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.
To a Brother Warlock, On Reaching His 50th Year
So, you're embarking on your sixth decade. Allow me to tender a friendly rede.
Don't let yourself dry up.
You've reached the age at which a truly disconcerting number of men begin to let themselves shrivel. Some are even glad it's over, happy to be free of—as they see it—the tyranny of need.
Not us.
We're warlocks, unholy priesthood to Him o' the Horns. Like god, like priest. As we serve him, so he serves us. That's the kind of god he is.
Keep those juices flowing, brother. If she's not interested, well...you know what to do, and how to do it.
Yes, it may take a little more love than it used to. Persevere. Make it part of the regimen.
Think of it as a religious obligation. Think of it as an honoring of the god within. Think of it as libation. As you give to him, so he will give to you. But you give as a man gives, and he gives as a god.
I swear to you, it will keep you youthful. This is his promise to us.
Happy birthday, brother.
May the waters flow.
Above:
The Kickapoo River
Its name meaning "Goes Here, Goes There", the Kickapoo is one of the sacred rivers of the Upper Palaeolithic Plateau's Driftless region, home to the Midwest Tribe of Witches.
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