With Great Ignorance, Comes Great Stupidity

We’ve all met at least one person who sits around waiting for someone else to make a mistake, so that he or she can go, “I told you so!” This individual takes joy in shaming anyone who they perceive to be self-contradictory. We all know that kind of instigator; and most of us feel a mixture of disgust and morbid fascination towards his or her behavior. Maybe the “morbid” bit describes only me…

I don’t know a lot of people who dislike me (to my face). Most of the ones who have expressed some kind of Magaly-loathing tend to feel that way for the wrong reasons. I said “most” because I clearly remember the hateful face of certain squad leader, who might have been tricked into spending nearly three hours in a porta potty, during a sweltering North Carolina summer.

But you can’t really blame the person who trapped the squad leader, in the stinky company of the waste of hundreds of young Marines, who had been eating nothing but gut-obliterating MREs for weeks. For the squad leader in question was really annoying. He thought of showers as something that happened to other people. He spent half his day spitting chewing tobacco juice into a clear bottle, and the rest making sexist or sexual remarks to and about the person who trapped him.

And seriously, my Wicked Luvs, Marine Corps Combat Training got really boring at times. Also, the person who trapped the rotten chauvinistic jerkwad in the shithouse needed to do something with the two rolls of duct tape she had been carrying around in her backpack. They were bulky, heavy, and sooo stickily attractive ;-) Anyhoo, back to the psychos without a cause…

A few days ago, a person I’ve never talked to (or who’s using a fake name) contacted me to share some wisdom. For the sake of clarity, I’ll call him or her Haters Anonymous Escapee while I let you glimpse into our exchange.

Haters Anonymous Escapee: “I hate people that want attention and pity so they act so hypocrite.”

Rather Confused Witchy Me: “I don’t hate any particular ‘people’ but attention seekers do get on my nerves. And hypocrites are scum. Are you sure you sent your message to the right email address? I’m not sure I know you.”

Haters Anonymous Escapee: “you make other blog people feel bad because they don’t do thing, and you don’t do them either.”

Rather Confused Witchy Me: “Come again?”

Haters Anonymous Escapee: “you talk about people who don’t write for blog parties after signing up. you didn’t do the whole pagan blog project and you signed up. you don’t write for the mind challenge and you signed up. i hate people that aren’t real. you lie and stupid people don’t know. you harm people. you laugh about it.”

Rather Confused Witchy Me: “I think you have some serious issues. I’ll do you a favor and not reply to any more or your messages. However, if you do have a grievance, go ahead and point it out. I would be more than happy to blog about it (maybe others feel as you do?). In fact, I’ll probably write about this one. And there is a possibility that I’ll joke a bit about your accusations. Insanity needs laughter. If we don’t laugh at the lovely lunatics in our lives, well… we might get really pissed off for no obvious reason, and become just as insane.”

There were more messages detailing the evil of my ways, my obvious plot to spread deception, sarcasm and hysterical cackles through the blogosphere. One blog ring to rule them all! And when that’s done, I’ll get a hold of Pinky and the Brain, and go for world domination. Is that enough nonsense? I would hate to let Haters Anonymous Escapee down.

I’m very patient with people whose ignorance is rooted in lack of access to necessary information. We’ve all been there… But any time a busybody (who knows just how to stick his or her nasty nose in other people’s business) jumps skull first into the wrong (hateful) conclusions, and then has the guts to try to make me feel guilty about their blatant stupidity… well, my patience takes leave and my sarcasm rules the party. It’s just easier (and much more entertaining) this way, isn’t it?

P.S. Just so our Haters Anonymous Escapee won’t suffer a massive coronary, I want to say that I had my reasons for not finishing the Pagan Blog Project (which I shared with the hostess). And the justification for my scarce participation in the MFE’s Mind, Body, Soul 90 Day Challenge can be found somewhere in the comment section of the event in question. Anyone who has looked for it and hasn’t foun it *Haters Anonymous Escapee, cough, cough* needs to start using their snooping power for good.  

via sebreg

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Beyond the Tending Hand

Greenish limbs shove a thick tube past her teeth.

Viscous fluid gushes in

too fast, too plentiful, too hot

for the tongue, for the throat, for the stomach;

it scalds.

She has mouth, lungs, brain, guts and she can scream, scream, scream…

The screams gurgle around the feeding tube,

making her ears pop.

The Tending Hand doesn’t know how to listen.

Maybe another will hear me.

She readies a new scream, a justice seeking wail.

Bending her bruised neck,

she glances beyond the Tending Hand.

The sight strangles her will:

legs amputated above the knee,

arms skinned to the triceps,

bloody stumps in a golden boot,

severed hands in a white glove,

optic nerves erecting an eyeball bouquet in a glass vase.  

She shuts her eyes

tight,

and the Tending Hand prunes and trims her pretty.

                    Michael Stacy Art

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How Symbols Are Chosen and Empowered

One of my former classmates is researching “symbols in dark urban fantasy and contemporary psychological horror,” as part of his Mythological Studies thesis. I was extremely pleased (and maybe a tad smug) when he asked me for an interview to discuss the symbols in “AlmaMia Cienfuegos.”  

The atypical smugness (that swallowed my well known modesty *cough, cough*) is warranted, methinks. Little AlmaMia’s frog, book and skull charms will not only be immortalized in the scholarly work of someone whose theories I respect, but they are also being placed next to Harry Dresden’s staff, Mercy Thompson’s lamb, and Harry Potter’s deathly hallows. How cool is that, my Wicked Luvs?

I won’t tell you about his specific argument because…well, is his thesis. But I can share something that came up after one of our discussions. He asked me, “Who came first, the symbol or the story?”

“They came at the same time,” I said with a giant grin. After we stopped laughing at my immature teenage boy sense of humor, I added that “The charm bracelet was not supposed to be AlmaMia’s talisman. When I began writing the story, I had her wearing a tiny silver mango tree pendant.” He raised an eyebrow, so I went on. “The mango tree was a good amulet at some point. It was AlmaMia’s safe place, its fruit continues to be her favorite, and many events that changed her life take place under its shade. But AlmaMia evolves; she grows up, and so do the symbols she chooses for her protection.”

That conversation danced in my mind this past weekend, while I rearranged my altar and my new writing space (more on the latter soon). I was feeding on the energies of the symbols that have joined my life recently, and finding new strengths in the ones that have been with me for years. 

Some are new but powerful, especially when combined with the old ones. 

my trusty hammer, Mina’s handy wand, Eliora’s athame

Others are archetypal, but made personal by the loving intentions of a friend.

the number 13, a crystal, a skull and holey stone I got from Oma Linda

Some are attached to nature, special people, and events that touched my soul deeply.

stones from my dear Stacy, my first pentacle, petals from a rose a child placed in my little brother’s coffin

Others are empowered by how and why they came to be mine

an old seashell marked by the roots of an ivy, pink pearls strung together by a grateful teenager, 
petals and stones picked on a sunny spring afternoon while walking home from the library

Some are unexpected gifts that came to me exactly when I needed them most.

a homemade citronella candle in an orange peel holder, and a blessing bell bracelet

my eclectic Spring Altar, which says a lot about me, including that I  might have a thing for pink and purple

One of my newest symbols reminds me of love that is empowered by blood and differences.

a pentacle and a cross sent by a friend… after my little brother traveled to the Summerlands

This last symbol is a gift I got in 1999. I named her Creepy Faerie. She evokes focus.

The librarian who gave me Creepy Faerie is no longer with us. She’s probably running the bookish section of the Summerlands. Way back then, I thought the reasons why she gave me the figurine were rather obvious: I love books, coffee, sugar, clocks (I’ve always been obsessed with timeliness), pencils, and who wouldn’t adore a black-eyed faerie child wearing the most mundane of outfits?

Many years after the Creepy Faerie gift, I called the librarian for guidance. I had fallen in love with fiction writing, and was struggling with focus. Like many other artists, I wanted to create a million things at the same time. I could handle several projects at once (at different speeds and levels, you know?), but every knowledgeable body told me to focus on one idea, on one genre, on one project, one…

I told the librarian that much, and she said, “Just be the Creepy Faerie, as always. Life and your stories will go where they need to go. Characters are very creative. Write them, you’ll see.”

So today, whenever a story (including my own) starts drifting a bit or a character resists a previously plotted idea (AlmaMia claiming new symbols), I glance at my Creepy Faerie, remember the words of a much-loved librarian, continue writing (and living), and wait to see what happens next…

How do you choose your symbols, my Wicked Luvs? And how do you continue to empower them?

By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m running a giveaway over at my writing blog. The winner (or winners) will receive a copy of “AlmaMia Cienfuegos” and/or a Critique of 5,013 of their fictional words. If you are interested, go ahead and enter before May 22^nd at 5:13 pm EST. 

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