April 9, 2003 excerpts . . . I think of my favorite author's work, which I am savoring slowly. Lost in vampland, I am. But it's such an intriguing place. I understand Gabrielle. She is not 'cold' to me, she who went to wander in the jungles. Sometimes that appeals to me, the thought of losing oneself in the earth, all nature girl, just out lost like that . . . . . . I am just like Gabrielle. I want to go off wandering. And I take no prisoners. You can all follow if you want. I leave my tracks, sure enough. Here, on silly nights like these, when the rest of the mortals are sleeping, I leave my tracks. Hah, it is all like that. I'm carving my silly little messages, strange little girl that I am, all over the web, and you can find them if you wish. COULD it be any different? Ah, but there are so many others to take the light road, the 'easy' sunshined road, and talk of light matters. I am here in the darkness, hoping to make some light. Dim though it may be, it will have to suffice. . . .

May 1, 2003 My butterfly dream, my butterfly life, I will not squash it. I will not let skepticism strangle every hope, nor will I let gullibility trap me. On the edge is the right awareness, holding all possibilities gently.

I am waiting for the inspiration   to come like sweet rain. I am waiting. Thrash the pot, stir the wine, serve the fine cakes. I am waiting. Finest fruit of bean, steaming. Clear and red, the aged grapes chilling. I am waiting. JAL, 5 - 06 - 2003

April 30, 2003, May 29, 2003 excerpts 5-29-03 Hunger for truth, let it drive you wild. Lost child in the Garden, which flower blooms for you? Scent intoxicating, liberating, these are the night-blooming flowers. Thus, few see them. Keep awake. JAL, 4 - 30 - 03 The poem came to me first, on April 30, 2003. I was at work when the image of a dark haired magician appeared to me in a garden, holding his arms wide, with a flower in one hand, telling me the above words. Then May 28, 2003, the image came briefly, wordlessly, of a dark haired magician offering me a very large and fragrant red rose. I swear I could almost smell the incredibly scented rose. I knew I had to capture the essence of that potent image. I found myself following a link on one of my lists that led to a photo gallery of handsome men. Remembering my artistic inspiration, I sought through them for one that evoked the essence of this magician who's been visiting my mind . . . . . . I had a rose picture of my own, taken earlier, that was model for the rose, and I used my own hand for the magician's hand. I let the method of my mandala making inspire me, letting one color call for the next in an unplanned fashion. When I was done, I was surprised the magician did not have black hair, nor was he holding a red rose. Also, though I did not intend it, he has a bit of a possibly vampyric appearance. Whether or not the magician happens to be a vampyre may be purely incidental. What is important is the invitation he gives. The rose represents the multiple layers of a mystery to be discovered. And then there's another way to look at it. The figure in the moonlight is the lost garden-wanderer holding a bloom he at first is not sure is his. Only after a test of deep inhalation can he be sure. Then he wants the mysteries, all of them, and all their layers. Experience alone yields proof.

I am the lost garden-wanderer. This is an aspect of myself, what some traditions call the 'Fylgia', aka 'daimonic self', whose purpose is bringing me back to me. Mysteries awaited me, and I yearned to know more.

May 17, 2003 In the night time hours, a mandala was being born. Element by element, it finally fused into completion by early morning. Immortal mysteries call to me, as they have called to many through out the eons. Whispered Mysteries

June 13, 2003 Friday The Thirteenth excerpts The moon is full, as well, which should be a prime time for magic. I was reading one of 'Uncle Setnakt's articles, on Understanding Darkness. This paragraph is particularily interesting: 2. Look at the stars. Find a grassy hill and look up at the stars on a warm, clear moonless night. Relax and let your mind soar towards the stars. That feeling of falling up into the Abyss of Stars is a predictable part of your natural self. The desire to project your psyche to its utmost limits is one of the forces that drives the Initiate along the Left Hand Path. It is why we choose role models like Set, the first historic example of the rebel against cosmic injustice. My relationship with the stars has long been a mystical one. Since the awakening at age nineteen, when I looked at them and knew there was MORE than just the rational scientific world could explain, I have felt myself kindred. Prior to that, I'd been a student of Ayn Rand's Objectivism, which has much of merit in it regarding the value of the individual self. But Rand denies the Mystery. So then I was on the next phase of my life, and it was there I've spent twenty five years. With my new discoveries, Rand's egoism has been wedded to mysticism, and I'm finding the possibilities endless. But back to the stars. Here is a poem I wrote nearly twenty years ago: Looking at the stars,                     so myriad,       I feel so small. Can it be that one shines for me? Or shall I have to make       my own                    ball of fire And toss it skyward?             JAL, 1984 There I am, questing of projecting my psyche into the 'Abyss of Stars'. Twenty years after writing that poem, I have learned I must indeed 'make my own ball of fire' and thrust it skyward. The answer to my question back then seems like 'a coming home' . . .

A 'coming home', indeed:

The Prism If I am not here, then I am dreaming. Am I dreaming? Time and time again, I return to the same point: Am I mirroring reality or am I creating it? The reflection point, a cast off of all my dreaming, time and time again. Say stop! when you think it's enough. But you won't, will you? You keep probing, you want more. There must be deeper layers, layers beneath layers beneath layers. And this is the reality: Open your eyes to the prism. Shine the light through yourself and see all the pretty colors. Time was, I used to dream like that and now I do again. Time and time again. ''Hello, self!'' We are here again. The point of no return has passed and I am safely home. What will I declare now? THIS IS NOW, THIS IS HERE. THIS IS NOT THE DAY OF THE DREAMING, THIS IS THE DAY OF THE BE-ING. JAL, 6 - 4 - 03

July 31, 2003 Excerpts To cry a scream of pain and not know where it comes from, or knowing where it comes from, scream the louder - thus is the quandary I face. What weakness within would bid me toss my visions away? What weakness and how susceptible am I? The weakness of craving 'respectability' so much that I might dull my vision, hide its results, couch it in apologetic terms, ever hoping for 'people to like me'. This is the ugliness I face. I know this ugly demon. Say what you will of the rest of the pantheon. This is the thing that hisses and looks ugly. Because it is ugly. Anything that would make me toss truth for 'acceptance', this is ugly. And of what susceptability have I to it? Am I still the child, craving my gramma's approval? I know I am at times. I hear the lure of the 'easy' road, the one to which few object. And a certain Rebellious Force whom I dearly love, says ''Why didn't you pick that Other thunder god, Zeus? Or better yet, why didn't you become a Presbyterian?'' And sorrow fills me, for weakness I know it is...

In September, we had a small crisis, as Julia became very ill and bled from her hind end. After seeking the advice of a nurse, I took her to the emergency. In a few days, she was well enough to come home. They advised she get a colonoscopy, which she did in late September.

September 12, 2003 Oh, so sweet is Julia's morning song to Venus. It used to be spoken Latin text, but now she makes a song of it. Every Friday, when she is feeling well, she sings this song in a gentle alto voice. I missed her song last Friday.

I was worried about my dear Julia:

October 5, 2003 For many years I've known the value of what is sometimes called 'automatic writing', in which the writer just takes down the words as they come to her. Now I am learning the value of 'automatic drawing', in which I just let the pen move where it wants. I created two doodles last night which prove reflective of my inner mood. ''Looking Outside, Worried'' ''Sad'' The sad, ready to cry, emotions at the surface portrait is my inner child, who is always close to my emotions. The lady observing out the window is my inner parent, looking for what lies ahead on the horizon. She has cause to be worried, for tomorrow we learn the results of Julia's biopsy. I hope these doodles are only recording my inner worried state. My thoughts also go to Julia's sick mother, who has lung cancer. In any case, this is a new way to record the truth of my inner self, and one which I'll use often.

October 6, 2003 All through out the day, I thought of Julia, wondering what the results would be. I looked at the clock every little bit, to see if it was 3:45pm yet, the time of her appointment and when all would be revealed. I told myself we will stay optimistic, what ever we are told. I read while in the doctor's office the day of her colonoscopy of Lance Armstrong, the bicyclist who won the Tour De France five times after getting cancer. Clearly, it's not an automatic death sentence. While traveling home after dropping the co-worker off, I envisioned what kind of magical spell I could do, should the 'worst' prove true. By the time I arrived at the door of our home, I was feverish with curiousity. I ran through the door, and asked her how it went. Julia began to ramble about the difficulties of getting a cab, how it arrived late and she barely made it to the appointment. I empathised with her long wait in the sun. But finally I had to interrupt her, loudly, ''Tell me what the RESULTS were!'' ''Oh, yes, it's a bit complex . . .'' And then she sat down and told me what she remembered. The colon can have two different types of polyps. One kind will never become cancerous. The other kind has the potential for cancer. Julia has 'the other kind'. The two polyps tested benign, so there is no cancer in her now. But they want to keep an eye on her, as she has an extremely large number of polyps. The two removed were only samples. Also, she does have diverticulosis and internal hemorrhoids. The high fiber diet is essential for her. However, it is nearly impossible for her to get all the fiber she requires via diet alone, thus a supplement like Metamucil will be necessary all her life. BUT SHE DOESN'T HAVE CANCER!!!! I will encourage in every way possible the diet rich in fruits, vegetables, grains and nuts and low in saturated fat. I need it as much as she does. We will do our best to keep cancer and poor circulation away. Since I've been eating more carefully, I've not had any troubling numbness. We have the power, if we are vigilant. So I am encouraged. I am so relieved.

Seeking a solution to the intense sunlight here in the desert southwest, I sent for a hat:

October 19, 2003 In order to assure a properly fitting hat, I had to measure myself. My head is 22 inches (56cm) in circumferance, which is a size 7 1/8, considered 'medium' as head sizes go. On a lark, I measured Julia's head, a perfect 24 inches around (61cm)and a 7 3/4 hat size. One 'foot' equals twelve inches. Yes, she does have a largish head, curiously supported by a neck and shoulders which are narrower than mine. We are all a contradiction of anomalies. You can see her anomaly in the picture of her in the mysterious light in this photo. Anyway, it is funny what Julia said. One 'foot' equals twelve inches, so she made this observation: ''My head is two feet. I travel more with my head than my feet!'' And, indeed, this is true, both of her and I, whose head is two inches short of 'two feet'.

Such rejoicing, indeed!

A Voice, Heard Loudly At Night Voice crying in the wildnerness, who do you think I am? Mad woman quite possessed, who do you think I am? Does it matter? The night time rising of power calls to me, and I hear it. Would a woman sing sweeter at any other hour? Sing, sweet lady of blessing, Di Efchon! We will bless what we wish to thrive, laugh in the face of adversity, we are the mad women now, and 'nothing can stand in our way'. Well, it can, but we will ignore it. Sing loud, our song anyway. Di Efchon! With Blessings, we shout. We are the young ones who will not grow old. Say what we will of 'joints', all such surface, this temple. Look Who resides within! Better carpentry within. Laughing 'mad women' sing in the night. We play the records over and over and sing along. Such rejoicing, if you can follow along. JAL, 11 - 8 - 03 (while listening to Haris Alexiou's 'Blessings')

next section, year 45
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© Joan Ann Lansberry