satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
There are not enough of us to go
around:
those who chose to age,
to concern ourselves with tribal future.

We wise wimmin
travel the land along ancient lines,
healing with story, herb, bony touch.

Children explore our faces with wonder
for they do not know wrinkles,
the crevasses of the dark.

We are too few,
and needed too much.
Our stories are demanded,
but put it on the computer,
where I can read it later,
Old Woman.
Don't tell me truth
face to face.
The mirror of your eyes says too much.

So, we travel to where we are needed
but not wanted.
The adults hurry us on,
while children reach out their hands,
their mouths round O's of more.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
I latched on to a vision of myself at about 15. I knew I was a writer, and would be a writer, and had had it pounded into me by various writing books that fiction writers don't make money. There were, as far as I knew, no millionaire writers, no multi-million dollar book contracts. Likely Stephen King, and Alex Haley, and Sidney Sheldon were making their marks in the world circa 1979, but I didn't read them.
The way to supporting oneself was journalism. Thus, Journalist Satya Vision was born. At 15, I saw myself at 40, alone in a hotel room, phoning in a story from some war-torn place. Outside the hotel, rubble-strewn dusty streets, and the sounds of gunfire and distant bombs. Inside my room, dim lighting due to dodgy electricity supply. Me on the phone, calling in a war story. And then sitting on my bed, looking at my scrawny, aged hands (at age 40!) and realising that I'd missed the good things in life - family, home, pets, children. Wondering what the hell my life was all about anyway.
That vision turned me against journalism. Not that I needed a lot of turning. Yes, I've written more than my fair share of articles, but not one has been a 'just the facts, sir' reporting.
The 60 Minutes lifestyle would not have suited me.
Where the fear of 'oh no, I wouldn't have that treasured family life' fear came from, I don't know. I wasn't a girl who played weddings with her dolls. (More like funerals, and a lot of sex) I planned on being an astronaut and writer, and my future self did not seem to be married or have children. Or if I was married, it was a means to an end - at that time, astronaut criteria included being an American citizen, and I figured the old 'marriage to an American' would fix that.
Likely, I imbibed the 'safety and security through a husband' stuff from society.
Anyway, I can now look back on Hardbitten Journalist Satya with amusement. That vision has not had a lot of power over me. I found my way into non-fiction writing through my Bachelor of Arts, and discovered I had a talent for feature articles, and personal essays.
I have continued on my way ever since, ranging across parenting and new age magazines, witchcraft mags, and belly dance sites. I continue my merry way through memoir and autobiography.
While this self-vision does not hold much sway in my life, I write it here as an intro to other blog posts about other visions that have clung much more fiercely, sometimes with teeth.
Hardbitten Journalist Satya signing off
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
I'm sitting up in front of the tv tonight. I'm watching 'Downton Abbey' Season 2, years after everyone else. If that newspaper editor isn't the son of Michael Palin, I'll eat my hat.

The past few days, I've been crook. Not wholesale revolting crook, which I was the first day, but just slightly under the weather, with runny nose and dry throat rumbling like thunder down below the horizon. The constant state of debilitation that I experience is roaring. Yet, I'm frustrated that there's so much I want to be doing. I've had my fill of lying on my bed, reading. The book I'm currently immersed in is SEE WHAT I HAVE DONE, which is a retelling of the Lizzie Borden case. But even that has lost appeal.
I spend so much darned 'down' time that it's less a luxury and more a prison. And that's how I see fibromyalgia - a sentence. Depression, anxiety, whatever other label we could slap on me, my body is a prison!
I'm told that I need to change my attitude and accept that this is my life now. I refuse. I want my old body back, my energy, my focus and enthusiasm. I want to eat life with a serving spoon, not a teaspoon.
While I love my quiet days of art, tarot, writing, reading, gardening, and walking the dog, I also want my high-energy days of belly dance, of ballroom dancing, of grandparenting, and exploration of my surrounds.
No doubt, at least once a month, there will be variation on this theme, as I turn sulky, angry, or throw a complete tantrum. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair!
Immune-compromised be damned! Give me health, vitality, enthusiasm, focus, and joie de vivre.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
I signed up for a Tarot Art Journalling course with Kiala Givehand a couple of months ago. March was THE month. The Facebook group went crazy, and it was all I could to do a daily pull and a matchbox-sized sketch, despite great intentions. Halfway through April, and I've just done my first lesson - Sigil work.
Because I was impatient to finish, the face has ended up looking like every face I've drawn since I was 15. I wanted her more manga, I wanted her more detailed, older. Well, I got a little older, because I put some bags under her eyes, but she's definitely big-eyed, with the same scrappy long hair I always draw because I get fed up by the hair point. I haven't even given her a neck. Under her face is a black cauldron full of black, red, and purple. The sigil I drew is on her right cheek, not her forehead like I planned. Her hair isn't red, her eyes not brown (like me). Purple, black, and blue hair, purple eyes, pinky red full mouth. She looks sad on one side, slightly distressed on the other.
Anyway, there she is in my art journal, with a sigil on her face. Now, I can leave that there, and move on with the next lesson, or I can work magic with the sigil, empower it, and set it free into the world. And I think it's time to do exactly that. I haven't worked any magic in at least two full moons, if not more.
I shall refer to my T.Thorn Coyle book of 'Sigil Magic for Writers', and perhaps read the pertinent chapters from a few other books to see which way of sigil empowerment I fancy. There's more than one way.
The first part of sigil magic is complete anyway, because I can no longer clearly remember what the sigil is for. Forgetting the sigil is often mentioned as an important step. Create it, empower it, release it into the world.
A recent talk with SexMagicMan: he says he's never come across the idea of forgetting the sigil purpose. He's done loads of magic across more than 30 years.
Oh, what to do, what to do....
Reading is always a good idea....

satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
This past week, I've had loads of vivid, distressing dreams, mostly involving exes; specifically XP and the ExBastard.
(I've suddenly realised that new readers will have no idea who they are. Okay, I have an Ex Husband, known as LoafAbout, or LA. Then there was 18 months with YogaMan. Then, after a brief excursion into Christian land with StreetWitness, and a short adventure with ThighsMan, I began what turned out to be one magical year, one bad year, and one we-broke-up-but-we're-both-addicted-to-each-other-and-not-in-a-good-way six months with the Ex Bastard, known as XB. After that, was ten years with XP, the Ex-Partner. Now, for the past six years, there has been PizzaBoy, the Excellent Husband. So, do try to keep them straight, my loves. LA, XB, and XP.)
These dreams left me sweating, distressed, unsure of who I was each morning, fearful, and with dream flavour all over me most of the day.
At first, I thought it was because I was reading RIDING THE BUS WITH MY SISTER, which is about a woman who indeed rides the bus with her intellectually impaired sister. I have a son with autism, intellectual impairment, hearing imapairment, blah, blah blah. I thought the book was triggering off old stuff.
Be that as it may, it's more than that. The dreams are a clarion call re-examine old, old self-stories.
I did a three card tarot spread for myself yesterday, using my brand new Mary-El tarot. Time to own my part in those old stories. Time to admit that in the weeks before being dumped by XP, I was both ecstatic that I was finally going to move in with the man I loved, deeply upset that he demanded I get rid of one of my cats, and that my kids have only limited visiting times in the house, and my daughter, not at all for six months, and behaving like a bit of a shit.
By turns sulky, hyper, near hysterically confident that this was finally, finally happening, and never mind what he was asking of me, and assuming that one relationship counselling session would fix everything.
When I finally found someone who would rehome Missy, our little pale grey cat, it was one more hoop I'd jumped through for XP, and deeply distressing.
I called XP at work to ask if he couldn't see his way clear to not only having Angel, but also Missy in his precious house.
XP: I'm sorry, but no.
He liked Angel. He didn't like Missy. She didn't come when he called. She shied away from him.
Satya: It will take me a long time to forgive you for this.

That was the fateful trigger. He arrived at my house in the evening, as I was packing my spice bottles into a cardboard moving box. He shouted that I loved my cats more than him. That he didn't succumb to emotional blackmail. How dare I.
He stormed out. I looked at the cinnamon jar in my hand and numbly packed it into the box.
An hour later came the text message. He'd cancelled the moving van, due in three days. I wasn't moving in. We're over. Don't contact him.
I drove to his house, hysterical. I offered him a full bag of grapefruits I'd picked from my generous neighbour's tree, just for him. I noticed he'd claimed back his house key I kept in my car.
He didn't budge. We were done.

I'm not saying it was my fault. He had me at the cliff-edge already. By this time, I'd agreed to so many self-compromising things that I no longer knew if I had boundaries at all. All to keep him. Because I was afraid of being alone.
I'm not saying that he wasn't a dick. He was.
But, to be honest, I was a bit of a dick, too.

Oh, the things we women do to keep a man who is not worthy of us.

And, as of last night, no LA, XB, or XP dreams.
Sure, a weird dream full of emotion: I'm a prison guard, and to avoid witnessing an execution, I spin an complex story about knowing the prisoner in some way; of knowing the true story behind a certain poet's Muse relationship with a girl called Louise, who is somehow linked to the prisoner. I start pointing out that poems written about other people are, in fact, about Louise.

As usual, I woke wrung out, because all the way through the dream, I know I am lying, and getting deeper in all the time. But the dream flavour is no longer with me. I am not spending the day with stirred-up emotions. And, it wasn't about my exes. Whew! I guess the dream message being hammered at me for the past week has finally been delivered. Own your part in it all. Own your shit.
So, here I am, owning. I'm human. I made, and make mistakes. Can't change them. It all happened.
Now, I wonder how my Bottom-of-the-fridge soup is coming along?
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Today, PizzaBoy and I went to Alowyn Gardens, up in Yarra Glen. About 90 minutes out of Melbourne, and 40 from our place. Nice drive, with white cloud still lifting off the Dandenong Ranges. A very still day, with a nip in the air that didn't ever quite leave, despite mid-morning to late afternoon warmth.
Beautiful colour in the trees in the Gardens, and plenty of gourds growing. Quinces being harvested for sale, along with a few lemons. We nicked one lemon.
Satya: Look, lemons!
PizzaBoy: Mmmm...
Satya: Ripe lemons! But I can't reach them.
PB: Sigh.
Reader, he picked me a ripe lemon and hid it in our carry bag.
Earlier I had observed a very sharp decorative picket fence. I said that they were for impaling the enemies of Alowyn Gardens. I then spotted a house on a nearby hill, and said they were the rulers of the Gardens. Finally, there was a feature I called mini-Stonehenge. A large flat table of rock, with stone around it, although the seats were too far from the table to be of any use. I said it was the sacrificial altar and made PB lie down on it, and play dead for a photo.
Back to the lemon moment. I saw more ripe lemons in other trees, higher up.
Satya(regretful): We can't reach them, can we?
PB: No, and I daresay they excuse one stolen lemon in a bag, but a whole bag full means being staked out.
Satya: Those bastards!
Later, we visited the Yarra Valley Chocolaterie about a kilometre up the road, and from its hilly outlook, I could see the Gardens, and the other hill house beyond.
Satya: So, these must be the sworn enemies of the Gardens. Who do you think is better situated to win the war?
PB: Hard to say. But it's like England and Scotland.
Satya:(pointing to another house in the distance): That must be Ireland over there.
PB: Those alpacas... Peru caught between England and Scotland.
Satya: Who taught you geography? Those alpacas are obviously Wales....I remember an old Goon Show. "I come from Wales!" "Well, I can see you don't come from sardines, boyo!"
Seconds later....
Satya: Look, there's a commie pinko up there! (points to a horse in a pink blanket)

You have to make your own fun, especially when you've been chocolated out on Easter Sunday and have no interest in eating choc or ice cream at the actual chocolaterie.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Ages after everyone else has trooped over here, I've finally arrived. I've looked around, and made myself a little comfy on the old brown couch. I've yet to haul up the cushions, the blankies, the dog, and install a couple of the cats, to say nothing of switching on the salt crystal lamps, and clicking on Sacred Earth's newest cd.

Tonight, at nearly 7pm, I'm puzzling over what to say. I've left behind 12 years of lj blogging to start fresh here. Same old life, brand new space. At my feet is Penny the black cat. She's about 8 years old now, and if it's true that a black cat houses the soul of a witch, it's no wonder the poor girl is crabby most of the time. She grumps at us instead of meowing. Every morning, she hops up on the husband's pillow and subtly combs his hair with her claws. She's given up trying to hook a claw up his nose now that he has a CPAP machine. No fun to be had there. So she scrapes at his scalp until he gets up and feeds everyone.
She has her back to me, as is her way, and is somewhere between dozing, and simple disapproval of me being on the brown couch with the computer in my lap. How dare I do that and not have room for Penny.

Soon I'll retire to bed to continue reading 'Riding The Bus With My Sister'. I didn't expect this book to be an uncomfortable read, but the narrator's sister has an intellectual impairment. TwentiesPerson, my adult offspring(born male, but identifies as female) has a mild intellectual impairment. I suspect a combination of reading this book, and dealing with some stuff related to his impairment recently has lead to a series of anxiety dreams. Simply awful dreams that push all my deepest buttons. Thus, this morning, I awoke distressed. The dream flavour stayed with me all day, and I hope to not encounter the vibe of it when I get back into bed tonight. I've sprayed the sheets with sweet orange and rose geranium oils, so oils, do your uplifting thing.
TwentiesPerson was, on lj, known as TwentiesBoy, and TeenBoy before that, but I feel that I should try to be generous with his self-identification. As a language, English needs more pronouns. I know it's acceptable to refer to them as 'them' and 'they', but to me, it sounds like I'm referring to a committee. I have tried zis, and zer, zim, zes, and ze, but I can't keep it consistent. So, here, you've met TP, as he/she/ze will be known on this blog, and you've met me, SatyaPriya.
That's likely enough to start with. I do hear that long blog entries are super-unfashionable.
Tough.

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