From time to time people ask me what they can do to honor Loki, and my local and extended kindred have an unofficial rite for Himself – dramatic readings of bad romantic fiction.
Now, when I say bad, I mean…bad. Atrocious. “Why would anyone want to read that?!?” type fiction. We’re talking Taken at the Dinosaur Museum bad. We’re talking Werebee porn. Think MST3K for erotica. We’ve never used fan fiction, but if we found something cringe-worthy, we might go there.
If you decide to partake of this
horror rite, find an appropriate story that makes you simple dog at its very concept, choose a date and time, and read it aloud in the most ridiculous voice you can muster – your best phone sex operator, Mickey Mouse, whatever, keep it silly and harmless. This can be mixed with a drinking game, but keep in mind that if the story is really bad, this may be hazardous to your liver. If you drink, pour Loki a shot so He doesn’t feel left out. Keep it lighthearted, and remember, it’ll be FUN! …for Him.
I finally got a chance to sit down and vlog about Revivalism and Immersive Polytheism.
She is known as Frigga, which means Beloved—but she also has a personal name, one not known to many, one seldom spoken even by Her husband, but carried as a talisman close to Her heart.
The name is Gunnlod, which means “Battle Invitation,” and the secret is the history of Their tempestuous courtship and early years together, a secret entwined with the sacraments of sovereignty and the holiest of all drinks, the Mead of Poetry.
(I know, I know, many of you are out there reading this and saying to yourselves, “But Snorri Sturluson names Gunnlod as a rival of Frigga’s!” Yes, but Snorri was writing primarily to interest the King of Norway in hiring him as court poet, and secondarily to preserve skaldcraft for future generations. He may have loved the old stories about the gods, but getting them all down with perfect accuracy was nowhere in his agenda—as we can see when we look at His version of the Mead story compared to the same story as told in the Havamal, which is a tale about a wedding and an abandoned bride, not a weekend bender.
via On Frigga | Wytch of the North.
I’m fascinated with this post, because when I had an opportunity to talk to Frigga about marriage, She talked about Her own with Odin, and how it was an arranged marriage, designed to unite Their tribes.
Hail Frigga, All-Mother, Beloved, and Sacred Queen of Queens!
Gullveig, Gullveig, Gullveig-Heid
Glittering in golden guile
Light the darkness, blind the eyes
Of those who would not pay the price
Gullveig, full wise in witches’ art
Thrice burned, indestructible in mind and heart
Repay gift for gift, weaving wrath’s wyrd
Divine justice… to know and be feared
via Vanic Friday: Gullveig Invocation | The Serpent’s Labyrinth.
Liber Cordis Cincti Serpente, V:65.
“So also is the end of the book, and the Lord Adonai is about it on all sides like a Thunderbolt, and a Pylon, and a Snake, and a Phallus, and in the midst thereof he is like the Woman that jetteth out the milk of the stars from her paps; yea, the milk of the stars from her paps.”
Hail Loki, Who is Liminality
God and Goddess,
Father and Mother,
each and both more than
the sum of either alone.
Shapeshifter, You are the
Hoofbeats through the forest,
Wings of the Sky-treader,
Wolf-Sire and Witch-Mother,
He Who is wise in Lae,
One Who has many loves,
He cannot be contained,
Consuming and consumed,
Devourer and the devoured.
My father passed away yesterday. Every death is different, and so is every mourning. I really wish that I could write something pretty for my dad, but I can’t. Not right now, anyway. I didn’t want to talk about it while he was alive, but I’d been expecting this call. My dad spent a large chunk of last year homeless, and he couldn’t be persuaded to accept any help or to even communicate with family. He was a two-tour of duty Vietnam veteran, and he had a goodly case of PTSD, untreated of course, because the VA couldn’t be bothered to treat something like that, even when his behavior patterns clearly demonstrated that he needed help. No, it’s just fine for a vet to be passively suicidal and missing. Give him some statins, he’ll be fine.
I am angry.
My dad deserved better. All our veterans deserve better, and for fuckssake, how long are we going to let our government do this until we stick our collective boot up its ass?
I’d like to add something more constructive to this post, but I can’t right now. For now, it’s enough to take a deep breath.
I love you, Daddy. Long may you soar.
Dad and me at Mardi Gras, 1981.