Within the work I’ve created for the Brothel of Kedemel, a collection of materials surrounding Venus in her domicile Libra, while focusing and continuing my work with the planetary demons, Kedemel steps forth as House Mother. Languid in her chaise lounge, smoking deeply from her opium pipe. Dressed in the most sumptuous fabrics of emerald hue: veridian crepe sateen, embroidered with jasmine and rose. Her perfumes waft heavily of gardenia and osmanthus, opium and labdanum. She presides over this house of ill repute. We find kedemel in the pinkish neon glow of the red light disctrict. We find Kedemel in verdis silk-lining of a duvet cover that is not ours, but a lovers. She delights in these Venereal arts of craftsmanship, lounging, and pleasure of both sexual and non-sexual natures. For her dominion over the arts of pleasure, as well as the liscivious underbelly of Venus, she is also a patroness of sex workers. Comforting, consoling, and guiding those who must find themselves in velvet underground.
Kedemel imparts the magics of glamour- the witchraft of love philtres, domination, faux-submission, and inflaming the passions. Indeed, her repertoire of plant allies include the rose, and the opium poppy. In my personal experience, Kedemel imparts aid in the Venerial drugs to incite pleasure, and ease a damaged heart: Opium & Cannabis. The former, Papaver somniferum, has been used in medicine and pain management for thousands of years. The milky latex is harvested by creating an incision on the plant seed pod, collecting it, and drying it in boxes, where it is rolled into balls and distributed for the partaking of opium, or the production of opiates, such as heroin, fentanyl, morphine and codine. The effects of these drugs will be familiar to any who have wound up in the hospital for an injury: mild to intense euphoria, drowsiness, intense sleep, lethargy, nausea, constipation, vomiting and so on.
Other plant allies within the repertoire of Venus (and by proxy Kedemel), include rose, violet, and orris. Amongst these three, I find rose to have the most magical and versatile body of lore built up- If you go to almost anywhere in the world, not only will most people know what a rose is, but oftentimes you can find them. It was only recently thatv I found out that even my home state of florida has wild roses. The rose has thousands of songs dedicated to her. The r
ose is used in countless forms of magic, old and new. I have created three fragrances around roses, and their use in magic and witchcraft, as portals to spirit communication. The rose is expansive. From her roots to her petals. The aura of the rose is even a apart of her. In the early spring to autumn months, the rose wafts her fragrance. The summer air perfumed. When winter comes her thorns are woody and barren, perhaps husks of her fruits- what isnt picked off by birds- are left to bear. Similarly- scientficially- the Rubeus genus (which I find magically grow well together, when placed as barriers to windows or the edge of the property) sports their thorns as well, clawing and gnashin those who move too quickly, too close.
The rose and rubeus, as well as the pain- management properties of the poppy are all aidful in the power to heal the heart, and soothe the organs of the trauamtized or worked sex. As someone who has experienced sexual trauma, I find calling upon these allies to aid soothe, and spiritually heal the heart and body.
One tale to meditate on, and glean magic from no doubt, is Briar Rose, better known as Sleeping Beauty. The tale is known as this:
In past times there were a king and a queen, who said every day, "Oh, if only we had a child!" but they never received one.
Then it happened one day while the queen was sitting in her bath, that a frog crept out of the water onto the ground and said to her, "Your wish shall be fulfilled, and before a year passes you will bring a daughter into the world."
What the frog said did happen, and the queen gave birth to a girl who was so beautiful that the king could not contain himself for joy, and he ordered a great celebration. He i
nvited not only his relatives, friends, and acquaintances, but also the wise women so that they would be kindly disposed toward the child. There were thirteen of them in his kingdom, but because he had only twelve golden plates from which they were to eat, one of them had to remain at home.
The feast was celebrated with great splendor, and at its conclusion the wise women presented the child with their magic gifts. The one gave her virtue, the second one beauty, the third one wealth, and so on with everything that one could wish for on earth.
The eleventh one had just pronounced her blessing when the thirteenth one suddenly walked in. She wanted to avenge herself for not having been invited, and without greeting anyone or even looking at them she cried out with a loud voice, "In the princess's fifteenth yea
r she shall prick herself with a spindle and fall over dead." And without saying another word she turned around and left the hall.
Everyone was horrified, and the twelfth wise woman, who had not yet offered her wish, stepped foreward. Because she was unable to undo the wicked wish, but only to soften it, she said, "It shall not be her death. The princess will on
ly fall into a hundred-year deep sleep."
The king, wanting to rescue his dear child, issued an order that all spindles in the entire kingdom should be burned. The wise women's gifts were all fulfilled on the girl, for she was so beautiful, well behaved, friendly, and intelligent that everyone who saw her had to love her.
Now it happened that on the day when she turned fifteen years of age the king and the queen were not at home, and the girl was all alone in the castle. She walked around from one place to the next, looking into rooms and chambers as her heart desired. Finally she came to an old tower. She climbed up the narrow, winding stairs and arrived at a small door. In the lock there was a rusty key, and when she turned it the door sprang open. There in a small room sat an old woman with a spindle busily spinning her flax.
"Good day, old woman," said the princess. "What are you doing there?"
"I am spinning," said the old woman, nodding her head.
"What is that thing that is so merrily bouncing about?" asked the girl, taking hold of the spindle, for she too wanted to spin.
She had no sooner touched the spindle when the magic curse was fulfilled, and she pricked herself in the finger. The instant that she felt the prick she fell onto a bed that was standing there, and she lay there in a deep sleep. And this sleep spread throughout the entire castle. The king and queen, who had just returned home, walked into the hall and began falling asleep, and all of their attendants as well. The horses fell asleep in their stalls, the dogs in the courtyard, the pigeons on the roof, the flies on the walls, and even the fire on the hearth flickered, stopped moving, and fell asleep. The roast stopped sizzling. The cook, who was about to pull kitchen boy's hair for having done something wrong, let him loose and fell asleep. The wind stopped blowing, and outside the castle not a leaf was stirring in t
he trees.
Round about the castle a thorn hedge began to grow, and every year it became higher, until it finally surrounded and covered the entire castle. Finally nothing at all could be seen of it, not even the flag on the roof.
A legend circulated throughout the land about the beautiful sleeping Little Brier-Rose, for so the princess was called. Legends also told that from time to time princes came, wanting to force their way through the hedge into the castle. However, they did not succeed, for the thorns held firmly together, as though they had hands, and the young men became stuck in them, could not free themselves, and died miserably.
Many long, long years later, once again a prince came to the country. He heard an old man telling about the thorn hedge. It was said that there was a castle behind it, in which a beautiful princess named Little Brier-Rose had been asleep for a hundred years, and with her the king and the queen and all the royal attendants were sleeping. He also knew from his grandfather that many princes had come and tried to penetrate the thorn hedge, but they had become stuck in it and died a sorrowful death.
Then the young man said, "I am not afraid. I will go there and see the beautiful Little Brier-Rose."
However much the good
old man tried to dissuade him, the prince would not listen to his words.
The hundred years had just passed, and the day had come when Little Brier-Rose was to awaken. When the prince approached the thorn hedge, it was nothing but large, beautiful flowers that separated by themselves, allowing him to pass through without harm, but then behind him closed back into a hedge.
In the courtyard he saw the horses and spotted hunting dogs lying there asleep
, and on the roof the pigeons, perched with their little heads tucked under they wings. When he walked inside the flies were asleep on the wall, the cook in the kitchen was still holding up his hand as if
he wanted to grab the boy, and the maid was sitting in front of the black chicken that was supposed to be plucked. He walked further and saw all the attendants lying asleep in the hall, and above them near the throne the king and the queen were lying. He walked on still further, and it was so quiet that he could hear his own breath. Finally he came to the tower and opened the door to the little room where Little Brier-Rose was sleeping.
There she lay and was so beautiful that he could not take his eyes off her. He bent over and gave her a kiss. When he touched her with the kiss Little Brier-Rose opened her eyes, awoke, and looked at him kindly.
They went downstairs together, and the king awoke, and the queen, and all the royal attendants, and they looked at one another in amazement. The horses in the courtyard stood
up and shook themselves. The
hunting dogs jumped and wagged their tails. The pigeons on the roof pulled their little heads out from beneath their wings, looked around, and flew into the field. The flies on the walls crept about again. The fire in the kitchen rose up, broke into flames, and cooked the food. The roast began to sizzle once again. The cook boxed the boy's ears, causing him to cry, and the maid finished plucking the chicken.
And then the prince's marriage to Little Brier-Rose was celebrated with great splendor, and they lived happily until they died.
The story of Briar Rose, of course is a tale of sexual purity, and chastity. Taken directly from the Grimms’ as a less-overt allusion to sexual purity and sexual assault such as its predicessor The Sun, Moon, and Talia, written by Giambattista Basile in his 1634 work, the Pentamerone. The use of sleep as narrative for the passivness of womanhood (that which waits for a man to awaken her with true loves kiss- at best- or assault her, at worse. Albeit even Basiles Talia is a standin for the love a woman might feel if she is lucky enoug to be idle, assaulted and have children. The final line of the work reads “He who has luck may go to bed, And bliss will rain upon his head.” (The Pentamerone, translated from the Neapolitan by John Edward Taylor.
Regardless, the thorns act as a suppressant of Man. He who treads carefully, who is cunning, who is worthy of (my) love, is he who is allowed to enter the fortress. We may meditate on the briar, with its thorns outstretched, ready to inflict pain on those who move to quickly. Indeed too we may pact with these briars to protect us, our homes, and our hearts. One philtre, which I have used to great efficaciousness, personally, combines the elements of these plant powers, calling upon the aid of the briar, to protect, and lock out what is unwanted. The use of poppy, even in its non- opiate- producing parts (the petals), or low
-opiate producing parts (the seeds), I find are virtuous in their endeavor to soothe.
The potion is as follows:
On a Friday, wen the moon is waning, or dark, collect with bare hands the most fragrant rose petals, and seven thorns
. You must move slowly enough that you will not cut yourself. The rose may desire your blood, but instead you should soothe her with the praise of song and cool water. Once collected, rinse and pat dry. Wilt the petals by crushing them slightly and call upon the rose for aid in soothing by her powers of water.
As papaver doesnt grow around me, It is unlikely that I would be able to give an accurate offering so well to the Poppy as I woul be able to rose. Instead I opt for using a pinch of the red powder, from tea bags, or the common poppyseed, sold at most grocers. Small increments, as they will add a woody- bitterness to the philtre. Call upon its soothing and healing properties. Supplicating it with water, perfume, smoke, or song.
Place the plant Materia, including the thorns, into a jar and smother these in honey. One third of the jar should be left remaining. Now, take a blackberry brandy, or raspb
erry brandy, and fill the other third of the jar full. Over it sing songs of healing and praise. Kiss it with love, as if it were your own cheeks, and store in a dark cool place. Repeat these songs, and shake for seven Fridays, or seven consecutive days. Finally, strain, and place in a clean container. One may take this before bed, or when necessary, calling upon the aid of the rose, the briar, and the poppy.