Cutting the Cord

On a mailing list I’m on, several people are talking about a Yogic practice of cutting the lingual frenum, the cord that runs underneath the tongue and holds it fast to the floor of the mouth.  The purpose of this self-mutilation is to be able to curve the tongue back behind the uvula and into the nasal cavity.  This procedure is supposed to cause enlightenment.

It is pernicious nonsense to imagine that the body requires mutilation for enlightenment.  We are perfect as we are.  Anyone who tells you anything else is selling something.

Screw Butane — Moving to Propane

And not even the propane torch dented it.  Sure, it’s got some char about the edges, but it’s still green.  My garage smells like Woodstock, my legs are killing me from crouching, and I don’t even have it reduced enough to filter.

I am beginning to think that spagyria is not for me.  So much for “reconciling myself to matter.”

I Suck at Alchemy

The good news is that the caput mortuum is dry now and no longer in danger of growing something else or putrifying.  Smells pretty delicious, actually — like nice autumn apples.  The bad news is, it will not burn.  Not a little bit.

So I bought a pencil torch, figuring if it can’t burn at like 1000 degrees, it just won’t.  But I didn’t realize it didn’t come prefilled with butane, so now I need to make another trip to the store to get butane for it.  I suppose I’m dumb.  I’m certainly annoyed.  And not doing a bloody damned thing tonight.

It’s been a long enough day as is.

The Crazy Guy Next Door

I thought my new neighbors might think I was crazy because I stood in the yard chanting to the full moon, or because I burned herbs in a bowl in my back yard, or because I put up Herms on the corners of the property.  But I had silly fantasies.

My new neighbors probably think I’m crazy because I was outside filling two black nylon socks with snow melting chemicals so I could drape them over my ice dams.

The bad news is, I can’t reach the back — I have to wait for my much taller SO to come home.  The good news is, I really, really hated those socks. 

Plant Alchemy

So I bought the wrong filters, and ended up using paper towels. I can’t get the caput mortum to catch on fire, and I’m leery of sticking alcohol-soaked herbs in my oven.  I’m going to let it sit out overnight and see if it dries.  Or grows something.  We’ll see.

I took some pictures.  Perhaps I’ll post them later.  At the very least, I have a crude tincture — but I want to get the salts, too.

Hail

Hail to the chief, who in triumph advances,

Honored and bless’d be the evergreen pine!

Long may the tree in his banner that glances,

Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line.

Heav’n send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,

Gaily to bourgeon and broadly to grow;

While ev’ry highland glen,

Sends our shout back again,

“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! i-e-roe!”

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;

When the whirlwind has stripp’d ev’ry leaf on the mountain,

The more shall Clan Alpine exult in her shade.

Moor’d in the lifted rock,

Proof to the tempest shock,

Firmer he roots him, the ruder it blow;

Menteith and Breadalbane, then,

Echo his praise again,

“Roderigh Vich alpine dhu, ho! i-e-roe!”

Row, vassals, row for the pride of the Highlands!

Stretch to your oars for the evergreen pine!

Oh, that the rosebud that graces yon islands,

Were wreath’d in a garland around him to twine!

O, that some seedling gem,

Worthy such noble stem,

Honor’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow!

Loud should Clan Alpine then,

Ring from her deepmost glen,

“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! i-e-roe!”

Moving Day

We moved yesterday, in the middle of a snow storm.  Here’s a picture.