Monday, February 28, 2011

The Waters of The Moon.

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.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Cautionary Tales: Unseelie.

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. 

Monday, February 14, 2011

Tips and Tricks: Preserving Things

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.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011


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).

Friday, February 4, 2011

Snowed In Reflection.

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).

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Taking a day... or three.

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.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011


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.