Samhain

I have looked and looked, and it seems like the same book. I am sure it is, but there are subtle differences that mark a new era.

.
The pentacle on the cover is slightly smaller, the purple is a shade lighter, but one thing stands out on the back cover and it made me smile and smile and smile -

$15.99

I have crossed the pond, rather we have crossed the Atlantic Pond, me, and Derec, and of course that bloody witch, Dorcas.

Lovely, lovely American people, buy your copy here on
Amazon US

Like the first time I held the real, live book in my hands, I am not ashamed to say that I welled up. My mum and dad would have been so proud.



Love and light this Samhain - now have a drink with me.

.

The National Un-healthy Service

Debi has been posting for a while about her trials and tribulations with her dad and the health service that we are all very proud of, yes, we are, aren't we?. Her almost daily rounds of mailing and making phone calls about the care her dad should be receiving are enough to make me grind my teeth to stumps (oh no, can't do that - dentist bill!).

I am not a sicky, and neither is anyone in my family, but every now and again we get something that can't be treated with homeopathy, or a nice rest in bed. I know that my family are no different from any other, and we trot off to see the quack maybe once a year, hardly a drain on national resources.
In our sparse sickness careers it has come to my attention that not once, but many times, the NHS has failed us badly. We have nearly paid the Ferryman for one adult and one child ticket thanks to the NHS - one undiagnosed ectopic pregnancy (me) and one urine infection cleverly disguised as pneumonia (small fecker). At the time you sort of count your blessings that you managed to survive, thanking the Great Gods of Alive n' Kicking that no matter how hard they tried they couldn't kill you off.
It is only in later months/years that you look back and say "Whoa, hang on a minute". It's not just your 'life in their hands' business either, the small things are often the ones that grate. When my dad was busy dying from Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma he didn't notice the filthy oncology ward or the fact that we had to bring him in extra blankets from home because they had run out. When Big Fecker had a gall stone removed, he was left alone for hours on end because there was only two staff on for a ward of about 30 teens and kids.

We could blame this debacle on the fact that all our small hospitals have closed and one huge city-like monstrosity has replaced them - top heavy in management and bottom light in care makes us all a little nervous if we have to have some sort of procedure. I was extremely grateful for giving birth to both the Feckers in record time and escaping before they could add us to a growing list of complainers.

I have worked full time for most of my adult life. I am a middle income earner - meaning I can claim for nothing and yet pay full whack for everything. I don't begrudge a penny to the needy but when my family is needy I would expect to get the treatment I deserve.
The rest of the world still holds us up as an example of how it should be - health care on an equal footing for all, but it isn't, it's lies. You can pay for private medicine and receive the best care but are still expected to contribute to this sickly elephant. I totally believe in a National Health Service but I am starting to think that a stay in hospital is more akin to death row than a place in which to return to health.

.

And, oh yes, me secret......

Well, it involves one of these......
.

...and several of these.....
.
...and a whole lot of luck!

YES! YES! YES!

Dorcas is off to America - whooo hooo.

From the 31st October ( Samhain), Coven of One will be available in the lovely, lovely, lovely United States of Merka.

At this very moment a copy of the American version is wending its beautiful way down to Cornwall.
Can you believe this all started with a Skint welshman at OPENING CHAPTER just over a year ago?

Jonesy, we've done it!

I am very excited.
I am more than excited.
This will require a night of dancin' about without me drawers on (again)!

Please join me for a virtual drink, here on me blog on the 31st, to wish the purple one a long and happy American career!

Details to follow....


.

Du

Du

as night

A sooted word

shallow

colourless

obsidian bird

Hosts the stars

coats the dead

guides the monsters

to a child’s bed

.

Du,

as spades

a shadowlack

lifeless

lightless

veils the act

Heightens the senses of

want and need

drapes the widow

in mournful weeds

.

Du,

the bones

of underearth

pays the ferryman

as life reverts

Hides the sun

chases day

gifts the sleep

to those who lack

life cannot live

without the black

To deny un-light

Would be like calling

the kettle

Du

.

Once

Once there was a town that grew overnight, a town that became engorged with life from the tin that was discovered deep underground. Within a decade a set of nondescript little villages became a boomtown, a hive of industrial buildings and the pride of Victorian mastery over granite.
.
Tin became akin to gold, money poured in and the whole town worked it until the rivers ran red with ore waste. The town grew until most of the population were underground, or tending to the various smelting, stamping and milling processes.
By the 1970's Strange town had outlived it's usefulness. The mines started to close and and unemployment was rife. Buildings fell to ruin.
.

Ten years later there was only one working mine and the buildings along the once busy railway started to crumble away.
.
.
Not all was lost, many buildings took on a new persona but the locals thought the statues in need of some trendy headgear (this happens at least once a week).


.
And the train station, that once fed tin to a hungry world....




..became a sad little place, but still retained its rather fetching chimney's. Today the town is pulling itself up off the floor.

.
Not all of Cornwall is beautiful but this is Strange Town and this is where I live.


.

Phoctobering

Stroll on Sunday

I tried to resist but I had to include a few pics of my favourite place during Phoctober. This is the north coast of Cornwall and about two and a half miles from my home. Far more dramatic than the south coast, these cliffs have taken a pounding over the millenia and are subject to big landslides throughout the winter. Today the sea was like a mill pond.
.

(livin' on the edge)
.

.(gnarley, gnarled gorse)
.

(sea eating cliffs - recent landslide at top of picture)
.

(bit of glamour)

.(as far as the eye can see)
.

(a mackerel sky)
.

Silly on Saturday

Fancy a new name for the day? Just follow the instructions....

Use the third letter of your first name to determine your new first name:
a = poopsie b = lumpy c = buttercup

d = gadget e = crusty f = greasy

g = fluffy h = cheeseball i = chim-chim

j = stinky k = flunky l = bootie

m = pinky n = zippy o = goober

p = doofus q = slimy r = loopy

s = snotty t = tootie u = d orkey

v = squeezit w = oprah x = skipper

y = dinky z = zsa-zsa

Use the second letter of your last name to determine the first half of your new last name:
a = apple b = toilet c = giggle

d = burger e = girdle f = barf

g = lizard h = waffle i = cootie

j = monkey k = potty l = liver

m = banana n = rhino o = bubble

p = hamster q = toad r = gizzard

s = pizza t = gerbil u = chicken

v = pickle w = chuckle x = tofu

y = gorilla z = stinker

Use the fourth letter of your last name to determine the second half of your new last name:
a = head b = mouth c = face

d = nose e = tush f = breath

g = pants h = shorts i = lips

j = honker k = butt l = brain

m = tushie n = biscuits o = hiney

p = chunks q = toes r = buns

s = fanny t = sniffer u = sprinkles

v = kisser w = squirt x = humperdinck

y = brains z = juice

Thus, for example, George W. Bush's new name is Goober Chickenshorts.
William Jefferson Clinton is Bootie Liverbiscuits and Gordon Brown is Loopy Gizzardsquirt.

Have fun
Love and light
from
Tootie Bubblefanny.
.

My Opening Blag

Flattered? Of course I was flattered. The Lord and Master of the Blag was off doing important stuff in the real world so could I please edit the next edition of The Opening Blag?

"No worries." I said "Of course I will."

The mild panic set in later. Could I do it?
Wallflower was never a term I could apply to self, but could I gently twist a few arms, call a few favours and drum up some enthusiasm for an online magazine that I think is really quite brilliant? I hoped so.

Within days my wheedling was paying off. Some most excellent blogger's came back to say what I wanted to hear - fantastic! Now I have a couple of little gaps and I need your help.

The next edition is due out in December, a month that holds a number of personal celebrations and I thought that this would be a good subject to explore.

Jubal looked around the decorated room.
"What's with the greenery?"
"Part of..."
"One of your heathen celebrations?"
"Mr Sancreed." Dorcas said "If we are going to spend an evening together shall we make some ground rules? If I don't talk about my heathen beliefs then we won't talk about yours."
He glowered at her for a while and then smiled.
"The name is Jubal, and you are Dorcas, I understand. I'm only pulling your leg about the decorations; it looks very nice if you like your outside on the inside."
"Jubal, then, I..."
"So this is one of your Pagan festivals?"
"Yes, but the true..."
"So you do agree that you have heathen beliefs?"
"To you yes, just as much as yours are to me, but..."
"I personally don't have any heathen beliefs of any sort. God deserted me a long time ago."
"I'm not surprised." Dorcas said "You probably never let him finish a sentence. Shall we eat?"
-an excerpt from Coven of One.

So that was me, but what about you? What are your thoughts on Yule, Christmas and all the other festivals of light at this time of the year. I would love you to reach into your seasonal bag and send me a lovely sack of about 500 words linking life, light and literature.
Submissions welcome at my email address (in me profile), no later than 15th November.

If you haven't read THE OPENING BLAG yet then please get your ass over there now. It is jam packed with interesting bloggers doing all manner of interesting things - a coven of artful creatives. A must for writers, poets and artists.

Thank you

pee ess - this is not THE secret. That is coming very soon, and I am very, very excited.....

Autumn is eating my garden

Feeling Phoctoberish and concentrating on an area no more that 2m squared on my back patio - amazing what is there!
.

(candlecage)
.

(smirking Bud)
.

(ballet dancer fuschia)
.

(angel of the pots)
.


(no photos, thanks)

.

Let us pray

I had one of those lovely conversations over the weekend, you know the ones - a little bit of
grape juice to oil the tongue and a friend and I were putting the world to rights. Parenting, politics and the need to put children out of their misery once they hit thirteen, had all been dissected and dealt with.
Before long the topic slid into one that we have avoided in the past and I had always sensed that this was dangerous ground between us. The Catholic and the Pagan. A dodgy mix that could rock the friendship boat and sink our Saturday happy hour in one fell swoop.
I sometimes caught her eyeing my pentacle with suspicion and my use of the word 'Oh Goddess' in place of 'Oh God' had often elicited a slight shiver, so our differing views had become an unspoken agreement - it was a no go area and my favourite topic of conversation was off the cards. I often wanted to explain that I loved Paganism, not only for its deeply natural roots but also that it encompassed all religions, valuing each and respecting the needs of an individual.

I respect her religious convictions but I made a mistake. In referring to mutual friend I said that I was praying for the health of his very sick relative.

.

"But you don't pray." she said quickly.

"Of course I do." I said.

We looked at each other in horror. The line had been crossed, we were floating in uncharted water.
It would have been easy to move on to something else, the safe haven of the new one-way system in Strange Town or the latest arty bollocks that was adorning the walls at The Tate in St Ives.

Tentatively we discussed praying and gradually moved on to what drove our spiritual engine. With the exception of very few religions, I nearly always find that people's views of Paganism are stemmed in fear. My friend was no different. She was also surprised to learn that I was not a black candle burner, I didn't go in for ritual sacrifice and was unlikely have midnight chats with the horny guy who lives in the basement.

By the end of the evening I think there was a new understanding and I know that this topic will no longer be taboo. I hate having barriers and most of the problems in the world stem from the barbed wire that is religion. I wish we could all solve them over a glass of wine.

.


.

Every picture tells a story....

Maht's Phoctober Project has made me sort out all me photo's. Today's poor offering is some pics of me Big Fecker.

.

(Am I in trouble?)

(Not much)
.

.

(Blending in)
.

(Off to a 'P' party as a Pervy Priest last week . What a babe magnet !)

.

What happened to my baby? He growed up big and hairy. I tried to sell him on Ebay once, but I do love him really. Good job we have photo's to record the gap in the time/space continuum.

.

If you listen carefully ......

....you may hear a little whisper on the wind.

You know when you have a little secret, and every time you think about it your stomach tightens, your fingers tingle, and you can't resist a little smile?

Good stuff is happening all around me and now I have my own little bit of news. Tell you? No, not yet, but a certain broomstick rider is off on a little trip and I can hardly wait.

* * *

Phoctober

.
I like to call this one 'Pond weed eating my gate'. Don't think I'll win any prizes, do you?

A post for Pundy

In my virtual road there are now lots of bloggy inhabitants. When I first moved in I found I had a neighbour, a neighbour who made me feel welcome, kept my teeth sharp and made me think about a lot of things.
This guy who lives next door is intelligent, funny, kind and drinks good whiskey. He is also a writer. He has been quiet of late but he has been up to something...

..
My dear friend Pundy is published! Please go and say hello HERE - he has a free bar.


.

You have messages

One of these messages is for you. Take your pick.

.
.
.
.
.

* * *

Phoctober (follow the links from here)

Today's offering is a mine stack. Again only about a mile from me house, this remnant of a bygone and prosperous Cornish age is part of a string of tin mines called The Great Flat Lode.
These massive husks once held the steam engines that operated the pumps and lifts, and they dot the whole of Cornwall's landscape like so many rotting teeth.
I used to hate their ugliness but recently have been wondering how much it would cost to make one habitable. The only problem would be the rather large drop below the floor - still a good way to dispose of all those people who pissed me off.

.

The Red and the Green

Most people's idea of Cornwall is rugged coast, golden sand and lots of lardy food. I thought my Phoctober project should try and reflect a different aspect to the county so I will just take pics within a mile or two from my house and stay away from the beautiful beach.

Totally distraught at the withdrawal of red phone boxes (read that as ripped from my heart), replaced by the ghastly, free from urine smell (hah) new black impersonal, characterless ones, I am pleased that, so far, the Royal Mail has kept their lovely post boxes.
Post boxes come in a few styles, the mad cylinder with the flat cap, and the hole in the wall being my favourite. Anyway, here is a wall type box, just up the road. I like this one, it sort of looks a bit surprised.


I thought this poem would go with it nicely.


As Ivy

Ivy inches up the wall
sure intent upon its goal
the single pistil shoots it straight -
inside the barren wall, there waits
a single fissure, sure and still
whose orifice, awaiting fill
allows adventitious roots a hold
oblivious that this creeper bold
will steal away its mind and heart
leaving wounds, a mortal scar
of petioled leaves and rampant vine.
The wall, of course, cannot decline
and pulls invasion closer in
uniting in the calyx twine and
lets the greenery do its worst
burrowing deep, quenching thirst.
But wait,
Spring brings poisonous glucoside
offering gentle suicide
that may be the only way
to rid the wall of this affray
that spreads like canker, invading plight
denies the wall the freedom fight
But ivy will not let it go
mutual need drives it so
whilst holding brick in gentle grip
the ivy plants an emerald kiss

.

Phoctober, and being nice

Maht over at Moon Topples has a few interesting things going on.

His project of the month - Phoctober (sounds vaguely rude, if you're me) sort of captured my eye because I am usually one of those people who tends to forget the camera on those very important occasions. So, although I can't promise a photo a day, I have dutifully put my camera in my bag and will try to remember to take it out a few times this month.

So, here is my first Phoctober pic, taken this afternoon about a mile from my house.
It is Treslothan Church (1841) - tucked away in the middle of a dense wood, peaceful and calm. I like it because it is really a higgedly-piggedly mess of a church that doesn't seem to follow any churchy rules. The graveyard is also a constant source of fabulous names (Loveday Shycock, Garfield Grutt and Polly Penrose who was 'only six when the angls took her' - yes it does say that).
.

* * *

.
Right, better put your hot drinks down for this one - Moon Topples has also kindly awarded me a NICE thingy. Here it is in all its niceness.



Apparently he thinks I'm nice (he has much to learn) but he does say...

"Minx is nice in the way that I am nice, I suspect: she still bites when provoked. Once befriended or bribed, however, she is an excellent person (for a Limey)."

A true compliment in my particular un-nice book.
Nice is a funny word, isn't it. It is not a word that I use very much when I'm writing, I think it can be mis-used, often over-used and can be heavily doused in sarcasm. Mostly too inane to employ when you really want to get deep down and dirty as to how you feel about something but sort of summing up a general kind of warmy, cuddly nicely niceness.

So, forgive me, I thank Maht for this award, it is very nice, but you are all too wicked to receive it.
I shall keep it for myself unless you can convince me that you are just plain - nice!


.
pee ess - you can nick this one if you want it, Jon M
.

All the leaves are brown and the sky is grey....

.

...I went for a walk and there was a great big green moon in the sky and a man with a paper bag on his head asking me if I like Julie Andrews with my roast potatoes.

No, I haven't been at the herb, this might be a simple episode from any number of dreams I have every night. Often vivid, these dreams rarely leave my head for hours after I have woken and the good ones I will keep for days, picking over a particularly juicy bit. I think my brain is as busy at night as it is during the day and I often wonder if I will wear it out sooner than I should.
.
.
I was blessed, or cursed, with the need for very little sleep. I only feel tired about 1am and then I wake again around 6am and some nights when sleep doesn't look as if it's on the agenda I have to trick myself to sleep by reading a book with my eyes nearly shut. Before I had children I was a sleepwalker but now I just have mad dreams.

A long time ago I realised that some of my dreams were known as lucid dreams, dreams that felt as real as reality and it sometimes took me a while to convince myself in the morning that I hadn't really done, well, you know! These dreams can be quite un-nerving and there have been times when I can almost control what happens (I think).
.
.
I can't ever say that I have dreamed something and it has come true and neither have I dreamt my way through a whole day, like some people, and wake up thinking it is Thursday. As a child I drove my parents mad with the sleepwalking and the constant repetitive dreams that I insisted on talking about over my cornflakes. My dreams range from the bizarre, the mundane, to the downright erotic and the only really bad nightmare I can remember was when I thought there were no enough people in the house - turned out I was forgetting to count myself.
.
.
I also realised a long time ago that there was no point in analysing them. If I dug too deep then I would surely find out I was mad as a snake, and I really quite like them. Some dreams must reflect my mood and some are just some sort of internal theatre that puts on a play in the wee small hours. The brain is so clever, like some kind of personal entertainment system, all harmless, all perfectly normal, but probably a good thing that no one can read my mind!
.

(mmm, warm chocolate bath, not something you see during daylight hours!)

.

Lil bit

My lil bit is now added to the Lions Writing Circle thingy whatnot - here.

Phew, glad I wasn't 48th!