The Magic Bullshit Shield

Imagery.

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.

Why?

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.’

Demons Chant

If I smash into a million bits
For a thousand ‘you’s’
That I would never dream to use
What would be left then
Of this carefully crafted binary house
But smoke and ruins
… The road to Death so simple
The road to Life so hard
Should I waltz the waltz of Love
With the World instead of Love?
These questions are not only for the young
They stay with us
Until we are no longer
“BREAK BREAK BREAK!”
They do not need your ears
To make you hear them scream
Shall I die smashed into a million bits
For a thousand ‘you’s’?
Souls die a little bit inside for Love
How much love to give
Until shreds of self dry up
Fly away into the wind
Why do we give so much for so little
Standing and looking back in Time
… Time throws knives at me
They hit….they hurt….
They shock the alone with image
Until love is almost hate
A blame for existance
Nothing to be trusted again
As we could not even trust ourselves
Might as well stop caring
Dive into ‘The Play’ as once
So many years ago we swam
Not even aware that bloody chunks
Of soul were stolen
When we drank our own blood
And called it ‘wine’
And said it was fine
Souls die a little bit inside for Love.