Cheesecake and Frankenstein

It seems to be one of those days again, ladies and gentlemen. Given the onset of a wild craving for cheesecake, The Pregnant Adoptee is coming over again for baked goods; this gives me about an hour to spare.[1]

Let me start by saying: Thanks for all of your comments about Evolution.

There are, of course, many traditions out there, and, well, by definition, they want to remain traditional. And this makes sense. If we move too far away from the original meaning of a ritual (anything from The Emerald Tablet to throwing toilet paper in a Live Oak tree after football victories [2]) without maintaining the original significance, this becomes the very portrait of Existential Absurdity.

But when we no longer need ticker tape and the electrical wires have been moved underground, we substitute toilet paper in trees (WDE), the celebratory significance remains – even though there is no correspondence between ticker tape and toilet paper, save for streamers of white.

This is the kind of microevolution I hear most folks talking about. But I mean speciation. Or maybe cladogenesis. I mean, isn’t that what Alexandrian Wicca is? A sister species to Gardnerian? And isn’t Correllian Wicca a whole ‘nother animal? But, here’s the rub – can they breed?

In case I wasn’t clear last week, I am a fan of evolution. I am not arguing that we fight against traditions. I am arguing that to do so is, as the Borg say, futile.

Lots of solitaries out there comment that individual practice is the embodiment of evolution. I agree. But while recognizing that solitary practice has its roots in *some* tradition, I wonder if solitary eclecticism is, in itself, a “tradition.” (P.S. I’m not knocking solitary practice; I have been on my own since 2002.) Valid path, yes – abso-fricking-lootly; tradition, I donno s’much. (And again, I’m asking a question, not prescribing a resolution.)

Let’s look at The Bad Witch. WTF am I?

  • I started out[3] poking around with stuff in the 80s as a teenager who “felt” like there was a such thing as magic and no such thing as The Charismatic Church’s Devil.
  • Then I got all Wicaish in college.
  • And then all wild-n-dancing-under-the-moon-naked-while-shit’s-on-fire-knock-down-drag-out-Witchy after college.
  • During my PhD program, I was a solitary and kinda bored.
  • Then had a personal freak-out and rediscovery of my innate aptitude for evocation.
  • In order to wrangle that, I discovered Western Esoteric Traditions and Ceremonial Magick. Wheeee! That been a fun set of years.
  • Then I fell in love with Heathenry while investigating my dad’s family line.

Evolution indeed. But not unusual, I imagine.[4]

Now, when I try to link with those in a specific tradition, I feel like my pieces don’t fit. I feel like I’ve evolved out of compatibility. Now, I don’t think this makes me “evolved” in a hierarchical sense; I think this makes me a non-breeding mutant.  (Or a Chimera.) I also don’t think that this makes me useless. I mean, even mules have their uses and everybody loves a liger.

I can’t help but think of Mary Shelley’s Creature who wanted nothing more than companionship. He found that family in the woods and they appreciated him as the invisible “good spirit of the forest” but he knew they’d reject him if they saw him in his entirety – in his sublime dreadfulness. I too am feeling a little patched together out of spare parts. Fragmented. Needing to hibernate, hermit, secede.

OK, it's a cupcake not a cheesecake. But it's adorable. From Megan Turnidge's bedifferentactnormal.com

Or just eat a whole cheesecake with my girlie.

BB and 93,

TBW


[1] We sat at the first horseshow of the year (from which I’ve emerged with a Champion rider and a sunburn) and she prodded me, “I want cheesecake. The real kind.” Seeing as this is my favorite foodstuff on the planet, I acquiesced: “Tuesday.” BTW, horseshows make me all kloggy in my kishka. All a momma has to do is see her kiddo lay motionless after a solid braining on an upright standard  – just once. And all horseshows become a trip to the ER waiting to happen. So, I’m not superfun company while my kid is jumping a 15.2 green mare over 3’6” courses.  But I feel safer when I have someone close by to hold my hand. This week, unlike last show season, I was lucky enough to have a few hands. One of which now requires homemade cheesecake. Boo-hoo, right?

[2] Back in the day, Toomer’s Drugs had the only telegraph in town. After a football win at an away game, employees would stream the ticker tape on to the power lines. Nowadays, we have ESPN. But we still “roll” Toomer’s Corner when we get all giddy and War Eagley.

[3] Well, OK, that’s a lie. I just met up with my cousin who informed me that she remembers me “doing things” and “saying things” when we were itsy-bitty. Baby, I was born this way.

[4] It’s like the Girl Scout song: “Make new friends / but keep the old. One is silver / and the other gold.” But, any alchemist, metallurgist, or chemistry student will tell you that gold and silver may “mix” as a homogenous solution, but they do not bond.

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