It's one of the witch's most important powers.


Glamorie, glamory, glamorye: n. The art (and craft) of making others see what you want them to see, and (by implication) think what you want them to think.

In common usage, the term implies β€œ...making others see what isn't there.” β€œShe's got him glammed,” we say.

But in fact, the term is neutral. Glamor can be the lie that tells the truth. Ask any artist. A painter can take a piece of stretched cloth and some paint and make you think that you're seeing a landscape.

If you want to learn glamor, watch those that are good at it: make-up artists, actors, demagogues.

As a storyteller myself, I can tell you for certain that narrative works a very powerful glamor.

This beat-up old knife may not look like much, but if I tell you that it was Sybil Leek's athame, sure looks different than it did a few seconds ago. Glamor = resonance. In some ways, the history of the modern Craft is a glamor: a worldwide glamor now several million strong.

As witches, you would think that we would be less susceptible to glamor than some. Well, so you might think.

A certain (not-yet-convicted) child-pornographer kept getting invited back to a certain festival as a guest, year after year. Not everyone was glammed. The parents of teen-aged girls repeatedly told the organizers: This guy is a predator; why do you keep inviting him back? But the glamor won out, alas; until the FBI intervened, anyway.

But with glamor, as with any tool, it's all in how you use it.

With a mask and his naked body, the priest can make us think that a god is present.

And, in truth, he is.

Above: Paul B. Rucker, God (with Contrail)