Halloween is the perfect spell for exploring evil visitations and how we unconsciously invite more fear-provoking ghouls into our everyday lives without really knowing or understanding why. In this seasonal blog post I shall be bringing to light the fate of the magician, otherwise known as the witch, healer, or shaman, for the alchemist has many names. To begin with I’ll briefly explore the terms ‘alchemy’ and ‘fate’ before delving into one of Jung’s richest passages that I’ve ever had the good fortune to stumble across.
The door is unlocked, spaces of light guide me in. All at once I sense
the room’s exposure, feel its vulnerability. A long deep breath of
weariness fills my ears. Trying to build up a narrative, my seeking
eyes search for all its yesterdays, yet the grey leaden ash invades,
deadening any hope of discovery.
Forsaken, there are too many shredded skins here. I lose it all so fast.
The room doesn’t know itself, nor do I. The dirt is too powerful. My
mind strains with unease searching for an order of which there is
none. The tarnished walls, filthy and foul speak, like voices under
water, muddying the air.
If I knew you were light
I would have peeled back
Your layers years ago
At the sky
Just for a taste of you
I would have opened you up
Like a blushing girl
Just to see
What lay beneath
The light in those eyes Continue reading
I realise how crazy I must have looked
Rushing in like that
With my face all shiny with love
Firmly pressing my heart in your hand
No, really it’s too big just for me
I remember saying
And my writing hand needs a break
Besides, I’d really like to share
Oh look see how it suits you!
Honestly, it looks so good on you
And don’t worry
You’ll soon get used to the warmth
In her children you could see
the nature of her love-making:
tense, cold, angry,
bitter, blind, afraid.
Producing, naturally, just the seven.
Though she would,
had she found a way,
bred seven more.
Just to show she knew
how to stay perfectly out of step.
The house was a farm labourer’s cottage set in the heart of rural Kent, down a muddy, narrow winding lane. Surrounded by fragrant orchards, already hanging heavy with full pink and white blooms, nature was seen and heard here in almost every moment. Inside the cottage, more than ever, where the woman was crying out again in pain. She was in labour, a month early, awaiting the arrival of her baby.
This wasn’t a new experience; this would be her sixth child. Hospital births at this time were certainly more the fashion, but the baby was coming too fast. The midwife had come by only two hours ago, flirted with the man and wouldn’t be returning now for another twelve days. Behind locked doors the woman cried to herself, she was going to be all right, she kept telling herself she was going to be all right.
Alone in my cave I hear Persephone scream
as the veil between upper and lower worlds lift.
I alone bear witness to her being dragged down,
deep into the dirt and desolation of Hades,
leaving Demeter to face the empty cradle alone.
A necessary cut; their separation and my return
as a dark feminine nature descends over all.
I alone stand guard over Mother and Maiden,
protecting them in their darkest moments,
all the while crowing as I become Hekatê.
It was the weekend.
I jumped in my car. Took the wheel.
Followed the paper trail.
A picture of you.
I was not in the mood for happy endings.
Life just didn’t work out that way.
When my story,
not some myth or fairy tale
written, read and re-written,
What was stolen from me
I stole from others.
I wanted it back, all of it.
So I stole too, and many a time
put my takings straight
into my mother’s purse.
Our daily bread,
for I had been taught well.
Devoted child, looking up,
watching mother steal
tins of fruit, meat pies, bars of chocolate.
I too became hungry.
Michelle’s house: a haven of 50p’s
deposited all over.
A fruitful year, her house.
Nicola’s next and her mum’s
ever-full, stuffed purse,
where even a twenty was never missed.
I collected the milkman’s deliveries.
Fizz, bread and eggs
and blessed be our church
with its trusting donation box.
Not forgetting those odd jobs,
where even wider doors of hell would open.
Last night I dreamt I was a running stream with tumbling water
falling from my lips, and you, you were the hidden flower, a
compacted centrefold pressed deep inside my book of
hours, where an ancient summer burned and
petals scattered themselves, like soft
scented leaves, soaked in the
light of love that floated
across each page of
much I know:
This article is on the subject of the Like Button or whatever you like to call it button … you know the one! Whether you’re having a love or hate affair with it, or both, it seems that this button is here to stay. I’m going to begin with considering the external LB (Like Button) the one we encounter on WordPress, social media and in our daily lives too. Later I’ll explore the internal LB, the one that enables us to make our own decisions and validate ourselves. The curious case of two buttons, which one of these are you pressing? Let me start by sharing that I don’t have a LB on my blog ‘The Liberated Sheep’ for reasons that will become clear by the end of this post. Although, I’ve noticed I still get likes due to the wordpress.com reader, which I have no idea how to switch off!