The Magic Bullshit Shield


I imagine something and make it viewable. I write something and make it imaginable. I + mage = Image. We are all mages, tricksters and creators. ALL of us. How this expresses itself is the only variable.

I respond, with my tactile senses, to something and it moves me to a non-tactile ‘place.’ It moves me to the ‘mage magic’ place. This is expressed in so many ways. When I was young there was a girl who was on the cheerleading squad. I only have seen this once in my life and I have seen many cheerleading squads but she was exceptional.


I tried to figure it out for a long time. She had short, dirty dishwater blond hair. She had terrible acne. She could not do the splits of any of the fancy stuff the rest of the squad did. Her parents were poor and not ‘town team sponsors’ (which will often get an ‘average’ girl an ‘exceptional’ placement.) She was NOTHING at all like a cheerleader and she was not even a SNOB!

She was like no one I ever met and I liked her and so did everyone else. I asked her, while riding that ugly yellow signature school-bus, what her secret was. See, at that time, everyone was calling me a ‘witch’ and so I was studying that. In those days, way out in the tall grass boonies of Oklahoma, in those ranch town libraries, about the only thing you could find was about the Salem Witch Trials. She looked at me in a strange way and then she said, “I am happy and I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. I am happy anyway.”

She really WAS happy but there was more to it than that. Her personality ‘stuck out’ farther than her skin. Her soul was larger than her body. After that I started to LOOK AT people and LOOK INTO them. I learned this:

The two do not always match.

There are those walking around in this world who are very powerful people and yet do not fit any descriptors of what a powerful person should look like or be. In doing this I met many such people over the course of my life. There was the young man who was the shortest, most snaggle toothed kid in the school and yet, when he played music, the girls who hung out with the homecoming queen would ask him out on dates. Once his band mates asked him what his secret was and why weren’t they getting any action as they were tall and ripped in comparison to him. He just smiled and shook his head.

There was the hippie English teacher who was weird and stoned and yet we learned more in her class, than we ever would learn anywhere else, about language and how it works. She was tall and strange with wild black hair and everyone made fun of her. She didn’t care what they thought.

It wasn’t the ‘I don’t care’ that is a REACTION to bullies and their bull shit but an ACTION that told the bullshit people, before they reached that stage, that their bullshit was not going to work.

That was the secret. Understanding what bullshit is and making yourself impervious to it.

Bullshit proof.

So for the New Year hits that is my wish for all my friends: that you keep, or learn to wield, your magic ‘bullshit shield.’

The Wolves Are At The Door

She used to sit out by the pool with an elegant, long stemmed wineglass in her hands and get drunk like a genteel older lady does, along with another older woman and two young Moraccans. They were a little ‘set’ and I would watch them, alone, from my upstairs apartment, along with many of the other drunks there who put on quite a show every weekend.

They were not like the other drunks.

They did not fight or need to have the police called on them. They talked about religion and politics and all were quite smart. The oldest women, in her sixties, and still gracefully lovely, had no children or husband or anyone.

I always watched them from a distance.

One day she was not there anymore. The group was gone and the other woman had taken them to her back patio. Now they drank in private. I assumed the other lady was with them.

There was a day, that week, I was walking past their patio while one of the young men went in and saw the older woman was not there. Curious, I went to her door and knocked and heard a thin cry from inside.

The door was locked…I went to the manager and explained. The manager gave me a key and I went and unlocked the door.

The place stank so badly. This could not be the house of that elegant woman! Everywhere was elegance in chaos. Her cats ran to me ‘MIIIOOOON MIOOONNN RRRAAAOOOO MIIIIONNNN’ and led me to the kitchen where there were empty food bowls and water dishes that I filled with canned cat food from the cabinets. The cat boxes were overflowing and I heard her voice calling weakly “Who is there? Who is there?” I went through the living room where it looked as if things had been knocked over by something dragging and went to her room…

…she looked mortified.

By her bed were open cans and a can opener and they had been pulled in on a sheet, drug across the floor perhaps, and hauled up to the bed somehow…empty cans were everywhere and a dirty spoon and she was huddled under a satin comforter and the room smelled like….
“Please please can you get me some wet washrags from the bathroom?”

Her voice was so weak.

“Where are your sheets?” I asked her

“In the middle cabinet in the hall.” she whispered almost like relief.

When I came back to her room she was on the floor on all fours in a lovely elegant lace gown stained with humanity. She looked so piteous.
“The wolves are at the door!”

“There are no wolves we are in the city.” I assured her thinking she was weak from hunger and seeing things and I wondered why her friends were not here with her? I took the soiled sheets off the bed and put clean ones on and did like I remembered from the days I worked in a nursing home. I put a smaller sheet where she would lay that would be removable and save the bed.

“Can you get up?” I asked her

“No.” She whispered back….

“Ok then put your arms around my neck and we will do the ‘firemans hold’, Do you know how? She nodded and I managed to roll her back onto the bed.

“I need to call someone to help you. who can I call?”

“Please give me the wet washrags and leave for a few minutes?” She was crying. I left.

After some time I went back and she had tried to hide the soiled rags under the bed…
“Where are the trash bags?”

“They are in the cabinet above the sink.” I went and got them and used them like a glove to retrieve the soiled things from the room and bag them up without touching them and put them in her washer with some soap…I stayed a while and set her house in order and kept asking her who I would call to help her but she would not allow it.

“PLEASE PLEASE don’t tell anyone about me!” She begged me with tears in her eyes and against my better judgement I agreed.
I went back once a day for the same routine for only three days and the next day I went and the door was wide open and ER technicians were standing in the living room.

“Are you her next of kin?”, They asked me.

“No I am not but I was helping her….”

“The last thing she told us was ‘the wolves are at the door’. Do you know what she meant?”

“No but did her cats all run out? She told me a lady who was going to take them and I have to take them to that lady. How did she die?”, I asked them.

“It looks like she had a broken back…she must have been in terrible pain. Are you her friend? Do you know who we can call?”

I thought of all the times I saw her with her friends…I thought of all the times they laughed and all the times they spent together…no they were not her friends.
“She has no one sir.”

“OK I will call a mortuary…thank you the police will come and may want to talk to you later but this looks like natural causes.”
That older woman had osteoporosis and cancer and had never told anyone. The wolves had come.