There Is So Very Little I Do That I Don’t Open Book About, Welcome To One Of Those Things, I Mean, Kind Of, A Little, I Think

I pray a lot. Well, pray might be the wrong word for it, but I think for this it will do just fine.

I do not pray for things, it always struck me as odd to ask an all-powerful, or even very specifically powerful, entity for…stuff. Don’t get me wrong, you do you boo-boo, but if I am going to ask a Power of the Universe for a thing, it is going to be for more than a touchdown in a game that most of the world doesn’t watch or for a shiny kind of metal statue for music that a computer did most of the work for. Do you know what I mean? It seems a little south of stupid to me personally.

That having been said, it is not that I have always been the holder of this particular belief, I was very Catholic for a very long time and Catholics ask for a LOT of stuff from the Bearded One North Of The Clouds, as he is colloquially known by those who eat and drink his kid on the regular.

Since I found a new path to walk, I kind of saw the selfishness in asking things from a being whose schedule is pretty busy as it is and, since I am fairly certain there are a great many who do not share my belief paradigm, they have the extra burden, if one can burden an omnipotent being, of listening to Wicca Wanda ask if she can totes have eternal magicks to impressive Wicca Will and they can have little Wicca Wayne or something like that.

All I talk to my Goddess about, and I suppose it is talk as opposed to prayer now that you want to split hairs on definitions, are the hopes I have for others and I try to put my power into the Universe to see if I can help and love them any more than I always do. Call it the power of positive thinking with a little extra something.

Now I am not going to sit here and describe my ritualistic practices in detail because I know there are a few people in the world, he said sarcastically and somewhat caustically, that really want me to go ahead and die because I am not best boys with J-Dawg and the Collar Posse anymore. That is your karmic burden and I leave you to it, the only reading this is to try and wash the taste of what I wrote earlier out of my brain.

It is a peaceful place for me you know, talking with my deity of choice. I always find calm in my heart there and that is when I know, well, what I know. I can close my eyes after the fact and feel, for lack of a better word, cleaner than I was than when I started the whole thing.

Someday I will try and put into words things that I only have pictures for in my head, but for now, I think I have said what I am going to say on the subject and I am going to let it go for the day. Well, I won’t really, I just have a hand cramp and I need to stop writing for a little bit so I can get ready to say other meaningless things that are all see-through attempts to explain the rising panic.

I Could Tell You What This Is About, But That Would Require Me To Know That Pertinent Detail.

Rather than write the utterly banal attempt of comedy I was about to try and write, I decided that hey, Theology sounds like a good substitute for comedy. I mean, who doesn’t want to learn about some random dudes personalized system of daily belief structure explained within an ever-shifting and even more personal metaphor. I know I’m all in!

Life is all about balance. I am not the first nor will I be the last person to say this at all. I think good and evil is a little too bland and vague for the purposes of it though, balance is maintained, and destroyed, by two groups whom by their very nature are exact opposites. I will simplify the internal monologue shit and call them the Givers and the Takers.

Those who Give, as you can imagine, are generous by nature. They give love, compassion, kindness, and grace in addition to the material things of the world that they can spare. Those who take not only take all of those things that those who Give offer, but they take that which is not offered freely, such as your time, your patience, your energy and even your very will.

In the middle of all of this, or I should say containing all of this, is The Fulcrum. It is that which must be balanced. It is life and death, hope and fear, love and resentment. It is existence and what comes after. It is everything and anything you can imagine.

I know I lost a bunch of you, and that is okay. My hippie loving, barefoot needing, not so much of a granola fan, self is not for anyone other than me. I am writing this mainly as a thing to do and not as a means of proselytizing in any way whatsoever. I have done the Shepard thing, y’all can have that job and the collar that comes with it. I am writing because writing is what I do. It is my Zen, my Center and it is all good if you skip this and head over to the beheading things…..yeah that’s totally coming next.

It sounds familiar you say? That’s because I stole most of it from Stephen King, Heinlein, a little crazy from Hubbard and the rest from some Germanic deities you may have heard of if you know the days of the week in the English language.

What else though, is that overall of that is the Goddess entire. If the Fulcrum is existence, she is that which carries it in her arms. My views of the Goddess are different than other people because religion is supposed to be a highly individualized, sacred, and personal thing. That includes not having one at all I may add, free will works that way for a reason.

I know I am rambling now, I might as well go with it though.

When I close my eyes each night, I see the Goddess, My Goddess, in the eyes over every woman I have ever loved combined in a beautiful framework I will not begin to try to explain while not royally stoned. I am not free to name names here, but know that if you identify as female and I have told you I love you, then you are in this framework of my personal eternity. Sorry if that totes creeps you out, it is the way it is?

That was rude.

I internalize everything see. It is how I process. The problem with the way I do it is that I both internalize too quickly and I never get any of it out. If you have ever tried to follow my metaphor of the planes you may have a clue what I am talking about here. If not, well, picture every picture you ever looked at being cataloged, but with no index, no reference and no clue as to how to look though, search through or even get rid of the damn thing.

It is, for example, why I can still remember the song I made for all ten of my ex-wife’s toes, the entire second act of Hamlet verbatim and how to exorcise in three languages. I am not boasting, I want to dump it, if y’all have ideas on how to do a hard format of that shit, I would really appreciate a nice reload of the brain.

So now I have taken up a few minutes of your time, I have written for maybe six minutes on my end and I can finally go and half that delightful fourth cup of coffee at ten minutes after three in the afternoon.

Vive La Différence!

The Die Is Cast, The Characters Made, The Names Given, The Scene Set, The Master Story Teller Waits With A Curled Lip Smile As She Knows What Is To Come

The pain. By Siobhan Herself the Pain!

The pain spread in every direction, every fiber of his being was in agony, and yet it was a thing he knew he simply needed to push through somehow. He opened his eyes wide as the pain hot its crescendo and saw his Goddess before him, beckoning him, welcoming him home and back to where he always belonged, with her, for her. He opened his mind to speak to her, to ask her why it hurt so bad, but what came out was not words, not anything that even sounded like words.

It was a roar, a growl, an avian screech, a violent and dark noise that comforted him in its intensity even if he did not understand it. He tried again to speak and the sounds from his mouth got even louder, the air seemingly shaking around him as the sound moved through it. He did not know if he was going to be able to take any more pain. He was so strong, but there was a levy within that was about to be breached. One last noise exited the old Dara, a noise that was pain and agony, suffering and fear. Not his, no not his.

Even as the last sound exploded from him, Dara felt his arms move backward and fuse with the wings he wore proudly on his back. He looked down to the ground, so very far below him now and saw his feet and legs were mottled black and red, wider than the massive tree trunks he had run through and his entire body was covered in the same coloring, the same texture. Dara went to breathe out as panic set in and flame gushed from between his lips, a tornadic blast of wind and fire that shot thousands of feet in front of him and lit the sky up brighter than the sun with its intensity for a moment before fading to nothingness.

Panic vanished, the pain vanished, in fact, he who had been known as Dara vanished completely and Beithíoch lifted into the air with hundred-foot long wings and the mark of his Goddess emblazoned on his chest in the form of the all-seeing eye of amethyst. He leaned his head back, newly extended on a great neck and roared once more. In triumph, joy, love eternal for what he thought had just occurred. Just as he thought this his Goddess appeared to him again and held her hand out to him and waited for him to come to her through the ether of space, time and the very earth itself.

With a final roar that seemed to shake the sky itself, Beithíoch flew towards Her, his heart glad as the sky wrapped itself around him and tool him to her at last.

—-

Neart laid down upon the heather soft grass of the field around her, covered in the wonders of the family she came from, climbing on her, in her. Her mouth lolled open to allow them to be one with her as she felt the surge from within her begin and she knew what was to happen. She did not know why she knew, but all that was happening was exactly as it should be.

Her legs started first, lengthening and turning a black pitch that reflected nothing and light seemingly vanished into. There was no time to appreciate as both of those long and perfectly legs split in twain starting at the feet and racing upward like a thunderbolt. Then again. And again. Eight legs there were now, each slowly turning into the void of the darkness of its mates. Her eyes closed, forever in the form they were in now and when she next opened them she had the two eyes she had, but besides them were six others that let her see things eyes could not. Heat, the depths of the earth, the wind blowing and the patterns in made in the sky. Tears leaked from them as the love of this newfound her took hold and she felt everything from her breasts downward swell, not in fat or in pregnancy, just growing with taut muscles and the skin mirrored her legs in their blackness.

An eternity, or was it a moment, later, she who was formally Neart stood tall on her eight legs, her head above the tallest of the trees and when she opened her eyes she saw the world in ways none save her Goddess could see. She stepped with the legs as if she had always had them and her family followed her, each of them taking the size of a small down to follow her at speed. She moved faster and faster, her legs stepping between the trees and her speed was violent and wonderful.

From eyes no one had ever had she saw Siobhan beckon her and without hesitation, she turned towards her and walked into the arms of the Mother Goddess of the Universe.

Madame Victoria

With carefully manicured nails, long red gloves slid up her arms. The leather soft and pliable after so many years. The red was vibrant and electric, like a stoplight that you barely run even though you knew it wasn’t going to be yellow anymore. Specially designed fingertips allowed her fingers to slide through and show the delightful palette of color that was her fingernails and not show the rest of her fingers or hand, or anything until just below the bend in her elbow. Black boots that came just past her knees and stopped just as her delightful thighs began were already laced up in their convoluted artistry, each lace a magical dance over the others and all of them perfectly arrayed to show the best of the boots and, more importantly, the legs that wore them.

The clock over the door made that annoying twang that told her it was ten minutes after seven. If nothing, it was an accurate thing for at least that. Boots and gloves on, overcoat covering anything and everything in between, it was time for the show to begin.

—–

The audience was, as always, full to the rafters. They even sold tickets for places to stand and even though people bitched about how much it was, no one ever refused a ticket if there was a chance to buy one. If you had never been or were a celebrity that came nearly daily, you never resisted the urge to get the ticket, sit down and enjoy the most spectacular sight in the entirety of Montreal.

The lights dimmed and brightened several times to indicate that the show was about to begin. Everyone with a seat took it, went to their assigned standing spot or, for the lucky few who snuck in, sat high in the rafters above the lights and the sound technicians to see the greatest thing that the world had ever seen.

—–

Standing behind the curtain was torture, she hated hiding from people before the show, then again, it always was such an explosive event when it all happened the way that they had planned it year after year.

She heard the pop of the mic being turned on and she got her face ready.

She loved this part as much as she hated the waiting.

—–

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage one the most fantastic beings your eyes will ever see and the most wonderful woman your hearts can imagine.”

The curtain exploded upward in a puff of purple smoke and there she stood, on stage, at last, every eye of the three thousand souls in the building glued to her. She was the Flame and they were the petit papillon de Nuit to her raging inferno. She waited the three seconds and heard the announcer come back on with a shout, lust and wonder in his voice as he finished the best line in the history of show business anywhere in the world.

“Madame Victoria, the forgotten Faerie Goddess.”

The crowd was so loud it was a white noise that soothed everything Victoria rolled her shoulders a single time and the overcoat fell from her like a shimmering waterfall. Her hair was a deep purple, her skin the most cocoa of browns, at least for the moment. Her eyes were iridescent in the theater lights and, of course, the great double wings that sprouted from her back were the color of old blood left too long in a puddle. She winked at the crowd and walked forward to allow them to feed just as she did.

Showtime.

With Every New Soul Comes A New Beginning, With Every New Beginning Comes A New Tale

Protective. I have always been that person who wants to look after people. Even when I was a bad guy I wanted to make sure that people were safe, well, at least most of them if I have to be honest with you. It is built into who I am, forged by what I came from. I suppose the ultimate deal sealer is when my Ducks came along. I didn’t know what protective was until then, I just thought I knew because I was the Big Bear. When your newborn son has his hands wrapped in your beard and you are whispering to any Goddess that will hear you to forgive you in advance for the violence you will do in the name of protecting this perfect creature, you then that you are protective, or at least that is how it worked for me.

It has caused trouble, yes. I have failed people I wanted to protect, yet. I have even hurt the people I swore I would never see harm come to. I am an imperfect thing and I easily and readily admit to that. I am ashamed of transgressions and things aplenty but what I am not ashamed of, what I will never once be ashamed of, is the effort. I may fail, but by the Goddess and the Darkness That Eats All Things I have never once stopped trying to keep all of them safe. Even the pain I caused was horribly misguided efforts to save them from things that turned out to be lies or delusions of mine and mine alone.

If you know pretty much at all you will know that the friend base I have is very wonderfully tilted towards the gender(s) I am not. I do not have anything against males as a whole, it just seems to be that I make friends easier with people who are not that thing exclusively. If one had to analyze it I suppose it has to do with a need to replace the evil of my mother with a positive feminine influence that I know is not a danger to my psyche, even if that danger is PTSD screaming from the darkest corners of my brain. I am sure there are some other much more pertinent psychological things as well, but it is a choice I make consciously and I think that is the important take away here.

Why do I bring that up? I do because almost exclusively, the people I know that do not need protecting are these wonderful people. There’s is a strength that I envy and fear and I think it is a powerful thing in mind and spirit both. I look up to them, put almost all of them on almost impossibly tall pedestals that I then make ever higher with effusive praise and constantly telling them I love them. It is a balancing act I do not do well and from time to time I need to reevaluate and the line gets drawn again. It is a constant thing, it is what my mind and my heart do and even if I could change it I absolutely would not because it is the way it has always been and they are great and glorious in my eyes even if they are not in their own.

Anyway…

Today is for the creative Bear to scream from mountaintops high and oceans deep. Sweet Siobhan will be back and Pater Noster, which I may have totally forgotten about the other day. Something else as well, something bubbling up, not yet formed as whole. The newness of a thing is not to be rushed lest it be spoiled and we all know a first cannot be repeated.

RAWRZ