Offering Recipes 1 - “Wildlife Friendly ‘cakes’”

These cakes are low on “additives”, making them safer for wildlife, and low on salt (which can be omitted entirely) - additions and subtractions can be made. They are not a “dog biscuit” recipe, so you don’t have to worry about that hanging around in the back of your head, either.

Wet Ingredients:
1/2c Honey
2 Md/Lg Eggs.
1/2c Oil

Dry Ingredients:
1c Nuts (Sunflower, Pumpkin, Sterile Hempseed) - if you do not intend to eat them, feel free to substitute any wildlife friendly blend, including songbird seed blends. Dried fruits, BUT NOT RAISINS, may be used. Avoid raisins and chocolate as they are deadly to a lot of animals. 
1 1/2c Wheat flour (have yet to try the gluten-free flour on this one)
1/4tsp Salt.
Mix your wet first, add the dry. Combine.  If it's still too sloppy, add more flour, or more crunchy bits. 

Grease a baking sheet and zap ‘em at 350 for about ten minutes. Cool on racks. They will be soft, chewy, puffy, mountains of joy. If you use a human-and-wildlife-friendly blend of seeds you can chow down too. When made with flaxseed, pumpkin seeds and sunflower kernels these things are filling, and delicious.

The Things I Learned From Chaos Magick.

Nothing is Real and Everything is Permitted. 

I am 14 years old, and kneeling at my altar. On it are effigies of Sekhmet and Anubis. At some point in time these spirits have presented themselves to me in dreams and visions - and for all I knew (or cared) the images they presented were wholly valid. I did not stop to run these spirits through the wringer and make them declare themselves to me. I did not test or argue with them. I accepted that the faces they gave to me were the faces they wanted me to see.

I went forward with the knowledge that at any point in time I could be proven wrong, and that the flexibility of my paradigm would allow for that without fundamental damage to it.  And for probably ten years the flexibility was never tested. And then one day I evoked "My Mother", and her face was hard, and her hair was not ringlets of black mane, but serpents. And a bolt went through my heart "This is a Gorgon, not a Kemetic goddess." And I looked to "My Father" - and I no longer saw a Jackal-headed man. I saw a man wearing a wolf-skin.

"Well, fuck" I said "Are y'all still okay with being called Sekhmet and Anubis... or... ?"

The Faithful Retinue.

It starts with an itch. I can't define where it is. It becomes annoying. Then it is a thirst, and it gnaws. Then it is a buzzing that won't cease. Then it is a call, subtle and sweet as music. It is the music that is the most maddening.  I wrap myself in my ritual robe, I slip my blade into it's sheath, and I run - barefoot - into the woods.

First I run. I run like a hunted beast. Then I dance, dance to the music only I can hear. Then I sing, shaping the tune with my voice. It is a song of summoning, of seduction, of fearful prey. Then I cease to sing and only bellow. The bellowing becomes a howl. And I find myself on all fours. I can only howl, and moan. My mouth hangs open, and I am drooling onto the soil.

I tear at the robe, and hunch naked on the ground. I am beyond sensation. The spirits are coming. They are on me, in me, over me, beside me. This is what the Maenads felt. Were there more than me in the woods we would rip at each-other with our teeth, and fuck like animals.

I am aware of only my eyes, and a spot somewhere above and behind them. I cannot communicate with the rest of my body - it is no longer just mine. It is Him. And it is something else entirely. It is a sensation like the rolling waves of orgasm, but it does not cease, does not plateau, does not decrease. It grows ever-stronger, and begins to consume me.

But it is not me. And I twist, and fall, and slither on the ground. I dig my fingers in the loam, worms crawl up my arms. Torches flickering, lamplight, owls hissing and screeching in the trees, wine runs from my lips, satyrs run through the undergrowth - the world around me dissolves into thousands of years of revelry. Vines grow through my skin, using my bones as their trellis. I am utterly broken down, into dust, into loam, into mold.

And suddenly there is a stillness and clarity in the chaos of my destruction. My mind slips itself, and becomes another. Fluid flows through me, and my limbs come alive. I begin to see through other eyes, and hear through other ears. I speak with a voice that is not mine... and I don't understand. Suddenly the whole of creation is alive around me, with figures darting here and there. They are the pipers of the circle, my faithful retinue.
Because, I am no longer the witch in the woods, nor the maenad in the leaves. I am the god who comes.

The Horn-Wearer

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.

The Night Flight

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?

The Kindly Host.

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).

Women's Magick.

I make no secret of the fact that I don't want kids. Having no desire for children is something that is very much frowned upon in general society, and nearly grounds for a beating in Neopagandom. As far as we come as a species, we still have these strange notions that hold us back.

I've never wanted kids. I can't tell you why, exactly. I think a potion of it is biological, I'm sure. I didn't enjoy playing with dollies as a child, and by puberty my disinterest became dislike. I know I would be a skilled parent, just like I know I would be a great salesperson, or an excellent insurance adjuster. But these things do not call to me, and I'd feel no love in doing them. Skill is great, but without desire it is fruitless.

I was always told Pagan faiths honored the female as divine, but it was not until I revealed that I had no connection to baby-from-my-womb-female-archetype that I was told: "Woman is sacred because she bears children!" That's why woman is sacred? Not because she is a farmer, a warrior, a smith, a mage, a mechanic, a warden, a priest and a prophet? No?

I see... my worth still lies between my thighs, and not within my head or heart. This rhetoric is one I've heard elsewhere, with a slightly less self-righteous, and far more honest backing.

Animal Sacrifice - Long Post.

Our modern food industry is lacking in a lot of ways. Animals are raised wholesale, and dispatched in slaughter-houses which more accurately resemble torture chambers. I've seen video of Texas Longhorn having their horns knocked off with sledgehammers and hacksaws because they wouldn't fit through the chutes intact (Note: Horns have living tissue in the middle). I've seen heifers past their prime being manipulated with fork-lifts and electrified prods because they simply refused to stand. I've seen chickens thrown from rather large distances into holding pens. Chickens that, due to weight and breeding, cannot break their fall with flight.