Born into the American Dream (My rather dodgy profession) How I got inspired to own an occult shop

Some people are born farmer's sons in America; some are the nephew of Gardnerian Wiccans--and imagine that in 1965 Nebraska . . . yeah, I was born demonic.

My witchy aunt represented America to me.

My aunt, Victoria Josephine Ramalia, declared me, a reincarninated witch, just like herself. She hated children--yet loved me. This mystified my mother. I loved my aunt. 

One of my prize possessions, the first thing I made sure to recover the one time I returned home for Christmas after my military escape, was my Red Piggy Bank that she gave me.

A ruling question of my childhood was "Why can the Christians have their Ten Commandments at the county courthouse; and not us, our Horned God?" 

At age thirteen, I consciously chose the religion of witchcraft . . . in part to be like Vickie.

Then in my freshman semester of high school, my aunt got murdered. 

And my family, in their grief, blamed it on her religion.

I got broom closeted.

Satanist.

That is what my religion became.

And my mother became a child in Sagebrush, Small Town America--Christian, you better be . . . I wasn't good at pretending at this stage--no one believed me--I was bilocating.

Yes, I was astral projecting in high school without an instructor.

Unless you count the fact that I had a ghost living in my head. My aunt's. Yeah.

I am spirit medium. 

Opps. Like my grandmother, like my aunt . . . now me, we are spirit mediums. 

This is Morgan's family DNA--do you understand why he worries about a secret daughter?

Still you wonder how someone who was a high dropout in 1984, selling himself into military slavery to escape death at the hands of his insane mother, could decide that owning an occult shop was within reach of a slut like him. What inspired him?

Getting kicked out of the military without no usable civilian skills? Perhaps.

Or at least, no usable skills that I want to put on the resume. I might be Mormon tomorrow. But if I am Jewish, then resume heavy, ninja skill might become. 

Look, Capital Hill was a rough neighborhood in 1984, when I moved in. As was the corners of Kalmath and Colfax--across from Auraria campus--or is that Colfax and Santa Fe? Either way, I was ministry student menace out of that Burger King, "Buddha Burger," for a decade, until that New Yorker, Edgar, rescued me from it--and jail--by transplanting my Rabbi's Office to 16th Street Mall, and a little Food Court--serving the IRS daily. 

Yeah, my life for another ten years, consists of feeding IRS workers downtown.

Totaling it up, I have spent twenty years in food service, minimum wage work. 

The first job, a drone job, that I left because the manager would not promote me because he would have hire three to replace me. That was story at the time. Later, I learned that my voice sounded just like his ex-wife's; hence, me leaving that job was a requirement.

Oh, joke being that he left also--ended up on occasion, having to manage a Subway in the same food court that I was working as the "Owner/Operator" of that Loco Gyros. 

And my voice carries. 

I am a loud mouth. I have no volume control. So the first time that I lost it, he heard it.

Good times at Loco Gyros (Renzios--if you are "Dharma, the FBI agent, updating my security file"). And some argue that I was never the Owner/Operator . . . I call bullshit. 

Khari hates Chris and Tom Renzios. I don't. She only saw me towards the end. 

As that food court was failing.

Khari should not judge my entire experience at Loco Gyros, that long decade as Priest up in that food court, which was it's own family, by how poisonous the ending was. 

That food court was a victim of 9/11.

Plain and simple.

But we are not allowed to say that.

None of the restaurants ever recovered. We all went in the red on 9/11. Everything that the so-called Downtown Improvement District did to increase business, actually siphoned off dollars out of our registers, by bringing in more competition, and less lines. *sigh*

Then there was Lady Gart, who desired a Exercise Yard, not a Food Court.

Hence, any brain storm about how to increase sales that involved support from the system was doomed to fail. The fact that my location was given permission to close on Saturdays, come about because Chris (or Tom) confirmed her such intentions. 

Any plans to sell me the location was now Null and Void. 

The murder that happened the first Saturday that I wasn't there was a blessing.

At least, for Lady Gart, who wanted to close that food court.

That Subway was not allowed to close . . . and there was blood on the ceiling.

Yeah. Gart got upset about my candles on the front counter. I screamed, "Minister!"

Honestly, on some level, I was already out the door . . . the candles said so. 

It's American to set fire to your front counter.

The first candle lit on my front counter (as if there's another) . . . oh, at the start of the lunch line, before we take your order, and your filthy money, are the candles . . . the first one was for 9/11. I was still fresh from my studies in the Thelemic Golden Dawn. Hence, I suspect that it was a red candle, possibly used for the Invocation of Horus previously. 

The second time that I lit candles at my counter, it was for the Gulf War. And my Mormon wife was involved. She knew someone serving--a family members--two actually. 

So murdered victim, a female security guard, was Case Candle Three for me. I was loud.

But lighting candles is something that you do when you own the Occult Shop. Or Church.

As my Mormon wife pointed out. 

"And don't buy this place--it's losing money--our children will be poor."

Trust a Mormon--almost more than a Jew, or Catholic--to spot a losing business deal.

Still she was right. Gwen saw how many clients checked in with me during my bored time, when I was just standing around. Only a blind man might have missed the magical supplies in the back. My employees towards the end were mostly runaway witches. 

If I could have brought stock in Quantum Alchemy, Herbs and Arts, Spirit Ways, as straight up businesses, I would have. I understood them. That and food service. 

Geinvere saw that I was truly an occult shop owner; and would only be happy as one, with myself making the final decisions, not someone else--not one of the silly artists.

Unfortunately, I lived in a world where a bunch of silly artists would backstab me to run Gwen (and unbeknownst to all of them, my daughter) out of town, because she represented a threat to them. Sadly, they all thought that all by doing so that they could monopolize the Gallery for themselves . . . instead they crashed the project. 

Because I needed a Stable Assistant Family Manager to make the Gallery work.

And Khari chose to pursue her own career. 

Hence, the shop could never happen . . . my wages was a nervous breakdown, thanks. 

Founding document of my unholy business plan.

When I stepped off that Greyhound bus in spring 1984, fresh from military boot camp, skill less, I was immediately in trouble--that future breakdown was unlikely to happen.

I can tell you what's in a real 1984 Ronald Reagan era MRE (meal ready to eat) because I still have one. It was a choice not to eat. I enjoyed one during boot camp. Maybe I could wait until Denver, a thousand miles, for nourishment. Or a coin machine. High hopes.

Somewhere between Fort Jackson Boot Camp and Denver, in Grey Dust, Flying Monkey County, I become a sex worker. Yes, I discovered the truckers' newsstand. Understood why my father never allowed me near these things. Was a solider, they did not ask for ID.

I was horrified. They published this stuff. And someone got paid. It was legal? Brown bag.

Look, I spent four long years in high school, being coached by the ghost of Robert Heinlein. I do not know if he was dead, or not, at this point. I just had a select few of his writings to go by, but they were a Bible. Especially, the idea that one wrote for profit.

I was horrified. Published and paid . . . no better than the stuff of my classmates. My mom had painted my entire male side of the family with this particular horrible crime, yet someone wrote short stories, as if it was legal to pump this filth into minds . . . I have no skills . . . except maybe I secretly write behind my mom's and sister's backs. Brown bag.

Never actually worked in a sex shop. Or sold my body. But my mind is a sewer. Brown bag. No, I do not share my pennames. For the first several years of my career, it was write, send, and maybe get paid. It was a gamble, whether you would get paid. Or free.

Still, by age twenty, I had broke into the paid market as an erotica writer. Call me a slut.

But that first night. Bad pickup. Had a bed. Guess it beat the bus station. All the sex workers that I tell this story to, say that I am a sex worker. It is only non-sex workers, who insist that I am not a real sex worker because I never sold my body. Purists. 

Anyways, it was mutually agreed that either one of us wanted to see the other.

Hence, I found myself--first, lost. Then in a dodgy shop, kind of a house, between Hub Cup Annie and a sex shop (if I remember correctly--it was Colfax), called Isis. 

Nowadays, we have to remind people that Isis is a bookstore, here in Colorado. 

Not a terrorist organization.

I am looking at you, Dharma. And yes, I know that I have a FBI file. Let's count the ways that I have a FBI file. I walked in Isis bookstore in spring 1984. I took a class there. A rune class. It inspired me to own an occult shop. At some point, I am sure that will trigger a file. If not, I have as noted written erotica, of a mouth throwing up nature--thanks mom.

Plus, there was the time that the TGD meeting broke up, Master Cherubim walked over to the unmarked van, announcing that our meeting was done, if they wanted to follow us to the bar. I am sure that at some point, I have a file for Thelemic offenses, black magick.

Then there is just the fact that I was involved in the Golden Dawn trademark war. It does not matter what branch of the Hermetic system that I am from--hint, Aliester Crowley, plus Israel Regardie, healed, expensive Inner Order course High Grade--how many of us are suspected frauds? Great Gherkin, Kitchen Sink, Marijuana Market, the list is long. 

But my personal favorite is that local police departments are more concerned about us professional authors who use Necromancy and Black Magick in our book titles to increase sales, and monitor Watch Lists on us; and less concerned when we call in a death threat we believe is above and beyond the normal wackiness of our world. No, we are the terrorists because we are the source of the problem, not the axe murderers.

So keep updating that file.

Here something to put in it. "I am not a hoarder." I told the wife that. For instance, I saved this newsletter, meant to double as her mailing advertisement, as a perfect example of how to start a Basic Newsletter though the Post Office. Given to me by the goddess, Isis, on my first day in Denver. Tell me that I am not meant to own a dodgy shop out of my house.

Build a time machine, go take classes in 1984.

That Rune class is the first one I took--inspired me to be a teacher.

I love how this double sided format is laid out.

I entered the world of self-publishing and Small Press almost immediately. The ideas and the formatting, as you can see, was everywhere. Much like today's internet and ebooks.

Recently, I did return to the world of Post Office Press for my Family Holiday Zine series.

And I will be doing many of the Correspondence Courses that me and Khari will be teaching together in Post Office format--sold though Etsy--as well as "originally priced at $360 thirteen week Rocky Mountain Godform" course that I might aim at Spirit Ways. 

My ultimate qualification, besides a bachelor in the Bible as Literature, involves getting as far as 6=5, second stage alchemy in a rather expensive Inner Order Golden Dawn RC course taught by a well known Rosicrucian expert. And I could go back any time I want.

So yeah, if I ever get bored of writing dodgy science fiction, I was born to be a pimp of the esoteric, studying at the knees of masters--Morning Glory, Karen Winters--since 1984--to own a junk shop, out of the spare room of my house. Hopefully, my sci-fi sells, right?

The New Egyptian Space Empire says that it's better to blow things up.