I mentioned once growing up in the Satanic Panic of the ’80’s. The first real horror movies I ever saw were The Exorcist and Silence of the Lambs. After Silence of the Lambs I rode the subway home, late at night, all by myself, and wasn’t scared at all. The Exorcist, though, scared the hell out of me. I “watched” most of it with my eyes half closed. If demons were real, I thought, they were far more powerful and frightening than a mere human serial killer.
I was terrified, but also intensely interested. I read about demons and magic, I tried tarot cards and ouija very much against my church and parents’ wishes, I sheepishly shopped at occult shops. While other goths dreamed of being the vampire Lestat, I wanted to be John Constantine. I still want to be John Constantine.
As I decided that demons weren’t real, films like the Exorcist lost some of their terror, but also some of their magic. Most of my religious practice is, I think, an attempt to get back that magic. When I make offerings and read tarot, Hecate probably isn’t literally listening, but the feelings are real and maybe there are depths to be plumbed and lessons she’s willing to teach.
I’m not built to be a Constantine; if I lived in that world I’d end up a background player, a bookshop owner with a back room full of spellbooks or a hermit learning the secrets of the philosopher’s stone. I could be happy with that, though. I just want to be part of that world.
But I live in this one. I’m pretty good at living in this one, by many measures. Turns out I’m really good at basic suburban adulting. But I can’t resist the pull of magic and mystery, and if I have any goal this year it’s to bring a little more of that into my life. Any ideas how?
Oddly Cultured 
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