Birthday superstition

Today is my birthday—and this year I am giving myself the gift of rejoining the world as a pagan writer.

Some context might help. Someplace during the course of my life, I picked up some superstitions. One of which is the idea that whatever I do on my birthday determines what I will be doing that next year.

This superstition is similar (probably kissing cousin) to the rituals that surround new year’s day.

Yes, that was supposed to be Lower Case, for there are multiple new year days during the year. Business, Chinese, Jewish, Tax, Wiccan, Norse, Egyptian, and your own personal one—your birthday.

Sadly for me (and you), we do not have complete control over these days. And unless it is a societal observation, odds are that your birthday is just like every other day of the year. Not special at all.

Again context matters: During my fourteenth year, my father finished losing everything we owned.

I went from being upwardly mobile middle class (third generation immigrant) to being a slave.

Yes, I meant to use that word. Slave. Slave. Slave. Live with the fact that I have some ownership here.

I know—context please—we ended up moving to Small Town America, living in a condemned house (or at least, it would have failed multiple building codes if someone would have dared to step inside it).

By the time of my fifteenth birthday, I was required not to celebrate my birthday to help disguise how fucking poor we were. And to remind me that as far as my mother was concerned, I had no legal rights.

My mother, who was a brick outhouse full of rabid bats, expounded constantly the following Fun Facts:

One, because my mother was a Christian, that I had to hide my pagan religious beliefs, to protect her.

Two, because she told the high school that I was a retard, it became illegal to do homework without her permission. Other things I can’t do without every bloodline relative I have signing off on it are write, be educated, work for better than minimum wage, host pagan events, and generally be happy with my life.

Three, building upon the previous legal theory, if I dare write science fiction (or anything else) that a judge in a court of law will sentence me to Life Imprisonment, no trial, no possibility of parole. That I could be committed to a lunatic asylum without a single test being done, thanks to me believing in Satanism (my mother was miscasting Wicca), and that I would never be released. And best of all, I could be killed by my mother, or a bloodline relative of her choosing, without an investigation happening.

The cops would bag my body, bury it in an unmarked grave, to protect the Christian owner of my family.

Hell, one time, my mother tried to convince me that I had to hand over my entire paycheck to her, so that she could make sure that I was budgeting correctly, and take ninety-nine percent of it for the service. As in my mother claimed that she could force me to work full time, supporting her lifestyle, while simultaneously requiring me to be homeless, locked onto the prison death she predicted for me.

So age fifteen, I ceased to celebrate my birthday . . . Christmas . . . really anything that required money.

Became a fucking slave babysitter that could be left alone with his siblings for up to three days straight.

The logic used in this magical-mystical Christian prophetess nonsense is still in my family . . . and coven.

This particular birthday is a scary one for me. Yes, I will explain the context of that remark to you.

Strap in, it promises to get bumpy here. I call this tale the Curse of August 28. On 2019.08.28, a Wiccan community church that I attended monthly voted to exile me for my medical marijuana status. The anniversary of this event was celebrated by the new Popess declaring that I never contributed to the community—ever—that the previous owner was afraid of me and that potheads are all Mind Rapists. Oh, and the rewriting of history made it legal, ethical, and in the best interests of Denver Wicca for one of her allies to lie to Amazon, costing me my Publisher Account (why I can’t sell my books on Amazon).

That was 2020. August 28. Which I did not find out about until my birthday . . . thanks Meltdown Girl.

And last year, on August 28, the only sister who promised not to sue me for being a pagan writer, was disconnected from life support (Covid-19 complications) which made another sibling tell me that I am forbidden to write about the theme of “family”, that I am legally not allowed to use pennames, and that I have to restrict myself to only those actions that she believes a RETARD can legally do without her yes.

In other words, I am not allowed to defend my reputation as a Wiccan minister because sis hates me.

Which means that this first post on a brand new blog will result me in having to hire a lawyer. Lawsuits!!

So here is the score card—a certain nameless Wiccan community church had three years to find a Very Expensive Lawyer, and my mystical bloodline (full of potential half-siblings) had one whole year to do so.

How am I celebrating my birthday this year? Simple. I am starting a new blog. Publishing an article.

Because if you haven’t found a lawyer by now who confirms that your spiritual purity grants you complete ownership of your religious/ mystical/ society community, including the right to micromanage people you refuse to talk to for offending you, the right to make me a Homeless Retard, you never will.

And just like eating black-eyed peas on New Year’s eve, I have a superstition. Every year, the universe (my muse and goddess) gives me a project that takes a year to deal with completely. The last three years, my birthday was an occasion to mark that I was being kicked out of every private group that I had ever tried to be a member of. Yes, I have been exiled—made a pagan hermit—yes, my enemies won . . .

 . . . oh look, I have a blog still. And access to an ebook distributing hub. Okay, with the loss of my Amazon, you have closed off 80% of today’s book market to me. But I still have a printing press.

Today, I give myself the Gift of Rejoining the World as a Pagan Writer. With or without your permission.

So if you feel that the American Constitution does not apply to me because I am not spiritually pure . . . well, you better find that lawyer you keep claiming to have . . . I look forward to your Righteous Lawsuit.

Fun Fact: Being banned from the last three spiritual communities that I still had standing in, just allowed me to be honest. Over the last three years, I have worked on various rough drafts of my unofficial unapproved history of Denver’s occult community. The one that I had to banned to prevent happening.

It allowed me to say things (if only to myself) that I had not said before. Admission of something that I had seen from my community, that none of the Gatekeeping “Maggie died—we are in charge of Denver now” aspiring Witch Queens want to become part of the official history—that I am not the only dodgy lineage (without any proof of out-of-state training) in the Wiccan (pagan) community of Denver Colorado. My life as an occultist, in Denver, was typical of many other witch-magician’s experiences.