Father-Time is no longer ticking. The stories of the blue-eyed-god are fading like my jeans, though let us not overlook the deep hold these miss-told stories have had on the formation of our (un)consciousness. We, women, no longer fit into the universal "he"man way of describing the universe. We are destroying the chronological clocks of father time and uncovering the cyclical book-burnt wisdoms of our foresisters. Reclaim the witch! In researching and celebrating the witch we are reconnected with our own healing instincts, both psycho-spiritually and medicinally in sympathetic relation to the earth.
Looking out across the landscape of this space time moment, we see the ash piles and toxic hoards of the uninitiated masculine running roughshod across Her body, and we see this reflected in the mirrors of our own over-commodified, under-valued forms. Alive inside a female body, initiation is unavoidable -- coming thru us carried upon a red tide of lunacy, and so together we dive deep into that fertile miasma that has been scalpel-scarred, perfume-masked and undermined. Following the blood vein maps hidden beneath whatever can be stolen or mocked, this vitality waits, dreaming of this day, when we once again approach the edges of Her starry robe with a reverence borne within our own wild blood and winding up at the place where She still sits, spinning a tale almost forgotten yet alive and pulsing with song.
Spinsters, gather the dewy and the dizzy tales, which have been ripped from the sacred loom. Our inner weaving rooms, dismantled and re-adorned with the bloody sacrifice of our mothers and her daughters and sons, crosses dripping with the posse-crazed venom of hungry souls. The pope, the scholar, the cop, the doctor, the mayor, the soldier, these are not our protectors nor our teachers. The ongoing witchcraze of female hate has mutated into seemingly milder forms of spiritual maiming, sexual abuse and disqualification . We musn't look to father-thought for forgiveness nor for guidance, we mustn't look to broken mothers who stand weary on mutilated feet. Re-membering ourselves as rooted in the earth, re-membering our shattered wombs, re-membering our ancient songs, re-member.
Her limbs torn asunder, Her open pit mine womb, the privatized passages into Her organs, all could still be re-membered and are, as Spinsters by choice, we gather and begin to weave our tales from the detritus of a dying world. We dance barefoot and bloody by the funeral pyre and let no man attempt to make us its fuel. Our time is now. And this now never ends. This now unfolds in every direction, casting spiral pathways upon right-angled roads, turning clocks into cauldrons and crosses into a sacred grove, where each tree is a rune letter in an organic inscription that holds a possible answer to each of your questions.
RECLAIM THE WITCH!