Vacation Lessons

When I fly, I like to pull tarot cards for myself. Usually this results in cards that are about travel. This time around the tarot suggested that I be more mindful in setting up habits around how I use my time.  The three-card-pull was a capstone of little observations I stumbled upon while away from home, work, and the Internet.

My friends, who are only a year or three older than I am, are not exactly elderly, but they are in the early stages of being old.  This is better than being old like my parents, but still, as the saying goes, “We’re not exactly spring chickens any more.”  I have also fallen out of good fitness habits, and was in better shape this time last year than I am now.  If I want to be spry in thirty years, I need to be actively spry and limber now (glares the the joints of his toes).

The systems of air travel in the US are brutal to the under-privileged, the foreign, and the elderly.  To navigate in the world one needs a good credit card, a modern cell phone, mental acuity, and good English language skills.  And guess what, air travel is simply a simple manifestation of a much larger system of privilege.  I imagine that I’ll need to stay on top of how the world works as I age.

I spend far too much time on social media, and far too little time playing the harp, reading tarot cards, exercising, learning Middle Kingdom hieroglyphs, or writing, and various “adulting” jobs like meal preparation, laundry, and general maintenance.  I suppose this means actively scheduling time.  Given my inclination to relax and recharge after work, I should probably limit my social media to a half-hour or so in the afternoon.

I can survive on just one sixteen ounce cup of tea per morning.  This feeds into the decision to aim for seven-and-half hours of sleep.  This means both going to bed a little bit earlier and getting up a little bit earlier.  It also means I should more aggressively reclaim lost bed geography from the dog.

If I had to select which Tarot card symbolizes reclaiming lost bed geography from the dog, I’m pretty sure it would be the Nine of Wands, with the Seven of Wands reversed for those nights when she sprawls her body athwart the bed and crushes my knees and feet into each other.

Lunistice and Summer Solistice

Last Thursday was the solstice, so I suggested that we hike up Spencer Butte and watch the not-quite-full moon rise before the sun set. In a different world, Mark and I would meet our gay pagan coven at the top for high ritual drumming and dancing; however in this world it was just us, lemon-honey-ginger tea, and macaroons. And my camera. And hippie-lite Eugene.

I may or may not have intoned intentionally trite couplets with poor meter while making vaguely mystical passes with my upraised hands and a spacey look on my face. Mark may or may not have said sarcastically, “that’s so hot.”

Spencer Butte is a Eugene City park. It’s not too much of a climb, but it is a good indicator of how in shape one is. We took the easy route up, mostly because I’ve sprained my wrist and I didn’t want to slip scrambling up the steeper side of the butte and re-injure myself.

The parking lot was full-ish, but we found a parking stall. The number of folks were evenly split between jogging attire, hiking attire, and hippie attire. As we hiked up the path, several scantily clad men wearing chunky jewelry descended; so I’m guessing we must have missed any Gay Pagan Men’s ritual at the butte’s peak.

We walked among the cedars on the east side of the butte in twilight, but the growing Earth-shadows had not yet become one night. In some corner of my mind, Suzanne Vega’s “Night Vision” played. There’s arched stone causeway which lends itself to one of us shouting “Smooching Bridge!” which is followed by smooching.

It was around 8:15 when we achieved the peak and daylight. The climb wasn’t too bad, but I will admit that the stairs at the end were challenging.

A group of loud folks coalesced at the end of the trail. Four vultures perched on a snag near by, and I took some photos of them. One by one they launched themselves into an updraft rising on the northwest side of the butte.

The old fire spotting station site freed up, and we managed to snag a seat on the flat triangle of concrete at the butte’s highest point. A stranger and his dog, Rico, joined us to get away from the jabbering crowd.

The haze to the east surprised us. Mark thought it was pollution stirred up by the 85F plus temperature. If you squinted, you could make out the Three Sisters. The sun was still about a handspan above Fern Ridge Reservoir on the western horizon.

The shadow of Spencer Butte stretched away from us, and I realized that it would be pointing in the general direction of moonrise. I had forgotten that the moon was at its lunistice, so it rose to the right of the butte’s shadow, about as far south as possible for it to rise. At first, you couldn’t see the moon as it rose just a little north of Mount June: its white dome blended in with the eastern haze. Slowly it inched upward until it broke away and hung over Mount June’s peak.

We turned around. The setting sun reflected off of Fern Ridge Reservoir, turning the western horizon into molten red gold.

We at the macaroons; they were a mélange of artificial flavors and aftertastes. We drank the tea, which was supposed to be summery and fiery; I liked it, Mark thought it was too sweet, but it did wash out the synthetic taste of the macaroons.

I took photos, pausing every now and then to appreciate what was going on directly. In a different time, I might have been drumming; in a different time, I might have chanted “Isis / Astarte / …” ; or walked a spiral lit with candles ignited with flame from the sun’s rays.

But just before the sun set, we started down the butte, descending into the twilight trees and not lingering at any potential smooching sites so as not to be caught in the parking lot in full night.

Our car joined the caravan of other cars heading back to Eugene. As Blanca Paloma sang AEAE (“…may they bury me on the moon / so that I might see you every day / every day but one…”) I spied a heart shape at the wooded side of the road: a three-point deer with its antlers arcing over its head.

Shiftless Youth

Lately, the alley near our house has become a popular hang-out for an octet of shiftless charter-school kids to take a noisy off-campus lunch. Aside from their litter, it would be more tolerable if they weren’t so loud and crude. Unfortunately, the fence they like to congregate at seems to reflect their conversations our way. 

Luckily, we’re not adjacent to the alley, so it’s not so intrusive (or late-night) than it was at our old rental near the fairgrounds—still, one can resort to pretending one is narrating an episode of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom only so many times.

While I do have some fantasies about high altitude ballistic water balloons, perhaps purchasing a few more loud wind chimes is in order as an antidote to their scintillating congress. I believe I’m obligated to come out in slippers and a plaid bathrobe and shout, “Hey, you kids…!”

I much prefer the Lycanthropic Tea-Time Ritual Children. Even if they do interrupt my afternoon writing, they have a more elevated (if shrieked) vocabulary.

New Books from Powell's

About a month ago, I went to Portland for DrupalCon, a convention focused on Drupal, the open source platform for many of the web servers where I work. I picked up some technical information, had a few “aha” moments (and a couple of “grr” ones) over how things are done at work, and it was a good chance to network with coworkers in other departments.

During one of my free evenings, I managed to shop at Powell’s Books. I haven’t been to Powell’s in over five years, at least. When I was at Reed, we would have occasional pilgrimages to Powell’s Books; the place seemed larger and more labyrinthine then. We used to just wander through the stacks any which way, and it seemed like there was always hidden treasure on every shelf. This time around I felt a little rushed and presented with more dross. Maybe I’ve gotten more picky.

I purchased a large bag full of mostly science fiction and fantasy, two books on "Magickal Mixology", and two books about medieval cathedrals (research!). Alas, when I got back, I discovered that one of the cathedral books had been cut up a bit by a scapbooking monster previous to selling the book to Powell’s. The fiction books were fine; I managed to pick up “The Calculating Stars,” by Mary Robinette Kowal, which I’ve enjoyed; the cozy “Legends and Lattes” books, which were refreshingly light; a recent-ish anthology of Valdemar short stories, which were diverting; a collection of David Sederis essays, which I haven’t gotten though yet, and some other books in the to-be-read pile. So far the only book I have’t been enchanted with is an anthology of short stories loosely based on Oregon folklore, which was a staff pick, so I’m giving it more of a chance, although it seems to be less “folklore” and more “campfire gothic.”

It’s nice to be reading fiction again—or rather, it’s nice to be reading things that are a bit more current than “Magic’s Pawn,” “War for the Oaks,” “Foundation,” or “Talking to Dragons.” Which I love; but I suspect one reason my writing sounds like it’s from the 1980’s is that I default to older books and stories that are comfortable when I’m not reading more modern works.

Slow Saturday

Man, I am low-energy/tired today.  I'm not sure if it is pollen, or rain and overcast skies, or what.  Instead of writing, I really want to take a nap.

The other day Mark opined that I have a lot of books that I don't like and that buying the books is giving money to folks who produce them will only encourage them to write more books that I don't like.  This was after I mentioned that it was easier to get through some of Dion Fortune's more turgid prose in the Mystical Qabalah if one read it in a Monty Python accent.

I thought about it some, and concluded that possibly Mark was expressing a desire to hear more about what I found useful, interesting, or entertaining about books read over the last year.  

On the Neopagan front, I am looking for rigorous books written by a more priestly Ronald Hutton, or a more scholarly Starhawk, who is writing for a general audience generally, and who might address a cis-gay-male audience specifically (if only because I am a cis-gay-male).  Recent books I have read have been more folk-magic/lucky-charms focused than focused on Ritual High Magick as it pertains to a Platonic just life.  Insert the speech about diversion, superstition, and habit countered by goals of celebration, communion, and transformation here.  

On the fiction front, I've been rereading old favorites more than new releases.  For fiction, I suppose I'm looking for the next Ursula Le Guin: she was able to write about social issues with a skillful use of language that rewarded the reader instead of exhausting or depressing the reader (or at least me).  I'm thinking perhaps science fiction and fantasy is still recovering from grim-dark dystopia works (and hasn't been helped by COVID and world politics).

...And now, time to nap.

Writing and Beltane

I've just finished a short story manuscript and I'm taking a quick break.  I will give the manuscript a rest and see if I like the ending more in a day or two.  The story is in fourteen sections and is about 5500 words.  If I can knock off 1000 or 2000 words, that would get it closer to the sweet spot of 4000 words for short stories.  

Tomorrow is May First, which makes it calendrical Beltane.  Since it's a Wednesday, I think we'll wait a few days to when the sun is half-way between the equinox and the solstice to celebrate.  Besides, it will probably be raining.  Even if Mark won't countenance a bonfire, we can light a bunch of candles in our fire place.

Onto the back-log of unfinished and stalled manuscripts!

Review of “Psychic Witch”

“Psychic Witch,” by Mat Auryn is an introductory book of “meditation, magick, & manifestation” with a folk magic emphasis. It contains magical theory and accompanying exercises to help a magical practitioner learn foundational techniques and build up from them.  While not especially original, it is accessible to the solitary practitioner new to concentration, meditation, and visualization.

“Psychic Witch” is not a book about starting or working within a group or coven.  There are references to Wicca, other Neopaganisms, and ceremonial magick, but the author’s witchcraft is more centered on solitary trance work and folk magic.  While the author identifies as a gay man, the subject matter is aimed at a general audience (sorry, no Sex Rituals of Gay Pagan Men here; this isn't a work by Storm Faerywolf). 

Books like “Psychic Witch” are often compared to Dion Fortune’s “Mystical Qabbalah,” which is grounded in early 20th century British magical theory and colonialism, or Starhawk’s early works, which are grounded in Goddess-centered alternatives to the patriarchy (and Ronald Reagan).   My impression of “Psychic Witch” is that it is an introductory text drawing mostly from later Neopagan (and New Age) authors, such as Raven Silverwolf and Christopher Penczak.

The book’s chapters have a web article feel.  Some chants and spells have awkward scansion; but not as egregious as other recent Llewellyn books I’ve read, and at least there’s an attempt at more complex meter.  I’m sorry to say that the binding of the softbound Llewellyn edition I purchased was of poor quality and the book began shedding pages after five days of a first reading. 

The opening chapters introduce the reader to Auryn’s cosmology. He makes a distinction between psychics who perceive spiritual energy (e.g. through clairvoyance) from the higher self, witches who affect subtle energy (e.g. through casting a spell) via the lower self, and psychic witches who do both (this implies mundanes do neither).  There’s a few passages which hand-wave about “discernment” and “energy,” with statements about reality being energy and subtle energy being information. There is also some light review of brainwaves and the pineal gland which make the science fiction writer within me wince.  The end thesis is the pineal gland is a psychic Witch Eye which is a key organ for working with and powering magical operations—this is a more focused version of the theory that the chakras are magical energy centers centered over or connected with various endocrine system glands.

Auryn writes, “Magick is the manipulation of subtle energies in a specific manner to influence a desired result.” Although it’s a modern rewording of “actions performed within the astral plane have their effects upon the material plane,” it seems more physics-justified than Aleister Crowley’s definition, “Magick is the Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with Will;” Dion Fortune’s, “Magic is the art of causing changes to occur in consciousness, in conformity with will;” or Starhawk’s combination of “Magic is the art of changing consciousness at will,” and “A spell is a symbolic act done in an altered state of consciousness, in order to cause a desired change.”  

While there are some other science and technology references to “downloading (spiritual/psychic) information” elsewhere, for the most part this feels less an attempt to give his system a science pedigree and more an attempt to offer physical, physiological, or cognitive behavioral explanations for why meditation and concentration are foundation skills to build upon.  My only critique of using Science Says arguments is that Auryn writes that the subtle energies used in magick cannot be physically measured—which means Science can say nothing about them.  Dion Fortune gets around studying the unmeasurable by making a distinction between natural science and occult science.  To his merit, Auryn doesn’t use the words quantum or entanglement; although he does use the word fractal in some explainations.

Early chapters focus on various mediation, concentration, affirmation, and visualization techniques. These are used to perform standard grounding and centering exercises from the Western European twentieth century magical tradition.  Extrasensory perception is explored with suggestions for seeing auras or hearing spirit allies.   Standard purification and shielding techniques are built on top of the development of subtle perception.  

Auryn introduces the concept of the triple souls in chapter 6.  Drawing from the Irish poem, “The Cauldron of Poesy,” he builds an integrated world and body view.  A person has a Higher, Middle, and Lower Self; these in turn are connected to a corresponding Higher, Middle, and Lower (or Under-) Realm.  The selves and realms form the underpinning of an introductory text on standard 20th century reincarnation belief.  This belief is that the higher self in the higher realm (possibly the astral plane), connects with a lower self (your shadow self or “Sticky self”) from the underworld (with references to Jung, the collective unconscious, “earth energy”, and ancestral memory), to create a temporary physical body, the middle self.  

Subsequent chapters explore the lower and higher selves with an aim to connecting with and making conscious the shadow or id elements of the lower self, and with connecting with the true or divine will of the higher self.  The ultimate goal is to bring the views of the lower, middle, and higher self into aligned focus and achieve a powerful altered state of conscious. In this exalted state a psychic witch can perform (healing) spells. Auryn pauses a moment to extol readers to act from a place of service and  (Starhawkian) power-with instead of power-over. 

Chapter ten explores the creation of sacred space, or the magic circle.  Chapter eleven introduces the five Platonic elements earth, water, fire, air, and spirt/ether (which Auryn calls “quintessence”).  Chapters twelve and thirteen revisit the realms in terms of subtle (unrecordable) energy, and launch into simple astrological meanings of classical planets—the Sun through Saturn.   After an introduction to one’s body’s aura, chapter fourteen assembles the concepts of the previous chapters into a technique for mediation/spell casting which starts with a foundation of the physical and works to bring successive selves, bodies, and realms into focus on the same goal.  

Chapter fifteen is a series of spells or “magic tricks.”  This chapter comes close to “Prosperity Check” territory.  While there isn’t a Spell To Get a Parking Spot, there is a “Money Magnet Multiplier” spell which involves drawing the glyph for Jupiter onto a dollar bill during a waxing moon (repeatedly, if necessary).  I suppose that this isn’t all that different from complicated sixteenth century spells to summon beings of extraordinary knowledge and ask them, not what the true nature of solar fire (nuclear fusion) is, but rather where the nearest buried treasure lies—or even standard prayers for protection, health, love, and prosperity.  While elsewhere Auryn mentions the practical aspect of spells needing the witch to work toward desired results (e.g. hitting the pavement and handing out resumes in addition to staring at a green candle for money), the wheedling charms in this concluding chapter leans toward the more superstitious and self-serving end of folk magic.

As an introductory text, Psychic Witch is a wide-ranging guide for secular-leaning, solitary practitioners new to spell-casting and folk magic (as opposed to, say, someone on the path of a priest or priestess of a Gardnerian Wiccan coven). Its strength is that it starts with basic foundational techniques and instructs the reader to practice, practice, practice.

Spring Iris

The irises are flowering out front.  They get more sunlight than the irises in the back.  I love the way that they smell, which too me has deep base notes with a touch of sweetness.  Writing this, I think iris and carnation would go well together. 

Agates, Seals, and Florence

We went to Muriel O. Ponsler Beach again to escape rising pollen levels and to search for agates.  This is the time of year when the pollen levels start to rise; the trees are very active right now, and I'm not looking forward to when the grasses start up—after an hour of typing outside, my laptop, keyboard, and mouse have a dusty yellow coating.  It's good for Mark to get out of the pollen and it's also good for him to get out of the house and into nature.

Mark is a natural early riser.  I pulled myself out of bed at 5 AM and we managed to leave the house a little before 6, just after sunrise.  By pre-arrangement, Mark drove, and I napped a little.  

I must have misread the tide tables, because at a quarter 'til 8 the tide was much, much higher than I thought it would have been.  "You be sure to keep an eye on the ocean," Mark warned.  "Don't think I didn't see you last month, standing on a rock, surrounded by water, with a funny look on your face."  (Reader, I was in no danger of inundation, and the retreating flow of the ocean around the rock formed a natural deposit of agates and stones of interesting nature.)

When we got to the beach, there were only three or so other folks there, so we could let Aoife off leash while we threw her ball for her and hunted for agates.  Sometimes she'll drop her ball on top of an agate, at least for Mark, but this time around we stumbled over two really large ones on our own.

Afterward, Mark wanted to go to the Strawbery Hill park and look for seals.  I was hoping that I'd be able to photograph them, but they were mostly in the water.  The tide and foam and my far-sightedness made it difficult to zoom in on them with my camera.  It was easier to get images of cormorants.  I was hoping that I might catch a pelican or two, but they were too far out to get a good likeness. 

We were in Florence by noon, where we walked along the streets and docks.  Florence is a very dog-friendly town, which I hadn't realized until then.  That said, Aoife was very leery about going down one ramp. They've made an effort to have interesting art along the paths—an icosahedron caught my eye; I thought it was welded metal, but I think it something else.  

We grabbed a light snack from a dock chowder stand, but the combination of Three Aggressive Dogs (snarling and lunging), hot noon-time sun, and a busy dock wasn't the best for the dog (she didn't like it when a boat bumped into the dock next to us), so we ate quickly.  

The nice thing about leaving for the coast at dawn is that one can spend a sufficient amount of time enjoying it and still get home by mid-afternoon.

Oregon's Partial Solar Eclipse

Today I managed to site today’s total solar eclipse.  Oregon was outside the path of totality, and Eugene only got about 23.5% sun coverage.  I thought this eclipse would be a little like last year’s, which was not very visible through the clouds, but the morning was relatively sunny before the eclipse, so I readied my colander, camera, and tripod with high (or at least higher) hopes.

I set up my portable work desk on the back deck and set things up.  I put a solar filter over the lens of my camera.  Back in the summer when I bought it, I had a notion that I’d fly east to be in the path of totality.  But by the time I got my act together in mid-January and sat down to actually purchase a ticket, they were prohibitively expensive.  The filter allows me to get a close-up of the sun’s disk, complete with sunspots. 

When the eclipse started, there was a light haze.  As the eclipse progressed over the next hour or so, the clouds became thicker.  This presented a bit of a challenge, as I had to keep adjusting the exposure time to compensate for changes in the sun’s luminosity.  When the cloud cover thickened,  I used a longer exposure time; when I used a longer exposure time, the camera was more likely to pick up the scattered light from the clouds.  Also, I’m also thinking the filter messed up the sharpness of focus—although I sometimes have difficulty dialing in sharpness of the moon’s features when I’ve extended the lens barrel out all the way.

Between shots I took a look at the sun through some eclipse glasses.  I also tried to get a good image of the eclipse through the holes of a colander; I think it would have worked better with more of the sun covered by the moon and less covered by the haze and clouds.  

This eclipse was fun, and I remember the eclipse of Friday, August 5, 2017.   That eclipse was a party with eggs, bacon, and mimosas.  This eclipse was juggled between a kind of early lunch, and various Day Jobbe tasks.   The previous eclipse was a family event; this year it was just me (Mark went into work), the dog, and the cats (Aoife did lunge into the camera tripod near the end to harass squirrels).   The effects of the eclipse were muted by the clouds, and we weren’t in the path of totality, so there were no amber alerts, shadow bands, or roosting birds.

Shortly after maximum coverage, the clouds thickened and hid most of the rest of the eclipse. I did get a few shots in at the end when the sky cleared some.  Of course, as soon as the eclipse was complete, the clouds cleared up and the sky was a deep, clear blue.

Still, it was better than last year’s annular eclipse.  

I wound up taking about 200 photos. It’s safe to say that not all 200 were stunning eclipse shots, but they do show the process.  I chose about sixteen that seemed the best (or at least the most interesting).

Agates, Crossbills, and the Oregon Coast

Over the weekend we went to the coast.  It seemed to me that it had been a while since we had left the house, although Mark reminded me that we had entertained some friends the week before.  I guess last week's craziness with car keys and some not-quite-awake-yet bus rides have skewed my memory of successful ventures from the house.

Aoife came with us.  We managed to actually leave before dawn and thus reached the Muriel O. Ponsler Beach about 8:30.  This meant that there were virtually no other dogs there, and we could let Aoife be off-leash (there were also no birds or marine life, either).  I had brought my camera, but was only slightly tempted to take Yet Another WPA Concrete Bridge In The Mist shot.  

High tide was about two hours before our arrival, so we hunted for agates.  The weekend was sunny and clear, calm, and warm for a March Oregon Coast day: 65F. The day before had been a high surf advisory; the waves when we were there seemed normal, although a little erratic. 

Mark is very good at finding all sorts of interesting and unusual rocks in the surf.  This time around there was a lot of large, plain basalt; bright red jasper; banded rocks; quartz; and small-to-medium-sized agates.  Mark did find a mouse-sized agate.  At first I only found jasper, but later on I hung out at the end of a peninsula of basalt where the retreating tide would tumble all sorts of rocks and my agate count went up.

I'd forgotten the Chuck-It. Mark and I had to take turns throwing a ball for Aoife. For about two hours.

Afterward, we went north to Depot Bay in the hope of seeing migrating whales.  But we saw neither whales, nor pelicans, nor seal lions, nor coastal eagles.  We did see some Crossbills, which we didn't know were Crossbills until we got home and zoomed in on photos I took and saw their crossed beaks (used to extract seeds from pine cones).  In addition to wild fauna, I got some photos of Aoife as an "Irish Pit Bull."  

Pre-Lockdown Throwback

 

Huh. Four years ago today I shared a joke photo with my co-workers showing a supposed toilet paper roll made out of unmatched socks.  

It seems like a lifetime ago.

Conjunctions and a Rough Week

I should start out this post stating how much of a pain switching from standard time to daylight savings time has been this year.  Even though I've (mostly) gone to bed between 9 PM and 10 PM, I've pretty much been bedridden until 7 AM all week.  I've also been tired, cranky, depressed, and filled with ennui, which Mark is blaming on the time change. It could also be other things, like new moon, and the Very Grey Weather we've had since about the 8th.

Thursday morning, I'd actually managed to haul myself out of bed at 5:50 AM, shower, hard boil eggs, get dressed, and pack for a day of working remotely in Corvallis.  As I reached into the closet for the car keys at 6:30, I saw that the nail I usually hang them from had fallen out and the keys were nowhere in sight.  I felt around the To Go Bag on the closet floor and found the nail, but no keys.  I moved shoes and bags out of the closet.  I got a flashlight and looked around the closet.  

Mark got in on the search.  There was a discussion of alternate places the keys might be, even though they should be living on their nail.  I went through all of the jackets and coats I had worn in the last week.  I checked under a table.  Mark looked behind the boot bench. I went through my day pack. The tracking device on the key wasn't showing up on either of our phones, and there was speculation that battery was dead. Mark went through the battery basket. I looked under the couch. Mark checked under an entryway chair. I looked under the kitchen table. I emptied out my day pack. I took a flashlight, because the flashlight can help me to consciously look at things instead of glossing over them, and shone it under the TV, and by the computer monitor, and under the couch again, and into the closet, and under the front door's lamp.  I took off the couch cover and looked under the couch cushions. Mark looked under the computer desk. I took off the cushions under the Stickly Chair.  Mark swept under the rolling cabinet of wicker baskets.   I looked in the mail basket, and the winter glove basket, and the dog toy basket. I looked at the guest room desk. Mark went through my day pack.  I wandered around the living room, checking the mantle for the third time.  After about forty minutes of turning the house upside down and still not finding the key, I cancelled the trip to Corvallis and remote-worked from home.

That evening, the search continued.  I went into the guest room to tear apart the bed.  I picked up my day pack, and saw the car keys, sitting just below the zipper along the top of the main compartment.  Mercury isn't retrograde, but I'm blaming other supernatural forces for hiding the keys.  Mark suggested that I get a hammer and pound the nail back into the closet wall.  Which I did. A lot.

The skies have cleared up around the 13th, just in time for a conjunction of the Moon with Jupiter, and then a very close pass of the Moon by the Pleiades the next day.  "I thought you said they were going to be next to each other," Mark said Thursday night.  

"Well, I thought they were," I said.  "I guess Earthsky led me on.  They're still about as close as they're going to be on this pass."

The next night the Moon was right next to the Pleiades, and I was lucky enough to get some images of them during twilight, when the sky was still bright enough to even out the washing-out effect of an almost-quarter moon.  "I thought you said you could see the Moon next to the Pleiades," Mark said when the sky was much darker.

"Well," I said, "it is.  If you put your thumb over the Moon, you can see the Pleiades right over it."  Mark likes to be a contrarian when I say that the Moon is next to Jupiter, and Thursday night we had a loud conversation on the deck about how apparently close planets and stars are to each other, how I think it's neat when celestial objects are in conjunction (because it looks cool and doesn't happen every day), and how Mark thinks this is like religion.  I suppose on one level it is like religion, in that photographing the sky makes me feel like I'm participating in something larger than myself.

The best thing about the conjunction was that I realized that since we're close enough to the Spring Equinox for me to easily compute the sun's and moon's position on my Portable Stonehenge, I could mark the Pleiades position on the Holes, which, unsurprisingly, is near Aldebaran's position.  So I did.

Graphics and Dreams

The other week I finished up an interweave pattern using the 9-6-9 star pattern from last month.  It refreshing to work with stars using a pattern other than a ten-fold one.  I held back on my urge to use strongly contrasting colors and managed to come up with a combination that's energetic, but not spastic.  

On the dream front I've been having unpleasant dreams over the last week that have me examining issues of trust, duty, authority, power, and artifice.  I'm not quite sure what children damaging a wooden play structure with dried out lion's fingers means, but I'm pretty sure that the army of assassin-geishas has something to do with my ambiguous feelings toward drag queens.  At the very least, I suppose that it generates some interesting exchanges with ChatGPT. 

Writing Progress

Mark has taken a look at my latest manuscript and he agrees with the folks who gave me feedback: it's boring because the stakes aren't high and there's a lot of dialog.  

Sigh.  This is what happens when I focus on cool ideas and world-building.  Back to the drawing board.  I suppose that it counts as writing practice.   

Slightly related, I rearranged the paperbacks in my library. I did find a few duplicates and also some hardbacks that I very likely will never read again.  Dislodged from the paperbacks were the old blank notebooks I've been filling since 1995.  There's fewer than one would think, as it usually takes me about three years to fill one completely.  They're interesting as a record of story ideas or of questions I was working through, but I think I would have to index them or at least put their dates on their spines for them to be useful.