Thursday, April 22, 2021
Saturday, November 7, 2020
I wrote the start of this post, originally, as we were moving into winter here in North America in 2018. It’s that time again, a full two years later. Some of these posts languished for a long time, and change a lot along the way.
The last two years? Bitter ashes.
Where to start? Do I want to start? Is this a thing I do anymore? What is the goal? Am I the person I was when I started? Am I enough the same that this-as-this makes sense?
“The radio silence isn’t about a lack of ideas, or topics, but a feeling like there’s simply no ‘room’ for me to exist.” - It’s fine, Or it Will Be.
“When your heart and soul starts being co-opted by the terminally misguided the water gets muddy.” - Ol’ Bent and Bowed.
I stopped blogging for a lot of reasons. None of them were exactly intentional. I emphasize that this is a "travelogue" type of blog. That it is, in essence, a digital journal. Anyone who has kept a journal for any length of time will understand an indelible and immutable truth - when you look back over old entries you realize how much has changed. Things change, things stay the same, and there it is - your blog or my blog - a monument to all of the things which are and are not.
Some of the me you’ve seen is now woefully out of date, yet still new to you. I, and the image made of me, exist at odds, out of step and out of sync. And that’s very weird to experience.
I got tired of bullying. I mean, who isn’t tired of that crap? But I got especially tired of the middle-school bullying-by-gossip. I heard back a lot of things being said about me that were bad enough to cause me to reach out, and let me tell ya: When you reach out to the person triangulating others against you and ask them, honestly, why they did it they do not respond politely.
I got tired of the over-familiarity. It was a real shock to me that running a blog meant some folks developed a parasocial attachment. I thought you had to be a lot “bigger” to have that happen, and it turns out I was very wrong. Some of those folks thought we were tight enough for ribbing, flirtation and coarse humor - we weren’t - and they didn’t appreciate it when this was made clear.
Mostly, though, I just got tired. Trauma is life-altering. It impacts you in ways that you won’t understand until you process and begin to inventory your thinking. The way it affects the brain and the body is exhausting. There were other things, too.
Take it from the top.
There’s now a hole in my life - caretakers talk about that a lot - that I don’t know how to live with. I’m learning to step around it, over it, not fall into it, but it is there and it is ever-present. For the majority of my life I cared in some capacity for my mother, and in the last decade that intensified to an actual role of “part time caretaker” in fits and starts. There are regrets (thank god that telling her I love her and am proud to be her child was something I was sure I did, often, and emphatically), there is pain. There is this hole. This missing step in a flight of stairs I took ten times a day. Muscle memory falters, stumbles.
I keep coming back to the phrase “Words ceased existing.” because what is there to say? No matter what hurt I feel, she lost herself, her family and her life. No matter what beliefs or experiences I’ve had I cannot know what transpires past the edge of death. Nothing matters in the face of death, absolutely nothing. Nothing means anything when nothing feels different and everything has changed.
I have not celebrated. What remains of my family made sure to mark birthdays, to make sure we did not let those pass without some acknowledgement, because they are so few (and grow fewer every year). But on the slow crawl to The Big Two… no thank you.
I could not do my usual witching. Not really. I couldn’t even work my regular job worth a damn - I shudder to think of how very little I scraped by with, monetarily. I did what few things I could. I maintained. I couldn’t find it in me. I’m not sure I could even find me in me. Grief is like unclogging a drain - it’s a normal enough process, but goddamn is it grotesque.
And it’s hard to be the person you want to be - honest and open to a fault with no wistful filter - while also avoiding talking about the elephant in the room.
It is easy for bloggers and influencers to just straight up lie to their audience. I mean, I assume by now everyone’s savvy to the ugliness behind an instagram-ready lifestyle, especially when Witchcraft is involved. They will blog like everyone reading is an intimate friend, they’ll take your money and give you advice, but you’ll never know they had a kid (I don’t), or a ‘mundane job’ (I do) because it doesn’t fit the picture of the perfect Witch Aesthetic (as if Ye Olde Witch didn’t also have to work a dozen mundane jobs and also wipe with rags and leaves). You find out years later that their life was on fire all while the content kept rolling at an unaltered.
It’s not a failing as a magician, or as a person, or as (insert category here) to say that one finds themselves in these situations. It’s not a sign of some personal inadequacy to say that the last few years have been trying. It’s not a shame upon anyone that sometimes we falter. Not when the whole world is pushing, crushing, grinding and praying for us to fail.
For some, the path of - well, whatever this is - is one of total power, total mastery. A blazing triumph over. And when they put that ideology forward-facing, it mutates. They’re never struggling with money, unless it makes a good byline. They’re never sad unless it’s adequately wistful. They never falter because they, good readers, have meticulously edited and curated their public-facing-media to ensure you cannot see the steep slope they just (to borrow a phrase from my grandpa) ate shit the whole way down.
That’s a deeply Problematic way to live. Maybe a good maladaptive coping strategy in the meantime, but the lies we tell ourselves by telling them to others are often the ones that smack us upside the head the hardest when the truth bounces back into shape.
And the truth is that for a long time, everything has really, really, sucked. So I didn’t post, because I refuse to lie, reframe, or instagram-ready it up and I honestly didn’t want to dig through and litigate my suffering.
Peeking out of the doom-hole.
I’ve begun to sort through the pieces of wreckage left behind from, well… a lot of mistaken steps made with the best intentions. To be brutally honest, I spent the last decade having The Good And Dutiful Woman narrative crammed down my throat ("Accept that you'll be working twenty hours a day and come home to find that your partner has gone through the house like a typhoon and not lifted a finger to clean it up. If you don't clean it yourself you're the asshole! That's your domain and your job!") with a few extra scoops of the Sacrifice For Others Even If It Costs You Your Joy ("It's so selfish to want to be happy if that happiness isn't found through service to others!"), and that’s enough torture to make you think “Eh, maybe if I just compromise a little…” and then you’ve compromised entirely and no one else has, and you’re a stranger to yourself in your own existence sliding into a second nervous breakdown. But life is hard and complex and often quite shitty and you take on the problems as you can take them out (more on that in the future).
I managed to celebrate the First Winter this year, and this year it was not Last Harvest, but a proper Winter, bared teeth and all. I’ve been managing to work steadily. I struggled up from maintenance to headway. I’ve even started to write again.
Of course, as I wrote this the election is/was still being counted with an optimistic call for sanity. I have no idea what the future will bring. It may shove me right off my precarious little ledge back down into the pit. My life may become very unpleasant, or things may merely return to the mildly progressive normalcy we’ve been slowly building for the last forever. Ideally the last four years were some kind of extinction burst fever spasm of decades of lead poisoning. We can hope, we can look toward the dawn, and we can ideally not lie to ourselves or others about the realities of our lives along the way. The only way out is through, and the only way through is with the occasional helping hand.
Saturday, February 15, 2020
|Courtesy bohdanchreptak at Pixabay|
I’ve been hanging onto this book for… well… we’ll say 20 years at this point. Honestly, it could be a little more. The book itself went out of print a while ago, which is weird but also understandable since it’s a blank, lined, journal. I remember buying two of them. One was cannibalized, covered in leather, filled with handmade paper and gifted to a friend. The other, plus the original “text block” of the first, were squirrelled away, wrapped in paper, beneath my altar.
I knew the moment I saw this book that it was supposed to be with me and I even knew what it was for. It was for the book of shadows. Not “a” book of shadows, nor “my” book of shadows. Nah… it was for THE book of shadows. One of the properly-received Wiccan ones.
When I knelt at my altar and did one of the early “solo initiations” from a mass-market paperback it was done with the hope that one day I’d experience a ‘proper’ one, and fill that little book.
In that moment, saying my very heartfelt words about the whole thing (speaking directly to the gods and to those who have gone before), I felt very strongly that I needed to bring something to the table should I ever approach a prospective coven - I took this as spirit-guidance, something to do with being some specific and subtle connotation of that “Proper person, properly prepared” phrase. That went into the words I spoke - to bring to a coven no less than I would ask of a coven. I felt that if I did not have something unique, novel, and most importantly useful, to offer… then why seek it out? Why take more than I would offer in return? In hindsight such an Oath may have been something of a mistake, but… what’s done is done.
Well, then of course I got burned, badly, by many different subsets of the witchcraft and occult communities. The voices of authority never really spoke in a way that sang to my heart, and so I wondered if I belonged there at all. I was filled with knowledge that I sought on my own, trials I endured solo, and initiations between myself and rather dubious sorts.
I studied every sort of thing I could afford to have access to. Basics, sure, but also some rather out-there bits of theatrics. I learned to better sew and to draft simple patterns for robes and the like, I learned leatherworking and bookbinding a little more properly, I studied but never really properly practiced smithing, I learned simple woodworking, I already knew pottery, etc. I learned how to make masks and other costumery, how to make flash powder and pyrotechnics, different kinds of puppetry, shadow-theater, phantasmagoria, stage magic, and on and on and on.
The book, however, stayed empty.
I still have a deep respect for Wicca itself. It moves in it’s own world, orbits its own courses. There is something in that unknown country that calls out, even to this day.
It’s sitting in front of me on my desk. It’s gold filigree border striking dozens of memories so deep in my heart that they ring rather than recall. To bring nothing less than I would ask. Well, by then would I not already be my own, sovereign, priest? Would I not have already learned Mysteries? Would I not already have met Them, and known Them, and adored Them in my own way?
So, I write my own book. I fill it with the knowledge I have received, details I might otherwise forget (or already partially have), and things that I might want to preserve, should I ever pass this information onward - and I can’t think of a way more proper (for me) than through blood, sweat, and tears. Tucked into the back, behind the text block of dyed paper paper, nestled into the leather flap that wraps the whole thing shut, is the home of that empty book. Maybe still waiting, maybe a reminder.
Friday, April 26, 2019
|Smugness - courtesy pixabay|
And of course someone else comes in and decides to regurgitate really old, rehashed, horse-shit that doesn't even really apply instead of contributing to the conversation. They spin the old classics: "Readiness", "This isn't (insert fictional media here)", "Red in tooth and claw", "When the seeker...", "Mad, dead..." and they get ass pats for being so wise.
Because of how long I've been around the net and what I've seen I can tell you that even the nicest and most responsible people will whip out one of these floppy dongers once in a while. OP maybe has a fit or just sulks off. Forum pats itself on the back for a solid month for really stickin' it to that noob/fluffer who was so unserious they couldn't even handle time-tested, sage, wisdom. No one's problems are solved, but the social equilibrium has returned and everyone can get back to the familiar, old, circle-jerk.
Friday, April 19, 2019
|Interior of a ceramic kiln littered with the confetti-like shards of a misfired piece.|
Thursday, November 16, 2017
A month ago if I stood very still, tilted my head at the right angle, and thought about it really hard I could almost feel summer becoming autumn. Today it was raining and I could smell that distinct smell of “FALL” in the air. It felt like my shoulders could finally un-tense, like my lungs could finally fill up.
For the last decade or so fall has simply felt like a less energetic continuation of summer. The winters, some with days so warm and sunny that the grass is still green and flowers still bloom, have been awkward and tepid. It scares the shit out of me, honestly.
On a mundane, average, complaining level - doing much of anything in oppressive heat is almost impossible. It’s punishing. It’s not been so bad as a couple of summers in my childhood (we didn’t have AC, just a couple of big swamp coolers and honestly it was better to just go sit in the water runoff from them than indoors anyway), but it’s been it’s own kind of bad. On a deeper level? This is… wrong. It feels wrong. It tastes wrong. It’s like something deep, deep, deep, down hundreds or thousands of feet below the ground has twisted.
It started in 2010 when a tornado pissed a stripe across my neighborhood. There had been subtle wrongness that year and it amplified as the summer stretched on into fall and then into a winter where we had an actual blizzard - something almost unheard-of here. Then, a year and change later when the droughts were so severe that literally none of the state was drought-free and you could see cracks form in the soil that were so deep that they’d swallow as much metal tape measure as you could give them.
Then came the earthquakes - categorized as ‘swarms’- sounding like bombs going off before everything would rattle, shake and drop off shelves. And finally, I heard the sound of chainsaws. First in dreams - which was terrifying but manageable - and then only a few months later in the flesh. An oil pipeline being laid through old, wakeful, spirited forest. It nearly drove me nuts.
The land that had felt welcoming and peaceful felt, instead, pissed off and carnivorous. Not at me specifically, but enough hostility floated around to make me nervous and I’m not ashamed to admit that my adventures got less adventurous. Even the most mundane tree-trimming or lawn-mowing would be met with spooky results. Busted belts, busted blades, tools rusting up so quickly it’s like they were on fast-forward - things I honestly didn’t talk about at the time because they were horrifying and very physical and that stuff is the stuff that you exercise discretion about.
This compounded with Other Things meant that I my head down, and did the Work in the best ways that I could. I multiplied my usual offerings, and made sure that when delivering them I did not allow my newfound reticence to color my emotions or energy. I didn’t want to feel fear, and I sure as hell didn’t want to show it.
It’s not just here, either. As I type this, Hurricane Harvey is doing it’s best to drown Texas and Louisiana. And when I revisited this draft it was Irma eating it’s way through island chains. When I came back again it was with the knowledge that Puerto Rico had been essentially leveled. It should not be a partisan political statement to say “It seems like storms like these are getting worse and worse.” And yet, here we are.
As someone who has intimate ties to landscape and environment this is terrifying. My spirituality doesn’t die in the absence of the land, but it fundamentally changes. And maybe it changes into something that I don’t want to be involved in anymore. Maybe it becomes a relationship, failed on both ends, that simply has to dissolve before it gets toxic. I can already feel things here shifting and changing into a landscape that is at once familiar and unfamiliar. Like going home after a long absence - it’s all the same and all different.
A banner hangs from a tall forked staff, blazoned with bold heraldry, lit by the flickering light of a fire and swaying in the night breeze. Behind it is a wood, ancient and deep, perhaps once a lined processional road that is now overshadowed on all sides by primeval wildness. Before it is the clear cut, the gentle slope down toward the lane, the moat, and finally rising again at the feet of an impossible fortification of gray-green glass.
It has been other banners before. The blazon changes depending upon who bears it, the bearer depends upon who leads, who leads depends upon the Queen - Fairest of fair, darker and brighter than the moon, shining with the cutting fire of a gem. For now I bear the banner. Like any heraldry is an amalgamation of what I have inherited, with a twist or flourish to identify it as mine. Though being confused for another is not likely now, not as likely as it was even ten years ago, or twenty - when the field was drowned in fighting bodies, rolling like the waves of a lake.
There are so few at the fireside, now. I bear the banner, lead the procession, keep the tally, mind the fire - once each a job held by a separate person. We wait until the light of dawn comes but it is three, and then only five. And stays five. One of my number sits out the ‘battle’ - we arm wrestle because no one wants to actually hurt anyone else. With so few there is no need to rip each-other apart. No one really wins or loses. In the end it’s more of an agreement based upon respect and admiration - who kept the fire burning, who greeted whom with the most warmth, who (in short) offered the most hospitality despite the lackluster turnout.
For the last decade or so fall has simply felt like a less energetic continuation of summer. The world neither dies, nor is it reborn. The spirit world starves, and grows angry. The winters, some with days so warm and sunny that the grass is still green and flowers still bloom, have been awkward and tepid. No one attends the reveries because the land cannot draw them forth, and in their absence the wheel fails to turn.
It scares the shit out of me, honestly.
(This entry was first published Sept 27 on my Patreon - and moved here in November. Dates may, therefore, be askew)
Sunday, August 27, 2017
|I gots bees on my knees!|
Travelogue: A movie, book or Illustrated lecture about the places visited and experiences encountered by a traveler.I take a walk, it’s hot and it was a bad decision and moments after leaving the house I already feel like crap. “I wonder if I should post abo- no.” I feed the fish, walk the fence line, down to the old pond. “Okay maybe there’s something in my drafts- no.” I pass the wild rose, sprawling in her summer glory and half the size of a house. “Okay, maybe I can post ab- no.” I almost go through the woods, but I’d rather not end up covered in ticks. Instead, it’s back up past the chicken yard to say hello to the ladies. “Okay just stream of consciousness just friggin po- Yeah, sure, but I haven’t really don’t that in a few years have I?” With a shirt full of eggs, feeling like death, soaked with sweat I round back into the house. “I haven’t really written anything in years because I feel like shit every time I post. Huh… maybe I should post about that.”
The radio silence isn’t about a lack of ideas, or topics, but a feeling like there’s simply no ‘room’ for me to exist. It’s not just one thing - it’s a lot of things - but I feel like this is the easiest to get through first.
I don’t think I’ve ever been clear enough (and possibly cannot be clear enough) about how my blog is not, and never really will be, a “how to” blog. I’m not interested in bullet lists, blanket statements, virtue signaling or hot takes. I am not a therapist, a guru, a repository for ennui, a cudgel with which to threaten others, or obligated to reveal private details. I feel like it’s fundamental to get this across: This is a diary, a journal and a travelogue centered on being the voice that I wish I had heard as a youngster. It humbles and honors me that other people have found value in that as well.
When I capped a certain follower count running either blog became unpleasant. I can’t tell you how many times I sat with my finger over the “delete”/”make private” button. Whether it was people being out and out malicious, or those simply being too familiar and pushing against personal boundaries, it was not a pleasant thing. On the other hand were people who took the time to tell me how my blog had helped them in ways large and small. I didn’t delete because I did not want to let them down, but I didn’t feel like I could post, either.
That stretched on for far longer than it should, so consider this the line in the sand. This should be the last anyone has to hear about people being ... strange, but it’ll also be the last time I’m polite about it if it has to be said again.
That Other, Bigger, Thing: PTSD Suuuuuuuuuuuuuucks.
Seven years ago a tornado outbreak almost killed me and my family, devastated my property and nearly destroyed my house (that I was in the process of remodeling... so basically destroyed my house), and gave me PTSD. The PTSD messed up my entire life. It’s still messing up my life, and will probably be messing up my life for a while yet.
It compounded older, earlier, traumas, and generally made me into a shadow of myself. It exacerbated health problems, caused deterioration in my interpersonal relationships in a way that, honestly, is still not okay and caused workplace issues that held me back from opportunities for advancement. I couldn’t get a job outside of the house because if I heard thunder, or things that sounded like thunder, or was informed by a newsperson that there were a risk of storms … I would basically be nonfunctional and y'know... work places aren't understanding about that.
I couldn’t work on repairs and cleanup because the sight of the storm damage would exacerbate the issue, making me physically ill and mentally wonky for days at a time. Then, I lost my salaried job working from home and had to become a freelancer and simply couldn’t financially afford to do more than work myself to the bone. And boy… did I ever.
I’ve lost almost a decade of my life to mental illness and the stigmas against it. Trying to exist my way around this has been a daily challenge that I have had to manage, essentially, alone.
Digging Ever Upward
I began to give up on trying to find my way out of the labyrinthine cave and just began digging straight up. Sure, I ended up choking on a lot of dirt along the way - but I finally started to see light. I rented the land out to a relative who not only paid me a bit for staying there, but helped immensely with cleaning up and repairing damage - I cannot stress how much that both broke my heart AND helped my brain. Eventually I could face looking at my damaged mobile home again. I got some supplies and made a dent in some general repairs, bought some shelving to start storing materials, and was (and am) making headway. Using it for a workshop will be a lot of work, but worth it. Maybe one day it’ll even be livable. I feel like moving through and past the physical aftermath finally helped me to look at the damage in the less physical stuff - the life stuff - with more clarity.
Due to Etsy being capricious and changing rules around I decided (after a lot of whining and complaining) to allow my shop to be deactivated, and bought some hosting with a shopping cart. I’m currently working my way through remaking listing images and dealing with paperwork to get that running. In the meantime there is a landing page, an about page, and links to my social media. In the future the shop will be added, and theoretically a couple of other pages. You can take a look at rootand.rocks
A few people asked about how they could show their support for what I do/make even if they didn’t want to buy something and, well… I'm not going to turn this into an infomerical so you can read more at patreon.com/rootandrock. The immediacy of financial return means that I can afford to do things like posting bits of work on books, or plant profiles, without feeling financially pressured. It feels like a good way forward - it's totally optional and helps out a lot.
I’ve been quietly working writing and art again. First, on a series of small book/lets, each covering a single topic. They’re heavily illustrated, and geared toward the market who likes really artsy, limited-edition, occult content. The first, a short work on using snail shells to create charms, talismans and vessels is nearly done - down to the last layout phase and dealing with printing/binding. Another about harvesting and processing clay - viewed through an alchemical lense - is getting started, and a third of poetry about woods-spirits is halfway done. The long-suffering toad book has also been pecked and poked at as well. I know. I can almost hear the surprised gasps from here.
It’s fine, or it will be. Really. It’s getting ... more like living and less like digging upward every day. Should I have said more along the way? Maybe? I don’t know. Sometimes bearing your soul to the internet is a bad idea while you’re vulnerable. Sometimes it’s not a kind place. But to those who were and are kind, thank you. You kept me digging.
(This entry was first published July 26 on my Patreon - and moved here a month later. Dates may, therefore, be slightly askew)