I sat here for a bit and I could hear the noise outside. I heard Jenn telling Jinx something about bikers, Santa and kids. I got up and went outside to see what was going on and it was the “Bikers for Santa” run roaring down Main Street-Lewisville here headed West toward Ft. Worth. In fact, as I sit here, fifteen minutes later, they are still roaring down Main Street. Jenn was explaining that the bikers make a toy run for kids who are in Cook’s Children’s Hospital; sick kids, kids without parents, kids who won’t know the joy of receiving a gift this season without these guys and gals doing what they do every year in so many different places around the country. But it wasn’t the thought of seeing all the different kinds of people coming together in this massive convoy of choppers, hogs, crotch-rockets and a police motorcycle laced here and there among them, all in the aim of bringing something to children. It was my son’s reaction. Immediate. Thoughtless. Kind. So very Jinx. First it was his favorite bat toy. Then it was the lobster. Then it was books from his shelf in our room. Things he will say that he doesn’t want anymore, but you can see that he’s actually picking his favorites. The things that he plays with daily. The books that he always runs to when asked to pick something for a school book report. It’s the cream of his crop. It’s the stuff that makes him smile, makes him happy. And he just wants to see someone else be happy too.

I couldn’t help but tear up watching him run around trying to see what he could race out and give to a biker — if we’d let him, that is. His little mind racing at the same speed as some of those bikes — and even faster most likely — didn’t stop to think that he’d never be able to catch them or give these guys his toys to take. He just wanted to give. I hugged him again and told him how special he was, how much I loved him. It’s such little things like this that make me so glad that Jinx is mine, that he really does have a big heart, that he wants to spread joy and happiness to others. I hope he never loses that spirit.

May the Goddess protect you in your sleep.
May the fae of night wander in your dreams.
May dragons protect you from your nightmares.
And may the mist of Morpheus surround you.
I love you and cover you in darkness, my son.
Sleep and Dream well, for tomorrow is another day.
—bishop, Nightly Affirmation for My Boys

When I die, and I will, I really wish that someone would say something nice about me. I wish they would say …

He lived a life that was full of surprise and excitement. He lived a life that was unfettered by all except his own fear of the potential that he held in his own hands. The only fear he possessed was of the potential for good and evil that his life shed in equal quantity. But he was a good man under the mystique of it all. He took time for the small things while staying fixed on the big things. He gave to people without expecting in return. His anger, while quick to come, was just as quick to leave. His harshness with humanity masked a sympathy for those who were the underdogs around him. He supported those around him with good words and solid advice and a shoulder to lean on when neither was exactly what anyone wanted to hear. He loved people. He loved deeply those most intimate with him, those on whom he relied in times of his own rarely spoken trials and on whom he leaned for his intensely personal desires and needs. While certainly a man of little patience with people, he was a good father, a good companion to those whom he loved and loved him back and a good friend that wanted the best for all those around him. He both loved life and hated life. He gave his all to every endeavor and was constantly disappointed by failure around him. But he never gave up. It was difficult to get him to stop doing anything that he loved. And, for all of the extremes that it presented to him, the Heavens and the Hells through which he lived, the highest peaks of ecstasy and the lowest depths of depravity through which he experienced, Life itself was one of his dearest loves.

However, I really think that most likely all I’ll ever get is …

He lived. He died. Let’s go get a beer.

I don’t belong here. In this world. It’s full of people that want to invade countries rather than feed children. It’s full of people that want to sit on golden mountains rather than actually work in the dark valleys. It’s full of liars and thieves; those who lie about who they are and want to steal someone else’s accomplishments. And to think that I brought a son into this world. Two of them. This world won’t deserve them. They will be above this kind of bullshit.

My grandmother died Saturday (and no one told me) and was buried yesterday (and no one told me). I wasn’t particularly close to this one. Not in any real sense, but she is the one that taught me more about life, in general, than anyone else — in hindsight. She taught me that life was too short (even though she was in her 90s) to waste living up to other people’s expectations. She taught me to live fast and full, to take chances that no one else thought were worthy of taking. She taught me that work could be fun and that working because someone else thought you should was for the birds. She taught me that rebellion didn’t have to mean undisciplined. She taught me that running my mouth off might get me in trouble, but that no one would ever doubt where I stood. And there is so much more.

You know? Until today, I never really understood how much I learned from her until I started discussing all this with my father (and surprised that he agreed with me about it). I’m glad that she died peacefully. Her life was full, free and full of a force that very few would understand. Her last years were miserable and, unless I just misunderstood her (and I didn’t), she welcomed death with open arms and a big fat smile that said, “Gotcha!”

You see her standing there, so haughty, so confident. … it is we, the ones who carry the name concubine, that history will call wives. (Dune, 2000)

Nine years. It’s been nine years. Through an amazing amount of bullshit and gold, never wavering from her course, she’s made it this long in the shadow of a relationship that has existed in many forms. From an affair to lovers to partners to spouses to ex-spouses to antagonists to friends to roommates to best friends to Companion, she and I have mutated what ties that bind us in so many ways that one sometimes wonders if we have exhausted all the possibilities that a friendship can hold. And I certainly hope not.

I can’t think of a better person in my life right now to show the kind of patience that she does for my foolishness and reckless abandon of so many things that others find important. I can’t think of a better time in our own individual lives that things show promise of a future that is rich in possibilities and potential. She puts up with my shit. She holds my head when I cry over a broken heart and broken love affairs, missed dreams and soiled promises. She calms my anger when life gets in the way of my goals. She smooths out the wrinkles in my shirts and my plans. She holds on to the promise that life hasn’t passed her by, but that it’s just now showing her the strength that she’s always had inside. She’s a beautiful woman that glows on the inside and the outside with that same smile and gleam in her eye that I remember nine years ago in that little restaurant, The Green Elephant, even for the moment that our eyes crossed and then I turned to leave with barely much more than a ‘hello’ to her. But I remember.

Of course, it’s been nine years today or tomorrow. The eternal struggle for “who’s right” in the date will never be resolved and the compromise of a “two-day anniversary of meeting” came into existence. And even today, I’ve forgotten who’s supposed to “claim” what day for their own. Does it really matter actually? The fact that we’ve continued this crazy little tradition of our own is the important part. Even during the “Dark Ages” and after our divorce, it seemed important to keep celebrating together. Even falling in love with others, that we’ve both shared together and separately, we’ve remained the best of friends, inseparable in many ways. And, quite honestly, anyone that I love that can’t accept her in my life (in the many ways that she does) just isn’t worth my time in the long run. And maybe that too is for the best in the long run. Not many people have the patience that she does. Not many people have the kind of understanding that she does. Not many people have the tolerance she has. Not many are even capable of the depths of love that she has.

So here’s to Jenn today. May she be made into a Saint someday for having suffered a bishop during his life.

My mind plans hundreds of possibilities every time something arises. I plan for worst case scenarios, best case scenarios, reactions, actions, ambiguities and elements of the unknown to even me. I foresee possible futures and rearranged histories. Nothing is concrete in time. Not even the past. My own life is testimony to that. But when I tell you that I have a contingency plan, don’t turn it into the solution of the year. It’s merely one of many, spoken and unspoken that I keep in order to protect those I care about, sidestep those that I have to plan around, destroy those that thwart my Will, and contain those who would make demands on my life that are outside the realms of my conscious efforts to go forward in life in a particular manner.

And, more to the point, I have enough alternatives in my head that could fill a book if I had to explain them all. Don’t second guess me. You’ll fail. And failure in my book is the worst insult of all. I strive to make everyone in my life happy (though impossible, to be sure), everyone around me successful (a bit more realistic endeavor), and everyone with whom I interact a little bit more knowledgeable about something that they might not have ever considered before (a lot easier overall). I don’t ask anyone to understand me, though there are a few who actually come close. All I ask is that those who claim friendship, remain as such without expectations. Nothing more.

Ann gave me a pendant and some leather on which to keep it close to the bottom of my neck rather than way down in the middle of my chest. It’s incredible. The Hand of Eris, described by some as the “Eye of the Storm” and others as the epitome of Chaos herself, was/is the perfect representation of my life at this moment.

To know a thing well, know it’s limits. Only when pushed beyond its tolerances will its true nature be seen.

I don’ recall actually what started the conversation last night, but Jenn and I got into a something that led to me explaining something about people in my life. I tend to be very unintrusive about people’s details in life. It’s caused some to be frustrated that while I am very open about the details of my life, I don’t actually come back and ask anything about them. I know that when I met Ann that was one of her statements as well.

But here’s the deal. I don’t care. Not in the “I don’t give a shit” kind of meaning, but it’s just not important. I could learn everything about a person, from birth details to intimate moments between lovers to how many siblings they have, but it wouldn’t tell me anything about a person. It’s not that I’m not interested in such details, though I rarely am with any sincerity, but that they don’t hold any interest to me in regards to why that person is or isn’t in my life. We are the sum of those with whom we surround ourselves. And I want to know what kind of people surround me. On what level to do they exist with their own value systems, similar or remote from my own makes no difference so long as they are committed to it. How do they respond to me, to life, to themselves, to others? What kind of a person are they? These aren’t things that a life history can tell me.

I put people in situations, scenarios if you will, that tell me more about them than they could relay in an evening of story swapping. But I learn the fundamentals that are actually important to deciding whether or not they are someone I want in my life. Are they a good person? Do they care about [insert whatever here]? Are they passionate? Are they committed? In what do they put their trust? How do they value friendship?

In this, I know more about people than most realize. But I know what’s important to me. And that’s the point. Where you’ve been makes for good drinking stories and fodder for cracking jokes. Who you are is what will solidify friendship that goes beyond mere conversation and into an almost obsessive loyalty or it will increase the likelihood that I never give you a second thought again. And all this requires a level of observation and silence, not talk.

Never slap an Angel of War that’s bored from the stories of creation, told over and over by the Creator. The last thing you might see is the subtle smile as she shreds your soul on a thousand screams of your unfulfilled desires. Not a pretty sight.

What is culture? In a sociological sense, culture is “the sum total of ways of living built up by a group of human beings, which is transmitted from one generation to another.” Another more academic text defines it as “the totality of learned, socially transmitted behavior.” Culture, to name a small number of quantifiers, is the method in which human beings live, the ethics they possess, the art forms they create, the customs they pass down, the political structures they form, and the spiritual beliefs they promote. In short, culture is the practice of life itself by a group of people.

What is Thelemic culture? In his widely read introduction to The Equinox III(10), “Culture vs. Cult,” O.T.O. Caliph Hymenæus Beta (in probably the only notable quote) states, “[...] the O.T.O. is a crucible for the development of the social models necessary to a Thelemic culture, as opposed to Thelemic cult. [italics in original]” From my perspective as a member of O.T.O., I agree. But I think it was wise to say that the Order is “a crucible” rather than “the crucible” for other social models since O.T.O. has primary legal and literary obligations that have been assumed under the mantle of our current society’s backlash of political regulations. But what really is a Thelemic culture? I believe that, with all due respect, the Caliph, and by extension The Equinox III(10), neglected to fully answer this important question; and while it was given an initial push within The Equinox, it has since been neglected by all subsequent Thelemic authors outside of the aspect of magick and its relationship with Thelema.

[...] Thelemic culture has been seen as by many unapproachable due to the unwillingness to be viewed as a “centre of pestilence” in making claims that Thelema’s primary “Holy Book” held the answers to these and other questions of vital importance to the development of Thelema as a culture. I have no such reservations. In fact, I find that Thelema has spent too long as a subculture and needs to be explored by various authors, all of whom will have a different outlook on the manner in which Thelema might develop into a culture.
—bishop, from the “Introduction’ to Eden Burning, 1998. (private)

Before Philip and I moved in together, we spent a great deal of our nights on either Acid or Mescaline. Fishman, as well, would join us at times and provide her distinctive “insight” into a particularly psychedelic evening usually, of course, ending in some kind of liaison that left us all fully over the edge of visionary ecstasy. I still remember a particularly lucid(?) evening with the Dreamachine, a ceiling fan, a psychedelic neon painted statue of Jesus and a tarot deck. To say that we were way over the edge of sanity would be an understatement. It was then that we discovered the “face in the card” of The Tower and continued to realize that the art of the particular deck that we were using was extraordinary under the flashing illuminations of the Dreamachine.

It was a trip. It was a time when Paradise seemed like it was merely sitting in every corner and waving to us from every back alley of experience. Sometimes, rarely, but sometimes, I really miss those days. We were so innocent in our explorations, so bold in our challenge of the boundaries of our own morality. We were children dancing on the footstool of the gods.

My son, it is my hope that you too will walk along the beach, picking up one starfish at a time and gently place them back in the water. Listen carefully as they speak to you, thanking you, cursing you, clinging to the knowledge that you are touching each one with a compassion that is both of innocence and wonder. Remember that you are part of a larger community that will pick you up and place you in the water at times whether you want to be there or not. It’s the greater cycle of life in which we participate together in the understanding that we each have a place to be. The starfish is best suited for the water. The beach never allows the starfish to involve itself in the great mystery of life and death as it should: on its own terms, inside the elements that are natural for its own composition.

Child, it is not my intention to keep you from those who would teach you beyond the scope of your years. But listen carefully to the counsel of your father. Embrace your own life, the darkness and the light, as it is given to you in all its wonder. I’ve lived and died a dozen times in this lifetime, each inside an environment that was not my own, outside that which was my nature to be. Too many times I have cursed those who have picked me up to throw my body back to the tides that have dragged at my soul as I longed to stay and die on the beach in the blistering heat of the Sun, motionless and inert, helpless and without compassion. But it was within my own element that I have found that the dangers that would destroy me are those from which I can most protect myself when I see the rocks and reefs around me providing shelter and comfort. I have found that it is there that I can be sustained and I can face those enemies of my life, my love, my light and my liberty with the strength of my own Will. My son, swim free in your ocean and face those fears that threaten to entice you to the beach, while continuing to wander the open seas of experience and passions of your heart.

But should you find yourself swept ashore in either ignorance or blindness of the waves that are ever moving in and out of your life, pray, my son, that some compassionate soul will pick you up, seeing that you are not in the waters of the bliss of life, clinging to the sand that weighs at your soul, and will throw you back to the waters. Curse them not, though you may be tired of swimming and fleeing that which comes for you in the depths of the water to destroy you, for only by facing those fears are you able to find that which will overcome them. Bless them for they may not know what they do, but they do out of the innocence of a humanity that still feels some primal compassion for those that are stranded and lost.

My son, I pray that you will see the truths in all things around you, from the starfish on the beach to the stars in the sky to those Stars that seek to guide you day by day, caring for you and nurturing your spirit to be free and at peace with your own life.

For me, Dr. Doom is about the power in the pain, the hidden mystery that shrouds itself in a hideous perfection. What does Dr. Doom really look like under the mask? And, when introducing the Doom-Bots into the mix, are you really sure your dealing with Dr. Doom in the first place with any interaction?

Disposal replicas of the original, the original masked behind the shield of unyeilding metal, the metal never wavering to emotion or reason, building and feeding on the fears of others for its monstrousity. The Green Man rises again from the darkness and comes out as the destroyer rather than the product of a little pasture of flowers.

You know you are shit up a creek when you spend an hour filling out a “Match Maker” profile and then the only result of your search, regardless of gender, in all four categories of straight, gay, bi and other, is yourself.