Who I write for (Secret Mormon family and Future Dharma)

Being an experienced Lifestyle Journalist, I know that some of my readers have asked the question:

"Won't your Secret Mormon Wife and Daughter object to you blogging about them?"

Get comfortable. Strap in for Flashback City. Because of Invisible Wedding Ring.

I want you to imagine that there was a time in my life before I was blogging. 

The Herald of the Loco Gyro's end was a busted nose redhead. 

Redhead had jumped up on my counter, sitting on it, ordering an onion ring. In hindsight, it must have been all she could have afford; she hadn't gotten a drink. Finishing her "meal," Redhead asked me, if I was hiring--I let her fill out an application. 

While waiting for her onion rings to cook, Redhead had announced to me that she was Model Material. 

I had done her the courtesy of not correctly immediately was strange. Her nose was not Model Material, unless you are getting Before and After photos done. I was guessing baseball bat; but rough upbringing, neighborhood, or school--check all three?

But I had already done something really weird. 

I had not screamed, "Get the hell off my counter! What the hell are you doing!"

Why we got to the "Can I take your order" part is beyond me--I had habits.

My logic for hiring her, by the way, was (so next time) I could tell her, "Not to sit on the front counter."

Gwen never did sit on the counter ever again.

No, Gwen stayed long after she clocked out. It was annoying. I was trying to work.

In hindsight, I know that Gwenviene prescreened me, approached me with knowledge of me. That moving in the Urban Peak environment, with its teenage homeless, that Gwen must have heard tales of the crazy Wiccan minister who ran a lunchtime/convention center rush "Collect their money, slice that meat, throw hot gyro" Greek Fish Bowl.

By "Fish Bowl," I mean that from 10 am to 4 pm, at one employee had to be upfront because the Loco Gyro worried that they might miss a sale in downtown Denver . . . because was true in the shopping malls. Here in the Working District, my Regulars know to yell at me; I am probably trying to find something in the freezer--just on the other side of the wall. 

Sadly, my entire decade--seriously ten years, September 1994 to September 2004--was a series of hearing as an Owner/Operator (because their the Real Thing was never there), how this Downtown Project would improve our revenue flow.

"This two block set of stores includes a record store, a book store, and a Hot Topic. You will get walk-over business from this shopping center--honest."

I remember being told by Lady Gart, not to be a bummer. I told her that the customer had no reason to leave Paradise for Hell. That Sports Queen Bitch--if looks could kill.

But I was right. The list of customers were all broke from the bookstore, the record shop, and the expensive clothing store aimed at teenagers. I never saw any of the crowds that the Downtown Pavilions promised the neighboring preexisting restraraunts. Either did anyone else in that damn food court. 

And Lady Gart will have to admit to that. Hence why it's not a food court. 

Killed my career in food service. 

Made me go to college. Later university. Where twenty years of food service mattered not.

But some horrible habit that busted up nosed redhead inflicted upon me did. 

I occasionally joke that blogging is worse than crack cocaine. 

"I was doing fine. Then I fell off the wagon. Started blogging again. The wife noticed. Because I started snapping at her. Why are you angry with me?!? Not you. Gherkin!"

There's a joke that needs context. 

Out there in the ether is Gleamings from the Golden Dawn. Was that the last name of that damn blog? It went through three name changes. A decade. Long time. War blog.

I did not start off as a Warrior. 

No, it was Gwen.

It was when I realized that I no longer noticed her busted up nose that I panicked. I tried to cut her out of my life. I was moving out of my apartment into a new place of business.

I did not give Gwen my new address.

No, that would have been Khari.

That would be why I would later have unacceptable emotional breakthrough with this little redheaded Mormon girl, and my polyamourous business partner would use black magick to get rid of her. Spider magick. Goddess magick. Without consulting me. 

Enter the blizzard of March 17-19, 2003. 31.8 inches of snow officially. Some places might have gotten more. 

I am positive that my Mormon girlfriend was morning-sick before that blizzard. 

Gwen was caught in a Mormon household, with a boy, having sex, during that blizzard. 

Got pregnant. But it was a "Miracle," arranged by "God" to make that marriage happen.

Never mind the stink of black magick on our breakup, or their "love," or the eventual misery of everyone getting what they wanted, or so it seemed.

I, personally, had a nervous breakdown, after university. 

I have been quite sure how much of my mental distress has been caused by the sheer refusal of a force of nature to see the ants beneath her feet, and much is my fault.

Well, given that she too busy with her career (and others with theirs) to Sherlock Holmes something, or ask what page that she should read, I accept full blame. Khari World 24/7/365. And when it's not career, "I only have time to read non-fiction: gardening books. If only some of this information was on audio, or being presented in ritual form."

If you listen real closely, you can hear the echoes of my scream. 

For the record, if Master Cherubim could be believed about my lineage (given the Power Level Up, plus the group wide post initiation drain that someone--maybe not me), my energetic transmission goes through Aliester Crowley and Israel Regardie. 

Yeah, ouch. 

Explains a lot about how my lineage acts--teacher to student, right?

Imagine not being able to warn your students this because of a damn trademark.

For years, I have wished that I could warn MTO's initiates that their magick line is poisoned. "Beware. Danger. Run, Will Robinson, Run!" MTO is a good man. Sad that he lost his occult shop, but we all lost in the downturn. Time to rebuild. 

I loved it during the Golden Dawn Flame War Years. 

Or the Hermetic Golden Dawn Trademark Legal Case.

 A wonderful person, the Great Gherkin, tried for years, to locate my Master. To shut me up. To have leverage on me. This party to the Trademark legal case knew that I had legitimate lodge lineage, but they did not know who gave it to me. 

If they (their Free Lawyer) could link me (as an initiate) to a party in the lawsuit, then the Great Gherkin, his Mystic School of Magical Instruction and Initiation could gag me. 

The Great Gherkin wanted to gag me. 

I did not mean to become his enemy. 

As my sister, Angry Cussing Mitzy Gaynor politely said on TV Station Aussie Down Under, "He brought this arm up his fuzzy butt himself! Want to brag? Take this arm up it! Up it!"

That clip might not have wired.

But mine did. 

Because blogging is worse than smoking crack. Or standing on a Colfax street corner. 

Tell me that I was wrong to respond like my Angry Critical Literary Sister Saint Mary. 

"Used booksellers are getting a thousand dollars for my out-of-print self-published occult book. My masterpiece--the 666 page Ceremonial Volksvaulten Manual--Yodi brought it."

Yeah, Yodi brought it. I special ordered it through my local occult shop, Quantum Alchemy. Lady Winters brought a copy for herself. And a third for the shop.

And it sat there for years. 

Personally, I have been offered more than what I paid for it--originally. Not even a dime, for inflation. As an used bookseller myself, if it had been going for even a tenth of what he was claiming, that book would have been back print . . . with a legitimate publisher. 

Not a Shell Label, pretending to be a publishing house. 

I didn't submit anything. 

I gave the book an honest review. Middle of the road. Seemed like the answer key to someone's homework. 

And it was.

Hindsight--I believe that it's the way that Great Gherkin self-initiated himself. If so, I question anyone else using that particular method, given his behaviors over the years. 

My absolute favorite book review of his Great Work was Mitzy's:

"It's a great book to hollow out, and store your pot stash in."

In the Good Ol' Days, the Great Gherkin would have screaming in my comment section.

"Conspiracy! Conspiracy! Italian Mafia! Trying to destroy greatest Esoteric Order ever!"

I loved the Italian Mafia references because when my father was alive, we actually had Italian friends--as well as Jewish friends--if you understand the drift. We were in trucking. The industry was a little dirty. Hoffa had not cleaned up yet . . . when Dad was alive. Still I wondered what would happened if a real assassination attempt was commissioned because I couldn't imagine any paid assassin being that bad. Just saying. 

With that book review, I fell down the rabbit hole, for about three years. 

Gleamings from the Golden Dawn racked up two thousand blog posts. Mainly because at one point, the Great Gherkin, along with Kitchen Sink, are doing such crazy things, I am posting three blog posts a day. While still working at Loco Gyro. 

Khari loves me blogging during the GD Flame Wars Years. Not. She wants to hunt down the person who introduced me to blogging like a dog. Blogging is a STD. 

Quite simply, the Great Gherkin drove me nuts . . . because I care about the Greater Golden Dawn Mystery Tradition. Which not just Thelemic, Hermetic, or Egyptian. It's more than those three things. Add Norse in, Chinese, etc. Gherkin was not my GD. 

Sadly for Comfort Girl Khari, writers live their emotions. We cannot turn them off immediately when we step away from the keyboard. Whatever emotion that this post stirs up, I have to live with for the rest of the day. 

And Khari will have no idea where the emotions came from--because I haven't left the house. 

Yeah. Do you see a problem with Perception Filters? Khari World 24/7/365.

I do not blog for Khari. My school teacher wife with defend herself with cries that she is far too busy to read non-educational, or non-hobby of the moment material. Good for her.

Lately, I have mean. To her. Because she said, "I have done all the reading." It was an accident. Still my Virgo Sun sign, Cancer Rising, Scorpio Moon, Leo Mercury, cannot help itself; but to snape on occasion. "If you have done all the reading, like you have . . . "

Yep, you should have allowed me to die in Hell. 

No, you had to save my life. Now, you have to pur with some anger issues. Forty-two boxes of angry luggage, flying about, biting everyone. Mainly Khari. 

"What have I done?"

Absolutely, nothing. 

I have no one else to bite. It's nothing personal. I might have picked up the crack pipe. That sweet, sweet crack--who can resist that sweet, sweet crack? I mean, my STD is flaring up--I mean, I might be blogging again. Why am I blogging again? Let's think. 

Because I didn't die.

And now, I might not. 

Worse, I probably survive the next Great Denver Winter Blizzard. 

And I am blogging about it. "Dear Secret Mormon Wife and Daughter." What are the odds that they would ever see this blog? What do Las Vegas odd-makers say?

Let me show my Invisible Wedding Ring. Nice, huh? Can never take it off. Not even for a drumming. 

Because my Mormon Wife installed it right in my brain, where I can never get it out. 

"You have to join me on Live Journal. We have to link blogs together. You love me."

Okay, I am not on LiveJournal. Because I could not bear to watch the unhappiness of her life. Briefly, I was on Geocities (remember them?). Then, I found Blogger. 

I am not sure if Gleamings of the Dawn's linked to my profile, or if the box's unchecked. But given that the Google Machine has indexed that eyesore over a decade ago, I am sure that my Mormon Wife could catch up on my life, in the space of a summer, maybe.

My wife, Khari, on the other hand, will never read a single one of those posts.

A significant part of my past is on the internet, for everyone to read; and Khari will never read it, simply because she is too busy, being third in the building, molding young minds.

I laugh. My Sainted Sister Mary has read more of my blog posts than Khari has. Sad.

I could argue that every blog post that I wrote is kind of a love letter to that First Forgotten Handfasted Wife, who I lost because the House Rules were cooked by a witch. 

Khari will never see my invisible wedding ring, yet it affects me. 

Because Gwen Smith gave me the gift of my true profession, Uncensored Journalism. 

So Gwen, her children, grandchildren, will always be part of my audience. However awkward, some of my posts may make them feel. Gwen wanted to see my heart, and I am still sharing it with her--just don't tell my "legally--I have a piece of paper--wife," 

Besides Gwen, I also write for someone that I haven't met yet.

My father used to joke, "What type of woman would I marry after Lilith, your mother?"

I started asking this sometime during my first relationship. My father might have poisoned me. Or was it Mom? I add to my list of "Oh hell noes" with each new girl.

Today, one of the requirements for my next Cannot Happen in a Billion Years Relationship because Khari's Polyamourous/ Morgan's Off-limits (vide Ethics 101) would be "Actually read one of my blog posts." 

Is it asking a lot of . . . let's call her "Dharma," to have read a single post of mine?

Answer: Yeah.

Of course, it is.

Dharma does not exist. 

Because every woman in the world has the same excuse: "I am too busy with work, and other things on fire, to be able to notice anything around me--not alone deal someone other than myself. Sorry, but you are wasting a lifetime, if you are expecting help from me." 

Dharma, if you reading this: I am not bitter; I am just exhausted of Khari World 24/7/365 without her having the slightest clue of what bugging me, when I think and feel best as a writer. But I have to adapt to her universe's needs because that what's required. 

So here is to Khari never reading a single one of these blog posts ever. 

And Dharma living Down Under. 

Dharma would probably date my cat before she would go out with me.