Dear Robin:

First things first. Regarding Robin Williams, most people are still either in shock, or in sorrow. This is not the kind of post that will cater gently to either of those emotions. You've been warned.

First of all, I wasn't shocked. After the initial "WHAT?!?!?", I actually nodded my head. My brain, in its delightfully Asperger's way, replayed every little hint he'd given us over the years. Fun viewing.

"What hints?" you may ask--and well you should. But I'll get to that.

Grief? Sure, I'm feeling that. None the least of which because I literally cannot explain to Crikey what the big deal is. He certainly gets the tragedy of untimely death, and the sorrow people feel over it (he was on the front line when I came unglued over Davy Jones, after all). I simply couldn't convey the enormity because no one in his generation's celebrity world is comparable.

But everyone is talking about how Robin was one of a kind. It would just be redundant to do that here.

So. Grieving. In my experience, the stages of grief give you a little time in each stage before bucking you to the next.

But every time I start to cry, I wipe away the tears and get angry.

Dear Robin,

My heart breaks for you, but no more or less than it ever has, for you have always seemed an emotional dichotomy to me. 

I don't remember the first time I saw it. The transformation. Robin Williams and transformation--the terms are almost synonymous. For anyone reading this, I'm sure I don't have to list out his chameleon talents. The man could present himself as anyone he wanted to be at any given moment.

Out of curiosity, and I may just be a little crazy here, but did anyone else notice how seldomly he chose to be himself?

Chameleons usually use their appearance-changing abilities to blend in, to hide from sight. Robin did that. Always hiding, but hiding in better-than-plain-sight, because holy shit, you couldn't miss him.

Yesterday, a friend and I were speaking about him, and I honestly can't remember what she said that triggered the train of thought I'm about to share, but it was something along the lines of "why didn't (rehab, therapy, sobriety, etc.--whatever--"help" of some sort) work?"

My sister often reminds me that I see things other people miss. I guess that's fair, since I miss most things other people see (and get in corresponding trouble over it). So maybe most people didn't notice it. The repetitive hints. Hints to the inherent frailty of the man.

Honest to God, folks, I seriously believe that's why we love him. Present-tense intended. The talent, the imitations, the comedy--all of that came from his frailty.

My best friend posted a clip of Robin performing for the troops. It ended with a little video of him casually hanging out with a couple soldiers, relaying what it was like to be up on stage during Retreat.

To be precise, he was in a situation where he had to interact with individual humans, rather than a crowd, an audience. He acted out the same (hilarious) reaction he performed, ad lib, on the stage at the moment, and it was adorable. They talked a little more, and as the group began to disperse, he turned to one of them and quietly asked, "Did you get your picture?"

Where seconds before had shown us bombastic, at that instant, his voice was soft, tender, shy.  You almost had to lean toward the screen to hear him--I did, actually, even though it was perfectly audible.

There. There it is. Just at the end. I admit, there are better examples in the great big body of video footage featuring him, but I simply don't have the heart to go looking for any right now.


No, I've never met the guy. I suppose it's unfair to make these assumptions. Because these are PHENOMENAL, COSMIC ASSUMPTIONS based on itty, bitty personal knowledge of him.

But here's the thing...

Dear Robin, 

I'm not shocked at what you did. I'm not confused. I'm angry. And, for the record, I'm not angry because I can't empathize with what you were going through--it's because I can.

It was neither sloppy writing, nor an error, to give that little intro to the talk I had with my friend and then tangent like I did. To quote another comedian, "I told you that story, so I could tell you this one." It needed to be in the back of your head, the question of why all that therapy, rehab (etc.) didn't work.  I wanted that to be percolating while I rambled.

I guess I was also doing a little homage to Robin as well. Two for one.

Here's the payoff. 

What if it did work? Not to be unkind, but he, like most of Hollywood, was a drug-addled mess for a while. He got help, got clean. Made a wonderful life for himself, and in so doing, made the lives of millions of others a better place to be. Stand up, shows, movies, Comic Relief, USO. To name barely a few, because the man I saw ask that soldier about pictures was undoubtedly the type to also do plenty of good without people seeing, knowing.

And if he hadn't cleaned up, we would've hardly had any of that, because we would have lost him decades ago. Rehab, therapy, sobriety--it did work, it just wasn't enough.

I've always admired the obvious research J.K. Rowling put into the Harry Potter series. The little references, the big ones, the obscure, the obvious. One of the things she touched on hit me like a brilliant ton of bricks, because some way, somehow, that woman understands depression fantastically.

Unsurprisingly, I'm about to mention dementors. You know, those Grim Reaper types who suck all the happiness out of a person's immediate vicinity? Including any memory of joy, success, love, any ability to remind oneself of the genuine, tangible good in the world?

Her brilliance wasn't in describing depression. I think everyone feels it from time to time. The brilliance was in a little throwaway comment from Sirius Black, when he explained how and why he never went insane. I'm too lazy (or, let's be generous and say I am too focused on what I'm doing) to get up and look for the exact quote. So paraphrasing it is.

There were two things.

First, he spent most of his time with the dementors in dog form; being able to separate from his human awareness, even a little, helped, provided a certain measure of salve.

Second, he knew he was innocent. But how did that make a difference? Knowing he was innocent gave him no joy, so the dementors couldn't take that knowledge from him.

If I hadn't loved her stories before, I would have fallen in love then, because holy fucking shit, that's so goddamn, precisely accurate. Ms. Rowling, I salute you.

But back to Robin. Or, more appropriately, back to everyone out there shaking their heads, wondering how someone so buoyantly funny could be depressed. How someone who had so much to live for, and did so many wonderful things for--hell, for all of us, himself included--how he could despair to such an extent that suicide became the choice?

Clinical depression is like being a turtle without a shell, unable to find joy in anything good, terrifyingly vulnerable to even the most minor of Life's curve balls. When you have it, survival means finding surrogate shells. Like turning into a dog. Or a genie. Or a genie with dozens of personalities...

Dear Robin,

 
I'm sorry you had to hide, that interacting without your posse of personalities made you feel like a turtle without its shell.

With depression, the first instinct, ordinarily, is self medication. Usually starting with alcohol, since lots of perfectly healthy people have a drink now and again when they've had a bad day. It's the same thing, right?

Of course, then there's drugs, sex, or physical/mental/emotional abuse, sleep--any form of escapism will do.

Therapy is like going to the store and finding a healthy, though still artificial shell. Does the same job, but since it was never organically part of you, it's not permanently attached--and your body may not recognize this "shell" as help, instead fighting against it. Either way, you have to work at keeping it secured, and you have to maintain it, so it stays in good shape.

To pause a second--to put into perspective that little "you're body might fight it" bit, and why it's a problem:

People who don't deal with depression already have a shell--they're bodies make it, maintain it as a matter of course--benefiting from its work without any effort or deliberation at all. Just like people don't consciously control their spleens, or livers, or hearts. These folks can go about their lives without having to intentionally do anything to maintain emotional equilibrium.

To have an artificial shell, to maintain its placement and durability, is like having to purposefully control your breathing. It's possible--but how tedious would it be to only breathe when you remembered to inhale and exhale? People who can't do that get put on freakin' life support. I wonder if there's a connection there...

It's easy to be pissy with people who don't deal with depression--especially when listening to the (what seems to be) asinine advice they invariably give. Sure, the advice is useless, but it's innocent. In all reality, they simply don't have a frame of reference on what it's like to only get oxygen when you remember to breathe.

End pause--back to my own little crazy train...

The act of balancing an artificial shell, reenforcing security brackets and keeping it nice and shiny? You'll have to do it every waking minute of every waking day. Forever. Or, at least, for as long as you want to stay sane, stay alive, because if and when it slips off/breaks, you're every bit as vulnerable as if it were never there. 

In other words, there is almost NOTHING in the way of therapy leaving a cumulative effect. If the meds wear off (or you forget to refill), if you fall of the wagon, if you're hit with a curve ball--if the shell is gone, it's gone.

So, with any luck at all, you're not a human being, prone to getting tired. Because you can't afford tired. Ever.

For some, finding the proper meds and taking them is a lovely bit of false fuel--the shell exists, but feeds on the meds instead of them. For others...

Never having done it, I imagine going into rehab, or checking in to a program of similar sort (say, where a person would go to recover from a nervous breakdown) is like taking a little nap, letting other people maintain the position and quality of your shell for a time, so you can safely sleep off your exhaustion.

In my mind, those havens are chock full of naked turtles, resting while their shells are getting tuned up. The havens are safe spaces, created and maintained by the people who run those...institutions? hospitals? centers? You get the point.

Dear Robin, 

I'm desperately sorry your shell broke, fell off, and a goddamned dementor kicked you on that exposed skin while you were trying to find your way to the Fix-It Shop for Shells.

So let's have a little fun with cliches. (Despite the fact that I HATE clinical depression being labeled as a mental illness...)

Mental illness is real--but you already knew that. How about mental illness isn't confined to frothing at the mouth and acting like Charles Manson. Or the Mad Hatter. Or even H.M. (Howling Mad) Murdock and Go-Go Dodo (that last one a little 90s reference for my tiny tooney generation). Well, you probably already knew that, too.

Considering all the memes I see saying so, I suppose you've heard that depression is not a choice. Depressed people can't just "cheer up"--any more than a blind person can just get over that obsessive need to not see, or a person in a coma can't just get off their lazy ass and start walking around again.

Well, damn, then. Maybe the cliches are just too cliche to be helpful.

Dear Robin, 

I'm really sorry I'm mad at you. That you either didn't consider or didn't care about the ugly, horrible hurt you'd cause by leaving your family, friends and fans the way you did. I promise I'll get over it, because while I'm pissed right now, I know what it's like to be bleary-eyed tired from trying to maintain the shell. To find the only laughs available are in the pointlessness in calling some hotline, or even a loved one. To therefore look around, see no help, no hope. No light at the end of the tunnel, no ability to even recognize the sunshine coming in from the opening behind you.

See, it's a wonderful thing, to have that knowledge of good that brings you no happiness. When you can't harm yourself because you have too goddamn much to do, and absolutely no trust that it'll get done properly without you... when the peace and sleep of giving up is disturbed by your mind's image of the look on your child's face if he's the one to find you, the imagined cries and tears from the people you love who'd inexplicably miss you, who'd suffer if you did it.... when you realize, for honest and for true, that suicide is one of the most selfish, narcissistic acts a human can commit...

Those thoughts are too fucking sad for depression to steal away. You're stuck with them, and with them comes the nagging understanding of responsibility... the fucking inescapable burden of it...

And if you're lucky, it forms a kind of spare shell. It's about as useful as a spare tire, and not anywhere near as pretty, but it gets you to the Fix-It-Shop--whatever that may be in your life. And that's where your tired toddler-self takes a metaphoric nap.

Then you wake up and remember you love music, and movies, and spending time with your family and friends. That trips to the ocean are unspeakably amazing and you really want to see your mom's reaction to the Christmas gift you got her. That there is no guarantee of deep dish pizza in the afterlife. That, speaking of the afterlife, there is nothing it could offer that's better than the feeling of your son holding your hand while he falls asleep with his head in your lap.

Wait, the season premier of your favorite show is tonight, right? And shit, don't you have plans to hang out with your best friend next week? That bitch'll kick your ass if you stand her up.

And then you laugh. And your kid comes in and either gives you a hug and kiss, like the denouement of every after-school special, or comes in and throws a tantrum over something so ridiculously stupid, you realize that, just hours (maybe minutes) ago, you looked just like that--and that your tantrum was every bit as unreasonable, your despair unfounded.

And then you laugh again, because you kicked that dementor in the dangly bits, and are back for another round.

And Life is fucking awesome.

Dear Robin, 

Ya know, bud? Not gonna lie--that wasn't the best choice ya coulda made. And now we're all quite a mess. But you gave us so much, and for so much longer than was comfortable for you--it's our turn to do our share. We'll take care of each other, and ourselves, and when shit gets real, we'll put on something you gave us, borrow one of those amazing shells you created for and shared with us, and life will look better. I know you've not really left--you just exchanged an existence without a shell to one where they're obsolete. I'm happy for you. Or will be, once I'm done being sad and angry. But yeah, I'm happy--because I know at least those goddamn dementors can't get to you anymore.

And I'm not going to say goodbye to him. As per my intentional "present tense" way back at the beginning.

The cool thing, though? I had a "let's not say goodby" paragraph brewing in my head, and then thought--wouldn't it be better if I could find an appropriate quote from Peter Pan?

“Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.”
         J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


Forgetting Robin Williams? Un-bloody-likely. And thank God for that. And Robin.

Dear Robin, 

I can't thank you enough for everything you gave of yourself. But I can wish you sweet dreams. Sleep tight. And don't forget we love you.

In Defense of the Octopus in the Olympics' Garden

There is something to be said about a subject matter getting a girl so fired up that, before she's even had her coffee, she's decided to blow off MOPPING DAY to write a post.  Admittedly, I'm hoping to be done in time to get to the cleaning...let's see...

The day started with finding the clean laundry strewn about the floor and mixed in with the dirty laundry because Kermit just HAD to have his black Servo shirt, and at 0530 in the morning.  Really.  Of all the things for him to go the "age appropriate" route - it had to be the OCD obsession with clothes. 

Back in bed, but not able to fall back asleep, I start toodling around on my phone.

And now we have to back up.

My running (as in repetitive) joke about the Olympics is that while it's a celebration of the amazing things the human body can achieve - it turns the rest of the world into couch potatoes for the ~2 week duration.  Despite my lack of athletic anything, I love watching the Games.  Media/culture geek that I am, I always pay special attention to the opening and closing ceremonies.

This year, I missed the opening ceremony.  Apparently, I missed an extremely interesting one and need to hop onto a You Tube bus ASAP.  I was also unable to watch the closing ceremony, but Marshal had my back and DVRed it for me.

I finally watched it Friday night - it was taking up a lot of space and I was itching to delete it.

It was so amazing, I kept it for Crikey and Marshal.  We watched it last night (well, Crikey and I did; Marshal looked up from his computer when I elbowed him).  For my part, I wanted to make sure Crikey understood what was going on - and I hoped that, a second time through, the one part that bemused me would make more sense.

I am still at sea with regard to the octopus (the pun may be unintended, but I like it).

5:30 a.m. - search engine:  closing ceremony octopus.  I wanted to keep it simple to avoid coloring the selection of results.  Turns out, the results were as murky as the Wile E. Coyote-esque dust (ink) cloud left by a startled octopus.

To summarize:  While the overwhelming majority went with "WTF!?!", the prioritized reactions were: Illuminati conspiracy in the British government, tacky, tacky British stupidity, and devil worship/paganism.

Oh sweet Lord.  So much bullshit, so little time.  I hardly know where to start.  Other than coffee, of course.

In all fairness, as my own reaction to the octopus was also "WTF?!", I can't really heckle that one - though I will say that my reaction was one of delighted fascination.  I do, however, understand why others were (and are) way more confused by it than interested in having it explained.  To those people, I say "Peace - and if you're even mildly interested in an opinion that doesn't involve paranoia, British-bashing and religious ignorance, welcome to my rant, er, blog post."

Let's get the Illuminati stuff out of the way.  Either it's a figment of a massive, collective, paranoid imagination, an organization that has been secretly controlling the cultures of the world for its own diabolical ends, or it's something in between (as in, it exists, but doesn't function quite like Dan Brown would have us believe).

I'll admit, I'm inclined to believe it exists and does so in the "in-between" way.  However, to address the panic-driven squawking, let's consider the alternative.  So, it's a group that is either over-hyped or evil.  If it's nothing more than a self-important club, then let's leave them to their secret handshakes and midnight gin rummy games.  If it's an evil empire controlling the world, and has been doing so for as long as it (allegedly) has, then we're done.  I'm not a "lay down and die" type - but worrying about something like that is like worrying about the Apocalypse.  All we can do is keep on with what has been entrusted to each of us in our own little corners of the world.  That, my friends, is how to counter the darkness.  You can't fight darkness by pushing at it with your hands (or with Chicken-Little-Sky-Is-Falling alarmist tantrums).  Just turn on a damn light.  If that's too metaphoric, then try repeating after me:

"Good game, Illuminati.  Enjoy your secret handshakes and midnight gin rummy games.  I have housework to do, kids to raise, blogs and books to write, friendships to enjoy, sunsets to watch...in short, a LIFE to live, also known as 'better things to do than be worried about locating and fighting a secret society that may or may not be evil.'"

In other words, quit hyperventilating about the dark and BE THE LIGHT THAT GETS TURNED ON. 

Deep breath.

Tacky, tacky, British stupidity.

Many of the things I read complained that the closing ceremonies were a missed (or botched) opportunity to showcase all that British culture has given to the world.  There was even something from a BBC affiliated post about how making the closing ceremony a celebration of Great Britain was akin to inviting people to your home and talking about yourself.

*pinches bridge of nose and breathes deeply*

I could go through it, piece by piece, explaining things in excruciating detail, but...

Oh good grief, who has time for that?  So, instead, some broad statements.

Admittedly, reserved modesty is a cornerstone of British sensibility - and it has been said that "BBC" stands for "Better Be Clean". So it's not that crazy for there to be elements of the British populace that are genuinely appalled that t'was one of the other cornerstones that ran this production.  Other cornerstones?  Read on.


First of all, in any Olympics, the opening and closing ceremonies are supposed to be a showcase of the hosting city's culture.  That's the POINT.  Instead of criticizing it as culture narcissism, look at it as a guided tour of a beautiful, famous home that's been opened to the public for a limited time. It's an opportunity for the citizens of the world to take a peek at how a people sees itself, and how it wants to be seen.  These performances represent what a city, a country, wishes the world to know.

Ironically enough, or maybe not so much with the irony, the world is not ready to give up its dearly held stereotypes for Great Britain and its people, its world view, its life.  Some have even said that the British people should be a "wee bit embarrassed" by the spectacle.

Well, I grew up in Georgia.  I understand being embarrassed by the Olympics' host city's performance.  Really, Atlanta?  You want the world to think  "monster trucks and cheerleaders" when they picture southern living?  REALLY? 

But I digress.

One of the things I enjoyed the most about London's closing ceremony was the self-deprecating humor mingled with self-awareness that laced the entire production together.  It wasn't ironic for a choir to perform "Because" while others drummed a heartbeat on the iconic landmarks of London.  Nor was it chaotic for the Massed Bands of the Household Division to march through a street party.

It was an eloquent theatrical performance showcasing the complexity and the richness of London's Life, of British Personality.

Yes, there were serious moments - "Imagine" was done so beautifully, John Lennon incorporated so elegantly, it brought tears to my eyes.  Naturally, this part was universally (as far as I could read, anyway) praised.

It tallied with the world view of Great Britain as serious and reserved.  Thoughtful and wise.

However, like almost every other culture that has made a positive difference in this world, another cultural cornerstone is a sense of humor.  The British are famous for their reserved humor (though often for how hard it is to understand), but those who laud that while criticizing this production have apparently forgotten...

...that the British also have a wonderfully honed sense of the silly and the absurd.

As I explained to Crikey, when a person refers to a comedy as being "very British" - it will, invariably, mean one of two things.  Reserved, deadpan delivery of dry wit (Oscar Wilde being the definitive personification of this) or over the top, wild, slapstick physical comedy (everything Monty Python has ever done, anywhere). 

I am not British.  The closest I come to a connection is being of British Isles' descent.  However, I'm going to make a reach and say that I get the humor, if only to the degree that I get it better than many of my (American) peers.  I base this on the consistency with which I find myself giddy with giggles and wiping my eyes at things that make most of my nearest and dearest blink and stare at me, waiting for the explanation...and still not get it when I tell them.  (seriously, how does someone NOT laugh when a chipper voice blithely sings "a pal said, 'cheer up, you'll soon be dead'"?!?)

Granted, I prefer the dry to the slapstick - but even I can appreciate (if not fully enjoy) the absurdity of a bunch of men, whilst hanging on crosses, bouncingly singing "always look on the briiiiight si-ide of life!!"  Though, now that I think about it, it seems that my favorite part of any Monty Python I've ever seen was a part that went dry...

In short, if you didn't like the performance, that's fine.  Opinion and all that.  If, however, you thought it was chaotic, disorganized, inappropriate and confusing - you just didn't get the joke.  Which is also fine - but not Great Britain's fault.

Finally, the double whammy of assuming that the giant octopus was a Satanic (and therefore simultaneously Pagan) symbol - well, anyone who knows me at all can probably guess (accurately) that THAT was the last straw that broke Mopping Day's back.

I have said it before, and in greater detail, but if you're a first time reader, allow me to summarize:  PAGANISM AND SATANISM HAVE ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH EACH OTHER. (for further detail, explanation, proof, etc., scroll down to the post "Paganism: Myths, Images and Reality")

I'm not a Satanist, so I have no earthly idea if octopuses (octopi?) have anything to do with their pictorial/symbolic culture.

However, as Paganism, at its very core, does revolve around the natural world and everything in it, it's quite easy for me to see octopus as a Pagan symbol (though no more or less than any other plant, mineral or animal).  Of course, Pagan symbolism permeates almost all cultural imagery and practices worldwide.  Christmas trees, Easter eggs (the name of the Easter holiday), stars on law enforcement badges, the wearing of any and all jewelery...

Seriously, that list goes on and on...until forever is over.  Which, of course, is why I giggle to myself every time someone starts panicking over the Pagan symbolism of this that or the other, but hangs wind chimes and brings flowers to sick people. 

But, again, I digress.

I actually do know a bit about the meaning of octopus as a symbol.  Totem work is an interest of mine (from before I learned about Paganism, or even Feng Shui).  Essentially, and very, very simplified, it's the concept that God (Spirit, one's Guardian Angel, etc.) can choose to communicate with us, teach us lessons through the animal kingdom.  The idea is that from each animal, there are lessons to be learned.  If God wants you to learn about freedom, you may be presented with dreams, gifts or even actual encounters with horses.  If He wants you to learn about conserving energy, or maternal nurturing, ditto for bears, and so on.  Therefore, (and I've learned this the hard way), I have found that it really is in my best interest to pay attention when an animal keeps popping up in my world and that I should learn as much as I can as soon as I can once I notice the critter in question.

Over the last couple weeks I have been inundated with octopus imagery and have therefore done a bit of research.  This morning's search engine escapade was to see if there was anything particularly and specifically British about octopus energy - I was looking to add to what I've recently learned.  Of course, what I learned this morning was the stuff from  which rants are born (see above). 

So, since it seems like the right time - and if you're a first time reader, you may have stumbled across this blog for the same reason I went googling this morning:

This is a synopsis of what I have recently learned:

Octopus energy is about approaching problems with intelligence, efficiency and an unorthodox approach.  As it lives in the water but is a bottom dweller, it teaches about staying grounded while handling emotional or spiritual endeavors.  Because it can detach an arm at will (and grow it back), octopus can teach us about letting go of what no longer serves our highest good, while regenerating our own health and well being if we've suffered a loss.  Because of the firm grip of its arms, it represents love.  It can help with the destruction of negative barriers in our lives and how to remove people who are deliberately harming or obstructing us - but as its message is one of strength through softness, gentleness and love,  the removal is not by destroying them, but by moving them to other places.  With its extraordinary ability to transform its appearance to blend in with any and all types of surroundings (plus its ability to shoot ink in order to make a getaway), it teaches us about subtlety, discretion and, if necessary, stealth and how to camouflage ourselves when we need to go unnoticed.  Since (almost all) female octopus die as their young hatch (they starve themselves to care for the eggs), it reminds us to take care of and nurture ourselves so we can be better able to serve those around us.

For the most part, I'm going to take my lead from the ceremony itself and leave it to you to decide how that applies to Great Britain.  I only add that upon my second viewing, I noticed the suckers on the arms were all "kissy" shaped lips.  I'm sure one could choose to take that down a sexual road - but to me it rang more to a "love" type of tune...and if "all you need is love"...

Hmmm....

"We would sing and dance around, because we know we can't be found...
 We would shout, and swim about, the coral that lies beneath the waves.
 Oh what joy, for every girl and boy, knowing they're happy and they're safe.
 We would be so happy, you and me, no one there to tell us what to do.
 I'd like to be under the sea, in an Octopus' garden, with you."

Oh, I do love Ringo.

Life, Liberty and the Right to De-Friend

(My compliments and thanks to Ms. D for the fantastically, cleverly, perfect title for this post!!)

Every once in a while, I think it healthy to double check one's reality.

Why do I do what I do?  For a living, with the children, my family, my friends?

Why do I think the way I think?  Vote the way I vote?

Just to be certain, am I crazy, or just joking about being crazy? 

Why take months off at a time when, clearly, writing is one of the major things I should be doing ?

The last one is pretty easy (rationalization for procrastination is a gift of mine).  My aim with this blog is to be entertaining, funny whenever possible and educational when I'm super lucky (and am given the opportunity to share information that may be helpful for others).

Above all, I really want to stay upbeat.  So many people use the internet to vent their diseased spleens - I don't want to fall into that habit.  The last few things I've written have been happy, I guess, in the cosmic sense of Circle of Life - but not in the here and now.  These last few months have been eventful, to say the least, but literally none of the comedy that ensued (as always, there certainly was some) was fit to share.

So I've had nothing to say.  Sort of.

Why do I do what I do? 

I do Readings because I'm good at it, and it genuinely seems to help people.  I otherwise stay home because Kermit still needs me to be able to drop whatever I'm doing at a moment's notice and for an indefinite time period.  That doesn't fly well on a resume (or with my ethics in applying for a job).  So, no real paycheck, but I feel fairly certain that I'm not wasting my life.

My family and friends have always been my highest priorities.  I think everyone, whether s/he realizes it or not, has a central focus in life.  "Relationships" is mine.

Ironic, I know, considering the degree to which I avoid people, but it's still true.

In this way, Facebook has been a godsend.  While it's largely a frightening example of embraced Big Brother, I am genuinely grateful for the ability to have real time contact with people who are dear as blood to me, but far away.

Facebook also gives me the ability to sift through lots and lots of opinions - of almost every political and religious flavor. 

Why do I think what I think?  Vote how I vote?

"When you're stupid, surround yourself with smart people and when you're smart, surround yourself with smart people who disagree with you."  - paraphrased from SportsNight

Personally, I think that is bloody brilliant.  It is for this reason that I engage in political stuff.  I hate politics - but I feel that civic responsibilty to vote.  In order to vote, I feel the obligation to know what the hell is going on.  I never want to be the person who thinks something or votes for someone out of habit, or blind loyalty to a party.

I live in New England.  I don't know if it is simply a very political area of the world, of if we, as a culture, are just to the point where we don't want to talk of much else.  Either way, when I meet new people, invariably it will come up pretty quickly that I'm a rat-fink Republican.

Actually, I have to admit there's a little part of me that enjoys the surprise reaction I consistently get.  Strong willed, vocal, pink hair, tattoos, tied-dyed shirt with a pentacle and "Got Magic" written across the front, purple sunglasses and a used car sporting a Gay Pride sticker... 

I can see how I don't fit the stereotype.

My favorite example of this:  I met a person who, upon finding out about my unfortunate and grossly inhumane political leanings, gasped, and in a horrified whisper, asked "how did that HAPPEN?" (Seriously, that's EXACTLY how it was said)

Deep, deep breath.  Skipping over how I hate how Clinton dicked over the homosexual community by signing DOMA (Defense of Marriage Act), or how the collective intelligence of women is literally bitch-slapped by the ideology of the ERA (Equal Rights Amendment).  Or how, if I followed the government's lead on how I should be raising Kermit, he'd still be sitting in a corner, drooling.

Another deep breath.  Scouring my brain for something that won't start a donnybrook.

"I believe in small government."

S/he looked away.  Thought for a moment or two, nodded, and said "okay, I guess I can accept that."

I smiled, nodded an acknowledgement and changed the subject.

(I am awaiting my nomination notice for the fucking Nobel Peace Prize.  Seriously.  They should have been informed of this.)

**Consider this a note added months later - have since gotten to know this person better.  Skipping the details (to preserve confidentiality), I will say that s/he did recently acknowledge the gaffe and apologized beautifully for it.  As far as I'm concerned, that mends all fences.**

But that's what you get when you prefer a lower material quality of life that is your own over a (possibly but in no way guaranteed) higher one that belongs to the government.  Whatever.

Besides, there's a certain amount of unrepentant glee in knowing that I am on the side that's fighting the establishment. 

Finally, am I esoterically eccentric, or batshit insane?

Not having a 9-5 job gives a girl gobs of free time.  One of my passions is research.  When I'm not writing, I'm researching esoterics, energy work.  When one dives into energy work as far as I have, do and will continue to do, one's perception of reality changes noticably.  It leaves the mainstream, even if only by a little, and when one finds herself experiencing life on what feels like being on a parallel channel, double, triple and 400-ple checking becomes really, really important.

My technique of choice with this is getting third party confirmation.  Are the (mainstream) people around me also noticing the weird stuff happening around and to me? 

Thankfully, yes.  That's a comfort and no mistake - though I doubt I will ever stop double checking. 

But these are the things that run around in my mind on any given day.

Yesterday morning, I saw a politically alarmist thing on Facebook.  As middle of the road as I am (believe it or not), I get these things from both sides of the spectrum (and what a spectrum it is).  They all seem to have a couple of things in common:

1 - one and all of these groups apparently hire rabble-rousing douches to compile and compose these things and

2 - they are designed to make people turn on each other like feral dogs on bad acid trips.

As a Right Wing Hippie (I think that could be a call sign for me, but there HAS to be something cooler), it is usually easy for me to read them and see the flaws and gaping holes.

Yesterday morning, I saw something about ObamaCare.  Yes, it was alarmist.  No, it was not giving any kind of inch with regard to the chance, ever so slight, that ObamaCare won't fail horribly and take us all with it.  But, unlike most things I read - this one made a frightening amount of sense.

Enough sense, that I shared it to my page, with the comment (paraphrased) "Is there anyone who is not terrified by this?  Could someone explain to me why I shouldn't be terrified?"

I turned off my PC and set myself to the task of preparing for the cookout we were throwing.

A couple hours later, the phone calls started.  First was from Ms. J..  Murph to my Connor, Partner in Crime and sister in all but blood.  Granted, she is a smidge farther right than I am, and utterly passionate about her beliefs.  However, I've seen her in this kind of battle often enough, and she's a class act. 

However.

Pissing Her Off is a Major Mistake.

The woman who shall now be known as "Antagonist" had addressed Ms. J as "honey", informed her that she was intellectually inferior, and had no understanding of racism (at this point, it becomes an appropriate fact that Antagonist is Caucasian, and Ms. J is Korean.)

Foolishly, I let it be (being busy).  But I told Elle about it (she and my friend Grace, along with her family, were already at the house). 

When I state that Elle has beautiful manners, what I mean to say is that she could sit down at a moment's notice with the Queen of England and not miss a cue.  So when her response to my chit-chat was a raised (index) finger, and scrolling on her phone, she had my attention.

"Megan, you need to get on Facebook."

(Rolling eyes) "Really, I mean, look at me," I gestured with the hot cassarole I was pulling out of the oven.  "Can't it wait?"

"No.  It really can't.  And for the record, Ms. J is not the one at fault.  The lady she's arguing with is way out of line with the abuse."  (As horrid as this sounds, and as annoyed I am about the necessity of it, this is the part where I interject that Elle is politcially left of center.)

It went down hill from there.

I am not squeamish when it comes to language.  While I don't like fighting, I'm not afraid of confrontation.  As I read the thread, my left hand lightly covering my mouth, right hand scrolling down, all I could do was whisper, "ohhhhh fuuuuckkkk..."

I deleted the thread.  I apologized for my part.  Looking back, I can easily see how it could have been interpreted as though I agreed with the content, rather than simply frightened by it and looking for some solace.

After taking (heartfelt) full resposibility for the mess, I ended with:

"ps - as much as I ordinarily welcome feedback, let's honor this holiday celebrating freedom by remembering that we live in a country that can not only have such diversity, but do so freely."

And further down the hill we go. Rather than respecting my request for a cease fire, Antagonist had a couple extra things to say:

Ms. J had "pussed out" for not having responded by that point (she, too, had company to entertain).

I was not worthy of respect because I not only had "stupid friends", but I didn't have the balls to stand by my initial post.  I was informed that, when I finally "grow some ovaries", maybe she and I could be friends again.

End of drama.

Or would have been, had I been smarter.  Maybe she should have included me in that "stupid" catagory.  Oh wait...

See, this is how she and I "met".

Her husband is the son of one my mother's old friends.  He looked me up on FB a while back and sent a friend request.  He and I had never been close, but I liked him just fine and accepted.  After a while, his statuses started talking about how badly Antagonist is being treated by the people in her world, and how awful it was that she pretty much had to defriend and block almost everyone she knew. 

What the hell.  I sent her a friend request, telling her who I am, and how I know her husband.  That it seemed like she was getting the sticky end of the lollipop and I cheekily added "I'll be your friend!"

Since then, she and I have gone back and forth about certain subjects.  We had (so she said, and so therefore I thought) certain esoteric interests in common - so I figured while we shouldn't talk too much about politics, we could talk about that.

This was, for my part, the extent of our relationship.  Therefore, my heart wasn't the least bit broken when she defriended me.

However, I've known her husband for over 25 years.  I sent him a private message explaining how much respect I had/have for Antagonist and how sorry I was about what had happened.  At the moment, that was absolute truth. 

I explained that I pulled the thread because it was about to turn into a blood bath, and repeated again how sorry I was about the situation.

He responded on my wall.  How good of him to publicly delcare that:

I'm a racist.  I'm intellectually inferior.  I should write to his wife instead of  trying to justify my actions to him. 

But my favorite part:

"If you are going to insult my wife, perhaps you should de-friend me before you do so, lest you get your backside handed to you by an intellectual superior. Happy 4th."

So, I'm thinking the apology didn't go so well.

This, however, doesn't beat how Antagonist responded, via private message.

She's prettier, smarter and more successful than I am.

Based on the esoterics we had discussed, I'm mentally ill with a side of Asberger's (her spelling).

She friended me because she I'm "obviously mentally ill and (she) thought (I) could use a friend."

She's ignored the fact that I can't write, that "(my) IQ is like 40 points lower than (hers) and humoring (me) has been like humoring a child."

We are never going to be friends until I "grow up, realize (my) own racist leanings, apologize for (my) mistake here today, and apologize for contacting (her) husband without (her) permission."

However, the crowning achievement was this:

"see, you were wrong about me. I'm NOT a nice person. but for a thin blue line, I'd cut your ugly old face off for $20. lucky for you I'm a law-abiding citizen, but DON'T fucking test me."


Now, while I can appreciate the tacit concession that she knows I think well of her (though, like everything else, I'm wrong about it)...

While I was absolutely ITCHING to reply with nothing more than a copy and paste definition of "irony"...

I chose to report and block her instead.  I also blocked Mr. Antagonist for good measure, which is a sad, but necessary, move.

I can say that, in a really weird way, I owe her a debt of gratitude.

I know quite well that my life is a successful one - but from what I know about her life (and lifestyle choices), I can say that the success of my life is apparent especially in comparison to hers. 

Having seen a picture of her, I have to admit, she's very, very pretty - realistically, she is prettier than I am.  And yet, despite my deformity, I'm married to an awesome man and miraculously co-created two ridiculously gorgeous babies.  So, I ain't that bad looking.  Either that or Marshal is hot enough to compensate for my bad genetics (definitely a possibility - anyone's who's seen him can testify to that).  I don't even break mirrors.

With regard to writing, I plead "gulity" to a LOVE of deliberately written sentence fragments.  Love them.

However, I seem to be good enough to have fooled all of my Writing, English and Literature teachers/professors, the AP exam, and several employers.  I also have a blog that while having only a few actual followers, gets many, many hits.  Not bad for being illiterate.

Now, the intelligence thing is a little tougher.  I'd say I'm pretty smart, but I did, once again, find my way into this backstreet neighborhood of Crazy Town. And I DID poo-poo the little voice in the back of my head that told me not to bother with my apology to Mr. Antagonist.  So, maybe I have some learning left to do.

The last one is toughest (not the permission nonsense, nor the apology nonsense - my intelligence isn't in THAT much question).

How the hell am I supposed to know if I'm a racist?  The complexities of that question really warrant their own post.  Should I make that question my status?  See what the responses are?  I could look around and see that many of the people I love are of a different race than me... Or would that last one put me in Chris Rock's "IF YOU KNOW HOW MANY BLACK PEOPLE HAVE BEEN IN YOUR LIVING ROOM, YOU ARE A RACIST" -schtick?

I really don't know.  I have the distinct feeling, though, that Ms. J would have kicked my ass by now if I were.  While she's capable of subtlety, she has no love for it.

So I suppose I will rest tonight, assured and reassured with regard to my path in life.  If I can raise the ire of someone as virulently negative as Antagonist is - I'm probably doing something right.


(Okay - just as I shared this post on my FB page (where I had begged folks for a post title - I was stumped), I saw all of these other, AWESOME titles.  Still sticking with the one that goes with the holiday theme, but oh my, I can't not share!!)

"My Encounter with an Intellectual Superior"

"Like Thread Abortion"

"In Which the Left Left After Proving the Right Right"

"Exeunt Douchebags"

"Bam-Bam and the Unlettered Alter Ego", or just "Unlettered Alter Ego"

(I seriously have the best friends ever.)

"Mom, What's Your Favorite Monkees' Song?"

It's a simple enough question.

With a surprisingly complicated answer.

Not that I'm ever opposed to giving exceptionally long, drawn out answers to any given question - no, indeed.  It's just that THIS one has so many complexities, I had to laugh.

Crikey tilted his head and squinted his eyes. "What's so funny?"

"Babe, that answer would take so long, even I'M afraid to just jump in.  Let me get back to you."

I could actually see the whites of his eyes completely around the irises as he laughed and backed away slowly...

I've mentioned before that my love of Nikki Sixx seems to be quite obvious to even the most casual of observers.  What's surprising to those who meet me and amusing to those who know me is my deep love and  respect for the Monkees.  That's right, as in "Hey, hey, we're the"...and yes, I said "respect".

To keep this post from becoming either a love letter to those gentlemen, or a raging diatribe against the haters (or hecklers) - the myth debunking part shall be quick, though lacking in elegance:

Myth: four wannabe Beatles whose talents extended no further than lip sync-ing, maraca shaking and slapstick comedy.

Truth:  a Greenwich Village folk guitarist/bassist/banjo(ist?), an accomplished songwriter/guitarist, a veteran television actor (who later learned to play the drums) and a second television veteran turn Tony-nominee who performed on both Broadway and the London Stage.

Other than the drum lessons (which came when they decided to form into an actual band), those were their credentials going into the auditions for the "roles" of  Peter, Mike, Micky and Davy.

Now, Crikey and I had already gone down the "how come the stuff on the show sounds so different from the songs on your iPod" road, so he knew about how they fought for (and won) the right to creative control over their own music. 

To pick a favorite?  The first problem is the issue of two exceptionally different bands with, eh hem, remarkably similar sounding vocalists.  Seriously, "Last Train to Clarksville" was not made by the same band that brought us "Daily Nightly" (a song written by Mike Nesmith about the Sunset Strip curfew riots of late 1966).

Heck, that point was driven home to me rather comically the night I hastily popped in my Monkees mix tape (ahhh....back in the day) to shake the heebie-jeebies I was fighting off from watching Night of the Living Dead.  Surely, a Monkees song is a quick fix - they are nothing if not upbeat, right?  Go ahead and listen to the beginning of "Daily Nightly".  The (awesome, but forboding) bass riff and the Moog Synthesizer, to say nothing of the lyrics:

"Dark and rolling figures move through prisms of no color;
Hand in hand they walk the night, but never know each other..."

In a word: YAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! (flipped tape as quickly as possible and regained proper breathing with a little "She Hangs Out")

Seriously, what were the odds?  Tell me God doesn't have a sense of humor. 

Anyway...

"So Mom, what your saying is that you need two favorites, one for each Monkees?"

"Yes.  Exactly.  So, for TV Monkees, it's "Saturday's Child", all the way.  Or Maybe "Look Out, Here Comes Tomorrow".  Or "Laugh".  Hmmm....  Hold on....um...Crikey?"

Eyebrows raised, "Yeah?"

"Here's the thing - most bands are formed because they have similar interests, or backgrounds.  These guys were, I'd wager, selected for the differences from each others' styles.  So, really, once we start talking about (what I call "real" Monkees music), now we've even more distinct types of songs, so -"

"You need more favorites?  What, four now? Five?"

"Well, yeah.  I think that will do.  Except, well, Peter didn't really do a lot of lead vocal work, but is a major part of two of my favorite songs, and - Crikey?"

He was walking down the hall, calling over his shoulder "You gotta get back to me, right?"

It's like he knows me, or something.

This is the moment where the boy learned about just HOW much of a geek his mom is with music.

I've always loved Mike's music - country, twangy and very earthy.  It's almost as if you could reach out and grab the notes as they float around - that's just how solid he is.  If I really have to pick one of his, it's "Papa Gene's Blues".

Peter?  Well, as I mentioned, he didn't do much front vocal work, but he is ever-present as a warm, nourishing foundation.  It may sound like an odd way of putting it, but it's as if removing his vocals would leave a song hungry.  He does figure prominently in two of my favorites, the first being "Shades of Gray".

The second is one of the best songs Micky ever fronted for them - as earthy and solid as Mike's voice is, as dependable a foundation as Peter's is, Micky's voice is, in contrast, ethereal and flowy - reach out and try to grab those notes?  They'd slip like wisps of cloud and reform before you.  Absolutely perfect for the psychedelic sound so often featured in their later work.  However, for me, nothing touches how he sings "Words". 

In this telling, I leave Davy for last. 

There has been an "all-Monkees, all the time" atmosphere in our home these past few days. It's interesting to see how one's taste in music changes over the years - what stands the test of time, what doesn't.  It wasn't until this week that I fully appreciated that my two great musical loves in this world are the Monkees and Motley Crue (and a whole different level of appreciation when you consider the odds of how often those two bands are mentioned in the same sentence).  Two bands who fought for control over their musical destinies; two bands who won that battle, though in different ways. 

Motley stands the test of time by keeping itself new. They do reinvention quite well.

The Monkees are no longer creating music together, though they occasionally collaborate on projects and tours.  The longevity of their music is of a different nature.

I've always liked the name of their album Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Jones, Ltd., though at age 11, I gave little thought to the meaning.  I got into astrology about a decade ago, and the significance of the title now rings out each time I see it - Micky's a Pisces, Peter's an Aquarius, and Mike's a Capricorn...the sign that also claims Davy Jones as one of its own.

About a week ago I watched the rerun Biography special on Davy.  In it, he talks about how he was all over the covers of Tiger Beat, he was the "heartthrob" of the group, but that he was what girls wanted to have as a poster on the wall, rather than in their beds (I'm paraphrasing, but those are fairly his words).  I think that he must have been frustrated by that - to be perpetually cast and perceived as "the cute one" (since men in general just LOVE to be described as "cute").  Sure, there was that element (though I have to protest - the man was anything but cute.  "Safe" and "non threatening" indeed.  Good grief, the irony).

I think there was something more.

Cary Grant is another Capricorn man whose talent I cherish.  In The Bishop's Wife, he gives a beautiful speech about the two only things in this world that remain constant - youth and beauty.  When Loretta Young objects, pointing out that people grow old, he shakes his head.  He declares that the only people who grow old were those who were born old to begin with, and that she was born young.

Davy was born young, and he stayed young.  But not in the heartthrob, poster on the teen girls' walls way.

His voice has the directness of youth.  It's clean and clear like a bright, crisp spring morning.  Spring is youth and strength. Energy, verve and virility.  And it's as old as Time.

Davy was born young; he did stay young - but young like Spring.

So much for not making this a love letter.  Sheesh.

The longevity of the Monkees comes from a combination of (many) excellent writers, richly diverse music, nostalgia, the joy that comes with laughter - and from the ever present promise and exhilaration of Spring. 

Last night, there was an online candlelight vigil to honor Davy Jones.  At first I thought it was quaint.  Then I thought, "what the heck, I'm sure I've got a candle somewhere".  When I opened the closet and grabbed the first candle - I laughed when I read the name - "Early Sunrise".

My favorite song of Davy's, the one that I now realize epitomizes how I see him, is called "Early Morning Blues and Greens".





The following is a fan-made video for "Early Morning Blues and Greens" - it was never released as a single, so no official video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L8QrWpdFMyg

There's Magic in the Air This Evening, Magic in the Air

The world is at her best, you know, when people love and care,
The promise of excitment is one the night will keep,
After all, there's only one more sleep 'til Christmas.  

- Kermit the Frog as Bob Crachit, A Muppet Christmas Carol

What better time of year to discuss magic than now?  Originally, I thought this fit best with Halloween, what with everyone thinking in terms of witches, spells, flying on broomsticks...

However, that's Hollywood magic; it's total bullshit, and no sane person believes in it anyway. 

Real Magic can only be explained to people who witness it.

Ironically, considering my last post, Santa Claus is this world's best proof of Real Magic.

So join me on this ride of Rhetoric Whiplash...

The sign says "Magic for Muggles, 101".  Please leave at the door:

Any and all preconceptions re: talking cats, noses twitching to cute little bell music, ruby slippers and anything you learned from the Harrys (Houdini, Potter and Dresden). I promise you that at no point will we be dealing with a woman with raven hair, ruby lips, and sparks that fly from her fingertips.

Most importantly, leave behind the belief that there is anything, anything at all, supernatural about magic, as defined by Pagans. Speaking of definitions:

magic (magick) - the ability to bring about needed change by methods not yet measurable or accepted by science. The Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs, by Scott Cunningham

The important word here is "yet". Pagans practice magic with the absolute belief that, given time, science could catch up - could eventually prove (to its own satisfaction) why any and all magical practices are effective.

Actually, this is not very unlike our understanding of prayer - we can't scientifically explain why it works, but how many of us have seen the effects of it? I know I have...

In my high school junior year religion class, I learned what was to become my very favorite definition for the word "religion".  Loosely repeated (it has been about 20 years):

religion - the way a person explains the mysteries of the universe to him or herself.

I mean, really, isn't that AWESOME? 

There are more things in our reality than can be explained by the current scientific community.  If there weren't, there would be no point in trying to find cures for cancer, AIDS, MS, etc., etc..  The exploration of space, or trying anything new at all would be a complete waste of time.  Essentially, without the recognition of natural mysteries, there would be no need to pursue  knowledge, to conduct experiments. 

For most deity based religions, the unexplained goes under the heading of God, and how He works in mysterious ways.  They call the occurrences of these mysteries "miracles".

For Scientific Empiricists, the unexplained is eventually explainable - science just hasn't gotten there yet.  To the best of my knowledge, they don't have a word that specifically labels that body of information.

For Pagans, the unexplained is called "magic" (or magick).  For me, I call this Real Magic.

Anyway, though our entertainment industry (from fireside stories and books to TV shows and movies) has worked very hard to give us fantastical images of the bibbity bobbitys, learning about magic is a lot less like attending Hogwarts, and a lot more like attending Home Ec.

For example:

500 years ago, if you had a terrible headache, you would go to the local witch (aka "wicce" aka "wise one" aka "the gal (or guy) at the end of the village who understands herbal medicine") for help.  While the water heated in her cauldron, she'd go out into her garden and snip a few herbs.  She'd then come back in, bruise the leaves a bit, pour the hot water over them, pray over them, and hand you the potion to drink.  And drink it you would.   A little while later, your headache is gone!  WOW!  MAGIC!!

And 500 years ago, that WOULD be magic.  Because no one knew why it worked, they only knew that it worked.  That gap between efficacy and the understanding of it is what made (makes) magic.  That's it.  For real.

Today, we know that the herb yarrow (found in any self respecting witch's garden) is a natural form of acetecylic acid. 

500 years ago?  A spell and a potion.  Today?  A cup of hot tea with asprin in it.

I remember explaining this years ago to a friend of mine.  She replied with "But that's not magic!  That's not supernatural!  That's just science!"

She was only partially wrong.  It is magic.  To be supernatural, something has to exist outside of the natural world.  Frankly, an oxymoron.  So no, asprin curing headaches is not supernatural.  It is scientific. 

Actually, I have to give her the "not magic" one too...

The act of ingesting asprin to rid oneself of physical pain, while "magic" back in the day, no longer meets the criteria that puts it under the heading labeled "magic", specifically because science can now explain why.

Which is quite frankly the fundamental difference between Scientists, Christians and Pagans on this matter:

Scientists have a deep rooted need to believe only in things they can taste, touch, see, hear, smell and measure.

Christians believe that proof is just lovely, and there's plenty out there to research and learn, but that some things will never be explained - and they are perfectly content to trust the unprovable to God and the miracles He performs.

Like Christians, Pagans don't have a need for scientific proof, as long as what they're doing harms none and works.  However, like Scientific Empiricists, Pagans believe that the proof is attainable, that though it may be mysterious to us, God (however one defines that word) operates within Nature.  I mean, what's this obsession with the idea that God can't impress us while still working within natural parameters?

The only other real difference?  That vast body of knowledge that human kind has not yet explained?  Scientific Empiricists don't label it specifically, while Christians and Pagans do.   

Magic isn't as scary as it is a culturally maligned term for a logical principle.

But how is this connected to Santa Claus?

Our family hit a milestone this year - a few weeks ago, Crikey asked me if Santa Claus is real.

To which I told him the truth - that while we don't let a bearded stranger break into our house once a year, I absolutely believed in Santa Claus.  To that, he responded with:

Blink.  Blink.  (loosely translated: "I'm waiting for how the heck you're going to reconcile those statements"). 

To which I said (loosely translated as well - since I imagine very few of the people reading this are also 10 years old):

Look.  People, on the whole, are okay.  However, there is a significant part of the human race that  just sucks.  Those miserable bastards simply aren't happy unless they're fighting over something, anything.  Take politics, religion, sports.  The world is full of "us" and "them". 

When it comes to the winter holidays, practically everyone takes a break from this.  People make an effort at this time of year to be cheerful.

Sometimes it's a "fake it 'til you make it" cheerful - but we try.  More importantly, this is the time of year, more than any other, when people try to make others happy.  The most popular (and famous) way is to give gifts - but there are lots of other ways.  People make donations, they bake their families' favorite treats, they go out of their way to say "Merry Christmas" - even to people they don't know.  It's almost like, at this time of the year, no matter how dark it is outside, or how little money we have, there is a tacit consent to concentrate on finding light in the darkness.  Which, is really what Yule and Christmas are all about - the idea that when things look their worst (the literal darkness that comes with the shortest day of the year for Pagans, a world in metaphoric darkness for Christians) that's when it's MOST important to remember that the light will come (Yule being the birth of the Sun, which shines Light on the World and Christmas being the birth of the Son, who is the Light of the World).  Everyone is celebrating the same concept- even if we call it by different names.

Which brings us to Santa Claus.

I know it seems like a big lie - and that getting the "truth" about a guy who supposedly went on an annual worldwide B&E spree with some flying livestock feels like a let down.

But you need to wrap your mind around this. 

The part of Santa that is a lie - is the Santa of Hollywood magic.  He's the Santa of Harry Potter special effects.  That kind of magic doesn't exist. 

But.  There IS such a thing as Real Magic.  Not only is it real, understanding and believing in it is one of the most important things a human being needs to be successful in this big, bad world.

And it's hard as hell to explain Real Magic to little kids - so we put it in terms that are easy to understand.

Sure, he's a symbol for the gift giving practice - but he's more than that.  When you believe in Santa Claus, you believe in magic.  That feeling you get when you climb into bed on Christmas Eve?  The anticipation, the excitement?  Sure, part of it is looking forward to the loot under the tree - but some of that thrill is the chance to believe.  It is fun and special and crucial to the human soul to feel that wonderful, amazing, unexplainable things can happen.  That gift - the thrill of Real Magic - is something that is a joy to give.

The one thing that can and does cross every human culture?  Love for our children - and the desire to make them happy.

Santa Claus is Real Magic, and believing in him is, too.  So we in the grown up world tell all of you in the kid world to believe in him.  We eat the cookies that got set out.  We make tracks in the snow so you can see the "evidence" of the reindeer.  We do this, so you can have wonder and amazement.

But doing cool things for your own children isn't all that special.  Frankly, it's a basic part of the parenting gig.

So let's not look at what parents do for their kids.

How about elementary school teachers?  Or the friends of the parents?  Do any of these people take kids aside and say there's no Santa?  No they do not.

But we're still talking about people with a personal interest.

Look at what grown ups around the world do for kids they don't know and will never meet.

News programs - every other day of the year, these shows give us nothing but death and darkness.  Violence, war, natural disasters...

On Christmas Eve, everyone from NORAD to the local news broadcasts report "sightings" of Santa Claus.

They don't make money off of this. 

On Christmas Eve, even people who don't believe in Santa Claus (or any of the trimmings of the Christmas holiday) either stay quiet or play along with the Santa Claus Agreement.

Why do people do this?  What's the logic? 

There is none. 

Remember, Real Magic (including Santa Magic) isn't about Hollywood special effects.  It's much more powerful.

It's about experiencing something amazing, something wonderful, that science can't explain (yet).  It's about how that experience opens the mind to a sense of wonder.  It's this wonder that gives us the ability to change that which seems impossible into reality.

So from one Christmas song to another:

Peace on Earth, can it be?
Years from now, perhaps we'll see...
I pray my dream, will come true,
For my child, and your child too...
Peace on Earth -
Can it be?

- David Bowie and Bing Crosby

Paganism: Myths, Images and Reality

About a year ago, I was asked to write a post about myths commonly held about Paganism. The logic: to clear up the misinformation about this religion that has, over the centuries, caused an enormous amount of confusion, pain, suffering and fear.


Why me? I was raised in a devoutly Christian home, currently live in a comfortably "out of the broom closet" Pagan community, and, obviously, blog.

While it is (clearly) in my nature to procrastinate, what I didn't realize until very recently is that my resistance to this project was fueled, uncharacteristically, by a fear of how the information would be received. Seriously, just bringing up the word "Pagan" sends almost all non-Pagans into a fear induced panic attack.

Ironically, it's that very reaction that makes going down this road even more important. Besides, once I realized that my hesitation was wimpy, rather than pragmatic, well, let's just say that I have never placed a high value on pansy-ass attitudes.

Also, the drama of watching my Pagan and non-Pagan friends circle each other in fear-laced hostility is getting to me. As Kermit would say, "ALL DONE".

So here I go.

First, reading this is important, EXCRUCIATINGLY important, for my Christian readers. If for no other reason (though I will give a few more), a big part of Christianity centers on helping other people become Christian. As any good lawyer will tell you, persuasion comes easiest when the person attempting the convincing has a genuine understanding of the other's initial beliefs.

(Besides, it is very unpleasant to live in fear - and it's been my experience that many non-Pagans are afraid of beliefs that don't exist. Isn't it better to have the actual facts?)

Second point: unlike Christians (and Scientific Empiricists), this community has no, absolutely NO interest in converting people to Paganism. Out of respect for that, allow me to point out (probably repeatedly), that this post (and any that follow in this vein) is NOT INTENDED TO INSPIRE CONVERSION. It is my expectation that absolutely zero of my non-Pagan readers will emerge from these posts a freshly born Pagan. Non-Pagans will, I'm sure, still disagree with many Pagan beliefs. I just think they owe it to themselves (and to those taught by their example) to understand the actual principles of this faith rather than unknowingly play into the smear campaign that has (mud) colored the last 1500 or so years of its history.

So, let's straighten out some of the most poisonous and (sadly) famous myths about Paganism, so when folks encounter it (either socially, like I did, or as a missionary for one's own faith), they will have the knowledge and understanding they need to have those conversations without fear, and without sounding ridiculous.

Ridiculous? Read on.

When I was in my 20 % Catholic-Catholic high school (that Bible hanging on the Belt ain't a Catholic one), it infuriated me to hear my Church criticized for positions it didn't hold, to have my personal faith attacked for concepts that had no resemblance at all to what I (to say nothing of the Roman Catholic Church) believed. When I faced the numerous objections non-Catholics had about Catholicism, all it inspired in me was a firm sense of derision. If people couldn't bother to get their facts straight, what possible good could their conclusions be?

See the problem? Instead of making any headway regarding converting me to their side, I spent all of my time appalled at their obsession with a fantasy about a "faith" that had no resemblance to mine, or my Church.

For Pagans, this goes one step further - to absolute silliness.

There are so many hot button issues for non-Pagans when talking about Paganism. Honestly, I was quite torn about which myth I should attack first. That they don't believe in God? That practicing magic is the work of the dev-

Um, yeah, I think I know where to start, now.

MYTH - Pagans Worship Satan

Uhhh....they not only don't worship the devil...they can't.

I have a great deal of admiration for a Devout Christian. Not the loud mouth, judgemental bastards on TV, in special interests groups, or at the local office water cooler spewing "if you don't think like me" venom. I'm talking about people who model their lives after the teachings of the Gospels. Who genuinely believe that kindness is the true way to God. They may believe that the kindness in question has to be within the parameters of accepting Jesus Christ as one's Lord and Savior; they may honestly believe that anyone who doesn't will not go to Heaven. I may disagree with such hard lines, but I can respect and have great affection for any belief system that is truly trying to make the world a kinder, gentler place.

For most Christians, accepting Jesus is only part of the package - one also has to reject utterly the devil, and all of his works. Okay, fair enough. Bad guy is bad. Check. Only...

Are there people who worship the devil? In my first draft of this post, the next lines were "Yup. They're called Satanists. Or Devil Worshippers. But not Pagans." I have to amend that - as I just read that even Satanists don't believe in Satan, per se. Check out this crazy shit:

"Even Church of Satan founder, Anton LaVey, publicly stated in a 1986 interview in the Washington Post Magazine that he neither believed in, nor worshipped Satan, and that he regarded the Devil as nothing more than "a symbol of man's carnal nature - his lust, greed, vengeance, but most of all, his ego."" Gerina Dunwich, A Witch's Halloween

 Now, I realize that that was a bit of a tangent - but hey, learn something new every day - and I did NOT know that...

So, I stand corrected. Eh hem.

Are there people who worship the devil? Well, maybe. I'm not sure what they're called (or what they call themselves), but I CAN say that they ain't Pagans, because...

Pagans are incapable of worshipping the devil, because they do not believe he exists.

Now, to be precise, they acknowledge that there is evil in the world - just not a specific boogeyman whose purpose is to tempt humanity into wrongdoing. Essentially, the Pagan position on evil is much like Hobbes (of "Calvin and" fame) when Calvin asked him whether or not he believed in the the devil. Hobbes' response was (paraphrased here) "I don't think mankind needs the help". Pagans believe that the evil deeds done by humans are human based. People have free will. They can choose to do good things, or to do bad, but ultimately, Pagans don't recognize "the devil made me do it" card.

Oh, I can hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth from here - "denying his existence is just another way of doing the devil's work!!" and "yuh-huh - my (insert appropriate religious leader) said they do!!!"

Keep in mind, I'm not trying to convince anyone that the devil isn't real - only that Pagans neither believe in, nor worship, him.


While Satanism is anti-Christian in nature, Paganism, neo-Paganism and Wicca are rooted in a belief system that is pre-Christian in nature. Although many religions have a "good cop/bad cop" deity system - Paganism is not one of them. Period.

Back to ridiculous. How can warning Pagans about the dangers and wiles of the devil seem ludicrous?

I love the story of Santa Claus. I LOVE that, worldwide, we all run with the tacit agreement to perpetuate this myth, facilitating a sense of wonder and excitement for our children. However, it is a myth.

Is it realistic to believe that this guy who lives at the North Pole (is he considered a North Polian?), has eight (in bad weather, nine) reindeer that can not only fly, but are badass enough that they can lug a sleigh big enough to store the Christmas loot contents of every Christian child on the planet, PLUS a really big man AND do it quickly enough to whip that sucker around the globe within a 24 hour span (with occasional stops for milk and cookies)...?

When it takes a jumbo jet 22 hours to travel from LAX to Australia...ummm...?

Real? Unbloody likely. But we keep it going. The Santa story brings an immeasurable amount of joy to millions. A happy myth, but a myth nonetheless.

Now consider this:

For Pagans, the Christian belief in the Devil and in a place called Hell is as bizarre as would be an entire faith based on the absolute reality of Santa Claus. As a Christian friend of mine pointed out, "it would be as if the whole group of faith believers says No, bitches. Santa is real. Fuck you, he is. And if you don't believe in him, you're going to get coal in your stockings. DO YOU WANT COAL IN YOUR STOCKINGS?!?!?"

As in, to Pagans, the devil is as real as Santa Claus. There are pictures of him displayed, statues (dolls) of him made, stories of him told...but that doesn't make Santa, or the devil, real. Not to Pagans. To Pagans, he is a fictitious character. As in MADE UP.

Now, if you want to have a debate over the existence of the devil - THAT is an argument worth having. Otherwise, it's probably a good idea to save the devil worshipping conversation for those who see him as something more than a creepy folk story character (to whom an inexplicable number of people give credibility).

And there lies Myth #1 - Hopefully, I've bludgeoned it thoroughly enough. Have I? Can we all acknowledge that, of all folks who believe in the existence of the devil, Pagans are not counted among them?

I hope so... because this myth crushing train has miles to go before it sleeps...

The True Meaning of Christmas [in July]

Every year, my family does Christmas in July.  It used to be the joke that I love Christmas so much, I do it twice a year.  Also, it's much easier to get people to come to your Christmas party when you're not competing for the very few available nights in December.  But those aren't the reasons we celebrate it.

It's been a long time since I've done a formal invitation for this party - as far as I'm concerned, the joy of a party is in the relaxing, joking, playing and talking with friends.  This year, I decided to use Facebook - I wanted to come up with something clever for the invitation (some years I manage to "redo" a carol or The Night Before Christmas). However, my brain wouldn't cooperate - so instead, I decided to share a Christmas Story. Not the one with Ralphie - nor, curiously enough, the one about the Nativity, nor the Yule. This story is about the origins of Christmas in July - at least the Touchton/Bartlett interpretation of it.


It is that special time of year, when, bored with cookouts and long days of "Mom, I don't know what to do", I honor my mother. She, too, grew weary of the usual summer pastimes (though, as summer weather is about 8 months a year in Georgia, she has far more room to complain than I do). This is her story.


The year was 1992.  My CD player had broken.  My mom, ever the planner, is the type to do Christmas shopping well in advance.  She found the boombox that I wanted - and on an absolutely fantastic sale.  She bought it, with the intention of giving it to me that December.

Mom has a lot of talents.  Many skills.  In the voice of Det. Greenely, "She's wicked smaaahhht."  What she lacks, however, is anything that resembles patience when it comes to gift giving.  It was July.  She knew she wasn't going to last until December - but she didn't have anything for the rest of us (I'm the oldest of 4).

What if she got a little something for everyone?  She talked about it at work, and her boss made a comment about how Gayfers (the swanky department store in town) does "Christmas in July".  Hmmm.

She complained to my father that she was sick and sick and sick and tired of hot dogs and hamburgers.  She wanted to do a turkey dinner.  With all of the fixings.  And so it was, the fridge got stocked with the appropriate foods.

She did not tell him about the rest of her plans.

When you live in the subtropics, your relationship with bugs is one to take seriously.  In more temperate areas, having lots of bugs in your house a sign of, well, bad housekeeping shall we say?  In the south, the roaches come by when you first move in, introduce themselves and offer a covered dish as a housewarming gift.  Bugs are an icky but normal part of southern living.

Especially if you have, like we had, multiple pets.  Of the dogs, cats, rabbits, turkeys (no, they weren't slaughtered for the occasion), ducks, geese...only the dogs were actually allowed in the house.  (I feel there should be a way to work in the part about how we did actually have a pear tree, but no partridges).  Dog baths, flea dips and still swatting those tiny black hopping flecks off your clothes...ahhh.  I can't tell you how much I miss it.  No, really, I CAN'T.

Mom sent us to bed early, and let us know that she would be spraying the carpets for fleas after we went to bed.  Nothing says "stay in your rooms til dawn" like knowing the floor will poison you if you walk on it.  So off we tromped to bed, thinking it was just another Saturday night. Once satisfied that we were all asleep (Dad included), she got up and decorated the house. She even sprayed "condensation" on the windows (that spray snow) to give the luster of "snowiness" to our view of outside.

The next morning, my father went out to make coffee. Upon returning, he asked her why she had turned the air conditioning down - the house was so cold, the windows were fogged.  She sent him back out, and then back out again...(as it was before HIS coffee, he hadn't noticed the decorations).

Finally in on the joke, Dad woke Mena, and asked her to make coffee for him and Mom.

A few words about Mena, as a child.  Sweet, spritely, cheerful.  Always happy to do something for you...even at the ass crack of dawn.  Also, she was in, say, 4th grade at this point - before all humans go grouchy haywire.  So, while slightly annoyed that he managed to get all the way to our bedroom (we shared), but apparently couldn't make his own coffee - and maybe a little annoyed that he didn't ask me - she bounced out of bed.

She noticed the foggy windows.  She went to the kitchen and made coffee.  On the walk back to Mom and Dad's room, she saw it.  The tree, the gifts, the blinking lights.

I just got off the phone with her (wanted to get the details). 

MENA:  And I thought to myself, HOLY SHIT.  Only I was 10, so I didn't say "shit".  I probably thought, OH MY GOSH. 
ME:  So, you were the one who figured it out?  I couldn't remember...
MENA: Hell no.  I was terrified I was going to fuck it all up again.
ME:  Fuck it u- what?

Apparently, not two weeks before, Mena spilled the beans on Mom's anniversary gift.  Dad was NOT pleased. 

She delivered the coffee. 

MOM: So, how's your morning?
MENA: Fine.
MOM:   Did you notice anything out there?  Any fleas?
MENA:  Nope.  Nothing.
MOM:  Um...well, was there anything?  It's okay, you can tell us -
MENA:  THERE'S A CHRISTMAS TREE!!!  AND PRESENTS!!!!! AND SNOW ON THE WINDOWS!!!!

By this time, Jack, Isaac and I had joined Mom, Dad and Mena. 
We opened our presents, congratulated Mom on a fantastic prank (and of course thanking her for the gifts).  I invited Sundance, and we had a lovely ""Christmas".  Story over, right?

Well.  There were all sorts of unexpected side effects.  When Mom went back to work, she told her friends how it went - and people started talking about it.  It finally reached the president of the college (I kid you not) who told her she should have called the newspaper and had someone take pictures.

Oh, and lots and lots and LOTS of people were miffed that they weren't invited.  It was smoothed over with the assurance that no one was actually invited (Sundance was my doing), and by promising to throw another party next July. 

That was 19 years ago. 


The pomp and circumstance around this holiday has waxed and waned and waxed again over the years - though I admit I did not realize how important it had become until last year. I thought going to Georgia for Isaac and Shelly's wedding (the excitement, party, etc.) would be quite enough of an event for the boys - and decided to skip Christmas in July.

This was a mistake.

A certain 12 year old made it crystal clear that the true meaning of summer is found in Christmas in July, and there had better damned well be a tree and a turkey when we returned home.  Not in so many words, of course.  To show the boy in a better (and more accurate) light, he was heartbroken first - then pissed - then heartbroken again. 

Last year, it was Christmas in August.  Not quite in keeping with tradition, but what can ya do?

As for this year...

It's 90 degrees (Baby It's Hot Outside),
There's barely a breeze (Baby It's Hot Outside)...

Oh dear, I should probably stop now...