qedavathegrey:

Shout out to Julia Child for this one.✌🏽

@lunedelaclaire it’s Gratin De Pommes De Terre Et Saucisson, or ‘potato and sausage casserole.’ I, however, used mixed potatoes (I love the purple ones, they make me smile), smoked green-chile sausage, carmelized shallots and pepper jack (in place of Swiss). It was delicious, I might add, though I still think it could have used a bit more spice. Next time I will cook the shallots with a serrano or two!

Edit: for interested parties, you can watch Julia herself make it on this episode of The French Chef!

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Shout out to Julia Child for this one.✌🏽

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Another new guy, feat. A Window to the Void™️ and a Potted Plant.

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‘Naming’ the Unnamed

Some months ago I discussed the Unnamed, describing them/it as “the limitless, amorphous divinity
yet at the edge of consciousness and memory. Not the forgotten gods, but those
who are ‘unborn,’ whose names have yet been spoken” (Micromanifesto #1). Expanding
on this notion, the Unnamed is that
or those which reside at the furthest reaches of knowing. To speak in metaphor,
one might conceive of a circle (or perhaps a cone, should one desire to situate
the expansion of knowledge across time). This circle, then, is representative
of the Known, cordoning itself against the vast Unknown just beyond its
tentative curves. Should one press to the edges of the known, they will find these
same liminal boughs through which divinity—through which the Unknown—permeates:
this is the site of creation, the realm of epiphany where art, where magic,
where invention takes shape, mingling with the fluid contents of knowledge. This
corpus of knowledge lends shape to the amorphous unknown, it speaks in form, in
symbol, in personality and association. In this way, that which is created is
reflective: the mind molds, even if the modes are unconscious. To create is to
do so through a lens, beauty is beholden to culture, thought to experience. By
understanding this, one is apt to be more reflexive, but even still cannot shed
bias in its entirety and when drawing from the Unnamed it is important to keep this is mind.

In “creating” (I prefer the term “identifying”) spirits,
one inextricably leaves one’s impression, but the goal is to mediate influence:
the Unnamed is a living (if not in
the conventional sense) medium, comprised of forms which possess their own
character. In identifying these forms, one should never seek to impose, but to negotiate.
We are apes with limited perceptive capabilities (additionally, in the West, we
place the visual above all else), and as such limit the Unnamed’s expression. This is unavoidable, a bias inescapable, and
so it is fine in that it must be. Generally,
however, one should always strive to allow spirit to shape itself freely,
especially when working with something so volatile as divinity. In short, one
should not sculpt nor subject
divinity, the Unnamed, only create
the stage on which it might perform itself. And all with the knowledge that
what one “sees,” “hears,” “smells,” etc. on that stage is communicative and
limited: the layered realities of the divine cannot be wholly expressed through
human sense alone, and thus what is perceived is only part (or perhaps “a shadow”
should definition be left to Plato) of a greater, predominately incomprehensible
whole.

With this in mind, a reader may wonder if the
following process – taking undefined divinity then defining it – is some exercise
in creating a god. The answer being a resolute ‘no.’ If gods derive power from
the ascriptions and adorations (alternately detestations) of humanity, then the
possession of one tentative “devotee” does not a god make. Instead what is
named is something else entirely. Something not lacking potential but
dispossessed of the great power typically expressed by the divine. It must be
situated, it must draw its power from something else: a force of nature, a plot
of land, an emotion, etc., it must be given a name and it must be paid,
otherwise it will slip back through the liminal curves separating the Known
from the Unknown, disembodied and nebulous. After being named, after being
known, situated and paid in offerings, it might retain its form and provisional
‘existence.’ Should this thing, even possessing of name, be long neglected it
will meet the same fate of dissolution, at which point to call on it would
manifest only the shadow of ‘a shadow.’

With that being said, I turn now to the process by
which such a feat might be accomplished. As per usual, I must insist that this
is only one of many ways to ‘skin a cat,’ if you would, and even I do not use
this method exclusively. However, I do find this to be the easiest, even for
those lacking an artistic disposition. While drawing is part of the process, it
is only to occupy the hands and free the mind, utilizing something akin to practice
of Surrealist automatism. I include
only one method with this introduction, but may include others in the future,
thus I leave the final number open-ended.

Method #1/?

  • Gather
    supplies    . I keep a journal-sized, unlined sketchbook and I
    find it the most suitable. On the right-hand page I perform my automatism, leaving the left open for ‘translation’
    or interpretation. Loose paper, canvas, a wall, it doesn’t matter, just so long
    as you have space to write, draw, etc. However, being that these items might be
    taken to different locations, portability is key. You will also need something
    to mark with: ink, paint, chalk, graphite, whatever, though I recommend
    something fast drying and/or not prone to smudging. Ball point of felt tip pens
    are my personal favorites, color being applied later if desired.
  • Find
    a suitable location    . Ideally such practices should be
    performed in liminal spaces, or those which feel ‘full’ or ‘thin,’ depending on
    how one prefers to describe them. I enjoy a measure of isolation, though such
    is not necessary and performing automatism
    is rather inconspicuous, thus could just as easily be done in a crowded train
    station as on a remote mountain top. Consider the mood of a place and be
    knowledgeable of how it might affect results. I favor nature, places that are ‘thin,’
    serene and isolated. Cosmic events and time of the day can also influence results;
    thus, I urge one to consider these as well. While the ‘work’ will be done on
    paper, the surroundings are just as important: ‘what can be heard?’ ‘what is
    happening around me?’ ‘how does this make me feel?’ are all things to be
    considered and jotted in the margins.
  • Begin.
    Commit to the working: be present and conscious of what it is you are
    undertaking. Push to the fray and allow spirit to take shape, letting your hand
    move freely to follow. It is at this point I encourage you to remember that the
    process is not imposition (nor “pure psychic automatism”), but negotiation.
    This is not automatic drawing in that the hand is wholly free and the ‘work’ devoid
    of conscious intervention, but a meeting of the conscious and subconscious. The
    spirit does not form on the page nor does it guide the hand, it takes shape in
    the mind. The hand is but a tool, recording what is seen and translating it to
    paper. It is inherently impressionistic, and, as aforementioned, divinity is a
    volatile essence. Record what is seen, let forms overlap as they change, let
    lines intersect and overlay. The goal is not to produce a portrait in one
    instant, but one spanning the entirety of separation of the Seen from the
    Unseen. ‘My’ spirits always settle into anthropomorphic shape, a reflection of
    my anthropocentric bias (‘I create god in mine own image’). It should not be
    assumed that the image recorded is a lasting one, as any who work with spirits
    know, shape and physiognomy are of little meaning without permeance. Over time,
    symbolic associations and identifiable feature will ‘harden,’ embodying a spiritual
    ‘signature’ by which the Named might be defined.
  • ‘Translate.’
    Record – in writing – what happened. Search the image for meaning and explore
    possibilities, incorporating elements from the setting (as mentioned above).
    The goal is not to define at length the spirit’s purpose, but to give a cursory
    attempt at decoding that which they provided. Again, with time and additional
    workings the form will become more concrete, will develop into an individual
    with preferences and taboos of their own. This step can occasionally involve
    research, i.e. some of the Unnamed
    have shown me constellations with which I was previously unfamiliar or shown me
    symbols – in the broad term, not necessarily logographic – which had other meanings
    than those I often ascribe. This step is one of exploration and consideration,
    something that should be returned to again and again. Note all possible
    hypotheses you can manage, as they may serve you well at a later point. While
    it sounds cruel, it is also at this stage that you may choose to continue on
    (to name the spirit) or forgo the process and let the essence return to the Unnamed. I confess that most times I
    choose the latter, focusing my studies foremost on how these pieces shape
    themselves and noting my own influence on the process.
  • Grounding.
    Before
    a Name is given, it is important to ground the spirit. This is a process I have
    written about before (see The Spirit Snare; The Spirit Vessel), by which you
    connect the spirit to a physical object. In this case, I recommend something
    small and portable that can be carried with you for some time. This will allow
    the spirit something to ‘hold onto’ while at once offering the same to the
    practitioner: it links the pair, allowing the spirit to contain itself while at
    once allowing practitioner to become familiar with the spirit as it ‘solidifies.’
    While in the Spirit Snare I wrote of how to ‘snatch’ a spirit to serve a
    function, this process is different due to the nature of the Unnamed (at
    large). The ambient energy discussed in the former is stable (or at the very
    least more so) than that of the
    Unnamed, thus the latter requires time to not only form properly but be studied
    and explored thoroughly. Should you desire to expedite the process of its ‘solidification’
    (while forgoing the bonding facilitated by proximity), grounding it to a piece
    of land, a tree, something with life and power of its own may do so, however I
    have never tried and cannot speak to the results.
  • Formal
    Naming    . It is only at which point that the Unnamed is wholly
    grounded, is developed, that the formal naming process should be undergone. In
    the meantime, the practitioner may give the spirit an informal pet or nick
    name, while the formal name will be a concerted effort. Only once you are familiar
    with the spirit and it with itself, might you both consider a Name. Again, this
    process needs to be a joint one. While usually a name comes quickly,
    occasionally some back-and-forth is required. It can take weeks, even longer,
    to finally land on a name that seems ‘right’ to both spirit and practitioner.
    Do not rush the process, it will come organically or it will avoid coming at
    all. Once decided upon, take the curio with which the spirit was grounded and
    transfer it to a more formalized home, such as the aforementioned spirit
    vessel, a statue, something sturdy and lasting. It is at this period one might
    consider grounding the spirit to a plot of land, a tree, a stream, etc. from
    which it could derive power. This does not require the same proximity as the
    first curio, for with a formal Name the spirit can be called upon from any
    distance. While transferring the spirit, speak its Name. You might consider
    fashioning a seal to paint onto or carve into the object, or a sigil which is
    comprised of its name. If you belong to a group who practices naming
    ceremonies, I recommend performing something similar for the spirit.
  • Offerings.
    Finish the transfer and Naming process with offerings. Blood is life and it is
    power, thus an animal sacrifice is ideal. However, spirits vary, so offer what
    it is the spirit likes and/or associates itself with, while at once avoiding
    its taboos. Should the appropriate amount of time have been spent with the
    spirit before the naming, this should be simple, and if the spirit has become
    one of great importance to you, it is nice to splurge for some good stuff.
    Offerings should be made regularly (it might be good to mark the naming day and
    give special offerings annually), especially if connected to something
    inanimate.
  • Maintain the relationship. As you are likely the sole ‘devotee’
    or friend of this spirit, you alone will be responsible for its growth and maintenance,
    lest it be lost once more to the Unnamed. Work together often and make
    offerings regularly. Once established, the Named spirit might be called to
    serve the practitioner with all things falling in (and adjacent) to its
    dominion.

photo source: Masson, Automatic Drawing, 1924

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qedavathegrey:

Hark, witches! I had a(nother) dream.

And because it’s long and I’m a pal, I’ll do everyone a solid and add one of these.

I was somewhere arid, where the streets were made of sun-baked clay. Simply walking, I found myself on a deserted street and a man came following behind. He paid me a compliment and I turned to find quite possibly the most beautiful man I have ever seen: a tall Arab gentleman, lanky with the most captivating brown eyes. I spoke to him, but just as I did there came a loud crack from the sky. He beamed and excitedly dragged me to the nearby plaza (everything was made of the same, almost-pink sandstone) where, in the center, stood a massively tall tree (though not impressively wide). It was situated in a perfectly square courtyard of its own, lower by a story than where we stood and surrounded by teal water. Climbing and covering the entire surface of the tree were beautiful, fuchsia blooms on purple vines and, as we approached, the tree split near the trunk and began falling over. The beautiful man (henceforth called ‘my companion’) explained that when this tree splits (it had a name but I do not recall), it signals the opening of a door, it presents an otherwise unimaginable possibility. He clarified that if one can follow the attendants, that they will lead you to (a spirit whose name I cannot recall, but will return later). At the base of the tree it seemed like people in all white were swarming, trying to fight their way to the split, but as the tree righted itself and fused back together, these people became only white blossoms on the nest of foliage that cradled it.

Provoked by this sign, my companion took me to the shack at the edge of the desert where a very small (but broad) man resided. I’m not sure how we got there, it just seemed that we had appeared by magic. This small man (no more than 4’5) with a peculiar haircut clarified that he was not an attendant of the spirit we were looking for, but instructed us to cross the desert and keep the setting sun at both our back and to our left simultaneously. How this was possible, I’m not sure, but we did it and came to a house that was very out of place.

It was tall, narrow and looked unmistakably European. It was dark and dilapidated, looking as if it had been built of soot, mold and moss. We entered to find an attendant sitting carelessly in an armchair with legs draped over one arm, wearing tattered fishnets, a grimy short skirt and a t-shirt with what might have been cigarette burns. The irony (which was obviously not lost on her) came from the mask she wore, which looked as if made of marble and had been taken from a Greek (or otherwise ancient) statue. She motioned with a single finger “up,” both doing her job and communicating the past. It was clear from this that she, and the others, used to be held in high regard, but now they live in squalor. Though what was less clear is whether this was by choice or circumstance.

My companion and I took the staircase, which was oppressively small and constricting, fitting in the confines of a coat-closet, but not lacking in opulence. It had wainscoting and gold sconces, but the walls were painted a rather off-putting shade of green. We followed the instructions of the other attendants (numbering 17 in total) until we came to the penultimate room nearest the top.

This was a bedroom, or so I thought, but looked like the entire contents of a one-room Puritan home. Lots of stone, low ceilings of dark wood, a big hearth, but also a wall of windows through which you could see the rather fantastical desert landscape outside. The small man was there, and congratulated us on making it so far, but it was his duty to try and convince us to turn back. He confessed that part of this had to do with the fact that he had ordered food to be delivered and did not want to miss the alarm. My companion assured him that we would under no circumstance turn back, and through the ceiling I could hear the spirit’s voice. The small man suggested that he open the door near the hearth, that there were gifts for those who made it so far, that there was no need to speak to “him,” the Spirit. This I found particularly interesting, because the voice coming from what must have been the attic was most assuredly feminine: it sounded just as one would expect a witch to sound, nasal, cronish and cackling. It seemed to come down from the vents, which only belched black soot into every room.

My companion opened the door and found that it appeared to be a clockmaker’s studio, though fitting with the period of the rest of the room. I heard him voice his amazement and looked into the door to find him inspecting the artifact on the long, wooden table. It was bizarre, but beautifully made and describing it might be a little difficult. In the simplest terms, it was a guitar (or perhaps sitar, or ngoni) broom-clock, in what looked like walnut. The body was rounded at the back, and the neck was long, but the base had black, broom bristles that seemed to be the host to any number of green-grey fungi. But it was a beautiful creation no less, and in the hole was an antique clock face. With little coaxing, the bristles firmed and the entire thing began levitating in the table, the clock ticking loudly. Upon hearing this, I pulled a pocket watch from my pocket (go figure) and looked at the time, then feverishly to the horizon through the big window. The sun was setting (or rising), and I asked the small man how long the meeting with Him would take, and he smiled, asking why I would ask such a ridiculous question. To which I responded that I had many things to do, at which point I woke up.

And I was understandably mad that I didn’t get to meet whomever it was on the other side of the attic door.

@ofbearandbone I think that’s even more reason to figure out what was going on there.

Based on that which was described, I’ve made a list of what I think are the most important and defining attributes of this spirit, hoping that it might help me (or others in the know) narrow down who it might be.

Ancient, perhaps borne of the Middle East or North Africa, but adopted and reimagined in Europe (maybe via the Greeks and/or Romans, as signified by the mask the attendant was wearing).

Associated with filth: the fungus, the soot and coal dust, perhaps relating to decomposition.

Additionally the house was very labyrinthine, replete with tricks and traps. Reflective perhaps of the spirit’s character.

Both the small fellow and the 17 (female) attendants, seemed particularly important.

The broom-clock-instrument seemed to possess the most clear associations: time, magic, music. However, music and time can be easily connected, though I think the music itself might instead function as a symbol of revelry. Or the mode by which this spirit is served is through revelry, perhaps relating to the use of entheogens — namely ergot, considering the fungal presence on the broom.

And finally, the Puritan dwelling hints to me that this might be something Biblical? At least originally, though reimagined.

Interestingly, when describing it to friends I both named the spirit as a ‘new’ (though really I meant different manifestation of the) Devil and said (jokingly), “If Jesus could come from the Middle East to reside in the home of Puritans, then why couldn’t He/It/They.”

(I’d have put this in a list format, but I’m on mobile)

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Hark, witches! I had a(nother) dream.

And because it’s long and I’m a pal, I’ll do everyone a solid and add one of these.

I was somewhere arid, where the streets were made of sun-baked clay. Simply walking, I found myself on a deserted street and a man came following behind. He paid me a compliment and I turned to find quite possibly the most beautiful man I have ever seen: a tall Arab gentleman, lanky with the most captivating brown eyes. I spoke to him, but just as I did there came a loud crack from the sky. He beamed and excitedly dragged me to the nearby plaza (everything was made of the same, almost-pink sandstone) where, in the center, stood a massively tall tree (though not impressively wide). It was situated in a perfectly square courtyard of its own, lower by a story than where we stood and surrounded by teal water. Climbing and covering the entire surface of the tree were beautiful, fuchsia blooms on purple vines and, as we approached, the tree split near the trunk and began falling over. The beautiful man (henceforth called ‘my companion’) explained that when this tree splits (it had a name but I do not recall), it signals the opening of a door, it presents an otherwise unimaginable possibility. He clarified that if one can follow the attendants, that they will lead you to (a spirit whose name I cannot recall, but will return later). At the base of the tree it seemed like people in all white were swarming, trying to fight their way to the split, but as the tree righted itself and fused back together, these people became only white blossoms on the nest of foliage that cradled it.

Provoked by this sign, my companion took me to the shack at the edge of the desert where a very small (but broad) man resided. I’m not sure how we got there, it just seemed that we had appeared by magic. This small man (no more than 4’5) with a peculiar haircut clarified that he was not an attendant of the spirit we were looking for, but instructed us to cross the desert and keep the setting sun at both our back and to our left simultaneously. How this was possible, I’m not sure, but we did it and came to a house that was very out of place.

It was tall, narrow and looked unmistakably European. It was dark and dilapidated, looking as if it had been built of soot, mold and moss. We entered to find an attendant sitting carelessly in an armchair with legs draped over one arm, wearing tattered fishnets, a grimy short skirt and a t-shirt with what might have been cigarette burns. The irony (which was obviously not lost on her) came from the mask she wore, which looked as if made of marble and had been taken from a Greek (or otherwise ancient) statue. She motioned with a single finger “up,” both doing her job and communicating the past. It was clear from this that she, and the others, used to be held in high regard, but now they live in squalor. Though what was less clear is whether this was by choice or circumstance.

My companion and I took the staircase, which was oppressively small and constricting, fitting in the confines of a coat-closet, but not lacking in opulence. It had wainscoting and gold sconces, but the walls were painted a rather off-putting shade of green. We followed the instructions of the other attendants (numbering 17 in total) until we came to the penultimate room nearest the top.

This was a bedroom, or so I thought, but looked like the entire contents of a one-room Puritan home. Lots of stone, low ceilings of dark wood, a big hearth, but also a wall of windows through which you could see the rather fantastical desert landscape outside. The small man was there, and congratulated us on making it so far, but it was his duty to try and convince us to turn back. He confessed that part of this had to do with the fact that he had ordered food to be delivered and did not want to miss the alarm. My companion assured him that we would under no circumstance turn back, and through the ceiling I could hear the spirit’s voice. The small man suggested that he open the door near the hearth, that there were gifts for those who made it so far, that there was no need to speak to “him,” the Spirit. This I found particularly interesting, because the voice coming from what must have been the attic was most assuredly feminine: it sounded just as one would expect a witch to sound, nasal, cronish and cackling. It seemed to come down from the vents, which only belched black soot into every room.

My companion opened the door and found that it appeared to be a clockmaker’s studio, though fitting with the period of the rest of the room. I heard him voice his amazement and looked into the door to find him inspecting the artifact on the long, wooden table. It was bizarre, but beautifully made and describing it might be a little difficult. In the simplest terms, it was a guitar (or perhaps sitar, or ngoni) broom-clock, in what looked like walnut. The body was rounded at the back, and the neck was long, but the base had black, broom bristles that seemed to be the host to any number of green-grey fungi. But it was a beautiful creation no less, and in the hole was an antique clock face. With little coaxing, the bristles firmed and the entire thing began levitating in the table, the clock ticking loudly. Upon hearing this, I pulled a pocket watch from my pocket (go figure) and looked at the time, then feverishly to the horizon through the big window. The sun was setting (or rising), and I asked the small man how long the meeting with Him would take, and he smiled, asking why I would ask such a ridiculous question. To which I responded that I had many things to do, at which point I woke up.

And I was understandably mad that I didn’t get to meet whomever it was on the other side of the attic door.

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I’m not saying the US should drastically defund the military and implement a voluntary program similar to Nigeria’s National Youth Service Corp that not only focuses on temporary community service but teaches valuable technical and social community-building skills that can be used long after….

But I’m also not not saying that….

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awolfinmycity:

WHAT TO DO AT AN ICE CHECKPOINT, ESPECIALLY IF YOU’RE A WHITE CITIZEN

(please, please, please copy, paste, and share widely):

-Border Patrol can verify citizenship within 100 miles of a border or “external boundary.” This includes coastlines so NYC is within the 100-mile zone.

-Border patrol can only ask brief questions about citizenship, and they cannot hold you for an extended time without cause.

-You always have the right to remain silent. You do not need to answer their questions.

-***WITH THAT SAID, IF YOU ARE A BORN CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES AND ESPECIALLY IF YOU ARE WHITE, YOU NEED TO SPEAK THE FUCK UP.***

-The most important acts of resistance are the small ones. Make it difficult and uncomfortable for ICE agents to do their jobs. They are counting on citizens to turn a blind eye and allow them to deport undocumented citizens without challenge. Disabuse of that notion.

-If you are on a train, bus, or anything else and ICE or CBP boards, you need to stand up and loudly let everyone know that they have the right to remain silent or only answer questions in the presence of an attorney, no matter their citizenship or immigration status. There have been numerous reports that confronting the agents in this way has caused them to leave without verifying citizenship. THIS CAN SAVE LIVES.

-If you see anyone being held up by immigration, loudly ask if they are being detained and if they are free to go.

-Immigration officers cannot detain anyone without reasonable suspicion, an agent must have specific facts about you that make it reasonable to believe you are committing or committed, a violation of immigration law or federal law.

If an agent detains you, you can ask for their basis for reasonable suspicion, and they should tell you.

-Always say no to a search and let everyone know that they can and should refuse consent to a search.

-They cannot search or arrest anyone without facts about that make it probable that they are committing, or committed, a violation of immigration law or federal law.

-Silence alone meets neither of these standards. Nor does race or ethnicity alone suffice for either probable cause or reasonable suspicion

-As white citizens, we have a level of privilege which protects us from retaliation from ICE for being “rude” and making a scene, which makes it our DUTY to speak up and make sure people without the same privilege know their rights. GET LOUD. YELL. YELL IN SPANISH IF YOU KNOW IT. LET PEOPLE KNOW THEY DON’T HAVE TO SAY SHIT. MAKE ICE UNCOMFORTABLE. THROW SAND IN THE GEARS OF WHITE SUPREMACY.

BONUS INFO:

-It is perfectly legal to record immigration agents as long as you are not on government property or at a port of entry. If your train/bus gets board, pull your phone out and start videotaping immediately.

-If you are detained or see someone getting detained, get the agent’s name, number, and any other identifying information. Get it on tape.

-Contact the ACLU if you see someone’s rights being violated.

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