Loki Variants

One of the trailers for the upcoming Marvel Loki series features the intriguing phrase, “Loki variant.” Of course, if there’s one variant, there will be others and I’m not just refering to the series. In fact, Loki “variants” already exist in Norse lore. As a shapeshifter, he (she/they/ze…) appears in the stories as a mare (soon to be pregnant), a salmon, a fly, and more.

Dagulf Loptson, author of Playing With Fire: An Exploration of Loki Laufeyjarson (Asphodel Press, 2014) and Loki: Trickster and Transformer (Pagan Portals, 2020), writes that Loki is also known by various “indirect bynames” for his various forms and functions (Playing, p.20). Here are just a few of these bynames, known as “heiti” or “kennings”:

Lóðurr (Lodur, Lodurr): who in the poem, Völuspá, helps to animate two humans who were formerly ash and elm trees. Loptson says you’ll find this story in the 18th stanza of the poem (Playing, pp. 22-26). The association of this byname with Loki is still somewhat controversial.

• Vé: a word which means shrine. This name is often associated with a brother of Óðinn, or with Óðinn himself. We can remember that in Norse Lore, Loki is Óðinn’s blood brother (not his adopted son, as in the Marvel Universe). The association of this byname with Loki is also still somewhat controversial. (Playing, p.26-27).

 Loptr: an accepted byname for Loki which means “airy one or lofty one” (Playing, p. 27-29).

• Gammleið: “Vulture’s Path” which may also be a kenning for air (Playing, pp. 29-31). Loptson associates Loki with cremation fire and sees the vulture as “Loki’s bird” (p. 30). He gives compelling and scholarly reasons for these associations.

Inn bundni áss: The bound God, which refers to Loki’s punishment for insulting the rest of the gods by telling the truth about them. (Playing, p. 31-32).

Many more names may be found in Playing with Fire (pp. 36-38), throughout Loki: Trickster and Transformer, and The Grumpy Lokean Elder’s blog. Stephan Grundy, Ph.D. also discusses these and other bynames and aspects of Loki in God in Flames, God in Fetters: Loki’s Role in the Northern Religions (Troth Publications, 2015).

In a recently published essay I write of my own “UPG” (unverified personal gnosis) that as a shapeshifter, Loki may have mystic lessons to teach us about cellular and genetic “shapeshifting” in our own bodies (longer, more youthful telemeres, please!). (“Loki-I’m Game!”, Blood Unbound-A Loki Devotional, edited by Bat Collazo, Troth Publications, 2021, pp. 141-142).

God Loki Variant and Satanized Loki Variant

Loki as a God

Was Loki worshipped in old Norse and Icelandic cultures? Many academics say no. However Stephan Grundy mentions Loki’s centrality in Eddic dramas and cites Dame Bertha Philpott’s theory that the Eddic dramas were actually scripts for religious rituals and mentions Terry Gunnell’s later investigations and conclusions regarding this theory, which is now generally accepted (God in Flames, pp. 32-34).

There’s a scene in Marvel’s Thor Ragnarok that might be a clever nod to this theory. In this scene Thor returns to Asgard only to find a huge golden statue of (the presumed dead) Loki erected in front of an “Asgardian Theater” and enters just in time for the conclusion of a dramatic re-enactment of Loki’s tragic demise. Loki himself, disguised as Odin, is enjoying the audience’s response. The scene suggests that Loki has lost no time in establishing a vehicle for his own worship.

Though we have very little evidence of Loki worship in older times, aside from the ritual drama theory, Loki worship is increasingly popular among Heathens and other modern neo-pagans.

Loki as the “Norse Satan”

The Icelandic writer, Snorri Sturluson (1179-1241), author of the Prose Edda (a collection of traditional Norse poems and stories) and Heimskringla, is frequently cited as the person most to blame for turning Loki into the equivalent of “the Norse Satan” and for otherwise distorting the original Norse and Icelandic material with his Christian perspective. Unfortunately for Loki, Snorri’s slurs stuck fast.

In a further distortion, some American white supremacists not only view Loki as Satan, but also as Jewish, since his second name, Laufeyjarson, refers to his mother (Laufey, a goddess) instead of his father (Fárbauti, a jötunn). A patrynomic, like “Fárbautison,” would have been more usual in Norse culture. (So contrary to the Marvel Universe lore, Loki is not and never was an “Óðinnson.” However, he was and is Óðinn’s blood brother, as mentioned earlier.) What does this have to do with the white supremacist claim that Norse Loki is actually Jewish? Well, in the Judaic tradition, Jewish descent is matrilineal. Such claims about Loki probably predate Wagner’s Ring Cycle operas and Nazism, but Wagner and the Nazis certainly promoted this. (If you doubt this, just type “is Loki Jewish” into a search engine and see what nonsense appears.)

Artists also took up this notion. There was a period of time when Loki was depicted as looking middle-Eastern, clothed as middle-Eastern, or with a hooked nose (a stereotyped “Jewish” feature). Here are two examples from Wikimedia commons. At top: “Loki. An illustration from Fredrik Sander’s 1893 Swedish edition of the Poetic Edda.” Below: “An illustration of Loki with a fishnet, from an Icelandic 18th century manuscript.” FYI, I cringe every time big blond Marvel Thor describes his bro, Marvel Loki, as “greasy.” For shame, screenwriters!

Worshipping Loki as a Gender Fluid, Queer Diety

With regard to contemporary worship of Loki as a god, Lokeans and others who hail and appreciate him, often view him as a queer god and a god of outsiders and oppressed people. Collective Lokean gnosis would easily accept Loki as being supportive of anyone who is oppressed due to religion, gender, and/or ethnicity (and so on). Based on community gnosis, Loki is not likely to be sympathetic to any oppressive cause. In fact, even the Marvel Loki “variant” is widely perceived as a deity who celebrates Pride (art by D.Kettchen on Deviant Art).

Dagulf Loptson has created and shared many Loki rituals with the community of those who honor Loki. Here’s one example, a Lokean Washing Charm. Holidays adopted by Lokeans include April 1st, Lokabrenna (the rising of Sirius in late July/August), Loki Spongecake Day on Sept. 4th, and Dec. 13th as his “birthday.”

Once the new Marvel Loki series appears on Disney, I predict that membership in the various Loki-related social media groups will more than double. For example, Loki’s Wyrdlings on Facebook has experienced enormous growth just since 2018.

Loki’s Pop Culture Variants

As I’ve said before, Loki Laufeyjarson is the consummate muse. He has long been a favorite of artists, storytellers, novelists, fan fiction writers, and screenwriters. And there are numerous ways of portraying him. Below is a screenshot summarizing his appearance in Marvel Comics, which of course resulted in his inclusion in Marvel action movies.

However, the Marvel Universe can’t claim the only recent portrayal of Loki. Spoiler alert: The Norwegian series, Ragnarok, cast Jonas Strand Gravli in the character of Laurits Seier, a teenager just learning of his true identity as Loki, a non-human jötunn (below). Jonas Gravli does an amazing job in this series.

(Photo source: https://www.filmstarts.de/nachrichten/18536004.html).

Cosplayers also perform Loki with zest. My favorite is Casey Triere who is also voice actor and a brilliant artist. Here is one of Casey’s “Norse of Course” TikTok videos. Here is one of her portraits of Loki, used with her permission.

As you can see, there are so many “variants” of Loki to enjoy. Here is an introduction to my own variant, Loki as “Lucky LaFey,” a “handsome drifter” who is actually in search of his missing son, Váli, turned into a wolf by Odin. Loki himself is a fervent muse for this character who appears in two of my four Guild of Ornamental Hermits books, soon to be published online by Futures Past Editions.

Many of these variants are “brilliant, bright-eyed, too beautiful to resist” according to the poet, Elizabeth Vongvisith, author of Trickster, My Beloved: Poems for Laufey’s Son.

Once you learn more about the many faces and aspects of Loki Laufeyjarson, you too might also find him irresistable. And that’s not a bad thing.

Hammer Hurts

I know how the hammer hurts,
How it hurts and is hurting,
When it all goes smash bang
And someone else falls down.
And the hammer can only build
With shiny new nails–(shiny, new!)
Until the new becomes old
And it’s smash bang again…
And again…and again,
Because hammers can’t build mirrors,
And nails just rust when they cry.

A. Marsh. Copyright 2021.

Pearson Scott Foresman, Public Domain. Wikimedia Commons.

My Nonbinary Coming Out Story

I posted this first on Facebook today, sent it to a few family members, and now I’m putting it here.

So. Okay. Am I really going to do this on social media? Yeah, WTF. I am. Here’s my #nonbinary coming out story, as far as I can understand it to date.


My sense of being disconnected from “being a girl” dates all the way back to early childhood, but I never wanted to “be a boy” either. I just wanted to be me–whatever that was–but as I was assigned female at birth, I tried in many ways to do the best I could with what I was given. But in my imagination I was usually Captain Nemo, Sir Lancelot, or Doctor Doolittle. The most femme I got was “Pirate Queen.” And I did like to draw princesses with huge treasure chests of jewels. My Madame Alexander doll was a “mechanical genius” and inventor–so not your ordinary female doll persona.


Puberty was weird. For a couple of years I wore a woolen peacoat year round in Southern CA, to prevent being harrassed about my breasts. (That shit was non-stop.) I was sexually active in my early teens, thanks to an 18-year old boyfriend, but I do remember really kind of checking out most of the time during sex, even though I did like the attention and physical affection. It was kind of like floating above or outside my body. There were traumatic moments later on, not with him, but with others. I think being on the edge of some kind of neurodiversity also added to the dissociation. At least I grew up in the 60s so that my lack of understanding about how to do girl world was masked by being a freewheeling “hippie chick.” It was okay to break rules, rebel.


But I kept being drawn to the so-called “androgynous” fashions and rock stars of the time, and beings who showed up in science fiction stories, like the Spacers in Samuel Delany’s “Aye, and Gomorrah.” I remember a Richard Brautigan novel where a young girl is freaked out by her developing, voluptuous body but ends up dealing with it by becoming a stripper. And (during my teens) there was the relationship with a boy who was prettier than I was but in other ways I couldn’t tell us apart. He wore my clothes sometimes but I didn’t wear his… There were all kinds of little sign posts along the way that told me I was not completely comfortable in my gender assignment, but there was nothing I could do or change about these very deep feelings.


Fast forward through the relationships which positioned me as female in various ways, through the weird metallic feelings of pregnancy hormones, the challenges (and rewards) of childrearing, and the utter chaos of the menopause. I have a friend and colleague who coined the term “reluctantly gendered” a few years ago and that term struck home for me as a first dim “hey…what if I’m also…?” But I kept those thoughts secret and I kept them safe, kind of like the One Ring that Frodo has to schlep around until he throws it into the volcano. At the time I was in a relationship with someone who would often say, “I’m a boy and you’re a girl” and I’d always recoil inside, having a thought like “well, not actually” though I’d outwardly agree. Like what else was I gonna do? And, deeper still, “who am us anyway?” (A Firesign Theater quote).


It’s hard to move sometimes from the known to the unknown.


I credit a lot of things and people and influences for helping me along: my patron deity, genderqueer Norse Loki; trans, nonbinary, and questioning people I know; internet resources and books; and so on. And writing my Ornamental Hermits novels has allowed me to experience the genders of my characters, humans and Elves, in imaginary ways.


But perhaps the state of not being “partnered” for the last four years and the solitude of this pandemic time has been as important as anything else. Without the demands of gendered performances, I have come to know myself, though without an imagined shape or form to “transition” into. I only know that I’d cheerfully part with my secondary sex characteristics if I could, and perhaps even with some primary ones as well, and have no desire to acquire any others.


I like long hair, makeup, and cleanshaven faces on most people — including myself — so perhaps I’ll always appear “femme.” Or not. I have no idea. I don’t know where I’m going but now at last I know what I am not.
There: consider that “assigned female” thing tossed into the nearest volcano. (There’s one across the lake from me!)


(Pronouns ze/zir but she/her can be tolerable, sometimes.)

Shattered by The Untamed

Content Warning: Queer teen suicide.

Last night–for the fifth time–I experienced the final numinous moments of the Chinese drama, The Untamed, which has been playing on Netflix for the last year or so. And then I returned to the beginning for yet another pass through this sword and sorcery fantasy series (a hybrid wuxia/xianxia story). And why not? It’s still the pandemic. I live alone. My sources of happiness and indulgence are few. And…The Untamed is purely excellent in just about every imaginable way. It has almost everything I love, except for Norse Loki, cats, Elves, and Jane Austen (and I can get that stuff elsewhere), so why not? Why not indulge? So having thoroughly convinced myself of a right to wallow in unrestrained fandom, I was not prepared for what came next, for what arrived this morning.

This morning started well enough. I prepared for an 8 AM meeting with one or both of my hypnosis students in India, and had a client session booked a couple of hours later. While waiting for the India students to show up on Zoom, I decided to listen to some music. I clicked on this link to The Untamed’s main theme song, translated as Unrestrained. It is sung by the two main actors, Xiao Zhan and Wang Yibo, who are also wildly popular in China as singers, dancers, and public figures. It’s a song that has made it onto “my final playlist” even though it is not my usual thing. And then I went on to have my meeting. So far, so good.

And then, in an idle period before my client session, I recalled Wang Yibo’s tweet from January 23rd, which is the birthday of the fictional Lan Wangji, the character he played in The Untamed. (Xiao Zhan’s character, Wei Wuxian–the “grandmaster of demonic cultivation”–is of course given a Scorpio birthday, Oct. 31st.) In Western astroloogy, this makes Lan Wangji an Aquarius not far from the cusp of Capricorn. And his soulmate is a friggin’ Scorpio born on Halloween and the front half of the Celtic Samhain. Perhaps you see where I’m going with this… (and if you do, great, because I’m not so sure…)

Anyway, I found this tweet touching. It showed the actor’s compassion for the character and situation of Lan Wangji (aka Lan Zhan), who will probably always be one of Wang Yibo’s most beloved roles. I have also seen a touching video of many of The Untamed’s cast saying goodbye to their characters. Fifty episodes is a long time to be in any character’s head and this can’t help but have an effect on an actor’s life. Whether actor or audience, writer or reader, I think it is a very human thing to have strong feelings for and about fictional characters. (I know I adore my own and love them like family.) Fictional characters often reveal something to us about ourselves or our situations. I even feel that some great characters take on a spiritual life of their own, almost like demigods. I am not kidding. (But that is a whole other blog topic.)


Screen capture of Tweet.

Back to this morning. Back to the “shattering.” Back to the crazy, sad, and ridiculously obvious thing that I never saw coming. Somehow all this came together in my brain through the translated subtitles to the song–“preparing a jar of happiness and sadness of life and death to mourn a young man”–and the above Tweeted reference to “no more painful longing” for the character’s soulmate, Wei Wuxian.

Let’s talk for a moment about the understated but strong emotions of the character of Lan Wangji. Here is someone who has had his unrequited love literally slip from his hands to fall into an abyss, to be lost forever, just as Lan Wangji has come to realize exactly what Wei Wuxian means to him. (This is no spoiler–this happens in the first few moments of the series). Later in the series we get hints about what this loss has meant for Lan Wangji in the sixteen long years before Wei Wuxian is revived in another form, through someone else’s sacrifice and revenge curse. We see that Lan Wangji has whip scars on his back and a brand on his chest, identical to a brand suffered by Wei Wuxian during a conflict with a peevish courtesan and a giant Tortoise of Slaughter. The brand on Lan Wangji’s chest is self-inflicted, perhaps to bring him closer to his lost soulmate through shared suffering. We also see that Lan Wangji “made a mess” (as the subtitles put it) and “fought everyone” and then is severely punished (the scars) and banished for three years to a cold place, in solitude except (we hope) for a few little white rabbits. We also learn that Lan Wangji has fostered a child that Wei Wuxian had cared for.

In other words, Lan Wangji’s loss and long grief has shaped his young adulthood just as the loss of his mother (and absent father) shaped his childhood. But because he is naturally taciturn and was sternly raised as a “cultivator” of Taoist practices and swordsmanship, Lan Wangji has very few ways to express his “untamed” emotions. Even his music is restrained, though it aches with longing underneath. In fact, I think some of my favorite moments are when Lan Wangji sits down at his stringed instrument to calm or heal Wei Wuxian and perhaps himself as well.

Though The Untamed is based on Mo Dao Zu Shi (Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation), a sexually explicit novel, Chinese film censorship forced the romantic elements of the narrative into a very delicate tension. The relationship between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian is allowed to be fond (though chaste) and perhaps even passionate (though chaste). The pair are called “confidants,” “soulmates,” and “cultivation partners.” Though I am a clinical sexologist by profession and can talk freely in mixed company about all sorts of things, I actually like the lack of physical sex in the series. The sexual tension between the two main characters–which is not even acknowledged as such–makes the series so much more interesting and romantic. Given the choice between the sex scenes in Outlander and the merest whispers of flirtation and devotion in The Untamed, I’ll take the latter every time.

Now I haven’t said much here about Wei Wuxian. I can relate to him as a trickster, as a “left hand” practitioner of magic arts; as a queer person; as someone scorned by a sibling who has become his enemy; as someone who is generally misunderstood; and as someone who has become weakened (he donated his golden core to the enemy brother) and is at times dependent as a result. He’s a gothy teen turned visionary outcast. He dies once and returns. He survives. He laughs. His birthday is right next door to mine. Plus, I’d like his wardrobe, thank you very much. (I’m partial to black.)

So what is so shattering about all this? I’m getting there. In fact, I’m here.

John Albert Brennan Suter.

Here is my Soulmate. We met in our teens. I was seventeen. John was fifteen. John killed himself at nineteen. I’ve written about him before. John was more than a soulmate though, he was also a harbinger, a shape of things to come. I had a hard time telling the difference between the two of us at times. We were also very chaste. He was bi-sexual but more into men. This wasn’t the best option for me but that was the breaks. He’d gone in drag as me a few times and selected clothes for me that he would like to wear–and I, I never realized that part of me was loving him and identifying with him as if we were both queer, not just him. That I wanted my own beauty, my own being, to be as nonbinary as his. It took me several decades but I finally figured this out not long ago. Too late for the beauty part…

With John gone, I tried to piece my life back together. I was alone in my grief, mostly. And I struggled with the sadness and the strange emptiness of missing “my other half.” Yes, it did feel that way. I don’t necessarily think it is a healthy thing to feel so similar and bonded to another, especially when the other is self-destructive and mentally ill, but there is no denying that this kind of bond is very real. If you ever experience it, it can feel as if you’ve exchanged soul pieces with each other or were cut from the same cloth. Decades later, it is hard for me to believe that John is not somewhere in the astral or etheric realms (or wherever), waiting for me. But I actually hope that he’s gone on to some peaceful realm or incarnated again into a happier situation. If he appeared to me suddenly, in another form but recognizable to my heart and spirit sight, would I even know how to react? I’d feel old, and ashamed, and perhaps even angry.

So here I am–with his pictures on my wall, with quiet gestures of remembrance, with objects he gave me, with a scar on my wrist from the quarrel where he pushed me into an aquarium, and my ears that were pierced by him with a needle and cork, and a heart still raw. Still raw–even with all the other people that I have loved quite passionately in my life. Who would I want as a friend and a “cultivation partner” right now, but him? Who would follow me into the oaks and make witchery with me, but him? Who could talk to the cats and make up stories told by birds, but him? Who would drink tea with me and talk about “husbands,” but him? Was he my spirit brother or my real first husband, or a part of me that went down into a canyon one day with a bottle of pills and never came back up?

I’ll never know. I can’t know. The mysteries of death and the futile search of the living for clues to the missing beloved–this is why I found The Untamed so shattering this morning. Wei Wuxian returned to Lan Wangji. But John will never return to me. This is so final.

Will I watch the series again, for a sixth time? You betcha. Because there’s some solace there, even with what I know now.

☽☆☾

Möbius Magic

Right hand path, left hand path…these are useful distinctions when applied to magic and mysticism but they somehow leave me unsatisfied. I have a yearning for the in-between, the liminal. Why not a “Möbius path” as a way to transform the dualities in a magical or mystic way? I am not sure what I’m getting at, exactly, but something speaks to me here and I intend to play around with it.

A photograph of a green paper Möbius strip. David Benbennick took this photograph on March 14, 2005. For scale, the strip of paper is 11 inches long, the long edge of a U.S. standard piece of “letter size” paper. The background is a piece of white paper. The strip is held together by a piece of clear duct tape, behind the top-right curve. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

The Möbius strip is a mathematical discovery attributed to Listing & Möbius in 1858, however similar images are found in Roman mosaics (c. 200-250 CE). Its mystery is that the simple action of giving a strip of paper a half-twist, then attaching both ends, turns a double-sided object into a single-sided one. If you trace your finger around the strip, or imagine a small insect traveling along it, you notice the path is seemless along all of its surface.

The Möbius strip seems related to the symbols below (left to right): the Ouroboros eating its tail, the figure 8 eternity symbol, the Urnes Snake (often associated with Loki) and related rune stones like the Näsby, even the pattern of this kundalini yoga meditation! At bottom right is a Mobius strip in a Roman mosaic (circa 200-250 CE).

What the Möbius strip says to me is “why pick a side when everything changes with just a half-twist?” It’s a kind of shapeshifting, really. With a simple gesture (physical or mental) you’ve immediately altered reality and your perception of it. How can this be applied to magic and witchery? Or kundalini meditations, for that matter? Some ideas:

Use the Möbius strip as a talisman.

Meditate on the Möbius strip.

Write sigils or spells on thin strips of paper, then half-twist and tape the ends together to make a Möbius strip. Does this change anything?

Find ways to look at situations with a “half-twist.” Does this change anything?

Are there spirits or deities who seem interested in, who resonate with, or who can teach you anything about this symbol? I know I have been associating it (and the other symbols above) with Loki Laufeyjarson for at least a year or so.

Can the spirit of the symbol itself teach anything? What happens if you establish a relationship with it?

Are there types of rituals or practices where this concept is appropriate? Not appropriate?

I have many questions. The Möbius strip itself reminds me of this line from a well-known song: “with a bit of a mind flip, you’re into the time slip, and nothing can ever be the same…” I think it’s the intentional, exploratory “mind flip” I’m talking about here.

We’ll see what happens.

Would love to have comments from readers. Thank you!

☽☆☾

Non-serious Social Incongruity

It’s clearly my drug of choice. Let me explain.

This morning, in the wee hours after a good night’s post-impeachment rest, I watched a man turn a large rusty nail into a tiny, perfect sword (fit for a sturdy mouse warrior) and learned of the sea shanty craze on TikTok. I even sang along. However, a fellow Tweeter pondered the appeal? Why sea shanties? Why now?

I’d like to add “non-serious social incongruity” (aka “amusement”) to the list of reasons for this sudden popularity (see that link above): “easy to learn,” “easy to sing,” and “unifying, survivalist songs.” These songs are historical throwbacks and have little to do with most people’s modern lives, hence the social incongruity. The very oddness of this unlikely trend also adds to its appeal. Sea shanties are nerdy. They blend well with my already long list of special, consuming interests (many of which are represented in this blog). (Personally sea shanties also remind me of a happier time, the years when my young children and I would attend the annual performances of The California Revels in Oakland, CA.)

Amusement as a Positive Emotion

A couple of years ago I took Barbara Fredrickson’s positive psychology course on Coursera. My main take-away was her idea of creating “positivity portfolios” as a way to provide quick hits of positive emotions throughout the day. I realized that no matter how low I go, amusement and interest can always provide me with a way up and out. I began to assemble an online file of things that make me grin: memes, cat video links, websites, and so on. I have plenty of books but most are interesting not amusing (I need collections of Calvin & Hobbes cartoons). I don’t always remember to do it, but this practice of intentionally dosing myself with amusement and interest has served me well through most of this pandemic.

However this last week since the Jan. 6 white supremacist insurrection attempt, I should have tempered my hypervigilant doom-scrolling with dose of snarky commentary from the webpages of The Gallery of Regrettable Food. My attempt at similar humor: “Cooking with 7-Up?” –epic neo-nazi fails never tasted so good! Here boys, drown your post-sedition sorrows with a frosty glass of lemon-lime soda. It’s in your gelatin salad too! Just like mother used to make!”

Screen shot of page from the Gallery of Regrettable Food: http://lileks.com/institute/gallery/sevenup2/4.html

Now I don’t mean to imply a link between 7Up (currently owned by Keurig Dr Pepper) and white supremacists and neo-nazis. I’m using the above recipe example purely for vintage cuisine humor. However it’s interesting to look at the company’s 2020 political donations to federal represenatives and senators. An examination of the 2020 Keurig Dr Pepper PAC donations reveals only one donation to a congressperson who ended up voting on Jan. 6th to contest the 2020 federal election results (Yourish, Buchanan & Lu, “The 147 Republicans Who Voted to Overturn Election Results,” N.Y. Times, Jan. 7, 2021). That was Represenatative Richard Hudson (R/NC) for $1,000. Five of the seventeen representatives who received 2020 donations from the Keurig Dr Pepper PAC voted against the 2021 impeachment: Van Taylor (R/TX) for $8,000; Vickey Hartzler (R/MO) for $5,000; Dan Krenshaw (R/TX) for $2,000; Ron Estes (R/TX) for $2,000; and again, Richard Hudson (R/NC) (mentioned above). (OpenSecrets.org is the source of the above campaign donation information.) So, could be worse…

And here I find I’ve spiraled over to “interest” as another positive emotion, which means I could easily do a prolonged dive into the weasel burrow of political campaign donations and the food corporations responsible for regrettable recipes. I suppose I’d better get into the main purpose of this blog: how to make skillful use of positive emotions.

Positivity Portfolio – A Way to Keep Sane in These Pandemic Times

I mentioned Fredrickson’s “positivity portfolios” earlier. The idea is simple. Collect things that trigger and nourish the following emotions. Put the collection(s) in a place where you can find them. Access them as often as you need to remember that something about this life is actually good. In fact, it’s a good practice to do this several times a day.


Table of positive emotions based on the Positive Psycholoogy course taught by Barbara Fredrickson, Ph.D.

As I look back on life since mid-March, I’ve experienced positive emotions mostly through amusement, interest, and inspiration (the latter mostly through my novel-writing). Love hurts too much since I’m entirely alone except for my cats and haven’t seen my children or friends in all this time. I make an effort to cultivate serenity via meditation and devotional practices, but serenity is not as emotionally powerful as amusement, interest, and inspiration. I experience gratitude but often it feels intellectual–not quite enough to distract me emotionally from my plight (and the plight of everyone else in this world). We are, after all, living in the midst of multi-facted existential crises and I don’t know about you, but I need strong medicine for prolonged high threat situations.

One of Fredrickson’s articles was critiqued for the maths used by her co-author, M.F. Losada, in Positive Affect and the Complex Dynamics of Human Flourishing (American Psychologist, 2005). Here is her response to that critique). I notice that pleasure/sexual desire/lust are positive emotions that are not included in the above table. As a sexologist, I say it’s important to not deny those sources of positive feeling, but for some of us shutting down might be easier than being in touch with our desires and physical needs. If that’s the case, opening back up again may take some work in a safer post-pandemic world. Fantasies, fandom, erotica (yes, that too!), music, performance, and dance might allow those who have shut down to open back up again.

Speaking of Gratitude

My experience of gratitude as an emotion is less intellectual when I think of what I’ve been lucky enough to access. Aside from long-distance connections with family and friends, here are my personal shout-outs to some of the things that have kept me emotionally nourished in these last several months (in no particular order):

AMUSEMENTINTERESTINSPIRATION
The Untamed series on NetflixThe Untamed The Untamed
Videos of Chinese street dancing performances & swordplay choreographyMy own writing – novel & blogFantasy casting of my characters
Dragula (three seasons)Daniel Foor’s courses thru ancestralmedicine.orgAlso Daniel Foor’s courses
The work of Disasterina & Ave RoseStudy of magic, witchery & sorceryAidan Wachter’s books
My seven catsBooks on pandemics & historyNorse Loki Laufeyjarson
Cat videosReading Covid-19 researchNaNoWriMo.org
Sea shanties on TikTokCreating & teaching hypnosis coursesMovements for social justice & enviromental action
The Gallery of Regrettable FoodGenealogy & ancestor workDreaming, meditation & trancework
Succumbing to geeky fandom without shameCo-hosting a podcastFavorite authors
The local turkey flock in my yardPlotting escape from Lake CountyHow my kids are handling all this
Some ways I access positive emotions.

I hope this blog post helps other people understand how they can engage in conscious cultivation of positive emotions. Please let me know if anything is particularly helpful, using the comments features. Thanks!

☽☆☾

Isolation Consolation

Hey, wow! I’ve just spent 3/4 of 2020 in near total physical isolation and here it is, finally 2021. Is this the year I’ll finally be able to be in proximity to my children? I haven’t seen the eldest since November 2019 and the youngest since March 2020, right before lockdown. In this time, I’ve taken less than ten masked and socially-distanced walks with a neighbor, had three masked and socially-distanced outdoor visits (early on), and have exchanged brief pleasantries with grocery store clerks. I had to call a plumber once, but opened all the windows and made sure he was masked. I’ve also cancelled all in-person doctor appointments since my last dermatology, post-melanoma mole check.

A still from short video, Santaphilia.

If not for my seven cats, social media, and frequent phone calls and zooms with family and friends, I’d be a raving lunatic by now. Seriously. Though I’m an introvert and need plenty of alone time/down time after socializing, I am not made for this extreme deprivation, this near-total lack of actual human contact. How much longer will this last?

Answer: as long as it has to. I have no interest in catching (or transmitting) Covid-19.

The French novelist, Colette, once lived in a Paris apartment where someone had glued thousands of tiny diamond-shaped pieces of colored paper to all the walls. She wrote that she found it best to not think too much about the mental state of the person who had given way to such an obsession. Earlier this morning I found myself on the cold, vinyl-covered floor hand-tinting the recent concrete patch around the hearth, so that it would blend more with the creek stones and aged concrete. That’s not nearly on a par with tiny, diamond-shaped pieces of paper–but who knows what I’ll be painting, gluing, or cultivating as the long months of solitude roll by?

The fabulous Disasterina took herself out of a pandemic funk by creating small demon sculptures, telling stories about them, and planting them in her front yard to the consternation of the neighbors. She also launched a podcast, Tasty Ear Bits. (Go listen!) Meanwhile, her wife, Ave Rose, is launching a museum of mechanical marvels. A good friend of mine just confessed to cutting their own hair on New Year’s Eve while drunk. Another friend got a cat but he can’t think of a name yet. My publisher fled to Mexico. What’ll it be for me? Self-administered stick and poke tattoos? I’ve got some India ink around here somewhere. Images of Terminator II’s Sarah Conner, obsessively working out in captivity, flit through my mind. Nah… I’m too old and my range of motion is going downhill fast. Soft tissue injuries are not on my “2021 bingo card,” as people say.

I did do a thing or two last year. In the spring, I packed up almost all my books as I put my house up for sale. In August I had a buyer, packed some more, and almost moved to Eugene, Oregon–but the buyer pulled out at the last minute. (Argh!). Two days later, the California wildfires started in this and neighboring counties. In September I took the house off the market, anticipating a covid-ridden season, not wanting to endure strangers coughing on mother’s antique sofa. I continued to do long-distance counseling and hypnosis.

In October I finished my first three novels and sent them to the publisher. In November, NaNoWriMo was my favorite obsession for relieving my tension, both pre- and post-election. The first draft of book number four (The Perilous Past of the Guild of Ornamental Hermits) is now well underway.

In December I made a short, silly video about Santaphilia, which debuted on Disasterina and Ave Rose’s ‘Tis the Sleazon performance for TSTVHQ.com. Here’s a NSFW (not safe for work) video of the highlights of ‘Tis the Sleazon–and oh joy, they used my piece! I’m beyond honored!

Still from short video, Santaphilia.

More ways to avoid cutting pieces of paper into tiny diamond shapes: My co-host, M. Christian, and I switched our Love’s Outer Limits podcast over to anchor.fm. Here’s our episode interviewing Disasterina and Ave Rose. However, we kind of lost our podcast momentum after Samhain.

And even though I became immersed in the incredible Chinese love story, The Untamed–watching all fifty episodes five times!–I also found time to make new friends and pester the old. (Or was it the other way around?) I reunited with a friend from sixth grade, became closer with the friend who also shares my love of Dragula and The Untamed, and cultivated a special long-distance relationship. I also reviewed a book for a colleague and taught two 15-week, online hypnosis classes to students.

But it was so hard to blog. This was partially due to working more on the novels, and collecting all the information I could about the pandemic, but also from being a member of that select group of people deemed disposable–seniors and disabled people who might as well die from Covid-19 according to the U.S. government (and let’s not forget the BIPOC who are also–always–treated the same way). It’s extremely demoralizing, not to mention dangerous, to live in such a nation. So in spite of the accomplishments I list above, there were many long hours and days when I could only curl up in sadness and worry (and binge watch The Untamed).

As the November elections neared, I couldn’t stop doomscrolling. In the county around me, anti-maskers and Covid deniers made loud, stupid noises–intimidating some members of the county board of supervisors and emboldening a sheriff who refuses to cite businesses who don’t comply with public health regulations. During a rare errand, I had a maskless woman walk into my personal space (less than six feet of social distance) and harangue me for worrying about catching Covid. I could not make her shut up or go away. The…ignorance…and entitlement…is literally breathtaking.

As this blog is mostly about esoteric and spiritual stuff, I guess I’ll mention that the torpor and isolation of pandemic life also took a toll on my daily practices. I often found it hard to muster the necessary focus and interest. Easier to just watch Wei Wuxian and Lan Zhan battle zombie “puppets” and evil masterminds while barely admitting their forbidden love. Looking back, I regret letting my daily practices wither–just when I needed them most–and am now trying to get back in the groove. And surprisingly, a new deity has appeared as a possible ally among the folks I already work with and I’m considering reconnecting with another spirit. I’m setting up altars again (after packing things away in anticipation of moving) and I’m dancing more. I badly need to recapture the range of motion, flexibility, and stamina I’ve lost during this long confinement.

I also want to mention the immense comfort and intellectual/spiritual insights offered by Daniel Foor via AncestralMedicine.com. His pandemic series (Bring Out Your Dead and Kindling the Need Fire) as well as his course in Animist Psychology have given me exactly what I needed during this time.

There are so many others–friends and influences–who have been a treasured part of my life during this period. I can’t mention them all. But here’s to my cats–Popoki, Niblet, Freya, Varda, Kia’i, Keola, and Arya–who are the best companions I could have in times both good and bad. It’s so wonderful to be part of a feline “pod.”

Finally, I’ll name my “most truest one,” the deity to whom I am oathed: Loki Laufeyjarson. He has “held the bowl” for me during the worst moments of 2020, and provides much needed inspiration, instruction, and humor as well. Hail!

☆☽☀️☾⭐︎

My Slim Book of Poetry

Hybrid Black Brassiere

By Amy Marsh, EdD, DHS, CH, CI, ACS

16 pages, published 12/8/2017

A collection of poems, plus a humorous short story based on the names of all winners of the Kentucky Derby up to 1999. By sexologist and writer Amy R. Marsh.

You can order my book, I Was a Hybrid in a Black Brassiere, through the above link. It’s slightly over $5 (shipping not included). Thank you!

Hypnosis for Comfort, Pain Management & Relaxation

So many people are hurting right now. If this free recording can bring some comfort to you, I will be glad. (Being a hypnotist is one of my day jobs.)

The script is adapted from Mark Jensen, Pain Management-Chronic Pain, Chapter 37 in the Handbook of Medical and Psychological Hypnosis, edited by Gary Elkins.

The music is royalty free:
Dewdrop Fantasy by Kevin MacLeod
Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3645-dewdrop-fantasy
License: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Fractal Flame. Public Domain.

Patiently: A Covid-19 Horror Story

Patiently

The children came first. It started with one child perched at the end of the flowered bedspread, holding the tall bedpost while jumping up and down, jiggling the mattress. Even the IV pole at the side of the bed wiggled a little.

The patient—obviously a man of importance, otherwise he wouldn’t be in this room—rubbed at his eyes and blinked. What’s this kid doing here? This kid! Tiny, large-eyed, brown, barefoot, a too-large t-shirt and a sagging disposable diaper half undone, skinny like he—or she—lived on scraps in an alley. And yet this kid still had enough energy to hop up and down on the bed, over and over again.

In spite of himself, the patient groaned. The bouncing bed made his chest hurt, made his arms and legs hurt. His head didn’t feel so great either. He fumbled for the call button. A red light blinked on.

The child continued to jump, now locking eyes with the man under the bedspread. The man shuddered, repelled. He’d spent his life avoiding children like this.

Where the hell is that nurse?

The kid continued to jump, up and down, staring with those big eyes.

Well finally! One of many nurses and one of many doctors entered the room. The child stopped jumping and disappeared. No, wait! Now the kid was hiding behind the big rose-colored armchair, watching him with those eyes.

“Get that kid outta here!” The patient could hardly say the words before a fit of coughing overtook him.

The nurse and doctor glanced at each other. The patient could almost read their minds. They think I’m hallucinating, he though indignantly. He tried to point at the chair, but his arm barely lifted from the mattress.

The nurse checked his vitals and tapped results into a bedside computer screen.

The doctor looked on. His cool glance was neutral. The man in the bed wasn’t used to anything but looks of fawning admiration, fear, or sometimes naked dislike—cool appraisal was something new. And didn’t his eyes look a bit like that kid over there? Brown. Brown eyes. Brown eyes with something unreadable in them.

The nurse whispered something to the doctor and left the room. The doctor adjusted the IV, checked the readouts on various machines, gave a small smile and left the room.

No one had done anything about that kid! And now he was back, jumping on the bed. This had to be some kind of plot. Yeah, his enemies had probably snuck the kid into his room. And the doctor and the nurse were behind it. Yeah.

The patient decided he’d no longer trust the doctor, or the nurse, and maybe not even the hospital. Could he get an airlift to one of his many properties? He’d get better there, he knew it. There were other doctors. Better doctors. Who could he call?

He tried to lift his legs to kick the kid. He shouted, “Damn you!” He shouted at least a hundred times. The kid kept jumping. His hands were dirty. He was smearing germs all over the bedpost, holding it like that.

The patient finally stopped shouting. Instead he was coughing, at least a hundred times, mouth open, gasping for air. Then a little girl crawled onto the bed. Where’d she come from?

Why did he have dirty children on his bed? Wasn’t this the best, the greatest, hospital in all the
land? The best, the greatest, for him?

The little girl watched the patient coughing, then gravely put her small feather-light hand on his lips. Every time he coughed he felt that small hand cover his mouth and then rise again. She watched for his coughs and then covered his mouth like a little mother rebuking an unsanitary child. Was she making fun of him? Who was she to cover his mouth like that?

The other child pulled a third kid onto the bed, another dirty kid. They held hands and jumped. The mattress shuddered and the patient moaned. He tried to grab the call button but a fourth child held it out of reach, laughing.

An aide came into the room carrying a meal tray. The children stood still and watched as she rolled a bedside table over and set the tray in front of the patient, then pressed the button to raise the bed so the patient could come sitting. She almost patted the patient on the shoulder by way of reassurance but at the last minute withdrew her hand. There was a look in her eyes then, something like the look the children had. She left the room. She didn’t do a damn thing about those kids!

Before he could lift his fork, the kids were all over his lunch, smearing it into their mouths with grubby little hands. The patient wasn’t that hungry anyhow—he couldn’t smell and taste like he used to—and anger took what was left of his appetite.

“How dare you?” he shrieked. He flailed at the kids with arms and hands that used to be strong enough to take what he wanted, but instead the children merely pushed his hands away with their finger tips. Finally exhausted he fell asleep, half waking every time he coughed.

Sometimes people came into the room to draw the curtains or open the curtains or take his pulse or give him medicine or food or ice chips. He hardly cared. The children never left and no one did anything about them either. All he could do was cough except for that one time he was able to waddle to the toilet before collapsing back into bed. The next day (was it the next day?) people with video cameras came and a man carrying a freshly dry-cleaned suit, shirt and tie. The patient waved them away.

And now it was like every time he coughed, more people came into the room. They weren’t all children anymore, either. They sat in the chairs. They sat on the side of his bed. They opened his closets. They shredded blank sheets of paper and threw Sharpies out the window. They overturned his meal tray, scattering flecks of lime jello across the rug. They let the children play with the lights, on-off-on-off, until the patient thought he was going crazy. And kids kept jumping on the bed.

They stared at him during sponge baths and painful enounters with bedpans. They stared during catheters and tubes. The children threw toilet paper out of reach, so that he had to have his tush wiped like a baby by brown-eyed nurses who looked at him like the children did.

“I knew social distancing was a hoax,” he thought, during one lucid moment. Those hospitals all lied. They let all kinds of people into intensive care! People dying alone? It was all fake news, fabricated by reporters with nothing better to do. And the experts were no better. No, all these people in his room right now merely proved he’d been right to carry on as he had, ignoring the masks and recommendations of sissy scientists. He’d show them. As long as there was a breath of life in his body, he’d get even. He was still the most powerful man in the world, wasn’t he?

Children stared at him as if they could hear his thoughts. The adults just watched him. Were they supporters? Enemies? There wasn’t a red hat in the room, so no, probably not supporters. But if they were enemies what were they waiting for?

The patient grew exhausted waiting for them to make the first move. The little girl no longer covered his mouth every time he coughed. People played card games at his desk, children clung to parents and cuddled in the armchair, and there were people passing their fingers over his body, leaving their initials and names imprinted on his very own flesh. If he could manage to turn on his side and stare at his arm, he would see hundreds—no thousands!—of names written in the smallest of scripts, like tattoos left by microbes.

And then one day, when he noticed a nurse passing through the thick crowd of visitors, he saw that when she drew the curtains, she was the only one with a shadow. And then he knew. It was his next move they were waiting for.

Patiently.

 

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