My computer should be fixed later this week. In the meantime
The others shun him
sits alone at the Summit
pariah supreme
Monday, July 10, 2017
Thursday, July 06, 2017
A New Goddess Joins the Magical Battle for America
I'm just off a short but memorable vacation, and when I got home my computer was so sick it can't be used. So this very important post lacks images (not that they are necessary).
Let's start with a mental image: Picture a beautiful Goddess of the Greco/Roman pantheon. She has curly hair and fine, keen features. Of course she is attired in a flowing toga. What makes her unusual is that wherever she walks, pristine water sprouts behind her steps. Her name is Cloacina.
In ancient Rome, Cloacina was charged with water purification. All of those elaborate sewer systems and aqueducts were dedicated to Her. Sometimes she is named Venus Cloacina, which tells you how beautiful She is and how highly the ancient Romans esteemed her.
Years and years ago, I petitioned Cloacina to safeguard a little dry run out in the land where I grew up. A developer bought a 900-acre tract and planned to build housing for 11, 000 people on it, mostly in the form of high-density townhouses. Since there's no infrastructure for 11,000 people in that part of the world, someone would have had to build stores. The local fire department would have had to expand, as would law enforcement. Traffic would have been a nightmare, since the only road to the entrance of this proposed development is curvaceous, two-lane Route 40.
The dry run's name is Terrapin Run. (A dry run is a small stream that can go completely dry, or just become a series of shallow pools, when the weather gets hot and dry.) I became involved in a citizens' campaign to save Terrapin Run and block the development. Since Terrapin Run is a Tier II waterway (meaning it's pretty damn pure), I thought Cloacina might be interested in helping with this campaign.
Cloacina is the very essence of a bored goddess. In modern times she is nothing more than a name for an orifice we all have below our waists. She was only too happy -- indeed, She was thrilled -- to have an important miracle to perform in the here-and-now.
And She performed it brilliantly. Not a spade of earth was turned on that development! The entire property sits idle, with Terrapin Run burbling through it, when it does burble, which is usually springtime.
Now I have asked Cloacina to take on a much bigger project. I'm sure you're all aware that our sitting president has ordered his cabinet members to roll back regulations on clean water and pesticides. This means that all of our major waterways could degrade from their current condition. Cloacina is all about clean water. She kept the Romans alive and healthy, and they loved Her for it! She can do this for us as well. We are, after all, another vast, militaristic, and far-flown empire, like the one that provided Her praise and worship team.
My friends, I am asking for you to find a place on your altar for Cloacina. I'm asking you to petition her to protect our sacred waterways from degradation. She wants to join the Magical Battle for America. She wants work. Let's give Her a big job, with full faith that, if we worship Her, She will deliver us from evil.
Please find room for Her in your heart! This Goddess delivers.
Let's start with a mental image: Picture a beautiful Goddess of the Greco/Roman pantheon. She has curly hair and fine, keen features. Of course she is attired in a flowing toga. What makes her unusual is that wherever she walks, pristine water sprouts behind her steps. Her name is Cloacina.
In ancient Rome, Cloacina was charged with water purification. All of those elaborate sewer systems and aqueducts were dedicated to Her. Sometimes she is named Venus Cloacina, which tells you how beautiful She is and how highly the ancient Romans esteemed her.
Years and years ago, I petitioned Cloacina to safeguard a little dry run out in the land where I grew up. A developer bought a 900-acre tract and planned to build housing for 11, 000 people on it, mostly in the form of high-density townhouses. Since there's no infrastructure for 11,000 people in that part of the world, someone would have had to build stores. The local fire department would have had to expand, as would law enforcement. Traffic would have been a nightmare, since the only road to the entrance of this proposed development is curvaceous, two-lane Route 40.
The dry run's name is Terrapin Run. (A dry run is a small stream that can go completely dry, or just become a series of shallow pools, when the weather gets hot and dry.) I became involved in a citizens' campaign to save Terrapin Run and block the development. Since Terrapin Run is a Tier II waterway (meaning it's pretty damn pure), I thought Cloacina might be interested in helping with this campaign.
Cloacina is the very essence of a bored goddess. In modern times she is nothing more than a name for an orifice we all have below our waists. She was only too happy -- indeed, She was thrilled -- to have an important miracle to perform in the here-and-now.
And She performed it brilliantly. Not a spade of earth was turned on that development! The entire property sits idle, with Terrapin Run burbling through it, when it does burble, which is usually springtime.
Now I have asked Cloacina to take on a much bigger project. I'm sure you're all aware that our sitting president has ordered his cabinet members to roll back regulations on clean water and pesticides. This means that all of our major waterways could degrade from their current condition. Cloacina is all about clean water. She kept the Romans alive and healthy, and they loved Her for it! She can do this for us as well. We are, after all, another vast, militaristic, and far-flown empire, like the one that provided Her praise and worship team.
My friends, I am asking for you to find a place on your altar for Cloacina. I'm asking you to petition her to protect our sacred waterways from degradation. She wants to join the Magical Battle for America. She wants work. Let's give Her a big job, with full faith that, if we worship Her, She will deliver us from evil.
Please find room for Her in your heart! This Goddess delivers.
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Plan B
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," safe and sanitary through a long school year! My name is Anne Johnson, and I did not get the stomach virus during the school year that just concluded. I consider that an accomplishment!
Now I would like to keep the streak going.
Customarily, this is the weekend where I go to Four Quarters Farm, which is a quasi-Pagan campground near my dear old family property that no longer belongs to my family. For the past five years I've gone to 4QF for a nice long mountain retreat.
This year, 4QF has played host to festivals on many, many weekends since Beltane. The two festivals that were held most recently were bedeviled by a virulent strain of something ... there is no news yet about what it was, but quite a number of people fell ill, and some needed to be hospitalized.
The festival I attend annually is all about drumming. Except this year, with the unidentified something still perhaps clinging to a leaf here or a fly leg there, many of the drum instructors bailed. As with them, so with me. I'm not going.
I still have to go to the mountains, however. My uncle's magnificent piece of land was purchased by a new owner last year -- someone who is interested in the history of the property. So I am going to meet this gentleman. I'm going to wear my Girl Scout smile and a stylish shirt and hope to make a good impression. One never knows if this could turn into a friendship that might lead to the sale (to me) of a nondescript acre at the very edge of the tract. Whether or not that happens, I would like to have the owner's leave to stroll the grounds.
I was fortunate to find a room in a cheery b&b in Hancock, Maryland. There I will base my stay as I undertake Plan B.
EXHIBIT A: PLAN B
This is Harper's Ferry, West Virginia. For my money, this is the most beautiful spot on the Potomac River and one of the best in all of Appalachia. One blessed summer I worked in Harper's Ferry, and I adore the place. I haven't been there for a serious hike in years. Day One, serious hike around Harper's Ferry. See that cliff? If I get there early enough, I'm going to hike it -- there are always buzzards biffing about up there.
EXHIBIT B: PLAN B
Got to do the ancestor work. No one else gonna do it for me.
EXHIBIT C: PLAN B
This unassuming establishment is Snider's Road Kill Cafe in Artemas, PA. Don't let the exterior fool you. Within those walls lies exceptional country cooking and home made pies. I promised Anansi we would go there on this trip. Of course, we always go to the Road Kill Cafe when we visit home. Thursday is ribs night.
EXHIBIT D: PLAN B
My number one reason for going to Four Quarters Farm is the plethora of swimming holes on that land. The exhibit above, however, is not a 4QF swimming hole. It's in another watershed. I'm going to give it a try and report back to you. Local swimming holes can get dicey when you're alone with New Jersey license plates. But I aim to swim. If not here, then somewhere. There are lots and lots of creeks in the mountains.
So, wish me bon voyage! I'll be off the grid and all by myself. Not exactly what I anticipated, but a woman just doesn't go through a whole school year without stomach flu, only to get it on vacation. You feel me?
Now I would like to keep the streak going.
Customarily, this is the weekend where I go to Four Quarters Farm, which is a quasi-Pagan campground near my dear old family property that no longer belongs to my family. For the past five years I've gone to 4QF for a nice long mountain retreat.
This year, 4QF has played host to festivals on many, many weekends since Beltane. The two festivals that were held most recently were bedeviled by a virulent strain of something ... there is no news yet about what it was, but quite a number of people fell ill, and some needed to be hospitalized.
The festival I attend annually is all about drumming. Except this year, with the unidentified something still perhaps clinging to a leaf here or a fly leg there, many of the drum instructors bailed. As with them, so with me. I'm not going.
I still have to go to the mountains, however. My uncle's magnificent piece of land was purchased by a new owner last year -- someone who is interested in the history of the property. So I am going to meet this gentleman. I'm going to wear my Girl Scout smile and a stylish shirt and hope to make a good impression. One never knows if this could turn into a friendship that might lead to the sale (to me) of a nondescript acre at the very edge of the tract. Whether or not that happens, I would like to have the owner's leave to stroll the grounds.
I was fortunate to find a room in a cheery b&b in Hancock, Maryland. There I will base my stay as I undertake Plan B.
EXHIBIT A: PLAN B
This is Harper's Ferry, West Virginia. For my money, this is the most beautiful spot on the Potomac River and one of the best in all of Appalachia. One blessed summer I worked in Harper's Ferry, and I adore the place. I haven't been there for a serious hike in years. Day One, serious hike around Harper's Ferry. See that cliff? If I get there early enough, I'm going to hike it -- there are always buzzards biffing about up there.
EXHIBIT B: PLAN B
Got to do the ancestor work. No one else gonna do it for me.
EXHIBIT C: PLAN B
This unassuming establishment is Snider's Road Kill Cafe in Artemas, PA. Don't let the exterior fool you. Within those walls lies exceptional country cooking and home made pies. I promised Anansi we would go there on this trip. Of course, we always go to the Road Kill Cafe when we visit home. Thursday is ribs night.
EXHIBIT D: PLAN B
My number one reason for going to Four Quarters Farm is the plethora of swimming holes on that land. The exhibit above, however, is not a 4QF swimming hole. It's in another watershed. I'm going to give it a try and report back to you. Local swimming holes can get dicey when you're alone with New Jersey license plates. But I aim to swim. If not here, then somewhere. There are lots and lots of creeks in the mountains.
So, wish me bon voyage! I'll be off the grid and all by myself. Not exactly what I anticipated, but a woman just doesn't go through a whole school year without stomach flu, only to get it on vacation. You feel me?
Monday, June 26, 2017
My Grandfather, the Diarist
This is my grandfather, Daniel Webster Johnson, Sr.
This photograph doesn't do him justice. He was a very handsome man. He looked a little bit like Henry Fonda, only with softer features.
Granddad had many interests. He was a pioneer in the synthetic fabric industry, creating and designing microscopic drills. He repaired watches and clocks. He loved insects, flowers, and gardening. He liked to hunt squirrels.
How do I know all of this? Well, I know all of the above except the squirrel thing from talking to my grandfather, watching him work, and seeing the fruits of his labor.
The squirrel thing I got from his diaries.
Yes! My grandfather Johnson kept a daily diary from 1936 until 1948! That's a long time! Think of it: Granddad kept a diary right through the Great Depression and the Second World War. Talk about a primary source!
It gets better. I, Anne Johnson, own all of those diaries.
I've perused these diaries many times, but only in a cursory manner. Today I sat down with them to take a closer look. I was particularly in search of information about my grandfather's older brother. I also wanted to know more about the house Granddad built on the family farmland, round about 1939.
My grandfather was a dependable diarist. He wrote down something almost every day. And that something ... that something ... was an observation of the weather.
Sometimes he notes when he visits someone, or someone visits him. But only after he has noted the weather.
"Fair and warm today, got cool at night."
Multiply that by 300 and you get the spring portion of Granddad's diaries.
Another thing my grandfather noted punctually was his church attendance. He abbreviated Sunday School "Sunday S." On Wednesday nights, he attended the Knights of Malta lodge (abbreviated KofM). This is always noted after the weather.
He did note the birth of his youngest son, who was born in 1937 (weather report was first). He did not note the high school graduation of his two older sons, in 1942 and 1944 respectively, although every day in June of those years have entries. Only once, at the 15-year mark, does he note his wedding anniversary. After the weather. Grandma's birthday? Once or twice ... after the weather.
He does hunt squirrels, though. I found about 40 entries mentioning squirrel hunting. Seems his best day was eight. Sometimes he got one, sometimes none at all. After the weather.
He mentions the construction of the house. "Worked on cabin." Then "spent first night in cabin." Then "spent the day at camp." Then "spent the weekend out at camp." Then "painted the house." Occasionally he notes what he was planting in the garden "at camp." Every entry that includes this begins with a weather report.
On December 7, 1941, Granddad noted that the weather was cloudy and cold. Then he added, "The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor." That is literally the only piece of world news I have found in his diaries from any year.
If he was alive today, I would tease him about this. I would say, "For the love of fruit flies, Granddad, why did you always write down the weather?" And he would say, "Well, Anne Janette, you see ... it's a small notebook, with only a few lines for each day. The only thing that will fit is the weather. And I was busy living my life -- I didn't have time to go into more detail."
Well, bless his sweet heart, my grandfather kept diaries. They reveal nearly nothing of his personality, his relationship with his family and siblings, his challenges at work, or his creation of an iconic, hand-made homestead in the Appalachian Mountains.
The moral of this sermon is that I must have inherited something from my mother's family. Don't you agree?
This photograph doesn't do him justice. He was a very handsome man. He looked a little bit like Henry Fonda, only with softer features.
Granddad had many interests. He was a pioneer in the synthetic fabric industry, creating and designing microscopic drills. He repaired watches and clocks. He loved insects, flowers, and gardening. He liked to hunt squirrels.
How do I know all of this? Well, I know all of the above except the squirrel thing from talking to my grandfather, watching him work, and seeing the fruits of his labor.
The squirrel thing I got from his diaries.
Yes! My grandfather Johnson kept a daily diary from 1936 until 1948! That's a long time! Think of it: Granddad kept a diary right through the Great Depression and the Second World War. Talk about a primary source!
It gets better. I, Anne Johnson, own all of those diaries.
I've perused these diaries many times, but only in a cursory manner. Today I sat down with them to take a closer look. I was particularly in search of information about my grandfather's older brother. I also wanted to know more about the house Granddad built on the family farmland, round about 1939.
My grandfather was a dependable diarist. He wrote down something almost every day. And that something ... that something ... was an observation of the weather.
Sometimes he notes when he visits someone, or someone visits him. But only after he has noted the weather.
"Fair and warm today, got cool at night."
Multiply that by 300 and you get the spring portion of Granddad's diaries.
Another thing my grandfather noted punctually was his church attendance. He abbreviated Sunday School "Sunday S." On Wednesday nights, he attended the Knights of Malta lodge (abbreviated KofM). This is always noted after the weather.
He did note the birth of his youngest son, who was born in 1937 (weather report was first). He did not note the high school graduation of his two older sons, in 1942 and 1944 respectively, although every day in June of those years have entries. Only once, at the 15-year mark, does he note his wedding anniversary. After the weather. Grandma's birthday? Once or twice ... after the weather.
He does hunt squirrels, though. I found about 40 entries mentioning squirrel hunting. Seems his best day was eight. Sometimes he got one, sometimes none at all. After the weather.
He mentions the construction of the house. "Worked on cabin." Then "spent first night in cabin." Then "spent the day at camp." Then "spent the weekend out at camp." Then "painted the house." Occasionally he notes what he was planting in the garden "at camp." Every entry that includes this begins with a weather report.
On December 7, 1941, Granddad noted that the weather was cloudy and cold. Then he added, "The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor." That is literally the only piece of world news I have found in his diaries from any year.
If he was alive today, I would tease him about this. I would say, "For the love of fruit flies, Granddad, why did you always write down the weather?" And he would say, "Well, Anne Janette, you see ... it's a small notebook, with only a few lines for each day. The only thing that will fit is the weather. And I was busy living my life -- I didn't have time to go into more detail."
Well, bless his sweet heart, my grandfather kept diaries. They reveal nearly nothing of his personality, his relationship with his family and siblings, his challenges at work, or his creation of an iconic, hand-made homestead in the Appalachian Mountains.
The moral of this sermon is that I must have inherited something from my mother's family. Don't you agree?
Thursday, June 22, 2017
Free Advice about that Farm in the Mountains
One thing you learn, growing up in Appalachia: The land and weather aren't as sacred as they are savage. There just aren't enough bored gods and busy gods in the universe to make everything run smoothly when you call the mountains home.
Ask anyone who tries to farm this land. If you can't find that person (which wouldn't surprise me), visit the graveyards and look at the ages of the deceased. Also round up the folks like me, who, although they love the mountains with the white hot passion of 10,000 suns, can't live there because people gotta eat.
And yet you'll find a passel of starry-eyed optimists who seize upon a plot of mountain farmland, give it a pretty name, and commence to building a utopian community on it. This one will do "sustainable agriculture." This one will have bee hives and make mead. This one will grow artisan apples. Oh my, there's nothing more inspiring than a quiet evening in the country, when nobody's around and the whippoorwills are serenading one another from ridge to hollow! A modest living for a few people can surely be had, right?
This is where the utopian vision comes in. The optimist invites his friends to a gathering, often on a Pagan festival day, and the next year the friends bring their friends, because the property with the pretty name is so gorgeous. Within a decade, as the bees die and the apple blossoms take a frost and the groundhogs eat the peppers, the optimist has luckily happened upon a way to self-sustain: the paid festival. Okay, the land gets a little crowded, hectic, and trampled. But it's worth it. The money pours in, and the rest of the year things are so quiet and beautiful for the optimist and his small nucleus of companions.
All might be well in these cases, but it's really hard for the optimist not to become a capitalist. After all, isn't it nice to be able to make a genteel living in such a benign way? What's a festival? It's a chance for people who don't live in the mountains to come to a property, link elbows with like-minded naturists, and have a heart-warming and safe time. Word of mouth brings more and more folks each year, keeping the entrance fee quite affordable. So the optimist invests in sound equipment and heavy duty lawn mowers. He contracts port-a-potties and lines up hay bales in case it's rainy. And then he has festivals.
Here's where it goes one of two ways. In the first way, the optimist has one festival a year, upon which he stakes his whole budget. It's only held once a year, and that makes it very special, and -- again word of mouth -- numbers of attendees just keep climbing. In the other way, the optimist devises many festivals of different sorts and different sizes, flings them out across summer weekends, and waits for the customers to find the event that suits their tastes.
I personally know two such optimists who are finding out now that the land isn't sacred, it's savage. It will punish your ass no matter how lofty your intentions happen to be.
Case number one features the nicest optimist you would ever want to meet. His big once-yearly festival was hit by torrential rain. Cars skidded out of control on the parking hill, and people couldn't stand on their feet in the slippery muck. At a devastating financial loss, he had to close down a day early. There's just no way he can recoup that day of receipts at another event. This was his event. Chances are, next year, the sun will shine and the people will return. In the meantime, it's gonna be one bloody lean year.
The other case features the optimist with multiple festivals. This dreamer has invested more: bigger parcels of land, permanent bathroom facilities, even a dining hall. But as he increased the number and size of events, health problems surfaced. On two recent weekends, hundreds of festival attendees became violently ill with an aggressive and highly contagious stomach flu. And of course the Internet is blowing up over it, which has led at least one person I know to cancel her plans to attend a festival there next weekend. Nor does this person I know expect to get a refund, because you know that bottom line is going to be threatened.
The multiple-festival optimist will also recover and persist, but he's going to take a financial beating for years, and perhaps forever. Word of mouth works both ways. When people have fun, they bring their friends. When they get sick on your land, they tell all their friends who weren't there. It's a hole that's hard to climb out of, and in the meantime the optimist still has to eat and pay the notes on the parcel of land he bought for bigger festivals.
The one unifying factor between these two optimists? They both grew up in the city and lived in the city for a long time before taking up residence in the lovely rural spaces.
So here is Annie's free advice for anyone and everyone who wants to live la dolce vita on some bucolic rural farm: The land is untamed. It is untranslatable. It does not love you back. And the harder you work it, the worse it will treat you.
It's too late to ask my great-grandfathers if I am right about this, because they are all long gone. You'll just have to trust me. Would I lead you wrong? Of course not, I'm straight-up.
The economy has improved, so this free advice is really free. Heed it, though, and you'll always eat.
Ask anyone who tries to farm this land. If you can't find that person (which wouldn't surprise me), visit the graveyards and look at the ages of the deceased. Also round up the folks like me, who, although they love the mountains with the white hot passion of 10,000 suns, can't live there because people gotta eat.
And yet you'll find a passel of starry-eyed optimists who seize upon a plot of mountain farmland, give it a pretty name, and commence to building a utopian community on it. This one will do "sustainable agriculture." This one will have bee hives and make mead. This one will grow artisan apples. Oh my, there's nothing more inspiring than a quiet evening in the country, when nobody's around and the whippoorwills are serenading one another from ridge to hollow! A modest living for a few people can surely be had, right?
This is where the utopian vision comes in. The optimist invites his friends to a gathering, often on a Pagan festival day, and the next year the friends bring their friends, because the property with the pretty name is so gorgeous. Within a decade, as the bees die and the apple blossoms take a frost and the groundhogs eat the peppers, the optimist has luckily happened upon a way to self-sustain: the paid festival. Okay, the land gets a little crowded, hectic, and trampled. But it's worth it. The money pours in, and the rest of the year things are so quiet and beautiful for the optimist and his small nucleus of companions.
All might be well in these cases, but it's really hard for the optimist not to become a capitalist. After all, isn't it nice to be able to make a genteel living in such a benign way? What's a festival? It's a chance for people who don't live in the mountains to come to a property, link elbows with like-minded naturists, and have a heart-warming and safe time. Word of mouth brings more and more folks each year, keeping the entrance fee quite affordable. So the optimist invests in sound equipment and heavy duty lawn mowers. He contracts port-a-potties and lines up hay bales in case it's rainy. And then he has festivals.
Here's where it goes one of two ways. In the first way, the optimist has one festival a year, upon which he stakes his whole budget. It's only held once a year, and that makes it very special, and -- again word of mouth -- numbers of attendees just keep climbing. In the other way, the optimist devises many festivals of different sorts and different sizes, flings them out across summer weekends, and waits for the customers to find the event that suits their tastes.
I personally know two such optimists who are finding out now that the land isn't sacred, it's savage. It will punish your ass no matter how lofty your intentions happen to be.
Case number one features the nicest optimist you would ever want to meet. His big once-yearly festival was hit by torrential rain. Cars skidded out of control on the parking hill, and people couldn't stand on their feet in the slippery muck. At a devastating financial loss, he had to close down a day early. There's just no way he can recoup that day of receipts at another event. This was his event. Chances are, next year, the sun will shine and the people will return. In the meantime, it's gonna be one bloody lean year.
The other case features the optimist with multiple festivals. This dreamer has invested more: bigger parcels of land, permanent bathroom facilities, even a dining hall. But as he increased the number and size of events, health problems surfaced. On two recent weekends, hundreds of festival attendees became violently ill with an aggressive and highly contagious stomach flu. And of course the Internet is blowing up over it, which has led at least one person I know to cancel her plans to attend a festival there next weekend. Nor does this person I know expect to get a refund, because you know that bottom line is going to be threatened.
The multiple-festival optimist will also recover and persist, but he's going to take a financial beating for years, and perhaps forever. Word of mouth works both ways. When people have fun, they bring their friends. When they get sick on your land, they tell all their friends who weren't there. It's a hole that's hard to climb out of, and in the meantime the optimist still has to eat and pay the notes on the parcel of land he bought for bigger festivals.
The one unifying factor between these two optimists? They both grew up in the city and lived in the city for a long time before taking up residence in the lovely rural spaces.
So here is Annie's free advice for anyone and everyone who wants to live la dolce vita on some bucolic rural farm: The land is untamed. It is untranslatable. It does not love you back. And the harder you work it, the worse it will treat you.
It's too late to ask my great-grandfathers if I am right about this, because they are all long gone. You'll just have to trust me. Would I lead you wrong? Of course not, I'm straight-up.
The economy has improved, so this free advice is really free. Heed it, though, and you'll always eat.
Tuesday, June 20, 2017
Stepping into Darkness
June 21 marks the greatest amount of sunlight in the Northern Hemisphere. Depending upon your mindset, the day is either the beginning of summer or the beginning of darkness.
There are so many good things about summertime: fresh produce, long twilight, fireflies, beach days, porch sitting. Gotta say, though, the only part of that I fully endorse is the long twilight. Otherwise give me a brisk morning and a forecast that includes snow.
I'm still a little bit shaken about the Anansi story below. It might have come off my fingers, but it was Anansi all the way. Scary to be divinely inspired, honestly. It's an outcome of the magickal work I've been doing ... but wow. Still unexpected.
Ah well, may the joys of Solstice be with you and yours. Here comes the heat. Let's get out of the kitchen!
There are so many good things about summertime: fresh produce, long twilight, fireflies, beach days, porch sitting. Gotta say, though, the only part of that I fully endorse is the long twilight. Otherwise give me a brisk morning and a forecast that includes snow.
I'm still a little bit shaken about the Anansi story below. It might have come off my fingers, but it was Anansi all the way. Scary to be divinely inspired, honestly. It's an outcome of the magickal work I've been doing ... but wow. Still unexpected.
Ah well, may the joys of Solstice be with you and yours. Here comes the heat. Let's get out of the kitchen!
Saturday, June 17, 2017
Interview with a Bored God: Anansi
My goodness, as I live and breathe, one of my favorite bored gods of all time is Anansi! He's all puffed up with pride these days, because through one medium or another, Neil Gaiman has made Him a star again.
Anansi is a flirt and a trickster, the kind of critter that with a mere wink can persuade you to part with your last piece of pecan pie. He pilfers the pretzels and leaves the lettuce. He snickers when you stub your toe, principally because He's the one who pushed the ottoman just so and made you do it.
Anansi preys upon people's weaknesses and leads them to downfall. He enjoys doing it ... sort of a matter of just desserts.
And speaking of desserts, that must be why He's here. I'm going to make a strawberry pie. How did He know?
Anne: Anansi, my friend, while I'm making this pie, will You tell me a story?
Anansi: With pleasure, Anne. Better make two pies. You might get company...
Anansi and the Jackal
by Anansi
Once upon a time, there was a jackal who was dissatisfied with his life. He had plenty to eat, and he was popular and well-liked in his circle, but he craved more attention and admiration.
Jackal went to Anansi and asked the Spider to make him more famous ... all-powerful over the rest of the animals on the savanna, in fact.
"I will do this,"Anansi said, "If you first give up one of your possessions. Think about it and get back to me."
Jackal thought about it. He was pretty good-looking, in a paunchy, overripe way. He didn't want to give that up. It was already getting harder to attract lady jackals! He was really good at manipulating other animals (particularly those who weren't as smart as they ought to be). Jackal couldn't imagine being powerful without being able to manipulate, so he didn't want to give that up, either. That left him with two possessions: the ability to lie, and a perfect memory. It seemed pretty clear that a good memory wasn't really important if you had lots of power, so Jackal returned to Anansi.
"You can have my memory," he said.
"Done!" Anansi said.
And Jackal was happy, because he felt just the same.
And the animals heaped him with praise and set him in the best seat and gave him the ability to make decisions that would affect the whole savanna.
In his most manipulative and lying way, Jackal promised all the animals that he would make everything great for them. He promised every kind of animal exactly what they wanted. The lions would get more meat. The wildebeests would get more forage and eat it in perfect safety. The zebras would get to cross the rivers safely. And since nobody liked the hyenas, they would be rounded up and sent away.
Needless to say, the hyenas weren't happy. They went to Anansi and complained.
"Wait it out," Anansi said. So they did.
Not long after Jackal assumed power, the lions got hungry. The wildebeests were fat from eating so much forage, so the lions hunted and killed a few.
The other wildebeests went to find Jackal. "The lions hunted us! You said we would be safe!"
"Did I say that?" Jackal replied. "I don't remember."
"You said it," Elephant answered. "I remember everything."
Next thing you know, the zebras went to cross the river. The lions were waiting.
It wasn't pretty.
The other zebras went to Jackal and complained. Jackal said he couldn't recall the exact details of his deal with the zebras.
But once again, Elephant chimed in: "You promised the zebras they would be safe crossing the river."
Jackal was furious. "I'm tired of these elephants!" he shouted. "As of this minute, all elephants are fired!" He sent the elephants away, one and all.
As time passed, Jackal continued to rule, but all of the animals were sullen, if not outright contemptuous. This didn't sit well with Jackal, since he'd gone into the scheme for approval. So after a few months, he went back to Anansi.
"You didn't tell me the job of ruling the savanna would be so hard!" he told Anansi.
"You didn't ask me," the wily Spider replied.
"I didn't know I couldn't make both the lions and the wildebeest happy," Jackal whined.
"Jackal," Anansi said, "you have lived on the savanna all your life. Have you ever seen a time when lions and wildebeest got along, or when zebras could always cross the river safely?"
"I can't remember," Jackal said, feeling exceedingly sorry for himself.
"It's too bad your memory is so poor," Anansi said, clicking His legs together. "The elephants could have helped you with that, but you sent them away."
"All I wanted was universal admiration!" Jackal wailed. Then he got an idea. "Say, Anansi, could you just put things back the way they were ... as I recall, if I'm right ... so I at least have a little band of followers? The rest of them, lions, zebras, one and all, can go rot."
"I can do that for you," Anansi said. "But you'll have to give me another possession."
Jackal couldn't remember his possessions at all. So he said, "Go ahead and just take one. Whichever one you want."
Next thing he knew, Jackal found himself on the savanna with the other jackals he used to hang out with. They all burst into gales of laughter. "Look at you!" they howled. "You are one old, butt-ugly Jackal!"
Jackal ran to the watering hole and looked into the water. At that moment, Anansi gave him his memory back.
It wasn't pretty.
In the end, the elephants and the hyenas returned to the savanna, and everything fell into its old, natural routine. Except for poor old, ugly, Jackal, who could not buy a best friend no matter how much he lied, manipulated, or remembered the past.
Anne: Wow, Anansi, you are amazing! Here, have both pies! And that dusty corner of my attic? It's all yours, whenever you want a bunk.
Anansi: Thanks, Anne, but I'm due back on set in a week. I'm a big star now.
Anne: Justly deserved, Anansi. Justly deserved.
Anansi is a flirt and a trickster, the kind of critter that with a mere wink can persuade you to part with your last piece of pecan pie. He pilfers the pretzels and leaves the lettuce. He snickers when you stub your toe, principally because He's the one who pushed the ottoman just so and made you do it.
Anansi preys upon people's weaknesses and leads them to downfall. He enjoys doing it ... sort of a matter of just desserts.
And speaking of desserts, that must be why He's here. I'm going to make a strawberry pie. How did He know?
Anne: Anansi, my friend, while I'm making this pie, will You tell me a story?
Anansi: With pleasure, Anne. Better make two pies. You might get company...
Anansi and the Jackal
by Anansi
Once upon a time, there was a jackal who was dissatisfied with his life. He had plenty to eat, and he was popular and well-liked in his circle, but he craved more attention and admiration.
Jackal went to Anansi and asked the Spider to make him more famous ... all-powerful over the rest of the animals on the savanna, in fact.
"I will do this,"Anansi said, "If you first give up one of your possessions. Think about it and get back to me."
Jackal thought about it. He was pretty good-looking, in a paunchy, overripe way. He didn't want to give that up. It was already getting harder to attract lady jackals! He was really good at manipulating other animals (particularly those who weren't as smart as they ought to be). Jackal couldn't imagine being powerful without being able to manipulate, so he didn't want to give that up, either. That left him with two possessions: the ability to lie, and a perfect memory. It seemed pretty clear that a good memory wasn't really important if you had lots of power, so Jackal returned to Anansi.
"You can have my memory," he said.
"Done!" Anansi said.
And Jackal was happy, because he felt just the same.
And the animals heaped him with praise and set him in the best seat and gave him the ability to make decisions that would affect the whole savanna.
In his most manipulative and lying way, Jackal promised all the animals that he would make everything great for them. He promised every kind of animal exactly what they wanted. The lions would get more meat. The wildebeests would get more forage and eat it in perfect safety. The zebras would get to cross the rivers safely. And since nobody liked the hyenas, they would be rounded up and sent away.
Needless to say, the hyenas weren't happy. They went to Anansi and complained.
"Wait it out," Anansi said. So they did.
Not long after Jackal assumed power, the lions got hungry. The wildebeests were fat from eating so much forage, so the lions hunted and killed a few.
The other wildebeests went to find Jackal. "The lions hunted us! You said we would be safe!"
"Did I say that?" Jackal replied. "I don't remember."
"You said it," Elephant answered. "I remember everything."
Next thing you know, the zebras went to cross the river. The lions were waiting.
It wasn't pretty.
The other zebras went to Jackal and complained. Jackal said he couldn't recall the exact details of his deal with the zebras.
But once again, Elephant chimed in: "You promised the zebras they would be safe crossing the river."
Jackal was furious. "I'm tired of these elephants!" he shouted. "As of this minute, all elephants are fired!" He sent the elephants away, one and all.
As time passed, Jackal continued to rule, but all of the animals were sullen, if not outright contemptuous. This didn't sit well with Jackal, since he'd gone into the scheme for approval. So after a few months, he went back to Anansi.
"You didn't tell me the job of ruling the savanna would be so hard!" he told Anansi.
"You didn't ask me," the wily Spider replied.
"I didn't know I couldn't make both the lions and the wildebeest happy," Jackal whined.
"Jackal," Anansi said, "you have lived on the savanna all your life. Have you ever seen a time when lions and wildebeest got along, or when zebras could always cross the river safely?"
"I can't remember," Jackal said, feeling exceedingly sorry for himself.
"It's too bad your memory is so poor," Anansi said, clicking His legs together. "The elephants could have helped you with that, but you sent them away."
"All I wanted was universal admiration!" Jackal wailed. Then he got an idea. "Say, Anansi, could you just put things back the way they were ... as I recall, if I'm right ... so I at least have a little band of followers? The rest of them, lions, zebras, one and all, can go rot."
"I can do that for you," Anansi said. "But you'll have to give me another possession."
Jackal couldn't remember his possessions at all. So he said, "Go ahead and just take one. Whichever one you want."
Next thing he knew, Jackal found himself on the savanna with the other jackals he used to hang out with. They all burst into gales of laughter. "Look at you!" they howled. "You are one old, butt-ugly Jackal!"
Jackal ran to the watering hole and looked into the water. At that moment, Anansi gave him his memory back.
It wasn't pretty.
In the end, the elephants and the hyenas returned to the savanna, and everything fell into its old, natural routine. Except for poor old, ugly, Jackal, who could not buy a best friend no matter how much he lied, manipulated, or remembered the past.
Anne: Wow, Anansi, you are amazing! Here, have both pies! And that dusty corner of my attic? It's all yours, whenever you want a bunk.
Anansi: Thanks, Anne, but I'm due back on set in a week. I'm a big star now.
Anne: Justly deserved, Anansi. Justly deserved.
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