Chiaroscuro

8

It’s a good thing that I’m not a morally ambivalent magician who works with a group of rather sinister and insane spirits that hunger for the pleasures of this world but are annoyingly kept out because they’re fictional constructs.

Heh.

My this has been an interesting week, hasn’t it?

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An awful lot of people have been thinking awfully hard about that thin, thin barrier between fantasy and reality.

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Lots of people getting awfully agitated about it, too.

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Naw. Can’t possibly be any way to exploit that.

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Besides, I’m not a magician. I’m a story-teller, just a weaver of weird words.

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Second half of 2013 should be awfully interesting. Just saying.

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Check out this cool video I found on the web:

It’s … almost … hypnotic.

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Since everyone is talking about their imaginary friends I figured it was only proper that I introduce mine

This is a little story I like to call The dolorous tale of how the clown once known as Pierrot came to laugh again

After endless searching and bitter sacrifice the clown Pierrot had finally come to the house on the hill. All the greasepaint had been smeared from his face and his once pristine white costume hung in shreds from his lean frame, covered in blood and mud and filth he preferred not to think about. All he had been through would be worth it when he could kiss again the tender lips of his fair Columbine, wrongly taken from him by the heartless Harlequin, lo those many years ago. In his now calloused hand he clutched an iron dagger to even the score.

Though he had been wrong so many times before, Pierrot knew with absolute certainty that he would find his fair Columbine within the wretched walls of this hovel. The house upon the hill was no house at all, but the desolate ruins of a tiny cottage with boarded up windows and a collapsed roof that failed to keep the elements out. Fire had blackened most of it and the rest seemed held together by menacing vines and long-dead vegetation. It teetered precariously on a ledge overlooking an infinite rocky chasm. He saw it move as the wind and rain ceaselessly buffeted it. Every inch of Pierrot longed to flee this place of nightmares and insanity. Instead he tightened his grip on the iron dagger and approached the door which had words scrawled across its surface in a sloppy, frantic hand. The words were brown like dried blood or shit and they read Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate. Pierrot kicked open the door and went inside.

Within he found a mansion. The forecourt was large and well-lit with strange works of ancient art on display everywhere his eyes settled. Further back there was a spiraling marble staircase that wound through the multiple floors above. Though he heard festive voices in the distance he knew that he would find his fair Columbine only by ascending this perilous way and so he took the stairs two and three at a time.

When he reached the third floor his instincts, which had faithfully guided him on his journey thus far, whispered that she was near. The floor was dark with many rooms he could barely see in the distance. He lost count after twenty, but vowed to try them all until he found her.

The first door opened with a long, mournful groan like the souls in Purgatory. Pierrot clasped his hand to his mouth to stifle a scream at what he saw within.

In the second he found a woman dressed in crimson finery lying on a couch with a sumptuous meal set out before her. She raised a goblet spilling over with wine in greeting and moistened her blood-red lips with a tongue impossibly long and serpentine. Mesmerized, Pierrot watched as the woman’s other delicate hand traced the ample swell of her bone-white bosoms that were nearly spilling out the top of her crimson gown, watched them descend and grab the hem and slowly raise it up revealing her virginal thighs and the bare mound between them. She took a long, pleasurable sip of wine and then parted her folds for him, revealing a blood-shot eyeball. Then she spread her long legs lewdly and began to moan like a common whore of the streets which quickly turned into agonized screams as the head belonging to the eye forced its way out of her. The skin of the face resembled brown leather from too long spent under the desert sun; it had long hair in dreadlocks like spider legs and a grizzled beard and a wound at the neck where it had been severed from its body. The woman gingerly lifted it up and kissed the gore-speckled lips and then the head began to laugh.

Pierrot closed the door behind him in wordless horror and continued his search with the next room. There he found only mirrors. Mirrors covered every wall, the ceiling and even the floors, all reflecting his bewildered gaze back at him. In the center of the room sat a child, lost in deep contemplation of his image though Pierrot could see nothing but his own reflection in the mirrors.

“Pardon me,” Pierrot called out to the child. “But I am looking for someone.”

“Aren’t we all?” The child replied tonelessly, without glancing up.

“She is the fairest woman who has ever lived, my Columbine. Perhaps you have seen her?”

The child turned and rose to his feet. With a slow, limping step he approached Pierrot. Once he was out of the shadows he could see that the child had no face, just smooth, empty flesh where his eyes and mouth and nose should have been. Pierrot slammed the door shut, hard, before the child reached him.

In the next room he found a black dog hunched over with a circle of fat, hairy, naked men masturbating while they watched the dog take a shit. Pierrot did not hail them; he prayed they knew nothing of his Columbine.

Pierrot walked down the tenebrous corridor, passing up rooms that echoed with screams and laughter and the sounds of gratified desire. These tormenting visions were not for him.

But then he came to a door at the end of the hall that was painted yellow, and this one he boldly tried.

It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.

The paint and paper look as if a boys’ school had used it. It is stripped off—the paper—in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life.

One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.

It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.

The color is repelllent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.

It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.

No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.

“Wait,” Pierrot said to himself. “These are not my thoughts. This is not my perception. Whence do they come?”

Then he opened his eyes and saw that the room was dark and empty save for a solitary figure with a yellow crown, a yellow mask and tattered yellow robes. From him seemed to emanate a shrill, piercing whine like a radio improperly tuned that made Pierrot’s stomach churn. Clutching his ears he fled the room, not even bothering to shut the door behind him.

Pierrot decided to try the next floor, hoping that he would have better luck.

He did not.

In the first room he found midget clowns and fire-eaters and women dancing with snakes, but no Columbine.

In the second there were chalk-covered Indian holy men tending a smoldering funeral pyre.

In the eighth a row of silent babies in tight swaddling spun for them by a tremendous spider.

In the eleventh there was a slab of stone and a naked dead man on it. His chest was open and a giggling girl in pig-tails was holding a clump of ivy above him. “My husband lost his heart,” she cooed to Pierrot. “Could you spare yours? If not I’ll have to substitute this.”

In the thirtieth he found drunkards and vagrants and men in animal costumes feasting amid mounds of dirty dishes and rotting food. The stench was intolerable. They offered him wine and riddles but Pierrot declined.

In the hundredth room there was a forest and gay creatures with haunted eyes. They watched him silently until he left and continued watching him.

The final room of that floor had a massive pipe protruding from a wall, leaking water onto the floor which Pierrot found had become soft and unsteady when he stepped upon it. In the middle of the room was a beautiful dark-haired girl hanging from the rafters. Beneath her pert breasts the word Remorse had been written across her distended belly, carved into the flesh by her own hand or so it seemed since she still held an iron dagger rather like Pierrot’s in her limp fingers.

There was a hideous shriek and then something began to emerge from the pipe in the wall – a slimy, white creature that once might have been a man, pulling itself along with its weak, rubbery arms. Once it’s torso was completely out of the pipe spilling the brackish water it leaned over and vomited out pungent black bile.

With a growing sense of melancholy failure Pierrot closed the door and descended the winding staircase. He would never find his fair Columbine in this horrid place.

Then, as he was about to leave the house on the hill for good, he heard the sounds of merry-making that had greeted him when he first came in. Trepidation growing with every step, Pierrot followed them back to their source and found a large banqueting hall with three hundred costumed revelers inside. The feast itself was so grand that even Petronius could not have described it. At the head of the table sat Mad Tom O’ Bedlam, his silver beard stained with wine, and on his lap sat the fair Columbine, drunk and disheveled. She smiled when she saw Pierrot enter the chamber.

“Look! My gallant Theseus has finally come for me.”

The hall erupted in maniac laughter.

“He has suffered much along the way,” Mad Tom observed with a sly fox grin.

“Too much, I fear. It’s broken his little foolish brain.”

“What has this place done to you, Columbine?” Pierrot’s eyes were wet with tears. “Come home with me and I’ll make you whole again.”

More laughter.

“Did you hear that? How rich! Sweetie, just leave. Our life together is over. You never knew the real me. Neither did I. It was only here in hell that I was able to find myself. Nothing happened to me that I did not desire.”

“I will fight this brigand and take you from this wretched place by force if need be!”

“No you won’t. You are too tender-hearted for that. And what would you do with me once you had me? You never had the first clue what to do with a woman like me. You’re a good man, Pierrot. Forget what you saw here. Leave before it’s too late.”

“He thinks he’s one of us because he’s suffered,” Mad Tom drawled drunkenly. “He’s not. At least not yet. Soon, though. Very soon. Let us show him the way.”

From three hundred mouths came the chant, “Let us show him the way.” Over and over again the words battered poor Pierrot until he felt sanity slipping through his fingers. Then silence.

Columbine lifted her head up, eyes rolled completely back until only the whites were visible. Then she looked at him with a predatory grin and Pierrot did not recognize her.

Columbine:

Cette langue entre quatre gencives,
cette viande entre deux genoux,
ce morceau de trou
pour les fous.

Mad Tom:

L’intelligence est venue après la sottise,
laquelle l’a toujours sodomisée de près, –
ET APRÈS.

Ce quin donne une idée de li’infini trajet.

Columbine:

Je te condamne parce que tu sais pourquoi … je te condamne, –
et moi, je ne le sais pas.

Mad Tom:

C’est par la barbaque,
la sale barbaque
que l’on exprime

le,

qu’on ne sait pas

que

se placer hors

pour être sans,
avec, –

la barbaque
bien crottée et mirée
dans le cu d’une poule
morte et désirée.

Columbine:

Ce n’est pas un esprit qui a fait les choses

Mad Tom:

Pas de philosophie, pas de question, pas d’être,
pas de néant, pas de refus, pas de peut-être,

et pour le reste

crotter, crotter.

Columbine:

à la fleur de mes nuits
aux amoureux dans l’incendie
à tes yeux qui salivent
à ces choses qui arrivent
aux horizons du soir
pourquoi pas à l’espoir?

Mad Tom:

à ces vins qui tiennent chaud
à nos ivres bateaux
au plaisir au désir de tout quitter sur un soupir
aux adieux aux toujours aux promesses aux amours
aux noirceurs à nos cœurs
aux lueurs à nos peurs
à ton cœur fatigué
à nos travers, nos libertés
à nos bouches essoufflées à trop les embrasser
à nos bouches essoufflées à trop les embrasser

Columbine:

La médecine soudoyée ment chaque fois qu’elle présente un malade
guéri par les introspections électriques de sa méthode,
je n’ai vu, moi, que des terrorisés de la méthode,
incapables de retrouver leur moi.

Mad Tom:

Or, je le répète, Le Bardo c’est la mort, et la mort n’est qu’un état de magie noire qui n’existait pas il n’y a pas si longtemps.

Columbine:

le jour se lève et je ne vois
que le silence aux horizons
dans le jardin de mes enfances
je crois qu’il est mort le pinson
bien sûr ça ne sera pas rose
mais les écorchures à nos mains
nous garderons le souvenir
de mon pinson dans le lointain
suivons le chant du vent des plaines
il nous mènera au printemps
et puis qui sait sur le chemin
chanter le chant des partisans
nous serons fiers nous serons un
et notre sang sera du vin
nos amours pour soigner la Terre
nos infinis contre leur rien

Mad Tom:

notre étoile a le goût du souffre
mais elle éclaire comme un millier
de chandelles en processions
des oriflammes à l’horizon
allumons-nous sous les grandes ourses
non nous ne sommes pas funéraires
nous sommes fils de la renaissance
sous le drapeau des libertaires

Pierrot had reached his limit – he could endure no more. Realizing that Columbine was lost to him forever he fled the dining hall and raced up the spiral staircase, seeking solace in the heart of the house that madness built.

He found it in a small, dank room that smelled of rot and mildew. It contained a bed and a closet and nothing else. He flung himself on the bed and cried in defeat, cried until the sheet and pillow were wet with his tears and he had nothing left to spill. Then he heard the sound of approaching steps and the laughter of Columbine and Mad Tom O’ Bedlam.

Pierrot leapt from the bed and hid himself in the closet like a frightened child as the door creaked open.

Without a word of acknowledgement – for certainly they must be aware of his presence; why else would they have chosen this room among the many thousands that the house contained? – the couple climbed on the bed, which groaned under their weight. From the closet Pierrot heard the muffled sound of clothes being rearranged, then silence for a tense moment and the startled, pained whimper of Columbine as Tom entered her. Once Pierrot had lived for that sound; now it made his gorge rise. But he dared not move, dared not bring attention to himself. Their movements grew faster, fiercer, louder until Pierrot could no longer even hear his own quiet weeping. How beautiful Columbine sounded in the throes of passion; what a virile beast that madman Tom must be. The thought sickened Pierrot and yet he could not stop himself from listening. Eventually he felt his penis spasm and release. He had not even touched himself and yet the front of his pants were wet and sticky. He felt such shame, such self-loathing as he had never experienced before. Pierrot tightened his grip on the iron dagger. He thought of jumping out of the closet, plunging the blade into Tom’s back to stop him from plunging into Columbine. He could do it, too. Pierrot knew that about himself now. He felt only black hatred and a longing to destroy the world and everything in it. But instead he raised his fist and dragged the blade across his own cheek. He drew a red line all the way around his face until it looked like a mask perched precariously on his head. The blood gushed forth in the dark, staining permanently the remnants of his once-white costume. Pain rose in his frenzied mind like the first flower of dawn, like a thousand stars exploding in the sky. He dropped the iron dagger, for he no longer had need of it. The couple did not hear or did not think it worth interrupting their tryst. Trembling, Pierrot reached his fingers into the gash he had created, fingers parting flesh and muscle and fat until he reached bone. Then he began to pull until his whole face came off in his hands. He dropped the worthless thing to the ground and then pushed open the closet door.

Mad Tom smiled up at him. Columbine was too engrossed in her pleasure to notice.

“My name is no longer Pierrot. Henceforth call me the Harlequin.”

“He is now one of us.” Mad Tom observed, rising from the bed to greet him.

“One of us.” Columbine agreed, stretching out her lithe body like a savage, sensual panther.

“Now he may know true joy.”

The Harlequin laughed and has not stopped laughing since.

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Our Lady of the Forsaken

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This is the Virgen de los desamparados. Wikipedia has this concerning her origin:

On February 24, 1409 the priest Father Jofré was going to the cathedral to deliver a sermon during Lent when he witnessed the lynching of a mentally ill man on a street near Santa Catalina Valencia (now Martin Mengod, formerly known as Silver). In response, he founded a hospice for the mentally ill.

The brotherhood was founded under the invocation of Sancta dels Folls Dona Nostra i Desamparats Innocents (Our Lady of the Insane and the Forsaken Innocents). The goal of the brotherhood was to help the mentally ill; however, due to a famine and the high rate of orphans during the plague, there were many homeless children on the streets of Valencia. The brotherhood was extended from a hospice to care for homeless and abandoned children.

Two years later the Virgin, as patron of the brotherhood that now cared for both mentally ill adults and homeless children, was renamed Our Lady of the Forsaken. In 1414 three young men dressed as pilgrims joined the brotherhood. They claimed that they could make an image of the Virgin within three days in exchange for a place to create the image and board. They were taken to a place known as The Hermitage and after four days without any sound from inside, the brothers forced the door and found the image of the Virgin Mary. The mysterious pilgrims had disappeared shortly, healing the wife of a member of the brotherhood who was paralyzed and blind. The incident gave rise to the legend of “el feren els àngels” (“the angels did it”). On April 21, 1885 Pope Leo XIII granted a Papal bull naming the Virgin of the Forsaken patroness of Valencia.

For many centuries those faithful to the Virgin have helped children, the elderly, the blind, and the mentally ill.

It goes on to say:

The father Jofré placed in the Capitulet, a small oratory constructed together with the Hospital, where from 1411 reu- The confreres to deliberating, an image of the Virgin. According to the tradition, in the year 1414 three young pilgrims offered as sculptors to carve it. The brother confrere who was living in the house, which wife was paralytic and blind, received them. Three travelers him exposed that in three days they could esculpir an image of the Virgin if they were giving them a place where to do it and food. They were placed in the place known as the Hermitage. Spent four days and on no noise having be heard, a few confreres forced the door and found the image of the Virgin Mary. The pilgrims were not on any part and in this moment the wife of the confrere recovered the sight. Because of it the voice moved along that the image ” la feren els ángels ” (the angels did it).

In 1416 the king Alfonso V, the Magnanimous authorizes “that the image of the Virgin Mary that is constructed as holder of the above-mentioned entity could take accommodated between the folds of his tunic two innocent ones of the sacrificed ones for Herod”. The image would turn into the Mare de Déu dels Folls, Innocents i Desemparats. Of there the fervor of the Valencian ones was born for the one that would turn into his Mistress. The image was venerated in the same place up to his movement to the Cathedral in 1487

Clearly this part of the text was written by one of the blessed souls under her care. Just saying.

Her festival is pretty badass. Crazy music, fireworks, baby-tossing. Yeah, baby tossing:

During the procession, thousands of believers are trying to touch the virgin and they will stop at nothing to be blessed. People just lose their freaking minds; crying, screaming, crowd-surfing, pushing, cackling and (awesomely) passing their infant children to strangers, who pass them to other strangers, who pass them to other strangers, who foist them upon the virgin and then pass them back again. It is shocking.
[Years later]
“Mommy, I won again! I’ve always been super lucky!”
“Oh yeah, um. That’s because I let some stranger throw you against a statue when you were 6 months old.”
“… I hate you, Mommy.”

La_Geperudeta

Tell me that shit ain’t awesome.

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Important notice about the oracular session

So I was still getting requests about a half hour before I started the preliminary rituals. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should hold off, that more were coming and so I did some divination to check in with Dionysos. He was okay with me postponing the session so … I guess that’s what I’m going to do.

It’s weird. I’ve been doing these monthly oracles since 2005 and I haven’t postponed a single session for anything other than work, conflicts with festivals or severe illness in that time. And even then it was just a day or two — not a week. But hey, I figure you’re a pretty shitty mantis if you don’t trust your own intuition.

The session will now be Thursday, May 30th.

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The superhero debate has reached a new high

I honestly wasn’t going to comment on this again until the show. Honestly. But then I came across the further commentary of Taylor Ellwood and Aine and the real pièce de résistance which I’m going to be addressing from here on out (the other links were just a special kind of special so I wanted to share them) this post called Sippin’ On Dat Haterade (Or: Why Pagans Can Be Worse Than Fundamentalists).

Yup. I’ll let that one sink in for a second.

No, you did read that right. Polytheists making a bunch of blog posts saying, “I don’t think honoring comic book characters is really the same thing as ancient hero worship,” and maybe a couple fed-up “Oh my god, I can’t believe how stupid these people are being!” screeds is worse than fundamentalism.

Look, we all know in the post 9/11 world that when you drop the f-bomb you aren’t talking about some red-faced Southern gentleman letting his mad oratorical skills fly from the pulpit or a Chasid sporting curls and a bitchin’ fur hat as he hurries home for Shabbos.

No.

When you call someone a fundamentalist you’re suggesting that they’re of a type with folks who set off shrapnel bombs in crowded discotheques and board buses full of children with dynamite strapped to their chests. People who beat their sons until they’re unrecognizable because they have the taint of Sodom in them. People who cut off their daughters’ clitorises. People who riot in the streets over Hollywood movies. People who make other people disappear in the middle of the night to send a message to all those uppity minorities that are encroaching on and assailing them.

You think we’re actually worse than those people because we have said that we don’t believe in your imaginary friends?

Fuck you.

No, seriously. Fuck you.

Learn to debate without resorting to ad hominems and other conversation-derailing tactics. Get over the fact that people are going to disagree with you, especially if you hold unconventional beliefs. Just because we think you’re wrong doesn’t necessarily mean that you are. If you were secure in your beliefs it wouldn’t matter to you what we believed about your beliefs. And lastly, don’t insult the actual victims of such evil men by throwing that word around so casually. You aren’t being persecuted because someone else refuses to validate your existence.

Grow the fuck up people.

Or don’t. I don’t really care.

Once everyone’s done bitching about this some of us are going to go back and offer cultus to gods and heroes and some of us are gonna go back to writing sigils in our cum on glossy photos of Justin Bieber or whatever passes for pop occulture and chaos majik these days. (I may be mistaken on the specifics — all I know about these practices come from the pages of Grant Morrison and Alan Moore comics. Good thing comics are full of all kinds of magical and mythical truths, huh?)

I’d say that there are already clear winners and losers here, but when some of us can’t tell the difference between this:

39168-aeneas-and-anchises-spada-lionello

And this:

funny-superhero-bikes

This:

internet-troll1

And this:

2271

There are no winners.

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Sorry guys, the session has been postponed until tomorrow

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When I was starting the prep work for the oracles tonight I did my usual preliminary divinations and they indicated I should hold off. So if you were debating getting a question in, well, the deadline’s been extended.

At least this gives me time to do some more devotional stuff going into the session. Trying to put a positive spin on this and not feel like I’ve failed him by not being able to deliver. But it’s not about me, and who knows maybe there’s something weird going on. Still, I don’t like this. Not one bit.

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One last post on this and then I’m going to shut up until the show

Honestly, you know what bothers me the most about this whole thing? It isn’t necessarily the religious angle. It’s what these people are doing to the medium of comic books.

I fucking love comic books! They’re good gonzo fun. I mean look, here’s Superman boxing Muhammad Ali:

superman vs ali

Here’s Bruce Wayne tripping balls and hallucinating that he’s the Batman from another planet while he waits for his backup personality to reboot after returning from the dead:

Literal-Batman

Ah, racism:

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This shit is not meant to be taken seriously.

When you do you get Kingdom Come and fucking Joseph Campbell.

What’s wrong with entertainment for entertainment’s sake? Why does it always have to mean something? And if it does, why focus on the medium instead of the message?

When I want something fun, I’ll look at this:

funnycomic_cagedoommoney

And when I want something serious, I’ll look at this:

spider_totem_and_her_harem_by_trieffiewiles-d3g6y9f

The world needs weird. We have enough serious.

And yes, there are of course exceptions.

SpiderMan_02

Invisibles%2BBlank%2BBadge[1]

But those are stories with explicitly religious themes. I’d even cop to gods and spirits inspiring guys like Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Grant Morrison, etc.

But that’s not the same thing as thinking that this is divine:

batmantouchofdoom

And reading a bunch of people explain why they don’t have to go by the traditional definition of what constitutes a hero because they “aren’t recon” is making me think about Stephenie Meyer.

“I’m going to write a story about vampires! Only there’s going to be nothing dead and icky with them. They don’t need to drink the blood of humans to survive and sunlight makes them sparkle! Oh, and they have awesome super powers! And play baseball! And don’t have sex until marriage which makes the fact that they’re still attending high school even though they’re really, really old somehow less creepy. Yay vampires!”

Yay vampires indeed.

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Worship Camazotz, not Bruce Wayne.

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They burned their ancestors for fuel

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You know when the Egyptians built their steam trains.
They didn’t have any fuel to burn – no wood, no trees anywhere.
But they did have a lot of old mummy rags lying around
So the gathered up all the rags and burned them in their trains.
Yeah, they burned their ancestors for fuel.

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Perhaps they have a point

I mean, I find inspiration in modern accounts of my god — hello Eternal Bacchus — so maybe comic books can tell me valuable things about him as well.

From his entry at Comic Vine we learn:

He fell down from Olympus, soon hitting the earth. He was kidnapped by AIM agents and used as the basis for their ray of inebriation. With this ray, every Hero in the Marvel Universe became in a drunken state. As it turns out, every Hero had to be individually programmed into the machine. Consequently, AIM forgot about the members of the Great Lakes Initiative, Wisconsin’s official team. Deadpool was not affected by the ray because of his healing factor, which constantly regenerated his brain. Together, they defeated AIM and freed Dionysus.

When Mephisto goes to The Infinite Embassy looking for information about The Serpent he can’t get into the Council of Godheads so he gets his information about the Greek Gods and where they stand from Dionysus’s wine soaked lips. Dionysus explains to Mephisto that the Greek Gods have now made their home on Earth, and if Odin razes it, like he plans, that would be bad for Dionysus and his fellow gods.

Oh yes. That is valuable information. I feel so much closer to Dionysos for having read that.

And they even gave him a makeover.

He went from looking like this:

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To this:

132111-36811-dionysius

What a handsome fella!

See, new things are always better.

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Quoted for truth

silenus

I came across this quote from the Bhagavad Gita in an article comparing Hindu and classical Greco-Roman forms of sacrifice:

By sacrifice will you procreate! … Foster the Gods with this, and may They foster you; by enriching one another you will achieve a higher good. Enriched by sacrifice, the Gods will give you the delights you desire; he is a thief who enjoys Their gifts without giving to Them in return. Good men eating the remnants of sacrifices are free of guilt, but evil men who cook for themselves alone eat the food of sin. Creatures depend on food, food comes from rain, rain depends on sacrifice, and sacrifice comes from action. . . .the ever pervading infinite spirit is present in rites of sacrifice.

You should read the rest of the article. It’s really good.

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And people wonder why we can’t have nice things

The Pagan controversies of 2013 so far have been …

My fandom is serious religion.
Don’t give too much — the gods will get uppity!
Miasma is inconvenient and hard to understand so I just ignore it.
My friends did this ritual for me over Skype and now I’m married to Loki too!
Gods and spirits don’t require animal sacrifice anymore. That’s so unevolved!
Don’t trust writers. They write for a living. It’s in their vested interest to ensure there’s stuff to write about.
Gods aren’t savage. As if.
You can worship anything you want, or nothing at all — just not Jesus & friends!
Oh noes! Paganism is being invaded by Nazi fundamentalists! They believe things, and think there’s a right and wrong way to do stuff!
Who are you to tell me that I don’t need external validation? I’m insulted!
What? I buy my ritual tools at Walmart. Do you have a problem with that?
Why are you excluding me from your party for your imaginary friends just because I’m an atheist?
How dare you call yourself a polytheist. If I say you’re Pagan, you’re Pagan, damn it!

Did I miss any? Cause I feel like there was more.

Dver said it best:

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Yes. That’s what I’m feeling at the moment. Pride.

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Submit to Ares

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Details on Pete Helms’ artistic contest in honor of Ares can be found here. Ares has only received 8 poems, an essay and some art. Granted, all of it top-notch. But he deserves better. His axe is savage.

The deadline is May 27th — Memorial Day.

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Keep your schedule open Wednesday May 29th!

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Because that’s when we’ll be having an open forum on the whole “Achilles in a cape” debate on Wyrd Ways Radio. Hopefully we’ll get some interesting callers with interesting perspectives on this issue.

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Journey we more into the Nightmare

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Comes death on strange hour
Unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring over-friendly guest you’ve brought to bed
Death makes angels of us all & gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven’s claws
No more money, no more fancy dress
This other Kingdom seems by far the best until its other jaw reveals incest & loose obedience to a vegetable law
I will not go
Prefer a Feast of Friends
To the Giant family

– Jim Morrison

Exene Cervenka remembers Ray Manzarek with words such as this:

Music has a power that’s underestimated in our culture, but at one time we recognized that. Ray brought that power to the world; he brought it to the entire world. The problem with a lot of younger people today, and with a lot of music, is that it’s a passive soundtrack to their lives … it’s not music as a mind-expanding drug. That’s what the ’60s and the ’70s were about. Music has led multiple generations through the doors of perception, and it didn’t just lead you up to them and drop you off, it led people through those doors, and kept them open for people like me.

Reading that made me pause and think, “Wow — am I being too hard on the man?”

I’m fucking glad you’re dead Ray! Burn in hell Ray!

Burn.

In.

Hell.

Ray!

Speaking of things infernal, here’s a guided tour through the House of Haides:

The Underworld has many names.
But the House of Ais is what you know and do not see.

Madness_by_murme

And Reconstructing the Labyrinth connects labyrinths with the underworld:

I have descended into the heart of the labyrinth multiple times, but I think there are multiple labyrinths inside oneself. They do not exist separately from one another, but in layers that spiral downwards, overlaid, one on top of the other. The heart of one is the beginning of another, and when someone reaches that heart they can either take that lesson with them and retrace their steps back into the light, or they can continue down further.

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Death is Ravenous, Death is Consuming … Death is Love

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Go read this post on commitment to death by Melitta Benu. It’ll make you think.

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Nothing alike

This girl came into the store last night. She looked like Hayden Panettiere but with pink dyed hair and piercings. She was also sporting a Thor’s hammer. I am hesitant to remark on Thor’s hammers and volknuts when I see them pass through the store because the chance of meeting a potentially interesting Heathen are practically nil compared to the likelihood that the person is either just out of prison and doesn’t have a fondness for brown people or is just into loud music. Since she didn’t seem to be in either of those categories I went ahead and complimented her on it.

Her: Oh thanks. It has a face on it.
Me: I see that. I like that it’s not the standard one everyone wears.
Her: It’d be better if it only had one eye.
Me: How so?
Her: He was one-eyed. Don’t you know anything?
Me: I think you’re thinking of Odin, not Thor.
Her: Same difference.
Me: [after a long, awkward silence] You do King Harald proud.
Her: I don’t get it.
Me: I would have been surprised if you had. Have a nice day. [insincere smile]

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Come for the grill food, stay for the theological debate

So this guy approaches the counter, stares at me uncomfortably for a while and then we have this conversation:

Man: That tornado is proof that Jesus loves us.

Me: Uh … huh.

Man: You see, we are made to suffer so that we do not become attached to worldly things. Suffering lifts our eyes from sinful pleasure up to our heavenly father. God gives us suffering so that we will love him and come join him in his celestial kingdom instead of remaining down here, where we would if we were happy.

Me: I’ve never been happier to be a polytheist.

He doesn’t understand the term, asks me to explain. I point to the line forming behind him and say perhaps another time.

Woman: You’re a polytheist? I’m Wiccan too!

I glance at her Doctor Who t-shirt, flying spaghetti monster button, three wolf moon bag and the shiny silver pentagram dangling between her ample bosoms.

Me: I never would have guessed.

Woman: Are you praying to the great mother for the victims in Oklahoma?

Me: Who do you mean? My religion has many great mothers.

Woman: The universal mother, she who is behind all godforms.

Me: No.

Woman: What?

Me: No. I won’t be praying to her for the victims. What would be the point? Assuming she exists — and let’s not get into that, because you seriously don’t want to hear what I’ve got to say about that — I kind of doubt she’s sitting there debating whether to help those people or not and if she is why would a prayer from some random dude in Oregon sway her? Do you think the world works like American Idol?

Woman: I just … I just …

And then she flees, leaving her change on the counter. I pocket it and grin at the next customer.

Me: And how may I help you?

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The Bessoi

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“The Satrai alone of the Thracians have continued living in freedom to this day; they dwell on high mountains covered with forests of all kinds and snow, and they are excellent warriors. It is they who possess the place of divination sacred to Dionysos. This place is in their highest mountains; the Bessoi, a clan of the Satrai, are the prophets of the shrine; there is a priestess who utters the oracle, as at Delphoi; it is no more complicated here than there.” — Herodotos, Histories 7.111

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A Door closes

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May you be remembered for your deeds.

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