Loki: Half-Baked

3730037372_c40aa96b6cLoki stood in my kitchen making pancakes. He was tall, at least 6’6”, if not more, and thin enough to hide behind a willow branch. I could not see the details of his clothes, only the colors: black and forest green. His skin was pale and reflected the dusky purple of the sunset outside. He had shining black hair.

He looked up at me and smiled with one corner of his mouth before turning back to the pancakes. He flipped his last one twice, high in the air, and slid it out onto the towering stack next to the stove. He turned for a second to look at me, then grabbed what appeared to be a Ziploc full of cookies from the opposite counter and plopped it next to the pancakes.

He turned around fully and opened his hands in front of him. He wiggled his fingers as if limbering them up, then entwined them and cracked his knuckles. He opened his hands again, then clapped them together, loud. He rubbed his palms past each other in a gesture of “that’s that”. He walked out of the kitchen, his back turned, waving a limp-wristed wave over his shoulder.

As soon as he was out of sight, I noticed four hungry androgynous children sitting at the kitchen table. They were all albino, like me, but shining white skin and hair, (not pink skin, platinum hair, as albinism is in real life). Their eyes were a purple-blue. They had their forks in one hand and knives in the other. They had the look of ravenous coyotes.

I turned to the stack of pancakes in a rush to feed the children. I picked the first one up and noticed half of it was still raw—batter oozing from the bottom. I picked up another and the same thing—half uncooked batter. I went through the stack, one by one, and they were all that way. I contemplated cooking them a little more, but the done parts were so done, to put them in the pan would have cooked the one half, but burned the other. I looked over at an empty bowl. There was no batter left.

Exasperated, I turned to the Ziploc full of cookies. I pulled one cookie out and it was also only half cooked and oozing warm, wet, chunky dough. I looked into the bag and the whole thing was that way—the half-baked cookies slathered with their own unbaked halves. The sight of it disgusted me.

“Goddammit Loki!” I said, and threw the bag on the floor. I heard a soft snickering from behind the living room wall.

I was ejected from the dream.


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Given the Lion

0bba8703609fa4f7326f4f95b0ab5326The doorbell rang and I went to answer. I looked through the peephole and saw a tall, thin Filipino man with deeply tanned skin sitting on the porch. He wore glasses, navy blue pants, and a white button-down shirt. He carried a long-barreled golden gun. He must have noticed me looking at him through the peephole because he rose and lifted the gun to eye level.

Startled, I retreated from the peephole for a beat. When I dared look again, he was gone. I strained to look as far down the street as the limited field of vision allowed. He was nowhere to be seen. I sighed in relief and moved away from the door. When I turned around however, I saw him appear in the backyard as if from nowhere. This time he was wearing all black. He still carried the long, golden gun.

I ran into the master bedroom to call the police. Usually, in dreams like this, the horror of it is that I can’t reach the police, or that the 911 operator doesn’t believe my cause for calling. In this dream however, she did believe me and said the police were on their way. They arrived mere seconds later. Four of them wearing old-fashioned black uniforms with brass buttons ran into the backyard and began wrestling with the man, attempting to relieve him of his gun. He was stoic about the proceeding, but would not relinquish his grip.

As I watched the scene unfold in the backyard, I heard a clatter in the front of the house and ran to check it out. A hulking man, stripped to the waist had burst through the front door wielding a knife that, like the barrel of the golden gun, had a long, thin blade. The handle of the knife was a shining black with a gold tip at the end. The hilt was also gold. The man was of mixed Latino and Caucasian heritage. He was bald and had a long mustache.

Upon entering the house, he walked over to a friend of mine and stabbed her several times around the shoulders and upper abdomen. I ran over to him to pull him away. He grabbed me and spun me around. He stabbed me first in the left shoulder, then the left forearm, then the palms of my hands. As he did, he screamed at me that I had given him a bad tarot reading on which he staked his whole life and, because of that, had ended up in jail.

“You see this? You see this?” he screamed, referring to words and symbols he had carved into himself using that same knife. In the center of his chest was a circle, at the center of which were two triangles interlocking—one pointed up and the other down. Each triangle met in its lower third making something of a distorted star of David. They were the alchemical symbols for fire and water joined. In his belly he had carved three words, something like a muddled Latin. The first letters of the words were L. B. D. The last two were bleeding so badly, I could not make them out. The first word was Leodosious.

(Aside: “Theodosius”, a Latin derivation of the Greek name “Theodotos”, means “given by god”. In this case, “Leodosius” would then mean, “given by the lion”.)

He screamed something about how I “gave him the lion” and that this was most responsible for his misfortune.

As he raved, he took my head in his hands and held it in a vice grip as he rubbed my nose in the carving on his chest until my face was covered in his blood. He repeated, “You did this. You did all of this.”

When he pushed me away, I pled with him to let me give him another reading—to correct the misinformation I had given him, (though I knew the information I had given him had been correct). Mostly, I was stalling for time until the police, that were still in the backyard dealing with the first man, noticed what was going on and came to my aid.

He agreed to let me do one more reading and dragged me by my bloody left hand upstairs. As we walked, I noticed he had a carving on his back, between his shoulder blades. It was another circle at the center of which I first thought was the astrological symbol for Leo, but as I looked at it more closely, I realized it was the alchemical symbol for death. Placed as it was, there would be no way he could have carved that symbol on himself.

Once upstairs, we sat down at a long, bare folding table on which my Prisma Visions deck was set. It was like my waking world deck in every way except that its edges were not gilded in silver.

I sat across from him and pulled the deck between us. I could hear the police rushing around downstairs and, all of a sudden, felt an extreme pressure that I must complete this reading, even though originally my offer to read was only a means of buying time.

I heard the heavy footsteps of the police on the stairs and I whispered to the bloody man, “We only have time for one—one card—a one card reading. Pick one from anywhere in the deck. Quickly. Quickly.”

Just as he had his fingers on his card of choice, the police rushed into the room and began to wrestle him away. He managed to flip the card over before they restrained his hands. The card was “4 of Inks”. The background of the card was a dark blue swirling into a deep pink. In the center of the card was the same symbol he had carved on his chest, but in shining gold.

The card was a shock. I had never seen “Inks” before and had no idea what a “4 of Inks” might mean. My mind raced: What might “Inks” stand for? What is the general theme of fours in the suits?

The police almost had him down, so I went with the first words that came to mind. It was the general reading you would give for the 7 of Cups. “You have many paths ahead of you…” I screamed into the fray. “There is poison in your choices,” a gun went off. The man had been shot in his right shoulder. He went down. As he fell, I screamed again, “Poison in your choices!”

The police shot him several more times, all down his right arm, in his left shoulder, and one straight into his ribcage. As they dragged him away, he was still breathing, muttering something about how there was still life in his motor—how the old girl would still run even if she was shot up. He began to hum and sputter then, just like an old motor would.

He and the police disappeared down the stairs.

I looked at the 4 of Inks still lying face up on the table. In that instant, it revealed its meaning to me. I had a vision of a blue circle, meaning deep consciousness, uniting with a gold circle, meaning action and manifestation. The 4 of Inks meant, “All of your dreams will come to concrete fruition.”

It was a card that would normally be a cause to celebrate, but, in this case, was shadowy and ominous, like a whispering snake.

I left the dream not knowing whether that card was directed at him, me, or both of us.


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Unruly Epithets

mn000934You have to love a god who also gleefully accepts as his epithets:

  • Golden Hind
  • His Twinkiness
  • Benevolent Asshole
    and, most especially,
  • G.O.D. (Gloriously Omnipotent Douchebag)


Posted in Blasphemy is HILARIOUS, Hermes, Humor | Tagged , | 3 Comments

Theos: Boxed

Roll up your sleeves
my golden god
these clavicles ache
for the cracking.

Your bare knuckles scrape
but are not scraped.

My blood spatters.
You stay freshly washed.

Dear god,
my kidneys have grass stains


I need an oracle
to locate my spleen.


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Dinner Conversation with a Horny God

THE urge


and serve
use your hands

use your teeth

oh god

we’re not alone

are you an exhibitionist

does it matter


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Odd Faith and Objectivity

angel-devilAs a person of odd faith, it can be difficult to find any objective ground to stand on when it comes to what is and what is not in the spiritual realm. For example: There are things/movements/beliefs in the pagan community that make me cringe and/or I find flat silly, but if I think to raise my sanctimonious voice to object, my little pitchforking conscience raises her voice just as loudly to remind me, “Look at all the crazy shit you believe. Who are you to say?”

At these times, one wishes so fervently to be able to fall back on, “Because my god said so,” like the followers of Abrahamic religions do when justifying their politics by their faith. But if that is unacceptable in them, it is certainly unacceptable in myself, even if it is that my god told me unicorn farts aren’t particularly mystical.

I am an objectivist. I am willingly and joyfully bound to reason and in service to (big “T”) Truth. At the same time, I have an intense faith which seeks to be even-handed in considering the merits of all faiths. The cognitive dissonance between these two parts is intense.

Here’s the best I can do to keep my head from exploding:

It’s either all bullshit or none of it is.

You can’t believe burning bushes talk then go around saying someone believing Loki is courting them is full of it. You can’t believe Odin gave you a message but discount every other message anyone else received from Odin because it doesn’t quite jive with what you heard. You can’t use the myths as sacred keys to the personalities of the gods then bash a pop culture pagan for deriving their gods from works of fiction. All of that is completely unreasonable.

In a realm where hard, sharp reason rarely can find a foothold, real honesty about the subjectivity of one’s own faith is, odd at it may sound, the only solid foundation on which to make camp.

The gods are as they are. They are not malleable. Their characters are not subject to our whim. They exist, objectively, as existence exists, regardless of our belief in or experience of them. It is only our understanding of them that shifts and shimmies, blows this way and that, goes light, goes dim, or goes dark completely.


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Traveller at the Gate

1392125149I am standing just outside a large villa in the Mediterranean countryside looking over the fields and valleys, vineyards, wooded land, and clearings– enjoying the light, the intense green, the serene blue. The villa’s master is inside bathing away the heat and sweat of a recent battle, at my request. Had it been up to him, he probably would have pranced around musty all day, victorious, cock-proud of his elegant handling.

I hear footsteps to my left, making their way haltingly up the path that leads to the front entrance. A traveler approaches me, walking with a single crutch. He is dark-skinned and extremely thin—all elbows and ankle bones, knobby knees and clavicles. His healthy skin shines in the sun as if it were polished mahogany. He has a gray beard and wears a red tunic tied with a rope belt. He wears a broad-brimmed straw hat and, under the shadow of the hat, his eyes are barely visible yet I feel they are a diamond sharp intelligence.

He walks over and leans on his long, gnarled crutch. He swivels his head to look over the vast estate, from border to border, receding into the distance. Without introduction, he asks me, “This all yours?”

I look around too, then connect with his gaze. “No,” I say. “This is his. There are some places that he kept for himself—that just belong to h…”

The traveler widens his eyes and raises one corner of his mouth in a cocky half smile.

My composure crumbles. I shake my head and begin to laugh. “Who am I kidding? It’s mine.” I make a dramatic, sweeping gesture, and laugh even harder. “They’re all mine.”

The stranger laughs with me. He leans in and whispers, “Saves him on paperwork, don’t it?”

I laugh so hard, tears begin to stream down my face.

“That’s fine,” he says and leans back with a satisfied air. “That’s just fine. You own your ownership, girl. I’m glad to see it. You own your ownership.” He smiles a broad smile full of more bright white teeth than one might imagine could fit in any one skull.

I notice he has an empty wooden bowl dangling from his pack. I ask him if he’d like to come inside to eat. He says, “You don’t want this raggedy old thing at your table.”

“Yes,” I say. “I do. I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t.”

He sucks in his cheeks for a moment, then shakes his head again. “No. I don’t think I’ll come in today, but I wouldn’t mind the food, if you please.”

He extends the bowl and I take it inside to the kitchen. The master of the villa is there, rummaging through the refrigerator, looking for something cold to drink. I begin to fill the bowl with the bounty of the estate—fresh bread and cheese, grapes, cold meats. I hear the fridge door close behind me and he says, “That crotchety old man won’t come in, will he?”

“No. And I assume it’s something you did.” I turn around and wink. He shakes his head, chuckles low, and disappears into the library.

I carry the bowl of food out to the traveller. He thanks me and turns to leave. At the end of the path, he turns around briefly and shouts over his shoulder, “And who’s he callin’ ‘old man’ anyway? ‘Crotchety’ my boney ass!” And with that, he disappears down the road.


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