The last couple days, I have been pinning Afrocentric images to my Witchcraft board on Pinterest. Because I was looking at everything that I had pinned for Litha (i.e. Summer Solistice) and I realized how blindingly white everyone was.
America has a fascinating history of Afrocentric witchcraft, but you have to understand the difference between Hoodoo and Voodoo first.
Voodoo has its origin in the Caribbean, generally speaking Haiti. It isn’t the same as Santeria which generally speaking comes from Cuba.
It might surprise you to learn that many practioners of Voodoo (or more accurately Vodou) actually consider themselves Roman Catholic.
This is the biggest difference between Voodoo and Hoodoo. The former uses Catholic Saints as intermediaries with the universe.
Hoodoo doesn’t have that overlay, in large part because it arose in Continental America which wasn’t exclusively Catholic, unlike the Caribbean. Lousiana is (not surprisingly, given its history of being owned by both the Spanish and the French) where Voodoo has the strongest foothold on the North America continent proper.
Other centers of Voodoo include Memphis, Tennessee because the faith spread north up the Mississippi River.
Hoodoo, in contrast, has its own pantheon of cosmic helpers called Lao or Lwa which were transplanted from Africa.
Now, for what I’m about to tell you, I need to say this first:
Every religion has its own element of squick.
For those of you not versed in Nerdspeak, squick translates loosely to grossness that makes you queasy, and is the opposite of squee.
For example, circumcision is barbaric and I strongly recommend never attending a bris.
Catholics and other Orthodox religions believe that wafers and water turn into flesh and blood, which makes you a cannibal, I suppose.
Mormons believe that only married couples can make it to tip-top heaven, and once you get there, you will fuck eternally and make spirit baby after spirit baby until there are billions enough to populate a world like ours… which… I guess sounds okay for God but Mrs. God will be have to be pregnant for eons and eons and eons. And then, does one of those spirits have to die like Christ did for this world, or does His sacrifice apply to all of His Father’s children who will all become God and Mrs. God after the Second Coming. Following that logic, is Jesus the Cosmic Christ of all Galactic Atonement, and if so, that was a sucky job. Did he know that when he signed up for the gig?
I have tried in my life to memorize even a few of Hindu’s gods and goddesses and their aspects but I have failed miserably. That’s why I have cheat sheats like this one.
So here’s a little bedtime story from Hindu myth: how the Ganges River was created.
Shiva was a badass but also an idiot. He cut off the head of a demon and said he wouldn’t rest until it was filled again. (Filled with what is not clear. Blood? Brains? Mucus? Banana Pudding? Global Peace?) Problem is, he has a huge fireball for a third eye which kills anyone whom he talks to. So he goes away to a monastery to sulk.
Now, Shiva may be a big lunk of burning stupidity but he’s also muy caliente sexually speaking, so all the wives of all the monks run out of the monastery and rip off their clothes and roll around on the ground naked before Shiva.
I’ve been there before. I was once the designated driver for a mini-van full of friends to go see Magic Mike. One of my friends is a HUGE Channing Tatum fan and kept licking the stand-up poster of him, to the point that I’m pretty sure the movie theater called the cops. That was one of the funniest things I’ve ever witnessed.
Anywho, the monks come home, freak out and try to kill Shiva except A) no.
Lucikly, Vishnu shows up with a hottie goddess named Mohini (a virgin nonetheless) and this distracts Shiva so much that the wives decide to instead just get it on with their husbands.
Not sure if it was their own personal husbands or just husbands in general. I am pretty sure it quickly became a swingers party.
Shiva is so excited that he starts prematurely ejaculating all around, so Mohini gets him an eyepatch so he doesn’t set the world on fire. She then opens up a vein, fills the skull with blood and then they get down to the dirty dirty deed. With all the rest of the fuckers.
And all of this… fluid… vaginal, seminal, blood, probably some piss… flows out and creates the Ganges River.
I do have a question though: where the fuck is Vishnu? Did he bugger off again? Or is he off to the side adding in his two fists’ worth?
Besides, it isn’t like the Hindus have a corner on WTF creation stories.
For example, Aphrodite/Venus floated to shore on a clam shell. But why wasn’t she born like a normal Olympian… by bursting out of her father’s head or something?
That’s because Zeus wanked off into the ocean, for some reason.
I mean Zeus raped swans when he was down on his luck so what he had against the ocean I don’t know… which, come to think of it… was technically his uncle Oceanus the Titan, who was ruled over by his brother Poseidon. That he just threw jizz at.
That’s it. All of you, get out of here! Even you, Jesus. Because what did that poor little fig tree ever do to you?
So see this next part for what it is: weird shit people do and claim its their religion.
It may be your religion, but it’s still weird. Bless your heart, you little weirdo.
In the Hoodoo faith, if you want to get a man to fall in love with you, there are several things you can do. Sympathetic magic says that anything he has touched or written or worn can be used to influence him. Parts of his body, like hair or fingernails are even better, but that always makes me think… if I’m close enough to a man to be able to get some of his hair or fingernails… then I don’t need to work a love spell. He’s there. In the bed with me. Snoring. A muting spell would be nice, though. Thanks. There’s a dear.
Here’s the squick. Parts of yourself as a woman can be used as well.
Spit and urine work. The spells never seem to call for poo. I think that’s a good call.
But blood, that’s another thing that works well.
Specifically, menstrual blood.
One of the most interesting spells I have ever read (and I am a weirdo and like to read weird things just to keep from being bored) involves a strawberry. The strawberry is to be inserted, worn for a couple hours, then dipped in chocolate and served to the target.
Oh hell no.
Still, it goes to prove that love is a mighty force for good and… WTF that’s gross why the hell do you do that to a poor piece of fruit? Man, I ain’t never gonna be around you no more on St. Valentine’s Day. And what the hell you be putting into my coffee?
That sounds exactly like Donkey in my head.
So let us all just focus on the good. People are weird, and weird is fun. Love is crazy, and crazy is… well, human. Personally, I would rather be weird and occasionally heartbroken than numb, any day. Another working-through-it poem below.
boxing is such a horrid sport.
then again, so is war.
throw two grunts at one another:
who’s first to hit the floor?
once it was a gentleman’s vice,
and bets were kept discrete.
the doll was an accessory,
while the guy drank whiskey neat.
how many lovers, man and wife,
took anger home to bed?
when torture is commodified,
folks wind up being dead.
I have no use for brutish flair:
I’ve been the punching bag;
broken face which falls to the mat;
the bloody, gory rag.
no doubt you balk at endless rounds,
wish I’d just ring the bell.
but you know nothing of my pain.
so welcome, love, to hell.