the voice from here and beyond
I am an energetic vampire. I feed, and fuel myself, off the energy others give me. In modern psychic vampire language, I would argue I am an ethical secondary psi-vamp functioning both on ambient feeding and direct feeding. In lay language- I only take what is given or sitting around unused, and I don’t need it, it just makes my life easier and happier sometimes, and its hot. To be more honest, I am an energetic conduit in both directions, and that sometimes with the amount I give out, it must come back to maintain homeostasis.
Tonight I found myself talking with someone else who energetically feeds to keep their emotional, physical and mental health in check, and as part of a tribal community of other psychic/energetic vampires with a specific culture of their own. I asked her how often she fed.
Oh, when I realize I have been being cranky or rude, I do, she commented.
So, when you are hungry, you go feed?
Well, yes, as soon as I can after that.
So, when you are starving?
It is fascinating to me that there is a lack of language in much of the psychic vampire community around when to feed. I see the same issue in other relationships and communities as well. These issues apply to the kink community, polyamory, and hell, interacting humans and other two-legged folks as well.
So, in our standard culture, when do we eat? Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, Midnight snack, Tea… they are all cultural cues as to when to feed or fuel our physical form. Other dietary cultural systems exist as well- the grazing, for example. But when we are presented with the classic three meals a day model, there is a fascinating tool available for the eater. Culture has said “it is morning- eat something.” Though some parts of our world, some family traditions and habits, dictate what we should eat and how much… the tool called “meal” has the potential to be an amazing resource. We wake and go to eat this breakfast meal- how hungry are we? Do you want a bagel, or a handful of raspberries, or a 3-egg and cheese omlette with a side of waffles and gravy?
Our culture gives us the power to ask this question, do I need fuel, three times a day (or more). Compulsion and habituation aside, it is a fascinating tool. One that allows us to ask “how hungry am I” before we are hungry and grabbing for the first thing we can find.
This does not happen oftentimes in the psi-vamp community. We wait until our batteries are on fumes or out, and hope we have somewhere not too far away and not too hard to work for. We wait until we are assholes, to fix the issue, instead of having a system of regular check ins with ourselves and a culture to ask others in our tribal systems if they are hungry, before they are starving.
The same thing happens in the BDSM community. We have built up a culture of safewords- tell me when we go too far, rather than happy words- tell me when you are happy or content with where we have gone and can end on a high note. We do this in relationships, waiting until we are “lonely” to go looking at internet chat sites or dive into the dating pool, instead of going in when we have space in our heart for being happy still without partnership.
The psi-vamp community also has an ancient cultural issue. Within the mythologies and truths of many, there is personal gnosis (verified and unverified) that in the past they were worshipped as gods, and their food was brought to them. How does one ask to eat, when one was always simply brought food in abundance? How do we learn to ask for our needs when we were used to being catered to? Still anchored in that place, instead of 2010, profound sorrow and hubris can blend into a place that leaves those with non-normative fuel needs for full functionality operating in erratic manners and ways.
For what does a starving man do? They beg. They borrow. They steal. They resort to dumpster diving or withering away. They get food boxes that are full of peas and carrots that have not seen their pea and carrot souls in many many years.
The same is true of the starving energetic thirst. We beg. We coerce. We steal. We resort to dumpster diving at clubs or withering away locked in our homes. We go to anywhere desperate people are that have not seen their envigorized souls in many years.
We are what we eat, are we not?
I would like to see a cultural expansion, not just amongst psi-vamps, but amongst the world at large. Cultural tools that can be put in place to ask each other if we are hungry, before we are starving. Because we have all been attacked by starving mouths hungry for love and connection- people who we offered one smile to and then could not shake off. What if we could cut this off before it becomes leech-like? What if there were a way to encourage folks to get their needs met before they are on empty?
Today I am full. Today I am happy and beaming, knowing I am loved. Today I processed with a former partner, made dreams with a current one, had visions of passion revealed by someone that wraps up my heart… and I am soaring. Today 6 random people sent me hugs or similar by text or email, and I folded space and time to pack my frame pack for my next trip.
But I am already considering for myself- what will I do? How will I ask myself, in a few days… are you hungry?
Today, another person wrote me to say I had been in their dreams, again, last night. After telling me the details of her dream, she asked if she was infatuated by me/obsessed, or just star struck.
I told her that I would argue neither.
I, or more accurately the form I assume, gets used by my spiritual patron and owner, Bear, to get work done on the dream side. Mama Bear, my totem, owner and Goddess, She who owns my ass and changes the world, is a doorway opener, a clearer of ways, a healer, a questioner, an advocate for rest and an advocate for profound transformation when the resting is done. She is the spirit of survival, and of helping those who need to be pushed to survive, thrive, and do the work they were built for on this plane.
She is the power of looking inward. She is the leadership we are forced to take, or destined to take, sometimes simply over ourselves. She is strength tempered with fury, love tempered with practicality. She challenges us to open up our eyes and look, one more berry, one more cave, one more dream.
I am acutely aware that in the past 4.5 years since I formally dedicated myself to her, three rounds of love and passion, between pelts and hooks and ink and love- large chunks of my dream time are not my own any more. I sleep to do work. I was made even more aware of this when I contemplated suicide- being informed that it was a choice, but being without a body would just mean I only did other side of the veil work ;)
I keep on appearing in dreams. Some of it is me, some of it is my form doing the work of my Patron, my Owner, my Totem/Goddess/Beast of the darkness and light of our hearts. Sometimes I get loaned out to do the work of other deities as well, the energetic loan out system of the spirit worker world.
It is not about me most of the time. Me the physical fleshy me. I am not purposefully stalking anyone but one specific person who still keeps our bridge open. Everyone else, I’m on assignment or its Lee as psychopomp. Sometimes I stand in as avatar for compassionate lover, avatar for stern master, avatar for queer guru on the mountaintop. Sometimes I stand in as beloved brother, fearful foe, wicked agent of unnatural lust. I am a mirror for the work that needs done in this world.
My Job continues to be to open doorways, clear paths, point out new routes and to offer insights that help the world find its dharma. My Job is to implement my Knowledge with Excellence. I continue my family line of being a packrat for the Gods, ferrying goods and wisdom from one heart and place to another. I support the world with my excellence and the world supports me.
So if you see me on the other side of the veil, walking along the silver path or carrying a staff of ash or knotty willow, feel free to wave me down for a chat. Let me hand you a silver acorn to grow your dreams, a golden key to open your heart, a string of pearls of wisdom. But really, its not about me. I’m just doing my Job.
I have been a very happy Pegasus for most of my life. I love flying, love the way the clouds taste as the tickle the underside of my nose. There is something delectable about saving Greek heroes from their folly, showing up unexpected with just the thing to say.
It is not always easy being a monster, but I like it. I feel good with it.
“You are not a monster” I hear a lot of folks tell me. Monsters have tentacles and fangs and gore dripping from their pores. Monsters plague dreams. But I tell you, no, I am a monster. For a monster is any creature that does not fit in with the day to day lives of man. We are the things on the edge of reason, and an Angel is just as much outside mortal ken as a Demon is. A Pegasus is just as strange to come across at a mall as a Shuggoth is, and the Shuggoth is far more likely to be heading to be heading to the Apple store than I am.
So I tell you now that though I am beautiful, I am also terrible. I am a thing on the edge of dream, making love with fear as I skirt through the lands called fantasy. I am a monster. But it is what I have always known.
Some people say that being a Pegasus is so much better than being a horse, and I have had my own thoughts on the matter. We who are in the kingdom of the equine, beasts beyond the majesty of their standard four legs and forelock, come in many shapes. We are Unicorns, Pegasi, Centaur. We have cousins in the form of Baphomet, of Aquarius with her glittering tail…
I say that Horses are magical creatures. My mother was a horse, a noble beast who pulls carts and works hard for a living. Without the horses such as her, where would our world be? She is the kind of mare who stomps her foot and the world hears. When a hero takes an arrow in his back, she will ride with all her might back to home, carrying his unconscious body until it can be revived again by the men of medicine and magic waiting behind stone walls.
Unicorns are horses with glitter. With magic. With beauty… and carrying a blade. A Unicorn enraged is a terrifying beast indeed. Black Unicorn comes out of nightmare, White Unicorn out of dream, but both have the capacity for blood when not rescuing maidens, sizing up purity, or inspiring another generation of dreamers.
Pegasus have great capacity, but we are set apart. Not at home in the stable, not at home in our nests once full grown. We can fly and dart, move and inspire, walk through fables and folklore, make heroes out of men who just wanted to farm their fathers’ land. My wings stretch and I know my purpose, I know my dreams, and I walk out into the world soaring high.
Centaurs are the best of both worlds, horse and man, rising above horses in their capacity for lyre and poems. They train warriors, they lead armies, they are beautiful and terrible.
I know I stand out, those days when the horses play I don’t often get called… I am riding off for another adventure they say. But two days ago I had lunch with a Centaur. I had lunch with a Centaur.
He asked with me to ride with him, to a gallery set aside for the Gods. I clomped alongside him, though he was so much taller than I, and I so longed to fly. We arrived at the gallery and took in the sights, until we came to a painting. He told me he had painted it.
In the foreground was a Unicorn, who was cutting off his own horn. In the distance, off to the right, a group of horses played.
What a terrible sight I cried! How could he? How could this beautiful beast get rid of what made him different?
Because it made him different. When horses gather, sometimes a Unicorn will come along and ask to join in. Some are invited in for they are beautiful freaks, awe inspiring. They bring strange tales of maidens and rose gardens, can entertain. Horses can go home to their stables and tell their friends how they met a Unicorn today, and you would *not* believe what that they said- Unicorns say and do the darnedest things.
But not every Unicorn is so blessed. Um, can you take off your weapon, the ferocious stallions say, nervous being unable to protect their own. No, I can’t take it off you silly thing! Did you call me silly? Hooves hit dirt, clods flying. Hooves hit dirt, Unicorns defend themselves… and blood falls.
I blinked at the Centaur. No! No, it couldn’t be… and yet I had seen it a hundred times before. Horses like Unicorns on their terms, when they add but do not terrify. Some Horses seek out Unicorns, ask how to become a Unicorn, strap on horns and parade about for the evening then return to their pastures by day, happy to have something stable, something solid. The Unicorn wanders, sometimes welcome, sometimes not. Trading his glitter for a bowl of hay, his tears for a place to lay his head.
I looked at the painting and saw the choice. A Unicorn has a choice, to loose his horn. Cut off your horn Unicorn, grow out your forelock, and you can be just like us. Leave behind your maiden claiming ways, leave your rose gardens, and you can be one of us. You can have a home, have a way of life, have a family.
My eyes wanted to tear, but I fluttered up for a moment and asked him to show me the next. My eyes went wide as his hands, such strange beautiful hands on long arms above his torso, pointed out the next piece. A Pegasus, a brother of my blood, whose wings had been torn off and he was struggling to move.
I saw his truth in the pigment. This truth, gods, I knew it in my heart. I have a choice too. Each Pegasus does. I can try to become a horse too. I have felt those days in my marrow, gods to just be normal. To just be normal, please Zeus, grant me this! But the painting shows the truth so clear, blood spilling out, stumps of wings left.
Even if a Pegasus survives the ordeal of ripping off their wings, they will never blend in, not quite. Tell me of those bumps, what befell you horse? How can I ever hold a saddle? Saddles will always have to be customized to fit on me. I will always feel the phantom limbs of what could have been, what should have been.
Beyond that, a wingless Pegasus can not do what they were set on this plane to do. We hear the call of the gods and can not go to Olympus! I have had my wings clipped and bound before, for my own good they say, and I may have survived by it but that loneliness hit my soul. I tried to walk into traffic, hoped someone would end my life instead of being able to serve my calling. There are tales of pegasi who do just that, cut off their wings… but what sort of life is survival?
I did not want the Centaur to show me the last piece, but I know I needed to see it.
The last of the row showed a Centaur holding a sword, cutting himself in half at the waist, where fur met skin.
You… Oh gods, tell me no my friend! I looked at him and his head nodded, and I knew his truth.
Even if a Centaur were to cut off his arms, he would never be a horse. Even if he were to hide his lower body, he would never be a man. The most he could achieve by trying to become normal would be to become an ugly horse, forever ridiculed, forever tormented… and no longer able to defend himself.
Centaurs are gifted hunters, talented artists, ferocious beasts. They are monsters worthy of respect. But horses only want to spend time with them if they claim horses as theirs, feed them and care for them and put them under them safely, few Centaurs are welcome at pony parties. Unless of course we have need for a Centaur, find value in them, need to know how to journey into the underworld or fight Medusa… then we might ask one, then leave them be.
The lonely Centaur in the painting had chosen the only path he felt he had. He cut himself in two and ended his life, because at least in death horses and men alike could partially empathize with the part of them they mirrored.
I nuzzled the Centaur and left the gallery. I thought on the Unicorns, Pegasi, Centaurs and horses I loved. We all had hooves, had we not? We all were born, and all would die. We all had seen sunsets and sunrises. Wasn’t it enough?
I left his side and went to the side of a horse I know. I asked him to come to my home, instead of me going to his. He always liked me so when I added magic to his world, but coming into my field, not even into my secret grotto… his eyes went wide. This is home? How do you not go mad from the wonder of it? How can you call what you do work? How? Why? What?
He blinked at me and I nuzzled him. I was sick of being a monster. Make me feel like a horse again, make me remember what it is like to feed from troffs and breed like others. Let me recall this, for a moment, please. But his eyes were wide. His eyes were wide and I let him kiss my wings, see parts of me that were there to examine. Never in my life, such an amazing creature. I stopped my ears with my own moans, hoping I could believe it, somehow stop myself from flying as he lifted me into the air and without thinking I took flight.
I flew and flew and flew until I reached the realm of a Unicorn I adore. I landed and approached him on hoof. I told him the tale of seeing a vision of a Centaur, and he shook his head and said it was a strange vision, but that he adored me nonetheless, and I adored him in it. I regaled him with other sights I had seen from seas away, over digital waves and frothy foam. He said I was the strangest beast he had ever beheld, and was blessed to know me. I loved him and how his beautiful body mounts me from behind, his shape fitting mine so very well. I ponder what shape we might take if my wings were not there, if I were a horse or Unicorn. If I were not the most fantastical beast the Unicorn had ever met.
How often it tales of old do we see groups of Unicorns? It is rare, but when we see them, such inspiration! Such beauty, and magic. But they are hidden away from mortal eye. They are hidden because when monsters host their monster balls, we make magic. We make magic that causes some to raise their arms against us, makes others doubt their own journey. Monster balls sometimes lead to a horse realizing the truth of the horn that was cut off at birth by well meaning equine parents, horses who loved their young pony well.
Th next morning, waking from the home of my magical Unicorn lover, I walked outside. I began to trot. I galloped. I lifted my head and soared. I flew and flew and flew and… saw in the distance a fellow Pegasus.
His head threw about and whinnied a beautiful Pegasus whinny at me. My heart melted. He told me of his day and I told him of mine. We laughed at our friends, equine and monster alike. We told tales of far off seas and waves and foam, and knew them as a day in our lives. Neither of us were any more strange than the other, just two monsters taking to the skies and planning our next visit to far off shores. We spoke of Pegasi and Unicorns we would see there, beautiful stallions and mares we adored who would be in attendance, the few goats and pigs and dogs and cats and werewolves we knew were to be walking those halls. We laughed and kissed and spoke of Pegasus things, and said goodbye for now, each with different paths to fly before we rest our heads.
I am not a Centaur. I know few of them, but love many of those I have met. Centaurs who carry music and wisdom and strength and have no way to be horses or men.
There are beautiful horses and ugly ones. There are proud plow horses and skittish ponies. There are hard working ones who live up to their potential and those that would rather wander, dwindle, and fade away.
The same is true of Unicorns. How many Unicorns have I met who think themselves horses, or think themselves Pegasi, or strive in vain to be Centaurs and feel themselves always lacking? How many ugly Unicorns I have met, I could cry at it! How many glittering beasts who create wars with their own kind, who gouge out the hearts of maidens and men alike.
Being a monster just makes us a monster, makes us magical. Every horse carries magic too. Every mortal soul, touching on this thing called making the world in our image, the gift of the gods still writ upon our hooves and tongues.
Being a Pegasus does not mean I am guaranteed to do good work on this planet or above it. It just makes me have different gifts, a different dharma, than most horses.
But I close my eyes and see my Centaur’s friends eyes. How when he was still small he realized that he was beyond the ken of his parents, who cast him out of their hearts. The stones that have cut into his skin. Of all the power and grace he holds back out of fear of yet again scaring away the horses that he wishes he could frolic with. I wish I could hand other Centaurs to him, but I know so few. I do not know where they gather. I do not know the ways of their kind.
I close my eyes and see him. His eyes wet as he stared at the last painting. My eyes wet as I stared at him. I close my eyes and feel his pain, imagining stumps on my back.
I am still a happy Pegasus, happy to be a beautiful freak. A cherished monster. A creature on this plane with a purpose. But now, more than ever, I value the other monsters in my life, all of their power and beauty and pain, all of their hopes and dreams and possibility. I love them all, even the Shuggoth and pigs. I now can close my eyes now though, and see the horn half cut, and wonder how many monsters we have lost over the years.
It was Epigominal days, 2002. I remember the sun outside, the beautiful tent with alters set for each of the Egyptian deities being honored on these, their birthdays, on these, the days between the years. Part of the ritual that day was to be a possession ritual of/for Isis, Goddess, Mother, Lover, Healer, Magician.A woman had been chosen because, well, in all honesty she looked like Isis. Almond Coco toned skin, wavy kinked black hair, eyes deep as wells. They began ritual prep early that day, and being a guest at the event, not a participant, I did not see them bathe her, prepare her body, dress he in finery. I did not see them apply makeup to this living statue.
I was there though when the horse, this vessel, this woman, was seated on the throne of Isis. To one side the priestess of Isis stood in her own finery, and then suddenly, my brain shifted. I walked away from the ritual and off to the kitchen.
I prepared a tray of sweet meats, dried fruits, multiple types of chocolate. I filled a pitcher with beer. I lowered my head and with cut through the throng, to find myself kneeling to the side of the Goddess and offering up the tray and the drink. Those eyes. The nod of acknowledgment. The half smile that was a deep thanks that spread from my bones on out.
I horse, or become a vessel for deity or spirit possession very rarely. There are certain courts of other that fit will in my flesh suit fully, but many do not. Each of us has our own blessings. I have felt my own Patron, Bear, slide into my skin and ride me, watching swordsmen from the woods. I have been ridden by honored dead as a way to connect with the world for last times, a last rite worthy of those taken too soon. A handful of the lower and upper courts have walked in my shoes, or danced and debauched nude using my hands and lips and other gifts. I have felt the whisper of others come through me, automatic writing, oracular words that I have no memory of saying, eyes that click through long enough to communicate a stop to those acting in their name.
But during that Epigominal days ceremony I understood what one of my real gifts is. It is the reason I trained for so long as a Slave in the BDSM community, why I felt an odd obsession since an early age with formal service and being a butler.
When a spirit larger than a breadbox (my own slang for “likely not the dead, basic this plane spirits, or things that we expect to be here”) appear/descend/ascend, my training in service hits the front of the brain. In very large cases, such as Isis, no thought at all takes place- I go into formal service for whatever was not planned for by the ground crew, handlers, or folks working the possession in conjunction with the horse/vessel that the God/dess is riding in. It is my own equivalent of Buffy the Vampire Slayer getting cramps when vampires are nearby- when large spirits and deity descend, fully, I can sense it through my own change in behavior- even if it takes a few moments to sometimes realize what I have done or what I am doing.
It also sometimes means that even when I can’t see the Spirit or Deity, I can still tell if it is, well, real. I am honestly Norse pantheon blind. I have seen a handful of possessions in this pantheon, and can’t “see” Them. And they rarely see me for that matter. But I can tell if my brain shifted. I can tell if the vessel is still the vessel. The moment the shift from shadowing or aspecting is crossed into full possession, most of the time I can just taste it, feel it, or my brain just goes to this other place and the files are re-shuffled to the front. This is of course hilarious when I had other plans.
It’s these things that make me wonder why as of late I have been called to enter into bottoming, submission, and formal space dedication again. I have been building sacred sexual spaces, (re) learning libation systems, picking up new divination tools, connecting in very academic ways with folks who do more formal service to their deities. I have been having intense solo experiences with prostration, lowering, and being called to types of play that though hot, have not historically been my thing per se. Or have not been my thing in some time.
Yes, I am a piggy creature who enjoys a variety of experiences, but much of this rings to something more emotionally and spiritually profound. It has the taste of my Patron, and can smell Her fur. As if I am downloading new knowledge and practicing, because a wave is coming, and soon (in a cosmic sense of soon, not sure on time line.) I will need this, I hear in my bones, I will need this.
I needed my Slavery as a tool in advance for my own God-Slavery to Bear. I needed to know how to choose wines to be able to choose wines for Hera. I needed to be able to be a lube boy to be one for Baphomet. I needed to know how to do many other things for other callings.
So what is this work for then, I find myself asking when no One else seems to be listening. Who or what is this break between the waves heralding? If I serve as Page for Deity, hold space for Spirit, then what is this thing I feel in my spine echoing in my flesh?
I close my eyes and stand at Hir side. Curling horns and hooves hitting the pebbled path.
I close my eyes and see wings and eyes, peacock feathers wrapping around me.
I close my eyes and see… and see white. See color. See black. See nothing. Taste Her fur under my lips.
Recently I had a friend ask me to go on a journey for them to ask for information about their current situation. I do this from time to time, divination or astral journeying, for those who I care for, other spirit workers, and on rare occasions clients. I know too many professional diviners, and would rather support their work.
But this time it was my work to do, and I knew it when they asked, so 6 days later I lit sandalwood atop a black bear scull, set music to play for a set period (I have a pre-made series of mixes on my iPod for different types of journeys, with a call-back song at the end of each mix), cast a circle, lay atop furs, placed a raven feather in my mouth and went forth to fly. I lay on my stomach, pen in my right hand over a notepad, and journeyed out.
45 minutes later I had a page worth of automatic writing, and a page of partially automatic drawing, and then proceeded to write up two pages of notes for them, that I followed up with 30 minutes of conversation with them. I mailed them the originals, and kept digital copies of the work for my own records, as it was my first time encountering a specific deity and I like remembering such meetings.
But, today as I fly in a big aluminum tube somewhere between Nashville and Phoenix, I was reading “Drawing Down the Spirits: The traditions and Techniques of Spirit Possession” by Kenaz Filan and Raven Kaldera. I came across the following page of information on divination and omens, and though it is what I myself often do, I found it well written and thus include it here:
(p 154 – Hearing the Gods)
When faced with really huge questions such as “Should I leave my marriage and family and move to Faraway Place X to study Strange Art Y for much of the near future? Is this meant to be my path?” we suggest a “Four-Fold Signal Clarity” divination method, which is used by many professional spirit-workers, whose responsibilities are such that they can not afford to be wrong too often in their divinations. This method utilizes both omens and traditional divination methods, and it looks like this:
First, do a divination yourself.
Second, have a friend who knows you and the situation do a divination.
Then have yet another divination done by an outsider who does not know you, your situation, or anyone else involved.
Finally, directly after the third divination, tell the gods that you are going outside into a busy and populated area, and that you want a clear and obvious omen immediately, within the next hour. Go out and look for one.
If all four steps give you basically the same message, then you’ve got something worth moving to Kamchatka over. However, if you start getting widely disparate messages, stop right there. Don’t go to the next step or repeat things. It may mean that the future is heavily conflicted and things could go many ways. It could also mean that the Powers That Be want you to figure it out for yourself, or that now is not the right time. Give it a period of days or weeks and then start over from the beginning. And remember also that sometimes signal clarity just doesn’t come, because we are complicated beings with complex and ever-changing lives, and that’s just the way of it.
*
Though I have not yet finished the book, I am finding it an interesting read. Large parts of it are things I already knew, but learning more is always nice. I also have enjoyed finding out exactly where my thoughts on some forms of spirit work and possession are different from those who have been peers and friends at various points over the years- both Kenaz and Raven, but also the voices of many of those they interviewed whom I have had close and distant contact with through the Grouchy Spirit Workers project, Keepers Crossing, pagan festivals, kink events, long midnight discussions and in one case, the worker who threw the hooks and held space for my own third round of dedication to Bear.
I enjoy not agreeing on everything. I find that moderate conflict and dissonance keeps me sharp- forces me to step back and sort out my own beliefs, knowledge, passion and power. Have I thought a certain way out of past programming and habit, or is my point well thought out and worthy of defense? Am I being exposed to something that will make me go out and research, dive in deeper, and find something I care for that I never saw coming?
Arguing is one of my more important tools as a student of life and academics alike. I am the guy who asks questions in class, because it is how I learn. I do not do it to take over a class, or assert my will over the teacher- in fact, when a teacher “rolls over” on me it is one of the most dissapointing things I can have happen for me as a student and learner- or as a friend gabbing until dawn.
For my strongest beliefs- love, faith, philosophy, hope, honor, sex, beauty, direction, art- I want to know that new pieces of truth I am incorporating into my spirit and soul are worthy of being incorporated. Will they hold up to scrutiny, is it too fragile for my paws? It has made more than a few folks stop being active parts of my life for this reason- I do not accept simple “um because” answers on the above stuff. I want to know why, I want to know if it is worth fighting for. If I love someone, and want to support their dreams and visions to their fullest, I need to know they really truly want what they are pursing. Otherwise, me sinking my energy into it fully, investing in all they are and are doing, only to have it just get dropped… sometimes I feel like it was a bit of a waste of a precious resource.
I expect others to argue my work and passions out with me as well. I want strong personalities in my inner circle who have the intellectual and emotional capacity to call me on my shit, and know once its been determined that something is a core truth for me, that that thing is a precious one that should never be stepped on.
This is why I do not date atheists any more. Fuck them, be friends with them, sure. But not date and devote a partnership and connection to. Why? Because as a spirit worker, collared to Bear, a very real spirit and neolithic deity, my Work dedicated to Her honor and truths- I need to know that someone believes in divinity on some level. I am a doorway opener, a clearer of ways, a healer of spirits. In Her name I dismantle false visions, plant seeds for potential, create spaces for potential to be pursued. I implement my excellence in Her name.
If someone does not believe in divinity, in God(s), how can I work for one?
How can it be understood that, no, I really have to up and leave and go do this Work, now. That I must take this Job, travel to this location, sit outside this store, spend two days straight creating devotional art. Must. These are required. Not just desires.
Not just madness.
I am neurologically non-normative, but the God(s) are real. Divinity is real. And this makes dating atheists no longer an option for me sadly.
Signal Clarity is a strange and beautiful thing.
Sometimes when we draw the cards, cast the lots, open our heads to visions, we do not get the answers we wanted. We get answers.
We get answers.
Or… we don’t.
Because as Kenaz and Raven said – we are complicated beings with complex and ever-changing lives, and that’s just the way of it.
24 May 2010
Queen Of Heaven
Unfinished Poem
You are silver lines
Baited breath drawn back and forth across time
You are an unfinished poem
Left with words still writ upon the stars
There are some forms of love that feel like a form of madness. Contagious I breathe and feel him not there, afraid to breathe out lest others catch this thing I have. Don’t have.
I was doing better with this madness. Silence, simple silence. No voice no word, a diet that atrophied the line down to a trickle and convinced me, somehow, it would be alright. But one short line, one message, one talk and one more I love you and I spiral back out again into this thing called need, called pain, called desire and hope.
I watch words
Twinkling stars and seas between us
I watch words
And realize you’re not there
We’re both so fucked, time to heal, time to set it straight, time to love myself, love yourself, breathe. Untangle lines, come clean again to one another or at least to ourselves. I convince myself if I never see you, never hold you, never smell you again it will be alright. Then you talk to me… and it’s not alright.
I feel you in my stomach, in my heart. I can feel your heat against the back of my neck. I can feel you standing in my spine. Contracts released, space made clean… do I still hold on, or is that you. The words we have said tell me its both.
It’ll just be a few years, right? It’ll just be next lifetime, right? It’ll… never be certain whether I am dancing in madness, or in your arms- or whether these are one and the same.
You are silver lines
Baited breath drawn back and forth across time
You are an unfinished poem
Left with words still writ upon the stars
Last night I learned of a prayer for Rabbinical students from times long ago from the amazing Dyland Richards, my house guest last night on his way to a Franciscan Monastery for a religious event (I love the variety of humans in my world).
May you be covered in his dust.
Or
May you be covered in the dust of your Rabbi.
I have a deep and resounding respect for the teachings of Jesus/Joshua, and yet my own relationship with his ministry has been challenging at times due to how it has been interpreted, implemented and dogmatically enforced over the years by various groups. But watching Dylan tell biblical tales reminds me why I so often love Abrahamic faiths.
May you be covered in his dust.
This phrase is simple enough- that a hebrew boy from Jesus’ time would have learned the basics of the Torah and the teachings until he was 12 or 13 and went through his Bar Mitsvah. If he did okay, he was welcomed to manhood… and if he excelled he was encouraged to study more. If he did not excel, he was told to go and take up the trade of his father. If the now young man, in studying the Talmud (the commentaries and more), he excelled- he was encouraged to stay on and study directly with his Rabbi and/or keep reading other texts. If he did not excel, he was told to go and take up the trade of his father.
This is the middle east folks. Sand, dust, dry. Following a Rabbi for years to learn his system, his wisdom, to watch and discuss and do what needs done was mile upon mile, day upon day of walking. In the sand, dust, dry.
“The mad go to the desert to become holy. Or the holy go to he desert to become mad. It is hard to tell the difference.”
-Catherynne M. Valente, “Under In The Mere” from “The Psalm of the Sun”
When we bless someone to be covered in the dust of their Rabbi, it is a prayer that the studying be long, the wisdom be great, the miles covered rich in the greatness of divinity. This, this I love.
But Dylan went on to discuss with me the notion of just how radical Jesus was. That when he offered to folks like Peter, an old man at 16 already a fisherman (practicing the trade of his father), he was offering the “already not good enoughs” that they had the opportunity to be holy men again. In a culture where the word of God and the Law are at the top of excellence, to be told by a Rabbi that you have a second chance at this is- miraculous. Socially and culturally speaking. This is the same Jesus who went in the middle of the day to the well in the Gospel of John, he offers a Samaritan woman a chance to spread his gospel as well, when in that time talking to a non-Jew and offering them any chance of God’s love and salvation, was, well, let’s just say not so acceptable.
(as a side note, I am convinced that in this video of the tale that Jesus has great bedroom eyes for the Samaritan woman)
These tales, these blessings, come in a context of a time, of a space. Telling a fisherman to follow you nowadays is not the same cultural tale told from 2,000 years ago. Talking to a racially different woman at a well (mid-day mind you, not morning or night when the Jewish women went) is not the same today as it was then. These tales are stories that have a context. These are symbols that carry a lesson and a message that is embedded in the stories of that time. Where a story comes from shows us what that story teaches.
Unless we understand a time period, and what those choices meant back then, we the audience of a tale often have the habit of back-tracking and projecting what we think those things mean. Yes we can learn other things from a story beyond their original cultural contextual intent, but that tells us more about us as individuals, and where we are now, than what the story was “telling”. We find instead what we are “hearing.”
If we apply this to Leather history and culture, we see dramatically the tales and myths of Old Guard and New Guard Leather in a new light.
Imagine it is World War Two, and as a man attracted to other men, you realize for the first time that the cultural tales you have been told that all men attracted to men are poofs is not true. You are not effeminate, or soft- you have been in trenches and embraced your regimented masculinity with pride, and yet you want to have hot sex with other men who have similar looks, tastes, feels. No longer away from home, back in California, New York, Illinois, cultures arise.
Out of needs for the realities of the time, systems arise. Leather was the look of biker bars, of the outlaw making his own way. It was durable clothing. It looked good, felt good. With a heavy belt on, you had an SM or bondage or control tool on you at all times. With a good pair of boots you could fuck around in back alley ways and have subversive sex without worrying about your footwear, and also, laces make for great bondage tools too.
At this point of time, leather is expensive. Being gifted leathers is a big deal because the likelihood is you only are going to be able to afford one vest- ever. You take care of your boots because it makes good sense, and because the army taught you to. Codes of hankies and keys and colors erupt not to be sexy, but to keep folks from being arrested for having illegal or legally insane sex, to keep from having the shit beat out of you, to find lovers and connections one step safer.
People bottom first out of practicality. You learn the tools through your skin, not as some sort of ancient art form, but as a way to police the crazy folks out of the community before they become Tops. Without classes and conferences and books and the internet- you learned one on one or in small groups, through sweat and tears and cum, creating bonds and brotherhood and passing on wisdom about where and how to hit and when and how to be, through the doing.
The symbols are a way of remembering these tales. But what happens when the context and tale are forgotten but only the symbol remains.
In Leviticus there are some crazy-ass “laws of God.” This, folks may recall, is the chapter that isn’t so cool on man on man sex. But it also wasn’t so good at combining fibers, at requiring folks to bury their scat outside the perimiter of God’s love, and that if you saw red mold you had to get a Rabbi. These are cultural laws that kept a desert culture alive. Telling people to poo and bury their scat outside the perimiter of God’s love meant folks were not taking a dump next to their tent, getting horrid diseases, and dying. Wow, the Hebrews live so much longer, God must love them. No, they are just not taking a dump next to their tents.
This is God’s love though, yes? Cultural wisdom, passed down, is a way of divinity to bless a people. I do not have to understand microbiology if I know the cultural law. I still live longer.
But cultural laws exist in the context of a culture, a time and place and people. Cutting foreskins off as a mark of being owned by Jehovah as a tribe does a lot of stuff. It (place) keeps off unwanted infections from rare bathing. It (people) lets us know one of our own easily when we are lost or at war. It (time) is a sign that we are an advanced people with medical abilities others down have, and a way (people) to raise ourselves up over other tribes. This is pretty neat stuff.
Leather traditions vary from place to place because they are based on culture. They are about a time, a place, a people. These traditions did not arise because a hot dude sat around and dreamed them up. There was a need- this was the answer to that need.
At Christmas, this one family would always cut the breast off the turkey before broiling it. When the child asked their mother why this was, she answered “It’s a family tradition.” When the mother asked her mother why this was, she answered “It’s a family tradition.” When the grandmother asked her ancient mother why this was, she answered “Oh, because we had a small oven and the turkey was too big to fit in otherwise.”
-Dylan Richards shares a teaching tale with me
Why do I carry a hanky? To cruise. To blindfold. To bind. To offer up as a gentleman to a weeping or snotty individual. To gag. To wipe sweat from my brow. To start conversations. To lay down on a pubic space chair when my bottom is naked and wants to sit down. To remind me of how I earned that hanky. To laugh with friends about hanky stories. To have a certain “look.”
I sometimes, in carrying a hanky, evoke the memory of an Old Gaurd, or those who came before, who in their tribal traditions carried a bandanna to easily state what they were into. But this hanky code twenty miles long that includes lace doilies- that shit is, lovingly said, something of an intellectual masturbation. Mind you, I love masturbating- but what is the purpose of these lists? Is this tradition serving anything any more, I must ask, when I see something that once served a purpose now serving only itself and an intellectual elite that has the time and energy to ponder the differences between pale yellow and goldenrod.
When Hunter earned his belt, I used it on his flesh. This will hold up your pants, but it will also double as this tool for you on either side of the lash, but it will also remind you of where you have been, where we have been, where our people have been. It’s just a belt, right? Yes, and no. It is a symbol, and symbols are rich in intent, lesson, and story.
When a Rabbinical student is being covered in dust, he is learning not just the Law and the Way, but learning the way his teachers before him do stuff. He learns how to care for the sick, how to aide the poor of heart. He learns not just what to duplicate and pass on, but as the miles upon miles of stacks and stacks of commentaries show, he learns his own voice as to what he will interpret this all to mean and what he, in turn, will pass on to those who are covered in his dust.
May you be covered in his leather.
When I acquire traditions, symbols and tools in my life as a leatherman, I am also acquiring my thoughts on these things.
A few years ago I was gifted the hearing of a tale. At Master Archer’s class at Southwest Leather on Earned Leathers, a woman spoke up and told her pain. That she had been gifted her Mistresses’ cap/cover when her Mistress died and she became the new head of the leather household. She stared and stared at the cap, and said she could never wear it because she had not earned it.
Master Archer said that you don’t earn your cover. You re-earn it every time you put it on. You make yourself worthy of that cover each time it goes on your head.
I don’t wear my cover now unless I feel able to be worthy of it and what it means to me.
I am covered in this piece of dust, this layer of leather. I am covered.
But I do wonder sometimes at this hunger to be gifted leather, at this hunger to be recognized, at this hunger to be part of something set from the past. In a need to have lineage, so many leatherfolk are grabbing at straws, and symbols that don’t have a meaning to them any more. They project backwards and tell tales of what it “must have meant to the Old Guard.” And some of these tales hold kernels of truth, and others are elaborate fantasies that make for good porn and hot protocols.
Why are you doing that thing you are doing? I must ask, for a cross on a billboard proclaiming death to all baby killers as I pass by protesters outside Planned Parenthood… makes me wonder whether you know what that symbol you are using means- what its stories are. I must ask, for wearing your Master’s cap and acting like an ass while verbally abusing those in service… makes me wonder whether you know what that symbol you are using means- what its stories are.
If a cross to you means “I love Jesus” or your cap means “I feel tough and sexy,” so be it. But if you are trying to evoke a deeper tale of connection to a past, to a culture- what are the tales of that culture. The funny thing is, in the case of covers in most communities, and in the case of crosses in most communities- these above definitions may in fact be FAR more honest to the cultural reality of use of symbol. Sometimes, the profound stuff, even if it affects our life deeply and changes our core, is made up.
So own it. You made up something excellent. And tell your tales, your stories, of the symbols you use… so others may be covered in your dust.
May you be covered in dust.
12 May 2010
Sacred Consort Rite
I had a request from a magical student on the West Coast to audio record the Sacred Consort Rite, and with special permission, the folks at Beltane granted me permission to audio record the guided visualization.
Having cleared this with those who attended, I wanted to make that audio available to those who attended, and those who had hoped to attend but were unable. There is a 1.5 page instruction sheet that goes with the audio file, and ask that if for some reason the file travels, these files travel together.
If you were someone who wanted these files, please get ahold of me at Lee@PassionAndSoul.com and I will send you to where the files are resting :)
Cheers, and thank you ALL again for those who were part of this working, and part of all of my amazing Beltane experiences.
***
Sacred Consort Rite: Connecting with your Divine Lover
A Journey with Lee Harrington
PLEASE read this informational sheet COMPLETELY before beginning.
On the other side of the veil your holy beloved waits. Join this circle and sensual guided meditation out of our mundane world and into the land of our spirit, where our companion awaits us. Some of us will connect to the flame at the heart of the universe, beating in union with our souls and loins. Others will open up to find a specific spirit, deity or being who has been hoping to court us as a one time liaison or as a partner along our life’s journey. Some may encounter old ghosts from the past, whose presence might inform us what barriers we face to finding the love and desire we deserve. Or we may find a reflection of ourselves longing to embrace our own hedonistic worship and desire.
To begin this journey, clear two hours of time. Though the audio file is less than an hour long, you will want time to ground and center in advance, lay out your tools, and time afterwards to slowly come back to this plane at your own pace (or enjoy your body further after the session is done).
Find a space that is beautiful and sacred to you (your bedroom and a stereo, an open grove with privacy to enjoy yourself and your mp3 player), and lay out your tools. For some this will be sacred alter items, for others a towel to lay on, a pillow for under your head, and your favorite sex toys, lube, etc. If you are aided by a blindfold or similar tool, have that prepared as well.
If you prefer your sensual rituals sky-clad, disrobe and set your clothes to the side.
Calm, and breathe.
Cast your circle. In the case of the rite that this audio was recorded at, each ritualist had their own mattress and supplies, each circled around a central alter. The Guide cast the circle, calling North, East, South and West to watch over the working, before calling those above, below, without and within to bless the working as well.
Then, lay down, close your eyes, breathe… and begin the audio recording.
After the audio is complete, take as much time as you need to come back, but come back fully before going out again, no matter how intoxicating or challenging your experience was. Come back fully to your body, have something to drink and rehydrate yourself. Consider taking a long shower.
For some, this Journey may bring up a wide variety of emotions or feelings. No experience is “right” or “wrong.” Not everyone will have an epiphany or a mind blowing time, and that is just fine. For others, there might be need for processing- consider journaling, talking with a friendly councilor or therapist, or discussing what happened with an understanding friend or spiritual associate. Others might find help in “walking/dancing it out,” singing, talking out loud, or in general engaging their body to process through what they have experienced. Having these tools in place before you journey is HIGHLY encouraged- better to have them in place and not need them, than need them and not have them in place.
Either way, once you are back fully to your self, and before leaving the space, remember to close your circle. In the case of this recorded rite, we said farewell to those within, without, below and above, before thanking West, South, East and North for all their vigilance and assistance.
If you are curious about reading more on Sacred Consorts, energetic kink and sexuality, or other such matters, check out “Sacred Kink: The Eightfold Paths of BDSM and Beyond” by Lee Harrington, or visit PassionAndSoul.com
Yours in Passion and Soul,
Lee Harrington
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