Scarchives

Prologue

2010-08-09T18:12:00.000-04:00

GENETRIX TOWER OPENS
Valerius Victorious, Victrix Vexed

The three year battle over control of the vampire community in New Hadria ended today. Solange Auriville of the Council of Metaspecial Interests officially declared the new headquarters of the Genetrix Order open for residents and businesses. This is the first city charter to be given to a vampire organization and makes the Genetrix the official order in the city. Originally one of the city’s Old Age apartment houses and still the tallest building in New Hadria, Genetrix Tower will now stand as a testament to the vital presence and influence of Hadrian vampires.

“This day has been long in coming, but not one of us had any doubts about this action,” Auriville said at a press conference in the Genetrix Tower lobby. “The Genetrix has been an asset to all of us in New Hadria. Yes, they are vampires, but they are also outstanding citizens and great contributors to our society. They have earned this distinction.”

Valerius, called the Prince of the Genetrix and the leader of the Order, has been working closely with Auriville and the Council to achieve this goal. “This is the realization of a dream for my kind. The Tower is a symbol of our strength and our unity. I may have led the way, but I defer to my brothers and sisters for having the courage to share my vision.” Valerius arrived in New Hadria five years ago. His history and original name remain unknown, in keeping with vampire tradition. But he brought with him ancient knowledge, a philosophy that would spread through the city. He called his way the Genetrix and thousands flocked to him for teaching and fellowship.

But the Genetrix was not the only vampire order in New Hadria. Three years ago Aurelian, the Lord of the Victrix, demanded that Valerius cease his efforts to gain city recognition. Having been born in New Hadria Aurelian contested that his own group, the Order of the Victrix, merited preference over the Genetrix. Aurelian continued his argument despite repeated rejection from the Council of Metaphysical Interests.

The leader of the Victrix could not be reached for comment, but he did prepare a statement for the New Hadria Crier.

“Obviously, by virtue or by vice, Valerius has managed to imprison the Council in his pocket. The city can do whatever it wants. We of the Victrix are not bound by any phony accord. Let the Genetrix enjoy their charter and their fame. We are still vampires and we are still here. We will be the dissenting voice in the crowd. I am no less a champion of my Order than Valerius is of his, and I owe the Victrix nothing less than to keep fighting.”

In reaction to this statement, Valerius said, “I am saddened that Aurelian will not simply come to peace with us. We extend friendship and coexistence. After all, we have much more in common than we have in conflict.”

But today is the day for the Genetrix. As vampires take up residence in its many apartments and restaurants, stores, and services move into the commercial floor, Genetrix Tower promises to become the biggest center of commerce and community in New Hadria. “This is the start of an amazing future for our vampire citizens,” Auriville said. “From here, nothing is impossible.”

Friends Answering Questions...Sort Of

2010-04-25T23:29:00.001-04:00

You might wonder why I participate in this application if I don't particularly like it. Well, your guess is as good as mine. Is it part of the social meme of Facebook? Is it an attempt to create a real community? Does anybody care? I like this third option.

So for kicks, I went to my own list of questions about me answered by anonymous "friends", copied the results, and posted the whole caboodle right here. Do people get me right or wrong? Let's see.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy would let you cheat off their paper on a test? Yes

Not damn likely. Go do your own studying!

Do you think that Emilie Conroy is 'smarter than the average bear'? No

Either someone doesn't know me AT ALL or they think this is a drastic understatement.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy is a good friend? No

That would depend on whether or not someone is a good friend to me--and also what the definition of "good" is.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy should have more self-confidence? No

Wow, I must pull off some magic online. I'm a quivering mass of clam jello.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy thinks shopping at Wal-Mart is classy? No

Classy? No. Necessary? Yes.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy still wet their bed in 6th grade? No

I don't think I ever wet my bed at all.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy likes British accents? Yes

I like all accents.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy sends too many Facebook invites? No

I sure try not to bug too many people too often.

Do you think Emilie Conroy was a Dork in high school? No

Thanks, but I was queen of the dorks. Hell, I'm still a dork.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy has ever lied to you? No

I tend to be pretty honest.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy has ever failed a class? No

Actually I failed a class in my first semester of college. But I made it up and all was well.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy looks good in a bathing suit? Yes

It's not the bathing suit, it's how I work it.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy is cute? Yes

Damn straight! ;>P

Do you think that Emilie Conroy has ever used steroids? No
Indeed, these bulging muscles are all natural.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy would let you cheat off their paper on a test? No

Right on.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy is a poser? No

But I posed for the centerfold of Weird Tales once...

Do you think that Emilie Conroy is trailer trash? No

I've tailgated a few times, but I'm not the butt of a Jeff Foxworthy joke.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy can throw a football with a spiral? Yes

In fact I worked to perfect this move.

Do you think Emilie Conroy is cool? Yes

You probably are, too.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy has ever skinny dipped? Yes

There are people here on Facebook who know the truth of this statement.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy would go bungee jumping? Yes

Been there, done that, not all it's cracked up to be.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy is a good athlete? No

Obviously this person hasn't competed with me physically.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy is socially awkward? Yes

Show me an honest person who won't admit to being a little awkward.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy can keep a secret? Yes

True enough. Who the hell would I tell?

Do you think that Emilie Conroy would do anything to succeed? No

I'm professionally ruthless, but I do have limits and ethics.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy has ever kissed a girl? Yes

Aren't we all a little bi somewhere?

Do you think that Emilie Conroy is a scrub? No
Thanks. What's a scrub?

Do you think that Emilie Conroy is smarter than George W. Bush? Yes
That's not saying much.

Do you think that Emilie Conroy has bad breath? No

Love those mints!

Do you think that Emilie Conroy has ever played beer pong? Yes

No. Yes. I don't remember, I was drunk at the time.

Damsel In Distress? Like Hell...

2010-04-25T23:25:00.000-04:00

This has mystified me since I reached an age where chivalry and bravado and coming to the rescue as a romantic gesture began to make a little sense. For some reason beyond my ken, I inspire feelings of protectiveness and downright knightly behavior on the part of the men who come into my life. The women, too, but I'm not getting into that right now.

Now come on. I've always been able to stand up for myself whatever the circumstances. I'm no shy, fearful, retiring little flower in need of masculine (or feminine) brawn to shelter me from the icy rain pellets of a big bad world. Shit happens, wise people have said. The art of life is not to avoid shit happening, but rather to navigate through said shit and come out the other side stronger and wiser for the experience. Let me add one more step--AND THEN MOVE ON!

Look, I grieve like most other human beings. I get hurt, and I need time to get over and past the hurt. But my driving philosophy is to move on, whatever the circumstances. At this point in my life (I'll be 39 this year) I've been through enough heartbreak, sickness, and bereavement to know for a fact that life continues on the other side. Through experience I've learned to let go of pain. I hold on to what was good in any situation, bear no grudges, and take the whole as a new building block for the pyramid that is life.

So I've even had guys online coming to my defense, or something to that effect. And you know, I'm grateful to have instilled such love and loyalty in said people. But relax! Things are good for me. I'm not dwelling on what's finished and I don't regret anything I've done. Don't feel the need to rescue this damsel in distress. Why not climb up the tower so we can all celebrate what is basically an exciting and amazing life?

My Life According To Trent Reznor/NIN

2010-04-25T23:22:00.001-04:00

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Pass it on to 15 people you like and include me. You can't use the band I used Try not to repeat a song title. It's a lot harder than you think! Repost as "my life according to (band name)".

Pick your Artist: Nine Inch Nails

Describe yourself: Somewhat Damaged

How Do You Feel: Underneath It All

Describe Where You Currently Live: Help Me I Am In Hell

If You Could go Anywhere, Where Would You Go? La Mer

Your Best Friend Is: Big Man With A Gun

Your Family Are: Down In It

What's the Weather Like: A Warm Place

Favorite Time of Day: The Only Time

If Your Life Was a TV Show, What Would It Be Called: Happiness In Slavery

What Is Life to You: Heresy

Your Relationship: Mr. Self Destruct

Your Fear: Something I Can Never Have

What Is the Best Advice You Have to Give: I Do Not Want This

Thought for the Day: Head Like A Hole

How I Would Like to Die: Last

My Soul's Present Condition: Dead Souls

The Blossom of Arundel (Historical Romance...ish) Part One

2009-02-03T20:22:00.002-05:00

(NOTE: If I ever catch anyone lifting any part of this from this blog to be bastardized and used in some other manuscript, I will hunt you down like the slug that you are and do unimaginably bad things to you--stuff I learned with the Plutonian Guard Torture Squad. I mean it. Plagarism makes me dangerous. I'm putting this here solely for the entertainment of anybody surfing by and NOT to be picked at and regurgitated by some other author. Are we clear on this? Good. Enjoy!)

Cloridan de Bayeux? Impossible.
"Tis a good jest, my father," Fayre ventured. She let a nervous giggle slip from her pink lips. "You do give me the belly laughs."
Ethelred Cyewulf gave his daughter a wry smile as his hands met behind his back. "I do not jest, Fayre. The Baron of Arundel has asked for your hand in marriage."
Her emotions too frenzied to permit any other reaction, Fayre simply gaped. Then, she snapped to attention and collected herself with great dignity. "So what if he has? That means naught."
"Were it any other man, I would necessarily agree with you," Ethelred said. "But Cloridan is an incredibly important man, and to him I cannot say no."
Fayre could not breathe. The dim chamber seemed devoid of air. She fell back from her father in clumsy steps, shaking her head. "Nay," she cried. She turned her head and looked at the open window. "I would never defy you, my father, but I will throw myself to the ground before I will wed that fiend!"
Ethelred cried her name in tender despair. "No, daughter, say not such things. My heart would break, and I would die with you. Fayre, my beloved, I have no choice. If I could, I would let you choose your own husband, and you know that. But the king has ordered that you marry de Bayeux, and I can do nothing of it."
"The king? What interest can he have in my matrimony? He barely even spared a look for me when we went to London."
"His interest is for the Baron of Arundel, my dearest."
Her father had not needed to tell her this. Fayre knew well that King William cared only for his Norman vassals. She also realized William could not be entirely responsible for this ludicrous pairing. An arrogant Norman and a Saxon woman who despised him? No, if Fayre knew anything about Cloridan de Bayeux, she knew that he got what he wanted and no less.
"Tell me," she said, "to what degree was the arranging of this marriage de Bayeux's cunning?"
Ethelred narrowed his eyes. "I do not understand."
"Did Arundel ask the king to command this marriage?" Fayre snapped.
"I will not lie to you. He did so." Ethelred raised his shoulders in a slow shrug. "Cloridan is William's favorite, and he wanted you for his bride."
"What of Godwyn?"
"Fayre, here is truth. We are not living in optimal times, my little one. Any one of these Norman barons could have sought your hand. You are desirable, as you know, and as my daughter, you are a promise of an excellent alliance."
"I am naught but a pawn," Fayre wailed.
Ethelred took a deep, hesitant breath. "Tis not so. You are fortunate that Cloridan cast his eyes on you. He is by far the kindest and most gentle of the Norman barons I have encountered, and he will be good to you."
"Cloridan de Bayeux is not Godwyn!"
Ethelred swallowed his sympathy. "I hope you can see that I am concerned for your welfare, but my concern must fall within the king's orders. 'Tis better that you wed Cloridan than that you be claimed by a baron not quite so amiable, my Fayre. Have no doubts that were you to not marry Cloridan, another baron would be quite eager to take you for himself."
The very thought of submitting to Cloridan de Bayeux and fulfilling her proper wifely duties twisted Fayre's stomach. To think that arrogant, haughty man would lay his covetous hands on her flesh, that he would enjoy the gift of her virtue! Fayre clenched her fists and her teeth, fighting back the scream of frustration which threatened to burst from her lips.
She ducked her head, as if acknowledging a punch. The lies she told herself. Cloridan de Bayeux was the choicest bit of man she had ever seen. Her frustration came from her own pride wrestling with her more primal self, the part that wanted Cloridan. After all of her protestations, she could never admit to wanting him. 'Twould be admitting defeat.

"My darling, please try to make the best of this."
Rowyna Cynewulf twisted her thin hands as she looked at her daughter. She did not like the wedding plans any better than Fayre did. "'Tis a favor to your father, for the support he showed William."
Even now, two years after King Harold's fall at Senlac, Fayre did not know what to make of the man who called himself King of England. Her father had been one of several Saxon noblemen to agree that the Duke of Normandy was the rightful English king. All through the countryside, rumor spread that Edward the Confessor had, on his deathbed, named William to be the next king. To Fayre, it made no sense for anyone to oppose Edward's choice, as The Confessor had been a loved and pious king. In fact, William had not his own wile to acknowledge for his success, but more Harold's lack of support and conviction.
Still, a part of Fayre could not deny that England slipped away from her people, as William turned more land over to his Norman vassals
Fayre stroked the arm of the chair, mulling over her mother's words. "'Tis the king's wish that all of his barons take Saxon noblewomen as wives. He seems to think that will make his rule more secure."
"Even among our own people, kings and barons wed and made unions where it would do them the most good. Marriage has ever been a way of sealing alliances."
"Father explained all of that to me. But the fighting is over and the Normans have won. Why must the king continue to strengthen his throne?"
"One battle does not make a war. William may have won his crown, but he has had to fight to keep it. And he will need to continue fighting so long as any man has enough spirit to oppose him. Do you hate the Baron of Arundel so much, Fayre?"
Meeting her mother's clear eyes, Fayre knew she could not hide her true feelings. "Nay, I don't hate him. But I am irritated that he had meddled with my life. Because of him, I cannot marry Godwyn."
"But you loved not Godwyn, either," Rowyna said.
"At least I wanted to marry him," Fayre answered with force.

Fayre sauntered into the great hall, her radiance disguising the sickly turmoil within her.
How it aggravated her to see Cloridan meander about the great hall, mingling with the feast guests as if he were home in his own castle. She wished everyone in the hall could share just a little of her hostility, that Cloridan might not look so arrogant and comfortable.
Fayre moped about the hall, barely acknowledging any greetings offered her. She knew her face was turned in a most unpleasant scowl, but she could not help herself. This silly revelry, this celebration, bore away at her very nerves. Where was the cause for celebration in this accursed betrothal?
Her eyes glanced up towards the high table, where her own seat remained vacant. Ethelred's big blue eyes followed her around the room, full of sympathy and compassion, and Fayre was almost inclined to return to the table for his sake. But then, she saw the true cause of her unrest and abandoned that notion.
Fayre examined her future husband as she might examine a work of art. An inherent strength and sensuality kindled Cloridan's excellent features. His smooth skin was pulled taut over his elegant cheekbones, and his thin, firm lips frequently spread into the devilish smile which made his amusement with everything completely evident. Two merry spheres of dark green sparkled from under the fringe of his thick, dark eyelashes. Cloridan wore his silky black hair down to below his strong shoulders in the Saxon fashion, yet he was clean shaven like the Normans. He cut an unmistakeable figure in the gathering, towering over all other men and dwarfing the ladies.
As always, Cloridan had dressed himself in scarlet for the feast. Never had Fayre seen him wear any other color. She figured he fancied scarlet for the way it complemented his fair complexion and raven hair.
Fayre had admitted to herself long ago that the Count of Sussex was a handsome man. But beauty counted for naught, she knew. He was a Norman, and in her own mind, he therefore could not be trusted.
Cloridan raised his eyes to look across the hall, to gaze at Fayre, and she experienced a small victory as she watched his milky cheeks flush crimson. He sought her eyes, he sought to make that contact with her, but Fayre would not allow it.
"Fayre," spoke a furtive male voice from behind her. Fayre spun around and greeted Alfred, her father's most competent courtier. He did not look content. "Your father and the Baron of Arundel have asked that you take your place with them at the high table."
"My father is familiar with my discontent, and I therefore believe he will understand why I do not comply." Fayre's laugh was icy. "As for the Norman fiend, I do not follow his commands. I am not his subject."
"Please, Fayre. Tis most awkward for Ethelred to preside over his daughter's betrothal feast without your presence. Your father made his volition very clear to me, and I do not doubt I will fall under his great displeasure should I fail him."
"Now that is wisdom--holding you responsible for my actions," Fayre muttered. "Yet I would not see you get into trouble for my sake." With that, Fayre followed Alfred to the head table.
Ethelred leaned forward and looked past his wife, to his daughter. "I am pleased that you would join us," he said in his gentle manner. "I would not have that my beloved daughter be apart from me on this day."
Fayre did not respond, for she was too well aware of the hungry eyes of the Baron of Arundel upon her.
"Fie on you, Arundel!" Baron Godwyn of Penenden stormed into the great hall, his angry voice booming up to the eaves. Cloridan cocked his eyebrow at the fur-clad intruder, but said nothing as Godwyn boldly approached Baron Cynewulf. "Your daughter is pledged to me, Ethelred, and you know it well. What travesty is this--that I hear you would hand your daughter to this dog de Bayeux?"
Fayre clenched her fists, fuming silently as the people about her collectively sucked in their breaths. She met Godwyn's agonized eyes for a moment, clearly communicating her distaste for her situation to him.
Ethelred breathed deeply. "My dear Baron, I, like all of us, must act according to the express wishes of our king William. 'Twas he who ordered me to betrothe my daughter to the Baron of Arundel. If you dispute the arrangement, I bid you travel to London and take up the matter with our king himself."
But Godwyn was no longer listening. He had turned his attention to Cloridan de Bayeux, and now stepped towards the towering man, attempting an air of menace. "How dare you make claim to what is mine," Godwyn hissed. "You Norman dogs may claim our lands, but you have no business taking our fair Saxon maidens!"
Cloridan dismissed Godwyn's ire with a quick shrug. "Tis not so, quite simply. The lady Fayre was an unclaimed maiden, whatever private designs you may have had on her hand. She is free to wed, and her father, the king, and myself have reached a concord that she will marry me. There is no more, Penenden."
"Perhaps not to you." Godwin turned again to look on Fayre, his eyes brimming with a desperate tenderness. "I courted Fayre for my love of her, not for what alliances she could bring me. We had agreed, she and I, to wed. If Fayre gave me her hand by her own will, there is no claim greater."
The Baron of Arundel coolly contemplated the young Saxon man, obviously thinking over Godwyn's words. Yet he also was clearly of no mind to pay Godwyn heed on this matter. "Even were I of a mind to relinquish Fayre, I could not," he finally spoke. "The king has ordered this marriage."

Fayre longed to flee the great hall, to retreat into the private haven of her chamber upstairs in the donjon. She did not eagerly anticipate her inevitable encounters with either Arundel or Penenden. Neither man was likely to let her slip away from this feasting without speaking to her, however much she wished to be left alone.
But Cloridan de Bayeux had quickly taken leave from her father after the meal to come find her. Hide as she tried, slipping her small, lithe form behind columns or guests, Cloridan followed her relentlessly. Finally, she spun around to face him, placing her hands on her hips. "Need I make my lack of interest any more evident to you, Count de Bayeux?" she asked flippantly, speaking in broken French.
Cloridan burst into deep laughter, clearly delighted by her spirited outburst. "Ah, Fayre, you are as fond of me as you have ever been. It soothes my heart to see you have not grown docile."
"Nor shall I ever, so if you are hoping to tame me in our accursed marriage, I invite you to part with such follies this instant. Twould take a better man than you to curb my ire."
"On the contrary, I would weep piteously should you ever be tamed, my little Fayre," he replied coyly. "But have you no kinder words for your future husband? It is our engagement feast, after all."
"No kinder words for one so arrogant as to remind me of my ill fortune!"
Cloridan tisked, cocking his head cynically. "Such wrath from my betrothed. A lesser man than I would beat that wrath straight out of you."
"He would need catch me first," she replied proudly.
With a twinkle in his eyes, Cloridan stood firm. "I can catch you, Fayre."
"Your conceit is tremendous."
"It is truth. I have already caught you, you see."
"You have taken me from my proper betrothed," she hissed, her eyes aflame.
"Penenden is a mere boy," he retorted calmly. "You of all women need more than a boy for your husband."
"He is more a man than you! At least he had the courage to court me openly, not cower and go to the king behind my back."
Cloridan raised his eyebrows as he gave a quick shrug. "Then he hasn't my wit, has he? If he had gotten to William before I did and requested to marry you, his claim would have been assured. We leave for our home two days hence, Fayre. He grabbed her hand and pressed something cold into her palm. "Though you scorn me, Fayre, I will treasure you," Cloridan uttered.
Fayre looked into her palm. There lay a breathtaking jewel, a brooch intricately worked of silver, cradling a luminescent stone. "Tis a moonstone," she said in surprise.
Cloridan nodded, lowering his eyes to gaze down at the alluring stone. "I was very fortunate, actually. On my way to Canterbury did I encounter a peddler of exotic wares. I saw this brooch, and thought of you immediately. Nothing of the ordinary would suit a lady such as you, I believed."
In spite of herself, Fayre was warmed by the precious gift and by his words. "Then I thank you for the brooch," she said in a civil voice. "Tis a sweet gesture. I have always wanted a moonstone."
"I understand that the wearer of a moonstone will have clear sight into the future." Cloridan met her slightly softened eyes. "It is my wish that you might look into your future with me and find joy there."

Cloridan bowed and offered a courteous comment. Giggling, Sibley spoke under her hand. "What did he say, Fayre?"
"I said I am honored, my lady. The fair maidens of Cynewulf are lovely enough to bring a blush to any man's cheeks," Cloridan said.
Fayre's pink lips parted in her surprise. "You speak English!"
Cloridan gave her a soft smile, thrilling in her approval. "A little. I am learning, anyway. How else can I communicate with my people?"
"Perhaps Fayre can help you, my lord," Sibley said. "She has taught me many things."
Fayre could not help but be impressed. That Cloridan would bother to learn her tongue indeed warmed her heart to him, just a bit.

"I think the feast went well, don't you?" Ethelred stood at his study window, his hands joined behind his back.
"With the exception of Penenden making a scene and Fayre despising me, I would agree with you." Cloridan sat back in his chair and sipped from his tankard of ale. "Neither situation bodes well for my marriage, Ethelred."
Turning from the window, Ethelred said, "Godwyn is just an angry boy. He will come to see reason, I know it."
Cloridan arched an eyebrow. "And your daughter?"
Cloridan studied the older man, trying to find the lies in Ethelred's face. He had expected Fayre to be tart with him, as she always was. Under the circumstances, Cloridan could understand why Fayre would hate him, and he prayed he could earn a sweeter consideration from her. But Godwyn of Penenden had taken him by complete surprise.
"Why didn't you tell me Fayre was betrothed?"
Ethelred shifted in his seat under Cloridan's angry stare. His lips open and shut several times before he managed to speak. "I didn't think 'twas important. I knew the king would acknowledge your claim to my daughter over Penenden's."
Cyenewulf had meant no harm. That much was obvious. "But it is important. How can I expect Fayre to be a good wife to me when she preferred to marry another?"
"Fayre will adjust, I know it." Ethelred laced his fingers. "She understands what is for the good of this land."
Cloridan clenched his fists in frustration. Cynewulf could not see the problem. "I care about her, Ethelred."
"As do I. She is my daughter, after all."
"She has every right to hate me," Cloridan said, leaning his palms down on the table. "I didn't know she was to be married. You asked me to take her to wife, and so I asked the king, and I never knew she had a love already. Now I've taken her from the man she loves. Do you think she will ever forgive me?"
"Let me tell you my story. My Rowyna was a present to me from her father, a great thane. She detested me as much as Fayre claims to detest you, at least. But my heart was soft, and I fell in love with Rowyna. I determined that I would woo her with tenderness and affection after our wedding, for I had no time to be her suitor before. My Rowyna's every desire I saw fulfilled. For all her loathing of me, she was obedient and dutiful. I rewarded her with anything she wished, and with all of my love. And finally, one eve as she tended a wound of mine, her sweet eyes met mine and she whispered the words I had been longing to hear. Rowyna told me she loved me, too."
The Count of Bayeux widened his eyes. "And what then, Ethelred?"
Ethelred giggled as he looked into his ale. "About nine moons later, our Fayre was born to us."
"What romance! I see how happy you are with your wife."
"Yes, and you can find the same happiness if you follow my example." Ethelred swished his ale around in the tankard. "Be patient with Fayre. Brook her disobedience and her high spirits."
"It is her spirit which has captured my imagination," Cloridan said.
Cloridan had already decided to woo Fayre Cynewulf in their marriage. Ethelred's enthusiasm and confidence strengthened Cloridan's resolve to give Fayre all of his best. Cloridan could not deny he wanted Fayre. For three long years she had haunted his thoughts, and he wanted nothing more than to be her husband. But he was wiser than to think replacing Godwyn of Penenden in her heart would be easy to do.
Not for the first time, Cloridan doubted his marriage arrangements. 'Twas what he wanted, but that meant nothing if Fayre would be miserable. He would be taking her away from her family and her love to live with him in a castle at the end of the world, away from the safe haven of Canterbury to the wild danger of Arundel.

About Last Night

2008-11-06T14:28:00.002-05:00

Maxine went to the room next door. At the familiar beckoning yell she pushed open the poster-covered door and walked in, as she was used to doing. "Thought you'd find your way here, Maxie," Anders said.

Puzzled, she said, "You knew I was coming?"

He laughed. "Well, no, actually that's a quote from some movie or other."

She nodded, but didn't laugh, and this let Anders know something was up. "What's wrong, Punkin?"

Maxine dropped to the floor, sitting cross legged. "Anders, I really messed up this time."

"Your roomies were worried sick about you last night," he said, not chastising, but concerned. "I was too. Julia was hoping you'd be up for a trip into town last night. Good thing your bro was with Scarlett! He would have gone bollistic if he'd been here." Anders stopped, watching Maxine carefully. "So what happened to you? Where'd you go?"

She dawdled purposefully, sticking her hands in her pockets, examining the posters on the walls. Great, she thought. So she'd not only screwed herself over with her stupid libido, but she'd fucked with people she loved, too. Made everyone's life just a little more hellish. Not too bad for one Friday night. "You up for a drive, boy?" she asked.

Anders ran his hand through his sandy blonde hair. "Ooooh boy, one of those nights, eh?"

"You wouldn't believe it."

"Try me, Maxie," Anders said, winking. "But sure, I'm up for a drive." He grabbed either side of her head and shook it gently. "But are you?"

Maxine paused. "I'm pretty okay. I'm fine to drive. I think it might help clear my head." She flipped a few stray curls out of her face. "And I'll tell you what happened, if you really feel like being burdened."

"Deal, Punkin," he said, kissing her messily on the brow. Then he stepped back, trying to appear comforting. "Look, whatever happened, it can't be as bad as all that. You've got us behind you, remember that."

Maxine smiled weakly, pulling her car keys from her pocket. They left Anders' room and walked down the hall to the stairway. Fortunately for Maxine, she glanced out the window. She gave a little scream as she recognized Byron, her lover, coming towards the dorm, carrying something in his hands. Blanching, Maxine clasped her hands to her head. "Shit!" she exclaimed. "It's him!"

Anders wrinkled his brow, tilting his sunglasses. "Who, Punkin?"

"Byron," she answered hotly, and Anders looked at her, uncomprehending. Maxine paced a little. "Nevermind." She grabbed Anders' hand and began pulling him down the hallway, past her own room, to the other stairway. Of all the things she needed right then, to be so directly confronted with the previous night was the least of them. What did Byron want?

"I'm lost, Punkin," Anders declared.

"I told you I'd explain everything."

"Why are you running from Byron?" Anders asked as he followed her down the steps. "I thought women were supposed to run to him, Punkin."

"Now look you, don't you go getting all squirrely on me," Anders said, shaking his finger at Maxine. "Don't you go equating sex and guilt and shame! If you start it, then there's no hope for any of us."

"I'm not," she answered loudly, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. They were coming north along I-26, just before the junction with I-95. Maxine had easily been able to keep the Sunbird at 87 miles an hour since getting out of Charleston, and she was feeling much better.

"Anders, I'm not ashamed of what happened," she affirmed. "Shame has nothing to do with it. I've fucked up too many times to be ashamed anymore."

"Then how do you feel?"

"I just feel a little stupid. I mean, if he had come up to me and said, "Hello, I'd like to fuck you", and I had said, "I'd like to fuck you too", and if that was all there had been to it, I wouldn't be bothered."

"So what's the frenzy, Punkin?" Anders asked, lowering his sunglasses. "I don't think I'm clear on this."

Maxine sighed. "A fuck put into the context of making love is disconcerting," she said, and Anders regarded her strangely. "Come on, man, you know what I mean. All the delicacy and the tenderness and the chivalry--that's not what a quickie is all about."

"Doesn't sound like you had a quickie."

"I didn't." Maxine grumbled. "Damnit, Anders, I'm not putting any of this well."

Anders pointed ahead. "Any interest in a Waffle House? Maybe some grits and coffee will help you explain a little better."

Maxine realized she hadn't eaten since the previous afternoon. That, and the exit provided a good spot to turn around. If she felt like going back. "Yeah, I could use some grease," she said, moving the Sunbird onto the exit.

Maxine found the Waffle House comfortingly crowded as the waitress led her and Anders to a small booth. They both ordered coffees, Maxine requesting decaffeinated, and grits, Maxine asking for no butter. The waitress looked at her strangely, but jotted down her request. "Good thing you've got the accent, Punkin," Anders noted. "I'd be scared in here otherwise."

Maxine put two fingers to her throat. "My accent?"

"It's not real thick," Anders said. "It's been diluted, I would guess. But there's no mistaking you're a southern belle."

"It's an Irish accent, actually," she corrected, speaking in her brogue. "I grew up in the Emerald Isle, after all."

"Oh, that's right," Anders conceded with a smirk. "I'm so used to hearing your voice that I forget."

The waitress returned, pouring their coffee. "So more about Byron, please," he requested. "So far I know that he loves you and that you slept with him."

"No, he said he loves me," corrected Maxine. "That's not the same."

Anders waved his hand in dismissal. "Whatever. It's pretty obvious to me, Punkin, that you're real special to him. It's in his eyes, babe. I believe he could dig you that deeply without any problem."

"Byron gets lots of girls, I'm sure," Maxine spat. "Don't all these hunks have some kind of quota to fill? I was just another stat."

"Byron is not your average stud muffin, Punkin," Anders said, dripping syrup over his grits. "I don't think he collects women--he's way too sensitive. It would kill him. I think he's a one-woman man in his heart. I don't think he's the kind of guy to lure a girl back to his pad with some nice words, and then skip out on her, know what I mean?" Maxine stared down into her black coffee, dismally. "Yeah, sure, he's a celeb. So what? He's no different from you or me. We all bleed when cut."

"It sucks because we were really good friends," she pouted. "And then I fall for the 'I love you' line, and that's all over."

"If it's all over, Punkin, then he wasn't much of a friend to begin with, was he?"

"That's true."

Anders regarded Maxine intently. "Maxine, Byron is a good guy. We all know that. I just cannot imagine that he would pull the stud one-nighter hell gag on you. And especially not on you!"

Begrudgingly, Maxine nodded in agreement. "What about his fiancee?" she demanded. "Am I supposed to be her replacement? How do I fare as a little, red, decrepit caboose to that sleek silver bullet?"

Anders giggled. "You underate yourself, Maxine. You're no caboose. You've got the goods, and you don't even know it." He looked at her with a lopsided grin. "There's not one male in this entire project that doesn't think you're gorgeous, me included. But you knew that."

"Well, there was Adam, and then a couple of guys have asked me out, but--"

"But nothing! Punkin, Samantha's a fake. I bet there's not one natural piece left on her entire body."

Giggling, Maxine dripped some coffee out of her mouth. "I don't know," she said, wiping her mouth off, still giggling. "She does pour pancake batter on her face every morning, though."

Anders catapulted empty sugar packets with his spoon. "I guarantee you that most guys would rather be with a real Maxine than a fake Samantha. And Byron is definitely one of us most guys. You, Punkin, are the winner in that beauty battle."

"Doesn't change the fact that Byron is engaged to her," Maxine pointed out.

Anders reached across the table and tapped Maxine in her head. "Are you home? That whole engagement thing's just a joke of some sort, Punkin. Byron and Samantha don't even like each other. You should know that."

"Then why did he get engaged to her in the first place?" Maxine wondered. "Anders, why make the committment? I don't get it."

Anders shrugged. "Gotta be that Hollywood thing," he theorized. "Media blitz to push the most handsome actor and the prettiest cover girl into a couple. Totally fabricated, good for their careers, and who cares if they hate each other?"

Maxine shook her head, exhaling. "One of the reasons that I applied for this stint," she said, stirring sugar into her grits, "was that I wanted to get a glimpse into the Hollywood mind, you know? How do they think differently from the rest of us, and why." She sipped her coffee. "Now I've had a nice intimate sampling, and I still have no clue."

Anders laughed hard enough to turn the heads of the other patrons. "Maxie, you rule," he said, calming himself. "But having someone tell you they're in love with you is a pretty heavy duty thing," Anders mused. "Even in Hollywood."

Maxine shrugged, waving her hand dismissively. "Ack, that embarasses the crap out of me," she said. "I feel like I walked right into a role."

Anders looked her straight in the eyes. "Do you love Byron, Punkin?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Lots. Do you love Byron?"

She rolled her eyes. "That's a silly question, Anders."

"Well, do you?"

"Anders!" Maxine truly did not want to discuss her own feelings.

"Okay, let me ask you this," he said, changing his approach. "Were you able to climax with him?"

Maxine covered her face with her hands and groaned. "Why should I tell you that?"

"Because if you did, not only do you probably love him, but he loves you," Anders concluded. "I read it somewhere, I don't remember where. Being comfortable with each other, usually through love."

Maxine drummed her long fingers on the tabletop. "Alright. Yes. I did. Several times."

Anders slapped his own face in a comic gesture. "Hmmm--so that means you felt enough into the sitch to relax, and that he must have taken long enough for you to--"

"I get the picture, Anders," Maxine said firmly.

"Do you? Should I draw it for you?"

Maxine twisted her mouth. "I hate this love business, Anders," she said. "I've been in love twice. The first time, I ended up with his brains splattered all over me, and the second time he turned out to be a twisted neurotic closet moron." She paused to sip her coffee. "You can understand why love makes me nervous."

"Makes us all nervous," he said through his laughter. "That's why we do it. All part of the fun of the merry go round."

"There's no merry go round here, Anders. Let's outline this," she said. "Byron is engaged to Samantha. Byron tells me he loves me. I stupidly spend the night with Byron. Next I get told it was fun but Samantha is his fiancee. End of story."

Anders shook his palms at Maxine. "You're missing the connectors, Punkin. Byron hates Samantha, Byron is stuck in a media trap. You, Maxie, are not a media trap. Byron is in love with you, so you guys do the natural thing folks in love do. And Samantha gets squeezed out of the picture forever. The end of the story is that Byron loves you for real, and that is what you have over Samantha, by far."

Maxine leaned her head on her fist, pondering. "So you think he was serious, is what you're saying?"

Drinking his coffee, Anders shrugged. "The guy's been gaga for you since day one, I know that much. Doubt there's anybody on the project who doesn't know that."

"And now he hates me because I ducked out on him."

"You're indulging in silliness, Punkin," Anders insisted. "I think he'll understand why you bolted, if you explain it to him. If I were him, I'd want to know more about the gymnastic abilities involved in that escape you made." He chuckled.

"Okay, so let's say that Byron and I are," she cleared her throat, "in love. I go back to the island and I find him and we get caught up in the whirlwind of passion-related shit. What happens next?"

Anders chewed on his spoon. "Well that's a silly question, Max! Who knows what comes next for any of us?"

Black Bird, Why Do You Seek Me?

2008-11-03T20:23:00.001-05:00

No matter how I've tried to shake him off, he still comes after me with the ferocity of a hunting carnivore--not the cunning of a carrion feeder. I close my eyes and I see the black bird, the same black bird who has been with me for all of this life and perhaps in other lives as well. For some reason I wanted to shake the bird but he's only come back thirteen times as powerful. I realize now that I cannot run from my heritage--from the blood of my ancestors which now flows through me--and that the black bird, the Great Raven, will always seek me out no matter where I am. My question to myself now is do I want to embrace him as forcefully as I have done before, do I want to have done with him and pursue my new existence, or can I possibly keep the Great Raven in my heart and continue to move forward? I will ponder with care.

Profile From Les Vampires

2008-11-03T20:18:00.001-05:00

THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
1. Queen Mousehead
2. KodaiChin
3. Apocalypse Girl

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. Hair
2. Eyes
3. Complexion

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. Toes
2. Shoulders
3. Nose

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
1. Irish
2. Breton
3. French

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. The government
2. Skin disorders
3. Failure

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. Aspirin
2. Music
3. Laughter

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. Slinky black satin bathrobe
2. Goofy cotton rainbow nightshirt
3. Crescent moon necklace

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE PREFERRED SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
1. Eyes
2. Chest/torso
3. Hands

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
1. Gardening
2. Playing with my dog
3. Reading

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
1. Sleep
2. Drink a latte
3. Take a little vacation

THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING/YOU'VE CONSIDERED:
1. Mortician
2. Aerialist
3. Forensic anthropologist

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS:
1. Nine Inch Nails
2. Electric Hellfire Club
3. Dead Kennedys

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS:
1. Three Days - Jane's Addiction
2. Riverhead - Prick
3. Redeemer - Marilyn Manson

THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
1. Compassion
2. Trust
3. Laughter

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE (in no particular order):
1. I can't live without sex.
2. I really enjoy sleeping in coffins.
3. I found myself in the Paris catacombs.

THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
1. Quebec
2. Belize
3. Turkey

THREE KID'S NAMES YOU LIKE:
1. Catherine
2. Matthew
3. Alexander

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
1. Cross the Darien Gap on foot
2. Visit the Forbidden City in Beijing
3. Go into outer space

THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:
1. I'm really lax and laid-back as far as style.
2. I'm physically strong.
3. I love working with tools.

THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A CHICK:
1. I keep my skin soft.
2. I like to wear nice fragrances.
3. There's no hiding what's in the balcony.

THREE CELEB CRUSHES:
1. Stuart Townsend
2. Brandon Lee (rest in peace)
3. Keanu Reeves

THREE PEOPLE THAT I WOULD LIKE TO SEE TAKE THIS QUIZ NOW:
1. My younger sister
2. George W. Bush
3. Poppy Z. Brite

Profile From Elle Magazine

2008-11-03T20:15:00.000-05:00

If you could come back as a dress, which one would it be?

I’d pick one of those classic little black numbers from Givenchy.

What is your favorite color?

Purple, violet, amethyst…you get the picture.

What is your favorite junk food?

Kettle chips.

What are you most vain about?

Nothing. I’m not vain even where I should be.

What are you most shy about?

Everything. How’s everything for an answer?

If you could have somebody else’s body, whose would it be?

Do you mean I would exist in said body or that the body would be mine to play with as I please?

If you could have somebody else’s breasts, whose would they be?

Uck.

Who are your fantasy dinner party guests?

There are so many. But assuming I am the hostess of a dinner party for twelve, I would select Coco Chanel, Charlemagne, Eleanor Roosevelt, Richard Feynman (physicist), Mary Robinson (former president of Ireland), Kurt Vonnegut, Sally Ride, John Young (also an accomplished astronaut), Zsuszanna Budapest (womens’ rights activist), His Holliness the Dalai Lama, Gloria Steinem, and Carl Sagan.

Where is your favorite place to have a drink?

I love this little authentic coffeehouse on Penn campus.

Whose wallet would you like to steal?

I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

Whose diary would you most like to read?

Hilary Rodham Clinton’s.

What’s your least favorite food?

Anything tomato can get kicked right to the curb.

If you were an inventor, what would you invent?

I’d invent something that would do all of my dressing and grooming for me. I feel like I’m on automatic pilot anyway.

What is your favorite car?

I like the car that gets me where I’m going safely.

When and where are you happiest?

I’m happiest in those wonderful moments at night when I’m relaxing in a scented bath with the day behind me and the comfort of sleep awaiting me.

What or who is your worst enemy?

I am my own worst enemy along with my evil sidekick Doubt.

What piece of art would you most like to own?

“Mary Magdalene” by Gustav Adolf Mossa.

Where is your favorite vacation spot?

Quebec City, Canada

What is your most treasured possession?

I have the fang of a rattlesnake my shaman mentor gave to me as a rite of passage.

Who is your favorite fictional character?

Holden Caufield.

If you weren’t a writer, what would you be?

A mortician, an aerialist, a lawyer…who knows?

What current trend would you like to see disappear?

I want to see anything extolling extreme thinness as some kind of virtue disappear.

Always…?

Always remember things can always get worse.

Never…?

Never doubt that things can get better.

2008--Year of the Vampire Princess

2008-11-03T17:21:00.002-05:00

I resolve to make no resolutions of a resolving nature because I refuse to believe I am resolved to anything. To make a resolution is almost like taking a stab at being perfect. Perfection and humanity do not go well together, and I far prefer the imperfections of being human. In that sense, I suppose I resolve to be human, because in doing so I am already acknowledging an awareness that perfection is not for this existence but good and jolly humanity is.

I don't resolve to be nicer. I'm nice enough as it is. Maybe I should be meaner. Nah. This is working for me.

I don't resolve to lose weight or get in shape. I'm already in shape, and I know that weight loss can be caused by illness or parasitic infections. So if you're thinking about losing weight, you might want to be specific about how it happens.

I don't resolve to be more organized, because the system I'm already using works for me.

I'm not resolving to keep my mouth shut or to keep my opinions to myself. What good is any of that?

I'm thinking of dying my hair dark purple, but I'm not resolved to it.

I do resolve not to act on the matter of the two people of my heart, because either choice alienates the other.

I do resolve to continue to be politically active, although at this point I am not absolutely certain what form that will take.

I do resolve to continue working my physical/vocal presence to my best advantage. I spent too many years shy and hiding for no real reason.

I resolve myself to a bilingual life and to bilingual work.

And...know what? Hell, I'm a damn lucky person. Okay, maybe I work hard too, but I do count my blessings every day. I know real happiness, and that's what I wish for everyone in the coming year and those to come!

Apocalypse Theory (Untheories of Nonexistence)

2008-11-03T17:14:00.003-05:00

When I say "apocalypse", I'm not talking in Biblical terms. This little thingie of mine, originally called "The Beginning of the End", will clarify everything...or so I hope. Basically this explains why my major website is called Electric Apocalypse, and why as the keeper of said site I started calling myself Apocalypse Girl.

ENTER THE FOUR HORSEMEN

What is an apocalypse? What does "apocalypse" mean? Why is this apocalypse electric? As the author of this domain, I am very proud of the research I have done which has gone into the creation of this site and the themes of Electric Apocalypse Productions.

There are four characters which may be familiar to you in name, if not in fact. These are my interpretation on a classic theme. They are War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death--the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The Horsemen appear in the Book of Revelation (New Testament) and symbolize the supposed evils that will claim the earth at the end of the world. Traditionally, Death (also called Conquest) is mounted upon a white horse, War on a red horse, Pestilence (also called Plague) on a pale horse, and Famine on a black horse. As you can see, I have my own interpretation.

These evils, as stated, are harbingers of the end of the world. But I have to ask, have they not been among humanity since the beginning of human history? People have always been fighting each other. People have always gone hungry. People have always suffered from disease. People have always died. In this case, then, are the Four Horsemen signs of things to come, or are they revealatory in themselves, showing a darker and uglier side to human existence?

None of these things--Revelation, the Four Horsemen, apocalypse--are simply explained. What is more, I don't believe there is one correct definition. Here, I will be presenting my own take, based upon my research and a great many hours in contemplation. It is my hope that my point of view will be clear and understandable to you, but I in no way am claiming anyone should adopt my conclusions as their own. This has been a great journey of discovery for me, one I want to share with you.

APOCALYPSE TRADITION

Before I begin, I would like to give you a few standard working definitions from the New Testament. I will be adding more information in the course of this exposition.

APOCALYPSE - Another name for the New Testament Book of Revelation, from the Greek word for "revelation"; a final catastrophe; the end of the world; the end of time.
REVELATION - The last book of the New Testament, also called Apocalypse; the violent end of the world is foretold and the truth of the end of days is revealed; describes Armageddon, the Second Coming, Judgement Day, and the new heaven and earth.
ARMAGEDDON - The site of the final and conclusive battle between good and evil.
SECOND COMING - The return of Jesus to judge the living and the dead and bring about the final triumph of good over evil; this has been said to be in the near future for centuries.
ANTICHRIST - An enemy of Jesus who will appear before the Second Coming and win over many people who would otherwise follow Jesus.

Pretty clearly, an apocalypse would seem to be synonymous with the end of the world. Indeed this is a common connotation of apocalypse. However, to stop there is to miss out on a richer meaning.

"Apocalypse" comes from the Greek (Anglified) "apokalypsis", which in turn combines "apo" (un) + "kalyptein" (cover). In other words, an apocalypse means to uncover, to reveal. Revelation, then, is the uncovering of divine wisdom and prophecy regarding the end times and what the faithful must do.

I won't go into an exegesis on the Book of Revelation here, as it does not really serve any purpose in this instance. But we have uncovered two definitions of "apocalypse", both of which I ask you to keep in mind.

The ultimate end-all total turn around flip over and undoing of anything and everything.
The revelation of knowledge, even though that knowledge might be ugly.

APOCALYPSE CULTURE

Have you ever wondered about rubber necks? You know, the annoying drivers that slow down almost to a stop to gawk at a nasty auto accident?

I think this scenario applies to a great many situations in human life. People are fascinated by the appalling. It's an attraction-avoidance conflict in which attraction inevitably wins. Look at the tabloids. Yes, it's cattle fodder, but it also sells. What have been the obsessions? How long has the little beauty queen Jon Benet been dead, and she's still moving magazines. For that matter, what of the Kennedys? There's more said about them in death than in life. What other treats are presented to us? Diet tragedies and starvation stories, have mindblowing sex but get closer to deity, beauties beat up by enraged spouses, and of course the constant kicker, the imminent end of the world. If we're not living in an apocalypse culture, I can't imagine what this is.

In 1991, Feral House published Apocalypse Culture, a compendium of documents depicting the less savory side of our times. Includes are "Latter-Day Lycanthropy: Battling for the Feral Soul of Man", "The Unrepentant Necrophile", "Frank Talk from a Psychopath", "Aesthetic Terrorism", "Schizophrenic Responses to a Mad World", and "Long Live Death!" among many others. In 2000, in spite of the ardent determination of editor Adam Parfrey that Apocalypse Culture would never have a sequel, Feral House published Apocalypse Culture II, which is widely regarded as even more extreme than its predecessor. What exactly are these books? More than anything, these are books of revelation--books that bring the twisted side of mankind to light for you to peruse, if you dare. These are the things the general media sweeps under the rug, the things people never dicussed in a long ago day and age and still consider taboo.

More to the point, the Apocalypse Culture books are a manifestation of their title--the Apocalypse Culture. Who and what is Apocalypse Culture? Do you like peeking behind closed blinds after explicitly being told not to do so? Do you see what's really going on around you not through the goggles society would fit you with but through your own eyes? Can you see and appreciate the revelation of humanity's insanity? Do you agree that circumstances need some serious shaking up, and maybe even want to be one of the shakers? If any of these notions appeal to you, you might already be an active participant in Apocalypse Culture (as opposed to the passive participant who chases ambulances and likes reading about popular deaths without understanding their own urges).

APOCALYPSE THEORY

At this point I would like to mention that the concept of an apocalypse is one that has fascinated me for most of my life. This is not the same as being obsessed with the end of the world, mind you. To me, apocalypse always meant change, first and foremost. Granted, this is change on a grand scale, but change nonetheless.

I began to think out Apocalypse Theory when I survived the end of my own personal world. I won't go into the details, but I will say that everything that was for me was no more, and I was left to rebuild virtually from scratch. In time, I began to see that was I was making anew for myself was infinitely better than what I had lost. The medical analogy that when a broken bone heals badly it must be broken again to heal properly kept occurring to me. I saw where there was real strength in having undergone this complete debacle and rebirth. What happened to me? I had gone through a personal apocalypse, a mental apocalypse.

Yet there was more. In the process, I also had an apocalypse in the sense of revelation. I learned truths about myself, some of which were beautiful and some of which were the stuff of nightmares. The very nature of the world around me was revealed. I'd never really had the wool over my eyes before, but now it was gone forever. I saw and thought clearly. I was strong in my own convictions and not easily swayed by anything. I would include this as part of the personal and mental apocalypses previously mentioned.

This is Apocalypse Theory on a personal level, but what about applying the same principles to society? I believe that we as human beings are never stronger than when we've been shaken down to the very core of our being and then gone ahead to meet the challenge of a new beginning. The ugliness of mankind is revealed every day. We're destroying the planet, we're destroying ourselves. We're choosing apathy over action. We're fascinated by the death of one famous person and indifferent to the deaths of thousands in an earthquake. It's all revealed, but humanity's nature is to ignore what is displeasing and look the other way.

It's time for a shake up, and I say a shake up is long overdue. Naturally I don't mean the literal destruction of everything and everyone. But the broken bone hasn't healed properly; humanity has backed itself into a corner. The solution I propose is to break the bone again.

This, then, is Apocalypse Theory.

ELECTRIC APOCALYPSE

The tale of Electric Apocalypse is one of speculation, theory, and parallel. Please keep this in mind.

Our story begins in the eighteenth century. This was the time of the Enlightenment, the time when society turned away from religion and superstition in favor of science and reason. In this climate, the notion that anyone, especially people of note and power, would be dabbling in "Black Arts" and "Satanic Activities" might seem ludicrous. Yet, this may very well have happened--or something like it, or maybe something nothing like it at all that would have been dull without the diabolical veneer.

Parliament was into it. The American Founding Fathers were into it. But what was "it"? Welcome to the fact and lore of the Hellfire Club. Whether or not this organization conducted Satanic rites or if membership was just an expression of cynicism towards conventional religion is still debated (though folks will claim to have the absolute facts, a claim I refuse to make). In fact, the veracity or fable of the Hellfire Club is irrelevant here; one way or another, the name and the idea persist.

But the United States has some interesting potential connections to the Hellfire Club. Benjamin Franklin is said to have been an active member as he helped shape and form the new nation. Many of the other Founding Fathers had unusual views on Christianity. George Washington refused to kneel in church or take communion. Thomas Jefferson stated that he did not see a single redeeming feature in Christianity. James Madison said, "What has been its fruits? More or less, in all places, pride and indolence in the clergy, ignorance and servility in the laity, in both superstition, bigotry and persecution". Today, some Americans swear allegiance to their flag with the words "under God". "In God We Trust" appears on American currency. Yet the original motto of the Founding Fathers was "E Pluribus Unum" or simply "Out of Many, One". The Constitution guarantees religious freedom for all. How much can be attributed to the influence of the Hellfire Club?

More than two centuries after the drafting of the Constitution, the Hellfire Club rears its head again. This time, the philosophy is expressed in song and put to music--dance music, diabolical disco, even. The ideas are thriving again, but something's different this time. What is it? How is this happening? Of course! ELECTRICITY! Well, this is how I imagine the birth of one of my own favorite bands, the Electric Hellfire Club.

Nice, nice, but what does this have to do with me?

If you've read through the documents on this site, you're pretty familiar with my version of apocalypse. Aha, but just how do I bring that version to life through my production company? Of course! ELECTRICITY!

But I'm not just discussing the watts and voltage here. There's a creative electricity here too. That electricity is the heart of the whole effort. What exactly am I producing? Works for the Apocalypse Culture, works to wake people up, works to reveal the nastier side of human nature, in writing, film, graphic art, in any and every medium that occurs to me.

Such was the birth of the Electric Apocalypse Production Company, which I would say was established in 1987 when I shot my first film, "Skateboard Apocalypse". Essentially, nuclear warheads had been launched and death was a certainty. Given a short time left to live, what does a group of urban high school students choose to do? SKATE!

I'd like to thank you for taking the time to read this introduction and for getting to know what Electric Apocalypse Productions is all about.

Medieval Pick Up Lines

2008-11-03T16:52:00.000-05:00

"Hey, Princess, you wouldn't happen to know where a lonely knight could scabbard his sword, would you?"

"Been there, slain that."

"Your hovel or mine?"

"Pestilence makes the heart go wander."

"Pardon me, madam, but wouldst thou like to see my longsword in action?"

"Every second of every hour of every day is like a thousand knives of fire stabbing me in the heart. I long for thee incessantly, so much that my sorrow seems without surcease. My alliteration is small comfort next to the warm gaze of thine azure eyes. I crave the comfort of thine embrace like some lost child cold and alone in the dark....So, you wanna !@..$% ???"

"You wanna go upstairs and see my Holy Grail?"

"I like the cut of your jib."

"If I were that horse, I'd rather you mounted me without the saddle."

Wizard: "You know, my hat isn't the only thing that's pointed."

"Thy breastplate is wondrous! Wouldst thou hold my polearm whilst I attempt to light thy fire?"

"Dost thou practice safe hex?"

"Dost thou know? That chastity belt of yours would look great on my sleeping chamber floor."

"I had to swim the moat to get to you fair maiden."

"So, would you like to see my breaststroke?"

Wench: "What's that sound?"
Knight: "That's just the sound of my chain mail drawers expanding."

"Thou hast hit on me harder than the black plague!"

"Why don't we go back to my place and re-enact 'The Miller's Tale?'"

"You won't believe this but St. George just appeared to me in a vision and told me that I must bed you. The fate of England depends is on it!!"

"Ever see a passion play? Would you like to?"

"Don't believe the rumors you heard about me. The plague didn't affect the important parts."

"Like a mare, I can be ridden for hours."

"How, you ask, did I get up here to your balcony? Well, I espied you from yonder garden. In an instant my er, heart was swelled with lus.. er, love. I had to meet you! So I ran over but tripped on a stone thusly pole-vaulting into your arms."

"C'mon, sweetie. Didn't your mother ever tell you? A cleric a day keeps the black plague away."

"I lost my leg in battle. Guess what I'm walking on!"

"Yes, fair maiden, I am indeed a wizard."

"Shall I make your clothes disappear?"

"I'm really a prince cursed by an evil witch."

"Tell me, do you have sex with frogs?"

"My! But you are a beautiful damsel in distress! Allow me to help you out of it."

Don't Shirk--Blunt Works!

2008-11-03T16:51:00.001-05:00

Sometimes it's necessary to couch things in soft terms. We often need to be discreet and politic so as to not upset or anger whoever has our attention at that moment.

Then again, there are times when it's necessary to be absolutely blunt. I get called "blunt as a spoon" a lot. Maybe it's even accurate. I prefer to go for the verbal visceral punch instead of tap dancing around an important matter.

Here are two examples of what I mean--success stories in which I take great pride. Before the Pennsylvania Primary on April 22, 2008, my grandmother and her Greatest Generation Gang were sitting around, resigned to not voting. This wasn't important, they said. No one interested them, they said. Many hadn't voted at all for over 20 years--ostensibly to avoid jury duty.

Now if these people could survive 80+ years on the planet, they could handle me. And so I started. The vote is your voice, I told them. What do you think your friends in all of these wars have died for--so you can sit on your bottoms and reliquish your right to vote? What about your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren?

This was getting through, but I decided to go for the kicker. "If you don't vote on Tuesday," I said, "you'll be giving up your right to complain for the duration of the election process."

The Yankee Doodle spiel had softened them, but the thought of having to refrain from opining for all of these months finished the job. Every single one of them voted in the primary (and I did what I could to make sure they got to their polling places).

Lately my mother made an appointment for her first colonoscopy. She was cool with it until last week, when she started pulling excuses to call it off from her...er...nose. Who would take care of her mother? What about the bathroom situation? What if this list of 53 improbable things happen?

So I came at it from a different point of view. "We're talking about your life here," I said. "If you don't have this done and there is in fact something wrong, it will go undetected and be that much harder to treat. You owe it to us--the family that loves you--to take this step to secure that we have a future together. You're so worried about Grandma and all of that, but what good will it do anyone if you die because you talked yourself out of this?"

Within the span of a day my mother made a complete turn around. With the knowledge that she could bail out at any time, she went about the prep process, with my sister and me for company and moral support. Suddenly she found a new strength and she surged ahead, determined to get this thing over with. I
am happy to say she had it done this morning, everything went well, and I am so proud of her for overcoming her hesitations in order to take care of herself.

Anyhow, my point is sometimes the greatest kindness is to use a little bluntness in your speech. You need to look for the one thing that will turn the discussion. And don't worry about hurt feelings. More often than not people will thank you for being straight with them.

Red

2008-11-01T14:47:00.000-04:00

Aw, whatsamatter? Don't like red? Perhaps red is too cliche for your delicate sense of aesthetics? Well, tough mouseloaf. Red is the color of the bold and the brazen, the doppelganger with an ego large enough to consume Latin America. And me, hey, I love red. I adore red. Hell, my car is bright red. My house is red (velvet). Poppies are red. Coop devil girls are red. Blood (batheinitswiminitliveinitdrinkitup) is red once it hits air. Really REALLY mindblowing sex is red (just use your imagination). Time is flowing red. "I alone walk in the red heavens". Grenadine is red, and for that matter, so are pomegranites. Anyway, the point...the point? Oh, right, I'm not trying to go for an overdone style so much as just using a color so very dear to me. Well, all right, that and I'm staring through the famed Ruby of Mygoshpraksh, which is the size of a human heart, which I understand is also kind of red. Just be grateful I don't do the Web design for major search engines, cool?

Third Place Was My Personal Victory

2008-11-01T14:44:00.001-04:00

I was out of my depth and I knew it, but I was determined to at least make a statement in this year's (2006) Purple Prose Parody Contest. Now this was sponsored by a romance novel website, an area represented by people for whom I'm something of an oddity. This year the twist was to use a classic novel. Well, I figured I wanted to go full throttle, so I chose George Orwell's Animal Farm. The characters weren't human--that, I thought, should set me apart.

And imagine my surprise when I came in third! Not everybody thinks according to a rigid paradigm.

Here is my entry, titled "A Tumble in the Hay".

In the barn the air hung thick in tremulous anticipation. The haystack stood in salute to forbidden love. Then, Mollie’s nervous eating habit seized her violently, and she began to take tiny nibbles from that golden love tribute.

Surely Napoleon’s black piggy eyes had witnessed the mad carmine haze of passionate wanting. Not even that pig could mistake Mollie’s bug-eyed longing glances at Benjamin. Maybe the others on Animal Farm thought Benjamin was nothing but an ass, but to Mollie, he was a stallion of manliness.

“Mollie!” Fred brayed, the noise floating on the slop-scented air.

“Benjamin!” Mollie neighed, tapping out the number of kisses she planned to give him with her left hoof. “Were you seen?”

“The pigs have spies everywhere,” Benjamin said, daring to curl her tail in his. “That simpkin Snowball asked me just today at the water trough why I appear to be fond of the two-leggeds.”

Mollie thought of the emerald, turquoise, and ivory ribbons in her mane. Without the two-leggeds to pamper her, what would she be? Why, she’d be no better than a workhorse! Mollie whinnied in disgust. “The two-leggeds have such beautiful things. And they have love!”

“Indeed, my little equine Venus. But Napoleon is ruthless. He will not cease until all things two-legged are broken and scrambled like yesterday’s eggs in the farmer’s skillet.”

Mollie sighed, the thick full curtain of her eyelashes veiling her eyes. “We would be better off as two leggeds, my love.”

“Rubbish!” Benjamin moved closer, heating her broadside with his own lust-powered furnace. “We shall love, Mollie, and we shall be the envy of Animal Farm. Now dispense with the foolishness and kiss me, seductress mare!”

Swept into the moment, a dust devil of aching need, Mollie surrendered and allowed Benjamin to become the horse’s ass.

"Final Destination" Flicks Forever

2008-11-01T14:42:00.000-04:00

"Ok. Ok, what if, for example, the last in line were to make the utilitarian choice. Kill themselves. Well, wow, that's pretty much gonna ruin any plan deaths put in motion. And even better, I think that's gonna save, five skipped lives. Any takers?"

So I finally got to see Final Destination 3 last night. Now goofy as it is, I'm a big fan of the series, and while this one wasn't quite as good as the others, it was still hugely entertaining and wonderfully gory.

What I REALLY liked and urge everyone to rent the film to watch is the animated short, "It's All Around You". The it, of course, is death. Basically, the thrust of the piece is that death is everywhere and is going to get us all, so quit moping and enjoy life. This is a philosophy I've kept for a long time now, so it's no wonder I liked it. But I got a real kick out of the odds and stats that were presented. For example, think about the usual one in a million stat. All right. So the population of the United States is roughly 280 million people. Technically, that would mean that 280 separate one in a million events would happen every day.

Oh...and your chances of dying? One to one.

This is the kind of stuff that makes me giggle, whatever that says about me.

Goofball Reviews

2008-11-01T14:39:00.002-04:00

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.

Deliciously Morbid

2008-11-01T14:37:00.000-04:00

--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.

Just Like Magic

2008-11-01T14:36:00.000-04:00

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.

The Heartless Bitch

2008-11-01T14:34:00.000-04:00

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.

Antichrists and Oranges

2008-11-01T14:25:00.003-04:00

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 Loa Gate

2008-09-23T17:12:00.001-04:00

“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

2008-09-23T17:10:00.001-04:00

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...

2008-09-23T17:09:00.001-04:00

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

2008-09-23T17:08:00.001-04:00

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?

2008-09-23T17:07:00.001-04:00

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

2008-09-23T17:06:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-23T17:02:00.001-04:00

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!