#it just means the hierarchy loses a rung and power shifts down

[roguedemonwatcher]

I know they have Zathuda to deal with and whatever they are going to do with the Unseelie, but I’m so curious how this conversation about the Arch Heart’s plan is going to go, especially with Dorian and Ashton so on board with it right now, because the big question I still have and I hope they bring up is “well wtf happens to the vessel?” 

And it’s not that Dorian and Ashton would be callous about this - I simply think neither has thought about it. They just don’t know what it would do. Like would Dorian let another one of his friends potentially lose themselves just to maybe get the gods to flee? You hate the gods for manipulating mortals and playing with their lives, but you’re willing to let a potentially scarier power manipulate your friend to get rid of them? And would this sacrifice even mean mortals stop fighting on behalf of their fleeing gods? Would this actually make things better or is this just a way to make Ludinus’ plan more palatable to you? 

It really does spiral out to a lot of the same down sides of siding with Ludinus - instead this time the gods might not die. And you still need to look one of your friends in the eye and say “hey, hope you don’t lose yourself to a scary god eater, no idea if you can come back from this, good luck,” Dorian ESPECIALLY should understand what an ask this is after seeing what happened with Opal. 

Again, not saying this is how Dorian or Ashton or any of them will come down once they’ve thought about it, but this plan is not as “have your cake and eat it too” as they seem to initially think.

[rabbitrah]

Treasured Hatred

When I moved to a new town when I was 11, I had never really experienced bullying. I was a weird kid and had experienced people saying mean stuff to me, but my elementary school had a cohesive anti-bullying plan, so it was never a real issue.

Then I went to a new school. These kids were fresh from an elementary school that definitely did not have a cohesive anti-bullying program. They existed in an iron-clad social hierarchy with clearly marked Undesirables at the bottom who were routinely tortured and humiliated by the Social Elites. Talk about culture shock.

I was quickly sized up by my peers and shuffled towards the bottom of the social ranks. There were about 4-5 kids beneath me, but I was still quite a ways from the middle. I observed my classmates carefully, trying to understand this sixth grade dystopia I had just landed in.

There was one girl who was the unquestionable leader and the biggest bully. She had a circle of friends, and beneath them were the kids who weren't her friends, but who had their own clout and she didn't pick on. Then there were those on the bottom of the pile. Generally they either looked or acted differently from others. Most were ND, I'm sure. These kids formed a loose friend group, but I avoided them, sensing that it was safer to eat alone rather than join them.

When the Social Leader started to pick on someone, often out of nowhere, her peers were quick to back her up. Often the middle-rung kids would also pitch in, until almost the entire class would single out to taunt one particular person. I became one of her targets as well, for a time. I wasn't attacked as persistently as some others, but she'd routinely pick something arbitrary about me to mock. I remember one day she made me cry because I said my favorite color was purple.

Others didn't have it so easy. Once, during a game of dodgeball, one of the lowest-rung kids made the mistake of complaining about something the Social Leader had done. One of the middle-crust kids overheard and went over to report this like they were a member of the secret police or something. She immediately stormed over to confront him. She called him names and told him what a terrible person he was. Her friends backed her up. The middle crust kids backed her up. He started to cry. She said, "Why are you crying? I'm the one who should he crying! YOU did this!"

Later in the girl's locker room, they continued to talk about what a terrible person he was, how dare he, what a cry baby, etc. The thing that shocked me most of all was that one of the bottom crust girls, a favorite target of the Elites and someone who I had thought was his friend, joined in. The Social Leader was delighted by her contribution. The girl didn't earn a higher ranking in the hierarchy, but she did get a brief spotlight of approval, and basked in it. I felt nauseous.

My own social salvation came when I made a friend in the other sixth grade class. She was a star soccer player with social skills and thus had full immunity from bullying. This girl, who would later become my best friend, was tough as nails. At the age of eleven she had learned to stare down and scare off anyone who approached her with even slightly taunting energy. For many years after I would be almost embarrassingly grateful to her from rescuing me from being an eternal outcast.

My new friendship gave me something to hold onto, but she was in another class and couldn't protect me most of the time. A memorable event included the Social Leader leading our warm-ups in PE. (Literally, where was our gym teacher?) She made us run laps in the gym basement with the lights off. I found it extremely scary and asked if she'd turn them on. She laughed at me for being afraid of the dark and taunted me for the rest of class. Eventually I cried, which she also found funny. Still, having a friend meant that I wasn't alone in the universe. I had someone I could talk to after school who would nod knowingly and then talk ask if I wanted to watch X-men.

Things were much better in the seventh grade. My best friend was in the same class as me. So was social leader, but she couldn't get near me anymore. When I stood by my best friend, I imagined that there was a forcefield emanating from her. I was protected. We had a few other friends as well, book worms who were less concerned about seeming cool. The social hierarchy was changing.

Close to the end of the year I had to work on a group project with my old bully, one of her friends, and the most bullied kid in our grade. While we were working, he said something innocuous, and she started mocking him and saying it was stupid. Her friend started to laugh along with her. Their target was getting red in the face. I remembered the way she'd made so many kids cry for no reason, confident that everyone around her would either join in or stay silent. I hated her so much, and in that moment, even without my best friend's forcefield to protect me, I wasn't afraid.

I looked her straight in the eye with my coldest stare and said "That's not funny." The energy shifted dramatically. I defended what their target had said. There was silence. Pure loathing flowed from her to me and I sent it right back. She wanted to put me back in my place, I know she did, but I hadn't been a target of hers in a year. She looked over at her friend, who wasn't laughing anymore. He said, "Oh, yeah. I guess I can see that now." My old bully was mortified.

I don't remember what happened after that, just the roar of victory in my ears. I finally understood it. She was still a miserable little sadist, but the source of her power was the people around her, and I was one of those people. When I saw her edging in for the kill, I had the power to knock the knife out of her hand, and now I knew that none of her friends would jump in to stop me.

By the eighth grade the social dynamic had completely shifted into three distinct camps: Hers, mine, and the boys, who had segregated themselves for some reason and owed allegiance no one. Happily, there didn't seem to be any more outcasts. The boys who had been bullied were now a member of the Boys. The girls who had been outcasts were absorbed into our group. Looking a certain way, dressing a certain way, and social awkwardness weren't grounds for alienation any longer. I don't know if she was even the leader of her group anymore.

None of this felt as tangible or serious by the time we were in high school. There were easily four times as many people and we all started to exist in nebulous, overlapping friend groups. My old bully wasn't particularly popular or noteworthy anymore, but I never stopped hating her. I kept the memories of the fear and emotional pain she'd inflicted in my pocket and I was careful not to lose them.

The last time I saw her, we were 21. I was having a drink in our town's pub with my roommate, someone who I went to our high school but I'd gotten close to only later. My old bully walked in and saw my roommate. They'd been on a team together, gone to a few parties together. She made a beeline for our table with a "Hey girl!" eager to catch up. She only recognized me afterwards. We acknowledged each other and she went back to chatting with my roommate. When she said goodbye, she moved in to give me a hug. I hugged her back.

I wonder if she ever remembers the things she used to do and say as a child. Does she remember it at all?I can remember how much I hated her, but now my anger has a different target. Where were the adults in our lives for all of this? Why did her family fail to teach her how to be kind? Where were her teachers in grades k-8 who failed to notice this behavior and create a plan to combat it in a healthy way? Why didn't any adults step in when kids were being tormented for their appearance and neurodivergences?

I don't know why I'm writing about this now. I was rummaging through my pockets and found that old hate, I guess. I never did lose it. But I'm casting it out now. It's easy to say that children are cruel, but more accurate to say that they don't have to be, not when the adults in their lives show them how to forge a kinder road. I hope my old bully, an adult woman now, found that road at some point. I hope she's walking it, and I hope that she has people with her who love her. If she remembers any of it at all, I hope she forgives herself.

You were a child, and someone should have been looking after you too.

[concentratedbitterness]

The Partnership

Hell: Late Neolithic Period

They’re laughing at her.  This is the thought that echoes in the demon’s mind as she makes her way down the halls of Hell’s infamous Manufacturing Department.  She is somebody now–freshly promoted just over every other shitstain in the Pit, perhaps, but rank is rank all the same–and by all rights these dungeon trolls should be groveling at her feet as they do for the other procurement personnel.  Except that they do not fall to their knees, no, they slap them with laughter.  She cannot blame them.  They all know why she is here.

Nybbas has thrust her atop a burning hill of shit and bade her build a kingdom from the ashes while the flames still rage.  It is a fools’ errand, and one he means for her to fail.  Her superior has set her up only to take the fall for him.  Given the insurmountable task, that is precisely what the entire Monarchia expects will happen–Quotas missed, contracts lost, and someone’s head must inevitably go on the chopping block–but Mara refuses to accept her likely fate without a fight.  She always has felt some masochistic drive to find a silver lining, after all, and what sparkles through the coals is the large swath of Nybbas’ territory that she now, technically, controls.  Mismanaged and neglected for countless millennia, it is a veritable desert of overgrown crossroads and yet…perhaps, with enough hard work and a healthy dose of ingenuity, there is a sliver of a chance.  

But she cannot do it alone, she knows this.  To hold fast to even the faintest hope she requires a lieutenant; a partner to watch her back, guard her meager territory, and facilitate her contracts.  Given her circumstances, however, it is not a promising proposition–she has already been turned down by every capable soldier this side of the Pit.  Hence, she has ventured here, to the racks, vying for some freshly carved scrap of a damned soul that is ignorant enough of the ways of Hell to sign their own death warrant.  Most demons churned from the bowels of the Pit are quickly claimed for the legions of far more powerful commanders than she, but maybe she will stumble at last upon a stroke of luck.  She’s about due for some.

“You there,” She says to the first torturer in the row as she draws to a halt, gaze settling upon his blade as he draws it down the belly of some poor fuck on his rack.  “–Where do they keep the unclaimed?  I…”  Her words trail off, and suddenly Mara feels as small and lost as she must surely look.    

Not often someone gets lost around the racks. Technically, no one much comes down here unless they’re strung up. It truly is a terrible place to be. That’s the point of it, after all. To one who has survived the Pit, of course, it feels half like home, but demons are made to be most comfortable in discomfort.

The old demon is up to his sleeves in metaphysical blood when he hears the voice behind him. Not that he appears bothered; he finishes his slice, blade tinged in red. “Y’don’t want them,” he says, attention on his work. “They’re all paranoid.  Sadistic.  More like hellhounds than competent soldiers.” The thing on the rack splutters and pleas. The noise is interrupting his conversation, so he sinks his blade into its lungs. Now, all it does is hiss, and he turns to look at Mara.  “I’d know,” he adds. “I made them that way.”  

The younger demon nods, swallowing thickly.  She took her turn here years ago, just like the rest, forced to toil in the Pit after what remained of the human blight on her soul had been cut away.  A distant past, perhaps, but it is not something easily forgotten.  Leaving the racks behind had seemed a step up at the time, though servitude under Nybbas is not altogether incomparable.  She was not made to be a soldier or a torturer–not in the sense that this demon was.  Some were simply meant for sales.  Hell is nothing if not a grand machine, and every cog has their part to play.  

Her eyes settle not upon the poor, decrepit soul writhing in agony on the rack, but rather on the creature attached to the hand doling it out with such practiced ease that he almost seems bored.  He’s old.  Ancient, if the power wafting off of his true form is any indication–easily a relic from a time when Hell was not so crowded as it is now.  Most of the demons who are old enough to remember such times sit comfortably atop the hierarchy–leaders; respected and feared–and yet this one seems content to do the same dirty work as the fresh grunts.  “Beggars can’t be choosers.” Mara admits, and then his words play again in her mind.  

“–You made them that way?” The crossroads demon echoes absently, gaze shifting back to the thing wheezing and hissing on the rack.  There is not exactly a standard protocol where torture in Hell is concerned–suffering is suffering and each soul requires a unique touch to divest it of human weakness–but in the end the goal of the Manufacturing Department is to produce as many viable demons from the souls procured as possible.  “It seems a waste of raw material…”

And suddenly, something occurs to her.  A spark, but it is enough.

“…A waste of your talent.”  She looks up at the other demon–really looks at him–and she can see it as clearly as the discontentment written on a human soul come to call at the crossroads.  He may be overqualified tenfold, but he is directionless; passing time waiting for something that will never find him here in the wretched squalor of the Pit.  

It is as futile a notion as reaching for the stars, but she reminds herself that even if they remain firmly swirling through the Heavens one will get a nice view, a good stretch, and perhaps even a low-hanging apple for the effort.  “I…I have a proposition for you,” She ventures, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of her lips, “How do you feel about a challenge?”

He smirks, and Mara wonders if it’s not the first time someone so low in the hierarchy has dared so much as to speak to him, let alone offer him a proposition.  “A challenge?” he says, throwing her words back at her with a mocking note. “Ain’t that a little above your paygrade?”  

“Isn’t carving duty a little below yours?” Mara retorts without missing a beat.  In truth, he is not wrong.  It is practically unheard of for someone like her to have ever been promoted to command in the first place–she’s certain the other demon knows as well as she does that it is only a technical mantle, so that when the Monarchia rains down punishment for Nybbas’ failure he will have her to offer up as a scapegoat.  Still, rank is rank, and as long as she’s got a slippery grip on this rung there is still half a chance to hold fast…perhaps one day to climb.  Let go, and she will be lucky not to find herself strapped to one of these racks again.  It is nothing if not tremendous motivation to succeed.  

The old one rips the innards out of the thing on the racks, tosses them to the ground with a wet slap. The soul’s eyes go cold and blind and that’s his cue; he steps away.  After all, breaking things is easy. Taking things to the very brink of collapse and then pulling away right before they shattered…that required a little more finesse.  Task complete, he turns all of his attention to the demon in front of him now. “You’re Nybbas’s bitch, right?” No need to mince words down here. “I like your grit, but you don’t got anything to offer me.”

She takes a small step back as a tangle of entrails drops unceremoniously to the floor, blood and ichor splattering her toes.  The gore does not perturb her, but she will need to shed this host before venturing back to the sales floor lest Nybbas’ hounds catch the scent of fresh meat upon her.  It is of little consequence–the younger demon has never possessed one long enough to grow attached; that is a custom reserved for those who have achieved success.

“Best you not let Nybbas hear you call me that,” She warns, “–He will take the comparison as an insult to his dogs.”  This is not news to any demon who knows of her superior or his two ferocious hellhounds.  There is a flicker of defeat in her eyes when the older demon seems to turn her down, but there is too much riding on this chance and she wills it away quickly.  “That was not a ‘no’,” She points out hopefully, clearly not ready to give up.  “It is true, I haven’t much to offer.  Yet.  But I will.  If you help me, I will.  In the meantime, it costs you nothing to step away from this…” She waves a hand absently at the mutilated soul, “…The Damned will still be here.  How many eons have you stood tethered to these same racks; trying to find some new way to hack on these same tired souls?  If you pledge service to me I will have leave to take you Topside; to the mortal realm…to a territory that has not known what it is to fear a demon in over a thousand years.  Yours could be the face in their nightmares.  I won’t lie to you, the work will be long and grueling, but you are not afraid to get your hands dirty, are you?” Her gaze flicks to the bloodsoaked hands in question, “Take a chance on me, that is all I ask.  Let me show you what I can do.  You have nothing to lose if I fail, but if I succeed you have everything to gain.  We are not so different, you and I.  We have nowhere to go but up.”

“Topside, huh?”

Clearly, she has his attention. “Topside,” She confirms with a nod.  Short of a formal summons, the only way a Pit demon goes Topside is in the service of a salesman.

Mara can feel him sizing her up, deciding perhaps whether or not to devour her on the spot.  She has no doubt that he could.  He glances away, considers it for only a second, and then he finally says, casually, “Alright.  I’ll pledge five years Topside to you.  Then we’ll reconsider.”

Her eyes go wide when the old demon nonchalantly pledges five years to her.  He’s teasing me, she thinks at first, but then it becomes obvious that he’s serious and it is all she can do to stand there dumbly before him.  And then, before she even realizes it, she’s laughing.  Five years is not much, but for her conundrum it is ironically more than necessary.  “We only have three,” she tells him, any trace of amusement quickly fading.  

Three years to turn around a territory that has not been quota compliant for centuries.  The demon steps over the pile of entrails at her feet, poking a finger at the other demon’s chest as she peers up at him, “I make you this promise–It will not be easy; you are going to work harder than you have ever worked, we will struggle, we will not rest, and I don’t care if I have to suck every cock in the territory to do it, I am going to get the contracts I need…and in three years time you will stand by my side as I throw a sales report in Nybbas’ face that will make his head spin.  I will not fail, I swear it.  I won’t forget who helped me do it.  And you–” She doesn’t even know his name, “–You will not regret taking a chance on me.”  She rolls up onto her toes to press a chaste kiss to the old demon’s lips, sealing their business contract.  “Get your things.  We have so much work to do.”    

[goodbonesassembling]

Why You Shouldn’t Hate the Devil - A Tarot Discussion

As I’ve noted on previous things I’ve written, this post is wildly academic in tone. I’d say I was sorry but I’m mostly not because I’m also extraordinarily proud of having finally managed to articulate something that has bothered me for close to a decade so bear with me (or feel free to skip this one)(but also don’t because it’s really freaking good). Also I will be posting this again with a Read More option tomorrow morning to give people a more rebloggable version while still keeping the full version visible on my blog. Thank you! -C

The Major Arcana is made up of cards that represent complex archetypal ideas that in order to be understood and applied to readings, are often overly simplified into their commonly understood meanings. One of the ones that suffers the most from this over simplification, in my mind, is The Devil card. Whether it’s because what the card represents can be difficult for people to integrate, or possibly because the imagery used carries a heavy connotation, this card is almost exclusively casted as a “negative” card. This simplification bothers me on a number of levels but mostly because the kind of work the Devil card offers shouldn’t be shunned or avoided but embraced and delved into more depthfully than the simplest of meanings allows for.

It also stands as an opportunity to break down the binaries that so strongly control the conventional meanings of the Majors. If we start to break down the barrier between what the Devil appears to mean on its surface and what the Devil offers once one starts to peel back the layers, we can start to shift the entire structural underpinning of the Tarot away from one that is controlled by hierarchical binaries.

I was originally planning on explaining the Devil as though I were speaking to people who don’t read Tarot but I’ve decided not to. I don’t know how to make this a solidly cohesive thought AND not make this an insufferably long post so we’re gonna ditch the basic level analysis of the card. Suffice to say, the main thing you should know about the Devil (if you are not a Tarot reader or new to reading) is it is most often assigned a meaning along the lines of addiction, materialism, overindulgence, and attachments.

I take two major issues with this simplification of the Devil card: it continually reinforces a demonization of the body and positive experience with our physical form AND it plays into the light/dark binary in a way that makes it seem like engaging with our own “darknesses” is a bad thing rather than a powerful tool.

Let’s start with the first of these. It’s important to note that materialism was used intentionally by writers like Waite and other occultists of the era to describe anything dealing with the physical world. Now we tend to think of it as being desirous of “things over experiences” and linked with monetary gains but at its base the language is the same: we are culturally taught that the best people don’t want just material things, that desiring more is a moral problem. This language was used previously as a way of making the poor or lower-rung occupants feel better about hierarchies because they were “closer to God” and is currently used to reinforce the cultural norm of things like fat-shaming and slut-shaming, as well as the unpinnings for basically any “moral” argument. And this becomes a problem when we start to pull apart the meanings of the Devil card because we lose a layer of meaning when we start to place hierarchical values on the body.

When we reground the meaning of the card in its older terms we get a card that is on one hand is about embracing the physical experience of the body and the physical world and on the other is vilified and seen as indicating a problem. This places a lot of power in the body, which makes sense, both because of how we understand the world through our physical forms and because of how the occultists, who solidified the meanings of the cards, viewed the body as a seat of power. It also casts this power as a problem and I think this at least in some way is connected with how sex and sexuaity is viewed culturally.

The greatest problem that I have with the occult associations with the power of the body comes with the idea that this energy is innately sexual. The problem with this does not arise from sexuality itself but rather from the controlling narrative that continues to portray sexuality and the body as being defined as acceptable along a specific spectrum and always with an outward focus. The sexuality that states the viewer holds the power and control in the dynamic.

Sex is only a powerful energy in this set up for the person in control of the sexual encounter. This presents a dual problem in the case of the Devil: only some sexuality is viewed as power (or rather only sexuality within very specific parameters) and all of these powerful experiences are bundled up in the negativity of the card.

What if we were allowed a space where an ecstatic experience of the body didn’t come viewed through this lens of sexuality but rather through a more personal experience? What if we were allowed a space where the fact that the figures in the Smith illustration of the Devil are not bound but actively choosing to stand in their positions gives them power rather than makes them subservient? If we allow the narrative to be shifted away from the viewer as powerful and towards the participant as powerful we create a structure that allows for spaces where connection to the body is not bad or evil but sacred. This also allows space for an ecstatic experience of the body that does not have to come coded in sexuality, opening the door for personalized connections with the physical body in ways that celebrate the experiences of being human without boiling them down to our ability to gain pleasure. This also allow space for a deconstruction of the idea that our physical bodies are the problem that must be solved. This opens us up to the possibility that great things can come from have a positive, loving relationship with body, depthful things that would, perhaps, forward the journey of the Major Arcana towards greater heights.

Now let’s take the second half of my problem with the simplification of the card: the light/dark binary and our own “darknesses” as bad. I think at this point we can all agree the light/dark binary is a problem at its very face because it’s based on a racist paradigm. That alone is a problem, especially when one decides to try to unpack the fact that this card is sometimes referred to as the Dark Lovers. Yikes.

When we start to delve deeper into this binary and try to see the places it has a hold on our mentalities, the whole idea of light as good and dark as bad very quickly unravels. If you want a tarot based example, consider for a moment the imagery and intention of the High Priestess card. This whole point of that card is about being allowed to pass into spaces of “darkness” to gain wisdom.

So then why does the darkness of the Devil get coded as “bad”?

What if instead we allowed ourselves to consider the parts of ourselves that reside in the darkness without needing to us truth values? What if we could approach them without judgement? What wisdom do we contain within our own beings that we avoid learning because it requires time spent listening to the void-dark space inside of us?

If we connect this back with my first problem we begin to see a pattern: things inside of us our dark or bad or a problem and we “free” ourselves by getting outside and away from ourselves.

I propose that we keep the meaning of the Devil card, to an extent, but shift the connotation away from the negative and towards a more positive and uplifting tone. What if when the Devil appeared in a reading it was time to connect with your physical form in a loving manner? To spend time with your inner spaces without passing judgement on the parts of yourself that you find less tasteful? This kind of introspection is a significant part of personal growth and when it comes coupled with a soft acknowledgment of the power we contain solely within our own physical being it allows us to develop a grounding in ourselves that transcends the individual experience while keeping it firmly grounded in the body.

It also starts to shift the kinds of meanings of the cards around it. Consider now what the shattering of the Tower means if we realign the Devil? Could this shattering be instead of simple chaos and failure, the needed shift that allows an opening up to the powers of the Star, Moon, and Sun? What if the Devil is not the low point before the fall but the gateway that must be passed through?