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“Well, welcome to the Cloven Hoof Club,” I say.

My friend has just had himself circumcised, shudder. And they call us barbarians.

Why? Dunesk. It's none of yours, either. The key factor is that he chose it for himself.

Medical necessity aside, that's the only situation in which, in my opinion, circumcision is morally acceptable. At all other times—tribal tradition notwithstanding—it's wrong. Always. No exceptions.

Talk about sexual violence against children. When I hear about how much better men have it, I always want to ask: Yeah, and which part of your genitals did they cut off as a child?

Genital mutilation is never a decision that anyone has the right to make for anyone other than themselves. I forgive my parents for making that decision for me, but I wish deeply that they hadn't.

I'm happy for my friend, though; I know that it's something that he's wanted for a while. Gods know, you'd have to.

“Wish they did transplants, though,” I add.

Since this is Gnosis Diary I've gotta tell you about gnosis once in a while.

My autumn gnosis experience was about cats. Remember my cat Happy had told me he wanted to return to Earth and I would know which one. Well I was scrolling through the Sin City Witches social media group and a member posted she had kittens to give away. There was a blurry photo of a tiny black fuzzball reaching claws toward the camera. I heard Happy tell me that was him. I contacted the kitten lady, and my housemate.

Here at your magical power source, you can “sanctify your love.” Collect your tools as well as meaningful symbols and erotic iconography and prepare for the sacred rituals of love.

You’ll need:

From the Triads of Paganistan

A night without law,

a night without rule,

a night like no other:

On sunny afternoons a mild breeze whispers a faint reminder of summer, but the leaves are changing color and nighttime is coming earlier. As the darkness grows and the season changes, it’s almost time to tuck your garden in for the winter—a mundane and sacred act. 
      When frost starts nipping at your plants, cut back perennials that require it in the autumn, remove annuals, and turn over the soil where they grew. Set aside one small branch for ritual. Also, plant any flower bulbs or garlic for the spring. As you do this, honor Mother Earth. Think of how your garden looked in the summer and thank her for the bounty and beauty she provided. Use a stick to draw runes, ogham, or other symbols in the soil or simply write a message such as “thank you” or “blessed be.” Also thank all the creatures that may have called your garden home such as toads, salamanders, snakes, and spiders, as well as birds. Also thank the pollinators that visited, and don’t forget faeries, elves, and other magical beings.
      Autumn leaves are timed perfectly for use as a protective winter mulch around the base of biennials and perennials. Mulching will also prevent erosion from rain and snow melt. Include a few crystals, seashells, or rocks that you collected over the summer amongst the plants as you tuck them in. 
      When all is finished, walk through the garden and speak the name of each plant. Take a bowl of fresh spring water and using the branch you set aside, dip it into the water and then sprinkle it around the garden as you say:

“With rain and sun this garden was blessed,
And now it’s time for slumber and rest.
I bid you fond farewell until the spring,
And dream of the beauty you will once more bring.
As above, so below,
May this garden forever grow.”

Two armies were to meet in battle, one Danish and one English.

Now it so happened that the king of the English was a Christom man, and brought with him to the battle a troop of tame priests and monks to pray for victory.

Before the armies engaged, the Danes first swept in and slew every monk and every priest.

O the perfidious pagans! cried the English king. To massacre the unarmed men of God!

A troop of warlocks, paid to cast baneful spells? How were these non-combatants? replied the war-chief of the Danes, grinning.

To judge from the evidence on the supermarket conveyor belt, the three of us eat three very different diets.

The Carnivore Diet. Mainly meat.

The Junk Food Diet. Mainly snacks.

The Plant Diet. Mainly greenstuffs.

With grim humor, though, I note that each of us has a bunch of bananas in his/her pile.

Bananas: the great leveler.

I won't go into how, historically, bananas became such an American icon. It's an ugly story.

I will say that it has long twisted my nuts that bananas—a monoculture grown somewhere far away and shipped North courtesy of the carbon economy—are cheaper here in Minnesota than apples, grown locally.

I'm sorry, that's just plain wrong.

When you eat bananas—even those organic, free-range, fair trade bananas that you feel so virtuous about buying at Trader Joe's—you're basically eating petroleum.

Yum, yum.

If the current dock workers' strike goes on for very long, banana prices will skyrocket.

Good.