As known, full moons magickally function to release or heal, and the heavy Pisces haze, arriving pre-Autumn-Equinox in the harvest-season, is ripe for inner child work.
September’s Full Corn Moon snuggled up in dreamy Pisces early this AM at 1:22 EST tapping into our subconscious sleep sectors and creative cores alike. The deep waters of late have forced us to “go with the flow” or face an emotional pit, challenging our attachment to control and concepts around resistance and acceptance. All the more important to center oneself with solutions and kindness in mind. We are so hard on ourselves, obsessed with success and how others see us. Instead of emphasizing insecurity (a trait sprung from a wounded inner child), this is a prime time to revisit the sweetness of our true selves.
As an unbiased core self that has existed since (surprise!) childhood, our creative kid selves can be a helper in the chaos. We often find our childhood dreams dismissed or diminished by social conditioning, the belittling and bullying of peers and, the biggest wound makers of all, our parents. This inner child entity exists within all of us, no matter how repressed, and usually plays out in our reactions, reluctance, shame and denial of our core joy. Quarantine has been prime time to return to our truest authenticity.
Following the mysterious psyche of the feminine in 1970’s film (a la our past Museletter with 3 Women), we have another film review also set in the sweltering of summer, as we wind down the season, in the words of Sarah Helen Whitman:
“When summer gathers up her robes of glory, And, like a dream, glides away.”
Picnic at Hanging Rock, Peter Weir (1975) Criterion Collection
To say Picnic at Hanging Rock leaves you in a state of bewilderment would be an understatement.
Originally, the story was born as a published novel by the gothic satirist Joan Lindsay. The clever sheila neither denied nor confirmed whether the tale she scribed, involving the disappearance of five Aussie boarding school girls at an ancient geological site, had been based on true events.
With Lindsay’s sun in Scorpio, she certainly understood the power a story keeps when an air of mystery is shrouded around it, not to mention the last chapter of the book only being released after Lindsays death. Such a novel is ripe with potential for experimental directors such as Peter Weir, who actually had the privilege of meeting Lady Lindsay before the making of the 1975 mystery drama. While Russell Boyd’s cinematography glides us through the films epic exteriors in an artistically soft focus, Victorian fashion, the reel suddenly ends with a legacy that yearns for resolution. Certain arrangements throughout the film encompass the mystery of this antique world quite well without falling victim to the cliches of the horror genre; but a slight residue of the directors masculine “impression” of feminine expression can be felt in certain scenes.
At first, the viewer assumes a detailed account of the haunting ordeal will reveal itself eventually, but you realize quickly the film leaves one with more questions than answers. For some, especially an American audience, the lack of an ending can seem rather off putting for the “solutions” mentality of our culture. Whereas the European arthouse crowds would possibly appreciate more the aloofness that leaves you contemplating. An element that stood out as reason to hang on was the significance of the Aboriginal origins of Hanging Rock; touching on concepts surrounding the intrusions of colonialism, the retributive forces that nature grants itself through mystical acts and the responsibility of man to accept the unknown. I recommend reading the book first and foremost, but this film is most definitely recommended as a thinkpiece to contemplate over a full glass of wine. – Soph
Despite having an intense middle school love of The Cure, my years long musical obsession was knocked off its angelic pedestal-esqe cloud by one single song on a mixed tape by a proper LARPing corset-clad vampire goth named Victoria who so kindly wanting to educate me in the realm of Dead Can Dance and Peter Murphy’s solo stuff. Hearing “Cherry-Coloured Funk” by Cocteau Twins for the first time was some kind of freakishly ethereal awakening. Soon thereafter I acquired every single song by the group (including their Fruitopia commercials and the Christmas songs). When pressed, they are my “favorite band” even long past the teen girlhood of black eyeliner as lipstick and the most morosely goofy poetry penned at any available moment.
The tiptoe between goth and pop is something I’ve felt attached to regardless of age or time. Whether older (Book of Love, Strawberry Switchblade) or newer (Tamaryn, Light Asylum), the dreamy quality whether peppy or in yearn has sunk its teeth into my heart and is difficult to resist. As the Autumn approaches, SugarSpun Kisses is made of purple-pink sunsets, meddling into blazing coral, dancing in the fireflies, carefree and dreamy, with a hint of darkness as we inch towards Halloween. It is the dream in which to live romantically and fantastically. – Sun