Troy-Albany Trance-Formations

I have a class assignment for my Feri training to contemplate my own understanding of the Tarot cards I draw each day.  Yesterday I drew “The Magician” and today it was the Seven of Cups.

I find that the Mage card draws me toward creating magical/mystical experiences in this manifested world.  Yesterday I sat down and tried to write some more on a piece I started about a month ago.  It is changing, and I read a recent draft of it that I had put aside, and realized it’s actually pretty good.  I need to restructure part of it, but it’s on its way.  I’m also opening to spirit to come down and help me to write a play about the student loan debt struggle so many of us are having, in the hopes of creating the space of massive loan forgiveness or something along those lines at least.  So many of us have been suckered into turning ourselves into slaves to the system that I personally at least wish to see destroyed, and which destruction I participate in simply by getting on the bus and coming to work.  It may not seem that those of us with jobs are doing that, but we are.  It’s just called “piling on,” but most of us don’t know that’s what we’re doing.

Anyway, the Magician was nice for a day off from doing the play as well. 

Today, it’s the 7 of Cups, which has a decidedly different energy to it.  It’s still a good day for creativity, and for dreaming something up.  There’s a mystical element to this card, but there’s also a tumultuous sweep to it, because it’s an emotional cup card.  As far as 7’s go, the 7 of wands would probably have a better zing to it.  The 7 of cups is by no means a “bad” card, even though the Crowley deck calls it “debauch.”  The energy can definitely go that way, but it doesn’t have to.  That’s if it’s left to its own devices.  There’s an active possibility of taking actions to manifest a vision.

Just some random thoughts about the two cards I’ve drawn in the past couple of days.

My time has been taken up these past couple of weeks with putting together a production of 4 of the 6 short plays from All in the Timing by David Ives (of which I’m directing “Sure Thing” and “The Philadelphia”), and the world premiere of Albany playwright Julie Demers’ Authors, in which I play one of the 3 leads.  So I’ve been busy, and tired.

And also a mite despondent about ye aulde money problemmes that I seem to enkhounter quite a bit these dayze. 

The other day I discovered I had inadvertently overdrawn my account.  I had pre-ordered a book from Amazon, and it just so happened to come in at a time when I was just barely on target to make all my obligations with <$3 to spare.  The book getting charged to my account put me in overdraw, which exacted $41.50 in fees, and plopz! My mood just went into the toilet. 

Money stuff goes way back in my family.  I actually think it must go all the way back to the days before the money concept came into existence.  It’s quite a powerful meme, and it’s certainly one that is more powerful than I am. 

Is it so powerful though, that my bright idea of walking up to a cop and pulling a toy gun on him “just as a (suicidal) joke” would seem justified?  There’s some ancient and historical barrier I come up against with munzelly-munzel-monze.  And it hauls out the despair demons and sends me right into depression.

The spirit of finance is a vampire.  A cunt cunting the cunted.  And I seem to be one of the cunted.  One of that vast horde that bleats and moos on our way to the slaughterhouse?  Am I being overdramatic, or just realistic?  Sometimes I feel like Cassandra.  My partner and I went to see/hear Les Troyens by Berlioz, conducted by James Levine at Tanglewood.  (At least Part I–I twisted my ankle on the way back to the car, and couldn’t see Part II, which was just as well with the show and all.)  In that show, Cassandra exhorts the women of Troy to commit suicide rather than become Greek sex slaves.  In the myth as I understand it, some of the women of Troy did that, but most of them ended up in bondage, including Cassandra, who foresaw her own demise at the hands of Agamemnon’s wife Clytemnestra and her paramour Aegisthus.  Whatever.  I am thinking in terms of the Berlioz Cassandra, and wondering whether or not there will be mass suicides at some point.

“Better to die standing than to live one’s life on one’s knees”–so goes an Indian saying.  At least I’ve only heard it attributed to the indigenous of America.  I want to surrender my knee-life.  It’s killing me.  This society is killing me.  Killing us all really, but so many of us are using addictions or external foci to keep us distracted from the awfulness surrounding us.  I try to find the things to be grateful for:  bees, flowers, dirt, books, magick, the gods, vegetables and fruits, abstinence, sobriety.  The fact that I do have the capacity to feel joy.  But that also means I have the capacity for deep sadness.  Deep pain. 

My mental state isn’t the greatest.  I’ve been getting 5 or so hours of sleep the past 4 nights, and I expect I probably shall get maybe 6 tonight, if I’m lucky.  I feel rather down, though not enough where I’m calling in sickly-sickle-sick to workles.  But I feel like I’m at that place where I’m ready to surrender.  The gift of desperation is descending into my life.  I know it’s a Godself thing, and it’s probably preparing me for something. 

I just hope it’s not life inside a debtor’s prison.  I fear that Cuntigroup and Wakcunthut and Hallicunton will probably be bringing them back because after all there’s no better way of going forward than going back to Dickensian-Victorian cuntery is there?

Guh!

I won’t mention the address of my former place, but I will say it was a garden level apartment that was in retrospect, just a tad too small for me.  The place itself seemed all right, but I think it had an energy that was depressive and perhaps I helped it a little with my sacred intentions.  But still, I found myself in a vortex of sadness and despair quite frequently there.

The place itself had a lot of lovely qualities–great floors, courtyard access.  A charming space for a parlor, but as with almost everything else, it was just too small for me.  The kitchen especially was a cramped space.

Of course these things affected me in countless, subtle ways.  I live in more spacious digs now.  It’s a lot easier to keep this apartment clean, because there is so much space, paradoxically.  I have more room to put things that are not immediately germane to my current needs.  In the previous apartment, I was constantly feeling that I could never get anything clean enough, like there was an energy that rendered everything grimy and viscous.

It didn’t occur to me that the place may have had a ghostly presence, but now I wonder.  When I moved, my cat was very happy with the new place.  He only hid as long as the movers were there plus a couple of hours.  When I moved into the previous apartment, Kitzel had a hard time adjusting, and hid behind the refrigerator for a few days.  It took him at least 2 weeks to really adjust, which at the time I took to be about the trauma of a move up to the Capital Region from New York City.  But coming to understand about the spirits of buildings, neighborhoods, cities and other entities that are larger, I do now wonder whether Kitzel sensed something else about the other place.

Someone told me that not even a half-block from where I lived there was a murder a few years back.  I also know that a little more than a block in the other direction, there was an accident that started as a car chase with the cops that resulted in the fatality of the reckless driver.  So my street was punctuated by spots where people had died.  So some energies seem to be a bit despairing and down.

I hope that in the future, I’ll be able to help cleanse spaces of this sort of energy.  I’m learning about home-remedies for these things, but I have a feeling that some herbs and tonics and washes of various sorts will be of greater assistance.

Tomorrow, I will try and blog about another building in the area.  Which one, I don’t know as of yet.  Stay tuned…