Portable Potions: The Itinerant Apothecary

Not long ago, my friend mentioned something about a traveling apothecary, which led me to do some web research. (Again, my immense gratitude for an open resource like the Internet!) Soon after beginning my quest during downtime at work on December 12th, I stumbled on a whole passel of amazing photographs, representing the history of portable apothecaries.

In the Victorian and Edwardian eras and before, doctors, druggists and surgeons would bring their kits with them when they either traveled or made house calls. I suppose they do the same today, although they arrive in ambulances or cars bearing fancy plastic boxes and high-tech instruments.

But in the bad old days before plastic, professionals in these fields sported some truly exquisite, handmade kits of wood, metal and glass, often lined with velvet or leather. They were simply the heirs and supplanters of an earlier tradition of country healers, who arrived at a house with pouches and cases filled with herbs.

In the early expanding and competitive medical profession, drugs and potions might be dangerous or scarcely tested, and the practitioners unscrupulous, if not outright criminals and quacks. I recently bought a lovely little "trial bottle" of Dr. King's New Discovery, one such dubious remedy containing chloroform!

But even an honest doctor or druggist, when taking to the road, had to pack every chemical and potion he/she might need, so as to be ready for anything -- especially if a client called in a panic or couldn't accurately describe the affliction at hand.

Since doctors and druggists often compounded their own recipes for medicines, it helped to have a full stash of supplies at their disposal. Each kit might be a little different, depending on the specialty and expertise of a particular medical professional.

At some point, of course, I would love to make one of these beautiful varnished traveling apothecary boxes -- as close as it comes to a real "potion kit" -- for myself. I certainly have no shortage of bottles, nor of the test tubes I've been buying from Scrap by the dozen (now for the corks!).

The joy, potential, and yes, status symbol of having a kit this functional and elegant is very appealing to me. Let us say, when it comes to toys and tools, it's a goal high on my list. Forget the video game console, the flat screen TV, the jet ski or high-rise pickup truck . . . I'll keep my secondhand snowboard and I'll take one of these.

The only thing better would be a magic box with hidden Extension capacity, in which a multitude of little bottles can appear out of seemingly nowhere, a la Mary Poppins' bag or Magica de Spell's carpet. But that, alas, is a province for those folks like Snape and their impossible cinematic magic. In the Disenchanted or "muggle" world these real-life apothecary boxes, complete with ingredients, scale, spoons and other implements, are hard to beat for sheer coolness.

The Master in the Lab

Exquisite toxins that caress the mind
Ingredients rare from across the sea
Concocted and measured with precision fine
Oh, when left to be, what a pleasure
to be ME
 -- me, I forget when, back in 2011 or something

Potion-making as practiced by Severus Snape is a very exact art, more like chemistry than real-life potistry as practiced by a lot of living witches. Medicinal herbalism comes closer to this level of precision: If you're working with Foxglove, for instance, even a slightly higher dose than ideal can stop a person's heart. Another example where exact recipes do count is in brewing of a more common sort -- beer, which is certainly an ancient art but one that may or may not be magickal (in its earliest days it was, as evidenced by a Sumerian goddess of beer, Ninkasi, but you won't find it today in the beer factory where I've worked).

There is a romance about this precision, a lure to the idea that one has to possess a certain amount of mastery to brew correctly, that more skill is required beyond simply chucking herbs in a pot. When I began making potions again in earnest in 2009, one of the first things I threw myself into was learning to formulate, to craft a recipe down to the exact percentage of each ingredient.

Weighing things in a scale, and feeling the extra pressure of a demand that each ingredient be properly measured, prepared and integrated, adds spice to the craft: a kind of heightened drama and intensity, whether it be to achieve a flawless brew and the satisfaction that comes with, or to have the whole damn thing blow up in your face.

It's no surprise, then, that fans have captured the subtle splendor of this kind of skill in pieces of their Snape-centric art. He is every master I'd both admire and like to be when it comes to the realm of cauldron, phial and brew.

It's also amusing to note -- and I sometimes forget -- that it was a potion scene in which I first encountered the Potterverse. It wasn't the first book, either, but the second. The year? 1997. A sixteen-year-old, I picked it up idly on my lunch break at work. Opened it at random. "Snape prowled through the fumes, making waspish remarks about the Gryffindors' work while the Slytherins sniggered appretiatively. . . ."

I recall thinking, What the fuck is a Gryffindor or a Slytherin, and equally what the fuck are these guys up to? But it sounded gross and exciting, they seemed to be in school (as was I), and that Snape fellow was definitely a menace (albeit one who clearly had to put up with a lot of crap).

Later, while picking classes as a science major in college, I was never one to balk when I saw that extra little phrase in the course catalogue, "with lab", beyond the challenge of fitting it all into my schedule. I had fun in labs: "No, that's actually perfect," my teacher told me, when I inquired if my phenolpthalein titration had reached the proper endpoint (the faintest of pinks); "And that's way too far!" he told the guy next to me, who boasted a solution of flaming magenta color.

No, my only complaint was that we never got to spend enough time in the lab just dicking around to really get a feel and taste for what we were doing. Move 'em in, move 'em out. Sounds like Harry and his peers had the same problem . . . the only difference being, they wanted out! Merlin forbid they have to spend any more time in Snape's presence than necessary.

Little did I know that a decade later, I'd not only fall tail-over-cowl for that sneering, greasy-haired bastard, but he'd turn me into his potions apprentice for life.

What exactly hit me?

Class in Session: First of January Supermoon Brew

Well, it's been a relaxing ten days of doing very little, with low stress . . . unless you count the loud and occasionally bickering relatives, the relatives who can't hear well and thus talk even louder, the racial slurs due to outmoded family tendencies, the continual griping about money (or lack thereof), the silly movies and the New Years' champagne. All things considered, it's been a decent family holiday. I doubt Snape could say his would be much happier -- what's a family holiday without at least one unsavoury uncle and quite a bit of griping?

On January 1st at 6:24p.m., we were blessed with a beautiful full "supermoon" or moon in perigee, the first of two this month! Supermoons are simply full moons that come closer to Earth in the lunar orbit than at any other lunar cycle stage, and thus look bigger and may have greater influence on tides or other lunar factors. This one was in the sign of Cancer and thus carried the energy of homemaking, mothering, self-nurturing . . . and all the fears associated with that sign as well.

These, combined with current Sun-in-Capricorn values and fears such as work and income, meant it was a perfect time to focus on those already very prevalent areas of my life and where they can be improved. Where's my income coming from? What would I rather be doing for work that's more in line with my heart? How can I tend and nurture my home situation and, more importantly, how can I discover and honor the energy of Home that already lives in my heart, mind and soul, regardless of where I am? This last point I feel ties in nicely with the Saturn-Severus message I received in a recent ritual: That your golden place of eternal home and power -- in my case, represented as a perfect, exquisite and welcoming alchemy lab -- is found within.

Cancer when out-of-balance is a sign I hate dealing with in other people, but Cancer in balance can feel comforting; one of my good friends is this sign in a more balanced state. And I am something of a "nester" type, so I see this month as a great opportunity to combine work on both home and finance -- both my current home, despite knowing I won't be there forever, as a means of bringing confort and productivity in my life, and finances so that securing a future nest in this damned city becomes all the easier!

I made a simple, spur-of-the-moment potion to focus on this energy. After all, the best way to bring a passion, hobby, or change into your life is to make it habit, second-nature. Which means to just . . . do it. Make a potion. Don't waffle, hold back, worry about perfectionism, and so on. Just make one, then make another, and another, until a brew or potistry session is not a random fluke, but daily life. Pretty much like being a witch in general.

Again, it's not like I had some massive apothecary at my disposal at Dad's house, and I didn't feel like raiding his spices. I did nick a bag of decaf Mango Ceylon tea to make a drinkable base for the potion. For the rest, I picked a couple of herbs on our walk in the park(!), added them and some other stuff to water, then walked out under the full moon to charge the water. Finally, I added the charged potion to the tea, then drank it up.

This is what my friend Spider calls one of those "purely impractical" potions, i.e. not medicinal, but which is still fun to make. And who knows? On the magical level of intention, such a potion may be doing important, albeit subtle, work on the mind and soul. If there is one thing of which Severus approves, it is subtlety.

Supermoon in Cancer Brew

Water
1 tiny twig Yew*
3 leaves Yarrow
1 piece Butter Quartzite or white/yellow quartzite
1 scallop shell

Place hot water in a small glass or flask. Add ingredients (Yew for rebirth and transformation, Yarrow for health, strength and clear boundaries, quartzite for power, inspiration and heart-glow, scallop shell to infuse with Cancer sign and lunar/tidal energy). Carry out under full moon light and potentize with intention. Let steep while making a cup of tea. Add to tea and drink with intention, and/or drink brew by itself.

*Yew tree is poisonous. Don't let the needles (no more than a dozen, a tiny twig) steep for more than a couple minutes, and don't eat them.

Class in Session: A Wicked Solstice Brew

 Bloody Merlin's nose, is this all I've got to work with? A manky, mouse-nibbled pouch of 12-year-old mistletoe? And you expect me to fly us how far? Well, well, good thing I am a Master. Give me an inch, and I will make a mile. But I cannot guarantee you will end up in the place you desire. . . . or at least, expect.

Happy Solstice to all! And here we haven't quite worked out all our Humbugs yet.

My Solstice turned out rather nicely, considering I didn't go out and join a group. I almost always go out. But as circumstances went, by the time I finished buying new tags for my poor car so it wouldn't get towed (Mercury retrograde, and now Saturn in Capricorn!), I'd be late for any and all planned Dec. 21 activities. I did do a group event, however: I celebrated with my witch-sisters at SisterSpirit, where a teenage girl wore fake candles on her head, a la the Swedish Yule figure of St. Lucia. Beautiful! I came that night with a Humbug attitude thanks to that rotten little green tow sticker and "derelict" car fine -- Hands off my Betty, you lawmongering arseholes! But after raising a bit of witch power, meeting a friend after long hiatus, and brewing up a crack-a batch of mulled ginger cider potion for everyone to quaff, I felt much improved.

Perhaps this was one reason I felt less of an urge to venture out on the longest night itself. (We've got enough trolls in public office, I don't feel the need to seek any in that sense.) Added to this is the sheer cosiness of my current home. My mind was made, and as I posted on social media: "I think I'll stay in, brew a bunch of Solstice potions and get f---ed up on 'em."

I did just that. Except, I didn't need a bunch; one potion, it transpired, did me fine.

 Oh, I'd be a wicked Snapey snake if I brewed a kicker after so much time away from the cauldron, and didn't post it here! My original goal was to provoke "flight" or at least potent visions of some variety, or dreams if the brew kicked in after going to sleep. After all, it's Yuletide! Coupled with so much magickal impetus being lent us by the planets' configuration, I felt I couldn't not seize the moment! Certainly when I'm so keen, and able, to both brew and work magic. (Thank you, Maslow Scale guardian angels, wherever the heck you are.)

But what to add? A potist who still has twelve-thirteens of her stash in a storage unit does her best. I had a bundle of mugwort hanging above my stairs, cut from my garden, and mugwort is a first for dreams. But since moving, I've acquired some other goodies . . . stuff a regular tea sipper just doesn't stock. Mistletoe, for example: It's a classic Yule herb, but it's poisonous. Where was my mistletoe?! I had a bag only a couple years old . . . I dug in a few small boxes -- lots of old herbs, tiny bottles, and Merlin's beard, was the smell of herby goodness amazing! So woody and bewitching. But no mistletoe, except a really old bag from Essential Elements' graveyard bins. Testing it with my pendulum revealed it to be at least twelve years old! Well, less risk of poisoning, and I could always call the spirit of mistletoe back into the herb if need be.

 In addition to the two M herbs, I had some nightshade(!) from Going Street -- why not! Then I had the Amanita Muscaria from this October; that might get me somewhere. Finally, I had some codskins I'd gotten from the natural pet supply. Codskins?!?!?! The reasoning here is simple: Dreams and intuition again, thus a water creature . . . plus it's fun to brew potions with totally gross yet safe ingredients.

 This brew was a bit of a reach on my part, since I've always been a super cautious person who's had little to do with drugs (barring alcohol, coffee and chocolate, and not in an addictive sense). I even made a beautiful water-pipe in high school, yet never used it for anything. But I reasoned that in small amounts, even powerful or poisonous herbs can be sampled safely. Paracelsus, remember: Sola dosis facet venenum, the dose makes the poison.

 While rooting for ingredients, I found my 8-year-old tub of flying ointment I made, still labeled in honor of Snape's influence with dubious Latin above a skull and crossbones: Unguens Levitamens. Perfect! I'd give that a run, too. Grease perhaps a bit rancid by now . . . who cares?

 Then my in-home Solstice began. I lit a cosy fire. Kept it going while I started my brew. With use of the pendulum again, I did my level best to determine safe and/or effective doses of each ingredient, then decocted it all on our gas range. I transferred it to my new little cauldron, added some port, and set it to simmer on the woodstove whilst I did some Solstice banishing magicks using seven of the literal cornhusks from our old year.

 The brew tasted incredible, dark and heady and potent. Fruity, slightly thick and slippery. The port soon went to my head; following shortly came the rest, especially after I had lain down for an attempted vision, Unguens smeared all under my arms (I could have gone greasier, kind of wanted to, and witches of old put the stuff on their privates, for Minerva's sake!, but I had a lot to get done the next day, before catching the Greyhound!). I felt flaccid, leaden, not light; then came flushes of heat, shots of alarm to my nerves and a racing heart -- overdose? Nope, just being tuned in to subtle drug effects. But I never "lifted off" -- I would have to wait for dreams in sleep, if at all.

 I refreshed with a shower (not going to sleep in that much grease, and doubt even Snape would), then did a proper ritual at the altar before bed. Coolest of all, was that a vision quest did sort of materialize: After inviting in the Lady/Goddesses and Lord/Gods and my usual guardian, I held Severus' relicquary phial to my chest as usual . . .

 . . . and there he was, the very same green-gem-encrusted, magisterial saint in the ikon I want to make, in his benign and dignified form. He led me down a dim corridor, and then the space opened out into a laboratory -- the Lab of Dreams, you could call it. It was a bright, lovely space, sun pouring into windows, and around the walls were jars and bottles by the hundreds, filled with all one might need: truly a chemist's, or alchemist's, fantasy.
 Joy and longing filled me in equal measure.
 How I wish I could remember everything St. Severus said! But in the centre of the room, there appeared a tiny vial of some precious potion, glowing with gold light, so bright I could hardly look straight at it. Eagerly I moved toward it, longing to touch, convinced this was the most important find; but I met a resistance in midair, soft at first, but unyielding. I was, Severus said, not ready to own that golden vial. It was, is, the Essence of Enlightenment, the alchemists' perennial goal. To own it now would be to use, or fail to use, it for the greatest good, whether for myself and others.
 I had work to do!
 But all I needed, said he, I could find within myself. Even the golden secret lay within me, somewhere deep, and the entire contents of that glorious laboratory also lay within me: No matter where I went, or how woeful my small earthly lab seemed, I would always have access to this place and its resources. These ingredients I could then use to obtain the golden potion in the end. Discipline rose in his voice, wry and gentle yet absolute all at once, as he explained how it was my task to make good use of these auspicious planets right now, how Time was my only true currency -- it would be spent, regardless, and I could either fritter it away or invest it to its maximum -- and as the Spirit of Saturn (or ine of them), and thus of Time, he expected to see some work done!
 But despite the aura of discipline, and the prospect of work, I did not fear the Master. Rather, I felt a deep kind of love, bigger than human love -- more like agape, or Divine Love -- both for him, and coming from him. That, and total trust.
 Something was calling, waiting its turn, from in my earthly body. It wanted to see Severus as I'd known him so often the past couple of weeks. At last, the glittering ascended mage gave me that turn: Would I like to see him that way? Teasing, almost. Then he morphed, into the dark, smirking, lusty young sorcerer that had kept me slippery for hours in the bed.
 But I told him I loved and needed his Ascended form much more right now -- I needed the higher vibration and more cosmic type of love from the sternly benevolent teacher -- and that if he did appear in dark, "greasy" denser-body form, I'd rather it be after I retired to bed . . . where I'd be ready for him.
 And back he morphed, into the Ascended Alchemist.
 We parted with his blessing, me resigned to leaving the dream lab, yet feeling greatly content. Ready for The Work.

 And so, success was partly achieved. That night, I did have a few interesting images come to mind; not all of them were pleasant, even fewer were enlightening in terms of my current or future spiritual state, and it was hard to determine what stemmed from the potion and what was just me being sleep-deprived and too loaded with odd crap off the Internet.
 What my brew did was knock me flat with grogginess! So tired, I'd tried reading my new crystal sphere for the first time and literally could not hold my head up. That's when I lay down, and tried to "fly" then, to no cigar. I woke too early to the smell of incense from our AirBnb guests, managed to fall back, and finally crawled out of bed at an appalling 4 p.m.

 And yet, that wonderful journeying meditation!
 The Lab of Dreams . . .
 Isn't that where I've been trying to get all along? The message I've been needing? The essence of that whole "Don't let others determine your value" banishing ritual, and the truth that all you need lies within? Not to mention, higher cosmic communication and union with God, however the Creator decides to appear to me in this time?

 On this longest of nights, my magick has been a success, then, has it not?

 So, what went in this wicked brew? Quick Snape tip: Always scribble down any recipe you make, and/or its modifications. Even if you recall the general recipe by heart, you may not remember the modifications!

 One cool thing about this brew was the instinctive planetary correspondences I ended up choosing. Mugwort is a plant of the moon -- not only good for dreams, but we have a still-very-new moon right now. Mistletoe is of the sun, a perfect Solstice herb. Nightshade brought in Saturn, who is powerful right now. Finally, in one of my books I discovered amanita muscaria listed under Pluto! This, of course, is perfect for transformation, Mars in Scorpio, and Pluto itself entering the fray on Dec. 26. I've a lot to learn about Alchemical (or Spagyric) herb brewing, but I think I'm off to a good start -- I have a cool book to draw help from, and as the Master might say, life is the ultimate lab!

 Solstice Vision Brew

 1 Tbs mugwort
 1/2 tsp mistletoe
 1/8 tsp muscaria
 1/2 leaf nightshade, black
 1/2 tsp codskins
 6/7 cup ruby port
 2 cups water from simmered veggies (sweet potato, beet, leek)
 1-2 cinnamon sticks*
 3 orange slices*
 *from mulling cider at women's Yule ritual, thus incorporating magic from that event

 Heat veggie water in stainless pot with mulling spices and simmer to infuse and reduce volume, at least 1/2 hour. Powder first five ingredients in mortar-and-pestle, with intention. Add to mulled veggie water, decoct 11 minutes. Transfer to heated cauldron via tea strainer to remove particles. Add port. Place on stove, keep at simmer heat until ready to drink.

 ~ Why didn't I just simmer or decoct the whole mess together at once, or mull the port as well? Because I didn't want to boil off any of the alcohol! I wanted that buzz, dammit!

~ Several of these are potentially deadly-poisonous herbs, hence the very cautious measures (1/2 a leaf?...!). But better safe than permanently on my arse . . . especially with holiday travel coming up. If I dare, I can always up the dosage!

In Memoriam Aeterni, Alan Rickman

"Oh . . . I have some bad news."

It will be one month to the day when I heard those words two years ago. My father stood on the front step, having just arrived in town for a visit. Barely in the door, it was the first thing out of his mouth.

He waited until my face clouded over.
"Alan Rickman died."

Now, celebrities live and die all the time, just as the rest of us do, and I don't normally make a big stink of it. Some chick named Aaliyah died, back in the day . . . then there was that fellow, what was his name? Oh yeah, Heath Ledger (I think) . . . Oh well, bummer . . . Who cares?

But my response that day, January 16, 2016, was immediate.
"No-oh," I moaned, and into Dad's arms I went. "No!"
"I know," he said. Upon telling me, he had pinched up his face in that odd little, rueful way a person has when he both relishes being the one to deliver such deliciously morbid, tragic news, yet is also genuinely sorry. I felt his hand move on my back. "I know."

Alan was far too young, in my opinion. Sixty-nine. Some kind of damned cancer, like as happens to too many other good people. And unlike with most other well-known names, I truly mourned the loss of the charming, snarky, velvet-voiced talent who had brought Severus Snape -- and so many wonderful other characters, from Hans Gruber to the Sherriff of Nottingham -- to glorious life onscreen in flesh and blood.

From that second on, I treasured every single movie, play and recorded snippet the world has of Alan, of his expressive eyes and warm smile, his perfect little sneer and astounding rich voice, every moment I could potentially find of him, whether audio or visual or both, whether I'd already seen or heard it or not, knowing there would be no more ever made.

2016 was a hard hitting year, a year of turmoil and change. Before it would end, it would take, not only Alan, but also David Bowie and Prince with it; and worse, leave us progressive and mindful American citizens with a pathetic tyrant named Trump lined up to take over the Presidential office, a veritable grown-up Dudley Dursley (far worse, actually, because as we all know, Dudley got it in the end: That fat, spoiled boy truly got it, dared to shake the hand of that freak Harry Potter right in front of his wizard-hating parents, and understood the meaning of love and gratitude).

And we thought Cornelius Fudge was bad. We now know what it's like to deal with a whole congress full of scumbag people like Umbridge; the best that can be said is, there's enough resistance that we haven't yet sunk nearly to the low of Hitler and Voldemort. Some corporations and people would drag us there, for sure, but we're holding them at bay. Snape, of course, gave his life in the service of fighting tyranny as a secret agent. The best us Snapephiles can do, who don't possess the powers to be good spies, is to resist in our own small ways.

It's fitting, then, that 2016 is the one year I didn't post a single entry to this blog.

Chances are, I was too busy surviving. Playing musical rent. Dealing with assholes. Or simply had other priorities: There were good things that year, too, such as snowboarding, mountaineering, and writing my novel about honey-bees.

But this blog would not be complete without an honorary entry dedicated to all the good Mr. Rickman did for the world and the magic he gave us. That year, flowers soon appeared in a huge pile where the entrance to Platform 9&3/4 would be, beneath a plaque commemorating Alan's life, and his work as Professor Snape. If I could gain one more year of his life by being caught twenty times in the hallways by the Greasy Git and punished with horrible detentions, then suffer them I would. The best I can do, of course, is this blog, and to keep enjoying the legacy Alan left for us.

One thing is certain: If anybody suggests to you that perhaps you shouldn't pursue a career in acting because you have a speech impediment that oddly constricts your voice, do as Alan Rickman did, and don't listen to them. If you love to act, then act anyway.
  Fucking act anyway.

For all we know, you might give the world its next Voice of God.

Thank you, Alan, for everything: your passion, your voice, your life, your soul.
 We will miss you.

Slytherin Spaces: Cosy nest, wintry lair

Confession time: I'm not exactly a so-called Potterhead.

Not in the true sense.
 I am a Snapehead, but of a very specific and unusual type; I'm an actual witch-warlock (warlyne? warlass?) who channels Snape as a source of inspiration for real-life pursuits, such as herbal medicine, and for spiritual growth.
 But I don't have the cute little banners on my walls, the Gryffindor merchandise such as a striped sports scarf, the fake replica wands. Maybe I'm just stubborn; even at the cresting peak of the franchise wave, I never bought any of the merchandise.
 I like to think it's because I need to make anything I get into have significance on a deeply personal level, which means not simply buying into what's currently being sold to me . . . even if it's almost irrepressibly cute or cool.

And once your character relationship hits what I call the "Saint Severus" level of depth and significance, gawping like a twelve-year-old at the latest gimmick or Potterwhatever just seems dumb.
 Of course I still enjoy the books, but the sheer intensity of the Snape tangent left whatever ordinary geekdom I might have possessed in the dust. I may sound arrogant here, but one does begin to feel like a Ph.D. in physics trying to converse with middle-schoolers in science class. It's both the blessing and curse of a creative person with an old soul: When you pack legit magical heat, and can do stuff like embroider or sew, no merch on the market can match the status-symbol clout of a handmade leather-bound tome of real potion recipes that you can use to cure your buddy's cancer as easily as hex your neighbor. Or a sanguinary Severus relic, or a real magic wand. Which you made because you'll actually use the thing. Because you're, like, a real mage.

As one of the few figures with enough archetypal power to qualify as one of my animus figures that I did not create myself, Severus Snape left even his impressive character beginnings behind and grew into something much greater. (I realized he's not the only one; I forgot I have one other, Batman's Mr. Freeze, another tormented sympathetic villain or anti-hero who is committed to saving his wife's life, and thus reeks of redemption: That Redemption fragrance, man, it's some awesome shit.) Which is why we love the greasy bugger. One of every five fans, when polled, picked Snape as their favorite character; he is literally the most popular character in the most popular series in history.
 Damn, Sev.

But this pure and intense Snapecentric focus, combined with my fierce independence and resistance to be fully assimilated by the Pottereverything franchise machine, also meant I missed out on some potentially fun stuff. Like Pottermore. The potions class, I'll admit, would have been fun. And it means I'd seen the Slytherin Common Room maybe once.

Ah, enter the Internet.
I was dicking about on the Web last night, and nicked some pics that showed me the Slytherin lair in a clear light for the first time.

 Now, Harry Potter is a Christian-based series, inspired also by alchemical ideas; still, we know where snakes fall in much of the Western mentality. But many of my friends and I operate in a more matriarchal, pre-Judaeo-Christian value framework that recognizes the Serpent as a sacred symbol of feminine transformative power. Even the skull, instead of a horrific image, becomes a source of reflection and contemplation. This makes a setting like Slytherin Common Room a lot more appealing than a dank dungeon populated by a bunch of wizarding Hitler Youth. Rather, the place seems downright cosy.

Being a mage entails a courage to go beyond the comfortable boxes of religion, society, habits, and other rigid forms of existing. It requires exploring the Shadows. Spiritually, mentally, and sometimes even physically, you can't keep primping and fluffing and dithering; you need to be willing to get dirty. Poke around in the dark holes of your soul and psyche. Shed some skins, or paw through old discarded skins as a reminder of what you don't want to go back to being. It means overcoming fear.

I've reached a point of growth at which I actively seek the dark places. Push my boundaries. Get out of my comfort zone, not just to titilate myself as in a haunted house, but to challenge my soul.
 For some reason, I've never been fond of Mormons, for instance. Why is that? Why would that whole "package" not set well with me, or taste the way it does in my mouth? Let's find out why, by exploring both sides, in those who are of that faith and those who have abandoned it. While never intending to become one -- their God-box is too small for me -- I still might learn something. Or, in Slytherin fashion, use what I learn from them to get a leg up in something else.
 (Turned out I did. I ended up exploring Freemasonry, on which its services are based, Rosicrucianism and the Ancient Order of United Workmen, all of which are powerful yet somewhat benevolent systems. Slytherins certainly know the pluses and minuses of an old boys' club kind of society!)

On the flip side, this time of year is when we seek our cosy zone. A nice warm place to nest in, particularly here in the PacNW where lots of us need to stave off SAD, or seasonal depression. I tend to wallow in the feelings, myself, marinate in them like a dark Saturnian sauce.

But I won't deny that having a decent nest, with space to work, working heat, and roommates that don't suck, makes the marinating a helluva lot more pleasant. (I mean, Snape's pants! First time in Stumptown I've had access to a fireplace! Surprised I ain't using it every night, except I'm so often working the night shifts. Talk about cosy. And a Jacuzzi tub! What's wrong with me? Sev, get your ass over here, whether it's wearing pants or not. No shampoo required.)

Part of the Slytherin scope, hand-in-hand with ambition, resourcefulness and determination, is the ability to dream, to set goals. To see potential. To seize opportunities. Snape shows us that not all Slytherins come from filthy-rich homes. Even in those rich families, someone had to be the founder, the initiator, the ambitious one who built that family's wealth in the first place and taught her'is brood how to do the same. If you came from a poor family, like both me and Severus, you spot opportunity and grab it.
 Yesterday I was on my way to meet a friend for a movie, when I saw a group of antique, little wooden chair-legs with hand-carved scrollwork, sitting in a free box on the sidewalk. I shamelessly scooped them into my arms, next to my patch-emblazoned "Go Snakes" totebag, and onto the No. 8 bus they went with me.

 I thought: Why, those will make a fine footstool! Or other cool furniture. It won't be hard to put a puffy little upholstered, brocade seat on them, the kind with a button in the centre. Then I can rest my feet on it beside the fire, in my mansion . . . once I have one. Nice things for a nice, Old World style home. A man on the bus today remembered me from yesterday . . . along with my odd cargo. A conversation ensued. I joked that my superhero alter-ego is . . . The Accumulator!

The Slytherin master's dread office, full of accumulated fun: Kick back and have a pint!

 I'm the patient, camoflaged sort of snake, not the fast, striped racer. I'll lie in wait, plan long-term and build slowly, putting up with a bit of hardship meantime, until the prize is mine. I succeed my way. A challenging lesson at times, when everyone around me is doing this and shining brightly in that: Ambition, I've learned, does not always mean a person is in a hurry.

Slytherin spaces: They can be intimidating, yet compelling, and for me, even welcoming. So show me the dark tunnel. Let me into the common room -- oh, wait; I'll let myself in: (whispered) Serpensempra. I'll happily curl up by the fire on that old plush couch, a glass of port in hand. Oh, yeah, and hand me that book: There's this technique I've been dying to research lately.

 If I'm lucky, I'll come to light entwined in the arms of my own dark-eyed, black-haired animus, who smirks and lights a clove off the end of his wand, sated by our feast, then kisses me and murmurs that we, serpent-twins of the Divine mysteries, are nothing less than . . . Invictus.

Feel like cuddling?

There are too many cool spaces to feature on a whole blog, let alone a single post. But here's a neat one I found on a page I follow:
(Above and below photo)
 "The Seiano cave is named after Lucius Aelius Sejanus, prefect of Tiberius, who according to tradition, commissioned its enlargement in the first century AD. The first tunnel was built by architect Lucius Cocceius Auctus for Agrippa during the civil war between Octavian and Sextus Pompeius in c.37 BC to connect the villa Vedius Pollio and other patrician villas of Pausilypon to the ports of Puteoli and Cumae. The tunnel is one of a number of such works in the Naples area built by Cocceius."

Every snake needs his lair.