welamom

So, in trying to organize my thoughts as to how to write a book on Practical Paganism, I planted stuff in my vegetable garden.

Stop staring.  That's a perfectly legitimate way for a Pagan to work.

No, really.  We are Dirt-Worshiping Tree-Huggers, after all.  If we can have a garden, we invariably do.  If we can't, it's pretty common to see plants growing in pots in a Pagan's apartment/condo/cardboard box.  Sure, there are some of us who claim they can't grow fungus, much less plants.  But a lot of us do.  Grow plants, I mean.  I can't speak for the fungus.

Long story short:  I got most of my garden plants in yesterday.  I've yet to tackle sewing seeds, but I'm hoping I can do that later today.  With the strong arms of the Wonder Hubby to help and based upon the results of my soil testing kit, we added the necessary organic ingredients to the soil  (we've only been working this bed about 4 years; considering that we started with clay, it's doing much better, but it still needs a little boost.  My goal is to eventually have a garden bed that only requires compost to do its thing.), hoed like insane people and then, after the Wonder decided he was broken for the day, I set the plants in their places.  I did my usual:  Dug them deep holes, set them in firmly, surrounded them by the good earth, gave them a hearty pep talk and watered thoroughly.  I think they'll do pretty well if the All-mother doesn't decide that we need another summer of an open furnace.

What has this to do with writing?  Quite a lot, really.  Although tempted to try the Hunter S. Thompson approach (just dive in and start drowning -- minus the drugs, thanks), I realize that writing a coherent book will require some prep work, establishing the right conditions, obtaining the necessary information and providing adequate fertilizer.  Oh yeah, and deciding what to put in the garden, er, book in the first place.

So, I'm thinking that, just as I decided what I wanted to grow, I'm going to start with what a Pagan is.  At least, my definition.  There's actually very little consensus in The Craft itself.  But then, as Ternon, a dear much-missed friend and Pagan Priest, once said, "If we could organize, we'd be Methodists."  

Tomorrow:  What is a Pagan to Me.

PS:  Go see The Avengers.  It is violent, good fun.  Do not take babies with you.  Get a sitter.  It's a polite thing to do.



OH, and I thought I should mention this, all my writings, postings, doodles, pictures, pornography, crayon drawings, whatever, posted on my blog are my thoughts, images, delusions, fantasies, etc. I have a dated, hard copy of everything I write.  Should someone post any of my shit without my permission or proper attribution, not only will you get to deal with me, I know some seriously heavy spells.  And a lawyer.  So heed whichever you fear most.

Once in a while, the Gods will reach out and bitch-slap me.  You know, just because They can.

Or, sometimes, I provoke Them to the point that They really have no choice.

I'm dumb like that.

Case in point:  Yesterday, I was enthusiastically telling a good friend of mine silk_noir, to continue in her noble efforts to speak out on women's health issues.  In fact, you could probably have made a good case for saying I was goading her to do it, despite the fact that such a stand publicly is potentially risky.  She does have a family, after all; and whenever one makes a public stand, one does face the probability of turning your loved ones into Fate's hostages.  Another one of her Facebook friends even pointed that out; said the same thing in as many words, but no, I insisted that dear Silk is just too darned good a speaker and so charismatic that if she chooses to go down this path, then by all the Gods, she should go down the path!  With bells on, even!  Yessir, all or nothing, I told her, smugly patting myself on the back for being able to say that I would be there with her all the way.  Yup.  I'm that dumb.

A little later, roaming around Facebook, as is my wont, I came upon a fluff piece about being Pagan, obviously written by someone who has been a Pagan for, oh, I don't know, maybe a week and a half?  And who obviously was taught by those brilliant examples of Paganism, Prue, Phoebe and Paige (or whatever the hell their names are!)  This was a Pop Culture Pagan if ever there was one, and she was actually pushing (pushing, I tell you!) Love Spells, of all things!  Did she mention anything about the Wiccan Rede of "Harm None"?  No.  Did she say a thing about the Three-fold Law of Karma?  No.  She just blithely listed a bunch of herbs and appropriately colored candles, threw out a few cutesy rhymes and merrily urged girls to use them.

Seriously.  It pissed me off. 

That's my religion you're tossing around there, Girlie!  This is the equivalent to the Winchester boys doing exorcisms on "Supernatural" every week, throwing bad Latin around without understanding a word of it.  You didn't say one word about possibly hitting unintended targets, you didn't mention anything about what harm these spells could cause the intended, you didn't even warn the users that there are karmic considerations here at all..........you didn't even put an effing warning label on your article!!!  The flipness of the article peeved me so severely that I openly posted on Facebook something along the lines of "You know, I should write a book about being a pragmatic Pagan.  Something that would make people understand the heavy rules I live under" or something to that effect.

And that's when the Gods whacked me across the back of my head for goading my friend, because about 50 of my FB friends thought that was a fine idea.  Before I knew it, I was envisioning an outline of said book, already had a co-conspirator, er collaborator, had three Pagan friends offering to first-read, had three non-Pagan friends offer to first-read, and even had some ideas suggested as to how to publish said book.

(If you must know, the Wonder Hubby laughed his ass off when I told him what had transpired while he was away at work; but then, he's been urging me to write something publishable for decades.)

So, silk_noir, I'm feeling you.  And you just had me egging you on, not the whole Blessed Pantheon!  I deserve it, I can't deny that. 

So..........*deep breath*,  I'm going to do it. 

(Am I as crazy as I think I am?)

So, National Geographic Channel has taken on the Reality Show Craze, and if TLC has turned into the The Freak Show Channel, well, NGC isn't too far behind.  One example:  Doomsday Preppers.  This is a show wherein average, ordinary folk like you and me, proudly show off their 4-year supply of lentils and dried kidney beans, brag on their shooting/archer/combat skills, hold drills with their kids where they put paper masks and suits on, and pretend that the plasticized paper will protect them from fall out -- all the while hoping against hope that the Zombie Apocalypse is going to come along soon, taking care of that nasty mortgage you obsess over, and incidentally, letting you leave your job that you hate so much in a more dignified manner.  AND showing their neighbors/townsfolk/cousins/grocery store clerks right where they live.

Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit.  But the show is kind of stupid, if for no other reason than it reveals far more than the participants may realize.  Not about the prepping trend, but about themselves.  The participants, I have noticed, seem to fall into these very generalized categories:

1.  They are overweight
2.  They are middle-aged
3.  They are Christian
4.  They are white
5.  They have medical issues.  (Not mental, at least not obviously; though I do wonder about the lady who thinks she's going to be whipping up gourmet meals every night while the rest of the country burns.  I'm talking physical health.)

There are exceptions to all these categories, I've seen one black guy and a couple of younger people on the show, but for the most part, the categories are true.

NOW:  Let me stress, I am not against prepping for trouble, per se.  I live in tornado country.  Every year, the Wonder Hubby and I pack bug-out bags, set aside about a week's worth of bottled water, and pay close attention to the weather channels.  We have camping gear and dried food concentrates.  We're not stupid:  We know that where we live, it's not a matter of if a tornado hits, it's a matter of when.  Just because Doo-dah has never been struck directly by a tornado, doesn't mean it can't happen.  We're not stupid.  And living in a city, we have defensive planning.  We have a rendezvous point, we have weapons training, and we try to not look like victims.

But.  Let's be real:  We're both middle-aged, and even though we're in much better shape than we were just two years ago, we're not young anymore.  Also, if shit hits the fan, we're likely to be be apart (he works outside the home, I don't).  We do much better together than apart.  Plus, we have to look out for my parents -- now my brother will be a great hand with this, don't you doubt that for one second, but I'm the oldest.  It's my responsibility.  And my kids live in Seattle.  No chance of joining forces with them.  So, we'd be on our own, and endlessly worried about them, because they're the ones who count now.  They are the future.

Let's ignore the nasty racial implications of a bunch of white people who think the world's going to end and the coincidence of a brown fella being in the White House right now, shall we?  If this gets bogged down in a "I'm not a racist, yes, you are" fight, we'll never get any introspection done, will we?  Okay?  Moving on:

AND, why do these people think Doomsday is coming now?  Did I not get the email?  Was there a documentary about this that wasn't on the History Channel?  What's different than, say, eleven years ago when we actually did get attacked -- and Life went on?  If you look at the World Markets, eh; they are somewhat volatile, but they've been worse in the Past.  Countries have ended dictatorships, started new ones, overextended themselves, worked to put that right again.  Historically, it's business as usual.  So, what gives?

I'll tell you what gives:   It's not our world anymore, is it?  We're not that vital 18-49 age bracket that the World focuses on so relentlessly anymore.  We're aging.  And we're Baby Boomers -- we hate aging.  We fight it with every inch of our over-processed skin!  We are so spoiled that we deny, deny, deny that we're aging, we refuse to accept it!!!  We work out, we dye our hair, we get plastic surgery to the point that we resemble geckos more than humans, we take every chemical in the world to keep us looking 5 minutes younger -- botulinum toxin is the strongest neurotoxin known to Man, it can kill an adult in a matter of hours, a child much sooner.  And yet, we inject it under our skin so that muscles in our faces are paralyzed, thereby reducing wrinkles and leaving middle-aged actors with a vaguely surprised look, with which they attempt to show emotions.  Other emotions than surprise, that is.  They don't look younger, they just look startled.  And looking like refugees from a side show, they continuously complain that there aren't any good roles out there anymore.

Look at the Right Wing Conservatives out there.  They think if they turn the world back 50-60 years and let go all the social reforms of the 20th Century, then the world will be well again.  It reminds me of my SCA contemporaries who complain that the Kingdom is just not the Kingdom they knew -- the world changed a bit, yeah.  Calontir changed a bit.  But the Conservatives don't want the 1950's back, they want a younger version of them back.  Old Calontir is gone, and with it, our youth, but that doesn't mean modern Calontir isn't just as good, it just means you're older.  That's it.  You're not in the limelight now, things hurt now, I worry now -- I didn't worry back then, I didn't hurt so much, I was the Shit then -- so let's go back to Then and everything will be all right.  Right?

It's not Doomsday that preppers are scared of, I think.  It's Dying.  It's leaving a world that used to revolve around our asses, that used to cater to us nonstop -- all the toys were geared towards us; all the movies written with us in mind; all the advertisements directed at our comfort.  It's the parade leaving us behind.  It's the same thing that happened to our parents, but they handled it better because the world never promised them the moon, and then left them behind when their discretionary funds dwindled, and they got too busy to support an entire industry of fun.  They just kept on keeping on.  Like their parents.  And theirs.  And so on.

So, let December 21, 2012 come.  It will anyway.  And it will be followed by December 22, 23, 24......you get the idea.  The poles won't flip, the world markets won't let themselves collapse totally, the sun won't supernova anytime soon, Yellowstone's caldera won't erupt, and the zombies won't rise.  We Boomers will just be a little older.  Even we can't stop that.

Besides, have you ever tried to live on dried food for one week?  One month?  One year?  Ask a Marine -- that shit is horrible!

I get up.  Let the dog out, make coffee. Check.

Watch the news as I drink my coffee.  Republicans are still a clown car.  Rush Limbaugh is still a jerk.  Check.

Get dressed.  Wash face, comb hair. Check.

Feed the dog and make my own breakfast:  He gets kibble, I get cereal and laugh to myself about the similarities in our foods' appearance.

Rinse bowl, let the dog out.  Brush teeth.  Check.

Get the dog back in, and go to the home office.  Turn on the computer and wait for it to warm up.  Turn on Pandora to a metal station, because the story is dark, and music helps to set the mood. Open new folder for new story.  Find notes for story and start writing.

Mom calls.  She's in a chatty mood (sigh).  Yes, I know Thursday is my brother's birthday.  Can I come down then, during the day?  Why?  Oh, my aunt and uncle are coming in from McPherson,  But why during the day when the hubby is at work?  Okay........  Wait, why won't my brother be there?  He's at school?  Where?  When did he start school?  Um, sure....I can wait until he tells me himself.  (grrrrrr....)  Yeah, Mom, I'll be there.  I love you, too.

Get off the phone.  Tappity-tappity on the keyboard about a difficult scene.  Phone rings again.  It's Dad this time.  He needs Eldest Son's address to send a birthday card.  Okayyy.  Open up Contacts and get Gryff's address for Dad.  What am I doing?  I'm writing today.  Because some friends who are writers say I'm pretty good at it, and they think I should give it a serious try.  Yes, I would like to be a writer (if people would quit calling, I might get the chance!)  What?  No, Dad, I didn't say anything.  Yes, I'll come down for my brother's birthday.  Sure, hey, Dad, by the way, I was..............he hung up.  (sigh)

More tappitys.  Scene getting heavy.  Pandora's playing Megadeath.  I hate Megadeath.  Click over to Pandora page and click through the Megadeath song.  Get Disturbed instead.  Perfect!  The scene needs that kind of energy.  Tappity-tap!

Cold, wet nose on my elbow.  What's up, Dog?  Need out?  (sigh)  Okay, let's go.  Let dog outside to back yard and damned near get my arm pulled out of the socket by a wind gust.  Wait for dog to do his thing......looking at the garden while I'm waiting.  Should we just go ahead and start the growing season?  Make a mental note to discuss this with the Wonder Hubby.  Dog (finally!) gets done and comes trotting back to the door.  Give him a couple of quick pats and walk through the house, back to the office.  More tapping.

Phone rings.  Now it's my brother.  He's at school!  Sweet!  For what?  Ultrasound technician -- that's awesome!  No, I'm not surprised at all; you're smart and you like to help people!  Why not?  Seriously, this is cool, Dude!  I'm proud of you!  No, really!  You can do this!  What am I doing?  Um, I'm writing.  Yeah.  No, I'm seriously giving it a go.  Yeah, well, we'll see, won't we?

Back to the keyboard.  Phone rings again.  An 800 number.  Fug 'em.  Back to typing.  I wish I could type faster, I'm afraid I'll lose the story, and my notes for it aren't as complete as I'd like.  Noise from the front door.  The Wonder Hubby is home.  I look at the clock:  4 pm.  I look at my number of pages typed:  6.  Shit.

Try again tomorrow.

silk_noir is fine.  I'm sure you all will hear from her in a few days.

I'm in the process of returning to my blog.  I have a few things on my mind right now, and my health is not being my friend, but I will return.

Let me leave you with this thought:  I do not believe it is a coincidence that there are four contenders for the Republican Party's nomination for their Presidential Candidate in the next National Election.  I'm just having a little trouble determining which one is Pestilence, which one is Famine, etc.

....Foot?  Writing Style?  Intent?

*sigh*

So. the SCA released the results of it's "Census" (I don't know why they called it that; it was actually a survey.)  And Calontir responded to it over the Calonlist all day yesterday and probably today.

A big topic for other Kingdoms is whether or not to create a fourth Peerage -- I'm guessing that the Fencers are tired of not being Peers.  Since I have no horse in that race, neither does Calontir, for that matter, I pretty much ignored that part of the overview that was published.  But, I do have to add that the person who wrote the overview must be a Fencer.

Calontir's topic that blew up like an overripe apple?  Same-sex Crowns.

Now, I know I'm a Liberal, I don't make any bones about it.  I know that I live in a part of the country where I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb.  But I was not ready for what people said on this subject.  Women and men who I would have described just as Liberal as I am were categorically against the idea.  Passionately against.  And the main reason they appear to hold against it was that the women of the Kingdom would be underrepresented.

? *blink-blink*

I don't get that.  Maybe it's because I'm Pagan -- we're taught to recognize the Divine feminine and masculine in all living things (and remember, we count rocks as living things, too!)  Maybe it's because I've grown up around the LGBT community, and don't really have a problem with any of them.  Or maybe because I've never really looked at a Queen as my personal representative in the Royal tradition.  I certainly didn't think I stood for all women in Calontir when I was Queen; upon reflection, maybe I should have.  Maybe that's a function of Queenship that I never considered.  If so, I fell down on the job both times.

Plus, the point I was trying to make is that someday, there will undoubtedly be same-sex couples on the Thrones.  Yes, it will be an expression of Modern Culture, not Period, but we have those expressions in the SCA now, so what's one more?  I thought we had shifted our emphasis away from "Camelot" and "Morte d'Arthur", and more towards Living Archeology.  We allowed female fighters with some pretty slender evidence at the time, mostly because women were demanding to fight AND wanted female personae, not male ones.  I remember that.  How is this different from that battle, really?

Then, I was told I was being hyperbolic.  Tibor had just gone nuclear, using flaming sarcasm, and the person who called me hyperbolic didn't say one word to him.  That hurt.  Then I was told that I was being condescending and superior.  I was really hurt by that one.  I hate it when people do that in debates; to me, that's major error Number 1.  And, since no one jumped to my defense, and I was always taught that Silence means Consent, I can only conclude that the List readers felt the same way about my debating style.  So I apologized to the List for being a Troll, and I'm seriously considering unsubscribing.

I'm sorry, LGBT Community; I l fear I damaged your Cause far more than I helped it.  FWIW, I don't have any more problem with a "King of Love and Beauty" than I do a "Queen by Right of Arms".  And I think you'll see same-sex Crowns in your lifetime.

But, I'm very disappointed on so many different levels.

....but Life's been busy, as It so often is in the Spring.  Hopefully, I'll do better now that the vegetable garden is well-established.

So, how's everyone been?

I grew up watching my mom try to compete with my dad's work for his attention.  She invariably lost.  I have no intentions of even trying.  If he would rather be at work, then so be it.

Unlike some of my friends of Irish heritage (and my oldest son), I quite like St. Patrick's Day.  I find it distinctly amusing to watch all these Americans using a so-called Holy Day to get absolutely shit-faced, and then turn around and endure at least 8 hours of work the next day.  And when you consider that St. Patrick's Day is held on the traditionally accepted day of his death, it just gets funnier to me.  Add to that the fact that it is also the only Saint's Day noted on my Witches' Calendar from Llewelyn's Publications, and I get downright giggly!

Patrick is, of course, famous for driving the snakes out of Ireland, which is just a euphemism for "killing off the native religion along with most of its practitioners".  Patrick, for the record, appears to have been of Welsh heritage.  Don't really know why that matters, but I have found myself idly wondering if he at least whistled while he worked.  But I'm sick and twisted that way....

I also happen to be quite fond of the color green, so much so that most of my SCA garb has green on it somewhere, anyway.  I also own a number of mundane outfits that are green, and only one of them is a t-shirt that reads "Kiss Me, I'm Irish".  And I'm also quite partial to the music of The Pogues, The Cranberries, Flogging Molly and U2.  I even like the Chieftains.  So there.

Why not celebrate your Irish heritage for one day?  We come from a people that are World-Class survivors, after all!  The Irish nation has survived a good 800 years of invasion, famine, plague and the English -- and still think of themselves as one nation -- even though it's really split up into two.  True, they let religion get in the fray way too often, but they also take their religions rather more seriously than most European countries these days.  Besides that, the Irish are Champions at breeding:  40% of all Americans claim Irish heritage.  We may not have been able to defeat the English, but there isn't a St. George's Day celebration every year in America now is there?

My Irish heritage really shows in my family:  We're pretty musical; we can be emotional sods on occasion; we are all pretty decent at storytelling (my father is a World-Class raconteur; particularly so if he's had a wee dram, don't you know), and yeah, we've had our struggles with the bottle and might be a bit more prone to physical action rather than polite debate, too --  but what of it?   We're also pretty damn loyal to family and friends and when we give our word, we mean it.  There's worse things to be known for, after all.

Tonight, the Wonder Hubby and I will go to my parents' house and hang out, eating corned beef and cabbage (which I loathe, by the way, but will  nevertheless eat), drink a tiny bit (I'm too old for that shit!) and listen to my father tell stories.  We've been doing this for years, and even if we've heard the stories before and the food sours the stomach, it'll still be worth the family time.  Last year, Dad had a cancer scare, so I'm finding that Time spent in his company is rather more precious than I previously knew.  St. Patrick's Day has never really been about getting drunk for me -- it's always been about family.  My family.  My Irish family.  You know, survivors.

So, kiss me, I'm Irish.  Where and when, I leave up to you.

Erin go bragh!

On March 3, my first husband died.  This would be Gryffud's biological father, not Duke Syr Gabriel who basks in good health and Calontir's love.  No, this would be Terry, who I was married to for about a minute, had a son with, got dumped by, and then spent in terror of for about four and a half years because his pettiness and addictions led him to threaten the safety of my son and my peace of mind.  He died from complications of ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease.  Don't send me condolences.  Let me explain:

We were high school sweethearts, you see, and he was good looking in a different way than most, a sheer musical genius, was almost two years older than me, and he said nice things to me.  Of course, I thought this was Love.  He joined the Marines, went away for a year (a year I spent writing to him weekly and sanctimoniously saving myself for him), and when he came back, we got married while the ink on my high school diploma was still wet.  I didn't realize he was an Addict.  He hid it from me, and Truth to tell, I wouldn't have known what to look for then, anyway.

He drank.  He smoked pot.  He smoked pot with pcp in it.  He did cocaine -- injected it, not snorted it.  He snorted heroin. Popped it, too.  But he never did this stuff where I was, well, he drank where I was, but so did everyone else  He got into fights (lots of fights).  He stopped playing music.  I got pregnant and he didn't seem to care.  I couldn't understand him.  But I kept hanging on because I thought I was in love.

When our son was born, I fell in love for the first time in my life -- here was a perfect child!  My emotions nearly drowned me -- love, terror, gratitude, triumph, the Gods, the Universe -- thank the Gods my parents and grandparents were around then, because I probably would have killed this perfection with my ignorance!  I could barely change a diaper and I was terrified I would break my baby.  I was overwhelmed, in need of support and help.  I didn't get any from my "husband".  Terry seemed happy enough, just distracted.  I didn't get it.  Because I didn't know the nature of Addiction, I didn't understand how anything could distract him from this miracle we had created.

He didn't find a Mom all that attractive, so he started running around.  We spent about the first ten months of Gryff's life moving from one place to another, just because he couldn't seem to keep a job, and I didn't know why.  We stayed with my folks for about a month; he and I got in a fight over money one time, and he hit me.  The next thing I knew, my parents were dragging me off of him because I was beating him up pretty bad.  We moved to a trailer and Dad got him a job at NCR.  Terry took up with a girl he worked with there, and I left him.  A couple of months later, he was gone -- left town and lost what little stuff we had.  For my 21st birthday, I got myself a divorce.

About three years later, Terry was back in town, towing some pregnant gal behind him.  She turned up on my apartment doorstep one day and told me they were going to take me to county court for custody of my son.  I told her to get away from Terry while she had the chance because I had learned by then just to what extent Addiction owned him.  She didn't listen, and next time I saw her was in a courtroom where a judge not only denied Terry any custody, but threw him in jail for nonpayment of child support.  BUT, the court gave him visitation rights with a small boy who was absolutely clueless as to who this snaggle-toothed guy was. 

This established the pattern for the next four years:  Terry would take me to court for custody, get thrown into jail for nonpayment and still keep his visitation rights.  When he wasn't in jail, he would get drunk and call me, threatening to pick my son up and just take him away.   Thankfully, Gabe was in our lives by then, and we had this mountain of a man to lean on, more emotional and sheer physical support than a mom and small boy could dream of!   Terry's mom's boyfriend was in the Air Force like Gabe, and somehow he accessed Gabe's files and tried to use the contents against us in court.  We turned his mom's boyfriend in, we taped Terry's phone calls, we did everything the court required of us -- and then we stood clinching our fists in impotent rage as Terry and his "wife" claimed our son every other weekend and took him to a roach-infested hotel where drug addicts and prostitutes almost outnumbered the bugs, and then watched  helplessly while they left my seven year old there to babysit his younger half-sisters while the two of them went God knows where.  Gabe would sometimes wait outside the hotel in our car, just in case.  When they found out, they started switching from one to another so we couldn't find them.

Gabe got out of the Air Force, and we had to move to KC because there were no jobs here and his parents said we could stay with them.  We notified the court of our change in address, then moved our stuff northward.  Gabe got a job laying sod for $5 an hour and I stayed with his parents and our son.  Then we were summoned once again to county court, and we had to borrow money for gas and come back down here and listen while Terry claimed that we had, in fact, moved to California and changed Gryffud's name to Gabe's.  Then my attorney told the judge that Terry hadn't paid child support for 8 months.  He went to jail, and we returned to KC.

Three months later, Terry called and said he was going to come visit Gryff.  There was nothing we could do but give him clear directions to Gabe's parents' house, and wait all day that Saturday while an increasingly upset Gryff waited for that shitheel to show up.  He never did, and to my knowledge, Gryff never had any interaction with him again.  That was 1984.

Last Friday, the 3rd, my son cried for his biological father and the relationship that could have been.  I didn't feel a thing; it was almost like all that happened to another person, or took place in a movie I once saw.

Good-bye Terry.  Karma's a Bitch, isn't she?