FMA = NO!
by V.E. on May 22nd, 2006
filed under fyi, ladyamedeus, lgbt, personal, politics
Click here to watch a free anti-Federal Marriage Amendment video and see how you can help.
Seriously, people, this is really important to me. Even if you think that same-sex marriage is wrong, the FMA is NOT the way to go.
The World of Publishing is Changing
by V.E. on May 22nd, 2006
filed under ladyamedeus, writing
By: Cherie Burbach. Originally here.
Date: May 21, 2006
It’s always interesting to me when I hear people lament about what “junk” self-published books are. Some complain they can spot a self-published work a mile away, and others claim that the quality and more importantly, writing of these works is sub-par.
I find this interesting, of course, because I am a
We’ve probably all heard the James Frey saga of late, but in case you haven’t heard the deal with Viswanathan, she reportedly “borrowed” large parts of her novel, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life from fellow novelist Megan McCafferty.
Right.
Of course all in the publishing realm will be okay because both Frey and Viswanathan have apologized. And profusely apologized at that. It won’t stop them from making money, continuing with their movie and second book deals, or stop them from writing.
I understand that mistakes happen. What I don’t understand is why I hear so much about the quality of self-published works when I know from years of reading questionable traditionally published material that not everything a big house in New York will put out is good. Not even close.
I also know from attending numerous author signings that some authors get published not because of the grand quality of their writing but because they knew someone in the biz. I have no problem with authors getting published this way. What I do have a problem with is when I read these lame and misleading articles about how bad it is for an author to self-publish their own work. Some of them are so full of misinformation I have to question the motive of the people writing them. What do these people care if authors self-publish? Why would they try and dissuade authors from just trying to give their works a fighting shot?
Well… maybe… because self-publishing takes power away from the big houses. Their tight-knit, clicky mentality has failed to let them see some of the best writing out there. They pass on writing because they aren’t sure how to market it, not because it isn’t good. They pass on writing that isn’t going to make them, in their estimation, the big bucks. James Frey, on the other hand, will make them big bucks.
We all know the ups and downs of self-publishing versus traditional publishing. We know self-publishing is a good option for some, and not so much for others. But don’t be naive authors. When you read an article telling you not to self-publish because… sigh… you’ll have to market your work… keep in mind this is exactly what you’re going to have to do with a traditional publisher too. Self-publishing is different than traditional publishing. Different. Not better or worse.
Do I think authors should always self-publish first before finding a traditional publisher? No. But I also don’t believe the hype I read that states self-publishing is for the authors that couldn’t get their work published. That isn’t necessarily true. And I don’t believe all self-published books are garbage…. nor do I believe all traditionally published books are great.
What I do believe is that the world of publishing is changing. And traditional publishers had better take a look at their world and change their way of doing business. As we’ve seen in the news lately, their reputations depend on it.
Whose Afraid of the Big, Bad Left?
by V.E. on May 22nd, 2006
filed under ladyamedeus, politics
10 Reasons Why Progressives Shouldn’t Be
Posted by Suzanne Nossel. Originally here.
Peter Beinart and others are worried that the fiasco of the Iraq War will result in the resurgence of a staunchly anti-imperialist, neo-isolationist left of the sort the American public will never trust with its national security. I have been arguing for four years that progressives will not retake power if they are perceived not to trust America’s military hand around the world.
So while I agree with Peter’s premise that only a robustly internationalist liberalism can resurrect American power and redirect American policy, I think its a mistake to get distracted at this point by worrying about how to manage the left.
1. Talking up a hawk-dove progressive rift plays right into conservative hands – Conservatives would like nothing more than to paint the opposition as riven with divisions and wracked by isolationist, anti-interventionist sentiment. This feeds their case that progressives cannot be trusted to defend America and that tough but blundering is better than cowardly and retreatist. The fact is that progressives have come together to drive some major Congressional victories and are largely in agreement what needs to happen to put America on course. We should not help conservatives paint us otherwise.
2. 9/11 and Globalization Dealt a One-two Punch Against Isolationism – While Americans rue the conduct of the Iraq war, the combination of economic and technological globalization and the 9/11 attacks have convinced most Americans that the U.S. cannot turn away from the world. While Iraq has engendered grave misgivings about the Bush Administration’s approach, history offers many other more successful models for America’s global leadership. Most Americans, even on the far left, will be receptive to internationalism as long as it is not of the Bush variety.
3. Talk of isolationism today is greatly exaggerated – As I and others have written, Bush likes to talk about isolationism as a way to tar his critics as head-in-the-sand America-lasters. The reality is that many of his opponents have far deeper internationalist credentials than he does and that few, if any, are arguing that America can retreat from global leadership. Rather than arguing against supposed isolationists, progressives should expose Bush’s attempt to deflect legitimate criticism by crying isolationism.
4. Being anti-war doesn’t mean being anti-”a strong defense and an aggressive foreign policy” – Though the Administration would have us believe otherwise, there’s nothing incoherent about supporting assertive, effective American global leadership and believing that a) the Iraq war was anything but and b) the problems in Iraq won’t be fixed by a continued American prresence. The Fighting Dems and the retired Generals who have openly criticized the conduct of the war all advocate a strong national defense and tough line on terror regardless of where they come out on Iraq.
5. Iraq is not Vietnam – Vietnam did engender a long period of American isolationism and protracted misgivings about U.S. military intervention in virtually any form. But Iraq won’t do the same for various reasons: the mistakes and misconceptions of the Iraq adventure are so obvious that people are less prone to believe any American intervention would be similarly flawed; also, as painful as Iraq has been, casualties still are small relative to Vietnam;
6. The left want to win as badly as anyone – There aren’t too many people left in the political debate who are arguing principle without reference to to whether or how they’ll get a chance to implement what they believe. Like all other progressives, the left is driven by a resolute, frustration-induced pragmatism.
7. They learned their lesson the hard way with Ralph Nader – Nader got 2.75% of the popular vote in 2000, enough to throw the result in favor of Bush, but attracted just .4% support four years later. The left has learned that nothing can be taken for granted in elections. Given how badly they want to win, they now know not to risk it. This will be evident in this year’s Congressional races and in 2008.
8. Isolationism is Not a Factor in Policy Circles – Among the think tanks, policy institutes, and academic forums debating the future of progressive foreign policy, there’s broad consensus on the need to maintain America’s military advantages, to work aggressively and craftily to counter threats from terrorism and proliferation and to generally shore up American power and influence. While there are tactical disputes aplenty, no mainstream political candidate is going to get policy advice telling him or her to retreat globally. If isolationism won’t play out here, its hard to see how it becomes particularly damaging to progressive aspirations
9. Ordinary voters can understand the basis for anti-war, isolationist sentiment – Voters know that the grave misjudgements of the Iraq War have given interventionism a bad name. Whereas opponents of the Afghan war were seen as weak peaceniks, those who now advocate an unconditional withdrawal from Iraq have an argument that, whether or not they agree with it, voters can understand. The execution of the Iraq war has giv
10. By Fearing the Left, we Risk Losing Sight of What the Left May Have Right – We saw this in 2000 with Howard Dean and may be risking the same mistake with people like Paul Hackett. The progressive mainstream was so afraid of Dean’s meteoric ascent that they overlooked the profound mobilizing power that his perceived authenticity and straight-talk had for ordinary voters. The grassroots activism, passion and energy on the left is a force to be bottled and used, rather than bottled up. To the extent that anger over Iraq energizes people, progressives should not fear it, but should channel it in favor of an internationalist program to which both the war’s original progressive supporters and its vocal opponents could subscribe.
The Unexpected Wiccan
by V.E. on May 22nd, 2006
filed under ladyamedeus, spirituality
By: M-Taliesin. Originally here.
Date: May 15, 2006
It started so innocently. SunKitty told me about a local Pagan festival that was coming up in August and it sounded wonderful. She explained it was a gathering of Pagans enjoying five days of fun and festival in the mountains beyond Denver. The festival site had a clothing-optional section, which sounded splendid for a card-carrying nudist who loves the touch of sun and air on his little Irish skin. Ah, but she did say it was for Pagans, and I was unclear what manner of people they might turn out to be.
Pagan, I supposed erroneously, meant they were people who didn’t believe in God. I was still suffering from terrible abuses I had suffered in a variety of churches, so that was fine by me. It would be nice to meet people who behaved better. Nobody told me they believe in a whole flock of Gods; and
Wren arrived late, muttering something about “Pagan Standard Time”. I stood there grinning like a fool, with no clue what she was talking about! I followed her to the mountains with great anticipation. I wondered about these people. Wren, SunKitty, Black Lion and Green Ash were among those I first met. Didn’t these people believe in ordinary names like Tom, Dick or Harriet? I dismissed it as eccentricity. I would enjoy five days of bright August sunshine and forebear their weirdness. After all, I certainly had plenty of my own.
When we finally arrived at the festival site I got out, trying to straighten my spine. Deeply rutted roads and keeping up with Wren’s Beretta, had hammered several cervical vertebrae up into my skull. Wren had agreed to share my tent and helped pitch the beast on a flat piece of ground. I had been an emotional basket case due to a pending divorce and was thankful that Wren would be spending time with me at festival. Wren had a patient and sympathetic ear and I needed the healing comfort she could provide.
Once our huge tent was up I noticed people approaching, wearing robes and capes, playing drums and pipes of various ilk. It had the look and sound of a Zamfir concert on a Navajo reservation. “Ah, costumes!” I noted gleefully.
From the next camp, a head appeared over a diminutive 2 man tent.
“Costumes? Costumes!!?!” cried a burly man drawing near with a imposing knife in his hand. “These are NOT costumes!”
“I’m sorry,” I interjected quickly, “I just thought, well, people are dressing up. What is it? Fantasy? Role playing?” I asked with innocent naïveté.
“Fantasy?!?” The man howled back, “This is not fantasy! This is my religion!” He skulked off, shaking his head, snorting and muttering to himself as his arms rose and fell in exasperation. I had insulted the man unwittingly, with no clue to how I’d done it. This resulted in the man scarcely speaking to me for nearly a year and a half. First impressions stick, they say, and boy, did I ever stick!
People gathered at one end of the camp and we hurried off to join them. The festive spirit in the air was contagious, and the drumming and piping affected me. I was enjoying the merriment when they suddenly began pushing at me. Had I managed to offend yet more people? What had I done? Wren tugged at my sleeve and I realized that people were walking down the hill as I stood there barricading everyone’s way. I quickly turned and scurried after the others.
As we emerged from the trees, and approached a clearing, I could see a large sword impaled in the earth with a cauldron before it and a fire pit nearby. A handsome fellow with long blonde hair and wearing a grey robe was standing there with his arms crossed, looking very splendid. As we entered the meadow and moved into a circle, it dawned on me like a thunder clap from a clear sky. “Oh my stars, these people are Witches!”
Standing in the circle, I looked around in alarm. There must’ve been three hundred of them and only one of me. My mind raced through anything I had filed away on the subject of Witchcraft. My Christian education came flooding back with visions of broom riding, eye-of-newt munching, spell casting, nonsense I had learned in church over the years.
How on earth had I managed to I wind up in the middle of a gaggle of Witches? How was I going to get out of this one? Then I recalled what the guy at camp had said. “This is my religion!” How could I have missed such an obvious clue? I shot a sideways glance at Wren. I leaned over and whispered in her ear “is it me or are these people all Witches?†She again as she leaned toward me and answered “Yes, I’m one too.†Not only was I surrounded by a whole passel of Witches, one was sharing my tent. I felt panic along my spine and shuddered. Wren must have felt sidelong gaze, because she looked at me and smiled again. It brought no comfort. No one had mentioned the big “W” word before, and I had stumbled into an entire nest of them.
Another thought thudded into my brain like a hammer wrapped in velvet. SACRIFICE! I’d always been told that Witches are into that sort of thing. Now here was a creepy thought. I decided I would keep a low profile, try to enjoy the festival, and avoid becoming a sacrifice along the way. Me, of all people, keep a low profile? Now that’s a virtual study in the oxymoronic!!! Ask anyone who knows me. It just ain’t my nature. If I could get along and look for an opportunity, I would escape to my car by dead of night and be gone before anyone was the wiser. I’d simply go my way and put the entire affair behind me.
They began doing odd things with smoke and water, going around the circle with them. They called Guardians, which were dragons for each quarter. My jaw dropped as I actually saw the huge critters coming from the distance. Each one settled itself on the hills surrounding the site and furled leathery wings around its body as it came to rest. I decided the altitude must be responsible for this hallucination. Hypoxia (lack of oxygen to the brain) does strange things to a bloke. I glanced about and saw the dragons were still there. I decided to check my medication when I returned to camp. Maybe take some in the bargain. Perhaps a great deal of it. I scribbled a note on my mental day-planner to see some therapy when I got back to Denver, too. Then again, maybe there was something about the smoke they had passed around with. Who knows what they were burning in there.
Suddenly the fire pit burst into flames and people began leaping over the conflagration as drums pounded a primordial rhythm. Opening ritual was over and we walked back to camp with little conversation. That first night was colder than a Witch’s…. nevermind!
As we crawled into our sleeping bags, the sound of drums from atop a nearby knoll kept thudding through the night. How can anyone sleep with all that drumming going on? It wasn’t as if it were a drum or two banging away, more like an entire orchestra of them pounding away. I had little confidence that I would ever get to sleep with all that going on, but was surprised at how soothing the drumming was. It had a nearly hypnotic quality that soon served as counterpoint to my own snore. I was surprised when I next opened my eyes to find the sun had risen. Somewhere along the line, my escape plans had vanished with the night.
Saturday arrived and for reasons I cannot explain, I developed an overwhelming compulsion to attend the “Drawing Down the Sun” ritual. Wren was obliged to help with the children’s festival and could not go, but I was insistent. She tried to dissuade me, being I was a rookie and all, but I was resolute about attending that ritual. Unbeknownst to me, Wren sent a spy along to keep an eye on me.
It was to be in a little grove surrounded by golden aspen that I found my Pagan heart. The Lord reached out and touched me in a profound way. I haven’t been the same since.
I had been standing in the circle when apparently everyone must have taken one step back, because I found myself out before them and approaching the Priest. I had no idea what to expect and my heart pounded as I knelt before this huge man who towered above me brandishing a very large knife in his hand. “I’ve done it this time,” I thought sullenly, “here comes the sacrifice bit! I am a reasonable intelligent, educated man, but I walked over here on my own steam and put myself in this position. What was I thinking?â€
Because my voice carries like a rifle shot, and not wanting to be overheard, I asked my question in sign language for the deaf. It concerned the matter of a broken heart. My wife and I would be divorcing shortly after festival. It was not something I wanted, but was coming my way nonetheless.
He leaned over and placed his hand on my chest. His eyes locked on my own and in them I saw limitless infinity. Fear faded and time became irrelevant. It seemed as though he held his hand there for a long time, though. Suddenly he snapped his hand away, saying, “Go now, and take that with you.”
I returned to my place in the circle, feeling a draft between my ears. I didn’t get it. Take what with me? There was a pressure inside my chest. I decided it was because his hand had rested there for so long. Yet, in days following, that pressure remained with me. From that moment, I was changed. I had received a gift that transformed me. A legacy was imparted that I will always treasure. But at the time, all I could fathom was the depth of my confusion.
I met that Priest after circle, and found him a man of diminutive stature and not nearly as he had appeared in circle. I guessed him to be no more than five foot five. This was confusing. Perhaps this was a twin or something.
My beliefs about Witches and Pagans were shaken badly by the truth before me. Instead of the lurid tales of wicked, evil people who consort with devils and engage in all manner of nasty things they might do to people, I found them to be gentle, understanding, tolerant, intelligent and peaceable. They were kind and accepting of me. They loved nature, the good earth, their children and even me. Everything I had learned from the pulpit about these people turned out to be very wrong in light of the evidence of my own experience.
I had never heard of Wicca, but left festival with a thirst to learn everything about the Craft. The emotional wreckage that had buried me was suddenly swept away by the Witch’s broom. I returned home filled with a strength that mystified my estranged wife. Rather than a ‘basket case’, pleading with her to stay, she found me resolved to close this chapter of my life and bid her fair journey with blessings and haste. I had moved from despair to dispatch.
On vacation, armed with Cunningham’s book, “Wicca for the Solitary Practitioner,” I cast my first circle along the banks of the Kankakee River. Standing there in the presence of the Lady and Lord, I knew I had found my way home. There was a familiarity, a sort of strange nostalgia on this path I now found myself. Today I am a Priest of the Craft and understand I have returned to the family of the Goddess and the God. It is something I have done before. I have never looked back nor suffered a moment’s regret. Wren and I were handfasted at the same festival a couple of years later, and she has remained at my side. She is a most precious gift the Gods have given me.
As I write this now, looking back at the path I had traveled before compared to that which I travel now, I thank the Gods for people of eccentric character. I thank them for people with strange sounding names like Wren, SunKitty and Black Lion. And I thank them for peculiar folks like Nythorama, Wayland Jones, Hill Stryder and Green Ash. You see, the best part of all is that I am now part of a family, the Hidden Children of the Goddess. My family reaches around the world from British Columbia to Melbourne, from Denver to Hamburg; and every continent on earth. They embrace me despite the fact that I am just a bit more than weird!
BLESSED BE!
Day Seventy-one
by V.E. on May 22nd, 2006
filed under 5reasons
- Went to church today and got to hear my dad play.
- Bunny started cutting out my Amtgard garb today!
- Finished letters to Bennett and Daylin.
- Souplantation for dinner!
- The music of Rent.
