details from new painting

Moon Sextile Saturn

http://darkstarastrology.com/moon-sextile-saturn/

Apparently I have this aspect.

My only writing, really, is hopeful posts about Tarot on my Facebook feed.  Four Aces for the New Year... The Star and Bukowski ("The Laughing Heart"); Death and Octavio Paz, "Last Dawn".  Trying to re-convince myself of things ethereal. 
Right now the light is such that the scattered snow and sky shine the same pale blue.  A just slightly paler robin's egg.  And everything else... tree limbs, telephone wires, asphalt, are all this deep blue-black.  The kind of black you sink into when you're somewhere between awake and asleep.

I am a small, confusing person. 

I now keep a black scrying mirror on my bedside table, which I cleanse nightly.  I'd like to believe it opens wider the window of my dreams, so that others may enter.
 I know my boyfriend thinks that I am either crazy or just full of shit.  He may be right.  I love him for that honesty.

There is a place where I need to leave an offering, even if it's too cold to even go outside.  The first time I stood there, it was like a portal... a path to the underworld.  There was a weird but palpable melancholy that was not my own, but that I felt and related to.  Persephone's tears are dew this winter.

The Death Card brought up this poem, which I think is so beautiful.  As above, so below; peace and love; blessed be; namaste, and happy goddamn new year.

LAST DAWN
Your hair lost in the forest,
your feet touching mine.
Asleep you are bigger than the night,
but your dream fits within this room.
How much we are who are so little!
Outside a taxi passes
with its load of ghosts.
The river that runs by
is always
running back.
Will tomorrow be another day?
     

Merry Solstice!

Thomas Merton: “there is in all things … a hidden wholeness.”

Lots of things finishing. 

Going into a New Year with a heart that is swollen. 

I bought my Dad a Fender tee-shirt.  He's been wearing it all of the time.  So sweet.



Happy Holidays.
Love,
 
Mel.

JMW Turner in the Bath:

I have this affection for the mould in the bath,
crawling up the faucet from the porcelain.

It's life and death:
organisms feasting on rot.

I trace their curves with my fingers
and wonder about their lives.

From the neglected base of Mars
black,

blooming into icy ceruleans,
molested by burnt siennas.

It's the same as the sky in November
above the accident on 208,

where we all, human,
having to slow to turn our heads.

Turner, hear me here:
from your sea-faring living and dying,

come back,
just for this, for me:

It is only your tides and your clouds
that are blissfully, still becoming.

aspect

Venus conjunct Pluto:

You look upon sex as an almost religious opportunity for self-dissolution and union with the universal whole. For you sex contains the seeds of enlightenment through immolation of the ego in the fires of physical passion.  (source:  Linda Goodman)

truly happening

slipping in and out

of sleep:

the image
of your hands
pulling at my belt buckle
in such haste;

that brief film, over
and over,

truly happening.

your hands
are so romantic, loving,
possessing of
so much violence

black and white indie,

racing, barely floundering,
over and over,

truly happening.

the foreground and background blur,
and your face is his face
laced in the raindrops
on the window.

the glass:
and there is no one
left behind, just
a hiccough of memory.

the hands that hold the camera shake,
it is truly happening,

and there is no
telling apart.

On a diet of marijuana and apple juice

I am fairly certain that you are leaving me...
your silhouette is blacker somehow.