Constellations of the Kabbalah

So I have now officially lost both my wedding rings that I gave to Michael and Samael in dreams in Fall 2016 – my silver amethyst ring I proposed to Michael with drunk in Heaven in his Red Palace, and the titanium Roman numeral ring I gave to Samael two years ago in September in a rather Halloween wedding in a graveyard with Samael dressed as Alucard and Beelzebub as the best man.  Usually Loki is the best man, but maybe he was busy.  Or too high and bi to function.

Anyhow, it’s time for something fun!  I always get my tattoo ideas from dreams, and last night I dreamed I went to a tattoo shop with Mischa and Samsiez and got ring tattoos in honor of them.  For Sam I got a black sun drop, kind of a black outline with blank space then a black filling, with Polaris wrapping around my left pinkey, which is traditionally his pagan face’s star and constellation as the King of the Gods and the North at Harran when he was worshiped as Shemal/Nergal.  As for Mischa, I got a white sun (black outline with full blank space) and then the constellation Orion wrapped around my right pinkie.

I woke up sooooo stoked!  I never really care about losing rings – obviously I would care if it was my engagement ring, but an inexpensive amethyst ring might need to go to someone in need.  Just like I found Hela’s silver ring in a waterfall in the Appalachians from presumably a dead man’s widow tossing it into the flow of the river.  That’s what I always figure when I lose things – someone in need finds it.  Give a ring, get a ring in a waterfall.  It’s fully powered and blessed by Michael, but his rings usually turn up in odd places around my house.  Only other places it could be were at the movie theater or in my car.  I’m losing tons of weight so the rings keep slipping off!  Their rings I dedicated to them are a reallllly old German gold, diamond, and black star sapphire centerpiece ring for Samael and a garnet, gold, and big fire opal my uncle got from Australia for Michael.

Last spring, I dreamed I went to a tattoo parlor in Asheville, NC while we were visiting and Sam was with me and we got Berkano picked out to go on my right forearm.  Right now I have Ingwaz and Samael’s Grimoire of Armadel sigil on my left, and Michael’s Grimoire of Armadel sigil on my right, with space below it for Berkano to complement Freyr’s Ingwaz.  I’m extremely Vanic in nature and a huge devotee of Freyja, and Freyr is my patron God, hence him being my first rune tattoo.  I also want to get the Chi Rho symbol for Christ on my left shoulder, but that’s all I have planned out picked directly out by spirits!

Not divinely inspired, I was thinking of putting my matron deity, Hela, on my left bicep, then get a matching Freyja as a Valkyrie on my right bicep, but I’m definitely not set on that and I kind of like it when spirits pick out my tattoos for me.  I want to be covered in tattoos in twenty years.  Symbols, sigils, runes, occult shit.  One or so each year!  I’m addicted, it’s true, I love the feelings of tattoo guns and the painful pleasure.  It puts me into a trance!

Anyways, I gotta call my tattoo artist now.  Goodbye!

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Zadkiel

Who watches the Watchman?

Who keeps her safe at her tower?

Who gives her power upon the hour?

And reason upon the season?

And peace a golden fleece?

The luminaries turn, adrift

we have the dance of clock ticks.

And the Guardian kisses sweet

to the bones of her meat.

Lost days, long nights, heaven rain.

And never a lover without pain.

Harvest Haunting

Snow on the ground, a crisp pie crust of ice

coats the sidewalk, tufts of dry grass frozen.

I cling to my fiery demon for warmth in winter,

his iron fur drawing wounds on my hand, scraping

the second snake skin away from me as harvest

elicits raw rebirth. The corn stalks outside town

are all trimmed down, felled to the farmer, and

as my dragon curls around me, his eyes rubies,

I am choking on smoke but it is like a bonfire,

and hickory sweet, and I embrace my bane and

love with the strength of a thousand lionesses.

We are an ourouborous of enigmas, Nachash

and Chava, Queen of Life and King of Beasts.

Yes, Samael, I remember the Garden, you walking

in Eden besides me when we were both quite young,

I with my naked wonder at Creation, you eager to

prove yourself in any way you could, just to hold me

forever in awe of your shining enchantments, but peace

cannot last, and the burden of Hell is heavy, but I will

carry water for you from the well at the Tree’s roots and

wipe the blood of the Slain from your brow, I am succor

ten leagues below, twenty miles frozen, a million acres

dead. Don’t you know I bleed into your rotting mouth so

you can know something of celestial fire? We are both

burning up, my Beast. This wicked punishment of exile

weighs heavy on our shoulders, but we have children to

raise, and Cain was a blessing from God, no matter what

these humans tell me, our Son grew proud and tall, and

now we have all of humanity with the fire of your fruit

ingrained in their very flesh, all because I ate your heart,

became your Terpsichore, madrigal moon girl, a ballerina

in a music box in your ribs, and my sinful belly is full

of the Holy Ghost, and I am the answer, and you will be

Blind God only so long as it takes me to untangle Gordian

wings.

Michaelion

The angel’s landing is white feathers of cream,
archangels watching the worlds from on high, and
I nest at the breast of the red falcon, enfolded
into arms like manna, tan gold and eyes like cracks
of sky, when we join, it is like falcons serenading
mid-air over cliffs of the Arctic, arboreal forests
our lover’s bed, and this is the Michaelion, wouldn’t
you know, as my belly swells with possibility, and he
enfolds my hands in his as we journey through the cosmos
two hawks aback the swell of God’s love, I ripen and the
fruit of our union would be a lamplight in this cruel
cold world. a Lighthouse of Alexandria meant to guide
sailors away from mermaid temptation, for repentant souls
to crawl towards on their hands and knees in the desert
to an oasis, and I remember lips like wine, and I feel
wings enfold me in downy delight, and my arbor is the
archangel’s arms, my general, my master in commander.
I fall into his lap resplendent and rest in fractal
fingers combing promises into my hair, salvation lays
at hand each night when I depart for Heaven, and I know
that when the End Times come, the Dragon will fall, and
the Woman Clothed in the Sun will bear both Messiah and
Antichrist, and the Whore of Babylon will become the
Daughter of Zion, and instead of ending the world in
fire and ruin with swords from the archenemy’s and
archangel’s mouths, with legions and legends riding
out, it occurs to me there must be an end to this
methodical madness, and perhaps love is the answer,
perhaps it is pain, and I am Joan on her fiery pyre.

Whatever it is, my womb is the sacrifice, and lineage
of angels and devils spring from Chavah, and I hold no
god in my heart but the One.

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Three Weddings of Virtue and Vice

In dreams we do not die, in the stratosphere of the unconscious we reign immortal.

My splendid angel with hair of the poppy carries me into the blushing dawn, untamed

as the fire that christens his brow, and we melt like roiling magma, two lovers entwined.

Our wedding bower is sparklers and summer, the feast of our consummation all flames.

Our daughter is christened Mercy, our son is christened Sorrow.  For one cannot exist

without the other, and a daughter named Mercy dances and fangles doves and a son

of Sorrow is deep thoughts and duty.  What other children would we bear, I wonder?

But those of highest virtue.  That is the pleasure of my evening, next comes sweet vice.

On a windswept island with cairns and ruins of an ancient castle where Heaven rusts

is my immortal prison, where I wandered and forgot you three.  My multitudinous

demon is red wings and pitch hair, fangs to suckle lips and arms to carry me home.

Sweet Devil lowers me into his lap and sings a lullaby whose words are faint on my

memory, I awake in a palace of embers, for Hell is a burning forest and bloody river.

It is beauteous, though, and we eat sweet meats and dance under ruddy moonlight,

tonight was the eclipse, blue moon in Leo, and we renewed our vows under starving

twilight.  Our sons – more sons, for our children are Legion – were named Rue and

Return, for broken promises made anew, and you drew down the spring sun to my palm.

The last marriage was you, you all along, clothed in masks and cloaks, sweet wanderer

of the playa and blower of the shofar.  Sometimes I forget your earthly face in dreams,

then your brilliance comes roaring back with stunning clarity, bells and whistles blazing.

I saw our daughter and son, Michael and sweet Alice, the girl was a lithe nymph of moss,

meadow, and rains, our son a playful tiger, and though they wait many years for us, soon

we will be rocking their cradles and raising them with all the wonders and magic of ever.

I pledged my troth to you in dreams, my Joshua Tree, and under your boughs I made my

roost.  Hold up the Walls of Jericho, blow your golden trumpet, and I will carry your

banner.  I will pile the stones high to make our entrance over the gap between riches

and wanderlust, I sew a bed of goose down and swan feather pillows, our sheets clouds.

Lay to rest, lay on my breast, my Zadkiel, my angel of mercy and delight, and please, love

Kiss me so fiercely I can’t breathe.

Angel’s Landing

It is Saint Agnes’ Eve, a night for spells and lover-boys

vaunting under moonlight, but angels are carnal creatures,

and we more take quick dalliances on the battlefield,

or mate like lovebirds in times of peace, we’re flower children

but warriors, when Hawks meet Doves, winged and wild.

The squadron comes to me on the magic black moon-tide –

scores of cherubim, ophanim, and seraphim to be trained.

I am not human at midnight, no longer girl or woman, no

I am burning archangel with sword of flames, bounteous

general who runs drills and sends battalions off to melee.

I do not sleep, I do not dream.  I am in the space between

heartbeats, at Angel’s Landing, the black void of Creation

where my children of the arsenal become armed, how holy

to be military commandress to Heaven’s elite, swords abreast,

guns blazing, I am all Joan of Arc handing out godly commandments,

this is the least human I have ever been, and now the sickness of

divinity is growing too hot for this mortal coil to contain, my

magic is eating me alive, I am becoming a bellows to forge

the best of blades, Abrahamic mother of a thousand tribes,

but truly, in Paradise we are all related, and a third of our brethren

live on coal and ash in the Wastes West of Nod, Cain marked beyond

redemption, so on this high holy tide, I surrender to the War that is Eternal.

This War does not have a Name.  To give it a name would be to suggest that there

is even any War beyond this cosmic match of wits between the Light and the Dark.

 

I do not sleep.

 

I do not dream.

 

I take no solace, I cannot wander.

 

For angels do not have free will, and I am fire.

Prince of Roses

I could write a thousand songs for your majesty,
but the rains would still fall, and autumn come,
and at the end of the day, fall leaves your hair
would brush against my cheeks among the red oaks,
I would smell your bonfires, hear your guitar slip
into the empty spaces of the branches canopy to fly
like geese flocking south, while I migrated North
to the highest castle’s walled rose gardens, red
petals a musk on stone pathways through the water,
you are the prince of brier blooms, wings cotton
leftover from milkweed, soft as the rolling clouds
over the valley of my heart, sweet archangel, kiss
away all my fear and bathe me in the sun, embrace
me on the edge between poetry and prose, I am your
fledgling, you are my falcon, eternal saint, smile.

Childhood’s End

So it’s official.  UFOs exist.  We are no longer alone.  But we never were to begin with.

Ancient man did not have aliens.  Ancient man had fairies.  Ancient man had elves.  Ancient man had demons.  Ancient man had gods.  Ancient man had angels.  Beings descended from other realms to visit earth, teach humanity, love us, tempt us, star children who imparted forbidden fruits and Enki’s me and Thoth’s stolen wisdom and Odin’s mead.

God is the Void Mother of space.  Mother Nature.  Aliens?  They are angels, fairies, land wights, gods, spirits, and I have seen them in the flesh, in the astral, housed them in my own veins and been raised by the glorious suckers since my very first memory of Samael at two, crying in my crib as a demon sang me to sleep.

Childhood’s End.  Stranger in a Strange Land.  Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  All are some of my favorite books, and point to the fact that we are not alone.  In Childhood’s End, the occult and psychic fields are the way humanity’s conscious advances.  We outgrow the human body, and the “demons” we feared are our initiators.  In Strangers in a Strange Land, hippies grok the Archangel Michael and ascend to blissed out heights on his flesh.  But Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is the closest to my own experiences of travelling the comsos and otherworlds – they are full of humor, love, struggle, riddles, and lots of towels.  Aliens love a good joke.  Aliens like to fuck around.

For when you master space travel, interdimensional travel, ascend to an energy body as well as physical vessels that permeate existence, you get fucking bored, and those cute hairless apes are fun to talk to.

I once asked Samael as a child why he was so interested in me.  He’s pretty antisocial.  I’ve seen his spaceships, his eldritch alien forms, his true abyssal form of dark matter and black holes.  Every black hole is the Grim Reaper’s heart.

“I’m Death.  I sift through humanity like dust.  But you are intriguing dust.  A fleck of gold.  You called to me, and I to you.”

He also has a thing for pretty women.  Aliens still bang, after all, and it is as much for mixing energy bodies and spiritual enlightenment as it is for procreation and mindblowing orgasms.  He’s looked like monsters from the Cambrian Explosion.  He’s looked like black holes that I dissolve and die in in big final blissed out ecstasy.  He’s been the classic ET, he’s been clouds of energy, etc.  Usually he likes to fuck around looking like the original Dracula, in a bathrobe, sipping a red wine, smoking a cigar.  Drugs and alcohol are a thing for aliens.  So are potato chips.  I got shoved under a table at an archdemon council at eight with a whole bag of them when Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Rofocale, Samael, and Lucifer were politicking.  They also like to feed annoying elementary school girls juice and cookies, then put them in time out when they break alien equipment.

Before I knew Zadkiel, Samael, Uriel, Asmodeus, Metatron, Raphael, and the others as angels, I knew they were aliens.  They manipulated my body with energy, healed wounds, held me up with invisible hands from falling off cliffs, apparated in my house as eight foot tall monstrous shadows (thanks, Sam) that smelled of sulfur and slammed doors.  I called them names in my own made up language, sang to the Morning Star as my best friend, the embodiment of it, read a Wrinkle in Time and a Wind in the Door and Many Waters and recognized them as angels finally.  Flew with them through the cosmos.  Rode Zadkiel’s back through the Perseids and held back the rage of black holes as Samael wept tears of poison.

I never had a chance not to believe.  Not when you’re not human, not really.

Humans don’t chant Hebrew in their sleep without knowing the language in the waking world.  Humans don’t see into other dimensions and see spirits and ghosts.  Humans don’t meet God after drunkenly soliciting the Archangel Michael to meet his mother, then have their heart stop and lay catatonic in bed as their soul is ripped out of their body into the seas of Her Cosmos.  Humans don’t have aliens visit them in their sleep and do etheric surgery on their bodies – sweet pain of razors and probes and drills and electricity at chakral and nerve points.  Humans don’t have past life memories of angelic warfare and a life in other dimensions.  I may be in a mortal coil, but I can hear and see and feel the aliens.  I built a tin foil hat at 7 to keep Samael’s touch away, but all he did was laugh.  Not in control of my powers, at 12 my body froze and I projected to the second heaven, into a battle between angels and the Void Monsters of which Samael is master, only to nearly die just as Michael pulled me out of harms way, shouted my soul’s name at me, and electrocuted me back into my body with vicious recollections of angel guts and beheaded seraphim and shadow demons so cold and wicked and evil.  “Zophael!” he screamed at me, pulling my soul from the path of killing claws and into a bloodsoaked glade.

Aliens.  They die.  They bleed.  They go mad.  Immortality is a curse, in a way.  I became human to escape the pain.  I died defending the Prince of Heaven with a spear of poison through my mangled heart from the Devil, only to have Samael stitch his own rotting heart into me.  I’m nothing more than an expendable vessel really, the Vitriol Girl, Green Lion that Bleeds Gold from the Sun, Lapis Exillis in her breast.  “You sprang from the heart of Lucifer,” Samael told me at seventeen as he pulled me out of my body on a car trip where I raged against him.  “It is my own black heart.”  At 18 on December 31 on my birthday, meditating under an old rotting crab apple tree in my backyard, Samael showed me a vision of him as Satan in the Paradasical garden, his ribs branches, his heart red fruit, and I a naked Eve with blonde hair dressings eating his heart.  The fruit – the meat – settled into my belly and the fire of immortality and the knowledge of gods lit within.  Eve is a metaphor.  Jophiel, or Zophael, is not.  I have lived lives as an angel.  I have lived lives as a demon, reborn like Moses a babe in the reeds of the Styx, to be raised by the Devil as his child bride in Hell.

I told the Abrahamics to fuck off and ran away to Earth.  I lived a human life as Odin’s volva and skald.  I reincarnated into the Yngling bloodline.  I lived other human lives, and I haven’t been back to the other planets.

I don’t intend to for another eighty years.

Aliens fuck.  Aliens bleed.  Aliens walk among us, either disguised as humans or in human skins like me.  I’ve seen Samael physically multiple times over my life.  I see spirits in their energetic forms about thirty times each day.  Each one a brilliant flying star that hovers over people – beautiful guardian angels, tempestuous fey, earthy land wights, house elves that are punk girls that like lofts and have mushroom hats.

Aliens love us.  Aliens are not here to invade.

They already arrived long before humans evolved.  In fact, they guided our evolution with the fires of inspiration, from the first shaman, the first medicine, the first fire, the first flute and drum, the first tears we shed, the first blood we bled, the first mother that looked upon her human child and saw an extension of herself but also, a soul.

Angels walk among us.  There are thousands of accounts of strangers appearing to people in peril, helping them – fixing cars or carrying them out of fires – then disappearing without a trace.  Michael did it in Vietnam in that famous story.  He particularly loves Italy, from Mount Gargano to the Vatican.  I’m probably a fly to the Pope and the elite Exorcists, but their wards aren’t hard to break.  Anyways, nowadays the secrets of the universe are available for anyone with access to an Internet connection.

Science is magic, magic is science, every being from mythology is real, and I’m a fucking biologist that went to the world’s top science and tech high school and America’s oldest college.  I studied in the shadow of Thomas Jefferson, met an alien from another dimension with my best friends during Imbolc at the same lake the President went swimming in.  I’ve seen countless UFOs.  But the difference between me and the conspiracy theorists is that I was raised by some of the major players in the galaxy, if not the most powerful beings over humanity.  It’s hard to deny the Abrahamic faiths are the dominant power across us 7 billion homo sapiens, and being buddy buddy with the archangels and archdemons and married to their princes means absolutely jack shit for me.  I ain’t rich, I ain’t powerful, I’m just a humble meme farmer and gregarious extroverted blonde that is bubbly, silly, and innocent.

I’ve seen my heart through Satan’s eyes.  It is covered in black rot, just as his body is crawling for it, for my heart is not my own.  I was created by Michael and Samael, one of the first angels, a pact between Heaven and Hell, but then two twins that loved each other and wanted to make a sister.  How horribly wrong that first experiment went, the first family rent apart by treason, by poison, felix culpa, o fortunate fall.

I am weary, at my core, but also eternally joyful, youthful, reveling in beauty and my absolute faith in the goodness of humanity.  I am here to serve.  That’s what angels do.  I want to create love and help others, whether it’s saving the environment or writing novels that inspire or poetry that stokes imagination or healing others through teaching and support.  I don’t want fame.  I don’t want glory.  I don’t know if I ever want to go back to Heaven or Hell – I’d prefer Helheim or Asgard or Vanaheim, even Jotunheim – but do angels really get a choice?  Do we have free will?  I haven’t made many choices in my life.  I met my twin angel in human form out of over 7 billion people in the world.  I’ve made best friends with people halfway across the world through our shared remembrance of Zophael.  “Miss Archangel.”  “Saphael.”  “Freya.”

I’m a whore.  I’m a virgin.  I’m a mystic.  I’m a jack of all trades.  A mile wide, inch deep Washingtonian.

The angels let me in on a little secret: they’re envious of us.  So are the gods.

One perfect life is what immortals crave.  Innocence.  The chance for a good ending.  Our lives are like Hollywood movies to them.  They indulge in our culture, from Michael loving Ryan Reynolds and mixing up superheroes or rapping Hamilton to Samael indulging in horror flicks, Harold and Maude, and postwar German cinema.

They like to read a lot.  They like k-pop.  God forbid Loki ever makes you watch his Marvel movies.  That’s a trip.

Humans lives are a love letter to the stars.  Aliens lives are spent in our service, and they dream of us, exist for us, have been with us since time immemorial.  They’ve fought wars over us.  They’ve died for us.  Stolen fire from the Heavenly Throne from us.  I remember that most clearly, my Fall.  And now I am nothing but a girl.  I always die young.

Halfway between Satan’s Eve and Michael’s Joan of Arc.  My spiritual metaphors.

Halfway between Aslaug and Malusha the Prophetess, my ancestresses great and bold.

Aliens are old news to me.  Being one is old news.

But each of us have pieces of angels in us, pieces of the gods, pieces of the spirits, and all of us are, in fact, aliens.

Don’t be afraid of invasions or abductions.

It’s pretty cool inside of a spaceship, and Michelangelo has made some pretty beautiful sculptures in the higher realms.  There’s even beer and wine and French Onion Soup there.

Aliens love our inventiveness.  Curiosity and love are our greatest virtues.

We love their majesty, their divine guidance, their glory.  Also, they’re pretty hot.

Just remember, 42.  And bring a towel.

 

You’re My Wonderwall

There’s a lion in the celestial bower, a man of honeysuckle blossoms, golden wings, and blinding light.  There’s an angel in the bedroom, dressed in goldenrod, hair platinum – you know, the kind of sunshine in a perfect summer sky, and his laughter rings like the peal of a motorcycle.  His voice is caramel, his words are molasses – smooth and sweet – and he is the picture of poise and good humor and I swear, if I lick him my mouth would be sticky with sugar.  Archangel of mercy, Angel of the Lord that held Abraham’s hand back from wounding the first of so many Prodigal Sons, emissary of benevolence and the fourth sphere of the Sephiroth.

There’s a savior in my window, dancing in tune with the summer rainstorm’s vivacious lightning.  There’s a flame of hope that awakens yearning in the darkness of my heart.  When the lion roars, it is a cry of liberation.  When the chapel bell tolls, he is the shepherd moving the masses up to the cleansing Eucharist.  He is the goblet that my wine spills over, he is the torch of heavenly fire I stole from God’s throne room, he is my star.  Older brother, twin general, bosom friend of my heart, guardian of innocence and girlhood bliss.

When he holds me, it is with the strength and sacredness of temple walls.  When our mouths quest for answers on each other’s tongues, I taste infinity to the tune of eternal joy.  Hands like milk, hands like providence, hands like silk that pick ice splinters from my soul.  Sure, the heart bleeds waters of the womb in the grip of the hearth, but he has been melting me for years, since I was seven and first saw his candle flame eyes, and every lesson in kindness, I learned from him.  He is the essence of lovingkindness and thanksgiving, of the mixed blessing of a giving heart but the curse of never having enough blood to bleed, because patience is endless, but fires need tinder, and it does not do well to burn your patients.

We’re the original hippies – the twin angels of beauty and peace.  What better pairing, like salmon with maple syrup and capers set out with chardonnay.  They say I am a champagne bubble – sparkly, bright, warm-hearted, soft, girly, loving, caring.  But if the psychics are right, and I am a champagne girl, you are the intoxication I cause.  Find us on the beach with Bruce Springsteen playing dancing around a roaring bonfire, find us braiding each other’s golden hair with bluebells – we keep it long and blonde, but that doesn’t mean we’re dumb.  Find us flying through the cosmos chasing the tails of comets and basking in celestial glows.

You can find us anywhere, really.  We’re the Freyr and Freyja of Heaven, the Lovers and Ace of Cups, bubbles and birthdays and barks of laughter you can’t contain.  No one can secret a smile for long around him – his kilowatt grin will illuminate even the darkest recesses of the coldest winter night.  The moths come flying towards his brilliance, but every dark thing is cleansed in his ultraviolet aura.  He taught me to fight, he taught me to keep frith, he taught me family and faith and fearlessness.  My animus of glorious, splendorous bravery, the one who wields the sword in times of war and the scroll in times of peace.  He’s sweet on children, answers endless questions for inquisitive young girls, and is all to happy to play make-believe with aspiring princesses.

Now I’m older, and I’m far from a princess, but my star is still a star – the most brilliant soul in the multiverse – and in the most heinous wreckage, he taught me to glow.

For what is love if you cannot share it, and who is an angel but a missionary of love?

 

On Being Married to Angels and Demons

Being a godspouse has emerged from the exclusive domain of the illustrious Freya Aswynn and the rare elders in the pagan community that I have long studied to a rather common, if somewhat fringe, occurrence in the occult community.  I have befriended spouses of everyone from Naberius to Mannanan Mac Llyr to Apollo to nameless Entities that are everything from genderfluid to pan to asexual.

Spirit, like humanity, is all colors of the rainbow, and it would be silly to restrict divine sexuality and love to the heteronormative gender binary.  Erzulie Danto takes female wives, Freyr and Loki are likely to scoop up sweet men, and angels flip genders as often as the leaves change color.  Color me a divine liberal, but I would like to think being raised by celestial archangels, mischievous demons, and tricksters galore gave me a holistic view of the only thing that binds the universe together: love, and love alone.  There is light in the darkness, darkness in the light, and love is God, and love is the Gods, and love itself is Eternal.

Loving an immortal comes in many forms: being their devotee, being their divine child, having them as a patron, being their priest or priestess, and even their husband or bride.  No domain of eternal love is above one another – in the Bhakti tradition of Hinduism, the devotee comes into ecstatic communion with their divine Love, Eternal Source, and Inner Soul.  Whether the gods exist in our collective unconscious, in my experience as transdimensional, ancient loving beings equivalent to a master race of aliens, or on lofty clouds in literal Asgard or Olympus doesn’t really matter.  What matters is that they love us, we love them, and the dance between Man and Muse has been happening since ancient hominids looked up at the stars and called them home.

I married Michael and Samael last Halloween, as a culmination of a harrowing but beautiful lifelong path to my inner polarities and exterior dreams and fears, and they are as much a part of my inner animuses and male Shaktis as they are tangible, real as dirt entities.  They have showed me the future, introduced me in the astral to obscure literature and film that upon waking turns out to be real, and above all have been my guides since I was 12.  Michael has saved my life countless times, and Samael has scared me into living, so thanks for that, I suppose.  In the end, the Ophites called Michael and Samael the double-faced serpent, good and evil, light and darkness, and one cannot exist without the other.  They are Divine Twins, perhaps the first beings before God separated into gods, the Left and Right Hand of Creation, and Satan, Iblis, or Lucifer and Michael, Mikhail, or just plain old Mickey represent the yetzer hara and yetzer hatov and eternal temptation to do what is easy versus the high road of what is right.  The Devil is a lawyer, the Prince of Heaven is a priest, both are warriors, and just lenses to understand matter and antimatter, order and entropy, and how to free the caged bird from her own self-imposed bindings.

I think I loved both of them from the moment I first met them, Michael loved by millions and Satan hated by billions, and for every flaw and beautiful facet of my husbands there are a thousand more mysteries stretching back to wanderers in the desert creating stories of malakhim.  It is so infinitely easy to fit them into my Heathen worldview, as I do not worship them, simply love them, and my “God” is Mother Nature, who I view the Norse Gods as emanations of.  The angels and demons serve Mother Nature directly and ask for no worship, just praise of Earth and the Cosmos, and to know my place in the web of humanity, wyrd, and Well of Urd.

Michael and Samael handed me off to the Vanir and Aesir as I came into my own faith and were there when I was adopted into the tribe of Asgard, outside the circle of runes as befits Abrahamic spirits.  The Aesir and Vanir (and a few select Jotun!) are my chosen family and human heritage.  The archangels and demons are the origin of my soul, my first cosmic family, but I am no longer ethereal, made of dirt and flesh and blood, and to dwell on cosmic past lives just leaves one weeping late at night over wounds still fresh since the first Forbidden Fruit rotted and the Tree of Life became the Tree of Death.

The secret of the union of Michael and Samael is VITRIOL, the key to eternal life and universal solvent that dissolves all impurities.  The green lion that bleeds gold from the sun.  The Lapis Exillis is just a heart, and a rotting fruit at that, but a chalice and birthright fought over by the Princes of Heaven and Hell.

I was an idiot girl to ever love them, but fools fall first in the Tarot, and locked away princesses have knights and dragons who eat their hearts come midnight.

I am a caged bird learning to sing.

The heart is its own master.

I am happy, never free.