All I want for Christmas

What could I ask for this holiday season, other than being near family members I love? Now: IF I thought it would add five years to my father or grandmother's life, I'd never "Snape out" or go wild with my style again; but I know it can't make a whit of difference. What I will do this season is spend time with both those generations, and courteously refrain from my crazier shenanigans until after I return to my Portland nest.

But it's also true that even family members aren't always telepathically gifted, much less Legilimens. I'm as likely to end up with the pleasant but general gifts like chocolate bars and earrings as I am a truly tailored gift --- although you never know, and a loved one's perceptivity can surprise you! Dad did, after all, give me his very own Potjie pot to use as a cauldron. After reassuring me he hadn't melted lead in it. Dad, you rock. Still, I have a dreadful little tendency to buy my own presents. This, too, is something Dad understands: He knows exactly what he needs. What he uses every day, for instance. Typically, they're called tools.

But both he and I also get a wild hair up in, and buy books or other stuff that we think we might need, or that just strikes our fancy. Like this, for instance: A book on creative scrapbooking and collage. It just makes me happy to look at it. I also figured it could be an inspiration --- my best current collection of "painted pages" happens to be my hand-bound potistry log, which I just caught up in painting-wise in the last few weeks. Not only is Potus ("potion", ninny, not our excuse for a president!) a lot of fun to make, it's built to last a lifetime.

From the same store, New Renaissance, came this: a reference book about history, mythology and symbolism. Couldn't pass it up; I mean, I am big on the snakes, and it looked fascinating when I skimmed it. Did I mention both those books were on sale?

This vintage bottle and a little piece of rather Gothic collage art came from Scrap, the next best thing in the city next to a free box. Yes, it's the honor of Severa's private lab for both you funky misfits.

What's this? In my new loft, there's not only space for an altar but spiritual room to use it. Here's my main one; I sort of have a smaller one in the auxiliary room, where my tiny "lab" is. And I've had a thing for years now, albeit a little thing, for stone blades. I think they're creepy and wonderful and sacred and cool. So when I saw this carved knife ornament, I grabbed it. Like my little cauldron, it saw blessing and use on its first night with me as an athalme, a magical power-channeling tool. Mom disliked stone pointers and knives, likening them to sacrificial implements; but nope, nothing died at the hands of this one.

It's tiny, but it's cozy, it's lab-like and, for the moment, it's mine. Next year, who knows? Take things day by day, and be grateful.

Home: It's where your junk is. Specifically, the stuffed animals, blankies, pillows and crafts. This season, I'm happy just to nest in like a spider, spin soft wool on the drop-spindles I made this autumn, and weave words, art, tunes, and recipes.

I found a house with vintage bottles on the sills, and returned from work one evening to a light-filled window. I'll be home for Christmas --- whether I'm visiting family or coming back to town.

Lab of Dreams: Making Space for the Art

One thing you learn when moving your youthful, financially challenged, sorry arse from one location to another at the whim of authority is how important is the concept of space. Especially, perhaps, for creative and intense minds, such as my own. Without the proper kind of space, or simply enough of it, any kind of craft becomes more difficult. In my instance, my writing suffered the least because of its need for a single tool, and its portability: a mere notepad suffices, and at most a laptop enables one to write a novel. But what about painting or sewing? Or brewing? The former two, I was able to do a bit over the past couple of years. But herbal or other brewing work got increasingly difficult on Simpson Street.

Nor is space only physical.

As Snape could confirm, with his relentless mind and razor-scarred soul, mental and spiritual space is just as important as physical elbow-room . . . maybe even more so. Like him, I apparently have a big personal space radius; but how easily it coexists with others' depends on them. I have a number of friends who I find, plain and simply, awesome. Living with anyone long-term can get touchy, but I'd live with them. I'd do art, sew, dance, read, watch movies, cook, and brew potions alongside them, too. I managed this for a few months, in fact, after leaving Simpson and moving in with friend Kelsey, who does have her Virgo preferences, but at least I had some mental space to work with. But before that, unseen psychological pressure was rife. I was made to feel ashamed --- stuff-shamed for having "a lot of stuff" (yet, for an average American 30-something, I don't); shamed for having my glass carboy full of cider where it sat to brew, and for my bike having no kickstand; criticized and judged, basically, for everything. For not letting my room door stand open, my stuff visible. For existing, it seemed. Just for being me. You don't need to hear shame aloud, even; past a certain level, you can feel it. Even in that sweet, spacious little Victorian house, thanks to other people living there, there was. No. Space.

Now, of course, my situation is wonderful, although still limited in the physical dimension (hence, a storage unit --- that freed me up a great deal, so the need to settle quickly on a less-than-satisfactory home was reduced). But I have mental and spiritual space like I haven't felt in years. Another kind of space, or breathing room, is financial, and right now I have a bit of that, too. Perhaps that accounts in part for my sudden power surge of reinterest in spiritual learning, art, alchemy, potions, and other, possibly space-intensive pursuits.

The perfect space, no less important than the right tools. What is a wizard without the tower, any more than a carpenter without the utility belt? And where, no doubt in a desperate and angry snit, on Earth would a bloke like Severus be without his lab? Until I do possess my own art studio and brewing laboratory-type spaces, I can dream and plan, via images like these.

If I had access to the castle's potion lab, I would probably attempt to spend many of my waking hours (and some hours when I should be sleeping) there: Look at this place! The potential of it all! The sheer infinity of possible combinations and techniques! Sadly, at Hogwarts this might be difficult. Even a diehard lab-loving kid would have to deal with the brutally unyielding mind and spirit of Professor Snape, and his thirst for plenty of space ("What is this?! Out, you dunderheads! I suffer enough of your idiocy in classes!") Therefore, the solution, as above, is first to dream. Then to get rich. Then to buy land and a home and build the . . . best . . . effing . . . lab anywhere, short of nicking half of Snape's s**t. Of which the man would most definitely not approve. A shame. Look at those huge bottles. What's inside?

Whether it be Snape's or another space dedicated to sheltering a blend of the scientific and magical, lab rooms by their very nature attract some people and repel others. The Unknown, a strong force in any lab, is scary to many people, just as both science (especially weird science!) and magic evoke fear in timid minds. The edge of control is always a fine line to surf here, so folks whose faith in their own destiny is shaky, or their relationship with God less than forgiving, may choose to steer clear. Some of these photos are more welcoming, others more sinister, even to me. Yet I can honestly say I could walk into, yes, any of these labs with an open and curious mind, to see what I could learn . . . even if I did decide on protective gloves as a prudent idea.

Can I curl up with an ancient, leather-bound tome of recipes beside the fire in this place, right about now? Ah, crapnuts. The only leather-bound potistry tome I know of isn't ancient --- in fact, it's not even finished, because I'm still compiling the damn thing. Real such books are rare. Thus, on my bucket list is a visit to some European libraries. Until then, there is the wonder of the Internet, where pages of the Voynich Manuscript and other masterpieces can be viewed, and nicked, for free. Hear that, people? Defend your local Potions apprentices! Protect Net Neutrality.

What a wonderful Gothic depiction! My experience in a comparative medicine testing lab does come into play here: On with the barrier clothing, or it's essays and a detention as punishment.

Seriously. All day. Particularly if the weather was inclement; but even on a day like this, I might rise so far into the zone created by this space, hours would slip away into bliss like liquid light

. . . provided I trusted my own abilities not to blow off my eyebrows in a puff. Which I do.

Pleeeeease, Professor . . . .?

Just Right: The Perfect Tool for the Job

On November 21, I headed to friend Timothy's for an early Thanksgiving. But while we did stuff our faces on delicious mushroom pie, ginger cake and wine, my mind had been buzzing with far more in anticipation of that night. I'd already torn up two thrift stores, and before making bus-tracks to his house, I went clear south to Sellwood, near where I'd once lived on 13th Street. Destination: Stars Antique Mall.
After going through both big buildings and their dozens of vendors, I returned to this one booth where I'd felt an intense tingling kind of pull, a booth which held lots of strange ethnic, magical, mystical and downright creepy items -- crucifixes, voodoo tools, masks, etc., a bit reminiscent of Borgin and Burkes, actually -- and there it sat. I'd totally overlooked it the first pass: The perfect size of cauldron, cast iron, great for both burning and brewing and easily portable. "See me? See me?" she seemed to call; "Don't let me sit here and rust!"
Besides a convenient one-serving brew size, I needed another advantage: accessibility. Both my stove-size Potjie cast-iron and my bronze poison cauldron, plus the little dinky cute one my Dad gave me, are buried somewhere in my storage unit. Even in a place as huge as Stars, cast iron vessels, as it turns out, are rare, especially of the right size and shape. But this gal was, obviously, meant to be mine.

My new "baby" got broken in with a taste of fire on her very first night. Timothy, excited about taking part in his first-ever magick ritual (though he's no stranger to occult sentiments, being a very spiritual and perceptive man who works extensively with Tarot and has taught me a thing or two!), helped me compile a list of qualities and energies that we felt held us back from our destinies and true potential. Together, using a method called the Green Fire Ritual, we banished them. I'd brought along Epsom salts and rubbing alcohol, and now I invoked the power of Pluto and Saturn on this Scorpio new moon. Up went the flames (though not as green as I'd've liked), and in went the paper! "Ad Nemesis vada totus insufficienti" to shame, fear, past wounds, and all the rest!

I obtained the Green Fire Ritual from Mooncircles.com, a favourite astrology site. Some folks, it seems, make a proper ritual out of it; others just write out intention, then light and burn. I felt it would be stronger if I invoked the Powers, but still kept it short and sweet, especially since it was raining, and we had to keep noise to a minimum so as not to antagonize Tim's landlady. But he still seemed to get a great deal of satisfaction from the venture. Since he's a fantastic artist, I'd certainly like to see us both a little more freed up to achieve our highest and finest in life. After the ritual, Timothy did the honors of further scrubbing, de-rusting and seasoning my new cauldon.
The Potions Master approves.

What are you thankful for this year?

As finances allow, I hope to acquire a larger cauldron, possibly 20-40 gallons or so, to facilitate not only serious Snape action but communal gatherings. With the recent rise of the # MeToo movement as women speak out in protest of sexual assault, and growing resistance to the fear and shame perpetuated so insidiously by America's current patriarchal rape culture (an outdated and destructive world view which is hindering the souls of men, as well), I'd love to once more employ the cauldron as a tool of gathering, community support, women's conversation (possibly at times including men in the group who are fully committed to societal revolution and change, such as Timothy). Indeed, as Cerridwen's cauldron has long stood as a symbol of, a tool of rebirth on multiple levels.
And let's not forget the main reason for bringing back the big black pot on a regular basis: FUN. Merlin's most baggy Y-fronts, can you HEAR the cackling from here?! Before poor Severus ended up living his final years in shame and loathing his job of teaching young apathetic dunderheads, he was no doubt a wickedly adventurous boy, who loved putting the pewter through its paces and seeing how gnarly a result he could get. (Come, now, what's really wrong with the Dark Arts, provided you don't use them on the innocent, right? *snark*) Nobody parties like a Slytherin, and I for one am committed to perpetuating the brew-loving soul of Severus. (Current employment at a beer factory doesn't hurt, unless you count those draining graveyard shifs) Campfires and bonfires, too, are places of heart and community for people. A simmering cauldron would only add to the delight.
Arseholes be warned: Tonight, sisters, we are brewing solidarity strong enough to burn their toenails off and curl their eyebrows. All hail the Serpent!

So I've been sniffing about on eBay, where cauldrons appear in all shapes and sizes, from dinky designer excuses that would give Snape a cramp in his sneering muscle to great iron bellies of mancooking vats that require four big guys (or a forklift) to lift. Also available are lovely little jewelers' brass scales in portable models, tucked in velvet-lined boxes. All manner of tools for serious potistry.

Beautiful antique hand-scale with weight set and carved horn cups, Germany

Then, I've been steadily accumulating test tubes from Scrap, a dangerously awesome surplus craft warehouse downtown on 18th Street. Finally, I returned to Stars just two days ago on Dec. 4th, and bought an item I'd seen on my cauldron mission: my first-ever crystal ball. The vendor was actually there at her booth, and it just felt right. Oh, and a few, you know . . . bottles, antiques, including one of rare red glass for photosensitive mixtures. Because Gods know, you can never have enough damn bottles. I foresee a lab forming and, at some point, kits with a full compliment of gear for a professional potist . . . .

Witchy stew, coming up.

What in Merlin's name is this, you dolt . . . ? Although, it's true power can be measured in small drops, and I suppose no one would expect foul play or fierce resistance out of such a . . . *harumph*

Beautiful.

Perfect size for feeding all the city's homeless. Or poisoning the entire reservoir. Or cooking a vile politician.

Said in Rickman's silken snarl:

"Consider yourselves warned."

Mojo Rising: Return of the Snapewoman

There's a game we play in Portland, and its rules, as I've learned, can be a bit brutal. It's called Musical Rent, and you never know when your number will come up! Whether the news comes via the dreaded pink slip or not (honestly, I'd rather meet Severus Snape in the hallway in his worst mood than come home to find one of those filthy little Umbridge-hued notices on a place I'm trying to feel secure living in), the music stops and you look down to find yourself on unstable ground, packing boxes once more. It puts a distinct damper on any ongoing projects or ways of life you may entertain. Including potistry. Even other, less-intensively prop-oriented passions of mine, such as art and writing, suffer when you don't know where next you'll be able to lay your dunderheaded noggin to sleep.

But I've learned even more pernicious than relocation are the vibes from people, such as live-in landlords or housemates, one may have to wrestle with in a space. My last home on Ainsworth Street, a dear old place built in 1895, was a great space, and who can beat antique blue linoleum with a pattern of stars in my room? But the people were awful: so repressed, their posteriors were drawn tighter than Snape's neck muscles during a row with a certain Potter. I got a book written, but I barely got one dram of brewing done, and needless to say I'm glad to be out of there.

I've since found a beautiful little attic loft, yes, another attic! But this house has incredibly good, spiritually empowering, loving energy. I can feel my mojo rising once again by the day, and am filled with gratitude for the opportunity to dwell in this healing space.

I guess I'm more of an empath than I realized, subject to resonances from other people: I call myself a "mirror empath", in fact, because my tendency seems to be to reflect back to others precisely the energy the send at me, just by virtue of my Gibralter-esque, Taurus stubbornness. A lot of folks apparently cannot handle a real personality, any more than they can handle their own shadow fired back at them. But I've learned I can only be who I am . . . and why be anything else? Bullies, insecure types, and passive-aggressives be damned, I am sick of bending myself to fit useless molds of expectation. Even small frictions have gotten very wearying at times, and I pine for my own home. My own lab? Now there's the real dream.

A few weeks ago, I met a rather cool new friend, who like me has a masculine soul; so much, in fact, that this biological female identifies as "nonbinary" or non-gendered. It's a state I felt deeply during my former Snape years, and considered entering again, even before I met Spider, who shares an eerie number of my loves and hobbies: Potions. Making our own wands. Cat's cradle. Spinning yarn with drop spindles, for Merlin's sake! Also like me, Spi is a hardcore Snape lover and "channeler", who once even got called Lady Snape by children during a photoshoot. I've never been a hardcore Potterhead, and in recent years have let off even further due to the franchise's sheer size and seeming presumption at ruling everything to do with magic, but I never stopped being a devotee of Severus, even to the point of reciting litanies to invoke his power and spirit.

Meeting this new friend, coupled with my cozy new wizard's nest of a home, has rekindled what already lurked barely veiled beneath the surface into a dark flame of enthusiasm, including an interest in magic techniques, ancient alchemy, potions . . . and active channeling of Severus Snape, the only character not of my own origin who ever drew me with such depth, intrigue and inspiration.

No, it hasn't always been an easy path I've trodden these past few years. Now and then, several of Portland's twelve bridges caught my eye as the easy way to a dead end, though I'd never actually jump: Not only would I never want to cause my father such pain, but my characters, many of them in possession of Snape's sharp tongue, would haunt if not kill me. To feel my power returning, witch-wise and otherwise, is a rush of purest joy.

Despite the overriding urge to get down and greasy, and let my Magisterial nature rampage back up into the realm of the seriously serious, I won't be posting any Snape channeling photos or cosplay shots just yet. I'll be home for Christmas . . . and so will my 88-year-old grandmother, Dixie, who loves my thick hair in its semi-blonde state, as reminiscent of my mother's hair. Oh, how she hated my hair "that awful goth black"! So I promised myself I'll hold out til after the holiday is over and done. But my potions logbook is coming home with me, and Sev? He's one patient bastard.

Look out, world (and especially country, currently under the mis-rule of the hopelessly incompetent -- or, to reference the similar "god with clay feet" personality Gilderoy Lockhart, incurably inept -- Donald Trump), here comes the 13th Witches' Battalion, riding tricked-out Garden Weasel broomsticks and rocking leather ammunition belts loaded with vials of foul concoctions . . .

 Funky Sev's back.

My favourite animus . . . or one of them.

The Attic Witch of 13th Street

I just love this sign. I love the catywompus, candy-coloured cacophany of it, both literally and how it speaks of life. It appeals to my inner child, my sense of fun, as well as my understanding of life as a constantly unstable balance, a dance of change. This past year has been such a year for me. How I wish I could approach all my life's trials as I do this sign, with humour and a sense of adventure!
(The sign also reminds me of a wild woman character in one of my books, Slick 66, who completely took over my life last September — but aside from her ample and fantastic knowledge of every kind of grease, she's a story for a different blog.)

An interesting period in my life occurred just recently, from January 1st to July 16 of this year, 2015: I lived at the junction of 13th and Malden in Sellwood, in the attic of Essential Elements Apothecary. In other words, I got to be at the place I first interned for herbalism, and got to live out a dream as the Witch in the Attic on 13th Street! The setting was beautiful, with walks in an upbeat neighborhood full of flowers and herbs. Strolls along the upper edge of Oaks Bottom Preserve. Swinging at dusk on one of three swings on the cherry trees along the bluff's edge, which graced my path earlier this spring with clusters of candy pink. In a sense, this was an idyllic time, a last period of girlish freedom from responsibility.
Sadly, life at the Apothecary was not all it was cracked up to me. I was poor much of the time, so I couldn't spend endless money on herbs. Nor did I feel comfortable brewing all the time in the kitchen, since the kitchen was communal, busy, and at times quite full of drama. But most of all, there were two personalities also there who had little business in a healing center. To even get to the rest of the house, I had to go through the room of one of them. Their oppressive energy made it just short of impossible to feel free, secure, or to release my "inner child", as so encouraged by the owner herself. In short, I could not express myself as I wished to, which deeply sucks whether you're a writer, and artist, or a healer. I felt judged, criticized, and all the time.
Finally, while I loved that dusty old attic and the awesome, angular dimensions of its space, which made me feel as though I were living in a great dark crystal, our 90–100˚F freak, three-week heat wave of June taught me a different aspect — that attic can hit temperatures of 115˚F! It got to 110 while I lived there. I would stream sweat, even topless and doing nothing but sitting. It felt like a sauna. I sought refuge in Adsideo Community Center down the street, with their friendly by-donation goodies, high speed wireless, and supercharged A.C.; in the cool water of the river at Sellwood Park, where honeybees zinged busily in and out of a hole in their colony tree, and flowers lined my walk; and in the delicious products at Nectar Frozen Yoghurt Lounge (yes, I became a regular, for the first time in my life at a treats-place!). Anyplace cool.
Drama escalated to a peak right as I was moving out. I'm grateful to be out of there, and don't plan to come back soon, at least not unless or until the hostile personalities are gone. Severa Snape needs her space. Having said that, I'll miss other people dearly — congrats on my friends Brit and Sam for relocating to South Oregon! Etty, Marianne, Cally: I love you all. Meantime, I'm looking forward to exploring the herb shops right in my new local 'hood! One especially has herbs I haven't found anywhere else, but which I tout in my new Wild Brews for Dreamy Sleep.
Bring on the brewing.

 Above and below: The Apothecary attic was truly a cool space, even unfinished. I had a few herbs hanging from the ceiling to complete the vibe, and tiny lights to cheer the place up. I'll miss dancing in that space, and waking up to a bright morning through the ripply old window. Hanging cloth completed the space, like living in a great wooden tent. But it was very dark in there, like a womb; and like a womb, it served its purpose to further my growth: It helped to inform me of what I wish my life to be like, and what I wish to leave behind. (The next time I utilize an attic, for instance, I prefer the entire house to be mine. As Snape, I say: and mine alone! Out, out!)

 Above: Wild Bleeding-Heart, which I discovered has a root with medicinal properties, grows in Oaks Bottom. Also in its company are burdock, teasel, nettle, lamb's-quarters, mullein, chickweed, viper's bugloss, cleavers, and currant. I simply love spotting multiple plant-friends I know along a single path in the woods, field, or fen!

Above: "A witch, a witch!" Enjoying the palette of color and variety of dried plants in early spring, in the field next to Oaks Bottom, while self-posing for artistic reference photos. How I love that area! I'll miss being right next door to it, so I know I'll want to plan for future excursions from NE Portland. Here, I must admit the parks are far more regulated and boring — I like mine a little wild. (Or very wild.)

 Above: My old kitchen potion cabinets before I dismantled them to move in late Dec. 2014.

 Above: The Witch of 13th Street is at it again! Shooting reference photos in the mysterious fen setting of Oaks Bottom.

 Above: I loved my little cushioned window-seat in the attic. Fortunately, I was able to replicate this arrangement, and facing the same direction, in my new smaller but much brighter living space near Ainsworth this past week. (On this particular afternoon, I had a gluten-free cupcake.) In the attic in my last month there, I spent a genteel afternoon on the window-seat knitting on a Sabres team scarf, whose creation has spanned the term of three jobs and may just see me into self-employment before it's finished! No, Severus, I won't work for a boss like yours just to get power; in fact, I'm getting tired of all bosses, no matter how nice they seem to be at first.

Above: Sweet memories of walks, ice cream, happy afternoons and breezes, at the swings under the blooming cherry trees along Sellwood Boulevard. I'd pity the groveling lives of middle managers and others who no longer take time for their spirits in this way, except they chose their path, and I am choosing mine. Amen.

Soon to be Brewing in a New Space

It's been a long while since my last post, a time filled with stress and work and two physical moves across town. Moving isn't always an easy or welcome event, especially when you have a potions apothecary to pack up and rearrange! I like to joke that being a herbalist means organizing your spice cabinet is a real b****! But my new room is sweet, the kitchen is large, and there's enough room for books and potions alike. Quite the miracle.
I'm continuing my focused work on producing my Wild Brews Herbal Series, though not as quickly as I'd hoped! Issue No. 5, Wild Brews for Dreamy Sleep, is set to hit the e-shelf of Amazon Kindle as soon as I work the bugs out of a hyperlinked table of contents. Having trouble sleeping? Dreamy Sleep offers solutions to better rest via herbs, lifestyle change, creative use of essential oils, diet tips, and more, for a holistic approach to a common problem. Like all other Wild Brews books, this one gives many angles to tackle a single topic of concern . . . and thus, plenty of room for your individual tastes.
Soon to follow will be Wild Brews to Refresh, hopefully in time to catch August's heat wave.
The dream of being self-employed lives on. As long as it does live on, and as long as I'm raging sick and tired of the status quo, then so too lives on my hope and optimism. Saint Severus, I pray for your discipline — the discipline I need to make This Thing work!

Passing the Mantle: Potistry as Business and Gift

It's been too long since I indulged my liking for potions. Since losing my job at MAC last April in the Chinese year of the water-snake, lots of illusions have given way to glorious future plans and prospects. First, the knowledge and acceptance that I will NEVER be happy until I am independent and self-employed, preferably as a writer, artist, and overall creative entrepreneur. Unlike poor Snape, I'm not cursed with a brand hotlinked to my boss. When my last boss dismissed me, I said "see ya" — both to her wide behind, and the illusion that left my grandfather and uncle stranded high and dry just before retirement: The idea that you're anything more than a tool to a company, no matter how high you rise in the ranks. And, you can be replaced, at any time.

Me? I'm priceless. It's time to acknowledge it. The question is no longer, "are you a good fit for our company" but, "is your company a good fit for me." The answer? No, it ain't. Not on a permanent basis, at least. As someone with an entrepreneurial spirit that's been percolating under the surface of my life for many years, it's a joy to feel like it's finally coming together in a formula that will not only succeed, but be a pleasure to put energy toward.

These days, I'm indulging my writerly passions as often as I can despite an eye-watering, pre-dawn start to my day at my hospital animal-research laborer job. No, I don't get to work with animals, and I'm afraid I don't wish to. I wouldn't mind working in a laboratory, though. My main project as far as career is concerned is a tribute to my love of natural health, and of the legacy my animus-work with Snape brought me during one of my life's darkest periods: An herbal series called Wild Brews, in which I offer recipes of all sorts for brewing your own tasty drinks and "potions" at home. I angle toward the practical more than the magical, since I'm a practical girl and I want to give my readers confidence in my product. I am, after all, not only a witch and mage but a Geosciences and Technology major! Humour and whimsy go into my work, but so do quality and hard, trusted facts. It's why my Power-name isn't "Silver Whisper Moonshadow" but to-the-point Severa. Call me Sev.

Thus the mantle of my continuing "apprenticeship" with Snape lives on — not only in my fiction, but in these useful and warm-hearted books. Which are, rest assured, a lot more approachable on a daily basis than a bitter and cynical old master.

Nevertheless, my robes still lie folded at the end of my bed.....