A Dark Kind of Sweet

My order from England came!

Odd, that I should get from overseas a sample that originated only a few states south of here. But that's eBay for you. Good gods, look at my eBay track lately and the whole thing is crude oil.

This little sample, a relic from some bloke's geologist granddad, was in limited supply with only six phials for sale, and is the most expensive of my crudes due to the tacked-on cost of shipping. Labeled "Premium Sweet Crude Oil", not because of taste(!) but because of its low sulfur content, it comes from Oklahoma --- we think of Texas automatically when it comes to oil, but forget about Oklahoma --- and thus may be tied to the human story and tragedy of the Osage Natives; I have yet, however, to explore its geological Earth story. Its quantity is too low for me to use it for much besides magical work; perhaps as it should be. Another one for the road ahead. . . .

Peekout! The Old Ones are watching. ♡

A Weekend of Fire and Magic

What's a cauldron if you can't light a fire under it?

This weekend proved to be interesting and quite satisfying in many ways. On Saturday, a local organization called Rewild Portland was hosting a free (by donation; I donated since I, 1. could afford to for once, and 2. give a shit) workshop on friction fire making. This ancient method uses a fast rotational-energy conversion to create enough friction to give off small smoking pieces of dust and sparks, which can then be cradled to kindle a fire. I'd seen and known about it for years. Here was a chance to learn first-hand.

All the tools and books laid out for our edification! We gathered under the trees in Colonel Summers Park, and Rewild Portland teacher and organizer Peter taught us the basics of each piece of the friction-fire kit, plus tips on how to make the process easier and more successful: How deep to carve a notch, what woods to use, how to tie knots on the bow drill, spindle shape, and so on . . . stuff a caveman or Indigenous human would learn and master early on, no doubt, but which we butane-spoiled moderns have to relearn over again from those in the know --- hence, Rewilding.

The tools, parsed out into fire-making kits. We split up into little knots of adults and in many cases children, so as to practice what we'd learned in the lecture and demonstration. Literally everything was hands-on, except the hot coals . . . and we got pretty close to those, what with having to kindle the sparks in shredded, fluffy jute and cedar bark held in our hands! Soon, people were fluffing and drilling and kindling (or trying to) all over the park court:

This clearly takes a knack, in addition to a lot of cranking back and forth. What's also clear to me is I need to make my own tools, so I can practice whenever I want. Mastery is impossible in a two-hour class with all of us sharing tools! But if we each get one try, we at least get a feel for it.

The instructor had a cool shirt on:

This was a class for young and old alike to learn the skills of our forebears. Friction fire requires a lot of persistence and not-very-magical elbow grease, but there is something magical nonetheless about producing fire out of nothing but wood, air, and physics!

Held in the hands, fanned mostly by the breeze and too fragile even to blow on directly, a spark begins to ignite a "nest" of fluffy fibers. . . .

At the end of the class, something cool happened. Everyone put leaves in an old hat with names written on, and the name drawn would get a complimentary hour or two of one-on-one fire making instruction from the teacher. I only half-listened; we were all milling around looking at stuff and chatting still, and I never get picked in drawings anyway. But I put a leaf in at the very end before the drawing --- and I got picked!! So at some point, I'll have to go claim my free instruction in friction fire. I might even try making some tools first, so the teacher can give me tips on what to do better.

By now I had little time to get home, finish a commission spindle I was making, eat, and then make it to the Hekate Dark Moon rite at Raven's Wing in Sellwood.

The spindle I finished painting is for an acquaintance of mine, Carrie, who told me she got called to work with the goddess Arianhrod (meaning "silver wheel"), a Celtic goddess of the Moon, stars, Milky Way, cycles of time and fate . . . and spinning. "I want to see if a spindle will help me connect with her through meditation," Carrie told me.

Sometimes I need to just sit down, focus, and do nothing but a single project if I'm going to start at all, much less complete it. I need an unbroken channel. That's what I did here. I researched Arianhrod, got a feel for her energy and imagery, and then wove those various energies and symbols into a design over the body of the spindle as I worked:

A spindle whorl is obviously a tiny flywheel, so I put a wispy starlit Celtic cross-type wheel on the flat side, and an eight-spoke wagon-type wheel on the other: 4 seasons, 8 sabbats. . . .

On the rest of it, I just put the stars, moon and Milky Way in a swirling design, round and round, and also the Big Dipper on one side, with the point of the spindle being the North Star, which is part of the symbol and cycle of Arianhrod's spinning heavenly wheel:

Stars and more stars!
I decided not to bother with the goddess' totemic animals, like wolf or owl, so as not to muddy the design. Since this is a meditative tool, I wanted the design to be as meditative as possible, which is also why I didn't paint the whorl as overly assymetrical --- the way I'm more inclined to do with a practical working or high-volume spindle.

A couple coats of varnish, then it was off to Hekate. We cast circle by passing the sacred keys as usual --- I love the sound and feel of those keys! Tonight we made talismans with Hekate's labyrinth or strophalos, a symbol of multiple things including the crossroads, the turning wheel, and the serpent of rebirth. It was fun and not too daunting, thanks to my hand-skills. Paint pens are usually a pleasure to work with. The idea is that we can meditate or charge items with power using this talisman.

https://holographicarchetypes.weebly.com/hekate.html

Dark Moon & Sacred Earth statue!

Part of working with a modern or unusual deity, deva, energy or spirit is that you're not going to find a nice dramatically posed statue of it in the local pagan shop. Some ancient cultures left lots of writing or art behind, as did the Greeks, and their gods just happen to work with how you see the universe. Other times, if you want a cosmic power image that fits your soul and its work, you gotta make your own.

Such is the case with me and Naphtha. No ancient culture anywhere was as knowledgeable of, clever with, dependent on --- or fatally at risk by --- petroleum as much as we are today. Oil culture like ours is not ancient. It's not even romantic, in that so much Celtic and faerie vibe everywhere my eyes hurt from not rolling Ren-Faire kind of way. It's miraculous, but in other ways it's fearsome and dirty, reminding us of our mistakes and possible fate. Which in my opinion makes it ideal, if not necessary for transformative magick and shadow work.

Spiritual, mystical or neopagan work with petroleum and its modes seems kind of rare; thus, every time I have a new image or vision of how She operates in the world, or how She might want to work with me, I have the urge to cement it in artwork so I can continue to meditate on it. I have a running backlist now! Aliria-Naphtha the Gatherer waits to be sculpted, as does Pyrochthonia the Cleansing Fire. . . .

I especially love this image, with her beautiful profile, silky snake body, and Gaia's little gnome toes ♡

I'd been working on this one for weeks now! This image came partly from indigenous (Lakota) prophecy of the so-called Black Snake, which would bring destruction when it appeared in the land, and which the northern midwest Natives believe is manifesting in the DAPL (pipeline). But the snaky nature of Oil to me is part of what and who She is, preceding any involvement or exploitation by humankind. She slithers through the rock as Earth's blood and bile, as a spirit of the underworld: Before She was ever bad or evil or globally destructive at the hands of foolish Caucasians and capitalism, She simply was --- and still is.

Little Morsels

There she goes again! ~ Crude Magick

Ye be warned! When I move into your home, strange statues may appear on the desk, and strange little parcels may begin to arrive in the mail!

Well, I'm at it again. I haven't ordered so many items on eBay since, I think, my interest in Reddy Kilowatt in my college days. But branching out into my goddess's realm of mastery and exploring what may easily become a new field of magical working for me has entailed purchase of some, ah . . . unusual witch supplies; namely, some types of oil that aren't on Moonshadow's oil shelves.

Yup --- there I go again with the crude oil!

A couple weeks ago while at work, I scored a Coloradoan sweet crude off eBay, with two more purchases to follow shortly: one, a sour crude from the Viola formation in Kansas, and the other a sweet crude from Oklahoma that somehow made its way clear to England via some bloke's geologist granddad. Last Saturday the large sample from Colorado arrived in a box, and just this afternoon, the little phial from Kansas arrived in a padded envelope with a cute hockey-puckish tin inside, bearing a rank, sulfurous-smelling liquid. The England item, well . . . it's got a bit further to go.

So, what the heck is this thing with me and oil, which is rather quickly causing a family cluster of small bottles to accumulate on my Earth altar (as if Snape's and Circe's section of altar wasn't bottle-laden enough!), and leaving my hands smelling of motor fuel after half my magick workings lately?! What are my plans here?

Clearly, what is happening is that I am gathering a selection of various Earth oils from as many places on the globe as possible (some are too pricey, in the only forms I've found them so far). Alaska, Kansas, Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, Texas, California, Russia, Azerbaijan. . . . Because here's the thing, one of the things that fascinates me: Every stash of natural oil found in the Earth is unique. Each body of crude is distinct from any other, as much as though it was fingerprinted. Each source of oil was formed from a different overall composition of life forms or entire prehistoric communities, each under different conditions . . . and each basically has a unique story to tell.

Stinky fluids my samples may look like to the average person, but this is the miracle I see when I look at a bottle of what our species so dismissively labels "crude": a substance we seem to deem worthless for its own sake, until we refine it, divide it, alter it for our, well, consumption. (Is it any wonder she's killing us?) But I feel close to the sacredness of oil for itself, even more than its end products.

My hope is to use energy techniques to divine the strong points of each sample's possible applications in magick, spells or spiritual work, and perhaps, if I'm unusually diligent or perceptive that day, the story of each as well. Because they are different: What magicks is a sweet or low-sulfur crude best for, compared to a sour one? A runny one versus a thick, tarry one? What are the human stories and Earth stories of each? The Coloradoan sample was, regrettably, fracked --- does this change its energy, and how?

It's exciting, but a little wildly intimidating as well, because I'm on my own here: I don't know many (if any) other geologist witches, though herb-witches come by the bushel, and I can scour the entire fucking Internet and not find a single other person who's exploring this kind of magickal work with crude oil!! (And why would they? I mean, gosh, essential oils are just sooo much more healing and nice-smelling and crystals and fossils so much prettier, and besides, fossil fuels are like the taboo, non-green, non-Earth-witchy thing right now, I mean like, gross. Okay so, I choose to embrace Mother Earth's stinky underbelly dark side. Like, bite me, okay.) What I need is a good long exploration and meditation session in which to invoke Aliria-Naphtha and tune into those various energies. (Like, have at your "good vibes", bitches.)

However, despite my magical "experiments", many aspects of my oil samples, and how precisely Earth went about forming them, will undoubtedly remain a mystery to me. She's curious like that, Earth is!

River Getaway

Taking a break from a usual routine may be one of the best things you can do for mental and spiritual health. This weekend, my witchy coven was holding a Mabon planning meeting, along with a "Stitch n' Bitch", but I already had plans . . . and I needed a change of scene, in more than one sense.

Every year, a buddy of mine named Martin hosts a camping outing on one of the Columbia River islands north of Portland, specifically McGuire Island. It's a beautiful spot, in a shallow waylay of a passage between McGuire and the larger neighboring island. So shallow, in fact, that you'll run aground even in a light motorboat if you approach the beach from the wrong angle.

These river islands are different than the Puget Sound islands I grew up on: Instead of conglomerate bedrock, the soft sandy river buildup of ages supports only the growth of tall cottonwoods and blackberry brambles, no conifer trees. The beach sports some slimy weed, but no barnacles to tear the feet. Part of me always feels odd without the presence of salt water, but for a weekend getaway? Paradise.

I went out for my second time, after a hiatus of a year or two, along with my friend Justine on her first of these trips. I brought only a crocheted halter-top to finish, along with a notebook, because the powerful sexual energy of Aliria was still so strong in me and I knew this easily produces episodes of art and writing. My own racy song "Piston Service" looped repeatedly in my head, and of course, a fun journey by motorboat does nothing to diminish my grateful love affair with the goddess of petroleum and power! Into the varnished boat, Justine and I loaded all our junk. A zippy ride over the water, past a row of old broken pilings like a string of standing rocks or necklace of bones, and we hopped out in the shallows and portaged everything out again.

still got it, bitches

Martin is big on "glamping", with a retro-chic maritime style. There was a canvas canopy he'd made himself, and a kitchen with wooden utensil drawers beneath, not to mention a flushing ship's commode with a tank he'd buried. Posh! Someone else had brought archery equipment. We strung our tents down the beach in the other direction.

The food was far from lacking. Like my friend Wanda the kitchen witch, Martin is a kind of "kitchen wizard" and enjoys cooking for folks. We had a chicken veggie pan dish, and next morning, sourdough pancakes with all, and I mean all, the fixin's: For maybe the second time in my life, I had caviar! We paired the deep blue fish eggs with basil, dill, and feta. For a sweet option, there was creamy yoghurt, sliced peaches, and if you were everyone else, maple syrup; I dug my blackstrap molasses out of my purse and slathered it on religiously.

I spent much of Saturday after getting out to the island completing my little crocheted top. We had a lot of downtime, and the sky was grey, precluding one of my goals for being out there --- get some sun on my skin! Celebrate my body and its beauty. That night, we stoked up the campfire, my friend Anna played live folk tunes on her mandolin, and I became more merry after a few glasses of wine, joining in the singing before breaking out the marshmallows for s'mores, using Trader Joes chocolate-dipped dunker cookies.

I was the last one to bed, reluctant to leave the magnetic, primal draw of the campfire. But before I did, I wrote intentions on a slip of paper and burned them beneath the still-almost-full moon. Something about being full of gratitude and experiencing every moment as sacred. Only my goddesses and my own subconscious remember for sure!

Next morning we had those fantastic pancakes, I finished my halter top --- and the sun came out. I changed into my little bikini, which I'd also made using crochet, and we ate delicious BLTs with pickles for lunch. At one point, we noticed that a cheap oil lamp of Martin's --- chiefly a retro atmosphere piece --- had leaked, soaking the sand with oil. We lit it on fire, and I stirred and played with the sand as it burned. The little flames seemed to come right out of the earth, and I indulged in a bit of fire magic, wondering what it felt like for ancient peoples of places like Azerbaijan, where fire emerges from the rocks to this day. Not knowing its precise connection to petroleum, small wonder they worshipped fire!

Then I went far down the beach in search of hot rays and soft sand. The river has tides here, like the ocean, and the water went way out, leaving vast ripply sandbars, wonderful feeling on the feet. I basked in the sun for awhile out on a bar, changing sides to get an even tan, relishing the soft sand.

But it wasn't enough! Further on, where Justine had been taking some of her professional hobby photos, I found a peninsula or tombolo, where a small grove of cottonwoods sheltered a sandy patch from the sight of the river. I snuck back in there . . . and took off my bikini. How delicious! How freeing! It felt so good, having the sand and sun all against me and nothing on. I felt luscious and wealthy and beautiful. I didn't fall asleep, though, and part of me stayed on alert constantly, a mark of both being a woman and being in America: What if a man came upon me, and tried to attack? But I refuse to live in fear, only in readiness. My bitch-brain said, "Honey, you got all the weapons you need. The first and best one? Sand. Double handfuls, aim at the eyes."

So too was I cognizant of the sun's great power: There is an art to stopping right before you get a wretched sunburn, but heatstroke --- the nausea and barfing --- is just as lousy. After awhile, I rose, poked about exploring the grove, noting its ample community of silica-rich rushes (a cousin of horsetail), making the most of my topless time, and then padded back along the bright beach to camp, splashing in between the sandbars.

First thing was to dose up on a drink of water, and rest a moment in the shade. I also took down my tent, and consolidated. But before we left, I wanted to get in a little swimming. The water was pleasantly cool.

As I dipped and kicked, I saw a honeybee floating on her back in the river, kicking frantically but unable to escape the surface tension of the water. Knowing she wouldn't sting, I lifted her out on the back of my hand, then walked back to shore. It's, what, a few minutes of my time? I had seen --- and smelled, when we stepped on it --- wild mint blooming purple, everywhere along the beach near our tents. I placed the bee on one of the blossom spires, thinking, "I'm not sure this is your favorite flower, but I know a lot of bees like mint, and it's better than being back there! Rest awhile, and maybe you'll find some fuel for the return trip." Best I could do. I watched as, sitting on the purple mint flower, the bee used her forelegs to repeatedly comb her long strawlike red tongue. Had she been human, she might have sounded like, "Pthah! Euapth! Kack! Nearly drowned there, ugh."
Saving small beneficial creatures is, I think, one of those things a good witch does. We see the bigger picture, even as we see each tiny but still crucial role in it. With a bee colony housing 10K - 50K worker bees, and 1000 - 2000 more born daily, an individual bee's life is basically disposable in service to the greater colony. Able to live several months in theory, they only live about six weeks average, literally working themselves into the ground. All that a bee has is a tiny robotic brain, yet it was still beautiful to watch her crawl and then groom her face, this little life who still knew what was good for her and how to take care of her body . . . and I thought, well it made a moment's difference to that one!
Good luck honey, and thanks for keeping the Great Hum going. ♡

Afterward, I swam a bit more, washing off the persistent mica-rich sand, then rested by the fire with more wine. Finally I decided to try the archery while I had time: I got one an inch from the center, and I called it good when all three shots from one round hit the target.

Pretty soon, all too soon, it was time for Martin to ferry Justine and me back to the Chinook Landing. A magnificent purplish dusk was coming on. With the remnants of a slight buzz, I reveled in the boat ride back, skin aching with a budding tan and skin feeling freshly clean from swimming, and enjoyed feeling a goodly more affluent than I am: Until I go on tour or get a yacht, this will have to do! We sped by the pilings under the gold and pink sky, and silhouettes of the nests of eagles and ospreys built on top of the channel markers.

Fire in tha hole!

I'll be moving into Justine's home come late September, or such is the plan. Another move. But I look forward to it, us both being creative. Despite the fact that I keep having to roll around, this ol' rock is proving to have a damn solid constitution throughout it all . . . and a good thing, too, moving being so disruptive! All I can do is trust in the Divine and the higher plan of my subconscious --- that with each move, I am learning everything I need to learn. This past year has been all about getting my magic back in gear, and not merely that, but my fire hotter than it's ever been!

What will the next phase bring?

Aradia's Festival of Torches

Wind blew out my candle

Meditation, visit to temple based on Katrina's experience
Aradia is daughter of Diana, the moon, and Lucifer, the sun

My message from Diana at the temple: I am so blessed, with skill and creativity and material things, and a wonderful body; but her final word is "action", echoing, as we are called to return from the temple, because my ideas will not help the world or myself if I do not take action

Talisman symbol is the moon as a chalice, and flames as the sun. Represents the combining of emotions, intuition and vision with energy, power and taking action. Because we need both, to change our lives and make a difference in the world . . . the same message I did in fact receive!

Full moon, shining bright
Midnight on the water
Oh Aradia,
Diana's silver daughter!

Sweet floating fragrance of starlike blooms on trees, sprays of white emerging from the centers of their petals like small cries of joy in other senses besides sound

Chorus of crickets, a tune from the infinite manifesting in this balmy night, in this time and space
The humming park

I hated to leave so soon
I waited for the Full Moon to rise before I left
 like a golden plate
and I imagined how it looked many hundreds of years ago over Lake Nemi, the same moon being gazed upon and revered by generations of our kind

Speculum Dianae