Happy Birthday Severus

And now for a shamelessly Snapecentric post!

January 9th marks a quietly anticipated day in the course of my winter, whether or not I actually get around to celebrating it by some means. The birthday of my favourite external fictional character is a chance, and excuse, to brighten our gray days, ironically and deliciously in honor of a personality as dour as our weather. It's a reason to celebrate, when my own birthday gets celebrated only once a year and I get invited to precious few others. This year I hoped to have a Slytherin tea party, but of course such events require planning in advance, which I, newly returned from the holidays and concerned with business, did not carry out.

The pairing of the humorous and lovable with the dark and brooding is one reason we fans love Snape, and that includes his birthday. Ideas of trapping the grumpy man in fluffy, happy, or even genuinely loving situations we know he would all but kill himself to get out of, were he a real living person, make us love him all the more. Each fan secretly would lose fingers to be The One who, given a chance in the first place to make Severus's day or lighten his soul, manages to succeed by even a fraction of a dram. Even while knowing it's most likely, as they say, a fool's dream!

Meditations on Snape's birthday also lead me to reflection on how a person starts out in life, compared to what they become after life gets through with them. We ask: What if my situation was different? What if, in addition to my own curiosity about magic and especially a slight fascination with sorcerers and the edgier side of esoterica, I had true magical power of Snape's magnitude and an abusive home life? I already know how it feels to grow up broke and being sort of ignored by a parent, for instance. But what if it had been worse?

What makes Snape's story so meaningful for many of us, I think, is precisely that we can sympathize with him. A total asshole villain, you don't care about. A good-guy hero who had it easy, you don't care about. A bloke who went through perpetual detention at the School of Hard Knocks yet found his way back to the surface, you not only care about but praise and love like there's no tomorrow . . . all while wishing, if he happens to die in the struggle, that he did have a tomorrow. A next birthday. In those of us who cosplay or channel, Snape finds just that: a tomorrow. Today and the next, he lives on, in us willing hosts for his indomitable soul. I can see Snape torn between unfurling his black wings and laughing all the way up to the podium of Most Popular, and biting out sarcastically at all and sundry observers to disguise his self-loathing and doubts that he deserves such copious affection. Severus, you impossible creature, you!

Now, dammit, where's my cake? And my cauldron? (Many things on fan sites are so gushy and cheesy, they make me gag nearly as badly as Severus himself would be kacking on them, but I'll admit, I'd take this cake. Look at it! Perfect.)

I ended up celebrating Snape's birthday anyway, vicariously, by meeting a good friend for a delicious Thai dinner; afterward, we went to my loft and exchanged belated Christmas gifts. I opened a large red-and-white wrapped box and excavated several items. A bottle, of a stylish variety. Then another one, and still more . . . clearly, vessels for potions. Finally, I dug out a beautiful Pyrex version of a brewing tool I'd wanted for years -- a double-boiler for making glycerin tinctures, salves, ointments, and of course the odd batch of truffles! Score! For someone who doesn't need much more stuff, mainly because she buys most of her own presents and too many of them, this gift was as good as any I could hope for.

Now for some fun!

Curio Cabinets of Doom

At the same time I began looking into portable apothecary kits (and, it goes without saying, how to go about making one of my own), I stumbled on another marvel of creative, and portable, potistry. One which, in fact, resembled an earlier project of my own, but was considerably more, well . . . sinister.

This is a miniature poisoner's cabinet of sorts, complete with small drawers for various toxic substances, many of them from herb sources, and a bottle for holding liquid of whatever variety (solvent? Wine?). What makes this little kit all the cooler is how it's disguised: as an old book.

The trick of hiding potions or other illicit goods inside a thick book is time-honored and appealing. For the double-layer potions kit I made, resembling a book, I drew inspiration from Roahd Dahl's The Witches, where we find the bottles of the dread Formula 86 hidden inside a book: Our heroic boy-turned-mouse nicks a bottle, drags it with his tail over to the kitchen, and drops it in the witches' bubbling dinner stewpot, much to their angst. (I love the scene where one witch finds the broken bottle of Formula 86 in her bowl!)

In my own kit, meanwhile, I put a mixture of herbal remedies, poisons, and magic potions, plus some tools.

What's the story of these fearful antique poisoners' kits? Several have appeared at auctions for hefty sums, and rumors have circulated that they were anything from genuine artifacts from the 17th century, to well-made replicas, to illusions of computer-generated imagery.

The truth, as usual, is a bit more complicated. These "poison cabinets" as described by auction houses are real curios, but while they are made from 17th century books and materials, the assemblages themselves are more modern. The phrase on the listing site, to be exact, is "poison cabinet disguised as a book, a historicism in a 17th century style," where a historicism, or Historismus comprises art pieces that draw inspiration from recreating historical works or imitating the styles of historical artisans. The books may be from the 17th century, but they were hollowed out and crafted into art pieces later on.

The term "Giftschrank", found in the original German auction listings, is also telling. In a wonderful irony, "Gift" can mean "poison" in German -- I once saw an antique blue glass bottle with that very word and a skull-and-crossbones in raised glass, for sale at Shadowhouse for a pretty $100 -- but "Giftschrank" means a locked apothecary cabinet of the sort found in a hospital, school, pharmacy or laboratory. This may or may not indicate poison, but merely controlled substances, dangerous ingredients or components.

Similarly, I found a German version of my favorite comic online in which Magica de Spell panics and cries, in English: "No! My magic books! My potions! You're wrecking everything!" The term she uses here is, "Mein gifte!", which suggests potions, albeit shady ones, in general, rather than simply, "My poisons!"

Thus, the auction term for these books of doom is less sinister than its English translation -- and their real history may be less sinister than it appears, as well. There's a good chance none of these were ever used to poison anyone! While they seem impressive, a real assassin or poisoner might find one of these kits to be cumbersome, not to mention seriously incriminating.

If I were going to poison someone -- just hypothetically speaking, of course -- I'd be more discreet; I would pack fewer bottles, in a less obvious place: in the lining of my hat, for example, or inside shoe platforms. Even if I did make use of a book like these, say I planted it within a room until I needed it, I would either leave the phials unlabeled or use a set of symbols known only to myself. No sense in broadcasting "Belladonna" to whomever opens that thing, if you're a real poisoner being grilled by the law and people are seeking the tools of your trade as evidence!

The clearly labeled phials, not to mention the spooky etched illustrations drawn from old works of literature -- in this case, of a skeleton posed in what appears to be a contorted agony -- suggests that these poison cabinets were meant less for active use than as artworks: Conversation pieces extraordinaire, perhaps made for a wealthy client who fancied himself a scientist or natural philosopher. Essentially, it's a more morbid version of the popular Victorian Cabinet of Curiosities.

Did a real historical version of these cabinets, used by a professional poisoner or assassin, ever exist? It's impossible to say, really. What is indisputable is one of the main reasons for buying -- or in my case, making -- such a prop, like so many others I've bought or made: Because it looks cool.

Although, in a pinch, I know where to get most of those nice little components. . . .
Making such a kit can't be that hard. All you really need is thin wood, glue, a saw, maybe some velvet, a nice clasp or two, a few knobs, and one horrendously fat book. (I can think of several thick-spined books that contain such drivelling garbage, I'd be happy to butcher them.) Some crafty, upcycling folks in recent times -- as opposed to antique upcyclers! -- have gotten very creative with this principle:

Fortunately, thick books appear now and then. I found an old hardbound book at Scrap that contains nothing but names of medical experts . . . circa 1940. Bit obsolete and useless now, eh? But it's easily five inches thick: How many items could fit inside!

It's safe to assume that Severus, who likely knew a lot about toxins thanks to avidly studying them since boyhood and, indeed, poking his hooked nose into anything that remotely smelled of the Dark Arts, would be highly disappointed in me if I never learned even the basics of toxicology . . . whether I used that knowledge or not.

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.