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 Bus Stop

He was sitting at the bus stop in the hot sun. In the summer the heat here rivals the heat in Dubai, on certain days, but it is not dry heat it is wet heat. It is the kind of heat that sweat cannot cool. People die in this heat. You could go naked in this heat and still feel as if you wore an ankle-length fur coat in the deep, searing sun. 

The bus stop was just a metal bench. In order to sit upon it you had to be wearing pants because the heavy metal would burn bare skin. The winds of March had settled into the heavy breathing of high summer and even the shade was too hot. There was an Ozone Alert, a Pollen Alert, and a UV Alert as well and people with breathing problems died from car exhaust that would not rise from the hot concrete roads that crossed the land like grey wrinkles on an aging mother. 

I looked at the bottle of water in my sweaty hand. Thin, biodegradable plastic that probably gave me a good dose of unwanted estrogen with every swig. Maybe that was why no one went through menopause until they were well over 60 these days? Maybe that was why so many boys were being born ‘feminized’ now?

He was sitting at the bus stop in the scorching heat and cataract-producing light. It might be 15 minutes before the next bus came in it’s scheduled time. I walked up to the bench and was glad for the long skirt. It was too hot for clothes but is was WAY TO HOT for none at all. I was glad the skirt was made from cotton. Had it been made from nylon it might have, perhaps, melted to the metal and left me with a bare ass but, like most imaginings, such things did not occur. 

He was looking at the ground between his feet where red fire ants went about their tasks as if the two giants above them had no meaning or existence. Sweat dripped from his face and rolled down his neck soaking the collar of his shirt. He looked to be of an age with me. A little grey here and there scattered in dark hair that was going a bit thin on top but still quite handsome in a wizardly sort of way. He did not seems to be aware of the beard on his face being too hot…but heat in my state is so hot it hardly matters whether or not you shave your face. He sneezed.

“Yar h’mouk Allah…Salaam ‘alaikum”,
“W’alaikum asalaam….”,

I handed him a tissue from my purse. I keep them because everyone is sneezing and miserable these days. People even talk about a huge government experiment to inoculate us all via exposure to something through chem-trails. If it’s true they probably think they are doing a public service but I try not to think about all those things. It gives me a big headache. I chucked my TV. in 2003! 

He took the tissue and held it to his nose and I gave him another…sweat everywhere….I sneezed.


He was smiling at the ground now. He had an accent I could not place yet. Usually I was good at that sort of thing. I don’t really know Arabic well enough to answer back with the right pronunciation so I was embarrassed…

“What’s your name?”
“Sam. What is your name?”
“Mary….look the bus is finally here!”

The city bus pulled up to the stop and let people debark and the doors opened to let others embark. Some women came running up to the stop from the apartment complex behind us. Maybe in their thirties they were all lovely and athletic looking. Short-shorts, halter tops and flip-flop sandals seems to be the order of the day. I looked at myself in shame, I looked at them. They were golden compared to me. They were not disabled. They did not have to walk with sticks or walkers. Golden glowing and so sure of themselves. One looked at me too as scorn, briefly and impersonally, crossed her face she boarded the air-conditioned bus. The gust of cold air, from the open doors, was heavenly!

“You are American?”,
“Yes, I am.”
“Can you manage the step?”
“No I use the ramp.”
“OK we will both use the ramp.”

I had been watching him. He did not even bother to look at the women who had boarded ahead of us! He looked at me and smiled and raised one pant leg an inch or two…

…prosthetic foot!

He stood up and if you didn’t know you would never know he was not ‘perfect’. I got my walker. He said. 

“You really are beautiful. If you did not have that walker I might think you were perfect. I could tell you were American by the way you looked at those women. Let me tell you something…

…You are every bit as good as they are…maybe better?”,

I looked at him rather astonished!

WE went up the ramp together and sat together in the ‘disabled’ section of the bus. The cold air was awesome! He said.

“Lets go get a cup of coffee!”.