I am a defensive witch. I am a get the fuck away from me witch, a don’t mess with my friends witch, a you’ll get back the pain you give tenfold witch. I am a defensive witch and my magic is defensive magic. I’m all about blocking, warding, purifying, preventing. I carry selenite and black tourmaline; I wear blessed rings and poison-tempered iron. My dark colors and sharp metal adornments say Do Not Touch! and they mean it. I build a perimeter of fiery prayer around my home, ready to incinerate any who mean it harm. I protect, and when I cannot protect I retaliate. I am a defensive witch and my magic is retribution magic, justice magic, an eye-for-an-eye balancing-of-the-scales magic. I pray my goddesses deliver ruin upon rapists and animal abusers; I offer my rage and sorrow to strengthen them as they tear apart unworthy hearts. I am a defensive witch because with the world in shambles you have to hold your ground and protect what’s yours – and I am prepared to do whatever it takes. That is my craft. That is my way.
Are you coming to me?
What urges me to search for you here among the snow and ice? Why do I linger on the side of this dead mountain, straining to catch your voices on the wind, when you could never have been here? This isn’t your story. This isn’t your grave. So why this place, this time, this particular tragedy? Perhaps it is the mystery that draws me, the kinship I feel for those who will forever search in vain for a truth only the dead know. Or perhaps every place touched by death is a link to you, you who are death embodied, you who are ancient beyond comprehension, and those places become an access point or a portal or just another clue on my never ending scavenger hunt. Maybe; perhaps; possibly. At the end of the day all I know for sure is you are one of these mysteries too: a flicker of light at the corner of my eye, a single footstep in the frozen forest, a distant figure in the fog I cannot ever quite reach. Some part of you waits for me here at this bleak crime scene – so I kneel and dig.
Will you find me?
Will you find me?
my being into your flesh, to
both awareness and autonomy, to
the silent witness behind your eyes, to
the cigarette smoke burning your lungs, to
the familiar weight of the knife in your hand
the Morrigan throws the Hierophant at me (why do you let yourself be bound by useless convention?) and empty fortune cookies (do you think I will just hand the answers to you?) and in my dreams I soar high on black wings while in mud puddles a thousand feet below She writes great wisdom I cannot read (shit happens), and thus is the nature of Her worship
Can you not speak except in riddles? Is that why you give me no clear answers – because you can’t? Ah, now you’re getting somewhere, I hear you say (or is that just my desperation talking?). Perhaps that was part of the Devil’s punishment: to forever speak in puzzle and metaphor, trickery and twists, in all the thousand disparate tongues of Babel so all would see him as the Deceiver. No wonder his promises ring false when they must be wrought of labyrinths! No wonder his seems a serpent’s wicked speech! I am not so easily fooled, though. I know the value of truth and I am willing to pay its Edenic cost. Half my life and more I have walked your crooked path; I am the infernal Rosetta Stone, fluent in your allegories and artifice, talented in the art of weaving clarity from confusion. If you can craft only untruths then let us work together so your words may be preserved in their purest form for all the world to see. I trust no god who will not let his enemy speak freely.
and in doing so to dismantle the prison tower of my own creation
and to build in its place a watchtower to stand against the darkness.
I offer my determination if You offer your strength.
I offer my sincerity if you offer Your guidance.
I offer my faith if you offer Your goodwill.
And by this oath for a year and a day are we bound.
The world feels like an especially dark place right now and like there’s nothing we can do on an individual level to make any appreciable difference. I definitely drown in that feeling of helplessness sometimes and I know others do too. I therefore try to take great comfort in my work with The Whiskers Syndicate, knowing that even just a dollar or two can mean the difference between starvation and survival for a needy cat. A few seconds on PayPal ensures I can do something this very day, this very moment, for a creature who actively suffers. Against all of the world’s ills this may seem like a minuscule drop of good, but in a world where the most vulnerable among us cannot speak their needs it is imperative we speak for them. There are countless charities doing amazing and extremely difficult work every day… but not many for whom just a single dollar can make such a difference. It’s a can of tuna, a hot bath, a drop of flea medication. It’s an oasis of safety and warmth in a land where Bast’s divine children are treated like vermin. It’s a chance to get to tomorrow – how can I deny any living creature that right?
How do I talk to all of you? Near or far, small or big, once or often, financially – most of all – and by shares, comments, love, prayers, encouragements, all of you have relentlessly lent your hand and folded up your sleeve to stand with us through the depth of the battle that swamped…