Aurinko

Solstitium, zun, solare and infernus.  I'm a diatribe of reason, hanging around café Sol.  Don't take away my Sun today.  Mud, leaves, twigs, vines.  Amorous hues.  An Aurora of my aura.  Splashing through the watery grass.  It's green and clean on Earth.  Don't be a techno terre.  March over terra firma with naked steps.  Listen to her firmament.  It just doesn't happen without the swing of Jupiter and the Sun's magnetic personality.  Moving mountains, rushing snow.  The twining vines dig my roots, rock my chakras.  Into a state of delirium, the depths of solstitium.  Eggs, Sun, Sow.  Sewing the day away.  Creating a little fun under the air tight rainbows.  Where is our ice and snow?  Another week forgetting there was a lizard lounge for cosmic dreamers.  Eternal screamers.  A café to sip and sleep on dust clouds.  Alone.

the Talking Deads

As I get out and about this season, I stop at some very interesting places.  There are people and places I know just by looking.  Then there is this cavernous and rainy holiday.  Quiet for sure.  Upon the clouds, the light floats a little.  Emitting rays from the last days of waning dawns, here comes the Sun.  Bigger and brighter and pulsing ever stronger now.  It is a day of Sun to my right shoulder, moon to my left.  The moon is big and white, hanging in the blue, hailing the Sun opposite.  She sends me around, let's send her again the opposite way.  There are some really big karmic bags being lugged around for the holiday season.  Nothing like some good baggage to spare and not some jolly man's sack o' toys, either.  For those who can not understand the need to provide for someone else.  For those who decide their choices in life are superior, let's look at the options, shall we?  I get sick of the jabs at people who are making choices in life based on limited options.  Then there is the other side of the world.  Judgments thrown around here would be seen as ridiculous anywhere else.  I wonder why that's so?  Why people feel the need?  Is that their present for the holiday?  A big clap on the back for being "better".  Good for you.  Don't forget that others are trying to find their way through things you most likely can't or won't understand.  This season sucks.  Each year, I try to find a way to make it better and it only gets worse.  Each year my hair falls free with the wind.  Good bye!  My colors will now be, until I'm taken over, brown and silver.

the Spectre Spectator

From the box, on the side, I can see the face of the man change under the movement of a single candle in his hand.  In the dark chapel, he moves the candle down under his face and produces the look of a most grave ghost named Marley.  His voice changes as he speaks the words of the chain toting phantom.  The man produces from his own face and voice a variety of characters.  The greedy Scrooge comes out in a higher, faster pitch.  He is scared, a coward, yet curious.  I sit among others but I am not seen.  One unused seat in the house.  A ghost watching the incarnation of ghosts.  Marley, past, present and future.  All the ghosts out the window, too.  And I am a ghost watching the ghost of Dickens' words play across the stage.  Words you know in your sleep.  Words that have some immortality.  Words.  It seems a phantom could make a noise or a word but I simply watch the brilliance of words burn across time and out into space.  We make our words to remember.  And we use them to transport.  One person, after another, will pass the sentences of the living, into the fragments of the dead.  We can understand but not own the pen.

the Addict

There is a certain type of person that has relegated themselves to put their nose to the grindstone.  There is an addictive personality that goes with weathering a place of eternal economic depression and debilitating weather.  This person has to be the addict.  It does not matter what they are addicted to and breaking the addictive behavior is one of the most difficult things to do.  Be it shopping, drugs, sex, food, social media or gambling, the addictions take root to make up for the dismal atmosphere and prospects of life.  Can we live without our ghettos or 'hoods'?  Can we live without our "boogin alleys"?  It is a fair question.  Can we be happy unless someone else is below us in status?  There is a huge superiority complex that happens in such a competitive-over-nothing atmosphere.  I've seen a fair amount of competition over the pettiest of things.  It all stems from unhappy people.  People would create a competition out of breathing if there was nothing else to have a contest over.  Breaking the habit.  Tossing out the cigarettes and alcohol.  Getting rid of the drugs.  Stop shopping til you drop.  Stop throwing money out the window or into the lottery.  Stop sleeping with whoever comes your way.  Stop eating til you are gorged each day.  Stop posting or tweeting or stalking people on social media.  These things get in the way.  If the neutron bomb actually went off and all technology was rendered unusable, what would people do?  Would they bother to learn survival skills?  Or are we too spoiled to come back from the brink?  Are we too addicted to learn?  We don't need as much food as we think we do.  We don't need pointless social interactions but we need to truly enjoy the ones we do have.  We don't need a myriad of lovers but we do need love.  We don't need substances to get through the day.  Maybe we can go without all the Hollywood diets, too.  Even eating healthy and working out can become an addiction.  Even work.  The addictive personality is to take something to an unreasonable level or let something rule our life.  As for me, I just want solitude and time to myself.  That is in short supply these days. 

the Silver Wheel

The needle sharp point of the piercing gun breaks the skin and leaves a hole within.  Aches, pains and a silver star shaped body jewel ready to wear.  No more nose.  The world knows of the horror within.  The tattoo needle scratching the skin.  Quick to put the color on and make the scars permanent.  Wearing the paint life til death do we part.  A five star hotel in a forty year old man's kitchen.  He can make and bake.  He's a freakin' magician but I haven't fallen for the spell.  I look upon him with star spangled eyes.  An infinite patriot that wants a star burned into her flesh and nailed to her nose.  Arianrhod pursues and moves the wheel of starlight around as the moon dances down to the ground.  What does this celestial wheel have to do with my outer appearance?  I'll wear it til this animated flesh moves no more.  The sickle and the ice.  A creep reaper, out to torment the most innocent of dreamers.  Plant life.  A plain life on a shelf.  In the penetralia of my mind, my psyche, ganglion, I squirm and worm out of the worst scenarios.  Face your fear.  You are an awful excuse for a person.  Swing, Rataczyck.  He was the last immortal of Vinland, returning to his home of ice and fire.  His volcano blew to welcome him home.  Origami limbo. 

veritae Winter darkness Light

The seashell delicate sky obscures a pale winter sun.  As we drive by a dark twisted forest of all kinds.  Only the dark evergreen pine colors the trees of dark brown and blackish bark.  Striped birch seems gray.  The vine like limbs weave themselves over the panoramic view and dark clouds  edge the horizon.  You have to climb to reach the cold pale winter sky.  Just a glimpse of what the fire is, on the other side of our cosmic chakra system.  Sun is fire.  Sun is Sol.  Sun is spitting at us, each day, the fires we need to live.  For life.  But today, Sun is hiding in a haze of yellowish hue behind light seashell blues and light yellows.  The sky's bleak attempt at warming us.  It gives way to the black clouds and rambling woods.  It runs up to the road to meet us.  It says, 'come in' like in an old fairy tale or horror movie.  Come in.  This is your Pennsylvania version of the English moors.  The woods.  Stick to the road.  Sun is soul.  Beware the moon at night.  Beware the moonlight.  All changes, all dies or all comes alive.  Sick at six p.m. in a midnight deep dark cemetery.  The moon will light it up for strange shadows to dance over headstones and graves.  The grave gives way to disturbed earth.  Lazy grassy lawns with bereaved skeletons inside their boxes.  Modern midnight spooky tales.  These specters claw their way up to listen to the ghastly tale I must tell of pale Suns and brilliant moons and the living limbs in the forest.  The bones rattle and digest each request.  No longer caring but really listening.  This is how we know they are like memories forever ago.  Stark, cold trees and dead things during December's light.  Yule ghosts flitter over ivy and holly.  Here they pass over holy grounds. 

the Dried Bouquet Hallway

Kitsch Witchery and my maniacal domestic bliss converge into plans for decorating and celebrating for these long lost holy days or holidays or sabats or  solstices or equinoxes.  Remainder and reminder.  I'm a domestic lady, for now.  No peeling wallpaper, thank you, but there is chipped paint.  The lavender out in frost will be brought in to thaw and dry and be hung in my dried bouquet hallway.  An entire hallway space dedicated to my outdoor grown herbs and flowers to dry.  Makes sense and a use for the space, which at present is clogged with all kinds of crap.  Dried mint, etc. will hang there.  I like the smells.  I'll need a skinny bench to work there, too, and my seed cupboard and shelves in the hallway.  I don't can (yet).  I don't sew (yet).  I don't have time (yet).  Food complicates my life for now.  But I'd like to have a somewhat cozy Yule, at home, with a nice little meal and candles.  Curt and I relaxing with our animal babies would be nice.  No running, to and fro.  But that is not my "vacation".  That is the ideal, of course.  But not what happens these past several years.  It's all running and going crazy and pulling out my hair.  Trying to figure out what to do, what to get and then find time to wrap it all and get it to where it's going.  The prep for this "celebration" exhausts my spirit and makes me cringe at the word 'holiday'.  I choose to focus on ice, frost and snow.  I choose to focus on wind, rain, sleet and slush.  Hail.  That's a word.  What's the weather done?  Perhaps I'll focus on wiping my pups muddy paws and making a window seat for my cats to doze in.  Perhaps I'll just quit the maniacal business of 'rushing by' the holiday and actually TAKE a holiday.  Take a break.  Take a vacation.  All in my own home.  I'm enjoying making it better but the snail pace at which I'm getting things completed makes me anxious, irritable and envious of others who do it all better and have more time.  If I can't get things completed, I don't, can't, won't enjoy the simple joy of Yule this year, let alone my birthday.  That is just how I feel.

Bacchus Valley land of Werewolves and Lucia

The smallest detail of a dream.  A carved relief in an underground cave, not yet discovered by anyone.  (Man, those dreams get frosty overnight.)  I wandered the land of ice and snow and crawled my way deep into the earth to a place of strange treasure.  The orbs of stone.  The walls of stone and glass.  The cold, dark sanctuary of art.  We pillaged the place.  We looked for precious things.  We identified the boon, looking for the names of each gem or jewel or stone.  And with each passing item, I found more strange things.  But one thing, on the wall, caught my attention.  One thing made me pause in time and forget that I was an adventurer, set out to sea to find this place.  In the land of ice and snow, I found Bacchus on the wall, looking at me to take him down.  Wine appeared, quite suddenly, in my glass.  I was a lady wearing the warrior marks and the wind blown, grassy fabric, but I was in the temple of a strange god.  He's not so strange now.  I gulped the draught of wine and took down the relief of the demi-god in his shrine.  Eons protected and he was mine.  My mind, a cauldron and pentangle.   In that instant, I could hear the incessant howling of the wolves.  My mind saw the blood colored snow they left behind.  In this land of wolf and ice and blood and sea, in this land of rock and wine, I had to move across the stone floor to the tunnel and dig my way out with Bacchus under my arm.  It was like digging from a womb out into the brilliance of sunlit snow.  All the while knowing death is chasing you down.  The Bacchus wolves howled and I knew they were in pursuit.  Funny how, even death can cast a shadow.  Back to the boat now, with wine in your veins and your god in tow.  You and the other rioters run until your vessel carries you home.  Inside the wood, on the waves, riding to Sun, I could relax with art I had plucked from time.  He came home with me.  Shuddering against the stars on the water as chunks of ice flowed by.  I held him up against the starry sky.  I wondered at his journey and this sojourn over the cold watery mirror.  He was writing, in me, his Magical Menagerie.  Until we arrived home on the thirteenth of December.  My demigod of wine and my candles I wore.  Lucia girl and Star boy.  We lived in our land of Winter with the god of Summer.