Speculum Alchemiae: Pop goes the laboratory!

In 2002, a massive flood swept through Prague, washing out part of a basement wall of one of the city's oldest buildings. The rest, as one says, is history.

You never know what you'll stumble across in the somewhat random course you bounce along in pursuit of your secret passions, aided by joyful chaos, be it on the Internet or in life. Nor is it possible to predict what curiosities acts of Nature might, literally, unearth.

I discovered this place in my cyber-searches, and while you can access plenty by photos, I still think it might be worth putting on the bucket list for sheer power to fascinate --- at least for a potion lover like me.

The destruction wrought by the 2002 flood yielded a beautiful surprise. Beyond the wall lay three connected rooms, sealed for centuries, which comprised the lair of a group of 16th century alchemists. Or perhaps merely one alchemist, who may even have been the renowned Edward Kelley, hired by Holy Emperor Rudolph II.

Prague has a long occult history. Here in this anthill-like cluster of brick lined rooms, the alchemists worked in secret, lest they be discovered and punished (perhaps fatally) by the Inquisition, conducting experiments with furnace, chemical and retort.

Rudolph II wanted nothing to do with the frequent Catholic-Protestant clashes of the time. Unlike many authorities of the day, he endorsed the mystical arts, and hired alchemists and other bright minds to collaborate with him --- often secretly. As the story runs, he hoped to cure various of his ailments, including severe depression, using alchemical potions. When practicing alchemy, I suppose it does help to have a kinglike figure (and his real gold) backing your efforts.

Despite the belief of Rudolph II and others in mystical forms of healing, alchemy was sadly considered an illegal black art. The laboratory's third room even contained a glass furnace and "glory hole" so the team could manufacture their own retorts and other laboratory glassware: Glass likes to break, yet any alchemy-related equipment might be grounds for investigation, compared to an incoming order of less conspicuous raw materials.

A happy fate awaited the long-lost sorcerers' nest. The city turned it into a museum, recreating the scene as exhibits.

Located in the center of historic Prague, the museum consists of a cheerfully quirky ground floor welcome space, full of shelves laden with books, retorts, bits of critters, and other, often whimsical artifacts and curios related to alchemy and its bygone era.

The once-forgotten rooms are revealed when a tour guide opens a hidden door, by twisting a certain statue in the library. A narrow staircase leads underground, to where the laboratory sprawls beneath the building. Here we find the actual work area, arranged with dusty distillation retorts, soot-stained furnaces, and crucibles; whether these ever held gold is up for speculation.

There's also the lower end of a secret tunnel, to allow the alchemists to flee for safety into the forest if any God-smacking jerks came calling on behalf of the Pope. Warlocks and gold-conjurors like to watch their backs, and no wonder! At least one tunnel is known to have linked to the palace of Rudolph II; clandestine healers needed easy, yet private, access.

I do have to wonder, when would I ever get to a place like Prague? When my career is off the ground, of course. Pushing beer bottles about hasn't brewed me up very much gold!

I must say, though, in a basement clearly more cramped than Professor Snape's notorious dungeon, I wince at the idea of what those poor blokes might have inhaled on a regular basis. I hope their ventilation system was well-engineered; we now know quicksilver is not the best tonic for the mind, and don't even mention the lead. Does that deter me from wanting my own laboratory lair someday?

Ha! What do you think.

Not when my own living space, barring hand-blown glass retorts and brick furnaces, increasingly resembles such an establishment!

Another great reason to visit this city would be its famous astronomical clock, supposedly built in 1410 and repaired many times. Each hour, it performs a complicated show of sculpture and motion.

My greatest reward, however, would probably be to read the clock properly, after having studied and practiced --- in the true manner of an apprentice of the Old Ways.

Update, June 15, 2018: Astronomical Clock Simulator!

 Having learned to read this clock after a fresh upsurge of interest in old mystical and navigational tools, such as the nocturnum and astrolabe, I can't not post a totally cool link I found (ancient-souled mage shifts to blatantly modern diction here, dude).
 This simulator is not only fun, and educational in helping one to learn to read Prague's astronomical masterpiece, but it's super-useful! Say I want to know what the Moon was up to on January 21st of this year, at 0-dark-47 in the morning. I plug it in, and we see the Moon was newly waxing in Aries while the Sun, of course, squatted between Capricorn and Aquarius . . . Prague time. Luckily, this simulator lets you switch time zones. The Internet is truly a magnificent place for the modern mage!!! (I can't believe how much time these sheeple waste playing stupid app games. My Gods.)
 Here it is:

http://drifted.in/horologium-app/

 • Set a predefined or a custom date and see the changes in the astronomical clock configuration.
 • Change the latitude and investigate hypotetical appearance of the astronomical clock in the given location.
 • Press F11 to switch the browser into a full screen mode and thus enhance your experience.
 • Click the More Info link and get more information about the application features and also the astronomical clock itself.
 • Have fun with this application!
(from page)

 I have to say that an equally cool part of this whole thing, and of the clock itself, is knowing how many millions of people through the ages --- probably including Edward Kelley and his brethren, the great alchemists and the frauds --- have looked upon its face to measure their days, and the feeling of now being able to follow in their mind's eye and gaze.
 "Hm, Moon in Aries tomorrow. Time to pull some weeds."
 "Curses, sunset in an hour. (And no electric lights.) Time to grab those loaves and hams and get home, before wife gets angry."
 "I hear the bell. Time to go to work."
 And year after year, the statue of Death rings its little bell as the Apostles come out, reminding us all not to waste our hours, and that one by one we'll all fall away into the crucible of time, but with hope a fresh generation will come along to care for what we have been assigned to steward.
 Thank goodness this clock survived World War II! This very year, it underwent some reconstruction, replacing post-war-installed metal gears with the traditional wooden ones. And so we will continue to measure our days and wonder!

Enlightenment Encrypted

I admit it: I'm a masochist.

Being a perfectionist is bad enough. But to take up a subject that forces you to embrace change, pain, death, and nonsense? Oh, and it takes not one, but many lifetimes to master?

What was I thinking?

And how could I possibly not?

Many spiritual teachings suggest that we're all on The Path, whether we like it or not. Eventually, we will get There. Where we are on that path, and whether we get There with more or less willing participation or are dragged There, kicking and screaming, is up to us. But there is no There, is there? Just as there is no "them" versus "us". We are Here, and All is Unity. Anything else is illusion, the forms through which we travel to discover our own truth.

Told you this subject was a bitch.

The Path to spiritual enlightenment has many metaphors among us humans, and one of them is Alchemy. I'm into science, art and magick, so it's no surprise I found my eventual way into exploring the Mother of Sciences (certainly, of chemistry). I'm just glad I started poking my nose into it as soon as I did! After all, to follow on my last post, Kronos isn't exactly resting.

My relaunch into all things magic got a boost last year on 11.11, and the very next day I began just, you know, surfing the web. Thanks to the Internet, we mystic seekers have access to ancient manuscripts, tomes of the Masters, and other information unthinkable even three decades ago.

Far from being a quack science, Alchemy was, and is, a spiritual practice. The art of turning base metals into gold is a metaphor for the refinement of the human soul, with the various stages of distillation, purification, coagulation and so on being steps in the process of that refinement. The art also had a healing branch, known as Spagyrics, of making remedies based on alchemical principles.

Of course, gold being what it is, unscrupulous people tried to appropriate Alchemy for purely material ends and outright greed. Furthermore, any sort of spiritual, knowledge-rich and/or power-commanding craft was quickly viewed with suspicion by the Church, up to the point of execution for heresy. To protect their secrets, Alchemists put their methods, ideas, and spiritual principles into code --- sometimes code designed to resemble mere material or chemical processes. Anyone trying to breach their secrets got lost in a maze of strange imagery and metaphor, to discourage all but the most masochistic from persisting. For those in the know, the meanings are revealed.

That night, I could hardly stop looking through stunning images parented over the centuries by studies of Alchemy, along with its partner Astrology, and general mysticism, in which I'm already immersed.

I felt akin, if only as a pale imitation, to the keenness of mind exhibited by a mage like Severus as he plumbed reams of ancient magickal knowledge and formulae. Without a living Master to guide me, I know I've a long way to go. But now, I must assert:
Why not?

Already curious and studious, how could I not get into a subject whose course materials are so beautiful?

Let the quest continue.

The Black Box

I wanted to perfect the craft
Nature had given me;
I sought to rise to heights
that none had reached before
I wanted to lift my besmirched name
from the mire of history
and cast my glance back in shame
nevermore

Time is fleeting as the fume
released by a cooling brew
and I have fallen and I have failed
never to life restore;
But I have known triumph, joy and flight
love of the kind most true
and another like me none can say
there will be
any more.

As a friend of mine struggles with the sudden loss of her very best friend, I am reminded of the precious brevity of life. What, I think, am I doing working another night in this humble beer factory, feeling bump-into-the-doorpost tired, while my own amazing gifts are on hold, ungifted to the world? My potions training incomplete? (Not that it ever ends.) And is this pain in my chest due to those bottled dreams under pressure, or merely too many of those jalapeno chips? Is it too late to resurrect the passions of youth, and with them fly? Embrace me, Divine Ones, for my eyes prickle with tears, and I feel weak.

My friend's universal plea on February 9th is almost poetic in its drifting grief:

"I have the house to myself today. I need solitude, I feel.
I find myself questioning a lot of things. I hate to be one of those "why me" people.
But nothing makes sense.
I am strong, but shit, how much can a person take? I'm trying so hard to be thankful for the time I shared with Noah, instead of mo(u)rning the time I never got.
I just think how amazing our herb store could be, how many people we could have helped.
Yes I am determined it will still happen, but it won't be as soon as it would have if he was here to help. He already had huge plans.
I guess I should give myself permission to be sad. I just want to make sure I utilize all the lessons we learned together."

The sense of dreams locked in a pressurized box, in a womb waiting to be born; of fleeting time; of wanting to craft our lives to the finest, despite setbacks, touches my eyes with its poignancy. I didn't know this guy, Amie, but I think he'd want you to fly with his blessing, just as my mother likely does me, though I wander still amid my self-discovery and daily mortal pain of loneliness.

February means Valentines Day and Imbolc, and this year, my coven's Brigid ritual and my rendevous with a friend at a cafe where a duo played live tunes a la Francais were both pleasant and happy. But in my family, this is also The Month That Sucks. (Some of my friends are actually of the opinion that Valentine's Day, with all its nauseating sentiment and crushing cultural expectation, is likewise The Holiday That Sucks.) We lost Granddad and Mom in February, you've got fewer days to conjure up rent money, and as winter drags into spring, I think, "Well, what can I make of this year, never mind my last couple months of being X years old? Will this be another shit year when nothing seems to happen?....!"

Mom loved life, every heartbeat of it, wholeheartedly. We said she lived in a permanent state of Kairos, or divine time, even as the pressure of Kronos or mortal clock-time weighed ever more on her heart, literally. When she passed on Feb. 20, a void opened in my own life, and a nasty little black box was installed in my chest, full of pain and regret. One of 2009's saving graces for me was latching onto a new inspiration, a fresh impetus to explore, to learn, to play, and, even as I dealt with bitterness and loss, to be youthfully enthusiastic again. I threw myself into herbs and potions --- a sort of scientific and magickal childhood, reloaded --- and that impetus was Severus.

I suppose in my own ways, I had the weird brilliance of a kid like Severus, who played well with others only rarely, preferred to be alone, and didn't shy from the lure of the dark or squishy as do some kids. Wise ones know that "love" is a lot bigger than bitsy-pookums rubbish, and I fell in love, not with people, but with dreams, crafts, archetypes, exemplified by teacher-lover Animus figures like Snape himself. Severus knows pain, regret, hate and loss like no other, yet he also knows love like no other --- a perfect Saturnian Animus (he is a Capricorn, after all) who guided me through Saturn's Return, and guides me still.

May we all be so fortunate as to allow what grief and pain we each suffer to refine our souls from the limited, leaden boxes of mortal Kronos into the gold of Kairos, the eternal consciousness, where all is possible and we are all. May that spirit of discovery and life passion never be crushed, but percolate upward to transform us through the alchemy of wholeness and completion.

Dedicated in part to Devin. This sweet boy, so in looks like Severus or Isaac, is actually my friend Lira's nephew who was struck by a car, leaving this world at 26 years old. I never knew him, but what might he have become, and what dreams brewed in the warm cauldron of his heart? His pink cheeks may be gone from life, and yet! he lived, lives on in spirit, and other lives have been blessed by his having lived.

I didn't plan for this post to be so long. I should have known Severus would have plenty to discuss through me, once I dared open his black box of time and mystery. Remember that in The Merchant of Venice, it is in the leaden box where the greatest treasure is found.

Backlog: Dance of the Serpent

The best part of choosing Slytherin? Between the study of wickedly noxious potions and ancestral bragging rights and license to party and everything else, it's hard to pick. But perhaps the most deeply beautiful thing is the reward that comes from accepting your shadow as part of who you are . . . and dancing with it.

On January 14th, after several prep meetings over the previous couple of months ("If you have trouble finding the house, just listen for the cackling!" -Nemesis), my women's coven SisterSpirit held our Medusa ritual at the meeting house.

(Above: The Spiritual Road -- This beautiful Royal Python morph, or variation, is known as a "highway" for obvious reasons! She comes at a steep price, being a rare morph; but I would love one of these someday, as every time I look at them, my heart fills with wonder and love.)

Medusa, far from being a mere monster, was originally the crone form of an African triple goddess collectively known as Anatha (some suggest her head-serpents in myth originated with dreadlocks). She also represents the power of female sexuality.

It is thought that Medusa was demonized and subjugated by the patriarchal Greek mentality; in myth, this is represented by Athena, a chaste virgin goddess of war and wisdom, engineering Medusa's defeat and wearing the severed serpentine head on her breastplate, therefore using her own repressed shadow-self as a kind of shield.

Athena represents any and every woman, including myself, who has ever squashed her sexuality under a leaden foot in order to focus on intellect, skill, and playing the game in a man's world. We Athenas may be efficient, but as long as we're operating from a place of shame, the myth reveals, we won't be completely whole. In working spiritually with archetypes in preparation for this ritual, I realized I had donned my "ice goddess" persona in exactly the same way as Athena wears Medusa's snarling face: If they were going to shame me with being a boy-unfriendly nerd, then I would wear that reflection as a mask of protection.

Western culture has long demonized the serpent, a symbol of transformation, just as it has the sexual and creative power of the feminine (whether in males or females, but especially in women). It also shames and demonizes the elderly, for their perceived weaknesses, their mortality and for any love of sensual earthly things they may enjoy: Medusa is also the crone, remember, and old ladies aren't supposed to like getting it on -- ew!

In this ritual, we explored how our society turns women against each other: Virgins against whores, mothers against daughters, businesswomen against nurturing homemakers, as it tries to stuff us into the roles men want to assign us. This leads us to turn the pain against and shame each other, accusing other women of those same roles we feel unable, or ashamed, to fit ourselves. Slut-shaming, fear, guilt, self-loathing . . . all are rife in our lovely society of equality!

Our task in this ritual was to heal the symbolic rift between the three forms of Anatha, and by doing so, heal the literal rift between ourselves in the community of women, thus sparking a sacred transformation of our collective feminine shadow. I was nervous; I felt as if all the inner explorative work in the world couldn't prepare me adequately for the ritual: After all, I would be embodying slut-shame itself, the reverse of the type of shame I had been doled in life.

I needn't have worried. The ritual proceeded magnificently, and Jamie, one of SisterSpirit's "alpha females", told me I was a really good ritual dramatist. I was also in charge of the South altar and invoking Fire, and had pulled hook and crook together to make a beautiful and potent altar space -- including staying up way too late the previous night to finish a new fire-serpent wand! (see below.)

But nothing compared to the dance itself. We had two guests with us that night, to lend us their magick in our ritual craft of transformation: bellydance artist Sedona Soulfire, and her . . . companion. After guiding us into releasing our Shakti or kundalini power via movement, Sedona joined us in dancing to this great song, Gate of the Snake. Halfway into it, she opened a basket she had set right in front of my fire altar. Carefully and gracefully, she lifted out her pet and familiar, Sachamama -- a five-foot female redtail boa!

The sudden presence of the beautiful ophidian soul in our midst, an inhuman but entirely sacred body and spirit capable of moving in ways beyond our human ability, and by doing so enabling our healing, was purely electrifying. The energy in the room shifted radically, and deliciously (at least for me, since I love snakes). "She's such a healer," Sedona told us. Sachamama, being cold-blooded, loved the warmth of our hands and bodies, though possibly felt surprise at being surrounded by so many dancing women. Throughout the rest of the ritual and feast, the snake got passed between many hands and shoulders; I petted her once and as her tail brushed my finger, its very tip curled around the end like a tiny embrace.

The ritual of Medusa helped emphasize to me that no matter who we are as women, or what we prefer for ourselves, it's perfectly acceptable, so long as none are harmed: We have the right to acknowledge who we are without being shamed. If we love having sex, for our own enjoyment and not a man's orders, we should not be made to feel dirty or ugly because of it.

On the flip side, if a woman wishes not to copulate with a certain person, who the hell are they to act entitled and shame her for that choice? And a woman like me, who enjoys sensual things but may be reticent to engage in full sex because she's so damn tight it actually hurts, should not be shamed as an "ice queen" for stopping the cuddling at the gate, or choosing to forego a physical encounter completely and spiritually shag Severus Snape instead! Medusa is about healing our wounds, shedding old skins, and reclaiming our feminine power.

I felt a pulse of energy for at least a week after this rite. Soon after, I went to Michael's Craft store to look for both a Medusa figurine as per a tip-off from a fellow sister, and to pick up some Paper ModPodge in the hopes it would work well for committing my huge backlog of potion scrapbook entries to my logbook,
Potus. On the picked-over shelves littered with tumbled dragons, princes and baby wildlife, one Medusa figurine remained, and home she came with me.

From Mystic Heart:

The Illusion of the Opposites (Serpent Work)

"Opposites are two sides of the same continuum. The human brain tends to pick out contrast with incredible quickness while obscuring the similarities. This is the reason why the “false dichotomy” fallacy exists. It is as if there is a veil over the middle of the spectrum, the bridge, that links both together and obscures it’s unity.
In the same way, our darkness is connected to our light, and our light is connected to our darkness. Our goal is to transmute, not reject. As Alchemists we find the unrectified First Matter in that which was rejected. That’s what we work with with, and that’s what we refine through the operations as the Serpent rises to become the Lion.

Eventually, through our operations, the unrectified first matter becomes rectified and more valuable than any of the metals in-between. It is as if one thing is turned into it’s opposite, when in reality they are both different manifestations of the same dual-natured thing.

We find reference to the these opposing forces depicted as serpents with a single origin in imagery across the globe. In this photo we see a Makara which is a Hindu Sea-Dragon. This is often represented by a crocodile chimera with different features, such as tusks of an elephant, and tails of a peacock. In much of the imagery the Makara is also seen with Nagas (serpents) coming out of its mouth; and sometimes a lion. The Makara represents a single creative force from which the dual nature of the serpents arise.

In the Buddhist Naga Staircase of Chiang Mai, Thailand, the union of the opposites is depicted as a bridge. This bridge is a continuum, and in the middle of the bridge the scales of the naga and steps are rainbow colored to represent the unity of light at it’s source, regardless of shade or visibility. It links Samsara with Nirvana.
Ultimately, the opposites obscure the the path to the Elixir of Life, the Philosophers stone, yet they are the gates we must walk through, and the bridge we must walk across, to find it."

As per my newly revived focus on the Craft, I made a potion shortly after the ritual to encapsulate the Medusa energy for access in the future when I needed it.

For this brew, I again employed the pendulum technique I developed this winter for determining measure of ingredients. I can see where there might be a tendency to overuse the pendulum, rather than go by hard science or logic, but I found so far the two tend to correspond fairly closely, so I'm trying to trust my body's perception of energies via the pendulum.

As is typical, I didn't get around to compounding the potion on the day of the Medusa rite itself. Rather, I made it on January 19th, drawing on the energy of the dark moon in Capricorn. As the foci of intention, I concentrated on courage, dedication, work (Capricorn), and the kundalini energy of Medusa, as a way to bring pleasure into my life via a changed state of consciousness and to create joy and sensual engagement in my work. Part of this means being able to visualize dreams and goals, and to open myself up past fear and into pleasure and full wholeness. Sensuality and sexuality are definitely a part of this, as they are related to being more engaged with life, and so is spiritual work with the dark animus, as a tool of transformation. Quite a mouthful for one potion!

The brew contains several types of ingredients, but an experienced potist can look at the list and know instantly how best to combine them. Again, all measures were determined by pendulation, via questions such as: "Is this ingredient helpful for a brew of this purpose?" and, "Is a teaspoon sufficient?" and, "Do I need more or less of this ingredient?"


Dark Moon Medusa Brew

Dry herbs:
   Damiana - 1 Tbsp
   Eleuthero - 2 tsps
   Holy Basil - 1 tsp
   Lavender - 3/4 tsp
   Chrysanthemum - 2 tsps

Tincture, alcohol:
   St. Johns Wort - 1 tsp

Tincture blends, glycerin:
   Aphrodisia blend - 3 dropperfuls
   Rose Dream Elixir - 2 dropperfuls

Tincture, high power, alcohol:
   Toxicus Exquisitus (Bittersweet Nightshade tincture) - 2 drops

Bring 2 cups water to a boil. Grind Eleuthero root in a mortar, inviting the spirit of the herb with intent, then add first to water. Turn heat to low, and let simmer 3 minutes.
Meanwhile, add other herbs to mortar, and pestle them gently with intent. Add these to brew. Cover, simmer no more than a minute, then turn off heat and steep 11 minutes or so.
Uncover brew, strain into Pyrex 2 cup measure (or other vessel), let cool. Add tinctures one by one, stirring with intent. If the potion is to be drunk right then, nothing more is needed.
To preserve excess brew, however: Add to cooled potion one half its volume in vodka. Bottle.

Lab notes:
• Bittersweet is toxic. Note the tiny dose, which may be far below a dangerous or even noticeable level, but nonetheless all that is required here.
• Lavender is hardly dangerous at all, but I was surprised by the small measure, which suggests that a benign herb still may not be desired or needed in a large amounts by my overall energy complex --- or the synthesis of circumstance and intention for that particular potion --- at the time.
• We received two affirmation cards as part of the ritual. (The task was to pick one, but two chose to slip into my fingers) These read: "I am magnetic" and "I am vibrant". I had the idea to enchant the potion further by placing the bottle on my altar on top of these cards, much like labeling a glass of water with intention. More on this later.
• Results. When I did partake of a sip of this brew later, as per a desire to connect with this energy, I felt a surge of sensual urge and sensation at the taste. I hope this means the brew is amply charged with the Medusa vibration, but more observation is needed for me to be sure.

The Gate of the Snake is open!

The Birth of the Cocktail

For the Love of Apothecaries

  TO THE APOTHECARY ON MAIN.

  The place where I feel most at home
second to none save my own
and like to me a savored treat
is the chymist's down the street.
  As soon as in the door I tread
and storekeep's bell chimes overhead,
man's foolish world away does soar
to vex me in that time no more
  Herb and root and oil and brew
always have I coins too few
to purchase of my list but part
to blend the passions in my heart.
  Phials of myriad secrets wait
in portent my longing sharp to sate
foetid jug and dusty cask
their alchemy yield to the flask
  As the shelves belov'd I deign to browse
and my deepest desires begin to dowse,
no wraith of fear can a means divine
to infect my inspir'd mind
  Only a daemon of faint despair
ever chances enter there
when I contemplate a future bare
of a soulmate with whom my art to share
  Yet if in solitude I must proceed
'tis that I my brilliant calling heed;
a subtle craft mastered by few
where lie aplenty discoveries new
  Forever subject am I, 'tis sure
to the Apothecary's lure
and when down this street I stride
check my glare and step aside!
  Poison foul and philtre fair
extracted gall of species rare,
a special order writ I send
before my caldrons I attend;
  Against my kenning none can stand
as ingredients bend to my command -
potions are summoning one by one
and with glee I cry,
  There is work to be done!

       -- Severa Joan Magus, this day on 2018

  The door swings wide, as though backing away at my approach, and a bell nailed to the beam above tinkles its little warning, not so much merry as furiously tinny. The scent of the apothecary embraces me, the scent of the familiar. Bad eggs, rotted cabbages. Herbs and roots, insect parts, powdered gemstones. How many thousands of things has magekind learned to put into potions, and more than a few of them are found here. This isn't Slugg and Jigger's, not the apothecary on London's strip of glitter where all the students shop, no! This is the big place, with all the back rooms, where the serious brewers go. And from the second I step inside, I own it.
  A lifetime of that scent has conditioned me, and I can't suppress the surge of excitement that fills me, an electric blend of relaxed ease and tension alike. There is a deep sadness now, as well, one that will never fade, because never again will I brew at her side; but the love of this craft will never leave my hands, my veins, my mind.
  If only, if only I did not have to teach potion-making to those who do not appreciate it. Oh, to be left alone to brew in solitude, where I could keep her memory alive and all to myself, tucked against my heart, inside its riveted armour where no one else is allowed.
  "Morning, sir! What can I help you with today?"
  Not my old aquaintance, the head chymist and proprietor, but an assistant. One so fresh, he doesn't even falter when my glare lands on him. I know every shelf and jar in this place, which means there's every chance I know them better than this wet-behind-the-ears whelp. I open my mouth and draw breath over a razored tongue, anticipating the release of its venom. But the old warlock in a corner, arms tentacled greedily around a load of bottles, beats me to the mark, cackling.
  "Oi, you prat! Doan't you know who 'at is?"
  "It doesn't matter who he his, it's my job to help him find what he needs," the assistant retorts, defending himself to his credit.
  "That's Professor Sev'rus Snape, from up there at 'Ogwarts," says the old warlock cheerfully. "Best damned potion-maker this side o' the bloody damn Alps, man! Best thing you kin do t' help 'im is get your arse ourta his way, afore you git plain stamped on n' run over!"
  I narrow my eyes at the old relic. Aleric Smeek. The lout. But he is decidedly Imperturbible; un-F-withable, as some say; I shoot him a trademark sneer and he simply cackles again.
  "Deprived you o' yer fun, din't I, Snape, eh? Mind, I was sore tempted to watch, bu' I couldn't let the pore bloke get gutted, now, could I?"
  My mouth is again stayed by a flap of the swinging door in the back, followed by a greeting.

  "Ah, Severus! Let's see today's list."
  The apothecary's proprietor claps his hands, then rubs them together. I actually enjoy this little dance of ours. Bellarmine Tipple: the man gets a thrill out of sourcing ingredients as much as I relish brewing, enjoys meeting challenges as earnestly as I take pleasure in setting them.
  "Watch and learn, boy," Mr. Tipple adds to the assistant, a quill now ready in his hand.
  I whip a parchment list from a hidden pocket and present it with a flourish. He scans it quickly with a long-practiced eye, his forehead knotting below tightly combed and oiled gray hair; one furry eyebrow cocks behind round, gold-rimmed spectacles.
  "Hmm," he begins, "as I suspected, a special order here. . . . Dragon scales, you'll want the Ridgeback; Trondheim's a better grade than Stockholm. . . ."
  He checks items on the list with crisp strokes, or skips by them.
  "Let's see: Glasgow, Amsterdam, Timbuktu, D'Jakarta. . . . You're looking at three hours, two days, eight days, and . . . eleven-point-five days by Silk Road Carpet Express, provided the weather doesn't go to bollocks; we've got a nasty storm pattern over the Caucasus at the moment, might need to make a detour to Bombay. . . .
  "Merlin's nose, how I wish we they'd let us employ carpets here," Mr. Tipple pauses to grouse. "Backward-thinking Ministry fools! The cargo I could pack on one of those Persian palace models! Ah, well. . . ."
  "Excellent," I say, ignoring the assistant, who hovers, rather moronically agape. "Tortuous though I find it, I can wait." As I can. Many an apothecary wouldn't be able to source some of these ingredients at all.
  "Fortunately, the rest we have in stock here -- GILL!" bellows Mr. Tipple over his shoulder, and I see a dark head poke in the back door almost immediately: his son. "Let's see how quick you can fetch up this list, eh? There's a dab hand, now, good lad!"
  Gill snatches the list and vanishes into the back rooms again.
  "A Hogwarts project?" asks the assistant, hopefully.
  "No!" I sneer. "Not Hogwarts. Unless you presume I'd dare place manticore spit in the hands of jelly-brained students who have less finesse at handling materials than a spasmodic toad?"
  "Class C Nontradeable, boy," Mr. Tipple points out sternly, to relieve the assistant's obvious distress, as I smirk. "Except we specialize in the hard-to-obtain and Classed Nontradeables -- if a fellow has either the cash, or the clout of someone like Professor Snape, here. And a Master of his level can't be expected to only brew Pepperup Potion for first years, can he?" To which I feel the amused twist of my lip deepen.
  Bellarmine Tipple concludes, "Remember our credo here: Nothing asked, nothing told, and no exceptions, understood?"
  Again to his credit, the assistant replies with the only sensible phrase one can in dealing with either Tipple or myself:
  "Yes, sir."

Above and below: The U.S.'s first pharmacy, owned by Louis Joseph Dufilho, Jr., New Orleans

  They are places of fascination even for those uninterested in medicine, or, for that matter, magic. With their hundreds of bottles and jars of labeled yet still-mysterious substances, strange ingredients of all sorts and consistencies, odd textures and smells, apothecaries of the traditional type beguile, horrify and delight by turn. For those who do practice medicine, chemistry, or potistry and do know what to ask for, the kid-in-a-candy-store affliction quickly takes effect.

  Unfortunately, traditional apothecaries are becoming more seldom seen, at least in a working sense. Every pharmacy, a precursor to Walgreens yet far from resembling one, used to stock its lion's share of bulk chemical powders, herbs and liquids. Nowadays, Big Pharma has left us with sleek packages of plastic and far less of a do-it-yourself spirit; the onsite pharmacist him/herself, formerly a compounder of their own medicines, has given way to the mega-billionaire corporation. Vestiges remain, and I love going into a place like Walgreens and finding basic ingredients, like Epsom salts or castor oil, and remedies so trusted they lasted, like Prid and Walton's liniment.
  But for us modern Gen-X, Zennial and Millennial brewers who find ourselves nostalgic for an era we never were forced to endure, the natural or herbal "apothecary" or New Age magick shop is often our best wager. In Stumptown we find herbal centers like Clary Sage and Green Dragon, magick-focused shops like Sacred Well or Moonshadow, and Oriental medicine specialists such as Vital Compass and the wonderfully-named Wing Ming's (which I have yet to visit but anticipate gleefully, since I've heard their selection is large and includes more than just herbs).

  The history of the apothecary goes back a long way, but that of properly licensed pharmacies in this nation is more recent, and its origin less blurry. In the early 1800s, one Louis Joseph Dufilho, Jr. became America's first licensed pharmacist, and opened his apothecary shop in 1823. It's a shop that still stands today, in the French Quarter of New Orleans. But as of 1950, it became a museum: The abandoned building was rescued after a hurricane ravaged the area, and continues to house this legacy to our medical history. The store by no means compares in age to certain apothecaries in Europe, some of which date back many centuries, but I still consider it well worth a visit.

  Today, the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum offers a window into the apothecary of old. Visitors will be greeted by the ever-ubiquitous glass ingredient jars and bottles of all sizes, terrifying medical instruments such as bone saws, pharmacy equipment like pestles and scales, and even a display of live, wriggling leeches of the sort used in bloodletting -- all of which were once an indispensable part of medical technology.
  In addition to these dubious, even chilling aspects of historical medicine, the museum features a soda fountain. Even in my own recent youth, I frequented a soda fountain conjoined to a pharmacy, and as a teenager I found myself earning wages there by making banana splits and sundaes, sucking on traditional lemon drops during break. (I miss you, Triana, great boss lady.)

  Interestingly, Dr. Dufilho also sold formulas from the voodoo or hoodoo tradition, which has a large and eloquent arsenal of magical recipes for potions, oils and powders. This being New Orleans, there was a steady demand, whether by those who considered hoodoo their primary mode of dealing or those who preferred a regular pharmacist but were nonetheless curious. While a step up in legal legitimacy from other, mainly hoodoo African-American merchants in the city, Dufilho still learned to make hoodoo potions from a local voodoo priestess. He then sold them behind the counter discreetly using an order-by-number system, since, depending on the circumstance or family faith, a customer might not want to be overheard or seen buying a voodoo potion.

  The museum also highlights the importance of alcohol, known as Acqua Vitale, and even stronger narcotics like opium, morphine and belladonna in early pharmaceuticals. A patent medicine, such as the little trial bottle I recently purchased of "Dr. King's New Discovery" with contents and label still intact, might contain 25% or more alcohol and even chloroform. Drug addiction clearly wasn't as much a concern then, so long as symptoms were relieved! Absinthe began as a remedy, and even Coca-Cola once contained both alcohol (as did 7-Up) and cocaine; no doubt, there's the source of one country doctor I saw in a movie, prescribing Coca-Cola. Since alcohol was a medicine, it could be obtained from a pharmacy like Dufilho's during Prohibition. ("Have yeh got any brandy?" asked Hagrid. "Yeh know, fer medicinal purposes?")
  After Dufilho, a physician owned the building, on whose second floor he set up his practice. His study has been recreated as an exhibit. Artifacts from his surgery, along with residential objects, discarded bottles of remedy, and a plethora of other items, were discovered by excavating a common place for historical peoples to dump their random trashy bits -- the toilet! (Also called the privy) These, too, are on display.
  Thus, the intertwining of early pharmacy practice, surgery, general medical health care, and 19th century alcohol and drug culture is elucidated in this fascinating museum.

  What does Dr. Dufilho's former haunt have to do with my interest in potions, or a silly vignet on a dour wizard chemistry teacher? For me, it's all connected. Pot, potus, potio, potion -- all come from the Latin potere, meaning "to drink". Here is where the science, art and, yes, magic of drinks and mixtures for all purposes intersects. With the right blend of ingredients, a beer or soda can be taken as a healing brew, a remedy can be enjoyed as a cocktail delicacy, and with the proper added intention, any drink or blend is transformed into a magickal potion: A powder can become a curse, a water or wine imbibed as a sacred communion with fairies or the Higher Powers.
  That's why, if you crack open my own mighty handwritten tome, Potus, you'll find it all. Medicinal potistry and herbalism; beverage potistry, like beer, mead and hard cider; traditional or magickal potistry; theurgical or sacred potistry. As a woman who always loved science, art, and magick, I've found that "potions" as we know them in the real world is one of several wonderful ways to combine these passions.
  Healing, meanwhile, adds to these the magick of the human body and soul, and our connection to plants and the greater Life-source of Earth's energy-body. Science again: As in Physics, we like everything else are simply energy. The crafting of a bottle of potion is like combining notes (in Perfumery, you even call the scents "notes"!), which you add to your body's existing symphony -- hopefully, of a harmonic nature.

  So it is that by researching topics like these, I deepen my understanding of what I refer to as "Potistry", and everything that remotely falls inside its fascinating umbrella. In doing so, I feel I draw ever closer to the subtle, exquisite craft practiced by the character of Severus Snape, who so inspired me during a time of great difficulty and spiritual searching.
  But I also, piece by piece, trick by technique, learn about our collective history as a species, and how we have evolved our relationship to the Universe and each other through the arts of healing and magick -- out of the past, and into this present day, by one of the most direct routes: drink. Outside Dufilho's apothecary museum, garden beds hold wormwood, sage, rue, and other precious herbs . . .  ingredients used from before the time of herbal master and abbess Hildegard von Bingen, yet which have passed through my own fingers and down my throat as healing remedies.

  Snape may be fictional, but the archetypes so powerfully channeled by him are, most definitely, not. And like the Master casting free the student on their own quest, Snape-as-inspiring-Animus has sent me out into the world -- both physical and cyber -- to learn all I can about, not fantasy, but the real and genuine craft of the Potion.
  The thought that one day I could walk into a real apothecary like Dufilho's and know all, not just some, of what I'm looking at is immensely thrilling. There's also a kind of desperate yet ecstatic joy in realizing that I will never, can never, know it all; that there is just too much to know. There's always more to learn, and that possibility lends to me a sort of obsession, not a damaging type of obsession but a rich, joyful kind. As a journey, this craft has lots of interesting turns, challenges and diversions . . . and plenty of sightseeing.

  One question does remain: Whether I will find, as the poem I wrote mentions, "a soulmate with whom my craft to share" -- a person as nutty as me, who doesn't mind my weird mad scientist's lab, or my art, or other odd professions.
  But, really: Would you say no to a partner who can brew beer, cider, wine, sodas, love potions, and a remedy for that darned chest cough you keep getting? Even if, once in a blue moon, she does spontaneously turn into her old master Snape, greasy black hair and all?
  C'monn.
 You know you wanna try this stuff.

  And so, with happiness, I repeat:
 "There is work to be done!"

Two Years and Undimmed

Alan Sidney Patrick Rickman

21 February 1946 ~ 14 January 2016

We miss you, Alan, dear fellow, and we will continue to miss you. What more is there to say?

I am sure that in the coming years, people will ask me (though not necessarily in these exact words), "Are you still into Snape? After all this time?!" Of course, you know what I will say:
"Always."

"Would you like me to do it now? ... Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?"

☆   ♡   ☆