Squee!   3 comments

Dears, I just have to share this moment of bliss. I got the edited copy of my manuscript back from Cat and Mouse Press, and the judge’s comment was at the bottom.

‘Judge’s Comment

Funnily enough, “A Beach Story” was the first story I picked out of my magnificent stack of short stories to be judged for this contest. I was delighted when what started out as a sickly sweet, slightly off-kilter description of a child’s time at the beach quickly became something entirely different, and far more sinister. The author’s careful use of tone and pointed use of monotony conjured, for me, a sort of daze that transformed into a chilling piece of indelible horror when I least expected it. I think it took a lot of guts to write a macabre story like this one—to be unafraid to take the idea of a “beach dream” and force readers to watch as it slowly shifts into a nightmare.’

I am over the moon!

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Posted August 10, 2019 by suzmuse in Uncategorized

The Cosmos — Void — Night — Radiance   Leave a comment

this is kaye’s work, omg, so very beautiful!

khairete

suz

via The Cosmos — Void — Night — Radiance

Posted July 27, 2019 by suzmuse in Uncategorized

In the cave of Trophonios   Leave a comment

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my cherry trees have been tired for a few years now, their yield less and less. the whole 19 years we’ve been here, they’ve only given enough to pick every other year. last year they gave me enough for a pie that no one ate, and a gallon bag in the freezer for smoothies. so i was shocked this year to see both of them covered in bright red drops. you’ve got to move quickly when it happens. the birds and deer move in within a day of the mass ripening, not to mention the wasps.

so out i went in the sunshine, toting my biggest bowl, the ladder, a portable speaker and my phone. while i picked and danced and sang along to motown, the clouds mounded and darkened in the south and west.

a spear of lightning split the sky to the south, right over sara’s pasture on the other side of the lane it seemed. a huge crack of thunder shook the branches immediately afterwards. i stared up, mesmerized, as the dark blue and charcoal clouds heaved like sea lions above the sycamores. weirdly, though, no wind.

i’m kinda stupid about thunderstorms. i figure if Zeus apotheosizes me that way, what an epic way to go. so i stood in the eerie stillness, rocked by rumbles and crashes and flashes.

i could hear the rain coming. a huge, ominous hissing, right over there behind the trees lining the lane. any second it was going to hammer me, and i’d have to run for it, trying to protect my poor phone and the bose speaker.

i waited. and waited. i could hear it. it was so close.

after a few minutes i decided to take advantage of the lull, and put the ladder in the barn. then i took the phone and speaker in. finally i carried in my big bowl of cherries. then i came back out and stood in the windless orchard, listening to that monstrous hissing and waiting for the rain to pelt me.

eventually the hissing stopped. a great light opened to the northeast. shafts of sunlight started to poke through.

so, okay, no cave. no dreams. and nothing from which i needed to be healed other than the natural results of age and careless living.

but once upon a time, someone seeking knowledge or healing or prophetic dreams might descend into a cave. it seems to have worked surprisingly often. but sometimes all they’d get was a terror so profound it wiped their memories. those who recovered mentioned the God coming to them in the form of a giant snake, preceded by a huge hissing.

i wonder if that’s what they heard, lying in the cave, waiting for the approach of the God.

khairete

suz

Posted June 3, 2019 by suzmuse in Uncategorized

The Oresteia   1 comment

The Oresteia 18-19

just got back from the Shakespeare Theater Company’s production of The Oresteia in D.C. i saw the billboards when i was in the city with my lovely beth last month for a Tarot show but when i checked and saw the ticket prices i sniffled and let it go.

but the ol’ man got us tickets for my birthday, so we went to the matinee today, followed by a dinner that couldn’t be beat at a new italian restaurant on the way home.

i didn’t know what to expect, as ‘freely adapted from aeschylus’ could mean anything from a modernization to muppets. so i was stunned to walk in and see a traditional nearly bare stage with only a skene building. i knew we were off to a good start.

the aeschylus trilogy would have taken all day to perform along with its satyr play, so i was curious to see how much would have to be cut to make it fit into 2 hours. the answer is ‘an awful lot.’ but somehow they managed to not only get the main points in, but to ping all the required nerve endings- pity, terror, catharsis.

the updated language worked very well. the ol’ man isn’t familiar with the story, so it helped to follow the story NOT having to try and unpack an archaic translation. klytemnestra was magnificent, gorgeous, eloquent and creepy. agamemnon was appropriately conflicted and tortured. humor was used to great effect. they included the iphigenia story, fortunately, since although it wasn’t in the original, the whole thing doesn’t make sense to a modern audience without it. she and agamemnon both showed up as silent, bloody ghosts to great effect.

i think the strongest thing in the play, apart from klytemnestra, was the use of the chorus. they were brilliant and effective. i was kind of hoping for black rustling wings and heaving, muttering Erinyes, but the servants acting both as the audience mirror and later as the jurors was surprisingly moving. no Apollon or Athena in the final trial, but the writer, producer and cast still brought the audience to a gripping, stirring cathartic conclusion.

the only character i didn’t quite buy into was cassandra, and that may be because i couldn’t hear her clearly. yes, i need hearing aids.

you just can’t beat live theater.

khairete

suz

Posted June 2, 2019 by suzmuse in Uncategorized

Early summer, late Thargelion   1 comment

Stood tonight in the middle of a maelstrom of fireflies, backlit by lightning and drummed by thunder.

Io Zeus! Io Demeter!

Hye Kye!

Khairete

Suz

Posted May 27, 2019 by suzmuse in Uncategorized

Bermuda Bev   Leave a comment

My best childhood friend died a week ago. We hadn’t been close in a long time- she had just become too crazy and I couldn’t figure out a way to break through it. One of her neighbors found her. Don’t know what she died from, but she hadn’t been taking good care of herself.

My initial reaction, when her daughter Christy messaged me with the news, was simply heartbreak for Christy. Bev and I had only chatted a few times in the last 10 years, mostly on FB messenger because I refused to take her calls any more.

Sounds ghastly, doesn’t it? I’m not the most kind or empathetic person at the best of times. I know Bev felt deserted by me. I guess she was.

I’m not suffering from any major remorse over it. She had become impossible to talk to or reason with, and I’ve belatedly learned to create boundaries and have good shields, and I use ’em. I’m glad there are people in the world with huge hearts and boundless goodwill and no limits. I’m just not one of ’em.

But from the ages of 10 through our late teens, and to a lesser degree through our young womanhood and mothering years, we were besties. She wasn’t my only bestie, but when I was a kid she was one of my absolute closest. We ended our letters (those are snail mail missives written by hand, in cursive, that people used to use to stay in touch before the inTraWebz, kids) with LYLAS, our own acronym for Love Ya Like A Sis.

And I did. Adoringly. She was the smarter, prettier, savvier, cockier, braver, crazier, sassier, big sister I never had. We were the same age, but she always seemed so very far ahead of me in everything.

When I was 10 I FINALLY wheedled my parents into getting me riding lessons. At my very first one, as I walked up and down the aisle between the stalls, almost peeing myself with excitement as I waited for my pony (Jomby Jay, a fat little Shetland, I remember every minute of my first lesson on him) I met a skinny girl with curly brown hair and huge bright blue eyes. She took me in hand, visiting each stall, and told me every horse’s name. Then she quizzed me on the names, and ran me through them again and again until I got it right. She took me into the stall of a big draft horse named Whitey, who stepped on her bare foot. Her lips turned white as she shoved the huge mare off her, but she didn’t cry, even as her foot turned dark blue.

That was the start.

We rode at Warwick Riding School together for the whole 5 years until I moved to the states. Most of the kids who rode there had money. Bev and I were the poor kids. When we accumulated enough miles in the saddle we got to be ‘helpers’, volunteers who worked like galley slaves for the privilege one free lesson, and, if we were lucky, the chance to be leading file in a lesson or bring up the rear on a tourist trail ride. I wasn’t aware that there was discrimination against poor kids in a rich society. I just figured Bev and I didn’t get treated like the other kids cuz we were bitchy- and we were. Snotty and rebellious and as rude as we dared to be, which, I have to add, in an English colonial territory, is awfully mild compared to the startling rudeness of American kids today.

But it was also cuz we were poor.

Here we are in the collecting ring at Vesey Street. I’m on my favorite Cloud 9, Bev’s on Rufus. Neither of ’em were particularly popular or talented ponies, but we loved them.

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I went to the Bermuda High School for Girls, a private Christian school that we could never have afforded if my Dad didn’t get a differential for working in a furrin land. Bev went to Dellwood. I don’t know if it’s still there, but it was ‘that’ school. The scary school. Kids got in FIGHTS there. Sometimes it was Bev. No one in the hushed ivied halls of BHS would dare do such a thing- maybe a slap or a hair pull. But we walked in single file on the left hand side of the hallways in silence, with no makeup or jewelry, our uniform skirts a decorous length above our knees.

Bev lived in Sun Valley, Warwick, a five minute walk from Long Bay on the South Shore, one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. Tiny Nol-Hil cottage was jewelbox packed with treasures, including a foot tall statue of a horse covered in glossy black real horsehair, which I adored uncritically, never considering the grim reality it represented. Bev’s dad Nolan was a handsome, charismatic charmer. Hilda, aka The Dragon Lady, was tiny termagant with tall coiffed hair, hard little brown eyes and a harsh voice. I was terrified of her at first, but came to love her. And over time I saw how she, Bev and Bev’s older sister, Judy, worked to keep Nolan cheerful. He was never less than warm and kind to me, but he was one of the very few people who could incite real terror in Beverley. When all was well she was his Boo Boo, but if he bellowed ‘BeverLEY!’ she would squeak ‘Yes, Daddy!’ in a meek tone I never heard her use with a single other human.

It wasn’t until I was quite a bit older that I saw the twinkle in the Dragon Lady’s eyes and saw the fierce relentless protectiveness and love she had for her girls- and that included me.

My mother died shortly after Bev and I met. I wouldn’t say that Ms. Lewis became a surrogate mother, but she mothered me some nonetheless. Before a horse show, if we spent the night at my house, we set an alarm, got up, fixed our own cereal or toast, and walked in the pre-dawn darkness to the bus stop on our own ( Bermuda in the early 70s it was ridiculouly safe. I had no fear roaming the islands day or night.) But if we stayed at Bev’s, we were awakened by the Dragon Lady shaking our shoulders, and got up shivering to a hot breakfast and tea, which we didn’t want but got chivvied relentlessly into eating. Our riding clothes got checked and lint-brushed, our boots polished, our hair  braided tightly, and we were driven to the riding school and sent off with a tirade of admonitions to behave our goddamn selves. It was awesome.

I remember sitting in the Dragon Lady’s kitchen on a trip back home; Bev and I were in our 20s. Bev had been working as a photographer for the Royal Gazette (Bev did a little bit of everything, and everything she did she was REALLY good at) and sometimes as a model. She showed me a photo of herself that was really fantastic. I said, ‘Wow, look Ms. Lewis, she was beautiful!’

Hilda’s head whipped around like a hunting dog on the scent, her little dark eyes flashing fire. ‘What do you mean WAS?’ she cracked out. ‘She IS beautiful.’ As I stammered and dithered and tried to fix it, she cut her eyes at me in utter disdain and plugged another cigarette into a long holder, glaring at me through the smoke.

I have a picture of her somewhere- I wish I could find it to post here. She is sunning herself in her postage-stamp-sized back yard, fabulous legs bare and tanned, a scarf covering her dark hair, movie star sunglasses, a cold drink sweating drops of condensation on the table next to her and that cigarette holder held with casual elegance in one hand. What a star.

Bev was better than me at just about everything. She was a crack rider, a talent she passed on to Christy. She could ride anything on four legs and had no fear. She didn’t teach me to ride, but she reinforced everything the instructors taught me in her own way- grooming, braiding manes, picking hoofs, cleaning tack, vaulting onto our long-suffering ponies from a dead run, going down the jumping lane sitting backwards (she did the last a lot more often than I.)

When we got older that translated into showing me how walk right (she declared my short little waddly strides ‘hideous’), taking long strides ‘like a boy’ and jumped on me pitilessly if she caught me looking down instead up and ahead. How to slow dance. Smoke cigarettes. Smoke pot (hard to come by, hard to smoke and mostly ineffective.) Talk tough. Roll my eyes the right way. Put on mascara (lots.) Walk in platform shoes- I didn’t own any but she taught me in hers. Ride a Mobylette. Shoplift. Dear gods, she had some light fingers. I didn’t ever actually steal stuff with her, but went through untold agonies if I was with her when she did. (My life of crime, shortlived as it was, began after I moved to Laurel MD so I can’t blame it on her.) She talked me into stuffing half an ounce of pot into my underwear on one of our trips back to Bermuda, scoffing at my abject terror and plaintive squeaks that I didn’t want to. If I’d have got caught I’d have had my dream of moving back to Bermuda come true, as a guest of Her Majesty’s Prison and for a long, long time. I don’t know the laws there now, but back then they had no sense of humor about it.

Here she is with one of her Really Good Boyfriends, Alan Mayne. He adored her. I love this pic of them because it shows her in a rare soft mood.

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Bev loved the boys and the boys loved her. How I envied her that. The ease with which she teased and joshed and flirted with them baffled and astonished me. I think she kind of liked my awkwardness. Sometimes she’d nudge a cast-off in my direction. With any boy I liked, she’d imply that they’d expressed interest in her. Sometimes she’d outright say it. I implicitly believed everything she said back then. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure she shaded the truth, at the very least, when it suited her.

And I was super easy to influence. Most of the time I think Bev genuinely used her powers for good. She loved me, and when things were swimming along well, she wanted me to be happy and she tried to help me be less awkward and weird so that I’d be happier. But there’s no doubt that sometimes she didn’t.

If I was down or heartbroken or disappointed or angry, no one was more in my corner. She’d pick me up, dust me off, stiffen my spine, make me laugh, threaten my enemies. She was an amazing cheerleader.

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By the same token, if I were wildly excited, super proud of myself, over the moon about a boy I liked showing interest, or (most of all) if someone praised me in front of her, she made it her mission to prick my balloon. We were at the governor’s stables with Hobby, and he hugged me and said, ‘Why can’t you be more like this one, Boo? Just be a little sweet sometimes.’ She rolled her eyes and said, ‘You can have ‘sweet.’ I’m not sweet, I’m all fire.’

I assiduously worked from that moment on to suppress any iota of sweet and tried to cultivate fire. Fire was SO much more cool than sweet.

This was my Bev. Tough, and too cool for school.

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When I was hyperventilating that Vile Wayne (the first in a long line of Bad Boyfriends- even though he was never actually my boyfriend) had casually inquired if I would be at the beach that night, she tossed off that he’d asked her too and told her to wear that sexy halter top.

When we were 18 or 19 she came out to stay with me and my roomies in Laurel. During a breakup with Bad Boyfriend Asshole Joe, I was hurt that she not only continued to hang out with him, she actually spent the night at his place. She insisted that she slept on the floor in his room, he refused to discuss it at all, my roommates were appalled at my naivete. To this day I still have a hard time thinking she’d sleep with someone I was so hung up on, but he loved to sleep with my girlfriends. She might just have.

She was here at the farm when I brought my pony Bojangles home. I was going very slow and easy with him, jollying him along, letting him take things in his own time. Impatient with me standing at the door of his stall and waiting for him to approach me, she marched in and haltered him, announcing loudly (to him, not me), ‘I don’t faff about with all this touchy-feely stuff, mate. You know where you stand with me. When I’m here, we get things done and you don’t have to worry about who’s in charge.’

Maybe she was right. Horsemanship has many nuances. But I didn’t like it, any more than I did when she decided that she was going to teach Nik to neck rein, even though I told her I never needed Nik to neck rein and didn’t want to confuse her. ‘It will make her more versatile,’ said she, and even though I was a grownass woman by then, the lifelong patterns asserted themselves and for the rest of that week, when she rode Nik she crisscrossed the reins. Nik never neckreined again in her life, but it’s true that she also didn’t seem particularly confused by the whole thing.

It was on that visit that I realized that the old patterns weren’t working for me any more. We were planting flowers in my herb garden, and Bev, who had worked as a landscaper for a while, informed me I was doing it wrong- it had to be tall to short, and colors grouped. I dusted off my hands and told her that I don’t plan my gardens that way (to my organized husband’s sorrow), I pick up a plant and ask it where it wants to go, and plant it there. It ends up disorganized and chaotic, and, to my mind, utterly charming. My old friend told me I was wrong, and where to plant the next row of zinnias. Her jaw actually dropped when I ignored her and continued to do it my way.

Was I right to do it? I think so. I found my own voice around 40, and I’ve never really looked back. But I can’t blame Bev for not coming with me on a paradigm that had worked for us, more or less, for almost 3 decades at that point. We stayed friends, but I can trace the beginning of the schism from that visit.

Well, there were earlier signs too. Bev brought Christy to visit when Christy and Brian were around 9 or 10. Brian was as bedazzled by blonde, beautiful, confident Christy as I had been by meeting her mom at close to the same age. Christy had (has) ADD, one of the early kids to be diagnosed, and when on her Ritalin was charming, and when it wore off, a pistol. Her mom doted on her with a fierce blindness that startled me by reminding me of the Dragon Lady. Bev would fuck her off and no mistake, but if I stepped in to intervene when Christy teased little Dylan it was thundercloud time. Yet there was plenty of criticism for my boys, who I felt dealt with a stark double standard remarkably well for their ages. It was a difficult visit on many levels.

I don’t know what it was like for those who were closer to her, but things unraveled from my end a few years after Bev’s divorce from Chick. I heard wild stories about her stealing his truck and burying it entirely in a sand dune, headlines gleaming through the pink coral sand. When I went to visit her, she wouldn’t talk to me or look at me until I got on my bike to leave. Then she’d act surprised, all charm again. There were wild rants of anger at random things and people. Stories kept changing.

She called me a couple of times after that trip in 2009, but the phone calls were so incoherent and rambling that I can’t actually call them conversations. They were just monologues of insanity. l wrote to her after one, trying to find my brilliant, funny, articulate, opinionated friend. She wrote back, angry and hurt. I couldn’t think of anything to do after that. So I just distanced myself.

The last few times I heard from her were sad. In one conversation she asked me if I would take her dogs, as she was living somewhere not safe and her neighbors were threatening to poison her dogs and rape her daughter. I have no idea how true any of it was, but the anguish was real enough. Ultimately, I think it was more of a cry for connection than anything else. When I offered to help re-home the dogs, she didn’t really want to send them away. So I just made commiserating noises and worried. In our final conversation, on FB messenger, she was manic with excitement, planning to bring Christy over to see the Blue Angels in Annapolis and have a girlie vacation. Unfortunately, the Blue Angels and Annapolis are too far for me to reasonably visit, so I tried to make suggestions about helping her find a hotel, and transportation, and figuring out when in this jaunt they could come stay with us. What didn’t seem to factor in was that Christy had just had a baby, and new moms tend to not want to leave their new babies. Bev’s thought was that Christy would have to go back to work soon and needed a ‘break’, but I’m not at all sure Christy was on board, because she was silent through most of the exchange. When the plans kept getting bigger and more complex, I finally bowed out.

When I messaged Christy to apologize for not being able to work it out, she typed back the four saddest words I’ve ever read. ‘Mother needs to sleep,’ I don’t know the backstory, but underlying that brief response I heard echoes of a long haul coping with a beloved and increasingly erratic mom.

I don’t really know who she was at the end. There had been years of vaguely specified legal troubles that might require her to leave Bermuda for good, plans to live with a friend in New Jersey, losing the house she bought after the divorce, cycling through jobs and periods of unemployment. Bev had been a heavy equipment operator, a truck driver, a vet tech, a landscaper, a photographer, and a bunch of small jobs in the hospitality industry (huge in Bermuda) and occasional paid gigs doing horse stuff. It’s hard to imagine her not being tops at anything she did, but I don’t think she was toward the end. It had been a long long time since I’d seen her at her radiant best.

But when I remember her, that’s not the Bev I’m going to remember. I’m going to remember the exciting Bad Girl who talked me into sneaking out, throwing rocks at the school windows from the old railroad tracks, stealing navel oranges from the farmer near the riding school, snitching ponies out of the paddock late at night and taking them for bareback halter gallops along the tracks (poor hardworking ponies). I’m going to remember us making French fries in my parents’ kitchen and watering down the ketchup so it would be like ‘restaurant ketchup’. Telling scary stories under the covers at sleepovers (the one thing we both agreed I was best at was storytelling.) Playing with her little dog Fluffy in the front yard of Nol-Hil Cottage. Getting ponies ‘on feed’ and spending a blissful week each Bermuda summer pretending they were ours. Playing horses in the Arboretum. Walking to White’s grocery store at midday on our riding school days to buy red cream soda, burgers and bbq chips. Spending a summer working aboard the catamaran Moriah serving drinks and helping tourists with masks and flippers for tips. Lying together on the beach under the star-studded sky and dreaming of what we’d do with our lives. Talking about horses. Talking about boys. Writing down the lyrics to songs we loved (you kids with the internet will never know the struggle- you should have seen how we mangled ‘Come and Get Your Love’ by Redbone before GoG came out and enlightened me.) Getting the local radio station to dedicate love songs to our crushes. Eating loquats warm from the sun, picked from ponyback.

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LYLAS, Bev.

 

 

Posted May 19, 2019 by suzmuse in Uncategorized

Anthesteria ’19   2 comments

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Anthesteria, it’s not to get too invested in how I think it will go. So this year was interesting in both what is proving over the years to be consistent, and what veers into completely unexpected directions.

One thing that’s been eerily consistent over the years is the weather. (And now that I’m saying it aloud, it will almost certainly shift- the old witch admonition to Remain Silent exists for a reason.) The first day, Pithogia, is usually fresh and spring-like and exciting. Winter returns on Khoes, and Khutroi plummets into snow or polar vortex temps or other uncomfortable meteoroligical phenomena. And that proved true this year.

Pithogia started off gorgeous, sunny and mild with cool sweet spring-y breezes. But it clouded up quickly and stayed gray all day. At least it didn’t rain. I did my farm chores, bounced out to the Inn for a tarot client, and came home to the heart-shaped (although not spurting) meatloaf for our belated Valentine’s dinner. After we ate I set up a really, really beautiful altar- Linganore peach wine, a white candle and white and red flowers for Pithogia, 19 Crimes ‘Banished’ (for Orestes) with a red candle and pinkish/greenish roses for Khoes, and Dark Horse pinot noir with a purple candle and dark purple irises for Khutroi.

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There were also gold tapers, fresh grapes, statues and bling.

Shrouded all the shrines but Dio’s (Hestia was ambiguous but ended up covered), cleaned the hearth and selected the incenses. Opened the ritual with some pretty heavy duty cleansing in addition to the standard stuff, and read a hymn by Lykeia from Written in Wine. Later I took a pretty plate of food out to Dio and his dryad under the eerie clouds, which had thinned just enough to let the almost-full moon gleam through. While I was out there with Him, the wind shifted to the north and the temp dropped significantly. It blew across the open mouth of wine bottle, making ghost sounds. I felt spirits I’ve never encountered before in addition to the restless dead of Dionysos, the Mothers and Others and familiar nature spirits. What passed between us all is for my private notes, but I was surprised that after Her strong presence last year, Persephone was as quiet as….. well, the grave.

Later I traced and cut out my Swinging Girls.

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Khoes was spectacular, brilliant sunshine followed by a brilliant moon-drenched night. But brrrrr, so cold! It was a very pleasant day all round, really, but a strong undercurrent of miasma ran through it, as it did on Pithogia. The moon accompanied me on the drive to PA to visit some of my favorite kids, ghostly and enormous in the electric blue sky, then dramatic as I drove home through the sunset and purple dusk.

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I’m not an artistic person. Coloring my Erigone girls isn’t a process I particularly enjoy. This year, as the last several, I really wanted to just print them off the internet and be done with it. But there’s something so intimate and necessary in actually making them, adding eye color and features and sashes and buttons. I might freehand them next year instead of tracing, which is a PITA, but the dynamic poses once they’re hanging from the tree are so heartbreakingly evocative, not sure my freehand skills will be sufficient.

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Orestes didn’t actually come through (I remember one Khoes spending a lot of time shooting the shit with him under the stars on my deck) but the feeling of his role in the festival did. The role of the girls as pharmakoi, together with the silence of the night’s ritual, has given me some deep ponderings to ponder going forward.

Hestia had a surprising amount to say to me.

Khutroi was a dark, difficult day. I had a feeling this was coming (my Imbolc with Gabs gave me some heads-up that I have Things to Go Through between now and Ostara) but it was still unpleasant. I combined the dregs of all three wine bottles and carried it to the pond to perform my first Hydrophoria, which I’ll probably keep going forward. I didn’t make a panspermia this year, something HAD to give, so instead I offered the departing dead a nicely dressed plate of regular food. By the time I banished the keres it was after midnight and I was wrung out like an old sponge.

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But I was gifted with a precious, precious message from my Mom, which made all the pain, difficulty and discomfort of this particular Anthesteria all worthwhile.

When the rubber meets the road, I trust Dionysos with all of it. It’s not always fun, but it’s always Good.

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I’m glad there’s a week to breathe and regroup before the Lesser Eleusinian Mysteries start next week. The Anthesteria usually wring me out, but more so than ever before this year.

 

Posted February 20, 2019 by suzmuse in Uncategorized