Stand Back

Standard

We are not the members of a TV show cast, a movie series cast, or band members. Although we become caught up in their real lives, real romances, fictional stories, ships, fandoms . . . we have no right to expect them to conduct their personal and business lives in a way that suits us.

Over the last, oh, five years at least, I’ve seen a lot of anger directed at celebrities who don’t do what fans want them to do. I’ve seen celebs harassed off social media. I’ve seen threats of physical violence towards fellow fans with differing opinions. I’ve been threatened. I’ve seen threats from “fans” towards the adored celeb not behaving as the “fans” wish. Hello, what the absolute fuck is wrong with you that you think a real human being should have to live his or her life in a way that suits your dippy fantasies? Hey, that person you broke up with two years ago? That pisses me the fuck off. I liked watching the two of you make eyes at each other. Get back together or I’ll stalk you.

Now you think I should be committed, right? WELL DON’T BEHAVE IN THE WAY I JUST DESCRIBED IF YOU DON’T WANT PEOPLE THINKING THE SAME OF YOU.

DON’T tell people they have to stay in dead relationships because it turns you on (what the fuck is wrong with you?)

DON’T tell writers that they have to force your favorite characters into a relationship that doesn’t flow naturally with the damn story I swear to god I will kill a character before I bow to that pressure.

DON’T threaten other fans who disagree with you, don’t be a hashtag troll, don’t seek out what makes you angry because it’s gonna get you locked up. Think I’m kidding? Fuck up one more time.

If you spend your time looking for what upsets you, you need help. No, the entire world is not wrong. You are wrong. You are too involved in a fictional world. Speaking of fiction, writing pornographic fanfic that forces your OTP to be together forever is one thing, but if they’re real people, get the hell out of their lives and into a psychiatrist’s office.

Stop it.

Stop it

Stop it

Stop it.

Stop it and GROW UP. I don’t care if you’re 60, that’s even worse, GROW UP.

Go see a mental health professional. No one owes you anything

No

One

Owes

You

Anything.

Advertisements

Becoming the Battle Crone

Standard

In modern paganism, the Crone is often portrayed as a wise, wrinkled, shrunken Woman, while the Maiden is a teen, and the Mother is in Her 20s and perpetually pregnant, yet sexy, yet ready to fight to protect Her young.

This is all bullshit.

In the time of our ancestors, most Women didn’t live to become the Wise Woman in the corner beside the hearth. If the Maiden didn’t die in childbirth, She was a Crone by the time She was 35. All young Women had to defend their children and homes when their men were away.

But we have the legends of the Crone who was learned in magic, like Hecate, or full-on batshit out for blood, like The Morrigan. The Morrigan calls me, calls me. I hear the crows in the distance every day. The Morrigan is definitely a sexual Woman, and a trickster like the crow, and She had children–but I believe that She was always a Crone. Always a Wise Woman who knew the ways of magic and battle. Her Maidenhood is unknown; perhaps because She never had one. Perhaps She was born for battle.

The Morrigan is a sovereignty Goddess, meaning that a man who would be king had to have sex with Her because to Her people, She was the very land.

She still is, and She flies in Her crow or raven form, and She nests in the trees that belong to Nemetona, the British Goddess of sacred space.

It is time for Women to look to the trees, to listen to the wind, to hear the call of the crow, to go out into the sacred groves and listen. Just listen. Do you hear the crow? Every evening, about an hour before sunset, go out away from the trees and scatter a handful of dried corn. The crows will come to expect you. If you’re lucky, you’ll see them, or ravens, and they are easily confused.

If you hear the call of the crow, you are hearing the call of The Morrigan. She speaks to all Women, but you may feel Her call especially deeply and inescapably if you are a Crone. A Crone is a Woman past childbearing years. You can be a young Crone if your health. sexuality, or your own decisions make you “child-free.” You have passed from Maiden to Crone for a reason. In these times, that reason is probably battle.

Men call for our deaths if we have abortions. Men, so smug, warn us to ready our coat hangers because they believe they can take away our sovereign rights as Women.

They can’t do it. They are full of bluster. You, Woman, you go to the trees and the sky and the harvested field. Do you hear those harsh voices? Nothing pretty there, only warning and death . . . and protection. This time is the Battle Crone’s time. You are the one who will fight for the little Girl who doesn’t yet know what sex is. You are the Wise Woman who will protect all the Girls and children and young Women from predatory men. Men have made it clear: they will have us and our young. The Battle Crone screams louder and fights with more energy. She must. Very few men are our allies. Every action we take in life, from caring for family to work to voting is the action of the Battle Crone.

Listen for the crow and the raven, learn the difference between the two, honor them with food, keep their feathers if you are privileged to find them. When fools of men try to decide your fate, remember who you are. Remember the screams and prepare for the fight.

Becoming the Battle Crone

Standard

In modern paganism, the Crone is often portrayed as a wise, wrinkled, shrunken Woman, while the Maiden is a teen, and the Mother is in her 20s and perpetually pregnant, yet sexy, yet ready to fight to protect Her young.

This is all bullshit.

In the time of our ancestors, most Women didn’t live to become the Wise Woman in the corner beside the hearth. If the Maiden didn’t die in childbirth, She was a crone by the time She was 35. All young Women had to defend their children and homes when their men were away.

But we have the legends of the Crone who was learned in magic, like Hecate, or full-on batshit out for blood, like The Morrigan. The Morrigan calls me, calls me. I hear the crows in the distance every day. The Morrigan is definitely a sexual Woman, and a trickster like the crow, and She had children–but I believe that She was always a Crone. Always a Wise Woman who knew the ways of magic and battle. Her Maidenhood is unknown; perhaps because She never had one. Perhaps She was born for battle.

The Morrigan is a sovereignty Goddess meaning that a man who would be king had to have sex with Her because to Her people, She was the very land.

She still is, and She flies in Her crow or raven form, and She nests in the trees that belong to Nemetona, the British Goddess of sacred space.

It is time for Women to look to the trees, to listen to the wind, to hear the call of the crow, to go out into the sacred groves and listen. Just listen. Do you hear the crow? Every evening, about an hour before sunset, go out away from the trees and scatter a handful of dried corn. The crows will come to expect you. If you’re lucky, you’ll see them, or ravens, and they are easily confused.

If you hear the call of the crow, you are hearing the call of The Morrigan. She speaks to all Women, but you may feel Her call especially deeply and inescapably if you are a Crone. A Crone is a Woman past childbearing years. You can be a young Crone if your health. sexuality, or your own decisions make you “child-free.” You have passed from Maiden to Crone for a reason. In these times, that reason is probably battle.

Men call for our deaths if we have abortions. Men, so smug, warn us to ready our coat hangers because they believe they can take away our sovereign rights as Women.

They can’t do it. They are full of bluster. You, Woman, you go to the trees and the sky and the harvested field. Do you hear those harsh voices? Nothing pretty there, only warning and death . . . and protection. This time is the Battle Crone’s time. You are the one who will fight for the little Girl who doesn’t yet know what sex is. You are the Wise Woman who will protect all the Girls and children and young Women from predatory men. Men have made it clear: they will have us and our young. The Battle Crone screams louder and fights with more energy. She must. Very few men are our allies. Every action we take in life, from caring for family to work to voting is the action of the Battle Crone.

Listen for the crow and the raven, learn the difference between the two, honor them with food, keep their feathers if you are privileged to find them. When fools of men try to decide your fate, remember who you are. Remember the screams and prepare for the fight.

Musings on Writing Vampires in 2009 and 2018

Standard

In 2009 I started writing a traditional vampire story, like Dracula, the books, the movie adaptations. I always loved Frank Langella’s Dracula because Lucy (they switched the Lucy/Mina names) didn’t want to be saved.

A lot has changed in the world since I started writing those books–it already had, I was forcibly living under a rock–but I’m doing mounds of revision on the female characters. A woman already held the ultimate power, but I had to make the female characters stronger at the outset. Not easy to do when you’re dealing with very powerful and attractive male vampires. I also had to look at the first book and say, where is the diversity? How do I make it work naturally?

I think I have the answer. It changes a thing, but it adds a badly needed character and sews up a plot hole. The new character will be a main character. She’ll be part of the core group of characters. And that’s all I’m telling you for now.

Dear Susan

Standard

I wish you

All the misery I’ve endured in my life

All the misery my mother has endured in her life

All the misery my grandmother endured in her life

I wish you a life of misery

Because you had the gift of our voices

And you trod upon it In your rush to be a good girl

 

Susan, do you have a little dingy mark

On your white gloves?

You stand over

Your ivory pedestal sink

Scrubbing at that stain on your gloves

And it spreads

Up your arms

And your pearls dance in the sink

The rotted thread stuck to your neck

Dear Susan

 

Susan, there is something dripping down

Your debutante gown

I fear your corsage’s going brown

Dear Susan

You might want to see

To the stains upon your knees

Where you knelt and gave your glee

To his plea

“Tell them she lied about me”

You rose

With roses on your knees

 

Dear Susan…

I’ve just one last verse

The roses on your knees are cursed

You knelt in prayers and pleas and tears

And blood on sheets up to your ears…

And blood on earth behind dumpsters

Blood on linen

Blood on silk

Blood on needles of pine

And crammed it in your mouth, you did

And proclaimed it “MINE.”

ira Corvid

Standard

November 2016

The round eyes opened

High up in the trees

Eyes of night, cloud, and blood

The feathered bodies guarded their nests

And sang a song to those who would hear.

The song dragged along flayed sinew

The song was the last scream of the burning witch

The song was the last scream of the mother

Pushing the black-haired daughter out of her body

The song was the last keening

Over the body of

The dead mother

Two years

The bright eyes are open again

The leaves fall

The crows are in the corn

The ravens battle the hawks

The Mother unfolds Her wings

Woman do you hear the battle cry?

 

Six Years

Standard

That morning after she pulled the rug out from under me

I came home

And went to bed

How many times did I call your name?

You came to my room

Hovered in the doorway

“I need help,” I said.

“I don’t know what to do,” you replied.

And you went away.

I guess

You should

Have tried

Harder.