Masterful release: January 27

I’m in the final editing stages, almost done.

Masterful will be released on January 27.

I wrote these words about it on Dreamwidth yesterday:

I am extremely proud of my upcoming book, Masterful: Severus Snape, a Jar of Cockroaches, and Me, for so many, many reasons. As I’ve said before, this book is a kind of philosophical memoir wherein I share thoughts about Professor Snape, my emancipation process, sexual identity, PTSD, the legacy of a childhood and adolescence witnessing the most insidious domestic violence and being scarred for life by it, religion as a creative and unconscious means to tackle past trauma, I write about atheism, magic, and so much more… I share what I’m sure will be very controversial thoughts about Severus Snape, namely that he was in no need of “redemption,” and I write some very angry words (another thing that was dangerous and forbidden to me for most of my life: anger). What else was forbidden to me? Freedom. Self-determination. Self-affirmation. My eccentricity. “They painted you black: what of it?” Or, as Nietzsche put it, “The great epochs of our life come when we gain the courage to rechristen our evil as what is best in us.” Those with ears to hear, let them hear.

Yes: I am, once again, active on Dreamwidth, and not just a little but very.

In addition, I signed up for a fanfiction fest.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written fanfic, and even longer since I’ve written erotica.

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The mods emailed me yesterday shortly after I sent my prompt, and I’m good to go.

I have a title for the fic, and I’ve begun writing it. This is going to be fun…

It’s a Snape/Longbottom fic. Severus survived his encounter with Nagini, and Neville is more pleased than ever that he cut its head off with the sword. The kinks? Voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation. There will also be a strong psychological component to this story. I won’t say more, except one thing: Neville is a bit of a Black Phillip…

I’ll be doing a Masterful-related, “In the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods” photo shoot soon. I did, however, recently take a test shot of the new wig… and you can see a hint of the shimmering green cloak as well.

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Evening Envy Baphomet medallion available at Satanme, purveyors of the finest Satanic products online.

Speaking of fine things, here I am with my copy of Robert J. Leuthold’s dark erotic poetry collection, Obsidian Odes. Think De Sade meets Clive Barker, with a golden Baroque opulence.

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I have quite a few unique books by daring and gifted authors that I’ll be reviewing in the coming weeks/months. I’ve got much to keep up with at the moment.

Quite a lot ahead. Get ready. 2020 is going to be no holds barred.

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What dost thou want?

never had anyone to share anything with, an never wanted no one either, even if i’ve always been searching for sum thing i’ll never find i can at least say i never needed nuthin from no one. regardless of anything i’m right where i want to be, just sum skinny kid drifting throo life like a paper cup blowin down the street in the wind, sum dark abstract shape all alone in the world w/at least a real comprehension of the vast scale of distance between me an the rest of the human race.

you can resign yourself to lonliness but in the end find sanctuary in it. it’s like the infinite dark space between galaxies.

~ Drug Story, U.V. Ray

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Severus Snape has always been problematic.

He’s always been ambiguous and other.

He’s always been troublesome to his creator, J.K. Rowling, who’s never liked him much. Yet without him the wizarding world, and the entire world, would in all probability have been destroyed.

Awkward.

After the final Potter novel was released, a child referred to Professor Snape as a hero, and the tale’s author disagreed, leaving everyone present at the reading rather befuddled. Rowling soon changed her tune, however, and announced that Severus Snape was a “flawed hero.”

Of course he’s a flawed hero: he’s outside the lines. The Half-Blood.

When he first encounters Harry Potter’s mother Lily, this is how Rowling introduces us to him:

His hair was overlong and his clothes were so mismatched that it looked deliberate: too-short jeans, a shabby, overlarge coat that might have belonged to a grown man, an odd smock-like shirt.

And how does he observe Lily, Rowling’s apex of  True Womanhood, the pure one who like a quasi-virginal, unblemished lamb gave her life for her only male child, a.k.a. The Chosen One? “Greedily.” Severus Snape, “Snivellus,” wants something that wasn’t his.

He’s wearing an “odd” smock-like garment: “a loose dress or blouse,” from “Old English smoc ‘woman’s loose-fitting undergarment’.”

As Lily’s sister Petunia told him, “What’s that you’re wearing, anyway? Your mum’s blouse?”

With his “mismatched” clothing, his “overlong” hair, his odd “woman’s undergarment” half-concealed beneath a grown man’s coat, he’s the epitome of what doesn’t fit neatly into a nice, normal box.

He never does fit into that box, ever.

He’s nasty, untrustworthy, from the start. He’s non-binary. He’s not the “real deal.” He’s never quite what he seems to be, is he.

He’s a freak. “It’s good you’re being separated from normal people. It’s for our safety.”

And then we meet the heroes of the tale, James Potter and his cohorts.

“Slytherin?”
One of the boys sharing the compartment, who had shown no interest at all in Lily or Snape until that point, looked round at the word […]
“Who wants to be in Slytherin? I’d think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” James asked the boy lounging on the seats opposite him, and with a jolt, Harry realized it was Sirius. Sirius did not smile.
“My whole family have been in Slytherin,” he said.
“Blimey,” said James, “and I thought you seemed all right!”
Sirius grinned.
“Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?”
James lifted an invisible sword.
“ ‘Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!’ Like my dad.”
Snape made a small, disparaging noise.
James turned on him.
“Got a problem with that?”

Sure, fuckhead. The same problem you had with Slytherin.

Maybe it’s fine to be a Slytherin, an outsider, a weirdo, an oddity, an anomaly, a deviation, just as long as you shut the fuck up about it. As long as you’re out of sight.

It’s fine not to fit in the “correct” mold, just as long as you don’t dare to be where you’re not supposed to be.

Wasn’t it the sage Ron Weasley who taught us all that poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots?

What was it that the Moody stand-in told Severus Snape in Goblet of Fire? “I say there are spots that don’t come off, Snape. Spots that never come off, d’you know what I mean?”

Again, you’re classified as “X” or “Y” by fearful and limited minds from the beginning, and nothing can change that.

Could it be that Slytherin is so loathsome to such minds because the serpent, the mysterious creature that sheds its skin, is a symbol of transformation? A symbol of power and chaos?

The balanced nature of Professor Severus Snape the horned Baphomet, who points in two different directions, is forever suspicious to proper ones endowed with the clear-cut, iron gleam of “moral courage.”

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Do I feel shut out of the imaginary Hogwarts because of JKR’s opinion about this or that?

Not in the least. Without the reader, Hogwarts and all its mythological elements are stillborn.

Most of all, I am the master of my life, and I shape it as I wish: the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. The bold, creative, daring alchemists who understand “the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron and its shimmering hues” do as well.

We are the forbidden.

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We plant our fields with two different kinds of seed, we wear garments woven of two different kinds of material.

I enjoy that which I enjoy, however I wish. I transform what interests me into the gold of personal relevance. I create myself. I transform myself. I am loyal to myself.

Look at me.

I live deliciously. My long robes billow around me like a pretty dress, and my existence is magic.

I see the world.

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on the desirability of being poisonous

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I’ve made this monograph public, but it would normally be a Sublimis Serpentibus tier work. I began writing it yesterday afternoon.

For a long time, I thought the very concept of having a tribe wasn’t a good thing. It excluded. It shut out. It created an “inside” and an “outside,” with the latter being evil.

So I’ve been evil for most of my life.

These days, my answer to that is, so what. I’m an evil outsider.

What of it?

When I went to MISTI-Con (a Harry Potter gathering) in 2013, I attended a presentation that involved a guided visualization exercise. It was quite powerful.

I bought a beautiful leather journal in the dealer’s room, and on the first page, I wrote what I’d experienced during the visualization.

In the Room of Requirement,
I saw Master Severus with his midnight black garments,
his face like brilliant moonlight,
so white.
He was holding a bouquet of white lilies.
He spoke to me.

He said: “Trust me.”

I remember how vivid this experience was, and it turned out to have many more layers of meaning than I understood at the time. Friends and I were sharing our respective visualizations, and when I said the words, “Trust me,” my throat tightened with emotion.

I’d just gone through many upheavals, with yet more to come. Incredible upheavals.

And now, here I am: I’ve surmounted them all. I learned to listen to myself, to trust myself. I was guiding my own footsteps at last. Making my own choices.

The lily’s message is, “Take a regal stance and embrace your own power. Remember that renewal is  just around the corner and that the end of one thing heralds the beginning of another.” (https://www.flowermeaning.com/lilly-flower-meaning/).

I’ve done this as well. It’s been an excellent development.

I’m not only an evil outsider these days… I’m an evil insider, too.

I found my tribe. Its power had flowed in my blood since I was a small child. The tribe of the outsiders, of those who don’t require compulsory weekly meetings and aren’t expected to automatically like each other, but who abide by an infernal esprit de corps that mandates, at the very least, respectful decorum.

What I once mistook as a dislike of tribes was, in fact, a dislike of herds.

A number of herds preach “equality” and “universal love,” and embody neither. That’s because both of these are fiction, the latter being particularly harmful.

For years, I longed to care for all of those who’d been branded as sinners, as the children of perdition, as “the lost.” Although they often were, in theory, part of a herd, it actually wanted nothing of them, while proclaiming the exact opposite. Who could make sense of this? How could I resolve this conundrum, how could I appease the hostile institutions that mistreated those it described as goats?

I believed the solution lay in no grouping whatsoever. Everyone belonged to a whole, whatever that meant.

Loving everyone is a terrible idea. Why should the “children of perdition” love the people, the institutions, the deities that despise them, strip them of their dignity, and brand their foreheads with an indelible mark forever setting them apart from “the beloved”?

There’s no individuality in the herd. “He must increase, and I must decrease.”

Any inkling of thought, of questioning, any deviation is a sign that you’re in danger. You must love with all your mind; no room for yourself there. Blessed is the one who believes without having seen.

No matter where you find yourself in this madhouse, whether it’s within its boundaries, on the doorstep, or outside the front gate, regardless of the shape the madhouse takes, love the one who makes you suffer is the message. Don’t trust yourself. Set aside your legitimate questions, desires, needs. Soon your own thoughts confuse you. You no longer know what hate or love is. “I scourge those I love,” you hear over and over. “Take my yoke upon you and you will find rest.”

It takes strength to free yourself from this insidious lie. A yoke isn’t easy or light. A yoke is nothing but a device meant to subdue and control.

Those who won’t submit or fit in, those whose necks won’t bend, who won’t obey, are evil.

In one way or another, I never submitted. I was always on the edge. I was always the edge itself.

“They went out from us because they were not of us.” Yes, and what of it?

Isn’t that, shouldn’t this rather be a source of pride?

“All are welcome” is a web. Eluding it, or freeing yourself from it, makes you alien. If you’re poisonous, the warden will remove you himself.

Herds have this common characteristic: they’re all the one true flock. The Only People. The world, the universe is for them, about them, ruled by them. All else will perish, be cast out or, in rare instances, assimilated somehow.

A tribe is an association of individuals.

Not everyone is welcomed. This is healthy and realistic. While a tribe has a great deal of variation, it also has a certain cohesion. I have no interest in climbing mountains; why would I join a mountaineering association? A herd drags you up the mountain by force, and frequently throws you right off it. Conversely, think of a herd of mountaineers forcing their way into a book club and knocking everything over by scaling the walls and furniture.

Because I’d been treated abominably, I thought true love meant accepting everyone. The institutions, the deities, the controllers said they did this, but they didn’t. I still believed in the hazy “universal love” falsehood, so I thought, either all were welcome, or none, though my mind indicated a third option. It always did, and for a long time I interpreted the third option as a cosmic union, as bringing all things together in a manner that reduced them to none, as a dissolution of distinctions that somehow preserved the uniqueness of different elements.

What I was really doing was eternally giving “another chance.”

In fact, the third option is that it’s sometimes, even often, preferable for me to shut the door. To walk away. To dig a moat. To raise my sword when necessary. And sometimes, I open the door, I lower the drawbridge, I set two glasses on the table and uncork a bottle of wine.

Welcoming all isn’t possible, and it isn’t desirable.

I already knew this when I was a child. Some things couldn’t be fixed, couldn’t be salvaged. Some people weren’t beneficial, despite their claims to the contrary. My childhood situation was so warped, however, that an urge to undo the harm I endured transmuted itself into a symbolic religious quest. Was there love in the pater horribilis?

When I was finally in a position to grasp what I’d been doing, many things became suddenly clear.

It’s not my job to be a miracle worker. It’s not my job to solve every problem.

Some don’t want me, and lo, there are some I don’t want either. The latter is what it took me years to realize. It took me years to understand I had the power to say no. This happened after I had undertaken to heal some of my wounds, and my mind was no longer clouded by pain.

Some people don’t mesh, and they never will, and that’s how it is.

On the other hand, some people naturally blend, as it were. You know this when it happens. There’s a flow, an exchange, you’re happy. There’s mutual joy, a lovely give and take, a rapport, a camaraderie. That’s not to say you absolutely agree about absolutely everything (another herd characteristic, or so they would have it), but you clinch. It’s most pleasurable. There’s respect.

Nothing obligates me to try to clinch with people who irritate me, or who can’t relate to me at all and vice versa. Or worse, with people who treat me like shit, or utter morons (because yes, there are such people), or people who cause me severe pain or displeasure, or the malignant who would impose themselves on me. Why should I give such persons a minute of my precious time? I do not have to do this.

I don’t force them to do anything; I simply go my way.

From my earliest years, I became tremendously skilled at ignoring those whose sole desire was to compel me to be what they wished me to be: a non-entity at their entire disposal.

If you refuse, behold, the heretic. Burn the heretic!

Some look at you and say, “Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots.”  They say this sagely when in actuality they don’t have the remotest idea of who you are or what you’re doing.

I say, be a poisonous toadstool to such people. What of it? Perhaps they’ll truly grow wise and leave you alone. These great sages might even learn to Apparate more than half an inch across the room.

Poisonous toadstools, infernal angels of light, tend to be solitary types.

O Solitude, my sweetest choice, as the delightful song goes.

There is, however, a difference between solitude and isolation, and the knowledge that others share our mindset can be a wondrous revelation. Simply reading a book and feeling a bond, yes, I’ve known this as well, can make one’s spirit soar and fill one’s heart and mind with resolve, with meaning.

The House of Slytherin was marked from the start as dubious. There were three Houses… and Slytherin. The hero didn’t wish to be in that House; his parents weren’t in that House; the Headmaster wasn’t in that House.

Yet there were some who were drawn to that House, the forbidden House. The Other House. The House of Pride, Cunning, and Ambition. Words that could be “positive,” but ultimately, for the most part, were dangerous.

Doesn’t it take Pride, Cunning, and Ambition to stand up for yourself?

To stand apart?

When I see the Slytherin Common Room, it looks glorious to me.

Severus Snape and Narcissa Malfoy fooled Voldemort, the Deficient Lord, and snatched Harry Potter from him in the most harrowing of circumstances.

You’re painted black; what do you do then? Master the Dark Arts. Give them something to talk about, something from which to step away.

I did, and I triumphed at last over all that would have stamped me out. I’ve learned that it’s wise to exclude the ones who disdain you, who have no depth, who would destroy you if they could.

If I’m poisonous to them, it’s no doubt for the better. Some who partake of the toadstool die; but others have visions.

Trusting yourself is the most potent, fearsome, awesome brew there is. Master it. Master yourself.


Since I stopped using Instascam, my Patreon output has drastically increased. When Masterful is released, I’ll share the news on IG, but not much else will happen there (in the event I don’t delete that account).

As I wrote to my Patreon members earlier,

A shelf peek, because you’re special.

I remember days when I had difficulty saying such words, because I didn’t want to leave anyone out. Everyone had to be special to me… but who can live like this? It’s depleting madness.

Now, I know that I don’t have to belong to everyone. Indeed, I won’t.

So I tell you, you’re special. Because it’s true. I delight you, and you delight me.

Here are words about “on the desirability of being poisonous” from my most recent Patreon member:

As someone who’s always been labeled a loner or outsider, this is a fantastic gut-check affirming that we don’t have to be a part of the herd, that it’s okay to be poisonous to some. You’ve said it so well, thank you.

Next up for my Patreon Society members: a short essay entitled, “detritus alchemy.”

Focusing on Masterful this week.

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the fruits of my work

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About my Patreon:

Upcoming topics on my members only platform: why I became a Satanist, and why I love Satanism. I’ll be writing about a variety of subjects, not Satanism per say, but this philosophy will underlie all that I write. For instance, how I live and deal with, and overcome, PTSD.

I write about why I collect toys, why I love the 70s; Total Environment principles are at work here. The temple to the self and its power, an increased power to live deliciously. I write about “practical selfishness” and its numerous benefits, such as health and happiness.

Self-respect is a topic I touch upon over and over. When you spent years exposed to domestic violence, a subconscious, malignant growth can be lodged in you: the “give them one more chance” syndrome. It was sound Satanic philosophy that made me aware of this problem, & its cure.

This brings another principle to the fore: deep personal awareness, which enables an individual to make the best possible choices and bring about whatever changes are required to improve one’s existence.

If what I write adds joy to people’s lives, this gives me pleasure and adds joy to my life. I do, however, write for those who have ears to hear. I know what it’s like to be isolated (which isn’t the same as sweet solitude), and shining a Luciferian light pleases and empowers me.

In the past, I made myself nothing as a survival strategy. Indeed, sometimes this is wise; blend into the background to elude those who would harm you. The time comes when a survival strategy is no longer the adequate response. It has become a reaction to a danger that’s gone.

So now, I write to completely uproot this toxic weed, and to foster the growth of the sturdy and beautiful flowers of self-reverence. I have my own garden, where I am my own god, having listened to the inner voice of true wisdom: “Eat of the fruit, and your eyes shall be opened.”

If others read my words & are encouraged to cultivate their own gardens in my vicinity, there’s more beauty in my world. How could I not derive immense pleasure from this? My joy is doubled. I write about the measures necessary to drive away pests & disease, to protect one’s joy.

I write to celebrate what I’ve accomplished, and to avenge myself on that which conspired to rob me of my self. With the assured, calm, and productive pride of the Infernal One, I say, “Get thee behind me, false god who comes like a miserable thief in the night. I cast thee out.”

Regarding Satanism: I became a member of the Church of Satan almost two years ago. A year ago, I applied for Active Membership, and my application was accepted. I received the official certificate and my first degree membership (not pictured) card last week.

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This represents many excellent and personally gratifying things to me. One of the things you could call it is my official, spectacular, and glorious divorce from Judeo-Christianity.

My Patreon, my business platform, my Society of Cunning Serpents, will now feature “a day in the life” posts, in which I’ll share “daily life” matters, and “The Prince of Serpents and his wisdom” short essays/monographs. The former will often be public, the latter, for the most part, Members Only.

Masterful will be released in October.

More news soon.

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Masterful: halfway mark achieved

Things are pretty damn good.

First, my 50th birthday was splendid. Presents, buttercream laden cake, quiet activities that gave my introvert self the greatest pleasure.

I took many portraits to commemorate this event. I had fun with wigs, undergarments, Mozartian and Snapian themes.

And now I’m going to share a bunch of them.

I am 50, hear me roar. Wearing a gorgeous polished silver Baphomet sigil by iSatanist.

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I do the boy thing, I do the girl thing. I do my thing.

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I do the Snape thing. Here wearing my robes, as well as a fine Bone White Baphomet sigil by Satanme.

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I do the Mozart thing. Betsey Johnson undergarments.

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Here with a fabulous inverted pentagram, also available from Satanme (one side red, the other black, perfect for my disco lifestyle).

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I have fun these days. More fun than I’ve ever had. I do what I want, how I want.

I’m fairly recovered from the flooding mayhem of last spring. Today, the river levels are at 57.98. We’re approaching August, one of my favorite months of the year because everything is so slow and quiet; that’s also when one can sense autumn around the corner… This month, we endured several intense heat waves (yesterday, with the humidex factor, we hit close to 115º Fahrenheit—madness. Thank fuck we have central air conditioning in this house).

Still, I feel really, really good.

Yesterday, I hit the halfway mark re: Masterful. Working on this book is so phenomenally satisfying… My most personally gratifying work to date. As I wrote on Twitter, “I write because it gives me pleasure, because it’s in my blood. If my work also helps like-minded individuals live deliciously, all the better.”

I’m not fucking around in this book, let me tell you.

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After I publish Masterful in September, I’m getting back to work on Wolfgang, A Fantasy, and I can’t wait. Apart from Wolfgang and Antonio Salieri (among others), this novel will feature the Gentleman Downstairs who will do wondrous things, and a grim Archbishop (guess which one) who will try to do terrible things.

Favorite drinking vessel, by Satanme, here featured with an exquisite statue of Lucifer the Light-Bearer.

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Stay tuned for more deliciousness.

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Masterful: September

I will soon be halfway through the first draft of Masterful.

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The book is flowing. This is one of my most satisfying writing projects up to now.

The other day, I took test photos of my new Snape wig. I hacked away at it with scissors for a while before I began snapping pictures to see how the wig would look on camera, and I experimented with light.

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Mystery is the quintessence of Severus Snape, the Prince of Snakes.

A real photo session will take place soon. It’s been years since my friend Diane and I did a shoot featuring the robes.

I haven’t been crafting much; it’s time consuming, and my time is currently devoted to the book, recuperation, relaxing on the front porch with a journal, doing a few select things with a few select people every now and then, a small circle of friends, because I honor my need for introversion and tranquility more than I ever have. I enjoy the times I spend with those close to me, but I need long periods of solitary home quietude between those times, and that’s perfectly fine.

I said in a previous post, “it’s not all about writing for me now,” though it is—and not. Because I also take care of myself now, I take care to relax, to have my life, as it were. I write, I savor the process, then I stop, I sink into the couch, watch movies, enjoy my pleasant surroundings. I have excellent, wonderful meals and riveting discussions with my beloved spouse who’s as introverted as I am. I add more toys to my collection and delight in them.

Be important to yourself, treat yourself well, with respect, honor yourself, and you will live a good life.

These days, I’m living my best life.

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a treat, and some thoughts

Here’s a chapter of Rascal that I shared on Patreon yesterday (a public post, for members and non-members).

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AVARITIA

(greed)

You desire, you indulge yourself, you relish good things, tasty things, rich things, colors and textures and scents—in this world.

Of course, it happens in this world.

This “fallen” world, according to some.

It’s not fallen. It’s the world, the real world, our only world.

A world of fire and water, of terrible storms and soft mornings, of loss and grief and joy and pleasure. A world of horrors and wonders.

What hurts us is terrible; what feels good is wonderful. This is natural.

It’s up to us to make this natural world as wonderful as it can be.

This won’t happen as long as we believe in the existence of an intangible, supernatural, otherworldly afterlife where nothing will ever harm us. An inhuman, unnatural world.

If you want to sell the story of invisible realms where everything is “perfect,” you need unhappy people. In this scenario, nothing is more problematic than a person who enjoys life and its pleasures. Even simple pleasures are troublesome.

Being happy and grateful in this world is to disdain the worthier, imaginary, divine panaceas.

Some people believe pleasure in this life is a sign of divine favor and a preview of the truly mind-boggling splendors awaiting humanity in the other world, the phantom dimension. Peddlers of cosmic mansions piously take the money supplied by countless people who hope they’ll start off with an opulent earthly mansion of their own as well.

The majority of religious systems don’t operate like this, though. They say, “Don’t worry too much if your life sucks. The next one will be better… as long as you do and believe what we tell you, that is.” They don’t want people to be utterly miserable, but they don’t want them too at home and content here on earth either.

Pick up your cross. Your begging bowl. Your mental hair shirt.

If you’re oppressed or abused, if you’re being treated abominably, rejoice. It’s a privilege, really, an opportunity, a blessing. Blood and suffering pleases the almighty; it’s his idea of a pleasant aroma. Tortured, stir-fried saints are held up as the most admirable of people, the most worthy of imitation.

If you’ve been abused, if you just barely manage to hold your traumatized mind together, if you’ve been told a million times that you’re worthless, a lot of crazy shit can make sense. A pie in the sky helps you survive and hang on a little longer.

Just remember: don’t be greedy. All the fat is the lord’s. Set your mind on the things above, not on earthly things.

Oh yeah?

Fuck the things that are above.

There are no such things.

Flush that mystical crap down the toilet.

Emancipate yourself. Believe in yourself. Avenge yourself.

Happiness in this world is a combination of luck and doing what you can so you and at least some of your fellow humans live as happy a life as possible. Happiness often requires a great deal of effrontery. You’re in pain, you’re going to die, things don’t go the way you want them to, but you dance all night anyway.

It’s tough. By fuck, life, being alive can be tough. Sometimes it seems like we’re always teetering on the edge of disaster, and we know the end is a breath away.

My philosophy is, have a glass of whiskey, smirk at the camera like a badass smart mouth decked out devil, and when the time comes to go over the edge, to take that final breath, think, well, it wasn’t all bad, was it? This ain’t so bad.

At least I lived. I had a moment.

I’m greedy for that moment. I want what the moment has to offer, all that my moment’s got.

This crucial greed means I figured out what I want, what I want my moment to be all about.

I want all that I’ve got, to be the star I am.

The greed I speak of involves risk. It involves the unknown. No one can decide what your life means for you. You have to decide. You have to choose.

You’re not being swept by a common wave. You’re not afraid of being alone. There’s no universal, one-size-fits-all solution. If you go where everyone else is going, you won’t experience your moment.

You’re drafting your map. Use what you have, change what you can, and create your best life.

Do whatever you can to enrich your life, to exult in yourself.

Each of us is our own ultimate earthly thing.

For too long, it was difficult for me to think this, let alone celebrate it. My mind was in a cage; my heart was bleeding from too many cuts.

It’s never too late to dare to turn your back on all the shit that brought you down.

To reclaim yourself: this is excellent greed.

Regardless of what any abuser tried to drum into you, you belong to yourself.

You’re not anyone’s possession.

You’re the captain of your existence.

Whatever you’ve been through, however much psychological conditioning you’ve endured, if you reach this liberating threshold, you can be sure self-ownership has always been there inside of you. You’ve always been a rascal.

They couldn’t quench your flame entirely. They couldn’t starve it forever.

The day I bust out of the mental jail of self-forgetfulness—of self-neglect and self-hate—the person I am began to shine forth into the world.

An outrageous, confident, inquisitive, playful, genderfluid, flamboyant, girl/boy tomboy.

A person who slowly but surely began to say “no” whenever it was needed. A person who said “yes” when she wanted to say it. My decisions were now in line with self-respect and true wisdom: human wisdom.

I stopped treating myself like a second thought.

No more torture, no more tears. No more damaging attempts to love everyone except myself. I stopped wondering if I was pleasing to a twisted, silent invisible it that required proof of my love by means of cruel, nebulous, and absurd tests. I loved those who deserved my love.

I adorned myself with gold necklaces and was a human being, flesh and bones, blood and water, at home on earth, my real home.

I am of the earth, and I love earthly things. I love myself.

The next few days are going to be impossibly frigid here, ugh. Mr P and I will be comfortably hidden from the elements tomorrow and Monday however, so there’s that.

I enjoy sharing photos on Instagram and I’d say it’s a new form of Livejournal (sort of) for me because a number of the people I knew on Livejournal are on Instagram, but the latter throttles its feed with algorithms or whatever, and of course the textual aspect of Instagram is minute, so… And it’s highly smart phone oriented. I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone would want to be glued to those things all the time.

In related news, I’ll definitely be renewing my subscription to The Idler this year.

I started sharing things on Ello again, because it’s one of the few remaining platforms that celebrates the arts, unique, original thinking and creative freedom, and isn’t terrified of flesh.

But, as I’ve mentioned repeatedly, Patreon is my online focus these days. I greatly enjoy using that platform, and I enjoy the exchanges I have with fabulous members there. The enthusiasm and support of members invigorates me, it feels wonderful, and there’s no doubt in my mind that Masterful will be my best book yet. I am discussing Professor Snape in that book, but it’s not exhaustive character analysis by any means; it’s more of a personal memoir.

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festive passion

Welcome to the fondue party, fellow mavericks.

Tomorrow is Halloween! And October has been a marvelous, sublimely quiet month. I sent my Patreon members all sorts of fun stuff, and I’ll be working on the October second and third tier Patreon membership envelopes this week; they’ll include Stay Home Vagabond #6.

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Drawing again has been absolutely wonderful, I must say. My Patreon members also received a Mini Poster Print (8.5X11 on 65 lbs stock), with second tier members being sent the “silver sunglasses” edition, and third tier members the “gold sunglasses” edition.

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I will be drawing many more Mini Poster Prints in the coming months, with themes centered around the joys of solitude, being a tomboy, a stay home vagabond…

At the beginning of October, I took some sultry self-portraits featuring my new Killstar inverted pentagram choker and dark purple lipstick.

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I recently ordered a long silver wig, so… More portraits in the near future.

Today, the wonderful Reverend Campbell (Speak of the Devil) read a review I wrote of Carl Theodor Dreyer’s surreal 1932 film Vampyr. Feel free to check it out.

In other news, my violin teacher is putting a show together in March and he’s asked me to dress up as Charlie and perform one of Chaplin’s musical pieces with him. That took my breath away! Hopefully, by then I’ll sound a little less like I’m tormenting a cat or something when I play. As I may have mentioned before, both my teacher and I are massive Chaplin admirers, and my Charlie photographs blew my teacher away. To dress as Charlie again in the context of performance is nerve-wracking and tremendously exciting.

Apart from my Patreon endeavors, November and December will be wholly dedicated to writing Masterful: Severus Snape, a Jar of Cockroaches, and Me (Patreon members will be treated to in progress excerpts, and when it’s completed, they’ll have access to it before anyone else, and their version will be a special edition). I’ll also finally be getting back to Wolfgang: A Fantasy (I’ve been needing to submerge myself in this story again so badly!). Speaking of Wolfgang, Nezumi has been in the completion stages of my costume, and here’s a hint…

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How glorious is this, I ask you?? I’m going to be overcome by bliss when I see it and put it on for the first time, without a single doubt.

In the spirit of Mozart, I’m phenomenally in the mood for the holiday season. It’s going to be a 70stastic holiday extravaganza for two months around here (Baroque is so 70s). I’m putting my trees up as soon as November begins.

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I’ve already ordered most of my bear William’s holiday wardrobe. I want red and green, gold and silver, festive cheer in my seasonal bubble of peace and tranquility…

I’ve never been happier in my life.

I continue to celebrate my life, and myself, as I never have before, and it’s a magnificent breath of fresh air. Take a look at the amazing pyrographic art that my friend R.M. Negroni created for me (do visit his Etsy shop, Funeral Pyre Designs). I commissioned this portrait from him to mark my joining the CoS this year. I placed it in my personal altar cabinet.

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As I said, life is good. I’m very happy that we’re about to enter November, one of my favorite months of the year. I love the stillness, the silence of November. I love the leafless trees, the grey skies, the deep, abiding tranquility of November. It’s extremely inspiring and suited to my temperament. It’s Lair Season.

Writing, burning deliciously scented candles… Yes.

Say cheese.

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