Bladewalkertrade aka KiernanPsyChoSeMaTi...'s blog: "Of Myth and Madness...."

I feel like I'm about to jump out of my skin- like I should be somewhere else doing something else- out of this job, out of this town. My senses are buzzing and I feel something must be done. Before I begin breaking things. I get the sense I should be running the show, that I should be part of something bigger either of my own creation or as part of a collaberation. All I know is that all my life, I have been shackled by my insecurities about what people think about my weight and my odd personality, and now I am ready to say fuck them all and go for it. I will start with the image, show people how beautiful I truly am, then cultivate from there. Yeah, some may be saying, "Aren't you a little old for such foolishness? Isn't it a little too late?" My response to both: Fuck you! It's never too late if your will is strong and your passion is great. Age is relative- you're as old as you feel and I feel half of my true age. Matter of fact, I feel bloody well immortal! Now, this isn't going to happen overnight, people, but know this: what has been put in motion in my mind is also moving through my heart. Something is afoot. Something is about to break. I feel it like a tsunami crashing over my soul. I don't know what, when, or where, but I feel it is coming fast. And I will welcome the wave with open arms.

I am now, for the first time, fulfilling a life-long dream. I am now a featured writer for an online magazine called American Gothique [americangothique.com]. Oh, yes, my stories will still thrive, but the chance to flex my journalistic muscle was just too good to pass up! Am I getting paid? No. Am I having the time of my life? YES!!!! I encourage ALL to check out American Gothique as it is a first-rate site not only in the case of the graphic content, but the literary content as well [speaking of other pieces other than my own, of course]. My thanks goes out to Logan Guinn, the site's administrator and creator for choosing me for this project. You know, you can have all the belief in yourself, but until someone else believes in you, your dreams are but stardust in the night sky. Thanks for believing....

His voice was like absinthe, calling to her soul incessantly from across the sea- no one else heard him, no matter her insistence that his was the most beautiful she had ever heard. He, like her, was neither from here nor there, but Elsewhere. "How can you understand him if he is not from here?" they would ask. "It matters not the understanding of the lyric," she would reply, "the song speaks to me loud and clear." They would look at her, shaking their head, thinking at last the madness had taken her. Ah, but such sweet madness, she thought as she danced to the song in her head. She would surely go mad should his voice be silenced, so she dared not shut it out, ignoring the other's whispers and mockery. He had the mark of the Old Ones about him, the Ones that had come before the humans that despised and ridiculed her, the Ones who knew the Song of the Trees and Sang with power and grace and magick. The moon was her light and he was her moon, his voice the stirring of stars within her that burst out of the sky like comets, raining stardust upon her hair and upturned face, making her glitter and glow with power as she laughed and danced in the cool autumn night. Those that witnessed her at these times were both awed and frightened by her behavior- they felt her power, yet refused to accept that it was there; they sensed her benevolence, yet insisted that she was somehow evil. What they did not understand, they sought to destroy, but found out quickly that she was not one to be conquered so easily. For his song lent her a power, his voice channeled a strength that would not be thwarted. And as her voice began to sing his songs in concert with his, in his own tongue, that force was increased ten-fold. She could only sing bits and pieces for now, but those she could were indeed a joy to her heart. When she finally learned by rote the other parts, could sing but one song fully without stumbling over the lyric, she knew a force would be awakened in her that was beyond imagining. She knew those who were deaf to him would then be deaf to her, yet she cared not. For she knew the only one she cared to hear her song was the moon that watched above her.

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If any part of your invocation of the South Quarter includes any lines from any song by Lynard Skynard....

If chewing tobacco is considered a sacred herb.....

If part of your rite includes throwing shotgun shells on the fire....

If the bell on your alter was ever worn by an animal in a pasture....

If the cakes and wine are done with a bowie-knife, a can of Foster's, and a Little Debbie.....

If they chose their High Priestess at a wet t-shirt contest....

If when your priestess says "Blessed Be" in circle, you respond with "YEEE-HAW!"...

If you believe a pentagram is a Western Union message to 5 people....

If you bought your chalice at the Piggly Wiggly.....

If you buy your incense and candles at Wal-Mart....

If you call the God and Goddess by hollerin' "Hey, y'all! Watch me!"....

If you call the North Quarter, but what you call it is an inner court secret.....

If you can play the "Burning Times" on the banjo....

If you carry your ritual sword in your pickup's gun rack.....

If you found out your familiar is an oppossum -- and still ate it........

If you have combined Maypole Dancing/ Tractor Pull/ Turkey Shoot for Beltane....

If you have cast a love spell on livestock....

If you have ever called the National Enquirer because you raised a potato that resembled the Willendorf Goddess....

If you've ever cancelled a coven meeting to watch Pay-Per-View wrestling on TV....

If you've ever written a spell on the back of a Denny's menu.....

If you have ever refilled your chalice from a keg.....

If you invoke the spirits so that your beer lasts longer.....

If you pray nightly to the god of big tires.....

If you sacrifice BBQ and pork rinds on an alter made of old car hoods....

If you shoot guns into the air when the priestess says, "the circle is open but never unbroken"...

If you smoke Salem cigarettes for the historical significance....

If you think a "family tradition" is a dating club....

If you think the Wiccan Rede is good for making twig furniture....

If you worship the gods of cheap beer and Nascar....

If you've ever done a candle spell for your local high-school football team....

If you've ever harvested ritual herbs with a weed whacker.....

If you've ever meditated to "Dueling Banjos".....

If you've reached the 3rd Degree but not the third grade......

If your God statue looks a little too much like Elvis Presley.....

If your Goddess picture says "Miss September" at the bottom......

If your Wand of Power is a cattle prod.....

If your altar cloth is a Confederate flag.....

If your altar cloth is vinyl......

If your altar cloth says "Holiday Inn" or "Howard Johnson's"....

If your altar has a spit cup.....

If your altar pentacle is a photo of John Wayne's star on the "Hollywood Walk of Fame".....

If your annointing oil smells like Old Spice.....

If your athame is by Bowie.....

If your broom has 4 wheel drive and SC plates.....

If your ceremonial chalice says "Budweiser" on it....

If your ceremonial garb consists of cut-offs and a tube-top.....

If your circle dance contains the words "dosey-do"......

If your circle dance is a two-step....

If your coven chose its High Priest at a belching contest....

If your coven's secret names for the God and Goddess are "Cooter" and "Sweet Cheeks"....

If your coven-stead is propped up on cinder blocks.....

If your craft name starts with "Bubba"......

If your familiar can point quail....

If your familiar keeps mice out of the granary.....

If your favorite Great Rite partner is your first, second, and third cousin....

If your backyard ritual libation is brewed in an illegal backyard still......

If your favorite painting of the Goddess does her hair like Rheba McEntire....

If your maiden sweeps the circle with a weed whacker....

If your most sacred altar items include a hubcap, a velvet painting, and a half-empty can of chaw.....

If your outdoor circle has defunct washing machines for quarter altars....

If your pantheon includes Yukon Jack, Jim Beam and the St. Pauli Girl...

If your ritual music has ever included Johnny Cash singing "Ring of Fire"....

If your robes are made out of denim with Harley Davidson patches.....

Well, you might just be a redneck pagan!!

A cat died and went to Heaven. God met her at the gates and said, "You have been a good cat all these years. Anything you want is yours for the asking." The cat thought for a minute and then said, "All my life I lived on a farm and slept on hard wooden floors. I would like a real fluffy pillow to sleep on." God said, "Say no more." Instantly the cat had a huge fluffy pillow. A few days later, six mice were killed in an accident and they all went to Heaven together. God met the mice at the gates with the same offer that He made to the cat The mice said, "Well, we have had to run all of our lives: from cats, dogs, and even people with brooms! If we could just have some little roller skates, we would not have to run again." God answered, "It is done." All the mice had beautiful little roller skates. About a week later, God decided to check on the cat. He found her sound asleep on her fluffy pillow. God gently awakened the cat and asked, "Is everything okay? How have you been doing? Are you happy?" The cat replied, "Oh, it is WONDERFUL. I have never been so happy in my life. The pillow is so fluffy, and those little Meals on Wheels you have been sending over are delicious!"

"Penso che una vita per la musica sia una vita spesa bene ed e a questo che mi sono dedicato." "I think a life in music is a life beautifully spent and this is what I have devoted my life to." -Luciano Pavarotti That night in 1972, at the New York Met, I remember it well. Sitting in a box owned by my dear friend Connor, I watched the effortless grace of then relative newcomer Luciano Pavarotti as he performed La Fille Du Regiment. The song flowed from his lips like sweet wine, carrying over the opera house in waves of heavenly spendor, the passion on his face mirroring the passion he had for the music and for the piece itself- it was then I knew I was watching a prodigy unlike the world had ever seen. And what issued from Pavarotti's very being during that performance proved that statement I made to Connor, who had simply chuckled at the over exuberance I was so prone to when it came to music. The first high C was expected- every good tenor worth his salt can hit at least one. But then there came two. By the fifth high C, the audience was sighing and awestruck, caught in the rapture of the voice that seemed to take them in like a spider takes her prey into the web. By the seventh and final, the audience was in an uproar, applauding, shouting "Bravo!" and "Bravissimo!", Connor himself on his feet with- to my satisfaction- a dumbstruck look on his face, palms red from the vigorous applause. Myself, moved as I was by this voice that struck my very soul, was wiping joyous tears from my eyes even as I shouted my own praise and adoration. He received seventeen curtain calls that night. Seventeen. No performer since has [or, I believe, ever will] received that distinction. That night marked the dawn of a golden age for Pavarotti. Connor was fortunate enough to be allowed back stage to the dressing room, where Pavarotti was seen dabbing at his forehead with his signature handkerchief, looking almost relieved that the performance was over, yet at the same time radiating with the energy the audience had given him in their adoration. Flitting about him were dozens of well-wishers, but when he saw Connor, his face lit up and he walked over to greet us, speaking in Italian [a language I had yet to master] and clasping his hand heartily. Connor introduced me, and Maestro took my hand and kissed it as was his gentlemanly fashion, thanking me for my praise and excusing himself to a previous engagement, promising to have us over one day to his home in Italy. And I have followed his career ever since. In the following years he sang worldwide, made frequent television appearances; had the first performance in at Great Hall of the People in China and was awarded numerous Grammy awards and platinum and gold discs for his performances. Arguably the crowing achievement of his career was his version of Nessun Dorma which became the theme song for the 1990 FIFA World Cup. It for this song he is remembered. And this song will always remind me of him. I never got the chance to make that visit, which I deeply regret, but he always found a bunch of yellow roses in his room after every performance with a card: "Bravissimo, Maestro!" Rest in peace, dear friend. "I have had everything in life, really everything. And if everything is taken away from me, with God we're even and quits." - Luciano Pavarotti

Holding on to hate- the kind of hate that makes you bristle with dark chi, makes your blade quiver in anticipation of vengeance- is never a good thing. Yet when it comes to betrayal, it is hard to let go of. Not talking about petty secrets or white lies. No, this is the kind of betrayal that cuts to the very fabric of ones being, that shatters the very concept one had about trust and loyalty. So, my advice? Do not speak lightly of codes and creeds if you do not choose to live by them. Do not speak to the heart of one you profess to care for if you intend to dash that heart to the ground without care to the fragility of the soul connected to it. Unless you enjoy the feel of cold steel against your throat.....

“.....our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this small planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children’s future. And we are all mortal.” -JFK Well, some of us anyway. I was sitting in the Majestic Steakhouse across from the Majestic Theater on that terrible day. The waiter had just brought my lunch- a medium rare top sirloin seasoned to perfection- when I heard the screams and shouts: "Kennedy's been shot!" I immediately abandoned my appetite, sighing in the resignation that I knew this would happen-just not here, not now, not in the state I had chosen for my home. Texas has been home to me for many decades now. I have lived in the spectacular Hill Country- so like the Scottish Highlands of my past- with its silver and freshwater pearls. I remember how one could ride the plains, black with buffalo, without fear of running across the ATVs or dirt bikes that tear up the soil so carelessly now. I have wandered along the Gulf coast, taken to the waters with the shrimp boats; have ridden across the deserts in the West, so like the rocky, rough terrain of the Middle East. And the flowers! To see a field of Texas wildflowers is to wonder why the gardens of Versailles even bother to bloom. It is untrue to say Texas is "like a whole 'nuther country:" it is rather like many different countries, rich and varied in its tradition as Europe itself. I prefer the solitude of the suburbs now- the city life holding no fascination for me any longer. Dallas especially, looking like a Southern version of Miami with all its pretty buildings and pretty people who think they are somehow more privileged to live in a city made so mythical by the media. Oh, yes, they look down on other Texans like they are foreigners- laughable, but sadly true. Nope, give me the Old West charm of Fort Worth, the Stockyards barely changed from the time I arrived by stagecoach from Houston. "Hell's Half Acre," "The Paris of the Plains" as it was known back then: the last major stop along the Chisholm Trail with its gambling halls and saloons. Just the place for a singer like myself to lay low for a while and have some fun. With the coming of the Texas and Pacific Railway, it became known as "Queen City of the Plains" and "Cowtown," as it is still known to this day. So many other cities like to bury their past beneath grandiose buildings of steel and glass, but not Fort Worth. The city revels, celebrates, even breathes in its past: from the regular parade of longhorn cattle down Main Street to the annual Chisholm Trail ride that follows the same route taken so long ago, albeit with development and highway traffic as scenery. Even the same wooden sidewalks and bricks upon which walked some of the most famous Western legends- Jim Courtright, Butch and Sundance, Billy the Kid, just to name a few- still can be walked on today. So, unless my vagabond heart decides to go a-wandering, for now Texas is home. As much as home can be for the likes of me.....