Lux Ex Tenebris

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candlethe thirteenth of december is the day of lucia, the harbinger of light, with a crown of candles in her hair and blood red silk tied around her waist.

and in the long, dark night that comes before, wicked things come out to play. some say it’s oden and his einhärjar, riding across the freezing sky. more often, since every holiday has been appropriated by the church, it’s lucifer and his cohort. lucifer followed by lucia. darkness followed by the promise of light.

lux. darkness containing the seed of light?

ingen dager synes än – fast än ni tänken så

det är den klara stjärnan som för dagen plägar gå

12

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a dozen years, even –
i learned tonight
that’s how long it takes for love to run out.
spilled milk
i feel like i have no skin
peeled like a sweet potato
that mush you don’t like.
how do i make wings of bone and blood fly
without your ink outlines and paper support?
and all the things i hoped for
and all the things i dreamed of
are all the things you want now
without me
and the thing that burns
the thing that cuts to the core
is after
when we’re talking
and laughing
and there is the man i fell in love with
this is the man i’ve been waiting for
a dozen years, even –
and we could have had this all along
we could have been this
all along

you said once that jack the ripper was our song.
you were wrong. it was the ship song, all along.

Somewhere Else The Tea Is Getting Cold

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i am a devoted disciple of the doctor.

The Doctor, mind. not a doctor. silly and profound, perfectly mixed.

(the three words you really want to hear from a tall dark stranger? i’m the doctor.)

my very favourite of his incarnations is number nine – because he’s the darkest one, i think. the most desperate one. i’ve been thinking of him today.

why? because in his fourth and fifth episode, he fights aliens known as the slitheen, who have disguised themselves as humans in high positions in order to destroy our planet and sell it for scraps. and why was i thinking of that?

because of this: the eu is preparing legislation that will make it illegal to grow crops that are not on a list of “approved” seeds. these “approved” seeds mainly belong to big corporations like monsanto, astrazeneca and bayer. many of these seeds are hybrids, so you cannot get seeds for next year from the crop you grow. it will not only be forbidden to sell seeds that aren’t approved, it will be forbidden to grow them. giving someone seeds or a cutting will become a criminal act. good-bye diversity. hello gmo.

seems pretty damned slitheen to me. and since the doctor, as far as i know, so far hasn’t shown up, i hope that you who read this can take two minutes and sign this petition (and maybe share it!). it’s a small thing, but it can make a big difference.

done? fantastic!

Almost Sick Day

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rainautumn, being the quintessential Temperamental Artist, is in a mood.

rain and wind and branches scratching on the bedroom window. ragged clouds speeding past the waxing moon. kaleidoscope leaves decoupaged onto the pavement. puddles of orange light around every lamppost.

perfect.

grey skies make the leaves even more vibrant in contrast.

 

to stave off a cold you need: two gull feathers and a day to yourself. a blanket nest. a new song on repeat. a book you’ve been looking forward to reading. (feel free to exchange these last two for, say, a doctor who marathon). tea. remedy(i like to call this concoction my cold comfort. because that’s about the level my sense of humour is on).

 

 

 

 

 

The Kind Of September

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fogfaerie mornings, now. mist-silk weaving and tangling through the branches, draping opulently over the grass. tiny droplets caught in spider webs. (they make my hair curl like grass snakes down my back).

cool, but not cold. boots laced, all fourteen holes. in my black bag: the greenest thermos full of tea, minty sweet with linden honey. eggs and apples and cinnamon buns. the thickest woolen blanket. a book i’ve been itching to open.

i’ll know where i’m going when i get there.

the fog is lifting, a bedroom curtain pushed away by lazy aurelian light. the lake is a mirror and the birches drop their gold coins everywhere, spilling over, too many to hold. i follow the henna red of a squirrel tail up a narrower path, climbing roots and mossy rocks until i find it: a perfect clearing, lined with soft green moss and just big enough for my blanket, guarded by towering pines.

i crack my eggs on a stone, and eat them while listening to the knock-knock-knock of a woodpecker and the bickering of the jays. the tea is scalding hot, still, so i set it aside. the book is waiting.

and when i’ve turned the last page, then i sleep and dream, on the moss, in the sun, and trace sowelu on my skin.

picnic(when it’s time to go home, a grass snake comes to say goodbye)

Offering

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korpand so i’ve bled for you,
thought and memory
so i’ve suffered and persevered by choice
through kauna and through ehwaz
every line burned

and so i’ve bled for you,
thought and memory
back and back and back to the roots
to the heart and the beginning
nine days in the tree

and so i’ve bled for you,
thought and memory
you counselors, you harbingers
you wind captains, you sky sentries
you watchers of odin

and so i’ve bled for you,
thought and memory
put a spark to my tinder-thoughts
through kauna and through ehwaz
unlock and unleash

and so i’ve bled for you,
thought and memory
through kauna and through ehwaz
under your black wings
and clear eyes

(re)Turning

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leafso, i disappeared for a while. into summer. into the woods, into the sea, into the stories and the past. into being instead of thinking.

but i’ve found the first turning leaf, and so i re-turn. to me, autumn has always felt like the real start of a new year – clear air, clear mind, new inspiration and new ideas. it came suddenly this year, lazy august pushed out of the way by crisp and cool september. i’ve been wearing a coat two days in a row now, a cardigan and overknee socks.

hello autumn. i missed you.

The Great Hunt

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goldforestin the stories, the mushroom of choice for the fae tends to be a red toadstool, but after serious, in-depth, empirical studies, i’m fairly certain that honour actually belongs to the chanterelle.

i have reached this somewhat unorthodox conclusion after noticing a chanterelle peculiarity – they can (and do!) make themselves invisible. i’m sure if you’ve ever gone chanterelle hunting you know this is true. you go out into the woods, full of bravery and determination, armed with a basket and rubber boots, and you look, and look, and look, but every hint of yellow turns out to be a fallen birch leaf, and you feel like you’re possibly developing mushroom hunter’s squint syndrome, and you sigh a bit and say to yourself maybe it hasn’t rained enough and maybe someone’s already been over this bit and well, at least it’s a marvellous walk!

and then – just when you’re about to give up – then you spot one! and as soon as you’ve carefully pulled it from the moss, you see another, and then suddenly they’re absolutely everywhere.

most especially in places you know you’ve already looked. like, right behind you.

 

it’s magic.

(yes, it works to pretend the giving-up-phase. you have to make it convincing, though.)

gold