I get so fed up of people play-acting a persona or bigging themselves up to be something they only aspire to be. Yes, my cynic may be coming into play here and also my natural English propensity for understatement, but still…!
I hit against a similar frustration when I was on that dating website and I meet it again and again in the pagan/occult world. Perhaps it’s a lack of humour on their part, or an excess of humour on mine… or a lack of humour on mine…
Seshat: Hello, who are you?
Other: I’m a man who walks the paths that others fear to tread.
Seshat: Oh. Really? Sounds lovely. And what do you do when you’re not walking the paths that others fear to tread?
Other: I’m breaking the rules, pushing the boundaries, living life on the edge.
Seshat: Sounds a bit samey to me.
Such stupid, empty statements are the greatest shield against intimacy. So when does a man (or woman) practising detachment become just a man (or woman) with intimacy issues??!
The cooler the man, the sexier he believes himself to be, the more the empty-headed women flock around and believe the myth of stud-ness he weaves around himself, the more I laugh and can’t take him seriously in any respect.
Other: You’re laughing… at least you’re pleased to see me.
Seshat: Trust me, it’s only my top half that’s pleased to see you.
It is impossible to have any kind of meaningful conversation with someone who is more interested in their own appeal than in being appealing to you:
Seshat: I like your accent.
Other: Yes, I do have a nice voice, don’t I? Nice and deep. Sexy, isn’t it?
Seshat: Um. Yes.
Other: I saw you looking at my arse. I have a good arse, don’t I? Loads of people have said that.
Seshat (who had actually been looking at a squirrel): Um. Yes.
Sure, confidence is attractive. Even confidence verging on a quiet arrogance can be sexy. Maybe that’s the key word – quiet. I just wish some of these people would shut up! Yes, I know you are amazing, handsome, sexy, desirable to all of female flesh; I know you are the darkest, darker-of-the-darkest-darkier-dark-darkness I will ever have the pleasure to meet… So cut the crap and get real.
I thought walking the Left-Hand Path was about a brutal self-honesty and a desire to cut through the egotistical bullshit, to pare away the excess and get to the pure white bones of Self. So why does it have to come with the LHP™ commercialised pantomime pony-arsed prancing of a bunch of teenagers high on their first sip of absinthe? But that’s unfair to teenagers, especially as most of the people are older and should know better.
But even apart from the LHP “I’m so dark my own mother couldn’t find me in a coal shed” crew, there are still those, for example, amongst the pagan crowd for whom every floorboard creak is a ghost trying to communicate, and every poorly developed photo is a sign from the other side. I recently had to bite my tongue while I was shown a “ghost photo” which was actually just a “crap photo”. As my friends know, I am not a “social” person. I don’t do airs and graces very well. I once had a very well-heeled boyfriend (son of wealthy family, royal associations) who was just about to embark on a political career in London working for Lord S. We broke up when he moved to London because he couldn’t trust me not to leap on the tables and talk about the redistribution of wealth to his cronies … and yes, he actually said that to me. Prat… although he does have a point.
Oh, I’m just sick of all the bullshitting. I’ve seen women acting the “I’m a sultry whore” who use the adjective “orgasmic” like teenagers use the word “awesome” – and both sound like idiots to me. And I’ve seen men acting the “I’m a dark stud machine”. They are welcome to each other. At a Year 2000 party I attended in Israel, I saw a couple dancing: she stood on the spot twiddling her hands and wiggling her hips looking abashedly at the floor; he circled her making enormous thrusting gestures with his hips. It’s easy to fall into stereotypes, to hide behind the image of being whatever you happen to think is safest… because I do think that this insistence on image is about staying safe and not showing who you really are. As such you do yourself the biggest disservice IF you are actually serious about internal spiritual progress as opposed to group acceptance, getting laid and being cool.
Anyway, that’s some of my rant-urge exorcised tonight. My sub-conscious is bubbling with a restless fury, even though consciously I am feeling quite chilled and amicable (believe it or not!). Might as well end in the vein that I started:
She was nervous and arrived a little late. She had never been to an exclusively pagan gathering like this before. Of course she had attended pagan conferences and pagan festivals, but this was a private soirée held in the home of a woman who was but a new acquaintance. She had been surprised to receive an invitation at all.
“Darling, lovely to see you. Thank you for coming. Let me take your cloak,” said the hostess with the mostess… most of which was bulging over a medieval wench style corset that creaked at the seams from holding in so much bosom. Her chenille skirts glistened and crinkled in the candlelight. This was the first thing she noticed; no electric lights, just candles everywhere throwing mobile shadows while warming and softening faces so everyone looked at least a little beautiful, even if they were not.
She was given a glass of champagne, one of her favourite drinks but she really wished it was water. She loved the way the bubbles fizzed up her nose and gave her hiccupy burps, but looking around at this conglomeration of esoteric elites she was suddenly sure that none of them had ever, ever giggled over champagne burps and a tickly nose. This was a crowd of people she wished to remain sober around.
“Here, let me introduce you to some people. This is Edmund, he’s a druid, lives near Glastonbury.”
Edmund smiled though his eyes contained a tad of suspicion and distance. He wore a white robe and manfully juggled stang, drink and canapé.
“What are you?” he asked rather gruffly.
Before she could answer, Busty Corset said, “Seshat is a witch, dear.”
“Oh, I won’t ask what kind, just not interested in the politics. Stick to the land, the land will tell you everything you need to know.”
“Erm, thank you?” said Seshat with a questioning lilt as she wasn’t sure if she had been insulted or awarded the benefit of another’s wisdom.
Busty Corset took her elbow and propelled her to the far corner of the dark and flickering room.
“You must meet Cynthia, she communes with angels.”
“Oh Lordie”, thought Seshat, very ungraciously.
“Hello,” said Cynthia with a sweet smile that immediately made Seshat feel bad for pre-judging her. “I’m Cynthia. I see you surrounded by angels of light. You are so lucky. Would you like me to speak with them?”
“Erm, thank you?” said Seshat, again unsure whether this was a desirable thing or not. “I … if you like.”
“There is one beautiful angel with his hand resting on your head. He loves you, especially that one outfit you wear that has a split up the …”
“I’m sure Seshat doesn’t want to hear about that, dear. Let her commune with her own angels for tonight, okay?”
Cynthia, who had taken on a slightly predatory look and was licking her lips, looked disappointed.
“There’s someone over here you must meet. Michael, darling, this is Seshat. She talks to spirits too.”
“Do you see them?” asked Michael whose eyes darted from place to place like he was trying to keep track of fireflies.
“See who? Now you mean? Or in general? I…”
“Do you see, hear or feel them, or all three?”
“I, kind of, well, I don’t really like to talk about it much.”
A candle at Michael’s right shoulder exploded a bit of wax over his velvet jacket.
“Get away, I tell you. I won’t speak to you.” Michael started batting the air around him.
Seshat smiled, baring perhaps a little too much tooth and excused herself. She headed for the drinks table. Maybe she was going to need more than champagne to get through this evening.
She started chatting to a Hedge Witch at the buffet table. The woman seemed sane and normal, and soon they were discussing when was the best time to plant certain herbs. Suddenly, Seshat felt something large attach itself to her leg. She looked down and saw a man clinging to her leg like a koala to a Eucalyptus tree. He was moving up and down in a manner that looked suspiciously like …
Seshat turned to the Witch. “Who’s that? What’s he doing to my leg?”
“Oh, that’s Fred. He’s a sex magician, that’s just how they say hello.”
“Oh,” said Seshat, looking down. “Hello.”
The sex magician looked up at her and gave her a wink. “Alright?”
“Yes, um, fine. Please don’t ladder my tights.”
“I know Tantra, special techniques for avoiding that.”
Two minutes later he detached himself, winked again and walked off.
“What a, um, friendly man,” said Seshat as she saw him walk across the room only to attach himself to another person’s leg.
“Yes, awfully nice. Good in bed apparently. Has lots of practice so you’d bloody hope so, hey?!”
The Hedge Witch sniggered and Seshat smiled feeling entirely out of her depth.
A man with a fulsome beard sidled up to her. “Hi, I’m Phillip, I’m a lycanthrope.”
“Of course you are…” said Seshat
“I hear you’re a witch.”
“Just a witch. Nothing special. Nothing in particular. Not hereditary. Not entirely solitary, but not in a coven…” Seshat stared into her drink with embarrassment, she was good at saying what she was not but stumbled to say what she actually was. She felt that everyone at the party carried some kind of credentials even if it was just the recognised acceptance of the group that they were ‘such-and-such’. They had the certificates, the initiations, the handshakes (or leg-humps), the badges, T-shirts and car bumper stickers (“My other vehicle’s a broom” or “Satanists do it with horns on”). Phillip looked at her kindly.
“You don’t feel too comfortable here, do you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“I felt totally on the fringe when I first started coming to these parties. You get used to everyone. They’re just very honestly what they are, you know? No hiding it behind a facade of administrator, personnel manager or social worker. They can just be themselves here. WE can just be ourselves.”
Seshat looked around. Everyone was in conversation … all with visible conversation partners except Michael who stood conversing with the shadows thrown by the curtain. There was colour, vibrancy and outright kooky weirdness. “Maybe this is where I belong,” wondered Seshat to herself.
“Fancy a walk?” asked the Lycanthrope. “There’s a beautiful full moon outside and a nice woodland just at the back of the house.”
“Erm, thank you?” said Seshat… She paused. A lycanthrope by moonlight in a forest… She downed her refilled glass of champagne in one and promptly burped at Phillip.
He grinned. “Good bubbles, huh?”
She smiled at him, suddenly sure of herself. “Great bubbles.”
Yes, she probably did belong just where she was.
This is purely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living, dead or other is entirely coincidental :-p
Yesterday evening Kundalini yoga was on the study plan. I worked through the introduction to Jung’s Psychology of Kundalini Yoga (based on the seminar he gave in 1932) and took notes. By the time I had finished I was pooped so snuggled in bed with a Kundalini-lite book.
I bought it because I want to learn new positions, new hand mudras (which I love!), mantras, breathwork … well, anything new really. Some of you may remember me talking about it last year, and about some of the really appallingly sugary sound-bites that are sprinkled through the book, and the fact that apparently I should be wearing a turban whenever I do my yoga. Argh!
Last night, maybe because I was tired, I just became aware of all the numbers being thrown at me: pseudo-scientific statistics to give credence to some very dodgy dogma. I wondered if such numerical profligacy was an example of New Age gematria…
- Women are 16 times stronger than men (oh, just don’t even ask!)
- We are 15 % slaves to routine
- 1 negative habit will automatically attract 4 sister habits
- There are 2 guiding instincts in man – to improve his future or to block improvement of his future
- There are 4 stages to sleep and a healthy adult only needs 5.5 hours sleep (my arse!)
- There are 6 steps to prepare for bed (one of which includes running cold water over your feet … like I said, just don’t ask!)
- And there are 2 things you must do every day – sweat and laugh
I was also slightly baffled at the author’s obsession with people going insane. [More numbers...] In the 1960s, out of twenty million young people [random!!], millions died, were permanently damaged or went insane from using marijuana. Later she says, “demoting” i.e. negative habits will make you a “physical wreck, mentally insane and/or spiritually defunct”. Some of my best friends are mad but I do quite like the phrase “spiritually defunct”!
The page that finished me off for the night included advice for women (originally from a man, naturally!):
- Make-up is evidence you are handicapped
- Stimulants kill you
- Do not jump out of bed like a hot potato (perhaps he has been smoking too much of that marijuana, I have never seen potatoes jumping out of bed, hot or otherwise)
- Wash your hair with oil and yoghurt (nice)
- And because god does not allow hair to grow on our foreheads, women should not have fringes
When I read such twaddle it makes me feel extremely contrary … in fact, right now I think I will apply full Goth-style make-up, make a strong cup of coffee … I may have trouble growing hair on my forehead … but I shall lounge in bed while jumping out at regular intervals like a hot spud to apply more make-up … It’s a picture, isn’t it? My left-hand path to enlightenment … or is that right-hand? Where’s a potato to ask when you need one…
Ok, ok, so know your maggots but for goddess’ sake don’t go around dissecting everything that just LOOKS like a maggot … some things just are, some things are not in your control, some things do not respond to the rationalist analysis.
I’m sitting on a chair. Why am I sitting on this chair? It’s a bit uncomfortable. Ah, I must be punishing myself and this stems from my Catholic upbringing and the inherent guilt. It wasn’t my fault. I was brought up Catholic it was my mother’s fault. Ergo. It is my mother’s fault I am sitting on this chair.
I’m eating breakfast in the kitchen and not in the living room. Why is this? A living room is for relaxing in, therefore I am not giving myself permission often enough in my life to relax. This is because of the work ethic I was brought up with. It wasn’t my fault. My mother is German. Ergo. It’s my mother’s fault that I sit in the kitchen to eat breakfast.
It’s raining today. The weather report yesterday said it would be sunny. I feel disappointed that it’s raining. Why is this? I thought it would be sunny but it is raining; the meteorologist lied. This supports my belief that everybody lies to me. It’s not my fault. My mother never warned me that life is unpredictable. Ergo. It’s my mother’s fault that it’s raining.
Do you see what I mean?? And do NOT come back and congratulate me for this blinding psychological discovery that it’s all my mother’s fault! I am J.O.K.I.N.G. Geddit?
I can be as intense as the next person, but I sprinkle it with humour and the ability to laugh at myself. While writing this I am giggling away. The RH came into the office and said, “Are you laughing at yourself again?” He says that I find myself the most amusing subject matter, more so than anybody or anything else. It is true. I see the ridiculous in myself and it makes me laugh. My humour helps me climb mountains, and even when my feet are bleeding I am chuckling because I have wide feet that look like duck’s feet and my mind will start to envisage a duck quacking up a mountainside. When my ex turned up on the scene recently I was terrified, but I could still laugh about it at moments because it felt like I was Penelope Pitstock legging it in thigh-high pink boots from my adversary who loped behind me in a black cloak while twiddling his moustache …
Life is ridiculous. It is not always (or ever!) to be controlled. Other people cannot be controlled … So another person needs therapy and they won’t go for it? So what? Let them stew in their own complexes and when their life self-combusts maybe they will reconsider. Harsh? Pragmatic. If someone is ill and then refuses to take care of him-/herself but expects copious amounts of sympathy and emotional balm; leave them crippled. How else will they learn the simple lesson of cause and effect if you keep leaping in like some divine abrogator who deflects the consequences of their actions, sooths, calms and sacrifices your self on the altar of their ego (this does not preclude helping people with everything you have when they truly want to be helped – but believe me, not everyone does want help – some people actually like their life a bit shitty – apparent victims often hold all the power!).
I am right royally sick of it. And there I was yesterday saying I would control my urge to use the blog as an outlet for my vitriol. Oh no. Did you believe me? Do you feel betrayed and hurt? Have I just confirmed the ‘fact’ in your life that everyone lets you down? Glad to be of service.
Have you heard the one about the Jew who every time he dropped his buttered toast it fell on the buttered side. One day it fell butter side up. He was elated. Was this to be a change of fortune for him? He ran to the rabbi and said, “Rabbi, whenever I drop my buttered toast it always lands on the buttered side, but this morning I dropped it and it landed butter side up. Is this a sign from G-d that my fortunes are changing?” The rabbi pondered, and hummed and ha-ed and consulted various Talmudic reference books. Finally he came back to the man and said, “You buttered the wrong side of the bread.” Oy vey!
I was visiting a friend in a coastal town. Finally I had time to relax and just take in the sea air. My friend is a non-pagan with an open mind to all of my ways. Her partner calls me a Wiccan and I don’t object; it is a conceptual handle on what I am, as anything beyond that starts to sound a little too Middle Earth for him.
It was a bright but cold day when we headed to the sea. We found a café along the pebbly beach and settled in to be chilled by the wind and warmed by coffee. I offered to buy the second round and headed to the small wooden hut that served as kitchen and counter. A man stood there already waiting for his double latte with chocolate sprinkles. He eyed me suspiciously, a look that became rather sharper when he noticed my unicursal star broach. He nodded at the broach and said, “Love is the law… ” Suddenly I felt like a German spy from the Quiller Memorandum, “No, zes are not ze braend of zigarettes dat I normally smoke …” I replied “Love under will” and then stood awkwardly looking at him, feeling like we should now do some kind of black ghetto secret handshake ending with us bumping shoulders.
He grinned and I wondered if I should have just feigned ignorance and said my broach was a pretty star and that it went with a super-duper outfit I had at home.
He asked me if I was from the area, I said no and studiously avoided saying exactly where I was from. No need to worry about intrusive questions, he was more interested in telling me about himself, ending with, “Don’t you think I look like Crowley?” You and all the other overweight bald Thelemites, I thought. “Oh, yes,” I said. “Definitely a resemblance.” I made regretful noises about how I must return to my friend who was starting to look in need of coffee-defrosting. I saw him gearing up to ask to swap contact details. On his in-breath I jumped in firmly and said, “SO nice to meet you. LOVELY talking to you. MUST go.” And I trotted back to my friend, coffees in hand. I prised her chilled fingers off the old cup and slotted in a new cup which started to send heat up through her arm, enough for her to bend her elbow and swig a few gulps.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Oh, just another Aleister wannabe.”
She looked at me confused. I gave a big ‘never-mind’ smile and toasted her with the coffee.
“Is that how much I owe you? I thought it was your round …”
I leant across and gave her a big kiss on the cheek.
“I must teach you the Secret Handshake of Middle Earth at some point …”
©StarofSeshat 2009 This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or other is purely coincidental.
“Thanks, I’ll take these please.”
I place the book and crystal pyramid on the glass counter, and turn my head as a young man enters the shop. He stares intently at me with an openness I usually only see in the mentally impaired. Normally people steal a glance, lock eyes momentarily with a non-committal expression before looking away. He greets the assistant and looks at my purchases.
“A crystal pyramid. Awesome”.
Oh, I get it. He’s The-Man-Who-Walks-Up-To-You-In-The-Pub. The stranger, perhaps seeing something too open in my expression, seizes the opportunity to connect.
“I just got back from a mad Summer Solstice festival, yeah, down in Breinton. Course, Covent Garden is the business. That’s where you can get all the proper pagan clothes. You see I’m a pagan and I HAVE to celebrate the solstice.”
“Yeah, Celtic gods, An’allthat.”
Ah, An’allthat, that’s a new Celtic god to me, but I bow before his enthusiastic knowledge.
His assumptions prickle, and I can’t help but say, “We did our ritual this morning.” My goodness, am I really thumbing my metaphorical nose at him? Who is the youngster here?
At which point he starts groping inside his shirt and pulls out an ankh, nodding and grinning at my chest.
“Oh, yes.” I wear an ankh as well.
“Yeah, mine’s got a garnet in. My birthstone. So, yeah. This festival, it was so …”
Don’t tell me, awesome.
“I hadn’t heard of a pagan festival nearby.”
“Oh, yeah, an’ then we’ve got The Big Chill coming up.”
I think the organisers of The Big Chill would be surprised to hear they are a pagan festival. Suddenly I wonder if the Summer Solstice festival he attended wasn’t actually a music festival. And my suspicions are confirmed as he reels off more known music events, that are about as pagan as the Pope.
“So,” say I. “Will you be going to the Ludlow Esoteric Fair?”
“No Ludlow Esoteric Fair.”
“Is that at the castle.”
I explain where it will be, and mention the main aims of the conference. I mention Madeleine Montalban and The Regency Group.
“Oh, yeah,” he interrupts. “I went to the Conservationist Group thing in London. Thousands of people there. Well cool.”
I pause mid-breath and feel very old. Is this the generation gap that is yawning before my feet giving me vertigo?
He looks at me blankly. I start shoving my purchases into my bag. This conversation is going nowhere fast. He flips out a phone, and dials MD for Major Distraction, as I wave and smile at the assistant. He studiously avoids my gaze and pretends not to see me leave.
I walk away and wonder when it became so “awesome” to be pagan and so easy. Buy the clothes, go to the festivals, wear an ankh (that archetypal symbol of all things … Celtic?) and proudly tell whoever will listen, “Cos I’m pagan, yeah.”
© starofseshat 2008