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Burnt Offerings

January 23, 2013

On the night of my conception, the stars were fixed/Conjure woman told my mother/she’s gonna run and twist”– Cassandra Wilson, Run the Voodoo Down.

I was listening to this song the night before I began the beautiful voyage of a romantic relationship with my other half, the outlier, the madly analogous Space Boo.  Cassandra Wilson has a ghostly voice, calling to my mind images of smoky juke joints, syncopated beats, a heart-longing for the soul- twin, longing for travel, longing for the ephemeral.

We are spiritual, cultural orphans.

I tell people I’m Wiccan.  This isn’t quite true. Like Dickensian orphans, we are left to forage and steal.  Squatting in the rubble of the dead western religions, corporate greed, bereft of meaning we scavenge- or are left to starve.

In a world that plots data points and projects a line of best fit it’s difficult to explain a pantheistic, chaotic magickal/spiritual slant that both accepts and rejects it’s own reality.   We’re supposed to pick and choose.  It’s easier to proclaim oneself a Presbyterian, a Buddhist or a patient Agnostic than to say simply “I feel like the color mango today.”

I can say some factual things here: I am a witch, I’m a white female, I do not eat animals, I am fond of long walks, I am probably addicted to shopping, I have a rather odd nose, and I am very much in love.  Some people find me a little intense.  I can share those things with the world at some discretion. But these facts are static, boring.  I am not the sum of these things.

In Voodoo, one must be initiated.  So it was with mild trepidation and what might be interpreted as the arrogance typical of an American that I approached Papa Legba (uninitiated) earlier this afternoon for a favor- to grace a friend with his presence, for a spell, for a gift.  To stand at the crossroads of my life, the lives of others I love.  He is a gatekeeper and his vision is vast.  I would like to believe that he read in my soul a heartfelt desire to reach the lives of others.  I would like to think he issued his blessing; accepting my offerings of chicken-scratch, the veve, the prayer.

I would like to begin this blog with my partner, Space Boo, to chronicle the journey of the spiritual ragpicker.  The trimmings and red string, shiny jewels we’ve stolen.  The unspoken thoughts.   I would like to shed light on what it means to exist in the spaces between points, the sounds between words, to live as impossible outliers.

Hidden in the lines of this blog is my veve.

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One Comment
  1. Christine permalink

    This was refreshing to read this morning after waking with a memory of a snippet of a dream. In the dream I was so happy, so joyful to show a friend my new living space. It was like going into a pyramid with the top flattened, gray, rough. The windows were so narrow, like the ones in castles in which guns or other weapons could shoot so not much of a view. Other than a bed not much furnishings.

    It reminds me of a quote by Simone Weil: “The danger is not lest the soul should doubt whether there is any bread, but lest by a lie it should persuade itself itself that it is not hungry.” I’m glad that you and Space Boo are hungry!

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