Magic Works in Small Ways, and the Desert is Her Instrument
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The Herstory of Genevieve Vaughn and the Temple of Goddess Spirituality Dedicated to Sekhmet

My Journey with Sekhmet Goddess of Power and Change by Genevieve Vaughan © Genevieve Vaughan, 1998. Permission granted to reproduce for not-for-profit use. Author name to accompany text at all times. First published in "SageWoman" No 42, Summer 1998. Highway 95 runs down the middle of the flat Mojave Desert valley in Nevada. Driving east from Beatty, the tiny oasis of Cactus Springs is the first inhabitable spot for sixty miles. It was at this site in 1993 that I dedicated a temple to the Goddess Sekhmet. I feel blessed to be able to give a gift to a goddess who for centuries has not had temples built in her honor. A surprising amount of information can be derived from what we know about Sekhmet. She is a very ancient goddess; with her lion's head and woman's body, she is the opposite of the Sphinx who has a man's head and a lion's body. Sekhmet is the goddess of four thousand names, of which only a few hundred are known to normal humans. One story about her is that she was outraged at the evil of men and wanted to destroy them but was tricked into submission by drinking a gift of beer which had been colored to look like blood. This is a particularly appropriate warning for us now, because we allow ourselves to be drugged into giving up the political and economic power that we could use to stop the destruction of the Earth. It is good to have the temple near the Test Site, to take a stand against the nuclear radiation that can damage our genes and destroy our fertility. The spirits of the past are counting on us to heed Sekhmet warning, to stop sipping the drugs of lies and allowing ourselves to be disempowered by consumerism or substance abuse. Sekhmet is "Mother Fury," the goddess of fertility. She is the great Being in us all, the liberated planetary human animal who will not allow the destruction of a Mother Earth. We can be strengthened by chanting her mantra: "Sa Sekhem Sahu." Although the Temple was constructed in 1993, I feel that I honored Sekhmet for many years before the Temple was created. I was brought up a Catholic, but early on I believed mostly in fairies. Daddy told us stories about Robin Goodfellow and his fairy band, and my mother encouraged the fantasy. We lived next to the bay in Corpus Christi, Texas. I always fairies would have felt at home there. When I was about twelve my grandfather died. He left a large inheritance to his children and grandchildren and as a result many changes happened in my life. We moved to a bigger and less fairy friendly house closer to town. The border between Texas and Mexico was not too far south of us, and my parents sometimes took us down to Brownsville and Matamoros for the weekend. There were lots of children my age and younger on the Mexican side of the border, begging. I began pretty early to ask myself why they were poor and we were rich. Even though my parents were relatively tolerant, the message I received was that we were rich because we were industrious and lucky, while other people were poor because they were lazy and unlucky. It was many years before I realized that there was a actually a transfer of wealth going on from the poor to the rich. As a teenager I became an atheist; later when I married an Italian philosopher and moved to Italy, my belief system turned toward humanism as the source of divine in my life. During the twenty years that I lived there, Italy was a country of intellectual and political ferment. Always a crossroads, it was the location of the largest Communist Party in the West as well as the Vatican. I became a Marxist myself for a while until I came to believe that Communism, like Capitalism, is patriarchal and that Feminism is a collective philosophy which is deeper and has more potential for positive change than either of them. In Italy I began to understand that our economic system actually hurts everyone. Each individual has a place on a great wheel that creates privilege for some and hardship for others; a few profit by the suffering of the many. The system actually molds individuals in its image, perpetuating itself and offering rewards and punishments that motivate individuals to try to get to the top of the wheel. It also creates ways of thinking and believing which complicate and disguise this rather simple picture, keeping the people involved from knowing what is going on. As a person at the top of the wheel, I resented the system and the disguise because I did not want to cause other people's suffering. Of course the belief system which upholds the wheel discredits altruism and the desire for a better world, making these values seem unrealistic. When I learned to validate my own values, I realized that "reality" would have to be changed. People who are on the wheel can trade places, or make small adjustments or improve their own attitudes, but none of this makes any real difference unless the wheel itself is dismantled. In 1965 my husband and I went to Egypt on a vacation. We traveled up the Nile on a boat to Luxor and, at one point as we were exploring the temples, we came upon a statue of a goddess with a lion's head who seemed almost forgotten, sitting on a throne at the bottom of a dark stairway. "This is the goddess of fertility," the tour guide said. "Women who want to get pregnant should make her a promise." I wanted to have children and had been trying without success so I silently promised the goddess I would build her a temple, a Taj Mahal. That very month I got pregnant with my first daughter, who was born in 1966, and I later had two more daughters. For many years I thought about my promise. On the one hand, I thought, building a temple was something I could do; people would want to honor the goddess of fertility. On the other hand there was no goddess consciousness at that time as there is now. In 1978 I got a divorce and in 1983 I finally came back to the United States to try to create social change. While I was living in Italy I learned a lot about the effects of U.S. policy on the rest of the world, and I decided to come home to try to address problems closer to the source of power. Over the years I had thought a great deal about the economic "wheel" and how to change it. I developed a theory of patriarchy and identified its alternative as a woman-led gift economy based on the values of care and the affirmation of life. I decided to try to put my theory into practice. I found the U.S. had changed a great deal while I had been gone. The Civil Rights, Feminist, New Age and Women's Spirituality movements had all begun, and there were small but valiant groups everywhere working against the nuclear arms race, against U.S. Intervention in Central America, against militarism, and for racial, environmental and economic justice. I began to practice my theory of giftgiving with the money I inherited from my parents and grandparents, using it to initiate and maintain many womanled projects for social change both locally and globally. For about ten years I also contributed to a number of other peace groups. Just as importantly, when I came back I experienced a major personal transformation. I encountered Goddess spirituality and my atheism disappeared. Since then I have been open to the integration of the part of myself that loves humanity and the earth with the part of myself that loves the Goddess. I realize now that my atheism mostly had to do with a rejection of patriarchy, and I welcome the return into my life of nature spirits, the spirits of the dead, archetypal and elemental energies, and the consciousness of the planet. This change in perspective allowed me to recognize Spirit as a gift-giving or mothering presence while at the same time the legacy of my atheism and belief in humanism, continued to make me take social change very seriously. It also let me continue to support and love people who have other cultural legacies and belief systems. Combining earth-based spirituality and a radical feminist theory of social change was part of the motivation that led me to start the Foundation for a Compassionate Society in 1987. Using money for social change is like speaking words of power. With little physical effort, the stroke of a pen on a check can create great change. Of course it is also important to speak the words of power, to do ceremony and ritual and act in accordance. The demonstrations, lobbying, media work, speaking tours, consciousness raising, the gathering of women from different cultures to share their intent and commitment for a better world, are all at some level rituals for peace. By providing spaces where these activities can be done free or low cost, central points are created around which the intention for change can swirl, essential connections can be made, deep energies expressed. Throughout the years I have supported and maintained many of the rituals, but I have also created many spaces that offer their services to the public in an ongoing way. I consider them to be crystallized energy, physical spaces established with a radical intent change reality. Stonehaven Ranch, the Austin Women's Peace House, Alma de Mujer, Center for Social Change, the Four Directions Stores, the Grassroots Peace Building, WATER (Women's Access to Electronic Resources) House, The Living Well, Casa de Colores were or are in their various ways sacred spaces, temples to Sekhmet. These were temples to the goddess in all of us who fiercely protects life on this planet. For a while I comforted myself with the idea of these metaphorical temples, but when I began going to the protests at the Nuclear Test Site in Nevada in 1986, I felt the need to have concrete representations of our love for the planet nearby. I commissioned indigenous sculptor Marsha Gomez to create a statue of Mother Earth to place in front of the test site gates. Unfortunately the government almost immediately confiscated Madre del Mundo. I knew almost at once that this was the right place to build a temple to the goddess. The Earth at the Test Site is wounded underground. You can feel it in your body as you stand at the gate of the test site looking some forty miles across the desert at the hills behind which the testing takes place. The nuclear tests in Nevada, which began above ground in 1951, were moved underground in 1963. They were finally stopped in 1992 but then recommenced with the so-called "sub-criticals" in 1997. Mother Earth is injured there, and nuclear waste is being stored in her wounds. Our group has created several "wailings" at the gate to the Test Site. We name the things we mourn for and moan and scream our grief like banshees. We mourn for our mothers, for our daughters, for your grief, dear reader, and especially for the grief and pain of the great Mother. All the land where the Test Site sprawls once belonged to the Western Shoshone. In the treaty of Ruby Valley of 1863, the government promised to give back the land to the Shoshone, but they didn't act in accordance with their word. In fact the U.S. government has never honored any of the treaties they have made with the native peoples of this country. The Shoshone continue to protest there. Their main events are the Healing Global Wounds gatherings which take place twice yearly at the gate in spring and fall. I decided that the Nevada desert was the right place to finally act in accordance with my own nongovernmental woman's word to the Goddess Sekhmet. The site of the temple is powerful for many reasons. Built on the very edge of the Nevada Test site, it is also three miles west of Indian Springs, which houses an Air force Base, and about eight miles from a Federal Prison. About forty-five miles more traveling will get you to the suburban outskirts of Las Vegas. One gets the distinct impression that the oppressive forces responsible for the test site are uncomfortable with Sekhmet's proximity. With seeming ill-will, anti-tank helicopters called "wart hogs" and F111 jets fly low over Cactus Springs on their practice flights, momentarily disturbing the silence. You can watch them buzz the tiny temple which is set back from the highway about a thousand feet. Hundred-year-old cottonwood trees dot the oasis. Sweet-smelling creosote bushes, mesquite trees and salt cedars drink from the precious underground water. Many birds and wild animals participate in the delicate and beautiful ecosystem. The temple was built in 1993. Several months of construction were necessary to lay the foundation in the shifting sand, to arrange the straw bales and cover them with stucco. I tried to employ women whenever possible. Architect Molly Neiman took my Taj Mahal idea and designed a small and environmentally appropriate structure with simple lines. Pamela Overeynder and Jody Dodd managed the site, while a group (called CHAOS) of young peace activists, mostly women, did the actual construction. Later a dome made of seven interlocking copper hoops was made by Richard Cottrell, and four turrets were constructed by ceramist Sharon Dryflower. The temple houses a statue of Sekhmet made by Marsha Gomez, and facing her is the Madre del Mundo statue that we originally placed at the test site in 1987. Smaller statues of goddesses of many cultures adorn the walls. The temple is small and open to the weather, with four large arches opening on the four directions, yet inside there is a sense of spaciousness and protection. Gifts of fresh flowers, feathers, crystals, incense, poems and pictures of loved ones from the visitors, pilgrims and activists are placed at the feet of the goddesses. The goddess has called wonderful women to maintain the space and create ritual there, while I continue my life in Texas. The first caregiver was Cynthia Burkhardt who began watching over the temple in 1993 and who lived in a teepee on the land. The next year, when Cynthia decided to leave, crone witch Patricia Pearlman offered to step in and has been the priestess of the temple ever since. Patricia provides a full Wiccan calendar of events honoring the Wheel of the Year, with eight Sabbats, and thirteen full and thirteen new moons. In addition, she performs all rites of passage plus a variety of healing and settling rituals as the need arises, and a children's hour with stories and teachings from different cultures has recently been introduced. Many solitaries come to the temple, which is always open to the public. Other pagan groups from near and far occasionally ask Patricia's permission to hold rituals there. The Shoshone hold a sacred fire circle on the land lead by elder shaman Corbin Harney.(1) Activist and environmental groups use the land for meetings and the temple for meditation. The anti-nuclear Council of Women meets on the land in the spring before the Healing Global Wounds gathering. Peace marchers organized by the Shundahai network and the Nevada Desert Experience stop and rest on their way to the test site. The temple holds its ground with Patricia's and the Shoshone's help in the midst of many negative energies. Like the land herself, the temple's energies remain positive, delicate, down to earth, and sane. Patricia says, "People find the temple when they are ready, they come from all over." She welcomes everyone and she adds, "The only thing I expect them to pay is respect." After the rituals there are potluck feasts, conversation, singing and drumming. Recently I have rented two trailer houses on the land from the Shoshone. Patricia and her husband Al live in one while the other is open to women guests of the temple. Patricia feels bonded with Sekhmet and that they "walk in each other." She feels Sekhmet is sensitive, amorous, playful, sensuous, and beautiful. She is also strong, a no-nonsense goddess. She is creator and destroyer, the mother of all and the gardener weeding the garden. Other goddesses correspond to some of her thousands of unknown names. People who have difficulty with abstractions can relate energies to her image, to the lion, the fire and the cow (her Hathor aspect). In Sekhmet, it is said, the Creator decided to incarnate as a lion to experience what she had made, like a woman eating a piece of the pie she has baked. I believe that human spirituality is actually based on the gift economy of Mother Earth and I believe that Patricia is succeeding in practicing the gift economy in alignment with that Way. I am trying to promote gift-giving at other levels too, in woman-led alternatives to patriarchal capitalism. I am happy to find myself in agreement with Patricia in believing that life is not so much a school as an experience of giving and receiving, not a series of moments of paying back but an opportunity to take risks and create change. Blessed Be! Note: (1) I gave the land back to the Shoshone to whom it originally belonged, in a ceremony for the commemoration of the 500 years of oppression and colonization of the Americas in 1992.

For more articles and essays by Genevieve Vaughan, please see her website: http://www.gift-economy.com/ and go to Theory of the Gift Economy.

Currently reading : Her Hidden Children: The Rise of Wicca And Paganism in America By Chas S. Clifton

3:58 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Story Time Part 2!

 I shuddered, enjoying the sound of his voice rolling over me.    

My phone rang.  The man was still looking at me.  I was being rude.  I still couldn't talk.  I picked up the phone and got back to work.  

When I glanced next to me, the man had begun to work himself, but his movements brought a spicy smell to my nostrils.  I imagined that the scent of his cologne followed me like cigarette smoke to a non smoker.  Or maybe to someone who had just quit.  I found myself smelling the air often that day.  I hoped he didn't notice I was acting a bit like a cornered bunny.

Fortunately the day was busy, and besides his smell and hearing that wonderful voice all through the rest of my shift, I didn't have to deal with the mind numbing stupidity that came with his full attention.  My shift had started before his, so I got to leave earlier.  I packed up my things, got ready to go, and said bye to the back of his dark head.  I plastered a smile on my face and stared into his curls, lose curls, gorgeous, shiny, luxurious curls.  I almost reached out and touched them.  But then he turned.

My mind went blank.  He flashed me a smile and said goodbye.  I just stood there.  He looked suddenly uncomfortable and I think we both sighed in relief as his phone rang.  I scurried out of the building as fast as I could.  I got in my little car and drove home, back through terrible Flamingo Blvd. traffic, up to Eastern, past the most beautiful Catholic church I'd ever seen, and to my tiny apartment.  I was hoping my sister had gotten her party over with.  I wanted my bed, my pillow, and a high dose of benedryl to knock me out.  

I pulled up to my parking space and noticed that there were still a few extra cars than normal.  So much for my high hopes.  I  turned off the engine, got out, and said hello to the fruitless olive tree near the path, like I always do.  I heard somewhere that plants grew better if talked to soothingly.  I was hoping that this one would stop dropping poison berries onto my patio.  Fruitless olive trees aren't really fruitless.  Just poisonous.  My mamma says that most plants in Las Vegas are poisonous.  It's true.  Oleanders, fruitless mulberries, fruitless olive trees.  If your kid can eat it and then die from it, it grows here.

I got to my front door, took a deep breath and turned the key.  There was no loud music greeting me, no laughter and shouting, nothing.  I heard some mumbling coming from the living room, I went down the hallway to find my sister and four of her friends leaning over the coffee table.  Ouija Board!  In my house!  What were they thinking!  I was instantly afraid, and furious.

Now, I'm not religious.  But I know spirits.  I've seen them all my life, and I take as much precautions as I can to keep them from my home.  That includes watching things about them, talking about them, or doing anything that might bring their attention.  While I am often a center of attention for spirits, I do not appreciate them in my home.  It's bad enough that I work at Bally's, what was the old MGM Grand.  I hear the people who died in that fire all the time.  They call my name, and when I turn and no one is there, they giggle.  Some believe that spirits hang around because of unfinished business.  That may be the case for some of them, but not all spirits are the dead, just like they're not all demons.  Mostly they're just other things we can't see, or rather, shouldn't be able to see.  Ouija boards might be a draw, I don't know for sure.  I've never tested it.  But I didn't want to find out that night, or any night, for that matter.

My sister noticed my angry intake of breath and jumped up quickly.  Everyone else turned to look at me, but I was staring at my sister in anger.  She looked sheepish.  "Don't be so superstitious!"  She said a bit defiantly.  Not defiantly enough.  

"It's not superstition!" I insisted.  "It's not superstition to not stand on railroad tracks when a train is coming!"  I was overreacting.  Oh well.  I kept on.  "It's not superstition to keep your wallet hidden when in a dark alley!  It's not superstitious to be cautious."  I ended that last bit smugly.

My sister's friends were getting their stuff together.  They said quiet goodbyes, while Tara  and I looked at each other, a contest of wills.  I felt bad, but for one selfish moment, I was glad we were making a scene.  I'd soon have my house to myself, though now I was gonna have to cleanse it before bed.  

Now Tara is my older sister, but we sorta take care of each other.  Our parents are divorced, dad's off doing his own thing, and mom's a fundamentalist Christian.  Neither of us care too much for the religious.  We tend to stay away.  Tara knows about the spirits, but they don't bother her the way they do me.  The way they do our dad.  That's probably what drove my mom to God.  A husband that can see and hear spirits is bad enough, but two daughters in the bargain?  Church it is!  Apparently.  

"Laura, stop.  It's okay.  It's okay."  Tara was trying to calm me down.  Her friends were gone and she was watching me pull out some camphor and my censer.  I burn the camphor on a charcoal disk and waft the smoke through the house to clear it.  As far as I can tell, the spirits hate the stringent smell.  So do a lot of living people.  My sister included.

9:54 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Story Time!

Perspective changes things. I can change my perspective, and therefore I can change things.  I learned this valuable lesson the day I died, well, almost. 

It was in the spring of a particularly warm year, and in Las Vegas, warm years are never welcome, not to it's inhabitants anyway.  But there was no way to control the weather.  I was on my way to work, a drab place full of backstabbing people and dirty carpet, when I came across a sign that asked if I wanted God.  Now, I don't hate religious people, but I do mind when it's forced onto me.  I sneered at it and kept on going.  Not that I had much choice.  The traffic on Flamingo is terrible at most times of the day or night.

I arrived at work in time to sign in and begin the dreary trudge through the day.  I sat at my computer, fingers doing a slow dance over the keys while I listened to the voice on the phone.  Well, sort of listened.  I made the non comittal noises required to give the impression of paying attention and thought of going home. 

Home was a refuge of sorts.  Unfortunately, going home that day would not have given the desired effect.  There were going to be tons of people there.  My sister was having a party, and work was supposed to be my antisocial refuge that day.  I resisted the urge to put in for going home early and continued to daydream about being somewhere else. 

Suddenly someone was at the desk next to me.  Now, I don't normally consider myself ugly.  Chunky and overemotional, sure, but I have good points.  I could kill people with the my chest, and some have tried to drown in my eyes.  The rest of my face isn't bad either.  And I'm soft.  But the man that sat down next to me made me blush with his beauty.  He was young, his skin was light brown, like medium toast, only it wasn't a tan.  It was a darker skin color, but it was faded.  Like someone who would normally be dark, but never went outside.  It had a paleness to it.  His eyes were dark, his nose medium sized, with a slight bent to it like it was made to hold up glasses.  There were no glasses.  They would probably have marred his perfect beauty.  His body was not lean, but not an ounce of fat was there etiher, from what I could tell. Gorgeous.  So gorgeous I kept right on  blushing through his introduction. 

I didn't catch his name.  I was busy listening to his voice, like an old brandy, smoky and smooth all at once.  It was accented.  A mixture of Indian and British.

(more later!  gotta get to work)

8:06 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary (warning! This post is made of sad and pathetic)
Current mood: crappy

Why can't I have parents? Why is it that my dad can't be bothered to make an effort to come to my graduation, won't make it to my wedding, and blames it on things I know aren't true? Why can't my mom make time for me and she lives in town but it's like she's a million miles away? I feel like I'm on a pity party, but at the same time, when I think about it, maybe I deserve one.


My brother was born sick. When I was eight and he was ten, he died. My sister's mother kidnapped her (according to my dad) and I didn't meet her till four years after my brother was gone, but we never got close.

Now, my dad lies in bed all day and waits to die, even though he could make himself better. He complains that he doesn't feel good, but rather than following doctor orders to get better, he smokes pot, which is making his lungs worse. He's ancient at the age of 54, but throws tantrums like he's five. if he doesn't get what he wants, he threatens to let himself get worse by taking off his oxygen and says he should have never woken up from a coma. He's better at guilt tripping than the Catholic Church, but says he doesn't miss his brother because Max was a manipulator. What the FUCK is he then?! When I finally can't take it, he has is third ex wife call and ask me to apologize. Okay, I shouldn't have gone off on him. I shouldn't have let his machinations get to me, but DAMMIT it HURTS when he hurts himself. He doesn't think about it hurting anyone though, and only that its a way to get what he wants. And what he wants isn't good for him. He'll say or do anything to get it though. Including lie to me.

My mom has tantrums too. Am I doomed to be like them? I get hysterical and cry when I'm hurt, rather than just dealing with it. I said things I shouldn't have last night, but they were things my dad still deserved to hear. Who hangs up on people past the age of 30, seriously? Just cause he hears something he doesn't like? Both of my parents are cruel when they're upset and say things that should never be said. The things that just roll off their tongues amazes me!! Perhaps my feelings on Christians comes from them. Two people that claim to be good Christians, but rather, they hide behind it. They say and do whatever they want to their families to the point of abuse and know they're forgiven by God, so their families have to forgive them too. I say things when brought past a certain point, but that point is hard to reach, and never as bad as what is said to me with little provocation.

I feel like a horrible kid for wanting to just change my number and wash my hands of my families. My grandparents and Aunts and Uncle are awesome, but is it worth having children for parents? Is it?!

My mom hates homosexuals and anyone that isn't her brand of Christianity and democrats. How is that Christian? Christ seems like a great guy with a message of love and hope, where is it in my parents? If I tell my mom I'm Pagan, and worship no one, but love and respect all gods for all are One, she'd never speak to me again. My dad tells me he's dying and it makes him cry that neither my sister or I will be in Heaven with him. Like guilt will bring us to his idea of God.

I think God did not choose this life for me. I think the Powers That Be love me, and allow things to happen, but they didn't choose for them to happen as a test. No one deserves the tests they go through. I do think I'll be a better parent, however. I have chosen the father of my children, not just because I love him, but because he'll be a better father than mine has been. He's also got no parents. But I think he is blessed, for his memories of his dad are good ones. I question every single memory of mine and search for the lies I now know were there.

Fortunately, I have a wonderful GodFather I chose for myself, who doesn't judge me, who loves me no matter what. I have wonderful friends that may not understand, but they do try to comfort me. I have the BEST man in the world at my side, who gets me, and knows just what buttons to push to get me to the point of crazy, be he also knows just how to get me back from there. Without the support group I've built for myself, without the people The Gods brought into my life, I don't' think I'd have made it this far. I wouldn't' have wanted to.

I guess I'll end on my favorite poem. It's my favorite simply because it's true, and wonderful, and it get me through. Maybe it'll be my next tattoo.

The Rainy Day

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

By Longfellow

Currently reading : The Mists of Avalon By Marion Zimmer Bradley Release date: 1987-05-12

7:28 PM - 10 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

What matters?

Some days I’m so depressed I can’t stand it. No job, no wedding, no kids, etc... But I checked post secret today and saw this postcard, and I believe it. And I think that’s what matters.

1:12 AM - 3 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

Moon vs. Sun: underdog Moon expected to lose.

When the Moon Battles the Sun, the Sun wins by strength, size, energy, and production. The Moon can go where the Sun can't, but it's just a tiny cold rock, remnant of the past, trying to be revived. The poor Moon. It and I are one. Both trying to revive remnants of the past, but losing to the brightly burning heat of the Sun. Yet when the Sun burns out, the Moon will remain, because it doesn't eat itself from within, but will anyone be able to see it? Will anyone know it is still there without the light of the Sun to shine? Then again, just cause we can't see it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. But it might as well not.


It seems that everyone has something important, imperative, or some other adjective beginning with i to say in their blogs. All I had was a hatred for an entire group of people that I railed against in the same logical manner as Pat Condell. Then I realized that hatred wasn't acceptable by my own morals and I should stop railing against the evils of their ways. Now I am devoid of anything, and not because I feel that their ways aren't evil, but because I feel that preaching and pushing my beliefs onto others is wrong. If they're happy I'm happy for them, but they aren't happy for me. That's sad. It makes me angry. But prejudice only breeds more. Since I'm on the receiving end of it, I feel that I should do my best to end it there. Yet when you're being attacked, how do you not attack back? Is sitting still and taking it really going to get me anywhere? If I don't tell people of the wrongness of these people, then how will they see? Obviously they can't see themselves. I don't give people enough credit I guess. I feel as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes and expect others to feel that way too, even though they cannot see what I see. I mourn for them, the way they mourn for me. I guess religious tolerance is just a dream, though if I could get some, it'd be a hell of a lot easier to give it.

2:33 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

in the middle of a River Pheonix movie

It's late morning and I find myself hungry and in the middle of a River Pheonix movie.  I'm too Lazy to get something to eat, and I'm searching River's face for the genius eveyone saw in him.  I keep thinking of Heath Ledger, JFK, and Kurt Cobaine.  It's like the good, the politician and the ugly.  Heath was a great actor, I think River was too, and I'm not basing it on his death.  JFK and Kurt I think are vastly overrated, because of their deaths.  It kills me to think that Heath Ledger is gone because his doctor gave him pills that should not have been mixed.  Will anything happen to his doctor?  I doubt it...  I doubt anything will happen at all, except that now the new Batman movie will have a midnight opening and the theatres will be packed for weeks, everyone trying to search Heath Ledger's face the way I'm searching River's. 

I'm interested to see what their verdict is.

12:20 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

My apologies to the Christians out there.

I've come to realize that all I thought I hated about Christianity is just not true. There are some out there that really do think about Christ and being good Christians. There are some that are serious about God and loving him and following his precepts. Not everyone is too busy being good Christians to actually BE Christians. Not all of them force their faith onto others. Not all of them only think about themselves and what they want, putting their family and friends behind in order to be called "good Christians" and yet still don't show the love of Christ.

To all of you that are really Christians, and not in it for the power it gives you(males) and the curtain to hide behind (females) and truly want to be good people, I'm sorry I've said what I have said. Ronnie, Justin (both my brothers Justin), DJ, Crystal (sp?) and anyone else that claims the faith and means it, I'm sorry.

Having said that, I also think I'm justified in being angry at a few. Most of my parents (and yes, I have a few) say one thing and do another. There's something wrong when I come out of surgery on a Wednesday and I'm surprised my mom missed church to see if I'm okay when she could have just called Ericky. Church should NOT come before family, just as not going to church and living a life full of crap and then preaching to your children that they're going to Hell is wrong. I have issues. Lots of them. I'm trying to work through them and if any of you got caught in the crossfires (or raging bonfires) I've lit, then I'm sorry for that too.

2:11 AM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

This is my Catharsis. This is healing.
Current mood: distraught

My point here is to attack.  It is a challenge.  My fiancee says that I have no right to say anything about Christians, not claiming their faith as my own.  In fact, I know more about Christianity and so called Christians than most.  I was raised Fundamentalist Baptist, attended 14 years of Fundamentalist Baptists school.  I memorized Bible verses in Geometry and English, as well as  one to two doctrine classes a semester.  I was in church three days after I was born.  ("Thursday's Child is full of Woe" eh?)  

Now that you have my credentials and purpose, here is the meat:

Christians like to talk about the love of Christ, as if it is something tangible, something you can wrap yourself in.  While I have felt such love, it came from no deity.  It came from the man who saved me from self destructing after 19 years of abuse at the hands of Christians.  My mother and step-father were masters of verbal abuse.  Still are as a matter of fact. Just the other day they brought me to tears with cruel words just so they did not have to apologize for a great wrong they did me.  If you'd like to hear the story, I'd be glad to tell you.  They spout Bible verses at me that back them up, but refuse to hear ones I spout back.  Love is conditional.  My father is the same, only he is drunk or high all the time.  The church I grew up in is full of hypocrites, including the pastor, none of which shows God's love to me, simply because my marriage is that of the heart, not of paper, yet.  

My point?  It seems to me that the Love of God is only to be shown to those that the Christians are trying to convert.  To those that are already Christians (or those they believe to be) and gay rights activists, and opposing political parties, etc... (the list is never ending), there seems to be no need to show Christ's love, but rather condescension.  I was not aware that Christ looked down his nose at his apostles, he didn't even look down his nose at whores.  Why do modern Christians do such things?  How about looking at what is wrong in their lives?  I thought Christians were supposed to be humble, not full of self-righteousness.  Perhaps I am wrong.  

I feel humble.  Perhaps that is the product of my upbringing.  I feel that I should work on myself, on what the flaws are within me.  To be an example of how to be, in both my outside and inside life.  To do the minimal amount of harm to myself and others.  To consider everything I do, before I do it, and the possible ramifications. To not judge others or tell them how to live their lives, when I cannot always live mine the way I should (splinter in neighbor's eye, versus pole in my own.)  I thought these were Christian principles, but I was wrong.  

I know two Christians that hold to these beliefs as I do.  Only two.  I grew up among Christians.  I should know tons.  I don't.  So my challenge?  To actually show EVERYONE Christ's love.  Maybe then some of us might be more inclined to believe you actually know the Guy.  

(I realize I'm prejudiced.  I realize I'm angry and hurt and offended.  I realize that this is mostly in retaliation for what has been done to me.  I realize this is childish.  At least I don't claim to be or have what I'm not or don't.  This is my catharsis.)

1:47 AM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

The beginnings of a story: The Queen Herself
Current mood: accomplished

The Queen herself raked a sharpened knife across the throat of the kitten and held it so the blood flowed over the stone. The success of her Champion was imperative. Nothing else mattered more to her at the moment. She had no thought for her expensive silk gown, nor the blood splattered on it and soaking into her nails. She had no thought for the legions of others that followed him into battle. Only for her Champion. The other kittens were still playing. They had no clue what had happened to their brother. Once the blood was only coming out in slow drops, the Queen threw the soft tabby body into a basket and reached for another kitten. Keeping her mind clear of all but her Champion and how much love she had for him was not difficult. She was consumed by her love for him, even if she could never show it. Such things were against the vow of Champion to Lady. Still, she held that love in her heart and when she was alone, she let herself hope.
But there would be no hope if he did not come back from the war. So she sacrificed the newest litter of kittens from her favorite cat. Cats were excellent sacrifices to Rashak, the God of war. He loved hunting cats, and no other hunting cat produced better stock than her Preciosa. As she slit the throat of another cat she held her Champion's face in her mind. His shoulders in just a linen shirt were not exactly broad, but very muscled. His hair always in the warrior's tail. Beautiful dark curls trapped in the red leather thong at his neck. How she only had to tip her head barely to look into his eyes. His eyebrows in permanent sardonic archs. Eyes the color of new leaves, yet flat. Large nose and constant frowning mouth. The entire face in his stern expression he usually gave her. He was always so serious, and she was all too impetuous. But she still loved him with all her heart.
She grabbed the next kitten. In her mind spun images of her Champion in his armor, light leather so he could move about, or cloth robes so as to not impede the flow of energy and magic through his body into others. A smile touched the corners of her mouth as she remembered teasing him about who was the one in skirts in the relationship. She giggled a bit at the look he would give her.
When she was done with the ritual, she thanked the spirits of the kittens again and wished them happiness in the service of Rashak. She thanked Rashak and asked that he look after the man she loved. Then she stepped away from the circular rock. There was blood still flowing from it all around in a three foot circle. Her slippers were ruined, but then again, so was her dress and probably her underclothes too. No matter. No sacrifice was too great in exchange for her Champion back home and safe.

1:42 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment