So I look for the Old Gods, the beasts, and the faeries,
I speak of their names and their sigils I mime
their stories, perpetually grand invocations
are secrets preserved in the midst of rhyme
And what did we learn down the yellow brick road?
And what did Alice really find down that hole?
It’s a shaman’s journey if ever I saw one
and I ought to know cause I’m continually on one
-Storm Faerywolf, from his poem “The Faerie Tale” in The Stars Within The Earth
I was talking with people last week in my new yoga class. I mentioned that I do fire spinning. Later, someone asked where my favorite place to visit was, and I said out of the country it was a hard split between central Cappadocia in Turkey, and Manly Bay in Sydney. They blinked. Later that day, I ran into one of the girls from the group…
“You are totally like a ken doll.”
Stories in my head run through about gender, not having outed myself, and internal thoughts on not having external genitalia- my differently gendered boy a line between ken doll and angel. But instead I asked, “How so?”
“Because you are totally too good to be true.”
I look at my life and it is true. It would not surprise me to see someone make a movie from my life (starring Maggie *and* Jake Gyllenhaal) that folks would read as a fantastical fiction. Child of army intelligence folks, art nerd and punk turns christian faith organization database administrator while shooting porn on weekends. Car crash leads to porn full time, leads to international travel, leads to becoming a sexuality educator and dedicated spirit-worker. Gender transition, heart breaks, heart string…
My former boyfriend Mars used to joke by calling me “Sydney” a la Alias. “Uh huh,” he would say,” You HAVE to be in Berlin next week for a video shoot and performances. I should keep my eye out for assassination reports.”
I have come to realize that I have come to live down the rabbit hole. I am an acclimated citizen of Palimpsest. I have walked along the yellow brick road, having journeyed the OZ. What is odd to others is my day to day.
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
I have danced with demons under the pale moon light. I know the smell of bodies wrapped in leather and packed onto the dance floor. The sound of the earth’s rhythm and sylphs singing has rocked me into sleep and frenzy alike. These are… life. My life.
I do not intend to have judgement, but as I look up from down the rabbit hole, I see the Victorian era on the other side and see it as a strange dream. Here, I look across the gap and find I just don’t quite understand the thoughts and processes of the “average” person, the supposed soccer mom and blue collar, white collar worker. I have spent too much time with pink collar workers, have seen authentic self exploration as the day to day of perverts, tantric visionaries, gurus and those very same soccer moms, blue collar, white collar workers on their weekends. My mind does not get it. I don’t understand the close mindedness…
and yet, that perception of close mindedness is itself a judgement. A perception that the mad ones are better. That the faerie tales are more awake, more alive. That the beauty of Oz and Wonderland somehow outweighs the beauty of monster truck rallies and golf courses, jam competitions at state fairs and time at the spa with the girls. Different beauty is all. Mindful of my judgement, I breathe, try.
Try to see the beauty of it all. Of it ALL.
From here, down the rabbit hole, I try a breath at a time. A breath at a time, I try.
Wrapped in invocations
wrapped in rhyme
wrapped in mystery
wrapped in time.