An Unwritten Letter to the Straight Boy

When I first saw you,
My heart skipped out for my entire
High school career.
As though Cupid had come down,
Plucked the bloody drum from my chest,
And lost it for three years.

 

Your kindness gave me a kindling hope.
It blossomed in my bosom.
Falsifying and blinding me
To the fact
That you were the white stag,
The distant, unexplored planet,
The green light across the lawn
On the cover of my favorite book.
The itch within my skin,
The fog on the sea of my brain,
The Lighthouse of my sight,
The precious commodity
That many covet, and few could obtain.

 

You had that smile
That would brighten my dim eyes.
Making your golden skin,
And sunlight hair glow
With confident radiance.

 

You would hug me
With your marble arms.
My heart would crack
Like precious china
Scraping against the bottom
Of the sink.

 

The desire would boil the water of my soul
Bubbling over the seething pot.
Tears would fall hard and fast
Like summer hail destroying
A carefully tended, sacred garden.

 

What a bitter bind that was.
A missed step
A sudden dizzy spell
The shooting star that
I was too late in looking up
To see.

 

On trips we would room together,
I would stay awake
Hearing your breath,
Feeling your warmth,
Wanting your touch,
Foreseeing that my hand would
Come back scorched and mangled
In the steel-trap jaw
That was the heterosexual norm.

 

You knew.
I knew that you knew.
How could you not?
Whenever we locked eyes,
However briefly,
There was a flash flood of need.
Then you would look away,
To the safety of your illusion,
While I would have to build a raft of weeds,
And row to a dark cave.

 

Looking upon you caused
An inner scream
That would exit my orifices
In perspiration
And jumbled words
That a preacher might well have mistaken
For demonic possession.
Looking upon you sickened me,
Fed me with happiness,
Filled me from the toes to my split ends
With a loathful love.
No matter how much I bled it out,
No matter how many times I stared into the
River that was to be my tomb,
No matter how many times
I cried until I would have
To drink that filthy river-water
To quench the parched sand-dunes
That were my eyes,
You blighted my brain
Like some lonely boy
That you sit with at lunch
Because he as no friends,
And he stalks you
Because you’re now his only companion.

 

I don’t have to try catching
The elusive hue of your eyes
Across a music stand, anymore.
I don’t have to creep to the edge
Of the bed,
So that you won’t wake up near me,
Leaping with the fear
That I had molested you in your sleep.
I don’t have to worry about you brushing near me,
Making me stifle a burning shiver
Of yearning.

 

You were just a high school crush
That dropped off the plinth
Unto which my heart landed
When that fat cherub
Remembered where he put the damn thing.

 

Eric Jeffords, May 1, 2013

You are Destined for Greatness

When I was young,
I was told that I was destined for greatness.
“Why?” I would reply.
“Because, pet, everything you touch becomes beautiful.”
I believed that.
How could I not?
I loved her.

I’m still in this cesspool.
A big fish, surrounded by tadpoles
Who are deluded into thinking
That these tiny streams lead
To a brighter future.

Or perhaps to a different pond.

Fuck. That. Shit.

I’m still told that:
“You’ll go far, kid.”
With fucking what?
With this mediocrity?
With this big fin,
And these huge gills?
No, the current is too strong.
And I can’t swim against it.

I’m walking on this treadmill,
It’s not going anywhere,
And I’ve long forgotten why.
It’s raining,
Or it could be tears.
Tears of broken pride,
Tears of fucking trying too hard,
Tears of giving up,
Tears of exhaustion,
Tears of pushing. So. Much.
GRIT YOUR TEETH AND BARE IT.

He told me he was going to take me
To the Mecca of Music.
I was to be his bitch,
And in return
I would have Song.

And then he left.

He left me stranded,
In the rain,
On the road,
In a field,
With a hoping heart,
And a winning smile.

Like some One Night Stand
That leaves in the twilight.
When I wake up
There’s this cold patch
Of sheet.
Leaving me frozen.
Taking from me just
A little bit more sensuality,
A little bit more sexuality,
A little bit more of that feeling
That love is possible,
And romance can spark.

I met another boy today,
His smile was pure,
His voice sweet like sugared cherries,
His skin was cream, dusted with cinnamon.
Curly hair,
Curling ‘round my fingers,
Curling into my nose
With a sweet musk of man.
Like pine after rainfall.
Like fur.
Like leather.
Like life.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
More tea, please.
Calm the nerves.
Calm my senses.
Calm this blood-pulsing twist of wood!
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

Inside is Prospero’s Tempest,
He looks at me with those eyes.
Eyes I’m too distracted by
To notice the color.
Breath hitching,
Heart galloping.

I notice his body.
His lean, pretty body.
In his eyes I’m reflected.
My gaunt face.
My pale, moonskin.
My thin puppet-body.
My mediocrity.
My rage.
My wrenching sorrow.

So I become a prude.
I become a flake.
I won’t give up the secrets of my body.
There are no secrets to give.

I don’t play nice with others.
So I’m arrogant.
“Above the rest.”
When really I watch,
How envious I am.
They’re all happy.
Seemingly.
I’m nothing.
No emotion.
Just a big meh.
Like that fucking saying:
“You are destined for greatness.”

Eric Jeffords May 1, 2013

An Autumn Ritual

Tonight I took the Wild Irish Woman and two non-witches that have an interest in witchcraft into the forest. We went to the Ash Mound where many a ritual has been held. We lay down the compass and strongly called the spirits to us. We anointed ourselves with the spirit of Mandrake and then set to work on the main ritual.

While the Wild Irish Woman played a sweet song, I began to craft the Sacrificial King. His body was that of a potato, and twigs were his limbs. I cut out a space for his heart. His head was an apple slice, and he had corn wisps for hair. I gave him a huge phallus, the base of the ear of corn. I gave him Ale for blood, a spark from the fire for his spirit, and my own breath to Liven Him. He presided over our festivities at the base of the stang.

We sang, and danced, and traversed deeper In Between. We chanted to bring ourselves down deep. Spirits moved with us, and jumped through our ritual space. Our feet pounded upon the soft earth, and we all got a little dirty. There was much toasting and drinking. Trance overtook us all. We were in a lovely balance with the world.

The Wild Irish Woman led us in a beautiful, on the fly meditation after we chanted about ourselves being of Nature, even if we do not appear physically to be so.

Earth my body, water my blood. 
Air my breath and fire my spirit. 
We are a circle, a mighty circle.
We have our brothers, we have our sisters.

The meditation was about focusing on our inner flame and fanning this flame higher. The Cunning Flame of Wisdom, gifted to us by the Master.

Then it was time for His sacrifice by my hand. While the Wild Irish Woman drummed a slow funeral dirge I dug holes in the ground to be His grave. I prayed over the body of the King that was soon to be slain by the hand that made him. The drumming quickened, and so did the tears that fell from my eyes. My hands shook as I lifted the blade. I cried out and stabbed once, twice, three times. In this neck, his heart, his phallus.

Breathing heavily I buried my King.

The King is dead; Long live the King!

We solemnly drank to his Sacrifice, and hoped for his speedy return to the Land. We feasted, and laughed, and chatted for a while, and then it was time to return. We chanted

Rentum Tormentum, in the Horned One’s name!

dancing all the while around so that we flew back to the surface like a cork rising in water. We thanked the spirits for their power and I closed the circle, sending the energies back into the Land.

And that was that. We played a few more tunes, and drummed merrily, before returning to the roads, and the buildings, and the streetlamps.

The Goat-foot Prayer

A friend of mine sent this to me, and I just fell in love instantly. It’s just brilliant.

“To Hell with their father, hiding in heaven
I spit on every letter of his name.
His Kingdom is ashes.
His will is bile,
as it rises in my throat.
I have worked in the fields to earn my bread,
and need no forgiveness, but from him that I’ve wronged.
And to hell with him that wronged me.
I’ll take all my temptation,
And judge my own what’s Evil.
For this is the kingdom of the Old-Horn,
And the Goatfoot, and the One-eyed,
forever, and ever.

Nemha!”

Apparently, according to the fellow who posted it on TraditionalWitchcraft.Net, it was screamed by an Irish practitioner before he started his ritual. More of that turning away from what is considered the “norm”. A way to call up that darker aspect of that Old Goat Fellow.

Ego Death: Or Letting Go and Giving In

Ego death, known to some as a shamanic death and rebirth, is defined as “an experience that reveals the illusory aspect of the ego[...]“. The ego, of course, is who we are as people. It is what makes us, us. It is that person that walks down the halls, goes to work, chats with friends. It defines who we are as people. It is our personality, it is the reason we react to certain things, it is our behavior. It is our identity.

Now ego death sounds a little scary does it not?

The destruction of the self? The tearing away of all that is known about a person? The removal of one’s identity? That is ego death. That is the death and rebirth. That is the Death before Death.

I know many people that ask to experience a shamanic death and rebirth. I wonder why they would want to experience such a traumatic event! Such a complicated event. What if you don’t come out alive again? What if you go mad? Both of which are certainly possible! It is not something that I recommend going through.

In this day and age we look upon death as something to fear. Imagine watching yourself be torn apart by ravenous birds, picked clean, and then put back together again. What could that do to a person? A disturbing thing to think about to be sure. Tibetan monks will sit in a graveyard and meditate on their body disintegrating; they will meditate on the worms devouring the bodies so that their souls will be set free. Practitioners of Europe would imbibe Amantia Muscaria (Fly Agaric) and go into sacred trance and watch as their bodies were ripped apart by wolves, their bones picked clean by birds of prey, and then the Old Bone Mother would come down from the Tree and wash their bones and put the shaman back together again. Witches would smear flying ointment on their bodies and call out to the Mistress of Witchcraft, giving their All to Her, and then they were whisked away to the Sabbat and to be initiated.

Individuals who have gone on heavy trips with acid, LSD, and ‘shrooms have claimed a similar ego death. That their being was ripped away and they see the world in a whole new light. Perhaps have they have, but I should say that they do not know what to do with this new person that they have become. So they become higher and higher trying to find themselves again, instead of accepting that they are not who they were, and will never be again. The unfortunate thing is that each time they try and find “themselves” a new part of their ego is stripped away, but they do not know what to do with the knowledge that is underneath the Self. That is to truly know one’s self. To look into the hidden shadows beneath the ego and make use of it.

The spirits will take you to this place if you are meant to come to it. And they may do it multiple times, tearing away bits and pieces of the ego that you do not need in order for you to learn. And when it happens there is no turning back. The door to your old life has shut behind you and the only way is forward into the maw of your entire being, down into the Rootbog of the Source of all Creation!

It is terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. But if you are called to it you must let go, you can not resist or you will go mad. Control freaks will have a hard time understanding ego death. The loss of control, the giving in to strange powers and letting them reshape you into a whole new person is a terrifying thought for those that always want to be in control.

It is a good thing. It is a good thing to let go, to let the spirits guide you to where you need to go on your own personal journey. At the Gathering we spoke a little about this during the Plant Spirit discussion group. The Wise Shaman told us of plant spirits that will take you through this process (like Fly Agaric that I mentioned) whilst others will just want to kill you (like Belladonna!). But they must be taken in a ritual setting and you yourself must be ready for it. No one is every completely ready, of course. If you just take the plant and try and force an ego death you will most likely just have a really fucking bad trip or nothing will happen. The plant spirit knows.

To die before you die. To break down the walls bit by bit to reach enlightenment. It is the madness and beauty of spiritwork. It is not safe, it is not fun. It just is.

Resources:

Witchcraft and the Shamanic Journey by Kenneth Johnson

Grimoire of the Golden Toad by Andrew Chumbley

Erowid