Thursday, November 16, 2017

I Heard The Sound... pt. 2

Fall's A-Fallin.

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.

The Land That I Love. 

I try to hold a picture in my mind of my childhood antics and the utter trust I had in the world. I try to hold a picture in my mind of decades of invested spirit work and the knowledge that I love this land and that it, generally, tolerates me. I try to hold on to that picture but it slips. It slips again and again.
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

It's fine or ... it will be.

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.

Capitalism Stuff.

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

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 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)