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Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes---but not for thine---
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
And the vexed ore no mineral of power;
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the final hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come
Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee,
As light winds wandering through groves of bloom
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.
Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain;
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.
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Last night in house.

Could it be possible, do you suppose, to summon up characters?

It sounds too stupid to believe fictional people could be called into present-day reality, walking around, talking and eating. But what if you set characters in the past? Might it be possible to summon them into the past, and alter history--nothing huge, like killing Hitler, just minor bits of local history?

Because I keep wondering if what I've done is infested this house with the ghosts of the characters I created. By imagining them having lived in this place a century ago, have I created a haunting from scratch?
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Having convinced self was being an idiot, I tried putting kids down for nap back in the bedroom yesterday.

Cue all aforementioned noises, and then the worst thing ever: distinct whisper, a girl's voice I think, saying, "Where is he? I can't find him."

Am ashamed to record that for half a second I froze, unable to move. Then I remembered that my babies were down that hall, in the room with WHATEVER THE HELL THAT WAS, and I bolted down to rescue them. Nothing visible in room, of course. Grabbed baby and toddler, waking the latter (who was crabby all day as a result), and resettled them in the living room with me. Unplugged the damned monitor.

Will be camping in the living room every day that my husband isn't home. Time until removalists arrive and we relocate to a hotel, then move altogether, cannot come fast enough.

Creeeepy

Jun. 2nd, 2011 12:14 am
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Have succeeded in scaring self half to death. Better than dying of boredom, I suppose, but would rather not do either.

Day before yesterday, had just managed to get kids to sleep (baby in crib in our bedroom; toddler in our bed in same room, because it's easier to do that than argue with him every day) and was sitting in living room, trying to write, when baby monitor disturbed me. Faint sounds of movement, nothing major. Crept down hallway as silently as possible, in case baby was merely stirring but not really awake, but both children still asleep.

Returned to living room: several minutes of silence, then static and the distinct sound of someone walking around in bedroom. Raced down hall to grab toddler before he could wake baby: both children still asleep.

Repeat of this yesterday, with added whispering noises that gave me the freaking creeps.

Today? Baby is sleeping in bassinet in living room. Toddler is napping on bed made up of the cushions form the other sofa. Baby monitor is off.

The worst thing is, I keep thinking I still hear noises from down the hall.
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If we weren't moving anyway soon, when we reach the end of our lease, would be trying to find some way to break the lease. Am being driven mildly insane by noises of someone walking around in the attic. Problem: this is a one-story house with no attic. Also the roof is a sheet of corrugated tin; no possible way this could produce distinctive noises of footsteps on wooden floor.

It mostly happens in the early afternoon when the kids are napping. Have also heard it when I'm awake at night. Have tried waking husband to get him to listen to it, but he's groggy and uninterested when I point it out.

What the hell is it? Is something living in the space between the ceiling and the roof? D:
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Not the Wiccan altar of my teens, nor yet the Heathen altar of my housework-and-babies pseudo-homesteading urges. (Which urges, I should add, have mostly vanished in the face of reality of one infant, one toddler.)

No, this is my writing altar, and come to think of it, it owes something to Crowley--not in the details, but in the whole sense of creative rituals linked to writing. Alas, am not rich bastard and cannot devote entire rooms of house to occult self-indulgence, but have done what I can to collect items emblematic of my emerging characters.
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Anyway, as I was saying: quite in love with the idea of self-publishing, because I've never lost that whole DIY ethos, and because doing something creative and amateurish from scratch would go a long way toward restoring my sanity and sense of self.

Which is also why, I think, all the dabbling in ritual lately: it's far enough from the expected role of married-in-the-suburbs to feel as though it's just for me, not for family. Besides which, nobody has greater need of occult intervention than the mother of small children, take my word for it.
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Have had good week, in which writing has not been utterly swamped by mommying duties. This minor success has left me daydreaming, once again, about eventually finishing novel and self-publishing it.

Am quite enamoured of the whole self-publishing movement. Probably this is due to being old enough to have been involved in zine subculture, back in the day. Former punk/goth self would no doubt be appalled at current suburban-mommy existence. Am slightly appalled myself, when I think about it too hard.
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In spite of the, well, spite of much of Crowley's account of himself, and in spite of the quite obvious fraud and delusion surrounding the whole set--might they not have been a little bit right?

The phrase "Astral Plane" has since been tainted by idiots, but leaving the nomenclature aside, it does often feel as if there were layers of reality other than this one, and as though things "accomplished" there might bleed through and affect ordinary life. In a more deliberate way, that is, than the common one of imagining (must one call it "visualizing"?) something and then having it come true (much more easily, it always seems, than it would have done without the imagining).

Must play around with this idea some more.

Distance

May. 7th, 2011 02:03 am
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Keep thinking (somewhat morbidly) about the distance between this place I've followed my husband to, and the place I still consider home.

No wonder I spend so much time lost in my own thoughts. No wonder, too, I keep trying to impose my imaginary landscapes over that real one, the one I'm missing. Out of place here, so naturally seeking refuge in imaginary places, and in fictitious reworkings of the place I miss.

Not to mention, fulltime mommyhood is enough to drive anyone around the bend. I mean, even a person who didn't write as a hobby would probably scare up a few imaginary friends, out of sheer boredom.
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Am reading Do What Thou Wilt, a biography of Aleister Crowley. Toddler keeps trying to snatch it out of my hands, which is dead adorable, though does suggest odd things about my son's infant tastes.

Poor bloody Crowley: torn alternately between urges to cuddle him and to shake some sense into him. Cuddling perhaps ill-advised, as he was a ferocious enough momma's boy as it was, without somebody else's mother getting into the mix.

Still, all that hoo-haw, with Mathers and the Golden Dawn, and the clearly imaginary Secret Chiefs, and that ghastly Madame Horos claiming to have absorbed the spirit of Madame Blavatsky--it reminds one of nothing so much as internet squabbles, full of sockpuppets and fury, signifying a lot of people with too much time on their hands.
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It will free you first from burning thirst
That is born of a night of the bowl,
Like a sun 'twill rise through the inky skies
That so heavily hang o'er your souls.
At the first cool sip on your fevered lip
You determine to live through the day,
Life's again worth while as with a dawning smile
You imbibe your absinthe frappé
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You that had the soft path
And the lights, brightly glowing,
Your laugh is very still, and your hands are very chill,
And where may you be going?

'Though the light of dawn be breaking,
And the birds of morning call —
All the flowers and trees awaking —
'Tis the long road I'm taking,
The long road, the lone road that has no end at all.'

You that have the red gold,
And the gift of money-making,
Since your journey has no end, sure you'll need a heap to spend,
And how much will you be taking?

'O there's little need for spending
When the grey shadows fall,
And the twilight lies unending
On the way I'll soon be wending —
The long road, the lone road that has no end at all.'

You that had the choice wines,
In the frail cups glowing —
Is there any need to ask if you'll take a golden flask
On the road you'll be going?

'When I walk, a spirit shrinking,
Where the grey shadows fall,
There'll be little need, I'm thinking,
For the rich delights of drinking
On the long road, the lone road that has no end at all!'

You that sought the rich man
And the ladies — jewelled, glowing —
Since the way is far to wend, sure you'll need a true-heart friend
On the road you'll be going?

'Nay! — and not an ear shall heed me
Though I call, call, call,
When the beckoning shadows lead me;
And no prayer of heart shall speed me
On the long road, the lone road that has no end at all!'

You that had the hard heart
And the selfish soul uncaring,
Is there any deed at all that shall let a comfort fall
On the road you'll be going?

'Hush! the lights of day have ended,
And the grey shadows fall,
And, by no sweet thought attended,
I must wander, unbefriended,
Down the long road, the lone road that has no end at all!'
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When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

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What shall we raise today?

June 2011

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