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.
In Which Our Intrepid Blogger Takes a Moment to Savor Life in the Irony-Free Zone
“I work with Ereshkigal, Oya, and Tlazolteotl,” she tells me.
Then she pauses for my reaction.
Welcome to the Irony-Free Zone.
Gee. The Sumerian Goddess of the Underworld, Santeria's Lady of Storms (mispronounced), and the Aztec 'Eater of Filth.'
Clearly, I'm supposed to be impressed.
Well, for one thing, it's oh-YAH, not OH-yah. You would think that getting your god's name right would be a priority. When a co-worker mispronounces my name, I always correct her. After all, it's my name.
Then there's the whole “The gods are my co-workers” approach. Personally, I've never understood this. Talk about banality. I suppose one advantage of the metaphor is that it leaves no possible doubt whatsoever as to who's really in charge.
And ah, crossover. My old priestess back east always viewed it as a ready admission of poverty.
“Nobody steals bread who already has a loaf of his own,” she used to say.
Ah well, Aînesse oblige: elderhood obligates.
“You like the heavy hitters,” I say.
Above: Tlazolteotl Riding a Broom
From a 16th century Nahuatl codex
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