Lirala's Letters

Crafting a life by the seasons

Archive for the ‘humor’ Category

Memo From God

Posted by lirala on October 16, 2010

Michelangelo

From: GOD
To: My Children on Earth
Re: Idiotic Religious Rivalries

I consider Myself a pretty patient guy. I mean, look at the Grand Canyon. It took millions of years to get it right. And about evolution? Boy, nothing is slower than designing that whole Darwinian thing to take place, cell by cell, and gene by gene. I’ve been patient through your fashions, civilizations, wars and schemes, and the countless ways you take Me for granted until you get yourselves into big trouble again and again. But on this occasion, I want to let you know some of the things that are starting to tick me off.

First of all, your religious rivalries are driving me up a wall. Every one of your religions claims there’s only one of Me (which by the way, is absolutely true). But in the very next breath, each religion claims it’s My favorite one. And each claims its bible was written personally by Me, and that all the other bibles are man-made. Oh, Me. How do I even begin to put a stop to such complicated nonsense?

Okay, listen up now. I’m your Father AND Mother, and I don’t play favorites among My children. Also, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t write. My longhand is awful, and I’ve always been more of a “doer” anyway. So ALL of your books, including those bibles, were written by men and women. They were inspired, remarkable people, but they also made mistakes here and there. I made sure of that so that you would never trust a written word more than your own living heart. You see, one human being to me — even a bum on the street — is worth more than all the holy books in the world. That’s just the kind of guy I AM. My Spirit is not an historical thing; it’s alive, right here, right now, as fresh as your next breath. Can’t you feel Me moving among you?

Holy books and religious rites are sacred and powerful, but not more so than the least of you. They were only mean to steer you in the right direction, not to keep you arguing with each other, and certainly not to keep you from trusting your own personal connection with Me. Which brings Me to My next point about your nonsense. You act like I need you and your religions to stick up for Me. Please, don’t do Me any favors. I can stand quite well on My own, thank you. I don’t need you to defend Me, and I don’t need constant credit. I just want you to be good to each other.

And another thing, I don’t get all worked up over money or politics, so stop dragging My name into your dramas.

The thing is, I want you to stop thinking of religion as some sort of loyalty pledge to Me. The true purpose of your religions is so that YOU can become more aware of Me, not the other way around. Believe Me, I know you already. I know what’s in each of your hearts, and I love you with no strings attached. Lighten up and enjoy Me. That’s what religion is best for.

What you seem to forget is how mysterious I AM. You look at the petty differences in your scriptures and say, “Well if this is the truth, then that can’t be! But instead of trying to figure out My paradoxes and unfathomable nature — which, by the way, you never will — why not open your hearts to the simple common threads in every religion?

You know what I’m talking about: Love and respect everyone. Be kind. Even when life is scary or confusing, take courage and be of good cheer, for I am always with you. Learn how to be quiet so you can hear My still, small voice (I don’t like to shout). Leave the world a better place by living your life with dignity and grace, for you are My Own Child. Hold back nothing from life, for the parts of you that can die surely will, and the parts that can’t, won’t. So don’t worry, be happy. (I stole that last line from Bobby McFerrin, but Whom do you think gave it to him in the first place?)

Simple stuff. Why do you keep making it so complicated? It’s like you’re always looking for an excuse to be upset. And I’m very tired of being your main excuse. Do you think it matters whether you call me Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, Wakantonka, Brahma, Father, other, or even the Void of Nirvana? Do you think I care which of my special children you feel closest to — Jesus, Mary, Krishna, Mohammed or any of the others? You can call Me and my special ones any name you choose, if only you would go about My business of loving one another as I love you. How can you keep neglecting something so simple?

I’m not telling you to abandon your religions. Enjoy your religions, honor them, learn from them, just as you should enjoy, honor and learn from your parents. But do you walk around telling everyone that your parents are better than theirs? Your religion, like your parents, may always have the most special place in your heart; I don’t mind that at all. And I don’t want you to combine all the Great Traditions into One Big Mess. Each religion is unique for a reason. Each has a unique style so that people can find their own path to Me.

Ocean near Pacific Grove
But my special children — the ones that your religions revolve around — all live in the same place (My Heart, as do you) and they get along perfectly, I assure you. The clergy must stop creating a myth of sibling rivalry where none exists.

My blessed children of earth, the world has grown too small for your pervasive religious bigotries and confusion. The whole planet is connected by air travel, satellite dishes, telephones, fax machines, rock concerts, disease, and mutual needs and concerns. Get with the program! If you really want to help Me celebrate, then commit yourselves to figuring out how to feed your hungry, clothe your naked, protect your abused, and shelter your poor. And just as importantly, make your own everyday life a shining example of love, kindness and good humor. I’ve given you all the resources you need, if only you abandon your fear of each other and begin living, loving, laughing, and singing together.

Finally, My children everywhere, remember the fearlessness with which those your traditions celebrate chose to live and die. As I love them, so do I love each of you. I’m not really ticked off; I just wanted to grab your attention because I hate to see you suffer. But I gave you free will, so what can I do now other than to try to influence you through reason, persuasion and a little old-fashioned guilt. After all, I AM the original Jewish Mother. I just want you to be happy. And I’ll sit in the Dark.

I really AM, indeed, I swear, with you always.

Always, Trust in ME. Your One and Only,

AKA GOD

Posted in humor | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

Pagan Lightbulb Jokes

Posted by lirala on July 28, 2009

Light Bulbs 6

Light Bulbs 6

Q. How many witches does it take to change a light bulb?
A. Depends on what you want it changed into.

Q. How many Gardnerian witches does it take to change a light bulb?
A1. Can’t tell you, Craft secret.
A2. Still can’t tell you, you’re not Third Degree.

Q. How many Dianic witches does it take to change a light bulb?
A1. One, but that light bulb has really, REALLY, got to want to change!
A2. None, they formed a support committee entitled, “Coping With Darkness.”

Q. How many Radical Faeries does it take to change a light bulb?
A. Two, one to change the bulb and the other to stand back and shriek, “FABULOUS?”

Light Bulb 1

Light Bulb 1

Q. How many Thelemites does it take to change a light bulb?
A. None, Crowley never wrote a book about it.

Q. How many New Agers does it take to change a light bulb?
A. A whole workshop. They gather around and enshrine the dead bulb with crystals and candles. Then they start chanting in hopes that the bulb will find it’s chi. Afterwords, they pay their $150.00 membership dues then go home.

Q. How many solitary witches does it take to change a light bulb?
A. None, you must first be initiated by a real witch before you can properly change a light bulb! {{{{{{aaagghhh}}}}}}

Q. How many Ceremonial Magicians does it take to change a light bulb?
A. One, he holds up the light bulb and the universe revolves around him.

Light Bulbs 2

Light Bulbs 2

Q. How many Alexandrians does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. One and 12 strangers in off the street.

Q. How many Eclectics does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. None, they are used to working in the dark.

Q. How many Asatru does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. “Lightbulb, what is lightbulb?”

Q. How many Scientologists does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. One, but it cost $300,000 for the training. (had to throw that in)

Q. How many Starhawkians does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. A small group but the lightbulb must be accepting of the change.

Light Bulbs 3

Light Bulbs 3

Q. How many Alexandrians does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. They will go over to the Gardnerians to see how they do it (if they can find them)

Q. How many Druids does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. 501. One to change the bulb and 500 to align the new Stone.

Q. How many years does it take a Druid to change a light bulb?
A. 21, unless you’re Irish.

Q. How many Hereditaries does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. Ask your OWN grandmother!

Light Bulbs 4

Light Bulbs 4

Q. How many years does it take a Gardnerian to change a light bulb?
A. A year and a day in an Outer Grove, a year and a day at First, a year and a day at Second, but only Thirds change light bulbs.

Q. How many Gardnerians does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. Can’t say. It’s oathbound

Q. How many Gardnerian Wiccans does it take to change a light bulb?
A. SHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! It’s a secret!

Q. How many Alexandrians does it take to change a light bulb?
A. 13. One to hold the bulb and 12 to drink enough to make the room spin.

Q. How many Alexandrains does it take to change a light bulb?
A. “Let’s go see how the Gardnerians do it!”

Light Bulbs 5

Light Bulbs 5

Q. How do you fit 5 Gardnerians in a glovebox?
A. Tell them there’s a secret in there.

Q. How do you fit 5 Alexandrians in a glovebox?
A. Tell the there’s a Gardnerian in there. )

Q. How many Starhawk witches does it take to change a light bulb?
A. [plaintively] “There are starving villages in Africa that don’t even HAVE light bulbs…”

Q. How many Dianics does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A. Just one, and it’s NOT FUNNY!!!!!

Q. How many Dianics does it take to change a light bulb?
A. Minimum 50. One to change the light bulb, one to prepare the environmental impact statement, and the rest to do a self-criticism afterwards.

Light Bulbs 7

Light Bulbs 7

Q. How many years does it take a Hedgewitch to change a light bulb?
A. Already changed.

Q. How many Wiccans does it take to change a light bulb?
A. Four. One for each direction.

Q. How many Pagans does it take to change a light bulb?
A. 6. One to change it, and 5 to sit around complaining that light bulbs never burned out before those damned Christians came along!

Q. How many Witches does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A. None, they do their screwing in Great Rites.

Light Bulbs

Light Bulbs

Q. How many Golden Dawners does it take to change a light bulb?
A. One to hold the ladder, one to hold the bulb, three to decipher the Light Bulb Ritual from the Secret Chiefs, one to publish it, and one to sue all the others.

Q. How many Ceremonial Magicians does it take to change a light bulb?
A. One. They hold it up, and the world revolves around them.

Finally

Q. How many witches does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. Into what??

Check out http://www.apartmenttherapy.com/ for great lighting, furniture, decorating ideas…

Posted in humor | Tagged: , | 1 Comment »

Signs that you may be a Redneck Pagan

Posted by lirala on July 7, 2009

Kitty Eatin Couch

Kitty Eatin Couch

Signs that you may be a Redneck Pagan

# If any part of your invocation of the South Quarter includes any lines from any song by Lynard Skynard….

# If chewing tobacco is considered a sacred herb…..

# If part of your rite includes throwing shotgun shells on the fire….

# If the bell on your alter was ever worn by an animal in a pasture….

# If the cakes and wine are done with a bowie-knife, a can of Foster’s, and a Little Debbie…..

# If they chose their High Priestess at a wet t-shirt contest….

# If when your priestess says “Blessed Be” in circle, you respond with “YEEE-HAW!”…

# If you believe a pentagram is a Western Union message to 5 people….

# If you bought your chalice at the Piggly Wiggly…..

# If you buy your incense and candles at Wal-Mart….

# If you call the God and Goddess by hollerin’ “Hey, y’all! Watch me!”….

# If you call the North Quarter, but what you call it is an inner court secret…..

# If you can play the “Burning Times” on the banjo….

# If you carry your ritual sword in your pickup’s gun rack…..

# If you found out your familiar is an oppossum — and still ate it……..

# If you have combined Maypole Dancing/ Tractor Pull/ Turkey Shoot for Beltane….

# If you have cast a love spell on livestock….

# If you have ever called the National Enquirer because you raised a potato that resembled the Willendorf Goddess….

# If you’ve ever canceled a coven meeting to watch Pay-Per-View wrestling on TV….

# If you’ve ever written a spell on the back of a Denny’s menu…..

# If you have ever refilled your chalice from a keg…..

# If you invoke the spirits so that your beer lasts longer…..

# If you pray nightly to the god of big tires…..

# If you sacrifice BBQ and pork rinds on an alter made of old car hoods….

# If you shoot guns into the air when the priestess says, “the circle is open but never unbroken”…

# If you smoke Salem cigarettes for the historical significance….

# If you think a “family tradition” is a dating club….

# If you think the Wiccan Rede is good for making twig furniture….

# If you worship the gods of cheap beer and Nascar….

# If you’ve ever done a candle spell for your local high-school football team….

# If you’ve ever harvested ritual herbs with a weed whacker…..

# If you’ve ever meditated to “Dueling Banjos”…..

# If you’ve reached the 3rd Degree but not the third grade……

# If your God statue looks a little too much like Elvis Presley…..

# If your Goddess picture says “Miss September” at the bottom……

# If your Wand of Power is a cattle prod…..

# If your altar cloth is a Confederate flag…..

# If your altar cloth is vinyl……

# If your altar cloth says “Holiday Inn” or “Howard Johnson’s”….

# If your altar has a spit cup…..

# If your altar pentacle is a photo of John Wayne’s star on the “Hollywood Walk of Fame”…..

# If your annointing oil smells like Old Spice…..

# If your athame is by Bowie…..

# If your broom has 4 wheel drive and SC plates…..

# If your ceremonial chalice says “Budweiser” on it….

# If your ceremonial garb consists of cut-offs and a tube-top…..

# If your circle dance contains the words “dosey-do”……

# If your circle dance is a two-step….

# If your coven chose its High Priest at a belching contest….

# If your coven’s secret names for the God and Goddess are “Cooter” and “Sweet Cheeks”….

# If your coven-stead is propped up on cinder blocks…..

# If your craft name starts with “Bubba”……

# If your familiar can point quail….

# If your familiar keeps mice out of the granary…..

# If your favorite Great Rite partner is your first, second, and third cousin….

# If your backyard ritual libation is brewed in an illegal backyard still……

# If your favorite painting of the Goddess gives her hair like Reba McEntire….

# If your maiden sweeps the circle with a weed whacker….

# If your most sacred altar items include a hubcap, a velvet painting, and a half-empty can of chaw…..

# If your outdoor circle has defunct washing machines for quarter altars….

# If your pantheon includes Yukon Jack, Jim Beam and the St. Pauli Girl…

# If your ritual music has ever included Johnny Cash singing “Ring of Fire”….

# If your robes are made out of denim with Harley Davidson patches…..

…Well, you might just be a redneck pagan!!

Posted in humor | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

We Are the Other People by Otter G’Zell

Posted by lirala on June 9, 2009

Kitty Seance

Kitty Seance

We Are the Other People by Otter G’Zell

Otter G’Zell is now Oberon Zell, and is the founder of The Church of All Worlds and their magazine of Pagan and Wiccan interest, “Green Egg”.

“Ding-dong!” goes the doorbell. Is it Avon calling? Or perhaps Ed McMahon with my three million dollars? No, it’s Yahweh’s Witlesses again, just wanting to have a nice little chat about the Bible…

Boy, did they ever come to the wrong house! So we invite them in:

“Enter freely and of your own will…” (Hey, it’s Sunday morning, nothing much going on, why not have a little entertainment?) Diane and I amuse ourselves watching their expressions as they check out the living room: great horned owl on the back of my chair; ceremonial masks and medicine skulls of dragons and unicorns on the wall; crystals, wands, staffs, swords; lots of Goddess figures and several altars; boa constrictors draped in amorous embrace over the elkhorn; white doves sitting in the hanging planters; cats and weasels underfoot; iron dragon snorting steam atop the wood stove; posters and paintings of wizards and dinosaurs and witchy women, some proudly naked; sculptures of mythological beasties and lots more dinosaurs; warp six on the star-filled viewscreen of my computer; a five-foot model of the USS Enterprise and the skeleton of a plesiosaur hanging from the ceiling; very, very many books, most of them dealing with obviously weird subjects… To say nothing of the great horned owl perched on the back of my chair and the Unicorn grazing in the front yard. You know; early Addams Family decor.

And then, of course, it being late in the morning, you can expect Morning Glory to come wandering out naked, looking for her wake-up cup of tea. Morning Glory naked is a truly impressive sight, and the Witlesses look as if she’d set titties on stun as they stand immobilized, hands clasped over their genitals. With the stage set and all the actors in place, the show is ready to begin.

Their mission, of course, it to save our heathen souls by turning us on to “The Word of the Lord” their Bible. I guess they figure some of us just haven’t heard about it yet, and we’re all eagerly awaiting their joyous tidings of personal salvation through giving our rational faculties to Jesus.

Every time they come around, I look forward to trying out a new riposte. Sure, it may be cruel and sadistic of me, but hey, I didn’t call them up and ask them to come over; they entered at their own risk!

This time should be pretty good. After letting them run off their basic rap while lovely Morning Glory serves us all hot herb tea, I innocently remark:

“But none of that applies to us. We have no need for salvation because we don’t have original sin. We are the Other People.”

“Hunh? What?” they reply eloquently. It’s clear they’ve never heard this one before.

“Right,” I say. “It’s all in your Bible.” And I proceed to tell them the story, using their own book for reference:

Genesis 1:26 The [Elohim] said, “Let us make humanity in our own image, in the likeness of ourselves, and let them be masters of the fish of the sea, the birds of heaven, the cattle, all the wild beasts and all the reptiles that crawl upon the earth.”

Elohim is a plural word, including male and female, and should properly be translated “Gods” or “Pantheon.”

1:27 The Gods created humanity in the image of themselves, In the image of the Gods they created them, Male and female they created them.

1:28 The Gods blessed them, saying to them, “Be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth and conquer it. Be masters of the fish of the sea, the birds of heaven and all living animals on the earth.”

Now clearly, here we are talking about the original creation of the human species: male and female. All the animals, plants, etc. have all been created in previous verses. This is before the Garden of Eden, and Yahweh is not mentioned as the creator of these people. The next chapter talks about how Yahweh, an individual member of the Pantheon, goes about assembling his own special little botanical and zoological Garden in Eden, and making his own little man to inhabit it:

Gen 2:7_ Yahweh God fashioned a man of dust from the soil. Then he breathed into his nostrils a breath of life, and thus the man became a living being.

2:8Yahweh God planted a garden in Eden which is in the east, and there he put the man he had fashioned.

2:9 Yahweh God caused to spring up from the soil every kind of tree, enticing to look at and good to eat, with the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil in the middle of the garden.

2:15 Yahweh God took the man and settled him in the garden of Eden to cultivate and take care of it.

Now this next is crucial: note Yahweh’s precise words:

2:16 Then Yahweh God gave the man this admonition, “You may eat indeed of all the trees in the garden.

2:17 Nevertheless of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you are not to eat, for on the day you eat of it you shall most surely die.”

Fateful words, those. We will refer back to this admonition later.

Then Yahweh decides to make a woman to go with the man. Now, don’t forget that the Pantheon had earlier created a whole population of people, “male and female,” who are presumably doing just fine somewhere “outside the gates of Eden.” But this setup in Eden is Yahweh’s own little experiment, and will unfold to its own separate destiny.

2:21 So Yahweh God made the man fall into a deep sleep. And while he slept, he took one of his ribs and enclosed it in flesh.

2:22 Yahweh God built the rib he had taken from the man into a woman, and brought her to the man.

Right. Man gives birth to woman. Sure he does. But that’s the way the story is told here.

2:25 Now both of them were naked, the man and his wife, but they felt no shame in front of each other.

Well, of course not! Why should they? But take careful note of those words, as they also will prove to be significant…

Now this next part is where it starts to get interesting. Enter the Serpent:

Gen. 3:1 The serpent was the most subtle of all the wild beasts that Yahweh God had made. It asked the woman, “Did God really say you were not to eat from any of the trees in the garden?”

3:2 The woman answered the serpent, “We may eat the fruit of the trees in the garden.

3:3 “But of the fruit of the tree in the middle of the garden God said, ‘You must not eat it, nor touch it, under pain of death'”

3:4 Then the serpent said to the woman, “No! You will not die!

3:5 “God knows in fact that on the day you eat it your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods, knowing good and evil.”

What a remarkable statement! “Your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods, knowing good and evil.” The Serpent directly contradicts Yahweh.

Obviously, one of them has to be lying. Which one, do you suppose? And, if the serpent speaks true, wouldn’t you wish to eat of the magic fruit? Wouldn’t it be a good thing, to become “like gods, knowing good and evil”? Or is it preferable to remain in ignorance?

3:6 The woman saw that the tree was good to eat and pleasing to the eye, and that it was desirable for the knowledge that it could give. So she took some of its fruit and ate it. She gave some also to her husband who was with her, and he ate it.

3:7 Then the eyes of both of them were opened and they realized that they were naked. So they sewed fig leaves together to make themselves loincloths.

The author makes an interesting assumption here: that if you realize you are naked you will automatically want to cover yourself. Further implications will unfold shortly…

3:8 The man and his wife heard the sound of Yahweh God walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and they hid from Yahweh God among the trees of the garden.

3:9 But Yahweh God called to the man. “Where are you?” he asked.

3:10 “I heard the sound of you in the garden,” he replied. “I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid.”

3:11 “Who told you that you were naked?” he asked. “Have you been eating of the tree I forbade you to eat?”

And so the sign of the Fall becomes modesty. Take note of this. The descendants of Adam and Eve will be distinguished throughout history from virtually all other peoples by their obsessive modesty taboos, wherein they will feel ashamed of being naked. It follows that those who feel no shame in being naked are, by definition, not carriers of this spiritual disease of original sin!

3:12 The man replied, “It was the woman you put with me; she gave me the fruit, and I ate it.”

Right. Blame the woman. What a turkey!

3:13 Then Yahweh God asked the woman, “What is this you have done?” The woman replied, “The serpent tempted me and I ate.” So of course she blames the serpent. But just what did the serpent do that was so evil? Why, he called Yahweh a liar! Was he wrong? Let’s see…

3:21 Yahweh God made clothes out of skins for the man and his wife, and they put them on.

Out of skins? This means that Yahweh had to kill some innocent animals to pander to Adam and Eve’s new obsession with modesty!

And now we come to the crux of the Fall. Yahweh had said back there in chapter 2:17, regarding the fruit of the tree of knowledge, that “on the day you eat of it you shall most surely die.” The Serpent, on the other hand, had contradicted Yahweh in chapter 3:4-5: “No! You will not die! God knows in fact that on the day you eat it your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods, knowing good and evil.” So what actually happened? Who lied and who told the truth about this remarkable fruit? The answer is given in the next verse:

3:22 Then Yahweh God said, “See, the man has become like one of us, with his knowledge of good and evil. He must not be allowed to stretch his hand out next and pick from the tree of life also, and eat some and live forever.”

Get that? Yahweh himself admits that he had lied! In fact, and in Yahweh’s own words, the Serpent spoke the absolute truth! And moreover, Yahweh tells the rest of the Pantheon that he intends to evict Adam (and presumably Eve as well) to keep them from gaining immortality to go with their newly-acquired divine knowledge. To prevent them, in other words, from truly becoming gods!

So who, in this story, comes off as a benefactor of humanity, and who comes off as a tyrant? THE SERPENT NEVER LIED!

This story, to digress slightly, bears a remarkable resemblance to a contemporary tale from ancient Greece. In that version, the Serpent (later identified as Lucifer, the Light-Bearer) may be equated with the heroic titan Prometheus, who championed humanity against the tyranny of Zeus, who wished for people to be mere slaves of the gods. Prometheus, whose name means “forethought,” gave people wisdom, intelligence, and fire stolen from Olympus.

Moreover, he ordained the portions of animal sacrifice so that humans got the best parts (the meat and hides) while the portion that was burned to the gods was the bones and fat. In punishment for this defiance of his divine authority, Zeus condemned Prometheus to a terrible punishment for an immortal: to be chained to a mountain in the Caucasus, where Zeus’ gryphon/eagle (actually a Lammergier) would devour his liver each day. It would grow back each night. Zeus promised to relent if Prometheus would reveal his great secret knowledge: Who would succeed Zeus as supreme god? Prometheus refused to tell, but history has revealed the answer…

The interesting thing about all this is that the Greeks properly regarded Prometheus as a noble hero in his defiance of unjust tyranny. One may wonder why the Serpent is not so well regarded. On the contrary, snakes are loathed throughout Christiandom.

3:23 So Yahweh God expelled him from the garden of Eden, to till the soil from which he had been taken.

3:24 He banished the man, and in front of the garden of Eden he posted the cherubs, and the flame of a flashing sword, to guard the way to the tree of life.

So that’s it for the Fall. But the story of Adam and Eve doesn’t end there.

Gen 4:1 The man had intercourse with his wife Eve, and she conceived and gave birth to Cain…

4:2 She gave birth to a second child, Abel, the brother of Cain. Now Abel became a shepherd and kept flocks, while Cain tilled the soil.

4:3 Time passed and Cain brought some of the produce of the soil as an offering for Yahweh,

4:4 while Abel for his part brought the first-born of his flock and some of their fat as well. Yahweh looked with favor on Abel and his offering. But he did not look with favor on Cain and his offering, and Cain was very angry and downcast.

Well, why shouldn’t he be? Both brothers had brought forth their first fruits as offerings, but Yahveh rejected the vegetables and only accepted the blood sacrifice. This was to set a gruesome precedent:

4:8 Cain said to his brother Abel, “Let us go out;” and while they were in the open country, Cain set on his brother Abel and killed him.

Accursed and marked for fratricide,

4:16 Cain left the presence of Yahweh and settled in the land of Nod, east of Eden.

We can assume that the phrase “left the presence of Yahweh” implies that Yahweh is a local deity, and not omnipresent. Now Eden, according to Gen.

2:14-15, was situated at the source of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, apparently right where Lake Van is now, in Turkey. “East of Eden,” therefore, would probably be along the shores of the Caspian Sea, right in the Indo-European heartland. Cain settled in here, among the people of Nod, and married one of the women of that country. Here, for the first time, is specifically mentioned the “other people” who are not of the lineage of Adam and Eve. I.e., the Pagans.

So let’s look at this story from another viewpoint: There we were, around six thousand years ago, living in our little farming communities around the Caspian Sea, in the land of Nod, when this dude with a terrible scar comes stumbling in out of the sunset. He tells us this bizarre story, about how his mother and father had been created by some god named Yahweh, and put in charge of a beautiful garden somewhere out west, and how they had gotten thrown out for disobedience after eating some of the landlord’s forbidden magic fruit of enlightenment. He tells us of murdering his brother, as the god of his parents would only accept blood sacrifice, and of receiving that scar as a mark so that all would know him as a fratricide. The poor guy is really a mess psychologically, obsessed with guilt. He is also obsessively modest, insisting on wearing clothes even in the hottest summer, and he has a hard time with our penchant for skinny-dipping in the warm inland sea.

He seems to believe that he is tainted by the “sin” of his parent’s disobedience; that it is in his blood, somehow, and will continue to contaminate his children and his children’s children. One of our healing women takes pity on the poor sucker, and marries him…

4:17 Cain had intercourse with his wife, and she conceived and gave birth to Enoch. He became builder of a town, and he gave the town the name of his son Enoch.

With both of their first sons not turning out very well, Adam and Eve decided to try again:

4:25 Adam had intercourse with his wife, and she gave birth to a son whom she named Seth…

4:26 A son was also born to Seth, and he named him Enosh. This man was the first to invoke the name of Yahweh.

Now it doesn’t mention here where Seth’s wife came from. Another woman from Nod, possibly, or maybe someone from another neolithic community downstream in the Tigris-Euphrates valley. But her folks also, cannot be of the lineage of Adam and Eve, and must also be counted among “the other people.”

But whatever happened to Adam? After all, way back there in chapter 2:17, warning Adam about the magic fruit of knowlege, Jahweh had told him that “on the day you eat of it you shall most surely die.” So, when did Adam die?

Gen. 5:4_ Adam lived for eight hundred years after the birth of Seth and he became the father of sons and daughters.

5:5 In all, Adam lived for nine hundred and thirty years; then he died.

Hey, that’s pretty good! Nine hundred and some odd years isn’t bad for a man who’s been told he’s gonna die the next day!

Well, the story goes on, and maybe next time the Witlesses come to visit I’ll tell more of it. But suffice it to say that those of us who are not of Semitic descent (i.e., not of the lineage of Adam and Eve) cannot share in the Original Sin that comes with that lineage. Being that the Bible is the story of that lineage, of Adam and Eve’s descendants and their special relationship with their particular god, Yahweh, it follows that this is not the story of the rest of us. We may may have been Cain’s wife’s people, or Seth’s wife’s people, or some other people over the hill and far away, but whichever people the rest of us are, as far as the Bible is concerned, we are the Other People, and so we are continually referred to throughout.

Later books of the Bible are filled with admonitions to the followers of Yahweh to “learn not the ways of the Pagans…” (Jer 10:2) with detailed descriptions of exactly what it is we do, such as erect standing stones and sacred poles, worship in sacred groves and practice divination and magic.

And worship the sun, moon, stars and the “Queen of Heaven.” “You must not behave as they do in Egypt where once you lived; you must not behave as they do in Canaan where I am taking you. You must not follow their laws.” (Lev 18:3) For Yahweh, as he so clearly emphasizes, is not the god of the Pagans. We have our own lineage and our own heritage, and our tale is not told in the Bible.

We were not “made” like clay figurines by a male deity out of “dust from the soil.” We were born of our Mother the Earth, and have evolved over aeons in Her nurturing embrace. All of us, in our many and diverse tribes, have creation myths and legends of our origins and history; some of these tales may even be actually true. Like the descendants of Adam and Eve, many of us also have stories of great floods, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and other cataclysms that wiped out whole communities of our people, wherein “I alone survived to tell the tale.” Nearly all of our ancestral tribes (and especially those of us who today are reclaiming our own Pagan heritage) lack that peculiar obsessive body modesty that seems to be a hallmark of the original sin alluded to in the story of the Fall. We can be naked and unashamed! Why, our Goddess even tells us, “as a sign that you are truly free, you shall be naked in your rites.” Not being born into sin, we have no need of salvation, and no need of a Messiah to redeem our sinful souls. Neither heaven nor hell is our destination in the afterlife; we have our own various arrangements with our own various deities.

The Bible is not our story; we have our own stories to tell, and they are many and diverse. In a long life, you may get to hear many of them…

Posted in humor | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

Lady Pixie Moondrips Guide To Craft Names

Posted by lirala on May 10, 2009

Flamingos lose to Gnomes

Flamingos lose to Gnomes

Introduction:

In the Olde Days, when our pagan ancestors were going through the persecutions we now invoke to justify various kinds of current silliness, witches took craft names to conceal their identities and avoid those annoying visits by the Inquisition. In the course of years, it was noticed that these aliases could also be used as a foundation for building up a magical personality, carrying out various kinds of transformative work on the self, and the like. It’s clear, though, that these were mere distractions from the real purpose lying hidden within the craft name tradition. It took contact with other sources of ancient, mystic lore—mostly the SCA, role?playing games, and assorted fantasy trilogies—to awaken the Craft to the innermost secret of craft names: they make really cool fashion statements.

It’s in this spirit that Lady Pixie Moondrip offers the following guidelines to choosing your own craft name. such a guide is long overdue; the point of fashion, after all, is that it allows you to express your own utterly unique individuality by doing exactly the same thing as everyone else. (Those who are particularly drawn to this element of the craft name tradition will find the Random Craft Name Generator near the end of this guide especially useful.)

The approaches given here can be used separately, or combined in a single name to produce any number of interesting effects. Given enough cleverness (and lack of taste), the possibilities are endless!

Starting Off Right:

Whatever else you do, you should certainly begin your craft name with “Lord” or “Lady.” First of all, it’s pretentious, and that’s always a good way to start. Secondly, it makes an interesting statement about a religion that supposedly has its roots in the traditions of peasants and rural tribes-people. Thirdly, since most Craft groups use exactly these same words for the God and Goddess, this creates a (by no means inappropriate) confusion about just who it is that we worship.

Divine Names:

Along the same lines, you can always take the name of a god, a goddess, a mythological being or a legendary hero as your craft name, thus putting yourself on the same level as the powers you invoke.

Having once watched two fifteen-year-old boys get into a fistfight over which had the right to call himself “Lord Merlin,” Lady Pixie has a high opinion of the possibilities of this approach. She notes, however, that there seems to be an unwritten law among those who have made use of this type of name already, and it’s no doubt wisest to follow suit: the more grandiose the name that you choose, the more of a complete nebbish you should be. Nearly anyone can carry off, say, “Lady Niwalen,” but it takes a special kind of person to handle a name like “Lord Jehovah God Almighty.” Fortunately, there are those among us who are equal to the task

Non-humans:

A related approach involves taking a name that implies (or, better yet, states openly) that you are an elf, or some other kind of nonhuman, magical being. This works best if you are willing to act the part obsessively, and to get really petulant when anyone fails to respond accordingly. Subtlety should be avoided; nobody will catch something like “Lord Elrandir” unless they know Tolkien inside and out. Try something more like “Lord Celeborn Pointears the Real Live Elf.”

Fantasy Fiction:

The burgeoning field of fantasy fiction offers another source for fashionable craft names, and in many cases, for interesting complications as well. One popular approach is to choose the name of your favorite character; as with non-humans, this works best if you play the part, and throw a tantrum unless everyone else plays along. Given luck and a sense of the popular, you may be able to choose everyone else’s favorite character, too, and end up tussling over a name with a dozen other people. (Mercedes Lackey is a good author to try if this is your goal.) Both this and the last category have the added advantage of making it clear that, as far as you are concerned, the Craft is simply a setting for make-believe games; this can help spare you the annoyance of actually having to learn something about it.

Inventing A Name From Scratch:

The best way to do this is to come up with something that sounds, say, vaguely Celtic, perhaps by mangling a couple of existing names together, and then resolutely avoid looking it up in a Welsh or Gaelic dictionary. Luck is an important factor here, but there is always the chance that you’ll manage something striking. It took one person of Lady Pixie’s aquaintance only a few minutes to blur together Gwydion son of Don and Girion, Lord of Dale, into the craft name “Lord Gwyrionin,” and several months to find out that the name he had invented, and used throughout the local pagan scene, was also the Welsh word for “idiot.”

Following A Grand Tradition:

Though the ink is barely dry on most of our modern pagan “traditions,” there’s at least one ancient European tradition that many people in the Craft follow: the tradition of stealing things from non?Western peoples. Fake Indian craft names are always chic, especially if the closest thing to contact with Native American spirituality you’ve ever had is watching Dances With Wolves at a beer party. Better still, mix whatever Craft teachings you’ve absorbed with a few ideas you picked up from Michael Harner book, break out the buckskins and the medicine pouches, and proclaim yourself a shaman. Mind you, there are people out there who have received real Native American medicine teachings, and they may just turn you into hamburger if you piss them off; still, that’s the risk you run if you want to be really trendy.

The Random Craft Name Generator:

On the other hand, if you are individualistic like everyone else, you may be looking for a name that expresses the uniqueness of your personality but still sounds like all the other craft names you’ve ever heard. Fortunately, this isn’t too hard. Several years back, a gentleman of Lady Pixie’s acquaintance told her that the best way to get laid at a pagan gathering was to have the PA system announce, “Will Morgan and Raven please come to the information booth?” Since the resulting crowd would include at least a third of the female attendees, he went on, it wouldn’t be too hard to meet someone interesting. While Lady Pixie has not tried this out herself, she has tested the principle behind it in a series of controlled double?blinded experiments, and discovered a rule that she has modestly named Moondrip’s Law: 80% of all craft names are made up of the same thirty words combined in various not particularly imaginative ways.

The discovery of this principle has allowed her to make the once difficult task of creating craft names easy, by means of the Random Craft Name Generator, release 1.0.

To use the RCNG, take either two or three of the following words (using any convenient randomizing method, including personal preference). If you take two, simply run them together; if you take three, one of the words becomes the first part of the name, and the other two are combined to form the second.

Wolf Raven Silver Moon Star
Water Snow Sea Tree Wind
Cloud Witch Thorn Leaf White
Black Green Fire Rowan Swan
Night Red Mist Hawk Feather
Eagle Song Sky Storm Sun

Try it out: “Rowan Moonstar.” “Raven Blackthorn.” “Silver Ravenw…”— uh, never mind.

For the expanded version (RCNG 1.01), come up with a name by any of the methods covered elsewhere in this guide, or take some ordinary American name, and add a two?word name produced on the RCNG to the end: “Gwydion Silvertree.” “Sybil Moonwitch.” “Squatting Buffalo Firewater.” The possibilities are endless!

(Note that this list will change with shifts in fashion; Lady Pixie expects to bring out an upgrade, RCNG 2.0, in a year or two.)

Outro:

It may be said by the narrow?minded (who are probably all covert Christians, anyway) that members of the Craft have better things to do with their time than the above guidelines would suggest. This shows a complete lack of insight. First of all, in an increasingly blase and tolerant culture, it’s becoming hard for white middle?class Americans to get that rush of self?righteous gratification that comes from pretending to be members of a persecuted minority; we may not be able to get burned at the stake by calling ourselves silly names, but at least we can get laughed at, and that’s something. Secondly, if we keep on treating craft names (and the Craft as a whole) as fashion statements, that spares us the unpleasant drudgery of actually learning magick and making it a part of our lives. Finally, if we’re pretentious enough, those people who actually know enough to magick their way out of a wet paper bag will roll their eyes and go somewhere else, and we can keep on fighting our witch wars, casting vast astral whammies and invoking powers we don’t have a clue how to control, all in the serene certainty that no one is actually going to get hurt.

On the other hand, we could take the Craft seriously…but who wants to do that?

—Lady Pixie Moondrip

Posted in humor | Tagged: , | Leave a Comment »

Letter to Pagan Parents

Posted by lirala on April 12, 2009

Witch Child

Witch Child

(A letter from a 3rd grade teacher sent home to pagan parents)

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Thomas,

I write this letter in concern of your daughter, Aradia Moon. Please don’t take this the wrong way, however, although she is a straight A student and a very bright child, she has some strange habits that I feel we should address.

Every morning before class, she insists on walking around the classroom with her pencil held in the air. She says she is “drawing down the moon.” I told her Art Class is in an hour and to please refrain from then to do any drawing.

And speaking of Art Class, whenever she draws a night sky, she insists on drawling little circles around all the stars and people dancing on the ground. And that brings up dancing, I had to stop her twice for taking off her clothes during a game of Ring Around the Rosey! By the way, what does the term “skyclad” mean?

Aradia has no problem with making friends. I always find her sitting outside during recess with her friends sitting around her in a circle. She likes to share her juice and cookies. It is nice how she wants no one to ever thirst or hunger. However, when I walked over to see what they were doing, she jumped up and told me to stop, pulled out a little plastic knife and started waving it in front of me. I thought this was a bit dangerous, so I took her to the Principal’s Office. She explained to the Principal that she was “opening the Circle” to let me in. She also said that her Mommy and Daddy always told her not to play or run with an “athame” in her hand, that she could put someone’s eye out. I don’t know what an “athame” is, but I am glad that she keeps it at home.

As for stories, your daughter tends to make up some whoppers. Just yesterday while I was talking sternly to Tommy Johnson and shaking my finger at him, he started screaming and ran from the room. When I finally caught him, he told me that Aradia told him and the rest of the class that the last time I shook my finger at someone, they caught the chicken pox. I explained to him that the Sally Jones incident was just a coincidence, and that things like that don’t really happen.

One of the strangest things that happened was when I asked the children to bring in Halloween decorations for the classroom. Aradia brought in salt, incense and her family album. I see she has quite a sense of humor.

One of Aradia’s worst habits is that she is very argumentative. We were discussing what the Golden Rule was (Do Unto others as you would have them Do Unto You), she firmly disagreed with me and stated it was “Do As you Will, but Harm None” and she will not stop saying “So Mote It Be” after she reads aloud in class. I try correct her on these matters and she got very angry. She pointed her finger at me and mumbled something under her breath.

In closing, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, I would like to set up a parent/teacher conference with you sometime next week to discuss these matters. I would like to see you sooner, but I have developed an irritating rash that I am quite worried about.

With Deep Concerns,

Mrs. Livingston

P.S. Blessed Be. I understand that this is a greeting or closing from your country that your daughter informs me is polite and correct.

(This little spoof was written by Ld Obyron Irondrake on 8/18/99)

Posted in humor | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

The Field Guide to Neopagandom

Posted by lirala on March 10, 2009

Bonfire

Bonfire

“Is this the first time you’ve seen this many pagans together? Well, you’re in for a deflowering, young earth-worshiper, and you’ve come to the right place. However, you should realize that there are many, many types of pagans. We old farts just had to keep making the rounds until we either found a group that wouldn’t kick us out or founded our own clique. But now, progress has brought us many different flavors to choose from:”

1. BRIGHT EYED NOVICE.
You just read this cool book about a religion where there’s goddesses and gods, and they meet outside, in nature, instead of in some scary old building, and you want to know where to sign up.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Mispronounces god/dess names, has to think a moment about which is widdershins and which is deosil. Has a shiny new athame (rhymes with “A-frame”).

2. I REMEMBER WOODSTOCK.
Did I ever tell you about the time I dropped with Kerry Wendell Thornley? Or maybe it was Robert Anton Wilson. I was pretty loaded. Anyway, it was somebody with three names. Or was it three people who had one name?

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Luxuriant gray locks, listens very intently, knows dish about people you’ve read about.

3. TREEHUGGING NATURE SPIRIT.
Prize possession: one of Judi Barry’s old tree spikes. Simultaneously believes in universal love for humanity AND returning the planet to a pristine state, uncorrupted by human presence. Apt to remove clothes and fondle the shrubbery at a moment’s notice. Can discuss compost in detail.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: No meat, no fragrance, no leather, no eco-exploitative garments, no animal tested cosmetics, no cigarette smoke, no drugs, no TV, no car, no corporations, yet believes themselves to be very tolerant.

4. ANAL-RETENTIVE CEREMONIAL.
Book collection actually holds up the ceiling in places. Is trying to learn how to speak Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, all at once. Does “workings” instead of “rituals.” Has a web site that is all in Enochian.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Won’t go anywhere without a book. Dresses according to planetary coordinates, or according to what Mom finds on sale at Wal-Mart.

5. WOMYNCENTRIC GYNOCRAT.
A man’s shadow crossed her altar once and she spent three months purifying it. She’ll have no wands in her chalice, thank you. No boys allowed in her full moon club.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Tiny axes, just the right size for amputating a penis, are a favored symbol and often hang conveniently from her body parts. When a man approaches she rolls her eyes and stops talking.

6. IS THIS WHERE THE SMART MEN/WOMEN HANG OUT?
Oh, they’re so nice. All that warm, sex positive flesh . . . and you can actually carry on a conversation with them between orgasms . . pant, drool.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Cute. Horny. Will recite love poetry to you under the full moon. Likes to do it outdoors. Often destitute. All too few of them.

7. HEY BOSS, I’D LIKE TO TAKE FEBRUARY SECOND AS A PERSONAL DAY.
Has an entire chapter in their Book of Shadows concerned with spells for purifying the work place. Doesn’t mind working on Christmas, especially if there’s overtime involved. Quit being overtly pagan at work since getting canned by that closet born again, yet still refuses to say “Merry Christmas.”

8. HI DIDDLY DEE, IT’S A PAGAN CELEBRITY.
At conventions, stays on the hotel floor that requires a special key for elevator access. Lurks around hallway corners eavesdropping in order to see if name is being mentioned. Arrives in helicopter especially for ritual. Never seen unaccompanied by beefy Amazonian bodyguards.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Always has plenty of books to autograph and will personally sell them to you at a slight discount from cover price.

9. CHILDE OV KAOS.
Can name seventeen different industrial bands without pausing to think. Knows what a Prince Albert is. Sleeps in black leather jammies. Painted on their jacket, engraved in their flesh or boldly displayed as jewelry is an emblem which resembles a combination of a corporate logo and an arcane sigil. If you don’t know what it is, they’ll think you’re a dweeb.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Easy to picture as a bike messenger or alternative musician, difficult to visualize as a schoolteacher or research assistant, impossible to imagine as a TV anchor or bank president. Personally feels that if no panicky headlines appear the day after you do a ritual, you screwed up.

10. SCARY DEVIL WORSHIPER.
Won’t go skyclad. Rarely smiles, except for in a smug, knowing way which insinuates you are an ignorant peasant worthy of conquer. Secretly enjoys Rush Limbaugh and The Bell Curve. Fascinated with Nazis. Probably wouldn’t hurt a fly; yet wants you to think they are capable of vast destruction.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Lots of black and red. Men like goatees: women would be wise to stay far away. The women are even worse.

11. CROWLEY-IN-A-PAST-LIFE.
Every magickal gathering has at least one Crowley-in-a-past-life, along with several variants along the lines of Gerald Gardner, Tituba, Morgan Le Fay. Many of them were abducted by aliens recently, or have had disturbing dreams rich with symbolism which they will tell you, in great detail.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Look for the intense gleam in eyes, the backpack rattling with various psychiatric medicines, the garments that were clearly designed and tailored in outer space.

12. RAVIN’ PAGAN.
Young and psychedelic. Refuses to do boring Eurocentric rituals and prefers deities from sunny climes with many interesting local plants. Can say “Ayahuasca” ten times, fast. Never goes anywhere without a ritual drum.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Colors that hurt your eyes unless you’ve taken ecstasy. Bloodshot eyes, peaceful smile, can deliver long quotes from Terrance McKenna.

13. FAIRIE QUEEN.
Is he a he? Is she a she? Are they a couple, or are those two a couple, or are all four of them a quadruple? If the answers to these questions could upset or disturb you, best stay away. If, however, the answers to these questions seem overly nosy and judgmental, you might have a real good time.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: When you look at this person, does every sex act you’ve ever imagined in your whole life seem hopelessly vanilla? If so, then congratulations — you have found a faerie.

14. HIGH EPISCOPAGAN.
Do their rituals have a script, a choreographer, a lighting director, an orchestra and last three hours? It’s a High Episcopagan! It can memorize pages and pages of Olde Englishe, it has more ritual outfits than most people have socks, it considers its main pagan influences to be Gerald Gardner, Judy Garland, and Busby Berkeley.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Book of Shadows exceeds five volumes (or five megs of hard drive space). Knows every note of “Carmina Burana.” Better not ask about that 18th century seed pearl trim on the robes.

15. FUNDAMENTAPAGAN
If it’s in a book, it must be true. If it’s in an old book, it must be *really* true. If it’s in an old book that was supposedly handed down by oral transmission from people who couldn’t read, then it must *really* be WAY true. Has hissy fits if anyone shows up at a circle wearing a watch, glasses, or other mechanical assistance. Believes that anyone who has never sustained themselves from their own land, using only primitive agricultural methods, dare not call themselves a pagan.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Gnashes teeth when the old “Crowley ghosted Gardner’s Books” argument comes up. Goes around correcting everyone’s gaelic/old norse/latin/babylonian.

16. DANCES WITH BUNNYRABBITS.
Uses animal symbolism to express nearly all opinions and feelings. Charter member of PETA. Thinks meat eaters should be publicly executed.Has many, many pets. Has a spirit animal.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Not counting the pagan his/herself, how many animals can you find in this picture? if the count surpasses five (including critters found on tattoos, jewelry, garments and undies), you have found a Worshiper of Beasties.

17. PRIESTS AND PRIESTESSES OF POLITIKAL KORRECTNESS.
Analyzes everything they hear for sexist-racist-homophobic-imperialist-Eurocentric content without paying attention to what is actually being said. Believes in personal liberty–everyone has the right to be overbearing, dogmatic and holier-than-thou; not just the religious right. Incredibly boring and annoyingly righteous at the same time.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Beady, hyper-alert little eyes are constantly in motion, waiting for someone to say or do something bad. Constantly has loud and attention-attracting fits when confronted with everyday things such as advertising and corporate franchises. Rudimentary sense of humor rarely activated.

18. OUR LADY OF INTENSE SUFFERING.
Is constantly persecuted. You are probably persecuting her right now, you just don’t realize it. Became a pagan because she decided it was the most persecuted religion of all. Can’t enjoy anything because it would be selfish to have fun when so many are suffering.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Tales of woe. Even less of a sense of humor than #17. Bristles whenever you use the word “masochism” or “whining.”

19. I AM NOT SPOCK (at the moment).
Knows at least three filks about Cthulu and at least forty Star Trek jokes. Has found a clever way to create simple furniture from stacks of science-fiction paperbacks. Can name ninety different kinds of space ship.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Two-fisted drinking style. Many cryptic buttons, badges, patches and other insignia. Too smart for their own good.

20. HET-CASE.
Insist that they aren’t homophobic; they just think that paganism is about a god and a goddess and they do it, and what could be more simple than that, and it just doesn’t work right if you try it any other way.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Signifiers of het-dom such as long, manicured nails and wreaths of flowers (on females only; the males have big, bushy beards instead). Are secretly afraid gays and/or lesbians are dying to jump their tender hetero bones.

21. NORSE CODE.
Heroic and vikingly, these pagans often get into trouble with festival organizers due to their fondness for running around carrying a battle-axe in one hand and a full mead horn in the other. They do throw the best parties, but if you’re a wimp, you are expressly not invited.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Look out for the large and foreboding persons wearing runes, with many pounds of amber dangling from their necks.

22. PENTACLES, INC.
This is where all the people who are into paganism come, right? So how come they aren’t buying my hand-forged Venus of Willendorf necklaces–they come in silver or gold, and each one has a genuine cubic zirconium belly button. Would you like a reading? Will that be Visa or Master Card?

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Business cards feature little embossed pentagrams. Rarely leaves the dealer’s room and can’t believe there are so many jewelry sellers present.

23. MONSTER TRUCK PAGAN.
Can grow their own food, build their own house, sew their own clothes, homeschool their children and brew their own organic hooch. Are looking forward to the bleak, post-apocalyptic world postulated by the environmentalists, as they can’t wait to run amok through the country, worshipping ancient gods, blowing up strip malls and rutting on the divider line of every interstate.

DISTINGUISHING SIGNS: Resourceful, clever and very well versed in the U.S. Constitution. Eats meat with visible twitches of pleasure. Is aware that primitive religions have nothing to do with crystals, Atlantis or unicorns. Can assume a properly smiley work persona at the drop of a hat. Non-distinctive hair, no conspicuous tattoos.

24. TECHNOPAGAN.
If the Goddess hadn’t wanted us to compute, she wouldn’t have given us silicon. Or gallium arsenide. This one knows healing rituals for software conflicts and talks about “Phase of Moon Errors” without joking. Does virtual circle on Internet Relay Chat, with quarters “called” by those whose realspace locations are furthest in each direction.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Pallor, carpal tunnel, overweight (sedentary lifestyle), wears buttons with cryptic messages like “C: the power of assembly language, the flexibility of…assembly language” pinned to a Green Man t-shirt and finds no cognitive dissonance in the combination.

25. JEWITCH.
The *real* reason the god of the Hebrews is so hard to get along with is that the silly monotheists took his wife away and he hasn’t been getting any for a long, long time. Knows the difference between Shekinah and Sophia and can talk about it at length. Believes Lilith got a bad rap and considers her a goddess in her own right. Liable to see bad puns where nobody else can, as brain has been marinated in Qabbalah for so long that everything cross-references to everything else.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Calls quarters in Hebrew; describes things casually in Sephirothic terms (“That concert was such a Netzachian experience!”); can beat anybody else in getting and making obscure references with one frontal lobe tied behind back (the Qabbalah studies again).

26. LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN.
Born in the wrong century, and doesn’t actually live in it — may work and pick up mail here, but that’s about it. Lives and breathes SCA, Renaissance Faires, Adrian Empire, Medeival Mayhem Society…or more than one at a time. The past is just so much _witchier_, don’t you know. Secretly reads romance novels.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Stunning costume wardrobe that, on close inspection, looks like it derives more from the covers of Mercedes Lackey novels than from anything actually worn by our ancestors Will bristle if you point out that this idyllic view of the past conveniently forgets filth, vermin, and THOSE WERE THE BURNING TIMES, DIMWIT! If you actually speak the phrase “Witches aren’t period,” may hit you over the head with a copy of Leland’s “Aradia”.

27. I’M A GOTHWITCH!
Much like #26 this one was born in the wrong century. It requires lots of darkness for it’s rutials and detests any mention of the Devil. May work at a mall but truly believes in returning the world to a state of natural order where humans live in castles and stay out of nature. Doesn’t call upon the God or Godess only The Elements and a repesentation of all the male and female energies in the universe but only in a good sense.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Lots of black… Okay… almost all black. Some red, Some purple, a dash of white but only stripes. They wear pentagrams, sacred hearts, crosses, sigils and often utter the phrase “But blood does have power”.

Posted in humor | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

Posted by lirala on February 10, 2009

Click on photo to view LOL Cat blog entry

Click on photo to view 'LOL Cat' blog entry

# British Traditional:
The word “chicken” comes from a very specific Old English word (“gechekken”), and it only properly applies to certain fowl of East Anglia or those descended therefrom. As for the rest, I suppose they are doing something remotely similar to crossing the road, but you must remember that traditional roads are not to be confused with the modern roads….

# Celtic:
In County Feedbeygohn on Midsummer’s day, there is still practiced St. Henny’s Dance, which is a survival of the old pagan Chicken Crossing fertility rite. Today, modern pagans are reviving the practice, dedicated to the Hen and the Green Rooster.

# Ceremonial:
“Crossing the road” is a phrase that summarizes many magical structures erected and timed by the chicken to produce the energy necessary for the intention of the travel across the road. For example, the astrological correspondences had to be correct, the moon had to be waxing (if the chicken intended to come to the other side of the road) or waning (if the chicken intended to flee to the other side of the road), and the chicken had to prepare herself through fasting and proper incantations. Note: certain forms of invocation (summoning an egg *inside* your chicken self) can produce abnormal or even dangerous eggs and should only be conducted inside a properly erected barnyard. …

# Chaos:
Thinking in terms of “roads” and “crossings” is simply looking at the formal, typically perceived structure of chicken crossing space-ti me. We, instead, focus on the possibility of chicken crossing itself; what appears to be a random act is thus actually the norm —- it is the **road** which is the freak of chance. Indeed, quantum mechanics now demonstrates what we knew all along: two ro ads can simultaneously exist in the same place at the same time. Thus, by attuning ourselves to the dynamic energy (called “crossing”), we can manifest the road. Of course, to the unknowledgeable, this appears as a chicken crossing the road.

# Dianic:
The chykyn (“chicken” is term of patriarchal oppression) sought to reclaim for herself the right to be on the other side of the road, after it had been denied to her for centuries. By doing so, she reawakened the power of the Hen within herself.

# Discordian:
cock-a-doodle-doo!

# Druid:
To get to the sacred grove, of course! Keep in mind that 99% of everything written about chickens-crossing-the-road is pure hogwash, based on biased sources. Yes, there were a few unfortunate chicken sacrifices in the past, but that is over now…

# Eclectic:
Because it seemed right to her at the time. She used some Egyptian style corn and a Celtic sounding word for the road and incorporated some Native American elements into her Corn-name, Chicken-Who-Dances-and-Runs-with-the-Wolves.

# Faery:
In twilight times and under sparkling stars, those properly trained can still see the chickens crossing the roads. Reconnecting with these “fey-fowl” as they cross is crucial to restoring the balance between the energies of modern development and living with the earth.

# Family Traditional:
Growing up, we didn’t think much about “crossing the road.” A chicken was a chicken. It crossed the road because that was what worked to get her to the other side. We focused on what worked, and we worked more with the elders of the barnyard and less with all this “guardians of the chickencoop” business. We didn’t get our concepts of “chickens” or “the other side” from Gardner, either. You can choose not to believe us since we did not “scratch down” on paper what was clucked to us orally (which, at certain times in history, was the only way to avoid becoming Easter chicken soup!), but that doesn’t change the facts: there *were* real chickens, and they *really did* cross the road!

# Kitchen Witch:
The chicken crossed the road to get food, to get a rooster or to get away from me after I decided to have chicken for supper!

# Left Hand Path:
White, fluffy chickens prancing across the road ! Do you think that is *all* there is to crossing the road? Do you *dare* to know the Dark Side of crossing the road and the *other* path to self-development?

# New Age:
The chicken crossed the road because she chose this as one her lessons to learn in this life. Besides, there was so much incense and bright, white corn to explore on the Other Side.

# Newbie:
well, ’cause I read in this really kewl book that said, like, chickens are supposed to cross the road, right?

# Posting on an Online Discussion Group:
What do you mean ???!!!??? Haven’t you read **any** of the previous posts? We’ve been [expletive deleted] debating every word of that question, painstakingly trying to come to some kind of answer. I know you wrote “Was: why chickens cross the road, I’m not looking for any chicken spells” but I’m fed up with newbies who can’t even bother to REEEEEEEEAAADDD the posts on that very topic! No, this is *not* a flame. But, I and several others here have the *maturity* to properly explore and respond to this question, and we were properly trained; we *didn’t* just read a book and think we were full-fledged chickens. “”

# Solitaire:
The chicken didn’t want to be part of a coven or an oven.

# Shaman:
Crossing the road is a way to reconnect with the healing, visionary lifeways of the past. Chickens have long known this, but increasingly the Rooster’s Movement is adding more roosters to the crossings too.

# Snert:
Hey, are you guys really chickens? Can you give me a spell that will make a chicken cross the road?

# Wiccan:
The chicken crossed the road because she felt like she was finally “coming home.” She could do it alone or with others, but she had to call to the Guardians of the Watchtowers of the Barnyard first … uhm, after casting the circle.

How Some Pagan Authors Might Respond:

# Margot Adler:
The recent chicken resurgence, it can be argued, is directly based on a response to the suburban middle class experience. While I found that chickens-who-cross-roads who responded to my survey are of a wide range of ages and backgrounds, I discovered some trends in the “why” of crossing the road. For some it is was freedom. For some it is chickenism. Many chickens told me they crossed the road for intellectual satisfaction. One thing is clear: the growth of road crossing by chickens is expanding in the numbers of chickens and in the ways they cross the road, including at chicken festivals and for political blocking of roads.

# I. Bonewits:
Real crossing-the-road, we have seen, is a very interwoven and complicated subject. Our conclusion could be that real crossing-the-road is the build up of chicken emotion in conjunction with chicken concepts to vary the modulation of chicken energy so as to effect the modulation of the road’s energy. That’s all! Perhaps it is unfortunate, though, to use the word “chicken” in relation to it, since t he “C” word is being used now in a way it was never used before in the English language and is an utterly meaningless term without a qualifying adjective. And this, of course, is the fault of the medieval Christian Church, through the Gothic Chickens it invented and used as the basis of persecuting men, women and chickens. The word “chicken” itself comes from an Indo-European root, “cheeka/e” meaning “one who lays eggs,” and it has no relation to the later Anglo-saxon word for “wise spirit of flight,” as so often stated by certain contemporary “Chics.” An’Chk’Rrhod (“Our Own Chickens on Our Own Roads”), an authentic Neo-Chicken Rooster tradition, offers the best of paleo-, meso- and neo- Chickenism …

# Carlos Castenada
4/10/1964 I spent 14 hours, without food or water, sitting on the dirt and under the sun in front of Don Juan’s house, grinding chicken feed. I asked Don Juan if I could have a drink of water, and he told me that it was always this way, that a man who wanted to cross the road with the chicken cannot have any food or water till the chicken feed is ground. I asked Don Juan if the chicken is an ally, like the little smoke. Don Juan seemed to get angry and stayed silent. After I completed grinding the corn, I hallucinated from heat exhaustion, and D on Juan said I was ready. As I collapsed to my side, I spilled the chicken feed around me. A chicken appeared to be eating the feed around me, and I became strangely absorbed in the vision. I heard Don Juan’s voice tell me, “You must let the chicken cross the road into you. It is very painful, but for a man of knowledge it is easy.”

# Scott Cunningham:
A chicken passes between the grasses, clucking. The wind blows, and the chicken knows, *knows*, that this is the time. She puts her energy into taking the steps, in harmony with the gravel and the stones of the road. She is across; it is over, and the chicken stands in the field on the other side of the road…. Natural chicken crossing is unique among most other branches of the art of chicken road crossing. I t doesn’t require years of collecting or fashioning coops, feeders or hen houses. Indeed, the most important tools of natural chicken crossing are free: the road, the chicken and you, your personal chicken power. You’re already familiar with it. You’ve felt it. You *are* a chicken. Crossing the road is you, with your chicken need. And, you can do it on your own. After all, who initiated the first chicken?

# Janet and Stewart Farrar:
Since so many editions of Gardner’s Chicken Book of Crossings have appeared in print (some accurate, some not), we think it won’t “lay an egg” too much if we clearly present “The Chicken Crossing Rite,” especially if we do so after two and half pages of well researched introduction set in six-point type. In version A of the Chicke n Crossing Rite, we find many pseudo-archaisms (e.g., “Yea, Ye Anciente Rite of Ye Chiks and Ye Rodes is a moste powerful Crafting, taking thy athame …”); however, Doreen Valiente notes (in version C, which is what we present), and we agree, that underlying it all is a basic ritual for summoning the astral road through the spirit of the Chicken (drawn down in the person of the High Priestess, holding the black handled feed bin; of course, a second degree may assist or perform the rite when….

# Llewellyn’s Practical Chicken Magick Series:
To some people, the idea that “chickens crossing the road” is practical comes as a surprise. It shouldn’t. The whole idea of Crossing the Road is practical for chickens. While Crossing the Road is also, and properly so, concerned with spiritual growth and psychological transformation \endash the “why” of crossing the road– every chicken’s life must rest firmly on material roads. Crossing the Road is the flowering of chicken potential. And the profits from publishing all those books on how to do so? Well, that ain’t chicken feed…

# Starhawk:
The chicken crossed the road to reclaim the crossing experience, the experience of being fully alive, with streams and earth and rocks and road, in the fullness of her chickenhood after thousa nds of years of roosterarchy. The chicken crossing the road —not a chicken laying eggs, not a chicken being roasted and eaten— a chicken strong and free, crossing the road, this is something I can believe in. We chickens, as chickens, can reclaim this in harmony with the Earth who gives life to all chickens and Who has been terribly scratched by roosters. Exercises: Dance the Spiral Chicken.

# Doreen Valiente:
Old Chicken really did exist, and she really did cross the road. Gerald talked about her often, but she didn’t cross the road till before I began studying with Gerald. Still, there are records of Old Chicken which confirm her reality. As for all the comments that Gerald had a “thing” for chickens, that is simply not true. The reason we worked with chickens is really quite simple: it worked!

# Silver Raven Wolf:
Although many times people have asked me why exactly the chicken crossed the road, I often wonder myself. My point is that every chicken comes to the road in a different way, and there is no on e correct way for the chicken to get to the road to be crossed. The study of crossing the road is hard work if the chicken is going to develop any degree of proficiency. It is not something where you can just cluck yourself across the road. The first time my chicken crossed the road was for my chicken’s friend, whose rooster was being abusive. The chicken worked the steps for crossing the road after carefully considering all the reasons for crossing the road and all the steps she would have to take. Finally, my chicken just started clucking and flapping her wings and started across the road. When she reached the other side, her friend’s rooster was respectful! Afterwards, the chicken ate some corn to ground herself.

# RJ Stewart:
All the chickens we will be visiting in this meditation will be real. The chickens will be crossing the road in their own time. They are alive in their present, not dead in our past. Please understand that doing work with the chickens is not a replacement for therapy.

# Ronald Hutton:
It appears the phenomenon of chickens crossing the road is indeed an ancient one, but contemporary rituals involve a highly imaginative reconstruction of any ancient rituals. I have examined contemporary road-crossings extensively, and, while it appears they owe much to various anthropological theories regarding chickens-crossing-the-road, there is not sufficient evidence to presume a direct lineage from pre-Christian chickens to contemporary chickens. The direct lineage traces from the 1930’s … . These practitioners were, of course, heavily influenced by since discredited anthropological theories offered by … .

Posted in humor | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

A Creation Story for Cat Lovers

Posted by lirala on January 10, 2009

Here Kitty Kitty Kitty

Here Kitty Kitty Kitty

On the first day of creation, God created the cat.

On the second day, God created humans to serve the cat.

On the third, God created all the animals of the earth to serve as potential food for the cat.

On the fourth day, God created honest toil so that humans could labor for the good of the cat.

On the fifth day, God created the sparkle ball so that the cat might or might not play with it.

On the sixth day, God created veterinary science to keep the cat healthy and their humans broke.

On the seventh day, God tried to rest, but She had to scoop the litterbox.

Posted in humor | Tagged: , | Leave a Comment »

Visions of Sugarplums

Posted by lirala on December 10, 2008

Holiday Bear

Holiday Bear

Five minutes before the Winter Solstice circle was scheduled to begin, my mother called. Since I’m the only one in our coven who doesn’t run on Pagan Standard Time, I took the call. Half the people hadn’t arrived, and those who had wouldn’t settle down to business for at least twenty minutes.

“Merry Christmas, Frannie.”

“Hi, Mom. I don’t do Christmas.”

“Maybe not–but I do, so I’ll say it.” she told me in her sassy voice, kind of sweet and vinegary at the same time. “If I can respect your freedom of religion, you can respect my freedom of speech.”

I grinned and rolled my eyes. “And the score is Mom – one, Fran – nothing. But I love you, anyway.”

People were bustling around in the next room, setting up the altar, decking the halls with what I considered excessive amounts of holly and ivy, and singing something like, “O Solstice Tree.”

“It sounds like a…holiday party.” Mom said.

“We’re doing Winter Solstice tonight.”

“Oh. That’s sort of like your version of Christmas, right?”

I wanted to snap back that Christmas was the Christian version of Solstice, but I held back.

“We celebrate the return of the sun. It’s a lot quieter than Christmas. No shopping sprees, no pine needles and tinsel on the floor, and it doesn’t wipe me out. I remember how you had always worked yourself to a frazzle by December 26.”

“Oh honey, I loved doing all that stuff. I wouldn’t trade those memories for all the spare time in the world. I wish you and Jack would loosen up a little for the baby’s sake. When you were little, you enjoyed Easter bunnies and trick-or-treating and Christmas things. Since you’ve gotten into this Wicca religion, you sound a lot like Aunt Betty the year she was a Jehovah’s Witness.”

I laughed nervously. “Yeah. How is Aunt Betty?”

“Fine. She’s into the Celestine Prophecy now, and she seems quite happy. Y’know,” she went on, “Aunt Betty always said the Jehovah’s Witnesses said those holiday things were pagan. So I don’t see why you’ve given them up.”

“Uh, they’ve been commercialized and polluted beyond recognition. We’re into very simple, quiet celebrations.”

“Well,” she said dubiously, “as long as you’re happy.”

Sometimes long distance is better than being there, ’cause your mother can’t give you the look that makes you agree with everything she says. Jack rescued me by interrupting.

Hi, Ma.” he called to the phone as he waved a beribboned sprig of mistletoe over my head. Then he kissed me, one of those quick noisy ones. I frowned at him.

“Druidic tradition, Fran. Swear to Goddess.”

“Of course it is. Did the Druids use plastic berries?”

“Always. We’ll be needing you in about five minutes.”

“Okay. Gotta go, Mom. Love you.”

We had a nice, serene kind of Solstice Circle. No jingling bells or filked-out Christmas Carols. Soon after the last coven member left, Jack was ready to pack it in.

“The baby’s nestled all snug in her bed,” he said with a yawn, “I think I’ll go settle in for a long winter’s nap.”

I heaved a martyred sigh. He grinned unrepentantly, kissed me, called me a grinch, and went to bed. I stayed up and puttered around the house, trying to unwind. I sifted through the day’s mail, ditched the flyers urging us to purchase all the Seasonal Joy we could afford or charge. I opened the card from his parents. Another sermonette: a manger scene and a bible verse, with a handwritten note expressing his mother’s fervent hope that God’s love and Christmas spirit would fill our hearts in this blessed season. She means well, really. I amused myself by picking out every pagan element I could find in the card.

When the mail had been sorted, I got up and started turning our ritual room back into a living room. As if the greeting card had carried a virus, I found myself humming Christmas carols. I turned on the classic rock station, but they were playing that Lennon-Ono Christmas song. I switched stations. The weatherman assured me that there was only a twenty percent chance of snow. Then, by Loki, the deejay let Bruce Springsteen insult my ears crooning, “yah better watch out, yah better not pout.” I tried the Oldies station. Elvis lives, and he does Christmas songs. Okay, fine. We’ll do classical–no, we won’t. They’re playing Handel’s Messiah. Maybe the community radio station would have something secular humanist.

“Ahora, escucharemos a Jose Feliciano canta `Feliz Navidad’.”

I was getting annoyed. The radio doesn’t usually get this saturated with holiday mush until the twenty-fourth.

“This is too weird.” I said to the radio, “Cut that crap out.”

The country station had some Kenny Rogers Christmas tune, the first rock station had gone from John and Yoko’s Christmas song to Simon and Garfunkel’s “Silent Night,” and the other rock station still had Springsteen reliving his childhood.

“–I’m tellin’ you why. SANTA Claus is comin’ to town!” he bellowed.

I was about to pick out a nice secular CD when there was a knock at the door.

Now, it could have been a coven member who’d forgotten something. It could have been someone with car trouble. It could have been any number of things, but it certainly couldn’t have been a stout guy in a red suit–snowy beard, rosy cheeks, and all–backed by eight reindeer and a sleigh. I blinked, wondered crazily where Rudolph was, and blinked again. There were nine reindeer. Our twenty-percent chance of snow had frosted the dead grass and was continuing to float down in fat flakes.

“Hi, Frannie.” he said warmly, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m stone cold sober, and you don’t exist.”

He looked at me with a mixture of sorrow and compassion and sighed heavily. “That’s why I miss you, Frannie. Can I come in? We need to talk.”

I couldn’t quite bring myself to slam the door on this vision, hallucination, or whatever. So I let him in, because that made more sense then letting all the cold air in while I argued with someone who wasn’t there. As he stepped in, a thought crossed my mind about various entities needing an invitation to get in houses. He flashed me a smile that would melt the polar caps.

“Don’t you miss Christmas, Frannie?”

“No.” I said flatly, “Apparently you don’t see me when I’m sleeping and waking these days. I haven’t been Christian for years.”

“Oh, now don’t let that stop you. We both know this holiday’s older than that. Yule trees and Saturnalia and here-comes-the-sun, doodoodendoodoo.”

I raised an eyebrow at the Beatles reference, then gave him my standard sermonette on the appropriation and adulteration that made Christmas no longer a Pagan holiday. I had done my homework. I listed centuries, I named names–St. Nicholas among them.

“In the twentieth century version,” I assured him, “Christmas is two parts crass commercialism mixed with one part blind faith in a religion I rejected years ago.” I gave him my best lines, the ones that had convinced my coven to abstain from Christmasy cliches. My hallucination sat in Jack’s favorite chair, nodding patiently at me.

“And you,” I added nastily, “come here talking about ancient customs when you–in your current form–were invented in the nineteenth century by, um…Clement C. Moore.”

He laughed, a rolling, belly-deep chuckle unlike any department-store Santa I’d ever heard.

“Of course I change my form now and then to suit fashion. Don’t you? And does that stop you from being yourself?” He said, and asked me if I remembered Real Magic, by Isaac Bonewits.

I gaped at him for a moment, then caught myself. “This is like `Labyrinth’, right? I’m having a dream that pretends to be real, but is only made from pieces of things in my memory. You don’t look a thing like David Bowie.”

“Bonewits has this Switchboard Theory.” Santa went on amiably, “The energy you put into your beliefs influences the real existence of the archetypal–oh, let me put it simpler: `in the beginning, Man created God’. Ian Anderson.” He lit a long-stemmed pipe. The tobacco had a mild and somehow Christmasy smell, and every puff sent up a wreath of smoke. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than Bonewits tells it, but that’s close enough for mortals. Are you with me so far?”

“Oh, sure.” I lied as unconvincingly as possible.

Santa sighed heavily.

“When’s the last time you left out milk and cookies for me?”

“When I figured out my parents were eating them.”

“Frannie, Frannie. Remember pinda balls, from Hinduism?”

“Rice balls left as offerings for ancestors and gods.”

“Do Hindus really believe that the ancestors and gods eat pinda balls?”

“All right, y’got me there. They say that spirits consume the spiritual essence, then mortals can have what’s left.”

“Mm-hm.” Santa smiled at me compassionately through his snowy beard.

I rallied quickly. “What about the toys? I know for a fact they aren’t made by you and a bunch of non-union elves.”

“Oh, that’s quite true. Manufacturing physical objects out of magical energy is terribly expensive and breaks several laws of Nature–She only allows us to do that on special occasions. It certainly couldn’t be done globally and annually. Now, the missus and the elves and I really do have a shop at the North Pole. Not the sort of thing the Air Force would ever find. What we make up there is what makes this time a holiday, no matter what religion it’s called.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said, rolling my eyes, “you make the sun come back.”

“Oh my, no. The solar cycle stuff, the Reason For The Season, isn’t my department. My part is making it a holiday. We make a mild, non-addictive psychedelic thing called Christmas spirit. Try some.”

He dipped his fingers in a pocket and tossed red-gold-green-silver glitter at me. I could have ducked. I don’t know why I didn’t.

It smelled like snow, and pine needles, and cedar chips in the fireplace. It smelled like fruitcake, like roast turkey, like that foamy white stuff you spray on the window with stencils. It felt like a crisp wind, Grandma’s hugs, fuzzy new mittens, pine needles scrunching under my slippers. I saw twinkly lights, mistletoe in the doorway, smiling faces from years gone by. Several Christmas carols played almost simultaneously in a kind of medley. I fought my way back to my living room and glared sternly at the hallucination in Jack’s chair.

“Fun stuff. Does the DEA know about this?”

“Oh, Frannie. Why are you such a hard case? I told you it’s non-addictive and has no harmful side effects. Would Santa Claus lie to you?”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. We looked at each other a while.

“Can I have some more of that glittery stuff?”

“Mmmm. I think you need something stronger. Try a sugarplum.”

I tasted rum ball. Peppermint. Those hard candies with the picture all the way through. Mama’s favorite fudge. A chorus line of Christmas candies danced through my mouth. The S wedish Angel Chimes, run on candle power, say tingatingatingating. Mama, with a funny smile, promised to give Santa my letter. Greeting cards taped on the refrigerator door. We rode through the tree farm on a straw-filled trailer pulled by a red and green tractor, looking for a perfect pine. It was so big, Daddy had to cut a bit off so the star wouldn’t scrape the ceiling. Lights, ornaments, tinsel. Daddy lifted me up to the mantle to hang my stocking. My dolls stayed up to see Santa Claus, and in the morning they all had new clothes. Grandma carried in a platter with the world’s biggest turkey, and I got the drumstick. Joey’s Christmas puppy chased my Christmas kitten up the tree and it would have fallen over but Daddy held it while Mama got the kitten out. Daddy said every bad word there was but he kept laughing anyway. I sneaked my favorite plastic horse into the nativity scene, between the camels and the donkey.

I came back to reality slowly, with a silly smile onmy face and a tickly feeling behind my eyes like they wanted to cry. The phrase “visions of sugarplums” took on a whole new meaning.

“How long has it been,” Santa asked, “since you played with a nativity set?-”

“But it symbolizes–”

“The winter-born king. The sacred Mother and her sun-child. Got a problem with that? You could redecorate it with pentagrams if you like, they’ll look fine. As for the Christianization, I’ve heard who you invoke at Imbolc.”

“But Bridgid was a Goddess for centuries before the Catholic Church-oh.” I crossed my arms and tried to glare at him, but failed. “You’re a sneaky old elf, y’know?”

“The term is `jolly old elf.’ Care for another sugarplum?”

I did. I tasted gingerbread. My first nip of eggnog the way the grown-ups drink it. Fresh sugar cookies, shaped like trees and decked with colored frosting. Dad had been laid off, but we managed a lot of cheer. They told us Christmas would be “slim pickings.” Joey and I smiled bravely when Mama brought home that spindly spruce. We loaded down our “Charlie Brown Christmas Tree” with every light and ornament it could hold. Popcorn and cranberry strings for the outdoor trees. Mistletoe in the hall: plastic mistletoe, real kisses. Joey and I snipped and glued and stitched and painted treasures to give as presents. We agonized over our “Santa” letters…by now we knew where the goodies came from, and we tried to compromise between what we longed for and what we thought they could afford. Every day we hoped the factory would reopen. When Joey’s dog ate my mitten, I wasn’t brave. I knew that meant I’d get mittens for Christmas, and one less toy. I cried. On December twenty-fifth we opened our presents ve-ery slo-wly, drawing out the experience. We made a show of cheer over our socks and shirts and meager haul of toys. I got red mittens. We could tell Mama and Daddy were proud of us for being so brave, because they were grinning like crazy.

“Go out to the garage for apples.” Mama told us, “We’ll have apple pancakes.”

I don’t remember having the pancakes. There was a dollhouse in the garage. No mass-produced aluminum thing but a homemade plywood dollhouse with wall-papered walls and real curtains and thread-spool chairs. My dolls were inside, with newly sewn clothes. Joey was on his knees in front of a plywood barn with hay in the loft. His old farm implements had new paint. Our plastic animals were corralled in popsicle stick fences. The garage smelled like apples and hay, the cement was bone-chilling under my slippers, and I was crying.

My knees were drawn up to my chest, arms wrapped around them. My chest felt tight, like ice cracking in sunshine. Santa offered me a huge white handkerchief. When all the ice in my chest had melted, he cleared his throat. He was pretty misty-eyed, too.

“Want to come sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas?”

“You’ve already given it to me.” But I sat on his lap anyway, and kissed his rosy cheek until he did his famous laugh.

“I’d better go now, Frannie. I have other stops to make, and you have work to do.”

“Right. I’d better pop the corn tonight, it strings best when it’s stale.” I let him out the door. The reindeer were pawing impatiently at the moon-kissed new-fallen snow. I’d swear Rudolph winked at me.

“Don’t forget the milk and cookies.”

“Right. Uh, December twenty-fourth, or Solstice, or what?”

He shrugged. “Whatever night you expect me, I’ll be there. Eh, don’t wait up. Visits like this are tightly rationed. Laws of Nature, y’know, and She’s strict with them.”

“Gotcha. Thanks, Santa.” I kissed his cheek again. “Happy Holidays.” The phrase had a nice, non-denominational ring to it. I thought I’d call my parents and in-laws soon and try it out on them.

Santa laid his finger aside of his nose and nodded.

“Blessed be, Frannie.”

The sleigh soared up, and Santa really did exclaim something. It sounded like old German. Smart-aleck elf.

When I closed the door, the radio was playing Jethro Tull’s “Solstice Bells.”

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!

Posted in humor | Tagged: , , | Leave a Comment »