The Magical World of Tylluan Penry

Usksider's lovely photographs of various places often prompt me to go and find out more about these towns and villages. Only of course, being me, I tend to go out in search of the not so obvious. So rather than searching, say, for pubs, shops or local landmarks, my interest tends to be in the direction of 'What sort of zany things happen in these places?' Or 'Just how loopy does it get around there?'

With Tenby I managed to find the story of the very annoyed monks and the emotional singing visitor. THen Usksider began showing some beautiful photos of Chepstow, and I managed to find this in an archived copy of the Guardian (5th January 2000)

'Staff at a 24-hour supermarket in Chepstow have been ordered to watch out for sleepwalkers pushing trolleys around. '

Can you imagine the mental pictures this brings? All over the not-so-sleepy little town people are rising, glassy eyed from their beds and legging it down to the local supermarket, there to begin pushing trolleys up and down the aisles.

There are so many questions the newspaper doesn't answer. How many sleepwalkers are there in the store in question? And what do the staff do once they've identified them? Do they have a special recovery room where the sleepwalkers are ushered in then gently placed on beds so they can sleep it off? And what do they think when they wake up in a strange supermarket, tightly gripping a trolley and surrounded by baked beans and scrappy bits of cardboard?

Even more sinister - what did those sleepwalkers do before the supermarket was open 24/7?

This morning, at breakfast and quite out of the blue, Barney, one of our St Bernards, announced that he was going to study algebra.

Barney in his pre-academic days

It is a great tradition in the Penry household that our dogs should attend that great seat of learning known as Caca Brown’s Academy. However, we had not expected that Barney would wish to leave his place at the fire (not to mention the table) so soon.

Apparently Barney has been studying algebra in his spare time. So far his knowledge extends thus:

X equals suet ball

B equals birdie

A equals aggro

And brackets usually indicate a bollocking.

Ho hum, that boy has a lot to learn…..

I spent a good part of yesterday making Homer, our Bassett Hound a nice warm winter coat. Bassetts are essentially very large dogs on very short legs, so it’s difficult to find a ready made coat that will actually fit him. And he’s grown so quickly in the past year (he’s only fourteen months now) that last year’s stuff just won’t fit any more. So we made a paper pattern and I dusted down my trusty sewing machine and got to work.

Homer is now very happy and has been dashing round the garden instead of shivering by the fire. I don’t need the Met Office to tell me that we’re experiencing something of a cold snap at the moment, although I seem to remember not so long ago they were wittering on about how we were going to have an incredible Indian Summer (due no doubt to global warming.)

Well, we haven’t, have we? And before anyone says that we still might get a warm snap, a warm snap in October is called St Luke’s summer, not an Indian summer.

Now the Met Office, undeterred, is at it again, forecasting a mild and dry winter, and hedging their bets by saying that while it will be "noticeably colder" than the mild winter of 2006-07, the chances of a prolonged cold snap are low.

Let’s look at that for a moment. In other words, we, the peasants may sit and shiver – but they’re telling us it’s not really cold. Or if it is cold, that it won’t be cold for long. Yeah, right. Talk about trying to have your cake and eat it.

Besides, I don’t remember last year as being particularly mild. We had terrible snow, were snowed in for two days, and at one point had to form a human chain just so my daughter and her family could get into the house without slithering off down the hill.

The weather last February was atrocious. We had massive fuel bills. (Yes, all right, I know they’re always putting the prices up, but we were freezing, and I’m the sort who’ll happily wear an overcoat indoors rather than put the heating on.)

You see this whole business of watching the weather shouldn’t be left up to the ‘experts.’ We can all experience weather for ourselves. Look around you:

The holly trees in the garden are smothered in berries this year.

The owls are out and about like never before snapping up small furry rodents that are taking a chance to go foraging at night because they are so hungry.

And if anyone tells you they’ve just spotted a load of waxwings, start dusting down your sledges and ice skates.

But the Met Office ploughs on regardless. According to their records, snowy winters are becoming a rarity in the south east of England. Shock! Horror!

Look, snowy winters were always something of a rarity in the south east of England. That’s why the bookies would let you bet on a white Christmas each year – because the chances of it happening were so remote.

Then you’ll see the papers swooning about how plants are flowering strangely. Some may be, admittedly, but this isn’t anything new, either. Folklore is full of such references, for example, ‘When apples trees have fruits and flowers on the same branch, death will follow.’ So it’s really nothing new.

So perhaps not only should we be asking ‘Who are they kidding?’ It might well be worth our while to also ask just why they are trying to kid us.

I have to admit that this story has been inspired by Usksider’s wonderful series of photos about Tenby in South Wales. I went there first when I was a child, and probably too young to appreciate it, but have always wanted to make the trip to nearby Caldey Island by boat.

The monks on Caldey Island are Cistercians, which for those of you who have never done any monking (that’s me then) are a strict, observant branch of the Benedictine Order.

They originally set out to farm the island, but nowadays make a lot of perfume which they sell to tourists. They also allow individuals and groups ‘wishing to spend a few days of quiet and reflection’ or wishing to ‘experience more fully the spiritual life of the island’ to stay as paying guests.

In January 2000, according to the Guardian newspaper, one of these overnight visitors apparently got a bit tired and emotional and spent all night singing.

Unfortunately the monks were unable to complain about the noise as they take a nightly vow of silence.

I often say ‘It can only happen in Wales.’ Well this little story didn’t actually happen in wales, but several Welshmen were certainly involved.

As with so many Welsh stories, you first have to imagine the scene. A carload of slightly inebriated builders were driving past Prince Charles’ estate near Tetbury in 2003 on May the 1st which just happens to be the pagan festival of Beltane. I mention this because it may possibly have a bearing on what happened next.

According to one of the men, "We had a few drinks after work and we were driving home when we passed the entrance to a large estate." Okay, we get the picture. They then drove up a track, parked on the verge, walked about 150 metres and climbed over a four bar metal fence into the estate. So far, so good.

The fact that the estate belonged to the future heir to the throne and nobody seems to have batted an eyelid might be a tad worrying, but we’ll assume that apart from a bit of whispering, these blokes were keeping a low profile.

'We spotted a gazebo at the end of a beautiful tree lined grass walkway that led directly to Highgrove House. We took some photos for a bit of a laugh so I could show my mum because she loves the Royals,’ one of the men explained. Ah, bless. Of course, it still raises the question why none of the security guards (if indeed there are any) didn't notice the odd flash bulb going off in the middle of the night.

It’s the next comment that gets interesting. "We took it in turns for everybody to pose for pictures sitting outside the gazebo and then one of the guys started running around naked." As you do.

In fact, they spent a good half an hour romping (some reports said ‘frolicking’ ) about, stark naked before making off ‘unchallenged’ with a plastic owl.

The choice of words in the report, which you can read for yourself here

http://archive.stroudnewsandjournal.co.uk/2003/5/7/1712.html

is interesting. Why a plastic owl? I mean, the Prince of Wales is a keen nature boy, you’d think he’d have a couple of real owls on his estate, wouldn’t you? Even we Penrys are host to a number of tawny owls who terrorise the neighbourhood (and are alleged to have made of with Mr Sarcophagus Jones’ toupee – though that’s another story).

The Prince’s spokesman stepped in to correct any false impressions about the said owl. It was apparently not just a plastic owl, it was a bird scarer. So that’s all right then. At a stroke, Prince Charles was immediately cleared of all charges of having really naff taste.

But just who was likely to challenge a thief who made off into the night bearing (in all senses of the word) a plastic owl? And what exactly constitutes a challenge, I wonder? Halt, who goes there. Friend or fowl? (Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself there!)

I suspect Beltane had something to do with the naked romp. It would have been a great defence had it ever got to court, but the police merely cautioned one man and released the others without charge.

You see the trouble I take, dear readers, just to brighten up your day and mine!

Apart from a pair of trousers in a sale I didn't find anything I liked. I have agreed to avoid green because it is traditionally an unlucky colour not just for the bride, but for guests too.

I saw a number of red hats in the shops, but apart from their price which was exorbitant, I just cannot get the old saying 'Red hat, no drawers' out of my head.
Other people might not remember it, but I do. So it's back to the drawing board for the moment.

I did try on one of those fascinator things - all feathers and beads but one of my daughters said it looked as though I'd just shot a parrot, and I have to admit she was right!

As I will be one of the shortest people at the wedding, I thought a nice hat might be just the ticket. Unfortunately everything I tried on made me look like a short, dumpy, malevolent toadstool on the move.

Mr Penry is now toying with the idea of dressing up as a chimney sweep...

You can see it's going to be an interesting wedding, can't you?

There is a wedding coming up in the Penry family..... so today I am going to look for something to wear. My plans for a corsage of fly agaric mushrooms have been met with looks of disbelief and cries of 'Over my dead body!' So Tylluan is going to have to be a tad more discreet in her dress. That said, Mr Penry is threatening to wear one of the following (I think he intends visiting a fancy dress shop soon):

1. Top hat and tails (this will make him over 7 feet tall)
2. The uniform of a Russian submarine captain (don't ask)
3. A Welsh kilt (now spelled Cilt - heaven help us.)

Of course, he will look incredibly handsome in any of them, but if he goes dressed as a Russian then what do I go as? A torpedo? A periscope?

Also I am intending to take quite a lot of photos.... so any advice on that front would be most welcome!

P.S. All Penry weddings tend to be small and fun.

Call it synchronicity if you will.... On the weekend Miramazing posted a cartoon about the survivor of a Nazi concentration camp, and if you look at my first blog of today you will see that I've referred to that as an example (inter alia) of how people are dehumanised and robbed of their psychic soul by being given numbers rather than their names.

Now I see in an online newspaper yet another aspect of this time in history. Have a look at this: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=483460&in_page_id=1770
If you can't click on this link (because I really haven't got the hang of how to do this properly yet! ) please just copy and paste it into your browser window.

A former concentration camp guard ends up living next door to a survivor (from the same camp)??? If you made it up as part of a piece of creative writing, nobody would believe you!

Miramazing posted a very powerful cartoon over on her blog on the weekend about the Holocaust. It also raised some interesting side-questions about the nature of identity and what I call the naming of things.

When we give something or someone a name, we help acknowledge its psychic soul. Those of you who enjoy writing probably know how difficult it can be to find just the right name for a character – yet it’s important because the name helps give that character life within the novel’s pages.

In the same way people have named their cars, bikes, engines, washing machines and even warplanes have given names by the people who use them. This tacitly acknowledges that we are in a partnership with the machines in our lives; treat them well and they may repay us by going the extra mile.

I find it with musical instruments, too. When I’ve had to play a piano that by rights should have been scrapped long ago, I always make the effort to go and talk to it, to remind it what a great piano it once was, that it still has heart and can still produce more than the sum of its parts might suggest. I always – without fail – found that such instruments can be coaxed to play better.

Back to Mira’s cartoon. The idea of giving the inmates of concentration camps a number instead of a name is also rooted in magic. By giving an (apparently) inanimate object a name, we give it a psychic soul. By removing a name (especially from a human being) we are, in effect, denying that person’s soul, rendering them powerless.

The effect of this is that you make people less than human, and once you do this, you can behave savagely towards them without feeling the normal human emotions. It’s closely linked with my recent posts about thought forms too. Creating an identity gives further shape to thought forms; denying identity destroys people’s humanity.

Like so much in the occult, it’s a huge subject. Thanks for the cartoon, Mira!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

The great thing about writing is that sometimes you come across a story that NO-ONE could ever have invented. Something so surreal that you have to pinch yourself to make sure it’s true. And being Wales, these things happen more often than you’d expect…

A few years back a Christian charity decided to bring the ‘real meaning of Easter’ to the nearby town of Porth. They hired an actor to play the part of Jesus, covered him with fake blood and took him to a derelict bit of land where the shiny new Jobcentre now stands. Then they nailed him up. (I’m assuming they used fake nails but I wouldn’t bet on it.) They then placed a plaque beside him saying ‘Look what Jesus had for Easter.’

So far so good. The press described it as ‘shocking’, and apparently some shoppers were ‘in tears.’ The Christian charity was unrepentant. It was meant to be shocking, they said. Their spokesman (somewhat smugly) added, "We've had hurls of abuse, swearing, we've had people looking disgusted, there have been children crying," as though that in itself was praiseworthy.

I still wonder to this day what ‘hurls of abuse’ are, exactly. Bad English, certainly. But I digress. As for the spectacle, maybe they were trying to get their point across, but I don’t think going out of your way to disgust people is really all that praiseworthy.

Although I’m a pagan, I don’t have any problems with most religious displays or processions. And if I want to celebrate the Green Man, Hecate or whatever, I should be able to expect the same in return. However, the Christian group had reckoned without the clearly godless lot in the little town. For somebody phoned an ambulance.

Yes folks, on Good Friday of the year 2000, someone dialled 999. Try and imagine the phone call….(and if you can imagine the accents, so much the better!)

‘Emergency service. Which service do you require?’
‘Ambulance please.’
‘And what seems to be the problem?’
‘There’s a man being attacked in the main shopping street. Oh my God, but it’s terrible. He’s covered in blood! Blood everywhere!’
‘There’s a man bleeding in the street?’
‘Yes, it’s terrible. He’s been attacked. It’s shocking, terrible to see…' then at a whisper, ‘they’ve even put nails in his hands!’
‘I see. He’s got a nail in his hands. Fingernail? Iron nail?’
‘Some sort of metal, I think.’
‘I see. Any idea how that happened?’
‘Well they got this bit of wood, see, and took a bloody big hammer…. It’s terrible I tell you, barbaric! And not one nail, either. Two! Hundreds!’

[At this stage I should draw your attention, gentle reader, to the theatricality of the Welsh Valleys accent which has been known to turn a grocery list into high drama.]

‘I see. They’ve nailed someone to a piece of wood.’ You’d really think the penny would have dropped by now, wouldn’t you? ‘Is he conscious? Are the perpetrators still there?’
‘Purple traitors? Oh, I dunno about that… But he’s in a helluva state, poor fella. It’s horrible, horrible I tell you! I don’t know how much more he can take! Get a move on, dammit, or the poor man’s going to bleed to death!’
‘All right, we’ll get someone round there as soon as we can.’

And still nobody twigged what was happening. On Good Friday. And the paramedics duly turned up (and according to onlookers, so did the police.)

If you want to read the whole sorry story, go to:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/721847.stm

But it’s the final line of the report that really has me in hysterics: ‘While some were "disgusted" others agreed that it showed what the Bank Holiday was all about.’

Hmm… Allegations of Grievous Bodily harm, weeping shoppers and crying children, ‘hurls of abuse’, calling the paramedics… Sometimes I think I must be on a different planet!

Luckily for us, thought forms are usually short-lived, perhaps no more than an hour or two. To create something more substantial requires a certain intense state of mind. Five year olds whose peers have excluded or bullied them are quite capable of brooding on this and coming up with an imaginary friend as a solution. For the duration of their existence these thought forms are as real to them as anyone at school or home.

However although we are all capable of creating these forms unintentionally, if you actually set out to create one you should observe certain precautions. There are some pagans, witches and would-be occultists out there who seem to think all you need is a hot soak in a bath surrounded by rose petals. Nonsense.

This may be enough if you are just playing at magic (and even then I have my doubts) but with thought forms there is an added hazard - if you create something which for some reason can’t reach its intended destination it is just as likely to come back and attach itself to you!

So from the outset you have to try and maintain a good, healthy aura. Not only is this a form of psychic self-defence (since it denies negative thought forms anything they can relate to) it also prevents them from returning and gaining a foothold in your auric field.

This idea of creation and return is important. It explains why some people seem to have a cloud of gloom and doom around them, why they thrive on disaster – because try as they might, the thought forms are all but smothering them. It’s become a habit. To break free of it will require long effort and patience. And like recovering alcoholics, you have to spend the rest of your life avoiding whatever it was that caused the problems in the first place.

Understanding how thought forms works can also lead us into a better understanding of hexing. You can hex yourself accidentally or unintentionally. You can dwell on unpleasant, gloomy or negative things so much that your auric field – which can normally be relied upon to protect you against most things – is shattered and broken.

Although many people claim that once you stop thinking about something it ceases to exist in the psychic world, in my experience this is a tad optimistic. Thought forms only cease to exist once the originating thought has lost its energy. Unless of course, they decide to return to sender (You!), or have been picked up by someone else’s mental energy or attach themselves to energies collected in a particular geographical place.

Haven’t you ever noticed that some places have a really bad – or good – atmosphere?

Couldn't resist posting this. I'd gone into a cafe to meet a friend earlier today, and there was a woman at the counter going through everything on the salad bar... 'I'll have a bit of this.... I'll have some of this...'
Suddenly she stopped and pointed. 'What's that?'
'Humous.'
For a moment she paused, dumbfounded. 'Nah, I don't like fish.'

It takes all sorts, as they say.....

It being the autumnal equinox today, I thought it was time to write about some serious pagan stuff. Well, sort of serious. I hope the days are long gone when I ever took myself too seriously.

So I am going to start talking about the unintentional magic of thought forms, how you create them, how they affect you, how they can be made to work for (and against) you. I did a talk on this earlier in the year for Cardiff University’s Pagan Society. It’s quite a long piece, so I shall split it into manageable chunks for the blog.

In my humble opinion, thought forms are an unjustly neglected aspect of magic. It’s no exaggeration to say that anyone can create a thought form – we do it every day, whenever we experience strong emotion or stress. So since most of us are already dealing with these things on a regular basis, it’s important to understand a bit about them.

If you wanted a formula to create a thought form, it would look something like this:

Mental energy (thought) + desire or passion (emotion) + elemental essence (matter which is all around us) = artificial elemental (thought form)

This may sound complicated but in practice it isn’t. You can create a thought form without any special equipment or knowledge. Five year olds do it all the time whenever they create an imaginary friend or play situation.

Why does it work? Partly it’s because of the way we are made. Every one of us has both a mental and a physical body. The physical body is no problem - we can see it and touch it, but the mental body is made up of many layers (sometimes called auric bodies). Psychics often see these as vibrations of colour and form.

Every single thought we have originates in the mind of our physical body and then passes through our mental body before being projected out into the world beyond us.

But although we may have discarded the thought, out in the big blue yonder there is something called the elemental essence which can pick up on these discarded thoughts, and give them some sort of physical existence.

The elemental essence is a life-form of low intelligence, which can be animated by human (and sometimes animal) thought. It is all around us, and one of its main occupations is finding and absorbing thought forms.

The trick in creating our own (deliberate) thought forms is to create the thoughts we want and make sure they are picked up by a suitable elemental essence.

Conversely, the trick in avoiding the creating of harmful thought forms is to avoid creating thoughts that might damage us or others.

Easier said than done!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

Well, it's almost a UFO story. I have seen what I think are UFO's on two occasions, once about thirty years ago, and the last time about six years ago, near my house. Where we live seems quite a good area for spotting them, but I don't seem to have much luck.

Well, years ago when my children were quite young, I decided to take them out star watching. So we set out for the park with star charts, a book and a torch covered with a piece of red balloon so its light didn’t blind us while we were trying to look at the charts (apparently it can be really difficult to adapt to torchlight and then view the sky again).

We may not have been much good at identifying the constellations, but it was a lovely evening and we were enjoying ourselves. We'd tried before out in the garden but there was far too much light pollution. Everything looked orange from the street lamps, so I thought we'd have better luck in the park.

Anyway, we got everything ready, the sun set and we began watching for the first stars to come out. Then, just as it was getting dark, a bunch of what looked rather rough lads, drinking cider, came into view.

Worse, they spotted us and headed over. It was rather intimidating to say the least. As they got closer they shouted ‘Where are they then? Are they going to land or what?’

It turned out they'd seen us looking up at the sky and thought we must have spotted a UFO. They were pretty much seven sheets to the wind by then and began convincing themselves they could see things. After about twenty minutes they staggered off into the darkness singing.

Homer our Bassett Hound is very conscious of the fact he is considerably smaller than our other dogs. In particular, he cannot stand or sit and shove his head in people's dinners. In recompense therefore, he has perfected the knack of sitting up on his hind legs, looking pathetic.

Here he is, doing his Oliver Twist 'I want some more' impersonation.

Yesterday one of my daughters went to visit a friend's mother who is in hospital. Many of the patients on the ward are elderly, some are incontinent. While my daughter was there, one poor soul had an 'accident.' It took ages to get someone to clean her up, and meanwhile the smell, as you can imagine, was pretty unbelievable.

At one point another patient, who knew nothing of what had been happening, wandered down the corridor, began sniffing and exclaimed 'Oh, they're cooking meat today!'

Which just about tells you all you need to know about hospital food.

I am soaking wet and very cold at the moment. Up here the weather always changes around the autumnal equinox. To cheer us all up (well, that's the idea) here's a nice little story about how a ‘spooky’ event, (one which made it into local folklore, no less) really originated.

If I had to choose one word to describe my father it would probably be mischievous. He had a bright sense of mischief and some very strange hobbies. He came from quite a well off background, and as the elder of two boys his father would take them to visit some of his rather posh friends. Once they were taken to stay in a manor house in a very old, historically rich, village. Usually there were other boys to play with on these visits, this time there were none and my father and uncle soon became bored.

One of the servants in the manor house then told them a story about how, whenever disaster threatened, the bells of the local parish church would ring out at midnight. Well, of course, my father decided that was the answer to his boredom. Somehow he and his brother contrived to get the key to the church, copy it into a bar of soap and make their own copy of the key. (My father’s hobbies included chemistry and alchemy!)

That done, one night they slipped out of the manor house, carrying a long length of rope and unlocked the church. They went up to the belfry, looped the rope around the bell and threw both ends out of the window. Then they left the church, carefully locking the door after them, went outside, grabbed the rope, used it to ring the bell ‘like mad’ and then just pulled on the rope and took it away with them, back to their beds.

The next morning (I kid you not) everything was in uproar. The bells had been rung. The vicar had checked, the doors were locked. Something terrible was about to happen for sure. The incident even turned up in a book on the village, citing it as ‘proof’ that something strange was going on in the little church.

It certainly was – two bored and mischievous boys adding their own chapter to local folklore!

I’ve always tried to keep a reasonably level head about hauntings and other psychic phenomena. It’s not a simple ‘do you believe in ghosts?’ question, although that’s one way of starting the debate. It’s ‘Do you believe in this particular account of a haunting?’ because at this stage in our knowledge I think every episode should be considered individually. It’s a lot more work of course, but it does prevent believers and unbelievers splitting into two opposite camps and spitting fire at each other. At least, it does most of the time.

So yes, I believe in some ghosts. I believe there are very odd things happening in my house and garden. I lived in an unpleasantly haunted house when I was a child. But that’s not to say that every footstep outside my door, every weird happening has a paranormal explanation. If I thought that I’d probably be in a straightjacket by now.

So when something ‘odd’ happens I get out my notebook and jot down as much info as I can. I look at possible explanations. I try and reproduce the sound, smell, visual effect for myself. For example, one very convincing ghost photo I took a few years ago was later explained by the fact that someone had lit a joss stick nearby and the smoke blew across to the end of the kitchen where I was photographing.

But that doesn’t explain the time one of my daughters opened her mouth and a load of white – well what? It wasn’t smoke (she doesn’t smoke, never has); it wasn’t steam or her breath (it was summer when it happened); and it certainly wasn’t talcum powder. Once it came out of her mouth it moved sideways, hovered about a bit and then disappeared as quickly as it had come, i.e. it didn’t disperse. Some might say it was ectoplasm, but for the moment I’m keeping an open mind. We had other, similar occurrences around the same time. Maybe something or someone was trying to materialise. Maybe there is some other, good reason for it.

A dramatic headline, but alas, true. Actually, it’s not as dramatic as it sounds. I had to go down into Cardiff today and since the last time I went they have brought in a new temporary pedestrianised area, thus making it virtually impossible to cross from one side of the city to each other.

In their infinite (?) wisdom , the traffic planners have omitted luxuries, such as actually telling cars where they can and can’t go, or posting an alternative route around the chaos or even properly signposting the street which it concerns. So… I merrily followed traffic lights, turn right signs etc., and got flagged down by Plod.

Now in fairness, they were quite nice about things. I only have to open my mouth and they say ‘Not from round here, are you, love?’ (Coming from twenty miles away is pretty dramatic down here. It means you belong to a totally different tribe and culture.)

Then they explained that they would let me off this time but if I did it again I would get a £30 fine.

Obviously, Tylluan is going to be a good old trout and not commit such a heinous crime ever again. I shall simply avoid going to Cardiff again.

I suspect others feel pretty much the same. All the traders and shopkeepers I spoke to today said trade had plummeted. They were pretty fed up with it. But it’s to save the planet (allegedly) and reduce our carbon footprint. How exactly this works when one now has to travel miles and miles out of one’s way in ever decreasing circles just to get where we could easily travel until last month beats me.

I suspect it’s just a nifty little excuse to raise more income for the Council in the form of fines. And it’s sickening.

Take the train, people say. I would. Except of late going on the train has become a risky business. Apart from the fact that there are never enough seats, some of the local stations have a real problem with local yahoos either running amok with a few cans of Carling which they playfully lob at each other, or else they show their engineering skills by disabling the train altogether so it cannot leave the station. Yes, it’s happened. If we are going to leave our vehicles at home at least offer us some alternative that’s safe and reasonably priced.

I am getting fed up with this sanctimonious clap trap. On the way home I stopped off at a certain supermarket whose very presence on this planet is guaranteed to annoy the hell out of me. On the wall near the checkout was a notice inviting me to play my part in saving the planet by recycling my plastic bags.

Fine, I don’t have a problem with that although last time I wandered in with twenty home made canvas bags the security guard virtually had kittens. It wasn’t so long ago that some places would ask you to leave if you turned up with your own bags. They preferred the free advertising until it was fashionable to ‘go green.’

But why don’t supermarkets play their part too? Such as buying fresh basil from local growers instead of flying it in from Israel???? Don’t tell me there’s nowhere can grow fresh basil hereabouts – I can even grow it in my garden!

Okay, rant over. I’m tired and it’s been a long day. I shall hopefully catch up on the blogs tomorrow.

Cysgu da – sleep well!

Monday morning, and the equinox is later this week. It’s tempting to think that our ancestors simply honoured the equinox as a turning point, if it weren’t for the fact that among the Celts at least, their main festivals were ‘between points’ or cross-quarters (sometimes also called quarter days).

Samhain, Imbolg, Beltane and Lughnasadh occur roughly half way between the four astronomically based festivals of the two solstices (Yule and Litha) and the two equinoxes (Mabon and Ostara).

Many pagans insist on celebrating either four cross-quarter festivals or the four astronomical ones, reckoning that this is more historically correct. Wiccans usually celebrate all eight. I’m not sure that following a pagan path has to be historically accurate – if I felt it was that important I’d probably just go and join some re-enactment society and wave a sword about or something.

Besides, I’m all in favour of celebrations generally – I’ll celebrate just about anything given half a chance, so I go for the eight, and occasionally add in local festivals too. I don’t like any month of the year to feel left out!

And anyway, I’m not at all sure that our ancestors did only celebrate four main festivals. For a start, all eight have been Christianised at some point. Samhain became part of the All Saints/All Souls celebrations, Yule became St Thomas’ Day (on the solstice itself) and Christmas (which took over the Mithras celebrations on the 25th December). Imbolg became Candlemas, both festivals of light; Ostara became Easter; while Mabon became Michaelmas, Litha became St John’s Day on 24th June, and Lughnasadh became Lammas with its bread baking and cattle fairs. Beltane on May 1st is a little different – it always seems to have retained much of its pagan character to the extent that Oliver Cromwell banned it in the 17th century.

Weirdly, many of these festivals have retained their pagan character, in spite of the Church’s efforts to write over them. There is a certain ‘feel’ in the air still around the pagan festivals, and if you are really sensitive you will actually feel that year ‘changing gears’ as it approaches each one. Once the Autumn Equinox (Michaelmas, Mabon, whatever you want to call it) comes around, you feel things ‘tilt’ slightly as we begin the long haul into winter.

We may have forgotten much about our pagan past. It certainly hasn’t forgotten us.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

A cool damp day today. And days like this I have known for years, so I welcome them back again like old friends.

A cool damp day warns me that I should have fixed that window, replaced the lead flashing on the boilerhouse roof. It tells me that soon I won’t be able to sleep with the window open, or wear teeshirts. A cool damp day reminds me of bulbs unplanted, paintwork left unpainted, all the things I’ve meant to do all year but never got around to doing.

A warm sunny day on the other hand is an encouraging friend. Plenty of time, it says, for you to get those jobs done…. And I listen, and stretch out in the sunshine, drinking in the sparkling warmth, watching the last of the butterflies and bees flit between the drooping roses.

I love this time of year!

Today is Barney's birthday. He is two. I took loads of photos throughout the day which is why I am so late getting back online. Unfortunately when I went to upload them to the computer and the camera battery just gave up and died on me. I'd forgotten that rechargable batteries don't last forever, hadn't I?

So no photos of Barney on his birthday on the blog until tomorrow. He is extremely disappointed and blames me. As well he should. The trouble is that once I start snapping away with the old camera (well, no, it's not actually old) I tend to forget the passing of time and battery cells.

I have now put the battery on to charge and will try again tomorrow. Meanwhile, here is Barney looking pretty fed up...

I am off into the garden for a few hours to plant more bulbs. See you later!

Brightest blessings
TYlluan

I’ve said it many times, I know, but there’s something about the New Moon that seems to bring out the worse in people. Strangely, these are people who probably rarely look up at the heavens, unaware that there is a great silver orb up there that is not only causing tides to behave the way they do, but is even making people act well, peculiar.

Take yesterday. I was having a really good, peaceful day, getting on with my writing. All was well with Tylluan’s world. Then I had a complaint from a neighbour that my tree was – wait for it – shedding leaves! I could hardly believe it. The tree is over a century old, it is a beautiful, wise old tree, and in autumn its leaves are a sight to behold, yet some miserable twerp is grizzling because it’s deciduous???

Then just after midnight there was a domestic disturbance. I don’t mean chez Penry – perish the thought – it was out in the street somewhere but it was conducted at full volume for over an hour so that everyone within a mile had the benefit of hearing it. I still don’t know what it was about though. Mostly they used the same two words at each other, (go on, use your imagination) with varying degrees of theatrical innuendo, plus the plaintive ‘And why to me of all people?’ repeated with heart tugging pathos. There was a full scale punch up, too, much slapping around, running and panting. Even tears.

In the Valleys a domestic disturbance is considered a spectator sport, like some sort of free martial arts display. The neighbours all go out and listen. (No, I didn’t. I stood by the window and listened instead.) They stand on doorsteps, and sometimes shout ‘Shame on you!’ or, if the participants are between 18 and 30 ‘I’ll tell your Mam!’

The latter remark wouldn’t have worked last night, as the Mam appeared to be well aware what was going on since she was out there desperately saying ‘Shhh!!’ over and over. It appeared to be a father and son arguing about who’d said and done what to whom, and it got very nasty indeed. Last night it took several to referee the fight, uttering the near magical words, ‘Hang about now!’ when things looked like getting out of hand.

And get out of hand they did. And it went on, and on, and on. Once or twice they went back indoors, and you could hear them arguing in the house. Then it all spilled back into the street again, and all the neighbours dutifully filed out once more to watch (and listen.)

Finally, it quietened down though I suspect it was more due to hoarseness than anything else. They went back indoors. I heard a final, pathetic, ‘And why to me of all people?’ delivered with true, Welsh sorrow. (There’s nothing quite like it anywhere, believe me. It even made me feel guilty and I wasn’t involved!)

Then, when all seemed silent, Plod turned up. Yes, Little Plodwen Tatws (Little Policeman Potatoes – don’t ask) finally arrived, knocked on the door, and was admitted, rather sheepishly, inside. Once there he presumably laid down the law, told everyone to ‘Hang about now,’ and not be naughty boys again.

Finally they left. The doors in the street shut one after the other. I looked at my watch. They’d been at it hammer and tongs for over an hour. It was all beautifully quiet, as night should be. The tawny owls hooted mysteriously and the mischievous moon sailed over my village.

Me, I just went to sleep. At last.

I have a few moments spare and am spending the time typing up the research for my third book (or fifth, if you count the two I did years ago). Mr Penry is being a sweetheart and taking care of the shopping for me today which has freed up a lot of time. And the dogs are being very good and quiet too!

I usually write out my notes by hand initially, since it makes me keep on track and write just the important stuff I can work on later. But there comes a point where I simply have to get it onto the computer in order to work on my first draft. SO today I am doing just that. I am listening to Monteverdi madrigals while I work, which instill a great sense of tranquility and peace all over the room.

I still have a lot more notes to make - probably another month which is a conservative estimate I think. It's probably just as well that I enjoy doing research! (But I confess I enjoy the actual writing a lot more!)

My last post about the nature of evil opened up a few interesting possibilities, including Life’s Lessons’ comment that people in groups behave quite differently from individuals, while Munzly drew attention to how word meanings themselves can be distorted for individual ends (in this case demonising women.)

Obviously a daily blog isn’t going to be able to deal with a subject as huge as the nature of evil, but it might be able to raise a few questions that set us thinking. Why do people behave differently in groups? Why would anyone want to demonise women (or men, for that matter)?

Ganesharocks said something interesting too, that people fear what they don’t understand. They do. And fear isn’t always rational, it can make a grown women such as myself run screaming from a spider less than three inches across when all that is required is a quick smack with a newspaper. (For the record, I usually try to remove spiders, wasps, bees etc unharmed outside, but it isn’t always possible.)

People who aren’t rational don’t behave sensibly. So fear can lead us to do stupid things. A nervous, fearful dog will often snap at strangers and other dogs. His terror is so great he feels he might as well get the first bite in before he is attacked. So possibly attacks on women as a general group, could be explained as being all down to fear.

(I asked Mr Penry if he was frightened of me. He said ‘Yes, terrified.’ I think he was exaggerating. )

But why do people behave so differently in groups? It doesn’t even need to be a large group, sometimes just two or three, and suddenly the behaviour of the group is worse than anything the component individuals might have been capable of.

My own feeling is that there are a couple of explanations, one of which involves the magic of thought forms. It’s quite a complex idea, but basically the thinking behind it goes like this:

Thoughts are capable of taking shape. It may sound mad, but once one is involved with the occult it’s easy to see how thoughts can assume a tangible form. Normally it’s quite short lived, but if the thought form is fed (and this is where the presence of a group of vaguely like-minded individuals comes in handy) it can not only grow, but become independent of the individual who first thought of it.

Once this happens there is a real danger that instead of being a mere following, the thought form can become active in its own right, in other words it can actually initiate the group’s behaviour. And it just keeps on growing, because an active thought form will attract other, similar forms in the vicinity – even from people who have nothing to do with the original group. It’s scary stuff, although a good occultist can disperse a thought form.

I think many aspects of modern life are encouraging malevolent thought forms to grow. I’m sure some of you out there are probably shaking your heads and muttering ‘She’s really flipped her lid this time,’ but after so many years experience of these things, they’re not only as real as the nose on your face, they’re actually increasing at the moment.

Whether they’re being deliberately encouraged for political or ideological ends, I don’t know. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

I am behind on my blogging activities today as I am off in search of a teapot. Our old one broke yesterday and I simply cannot manage without my daily cuppa or two (or ten.... )

So I am going to make a day of it and head off to a small market that ususually stocks some good ones, and maybe wander into a bookshop or two (or ten..... )

Shall be back to catch up later.

The media loves the word ‘evil.’ There are evil yobs, evil hoodies, evil thugs… you name it and somewhere or other they will have designated it evil.

But what is evil? And is there more of it about now than there used to be?

Some Pagans, particularly Wiccans, really get into a bit of a tizz when you mention the word evil. The root of the problem is that traditionally – well, for the past 1500 years in the UK, give or take a weekend or two – evil is associated with the Devil. And Wiccans, together with many pagans (including myself) don’t actually believe in a devil.

The reason for this is that when Christianity ousted the earlier pagan faiths (of which there were many strands, not just one) it appropriated sacred sites, even some deities (Brigid the goddess became St Brigid for example) and Christianised them. But some deities weren’t so easy to appropriate. So the Christian missionaries took the view that what you cannot appropriate must be demonised. And the pagan Horned God (who goes by many names, but the most popular are Herne and Cernunnos) therefore became the Devil (Satan, Lucifer. Beelzebub etc.)

So far so good. Pagans and Wiccans don’t usually believe in a ‘devil.’ My own view is that the devil is an easy cop-out for people who don’t or won’t take responsibility for their own actions. When someone has committed a horrible crime and says ‘The Devil made me do it,’ it’s just a way of denying their own culpability. And a way of trying to portray themselves as a basically good person who yet did something evil.

This is where the problem gets a bit sticky. Can a good person do something evil? Or does doing evil mean you are an evil person? The answer – as with so many things – is yes and no. It all depends what you mean by the word evil. And by dishing out the adjective to all and sundry you make its meaning considerably less clear.

For me, doing something evil means doing something outside the normal realms of ‘bad.’ In the confessional, children kneel and say ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned,’ then often go on to confess a load of trivial nonsense which really doesn’t deserve the name of ‘sin’ at all. Evil however is something so alien to our natures that it shouldn’t come easily to us.

There was a case in the papers yesterday of a woman who collapsed and died at the door of her home and while she lay there dying (or dead) some youths tipped a bucket of water on her, sprayed her with shaving foam and urinated on her. This may not have ranked as evil in the sense of murder or kidnap, yet it was so far outside society’s norms that it was indeed an evil act. People’s normal response to someone in need is to help. Yes, I am an old cynic but I see it every day. Someone trips over a paving stone and people where I live hurry to help, they don’t spit on them.

And for me this is a good definition of evil – it is way outside our normal reaction to everyday occurrences.

But unfortunately, many Pagans and Wiccans are so terrified of being named ‘Devil Worshippers’ that they go a step further. For them, not only does the Devil not exist, nor does evil itself. And that I think is delusional. Evil has always existed. There have always been acts that are so far outside the norm they are impossible to justify. That’s why oppressive regimes first begin by demonising and dehumanising the enemy, because then the normal rules of society no longer apply.

Denying the existence of evil is just the other end of the spectrum from applying it to all and sundry!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

A comment by Usksider the other day on the subject of poetry in general and W H Davis in particular set me thinking. We all need inspiration in our lives in some shape or form. Sometimes it’s a family member who gives us endless encouragement and help, or a friend. Sometimes it’s a rousing true story about success against all the odds.

Nowadays we have this build ‘em up and knock ‘em down mentality that just loves to raise people above the crowd higher than they deserve, and then kick them down more harshly than they probably deserve when we discover that they are, after all, human like the rest of us. Our fury probably stems from our lack of realistic expectations in the first place. Human beings are human beings, not demi-gods. We shouldn’t therefore expect too much of them.

I still believe that education is vitally important to society, and by education I don’t mean the target-obsessed testing that passes for education nowadays. I mean the education you get from those rare but wonderful teachers who take the time to ‘go the extra mile’ with us when we are young, who spend time imparting their enthusiasms and interests which nowadays, let’s face it, are way outside the national curriculum.

For me I remember having a couple of inspirational teachers in school. I had a teacher who was so keen on art when I was seven that she spent an entire morning explaining Rembrandt’s ‘Polish Rider’ painting to us. We also got the ‘Black Watch’ the following week. Then there was the wonderful Parisian who taught her class of eight year olds only in French, and made me a notebook (which I still have) with nursery rhymes, Christmas carols and pronunciation hints. There was the left handed teacher who advised me where to get a good fountain pen and how to improve my handwriting. And there was also the games teacher who, recognising I was totally useless at team games but good at art, gave me the task of using my calligraphy skills on trophies and shields.

All these teachers made a positive difference to the way I viewed myself. (Okay, there were a few who had a more negative influence, but overall, it’s the good ones I like to remember!)

So I was wondering – did you have any influential teachers when you were in school/college?

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry published soon by Capall Bann. For more info, please watch this space!

A real autumn morning today. It reminded me a bit of Ted Hughes’ poem, ‘There came a day’ about the change from summer to autumn.
‘There came this day and he was autumn,
His mouth was wide
And red as sunset,
His tail was an icicle.’

Soon the equinox will be upon us. I’ve noticed the nights are drawing in for a few weeks now. In fact, if I don’t gather in the washing before six o’clock it’ll be damp right through. We are just entering into a period of great change, and some of you out in Blogland have already commented on the feeling ‘there is something in the air.’ There may well be, but I’d also like to offer a pagan explanation for this feeling of great change – and sometimes dread – that hovers over us this time of year.

To most pagans (and many occultists), the year is divided into four great tides:

The period after the Summer Solstice, but before the Autumn Equinox is the Reaping Tide. Its title speaks for itself really; it’s a period of hard work when we gather in our own harvests. In the modern era this may be in the form of examinations and their results, not just the more obvious gathering of crops or making sure we’ve made enough jam to see us through the winter.

But this period will come to its end in a little over a week. The tide is therefore turning, the Reaping Tide is coming to its end and we are about to enter the time known as the Resting Tide. This is a time for self examination, for thinking about what we want to achieve in the coming months. A time for recharging our batteries, really. And if we are aware of these tidal influences we can harness their energy at any particular point in the year. This helps us achieve more than we might otherwise have done.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann, for more info please watch this space!

It's back. Just when you thought it was safe to venture outside, the Horror Hut has been resurrected!

For those dear readers who are new to this gripping tale, the background is this: Some weeks ago, Mrs Anubis Evans, fellow resident in this Land of the Twitching Curtains, pulled down her sulphurous yellow shed. I suspect it may have been the entrance to middle earth. Although seemingly of modest proportions, it took seven van loads to empty it. And then, it was no more. (The bravest among you can read this for yourself in the blogs for the 10th and the 28th August).

For a while the new vista in the village was interesting. I learned that Mrs Anubis Evans, despite her claims to be Lady of the Manor (hotly contest by several other hopefuls in the district) never throws anything out. She has several tyres which she uses as planters, also an empty vacuum cleaner and three toilets all now replendent with dahlias. And now, this very week, she and her family have been beavering away on a new Shed-Creation.

Lord alone knows where they got this latest shed from. It has been placed so awkwardly that if her husband, Hissing Sid, opens the door too quickly it'll go straight through the side of his greenhouse.

I seem to remember we had some great suggestions about the likely colour for this new shed, but, dear readers, Mrs Anubis Evans has surpassed even the most fanciful of these.

I kid you not, she's only gone and painted it in luminous paint. It now glows in the dark like some brooding undersea creature.

It's no good, I shall have to grow my hedge even higher to blot out the sight.

Well, here we are at the dark of the moon. Traditionally this was a time when bad influences were at work, and just about anything could happen. Hecate, that feared, crone-like goddess from the classical world was particularly associated with the ‘dark moon.’ Yet, despite all the bad publicity, Hecate is not, intrinsically a bad, or evil goddess.

Part of the problem lies in our concept of her, and where that concept came from. The idea of a completely evil deity was unknown before Christianity which took either over many heathen/pagan gods and turned them into saints (for example, the Celtic-Irish goddess Brigid became St Brigid) or turned them into aspects of Satan. For this latter procedure, think of Herne/Cernunnos with his horns, or Pan with his cloven hooves.

In the Ancient World, all deities were capable of great kindness and also of mischief, spite and virtually every other motive or emotion known to man. That’s what made them so accessible. You could do a deal with them. If one god appeared to dislike you, another might befriend you. At the very least, you had a chance of getting help from one of them. All the classical gods could and did both help and hinder mankind, having distinct dark and light sides to them.

What we learn at the dark of the moon is that our dark side is nothing to be feared, it is part of what we are. True, sometimes the dark side has to be controlled if we are to live decently in society and avoid prison or regular punch ups, but that’s also true of the light side, believe it or not. Being goody two shoes can make you just as much of a positive liability if that side of your nature is allowed to run out of control!

At the dark of the moon it’s a good time to examine ourselves honestly. We don’t have to tell anyone else what we find, just ourselves. Remember that all our character traits have a positive and a negative. So anger might be regarded as negative – but isn’t always. There are times when anger can be justified, or used to great advantage. (Christians out there might remember that Jesus was pretty angry when he threw over the money changers’ tables in the Temple.) Anger is only a liability when it lacks control and one becomes the sort of person liable to erupt in fury at the slightest provocation. Anger (or any other perceived character trait) itself isn’t the problem so much as the sort of leash we put on it.

Just thought I'd ask around to see which poets you would rate among your favourites?

I've always loved John Clare's work, his Shepherd's Calendar is particularly evocative. And to sit in a field or meadow with someone you love, reading Shakespeare's sonnets is a magical way to pass a few hours.

Does anyone have any favourite poets or poems?

This is a poem of mine that was published six years ago, but I thought I would share it today....

The endless days of summer drift
Sweet has honey, sweet as grass,
Stealthy as cats on a summer's night,
We do not see their shadows pass.

The yawning sticky days stretch out,
Crab apples bask in ripening sun
While nectar drenched, a drunkard bee
Stumbles home, its day's work done.

And high in the celestial vault
Where heaven's a shade of shimmering blue,
Bright lacy clouds like ragged nets
Twitch and burn the whole day through.

Each day the whispered morning breaks,
Each evening sways with fragrant musk,
Each night in velvet darkened sky,
The Dog Star pierces the dusk.

Normally I reply individually to as many comments as possible, however yesterday’s comments following my post on mirrors really deserved a separate little blog of their own. So here goes.

I was very interested in Lifes Lessons and his reaction to a programme on mirrors when he was little. In spite of the 20th/21st century and all its scientific advancements, we are still more than a little nervous when it comes to mirrors. They carry a part of us, after all, and they change as we change, through life. The idea of a mirror speaking to us (such as the one that had conversations with the Wicked Stepmother in Snow White) is not unusual. When my father ‘came back’ after his death, he appeared in a mirror to Mr Penry – this mirror had belonged to my father’s family, so there was a family link there.

And Philghodg’s account of accidentally cracking a mirror and feeling that he had somehow to ‘make things up to it’ to avoid seven years’ bad luck is also commonly found. When she was a child Mira saw the mirror not as her own reflection but as a magical gateway, and perhaps she was right. Magical gateways do pop up in some very odd places, and although many of them are out of doors, some do turn up indoors too. Maybe there was a magical gateway and a mirror in the same place.

Mirrors are even mentioned in the Bible, by St Paul, ‘then I saw as through a glass, darkly, but now face to face’ referring to the fact that early mirrors lacked the crystal clear images we take for granted nowadays. Often they were made from polished metal, and regarded as so fragile (and valuable) that they had another metal cover to protect them. Yet Narcissus was entranced by his reflection in a limpid pool, and pined away as a result.

I suspect distorted mirrors make us sick because they have a similar effect to vertigo, where everything starts swimming around you. But Mira really hit the nail on the head when she mentioned ‘good mirroring’ because what many people do not realise is that you can have interesting relationships with certain mirrors. Some are spiteful, some are loving, some are encouraging.

Amaletska’s comment that she looks in the mirror and thinks ‘Is this me’ is also perceptive, because she has inadvertently recognised one of the primary rules of mirror magic – you can be what you wish, but it all depends what is within you in the first place. So if you believe you are enormous, that is what you will see. If you believe you have a hooked nose, the mirror will point this out to you because this is what is in your mind. A ‘good’ mirror obliges its owner. (‘Bad’ mirrors should be binned.)

The mirror Mira remembers from childhood may even have been enchanted in some way at some earlier date. Mirrors have been used for scrying and divining since early times, and it’s perfectly possible that the full length mirror she mentions had been used for this at some point.

And this I think is where the idea of having seven years’ bad luck comes from. It takes years to build up a good relationship with your mirror and if you break it you have to start all over again. And during that time you have to do without the support of your ‘good mirror’. Of course, if your mirror wasn’t ‘good’ to begin with, you may well be better off without it!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

Mirrors have a magical tradition all their own. All over the world there are superstitions involving the human reflection, suggesting that perhaps the person we see in the mirror is quite capable of taking on a life of her own if we’re not very careful.

When I was young, children were warned that if they looked in the mirror too much ‘The Devil would come and get them.’ There were all sorts of strange rituals requiring you to look in the mirror at midnight and promising you would see your future husband or the year of your death if you did.

Indeed, so nervous were people about ‘mirror power’ that when someone in the house died, mirrors were either covered or turned to face the wall until after the funeral. The thinking behind this was that the soul of the deceased might get caught up in the mirror and remain to haunt the family.

About twenty years ago (it might be a little more) I remember reading of an experiment where volunteers were sat in front of a flexible metal mirror which was controlled by four motors. The motors could be themselves controlled by the subject. At first, when they sat in front of the mirror, the volunteers were faced with a distorted image, like you get in a fairground Hall of Mirrors. The purpose of the exercise was to manipulate the motors to produce a normal looking reflection. In other words – do you know what you look like?

The results were interesting. Some people found the distorted images gave them headaches, made them feel dizzy or sick. One apparently fainted. And many, the ones who persevered admitted they had forgotten what they looked like and wanted to look in a real mirror to check!

Do we really need a mirror to tell us who we are? Possibly we do. Maybe this explains how some people’s self image is so terribly low that the media can sell the idea of skeletal models to them. Maybe it explains how easy it is to distort reality.

The idea that if you break a mirror you will suffer seven years’ bad luck must also be rooted in the idea that a mirror contains something of the self. If the mirror is broken, something of the self must have been damaged along with it.

So we can take this thinking a little further – if the image we have of ourselves is distorted deliberately by a third party, our very self can be affected because in reality most of us don’t really know much about ourselves. The experiment above suggests that some people (perhaps many) aren’t even sure what they look like. In these days of digital photography and photographic enhancements and airbrushing, it might be fun to present someone with several pictures of themselves, each subtly altered and ask them to choose which was the ‘real’ one. The results could be very enlightening!

But on a more serious note, such image manipulation, amongst a population that aspires to be airbrushed to perfection yet lacks true knowledge of itself could become a powerful weapon in the hands of unscrupulous politicians.

Perhaps it’s time we became afraid….

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

One of the oldest belief systems in the world is animism, which holds that all objects have two distinct aspects. The first is rooted in reality – a cup for example, is made of clay, plastic or metal, and we can experience ‘cup’ by using all five of our senses, sight, touch, taste, hearing (try tapping it with something!) and even smell (have you ever smelled a tarnished silver cup? Ugh!) The second aspect of cup is its intangible, possibly magical aspect. Most people can’t experience this – but some claim to do so.These become the shamans or priests in a society, people who apparently can access this ‘other worldly’ aspect in life.

Note I say ‘claim to do so’ and ‘apparently.’ I am being cautious here. Although undoubtedly some can access and manipulate the normally unseen worlds, I have no doubt that some people do make it up. That’s human nature. And unfortunately the people who boast loudest about what they do are often the ones telling the biggest fibs. It gets everyone else a very bad name. But then as Bertrand Russell once said, ‘The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, but wiser people so full of doubts.’

Doubt should come with any religious territory. It’s part of spiritual growth. How can we possibly go anywhere if you don’t grow because we’re so convinced that we’re right? Because my own pagan beliefs are reasonably flexible (though I do work within some framework, I admit) I feel there’s always room for growth and movement, and this is progress, not a failing. After all, I ought to expect to learn something over a couple of decades. Without that, my beliefs would become moribund.

Back to the matter of the cup. I mentioned the idea of accessing and manipulating unseen worlds, but how do we do this? One of the main methods is through language, whether it be prayer, incantation, chanting or whatever. But we use certain words on an almost daily basis, and one thing I’ve noticed over the past forty years is the dramatic increase in the use of certain swear words (especially the so-called ‘four letter words.’)

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not naïve. People have always sworn. But not so often and so publicly. Also certain words were reserved for the most extreme situations and this gave them a real shock value. Because such words are used regularly now, they don’t shock any more. Indeed, society has lost its little store of expletives that could be relied upon in real emergencies.

So in the context of today’s blog, the increase of swearing means we have abused a very powerful means of accessing and manipulating the unseen worlds around us. Every time we let rip unthinkingly with language that might have horrified our parents, let alone our grandparents, we are, in effect, throwing stones into a pond. Throw enough and you create waves.

Nor is it only actual swear words which cause the problem. If you call a woman a bitch you are, in a magical sense, making her become one. Or call someone a freak and an element of freakiness suddenly descends on them. I hate political correctness, which I feel has all but stifled debate and free thinking. There’s no need for it, and weirdly, one of its by-products is that we now have verbal free for alls where language has become twisted and distorted. Words which were once powerful (swear words, curses, oaths) are bandied about as part of everyday conversation. Worse, the media bombards us with them, so whether we like it or not, these powerful epithets are propelled our way.

And all this is hurtling around bouncing from the magical worlds to the real one and back again. And we are going to be picking up the pieces.

A large number of St Bernards end up in rescue every year. This was particularly bad around the time the film 'Beethoven' came out, even though if you watched it with any degree of intelligence you would realise:
1. St Bernards are huge in every way. Therefore they generate enormous amounts of drool, muddy footprints and pwp. If you are fanatically houseproud, do not even consider it. They will send you mad.

2. St Bernards believe they were born to be lapdogs. They do not understand this is an impossibility without crippling you.

To give you some idea of the size of an (almost) fully grown dog, here is Ben inspecting the table:

Many people like the idea of a ST Bernard but really don't realise the work they can entail. They ARE gorgeous dogs, but they're not for everyone. You need to be able to tolerate a certain amount of chaos, mess, and remember that when they shed hair you are going to have sacksful of the stuff (unless you go for a smooth coated.)

Often one person in the family wants a St Bernard and the others just go along with the idea. Then when things don't work out it's "Well I never wanted a dog," and recriminations all around. Also if you have small children remember the dog is going to grow more quickly, and considerably bigger than the child. If a child is allowed to tease a ST Bernard and make it nasty, you are going to have huge problems.

That said, yes, a St Bernard is big in every way, and big hearted above all. He adores his human family. He is loyal to a fault, intelligent and placid.

Look carefully at the photo again - the table corner has been chewed and mended, and one chair is lacking an arm (it broke off when one of our earlier dogs was 'playing'.)

And I wouldn't be without them for the world.

The date today, 3rd September 2007. Sixty eight years ago, England declared itself at war with Germany. Millions of lives were lost to war and genocide with all their assorted horrors. There is something about this day that you can still reach out and feel. Something dark and brooding as though its influence has never really gone away.

Certain dates seem to touch our lives more than others. I am curious whether anyone reading this has ever noticed a significant date in their lives. For me there’s a single date in November that has kept recurring throughout my life. There are basically two ways (at present) or looking at time. Either we regard it as linear (in which case January follows December and that’s that) or cyclical (in which case we get our heads around the idea that January both follows and precedes December). It’s also possible to accept a complex combination of the cyclical/linear idea, so that you get January may both precede and follow December, but in a given 12 month period it can only do one of the other.

We don’t really understand time at all. Yes, we have watches and calendars to tell us the time, but that’s all they are – measuring jugs for time. It would be like making bread using a pint of water, and believing that just having the water jug in your hand would somehow enable you to make bread if all the other ingredients were missing.

The essence of time – why it is the way it is, why we find ourselves at a particular ‘point in time’ is something I, for one, haven’t grasped yet. Nor am I likely to, if I’m honest with myself. But sometimes a journey begins with questions and thinking…

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

The most popular idea most of us have about encountering ghosts all revolves around seeing. ‘I saw a ghost.’ But in fact virtually all our five senses (apart from taste, although there may be someone out there whose had different experiences) can experience the supernatural in some way.

It’s actually quite difficult for an spirit entity (which is really what I mean by ghost in this article) to become visible. It takes a great deal of energy. In fact all forms of manifestation drain their surroundings to some extent, but visual manifestations do this to a greater extent than others. Examples of ‘draining’ are clocks stopping (especially battery operated ones whose batteries drain off suddenly), high electricity bills and other electrical equipment sometimes acting strangely (always supposing there’s no ‘natural’ explanation for this.)

Ghosts who don’t materialise sometimes manifest themselves through sound. Where I live we often hear footsteps, voices, laughter, and occasionally a bell ringing. This latter is often, though not always, a forerunner to a full blown psychic attack. Once we were even treated to hearing a ghostly game of table tennis!

Smell is another common means of manifestation. Usually you get something floral, (almost always roses, occasionally lavender) or rotten flesh, drains or bad eggs. People used to attribute a sulphurous smell to the devil (think of fire and brimstone!) but it can often just be another way of the supernatural trying to attract our attention. Obviously it makes sense, (and keeps you sane) if you check out that you don’t actually have a problem with the drains, and that there are no dead mice behind the kitchen units before accepting a supernatural explanation.

Finally, have you ever felt someone tap your shoulder, turn around and there’s nobody there? That’s just another ‘attention grabber’. So when people say they will only believe in ghosts if they can see them for themselves, they are missing out on a whole range of possible experiences.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

This is what you get when you invite a St Bernard to a Birthday Party....

This is Barney, the soulful one. We think he may be singing Penblwydd Hapus (Happy Birthday) It can be very intimidating!

I feel a lot better today, and just wanted to say thank you for your kind wishes and support, it meant a lot. I'm still a bit washed out but at least I'm up and about again.

I've also managed to get my camera software working which should mean more pictures here (many thanks, Usksider!)

I still can't seem to get a blog list up so I can put a decent link to my website - as Mermaid points out, the link on the header doesn't actually work! I try to edit the website and put in the link but it doesn't appear! Still, I'll keep trying.