Faerie Mountain Scene
Or, the Fractal Nature of Myth and Body
Sunday May 14, 2023
9:06 pm
It’s Mother’s Day. I’m resting in a leather armchair, coddled by honeyed light dripping from tiffany lamps somewhere in Greensboro, North Carolina. Here, the oak trees are grandmotherly and the houses are quiet. Against the fireplace, my black steel-frame bicycle rests bedraggled and strong. Bright indigo cornflowers and purple sweetpeas spew from his handlebars. The flowers, mud, and duct-tape give him a Dionysian-punk flare. Have I told you the name of my bike? His name is Tepozburrito. He’s a good little donkey.
About two weeks ago I spontaneously found myself, once again, at a sacred queer space in Tennessee. How did it happen? The Goddess invited me. This space shall remain unnamed, but it is a sanctuary for radical, anti-assimilating queer folk. I’ve visited many times, particularly to celebrate the witchy new Year, Beltane. Below is an essay I wrote in 2017, writing feeble words to explain our ancient communion. In the next day or so, I will post a smaller essay from this year, highlighting an actual witch hunt that hurts many of my friends and family.
with sweetness,
Dandylionheartedness
***
More mysterious than death is life. More miraculous than escaping evil is grasping the Good.
-St. Simone Weil
Photo by Crunch42, May 2003
2017:
Swaths of rainbow sequins unfurled retumba retumba retumba as furious breasts and furious penises shook furiously, seismographically measuring neo-primal Goddess libido under electric fishnets and stilettos, retumba retumba retumba crowning ourselves with laurels of neon roses and plastic birds retumba retumba retumba in a wooden temple beneath a magick fresco where the acrylic painted, silent astrological pantheon observed our ecstatic contortions retumba retumba retumba while the large and luxurious bearded Pineapple queen presided beside an animatronic horse, a taco, and our corseted, lavender-haired high priestess. Retumba retumba retumba quivered the drummers quivered the dancers quivered the glitter cascading with sweat down our bodies while plumes of Santa María billowed up from queer orifices. We - the erotically chaotic witchy folk, the neurotically whimsical faerie faggots, the miniature incarnations of the many-gendered/genderless divinities, the shifting and shapeless, many-named/nameless manifestations of excess and lust and love and wonder and awe and serenity and fear and anger and hope – danced on Walpurgisnacht, the Eve of Beltane, in revelry of the freshly opened May Hole. Just moments before this cacophonous dance, the faefolk had taken an axe to last year’s maypole. That 50 foot tall pole crookedly pointing skyward, wrapped in moldy cotton-polyester ribbons of wishes (I remember weaving my ribbon around the pole last year, across Gaia and Nuclear, between Nova and Quinoa, under Fox and over Suchness, gazing into the eyes of Forever and Somebody and S and Honey and River. In each pass around the pole, I saw each year of my life pass as a face in the crowd; from when I was a child sitting beneath a lemon tree while my mom served a bowl of chicken soup up to the painfully fresh memory of being wretchedly lovesick, bathing in an emerald creek in Puerto Rico and weeping) toppled to the knoll after a few whacks. Amid rapturous cheer the faerie legion clambered to unearth the maypole stump, dig out the foundation rocks, and open the hole. As if methodically choreographed (I assure you, it wasn’t), the legion worked in one mind, instantly arranging a stony circle around the sacred pit where the maypole once stood. Thus, we have the May Hole; a vortex of magic and mystery unfastened one night of the year. Collectively, we entered the allegorical world of dream: I stood on a rock beside Brother, surveying the faerie hoard dip their bodies into the muddy, holy crevice. He was dressed in a black gown with a wide, black straw hat atop his head, shading his eyes – in this living world of dream, he became Night. I, in a dark blue and amber frock, hung a golden straw hat across my back, its circular brim reaching from clavicle to clavicle as if the sun was rising behind me – I became Daybreak. Quinoa appeared in a magenta dress, dripping with pearls and quartz – they became Midday. The three of us, in eternal repose, gazed at the revelers. We became past-present-future, we became father-mother-child, mother-maiden-crone, we became any and all of the iconoclastic Trinities – I, caught in the puzzle of ever-shifting metaphors and contextual mythologies, considered myself as a stew concocted from the intricate details of environments and histories. I was Brother’s austere solitude and Quinoa’s naïve joy. I was my mother’s anxious playfulness and my father’s megalomaniacal nihilism. My body was a galaxy of microscopic beings and my body was but a single cell in an organism unimaginably beyond me. Who are we but the amalgamation of friends and landscapes? Am I so different from the goats or the trees or the sun or the moon, of my parents and their parents and the parents before them? Was I hallucinating or wasn’t this all One Continuous Motion, whose pieces are describable only in symbol? Dissolving into Unity is that secret urge at the heart of spiritual practice, where we acknowledge that the distinctions between “you” and “me”, between “this” or “that,” are incomplete and a source of suffering.
By evening, the knoll was alight with spirits dancing to drums, bowing before the heat of the bonfire. We hissed as each successive log from last year’s maypole hit the flames. Encircled with crystals, bird corpses, and battery operated tea candles, moans wafted from the May hole – spirits ejaculated and urinated into the earth. Meditation, prayer, chanting, talking, whistling, laughter, orgasms, journaling, ranting – we sowed the earth for the New Year’s harvest. Yes, we were the incarnate nightmares that haunted Puritan Christian fantasy; but what they viewed as perverted wickedness were our spells of love, good hope, and joy of the human spirit.
***
A fractal is a never-ending, self-similar pattern. By “self-similar”, I mean that the whole of the pattern appears as another piece of the pattern. Look at a tree, for example; it has a trunk that splits into limbs. Those limbs split off into branches. Those branches split into twigs. Those twigs sprout leaves. Those leaves split into veins, which split into veins of veins. No matter what scale you look at the tree, you will be able to see the tree-form. Look at that leaf – doesn’t its vein structure look like a miniature tree?
The image below is a romanescu broccoli head, distinguished for being one of the few plants exhibiting exact self-similarity. Note how a piece of the broccoli head looks like a miniaturized replica of the whole structure.
Other natural phenomena showing fractal features include mountain ranges, coastlines, lightning bolts, snowflakes, cardiovascular systems, river systems, etc. Look from afar or look up close and you’ll notice their self-similar patterns regardless of scale.
There is a quote I enjoy from notable Discordian, Professor Calamus:
“The closer you observe something, the more complex it becomes. Try to measure the length of a coastline; the more accurate ruler you use, the more detail is revealed, and the longer the coastline will be. When we talk about complex things, like economy, we are only capable of describing it by generalizing and observing recurring patterns. Yet, even economists do not have an exact understanding of economy”
He elucidates that we can never know the exact measurement of anything (your 6 foot dining table is not exactly 6.011 feet - It is approximately 6.011212289. . .) We can only approximate measurements and predictions. Thus, the way to make sense of the phenomena happening around us is “by generalizing and observing recurring patterns” in the details of the world. Professor Calamus continues; “The universe is infinitely complex but graspable because it contains recurring patterns. Every bit of the big picture is present in the most minute detail.” If this statement is true then, potentially, we could zoom-in or zoom-out infinitely and witness the same patterns and structures again and again. Thus, the shape and depth of the universe is the eternal shape and depth of itself – we exist in a tautology!
Fractals and other self-similar patterns are not limited to the observable world. I believe they are also featured in the invisible world - from Divine Entities to metaphor-making to memories. Mythologies are fractal in that the stories of creation, love, and war appear at every moment of our consciousness. The symbolic vocabulary may change but the overarching experiences of humanity have rippled in self-similar patterns across ages, empires, cities, neighborhoods, families and the internal struggle of the individual. The Jungian idea of the collective unconscious, that of a shared ancestral memory deep in the minds of every individual, is one of the many ways of describing the ever-unfurling patterns of metaphor that have neither beginning nor end. If I were to imagine the structure of our unconscious mind, I would imagine a romanescu broccoli head.
Recursive symbols and events - the warp and weft of our physical reality and our symbolic vocabulary - are at the root of my obsessive interest in religion, particularly the Christian mythology. When reduced to its basics, what is the allegory of Jesus but the struggle against oppressive authorities? It’s the story of a person teaching the power of selflessness and equality for society’s outcasts. In the story, he preaches that it is better to uplift and aid one another than blindly follow excessive religious doctrine and unjust governments. Thus, as the story goes, Jesus was labeled a heretic by the religious authority and executed by the machine of government. Does that sound familiar?
It is no coincidence that the so-called Christian Church™ has a history of labeling people as heretics to religious doctrine (although the irony is horrifying). When the Puritans burned women as witches, the story of Jesus became manifest – women were unjustly persecuted and executed for the sake of religious code, just as Jesus was unjustly executed. When Spain tortured and murdered countless Jews and Muslims during the Spanish inquisition, I can’t help but think that Jesus would have been murdered among them. Wherever there is a struggle for decency and equality among people, be sure that a violent, bureaucratic apparatus of religious intolerance accompanies it. Assassination and persecution of many extraordinary social leaders (like MLK Jr.), the bombings of Planned Parenthood in Colorado Springs, islamophobic war policies; the list could continue ad infinitum. The story of Jesus is a rich tapestry of symbols, but the thread that keeps returning to me is that his portrayal is the representation of the castigated outcast. Thus, in many ways, the Christian story isn’t simply a zealous testament about some magical dude. Rather, to me, it is a symbolic description of humanity’s patterns of struggle.
But the collective experience of humanity is not and should not be solely described in Christian vocabulary – religions and traditions around the world all point to the similar je-ne-sais-quoi of Life, each offering fresh perspective on the recurring themes. Even anti-dogmatic traditions participate in the Great Mysteries. Radical faeries1 enjoy subverting religious narratives and throwing wrenches into the rigidity of ritual – campy chaos magic is their specialty. Where else is puppy play simultaneously a holy sacrament and nothing special?
***
As Winnie-the-Pooh would say, it was a rather blustery day. The tree canopy exuberantly twirled like the white, silk shirt pirouetting around my body. The sun was mellow, crisp, and sweet. It was May 1st, Beltane, high afternoon, and the rowdy, strange hoard sat in circus, with pink hair, leather straps, intricately embroidered floral vests, deer antlers, tiger face paint, debaucherous nunnery, and a pot of shroom tea. At the center of this ring was the prayer-and-jizz-filled May hole.
Link stood before us, bedecked in gold: Gold crown, gold earings, necklaces, bracelets, gold belt and boots laced with gold, gold velvet tunic. Clutched in his palm was an unmarked bottle of hand-made yellow plum wine. Channeling the Roman God of drinking and plenty, he spoke as a solemn Bacchus, “Let us begin with a remembrance and honoring of our ancestors – the one’s who fought for us yesterday so we may live and love today. We gather to rejoice what they have built for us and we gather to continue building community for those who come tomorrow. Remember why we gather here today - all of us are part of this history – all of us contribute in the continuous struggle toward the freedom to be and live – for we were all once burned as witches. “
At this, he poured the libation into the hole while his words silently echoed; we were all once burned as witches. Eyeing the dazzled faces of the crowd, lined with feathers and mascara, I felt as if we had been here before – and not just at last year’s Beltane. We had gathered across the centuries; wild revelers and lovers of life, magic folk and spirit folk, or just plain old folk simply minding our own business, misunderstood or deliberately pushed aside – we had been tried in unjust courts, we had been hung, we had been labeled demonic and worthy of extermination and torture. Yes, we were all once burned as witches. After Link, a person climbed a table in the center and read aloud the names of the 49 people who were killed at a gay night club in Orlando. Voices from the circle spoke aloud other names and remembrances.
Another person, whom I know as Banana2 (but I think have since changed their name), occupied the center ring, “This land is stolen land! This land is colonized land! So, we are sitting here and partying and believing that everything’s hunky-dory, while there are indigenous tribes who do not even have access to clean drinking and yet they are still fighting for rights. And what are we doing? Hiding on stolen land, pretending we’ve got no blood on our hands? The genocide continues. . . So what are we gonna do? I don’t know – we are privileged to gather like this. Yeah, it’s all complicated – so, as you get drunk today think about that!”
Ambrosia now took the middle, “All of Creation began with the words, I Am. The word of Divinity is I Am. . .” and she led us through an invocation of creation and the affirmation of the new self with the words I Am3; once, silently to our self – once, aloud as we gaze at our hands – and once, shouting so the whole world can hear, to the sky and beyond.
Next, the four elements were invoked - and that’s where I saw Someday and Linny, part of the wind crew, inviting the element of air to our neo-pagan summit. Their invocation was interrupted by a naked faerie who abruptly dove head first into the May hole. I might have been sitting too far away to see, but I think Someday, in his ghostly decadent bull headpiece of beads, sticks, and twine rolled his eyes – I can’t imagine what he was exactly thinking. Here, I should mention that the overall ceremony had frequent chatter in the back, a few shouting smart-alec responses to the speakers up front and other types of interruptions, yelling, and general unrest. The unexpected swan dive was just another interlude for the pot. Many expressed to me, post-ceremony, that they really disliked all the cackling and noise – that such things distracted from the magic or was offensive to the sincerity of participants. I, actually, appreciated the “interruptions” and unplanned aspects of the ceremony. To me, a mark of faerie culture is taking magic seriously and being totally flippant and glib with it. The ones who chatter or shout off-putting remarks are the ones that remind us not to fall into the spell of religious dogma. After all, our ceremonial offenses are the seeds of chaos magic – we make ritual as we mock ritual.
After the pink-goateed Daz’l, one of the elders who had been living on the land since 1983, wished us a Happy New Year, we anticipated the final rite – the one that unites the physical realm with the ethereal realm -
We held our breath, we lifted the new maypole! - And lodged it into the earth - sealing the May hole – A conduit of magic - our pact with the Goddess. The ribbons released and I was gifted a burgundy strand, a shred of bed sheet. Birthday climbed the base of the pole and instructed us directions to weave. And the Maypole dance begun!
Spectacular rainbows of costumes, ribbons, faces wove in-out-through-up-down We are the weavers, we are the web – we are the flow and we are the ebb - we sang! Link, the Bacchus, laughed alongside Esthress, glugging plum wine We are the weavers, we are the web Quinoa, Someday, Ambrosia, Nova, Wildflower, Linny, Puff, Birthday, Bear, Austin, we are the flow and we are the ebb River, Energy, Voodoo, Sparky, By-The-Way, Merlin Nut, Glen, Fire Swan, S, Mmm, Optimus Pup, Sister Missionary P. Delight, Somebody, Weasel Every person was a Divine archetype - We are the weavers, we are the web we are the flow and we are the ebb - an idea, a symbol locked in the human experience expressed by name- We were a breathing, dancing, skipping, dreaming pageant of mythologies Tumbling in glitter, fruit, wedding dresses, flowers, and fauna of luminescent colors We are the weavers, we are the web We were Goddesses and Gods knitting a universe together – as if we were a tiny, miniscule recursion in the fractal of Creation - As if we were an approximate replica of Goddesses and Gods of yonder age that came together in orgiastic excess We are the flow and we are the ebb and birthed a Universe Who could fathom the tiny sparks of consciousness, deep in the cells of our body, dancing, in a galaxy of their own, around a tiny maypole, celebrating the beauty and weirdness of Life?
I’m not going to define what a Radical Faerie is since it is a type of identity that refuses to be codified. Even people whom I consider very “faerie” shun the label. This rejection of absolutes is not just a marker of faerie culture but also of the larger anti-assimilating queer culture.
2023 update: I have learned that Banana has passed on and joined the ancestors. May the Goddess continue to bless their spirit.
Her inspiration for this rite probably comes from the Abrahamic tradition. In the Book of Exodus, God reveals Itself to Moses by saying, “I am that I am.”