Granny Was a Gwrach {Witch}

As I mentioned earlier, I am reading a book about The Dreamtime. What strikes me most about the book is the absence of much reference to women. The Clever Men, the Men of High Degree are responsible for the sacred traditions, the healing and the dancing. In the West, the holders of the old traditions are more often portrayed as women, sometimes witches. Though there are male druids. Until recently the priesthood was exclusively male.

Here in Brittany one can see witch signs carved into fireplaces to stop nasty witches coming down the chimney. Witches got a bad press from the power obsessed clergy. Midwives are called sage-femme here, which is nice. I suspect that many of the so-called witches were mid-wives and portrayers of herbal medicine. So, there must be good, or white witches as well as those paid to put hexes on.

When I saw the Doors film and the scene where Jim sees the Shaman it struck some kind of chord in me. I can remeber the moment in a cinema in Bern. It started a line of inquiry.

When I first looked into Shamanism, I read Shamanism by Mircea Eliade. It is a long and seemingly well researched tome. It seems that most cultures have some kind of tradition. It is probably due another read, I might get the French version.

Family legend has it that at least one woman in the part of my family which emanates from Beddgelert was a witch. But does that mean healer or part magical? I have read various things which suggests that “the gift” is passed on down bloodline generations. It might skip one and then resurface.

With this loose hypothesis such a gift might manifest in someone trained in the Natural Sciences to Ph.D. degree level.

Certainly around 1995 when I had by breakdown and was forced to change my orientation to the world, I needed to change. Up until that point I soap boxed that the world and everything in it could be explained by Science, with a capitol S. I was a bit of a dickhead.

Things in deepest darkest North Wales were kept out of sight of the oppressive English and the old traditions perhaps lingered long there.

Since I have been here, I have noticed the number of cars in which there are dreamcatchers attached to the mirror. The number density is a lot higher than Surrey for sure. There are some true Bretons here who are markedly not French. They are proper country folk and would not look out of place in Snowdonia.

If one has “the gift” one should be sensitive to power spots or hot spots. For example, Avebury and Stonehenge. Avebury is more powerful than Stonehenge because less people have gone there. Glaslyn on the sides of Snowdon is one power spot. We have one here locally it is called Menez Bre.

Until a few days ago We had not been up there. But when we did it was pretty obvious it is a power spot.

You may not believe this, but many cathedrals are built on power spots. Winchester is the hottest one amongst those that I have visited.

Can I provide six sigma evidence for this? No.

People with this gift can recognise others with it too…

There is a menhir locally and there are massive stone temples to the West of here.

Why is it that the old ways are always driven to the West?

I have a feeling that I have some kind of upcoming appointment on Menez Bre.

Hmnn…


Lay down

Your sweet and weary head

Night is falling

You have come to journey’s end

Sleep now

And dream of the ones who came before

They are calling

From across the distant shore

Why do you weep?

What are these tears upon your face?

Soon you will see

All of your fears will pass away

Safe in my arms

You’re only sleeping


What can you see

On the horizon?

Why do the white gulls call?

Across the sea


A pale moon rises

The ships have come to carry you home

And all will turn

To silver glass

A light on the water

All souls pass

Hope fades

Into the world of night

Through shadows falling

Out of memory and time

Don’t say we have come now to the end

White shores are calling

You and I will meet again

And you’ll be here in my arms

Just sleeping

The Mirror of Justice {noumenon}

A noumenon

sensed by all

feared by many,

awaits and patiently


To gaze unready

is to quake,

its palantir eyes

always abroad


No squirming justification

no wriggling excuse

face to face

unyielding


The movie of life

in black and white

played for you

over and over


Learn you will

but how?

unwilling and denying

or open and receptive


After the mirror

two shillings

for the ferryman

and not before

Qliphoth

I’ll start this with a quotation from Wiki:

“The Qliphoth/Qlippoth/Qlifot or Kelipot (Hebrew: קְלִיפּוֹת‎, the different English spellings are used in the alternative Kabbalistic traditions of Hermetic Qabalah and Jewish Kabbalah respectively), literally “Peels”, “Shells” or “Husks” (from singular: קְלִפָּה‎ qlippah “Husk”), are the representation of evil or impure spiritual forces in Jewish mysticism, the polar opposites of the holy Sefirot. The realm of evil is also termed Sitra Achra/Aḥra (Aramaic סטרא אחרא‎, the “Other Side” opposite holiness) in Kabbalah texts.”

“In Jewish Kabbalistic cosmology of Isaac Luria, the qlippot are metaphorical “shells” surrounding holiness. They are spiritual obstacles receiving their existence from God only in an external, rather than internal manner. Divinity in Judaism connotes revelation of God’s true unity, while the shells conceal holiness, as a peel conceals the fruit within. They are therefore synonymous with idolatry, the root of impurity through ascribing false dualism in the Divine, and with the Sitra Achra (סטרא אחרא “Other Side”), the perceived realm opposite to holiness. They emerge in the descending seder hishtalshelus (Chain of Being) through Tzimtzum (contraction of the Divine Ohr), as part of the purpose of Creation. In this they also have beneficial properties, as peel protects the fruit, restraining the Divine flow from being dissipated. Kabbalah distinguishes between two realms in qlippot, the completely impure and the intermediate.

Their four “concentric” terms are derived from Ezekiel’s vision (1:4), “And I looked and behold, a whirlwind came out of the north, a great cloud, and a fire infolding itself, and a brightness was about it…” The “Three Impure Qlippot” (completely Tamei “impure”) are read in the first three terms, the intermediate “Shining Qlippah” (Nogah “brightness”) is read in the fourth term, mediating as the first covering directly surrounding holiness, and capable of sublimation. In medieval Kabbalah, the Shekhinah is separated in Creation from the Sefirot by man’s sin, while in Lurianic Kabbalah Divinity is exiled in the qlippot from prior initial Catastrophe in Creation. This causes “Sparks of Holiness” to be exiled in the qlippot, Jewish Observance with physical objects redeeming mundane Nogah, while the Three Impure Qlippot are elevated indirectly through Negative prohibitions. Repentance out of love retrospectively turns sin into virtue, darkness into light. When all the sparks are freed from the qlippot, depriving them of their vitality, the Messianic era begins. In Hasidic philosophy, the kabbalistic scheme of qlippot is internalised in psychological experience as self-focus, opposite to holy devekut self-nullification, underlying its Panentheistic Monistic view of qlippot as the illusionary self-awareness of Creation.”

———–

I am not entirely sure that the authors of the wiki page know what they are, yet they do a scholarly job.

If you succumb to using the dark jewels such as disharmony and manipulation it is possible that you destroy whole swathes of potential via the effects of your causal actions. The more you manipulate and then lie to cover up for your deeds, the more destruction and damage you do to the world. The more you inflict.  It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Desperately trying to spin plates life gets completely out of control and the force and this is the right word, turns back in upon you. Involution.

Manipulate, lie, lie starts to surface, manipulate, lie further, fear sets in, justify, lie starts to surface, manipulate, spin. The Qliphoth are not free, they exact a price. They look good to start with, but boy do they attach and suck vitality, they feed on those so attracted.

They can twist and distort, they can even derange.

It takes a special level of awareness to interact with the Qliphoth without being tarnished, overly tempted and then drawn in.

Orange man was/is a fan of the dark jewels. They have started to hunt him now…he may be a stable genius, but the dark jewels are like Dementors.

If you play with the dark side and are impure, ambitious, and self-aggrandizing there is every chance that you will have your fingers burned.

I can see traces in the web of life, linking several people.  I can hold the lines between them clear in my consciousness, thanks to the dragons. 😉

Only when you have collected ALL the light jewels can you enter and exit the world of the sorcerers at will and without harm…

People are so clever…

So wise..

Lantern Jack

Dank tendrils of

a misty miasma

caress the land

somehow, ill at ease

 

Padding soft across

all the shaven fields

haunting the crows

out gathering seed

 

Jack-o’-lantern lights

the marshy bogs at night

homesick as he patrols

the cusp of all the twilight

 

Between the copse

and the meadows

playing hide and seek

with memories

 

Ready or not

here he comes

deep in the furrows of time

ploughed and furled

 

Collecting the flints

and chalking deeds

haunting the daylights

out of all the living

 

He flickers in between

will-o’-the-wisp

a faerie, pixie light,

torches in the breeze

 

Close the windows

lock the doors

lest he blow

dream-dust in your ears

 

Reaping wheaten loaves

the catcher in the rye

bakes drum rolls

in a timpani oven

 

Palming dream grains

in his cauldron fingers

blowing dragon breath

upon fading embers

 

To ease the Phoenix

the ashes out

teasing the tears

of a forlorn dawn

 

Jack is abroad

with his magic sack

sprinkle, sprinkle, all

dreams to twinkle

 

Hush the rush

the lantern comes

to plant seeds

in the clouds of thought

 

His pantry always full

unscrews the jar

kept many winter through

and places the dreams

 

In his magic flute

to key finger threads

upon the duvet downs

that still doze, dozy

 

Jack-o’-lantern lights

sleepy hollow

and starts their dreams

their dreams for tomorrow

 

As he tip-toes past

he checks off the names

from his shopping list

granting each a single wish

 

Now with the call of dawn

the reeds and peat

whisper him back to bed

and lay down his weary head

 

For Jack must again dream

his pantry full

and pack his sack

before the mist will call and pull

 

For lantern Jack

there is no rest

must sow all those dreams

from his magic sack.

 

Fête

Amongst the idée fixe

incroyable Jack

puts on his Mac

and searches in the rain

 

He sits down with Jenny

to spin out a penny

a coat of tales

that might turn heads

 

They think him Montgolfier

a puffed up balloon

filled with airs and graces

a powdered buffoon

 

But fair miss Clotho the Fate

still turns at her spindle

spick and span to allocate

all those Cunard berths

 

Sitting in Versailles

at his triptych of glass

he sees dressing table reflections

of all the days yet to pass

 

He is all powdered wigs

and syphilis sores

tolerated and yawned

by all those he bores

 

And now his Lepidoptera life

has grown death as a moth

despite all the naptha

they put in with the cloth

 

Lachesis takes up her Toise

to measure standard yards

as he sings his soliloquy

to his image, deafened  by cards

 

The ones he drew on lucky dip Lotto

to experience the exponential silence

with all the longevity of coffins

and its harsh and unbending violence

 

Yet now the apropos of Atropos

stands with scissors and knife

she waits for that moment

to cut short the darn of his  life

 

Strung out on a wire

a simple hanger for clothes

bent and moulded

and darkened with woes

 

Incroyable Jack feels it so

that sharp asymptote of today

spans the vast chasms of tomorrow

No, no matter what he does say

 

And while they all sit to split hairs

none has heard a single his breath

which goes round all 45s

a Colt, the last cylinder death

 

Life throws him googlies all Impatiens

where the every last of desiccated dreams

is petal pressed between pages and bound

and stitched and ironed in all of the seams

 

And now his garment

has near worn away

The Moirae are happy

and turn off the candle of day

 

Incroyable Jack packs up his bags

no Euromillions for him

just a penury and a poorhouse

to take square on the chin

 

And when the Acheron calls

out comes both his last shillings

to pay for his little terminal trip

and now Oh Boy, is he man, willing

 

The dice that he long ago cast

were not ever meant to long last

so now incroyable Jack finally leaves

and still no, not one, no-one, believes

Mosi-oa-tunya

the smoke that thunders

is all that stands between.

I see you son of seer

who hunts ever gold

 

I fear not any collars

of which you once spoke

unto me

so very, resentfully

 

leave trace in my den

and Seitch Jacurutu

will hear matters

of the desert

 

in my Honour as fremen

will I give freely

unto you,

both chapter and verse

 

no need of artifice

when simplicity might

yet work

its easy magic

 

may Shai-Halud

cleanse the paths.

It falls on me to give,

oh, most cautious one

 

you must provide

secure means

and then the Mentat downloads

Insh’ Allah

 

ever the shadows

is instinct of old

ever the light

I am much more, bold

 

the morning star

and the setting sun

must soon

full circle come

 

foe am I not

ne’er have I been

fate has its quirks

sure, as can be seen

 

the smoke that thunders

is all that stands between.

I see you son of seer

who hunts ever gold

Things That Go Bump in The Night !

Anál nathrach,

orth’ bháis’s bethad,

do chél dénmha

“The Charm of Making” Merlin or Myddrin.

If you chant this charm, this mantra, in deep voice it sounds pretty damn spooky. I’ll wager that should you and I ever find ourselves sat around a fading camp fire in an isolated spot and I struck up the chanting. You would have the metaphorical hackles on the back of your neck stand up. You might even shit a brick.

There are loads of people who pooh-pooh the paranormal and things that go bump in the night from the safety of their armchair. But once again I’ll wager that many of these, despite their professed rationality, would not go willingly and alone into a supposed haunted house. Also, if they are brave enough to watch horror movies, they might jump from time to time.

The day we arrived here I went down to the river to talk with the korrigans.

“In Breton folklore, a Korrigan ([kɔˈriːɡɑ̃n]) is a fairy or dwarf-like spirit. The word korrigan means “small-dwarf” (korr means dwarf, ig is a diminutive and the suffix an is a hypocoristic). It is closely related to the Cornish word korrik which means gnome. The name changes according to the place. Among the other names, there are korrig, korred, korrs, kores, couril, crion,goric, kornandon, ozigan, nozigan, teuz, torrigan, viltañs, poulpikan, and paotred ar sabad.”

To me it seemed to be the most sensible thing to do, to say hello and to ask their permission to live amongst them. I was ultra-polite and “spoke” from my heart.

Over the weeks which followed we encountered various ward off charms around the house at “entry points”. These were left by the previous owner a practising catholic, there is even a place where the sun has bleached the outline of her crucifix into the wallpaper. When we were looking for houses out in the Breton countryside, we on occasion noted witch marks, inscribed to ward off bad witches. To a man with north wales blood, this seems perfectly natural.

So, what we profess and how we behave or respond may differ markedly. People like the sound of their own voice.

We were having some odd occurrences here, so I went around the house wearing my insignia and with a smudge stick smouldering. There was something up on the top floor in one of the attics which I encouraged to leave.  When I got into the vide sanitaire, a kind of basement, the smudge stick burst into flame. Residual methane or something that goes bump in the night? I did a deep cleanse.

I mentioned before that my personality is seventh ray. I like planning…

Here is the technique of integration as per The Tibetan.

Ray Seven

  ” ‘I seek to bring the two together. The plan is in my hands. How shall I work? Where lay the emphasis? In the far distance stands the One Who Is. Here at my hand is form, activity, substance, and desire. Can I relate these and fashion thus a form for God? Where shall I send my thought, my power the word that I can speak?

‘I, at the center, stand, the worker in the field of magic. I know some rules, some magical controls, some Words of Power, some forces which I can direct. What shall I do? Danger there is. The task that I have undertaken is not easy of accomplishment, yet I love power. I love to see the forms emerge, created by my mind, and do their work, fulfil the plan and disappear. I can create. The rituals of the Temple of the Lord are known to me. How shall I work?

 ‘Love not the work. Let love of God’s eternal Plan control your life, your mind, your hand, your eye. Work towards the unity of plan and purpose which must find its lasting place on earth. Work with the Plan; focus upon your share in that great work.’

The word goes forth from soul to form: ‘Stand in the center of the pentagram, drawn upon that high place in the East within the light which ever shines. From that illumined center work. Leave not the pentagram. Stand steady in the midst. Then draw a line from that which is without to that which is within and see the Plan take form.’ “

For a period of months, when I got home from my day job teaching science and had eaten, I would light five candles in the shape of pentagram within a circle as per the famous Leonardo da Vinci diagram. I entered from the East and lay down in perfect alignment. I would then mediate and do the Toltec Dreaming practice prone on the floor for around 40 minutes. The candles had to be lit in sequence. When I was finished, I left the pentagram by the East and then extinguished the candles in reverse order. It has to be ceremonial or it does not work.

I’ll wager than none of my colleagues ever imagined that I was doing this.

{After all they knew me so very well and understood all my motives perfectly…}

If you think about it things like graduation ceremonies are forms of ritual magic. A whole bunch of geezers dress up in fancy robes and then process up to a stage like in my case The Royal Albert Hall. The initiates of higher education walk through those about to receive their degrees. There is a master or mistress of ceremonies and some big wig hands out the degrees. Ritual magic is everywhere, just look at the funny wigs in the UK courts. The gavel…you get my drift.

If the world can be explained only by science, as it currently stands, there are no things which go bump in the night. They are illogical and figments, they do not exist.

As a thought experiment:

How strong is your faith?

Would you walk in a graveyard at night?

Would you come with me into a haunted basement?

If I sounded the charm of making and the Dragon’s Breath began to manifest, what would you do?

Destiny Swims

Ahh, but the dice cannot read their own spots.

Bijaz the Dwarf {Frank Herbert}

———————————————————

What ligatures of destiny,

And tendons of fate

Pull me yet, this day?

 

What autobahns of future,

And roads so present

Lead direct, into nowhere?

 

Which vast oceans of time,

And foreign seas of seconds

Still tumble sandy down?

 

Where do cosmic spaces

And claustrophobic cupboards

Meet at the crossroads?

 

Which rennet remnants

And milky memories

Make mouse-hole cheeses?

 

What deaf blind days

And myopic Mondays

Make weak the weeks ahead?

 

Which magnum chilled on ice

And bucketed at table

Will uncork a purpose?

 

Will the spiral dog teeth

And tousled fly swats

Ever end this cycle tale?

 

Which shepherd warning sun

And blood red dawn

Will open portal wide?

 

What rabbit-run cave of fern

And delicate deer path

Click the shutter up?

 

Which limpid forest pool,

And sublime mirror calm

Suck me, vortex in?

 

What saucy void of starts

And magnetic mass

Draw me salmon home?

 

Which dulcet voice demanding

And whispering my ear

Will conch call me on?

 

What un-inked fanfares

And clefts of Soul

Will treble again my strokes?

 

 

What ligatures of destiny,

And tendons of fate

Pull me yet, this day?

Woven

Every word they said

Each thing done

Have been the engineers

The architects

 

The geysers of emotion

Washed my skin

Sometimes in acid anger

And betrayal

 

Soft balms of love

And support

Rare at this stake

No blues here!

 

For every trace

On the trellis of life

Has me woven

Into tapestry

 

Each eggshell shard

Of knowledge stored

With the winter squirrels

Under the oak

 

At the point before mind

The nascent world

Is yet to become

And so still, it’s here

 

Each soft caress of fate

Has sculpted my clay

And fired me

In the ovens

 

Eyes without glaze

Look cosmos past

The aching mundane

To Sirius and beyond

 

And were it not

For each hand

Each finger

I would not be where

 

At this place

In this time

Now the eternal

The fleeting second of forever