Vanity Fair

One of the minor ironies of the Bush interregnum is that Graydon Carter -- editor of a glossy magazine devoted to movie stars, ads for expensive watches and clothes, and the occasional gossipy story about some media mogul -- has for some time written some of the best and most accurately scathing attacks on the reigning junta. His Editor's Letter in this month's Vanity Fair -- spliced between ads for Land Rovers, articles about stage moms, and a photo spread featuring Julia Roberts -- is one of his best and one that gives me a great deal of hope.

Discussing a fictional account of a Tony-Blair-like former British Prime Minister who gets called to account for his role in approving torture, Carter notes:

All things being equal, such a legal fate may well await not only Tony Blair but our own President Bush, once his clenched-white fingers have been pried from the nuclear “football” for the last time, in January 2009. It is now evident that the United States, beginning at the very top levels of the administration, has been engaged in a coordinated and widespread campaign of extraordinary rendition and real torture—offenses that would have appalled most thinking Americans an administration ago. Thanks to a major report in The New York Times in October, we furthermore know that the Bush White House was enabled at every stage by a compliant Justice Department that clandestinely re-wrote U.S. laws so that the president wouldn’t technically be in violation of them when he broke them.

A year before his Iraq invasion, Bush sent a memo to his Cabinet declaring that the administration would hereafter not be constrained by the principles of the 1949 Geneva Convention Relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War. The White House document argued that, because a war on “terrorism” was not a conflict with a particular state or “High Contracting Parties,” the rules of war as stipulated by the Convention—especially those involving torture and due process—did not apply. Detainees suspected of having ties to al-Qaeda would thus not be covered by the historic conventions of war, because al-Qaeda is not a conventional nation-state. The administration then sought to legally and narrowly define what torture was. (Remember those balmy days of our youth when we got in a snit over a president who was parsing what was or was not sex?) Almost every manner of humiliation and punishment short of major-organ failure or death was declared permissible under the administration’s definition of torture. Note: the Concise Oxford English Dictionary defines torture as the infliction of severe bodily pain—as punishment or means of persuasion. It is worth remembering that America and her allies emerged victorious from both World War II and the Cold War without resorting to any form of organized or authorized torture.

Water-boarding, as we all know, gets two thumbs up from this administration. I’ve read many descriptions of it, but Robert Harris has one in The Ghost that is to the point. The prisoner is tightly bound to an inclined board with his feet higher than his head. His face is covered with cloth or cellophane, and when water is poured over it—some of which might leak into his lungs—the prisoner experiences an immediate drowning sensation. Harris says C.I.A. officers who have been subjected to water-boarding during their training have lasted an average of 14 seconds before giving up. Water-boarding can result in damage to the lungs and the brain, as well as long-term psychological trauma. In 1947, Harris says, a Japanese officer was convicted of a war crime for water-boarding an American prisoner and was sentenced to 15 years’ hard labor.

Last year, the Supreme Court ruled that the administration’s program for trials of accused terrorists by military commissions violated the Uniform Code of Military Justice as well as Common Article 3 of the Geneva Conventions. Article 3 is very clear on two points this White House has chosen to ignore. Subsection (c) forbids “outrages upon personal dignity, in particular, humiliating and degrading treatment” (my italics), and Subsection (d) forbids “the passing of sentences and the carrying out of executions without previous judgment pronounced by a regularly constituted court affording all the judicial guarantees which are recognized as indispensable by civilized peoples” (my italics again).

Should this all follow the president out of office, . . . the lieutenants and functionaries who provided enabling documentation should recall that, when it comes to war crimes, following orders is no defense. No less an authority than Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s chief propagandist, had this to say on the subject in an article he published in May 1944: “No international law of warfare is in existence which provides that a soldier who has committed a mean crime can escape punishment by pleading as his defense that he followed the commands of his superiors. This holds particularly true if those commands are contrary to all human ethics and opposed to the well-established international usage of warfare.” Goebbels was talking not about the Nazi atrocities—war criminals rarely discuss their own atrocities—but about Allied aerial-bombing attacks on Germany. And just as his words came back to haunt him, the White House’s re-writing of our own codes of conduct will most surely come back to haunt them and us.

About the only thing stopping the International Criminal Court from going after the president, the vice president, and the former secretary of defense and attorneys general is that the U.S. is not a signatory to its conventions of warfare. Most nations (and all other Western nations) are, but not us. China’s not a signatory; neither is Iraq. Such is the company we keep these days. You don’t even have to care about the safety of detainees in our custody to care about this issue, because it also governs how other nations treat our sons and daughters (or, in the case of the Iraq war, fathers and mothers of people in their 20s) when they are captured.

At the end of the day, the torture conversation is a reflection of how much America’s moral compass has shifted since 9/11. The administration’s colossally wrongheaded reaction to the attacks has caused the U.S. to retreat to the dark, Cheney-esque shadows. The issue of torture goes to the heart of any discussion of who we are as a world citizen. It is not just the top levels of the administration that bear the guilt of war crimes committed in our name. Every government lawyer who helped construct the legal paper trail for the White House is guilty. So are the administration underlings who turned blind eyes to things they knew were wrong. Every legislator and journalist who chose silence over the withering furies of right-wing demagogues and talk-radio hosts is guilty, too. We are all guilty, and we should be ashamed. A nation that used to be better than its enemies has, under the Bush administration, become its own worst enemy.

Carter has been doing this sort of thing since the beginning, back when it was as good as your job (Phil Donahue) or your entire career (the Dixie Chicks) to dare to even suggest that the emperor might be a bit shy of leggings, shirts, and various other accoutrements. I especially appreciate his acknowledgement that, "We are all guilty and we should be ashamed." I'm guilty of letting this go on. You're guilty. It's done in our name with out tax dollars and it's done because there aren't enough of us willing to throw ourselves against the barricades until it fucking stops. I hope that I live to see the war criminals tried and punished. Many of them are likely to live a long time and Karma, that brilliant bitch Goddess, is reputed to have a v. long memory. Now it would be nice of the folks in the middle, you know, the "serious" journalists somewhere above dirty bloggers and the silly editors of high-end gossip mags, would start to do some of the heavy lifting. Carter's been almost on his own for quite some time.

The Star Splitter By Robert Frost

You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to?"
So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And spent the proceeds on a telescope
To satisfy a life-long curiosity
About our place among the infinities.

"What do you want with one of those blame things?"
I asked him well beforehand. "Don't you get one!"
"Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything
More blameless in the sense of being less
A weapon in our human fight," he said.
"I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it."
There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move,
Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years
Trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And bought the telescope with what it came to.
He had been heard to say by several:
"The best thing that we're put here for's to see;
The strongest thing that's given us to see with's
A telescope. Someone in every town
Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
In Littleton it may as well be me."
After such loose talk it was no surprise
When he did what he did and burned his house down.
Mean laughter went about the town that day
To let him know we weren't the least imposed on,
And he could wait--we'd see to him to-morrow.
But the first thing next morning we reflected
If one by one we counted people out
For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long
To get so we had no one left to live with.
For to be social is to be forgiving.
Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
We don't cut off from coming to church suppers,
But what we miss we go to him and ask for.
He promptly gives it back, that is if still
Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad
About his telescope. Beyond the age
Of being given one's gift for Christmas,*
He had to take the best way he knew how
To find himself in one. Well, all we said was
He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
Some sympathy was wasted on the house,
A good old-timer dating back along;
But a house isn't sentient; the house
Didn't feel anything. And if it did,
Why not regard it as a sacrifice,
And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction?

Out of a house and so out of a farm
At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn
To earn a living on the Concord railroad,
As under-ticket-agent at a station
Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
Was setting out up track and down, not plants
As on a farm, but planets, evening stars
That varied in their hue from red to green.

He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
His new job gave him leisure for star-gazing.
Often he bid me come and have a look
Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
At a star quaking in the other end.
I recollect a night of broken clouds
And underfoot snow melted down to ice,
And melting further in the wind to mud.
Bradford and I had out the telescope.
We spread our two legs as it spread its three,
Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
And standing at our leisure till the day broke,
Said some of the best things we ever said.
That telescope was christened the Star-splitter,
Because it didn't do a thing but split
A star in two or three the way you split
A globule of quicksilver in your hand
With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
It's a star-splitter if there ever was one
And ought to do some good if splitting stars
'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.

We've looked and looked, but after all where are we?
Do we know any better where we are,
And how it stands between the night to-night
And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?
How different from the way it ever stood?

* Of being given one for Christmas gift.

Comfortable In "The Kitchen" -- Heh. Tim Russert, Suck. On. This.

You Think You Spent Just One Night, But It's Your Great Grandchildren You Find In Your Hall

So maybe this only happens to me once every ten years or so, and maybe it's never happened to you and you'll have no idea what that crazy old witch is on about today, but the wind and the rain began this morning around three o'clock. They woke me up because I'd left my bedroom window open and the wild wind was blowing the shade about and making lots of noise. Rain is such a welcome gift these days; I got up, stuck my nose against the screen and stood there in the cold, breathing in the rain and the cold air before shutting the window and going back to bed for something almost as good as v. good sex : the sound of wind and rain on the roof while Miss Thing and I curl under the warm comforter, 75% asleep and only barely awake enough to enjoy the entire process.

But I had to get up and go out for an appointment and, crocs and raincoat and umbrella be damned, it was one of those mornings when it's raining so hard that you just know that you're going to get wet. From my house to the car -- maybe 15 steps -- the legs of my pants got soaking wet. It rained and the leaves blew and the wind tossed the branches and it was, well, it was wonderful weather for a witch. It's the kind of wind and rain that comes when the weather's changing, when the cold front of winter is rushing in to push the warm front of Samhein off to sea, the liminal space at Hecate's crossroads, the point when things bubble and change and are transmorphed in Cerridwen's cauldron.

Driving back from my appointment in Bethesda to DC, I took the George Washington Parkway, driving alongside the river of my dreams, the water of my magic, the beautiful Potomac River. The forest was so full of such amazing, incandescent, burning, living color, and the air and the sky were so grey and the river was so covered in that mist that happens when the water from the sky is making love to the water in the river but the river is topping the sky, and the woods were so full of patchy fog, obscuring and then suddenly exposing a tree the precise tangerine color of the deep middle of an ember, directly next to a twitsted and now, from the rain, richly brown bare branch, which stuck out from a tree with leaves the color of perfect gold, each and every one of the thousand of them outlined in carmine, that gently, but, also, just-like-that, you realize: "One extra step, and I'm over the hill into Faerie.

Those aren't only myths; I'm "that close" to taking a turn that I never noticed before and finding myself peering into the barn where Herne is readying his horses for the ride tonight when the winds really do blow these clouds off to sea and the sliver of the new moon is just enough for the hunters. I'm one too-quick curve away from the moment when a knight on a silver palfrey comes riding out of the woods and across the road, unaware that he's ridden out of his time, unable to see or sense me staring in amazement with the hair on my arms standing as straight as his horse's mane, that mane braided earlier this morning by some lady in a dress of grey and green and great bell sleeves. If I glance quickly enough to the right, away from the river, I'll see a drawf with a meade cup of horn on his belt, see Baba Yaga's house gliding by on chicken feet, see a griffin, a tarot card, a fox. If I look slowly enough to the left, towards the place where you can't tell where the river ends and the sky begins, I'll see the talking snake that I've been dreaming of all my life, I'll see the silent parade of sorrowful ladies accompanying the bier to the river, I'll see the Lady of Shallot gliding on down towards the City, where she imagines that Lancelot waits at the obelisk, I'll see the ghost paddlewheel boat, steaming quickly towards that City of monuments and statues and hidden clues."

I wanted to slow down, to take it all in, to give myself time to consider the risks and the, here's a surprise (not), incredibly inviting possibilities, I knew at least three turn-offs where I could park for a minute, look at the trees, listen to the rain, maybe get out in my already-pretty-wet pants and sweater to dance, flip a coin, consider what's to be learned in Faerie's realms. If not for the cars behind me, I likely would have, surely would have, of course I would have at least slowed way down to take it all in.

I've dreamed of the Goddess, directly and without ambiguity, only three times in my life. Each of those times, I dreamed of a Goddess a bit foreign to me, not one of the Goddesses I'd expect to meet in dreams. One of those times, I stood, as I never have in the "mundane" (what a v. bad expression) world, in Ireland, in the kitchen of a snug warm hearth home, with the warm, solid arm of an Irish housewife around my shoulder, looking out the kitchen window at just such a rain and getting care and inspiration from her. I woke up after that dream and thought, "How odd. Brigid. That's N.'s Goddess, not mine." But it was so warm, so homey and safe, that I couldn't be anything but glad to have met the Patroness of the forge, of childbirth, and of (duh!) poetry.

And it was Brigid pulled me back this morning, reminded me of all the work waiting for me at the office, made the car feel safe and warm, got me to the Roosevelt Bridge where the City began to take over and Fairie began to fade, and pushed me along with a gentle, "There you go now; have tea at the office."

I followed her, it's true, driving over the bridge and back into "the world." I own it. I did satisfying work and spent time in the bosom of my loving family and came home to my snug little cottage and my good grey cat. And, yet, like everyone who's ever heard that siren call, all day, all day, all day, like someone worrying the spot where a tooth used to be, I keep thinking, well, maybe, what if, no, too late, no use going back and looking, the door's not there anymore, likely . . . .

Do the rain and wind and shining leaves ever do this to you? Or am I truly a batshit insane old woman? Not that they are mutually exclusive categories, I know.

The Lock Of The Bay

So it turns out -- who knew? -- that mats made out of hair clippings make one of the most efficient materials available for cleaning up oil spills such as the recent oil spill in San Francisco. Matter of Trust has been collecting hair sweepings from salons all over the country and getting them to volunteers working to clean up the oil spill in San Francisco. Even better:

The great news is that this waste doesn't have to stay toxic. Since it's just hair and oil, there is an oyster mushroom that will cling to the hair and eat the hair and oil while detoxifying it in less than 4 months. A donation of $10,000 worth of oyster mushroom spawn from Paul Stamets of Fungi.com has been made to Matter of Trust and thanks to helpful information from contractors like Universal Environmental we've managed to contact The O'Briens Group , contracted for shore activity, toxic waste collection and disposal, and we hope to donate the spawn and set up to them.

Check it out. Print it out and take the information to your salon.

Just A Reminder

Tonight, at midnight, Les Beaujolias Nouveau est arrive! It only happens once a year.

Or, A Queen

My New Name For A Blog

What Darryl Said.


Because i think that this pretty much sums up my religion in one sentence:

But what about the overlaying latticework of coincidence that's susciptible to matrixing the clustering of random events?

My New Name For A Blog

What Molly Said

One of my dream ideas of late has been a WPA-style program designed to develop green technologies in every community in America. It's bold, and would take a lot of work and resources, but it looks like Al Gore is developing contacts which might make such a thing possible. Imagine the number of jobs which could be created when we begin assessing the most appropriate means of clean energy generation for each county or municipality and calculating and then producing the tools needed to achieve that goal. Manufacturing would be reborn in America, and new jobs would be created: wind-farm and micro-hydro maintenance positions, electrical retrofitters, geothermal engineers, and plumbers installing heat pumps to lower the amount of energy required to heat or cool buildings.

This is exactly right. We need a Manhattan Project for scientists to develop solutions to our global warming problems and we need a WPA program to create green solutions all over America. Shit, turning all the rooves in America into green rooves would be a huge first step. My v. creative friend K., who is working on reality tv shows concerning green construction, could, I'm sure, reel off a dozen more important steps within minutes.

If we can spend over a trillion dollars on an illegal war that has destabalized the Middle East and made us hated around the world, I think we can afford Molly's great suggestion.

I Admit It; I Loved Jane Austen

Thers' book about Jane Austen is out. I seriously can't wait to get my hands on a copy.

How To

Not Really Useful.

Here's another example of what I'm talking about. Great story about a Pagan who likely saved the life of an injured woman and the press appears generally positive. Yet, the Pagan, himself, feels it necessary to announce, "We're not dancing naked in the woods." Now, I've never known the Asatru to dance naked in the woods, but then, I'm not Asatru. However, a number of Pagans do dance naked in the woods as part of their religious worship. The Charge of the Goddess, for example, instructs witches:

Whenever you have need of anything, once a month, and better it be when the moon is full, you shall assemble in some secret place and adore the spirit of Me Who is Queen of all the Wise.

You shall be free from slavery, and as a sign that you be free you shall be naked in your rites.

Sing, feast, dance, make music and love, all in My Presence, for Mine is the ecstasy of the spirit and Mine also is joy on earth.

Dancing naked in the woods doesn't hurt anybody or anything. What's the point of bringing it up to deny it?

I haven't noticed that every time a xian gets interviewed she needs to assure people that her sect of xianity doesn't "handle snakes." I see lots of rabbis get interviewed and they don't feel any need to continually assert that they don't actually make matzo balls with xian baby blood. Those xians and Jews have figured out that to continually be defensive would really only reinforce old evil myths (matzo balls) or denigrate other sects within their own religion (handle snakes) to their own detriment.

So I'd really appreciate it if Pagans would learn to stop asserting that they don't [insert here: worship Satan, eat babies, dance naked, etc.] If they're being interviewed and they get asked, they should clearly answer, but lately it's not even the journalists who seem to be doing this as much as we're doing it to ourselves. It's time to stop.

Man From Plains

Waiting For Icarus by Muriel Rukeyser

He said he would be back and we'd drink wine together
He said that everything would be better than before
He said we were on the edge of a new relation
He said he would never again cringe before his father
He said that he was going to invent full-time
He said he loved me that going into me
He said was going into the world and the sky
He said all the buckles were very firm
He said the wax was the best wax
He said Wait for me here on the beach
He said Just don't cry

I remember the gulls and the waves
I remember the islands going dark on the sea
I remember the girls laughing
I remember they said he only wanted to get away from me
I remember mother saying: Inventors are like poets, a trashy lot
I remember she told me those who try out inventions are worse
I remember she added: Women who love such are the worst of all
I have been waiting all day, or perhaps longer.
I would have liked to try those wings myself.
It would have been better than this.

Shiny Things!

The return of the green fairy.

Rituals Of The Goddess

Fascinating study by Paige Harden, a doctoral candidate in psychology at the University of Virginia that's going to really piss some people off:

Perhaps most surprising, the Virginia study found that adolescents who had sex at younger ages were less likely to end up delinquent than those who lost their virginity later. Many factors play into a person's readiness for sex, but in at least some cases sexual relationships may offer an alternative to trouble, the researchers say.

Even then, there are emotional and physical risks. Young adolescents, in particular, are less likely to use condoms and so are vulnerable to sexually transmitted diseases and unwanted pregnancies.
But those are risks that other nations have mitigated with education, Harden and Turkheimer said, while U.S. educators wanting a piece of the nation's $200 million "abstinence only" budget must adhere to a curriculum that links sex to delinquency and explicitly precludes discussion of contraception.

The new study "really calls into question the usefulness of abstinence education for preventing behavior problems," Harden said, "and questions the bigger underlying assumption that all adolescent sex is always bad."

One wonders how adolescent sex could be bad -- throughout history, until v. recently, people began having sex, children, "adult" lives in their teens. It's long seemed obvious to me that teens have problems around early sex because our entire society has problems around sex. If you take something natural and make it "bad" kids will have problems with it (see, e.g., teenage girls and, say, eating). Once you intelligently deal, as other nations do, with issues such as preventing pregnancy and transmitting disease, it's not at all clear to me why teen sex is "bad" or "harmful." Nor why it should be related to delinquent behaviors.

But you know this study is going to drive the fundies batshit insane.

And, Now For Something Completely Different . . . .

This is different.

Missing A Dryad To The NorthEast.

Just over four years ago, I moved to this cozy cottage -- the home of my heart -- snugged squarely in the middle of an oak grove. The ancient oaks that give this spot its character, basis, and meaning grow in my yard, in the V.'s yard to my West, in the new renter's yard to the North, and, importantly, in my neighbor M's yard to the East. Immediately upon my moving here, the oak trees took charge of my magical practice, of my spiritual connection to the Earth, Life, and Everything. From the first morning that I set up my altar in the small room directly to the West of the Greatest Oak, I've danced in the presence of these oak trees, heard the music of the wind through their ancient branches, watched fireflies amongst their leaves, practiced witchcraft with my roots intertwined with theirs, invoked them in all my incantations, been blessed by the practice of photsynthesis within their leaves in the bright sun of early afteroon. They've informed every breath that I take, every spell that I cast, every dream that I dream, every breath that I take. Their acorns feed my familiar squirrels, create the ground in which I grow things, and decorate my altar. Their leaves fall every Autumn, forcing me into a physical spiritual practice that I resist as much as I need. In the spring the "oak fluffies" remind me every morning exactly how important sex is to my spiritual practice. Goddess, I wish that you could be here at Beltane to see what they drift across my gardens and my decks -- so much oak sex.

This morning, one of them fell. And I am bereft as I never imagined that I would be, and there is a huge hole in my heart and in my magical practice.

Last summer was v. dry. This summer, the drought was even more pronounced. M. and I noticed that several of our oaks were suffering. She, traveling all across the globe for peace, contacted several arborists (what a blessed profession!), found an organic arborist, scheduled his visit while she was in Japan and Russia, and arranged to have him feed the oaks and strengthen them against the opportunistic pest that attacked them when they were weakened by the drought. I was lucky enough to have a convocation of witches here in the heat of summer to do Reiki on my oaks on a hot Sunday afternoon. At the v. least, the oak tree in my woodland garden is still visibly strengthened by that.

But I'm delaying telling the sad part. I, the granddaughter of a woman who believed in pulling the band-aid off fast, and all at once, in order to minimize the pain. For shame.

The oak tree in M's front yard, to my northeast, didn't make it. That lovely oak tree that was a hundred years old when America was born, that lovely oak tree that watched the Civil War, that lovely oak tree that saw a neighborhood of bungalows and cottages spring up in the 1950s when GIs came home from the war and, after going to college, married and had families, that lovely oak tree that was growing when humans first walked on the moon, that lovely oak tree that shaded the hippies of the 1960s, and that cooled M's house and my house every early summer morning since they were built -- that oak tree is gone. Some nice men came early this morning -- you can start making loud noise in Arlington as early as 7:00 am -- and, within a few hours, cut that three-story oak tree down, ground its roots out of the ground, turned the small branches into mulch and the large parts of the tree into firewood, and left a scar on our street, in my heart, in the basis of my magical practice.

I went to my altar this evening and all that I could feel was a huge "absence" to my northeast. I think that I may understand how victims of amputation feel, what it's like to feel a "phantom limb." Shit. This is going to take me a long time to adjust to. I'm going to go over tomorrow when the sun rises and offer thyme and olive oil and wine to the now-ground-up stub of that ancient oak. I'm going to invoke that spirit whenever I sit at my altar, I'm going to ask forgiveness of the dryad. I guess that I'll eventually learn how to practice magic here without it. But, I'm going to miss that oak tree.

OPM (Other People's Marriages)

One of the enduring stories about the marriage of Bill and Hillary Clinton is that it's a "political" marriage -- whatever that means. I've often tried to puzzle it out and, near as I can tell, it means that they don't "really" love each other, instead, they stay together in order to promote each other's political aspirations. One thing I do know: it's never said as a compliment. It's always meant to denigrate both of them, to imply that she's a cold shrew, that he's a slimy cad, and that they're, as a result, somehow "anti-family" (in spite of having stayed together through thick and thin and having raised a, by all accounts, amazingly well-adjusted and accomplished daughter.

My own notions are that (1) other people's marriages are none of my business, my own were so complicated that I'm still trying to puzzle them out and I was actually involved in them, instead of standing on the outside looking in; (2) most people that I know stay together for a variety of reasons and for different reasons at different times in the marriage; and (3) staying together "for the kids" or because you have a comfortable life together with mutual friends and a bank account that is greater than the sum of its post-divorce parts or because your religion frowns on divorce, or "for politcal reasons" is nobody's business but your own.

That said, I was fascinated to read an account today in the WaPo of the marriage between two local politicians: Virginia's Republican Congressman Tom Davis, of Fairfax and his (second) wife, recently-defeated Virginia State Sen. Jeannemarie Devolites Davis. (She kept her own maiden name and only hyphenated his! She must not "really" love him!) The entire tone of the article is so different from the tone of articles on the Clinton marriage that I believe that it's worth quoting at some length:

Theirs is a partnership of politics and ambition that formed a decade ago and grew into something more.

He was a powerful congressman. She was a fledgling state candidate with promise. A master politician with a national profile, he took her under his wing and found his life's love.

They both craved the game, and they both sought power. When he moved on to the Senate, she could run for his seat, or perhaps a statewide office in Virginia. Together, they made a life centered around these ambitions.

. . .

The story of how the Davises' success became interdependent is not hard to trace through those who have watched the political romance blossom over the years.

. . .

Most friends and associates of the Davises won't talk openly about when the romance began. Tom and his first wife, Peggy Davis, a Fairfax County gynecologist who, by most accounts, despised politics, were divorced in the fall of 2003, just a few months before the new couple declared their plans to wed.

"Jeannemarie is Tom's perfect soul mate," said Baise. "Peggy was not. I think everybody sort of sees that. They live, breathe and love the action."

John and Jeannemarie Devolites filed for divorce in 2000 but remained united as parents. They appeared together in court in 2002, when their daughter, Ashley, then 20, was sentenced to a nine-year prison term for her role in a series of armed robberies in Fairfax City.

After their wedding, the new Davises moved quickly to forge a marriage that seemed inseparable from their public life. They did joint speaking engagements and campaign events. They scheduled a vacation once with a return date timed so both could attend the Vienna Day Fourth of July Parade -- and later bragged about it to friends. During Virginia's winter legislative sessions, the Davises started a tradition of reserving Mondays for "date night." He would meet her at the Capitol in Richmond, say hello to their Republican colleagues, and have dinner alone with her before heading north for the busy week on Capitol Hill.

"They seem infatuated with each other," said Del. Thomas Davis Rust (R-Fairfax), also a Davis recruit to state politics. "He is the congressman, he is the more influential, powerful person. But" -- and Rust chuckled here -- "she treats him as her husband, if you know what I mean. It's an equal partnership."

Davis often seemed to defer to his wife in public. He hovered near her at the state Capitol. He even agreed to a joint photo session wearing matching light blue shirts and white slacks, his fair hair nearly as coiffed as hers, and their two white Maltese dogs on their laps.

After walking away from his own ambition, Davis used every page in his playbook to save his wife and, at the same time, the Republican majority in the state Senate. He brought in his own seasoned staff and arranged for New York Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg to join Devolites Davis at a campaign event and praise her votes for gun control. As she flashed her white smile and flipped her always-perfect dark hair, her husband watched from the back of the room, his dual roles of doting husband and tactical genius in full effect.

It was a pure Davis move, helping his wife court Democrats in an increasingly left-leaning district and offering Bloomberg the prize of heavy media coverage.

But it wasn't enough.

Davis's investment in his wife's career clearly has come to be about more than politics.

. . .

Thompson believes that Davis chose to throw himself into his wife's reelection campaign not to salvage his own political career but out of love. Others believe it was a little bit of both.

How fascinating that it's apparently completely ok for these twice-married Republicans with problem children to base a marriage upon a love of politics, but it's somehow wrong for the Clintons to have done the same.

Saturday Goddess Blogging

The Triple Goddess

You Never Know

It's odd, I'd have thought that Brown would have several active and public Pagan groups.

And, I know that they're young, but it would be nice if these students didn't feel the need to say that witches don't eat babies and that Wiccans are their own worst enemies. Our own worst enemies would be the patriarchy. Just sayin.

Of course, other people have no excuse. Kali on a Klondike Bar, would you just stop it? Because it just gives credence to shit like this.

Friday Cat Blogging

Krikit, U iz ded meat. I can haz cat sushi.

My New Name For A Blog

What She Who Said.

Now my loving is running toward my life shouting, "What a bargain! Let's buy it!"

Ruh Roh!

From today's EEI newsletter:

International Energy Agency Forecasts Big Jump in GHG Emissions

The International Energy Agency's World Energy Outlook 2007 report shows that GHG emissions are expected to surge by 2030, potentially causing a rise in global temperatures of at least 5.4 degrees and bringing along with that flooding and disease, Bloomberg reported. To keep temperature increases below that mark would need "exceptionally vigorous policy action," the report said, adding: "A later peak and less-sharp reductions in emissions would lead to higher concentrations and bigger increases in temperature."

To limit the surge in GHG emissions, the report found that the cost of building new electricity generating capacity would be "very high," with cumulative investments through 2030 at least $1.8 trillion higher than a scenario in which emissions were allowed to rise significantly. The report said: "Early retirement of fossil-fuel generating capacity will comprise almost $1 trillion of the additional investment."

The IEA said China's emissions were likely to more than double to 11.4 billion tons by 2030, largely as a result of increased coal-based power generation. Wrote Bloomberg: "Carbon dioxide output from fuel combustion could peak around 2025, with China probably overtaking the U.S. this year as the world's biggest emitter." China and India together could account for 56 percent of emissions growth, Bloomberg reported.
Bloomberg , Nov. 7.

Why Women Need The Goddess

we need a god who bleeds
spreads her lunar vulva &
showers us in shades of scarlet
thick & warm like the breath of her

/From Ntozake Shange, “We Need a God Who Bleeds Now,” in A Daughter’s Geography (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1983), 51., quoted in Ochre.

A Respectful And Thoughtful Conversation

Two days after the dinner, out of seemingly nowhere, Starhawk called and asked me for mediation. We met and were successful in talking thru an old issue that has festered for years. It’s been great to clear it out, and we talked at length about our pretty polarized positions on what she sees as confidentiality versus what I see as transparent process. I can’t say anything was really solved or we swayed each other to the other’s position, but it was a respectful and thoughtful conversation. We even talked about collaborating in the future in envisioning what could make for healthier community. A complete turn around from the energy between us for the last several years.


I’m choosing to believe at this moment that the dead we feasted with at the dinner are actively involved in trying to help us. And my goodness, the world and Reclaiming sure need help.

Wow.

I am lucky enough to live on the East Coast. I am lucky enough to live within an eclectic circle of women, some of whom have had Reclaiming Training (I have), but many of whom have not. I light incense for Reclaiming; may the Goddess guard all of us.

No, Really, Prof. I Was Out Dancing Naked Under The Full Moon. I Couldn't Study.

The recent decision by Marshall University in West Virginia in West Virginia to allow Pagan students the same right to miss class for religious holidays as students from other religions have long enjoyed continues to generate comments.

Here, a student from another college responds to the news.

Here, a reader in West Virginia responds to a recent article in the local paper about the new policy:

Cheers to Marshall University for protecting pagan students’ right to celebrate their holidays. Jeers to the Gazette for trying to create a furor where none is needed. Your headline “Marshall policy now observes pagan holidays” is misleading. Marshall University is not observing pagan holidays. It is merely recognizing that they exist, and are as important to some students as Christmas or Hanukkah are to other students.

Silenced By Pagan Wife

This is the sort of really bad reporting about Pagans that drives me batshit insane. As near as I can tell, the fact that his new wife is a Pagan has nothing to do with this guy deciding to end his singing career. It sounds more as if she told him she'd only marry him if he got a real job -- something xian women have been known to proclaim, as well. But the headline implies that there's some relationship between her religion (which he appears to share, according, at least, to one quote) and his decision to retire.

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Yesterday was a good day for the Old Dominion. Virginia Democrats seized control of the State Senate and made big gains in the House. Virginia now has its second Democratic governor in a row and one Democratic Senator. Next Fall, Virginia is almost certain to have two Democratic Senators, as Democrat Mark Warner is predicted to coast to victory over former (disasterous)Republican governor Jim Gilmore for the seat to be vacated by Republican John Warner. (The current set of Virginia's members of Congress includes 1 Independent, 7 Republicans, and 3 Democrats. That may take longer to change.)

Once considered a safely Republican state, Virginia has become quite blue in heavily-populated Northern Virginia (Arlington, Alexandria, and (now) Fairfax) and, interestingly, in Hampton Roads, which has a large military population. Virginia has 13 electoral votes -- enough to require the Republicans to spend time and money trying to defend it this coming Fall. That's good news in a year given that the Republicans have less money than the Democrats and would have preferred to have been able to count on a safe Virginia. Local Republican leaders appear to all be blaming the loss on the national party and the White House, and that may be true, as a number of the defeated Republican incumbents were, in fact, fairly moderate. Heck of a job, W.

It's going to be a fun twelve months to live in Virginia.

More Common Than You Think

Great article in today's NYT

Dr. Wicklund, 53, said that at current rates almost 40 percent of American women have an abortion during their child-bearing years, a figure supported by the Guttmacher Institute, which researches reproductive health policy. Abortion is one of the most common operations in the United States, she said, more common than tonsillectomy or removal of wisdom teeth. “Because it is such a secret,” she said, “we lose sight of how common it is.”

. . .

Dr. Wicklund said she would put more credence in opponents of abortion rights if they did more to help women prevent unwanted pregnancies. Instead, she said, many of the protesters she encounters “are against birth control, period.” That is unfortunate, she said, because her clinic experience confirms studies showing that emphasizing abstinence rather than contraception may cause girls to delay their first sexual experience for a few months, but “when they do have intercourse they are much less likely to protect themselves with birth control or a condom.”

According to the Guttmacher Institute, about a quarter of pregnancies in the United States end in abortion. Dr. Wicklund says that is why she believes far more people favor abortion rights than are willing to admit it in polls. For example, she said in the interview, an abortion ban that seemed to have wide support in South Dakota was put to a vote and “when people got behind those curtains and nobody was watching it was overwhelmingly defeated. Unfortunately, people are not willing to say what they really think.”

It's Important.

If you live in Virginia, remember to go to the polls tomorrow and vote Democratic. It's time to turn Virginia blue.

**************

Update: An email from the Clinton campaign reminds me that on Nov. 5, 1872 Susan B. Anthony [went] to the polls in Rochester, NY, and vote[d] in the presidential election. She [was] later arrested for voting and ordered to pay a $100 fine. If you won't go vote for any other reason, go vote in gratitude to Susan B.

The Year Without A Summer

Sad

I seriously can't read this all the way through without being physically ill. I've tried three times.

East

Samhein is the beginning of the new year for me and I make resolutions, just as many other Americans do on January 1st. One of my resolutions this year was to work through a structured plan for spiritual growth, rather than to just commit, as I did last year, to simply spend time at my altar. In order to achieve that goal, I'm working through the final 8 chapters of Evolutionary Witchcraft by T. Thorn Coyle. That means that I'm beginning with Air. Thorn associates the wand with air and, good though her reasons are for doing so, I'm not going to undo 17 years of living as a witch; for me, the sword (or athame) is the tool of air, followed by the finger. I simply transpose what she says about tools. I'm old and I've built up a long magical practice in which Air=East=Athame.

Thorn says: A serious practitioner can develop emotional connections w/ her Gods [sic], intellectual rigor and honesty, and physical and psychic discipline, with no one thing cancelling out another. She quotes Doreen Valiente, who said, By developing their powers, the magician and the witch develop themselves. They aid their own evolution, their growth as a human being, and in so far as they truly do this, they aid the evolution of the human race. It reminds me of what I loved about the Bene Gesserits, who searched, and searched, and searched, confused as their search became.

It's a good reason to begin with Air, in the East, athame in hand.

To Aunt Het

I do declare, it's hardly fair to get a joke on Het
For on every hand she has to stand being called a suffragette.
The Anti's scoff, but then hats they'll doff as she motors about the town
And her flaming car will be seen afar to add to her renown.
When the vote is won and the talk is done the jokes she will not resent,
For you can bet we'll all vote for Het, when she runs for President!"

by Margaret Olmsted Ogden

This poem was written in 1914, 93 fucking years ago. I. Am. Just. Saying.

Saturday Goddess Blogging

Old White Men's Heads 'Aspoding.

Yeah.

What Digby said: Hillary goes to her alma mater and says that her education at the women's college prepared her to do battle with the political boys club and the gasbags' eyes roll back in their heads and they start drooling and whining that she's she's broken the rules.

Well boo fucking hoo. The rules are changing. Get used to it.

Half of this country is female and they've noticed, in case these manly men haven't, that presidential politics is a very exclusive a boys club and we don't find it all that odd to mention it. Certainly, if it's ok for politicians to literally walk around with a codpiece to show their masculine bona fides, I don't think it's out of line for a female candidate to speak to a younger generation of women at her college and take a little bit of pride in the institution and her own accomplishments --- since she does happen to be the first serious female contender for president in the whole history of the country. Excuse me for thinking she has the damned right to do it.

What Matt Stoller said: I'm going to enjoy watching the male spasms of cowardice unleashed if Clinton wins, as she's sworn in and represents the more than half the population that is interrupted on a regular basis by men.

And, what Atrios said: [W]hite males are the most aggressive practitioners of so-called "identity politics" and always have been.

I swear that if Hillary is elected, I am going to enjoy every single minute of her entire term just for the agony that it's going to cause the sexist assholes who can't understand that we are almost an entire goddamn decade into the twenty goddamned first goddamned century and it's time for this bullshit to fucking stop fucking now. Really, I am.

And I'll note that white men like Matt Stoller, and Atrios, and Son, who hate this sexist bullcrap almost as much as I do, give me immense hope for the future.

The Dead

This is the time of year when The Dead are closest to us.

I've posted some pictures of the centerpiece from the dumb supper that my circle celebrated on Samhein. GWPDA sent me pomegranates from her v. own trees. The food of the underworld, so delicious that they kept calling Persephone back for part of every year, pomegranates seemed somehow appropriate for a dinner with our beloved dead. We told stories about our dead, those who passed this year and those who passed long ago and are still remembered. We remembered both the Ancestors of our DNA and the Ancestors of our Spirit; I invoked Molly Ivins and Madeline L'Engle, who passed this year.

Then, last night I attended a celebration of Dia De Los Muertos, hosted by my dear friend, R., aka the World's Best Cook, and her friend, Javier. It was a wonderful evening, spent mostly with people I'd never met before, from an incredible variety of backgrounds, and a few old friends from my tradition. M., who led the ceremony, invoked Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and smudged everyone with incense (both of which steps made me feel right at home), before telling a wonderful story about her grandmother. Next, a v. young man told about the time when he was 14 and his grandfather let him drive the riding mower. He was enjoying it so much that he cut down some of his grandfather's flowers, but his grandfather didn't get angry at him. Each person shared a memory and then picked someone else to tell a story, share an experience, recall an ancestor. I was struck by how often the ancestor being remembered was a grandparent who was not at all extraordinary, but was simply kind. After the stories came the feasting: delicious tamales, a wonderful mole, a mango sauce for the empanadas that was out of this world, Angela's fantastic corn pudding, and on and on and on.

R. and Javier are already talking about expanding the event for next year; I was v. honored to get to attend and to listen to so many wonderful stories of the Dead. I've posted a few pictures of the wonderful altar, for which everyone brought a picture, some flowers, a small item of remembrance.

Blogs

I really like Moments of Grace.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.


— Wendell Berry

Friday Evening Cuteness

Fifty-One to Forty-Three, Bitches!

From The Pew Research Center for the Public and the Press


The latest national survey by the Pew Research Center for the People & the Press, conducted Oct. 17-23 among 2,007 adults, finds that Hillary Clinton remains the clear favorite for the Democratic nomination. Clinton leads Barack Obama, her closest rival, 45%-24% among Democratic and Democratic-leaning registered voters. Clinton holds a substantial advantage over Obama and other rivals among most key Democratic voter groups, including liberals and African Americans. College graduates are among the only Democratic groups that splits its support between Clinton and Obama.


The nomination race among Republicans is more fluid, reflecting sharp ideological divides within the party. Giuliani maintains a modest 31%-18% lead over John McCain, with Fred Thompson at 17%, among Republican and Republican-leaning registered voters. Giuliani's lead has remained fairly stable since March, while Thompson has faltered a bit recently and McCain has lost support over a longer period of time. Since September, Mike Huckabee's standing has increased from 4% to 8%, giving him virtually the same level of support as Mitt Romney (9%).

The GOP nomination race among Republican evangelicals, in particular, appears to be wide open: Giuliani, McCain and Thompson each draw about 20% of the vote among white Republican and Republican-leaning evangelical voters, with Huckabee and Romney getting about 10% each.

In addition, a solid majority of Republican white evangelicals (55%) say they would at least consider voting for a conservative third-party candidate if the general election is between Giuliani and Clinton. Overall, 44% of Republicans and Republican-leaning voters say they would consider backing a third-party candidate who holds more conservative positions than Giuliani on social issues like abortion and gay marriage.

Sen. Clinton holds a 51%-43% advantage over Giuliani in a general election ballot test among all registered voters. Clinton's lead over Giuliani reflects her strong backing from women (57%-37%). Giuliani runs slightly ahead of her among men (49%- 44%). Clinton's support is strongest among women voters younger than 50 (60%-36%), while Giuliani's support is greatest among men in the same age group (52%-45%). Younger women also are the voting group that most often says that, apart from their feelings about Clinton, it would be a good thing to elect a female president. Nearly half (47%) express this opinion, compared with just 34% of older women and 24% of men.

Clinton's supporters are much more positive about her candidacy than are Giuliani's. Roughly three-quarters of voters who favor Clinton (76%) say their choice is more a vote for the New York senator, compared with 20% who say their choice is mostly a vote against Giuliani. By contrast, Giuliani's support is divided fairly evenly between those who see their choice as a vote for Giuliani (46%) and those who say it is a vote against Clinton (50%).

Voters who favor Clinton more often cite her positions on issues as the reason they support her (35%), but many also mention her leadership ability (27%) and experience (24%). Giuliani's support is much more based on his leadership ability (46%), and much less on his positions on issues (15%).

In fact, Giuliani's stances on issues are cited less as a reason to support him than has been the case for any presidential candidate since 1992. At the same time, more of his supporters cite his leadership ability as what they like most about him than have the supporters of any candidate in the same period, including George Bush during his reelection campaign in 2004 (46% Giuliani vs. 41% for Bush in September 2004).

I am with my mother's mother's mother.

First Of The Month Bazooms Blogging

A v. kind monk just reminded me that it's the first of the month and I'd forgotten to do Bazooms blogging.

Ladies! It's the first of the month! An excellent time to do a breast self-examination (BSE)! It's easy to do a BSE; here's how. BSEs, by detecting breast cancer when it's in the early stages, can help to save lives. Set aside some time tonight to do a BSE. If you prefer to do a BSE at a particular time in your cycle, now's a good time to calendar it.

And, the year's almost up. Got $$$$$$ in your cafeteria plan? Had a mammogram this year?????? Schedule one and then schedule lunch with a friend, a manicure, a massage, a trip to a museum. You deserve it.

WTF??????????????=

Under siege in April 2006, when a series of retired generals denounced him and called for his resignation in newspaper op-ed pieces, Rumsfeld produced a memo after a conference call with military analysts. "Talk about Somalia, the Philippines, etc. Make the American people realize they are surrounded in the world by violent extremists," he wrote.

Am I the only person in America with any outrage left? I'm amazed that revelations from today's WaPoarticle, based on documents that WaPo FOIAed out of Rumsfeld, have slipped into our collective pond, producing nary a ripple. Even if these revelations did have to compete with, ZOMG, Hillary's scary vagina and some tennis star taking drugs. Retired generals, who almost NEVER criticize a sitting admin., demand Rummy's resignation and his reaction is to insist that his aids go out and try to scare the shit out of Americans so that they'll stop daring to criticize him. Dood. Halloween was last night. WTF? Anyone want to comment on this? Pelosi? Clinton? The NYT? Harry Reid? Hello? Is this thing (America) on??? Can I get a tar and feathers mob?

In one of his longer ruminations, in May 2004, Rumsfeld considered whether to redefine the terrorism fight as a "worldwide insurgency." The goal of the enemy, he wrote, is to "end the state system, using terrorism, to drive the non-radicals from the world." He then advised aides "to test what the results could be" if the war on terrorism were renamed.

Again, am I the only one who thinks this is just amazing, shocking, absurd? Our nation is founded upon the notion that [w]hen, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them all that is necessary is that a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. And this criminal is suggesting that America wage a "war on insurgency"???? Dood! We were insurgents to the British! Fuck the motherfucking "state system." WTF is wrong with your soul?

And, of course, it wouldn't be complete without the racism and the ruling class' complaint that the "others," here, Muslims, just won't work hard enough: He also lamented that oil wealth has at times detached Muslims "from the reality of the work, effort and investment that leads to wealth for the rest of the world. Too often Muslims are against physical labor, so they bring in Koreans and Pakistanis while their young people remain unemployed," he wrote. " For more on this important topic, you really need to read Barbara Ehrenrich's Dancing in the Streets. Is his argument even logical? (Don't answer that.) They're "against physical labor" -- obviously the only kind of work for which "they're" fit -- so "they" bring in immigrants to do the hard work that their young people would, apparently, otherwise love to do (so I guess that they're not aginst physical labor). Remind you of anyplace coughAmericacoughfarmworkerscough?????

I really hope that bad things happen to this person. He's done so much evil and he's such an idiot and he's really a phenomenol ass.

Paxcast

NTodd talk, you listen.

Duh!

Professor Glick also concedes that much of this data — like his 2000 study showing that women were penalized more than men when not perceived as being nice or having social skills — gives women absolutely no way to “fight back.” “Most of what we learn shows that the problem is with the perception, not with the woman,” he said, “and that it is not the problem of an individual, it’s a problem of a corporation.”

I actually think this "concession," reported in today's NYT, is important. For too long, women have been told that it's our fault. Somehow, each individual woman out there struggling on the job is led to believe that if she could just precisely calibrate the exact proportions of being smart -- but not too smart, aggressive -- but not overbearing, demanding -- but not castrating, ambitious -- but not grabby, etc., etc., etc. that she could run the obstacle course that it is to be a woman in the work-a-day world and still succeed. That's not true. The fault, dear sisters, to mangle Cassius, is not ourselves, that we are underlings, but in our culture. It's true, an individual woman up against an impossibly toxic mix of Catch 22 expectations, has no way to "fight back." It's not the woman who needs to change. I am just saying.

Winter

Well, then, there it was. The wheel of the year did what it always does -- it turned. The veil, although it is still thinner than it is in, say, Midsummer, is already beginning to thicken a bit. The dream images that I received this morning from the ancestors won't be coming so clearly,nor so forcefully, until the wheel winds all the way round again. From here on, it's darkness and cold and turning inward. It's introspection and waking up to the cold kitchen floor when it's still dark outside and worrying about slipping on the ice. It's the discipline part of achievement, where you just make yourself do what you've promised to do, even when it's too early to see results, when you really don't want to do what you promised, when your very own Shadow that you very carefully constructed all by yourself lunges up and suggests, in its iron voice, that you go back to sleep. Now. Just this once. Now. It will be like this through Yule, and on into Imbolc (my least favorite time of year), and it won't start to change for the better until Ostara, at the earliest. Every year, I want to love the winter, but every year I wind up longing for sun, for the Caymans, for fruit, for light, for fresh greens, for bare feet.

I've written down my goals for this new year, journaled about what I want to accomplish. I've remembered the honored dead, and recited my matrilineal line (child of a dysfunctional family, mine is simpler than my sisters': "I am Hecate, daughter of the Great Mother Goddess"), and released some things and people that I needed to release. And now it's time for me to hunker down inside my cozy cottage, cat on my lap and cup of tea in my hand, and think, reflect, plan, do magic. I'm looking at my calendar and longing for a few days in a row for an in-home retreat, time to rake leaves, think, walk, sit at my altar, listen to my own thoughts. Maybe in a few weeks, maybe when I crank this pleading out.

Winter is the time to plan a new garden, a new project, a new article, a new brief, a new way of living in the world. Will we or nill we, here we go.

Our Honored Dead

The wheel's gone round another time, and some wonderful people set sail for the Western Isles.

Lloyd Alexander, author of children's books that sustained me.

Ingmar Bergman. Director of one of my all-time favorite movies, the Seventh Seal. Jag var Doden.

Father Drinan. A v. smart guy who enjoyed living in several worlds.

Molly Ivins. What can anyone say? Lady, you are missed. A wonderful writer from Texas who tried to warn the world about Shrub. I fucking hate fucking breast cancer.

Lady Bird Johnson. What lovely grace. Thank you for the wildflowers.

Madeline L'Engle. For me, this was the greatest loss of this turning of the wheel. L'Engle's fiction saved my life when I was a young child. When I was a young woman, she taught me how to write, how to take writing seriously, how to be a woman leading a spiritual life, how to integrate family and writing. Over and over throughout my life, I've come back to her work to ground myself, to remind myself of what's possible, to relive the person (Meg/Madeline/Mrs. Murray) that I wanted to be. I'll be placing her book on my circle's Samhein altar, toasting her as the mother of my writing self at our dumb supper, sending my energy to help her to find her way to the Summerlands where, I've no doubt, she'll hear them playing the Tallis Canon. Lady, thank you. I will remember you. The witches say, as I imagine you knew, that what is remembered does not die. I will remember you.

Remembering The Salem Dead

At Samhein, we remember our dead. The population of Salem, Massachusetts, location of many of America's witch trials, swells during Samhein. Which is odd, because the people tried and, generally, executed at Salem almost certainly were not witches. And, yet, I find it somehow appropriate, as a witch, to recall their names at this time of year. According to the Salem Witch Trials Documentary Archive and Transcription Project, the following people were executed as witches.

Bridget Bishop
Rev. George Burroughs
Martha Carrier
Giles Cory
Martha Cory
Mary Easty
Sarah Good
Elizabeth How
George Jacobs Sr.
Susannah Martin
Rebecca Nurse
Alice Parker
Mary Parker
John Proctor, Sr.
Ann Pudeator
Wilmot Redd
Margaret Scott
Samuel Wardwell
Sarah Wilds
John Willard

Additionally, these people died in jail:

Lydia Dastin
Ann Foster
Infant Girl (daughter of Sarah Good)
Sarah Osborne
Roger Toothaker.

Now, when the veil is thin and all times are one time, is a good time to to say: May the Goddess guard them. May they find their ways to the Summerland. May their friends and families know peace. It's also a good time to say: Never again, the witch trials.

Never Blog About What You Ate For Lunch

In one of those, "this is what I love about my life" moments, I had lunch today with my wonderful, wise friend B. at Kaz Sushi Bistro. She was coming from getting her nails done. I was coming from (and going back to, sadly enough) trying to turn co-counsel's unmitigated mess into an actual legal pleading. We talked about mothers-in-law and grandchildren and grammar -- and planned the Dark Moon ritual for next month. B. had a plum wine sakitini; I, virtuously, abstained (I probably should have had a drink; it would have made the afternoon's chore less painful).

I just want to say: the Plum-Wine-Infused Foie Gras w/Plum Wine Jelly was one of the most amazing things that I've had in my mouth in some time. If you can possiby get to Kaz, order about half a dozen of these. (B. and I contented ourselves w/ two apiece, but I wanted several more all afternoon long.) I love my life.

********************
Twisty, come to DC and order some of these. You'll never brag about Austin ever again!

Robin Givhan Is A Complete Idiot And A Talentless Hack

Lilith on a lamb chop! Why does anyone let Robin Givhan, aka the world's worst writer and stupidest person, anywhere near a keyboard? What a load of rehashed, trite crap. If there's a point to this article, it's buried so deeply as to be completely impossible to locate. Old feminists = bad/Hillary Clinton=fake, is I guess, her message, not that you can really tell.

They Will Help Us Get Peace

There's a really interesting article in today's NYT Magazine concerning the crack-up of the xian right. It may be overly optimistic; reports of Mark Twain's death and all that. I'll have more to say as the election heats up about a group of supposed "values voters" who, as the article notes, will vote overwhelmingly for thrice-married, estranged from his children, mobbed-up, abortion-favoring, gay-loving Rudy Guiliani over Hillary Clinton, who honored the part of her marriage vows that say "for better or for worse," whose Methodist religion actually has influenced her entire life, who raised a lovely daughter, and whose elderly mother lives with the Clintons. What I'll have to say will be mostly: See? I told you that it was always about patriarchy and never did have anything to do with "values" or "family" or the "culture of life."

But what really struck me was this quote from former president Jimmy Carter -- who, lest we forget, has always been an evangelical xian. Carter said: “I think that a superpower ought to be the exemplification of a commitment to peace,” Carter told Hybels, who nodded along. “I would like for anyone in the world that’s threatened with conflict to say to themselves immediately: ‘Why don’t we go to Washington? They believe in peace and they will help us get peace.’ ” Jimmy, I'd like that very same thing and I'd like it very, very much.