Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Magic With a Boner
Screw the athames and quarter calls.
Let me tell you something about Warlock Magic. It's gritty, primal, old: some of the oldest magic that we have, its prime locus the male body.
I'll give you an example.
Some friends of mine are buying a new place. I passed along a bit of old warlock magic to the man: Go around the outside of the house, and pee on each of its five corners.
Like other predators, warlocks mark out our territory. Scent-marking: it doesn't get more primal than that.
Warlock magic is body-magic, men's magic. It's not for the over-civilized or the fastidious. It's magic with a boner, magic with juice.
Let the dried-up old wizards keep their grimoires and athanors, their tower rooms and chalk circles.
We're the warlocks. We don't need books to tell us what to do.
Our bodies already know.
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