Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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Steven Posch

Steven Posch

Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

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Papadopoulos claimed Trump phone call and larger campaign role - POLITICO

 

AP, Washington D.C.

It took nearly six weeks, but Donald Trump has finally acknowledged that he did, indeed, lose the election, and has called President-Elect Joe Biden to offer his congratulations.

“Even a big, whiny baby like me has to man up and face reality eventually,” Trump told Biden on Tuesday. “I don't know why it's taken me so long to pull my head out of my own ass. You beat me fair and square, and it's time for me to stop pouting like a spoiled little girl and admit it.”

Trump's unexpected change of heart stunned his opponent and left him momentarily speechless.

Undaunted, Trump continued. “My presidency has been a total disaster from beginning to end. I'm a loser, a moron, and an incompetent. It's time for me to get my ugly, fat ass out of here and make room for someone who can clean up the mess that I've made of this job, and of this nation.”

"I have to admit, Joe, you were right," he told Biden in a moment of uncharacteristic candor. "I really have been the worst president this country has ever had. While Americans are dying at the rate of two per minute, I've been holed up at the White House pitching hissy fits. I've totally mishandled this pandemic from the start, and the blood of more than 300,000 of my fellow-citizens is on my hands. I'll never live down the shame of it. They really should call it the 'Trump virus'."

When asked about his post-White House plans, Trump responded, “I'm finished with politics. Assuming they don't throw me in jail—where, frankly, I deserve to be—I'm going back to Mar-a-Lago and playing golf for the rest of my life. It's the only thing that I'm fit to do,” adding: “Meanwhile, I'm going to order my pathetic staff of lickspittles and toadies to do everything that they can to ease the transition to a real government. I'm delusional, a total loser, I've made a mess of everything I've touched, and it's time for me to get out of the way and let a better man take over.”

Trump's sudden about-face has stunned the Republican establishment.

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Long ago, the Horned looked down from Heaven, and saw that we were cold, and hungry, and in darkness.

Then, in his mighty ruth, he stole the Fire of the Gods, came down, and gave us Fire.

Ever since when, we sing his song at Yule.

 

He Came Down

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“Milk” writes Julie Sahni in the introduction to her chapter on South Asian sweets, frequently dairy-based, “is the divine food of the Aryans.”

For Sahni, of course, “Aryan” means nothing like what it would have meant to Hitler. Sahni uses the term in its original sense: as the endonym (i.e. the name by which a given community knows itself) of the Sanskrit-speaking population that first entered the Indian Subcontinent between 5000 and 4000 years ago.

(A related population, also calling themselves the Ârya, the “Noble Ones,” went west into the Iranian plateau, and in fact the word “Iran” itself comes from the same root: “the Land of the Noble Ones.” According to Indo-Europeanist J. M. Mallory, the term “Aryan” properly describes only this ancient Indo-Iranian population or their descendants. No doubt Hitler would have been furious to discover that he wasn't really an Aryan.)

Milk is a miracle. If you slaughter a cow, you get food to feed the family for maybe a month. If, however, you milk the cow instead, you get enough food to feed the family for years. Divine food, indeed. Small wonder that the cow was the basic unit of value across the entire Indo-European diaspora.

Human beings originally lost the ability to digest milk as they grew out of infancy, but with the advent of pastoralism back in the Neolithic, certain human populations acquired what is called “lactase persistence”: the useful genetic mutations that permit continued milk-drinking into adulthood. Julie Sahni's Indo-Aryan ancestors were one such population, and it's possible that this ability was one of the things that distinguished the Ârya from the peoples that they conquered in their travels.

Other populations with lactase persistence arose separately in Central Asia and West Central Africa. (Interestingly, the genetic mutations allowing for adult milk consumption among the world's three main populations of milk-drinkers are different mutations. Clearly, the ability to keep digesting dairy has high survival value.) Milk isn't just the divine food of the Aryans; it's also the divine food of the Mongols, and of the Maasai, and the Fulani.

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Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Steven Posch
    Steven Posch says #
    Myself, I like nut milks, grain milks, and bean milks just fine. But good old mammal milk is the Original.
  • Jamie
    Jamie says #
    Mr. Posch, Yeah, I wasn't attempting to harsh on non-dairy milk. I'm sure that some of it's quite delicious. A significant fract
  • Jamie
    Jamie says #
    Mr. Posch, I don't give a Gods damn what anyone says. I like milk.

 

Ek.

Du.

Tre.

It even sounds like “one, two, three”, doesn't it?

The Kalasha are the last pagans of the Hindu Kush, and thus kin to every Western pagan. Of all the Indo-European-speaking peoples of the world, they're the only ones who have practiced their traditional religion continuously since antiquity.

Numbering about 4000, they live in three remote valleys in what is now Northwestern Pakistan. Famed for their polytheistic religion, their wine-drinking, and the beauty (and freedom) of their women, they are currently undergoing something of a cultural renaissance.

Their language, Kalashamon, is a profoundly archaic dialect closely akin to Sanskrit. In its numbers one through ten, you can hear the distant kinship:

Ek

Du

Tre

Chau

Ponj

Sho

Sat

Asht

No

Dash

You will scarcely be surprised to learn that in Kalashamon, as in English, Ek, du, tre also means: Come on! Now! Hurry up! Let's go!

As I write this, the Kalasha are celebrating their year's greatest festival: Chaumós, their month-long celebration of the Winter Solstice. With its bonfires, sacred dances, evergreens, wine, and feasting, its sacrifices and sacred songs, much here will sound familiar to the Western pagan ear.

Each year at Chaumós, the Kalasha gather together, and their gods count them. If their celebration is worthy, next year there will be more Kalasha than last.

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Predictably enough, they're calling it the “Christmas Star”; actually, of course, it's neither.

Once in every 800 years, Jupiter and Saturn meet in the sky and kiss. Seen from Earth, they will appear to join and become one. This time around, this Great Marriage occurs—of all the well-omened days of the year—on the day of the Winter Solstice.

Let me be frank: after this dark, dark year, we'll take whatever omens we can get.

Winter is Sky Time. The leaves come down, and the heavens open up. Historically, here in Minnesota, December is the year's cloudiest month, but this year has brought us a succession of clear, fair days of long, slanting Sunlight. These last Sunrises of the waning year have been spectacular, and our Northern nights have been alive with Northern Lights, the dancing daughters of Earth and Sun.

You yourself can witness this 800-year Wonder, this Great Rite in the Sky, wherever you are.

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 Buyer's Guide for Walk-In Cooler & Freezer

Contains sexual content

 

I'm given to understand that things are different these days, but back when I was working restaurants you could always pretty much tell where you were in the house by the ambient sexual preference. The gay guys worked the floor, the straight guys the line.

Not that you would have guessed as much from the banter that you'd hear in the kitchen. In every restaurant that I ever worked, the cooks were constantly on about who was going to suck whose dick, or boff whose butt.

(According to my friend David, this is because the human male is instinctively and intrinsically homosexual. [All heterosexuality, apparently, is acquired behavior.] My own take on it is that such verbal micro-aggressions help relieve the tension of working in a stressful environment with too little personal space. You can make up your own mind.)

One day, for a reason I can no longer remember, I went to the walk-in cooler to get something.

Now, you have to understand that in a restaurant kitchen—for reasons that you can readily divine—all doors open in. Unfortunately, it so happened that at that very moment the head chef was standing immediately inside taking inventory, so that I clobbered him with the door as I opened it.

Apologies immediately sprang to my lips, but when Chef saw who it was, he beat me to it.

“Hey, hey, you're banging me in the butt,” he deadpanned.

Thank Goddess for presence of mind.

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