SAME FLOWER, DIFFERENT DAY...

That could be a rather loaded statement. For some, it can't possibly be applied. Take, for instance, a devote Catholic during Mass. It's time for the Transubstantiation. They believe that bread and wine is literally turned into the body and blood of Christ. It is a miracle of Faith. My claiming to do the same thing, via non-Christian Spellcraft, becomes demonic – an act of darkness. That sweet, pure rose of sacrifice now stinketh up the wind with a whiff of sulphur. (Let's not even discuss Melchizedek's blessing as the prototype for this “Sacrament”.)

We've all been in the position where people did not see us for what we truly were. Realization has resulted in behavioral changes... sometimes, but not always. In my life, people often did not anticipate my intelligence, especially as a child. There I was, in my plain school uniform, looking like a dumpy ginger-haired stepchild. My marks (and conversation) proved that I had an IQ higher than a wood chip but – even then – I heard one nun pronounce, “You wouldn't know she was that bright to look at her, would you?” (Yeah..Sister of Charity. Thanks for that.)

 

 

I also had my mother's constant mantra, “If she's so brilliant, why is she fat?” Can I blame them for their perceptions? Yes and no. .

If THEY were that smart, they would have known better than to judge a book by it's cover. However, they were also brought up in a culture that encouraged negative assumptions about people of size. The “fat man” was slow, sloppy, ignorant, but “jolly” in his simple-mindedness. And fat children? We had this as a role-model:

Yeah, Baby Huey. Fat, stupid, incapable of self-determination (even wearing a diaper, for the love of Goddess!), busting furniture with his enormous derriere. What a hateful image, one that was thrown at fat kids ad infinitum... and the adults allowed the mocking. When we fat humans demonstrated our capabilities, we encountered a “Who knew?” type of dismissal. Life went on: no encouragement (generally), no apology, no education for the “normal” kids regarding bullying. Now, I was the same child before and after the IQ tests. I was intelligent before they saw the evidence; the same individual. However, the next school year, we were back to ground zero, even though a rose is a rose...

Years later, of course, I could have forced the realization onto the public. I could have joined a group such as Mensa, but declined. Hey, I'm not saying I'm the brightest bulb on the Marquee. Hell, I'm not even the smartest person in my immediate family. I'm just saying I'm not a pamper-clad, drooling idiot off in a corner. I have the minimum qualifications to join Mensa. I'd rather be a bright fish among the other carp in the big pond, than be the clown loach in the tiny pool which is Mensa.

Besides, I've known a lot of those folks. Some thought they were vampires. One was totally focused on why a certain 70's sit-com character was reading James Joyce in an obscure episode of the program. One – whom I love dearly – bounces around like a Tigger and has a hard time reading actual books. By and large, they can do an extemporaneous exegesis of the Cantos of Ezra Pound, but can't find a shopping cart with wheels going in the same direction.

My friend Claude suggested we start our own organization for bright folks who don't need to hang a sign, “Out of Solar System: back in 10 minutes.” She suggested we call it “Menza-Mensa.” I concur.

Now, here's my actual point. I am Wiccan, and I have gifts. I have taught students to utilize their own. I have been doing readings – Tarot and otherwise – for decades. I am one of the creators of the “Graven Images” Oracle deck. I am what I am. When dealing with people interested or involved in the New Age or psychic arts, I would think I would be communicating with more accepting, open-minded individuals.

I know there are still a lot of haters out there who do not understand Wicca, or refuse to understand. People like this guy right here:

OK. Ya got us! We ARE out to destroy your children. We have actual cookbooks like, “Fetus for Foodies”, and “Deviled Eggs – Human Ovum Edition.” What a chittering bandicoot.

I'm not worried about them. I'm talking about those who say, “Yes, I think people do have other spiritual gift.” I'm talking about those who like me, trust me, and ask me for readings or my perceptions. Then, when I tell them something that I couldn't possibly know, when I use those same gifts that they claim to respect, they get all Billy Mumy-Twilight Zone on me. (“It's a good thing you did there, Anthony...real good. Now – please – wish it into the cornfield.”)

I have had people actually back away from me. What? I'm the same exact person I was before the reading etc etc. A rose by any other name.

Please - I am who I am. Don't use me and mine as entertainment, then get all scaredy cat when we deliver on our skills. We're the same people we were when you approached us for our insight. Grow up.

Sherlock News:

Those of you in the fandom, remember this still for the upcoming Xmas special?

Looks like someone was snoozing at the photo shop keyboard. Well, it gave rise to the following parody. (I love these guys!):

Also, I recently found this great “one shot” on History Bomb:

Enjoy and be well, everyone. Oh! One more thing...

This July 1^st, I'll be 61. I also just found out I'm in remission. Cancer has taken both my dear Rufus, and my beloved brother-in-law Guy this year. If you've enjoyed my blog, please think about donating $5.00 to the American Cancer Society or to the Edison Animal Shelter, (Edison NJ) where I got my wee beastie Watson. They are a caring, no kill shelter. (They also have an Amazon wish list). Go on their web site or Facebook page. It doesn't take much, but if everyone gave $5.00, think what good you'll do for Cancer patients or needful animals! (BTW they have another blue cat who needs a forever home. She looks just like Watson except for her golden eyes. If you're local, and are looking for a blue, go visit Skylar at the shelter!)

 

She's waiting for you!

 

THE TIMES, THEY ARE A-CHANGING...

It's been a long time since I've posted on this blog. It hasn't been due to neglect, but many life changes.

First: my Rufus has passed. He made it 18 months with prostate cancer, which was a feat in itself. Yet, in the last 6 months, his health took a plunge. He had to wear diapers, which he hated, and lost the use of a hind leg. He would still go to greet people, but would drag himself to do so. He was in pain, and I promised him I would never let him linger like that.

On March 26^th, with his buddies Claude, Bob, Gary, and John gathered round, he went to sleep and crossed the rainbow bridge. It was the hardest decision I've ever made. Sometimes, it had been just Rufus and me, nagivating the rough spots in life. Now, my bed was empty and my bunny boy was gone...

but not quite. The next morning, I looked down into my shoe, and saw something dark. Praying it wasn't something breathing, I reached down...and pulled out a Greenie! My pup had left me a treat to let me know he was OK.

As I am an avid collector of mourning hair icons, I decided to try my hand at a memorial for my baby. While he was still with me, I collected some of his hair and mine. I combined and finely chopped it, then used it as the grass upon which stood Rufus and a picture of his rainbow bridge urn. I found a period frame for very little money, used a photo of an existing hair icon for the background, and collaged everything together. It now is the crowning part of my collection.

We had a lovely Irish wake for him on May 2^nd, with good friends, good foods, and lots of laughter. I wanted a rainbow bridge balloon, but the party store didn't have any. I ended up with a huge multi-colored butterfly, and a square rainbow balloon. One couldn't tell if we were celebrating his crossing the bridge, or outing him as gay.

The loss of Rufus wasn't my only sorrow. On the morning of May 1^st, my beloved brother-in-law Guy lost his battle with pancreatic cancer. He fought the good fight for nearly 2 years, and packed his time with a lot of living: movies, theatre, trips to Vegas and Ireland..he did all that he could in the months allotted him. Now, my sister is living alone for the first time in 63 years. It's a struggle, and we all support her as best we can, but it is something that one must ultimately do alone – redefine one's life.



AT MY NIECE'S WEDDING IN HAPPIER TIMES:
GUY AND DIANE IN BACKGROUND, NIECE ALANA,
GARY AND I AT TABLE
 

In the midst of all this, I decided I did not want to live alone. I can't really take care of another dog, so I decided I would rescue a cat. I looked carefully around, but every time I settled on meeting one kitty or another, they would be adopted the next morning! I felt as though the Universe was trying to corral me down one particular shoot towards one specific cat. I had decided to check out/ visit a beautiful orange and white female, but made one more search at the Edison Animal Shelter.. and there he was. I looked into the green eyes of a beautiful Russian Blue, found as a stray and caught between the rails at the Metuchen train station.

I had to go see him. Claude drove. She fell in love with him the minute she saw him. I still wasn't sure, but decided on him anyway. They said he was 2 years old...but he's actually an older kitten, one who likes to play using nails and teeth. My arms look like connect-the-dots pages but, with that one flaw, he really is an astounding personality.

He greets everyone at the door, insists on going behind the computer screen to hide his catnip mice, takes poor little John Watson captive (much like in the series. Poor John...) and insists on pushing every piece of wall art that he can reach sideways. It's like a personal mission with him.

So, that's where I've been. Going forward, I will be back to more regular posting. I have lots of neat Sherlock stuff to share, from video clips to products.

Speak to you all soon. Oh! I forgot to mention my kitty's name is Watson.