Drunk Harry's Shack

Some secrets have to kept for thier own sake, I understand where you’re coming from.

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Thanks for understanding. I keep various secrets for weird reasons. Sometimes, though, I want to break those secrets, not out of malice; I prefer not to be an oath-breaker. Still, I want to be able to practice rituals with others before being called upon to perform them publicly. But it’s often not possible. I regret not being able to practice with people more qualified than myself, which would be anybody on Earth. People who are close to me laugh at the various groups with whom I’m involved, rather than actually joining them.

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See, it’s a funny thing with me. I don’t generally like to do things half-assed. No, I’d rather make a complete jackass out of myself.

That’s why I’m drawn to fringe religion and organizations, as well as to my own inexplicable beliefs and practices.

If you’re going to speak in tongues, then bloody well speak in tongues. If you’re going to join a lodge, join it.

Still, I have my limits, mostly due to my lifelong struggle with having anything resembling a normal attention span. I lose interest quickly and easily, unless someone gives me a reason to concentrate and continue.

If you’re going for an ecstatic experience, then be prepared to enter a state of ecstasy. If you’re going to worship, then do it. But I’m also aware that there are limits.

I don’t want to bow down before some schmuck calling himself “the voice of God,” or the gods, or whatever, any more than anyone else. I’ve kind of reached my limit in indulging every third mortal who claims to be a conduit to all things holy and mystical.

I grasp the importance of teachers, and the knowledge of those who have gone before me. But I also grasp the importance of looking for the exit sign.

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I’ve always been the oddball, always the weirdo. I tend to straddle a fine line between my “good” and “bad” nature, my “normal” inclinations and my “darker” desires.

Of course, it’s all theater.

I’m both good and bad, horrid and amazing. I’m very evil, but I’m not a murderous dictator. I’m good at moments, but I’m not exactly saving the planet.

Someone in a really straight organization to which I belong admitted to having massive panic attacks, and told us how to care for him if he should have one. I thought that took a lot of balls. Also, it means I’m not alone in having panic attacks.

I think that none of us are as “normal” as we’d like to think. In addition, there are people more (and less) advanced than we are.

Thinking about ritual now. Some people are very good at it. Others, like myself, only enjoy it if it’s not bogged down in trivial details. I’m more concerned with the spirit of it (pun intended) than the small details.

But sometimes, the people obsessed with details are the ones who keep everything rolling.

It seems hard to find young people who are into ritual and intricate detail, but I’ve been meeting some of them. They’re out there. I think a certain personality type seems to be drawn to it. Magickal (and other) lodges, groups, covens, societies, etc. depend on them.

But there are freewheeling types like myself who are also needed.

Some people provide the spontaneity that others lack, while the more careful types can keep things grounded in reality, bringing order out of chaos.

I’m more of the chaos type, but realize that without some degree of order, I’d simply run off the rails.

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You’re quite right it takes all kinds to keep it all going.

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I’m out in the middle of nowhere. Trapped, temporarily.

I’ve had a major health scare, but it’s over. So far, I’m okay.

Talking to some local people. We differ so much, but sometimes, they do have some interesting advice.

Perhaps I’m one of the people I’ve often noticed…those who value the various tools and objects of devotion, practice or worship over the actual thing itself.

I’m a simple creature. I like to be patted, rather than poked with a stick.

Still, I belong to a number of groups in which I suspect that I’m one of the few who’s seriously thinking about what’s going on. But I’m not a genius. Don’t take me for one.

I know; you never did.

None of the rituals I’m doing, not even the ones I’ve devised myself, are being done by accident.

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I’ve had too much to drink. By far. Also, I have a fever. Still, I feel compelled to post my ridiculous thoughts online.

I’m overcome by love for my spouse. As end-of-life issues loom nearer, I want to be sure that we’re stuffed into an urn exactly where we want to be. There are people who don’t respect requests. I’ve seen it happen. Trying to overrule all of that in advance.

So many things to consider these days. I have an atheist friend who says he’ll never “bow the knee.” No gods, no masters, and all that. Well, bully for him.

Sometimes, I’m so overcome by awe that I do bow the knee, and wish I could bow my entire body in prostration without looking like some kind of weirdo. I like the idea of prostration in prayer. I’d do it here, but please, not on this cruddy carpet.

I’m so happy to be alive. Even if my life has been basically useless, I’m still grateful for it. I know how lucky I am.

All the little creatures are outside, the animals. I leave food for them. I want them to be here and to be happy. Well watered, well fed. I love them, even the “vermin.” Hell, I’m vermin, myself.

I am a friend of mice and rats. Opossums, too.

Magick? Oh, yes, it’s always on the back of my mind, even when hearing sermons from various religions. One thing can apply to another. Different approaches, but it’s still “more light.” My eyes need more light to see by. As for my ears, I don’t hear so much anymore. Can’t watch TV without closed captioning, which makes my various local meetings without closed captioning a challenge.

But I’m still here, and I’m still weirder than you’ll ever know. Also, I care - and that’s what makes me a true weirdo.

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@Hypnos the weirder you get, the more I like you!

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This journal is all a little bit… Charles Bukowski…

I love it!

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Hey, thanks! As a Buk fan, I’ll take that as a compliment.

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When I check back on what I posted here, often during the late night hours, I’m often amazed. To me, some of the things I write when I’m loaded don’t seem like me - but it’s definitely some aspect of me. This is an ongoing experiment.

There’s “daytime” me, and “nighttime” me. They’re two different people living inside my brain. Good vs. bad, night vs. day, me vs. me. They’re always, or often, at war with one another.

It’s all illusion, but it’s one I’ve strongly sensed all my life.

The “good” me handles all the social stuff, functions in mainstream society (to whatever extent I interact with it), says “howdy” to passers-by and generally pretends to be human.

The other part of me, the “bad” part, is different. Really different. Different to the point where I don’t know how to address it.

And both sides of me do magick. I’ve done it to enhance various aspects of myself, and used it to enhance (or contact) various sides of my own psyche. Or yours. Depends upon what I want from you.

I’m using the general “you.” Don’t get nervous.

Got drawn to religious art of various sorts at a young age. Would later become a merchant of all manner of religious items. Various religions. I’ll sell to all sides, to the highest bidder.

But I don’t sell things, even myself, as an act of malice. I almost have morals, of a sort. I want people to use me, or the things I sell, to boost their own “unfoldment,” to use a New Age sort of term.

You may laugh at me for some of the items I withheld from sale and kept for myself. But they move me. If it moves me, I keep it. If it moves me, and it’s really small, it goes into my wallet or purse, whatever I’m carrying that day. Or my mojo bag.

I like what I like, and that’s true in nearly every part of my life: Religion, spiritual practice, education, sex, making money, and my social life. I don’t know why I like certain things, or am repulsed by others.

It’s just me being me.

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I don’t know what to say for myself. There’s not a lot left to say. I had chances galore, and blew every one of them. Still, I’m here, and I’m just aware enough to still be thinking, more or less. Even if you don’t consider me a thinking person, I still retain some level of animal awareness.

I figure I might be a diamond, but one that was thrown into the bottom of an outhouse. That, or I really am just another piece of crap. But even that (kind of) has its value. I could fertilize someone else’s field.

I don’t know what the answers are. Whatever my “purpose” in life is, that train left the station a long time ago. I wasted everything. But, for whatever reason, I’m still breathing. And I still have my weird “senses” regarding things long past. I’m just a creepy old thing at this point, but I feel a strange kinship with people who went on before me, as well as people who are still out there exploring.

I’m entranced by certain religious and social rituals. They’re happening for a reason. It’s the reason I’m looking for.

I don’t disdain folk rituals, hoodoo, charismatic church services, etc. Oh, those are just “uneducated” people, the “lower” class. Balls. They know more than I do, and I went to college to make believe that I know anything at all, only to come out knowing that others less privileged than myself knew better the entire time.

There’s a cemetery near here. The people there lived incredibly hard lives. Whatever they knew, it was more than I know. Their graves are now being obscured by thickets and overgrown weeds. They are my betters, and they cry out from the ground.

I’m trying to refine whatever it is that I am. It’s all I can do. But I’m failing. Still, I’m willing to learn. Learning is growth. I need to grow, and quickly, urgently.

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