November is National Novel Writing Month!

I've never done it before, and I'm excited. True to form, I'm starting late and am therefore already behind. At 1,666 words per day, I should be at 11,662 tonight, and I'm just under 3,000 at the moment. Still, I feel hopeful. I love the idea of getting past the self-editor by appealing to my equally powerful competitive spirit, which insists that I'm going to write 50,000 words by November 30th, even if its pure drivel.

Here's the first little bit, just to whet your appetite. Look for it in your local Borders in about three years. ; )

*****
Prologue

When she closes her eyes, she can feel his lips on hers once again, soft and warm like fruit left too long in the sun, and yet firm beneath, strengthened with the desire to not let her hold anything back from him. It’s as if the ghost of his kiss hovers centimeters from her face at any given moment, just waiting for her to forget the business at hand and come into her awareness. Sometimes this lingering presence is annoying; other times it’s a great comfort, and she can forget that he is gone.

That he has left her.

Then she opens her eyes and she knows it is only the wind on her face. That’s when she packs up and heads out, not admitting to herself that she’s following the dance of air across the sands in search of her hearts desire, as if trying to find the end of a rainbow (he had once told her a story about stepping into the center of a rainbow as a child, and that his father had, as well).

This was their dance, his memory and her wandering, his absence and her desire, his trail and her footsteps. It is the dance of Inanna and Tamuzi, of Adonis and Aphrodite. It is a dance that all people of the desert know well.

Unmarked Boxes

Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round
in another form. The child weaned from mother's milk
now drinks wine and honey mixed.

God's joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box,
from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flower bed.
As roses, up from ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish,
now a cliff covered with vines,
now a horse being saddled.
It hides within these,
till one day it cracks them open

Part of the self leaves the body when we sleep
and changes shape. You might say, "Last night
I was a cypress tree, a small bed of tulips,
a field of grapevines." Then the phantasm goes away.
You're back in the room.
I don't want to make any one fearful.
Hear what's behind what I say.

Tatatumtum tatum tatadum.
There's the light gold of wheat in the sun
and the gold of bread made from that wheat.
I have neither. I'm only talking about them,

as a town in the desert looks up
at stars on a clear night.

— Jalal al-Din Rumi (1207-1273)
* * * * *
So, perhaps you know why this would seem relevent and comforting right now. Perhaps not. But it is, and I thought I would share.

Elements of Magic at Burning Man

Woo-hoo! Brook, Evelie, April and I are going to be teaching an amazing workshop, the first of its kind to ever hit the playa! Every afternoon we are going to delve into magic and ritual, exploring a different elemental force (earth, air, fire, water, and spirit) each day. Using the tools of trance, movement, song, storytelling, and spell-weaving, we'll cultivate a closer connection with nature, one another, and our deepest selves.

Come join us at Sushilovecake, 7:30 and desert at 2pm any day (or every day) during the week. We'll be in the lovely Grandmother Pine Portal sanctuary space.

For more information on the Elements of Magic, or Reclaiming Tradition Paganism, go to: www.reclaiming.org/classevents/core.html

XOXO
Riyana

Nepal 'living goddess' loses status

By BINAJ GURUBACHARYA,
KATMANDU, Nepal

A 10-year-old Nepalese girl was stripped of her title as a living goddess because she traveled overseas to promote a documentary about the centuries-old tradition, an official said Tuesday.

Sajani Shakya had her status revoked because she broke with tradition by leaving the country, said Jaiprasad Regmi, chief of the government trust that manages the affairs of the living goddesses.

Sajani is among several "Kumaris," or living goddesses, in Nepal, and as one of the kingdom's top three, is forbidden from leaving the country. However, last month she went to the United States and other countries to promote a British documentary about the living goddesses of the Katmandu Valley. She is to return to Nepal this week.

"We have begun the process to search for a new Kumari," said Regmi, adding that a task force would determine suitable candidates.

Ishbel Whitaker, director of the film "Living Goddess" said she was shocked and saddened by this news and would make sure the girl's education was provided for. "The rule of not being able to leave was never a rule before.... Nobody ever said the Kumari can't travel" she said by telephone from London.

Whitaker said they filmed in Bhaktapur for a year. "We had been speaking with people we felt were authorities, and now these others are claiming they are," she said.

The film crew consulted anthropologists, the head priests of Sajani's temple and her parents, the director said. And she said the Nepalese Embassy helped arrange Sajani's trip to the U.S.

Living goddesses are worshipped by both Hindus and Buddhists. The girls are selected between the ages of 2 and 4 after going through several tests.

They are required to have perfect skin, hair, eyes and teeth, they shouldn't have scars or wounds, and shouldn't be afraid of the dark. They always wear red, pin up their hair in topknots and a "third eye" is painted on their forehead.

Devotees touch the girls' feet with their foreheads, the highest sign of respect among Hindus in Nepal.

During religious festivals the girls are wheeled around on a chariot pulled by devotees. Living goddesses usually keep their title until their first menstruation.

The main Kumari lives a sequestered life in a palatial temple in the capital, Katmandu. She has a few selected playmates and is allowed outside only a few times a year for festivals.

Others like Sajani are allowed to stay at home, attend regular school and take part in festivals.

The government last year announced a monthly pension of $40 for serving and retired Kumaris. Previously, the main Kumari received only a gold coin during an annual festival and the other girls received whatever was offered by devotees.

Nepalese folklore holds that men who marry a former Kumari will die young, and so many girls remain unmarried and face a life of hardship.

Critics have said the tradition violates both international and Nepalese laws on child rights. But the film director said the Kumari tradition can be modern as well.

"Sajani seemed to be a great example of how the tradition can move into the modern age," Whitaker said. She said she made the film because the living goddess tradition is beautiful and worth capturing before it disappears.

news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070...ing_goddess

Something that made me go hmmm...

I was just cruising on tribe, and happened across the profile of a guy I've been having a little flirtation with at a few parties lately. This weekend, especially, when we cuddled up on beanbag chair at the Anon Salon party and I had the blissful opportunity to run my hands through his hair as he hallucinated (as the Dandies would say, how Bohemian Like You).

So, I was enjoying the opportunity of seeing his interests and admiring his pictures when I noticed his age... I knew he was older than I am, but it turns out he's 42! I hate to be ageist or anything, but 42 is fourteen-going-on-thirteen years older than I am, which is quite a jump. I know relationships like that happen all the time, but... well... that's just a lot older than I am. It doesn't bode well for anything I might imagine to be an equal partnership, which is really what I'm looking for at this point.

That said, I do like him. I like him so much that I didn't even take advantage of him while he was on drugs...

OMG!! OMG!! I have a place to live!

And it is sooo beautfiul.

This is not one of those faux-literary blog posts I sometimes do. It's the straight-up, exuberant, OMG I have a gorgeous place to live in Santa Rosa (eek!) with hardwood floors, a koi pond in the back, gardening space, a porch, all sorts of loveliness...

I can't wait.

The girl I'm going to be living with is named Diana, and she seems really sweet and has quite a bit in common with me. She has a kitty named Molly that is almost, but not quite, as cute as EmilyMoon. Together, they will be even more ridicuously cute than any human can bear... once they get used to each other, that is, and the fur stops flying. (By the way, I'm really happy at this moment that EmilyMoon can't read, because if she could, I might be in a bit of hot water).

She'll forgive me once she sees the fish.

Can we say housewarming party, anyone?

California Witchcamp is coming! Woo-hoo, California witchcamp is coming!

I'm so excited at the thought, I can barely contain myself. Sadly, I have no $. Again.

All the more reason to get a job already, I guess.

If you're one of the many who's told me they're thinking about coming and have questions, do let me know. I've been going a LOOOONG time and probably know the answer... or I know who does. The more the merrier!

Much love,
Riyana aka Rebecca aka Becca (depending on the crowd)

******
Witchcamp California 2007
Sunday June 24 - Sunday July 1
Mendocino Woodlands, Northern California

Ritual Story for 2007: The Isle of Avalon

This is an extraordinary event for extraordinary people.

Share in a week of Reclaiming style, earth based spirituality and magic. Come and study magic and ritual in a week long Intensive. Witchcamp is offered to women and men at all levels of experience. Newcomers can learn the basic skills of magic and ritual, working with the elements, movement, sound and the mythological and historical framework of the Goddess Tradition.

Advanced classes offer the chance to apply the tools of ritual to personal healing and empowerment, or a focus on taking the Craft out into the world, creating public ritual, ongoing groups, and healing issues surrounding leadership and power. This event is a deeply moving, life changing week and also a constant experiment in temporary village life. We will also look at ways of bringing this work and inspiration into our everyday lives. Creating powerful, joyful times.

Our Witchcamp is held at the Mendocino Woodlands, located just far enough outside the town of Mendocino to avoid coastal fog. The camp is set among a mature Redwood/Douglas Fir forest, creating a beautiful, peaceful setting. The cabins are rustic, but pretty. Camping is also an option. A small river runs through the camp, which is the home of steelhead trout.

What is an Intensive?

Seven days of ritual and magic. Designed for people who are dedicated to powerful spiritual learning experiences and personal growth. This intensive is not a festival. It will expand your unconscious awareness, push your edges and likely change your life. The intensive is sequestered for the entire 7 days. Please plan to attend the entire week. Also, we don't allow children due to the intensity of
the week.

How Much Does Witchcamp Cost?

Share 4-person cabin or tent-camp - sliding scale is $495-650.

Share two-bed reserved cabin- sliding scale $545-695 - see below

Cost includes excellent food, lodging, and all events, workshops, and classes. The only other necessary expense is transportation and lunch on the road.

Please pay as generously as possible on the sliding scale - your additional donation helps us keep camp affordable for everyone.

Early-Bird Special - reserve Your Cabin-space!

Register and make your $100 deposit by March 31, and you can reserve a space in your favorite cabin! After March 31, four-bed cabins are not reserved - it's a first-come-first-served basis.

Scholarship/work-exchange - We offer some partial scholarships and work-exchange. Our usual scholarship is $150 off of the bottom-line cost, so you would pay as low as $345 for the week (covers all necessary expenses except transportation). Scholarships are granted by written request when you send your $100 deposit, on a first-come basis. Email us if you have questions - info@witchcampcalifornia.org

First-Time Camper Special - We are offering a limited number of first-time-camper special scholarships of $200, meaning you can attend California Witchcamp for as low as $295 for the week. Email us for more info - info@witchcampcalifornia.org

Note - Please pay as generously as possible on the sliding scale - your additional donation helps us keep camp affordable for everyone.

Our Registration Form is online -
www.witchcampcalifornia.org/regi....html

What does this fee include?

It includes all meals (vegetarian with vegan option), workshops, rituals and accommodation for the week. There are few opportunities to spend money, and no other necessary expenses except transportation and lunch en-route. You might want to bring a little extra cash for our Pagan Marketplace, and for the scholarship fundraising raffle and auctions.

Food:
All food is vegetarian. We can cater for some special needs (vegan, no wheat). We will make every effort to assure that you have an alternative selection. The kitchen staff, however will not be able to prepare special individual meals. If your needs are highly individual you might want to consider bringing your own snacks, etc.

VISIT our website for more info on the site, the week at camp, registration form, etc -- www.witchcampcalifornia.org

On the eve of another New Year's Eve in New Orleans...

The truth is, no matter what we would have liked to believe, you simply can’t have your city hit by a cateogry 5 hurricane and have it rebound a year later.

“It’s all the dumb people that’ve stayed,” Kristen’s ex-coworker tells us when we stop in to the beautiful and busy Bayona, the restaurant where she and her husband met three years ago. The coworker is trying to persuade Kristen to return, but my friend remains dubious. “And those of us who are too invested to get out.”

Kristen and Jeremy nod glumly. I’ve spent the last week and a half with them, helping them make the move from Portland – where they fled after Katrina – back to New Orleans. Their homecoming is not nostalgic, and barely hopeful: after trying to sell their gorgeous Bayou St. John home for over a year and not having heard a single offer, they’re making the best of a difficult situation. Portland was not a good place for Jeremy to find work (he’s a professional chef de cuisine) and Kristen is considering law school and wanted to be close to her family again after a tough year in an unfamiliar city: so, here we are.

Yesterday we went over to the Garden District Needlepoint and Yarn store (knitting is my newest passion), which was barely touched by The Storm and subsequent flooding. In New Orleans, every time someone says, “the storm,” it always sounds like “The Storm.” It’s a subject that comes up at least once every few hours. This or that’s gone, or this or that person is gone, or this or that thing is different than it was, or it’s the same, which is equally remarkable.

Walking down Magazine, it looked like nothing had changed since I had last been here three years ago other than the fact that the crappy restaurant that I worked at for a few weeks had mysteriously vanished. All of the hip boutique clothing stores and salons were still there, the coffee houses were filled with trendy, artless-looking twenty and thirty-somethings, and there was hardly anywhere to park. Kristen and I remarked on it with naivety that we both knew came from seeing what we wanted to believe. Her house is near the upper ninth ward, and we have to drive down streets lined with rotting houses with boarded up windows on either side in order to get there.

At first, every other sentence was about how much better everything looks than it did six months ago, or a year ago, or (of course) right after the storm. Much of the debris has been hauled away. The insurance money – for those who had insurance – has started dribbling in, and many of the nicer neighborhoods boast shiny new white picket fences and wrought iron balconies free of rust and ruin. We were seeing and hearing what we wanted to see and hear. I could even feel, in a purely energistic way, that the sense of brooding stasis that had once been so palpable in this city had cleared, as if blown away by that fierce and horrible goddess, Katrina (Katrina, who’s name is defamed and desecrated on the bathroom walls at the bar and as graffiti on the walls of the water-logged buildings, next to the FEMA tags that indicate whether or not their were dead bodies within). I felt the hope that I had never before felt here, hope for change and for rebirth.

This is a city that was once marked by its decadence and debauchery, neither of which are forces of transformation, but of wallowing. It wallowed in the stories and romance of the past, clinging to the beauty of its old traditions and turning a blind eye to the contemporary reality of a city divided by a disparity of resources that is most accurately and often simplistically described as a racial segregation of wealth. People came from near and far to engage in profligacy and extravagance, but cared equally little (that is, as little as many people here in New Orleans) about the harsh realities involved in running the machine that was the tourism and hospitality industry. Now that New Orleans has been stripped bare, naked as a babe, they do not wish to return.

Nor are they alone. Half a million people resided here before the hurricane, a number that swelled considerably with visitors (both those vacationing and those working) during Mardi Gras and Jazzfest, as well as popular holidays, like Halloween and New Year’s. At the beginning of this year, just over a quarter of that number remain. Mayor Nagin’s oft-attacked “Bring New Orleans Back” eighteen billion dollar plan anticipated only another 37,000 more.

So it was that we walked down the streets of the French Quarter tonight, on a Friday night just two days before New Year’s Eve, to find them nearly deserted. Bourbon Street, that infamous stripe of music and bars and strippers and beads, was barely chaotic, hardly the inferno of people and laughter we had often scorned in the past. The tiny tourist-trap shops that lined Decatur and Canal were vacant other than a bored and indifferent employee within. The massive, tower-like hotels shining above balconied chateaus and crumbling-brick houses from long ago seemed like petulant children waiting for their grandparents to yield milk or bread from the barren pantry. I wondered how many of them were even a quarter full.

This is when it finally hit me that you simply cannot rebound from a category five hurricane in a year. No matter how many happy news headlines you may see, or how few you see remarking on New Orleans at all these days.

When we got home, Kristen told me that John Edwards had announced his candidacy for president today in the 9th ward, against a backdrop of two crumbling – but not doomed – houses and a crew of young black men working to rebuild their neighborhood (www.nytimes.com/2006/12/29...dwards.html I found myself wanting, but hesitant, to hope. “It’s just another politician’s publicity stunt,” a voice inside of me scathed. “Like petting the dog.” That’s a reference to a technique I learned in film school: anytime you want the audience to like or forgive a character, just have them pet the dog. Pet the poor Katrina victims. I’m a Gemini, though, and there are always two voices speaking inside of me at any given point. The other one reminded me that hardly anyone outside of Louisiana thought about New Orleans any more (except, of course, the 200,000 people that once lived here and are not-so-mysteriously elsewhere at the moment). I read the news report with forced dispassion. Edwards talked about the war, about the environment, about poverty – all the things I need a candidate to talk about, that I’ve been yearning to hear from a Democrat’s lips for the past goddamn eight years.

I’m a Gemini, and we are often accused of being analytical but are more often than not as idealistic and lofty as all those ruled by the element of air. I try to stop myself from thinking that maybe this time will be different, but I don’t. Maybe it is pure synchronicity and fate that Edwards came here and made his announcement today, on the very day that I realized that it is only with the most willful naiveté and ignorance that anyone can believe that this city can be anywhere near healed. That it is not horribly scarred, aching for salves of money, hope, and new dreams. That it does not need the same nourishment and care that a young bird, about to make its first attempts at flight, does. Maybe today, December 29, 2006, will be remembered by us all as one of the last days of an era that tested our mettle and our ideologies to the utmost and that we came out of scathed but ready for rebirth (www.thenation.com/doc/20070108/solnit). Maybe what is as equally important as the corporeal bleakness always around the corner from any newly-veneered building is the pure, clear, gentle energy of change that seems to have blown in without anyone taking particular notice. Maybe the unmourned, jagged trees that look like cracks on the windowpane of the landscape will grow back, unfurl their leaves in the springtime, and surprise everybody.

Whether all of that comes to pass or it turns out that today is just another bit in my own personal journey to awareness and adulthood, there’s no where else I would rather be right now than sitting in the dining room of this beautiful house in the Bayou St. John district of New Orleans, more viscerally aware than ever before of the enormity of what has happened here, and feeling this incredible sense of sturdy and sweeping optimism for what may yet come.