Because of the delicate nature of this post, I’m taking off my shit-kicker boots and putting on my pointe shoes.
I am a Caucasian female who has lived in the South all of my life. I grew up in a town in South Carolina who granted a parade permit to the Ku Klux Klan every year. I really thought nothing of them. When I did think of the KKK, we thought they were sad, funny, and pathetic. I grew up around people who flew the Confederate battle flag. Some of them were racists, some of them were not, a few of them were African-American. When I was a small child, my tree house was built next to a forgotten slave cemetery in the woods. The graves were sunken and over grown, and the tombstones that remained were plain field rocks. Nobody really gave it any thought. Both of my maternal grandmother’s grandfathers fought for the Confederacy. She grew up sitting on their laps listening to them telling stories about their war days. Neither one personally owned slaves. At one time her mother’s family had own several slaves, but not at the time of the Civil War. On my paternal grandparents’ side, there are ancestors who fought on both sides of the Civil War and who were on both sides of the western Virginia succession debate. I was living in SC during the 2000 debate about whether or not to remove the Confederate flag from on top of the state house. I was among those citizens who conceded that perhaps atop the state house may not be appropriate and could offend people, but that at an appropriate memorial on the state house grounds was fine.
Now, there is a push to erase this flag from everyone’s memory.
Erasing history is always a dangerous move. However, judging history in hindsight based on modern values is just as dangerous. Although I am a states’ rights advocate, I’m not going to twirl into that debate regarding the Civil War. I am, however, going to dance into the debate about the First Amendment, since that’s another great love of mine. It is true that to some people the Confederate battle flag represents hate, hate that they feel towards other people and hate that they feel from other people. It is true that to some people, the Confederate battle flag simply represents a chapter of America’s past. However, the Confederate battle flag is quickly becoming a symbol of free speech, which is probably not what the opponents of the flag want to have happen. The problem is that very few people are breathing deeply and trying to find a compromise. I have read and listened to many people, a majority of which are Pagans, rant and rail against the battle flag. A great many think it should be banned out right. That’s an extremely unsafe solution. If you start banning symbols, then before you know it symbols that you love and hold dear could become banned. How many Christians have wanted pentagrams banned? What about the swastika? It’s a solar symbol held dear by Hindus, Pagans, and Catholics (St. Brigid’s Cross). You may say, “apples and oranges, Sparrow”, but it’s really not. They’re all just designs that we as humans have given meaning. If the energy that’s being put into the flag debate was put into solving the inequalities between races and socio-economic classes in America, then things would be much nicer and a lot of the hate speech would disappear. Some people will always hate. Some people will never be able to let go of the past. But things would be better.
The Confederate battle flag is probably not the most appropriate flag to fly at municipal locations. However, if it’s not appropriate to fly it at a Confederate War Memorial, then where is it appropriate. And no, you cannot answer, “No where.” There will be no revisionist history here. Remember, the Nazis were revisionists. Yes, I know that was a rich statement, but it’s true. When you start banning emblems, you become just like a Nazi.
Personally, I think the Bonnie Blue Flag is a good compromise. There is no way to make everybody happy. It makes me sad and sick to my stomach that there is no way to make everybody happy in this situation, but there’s just not. And, despite what the media and blowhards would like you to believe, there is really no right or wrong answer here. The only really wrong answer here is to ignore the First Amendment and to ignore both sides of this issue. Pagans, you should be worried about this. It’s a slippery slope. You ban one thing and there’s a precedent set to ban all kinds of things. Look at France with the head veil.
The Bonnie Blue Flag can still be seen in many of the state flags today. It stands for being brave and taking a stand. It stands for breaking away from the pack and doing something different. It stands for saying, “Fuck you!” to the governing body that is oppressing you. It stands for rebellion against the status quo in hopes of a more free future society. The best compromise is flying the Bonnie Blue Flag. A great number of the Confederacy’s ideologies can be argued to be completely morally wrong, but the members of the secessionists’ convention took at stand for what they believed in. Slavery is always wrong and shouldn’t be glorified, but using your energy to battle for long dead slaves when presently living slaves desperately need your help is also wrong and a huge waste. Pagans don’t have sins, but there are certain expectations that our deities charge us with. One of those is being good stewards of our time, talents, energies, and emotions. If you want to stop buying something, stop buying foreign tuna. Do you know how many Thai men and boys and other foreign nationals die aboard fishing slave ships? You think I’m kidding, but look it up.
Bree, where’s the titty tassels for your pole dance? I wanna see a money shot, bitch!
At least take off your bra and splash water on your chest! Those nipples would create a more lasting image than you simply in hand cuffs!
Hey Nikki, take your top off! If you really want to drum up support over the flag issue, make some pin-up pictures of you wrapped in the SC state flag!
The thing to remember when looking back at America’s history of slavery is that no nationality or religion at that time was innocent. Some Caucasians owned slaves. Some free African-Americans owned slaves. Some Jews owned slaves. Some Native Americans owned Native American and African slaves. In Africa, Arab Muslims owned and traded in slaves. African Muslims owned and traded in slaves. African Pagans owned and traded in slaves. Nobody’s innocent so nobody should be casting stones, burning flags, or pointing fingers. Everybody’s ancestors are guilty to one degree or another. Compromise is what needs to occur. Fly the Bonnie Blue Flag and the American Flag if you feel compelled to fly flags.
Judah P. Benjamin
Don’t forget to give thanks to Lady Liberty this Independence Day for allowing the US to have the freedom to debate issues like the Confederate Battle Flag. Also remember to give proper thanks for her help in the SCOUS decision about gay marriage.
I finished Logos this afternoon by John Neeleman, and I have to say it’s a long read. Most of that length, however,is necessary as a story vehicle. Neeleman takes you on a walking tour of the main character Jacob’s life, from childhood until an ultimately happy ending (more on that later). The story starts in the opulence of Roman occupied Jerusalem and ends in the opulence of Rome. Along the way are sojourns in the barren deserts of Palestine and the lush oasises of the Levant. The landscape itself is featured so often that it is a major character central to the plot. The character of Jacob, a rich Jew and son-in-law of Ananias of Bible fame, goes from having everything, to having nothing, to slowly climbing his way back onto the top, very similar to Barabbas. He even comes to a reconciliation with the Christians at the end, just like Barabbas. However, Jacob is an emotional child through out much of the book. He reflects a lot of men and people. He rages when he should be calm and loses his nerve when he needs it the most. While the loss of nerve is a realistic character trait, Jacob’s naivety and ability to be easily won over by those that have terribly altered his life is somewhat beyond the suspension of disbelief.
Logos deals not only with one man’s life journey, but also with the fictionalized lineage of the Christian faith. Turns out the Baptists were wrong. The story of Christ is just a made up story, pulled from tidbits of reality, the myths of the Middle Eastern world, and the Jewish belief in a Messiah. Modern Pagans have been saying this for years. While of course this is a figment of Neeleman’s imagination, this story is very plausible. And, just as I always suspected, Paul is a very slimy person and a liar. And gay. In fact a lot of these characters come across as gay, bi, and into dominance and submission. Of course, in reality, that’s the whole of the Roman world. Although Jacob has three wives, one legal and two common law, he still engages in common adolescent and early adult bi-curiosity. Jacob is often put into positions of power and expected to be dominant, but he is never able to fulfill that role and constantly defers to the Alphas around him. He may look like a bear for most of the novel, but all he really wants to be is a cub.
Neeleman never gives in to the temptation to explore the homosexuality that is constantly poking at the robes of this novel begging to get out, but he does indulge his readers in several incredibly hot heterosexual sex scenes, which is wonderfully refreshing. Sex between Jacob and Hannah, the legal first wife, is very kosher and married. Sex between Jacob and Maryam, his second wife, is fiery and wild, just like the sand they lie in. Sex between Jacob and Hypathia, his third wife, is opulent and bestial.
It helps to have a small background in Biblical history, but it’s not necessary. If you want to read related books, I suggest Agrippa’s Daughter by Howard Fast, and Dr. Hillman’s double trouble duo: Original Sin and Hermaphrodits, Gynomorphs, and Jesus.
So, what about this ending I alluded to? Well, the ending had such promise to go so many ways, yet in the end it went the way you could see it headed toward, which left me a little disappointed. I had really hoped that Jacob would finally get a steel rod for a backbone, but Neeleman never gave him one.
Info From Novel Publicity–I didn’t write any of the Following stuff, just an FYI
About the Book – About the Author – Prizes!!!
About the prizes: Who doesn’t love prizes? You could win one of two $50 Amazon gift cards or an autographed copy of LOGOS! Here’s what you need to do…
Enter the Rafflecopter contest
Leave a comment on another participating blog:
That’s it! One random commenter during this tour will win the first gift card. Visit more blogs for more chances to win–the full list of participating bloggers can be found HERE. The other two prizes will be given out via Rafflecopter. You can find the contest entry form linked below or on the official LOGOS tour page via Novel Publicity. Good luck!
About the book: While novels and cinema have repeatedly sought after the historical Jesus, until now none have explored what may be a more tantalizing mystery—the Christian story’s anonymous creator. Logos is a literary bildungsroman about the man who will become the anonymous author of the original Gospel, set amid the kaleidoscopic mingling of ancient cultures. Logos is a gripping tale of adventure, a moving love story, and a novel of ideas. None of this should be regarded as out of place or incompatible in a novel about Christianity’s origin. Dissent, anarchism, and revolution—and incipient Christianity was no less these things than the Bolshevik, the French or the American revolutions—inevitably have involved ideas, adventure, and romance. In A.D. 66, Jacob is an educated and privileged Greco-Roman Jew, a Temple priest in Jerusalem, and a leader of Israel’s rebellion against Rome. When Roman soldiers murder his parents and his beloved sister disappears in a pogrom led by the Roman procurator, personal tragedy impels Jacob to seek blood and vengeance. The rebellion he helps to foment leads to more tragedy, personal and ultimately cosmic: his wife and son perish in the Romans’ siege of Jerusalem, and the Roman army destroys Jerusalem and the Temple, and finally extinguishes Israel at Masada. Jacob is expelled from his homeland, and he wanders by land and sea, bereft of all, until he arrives in Rome. He is still rebellious, and in Rome he joins other dissidents, but now plotting ironic vengeance, not by arms, but by the power of an idea. Paul of Tarsus, Josephus, the keepers of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and even Yeshua, the historical Jesus himself, play a role in Jacob’s tumultuous and mysterious fortunes. But it is the women who have loved him who help him to appreciate violence’s dire cycle.Get LOGOS through Amazon, or Barnes & Noble.
About the author: John Neeleman spends his days working as a trial lawyer in tall buildings in downtown Seattle. He lives in Seattle with his wife and children. He also represents death row inmates pro bono in Louisiana and Texas. As a novelist, his editorial model is historical fiction in a largely realistic mode, though there are hallucinatory passages that reflect Neeleman’s concern with philosophical and spiritual matters, in part a residue of his religious upbringing. He was raised as a seventh generation Mormon, and rebelled, but never outgrew his interest in metaphysical concerns. Connect with John on his publisher’s website, Facebook, Twitter,or GoodReads.. a Rafflecopter giveaway
She looked at herself in the reflection of the bathing pool. She was filthy, thin, and her hair beraggled. Two days ago she had found a sparrow trying to make a nest in her hair; it was so horrible. She scrunched her eyes tightly to hide her tears as her Tendrils tried to gently tease out the knots. They were good girls, she knew, and they always tried to be gentle, but she was very tender-headed, and no matter how hard they tried, she always cried when they brushed her hair. Every day before the Oak King sent her into the fields, the Tendrils would braid her hair into simple peasant plaits and cover it with a poofy linen cap that her sunhat fit over, but every evening when she took the cap off, her hair would be unplaited and full of knots, tangles, and brush—and sometimes critters. Every Oak season was the same, and she never understood how it happened. It was just part of the magic of the cycle.
She let her mind drift to the coming opulence of the Holly King, that is if things worked the way they always did. Although without fail the brothers met twice a year to kill each other, the Ivy Queen always worried that this may be the year when things didn’t go as they were ordained, that her Holly King wouldn’t come back and that she would be stuck in an endless summer of hard work forever. She was tired of sweating. She shouldn’t work in the fields like a peasant. She was a Queen! She shouldn’t be tanned like the Oak King.
Her skin should be white to better show the lusciousness of her cool ivy leaves. She missed her castle where she could cavort and frolic with her Tendrils without the interference of the ever present Oak. His low growl of “Back to work” never left her ears, nor the exciting chill of dread that sprouted in her heart when he would touch the buckle of his belt or when he would glance between her and the whip hanging from the wall. The Tendrils washed her with whisper light touches over her thin, hard body. They drew the rag up between her small breasts and over her protruding collarbone. The Queen longed for her curves that had to be contained in an endless line of beautiful corsets. All in due time, she thought, all in very short due time.
She thought back to the Oak King touching his belt buckle and shivered.
Catch the irony?
He rarely punished her in that matter. The Tendrils started washing her thighs, and she opened them wider. One of her girls started to gently rub the tiny nub that always brought her so much pleasure. Instead of beatings, the Oak King was fond of the saying, “No work, no food.” He used hunger to motivate the people to do his bidding. Everybody worked hard, but he worked people so hard that their caloric earnings couldn’t keep up with their caloric spending. “Mmmmm”, she sighed as the Tendril rubbed a little faster and harder.
Everything wasn’t horrible with the Oak King. He did enjoy his pleasures, although they were of the more rustic variety. And she enjoyed sharing his pleasures, when he allowed. Often though, he would take a Tendril out with him into the wild wood, and either make her experience his touches vicariously through her girl’s retelling or be made to watch while she was imprisoned in a hollow oak tree.
She hated the tree most of all, since the hollow was only barely big enough for her to stand in and her arms were pinned to her side, not allowing her to masturbate in any way. There were times, however, when he touched her and melted her natural resistance to his authority. Once, during a terrible spring storm, the Oak King had spirited her away into the wind and lighting, pushing her back against a broad strong oak tree, pinning her hands above her head, and fucking her roughly while the rain and hail pelted them, leaving bruises on her slowly tanning skin. The Queen knew that she still had the scars where the tree’s bark had torn into her back, leaving the Oak King’s mark upon her skin.
At Beltane, when all the young men came to treat a Tendril for the night, the Oak King, just like a young swain, built her a cool, soft leafy bower for their sacred coupling. As gently as a nervous groom, he shyly took her with his perfect priapic wand, taking almost all night for her being to burst into a frenzy of fireflies and stars.
That was her sweetest memory of him. She fancied that that night was the sweet meat beneath his hard shell, but she was allowed to taste it so rarely, she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Ohhhhh,” she gasped, remembering his rod moving back and forth slowly inside of her,his rough tip rubbing her most sensitive spots. One of the Tendrils slipped a small wet fist into the Queen’s vagina and started to flex her hand.
Then, most recently, there had been their coupling in the field of partially ripe wheat. He had ordered her Tendrils to strip her of the simple brown shift that she was allowed to wear during the Oak King’s reign. Then he had blindfolded her and led her forward with a strong hand around her wrist. As she stumbled behind him, her skin was burned by the unrelenting sun, her nostrils were assaulted by the smells of grain, grass, and humid earth, and her ears rang with the drone of millions of insects. The wheat, about waist high, had switched and cut her thighs, leaving hundreds of little scratches. It had even tickled further up, sometimes even dipping between her nether lips. By the time the Oak King brought her to a halt in the middle of the field and removed her blindfold, her pussy was dripping, further irritating the tender flesh of her thighs, and she was covered in a heavy sheen of sweat. Through the memory the Queen was aware that her Tendril’s hand was moving even faster. She moaned louder with pleasure, knowing that she was close to coming.
The Oak King had invited her to lay down amongst the wheat, the dust and dirt of the field turning to mud against her sweaty skin. He took a length of wheat and teased her abused thighs with it, tickling her, working his way over her sunken tummy and breasts. He tickled and rubbed her nipples with the wheat kernels until they started to bleed. Then he took the wheat head and caressed further back from her vagina, moving her wetness back to lubricate her ass.
With out much thought she had lifted her hips and opened up as much as possible to him on her own. He teased her tight hole with the acorn head of his penis, being more patient than was his wont, slowly rubbing her in tight circles, coaching her body to slowly open up and swallow him. His entrance had made her stiffen and cry out in pain, but his slow persistence soon convinced her body to relax. The Ivy Queen remembered that she had lost herself in the blinding blue of the sky until it all started to feel good. The Oak King had been very attentive to her that day. He took his time and went as slow as she needed him to go, only starting to pump her dirt coated ass harder when she pulled him fully on top of her, wrapping her legs around him to pull him tighter. She remembered how the wheat tickling her soles had pushed her over the edge.
“Oh!” the Queen gasped and clamped down on the attending Tendril’s hand. Ivy Queen started to giggle, allowing herself to climax. The harder she came the louder she laughed. Then a loud knock on the door shattered the moment.
Her summons had arrived. The Oak King was ready for her, for what may be their final mating of the season. The old fear returned. What if this time, the Oak King prevailed for another six months? What then? She didn’t think she could bear any more of the Oak King’s austerity. Besides, she longed for her own castle. The Holly King allowed to her to come and go as she pleased with her Tendrils. The Oak King never let her go beyond the fields unless he was with her. The Holly King always invited her to share his plush bed. The Oak King insisted that she maintain a pallet on the floor in a dark corner of his chamber. The Holly King was robust and dark yet endlessly mirthful. The Oak King shone like the sun, tall and sturdy like his tree, but he rarely laughed, and then usually at her expense.
The Tendrils smoothed her wet hair down her delicate back. They had dressed her in a simple green tunic that swept the floor and opened fully down the front. As she followed the King’s servant to his chamber, the Oak Knights caught sight of her apple tits and ripe peach. The Queen was conscious of their stares, and despite her blush, she held her head high and glided on. The Oak King was standing before a wide window, gazing out into the courtyard bathed in the late morning sunshine. It was already hot. The spring breezes had ceased several weeks ago, and now it was swealtering. The King stood with his back to her, straight and tall. She always wondered what the brothers thought about in the final hour before the fight. Neither one ever appeared to be nervous or even the least bit concerned. She was the only one who ever seemed nervous. Each brother bore his fate with an unfathomable faith that the cycle would be never ending, that nothing would go wrong.
The Ivy Queen took a deep breath and shrugged her robe off, leaving it a green puddle on the floor. The Oak King turned at the soft thud of the fabric. A greedy, slightly malicious smile twitched on his lips. He took her ALL in fully. It wasn’t often that he saw her freshly scrubbed. He kept her too busy at her chores. She was finally the way he liked her best. She was whispy, yet the delicate muscles that rippled under her bronze skin belied the physical strength she had slowly built up during the growing season. Her hair hung down straight and brown, with blond and red highlights bleached in from working in the sun. Her attitude was tempered too. At the beginning of winter she was always full of disrespectful quips and constantly challenged every order and request. But by the beginning of summer, the Ivy Queen’s attitude was as pliable and agreeable as an ivy vine. Every year he was tempted to keep her naked once the weather grew warmer so that he could see the changes in her body more easily, but he had yet to command it. Perhaps this spring….
“Please lay on the bed, my Lord, and allow me to pleasure you one last time.” The Ivy Queen requested quietly meeting her lord’s gaze. He cocked his head at her, wondering where this was going to lead. It wasn’t like her to be willing to give pleasure. The Ivy Queen was a very selfish lover and felt that people giving HER pleasure was a tribute always due her. She met his gaze full on and pointed at the bed. “Please, my lord.”
As requested, he laid down, stretching his full length out. The moment he had sense her in his room, he had become aroused. This was the epitome of everything they had worked on for his half of the cycle. He felt confidant that he could turn the world over to his brother for six months and that due to his hard work and staying after the populace to also work hard, that civilization would still be here at mid-winter when it was time to for him to take control again. The Ivy Queen pounced on him, untying his trousers and releasing his semi-erect penis.
She bent her head and finally started to show him the respect that he felt he deserved. At first she lapped at his bobbing member like a kitten, paying special attention to the vein underneath. Each lap made him harder and harder. Then she opened her rose petal lips wide and pulled his cock into her mouth with a suction that took his breath away. She had never deigned to pleasure him in this manner. Her skill shocked him. It felt as if his penis were encased in vines, each one hugging and releasing at a different pace. He got lost in the sensation and felt that he was close, very close to spilling forth in her mouth when he felt something cold and sharp against his throat.
The Oak King’s body became still and rigid. The Queen slipped him out of her mouth and gave him a wicked smile. She pushed the small knife into his neck a little more, and a small bright stream of blood started to trickle down his neck. The moment was suspended in time and space, the Fates spinning and weaving furiously to get the cycle back on track. Finally, the spell was broken, the proper weft repaired in the fabric of time. “You seem surprised, my Lord. You shouldn’t be. Every year I’m always worried that something won’t go right, that the One I look forward to best won’t come back.” She slowly drew the grafting knife along his neck, leaving a thin but shallow line of crimson.
The thought of the Ivy Queen, that insolent and ungrateful bitch, plotting to slay him in his own bed jolted him out of his shock at the turn of events. He wrapped his long, strong legs around her tiny body and flipped the Queen in a wrestling move. She screamed and stabbed his shoulder, leaving the knife in his flesh. He had her pinned to the bed spread eagle, keeping her in place with his bleeding body. He roared, “How dare you! How dare you! After every thing I’ve provided for you? How dare you try to interfere? And favorites? How dare you even think to choose! My brother and I are different but equal. We are both necessary to the cycle. And you, dearest bitch, are the fulcrum that keeps it all balanced. You worry about things not turning out the way they should each turn of the wheel? If they don’t turn out correctly, you and your choosing favorites will be to blame! Nothing that I’ve done!” His eyes burned into her as hotly as the noon sun did outside the window. The look truly scared the Queen. The King turned his head from her and bellowed, “Bring the brambles and the nuts!” Within an instance the room was filled with several Oak soldiers, one carrying a sack full of something and the other ones bearing yards and yards of thorny brambles.
“What, what are you going to do?” she whispered, swallowing hard. This was not going well at all.
“Hold her.” The King commanded the soldier holding the bag. He did as commanded, replacing the Oak’s body with his own. The Ivy Queen closed her eyes. The fact that a commoner was on top of her at the King’s bidding was too much for her to bear. She could feel the King’s strong, hard hands grabbing her wrists and pulling them over her head. Around each one he tightly wrapped the bramble vines, their barbed thorns grabbing and biting into her flesh. She felt something cold and sticky being laid on her throat. The Queen realized that it was the knife she had left in Oak’s shoulder. She tossed her head until it slide off of her.
“Quit!” The Oak King growled. “You will be still and take what’s coming to you. And you’ll figure out a way in your twisted, viney brain to enjoy it so that the balance is restored. No more favorites!” As commanded she stopped. He pulled first one and then the other ankle tight with the bramble vines, spreading her as wide as her limbs would allow. The soldier climbed off of her and gave her a pitying look as he and the others left the room.
The Oak King was still hard. In fact he was harder now after their tussle than he had been when he was at the point of climaxing a few minutes earlier. He stripped off his clothes and straddled the Queen’s neck, smacking her enchanted face with the one and powerful Priapic wand. She started to sob. She was so tired, so afraid, so sure that this was going to finally be the end, so turned on that this was finally going to be the end. Finally something different was going to happen in the cycle. Her tears pushed the King back to almost climaxing. With firm, sure strokes he rubbed his rod and exploded all of the Queen’s face. She gasped in shock and embarrassment. Her eyes streamed more tears as the semen burned her eyes. Without meaning to she inhaled it up her nose started sputtering and sneezing in an effort to breathe.
The Oak King waited for the Queen to compose herself. He knelt between her legs and picked up the bag and poured acorns all over her. She shuddered, not sure she could bear where this may be headed. The King smiled at her glistening sex. At least her body made an effort to obey him even if her heart didn’t. Slowly and methodically he dipped an acorn into her juices and then pushed it past the tightly crimped petals of her hidden rosebud with a pop.
“Oh!” the Queen exclaimed. She struggled to scoot away from the King and his wicked acorns, but the brambles only dug deeper into her skin. Finally she gave up and lay still while the King inserted one after another, each time dipping and rolling it in her cunt first. Each inserted acorn made her whimper. Every time she breathed she could feel them moving within her. At first it felt horrible and embarrassing, but now with each acorn and breath she felt more and more aroused. She could feel her juices dripping down from her spread lips and into the crack of her ass. She heard her king chuckle. Her king, had passed almost unnoticed through her brain, but the uncomfortableness of her bonds caught it just in time to register in her mind.
When he felt that the Queen was full enough behind, he started stuffing her pussy, popping the acorns in two at a time. His time was running out, with the sun almost directly over head, and he wanted to make sure that the Ivy Queen was full of his seed for when his brother tried to mate with her later today. She lifted her hips as much as her prickly bonds would allow. “Please,” she pleaded in a husky voice and pushed her pelvis toward him.
He chuckled again, but didn’t give her the pleasure of a verbal response. He just kept popping the acorns into her. She writhed with the uncomfortable pleasure of it all, ignoring the barbs tearing her skin. There was a heavy knock on the door. The King didn’t answer it, nor did the person on the other side open the door enter. The King knew what the knock meant.
“Well, my dear Ivy cunt, it seems that our time for this cycle has come to an end. My brother has arrived. I trust that if things go as they must, that you’ll receive me warmly into your body come Yule. I’ll be most curious to see if anything has sprouted or if you were able to get all my seeds out.” She stuck her tongue out at him and was going to respond when a new pain silenced her. The Oak King cut her ankle bonds from the bed, but now he was winding new brambles around her ankles, binding them tightly together. He wrapped even more up around her legs and thighs, making sure that they were lashed tightly together. She groaned at the new pressure created in her very full body. Using the same knife that she stabbed him with, the King cut her wrists from the bed and pulled her up into a sitting position. The sound that came from the Queen’s lips was unlike anything the Oak King had ever heard. It was a mix of scream, groan, ecstatic moan, and a growl. The sensation of sitting up with so much inside of her was overwhelming. She came hard repeatedly, her head filling with bright lights and fire. Her body tried to dislodge the acorns, but they were held firmly in place by her tightly closed legs. She shook uncontrollably for a moment and her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
When the Ivy Queen regained consciousness, she nearly lost it again from fear. Her eyes fluttered open to see the Oak King striding out of the castle to meet his brother the Holly King, who was just as handsome as ever. She wanted to call out to both of them, but she was unable to. The knife that started her whole late morning ordeal had been wrapped in ivy vines and crammed into her mouth and tied to her tightly. She tried to calm herself. When she had fainted, the Oak King had continued trussing her, binding her arms tightly to her sides with the brambles, bringing the jagged tooth vines up and around her breasts, over her shoulders, and then back under her arms in a harness. Then he had proceeded to hang the Ivy Queen out of the bedroom window. Each wiggle injected her nerves full of pain and pleasure. She was afraid that if she moved much that the brambles would snap, letting her fall to the cobblestone court yard below.
She saw the Holly King gesture up to her, but she couldn’t hear his question to his brother. The Oak King’s answer was out of earshot, and he pointed to the shoulder that she had stabbed and the cuts on his neck, both of which had magically stopped bleeding. The Holly King then turned fully in her direction and gave her a look that both scared and excited her. She knew from his look that the Holly King fully intended to continue the Oak King’s punishment of her even after he had dispatched his brother. Then both kings raised their swords in a salute to each other and the fighting commenced. The clashing of the swords sounded more terrible to the Ivy Queen than it had at previous fights.
Both men, to her, seemed to fight harder too. Unlike in previous years, she now could find no enmity in her heart toward the Oak King. He was right. It was unnatural for her to show favoritism. The fighting this time went on longer than usual, both men sustaining deep wounds that would have killed mortal men. Fate finally interceded, and the wind picked up. Dust flew through the summer air. The Holly King kept his head down to avoid getting dirt in his eyes, but the Oak King worried that his bramble harness may not hold in the wind. He looked up to the Queen, and at that moment, his eyes were filled with dust. He never saw his brother’s fatal thrust. His dark blood spilled over the cobblestones, making mud out of the dirt packed between the pavers. Deep, horrible sobs wracked the Queen, making her suspension a terrible torment. Her sobs choked in her throat, caught behind the knife gag. Just like always, the slain king’s body slowly started to disintegrate and disappear.
Soap can be used in many different magical applications. With that said, I am currently accepting bids from soap makers to a make custom batch of soap for The Barbed Pentacle and the Perchta Power Project. I will pay for the labor, materials, and shipping in cash via Paypal. Your profits will be paid to you via advertising and intense pimping out. So, when you submit your bid, you’ll need to have those two figures in your email. Please email me at email@example.com to find out more details and to get an ingredients list. Bidding ends July 1st, 2015 at 12:01 AM EDT.
While Susannah Martin wasn’t probably a witch by today’s standards, her neighbors thought she was. Think this couldn’t happen to you? Think again. It still does all the time in all different parts of the world, even in the US.
These folks know to beware of young teenage girls:
“Let my worship be within the heart that rejoices, for behold, all acts of love and pleasure are my rituals…” —Charge of the Goddess
by Issac Bonewits
“THESE are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated.” –The Crisis by Thomas Paine (http://www.ushistory.org/paine/crisis/c-01.htm)
Whether you believe it or not, I am a huge Patriot. However, I’m extremely skeptical of the US government, and I always have been. When I was in 6th grade I put a sticker on my violin case that says “I love my country, but I fear my government.” (Bet you didn’t know that I played…..) Pagans, as a whole, whether they themselves are bright enough to realize it, are big Patriots too. While they may not be the 2nd Amendment and state’s rights advocate that I am, every single one of us values our 1st Amendment right to the freedom of religion and the right to publicly bitch about this right getting trampled on by people who believe that America’s founding fathers were overwhelmingly Christian (they were mainly deists, by the way). Every Independence Day I gleefully blow up things while embracing the true spirit of our national anthem, making sure to be really drunk so that I can hit the high notes, and pondering how the name “de Kalb” makes me automatically think of penises–specifically the heads of penises. I occasionally blow up things on that perhaps spurious holiday of Mec Dec Day–just because I can as a good Patriot. I like to think of it as Independence Day practice. I also have this insane desire/obsession with joining the DAR–like they’d ever take me! Even if I can prove the right ancestors, he’d probably end up being some Tory bastard that doesn’t count (and FYI, adopted relatives do not count for the DAR who are a little WASP).
During the last couple months my matron deity has been turning my head toward the archetype/goddess of Liberty (or perhaps it’s just Selena Fox trying to recruit me through mind control for the Lady Liberty League since I constantly jump nude on my First Amendment trampoline). It’s been a curious kind of meditation.
Liberty as a word means: “the state of being free within society from oppressive restrictions imposed by authority on one’s way of life, behavior, or political views.” Sounds a lot like St. Aradia’s view on the world and why in some of the older versions of the Charge of the Goddess Pagans are encouraged to worship skyclad. Liberty use to be used more in every day speech than it is now. When was the last time that you heard the word used in a conversation that didn’t center around politics? Does the Navy still use it to describe shore leave? I don’t know, but the scuttlebutt says no. There are some that would argue that a love of liberty leads one to be a libertine, but since when has that been a bad thing?
While I take a break to paint my fingernails and toenails red, white, and blue, since those are America’s magical power colors, let’s put on our Neil Gaiman hats for a moment. We need to get into that whole “American Gods” mindset to tackle the next little bit of information (go paint your nails while you get into the right frame of mind, or Google “American Gods”).
The Goddess Liberty can be seen in many forms in many different cultures, but our modern view of her and her daughters and permutations, stem from ancient Rome (wow, what a big fucking surprise) as Libertas.
From there, she traveled all over the Roman Empire, specifically to Britain, where she fornicated, fused, and mused with Bride (and her other forms as well), to form Britannia.
I want some golden nipple money!
The English colonists brought her with them from over the water, to fornicate, fuse, and muse once more with the new deities in the New World to create Columbia. If you open up another tab and do a quick Google images search of “Liberty”, “Britannia”, “Columbia”, and even “Justice”, they all look very similar. From the Roman era, through the Victorian, up until now. Some of the images are so similar that it’s creepy.
There is a modern artist out there that is trying to change the stock image of Columbia and to resurrect her to social prominence (because here again, how often is the goddess Columbia talked about any more. You hear “Columbia” and you automatically want to say, “Where I get my drugs.”).
Holly DeFount is the curator, artist, and vision behind “Columbia Rising: Revisioning the American Goddess”. I have to admit, when I first saw that word “revisioning,” Reclaiming fluffiness immediately came to mind. But after thoroughly pursuing her site, I don’t think that her project is that kind of revisioning. Instead, this is more along the lines of fingering a muted goddess back to screaming as oppose to just giving her new make-up for a new era.
You can’t very well stay quiet if you have fire licking at your clit. DeFount has a master plan for her project. While she has been working on creating new images for Columbia within her own framework of being an American, she has also put out the call to other artists of all kinds to lift Columbia back up in their own ways. The first “Columbia Rising” exhibit will be July 11, 2014, but it’s assumed that other exhibits will soon be planned and booked. http://columbiarising.com/exhibit-2014/ If you fancy yourself talented and creative, then you really should make an effort to participate in this magic. How often are you given the opportunity to help kindle the fire that will reforge a goddess? If you like to bitch about the government, now is your opportunity to do something to change the way things are. What do you think Columbia is going to do once she’s washes the ashes off her face? Just gaze about in proud admiration? NO! She’s going to take names and whoop ass! Like from the previous post, channel St. Aradia and be a part of the solution instead of just an apathetic waste of resources.
By the way, even the American colonists weren’t happy with the amount of freedom and liberty that they had after they won the American Revolution. Before the end of George Washington’s term in office, citizens in Pennsylvania staged an arm rebellion over taxes on whiskey.
I don’t often repost blogs from other people, but I came across this tonight when I was taking a break from other projects and doing some research for upcoming “Barbed Pentacle” posts, and I have to say that I laughed so hard that I thought I was going to have to be cut out of my corset. I laughed and laughed and laughed. And I may have passed out a little. But when I came to, it occurred to me that it’s stupid shit like this that gets good people killed. It’s a little long, but it’s worth the read. My favorite quote is “Whoredom spirits can even make the homely look sexually attractive.” If that is true, then I’m spreading my legs wide!
Psst, come here and give me a hug. Can you feel what’s hugging me as you hug me? If you don’t know what that is, then your ignorance about foundation garments is appalling. Some days are corset days, some days are bra days, and some days are dirty hippie days when I wear nothing at all.
I like corsets. I don’t wear them tight enough to permanently change my shape. I wear them just tight enough that they’re not slipping around and being uncomfortable. I can do anything in a corset: fuck, toss cabers, cook, drive, run, kneel and suck, ride carousels– anything I want to do. I like corsets because it feels like someone is always hugging me, like a lover wrapping his or her arms around me as they look over my shoulder.
There are tons of different styles of corsets, ranging from from ancient to modern. I prefer a corset that’s more in a modest Victorian style–one that covers my tits (because why should you have to wear a bra with a corset? That’s stupid!) and comes down far enough on my hips that when I kneel or bend over it doesn’t slip up over the waist band of my jeans.
While corsets may seem expensive and time consuming, they’re really not.
In the long run, corsets work out to be cheaper than bras, especially if you shop around and take good care of your garments. You only need one corset (although more is always fun). You don’t wash it more than once a year (if that). You hang it over a hanger in the closet to air, if you want you can put fabric refresher on it, and the only other expense is buying camisoles to go under the corset. Cotton camis are much cheaper than bras and much easier to wash. Once you practice a time or two, putting on your corset is a cinch because you shouldn’t unlace it after every wearing. You only need to loosen the laces before storage.
Ideally, corsets should be just tight enough not to slide around, like someone giving you a nice hug. There is the practice of corset training, which is a form of body modification. During the Victorian Era, it was the norm to purposely and permanently change a woman’s shape by using corset training.
Corset piercing is another popular form of body modification.
Magically, corsets are like egg shells–protective and decorative. They can be used for magical and psychic protection since they cover your heart, solar plexus, and sacral chakras.
Your corset, when used magically, is an extension of your psychic walls of protection. You can use color magic to boost this principle, applique on stones, or embroider or paint runes and sigils on your corset.
Since corsets shouldn’t be washed, Florida water, of Hoodoo and Zora Neale Hurston fame, can be dabbed on the inside seams that cover the boning to cleanse your corset psychically and to give it a nice scent. Why those particular areas? When applied to the inside seams that cover the boning, the Florida water won’t seep through to the front of the corset and potentially stain the material. (Thanks Ms. Finch!)
Corsets can also be used for self-bondage. A wonderful self bondage/suspension substitution is to lace yourself into a corset (and for this you may lace a little tighter than for normal wear) and go swing on a high “big kid” swing at the park. You know, the ones that get really high into the air.
Just enjoy the moment. Use it as a meditation or a private, sexual moment (or both). Once you get high enough, lean back and just let your body fly through the air–only pumping enough to maintain your height. When you’re done, you can use the gradually slowing motion to bring yourself back down to reality.
These folks hope that you all have a very fun Ostara and fuck like bunnies:
According to Google, today is Zora Neale Hurston’s birthday, an early popular documentarian of hoodoo, voodoo, and other folk magics. If you have never read any of Hurston’s delicious stories or anthropological texts, then start Googling. When I first started down my Pagan path, I didn’t have access to all these fancy Pagan how-to manuals written by fluffy folks who live in an Azure Green world. But I did have access to Zora Neale Hurston’s books at the public library. The first book of hers that I read was Tell My Horse, about anthropological adventures in Haiti tracking down Voodoo practitioners.
As things progressed, I found my way to Their Eyes Were Watching God, which is a wonderful unintentional version of the Descent of the Goddess imbued with sex, magic, and word tapestries. I haven’t looked at cantaloupes the same way since (put that in your pipe and smoke it!).
Almost all of her books, even her novels, are liberally littered with bits of magic that can easily be incorporated into your current practice. Look at it like trying a new spice blend on your hamburgers. if you’re not up for making your own brews, Quadrivium Supplies (http://www.quadrivium-supplies.com/) has several oils listed that are mentioned in Hurston’s books, specifically ‘Red Fast Luck’ oil.
“The way we tell it, hoodoo started way back there before everything. Six days of magic spells and mighty words and the world with its elements above and below was made.” –Zora Neale Hurston