Drunk Harry's Shack

Hey. I’m just this person who’s trying to figure things out.

This is a personal journal, or something.

I’ve often posted here while loaded. Someone once addressed me as “Drunk Harry,” when I was on a raging drunk, and I still laugh about it.

I’m the person you’d cross the street to avoid meeting. The person you wouldn’t want your son/daughter dating. Still, I’m basically harmless. I’ll just post my harmless, meaningless crap here, if I’m permitted to do so.

Mostly, I have religious angst. I sense spirituality, and spirits, everywhere. That’s not always easy.

I’m stuck between so many traditions that it’s hard to free myself. And because I can’t manage to free myself, I can’t free you, either. Bummer.

I found Hoodoo as a young person. Found magick earlier than that, and basic religion earlier still. Even as a little kid, I had a massive sense of spirituality.

This can be like a journal or something, where I can post my stupid, drunken thoughts and observations to myself. Nobody has to respond.

Again, I’m just some random soul living in the middle of nowhere. I’m trying to figure out a few things before I die, that’s all. You can’t believe the things I’ve seen, and lived through. But, on the whole, I’m just this gray-haired, jolly nobody. I don’t have any wisdom to offer, just psychobabble. Maybe that’s enough. If it isn’t, well, the door to my shack swings both ways.


I’m replying to myself. As it should be, in a journal, or whatever this is.

The “shack” reference isn’t accidental. It wasn’t my personal shack, but there was this piece of land I encountered in my teens. Somebody died there. Dollars to doughnuts, that person knew hoodoo. But that person died. I met other hoodoos, still living.

Drunk Harry (Harriet?) can assure you that the spirits of that place still live. I saw them when I was a teen. I’m old now. They were (and are) there.

There were people there well before The Shack. Many people. I’m referring to a specific place.

However, there are spirits everywhere. I’m not immune to them, and not privy to them. Almost everybody here would know more than me.

But you know where else spirits roam, aside from, pretty much everywhere? Hart Island, NY. That’s thousands of miles away from me, but spirits are everywhere. Look, for instance, outside your window.

You need not look for the spiritual world only within your own community. It’s everywhere.

The spirits are everywhere.


And, I’m back. Huzzah. I’m back like an STD the doctor can’t cure. Anyway, I’m thinking about hoodoo, religion, and all the rest of it.

I was attracted, as a kid, to the very names of the hoodoo oils. How can you not want to know what High John the Conqueror, Easy Life, Follow Me Boy, Come To Me and all the rest are for?

It turned me into a mail order nut. Sent off for stuff. Used it. Turned into a complete weirdo. No apologies there, sorry.

I figured out fairly quickly, that some oils smelled really nice, and some smelled like ass. The magick isn’t in the oils. It’s in me. And you.

Personally, I’d only reserve the more foul-smelling oils for curses. But that’s just me.

You can turn any oil into magickal oil, and any object into a lucky charm.

We’re kind of amazing as human beings. Also really awful at times, but amazing. We can give, or take, energy from others.


I’m back. Thought I’d post here a few times, and then come back later to see if I have any grand insights while knee-walking drunk.

I don’t.

I don’t make any more sense than the obnoxious, flatulent drunk at the end of the bar who’s gobbling up all the pretzels and annoying other patrons.

I can stop, if you need me to. I’m on your turf, and you have a right to kick me off of it.

But even I have a sense of spirituality. I went to a religious service this evening, a Christian one. No complaints, no problems.

Sometimes, I sense things at “normal” services that either elate or frighten me. I look at things too carefully. The images in the stained glass, the iconography, the symbols, the rituals. I don’t think I’m supposed to be looking that closely. Still, I just can’t help myself.

I’m dead sober when I attend services of any type, Christian and otherwise. I don’t show up like…well, Drunk Harry (Harriet). But I’m not like the others. I’ll never fit in. Never.

It’s by looking at things too carefully that we either attain insight or madness.

If I disappear and become a minister (hint: I already am one, but not currently active), that’s how it will be. I have to do what’s right for me.

But there’s more, more, always MORE driving me, eating me alive inside, comforting me and killing me.


It’s your Journal, provided you don’t insult members, threaten identifiable people, or get too political, you’re good to go. :+1:

Have some photographic inspiration:


Thanks so much! I don’t want to insult anybody, or to be obnoxious. Sometimes, my job (sometimes, I have one of those) involves politics, and I don’t want to engage in any more of that than I must. I’m the exact opposite of an “edgelord.” This is just kind of a rolling experiment. Everyone has been so kind.

Folks talk about how nice people are in various congregations…well, oftentimes, people are nice here, too.


So, I left food out for Old Scruff. That’s an opossum. Some people don’t want to mix with non-human critters, but I do. I think, or maybe know, that they’ve got souls just as worthy as mine. Scruff is a weird thing, but comes to the porch and keeps me company in its own way. Scruff has a belly that gets as hungry as mine, so I leave food. How could I not?

I may sometimes step into a church, temple or other religious service, but Scruff probably doesn’t differ that much from me. It (the creature) has its own understanding. It may not attend the First Opossum Church, or make images in stained glass, but it has its own knowledge of things, which is possibly greater than my own knowledge.

And there is Grey, the cat I cannot tame. This, too, has its own understanding.

The birds, finches and more, come and go. I leave them offerings of food. Again, how could I not?

I think they, the animals, may ultimately understand more than I ever can, or will. As a human, I can only understand so much. Animals don’t bear the burden of the complexity of religion. In that sense, I envy them.


nice journal :+1:


Well I love the title :grinning:


Let’s see if I can make even less sense than I did last night. Trust me, it’s not difficult for me to spew total raving nonsense.

As I’ve mentioned here before, about a thousand times, I’m interested in ritual. That means, to me, some kind of action, even if it’s small.

Even in mainstream religion, if you’re observing some kind of ritual, you’re doing something. Whether you’re doing it right or wrong is up to you to decide. I don’t place undue emphasis on right or wrong these days. My perception of “rightness” may be your exact perception of “wrongness.”

I like ecstasy. I’m not talking about the drug. I’m talking about losing oneself. I don’t know what the ecstatic state is. I can’t define it for you. It’s just this sensation that overtakes your senses and throws you face first onto some other plane.

There’s definitely a place for calm, informed, deliberate ritual, but also for losing oneself. The almighty self. We protect it, bolster it, build it up, but it can be so sweet to lose it, even if just for a moment.

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Maybe you’re my brother from another mother… :face_with_raised_eyebrow: :rofl: :rofl:


What a strange midweek at the Shack. I had company. You don’t know how rare that is. I live in an area so remote that even the spirits have to use a telescope and GPS to find me.

Anyway, someone showed up to ask me for a certain type of occult powder, which I did. Then other people showed up. Soon, I was trying to feed and entertain friends.

We all differed in politics and religion, but those things didn’t stop us from having good times, and a communal moment.

It was magick that brought us together. We’re such different people. But they came to me. Why? I’m nobody. But still, it was a trip. And one of them even brought me food. And roses!


Sounds like a good time…embrace it :bouquet:


There’s a magician in my shack. Again. Someone came on foot, asking to stay the night. Won’t turn certain people away.

Wanderers. They come here sometimes, and not a one of us are more socially acceptable than the possums and other things that come by looking for food.

Was thinking about an idea I learnt in my youth, in church. If you deny Christ in life, he’ll deny you when you die.

I won’t deny food to a hungry possum, so why would I deny Christ? They both need feeding.

As the song says, “Jesus is Just All Right With Me.” Then again, so are a truckload of other spirits.

I’m all over the place spiritually. I’m fascinated by spirits and spirituality. I’m also skeptical as hell. I go to church, and rarely, temple. Have done various Pagan observances and much more. I’ve done rites with people in lesser-known religions that many people haven’t even heard of. Some still stay in touch with me to this day.

I don’t deny Christ. But I do deny using belief in any god or spirit to denigrate and harass others.

Magick is a thing that I feel in my bones. There’s something dark out there. I don’t just mean nightfall. I had a dream once that every dead body I drove past stood up. It was just endless. So many dead people here. I feel them in the very soil I touch. I’m not alone; I’m never alone. But in the darkest times, I almost wish I were. The spirits are everywhere.

But life is to be celebrated. And I do. And that includes the lives of all who have passed through this land, and all the spirits who still inhabit this place.


Thinking about something from my past. Used to live by a really small, rural Pentecostal church. Dropped in a few times just out of curiosity.

There was this guy who used to lie on the floor during the entire service. He was considered a holy person, a “prayer warrior” of great importance. The “normal” people just planted their posteriors in the pews while he spoke to God and angels, and engaged in spiritual warfare with the “demonic realm.” After the service, he’d waddle into the kitchen and scarf down a piece of cake, and leave until next time. He insisted on cake with pink icing. Guess it helped him with his spiritual powers.

I’m still not sure what to think, even after all these years.

But, if lying on a crappy church carpet that hadn’t been the vacuumed since World War II was his way of realizing his best spiritual development, more power to him.

We’ve all gotta do it our own way. Well, we don’t have to, but then we’ll be beholden to following someone else’s way. It’s good to learn from others. Read books. Listen to advice. But sometimes, maybe it’s time to do your own thing.

I have my own way of doing things, and a unique way of interpreting (or misinterpreting) things in ways that no one else does. I’m used to being a misfit, a spiritual outcast. I’ve been involved with several branches of organized religion, and I never fit in. Ever. I don’t fit in with other magicians, either, for the most part. I was apparently born for a solitary, eclectic practice.

So maybe I’m just another nut lying on the carpet. Am I directly engaging with the powers of the entire cosmos, or am I just conspicuously taking up space on the floor? Either way, just pat me on the back, smile, feed me a piece of pink cake, and send me out the door until next time.

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There’s an old church up for sale. Wish I could afford it. Aside from the obvious coolness of having a house with pews and an altar, there would be residual energy out the wazoo. But I feel that’s true of any place where rituals have been practiced repeatedly.

Rituals, even ones we often tend to discount as being somehow beneath our dignity, build up energy. Ecstasy builds energy. Even people who don’t grasp that their rituals are building energy, are building energy. And that energy can be harnessed.

I do feel that certain religious rites, lodge rituals, social rituals, etc. generate energy, whether or not the participants are aware of it. Synagogues, churches, temples, groves, fraternities, whatever are full of energy. I want to mainline that energy.

People have a right to their own energy, but if they don’t claim it, I don’t see why I can’t make use of it for myself. I’ve siphoned energy out of buildings where I know rituals used to take place. I’m not a vampire, just a resourceful person who doesn’t like to be wasteful.


Was walking by a church, and noticed the stained glass. This happens a lot. Stained glass is almost always weirder than you’d expect - or maybe just weirder that I expect.

Certain symbolism gets preserved in stained glass, statues, logos, etc that makes me ask “Why?”

I notice things, odd things, minor details, while often missing the big picture. A family member used to get frustrated because I can get bogged down in minutiae while forgetting major issues. It’s a valid criticism.

I’ve also been criticized for feeling more spiritual enhancement in music than in sermons or scriptures. This is true, also. When I sing or play music, I often sense something higher. Most sermons, on the other hand, just bore the tits off me.

I think a sense of progression is important for any spiritual path. I want to know that I’m making some kind of demonstrable progress, instead of always staying in the same place. I’ve found that some (not all) organized religions are hoping the average congregant will remain stagnant, and not progress further. You’re not there to ask questions; you’re there to feed the system financially, and also donate that sweet, sweet unpaid labor.

Or maybe I’m just being cynical. It happens sometimes.


Yeah, I write about Christianity a lot. Too much, perhaps. It may come from living in an area where there’s a church on every corner, and some of those churches are quite different in terms of doctrine and practices. I’m fascinated by it.

The same is true of various magickal beliefs, sects and rites. Some of them are so different. I think these differences come down to varying personality types. Some people want to keep things simple, some prefer complexity, and others want to be “right” at all costs.

I’m not “right.” I’m not even in the same neighborhood as “right.” I don’t have the answers, and if I did, I probably wouldn’t give them to the average schmuck - not because I’m selfish, but because if anyone ever tried to institutionalize that truth and declare me to be the Way, the Truth and the Light, I’d probably gut him like a fish.

I’m not a living god…yet. However, I am a living jackass.

I’ve heard people refer to certain religious (and other) groups as “mundane.” For the most part, it’s probably true. There are people in settings that could be magical, but they’ve sucked the magic and mystery right out of it. Then again, you’d be surprised at the little old ladies who engage in esoteric Christian mysticism.

I’ve also met healers from the most unlikely places, and have seen magick happening in Christian and non-Christian settings. And I know many eclectic practitioners whose syncretic magick handily blends various traditions. I’m kind of like that, myself. It’s hard for me to stay in one lane.

There are so many sacred texts and writings online that it’s overwhelming. Still, it’s amazing to have access to so much information. For some, it’s painful, though. That information can lead to your idea of “right” being completely destroyed. Where there’s discovery and wonder, there’s also the potential for pain.

But keep discovering, nonetheless.


I can hear the train at the foot of the mountain. Wish I were on it, going anywhere. Someday, I’ll die with a stupid expression on my face. I’ve seen dead people. I know.

I am not only bereft of dignity, but of answers.

A long time ago, I thought I’d order a robe, with a hood, to wear while doing magick. Mail order. When it arrived, it was absolutely absurd. Just horrible. It took my ego down about twenty notches. It was stupid, ridiculous and perfect. So Old Stupid (that’s me) put on the stupid outfit, and did the ritual (which actually wasn’t stupid).

About the time I think I know anything, something comes along and kicks me in the groin to alert me to the fact that I don’t know squat.

Can you do a ritual in a stupid outfit? Yes. Can I laugh at myself? Absolutely. Do I have answers? No, I ran out of those around age 16.


Yeah, I know. Nobody cares. But I’m still here.

A cat came to the shack to visit today. So did some birds. Animals are good people.

My life is filled with awe. I’m grateful to be alive.

Someone from a certain religious perspective (not mine) was telling me about karma. This person says that victims of horrible deaths chose to die that way. I find it tough to believe. Really, as if the 10-year-old who died in a fire in chose that. No. A kid about the same age was abused, and died. Somebody chose that? I don’t buy it.

I don’t have all the answers, though. I keep saying that. If people call me ignorant, they’re probably right.

I didn’t have kids, but I have an Infant of Prague statue. Is that close enough? I washed it and everything.

I’m not Catholic, and never have been. Some people close to me are, though.

The Infant of Prague is so wrong on so many levels, but I keep him nearby. A blond child, of all things, purportedly from the Middle East. I’m not a rocket scientist, but blond, blue-eyed children in absurdly ornate clothing don’t usually hail from that part of the world. Still, like the Sacred Heart of Jesus, what an image. Such beings could love someone even as far gone as me.

But that’s not where it stops. Other images are similarly inspiring.

There are spirits named Hydriel and Bechard. That’s all I’ll say about that at the moment. And vegetation gods. And more. Always more.

What happens when we lose control of ourselves, and launch into a state of ecstasy? I don’t know, except that we’re somewhere else.

I don’t mind being somewhere else.