Now, at the eve of the astrological cross-quarter, is the time of a Witch's greatest power.

The water tide is at its farthest ebb. Things that normally are hidden are revealed.

It is a time to wander the mudflats, take hold of what you find and make of it what you will.

I guess it’s not too surprising that the first Occupy actions to make the authorities really nervous have been in cities with mild climates and therefore large homeless populations.

Perhaps we need to think through what kind of protest action works best in different kinds of communities. Camping out to draw attention to the issue of unemployment may not be the most effective action in cities where thousands of unemployable people have been camping out for years.

One of the issues we have to confront as a society, of course, is the blurring of those categories. Thirty years ago, one assumed that anybody living on the streets was probably on booze or drugs, or had some other kind of problem negotiating reality. Now all kinds of people are homeless, and many of us who are employed and look relatively comfortable are really only a few paychecks away from it.

Another obvious long-standing issue is why thousands of people who belong in hospitals or rehab or halfway houses are sleeping on the streets, getting sicker and wierder and angrier all the time.

But in a place like Oakland, an Occupy encampment rapidly gets occupied by the endemic homeless population, creating an excuse for the cops to move in and deal with it, in a hyped-up version of the way they have always dealt with an ongoing "nuisance."

Time to get creative about some other effective actions. I’m for boycotting banks, for instance. Just use credit unions, and explore other alternative systems like the old-fashioned and now disappearing British building societies.

It also could be entertaining to identify the homes or neighborhoods of some of the more egregious 1%, and go hang around in some irritating but legal manner. I am not sure specifically what I mean, but if I keep thinking about it the ethos of my gentle Quaker upbringing might suggest something.

The Water Tide Ebbs

After the Fall Equinox, the Water Tide ebbs.

The Tides of the year influence the kind of magic that will be most effective in addressing a given issue, and the magical purposes for which work is most effective.

Generally speaking, events in the flowing Tides are less responsive to active, instrumental spells than events in the ebb Tides. When a Tide flows it is a force of nature that carries the time along with it, and when this happens the Witch's best policy is divination to determine how things are moving and how best to move with them.

On the ebb tide things become more fluid and uncertain, and the Witch's power to mold them increases. Sorcery has its greatest effect at a full ebb Tide, just before a new Tide flows (the days leading up to each of the Cross-Quarter Days--Samhain, Candlemas, Beltane and Lammas).

The elemental influence of a Tide suggests the most auspicious magical aims and methods for the time. The ebbing Water tide is the best time of the year for works of healing. This influence grows from Mabon to Samhain; but when the Earth Tide flows at Samhain, it is overwhelmed by the certainties of nature and mortality.

The God at Mabon

Now the fires are burning low, and the light I have is dying.

There is more power in the bread than there is in me.

When you have eaten of it, I will be gone.

Things Fall Apart

The community college district, of course, has a hiring freeze on. Nobody who retires, gets fired, goes off the deep end or is run over by a truck can be replaced. It makes for interesting times, in the ancient Chinese sense.
The competent over-achiever who used to do all the room scheduling has retired, so now there can be no more room scheduling. Your class is probably in the same place it was last year. It works out all right for the most part, since there are no longer any new teachers or new courses. But no changes of venue are possible.
My phone doesn't work. The line has been dead since school started. I printed out and completed a work order, after a bit of hassle finding someone whose computer had access to both the Internet and a printer. Then I took it over to the mail room to place in the box for the "switchboard office," as directed at the top of the form. The mail room guy, one of the key people in the institution who still works there, said that there wasn't any box for the switchboard office because it was only one person, and now she has retired. I wondered where to put the form, and he suggested a few possibilities, none of which seemed like a sure thing to him, or sounded quite right to me. So I choose one at random, and shoved it in.

Fortunately, in the 21st century, phones are no longer essential. My students and immediate colleagues know they get better results from me on email anyway. Since somehow this dead phone line still pretends to take messages, I do worry a bit that somebody higher up, high enough to have a phone that works, will be upset if I don't return a call. Only a bit worried, though--such are the luxuries of tenure.

In the ESL department, we tell each other how fortunate it is that most of us were in the Peace Corps at one time or another. It was good training for what's going on now. Just find a good shade tree, prop up a blackboard, and start teaching something.
Over Irish coffee at the hofbrau tonight with my full moon cronies, we exchanged workday war stories. One friend said that all those alumni fundraisers who are always harassing us for more money than we've got to spare should adopt the methodology of those helpful organizations who market modest, useful gifts for people in third world countries--you can buy ducklings for somebody in Bolivia, or a goat for Nepal. Why not solicit affordable amounts to fund specific things that schools need? She'd be happy, my friend said, to donate what it costs to put in a phone line. People could fund this and that, there would be commemorative plaques on the photocopiers, maybe items funded by little trust funds in honor of departed relatives. Then I could have a cheery, operational phone message ... "Hello, you have reached Sybil Drinkwalter on the McIntyre Memorial Phone Line ..."

Signs of the Times

I've been going to the Touchless Car Wash in downtown Berkeley for years now. For $20 they take the car through the wash for you (I have a tendency to claustrophobia and really hate doing that) and then four or five people in red Touchless T-Shirts descend on the car to vacuum out the inside and wipe down all the surfaces (I have arthritis and just plain don't do that). While they are busy, you go inside and amuse yourself shopping for junk food and a whimsical selection of greeting cards and gift items.

Today, taking my grimy car in for some attention after leaving it parked out front of my house for much of the summer, I was struck by a shift in the ethnic composition in the staff. For as long as I can remember, the cashier has been a young man from somewhere in the Middle East (not always the same young man from the Middle East) and the grunt workers in the red T-shirts have all been from somewhere south of the border or beyond, and I suppose I always assumed, not thinking about it any more than middle-class white people in California have to think about it, that most of them were probably undocumented. Now, the crew is getting to reflect the ethnic composition of northern California--black, white and Asian as well as Latino.

And then there are the changes on Lincoln Avenue, the street where I grew up back in Amherst, Massachusetts. Lincoln Avenue is about a mile long, and connects the Amherst College and University of Massachusetts campuses. The housing runs a social gamut; four or five huge, gracious mansions in the first block at the Amherst college end, and increasingly modest middle-class homes as you move toward UMass, with a block of apartments bordering the campus at the end.

The top block has not changed one iota in appearance for the past fifty years. From there on down, there are creeping signs of shabbiness and disrepair, first in some of the houses, then in all of them. The apartments down at the end, which used to be tidy and utilitarian, have deteriorated into a little slum.

It's kind of a parable for the times.

This Is Your Old Age on Drugs

My mom, now 91, has one of those foot-square plastic trays with pills sorted out in lidded compartments by day and time, 28 for a week. (I have a smaller one, still just one little lidded box per day. And the system works better for me because most of the time I can still remember what day it is).

In the case of my mom, whose physical health is remarkably good, most of the drugs are psychoactive. I have not followed what they all are, or which discouraging aspect of her emotions and behavior they are meant to treat, since we have two nurses and a doctor in the family who are much better qualified for this responsibility than I. Just now, my sister was on the phone with the psychiatrist, having a very complicated conversation about dosages and trying more of this and less of that.

The result of all this medication is that my mom is not crazy, exactly, but still quite depressed. And more confused than she should be, given the appearance of a recent brain scan. (She doesn't have Alzheimer's--you could have fooled me.)

Coming from the 1960's by way of California, I of course see the obvious option of trying some really good drugs, if she is going to be on drugs. Primo bud her food, might be a good place to start.

Apparently my teenage nephew recently made a similar suggestion at the dinner table but was quickly stifled (his father the doctor is, like most doctors, quite conservative).

For myself, if I make it past 90, I definitely intend to do it stoned.