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.’


She looked back on all that had gone before and, tonight, somehow it didn’t seem wasted. Perhaps it had been, in many ways, mostly wrong but in the depths the brilliant flashes of light were ever so much more noticeable and precious.

Indeed the night was a lonely one. They were all such nights and yet she did not feel alone this night. She had a new pet spider and an old cat with PTSD that matched hers and they got along. The cat watched the black jumping spider and, uncharacteristic for him, did not attack it. She sent them both thoughts that they were to be friends or at least respect one another.

She sat back and closed her eyes and thought about all the years. Although mostly alone she had managed to be an artist, a musician, a dancer, and a diplomat. In spite of all the wrong she had still been able to love and be loved in return and still managed to want to keep on living though the hand of cards she had been dealt had lost her the poker game of life.

It was still good.

It was still good. She prayed for the world. It seemed it was not going to go on much longer but that also seemed normal. She piloted up to the keyboard and started to write. Who would be the hero of her dreams tonight? She laughed silently and had Yiruma playing in the background. The hospital-like hallway that lead to her clean and orderly abode.

This night was different somehow.

Leaning forward, slightly crooked, she started with the two finger waltz upon the key symbols that worked the magic. She stopped typing the words and let the images roll into her and she stood and untied the knots, in the long skirts, that kept her unsteady old feet from tripping and she stood and the room melted away into night.

In this place there was no cold or heat too much. It was perfection. She closed her eyes and made a wish and smelled the scent of pine and fresh snow. She opened her eyes. She was there. Hawks glided overhead in slow circles on a blue black sky as the sun rose over the peak of a mountain. The valley, still in early pre-dawn shadows, had the sound of roosters crowing and other birds came slowly awake. She raised her hand, young and strong, her arm covered in gold bracelets, to shade out the first stunning brilliance of the day, her head suddenly dropped to pray, the other world forgotten.

“God let me meet him here…”

The man she loved. The man she had never really met. The one who saved her in her dreams within dreams of the other world where she slept. There she was and old lady at the end of things but here she was a young lady at the start of them. Her hair was red gold like it was long ago. The shade of dark honey. She could feel it’s weight in the braid that lay along her spine as she leaned forwards to see the valley start to grow light closest to her feet and slowly crawl down towards the valley floor.

At the bottom, mist covered deep green.

She came here to wait for him all every day and would until her time ran out. She tried to imagine what he looked like as she has seen him in a dream of a dream once a long time ago but now she had almost forgotten. Would she know him if she saw him?

“I have watched you come here every day and never said anything to you and you never could see me except in the sleep of sleeps. You keep asking for me and I am here all the time.”

She turned because she heard him in her head but not with her ears. He was sitting on the edge of a pathway watching the same sun come up and watching her. She walked over and stood behind him. Even sitting her hands rested on his slender shoulders. He was that tall. She watched his hands reach backwards and slide over hers to cover them.

“I have loved you a very long time. You keep looking everywhere and I am right here. I am every man you ever write about. I am all your darkest fantasies and your most brilliant love poetry. I am jealouse of what you imagine when you put different faces on it and when you flirt with other men I come and put a storm in your sky in the place of the sleep of sleeps.”

She could not hear him but she could HEAR him!

His hair was the shade of pale wheat. It was tied back in a long thin braid that also went down his back. Not thin hair but very straight, the opposite of hers. He let go of her hands and ‘told’ her to sit next to him.

By this time the flat, white rooftops of a large city spread out in the slowly seeping light. She slid down and sat next to him, hanging her feet, wearing golden sandals, off the edge of the pathway. It never occurred to her why she was this way here in this reality. She looked over at him.

He was not beautiful the way she understood beauty. He was very pale. His eyes were larger than normal and very black and his face was long and thin and his mouth very small. He was so thin that, had he been human, he would have looked starved yet on him, a spirit, it looked perfectly normal. Perhaps the oddest thing was the fact that she was the size of a small child when she sat next to him and she edged closer and fit there like a child would fit and it felt so safe. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt and it looked weird on him and he laughed in her mind, “I can appear any way you want me to appear but this way I find the most comfortable. You want me to be Cinnamon?”

She kept looking at him and he suddenly had brown eyes and olive skin and was wearing a red-brown kameez. Almost blond hair and a long dark beard. They were near the same height. She reached out and the illusion vanished and then he was taller with black eyes and a huge smile and fine features with curly crispy dark hair and a white starched cotton shirt and then that too went away as he morphed all the faces she ever loved.

“Whatever makes you happy. I can be that but I want you to love me. The real me.” Once more he was the abnormally tall humanoid with black eyes and blond hair. “This is not me either but I this is how I came to you the night you wanted to die. I love you. You have belonged to me since the day you were born and if you think you are 100 percent human you are mistaken. For now you have a life to live in the sleeping time of the sleeping world but when it is done you will be with me forever.”

He stood and opened his arms. She came into them and he became insubstantial and merged with her very soul. No humans love this way. Without words she felt like the most beautiful queen earth ever knew. She felt like the love of thousands was directed at her and she heard him say, deep in her mind as he took her hand and walked a few steps on the path with her,

“You are all these things and more and this is just the beginning. You are loved beyond human measure.” She closed her eyes to swim in that sea of love and opened them and smiled.

Yiruma was playing. The room in the world of sleeping was cheerful and bright and she sat there, mused, in front of the key board, now old with mended clothes and painful frame but back in reality was a land of beauty that would be hers one day.

“I love you too.” she whispered.Featured Image -- 3297