- RT @jkfecke: Weird how the news doesn't mention how the Inspector General's report also criticized Powell and Rice. Really weird. 9 hours ago
- RT @Wikipatia: 5/25/1953 — b. Eve Ensler, US playwright, performer, activist, feminist. Renowned for her play “The Vagina Monologues” (2002… 11 hours ago
- RT @Atrios: welcome to the 90s, Kids Today. As with the Iraq war, few journalists ever admitted any responsibility for their "Whitewater" b… 11 hours ago
- RT @BeachPeanuts: And the merger is complete. twitter.com/abcliz/status/… 12 hours ago
- RT @jamisonfoser: Quick Whitewater primer for you kids out there: the Clintons lost money on real estate then Republicans and the press lie… 14 hours ago
- RT @voxdotcom: Donald Trump believes men "have it worse" than women. Here's why he's wrong. amp.twimg.com/v/0667af69-c6d… 15 hours ago
- RT @elizabethforma: Fling as much mud as you want, @realDonaldTrump. Your words & actions disqualify you from being President - & I won't s… 15 hours ago
- RT @jeneps: Trump's staff is 75 percent male. Clinton's staff is 51 percent female. huff.to/1TKRSAl 15 hours ago
Category Archives: Uncategorized
England in 1819
~ Percy Busshe Shelley
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring;
Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know,
But leechlike to their fainting country cling
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow.
A people starved and stabbed in th’ untilled field;
An army, whom liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield;
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed;
A senate, Time’s worst statute, unrepealed—
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.
Picture found here.
As I discussed here, the glamour that Donald Trump projects is certainly not at all who he really is. While he wants others to see him as a successful leader, a brilliant businessman, a sexual giant, he is, in reality, a buffoon, a failure, shadowy trickster, a puer. Yet, as I wrote:
[H]ere we have a puer, a shadowy trickster, who may well become the leader of the free world. His ascent to power depends upon his ability to continue to cast a glamour upon a large number of gullible people. We’re, as Christopher Penzack once said, Witches; we should do something about that. As magic workers we must work to dispel that glamour.
So how do you dispel a glamour? Especially with Donald Trump’s followers, simple facts don’t seem able to pierce the bubble. Tell them that he’s gone bankrupt a number of times, would have made more money simply investing his inheritance in index funds, knows next to nothing about governing and policy, changes his positions from minute to minute, and is really a creepy old man with a combover, and it does no good at all. In fact, there’s some evidence that trying to dispel right-wing and fascist glamours with facts and logic almost always backfires, actually strengthening the glamour instead.
Byron Ballard provides, in Assiduity and Mad Stones, a simple spell for busting a glamour when you’re in a meeting, which I’ve adapted here to provide for the fact that you likely won’t be meeting Trump in person.
Ground yourself and cast a circle. Burn whatever incense you use for protection. Light a white candle. Call upon Apollo, God of reason and clear sight, Hecate, who tells the truth about what’s happened even when no one else will, or Athena, Goddess of politics and strategy. Breathe deeply to clear your own energy filed. Call up an image of Trump as he appears to his followers. Sit with your forearms resting on your thighs. Open up your left hand, palm-up, and begin tapping the center of that palm with the middle finger of your right hand. You’ll start to feel the one hand get warm and then the other. When you can feel the energy flowing back and forth between the tapping and the receiving had, look directly at that image of Trump. See his glamour begin to fade away and look at who he really is. Keep tapping and project that image — the failure, the cheat, the old man terrified of losing any sexual prowess he ever had, the buffoon, the failure — out into the universe. Keep tapping and see the scales falling from the eyes of those who admire him. Slowly tap three more times. Breathe and clean your own energy field of any remaining bits of his glamour. Thank the deity you called. Extinguish the candle. Allow the incense to burn out. Open your circle.
Judika Illes‘ book, The Element Encyclopedia of 5,000 Spells: the Ultimate Reference Book for the Magical Arts, contains banishing spells that can also be used to dispel Trump’s glamour. (I’ve adapted them a bit for our purpose.) You’ll need to make some Four Thieves Vinegar, which is easy to do and uses common kitchen ingredients. If you can make it during the full or waxing Moon, that will add to its ability to shed light on who Trump really is.
Four Thieves Banishing Spell No. 3
- Write “Donald Trump” on a piece of brown paper.
- Soak the paper in Four Thieves Vinegar.
- Fold the paper and bury it in a flowerpot, ideally filled with crossroads dirt, but any kind of dirt will do. Adding some coffee grounds to the dirt will give the spell a little bit of extra energy and will be good for the plant.
- Plant a cactus in the dirt and keep the pot near your front door.
Ms. Illes tells us that the following spell is traditionally attributed to Marie LaVeau, who certainly understood how glamour works.
Four Thieves Banishing Spell No. 4
- Write “Donald Trump” nine times on a square of paper.
- Cover and cross each name with the word “Truth” and say, “I cross you. I cover you. I command you. I compel you to drop your glamour.
- Place this paper inside a small glass jar or bottle.
- Fill the bottle with Four Thieves Vinegar and seal it tightly shut.
- Dispose of the bottle. The traditional way is to throw it over your left shoulder into running water without looking, but you can adapt this to your situation.
You might want to continue to work these spells through election day.
Picture found here.
Based on a true story:
It had gone eleven by the time Harry got home from practice and a few beers with the team. Melissa took his uniform and threw it into the wash; she’d dry it in the morning. Harry nuzzled her neck as she climbed into bed and they had the kind of mid-week, bread-and-butter sex that tired couples often have.
The next morning, pulling on a clean t-shirt and her jeans, Melissa slipped her fingers into her pocket and felt the brooch. Harry grabbed a cup of coffee and some toast as he took his keys off the shelf by the door and called, “Come on, Hannah! The train for Jefferson High is about to leave! You can finish texting Olivia in the car.” As they pulled out of the driveway, Melissa took a soft cloth and began to clean off the brooch. The profile of the Goddess Athena was easy to clean, but the owl beneath her took more time. Dirt had caked inside each incised line of the feathers and, in the end, Melissa had to use one of the Hannah’s small paint brushes to finish the job.
The morning flew by with a dozen chores: the grocery store, the dry cleaners to pick up Harry’s suit and Hannah’s madrigal gown, the post office to ship some herbs to a customer up north, and a stop at the garden center for a new trowel. When she got home, Melissa made a pie crust and cut up the broccoli and ham that would go into the quiche for tonight’s supper. She threw Harry’s uniform into the dryer, started a load of light clothes, and collapsed on the sofa. She pulled the brooch out of her pocket and began to turn it over to examine the catch. It was stuck and she decided to oil it as soon as she closed her eyes and rested for just a moment.
Out in her herb bed, under a full Moon, Melissa and some other women walked slowly widdershins around the school flyer, placed carefully in the center of Melissa’s rock. Circle. Circle. Circle. “By the power of three times three, an end to this there will be,” declared the oldest of the women. Each woman walked up to the flyer and tore off a piece. “It comes apart. It comes apart. It comes apart and cannot start,” each said as she crumpled her piece of paper and mixed it into the compost pile. Melissa stepped up to take the last piece of paper. She wore an old brooch on her shoulder. A barn owl swooped down from the sky, snatched a mouse from under the day lilies, and flew off past the Moon.
Melissa splashed water on her face and downed a glass of iced tea. It wasn’t like her to fall asleep mid-day, but, the odd dream notwithstanding, this nap seemed to have given her a boost. She was just folding the clean laundry when Hannah came home from lacrosse practice, starved as usual. Melissa poured her a glass of iced tea and warmed up the last bit of leftover bean soup. “Save some room for dinner,” she said. “How was school?”
“Fine. Got an A on my chemistry test. Oh, and here’s another flyer. They had to cancel that program for Friday. The student council voted this afternoon that they’d rather have Field Day and old Mr. Turner had to agree. I’ll be on the computer, working on my English paper.”
Melissa smiled, went into the bedroom, and slipped the old brooch into the back of her jewelry box.
Picture found here.
Sit down in a dark room. Breathe. Close your eyes. Really, really listen. You’ll be better, stronger, refreshed when this spell is over.
I am sad to see something that I love turning into the (it seems, sometimes,) inevitable Mens Rights Activist movement.
Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket
~ Rachel Lindsay
I am unjust, but I can strive for justice.
My life’s unkind, but I can vote for kindness.
I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.
I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.
Man is a curious brute—he pets his fancies—
Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury.
So he will be, though law be clear as crystal,
Tho’ all men plan to live in harmony.
Come, let us vote against our human nature,
Crying to God in all the polling places
To heal our everlasting sinfulness
And make us sages with transfigured faces.