Set's name may mean 'pillar'. It may mean 'dazzling'. It may, through some complex interlacing of Egyptian punnery, mean both. And that may also mean 'CHECK OUT MY PENIS IT IS AMAZING'.
kiya: (hethert)
( Jun. 21st, 2013 04:01 pm)
Wanted to keep this bit of impromptu something:

We welcome you, Hetharu-Sekhmet
Eye of the sun
Mistress of the seven arrows
Mother of the open way.
That tree which borders on the realm of dream
And brings forth every twilight’s day as fruit,
The gate through which the generations stream,
Star-crowned and with life’s waters in its root,
Its wooden womb the cradle of the dead:
A hornéd lady takes it as her keep,
Her golden cat’s eyes off’ring joy and dread,
Her hair the blue-washed black of heaven’s deeps.
She carries a long wand spiraled with vines,
She wears her robes in green and gold and white,
Her voice intoxicates like ancient wines,
About her is a touch of summer light.
And from her branches she will pluck a sun
Within which seven blessings have been spun.
This one for Geb:

I fell from heaven,
My love,
And now can only reach and wish -
My every oak tree striving for her depths
My every mountain aching to stroke her starry skin
Each skyscraper and termite mound rising up
With the force of my desire.
I fell from heaven and lie spent
Surrounded by her luminous darkness.

Stashed here so I can keep track of it in the long run, more or less.

Aside from that: I did something godawful to my shoulder, which is just. Fucking. Fantastic. I hate taking painkillers; I took a full dose of Tylenol (I typically take a half dose) and thus am down to "only moderate pain" rather than "someone is trying to pry off my collarbone with a knife", and thus may be able to sleep. Maybe.

I wish I had the slightest idea what I did. I was sitting on the couch nursing KJ, and then I was in wailing agony, with no transition I could discern. And for once the pain wasn't that she was overnursing and my nipples were bruised. :P

Tomorrow's goal: find a sling for the arm, since supporting the weight of my own fucking arm causes agony.
kiya: (original sin)
( Jul. 22nd, 2009 12:03 am)
I want to write theology. I want to have it all spilling out, all the glorious shape of it, all the things about the way I approach things, if only so there's a school of thought out there that says it so people can argue with it, something out there that has something coherent and systematic and looking at the whole thing. And I don't know how the fuck I'd get it published if I wrote it - it's not magical enough to toss at Immanion, I think - but I want it like it's spilling out my pores. Only I don't know where to start. What's the beginning? I have all these pieces, these shapes of things, the explanation behind this ritual, the exploration of this concept, nature of names, nature of souls, the three faces of chaos, the gods in the universe, people in the universe, all these things, but what's the first thread? Where do I try to tell people to start? (Zep Tepi, always Zep Tepi, but.)

I want my foot to stop hurting. Some of the swelling from the pregnancy seems to have - at our best guess - separated the callus on part of my right heel from the rest of the skin, which produces sudden-scream levels of pain when manipulated incorrectly.

I want ... food to look like food again. Everything is as appealing and foodlike as grass, which is profoundly frustrating. I snack, mostly because I know I ought to input caloric stuff, but it's ... sort of desultory.

I want to not have to be up at ungodly in the morning to go interview a pediatrician. At least I get to go back to bed afters.
Today has been a ludicrously good day.

I staggered off in a state of moderate undersleptness and middling nausea to [ profile] anu3bis and [ profile] balsamicdragon's place for purposes of mask making; [ profile] teinedreugan dropped me off then went to his gaming group.

After a while of chatting, [ profile] anu3bis brought out his extra face, and explained the first steps. After we got the face prepped, he left me to work, and I started construction.
Here are some visual references for what I was doing.

I was there for nine and a half hours. Six or seven of that were spent sculpting.

I feel fucking fantastic. The mask base is essentially done, needing cleanup.

I haven't done proper sculpture work for far too long.

Oh, so good.

(Dua Khnemu! Dua Bes!)
kiya: (ma'at)
( May. 3rd, 2009 06:05 pm)
Mother of the manifest
Womb of the dead
Arched starry vault of heaven
Whose water jar
Holds cleansing
And oblivion
Swallow up the sun!
In your belly
Is making and unmaking
And grandfather dawn is born
Bloody and fragrant
Between your thighs.

(Some work has an interesting effect on my Egyptiana.)
kiya: (snakie)
( May. 29th, 2008 04:29 pm)
I am slowly converting my yard.

Last year I planted phlox and lilies around the great boulder in the backyard. And the phlox came up twice as big this year, as phlox will do.

I sowed clover and wildflowers over the weak, frail, and water-devouring lawn.

I took the stones I dug out of the yard last year planting phlox and grapes and hyssop and started the base of a spiral with them, laying out the line with the charcoal from last year's Beltaine fire, and built that up with more stone from lover and friends, and laid in stone and earth and now it's an herb spiral, filled up with parsley and basil and sage and other good things, good dirt coiled with life and flavor. I have talked with the neighbor who seems mildly disapproving of my wild, wild yard but who loves her strawberry pot (and it is a lovely strawberry pot), and with the grizzled fellow next door who was trying to figure out what the heck I was building with all those rocks, but who thought the water-draining permaculture trick of the spiral was clever.

And the spiral's a little uneven, and so when I have my studio I will perhaps make an icon of Nefertem to sit in its belly, Nefertem who loves the flowering and the scented growing things.

I've encouraged the grapevines back towards their trellis, and tucked in some morning glories, and accidentally sat on one of the hyssop plants there, but it seems recovering.

I weeded out the right-hand planting box, and have mint and mint and mint to give to friends tonight. I have planted heirloom tomatoes where that was. I have decided not to transplant the spreading strawberries, because they already have fruit, and I would rather the fruit than the space; the leeks can go in the other box when I clean that out.

I have planted two raspberry bushes between the boulder and the herb spiral, in amongst the violets.

I have leeks yet to plant, and sacred tobacco, and need chives and chamomile to round out the spiral, and will have to get the beans and snap peas for the other box. And I should plant catnip, to entrance Fox and encourage away the mosquitoes.

I need a garden icon. And to photograph the spiral.

... I'll swap the music. Not the Stan Rogers I was listening to at the time I wrote this, but!
kiya: (cult of ecstasy)
( Feb. 13th, 2008 02:06 am)
And now more seriously.

So when the therapist sees the linework on the tattoo, her first comment is 'What do snakes mean to you?' )

    Shed your skin
    Cast off your chains
    Feel the sun upon your face for once
    And wash away the pain
    Shed your skin
    Be who you are
    Unencumbered by the weight
    Of hiding every little scar

-- Assemblage 23, "Skin"
The problem with getting altar kipple for Hetharu is that She and I appear to have near-identical senses of aesthetics, leaving me with the critical problem, "Do I just want this shiny thing and consider its use as an offering dish an excuse to get it, or does She fancy it?"

I decided it didn't matter. Because I failed my save versus craft fair in Harvard Square today, because of this woman's work. Scored: one small blue glass dish with a claw-strike of purple-rainbow rippling its surface. (Never forget the lion.)

(Then I went to Beadworks, on the principle that making the menat I've been tasked with will be much less of a financial strain if I get a string or three of beads when I happen to be near a bead store over time. Alas.)

It has been a highly shiny sort of evening. Also acquired: chocolate mousies for my father's wife, as a reasonably harmless small thing to acknowledge relationship with someone I barely know.

Then I went to tai chi and had a lesson full of, "Wow, cannot brain today; I have the dumb."
kiya: (ma'at)
( Aug. 12th, 2007 02:30 am)
I saw my first meteor tonight, the first time I've been completely confident that the streak of light across the curved belly of the lady of the heavens was a piece of falling sky.

I blogged today about visibility and making a difference to the world, in part; poking a sharp stick at visibility, only the loud being heard, stereotypes, talking. A friend talked to me in response about writing to change the world in little subtle bits, and I was dubious; that depends on it being read, that depends on people noticing what's there. It's not a large noise.

I checked my bookmarks of who's linking to me just now, and found a post from today titled "Gratitude", thanking me among others for my writing, for talking about the kink, for building a space where one more person can feel normal.

The meteor flared across the sky in a flicker of brilliant whiteness, stirring the glittering adornments of Her body, and I wrapped myself in the heavens and was at home.
Curse you, archaeowiki, for having extensive bibliography notes.

Curse you, interesting academic books, for being either not readily findable or four hundred dollars each.
kiya: (lightweaver)
( Jun. 26th, 2007 03:10 am)
Doing a bit of tidying in the living room caused me to come across a little green silk scarf that I bought when I was in the UK with [ profile] erispope in 2000.

A fancy struck me, and I adorned my Serqet statue with it, draping it across Her spread arms and letting a loop of it curl behind Her back. And this struck me with a wave of having been the Correct Thing, one of those sudden fleeting instants of perfect ecstasy, so I raised my arms in a dua, and bowed, and that swept it into one of those grandiose performer's bows, but I was lost in the music while I did it ...

There's a vibrancy to the statue now, and She is there, in green and gold.

Dua Serqet; dua Hetharu.
kiya: (mama)
( Apr. 24th, 2007 04:39 pm)
At the last training retreat for my studies with [ profile] yezida, I commented that my experience of the apprenticeship program was like carving a farm out of New England: a year of learning the lay of the land, building the house, clearing out a few of the big issues, and then a year of going, "My gods, another rock" as one tries to dig, or plow, or clear out what the frost brought up.

The "rocks in my head" metaphor kept going for many of the people who commented after me.

So today I went and dug holes. I have a pair of grapevines that I got a few years ago, which have lived in a half-barrel type bucket which has now rotted out the bottom. I wanted to put them in the ground somewhere I intended to stay for a while, somewhere they had space to grow.

There's something about claiming the space, treating here as a place to be for a while, that's really potent, really powerful; it's something I tried to write about in my article for RTV, the magical act of treating the place as the right place. Not sure I got it out right, but that's so where my head is these days, with reality and domesticity.

So I dug holes. And pulled out rock after rock after rock -- round ones, big flat ones, things that ground up white against the tip of the shovel. Got a little stack of rocks now.

And vines in the ground. One of which has definite new growth, one of which appears to have buds. I had been worried about them making it through the weird, weird winter.

Vines in the ground, and a little heap of rocks.
kiya: (snakie)
( Oct. 31st, 2006 03:54 pm)
This is loosely related to a bunch of stuff, and partially riffing off [ profile] yezida's "Cooking Up Possibility" ritual from the Powers Below portion of Evolutionary Witchcraft. Working this way feels very much getting down into my roots; my craft identification is far more "kitchen witch" than anything else, and this is the sort of working that makes deep, visceral sense to me.

And I have no earthly idea how it will come out.

Recipe and thoughtprocess: Liminal Autumn Stew )
Last night sometime I developed the strange conviction that Someone wanted some whiskey on the house shrine. I even had a pretty good guess Who that would be. So when I got up I poured a couple of shots of Irish whiskey into a glass and set it on the offering spot on the shrine.

After a while, it occurred to me that I should probably burn some fraction of it, but I currently lack a convenient place to fling whiskey for incineration.

A little later, it occurred to me that I could pour it into the oil diffuser and at least make a reasonable attempt.

And then I topped it up. )
Cut for introspective rambling. )
I've been intermittently cranky in the 'I need to do more stuff' way for a while, which has been sort of aggravating. I checked the stoop to see if the parcel [ profile] wordweaverlynn was sending me had arrived -- it hasn't, I'm suspecting the Post Office ate it -- and saw a big box, which would be the cabinet I ordered. House shrine
So I spent the afternoon putting it together, which included calling [ profile] teinedreugan and asking him where the drill/screwdriver was and intermittent commentary to people on IRC. (I opened the initial box after I got it inside, and it was full of parts and a smaller box marked, "Do not open with sharp object!" Okay then.) Then I set up the small shrine. This is sort of the skeleton draft of it -- the potpourri bowl will be replaced with an oil diffuser when I have a good oil diffuser; I want a more active scenting process in Bast's honor. (Eventually, there will be icons, but that is the longer road.) There was some aggravation when I determined (after cleaning up the fountain and making sure it worked after its period of disuse) that the best plug for plugging it into did not provide power. We make do. The fountain is soothing, damnit.
Today I'm thinking that it takes guts to go out and be beautiful in public.

It's much safer to keep the beauty tucked away in the private nooks, only bringing it out to show a few trusted people, if anyone is allowed to see it at all. It's easy to lose it, forget it, misplace it in the corners of the mind.

When I dare to be beautiful, I am exposed: my reality is presented where others might see it, and those others might dismiss it, ignore it, miss it entirely. If I never show it, it can never be rejected.

But there is abundance, there is bounty; this is not a universe of scarcity. I cannot afford to be a miser and hoard away precious things in solitude; I learn to show beauty in private places, to safe people who will not treat it with contempt. I grow, I step forward, I allow myself to be beautiful in moments, in little instants, fleeting eyeblinks. Perhaps someday I will have the guts to be beautiful all the time.

And then I will shake my tail and fill the seven heavens with my thunder.
Lack of supervision totals:

  • Beatles matryoshka
  • Psychedelic plaid polar fleece blankets
  • A roll of nice cloth that I don't know what to do with (I'll probably do an altar piece with it) that was in the remnants
  • red velvet shirt as before mentioned
  • another shirt, which should be similarly appreciated by Certain People, as approved by [ profile] rmjwell
  • Strange plant matter
  • a copy of Yronwoode's hoodoo magica materia

I did not get a corset (budget issues; I have their card and my measurements); I did not get a Ganesha plaque (it sold before I got back with money; I did go to lunch in between); I did not get a small Taweret figurine (more on this weird state of mind later).

Other matters -- personal, slightly angstful )

PantheaCon itself )


kiya: (Default)


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