to you, reader, for eternal and free personal or commercial use, so long as you think of your friend Rab whilst enjoying one sip) to share with that beautiful someone.

Ah but we're not done. I must prove once and for all just how malleable a thing reality is. Easy enough in my state! And that brings us to...

The Blueberry Metro:

Oh yes I know, it is cliche to use the word "metro" to connote sophistication. In truth, I have leanings toward the simple things myself. But I cannot ignore this drink's lust for life. There are two variations:

The sweet:

Use the same proportions as the Blueberry Simple, and add a splash of Rosso. Yes, the Italian red vermouth. This will make a delightful and refreshing difference. And then there is...

The dry:

Wherein, the splash of Rosso replaces your simple syrup.

And there it is... two beverages, one with two variations, all manly because you say so, and yet they can be shared with anyone. Look at the beautiful difference we can make!

Never doubt that reality is bent to our will, friends; it is every day bent to the will of those around us, if not ourselves. Have a drink, dear friends. And some time between that first drink and the regaining of consciousness, toast with me on the malleable nature of reality.

Thought of the day

Sometimes it is better to ignore what is possible, and just do something else.

Meditation 1 on The Cycle

Natural disasters are little understood things. We can guess at when they will strike, but we never know the precise hour, nor the exact direction and location, nor the intensity. Further, we may prepare for the disaster and still be surprised by its results. A tornado might spawn a fire. A quake or a flood might disrupt sanitation, giving foothold to all manner of disease.

So it is with disasters of the mind. Wherever some 50-greats grandfather sent out his tremor, generations shook; he passed his energy to those who followed, and followed, and followed, for a thousand, ten thousand years. Where is proximate cause? Tangled in the roots of our oldest memory.

Sometimes I catch a silhouette, and say, “Good day to you, grandfather; is that a knife, a gun, an army you wield? How is your hand present, who lived so long ago?” I get no answer, but see his shade; watching, listening, waiting.

Even the slightest shades are dangerous. This one may be but a match stick; yet amidst dry grass it is the herald of Death. Find these in the dark places that hide them so well; give them no shelter.

1999, The Turquoise Eye, Part 6

And there was Atum-Ra, smiling the same smile I had seen on his face before, in the grove. Wry, I would almost call it now. So I asked him, “Were you expecting me?” And that made him laugh. I feel the need to reiterate that I underwent several days of torment prior to returning, to be laughed at. In one moment, I reached the end of my patience, became angry at an old man, realized I didn't really have anything to be angry about, and laughed along with him. He probably only noted the laughing, but one never knows. “Why did you invite me to your ceremony?” I asked him. It seemed like a reasonable question at the time; I had the sense that he knew, if only in the most general sense, what the result would be. “Because I believe you have the tools to confront darkness.” The way he said that last word surprised me. Not all druids behave like Atum-Ra! “I have met as many druids as you have, I'll wager,” I said, “and do you know how many have said something like that to me?” “None, probably.” At that point I realized I was asking too many questions, and so I resolved to be patient. Patience, and quiet; that is what followed. We went to a room that attached to the temple by a breezeway, where Atum-Ra had tea ready. Maybe he was expecting company after all. We sat and drank tea and nodded across the table at each other. Patience and quiet is a game at which I excel. My survival during several spans of my early life depended on invisibility and absolute silence. How else does one become interested in all the oddities that have attracted me over the years? And so I became quiet, still, patient. I once stood in an elevator with a couple who did not notice me until I spoke, three floors later. It was nothing magickal, understand, but there is a state of mind where one becomes so quiet and so introverted that they are just easy to miss. Though I have gained the ability to be boisterous when called for, I still slip up and startle people. Quiet, still, patient. Yet I believe Atum-Ra was my match at this game. Also, it was I who needed answers. To what, I did not know, but I clearly needed something if I was ever going to practice my smithing, or sleep, or trust myself with... not that I had any conscious thoughts like that, but I had studied enough psychology to respect the power of those deeper parts of the mind. I would not risk it, no matter how rational I felt. Do not tempt demons; that is their game. After two pots of tea and a trip to the bathroom, I finally gave up and spoke. “I am pursued by what appears to be a remnant of your demon. Apep.” I got a raised eyebrow, at least. “Apep is no one's,” Atum-Ra said. “And in some ways it may be everyone's. How do you mean, that it pursues you?” A return question – I took this to mean I had only narrowly lost the game of patience. I told Atum-Ra about the dreams, and about the sounds that brought back those terrors of the night, and about my Lady N. Finally, I asked him what it might mean. “I can not interpret for you,” he said. “I can point you toward the path, but if I carry you the journey will be fruitless.” Then he said, “The strength of your reaction shows that your mind is open. Already you explore depths that most people choose to avoid. Whatever you find there, it will be rare in the eyes of those others.” I had hoped for a better answer, truly. So I continued to question. “Did you know I would be haunted?” There is the remote possibility that I might have throttled an old man if he had just said yes. But in fact what he said was, “No. There are as many reactions to that particular ceremony as there are people. My own reaction was much like yours, when Lady Wadjet showed me. Others see nothing, and feel nothing. They are less lucky than you, I think.” “Your mysticism is nearly impenetrable,” I said. But I knew his intentions were good, and that he was not going to volunteer more information, at least not yet. And frankly, he was playing on my love of mysteries. I have a perpetual, recurring, inextinguishable love of mysteries. And like Atum-Ra, I have never liked to reveal them all at once; it takes away all of the mystery, I think. “So I must solve this riddle myself,” I said. “And I believe it is a riddle for a different part of the mind than the analytical surface. A ripple on the surface will not affect the depths. But move from the depths, and ah...” “Yes,” he said. “You have the right tools. You have trained yourself for this, whether you know it or not. I would not have shown you if I did not believe it.” But his words brought up something that I had to know. “Did you invite me to speak at your temple just for this? Is this some trick of yours for sending people on journeys they haven't asked for?” Ha! The fantasies we contrive when we are squashed between pride and uncertainty. Ah well. “No,” he said, and I got a laugh from him. “I was genuinely interested in the subject matter, as were several members. And Osiris wanted to meet you in the hopes that you might exchange metalworking knowledge. You can expect correspondence from that one, I'll tell you.” Then he looked grave and said, “But I never let pass an opportunity. I saw the possibility, and my only choice was to show you the looking back.” What a sense of purpose Atum-Ra's order had; and what a rare thing that is. That day, his parting words to me were, “Already you walk the path that Wadjet walked. When you reach your destination, I greet you as a citizen of a new world. Farewell for now.” I left. But later I wondered at something. Lady Wadjet had founded the order in 1901, or so I understood. If she had shown the vision of the looking back to Atum-Ra, just how old had she been when she showed him; and how old was he? It is not an impossible timeline, by any stretch, but certainly, I thought, it implied a mightily long career.

1999, The Turquoise Eye, Part 5

I must confess to some feelings of guilt here. I want to write pages, reams, tomes about my Lady N, truly. And yet, it is not where the story takes me, and is not the order in which things happened.

Oh, I spent a great deal of time mulling over my lady. Hiraedd, you might call it, that Celtic longing for what can not be had. I wanted her back, of course. Who wouldn't? How many of the dearest, closest friends are we given in this life?

And sometimes I was angry with her. How could she, I would think. How dare she take her self away from me? Well everyone has their self-centered moments, do they not? I had struggled for years between different feelings, never knowing exactly how I felt.

But now, suddenly, the note of my sadness changed. It became a larger kind of sadness, I think. I was angrier too, but it was not anger at her.

First I was angry at her father, because I realized that he had done something to her. Not something physical, but something. He had created within my Lady N the seed that would slay her. Was it not his hand, in some way, that wielded the glass, wielded the bottles of liquor that became her art; he, the failed artist, who had given her every self-hating phrase in her vocabulary to repeat endlessly, a song of her longing for his acceptance?

Well that is exactly how it was, at least if you ask me. And if he ever gets around to reading this, assuming the old man is still alive, he can eat the pages on which I write and choke.

Oh damn, I am being ungracious. Let me say that I came upon more insights into how people treat each other, and how we respond, and that I will write about them in time. But now I must be true to the story, and that means dreams and druids and a trail of little insights.

I tried to avoid the Turquoise Eye for several days. But I kept dreaming of that damned, rasping, whispering sound, and I shivered at the thought of sleeping another night.

And the hum of the sander! It is amazing how many places that same sound appears. It is the sound of sixty hertz passed through resisting coils. I could not escape it anywhere.

So, I went back to the Turquoise Eye.