The Rogue Angel : Entry #1

She sat quietly in her a chair in the coven courtroom, on trial, listening intently, though her legs were spread shoulder width apart, elbows resting upon her knees, fingers interlocked and eyes fixed to the floor and as usual wings lowered, crossed, covering her rear end.

"For heavens sake, have the due respect of a child and appear before me humbled", barked The Coven Mother.

Deity, pronounced as one would Aphrodite, was accustomed to browbeatings on the weekly and at times daily basis. She trembled in anger knowing the expectation was to hold her tongue but her being would not withstanding the beating, at least, that's what It told her so through her nervous disruption. She spoke the truth.

"If you had wings you wouldn't feel so disrespected by the mere sight of me, Mother." Coven Mother immediately rose to her feet.

"What on Earth did your audacity just utter child?" She points condemningly to Deity. "You're wings are a sign of unholiness, rebel, and you would not have them were it not for your tendency to wander to dark places unattended by your Governing Witch!"

"She doesn't feel a need for my governance Dear Mother. We worship and work with those who look like she", interjected her governess, Terra. The Coven Mother made note and sat slowly.

"Granted", added Coven Mother, "but you were instructed at the time of her infantile discovery that she should be kept away from such things and raised in only the ways and morality of The Light Craft."

"Which Terra has done unfailingly Love", added The Coven Father, a scarce contribution to such matters. He adored Deity, secretly. One of four wizards to a coven of one hundred, he fathered Deity despite his wife's belligerent approval of the coven's adopting her when she was found in the woods alone, unswaddled, undiapered, unfed and crying at three months old.

"Keep The Pact of Coven Peace and disguise your flight", The Coven Father added. Deity unbagged and put on her hooded cloak, then sits erect, staring fiercely at The Coven Mother. The Coven Mother would have saw it fit to change her name upon her adoption and would have done so in a Catholic fashion if “Deity” weren't tattooed on the nape of the infant's neck at the highest of her spinal cord. If it weren't for the fervent effortf of The Coven Father to honor It and The Pentagram, The Coven Mother would be administering weekly and some times daily lectures of respect and submission, concluding verdicts and sentencing to a Mary or Prudence or better yet, Agnes.

"So she has, pardon the accusation Governess", The Coven Mother continued, "But Terra, you know the child best,"

"I will be 18 this Summer Equinox", interrupted Deity.

"Silence Child!", yelled The Coven Father. He turned to his wife to finish the sentencing. 

The verdict was ruled that Deity was guilty of unauthorized access and usage to and of magickal chambers, potions and utensils, which counted as charges of theft, totaling eight; five potions, one goat, a pocket knife and chalk. Deity began her silent treatment once informed that the charge for chalk was valid. And one charge of conspiracy, conjuring her angelic family of birth was forbidden.

"Again, Governess, you know the child best. Which punishment suits her?"

Deity assumed her original slouch in her chair and rolled her lowered head over to have her Governess in sight. The common courtesy of looking at the defendant during judgement was not returned. Deity supposed it didn't matter that sixteen of twenty four hours were spent under Terra’s supervision, when she wasn't instructing, because now, Terra won't bother to look her in the eye.

"The child hates my natural magic. Earth Magick is her least favorite and therefore her weakest subject. I recommend the brigs of the lower caverns. She'd struggle to escape for awhile. I estimate that we'd only have seventy hours between her imprisonment and her being trapped in a cavern wall. Then it's a death sentence Covern Mother. I am displeased with her trouble making but I dont want the child to die Mother", humbly adds Terra, finally looking at Deity.

"Nor do I", adds their Coven Father. Coven Mother sighs, discouraged with her options or lack thereof.

"My Lord, what are we to do with the child?", she asks her spouse of seventy five years. The Coven Father eyes the coven's prized possession, though it was unbeknownst to Deity. He sighs and twiddles his thumbs. With his chin to his chest he nods and then looks to Deity, “Ninety six hours in her personal chambers,"

"Ninety six hours?", yells Deity.

"Yes, deviant, ninety six hours", he says as a matter of fact, now rectifying his posture, "and now with no rations." Deity's confusion met with sensed betrayal made her stomach turn. Coven Father notices, "You're plump enough Child, you can afford it. Closing Off rituals every hour for the escape artist and visits by the Gremlin every twelve, since she must work so fervently. And the guilt of shaming fire and all that Is by absence at Beltane."

"Absence at Beltane? Lord Father, please", pleaded Deity, "My sisters wont let me forget it and who knows what fire will withhold from me for negligence."

"Good", he adds, "but, you can keep all that you've stolen. Practice in your chamber."

"I can't start a fire to offer a goat in my room and control it, Father. The chamber is too small."

"Figure it out Sorceress, and Happy Beltane", he quips.

Coven Mother is pleased enough by the sentence. "Then, Happy Beltane Child. Adjourned."

The Coven Father eyes the defendant sternly and finalizes emphatically. "Adjourned."

To Expectorate At This Rate: A Witch's Divinatory Record Entry #2

May 20, 2019

I know, I am about two weeks late on interpreting my most recent divinatory device of disgust. Truthfully, I had no idea of what to say. What could I say? I smoked a cigar, well, a cigarillo, at Pico and La Brea around midnight, watched and spit at the bitterness before my eyes, even more bitter than the herb I smoked and disgust from the colony of roaches running midnight errands. A Witch can't honor and offer her vessel for pleasant overwrite by The Ancestors in peace.

Expectorant accumulated and gravity did what it thought to do as I noticed the pile beginning to run but was distracted by two homeless men yelling and fighting across the street in the 711 parking lot. Moments later, I looked back down by my right foot and there was an ejaculating penis in the Witch's Tree of Life. Yes, I consort by honoring the Lord, Masculinity, Fire, Lust and Business as often and certain as the Sun rises in the East and mourn the absence of it's physical manifestation in my life as sure as He sets in the West. I Am Witch but no Lesbian. But no, Shango, I will not conceive a second time unmarried. Put a condom on. Grok it.

- The Huntress

AGAPE - I AM Arched

I love you, constantly, but only in secret. Because, I couldn't stand the public humiliation of my affections not being returned. So I settle to think of you, hurt for you, long for you, without the self-degradation of hoping for you. The pursuit of someone who you can not have, when love and care is what you presently require the most, will render the proudest of the mightiest null and void. Instead, I detox from the sound of your voice. I wean from the sight of your face; your full lips, round eyes and fiery features. Seldom do I reminisce of fonder times; talks of love, joint ventures and divinations of the cries of productivity. Ashe. But I stand a self-defensive Being with a memory that can not and will not withdraw. Predecessors reign as a reminder of what is all too common. A lack of sincerity, selfishness, unreasonableness, cowardice, lack of vision, but most importantly, irreverance has made me a Woman of skepticism. After twenty-eight years of Being, seven years of Motherhood and a year of Marriage that mirrored the emotional turmoil of relationships passed, I will not invest in the unmanifested. I held on, I hold on to all that I know to be true, solemn and benefitional. No man who wants me, truly wants me, could stand to be away from you.

You remind me of Chuck, Shango. You remind me of Larry, Shango. You remind me of Dontavius, Shango. You remind me of Reggie, Shango. Tell me the Truth of what you feel, what you're dying to hide from me, Oh Fiery God of the Heavens. You burn so gloriously, for what seems to be for the purposes of self-gratification only, and then set without fail. Where are you? Where are you going? Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Lift up.

The moon couldn't deny you if She tried, Shango. Winged and ablaze, you are mine. Though, I will remain content being the only Being who knows. But lust for me this, was I not worshipful enough? Did I not pause from gazing at myself to see you and your warmth? Was my hand mirror not demoted from its necessity, waiting for you to praise what I do? Was my mouth not wide open for you? Did not drink from you? Did I not sing your praises and allow your current to move me, Oh Shango? Willingly, I submit. I submitted. But I can not respect you enough for you to respect yourself. Oh Shango, I AM not your bitch. You prefer the relations of dogs, who by nature require, and therefore seek, the Mastery of others. I do not bark, I do not sit when I am told, I do not lay down on order unless your intention is to please me. I will not fetch the news, it is yours to seek and read and learn and what man wants information that's been slobbered on by a lesser being?

I AM, all day, especially at night, I AM. I AM, when you have chosen to abdicate your responsibility due to self-bestowed inadequacy, I AM. When my constant words of encouragement, caresses of passion, bites of ardor and ecstacy go unheard and unprolific in your ears of immaturity, dependency and weakness,  I AM. I would grant you my hand mirror to aid you on your chosen journey of loneliness, wishing, though I AM SHE that grants them, that you see in you that which I do but, do you See, Oh Fiery God of the Heavens? I AM arched.

I laid there, in submission, agape, for him and him alone. "Shango..."

Significantly Significant

the thinking Man...

I tend to be attracted to an older man. When I say older, I mean significantly older, as in, fifteen to twenty years my senior. Its not unheard of or even discouraged in, what is soon to be 2019. After all, we have examples of more extreme relationships like the impersonal and money driven marriage of Anna Nicole Smith and the like. As long as we aren’t speaking of an age gap that can’t be bridged with Youtube, its safe to say these sorts of relationships are within reach of any young man or woman with the maturity level to “hold their own” as it were. For those who haven’t ventured that far romantically, the most natural facture to a 28 year old woman, like myself, being in love with a man old enough to be her father is the fact that the average individual looks for the parent of the opposite sex in their mate.  Men look for the care and attention of their mothers and women, that of their fathers, and their personal experience with each determines how their romantic pursuits manifest. An older man has lived longer, experiencing more, has learned more, should have more and can be more of a physical, financial and spiritual resource to yourSelf or any child(ren) you may have than to consistently battle with a younger “man” who is still on his mother’s teet.

Now, before anyone’s mother gets her panties all in a bunch. I am not referring to a man having an intimate relationship with his mother. She carried him, bore him, fed him and raised him. I’m referring to a younger "man"'s  need for parenting, for rearing, child rearing. It’s a commonly known and accepted social tenet that boys mature slower than girls do. As a woman who makes an intentional effort to have a variety in the classes of men she dates, character, occupation and age, I know that you can’t expect a man to be a Man until he hits at least 40, no if, ands or buts about it. Even then, you have to take into consideration how well he plays the cards he’s dealt himSelf, otherwise he’s no use to you as a mature, yet still, younger woman. But the true identity of the dealer is a story for another time. 

Though my personal, experiential and intuitive experience has led me to the conclusion that a significantly older man is in fact what a woman like myself needs, gnosis could not prepare me for the inevitable struggle of the culture shock. As a preface, this explanation of said struggle isn’t to discourage or deter but to shed light on a familial issue that is prevalent but rarely discussed. When you are dealing with a Man who is approaching, met or passed The Hill, you are faced with the reality that the women he was raised by or with require much more than what does the Millennial woman. To be frank without the intention to be harsh, women of his age bracket were proud to just have a man by her side or at least in her home. Her gratitude, in turn, warranted that she endure what is seen today as negligence. When he opens himSelf up to having a legitimate relationship, not just a hot fling with a pretty young thing, he finds that not more is required but rather the polar opposite of which he has grown accustomed. Millennial Women are not only capable of but actually look forward to thinking for herSelf and wisely, providing for herself and well and is free enough to get herself off with a toy or two on the regular basis. So Men of a particular age are now faced with the question of what can you provide for Me other than an order, a dollar and a decent stroke?

The answer is you have to think about it and that’s okay because you are old enough to do so and come to the appropriate conclusion without asking your mother.

As so above, so below,

The Huntress