18.Mar.2001
Witchly Rubbish
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Witchy Interference
I harboured a sickening goal for myself, that I would blend the Recoil party with my wedding this August. Yes, on a limb, I decided it should probably be time that Joe and I wed.
It was a bad idea.
I suggested one of our friends who has already signed up with the Universal Life Church should perform the ceremony, since we are deathly poor. Joe didn't see my point; he wanted something more official, rather than an 'err, well, are they kidding about all that "forever" stuff?' instance.
I said I didn't feel comfortable with a Christian priest performing the ceremony, since I am an Eastern Witch.
I suggested a very good friend of mine do it, considering he is also a Witch.
Joe turned to me and said: "I don't want to do anything goofy on my wedding."
I said, "Excuse me?"
He reiterated, then curtly added: "Well, what do I have to do at a Witchly wedding? Dance around naked? Eat a plant? Wear something ridiculous?"
I decided then that it be best we wait another 10 years, and smartly interjected that mixed religions never work in long-term relationships.
My only room in this duplex is the furthest back; it is small, perhaps 12' by 5'. You could fit a twin bed in it. Right now, most of Joe's rubbish is along half of it: his used college books, his Rollingstone magazines, his Maxim subscriptions, newspaper, et cetera. On the other side is my altar, adorned with candles and Chinese proverbs, along with an altar moon-shaped bell, a rosary with a clay raven on it (courtesy Vi as a be-lated birthday present), some herbs, two bolines, an athame, a quartz wand, some Chinese porcelain figures, more candles, candles, candles, and oils, as my place of worship.
Due to spiritual void, the room has been closed off from the destructive force of Soybean.
But it is mine.
It is the only place in the house I can claim as my own, even if only half of it belonged to me. I could live in that room sanctifying myself for an eternity.
It somehow drove straight into my heart when Joe sloughed off his arrogant comment, and yet something hit me at the same time.
Perhaps we aren't meant for marriage.
Our pleasurable moments are short.
I don't know.
My spiritual void is worsening. One of these days I will handle it.
This diary is boring.
Who the hell cares about my melodramatic garbage?
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time & machine