Escape From a Swarzschild Radius of Insanity



I have finally become a refugee.

From Twitter and Facebook, that is.

Last night I deleted both accounts before I went to bed and woke up this morning with such a sense of relief that I knew I’d done exactly the right thing.

I started out years ago on Twitter with 40 followers and ended up with over 1.5K of the buggers. This is not a good thing, as anyone conversant with the horrific phenomenon of Twitter can attest.

Twitter. It’s a great tool for keeping up-to-date on whatever news you’re interested in; you get the latest breaking stuff first, plus much of the as-yet-unverified speculation. But with that comes a clamouring clinging of hanger-on demons which will eventually deeply wound your sanity if you’re even halfway in your right mind to start with.

Some issues, let’s face it, are bound to be emotive. Transgender Rights, the Patriarchal control of the globe, Donald Trump…So you make a resolution to rise above the gutter-wiping of the basest Tweeps. I’ll just observe, you tell yourself, and take in arguments from both sides – to which end, you include a broad spectrum of class, race and political affiliation in your Follow list. Sounds about right.

But gradually, over months and possibly years, you find yourself taking sides. taking umbrage at the others. Taking seriously the emotionally immature rantings of a faceless archon who uses 140 characters to inflict as much pain as possible. And you find yourself doing this, too; becoming habituated to being as pithily nasty in as short a text as humanly possible to someone you don’t even know.

This is the template for all 9 rings of Dante’s Hell to coalesce and eventually collapse into a screaming, barking mad black hole of insanity.

And Facebook? With even the best of intentions of keeping it confined to family, you find yourself scrolling through endless reams of photographic saccharine memes, brain-deficient repetitions of somebody else’s endless idle time…nope. Just Nope.

And so I left those places. Threw them to the West, iconic icons and all, turned on my heel and walked away.
Because I can’t be having with this any longer.

Pic: Paul Kidby’s rendering of Esmerelda Weatherwax

Time Travel


My Pitbull boy, Taranis, huffling by my side of the bed just before midnight caused me to get up,wander through the dark house to the kitchen and open the door to let him out.
The back garden was lit in that specific way that lets you know the Moon is high, so I could see the fur-boy casting back and forth along the grass near the washing line.
The air was chill but not as freezing as we’d been promised, so I stood in the door waiting for him to finish.

It was then that I moved in Time and Space.

I am 15 and just about to step out onto the flagstoned patio at my Garlands Ride home in Salisbury, Rhodesia.
The time is somewhere between midnight and dawn.
Two telescopes stand waiting for me – a 3″ refractor and a 6″ reflector named “Slubbitygullion”.
More importantly, the deep space galactic clouds and star clusters are up there, waiting forever.
The Yugoslavian-printed book of constellations crackles open in my hands, I feel the slick cover and well-thumbed pages under my fingers and thumbs as I bend the spine of the little book back at the place I need tonight.
I smell the chilly night air. I see the patio illuminated only by starlight.
I breath into and out of a body 40 years back in time and a few thousand kilometeres away in space.
I was there.
And I am still, and can always be, there.

Internal Red Light – Disconnection


Today I felt sad.

A deeply emotional melancholy which pervaded my entire environment. My work, my relaxation breaks, my inter-office communications and my musings among the clouds covering Joburg.

I had heard, after 15 years, some words from my brother. We used to be close, but, like two trees sundered for years one from the other, we have little in common any more. This would make anyone sad. But the state of the country – the rabid self-serving pomposity of most of its politicians, the growing violent crime and the free-falling standards of living for all – and the horrendous state of the human world all had their say in my mood.

And “mood” it was, and all it was. I can feel deeply sad without losing my sense of being in the world, one with the life and energy of the web.

That is melancholia, and it’s human.


On the other hand, for about 2 weeks I have been dogged sporadically by something entirely different in magnitude and kind: depression.

I have felt it before, when I foolishly took an anti-inflammatory which was not prescribed for me. That was a nasty little episode, and it was undoubtedly chemical in origin.

But this, lately, has caught me completely off guard.

It’s a bit like being trapped in a box barely big enough for your body. You’re crouched, unable to move, and the only emotions which come through are bursts of rage.

If someone comes up to the box and tries to help you out of it, you feel like you want to rip their head off.

If someone so much as walks past the box, or comes into the vicinity of the box, you also feel like ripping their head off.


And all the time, your sense of being a part of this magical, awesome universe of Life and the becoming of Life is..gone.

Like a network from yourself to the rest of the cosmos has been summarily and totally severed. No sense of Being. No sense of the Love which infuses all things. No real sense at all.

It’s horrible beyond the telling of it. And this is Depression, I am given to understand.


I have, by the grace of the Great Spirit, been able to lift and clear these symptoms to a large degree, through the blessed help of our plant allies. I am so grateful to these unselfish beings for sharing their beneficence with humans, for without them I would have still been trapped in that box.

I cannot make this connection through any of the usual religious methodologies. This has long been a problem for me, although I can empathise with those for whom they do work.

For me, it’s possible to re-connect (or re-ligate) the soul connection through other living beings giving of their spirit to infuse into mine.

I’m getting better. But I beseech, with all my being, the Great Living Spirit that I never have to go there again; into the box, with no connections and only a spiraling, raging, internal red light of rage and despair to keep me breathing.


One Can Only Hope

Mercury retrograde was, as ever, a wild ride.

This last one, taking place over most of my 4th House – my Natal Moon’s House – had a couple of extra surprises for me, though.

My son turned 30 in this time. And I found out, almost at the same time, that his father (my second husband) had died, in California, of liver cancer, over 14 years ago. And I had never known.


Mercury retrograde’s enabling of retrospective helped me in this case, as I was able to navigate the inevitable flooding of guilt with only a little pain.

In this period, too, we sent the Fabled Bakkie into the clutch and brake shop and drove a rental car for a week. And at the end of it I was kicked off Facebook for not using my “real name”, and we were all treated to the edifying spectacle of our government revealing its full-Wetiko face at last.

Going forward, one can only hope….