Blah blah blah enter and delete 4 paragraphs about various subjects that mean nothing more than the contents of a babbling brain dump. That's not what this space is for, so I will sum up my ramblings of the day: I need more sleep. I haven't been getting enough rest all week long. I've been running on fumes today and that's what has taken me so log to get to tonight's blog. This entry is not some new perception-shattering piece of information, the magickal spell which will make you rich, or the missing link of Paganism. Not tonight anyway. I'm tired. So I'm thinking about sleep. And about dreams. And about astral travel, dream messages, astral travel, astral temples and too many other things. I can't seem to focus tonight. I was going to go with something fun from Ovid, but instead I was lead to a Roman poet (by way of Greece?) He was from Campagnia, and lived in Naples too. Statius. There's a way too dry wiki entry on him. He wasn't as salacious or scandalous as Ovid, but there weren't many who were. Here is a translation of one of his poems, about tonight's subject, sleep:
translation by Kathleen Coleman, Prof. of Classics, Harvard Univ.
What is the charge, young God, what have I done
Alone to be denied, in desperate straits,
Epitome of Calm, your treasure, Sleep?
Hush holds enmeshed each herd, fowl, prowling beast;
The trees, capitulating, nod to aching sleep:
The raging floods relinquish their frim roar;
The heavy sea has ceased and oceans curl
Upon the lap of land to sink in rest.
The moon has now in seven visits seen
My wild eyes staring; seven stars of dawn
And twilight have returned to me
And sunrise, transient witness of distress,
Has in compassion sprayed dew from her whip.
Where is the strength I need? It would defeat
The consecrated Argus, thousand-eyed,
Despite the watch which one part of him keeps,
Nerves taut, on guard relentlessly.
On Sleep, some couple, bodies interlocked,
Must shut you from their night-long ecstasy;
So come to me. I issue no demand
that you enfold my eyes' gaze with your wings --
Let all the world, more fortunate, beg that.
Your wand-tip's mere caress, your hovering form
Poised lightly on tiptoe; that is enough.
The original latin names Phoebe specifically, translated here to mean the Moon. Phoebe and Phoebus. Phoebus Apollo... I'll let you extrapolate the rest of that while I extrapolate some rest.