Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" In my previous post I complained about having to read from "Song of Solomon" at the Fairie Festival this weekend, and no less than 15 bored deities showed up to set me straight (along with my enlightened readers). "Song" is all about sex, and it's very ancient, so tra la la!
Now it's time to sally forth to the festival! Here's a partial list of stuff I have already packed in the car:
1. Beautiful tablecloth for Mountain Tribe, made from scratch by Pam and Rita (thereby saving my sorry hide).
2. Three bags stuffed dragons
3. Two large rocks, a box of small ones (all but one Marcellus shale)
4. Framed Terrence McKenna quote with art by Seitou (pretty proud of this ... waiting to see how many people ask who Seitou is)
5. Shameless plea for membership in Mountain Tribe (you must have a pulse)
6. TARDIS
7. Picture of Big Red
8. Big Red
9. Picture of me and Spare (Spare will be arriving by separate transportation)
10. Banner with tribal chant on it, made by Spare
11. "My Heart, My Soul, and My Grave are in Appalachia" pin
12. Mushu and Grape (dragons from Seattle out on a spree)
13. bag of Lucky Trolls
14. Basket of purple ribbons
15. 300 safety pins and bowl to put them in
Here's what I have still left to pack:
1. Outfit #1: Neon tie-dye, red skirt, mountain hat
2. Outfit #2: Neon tie-dye tunic, capri leggings, hiking boots
3. Outfit #3: Will be a combination of above
4. Outfit #4 for Tribe games: Dalek t-shirt, shorts, sneakers
5. Most important, therefore most likely to be forgotten: Green Man earrings, Puck, and Chance
Assorted socks, underwear, and toiletries, Advil and Zyrtec (been shoving those puppies down)
It's not so bad taking all this stuff with me, but the thought that I'll have to shove it all back in the car on Sunday and drive home, then go straight into work the following day ... whoa, gonna need some good faeries on this one.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
The Odds Were One in Four
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today I'm taking a little excursion to my family property on Polish Mountain, 312 Johnson Road to be exact. I dearly love that place and can't wait to get there.
I've been moaning and groaning here at this space for five years, so I guess one more piece of bitching won't send you packing.
Every year the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood has ceremonies at which are chosen the King and Queen of the May. This is a right and proper Celtic custom, like the Maypole.
This year's festival has a new Master of Ceremonies, and he has written an elaborate ceremony for the coronation. He attached the script to an email, in which he wrote: "We will be quoting from Taliesin, The Bible, Buddha, and (forget the other one)."
Before I even opened the attachment, I said to myself, "I just know I'm going to get the Bible."
Sure enough. Song of Solomon.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" praise and worship each and every bored deity who has ever had a population of faithful. The one deity we don't care to recognize is YHWH, because He's busy enough and never bored. It's a bitter pill I have to swallow to do this, but I'll do it. Not sure why the OT was tapped for this, I guess it's so that we are "inclusive."
But why me?
Excuse me while I wallow in self-pity (Not really, it's not that important and will be over in a second, like a flu shot ... oh, wait. Flu shots hurt for hours.)
Do you think they'll notice if I substitute "Song of Myself?" It's a song.
I've been moaning and groaning here at this space for five years, so I guess one more piece of bitching won't send you packing.
Every year the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood has ceremonies at which are chosen the King and Queen of the May. This is a right and proper Celtic custom, like the Maypole.
This year's festival has a new Master of Ceremonies, and he has written an elaborate ceremony for the coronation. He attached the script to an email, in which he wrote: "We will be quoting from Taliesin, The Bible, Buddha, and (forget the other one)."
Before I even opened the attachment, I said to myself, "I just know I'm going to get the Bible."
Sure enough. Song of Solomon.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" praise and worship each and every bored deity who has ever had a population of faithful. The one deity we don't care to recognize is YHWH, because He's busy enough and never bored. It's a bitter pill I have to swallow to do this, but I'll do it. Not sure why the OT was tapped for this, I guess it's so that we are "inclusive."
But why me?
Excuse me while I wallow in self-pity (Not really, it's not that important and will be over in a second, like a flu shot ... oh, wait. Flu shots hurt for hours.)
Do you think they'll notice if I substitute "Song of Myself?" It's a song.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Eostre Meditation
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," out early this morning and hearing on the radio about Jesus cheating death. I hate to break it to our modern world, but this is not a concept unique to Christianity. Ask around amongst the bored gods, and you'll find any number from any number of pantheons who have done the same thing (or know Someone who did).
I went to get bagels early -- because nothing is more sacred than commerce these days -- and on the way I was listening to news radio.
Of course it's a slow news day, so the reporters were making the rounds of sunrise services and interviewing pastors.
One local Christian pastor says Easter is the most important date on the Christian calendar because "Jesus rising from the dead is the central most important tenet of our faith. Because he died and rose, we can have eternal life."
Getting past all that "eternal life" stuff, which I pondered through many and many a dull sermon back in the day, I have to feel disappointed in what this pastor had to say.
First of all, he basically told Christians what a majority of them already know: It's just fine if you only go to church once a year, on Easter. The rest of it is window dressing.
But second, I think that pastor was selling Christianity way short. Even when I was a Christian, I would not have said that Jesus's resurrection was the central tenet of my faith. I'd have said something like, "Love your neighbor," or "be kind to your enemies," or "the meek will inherit the Earth." I might have said something about putting others' needs before (or at least next to) your own.
Sitting in some heaven listening to angel choirs for eternity would not have even made the top ten.
Death creeps us out, so it's nice to have a little happy story in the back of your head about living with God forever. But since no one except Jesus has come back from the dead to tell us what it's really like -- and he didn't say much -- I think our modern religion ought to have a little more philosophical heft to it. It should be grounded in moral responsibility to self, others, and surroundings. And with that grounding should come deeds to back it up. These deeds should not be performed in anticipation of immortality, but just because something right and good needs to be done.
Well, my zero atheist readers are now saying, "Dammit, Mom, quit praying over me! It's annoying!" (I'm fairly certain that few atheists read "The Gods Are Bored.")
Back to my sermon: Actually what I just suggested is probably the atheist creed, certainly not needing to be tied to any particular faith. However, if you combine that creed with a quiet appreciation of the reality of Higher Powers, you can feel that the good you're doing becomes part of a tradition, perhaps one your ancestors followed.
GIANT WASP IN MY ROOM. Goodbye!
I went to get bagels early -- because nothing is more sacred than commerce these days -- and on the way I was listening to news radio.
Of course it's a slow news day, so the reporters were making the rounds of sunrise services and interviewing pastors.
One local Christian pastor says Easter is the most important date on the Christian calendar because "Jesus rising from the dead is the central most important tenet of our faith. Because he died and rose, we can have eternal life."
Getting past all that "eternal life" stuff, which I pondered through many and many a dull sermon back in the day, I have to feel disappointed in what this pastor had to say.
First of all, he basically told Christians what a majority of them already know: It's just fine if you only go to church once a year, on Easter. The rest of it is window dressing.
But second, I think that pastor was selling Christianity way short. Even when I was a Christian, I would not have said that Jesus's resurrection was the central tenet of my faith. I'd have said something like, "Love your neighbor," or "be kind to your enemies," or "the meek will inherit the Earth." I might have said something about putting others' needs before (or at least next to) your own.
Sitting in some heaven listening to angel choirs for eternity would not have even made the top ten.
Death creeps us out, so it's nice to have a little happy story in the back of your head about living with God forever. But since no one except Jesus has come back from the dead to tell us what it's really like -- and he didn't say much -- I think our modern religion ought to have a little more philosophical heft to it. It should be grounded in moral responsibility to self, others, and surroundings. And with that grounding should come deeds to back it up. These deeds should not be performed in anticipation of immortality, but just because something right and good needs to be done.
Well, my zero atheist readers are now saying, "Dammit, Mom, quit praying over me! It's annoying!" (I'm fairly certain that few atheists read "The Gods Are Bored.")
Back to my sermon: Actually what I just suggested is probably the atheist creed, certainly not needing to be tied to any particular faith. However, if you combine that creed with a quiet appreciation of the reality of Higher Powers, you can feel that the good you're doing becomes part of a tradition, perhaps one your ancestors followed.
GIANT WASP IN MY ROOM. Goodbye!
Saturday, April 23, 2011
House in Faerie and Dragon Overload
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," just a few short days east of the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm!
I sure hope I'm feeling better by that time, because I think I've had two different bouts of flu this week, plus pinkeye. Today I scuttled my plans to see my friends in Allentown, and just sitting here at the computer is exhausting work.
Oh, but the festival preparations continue!
In times past, leaders of Tribes were not asked to bring anything but themselves and little tokens to give out to anyone who wanted to join the tribe. I thought I had finally volunteered for something that would ask little and give a lot.
But I'm doomed to the "say yes syndrome." With about a dozen members of the Mountain Tribe spread over three states, we have been asked to:
1. Prepare a table display explaining all about the Mountain Tribe (partially finished with the great help of Pam and Rita).
2. Create a big sign with a chant on it that our Tribe will have to chant. (Spare is working on this now.)
3. Learn the chant.
4. Be more systematic about the tokens we dole out.
5. Learn the chant.
6. Run games for kids. (That's why I needed the dragons. I still need more.)
7. There was also a rehearsal that I missed last weekend because I was sick, and it rained.
So we went from needing nothing more than boffo costumes, to needing to put on a quarter of a pageant! Faeries help me and Spare, and Pam and Rita, and Bibi as we try to prop up this venture!
I sure hope I'm feeling better by that time, because I think I've had two different bouts of flu this week, plus pinkeye. Today I scuttled my plans to see my friends in Allentown, and just sitting here at the computer is exhausting work.
Oh, but the festival preparations continue!
In times past, leaders of Tribes were not asked to bring anything but themselves and little tokens to give out to anyone who wanted to join the tribe. I thought I had finally volunteered for something that would ask little and give a lot.
But I'm doomed to the "say yes syndrome." With about a dozen members of the Mountain Tribe spread over three states, we have been asked to:
1. Prepare a table display explaining all about the Mountain Tribe (partially finished with the great help of Pam and Rita).
2. Create a big sign with a chant on it that our Tribe will have to chant. (Spare is working on this now.)
3. Learn the chant.
4. Be more systematic about the tokens we dole out.
5. Learn the chant.
6. Run games for kids. (That's why I needed the dragons. I still need more.)
7. There was also a rehearsal that I missed last weekend because I was sick, and it rained.
So we went from needing nothing more than boffo costumes, to needing to put on a quarter of a pageant! Faeries help me and Spare, and Pam and Rita, and Bibi as we try to prop up this venture!
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Day Walt Whitman Came to School
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Spring Break edition! Not a moment too soon, there's a little lull in the school calendar.
I went to work today with the worst case of laryngitis I've ever had. I could do little more than whisper.
You might ask, "How does a school teacher in that kind of shape, with 100 freshmen in six classes, impart any learning on the day before Spring Break, and a dress-down day at that?"
I get by with a little help from my friends.
Those three of you who have been lumbering along with "The Gods Are Bored" lo, these many years, will know the story of the Weird Stranger Who Became a Best Friend, a.k.a. the Monkey Man. My last rhumba with the Monkey Man was back at Samhain, when we blew away the competition in the Not Snobville Halloween Parade -- he as Edgar Allan Poe, me as Jabberwock. Since then I haven't seen him at all.
But it turns out that, in addition to being a poet himself, he actually knows Walt Whitman!
My friend the Monkey Man arranged for Walt Whitman to visit my classes today in order to recite poetry to them and get them excited about the famous man in their midst.
I arranged the tables so that there was a little theater-in-the-round, and Mr. Whitman entertained my troops with alternating stories about his life in Camden and passages from his poetry. By the end of the day, the classroom floor was strewn with grass and good will.
An odd thing happened, though. About a quarter of my students insisted firmly that Walt Whitman was not, in fact, Walt Whitman, but rather a poet who currently lives in Camden by the name of Rocky Wilson. Some students were emphatic on this point, and they begged to see the monkey.
In each class, when Walt Whitman bade farewell, he walked out, and a moment later Rocky Wilson walked in. Some coincidence, huh? But it made everyone happy. The students got to hear passages from "Song of Myself," and then they also got to pet Rocky's monkey (a fond friend from their childhoods in various Camden primary schools). The added benefit was that we have also been studying Nick Virgilio, a famous haiku poet who lived in Camden -- and Rocky Wilson knew Nick Virgilio.
Rocky could not move ten feet in the hallways of the Vo Tech without being recognized. Even the lunch lady lives on his street. We had a fine time together, he and I. We always do. I treated him to lunch (remember, it's a Vo Tech with a Culinary Arts shop, so we eat like Tudors every day), and we made plans to get to some poetry events in May.
This is what I have learned about life. Proceed with patience, accept small miracles that accrue into larger miracles. (Who makes much of a miracle?) Then, sit back and smile when, just for a moment, all the Legos snap into place and you've built a pretty doggoned fine palace.
Mr. Whitman recited these lines, which I find particularly inspiring:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me,
he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am
untranslatable.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of
the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true
as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at
the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in
lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from
the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under
your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
And you, and you, and you ... and you ...
I went to work today with the worst case of laryngitis I've ever had. I could do little more than whisper.
You might ask, "How does a school teacher in that kind of shape, with 100 freshmen in six classes, impart any learning on the day before Spring Break, and a dress-down day at that?"
I get by with a little help from my friends.
Those three of you who have been lumbering along with "The Gods Are Bored" lo, these many years, will know the story of the Weird Stranger Who Became a Best Friend, a.k.a. the Monkey Man. My last rhumba with the Monkey Man was back at Samhain, when we blew away the competition in the Not Snobville Halloween Parade -- he as Edgar Allan Poe, me as Jabberwock. Since then I haven't seen him at all.
But it turns out that, in addition to being a poet himself, he actually knows Walt Whitman!
My friend the Monkey Man arranged for Walt Whitman to visit my classes today in order to recite poetry to them and get them excited about the famous man in their midst.
I arranged the tables so that there was a little theater-in-the-round, and Mr. Whitman entertained my troops with alternating stories about his life in Camden and passages from his poetry. By the end of the day, the classroom floor was strewn with grass and good will.
An odd thing happened, though. About a quarter of my students insisted firmly that Walt Whitman was not, in fact, Walt Whitman, but rather a poet who currently lives in Camden by the name of Rocky Wilson. Some students were emphatic on this point, and they begged to see the monkey.
In each class, when Walt Whitman bade farewell, he walked out, and a moment later Rocky Wilson walked in. Some coincidence, huh? But it made everyone happy. The students got to hear passages from "Song of Myself," and then they also got to pet Rocky's monkey (a fond friend from their childhoods in various Camden primary schools). The added benefit was that we have also been studying Nick Virgilio, a famous haiku poet who lived in Camden -- and Rocky Wilson knew Nick Virgilio.
Rocky could not move ten feet in the hallways of the Vo Tech without being recognized. Even the lunch lady lives on his street. We had a fine time together, he and I. We always do. I treated him to lunch (remember, it's a Vo Tech with a Culinary Arts shop, so we eat like Tudors every day), and we made plans to get to some poetry events in May.
This is what I have learned about life. Proceed with patience, accept small miracles that accrue into larger miracles. (Who makes much of a miracle?) Then, sit back and smile when, just for a moment, all the Legos snap into place and you've built a pretty doggoned fine palace.
Mr. Whitman recited these lines, which I find particularly inspiring:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me,
he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am
untranslatable.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of
the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true
as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at
the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in
lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from
the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under
your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
And you, and you, and you ... and you ...
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The Appalachian Mountains Must Dress Sexy and Ask for It
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored." Usually we're just riotously funny here, and it's been a minor hit. But there's a new danger on the horizon, and it's not a Weeping Angel.
This danger is hydraulic fracturing. Better known as fracking.
Just when you would think that Appalachia has been f***** enough for centuries, there's a new kid on the block. Well, actually it's an old bully -- Big Energy, with a new agenda: fracking (yeah, I know, even Puck couldn't have picked a better name).
Fracking is the process of extracting natural gas from shale layers up to and exceeding a mile beneath the surface of Appalachia. And this time we're not talking about just West Virginia and Kentucky. This time we're including Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Maryland.
The way fracking works is, they drill a hole into the shale layer, and then drill a horizontal hole along a part of the shale bed. Then they pump chemical-laden water into the drill hole. The water causes pressure that releases natural gas, which is captured and piped to ... oh hell, to wherever they make the power that's driving this computer.
I went to a lecture last month at Philadelphia's Academy of Natural Sciences. One of the speakers said that there's a minimum of $1.3 trillion worth of natural gas just in the Marcellus Shale. Other shale layers beneath the Marcellus layer also have gas in them.
Well, I love sitting here using electricity to power my computer. So I'm not going to come down hard on fracking, even in the face of this early indication of what's to come:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/04/20/pennsylvania-fracking-spill-gas-blowout-2011_n_851637.html
Here's my take on it. We know the gas is there. Could we just possibly stop, take a cleansing breath, and create safe technology for extraction?
What's the frackin rush here? That gas has been in those rocks for eons and eons and eons! Could we be patient for 50 years and put our best minds to work on getting it out cleanly, and without so much disruption in the form of tanker trucks, refineries, and toxic waste?
Oh, of course not. It doesn't work that way. Big Energy wants to grab, grab, grab.
To which the bored gods say: "Frack you."
When the watershed that may be polluted is the Delaware River, rest assured that B.E. will have to move cautiously. What's in that fracking fluid? Are the citizens of Manhattan going to wake up one day, turn on the shower, and have flames (or radioactivity) come pouring out?
Patience is a virtue that is not often cultivated. Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" inaugurate a new theme with a new slogan: "Don't pass gas fast."
It begs the question: What next for Appalachia? How many times can these mountains be raped, in how many ways? Oh, my dear friends! The mighty Appalachians are not "just asking for it." They are ancient and sacred ... and how we treat them will show just what we're made of.
This danger is hydraulic fracturing. Better known as fracking.
Just when you would think that Appalachia has been f***** enough for centuries, there's a new kid on the block. Well, actually it's an old bully -- Big Energy, with a new agenda: fracking (yeah, I know, even Puck couldn't have picked a better name).
Fracking is the process of extracting natural gas from shale layers up to and exceeding a mile beneath the surface of Appalachia. And this time we're not talking about just West Virginia and Kentucky. This time we're including Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Maryland.
The way fracking works is, they drill a hole into the shale layer, and then drill a horizontal hole along a part of the shale bed. Then they pump chemical-laden water into the drill hole. The water causes pressure that releases natural gas, which is captured and piped to ... oh hell, to wherever they make the power that's driving this computer.
I went to a lecture last month at Philadelphia's Academy of Natural Sciences. One of the speakers said that there's a minimum of $1.3 trillion worth of natural gas just in the Marcellus Shale. Other shale layers beneath the Marcellus layer also have gas in them.
Well, I love sitting here using electricity to power my computer. So I'm not going to come down hard on fracking, even in the face of this early indication of what's to come:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/04/20/pennsylvania-fracking-spill-gas-blowout-2011_n_851637.html
Here's my take on it. We know the gas is there. Could we just possibly stop, take a cleansing breath, and create safe technology for extraction?
What's the frackin rush here? That gas has been in those rocks for eons and eons and eons! Could we be patient for 50 years and put our best minds to work on getting it out cleanly, and without so much disruption in the form of tanker trucks, refineries, and toxic waste?
Oh, of course not. It doesn't work that way. Big Energy wants to grab, grab, grab.
To which the bored gods say: "Frack you."
When the watershed that may be polluted is the Delaware River, rest assured that B.E. will have to move cautiously. What's in that fracking fluid? Are the citizens of Manhattan going to wake up one day, turn on the shower, and have flames (or radioactivity) come pouring out?
Patience is a virtue that is not often cultivated. Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" inaugurate a new theme with a new slogan: "Don't pass gas fast."
It begs the question: What next for Appalachia? How many times can these mountains be raped, in how many ways? Oh, my dear friends! The mighty Appalachians are not "just asking for it." They are ancient and sacred ... and how we treat them will show just what we're made of.
Monday, April 18, 2011
No Wonder They Always Ask Us about the Kittens
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" A quick note to President Obama: Yes, dear, Republicans think Democrats are stupid. You should have learned that in grade school. Bear it in mind in the future and act accordingly.
I was supposed to drive to Spoutwood Farm on Saturday to participate in a rehearsal of the pageant we're putting on there during the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood, happening in just 11 short days! (Come and join the Mountain Tribe! We need you!)
On Friday I scuttled the trip after looking at the weather forecast. I've driven home from that area in driving rainstorms before, and I wasn't keen to revisit the experience.
Good thing I decided to stay home, because by mid-afternoon I'd developed a late season bout of the flu. I was pretty sick for about 24 hours, which nicely coincided with a "Tudors" marathon on the telly that was punctuated with numerous Doctor Who commercials.
Today I stayed home because I'm still weak as water. Zero energy. So Mr. J and I were watching random shows this morning. While I half dozed in the chair, he started watching a movie.
Eventually it woke me up because of all the screaming. Turns out it was about four girls in a coven who were wreaking black magic havoc, killing their schoolmates and eventually turning on each other. In the end, the "good witch" girl held all the power, having sent the "bad witch" girl to a padded cell, totally insane, and nearly killing the two others with a fallen tree branch.
This piece of rot was made probably in the 1980s or early 1990s, but it illustrates the pitfalls facing modern Pagans who are asked to speak to the media. Sadly, the people in the media who are asking the questions have most likely been raised on doses of bad witch movies rather than authentic experiences of Pagan practice. My friend Hecate has written some powerful and informative posts about the inevitable plight Pagans find themselves in when dealing with the press -- having to say what they are by explaining what they are not, and then the not gets thrown into the newspaper/telly/etc.
For example:
"We venerate the natural world and the deities within it, promising to harm none and to help all. We seek to restore a positive balance to our place on the planet by promoting sound environmental practices and by advocating for peace. We do not slaughter kittens in pentagrams or paint pentacles on tombstones in Christian cemeteries."
Quote used in the newspaper: "We do not slaughter kittens in pentagrams or paint pentacles on tombstones."
Most people really don't know what Pagans do or how they do it. Most people don't realize that the nice next-door neighbor is a Pagan, the librarian is a Pagan, the seamstress who alters your prom dress is way into Faerie, the fresh spice lady at the farmer's market is a Pagan.
Americans' views of Pagan practice are informed by bad movies, misinformation linking Paganism to Satanism, and deliberate smears on popular programs such as "Focus on the Family." It's very hard for us to counter these stereotypes, and frankly I don't see any pressing need to do so. Maybe it's the hillbilly in me speaking now, but I find that no amount of sane, scientific, or reasonable information will change the thinking of someone who has grown up believing that Pagans slaughter kittens (and hillbillies are lazy and ignorant). If you add to this the sad reality that the media will always chase down the one kitten-killer or lazy Appalachian and do a feature story on that person, you're just sunk.
Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" suggest that Pagans stop talking and start doing. By doing, I mean acts of public charity. Fairy festivals. Earth Day observations. And yes, National Day of Prayer, at which we behave with all the humility and decorum of other faiths.
And as for Pagan Coming Out Day (May 2), I say move with extreme caution. You are up against hundreds of years of bad press that is still in full swing. Don't be surprised if, when you come out, the first thing you get asked about is kittens. I know. It happened to me.
I was supposed to drive to Spoutwood Farm on Saturday to participate in a rehearsal of the pageant we're putting on there during the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood, happening in just 11 short days! (Come and join the Mountain Tribe! We need you!)
On Friday I scuttled the trip after looking at the weather forecast. I've driven home from that area in driving rainstorms before, and I wasn't keen to revisit the experience.
Good thing I decided to stay home, because by mid-afternoon I'd developed a late season bout of the flu. I was pretty sick for about 24 hours, which nicely coincided with a "Tudors" marathon on the telly that was punctuated with numerous Doctor Who commercials.
Today I stayed home because I'm still weak as water. Zero energy. So Mr. J and I were watching random shows this morning. While I half dozed in the chair, he started watching a movie.
Eventually it woke me up because of all the screaming. Turns out it was about four girls in a coven who were wreaking black magic havoc, killing their schoolmates and eventually turning on each other. In the end, the "good witch" girl held all the power, having sent the "bad witch" girl to a padded cell, totally insane, and nearly killing the two others with a fallen tree branch.
This piece of rot was made probably in the 1980s or early 1990s, but it illustrates the pitfalls facing modern Pagans who are asked to speak to the media. Sadly, the people in the media who are asking the questions have most likely been raised on doses of bad witch movies rather than authentic experiences of Pagan practice. My friend Hecate has written some powerful and informative posts about the inevitable plight Pagans find themselves in when dealing with the press -- having to say what they are by explaining what they are not, and then the not gets thrown into the newspaper/telly/etc.
For example:
"We venerate the natural world and the deities within it, promising to harm none and to help all. We seek to restore a positive balance to our place on the planet by promoting sound environmental practices and by advocating for peace. We do not slaughter kittens in pentagrams or paint pentacles on tombstones in Christian cemeteries."
Quote used in the newspaper: "We do not slaughter kittens in pentagrams or paint pentacles on tombstones."
Most people really don't know what Pagans do or how they do it. Most people don't realize that the nice next-door neighbor is a Pagan, the librarian is a Pagan, the seamstress who alters your prom dress is way into Faerie, the fresh spice lady at the farmer's market is a Pagan.
Americans' views of Pagan practice are informed by bad movies, misinformation linking Paganism to Satanism, and deliberate smears on popular programs such as "Focus on the Family." It's very hard for us to counter these stereotypes, and frankly I don't see any pressing need to do so. Maybe it's the hillbilly in me speaking now, but I find that no amount of sane, scientific, or reasonable information will change the thinking of someone who has grown up believing that Pagans slaughter kittens (and hillbillies are lazy and ignorant). If you add to this the sad reality that the media will always chase down the one kitten-killer or lazy Appalachian and do a feature story on that person, you're just sunk.
Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" suggest that Pagans stop talking and start doing. By doing, I mean acts of public charity. Fairy festivals. Earth Day observations. And yes, National Day of Prayer, at which we behave with all the humility and decorum of other faiths.
And as for Pagan Coming Out Day (May 2), I say move with extreme caution. You are up against hundreds of years of bad press that is still in full swing. Don't be surprised if, when you come out, the first thing you get asked about is kittens. I know. It happened to me.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Spare's Birthday Party
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Yes, that's leftover birthday cake you see there on the countertop. I wish I could say, "Help yourself," but Spare is pretty parsimonious when it comes to doling out cake.
Spare turned 17 recently. Last night she had a few friends over to dine with her. I served them spaghetti and meatballs and salad, and cake.
I decorated with a Star Wars tablecloth and Yoda napkins. One of her friends gave her a light saber, and another gave her a sonic screwdriver. No other kinds of screwdrivers were requested, craved, or consumed.
Spare has taken an interest in science fiction, which is always a bed of fertile ground for lively imaginations. She is particularly interested in Doctor Who, but she and I had a wonderful time watching the 1976 Star Wars together.
Have you caught any of this Doctor Who? Some of the episodes are pretty creative. I don't get to watch it much, but I approve of Spare immersing herself in it.
Spare wanted me to list ten things about her that I like, here at "The Gods Are Bored." Alas, I can't do it. I can't narrow it down to a mere ten things. I could say 50 nice things about her sweet, sober, smart friends before I even got to her.
Spare's birthday always makes me think about her tree.
When Spare was a year old, I found a tiny little ornamental maple sapling growing under the huge pine tree in my neighbor's front yard. This little thing was only one stick, literally the size of Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. Could not have been more than 16 inches tall.
I asked my neighbor if I could dig it up and replant it. He asked me why I would want to.
I said, "I'm patient."
For a short time, Spare and her tree were the same height. I have pictures. But no more. The maple is a stunning, mature tree now, as broad as it is tall, and beautiful every month of the year. In the spring (right around now, through mid-May) its leaves are a combination of magenta and chartreuse. They go green for the summer, and then turn a brilliant red in the fall. I suspect that only global climate change allows this plant to live at all around here, because it holds its leaves the longest of any other tree around here -- and it blooms fairly early.
So, here's some of that advice that used to be free, but now I'm paying you to take. If you know you're going to stay somewhere for awhile, plant some little twig that would otherwise be overlooked. Why go to the garden store and shell out $400 for a maple that has just sat in some nursery for six years? Grow your own! Once you get through that gangly childhood phase, your twig will be fabulous. With the money you save you can pay your federal income taxes!
I think I'll get Spare to pose with her tree for another portrait. Both are growing and thriving in the fertile soil of the Garden State.
Spare turned 17 recently. Last night she had a few friends over to dine with her. I served them spaghetti and meatballs and salad, and cake.
I decorated with a Star Wars tablecloth and Yoda napkins. One of her friends gave her a light saber, and another gave her a sonic screwdriver. No other kinds of screwdrivers were requested, craved, or consumed.
Spare has taken an interest in science fiction, which is always a bed of fertile ground for lively imaginations. She is particularly interested in Doctor Who, but she and I had a wonderful time watching the 1976 Star Wars together.
Have you caught any of this Doctor Who? Some of the episodes are pretty creative. I don't get to watch it much, but I approve of Spare immersing herself in it.
Spare wanted me to list ten things about her that I like, here at "The Gods Are Bored." Alas, I can't do it. I can't narrow it down to a mere ten things. I could say 50 nice things about her sweet, sober, smart friends before I even got to her.
Spare's birthday always makes me think about her tree.
When Spare was a year old, I found a tiny little ornamental maple sapling growing under the huge pine tree in my neighbor's front yard. This little thing was only one stick, literally the size of Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. Could not have been more than 16 inches tall.
I asked my neighbor if I could dig it up and replant it. He asked me why I would want to.
I said, "I'm patient."
For a short time, Spare and her tree were the same height. I have pictures. But no more. The maple is a stunning, mature tree now, as broad as it is tall, and beautiful every month of the year. In the spring (right around now, through mid-May) its leaves are a combination of magenta and chartreuse. They go green for the summer, and then turn a brilliant red in the fall. I suspect that only global climate change allows this plant to live at all around here, because it holds its leaves the longest of any other tree around here -- and it blooms fairly early.
So, here's some of that advice that used to be free, but now I'm paying you to take. If you know you're going to stay somewhere for awhile, plant some little twig that would otherwise be overlooked. Why go to the garden store and shell out $400 for a maple that has just sat in some nursery for six years? Grow your own! Once you get through that gangly childhood phase, your twig will be fabulous. With the money you save you can pay your federal income taxes!
I think I'll get Spare to pose with her tree for another portrait. Both are growing and thriving in the fertile soil of the Garden State.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
This Fucked Up Place Called America
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," waxing righteously indignant tonight and every night over the great gap between the wealthy few and the needy many. Oh, say. We've come a few baby steps from the slave labor used to build the Pyramids and grow cotton! But generally we're still wired either to dominate or recede.
I live in a place named Snobville. I teach in a place named Camden. It takes me nine minutes to drive to work, from Snobville to Camden.
Yesterday my daughter The Spare used this space to record a conversation she overheard from her classmates in which they extolled the virtue of bikini-shopping and moaned about having to fly to various resorts in coach amongst the "dirty people."
Yesterday and today I walked around my classroom as my students wrote about memorable moments in their lives. My students are nearly the same age as Spare and those girls she overheard.
Here is what is on the mind of my students:
*Mom dying of cancer, making plans with student to care for the younger siblings.
*Cousin being shot in a drug deal gone bad.
*Dad dying of liver cancer.
*Mom dying of a heart attack.
*Mom having so many heart attacks student learned how to dial 911 at age six. Mom has since died.
*Mom can't go home to Mexico to see her dying father because she doesn't have papers.
*Student gets called a gringo by his family in the Dominican Republic because he was born in America.
*Apartment fire, everything lost but our lives.
*Mom and Dad fought so much that a divorce is a relief.
*Cousin died, shot in crossfire.
*First ride in a squad car.
*Mom works six days a week, but on Sunday we have breakfast.
*My brothers were deported. I'll never see them again.
*Dad works three jobs to give us what he never had.
*I'm not allowed to write about my family. We are distantly related to Trujillo.
*No one in my family can speak English but me.
The misery these young people have seen is stunning. Their triumphs are few. Those who are upbeat write about love, parties, music, friends. Teenage things. But a patina of fear and resignation cloaks everything.
Even Spare, dear Spare, does not live with the expectations that her cousins will be shot and her apartment burnt down. But when I think that there are teenagers who wax indignant because they have to fly coach to a Mexican resort, I ... I ...
oh, crap. I feel a Billy Jack meltdown coming on. Clear the streets of Snobville while there's still time.
I live in a place named Snobville. I teach in a place named Camden. It takes me nine minutes to drive to work, from Snobville to Camden.
Yesterday my daughter The Spare used this space to record a conversation she overheard from her classmates in which they extolled the virtue of bikini-shopping and moaned about having to fly to various resorts in coach amongst the "dirty people."
Yesterday and today I walked around my classroom as my students wrote about memorable moments in their lives. My students are nearly the same age as Spare and those girls she overheard.
Here is what is on the mind of my students:
*Mom dying of cancer, making plans with student to care for the younger siblings.
*Cousin being shot in a drug deal gone bad.
*Dad dying of liver cancer.
*Mom dying of a heart attack.
*Mom having so many heart attacks student learned how to dial 911 at age six. Mom has since died.
*Mom can't go home to Mexico to see her dying father because she doesn't have papers.
*Student gets called a gringo by his family in the Dominican Republic because he was born in America.
*Apartment fire, everything lost but our lives.
*Mom and Dad fought so much that a divorce is a relief.
*Cousin died, shot in crossfire.
*First ride in a squad car.
*Mom works six days a week, but on Sunday we have breakfast.
*My brothers were deported. I'll never see them again.
*Dad works three jobs to give us what he never had.
*I'm not allowed to write about my family. We are distantly related to Trujillo.
*No one in my family can speak English but me.
The misery these young people have seen is stunning. Their triumphs are few. Those who are upbeat write about love, parties, music, friends. Teenage things. But a patina of fear and resignation cloaks everything.
Even Spare, dear Spare, does not live with the expectations that her cousins will be shot and her apartment burnt down. But when I think that there are teenagers who wax indignant because they have to fly coach to a Mexican resort, I ... I ...
oh, crap. I feel a Billy Jack meltdown coming on. Clear the streets of Snobville while there's still time.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Blood Donor Day Guest Blogger
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I've just had to beat my faeries back from the computer. One of my Facebook friends posted, "Be still and know that I am God" as a status. Damn Puck! I caught him in the action of typing, "Be gill and know that I am Cod." Disrespectful! Know whine for Puck two knight!
I gave blood today and then was observed by ten school administrators bearing clipboards. It seems like a good time for a guest blogger. So here's a transcript of the email I received this afternoon from my daughter The Spare, who is serving a four-year sentence in Snobville High with no time off for good (or bad) behavior.
Take it away, Spare:
I gave blood today and then was observed by ten school administrators bearing clipboards. It seems like a good time for a guest blogger. So here's a transcript of the email I received this afternoon from my daughter The Spare, who is serving a four-year sentence in Snobville High with no time off for good (or bad) behavior.
Take it away, Spare:
Boy do I have a story for you. Get ready because this is great.
So it was forth period study hall, and I was going around the school hanging up signs telling people to go look at the the Snobville HS Digital Gallery website. (I'm not sure why though, no one reads the newspaper, what would make anyone want to look at pictures?) I hung up a total of 11 signs. I know, I'm pretty legit. Anyways, I realize that I have a good 10 minutes left in the period and nothing to do. "Hmm," I ponder to myself, "I am quite hungry, I might as well stop by the cafeteria and grab a mere pretzel." Of course the stupid cafeteria ladies aren't at the snack place so I say, "Whatever, there is a vending machine. I'll just go to that." So I put in my dollar, and as usual it wouldn't accept it. ARG! So I flattened my dollar out for a good 5 minute and finally it accepted it. Just as I was about to get my delicious chips, they get stuck. DOUBLE ARG! I then try TWO MORE TIMES to get the snack. Nothing seems to work. Alone. Scared. Angry. And in some major need of chips, I just gave up. I went back to my study hall in a super bad mood. And just who do I see but a bunch of clone girls in a circle talking. It was like Star Wars: Clone Wars, only much MUCH worse. AMIRIGHT?! Their conversation went like so:
Ditzy Blonde 1: 7 days until I go to the Cayman Islands! Oh my gee!!!
Ditzy Blonde 2: First class?
Ditzy Blonde 1: Are you fucking joking, of course.
(Spare puts her Ipod in anticipating a horrible conversation. The Ipod dies. Spare's health goes down.)
Ditzy Blonde 2: UGH. My stupid dad won't let us. Like we're staying in the like resort thing in Mexico and its really pretty and all but like how much money is it for like 4 people to take first class? I'm taking coach all the way to Mexico. That's gross. Like the people who take coach, like they're dirty, right? Ugh, I want to throw up just thinking about it.
Ditzy Blonde 3: That's stupid. Your dad shouldn't do that to you. Like its the way you were raised. You've always taken first class.
Ditzy Blonde 2: I know, right? The only good thing about this stupid trip is that the gym overlooks the beach in my resort.
Ditzy Blonde 1: That's good. At least you can work out while you're there. You have to look skinny for Junior Prom. What are you gonna do about food there? You're gonna get so fat.
Ditzy Blonde 2: Oh I'm just bringing some granola and yogurt and I'm gonna eat that when I get hungry.
Ditzy Blonde 1: Good Idea. I think I'll do that too.
(By this time Spare is attempting to kill herself with her plastic spoon. It is not effective.)
Ditzy Blonde 2: Oh my god, I'm gonna look so great for prom if this diet works out.
Ditzy Blonde 3: Speaking of prom, what are we gonna do about Ditzy Blonde 4? If she doesn't get a date she can't come with us to the beach afterwards.
Ditzy Blonde 1: Ugh I don't know but it's so annoying. Anyways I bought my two bikinis for after prom. They are so cute. I got them at Nordstroms.
Ditzy Blonde 2: Congratulations! The bikini is like the second most important thing about prom, next to the dress. Are you guys gonna get a tan before prom?
Ditzy Blonde 1 and 3: Duh.
Ditzy Blonde 2: Good. I think I'm going to (insert some stupid tanning salon name here).
(Spare hits her head on the desk purposely.)
(All Ditzy Blondes look over in disgust, they then look at each other and snicker.)
(Spare looks at the clock. Only 2 more minutes of this. She considers drawing pictures of Daleks eating granola and yogurt. Or fashioning a weapon out of old gum wrappers.)
Ditzy Blonde 1: As I was saying, Cayman in 7.
(Spare decides on fashioning a weapon out of gum wrappers.)
Ditzy Blonde 2: Whore I'm so jealous! I'm only going to Key West!
(Spare is about to stab herself with the home-made weapon because she is Macgyver.)
(Bell Rings)
(Spare heads to Film as Art where she is watching Annie Hall)
Spare: Thank god for Woody Allen
Ditzy Blonde 1: (Under breath) She is so weird.
Sincerly,
Your Weird Daughter :)
Postscript from Anne: If any of you out there think the rich shouldn't get their taxes restored to Clinton-era levels, perhaps you're right. We wouldn't want these poor Snobville girls to fly coach, now, would we?
Why do I feel like hacking up a fur ball?
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The New Civil War: Another Interview with Mars
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today marks the 150th anniversary of the American Civil War, the bloodiest conflict in America's short history. Make note that we were fighting each other, not some invader from across the briny deep.
Here we are, 150 years farther down the road, and we at "The Gods Are Bored" ask a question: Could there ever be another Civil War?
Ah, well, in all matters of war, pestilence, famine, bloodshed, and violence, I automatically call a bored god for an interview. With some trepidation (because last time he set my sofa on fire), I offer you Mars, the God of War. Please give a cool, calm, gentle welcome to Mars! Some hail!
Anne: Hello, Mars. Can I get you anything? A few anabolic steroids? Night vision goggles?
Mars: GOT 'EM ALREADY. DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION FOR ME, IMPUDENT RISK-TAKER?
Anne: Yes. As You no doubt know (and approve), America is involved in a number of armed conflicts at present.
Mars: THE MORE THE MERRIER, I ALWAYS SAY.
Anne: I'm wondering if you see any civil wars in our future.
Mars: I'M WORKING ON IT.
Anne: What do you mean, you're working on it? You're trying to start a war, American against American? Something that could conceivably leave mounds of bodies in cornfields?
(Mars begins to slobber at the thought.)
Mars: FORGET IT. I MISSPOKE.
Anne: Crap on that! What do you have up your sleeve?
Mars: I DON'T HAVE TO DO MUCH HEAVY LIFTING HERE. YOU'VE GOT SOME HIGH-END MOVERS AND SHAKERS WHO ARE DIVIDING AND CONQUERING THE WORKING CLASSES. LOOK AT THIS THING IN WISCONSIN. NO FISTS FLEW ... THIS TIME. BUT JUST YOU WAIT.
Anne: I get you, God. If the drudge fights the drudge, and the rich look on from a comfortable distance, all that really happens is a convenient reduction in the workforce.
Mars: EVEN A SENATOR COULDN'T PHRASE IT BETTER THAN THAT.
Anne: Red states, blue states. Presidents of both parties that consistently support the wealthiest few at the expense of the many...
Mars: OH, WELL, YOUR LEADERSHIP WILL ALWAYS DO THAT. AND IF THEY CAN GET HALF THE POPULACE TO BUY INTO IT, ONLY THE SMALL WILL SUFFER.
Anne: I don't know why it is ... I interview bored deities here all the time ... but you are the only one who gives me a stomach ache and hives. I suppose you absolutely adored the American Civil War.
Mars: LOVED IT.
Anne: Favorite general?
Mars: IT SURE WASN'T MCCLELLAN. MY MONEY GOES WITH JACKSON, EXCEPT I COULD NOT GET THAT MAN TO TAKE A NAP.
Anne: So you were on the side of the South?
Mars: I HAVEN'T TAKEN A SIDE SINCE ROME FELL. STRICTLY FREE LANCE THESE DAYS. PRAY TO ME, AND I FIGHT WITH YOU. THE CAUSE IS NOT IMPORTANT.
Anne: Just what this planet needs. A war god for hire. I suppose business is good.
Mars: BOOMING.
Anne: Show yourself out, you sorry excuse.
Here we are, 150 years farther down the road, and we at "The Gods Are Bored" ask a question: Could there ever be another Civil War?
Ah, well, in all matters of war, pestilence, famine, bloodshed, and violence, I automatically call a bored god for an interview. With some trepidation (because last time he set my sofa on fire), I offer you Mars, the God of War. Please give a cool, calm, gentle welcome to Mars! Some hail!
Anne: Hello, Mars. Can I get you anything? A few anabolic steroids? Night vision goggles?
Mars: GOT 'EM ALREADY. DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION FOR ME, IMPUDENT RISK-TAKER?
Anne: Yes. As You no doubt know (and approve), America is involved in a number of armed conflicts at present.
Mars: THE MORE THE MERRIER, I ALWAYS SAY.
Anne: I'm wondering if you see any civil wars in our future.
Mars: I'M WORKING ON IT.
Anne: What do you mean, you're working on it? You're trying to start a war, American against American? Something that could conceivably leave mounds of bodies in cornfields?
(Mars begins to slobber at the thought.)
Mars: FORGET IT. I MISSPOKE.
Anne: Crap on that! What do you have up your sleeve?
Mars: I DON'T HAVE TO DO MUCH HEAVY LIFTING HERE. YOU'VE GOT SOME HIGH-END MOVERS AND SHAKERS WHO ARE DIVIDING AND CONQUERING THE WORKING CLASSES. LOOK AT THIS THING IN WISCONSIN. NO FISTS FLEW ... THIS TIME. BUT JUST YOU WAIT.
Anne: I get you, God. If the drudge fights the drudge, and the rich look on from a comfortable distance, all that really happens is a convenient reduction in the workforce.
Mars: EVEN A SENATOR COULDN'T PHRASE IT BETTER THAN THAT.
Anne: Red states, blue states. Presidents of both parties that consistently support the wealthiest few at the expense of the many...
Mars: OH, WELL, YOUR LEADERSHIP WILL ALWAYS DO THAT. AND IF THEY CAN GET HALF THE POPULACE TO BUY INTO IT, ONLY THE SMALL WILL SUFFER.
Anne: I don't know why it is ... I interview bored deities here all the time ... but you are the only one who gives me a stomach ache and hives. I suppose you absolutely adored the American Civil War.
Mars: LOVED IT.
Anne: Favorite general?
Mars: IT SURE WASN'T MCCLELLAN. MY MONEY GOES WITH JACKSON, EXCEPT I COULD NOT GET THAT MAN TO TAKE A NAP.
Anne: So you were on the side of the South?
Mars: I HAVEN'T TAKEN A SIDE SINCE ROME FELL. STRICTLY FREE LANCE THESE DAYS. PRAY TO ME, AND I FIGHT WITH YOU. THE CAUSE IS NOT IMPORTANT.
Anne: Just what this planet needs. A war god for hire. I suppose business is good.
Mars: BOOMING.
Anne: Show yourself out, you sorry excuse.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Advice You'll Have To Pay for, but Worth It
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ah, there's nothing like the first warm days of spring to remind me what a lazy lump I am and how pathetic my garden grows. I can look out my window and see my neighbor pruning her perfect flower beds ... oh hey! I can see them, and not my own yard! WIN!
Some of you have asked me how to lure faeries to your garden. You will be happy to know that there's a new book out called The Faeries' Guide to Green Magick from the Garden. It is by Jamie Wood with gorgeous illustrations by Lisa Steinke.
For those of you who can grow rosebushes through cracks in the sidewalk, this pretty little guidebook may be far too simplistic. No doubt you have herbal books that you use to press sunflowers. But for newbs like me, this little guide gives the names and purposes of several dozen herbs, flowers, and even trees, as well as recipes to make teas, breads, and remedies. There's advice on green gardening, magickal gardening, and co-existing with the fae. On this basis, I would heartily recommend it to those who've contacted me on the finer points of making the backyard faerie-friendly.
Given the fact that my one and only claim to fame is a half decent compost pile, I'm likely to derive some benefit from this book beyond just the quick essays on summoning faeries. That is, if I get past staring at the paintings. They really are beautiful.
As gardening season gets under way (for all the rest of you -- I see it as outdoor nap time), you might want to pick up a copy of The Faeries' Guide to Green Magick in the Garden.
Now. Where's my hammock?
Some of you have asked me how to lure faeries to your garden. You will be happy to know that there's a new book out called The Faeries' Guide to Green Magick from the Garden. It is by Jamie Wood with gorgeous illustrations by Lisa Steinke.
For those of you who can grow rosebushes through cracks in the sidewalk, this pretty little guidebook may be far too simplistic. No doubt you have herbal books that you use to press sunflowers. But for newbs like me, this little guide gives the names and purposes of several dozen herbs, flowers, and even trees, as well as recipes to make teas, breads, and remedies. There's advice on green gardening, magickal gardening, and co-existing with the fae. On this basis, I would heartily recommend it to those who've contacted me on the finer points of making the backyard faerie-friendly.
Given the fact that my one and only claim to fame is a half decent compost pile, I'm likely to derive some benefit from this book beyond just the quick essays on summoning faeries. That is, if I get past staring at the paintings. They really are beautiful.
As gardening season gets under way (for all the rest of you -- I see it as outdoor nap time), you might want to pick up a copy of The Faeries' Guide to Green Magick in the Garden.
Now. Where's my hammock?
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Paying It Forward with Music
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," bringing you a strict diet of old-time religion ... emphasis on the old. Accept no substitutes, all of our deities are time-tested with high approval ratings.
I don't have much time today, because Heir is sick and needs my attention. But I did want to thank those of you who recommended music for my second-hand, gently used MP3 player. Just as with clothing and kitchen supplies, I will never buy new or retail. I'll just wait for someone to outgrow or discard old electronics and basically be a step behind everybody else.
The MP3 player works. I've loaded Faun, Decemberists, Coyote Run, and even a selection of "Leaves of Grass."
Now I'm going to make a suggestion to y'all.
When I listen to Celtic music, I feel myself saying, "Where's the banjo?" That's because I grew up on hillbilly music, bluegrass to be precise. Bluegrass is a fusion of Scottish-Irish and African influences. Because the banjo is an African instrument, albeit modified in its stylistics for bluegrass.
Traditional bluegrass really is hillbilly music, and not many people like big doses of it unless they've got a little hillbilly in them.
In the late 1970s a group of young performers got together and created a sound called New Grass. This was a fusion of bluegrass, reggae, jazz, and country. It surely would have fizzled (and it since has), except the musicians in question were absurdly talented. They were:
John Cowan, vocals. Unparalleled in bluegrass music.
Sam Bush, fiddle and mandolin. A master of both, with jazz stylings. Sam's the one who covers Bob Marley.
Bela Fleck, banjo. He learned jazz banjo, moved to bluegrass, returned to jazz and now plays with the Flecktones.
These three dudes were in a band called The New Grass Revival. They were pretty successful in their time, but they broke up in (I think) 1989. If you watch their videos on YouTube, you can see that John Cowan wore his hair in that classic ugly 1980s style. It doesn't detract from his incredible vocals.
So, we at "The Gods Are Bored" highly recommend that you sample the New Grass Revival. Let me know if you like them. Sam Bush also has a solo album called "Glamor and Grits" that travels new ground, and both Sam and John contributed to a Leftover Salmon album. I could tell you the name of it, but Spare is listening to Doctor Who music on the MP3 right now. She recommends a terrific band called Chameleon Circuit. Nuff said.
Anyone have any idea how many albums I can put on a 5g MP3 player? The clock is still ticking -- I have until April 27 to fill it to the gills.
I don't have much time today, because Heir is sick and needs my attention. But I did want to thank those of you who recommended music for my second-hand, gently used MP3 player. Just as with clothing and kitchen supplies, I will never buy new or retail. I'll just wait for someone to outgrow or discard old electronics and basically be a step behind everybody else.
The MP3 player works. I've loaded Faun, Decemberists, Coyote Run, and even a selection of "Leaves of Grass."
Now I'm going to make a suggestion to y'all.
When I listen to Celtic music, I feel myself saying, "Where's the banjo?" That's because I grew up on hillbilly music, bluegrass to be precise. Bluegrass is a fusion of Scottish-Irish and African influences. Because the banjo is an African instrument, albeit modified in its stylistics for bluegrass.
Traditional bluegrass really is hillbilly music, and not many people like big doses of it unless they've got a little hillbilly in them.
In the late 1970s a group of young performers got together and created a sound called New Grass. This was a fusion of bluegrass, reggae, jazz, and country. It surely would have fizzled (and it since has), except the musicians in question were absurdly talented. They were:
John Cowan, vocals. Unparalleled in bluegrass music.
Sam Bush, fiddle and mandolin. A master of both, with jazz stylings. Sam's the one who covers Bob Marley.
Bela Fleck, banjo. He learned jazz banjo, moved to bluegrass, returned to jazz and now plays with the Flecktones.
These three dudes were in a band called The New Grass Revival. They were pretty successful in their time, but they broke up in (I think) 1989. If you watch their videos on YouTube, you can see that John Cowan wore his hair in that classic ugly 1980s style. It doesn't detract from his incredible vocals.
So, we at "The Gods Are Bored" highly recommend that you sample the New Grass Revival. Let me know if you like them. Sam Bush also has a solo album called "Glamor and Grits" that travels new ground, and both Sam and John contributed to a Leftover Salmon album. I could tell you the name of it, but Spare is listening to Doctor Who music on the MP3 right now. She recommends a terrific band called Chameleon Circuit. Nuff said.
Anyone have any idea how many albums I can put on a 5g MP3 player? The clock is still ticking -- I have until April 27 to fill it to the gills.
Saturday, April 09, 2011
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Now We Are Six!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," on or around our sixth anniversary! What began in 2005 as a peevish Pagan rant against anything and everything has become .... um .... okay, so evolution doesn't happen so quickly! Give me another ten million years, and I'll be the picture of calmness and sanity.
It's tempting to look back and re-live all the highlights, but oh crap. They are few, and the list of posts is loooooong. Onward and upward, I say.
May 5 has been designated the National Day of Prayer, again. I'm not sure whether the sitting president has issued some sort of decree, but I guess he probably will. Seems like he's for sale in every other area, so he's probably going to overlook the First Amendment as well.
So, once again on May 5, 2011, we'll have a big display of pastors, rabbis, and Imams praying for a nation founded on the premise that government should be unaffiliated with any and every faith path.
Do you believe in prayer? I sure do! Not a night goes by that I don't spend a few reflective moments with some deserving bored deity or another. If you haven't tried communing with a Higher Power who hasn't gotten a shred of attention in 2000 years, you really ought to. It's sort of a situation where you ask not what the god can do for you, but what you can do for the god.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" plan to find out where and when Snobville's observance of National Day of Prayer will occur. We will go there in all our numbers (that being one) and call Peace from the Quarters. It's a day of prayer. So who is choosing the recipient of the prayers? We Pagans have a Constitutional guarantee that we, too, can pray for the great, grand US of A.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" encourage fellow Pagans to get out the prayer! Take your circle, your coven, your blot, your local Pastafarians, find out where and when, and go to the local event.
Let's use this fabulous National Day of Prayer as a platform from which to proclaim that we, too, Pagans all, have our very own deities, rituals, and practices that are valid and affirming.
Honestly, does Yahweh need more press? No, but a little ink dedicated to Mannanan Mac Lir might be nice.
More on this in the future. Thank you for reading "The Gods Are Bored." I love what I do here. I've met so many fascinating Ancient Ones!
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
It's tempting to look back and re-live all the highlights, but oh crap. They are few, and the list of posts is loooooong. Onward and upward, I say.
May 5 has been designated the National Day of Prayer, again. I'm not sure whether the sitting president has issued some sort of decree, but I guess he probably will. Seems like he's for sale in every other area, so he's probably going to overlook the First Amendment as well.
So, once again on May 5, 2011, we'll have a big display of pastors, rabbis, and Imams praying for a nation founded on the premise that government should be unaffiliated with any and every faith path.
Do you believe in prayer? I sure do! Not a night goes by that I don't spend a few reflective moments with some deserving bored deity or another. If you haven't tried communing with a Higher Power who hasn't gotten a shred of attention in 2000 years, you really ought to. It's sort of a situation where you ask not what the god can do for you, but what you can do for the god.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" plan to find out where and when Snobville's observance of National Day of Prayer will occur. We will go there in all our numbers (that being one) and call Peace from the Quarters. It's a day of prayer. So who is choosing the recipient of the prayers? We Pagans have a Constitutional guarantee that we, too, can pray for the great, grand US of A.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" encourage fellow Pagans to get out the prayer! Take your circle, your coven, your blot, your local Pastafarians, find out where and when, and go to the local event.
Let's use this fabulous National Day of Prayer as a platform from which to proclaim that we, too, Pagans all, have our very own deities, rituals, and practices that are valid and affirming.
Honestly, does Yahweh need more press? No, but a little ink dedicated to Mannanan Mac Lir might be nice.
More on this in the future. Thank you for reading "The Gods Are Bored." I love what I do here. I've met so many fascinating Ancient Ones!
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
The Great Grand Album Challenge
Well, my friends, there's so much going on in the world right now that I wish I had time to write more. I promise I'll have an interesting post tomorrow or the next day.
In the meantime, I have three weeks. The clock is ticking.
Three weeks to load my MP3 player with everything under the sun. Then the stupid monthly subscription fee runs out. We've been paying this fee for over a year without downloading a single snippet of music.
Therefore I intend to make up for lost time. I'm going to load as many albums as I can. That way I recoup the money we've spent for the doggone Rhapsody all along.
Fling your recommendations my way! I do not like jazz. I'm pretty versed in classical. I'd rather swim in Jello than listen to most Broadway, so forget that too. Never liked opera. If it's country music, it has to be edgy.
Need: music that gives you that extra boost at the end of the day. Ethnic music, especially Scottish and Celtic. Fusion, so long as it has a beat. Drums. Dance.
What do you like that the bored gods would party to? Make a list and check it twice. Subscription ends April 27.
And yes, listening to this little MP3 player is like being let out of silence jail. Currently "Earth, Wind & Fire." Highly recommend. Although it pegs me age-wise.
Please don't recommend The Residents. I will block you.
Peace to all -- some Walt Whitman this week, I think.
In the meantime, I have three weeks. The clock is ticking.
Three weeks to load my MP3 player with everything under the sun. Then the stupid monthly subscription fee runs out. We've been paying this fee for over a year without downloading a single snippet of music.
Therefore I intend to make up for lost time. I'm going to load as many albums as I can. That way I recoup the money we've spent for the doggone Rhapsody all along.
Fling your recommendations my way! I do not like jazz. I'm pretty versed in classical. I'd rather swim in Jello than listen to most Broadway, so forget that too. Never liked opera. If it's country music, it has to be edgy.
Need: music that gives you that extra boost at the end of the day. Ethnic music, especially Scottish and Celtic. Fusion, so long as it has a beat. Drums. Dance.
What do you like that the bored gods would party to? Make a list and check it twice. Subscription ends April 27.
And yes, listening to this little MP3 player is like being let out of silence jail. Currently "Earth, Wind & Fire." Highly recommend. Although it pegs me age-wise.
Please don't recommend The Residents. I will block you.
Peace to all -- some Walt Whitman this week, I think.
Saturday, April 02, 2011
Oh, Brave New World without Music
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Alas, I am singing the blues this weekend. A cappella. Just my quivery voice going out into a void.
On Friday night my daughter The Heir and I journeyed to the World Cafe for a return engagement of The Residents. I triple dog dare you to find a weirder group of performance artists than these. In fact, many psychiatrists use live performances of The Residents as a test of sanity. If you sit and listen to the entire show, you're crazy. If you run screaming from the venue, you're sane.
Poor Heir. Totally certifiable. Not only did she attend the concert, she stood at the rail by the stage, the only girl amongst a crush of nerdboys who had that never-leave-the-basement pallor.
It's not fair to the concept of music to call a Residents performance music. So I can be safe in saying that since January, my entire experience of music has been reduced to short bursts of classic rock in the car, classical music during dinner (from the t.v., Mr. J's idea), and one lovely concert by Delhi 2 Dublin, which definitely qualifies as music.
No wonder I'm going nuts.
When I was a teenager, my parents gave me a record player from Montgomery Ward. I used my spare change to buy albums, and I played them on the record player. Some of my friends had 8-track tape players. Later I got a car with a cassette player, and that was great. Still later the CD player came out, and that was great too -- just seemed like little records. Pop them into the player and hit play.
Nowadays you need an IPod to listen to music. I don't have one. If I had one, I wouldn't have the foggiest notion how to use it.
I'm not the kind of person to block out the world by filling my ears with buds and listening to music instead of what's going on around me. But damn. I live in a suburb of Philadelphia. It's not like I'll be missing the trills of the nightingale if I hear a few tunes I like.
The Residents drove me to desperation. This can't be my only music! I've got to be able to hear "Fire and Rain" whenever I want! "Winchester Cathedral." Sam Bush. Earth, Wind, and Fire. "Get Up, Stand Up."
I want one of those gadgets that gets music off the Internet. The clock is not moving backwards. I have to step into the 21st century.
So this afternoon, my daughter The Spare said she would help me set up her old MP3 player to get some tunes. (She upgraded to an IPod at Christmas.) We sat down together. She got online and began clicking buttons. Click click click.
Two hours later we were still sitting there with no music to show for Spare's monumental efforts. We wound up calling the Rhapsody people and letting some dude named Earl with an Indian accent hack into our computer to try to fix whatever was wrong with Rhapsody on our end. Spare says it's fixed now and ready to load all the stuff of my dreams, but I'm afraid to touch the doggone little box -- and she's out with her friends.
Maybe you have to have been born into the digital age to be comfortable with music machines the size of credit cards. Maybe you have to be a Type A personality to work with this technology. I am sitting here in a silence broken only by the bizarre paranoiac screeches of The Residents, wishing I could just go back to those scratchy old records on a dusty turntable.
On Friday night my daughter The Heir and I journeyed to the World Cafe for a return engagement of The Residents. I triple dog dare you to find a weirder group of performance artists than these. In fact, many psychiatrists use live performances of The Residents as a test of sanity. If you sit and listen to the entire show, you're crazy. If you run screaming from the venue, you're sane.
Poor Heir. Totally certifiable. Not only did she attend the concert, she stood at the rail by the stage, the only girl amongst a crush of nerdboys who had that never-leave-the-basement pallor.
It's not fair to the concept of music to call a Residents performance music. So I can be safe in saying that since January, my entire experience of music has been reduced to short bursts of classic rock in the car, classical music during dinner (from the t.v., Mr. J's idea), and one lovely concert by Delhi 2 Dublin, which definitely qualifies as music.
No wonder I'm going nuts.
When I was a teenager, my parents gave me a record player from Montgomery Ward. I used my spare change to buy albums, and I played them on the record player. Some of my friends had 8-track tape players. Later I got a car with a cassette player, and that was great. Still later the CD player came out, and that was great too -- just seemed like little records. Pop them into the player and hit play.
Nowadays you need an IPod to listen to music. I don't have one. If I had one, I wouldn't have the foggiest notion how to use it.
I'm not the kind of person to block out the world by filling my ears with buds and listening to music instead of what's going on around me. But damn. I live in a suburb of Philadelphia. It's not like I'll be missing the trills of the nightingale if I hear a few tunes I like.
The Residents drove me to desperation. This can't be my only music! I've got to be able to hear "Fire and Rain" whenever I want! "Winchester Cathedral." Sam Bush. Earth, Wind, and Fire. "Get Up, Stand Up."
I want one of those gadgets that gets music off the Internet. The clock is not moving backwards. I have to step into the 21st century.
So this afternoon, my daughter The Spare said she would help me set up her old MP3 player to get some tunes. (She upgraded to an IPod at Christmas.) We sat down together. She got online and began clicking buttons. Click click click.
Two hours later we were still sitting there with no music to show for Spare's monumental efforts. We wound up calling the Rhapsody people and letting some dude named Earl with an Indian accent hack into our computer to try to fix whatever was wrong with Rhapsody on our end. Spare says it's fixed now and ready to load all the stuff of my dreams, but I'm afraid to touch the doggone little box -- and she's out with her friends.
Maybe you have to have been born into the digital age to be comfortable with music machines the size of credit cards. Maybe you have to be a Type A personality to work with this technology. I am sitting here in a silence broken only by the bizarre paranoiac screeches of The Residents, wishing I could just go back to those scratchy old records on a dusty turntable.
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