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Cassiopia ifrita
08 April 2009 @ 11:02 am
Blogger ARIE said... "Not an easy task to know oneself."

To know your self you need a mirror

I believe that everyone who comes into our life is a mirror.

I believe that if we understand them we understand our selves.

And, if we are judgmental to them, we are being so to ourselves(and our soulmates).

I believe we could not comprehend a thing, or forgive it, if we have not been it ourselves.

And that the greatest mirror on this plane is the natural world. African wildebeest show us herd mentality, each hopes to survive personally by letting the weaker element be lion fodder. No matter how much pasture there is, two bulls will fight until one is the master of it all. Lionesses are like women who settle for very little, at the expense of their children's well being. Horses who won't leave their burning barn are like people in abusive relationships who can't find the courage to leave.

The natural world can also give us a positive example of healthy mind: Eagles who mate for life, who rear their young together, who rarely re-mate if one should die, are an example to us of real love. A mother bird doesn't fall into bitterness and depression should one of her chicks die, though it is obvious that she is devoted to them. Caterpillars metamorphosize...

It isn't hard to know yourself if you know the trick to it, and approach it with humility("I am not the best person, nor the worst") and the sort of kindness you would extend to your child, or best friend.
One really enjoyable aspect to doing this - recognizing yourself in your mirrors - is that those pesky personality types who have seemed to haunt you forever, will disappear(or the behavior will), as soon as you have seen and owned the truth they represent.
One thing I have found is that most people, myself included, do those mean and nasty things they do, when they are frightened. To me that is certainly forgivable.

So what does all this have to do with the practice of magic? If you don't know yourself you can't detoxify from the shame and guilt our toxic society hands out to everyone. And the mysteries just don't reveal themselves to toxic minds. And, also, these blind spots in our self awareness are key to healing our psychic wounds, that disempower us - no witch or wizard can stand for anything disempowering. It is the opposite of who we are
Cassiopia ifrita
28 February 2009 @ 12:47 pm
But in the biblical Hebrew, the generic word for sin is het. It means to error, to miss the mark. It does not mean to do evil.[3]

The Greek word hamartia is usually translated as "sin" in the New Testament. In Classical Greek, it means "to miss the mark" or "to miss the target" which was also used in Old English archery.
Cassiopia ifrita
16 November 2006 @ 10:23 am
Jason Isaacs as DavidCollapse )

I finally bought this movie. I don't know what took me so long, but I really enjoyed it.

One thing, I am not sure of is if Ms. Holofcener intended to write Christine in the way she did. The thing with movies "for women" is they so often take the women's victim-ish point of view (and I suspected Holofcener of being one of that ilk) without trying to shed light on both sides of relationship issues. I guess it's debatable as to whether she intended to show Christine being really, I thought, more aggressive than David. And did the director really want Jason to add more dimension to his character, or just be her idea of "bad man".

For instance Christine gave David the merest peck of a celebratory kiss, just after they had told the architect/builder to go ahead with the construction, and it was quick, but you could really see the way that hurt him. Like, I can't even get a nice kiss after this mega-gift?. And later as she is rubbing his nose in the bad-breath issue, as if a person would just know without being gently enlightened, she says she didn't tell him because she didn't want to hurt his feelings... hello!?... it's okay to hurt his feelings now... She hadn't had sex with him in a year, was it because she was too nice to tell him he needed to see the dentist, or cut the garlic? Not a very "nice" choice in the long run. But was that the point, to show her hypocrisy? Or was she supposedly justified in both cases, being too nice, and then being too mean.

Another one was the way Christine gave lines to her character(she and jason's character, David, played husband and wife writing team), like "the sex is great", and then flashed her husband a bared teeth sort of grimace/grin, that I thought was hostile. It was as if she was saying I don't care that we don't have sex anymore, and maybe that's because I'm getting it somewhere else. His reaction seemed to be that he thought she must be, and that it hurt. I thought allot of his behavior could be explained as - he didn't want to divorce, and that he was trying to protect himself from her by "not caring", but she just kept upping the ante.

What really got me was the way she kept hurting herself, then pausing to see if he would "kiss the booboo". I guess that's what people mean when they say she was passive-aggressive, to me she just seemed like a little girl, trying to get her husband to be her daddy. It happened in about every other scene they had, and from the look on his face it had been going on for a long time.

Maybe I am being too hard on the character, but it bothered me right from the start when reviews started to call Jason's character emotionally abusive, because even from the trailer I could see it was mutual. Sure, it bothered me because it was Jason's character, and I think he cared, but also I really didn't agree that Catherine was this abused, victim. I think women need to see themselves honestly,(without blame and judgement of themselves or their men) more than they need to be told they are the poor victim of some "horrid man".

I also suspect she played Good Mom, to his Bad Dad with their son. Like, "Dad says I have to work now, so we can't read". And, did she set him up at the xmas tree lot? She has had enough holidays with him to know how he feels about them, so why didn't she just pick up the tree herself. I know my BF is too cheap to buy a nice xmas tree without a fuss, so I buy one. I want a nice tree so I spend my money on it. Is this another example of her being a little girl? Does she just hand over control of their money to him?

They seemed like a typical polarized couple. A woman not in touch with her strength, her masculine side, and a guy not understanding her because he isn't in touch with his feminine side; if he was he would have let her know she hurt him instead of trying to not care.

So anyway, I have ranted. Sheesh, you'd think they were real people...
Cassiopia ifrita
15 November 2006 @ 11:08 am
We have seen the King of cheese,
Laying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze --
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you'll go
To the great Provincial Show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

Cows numerous as a swarm of bees --
Or as the leaves upon the trees --
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled King of Cheese.

May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great World's show at Paris.

Of the youth -- beware of these --
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek; then songs or glees
We could not sing o' King of Cheese.

We'rt thou suspended from baloon,
You'd cast a shade, even at noon;
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.

Cassiopia ifrita
14 November 2006 @ 08:24 am
Dream by night,
wish by day
Love begins this way.
Lovin' starts
when open hearts
touch and stay.

Sleep for now,
dreamings how
lovers' lives are planned.
Future songs and flying dreams,
hand in hand.

Love it seems
made flying dreams,
so hearts could soar.
Heaven sent
these dreams were meant
to prove once more,
that love is the key.
Love is the key.

You and I
touch the sky
the eagle and the dove.
we keep our sails
filled with love.

And love it seems
made flying dreams
to bring you home to me.

Love it seems
made flying dreams,
so hearts could soar.
Heaven sent
these dreams were meant,
to prove once more
That love is the key.
Love is the key.

You and I
touch the sky
the eagle and the dove.
we keep our sails
filled with love

And love it seems
made flying dreams
to bring you home to me.

Ever strong
our future song
to sing it must be free.

And every part
is from the heart
and love is still the key.

And love it seems
made flying dreams
to bring you home to me.

Cassiopia ifrita
30 October 2006 @ 01:15 pm
All around my hat, I will wear the green willow,
All around my hat for a year and a day
And if anyone should question me the reason for my wearing it
I'll tell them that my own true love is ten thousand miles away.
Cassiopia ifrita
10 June 2006 @ 12:22 pm
I am a story teller. I love telling people stories. I am a walking anecdote, my head full of metaphor. You might find me beside a campfire, weaving my craft. You might find me beneath a bridge with my fellow indigents. You could be at an inn, or in a pub, in the small hours of day and realize I am speaking, though you hadn't known I was, and suddenly be riveted. You might read one of my stories in a book. A friend might forward you one online. I love stories because I am one. I am a myth. I come from a family of myth, of mythic proportions, of gods and goddesses. They have gone but I remain; the heir of their legacy.

I am not without my enemies in the world of stories. Because we are, in fact, the end result of our dreams, our stories, there are those who wish to craft us stories that serve their purposes, and press those stories on us. These stories speak of sin, of a fall from grace that never happened, of only one perfect son. These stories tell us what is real and what is not, in defiance of our senses, our logic, our own and our neighbor's testimony. These stories define success and failure in such a way as to ensnare the soul. These stories sicken. These stories keep the mass of humanity pliable. And those are not my stories. In some cases they were mine once, but they were taken and twisted, so that rather than uplift and inspire, rather than inform, now they poison. If I could catch them, and lock them back in their box, I certainly would; but there is little more elusive of capture than a story. So it is that the responsibility of discernment falls on you, the listener, the reader, the observer. Will you choose to live a great story? What is a great story? Will you choose something inspiring? Or will you choose something more comfortable? Or will you embrace those stories that tell you the worst of humanity, unaware that what you choose to see in the world, which is your mirror, is ultimately yourself? Will you believe lies that pluck off the wings of your divinity, and burden you so that your back is bent double beneath load? And it's all a load of bull shit.

I know, beings such as I am, are not supposed to talk that way. Right? Wrong.

It would all be heinous, and tragic, if you were not a forever being. But you have, we all have, existed from the very beginning, and are without end. And here we must make distinct from one another, human stories, and divine stories. Human stories have a limited existence. They are born from a lack of knowledge, and resolve into the past when the wisdom of them is learned. Divine stories are never ending. They are a tapestry made of all the little stories, and embroidered with pearls of wisdom. Thus, you have, and we all have, chosen one set of human stories for one life, which may in practice stretch over many lifetimes, and a new set when those are finished, and so on and so forth, and will continue to do so. Did I mention forever?

Did I mention that while I am a story teller, I suck at endings. I just don't think that way. My version of an ending would be: and then he/she got it, and never believed such nonsense again, and chose a new story to live. Those I inspire often do think in terms of endings though. They have too often still been caught up in the illusion of mortality. And so many have felt a need to finalize their stories. They wrap it up and either move on to write a new story, or live a new story, or, more often, die. That doesn't bother me if their stories are small, human, transient stories, meant to end. I just don't like the inference that like human dramas, divine stories also end. He lived happily ever after? How about he ascended happily into the everafter. She died, but because she was good in the end, she went to heaven? Where she got to sit on a cloud and pluck a harp for eternity? How about, she died, but because she had learned the moral of her story she got to go on to a new one. All stories go on, because all lives go on; because all of life is forever ongoing unfoldment. Thus are the best of stories. Ongoing. Inspiring. Forever unfolding into that which is greater and greater.
Cassiopia ifrita
27 April 2006 @ 10:26 am
Having now both read the book and watched the movie, "Memoirs of a Geisha", I've decided to write a bit of a review on them. I don't often write these sorts of things, and I don't intend it as a critique, only as a reminder of what I personally enjoyed in them.
The movie was visually gorgeous, though it certainly was doctored for western eyes. It often had the sort of beauty a tourist might expect to see, traveling to Japan, only to find a very different reality. And the more extreme Geisha makeup and hair-styles were softened, westernized; I expect so that the movie didn't loose its intended audience, and so that the real story wasn't overshadowed by too distracting appearances, and so that the viewer could identify with the characters. It was gorgeous though, and leaves me wondering how much of historical Japan was captured.
Both the book and the movie capture the more important human story though. The history of women's abuse. That even 50 years ago a girl could be sold into slavery, sexual slavery, and a host of conditions in between. Even today, in some places, we hear it still goes on. If a soul is immortal, and I believe this; and, if a soul reincarnates in its process of spiritual evolution; what sort of scars do men and women carry in their souls, from lifetime to lifetime, from having lived as the protagonist of this story lived? The scars would be quite like those seen in this story. Female competition, feelings of shame and worthlessness related to sexuality, and a broken hearted emptiness from finding no path out of the attitudes that fence one in... from finding little or no love. I believe all women carry such wounds, unless they heal them. That is the value I see in this movie and book.
I actually enjoyed the movie much more than the book. In the book the protagonist was too obviously catty, and still living the drama of competition, and proud of her defeat of her rivals. This was changed in the movie, so that the protagonist regretted the hatred between herself and the other women in her life, and observed the terrible wounds it inflicted on them all, so that we too could observe this form of destructiveness. In fact, pointing it out so that it was too obvious to miss.
I don't like digging up the past and fingering old wounds, but I see so many women with little understanding of these issues, yet still effected by them. I think this movie is important, not just entertaining, because it is such a small leap from identifying with the protagonist, to true understanding of it's personal implications; and people need to recognize the problem before they can effectively address it. Men too, need to grasp this understanding. Many men have crossed over and experienced life as a woman, but even more importantly they carry the guilt for having created the world in such a way, to benefit their own instincts; and, every man has a soulmate who has lived this abusive past and is likely still scarred from it; so that coming to understand, that just because the world is generally better now, doesn't mean that women are automatically healed of their neuroses, or men of their guilt, or neither of the shame lodged in the soul they share.
Cassiopia ifrita
Bitterly all the dogs of Nen distrusted them. And the Wanderers told one another fearful tales, for though no one in Nen knew ought of their language yet they could see the fear on the listeners' faces, and as the tale wound on the whites of their eyes showed vividly in terror as the eyes of some little beast whom the hawk has seized. Then the teller of the tale would smile and stop, and another would tell his story, and the teller of the first tale's lips would chatter with fear. And if some deadly snake chanced to appear the Wanderers would greet him as a brother, and the snake would seem to give his greetings to them before he passed on again. Once that most fierce and lethal of tropic snakes, the giant lythra, came out of the jungle and all down the street, the central street of Nen, and none of the Wanderers moved away from him, but they all played sonorously on drums, as though he had been a person of much honour; and the snake moved through the midst of them and smote none.

Even the Wanderers' children could do strange things, for if any one of them met with a child of Nen the two would stare at each other in silence with large grave eyes; then the Wanderers' child would slowly draw from his turban a live fish or snake. And the children of Nen could do nothing of that kind at all.

Much I should have wished to stay and hear the hymn with which they greet the night, that is answered by the wolves on the heights of Mloon, but it was now time to raise the anchor again that the captain might return from Bar-Wul-Yann upon the landward tide. So we went on board and continued
down the Yann. And the captain and I spoke little, for we were thinking of our parting, which should be for long, and we watched instead the splendour of the westerning sun. For the sun was a ruddy gold, but a faint mist cloaked the jungle, lying low, and into it poured the smoke of the little jungle cities, and the smoke of them met together in the mist and joined into one haze, which became purple, and was lit by the sun, as the thoughts of men become hallowed by some great and sacred thing. Some times one column from a lonely house would rise up higher than the cities' smoke, and gleam by itself in the sun.
Cassiopia ifrita
And we passed Gondara and Narl and Haz. And we saw memorable, holy Golnuz, and heard the pilgrims praying.

When we awoke after the midday rest we were coming near to Nen, the last of the cities on the River Yann. And the jungle was all about us once again, and about Nen; but the great Mloon ranges stood up over all things, and watched the city from beyond the jungle.

Here we anchored, and the captain and I went up into the city and found that the Wanderers had come into Nen.

And the Wanderers were a weird, dark, tribe, that once in every seven years came down from the peaks of Mloon, having crossed by a pass that is known to them from some fantastic land that lies beyond. And the people of Nen were all outside their houses, and all stood wondering at their own streets. For the men and women of the Wanderers had crowded all the ways, and every one was doing some strange thing. Some danced astounding dances that they had learned from the desert wind, rapidly curving and swirling till the eye could follow no longer. Others played upon instruments beautiful wailing tunes that were full of horror, which souls had taught them lost by night in the desert, that strange far desert from which the Wanderers came.

None of their instruments were such as were known in Nen nor in any part of the region of the Yann; even the horns out of which some were made were of beasts that none had seen along the river, for they were barbed at the tips. And they sang, in the language of none, songs that seemed to be akin
to the mysteries of night and to the unreasoned fear that haunts dark places.