I hope people are still speaking to me after this week. I'm normally very sweet and loving, but was pretty rancid for part of this week. Jorge was gracious. I was a hen-pecking BITCH last night at our King and Queen of Swords shoot--which is probably not a huge surprise. As I was telling a friend, shoots emulate the cards. While our models were great, the lighting was a pain in the ass.
The ride home was long. Our shoot was out in a deep pocket of Brooklyn and didn't finish until almost midnight. Because trains are slow that time of night, I didn't get home until after one. I believe I was cursing my blessings. Having a fabulous project to do and people who are working on it with me. Having finished a shoot I'd been worried about since beginning this Tarot deck journey nearly two years ago. Having a JOB in this bad economy for which I'd have to get up early for. For living in New York, the place I'd dreamed of living since I was a kid--even if it broke my wallet again this month and means that traveling five miles after midnight is a sojourn more aptly titled "Pilgrimage to Apartment."
But last night I dreamed of Marilyn. I don't remember what she said, but I believe she will stay in my dreams as a reminder to count, not curse, my friggin' blessings--even when they masquerade as inconveniences, annoyances, and severe tests of my goddamned patience.
Tomorrow is Pagan Pride Day here in NYC!!! I am so excited!!!
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
PANties....
It's appropriate to honor the God with due gifts.
(It's a little hard to see--but that's a flaming red lace thong on His ear)
I like how people are blaming Jorge.
;)
(It's a little hard to see--but that's a flaming red lace thong on His ear)
I like how people are blaming Jorge.
;)
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
A story from last night and many thanks to a hooker named Marilyn
First of all: One story from last night.
At the end of the show, I was tired. Two nights in a row of reading cards plus the days both days--was getting run down, and quickly. A young woman came to the table and asked for a reading. I said, as I've started saying, "How can I help you?" She wanted to know about the future. Then, she revealed that both her parents had been murdered a year before. What was she to do, now? Mother of fucking pearl....I said to myself. I am not trained to deal with this. Please, please God. Don't let me say anything stupid.
First thing's first: I shook the deck and said, "You will not find an answer as to why this happened in this reading. I wish you could, but it's not going to happen. What I can try to do is give you a few tools as to find methods to heal yourself. Will that work for you?"
She said yes. As per usual, I can't remember what I told her, but she walked away smiling--which is a hell of a lot better than when someone gets a reading from me and goes to lock themselves in the bathroom either to cry or eat pills. However, when she did walk away, I put my head in my hands on the table. How the hell do these things happen to people??? And why???
The next guy came to my table and just wanted a general reading. He looked at me blankly the whole time.
"Does this have any poignancy for you?" I asked.
"Not really," he said.
"Okay, then," I reshuffled the deck. "I'll tell you what has happened. I'm out of psychic juice. I am happy to give your money back." He kindly declined the refund, so I tried something else. I fanned the cards, face down, on the table.
"Pick one," I said. "I'll tell you everything I know about it symbolically, and you take from it what you will. Maybe there will be some kind of message for you."
He liked that idea and drew a card. When I told him everything I knew about it, he walked away smiling. So, even if it was probably the lamest reading ever, he didn't go to the bathroom for tears or drugs and I got to keep the five dollars. I did the same thing for the next dude, who again let me keep the five dollars even though I was out of juice, and was happy with the "Here's the symbolism" reading.
See, fellow readers? It's best to be honest with folks. When we're done, we're done. Likely, they'll want to get the cards to tell them something anyway.
***
Saturday night, I had two dreams.
The first was of KM. I still dream of him on a regular basis. Sometimes, we're laughing at the situation we're both going through. Sometimes, we're fighting. Last week, we were on the dream phone and all I could say was "WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY???" The call kept dropping before he could answer. Saturday night, I don't remember the scenario. But I wasn't happy with whatever it was we talked about, and I remember him not being happy, either. I left him there, staring at the ground, and "came back" to whereever I came "from," arriving at an airport with my friend Mike. My ex-lover TM had come to pick us up, for whatever reason.
I must have said this before--but I'll say it again. NEVER name your Coven "Nymphs of Pandemonia." We were disorganized. Everything started three hours late. But our parties were awesome and we got laid a lot, as to be expected. And also as to be expected, we blew apart over a penis. This particular penis happened to belong to TM. He and my now Ex-Coven sister ended up together and thereby ended the "Nymphs of Pandemonia."
Oh, well. If it didn't happen one way, it would have happened another. It feels like a high school complication, looking back on it. People are people. People hook up. People go away. People come back. Covens have short shelf-lives and something named NOP was a miracle for lasting the 18 months that it did. I think we're all in better places now. Novices of the Old Ways was born out of the dregs of the old Coven, and for it I'm incredibly thankful.
But in my dream, the former coven sister, Phoenix, arrived at the airport with TM. I was furious and wouldn't speak to her. She pulled me aside and said, "Have you even noticed that I'm here?" I replied, "What right have you to return? Why would you insert yourself into my thoughts." Then, I said some very, very mean things that made her cry. Before we could to back to our male companions, when they would see she was hurt and know that I'd made that way, I tried to smooth things over, but couldn't pull up an apology when I had none to make. "I'm glad I said these things to you here, and not in waking life," I said. And then woke up.
Then, I was mad.
Why was I still dreaming of KM, TM and Phoenix? I don't want to think about any of them. I avoid talking about all three of them because it only makes me mad. I scribbled in my journal all the way up to Inwood. Cursing and pissing on the pages. "Leave me alone, dumb thoughts!!!"
Then, I was interrupted by a hooker named Marilyn.
She saw me writing in my journal and complimented my cursive handwriting.
"God bless you! You have a gift. I wish I could write like that. I wish so I could write like that...."
I always got reprimanded in school for having shitty-slanty cursive writing. I appreciate the effusion. I wrote her name down on a piece of paper in the cursive, and gave it to her. Her name was Marilyn.
She went on and one about her blessings. Her new shelter. Her shower. Being clean. Having clean clothes. Having eight children, though she doesn't see them anymore. Being HIV positive, but still alive. Having made it on her own in the streets. She was alive. She said she was blessed. Beaming smile radiating from her, I knew it was true.
The woman on my left was all dressed for church. She looked spectacular in a green dress and a hat that looked like a fabric fountain. She looked up from her Bible a few times to acknowledge Marilyn and then went back to her reading. Marilyn liked her outfit and wanted to talk to her about it. But the lady wanted to read her Bible.
I'm not a saint. I honestly wanted to just scribble in my journal and be left alone. I'm giving a lot of justice to Marilyn's speech, because it isn't easy to follow the thought-process of a subway-riding street person. But, really. Wouldn't the Gods prefer I give this poor woman my ear for just a few stops than to scribble about what I think the Gods might want from me in my coffee-stained, ass-printed notebook? Certainly, the Christian lady's God would have preferred she help that woman than sit there and read about what Christ wanted from her. The woman on the other side of me gave Marilyn a little money. I had none. But Marilyn didn't ask for it. Just wanted to show me her poetry. Which I read. It wasn't good, but it had soul. I was happy to have met Marilyn.
When Marilyn left, I was thankful. Wow. My only real problems are me not being able to figure out my stupid emotional baggage. But Marilyn was the blessed one because despite her fatal illness, separation from her children and tenuous living situation, she was indeed blessed. I counted my blessings the rest of the ride home. I was ready to honor the Gods at Mabon.
Last night, to top it all off, I dreamed I was reading a Pagan writer's biography alongside The Goddess. "All these so-called accomplishments," She said, pointing out the number of books the writer had written, c.d.s recorded and Conferences taught. "What this doesn't say is what this person does to better their fellow man. That's what this biography should be full of." I woke thinking of Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol, "ManKIND should have been my (motherfucking) business."
Okay, Lady. I'z done hearded.
At the end of the show, I was tired. Two nights in a row of reading cards plus the days both days--was getting run down, and quickly. A young woman came to the table and asked for a reading. I said, as I've started saying, "How can I help you?" She wanted to know about the future. Then, she revealed that both her parents had been murdered a year before. What was she to do, now? Mother of fucking pearl....I said to myself. I am not trained to deal with this. Please, please God. Don't let me say anything stupid.
First thing's first: I shook the deck and said, "You will not find an answer as to why this happened in this reading. I wish you could, but it's not going to happen. What I can try to do is give you a few tools as to find methods to heal yourself. Will that work for you?"
She said yes. As per usual, I can't remember what I told her, but she walked away smiling--which is a hell of a lot better than when someone gets a reading from me and goes to lock themselves in the bathroom either to cry or eat pills. However, when she did walk away, I put my head in my hands on the table. How the hell do these things happen to people??? And why???
The next guy came to my table and just wanted a general reading. He looked at me blankly the whole time.
"Does this have any poignancy for you?" I asked.
"Not really," he said.
"Okay, then," I reshuffled the deck. "I'll tell you what has happened. I'm out of psychic juice. I am happy to give your money back." He kindly declined the refund, so I tried something else. I fanned the cards, face down, on the table.
"Pick one," I said. "I'll tell you everything I know about it symbolically, and you take from it what you will. Maybe there will be some kind of message for you."
He liked that idea and drew a card. When I told him everything I knew about it, he walked away smiling. So, even if it was probably the lamest reading ever, he didn't go to the bathroom for tears or drugs and I got to keep the five dollars. I did the same thing for the next dude, who again let me keep the five dollars even though I was out of juice, and was happy with the "Here's the symbolism" reading.
See, fellow readers? It's best to be honest with folks. When we're done, we're done. Likely, they'll want to get the cards to tell them something anyway.
***
Saturday night, I had two dreams.
The first was of KM. I still dream of him on a regular basis. Sometimes, we're laughing at the situation we're both going through. Sometimes, we're fighting. Last week, we were on the dream phone and all I could say was "WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY???" The call kept dropping before he could answer. Saturday night, I don't remember the scenario. But I wasn't happy with whatever it was we talked about, and I remember him not being happy, either. I left him there, staring at the ground, and "came back" to whereever I came "from," arriving at an airport with my friend Mike. My ex-lover TM had come to pick us up, for whatever reason.
I must have said this before--but I'll say it again. NEVER name your Coven "Nymphs of Pandemonia." We were disorganized. Everything started three hours late. But our parties were awesome and we got laid a lot, as to be expected. And also as to be expected, we blew apart over a penis. This particular penis happened to belong to TM. He and my now Ex-Coven sister ended up together and thereby ended the "Nymphs of Pandemonia."
Oh, well. If it didn't happen one way, it would have happened another. It feels like a high school complication, looking back on it. People are people. People hook up. People go away. People come back. Covens have short shelf-lives and something named NOP was a miracle for lasting the 18 months that it did. I think we're all in better places now. Novices of the Old Ways was born out of the dregs of the old Coven, and for it I'm incredibly thankful.
But in my dream, the former coven sister, Phoenix, arrived at the airport with TM. I was furious and wouldn't speak to her. She pulled me aside and said, "Have you even noticed that I'm here?" I replied, "What right have you to return? Why would you insert yourself into my thoughts." Then, I said some very, very mean things that made her cry. Before we could to back to our male companions, when they would see she was hurt and know that I'd made that way, I tried to smooth things over, but couldn't pull up an apology when I had none to make. "I'm glad I said these things to you here, and not in waking life," I said. And then woke up.
Then, I was mad.
Why was I still dreaming of KM, TM and Phoenix? I don't want to think about any of them. I avoid talking about all three of them because it only makes me mad. I scribbled in my journal all the way up to Inwood. Cursing and pissing on the pages. "Leave me alone, dumb thoughts!!!"
Then, I was interrupted by a hooker named Marilyn.
She saw me writing in my journal and complimented my cursive handwriting.
"God bless you! You have a gift. I wish I could write like that. I wish so I could write like that...."
I always got reprimanded in school for having shitty-slanty cursive writing. I appreciate the effusion. I wrote her name down on a piece of paper in the cursive, and gave it to her. Her name was Marilyn.
She went on and one about her blessings. Her new shelter. Her shower. Being clean. Having clean clothes. Having eight children, though she doesn't see them anymore. Being HIV positive, but still alive. Having made it on her own in the streets. She was alive. She said she was blessed. Beaming smile radiating from her, I knew it was true.
The woman on my left was all dressed for church. She looked spectacular in a green dress and a hat that looked like a fabric fountain. She looked up from her Bible a few times to acknowledge Marilyn and then went back to her reading. Marilyn liked her outfit and wanted to talk to her about it. But the lady wanted to read her Bible.
I'm not a saint. I honestly wanted to just scribble in my journal and be left alone. I'm giving a lot of justice to Marilyn's speech, because it isn't easy to follow the thought-process of a subway-riding street person. But, really. Wouldn't the Gods prefer I give this poor woman my ear for just a few stops than to scribble about what I think the Gods might want from me in my coffee-stained, ass-printed notebook? Certainly, the Christian lady's God would have preferred she help that woman than sit there and read about what Christ wanted from her. The woman on the other side of me gave Marilyn a little money. I had none. But Marilyn didn't ask for it. Just wanted to show me her poetry. Which I read. It wasn't good, but it had soul. I was happy to have met Marilyn.
When Marilyn left, I was thankful. Wow. My only real problems are me not being able to figure out my stupid emotional baggage. But Marilyn was the blessed one because despite her fatal illness, separation from her children and tenuous living situation, she was indeed blessed. I counted my blessings the rest of the ride home. I was ready to honor the Gods at Mabon.
Last night, to top it all off, I dreamed I was reading a Pagan writer's biography alongside The Goddess. "All these so-called accomplishments," She said, pointing out the number of books the writer had written, c.d.s recorded and Conferences taught. "What this doesn't say is what this person does to better their fellow man. That's what this biography should be full of." I woke thinking of Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol, "ManKIND should have been my (motherfucking) business."
Okay, Lady. I'z done hearded.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
It's possible that a Witch's true powers....
...are merely the rumors that go around about her. (sigh...)
I am tired and grazing on corn chips because I am tired. Worked the nine-to-five and then went to Larkin Grimm's show two nights in a row where I read Tarot. Met some very nice people.
If you haven't heard of Larkin, check her out immediately.
That is all. Off to bed-bye.
I am tired and grazing on corn chips because I am tired. Worked the nine-to-five and then went to Larkin Grimm's show two nights in a row where I read Tarot. Met some very nice people.
If you haven't heard of Larkin, check her out immediately.
That is all. Off to bed-bye.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Mabon
Work is slow today, and I'm distracting myself from Ovulation pains for a moment. The "blessed" (and by that I mean, SUCK-ed...) IUD makes its presence known not only when I'm flowing, but when I'm laying an egg as well. Gah. Be patient with my bitching about the coil. I do recognize that I could have it removed, but once I get used to it, it will be hormone free-b.c. that will be good until I a.) want to spawn or b.) turn 37. Yay!!! But it takes about six months to stop wrenching.
Now that the cold sweats have vanished and the trembling subsided (YES!!! IF YOU'RE WONDERING!!! IT'S THAT FUCKING BAD!!!!)
Anyway.
Our Group's Mabon celebration is this coming weekend. I've realized recently, as I've mentioned before, how somehow I fell out of touch with my own connection to the Mysteries. Witchcraft felt, in the beginning, like I was standing on the shore of a great mysterious ocean, letting the pearly waves lap at my toes and beckon me to join. Someday, I would swim to its depths. I now know there is never fully a way to swim to those depths and one will always be standing on the shore--but now my shore is littered with noises: Group planning, writing, reading, conferences, travel, navigating relations with other faiths, navigating relations with my family, navigating dumbass Witch politics--these things are the screaming tourists, the lifeguard megaphones and the motorboats of an otherwise peaceful area.
In addition to making time twice a day to connect with my Gods in the simple, innocent way I once did (to the best of my abilities...), but also making sure I place as much personal spiritual experience in our Sabbats as do the Group members. It's too easy to get caught up in the "who goes where," "what happens now..." "no one is getting possessed, are they???" mess of it. I'm also bad to not give full thought to my gifts and offerings at Sabbats--taking the stance of, "I got everyone here--isn't that enough?" No, Weber. It's not enough.
I've asked our members to bring a non-toxic offering to leave at the Cedar tree to thank the Gods for the gifts of the past year. I have decided to bring an apple, a vial of salt water, a gourd, and a handful of Carolina Aromatic Rice. Here's why:
THE APPLE: For what I have learned.
For my 3rd Degree Initiation. For the lessons I've learned through writing and running the rituals. For the classes I took at Union. For the people I've met who've taught me things. For the Spirits I've encountered who gave me messages. For the time with my teachers. For the things I've learned from our members. For the books I've read. For the messages in the music I've listened to. For the revelations in meditation. For the things I've learned from the students in the classes that I've taught.
SALT WATER: For the tears I've cried.
Good GOD. Haven't cried so many goddamned tears since the seventh grade. Tears of stress, tears of fear. Tears of being in love and having that beautiful love returned. The tears in the trials I faced with this love. The tears in being let down by this love. The tears in saying goodbye. The tears in anger. The tears in guilt. The tears in being loved by friends and members of the community. The tears in hearing kind words. The tears of joy in giving my Goddaughters their first spiritual exercise. The tears of being forgiven for something I long felt guilty for (as in...nearly 20 years of feeling bad....). The tears of hope. The shared tears with those who also lost. But tears teach us the depth of our heart. They teach us compassion and understanding for others. Only when one knows true sadness can one appreciate true joy. My heart is bigger now, stretched by the tears it created and shed in the past year. I thank those who helped create them, and I thank those who washed them away. Tears are cleansing. I'm pretty damned clean, as a result. And it's not just the juice fast.
THE GOURD: For my health.
It's seasonal, it's healthy, it comes from the earth itself in a variety of gorgeous colors and textures. I weathered through the year on very little sleep and high stress, for most of it, and am thankful for the minimal number of colds or otherwise ailments. The IUD was the most painful thing I experienced this year. It may be the MOST painful thing I ever experienced--at least since I got my braces at 12. But that's all I really have to complain about.
RICE: For the time I spent with my family.
I grew closer to my family this year than ever before. Carolina Aromatic Rice. It was appropriate.
As we walked through the park today to leave the offerings at the base of the tree, I was elated. I was thankful. I really have an awesome life.
Now that the cold sweats have vanished and the trembling subsided (YES!!! IF YOU'RE WONDERING!!! IT'S THAT FUCKING BAD!!!!)
Anyway.
Our Group's Mabon celebration is this coming weekend. I've realized recently, as I've mentioned before, how somehow I fell out of touch with my own connection to the Mysteries. Witchcraft felt, in the beginning, like I was standing on the shore of a great mysterious ocean, letting the pearly waves lap at my toes and beckon me to join. Someday, I would swim to its depths. I now know there is never fully a way to swim to those depths and one will always be standing on the shore--but now my shore is littered with noises: Group planning, writing, reading, conferences, travel, navigating relations with other faiths, navigating relations with my family, navigating dumbass Witch politics--these things are the screaming tourists, the lifeguard megaphones and the motorboats of an otherwise peaceful area.
In addition to making time twice a day to connect with my Gods in the simple, innocent way I once did (to the best of my abilities...), but also making sure I place as much personal spiritual experience in our Sabbats as do the Group members. It's too easy to get caught up in the "who goes where," "what happens now..." "no one is getting possessed, are they???" mess of it. I'm also bad to not give full thought to my gifts and offerings at Sabbats--taking the stance of, "I got everyone here--isn't that enough?" No, Weber. It's not enough.
I've asked our members to bring a non-toxic offering to leave at the Cedar tree to thank the Gods for the gifts of the past year. I have decided to bring an apple, a vial of salt water, a gourd, and a handful of Carolina Aromatic Rice. Here's why:
THE APPLE: For what I have learned.
For my 3rd Degree Initiation. For the lessons I've learned through writing and running the rituals. For the classes I took at Union. For the people I've met who've taught me things. For the Spirits I've encountered who gave me messages. For the time with my teachers. For the things I've learned from our members. For the books I've read. For the messages in the music I've listened to. For the revelations in meditation. For the things I've learned from the students in the classes that I've taught.
SALT WATER: For the tears I've cried.
Good GOD. Haven't cried so many goddamned tears since the seventh grade. Tears of stress, tears of fear. Tears of being in love and having that beautiful love returned. The tears in the trials I faced with this love. The tears in being let down by this love. The tears in saying goodbye. The tears in anger. The tears in guilt. The tears in being loved by friends and members of the community. The tears in hearing kind words. The tears of joy in giving my Goddaughters their first spiritual exercise. The tears of being forgiven for something I long felt guilty for (as in...nearly 20 years of feeling bad....). The tears of hope. The shared tears with those who also lost. But tears teach us the depth of our heart. They teach us compassion and understanding for others. Only when one knows true sadness can one appreciate true joy. My heart is bigger now, stretched by the tears it created and shed in the past year. I thank those who helped create them, and I thank those who washed them away. Tears are cleansing. I'm pretty damned clean, as a result. And it's not just the juice fast.
THE GOURD: For my health.
It's seasonal, it's healthy, it comes from the earth itself in a variety of gorgeous colors and textures. I weathered through the year on very little sleep and high stress, for most of it, and am thankful for the minimal number of colds or otherwise ailments. The IUD was the most painful thing I experienced this year. It may be the MOST painful thing I ever experienced--at least since I got my braces at 12. But that's all I really have to complain about.
RICE: For the time I spent with my family.
I grew closer to my family this year than ever before. Carolina Aromatic Rice. It was appropriate.
As we walked through the park today to leave the offerings at the base of the tree, I was elated. I was thankful. I really have an awesome life.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
WOO-HOO!!! A MAJOR TURNING POINT IN THE LIFE OF WOO-WOO!!!
Last night, my Dad finally asked what Wicca was all about. (Previously, in life of Woo-Woo, this same Dad was referring to Wicca as "digging up graves-raising the dead- Celtic-whatever-witchcraft shit.") But last night, he said he was interested in learning what it was all about. Since I was clearly so far into it (translation: Not A Phase), he ought to know more about it. I sent him a link to purchase When Someone You Love Is Wiccan.
"I'll get it on my Kindle!" Dad said.
"Looks like it's cheaper that way, too..." I started.
"$9.99! Everything on Kindle is $9.99."
"Cool!" I replied. "You save seven dollars, Pop!"
"I know!" he said. "I get the Times there every day, too."
See, kids? This is how you get your parents to accept your alternative spirituality. Link it to their favorite toys. Showing them they've saved seven dollars helps, too.
"I'll get it on my Kindle!" Dad said.
"Looks like it's cheaper that way, too..." I started.
"$9.99! Everything on Kindle is $9.99."
"Cool!" I replied. "You save seven dollars, Pop!"
"I know!" he said. "I get the Times there every day, too."
See, kids? This is how you get your parents to accept your alternative spirituality. Link it to their favorite toys. Showing them they've saved seven dollars helps, too.
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