Tuesday, June 28, 2011



“This car will be abandoned in case of Rapture”

This bumpersticker was not uncommon
in the Saint Louis of my youth.

It was 1980 and I was being fostered by folks
that had shiny new car hearts,
and Baptismal swimming pool souls,
and wanted to help a
troubled teen.

A recently returned runaway.
A California Iris Steensma, that had
brunched with Travis Bickle
one two
many times.

For all their Preacher had taught them about Satan,
they sure didn't know the Devil when she
curtsied before them, anxious to get inside their
beautiful home,
complete with Japanese sports-car driving piano prodigy.

Japanese sports-car driving piano prodigy
smiled as bright as the sun,
and had liquid brown eyes that told you
you were going to have a lot of fun.

And as for their Preacher
and his big pointy steeple,
when I opened the door,
I knew enough of his men
by their belt buckles and

They were kneeling,
this time, instead of me.
None seemed to recognize me.
Or at least, none of them looked
anywhere near me.
I was invisible,
not unknown.

I was on the rebound
from my break up with drugs.
A Cali acid trip
that had gone so
horribly bad.

A trip where I could see
that everything about me
was evil. And I was
the Devil.

The mark of the Beast
in the birthmark on my forehead,
scar on my right hand,
numbers in my birthdate,
and the misery that was
my life.

I had wandered the streets of
Orange County, breaking through throngs
of men so desperate
they knew the taste of
weeks of walking in the desert heat
without water,

Only to arrive here and find
their thirst could not be quenched.

Angry, parched, dangerous
But I was the Queen of Hell, that day,
so I was not afraid of them
(or the junkies that collected in front of
the blood for cash and methadone clinics),
like I usually was.

I was armoured in fear
on that Lucifer in the firestarting
diamond sky day.

I was engulfed in flames no one could see,
and therefore I was fire retardant
to the angry sparks surrounding me.

A few months and six states later
another bad trip. And another.

Paranoid freak outs. Flashbacks.

So I had gone looking for Jesus, who had come back from the dead
and was known to help
junkies and zombies.

Surely he could help me.

When I could not find him
among the Romans
or the Jews,
I tried his followers.

The ultra-religious and faithful church goers,
would be without prejudice or judgment,
as Jesus himself had been,
I thought. Jesus would be my new pill.
I would be like Mary Magdalene
and be reformed, among the Christ-like.

Instead, I discovered
life was a blood debt
paid with your soul.
F odder for a
voracious God-machine
that needed assembly line
believers, farmed in
white Christian wombs.

My foster family,
both father and mother,
full son and cousin son,
were deeply curious about my
hopechest of the future.
My dreams of how many babies I would make
with my own, personal Messianic Prince Charming.
And just how did father and sons look?

Despite my life on the street,
so far from home, and all alone,
I was naïve. Innocent.

I was 14.

I did not understand
why the interest in
musing about what sort of
children I would like to have,
and man I should marry,
was so intense.

I did not understand
the way I did not
“Blue Balls” were NOT
a real medical condition,
and further, that I was NOT
responsible for either their
or healing.

My first crush in grade school
had been a black boy.
Without thinking, or perhaps still
believing that I was among others
that truly believed in the Nazarene's
law of love for all people,
I answered the questionnaire with

“A boy child, black like his father,
but with blue eyes, like mine.”

The car stopped abruptly.
Pulled over.

The puckered, anal “OH”
of their blood son's mouth
told me that I had passed
teenage rebellion
and gone straight to-

You know?

I was lectured.
I protested.
Sterner still.
I maintained my resistance.

I am a contrarian, but further,
I knew I was right.
Love sees no colour.

One reason I had runaway.
A reason I will tell you now.
Only because I know he is dead and gone.

I ran away
to getaway
from the Aryan Brotherhood wanna-be.
A felon
I fancied
because I was 13 and did not know anything
about the world
or men.

I did not know
how much hate one human heart
could hold.

The word “nigger” was not unknown to me,
but I could never again hear it
without feeling its full use and measure,
the weight of it when issued from
the mouth of a hater.
I never wanted to hear the word again.

When I would not comply,
would not consent,
would not listen to reason,
I was threatened.

That day, pulled over on the side of the road
(ironically, next to Eden Seminary,
God's garden here incarnated as a
large field oft-used for Sunday soccer games
by the DeBurgh boys,
who always had both
black and white players),
I was threatened by
"good" Christians.

They believed that Jesus had died for their sins.
And they owed him big time for that.

They believed in the Rapture.
And they were ready to leave their home
and cars,
and boats,
and vacation property,
and horses
and diamond tennis bracelets.

And their church.

But not my womb, even though I hadn't been

My womb would be going with them.
It was God's

And all that stuff they believed in,
it wasn't for everyone. Heaven was
white only.

And if I didn't believe, that didn't matter.
They would save me from myself.

I would be harmed,
but more importantly,
any black man that thought
to put his trunk on my roots
would be hanged from
his limbs.

I found something that day
that I would know inside of myself
Something that would show me the way to myself,
to my true heart.

I cannot discount the value
I received
from those racist, hypocritical assholes
threatening me.

When submission is certain,
and rebellion is not an option,
subterfuge is called upon.

So I smiled.
I smiled a beautiful smile.
A blinding smile,
of comprehension.
And said I understood.

And I did.

It was not spoken of again.
Certainly I never brought it up.

I thought about it, though.
Everytime I
fucked their sons,
drank their wine,
smoked their cigarettes,
stole their money,
and nuzzled their asshole with my nose,
reaming out excuses and lies
and false gratitude for their hospitality.

Eventually they found out
my true nature.
I was cast out,
like the serpent;
but by then I'd lost interest
in blood and liquid sun,
japanese sports cars, and
piano prodigies, 

Ironically, at the time of this occurrence-
the day I uttered my childhood dream of
marrying the boy that sat next to me in
third grade
and always picked me for kickball
even though I was a terrible athlete-
I'd never had
sex with a black man.

So I guess I should thank those Good Christians for that, too.
Love no longer had any limitations
for me. In fact, the opposite. I set out
to conquer the nations.

(And I knew to always keep it forest hidden,
and no trees were ever disturbed.)

The Rapture is a promise
that I've fervently hoped to see fulfilled,
ever since that day.

Lord God in Heaven
Hallowed be thy Name
Thy Kingdom Come
Thy Will be Done
Please take your righteous from the earth!

I do not care to attend any Heaven they inhabit!

Leave me here to burn with the other sinners!

Leave me here to burn until my skin becomes

I, a witch of Endora,
that summons the Soloman,
and bare breasted
holds high the Priestess snakes,
I applaud Harold Camping,
just as I

Applaud ANY
Priest, Mage, Sorcerer, or Witch
heralding his/her God's
Presence and Power.

Bring it, God.

Bring it on

You big fucking failure of a Deity.
If you were worth your weight in
golden idols
You would have made good
on your Word,
just like the old days:
fire rain, salt pillars, parting seas,
and smiting sinners with mighty blows.

You used to be
so hard core
you even sacrificed your own son!
Quite stunning.

But today you couldn't even be bothered
to produce a few earthquakes,
or reanimate a few zombies.

The Satan powered blow torch up my ass,
as promised by some of your
Believers on my
Facebook End of the World After Party,
was nothing more than
a sunburn
from standing outside too long
at my friend's garage sale.

Then again, perhaps
you do know
what you are doing.
Far worse than the red skin of my arms is that
all of the Raptee's remain.
Which, in a way,
is its own Hell,
to be left among us
race-mixing, sinners.

I made peace with
being the Queen of Hell
that day I wandered among
Its thirsty inhabitants.

all those Neo Cons
and Fundies,
like that Good Christian family
disappearing from the earth?

Dare I say it?



Copyright 2011
Written on the occasion of Harold Camping's Rapture prediction for 21 May 2011

Friday, June 24, 2011

Midsummer Night, or Faerie Day

Last night was a night for faerie magick, lest you have forgotten.  And I "dew" hope you remembered to wash your face in the morning dew (or at least dab a bit on).  I learned this trick from Sarah Ban Breathnach's Simple Abundance DayBook.  I suppose all the Faerie revellry from last night left a bit of sidhe glamour on the petals of all the flowers, and the dew will make you grow younger and more beautiful throughout the year.

That, and eating a grapefruit everyday.  That's how I stay immortal, anyhow. ;o)

Happy Midsummer Night!!!!  May the blessings and abundance of this day stay with you throughout the year!!!!

Sunday, June 19, 2011


This is more about Plant than the recent concert.  For a proper review-- one I wish I'd written myself-- try this.  

If you want to read about some of my experiences at the concert, click here.

The first time I heard Robert Plant it was on a little yellow transistor radio I had as a child.  I think I was about 8 years old or so.  I was listening to a rock station, perhaps K-SHE.  The song was "Stairway to Heaven".

The music I heard at home was folk like Joan Baez and Bob Dylan, and a little Beatles and Incredible String Band.  That was my mother.  My grandmother listened to this awful Ray Coniff stuff during the day or during parties.  I hated it.  But she also listened to Mahalia Jackson.  And when she listened to Mahalia Jackson she would turn off most of the lights and lie on the floor, doing nothing.

This was the only time my grandmother was not doing something.  Even when watching television she would be sorting papers.  At church and at lectures I always had the feeling she was sorting the dinner menu for the next day, or what sort of work needed to be done in the yard.  Idleness was completely alien to her.

However, even in those quiet, dark moments with Mahalia singing of Roses E'er Blooming or Take My Hand Precious Lord, she was busy listening.  And she was listening in a way she never listened to any other music.  She listened like it was the most important thing she could be doing.

I would listen to all kinds of music, but some music made feel something almost physical.  A kind of "holding my breath but not sure why, like something really important was happening" feeling.  One of my first musical experiences of this nature was with the song "Stairway to Heaven."

This beautiful lady that was doing mysterious things that my child's mind could not understand rationally, but that my older self  (the self that would later try to buy my own stairway to heaven) and also my soul, recognized.  And the man's unearthly voice, and the sound of the instruments captivated me, too.

 It was familiar in some ways- I could hear something like the Beatles and also Mahalia Jackson- but I could hear other things too.  New sounds.  It would be many, many years before I would fully process this music.  (I still hear things I've never heard before, when listening to Zeppelin.)

Mostly, though, as a child, I listened to the words.  I puzzled over them at great length in the weeks to come, and was on a quest to hear the song again whenever possible.  Truthfully this has never been one of my favourite Zeppelin songs musically.  (Although in 1974 I wouldn't know that for a few more years. ) But I could not put my mind away from it.  It was a true onion, revealing layer after layer; more and more to examine.

I remember asking my mother about some of the lyrics, and she in turn asking some of her friends, and becoming familiar with the song.  As I recall she did not care for Led Zeppelin.  But she did reveal to me that the song was sad.  The lady of the song had died. Probably from using illegal, street drugs "buying the Stairway to Heaven".  My grandmother was not happy my mother had explained this to me.

Plant's unmistakable, un-imitatable, unique, banshee wail held a spellbinding power over my attention. With him the wail of Fenrir and Page the ring of Ragnorak, a new world rushed out of almost ever song.  And like the dreams of Cathy Earnshaw,  those worlds stayed with me ever after, "like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind."

I would come to learn and love the entire Zeppelin oeuvre.  Misty Mountain Hop, Thank You, Hey Hey What Can I Do?, All Of My Love, Trampled Under Foot, and the mighty Kashmir.  Ten Years Gone, Black Dog, Livin Lovin Maid, Immigrant Song, Ramble On. 

In their music I went around the world to exotic, previously unheard of places, and into stories and mythology.  I learned that fruit could be a sexual metaphor.  I found new pathways in my heart that I hadn't known existed.  Things I yearned for from men that I did not see in any of the boys I knew.  And sadly, especially not in Zeppelin's most stereotypical fans, those boys being both my first lovers and also my worst tormentors.

Zeppelin would lead me to Robert Johnson and Willie Dixon, and the blues generally.  And because I had heard their covers of these songs, I knew what to listen for in this music that sounded initially so tinny and thin to me. And it was their song Dyer Maker that led me to investigate reggae and soca. (This was the St. Louis of the 1970's.  I remember when the first Taco Bell opened on Watson, and we all went to try some tacos and burritos, food we had never heard of.)

Because of Zeppelin I discovered Aleister Crowley, magick, and mysticism.  Zeppelin gave a benediction and blessing to Tolkien and the Lord of The Rings, and to the world of faeries and elves generally. A world I loved.

(Did Plant hesitate, or wince a bit, as he sang the Gollum lyric in "Ramble On"? This curiosity could be my own projection about coming back to St. Louis and dealing with my past as "Red" Rachael.  I sometimes flinch when I hear my old beliefs quoted back to me. But I thought I saw something cross over his face just before he sang that line.)

How many times in my life have I found strength to go ahead with some task or situation I did not want to deal with -- be it doing the dishes, or walking in the heat or snow to the bus stop, or waiting in a doctor's office-- because of a Zeppelin song?  (This winter it was not uncommon to find me humming "Immigrant Song" as I walked to the bus stop in the cold and snow.) Too many times to count.  Plant's voice has been a constant source of support in my life-- in some ways mores o than many of the men I've been involved with.

And Plant still makes me weak in the knees.  He can summon the gushing girl from a very worn-out, cynical woman.  His song strengthens in me what I see as beautiful about myself.  This is what music that I love does for me-- whether it is Led Zeppelin, or David Bowie, or Nina Simone, or the Clash. (I know there are people that feel that way about Brittnay Spears, and I try not to hate.)

Plant, like Bowie, is someone that I will listen to anything he has to give.  Both artists have gone through long periods where I have felt little to connect with.  But this is part of being a fan.  You have to really trust that the person is going to find that centre again.

And Plant really has.

When he sings on "Monkey" that "tonight you will be mine/ tonight the monkey dies" my heart aches for a night I've never had, a lover I've never known. Love is brutal violence. There is an honesty in that kind of raw admission of possession. His voice does something for these songs that the originals do not do for me.  His phrasing warms me where the originals leave me cold.

I have some facebook friends that post the non-vocal, or somehow otherwise "reduced" track recordings of say, the Beatles, or Rolling Stones.  (I don't recall seeing any Zep posted, or I would have listened.)  I understand the desire to do this.  In fact, I feel like listening to Plant is sometimes hearing just what he contributed to Zeppelin.

(In this vein, when I first heard solo Stevie Nicks I realised I was not really a Fleetwood Mac fan so much as a Stevie Nicks fan.  I like the Mac, but they are really just sounds surrounding Stevie for me. Unlike Nicks and Mac, however, Zeppelin was Zeppelin, and Plant was part of it.  But I do enjoy the forensics of Plant's solo career.)

Plant has grown so much as a vocalist.  And an arranger.  "Silver Rider" in his hands becomes a spell.  "Sometimes your voice is not enough."  When he sings "I'm falling in love again" on the same-titled track, I think he is actually singing to music.  Plant has found his own heart in this music, the same way I find my own true heart listening to him.

I feel like Plant did a kind of "Pin-Ups" or Johnny Cash's "Hurt", Plant has re-invented himself by paying homage to music that he loves.  This collection of songs is so beautiful and profound.  I have feelings in parts of me that I didn't know existed.  The same kinds of feelings I had as a little child listening under the covers to "Stairway to Heaven."

And Plant is still channelling the spirits and Gods on this new album.  Now it might as well be Jesus as Thor.  But he is a true Avatar.

I love Los Lobos.  And when I heard his cover of "Angel Dance" I felt like two beautiful things had come together to make something wholly new and even more beautiful combined.  And the whole album is like that.

(And I had a thought, because I just saw Dave Wakeling and his Beat just a few months ago, about Birmingham, and how that city produces men that bring cultures together through music.)

The musicians on the album and touring with him- most notably Patti Griffin and Buddy Miller- are stellar first class.  It is a beautiful show, and Plant is beautifully understated. 

I feel like a whole new world is possible. Plant has the vision of a mystic, and the ear of a bard.  He continues to reveal the Great Mysteries, and unravel the fear and misery in the world.

The movie "Almost Famous" is based on Led Zeppelin somewhat, and I think Fariza Balk's speech about that fan that learns the music-- every little lyric and nuance-- describes me.

(If that makes me like the drunken guy that kept yelling "Led Zeppelin", or the girl that gave Plant a bouquet of Schnucks flowers and then kept trying to touch his hand, then so be it. Groupies really are the most fuckable fans, as Balk's speech says without saying. And if I had it in my power I would have a bevy of  nubile, sexy young ladies in the front cheering and singing along.  As it was I could only afford my own ticket.)

There is another side to that, to the fan that learns every little piece of music.  I think that artist's channel their audience.  How else can I hear a song and just KNOW it was written for/about/because of me? Even though I know five or fifty or fifty thousand other people might be thinking that too?

Because it was written for me.  And for all those other, too.  That's another thing that makes music so amazing. The music is really just channelling our own desires back to us.  A symbiotic circle.  Both musician and listener must be part of it.

The music is not complete without the listener.  The audience needs the performer, but the performer also needs the audience.

Wishing you great music!
Lady Rae

PS-- The Led Zeppelin song I keep listening too after hearing Band of Joy is "Nobody's Fault But Mine" perhaps because of the monkey reference? Or something musically, I don't know.

Also, if you liked this post you might like this one as well:

And since I didn't get to flash Mr Plant:

 And here is a link to a youtube video of a song from Plant's next to last cd "Strange Sensations."  It is called "The Enchanter" and it is one of those songs.  (Probably not about me, as I don't think this Enchantress goes around screaming "shut the fuck up!".  It's more what I aspire to being.  As if he peeked inside my soul, like a good song always does.)


She moves through the mountains and down to the sea
She sings in celebration with her piper for me
She's leading the man who's beating the drum
Love is all around her on the road to the sun
Round, round, moving me round
Round, round the air
She's lost in conversation with the birds of the air
She's trading information in a world without fear
She's fixing up a potion made of laughter and love
And I will follow the enchanter on the road to the sun
Round, round, moving me round
Round, round, round
Oh that the stars will light my way
Oh as my tides dance the ebb and sway
She's studying the planets and she's searching for signs
Her eyes promise mystery and her treasure to find
She's mixing my emotions it's so easily done
In a league with the enchanter on the road to the sun
Oh that the stars will light my way
Oh as my tides dance the ebb and sway
It's so very easily done
She moves through the mountains and down to the sea
She sings in celebration with her piper for free
She's leading the man who's beating the drum
And love is all around her on the road to the sun.

EDIT: I cut these paragraphs out of the original post, up around the fourth paragraph or so. Too distracting.  Like I said, sometimes I post without editng and come back and tweak later.

I lived in a rather frightening world as a child.  Nighttime was often scary. As many as 4 or 5 times a year my mother would have an "episode" and be taken to the mental hospital via ambulance.  There were also many "episodes" that did not end with her going to the mental hospital, but were exhausting and terrifying, nonetheless. My mother and grandmother also fought a lot.

But there were also many nights where my mother was out, or sleeping, and my grandmother would be home working in the kitchen (cooking or baking or making candy) and I would lie awake as long as I could, comforted by "normal" light and noise from the adult world.  On those nights there was a kind of cocoon of safety and I would listen to the radio under my pillow.

Saturday, June 18, 2011




It's been about a year since I really lost my temper. The kind of "lost" that makes my head feel like it is going to explode.  The kind of "lost" that leads to unfortunate words and incidents.  

It is a funny way to describe it: "lost".  Really I "found" my temper.  I keep trying to hide it from myself.  I would like to "lose" it completely, to never find it again.

I went to see Robert Plant on Wednesday night.  This is truly one of the most rare and precious occurrences in my life.  Even a few weeks before the concert I could feel the affect it would have on me.  How strong the energy is from the man and his music. How much it would put me back in touch with who I am, the way music gods always do.

The moon was full, and there had been a powerful blood eclipse that afternoon.  Magick was everywhere and the weather was decent-- a true St. Louis miracle! It was a perfect backdrop for the Mage to appear and sing his songs of clarity and brilliance.

And brilliant they are.  Robert Plant has reinvented himself.  I am writing about the concert and what Plant's music has meant to me more specifically in another post.  But I do want to say that this is a man whose voice I have heard during pretty much every emotion I have experienced.

Led Zeppelin, and to a lesser degree the Page and Plant albums, have been the back or foreground music when I have cried inconsolably, laughed uncontrollably, fucked, made love, made war, fallen in love, fallen out of love. During "good times/bad times/ you know I've had my share."

And in every situation the music has been a comfort to me.  Even sustaining.  When I was 14 I used to kiss Robert Plant's image every night before bed.  I have a picture on my wall right now of Robert Plant that has been hanging over my desk for the last eight years or so.  (I've been working on a story that was inspired by some of the Zeppelin mythology, and the shirtless, grinning Mr. Plant is both reminder and encouragement.)

There is absolutely no way I could have remained seated in his presence. Thankfully the security staff were of the same mind as I was.

"You don't have to sit down," one of the staff told me, with an amused look on his face after several people had complained about me.  "This is a rock n roll show."

It began when Plant started to sing his third song, the Los Lobos tune "Angel's Dance." Apparently, I was not complying with the rest of the tired, worn out baby boomers behind me and sitting down.  You see, I was the only one standing up. Had there been a lot of fans like me, there wouldn't have been any of the nonsense that followed.  It was simply that I was the only one.

Let me just pause here and tell you about something I have never heard a performer say: "Yeah it was a great show, everyone stayed in their seats except for a few of the really old familiar numbers.  I'm sure everyone could see the music, though.  And they all applauded politely before running out the door before the encore."

Yeah, never.  More likely is "let's skip that city next tour, they don't seem that into us."

I really think that the people that were yelling at me, harassing me, throwing ice and drinks at me, offering me $20 (which of course I did not accept, and caused great consternation: "she wouldn't take a whole $20?" Shit I wouldn't have taken $2000, and I could probably get a car for that!) thought that the musicians of stage should have chastised me and made me "behave".


I stood through an entire Stevie Ray Vaughan concert, and I was also one of the only ones. One guy a few seats back commented to me that I was an awesome fan for doing that.  I hadn't even been fully aware that I had stood through the whole concert.  And it wasn't even that we were sitting all that close, although it wasn't bad.

It is simply that standing is the only way to really show the performers the love and respect you have for the music.  Sometimes you have to stand because you are witness to one of the most moving and profound experiences of your life.

If you don't have that feeling, that you are in the presence of greatness, and just as they will stand as they perform and give all to the audience, then PLEASE sit in the damn balcony.  Or stay home and wait for the concert footage to come out.

When I was here in 2007 I learned the story of Beatle Bob and his quest to go to a live show every single night.  I danced with him, in fact, at the Euclid Records 25th Anniversary party at the Pageant.  I really admired his dedication, but did think it was a bit over the top!

Now that I have been living here for real, I understand why he feels he must act so strongly.  Based on the music reviewers, and many times on the people at the shows, I see why he feels he must be so committed.  There is so much great music in St. Louis-- and a surprising diverse array-- but the culture here is practically sonambulistic.

The thing that is really driving me to write, that I am trying to release, is not any guilt or sense of wrongdoing that I stood through the entire concert even though people opposed me so excessively and constantly (right up to the second to last song before the encore) but my sense of despair and guilt for not giving every bit of my focus to the man and his music.  (And Patti Griffin and Buddy Miller!)

And worse, at one point I was right there with the fucking "hoosgeoisie" in Jerry Springer land.  (Hoosgeoisie = bourgeouise + hoosier aka Missouri urban redneck.)

Just as Mr Mucho Grande himself was saying a few words between songs, the guy that kept throwing ice and part of his drinks screamed "Sit the fuck down!"

Like poor Bruce Banner, my temper turns me into a monster.  I snapped and my early childhood training in fighting, screaming, and cursing kicked in.  My head swiveled and at full volume and full intonation mimicry I responded with "Shut the fuck up!"

And like in comic books, as the words came out of my mouth everything seemed to freeze and become very quiet.  Probably much more quiet in my head than it actually was, but I was close enough that the band must have had to at the very least, pointedly ignore me.

I feel like a Catholic that just said "fuck" in church.  During Mass. While everyone was praying.



I read some horrible review in the Riverfront Times that mostly seemed to criticize the female fans that were there ("cougars" "wicca hippy chicks") and talk about how Plant is 62 years old and wasn't verbal enough or something. 

I hated that the adrenaline from the anger was still coursing through me after the show.  The moon was full and the music was still surging through me and that was all I wanted to feel.

There are people-- and I swear most of them are musicians!-- that can make you feel all the vast and wonderous possibilities one life can contain.  Being present to Plant's new music and new energy and his reinvention of himself gave me a whole new energy for my life.

And to see the Lion of Rock a little unsteady was actually a kind of honour.  That is not quiet what I mean, but I can't find the right word.  Plant is so powerful. So sure.  That unsteadiness was a bit like seeing Tina Turner giggle and blush.  Proof that he is still authentic and true-- if the new music wasn't proof enough.

As the days pass, the feeling of the argument with the other audience members is fading, and only the beautiful mystery of what that man's voice and song does to my soul remains.

I want to see shows where the audience is made up of people that feel young enough to stand, no matter what their age.  That want to dance and sing along and wave their hands in the air. That don't spend the whole concert yelling at one person that is standing.

Seriously, if sitting down and being comfortable is more important than please DO NOT SIT UP FRONT. Get a pair of opera glasses and sit somewhere else. CLEARLY the music is NOT that important. Comfort is. This is music!!!!! It WILL make you young again!!! You WILL live forever!!!   You can be HEALED!!!

Fuck sitting-- sit in your car or on the bus, or sit at your job or sit in front of your bloody tv or computer BUT BE PREPARED TO STAND UP WHEN THE MUSIC PLAYS!!! People in St Louis are in a coma. HOW ARE YOU GONNA ASK A FAN TO SIT DOWN SO YOU CAN SEE BETTER?  WHAT KIND OF PERSON ARE YOU?

I was experiencing a life altering moment.  I did not need any drugs or alcohol.  For me, that concert -- and others like it-- are what I am here on this earth to experience.  This beautiful music. There is no better way to spend ones time than to listen to music.  I am sorry that those people behind me didn't understand that.

I am sorry I lost my temper.  But it was worth it.

EDIT: My post on Plant himself http://laladyrae.blogspot.com/2011/06/robert-plant.html

Tuesday, June 7, 2011


The Watcher Angels from the Book of Enoch are allowed to roam here once a year (some are bound in their Elemental Kingdoms, or hiding, gliding through hyperspace or have returned to Heaven/the home office/mothership/home planet).

Dark Epiphany is not July 6, even though it is half a year. The worlds of El and his children--men, angels, and ceremonial magickians--are ruled by numbers. 6/6 is the free pass for the Elohim.

Elizabeth Pepper in the Witches Almanac listed the night as June 5, but no one could ever be sure why. Dark Epiphany is like a dream, or psychic visions. Once the moment has passed the knowledge gained from it may or may not make sense anymore. She probably knew it was the 6th but mistakenly thought it would begin at sundown, as in a Sabbath or a Sabbat.

But these are solar entities, and the teachers of magick and sorcery to humans. Their free day runs from sunrise to sunrise, to keep with planetary hours, and again, for the date itself: 6/6.

(Given the nature of the Watcher Angels, children conceived on the night of June 6th could be titans or giants, good or bad.)