Leslie J Linder

Short Stories, Fiction, Non-fiction, Poetry

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conjunction junction (astrology and the magickal arts of cleaning while NOT burning down your house)

Greetings, fellow travelers. Nothing like showing up late and making a scene. Sigh. It’s been a while since I’ve written here, but at least I have an excuse (a good one, at least in my own mind). I did manage to turn in the draft of my upcoming book, Spinstress Craft. In the process, my editor at SageWoman has decided to convert my column into one more along the themes of the book…magick for independent womxyn. So, I’ve been brainstorming on that topic. When the relaunch of the column is more solid I’ll shout out. For now, my upcoming piece in the next issue is still themed about women and other animals (“Child of Artemis”).

In the meantime, life has rocketed on without me. This has been one hell of a year. Who could have known even one year ago what we would be facing? Even as a vaccine for this particular strain of COVID starts creeping out into the countryside, we know this will take a long time to heal. That’s not even mentioning how many loved ones have been lost in our midst, and the risk that remains. For those who turn to Biblical inspiration, I highly recommend Psalm 91. All of it. It specifically speaks to protection from seen and unseen threats, including “plagues.” Sure, it yangs when it should’ve yinned about god covering us with “his” protective wings (clearly the action of a mother bird). Sigh. Grumble. Yes, I was that kid in Sunday School. Still, it’s got angels. It’s got dragons (depending on the translation you’re dealing with, like KJV). What’s not to like? Think of me while you’re reading it.

I can’t believe it’s the holiday season. But it is, and there is a massive astrological phenomenon I feel like I should take time to contemplate. This is, of course, the “great conjunction” of Jupiter and Saturn as they leave Capricorn and enter Aquarius. The closeness of the two planets is going to be visible in the night sky, creating what some call “the Christmas star effect.”

December 8, 2020. Location: The Dark Side Observatory, Weatherly, PA, USA.

Please note, I am not an astrologer. I don’t fully understand all the intricacies of my own birth sign, let alone the constant dance of the planets and stars or how they affect little ole me. I don’t even know all the lyrics to The Fifth Dimension’s song. Yet even someone who doesn’t know much about cars is going to notice if a parade of stretch limos rolls down their street. The astrological occurrence we now find ourselves in is an even bigger deal.

This event is a “conjunction” where the planets Jupiter and Saturn align really, really close to each other. In the first degree. In Aquarius, on winter solstice. The two planets are going to look like they are pretty much bumping into each other. Or, you know, going out for drinks. This happens more often with our moon and the planet Venus. Those two have a long-term regular thing. With Jupiter and Saturn, they flirt without closing the deal about every twenty years, seeing what’s up. But they don’t get together like this very darned often.

The last time this occurred was in the year 1623. The next time will be in 2080. I don’t think either of these events will occur on a solstice. In other words, it’s pretty damn rare. Other than that, what might it mean?

Here’s the part where you have to remember I play it pretty fast and loose with astrology. But, as a magickal practitioner, I have some basic ideas. Here’s what I think.

Here’s the deal. Jupiter is a planet of opportunity, manifestation and abundance. Saturn is the planet of the purge. Shadow work, cutting stuff off, getting rid of what doesn’t serve you. Together they make one big ass crisis/opportunity or crisitunity (for Simpsons fans). If you put them in the right order you can cut off and purge out what doesn’t serve you, then draw in what you dreamed of to fill in that open space.

Since this is occurring in Aquarius, an air sign, a lot of the action is going to be in the mental plane. Many believe this is also the beginning of the great “Age of Aquarius” in which we exit the age of Pisces, themed for the sacrifice of the rising and resurrecting god and enter Aquarius, age of spiritual openness, justice and equality. It’s interesting to note that there was indeed a similar conjunction around the time of Jesus Christ’s birth, which was believed to kick off said age of Pisces. The “Christmas star” followed by the Magi was an astrological event similar to what we will see in the sky over the next few days (around December 21). While these great ages of planetary history can’t be pinpointed, folks believe we are indeed going to be heading into the age of Aquarius, where our wars and political upheavals and hate crimes against one another (across species as well) are supposed to recede into something more just and kind. Here’s hoping.

Anyhow, back to the conjunction. All witchy folks know the mind is the most important magickal tool. “Energy follows thought,” as the Hermetic principles state. So, the extra mojo for our mental manifestations should be great. What we have to watch out for is the purge. We’ll be confronting low self-esteem, anxiety and addiction. We may face depression, insomnia, and generally feeling like shit. Some of us are considering all of 2020 that kind of process. It sure did feel that way.

Frankly, a grand conjunction is a bit of a diva.

Perhaps it will help to see this personal “purge” as housecleaning of that physical attic known as the brain. Any tools you already have to cope with this stuff, have them primed and ready. Exercise, meditation, affirmations, music, time with friends, lovers, mani-pedis, pets…whatever. Just be careful not to use coping that accidentally fuels your addictions.

Once you get through the purge, really think consciously about what you want to rent out that vacant space for. It’s the perfect time for those good ole New Year resolutions. Start thinking about them now! New relationship? New home? New job? More reciprocity? Better self-esteem? Make your lists.

The energy of the Winter Solstice, AKA Yule, will help you even more. The energy of the entire conjunction is already at play in this ancient holy day that millions of people still pour collective energy into.

First comes the longest night of the year (shadow/purge). Then, the days begin lengthening again. This is why the yearly milestone is celebrated as the “rebirth of the sun,” later Christianized as the rebirth of the son (Christmas). The return of light is seen as the return of all the other good stuff. Hope, peace, warmth, love…you know the drill.

Photo by John Williams

Okay. Now for some practical advice. Part of my own experience of this purge energy has been literally to throw out or donate tons of stuff. I’ve been working at this for weeks. I’ve found it helpful to do periodical energy cleansings as well. I thought you might find these helpful during this crisitunity conjunction. Cleaning our environment is grounding. Grounding energy will be good for us to balance all that mental activity going on due to Aquarius. I mean, I think. Hey, at least you’ll come out of it with a clean house or car or what have you.

Besides physical cleaning is metaphysical cleaning. There are many options for this. In fact, I include several in my upcoming book. For now, let’s stick with really homespun stuff. Two of the basics are a spiritual/magickal floor wash, or burning an incense/smudge. If you do a lot of cooking you may already have everything you need to at least experiment with either of these techniques.

I’ll start with the wash. It may seem like a strange idea but think it over. You already know the value of cleaning and polishing areas of your home. Some of us value this more than others, but you get my drift.

You also probably know the value of a nice brewed beverage like coffee or tea. Many of us drink teas based on what herb they contain because we know all plants have a different purpose.

Okay, we’re there. A magickal wash is like a tea that you use to clean and bless your house. I keep calling it a floor wash because that’s my bias but you can use it to wipe down windows, doors, and just about any surfaces you want.

The typical advice for a floor wash is this: boil the dry ingredients in about a quart of water before straining into a clean bucket. It’s a lot like making tea. Keep them boiling at least twenty minutes. If you go longer, you will have a stronger scent but you may also have to add more water. Keep an eye on it. After boiling let it set a couple hours before straining.

From there, you can add optional ingredients like a quarter cup of white vinegar and perhaps some rose water or “Florida” water. You could add a few drops of an essential oil if desired. I like to drip in a tiny bit of hydrangea oil. This is a powerful little posy old timers used to break curses.

herbs for a quick floor wash right from my kitchen include sage, rosemary, astralgus (angel) root, salt, and juniper berries along with the perfunctory cinnamon stick.

So, dealer’s choice and you’ll probably create your own signature floor wash if you like the idea. I tend to omit the vinegar. Remember, your floors and surfaces should really already be clean in the normal sense of the term. This wash is for energetic cleansing. You may want to wipe down the doorways to the home entrances and perhaps important rooms, like your boudoir. Then go to it mopping the floors. I keep a separate mop for this and replace it often, so it’s always a very cheap model. Same with the buckets unless you want to invest in good stainless steel. You can also put some of this blend in a spray bottle to help clean windows, other surfaces, or rugs.

Here’s a good starter recipe for a floor wash.

1/4 cup dry white sage or bay leaves

1/4 cup dry basil or mint (or a mix of each)

1/4 cup dry rosemary

1 tsp salt

1-2 cinnamon sticks

ten drops hydrangea, orange blossom, or rose absolute oil (optional)

If you’ve been dealing with some extra nasty energy, like if you feel you are being hated on in a mundane or magickal sense, add up to a teaspoon of pepper, either black or red (or mix). Juniper berries work for this also. You may even wish to do this extra step if you work in a high-stress environment (like medicine, social justice or crisis work…present company included) and feel you are bringing other people’s energy home. When you’re a compassionate soul those clingy negative vibes can be hard to kick.

a collections of oils can always come in handy. you can also mix them into DIY batches, as I did in that glass container. styrax, by the way, is basically pine pitch.

You can do substitutions or omissions in a pinch. When you’re working with energies, your thoughts/intentions are the most important thing. As this brew is boiling, you can really improve its magickal function by saying a mantra over it periodically while stirring for a minute or two along the lines of, “May my home and my family be perfectly protected.” AKA praying. AKA casting a spell. I should note, there are magickal floor washes for sale on line, just like incense and smudge and absolutely everything. Not only is it more economical to make your own, I feel it increases the power of the tools because they are more connected to your own energy. But, here is a good floor wash I have bought before from a seller I like to support due to her work on the angelic realms.

Okay. Say you’re done with all your washing. Maybe you weren’t into that at all. Either way, another great step you can take involves burning an incense or smudge. Smoke is associated with the air element in magick just as often as the fire element. You see the smoke hanging in the air, after all. Therefore, it’s a great tool for working with the air element of Aquarius.

Many cultures have used a form of smoke/fire magick for purification. Nothing says purification like burning unwanted shit into ashes. Of course, we don’t have to go all-out. All we have to do is smudge!

A lot of the power of smoke has to do with our powers of scent, also. We all know that scents can change a mood. Fresh baked cookies, freshly laundered blankets, our favorite perfume, and more.

To keep your energy cleanse super simple, you can use a stick of incense in your fave fragrance. Palo Santo wood has also become popular. It’s like burning a really fat match. You can find it really easily online.

For me, a bundle of herbs for smudge is the way to go. It’s also a relationship to a certain kind of plant. As such it is even more grounding in the earth element. Grounding into earth always helps with personal safety. No trauma, no drama, no other-people’s-shit. The smudge sticks shown here are mugwort and sage.

Burning smudge takes a little practice. It’s probably a bit like having a giant cigarette to deal with. You want to have an ashtray of sorts, and probably a cup of water in case things get out of hand. After you snuff it out you want to keep an eye on it a while to make sure it doesn’t reignite. I always keep mine stored in a fireproof cup just in case. There’s very rarely any problem. Once is a while I do notice it’s smoking up and tamp it out again.

If I haven’t scared you out of it, you can buy smudge sticks at metaphysical shops or make them yourself. One of my best friends, Gwen, makes them every year. I really respect her earth magick so I asked her advice. She said she likes to harvest and wrap them with twine or thread on a full moon. The same way I suggested you think a prayer or mantra while stirring the floor wash, she says she makes sure to visualize the work she wants to do with these smudge bundles while she is wrapping them. She then hangs them to dry in paper bags. I will have to ask her to do a tutorial on this next summer, when you could actually go outside and try it. I believe she made me the mugwort bundle in this photo.

I also burn a lot of homemade incense that needs to be sprinkled on coals. You can buy these types of little coal discs from the shops that sell incense. For me, using some coals from my woodstove is easiest. I therefore tend to burn the stuff only in winter. What I have pictured here is red willow bark, which is also called sacred tobacco (AKA Nespihqamq) by the Wabanaki first nations folks here in the area. It’s a protective, calming herb that can also be inhaled (smoked) to combat stress and insomnia. I have only used it as a smudge. It’s protective like sage and has a milder scent. It’s kind of like very mild pipe tobacco as an overall effect. If you have sage in your kitchen, remember you can burn it over coals and get the same effect as a smudge stick.

clockwise around the floor wash ingredient are sage, mugwort (the long skinny stick) and a dish of red willow bark.

So, that’s about all I have for grounding and centering while we wait for 2020 and this grand conjunction to work their collective boot out of our nether regions. Despite all of this, I do wish everyone who reads this a peace filled respite at the holiday season. May we all emerge to an increasingly better world which we have populated with all our dearest wishes and dreams. Much love.

Women in Horror (Horrifying Playlist)

Theda Bara publicity shot for the first “Vamp” movie on the silent screen, “A Fool There Was.” For more info on the vintage vamp and her commentary on male fragility, see my prior blog.

Greetings, readers and writers. I’ve continued thinking about National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). For me a big part of writing is listening to “mood music.” While you get dolled up (Bride of Chuckie doll), you may want to sample these tunes.

Collecting and enjoying the right music for every story that I spend a lot of time on is a big part of my process. This is also sort of a watchlist because I like to curate songs from television shows and movies.

Another thing I do with soundtracks, particularly when writing, is arrange them based on the mood they evoke. I don’t want my sounds switching from ass-kicking to serenade in the middle of a scene.

In case you need some holiday music or you’re writing horror for NaNoWriMo, I decided to hit the web and put together a quick list of faves. This collection starts out really hard-core and moves toward noir moody. At the end, however, I had to throw in a little extra Halloween bonus.

Edna Tichenor as “Arachnida, the Human Spider,” in Tod Browning’s The Show (1927).

I could wax poetic about this but I let this go so close to Halloween that I’m just gonna shut up and post. Here’s a description of the songs though, especially if you prefer to find them elsewhere.

  1. Bloody Creature Poster Girl, by In This Moment. No soundtrack but my own. This is a theme song for some of my more…erhm…assertive heroines and villains.
  2. System: Chester Bennington. From the Queen of the Damned movie soundtrack (Anne Rice). Rest in power, Chester Bennington (and Aaliyah).
  3. Spookshow Baby, Rob Zombie
  4. Before I’m Dead, Kidneythieves
  5. Opheliac, Emile Autumn
  6. Death is the Ultimate Woman, Monica Richards…plus
  7. Bonus live performance of #6. Awesome.
  8. Teeth, Lady Gaga (possibly the most terrifying video but it may just be me).
  9. Chest Wide Open, The Revivalists (I first heard this on Santa Clarita Diet, LMFAO funny zombie series. Well, also disgusting, of course.)
  10. Angel, Massive Attack
  11. House of the Rising Sun, covered by Lauren O’Connell for American Horror Story: Coven (the only AHS I really liked. I’m so predictable).
  12. Black Magic Woman, VCTRYS
  13. Human, Sevdaliza
  14. A Little Wicked, Valerie Broussard
  15. Ghosts, James Vincent McMorrow
  16. Libera Me, from the Interview with a Vampire Soundtrack by Elliot Goldenthal

Okay, time for a fun couple of Halloween extras:

  1. This is Halloween (from Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas) covered by Marilyn Manson.
  2. Wrong Bitch by Todrick Hall (featuring Bob the Drag Queen). Todrick does a lot of videos spoofing pop culture, drag queen style. He also choreographs a lot of Taylor Swift videos, which ups her cool factor about 200%. I double dog dare you to watch this any fewer than a dozen times. Two dozen if you’re the wrong bitch. Fab.U.Lous.

Have a happy Halloween and a terrifying NaNoWrimo. Wash your hands, watch your back, and never ever talk to pallid, hungry looking strangers.

Roots and Wings: National Novel Writing Month, Ancestral Voices, and a word about Ramshackle Houses

ca. 1900 — Woman Reclining at Desk Next to Typewriter — Image by © CORBIS, Getty Images/Library of Congress

Greetings, fellow humans! I’m happy to report that my second draft of “Spinstress Craft: Magick for the Independent Witch” is in to Llewellyn! Apparently it has moved on to a new editor through the production team and soon I’m sure I’ll be complaining about more edits. For now, though, I’m taking the win. I’ve also turned in my latest column to Sage Woman Magazine. No spoilers!

This blog is going to be about writing. Not only my own, but the writing of as many people as possible. November, after all, is National Novel Writing Month (shortened by devotees to NaNoWriMo).

NaNoWriMo is about empowering the voices of anyone, young or old, to write. As defined on their website:

National Novel Writing Month began in 1999 as a daunting but straightforward challenge: to write 50,000 words of a novel in thirty days. Now, each year on November 1, hundreds of thousands of people around the world begin to write, determined to end the month with 50,000 words of a brand new novel. They enter the month as elementary school teachers, mechanics, or stay-at-home parents. They leave novelists.

NaNoWriMo is a free community resource which helps anyone at all to become “a writer.” Or, as dubbed in that community, a “wrimo.” I publish this now in order to help spread the word because now is the time to prepare an outline and get ready for the November wrimo sprint.

NaNoWriMo is a great movement that seeks to empower young writers, self-doubting writers, and writers who never thought they had the “right to write.” This part is a big deal. People with the most privilege have always defined what is “good” writing. By privilege I mean, among other things, the education, writing time, and frankly the audacity to think their voices should be heard. They also tend to possess the peers who will support and validate their writing and academic structures that normalize their voices.

The women I admire as ancestors wrote up against that pressure. I’m talking Mary Wollstonecraft and then her daughter, Mary W Shelley. I’m talking Margaret Cavendish, Jane Austen, Charlotte Perkins Gilman and Louisa May Alcott. Among others, of course. Even J.K. Rowling pushed back against domestic violence, economic challenges, and a publishing world that saw her books as unmarketable when she first got started.

I’ve studied all these authors and I noticed that more than half of them referred to their writing as “scribbles.” While I’m sure they were being modest, I’m pretty sure there was something else at work. I feel they knew in order to “earn” the support of the men in their lives (personal and publishing) that they had to diminish their work and pass it off as less than the “real” writing of heteronormative upper class white men.

Now a days, cis-gender white women have more writing privilege. More, unfortunately, than people who are trans-gender, q+, not white, or differently-able bodied. So on. Who gets to write and who gets to be read is always a bit of a rigged game. It is precisely that loaded cultural deck that NaNoWriMo is trying to replace with a fresh stack of literary opportunities for everybody else.

Readers, let me tell you a secret. Sssshhh, lean in.

This time of year, writers are all around you. Local libraries and book shops often open up special times for wrimos to come write together or simply enjoy the encouragement of being acknowledged for their efforts. NaNoWriMo is sort of like the magical world Rowling created for Harry Potter. You don’t even see it if you don’t think to look. The normal landscape of mundane life is secretly draped with dragons, fairies, time-travelers and knights. Thousands of writers crank out fantasy, horror, romance, memoirs, chapbooks of poetry and plays.

November, once you know about the wrimo community, is a great time to feel encouraged as a writer. I’ve taken part three different years. The one wrimo draft I did that became a published book (so far) is Revenant: Blood Justice. Yep, that was a NaNoWriMo book. I also did a full length juvenile sci-fi manuscript during another year that I haven’t marketed. The third year, I didn’t finish. I had an idea for a fantasy script, probably for young adults, that I did all the October prep, character sketches, and outlines for. Once I got into November and started writing, though, I realized the first couple of chapters were all I really had to say! Living with characters and their story as intensely as you do during NaNoWriMo is like going on a cross-country RV trip with a dozen or so strangers. I decided I couldn’t take it. As a result of doing the prep, though, I still had a very productive November. I ended up writing a couple of scripts and short stories instead. So, I’d suggest any writer who plans to try it just go with the experience and allow yourself to be creative in whatever way organically happens.

I don’t know what it will be like during the pandemic, but this November event usually involves coordinated opportunities for the writers to meet both virtually and within their communities. Readings, workshops, and peer support are offered. I once went to my local library to write during a NaNoWriMo designated time, and I seemed to be the only one there. At first I was discouraged, but my goddess. The librarian was as delighted to see me as if she’d just found a unicorn leaching the wifi in the periodical wing (which unicorns in fact frequently do). She hovered over me in both a flattering and rather disconcerting way. She even served me a cup of tea. In the middle of the library. No kidding! That’s the kind of encouragement writers can get if they come forth with their aspirations during November.

Besides moral support, NaNoWriMo is helpful for aspiring writers who want the accountability of a community and even a deadline. You definitely want to practice writing for a deadline, even one self-imposed, before you ever try writing for a legally-contracted one. It’s a great way to learn how you engage with that process. I find it often varies from project to project. Of course, it also gets impacted by the rest of your life. What I can tell you, as I shared recently with a fellow author, writing for two deadlines at the same time when I had a lot else going on and wasn’t really “feeling it” was akin to shitting glass. I think. Never tried it. I’m a writer though, so I sometimes embellish rather recklessly. And digress, as I intend to do right now. Perhaps moved by the sound of October rain pounding and rattling my roof tarp, I feel moved to discuss the literary advantages of a rickety country house.

There are certain charms to living in a slightly derelict house. Especially, I suppose, if you are a writer. My own MFSH (mortgage free shabby house or, when I’m angry about repairs, mortgage free shit hole), has many charms. I tap the maple trees each year (getting a bit better at it with the help of friends each time) and the shelves in the cellar stairway are crammed with preserves. The place has interesting cubbies and closets. The foundation dates back to the 1700s. People have claimed to see visions of a Revolution-era ghost. Of course the cellar looks like it’s three hundred years old, but I’m not about complaining right now. I have almost twenty acres of swampy woods out back. The beavers have landscaped the field. A little old lady who grew up here back in the way-back-when came and visited once when I was a kid. She explained to us how the woodshed used to be the “summer kitchen,” complete with water pump, elaborate wood stove, and embellished tin ceiling. It’s now considerably less elegant. It’s more like a mud room in the truest sense of the term. It does feature a cat condo, a garden potting table, and a ton of firewood, though.

My stalwart Swedish ancestors had an old saying that I keep up in the kitchen… “Bättre grov kaka än ingen smaka.” It basically means, “Better coarse bread than none at all.” In other words, be grateful for what you’ve got. It’s a great motto for those of us in the MFSH club.

There is certainly a creative aspect to living in a MFSH. I am reminded strongly of the Alcott’s place in Concord, which Louisa May referred to fondly as “apple slump.” Their old New England house seems pretty similar to mine. In it’s current form as a museum I’m sure it’s in better repair than mine, but they get to take in donations.

Lousia’s attic paradise where the character Jo March wrote books and put on theatricals is similar to my home’s second floor. The Alcott place was also called “Orchard House.” In fact, an apple tree is growing up over my woodshed and practically part of the building. Clingy and mischievous, it likes to hurl apples at my head this time of year during windy weather. Other than that it’s not bad. I’ve had to trim off a few branches but picking high fruit is easy when all I have to do is scramble up on the shed roof.

Photo by cliff1066™ on flickr

My other literary muse for DIY and home decorating would have to be Molly Weasley from J.K. Rowling’s Potter-verse. Their place, the Borough, as featured in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, is described as a creaky and tippy house of wonders that “burst with the strange and unexpected.” That’s a great description of your standard MFSH, for better or worse.

The Borough featured gnomes in the garden, a “clanking ghoul” in the attic (who “howled and dropped pipes whenever he thought things were getting too quiet”), and a ton of books and mismatched kitsch crammed in between. I only wish I knew how to do hands-free-magical housekeeping like Mrs. Weasley. In truth, that shit doesn’t do itself. Speaking of which (and witch)….

Now that I have a break from deadline writing, I’m working on that other seasonal project which also tends to require a lot of revision. That being the wood pile. I’m trying to cram about three cords of wood into the area where little-granny-who-knows once boiled her porridge. I really like working outside in the autumn, though. There’s something about the quality of the air that is very (thesaurus, please,) inspiriting. Yes, that’s a thing. Check the thesaurus. Tis the season for yard work and also for writing. Hence, NaNoWriMo.

I think it’s a great idea to have National Novel Writing Month in November. Autumn is a great time to be a writer. Rustling leaves sound like rustling pages, don’t you think? Wet trees smell like freshly sharpened pencils. Come Halloween, we have an ages-old human tradition of reaching out to the realms of the unseen and dressing up to become someone or something else. It’s a great time to purge old experiences and create world-scapes of new ones. Somewhere between the two, the author and hopefully the reader can sometimes find empowerment or even healing. At least a little fun.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandmother and mother and their aspirations as writers. In a hailstorm of synchronicity, I’ve recently found a bunch of my grandmother’s things, including some of said writing. My understanding from my mom and some other relatives is that my grandmother, Hester Adelaide Hammill (1902-1982), led an independent life. As a single mom (in fact, a divorcee) in the forties, she was not always welcomed into polite society. She was a flapper, an artist, and a tough, free spirit. Yet it wasn’t easy. Often living in poverty and close to despair, she turned to writing and photography as sources of expression and of hope. The rest of the time she usually earned money as a house keeper for the richy riches around Camden. Reputedly her fave movie was “Sabrina,” in which the chauffer’s daughter on such an estate made good (of course, by marrying one of the rich guys).

Hester Adelaide (Caulderwood) Hammill

My grandmother tried repeatedly to have her stories published. She did a novel also, entitled “Once Upon Some Trifling Trystings.” She illustrated all of her writing with her accompanying photographs. Most of them featured birds and nature. Her attempts to be published were too often met with rejection, as is the lot of most authors. In those days, of course, it was even harder for women to be published than it still is now. As far as my mother recalls, the prime literary achievement Hester attained was publication in the Women’s Home Companion. She also had a couple of pieces about bird watching printed in other magazines. I was once told, I think by my mother, that one publisher confided in Hester that she should be writing romances rather than nature essays. I think that’s why she wrote the manuscript I shorthand as “Trystings.” It’s perfectly well written but I don’t think it was in her comfort zone.

One of Hester’s photos meant to accompany the novel.

I still have an incomplete copy of Trystings, typed up and covered with editorial notes. In a lot of ways it is, of course, jarringly anachronistic. While written to be a contemporary romance, it features amusing moments, like where an automotive “machine” interrupts the quietude of Main Street. Since Hester loved birds, I enjoy noticing the ways she wove them all through the novel. The characters discuss the habits of local pigeons, flirt over bird-watching endeavors, and the heroine keeps a large flock of hens that she describes in several chapters. My favorite quote from the book, however, is as follows:

They went inside and took chairs in the small enclosure that was reserved as a waiting room for the trolley line and he divided his newspaper with her, settling himself immediately to reading the section in his hands.

He read in silence at first, suddenly breaking it with, “Here’s some bird news that’s not in our bird book. It says here that every right-minded woman should realize that there were sold last year at the London plume sales the scapular feathers of one hundred and ninety thousand egrets, and the skins of more than twenty-eight thousand birds of paradise, to be used in decorating women’s hats. Not to mention another sad feature of the situation–the sale of the tail-feathers of hundreds of lyre-birds, and of quills of the albatross. The woman who goes to church and bows a head decorated at such cost is a fit subject for investigation by the new psychology.”

Hester A Hammill, Once Upon Some Trifling Trystings

I love the way she put her joys and concerns about birds into the story. As a vegan and animal rights advocate, I also love that she cared about these things. It’s something I never knew about her. She is someone who could have really grown her voice, maybe even her publishing career, if she’d had the encouragement that writers are offering one another today. Besides NaNoWriMo, there are other resources to help women address the publishing gender gaps in different genres. I imagine that one Hester could have really benefitted from might be Women Who Submit (for women and non-binary writers), which in my experience tends to focus more on helping women break into literary journals and the memoir or poetry markets. Let’s face it, they also bagged a bad-ass name.

Next comes my mom, born Mary Jane Hammill in 1942. The biggest thing that happened in my mom’s young life was when the movie version of “Peyton Place” filmed in her home town of Camden. It seems creepy how Mary Jane is so mirrored by the youthful main (Maine) character. Like her, my mom was valedictorian at the local high school and a regular contributor to the town paper. She was very interested in acting and she authored several plays.

Like the movie/book character (named Allison), Mary Jane couldn’t wait to get out of Maine and take a bite out of the Big Apple. As I’ve mentioned, she met my dad while they were both working in editorial at McGraw Hill in NYC.

When that movie was filmed in Camden, though, my mom was a junior in high school. She had a great time collecting autographs from cast and crew on all the photos she took of them during the shoot. One of my step-grandfathers was an extra in some of the scenes. Since my mom knows so much about that movie, watching it is more like seeing home movies.

Anyhow, as a writer and actor and in many other ways, Mary Jane saw herself primarily as an entertainer. She was a “cut-up” and very popular as a creative presence pretty much anywhere she went. Of course, the Big Apple ended up taking a bigger bite out of her (as seems often to be the case). She ended up back in Camden with a baby (hi, there), and her second divorce to contend with. Then again, those divorces led to her career. She wound up taking an office job to pay one of the attorneys and worked as a freelance paralegal/legal secretary for over forty years. I have known her as an undaunted and skillful editor, for which I am very grateful. I’ll have to publish more of her writing later. It’s all squirreled away.

Mary Jane Hammill

At the time when I found all these images and put them together, I had attended a zoom church service in which a song called (I think) “Roots and Wings” was performed. Seeing my grandma, mom and myself lined up together gave me sort of a rooted feeling. At the same time, contemplating our writings and our dreams kind of feels like the wings. Of course, there are also the literal birds my grandmother loved so much.

Hester always taught us that seeing three crows together was very lucky. I grew up hearing my mom and her always saying, “Look! Three crows!” in delight. I still do that and I know I am partly seeing the three birds as a symbol for the three of us. Crows are sometimes seen as tricksters, and even more as messengers between the seen and unseen realms. Kind of like writers, I guess. They certainly are when it comes to my family.

As for me and my writing, all my readers know what sort of trouble I tend to get into. I’m not doing NaNoWriMo this year. I expect the next draft of Spinstress will be coming back to me any time. You can keep an eye out for my column in the next Sage Woman. Or, for that matter, in the last one if you missed it. I believe the last issue contained my thoughts about the magickal, transformative butterfly. Born literally in the shit and transforming themselves into something fancy. Lepidoptera are hard core.

Beyond that, I am looking into ways to e-publish a couple of things on Kindle Direct. I don’t want to jump in without making sure it’s really good quality, so it’s a process. One of the prime candidates would be “Prometheus Strain,” the sci-fi project I did once as a wrimo.

In the meantime, I do have some things still on print through Amazon. My fave for the Halloween season remains “Catherine Hill,” which is available still in the “Northern Frights” anthology by Grinning Skull Press. They’re a nice little publishing house prone to doing charity anthologies and the like. Another for our Bucksport fam would be “When Your Time Has Come,” a ghost story about local legend, Sarah Ware. That one is in this ghost story anthology by Zimbell House.

Happy reading and writing everyone. Whether you are a wrimo or a supporter, the autumn air will tantalize you with hints of stories past, present and tumbling out of someone right now. To close I offer a poem (below) that perhaps writers might understand. Some special readers as well.

No idea who this is.

Open me carefully.

My binding is worn thin and frail from too much tension

too much push and pull. Stretching wide and then snapping shut

a wasted effort to protect my pages that even when closed

will yellow and rot.

Look kindly on the chapters I share with you.

Normally I redact them to protect my truth, so the reader

stumbles clumsily through stuttering phrases

cut apart and watered down.

I will show you, only you the rough drafts and unpolished phrases as well as

the carefully polished gems that I worked and worked after dark

until they were clear enough to let me sleep, and in the morning

they looked like some stranger’s’ epiphanies.

I will show you, only you the things I keep hidden in the secret pages

that I never even dare to read myself.

Spinstress Craft: Magick for Independent Womxyn

Elsa Lanchester

Wait, you want it…when?!

me.

Hmmm….where to begin. I think I was sitting in the waiting room at the cardiac center inside EMMC about a year and three quarters ago when the crazy idea to pitch a book to Llewellyn occured to me.

Call it hubris. Call it the need to feel busy. Call it hope for some sort of future. I don’t know. But, it actually turned into a book contract! Now, the cat’s out of the bag. Well, the cover is. And as for bags, I’m wondering if I need to breathe into one.

Seriously, it’s a good thing. It’s just…a lot. Keeping it real.

So, I have an announcement all prepared. But for you all who ever read my blog, you get the real scoop. I’m in that carnival ride zone half way between laughing, screaming, and puking. I didn’t even want to talk about this whole project until a certain point. But I guess that point is here. You’ll look the other way and pretend I didn’t say anything if it all turns to pooh, right? Kay. Here’s all the stuff that I already wrote down about what this thing’s about.

“Spinstress” refers to magickal womxyn who weave and spin their own lives. It vibes off the old-school term “spinster,” because working womxyn at the dawn of industrialism often worked in the textile factories. The term spinster became something very negative, and that is what we are trying to smash (along with the toxic elements of what we call “patriarchy” that no longer serve any damn body in the long run).

“Womxyn” invites anyone of any gender to join the path if womxyn’s magick calls to them. The spells are about love, money, sex, career, family, power, arcane occult lore, and just a little bit of chocolate. 

Marilyn, bitches.

Seriously, you won’t believe the layers of magickal and semi-random awesomeness I’ve curated for this. I’ve got pumpkin spice lattes. I’ve got yoni eggs. I’ve got consecrated sex toys. I’ve got wards and sigils for self-defense (as well as security cameras and safety plans).

I’ve got glamour magick that works on a pair of Docker boots just as well as some Louis Vuitton heels. I’ve got obscure outtakes from infuriating Medieval manuscripts and Victorian “medical” books.

I’ll teach you how to call dragons, make and charge magickal oils, and speak the secret language of flowers. I’ve got unicorns (as sexual psycho-pomps). I’ve got black cats, broomsticks, and badass pointy hats. I’ve got the effing holy grail. I don’t even know what else to say.

Sound good? I hope you will find this book both helpful and fun. Some of the topics are heavy and some are just a laugh. Most are a bit of each. I hope that you find it a jumping off point to take the spinstress path and weave a lot more magick of your own.

One thing I encourage in the book is the use of our own musical playlists. These will come in handy for rituals, sex, cleaning the bathroom, or maybe even trying to do all three at once. Let me know if you figure out how to make that work. I’ll want your playlist.

I hope you can access it, because I tried making an introductory spinstress playlist on youtube. I’ll list the songs and what topics in the book they go with. If you can’t get my list, you can download them on your own at the platform of your choice. Feel free to share your own music ideas that seem to have the same vibes! I’m breaking it roughly into the types of chapters I have in the book.

Witchy and Magickal (hey, it’s that kind of book):

  • Yes, I’m a Witch by Yoko Ono. The completely incomprehensible lyric (you’ll know when you get there) is “Don’t try to make cock-pecked people out of us.” Now you’re gonna download it just to hear that, right?! Yoko. Effing. Ono.
  • Witchy Woman by the Eagles. I know, it’s old school. I shouldn’t say old because it came out the year I was born. Good ole ’73. Not too ole though.
  • Witchcraft, by Frank Sinatra, cause Frank reminds me of NY. Shout out to my home state.
  • Magic by Coldplay. The video is quite good. Lush.
  • I put a spell on you. Nina Simone is untouchable but IZA did a very good recent cover.
  • Sinnerman, by Nina Simone. Because I went through ridiculous angst about which version of the prior song to give you. Bonus Nina Simone. You’re welcome.
  • Season of the Witch. Okay, this was a Donovan single but there have been so many good womxyn covering it. Erykah Badu, Joan Jett and recently Lana Del Ray. Pick your poison (apple).
  • I never wear white, by Suzanne Vega. I actually do wear white, but it’s a badass song.
  • Which Witch, Florence and the Machine. The video is super weird.
  • Lily, by Kate Bush. We had to have some classic Kate Bush. Cast your magick circle with this song and you’ll be rock solid.

Sex and Love: It was hard not to let Lizzo just take over this whole thing but I did leave room for a couple other folks.

  • All is full of love, by Bjork. There’s a lyric nobody can understand and doesn’t show up on any transcriptions, which is “And even in my doubt (all is full of love).” It irritates me that nobody knows that one so there you go. Beautiful song.
  • Adore you, by Miley Cyrus. A little on the nose but I think it’s pretty and the sentiment is good.
  • Angel, by Sinead O’Connor. Gorgeous song.
  • Truth hurts, by Lizzo. Watch the official video. Fab.
  • Scuse Me, by Lizzo. Ditto on the video. In fact, this video and the song itself tell us so many counter-cultural things it may take you two or three viewings/listenings just to get over your case of amIreallyhearingthis? Enjoy.
  • Fuck love, by Iggy Azalea (playing devil’s advocate, I guess).
  • Boys, by (guess who?) Lizzo. Good video.
  • You are, by G Tom Mac. Alas, this one’s not on youtube. It’s obscure but it’s on his 2008 album, “Thou Shalt Not Fall.” This guy only gets credit for being a one-hit wonder for the Goth classic, “Cry Little Sister.” He’s actually got a lot of good songs, most of which he wrote himself. He collaborated a lot with Roger Daltrey at a certain point. They did a duet cover of “Child of mine” that’s a face-melter. But I digress. I do that.
  • You’ve got the love, by Florence and the Machine. I’m pretty sure this one is about god, but you call it.

Power (Note, a lot of these songs use words some find triggering like b***h and n****r. Where they are used, they are used by people who have a right to claim them based on identity and context. I think so, anyway. Just letting you know there are power words in here that we have to be mindful about):

  • Big God, by Florence and the Machine. Video is amazing.
  • Power, by Rapsody and featuring Kendrick Lamar. It was the other way around in the mainstream release, but this is her cut.
  • UNITY, by Queen Latifah. It’s old but it paved the way for womxyn in hip hop. It’s also really frikkin good.
  • Goddess, by Iggy Azalea. The girl can spit.
  • Like a Girl, by Lizzo. So awesome.
  • Mother’s Daughter, by Miley Cyrus. Watch the official video if you dare. She more than compensates for the gooiness of Adore you, here.
  • Greater Powers, by G Tom Mac. His voice is, well, powerful. Interesting use of the Indian frame drums here.

Self-esteem:

  • Crown, by Rapsody. Nice video.
  • This is me, by the cast for The Greatest Showman soundtrack (or solo by Keala Settle).
  • You Need to Calm Down, by Taylor Swift. You need to watch the official video. It’s at least half the impact of the song.
  • Run the world (Girls) by Beyonce. The video is weird. Just saying.
  • I’m Better, by Missy Elliott with Lamb. Her videos are incomprehensible gorgeousness.
  • Fitness, by Lizzo. Video. Now.
  • Impossible is nothing, by Iggy Azalea.
  • Good as Hell, by Lizzo. I told you she was trying to take over the whole list!

Holy Grail (Yes, there’s a whole section of music for Medieval research and such like. Just me? Also, I like soundtracks.):

  • Outlander, Season 1: People disappear all the time, The skye boat song, Dance of the druids, The woman of Balnain.
  • Kingdom of Heaven: Burning the past, Coronation, Sibylla, Path to heaven.
  • The DaVinci Code: Kyrie for the Magdalen, Poison Chalice, Malleus Maleficarum.

Listening to all that should keep you busy until the book comes out! I’m not sure exactly when that it. It’s going in the 2021 catalog. Beyond that, I’ll keep you posted! Wait, when’s the second draft due? Tomorrow? Where’s that paper bag?

Of white blouses, bread and ballots

Greetings, fellow humans! This message will also be posted on the website of the Unitarian Universalist Church of Castine (Maine) in due course, but without gaseous history-wonk effusions and additional snarky commentary. Lucky you! By the time you see this it may be August 18, which is the actual hundred year anniversary of the 19th amendment being ratified. Wondering why the heck that should still matter to you when you’ve got cats to feed and bills to pay (and bills to pay due to feeding the cats)? Keep reading.

When we think about the white dresses and festive banners of suffrage, we know how the story turns out. So far, at least. We may tend to skip ahead toward the end. “Those ladies” went out and held some parades, fundraisers and meetings. Some of them went to jail. We’ve no doubt heard a few of them refused to eat when they were incarcerated.

That sounds rough, we may think. But they won in the end (or in 1920 in the US). Well, white women won. Native American women and many immigrant women remained disenfranchised. Native people got the vote in 1925, but states would use little loopholes and technicalities (and overt violence) to keep them from the polls. We’re familiar with hearing this type of experience for African Americans. Even after women allegedly got the franchise in 1920, black women and men risked their lives and those of their families if they tried to exercise their rights to vote. We’ll talk more about that momentarily.

The pageantry possible when the women organizing it are badasses at sewing!

Skipping ahead through the lessons of history is understandable in our world of blazing-speed and multi-tasking, where we are not only tempted but encouraged to drop any habits or curiosities that do not clearly serve our immediate ends. Yet, as Congressman John Lewis recently reminded us in his powerful memorial op-ed in the New York Times, those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. When it comes to disenfranchisement and voter suppression, this may never have been truer than it is in the fall of 2020. As he said:

You must also study and learn the lessons of history because humanity has been involved in this soul-wrenching, existential struggle for a very long time. People on every continent have stood in your shoes, through decades and centuries before you. The truth does not change, and that is why the answers worked out long ago can help you find solutions to the challenges of our time.

When Woodrow Wilson was elected to office in 1913, women and other minorities who were inclined to activism were ready to hit the street. This president was known to be a racist. He supported and helped to disseminate overtly racist propaganda, like the white nationalist film “Birth of a Nation,” which was based on a novel called, “The Clansman.” Among other things, this film passed on the old tropes that black men would sexually assault white women if they were not rigorously controlled by morally superior (civically franchised) white males. Wilson screened this film at the White House. It was, in fact, the first film ever screened at the White House. One example of a president taking advantage of a new and exciting technology to endorse certain opinions more personal than civic.

Some NOT very fine people having a KKK style celebration of the first film ever screened in the White House by President Woodrow Wilson

Women engaged in activism for their own franchise at that time. Then called suffragettes, hundreds held a protest parade against Wilson in March of 1913. It was held the day before his inauguration and widely compared to the 2016 women’s marches. In 1913, the women on the march were assaulted in the streets to the extent that over a hundred of them had to be hospitalized. The secretary of defense had to deploy federal troops to help quell the violence that rose up against them and allow ambulances to get through the violent crowds to even help them. Later and after a congressional hearing on the matter, the police commissioner of Washington DC was forced out over his decisions not to send sufficient police support for the women’s march.

crowds pressing in on the parade, 1913, stopping the lead float from progressing

When women were jailed for protests back at that time, it was not a low impact experience. Lady Constance Bulwer Lytton recorded in her memoirs what it was like to come up against hostile police. On her first march to Parliament, this was her experience:

The crowd pushed me up against a policeman and I said to him, “I know you are only doing your duty and I am doing mine.” His only answer was to seize me with both his hands round the ribs, squeeze the remaining breath out of my body and, lifting me completely into the air, throw me with all his strength. Thanks to the crowd I did not reach the ground; several of my companions in more isolated parts of the square were thrown repeatedly onto the pavement…. A German lady who was tall, well-built and of considerable strength managed to keep near me. Three times, after each of the “throws,” she came to my hep and warded off the crowd while I leant up against some railings, or against her shoulder to recover my breath. Several times I said to her, “I can’t go on; I simply can’t go on.” She answered, “Wait for a little, you will be all right presently.” At the time and ever since I have felt most inexpressibly grateful to this stranger-friend.

Lady Constance and pal (I’ve noted before that Constance was a dedicated vegetarian also)

This type of treatment was recorded by many women on both sides of the pond. Of course, once Constance and her peers made it to the parliament, many were arrested and incarcerated. The treatment didn’t get any better there. Two of the most notorious prisons where these women activists ended up were the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia, U.S. and the Holloway Women’s Prison in London, U.K. (where Constance wound up many times). Once in jail they were deliberately (not surprisingly) treated with optimal lack of dignity. At the worst prisons some were stripped, chained naked to cell doors, and sometimes sexually assaulted. This happened in November of 1917 at Occoquan in VA with such brutality that historians still term it a “night of terror,” with women being stripped and chained to the cells, and one being beaten to the point of a heart attack.

They didn’t do their activism, as the media at the time tried to portray, because they were narcissistic attention-seekers or bored housewives who’d been “allowed” too much time on their hands. They did it because they knew they, their children and grandchildren would never have full rights to safety and freedom (or at least a chance at them) without the massive privileges that came with a ballot.

one of the ambulances at the 1913 parade, completely unable to move until Feds sent the literal cavalry to help

This is not to say that our activist ancestors always got things right. At the same 1913 march where the police let Wilson supporters in town for the inauguration wreak havoc on the women activists, internal strife was doing damage of its own. Black women activists from groups like the National Association of Colored Women (NACW) were being turned away from the march by white organizers. The NACW was formed in 1896 to advocate for the franchise as a way that black women and men could work against inequalities of all kinds (especially lynching, which was rampant at the time the group was founded and was more of a threat than ever with Wilson screening that horrible film and endorsing the clan). The women’s club motto was “lifting as we climb,” and they sought the women’s vote to improve the lives of women as well as men in their communities.

Due to pressures put to bear by white women from the segregated south, the women’s march organizers colluded with oppression. Now a’days we call that “horizontal hostility,” where minorities put in the position of scrapping for crumbs end up in conflict with each other rather than the ones pulling the strings. Anyway, noted African American suffragist Ida B Wells did manage to march with the white delegation from Illinois as a form of protest, but she was the exception that proved the rule. Similar things were happening in the UK as British women tried to sell ladies from Australia, India, and other “colonies” on sitting in the back seat and waiting for a turn.

NACW CLUB OF BUFFALO, NEW YORK, LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.

None of these women’s activism was not easy or safe. Mostly, as the activists pointed out, because women couldn’t vote. Without full citizenship, they lacked basic protections. They pointed out what we all too often forget in this day and age, where voting is so much of a privilege that it has become little more than a hassle. They pointed out that those with the franchise make all social decisions about rights and burdens around issues of healthcare, child care, education, abuse, indigency, reproductive choices (or lack thereof), and literal freedom (whether people may be enslaved or held in poor house prisons, or made to work off debts as indentured servants, for example). The first time any women were registered to vote in Massachusetts, for example, was in order to vote on school board committees. After several failed attempts they won this limited franchise in 1879. At this same time in the American South, openly violent white nationalist groups like the KKK and “red shirts” were terrorizing black citizens who dared to take advantage of the waning opportunities that came after the Civil War.

Particularly, white southerners used violence and intimidation to keep black citizens away from voter registration and the polls. It was official in 1896 when the Supreme Court decision Plessy vs. Ferguson gave Southern states room to modify their constitutions and create fully legal segregation. Hence came the era of Jim Crow, with stunts like “guess the number of jellybeans in this jar” in order to register to vote (but only if you’re African American). Activists like young John Lewis were beaten and humiliated for their peaceful sit-ins and marches, culminating in the infamous “Bloody Sunday” where police gassed and beat Lewis and other participants in a march across the Edmund Pettus bridge in Selma, Alabama. Particularly infamous was the beating of female activist Amelia Boynton, due to the abject brutality the police unleashed on her. Reminiscent of the personal accounts of Lady Lytton, Amelia later recounted her experiences on Bloody Sunday:

Then they charged. They came from the right. They came from the left. One [of the troopers] shouted: ‘Run!’ I thought, ‘Why should I be running?’ Then an officer on horseback hit me across the back of the shoulders and, for a second time, on the back of the neck. I lost consciousness.

Amelia Boynton about Bloody Sunday in Selma, 1965
Lewis and Boynton holding President Obama’s hands at the 2013 Pettus Bridge commemoration (Official White House Photo by Lawrence Jackson) This official White House photograph is being made available only for publication by news organizations and/or for personal use printing by the subject(s) of the photograph. The photograph may not be manipulated in any way and may not be used in commercial or political materials, advertisements, emails, products, promotions that in any way suggests approval or endorsement of the President, the First Family, or the White House.

Lewis, Boynton, and their brave peers won a major victory in 1965 with the Voting Rights Act. This outlawed discriminatory voting practices like those of the Jim Crow south. Unfortunately, in 2013, the teeth were pulled out of this law. A key formula in the language was removed by a slight Supreme Court majority (5 to 4) that meant states no longer need to seek federal permission to tinker with their voting anti-discrimination laws (a guardrail known as “preclearance”). As Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg warned in her typically accurate and acerbic dissent,

“Throwing out preclearance when it has worked and is continuing to work to stop discriminatory changes is like throwing away your umbrella in a rainstorm because you are not getting wet.”  

Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg 2013

Okay, she’s awesome.

Ever since activists around universal franchise (making sure everyone can vote with equal ease of access) have warned us that states have been up to mischief. Purging the voter rolls of people who haven’t voted recently, moving polling places without notifying citizens, throwing out ballots due to many subtle technicalities, and so on have snowballed over the past seven years. One of the high-profile activists fighting for universal franchise in the news of recent months has been Stacy Abrams. Abrams ran to be Governor of Georgia in 2018. She lost to her opponent, Secretary of State Brian Kemp, who happened to be the one setting a lot of rules about voter accessibility and the validity of ballots. Accusations of corruption by Kemp were rife, and not for the first time in his career. Yet whether we agree with those allegations or not, Stacy Abrams’ campaign had a wonderful speech in it that can be applied to the importance of the universal franchise. This speech wasn’t done by Kemp herself. It was done by Oprah!

Oprah harkened back to the times experienced by young John Lewis (and generations of both their ancestors before), when she urged us all to the polls. At a televised “town hall” event in November 2018, she said:

I didn`t take voters voting seriously until around my mid-twenties. Around my mid-twenties, I had the privilege of hearing Reverend Otis Moss Jr. who`s a preacher. You all know him, preacher, preacher in Cleveland, Ohio. And I heard him tell the story of his father, of Otis Moss Sr. who right here in Georgia`s True County got up in the morning and put on his only suit and his best tie and he walked six miles to the voting poll location he was told to go to in LaGrange. And when he got there after walking six miles in his good suit and tie, they said boy, you`re at the wrong place. You need to go over to Mountville. So he walked another six miles to Mountville. And when he got there they said, boy you`re at the wrong place. You need to go to the Rosemont School. And I picture him walking from dawn to dusk in his suit, his feet tired getting to the Rosemont School and they say boy you`re too late. The polls are closed, and he never had a chance to vote. By the time the next election came around, he had died. So when I go to the polls and I cast my ballot, I cast it for a man I never knew. I cast it for Otis Moss Sr. who walked 18 miles one day just for the chance to vote. And when I go into the polls, I cast the vote for my grandmother Hattie Mae Lee who died in 1963 before the Voting Rights Act of 1965 and never had a chance to vote. I vote for her. And when I stand in the polls, I do what Maya Angelou says I come as one, but I stand as 10,000, all those who paved the way that we might have the right to vote. And for anybody here who has an ancestor who didn`t have the right to vote and you are choosing not to vote wherever you are in this state in this country, you are dishonoring your family. We are disrespecting and disregarding their legacy, their suffering, and their dreams when you don`t vote. So honor your legacy. Honor your right to citizenship in this which is the greatest country in the world, the greatest country in the world. And the right to vote is like the crown we all get to wear.

I would lovingly urge all of us to honor an ancestor when we take the time and make the effort to make sure we cast a ballot. Base line, all of us who have female ancestors, and I think that’s pretty common, have such ones to honor. Many never saw their own chance, but they endured great suffering and hardship to win that chance for us. They knew what we have all too often forgotten.

A ballot is bread. A ballot is a roof over your head. A ballot is laws to protect you when the police are called, either by you or on you. A ballot is an education for your children and grandchildren (an education equal to those with greater opportunity). A ballot is dignified care for our elders and for yourself in times of illness, disability, and later years. A ballot is your freedom of speech, and freedom of reproductive choice. The rights that our forebears fought for so hard are not cast in iron and impervious to harm. As the Voter Rights Act shows, they can be eroded in a heartbeat and eventually perhaps destroyed completely.

A ballot cast by you is also all of those things cast by you on behalf of your friends and neighbors. Those who fought for the ballot knew all too well what it is worth. Would they ever have dreamed how quickly many of us forgot? What else can we do? Even if we don’t have the time or proclivity toward “activism,” there are things. Now is the time to urge friends and neighbors to apply for absentee ballots. Simple letting your own community know you plan to vote and talking about the positive reasons for this civic decision, makes an impact. If you go to the ballot in person, perhaps take one person in your circle who needs a ride.

Those who fought for the vote knew its value and wouldn’t want us to forget. I’ll let one of them say that in her own words. This is from Carrie Chapman Catt, president of the National American Woman Suffrage Association from 1900-1904 and 1915-1920.

The vote is the emblem of your equality, women of America, the guarantee of your liberty. That vote of yours has cost millions of dollars and the lives of thousands of women. Money to carry on this work has been given usually as a sacrifice, and thousands of women have gone without things they wanted and could have had in order that they might help get the vote for you. Women have suffered agony of soul which you can never comprehend, that you and your daughters might inherit political freedom. That vote has been costly. Prize it! The vote is a power, a weapon of offense and defense, a prayer. Understand what it means and what it can do for your country. Use it intelligently, conscientiously, prayerfully.”

Carrie Chapman Catt

Non-partisan voting resources:

League of Women Voters: https://www.lwvme.org/

When we all vote: https://www.whenweallvote.org/

Back in black (for the Feast Day of Mary Magdalene/The Black Goddess)

I had an interesting experience last night. I was just finishing up bedtime things in the kitchen when there was a terrifying bang somewhere down the hall! It sounded like a cross between a gun going off and a wall collapsing. In this particular house a gunshot would be far less likely. Of course, I went running toward the sound.

Turns out it wasn’t so bad. A large, framed, vintage picture had fallen off the wall. It had been quietly resting there for years, but it looked like all that time enduring gradual pressure had finally bent its nail down. I can relate. Anyway, the picture and frame were thankfully unharmed.

I love this picture. I found it at an antique shop ages ago and I love to wonder where on earth it came from. It’s a very interesting depiction given that it looks like it was done in the early to mid-twentieth century, way before speculating about Jesus and Mary’s “special relationship” was cool.

I decided Mary and Jesus (and the two befuddled disciples trying to ease-drop behind them) must’ve taken a rather dramatic dive in order to demand pride-of-place in the recently remodeled living room. I complied.

I’m just superstitious enough of a person that, when something like that happens, I think it over a bit. It just so happens that the Catholic Feast of the Assumption of the Madonna, celebrating Mary the Mother ascending to Heaven, is August 15. Dialing time back a bit, the Gnostics used the same date to celebrate and study their doctrine of the assumption of the black goddess of wisdom, Sophia. On this same range of dates (around August 13 to 15) was the Roman Pagan festival of Nemoralia. This holiday was in honor of the virginal goddess of their pantheon, Diana. August 13 was (and is) a feast day for the Greek goddess of death and transitions, Hecate. Sekhmet, Egyptian lioness goddess, gorged herself unto inebriation on the blood of unjust humans on August 7. A celebration of Venus as protector of crops and groves occurred on August 19, and so on. Yes, Venus. Protector. Moderns like to see her as a featherweight who floats around on a seashell but Venus was the protector of Rome in those days and was known to kick some ass. She was a love and lust goddess, sure, but she’d also rip a new one in anyone accused of being a rapist.

I clipped this out ages ago during divinity school. I think it came from a Margaret Starbird book about the feminine divine.

Anyhow, I’m sure you see the connections. As is typical of world religions, the goddess holidays kept piling on top of each other over the ages.

This is all well and good, but you may be wondering where the “black” part comes in. Certainly, goddesses like Hecate and Sophia have lots of black in their symbolic and artistic color schemes. This color goes into the most ancient times of human religion for many reasons. Obviously, the cradle of civilization was in African regions, and early people had dark skin. Black was also associated with good soil and hence fertility and life to the ancients. The black soil of the Nile River, for instance, was revered in the Kemetic practices of ancient Egypt.

It’s kind backwards and an obvious racial appropriation that black became a stereo-typically negative color, especially spiritually. If anything, it’s the other way around. The ancients saw white as a color of death. Think about it…bleached bone, icy snow, and so on versus the black soil from which all life could be seen to spring.

Psychologically we probably all understand the meaning of nighttime and darkness. It’s a time of mysteries, power, and often fear. A dark god or goddess includes these aspects of life. Often their worship is at least partly done through closely guarded secrets, passed on only to initiates. S/he is often associated with death and reincarnation. Yet that isn’t all. Most of these deities, on their own or in combination with consorts, contain a full polarity of sun and moon, light and dark, openness and mystery. They tend to be triple deities…the stereotypical maiden, mother and crone (son, father, and death/spirit).

In terms of magick, black is receptive and white repels other energies (hence the associations with purity or death). This is why witches/magickal folk use a lot of black. At least, that’s how I was taught in one of my major traditions. When you want to do magick (a prayer with punch), you are building a wish battery. Black draws energy in, so why wouldn’t you use it? Still, you may want to rethink wearing black to a funeral. It’s stressful enough with out sucking in the vibes of every grieving person there.

Anyhow, back to Mary. The reasons that a Black Madonna popped up across the globe probably had to do with her syncretization into regional sacred stories. There may have been other theological reasons to represent Mary Magdalene as the Black Madonna if she is compared to the “shulamite” bride in the Song of Solomon (“dark I am, but lovely,” dark as in very tan from working all day in the fields…a poor girl who makes good by marrying the King).

Certainly there are Black Madonnas here, there and everywhere. There are Black Madonnas in Germany, Russia, Czechoslovakia, France, Poland, Brazil, Mexico, and Spain. Certainly the largest collection of Black Madonna shrines seems to be located in Sicily.

© Symbolreader, 2020 Madonna and Child Einsiedeln, Switzerland

The church/es (primarily Catholic, Orthodox and Gnostic) can demure and claim that these statues are only blackened by centuries of candle soot. Yet it’s impossible to hide the ways that local people (particularly women) worship these Madonnas while incorporating many of the “old ways” and old goddesses. Besides the ladies I mentioned, other goddesses with a black/underworld/arcane rep include Cybele, Artemis, Isis, Pele, Nut, Cailleach, Morrighan, Baba Yaga, and more.

Mary has always carried the spirits and (sometimes quietly) the powers of other goddesses. She has long been associated with healing, protection, prophecy, fertility, and interceding in/answering prayers (aka manifesting magicks). When she wears the royal blue robes of the mainstream, she channels high spiritual vibrations and astral communication of all that we need to live good lives. When she wears the dark skin and perhaps robes of a cthonic (underworld) mama, she takes on the role of spirit midwife, guardian, guide and perhaps even judge in the incomprehensible mazes of death. In both roles she brings prophecy and secret teachings. In both roles she is revered and respected.

This is a popular print which I know as, “the big one over the TV.”

I have a long history of interactions with Mary. Mostly, they were with Yeshua’s mom. I’ve seen statuary to her in Jerusalem while I was on an archaeology dig for school. Yes, I’ve literally dug up bodies in Armageddon. That’s a story for another time. I’ve seen Guadalupe’s shrines around Mexico when I was on my dad’s missionary trips. I’ve slowly collected or made a ton of art and statuary dedicated to the Marys. Often, it was without even noticing that I was doing it. More recently, I have incorporated the image of the Black Madonna on my altar and in my own spiritual practices.

My “marian” altar, including numerous examples with an Avalonian flair

In modern times, Mary is “back in black” as an icon of inclusiveness and diversity. Mary has always had a role in social justice theology. The Bible records her “magnificat” (song of praise) as (in part):

God’s mercy is for those who fear God
from generation to generation.
God has shown strength with God’s arm;
God has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
God has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
God has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.

Statue of Mary at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, Jerusalem, taken by me, 1998

(Luke 1:46-55)

In the introduction to the book, “Healing Journeys with the Black Madonna (Alessandra Belloni, Bear & Co)”, Matthew Fox notes that the Black Madonnas are meaningful inspiration within movements like Black Lives Matter. Certainly, Our Lady of Guadalupe of South America has been connected to “liberation theology” for many decades and has long been honored by Native American and South American believers.

mixed media collage of Guadalupe that I made in college, back when I was going to Mexico a lot for missions with my dad

Many of the dark mothers have been associated with social justice and similar. One example would be the widely practiced “Hecate’s supper.” On the new moon (when the moon is virtually dark in the sky), her devotees would place food and other ritual offerings out for her. Though some might be on a household altar, it was the tradition to leave these items at a triple crossroads, sacred to Hecate as the torch-bearing guide through the labyrinths of death. The thing is, anyone who came for the offerings was considered a representative of the dark mother. Therefore, the Hecate’s supper was a way for transient people to get some supplies.

Partly because of her dark, shadowy vibe and partly due to the placement and iconography of certain Black Madonnas, she has sometimes been associated with Mary Magdalene as well as or instead of Mary the mother of Yeshua. This brings me full circle (kind of) to my picture of Yeshua/Jesus and Mary M taking that stroll (and that header off my wall).

I sort of think that they risked denting their frame in order to call my attention to the Mary feast day in a couple of days, and get me to put up some information on this blog. It so happens that I’m aware of an online event that those interested in Mary, particularly the Black Madonna (with emphasis on Mary Magdalene) may find very cool.

On August fifteenth Rose Lineage Priestess Annabel Du Boulay will be putting on an online festival for the Black Goddess. By the way, men, women and all genders are fully included and welcomed. She will give excellent information about the connections between several of these deities. I believe she will have a very special guided meditation included. As a priestess, author and also a musician, she is very good at those (yes, I know her and she’s very awesome). She does a great job of tracing the black goddesses from Ethiopia and through the mists of time, all the way to the mists of Avalon, so to speak. She’s based in England so there’s a time zone hitch for those of us in the US of A. As best I can tell, though, this is at the manageable time of 2pm Eastern, US time on Saturday the 15th. A minimum donation of 13 British pounds (about 17 dollars) is required to get the link. Donations will go to a charity called Project Harar, which does emergency COVID water support and (and some other supplies) in Ethiopia (as Annabel says, the original birthplace of the Black Goddess).

Happy Feast of Mary’s Assumption! If you’re a little witchy, maybe I’ll see you online in British Summer Time.

Here is a link to the online festival:

Join Annabel for The Avalon Rose Chapel’s Black Goddess Rites as she guides you through THE most powerful gateway in the Rose Lineage Calendar 2020, with all proceeds being donated to Project Harar supporting vulnerable families in Ethiopia.
BY DONATION

References:

Healing Journeys with the Black Madonna: Chants, Music, and Sacred Practices of the Dark Goddess, by Alessandra Belloni (Bear & Co)

Sophia: Goddess of Wisdom, Bride of God, by Caitlin Matthews (Quest Books)

Celtic Lore & Spellcraft of the Dark Goddess: Invoking the Morrigan, by Stephanie Woodfield (Llewellyn)

Hekate Liminal Rites, by Sorita D’Este and David Rankine (Avalonia)

Feast of the Morrighan: A Grimoire for the Dark Lady of the Emerald Isle, by Christopher Penczak (Copper Cauldron)

Harvest

Here we are at Lughnasadh, which Wiccan-influenced Neo-pagans (what a harvest of words!) celebrate as the first-fruits of harvest. While it’s nowhere near Samhain (the meat/blood harvest that was syncretized into Soul’s Eve and Halloween), it already carries undertones of death. The Pagan god, like Christ, dies to protect and nourish his people each year. Sometimes called the barley or corn king, he dies back like a plant only to regenerate through the unseen magic of roots and seeds.

Heavy, right? I guess I get a little mopey every year around this time. I can feel the summer getting older by the second. “How did it go so fast?!” is my annual reprieve. That and, for the past couple of years, it’s the anniversary of my dad passing away. August 3, 2017. This year we celebrated by rushing my mom to EMMC with a possible heart attack. Fortunately, it seems to have been something a bit milder than this, though proper precautions are being taken. Anyone who is an energy sender or prayer, please send. Even if you read this message-in-a-virtual-bottle ten years from now. I’m sure I’ll still be needing help with something!

Before all the horrible, terrible, no good, very bad festivities at the cardiac ward, I was zoom-attending this year’s Glastonbury Goddess Conference. While it is a summer celebration, it also has autumnal themes. Sure, we play with Henna and dance and sing and all that (yes, even on zoom). But, we also talk in smaller circles about ageing, childlessness, assault, death, political injustices, and all manner of other things. I guess that’s life. You can’t prance around on the beach all the time without stepping on a little glass. Probably. Just me?

I have also blogged on my Witches & Pagans spot more about Avalon. I solved the riddle of the Grail quest. Just sayin’. You’ll have to read it to see if you agree.

Meanwhile, to remember my dad. One of my step-sibs and I were just doing so. To summarize:

A childrearing strategy that involved talking way over our heads about Kirkegaard, Wiesel, or Aquinas when we were still on comics.

Wild interactive story telling in the car during short commutes just as much as long drives, which surely made me at least three-quarters of the weirdo I am today.

At his first parish in Nebraska when I was about eight, he started paying me a penny a page to read my kid Bible (like a comic book). I guess he wanted me to seem devout. I don’t think he knew I spent the cash on candy cigarettes, which I regularly let hang off my lips like the grown-ups did while sitting on the steps of the parish house. Sorry, Dad.

Duke basketball, stomping and shrieking and using sporty terms I’m pretty sure he didn’t understand much better than I did.

Various forms of reckless (assertive?) driving that terrified many both in and outside the cars, which he always blamed on the time-frame and rigors of rural parish ministry. Do all parish ministers keep their collars in the glove box in case of speeding stops?

The Cadillacs. Sooo many Cadillacs.

His love of old time blues and gospel. I particularly remember his love for old video clips of Mahalia Jackson, at festivals and singing her guts out with sweat pouring down her face and her hair everywhere. Frikkin. Awesome.

His gusto for food and life. When dining out is was not unusual for us to find ourselves alone in our section while he roared with laughter and told rather off-color jokes. Oh, and sampled everyone else’s food to the point where my step-brother sometimes cried. Of course, my dad’s life-long love for rich food is part of why he’s not here. He occasionally buttered his meat. Just. Don’t.

His sense of fair play. He would always be willing to go to the mat for anyone on any cause that he felt sounded just, and he was a formidable mat-goer. Big, loud, brave, kind.

The parish visit was where the really shone. He loved to work his circuit doing sick-bed visits. He had chaplaincy privileges at every hospital and nursing home and home for the disabled within a hundred mile radius of any place he ever served.

Clown college. He went there. How many of us are willing to wear the nose just to cheer some sick people up?! That’s hard core.

Thrift stores. Ohmygod. The thrift stores. And book stores. Same thing. Many times as a child I literally thought I’d been left behind, he’d lose himself in those shelves for so long. Thank god most of them had cats. Late in life, his fave was the Salvation Army in Oneonta, NY, which he lovingly referred to as “the Sally.”

Being proud to call himself a feminist and raise a tough broad like me. The last vacation we took before he died I chewed his ass for some off-color joke (which was a hundred percent why he told them). He laughed and I, not ready to stop being mad, was like, “What?!” He said, “I’m just admiring the nuclear stealth missile I’ve launched into the world.”

I guess that’s it for this year. I have to save some stories for the rest of my life. I know he was proud of his Viking heritage and he might be hanging out in some Heaven/Valhalla hybrid, but I kind of hope we get to see each other in Avalon.

Wishing all a peaceful and healthy harvest. And much love to my daddy from his little missile.

Is this fun or am I just batty?

Okay, probably a fair amount of each. Maybe I’m feeling the COVID-19 shutdown (when does it become COVID-20?). I don’t care. I’m doing this. As no one else has ever said (I’m pretty sure), it’s no fun failing unless you do it in public.

Writing is a fickle pastime. I’ve written so, so many things that have never seen the light of day. Not even a hint of moonlight. In many cases I am vastly grateful. In some, however, I feel regrets. Such is the case with Varley the Vegan Vampire. I know, I know. It’s meant to be a kid’s’ book okay?! That’s what I told myself, though I think I wrote it entirely for my own enjoyment. It is, in fact, an unmarketable monstrosity. Yes, with literal monsters.

This thing is in common meter (tetrameter/trimeter) rhyming verse. That’s right, rhyme. It’d make Emily Dickinson think she’d been slipped a bad mushroom (possibly not for the first time). It’s vegan. Did I mention it rhymes? You get it. I could go on. It could only ever be marketable to far left, plant-eating, kinky-goth octogenarians who are super comfy with their inner (way inner) child. I haven’t found a publishing house that has a catalog for that. Strangely, though, this little tale is very dear to my heart.

I probably have sentimentality for Varley because my dad loved him. We worked on the story together. It’s kind of an homage to our shared hero, Edward Gorey. One of our last vacations together before Dad got sick was to the Gorey homestead on Cape Cod.

Additionally, it was Dad’s idea to name the character Varley. After reading the first draft he insisted, “It’s a tribute to Varney but he’s vegan. Get it? Rhymes with barley!”

My dad was of course referring to Varney the Vampire from the British “penny dreadful” papers of the nineteenth century. He owned an authentic printing of one of the Varney tales which he treasured for years. Yes, my Methodist minister father. He had a real goth streak. He loved vintage horror (more kitschy than slashy). He owned several hearses and funereal sedans over the years that he’d bought from local undertakers. “High miles but easy miles,” he said. As mentioned, we both loved the Gorey vibe. You knew I had to get it from somewhere, right?

So, enjoy this little offering if you dare. You may want to read it in segments if you aren’t accustomed to rhyme. It can cause painful brain cramps until you build up your tolerance. Since it was meant to be a story book, I found some vintage Halloween cards (and a couple of Gorey bats) to illustrate. I know, it’s not Halloween anymore. But, it’s not 2019 either. We’re all on a bit of a delay.

VARLEY THE VEGAN VAMPIRE

Varley was a vampire boy

at monster middle school.

He loved his classes, and his friends

the zombies, wolves and ghouls.

He always did his homework without

any howls or pangs.

His teacher thought that Varley was

as sharp as his white fangs.

He always aced arithmetic

no matter the amount.

In fact, on his bat-minton team,

his nickname was “the Count.”

At home, Varley had so much fun.

He loved his mom and dad.

His mother was named Hepzibah.

His father was called Vlad.

When it came to dinner time

he sucked every drop dry,

and then his father taught him things,

like how to prowl and fly.

Varley was a happy boy

the perfect monster tween,

and nothing made him happier

than Monster Halloween.

At Monster Halloween the kids

go out to trick or treat.

For monster kids the treats they seek     

are not so very sweet.

They go out dressed in midnight best

to fill up all their sacks

with ladyfingers, pickled toes and

spicy baby-backs.

The Mummy serves a mean tagine

of succulent professor.

The Wolfman hands out candied hearts

absent from corporate bankers.

Swampthing cooks a gumbo up

with dentist in the roux.

Because of this, it really is

a very toothsome brew.

The Zombies serve assortments of

delectable sweetmeats

that once were brains from travelers

they met upon the streets.

Hepzibah let Varley stir her

sanguinary tidbits.

Her hemoglobin popsicles

can chill whomever visits.

So as the moon grew white and full

and rose up in the night,

Varley and his friends met up.

They truly looked a fright!

They pulled some tricks, like stink bomb spells

and stuffed themselves with meat

until they each had to concede

they’d had all they could eat.

Not one of them could come up with

a single, unused hex.

They’d had their fill of loins and ribs

and sweetmeats, and of necks.

The wolfboy got a tummy ache,

young mummy came undone.

So they split up at half-past ten.

They’d had their fill of fun.

Varley made it halfway home   

then suddenly decided

he really wasn’t all that tired.

He spread his wings and glided

above the homes of Monstertown

beyond his neighborhood.

Below he saw monsters and ghouls

clearly up to no good.

And just beyond the village clock         

he saw a jet-black cape.

A vampire boy he had not met?

Varley was agape!

He landed, and he said, “Hello,

and happy Hallows Eve!”

The other vampire waved and said,

“Hello, my name is Steve.”

Now, Varley thought that “Steve” was an

eccentric sort of name,

but he was not the sort to judge.

He liked Steve just the same.

The boy was Varley’s age and height

with fangs so sharp and white

that Varley thought his new comrade

must bear a fearful bite.

Steve preferred arithmetic to

spelling, Varley learned,

and also loved to play his sports.

His passions truly burned

for something he called football, which

Varley didn’t know.

But they had lots in common, so

they agreed to go

around to all Steve’s neighbors, to do

more “trick or treat,” since

Steve assured his new friend that

the sweets could not be beat.

“Did you get to the Miller’s house?”

asked Steve, “their treats are great!”

Before Varley could say a word

they heard, “It’s getting late!”

They turned and saw a mortal mom.

His new chum was a person!

Varley was stunned. His friend was food!

How could his prospects worsen?

No wonder that Steve’s fearful fangs

looked so fresh from the coffin.

In fact they were a plastic pair

just taken from a carton!

Unbidden, his whole life of meals

now flashed through Varley’s mind.

He saw the fingers, toes, and eyes

upon which monsters dined.

And with his super-human ears,

Varley could hear the blood

coursing through his new friend’s veins.

It made him feel like crud.

“I guess I have to go,” said Steve.

“I had a lot of fun!”

And as Steve ran away, Varley

pondered what he had done.

What would his parents say if they

divined his misadventure,

that he had made a friend who had

duped him with vampire dentures?

Varley shuddered at the thought.

He spread his wings and flew

back home as fast as he could go.

It seemed the thing to do.

His mother gave him some warm blood

and tucked him in his coffin,

but Varley stayed up all day long,

which didn’t happen often.

He kept on thinking about Steve.

He chewed and stewed and brooded,

and by the break of dusk Varley

had finally concluded

the foods monsters were raised upon

were archaic and crude.

He had a revelation. He thought,

“PEOPLE ARE NOT FOOD!”

People are not food?” he thought,

it had such implications

on having fun, and fitting in,

and what about starvation?

How could he tell his mom and dad?

He could not even fathom

whatever he could say that would

convey his new compassion?

It was too much to contemplate

how to replace the food

that all monsters relied upon,

but his new attitude

demanded he make changes to his

basic way of life.

Though he did not look forward to

the certain household strife.

Yet there was just no turning back.

Not once he had met Steve.

Could vampires resist human blood?

He wanted to believe.

The next few weeks were just as hard

as Varley had portended.

When he first told his parents, they had

acted quite offended.

His mother thought that he would die.

So dire was her lament!

His father roared, “No son of mine!”

and he’d “prefer impalement.”

But Varley did some research on the

monster’s worldwide web.

He found out that a vampire could drink

vegetables, instead.

His research turned up many facts that

caused him great alarm

about how monsters raised people on

large factory farms.

They had no quality of life, they

languished inside pens

too tiny and too tightly packed to

even lay down in.

Philosophers said hunting free-range

might be more humane.

The livestock had a better life,

so no one need abstain

from harvesting their blood or brains

or tasty this-and-thats,

as long as people could enjoy

natural habitats.

Yet realistically, it seemed

the monster population

could not be fed just on free-range.

It would cause mass-privation.

So hunting free-range people was a

radical flirtation.

After all, what would come next?

Human liberation?

But Varley also found monsters

who lived a kinder way.

They dined simply on plant-based foods,

instead of hunting prey.

With all this information, Varley

fully foresaw why

it would assuage his conscience to give

plant-based foods a try.

He blended up some kale and beets

and plant-based nutrients.

He downloaded the data that

explained the rudiments.

His parents looked it over, but they

called it “blasphemy.”

To controvert his data and

avert this travesty,

they took Varley to all the monsters

they thought, hopefully,

would show him where he had gone wrong.

His reasoning was woolly.

They took him to the mad doctor

to get an education

about the vampire diet and

their predatory station.

“Monsters should eat people, just like

lions eat gazelles.

It’s our ancestral diet, and it

serves us very well.”

The doctor got out lots of books

to show that he was right.

He read aloud to Varley from

“Drink Right for your Blood Type.”

His teacher got a flow-chart out

that taught natural laws

and how monsters were meant to use

their fangs, stingers, or claws.

She said that, as a species, people

were a little slow.

They were put here to be food.

They wouldn’t even know

what they had missed out on in life.

They couldn’t think like that

(plus, vegetables are insufficient

in protein and fat).

“They are completely corporeal,”

she said, “it can’t be clearer.

If people had a soul, we couldn’t

see them in a mirror!”

It just kept going on like that

as days stretched into weeks.

Everywhere that Varley went, he

confronted critiques.

His friends would laugh and tease him when

he drank his juice, at lunch.

And it started to bother him

to watch as they would munch

on human parts of every type,

which dangled from their forks,

and where they saw a treat, all Varley

could see was a corpse.

On his bat-minton team they joked

that he would be too weak

to help them win their matches and they

said he was a freak,

but Varley felt healthy and strong. He loved

his plant-based diet,

except it started eating him that

no one else would try it.

He couldn’t understand how monsters

he thought of as nice

would willfully continue with

this dietary vice.

Despite what Varley told them about

all that he had learned,

they all remained oblivious and

fully unconcerned.

He felt so sad and mad that he

began to sulk and brood.

His teachers warned his parents to

correct his attitude.

His parents begged, cajoled and scolded

Varley, all alike.

He simply would not budge. It was

juice or a hunger strike.

Finally, he was sent home

from school for being rude

because he made a tee-shirt saying

PEOPLE: FRIENDS, NOT FOOD.

His parents were beside themselves.

This time he’d gone too far.

His father said, “I swear I don’t know

who you even are!”

His mother said to him, “I miss

my happy little boy!

This diet makes you cranky and

it’s sapping all your joy!”

“It’s not a diet,” Varley said,

“this is a way of life.”

His father stood up, dark and tall,

and glowered at his wife.

“This is all your fault,” he said.

“You’ve spoiled this monster rotten!”

“I’m not spoiled,” said Varley, “and

in case you have forgotten,

you taught me to think for myself,

and it made me a misfit.

I thought I could count on your help,

but you’re a hypocrite!”

He then burst forth in torrid tears

and ran down to his tomb.

He crawled into his coffin and

retreated into gloom.

It would be so much easier

just to drink blood again.

He could go back to normal, but then

he’d be bothered when

he thought of all that he had learned

since he had first met Steve.

He didn’t want to give it up, and

comfortably deceive

himself about the impact that

his daily choices made.

So he decided, then and there, he

would not ever trade

the lifestyle he had  chosen for

societal permission.

At least, he promised to himself,

not of his own volition.

So by the time that Hepzibah came down

to Varley’s tomb

he knew that he could not give in.

He just could not consume

the human foods that monsters ate.

He wanted to hold fast

no matter if he ever was

negated or harassed.

But when his mother came to him

he had a nice surprise,

for Hebzibah had sympathetic

teardrops in her eyes.

“I know that you don’t think your dad

or I have got a clue,

but I want you to know that we are

very proud of you.

We really do want you to be

an independent thinker,

and that is true even if you’re

an herbivorous drinker.”

Varley was stunned. He wasn’t sure

if he could trust his luck.

Nevermore would he be asked

to prowl and run amok!

“What about Dad?” he asked, and fully

expected a fight.

But then he heard Vlad from the hallway

say, “Your mother’s right.”

“When I grew up my father taught

me to be fierce and mean.

But you have taught me something, Son,

that I had never seen,

that when you dare to stand up for

what you believe is right

it means you are the bravest one.

You’re not afraid to fight

even against the things those close

to you told you were true,

and that takes one tough monster, so

I’m very proud of you.”

And things got better, from that night.

His parents even went

with Varley to a monster

vegetarian event

where they met lots of creatures who’d

chosen to abdicate

all monster privilege that said

they could exsanguinate

or butcher, slay, flambe, fillet

or elsewise gormandize

unsuspecting people.  Or, at

least, they vowed to try.

Their motto at this thing was, “Did your

dinner have to die?”

Varley met a zombie who

subsisted on whole grains.

He said that he could just no longer

stomach human brains.

And there was a Cthulhu there,

disseminating leaflets

elucidating “free-range hunting”

savagery and secrets.

A banshee that ate only beans

was keeping her eye on

a cyclops who had just sworn off of

meat, though not for long.

His parents tasted food samples, like

salad from an ogre

who swore that he had gained muscle

forgoing flesh for clover.

There was a boogieman who cooked

porridge instead of children.

He said, “I’m so much happier,

not eating like a villain.”

He gave them lots of recipes

and other information,

then Vlad asked him a question about

humans and predation.

“Why shouldn’t we be eating them

when they are vicious killers?

They overpopulate, pollute

the soil, the air, the rivers,

and wipe out other species as if

it were meaningless.

They even kill each other, so it

doesn’t take a genius

to see that they are pests, and it

is wise to cull their numbers.”

Dad!” cried Varley, mortified

by this parental blunder,

although the boogieman just smiled

and nodded comprehension.

He said, “Yes, I can understand

your valid apprehension.

It’s true that we do not use humans

as a moral compass,

nor any other creature. Just our

own actions concern us.

But human beings have feelings, and

even complex notions.

Some even display ethics and seem

to show some emotions.

Why, there are even people who’ve

designed a plant-based diet.

They call it veganism, and it

causes some disquiet

amongst their friends and neighbors, but

they keep on slogging through.

So if people can do it, monsters

certainly can, too.”

Varley and his parents were

entirely amazed

that humans also know their diets

need to be appraised.

“I never knew that they had thoughts

or feelings,” his mom said.

“It makes me think that I might just

drink vegetables, instead.”

The boogieman agreed. He said,

“The bottom line is this,

we eat to reduce suffering, and

we don’t even miss

the foods that we used to adore.

we find our tastes have changed.

It’s just that our priorities

have all been rearranged.”

“I knew it!” Varley cried out, “I said

people are not food,

and if people can be vegan, then

I can be one too!”

For all his immortality,

beginning there and now,

he’d practice his morality.

It was a solemn vow.

And Varley meant it. From then on

the weeks and months just flew.

All the monsters dubbed Varley

the Vegan Nosferatu.

But his bat-minton team redeemed

the Transylvania Cup,

and when he did his schoolwork, all

his numbers added up.

So slowly, his professors and

his coaches did admit

that Varley’s plant-based diet had

been to his benefit.

The other kids still teased him, but

they started to adjust.

Eventually his juices were not

noticed or discussed

except when someone asked him for

a recipe or two.

In fact his mother got quite good

at juicing up a brew

of kale and beets and blood oranges

she called the “monster mash,”

and even Vlad might steal a sip

or two from Varley’s stash.

They even served popsicles made of

strawberries and greens

when trick or treaters came around,

next Monster Halloween.

More creatures came to try it out

than they had ever hoped,

and many said that it was great,

though several also joked

that they needed more protein, until

Varley’s father said

the juice was good enough for him,

the King of the Undead.

So after he helped Hepzibah

to make these vegan sweets,

Varley flew to where he knew

that Steve and he might meet.

He found his human friend all dressed

to look like Frankenstein

and as he looked at Steve he knew

that he would never dine

on human blood. No matter what

may or may not transpire,

Varley, in perpetuity,

would be a vegan vampire.

Edward Gorey

So if you’re ever out at night

and think that you have seen

a black and bat-like creature that is

vampirizing greens

it’s probably just Varley, so you

aren’t in any danger.

Be sure to shout your thanks to our

crepuscular crusader.

And if you are in Varley’s thrall

he won’t wish you to be.

Instead, just spread the liberty,

by living cruelty-free.

Suffrage, agency, and diet: Knowing when we’ve had our fill

Cooking on Sunday is kind of a thing for me. It makes me feel nourished in more ways than one. It’s when I take the time to try tricky recipes and break out (sometimes break) the decent dishes. Sometimes, about halfway through this ritual, I realize I might have bitten off more than I can chew. Yes, a food pun. Deal with it. Anyhow, that’s today.

As I build my Sunday dinner of tofurky divan (why did I try something so fussy?!) I am contemplating how I want to write about the hundredth anniversary the women’s vote (“women’s suffrage”) in the United States. Yep. I contemplate stuff like that.

Maybe it’s the bubbling sauce of tahini, cashew and white wine talking but I’m going at it through food. More than food, really. Our agency over our bodies. Bear in mind I am documenting my own cerebral and experiential meanderings. I’m not trying to deliver an ultimate truth. Unfortunately, I’m not aware of one of those little beauties. In other words, bear with me. Okay, here we go.

Women got the franchise in 1920 in the U.S. and in 1928 in the U.K. In both countries, suffrage activists were pushed, hit, thrown, spit on, and jailed. They held the 1913 women’s march to protest the inauguration of Woodrow Wilson (an event that was heavily compared with the women’s marches in the U.S. after Trump was elected). At this event over a hundred women were injured badly enough to wind up in the hospital when Wilson supporters were unleashed on the marchers by unfriendly police.

The Secretary of War had to dispatch federal cavalry to help quell the violence and allow ambulances to help the women.  The D.C Police Commissioner was forced out in the subsequent scandal which even included special congressional hearings into the matter.

Two of the most notorious prisons where these women activists ended up were the Occoquan Workhouse in Virgina, U.S. and the Holloway Women’s Prison in London, U.K. Once in jail they were deliberately (not surprisingly) treated with optimal lack of dignity.

They were often charged in ways that put them on an equivalency with prostitutes when, as activists, they demanded instead to be treated as political prisoners. As women were moved in and out of these prisons for repeat sentences, they developed collective action strategies. They first tried to refuse wearing prison uniforms (a marker of a person with special political prisoner status) but male guards were perfectly happy to be called in to undress them. At the worst prisons some were stripped, chained naked to cell doors, and sometimes raped.  

The most successful action the women developed across the continents (though certainly very unhealthy for them) was the infamous hunger strike. This was a collective action known to be practiced by political prisoners. In Europe, people who were allowed to hold that designation were protected from force-feeding. The women, of course, were not offered that protection.

Women would take turns hunger striking. They were so effective at this tactic in England that, also in 1913, Parlaiment enacted the “Prisoners Temporary Discharge for Ill Health Act” that was more commonly known as “The Cat and Mouse Act.”

Basically they would turn hunger-striking women out of prison when they were close to death and then round them back up after they’d gone home to recuperate on their own dime. The other intervention used by corrections staff against the women prisoners was force-feeding.

This was a violent process virtually the same as a sexual rape in which women’s agency over their bodies was violated with food. It wasn’t a “here comes the airplane into the hanger” scenario. Women were held down by several corrections officers, sometimes also trussed in heavy restraints, after which fairly large and unhygienic rubber hoses were shoved down their throats through the mouth or nose. Many got pneumonia from food and liquid reaching their lungs. Permanent damage was common. Some of the Holloway survivors gave testimonials that the BBC has available here.

What does all of this have to do with my tofurky divan? Of course, there is the obvious. I’m grateful for my privilege to choose my own food and to eat it. I’m grateful for the right to cast a vote. I’m grateful that I have the safety to make choices about what goes in and out of any part of my body. We’re used to thinking about this in terms of sexual agency, including reproductive rights. It occurs to me that we’re more used to thinking about our agency in terms of our sexuality. That’s certainly important and appropriate. Yet, it’s at least as important to think about our agency over food. Like with our sexuality and (I’m pondering this) perhaps even more, it’s an agency we are taught to very easily give away.

There are many ways to understand our agency around food. Can we afford the food we want? Do we feel safe and able to follow diets according to our religion or ethics? Do we feel emotionally and physically in control over our food choices? Do we see our diet as a battle with food waged over our self-image or the opinions of others? In what ways has our dietary agency been taken by others? In what ways are we giving it away?

According to stats compiled for the 2020 eating disorder awareness week, the Eating Recovery Center shares that 2.8 percent of American adults deal with a binge eating disorder in their lifetime. While we think of this as a women’s issue, about a third of adults with reported eating disorders are men. It’s pretty hard not to worry about our size and appearance given all the media messages out there. And those are far from new. The diet and image industries have been churning away in our lives and inside our heads through the generations.

In my own life story I had a sort of split-screen reality of a childhood. I lived two very different ways in my parents’ two households. My mother was a battered woman. My father was a rural minister. In both of those realities, I was low-hanging fruit to fall prey to eating disorders. In my mother’s household there was abusive misogyny that left all of us as our batterer’s victims feeling like objects (and not very valuable objects). In my dad’s house was the middle class pressure to be the minister’s kid who is polite, polished, and always able to make a good impression.

Both of my parents loved me and parented the best that they could. These issues around self-image and food are cultural more than individual, though individual resources and resilience can help. In fact, I understand as an adult that my father had self-image and dietary issues to rival my own. I wish we could have supported each other in a productive manner while he was alive, rather than suffering on our own. Though, adopting animals to fund at the Catskill Animal Sanctuary was a special experience and I am so grateful we did it. It was a process where we teamed up to take dietary choices beyond the plate and into the ethics, and I think we both felt more empowered. I highly recommend it.

I remember learning about the force-feeding of suffragettes while I was in college. I happened to be in active treatment for my eating disorders at the time. I recall having a kind of epiphany about my agency in my diet at that point. It helped me in my recovery. For me the awareness dawned that I had arrived at the safety and the privilege to decide what I ate. Why was I wasting my time and energy torturing myself? I can’t say my battle was totally over at that moment, but it was a meaningful step forward. I eventually settled into a rather uneasy peace with myself. I committed to allowing my body to be as it was, as long as I was eating healthfully and in accordance with my ethics. That brings me to the veganism.

Back in college I was also learning to be a vegetarian. This was another piece of my puzzle. The ethics of diet that I learned by reading books like Carol J Adams’ The Sexual Politics of Meat gave me another reason to see my food as more than a malicious list of calories, fats and carbs. Like sex, food is power. And even the most rapacious of paramours probably don’t have sex nearly as often as they eat. As Will Tuttle points out in The World Peace Diet, dietary ethics are the core of our ethics. They are a big factor in our impact upon our worlds both personal and global. As I grew into that material I gradually became totally vegan. In terms of my self-image and my relationship to food it’s worked really well for me.

During this period of discovery, material in Carol Adams’ work (The Pornography of Meat as well as Sexual Politics of Meat) brought me right back around to the suffragettes. Alice Paul, the subject of my previous blog, was a dedicated vegetarian. She picked this up from the London ladies along with her propensities for other radical collective actions. So many of the British suffragettes of the Women’s Social & Political Union were vegetarian that they ran their own veggie hostels so they’d have places to rest and to dine the way they wanted when they were on a lecture tour or recovering between stints in prison.

Vegetarianism wasn’t just a frivolous fad for these women. It was part of the beliefs that informed all their actions. A great and very detailed research project on this topic is, at the time I write this, available in full online. This is, “The awakened instinct: vegetarianism and the women’s suffrage movement in Britain” by Leah Leneman.

As documented by Leneman, the suffrage activists advocated for vegetarian food when they weren’t hunger-striking. They even did this when they were in jail. Maude Joachim, after doing a stint in Holloway in 1907, recorded this fact in her memoirs, saying:

Dinner is supplied in two tins. In the deeper one lurks two potatoes in their skins; in the shallower, are an egg, and some cauliflower or other vegetable. Many of us are always vegetarians, and acting on expert advice, others are so [for a time], for the meat supplied is so generally disliked.”

In her 1914 memoir “Prisons and Prisoners,” staunch vegetarian Lady Constance Bulwer-Lytton recalled watching stockmen abuse a sheep on its way to slaughter. In that moment, watching an innocent creature being brutalized by those with power for no reason other than cruelty, she made a connection we would now label as one of “intersectionality.” She wrote:

“[The incident] seemed to reveal to me for the first time the position of women

throughout the world. I realised how often women are held in contempt

as beings outside the pale of human dignity, excluded or confined,

laughed at and insulted because of conditions in themselves for which

they are not responsible, but which are due to fundamental injustices

with regard to them, and to the mistakes of a civilisation in the shaping

of which they have had no free share.”

Those who were ethics-motivated vegetarians experienced even more horror from force-feeding because the food being forced was invariably derived from animals. Lady Lytton recounted that she was force-fed violently, at least eight times. Besides giving vivid details about the pain of the tools they used to shove tubes in her nose or sometimes mouth (past her bridgework, which cut into her gums), she “had the strongest objection to it of a vegetarian kind, and I begged [the doctor] not to give it to me again. . . It was only when I was sick that I knew what were the ingredients put down my body.” (Cited by Leneman and derived from Lytton’s Prisons and Prisoners).

A tough lady by any standard, Lytton was more upset by the use of animal products in her feeding than the permanently debilitating pain. This, even though she knew at the time that she had a heart condition and could easily have died. She did rather casually recount having “double pneumonia and pleurisy” due to the feedings, but she recovered to write her memoirs and eat many more vegetarian meals.

Lytton’s experiences showcase two of the core elements of food agency. In prison she lost her choice over whether she ate and she lost her choice over what she ate and why (for her ethical beliefs). Sometimes seeing the absence of choice helps us to see its importance.

How does all of this (as I forewarned) cerebral and experiential meandering tie together, if it does?

For one thing, I hope we can all embrace our own food agency in an empowering and perhaps even joyous way. It occurs to me that:

If we are able to purchase foods we prefer, that’s a win. If we are free to make our own ethical choices about diet, that’s a win. If we can find peace with our bodies and eat to care for ourselves instead of make war with our forms, that’s a win. If we have the added bonus of having supporting community to back up any or all of those choices, we are very blessed.

I hope you find that at least some of these blessings apply to you.

I suppose, as I watch the world shift and change around the animal-agriculture implicated pandemic of COVID-19 and the fires of unrest due to police racism in my own country, I am also looking to all my power-sources past and present for the lessons of agency.

As we put our society back together (micro and macro), we will surely have opportunities as well as barriers. When putting our food infrastructure back together post-pandemic, we could take the opportunity to look at what types of large-scale farming we do with an eye toward food equality and environmental sustainability. A well-fed world is a great resource site for this work.

When addressing the terrible pain beneath civil unrest, we could use the intersectionality of social justice movements to try and heal inequities related to gender, race, and even species. Speaking of intersectionality, VINE animal sanctuary in Vermont has a great resource page on the topic. Focusing in on race in particuar, Dr. A. Breeze Harper does the work on her website and with her book, Sistah Vegan. The resources are there for us if we decide to take them up.

Beyond that, I don’t have an easy answer. I can’t even tell you whether I’d bother with the tofurky divan. Not bad but lots of work. What I do think we should all do is nourish ourselves and try to nourish each other. That’s always worth the effort. Right?

Oh, happy hundredth anniversary, girls. Vote.

Spirit box: Ponderings on Alice Paul

Suffer(age) –

suffrage

1 :  a short intercessory prayer usually in a series

2 :  a vote given in deciding a controverted question or electing a person for an office or trust

3 :  the right of voting :  franchise; also :  the exercise of such right

A picture of Alice Paul hangs over my desk at the domestic violence shelter. The two of us labor away; each bent over a desk, pouring our souls into phones. I like the image when I think of us, stacked on top of one another in this anachronistic graph. We are two pings on the radar that maps out eternity (or so I like to think).

I wonder how our conversations are different. I wonder how they are the same. The women’s’ voices floating into our ears, faint as crackling missives from the spirit world, are channeling the same frequency regardless of the history. They speak of battery, rape, unfair wages, reproductive coercion, unfeeling governments, incompetent societies, corrupt police and policies. Has anything changed?

I think of Alice and her women. They couldn’t vote at the ballot box. They voted with bricks through windows. They chained their bodies to the White House fence. Then came the infamous hunger strikes. Their wardens, husbands and priests would shove tubes in their noses and save them with a baptism of milk and eggs. They literally crammed the patriarchy down the women’s throats.

They were force-fed other mothers’ breastmilk and ovum as if they themselves were foie gras geese all for the crime of insisting that they were more than eggs, breasts, and thighs. They were tortured for insisting that we are all more than meat.

Is anything better now? Is it actually worse? Women are treated the same, but we are much more meek. Where are the brick-throwers, the fence-chainers, the hunger-strikers? Have they gone completely extinct?

Politeness is a strong instinct. After all, who wants to be a “bitch Femi-Nazi?” No, no. We think, such radicalism is too extreme. Things are much better now. We tell ourselves that sexism is over. We drive cars and have smartphones, for heaven’s sake. It’s manipulative to play the Woman Card. Just smile pretty and try not to think.

It’s not like mail-in ballots are being “lost” in their hundreds. It’s not like polling stations are being closed or moved with no advance notice. The closed polls and missing ballots surely don’t come predominantly from areas with socio-economic or partisan implications. It’s not like state and Federal supreme courts are backing this obstruction. Right? Right?! Not in our shining beacon of a Democracy. Right.

I finally remind myself that “suffrage” at its core really means prayer. It means to beg for intercession from someone or something who just might care. This is what I hear day after day entering my soul through my sweating ear.

I just want him to be the man I married.

I just want a car so I can get to work.

I just want to earn enough that I can afford to get off welfare.

I just want the fucking child support!

I just want to kick these pills.

I don’t want to be piss-tested for my welfare or forbidden to buy a candy bar.

I just want my kids to have it better than me.

I just want someone to listen to me.

So, I listen. Does it do any good? I would offer absolution if I could. If I weren’t a woman, I could be a priest, but my body is not enough like Christ’s. I could give them 96 Hail-Marys. I could tell them to do penance for every un-cherished year since we have had the right to vote but we don’t. Why don’t we feel enfranchised?

Who feels heard when the same struggle for survival is grinding on as if nothing ever changed? When we all know we’re little more than meat? Put on some lip gloss and don’t say anything too political. Never get angry. Certainly, never ever throw a brick. Smile pretty and try not to think.

No, many of the women I hear with my sweating ear pressed to the phone will not vote. Does that make it our fault? I don’t know. Go ask Alice. But vote or no vote, you can bet that every one of us is asking,

When the fuck are we going to count?

What? Aren’t you wondering? #metoo.

The rest is his-story. There seems to be no end to the Age of Suffering.

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1.800.799.7233

Rock the Vote: Non-partisan political empowerment: https://www.rockthevote.org/

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