Acceptance

Seven years and a few months ago, I dreamt of giving up what was a powerful and personal symbol. The bow, sometimes as elaborate and decorated as a role playing game’s prop, sometimes as simple and unremarkable as a wood and string can get, was a weapon my dream self best used against my fears.

And sometimes, against me.

My concern that I was giving up more than a symbol was a valid one, though the beginning of that understanding would take five years to assemble itself. I did not understand why I placed it on that altar at that time. I understand now that the bow was somehow linked with my experiences as a Christian. I had been hurt enough by the devoted followers of a god that rejected me. So I rejected him and the promises that would never, could never, be fulfilled.

It’s not like an apostate could ever keep her end of the bargain, after all.

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A Marked Panic

Once upon a summoning, the attending spirit reviewed my protections, noted their efficacy, and told me the one thing they can do to nullify all of them with little or no effort.

«Remember what I told you of the amulet. To negate its protection, all I have to do is make you panic, for in your distress, you will voluntarily remove anything that reminds you of [what was done to you].»

Do Magick September ’17: Day 14 – Snap

A recent (unpublished) operation nearly went due south because I did exactly what I was warned not to do. I panicked and broke the layers in fear of something that upon inspection was not likely to happen after all but from my perception at that time appeared to be an inevitability. I will admit to setting myself up for that because I did not take all due precautions like I should have. My attention was split. I shattered the moment. And as a result, unnecessary marks were made that will never be undone.

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A Measure of Daring

I have been doing better since the end of August and the end of the thirty days of summoning [Patient Caller] for the explicit purpose of helping me deal with my shit. I have busied myself with continuing to further my recovery and taking care of things that came up when I wasn’t paying attention.

As September advanced so did my interest in other wooish shenanigans. I read a thing in a book about St. Cyprian, recognized that it was something that would be of use to me now that I have committed to remaining plugged in to the Cyprianic current even after the Black School ends, and realized that I have all the things on hand, right now, to make the thing happen.

Of course, there’s a complication.

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Dream Journal: 2018-09-09.01

The black hooded person welcomed me to their Demonstration with the spreading of their black gloved hands in peace. They invited me to take a seat and gestured that I should keep my hands away from the table. I placed them in my lap and bowed in acknowledgement.

On the left side (from my perspective) of the table, they placed plates with unlit incense cones, sticks, and resins. On the right side of the table, they placed a variety of oil warmers, burners, and small lamps. In the middle of the table was placed metal and wood picks, along with several small glass and ceramic bowls, bottles, and jars with cork, metal, and cloth coverings.

The Demonstrator offered several of the incense cones to me and invited me to pick one that smelled pleasant. I pointed at one that smelled of roses. They bowed a cute little nod, lit the cone, and placed it on the corner of the table nearest me.

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A Store of Faith

I dreamt of rosaries. To say that the scene was set in a rosary store is a belittling summary. Money was not the only currency accepted. A barely heard sigh expressed in faith could “buy” more rosaries than any ridiculous amount of cash, gold, and/or jewels. While there were rosaries for people of prestige, their prestige meant nothing here.

Most of the rosaries were custom assembled. Somewhere nearby was a factory where precise machines made precise knots holding precise lengths of precisely shaped beads in place. But what combination of colors and textures and lengths and bead counts could be altered in the length of time it took for someone to describe what their perfect rosary looked like.

Also somewhere nearby were an assembly of people that handmade the rosaries starting from the spinning of flax (or cotton or wool or paper or silk or plastics) into thread and the making of beads from various materials and sources. Their rosaries ranged from a child’s first knots to fine threads of gold spun with silk that were stitched into tiny lace baskets that held the teeth of martyrs in lieu of beads.

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Waving back.

Forgive me, I’m out of practice. The words tangle in the web of my feelings and fears. When I poured my words on Tumblr it was a lot easier to post without structure. I told myself that this blog was reserved for formal statements without comment. Truth being that this blog was reserved for long posts.

But the words don’t care. (And Tumblr is becoming dangerous to reader and writer.) They press on my mind and make my hands itch. While I have improved on discerning which words should be kept private and which words are stories starving for sharing, I still am hesitant to post here.

But here I am.

It’s going to take time for me to learn how to speak on this blog again. There is a difference between speaking to an empty room and speaking to the sea.

Do Magick August ’18: Masterpost

As requested, a masterpost of the entries for the August 2018 DoMagick: Summoning challenge in a proper “Start to Finish” order:

To spare you the long version if this post is your first catch up with me since the June Do Magick challenge, lemme summarize the month of July: Everything sucks and I want to die.

However, since I have had it literally pounded into my head that I am not allowed to just go whenever I feel like it, I might as well keep up with obligations and promises. Like jumping into this month’s challenge including the daily log.

“Summon a spirit or a set of spirits for 30 days to transform an aspect of your life.”

For this challenge, I summoned the same spirit that started me off on so many shenanigans: [Patient Caller]. The pseudonym is in brackets to make it clear that this is not the name that I call him in private. It is the same pseudonym I used for the September ’17 challenge, so long term readers (and new archive divers) can keep track of just how deep I have dug this hole.

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Do Magick August ’18: Day 30 – Salt

The obligation came and went without issue, as did setting up for the summoning of [Patient Caller] to follow. But after speaking the summoning words and closing my eyes, the after-image of one of the candles split into three identical fractures of itself. The false image of the flame spun in a tight circle that chased itself into a fierce ring of fire and light.

A massive pressure started to squeeze my head from both sides. While I could feel the presence of [Patient Caller], he felt far away as if several layers were isolating him from me. The pressure was very uncomfortable and felt like something was trying to pack me into an impossibly small space.

In retrospect, what I should have done was call upon Saint Cyprian in whose name I had completed the obligation, or better yet, call upon some of the forces he rolls with. (Ambiguous statement is very ambiguous.) Instead I listened to my instinct, focused on [Patient Caller], and made the gesture he had shared with me before.

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Do Magick August ’18: Day 29 – Rite

The morning obligation came and went. When it came time to add the cedarwood oil to the oil burner, the bottle would not cooperate. Despite being mostly full, it took a lot of shaking, wiggling, and coaxing to get three drops of oil out of it.

The chamber appeared to darken from the cardinal red of the velvet interior to a deep and mysterious blood red hue. Despite the sanguine associations of the color, I was not disturbed or concerned. I had no indications that I should prepare (more) for trouble.

So of course I was surprised when I closed my eyes after speaking the summoning words, and ‘opening’ them in a brightly lit church.

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