Category Archives: Words Words Words

Virtues

So I’ve picked up the latest issue of Alan Moore’s Promethea (number 19 for those who are following it), and wow. Wow not only for the lush Van Gogh artistic tribute, but for the portrayal of this particular stop along the storyline.

Okay, having some sort of background in occult studies made following Promethea’s trip through the Major Arcana possible, and I’ve been trying to wrap my mind around the journey through the sephiroth along the Tree of Life as it progresses. Then last month I read The Witches’ Qabala by Ellen Cannon Reed to prep myself for a lecture on the Qabala, and it was the proverbial shock of recognition — my brain encompassed it all for a moment, then lost it as I saw that I had understood. (Never make the mistake of remarking that you’ve succeeded at something, particularly grasping the truth of the universe.) I proceeded to devour the first third of Self-Initiation Into the Golden Dawn (for the info, not to actually — oh, never mind) and amused my husband by exclaiming frequently in happy discovery and wearing out a highlight and a half. Qabala is like the blueprint for the universe, or a filing system in which every aspect of the universe is organised. It’s nifty.

Anywhats, all this led to another flash of recognition when I opened Promethea #19 (“Fatherland”) which talks all about Chesed, the sphere of greatness, benevolent ruler gods (excellently illustrated in a double-page spread), and the vision of perfect love. Seeing how the Virtue of this sphere is Obedience, the leap at the end into the unknown is just perfect. The next sphere will be the second to last, that of Binah, understanding and intelligence, or form and restriction, but not in a negative sense; more like a container. Binah is the feminine principle to Chesed’s male principle; the passive/negative side to the universe. It will be interesting to see how Moore envisions it.

Interesting Fact

Interesting fact:

“It may be surprising to learn that the potato, a staple crop in many Celtic lands, does in fact come from a family of poisonous plants that includes henbane and deadly nightshade.” (pp.197, Celtic Folklore Cooking – Joanne Asala)

Well, you learn something new every day.

CURRENT READING:
The Eyre Affair, by Jasper Fforde. Working in the cynical and asinine world of publishers and booksellers, I’m not quite sure how this got published. I think the editor must have come across the manuscript, started reading, scratched his head a bit, tried to figure out if this book was (a) a mystery, (b) a comedy, (c) a science fiction novel, (d) a historical, (e) literary criticism, (f) all of the above, or (g) none of the above. Then he probably read a while longer, and at last leapt to his feet and jumped around a bit, then drew up a contract to publish this debut novel of brilliance which defies classification. I recommend it to everyone, especially starving English M.A.s (like yours truly) who will get all the jokes and laugh a lot. It helps, although it isn’t necessary, to be familiar with Francis Bacon, William Shakespeare, William Wordsworth, John Milton, the X-Files, the basics of temporal mechanics, and how a basic sense of humour functions. A knowledge of twentieth century history is actually a hindrance. If you like Connie Willis, you’ll enjoy Fforde too. (And if you don’t know if you like Connie Willis, go look up Passage, or The Doomsday Book, or any one of her numerous award-winning novellas and short stories. If you want the humourous taste of Fforde, though, check out Willis’ Bellwether or To Say Nothing of the Dog.)

Ever Onward

Fourth show down, two to go!

We were sold out last night, standing room only – and people were willing to pay for the standing room. We began fifteen minutes late as the Front of House crew were still trying to find seats for people at eight o’clock! As nice as it is to have a complete audience, it makes it difficult for the singers on stage: a full house soaks up sound, causing it to seem as if you aren’t projecting, as you cannot hear your voice bouncing back. As a result, all of our soprano soloists thought they weren’t pushing enough and had to keep reining themselves in from forcing their voices. Our first act ran 75 minutes long; usually we clock in at just under an hour. That may not sound like a lot to you, but when a well-rehearsed show can be clocked down to the minute, it’s an eternity!

I had an interesting conversation backstage last night with two young ladies who through circuitous conversational coincidences ended up wanting to know more about where I worked, and what witchcraft was all about. There were four other ladies listening covertly. Well, part of my personal mission is to educate, after all! The Pagan Poster Girl strikes again…

CURRENT READING:
Well, I’m book-less again, actually; I read Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland last night, a lovely collection of thematic stories revolving around a painting by Vermeer. I intend to begin Jasper Fforde’s The Eyre Affair tonight. The subtitle describes it as “An Out-Of-This World Tornado of Adventure and Imagination Featuring the Feistiest Literary Detective Ever To Hit The Page”. Her name? Thursday Next. (I kid thee not.) It looks hilarious, and combines two of my favourite themes, time-travel and literary archaeology. After that’s done, I’ll finally read Perdido Street Station by China Mieville; borrowed it from a friend after she met him at the World Fantasy Convention here in Montreal last November. Updates as events warrant.

Bits

Just a quick note today; I’ve been up to my freshly-auburned head in stuff to do. Thank goodness the show’s over next week! I also learned at orchestra last night that there’s no rehearsal next Wednesday, as it’s March break and the high school we rehearse in will be closed. As much as I adore orchestra, it’s an attractive concept: every night off for one full week. Glorious!

I missed two weeks of orchestra due to one of my trademark migraines the first week and then the Vinyl Cafe show the next, so I haven’t touched my cello in three weeks. I’m rather proud of how well I did. I sight-read L’Arlesienne Suite by Bizet (ugh – mostly tenor clef) and Schubert’s Fourth Symphony, (“The Tragic” – in E flat again, sigh). I dreaded going while I was at work all day, but I enjoyed myself immensely when I got there. I have to keep reminding myself that I joined the chamber orchestra to make sure that I played at least once a week. I feel simultaneously impressed with how I keep up and ashamed of myself: if I can hold my own (barely, but I do) with little to no practice outside rehearsal, how good would I be if I practiced for at least an hour a day like I used to?

If I had my druthers, I’d read a lot, write a lot, and play my cello at least three hours a day. I’d also sit in the park. Now, if I could just get someone to pay me for doing all of that so my moggies could be kept in the style to which they have become accustomed (i.e., in kibble), I’d have it made!

Olympic Pride

The Olympics are done and over, and we�re coming home with a record seventeen medals, coming in fourth overall. That�s quite the haul! Of course, the sweetest medals were our two hockey golds, and the gold awarded belatedly to Sale and Pelletier; but every medal is sweet.

What�s not so sweet is the destruction visited on public and private property in the wake of the men�s hockey victory. As we were driving home last night we passed several cars with Canadian flags waving madly through the windows, bearers thrilled that our car sports a Canadian flag license plate in front. We passed people on foot with painted faces and flags as well. In our own living room window, my husband had already hung our huge Canadian flag in celebration. There�s nothing like citizens deliriously happy that their country has won a major victory on the field of honour.

That was in NDG, however. In downtown Montreal, the fans poured from sports bars and clubs, rioted, hijacked a city bus, stopped traffic in the centre of town, and generally made nuisances of themselves. I have never been able to understand why a significant hockey victory is the siren call of idiocy and destruction. Particularly in this case where every Canadian was proud to have stuck it to the Americans, who we�ve always considered slightly less cultured (come on, deep inside you think it too). A pity that the next act was to display boorishness, lack of respect, and vulgarity.

And what�s with the high of 4 degrees C today? It’s still February!

Meh

As the morose tone of the last couple of posts has probably indicated, I’m in an anti-social phase. I had a dear friend’s baby shower to go to today which I was dreading a bit; I don’t fit in very well at all-female events. Anyway, it was just fine; turns out half the people there were hockey fans and we had the TV on watching the Canadians whup them American asses but good in the Olympic men’s hockey final while she opened her gifts. We even sang the national anthem and got all choked up when the flags were raised. I got a terrific photo (on someone else’s camera, alas) of the expecting mother opening a sweet card, surrounded by cheering women with their arms flung up into the air, half out of their seats.

My husband did the Trading Spaces test; he’s Genevieve. This surprises me not at all. Go run barefoot in a field, darling.