Work yesterday, work that had to be done, but no writing. Just a W. Nothing worth recording here, except that I did finally manage to wring what I needed from the Great Confusion of Photoshop.
The weather remains cold and dreary, and if the meteorologists are correct, will remain so on past Imbolc. So there's really no reason to continue commenting upon it. The Future Me reading this may rest assured that I have not neglected Mr. Hemingway's wise suggestion by neglecting the weather. I have already noted the weather, repeatedly, and will do so again when it ever does something different.
Still undecided re: the magick/neopaganism filter. Not quite forty people expressed an interest in being included, but that's still a very small fraction of the journal's readers. Which might mean that it's best to avoid these subjects altogether, especially given that my entries are rarely ever focused on a single subject, making filters impratical.
Last night, we watched John Ford's adaptation of Richard Llewellyn's How Green Was My Valley (1941), as Spooky had never seen it and it's a film which I very much adore. We read some on trance states and scrying.
The white room with flickering fluorescent bulbs. The book of seemingly identical photographs lying open on damp sheets. The photographs are numbered beginning with 0001. And beside each number there are clusters of upraised dimples which I take to be Braille. Marlene Dietrich singing "I May Never Go Home Anymore." Scratchy vinyl. The sound of rain at the windows. The albino woman talking on the black Bakelite telephone.
Atqui nunc certe vigilantibus oculis intueor hanc chartam, non sopitum est hoc caput quod commoveo, manum istam prudens & sciens extendo & sentio; non tam distincta contingerent dormienti. Quasi scilicet non recorder a similibus etiam cogitationibus me aliàs in somnis fuisse delusum; quae dum cogito attentius, tam plane video nunquam certis indiciis vigiliam a somno posse distingui, ut obstupescam, & fere hic ipse stupor mihi opinionem somni confirmet.
At the present moment, however, I certainly look upon this paper with eyes wide awake; the head which I now move is not asleep; I extend this hand consciously and with express purpose, and I perceive it; the occurrences in sleep are not so distinct as all this. But I cannot forget that, at other times I have been deceived in sleep by similar illusions; and, attentively considering those cases, I perceive so clearly that there exist no certain marks by which the state of waking can ever be distinguished from sleep, that I feel greatly astonished; and in amazement I almost persuade myself that I am now dreaming.
— René Descartes
It's getting late, and today I have to write. If you've not yet picked up a copy of Daughter of Hounds, I would be thankful if you'd please do so. I promise it makes a great deal more sense than this blog entry.