Root and Rock

Safety and Pointy Bits.

2012-01-20T22:53:00.000-06:00

Sometimes bloodletting is required. It's not something every person will have to do, or even consider doing, but sometimes the spirits take it without asking - we've all had an knife that bites, or a boline that gouges. For a very long time I operated in circles where bloodletting was a normal, and rather routine (even blase) part of the proceedings. I've been around it enough to see the sacred, profane and pornographic sides of it.

So here's an entry on handling "Sharps". Not just in the sense of bloodletting, but in the whole of one's "juju stuff". ATTENTION: This is not medical, nor legal, advice. Go to a doctor or a lawyer for that.

Some Quick Terminology

"Sterile" - Means that the item was sterilized, and packed in sterile conditions. It is removed from the sterile packing and used immediately, and is thus "Sterile". Sterile are the conditions used for surgery.

"Sterilized" - Means that an item was sterilized, but stored in clean (not sterile) conditions until the time of use. This does not mean it is sterile at the time of use.

"Sanitized" - Means that an item was cleaned with a disinfectant and is fairly "clean". It is NOT Sterile, nor sterilized.

About Bleach, Heat, Lubricants and Oils.

Every single one of these things can encapsulate bacteria, protecting them from sanitizing and sterilizing.

Do not rely on a quick wipe-down with bleach, and if you regularly oil your blade - SCRUB it regularly too.

Clean Everything, and Do It Often.

Even if it's a tool only one person touches, even if it's a tool strictly dedicated to a single purpose and is kept wrapped and put away. If it is sharp enough to cut, it needs to be regularly cleaned so that when it does (and it will, sometime) it does not give you a horrific infection.

For General Sharps:
Wash in lukewarm, soapy, water. Scrub thoroughly to remove physical debris, and put non-heat-sensitive items in a hot bath to remove wax drips, oil , or other items. Rinse in cold water, and soak in a bleach solution for five minutes (two cups of bleach to one gallon of water). Rinse again, and dry THOROUGHLY. The items are now Sanitized and ready to be stored or used - for general "sharps" that aren't SUPER sharp or generally used for bloodwork on living things, this is satisfactory enough.

If your knife has a wooden handle, I suggest slapping a cheap, non-lubricated/non-spermicidal condom on the handle and rubber banding it. I've done it, and it neatly prevents water from getting to the handle, which can damage handles over time. Remember: No glove, no love.

For Knives and Blades That Intentionally Cut:
Wooden-handled items are iffy. If they can be dis-assembled, the blade fully sterilized, and re-assembled - bully. But if they cannot... problems can arise. Some bacteria can form endospores which cannot be killed (and can be encapsulated by disinfectants) without the use of high temps and pressure.

If something is tightly sheathed, the use in ritual may preclude cleaning it immediately. If you insert a dirty blade into a sheath, and later clean the blade - how will you clean the sheath? Re-insertion into the sheath will contaminate the blade.

Communal Bloodletting.
For any situation that involves two or more people, I strongly urge the purchase of sterile lancets and scalpels. It's really in the best interests of all parties.

Icky-Bits Pt.1a - Responses.

2012-01-08T15:30:00.002-06:00

Harold Roth, an herbalist, businessman, Juju-dude, and author that I have a lot of respect for left a rather large comment to my last entry. It brought up a lot of points that I felt bore following up on - unfortunately when I tried to copy the text of that comment, the blogger system consumed it with a fiery passion - I got the text into an e-mail, and it's from there that I'll be copying. Instead of posting it here first, I e-mailed him with my response. A far more candid version of what I'll post here.

I expected a reply in the terse-and-or-pissed vein. It's part and parcel to the topic, and I didn't question for a moment that someone would bring up the downside, dark side...etc. I did address ethics, but I did not address them in absolutes - that's not something I'm in the market to do. That's the "problem" with the Occult, what is an ethical issue for one is not for another.

"Right" and "Wrong" and "Batshit Insane"

One "Sorceress" and author advocates feeding rats chemicals, painting them with nail polish, and finally beheading them with a meat cleaver as part of a ritual. I find that reprehensible, she does not. She advocates doing it, I advocate a real life reenactment of "Willard" up in that batshittery. I'm going to strongly discourage anyone from doing it, I'm going to say I think it's cruel, pointless, and just a touch over the border into psychopathic. I'd suggest if they wanted to do something similar they feed the rat, baptized in the name of their enemy, to a python. Then, at least, the python eats (Python owners also often pre-kill their snake's dinner. It's safer and nicer for everyone). That's my "Batshit" line. It's not batshit to feed it to a snake, it's pretty batshit to lop it's head off with a meat cleaver... but "batshit" is an imprecise measure.

I'm not going to kill something "Just for a bone" or "just for a ritual" - if I kill it every part of it will either be consumed, preserved, or utilized for a myriad of purposes. I'm also not going to use methods which allow the creature to feel or know they're about to go - that's my line, and my ethos. Beyond that, I'll won't make excuses or apologies. Meat is murder... tasty, tasty, murder and I do not couch or hide that reality.

Harold asked: So what's next, boil a black cat alive for its invisibility bone? Or set fire to a live rooster to curse someone? How about crucifying a bird on a wheel, spinning it around, and whipping the bird as it shrieks in horror for the sake of a sex spell (Greek magical papyrus--can't get more traditional than that)?

From the original post itself: "If the issue is what is "humane" and what is "proper" - Drowning in a pond is a hell of a lot less pleasant than having a bead a benzocane slathered on one's back. Being stabbed through the chest with a dagger is, conversely, less pleasant than dying of old age." Just because I did not say "And you're a horrible person if..." does not mean there was not ethics in the mix. I did not advocate one method or another, because I don't advocate doing the ritual at all. If someone pressed me - Benzocane. I didn't say it's right, I didn't say it's wrong - I said that it's a little bit more complex than two polar points.

In another E-Mail, Harold Said: My understanding of the toad bone rit, from a description that was given to me a few years ago, is that it traditionally involves nailing a live toad to a board (which if I remember correctly was then thrown into a creek to drown). [SNIP] Nailing a live toad to a board is animal cruelty. I don't think anyone can honestly argue against that. [SNIP] But you did bring up the toad bone rit, so I felt free to react to that.

This is an example of what I mentioned in the first post: "For anyone who says "You can't just kill something just for it's bone!" - they're either being intentionally hyperbolic, or are grotesquely under-educated on the nature of the rite (and probably ought to stop discussing it). There's far more going on here. Again, more on that another time." Anyone with more than a passing familiarity with the rite... or rather anyone who has read texts discussing it, will find that the information Harold was given was incorrect to ... well, a really big degree. The rite can be broken down rather simplistically to "Amphibian alive? Dispatch it. I won't tell you how. Amphibian dead? Pin it to a blackthorn tree, or an anthill. Wait until it's picked clean. Take the bones to the river. One'll get your attention." The amphibian, regardless, is dead before any poking, prodding, or dissection takes place.

Harold Said: The most we can do is hope it's not our black cat or our rooster or our bird, because we aren't allowed to condemn such traditional practices or to have ethics when it comes to what other people do. We are only allowed to have ethics if we keep them secret and never use them for anything except to guide our own private thoughts and private behavior. Sex fetishes get more public wear and tear than ethics do with us.

You're allowed to condemn it, but here's my point on the matter: If you (the general you) eat commercially packaged meat, you probably ought to speak to them about their animal handling practices before you speak to an occultist about theirs. I'd put my drinking money on the line that Wrapped-In-Plastic-Industries is worse than feeding the Lwa. Most consider it a "necessary evil" - why? If right is right, and wrong is wrong... go get 'em Tiger. If you have not done your homework there first, and come to me to complain, I'll laugh you out the door.

The ethics in "Pulling a Kioni" are not just the ethics of burning something alive - which is at least two boxes of refined Batshit. He was performing a curse, if it was meant to harm or kill there's ethics in that too.

Is it right to kill someone? Generally, we say "No", but when it comes to throwing hexes and curses... many people say "Yes".
Is it right to kill an animal? Generally, we say "No", but when it comes to KFC... many say "Yes".

Why does the answer change, when the act has not?

Bringing more discussion from the S&M community into Ethics in Craft would actually be beneficial - as would bringing in a few people from the Psyvamp community.

"Perfection" versus "Reality" in Ethics.

And the "Real Witches Never" Fallacy.

Harold Said: Must someone who condemns boiling a black cat alive not ever have eaten a factory-farmed hamburger? No. We aren't perfect. We are human and we fail. That doesn't mean we must have no ethics and must not ever condemn anything we think is wrong. It does mean we should be wary of being hypocrites. But to remain silent in the face of what one believes is wrong is to become complicit in that wrong and to offend against one's own ethics. Why should that be expected of others just so someone can crucify a frog or set a rooster on fire?

You can cry out against what you think is wrong, but putting it in an absolute won't provide traction on convincing anyone else. If we put the emphasis on reducing harm (to borrow a term from the S&M community) and working within the law... the problems untangle. For most, not all.
Even within the context of S&M, they've yet to reach a perfect place. Legally, engaging in S&M activities is "Assault and battery" - but if both parties are consenting, and no lasting injury or harm is done, is there still a crime?

Is any utilization of an animal's death in a ritual context automatically wrong?
When does it become wrong?
Is it wrong because it's not on an abattoir floor/clinical setting?
What if it is done in the literal most humane manner possible, within a ritual context?
Where is the line of "torture" and where is the line of "humane"?

Harold Said: Tradition does not make magic. People make it. They got that tradition not because it was handed down as a fait accompli by the gods but because people created it in the flow of time in connection to their work with spirits. Because magic is a human creation, not a divine one, it changes--change is a fundamental property of us mortals.

Some believe that and some don't. Their praxis is going to be different by default, and in order to figure out the ethics of differing practices, one has to at least be somewhat flexible. I am not about to say that beating the tar out of a bird, or burning it alive, is "good" - but I'm also not going to tell the person doing it that they're "cursed and wrong", because then I've lost all chance of discussing it with them, and potentially getting them thinking about different options. Of course, if they think about it, speak to their gods, and still come to the same conclusion? Well... that's when the wicket gets sticky. If they've actually -done- it? Eh, lost cause. I'll just tip off the right people.

In the case of the Toadbone: In order to get a bone the animal has to be dead. How it dies is left to the spirits - you'll notice mine was dead already. Should I feel an ethical compunction knowing the spirits killed the animal, and placed it there, in a cruel way? It might surprise you that I actually do feel bad that I did not intervene. I would rather have lanced it in the heart, or smeared it with benzocane than it suffer and drown.

Harold Said: If a bunch of mainline religious people can recognize the need for change with respect to the immutable divine, why is it that people involved in so-called traditional witchcraft cannot rework old practices that offend against contemporary ethics? Is their contact with the spirit world so non-functioning? Do they have no more any revelation? Hang it up then.

If the praxis is an organic thing, changing with practitioners (and that is seen as a good thing) what about when the drift pulls it toward a -heavier- use of animal sacrifice? What if the spirit guidance says not to kill the critter first, but to crucify it alive? Should they still quest for that guidance, or ignore it?

Why is it offensive? Whose ethics? If culture defines the norms and morals, and I disagree with the norms and morals, am I not allowed to strive for a change? Why does adhering to something mean that the person is not functional as a witch? What if the contact they recieved, and the revelation they experience, brings them to the traditional form of the rite, not even allowing for "it was dead when I found it"? Should they discard this spirit guidance because it does not suit certain morals?

The questions I ask aren't actually rhetorical, though I don't expect that anyone will really answer them. I understand that a different worldview and upbringing yields different results - I stated as much in the original post. If we just shut down the discussion with "IT IS JUST WRONG, OKAY?!" we'll never figure out the lines that ought to be there... and what ought not be there.

Icky Bits Pt. 1 : "Permissions" of Sacrifice & Toadbone

2012-01-08T00:59:00.000-06:00

The Seed of The Topic.

Eric from "Philosophies of a Witch" asked a few salient questions concerning The Toadbone Rite over on another blog. Not only were/are my comments not showing up, that is just not the place to discuss this.

This is a topic that, right now, I could write you a book on the whole thing. That is because The Rite encompasses a number of moral puzzles, social quandaries, and occult niches which are not routinely discussed - and there's reasons for that. Chumbley's treatment "One: The Grimoire of The Golden Toad" is meant for Cunningfolk and Sorcerers who do not need to be mushroom stamped (NSFW) by morality and ethics - The Witch is the holder of their conscience. If I were to expound, 'cause I'm damned well gonna, I'd go into those nooks and crannies - they interest me. I like discussing them, I like the moral puzzles and what great power and wonder they bring to the table. These are part of what make the rite as powerful as it is.

This is a topic a little like the Dandelion - You would not assume it's ad weighty as it appears. You might assume a lot of the hub-bub is just bluster... but bound up in the discussion of one, small, English rite are matters that can apply to all areas of Traditional Witchcraft and it's modern incarnation.

Direct Questions and Answers.

His first question was: "(snipped text) what about the Toad Bone Rite? I know there is a lot of controversy over whether or not the toad should be found dead or alive. Though, I suppose we don’t really know for certain if the toad witches of the past found the toad alive or dead….Most of the stories I’ve read of modern toad witches found theirs dead and proceeded with the ritual."

My response was to the usual tune: "The original Toadbone rite involves death. That is a core part of a specific “current” of that rite[1]. For a meat eater in today’s world, any objection to the death of an animal is a point better left to a polite “Is that so?” and moving on. However, the rite itself involves a period where one is subjected to the experience of the death the amphibian endured – through that one might caution the prospective Toadwitch to kill the amphibian with kindness[2]. Traditional is not right or wrong, it is traditional. Personal morals and permissions have to come into play. Absolutist views on these things won’t get far. Some are under a personal and spiritual geas or taboo not to take life, others are under the opposite[3]."

[1] - Lemme be really, really, clear on this. THE rite, the original from which all other permutations come, involves the death of the creature. If you speak to old-crafters, they will tell you (with only a few votes to the contrary) that the killing is an essential and irreplaceable part of The Rite. Those who have fully practiced it might make a few concessions, under certain circumstances, with very clear indications about why it won't always be that way, or what OTHER shit you might get yourself into when you go dicking with the ritual. More on that another time.

[2] - Above all consultation with one's guides, guardians, gods or other spirits-of-assistance is necessary, as well as full communion with the "condemned". If the issue is what is "humane" and what is "proper" - Drowning in a pond is a hell of a lot less pleasant than having a bead a benzocane slathered on one's back. Being stabbed through the chest with a dagger is, conversely, less pleasant than dying of old age. Between oneself and The Toad - you'll get it figured out. For anyone who says "You can't just kill something just for it's bone!" - they're either being intentionally hyperbolic, or are grotesquely under-educated on the nature of the rite (and probably ought to stop discussing it). There's far more going on here. Again, more on that another time.

[3] - Part of an Initiation in one particular Old-Trad line involves swearing an Oath to provide a specific Fetish for one's Coven when it is formed. That Fetish is an animal remain. It cannot be bought, sold, or hired. It must be obtained by the Priest him-(or her)-self. Swearing to do it means no backsies, and that aforementioned priest is now bound to kill something as part of his or her craft. Don't like it? Don't take that Oath. Don't like that someone else took said oath? Tough shit, really.

He responded back with: "Yes, I remember your post about the Toad Rite and you described your experience of being frozen and then burned. As I said every single modern account that I have found of the Toad Rite involved a toad already dead. (snip) One may even argue that finding a toad alive and then killing it for the sorcerer’s own purposes is actually quite selfish and would cause the spirits to curse the killer of the toad, wouldn’t you say?"

Well - No. I would not say that. The reason every, single, modern account you find references an already-dead animal is not what you think. Some of the persons I've spoken to will publicly state "I found it dead" - and privately state (amongst people they trust) "I killed it." Some things are not for public consumption, if only because the consumers will gladly toss them out on their asses for their honesty. Some people have not gone that measure because the situation has not presented itself. Some do not go that measure because they're afraid of being ostracized for it.

When people decide to start painting valid and legal ritual practices as "cursed" and "wrong" (painting even traditional shamans with that brush) - it becomes a climate in which honest discourse is problematic. Of course, that's not a new thing - it's a snail trail that has followed the Occult community since it came out of the shadows. "We don't (insert something here) like THOSE people" - throwing whomever the other misunderstood subculture is under the fuckin' bus.

I have posted an entry titled "How I Accidentally Became A Toad Witch" - I have not posted it's follow-up. Suffice it to say, I disagree that the killing of a creature for ritual results in badness. I agree that it -could-, that it -can-, and that it occasionally does. But to elaborate on that, there's some back-story required.

1: I grew up on a farm. For me death is a part of life, just by the nature of having animals around, and the nature of disease and predation. So death holds no taboo for me.
2: I have eaten the animals I raised, and participated in their butchering. I know that home butchery of the sort used in sacrifices is incredibly humane compared to the conditions one can find at commercial abattoirs. So killing an animal holds no taboo for me , and is not an act of hate or cruelty.
3: I've been through several near-death (both personal and proximal) experiences in my life. So the limina between death and life holds no taboo for me.
4: Through these internal permissions, and external permissions, there is no danger associated with taking an animal's life for certain reasons. So sacrifice holds no taboo for me.

I fully expect that these areas are taboo for most people, and if they went ahead and acted against their own morality, taboos or inclinations... or god help them, against the wishes of their tutelary spirits, then they would find themselves dealt a pretty harsh blow. This is one rite, absolutely and wholly, that must be performed with the permission of the spirits involved.

Permissions of Sacrifice.

There were dreams, nightmares, omens, and all sorts of shit without bodies suddenly taking an interest in me. I asked friends, I asked spirits, I asked gods, I asked the Frog. And they all essentially said the same thing: Maybe it is The Rite, maybe it ain't... but you damned well need to finish it just in case. - How I Accidentally Became A Toadwitch.

To be a lot more clear about this - there had been dreams about that frog since the moment I found her. I poked at intermittently while she decayed. The Work with The Spirit In The Bones was peppered with references to the rite - made by her - and jabs about my being a wimp about it. But my absolute certainty that I was NOT doing the rite meant I toyed with the terminology, and poked fun at the whole thing. That's what I do, I make light of the things I am unsure of - to tease them apart with humor makes them more accessible to my curiosity.

Until that goddamned bone floated at me and hissed. Shit got serious. I went crying to other occultists I trust - they sorta went "Well, you're fucked." So I asked the spirits I deal with - including Miss Frog. I was told "Maybe it is, maybe it's not - but you need to finish it." - the connotation was less "it's a good idea" (because NO ONE said it was a good idea) and more "we're telling you that you HAVE to do this, because not finishing it just drags the danger out."

Now, Does The Toadbone Rite Require Death?

You'd best bet your ass that the rite requires something dead. I have some indication that some similar results may be achieved through a myriad of works, but those would not be the "toadbone" rite - and depending on the permissions involved and the constitution of the individual, the results would be far more likely to go far more terribly.

The Prior Downtime

2012-01-05T12:53:00.000-06:00

I've been noticing lately that the tone of my blog has gone into places I didn't really want it to. It nudged at areas I was initially pleased with - but I found the results of it displeasing.

I was also getting bored with my old layout. This one's more simple, and a bit easier to read.

The blog was down for a couple of days while I sifted, sorted, and re-designed. Sorry for the wait.

Midwinter Supper, Holy Supper, and "Traditions"

2011-12-29T15:32:00.002-06:00

15° of Scorpio, The World Dies.

The world dies as the Last Harvest come in, and the whole of the wilds begin to fold in on themselves to face the cold. It doesn't come back until "Spring" - there is no hint of life renewing here when Yule comes around, espousing some "return", or if it is it is a vain lie before the icy horrors of January stomp the lingering green out entirely. Normally that means that other than perhaps visiting the local Pagan group for Yule, and the usual Secular Christmas... I don't do jack shit in the winter. The Altar is stone cold, lights are not set. It usually gets veiled, shrouded, and left "in state".

The Hungry Dead

But there is something that does go on. The world gets cold, bitter and hungry. Birds begin to flood in colorful waves over the feeders, clinging to suet cakes until they're leaden and stuffed. Spirits begin to drag themselves by, eyes pleading, voices scorched. Because those dead that cannot pass over into the otherworld do not get to experience the lush bounty the restful dead are experiencing at this time. They get our world, cold and lifeless, with not even the spark of trees to draw from.

The Compassionate Supper.

Miss Dirty, for whom I have great respect and admiration, recently shared a holiday Tradition from her blood family - that of the Holy Supper, or Sviata Vechera. It is a grand feast to ancestors, family, the dead. And I liked the idea. Maybe I wouldn't do it quite like Miss Dirty (I'm hard-hit by the U.S. economy, and though I'd love to feast boldly, our once gastronomically lush Christmas was sparse... and sandwichy), I signed up to do it none-the-less. For me this was less a feast, and more "sharing what I had" with those who needed it.

Oxtail Stew - Scyllastyle.

Ingredients:
Approx 1lb of Oxtail.

Approx. 1cup chopped Celery.
Approx. 1cup chopped Carrot.
1 head of garlic, peeled and chopped coarsely.
1/2 medium-sized white or red onion... I chose white.
3 small red-skinned potatoes, chopped.
1 cup Good Red Wine (I did Cabernet Sauvignon, the only wine I drink).
3 cups Chicken Stock (we make our own from chicken wings, and veggies).
1 16oz can of Diced tomatos AND Juice.
Salt and Black Pepper to taste, and a few pinches of Thyme.

Extra: 1/4cup AP flour, salt, pepper, spices (such as curry) to taste.

Instructions:

Roll your oxtail in the flour and brown it slightly in a skillet with some olive oil. Add ingredients in listed order, more or less, to a large Crock Pot or Slow Cooker, and utterly ignore it's existence for 20hrs. After 20hrs, skim the top - you will not regret skimming off the OUNCES of fat (this gets added to Their Portion). Then crank to high and "offset" the lid for another four hours to partially reduce. It won't reduce much, but will lose it's raw wine flavor, and begin to develop more subtleties. Total cook time is an entire 24hr span, and it is well worth it.
Serve in crust bread bowls, with a dash of Sriracha sauce and some lime juice. Maybe a tiny pat of butter.

Supping With The Dead.

It was LATE by the time it was all done and ready. I'd set out an extra place-setting, and doled out a little wine into the glasses. The bowls were heaping and fullsome, a little shiny from beef fat, and a little glossy from butter. We did not eat in silence, we laughed and "mmm"d and "OH MA GAD"d, we got flush from wine and watched scary movies. And after my Dear Sweetie was tucked into bed I returned for Their Portion.
I took some Christmas candies, and some bits and bobs, the remaining wine and the bowl of food out into the chilly night. I was instructed to finish the wine seeing as "You'd only have to dump it out, and never waste wine!" and I shared the meal with them as they, those not of my Family, tore specks of spirit from it. And there it sat, empty as a hollow log, but still a piping hot bowl full of stew... and then the animals were welcome to it.

Dowsing, Water-witching and Object-Findin'.

2011-12-22T00:16:00.002-06:00

A long time ago my father started managing the local water system. It was sort of a volunteer position, one had to go get certified to test the water according to the standards of DEQ, and that was pretty much it. The problem was that while there are miles of water-line running to every single house and lot in our rural edition... there was no information as to where the flying fuck any of those pipes were.

Someone trenching to run power to their house would often crunch their way right through the damned things, shutting down the system for days at a time. If someone wanted to tie into the system, or alternately needed to be cut off, they could spend weeks looking for the shutoff valve. My father usually wished there were a better way than simply blind-digging, and my grandmother offered sage wisdom:

"Dowse for it"

My Maternal line is rich in Ozark lore and "Mountain Magic" - most of it beaten into an unrecognizable form by the passage of time and influences, but a few nuggets were still there. "Get a couple of pieces of copper wire, like this (holding her hands about eighteen inches apart) and bend 'em into an L. You hold the short bit in each hand, and when they make a cross, that's the water."

So, my father got some copper wire, and made the L-shapes, and walked around like a bloody fool... until he crossed our own water lines, and the wires snapped into an X. As he walked forward the wires seemed locked to the spot, and disentangled from their X. As he backed up, they slid forward re-forming the X.

Being utterly convinced of his success, he began searching for water-lines all over the community. And found them. Every time. Except sometimes it wasn't a water-line, but phone or power-cables buried under the ground. And sometimes it was pieces of metal.

We discovered that not only could he do it, so could I. But some of our neighbors could not. That's when I became pretty certain that it had nothing to do with magnetism - but rather had something to do with "woo".

Okay, so what now?

The dowsing tools, which can either be rods or a Y-shaped bit of wood, or even a pendulum, don't really matter. It's a physical tell, near as I can figure out. When someone lies to me (if it's important) I often feel a muscle twitch. My body is searching out what it needs, and gives a response upon finding it. Neither I, nor my father, know the water line is buried there - consciously. But you can bet hard cash our bodies know... somehow.

Start with a feature you know exists - a water, power or phone line. A buried piece of something important. Have someone hide things for you - then dowse for them. Learn to feel, and embrace, the "tell" - until it is second nature. At that point you may not even need the tools, using your hand in the manner of a New-Ager feeling crystaline energies. Envision that your hand is a magnet, and the thing you are looking for is it's mate. Feel the twitch, jerk, or pull of the two calling to each-other.

Now, and this is where it gets weird... you can do this over longer distances. I feel that this is where it crosses from a physical sensory mechanism to something far more esoteric. This is where it goes from "The electromagnetic field around my personage is sensitive to the disturbance" to "I'm a witch, and this is witch shit."

And I'm afraid that's the only advice and instruction I can offer - work with it, develop it, master it. Find a that you start tripping over silver dimes in the street.

"Dangerous Knowledge."

2011-11-18T22:41:00.002-06:00

The Necronomicon - Archetype of Dangerous Knowledge

I do my best not to shy away from any topic here. I feel that shying away from something in a medium as non-confrontational and hopefully tone-neutral as a blog means that I can't discuss it calmly and I don't like that idea one whit. I've discussed insanity, self-sacrificial magic (twice), and a myriad of other stickiness hidden in the bowels of my blog. And I'll be adding this one to the heap.

There has been a recent spate of blog posts about "dangerous knowledge" and/or "oversharing".The crux of the arguments being that if one shares knowledge and experience, "teh noobs" are immediately going to go out and get themselves all fucked up on it. Except... it's just not that damned simple.

The issue of "Dangerous Knowledge" is not easily summed up. Not even a post with 30-odd comments has yet managed to rectify the misunderstandings, benefits and/or pitfalls of concealing information. A dozen other posts broaching the issue hasn't clarified it either; it's just muddied the water and made a few people rather cross.

To Know.

When I first started getting interested in woo-woo things, it was not for spiritual advancement. It was because something was doing it's best to end my life, and I wanted the power to fuck it up. I had already attracted the fabled worst-case-scenario by EXISTING. I never did any of the things people claim attract that attention. I never invited presences, or toyed with magic/k prior to it's arrival. I never so much as touched a ouija board, or watched The Craft.

See, I was happily reading one night, and saw a shadow slice through the corner of my room. It scared the shit out of me. It came back, and every time it did it showed itself a little more clearly. And every time my mood changed a little more. It attached itself to me, and parisitized me for, all told, about three years. Nothing I did made it any better, and it became so persistent, and so constant, that the dread, depression and helplessness that came with it began to feel almost "natural" - and that's when intrusive thoughts about self-harm began. It was my internal monologue, but it didn't have my flair for the English language. I realized what was happening, and I began praying... and it didn't work.

To Dare.

So, I got online and asked around - of the people that would give me the benefit of a doubt, not a damned one would offer any help. They would just sort of waffle about dark magick, how unprepared I was, and how I was courting disaster. They were blaming the victim for the rape.

One phrase that kept coming up was "Banishing" - and when I did searches for that, Wicca and Paganism kept coming up. I went to local stores that were "woo-ish" and asked the owners (Gods bless them). They actually offered some help, albeit minor. And you know what? Shit got better. I actively engaged with a demon, that one thing everyone and their grandmother's familiar tells you not to do, and shit got better. I held it at bay, but it never went away. Still it tried, demanded, insinuated that I wanted and needed to die.

Nothing in the mamby-pamby "banish with light" bullshit I'd read told me how to KILL it. How to teach it the goddamned lesson it needed to learn. Nothing told me what it was, or what it was -doing- to me. GROOMING me to accept it's commands. No one would help "Thems bad dealings, kiddo. I won't have it on my head" And so ... one time I actually got very near to offing myself just to end the daily torture. By this point I was maybe fourteen.

To Will

One night, that bastard wormed it's way through my wards, and shields, and membranes. And it came at me. It was either going to possess me long enough to make me kill myself, or just long enough to displace me. And lemme repeat: I never did anything to invite it, I never did any of those bullshit stories people like to share to pat themselves on the back about their Uber Secrets. It came spoiling for a fight and I was unarmed. All I had was my claws and teeth - so I used them. I ate the motherfucker. I chewed, swallowed, and turned that thing to shit. The shit that it always was, the shit that it made me feel like. I drained it's vitality to heal the wounds it had inflicted on me, and whittled away at it's hold on this world as it tried to do with me. And it ran screaming, 'intestines' trailing like rubbery snakes.

To Be As Loud As I Fucking Please.

I learned the value of silence. Silence is what almost had me dead, or worse. I know what to play close to the chest - and true Work is not one of the things to cow and veil. Had no one been willing to help me, I would've ended up dead. Having someone give me even the smallest arsenal was priceless. But, just eating it's viscera wasn't good enough - I wanted to know why it wanted me - so I summoned a demon.

Yeah, you read that right. I summoned a demonic entity (an Incubus, which seemed a good place to start) and demanded to know why one of it's ilk had laid into me. And the demon said "I will tell you this: I did not send it, none I know sent it. It had your scent - magic in your blood, and all around you, and wanted to take you for it's own. But you did it before it could do you. Our kind will never bother you again. Where you go, we will flee. When your name is spoken, we will tremble."

To this day, the Incubus I summoned is one of my most helpful spirit allies. I only call him a "demon" due to his stock and trade in "sin". And to this day, if something demonic is bothering people - the mention of my name sends it running. So, I did everything wrong, and it turned out perfectly.

So, I guess what I'm getting at here is this: FUCK your dangerous knowledge. Fuck your morals and high ideals. Somewhere there is a teenager slicing thin strips of their forearms off because a parasitic entity tells them to, and no one will climb down off of their high horse fucking long enough to give them the tools to gut the fucker doing it to them.

I guess what I'm getting at is...

Had even one person stepped up to the plate of authority and knowledge that they claimed - my situation would've turned out a lot differently. I would have a lot less scars (mental and physical, especially physical) and a lot less trouble in my day-to-day life. If you spend long enough in a state of fear, you forget what it's like to not be afraid. If you are groomed to accept the instructions of an entity it's hard to block them out. Oh, sure, I can tell pretty quickly when someone "not me" is invading my meat - but I tend to have to listen to their yammering until I cut them off at the knees. Your conscience can't take offering up something that might be used to cause trouble? My conscience can't take not saying anything. Different strokes.

"Photos"

2011-11-13T08:52:00.003-06:00

I recently got a few questions (anon, so possibly from the same person) about why I do not post ritual photos here and on my blog - unlike other bloggers.

I do not post up photos of ritual work, detailed photos of my temple/tools, or much in the way of pictures of my Familiars, Allies, and Chamberlains because they don't want to be photographed and I respect them too much to display them for non-attribution, mis-tagged, reblogging.
I could beg off, showing low-quality photos taken in bad lighting, so motion blurred that all you get is a vague sense of it - I could retire, satisfied that I made it look all very mystical without giving anything away... but instead I'll say "I don't want to show it, and the spirits don't want it to be shown."
I could simply re-construct a few ritual setups, a few things omitted, and take photos... But what purpose could anyone have in constructing a ritual just to photograph it? Staging shit for photos smacks of trying too hard for street cred.
I could show my tools, but they are given to me and empowered by the work between myself and the spirits. Why would I profane that gift by using it as a vehicle for self-aggrandizing?
I could show Famulus bones, or Homes, but showing the privies of an Attendant without permission is like putting a pic of your ex on one of those "Burned that bitch" websites.

Hope that answers the questions.

How I Accidentally Became A Toadwitch.

2011-11-08T12:27:00.003-06:00

This season is, I am not ashamed to admit, the most sacred time of year for me. It has always been during this time of year that things "happened" for me, and so that has informed decisions and timing for a long stretch of years. It's also the time of year where I get free-er with my tongue, and tell stories I would not ordinarily tell.

On the Menu are three stories, starting with the strangest, and ending with the most reasonable.

I Want To Post A Clear Disclaimer Here.

I am not posting about this to brag, nor encourage. I've removed details, spirit-guidance, and waymarks that are necessary to making anything happen. I have done this so that only those who have the proper who are called may come.

I doubt many people who have claimed to perform this rite really have. The actions of this rite shape themselves - details emerge that are not spoken of by even Chumbley, but are consistent with those who have performed it.

Of those who went through the actions, I doubt many did the inner work. This rite cannot be performed in actions alone. The spirit work behind it is required for it to have any effect, any success, and any impact.

Of those that actually did the actions, and the inner work - I doubt many actually had success. They speak of it too fondly, to gently, and too lazily. This rite is not to be played with- if you do not have the stars right, and the permissions in place, it will exact a serious toll on you. If you are not secured like a vault, impervious to the assaults that come with this rite, it will devour you. IF you are not mentally balanced, it will unhinge you (when the insects in the night start to speak to you, good sirs, I challenge you to keep your shit all in a row).

There are a million other ways to get the same "results" - all of them a far better, safer, saner, and more accommodating to not getting your world wrecked. Once it is started, it cannot be aborted. It has to be seen through until IT, not the witch, the rite itself, decides that it has concluded. This rite is best described as Lovecraftian in nature. It is a crash course, a hard-wiring, and a quick butcher job to jack someone in. It is utterly, utterly, unfriendly.

So, Here's How I Went To The River.

I did not set out to be a Toadwitch. I did not want the obligations or the fussiness around the rite. I did not want to find myself in the same category as other self-professed Toadwitches ("I happily rode a lot of bandwagons until the wrong person got on" - Penn Jillette). But mostly? I didn't want to raped to death by tentacle monsters - and everyone would have you believe this is the only outcome of the The Waters.

It was February. The temperatures were already back into the reasonable category and that's usually enough for me to start the work. This work is not witchy, per se, but feeds into my practices. The Work is cleaning out the small fish pond in my front yard. It had started to stink. It Had To Be Cleaned. I do this at least once, but usually two or three times each year. It, in and of itself, is a sort of seasonal devotional taking place at "the start of spring" and another "when fall happens". It all depends on the natural shift of the seasons, which do not so neatly follow them thur traditional Eight Sabbats.

Cleaning this pond isn't as simple as draining and rinsing it - it involves layers of fallen leaves that must be dragged out by hand, and almost inevitably painful bites from aquatic larvae. I have to do this to keep the pond's tiny ecosystem healthy. It is a watering hole for wildlife and birds, a breeding ground for frogs and toads and the "unofficial temple" for the Land Spirits. For them, and for the critters... I do the deed. It's dirty, and usually involves sticking my hand right through something dead.

February 26th, 2011.

I was up to my elbows in the muck. It was black as coal, made of decomposing leaves and rotten meat, and the roots of water lilies. Something softer than leaves, and cooler than the black water, brushed my arm. I twisted, and gripped, and out it came - it's back was black as the shadowy moon, it's belly as bright as the full.

I found the frog near the bottom of the pond. I assume it - SHE[1]- had hunkered down there for the winter and encountered a cold-snap that was unexpected. Like any leopard frog in it's winter colors, her back was nearly pitch black, and her belly was a creamy white. I laid her out beside the pond and finished my work, coming back to eye her. I'd been weighing something for a while - pursuit of The Waters Of The Moon, also known as The Toadbone Rite and other euphemisms and hints concerning watery places. In most of the South we don't make distinctions between species of frogs and toads. Generally anything that fits the description of either is called, helpfully enough, an "Toadfrog" or just a "Frog", so this frog was suitable for the rite, but was the rite suitable for me?

It took me an entire day to weigh things, and I decided I was not going to pursue it. It was not going to happen, I was not going to be a part of it. Too many variables, like "permission" and "suitability" and "consequences". Instead, I was going to make this creature an offer to become a Familiar.

Feb 27th, 2011.

It was all empty inside, water flowing from the nose and mouth. And into this emptiness I called to something, and it became full.

The Familiar-Process is lengthy, there are multiple variations and none of them are something I'm going to publish in any detail here [2], but I'll explain a few things from the way I work: When an animal dies, it's spirit can either retain some recognize-ability ... or it'll hollow out. The more "wild" the animal, the more instinct-driven, and the more unknown it is - the less it retains. Nature reduces, disassembles, and recycles EVERYTHING, even spirits. So, into a ready-made shell with only a small amount of form and function left, I placed something with a personality.

With thorns I pinned it down on a hill, crucified, and covered from prying eyes. And then I waited for the Little Ones in the Hill to take away the flesh.

I pinned the carcass, a little too "mature" in it's state of decomposition to dissect, to an ant-hill beyond the border fences between my "yard" and "the woods" to be consumed. I used carved, needle-sharp, pins made of fire-hardened wood, and covered the grisly tableau with an inverted, heavy, pot. And then? I waited.

And then came secret things, and dealings here unfit.

The ants, they did nothing. I did work with the spirit-in-the-bones, who was undergoing a metamorphosis. The carcass was dehydrated from the scalding summer. And so, into the maceration jar it went. I waited a month, and washed the bones. They reeked - rotting frog is like rotting mouse. There's just no way to handle it amiably. I wrapped my scarf (a black and yellow striped affair) three times around my nose and mouth, and went to the work. The jar was full of bones, and rotted tissue... and little black spots. I brought the bones inside, and began running a stream of water through the tray, and poured the bones out. One bone floated and began to hiss - not a dry bone, a wet bone - and it began to move against the flow of water.

"NO! Oh, NO! Oh HELL NO. I didn't set out to do the Toadbone rite, you fuckin bones!" I shouted. "This doesn't mean ANYTHING!"

The bone just hissed and moved a good fourteen inches up the tray. I picked up the bone, and put it in the sorted box. And with tweezers and patience got all of the other bones (except the littlest, tiniest, toe-tips... those were hard to see). [1]And still, there were the black spots - and it occurred to me somewhere in the hours spent hunched over the tray, that these black dots were eggs. My toadfrog was a lady.

The Waters Of The Moon.

"Frog 1" was found on the dark moon. Her bones were washed and dried on the dark moon. And for a month or so, the single - defiant - bone taunted me. There were dreams, nightmares, omens, and all sorts of shit without bodies suddenly taking an interest in me. I asked friends, I asked spirits, I asked gods, I asked the Frog. And they all essentially said the same thing: Maybe it is The Rite, maybe it ain't... but you damned well need to finish it just in case.

And so, on the cusp between the Harvest and Blood moons, I took up the bone and sealed it in a vial. And I tied the vial up with cord and strung the cord with bone beads. And I tied it around my throat. It felt like it weighed ten pounds, and dug in at all the wrong angles. For an entire week I fasted, and worked, and for five nights I went out and held my vigil.

On the first night I learned the language of the Al Azif. On the second night I heard the secrets of Those Who Go Under Skins. On the third night I spoke to the dead. On the fourth night I spoke to the never-born. On the fifth night I sucked the marrow from the bones of devils.

The vial became light as air.

Afterward.

My breath hung up in my throat. My lungs filled with fluid. My sense of smell vanished. My sense of taste vanished. My eye sight narrowed to spots in the dark. I coughed up swamp water and infection. My skin burned. "This is good" I said to myself. "This is a learning experience." I am the frog, and the frog is me. She drowned, I drowned. She froze, I froze. She baked, I baked. She was washed clean, and so was I. Though lingering breathing problems have persisted, resembling asthma. Gifts began showing up at my door a few days after the rite. Hunks of quartzite, skulls, bones, hagstones, boxes of candles.

She spoke to me, quietly. Ol' Ladyfrog. And she said [2]"You'll write a book about the Familiars you court. You will bind it with your own hands, and offer it to those who can see it for what it is." and so I heaped offerings on the ritual fire. I dug out scraps of slipskin - tanned hides of fetal cattle - cotton twine and paper. I cut, and measured, I snipped and stitched. I tooled and dyed and paused with my pen - the deep breath before the plunge.

Finding a Mentor/Coven.

2011-11-07T22:40:00.002-06:00

Anon Asked: I know this isn't even your most recent post, but it felt too "off topic" to post this there. I would have hunted down your email, but I figured if you were open to that direct of contact it would have been front and center somewhere.
I've been wondering just how does one find a mentor. I've tried to obtain one through the means of internet and real life connections. I've had nothing but bad luck on both ends. Maybe my standards are just too high. Any tips (that go beyond "find a local coven = profit")?

Well, Anon... you're right - Direct Contact is not one of my strong suits. I do have this blog and my tumblr, though. My Tumblr (same name as this blog) has questions enabled as well, and I get some interestin' ones from time to time! To get forward with it... Mentors, covens... hmmm...

Wherein I Tell You What A Dick I Used To Be.

Once upon a time I was a young pagan. I had a demonic entity driving me mad, and then I ate it. And that sort of dietary change does things to a person - in short, I got in a massive heap of fucking trouble because I had a massive heap of fucking power coursing through me. And I found some folks that "jived" with me. I pestered them. A lot. And they said "No, you're too young, and too crazy."

I knew I was fucking up. I knew I was doing dangerous work - I was desperate. I crossed their fucking conditions, I jammed my fingers up their asses and yelled "1,000 years of pain!" (metaphorically), I hassled them endlessly - illustrating my knowledge of them, their system, and shit I should not have known. Until the Elder finally said "Alright, someone needs to train her, because she won't leave us alone, and she's one of us, and she's an asshole." I was initiated into that system, and into another one of it's members was a part of - both places were squarely "Family".

So, my technique was "batter the gate until it falls" - that was stupid, and wrong, and assholish. Don't do that.

Wherein I Offer Advice Completely Not What I Did.

So, what do you do? Find the things that are important to you, and find parallels with others and their paths. Find someone you trust or admire who is a little further along the road you feel that you're on.

If they blog, or do classes... read/attend. Build a rapport, comment frequently. Never doubt the value of Internet Occultists - I've known Jack Flash since the late ninties or early naughts on various journal and blogging sites. I'd probably jump in front of a knife-wielding madman to ensure his safety.

Ask them one or two REAL important questions (to you). See what the answers are. If the answers jive - if you feel like "AH! THIS!" then ask them what Trad they are part of, if their Trad trains, if -they- train (if they are non-trad), ask them about their sources of inspiration and Work. Ask them about avenues you might find proffitable - of course, that assumes they're personable and will answer.

And The Real Core Of It All.

The BIGGEST thing is to find someone/someones with whom you feel a connection - and that connection ought to be mutual. It may not be everything you asked for, but it may be more than you ever dreamed. Be flexible - be willing to accept a mentor who occasionally rips ass in front of you, or looks different than you expected. Be willing to travel, or at least jump through weird and seemingly nonsensical hoops to provide -them- with information on who you are magickally. Be willing to accept a No, or a Yes, or a "Yes, but not now." or a "The Gods are saying yes, but I say no. Because XYZ" But be willing to accept a "Yes. And not only yes, but come over here and give me a fucking hug, bro!"

Set firm boundaries,but don't consider your boundaries to be an immoveable force. You may never be called for the things that squick you, so never behave as though the demand is currently present (unless it is).

Wherein I Bitch And Moan About Being Lonely.

I get the want, and the need for Family. My "Family" is no longer with me in the flesh - when I touch my feet to the Sabbat Hill I find fewer of them each year - some old, some hateful toward rogue upstarts like myself, some dead and gone. Where there was once a great, big, united coven... now it's splintered. Some have simply gone to other hills, and other ways - their blood a bond, but Family may not always meet for Thanksgiving. I sought it with CUUPs - and I did not find it. I sought it with Pagan Pride and Psychic Fairs - and I did not find it. I sought it with online communities - I did not find it. But between them, in the cracks and little places, I found a few people with whom I can converse openly - and honestly? Not in the places I looked!

Sometimes we ask for something, and we get something a little different. Eventually, longer than we'd like, we get something amazing. Keep your chin up - Witchpower does things, you don't step on the path without garnering notice.

Devotional

2011-09-26T22:22:00.002-05:00

When she sits she is Kerridwen at the Cauldron.
          When she stands she is Kali on the neck of Shiva.
                    When she walks she is Hecate of the Crossed roads.
When she covers me in her grace, she is Isis on the roof of the world.
                    When she curses she is The Morrigan of Spears
          When she snarls she is Sekhmet the Strong.
When she smiles, she is the terror of a black hole.
In all things she is of the roads, the ways, the keys, the cooking pot, and the tomb.
And I am humbled before her, trembling, in the dark.
-Scylla,

A Charm Against The Evil Eye.

2011-09-16T00:04:00.002-05:00

This charm/spell is adapted from the Carmina Gadelica. It combines elements from several of the charms found there, giving it a little more punch, and a bit of bite. I use this, among other protective prayers when I feel that things might be getting a bit hinky. The Evil Eye can be cast through malevolent prayer, through spellwork, and even through raw envy or spite.

I trample upon the eye,
as tramples the duck upon the lake, as tramples the swan upon the water,
as tramples the horse upon the plain, as tramples the crow upon the grain,
as tramples the host of the elements, as tramples the host of the elements.
Power of Wind I have over it. Power of Wrath I have over it.
Power of Fire I have over it. Power of Thunder I have over it.
Power of Lightening I have over it. Power of Storms I have over it.
Power of Moon I have over it. Power of Sun I have over it.
Power of Stars I have over it. Power of Firmament I have over it.
Power of Heavens, and of worlds I have over it.
In the name of the Tree of Life, and the utterance of the Sacred Names,
In the name of all of the Secret Ones, and of the Powers together I say...
Whosoever made this eye, may it lie upon himself, may it lie upon his house,
may it lie upon his flocks, may it lie upon his substance, may it lie upon his fatness,
may it lie upon his means, may it lie upon his children, may it lie upon his works.
I will subdue the eye (Horns up) - I will suppress this eye (Fig down) - I will banish this eye (flip the bird).

Obligation.

2011-09-06T22:14:00.002-05:00

I pour out perfectly good wine on the soil. Because I Have An Obligation.
I drink a poisonous brew to induce an altered state. Because I Have An Obligation.I consume a ritual meal that will leave me rolling in agony the next day, and ass-blasting my way around the countryside. Because I Have An Obligation.I writhe and dance, busting up my already fragile body on the ground, furnishings and ritual implements. Because I Have An Obligation.
I dream restlessly, her words pounding in my ears like thunder. Because I Have An Obligation.My home is a never-silent port-of-call for spirits, wights, the dead, the gods, familiars, fetches, fetiches and hungry wildlife. Because I Have An Obligation.

I do not rest (read: I am not permitted to rest)... until my obligations are taken care of. Why anyone would ask for these things - beg for them, seek them out, lie about and glorify them, unless there is no other way for them to exist is... beyond me.

Unless you have to. Unless the spirits demand it. Unless you have no other option: Do not walk the Witch-path. You'll come out the other side mad, dead, or a shaman. And them ain't the best odds.

Hiatus.

2011-09-02T02:36:00.002-05:00

I may polish up old drafts (there's about a hundred) - but I'll be going off-"grid" for a while ... so to speak.

There is work that needs doing, and ... well, I always wonder how much heart one can hope to put into their Work if they are stopping every five seconds to reflect on just how everloving witchy it is, and what angle will yield the best photo for the blog.

SI.VM E.T AV.VM

Appropriate Responses

2011-08-15T21:16:00.002-05:00

A post over at Deep Woods Tea Party sparked some ideas in my head. In concert with some recent bits of conversation, I felt like writing about a topic near and dear to my heart: Watching Pagans go all Chicken Little over stuff that a: isn't really worth the fuss. b: isn't any of their business. c: all of the above.

Every incident, every entity, every potentially crossed condition, must be met with guns blazing and scorched earth scenarios. Bad day? You're hexed and you need to literally counter-hex the feces clean out of their colon, NOW, before they really get you.

Appropriate Responses.

1: Assuming your "problem " is a place, is it inhabited?
If the location is some random place out in the middle of nowhere that is uninhabited, and generally not used/frequented by yourself or anyone you know, then it's really not an issue. "Something Must Be Done", you assert. No. It's none of your business, leave it the hell alone. It's minding it's own business. The -more- rural or wild the location, the less business anyone has going in and starting a pissing contest.

Why? Because it's going to win. You can't reasonably camp out at The Bluff every day, all day, straining against a tide that inevitably rolls in, flows back out, and rolls in again.You'll end up slowly acclimating to it, and eventually being overrun by it. Congratulations.

1a: Place, but Inhabited.
"We must neutralize the bad aura!" Er... must we? I mean, if it's a bad location in a bad part of town, just goddamned avoid it. But if it's unavoidable, then take a look. Is it really something occult, or can it be explained by power lines, bad neighborhood, or black mold? And do you really have any business messing around there? If it's an inhabited location, it's generally a good idea to get the permission of the owner - because, sometimes, they're the only person with spiritual authority in that space. Are you comfortable enough with your assertion to actually approach the land-owner and tell them all the specific, sticky, details to -get- their permission?

1b: Natural Feature/Nature Spirit, but "Evil"
If you stick your dick in the bear trap, it will get snapped off. Want to keep your dick? Stay out of the bear trap. Don't care what your personal moral judgments are on the thing. It's a building, or a gully, or a scary old tree. Leave it alone. Don't poke it, don't try to banish it like you've got the right (because you might, or you might not. And if it's "not"... I pity the results).You, Practitioner, are not the Chief of the Secret Police of spooksville. Some entities get warped by damage done to their home - imagine buying your own home, and having a natural disaster rip it away. You rebuild, things get better... then a few decades later some smartassed kid and his friends, wearing dime-store police costumes, came in and tried to evict you

2: If it involves a person, is it someone you have/had conflict with in a mundane sense?
We pagans, each and every one of us, have our flaws. And a really common human flaw is assuming one's trifling complaints with another human being are, in fact, portends of something greater.We like to justify our actions under righteousness. "Oh, maybe I don't like Heather, but I swear - she's CURSING people, I have to stop her By Any Means Necessary!"

2a: Involves a person you don't know.
Don't mess with it. Mind your own, motherfucking, business.

The Crow's Ethics.

2011-06-20T18:33:00.002-05:00

Picking apart date-fruit with my fingernails, mixing it in to a blend of roses and other herbs. It smells sweet, and yet dark - it is the fruit of the tree of death and it is the perfume of funerals.

I'm angry while I do all this - I had to go down to the police station and report a man. He's a level three registered sex offender (for acts with a child, not simply a minor or statutory offense) - and he has not been disclosing this information. Not to the people he has stayed with, not to the groups he has interacted with, and likely not to the local authorities as he should.

Crow's Ethics.

On the way home I saw a crow, roadkill, in the middle of the median. I think it's only the second I've seen in my entire life. It was nearly perfect. And I wanted it. I planned to go back after dark and take it. I was readying my funerary blend, and getting my kit together, and suddenly it hit me.

I could take what I want, ignoring the law of this land, and in the eyes of the law I'd be a felon. I'd be on some of the same lists with this motherfucker - this worthless waste of tissue that has the audacity to breathe my goddamned air. And I don't want that.

I realized exactly what that crow was teaching me. I don't need to bring it home, macerate it's bones, and turn it's tail into a smudge fan. It cleansed me from the median. It told me "Tow the line, grasshopper. I broke the rules and look where it got me." And it also said "You want me? Find me the right way."

Burdens and Blessings.

I've bitched a lot on this blog about my community, and I had a very sudden realization in the middle of my sleepless morning. My community is diseased by silence. Everyone tip-toes, everyone lies. Everyone tries to hide and protect and ... enable?

This is MY land and I will not permit this bullshit in my territory any longer. I will not permit the diseased, the criminal, the -slime- that has infected this community to continue to do so without fear of retribution. The claws come out - poisoned, and dripping with the blood of my enemies.

The Vessels and Their Contents.

2011-05-31T14:18:00.002-05:00

I turn the small clay pots in my hands. They are weighty, hand-sculpted (rather than thrown), and still bear the marks of fingerprints. I worked the clay hard, and it speaks softly. Spirit is woven into each press and smoothing. I shape the bodies, the physical houses, for the spirits I will care for. I handle them as gently as I would handle paper-thin glass. I whisper words into their hollow, and stroke power into the surface.

"I bathe you in the sacred smoke, and nourish you with the breath of my mouth. I re-awaken you. This is the cradle of your skull, and the hollow of your chest - your heart rests here."

This all started a long time ago, and sometimes I do my absolute best to forget about the whole mess for a while, just so that the room doesn't slowly fill with greedy raccoons making grabbyhands, or hissing opossum with cataract-white eyes.

The Body.

There is a bird on the highway. It's one of my totems. I watch, anguished, as it's wing flaps in the wind. “It is disgraceful that they should lie there and rot.” He says, and right now HE is Anubis - not a masked priest, but a half-jackal chimera who is a God older than the dirt under my feet. "Honor it." He says "Peel it apart and lay power in it's bones. Then it will live forever."

And so I did, at his instruction. And when I was done I did not know what to do with the mummified bird, or it's neatly ziplock'd organs.

The Vessel

So, then I asked. I figured if one of the Neteru landed me in this pickle, one might deliver me. And Khnum said "You are a potter - make it new flesh. Sit with the clay and I will shape it with my hands over your own. Together we will wake it." He said it with almost a consoling pat on the back. And so I made the urn with him. It was far too small to wedge an entire bird into, and so it became the canopic jar of it's heart. The rest of the remains, I was told, could (and should) go into the earth. And there the jar sat - taking up space, and staring at me like the big, floppy, boner in the room. And I really had no idea what to do with THAT either.

The Door.

Wepawet pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed like Rupert Giles. He was smiling while he did it, but he did it none-the-less. And he said "Put a door on the urn, and open it. And open the heart and mouth of the bird so it can speak and eat. It needs to stretch it's wings sometimes. You WILL have to feed it, though."

And so I did what he said, the way he said... and there sat the urn that was as big as a tomb on the inside, and was small enough to fit in my hand. And the door that was painted on it sometimes seemed to be open, and sometimes seemed to be closed. And the bird inside flapped around furiously and occasionally shot out like a bolt to chase spectral mice that were left for it. But it was just a bird in there. A very antsy bird. It knew me only a little, despite my constant soothing tones. And I made pitiful faces at the Neteru... and they made frownyfaces back.

The Birth.

Heqet made an incredulous face ... for a frog. She explained at length that things are "born" numerous times, and that while "birth" can happen spontaneously, it sort of sucks. And that midwifery, or midhusbandry, is a divine art. And that Death is "birth" into another world, and sometimes that world is pretty fucking unpleasant. She spoke with her hands a lot, and had a patient voice. And at some point said "When a baby is born there is stinking, rotting, bloody, placenta. In that respect, dying is much cleaner and certainly far more quiet. But it's far more lonely. No one's around clapping and cheering. You spill out of your body into the burning sun, and then what?"
And so I realized that I needed to help the bird be reborn. To help ease it's transition out of being a soul in a body, to a jar with a heart in it.

The Bird.

He sat there, one foot on the jar, and he stared at me. "Why?" he asked, his head tilted.
"Because you are better than rotting. Because you are more beautiful than being turned into a greasy stain on the highway. Because I -had- too."
He regarded this with a lot of blinking and head-tilting, and then decided he liked the idea. "I will stay here for some time. I will teach you how to care for my kind in living and dying. And then I will go from this world - if you will help me." And that worked pretty well. For years he sat there, and he would show me things. I would feed and care for him, and he would sometimes feed himself. He taught me bird magick, which is subtle and precise. And then one day came when he looked up at the sky and said "It's time."

The Unbirth.

I broke the seal on the jar at dawn. I took out the little, pickled, heart and washed it. I rinsed the jar with salt-water, and white sage. I dug a hole, and put the "concerns" inside. I covered it, and blessed it, and with the tip of my dagger and a well-placed blow from the heel of my hand, I broke the jar.
In the hot summer weather, buried under an anthill, with good moisture to the soil, it took only a day. His heart, the last part of him intact, dissolved... and his ties to our world dissolved with them. He flew away, and never came back.

That night I found a feather sitting neatly on the front steps.

Since then I have tried to forget, to ignore. I can't take the weight of it all, because I live in a truly rural area - death is all around. So I pay attention to those I can help, and the manner in which I can help them. I drag them from the road so that they do not take others down with them. And sometimes I take them home so that they can have power woven into their bones.

Shapeshifter's Poem and Chant.

2011-04-18T15:07:00.002-05:00

What good is a witch that can't take off her skin, How will she gallop, or fly, or swim?
What sights can she see, that cannot be doubled, with Cougar or Owl or Toad's warty stubble?
How may she come to the Sabbat's Hill, if hobbled on flatfeet, and lacking the skill?
Where will she go when foes dare attack, if not as a Raven or uncanny Bat?
How will she find the Root of the hollow, if she has only her nose to follow?
What good is a witch that can't take off her skin, or mimic the words of unkindly kin,
or lose herself in a bustling crowd, or change her face when her own ain't allowed,
or speak in a voice that twists men to her ways, or vanish, traceless, for a long count of days,
or hide so that no one may see, or run, flee, fast as can be!

WITCH, WITCH, take off your skin! Put on another of your most favored kin.
WITCH, WITCH, hurry apace! Leap from the land and flee from this place.
WITCH, WITCH, go to the hill! Bend the whole world with your cunning and skill.
WITCH, WITCH, fast as you may! But be back yourself, 'fore the coming of day.

Both of these are © Scylla, please include such information if you plan on copying these down to a BOS. Provide linkbacks in electronic media.

Grumpbutt The Alraun.

2011-04-04T22:37:00.002-05:00

Meet Grumpbutt - the grumpiest Alraun. This is a Dandelion, out of the ground about 10hrs. It’s not fully dry yet (and won’t be for some time). It hasn’t been shaped beyond cutting off the greens. It had that face right out of the ground. The grumpy, sullen, slightly pervy face.

On the opposite side? It has an ass. Two, tiny, dandelion-root, buttcheeks. Hence the name “Grumpbutt”. This guy won’t be for sale, but some of the others (admittedly, less… er… animated) will be.

Bone Flutes.

2011-03-19T22:18:00.004-05:00

Over the years I've made a few bone flutes and whistles. And even more out of random things like hollow reeds, bamboo sections, rolled up pieces of paper and whatever else is on hand. Here, then, is a short tutorial for those interested in how to construct flutes and whistles... likely for ritual purposes.

ATTENTION: This tutorial assumes you know how to do a few artsyfartsycraftsythings. I will not walk through bake times for clay, the ups and downs of de-fleshing bones... etc. This entry was written after a flicker comment with Ms. Graveyard Dirt.

Additional Note: If you're going to whinge about my blog's content, I'm gonna delete it. If you don't like what's here, clearly it's not intended for you. Find another place that better suits your fancy.

How Flutes and Whistles Work.

I am not a professor, nor a professional in the manufacture of instruments. However, I'm someone who has got an understanding that's amateur enough to share it with others without too much fuss.
Flutes work by cutting air. Simple as that. You want it to make a sound? The air needs to be sliced. It's the same reason that air will buzz through tall grass, or make that hollow "wooo" sound over pipes.

This Bone looks vaguely like a boner. Yes, I went there.

How to Make a Really Simple Bone Flute.
1: You will need a bone that is hollow. Bird bones work exceptionally well.(see above).
2: Ream out the interior so that there are no structures, or debris.
3: Fabricate a voicing.

This is a long step, and requires explaining the voicing, using pictures. The voicing is the portion of the flute, or whistle, which cuts the air, creating the vibration. Your breath enters the flute at the mouthpiece (the purple line) and is split in two. The portion which exits the flute (blue) and the portion which remains inside (red) are both important. The "red" portion vibrates around inside of the flute. The difference in size determines the tone of the flute. For a bone flute, if the bone is thin enough, I don't mess with it. I build the mouth around it. For thicker bone, I do file the voicing into the arrow/blade shape above. The basic premise here is that the air needs to get cut approximately in half. If the air passes too high, no sound. Too low, no sound.

4: Building the mouth piece.
I am a finicky, fiddly, sorta person about "germs". Unless that bone came from a domestic food animal, and has been bleached... I'm just not keen about getting down on it. So, for the mouth-piece on the majority of these "spur of the moment" flutes... I've used Oven-bake clay and/or wax. Yeah. That's right.

Here's a handy little MS Paint drawing showing what they generally look like. The Mouth-piece (reddishbrownish parts) is formed out of Super Sculpey or Fimo. I mold it on the bone (gray and tan part), then carefully slide it off and bake it (usually setting on it's "butt", the end near the yellow). Then I use hot bee's wax (yellow bits) to secure it to the bone after baking. In order to form the airway, I usually use a coffee stirring stick, popsicle stick, or something else narrow and flat (with a bit of thickness). You'll note that the air passage here is cut directly in half by the bone. This is what you want.

5: Drill a few holes (if there's room) for the ability to play "notes".

I ... there are no words that can explain how to do this and get "true" notes. There's just not. There's a mathematical equation out there that I've used a grand total of once... before going "Not. Damned. Worth. It."

Generally, I use an electronic tuner on my computer to figure out the base note of the flute, mark out regular intervals along it's length, and start with tiny pinpoint holes... slowly widening to get it into "tune". It'll only ever be in tune to itself, rather than a concert tuning... but well, ritual instruments don't really need to be ready for a pub gig.

6: Finishing, decoration, consecration.

If you make your mouthpiece out of sculpey, you can put designs into that, even small stones/curios. The bone itself can be painted, or reddened with blood (personal favorite).

Consecrating...I generally face in the direction of the prevailing winds, and blow a single "open" (no fingers) note into the wind. I put the breath of life through it, and bathe it in smoke. Sometimes I stroke the length of it with a feather (as though "magnetizing" it). I generally use mine to summon spirits, and so I have to get them associating the blowing of the flute with coming forward (especially with animal spirits).

Other, Quick, Interesting, Flute methods.

1: Take a pencil, roll it tightly in electrical tape, or something else slick.

2: Take a sheet of paper, saturate it with glue-water. (Sigilized?!)

3: Roll paper around pencil. Allow to partially dry before disentangling the pencil.

4: Make the voicing/mouthpiece described above. Attach to paper tube.

5: Drill sounding holes.

6: Bamf, flute.

The Half-Man in Old Hornie's Eye,

2011-03-16T00:08:00.003-05:00

I've mentioned, before, the strange things I have seen in Old Hornie's eye. It was a post over at Feral Druidry that prodded me into writing about it a little more. This is something tender, a sacred, precious, perilous thing. I step here because I am permitted, I caution others to tread on this territory (in their minds and hearts) very carefully.

I also caution that Old Hornie is never so easy to nail down. He'll probably change his tune to spite me, but then... this is one instrument in an orchestra that sounds with his footfalls. One tiny note in the symphony I see there, one that I can blessedly capture and savor.

Long ago, I think, he was once a man. He was born with a lamed leg, and a bad eye. To his people he was half a man, but no man could be born and not be whole - so what was that other half? His leg looked like a corpse's leg, dry and rotten... so he must be half-corpse. Half-spirit. He was suspected, reviled, and exalted, Other. His blind eye saw in the Other world, his lamed leg stood in it. He was half dead, half-mad, half-god, half-man. And he saw the spirits.

He was raised to do this thing, to talk with the dead, to sing to serpents, to divine the future and mingle with the never-born. He collected his helpers, spirits who could see him, beasts who came to know his hand, and lived well. But always leaning on his crutch, always reviled, always loved, always Other. Suited only to a wife who had been 'worthless', who (to the shock of all) brought forth numerous sons and daughters, who were all very beautiful and just as strange as their father.

Under his aid, the people of his tribe prospered. And one day brought something special before him, or rather - brought him before it. For it was his duty to slay an animal so that it's restless spirit would not haunt the hunters. This Beast burned with a brighter spirit-fire than he had seen before. A creature with a spirit so clear that he could read it's life from the bones of it's face. He dispatched it with the love he used to cut the umbilical cords of his own children, and called it's spirit back, and back, down and in. And spoke at length with it.

The Half-Man and the Beast grew close. The Half-Man taught the Beast about human love, and the Beast taught the Half-Man about the Hunt's True Secret. The Beast was his greatest Helper. Greater even than the wolf-bitch, or the falcon. Greater than the serpents who told him of power in the land. Greater because the Beast taught him to dance. He could hobble, sometimes, when the Beast-Spirit took him. He would hunch and wobble, but he would dance without his crutch. He would feel (for brief moments) the sensation of running free. He learned with the Beast how to change his form, and in spirit they would run together. The People saw only that the Half-Man would put on the old pelt-cape, and a rack of antlers, and walk as though he was almost whole.

He was the Horn-Wearer, who was master of the hunt and it's truest victim. He was the one who brought life to the community, and was eaten by it. He was loved and reviled, Brother and Other. Man... and Beast.

And when he died his children remembered. They knew the names, and that the Beast had always been a great Helper. And so they called upon it, first and most beloved, for their troubles. They never saw the face of the Beast, as it had lived. They knew only the image of their Father, their Grandfather, their Great Ancestor, draped in the pelt cloak, hobbling around the fireside.

He would come back, again and again, amongst his people. Again and again he would lead the dances until the old pelt had fallen apart from use, and the great horns had been broken to dust, and another cloak was made with the greatest beast they could find. And so,with each place his people came to live, a little more was added to the picture of their most Helpful God. A little more power to it's reach, a wider net across the world. And in time even the Half-Man and the Beast forgot that they had not always been one.

Hours, Days, Planets and Cards - Incase You Care.

2011-03-15T14:38:00.002-05:00

Once in a great while, I'll actually care about those Planetary Hours, or what moonphase I'm making offerings on. And when that happens, I reach for the following websites.

Moon Phase, Moon Data, and Other Lunar Stuff.

U.S. Naval Observatory - Phases of the Moon - Data on the moon's phases by year from 1700-2035.
Current Moon Phase Widget - Shows the current phase in a graphical representation.
Astro-Calendar - Shows moon's phase, sign, course and other such things.

Planetary Hour, In Various Degrees of Ease.

NCGR Planetary Hours - Really simple, not sure how accurate it is. Only works for "today", I think.
Lunarium Planetary Hours - Also pretty simple, works for (I think) any date.
Astrology.org Planetary Hours - A little more complex, still pretty easy to use. Works for any date and seems to be fairly accurate.
How to Calculate Planetary Hours and Sunrise/Set times in your area. - The hard way. I used to do it this way, but most of the time I cannot be arsed to do it unless it's something -really- important that I need to double check.

Current Astrological "Forecast"

Astrolabe's Current Astrological Weather - This. So much this. Right now it looks like there's a badly lopsided pentacle with it's head in Aquarius, and it's legs made of Moon (VOC) in Cancer and Jupiter in Libra and for some reason that makes me want to hide in the closet.

Online Tarot Readings.

Facade Free Readings - All cards use the same meanings, and the readings are pretty simplistic. BUT, if you are an intuitive reader yourself, it can be a bit easier than dragging a certain deck out of storage.
Llewellyn Free Readings - Same deal as above, though a little more restrictive on reading types.
Facade Rune Readings - Here's some runes, too.

The Point of All This Crap.

Why? Hmm. Moon phases aren't the end-all, be-all, but they can be helpful. Using these tools, I can better define the general shape of the thing I'm working on. I can narrow the hazy edges and give it a more solid, and hopefully more potent, form. But I only really do that if I have both the luxury of time, and desire. When wildfires were ripping through my state I didn't bother waiting for the moon to be waining to banish the fire. I did not bother for it to be waxing to summon rain. I did not ensure it wasn't void of course before either of these. I damn well just did 'em.

If it's not an emergency, I can set down with a pen and paper and create a list of words and ideas that I think sum up the Work. Then I can get out my tarot deck and do a reading. It might hint to me certain times, or influences to include. I will select herbs, oils, curios and ingredients that I might need, fitted the desired 'feel' and effect. Then I can use the above tools and techniques to shape my work into that form, ensuring it is well-refined, and has all it needs to be effective.

Sometimes throwing a gob of mud does the trick. Sometimes you need an armor-piercing round.

The Waters of The Moon.

2011-02-28T20:26:00.003-06:00

I was up to my elbows in the muck. It was black as coal, made of decomposing leaves and rotten meat, and the roots of water lilies. Something softer than leaves, and cooler than the black water, brushed my arm. I twisted, and gripped, and out it came - it's back was black as the shadowy moon, it's belly as bright as the full.

It was all empty inside, water flowing from the nose and mouth. And into this emptiness I called to something, and it became full. With thorns I pinned it down on a hill, crucified, and covered from prying eyes. And then I waited for the Little Ones in the Hill to take away the flesh.

And then came secret things, and dealings here unfit.

Cautionary Tales: Unseelie.

2011-02-17T16:30:00.007-06:00

I've mentioned before an entity (an unseelie fey) "living" on the West side of a nearby lake.

I've heard of numerous people attempting to deal with that nastiness, and getting burnt. I, myself, had only roughly felt around the edges - and I felt it was time to actually say hello to what can only be a batshit crazy fay... after all, it lives in a lake so full of iron that the water is red.

There are a lot of deaths on that side of the lake, particularly in that area. A deep recess beneath the water attracts noodlers (who are stupid enough to go into it), and on the hill above it, local Diabolists have done some nasty handiwork wedging an already fractured spot open just a little further.

This is where She lives. She's been there a very, very, long time - And she's not too pleased about the river being dammed into a lake. I think it was that incident that started the problem. She may have been a Washer (see: Bansidhe and Bean Nighe) prior to the damming, or something similar. The movement of the water was an important part of her existence, and the flow ceased - it became still water, full of mud and muck. So, she became full of mud and muck.

There's a bit of a price to pay when you twist things around. Especially wild things. The price people are now paying is that there is an angry thing that can exert influence over water, and things in the water. Including people. And this is why drunkards drown, noodlers get their hands ripped up, and Satanic dabblers can't get enough of the spot.

She is ravening, and hungry, and very angry.

Tips and Tricks: Preserving Things

2011-02-14T15:40:00.004-06:00

I pointedly don't talk about the work I do with bodies, bones and other remains. The reason I do not talk about it is because there are other people already doing a better job of it, and because I really don't like anyone to be up in my private business. And rest assured - that business is private. That said:

For something that was once alive and ambulatory, such as rabbits feet, bird's wings and gator-feet, I strongly suggest this handy mixture:
Equal parts Baking Soda and Salt to 1/2 that of Cornstarch/Cornmeal and Diatomaceous Earth.

Baking Soda and Salt pretty much compose Natron, once used by the Egyptians to assist in Mummification. The addition of Cornstarch (or, I suppose cornmeal) and Diatomaceous Earth helps to wick away even more moisture. Party-bonus, Diatomaceous earth is a wickedly potent critter for killing insects. It's the porous, glass-like fossilized remains of diatom algae. It's sharp enough to slice up insects, especially soft-bodied ones, and wick away their moisture, dehydrating and killing them.

Huzzah!

2011-02-09T12:39:00.001-06:00

With some effort, I finally got my blog converted over to the new system, and got "Cuts" working. This means I will be posting slightly more meaty entries, with warnings about content and length (and hiding the goods behind a "follow on" link).

This also means that I can now ramble on about absolutely irrelivant, unrelated, half-formed ideas in a "food for thought" kind of way, when I can't force said ideas to coalesce into an actual post.

Snowed In Reflection.

2011-02-04T18:00:00.002-06:00

There was 10-12" of snow a few nights back, precious little of it melted. Today it's snowing again. Already 1-2" has fallen. I'm going a little stir-crazy.

I'd been planning on posting up some lovely photography - but the memory card for my digital camera refuses to work in my reader. I have to manually move things via a cable. Which means I also have to re-charge the batteries every time I want to move photos. Hideously involved for something that's made to be easier than developing film.

However, leering out over the blanket of white with not a good-goddamned to keep me occupied, it got me into some thinking.

"Guys, I mean... what's Magic? I mean... no... like what is it?"

I've been reading a lot of articles lately that have, I'm sorry to say, come down to very inspiring versions of standing around going "Guys, ... what is Magic? I mean... really?"

What are we doing? Does it matter what the figgity we're doing? I think that if we are putting ourselves out there as Gurus on the mountain, we'd damned better be doing, y'know, something important. But if we're just moving about our lives, do we need a master plan? Does any one of us even have a master plan for tomorrow, let alone their life-long spiritual pursuits?

Pagan Roots.

I started on my path (at current) nearly 14 years ago, because a malevolent entity wouldn't leave me alone, and I had to find -something- that worked. And then I went "Oh... this is where I belong." - a call-after-the-fact, so to speak. Or maybe the entity was the call. I've thought about that entity over the years - I know why it's around. I can only guess that it came after me because it saw that it could. Of course, one of the spirits I routinely deal with says it best - "If the right things happen, the worst demons of hell become more kind and benevolent than angels."

My master-plan at the time was to make the thing go away. Well, I got that out of the way. After that it's been a series of goals, little ones for no other reason than the joy of discovery and mastery. Maybe to please a spirit here and there. Do I need a "why"? I mean, the way I was trained - that "Why" - is that the wheel must be turned.

Gods, Goddesses and Assumptions.

Person: Best of luck communing with Brigid tonight!
Me: Er... I don't "do" Brigid, but thanks!
Person: But that's what Imbolc is!
Me: Don't really "do" Imbolc - I do a celebration of the first pangs of Spring. Bringing back Old Hornie. No Brigid in sight.
Person: You're just misguided, all Goddesses are one.
Me: Eat a slice of my ass.

I honor a few beings I'd call Goddesses, not a-one of them goes by the name Brigid. No offense to those that honor Her in Her historical context, but the "Bride" waffled about by most Playgans is Eowyn gently cradling her belly - pining after a man to "fulfill" her, not a fiery Goddess of the forge. All Aryan-centric, woman as womb-an, and downright incompatible with my swinging wand.That's a vibe I want nothing to do with; In fact, that might be the antithesis of my vibe.

The deities I deal with this time of year are my Folk's, namely Horn-Wearer. Cauldron-Stirrer is there, because of course all roads lead through Her, but She does not give birth to anyone, nor does She mate with anyone. The suggestion that she HAS to fit into this role really does not sit well with her, and by extension rather irritates me.

She reminds me of Hecate, and a little bit of Erishkegal, and a touch of Cerridwyn's sorcerous cunning and guile. She is old and young and weaponized beauty. She is queen of poisons and keys, and ways. She stirs the cauldron of decay and doles out the elixer of life. She is the maw of a black hole.

"Dual", "Tripple", "Manifold"

If I were to call Her the "Aspect" of anything, she'd likely turn me into dinner. She does not change in age, or countenance, depending upon the season. She is neither old, nor young. She's somewhere between. She's about as far from "Mother" as you'll get - excepting that she is the fore-bearer of all my Folk. I have reason to believe she was once a Priestess who's face became so associated with "Their Goddess" by her clan that when she passed onward, it was her they called on in the Between. And over great lengths of time, with such great mantles of power laid at her feet, for HER folk, She supplanted the old Name and old Face. She became one of the Faithful Retinue of that Goddess, assuming Her throne at the disparate reveries.

I try not to assume what someone does on their own. I tend to think we're all a little different, which is -great-. Monoculture kills. There are some people out there, doing what I do, and many who are not. I like that, lonely as it can be. No stuffing my Powers into the wrong mold - they'll poop in your shoes (using your cat as the Medium).

Taking a day... or three.

2011-02-02T22:43:00.007-06:00

Photo by "Treebeard"

I dance and twist and rattle, my bones all come apart.
She scoops me up, like roadkill dinner and chucks me in her pot.
I dissolve, and churn, and roil, and nearly lose myself.
She drinks me in, and spits me out, and serves me to her kin
and as their bodies wring and move, I become alive.
My bones, she boils smooth as stone, and cracks the marrow fat.
She sucks it down between her lips and cracks a crooked smirk.
As the feast winds to a close, she plucks a seed pitch-black.
She shoves it in between my teeth, and plants me in the dirt.
My skull the cradle of a growing tree, around which they will tie ribbons.
- Verse by Scylla

I'm tired of the drama on pagan forums, between adults who really ought to know better, then stomp around like ass-mongers (purveyors of ass, similar to a "cheese-monger", but universally reviled) and then turn themselves into the hero of their own story. Tired more of them dragging me into it, bitching me out - then underhandedly trying to suck up for a gift I'd offered them years prior. Sickening.

I'm off to make incense, burn candles, ward like the dickens and entrust certain people to the kindly blessings of Hecate.

Reflection

2011-02-01T21:19:00.003-06:00

Sometimes, dear Pagans of the Internet, it's time to take a step back. Time to read old posts that might be from ten years ago, or two months ago, with new eyes.

And realize what a dick you were.

No one's immune, but some places foster a kind of mean-spirited, dog-the-newb, attitude that just doesn't work. I left a forum high and dry because the regulars were getting downright nasty - and then flouncing when they were told this. I take a long break, come back, and see the flouncers now calling people out (and having the gall to get angry when they don't take it so well).

It leaves a rotten, nasty, taste in my mouth.

I used to be one of those dicks, and then I got better. I strive every day to stay out of that trench, and every visit back to that forum reminds me to keep my nose clean.

The Feri/Faery split.

2011-01-25T14:56:00.004-06:00

I hate to see it come to this, as Feri was one of the Traditions I had an interest in, and a lot of respect for. But it did have to happen.

You cannot water down Mystery and sell it to the highest bidder, as though it was your own possession. When you inherit Tradition, it is not your belonging. You have to keep to the y'know, TRADITION part of Tradition, or else it becomes something different. And when it changes, it's name should change too.

"Thanks", just ain't enough.

2011-01-21T14:52:00.002-06:00

Libations to you, Enodia. Key-holder, way-keeper, many-formed.
Water, and wine, bread and blood to you.
For you have blessed me as no others have.
Incense, and perfumes, sweet resins and fruit for you.
For you have blessed me as no others have.

Libations and thanks to you, Enodia.
Pale and darksome.
Shining and black.
Illuminatrix, initiatrix.
Poisoner and thief.
The Hosts of the Sabbat bow and scrape to you.
You alone.
Libations and thanks to you, Enodia.

Tip/Trick - Candle Recycling.

2011-01-07T16:30:00.002-06:00

I'm no master chandler by any means. I've played with making candles before, and had some really good success, but I have yet to advance to hand-dipping or casting them regularly. However, I do cast a few candles about once a year.

All year long I save the scraps from my altar and votive candles ("votive" in the sense of "votive offering") in a bowl. This includes the tea-lite tins and wick stands. Whenever the bowl gets full, I melt these down and re-cast them into new candles.

A few days ago I turned a few stubs, and a lot of left-overs into seventeen new tea lites. I used stuff just about anyone can obtain. If you'd like to give it a try, here's how I do it:

1: I dice the wax chunks up into 1/2" or smaller pieces, making sure to remove any unburnt wicks, and the "wick stands" from votives and tea lites. I clean any excess wax rings or residue out of my containers. NOTE: If I want to color the new candles, I separate my waxes into colors, but usually I add 1/4-1 whole "dark" crayon and make the whole lot dark brown or black. If I want to "Extend" the batch into a larger number, I incorporate blends of palm, beeswax, and soy wax. Crushed activated carbon (a small amount at that) also provides a DEEP black color to candles. Whenever I am making all-natural ritual candles, this is the colorant I use.

2: I re-open the hole in the wick stands using a corkscrew on an old swiss army knife. An Ice-pick also works well. I thread about 1.5" of good wick through the wick stand (for tea lites), or 4-ish inches (for votive cups), crimp it with a pair of pliars, and snip off the excess. These are "wax set" into the containers. For votive cups I also wrap a loop around a pencil across the cup, and secure with a clothespin. This keeps the wick centered.

3: I add a couple of tablespoons of wax chunks to the reservoir of an "oil burner" with a removable glass dish. Like this one. And let it melt completely. I use a pair of pliers to handle the glass dish, the rim on mine means a pair of "Parrot's Beak" wire cutters hold it perfectly. However, a pair of regular pliers do the trick just as well. I fill the container to within about 1/8th inch of the rim, and move on to the next.

4: When I've got all of the containers "filled", I melt more wax and return to the first, topping off the top where it has shrunk down . All of the candles get topped off like this.

5: I let the wax cool overnight, clean up any spills, and snip the wicks down to 1/4".

The tea lites burn a little shorter than normal, owed to thicker wick than factories give 'em, however the votive cups will burn about a day, sometimes longer, continuously. Almost nothing goes to waste. I take a lot of time and effort to consecrate my candles, and it seems somewhat disrespectful (and wasteful) to discard unused portions as "trash".

In this way, I can recycle an altar candle several times, bit by bit, until it's just -gone-.

Peace is for the boring, run free brother!

2010-12-30T20:00:00.003-06:00

Yesterday morning, I woke from a strange dream of the Sabbat circle. The others had fled back into the darkness, as the sun wound itself backward from the West. The Father and Mother, they left as well. Shadow and mist evaporating in the light. The embers of the fire were low, and hot, rolling in the colors of sunset.

Across from me there was another witch. I'd seen him through the fire once or twice, but I wasn't sure. He was older than I remembered him, but glowed with a stronger inner fire. It'd been a coon's age since I saw him. Three, maybe four years. I'd had word, but he goes other places, and does other Work. I smiled, I cried out to him, and ran 'round the circle-edge to see him... one of the old gay men that taught this young 'Whatsit' how to be Witch.

"How have you been, you old fuck?" I shouted, we shook hands from the wrist and clapped backs.
"Sick. But I'm better now." He said, right into my ear.

I could hear and feel it all in the words. He'd been sick, and he died. He died well, with his mind still his own, but he had suffered immensely. No one had told us, because he did not want to be seen like that by any of us. He knew we would take his symptoms (against his will, if we had to), and he'd still die - and we'd all suffer. It had been so fast I didn't even dream of teeth...

"Oh... Oh... no. But at least They fetched you here..."
"'Oh no', 'Oh yes' and don't fuss over me. It doesn't hurt anymore. And I wasn't -fetched-, I got here the same way I always do. We don't need psychopomps - we ARE psychopomps." He gives me a look - still the teacher.

We talk, longer than we should. When the piping tones start to come from the treeline, we run. The old dog and I, barking, nipping and rolling... and he stops. He looks off toward the piping, and he smiles his hound-dog smile. And then he's gone... he's faery now.

I got the call late last night, beginning with "You already know, but..." . He taught me about the spirits in the wood, and how to induce the shifting state, and so many other things. He died very abruptly (thank the gods). He is survived by his husband, and the children he made in the Circle of Art. His Family, blood or not.

Sticky-fingered Readers, and The Occult.

2010-12-13T21:36:00.009-06:00

I've always had mixed feelings about the trade in torrented Occult documents, xerox'd copies of out-of-print books, PDFs of high-priced volumes... all making their circulations. But a part of me says "Ah, they're meant to be read. I've begged, borrowed and paid off people to read their books before, I can't blame someone for not going to the same lengths to do things right" -- and yet, can't I?

Whether the text is copyrighted, or intellectual, or spiritual, or emotional - the theft is there. Distribution of books with proper attribution may not send me into frothing, but erasing the credit and replacing it with one's own? Ooh, I seethe.

I read more blogs than some folks must think. I know quite well when someone is copying material, experiences and ideas from this blog (or other blogs, for that matter), and posting it as their own. I find it absolutely disgusting. Blogs are absolutely meant to be read, to inspire - but not "inspire" in the sense of inspiring someone to copy them outright.

I'm not just pissing around, you know. I really do have these experiences, and I fear - to the depths of my heart do I fear - what will happen to those who dabble, meddle, and falsify about them. You're flirting with meaner and more vicious things than you realize, and by each of your actions, each of your words, you ring out to them. You garner their attention.

Of course, that brings me back to the old chestnut of Magicians/Witches who espouse their own greatness, and secretly have no faith whatsoever in the reality of their workings, have no faith in the spirits, and no faith in the gods.

The beings in the firelight of the Sabbat-circle are not all sweet. The growling maw of The Mother is nothing compared to some of those things when they are offended. When you speak of the Power they hear, and they come - and if they find you wanting? Oh god, pity does not approach what I would feel.

Drawing 'Drakes and Robe Rage 2!

2010-12-12T17:52:00.006-06:00

Mandragora Madness! Drake Drudgery! Manniken Ma- er... I give up.

Not that long ago I asked Harold Roth of Alchemy Works for permission to do some stylized drawings from photos of his absolutely luscious mandrakes.

For those who have been studiously hiding under rocks for the last five years or more, Harold has been one of very, very, few Practitioners, let alone retailers, successfully growing and selling Mandragora officinarum roots and seeds. His roots are some of the loveliest I've seen anywhere, including the few wild roots I've seen uploaded online.

Since then I've been sketching little bits here and there, anthropomorphizing the forms without taking away the essential "rootness". I'm sure either Harold, or the final owners, could suss their own root's form out of some of the drawings. The whole , original, idea was to use one such drawing to illustrate a forthcoming book of mine - but the project has expanded. The roots are too visually awesome. I've got three done, and several more in the sketch stage. The root on the left is intended to be the illustration in the aforementioned book, but I may settle on the jaunty fellow on the right.

Here's a really poor photo from my phone, with water-marks to deter dirty thieves, who should really know better than to steal anything from a witch. These were done on regular printer paper, with pencil sketches, over which I used Micron pens, and Faber-Castell pitt pens. If anyone I know well enough to trust would like to see larger scans, let me know.

Fully willing to admit the inkwork might be evocative of the Xoanon press artworks. But this is a style I've used and loved for a very long time, prior to even knowing about the existence of Xoanon. All I can say is perhaps, just perhaps, this sorta art is just meant for juju-doings.

The Robe Rage - AGAIN!

Well, I located some fabric, and have begun drafting my pattern. Several things have occurred to me, the main part of which is that I have gained a LOT of weight these last two years. I suppose walking all over Texas in the summer heat did more for my figure than I realized. And I also suppose I was walking far more than I realized. Luckily there is still enough fabric, though once I do trim back down I'll really be swimming in my robe.

I may be borrowing my mother's sewing machine for some of the finishing touches. My machine is a very practical beast, it does strait lines, slightly curved lines, zigzags and buttonholes if I hit it hard enough. Her machine has a hundred little programmed stitch designs, including vines and leaves - of course, her machine is also the most fickle thing I've ever operated. Finishing hems with little dark green vines would be lovely, I must admit.

Final tally is 3 packages of pre-cut 2yrd lengths, and one 5yrd "bolt". There will be enough material to fully sew and line the robe, hood and add pockets. I may have enough spare material to make a lined bag or two, including one to store the robe itself in, and a very large number of small, unlined, rune/tarot bags.

ETA

I cut out the robe tonight (12/13), and in dinking myself up a bit, have less fabric than expected, but still enough to finish the project. Remember: If you've told yourself to cut something on a fold, bloody well do what you said and cut it on the fold.

Rituals and Robe-Rage.

2010-12-08T22:30:00.002-06:00

When I conduct ritual for myself, I know the meaning of everything I'm doing and saying. I know that when I cry out to The Horned Master that I'm not speaking of Satan-the-boogeyman. I know that when I put my knee down at the altar it's more because my altar is short, and my gimpy leg* can't take standing crouched, than because I'm kneeling in pious prayer or humility. But for public ritual, these are not a given.

In private ritual I might take time to prepare offerings, slicing up fruit, carefully pouring wine. I might specifically evoke the spirits (Deva/l, Genius Locii) of the materials in the ritual... but in public ritual I just don't have the time. And then, too... if I offer up something wet and red, no one will likely smile and nod at that.

I'm writing a ritual for an upcoming open circle, and I find myself reeling. So much information to present. Everything from the cosmology to the ritual actions - each must be described and explained in it's own way. How much time do I devote to explaining the Stang and it's role? How much to the broom or cauldron? Do I reveal subtle little-m-mysteries, that some might consider bound by oath? Do I keep to the process I use, or alter it to fit the expectations of neo-wiccans?

And that leads me to.... Robe Rage.

I've been scouring the internet for instructions on how to make decent ritual robes. What I've found is that apparently there is not a single goddamned pagan out there who drafts patterns, and that Star Wars fans have better fashion sense.

I also discovered that the sewing/craft stores have cloaks, not robes, or if they have robe patterns they cost $15, require thirty yards of fabric, and look like shit.

So, I'm drafting a pattern for a hooded robe that's simple enough for just about anyone to slam together in a few hours. Embellishing it will take a lot longer. Depending on the size of the person the robe should only take about 7 yards of 45" fabric, or about half that in 60". A shrewd operator could pick up all the needed materials at Wallyworld for $30-ish.

Tarot Reviews.

2010-12-06T22:23:00.002-06:00

The Dee/Barker Tarot - Parragon Publishing 2001

This deck was the first I ever owned, and because of it almost gave up on tarot for good.

Printing Quality: Poor. Beyond poor. Cards started to "flay" at the edge, box fell apart...etc.
Artwork: Left me cool, honestly. It looks as though it was painted using a pallette knife, which is one of my least favorite techniques.
Format: Standard shape/size, with major archana and pip cards.
Pips or Scenes: All Minor Archana are pip cards.
Responsiveness: The deck never worked for me, period. NEVUR.
Price: Er... well... I think the kit, deck and book, was about $10 at Borders.

The Tarot Nova - Mini and Normal - Running Press 1999

Some time after acquiring the above tarot, I spotted the Tarot Nova Mini-kit at a bookstore. I had to have it. It was so tiny there was NO WAY I couldn't have it, being a lover of all things miniature. And some years later picked up the full-sized deck for practical reasons.

Printing Quality: Reasonably high. No issue with flaying, or the box/es. The mini cards are on perforated sheets, which means they have flaying at the tear dots, but that never messes up the card. They are extremely glossy.
Artwork: Simplistic and cartoony, pretty clearly done with markers. These bold images are set onto a black background. The bold contrast is actually kinda nice.
Format: It is a manageable size for folks who have bad joints or small hands, and it's format is quite square.
Pips or Scenes: Scenes all the way, though the small simple nature makes all the cards a little of both.
Responsiveness: The Tarot nova speaks, and it does so in short, simple, words. It's like having your rural cousin explain the situation to you, rather than a high-priced lawyer. "Y'see, he's a greedy motherfucker" is more likely to issue from this desk than "I think you need to re-evaluate your financial interactions with this gentleman, as I think he may be unlike he seems."
Price: At a price of about $10 max it's one of the best deals for tarot I've found, and well worth owning.

The Universal Waite - Mini and Normal - U.S. Games 1990

At a convention dedicated to costume-play (cosplay) that I was somehow roped into attending, I met a vendor who sold newagey stuff. She had a delightful "Repaint" of the Coleman-Smith/Waite deck in miniature size for $6. As I stated above, I have a rager for miniature things, so I picked it up.

Printing Quality: The miniature deck is small and matte-finished, fitting comfortably in a small pill-bottle. It doesn't shuffle, of course. The cards have to be "smeared" around. It does however read as elegantly as the "adult" specimen. The full-sized cards are glossy, really glossy. And rigid. They can be riffle-shuffled (if you do that, I do, some consider it a hangin' crime) or over-hand shuffled fairly easily. They're hard to damage, but the small deck's box doesn't gladly take beatings and falls apart.
Artwork: The artwork is glorious, miles above the four-color Coleman-Smith/Waite.
Format: Standard "ratio", but comes in a wide range of sizes from 1" tall to 6" tall.
Pips or Scenes: Given that it is a repaint/clone of the Coleman-Smith/Waite deck, it's got the same scenes.
Responsiveness: This deck reads like a dream. It's nuanced, rich, and full. It's the classic deck, just done in watercolors.
Price: The mini deck ran me $6, the normal sized deck cost $12-$16 I think.

Incidentally, I picked up both of my copies of this deck from the same woman, years apart, but both times at conventions! She even remembered who I was!

Visconti Tarot - Lo Scarabeo 2002

Another deck purchased from the same lady as above, ALSO at a convention (clearly I go to Anime/scifi cons to buy tarot decks, because that's the only common thread). This deck is a restoration of the Visconti-Sforza deck, one of the oldest Tarot/Tarocchi packs around.

Printing Quality: These cards are printed on extremely thin stock with a satin finish. The quality of the printing is high, but the cards are prone to damage and the box falls apart in no time.
Artwork: The images themselves are attractive, suitably dated to look very cool. The gold leaf motif found on the cards is very hard to translate into a printed medium, though.
Format: A bit skinnier than normal, and this deck is quite small in size.
Pips or Scenes: Pips. Elaborate ones, but pips.
Responsiveness: It reads fairly well, but is not one of my first choices. The older imagery is a bit harder to get sunk into my skull, which muddies my readings a little.
Price: $8

The Thoth Tarot - U.S. Games 1978 (My deck says Weiser?)

This one was an accidental acquisition. I was at a local Hastings and found that someone had torn open and spread around a Thoth deck all over the New Age aisle. I brought a worker over, whom I assisted in bundling everything back up. She frowned at the box "I don't know if they stole something or WHAT... I don't even know if we can sell it." I shrugged "Knock the price down and I'll take it. Worst case I can turn 'em into bookmarks."

When I got home I discovered the deck was intact, except that it had several -extra- cards. No idea what that idjit was doing, spreading 'em all over...

Printing Quality: Pretty good. My cards are thin, with a semigloss finish. They feel nice to the touch. The tuckbox is pretty banged up though, but god knows what the pilfering person did.
Artwork: ... fuck you for asking. This is one of the prettiest Tarot decks out there.
Format: Big. Mine's one of those nearly 6" decks, and it's a scarlet whore to handle (see what I did there?). However, if I handle the cards less like a deck of playing cards, and more like postcards, it's not as fraught with injury.
Pips or Scenes: Scenes. Lush scenes. Lush, throbbing, turgid, drippy scenes.
Responsiveness: This deck is a pernicious old queen. Just like Uncle Al. It likes to read "mean" if it's in a bad mood, or become a Yes-man if it's drunk on perfumes. However, treated like a Proper Ritual Implement, it reads like a fantastical dream.
Price: Box says original price was nearly $30, I paid about half that.

The Hermetic Tarot - U.S. Games 1990/2006

Some information about this deck I just don't know. It was given to me as a birthday gift as I recall, by the Right Honorable Fenix.

Printing Quality: High. Very glossy, good cardstock, doesn't flay. Tuckbox has endured abuse with great strength.
Artwork: Do you hear dripping? That's me drooling. Incredibly complex, to the point of bursting. Stark black and white.
Format: Standard.
Pips or Scenes: Scenes. Again, lush, drippy, scenes.
Responsiveness: It talks. A lot. But sometimes I really don't understand what it's getting at until I ask another deck to translate.
Price: Getting one year older, though I hear it's comparable to most decks.

Magister of Philters.

2010-11-28T16:45:00.004-06:00

Normal Dreams

I peel away the flesh of the living world. It comes off not unlike a wet bathing suit, sticking in corners and bends. Beneath is smoke, and shadow. One moment a hunched beast, the next a lithe serpent. I am roving the world, with strides that seem like flight. The world is the color of burned herbs, the vegetation I find has the brittle character of desert grasses. The sky is a mantle of ever-shifting cloud, there are no stars here. I'm galloping toward a great door that never seems to get any larger - I know it's hours away even at this speed, it's just that large. I keep moving, always moving.

Er... perhaps I spoke too soon.

Suddenly I find myself in a stone circle of sorts. There are stars, and I'm clothed in my usual body. Smoke curls away from me not unlike "materializing death eaters" - even in the dream I giggle about how fricken -awesome- that is. Everything is in a sharp relief, defined to it's very extreme, but colors are wrong - this is not my dream. As soon as I realize this, I see the figure.

He is tall, and slim, and wearing all black. He is perched on a three-legged stool, stirring a cauldron which hangs from a three-legged rack, being gently simmered by a threefold fire (nine sacred woods). He gives me an impatient look.

"How in the hell did I get here?" I ask, violently flailing at the trails of cloying smoke that still hang onto my clothes. "I was galloping through the wastes of the Elfhame..."

"Because I summoned you." He grumbles. The words slide out of him like someone sexually stimulating a cello. "Sit. Pay attention. Learn something worth having in your otherwise empty skull."

And I do. His authority is as plain as the neat little buttons on his coat. It is as plain as the look of barely contained contempt on his face. I want to ask how in the hell he summoned me, and exactly who he is - but the vissage he uses makes a suggestion so hilarious that I don't dare.

Discourse.

He shows me a philter which, by the removal of one herb and addition of another can either attract or repel serpents. He explains the subtle differences between Ferula species, and how these differences can be elevated, highlighted and made valuable.

He explains how some philters must be crafted in earthenware, not metal, and kept "cradled" by heat rather than "tossed" by it. He refers to stages of heat in fluid so subtle that Japanese tea houses would shriek. Here the alkaloids of Henbane are released, here they are 'sterilized', here they are destroyed, here all virtue of the plant is gone, "and at this stage you're burning it."

We discuss ingredients too fantastic to exist, and what substitutes someone such as myself might employ. Waxes and oils and herbs and subtle incantations - and he gives to me a single, small, black candle. And now I know how to summon him.

Bullying, Spirit-Day, etc...

2010-11-15T15:58:00.003-06:00

Now that the festivities, and solemnities are over, and I'm stuck with 20lbs of candy that my extended family couldn't give out, and still doesn't want, I turn to the somber notes of The Dark Night, which have altogether passed, sort of.

At the local Unitarian pagan circle (I went back, and I'll probably keep going back) we adapted a ritual from Michelle Belanger's "Vampire Ritual Book". The ritual compared themes of death and transition to self-sacrifice and betterment. Committed to flames was the word "dispassion". Wrapped up in it was "keeping silent", "hiding" and "feeling shamed". So expect some interesting blog posts about how foolish it is to divide ourselves in the coming days.

I'll say that though I might be comparable in age to most of my fellow bloggers (inching up on thirty while slamming the breaks and screaming "Sweet mother of GOD, not YET!") I lived more like their grandparents, or great-grandparents. I grew up on a farm, raising and killing my own food, wild-foraging, hunting and fishing. And yes, I was home-schooled. After Kindergarten I was never in the sort of social schooling situations other people are. The idea of "peer pressure" was, and I mean this sincerely, completely alien to me. To this day, those ideas are still exceptionally foreign. This has caused me an unmeasurable amount of bullshit.

But I'm not exactly an alien, here.

I've had people shout things, or behave strangely because of the way I look, or the persons I associate with. I can remember having things shouted in the mid-90's. I remember that after Columbine shit got "real" and I got into a few close calls. A couple of years ago a botanica owner near to my then-residence sent a student to come fetch me, having assumed I had knowledge about some rather dark dealings. I've endured precious-less bullying than others because I was home-schooled, but I did endure 'my share' in the halls of Church.

The Last Gasp... and the last straw.

When I was in my tweens I parted violently with the Christianity-lite that my family sort of gently wafted the air with during my childhood. My grandmother was a Minister, and tried to instill a strong sense of faith in me. Unfortunately, through various dark matters (losing a friend to drugs) I had a falling out with Christianity-lite, or any other form.

But, because of my Grandmother (after a few years of trying and failing to remain an Athiest), I decided to go to Church with my then-best-friend, where I experienced bullying (of the type not doled out by older siblings) for the fist time. It began with taunts. It progressed to threats. It progressed to following through on those threats. During a touch-football game one of the teenaged boys kicked me in the lower back. Something went twinge, and I rounded on him. That may have been what's brought on a lifetime of lower back problems. I was attacked like that, on and off, any time I visited.

These incidents were all reported to people of "authority" in the Church, and no one did a damned thing. I was, conversely, lectured for my manner of dress, attitude, the evils of witchcraft, the evils of homosexuality, and my general evilness. Despite my being there, in a gorram church.

Then, one night many moons down the line, there was a Church lock-in, and the Pastor's son decided that simply taunting me wasn't enough. He backed me into the woman's bathroom and attempted to sexually assault me. He came out worse for it. I got lectured for my attitude and manner of dress. Essentially that I had "asked for it". I, according to them, was the source and cause of all of my own problems because I was different. I stopped attending that Church. I stopped attending -all- churches.

Troubling Revelations.

While I may have a female body (I say "may", because I'm not altogether certain what it's up to sometimes) - I am not a "woman" in my heart. I live between male and female, and while it would be quite nice to be done of this body (or rather rid of the absolutely crippling "female complaints"), I am happy with who I am and what I am. I have no need to draw an artificial line in the sand, and declare that I exist solely on one side of it.

I can recall being about 9-ish years old and watching a female sacker pack groceries. I recall being, yes, rather enamored of her bosom and catching myself suddenly with the curious question "Does this mean I'm gay?" and the old standby "that means I'm going to hell."
I struggled with this issue, through loss and regaining of religious faith. I met a girl... and I fell in love. And then I struggled harder. She moved on, I got my heart broken, and I met someone else (male this time) and I fell in love. And I got even MORE confused.

It took me until a couple of years ago, to realize that there is no "default" setting. It's not a switch that is toggled on or off, it is a free-floating dial with no stop-point. It is a fluid, circular spectrum, this sexuality thing. And for me gender, sex - they don't matter one whit, because my own sex and gender are not on the more common factory-settings.

Raymond Chase, Tyler Clementi, Asher Brown, Billy Lucas, Seth Walsh.

It was because of this disconnect, that people had poor reactions. It wasn't me that caused the trouble, it was their issues (fear, and hatred). I didn't see it then, but hindsight is 20-20. I was a kid for fuck's sake! I didn't have the constant impression of girls being "girly" or boys being "boyish". I only had myself, and the honesty of my developing feelings. It is the reason that my "attitude" and "manner of dress" were always "the problem". It is the reason a teenaged boy felt the only way to 'deal' with me was to dominate me via a sexual medium - turn the queer strait, so to speak. I see that now.

Had I lived a more "normative" life, I would still have struggled. But my struggle would've been a public display, open to that public feedback of broken bones and soured worldviews. I've often told my mother that I am thankful for my homeschooling, because had I been subjected to that I would not be me - and I like me. More than likely I would have made good on the various dark thoughts I had, and ended my own life.

"It gets better"

It will never get better if you subjugate yourself to others. If you act small and hide. You will still get abused, because you're an easy target. If prey ceases to act like prey, the chase gets harder. The cost:reward ratio goes down, and bullies are less likely to find profit in fucking with you. But even that is no sure bet. It's a gamble. But if you are confident, people will see that and generally won't affront it. Shame and guilt are -their- weapons, don't actively use them on yourself. Realize that there are evils in this world, and consenting love is not one of them.

Shelby Ellis and a Culture of Fear.

2010-11-06T21:48:00.003-05:00

The Backstory.

A 16 year old girl named Shelby liked black clothes, vampire books, and the ilk. She liked to dress goth, and was on the social networking site "Vampire Freaks.com"

Her parents didn't like what she was into. They forbade her wearing goth clothing, makeup, or hanging out with certain friends - so she sneaked around behind their backs and did it anyway. They cut off her internet access so that she could not log onto the networking site - so she sneaked around behind their backs and did it anyway.

Things got more restrictive at Shelby's house, so like a lot of teenagers she ran away from home. Of course, if the story ended so simply, I wouldn't be blogging about it.

"Vampire Cult"

Shelby's alarmist parents referred to her interests as a "dark cultic behavior", apparently being a teenager is now being in a cult, ya know. And when Shelby and two of her friends ran away around the same time, her parents jumped not to the conclusion that their daughter (who stole $160 and a cellular phone) had run away to evade strict parenting, but that she had been abducted by a dark, dangerous, vampire cult.

The young lady had an account with the website "vampirefreaks.com". This website, despite a dark theme and color-scheme is really just a dark version of Myspace or Facebook. In other words it's the "Hot topic" of social networking sites. "Vampire freaks.com" doesn't have groups, or forums... instead (trying to be cutesey and "konstantanos dark") they have "cults".

Yeah, I think it's dipshit too, but then again, despite wearing black clothing for the last fifteen years - I'm not a total douchebag (only about 1/1oth douchebag). The parents, already alarmists and freaking out about the dark clothing take a social networking site's categorization style as gospel truth - dark, dangerous, vampire cult!

CNN picks up the story, showing images of vampire video games, clips from the twilight movies and True Blood, and various video bites of rotating pentagrams, candles, and people in hooded robes. CNN begins first asking, then just openly stating, that a teen runaway involved in a silly, dipshit, social networking site is actually a member of a underg- oops, forgot my formula - DARK, DANGEROUS, VAMPIRE CULT!

The Facts.

Shelby and the two unnamed friends were members of "Vampirefreaks.com", and all went to the same school. The other two girls had already been recovered and refused to give any information on Shelby's whereabouts. There were no ransom notes, no suspicious letters or e-mails, no phone calls, no signs of struggle. Just a girl, vanishing.

There was no indication, including a lack of breaking into the girl's computer to recover e-mails/forum posts, that anything had happened to her.

Media Response, and Community Reaction.

Amongst the voices raised was that of Author, Lecturer and house-leader Michelle Belanger*, the governing body of the Atlanta Vampire Aliance, Vampirefreaks.com, and numerous local houses and individuals who've made it their mission to spread correct info. Info stating, without hesitation, that there were no signs of her ever having been in contact with the vampire community, no one had heard of her - that also, there were no signs of violence or abduction, so it might be prudent to cease the scare tactics, and focus on her return.

Within a very short period of time the Vampire community had circulated photos, news articles and potential locations for her whereabouts. A few papered towns with leaflets out of their own pockets. Those of us who are witches were working to make her visible, nigh unmissable, and for her safe return. And even as we did these things - we were being labelled as dark, cultic, dangerous, and responsible for her vanishing.

Found safe. Now what?

A day or so after it hit the national news, Shelby was found. Alive. Unharmed. NOT being held against her will. She had made it all the way from Georgia to Washington, where she was found in the company of at least one adult, and several minors. She went willingly with police and is awaiting extradition to Georgia in a Juvie facility.

Her parents still believe she was abducted by a "vampire" cult, though Shelby herself has not weighed in, and the other girls are tight-lipped. The news media is still spinning the angle that a dangerous cult is somehow involved, even though every indication is to the contrary. No apologies have been issued, no retractions or clarifications have been made.

Per usual, being different, being goth or a witch or a self-professed vampire is enough to scare up a nationwide culture of fear. Fear over what?

Good fences make good neighbors.

because then we can spy on them when they think they're safe and know what they're REALLY getting up to!

People don't want the truth from their news. They want scandal and sensation. The average American doesn't give two shits that Shelby Ellis came home safely - to be honest, most of them probably really wanted her to be dead. Another statistic, a lesson, an example they can point to and say "This is why THOSE PEOPLE are inferior, and why we're so goddamned awesome."

This sort of topic is as important to the Pagan community as it is to the Vampire community - Because while we may have internal distinctions and solid lines, no one on the outside will make those distinctions when the time comes, and things get rough. We have to defend each-other from accusations that we know are baseless, before those accusations get applied cross-category. That whole "United we Stand" bit, y'know...

* I know some folks seem to have an issue with Michelle Belanger, but I've never quite figured out why, or how. No one's really ever explained it other than "I just dislike her" or "Vampires should've stayed in the shadows!" So, if someone can offer a lucid insight into their own dislike, I'd at least "get" why mentioning her is sometimes met with sniggers - unless it's about the S&M photos, which I get, but c'mon...

The Dark Night, and the Blood Moon.

2010-10-25T18:41:00.003-05:00

To my ancestors, all my relations, even down to my great-grand parents, grandparents, parents and myself, this is the last harvest. I'm bringing in some of the last wildcrafted fruit, mostly persimmons, and a few exceptionally late-ripening berries. I'm topping the plants for their seeds, and bringing in fall-tinged leaves for artwork.

When we had Rabbits this would've been when we picked the breeders we wanted to keep, and my mother's cousin would come out to butcher the rest, taking half the lot as his fee. The discussions would center around the practicalities, financially and physically, of feeding forty individual animals over the winter. Would it be cost-effective? Would they freeze anyway? That one is too weak, this one is a better mom. Remember that one? He had snuffles all winter. Let's go ahead and cull him.

Blood soaked the soil, and -that- is why these days get dark.

Humanity has walked pathways for so long, the energy of their footfalls has dented the earth. Like the floor-stones of Buddhist monasteries, it has been worn down. Like a riverbed, it has been shaped. The energy flows there, a sort of ley-line, a new artery. Places which saw great celebrations, and slaughter have remembered. The earth there wells with the memory of it, the power still stuck between the grains of dirt.

"Power flashes from newly shed blood" said Ol' Gerald. To me, it is a shimmering radiance, it is Life, clinging to the carrier of it, fading slowly (but always, like a stone, refracting a little of that fire). As we bleed the life from this world, by our hands and by nature, so it blooms in the Otherworld. Our fall is the fey spring.

It is because of this that now is a good time to remember our ancestors. I make little distinction between "not currently a living human" and "never has been human" - the otherworld is the afterworld as far as I concern myself. Our fall is their spring, and our ancestors surge to a new life therein.

To The Ancestors

To all who share my blood, I give thanks. Without you I would not be, without your actions this world would not be the one I know.

To all those who share my family-tree, I give thanks. Without you,the lives of my ancestors would have been poorer, and would have lacked love.

To all of those who walked the path I now walk, to all of my fore-bearers, I give thanks. Without you my path would lack the signs of life which give me the strength to go on.

To all those who share the suffering of my life, my body and my soul, I give thanks. Without you I would never have known it could get better.

To all of my relations, from the least to the greatest, I give thanks.

Curses pt 2, and other such things.

2010-10-18T15:44:00.004-05:00

The clutter is starting to recede, like a tsunami that can be beaten back with hefty bags and curse words in five languages (including Klingon).

This means that I'll be able to start pouring molds in the house, since the shop is now nearing the point of hopelessness. A system involving tubs, buckets and racks should mean that I can make everything from chalices to oil lamps on my "coffee table".

But as I was cleaning I noticed some odd things. 1: An over-abundance of dead or living arachnids, 2: shit I don't remember buying, 3: items that, disposed of, suddenly found their way back into the clutter. Um...

Curses, Part Two!
The Reckoning.

After the first spate of shit I used a random letter generator for an idea as to who might be causing my woes and got "UU" - the obvious for me being the current witch-war going on amongst the Unitarian Universalist (pagan) camp. I had mentally (I suppose issuing some sort of Notice of Intent on Ye Olde Immaterial Plane Between This Glittering World and The Abode of The Great Ones) sided with someone, or some camp, and had caught the flack directed at that camp.

But putting out my "STFU" juju in that direction didn't exactly help, and I've been suffering from nightmares and intrusions. Unless I consciously remember to re-affirm wards, throw up consecrated space around the bed, and post The Beasts (servitors) at the four corners, dark dealings happen in the night. We've been getting knocking, shit falling over, strange gnawing sounds, etc. Some of those I attributed to the pre-earthquake jazz the earth does, but others - not so much.

The Problem: I hemmed and hawed, I stalled. I knew that all the pieces were in place for a curse or crossed condition. Instead of acting immediately, I sort of stomped my foot and told it all to screw off. I could have stopped, taken a breather, and done the sort of cleansing I knew needed to be done, but I kept questioning whether or not I actually needed to.

We were making our dinner quite late last night, figuring out our new rice-cooker/veggie steamer to make sticky rice, and kept hearing odd sounds from the living-room. It sounded entirely and wholly like a large rodent gnawing at something hard and crunchy, and no matter how many nooks and crannies I investigated, I could find no traces of any rodent. After a bit we settled in, assuming it was nothing, only to hear voices...

It took us a few beats to realize they were getting louder, and a few more to realize that it was the surround-sound in the living-room. As I rose to go turn it off, the volume blasted up quite high. Beating the remote into submission, I turned back to the bedroom and saw a tall, fair-haired, figure with a shaggy sort of haircut wearing neutral toned clothing standing in my bedroom.

The clarity with which I saw the "apparition" caused me to then search the entire house armed with a knife, to ensure I hadn't ACTUALLY seen someone. No physical body found, and no traces of any. I got quite pissed.

The Problem: By stalling I allowed whatever situation was going on to develop. From a seed into a weed that proves more tenacious than it ought to. The mental effects, the physical and spiritual effects, began to redouble - it was my fault. Whenever you suspect a curse or a crossed condition read your cards ASAP, and then as a precautionary measure do some damned cleansing.

A Reading (or three) For A Level Head.
(Lovecraft Tarot, various readings, condensed for your convenience)

I screwed up. I waited too long to act on what I KNEW was transpiring, because (as usual) it could simply be "all in my head". My will faltered, my Work faltered, and I essentially gave them a king's welcome.

As much as I -want- to blast the everloving fuck out of them with my boom-stick, and let my cat poop in their shoes, I probably should not. Maybe I want to burn their fields, salt the earth, and ruin their women. Maybe I want to pry open their jaws until they snap and unhinge, but I probably should not. The sudden lashing out may be misdirected, this may not be what is intended here.

I have caught others up in my tailwind before, and the same could be happening to me. I could simply be an unintended casualty of some weirdness. My mental and emotional states have been affected rather seriously, which means I have open avenues to whomever is responsible. I need to disengage from a struggle I should never have been a part of in the first place.

Resolution.

I will clean, and scrub, and wash down the walls. I will clean and scrub -myself- and bathe in the smoke of White Sage. I will share drink with the Old Ones, and I will be patient. I will stop second-guessing signs, and take more proactive approaches. I will stop charging in with guns blazing when I finally do catch on. This darkness is not my own, and attacking it will only lead to ruin.

Persimmons - Godfood.

2010-10-17T21:35:00.002-05:00

Diospyros virginiana, the Eastern Persimmon, has a large part of my childhood tangled up in it's corky, fruit-laden, branches.

Persimmons are late-ripening. It's mid-October here and the majority of the fruit is still unripe. Only a few are sweet enough to tempt, and the high amount of tannin still present makes them very drying to the mouth. But oh, they are sweet - so delicious and sweet! They would make an excellent marmalade, or fruit addition to breads/cookies.

One of the stories my grandparents used to tell was of how you could split the pits open (like a split pea) to foretell the winter's weather. A general consensus was taken of the seeds from that single fruit, who's "germ" takes on the shape of cutlery.

Apparently it's GON' RAIN. Also, I have the dorkiest paper towels ever.

A spoon meant a wet winter, or heavy snow. A knife meant a bitter, cold winter. A fork meant one that was mild, or dry.

Persimmons are shaped rather like a pomegranate, and pair well with them. Their fruit is best eaten after all others would've been considered spat upon by the phouka. Here, they're not good for eating until they begin falling off of the tree in November. They are a fruit of winter, wrapped in autumnal shades, and hanging on the tree after the leaves have fallen.

They are fruit of the underworld in this regard, no less special than pomegranate, and sometimes sweeter still.

Some more mini-reviews!

2010-10-16T14:00:00.003-05:00

Title: Hedgewitch
Author: Silver Ravenwolf.

The Introduction gave me pause and then the suggestion that "dirt" is the first step to being a hedgewitch, or that Nature is a primary focal point of Hedgeriding.
"We're going to change our lives to be just like that garden, and we're going to do it in just two weeks." - What the...? Nothing good happens fast, and this book is an exemplar of that. The quicker I read it the worse it got.

This book conflates Hedgewitchery (the practice of hedgeriding, that is to say straddling and crossing into the otherworld) with crafty kitchenwitchery (a craft which focuses on the home, especially the kitchen and domesticity). This explains a lot of problems with the book, honestly. In addition, conflates "the universe" with the subconscious mind.

"I designed the art and science of HedgeWitchery in concert with my own outdoor projects" She did not design hedgecraft, she pulled something out of nowhere and gave it that name. Nothing in this book (as far as I managed to make it in) resembled Hedgecraft.

"What's growing in your Belief Garden?" - Need I say more?

Title: A Witches' Bible: The Complete Witches Handbook
By: Janet and Stewart Farrar

This is an old classic of Witchcraft. Written by two Alexandrian Elders, it's understandably NOT the Wicca they practice, but rather an assemblage of non-oathbound lore and rituals designed to give the look and feel of BTW (as they experience it) for the consumer.

For what it does, it does it beautifully. For what it does not do, well, it's glaringly obvious. It's a bit dated, and relies on the old wiccan stand-by of "the greatest power in the world is innie + outie" that I don't really get on well with, and some implications that homosexuals don't belong in The Craft. A product of the times, I am assured.

Fortunately, this book doesn't tend to be the first acquisition of a newbie-witch, meaning that by the time most get around to it, their bullshit meter can suss out what doesn't sound right. And that by the time they get to the book they know enough to realize it's not the full secrets of the Sanders downline in print. It is an excellent reference book for groves, outer courts, and unitarian-sytle covens looking for something with a slightly more traditional flavor.

Title: The Witchcraft Reader (Second Edition)
Edited by: Darren Oldridge.

This is not a newagey book on "wicca-good-and-love-the-earth-and-woman-power" shtick. It is a book of scholarly articles on the era of witch persecutions, and what may've caused it. It references not only trial records, but ceases to use a 21st century mind on things. No author within spends precious time bemoaning the superstition of locals - instead they ask why the locals believed as they did, and what events conspired to create such a climate of hostility.
And it turns out climate (as in weather) had a big role to play.

What you will not find is instruction on being a neopagan witch, or how-to for evoking the Witchfather. What you will find is the precious, tenuous, history of Witchcraft. There are concepts which have already proved enlightening, and countered a lot of the "it's truth because someone said it sometime" mythologizing in the modern Craft, and has given me numerous avenues of exploration deeper into historical record.

The Dandelion.

2010-10-12T20:22:00.002-05:00

The Orbit of The Solar System in an unassuming,
occasionally bothersome,
little,
flowering,
--- weed ---

Dandelions are the bane of suburbia, and for that I already like them. Millions of dollars a year are bent on their destruction, and ultimately these efforts will fail spectacularly. Unfortunately for these grass-obsessed suburbanites, Dandelion's deep taproot makes it beneficial, breaking up hard soil and bringing up nutrients to less hardy, shallower-rooted, foliate brethren... like grass.

Dandelion leaf packs more nutrition per cup than spinach, being a significant source of Vitamins A, C, K, Calcium and Iron. It also contains Biotin/B7, which proves itself valuable in regrowing hair and (some say) aiding in weight-loss. My mother used shampoo infused with biotin and regrew her hair in a matter of about a month after Chemotherapy. It is also useful for liver detoxification, and as a diuretic.
Dandelion leaf and root can be consumed in teas, leaving it's nutrition more or less intact, a caffine-free "coffee" can be made from the roots, for either medicinal or ritual purposes.

They like to grow just about anywhere, but I've found them to prefer shadowy places where they will often overrun other plants (saturn), iron-rich soil (mars), and damp corners (moon) which bring a far different picture to the Lion's Tooth than one might think. It's radiant flowers (sun), white, globe-like seed heads (moon) and lush foliage (venus) round out a picture of a very complete little herb. As a bit of an aside, I have never found so many grub-worms as in the plot of dandelions I harvest from, and some of the roots wound right through a fire-ant hill (ouch).

Dandelions are said to be sacred to Hecate. This association, oft-quoted in folklore, is hard to track down to it's sources (Hekate Liminal Rites certainly doesn't discuss it) but it seems universal, and I certainly cannot disagree with it. It bleeds a cloudy sap - possibly referred to in The Root-cutters by Sophocles: "Medea recieves the juice whitely clouded, oozing from the cutting". Dandelion is liminal to it's core, sending as much plant below as above.

In magic they assist with communion with the underworld. Like the taproot of the Dandelion, the witch using it may reach into the deep places and bring up something of value, otherwise lost. Here, too, is a tie-in to psychic "sight" and insight and in calling and summoning spirits.

Some modern Traditional Witches have employed Dandelion root as an alraune/alrune. The root does have a tendency to grow in the manner of a human figure, and is far less troublesome to obtain than the Mandrake ordinarily is (of course, a quick stop at Alchemy-Works can nab you a mandrake/seeds). The investment in the Dandelion is less about finances or rarity, and more about willingness to dig deep enough to get the whole thing. Even small dandies can reach down very, very far.

In incense the leaves are generically leafy, providing a papery "lady's mantle" quality of scent. The roots are deeper, sweeter aroma. I like to add one or both to blends designed to contact and summon spirits. A particularly strong tisane/tea of the plant makes an excellent wash for scrying mirrors, or (filling a bowl) a nice substitute for one. Particularly thick roots can be carved into some rather lovely beads, strung into prayer strands, or hung around the necks of votive statuary.

No part of this article may be reproduced without permission. If I find this chopped up and plastered all over neo-wiccan sites I will issue takedowns.

Clutter, Ancestors, Alrune and Familiars.

2010-10-11T21:03:00.002-05:00

Note: There's a bit of venting ahead, understand that that's -all- it is.

****ING STUFF EVERYWHERE!!!!!!!

The clutter in the temple room has, yet again, reached a feverish pitch. Usually the clutter was isolated around work-tables, but with another person's computer in there (probably very soon to be changed), it's getting downright ridiculous. Time for cleaning, and throwing things away. Let is hope I am merciful. In our future home there will be a small room divided into "enough space for a desk" and "temple" areas. Oh, I cannot wait to see it finished.

I'll be permanently dismantling my salt water "Nano" tank. It's housed a lone hermit crab and a lot of fireworms for the past two years. Because of the clutter it's getting neglected, thus suffering - that isn't polite. Next to it is a small fresh-water tank, which I may or may not keep (probably will) after a good cleaning. This is the aquarium in which I raised several leopard frog spawn to "frogginess" this summer.

The clutter is making it hard to work, so it really has to go.

Drama and The Ancestors.

I should honestly, by this point in my life, know better than interacting with parts of my family at get-togethers. The laundry list of problems with one relation in particular has grown so long that I have been reading carefully over my state's laws about stalking.

This got me thinking about my Ancestors. My family has had issues staying together, we just fricken scatter to the wind, even though a lot of us live very close together. We don't visit graves (even the ones we know of) much, if at all. But this is an incomplete life, and I think is part of the reason misfortune keeps rearing up. SOMETHING is trying to tie us all back together, but we're having trouble listening.

Because of that I'm going to be reworking my little ancestor shrine, and getting back in touch with the Spirits of my Fore-bearers. Hopefully, also visiting some graves. Though I think that the relationship with the above-mentioned living relation may be too fractured to really fix.

Alrune, Dandelions and Familiars.

I went and selected about a dozen good Dandelions today. The size of the greens was deceptive - some revealed themselves to be babies. Most of the roots went into a container to dry out and be used for incense, oils and other such things later on. The greens are all on a tray drying and three whole roots are in water waiting for me to get to work on them. The three in water show promise for Alrune, though one in particular calls to me.

What I learned today is that Dandelions like to grow in shadow (saturn). I don't mean "shade" I mean -shadow-. You could see a clear line where they were hiding in the North-side shadow cast by the ceramic shop. The thickness was comparable to leaf lettuce in a garden, with barely any grass making it through the cover. The roots ranged from the thickness of a robust toothpick to roughly the thickness of my pinkey-finger and about 8" long. They favor the pure red clay (mars) over any other soil in the yard.

With Sun-like flowers, Moon-like seed heads, lush Venusian foliage, Saturnine growth habbits, Martian environments and ARGH - can't they just make up their minds? But, again... this is Dandelion. It's everything and nothing. Salad green, and weed. Spirit communion and utter pest when it tries hard enough. Though the tufts of Yarrow, defiant even after the first frost, might beat Dandelion out for utter pest.

This whole mess brought me 'round for Familiars. "Goatboy" has been visiting in my non-flight dreams off and on, bringing me roots. I'd asked him to bring me a mandrake, and he's been trying awfully hard. More than likely trying to remind me that I have a yard full of them, and to try to think outside the box. Of course, the moment I do that I get a rather interesting e-mail ... The Goatboy works in mysterious ways.

Curses.

2010-10-07T19:11:00.004-05:00

Apparently I pissed someone off, again. It happens every now and then that something I says gets under the skin of someone else who can do things like I do. And they decide the perfect course of action is to sling a curse. Per usual, they make a critical mistake which caused physical manifestations - Spiders. Any time stuff is going down of an unusual character or quality (read: Curses) spiders show up in droves.

They've been about like that. Hordes of them sweeping across the deck, or singular specimens dropping down on my keyboard while I type. Jumping spiders, tarantulas, little cobweb spiders. Oh how they have presented their many-eyed faces and pronounced as one "Someone's shitting on your lawn." Once in a while they seem to be the agents of the curse, generally they seem to warn of it.

And so, as is a good and just course of action, I whip out Gager's "Curse Tablets" and scrape up a few ideas.

It got me thinking about justifications on curses. When is it okay to curse? When is it okay to retaliate? For me: I don't tend to whip out curses unless someone is raping, murdering or molesting children OR throwing curses. At which point I tend to bind AND curse as a way of saying "stop shitting on my lawn."

Some Brief Reviews.

2010-10-06T18:45:00.002-05:00

Pagan Prayer Beads

John Michael Greer and Clare Vaughn

Weiser Books, 2007

190 pages, $16.95

Over all this isn't a bad book for someone interested in starting on creating prayer beads for the purposes of meditation or as a votive. The upside of this book is that it explains the physical process of making beaded strands and discusses what materials are suitable, or which work better in certain applications. It also addresses approaching the buying experience as meditation and ritual. Unfortunately, it's downside is that it is primarily a practical instruction manual and does not really discuss how to use them, why you might want to, or really give much meat on the obvious links to rosaries, mala, etc. Given that I already know how to string beads, and how to select them for spiritual purposes, it didn't have a lot to offer me personally, but for those who do NOT know the processes involved, it should actually be quite helpful.

Wiccan Warrior
Kerr Cuhulain
Llewellyn Publications 2000.
192 pages, $18.95.

Wiccan Warrior -is- valuable for those interested in the warrior archetype as presented within the "harm-none" framework of ecclectic wicca, however, one must push past a rather large amount of Mr. Cuhulain's personal , extremely heavy-handed, politics in regard to the nature of Wicca to extract that value. His assault against the wellspring of his own tradition starts early in the book, and follows through to the last page.

Love is in the Earth: A Kaleidoscope of Crystals
Melody.
Earth Love Pub House 1995,
726 pages, $22.95.

The Phonebook of Rocks, as I lovingly call it, isn't a book you can really do a weighty review of. It's a reference book filled with the descriptions and metaphysical uses of a thoroughly exhaustive list of rocks, crystals, minerals, fossils and "stonelike" organics. Each entry discusses the forms in which the mineral can be found, what astrological sign, numerological vibration (etc) that it associates with, and it's uses in physical healing or spiritual applications.
The largest downside of the book is that it utterly lacks illustrations. So, unless you know what a stone looks like, or your local store labels very carefully - good luck. The revised editions also seem to have had their indexes neglected, as they direct to page numbers which are incorrect a lot of the time. Another small bump in the road is the book's use of "Extra-terrestrial masters", "Atlantean records", "Lemurian Seed Souls" and other newagey kinda BS buzzwords.

Since the release (and my purchase of) "Kaleidoscope" Melody has (reportedly) accumulated all of the Love Is In The Earth series into a single volume "LIITE: The Crystal and Mineral Encyclopedia"/Last Testament. I have not had the pleasure of reading this one yet, as it costs about $100 ($60-$70 more regularly), comprises almost 1000 pages, and weights almost ten pounds.

Wylundt's Book of Incense.
Wylundt (Steven R. Smith)
Red Wheel / Weiser 2007
312 pages, $14.95.

I like this book. It's a fairly decent guide to making your own incenses, be they loose or formed cones. I used it as the jumping-off-point for a whole slew of handmade incense cones for stinking up the house and doing Work. There is a section about creating cone/stick incenses, discusses the various types of incense, gives handling and storing information, recipes and a small "herbal" geared toward incense making. Yes, it does include recipes which involve saltpetre, and binders - but what do you think is in the stick-incense you store buy?

Some October Notes.

2010-10-04T16:50:00.001-05:00

Dreams

My dreams have been particularly intense lately. Tonight's involved journeying to visit someone that I -think- was Harold. Point being? If a person with long reddish hair, likely wearing all black in some form of tank-top, jeans and possibly a coat invades your dreams - sorry. Can't help it.
Incidentally, I'm nearly always male in my dreams (irrespective of boobs) so assuming it wasn't me because it was a dude may not be accurate.

Re: Reviews and Commentators.

I will not be accepting/publishing any more comments on critical reviews unless I feel they have actual, valid, points to make. "I disagree with your review and here's why" is fine and dandy once or twice (and I will happily put through such disagreement while it holds merit), but multiple posts going after not only the review/s, but everyone commenting in agreement with, or even -discussing- interesting aspects of the review, is beyond the pale. When it is from Authors or those in their employ it is also incredibly unprofessional. I know the author is going to disagree if I dislike their book - they wrote it. And when it comes from someone other than the author, but in the author's employ, it gives the impression of a hired opinion.

The purpose of reviews are to present different views of different materials so that those interested in the work can form an opinion on buying it. There will be glowing reviews and there will be scathing ones. These all help to form a realistic picture of the work in question. Reviews are not a point of debate. I at least do my best to present positive points with negative points, but if all I can find is negative - well... sorry? If I wish to review Twilight with only a photograph of a page of the book smeared with something brown, floating in a white bowl full of water (which I'd never do... I don't want it touching me there), I would.

Speaking of Reviews - Upcoming Reviews!

Hedgewitch by Silver Ravenwolf. - This one was a request by a friend.
Pagan Prayer Beads by John Michael Greer and Clare Vaughn. - An interesting read about pagan "rosaries" and similar tools for meditation and worship.
Call of The Horned Piper by Nigel A. Jackson - A thoroughly fascinating read on the nature of the horned god, night goddess and a meditative look at "the sorcerous arts".
Familiar Spirits by Donald Tyson. - Another book on Familiars to either love or hate.
and while we're at it The Necronomicon by Donald Tyson - FANGIRLSQUEEE!
Fang and Fur, Blood and Bone by Lupa. Familiar book of sorts.
and if I feel up to it Grmassi's "Beltane", and Conway's "Dancing with Dragons".

The Cemetery.

2010-10-01T05:46:00.002-05:00

I had a very interesting dream almost a month ago. Most of it is hazy around the edges, except for the fact that I was visiting a fellow Filthy Magician out in California. At some point the question was raised: "Can you find a place of power here?" and at once I indicated off in whatever direction lie behind his kitchen.

His comments suggested that, yes, there is something off in that direction but that's hardly a place anyone wants to go. I, of course, wanted to go there. Amid protestations that one does not simply walk into Mordor, off I traipsed - directly through the wall. I called his bluff.

It was an excruciatingly beautiful cemetery - I've seen it before. I know it by it's scent, it's sight... by the waymarks at it's gates. It is, more or less, the exalted double of every cemetery that has ever, or will ever, exist. It is picturesque, moss-draped, and rife with the cthonic power of decay and rebirth. Here soma grows upon the knolls where the beloved dead sleep. Mandrakes sprout here, datura blooms, the whole place stinks of dark earth, and poisonous perfection.

I have spent whole nights roaming this place, greeting it's citizens and royalty. A particularly large tree overshadows a portal to the underworld. My magician companion is standing back, smiling fondly at the scene.

There was a funeral in full swing, a family who's attire and regalia marked them as practitioners of some form were laying one of their own to rest. Attending the services was a skeletal woman (her skull had been painted into the likeness of makeup) wearing a large flowered hat, and carrying a truly ruined parasol. She even had a tiny skeletal dog tucked under her arm as though it were a fashion accessory. My mind hesitates to say this is Holy Death, but perhaps her emissary, Vainglorious Death? A man lowers himself into the grave and impatiently motions for soil to be piled on.

The headstones read names that I knew - and yet did not know. Though I got the impression that a certain row was actually just me. Numerous copies of me from centuries passed, dead bodies I'd once worked with living vigor. And at the end of the row was an open grave - a promise and warning.

The ground is soft with growth, the trees bear no leaves, but stunning blooms and fruit. The fruit are stunning, in colors and textures of minerals rather than vegetation. Here, I get the sense, the Apple of Sodom and Fruit of Knowledge are not so mythotypal.

Being there, hell - thinking about being there, it seems to fill my lungs with air and soothe me and with the right eye, on the right "day", you can see into an unending green land, overcast, and misty. Bits of sun glinting through heavy clouds and intermittent showers.

Fall.

2010-09-26T23:50:00.003-05:00

With the Equinox, fall comes. It happens like you've flicked a switch. 95+F days move, without transition into 70F. Mild as can be, sunny and delightful. Mushrooms were springing up everywhere, the birds are singing their last, and the Elm trees, utterly befouled by flowers, roar with the sound of bees.

My kiln load of goodies turned out flawlessly. A chalice I'd made, impressed with the last few leaves of my beloved wormwood plant is finally done - and I could not be happier. Even the fine veins on the leaves were preserved as fossil-like imprints (no picture right now, it's proving nearly impossible to photograph). It has her spirit in it, and some of her preserved leaves will be used to concoct a wash to consecrate it in time for the "Thin Time". For the first time I'm going to actually employ a ritual designed to "pass on" power from one object to another. One would think that in over a dozen years of practice something may've gotten replaced before now, but apparently I cling to my tools like velcro.

A pair of small oil lamps also turned out well. They're proving especially nice for summoning the presence of spirits so long as the flame burns, and they are exceedingly long-burning unless extinguished. I found them pretty helpful in getting that BA-ZING connection with the Powers. These lamps were prototypes, and now I've sculpted a few masters to make molds from. Oddly enough, in my research I've found that historical oil lamps were rather small, 3.5" or so, some smaller. So what I thought was "absolutely tiny" for my prototypes is actually just sort of small. They burn quite nicely on olive oil and pillar candle wicks, and adding a drop or two of essential oil, or infusing the olive oil with other herbs is an idea that's got my gears working. I hope to have some of these available as soon as I get the molds finished.

Some family drama has put a damper on my projects, unfortunately. One of the prices one pays for living very near to one's entire nuclear family, and a large portion of the living extended family. Hence no "here's things for sale" offerings just yet. Hopefully this next week of fair weather will get me back in gear. There's a lot of work that needs doing, and the unbridled joy of opening the kiln after a firing is something I dearly missed.

The Horn-Wearer

2010-09-23T02:55:00.002-05:00

Opposite her, beyond the flames (where I cannot clearly see him) is a tall man, wearing a hooded cloak made of animal hide, and crowned with a set of horns (antlers? they seem to shift like branches in the wind). To me, he is shadow, and yet his presence reaches around the fire-circle like dark wings. He is sitting on a fallen log, one leg tucked into the bend of the other's knee and his right hand rests in the crotch of a short stang. It is his crutch... I think. The leg which does not touch the ground seems fairly well lamed. I realize that it is his side of the flames where I always am, and he is always behind me, but now I'm somewhere in the middle.

This man vexes me. His form shifts and is fluid. Leaves blow from the locks of his hair caught on the wind. His antler head-dress rattles like storm-blown branches. His face is utterly obscured.

He wears clothes made of hide, and heavy fabric. Except when he doesn't, and then he is in his cloak, with only buckskinned pants, and his chest is deeply scarred (it occurs to me that he's probably scarred all over). He wears boots with horn buttons, though he is barefoot at the fireside (the boots are near him). His right leg is scarred from knee to foot, as though a horse hooved at it, and tore away the flesh. His eyes burn like coals and he laughs. Serpents crawl around him, and speak to him. He speaks back.

Whereas she rules all transitions (birth and death and all between) he rules what lies beyond death, and beyond birth. There is a part of him that is utterly a faun, priapic and wild, drunken and laughing. And there is a part of him that is utterly a stodgy old man, stoic and chaste, sober and serious. Subtle as a serpent.

I think he was hung, once. He has rope-burns around his neck, and when I look into his eyes I see the gallows I see angel lust, and gallows-children. But of course, I also see life swelling up until it bursts into decay. For me, he is inexorably linked to the Mushroom. They both break down dead things into things which can again become alive.

None fear him at the fireside. He joins the dances at times, though he is awkward in it, he hops rather than dancing fluidly, and it is he who drinks first from the Cauldron Stirrer's brew.

When I speak to him I can only remember vague impressions, intent, and emotions. He leaves me with an innate knowing, rather than a conscious set of information. It's like hearing the thoughts of an animal. It is his infectious laughter that endears me to him. It is he that indulges the imps as they cavort.

He is the seed-sewer, and she is the reaper. He is the millworker, and she bakes the bread. It is he that puts the marks on my heart that let me run wild to that hilltop.

Labeling Jars/Bottles.

2010-09-19T21:56:00.003-05:00

When I was a rather young witch I got a few of the "essential" herbs and some jars. My first mistake was putting adhesive labels on the jars, my second mistake was hand-writing the names on them. My writing is... downright awful.

About a year down the line I wanted to re-use the jars, and it took several hours of scrubbing in hot water to get the adhesive off of them, because stacking labels has annoyed me deeply since the days of yore. I got rid of the adhesive label.

First: Wash and dry your jars. I suggest the "sanitize" cycle on a dishwasher for most jars, but some are too delicate or weirdly made. For those, HOTHOTHOT water in a sink with a good dish soap. For tinctures, or any other liquid (or for things you're going to ingest a lot of) I strongly suggest you use canning jars. Best to not risk poisoning yourself off of an antique Strychnine bottle, no matter how cool it looks. Ensure all lids, caps and corks fit properly. I've had jars that didn't quite "seal", and had a bunch of beetles infest my herbs, ruining them and costing me a pretty penny.

I also suggest not hand-writing the labels, unless your handwriting is very regular, very readable, and very bold. Personally, I design mine on the computer in photoshop (or gimp), and print them on various artisan papers to get unique looks out of 'em. My reason for the aesthetics? They take up a lot of space, I want 'em to look pretty while they do it.

The Process

Here's one of my old bottles. That label annoys me. The design is a faded, water-maked, Celtic knot-work, which is nice but - not so fancy, and lacked information. I lettered it with an ink pen that appears to fade incredibly fast. In the poor light of the temple-room (I hate ceiling lights with a passion due to chronic migraines) I can't read the label and may accidentally grab the identical Gum Arabic bottle when aiming for the copal.

Next I get a bowl of warm water and a sponge. I get the sponge soaking wet and apply it right over the label. This saturates it and re-hydrates the glue, making it release from both the label and jar. If I'm cleaning out old jars to re-use, rather than just re-labeling something, the whole lot goes into the kitchen sink or bath tub with some soap. Once the labels are off, they go into the dish washer (if it's safe).

Wow, this label was thirsty. It turned completely translucent in a couple of seconds and peeled off easily.
You can also see a potential downfall of hand-lettering with a fine pen - moisture just destroys the lettering.

Nearly every commercial jar I've messed with will work the same. Most labels will peel off dry, but a few are glued over the entire label, and have to be soaked. I save all of the jars from pasta sauce, pickles, etc. and re-use them for herbs and tinctures.

AHH! The secret weapon. A craft glue-stick. These things are so damned useful (brand names aside). I've repaired tarot cards, used one to plaster a (temporary) letter of annoyance on a bad neighbor's car, and oh yes, to glue my herb labels on.

I apply this over the entire back of the label, and it gives me enough time to get the label even, centered and smoothed out before setting up completely.

Here's the completed bottle. The label tells me what the herb is, what the latin name is (I think the "spp." may be an error on my part. I don't know what type of Copaifera it is, and I was always taught "spp." is the appropriate abbreviation for "species" but I don't much care if it is wrong). It also tells me that this is an incense material, given the swirly incense burner bit on the label.

Some are marked with a skull (poisonous), or a teacup (teas/edible herbs), others are marked with a pentacle (non-incense-able herbs for witchy purposes that do not fit into another category).

In the eventual temple I'll be switching over to larger jars for almost everything, and will also include planetary, elemental and "used for" type info to act as a handy reminder for myself and others.

For reference, this label uses Caslon Antique as it's font (packaged as "tsp adore 10") . I used it because it's highly readable with a corroded, antique, look. Many fonts similar to this are both readable and whimsical enough to be a sound addition to any font-o-phile's library. I've had a local store show high interest in getting a set of customized labels for their jars, which would be a delightfully fun project!

Well, that's one container down and an absurdly large number left to go!

The Issue Of Silence Pt. 1

2010-09-18T02:28:00.013-05:00

I was lucky to grow up in a home where I didn't exactly have to hide who I was. It was made pretty obvious to me that, short of doing drugs and sleeping around (or anything worse than that), my parents knew I was a good kid and trusted me to have a good head on my shoulders.

Not everyone is so lucky. Not everyone's father will make them an altar table out of scrap wood. Not everyone's mother will give them only one admonition: Don't summon anything you can't handle.

So, what about when your parents aren't enthusiastic, or even tolerant, about your budding religion? Gosh, that's a tough one for the teens, and not so much for those of us who have paid our own rent. Let me walk you through the wonderful world of "tough titty."

You own nothing until you are 1: Legally Emancipated. 2: Of The Age of Majority.

"I'm new to this religion, but I want to make my own altar. My parents are die-hard Christians and don't want me doing this stuff. I live in an attic room which is private, but how do I hide my altar in case they come in my room?" - Teen poster on a Pagan forum (paraphrased).

For those that live in their parent's homes: Your "room" does not belong to you. It's their room. They pay the rent/mortgage/own the house, they pay the utilities, they own the title on the home. Not a single stick of it belongs to you. As such, legally, as long as they provide you with the essentials of life (food, shelter, clothing, basic sanitary needs) anything else is pretty much left to the whims of their good graces. Most of us had pretty permissive, generous, parents when you think about it that way.

If, as a minor, one's parents disagree with something they're getting up to the parent has every legal right to deprive them of that as long as it does not interfere with essential needs (aforementioned). They can drag your shit out into the yard and set it on fire if they like - you have no legal recourse in the matter.

Subjecting one's faith to the sort of skulduggery required to actively display AND conceal it for any number of years (we'll say "4") will require lying to them, and disrespecting the sacrifices they make for your benefit, and subjecting your own faith to the risks of inevitable discovery and destruction of one's tools, books, and materials.

"I think if you believe in something, you should be able to express it any way you feel, inward and outward." - Same Pagan Teen.

God, I wish I lived in a world like that. I don't, you don't, we don't. The world is slowly changing, but some folks don't feel that way. Some parents worry that religious stuff (specifically witchcraft or other "fringe" practices) are dangerous to their kid. They will do what they feel is best to protect their children and their home - including barring you from your religious practices when/if they do find out, grounding you, prohibiting you from seeing anyone they suspect of being associated with your activities, and so on.

I don't think it's exactly "right" that parents can own you to your last stitch unless you get a court order emancipating yourself, but I also don't think it's right for someone who is a dependent to assume they're co-owner in the home and have the associated "rights" to do things like paint the walls and turn their bedroom into a pagan temple.

"I can just tell them it's my nightstand" - Lying Pagan Teens The World Over.

Your parents aren't that stupid. Well, I dunno, maybe they are, but I can guarantee they aren't so stupid as to think that table in the corner, well away from your bed, covered in weird shit, is a nightstand. Altars tend to have a symmetry and arrangement to them. They tend to contain certain items and have a certain layout or look to them.

One of my childhood friends dabbled in witchcraft at one point and decided to be clever and "hide" an altar in her bedroom. Her parents were (like the Pagan Teen above) very strict Christians, at least in part. Let us merely say that they could always repent Sunday for the overt sins of Saturday. Because of this they kept their kids on a short leash, and of course their kids rebelled.

She threw a scrap of black fabric over a little corner table, and arranged dozens of items on it. To my eye it looked like an altar, to her brother's eye it looked like an altar. To all of her friends it looked like an altar. To her parents? It looked like an altar.

She had lied for months about it being a "nightstand", secreting away the more tell-tale items in places like the folds of her mattress, or a loose floorboard in the closet. But eventually they heard the noise of her assembling it, and discovered the deception. She caught a glimpse of the still-thriving "spare the rod, spoil the child" worldview and all of her things were chucked into a box and thrown in the trash. She managed to save a few items, which were ferreted away by friends in the night - her deity statues, however, suffered the full-blown wrath of an angry fundie.

Ten years later she has never resumed practicing - swearing that the day her things were thrown away, her "power" was broken.

It's not fair!
aka
"You say that so often, I wonder what your basis for comparison is?"

If I lied to my parents for months (or years) on end, and they found me out in that lie, I'd fully expect (though certainly not enjoy) the punishment that would follow. I would expect that the object of protest (the altar, the books, the "juju shit") would be hauled out to the garbage, and perhaps burnt right in front of me. I might be made to feed my own "sacred texts" to the flame.

When I lived, briefly, with my fiancee's family I kept my goods in a pyrographed box, and that box was in a backpack, and that backpack was in my fiancee's closet. His mother is a devout Christian, and it would hurt her emotionally to have seen those items on display.

Would it have been fair to -her- to have taken in this relative stranger, only to discover that said stranger did things that are -literally- evil and demonic in her worldview? Is it fair to parents to be lied to, jerked around, and discover that deception within their own home?

No. And two wrongs don't make a right, so consider - even if only for a moment - keeping your faith within your heart, silent and still (them waters run deep!) until you can give it the exterior space and respect it deserves.

Italian Witchcraft by Raven Grimassi

2010-09-14T22:15:00.001-05:00

This book raised the post with, at current, more comments than any other. This post is the promised review of the work, and in order to approach the review in the appropriate fashion I read through the book fully, and thoroughly. To those that encouraged me to "really read" the book - doing so did it no favors.

Basic info: Italian Witchcraft (formerly Ways of The Strega) by Raven Grimassi. Ranges from $17-$3. Summary for the impatient: Had I read the book prior to the purchase, I would not have purchased it. A stronger pass by an editor, and some terminology revisions in this later edition would have been beneficial.

The First 'Book'.

The author will present a small portion of information and spend many more paragraphs ensuring that you will come to no other conclusion than the one he himself holds. I suppose that's to be expected - but it's really not pleasant to read.

Lack of citations or sources on small tidbits of otherwise interesting information. It's impossible to follow up and do research on these bits, and I think that the wealth of the book would have been in these.

Large blocks of text are quoted, and often repeat within the same chapter. In the prior post I suggested that a better pass by a more ruthless editor would've been beneficial for this. I suppose that the quotes at the start of chapters are alright if repeated, but it is not limited to this.

The aforementioned "cropped illustration" was one hurdle I had difficulty getting around, small though it was. However, that is nothing compared to the response I had to the later chapter on the Benandanti v. Malandanti wherein Mr. Grimassi states:

"Today, Witches may face a very similar situation to that of the Benandanti. Satanism is on the rise, and appears to be spreading quite rapidly across the United States. Many sub-cults of Satanism are forming, whose actions toward other people and animals can certainly be defined as evil. Once these sub-cultists become skilled in magickal practices, then all hell is likely to break loose." and "I think it not unlikely that Witches in the near future will be faced with protecting their own communities from the destructive energies of an evil which is surely coming."

I'll let my own blog readers mull that'n over for a moment, and come to their own conclusions. I will say that at this point I strongly considered returning the book - a feat only once before accomplished by the 'authorship' of one Konstantanos.

The Second 'Book'.

This portion of the book covers the ritual tools and ritual practices of the Strega as reinvisioned by Grimassi. There are only so many ways one can rehash the four suits of the Tarot, the basic tools of witchery, until it loses all meaning. There are a few novel things presented here, but with little attribution - again, it's hard to follow up on the ideas and find their source.

One thing which utterly blew my mind was the suggestion of using a bowl to hold an alcohol-based liquid which is ignited and periodically replenished (while still burning). For anyone who is not familiar with setting alcohol ablaze - here's a nice article about what happens.
The suggested alcohol, Liquore Strega, is 40%/80-proof. Alcohol of that strength still burns pretty hard, and surprisingly long.

The Aridian rites are a form that will be instantly familiar with anyone who has read Aradia or any works on Wicca (BTW or otherwise), and perhaps anyone familiar with the Lycian Wiccan tradition. The emphasis on male/female sexual union as the "highest possible" type of energy and worship became tiresome for this witch, and the rituals did not present anything novel to my eyes.

The final nail in the coffin was that Grimassi continually quotes The Vangelo/Gospel of Aradia, and later states that the majority of it is rubbish and propaganda to be thrown out. The idea of historical information being rubbish is what sets my teeth on edge more than anything. I expected a far more scholarly tone and content from this book, and was disappointed. This was Grimassi's earlier work, and I have since become aware of that - the lack of scholarly tone makes more sense, but does not alleviate my wanting of it.

As a note to readers: I will not be accepting nasty comments from ANY camp on this one. Take measure of your statements before you hit post

Strega the Strigoi or "United We Stand".

2010-09-05T20:48:00.001-05:00

Personal Labels, and The Community.

My first flirting forays with witchcraft were in my early youth. Over time this developed, as you can see here. However, one stopping point, and an area with which I still have difficulties is the area of "compartmentalizing" one's nature.

During the first couple of years of my interest in the occult, I experienced several strange phenomenon. Firstly, a malefic entity tormenting the everloving hell out of me, and secondly - a strange sort of drain. Once the beastie was gone, I expected the drain to stop, but it didn't. And, in experiments, I realized that the only way to maintain a healthy level of whatever "oomph" is in me, was to derive it from other sources. Like a diabetic, my body was not making something it was supposed to, and once in a great while needed an injection.

The phenomena of "Psychic Vampirism", and it's parallels with the wounded shaman answered a lot of questions for me. The concept of someone who has gone out, who has undergone a death and rebirth (died and risen from the grave) and because of this is something else sealed an open wound for me. It helped me to cope with and control a problem, and turn it into an asset.

Unfortunately, there was always a problem: Pagans don't take kindly to anyone who identifies as a "Vampire"- And who can blame them? With Dion Fortune around, conflating an energetic need with energetic predation as pretty much the gold standard, anyone who self-identified in that way would understandably be seen as a monster. I wasn't that monster, though. I didn't fling the evil-eye at people, or attack with malice for pure pleasure. I tended the world around me so that it overflowed with life, and took from that spilling cup only what I needed.

So, in order to interact with the Pagan community, I had to hide and compartmentalize. If ever the hand were tipped, the cry went up, and the forums (or chats, or study groups) would conduct their own little idiotic witch-hunt against the wielder of the imagined malefica. Honesty won no friends, in fact, it won a lot of nosy good-for-nothings who weaseled into my business as often as possible. I denied. I shied away. I walled off and compartmentalized.

Oh, but it's never that easy.

In my mid-to-late teens I began to experience another aspect of myself - a huge part of my forming path. In my dreams I would go out of myself, and travel. Invariably in these dreams were real people and real places, or real people in -unreal- places. And in these places were things that needed doing. Sometimes I went in my own shape, and sometimes in other shapes - running, galloping, flying, crawling - sometimes everything all at once. I refused to discuss it with anyone, or if I did I changed details to throw them off the trail - if "Vampire" were grounds for exclusion from the community, you can bet your ass that the suspicion of "Therianthropy" would've ended my association with pagans for good. Never did I speak about the "fang" to the "pointed hats". Never did I mention the "fur" to the "fangs" and so on. I also crippled my own practices, taking out half of what made me so damned effective at what I did - just so that it would be "correct".

Extract thy skull from the sand, o' Pagani Ostrich.

It took me years to realize there didn't need to be those walls and distinctions in my head. It took me slightly less time to realize I didn't give a good god-damn what others thought of me. Witches were always seen as doing all of these things, it was their modern compartmentalization and specialization that said one couldn't be the other - Not mine, and not the distinction of the Witch-gods.

Go google! You'll find tales of the Benandanti riding out as wolves, calling themselves the hounds of God. You will find the Strigoi listed as being shape-shifters and drawing blood/life from people to sustain themselves. These skills are our skills, we are a unified whole, not scattered pieces. To throw them out discards very valuable babies with the "it makes me embarrassed!" bathwater.

We're the ones that carved the wild from the witch.

We're dealing with weird shit, here. Take away all the window-dressing, all the theology and philosophy. We're talking about people who, through some undocumented interaction of the subtle reality, make things happen without any apparent cause. We're talking about communion with the gods, the ancestors, the spirit-world. Do we really need to thumb our noses at some words, while smiling and patting others on the back?

Why is "Witch" - a toothless hag, supernatural to the core, who eats babies and flies around on terrible beasts - now reclaimed and utterly sanitized, but "werewolf" or "vampire" are as good as Cain's mark on your ass to the local pagans?

I Shall go Into a Hare,
With Sorrow Sigh and Mickle Care.

I am laying in the grass. I roll over, propping myself onto my hands and knees. I arch my back like a cat, stretching my sinew. My body ripples, and changes. With a heave I leap, and I run. Oh, GOD how I run. Over furrow and fen, jumping over rivers, bounding through woods. Every human care I have falls away and what I experience is unbridled JOY. I gallop over the whole world, stopping to Coven with those who would have me - we work magic to find a lost girl, to stop a rapist, to make the land strong, to curse the shit out of a disease-spreading ex-lover. We circle in the presence of Good Imps and Bad, and in the presence of Witchmother and Father.

I fly on, banishing malevolent spirits from the home of a friend, journeying into the gray world of Elfhame to entreat with who go there, before rounding back to my flesh, laughing and panting like a dog. Is it wicked of me? Am I somehow undesirable in the Pagan community because I do this? Because I am, in that sense, a "Werewolf" (er... well - Were-Gorgonopsid)? Does this somehow make me an evil person? Or am I one of you, same as any other, with skills strange and subtle?

I Don't Drink... Wine.

But there is also hunger, sometimes. I cannot spend and spend and never draw anything in. And a good night's rest and a hearty meal aren't always going to accomplish what I need. Sometimes I spend too much of myself doing what needs to be done, and I become the undead, the living-death, hungry, whiny, tired and cranky.

Nothing I do, not even days and days of bed rest will help - if anything it gets worse. I can, with effort and care, draw from the world around me. I can, sometimes, breathe in the cloying gray mists of the Wood and walk as a man again. But sometimes I can't, and there are those who are the polar opposite, hyper-active, bouncing off the walls, trapped in their own caul of wound up energy with no source of relief - and I can take that off of their hands with their permission.

With proper "diet" and "exercise" I can keep it almost perfectly controlled. My "blood glucose" stays right where I want it, doesn't dip or spike. But life isn't always perfect. Sometimes I overwork, or underwork, or don't sleep, or sleep too much. Sometimes people who lack my ethics (and don't even have the courtesy of calling themselves 'vampire') drain the precious vitality from me with their insatiable psychological hungers. And honestly? Some Witches have caused me far more trouble with their draining ways than any vampire, or even any vacuously-natured entity.

Is -this- wicked of me? Am I a threat to a circle in which I have no interest simply because I have the dis/ability? Is a "Psychic Vampire" any more of a threat than another witch who, to heal, must also be able to curse? Can the sometimes-company of the vamp be so corrosive that it strikes fear into the strong strega/wicca of these circles? Are you so fragile, am I so terrible? I honestly doubt it.

Working Together, Being United. Yeah, all that stuff.

Recent news frenzies do not show the "occult" community as neatly divided and indisputably sectarian. CNN does not distinguish between the "Wicca murder" of a crazed woman stabbing someone to death on a date that happened to line up with a sabbat, or the "Vampire Cults" that didn't take Shelby Ellis.

To the news, we're all the same thing. We are the freaks, the reeking masses. And if you think the Witch is not tarred with the same brush as Vampires and "Lycans", you are deluded beyond all help. The "Wica" of the Gards and their down-line will be painted with the same shame and discredit as the "Wicca" of the cut-n-paste deities who go bug-nutty. The shame of the reckless pricks who stab the homeless to death will soak into the clean vestments of the Vampiric orders and Unitarian Pagan groups alike.

To them, we are no different. Why do we care about each-other? We know better, but in some cases, we know jack shit. Am I a Therian? Otherkin? Vamp? Witch? Does it matter anymore? Are they the same thing, just different shades of "Witch"?

If we show our WORTH, does it matter what little subcategory of "woo woo shit" we tag under the main header? Does "Energy Worker (oh, and psychic vampire)" mean anything more or less than "Love-and-light Wiccan (who happens to be the biggest dick you know)"? Why is one welcomed with open arms, despite transgression upon transgression, while the other is ousted at the raising of the colors?

The "Hidden Children", Being "Closeted" and "Coming Out".

As I recall, back in the day the Witches used to call themselves "The Hidden Children of the Goddess" and that's what we still are. I may loath spiders with a seething passion and a can of Raid, but somewhere (distantly, soooo distantly) we're related. We're from the same genetic source, and the same spiritual one. Some Pagans may loath vampires, but we're all cut from the same spiritual cloth.

There is still a lot of talk on forums about "Coming out of the broom closet" and how they fear retribution from the community around them. Fear losing jobs, fear losing children. The Pagan community rallies behind them, assuring that Witches do no evil, and so good will out! Just show you're a good member of the community, that you aren't (LOL!) "Cursing" anyone, and you'll be fine. Religion is protected, ya know.

Imagine it from the standpoint of a "Vampire"; They've been a part of the community for years, they've worked with groups, pride-events, patronized local shops since they were a wee one. They've been working in and with the community, doing tarot readings, casting spells, doing energy work and healing. They're actually rather well-regarded. They think "This is no different than Becky coming out of the broom closet. I'm not hurting anyone, I'd NEVER hurt anyone like that. People know me, this will be just as easy, and just as hard. I'll have support!" And then the bomb drops.

Take some time to think about how different we aren't. Take some time to consider that we all need to stick together, because to "them", we're all the same anyway.

Whitewashing History.

2010-08-30T19:33:00.003-05:00

This was going to be a review of Raven Grimassi's "Italian Witchcraft", but as I read through the book I came across something so enraging that I had to stop and vent my vitriol.

Conclusions Reached.

"It is interesting to note that Jan Ziarnko, in 1612, produced an engraving for the work Tableau de l' inconstance. In this engraving he displays a horned entity sitting upon a throne. To it's right sits a woman who is labeled in the text as the Queen of the Sabbath. Kneeling before them are worshipers who are presenting a small child. All about, people are involved in dancing and feasting. The fact that people kneel to the throned individuals addresses the issue of worship. The importance of this image is that it shows a male and female entity overseeing the sabbath. In the picture, we note that they do not participate as would a High Priest or High Priestess. The Sabbath is being performed FOR them. This addresses the issue of Deity. Are we seeing Befana and Befano before they were dethroned by the Christian Church."
- Raven Grimassi Italian Witchcraft, pages 62/63.

... which is all well and good, except...

Take a moment to examine the image. In the image we see, everything Grimassi attributed to it seems plausible. Unfortunately, this is an exceptionally small section of a far larger image. In a rather small size it's still huge, so I'm going to post the whole thing as a link a little later. But first we'll take a winder angle at Grimassi's narrow crop.

Notice anything different?

Yeah, had I not literally seen this woodcut the day before buying the book, why... I might have taken the observation at face value.
The Grimassi crop is highlighted red.

Here we see three figures seated, not a god/dess pair, but rather a Goat on a throne flanked by two women. Each one is holding a bundle of snakes conveniently cropped in Grimassi's view. The child is bring presented not by "kneeling worshipers" but by a woman and a winged demon-figure (conveniently cropped). As far as what the text of the book in which this image appears says - I haven't the foggiest.

All about, people are involved in dancing and feasting.

Here's the aforementioned feast. Notice anything interesting here? There are demons and women feasting on HUMAN CHILDREN.

The dancers are composed of human females and demons dancing around a tree. The only male human I can suss out is a musician.

To be frank, the whitewashing of this image, and the manipulation of a narrow crop to "prove" a point is seriously irritating to me. This etching does not even vaguely depict a feast we'd recognize as a pagan survival. It's a Christian depiction of a diabolical sabbat. This image can inspire those of us who are Traditional Witches of a sabbatic tint, those of us who certainly don't eat babies, but don't feel the desire to whitewash over 90% of the picture to make it fit a preconceived idea.

But, I could be wrong here.

It's entirely possible that Mr. Grimassi only saw the smaller image, and didn't do any follow-up research to see if there was "more" to the image. It's possible that he took the single source, and it's content at face-value. I'm not exactly sure that paints a better view of his scholarship, however. It's a small thing, but it's one of those things that just stuck in my craw. I'll post a full review sometime in September.

Familiars Part Three - Servitors.

2010-08-16T20:10:00.001-05:00

In every nearly every article or book I've found concerning the Familiar in the practice of modern "Witchcraft Revivalists" there is made some sort of mention of a "created" familiar. Back in my youth, and hell - to this day, we called this a "servitor".

Servitors, as my mentor reckoned them (and thus how I "learned" them), are entities, either created whole cloth by the Practitioner, or assembled from the energetic remains (or "cloned" parts) of other entities. These entities are created specifically to carry out a single task, and be resorbed, dismantled, or destroyed.

Some practitioners extend the life of a servitor indefinitely, but this has it's risks. The longer an entity exists, feeding or being fed upon various kinds of energy, the greater chance it has to escape the Will of the person/s who created it. It would still be attached to that person, however, providing a rogue link to the Practitioner that could backfire spectacularly, or provide a point of entry for unwanted energies.

The key difference between the "servitor-familiar" and the Familiar-Spirit is that one is created (the servitor) and one is a pre-existing spirit, who is usually given to the witch by either another witch, or the sabbat-lord.

How this effects the entity is in it's range of influence. A servitor cannot (initially) do anything you cannot do yourself. Familiars, by nature, are designed to do things that the witch can never do on their own. So, expecting one to work as the other is ineffective at best.

When Categories Get Fuzzy.

My favored servitor/s, the baneye, were out of my hands about a year or two after I first created one. These little beings were part fish, part pig, part bird, and covered in eyeballs. They were inspired by an old woodcut illustration, and spawned to keep a look-out, and fend off any unwanted trespassers. They would replicate when more of them were needed, and slowly re-devour each-other when times were less hectic, designed to be a self-sustaining alarm system on "the astral".

Today they breed on their own, and have varied forms. Some are the original "pig-sized" servitors, while others are epic war-mount size. Still others are simply swarms of single eye-balls on nerve endings which serve as rudimentary legs. Not a single one of them, however, is beholden to my command alone. How did this happen? I made the mistake of lending one of them to a being in the between-world. He made his own tinkering modifications to his new little pet, and they changed. All of them. Permanently.They are now more his children than mine, and though exceedingly good at their job - have minds very much their own.

"I Don't Want to "Drive" Anything With a Mind of It's Own."
- my uncle, on the topic of Horses.

These instances of Servitor going rogue, or being "lifted up" are sporadic. You can't count on the being you've willed into existence being favored by your gods, guides or guardians, and to suggest this as a common mode of practice sets the practitioner up for disappointment.

Beyond this, when you create a servitor it is created with specific things in mind. You want the being to be a part of you, wholly under your control, and able to be recalled (or totally dissolved) when the operation is complete. Allowing this link to yourself out of your hands has heavy consequences.

Early in my "career" as a practitioner, I created a servitor designed to collect knowledge and energy, and bring it back to me. This was supposed to manifest as both startling internal revelations, and happening upon just the info I was looking for in books, or articles.

At some point, he simply went missing. Against my better judgment, I did not "nix" the Servitor, convincing myself he was just off on a mission that was more difficult than I'd realized. One night, I thought I sensed his presence outside of my room. Unfortunately, it was not "just" him. Either he had consumed the wrong thing, or the wrong thing had consumed him, and resulted in a "brundlefly" - something that was neither being, both beings, and exceedingly worse than either alone.

The "other" being was a decidedly malevolent one, and over the course of many months consumed it's way through my servitor, and came after me. Through the servitor it had access to me in a way it shouldn't have. I should have dismantled my servitor the second it went missing. Instead, I treated a servitor as though it were an independent entity and suffered the consequences.

I Created it... I think...
...It's possible I didn't... it could have been pre-existing. I got distracted.
AKA "Adhesion"

Occasionally, when creating a servitor, people get lazy. They internally visualize what they want, but they do not pull that out of themselves and give it form. They sort of let it coalesce, or "show up". Sometimes these are Servitors, sometimes they aren't.

A long time ago, there existed a group dedicated to "role playing" characters in the setting of the Jim Henson film "Labyrinth". Here there were a myriad of fantasies played out from people switching genders, to one-night-stands with rock stars. But above-all, reigned the character of Jareth - A Fairly-like creature that shapeshifts into the form of a barn owl, and is the "Goblin King".

For those unfamiliar with the film (firstly, shame on you, go watch it) the plot of the film is that a hormonal, self-centered, teenaged girl - angry at a younger sibling, decides to "wish him away" (jokingly) to the realm of the Goblin King - called "The Underground". Unfortunately for her, he actually shows up, and takes the baby. The teenaged girl is given thirteen hours to travel through the massive, county-sized, labyrinth erected around the Goblin King's castle, in the heart of "The Goblin City" to retreive her little brother before he is turned into a goblin forever.

Scenes of the film depict the young girl, lost in a seemingly unending (and constantly shifting) labyrinth in the underworld (er... I mean underground!) set against intercuts of her baby brother at the center of a goblin reverie, lead by their king.

Jareth, as a character is beautiful, able to re-order space and time, king of his own realm and perfectly capable of doing absolutely awful things to get what he wants. In short - he is a Fae. The group of fans I had encountered were all spending so much time focusing on this character, his world, his traits... that something got a little hinky.

A few nights after joining this chat for the first time, while working a candle-spell at my open window, I saw a large barn owl swoop by. I chuckled to myself, and later mentioned the sighting to my newfound friends. Their reaction was instant - Stay away from the owl.

Understandably I was confused, it was just an owl. I live in the woods, and Barn owls are pretty common. NO, they said... this wasn't a barn owl, this was Jareth. I had to stay away from him, because the "real" Jareth wasn't as nice as he was in the movies. "The Real Jareth"? It was laughable. He was a damned fictional character portrayed by an already aging rock-star.

Except... As time went on things got weird. I would dream of this character, who was exceedingly like the film character - and yet clearly something far older. He had wants, desires, and motives of his own. And eventually his presence moved from interactions in dreams to people's lives getting very messed up when they said or did unkind things toward the character in the game.

Their devotion, their attention - their worship, had called something very real out of the aethers. Something close enough to that fantasy depiction that it could adhere to their wishes and desires, and manifest through an unintentional gateway. This being existed on the cusp - it was a real entity, using a fictional mask to get it's due.

Summarizing

Servitors can be lifted up to the status of a Familiar, but the process is mostly by chance, and very unpredictable. Existing entities can be "netted in" or adhere to thought forms and servitors, leading to very unpredictable results. Using a Servitor long-term can lead to unexpected results.

If you're prepared to accept the unexpected results, and suffer the consequences (and believe me, there'll be some suffering) - fine und dandy. But a very poor choice for new pagans, and it would be very irresponsible for someone to advise otherwise.

Mytho-Fictional-Magick : The Death Stick.

2010-08-16T03:44:00.007-05:00

Nothing is real and everything is permitted? This truth is not the motto of my heart. Hear the wisdom of the threshold-walker - Everything is real, and the taboo is in the harnessing of it's reality.

This is one of the only times you'll see me addressing meta-magick, or mytho-fictional magick. The reason is that it is both a supremely serious pursuit for those involved in it, and incredibly hard not to outright laugh at.

Those of us who dance around the edges of consensus reality have been gifted with a sublime amount of material from which to draw our experimental corpus. Not the least amongst these is the Harry Potter universe. In this universe there is a line between users of magick, and those who are utterly incapable of using it. Further still is a line between magick-users, and those willing to use -every- kind of magick for their own aims. In the canon of this series, it's made abundantly clear that anyone willing and able to use "all" arts, is probably using "dark" arts.

The topic of "dark" versus "light" when dealing with meta-magick is enough to fill a hundred entries, several books and many dimly-lit afternoons over multiple packs of tobacco-in-paper deathsticks. I'll leave that for another time and focus on the main point : Wandlore.

I've always made wands. I cultivate the trees, I've even arbrosculpted the living tree to shape the final wand (which could have stones, or other material, embedded inside of the living tissue). Once upon a time someone asked me if I could "core" a wand, as in Harry Potter.

I gave it some consideration: Take a supple young branch, split it like you're de-veining a shrimp, insert the material, bind until healed, allow the branch to grow to the desired thickness and harvest. Yes, that would indeed put a "core" in a wand. Would it be of use? What use would it have? How would it effect the wand?

The core would not be any "mythical" being. No more mythical than a surgically altered goat, or the bones of a particularly ill-tempered snake, that happened to be hatched under a toad or some such. And yet, if I'm to take stock in the claims of other Witches and Pagans - there are mythotypal beings wandering around in the Astral, and some of them are willing to entreat with Witches.

So, I gave it a try. I put a physical substance into the middle of a supple branch in a tree particularly beloved by the local spirit-life. I journeyed into the between-world, and worked with the spirit of the tree itself. I journeyed into the other-world and obtained the needed concerns. And as I came back, and back, at each level I wove that power into the branch.

It worked. Willow 14 1/2", hair of a water fairy (probably an unseelie). Undulating and supple, with an inclination toward purification work, and particularly good for water-witching. Unfortunately, it also enjoys slinging some of the nastier curses I can formulate, and does so with a familiar ease.

Anyone who took the time could construct their own Elder Wand, a Deathstick of uncanny accuracy and lethality. The question is: Why? The Willow-wand spends most of it's time neatly put away, where it won't stab anyone's eye out. I can't imagine the ferocity of nature one would get from attempting to replicate Death's own wand.

The Cauldron-Stirrer...

2010-08-10T22:34:00.002-05:00

There is a woman in the clearing. She's atop a slab of stone, sitting semi-native style, her calves down and wrapped around a large cooking pot. She reaches around her in the dim firelight, pulling bundles of this, sprigs of that, sections of roots. Into the pot they go.

She is muscular, agile. Her hips are wide, and seductively curvaceous, but she has broad shoulders and thicker arms than most women would want. Leaning next to her is a forked pole, rubbed smooth by sanding and sealed with wax and sacred oils, it is shaped like the tines of an inverted peace symbol. Around her shoulders is a scrap of shawl, enough to keep the chill from her back, should the fire before her not provide enough heat. Around her neck is a mantle of bones, stones and shining beads.

Her face is shrouded by heavy hair, it's elbow-length and wild. The ends are rough in the front, suggesting she's recently cut away the forelocks with a knife... probably to clear her vision. Her face reminds me of Anjelica Houston, twenty or thirty years ago. She is a handsome woman, but razor-sharp, weaponized, and lovely.

Around the fire before her cavort all manner of creatures. They do so with the good nature of somewhat inebriated party-goers, tittering on flutes, bashing drums and whooping every time the fire pops and sends a soap-berry chasing after someone's legs.

It seems that she is a fixture of the land. The beasts and beings neither give her a particularly wide berth, nor stray too close. When one of them crosses before her, they seem to nod a little in her direction. It is accepted that treading directly into the space around her is a poor idea, or so the body-language says. Behind her, in the shadows, is a massive shape of fur and twisting skin.

Opposite her, beyond the flames (where I cannot clearly see him) is a tall man, wearing a hooded cloak made of animal hide, and crowned with a set of horns (antlers? they seem to shift like branches in the wind). To me, he is shadow, and yet his presence reaches around the fire-circle like dark wings. He is sitting on a fallen log, one leg tucked into the bend of the other's knee and his right hand rests in the crotch of a short stang. It is his crutch... I think. The leg which does not touch the ground seems fairly well lamed. I realize that it is his side of the flames where I always am, and he is always behind me, but now I'm somewhere in the middle.

I find myself moving toward her, the razor-faced woman in the threadbare shawl. Goatboy tugs at my pant-leg. He suddenly reminds me of "Dobby", knowing he can't say something important, but imploring me with his eyes to stay the fuck by the fire. I kneel down to him, so we're roughly the same height and ask him if he's able to tell me why he doesn't want me to move. He looks at Her, then at Him, then at me. He gets a somewhat constipated look. I feel a rush of fear.

"It's okay Goatboy... I can always think of my feet." I tell him. He seems to get it, or at least the gist of it, and lets go of my pant leg. He still won't stray beyond the edge of the disturbed soil. He won't go up to where the light of the fire seems to bend to avoid her throne.

I kneel, just off to the right of her. The shadow writhes. I look up at her razor-face, it is physically and psychically painful. And I say "Am I dead?" - It wasn't the question I meant to ask. Far from it, actually. Funny how these things happen. But her face seems to split in two, ear to ear with a toothsome grin, full of absolutely mirthless laughter.

This is the maw of death, just north of the maw of rebirth. She must consume to give birth. She is a black hole which forms around it's orbit a beautiful galaxy. Periodically consuming things, so that the energy of it's decay forces the remaining survivors further beyond reach. But without her pull, nothing would ever form. Without matter being devoured, nothing would survive... And as soon as this vision arises, it departs. She is beautiful again, and not quite so hard to look at. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't a little." she says... without really speaking.

It is by her leave that all things pass to and from death, she rules the Underworld, and all of it's gods, with an Iron fist, for all things must pass between on her roads. Hers are the things that go bump, that hide from sight, and are never truly beheld. The black shucks, and poisonous toads. Rats and crawling things. Beasts which mingle races. Races which no one living ever gets to behold.

I scrape and bow my way back to the firelight, and I feel the rush of air, and light, and sound come back at me. Goatboy pats me affectionately on the knee where I've collapsed squarely on my ass. "You warned me. I ignored you. Let's say score one to you, good sir." Goatboy grins. The sounds of the fire are mostly drowned out by the pounding of my heart. He passes me a horn of mead, with a look stating that I cannot refuse this time, and that if I do he'll personally ram me. I accept the fairy-drink, which tingles on my tongue with the bitter explosion of Solanine and Dandilion. Another human, though debatably so, drags me to my feet and into a dance around the fire. I dance until the sun begins to rewind from the West, and then I run... I fly, I gallop on all fours. I shift and change through a dozen forms and fall from a great height into my body.

I suck down several glasses of ice-water, and sit up in bed for a bit. For all the morons, like myself, who've dance on the edge of death, bang-faced, and arrogant : Never in my life had I been so glad to draw breath.

Also, no, his name isn't Goatboy. But I'm not going to post his actual name. That'd be a bit gauche.

Familiars - Part Two.

2010-08-08T15:39:00.001-05:00

On a forum, another Hedge-crafter took exception to some of my comments about Familiars, and I can certainly understand why they might. It made me realize that I might have been somewhat unclear in some of my thoughts. What I said was a direct reflection of my own experiences, and of the research I've done. Though, I suppose I ought to have been more clear in the first place (sad is the day when a forum of Hedgewitches have to resort to mincing words).

In the trial of the Pendle Witches, Alizon was compelled to accept a familiar by Old Demdike while the pair were walking home. The process of the Familiar feeding on her left a mark which lasted six months afterward. In all of my experiences concerning beings feeding upon a person, if it leaves a mark that lasts such a long time - well... that's not exactly a "deep, loving, relationship". It hurt, it was probably frightening, and at that moment it was more parasite than life-partner.

Some Witches did, and do, doubtlessly deal with gentler beings, while some will have other kinds of work, for which neither gentle beings nor gentle partnerships are appropriate. Their interactions will be different. No two witches are alike, nor should they be, and as such their perspectives will be different. No one should expect (or demand, as some do) otherwise.

As was one point of contention - at best, one can expect to have a symbiotic relationship, a mutually beneficial, and even loving one. At worst, one may find that they are the prey, and foodsource, of a much stronger and less gentle being than they had assumed (or been lead to believe by white-washed source material). To me, this is no more controversial than saying "At best you can expect to have an awesome day, at worst you can expect to die". Both statements are unflinchingly honest, however uncomfortable they may be to hear.

The second point of contention was the Familiar leaving the Witch. Well... when/if there is nothing for them to gain anymore, they will leave... the same as any being. I have also stated that in my experience, sometimes they can get annoyed enough to simply leave.

My original post had also stated that the more pleasant the familiar, the more pleasant the partnership as long as the Witch is pleasant too. Sometimes, no one in the relationship is pleasant, or nice, or gentle. For some instances that's rather the point.

A Tale of The Blackedogge.

Alizon Device met with a pedler on the highway, and demanded that the peddler sell her some pins. He refused, and Alizon, leaving the scene of the altercation, met again the black dog who had suckled at her, leaving a mark which lasted six months. The Dog said "What wouldst thou have me do unto yonder man?" Alizon asked "What canst thou do to him?"
The dog answered "Lame him". The man didn't make it more than 200 feet down the road before he fell down, lame.
Five days later, the Black Dog appeared to her again, compelling her to stay and speak with it. She refused, and did not see the Black Dog again.

Alizon Device, amongst a long line of witches real and accused, would likely laugh very hard at the idea that familiars are relegated to ONLY being gentle, loving, beings.

What to do When Trouble Comes Knocking.

2010-08-03T21:48:00.002-05:00

A while back I posted an entry about being bothered by locals who want my advice and refuse to take it. There I went through the scenario of what I do when contacted. But I thought, for the sake of posterity and to be helpful to those who aren't familiar with the process, I might go a little more into depth.

Please Help Me.. you just HAVE to!

When someone approaches a Witch for advice, or aid, this is usually the phrase. It doesn't matter what kind of work they want done. Though, occasionally for malefic work the phrase is more like "You wanna make someone's dick bleed?" - which is just another way of saying "I'm hurt, and I need assistance".

My suggestion is always this: If you are inclined to spend the next few minutes hearing the person out, invite them to give as calm and honest an appraisal of the situation as they are able. Listen to their use of words, note their body language, and especially eye contact. For me, I tend to stare off into space when I'm thinking. If someone is spending a lot of time avoiding eye contact, they're searching for words - that could mean they're digging up old memories, or making up new stories to tell you.

Listen to word choice, and tone. Weasel words will come into play if the person's motives aren't sound. "He always", "you won't believe", "he'd, like, (anything terrible)". The assumption is that in order to win your favor and advice, the event/s need to be outlandish and irresistible. Which will lead to embellishment, or outright lies. If he "always", there will be specific citations. If you won't believe, you won't need to be told that. If he'd "like" skin the cat once a week, he'd just fucking skin it, skinning it isn't -like- anything.

Then, get out the cards. Do a simple four-card reading. Do it in front of them, and tell them your exact interpretation of the cards, no matter how golf-shoe-to-the-face it may be. Watch their reaction. People who are genuinely at their wit's end will be exasperated, people who are lying will get defensive and angry. Do another string of four, laid above or below the first. Compare the messages in the cards. Do so aloud, and with honesty.

You just aren't taking me seriously/don't understand/are an asshole.

Then we're done. For every one person who is honestly in need of advice or assistance, there will be a very large number who aren't. That's fine. You just don't need to waste your time convincing either of you otherwise. If your time and energy are met with the above, chances are this is not someone who's business you want to get entangled with anyway. They're an ingrate, and no matter what you do, they will never attribute success to it. Therefore, they'll feel cheated, and may cause you trouble later on.

Follow your reading, if it is taken poorly, with "Well, this is what I'm receiving. This is the information I have available to me. If you had conflicting stories like these presented to you, you'd also distance yourself. I'm sorry, I can't help you."

But... why?

Sometimes your reading will make a light go on. Not that the person coming to you was lying, but that maybe they didn't quite understand the situation in it's entirety. Your reading may flick on a light in a room filled with some uncomfortable things. This is where you have to resort to, in Terry Pratchett's words "Headology". If they are convinced a monster is after them give them a metaphorical shotgun and a large chair to stand on. Give them rituals for protection, for cleansing, and to fortify themselves. Invest their belief fully into it, and it will solve the problem, psychological or real.

If you've just informed them that their lover is cheating, and not really afflicted by malevolent spell-work, give them time to assimilate the data, and come to their own conclusions. DO NOT suggest that you immediately get on a reconciliation spell, or a vengeance spell. That's a dick move.

Is it worth it?

Once or twice a season, in the life of a Witch, someone will come along with work that needs doing. Dirty work. Extremely unpleasant, nasty, dirty work. Curses, revenge, hexing, blasting and even death-dealing. Someone may come along requesting In-tranquil Spirit, or Death Unto My Enemies-related work. Is it worth it?

I don't have the moral compass of some neo-wiccan folk. I see "dark" work (a topic for another entry entirely) as a natural part of what makes a Witch a damn Witch. If we'd concerned ourselves ONLY with healing, fertility of crops, and making folks feel better about themselves there never would've been a persecution. But there also would've been a lot of murderers who never tripped up, a lot of cheating ex-lovers who never got exposed, and a lot of unhappy marriages. The power of the witch lies in healing AND hexing, and our ancestors knew this one in a way we've long-since forgotten. Meting out a little Karma is our natural place, in my opinion. Delivering swift kicks to the asses, or swift (metaphorical) bullets to the head, of deserving individuals who do terrible things is a divine gift we've been given. We'd be morons to ignore it in favor of feel-good buzzwords.

That said, there are times when the vengeance is unwarranted. Joe Schmoe did nothing. Jill Frill just wants to make him suffer because he left her. This leaves the Witch in a position of a difficult decision: Is it worth my time, energy, and financial investment (Regardless of whether I get it back) to make Joe get a wicked case of penile-dripping just because he left Jill for someone who probably isn't quite so quick to -want- his penis dripping?

For some of us, once the palm is crossed with enough silver, the costs are fair. We make the petitioner swear to accept any backlash, be it legal, financial, emotional, mental or spiritual - as this is work for hire, ultimately belonging squarely at their feet. But the toll it takes from us, whatever it may be, is fine and dandy if the bills get paid on time.

For others, no amount of money, no effort, and no compensation is worth it.

A Fair Price for a Fair, or Foul, Work.

Whenever I do Work for hire, I have a scheme by which I calculate the value of the work. This scheme may be valuable for other practitioners to apply to their own practices, and figure out something that works for them.

1: Hourly wages. I expect to make no less than $X per hour for my time, and manual skill, and expect the work to last Z hours in total, over Y length of time.

1a: Energy. What personal toll will it take? Does it involve exceptional risk, or difficult shennanigans? Will it run counter to my usual practices, requiring me to later kiss ass with some of the entities I work with to get things right again? Should I receive any additional compensation for this?

1b: Asshole Tax: How hard is the person to deal with? How much of my time will they take up, in addition to the time spent on the Work itself? How much do I expect to earn per total hour of time spent with them?

2: Supplies. All materials involved, in last known purchase-price, multiplied by one and a half, or two times. This covers not only the cost of getting the materials if I do not have them, but covers any potential price-shift. I also calculate not by the price at which I have to replace them. I.e. I cannot buy one spoonful of Gum Mastic over the internet, I have to buy it by the ounce. Generally, I split the difference between the by-used, and by-purchase price. If I have to buy the supply, or replace my own stock - I shouldn't HAVE to take that hit.

I add all of these totals up, and come up with an estimate. I suggest rounding the estimate to a "round" number, to forestall any curiosity, and coming up with a "payment plan". For trustworthy people it's the supply total as a down payment, followed by the remainder. For others it's half down, or even the full cost, with any remainder upon completion.

An Example

Let's say I expect to make about $25 an hour, which is not unreasonable for a professional in a niche field. Let's say that I expect that, over the course of a 7-day spell, I'll spend about 3-4 hours in total time, including prep, over that 7 days. The person is amiable, and I doubt they'll cause me any problems with additional time. - $75-$100.

I know that the spell will require two figural candles, two medium tapers, and four chime candles. In addition, it will also require three oils I don't have on hand, and an ink that I don't have the time to make, and am currently out of. - $50-ish. Now, because I know I can re-use the oils, I'll give the person a break on it. - $30-ish.

The total I arrive at is a round $100. It's a nice, tight, even, number. I'm taking a small hit on some of the supplies (why the HELL are figural candles so expensive, anyway?) but I'm also going to add several oils to my "inventory" that I'd previously been out of. I decide to split the difference, and ask $50 up front, $50 on completion of the work assuring spell remains will be nicely packaged, and their additional nation sack will be handmade for them and waiting at the end of the Work. Because of the nature of the work (in this hypothetical case a love/fidelity ensuring spell) I can fairly safely assume the petitioner will return and pay the balance.

$50 at least covers the supplies, gas money/shipping to get them, and the time involved in picking them up. If they do not pay the second half, I have at least not -lost- any money on the venture.

I Won't Pay That / I Won't Pay You At All.

Isn't it great to be a Witch sometimes? Someone asks for your hard work, and refuses to give anything in return. Well, if you haven't -started-, don't. Tie it up, pack up your things and send them on their merry, merry, way. You don't have to be a charity, unless you want to, and if you want to - fine by me. If you've already started, silly you for not taking the cash first, but hey... you're a Witch, and you have probably gotten something that belongs to them by now.

If you've completed the spellwork, they've gotten what they want, and you haven't gotten your money, it's time to employ your own skills to get it. I suggest a "Pay Me" hoodoo-style spell - the Green Devil version from Lucky Mojo is actually quite handy. Be as ruthless as is required.

As a suggestion for ensuring payment: Retain the "concerns" involved in the spellwork. Most spells require that the remains be properly disposed of, usually deployed toward the target's residence, in order to work. Reinforce the NEED for this to be done, whether or not that's exactly true, to ensure the person returns, pays you your money, and takes their bundle. Reinforce that for it to do what it's supposed to, the Work needs to be completed, and if "left hanging", will tend to wander of it's own accord, causing strife.

I hope that this post has been informative, even if it's very frankly worded. I also hope that speaking about money-in-craft doesn't turn too many stomachs. Understand, even though I may love the hell out of you as a person, or feel empathy for you as a human being - I don't live on glitter and air. I need food, water, and electricity. If I'm spending an hour a day tending a spell, that's an hour a day I'm not crafting items, or working at a shift-job. It's money out of my pocket, so money has to go back in.

Something's In the Air

2010-08-02T03:18:00.001-05:00

Warning: This entry is going to get sappy, and a little hippy-esque. I apologize in advance.

Another crafty-witch blogged about working on some batches of incense, and I found it amusing. I spent a good portion of the last couple of days working out recipes, and making small test-runs myself. Among these were funerary and necromantic blends, as well as those focused on keeping secrets, consecrating magickal books, and honoring land spirits.

Scent is a weird thing for me. I absolutely adore incense, but cannot stand (and am occasionally physically repelled) by some synthetic scents. Scent, however, is strongly attached to memory for all people - and for someone who has an exceedingly poor memory, it can be magick.

While creating some new recipes, I caught a momentary blend of scents that sent me rushing back to the first time I ever entered an Occult store.

I was in my very, very, early teens. I had a book (probably one by Cunningham) tucked under my arm. With my then-best-friend, and we were browsing incenses. At this time everything was experimental, and tentative. Everything was awkward and I found myself constantly second-guessing not only my intuition, but the material in books. But in that store, surrounded by the mingling scents of Nag Champa incense, patchouli oil, and old books - Magick was alive, real, and palpable. We selected blends designed to evoke the elements - I still have several cones of that incense (Escential Essences "Mystic Forest").

I was never "allowed" to burn incense at home. Which meant that all of my rituals were conducted late at night with a bedroom window open, so that the wafting scent of Magick would not spread through the ductwork and get me a stern yelling-at. To this day there is a secret pleasure in incense. Being able to burn it freely and nearly constantly during my eight month stint out of state was ecstasy! When I light a coal, or punk* magick fills the air with the scent, because what is to follow will be a secret, sacred, joy.

So, while I huddle around The Table Of Doom, rolling cones of "Faun of The Hollow" or beating the scent from Juniper Berries, I revel in the scents flowing up and around me - soaking my skin and hair. They take me back to my roots, to my first spells. To the time when all my magick was sneaking, swift, and clandestine. When it was all new, and filled with secrets.

*Punks are incense sticks, made by dipping "scentless" moulded sticks into oils dissolved in solvents i.e. ALL stick incense. Cones are "punks" as well, manufactured the same way.

Familiar Spirits

2010-07-26T15:35:00.002-05:00

In 1612, Alizon Device, grand-daughter of Old Demdike, came to trial for witchcraft. In the records of the trial she is supposed to have said that she was approached by a Familiar-Spirit in the form of a dog and that by the persuasion of her grandmother, allowed it to suckle on her blood (from just beneath her breasts), thus inheriting it as her own Familiar. Though the archaic use of English in the records is a bit much at the best of times, it's also apparent that the Familiar did not remain constantly with the woman, but came and go at rather lengthy intervals. The trial records also note some involvement of selling, or bargaining, one's soul.

In this same trial, a spirit appearing as an intensely lovely young man, or sometimes as a brown dog, is also mentioned. In this case, coming for both Alizon's mother, and brother.

When my eye looks toward this, and other accounts (though none so thoroughly accounted as the Pendle Trials, IMO), I see a trend and a deeper meaning in very white-washed confessions.

1: Familiars come and go as they please. You don't own them, and they aren't a "pet" who helps you do harm-none-wicca.
2: Familiars must subsist upon blood, spiritual essence (the aforementioned "soul") , your personal energy, or a combination of all three in order to remain effective. They will require more for bigger tasks - pray you can provide.
3: You don't chose one, it chooses you. Once it's chosen you, it won't leave unless you starve it, chip away at it's strength and THEN banish it. Or, if you simply piss it off hard enough.
4: Familiar-association runs in families rather strongly. Grandma may curse you to feed a quasi-parasitic being who can perform marvelous acts.
5: W.M., one of the first spirit-beings I ever met, fit precisely the role of a witch-craze-era Familiar, and I didn't really get it until recently.

A Brief Bit on Practical Experiences with a Familiar-Spirit

In the late 1990's, during meditation work, I was approached by a spirit who appeared like an incredibly tall man with the mouth of a reptile, and the eyes of a reptile, and for hands he had the talons of raptors. To describe it in modern vernacular: His mouth was exceptionally thin and wide, his eyes were slit-pupil, and he had very long, curved, finger-nails which had pronounced cyanosis at the beds.

In exchange for showing me my past, all manner of hidden knowledge, and teaching me to foretell the future, he only needed energy. My energy. Obtained in dreams like a vampire biting a victim, and in the waking world associated with prickling pain, and often physical marks. He fed upon sexual pleasure as well.

The rewards -far- outweighed the costs, and he was a remarkably loyal spirit. Befriending and aiding friends of mine as well. Over time we grew incredibly close, and then something changed.

I can't tell you what changed, more than likely he simply got saturated on the energy I had to offer, or got pissed off because he no longer occupied the central place in my worldview (he was a bit of a primadonna). His visits became further apart, then stopped entirely. He still visits friends occasionally, but by and large I hear not a damned word about him, or from him. Perhaps he's passed into a partnership with someone else, and if so... they're damned lucky to have him.

Gaining a Familiar

You don't exactly just get to call one up and command it to do your dirty work. Firstly, it doesn't work like that, secondly anything that easy to boss around in that manner is probably not very "strong", and may be more of a drain than a boon.

There are, however, ways of enticing a being to consider a partnership. In Raven Grimassi's work he suggests using guided meditations to cross into a particularly fertile batch of otherworld and choose a being which becomes interested in your presence. This is a good starting point for the task, but I'd be very leery of accepting the services of "just anything" I meet on the otherside. I think it would be far more advantageous for both parties to develop a friendship through visitation. Though, the visitation can begin through meditative work such as the aforementioned work suggests.

In my night-flights I often see a small spirit that's similar to a Satyr or Faun, though rather small, and a little more goaty. Whenever I'm compounding incenses, or doing Work, he seems rather keen on what I'm doing and will often fetch some novel ingredient (usually at lightening speed) that is just what I need. Also, if anything is handed to me, he is the one to do it. If I must hand something to someone else, he passes it to them. In short, he acts as something of an intermediary, is a pre-existing spirit, and is interested in my work.

Were I to consider acquiring another Familiar-Spirit-Proper, this would be the one I would consider. He's never shown me malice, always seems interested, and is already involved in my goings-on. I would suggest that anyone else take a similar route: Gain a friend first, and then ask the friend for a partnership, rather than meeting a stranger and assuming intimacy.

Creating A Being

Yes, it can be done. The internets are filled with accounts and instructions on the creation of beings called Servitors.

Ask anyone who's Worked with me? They'll instantly comment on the Baneyes. One of my first magickal experiments in created entities, and the longest-lived. Having long-since evolved from a Servitor into their own, independent, self-breeding, race. They've also formed variations on their original design, becoming caste-like in nature (with large broodmares down to single-eyeball-on-an-optic-nerve swarms). However, I got lucky. I worked hard enough at shaping the initial generations that the beings aren't rogue, they have no desire to attack, only defend and maintain. Had I not been so studious, gods know what monsters my teen dabbling may've created.

The unconscious mind, the wellspring of our internal landscape, can be filled with self-defeating ideas. Creating a Familiar from a Servitor would likely be more fraught with danger than adopting a being from the otherside.

This will not be the last blog about Familiars. I intend to follow Mr. Grimassi's methods of enticing a Familiar (probably one of the smarter Baneyes at first) to get back into the saddle. And I'm sure my experiments will unfold here, across the months.

The Witch's Familiar by Raven Grimassi

2010-07-24T19:15:00.004-05:00

I picked up this little book at Borders due to having a 40% off coupon. I'm not ashamed to say that I do not like paying cover price for books, because cover-price is usually so balls-to-the-wall ridiculous for the size (this is a thin volume, owed to the specific nature of it's topic). It's not that I don't think they're worth it, but rather that I simply cannot afford it with my book-appetite.

What I like:
This work is worded quite accessibly, without being needlessly weedly or pandering on the more complex aspects of what it discusses. It is frank in it's discussion of the use of bodily fluids (both sanguine and amorous), and it's depiction of the nude human form in the Chakral/Energy center imagery. The book takes a practical approach to familiars, and draws upon witch trial records, which (IMO) is in the books favor, even citing some of the dangers associated with them in the Old World.

There are a series of seals/emblems/sigils provided, which are straitforward and very easy to freehand or photocopy for use. The work, like any other book, is a foundation to grow on, and includes information as diverse as growing plant familiars, the dismissal of uncooperative beings, and the creation of fetishes and housing for nonphysical familiars.

What I did not like:
It does run afoul of good sense by falling into the trap of starting with the assumption that all summoned entities are what they seem, and that a sigil created by a newbie will be able to turn aside an entity already lying to them.

There's also an element of hubris in the terminology of "using", "utilizing", etc. That I find rankles my sensibilities as I read it, but that's likely my "ANIMALS ARE (tasty) PEEPLE TOO!" gland acting up. I dislike the recurring "tripple spirals" on the seals, simply because I feel that each one could've benefited from another "trippled" image (such as blood, drops, arrows, etc.) that were more in tune with the seal's purpose. They also do not discuss the method they used for arriving at the sigils, which is important to someone like myself.

The constant reference to "power crystals" also put me off. Also, the author mentions the use of the Witch's Wheel (Magician's Wheel) multiple times for the creation of seals/sigils of the Familiar's name, but does not provide it in the book. For anyone that doesn't keep several copies of the Wheel around, this could prove problematic.

All in all, I give it - My gripes are mostly knitpicking, and for those unfamiliar with familiars, it would be far more helpful than a salty old ass like myself.

The Witch's Advice.

2010-07-20T19:46:00.002-05:00

It is a searingly hot night. The moon is nearly half-full and there's not a cloud in the sky. All around the sound of insects and frogs chokes the air, creating an almost physical pressure of sound. In the middle of the woods there is a mobile home, a few lights are still on, despite the late hour. The Witch's phone has been ringing off the hook (metaphorically, their phone is actually a cell), voicemails are piling up. Begging for occult help, and doing it wrong.

Someone is asking The Witch for advice, and The Witch knows that no matter what advice they give, they will be greeted by the same "No, that won't work, I haven't tried it but I don't want to so I'm dismissing it offhandedly" that they're always greeted with.

With great trepidation and reluctance the witch picks up the call.

I don't know what to do. A spell has been put on my boyfriend to force him to go to another girl. She's been getting into his head and making him suggestable. She refuses to release him. I want him back. She is hurting him so bad. What can we do to stop her.

Firstly, The Witch gets out the deck of tarot cards and does a simple reading, contemplating the request.

The Witch narrows her eyes at the cards. It's pretty damned simple... A fair, young, male! He's constantly on the move, shifting like the wind from place to place and idea to idea. A choice between two objects of passion. One being chosen over the other. The Tower is about lies, facades and keeping up appearances. The bolt of lightening striking the tower represents truth coming to light and the lies crumbling. Everyone wants a hero. Unfortunately, this triumphant hero is a liar and a fake. She purses her lips, the querent is already having a fit on the other end of the line, screaming obscenity and vitriol. The Witch begins cramming the cards back into the tuck box, when another flips free.

If the previous four cards weren't visceral enough, the image of a man juggling two objects, while regarding one with more care than the other is, well... cut and dry. The Witch knows, insofar as she can, that the man is cheating (or dearly wants to) and using magick as an excuse. She tells the person as much, in the nicest way she can (which isn't terribly nice, because "Girl, he dippin' that wick in other lamps" is something that there is no nice way to say). However, she also gives extensive instructions on removing any malevolent spell-work in place.

Silence ensues.

Then, in the background, someone asks if THEY can get a tarot reading. The Witch seethes. The Querent still won't respond. People don't want to hear the truth. They want to be told everything is alright, the sun is shining on their every fart, every thought they have is not only valid, but justified and worthy of applause, and possibly Jesus himself even bends an ear to their most inner philosophical musings. The Witch grows impatient, and the Querent finally chimes in.

Sorry to have bothered you. I can see you're not taking this seriously. A spell was put on by a witch so I thought you would help. No he is not two timing me. This is real. We are both scared and I went looking for help. I just needed some answers not sarcasm.

The Witch gets angry. She speaks slowly and carefully, explaining that she took it VERY seriously, hence the reading and the spell advice. And the willingness to literally walk the afflicted through the series of uncrossing spells. The Witch Also explains that, well, ignoring the advice because it wasn't phrased the way the querent wanted is silly, juvenile, and counter-productive.

The Witch shouts "To translate: This is the spell you need to undo the bad spell against him. Take the advice, or leave it, but don't pretend you never received any. "

Thanks for nothing.

WHAT?! When someone approaches us we do readings to clarify the hidden parts of the situation, because no one person knows the whole story (and no person, anywhere, tells strangers unflattering things about themselves without the help of alcohol).

We must do these readings like doctors do scans and tests - We have to know the root of the symptoms to provide a 'treatment' for the problem. This is, by the by, why witches were also called "Witch Doctors" and "Fairy Doctors" in the past. Just like a doctor, you might hear things you don't like. That doesn't mean it's not good advice, or proper for the situation. At the end of it, you'll receive something of a prescription, which either the witch, or your local occult shop will help to fill.

"Thanks for nothing means that nothing was given. You were given a serious, helpful, response. I don't see what your hangup is, unless it's tone, and if you're ignoring the advice to help you out of what you describe as a dire, desperate, situation because you dislike it's delivery - that's a special kind of horrible." The Witch shouts. "You have been given the proper procedure for removing the bad spell against him. Take the advice, or leave it, but do not dare be an ingrate about it! Do not bite the hand that feeds you, just because it isn't serving on fine china. It's a very poor idea to cop an attitude with witches when you have already found yourself in dire straits of the magical variety - my inclination to help YOU may become an inclination to help HER."

The Witch hangs up, and the Querent calls someone else. And then another, and another, and another. Until no one will hear them out. They burn through the magickal community in a few days, pissing off dozens of competent witches in the process, cutting themselves off from workers and shop-owners.

A few days later, The Witch's phone rings, and she hits Silent. She won't be helping when all she gets is a smack in the face, and 40 minutes on her plan that she'll never get back.

(Note, the Assclows featured in this entry is actually a composite of several assclowns, so as to hit several birds with one stone)

Unhinged Minds and Magic/k

2010-07-14T04:03:00.001-05:00

Magic/k will make you crazy.

When I first showed interest in the Occult, at a tender age I, being the forthright and oddly open child that I was, went directly to my mother and told her "I'm interested in this, and I want to get some books about it at the library."

She was upset. Not that I was going to summon demons, or go to hell, or any of the other usual suspects. She was afraid that it would -work-, and that it would make me crazy.

The fact was: This was already happening to me. Things that were already driving me a bit batty, because I didn't understand what was going on - and I needed those answers. The Occult had the answers, because Athiesm, Christianity and plugging my ears with my fingers sure as hell didn't.

It made me more sane, when I finally got answers. When experiences matched up, and authors gave minor procedural for dealing with it. I warded my room, I took to meditating, writing down my dreams, and doing cleansing rituals once or twice a month. However, eventually - my methods did fail, because they were only defensive (no books included offensive techniques).

A few years down the line I was still sane (er, mostly. I blame that on teenaged hormones) and studying with a mentor. My mentor, however, brought back the old chestnut "It's not that we're afraid for you because magick doesn't work, or is evil. We're afraid for you because it is real, and doing it will make you crazy. Magick makes you confront your crazy, and sometimes it's stronger than you."

Magic/k won't make you crazy, but if you aren't stable it won't just unhinge you, it'll take the door off the goddamned frame, and deposit it in someone's ass three counties away.

One night, I was training with my mentor. In the center of the circle was a little stone well. Again, I must explain - we trained in the between/astral or the Sabbat-hill. We were sitting beside each-other, in silent contemplation, the same as always began our rituals and in a single, swift, motion he snatched my Dagger and threw it into the well. I did not hear it hit the bottom.

"What the FUCK did you do that for?" was my natural utterance.
"Because at the bottom of that well is your safety, security and power in The Art. And because at the bottom of that well is everything you fear, and revile about yourself. In order to ever be truly safe, truly sane, truly secure and truly powerful - you have to confront the shit that lives down there. Whet your blade on the blood of your inadequacies."

And then he threw -me- in.

In the bottom of the well were bits of my childhood, horrors I had forgotten and restrained. Parts of myself that I was ashamed of, or afraid of. My cruelty, my malice, my rage. I saw, among the monsters, a version of myself that was vapid, stupid, and shallow. A version of myself who was batshit insane, unhinged, rocking back and forth in the corner where the mortar of the stones was weak. My dagger was in my hand.

I could not act, or react. I was being fondled by tentacled monsters, confronted with potential outcomes of poor choices, backed into a corner and - well, there are horrible things in the depths of every person's mind. Being overwhelmed by the weight of everything there I had a small moment where I felt myself "wobble". The wobble, almost like going momentarily dizzy, was more frightening than anything in the well. The wobble was me losing my balance, nearly losing my sanity. And then it all got very clear.

"I am enriched by death. Each scar upon me made me who and what I am." I cut across the meat of my own arm. "Take my blood. I have it to spare. I outlived all of you, didn't I?"

It was that realization - "I outlived all of that" - that saved me from it. It rippled, condensed, and became a shroud. A wailing, gnarled, "dementor-like" figure that was utterly empty inside. It had no substance, as soon as it was robbed of it's threat to me. I used my dagger to pin the shroud to the ground (such as it was) and set it on fire.

Had I not had that realization, had I not been stable enough to resist that "wobble", or been so frightened by it, those things may have claimed me. I may have failed utterly, and been lost to the gnawing, biting, monsters down there.

Magick doesn't make you insane, but it does make you challenge your own issues. I outlived those things, but some people don't. Some people are genuinely broken, weakened, by the hardships of their life, and god's know I can't blame them. Some people, when faced with the mad howling, or the deep well, go a little sideways. They wobble, and they fall.

What does not kill you does NOT make you stronger, if it did not kill you - you were already the stronger one anyway.

I'm SPECIAL! I'm more special than special! I CAN SHOOT FIRE FROM MY FINGERS AND I KILLED ZEUS! Why yes, I did have a dysfunctional relationship with my family. Why do you ask?

On the flipside are people who don't go full on nutjobby, and are just attention-seekers. They're self-deluded, to be honest. They are often the people who never quite grew out of teenaged angst, or the need to "show them all".

They are the people who know, deep down, that they're lying. However, the only way they will ever admit it is if truth becomes more profitable, emotionally. There is a kind of currency in being special, even if the specialness is a lie - no one else may know about the lie, and therefore you're rewarded for all of your nonexistent hard work. It's as appealing as it gets, and is the first (and surest) sign of someone who has no power.

People who create these fantasy narratives (something all magicians can be accused of, sadly) seek power, uniqueness, and an escape from themselves. But, by refusing to address their own monsters-in-the-well, they never gain security, stability, or power. They never slay the demons, break through the wall, howl back at the abyss, or eat Babylon like a peach (aww yeah). They never transform, they never -make room-. Power cannot enter, cannot grow, because they're basing their identity around ignoring the wellspring of it.

That's all well and good for YOU, but SOME of us have real horrors to deal with...

Truth be told, there are demons still in my well. They are holes in my memory, holes that don't just bewilder me - they hurt. I cannot see what is in these holes, but I can see the shape of them. And the shape alone is terrible enough. I have looked at the shape and said "If that happened, I just have to forgive and move forward. I survived it, therefore I was stronger than it. If I stand on the edge of that hole for too long, I might be tempted to fall in." I might be tempted to wallow, and drown in that well.

There were mistakes I made as a teenager suffering from hormonal imbalances, and manic depression. But it was the psychology of magick, and the strict admonishments of my mentor that pounded into my skull that I had to not only survive, but thrive. By accepting that there is nothing I can do about the past, other than move forward, I have robbed it of it's power -over- me. I have denied it the ability to take something from me.

I am enriched by death. Not stronger, not weaker... just filled with more knowledge. Each experience in my life teaches me something about myself. Each experience is a growing one, even if it's unpleasant. Magick doesn't make you crazy, and in fact can make you a little more sane - but you have to be willing to sacrifice, toil, and suffer to learn.

The Toad

2010-07-12T15:52:00.001-05:00

I've always loved toads. I talk to them, I feed them, and I briefly kept a "toad" I purchased from a pet store (in reality a Cranwell's Horned Frog) as a much-beloved pet before it decided to try and fit it's food dish into it's stomach and choked to death. Yes, Cranwell's are not very smart frogs.

For most of my life I've rescued frogspawn from receding puddles, and later released them in our native pond. Sometimes they were toads, sometimes frogs, and once - Salamanders. I like to spend time every evening (weather permitting) sitting on the porch, sipping a cup of tea, and bashing crickets with my sandal before tossing them to the waiting chorus of toads.

Recently I shocked, amused, and disgusted a few people by rescuing a small toad from a busy sidewalk, perching him on my table, and doing a tarot reading for him outside of starbucks. His reading, incidentally, said he would meet a new friend, travel to a new home, and find love. Who was I to argue with the cards? I brought him home to my pond.

I discovered, through recommendations, the works of Andrew Chumbley (and David Shulke), and eventually stumbled upon ONE and The Leaper Between. I was enthralled, and intrigued. With my affinity for toads, and my time in the occult community, it's a wonder I had never heard of the Waters Of The Moon (at least -as such- *) prior to this.

On one hand I was drawn to the concept, on the other - understandably cautious. No sooner had I heard the term "toadmen" than people began warning me of the dangers involved. Of how I could assure I'd never have another night of sound sleep if I did it. Of how people engaging in the Toadbone rite "absque superiorum privilegio" end up insane, dead, or worse. And so I said "Well, I tell ya what. If a GOLD toad shows up on my front stoop, lets me handle it repeatedly, and keeps coming back I may just take that as a sign of privilege, how's that?"

And a gold toad decided to start showing up. I would call it's color a "curry cream", not overtly argent, but it's golden in toad terms. It doesn't care if I pick it up, but if anyone else goes near it it hops away. It gave me pause.

I've been a Witch now for a very long time. Doors close, doors open and one becomes aware of things they had not previously considered. One also recalls, with new clarity, Mysteries shared long ago.

* My initiator used to talk about how certain infatuations or predilections of mine were dangerous, or at the very least would not bode well if I followed them through. His assertion was that while Chaoism was grand, Chaos didn't pay the bills, or keep you sane. The Occult could as easily devour you as uplift you. And he would give me very angry looks when I said "I am enriched by death."

Dreamwalker.

2010-07-10T04:07:00.001-05:00

My dreams have never been what you'd call normal. I don't dream that I'm in a car, and suddenly I'm driving a pudding-shoe through the mall with my grandmother and my puppy from when I was six is chewing my favorite teddy-bear. I don't dream "weird dream stuff" - in fact, I'm not sure I ever really "dream".

We noticed things were weird when I was about five, maybe six. We were at my grandmother's and I was taking a nap in her rocking chair (on her lap, doubtlessly). I only vaguely remember this event, so I rely upon what I'm told: I awoke with a start, and began crying. When asked what was wrong I repeatedly insisted that we needed to go home, because something was attacking our chickens. That something had dug under the fence, and was getting them. I was, of course, ignored.

When we got home we found utter carnage. Our own dogs had escaped their fence, and dug under the fence into our hen-yard and had massacred the hens.

Throughout my "career" as a witch, I would intermittently dream of flying, of going to great night-reveries, of grand Sabbats held atop hills in ancient stone circles - and sometimes the stars themselves. But mostly, and almost nightly, I would dream of showing up in some far-flung place, where there was inevitably some sort of "bad juju" going on.

In these "dreams" I would do what I could to fix it. Usually resorting to pulling out my ritual dagger, and claiming the ground there - and sometimes pissing to the four directions. Never underestimate the usefulness of marking your territory. Sometimes I would dream of other witches and pagans I knew, and we'd be cooperating to do serious workings that needed doing, and sometimes we'd all remember the event, or similar dream-narratives.

I always knew I was leaving my body in my sleep. But I was always told that this was not true, that you cannot go "out" from the flesh without intent, and that dreams are just dreams. That you're trapped in your own head, that you cannot project outward from inward. And I always thought "Well, that's bullshit. I can do it, and I know I'm not -that- special or unique."

I'd always wake up feeling like I hadn't slept at all, or cold, or sore... or with cuts. And eventually I found an author who didn't shy away from saying "Sometimes people who are different can do different things. Some people with these skills are different from others, and have unique skills themselves, and that includes stepping into someone else's dreams, or another world altogether, while they sleep."

When I finally went "SEE?! I told you I wasn't that special" it got weirder. I didn't have a normal dream (that I could recall) for over two years. Now, I might have "just a dream" once a week. Mostly, though - I journey out and do what needs doing.

Not that long ago, I was in a normal dream - and then it went "weird", that is to say, it shifted from being a dream to being something else. The setting changed and I found myself in a dark room, across from a tall, blond man. He has contracted me, or is seeking to.

"I desire passage to (it's a Norse word, I hear it, but have no idea what it means) and I am told that you have the skills required to cut a door, as it were." His voice is almost lyrical, and heavily Scandinavian, and I know immediately that he is not human.

I recall telling him that I wasn't sure what place he was talking about, because I didn't know the word. He smiled at me, very patiently, and stated that it was Norse and that I should look it up when I wake up. He also explained that it was beyond the 'hedge', and that he simply needed someone to open a door.

As suddenly as it was said, we were there. A land of shadows, muted tones, half-colors, and ever-biting wind. The stars reeled visibly across the sky, as if being fast-forwarded. In fact, everything seemed to be moving so quickly, as to stand still. The man turned to me "I can believe many things, but I cannot believe you just did that. I cannot believe I am actually in (that word again). You hold remarkable skills. Fortunately we can return of our own accord now - you are free to leave." So I did.

When I awoke, I jotted down the word - the place name I didn't understand. "Skardalfhemmer" It was close. The word that had been said to me was actually Svartalfheimer - The land of the Dark Elves. I wonder what business the handsome Scandanavian had there?

With the hour being what it is, I'm off to 'dream'. Maybe I'll get the answer to my question.

Misconceptions about Misconceptions

2010-07-07T15:13:00.009-05:00

Waving your wand around at the Ren Fair is Magick, but dealing with Night-Flights and Sabbatic lore is "delusional"

Modern Craft (included under this umbrella are the vast majority of NeoPagan, and Wicca-lite bits) has got it's head up it's ass. Very, very, very far up it's ass. So far up it's own ass that you can actually somehow see it's head peeking out of it's own mouth. It's disturbingly recursive, you might say.

It is well and good, fine, even encouraged, to saddle up to the local Fair and play fairy-magick. This is described as being "part of the religion" with no qualifier as to it's value or purpose. I have been witness to a group of people forming an open circle at a local Ren Fair, dressed in glittery fairy costumes and plate armor, who had the brass cajones to get insulted when people gathered to laugh.

This same group (or rather, several of it's constituents) later explained, with a patronizing sort of tone and quiet patience, that my references to "The Sabbat", and "Mandrake Kings" was delusional. "Night-Flights were just drug-induced delusions, Mandrakes are so poisonous that even touching one will kill you and also, they really DO scream, just like in Harry Potter! I know someone who grows them, it's really the sucking sound when you pull the root up!"

Historical sources cited, books proffered, and trial records presented they merely scoffed - "Torture makes people say stupid things. Witches are wise, and should know better!"

Solve et Coagula...

Gaining perspective is a good idea. Imagine things from outside your own head once in a great while. Can the hubris, and reflect: What would you think about seeing a group of Christians holding a loud, raucous, evangelical baptismal at a concert while dressed in full KISS regalia? If you'd laugh your ass off at that, don't do it's equivalent and expect to be held to a different standard that does not include statements like "Look at those dumb fuckers over there."

Furthermore, if you're discussing how you can feel the unique energies of the "crystal" you're holding, be sure it's a crystal and not dichroitic glass. Because calling sabbat-flights silly while cupping a Dichroi-cab made in the home-fuser of a hobbyist and talking about how you feel the ancient Atlantean energies ... er...

Ferrous metal tools are no different than anything else. Anyone who says otherwise is just uneducated.

Sorry to say, but you're mistaken. Ferrous metal (iron, specifically) has a long history of being antagonistic toward the Fair Folk. There's a lot of suggestion that it has roots in anthropological matters, but it has magickal implications. Mars and Venus don't always get along, a Martian (iron) influence is not always wanted. Sometimes it's downright hostile.

In my Tradition-with-a-big-T, Iron and Steel are considered commanding. It is it's very nature as "cutting in two worlds" that makes it so damned perfect for cutting ritual space out of reality and neatly inserting it into between-places. It is by the skill and authority of the Smith that raw ingredients become a blade. It is by this uniquely human blending of the elements into a quintessential form that gives it a power "fey" to the fay. To some of the kindred of Elphame, steel is as alien and hostile as some of their works are to us.

Furthermore, we consider that the Deva/l of a plant, specifically those plants Witches concern themselves with (i.e. plants which have a purpose, or spiritual effect) akin to the fairy races. Uplifted from the communal "Plantness", named, and identified as an individual fairy - kind of. For some plants it is perfectly fine to cut them with iron or steel. For others, well, you've just ruined the plant, because you drove off, insulted, or slayed the spirit residing therein.

Fixin' da Problem...

Anyone within mailing distance of a ceramic studio with a computerized kiln can own a hand-crafted bronze, copper, silver or even GOLD blade. Try googling "Precious Metals Clay" and getting an eyeful of the product. While I would not suggest making a solid silver or gold blade (gold, yes, is expensive), a core of copper or bronze with gold over-top, or plated on, would be about as easy to create as molding something out of Super-Sculpey. These metals are not antagonistic toward the fey, and can help engage a better relationship with them.

Beyond any of that... I sometimes wonder if the spirits just appreciate seeing things done the old way. "Oh, cor! A brass sickle. Haven't seen one of those in a spell!"

We're all Brothers and Sisters in the Arte!

For some reason this one usually precedes some request for money, information, or material things. Never does it accompany an offer of "so you can go ahead and crash here until they're done bombing your place for those herpes-carrying head lice."

We all practice some form of the Arts/Crafts, sure... but we're not siblings. And in the event that we were siblings, that's no encouragement for me to speak kindly to, or of, you. My sibling is the biggest jackass I know.

No, in The Arte Magickal, we range from estranged cousins to sharing the same family name via an ancestor who heard someone say their name was "Smith", and liked the sound of it. My Brothers and Sisters are those with whom I have done Work, and with whom I spend (and enjoy spending) great lengths of time.

Communing with the "Stop that BS" vibrations...

We're a community. Not an orgy. We don't need to be entangled quite so intimately all of the time. I don't need to even LIKE you to circle with you, as long as we can both do our part in the little pageant of Juju. And also, no, you can't sleep on my sofa, or have my last beer. If we're NOT circling, what does it matter? We're strangers. Let's verymuchplease STAY that way.

The Rede/Threefold Law applies to everyone who's ever lit a candle.

Hm. no. I want to believe (like Mulder) that there is some sort of universal law, but there's not. There are weird patterns, often little tapestries of interaction that can establish a "weave" if not a "pattern" but the whole thing is still malleable, and fragile.

I see ethics like clay. You're made of clay. That clay is magic. You take a 'Curse' shaped lump of clay out of yourself and throw it at someone. If their juju is in order, that clay won't get in, and it'll be looking for someplace to go. Mind, it just so happens you created a hole the exact size and shape of that wad of clay... guess where it's most likely to come to roost?

Solution...

Pull your heads out. Stop preaching to others. Stop insisting that your worldview become their worldview. Honestly, that actually sums up MOST of the issues in this post. Live and let live. Hecate Enodia opens many doors, to many worlds.

YER DOIN' IT RONG!

Traditional Witchcraft does not have a little superscript "™" at the top and even if it did you wouldn't own it. Gene Simmons would, because Gene Simmons trademarks fuckin' -everything-. Wicca does not encompass the whole of Pagandom, and even if it did, people would still "do whatever feels right" and call it something else.

Coming into a situation, guns blazing, stating that other people are doing wrong/dangerous things simply because they're NOT doing what you do is silly. Lecturing ritual-leaders afterward on how it -should- be done is crass, and disrespectful.

Cornering noobs and oldies alike on a forum explaining how they just aren't close enough to your own definitions to be "TW™"? Er... go eat a bushel of Cakes of Light and get back to me.

Solving the issue.

Stop caring about other people making you look bad. Stop caring whether or not people are doing things 'correctly' unless they are part of your working group. Stand on your own merits. Don't want to be judged? Be impeccable, to borrow a phrase from Castaneda. The only way to be above reproach is to be known in your community as a stand-up person, someone who's not a moron, someone who is not a flake.

Of course, standing on your own two legs is a bit much for some folks to take. It's a lot easier to just whinge at everyone else.

Stewardship of the Land

2010-07-05T17:13:00.004-05:00

This post was inspired by a recent post over at The Alchemist's Garden. I decided to revise, and expand, my comments there as a post in their own right, here. The usual caveats apply - Your Mileage and Millage (as in treading the mill) may vary, your sensibilities may or may not be offended, and so on.

When I was in my early teens, shortly after I'd discovered "witchcraft", I used to spend a lot of my insomniac nights outside on the "lawn". To be honest, living where I do, there is nothing exactly like a suburban lawn. We have yards filled with clover, other assorted weeds, and lots of snails.

I felt "in tune" and "at peace" out on the clover-beds, sprawled out on my back, watching the stars reel while my old, little boom-box played cassette tapes, or radio broadcasts. Sometimes I would actively meditate, but more often I would simply soar - I'd daydream, journey, project and otherwise bi-locate, in and out of my headspace.

One night, I was laying there and felt a “thrum”. Everything seemed to buzz for a second, and go quiet. I reached out, physically and spiritually, and tried to weave as much of -me- into the landscape as I could. I've always "felt around" like a nest of snakes, or very fast-moving roots.

I felt it again. It was a shudder of pleasure that was running through the earth. Without being too terribly graphic, imagine that first "rush" of arousal - that's what I felt through every inch of me, body and spirit. I thought to myself – this means rain is coming, we needed rain – and then it did. Thunder came in, and the stars got obscured, and when the rain first fell - I felt the shudder again. The prior sensations may have come from miles away, rippling across the shared network of roots, soil and leaves.
After that, things changed. For one? My "Work" worked better. But moreover, I felt far more connected to this place than I ever had. And, in fact, far more connected to "living things" in general. I felt that I was part of the land, and it was part of me. We were each-other’s stewards.

Just as I had felt with stones, the "uses" of which I could pick out of seemingly thin air, the world around me suddenly flooded me with information. The oak, itself, was a habitat of magick to say nothing of the woods around it. Plants, y'see, seemed to start talking. My wormwood began to acquire her own voice, and it was usually testy and impatient. She was having to work with a moody, sullen, hormonal, teenager. I honestly feel sorry that she had to put up with that.

When I would drive to visit relatives I could feel the edge of where the land “knew” me, and where I “knew” it. I could feel where others had that special relationship, and where I was not wanted at all. But largely, I could feel vast, empty, tracts of land where no one cared for the it, and the it had no one to care for.

When driving up North to one of the larger lakes in the state, I'd see ditches filled with strange weeds, and have to make mental notes to look them up at home - they had spoken, and it would be very rude to ignore their message. At the lake I would wade with my ankles wrapped in water-plants, Ludwigia, abundant as an aquatic weed, yet no one seems to ascribe uses to it. It spoke to me "Who are you, stranger? You seem to be listening!", "I'm a witch from another lake in the South of this state.", "A witch! Oh, oh! I haven't seen one of your kind in so long! I am used for shape-shifting, for beauty-magick, and glamory. I am good for those who do not like the sun, because I give protection against it's fire - see how I darken where the water is the most shallow?"

I felt lonely stretches of highway plead for communion. I felt the land -cry- because it was so abandoned, and ignored, by the people crawling about on it. I have had the land itself tell me stories about the animals who once walked on it, or the people. All of whom have changed, or gone silent. Some of whom have become part of it - fossils hidden deep under my feet. They are waiting in the womb to come again in other forms.
Land which has been loved will be vibrant and awake. The trees will sigh, the earth will thrum when rain is coming. The weather will tell you long before it changes, and the flora and fauna will begin to speak. You and the land will care for each-other, and you will weep for each-other.

And don't think for a moment that I mean only "wild" land. In Dallas I spoke to the creatures in the soil which wrapped in, around, and under the pavement. I spoke to the trees and plants which forced themselves up through cracks in the concrete. I worked with the spirits of parks, and even with the spirits-of-place (who are rather different than what I'm talking about, and best left for another post).

Get out. Learn your land, become friends. Build a relationship. Grow together.

Cracking the Seed Coat.

2010-06-26T20:08:00.001-05:00

Some seeds, the germ of life for plants, are surrounded by a thick seed-coat. This thick coat will actually prevent the seed from growing. In the end, the seed-coat must crack, so that the plant may grow. To do otherwise stagnates, and eventually kills the seed - life ceases, the potential for growth ceases.

In Paganism/Crafting, the same sort of thing exists. Our own preconceptions, misconceptions, bias, bigotry and scars form our seed-coat. They trap us into ourselves, and deny us growth. Our own over-fullness, means nothing can -get in- to let us develop into something more. We must crack, or have cracked, this hard shell.

Even then, the seedling of our spiritual path is not self-sustaining. We must weed around it so that it receives enough sun, and room to grow. We must ensure that the soil it grows in is fertile. We must keep away predatory things that might nibble it to nothing. And finally, we must work to harvest what grows from it, or it will rot on the vine.

No Pop-Pagan 101 book that I have ever seen has addressed this topic, not the self-sacrifice needed to begin on the path, nor the hard work that comes after. Most authors water down Crafting to "Do whatever works, and if it makes you uncomfortable it's evil, so don't do it."

You will get no rewards, no growth, nothing - if you do not first make an effort. In short, without cracking yourself open a little, you're just rotting in the soil. Our spiritual development challenges us to grow, and if we turn away from the discomforts (some small, some large) that come with such challenges, we never reap any sweet harvest.

Now, I also understand that it's not everyone's path to BE challenged. It's also not my path to engage those who are, for all intents and purposes, play-acting the part of pagan. I will not provide spellwork, rituals, or "fruit" from my hard-won plot for people who take a bite, chew it half-heartedly, and toss the rest on the ground.

I do feel that those embarking on any spiritual path need a warning. You'll be cracked open a little, drenched, dried, and buried. You'll watch the weaker ideas wither, and die as you harden off. You'll struggle, reach, and bring forth fruit. Maybe not a lot your first season, maybe only one or two things will come out "tasty", but look at what they went through to become ripe, full, and ready.

I'm tired of standing on a soap box - do it, or don't. But don't come banging on the door of the local Hedgewitch at god-knows-when in the morning, tear-streaked and panicked because you didn't know what you were getting into, or because you think your spells backfired, or because you can't put down what you summoned up. Grow, change, evolve, develop a pair of gonads worth having - or get the hell out of the Green.

The Night Flight

2010-06-22T19:26:00.005-05:00

I'm running, and I know there is no way I could be moving at this speed. I have a bad knee, and a heart complaint that will usually floor me well before this. The trees are whipping by me, they blur into shadows.

As I reach the edge of the deep wood, coming out on the scrub and younger growth, I leap. It is not simply that I jump, feet leaving the ground. There is a magnetic repulsion, a sense of a pull being broken, and turning to resistance. I fly.

I am rushing at great speed over the meadows, the little trailer houses below. Over vast lakes, until the world changes. The colors shift, and the air no longer stings my eyes. The world beneath me glows with a light I cannot locate. I see below me spirits, they stretch and writhe beneath the moonlight, anchored with their feet in the earth - Wort-devas. Others fill the sky with me, further and nearer. Some wear nothing, some fly on their own, some are animals or with animals. Some are astride instruments like brooms and distaffs (among them I am pleased to discover a Nimbus 2000). One rides a hobby-horse with coal-red eyes and dangling, articulated, legs.

I see a fire below, it whips with every color, and smells sweeter than any incense. In it I detect notes of Oak, of Pomegranate, and sweet gum. I smell blood, and meat, and spices. Nothing in the world of my birth has ever smelled this alluring, or sweet.

I settle to the ground, feeling the push become pull and the world accept my feet again. Here there are beasts dancing. Some are witches like myself, wearing masks or strange costumes, some are spirits who have never known flesh, clad in a manner that is designed to shock, and frighten. These people are my kenfolk (not KINfolk, KENfolk.). I join the music-making, slapping along to the rhythm on my knees. My body is my body, and is not my body. I'm neither sex, and yet both.

Someone passes a pot filled with incense. I feel it with my fingers, identifying it's contents. I know that if, when I return to my flesh, I burn this on a woodfire, I will cut a much simpler door. I won't have to fly so far, or run for so long. I will be able to stay longer, and dance more. I cast a handful into the fire, and it sparks brilliantly. A whooping cry goes up from the Host. I've made a contract, an agreement to return.

We dance, and run, and play games. I am offered wine and food which I decline. Here, I cannot eat, not that I don't want to. Everything smells so perfect, so delicious. I swear I've been offered curry - the bastards. What I eat here would disgust (if not anger) even the Kindly Host, who's appetites shock humans with ease.

Soon, off in to the West (WEST?! ... Yes, West) I see the sky begin to pale, the night is rewinding into day. So this is how we may remain here for years, and not age? Funny, I'd never noticed. This is the signal that we all need to depart. Some fall through the soil, some rise to the air on tools. Some take wing or paw. I run, run with wolves, deer, and hares. A firefly has hitched a ride on my head, flashing and laughing (clickityclick!). A howler-monkey swings from tree to tree. Our rag-tag pride enters the wood, we run until the field clears and one by one - pop -, we awaken, panting and laughing.

Who would not risk death by fire, for life by the fireside?

Wildcrafting Time - Again.

2010-06-21T22:46:00.001-05:00

The moon is waxing, and it's not quite so terribly hot that I can't -breathe-, so it's time again to do wildcrafting of herbs, curious, and whatever else I come across that sparks my interest. That whole solstice bit is icing on the cake, as far as I'm concerned.
The "haul" consisted mostly of leaves for pressing (I press, paint and frame them to make unique artwork). I got two remarkably large oak leaves (nearly 11" long), a couple Catalpa, some American Sycamore, elm and small oak. A huge portion of Horsetail reed, Black-Eyed Susans, some pomegranate blooms/leaves/stems, Coreopsis (dye flowers) and a nice portion of Wood Sorrel. I also came across a couple of lovely little land-snail shells, which are destined for beads. Some of this will be available for sale or trade, soon.

The shocker for a friend of mine (who was busily talking in my ear while I gathered stuff) were the Black Eyed Susans. They are, and I am not joking when I say this, one of the best herbs for untangling and diffusing domestic abuse. The best method, of course, is a .45 to the side of the abuser's head (though a bit overkill, I will admit), but for those of us on the outside who want to establish a more gentle method of control - Black Eyed Susans.
These bright flowers resemble the sun mid-eclipse. Representing that moment when we lose sight of all light, at the darkest possible moment, just before the sun returns. Employing them in either gentle spellwork designed to ease strife, or malicious work designed to insert honey-locust thorns covered in platypus venom into the urethra of an abuser helps to tie one's efforts into the situation at hand. They also help the person suffering the abuse to keep their chin up, which can be invaluable.

The pomegranate bits are going to be incorporated into an incense for underworld journeying work, which will be a trial/experimental run before I consider making more for wider consumption.

I also went on a bit of a 'spree', re-photographing old artwork (and new) for deviantart. I've been making small woodcraft items, pyrographing mostly, and they're turning out nice enough to be proud of. The "new" camera is also doing justice to some of my older works, so I've been replacing old images/uploads with new. And yes, that kind of stuff will be available by commission, or eventually posted up online.

Since it's the Solstice, I took note of what plants were particularly available right now for a future "Midsummer" incense. It will likely balance dark, earthy scents with light, airy ones... because with incense it's hard not to be very literal.

The Weight of a Paper Crane

2010-06-15T15:48:00.003-05:00

There is a Japanese Legend that has become folk-legend more than anything else. Pop-magick like Ouija boards. If you can fold 1,000 paper cranes, the gods are pleased with you, and will grant you one wish. Ostensibly, this wish is -any- wish within their will and power.

Therefore, 1,000 paper cranes have the "weight" of a tribal or national god.

Paper (origami) cranes are a form of offeratory and petitionary magick. When writing is included (or symbols) it also becomes sigilized. The task of folding 1,000 of these generally takes about four months of daily work for the able-bodied.

The time and effort involved in folding one crane is roughly equivalent to that involved in the planning and execution of most folk-styled spells.

Focusing one one's goal in such a way, with such a duration and regularity, would almost -have- to yield some kind of result. Power would be infused into every fold, flip and tuck. A thousand spells, infused in such a way, stacked upon each-other in wind-blown ribbons would doubtlessly please any ear that was listening as all the pleas went up.

Treading Where We Have No Business.

2010-06-12T22:48:00.001-05:00

I live in a house with another couple who routinely babysit. The child they babysit is without structure, discipline or a grasp of inside voice, unfortunately.

As such, anything even remotely iffy (sharp, pinch-able, breakable, valuable, or "marginally inappropriate for children to look at") must be locked up in the Temple. Recently, Child has caught on to the fact that all the dangerous, sharp, fragile, things are locked up in this particular room and demands to be let in there. To which, naturally, I say "No." Child screams, babysitters scream. Everybody suffers.

When I was a wee babe I was taught not to open shut doors, "pilfer dink" around in peoples things or even go into my parents bedroom without permission. Homes, even those of close relations, were considered sacrosanct, and I wasn't to diddle about unless given express-that-instance permission. I was to look with eyes, not hands. In short, I was instructed never to muck about in places I had no business in, or did not have explicit permission to be in.

I feel that no one is taught these things anymore, especially in the occult context.

Sometimes, in the House of Power, there are rooms filled with things that are absolutely none of your business. Opening those doors, or getting tetchy when you find them locked, is the height of rudeness and bad form.

The room labeled "Wica" belongs to the Wica, and there are locks on the door. A LOT of locks. You cannot demand that the room be unlocked so you can wander around inside, picking up things, pocketing them, and wander back out. And you damned well ought not to get angry when you're told "No, that door isn't open to you. Nothing in there belongs to you. You cannot have the keys. We don't want you in our room."

There are other rooms, and those rooms might contain nothing more interesting than a collection of old boxes, or they may contain sharp, dangerous, objects you're not yet equipped to handle. Things that could permanently damage you in ways that are not fun, nor edgy. They may contain the personal belongings of Traditions, or Gods, with which you have no contact, or dialogue.

Behind some locked doors are guardians, and they're not usually the kind of being you want to fuss with. Some doors are unlocked, some are wide open. Fine. Go inside, have a look around. But go well-armed, and with knowledge. Some are open because things inside want company... for dinner.

Yes, people in the House of Power might go in and out some of these doors, but what's behind them is none of your damned business until you're invited in. Is that a difficult concept to grasp? Didn't those of us with siblings ever learn this concept as children?

A lot of occultists fail to see how they're behaving. Pounding on their brother or sister's door, screaming to be let in. Demanding it because they have a "right". Well, they don't. It's not their room, it's not their things. They have a room. It's right across the hall. It's in the same house, it looks out on the same street. It's just a different room. No better, no worse. They only want into the other room because it is closed to them, and the very idea that not everything is community property irks some individuals.

Individuals who never grew beyond ten years old, in vitriolic envy of their sibling's secrets.

The Dead Road pt. 2

2010-06-11T19:17:00.001-05:00

The person I was born as? I sacrificed her as surely as if I'd slit her throat on an altar. I asked for it. I made the highest sacrifice I could conceive of... myself, to myself. Odin-style. A deliberate, magickal, act.

It scares me a little. I'm willing to admit that. The I that I am now is not the person I used to be... hm... I am the Prestige. They were the man in the box.

My first Shamanic/Witch experience, "Awakening" for short-hand, was shattering. I have very little memory, and must rely on what other people tell me... and other people tell me some odd things. I have lamented my failing memory for years. I have small bits in the middle of a lot of nothing. I think that is because the memories I should have belonged to the man in the box... and we all know what happened to him.

People rarely talk about the hard parts of magic. Or if they do, they talk about it in a way that makes it sound spooky, mystical, and self-aggrandizing. It's the boast of the sorcerer, because lies have as much power as truth in our walk of life. But people really talking about the hard stuff, the imitation illness, or experiencing the Dark Night of The Soul? Few will walk that road, because there is no glory in the phrase "And so I woke up covered in my own filth. It took weeks for me to be able to eat normally, or sleep , but sure enough... I can see the dead now."

Death, Dying, The Dead, The Otherside, The Shaman's Little Death and The Corpse God.

There are a lot of books on Death and Dying. What I'm talking about doesn't really have a lot to do with "the dead" as in "dead people in the dirt", "Beloved Dead", "Ancestors" or any of that (though OTHER practices of mine do). It has to do with one's own SELF, crossing back and forth into the realms of the spirit, i.e. the dead. Taking that road that spirits take into and out of the immaterial world, coming and going from the body. This is something as old as the word "witch" itself. Occupying the crossroads of life and death can certainly help with working with the dead, but that was not specifically what I was talking about.

When people talk about Night Flights, Hedgewalking/riding, "leaving the body", and attending the Sabbat, they are talking about trances which push the spirit out of the body. For some, the term "Witch Power" refers specifically to the ability to leave the body, and return to it. Some witches use the forms of animals with "otherworldly" traits (crows, hares), some use their own shape.

Some folks walk in two worlds all of the time, no trance needed. We can be holding a very rational conversation with you while our double/spirit/fetch is off doing something wholly irrational. Some of us can "hedgeride" and "double-walk". Sometimes we can do both at the same time. Breathing becomes shallow, we get cold. We look dead.

Some earn this skill through careful, long-term study. They're the lucky ones. Others are driven out by force (through injury, "the little death", attack, sickness or insanity), and thereafter find that the ties that bind them to their body are weak enough to slip... or that they have been so changed that they seem split down the middle. One eye seeing spirits, and beings, the other seeing the world of their physical life.

There's more than one road. Not every road is for every person, and not every person should try to walk certain roads. I am not discussing this to encourage anyone to follow this path, or tempt these ideas. This is a "dread door" to the dwelling-place of gods and monsters. YOU are your fair into this world. You must be struck down in order to pass. You must be stripped of all your worldly glamory to enter the realm of death, and do you really want to know what the heart of your soul looks like?

Preferably, people would leave it the hell alone unless there is no other choice for them. What I'm talking about can be spoken of, it can be discussed, but it is every bit as experiential as any other Mystery, and as such, cannot be fully understood without the experience behind it. That experience is not one I would wish upon anyone, and in fact strongly caution people not to go poking about at the doorway to death, unless they actually want to -die-. This initiation happens to you, and terrible things happen when you go seeking it out to try on like a new suit.

In fact I use "The Dead Road" rather than my preferred term for these posts, because I know all too well that someone will amble by and pick up the title like a shiny bit of beach glass. They will do their neo-wicca-with-gothic-flavor and apply this label to something which bears no resemblance or connection to what I speak of. They will toy with the Words and Doors the way an infant toys with an angry dog, and they will react with the same thoughtless wailing when it bites them in the face.

In the Vampire Ritual Book (M. Belanger) one of the rituals says "Most who go into the darkness never return to the light" and the vast majority of people do not want that experience, period. Even those of us who come back from the dead road are most often not fully ourselves again. Point of fact, it is that wound (that will never heal) that lets us slip the body, and fly with the Host.

The Dead Road.

2010-06-08T18:00:00.001-05:00

I died a long time ago. I have revisited the experience often, usually painfully.

I think I can tell you when the first thing killed me: I was a young child and was (accidentally) overdosed on a prescription medication. I journeyed, and had visionary experiences so vivid and lucid that at least twenty years later... I remember. In that memory, I recall being attacked (and I think torn apart) by tiny creatures.

A few years down the line I had a violent allergic reaction to my own hormones and had to begin mega-dosing on antihistamines (see: Andicholinergic, specifically what plants cause that reaction, and take note: Antihistamines produce that response). This meant that whenever I had an allergy attack (which nearly always coincided with my menstural cycle), I essentially took a doctor-sanctioned flying ointment. My menstural cycle synced with the full moon. This, by the by, is when my lucid dreaming began.

Around the time Puberty really began to destroy my sense of self, I had another experience. A malevolent entity had been stalking around for a while, and Noob that I was, I didn't know how to defend myself. I warded, did cleansing rituals, but no book (none, not a single, damned, one) told me how to go -after- it, and make it leave me be. One night, it wormed it's way into my bedroom and attacked me. By the time things were all done, it was half-dead(er), and I discovered that I could eat the nasty things that tried to eat me.

The experience exhausted me to the point that when I finally got to sleep, I left my body. I discovered what "going out of the body" really meant. I walked in otherworlds, and met my Familiar-spirit, M. First of many guides and friends, not a one who had been alive for some time, who aided me on my dead road.

There were other events, but my memory is not the best about being linear, and sometimes I wonder if that's for a reason.

Not everyone can venture Out. There. I said it (again).

Variety is the spice and fuel of life. This world needs people who just, plain, CAN'T see the stuff that transpires beyond the oily surface of the mud-puddles. We, the people who cannot step back from the verge, NEED them. They need us. Our symbiosis is a beautiful thing.

Not everyone who can venture Out wants to go down the same roads. Some of us prefer taking the main streets, while others prefer the side-roads. Others don't mind walking a hard road, on foot... possibly naked, slathered in honey, armed with only a lit clove cigar(ette).

But most folks, well, they don't want to die. Death isn't an easy thing, it's not really fun, it's messy, complicated, and it hurts like hell. Dying, and living through it... that hurts even more, given the mental scars and difficulty articulating the experience.

They stop short of the door, halt at the gate, and turn back. POWER is terrifying. The gods are real. Magick is afoot. And magick is the domain of the in-between, and that limina is scary. That limina asks if it's to give. Blood for blood, power for power. Sacrifice brings fruits. Certain kinds of power ask far more than others. Far more than most people have in them to give.

I always resort to Lovecraftian ideas to describe the moment between plausible disbelief and dabbling, belief, and -knowing-. It is the moment the evocation goes too far, and the waters churn. It is the moment the Thing becomes physically material, casting shadows and disturbing incense smoke. It is the instant where you are jerked from your comfortable world of illusion, when the you-that-you-know is struck down.

Very few people are willing, or able, to sacrifice the ego. "Knowing" one reality for "being unable to deny" another. Very few can take the strain, which is why so many craft elaborate tales of personal greatness, with hollow cores. The Dead Road isn't for them, and that's a good thing. It's a narrow, treacherous, prickly, path... and we'd have a much harder go navigating if everyone was there, goose-necking at the sights.

Wand wave, wall feel and smudge all you like. Don't step through the door unless there is no other option in your soul, because doing so is sacrificing yourself.

It is the little death that turns the Shaman, the Witch, and the Wall-Walker half-ghost, wandering between worlds. Because someone/thing that dies, and still wanders our world IS a ghost. And like any good geist, our power to move, bend and shape exists in both worlds. We walk a crooked path, ambling between "light" and "dark", "left" and "right", "dead" and "living". We made sacrifices to be here; ourselves. Every time we cross into that world, or do something that comes out right, we've sacrificed a little of our "day world", for a little more of the Dead Road. We chip away at the ability to pretend that the other half doesn't exist.

I will go, I will sacrifice (myself to myself), and put my spine upon the soil. I will journey, and climb down the world tree. I will seem like I am dead, gone from my body, cold and refusing to wake until I return. I will wander the underworld, seeking out what the world above needs. I will rise from my little death, and bring gifts to you. I will be a ghost, a fairy, a vampire. The thing that dies and comes back, and needs more because of it. And when I have come back from the gloom, exhausted, and starving... feed my spirit. Be ALIVE, and jovial, and unconcerned with the monsters under the bed. Stop reaching for the gaping maw just beyond where the light falls.

Step away from the 'Special'.

2010-06-05T00:23:00.006-05:00

This is going to be a somewhat hateful entry, accept that before you read onward.

Sometimes, Wiccabes really piss me off. Not Wiccans, not Wica... but rather people who half-heartedly dabble, and construct around themselves an elaborate roleplaying world, which they are the shining center of.

I have seen what appeared to be full-body materializations of werewolves. I have spoken to a material being from an immaterial world. I have looked into the maggot-woven face of a death god. I have been torn apart, infected, infested, dissolved, re-assembled and been called "Brother" by Thor himself. Instead of insisting that this means I am some grand-high-poobah, I give myself some fresh perspective.

We are all precious and unique snowflakes who accumulate into a homogeneous white drift.

Of the roughly SIX BILLION (that's 6,000,000,000, or actually 6,697,254,041) people on the earth about 99% of them believe in the supernatural in some form or another (5,940,000,000). Of that number, do you really think you're that interesting?

In my home nation there are about 307,006,550 people. Of that number, less than 1% are Pagan, Wiccan, New Age, or Witches (about 340,000). The number rises sharply each year. Of that number, do you really think you're that interesting?

Oh, how I wish we could all get together. All 340,000 of us, here in the US. And then you could say "WITCHES, ALL! I have come to tell you that I am god-sent! Today, on my way home from the graveyard shift at the Shell station on 72, I was attacked by emissaries from the Vampire Cooveen of Hatchet. They have informed me that the Veil is falling, and it is time for us to take arms against the Demons who dwell Beyond. I will be your leader, for I have been chosen by god as his angel messenger! KNEEL to my superior knowledge, for I own all of Silver Ravenwolf's books, and I've been a Pagan for two years!"

Do you think they'd care? Do you think that they would lockstep behind you, daggers gleaming in the moonlight as they went to war under your glorious banner? No. They'd laugh. A lot.

If you think 340,000 is a small number, count out that many pennies, or pixels, or seashells... or grains of sand. Put them in a jar, and any time you think that you have been singled out for greatness, look at the jar. Give yourself some fresh perspective.

We're all blind men in a cave groping for a light that was blown out, smashed, ground into the dirt, drawn and quartered, forbidden to ever be re-ignited, and covered in a mile-thick layer of cement as though it were the core of Chernobyl. The phantom-illumination we receive is our own. The more outlandish the light, the more festooned with tensil and flashing LED's, the better chance that it is an allegory for a very simple, personal, flame.

The Black Book of Dead Names.

2010-05-30T02:52:00.001-05:00

Herein I will utter to you the unutterable names of the boundless, fathomless, horrors we have been blessed to forget. Herein I will deliver unto you each of the damned keys, which open god-made doors. Herein I will say to you all caution, which you will not heed. Herein I will lay your doom. - Necronomaicon of M.·. S.·.

I walk into the vaulted library. The walls are water-slicked, and glassy. Each room is immeasurably tall, but rather small in "floor space". A winding balcony follows the shelves upwards, and down. Down is nearly impossible to get to, past a certain mark the library is flooded. The librarian alone is able to penetrate to the bottom - though it may be 'water', it is not water that floods this place. I have him find all of the books that hold reference to "Necronomicon", and keep them on a high shelf.

Some volumes are barely there, tatters, shreds, sodden, faded, burnt. Careful coaxing brings them back to readability. Others are fully fledged, and fall open with a touch. Some are locked with heavy hasps that must be prised with magick, not tools.

I heave one from it's shelf, and take it to the small reading room. There it falls open to a page, carefully illuminated in rust-colored 'ink', of two serpentine beings supporting an eye within a diamond.

It strikes me as funny, people speak of and write of the Akashic Libraries as some immutable fact, but does anyone ever go there and check something out? No, because that takes careful reading and transcription.

... It's worth the effort.

Plastic In MY Circle?

2010-05-27T01:28:00.001-05:00

Recently a forum I frequent had a thread come up talking about the essential "junk" we need (or think we need) as magic-workers. Eventually thread drift brought the topic over to the discussion of materials. Specifically - Plastic.

I refuse to use plastic for anything "important", because it doesn't work for me. Plastic won't carry a charge. I can cram as much energy into it as I like, and very shortly thereafter that energy is gone. In ritual, the energy won't carry for the purposes of working.

I could have a knife with a plastic handle, but it would redouble my work. I would have to do the physical cutting and -then- direct energy into whatever it is and that's just not efficient enough for me. It also may not be correct for the way the working needs to be done.

Some folks say that plastic is "unnatural", and "Manmade" and therefore it has no place in Craft. That's not my reasoning. Every material I use in a circle is shaped by man, if not outright created by us. Metals are mined, smelted, refined, and their composition modified by alloys and additives. Steel is no more, nor less, manmade or natural than plastic, seeing as it goes through the same kinds of steps before it's final form. It would not exist without Man's involvement, nor would glass, ceramic, candles, cloth... etc.

"But plastic parts end up in rituals anyway. Lighters, bottlecaps, the paint on statues, or resin statues themselves!"

I don't generally use lighters. Especially not in ritual. I use matches, or kindle off of a sanctum lamp (which is started and rekindled from the sun, or a bowfire). Though, I do use plastic tubs for my crystals, specifically because they're so damned handy at blocking any other energy from messing with them.

I generally prepare my oils, herbs, and others before-hand. I have a collection of mise en place dishes and bottles, all in non-plastic materials. Candles are the great exception here, as are acrylic paints on some of my statuary. However, the statues don't have to function, they just sort of have to be there.

Perhaps this is a personal shortcoming, this "plastic ain't happenin'", but if it makes me stop and consider more carefully the make and composition of my tools... it's a shortcoming that I'm willing to accept.

The Kindly Host.

2010-05-25T22:47:00.001-05:00

What care I for human heart? Soft and spiritless as porridge! A faerie's heart beats fierce and free. - Luna (Legend).

I see a book on the shelf at the local Hastings. It's a little paperback, shiny and inoffensively purple. On the cover is what looks like a small human girl, with butterfly wings sewn to her dress. The book swears to teach one the simple art of summoning (and even creating) fairies.

I'm aghast. Summon? Like they can be controlled? CREATE? How the hell does one plan to create something that exists well outside of our heads? How can a human fathom inhumanity?

The reason they are called the Good Ones, Fair Folk, Little People, Friendly Neighbors, Kindly Folk ...etc. Is because people were absolutely terrified of them. Some of them would lure you into bogs, drown you, and eat you. Some would slit your throat and dye their hats in your blood. Some would capture you, mate with you, suck out your life-force, and send you back to your world decades later.

You didn't talk about them, because it drew their attention. You didn't speak ill of them because it drew their ire. You didn't think about them, look at them, summon, stir, or call them up. You didn't associate with the darksome, terrible, things of Elfhame. You hid, you locked your doors, you set lights to keep them away.

You, when required, politely thanked them for not stealing your children, souring your milk, blighting your crops, or killing you the last time you had to take the cart to the next township and remarked with great trepidation "My, they're such fair and kindly folk!"

Think of The Kind Host as a group of children on Halloween. They run amok when displeased, insulted, or disappointed. The best you can hope for, with the majority, is that they leave you unscathed. Is it wise to invite 'fairies'? No. No more wise than it is to put out a blanket invitation for everyone in the city to come visit your house. These strangers, once attracted, aren't easily shut out so it's good to get to know them before giving them entry.

You probably don't want a banshee around, but you might very much wish to deal with the individual piskie hanging around your flowerbeds. The unseelie in the local lake is probably not a good dinner companion, but the gnome under the oak on the old Jenkins farm might be open to a conversation or three...etc.

A poster on a forum I frequent says "promise to dance with them and you'll have beautiful experiences, but you have to have your guardians make sure you're talking to the right people". Um, pardon me? We're adults, and what's more we're witches. If we, ourselves, cannot suss out who is and is not trustworthy what in the hell are we doing?

We don't need Beloved Dead, or our mommies to hold our hands and make sure we don't talk to the creepy-looking man with the 'free candy' van. We're witches, we are the ones who deftly side-step the dangers in the aethers (either by dumb luck, or careful planning).