The Wyrd Woodshop

The Wyrd Sister is our Kindred fundraising operation. We have spent this spring carving stavs, making wooden books of shadows, creating goddessy jewelry, brewing oils and lye-free soaps, packing ritual bath kits, and all sorts of magical stuff for the festival season. We have our first foray into the marketplace next week.

I’m always looking for some new crafty inspiration. And after a bumpy start and some hit and miss trials, I think I’ve hit a stride in wand crafting.

The woods are nothing exotic and they are turned when I get a chance, not under a new or full moon. But I still think they have promise.

Here’s some of the woodshop magic I’ve been up to in lieu of blogging.

Plain ol' 1.5 x 1.5

The beginnings of a handle.

A roughed out handle

Tapering the tip is the hardest part.

Et voila!

I have sawdust in my bra, woodchips in my hair, stain from head to toe, and a woodshop full of projects in various states of completion but I love every minute of it.

For our first group effort to be a success, all our handiwork has to be ready to go by this time Friday. Light a candle for us? And, as ever, I’ll let you know how it turns out.

~E

Toxicodendron Radicans (Poison Ivy) and Magic

As I write this blog, I notice that it winds around like a vine, wrapping itself around whatever it grabs hold of, climbing into crevices where I couldn’t have foreseen it would grow. There should be a joke about irritation here—but I’ll leave it to you to make.

The Wild Hunt by Peter Nicholai Arbo

As we were clearing land for the kindred hof and ve, my husband got into some poison ivy[1] and spent a week learning about cortisol while he was in Scandinavia. As we piled wood for the fire, we had to check to make sure we weren’t sending toxins airborne. Plus, a thing about poison ivy is that the toxin is carried in a non-water-soluble oil, so if you try washing the affected area with water, you will just spread the irritant further.

“What’s this got to do with magic?” you ask?

Nothing really. It’s just one of those “timing” things.

Last Friday our kindred hosted a clever teacher for an enchanting workshop on wands. Gypsey Teague,

Some of Gypsey’s Wands

author, artist, librarian, witch, superhero, and all around wonderful person, trekked to The Bamas to teach us a thing or three about wood and its magical properties. One of the most spellbinding items Gypsey brought along was a wand made of poison ivy.[2] It seems she sells out of her carefully constrained inventory[3] of poison ivy wands at a premium cost—about six-times what she charges for pine or birch or ash or, you know, woods without the word “poison” in it. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why folks would want a wand made of poison oil.

So, I did what Gypsey suggested: I sat down and talked to the plant.[4]

Let me tell you what I learned.[5]

There’s a reason why Poison Ivy such a troublemaker for Batman and Robin. Preoccupied with safeguarding the natural environment, she makes a perfect archnemesis for Bruce Wayne, ultra-wealthy business magnate and entrepreneur, and his ward, Dick Grayson, The Boy Wonder. He’s all about acquisition–gimme-gimme-gimme. She’s all about shelter.

“Shelter?” you ask. “Poison ivy is such an irritating plant; how can it be a protestess?”

Well, if you think of a female protective spirit as warm and fuzzy like the angel on the bridge or the sexxxy images of deviantART-style Valkyrie (instead of the ferocious Valkyrie of the Wild Hunt, above), you’ve never met Palden Lhamo (below), a (real) Norse Shieldmaiden, or even the terrifying side of Galadrial from Tolkien’s tales.

Not all guardians are appealing—that’s kinda the point. The message of the guardian is: “You are not welcome!” “Turn back!” and “Go away!” This makes a lot of sense if you think about it.

And it brings me back around to poison ivy.

Poison ivy is most common at the edges of the woods. Poison ivy is a protectress to the depths of the forest. Birds and other mammals, for the most part, have no negative consequences whatsoever if they come into contact with her, um, charms. The message poison ivy sends is sent directly to humans. When poison ivy creeps along the edge of the forest, she seals it off and guards its edges from encroaching bipeds. Let’s face it, humans contribute to erosion, deforestation, and pollution. Poison ivy protects her territory from intruders.

Cedar at The Vine tells us:

What is a warning to some can be a teasing invitation to others. If we heed Poison Ivy’s message to tread lightly in these sensitive areas . . . she will often lead us to places of beauty seldom seen by two leggers. Once we have been initiated into this process, she may also lead us . . . [to] exquisite discoveries . . . . [T]his injection of knowledge . . . is sometimes painful to the recipient. . . . Her teachings therefore speak to the gaining of insight and compassion through the process of Regret. Poison Ivy can help up with regret, loss, and grieving. . . . Poison Ivy shows herself to be sacred to Hecate [the goddess of the crossroads], who rules most of the baneful, toxic, and entheogenic herbs. . . . If we find ourselves at a crossroads in life, with a difficult choice to make, perhaps Poison Ivy’s link to Hecate can be availed. . . . Planting Poison Ivy can be a truly revolutionary, enwildening action, politically, personally, and spiritually, and will certainly strengthen the bond between you and this powerful Plant Ally.

I love the way she says, “Once we have been initiated” by poison ivy. I thought about this for a good long time.

Initiation is not supposed to be easy—if it is, you prolly did something wrong or weren’t fully invested. After all, receiving wisdom is almost always associated with pain, poison, and even near-death experiences. I think about the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and the snakes of the Minoan Serpent Goddess (like the protection of Wadjet); these seem to me to be like the unsympathetic trials of ayahuasca.[6]

Just as the simplest identification of poison ivy—“leaves of three”—is triadic, so is the image of the triple goddess. Like her, poison ivy can keep a place virginal, can initiate as the mother, and grant wisdom like the crone.

Hecate, Mór-ríoghain, The Norns, The Moirai, The Erinnyes.

And if that wasn’t cool enough, wait—there’s more.

The oil that makes poison ivy such a pain in the, um, wrists and ankles mostly, is called urushiol. It’s also found in poison oak, some variety of sumacs, mango, a tree (ironically) called “soapberry,” cashew, and pistachio (the trees, that is). As it turns out, the word urushiol has nothing to do with the Hebrew underworld, Sheol, my first instinct.[7] The origin of the name is “urushi,” a material gathered and refined from Asian trees, meaning lacquer.

It’s that shiny, shiny gloss that we are used to seeing on Classical Japanese and Korean art.

But that’s not even the punchline.

Shugendō Buddhist monks mummified themselves alive by using urushiol in a practice called Sokushinbutsu. Basically, what happens is the monk practices 1000 days (2¾ years) of extreme fasting followed by 1000 days of bodily purgation; this is followed by another 1000 days of self-poisoning with the lacquer/oil which renders the body too toxic for maggots. In this state, he sits in the lotus position until he dies. He would ring a bell every day to indicate that he was still alive; once the bell stops ringing, he is sealed in his tomb for a final 1000 days where his remains are mummified.

It hasn’t always worked.

So, what then is the message of this use of urushiol?

Wouldn’t you say it was about the same? The message of the crossroads is always one of sacrifice for knowledge. The monks’ ordeal was geared toward Enlightenment—a wisdom for which he gave his life.

In The Secret Doctrine, Blavatsky wrote: “in all the ancient cosmogonies light comes from darkness.” In Hebrew lore, Adam and Eve traded innocence and immortality for the knowledge of good and evil; Odin traded his eye for wisdom; the oracles of old put their lives at risk for a glimpse into the underworld. The agnishvattas “fell” so that they might bring “light.” Likewise Prometheus. Hermes himself is the god of both trade and wisdom—you see, there is an ineradicable connection between the two concepts.

What will you sacrifice for knowledge? Nothing? Good luck with that.

The pain and danger of poison ivy seems to me to stand guard between “safety” and the kind of enlightenment which requires a spiritual (and physical!) sacrifice.

Tread carefully.

~E

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[1] It’s never bothered him before. Maybe this is why it got him this year.

[2] Truthfully, she brought three.

[3] I think she said six a year.

[4] I collected it in what looked like a hazmat suit and a lot, a lot, a lot of plastic and cardboard. All while articulating supplications.

[5] And it’s a good thing I did. One of my seidrlings has decided to make urushiol oil and poison ivy wands on her own. I want to get a “leg up” on the info to help her out. Turns out? You only need about 0.25 ounce (7 grams) of  pure urushiol oil to inflame every living human being on the entire planet! Plus, the oil can stay active for up to 5 years. I’m vaguely less worried about the magical repercussions than the straight-up physical ones.

[6] Or the less exotic diliriants found in this particular psychonaut’s yard: belladonna, trumpet flower, datura, henbane, mandrake, moonflower, morning glory, and tobacco (which doesn’t look like it’s coming back this year).

[7] I mean, it is chthonic—and hellish at that.

PBP Weeks 18-19: I – Idesa

Gaulish Relief of Triple Goddess

“Idesa” is the Anglo-Saxon term for the Norse dísir, or ancestral/tribal mothers. And the tribe to which I belong hails itself as “Dísrtroth,” faithful to the female ancestors. If you’ve read much of my blog, you know where I stand on issues regarding the divine female and how it’s been hijacked by Abrahamic patristic order and Enlightenment fecktasticness. I have tried to discuss female divinity with a few Pagans (although most “get it”) who just can’t get past the idea that I don’t mean “goddess worship” a la Gardner or even Budapest.

Worship of the idesa is about as “new-age” as wode.

Two things strike me as funny.

1.         As a heathen, we have the term “Forn Siðr”[1]—in Anglo-Saxon Fyrnsidu—which refers to our ways as “the old custom.” However, I find that many (not all) “forn” customs tend to be very masculine-centered customs. All of my studies have shown that true forn siðr were matristic[2] and egalitarian.

2.         I have trouble—real trouble—with the terms “the old ways” and “the old religion” given that folks often use these phrases to refer to imagined reconstructions of pre-Christian religions using post-Christian texts. For this reason, we typically call what we do in our tribe “inn nýi siðr,” the new custom. The real irony is that what I end up calling “nýi” is more forn than what others refer to as “forn.” (Translation: our idea of “new” is the really old version of “old” rather than the new version of “old.”)

Worshiping the idesa was common all the way through to the Roman period. Know how we know? We have evidence that heathen mercenaries built um, Matronae-harrow (altars to Dea Matrona (Celtic and Gaulish “divine mother goddess”)) along Hadrian’s Wall.[3] Must’a been important to them; I can’t imagine that builders would stop construction for that monolith to do something trivial.

There are two celebrations for the idesea. There is Mōdraniht (“Mothers’ Night”) celebrated at Yule-eve, which according Bede’s Historia was a clear celebration of the Matronae (triple goddess), and the dísablót celebration of the female ancestors, which traditionally took place at Winternights (October 31).[4]

Want an inside look at Mother’s Night? Here’s Sarah Lyn’s post from Walking With the Ancestors.

Here at our wēoh (sacred enclosure), we have a special place for the idesa, or dísr. Or, you know, we have one planned. Right now we have an area that we dedicated to the primordial forces, The Rökkr,[5] on Walpurgisnacht. But we hold regular dísablót and we are hosting one at a local festival at the end of the month.

Hey, I’m having a thought.

Given that there will be so many “kinds” of Pagans at this festival, I’m kinda getting the inking that it should be a blót to Dea Matrona, a “Mōdrablót.” You know, that might be more specific than dísr and yet more accessible. A blót to the specific deified being “triple goddess.” That’s a little pan-Pagan friendly at that, i’n’t it? Those who see her as the Fates, the Norns, the Erinnyes, and those who call her Hecate or Mór-ríoghain can all identify with the rite—and yet we don’t lose the substance of the blót by negotiating away any meaning.

Yeah. I think I’m digging it.

As ever, I’ll let you know.

~Ehsha

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[1] I’m not making comment about the Danish Forn Siðr tradition, mind you. Just the term.

[2] Not to be confused with “matriarchal.”

[3] Wanna know more? Go read Winifred Hodge Rose’s “Matrons and Disir: The Heathen Tribal Mothers” (http://www.friggasweb.org/matrons.html).

[4] According to Víga-Glúms Saga; the Heimskringla places it closer to spring.

[5] Don’t get freaked out. The Rökkr are “shadow” deities not Christianized demons—they can be chthonic and tricksters, to be sure, but not “devils.” We don’t really have those.

This post is part of a year-long project, The Pagan Blog Project, “a way to spend a full year dedicating time each week very specifically to studying, reflecting, and sharing your spiritual and magickal path. . . . Each week there is a specific prompt for you to work with in writing your post, a prompt that will focus on a letter of the alphabet . . . .” (http://paganblogproject/)

 

This Can Change Your Life by G.T. Long

Reblogged from Silver RavenWolf:

This Can Change Your Life by G. T. Long

(forward by Silver RavenWolf)

G.T. Long has been a friend of mine for many years.  He is a Third Degree Priest in the Black Forest Clan, located in Michigan.  Recently, G.T. called me about a talk he was going to give, asking me if I had any suggestions.  We rolled a few ideas around and had a good conversation. 

Read more… 594 more words

I'm up for trying this. Volunteers? Wouldn't it be cool to set up magical pen-pals for this purpose?

Denouement and the Seasons of The Witch

I’ve told you before how well I like the word “tristesse,” but have I told you how I feel about “denouement“?

It seems like I just taught my advanced students a knotwork charm; next week it’s time for them to teach it to their mentees. New seasons, indeed.

In literature, the denouement of a story is the point in which all of the knots are untied. The killer is revealed, the father identified, the lovers reconciled—or, you know, dead. Depends on what you’re reading. The denouement is the outcome of all of the drama and complexities that kept us hooked for 300 pages.

Or 13 episodes if we are talking about Hemlock Grove—a series plotline with a non-denouement that has me mighty pissed off. As my grad-school mentor called it, “A non-ending ending.”[1] But we all know that this is just one season of an ongoing series—Netflix hopes. We want cliffhangers. Or they want us to want cliffhangers.

But I rather like denouement.

Today I feel like my ends are tying up nicely after a stranger start to the week then I prefer. Not only am I posting grades for the semester—always a good moment of resolution—but I have finished construction on, blessed, and dressed a new household ward that was a week too long in the making.

Scield Ungebrocen. Yeah, it’s purdy–but the real charm is what’s inside.

Per the events of Tuesday, the electrician has been out and fixed what needed fixing, the appliances are expected this afternoon, and Bug-man has been out to do a little preventative ant baiting. Eldest’s AC and PC remain a potential problem. That’s her cliffhanger for next season.

The Walpurgisnacht dedication went well, I think; the seerers of our tribe dressed in warrior gear (and slathered on some flying ointment), planted henbane, made sacrifices on behalf of the kindred, made our own dedications and supplications, and took a chthonic trip to set the portals to right. I have to say, I’ve never been a fan of “playing dress up,” but this was good for the work at hand.

I received the (disremembered) paperwork from a Ceremonialist temple that I expected to hear from nearly a year ago. Plus Maman Lee put me in touch with someone (with an excellent reputation–that’s all I’ll say for now) willing to give me hardcore rootwork training and I have pulled out my old folk-magic tools—my house is currently littered with mason jars in various states of “making.” What a spectrum, eh?

You see, last week, I taught my students some new techniques of spell construction. Under my guidance, using these techniques, they constructed and cast a spell. Within 24 hours, there were solid results. Those results have crescendoed and I expect denouement by this weekend. So, once again, I find myself hooked on low-magic. That may be my cliffhanger for next season.

And I feel a little denouement because have no pressing plans for this weekend.[2] I have a beloved friend moving back to the Midwest after five years’ exile in The Bamas, so I’m going to go out tonight and bid her farewell. There is also a three-hour public group-reading of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” in a local park this weekend. I hope to go “sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world”–or at least the town.

I celebrate myself and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

~W.W.

My only real goal—aside from a hangover and some erotic poetry in public—is to clear a section of the garage for Son’s band. I’ve been using the garage as a workshop for wood turning, carving, burning, etc. and he needs to get his talented behind out of his tiny bedroom. Not because it’s tiny, but because of its proximity to my room and his love of Metallica. Plus, we have lots of stuff the kids have outgrown stored in the garage and lots of horse things that need sorting before Eldest heads off to college. There are no cars in my garage, I’m sure you can tell.

Oh, and I’ll be seeing The Husband off to Sweden for a few days. Hopefully this will be his last trip to Europe (on business) for a good long while.

This is a very serene feeling for me. Tying up loose ends, sorting out my tools—both physical and aethereal, finishing up this season and beginning another. Maybe the reason I like denouement is because life is an ongoing series of seasons. One chapter wraps up and another begins. Out with the old, in with the new. Perhaps with new characters and guest appearances!

As ever, I’ll let you know.

Wæs þu hæl!

~E

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[1] Postmodernism, go home; you’re on acid.

[2] Next weekend is a different story.

I have a friend and wand-artist, Gypsey Teague, author of Steampunk Magic and editor of The New Goddess: Transgender Women in the Twenty-First Century, coming from South Carolina to teach a workshop on wands and wood. She’s a real-life Olivander and we are lucky to have access to her.

Then we have a hof workday.

Then, like, two straight weeks of utter insanity. Then normal again . . . I hope.

A Note on Walpurgisnacht

I got a question on Facebook concerning the Heathen celebration of Walpurgisnacht. The question was something along the lines of, “If this is a holiday named for a Roman Catholic saint, why do pagans celebrate it?”

The short answer is that Northern Europeans celebrated the coming sun on May Eve, though no “original” name remains. There were likely all sorts of various tribal names, but we don’t have any strong evidence for a singular name for the festival.

The name for Walpurgisnacht, when fires burn (even still in Scandinavia) to usher in warmer weather, comes from a saint, yes–but she was also a female mystic. Of course, the RCC claimed her for themselves and beatified her on a day to coincide with the pagan celebration.

Prior to Saint Walpurg, there was a great seeress named Waluburg who was commemorated on or around May Eve. Therefore the Catholic (female mystic) “saint” Volborg/Walpurg was Beatified near that date in order to subsume the holiday, like so many others.

A Teutonic prophetess from the Second-Century Semnones tribe, Waluburg is historically known as having served as a Roman sibyl in Egypt. We have an inscription of her name that reads: ”Waluburg, seer of the tribe of Semnones” (translated).

Her name means walu-“rod” from Indo-European uel-”turn” (Walus also derives here). Vǫlr  is the Old Norse term. Therefore walu-bera is “rod carrier.” Wand-carrier, völva-kona. This is the quintessence of the völva. The rod is an attribute and character of the “profession” and instrument of magic and mantic practices of the Germanic seers (Simek, Rudolf. Dictionary of Northern Mythology. Trans. Angela Hall. 2007).

So, tonight we celebrate the völva. We pay homage to oracular practice and seiðr.

Tonight the völur of my tribe will gather to dedicate a mound to the goddesses of seiðr, the völva who came before us, our sisters (and brothers!) in the craft, and each other.

Walpurgisnacht blessings and Beltane blessings to you all!

Wæs Þu hæl!

~Ehsha

P.S. I forgot to add that there is a legend that “hexe,” witches, gathered on Harz Mountain in Germany on Walpurgisnacht. Here’s a groovy article.

A roof in the Harz Mountains

Spaghetti Magic

There is this scene from Into the Woods, particularly the Broadway version with Bernadette Peters, that never fails to crack me the feck up. I recently had the pleasure of seeing the play performed by a very talented troupe of teens in my community–among them, my hilarious son.[1] So, I know the scene is funny in other venues. And it’s no surprise, I mean Into the Woods is the ultimate metaphor for life: be careful what you wish for lest a witch come out of you past and grant it.

The scene in question is where Rapunzel and the prince think they are about to be punished by the witch for having found prosperity and familial bliss outside of her clutches. The witch rears back her magic staff and throws all her force at the couple and their newborn bairn.

And, “fizzle.” Nothing. Nope. Nada.

You see, the witch, in an act of obscene vanity, thought she could cast a spell on herself to retain her youth–which she did, I mean it’s Bernadette Peters–but she didn’t realize she’d have to “pay” for her rashness with her powers. So when she rears back and all goes to fizzle, Rapunzel and the prince do a couple of body checks and then laugh it off.[2] So does the audience. The witch is powerless. Not because if her beauty but because of her vanity.

Do me a favor and hold that thought.

That’s Lily Tyler from memories of 80s flicks and a mini-Skarsgård, brother to Eric Northman of True Blood and Floki from Vikings.

Some of you know I started watching Hemlock Grove. Well, I don’t quite get it yet, but there is a genetics testing lab whose director? chairman? oddly calm psychopathic scientist? calls their more outrageous ventures “spaghetti projects” on account o’ they throw a bunch of stuff at a wall “to see what sticks.”[3] Needless to say, some of their experiments don’t stick.

Hold that thought.

I’m in the crossfire of a brouhaha that ain’t none of my business right now. I’m taking the blame for shite I didn’t touch. I mean, I knew about it but that’s not the same as having a hand in it.

I called my friend Maman Lee to get some advice. Seems she already saw what was brewing—warned me that “it’s been hired out” but that, since it wasn’t Justified, there would be complications for the offending party. Then she talked me through a couple of magical recipes and processes and gave me some damn-fine advice. (Thanks again—you were as right as, um, rain.) Advice which I am following to the letter.

You see, Maman Lee is a my old mentor’s friend and a root worker. Last summer when all hell broke loose around here, Bertie sent me to Maman Lee for a little teachin’-up. She is a hard-core traditionalist and doesn’t deviate from the plan, not one iota. The rule is, if she’s gonna guide me, I can’t either. Done deal. I’m not in a position to try throwing things at the wall to see what sticks. I’ve seen all kinds of havoc reign when witches start shooting from the hip, playing by ear, going off script. Now, as a natural chaote, I have no problem with mixing it up and being all creative and shite. But sometimes, rules are NOT made to be broken. This is one such case.

Speaking of last year, funny thing—and by funny, I mean kinda terrifying—is that last year when the same thing happened, my eldest (one who does not follow the same religion as the rest of the family and, more importantly, one who committed some rather egregious childhood treacheries[4]) bore the brunt of the attack.[5] It was *her* favorite chicken that was killed by the dogs (not ritually sacrificed as is the town gossip). It was *her* prize jumper-pony who was maimed beyond repair. It has been *her* life that has been devastated over the past eleven months.[6] This year, more of the same.

My hope is that she will come back to family religious values sooner rather than later. Strange how labeling herself “Christian Republican” is her act of defiance. Oh, you rebel! Anyway. If this is what it takes to get her head in the right place, I’ll have to grin and bear it. Because, in the end–that is my wish. Witchcraft is generational with us–I want to keep it that way. Even if an old witch, territorial over her greens, has to come along and grant that wish in the most round-about way possible.

Here’s what happened.

I had a very oogy feeling yesterday. But before I could do much about it, my household wards were in shattered pieces on the floor. That is not a metaphor—or an exaggeration. It’s my own fault. I suspected that (unjustified) incoming missiles were on radar, but was too busy (or too cocky) to make time to batten down the hatches. I knew that tonight was Walpurgisnacht and that I had plans to make good on a sacred oath—thought I’d take care of it all at once. As m’daddy would say, “Might ought’a not’a done that.” By 9:00 AM the AC was out. By noon, the dishwasher was leaking and the washing machine wasn’t draining. By lunch, I discovered an ant infestation. By nightfall, half the power was out in my house due to a “fused” circuit.

It was a hectic evening; but just like last summer, I got the long end of the stick. The house could have burned to the ground, but it didn’t. I’ll deal with extension cords for two days instead of an inferno—no problem. My insurance covers everything that busted and I get new or like-new appliances. And ants are no big thing.[7] My daughter on the other hand. . . not so much.[8] While Husband, Son, Youngest, and I are all doing body-checks like Rapunzel and the Prince, noting that nothing happened to us, we also note that Eldest didn’t get off so easy. The power-surge fried her PC just days before senior AP exams. She’ll have to do her work at the library, away from home. She still has no power in her room and won’t until an electrician can arrive. The AC that busted? Only cools her “side” of the house. (Yes, she has a “side.”) Fortunately it’s cool enough for open windows today, because day-old bunny poop stanks. And, fortunately, that’s insured too. The AC, not the bunny poop.

It’s hard to watch my kid go through all this but I have to realize that she is technically an adult now and this is all part of her wyrd. Even our children have to pay the price of their decisions. In the meantime, all I can do is what I can do. Be a good mama and raise the fiery shields to keep any more unwarranted poo-poo from flying in her precious face. Coz it seems like poorly thrown-spaghetti magic out there this week.

Glad there’s a storm a’brewin’ to clear the air.

Beltane/Beltaine/Walpurgisnacht blessings to you all. Turn the wheel, I’m ready.

Wæs Þu hæl!

~E

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[1] Rapunzel was played by a former-friend’s neighbor with whom I’ve renewed contact. That’s a twisted story which I’d love to tell you some day.

Kids from my town. Ain’t they cute?

[2] Here’s a poorly made video of the scene starring Vanessa Williams as The Witch.

[3] It was only a few months ago that my eldest learned that one could throw spaghetti at walls. It was then that she started to offer to cook pasta dinners for us quite regularly.

[4] But only because she was vulnerable to someone low enough to manipulate a child’s emotions.

[5] I don’t tend to cry “magical intervention,” but I will call this run of bad luck an attack since it has been confirmed that—whether or not it is true—someone took credit—actually took credit—openly and gloatingly—for having magically terrorized my household.

[6] Eldest pointed this out to me—I didn’t have the heart to tell her that someone may have done this to her on purpose. Whether they actually *did* or not—they were gleeful that her young life was in ruins. Bad witches are children eaters, indeed.

I may have to tell her this year. Not that she hasn’t already figured it out.

[7] Thanks, ants. Thants.

[8] So, good job! You attacked an eighteen-year-old that you swore that you loved and would always protect. Well done!