The World Needs More Hugh Hefners

Hugh Hefner

Photo thanks to Luke Ford

Back in the days when Hef had his mansion filled with Holly, Kendra and Bridget I used to watch The Girls Next Door.  It was part fascination and part disbelief which kept me glued to the TV screen each week.  I stopped watching when the ‘old’ girls left and the twins moved in.  You have to draw the line somewhere ;-)

Whatever you might think about Hugh – he’s either a member of the dirty old man brigade, a very lucky chap or somewhere in between – you have to respect him.

Hugh took a huge gamble to start his own business back in 1952.  He left his job at Esquire magazine, scavenged for investors, rented out his furniture and made the first Playboy magazine a reality in December 1953 with a nude Marilyn Monroe.

His business, like his personal life, has had its ups and downs but he’s constantly moved forward.  Even now he’s just launched a new website aimed at providing a ‘work safe’ playboy experience and he’s trying to buy back shares in Playboy to make it a private company again.

I admire him for living life on his own terms and not giving a hoot what anyone else thinks.  And at 84 he shows no signs of slowing down.  In our Western society where it’s often the norm to take our elders and shove them into nursing homes Hefner publicly shows there is life after 60.  You can still run a business, still talk intelligently and even still have a sex life! Oh, and it can be as wild as you want it.

The world would be a better place if we all said hell to conventional ideas about aging and lived life how we wanted, and not what was expected of us.  So, love him or hate him, Hugh is my role model for not letting a silly little thing like age get in the way.

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A is for Abracadabra

I used to run around as a little girl shouting this word and expecting invisible doorways in my bedroom to suddenly show themselves and wishing it would turn my brother into a toad.  It did neither unfortunately.

But it’s a cool word nonetheless.  And I’m betting this is the one magick word everyone knows thanks to it’s copious use by stage magicians and pantomime actors.

But what’s it all about?  Is it just a strange collection of letters which doesn’t turn siblings into toads when yelled repeatedly?  Or could there be more? <cue Twilight Zone music>

The first mention of Abracadabra was over 1,800 years ago in a poem by Serenus Sammonicus who worked as a physician to the Roman Emperor, Caracalla.  It was worn as an amulet by malaria suffers.  It had to be written in the following way though:

A – B – R – A – C – A – D – A – B – R – A
A – B – R – A – C – A – D – A – B – R
A – B – R – A – C – A – D – A – B
A – B – R – A – C – A – D – A
A – B – R – A – C – A – D
A – B – R – A – C – A
A – B – R – A – C
A – B – R – A
A – B – R
A – B
A

The reason for the triangular pattern is the disease disappears along with the decrease in letters.  Kind of like a funnel.

Don’t have malaria?  Not a problem.  You can still have fun with Abracadabra and if, by chance, you do change a person into a toad let me know what I was doing wrong ;-)

There are many more ABC Wednesdays for you to enjoy!

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Pure Evil

My husband found an email in his mail box this morning telling him his actions were pure evil.  He confessed.  All the accusations were true.  OMG – what to do.  I’m married to an evil one.  Probably worse than Lord Voldemort.

A woman had contacted him requesting some help in the magick department.  And guess what that lowlife did?

He emailed her back and told her the hourly rate he charges.

This was a while back.  I remember him reading it to me – it was polite, respectful and upfront.  I don’t know exactly how long ago he replied to her but I’m guessing a good month.  And today she finally vented her anger about being told his services weren’t free.  It was disgusting how he could charge for his god given talents, she said, especially in the current economic situation.

And she signed it off by saying it was just pure evil.

I know there’s the eternal debate of whether healer, mystics, psychics and the such like should charge for their services.  Hardcore advocates in both camps volley the arguments back and forth like watching the men’s finals at Wimbledon.

I provide a genuine service, one that’s needed in today’s mixed up spiritually devoid world.  The day of having a Wise Woman or Man in the village is long gone – it was burnt away by religious fanatics.  But the need of the services is still present.  Probably needed even more than ever.  But I need to eat, keep a roof over my head, provide for my children and develop my own skills and understanding.  That’s why it’s necessary to charge for services.

Paul and I never stop learning, evolving and immersing ourselves in the world which entwines this reality.  Just look at our bookshelves:

And down a bit further:

And then there’s the other bookshelf and the kitchen cupboard stuffed with reference books. Oh, and under our bed where we’ve run out of room downstairs.  We’ve got Tarot decks, so many I can’t remember the exact number. I can’t really justify so many for professional reasons but the artwork inspires me and moves me to walk between the intuitive and mundane world. So that makes me a better reader.  We have herbs, candles and all kinds of magickal tools all over the place.  These are not always cheap or easy to come by.

I’m not telling you all this to justify what I do.  My conscience is crystal clear.  Being a weaver of worlds isn’t everyone’s calling – it’s a specialist job like a doctor or a plumber or a chef.  Nobody questions paying for these services.   I think the plumber I called out to fix my blocked drain would have had a Dutch fit if I told him he should do it for free.  He has skills I don’t have (or don’t want to learn) so why should there not be a fair exchange?

Both of us work for free too.  I cut my Tarot teeth on the TABI (Tarot Association of British Isles) and Free Tarot Networks.  Paul still does free readings every Monday (if you request a reading and get Quicksilver he’s that man!).  He also mentors other readers.  I have a totally free beginner’s Tarot course.  We’ve been writing our free newsletter for 2 years now (that actually costs us money).  And there are clients we help because they need it and don’t have the means to pay us.

I’m sure we’re not alone in this approach.  We charge for our services and we give back too.

What do you think?  Should spiritual services and god given gifts be given freely?  Is it pure evil to charge?

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Oh Woe Is Me. It’s Monday.

I don’t know why I’m constantly surprised by Mondays.  I wake up full of optimism and vigour (ok, the 2nd part was a blatant lie) then it goes down hill from there.  On the good side about today I haven’t killed a pigeon like I did on Friday.  And I thank the gods for that.

It’s not that today has been bad per se but it’s been really busy with hiccups. Like popping to my local witchy shop to select a stone for a custom Etsy orgonite order only to find myself in the longest, most pointless traffic jam in the history of traffic jams. We sat in traffic for a good 40 minutes and normally on that stretch of road you hardly have time to get to 3rd gear before you reach the roundabout.  It takes about 2 minutes from start to finish.

I picked the stones I wanted plus some pretty Paua shell to make some jewellery.  And this handbag came home with me too:

I haven’t added the necessary voodoo doll and it looks a little flat because I haven’t transferred all the crap my personal possessions from my other handbag.  Not sure if this is a permanent bag but it’s fine for summer and my old one is covered with strawberry jam (thank you Tabitha).

Tabitha has worn me out too. She’s doing great with potty training now – she’s enjoying it so much she wants to pee every 10 seconds. I’m sure you want to know the deal breaker.  Well, if she uses the potty she gets to ‘press the button’ i.e. flush the loo. I work downstairs, the bathroom is upstairs.  My thighs should put Suzanne Somers to shame (but they don’t).

I’m really tired. There’s always a lot of work to fit in around all the other stuff like laundry, cooking, cleaning etc and some days I don’t know how to juggle everything.  It feels like if I move one more thing everything else will tumble down.  I go to bed on Mondays still feeling surprised… that I’ve actually reached bed time with sanity intact.

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Nymans Garden

It was slightly overcast, and dull yesterday – the type of summer day where you think you should probably grab your umbrella rather than your sunscreen.  And that, dear reader,  seemed the perfect weather to go visit the wilds of West Sussex.

The garden began in 1890 when the the Messel family bought the 600 acre estate and Regency house.  Our journey at Nyman’s began in the National Trust shop where I went on a soap frenzy (they had so many wonderful handmade soaps) but to soften the blow of how many soaps I’d picked up I bought ice cream too.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about raising kids is when you’re out in public never buy chocolate ice cream.  Go vanilla, the stains don’t show:

I took my own advice and had stem ginger ice cream.  After dumping coffee down my pale pink shirt I couldn’t afford chocolate stains too.

The gardens are stunning with colours and smells which make your senses dance with happiness:

And those busy little honey makers love it too:

The place is quite magical.  I could easily imagine the fairies dancing at dusk and bathing in the moonlight:

Tragically most of the house burnt down in 1947. The ruins, set against the lush gardens, look hauntingly beautiful.

Ever since I posted about Yoni and Lingam on Friday I’ve been seeing them everywhere.  I think by the end of our visit to Nymans Paul was a little fed up of my pointing out things and saying ‘doesn’t that look like a penis?’.  Well, it does.  Doesn’t it?

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