A Day In The Life Of The Ocelot.

Pregnant Young Neighbor has brought us Rice Krispie treats again. My Celtic tendency towards the return of hospitality demands that I feed her one of my calzones. Whenever they're done. Which may be two days from now at the rate I'm going.

I have Angel's Trumpet in my yard. Rosemary, sage, basil, and oregano are growing in a box. The witch is hidden in this odd little trailer park, her garden growing in plain sight. I wonder if I'm the only one.

And I will hand out the ritual sacrifice of chocolate and candy in just a few weeks. It's not blood and bone, not the heart and liver of the slain sacrifice, but I know what it is. I hand out sweets to the representatives of the Restless and Beloved Dead with a smile and a silent blessing, hoping everyone gets home safe for another year.

On Not Having An Opinion.

The Husband has convinced me to spend the day slothfully rather than productively. This means surfing. Which led me to Deborah Lipp's blog, and her post, Is The Wiccan Rede Ethical? A Response.

I agreed with her unequivocally, but trotted off to see Mr. Kraig's original post just 'cause. I found the following statement and damn near threw a hissy:

"If you see a person such as a child or someone who is elderly being attacked or abused, you can't use force to stop the attacker or abuser. That would be hurting them."

I am sick of such attacks on the Rede by non-Wiccans. There. I said it. Bad, bad me, daring to assert such an idea. I am a judgmental person for feeling that Mr. Kraig is deliberately playing dumb with this idea that "Wiccan" = "Amish", and that he has no idea what he's talking about to boot. I am mean, cruel, and academic.

It's about to get worse.

Frankly, if you're not an initiate into a Mystery Tradition, how can you have an informed, rational, intelligent opinion about it? How can I say that the Santeria practice of sacrificing animals is fine by me when I don't know that it's no more cruel than Farmer Bob next door sending his chickens to the Great Chicken Beyond in order to have dinner? Do I really know that I won't be required to fellate a goat if I attend the Eleusinian Mysteries? Hell, for all I know, my tradition may require me to wear a ritual Barney suit at some point.

I don't know about other people's Mysteries, because I am not part of them - I don't even know about all of the Mysteries of my own tradition. Therefore, while I can have opinions based on what I think their Mysteries are and how ethical they are or are not, I really have no idea. Hence, the old and honorable statement, "I don't know enough about it to have an opinion."

Stretch your brain a little with the following idea: if a Mystery tradition requires its followers/adherents/initiates to keep such Mysteries secret, how do you even know that the thing you're declaring ethical/unethical even happens/exists?

Because I Am An Adult...

...I will not slink over to the abandoned trailer to the right of us and do some strange version of redneck UrbEx and have to run back here, screaming like a troop of violated Girl Scouts and flinging salt everywhere and waking the poor Husband. I will not go Disturbing Things.

I have to be up early to teach and have a full day ahead of me which does not involve poor Husband making up some explanation about how I broke my leg so that Barn Owner does not ask me why in the hell I was skulking around abandoned trailers at midnight. Which is why I'm going to go peer in the windows during the day like a normal person.

What's the big deal, you ask? There is Something there, and I just have to see what. It's big and not tame at all; there's something wild, back there. I've got to at least peek and see if I can't see what it is.

But if I never get the chance because one day it unfolds a pair of chicken feet and just walks off, I won't be surprised.

What Are You Wearing For Samhain?

After a friendship at work went terribly sour, I started thinking about masks.

See, this Co-worker I've had the falling-out with fancies herself to be this Everybody's Mama-type. You know, sensible, level-headed, and more than ready to tell you her homespun solution to whatever's going wrong. The type who sees no irony in making the statement, "Shrinks don't do any good - they just take your money", when she could obviously benefit from seeing a good one (we all hear about her dead son. Every day. A propos of anything, everything, or nothing).

Well, despite her now annoying the ever-living shit out of me, she made me start thinking. About how we see ourselves and how that happens and how we present ourselves and why. About the masks most of us wear every day.

Are you the Smart One? The one who Could Be Doing More? The Wise One? Are those straps digging into your face a little bit? Maybe you don't see out of the eyeholes as well as you used to. Maybe you'd like to be a peacock or wear a gimp mask for a bit.

Hey, I try not to judge.

This Samhain, see if your mask still fits. Maybe it's time for a new one, or none at all. Ask Them, who see all of your faces. It's supposed to be a time of year to get a little scared, isn't it?

AAAUGH.

We forgot to ask how one might get Intarwebz in the Trailer Park of the Damned. It now looks like we'll be providing some one-toothed Spam-eating cousin-maters with Intarwebz at some point, since I can't see this as more than a year's solution.

I know. First-world problems. But we're FIVE MINUTES from a MAJOR highway. I cannot have livestock. The roads are paved. I can see neighbors. IT'S NOT THAT FRIGGING RURAL.

I am too stressed to ride. This does not happen often. It usually heralds me hiding under or on top of something and refusing to be moved.

Hence, I bring you the following Scene From A Coven:

ME: So, after the initiation, my cat pissed blood, some other bad shit happened, and I got bitten by something ON THE EYEBROW and now my face swells up every morning. So if y'all want to go ahead and give me my second degree and just get this over with, that's fine by me. I'm just saying.

THE ELDERS: (laugh)

With Only A Week To Go...

Fundie Housemate has managed to royally piss me off.

We're in the kitchen, me, Husband, and FH. Husband asks if FH has heard from Husband's grandma on Facebook, and when FH says no, not lately, how is she, etc., the following chaos and mayhem ensues:

HUSBAND: She and I have been chatting a lot on the phone during my commute home. We were having a great theological conversation last week -
ME: (focuses on Tater Tots, wondering why in the names of the Gods Husband has opened this door)
FH: Let me tell you about my God! My God made your God. MY God blah blah blah
ME: (stabs Tater Tots with spatula in an effort not to do the same to FH)
FH: Blah blah Jeebus blee blee One Twue God blergh
HUSBAND: Well, we know you feel that way, but we don't.
FH: Blah blee etc. so forth
ME: (finally having gotten my hand to release the spatula) I AM LEAVING THIS ROOM. I HAVE BEEN INSULTED.
FH: (somewhat less stridently) Well, I didn't mean to insult anyone...

REALLY. YOU DIDN'T. BECAUSE THERE'S ANOTHER WAY ONE COULD TAKE "MY GOD MADE YOUR GOD", ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU HAVE NO KNOWLEDGE OF MY GODS AT ALL.

I then demanded that we watch "The Wicker Man" and texted Evn* about how I was going to look for this old Irish spell I've seen involving butter (since FH can't keep his grubby little mitts off mine, this would just be too awesomely appropriate), and how FH had better hope I don't find it before we manage to get out of here. Husband, upon a subsequent trip to the kitchen, was apologized to by FH, who, of course, still has no idea why what he said was rude as hell. I'm waiting for yet another run-in that will end with my shouting about how while SOME gods hang for nine days and bring back runes, HIS died after only a day or so and still hasn't come back, so who's the beyotch now?

Yes, I know. I am a bad, immature, mean witch and I should be the bigger person and all that. He lives in a shared house with whoever can afford to rent, is on a fixed income, and doesn't really appear to have any true friends. He has limited theological understanding of his own religion and absolutely none of any other faith. His moping every time I don't do what he wishes tells me he has problems with women, which probably explains the lack of any romantic companionship. So really, would it do any good to say, "Look, I have a pretty great life that comes from my own hard work, true, but also largely from the blessings of my Gods. What's your God doing for you, considering that what I see of your life is pretty sad?" Do I really think he'd have an epiphany, maybe deepen his spirituality, stop looking for other people or deities to save him from whatever, or even just shut his blithering piehole until next Sunday or so?

Sigh - no. No, I do not. He's basically just a large, annoying toddler and should be treated as such. I just wish his Big Divine Parent would come, get him out of the way of the grownups, and give him a time-out or something.


*It occurs to me that I should get and learn to use Twitter so that poor Evn isn't the only one who's subject to these little electronic outbursts.

Four vet trips later...

Puck is home.

He is by my left hip. My dog is on my right foot. For now, just in this moment, even if Puck the Sumo Cat cannot be made well, I have my pets and I am happy. We are ordering a pizza we cannot afford simply because my Husband firmly believes that I should not be made to cook given my rather stressful day, someone may be giving us free furniture for the new place, and tomorrow my supervisor is back and I do not have to deal with chuckleheads at work.

Happiness is so delicate. It's a cat, a dog, a Husband playing video games, being a new Initiate, and a pony I need to ride because he'll be cranky if I wait a week because we got rained out of tonight's lessons.