Wednesday, 28 February 2018

Bless The USA


Driving in to work this morning I found myself behind something so quintessentially American, so quintessentially 2018, that if I’d seen it on Facebook I’d have dismissed it as a plant from a Russian bot. If my phone had been accessible I might have photographed it.

 

“It” was a huge jacked-up Ford pickup, black rims, loud enough to be straight-piped and belching black smoke whenever he hit the pedal, which was frequently. Driving both aggressively and poorly. But oh my friends, it was the embellishments that really made this truck scream MURICA!

 

Dead center across the back window was the phrase “In GOD We Trust!”* The random capitalization and ironic quotation marks are reproduced verbatim. There were a couple of vinyl cutouts that I couldn’t quite identify, but one was very obvious: it was a portrait of 45, appropriately rendered in orange, and depicting him in one of his most iconic poses—finger in the air, scrunched-up piggy expression on his face (the only thing more iconic would have been the one where he’s mocking the disabled reporter). It wasn’t a flattering vinyl, and something tells me it wasn’t meant to be; what it was, was an honest depiction, showing simultaneously the truth of the man it depicted and that of his admirers. The whole thing was both hilarious and sad.

 

But it’s also reality. This is where we are in 21st century America, and this morning I caught a perfect glimpse of what the rest of the world sees when they look at us.

 

 

*My brain followed this up with the next line of the Ghost song and an Airghoul keytar solo.

Monday, 1 January 2018

And Another One Begins

Another New Year's Day, and thus another birthday, has come and nearly gone; as I write this, it's just past 10pm, and despite two solid days of near total inactivity, I'm exhausted and ready for bed. I'm aware that the exhaustion is the physical manifestation of the melancholy that usually attends this day of the year, but that doesn't alleviate it--and since I have to be up as usual for work in the morning, I might as well go with it.

Having a birthday on New Year's Day is a bit surreal in any case, and it feels odder with every passing year. In a way I almost feel cheated--if my birthday was any other day of the year, I could celebrate the New Year festivities without the added baggage of my advancing age--in a different way than I did as a child, when people would sometimes tease me by telling me that I was getting no gifts for my birthday because I'd already gotten them all for Christmas. I know, I know, be grateful for getting older because it's a privilege denied to many. Yes, I know that, but right now getting older is terrifying in ways that I never expected it to be, here in a country that's gone right off the rails into Whatthefuckistan. (And no, if you're wondering, I'm not old yet, but I am very firmly middle-aged, and maybe on the outer rim of that unless I get a nice long lifespan. Some of my ancestors enjoyed quite long lives, so we'll see.)


Tonight the moon was full at almost the exact time of my birth, a scenario that certainly must be auspicious. I was too drained to do more than lift a glass in toast, which doesn't say much good about my Magical Occult Powers, but every living being in this household has been just drooping around for the entire weekend, so clearly it's not just me. Thank the old gods and the new that there are things upcoming to be excited about: season 11 of X-Files on Wednesday, National Skating Month clinic on Saturday followed by the start of the next cycle of classes in another week. If only we could get out of the wretched single-digit cold which is so rare for this area, that would improve things as well. That, and maybe another viewing of The Last Jedi


Fuck it. 2018, I am in you.

Sunday, 31 December 2017

Another One Down

The year is fast unraveling, and I'm sitting here feeling compelled to say something about it while simultaneously having no idea where to even begin. I've never had a year like this before. It's been genuinely surreal in a lot of ways.

I have no desire to go into my retelling of the woes that befell my homeland over the past year; it's all been well documented, and by others better suited to that sort of reporting. I do regret a bit that I haven't been busily recording my own small perceptions of current events, but I suppose that's also been done well enough by others. Maybe next year. This one has felt too unreal, too much like a simulation gone awry, the winding-up of a dystopian novel plot, for me to tackle parsing it in any meaningful way.

So all of that aside, what did I do with this year, which began with one of those terrifying birthdays that end in zero?

  • I discovered a lot of music, most of it out of Sweden. It made the year bearable, and sometimes even brilliant. Ghost (still), and MCC, and Tid, and The Great Discord, and Priest, and Diamond Black, and more. 
  • I played some music, too. Jamming on bass with other actual musicians was a revelatory, initiatory experience. I bought a keyboard, gods help me, to see if I could still pick out stuff by ear (I can) and if I could expand upon that (maybe).
  • I started learning new languages--Swedish, and Irish Gaelic--which was almost a reactionary move on my part, so disgusted am I by the xenophobic atmosphere in this country these days. I've been trying to strengthen my French as well.
  • I started skating again, even at my advancing age, and find that I still love it even as it frustrates and challenges me. I've had to start over from the beginning again--my muscles have a very short memory, it seems--but I'm progressing, and I want to continue that in 2018.
  • I haven't written very much, obviously, but managed to do a bit. 
Oh, and The Last Jedi is excellent, so at least the year ended on a sort of high note there.

Have I been fighting depression and anxiety and such this year? Oh, yes. Will that continue into 2018? I expect so. Here's to living in interesting times. May we find a bit of peace in the year to come.

Thursday, 2 March 2017

And Back Again


Sometimes I forget just what an enchanted life feels like, but then something happens, and I remember.

I’ve been gone from blogging here for a while; working 10+ hour days within a nihilistic fog of dysthymia leaves me with very little inspiration, I’ve found. That’s not to say that nothing good or positive has happened in my life in that time; on the contrary, I fell in love—with exquisitely bad timing, it would appear—with a band last fall, the band I’ve been waiting for since I was a teenager hanging onto sanity through a steady diet of Rainbow and Deep Purple and Blue Oyster Cult and Jefferson Starship and Led Zeppelin and…well, you get the idea. This band of my dreams is now fragmenting a bit (if not imploding outright, they’re cagey bastards and while the truth may be out there, it is impossible to determine at this time), and thereon hangs my tale.

A key member departed mysteriously last summer, and earlier this year new rumors started swirling that the lead vocalist/band leader had fired everyone. The fandom’s been in an uproar ever since, which has been great for distracting me from things such as the fact that my entire country is on the express train to Shitsburg thanks to what happened last November, but it hasn’t been at all good for my nerves. This has been going on for a few weeks.

In the last week or so, I found myself having thoughts along the lines of “Wouldn’t it be interesting if someone came out and did a video or something like ‘I was a Nameless Ghoul’?” I’ve found myself unduly worried about complete strangers whom I have never and probably never will meet, hoping that they’re all OK and still friends, etc. I have, let us say, felt a disturbance in the Force, just enough to be a bit distracting and agitating.

(The new age folks would probably call me an empath and say that I’d somehow connected with the energy of the band and its members, and have been picking up on their vibrations or something, and I’m not here to say that’s right or wrong. It sounds goofy, but I’ve experienced enough goofiness in this lifetime to not be too quick to dismiss a theory out of hand.)

Which brings us to this morning. I was driving in to work, listening for the eighty bajillionth time to a song by one of the band’s related projects, this a demo from back before the present band even existed, words and music and vocals by the aforementioned absent member. Eighty bajillionth listening, yes, but this time it struck me differently. That’s a thing that happens to me, and has happened often enough that I’ve come to think of it as one of my “things”—I’ll hear an old beloved familiar song in a completely new way, as though it’s slipped sideways through my every defense and opened up something that I’d previously missed, something I needed to know or feel or understand. That happened this morning, as a couple of the lines in the song struck me so powerfully that I was tearing up; the lyrics felt almost prophetic, and I wondered what that meant.

This afternoon, the absent party released a video. I have yet to watch it as I write this (will be doing so when I can catch a break), but the gist has already been made clear. That related project is coming back to life, and that song that cut me open this morning? Fully remastered and sitting out there as the first single for the project’s renaissance.

Sometimes I forget what my enchanted life can feel like, but then something like this happens, and I remember.

(Edited to add: So I watched the video and oh, my heart.)

Sunday, 21 February 2016

Iconoclastic Ramblings

It’s odd to find yourself a misfit among misfits, to be outcast by the outcasts, to realize that your kind of broken and their kind of broken are so much at variance that the edges don’t even begin to match up. It’s even odder to know that you and they value many of the same things, but in such different ways and for such different reasons that it seems frankly impossible that those things should be the same at all, appearances notwithstanding. You’d think a sane person would just walk away, but as everyone knows by now, that’s easier said than done, and the deeper the investment, the stronger the ties. (And forgive me for descending much deeper into woo than I am ordinarily wont to go, but it does seem that there’s something to the concept of initiatory links after all, which renders those ties stronger still.) And, of course, some things are valuable and worthy of keeping, if they can be sorted out from among all the ruinous other bits that are the bad fit, the psychic thumbscrew, the spiritual allergens that make them ecstatic but only give you a rash.

But all of these things are part of how one becomes an iconoclastic traditionalist, and I’ve been around (and online) long enough to know that I am not the only one.

It’s uncomfortable and exasperating and often depressing and occasionally exhilarating. You don’t know that you are one until you try out and discover the things that you aren’t, or aren’t quite. It’s isolating, a hermit’s path, not suited to the gregarious, and it may well also be the sort of path that chooses the walker and not the other way around. I’m just now coming to grips with it and starting to understand it myself, though it seems I’ve been on this road for a while now. A lot of the landmarks look familiar, but the places they’re leading me are considerably divergent from where I’d always heard they ought to go. And all depression and discomfort and disorientation aside, I think—she says bravely—that I’m finding my footing at last. It is, after all, the path I’ve been walking in one way or another for nearly half a century now, and it’s the path I expect to follow all the days of my life.

And just maybe, if you’re lucky, like I am lucky, you may find others now and again along the way whose paths intersect or run somewhat parallel with yours.

Wednesday, 28 October 2015

An Iconoclastic Review of Alex Mar's Witches of America

When I learned, through the Wild Hunt blog, of documentarian Alex Mar’s new book release Witches of America, I immediately went to read the linked excerpts; and finding the subject matter relevant to my interests, I got myself a copy and set about reading it over the weekend. During that time, I also began seeing reviews of the book cropping up, among them pieces written by people of the same type of demographic that Mar’s book chronicles, and was bemused by the tone that most of these were taking. Some were right on the edge of vituperative, and I found myself scanning the narrative more closely, looking at particular passages and their contexts while trying, and mostly failing, to detect the implied insults that these readers were seeing.


(I have a long history of being flummoxed by others’ perceptions of things, to the point where I often find myself wondering if I’m reading or watching or hearing the same thing [the answer to that being, of course, that we’re all experiencing the same thing from different vantage points, but that’s secondary to the subject here at hand]. I can remember once attending a screening of Gone with the Wind with a friend, thoroughly enjoying ourselves discussing [quietly, of course, we’re not complete boors] the historical context of the film, anecdotes about the production thereof, the general social milieu of antebellum and reconstruction-era America, etc.—then being surprised when the lights came up to find ourselves in a theatre filled with mostly weepy middle-aged white women, and noting aloud that we were perhaps getting something from the experience that they were not. I was reminded of that experience as I read Mar’s book, and the reactions to it from various corners of the online pagan community.)


The first thing I noted was multiple references, in reviews and comment threads, to remarks Mar made about certain older, heavier pagan women’s “pendulous breasts.” I re-read the relevant passages, and failed to find any implied insult or value judgment in what seemed to me to be merely descriptive writing—not to everyone’s taste, apparently, but not outwardly hostile. If the description was not especially flattering, neither was it particularly critical; but if we’ve reached the point in our discourse where only obsequious flattery is permissible, then we’ve put the stake through the heart of not only free speech, but creative writing as well.


Learning that Mar came from an Ivy League background helped to explain some of the antipathy she was garnering from certain critics, as well. Not all of us came from backgrounds of obvious privilege (and I hate resorting to that overused and overloaded word, but it’s the most appropriate), nor have the ability to jet all over the country in pursuit of enlightenment, and the fact that this author does can’t help but rankle. I too tend to be very wary of the wealthy, the elite, the 1%, and have to struggle with the impulse to stereotype and dismiss people on basis of their social and financial standings; but I also recognize that as being as limiting and dangerous as dismissing those at the lower echelons of wealth and power, and try to give people at least the opportunity to prove themselves to be worthy (or not) of respect. Obviously, some readers feel that Mar has proven herself, on the negative side of that balance; for the most part, I thought differently.


In this book, Alex Mar openly explores her own ambivalence and skepticism toward the very spiritual and esoteric subjects that also beguile her; a struggle that is very immediate and relatable to me, as I wrestle with these issues continually even after over two decades as an initiate and most of a lifetime of fascinated study. I can’t help but wonder if that openness is part of the problem some pagan readers are having with her. It may be that the author’s voice at times sounds too uncomfortably close to that little voice that some of us carry inside us, the one that questions, endlessly, the validity and the purpose and the reality of our spiritual experiences and pursuits. Certainty is a luxury that many of us lack, but even admitting that to ourselves is sometimes more than we can comfortably deal with. Like Toto pulling back the curtain to reveal the not-so-great-or-terrible Oz, Mar lifts the veil that separates us from the myths we tend to create around ourselves and our paths. It’s surely unnerving to some to see (or be forced to admit seeing) that the powerful witch priestess can also be a struggling single mother, or that the dark necromancer started down his left-hand path in the wake of youthful romantic disappointment. But if we (as pagans, witches, occultists, magicians, whatever label we choose) can’t accept and reconcile these seeming dualities, these apparently opposing qualities in ourselves and our acquaintances, what does that tell us about ourselves, or our level of awareness? If our self-created emperors are as naked and blind as we are, where does that leave us? That’s a frightening territory to map, and it’s the terrain Mar leads us into in this book. It’s not always a comfortable read, but it’s an important one, and in the end leaves us in much the same place as the author: with no concrete conclusions, no tidy wrap-up, only a host of new questions to join the ones we came in with. That’s a rare sort of fearlessness, and I can’t help admiring her for it.


Mar goes places far beyond what you’d expect of a journalist scratching the surface of a subculture for salacious copy. This is a work that spans years of study, travel, and expense. This is no Rex Nemorensis redux, no shill going amongst the pagans to run a hatchet job in the press later; either Mar is genuinely seeking something among her subjects, or she is a most brilliant and convincing sociopath. In reading of her experiences, I marveled at her willingness to throw herself into things that would’ve had me balking instantly: hundreds of dollars spent on monthly witchcraft lessons, hundreds more on weekend retreats, multiple days spent camping in a goddamn Louisiana swamp with strangers, awaiting an unknown initiatory fate! This speaks of a dedication to ones’ craft above and beyond the ordinary. And while I can see the questionable ethics involved in sharing swathes of personal correspondence, if Mar was upfront with her subjects about her intention of writing about her experiences, then everyone involved should have known that anything they said or did could potentially end up in print. She did take pains, so far as I could see, not to reveal anything she was asked not to reveal, including peoples’ mundane names, oathbound material from the traditions she studied, or specifics of locations mentioned in the book. I’m not sure what else can be expected of a journalist.


So, in short: I found this a fascinating and valuable book, for all the reasons that are making people quite uncomfortable. It wasn’t always a comfortable read for me, either, far from it. And that, I reiterate, is why this book is important.

Tuesday, 23 June 2015

A Question Of Identity

Identity has always been an important concept, though lately it seems to be coming more to the forefront of cultural awareness and discourse, even if only because we moderns have a media machine ready and eager to seize upon any facet of the zeitgeist and thrust it forth as the Most Important Thing Ever. The current trend seems to be to parse one's identity down to the rarest levels of minutiae, even while adhering to a perception of fluidity, the end result being generally incomprehensible to anyone but the individual doing the self-defining. It may be a generational thing (although a cursory glance round the interwebs would indicate that it's taken hold beyond the bounds of the younger set), and it may not be a bad thing unto itself; taking the longer view, it's not that difficult to see how this cultural pendulum will swing back eventually, settling into a territory at once less diffuse than the current one but more expansive than what was envisioned before. Still, as someone who came of age eschewing "labels" as being constraining and constricting of my full self-expression, much of what I see these days is head-scratchingly odd to me. (Since I now have a lawn again, I will soon have to purchase a cane, so that I may go outside and shake it furiously at the sky while muttering imprecations against These Damn Kids.) 

Spiritual identity is also a thing these days, with people out here in the provinces of Alternative Religions also indulging in the same extremely precise parsing that we see in the realms of sexuality (and of course, there is plenty of overlap). There have been times when I've attempted it myself, coming up with mocking and self-conscious descriptors like "Celto-Kemetic Zen Dru-witch," but labels like that seem hopelessly entangling and inaccurate; either they're too all-encompassing, or they're still inadequately broad. I'm mostly content to go with "Pagan" and let that enfold all the facets of my practice and study, despite my occasional flare-ups of agony over what I see parading under that banner often looking rather markedly different than what I perceive myself to be. It often appears that people want, simultaneously, both the right to define their own identity, and to police the boundaries of others' (lest they step beyond the acceptable parameters of a particular definition). If I had a dollar for every time I've chafed under another's inference that I was not Doing It Right by their definition of "It," I'd have more than a few dollars, and I'd still have a rash from rubbing up against the irritant of others' expectations. If you, dear reader, have been at this for any length of time, chances are you have experienced this, too. 

Some twenty years ago, my husband/partner and I decided to break away from the tradition we'd both been initiated and elevated in, and form our own based upon a synthesis of what we'd learned and inherited and gleaned, but filtered through our own philosophical and ethical viewpoint. We put a lot of time and care into its development, and in time met people and trained them and initiated them. We were upfront about our antecedents, and in some cases, a funny thing happened: the identity we'd presented them with was no longer acceptable to them. They started clamoring to be initiated into our parent tradition, perceiving it as being more "valid" for whatever various reasons. (All of this led us down a rabbit-hole, the story of which is not relevant to the present discussion.) Looking back on that now, I find that I am surprisingly offended, in ways that I wasn't at the time--if only because I lacked the experience and the perspective that I have now. It's like we'd baked a beautiful cake, based on our interpretation of an older recipe, and given that cake for free to people that we cared about and with whom we wanted to share it--and they said, "That cake is OK, but we want the REAL cake that we know you had, so bake THAT for us and give it to us." In hindsight, I think we might have done better to take back the uneaten remains of our cake and show them the door. 

Don't think I'm painting myself as an innocent little snowflake; good gods, I had the social acumen of an abandoned wolverine when I first started in this biz, and probably had the least amount of business trying to run a coven or a tradition or anything else of nearly anyone I've ever met. (I got better.) But at the heart of that was identity, you see, and what that meant to others and to their self-perception and to their perception of a thing's worth. I've fallen afoul of the identity trap myself, being bullied in the past into not identifying as something because I defined that identifier differently than did others. I feel sometimes as though my/our current practice lacks a definite identity; my partner and I have initiated people who have gone out and in turn initiated others, and their practices have stayed aligned with ours in some ways and morphed interestingly and sometimes dramatically in others. We're the same and different simultaneously, so how do you define that? It has a name to identify it, given to it by those initiates; and it's been called a tradition, and although perhaps it's not a "tradition" in the sense that many seem to use that term, there is absolutely a family resemblance and a bond there. I am inclined more to thinking of it as a "lineage" rather than a "tradition" that we have passed on. That may be as clear an identity as I can concoct for it, and for me.