- Loki’s Agon will be ending in two days. If you have a piece that you were thinking about submitting, now is the time to do it.
- We have a new prayer card, which will be up in my shop shortly:
Mithras by G. Palmer.
There is a grace to the dead. We have our ancestors and they‘re a mixed bag: good, bad, and everything in between and it’s our duty, the sacred compact to which we were born, for which we were born to make sense of that, to shoulder it and dance through our lives. Our dead are ours, our strength, our foundation and so long as they are doing right by us, we’re called to honor them. (When they’re not, we may be called to elevations and healing work or to call them to account, or in some very desperate cases to cut them out but this is not the everyday norm). Here is the thing though: our dead for the most part tried to live good lives and to do for their families. Even when they fucked up grievously, very few set out to be horrible human beings. They may have been damaged. They may have made terrible choices, but in most cases they did the best they could in a very diseased world to make sense of their lives.
I think on my 3rd great grandmother Rachel Bobo. According to census records, she was illiterate. But she and her husband seem to have moved around quite a bit, possibly for opportunities for themselves and their children. She and her husband were illiterate but her son was a mechanic who owned his own home and could read and write and her granddaughter was an opera singer.
I’m not sure my own maternal grandmother ever finished high school. I suspect she had only an eight grade education if that. One of her daughters worked forty years plus in a respectable position in the Pentagon, the other at Aberdeen Proving ground, and two of her sons own their own businesses. I’m going for my doctorate. For some families, it’s getting a child to learn to read. For another, it’s getting them safely to adulthood. For others, it’s seeing that they never go hungry. Step by faltering step, our ancestors in the best of times pushed us forward. There were those so damaged or broken that they failed even in this, yes, but overall, stumbling in the often bitter confusion of living, they did the best they could.
Someone asked me recently why we honor the dead. It was an honest question, not asked in sarcasm or petulance but out of a desire to understand. We honor the dead because it is the right and proper thing for adults to do. People who don’t honor and respect their dead aren’t fully realized human beings in my opinion. They are like trees without roots. This is one of the ancient contracts (along with honoring the Gods and honoring the land) and it’s a sacred obligation. It shouldn’t be rocket science to instill in our children and our communities the rightness in not only preventing desecration of the dead, but in honoring them and giving them their dignity. This benefits us too.
Nor is honoring the dead about supporting their causes in life. That was a hard lesson for me to learn with my military dead. We honor our dead as individuals (remembrance is a powerful thing, a holy thing) but also because now they are part of this collective of ancestors that nurture and protect us. At least that’s part of it.
A few years ago I had to do a pilgrimage for my military dead and part of it was going to union and confederate graveyards and it was very, very hard for me to visit the latter. I don’t support what they fought for, I find so much of what they fought for personally vile and I was flat out told “it’s not about supporting their causes. it’ s not about patriotism or lack thereof. it’s about honoring the men and women who contributed to making us who we are today, who laid down their lives for something, who lived, suffered, experienced joys, and died trying to make their world a better place for their descendants. It’s about the link in the chain of humanity, and the strength of the ancestral collective. When we honor them, we restore and renew that ancient compact.
We carry our dead. We carry them always. We should do it proudly and we should do it well.
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Wyrd Curiosities at Etsy
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My amazon author page.
Walking the Worlds Journal
My art blog at Krasskova Creations
My blog about all things strange, weird and medieval.
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by Amanda Forrester
My head is on fire.
I can see it all –
The threads of destiny, of wyrd, coming together,
I see the ghastly fate of my sons,
I feel the bindings tying me to the boulder
I see the red, weeping eyes of my loyal wife
Holding the bowl above me.
And I see all the worlds consumed in fire and ice
When I (at last!) make my escape.
My head is on fire.
I can feel the venom even now.
Still, I do not try to avoid that future, but do what must be done.
And so a dart of mistletoe seals my fate
As surely as it did Balder’s.
My head is on fire.
I saw it all, knew it’s coming,
But also that it must be done.
I told my blood-brother so.
My lips were sewn shut not because I lie,
But because I tell the truth,
(at least, when it matters)
And even the Gods cannot bear to hear it.
Jon Upsal recently reached out to folklorist Carolyn Emerick and the resulting interview was quite interesting and enlightening, much better than the Wild Hunt coverage. The link is here and I suggest people take read. Emerick has been shat upon professionally because she holds to the radical notion that Europeans are people too.
So…Antifa garbage is now targeting the military dead. There are apparently plans for burning flags at Gettysburg on July 1 and pissing on Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall.
Exactly what is wrong with us when we think it ok to demean, pollute, and desecrate the resting places and memorials to our dead? We are a civilization that deserves to fall.
As my friend T. said recently, “These people were someone’s brother, someone’s father, and someone’s son. Their children and their mothers cried over those graves. Those children grew up fatherless because they fought for this country. Would you piss on their sorrow and the orphans that grew up without them?”
Don’t dishonor the dead used to be a universal tenet of healthy, functioning people. Obviously, not anymore.
An interesting post on moon Deities. I have never been able to form a relationship with Selene, precisely because of having such a deep devotion to Mani. I know the Gods are more than capable of sorting it all out but I found this a lovely meditation nonetheless.
Diana and Endymion by Pier Francesco Mola, c. 1660 (Switzerland)
When I visited Rome in 2006 (I think it was), I had not yet made the paradigm shift to Hellenismos. I was a fairly eclectic polytheist keeping a few shrines for a few different goddesses from different pantheons. I had had feelings for Athena that were not reciprocated, yet She was present in my life. Everywhere I went in Rome, I encountered Roma, the goddess of the city, and I remember being very frustrated because all the images I saw of Her looked to me like they were really of Athena or perhaps Minerva. I kick myself now for the gorgeous paintings, statues, and temple remains to Apollo that I must have missed, but I was very focused on Athena during that visit. It was only on my trip to the Capitoline Museum that my attention was torn away by…
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He is so many things to me… words are weak in His presence and weak on this page as I struggle to shape them into something approximating His power.
He is a maw. That’s what started all of this, another poet calling Him a maw. And He is and we are ever being devoured in it. The whole initiation process into Him is a crushcrunching down between His predator’s jaws. It’s a good way to live, soaring within the storm. It sets a certain stage and we can run with that for now.
Endless shrieking hunger. Cold, calculating, yet searingly passionate in His focus. I hear it all the time, when He is near, that roaring in the brain. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a fool
Or has not learned how to listen.
He sees farther than we can ever conceive. He sees us too and our potential.
I know what it is like to be hunted down like prey. I know what it is like to fight a killer but I don’t know what it is like to walk away. Some knowledge isn’t worth having.
A vicious, beautiful Bastard and I love Him for it and sometimes I hate Him too but I never, ever forget the stench of my own fear in the woods when that first Hunt began or when His corpse creaked high in the Tree above me. I’ll never forget how He treasures my viciousness either.
a frenzied ravening Beast who has learned to wear a pretty mask to court the ladies (and some men too). He is brutal and wondrous and the ironsharp tang of His presence a joy my heart can barely hold.
the sovereign Power that has drenched the earth in blood and glory, the wailing wisdom of poets, the shivering terror of bards, and the enchantments that hold it all together swallowed and spat about by His flock of charmed women with razor tongues.
The Force that will use those women up until they seek any crevice in this world to avoid seeing into His.
Ho, ho, ho,
Who, Who, Who
But a God who knows the secrets found only in madness would do that? Let’s see which of us will be the last one standing, oh my darlings. Go ahead. Run.
the Architect of Worlds who loves His people and the pristine symmetry of the cosmos and will spit us all on a spear to see that it does not burn.
While we bicker and scramble and piss away our charms where the grass is green and blood runs blackest in the streets, He snakes His way ahead to keep it all from curling back into the Gap.
Devastation. Another poet warned about things like this: “Love comes with a knife, not some shy question” and so it is and so it was and if I’m lucky, so it shall ever be.
He is the frenzy that drives me and His the calloused hands that pick me up when His work drives me to my knees and I kiss the ground in exhaustion. He is the frenzy that inspires me, and with Him at my side I have seen I have seen the birthing of worlds and wonder. He is a monstrous Glory and He is my Salvation.
It is enough that He is.
Someone asked me once
if i could sense by scent
when You are near.
They wanted to know,
what the musk and aroma of a God
I had to stop.
How to put these things into words?
The vocabulary has not been invented yet.
You are so many things:
the smell of a place where many have died
the darkness of mystery – dank and bloodwarm,
the tang of the sky at the peak of a storm
and the howling of its winds if such sound
could carry with it keen-sharp scent.
You are steel in the cold,
the silent winter’s night
when not even the fiercest of beasts
but all watch
with glittering eyes from their lairs:
They too are wary of Your passing.
Yours is the smell of savagery
cunning, and an ecstasy
worlds were born
in the wake of its devastation.
I cannot hold it,
not even to craft a drop of its essence
You are the presence
on the battlefield
a century after the last man fell,
the savor of remembrance
the shattering laughter,
a roar in the void,
and the echo of its silence.
You are fury,
oh that monk was right:
you indeed are fury
the glorious, joyous savagery
at the moment two armies meet in battle
at the moment you penetrate hidden power
at the moment you seize the trail of your prey
at the moment, every moment
when that which is in you bubbles over
and burns into those who raise their lips
in adoration to You
and we drink
You are Master of the Hunt
and we are all Your prey
if we are fool enough
to stumble in the path
of Your desires.
As to scent,
forget what I have written here.
You will know when He comes
how poorly the senses translate
the vast joy-terror of His passing.
You will know
when you too
are marked with His scent.
You will know
when it is far, far too late
(by G. Krasskova)
When they paint their nails
And gush about how sweet He is
And how He looks like that movie star
(you know the one)
how He soothes their egos
what pretty little snowflakes they are
that He stood with His brothers in that gasping gap
and slaughtered his own ancestor,
a sleeping giant who never did harm to anyone
(never did any good either, or so I’m told).
(tumblr makes forgetting easy)
that this is a God who rolled up His sleeves
whet the point of His spear,
took an ax
with forty whacks,
helped hack old Ymir up.
He split that oafish bastard’s skull
And sucked the marrow from His bones
and went about the bloody work
of making the worlds run.
When He was done,
He licked that ancestral blood from his lips
With a hearty smack.
People forget that.
They forget to Whom He is bound–
One –Eye bloods Himself for no one…
Save One as ruthless as He.
But Loki is pretty
And can be tender
And seduction is …
an entertaining pastime.
Gods wear masks.
It’s only when They remove them
That true devotion starts.
In terror and blood
In awe and trembling
Ecstasy is a crawling spider
Pouring wyrd from its ass
With glittering emerald eyes.
Tattered mask held in its claws.
Glamour is a game
Especially for this God
This Poison Eater
And one day
He might just show you
All those things You forgot
While buying tickets
To the next Marvel show
Or Spielberg wonder,
And gushing over
How beautiful He is.
Beauty is as beauty does
And Loki’s beauty
Is like a poisoned ax.
It glitters and cuts
And sears and burns
And through it all
I’d murder my own ancestor
To hear its cadence.
(but you won’t see me posting about it
(by G. Krasskova)