Nudity is Only Skin-Deep

I was born with an original sin. While I was still in her womb, my mother was compelled to get baptized for my sake. I was no blameless babe, but an evangelist in utero, an inadvertent colonizer. She pinched her nose, submerged, and succumbed to her fears that I would not be saved unless she became a godly woman. And so we were baptized together, four years before the scheduled Armageddon.

When I was three years old, my mother was pregnant again. At the Kingdom Hall I was asked if I was excited for my little brother or sister to be born into Paradise. 1975 was the year when God would say enough is enough and summon destruction, ending this wicked world and its Satanic system of things.

Armageddon came, but not for us. Not yet. Pol Pot took over Cambodia. The Americans pulled out of Vietnam, and my sister was born not in Paradise but in the same downtown hospital as I was.

It’s been forty-five years since the earth was supposed to be reclaimed by God, and my mother still tries to save me. Our simultaneous baptism wasn’t enough. Now she preaches to me through text messages and the mail, beseeching me to come back to the religion I was born into but grew to reject. Armageddon is going to happen any time now, she says. Any time.

And I watch our world grow ever more polluted, watch the climate boil, the extinctions accelerate, and I know we’re already in the midst of it, but no God can save us.

As a little Jehovah's Witness kid, I listened to the talks about how the road to destruction was wide and easy to travel, but the road to salvation was narrow and cramped. One day, as my family drove to the Kingdom Hall, I questioned my parents about why they drove on the highway when it was wide and well-travelled. Surely we were headed to destruction that way. They laughed, but I remained suspicious. Weren't we ignoring the word of God by driving on busy roads?

As a toddler, I roamed my wooded yard, looking for narrow, cramped paths. I found game trails and followed them. The paths the deer travelled seemed much more likely to me. I'd never heard of God having a problem with deer or jackrabbits. And so I spent more and more time in the woods, coming home disheveled and covered in scratches and burrs.

I never did find salvation at the Kingdom Hall, but I suppose I did as a filthy, feral toddler fascinated with the nature all around me.

I have decided to research three very different forms of corpse deposition for my archaeology homework: ( Tibetan sky burial, the self-mummification of the Sokushinbutsu, and space burial )

(Character sketch for a Hunter game....)

So I knew I was special from an early age, right? Yeah, I know everyone thinks there special, except maybe those flinching ones who hide in the corners at school hugging their bookbags to their chests, but I knew I was. I mean, Ma and Pa always told me I was special, but that’s like their job, right? I know it sounds cheesy as hell, but it came to me in a dream. I’m a bit of an oracle, when it comes to dreams, so when I dreamed about the Great Eye on top of ye olde pyramid, and how that eye scanned all around like the freaking Eye of Sauron until it lit on ME, well, yeah, of course I knew I’d been singled out. By what exactly, I wasn’t sure, but there’s a reason the unknown is called the occult. ( I was singled out for life as an occultist. )

In 1212, disenfranchised commoners
(children, the poor, and mendicant clergy)
Left Europe for the Holy Land
To peaceably convert Muslims to Catholicism.
It ended in mass death and slavery.

In 1229, Church leaders banned commoners from owning Bibles.
After all, a commoner is uneducated
And will have no recourse but to make
False interpretations of divine scripture.

The ban didn't do the trick.

In 1231, Pope Gregory IX formed
The Inquisition as a means
of bringing order and legality
to the battle against heresy.

Until then, alleged heretics were
often burned to death by mobs
of angry townspeople.
The Pope didn't want that.
He wanted to learn
What made these alleged heretics tick.
He wanted to give them the opportunity to recant.
To convert to proper teachings.
And if that didn't work,
They'd be burnt to death.

We can take faith in knowing
The executions were performed by experts
and not some damned commoners.

(From this writing exercise comes this:)

I am from landwash, mountain valley, trailer park, and forest, from saddle leather, horse liniment, big yellow bags of No Name dog food, and from baling twine and Watchtower magazines.

I am from the white and green mobile home converted to wooden house. I am from the home-made white camper, and 31' fifth wheel travel trailer pulled on the back of a 3/4 tonne crew cab bright orange Chevy.

I am from the humble potato, planted, weeded, picked, peeled, and chopped until my back ached, knees cried out, and fingers cramped and waterlogged, from the fields of green and gold timothy, heads bobbing in sweet-smelling breeze, pulled out with care so I could chew the tender stems and pick my teeth with the tough ones.

I am from door-to-door Saturday mornings and three-times-a-week Kingdom Hall meetings, from hours spent reading novels on the back of a pony, from picking berries and rose hips after school, from stacking wood onto the dogsled and alongside the house, from Powell and Twombly and Rolf.

I am from the attention-seeking side of the family, the side that always says "Look at me!", and from the side who believes it is a sign of weakness to show tears. I'm from skin stinging from turning the other cheek.

From blood of the butchered chickens, pigs, deer, moose, goats, rabbits, and fish being poured onto the ground and always reading the labels to be sure there were no animal byproducts--not even in the cat food--and being told we weren't superstitious even while I shivered to hear tales of demons coming out of role-playing books, second-hand clothing, and Smurf wallpaper.

I am from three preceding generations of Jehovah's Witnesses, zig-zagging their ways back and forth across both sides of the family. There will be no fifth generation. It stopped with my sister and with me.

I'm from Dorn Ridge and Springhill and Dead Man's Bay, from plain-cooked meat and boiled potatoes, and from Jiggs dinner on Sundays.

From my Dad embarrassing me by doing backflips and log-rolling down hills in front of the other kids, Mom's Barbara Cartland and Louis L'amour books covering every table, countertop, and shelf in the house, my sister spearing a broom handle through my door during yet another fight between us.

I am from washed-out photos from Cameron Beach, pictures of us eating lobsters or of us all holding collie puppies up by their arms, from hikes through sagebrush and tumbleweeds to craggy outcrops and jigsaw pines, where we'd light a fire and boil water in a tin can and eat bannock cooked over a stick. I couldn't want for more colour and flavour.

Yesterday, I went to Bethel Canada. Most of you will have no idea what that is. It is the headquarters for Jehovah's Witnesses (JWs) in Canada, and is in Georgetown, Ontario. Why would I do such a thing? Well, my parents came to visit, and I haven't seen them in about two years. They were only here for two days, and wanted to go to Bethel. When they invited me, I sucked it up and said, sure, I'll go too.

And so I dressed to go behind enemy lines. I wore my BPAL Perversion perfume, labrys earring, my Plow Me panties from Mr. Plow, and my skirt with the repeating vagina motif. And I looked respectable.



My parents were excited. This is like Mecca meets Disneyland to them, with a Leave It To Beaver twist. I had to talk them out of leaving three hours before the appointed time. It's only a one-hour drive. We left two hours ahead of time, instead, and they were surprised to get there an hour early.

Since we were an hour ahead of our tour time, we wandered around the grounds a little. The property is lovely. Acres of manicured lawns, beautiful flower beds, and well-placed ornamental trees make the place look very much like the visions of Paradise in JW literature. The only thing missing are the scores of lions cuddling with lambs while toddlers clap and giggle. I did, however, see a mangy fox lope across a parking lot.



(More odd photo manipulations of "paradise on earth" here.)

At one point while we sat on a park bench, Mom looked at me and asked, "Have you ever thought about coming to Meetings again?"

"Nope," I said.

"Ah. That's too bad."

And we continued to wait.

Around 1 o'clock, the doors to the administration building opened and we went inside. The building is modern in appearance, with a bright, airy reception area appointed with comfortable stuffed arm chairs and a handsome long wooden bench that runs along sections of the perimeter wall. A framed Hebrew document on lambskin vellum is displayed on the wall. I have no idea what it is about, but it dates from the 15th century, and had the Tetragrammaton on it five times. A friendly woman at the reception desk gave me some postcards and an information pamphlet about Bethel.

We met up with the other people in our tour group: three young Sisters (a Sister is jargon for a female JW, and does not imply they are actual siblings. A Brother is the male version, of course) from Indiana, a woman and her two little boys (about 6 years old and 16 months old) from St. Vincent, her mother, and her uncle. The American women were armed with a big bag of peanut butter cookies. My parents chatted with the other JWs, and my inward cringing began. "What congregation are you from?" "How long have you been in The Truth?" (The Truth is JW jargon for being a JW) "How did you discover The Truth?" "So-and-so left The Truth...." Et cetera, ad nauseum. I was not asked what congregation I belonged to. I'm sure my nose ring tipped me off as "worldly" (ie. not a JW).

My brain rebelled against the old mindset, and tension built up within me. I had my iPad with me, and chatted a bit with Kathryn, Shaun, and knightky. My asthma kicked in, and I mentioned it to Kyle. He asked if it was caused by Bethel, and I said, "Probably. Lungs aren't made to breathe horse shit."

Our tour guide arrived: a charismatic young woman, modestly attired in a long skirt. The tour would be two hours long. I steeled my reserve, and off we went.

We walked through the complex, occasionally stopping at propaganda displays on the wall. One of the first such displays was about the legal department, which deals very much with ensuring JWs don't accept blood transfusions. I noted that it seems only men can do this vital work, because there was only mention of Brothers who worked in the law department.

Although there are a smattering of women in various departments, they seem to work primarily in the housekeeping departments. There are a few female dentists, and a few women in the printing facility, but mostly that appears to be the domain of the menfolk. We went into the Kingdom Hall with its theatre-style seating, and I walked up close to the stage with its podium/pulpit. Our tour guide was leaning back against the stage, explaining the structure of the meetings, and how everyone had assigned seating. Things have changed since I was a good little JW kid. Now, at least at this Kingdom Hall, there are cameramen (not camerawomen, continuing with the tradition of the mike stud. ie., a mike stud is a young man who carries around the microphone with an elevated sense of authority because of his important job). The cameraman trains his camera on the mike studs as they carry their microphone over to whoever is going to read out the answers to questions read out by the elder on the stage. And then the rest of the congregation gets to watch that lucky person regurgitate the information they underlined in the article just read to them by a man on the stage.

Anyhow, while the tour guide was leaning against the stage, she got a little uncomfortable looking, stood up, straightened her skirt, and said she felt a bit out of place being so close to the men's domain. The other women in the group tittered appropriately, and all stepped further away from the pulpit. I saw a bit red for a little, but kept it contained, and then we left the Kingdom Hall to continue our tour.

For two hours we were "encouraged" by the volunteer work done by the hundreds of Brothers and Sisters in Bethel. We saw the huge printing press, the giant laser printer, the dining room, one of the residences, the laundry facilities, etc. The woman from St. Vincent carried her well-behaved, but very tired, baby in her arms the entire way. I felt bad that she didn't have a stroller for him. The women from Indiana always paused the group any time they saw young men, and rushed to give them cookies. Maybe they'll find a god-fearing husband amongst the Bethelites.

The dining room was interesting. It has assigned seating, and everyone is expected to meet each morning where they get "spiritual food" along with their breakfast. Once again, there are cameras, and on a rotating roster, different people are assigned questions to answer, and are given 60 seconds to do so. The questions are based on pre-assigned readings from the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society's interpretation of Scripture. They are told how to answer the questions, and prepare accordingly.

I was reminded once again of the exhortation to "avoid independent thinking."

I am relieved to be home.

This morning, I saw a vulture eating carrion, went out for a delicious breakfast at Cora's, and went to the Cambridge Butterfly Conservatory and snapped an assload of butterfly photos. Check 'em out! They're gorgeous....



Tonight, I'm off to a Satanic Lagomorphic ritual, done in a neo-pagan Laveyan tradition. Or something like that. Yes, it's Rabbit Sabbath time. Woo!

Link time? Ok.

How Disney Makes Money: Don't fuck with the formula (thanks, Terre).

Owen Davies's top 10 grimoires: "Grimoires - books of magic spells - have exerted a huge influence on religion and science." That reminds me. I really need to finish writing that story I started years ago about the grimoire....

Turtle Eating Pigeon: Predators on the half shell!

Bonding With Their Downward-Facing Humans: Doga. The silliest trend I think I've seen in a while. The first picture is great for the expression on the dog's face.

Indian in record chilli attempt: It seems to me that this woman devoured 51 Scotch Bonnet peppers in 2 minutes. She also rubbed some in her eyes. AIE!!!

Everything You Wanted to Know About Canada: Rick Mercer explains the very fucked up government of Canada (thanks, gha5t).

Billy Bob Thornton Gives Bizarre Interview On Canadian Radio: What a space cadet (thanks, Terre).

Happy Fornicalia!

No, it's isn't exactly what it sounds like. I will not be celebrating by fornicating. I'm actually a day late, but from what I've read of the holiday, that's ok. February 5 marks the first day of spring for the Romans, and I'm celebrating by cleaning the bathroom. Nowhere near as exciting as meaningless sex, I know, but at least I end up with a nice, sparkling clean privy.

The word February, after all, comes from the Latin februa (the means of purification). And in turn, februa comes from the Etruscan equivalent for purgamentum (purging). I choose not to barf, though.

Fornicalia, also known as Fornacalia, is celebrated in honour of the goddess Fornax. A fornax is also Latin for furnace, so the celebration is also the feast of ovens. I have already done my part by baking a delicious Devil's Food Cake. In this way, I am right on time, because Fornicalia is a moveable feast, always celebrated before February 17th. "On February 17th, if anyone had forgotten the feast or didn't remember which curiae he belonged to, he could make a private sacrifice at the Quirinalia, a general assembly of all the curiae. The Romans called the Quirinalia, the 'Feast of Fools' (from The Fornacalia."

But that's another holiday....

I'm going to be out of town this week, so my observances of the Roman holidays will likely grind to a stand-still for the time being. However, today is the first day of Carmentalia, a festival celebrated primarily by women and devoted to Carmenta, goddess of childbirth and prophecy.

I prophesy I shall never give birth, except in character.

It was forbidden to wear leather or other forms of dead skin in her temple, so I have taken off my watch, which has some leather detailing.

Pictures of Carmenta are exceedingly difficult to find, and the one I've included seems to show a scene from the Lupercalia, which, as you can see, is a pretty exciting holiday.

If I can find some hunky young men wielding whips while wearing blood and dead sheep, I think I will have one hell of a party.