In a bigger way though, I don’t get why people make a fuss about it. If someone calls me a faggot, they’re saying I sleep with men, which I do. I’m not ashamed of that and I have no feeling of insult.

One might argue that a person who calls me a fag is also calling me weak, effemenite, swishy, or a host of other things. If a person calls me a fag they’re trying to invoke all the negative or insulting attributes of stereotypical gay men. I own my advantages and disadvantages, my failings and successes, and I choose which ones are positive traits and negative traits.

Words have power, whether or not we give it to them. The word faggot is chock full of power. But it’s my power. It’s a word that intersects with my sub-culture and gathers a tremendous amount of force, and that force does not belong to the people who use it as a weapon. It belongs to us as queer men and women. It cuts us because we invest it with the force to do so. I refuse to damage myself like that.

Often, when I refer to myself as a faggot people around me are surprised. Sometimes they are put off. Sometimes they are insulted for me. Sometimes they themselves are insulted. Every time it is an opportunity to teach people that I am not afraid or ashamed of the descriptions people give me. They are either true or not. If they are true, and I am ashamed, that means I have an issue I need to work on. If they are false, I have no reason to be hurt or ashamed by them.

This is part of a larger pattern of thought that I’ve been moving through lately. It’s a response to what I perceive to be a huge problem. I’ve had a few arguments with people lately about placing the blame on the wrong thing. The word faggot is not a problem. The problem is people who hate us.

We seem to make a habit of addressing our concerns by attacking the explicit instead of the implicit. They are certainly connected, but problems are usually rooted in the implicit. They’re rooted in an understanding, a philosophy, belief, or pattern. Changing explicit behavior does not always alter the implicit reality.

Correllation does not imply causation. Telling people not to use the word faggot does not stop people from discriminating against me or hating me. In truth, I suspect it makes them more likely to do so, and to do so in secret. On the other hand, recognizing that I am a faggot, makes a powerful statement that trying to supress the word does not.

It says that I own myself and my expression. It says that you can not shame me. It says that you do not have the authority to place moral judgment upon me. It says that I am not afraid.

I believe that the wide-spread challenges are the price we pay for taking this easy insulated road to avoid meeting the incongruence head on. Instead of recognizing and working inside the reality of difference, we run and hide. The price we pay for that weakness is the larger community problems and conflicts that inevitably arise. The price is compounded when that isolated community denies that the larger problems exist, or places the responsibility to recognize and address the issue solely on the shoulders of the normative culture.

The core thing that needs to be addressed here is meeting that incongruence on a personal level. While it’s not enough, the gay community recognizes this, that’s why coming out and staying out are some of the core experiences of many glbt individuals. I have very strong feelings on being honest and true to myself, but for now I’ll simply say that coming out as ‘other’ no matter what that ‘other’ is, is the simplest, most important step anyone can make towards accepting and reconciling their incongruence with the dominant culture. Doing so with grace, sincerity, honesty, and without fear are a bonus I think we should all strive for.

In the pagan community, many of my friends and acquaintances have a similar trouble with incongruence. In some ways we have it worse than the gay community. Not because we are in some way more discriminated against, but because our ‘otherness’ is often more difficult to accept. Homosexuality as otherness exists in the heart and body. It’s a difference of emotional and physical behavior at its core. For many pagans, this otherness is a far more vital difference. We have a fundamental difference of understanding in how the world works. I believe with every aspect of my being that there is far more to our understanding of the universe than our conceptualization of physics can begin to comprehend.

I believe in magic. I believe that I can and do change reality to conform with my thoughts and will on a regular basis. How do I bring that worldview into congruence with the rest of my community and larger culture? It’s a question I think deserves a lot more consideration than we generally give it. How can I interact with people who share radically different beliefs about how things work without either of us feeling uncomfortable, or being repressed by the incongruence of our realities?

Many people would say that the answer is to avoid the areas of our realities that don’t jive with each other. I think this is absolutely the wrong approach. I dare you to walk down Halstead, or through the Castro and tell the residents to try not to bring up the fact that their reality is fundamentally different than yours. I’d offer to wait but there’s good odds you’ll have to make a trip to the hospital, and I’m not that patient.

Pretending we aren’t different, or trying to ignore our differences doesn’t work. Just like isolation it serves only to breed misunderstanding and fear of those differences. Worse, by avoiding them, they can grow to seem very much larger than they may actually be.

Part 2: Finding Congruence will be written when I can find the time.

Fire. A shooting heat burns through my shoulder as I twist away from him. Fucker is strong. I yell and lose my breath as my body is shoved against the hard wall. Cold metal around my wrist. I push back, fighting away from the wall and he trips me. I hit the concrete floor with a thud and he’s on top of me, twisting my other hand back and the click-click of the handcuff is the only thing I can hear above the throbbing in my head.

“What the fuck!” I yell, trying to twist away as he pulls my head up by my hair. He forces me to my feet and shoves me against the wall again, pinning me there and twisting the handcuffs until my wrists burn. Smell of paint on the wall, then a faint musk as I’m thrown, almost bodily, onto the bed. “You can’t do this!” Fear now, heating behind my eyes, I can feel it trying to boil over, becoming anger. Faggot. How dare he?

I kick at him as he follows me onto the bed and he grabs my ankle. I flop around, landing on my wrists as I try to pull away. Disturbingly, he says nothing. I look at him, seeing a hunger in his face, almost a madness. It consumes the air around him, burning away the atmosphere like a black sun, ripping the pieces of the world from their proper places. I freeze, shocked, and he’s on top of me, weight pushing me down on my wrists as he forces my head to the side and digs his teeth into my throat. The pain is immediate and harsh and I cry out, bucking beneath him but his teeth and hands are vices above me.

Snap-click. Cold on my throat. When did I close my eyes? I open them, he’s staring at me, grinning ferally. The cold at my throat moves and I feel it prick my skin. Knife. I freeze as he moves the blade down and hear it cut through my shirt, the cotton giving way freely. He pulls the cut hard with his hands, exposing me to my waist, and forcing the remnants of the shirt down to my wrists. The place where he bit me feels like it’s bleeding, throbbing with my heartbeat.

He begins to get up, the strong length of his body levering above me. I kick at his nuts, and before waiting to see if I struck home I begin to turn my body, rolling off the bed. I turn and hit the floor with one foot, then the other and run for the stairs. He grunts angrily behind me, I daren’t look back.

I have to get the fuck out of here. All I can do is get up those stairs and out the door and I’ll be fine. He can’t do this to me. My foot strikes the first stair and I start up, then fall against the wall as my wrists are pulled up harshly, then down. I stumble down the stairs and he forces me against the wall. I must have missed the fuckers balls. I try to turn around but his knee is suddenly in the small of my back, pushing in hard. I hear the fabric ripping and being cut as he removes the rest of my shirt.

“What the fuck man! I’m not a fag. You’ll fucking die, I’ll kill you!” He presses all of his body to me against the wall, and bites me again, behind my left shoulder. Again I lose myself for a moment, the strength and fight seeming to drain out of me. My pants are being cut away. He says something about not moving if I don’t want to bleed. I hold still, keeping my eyes closed. Smell of paint, and now sweat. My own. Fear. I clench my fists and feel my nails biting into my palms. my pants fall away. He cuts away my briefs and unbidden, a plea for mercy bubbles up from my stomach, more a whimper then actual words.

He reaches around with one hand, pressing me against the wall again and grabbing my dick. I begin to pull away then freeze. Cold at my throat, I try to open my eyes, and find his face there. I open my mouth to tell him what I think of him, but the words die in my throat. Fucking faggot. Fudge-packing little homo bitch queer. How could he do this? His hand moves lower, and I stiffen as his fingers wrap around my balls. He squeezes, I remain as still as I can, my open mouth toning a sound of pain.

I close my eyes. “Why are you doing this?” I ask as he steps away from me. I feel suddenly cold, and shiver, trying not to think of the stairs to my left, of how close I am, but how far away. He grunts and begins to wrap something around my forearms above my wrists. Rough rope winds and winds and I blink back tears from my eyes, the situation beginning to set in. “Please.” I say.

The rope pulls tighter, roughing up my skin. Click-click, Click-click, then handcuffs come off. I twist my wrists and the rope burns them. “Because I can’t stand self-deluded little haters like you.” he says. His voice is surprisingly gentle. Like steel wrapped in fleece or cotton. Hard and unyielding, but with a softness that lulls. “Because I’m sick of watching you fill yourself with hate and spread it like a disease.” His hand on my ass and I realize I’m holding my breath, as if it really matters to me. “And mostly because I want to fuck you.” He squeezes and I shudder involuntarily, shaking my head violently and trying to pull away, but the strength is mostly gone out of me.

“No. Nonononononono.” I start shaking my head and screwing up my face in horror. He can’t do that. He won’t. I can’t let him. I start shivering all over, shaking my head violently and pulling away from his hand. Getting away isn’t even a thought. I just can’t comprehend what is going on here. I hide against the wall as if it would offer me shelter. There is no shelter though. I huddle down, crouching low against the wall and tucking my head under.

Suddenly I am back in school. I see the faggot in the locker room, turning his head away from his, hiding his face in the lockers, as if that would make a difference. His skin was so pale, I can make out every hint of a pimple on his cheekbone, the black hair wet from the shower hanging half-over his face. I hear him crying as my fist connects with his stomach. I pull on his hair. I can smell his tears. Something in my stomach uncoils, a serpent rising up to strike. Spontaneously I lick the tears from his cheek.

A slap to my cheek brings me back to the present. I look up at him, taller than me, and turn my face away. “No, please don’t.” He only responds by grabbing me by the hair and pushing me down onto the cold floor. More rope as he pulls my ankles together. I whimper quietly, too stunned to do anything, my mind being drawn back several years, but the cold of the floor too severe and present for my mind to escape.

When he’s done with my ankles he slaps my ass with one hand, and the sting pours through my body, racing along lines of energy beaded with sweat. He pulls me up to my knees. His hand tightens in my hair, pulling on it until my eyes roll back in my head. He punches me in the stomach and I begin to cry harder, clenching my eyes against the tears and then he bites me again, and I’m lost in the taste of my tears on my lips. .

My friends have left gone home. He looks up at me, brown eyes full with tears and pain, now curious. I pull his head back with his hair and scratch at his collar bone with my teeth and fingers. He moans and I punch him in the stomach again. The moan increases in volume. He leans, losing his balance. Half against me and half against the lockers. His body falls into me and I feel his cock, rock hard, against my hip.

I come back to myself and begin to struggle again. Pulling away from him and now he smiles. “Get away from me!” I yell, falling to the side as I try to pull away. He grabs my shoulder, his fingers digging into the places he’s bitten me and I cry out as he pulls me back up to my knees forcibly. Both hands on my shoulders he yanks my head back by my hair. He unzips his fly, the blue jeans bulging as he reaches in and pulls out his cock, full of life and ready.

“Don’t even fucking think about it faggot!” I say. “I’ll bite it off.” He lets go of my hair and slaps me suddenly across the cheek, then he is low, his breath against my cheek and my body kneeling up held against him, his other hand grabbing at my balls again, squeezing them.

“If you even think about it again I’ll cut your balls off one by one and feed them to you through a tube.” There is threat in his voice. My body shivers convulsively and he suddenly lets me go. I fall back, my ass hitting my heels and my head falling forward, hiding from him.

I tighten my hand in his hair and pull back, biting his throat and shifting his body to lean against mine. My hand goes around the back of him and my fingernails rake his spine, then dig into his ass. His eyes are closed and I let go of his hair, watching subtle changes in his expression as he presses against me. His hips twitch up further, he’s on the balls of his feet now. One hand on the lockers the other on my hip, clenching the waistband of my briefs. He opens his eyes.I see some sort of reflection there and the tears pour freely down his face. The scent of salt is maddening. Tears on his lips. He kisses me suddenly and I freeze, violently stunned. Faggot.

He puts his thumb on my lips. “Open up.” He says. I turn my head away from him. The head of his penis barely an inch away from my cheek. I lift my chin stubbornly. He chuckles and I feel his fingers gathering along my cheek, beads of my tears, which he rubs into his penis. Salt and precum in the air, a bubbling in my stomach. He turns my head back to him and presses the head of his cock to my lips. “Or else.” he says, low in his throat. So quiet I can not be sure he spoke at all. My lips part and he places the head of his cock on my tongue. “Now suck”

I bring my knee up into his crotch and he goes down with a deep moan. I grab the back of his head and pull, crouching down, wanting to see the tears, the taste of them still on my lips and in my mouth. His eyes are glazed over, and his mouth partway open. When the sense returns to his eyes a smile quirks the corners of his lips. I open the fly of my briefs.

His hand is on the back of my head now and he pulls me in. I choke, trying to pull back, and my gag reflex fires again and again. He pulls out slightly and I try to breath, to catch my breath, and he forces his way all the way back in until I’m sobbing and sweating and unable to struggle from lack of air and energy, and then he slides in and out slowly as I try to breathe, recovering myself. Then again, his penis is filling the back of my throat and the cycle continues. I wonder if this is about getting him off, or breaking me down. My wrists twist in the rough fibers and I moan.

I bit the flesh just inside his hip and he started to moan. “Don’t do this to me!” he said. He always said that. “I’ll do what I want faggot.” I said, hitting his balls with my open hand. I bit until I was happy with the mark. By this time he was crying. His hands were clenched in the bedsheets and his face screwed up with pain. I hit his balls again, hard this time, and slapped his stomach. His body arches up from the bed and I can hear the small noises he begins to make in the back of his throat.

“You like that fag, don’t you?” I say, and he nods jerkily, and again as his body settles to the bed, moaning. I can smell his cock and I climb on top of him, licking his face, nipping his cheek bones with my teeth. He giggles as though I’d tickled him and thrusts up against me. He grabs at my shirt, pulling it up until he can place his hands on my chest. I grab him and force him down, holding his wrists. I kiss his lips teasingly, “Fucking faggot. You’d like to see what’s under my shirt wouldn’t you?”

I can see he’s not in the mood for this. He whimpers but doesn’t lie. “Yes. Please!” He isn’t playing the game. I smile, all the better if he’s not actually in the mood. I bring my knee up and press it down against his groin. He shudders and his eyes close. “God no, I’m sorry! Nooo..”

I blink, delusional. I can breathe again. I’m panting and he’s biting my chest, teeth digging into my nipples and pulling on them. I cry out. “Stop! Owwwww!” And try to pull away, but he punches me in the gut. My new found breath escapes me and I double over onto him. He moves and pulls me to my feet by my hair. Shoving me onto the bed. “You’re going to get fucked now.” he says. I’m too weak even to fight back. But I try to roll over anyway, worming towards the other side of the bed. He grabs the rope at my ankles and pulls me back down until my ass is hanging over the edge of the bed. He slaps my ass hard and unties my ankles. Spreading them out and tying them to the legs of the bed.

I whimper and he says. “Doesn’t this seem familiar?” He chuckles and I moan as he pulls a piece of rope under my arms and ties it to the headboard, preventing me from straightening up at all. He tightens it until it hurts and I begin to whimper steadily. He hits me on the ass with something hard, a paddle maybe. I jerk, surprised. This is new. He chuckles and hits me again and I start to sputter words. “Stupid faggot, what the hell. You need to soften me up before you fuck me? Stop, no, ow! Stop it!” It goes on and on, I can feel myself bruising.

I leaned harder against him until the pain is so great he can’t make any more noise, then I reached up above him and pulled the piece of clothesline out from under his pillow. He’d stolen it from his mothers basement. I eased up on him as I tied his wrists together, tightly, and then abruptly climbed off of him entirely. I pulled on his wrists and dragged him the rest of the way up the bed, his ragged breathing shallow and fast as I tied his wrists to the metal posts of the headboard. I climbed back on top of him then, and bit his nipple as hard as I could without ripping it off. He screamed and I slammed my hand over his mouth. My fingernails scratched down over his ribs and stomach, over the turn of his hips and down his thighs.

I slapped his cock until he stopped moaning from it and then squeezed it as if I were strangling a snake. All the while, “god no, please, why no, it hurts, i hate you, you fucking hetero mother fucking breeder piece of shit. Stop, it hurts, I can’t stand it. god damn it just get me off already. No I’m not in the mood I don’t want this I want to cum you fucker, stop, just let me go!” All the begging just made me meaner. I can never tell if he whines to make me crueler, or if some part of him really wants me to stop. Still, when I turned him over and lengthened the rope tying his wrists to the headboard so his hips were over the edge, his body responded with a parting of his legs and a thrusting of his hips. I turn him over onto his stomach.

I’ve stopped yelling at him. I don’t know if I lost my voice, or if I just forgot to keep protesting, but my ass and thighs were burning and felt as though they must be twelve shades of purple. Smell of my tears on the sheets, damp, and the sound of him behind me. I moan “Why?” “To hurt you.” he says. My shoulders and elbows are on fire and I twist a little, trying to ease the pressure. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” I start to plead. Whatever he wants he must already have had it. He couldn’t really want to fuck me. “Don’t do this to me, Not anymore.”

Sound of a condom wrapper, the squish of lubricant. Something breaks inside of me. I jerk fiercely against the ropes and cry out in pain and terror. I start to shiver and pull, ignoring the pain, determined to break free of this, to get away from him. Suddenly his hand is in my hair, pulling me back and his knees are to either side of my hips, and he bites me. My body freezes, all the pressure and fear draining out of me, transfixed by the sensation shooting through me. I let out a purgative roar and collapse against the bed as he releases me.

I use a condom. I know it will never be like this time again. His ankles are tied to the legs of the bed frame with more clothesline, spread apart. I put a pillow under his hips and knead his ass with my hands. “Oh god no, I’m not ready for this. Don’t do this!” he starts babbling as I open the condom. He starts to struggle, causing the bed to creak and shake and I soothe his body. His speech degenerates into a bubble of moans and pleasure sounds as my lips and teeth and tongue find the soft parts of his back and shoulders. Finally his breathing settles and I press a lubricated thumb against him. Pushing in until I hear a low moan. “You like that don’t you faggot?”

He nods and whimpers, and I smile. You won’t for long, I think. Something clicks inside me as I place the tip of my dick against the cleft in his ass. A part of me already regrets what I’m about to do, but most of me knows that if it’s not rape, it won’t satisfy either of us. The pain and ordeal is what makes it meaningful. I put just a little more lube on my cock and then nicely softly massage him, letting him think it’s going to be easy. I rub my cock against him until he relaxes enough to think it won’t be so bad. Then, after just the tip of me is in with that slow pressure and easing, I pierce him like the sun through the clouds. His yell is somehow subsonic, and his tears leave my eyes.

He is raping me now, harder than I raped him. I wonder if I’m bleeding. My body is in some sort of mysterious shock that scares me and drives me happily wild. The sex is fierce, and my protests have long since been burned away by the heat of his body against my ass, by the pain and bruising and the sheer feral passion that rolls over us. I bite the sheets, angry that there is nothing else to get my teeth on, and taste my tears. I am blind with sensation, I hear his body, his blood pumping in my veins, smell only my own heat and the mix of my fear and pain. I am beyond my ability to process this experience and so I ride it, surging on the swell of his body, my heart echoing his beats until I don’t know where the lines between us are anymore.

I lick his wrists, deep marks from the rope, from where he struggled so hard when he realized I wasn’t going to stop. He is in my arms on the floor, the pillows and sheets piled up around us. I was afraid that somehow I’d broken him, but there was some sort of glow coming off his skin now, and it was brighter in his eyes. His head was on my chest and I sucked blood back into the skin of his wrist. He pushes his head against me, as if trying to climb inside me, and I stroke him softly, fingers parting his hair in sweaty clumps. I tug on it and he turns his face up to mine as his arm wraps around me.

He finishes and walks away, leaving me there, sobbing silently in pain and anger and fear. I hear the condom hit the garbage. Then the pressure on my arms is gone as he cuts through the rope. He unties my ankles, then my wrists. I don’t move at all. he covers me with a sheet, and suddenly I’m cold, and I pull my body in around myself, wrapping the sheet around me, and then he’s there too, cradling me in his body. He strokes my temple and body until I am no longer cold, and the warmth of his body reminds me of life. I press against him, needing assurance, needing presence, feeling strangely alone in my body. He kisses me, his hands in my hair, and I’m no longer alone. I blink, and smile, and tension that I didn’t know was there vanishes into the ether.

“Thank you.” I whisper, smiling up at him. My hands stroking his arm and shoulder now, caressing him.

“Thank you” he says, and we kiss again. I grin at him. “What is it?” he asks, a twinkle in his eyes.

“That hurt.” I say solemnly, and grin in what feels like a goofy manner.

His smile is small, something fragile, but it carries the weight of his eyes and he wiggles his ass against me. I kiss him, and lose myself in the taste of salty tears, and the kiss that he gives back. When I open my eyes again he says “Thank you.” and I whisper “You’re welcome.” His eyes glimmer with something impish inside. His smile becomes a grin. “What?” I ask.

“ow.” he says in all seriousness, then bursts into a fit of giggles.

Her world, like ours, is flawed. It’s inhabitants are flawed. The very truth of these flaws, their honesty, is refreshing and powerful, but the real beauty comes from an understanding of one of the few truths I hold dear. The power to love is the gift that redeems us as citizens of this universe. All our greatness comes from our emotion, and it is in love that we stand silently victorious over the chaos of the world.

“How She must love us, To share with us all, to give us so very much — I can’t understand it. Just for my own part, even. What incredible thing have I done, or will I do, to earn — to deserve such, such blessing, so much love….”

“You’re reason enough, And besides, She cherishes what’s returned. What could we possibly give the Mother that She couldn’t make better Herself, except love? She could make us love Her — but it wouldn’t be the same.”

This is the Goddess who I want to know. This is the power of a Creatrix, a force of life and love. And where is she to be found in our mythology?” Many names seem close, but who embodies the spirit of love and creation in such a way without also driving headlong into our human flaws?

As Duane writes, our greatest flaw may be that we turn our backs upon the blessings we are given. We consistently beg for love, and then scorn the package it comes in. Some of my own truest moments of suffering have been when I have offered love (with no strings or physical demands) and found the person I was loving unable to see or accept my love. If there is a God or Goddess who transcends our petty failings and selfishness, how must our rejection make hir suffer?

In the last pages of the book Herewiss, the main character, finds himself communing with his Goddess.

(Hearn was right all the time,) he was saying to the night. (Always he used to tell me, ‘When you’re praying, don’t beg the Goddess. What mother can stand hearing her children whine at her? Talk to Her, tell Her what’s on your mind. You’ll always get answers back. Lie to Her and you’ll get lies back — but tell Her the truth and you’ll find solutions.’ And he was right. There is a part of each of us that is part of You — I just never really saw it until last night — and though it speaks in one’s own voice, there is no mistaking the source of the answer.)

Your father is a wise man, the reply drifted back after a while.

Herewiss nodded.

(Herelaf wouldn’t tell me what he was for,) he said. (There can, of course, be no deception on that last Shore — and he did tell me that he might not have been finished. Which leaves me with a conclusion that I find a little frightening. Was he trying to tell me that what he was for — was specifically to be my brother, to die on the end of my sword — and so to begin the events that ended in last night? To make me into what I am now? Was that it?)

The silence drifted around him for a long time.

(It’s not an answer that I like,) he said.

It is the answers we dislike the most, came the reply, that usually have the most truth to them.

(But, Mother, it isn’t fair! Not to him, not to me –)

He knew what the answer was going to be. It was spoken with a little smile, a sad one. Who ever said anything was fair, son of Mine? That’s My fault, and every time I hear that cry, it goes straight through Me. But next time. Next time –

He nodded, sighed. (I’m sorry, Mother, I really feel guilty about complaining. I have so very much: the Fire, my Name… and Yours too. That’s what I’m for — to find Your Name, as much as to find mine.)

That’s a start.

(You’re looking too,) he said in sudden realization. (But it is through we who live that You look. And when all who live find their Names, and all the other pieces of Yours–)

Silence. A star fell.

Herewiss smiled. (My life had been so pointed toward one thing, that I guess I panicked — I was afraid there would be nothing left for me to do. Beorgan’s mistake…. But if this is true, if I am for seeking out Your Name wherever it is to be found, and freeing it, I’m going to be awfully busy. This is a big world….)

… (Mother, mightn’t You have chosen better for the first man to have Flame in all these years? The Fire won’t lessen my flaws — they’ll get bigger, if anything. And even with all this Power — and I know I have much more than the average Rodmistress — can I really change the world that much, will I really be worth it? There’s so little time, so little of me –)

That, and the voice came firmly as that of a mother taking a sharp knife away from a child, that evaluation I reserve for Myself. By the common conception of it, humankind doesn’t consider something “worth it” unless they get their investment back, preferably with a profit. By this criterion, most of the Universe is “not worth it.” But I know — as do all the others who care — and the voice smiled at Herewiss — that it is often necessary to give and give and not get back in any way save the knowledge that the worlds are better for it. Freelorn is right, in that respect. Beaneth was right. Beorgan the doomed was right, so were Earn and Healhra and all the others. They knew they were doomed, but they did the right thing anyway, trying to make the world a little better.

The voice sighed. Valiant absurdity, lost causes, such things may be doomed to incompletion and failure of one kind or another, but they are none of them “wasted.” Judge these things by whether they will prolong the Universe’s life, or bring joy to what I made, and that is their worth. All things must die, but I will not scatter My poor botched creation like a child kicking over a misbuilt sandcastle. I will make it work the best I can.

Herewiss nodded.

(What shall I do now?) he asked.

You’re asking Me? Herewiss could feel a grin stirring somewhere. What should I do?

He grinned back. (Share the gift. Defy the Death.)

The answer was silence.

Share the Gift. Defy the Death.

I can not say I share the authors obsession with entropy. I can’t imagine a universe without the cycles of life and death on grand scales and smaller ones. But the sentiment does not rely on an agreement. Defiance is one of our other noble qualities as humans. Our courage and strength to defy the things that are anathema to us is part of what defines us as a race.

Share the gift. Defy the death.

It’s a reminder to love unconditionally. To love truly and deeply, not with the knowledge that it will cause you suffering, but in defiance of the suffering you know it will cost you.

Our traditional concept of worth is petty and small, and the Goddess reminds Herewiss that creation is a much beigger place, and that our notion of worth is best left to matters equally petty and provincial. When dealing with the cosmic scale, it has no relevance.

Something that I haven’t mentioned, because in the grand beauty of love it seems so small, is one of the most gorgeous outgrowths of this philosophy of love. The culture of the people in the book has no concept of sex as we do. In truth, I don’t think the words “sex” or “marriage” occur in the text once, although the characters share themselves quite liberally, and do occasionally form lasting binary relationships.

The world seen here knows that love is not a matter of gender. It knows also that the act of sharing is not a dirty or shameful one. It is an act of love, and an expression of our joy in each other. While the time-tested themes of jealousy and possessiveness come up a time or two, they seem less than the norm.

Many of the characters in the book pair off eventually, but even in their pairs, there seems to be a general acceptance of sharing being beautiful and welcome outside their diads. Our language does not have an accurate term for the attitude this culture has about sex, but I wish it did, because it is the utopian understanding that I dream of when I dare to dream big.

You are not alone. No matter what you are told, or how deep your fears, you are not alone. There are others who know how you feel, who have suffered as you suffer, and who have come through it.

Never be ashamed of who you are. The world will try to make the very words that define you into an insult. Gay. Faggot. Homo. Pride means owning and loving your self-image. Do not be insulted by the truth, and don’t be baited by lies.

If someone can not accept who you are, they are broken. It has nothing to do with you. Love them as hard as you can, and offer healing, but know that you can not force them.

Many who dwell in dogmas will tell you that queer people have a special gift. I can not confirm or aver the accuracy of this dogma, but I can tell you that our circumstances create opportunities for us that few others have. We suffer at the hands of our culture and religion, and that suffering tempers and hones our compassion. Our compassion, our ability to ease the suffering of others, is our greatest strength, even though it may seem to be a curse. Cultivate compassion with every breath and experience.

Do not be fooled by the fantasy that the nebulous ‘they’ are filled with hate and are out to get you. ‘They,’ are people just like you and I, and ‘they,’ are probably trying their best to do the right thing. Forgive them their errors and meet their ignorance with compassion, sincerity, and the simple truth of yourself. It is within your power to rise above the culture of ignorance and hate. Do not cultivate in yourself that which you decry in those that hurt you.

Find a creative outlet. You do not need to be a master painter, or lauded poet. You need be nothing other than yourself, but if you do not create something with the results of your suffering you will either explode or implode from the pressure. You do not need to show what you’ve created to anyone, but I encourage you to do so, it is often therapeutic.

Never conform. Do not try to be someone you are not, either in conformity to the predominant culture of your home, or in conformity to the pressures of the gay community. Stand for your own beliefs, your own life, and your own desires. You may lose some friends this way, but those who are attracted to your sense of self will be worth far more than any naysayers.

And finally, if you are ever in doubt, remember that you are beautiful, and you are strong, and you are loved.

In love,

theo geer

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the past lately. A large part of being able to safely perform Goetic operations is controlling your own demons. The injuries and injustices of your past, along with your own blunders and wrongs.

From about fifth grade on I was pretty much universally known as the fag. Needless to say, this was very painful to me. It was especially painful to me being a very self-absorbed and private boy who had few friends. Even more so being as sheltered and insulated as I was. I didn’t know what a fag was, not really. I knew it was wrong, and dirty, and a nasty name. I didn’t know that fucking men was an option. If I had, I like to think that I would have realized I was gay and come out of the closet many years before I did.

Anyway, I spent a lot of years being the pariah. The outcast. The fag. And though I like to think I’ve overcome many of the tortures and memories of those years, the truth is that they have shaped a great deal of the person I am today. My devotion to protecting and helping gay youth, to organizations like the Trevor Project. My unyielding stance that homosexuality is no more or less than another variety of existence, and my refusal to let anyone shame me for my sex.

A lot of really positive traits have grown from the years of abuse I endured at the hands of my peers, and the blind-eyes of the faculty. But there are very deep wounds as well. When I spoke to Amatheon about those wounds he had much to say. The one thing he repeated over and over again, that I remember more than anything else is “No matter how deep the damage, your wounds can heal.”

I’ve come back to that statement more than a few times in the past year. I’ve looked at the damage that was done to hy heart, and I’ve realized that I’m not to blame for it. But I’ve yet to prove that statement true. As much as I want to believe it, I do not KNOW that I can be healed.

Something Coriander said to me earlier this evening (yesterday now) resonated with all of this. One of the core benefits of disciplined practice of ceremonial magic, of goetic operations, is the balancing of chaotic forces in your life. The skills needed to perform Ceremonial Magic well lend you authority in balancing the various forces in your life.

Coriander, in his wise-fool way said something along the lines of “It’s not about ‘Oh, this will balance my chaos so I’ll do that.’ It’s about ‘here I am doing what needs to be done. Oh! look, my chaos is balanced.’”

He’s right. I can’t go into things planning to fix the uncontrollable influences. Chaos is chaos because it can not be predicted. Balancing it is a function of an ordered experience in life, not of an effort to balance it. Similarly, I think I’m finding that the truth in Amatheon’s statement, not through finding methods to heal myself, but through observing that healing is happening. I don’t really know how. I know I don’t cry every time I think about those times anymore. (Sometimes I still do, but not every time.)

I’m also realizing that healing those wounds can not be the goal. They are too deep, too much a part of the person I’ve become to be approached directly. Their healing must be the result of life and learning.

One lesson I’ve learned, perhaps one of the most important lessons of my life, is that my concept of self may not be dependent upon those around me. It is a hard lesson to learn, particularly when one adores praise as much as I do. It is an even harder lesson to practice. Distancing myself from the long-standing pattern of feeling as though I’ve failed if I’m not stroked for my achievements is something that I struggle with every day.

It is even harder to accept praise with humility and gratitude, particularly when trying not to depend on it. It would be far easier to pretend not to hear it, or demean it’s value or intent. Of course doing so would be a rudeness and disrespect that I’d prefer not to commit.

And so it goes.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been rather absurdly horny for the last couple of days. Yesterday all I could think about was sex. Sex and violence. I wanted all day to grab some cute guy by his hair and bite down on his neck or shoulder, and scratch his back or chest. There is that smell of sweat that men have and women don’t. Women smell of the deep forest when they get heated. They smell of nature, of the earth. Men smell of heat. They taste like pain and a violent thunderstorm. The heat of a man is like nothing else in this world.

The pain is part of it. When a man is hurting he radiates heat and energy and scent. His skin starts to glow and sweat seeps from every pore. His eyes get glassy. If you hurt him enough he begins to make noises that people don’t normally make. Enough that his body shudders and squirms with energy that needs to be released. You can feel it boiling off his skin, puddling like sex on the floor at your feet. The smell of it can blind you to anything else, and there is nothing in your world but that heat.

I did mention that I’m horny right?

Going to dinner with John tonight, gonna meet all his on-campus friends. The ones that think Ceann Uide and his North-Side friends are some mysterious illusion, possibly dangerous. I don’t know that I’ll break them of their thoughts of danger, but they’ll figure out that I’m not illusion that’s for sure. I’m about ready for a nap already. I haven’t even gotten to work yet, and I’m ready to sleep. I am considering breakfast.

I have been spending a lot of time thinking about my sex life lately. Rather, my lack thereof. I’m not going to start ranting about my lack of a bed partner at the moment. That’s one thing that I feel pretty confident time will fix. But I have been thinking about who I am, and why my sensory experience has the weird quirks it does.

One of my oddities makes perfect sense. I’m synesthetic. I perceive things perceptually with more than one sense. For instance, I hear light. I don’t mean that my ear-drums are sensitive to photons, and that the light activates my sense of hearing. I mean that things I see register as sight, and regularly as sound as well. Most of the sound registry is entirely ignorable, but if there is no other sound, or if the light is particularly bright or concentrated, I hear the light very distinctly. Synesthesia makes sense, because I’ve spent years developing it. It wasn’t really intentional, but it is a common side effect of trying to hone all your senses. They begin to work in tandem with each other. As your senses become more keen, and aware of the subtleties of the world, they also join one another, working in harness together. I know other people have had similar experiences, but I’m not sure how common it is. I suspect lots of mystics get it, but that’s really just speculation.

But what about my sybriantism? ( adoration of physical sensation ) I love touch of any and all variety. Any contact is powerful to me, meaningful, and beautiful. It doesn’t matter if it’s conceptually pleasant, or conceptually unpleasant. I revel in the activation of my sensory receptors. When someone meaningful to me touches me, I feel alive. And it feels good even when it hurts. In fact, when it hurts, it feels better usually.

More when I have time.

Dear Mr. Sanchez,

Thank you for your book Rainbow Boys, and for the rest of them (which I will be reading shortly).

I, like so many gay men, did not have the resources, awareness, or support of a community during my adolescence. For me, the result of this has led to years of discovery, exploration, and an intense focus on supporting and healing the wounds of the gay community, most particularly I feel drawn to the support of gay youth.

Having finished Rainbow Boys today, I say with only slight sadness that I wish I had been able to read it when I was in High School. I have long since grown to forgiveness and even found strength in the challenges I faced growing up, but there is always this part of me that would like it to have been different.

Reading your portrayal of strong, scared, courageous, and loving young men touches a part of me that cherishes the strength we must each find to write our own coming out stories, every day of our lives. It reminds me that the world changes, through the efforts and work of every brave child, through the shared suffering of generations, we are changing things for the better. I am reminded how much work there still is to do, and how many scared, loving young men there still are in this world today.

Thank you for reminding me that the stories don’t always end badly, and that sometimes, they end rather nicely. Thank you for helping to bring resources and courage to young men everywhere, for helping them to realize that they aren’t alone. It is words like yours that give me hope for myself, and my family.

Ta kya te, (My heart is open to you)

Theo Geer