foxfetch: (arctic fox)
Now is the time for change. What magic are you working tonight? What dreams are you calling into being?
foxfetch: (Default)
The cis Pagan world is fucking us over yet again, and I have had enough. This has been brewing in me for a while, after reading this fabulous post, and now I pour it out for you.

I demand transcentric imagery, gods and goddess with the wide variety of trans bodies, trans genitals, trans selves. I demand a Horned God with hairy breasts and the new Year sleeping in his swelling womb. I demand Artemis, wild and free, with a penis. And some Pagans think this is blasphemy.

Fuck. That. Noise.

Our bodies are sacred too. We, too, are God, are Goddess. I want a god who sings of his crescent-shaped Barge of Heaven, a Goddess at whose mighty rising the desert fills with green, like a pleasant garden I want metaoidioplastic gods, gods with soft, divided, fat-filled scrota, the shaft of whose penis is split into crescents like moons or bows. I want images of a goddess with her testicles pressed gently inside her body and radiant female power spilling from her dual cunts[1]; of a goddess with a long soft dangling clitoris, with fused labia gently cradling her ovaries outside her body.

I want us to take our gods back.

Gods with crescent-scarred chests, flat-breasted goddesses.

I want us to take our gods back.

I want white-haired winter gods whose vagina is the gate to the underworld. I want earth goddesses whose erection is the rising of the spring. Crones with shrivelled balls, fertility gods with juicy cunts. I want gods whose fierce bright male power is spilling milk, whose solar blaze is a bleeding hole between his legs.

Is this too much for you? We. Don't. Care. Our power is ancient, and it will not be denied.

I am tired of having to look for myself in your symbols. You throw us scraps that reflect little of our selves: bearded goddesses, castrated gods. "Transgender deities", unwanted by you or used to teach yourself such helpful, informative lessons about yourselves.

The Earth Goddess lies stretched beneath the summer sun, drifting pollen Her shining semen. The Earth God opens like the rose, phallic vines and labial petals. (He takes it up the arse as well, from a solar god with a cock of burning gold, forged in the heart of stars.)

I want a goddess who inseminates, a god who conceives; I want a god whose hard and swollen cock, leaking precome, is nothing to do with procreation but only with ecstasy, penetrable, half within and half without, giving and receiving the fierce bliss that transforms. A vaginoplastic goddess whose clit burns like a white diamond, pure sexual light. I want the god with the rams-head in his belly, curling-horned uterus that spills fierce masculine power: horned within and without.[2]

We have mysteries you have not dreamed of. And we are taking our magic back. We are finding gods in our own image, building our own Craft. You can run scared or you can join us, but we are not going away.


[1] muffing - the sexual act of penetrating one or both of the inguinal canals - is described by Miranda Bellweather in Fucking Trans Women #0 as a sex act enjoyed by some trans women.

[2] (Do I want also the goddess who grieves because she cannot conceive, the god whose phallus is hidden, who mourns his body's lack of life-giving seed? I don't know. Our griefs may also be sacred, but claiming them is hard, and hard to speak to as someone who has never desired to reproduce.)


This post speaks mainly of binary-IDed trans people, because I'm binary-IDed myself and don't feel I have any authority to speak for non-binary people. I'm not trying to exclude or erase, and I really hope non-binary people will chip into the conversation.

foxfetch: (arctic fox)
Why foxfetch? - some preliminary thoughts

In many spiritual traditions, the soul or self is seen has having many parts. The training I received in the Anderson Feri tradition spoke of three souls as well as the physical body: the Fetch, the Talker and the Godsoul - to put it in very broad brushstrokes, the instinctual animal self, the conscious mind and the divine self. (though the concepts are a lot deeper, more complex and more concrete than this suggests). The first is sometimes called the Fetch, and one of my personal associations with the second is the Fox[1]. Put the two together and you have these two souls coming more closely into alignment, in part of the greater process of alignment and self-possession.

But my choice of the name for this blog goes beyond that. In the Northern (Norse, Saxon etc) traditions, the fylgja or fetch is a guardian spirit and/or part of the soul which often appears in the form of an animal.

In regard to both these concepts, when we look at the term fetch, what does it mean? To go and bring something, to retrieve it. We can expand this by looking at different definitions of the term. Retrieving, attracting, inhaling, arriving (perhaps by an indirect, an unexpected route); fetch is all of these. There's even the foxy meaning of a stratagem or trick. So much of magic is about what we intentionally draw to ourselves or exclude, what we attract and what we knowingly repel. The word fetch is an invocation, a calling-towards.

In everyday life, however, the first association that comes to mind may be a command: fetch! When spoken to a dog, the dog (if trained) brings back a ball or stick, or perhaps game, sustenance for the body. What, then, might its relative the fox bring back, by its indirect and winding route through the night woods? Something useful, maybe. Something dangerous, possibly. Something unexpected, almost certainly: laid at our feet or on our doorstep in the night, smelling of guts and the deep woods, old magic and fur and crystal-sharp night air. Food for the soul, and the fox laughs his silent laugh, tongue lolling, as we learn.
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Dealing with Quebecois French (or, you know, FAILING to deal) is bringing up a lot of stuff about being deaf. All the crap I dealt with in my childhood, when people treated me like an idiot because I couldn't understand them (including teachers), and I wasn't supposed to talk about it or admit that there was anything "wrong"....

I can't understand what people are saying and their lip shapes are all wrong and they look at you with such contempt. At least I'm used to not being able to understand most conversations people are having in public places.

I remember when I was...9? Must've been about 9.. In my very traditional school, we had a teacher that year with Modern Ideas. (She didn't last.) She decided to do a whole thing about the senses. Some of this included stuff around sensory impairments. And some of it included, basically, blindfolding each of us and making us stand in the middle of the room while our classmates called stuff out and we had to find them.

I couldn't do it. I just stood there, unable to move, completely disorientated. For me it was such an extra level of sensory deprivation; because I lived with a lot of dizziness as well (I still get this sometimes, mostly when I'm waking up) I could hardly even tell what was up and down. I felt like I was falling. (I have difficulty walking blindfolded. I literally fall over.) And everyone, including the teacher, was mocking me.

You know my parents didn't realise I was deaf until I was three or four? (I can't remember precisely when - my childhood memories are pretty vague, in self-defence.) I had just enough hearing that I had learned to "talk" in my own language (which I thought was the same as standard English, because it was the English I heard), that my family could just about understand and no one else. I could read and write at an unusual level for my age, because I was so hungry for communication. It was my father - my alcoholic, mostly-absent father - who realised. I was sitting watching TV with the sound very low, and he asked how I could hear it like that. Apparently I looked at him for a while, then basically said, "...hear it?"

I wasn't supposed to talk about it. It was one of those things where no one ever sat me down and said, don't tell anyone - but they never told me not to talk about what was going on at home, either. I had an op on my ears when I was four - I remember being in the hospital - where it turned out that part of my lack of hearing was physical obstruction in my left ear. They sorted that out, but the right is sensoneurinal deafness, un"fix"able. I woke up from the anaesthetic and, apparently, complained about the noise. No one understood what I was talking about, until they realised I could hear the traffic noise outside for the first time.

I still couldn't talk "right". There's a reason that mentions of speech therapy make me twitch. I've always hated hearing my own voice, though that's better now that it's actually broken. But I still can't pronounce certain sounds right, and people have teased me about that up to the present day. To them, it's an amusing quirk. To me, it's devastating.

My mum told the school, of course. I was supposed to sit at the front of the class, so I could hear. (And see - they didn't figure out my visual problems for a long time, and then gave me glasses which with the degree of anisometropia I had gave me headaches and messed up my binocular vision and depth perception - you can imagine how much fun THAT was for sports....)

The school didn't believe in "coddling" things like disabilities, though. (They also didn't believe in dyslexia, which messed up several of my friends.) Initially teachers called me stupid, but when it became apparent that, actually, I'm pretty damn bright, they called me lazy, inattentive, careless. My peers just kept calling me stupid when I couldn't understand what they were saying, and teasing me for saying what or sorry or pardon.

I was supposed to just cope, keep quiet, suck it up. I didn't understand - even until a few years ago - that so much of what I dealt with was due to my deafness, NOT due to me being lazy, inattentive, stupid, socially inept. All those fast, high-pitched child-voices. I couldn't understand what they were saying or how to interact. I only knew it was something wrong with me, and I had to hide it. (And jesus, do not even get me started on how that then interacted with being trans and knowing I was queer from an early age...)

I learned, in self-defence, to get by, to lipread a lot, to figure out what people are saying from context. There're people who've known me for years who are astounded when they find out about my hearing. When I worked at the fricking disability charity, most people didn't know. Because I was always meant to integrate, integrate, integrate. Because there was something wrong with me.

I only realised this morning how much not understanding what people are saying here brings this up. Not random background conversations, but when I try to talk to people on the phone, in shops, to officials. I find myself cringing, smiling apologetically, that ape-grimace that says don't hurt me, I'm sorry, it's my fault. Making myself small. But no matter how much you do that, it never really helps. They get impatient and contemptuous, and I panic. And I feel stupid, wrong, clownish, contemptible. I feel like I'm standing in the middle of that classroom again, blindfolded, with sounds coming from all around me and mockery and I can't, I can't, I can't.

I need to work through this crap, I know. I know ultimately I'll pick the Weird French up, find a way to get by, even if I have to work my arse off to get there. (Are there any resources for learning specifically Quebecois French?) And in the process, hopefully I'll deal with this emotional shit from my childhood. (Maybe learning to sign would help, emotionally? Not sure.), that was unexpected. All because of some woman over the alley shouting in Quebecois French. At least now I understand some more of what's going on in me, even if I still have no fucking clue what people are saying.

After all, it's not like I'm not used to understanding written language better than spoken. I just never quite expected to go back to that, at my age.


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March 2011

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