Dangerous Combinations

Winding Roads: 3

The early hours started with a fast car and winding roads. Up on a mountain we looked out at the water deciphering lights and talking of the forgotten dead. Back home the candles flared and flickered. The black candle danced and spit. If they were trying to resist it wasn’t working and soon the sky would open flooding the land and streaking the sky with light while both heaven and hell pounded their drums and chests.

The wind had been calm and gentle, the way she gets right before change occurs. I lit the white candles on jars of honey, so many hopes and wishes crammed into sweetness with locks of hair, photographs, and sexual fluids. I said a prayer for each of them blowing three times and lighting the match. Seven in all. It was a seven year.

In the evening I slinked away to the lighthouse and lay beneath the weeping willow. When I think of Mary Bliss Parsons, I think of her like me.

Holy Water: 2

The twigs of the cedar tree would be brought to the marketplace and left in bundles. The seed of the land planted like willow by abundant water would spread creating roots. This is what the good book told me and so I collected the branches and bundled them with twine. While cedar protected against lightning the willow was sympathetic to the plea.

"I know she’s of the devil for I can not keep my mind from her" - The Silencing of Women

Down the road, laying face to sky I found my father standing over me. Daughter of both Fortune and Fate, “I can work both sides.” I said raising my hand to the sun. And there it was in the open, no good, no evil, neutrality at it’s best.

"There is no contract. By working the good book you work both for and against me. You work both for and against him. But nothing is against us. It’s 50/50 on these roads. Both up there and down here it’s an equal divide. All of it’s justified."

He shook my hand and I saluted the sky. The leaves turned belly out. The storms would be coming soon.

Me and the Devil: 1

In the air were storms. The sky would break and he would say “It is broken like me.” and I would collect the thunder water breaking him again because I could and it was needed. When Sister opened the good book she read the passage from Ezekial 13:8 and it was understood that all would be shattered.

The wind was angry now. She howled outside pushing the plants and snapping branches from small trees. I tended to candles. The black candle flame remained small until the small poppet was encased and then it grew full fulfilling it’s duty. Small signs told me so, broken string, a dropped tool, a chain, crab shells, and two dead fish. All of these small and symbolic, meaning nothing to anyone but me. I lit the white candles now and they melted quickly leaving puddles of wax tears behind them. Soon the skies would open. Soon my job would be done.

The rooibos simmered in the large tub. I think about beauty and filming and how a raven uttered “Step back.” but a crow responded “Come forward.”

Blood Ties

He offered me his service and protection in exchange for a small drop of blood feeding the sigil carved into the candle.

"I remember you." He said, "From the days of my wives and the time on the field. You lay your hand on my earth to heal it and acknowledged my presence as I horsed a human."

I knew it to be true as his symbol was everywhere, from the candle carved for another, to the signs in the street. He had come to save me in a time when his armies where summoned for something else. He had a soft spot for me. The spot he saved when once, a long long time ago he had asked me to be his wife.

And so the serpent’s circle spins and the mysteries unfold…

This Way Comes

He wanted to be near and not near them, he saw them close, he saw them far. Suddenly they were awfully small in too large a room in too big a town and much too huge a world. In this unlocked place they seemed at the mercy of anything that might break in from the night. - Something Wicked This Way Comes

The night the scratches appeared I was having dinner and they ripped across my flesh. I knew who sent them because I said their name and they appeared and it was all a bit too coincidental. I had messaged the Gadjo and he reassured me that tomorrow would be different so I packed my bags and settled in knowing the train tracks called.

Away from the piss scented streets of the city, I walked to the pond bearing my cousin’s name. Around everything was still but near the water the trees started to shake their branches and a wind blew and whirled around me. Everything around still remained still except for those trees by the pond. “Change is coming.” I typed the message quickly and snapped a shot of the path. “I’m waiting.” was the reply.

And so into the forest to dig up roots and herbs and taste the berries I had so savored as a child. Back to the fork in the road where the mirrors were buried and pennies placed. There was magic in sorrow.

In another tale there was silence. Two paths like the fork in the road and a wind that swept through saying changes must be made.

The Divine Trickster: Visiting weev


The tree outside of Allenwood.

Defined by paradoxes and anomalies, the trickster is clever and foolish at once, the deceiver and the deceived, breaker of rules, and inventor of culture. He is both cruel and kind, intelligent and obtuse. He is a shapeshifter who crosses not only physical boundaries but social ones. The trickster elicits intelligence from hunger. The Devil derives awakening from overindulgence. The importance of the trickster in this world is not only to break boundaries but also create them. He is necessary to cultural development.

When I asked weev to be in my tarot deck, I knew there was only one card he could be, The divine trickster, the Devil himself. He agreed.

Yesterday Tor Ekeland and I took a road trip over to FCC Allenwood to visit weev. He’s been in solitary confinement for over a month now and new prison policy has excluded books from reading materials that can be sent to inmates in the Special Housing Unit (SHU). In solitary he is confined to a 6 x 11’ concrete box where he spends his time reading, working out, and writing with little to no human contact and a shower three times a week for approx 15 mins. When getting visitors he must do it by phone behind a thick panel of glass. On Friday he was given notice that he was under restricted mail which meant no mail except from immediate family and his legal team. This news was not surprising as the prison has on many occasions withheld his mail, which led to many sending him certified letters and packages. He said he was told in the upcoming weeks all mail would be returned to the senders. If you are on his visitors list it’s important to visit.

The thing about weev is that he is extremely intelligent and incredibly strong. As he walked into the segregated room he looked healthy, he had been working out, eating fairly healthy or as healthy as you can in prison. “Should we break the glass?” He asked. “Yes. This is the best, most logical idea.” I reply and we laugh. I gave him the well wishes of others and passed along any messages and then he and Tor talked for a bit, updating him on his case and other happenings. So what does one talk about with weev for two hours? Well, the conversation went from the mail he has received. He has a few magazines and periodicals left, perhaps five including a New Yorker magazine and a few others. He spoke about how the prison threw out some of his personal belongings including all the photographs I had sent over the year. We spoke of classical music, Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen and how it changed the way opera was viewed. The saga is a “Bühnenfestspiel” (stage festival play), structured in three days preceded by a Vorabend (“ante-evening”).

Other topics of conversation were the Poetic Edda, Baldr’s death and Loki’s punishment (mythology explaining earthquakes), lesser known symbols in Norse mythology. (I traced the glass with lásabrjótur, the breaker of locks and releaser of bindings and a few other runes), dictatorships, back to runes, how to function in a noisy prison when you are in solitary, boll weevils, (There is a song by Brook Benton. How did I not know this?) rhino horned beetles, much trolling, how America is dumbing itself down, Elizabeth Bathory, abandoned buildings, Roosevelt Island’s history, mental institutes and the psychological effect of solitary which they used to use in mental institutes in early 1900’s, why whistle blowing will land you in prison, how much he hates pedophiles, and ending on Romani culture and language in which is rich with allegory and metaphor. I speak a little of the language to him.

Weev’s brain is a plethora of information. He can recite from a book he’s read only once, create a poem on demand, it never stops, in constant motion and this is why the government sees him as dangerous. If we look at mythology the trickster is the inventor and a liar, they lie, to create chaos, eventually ending in knowledge benefiting mankind. Loki created the first fishing net while exiled from the other gods. Coyote brought fire to the Native American’s. Raven taught humans how to fish. Eleggua lead humans to temptation, misery, and warfare in the hope that the experience would lead ultimately to their maturation. In one of his patakis he says, “Bringing strife is my greatest joy”.

Tricksters are driven by hunger. In every tale the trickster is hungry, some for food, some for attention, revolution, sex, destruction, or rebirth. The trickster always invents the trap. In some mythology the trickster is asked to outwit some larger devouring force saving human kind. With his wit, intelligence, and knack for observation and lies he can quickly trap and defeat a larger problem. The etymology of the word trickster from Vulgar Latin *triccare, from Latin tricari “be evasive, shuffle,” and variant of Old French trichier “to cheat, deceive, or bait.”

For all that has happened to weev, we must be reminded that he chose go to prison rather than fight before the sentencing. Like other tricksters he understands how systems work. He understands there is a bigger message at hand, a larger all encompassing body, and with each troll that becomes more clear. His acts are intentional. Whether it’s the CFAA’s ambiguous outdated form, the flaws in the justice system, or the way prisoners are treated he opens the door for discussion, outrage, and change.

The trickster is unbreakable, infuriating, essential, and always hungry.


Here is a poem he wrote on demand which he told me to write on a scroll. I didn’t.

And yes he’s still trolling.

Imagine a lifeboat about to capsize

And drowning men reaching for the skies

A ship of fools will pull them in

the boat will soon sink, none will swim

A wizened marine guided by Aegir

Will fearlessly render with his spear

We must preserve this lifeboat called earth

And its peoples future mirth

So you ask, why Thor?

Because there is a need for something more

For us to march forward without fear

There are six million too many people here.



Look out for Jimmy Valentine for he is an old pal of mine. Come on, come on, Jim. Ok, ok, I am all through. Can’t do another thing. Look out mamma, look out for her. You can’t beat him. Police, mamma, Helen, mother, please take me out. I will settle the indictment. Come on, open the soap duckets. The chimney sweeps. Talk to the sword. Shut up, you got a big mouth! Please help me up, Henry. Max, come over here. French-Canadian bean soup. I want to pay. Let them leave me alone. - Last words of Dutch Schultz

I’ve gotten better at preparing. Everything I need in one bag, ready to go. I stand in front of the mirror pulling back hair and applying layers of eyeshadow. This is my Saturday, every Saturday. When people ask my day job I reply to them “everything.” I get to wear sequins on Saturdays and long gloves with pearls. On Sundays I paint in small black slips and the weekdays are filled with readings and painting and bits of writing. Every day I light the candles on the altar and tend to the workings at hand. Every day I lay down a card and answer a question but Saturdays are a special kind of working, one where I’m not me. Instead I slip into a dress and fall into a dream world. Saturdays are special.

After ritual nights I have to pump myself up for more performances but those weekends tend to be the most fulfilling.

9 of cups


Running around preparing for the play, water.

Not caring that I ditched my high protein low carb diet for a day.

Same as above.

Agnes Esterhazy

Full day focused on the play.

The Hunger Moon


“I saw the world I had walked since my birth and I understood how fragile it was, that the reality was a thin layer of icing on a great dark birthday cake writhing with grubs and nightmares and hunger.”
Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

I cut valentines during the day, sacred hearts to be used in ritual. The phone rang and the familiar “unknown” number surfaced on the screen. “Hello dear sister it seems the government is trying to keep us apart again.” And now two valentine’s returned, one for being unknown and one for being offensive. I sighed a little knowing that something like this would happen. Andrew told me the story of Vali as it was the feast of Vali. I told him of the ritual I’d be preparing for the evening of the hunger moon. I asked him for two runes to incorporate into the ritual space. He chose Ansuz and Laguz. We said out goodbyes as I mixed a batch of blood in preparation for the evening.

On the floor we drew a labyrinth and within stations for the elements. As guests made their way through the labyrinth hearts were given, dances were danced until they all stood outside to take the minds journey. Sacraments were given and vows made. We turned them from human to beast until one, one was collared, chosen and brought to the stage. There we crowned him King, the collar came off and it was his turn to bless the vows on hearts with blood. From one hand to another he took the hearts and blessed them, the drums played in the background, the energy pulsating and just like that the feast began. The Hunger Moon brought the uniting of crowns, royalty and bloodlines. The Leo moon brought awareness and pride. The room stood filled with bodies partaking in wine and conversation amidst candlelight and a labyrinth whose walls had been unlocked.

All hail the King of Wolves, the Queen of Wolves, King of Serpents, and Queen of Crows. All hail the forest groves, the roots beneath the muddy earth, the bloodlines undulating under a blanketed sheet of snow.

When I do meditations I channel them. There’s no planning in where they go. I just let them come.

Ansuz and Laguz


Running around preparing for rituals

Mostly vices drank wine and drank coffee

Nothing really to relinquish today


Full day focused on the ritual

Sacred Heart


“The object of terrorism is terrorism. The object of oppression is oppression. The object of torture is torture. The object of murder is murder. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me?”
George Orwell, 1984

A letter came to my mailbox a few days before. It was one of those letters where the energy permeates right through the paper, the kind that makes you flinch as you open it. The return address printed neatly on the side: Department of Justice Federal Bureau of Prisons. 

"What now?" I opened the letter and inside the Valentine I had sent to Andrew Auernheimer was returned with a check marked letter stating the return for the Valentine to be  an unknown substance on the drawing. I took out the Valentine now slashed with an x and carved into baffled. Unknown substance = acrylic paint.

Now I can understand checking a drawing or a painting for substances. The paint I use is generic, it can be found in nearly all art supply stores, the glaze the same, pencil from the MET, no ink, nothing out of the ordinary. The cards I’ve sent before have had the same brand of paint washed over them, perhaps in lighter coats. The part that baffled me though was why such a large gash as the piece was painted on one single sheet of bristol board and cut to the shape. A swipe or a small scrape would suffice, but such a large gash and an x seemed excessive.


I called Kenneth Ransom’s fiancee. “Typical.” she said. “They used to do that to Kenneth too.” It’s interesting that not much has changed in the way prisons handle prisoners and mail systems. Emma Goldman’s support mail was withheld and only the hate mail sent through. When she was released she was stunned she had supporters. That was 1917. We’ve come a long way baby. Kenneth’s mail was withheld, his birthday cards numbering in hundreds were delivered six months after the fact. That was death row in Texas in the 1980’s-1990’s. And now 2014, a simple Valentine slashed and sent back. Other mail from friends and allies lost, untraceable, returned.

Looking through Kenneth’s documents one message was consistently clear: The Justice system is a beast of it’s own. Kenneth had three wishes in life. 1. His name be cleared. 2. The death penalty abolished and 3. That prisoners be treated fairly and with dignity as human beings. Unfortunately none of these have come to be. Who would have thought 1984 would be a prediction instead of fiction.

Really pissed off that they put a gash into the art. There are sensible ways to test things people. Kenneth Ransom has been on my mind a lot as of late as well. i wish there was justice for him. I wish there was justice for Andrew too as well know his sentence is bullshit.

This turned into one and also a tool. The sacred heart is one of the most well know devotions. Taking the heart of Jesus Christ as the representation of his divine love for humanity. Clayton Cubitt wrote this in reply to what happened: The most suspicious object in a corporate security state is something made by hand out of love.


Running errands, running around like a madwoman all day.

No vices only virtues today.

Being mad about this.

Trickster Gods everywhere.

Made all the crowns. ALL of them. Champion of crowns.