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.”

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.

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.

WitchVox Essays

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.

This Is Me?

1) What is your favorite TV show?
Oh, by the elements, dare I say it? Sigh, I confess, The Simpsons.

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.
Will you get around to the Art of War already?

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!!!

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."

A Satanic Rule For Instant Messaging

If access to Internet instant messaging were granted based upon wit, character and the ability to contribute to the community, there would be many fewer people but a greater quality experience. Alas, anybody with an Internet connection and a keyboard can make their presence known, even if unwanted and undesired. I speak for the people who are fed up with creepy little monkeypeople who, for reasons unknown, believe themselves interesting enough for a conversation.

Chats among friends, colleagues, and loved ones are another matter. I mean the people who would waste our—yours and mine—most precious commodity, time. I mean the people so deeply unable to connect and relate to real human beings that they suppress all of their desires and urges and let them loose online where they are fruitless. Chat leeches, heed my words, for your reign is over.

I am a society of one, and I am not lonely.

If you are a stranger to me and you have not found me through an online group of common interest, you have no real reason to send an instant message.

Don’t assume that I subscribe to the idea of a friendly community of humans. I don’t. If you contact me, you have stepped into my lair uninvited. Prepare for the consequences.

You ask me “ASL”. I say “WTF?” or “BFD” or, perhaps most effectively, “No.”

If I am in stealth mode or I choose to be invisible, why do you not take the hint? How much more obvious can I make my volition? I promise there is no reason why you are the exception to the rule.

Take your antiquated notions of male-female relationships and kindly shove them as far up any bodily orifice you prefer. I am a liberated woman, it is true, but more importantly I am a human of power.

I haven’t given you the mating signal. I don’t want to look at you.

You ask me for my photograph. Who are you to look at me? What is your worth?

English is my native language. It is my preferred language of communication. I’m terribly sorry if your English is not so good, but then perhaps you should find someone who speaks your own language. I am not obligated to navigate the obstacle course of English with you. If you have trouble in English it is your problem, not mine.

Tread carefully through unfamiliar doorways, for you never know when the other side will be a nest of vipers.

Ave Satanas!