Sex Scene from 1995

Explicit, silly, or explicitly silly?  You make the call.

This is a dream, she told herself. This must be a dream. This cannot be happening. Yet she nuzzled into Byron's warmth, taking comfort in his embrace. "Why are you shaking?" he asked her, stroking her hair. "Don't be nervous, Maxine. I don't stop being your friend because we kiss now. I'm not a stranger to you."

"I don't think it's nerves," she whispered huskily. Her green eyes blazed with her desire, and she ached to have this man. Maxine tried to get a grip on her drive, but this time, it would not be denied. Her passions were so strong that they coursed through her, making her body tremble in Byron's arms. Then, bravely, she added, "I want you."

"Oh, Maxine," Byron let out a shaking sigh of delirious anticipation. "You don't know what those words from your mouth do to me."

Maxine widened her eyes quickly, lustfully. "Words cannot compare with actions, Byron."

Byron was torn between devouring Maxine right there, where they stood--such a temptation!--and being in a more relaxing position to show her those pleasures of physical love which would be hers alone. He intended to take all night getting to know Maxine's body, if she would let him. "I don't mind standing here, but would you want to get more comfortable?" He blushed as he quickly lowered his eyes, then raised them again to meet her fervent green pools. Slowly, Maxine wet her lips, nodding.

"For lack of a more creative idea at this moment," he said, "will the bedroom do?"

"Bedroom is fine," she whispered.

"May I carry you?" he asked, glowing in his desire. "I'd like to."

Smirking, Maxine said, "Byron, I am not light. I don't want you to break your back."

Byron, with an amused smile on his lips, brushed his nose against hers playfully. "Nor am I weak, Maxine." And Maxine giggled in surprise when Byron easily swept her into his firm, muscled arms, as if she were weightless. "See? You belong here in my arms," he said, grinning at her.

"Your arms were made to carry me?" she asked coyly, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I have no doubt," he answered to her pleasure as he slowly carried her into his spacious bedroom. Byron gently lay Maxine on the bed, on top of the comforter. The bed easily three times the width of her own, and she looked around her in amazement. "It's pretty big," he offered, laughing softly at her amazement. "You become a celebrity and suddenly they think you prefer huge beds. I don't even want to think why."

"Not very snug, that's for sure," she said. "Don't you get lonely?"

Her green eyes focused on him as he crawled onto the red sheets beside her, sleek as a panther. "I get very lonely," he said softly. "Always lonely. I hate being alone in the night, Maxine. I'm hoping you can fix that."

Experimentally, she pressed her body firmly against his, allowing the contours of her body to fit with his. She watched in delight as his blue eyes widened in shocked pleasure. She continued to move against his muscular body, subtly, in small, writhing motions, and he tightened his hold on her. "We fit so well together," she breathed.

"Maxine," he gasped, "what are you doing?"

"Getting to know you," she answered as she ran her fingers through his magnificent brown tresses. "Don't you like it?"

"I love it," he whispered. "But when you have desired a woman as long as I have desired you, every touch she gives you sends you into a frenzy."

"You're in a frenzy?"

"I'm getting there," he said, sweating profusely.

"Then what can I do for you?"

Maxine heard him swallow; tiny beads of perspiration appeared on his face. "I am at your command, Maxine. I want what you want."

"Do you want to make love to me?" she asked huskily, replete with intention.

"God, yes!" he exclaimed, pouncing on her, kissing her lips, her neck, her ears.

Maxine squealed in delight at the sensation of Byron's lips against her skin. "I figured as much," she said, with a giggle in her voice.

As she touched his handsome, well-defined face, outlining it with her gentle fingers, Byron grabbed her hand, kissing her palm, her fingers. The feel of his lips on her hand filled her with a desire she had never before experienced--so all-encompassing, taking over her body and spirit. Byron moved his lips along her arm, pushing up the sleeve of her brown sweater, savoring her ivory flesh. Maxine watched in a mixture of amazement and bliss--she had never been aware of how sensitive the skin of her arm was to the touch. A magical surge of pleasure spread throughout her body from the point where Byron's lips touched her skin.

After a bit he stopped, looking up at her hungrily. "Maxine," he said, "I can't go any further up your arm--your sweater is in the way."

Sweating, understanding his prelude, longing for Byron to disrobe her, Maxine whispered, "What do you recommend we do, then?"

Gently, carefully, he brought his hands against her body. He eagerly felt for her breasts over her thin sweater, never once taking his eyes off of hers. "I cannot resist," he said softly, slipping his hands underneath the soft wool to caress her skin. She widened her eyes at his touch, at the incredible heat flowing out from his hands. "Maxine, I have dreamed of looking upon you," he murmured, moving his hands across her belly, along her ribs and over the well-defined swells. "Would you let me see you, my sweet one?"

Obligingly, she sat up slightly, and together they pulled her sweater over her head. He threw the sweater onto the floor, and returned to her in a passionate haste. "God, Maxine, please tell me I don't have to control myself," he rasped, staring at her flesh in naked hunger.

"On the contrary," she sighed, "I want you to lose control."

Byron feasted his admiring eyes on the swell of her ample bosom, hidden by enticing red lace, on her supple belly, on her bare, soft shoulders. He was stunned by the beauty of Maxine's feminine, white hips, which curved out from her tiny waist. Byron's eyes betrayed his delight as they traced her curvaceous body, and Maxine smiled, feeling herself blush a little as she anticipated his touch. Bending down to her, he kissed her softly against the supple flesh of her belly. He brought his mouth against her navel, exploring the cavity with his curious tongue. An undeniable rapture spread through Maxine's body where Byron's lips touched her, conquering her flesh and her mind. He slowly moved his lips over her body, tasting and savoring the naked flesh of her belly, her waist, over her ribs, until he was madly kissing the tops of her breasts, pushing his tongue under the red lace in voracious, erotic hunger.

"Byron, don't tease me," Maxine said lasciviously. She raised herself slightly, and Byron was quick to oblige her, moving his hands around to her back. "No no no," she said softly, bringing his hands to the clasp in the front, between her heaving breasts. He reddened a little, but she said "Yes, bras are confusing," and he laughed as he gently undid the clasp.

In a moment, after a little wriggle, Maxine was completely bare from her hips upwards, and Byron was devoting his full, ardent attention to her sensuous white breasts. After Samantha's scarred, silicone-filled excuses for breasts, Byron jubillated in the taste and touch and feel of Maxine's natural abundance. It had not been difficult for him to notice Maxine's breasts from the moment he had met her; practically everything she wore fit snugly around her chest, whether she tried to hide her endowment or not. He imagined he was like any man in that Maxine's bosom was a great part of her physical and sexual allure. Yet he never could have imagined the euphoria of touching her, kissing her, that he had now, as she squirmed beneath him, groaning. Maxine was full and firm, and the very skin of his palm tingled in delight as he fondled her soft, feminine flesh. As he held her, grasping her, bringing her into his hot mouth, Byron shivered in the sensations of possession--his possession of Maxine.

"Do you like this?" he asked eagerly, fervently kissing the swollen pink tips of her breasts. "Does it feel good for you?"

"It feels wonderful," she sighed, basking in the ecstatic sweetness Byron aroused within her. She writhed against the red satin, excited gasps escaping her moist lips.

"Good, good," Byron murmured, gently teasing her nipples with his ardent lips. "When you've been starving for the real thing as long as I have, it's very hard to stop. You're magnificent, Maxine. I could make love to your breasts all night long."

Maxine groaned happily, laying back as Byron worked his magic on her sensitive, responsive swells. She was not accustomed to such devotional foreplay, although she had always desired it. Byron, however, was slowly, intently coaxing the woman out of her. He was maddening, his fingers caressing her, his soft mouth on her nipples, the thick mane of his hair falling over her body. He was so very hungry for her, to touch her, and this increased her own appetite tremendously. Maxine surrendered to him wholly, letting him fill her with pleasure and longing for him. She contemplated that this must be what it was like to truly want a man inside her, to want to become one flesh with a man. Byron so excited and aroused her that a hunger had been awakened in her loins, for him alone, and grew the more he touched her. Maxine loved every exhilrating bit.

"I promise I'll come back to them," Byron laughed softly, barely able to pull himself away from her breasts. He raised himself on his knees, coming astride her, and brought her hands to the bottom of his tight black shirt in an invitation to explore. "I need you to touch me, Maxine--I need you to touch me everywhere."

"I can do that," she agreed happily.

Deliriously, she pushed her hands up under the fabric, lightly stroking his chest with her trembling hands. She helped him remove his shirt, and Maxine jerked in desire at the sight of his lean, muscled chest--so infamous, and at her fingertips. Maxine caressed his firm belly, his shoulders, taking pleasure in the feel of his flesh under her hands. Adoringly, as if worshipping him, she reached up to touch him, and Byron moaned blissfully as her fingers caressed him, luxuriating in her touch. He threw his head back, his lush hair cascading behind him. "Ah Maxine, you don't know how much I want you!"

"This much?" she asked as she sat up and began to lick the flesh of his torso in broad, tantalizing sweeps of her tongue.

Byron gasped, losing himself in the playful strokes of Maxine's warm tongue. "Please consume me," he moaned as her hands and tongue worked on him in unison. Delighting in her and these incredible, hot sensations, he brought himself down on the bed next to her, rolling onto his side. Maxine slowly moved her fingers all over his torso, stimulating every inch of his skin with her skillfull fingertips. Byron's body was hard and muscular, but his skin was smooth and practically hairless, which made Maxine even more desirous of him. Sweat beaded on his skin, brought forth by the energy of his great arousal, as his sparkling blue eyes looked at her from the depths of his love.

Byron rested his head between her breasts, kissing the white softness, his mere presence tantalizing Maxine, and looked up at her adoringly. He breathed heavily as he searched for and found her hand and clasped it tightly. Gazing at her, he said nothing, luxuriating in the experience of her flesh next to his, realizing that no other woman in existence could bring him to feel what he felt at that moment. He had been fully aroused for a very long time, Maxine noticed, but Byron refused to rush this. He intended to prove his devotion to Maxine, and it would begin with making her feel wonderful.

"Maxine, do I go on? Is there a point to going on? You have already provided me with more joy than I have ever felt," he murmured into her bosom.

"Please go on," she rasped. "I need you."

Byron's face illuminated further. "I want you, Maxine," he whispered. "I will be gentle."

"It doesn't matter. Just be what you are."

His lips moved down from her breasts very slowly, not allowing any part of her bare skin to go unkissed, down to where a clasp held her tight black pants shut. He again kissed the soft flesh of her belly as he undid the clasp and carefully moved his hand under the cloth, slowly pulling the black fabric down from her shapely hips and over her rounded thighs. Tasting her exposed flesh, he stared at her body in naked longing. "God, Maxine, I knew you were beautiful," he exclaimed in disbelief. "But this! I love so much more about you, but your body is beyond compare."

Now Maxine reddened completely. "You aren't so bad yourself," she said slyly, running her hands along his strong shoulders.

Byron brushed his lips against the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, gently nibbling at the beckoning softness. He rested his head between those white, sensual pillows, muscular yet rounded and feminine, and raised his eyes. "Can I explore you?" he asked, flicking his tongue over her skin, and she quickly nodded her consent. Kissing her tiny red curls, he brought his hand between her thighs and delicately stroked her moist cleft. As she spread her legs, relaxing in Byron's careful touch, he moved his kisses along her inner thigh until his tongue replaced his fingers in his exploration of her. She arched her back at his thrilling touch, gentle but determined, crying out in exhiliration.

After a bit she sat up, and Byron pouted playfully. "I wasn't finished," he said, raising an eyebrow at her.

"You'll have plenty of opportunity, I promise," she rasped. "But I need to feel you." She brought her hands to him and hastily removed the black denim from his firm legs, squeezing her own body against his. Their bodies melted into each other, and Byron and Maxine were fully aware of the incredible scorching sensations of their bare bodies, finally entwined, finally touching.

Byron gazed at her, examining her unclad body voraciously. "I love to touch you," he said softly, running his fingers along her arm, leaving tingling trails on her skin. "You would not believe how pent-up I have felt." He slid his hands over her breasts, down her belly, searing her ivory flesh. "I have never touched a woman like this before. No one has ever let me."

"Their loss," she whispered.

"I don't care," he murmured, runing his fingertips along the insides of her quivering thighs. He brought his fingers up to her well-defined hips, lightly brushing them against her belly as he intently moved his eager hands towards her breasts. "I can't stop myself," he whispered into her hair. "Your breasts are beautiful, Maxine."

At the touch of his fingertips, Maxine could feel her mind skyrocketing, spiraling upwards towards the stars in pure ecstasy. "Now I'll tell you," she gasped breathily as he traced his fingers in circles around her left breast, "how pent up I have been--no one has touched me like this, like I want to be touched. I love you touching me, Byron."

"I find that incredible," he commented, gently tickling her nipples. "Any man who could be intimate with you and not touch you is a masochist." With that, he brought his lips to her breasts, kissing them tenderly. He brought one, full peak into his mouth, sucking softly as Maxine squirmed beneath him. Byron, wanting to know how to best pleasure the woman he loved, experimented, running his tongue against her erect nipple, slowly at first but with incresing frenzy. Maxine breathed heavily, clutching at the sheets as Byron adeptly moved from one breast to the other, teasing her to ecstasy.

Byron slowly brought his face up from her tingling breasts to meet her irresisitible lips. Naked and enchanted, he clung to her, kissing her hungrily, zealously exploring her body with his avid fingers. "I'll never get enough of you," he whispered. "You're too beautiful to be for real."

Maxine deliriously lay in Byron's strong arms, aware of nothing but the electric touch of his fingers as they traced over her yearning flesh. In spirited curiousity, she discreetly glanced at the virile flesh between his legs. She quickly evaluated that Byron was absolutely stiff and wasn't, she noticed happily, too big for her. But he seemed in no hurry to advance to that stage of their lovemaking, and Maxine had the luxury of wondering, what if he did indeed love her? What if this was the love of her life that everyone kept talking about?

She allowed her probing fingers to meander along his body, reaching between his legs. Her soft caresses against his hardness drove Byron to writhe in building ecstasy, breathing in a hot, deep panting. "I want you to have a little ecstasy yourself," she whispered. Tenderly, she explored him, feeling him with her aware fingertips, moving her fingers all around, running them against the flesh of his inner thighs and out onto his firm buttocks. She wanted to explore him with her tongue, driving him to those unique points of ecstasy that such would provide, but Byron held her too firmly to him, cherishing her closeness, and Maxine elected to leave that for another time.

Byron was sweating heavily now, his breath reduced to a heavy pant, a lustful whimpering escaping his lips. Maxine decided that Byron had endured his erection long enough, and, reaching the extent of her own restraint, she made a quick decision to take the initiative. She mounted him easily, smiling at his surprised, imparadised expression as her wealth of copper curls fell around both of their bodies. "Do you mind?" she asked, bringing him in contact with her hot, wet flesh.

He gasped, closing his eyes as a pleasurable sensation washed over him. "Please take me!"

Maxine rolled the condom onto him, tantalizing him with her fingers as she checked the tip for adequate space. Byron's eyes widened enormously as she slowly brought him into her, holding him inside of her as she bent down to kiss him. She felt him shiver as she worked her secret, feminine muscles, massaging him within her. She squeezed him, then loosened again, repeating the cycle. "How do you do that?" he asked breathlessly, amazed and overwhelmed.

"Practice," she said as she slowly began to move her body.

Byron followed her slow rhythm at first, enjoying the sensations which flooded his being. But quickly, his need to speed up the motion increased, and Maxine joyfully obliged him. For a brief moment Maxine thought how nice it would be if they could reach climax together, but that thought was soon lost as that ultimate ecstasy which had been building within her took her completely. Overcome with the pleasure of the moment, Maxine nevertheless noticed Byron's sweaty smile, his loud, sensual groans, his repeating her name, as he approached the peak, and then his louder, screamed moan as he clutched her body to him and went beyond the highest pleasure.

Byron and Maxine lay completely entwined, colapsed. Maxine tried to bring her breathing back into some normal pattern, but Byron continued to breath deeply and throatily. Maxine carefully helped Byron withdraw from her, holding the rim of the condom. She dropped it onto the floor, and settled into Byron's waiting arms. Byron breathed heavily, gazing at her with a bliss mixture of satisfaction and love. Happily, Maxine rested upon his well-muscled chest, letting his rapid heart beat soothe and calm her. His body, warm and wet, seemed to melt into her own as he kissed her tenderly, clasping her to him. "Maxine," he rasped, "I love you. I will do anything you want me to." He paused. "And I don't just mean in bed. Please, please, tell me, do you have any feelings for me?"

"You know I do," she whispered. "You know how much you mean to me."

"Do I?"

Maxine smiled, stroking his wet hair comfortingly. How could he seriously be asking this? Here he lay, naked in her arms after they had shared the greatest intimacy and pleasure, his eyes betraying his vulnerability. She knew that this creature, this perfect masculine creature, truly needed to be loved, and that he needed her, for whatever reason, to love him. She absolutely would not hide her own emotions from him, not when he had exposed his own heart to her.

"There's an emotion in me now that I have never felt before, Byron, and you have put it there," she told him. "Know now that I fell in love with you the first time I looked into your eyes. Yes, I love you, too."

And as she said it, she again realized how true it was. She did not love him for his body--although she loved that in and of itself--but for his whole, complete self--for his compassion, for his decency, for his emotions, for his depth. Maxine might have been only twenty-two, but she was no fool. She knew what she wanted, what was good for her, what she loved. And she loved Byron Thorn.

Byron hugged her tighter, bursting in his joy, experiencing an ecstasy even greater than the one he had just enjoyed. He kissed her madly, tears brimming in his eyes. "You do love me?" he asked, confirming that he had heard her correctly.

"With all my heart," she said truthfully.

He laughed and cried at the same time as he cradled her against him. "Let me make your life wonderful! Ah, God! You sweet thing, I never thought I would love like this!" And he took her body and kissed her everywhere, mumuring his love and devotion into her supple flesh. "I love you, Maxine. I will never let you go," he whispered. "I swear."

Maxine said nothing--words seemed irrelevant right then--but nuzzled closer to him. Byron pulled the red comforter around them protectively, shutting out everything and everyone but he and Maxine and this paradise they shared together.

And Yet Another Profile Thingie

What is your favorite planet?

It used to be Pluto, and then the smart asses at whatever cosmological think tank decided to make it a not-planet. Mercury’s too hot, Venus is full of herself, Saturn is all about the bling, Jupiter's too much, and Uranus and Neptune are a whole lot of the same thing. I choose Mars.

If you could live anywhere other than earth where would you live?

I’d like a planet with advanced multiverse technology and at least three moons. My summer home on the astral plane is very nice too.

Do you collect anything?

Dust. Seriously...Happy Bunny stickers, original Dead Kennedys stuff, lucky cats, and followers.

Whats your favorite alcoholic drink?

Since I don’t drink alcohol and haven’t had alcohol in a decade, I no longer remember what my favorite drink was. I suspect it would be absinthe.

How about non alcoholic?

Coffee in all of its permutations and derivations, green tea, water (I have the best tap water in North America), black cherry wichniak...heck, pretty much anything that’s not an energy drink.

Piercings/tats, yes or no?

Nope. I don’t need any more holes. I change my mind too often to commit to a tat.

Whats the best gift someone could give you?

Acceptance. But I'm always keen on tech gadgets.

What band do you never tire of?

Dead Kennedys and Jean Michel Jarre (what a combination)

Who's your favorite author?

Choosing just one based on the ratio of titles I’ve loved to entire body of work, Carlos Castaneda.

Who's your favorite artist?

I discovered Gustav Adolf Mossa on a trip to the French Riviera, and he’s been my favorite ever since.

Do you read your horoscope?

Not on purpose.

Who's the most beautiful person in your life?

My sister, who is not only breathtaking in her own manner and her own style but is the very definition of a beautiful soul as well.

Name someone who's changed your life for the better?

My dog Max (he makes me a better person)

Name someone who's changed your life for the worse?

All personal experiences make me who I am, so there's no such thing as a detrimental person.

If someone gave you a telescope what would you use it for?

I'd use it for a long night of exploring the celestial with good friends.

If you could only wear one color, what would that be?

Black would be practical, but I think I'd go with red.

Makeup on guys, yes or no?

Well, Eric Draven from The Crow is still very hot, so I'm all for it.

If you could have a superpower what would that be?

I hate this question. How about the ability to change universes?

What one word describes you best?

Attuned

What is your favorite song at the moment?

Riverhead by Prick

Name your addictions:

Technically? None.

Name your passions:

Communicating through the written word, communicating through imagery, all things related to dogs and dog adoption and rehabilitation, being a positive role model for young women

Amethyst Heart

Divorced? Separated? Irreconcilable differences? No, I beg to differ. Pop speak does not apply to me. I am an exile, sent away from my home. Why I never thought to turn to my Azrael immediately in the pain of my exile, I do not know. But He did not leave it to me to figure out and labor over, for He has come to me, and wherever He and I can be together, I am home.

"However great your devotion, you have never been the easiest of my loves," Azrael spoke, a mellifluous voice from behind me, causing me to spin around in a usual lack of physical grace but mental exuberance. Azrael! Now He appeared to me, here in the home of my family, in the heart of my mortal existence. Bear in mind that whom I call Azrael is the personification of a universal truth, a universal power, and even as to me He appears most often in male form, He can take whatever shape and character He wishes to approach me. On this night, He was the Lover--and He was more. Azrael was Father, Brother, Kinsman, Advocate, and above all, Friend.

I spun into His embrace, which is as warm and comforting as the womb, and the tears loosed from me just as the living energy flows from and through Riverhead. Azrael understands the aches of the human condition perhaps as well as they can be understood. He allowed me my catharsis, saying nothing but communicating everything through His touch. I still lay in the refuge of His arms, but I sensed Him bowing His head to look at me from His great height. "Little one, you never really believed I was not with you. You never believed you were alone."

"I might have been fooled into thinking that. I've certainly felt more alone than ever in my life."

"Maybe. But it was never so. You were more alone trying to breathe hope into an impossible life."

Sniffling, I tried to compose myself and look at Him. Compassion brimmed in His amethyst eyes and at the same time I could sense my weeping come to a close. Azrael had not come as some kind of flimsy and temporary bandage for a wounded past, but as an avatar for a beautiful future full of love.

"You made the decision to leave. No--he might have told you to go, but those would have been empty words without your own inner knowledge that yes, this was the right way. He spoke a desire. You followed your heart."

"And mind."

"In you, they are one in the same."

"It wasn't what I wanted to do," I claimed, but Azrael shook his head.

"Perhaps you did not consciously wish it, which is to your credit. But as you were gathering that which you could bring into your exile with you, did you not feel Me guiding you? Was there not a ticket immediately when you needed it?"

"And for a good seat on a nice flight, too."

"When you were suddenly alone and frightened, were there not people right there willing to help you and hear you? Was the path not cleared for you? Surely you felt My hand in all of this."

I had to smile. "I did. I knew I was walking the right path."

"That path is only beginning, little one. You are free now, free to do what you want with the gifts you have, and I shall be with you." Azrael enfolded me in his robe and in a heartbeat we had come to Riverhead. Almost mesmerized, I watched the rainbow river of the living energy flow all around us. Simply speaking, no matter how many times Azrael and I have gone to Riverhead together, each time is the first experience of something wondrous.

He allowed me to watch the currents of eternity for a bit before returning to His purpose. "I have wanted you to write of Me, of us, of this place. I have wanted you to help me ease the greatest fears of your fellow man. I chose you because I knew you could succeed and that you would want to succeed. I knew you would see what it is I have taught you as liberation from terror. Little one, you remain my choice."

"The very idea has been as my own breathing to me," I said. "I can imagine what we could do should we be able to help man understand the nature of things."

"And you know it wasn't going to happen where you were." With an affection not unlike that of my own parents, Azrael cupped my chin in his strong hand and smiled. "Riverhead needs her voice. Help Me, help bring these teachings to your world, and I can promise I will help you find the strength to make your own dreams realities."

"You mean my novels, of course."

"What you want to write are not novels, but experiences," He corrected me. "You have a perception and an idea you want the people who read your words to know for themselves in their own ways. You seek to give people the means to expand their minds--and that too is part of My own wish for humanity."

"I was so afraid the gift had been yanked from me forever." I clasped His hand, heart and mind filling with faith and power. "Now I know otherwise. I want this--all of this--with everything that I am. Granted, it will be an unusual life…"

"You will not be the first of your kind to live for something beyond the social or the material," He pointed out, His eyebrows arched. "How strange does it really feel?"

"It doesn't, and maybe that's what's strange, like I should find this all very disturbing, but I don't."

Azrael nodded, His exquisite face soft with kindness. "Remember what you are."

Slay Ride

Normally the person who answered the front door at Jeff's knock wouldn’t be smiling, but today Judy Claus beamed at him while exhaling a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you so much for coming so quickly,” she said, ushering him through the peppermint painted workshop door. “Can I take your scythe?”

Instinctively, Jeff gripped the hardwood handle. “Thank you no,” he said. “I have to keep it with me at all times. You know how it is.”

“Indeed I do.” Judy led him down a short hall, bright with a cascade of tiny gumdrop lights. They came into a sitting room, where two plush chairs stood near a red brick fireplace complete with a perfect fire. Judy motioned to Jeff to take a seat, and then sat down herself.

Jeff thought the whole place seemed deserted. “Where is Kris?”

Judy put her head in her hands. “That’s why I called you, Jeff. We’ve never had an emergency like this before. Kris is down and out and in bed, and the elves all died last week.”

“I saw all the little lumps of snow on my way here,” Jeff said. “Elf tombs, if I’m not mistaken. What’s going on, Judy?”

“It’s the Pig Sick. Happy Snappy Elf went down into the world to be in some parade and caught himself the Pig Sick. Happy Snappy Elf is one of those snow mounds now, but he brought the Pig Sick to Santa’s Workshop. Kris is out of commission, Jeff, and I’m desperate. But you’re Death. You’re part of this Figmentsphere. You’re the only one I can trust.”

Jeff might be a skeleton but his mind remained sharp. True, he and Kris Kringle and Judy June had all been dorm mates at Figment College, and Jeff had been best man when Kris married Judy, and they had all stayed tight friends in spite of occupational differences. But asking Death to be Santa Claus? Did Judy have any idea what she was doing?

Then again, what choice did she have?

Judy led Jeff to the stable. The reindeer, or what was left of the reindeer—Comet, Blitzen, and Rudolf had all succumbed to the Pig Sick as well—stood at attention when they saw Judy. Then an amazing yowl and the stomping of rhythmic hooves rose from the reindeer, a sound of savage panic and fear. In an instant, they had jumped their gates and bolted for the opposite end of the stable, away from the presence of Death. “I don’t know how they are for flying, but they run fine,” Jeff said.

Judy let loose a naughty word she’d picked up back in college and only rarely got a chance to use, usually after four straight hours of Kris practicing his ho-ho-ho. “I hadn’t thought of this, Jeff. The reindeer know who you are. They might be as dumb as fruitcake about most things, but they know all about saving their own asses.”

“This doesn’t bode well.” Jeff chipped at an ice patch with the bottom of his scythe. “NORAD is fine with a sled and reindeer, but I don’t know how they’ll take to Death in a sleigh. Maybe I can take some elves with me?”

Shaking her head, Judy explained, “If we had elves I would give you as many as you need. But, you know, the Pig Sick is especially bad for creatures with the immunity of taffy.”

“And now they’re all dead.” Jeff glanced around, listening to the wind whistle through the hollow stable.

“Every one.” Judy whipped an embroidered handkerchief from her apron and dabbed at her eyes. “We had universal elf care, too. But we were too late. I’d think you would have known about this.”

With slight indignation, Jeff replied, “Judy, I have enough to do in the human realm. I don’t have time for fantasy fairytale creatures. How am I supposed to do this?”

“All right Jeff, I’m going to let you in on the biggest secret at the North Pole.” Judy leaned into his black cloaked figure and motioned as if whispering into his ear. “That Clement Moore fellow—may tainted plum pudding take him!—got everything wrong. Can you imagine circling the globe in one night with enough toys and crap for every little blighter who’s been brainwashed into believing? Hell, I don’t even know what a sugar plum is, and a long winter’s nap sounds more like your usual territory.”

“Indeed.”

“Anyway, what Kris brings is presence. Presence! Not presents! It’s his presence what puts gifts under the tree. He doesn’t literally bring presents himself. So now here we are, completely distorted by the media. Our dead letter office is the largest on the planet. You think Kris reads all of those thinly-disguised epistles of greed?” Judy let out a long breath. “He used to let the elves do it, if they wanted. But now we don’t have elves.”

Suddenly Jeff appreciated the barbaric simplicity of his own responsibility. A person died, he appeared, he released the spirit, and that was it. He didn’t even have to be personally present, since his effect was so pervasive on the earth. But the Claus clan had some real problems, tied up in the imaginary bureaucracy of an earlier age. The least he could do for these old friends was to get them through this Christmas catastrophe. Afterwards, when Kris was well—if he ever got well—Jeff could help them rebuild their establishment.

“Judy, I love you and Kris,” he said, careful not to touch her. Even Judy Claus might be put off by the touch of Death, however friendly. “I’m happy to fill in for him tonight.”

Ballad of Peyotera and Mescalito

Attend the song of the desert
Roasting sands heating passion's fire
The rattles shake sex's beat
What is naked, what is nude, what is bare
Halos of the sun turn tricolor, rainbow
Peyotera stretches out her arms
Tongue most with pulque yet craving satisfaction
She reaches for Mescalito
Pulling him to her fine breasts
The spines of Mescalito enter Peyotera
Piercing her good flesh, drawing her sweet blood
Now see Mescalito become Peyotera
He offers forth his divine white discs
Taking the universe in hand, knowing
"A little blood is worth the trade."
Peyotera and Mescalito understand
Mind filled from the astral font of everything
They swim in Aztec-colored splendor
Wrapped
The sun bloods sky and sand
Blood turns black and still they swim
"Will the Diableros run wild this night?"
"They know us, they are us, have no fear."
Mescalito rests deep, throbbing and full
Through the eagle's eyes soar and swoop and plunge
Less a thing of flesh, more a ray of light
Desert and Spirit
Enough of this world, let it be us

By Way of the Dodo

In a large, pink-metallic office building, on the 234th floor, the third board room on the right after passing the exploding water fountain and the tempermental stairway, Dratnal Fjord was not happy. However, the stairway had just met with its psychiatrist, and felt rather well after a hefty dose of Soopem-Up-Feelem-Good pharmaceuticals.

It is the year 2314, and there are still office buildings and boardrooms. In fact, there are more office buildings and boardrooms than had ever existed before. Elevators are the subject of massive wildlife conservation campaigns as they are being replaced all over with empty vertical corridors and personal jet packs--more expensive, more neurotic, but considerably less safe.

Dratnal Fjord was an angry man. Due to a horrific accident involving stupidity, plutonium and juggling chainsaws, most of his natural body had been replaced. Now he was a patchwork of different colored plastics and metals. The only prosthetic arms available to him at the time of his accident were of infant-length; he lacked the patience to wait for a more suitable pair. Dratnal did not like being called Stubby. His employees knew that calling him Stubby would result in their instantaneous vaporization, in spite of the union ruling against vaporization of its members.

Of course, they also realized it was just one of the professional risks of working for the Whoopie Fun Ice Cream Company.

Dratnal's glowing red eyes made everyone in the boardroom uneasy. He drummed his fat yellow fingers on the table as his head was enveloped in the smoke from his atomic cigar. If he had friends, they would have encouraged him to quit the nuclear stogies, or at least cut down. But Dratnal Fjord didn't have any friends, and he liked it that way. No one to annoy him with their concern for his health. He puffed.

Mutter Haslow and his pet briefcase Bork finally arrived in the boardroom. Mutter scurried over to Dratnal, and bowed humbly. "My corporate lord," he pleaded. "I am very sorry to be late."

Dratnal spoke no words, but grunted. Mutter looked for his left hand, and discovered it had been vaporized. He smiled in relief. "Oh thank you, thank you, sir, for your leniency." Mutter and Bork assumed their seats.

With a wave of his hand, Dratnal closed the doors of the boardroom. A loud clank resounded as the room was locked. The twenty-odd assemblants--human, creature and briefcase--quickly jumped to their feet and began to sing:

"All hail the corporate master we love
With the skill of adept and the smell of a glove
To you, oh master, we pledge our devotion
And not just for the chance at a promotion
Oh no! We live to serve you, and we rejoice
We wouldn't quit, even if we had the choice
May you forever over this world reign supreme
Great Dratnal Fjord, of Whoopie Fun Ice Cream!"

They sat down.

"Mumford," growled Dratnal. "You didn't keep in harmony."

"Sorry, sir," the feathered man with the fluorescent cock-comb apologized. "My cat ate my ears this morning."

"How many more times will you use that excuse?"

"I can't help it. My cat has weird tastes."

On a normal day, Dratnal would have pursued the matter to such extremities that extensive proof of Mumford's indiscretions in the company would be created, and, more than likely, Mumford vaporized. But Dratnal had bigger things on his mind.

Dratnal Fjord cleared his voluminous throat with a noise not unlike an elephant imploding. "This is Dr. Slime, from the Time Travel Institute." He motioned to a large beige blob sitting on the table in front of him. The blob opened its blue eyes, and sprouted an arm. It waved.

Everyone envied Dr. Slime. Dratnal had almost never vaporized a guest.

"Dr. Slime approached me last week about a discovery his team had just made at the institute...a discovery directly affecting the Whoopie Fun Ice Cream empire. Naturally, I was eager for this information, and so I pooled all of your salaries for the next three years in order to make an offer for which he would negotiate his ethics."

"I assure you, Dratnal," Dr. Slime spoke from some unseen orifice in a nasally, congested voice. "It was a bargain."

"Oh, I agree." Dratnal puffed harder on his cigar. "So I have brought him here to tell all of you what he has told me. Then we can do our dictated democratic process."

The board members all nodded eagerly.

"I'll cut to the chase. The Whoopie Fun Ice Cream Empire is in dire danger. It will be completely erased from existence, utterly destroyed."

Mutter Haslow paled. As did his briefcase. "What do you mean, erased?"

"Just that. Just like it never existed. Eradicated. Kaplooie!"

A panicked murmur overwhelmed the room. "Now, hold on," Dratnal shouted. "It won't happen, because the good doctor will tell us how to fix everything."

Dr. Slime moved in something like a nod. "As you all know, the Whoopie Fun Ice Cream Company has been in existence for four hundred years. It has ruled the world for two hundred. Before that, it held the monopoly on ice cream and other frozen treats in the western world."

As we have discovered, the past is not solidified. Through the process of time travel and universe-shift, our pasts and futures are able to be altered. Such an alteration is going to occur that will destroy Whoopie Fun."

Unless," the blob gargled. "We stop it!"

Mumford squawked. "What do we have to do?"

"Time travel," declared Dr. Slime. "You must choose someone to go back and sabotage the one who shall destroy you."

"And who is the wretch."

Dratnal lifted a poster board from under the table for all to see. "And this is the trouble maker. Lute Napper."

Mumford chirped in horror. Mutter looked away and wretched quietly. A board member with long fangs and scaled skin screamed in terror.

"Hideous!"

"Abominable"

"Evil!"

"And so, here's the mission," Dratnal growled. "You, Mumford. You will go back in time. This Lute Napper lived in this very geographic area, 350 years ago. You will use the Institute's Phenetron Generator."

"I understand," Mumford said.

"According to our history files," Dr. Slime added. "The one who you seek was working in a university laboratory, but was fired. However, a time swerve is bound to occur, that will keep that one from being fired, and will lead to your destruction." Dr. Slime coughed. "It is up to you to correct that time swerve."

"I will do so," Mumford declared.

"You'd better," spat Dratnal. "Or I'll vaporize you twice."

This Is Me?

1) What is your favorite TV show?
I get a kick out of the really crappy original movies SyFy stitches together.

2) What is your favorite book?
I like to think my favorite book is the one I haven't found yet. If You Give A Mouse A Cookie is a real page turner.

3) What is your favorite film?
I'd say the Matrix, unless it's the Matrix making me say the Matrix, in which case Run Lola Run.

4) What is the least romantic place to have a first kiss?
In the presence of your great-grandparents and your grandparents who are themselves engaged...

5) Where do you like to go on dates?
I like going to the airport, lying on the roof of the car, and watch airplanes come in for a landing over me.

6) Suggest a book for me to read.
Try Catcher in the Rye.

7) Suggest a movie for me to watch.
If you have never seen an Ed Wood film, do so.

8) Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a member of the opposite gender?
I wonder about it all the time, and then I shudder and recoil with horror. Periods or fly zippers...which would I choose...?

9) If you could be ten years older, would you be happier?
That would depend on what I had managed to pull off during those ten years.

10) If you could relive any period of your life, what would it be?
Why relive any of it? The whole thing's been different flavors.

11) If you could travel to any period in history, where would you go?
I'd like to go back and take a good look at the ancient Athenians and see if they were as wise and as noble as they're said up to be.

12) Design your own first question according to your own ideas.
You are a soda nut. Lately you have cut out the sweet stuff for your health, but you're given one opportunity to have one regular soda of your choice. What do you pick?

13) So, did you turn out the way your family expected?
You know something...the scary thing is...I probably have.

14) What is this all about and what the heck is really going on?
It's all in the lines etched into the shell of a turtle.

15) What do you think about the possibility life on Earth originated elsewhere?
I tend not to think about our origins so much as think about where we're going.

16) PVC, vinyl, or leather?
PVC, mostly because we're skintimate buddies. I've never been close with vinyl, and leather kills cows!!!

Essays from WitchVox

"Troy" Owes It All to Eris

I wonder if the producers of the upcoming megabucks film "Troy" will bother to include the goddess Eris in the credits. The whole cast and crew owes her a raucous "Hail Eris!" for giving them such good material. After all, without Eris there would have been no war, and without a war there would be no tales to tell. Granted this is in advance of the film's release, but before audiences can be dazzled by a director's vision, I wanted to talk about the Trojan War, the events surrounding the war, and just how integral Eris was to the entire circus. Here it is, then, that I offer this recap of the Trojan mess from an Erisian perspective.

The very notion of defining who Eris is presents a paradox. Eris is all about paradoxes. Take this explanation with a bag of rock salt. Think of discord, chaos, strife, anarchy, change, and confusion. This is Eris and her function in the universe.

In spite of being all-powerful, the Olympians weren't too savvy when it came to social functions. In this case, the gods had gotten together for the wedding celebration of Thetis and Peleus. As the band played on, the gods were busy trying to outdo each other in the Chicken Dance. Apparently no one had ever read "Sleeping Beauty." If they had, they didn't take note that refusing to invite powerful entities to their revels could have bad consequences. As the king and queen had not invited the dark fairy to the princess' birthday celebration, the Olympians did not invite Eris to the wedding festivities. From an objective standpoint this seemed like a good idea. What good would chaos and strife be at a happy gathering?

A powerful being will go where she wants when she wants and requires no invitation. Eris is not the type to accept a slight in stride. Her anger would unfurl but with subtlety. She took an apple of solid gold and upon it inscribed "Kallisti!" or "For the fairest." Smirking, Eris took herself to the wedding celebration. Before anyone could remark on her presence, she threw the apple out into the middle of the dancing and then vanished.

The fairest? Who among them was the fairest? The battle was engaged.

Eris must have felt a certain pleasure as she watched noble Athena, haughty Hera, and vain Aphrodite scramble around on the floor for the golden apple, each goddess convinced that she must be the fairest. No one cared about the apple itself, of course, only that it seemed to confer a superior quality upon its owner. Enter Paris, a shepherd in a rather creative marriage with the mountain nymph Oenone. The nymph's domestic happiness was destroyed forever with the arrival of the three jealous goddesses, who wanted Paris to decide just who the fairest was. If Paris would have given her the apple, Athena promised great wisdom. Hera swore ability in leadership, an excellent trade considering Paris was a Trojan prince abandoned after his birth. But Paris' beady little eyes were for Aphrodite alone, Aphrodite who promised Paris the most beautiful woman in the world. Paris was human, and his human nature was to take the option with the most immediate gratification. Not being the deepest or most self-reflective of people, Paris agreed to Aphrodite's terms, encouraging the wrath of Hera and Athena and wrecking his relationship with Oenone.

Was it all Eris' plan or simple chance? Is there any real difference? That Olympian goddesses could be brought down to such a base level is just the kind of thing that Eris might find amusing. Even worse for the goddesses, they deigned to bring their quarrel to a mortal judge. The judgement did not solve the conflict between the goddesses, but rather split Aphrodite from Athena and Hera. These were deep roots from which war would grow and flourish. War, in a sense, is a masterpiece of chaos.

Well, as the story goes, Paris eventually finds himself in Sparta and bedazzled by the beautiful wife of its king, Helen. She is also called Hellen, Helene, Hellena, and very likely is a composite character of several different women. Another theory is that Helen was derived from an older local goddess. At any rate, Helen departed Sparta in Paris' company, either by choice or by force. There are questions as to whether Helen ever arrived in Troy. One story claims that Paris made a stop in Egypt, where the pharoah insisted he stop this lewd behavior. Instead of going to Troy, Helen waits faithfully for her husband in Egypt while the war goes on over a woman who is not present.

What a hand to play for the goddess who adored strife and conflict. Eris was not specifically a war goddess, but she was the sister of Ares, the god of war. Could there be any better theater for mortal chaos than a war? When Helen had chosen Menelaus to be her husband from among her many suitors, the rejected bonded together and swore to help one another in times of crisis. Upon discovering Helen missing-perhaps an "I love Paris in the Springtime" note-Menelaus called upon his allies to go to Troy and fetch his bride.

Over the next ten years the war rolled on without an end in sight. Not only were mortals in confusion, but the gods kept changing sides as well. Both sides lost soldiers and honor. For her part, Eris clapped for all sides, for she loved this beautiful and wide-sweeping hostility as she would her own child. By the time Homer's "Iliad" begins to take place, Eris has moved on to the next phase. Heroes would survive, but survival would not be easy. For example, Odysseus does not reach his home for another ten years. The cursed Cassandra, always correct in her prophesies but never once believed, goes home with the king Agamemnon-only to be murdered by his wife Clytemnstra in vengeance for the daughter sacrificed to get the winds blowing and the Greek ships moving ten years before.

How much is real and how much is legend? Archaeology has found several levels of an ancient city located in about the same place as Troy. More than likely, the fight between the Greeks and the Trojans was a trading dispute between merchants. Could it still have been the work of Eris? Whenever we see humans at odds with each other, we are seeing Eris, too.

One lesson of the Trojan War-and hopefully of "Troy," too-is not to underestimate Eris. When the goddess of discord comes out to play, beauty begets strife. Honor becomes betrayal. Ego reigns supreme and the fall from ego is swift and merciless. Bear in mind the legendary Trojan Horse, which allowed Greek soldiers to penetrate the walls of Troy. As with the horse, nothing is as it really seems.

Unveiling Hera

You've probably met Hera (known to the Romans as Juno) before, perhaps on your own or in a high school classical mythology unit. You probably know her as the nagging, shrewish wife of Zeus (Jupiter), the king of the gods and great lord of Olympus. But did you know that back in the mists of the ancient world, Hera was a Great Mother figure of the eastern Mediterranean region, a sky goddess beloved by millions in her own right as Queen of the Heavens? The jump from sovereign female to screeching grudge-holder takes some imagination to visualize, but over a few centuries Hera was so demoted. How, why, and what of the Hera that came before the arrival of Zeus?

Restoring Hera to her rightful place as a Great Mother Goddess is not a work of feminist revisionist history. Clues from the ancient world reveal the true Hera. The ruins of Hera's temple at Olympia remain beautiful and elegant, reflecting a love for a magnificent and inspirational goddess. The signs of Hera as she is portrayed in literature are lacking. Where is the ruthless and envious character that gives Zeus nothing but grief in Hellenic lore?

Maybe you have heard about Io, the beautiful woman in Hellenic lore that Zeus happened to notice as he was searching the world for a new romantic conquest. In return for the great honor of Zeus' lust, Io stood helpless as Zeus changed her into a heifer. This way, so Zeus believed, the king of the Olympians could deny the charge of infidelity leveled at him by his spiteful and jealous wife, Hera. As wise as she was angry, Hera demanded that Zeus give her the heifer as a token of his affections. Zeus could do nothing to protect the animal that had been the woman who had been his lover. At first Hera kept the heifer tied up in her own sanctuary. Later, Hera sent the notorious gadfly to continuously bite and irritate Io.

This tale isn't favorable for the innocent Io, but it is even more damaging to the character of Hera. She is best known as the wife of Zeus (or Juno to the Roman Jupiter), but when Hera is unveiled she becomes a great and ancient mother goddess, much beloved by her people.

The story of Io is a good example of how the tribes dedicated to the Sky Father grafted their own lore onto the pre-existing religious structures that existed wherever they invaded. On the Island of Argos the people worshipped Hera. "Hera" is not a name but a title, meaning "Our Lady." The Argives saw Hera as "cow-eyed," which culturally indicated her close association with the moon and making rain. Io was an Argive priestess-princess who led the people in public dances intended to ask for rain.

But this is not the version that has survived to modern times. Because the indigenous devotion to Hera remained strong, the tribes of Zeus joined the two deities in a marriage of convenience. The result was the jealous and wrathful Hera of the Hellenic age.

Hera never wanted anything to do with Zeus. She certainly never wanted to marry him. However, Zeus desired the majestic sky goddess with all that he was. He knew that Hera had a special fondness for a certain bird, the cuckoo, and he knew he could count on her compassionate nature. With this in mind, Zeus transformed himself into a disheveled cuckoo and flew into Hera's lap for sympathy. The kind Hera took pity on the bird. Her shock knew no boundaries when she suddenly found herself being raped by Zeus. Humiliated, Hera needed to restore her honor by marrying Zeus. This tale is likely a metaphor for the way in which Hera's people were conquered by the tribes of Zeus. Hera's later angry behavior towards her husband indicates the indignation of her people.

Let's look at Hera as she originally was, a beneficent sky mother holding her own among celestial powers. As mentioned before, "Hera" was a title and not a proper name. What Hera's original name was is lost to history. Hera reigned in beauty as queen of the earth and the heavens and human beings. She was kind to all, but favored women and female sexuality.

Hera began as a triple goddess. In her maiden form she was Pais, childless and free from responsibilities. She symbolized blossoming youth. Her middle form was called Teleia and presented her as a mother in the prime of life. In her third form she grew into Chera, the crone who has passed through motherhood to return to herself.

We might think the original Olympics were ancient. But the Heraea was an old festival that predated the Olympic games. These were athletics for women held in Hera's honor. Women of Argos would gather to compete in foot races. The competitors were divided into three age groups to mirror Hera's triple nature. Winners were given the great honor of leaving statuettes of themselves in Hera's main shrine.

This is almost the converse of the Olympic games. At Olympia, not only were women forbidden from competing, women could not even be spectators. In fact, any woman who tried to transgress these hard rules would be slaughtered. It can be deduced that the importance of the divine feminine had been greatly diminished by the time of the arrival of the ancient Olympics.

Another celebration observed Hera as the sovereign over death and rebirth. A statue of Hera would be carried down to the water to be cleansed in a symbolic renewal. Hera was both autumn and spring, death and life, and to worship her was to continue the eternal cycle.

Hera was by no means the only goddess so demoted. This trend can be found in Europe as well as on other continents. In many cases, such as the instances of Lilith and Tiamat, the goddess was simply demonized. She who was not demonized might have been turned into a monster like the Gorgon. In the Celtic world goddesses were assimilated into Christianity as new saints.

The Sanctity of Laughter

A funny thing happened at my high school reunion.

With great Pagan panache, I appeared in a purple gown cut along the lines of a classical Greek robe. I wore what I call my Pagan bling bling, a pentagram about the diameter of a Big Gulp cup sprinkled with amethyst chips. After all, I had no reason to disguise what I was under a cloak of the mundane. These were people who had known me back when I was a caterpillar. Now I was a caterpillar with wings.

Anyway, I got a drink of Generic Punch X and went to join a cluster of people. It took twenty seconds for the question to hit. "When did you convert?"

Once I figured out he was talking to me, I tried making the most vacuous face I possibly could. "Convert?"

"Yeah. To Judaism." Politely he motioned to my above-mentioned bling bling. "That's a pretty Star of David you've got."

This wasn't the first time. I mean I understand how a star is a star unless you know that there's a vital difference. Maybe other Pagans would take this opportunity to expound upon the ancient history of the pentagram, continuing long after any interest has waned. I didn't. "It's a symbol of natural religion," I said by way of clarification. That seemed to be enough. The evening went on and I discovered that all of the ritual work in the world would never make me a dancer.

A few mornings later I was relating this story to a Wiccan friend on the subway. To my surprise, she covered her mouth with a silver-decked hand and gasped. "You must have been so offended!"

Offended? Well actually, I wasn't. How could I be? My reunion chums were familiar with the Star of David but not with the pentagram. As none of them are Pagan, I wouldn't have expected them to recognize the pentagram. Regardless, I'd gotten a good laugh out of the event. I couldn't quite understand why my aforementioned friend found more offense than humor.

"He who laughs last didn't get the joke."

In recent months I've encountered a growing number of Pagans who seem to have misplaced their senses of humor. It's my hope that I'm just running into killjoys and not a representative population. We're not really in a humor crisis, are we? One of the things I like about Pagan paths is the sense of humor and the idea that spirituality should be fun. I like being able to laugh at myself. There's nothing so serious that an injection of good humor won't improve it. That being said, is it any wonder that I just have to shrug at Pagans full of their own importance, Pagans who won't deign to have a good laugh?

Laughter is a gift from the divine. It is the divine expressing joy and elation through us. Every laugh is a thank-you to the Powers That Be for life and the ability to enjoy life. Through laughter, not only is the divine served, but we serve ourselves as well. We've all heard the adage about laughter being the best medicine. Humor is good for us. A good chuckle reduces stress and raises the level of endorphins in the body, leaving us to feel especially good. Perhaps best of all, humor helps to keep the episodes of life in good perspective.

When I was learning the Wiccan path I had the benefit of a close-knit group and circle elders who understood the sanctity of humor. The woman who was both priestess and mentor always reminded us to laugh at ourselves. If I forgot the words to my Full Moon oration, I learned to have a good "D'oh!" and then go back to dip into the endless cauldron of inspiration. Ritual may be sacred, but it is also a circus begging for messes to occur. People are going to spill the libation and knock over candles. Rain can soak the most devoted of celebrants, turning a grand outdoor observance into an ad libbed indoor rite. Maybe the person baking the esbat cakes used the driest recipe possible.

This is all part of what makes the celebration dynamic and personal. There are a lot of opportunities for things to go wrong, in that the Powers That Be have given us built-in openings for humor and laughter. To err may be human, but to be able to get up and laugh at one's self is a gift.

All right then, so somebody explain to me why someone - anyone - would abandon the gift of humor. You can be serious about your path without taking yourself too seriously. Are people choosing to give up humor in exchange for dry observation and almost mechanical experience? I cannot tell if people are not getting subtle humor or if they are refusing to roll in the mud of laughter and silliness. Recently, I've come to wonder if this isn't the price all of us as a community must pay after decades of endless challenges from more orthodox religious traditions. Has all the fighting knocked the laughter out of us? I don't believe it.

Everybody, listen up! We're not like the traditions that focus more on the negative aspects of being human. The spiritual world touches us all, and engaging with the spiritual world is fun! Celebrate with laughter the hours of the day and the seasons of the year. Giggle at what strikes you funny. Take a good look at yourself and ask if you might be taking yourself too seriously. Does a question from a newcomer inspire you to a relaxed explanation or to indignant frustration?

Somewhere you have your own Pagan bling bling. You have your own story to tell of a path-related incident that made you laugh. This is the Powers That Be touching you and letting you know of their love. Embrace that sense of humor and laugh out loud to the stars. Laugh until you don't have the power to laugh anymore. This is message sent and received. This is the appreciation of the cosmic gift.

The "Passion" and the Pagan

So Mel Gibson makes a film chronicling the last twelve hours in the life of a man called Jesus. What does this have to do with the Pagan community?

For my own part, I found that there is a whole lot going on in this film that applies to the human community and not just to any certain religion. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Many friends wondered why I, an avowed Pagan born and raised on the Pagan path, would possibly want to see "The Passion of the Christ." After all, how much evangelizing would I want to suffer in one afternoon?

Well, it's never been my habit to prejudge anything - even a movie with the word "Christ" in the title. Instead, I set about getting some information, and that made me interested. For example, the entire script is spoken in Hebrew, Latin, and Aramaic, with English subtitles. I love linguistics and I've studied a little of each of these in the course of my education. To hear them spoken - accurately or not - would be worth the time investment. There's also the historical background and detail. These events occurred in the great amphitheater of the Roman Empire. Going into the film with an understanding of the Roman hierarchy sheds a different light on the biblical bad guy, Pontius Pilate. Perhaps more than anything, at least as far as I was concerned, I was interested in the interpretation of a tale which has changed so much of the world but has always left me puzzled.

Not that it's a tale strange in Paganism at all. The idea of the resurrected deity, the god who defies death and returns to life, was in place in many cultures prior to the first century CE. One example is the Egyptian Osiris, who was dismembered by the Machiavellian Set. In a final outrage, Set cast the body parts of Osiris into the Nile. Isis and Horus, Osiris' wife and son and deities in their own right, worked ceaselessly to find all of the pieces so that they might restore Osiris to life. Another example is clear in how many Pagans view the course of the year. The God, by whatever name and whatever path, dies at the end of the harvest to be reborn at the Winter Solstice. To make an even simpler example, the sun rises, sets, and then rises again the following morning.

After plowing through the speculation, the accusations, and the surreptitious marketing blitz, I was left with one motivating idea. Being Pagan but never having been Christian, I might be able to view the film with an objective mind. That is, my personal faith was in no way on the line as this film portrayed what is perhaps the epicenter of Christianity.

Apparently many people in the theater were prepared to take this experience as seriously as if they were actually there on Golgotha to witness the events. I did notice that most of this Ash Wednesday crowd was marked with a cross of ashes on their forehead. Looking around, I wondered who was there out of sheer curiosity.

What had the crowd been expecting? Even if someone had been living in a cave (with Bible in tow) for the past several weeks, they would probably have known the basic plot of this film. Even I knew the story of that unfortunate Friday in Jerusalem. For a more complete review, check the end pages of any one of the Gospels. This crucifixion business wasn't pretty. Whipping and scourging weren't the way the Romans said welcome to the neighborhood. "The Passion" is about some very nasty and violent business. Still, many in the crowd looked away from the abundant brutality. Myself, I wasn't surprised, and I even thought that the violence was showing just how horrible this event really would have been. As little as I knew of Christianity, I did know about the Passion. I thought the point of the Passion was how a man called Jesus suffered physically for the "sins" of mankind. There's nothing light and cheery about this. The movie is not called "The Passion Sanitized" or "The Passion for Kiddies." How is it that this merry little Pagan understood what shocked the faithful?

What's important to bear in mind in regard to "The Passion" is that it is a movie, one man's vision and interpretation of a given set of events. It wasn't written or filmed by deity and it isn't stamped with any divine seal of approval. It's unlikely that DVDs of "The Passion" will start being included in a pocket along with the Bible. "The Passion" is a film like "The Matrix" or "Star Wars." I can't get into Mel Gibson's head and know what he has been thinking, but I'm sure all of the publicity that would come with making a film on a touchy subject must have crossed his mind. Maybe that's the Pagan in me, that I can be so detached. I certainly don't fault anyone who feels they've gotten something of a divine experience from seeing this film. But regardless, it's still a film, a Hollywood product wrapped, cut, and shipped out to thousands of theaters across the United States. I could be wrong, but I'm not aware of any cut of the profits earmarked for Christian charities. If Mel wanted to be taken seriously as trying to get a message across to millions, he might have started by showing his film free of charge. "The Passion" is trapped in the money-generating machine, and I, even as a Pagan, think that's a tragedy for the Christian faith.

Towards the end of the film I had something of an epiphany. Maybe the trick to appreciating "The Passion" is to not feel bound to it by faith. The film is an emotional hurricane, but it seemed to me that those emotions were more attuned to primal humanity than any kind of spiritual belief. We'd all like to think that people in general would feel compassion for a suffering man. That cuts across all superficial divisions like creed or gender or race and goes right to what we all have in common - our humanity.

So I Was Asking Myself...

Well, this isn't any serious soul-searching or anything, but I've been asking myself a few things today. Hell, there may not be any answers, but maybe that's part of the fun.

1) Why do I enjoy doing laundry?

2) How can I use ketchup and barbecue sauce when I hate tomatoes?

3) Why do I have more patience for Max than I do for people?

4) How on earth can I manage to be an optimist?

5) Why do I always want to improve on everything?

6) Why am I unimpressed by what's supposed to impress me and impressed by qualities that are obscure?

7) Why is it that in the season I finally have a good understanding of football, the Eagles seem to be doing anything but flying?

8) What is it about photography that I hate so much? I mean, I'm not ugly, and yet I hate being photographed.

9) Where can I go where I can really fit in on most or all levels?

10) Who's the next person to be an influence on me?

Beats me folks.

Witchery Way

Pick up the skin of the wolf and feel yourself pouring in to fill its sleek contours. The fires in the distance dance with abandon, teasing the swift winds that sail through the air. Fire and air and sand and animal are all one at this place, this time, this hour. Tip just a bit of that powder of gila monster and cactus pear into the tea. Do the stars cling to you, clothing you as if by some mystical fabric? Reach out and embrace. Fear none. Throw yourself from the cliffs of the known and certain into the bliss gravity of the free fall. Let the wind lift you and guide you. Lose yourself to the celestial moment. It is done.

The Loa Gate

“Where the hell are we?” Theda pressed her palm flat against a cold, smooth surface at her side. Cold, yes, but dark too. This whole place was dank and dark, humidity hanging in the air like a thunderstorm waiting to happen.
“New Orleans.”

“You’ve told me nothing.”

She looked across and in the shadows she could make out the shining white of clean bone. There was a skull, and there was more. Theda could see a plum velvet suit that created something like the skull’s body. A top hat did not hide the complete lack of hair. Sunglasses hid the empty eye sockets and a half-smoked cigar hung from the corner of the mouth, clenched between teeth that were doing something remarkable. They were turned up in a grin.

“You know me, petite, so let’s not indulge in nonsense.”

Reality sunk in like a rush of cold water flooding into Theda’s stomach. “Monsieur le Baron!”

A hand of thin bone reached up and took the cigar from his mouth. “Call me Samedi. We’re intimate enough.”

Theda sat quietly for a few moments, the ramifications too great for her mind. Finally, she looked at the Baron with something like remorse in her eyes. “I’m dead.”

The Baron spread his hands. “It pains me, but it’s not my doing, you understand.”

“How?” A spike of anger entered her voice. “How can I be dead?”

At that, an unearthly light dimly illuminated the area. With a fake cough, the Baron paused. “How? How is really not part of my domain. You were alone and you fell dead. Who knows why—perhaps your heart could not go on beating, perhaps a spring in your brain came unsprung. Your husband won’t be coming back, of course. No one will find you until your neighbor notices a funny smell. By the time you are discovered you will be so badly decomposed your very skin will stick to the carpet. Such is the circus of the mortal realm. You need not worry about it anymore.”

Theda considered this. Dead was dead, and that was that. “You still haven’t told me where we are.”

“We’re in a mausoleum,” the Baron answered, then drew on his cigar. “The Prejeans, I believe. I don’t really care. I get them all confused sooner or later.” With the forefinger of his free hand, he pointed at her. “You, however, are not quite finished. Close, yes, but not finished.”

“Finished with what?” Theda began to laugh. “You tell me I’m dead. How much more finished can I possibly be?”

“You’ve died out of balance. You cannot pass through the Loa Gate until you’ve fixed that balance.”

“Pardon?”

“Your husband,” the Baron thundered. “The philanderer. The coward who took to bed with the very woman you believed he loved but he denied. The whore who would fall into the arms of a married man. And Marni, the woman you called your closest friend, the woman who knew all of this and would not tell you. These three are your imbalance.”

Theda experienced something like a swoon. Greg had been talking with Raye for so long, Theda had often wondered why he ever needed her counsel. When Theda had first grown suspicious, she had only asked Greg for the truth. Of course he didn’t have a spark for Raye. Theda’s conspiracy complex must be working overtime. And Theda believed him, because what else could she do? She took her marriage seriously.

Marni’s betrayal seemed to hurt more. Best friends weren’t supposed to be in on a secret affair and not tell the spurned wife. Then again, Marni had been Raye’s friend too. Maybe Marni hadn’t wanted to explode this bomb. Yeah, right. More likely, Marni had been protecting herself.

Sliding to stand on the stone floor, Theda saw that she had been sitting on a coffin—a fairly new one of polished mahogany from the looks of it. “So tell me, Samedi, what do I do? I’m sure you’re here to help me somehow.”

“I’m here to reward your faith and devotion to me, to the Loa, and most of all to Bon Dieu.”

“I don’t understand.”

The cigar burned out, the Baron’s hand was free. He reached behind him and brought forth a caramel-colored glass bottle. “I’m returning the favor, petite. You offered me better rum than anyone else scattered to the winds. Good, hearty dark rum, not that tonic water I get from so many others.” With that, he took a healthy drink from the bottle. “Real rum from a real dedicant. If there is any greater tribute, I haven’t discovered it.”

Rum? Rum was going to help her settle her scores? “Tell me, Samedi, what can I do if I am dead?”

“What can’t you do if you’re dead?” The Baron cocked his head. “Come on, you know the powers of the dead. You can do anything. You can even send the spirits of the other dead into the living bodies of your enemies.”

Theda paused, speechless. The sending of the spirits—she hadn’t even thought of that. “But why would I send other spirits to do my work?”

“You’re too kind,” the Baron replied. “You would never be able to be as ruthless as this task requires. No, this is not for you, but for the truly wicked, the spirits unable to make peace of any kind with any entity.”

The Baron opened his plum velvet jacket and withdrew three phials from a pocket. Each phial contained the same grainy black-gray substance, but one was plugged with a red stopper, one with a white stopper, and one with a black stopper. Theda had already guessed what it was when the Baron smiled. “Graveyard dirt, carefully collected from an obsolete resting place upriver from here. Three bottles of demon-ridden dust from the graves of the most vile monsters to ever terrorize Louisiana.”

Theda pulled back a bit. She didn’t exactly cherish the idea of having evil-charged graveyard dirt on her person. In the next moment, it came to her again that she was dead and that the terrors of the living were no longer her problem. “I think I know how to use these.”

“This bottle is for the bastard,” the Baron said, handing her the phial with the black stopper. “This bottle with the red stopper is for his whore, and the last is for the traitor. “Don’t get them mixed up.”

Shaking her head, Theda examined the phials. Sending the spirits was the worst kind of magic that could be done. Was she angry enough at Greg, Raye, and Marni to utterly destroy them? In the end, all Theda had wanted was the truth. Instead she was stuck on the far side of the Loa Gate because these three people could only think of themselves. Yes, oh yes, she could do this.

She turned to the Baron. “What now?”

The Baron extended her hand to her, and she clasped the bones as if it were the hand of her beloved. “This won’t be easy for you,” he said. “But it will strengthen your resolve and it will prove to you the reason you are sending the spirits.”

In the next moment the Baron and Theda were in a lush hotel suite. She saw the bed out of the corner of her eye but she asked the Baron, “Won’t we wake them?”

“They can’t see us, of course. We’re of the spirit realm, but they’re of the flesh. The graveyard dirt is also of the earth.”

Gathering her nerve, Theda walked towards the bed. There she found Raye and Greg in an erotic embrace, asleep and entangled. Both of them were covered with sheets, but Theda couldn’t mistake what had been going on. On the other side of Raye Marni snuggled up against her.

“You know, I could have accepted this if they’d been honest with me,” she said to the Baron.”

“I know. You responsibility is what is, not what might have been. Send the spirits, petite. Do it and be done with this.”

Theda wouldn’t question the Baron’s wisdom. She took the black-stopped phial and opened it. Greg’s ear was in plain sight. Theda knew what would happen. The spirit would enter Greg’s body and find out his worst fear, the fear that could freeze him in his sleep. He would be a ruined man, but such was the penalty for betraying a dedicant of the Loa. Without another hesitation, Theda sprinkled some of the gravedirt into Greg’s ear. She thought she saw the dirt fade to white as it touched his skin. This whiteness gathered into a spiral of tiny clouds before rushing into the opening of the ear.

“The spirit is sent,” the Baron told Theda in a soft voice. “Finish what you must.”

“What will happen to them?”

The Baron shook his head. “That is not your concern, petite.”

“Tell me! By the love of Bon Dieu, I want to know. If I don’t know I will not find peace.”

“Do the others,” he said. “Do it all and I will tell you.”

Theda regarded the Baron, looking for some evidence of duplicity she would never find in the bone face. Why did she care anyway? However much she had loved Greg and Marni, they had betrayed her. She only felt a kind of mute hatred for Raye in any case. At the same time, she knew the grave dirt.

Before she could lose her composure, Theda poured dirt from the other phials into Marni’s ear and Raye’s ear, damn her. The she turned to the Baron. “I’ve done my part. Now do yours.”

The Baron nodded. “They’ll wish you’d killed them. The traitor will know with every nerve in her body that she is truly alone in this world. You were the only honest friend she will ever have. She will shake and sob for the rest of her days. When the whore awakes, she will hear nothing but the screeching of the one singer she likes least. The noise will possess her to the point of madness. She will never be free of it.”

Theda glanced at the bed. Yes, even in the face of it, she felt compassion for these people. But it was not her place to question the Loa. “And Greg?”

“He will suffer worst of all.” With a long thin finger bone he pointed to a piece of wire sculpture sitting on the nightstand. Theda recognized it. Greg’s art, if it were true that art was objective. He had been tinkering in their garage for months making objects from copper wire, white tubing, and anything else he could scavenge. This piece he had made for Raye. He had expressed his love for her in metal.

“He will lose all control over his hands forever. He will never do the work he loves again. This is his fate.”

In life Theda might have shed a tear, but there was no time. The hotel suite and New Orleans vanished. She found herself standing before a wrought iron gate with the Baron at her side. As the gates began to open, the Baron leaned over to place a hard kiss on Theda’s forehead.

“Bon Dieu will see you now, petite.”

Antichrists and Oranges

From April 15, 1997
ANTICHRISTS AND ORANGES:
MARILYN MANSON PLAYS ORLANDO
"Why would I want to go someplace that's full of fucking assholes?"

And so, with a contemptuous gesture towards the arena entrance, did Marilyn Manson sum up his thoughts on "heaven" and the group of Christian protesters gathered outside. The outcry against Manson's performance at the University of Central Florida Arena was quiet in comparison to the wild rumpus which has followed Marilyn Manson (the band) throughout it's Antichrist Superstar tour (Note--It was actually called the "Dead to the World Tour"). As I am writing this, Manson fans and religious zealots are gearing up for the April 17 showdown in Jacksonville, Florida, where more than 800 people have written complaints about the scheduled tour stop to the mayor, and the mayor has expressed a desire to see the show canceled.
However, there was very little of this antagonism apparent in the Orlando crowd I found myself screaming, shouting, and dancing with on April 15. For being a bunch of hellbound slaves of the antichrist (so speaks the opposition), the crowd was friendly, cordial, and even downright nice to each other. Maybe every tenth person was dressed in something other than black. And even then, those folks were part of the circus for not conforming to our social non-conformity.

My husband and I are *huge* Manson fans. In fact, we drove from Tallahassee to Orlando for the show to celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary.

A blistering opening performed by Helmet prepared the crowd for the aural onslaught to come. That energy came to a frustrated peak when a trio of women bearing cellos (electric cellos?) took the stage. Who were they? I have no idea. Neither did anyone around me. After the Helmet set, the audience was primed for Marilyn Manson to take the stage. The mysterious cellists received a lukewarm (at best) reception. Then again, it was all part of the twisted circus. By the way, if you happened to be at the show, and you know who the cellists were, please e-mail me.

(NOTE: The chicks with the cellos were the band Rasputina.)

Being a Manson fan, I won't even try to present an unbiased concert review. The band could have had dead bugs stuck in their instruments, and I probably still would have enjoyed it. There are a few relatively objective comments I can make. For instance, the sound quality in the arena was excellent, and the musicians were up to the same form as on their recordings. The performance sounded--as it should, I suppose--like the albums from which the songs were taken. Incidentally, Marilyn Manson covered a wide range of material from Antichrist Superstar, included their "Sweet Dreams" cover from Smells Like Children, and performed a few classic tunes from their debut, Portrait of an American Family.

What would Marilyn Manson the man be without Marilyn Manson the band? It's hard to focus on Manson's incredible stage presence and showmanship while seeming to ignore Twiggy Ramirez, Zim Zum, Madonna Wayne Gacy, and Ginger Fish. But the show belongs to Manson. He keeps the focus on himself, on the saga of Wormboy's transformation into the Antichrist Superstar.

I didn't get backstage. I didn't try, and I didn't feel like I had to. Marilyn Manson has the ability to make one feel that they've been in direct contact with him. Don't laugh. There was a connection between Manson and the audience that was almost tangible. Even in our upper-level section, people somehow felt they had been touched by the Reverend--both by his art, and by himself.

Oh yeah...about the pamphlet...

Well, I returned to my car after the concert to find that certain religious factions had deemed it necessary to debauch my nice vehicle with their babblings. So I removed the pamphlet, held it up to the crowd of thirty or so who were around me in the parking lot. I then proceeded to pull down my pants and wipe my little heathen ass with the pamphlet, to great applause.

Friends have asked me why I defiled my body that way. I guess it was the spirit of the night.

And I have a footnote--I met Manson's dad, Hugh Warner, somewhere outside the men's restrooms. Nice chap.

The Heartless Bitch

I used to have a heart. But you know something? A heart was getting in my way. I wanted to roll across everyone and sundry like the juggernaut of a woman that I am, without remorse, regret, or repercussions. Feelings might be nice for some, but give me a delightful numbness and a complete indifferencegasm and I’m a joyful woman. So I grabbed my toolbox and cracked open my sternum to get at my heart. Blood? Pain? I thrive on it. I dug my hooked fingers in, ripped out my heart, took a healthy bite just for good measure, threw that sucker on the dirty floor and danced it into cardiac jelly.

Indeed, I am a heartless bitch.

Not that I hate men. Men have their use, of course. In fact, I was married once upon a time. But romantic love and I are eternal antagonists. I spent eight years in legal bondage as an ice queen with incredible acting skills. That’s been done for a long time now. I moved through the separation without ache or pain. I wanted it to be over so that I could move on to the life I wanted to make for myself.

And I have made that life. I am my own drive pursuing my own substance and meaning. The only person I can truly rely upon is me. Once I learned the truth of that lesson, nothing has been able to restrain me.

I do try to convey my message of heartless bitchiness/feminine independent power to others. I have never cared what others think of me—of my clothes, of my language, of my choices, of my mistakes. No one can determine what is right for me but me. I scorn fashion and trends. I will not take a spin class or go out on a questionable date because I have been pressured to do so. I understand that ultimately my opinion is the only one that really counts.

If all of this makes me a heartless bitch, then at least I am a genuine one.

Just Like Magic

Magic has been kind to me for many years. The most important way is how I have learned to look deeper into myself, to throw back the veils and come to understand this spiritual being called "me". Even as the world around me seems to be losing purpose and beauty, magic always brings me back to perceive both in any situation.

I believe a great part of what made 2006 a banner year for me is magic and living witchcraft. Certainly what most people consider to have been my greatest achievement--the publication of my first book, a handbook for tea leaf reading--was a magically driven success. But to me, that wasn't the greatest achievement. It's all the smaller achievements that have enabled me to live a good life that I treasure.

Once upon a time, I was deathly afraid of talking on the telephone. In 2006, I was a call-in guest to the Martha Stewart Show--talking on the telephone in front of the entire country. There's a huge step forward. I used to have a terrible temper. In 2006, I reached a point where I simply no longer felt such destructive anger. In my work I had many creative projects that had stalled at the beginning. In 2006, I learned how to overcome the roadblocks my own mind threw in my way, and while it's a continuing process, I'm making great progress. In 2006, I continued on a path of compassion, unconditional love, and growing trust. The path ahead looks inviting.

In 2007, I will continue the walk I have begun in the confidence of my belief. I will look within for my personal "demons" and attempt to subdue them one by one. There are many more books to be written. But perhaps most important to me is the idea of using my magic-suffused ability to remedy problems in the mundane world. I do this because I love my fellow humans, my fellow lifeforms, and my planet. We need a significant change, and I want to be a part of it.

Deliciously Morbid

--The practice of burying the dead may date back 35000000000 years, as evidenced by a 45-foot-deep pit in Atapuerca, Spain, filled with the fossils of 27 hominids of the species Homo heidelbergensis, a possible ancestor of Neanderthals and modern humans.

--There are at least 200 euphemisms for death, including "to be in Abraham's bosom," "just add maggots," and "sleep with the Tribbles" (a Star Trek favorite).

--No American has died of old age since 1951. That was the year the government eliminated that classification on death certificates.

--The trigger of death, in all cases, is lack of oxygen. Its decline may prompt muscle spasms, or the "agonal phase," from the Greek word agon, or contest.

--Within three days of death, the enzymes that once digested your dinner begin to eat you. Ruptured cells become food for living bacteria in the gut, which release enough noxious gas to bloat the body and force the eyes to bulge outward.

--Burials in America deposit 827,060 gallons of embalming fluid—formaldehyde, methanol, and ethanol—into the soil each year. Cremation pumps dioxins, hydrochloric acid, sulfur
dioxide, and carbon dioxide into the air.

--A Swedish company, Promessa, will freeze-dry your body in liquid nitrogen, pulverize it with high-frequency vibrations, and seal the resulting powder in a cornstarch coffin.
They claim this "ecological burial" will decompose in 6 to 12 months.

--Zoroastrians in India leave out the bodies of the dead to be consumed by vultures. The vultures are now dying off after eating cattle carcasses dosed with diclofenac, an anti-inflammatory used to relieve fever in livestock.

--In Madagascar, families dig up the bones of dead relatives and parade them around
the village in a ceremony called famadihana. The remains are then wrapped in a new shroud and reburied. The old shroud is given to a newly married, childless couple to cover the connubial bed.

--During a railway expansion in Egypt in the 19th century, construction companies unearthed so many mummies that they used them as fuel for locomotives.

--English philosopher Francis Bacon, a founder of the scientific method, died in 1626 of pneumonia after stuffing a chicken with snow to see if cold would preserve it.

--For organs to form during embryonic development, some cells must commit suicide. Without such programmed cell death, we would all be born with webbed feet, like ducks.

--More people commit suicide in New York City than are murdered.

Goofball Reviews

These are some reviews I've written about I've books I've read for one reason or another. It might prove amusing.

Enchantress Mine - Bertrice Small

When I think about it, Bertrice Small does a good job of making those of us with Celtic blood seem completely flakey. The good news is that--so far as I know--this is an inaccurate portrayal. But I got to a point in this read where if I read one more thing about the heroine's inbred Celtic mysticism, I was going to make a cross quarter fire from its pages.

This is neither a good book nor a bad book. I thought this was an indifferent book--one interesting enough to keep reading in order to find out what happens, but not interesting enough to suggest to a friend. For the umpteenth time, perfect heroines are utterly boring. Mairin is perfect in body, mind, and soul. Heck, she is said to have even been a beautiful child--breathtaking at age five. Five? For crying out loud, wait to begin the story until she's around puberty. With three "heroes" in the cast, I hoped at least one would be interesting. No such luck. So much for the leads in this melodrama!

In this book's favor, I have to applaud small's exploration of history, in this case the circumstances around the Norman Conquest. Actually, large parts of the book read like a history text, which is probably a bad thing in a novel.

This was a quick read, so if you're reading for sheer fun, there's much worse out there. Of course, there's also much better. That's the quandary of being indifferent.


Nocturnal Witchcraft - Konstaninos

Basically this book is taking Scott Cunningham's classic Wicca and reading it in a dark closet. It's the same stuff all over again thinly veiled in shadows.

Now I'm not at all new to the Craft or mystical studies, so I'm always looking for new books that seem to promise a new perspective or new ideas. Having read the suthor's Vampires--The Occult Truth, I thought Nocturnal Witchcraft would be such a book. It's not. This is the same old thing rehashed, greyscaled, and repackaged.

I also don't think the author was as careful with his research as he should have been. One point pricked me in particular. He talks about Anubis, the Egyptian deity most associated with embalming and funerary rituals, having the ankh of eternal life as his symbol. While it's true that Anubis was sometimes depicted holding an ankh, the symbol is most closely associated with the god Osiris. Elsewhere, the author seems to give the powers and traits of Osiris to Anubis. Additionally, the ankh appeared with ANY figure representing death or the underworld. So if the author happens to be especially fond of Anubis, maybe he should have just said this instead of mangling Egyptian myth. He had the opportunity to teach and didn't take it.

So if you're new to the world of Craftiness, you might find this interesting. But anyone really interested in the shadows won't find anything of use here.

The Jesus Papers - Michael Baigent

Baigent wrote this for the money? As Samuel Johnson once said, "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money." Besides, if it sells, who's really at fault--the author or the readers?

Perhaps because I am not a Christian I am more open to possibilities presented in texts like this one. That is, that's not my faith, so there's no faith to be tested. This time, Baigent presents the mother of all cover-ups for our consideration. I think for the sake of intelligent debate, all arguments need to be examined outside of the realm of faith. To a large extent, it would be faith in the traditional concepts of Jesus that would render Baigent's work "blasphemous". Otherwise, we have a historian working at his craft--and take it from me, historians aren't usually rolling in money.

Sure, I understand where a lot of this book is not supported by solid facts or resources. The Bible has the same problem.

If your mind is open and you don't put all of your eggs into one faith basket, you may find this to be an interesting read. Yet I wonder, if a book like this can shake one's faith, how strong is that faith in the first place?

Piercing The Darkness: Undercover with Vampires in America Today - Katherine Ramsland

Let me begin by saying that vampires/vampyres ARE in fact real. What might need adjusting is your definition.

Ramsland wrote this book much the way I imagine a child would write about his day at the zoo. I got the feeling that she wanted the reader to understand how adventurous and intrepid she was in plunging into a psychotic world of fetishes, blood, dysfunctionality, and flaky "professionalism".

How Ramsland could have had so much contact with the life and have understood it so poorly astounds me. She is supposed to be a psychologist. How can she not see the validity of the life and the psychological foundations of "vampirism/vampirism"? How could she not understand that what one embraces as reality is, in fact, reality?

Read this is you value shock and schlock over substance. If you'd like a peek into the online vampire/vampyre world, plug the subject into a search engine.

The Teachings of Don Juan - Carlos Castaneda

If you have a field of devilweed (datura) growing behind your house, don't get down on all fours and start grazing. Don Juan is not about teaching US this "Yaqui Way of Knowledge", but rather the unique story between a sorcerer-teacher and an eager student.

Ladies and gentlemen, I for one know with a preternatural certainty that Don Juan is not fiction. Let me say the shamanic experiences described herein ring true to me in recollection of my own visions and travels, and let's leave it at that.

Carlos Castaneda was a brilliant man. This is most obvious in his writing. After all, this is not the simplest topic in the world to write about, and yet Castaneda did so with wit, verve, and style. I especially appreciate how Don Juan is divided into two parts, experiential and academic (Castaneda was a graduate student at the time).

Someone said to me that Castaneda was "trite" compared to authors like Depak Chopra (cough cough). I'd believe that this person simply was unable to "get" Castaneda--maybe Don Juan was too intense and too earthy. Draw your own conclusions.