I missed my one chance to meet Anton Lavey. I had a friend in college who ended up on the Council of Nine, the ruling body of the Church of Satan. Lavey rarely traveled, but was supposed to be at a event in Chicago. He cancelled, but that might be proof of his supposed psychic powers. That same event had Dana Plato of Different Strokes show up as the other guest of honor. She was dead a couple weeks later.

I didn’t like, and still don’t agree with much of the Church of Satan. But that’s not the point. (For the record, I find the Satanic Temple crowd much easier to deal with and agree with them more.) But tonight’s post has to do with my favorite LaVey quote: “There is a beast in man that should be exercised, not exorcised.”

I have a beast in me. I rarely let him have free reign, though he pokes his nose through the bars in his cell every so often and licks my brain. I do let him out regularly, but on a leash. He needs his exercise, because the cage we call civilization chafes his skin.

Now, if you’re one of those twits who thinks you don’t have one, you’re deluding yourself. Yours is just buried. Your beast, your dark side? They’re there. Man, woman, every sex and gender on the planet, all have a dark side.

But wait, Ttevor. Aren’t you a big fan of civiization? Liking hotels over camping? Indoor plumbing and all that? Yeah, I am. But that’s because I spent time not having stuff like that. I don’t like camping because I’ve bene homeless. It’s not my release from civilization.

For some folks, that is their release. Don’t get me wrong. I love getting out in nature. I love going hiking, staying in a cabin out in the woods. I just want it to have indoor plumbing and heat.And internet and medical facilities nearby if at all possible.

So where do I get off talking about unleashing one’s inner beast? Because I used to let my beast out unfocused and uncontrolled. And I almost killed a person because of it. I put a guy in the hospital when I was twenty. Thankfully, I had a judge who gave me two choices: the military or martial arts. I chose martial arts. I found aikido, and it saved my life, my spirit and my sanity. I don’t think I’d have survived my twenties without it. Charles Tseng, where ever you are, thank you.

Not to say I was suddenly a monk. Quite the opposite. I drank, caroused and screwed my way through things as much as I could. I had a lot of fun, but I lost a lot of life along the way.

When I got married, I swung the pendulum back the other direction, I tried to grow up, fly right. And I let the beast run around every so often. But I don’t think I let him out nearly enough. And I think it cost me a lot swinging the other way as well.

So now, on my own, I’m trying to find more balance. I’m embracing my beast, giving him more room and running time. And he’s been wounded too. Some folks call it shadow work, I call it embracing my beast. Eveyr time I’m out on the dance floor, or in the pit at shows, or steaming up the windows, that beast is happy as a clam.

And yes, I am using he pronouns for mine, But not all beasts are male, lets be clear. I’ve seen the beast come out in people of all classes , colors and societies. All sorts of ways to let yours out.

But you have to be careful, and be smart. There’s wrong ways to let the beast out. Thats how you end up in jail. FInd a channel for that energy, find what works for you. Go get in a rage room. Buy an old tv at a rummage sale and beat it with a hammer. Don’t throw the family tv out the window, That’s definitely the wrong way. And anything that involves other humans? Consent first. Otherwise, you’re not releasing your beast, you’re just being an asshole.

I hope that you find someway to contact your inner beast and let him out. Because after wards, you’ll feel better. You might have waves of emotion you’ve suppressed come out. I’ve cried twice this year in the pit at shows. Sorry, but that’s personal. You want to know, message me.

We have a beast, or devil or shadow. Every single one of us. And what we do with it can greatly improve our lives, or destroy us. The choice is yours. See you in the pit, or on the dance floor. Good night.

I had dinner tonight with my daughter Aubry. I try to do this every other week. She works and is in college. She has a boyfriend and plays D and D. She’s a busy twenty year old woman. I love her more than I can possibly say.

So we have dinner, and we talk, and catch up. Invariably, I go home. And I’m usually crying by the time I get home. I miss her a lot, and not the big things.

When you see characters in TV shows talk about missing their kids, I can tell it’s written by people who don’t have kids, or have never been really close to their kids. Because it’s never the birthdays and graduations that you really miss. At least if you’re paying attention.

When I was with my ex-wide, the soundest sleep she had was when all four of her daughters were all in the same place as her. She was already a sound sleeper, but you could fire a gun next to her head when her daughters were home, and she wouldn’t hear it.

And the same is true for me and Aubry. When she had to stay here for a couple weeks after the basement flooded, I slept better than I had in a long time. And I realize it’s the little things that matter. It’s the singing I could hear through the vents. It’s the footsteps on the stairs. It’s all the noises that go into when you spend time with someone you love.

I have anxious attachment issues. Look it up. I have anxiety about being left by the people I love. I have a hard time trusting that people who say they love me mean it. Decades of narcissists and other malignant personality types . So how do I combat those issues now?\

Little things. I recall their smile. I remember the way they felt the last time they hugged me. I remember the way they breathe when they sleep. And when I remember them, I can break free of the brain weasels, the shoulds, and the insecurity that plagues my brain in my darkest hours.

I grieve a lot of things from my marriage, but the interaction with my children and grandchildren is what I miss most. I hold hope to have that back someday, but all I can do until then is know better, and act better. And hope someday to see them all again. Good night

I said in my last post that one of the hazards of writing a blog is repeating yourself over and over again. There’s another hazard I don’t talk about, because I tend to think talking about something and naming it gives it power, but tonight, I’m doing it anyway.I’m talking about reactions from other people.

Today, someone took a passive agressive dig at the way I’m presenting myself on this blog. By the way, congratulations to the state of Wisconsin, you’re finally beating Minnesota at something not sport related. The award is in the mail, just like the last birthday card you sent me. If you don’t get that sentence, hang around the Midwest, you’ll learn.

Here’s the thing: I’ve dealt with passive aggressive people my entire life. And some of them have gotten past me. Sometimes, I’m not the brightest bulb in the sign. But once I do see you for who you are, forget it.

But the bad thing is, some of them, the shit they do does matter. Because I still love them, and want the best for them. They’ll say, if you love me, then you must XYZ. Their love is conditional. They never bother to ask why, or if you can, or what doing what they want will cost you. Because it doesn’t matter. Because what they want isn’t love or friendship. it’s obedience.

So when they say I’m not doing things right, it does bother me. Because I know no matter what I do, it’ll never be good enough. Because they don’t actually want me to do it. They love my failure. I don’t suffer enough for them. Here’s what I have to say to them: you know nothing.

They don’t know how I cry every fucking day. They don’t know how badly I miss so much of what I lost. They don’t know how much it hurts every day. And they don’t know how much I wish I could make them happy. And how much it kills me because I don’t see how I could.

But then I realize, nothing is going to make them happy, least not that I can provide. Because providing what they want would drive me back to the person I was before, and that’s not happening. I’m trying to be better, and part of that is not giving into the darkness that has been poured into me for most of my life.

So yes, I’m going to keep trying to be positive. And yes, I won’t make peace with them, because their peace means surrender, not submission or detente. Because every step towards peace has been cast aside. When I make my boundaries, they don’t respect them. All those things, and they want peace? No, they don’t. They want to win a fight I’m refusing to fight anymore.

So they can say what they want. Get a blog, write a book. I don’t have to see it, and I refuse to look anymore. I hope it helps. I hope it makes them happy. But their happiness doesn’t get to happen at the cost of my peace anymore.

I feel for the shit talkers. Nobody out there is doing ok, except the assholes. And If I want to be positive on here, I’m going to be positive on here. Don’t like it? Maybe they should ask themselves my my being positive angers them so, if they cast me out. I wish theyd try living better than me, that’s the best revenge, no? Good night.

I’ve generally just chosen a topic and written about it here. But here’s the problem with that:you run the risk of repeating yourself. And then you feel stuck, because you don’t have anything new to say.But then it hit me: Shakespeare

No, I’m not writing about Shakespeare. I know professors of the guy, and I am not remotely qualified. Except to say my favorite film adaptation is Baz Lurhman’s Romeo and Juliet.No, today’s post has to do with a concept largely attributed to him.

Shakespeare is supposed to have said there are only six stories in the world, No, I won’t detail them. But the point here is this: I can write on a topic many times, as long as I don’t say the same thing. So I’m going to talk about a couple things I’ve discussed before, but in a different way: grace and hope.

I’m discussing these things because for the first time in a long time, I’m feeling both of those things at once. And they both relate to one thing I generally don’t talk about: my divorce.

I know, you’re thinking:grace and hope? In a divorce?I think both of those things are important to having a divorce. Without the two, most divorces wouldn’t happen. And yeah, folks, sometimes, they need to happen. Mine certainly did.

And let me not sugarcoat it: I fucked up a lot when it came to splitting up. I hurt family and friends badly. Not to the extent that some have claimed, but I’m not here to argue. Let’s get going to the good things.

Grace has been on my mind because of certain actions. I’ve had a moment of grace from someone I didn’t expect. Someone who to be frank, I hurt badly. And who in turn, hurt me badly right back. But I’m not naming names. I am sorry for hurting them. And they’ve railed against me in certain corners. But they showed me grace this week, and I am grateful for that . It leads to the next thing I wanted to talk about, which is hope.

Hope is bandied about, as if it’s a feathery bird. Fuck that shit. Hope is tough as leather, stronger than steel. Hope has lasted through things that would make Chuck Norris curl up in a ball. So hope survives a lot of things.

Tonight, in a manner I didn’t think possible, I felt hope. Not hope for the world, or large scale hope. No, I felt hope for me. That I was going to survive all the turmoil of my year. And more importantly, I felt hope for those I’ve hurt with my words and actions. People have mistaken my silence sometimes for denial. Sometimes my silence was letting time pass, letting the wounds start to scar over. Realizing that time might be the only thing that truly heals some hurts.

If someone has hurt you, don’t quit. Rest, lick your wounds, but don’t stop. Live your life, learn from the hurt, whether you’ve caused it or bore the brunt. Take those scars, and realize they’re part of you. And know that this too shall pass, and there’s a light somewhere out there for you. Good night.

One of my favorite writers when I was studying Journalism was Tom Wolfe. RIght Stuff, ELectric Kool Aid Acid Test and Bonfire of the Vanities are all stone cold classics. But what made him a favorite was how he went about his writing.

For those who don’t know, Wolfe came about in a time that was called New Journalism. It meant that reporters would not just report the news, sometimes they’d participate. George Plimpton exemplified this when he went and tried out for the NFK and then wrote about it. Hunter S. Thompson damn near joined the Hell’s Angels. But Tom Wolfe? He said, fuck that shit.

By all accounts, Wolfe would show up to report, and be dressed like he was going for tea on Martha’s Vineyard. Same cream colored suits, ties and the whole get up. He did this while touring in a bus with Ken Kesey, at the ground zero of the Hippie movement. And did this cause the acid freaks to not trust him? Fuck no.

They recognized Wolfe for the iconoclast that he was, and figured he was a straight shooter. Same thing with the astronauts he wrote about in the Right Stuff. He may have dressed like he was upper class, but he didn’t act like them.

Which is why I’m thinking about why some people act like their supposed betters. Why they do their best to kiss up and make their fellow humans look bad. At this point, has nobody learned anything? Shit, even Jeffrey Epstein tried to act like he belonged, and look where it got him.

I know these people. I see them every day. The problem is, they think I don’t see them. And maybe I didn’t. But those kind of people? They’re so desperate, they just can’t help themselves. And they think the shit they do makes them beyond reproach and punishment.

And maybe they’re right. Maybe there is no justice in this world. Maybe the game is rigged in favor of bootlickers and toadies. It certainly feels that way in this country lately. So what’s someone like me supposed to do?

Pay attention is what you do. Not to the naysayers and abusers, the bullies and their minions. Pay attention to what drives you. Pay attention to the things you like, and water those things. Dress how you like. Listen to what you like. Talk about things others might not care about or deem offensive. As long as you’re not hating or punching down on people. That’s not watering your own bush, that’s pissing on someone else’s garden.

I’m not here to give advice on how to succeed in today’s world. I’m here to help those who’ve been beaten down by it, by those who the world has deemed outcast for who they love, or what they believe about things. I think a lot of the so called culture is pureed capitalist propaganda that leaves no room for those who were abused , traumatized and left for dead. I’m here for those on the edges, to say hey, don’t give up. You matter. You’re beautiful in your own way.

I’ve never belonged, and it still gets to me, especially after I go home alone and have to be with myself. But I’m learning to love myself, to deny those who think I’m a complete waste of flesh. So I’m going to listen to bands I like, shake my ass to beats I like, and wear some awful shirts. Because I can, And so should you. Good night

There are two things you can say to me, about me that will flip my switch. They are guaranteed fight starters. One of them was said to me this morning, at my second job, by a human who wasn’t getting what he wanted.

“You’re useless.”

This phrase is a favorite of my brain weasels. I struggle with feeling good enough all the time. 24/7.My personal Waffle House of beating myself up. So when someone else says it, especially a complete stranger? It’s time for violence, in my head. It’s like a red mist starts to descend.

But I’m older now, and know where letting that out get me. I haven’t done time, but it’s been close. So I considered the pathetic person that had said this. And it made me think about usefulness, and how we define it.

In a lot of people’s eyes, I am useless. I don’t make enough money. I dont do a job that is important. A strong argument could be made for me being on the B ship, for you Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy fans.

But that’s what society wants me to believe, that what I do for money is all that I am valuable for. In a capitalist, what I can provide by back or brain is all that matters. And it casts people aside, and makes them feel unworthy. And it makes them feel useless. And so , sometimes people like me disappear, and fall through society’s cracks. And it sometimes leads to desperation as men get older.

Men in my age bracket, sometimes they get desperate.They feel like , unless they’ve achieved certain things, they’re not important or relevant. And they get louder and meaner, all in an attempt to stay relevant. And it’s all so wrong. I think I know of a better path to walk.

I have a new friend, who by some standards, would appear to be not relevant or important. He lives in a camper in a friend’s backyard. He does construction for a living, pretty much the epitome of what would be considered a non contributing member of society,

But it’s so fucking wrong. He gives so much time to other people. He’s a clown for parades. he dives and cleans up lakes. he takes care of lots of people around him. He’s someone I have met only recently ,but he inspires me every day to be more positive, and to do better.

He is the textbook definition of what I would call a Sage. This is the male version of the Crone archetype in Pagan belief systems and iconography. He is the man who’s lived life, and has good stuff to learn, if you pay attention.

But normal society would condemn you listening to him, because he doesn’t look the part. Those people, you’d think they never heard about Odin traveling in disguise, hidden in his cloak, so you don’t see the power.

I think he, and I, need to become a variant of the Sage archetype. I want to be a Useless Sage. Cast out by society, but so very valuable to the people who look close enough. I think I have good ideas too, and I think people look past me, and don’t see my value. So I’m starting, finally, to see the value in me. So like some other communities, I want reclaim the word Useless for me. Wear it as a badge of honor. Maybe If I’m useless, It’s because I’m done being used by people. You can call me useless, but I’m not going to apologize for who I am anymore. I am the Useless Sage, hear me roar.

And yes, I’ve done bad things and made mistakes. I’m gong to do them again. It comes with the meat suit. But I’m continually attempting to not do them. That’s the difference. And if you can’t see the value in that, or the value in me valuing myself, then to hell with you. Maybe you should look at your own life, before judging others. Or look a little closer, and pay attention. Then we can leave the toxic capitalist masculinity garbage behind. All of us, together. Good night.

I work with the public. It’s a blessing and a curse. Sometimes, I meet amazing people, like the couple who were Milwaukee Police for twenty years. And Black. You know those two have seen some shit, and dealt with racism far beyond they ever deserved. But then there’s days like today.

Nothing too bad about today, other than going to therapy(more on this later), and even that wasn’t too bad. But this person was going on about the death of gender roles, and traditional marriage values. As a white, mostly heterosexual male, you think I’d be on their side, right? I mean, who has benefited more from those values? WRONG.

I’m fifty-six. Most of the benefits of being a white hetero male got killed by the boomers, who voted Reagan into office. Reagan killed the middle class, crashed the tax code benefits of marriage, and suckered everyone into 401Ks. I’d explain why they were bad, but that’s a whole other blog post. Nope, by the time I got to the party, the boomers had sucked up all the money,done all the good drugs, and made sex evil again. Thanks, assholes.

No, what they left us white het males was toxic masculinity. That’s a catch all term for sexism, consumerism and capitalism masquearding as a code for pretty much mate, spawn and die. Where the money you make are the only things that are important, and your value is in money, kids and spouse. You’d think we’d have settled that after the 60’s and 70’s, but the boomers gave all that shit up for security. And look where it got them.

I want to tell those folks to fuck off. First of all, do you know how much I hate it that I hate when I cry? That I feel ashamed? That I’ve been so programmed by a garbage monoculture that invalidates my feelings because I have a cock?

You think that I don’t feel trapped by traditional gender roles? That I’m programmed to be fiscally responsible for other people, while the society around me makes that harder by the day, all so some old fat white folks can have more imaginary points? Meanwhile, I’m told to do it all alone, too.

What really pisses me off is how corporations, government and society have all shaped or been shaped by this garbage. And now expect women to slip back into traditional roles, and work too. What do they think is going to happen?

Precisely what is happening. Marriage and childbirth rates are down, as is home ownership by families. Hard to have a consumer society when no one can afford to consume, you morons.

But back to the toxic masculinity. I spoke about the toxic masculinity, and how it’s made me feel like a failure most of my adult life. I was supposed to feel like a man when I got married, had a kid, and bought a house? Big shocker, I didn’t.

To be honest, I don’t knwo what feeling like a man looks like, or feels like any more. And I’m starting to think that’s a good thing. Maybe we should stop thinking about gender roles, and about making people feel empowered and loved.

How about we talk to each other, make sure we’re feeling ok? How about we say hi to our neighbors? How about we feel good about the small things, like making the ones we love feel loved and happy? How about we build community with people , regardless of creed or color? How about we judge people by character and deed, and not what they can do for us?

I’m not saying it won’t be hard, and some of might fuck up in the process. but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. At it starts with the person you see in the mirror.

I told my therapist today(told you we’d get back here) that I didn’t like myself, let alone love myself. She told me she had to learn to love herself. Not like, but love. She said, some days she didn’t like herself, especially when she screwed stuff up. But she had to love herself, so that she could love other people. Because it all starts in our own skull.

If you’re reading this, do me a favor. Go into the bathroom, or where ever you have a mirror. Say this to the person: I love you. You’re not perfect, but you try to be. Aim for the stars, because there is nothing higher to reach for. Who you love, how much money you make, is not who you are, What you are is how you treat people. I will strive to be kind. I will strive to know better, and do better. When I fall, I will get back up. When I see others fall, I will try to help them back up. You are not alone. I love you.

Not easy, is it? But when we start loving ourselves more, we can love each other more. And that has nothing to do with what’s between our legs and what we do with them. And nothing to do with what we wear or who we love, but everything to do with who we are, and how we treat each other. Good night,

Let’s face it, getting old sucks. It sucks harder than a room full of Hoovers or MAGAs. One of the things that growing older does is it slows you down, makes it harder to move. We become sendentary.

I imagined myself for a time, looking like Christopher Walken at the end of the “Weapon of Choice” video by Fatboy Slim. Just sitting there and sighing. And my life reflected that attitude.

I was in a rut, a continual cycle of work and come home, spending my nights on the couch after dinner zombified by the television for hours before going to bed. It drove me to despair, and life losing a lot fo meaning.

Thankfully, I did something about it. I went to therapy, got some drugs, including hormone therapy. And then, I blew up my home life, which spiraled me down even further. I was lost, torn and unsure what to do next.

I found out about a Retro Goth night at Mad Planet in Milwaukee. I hadn’t been out dancing in years, in at least a decade. SO I went, unsure of how it was going to go. And guess what happened.

I danced my ass off that night. Johnny and the Goth Barge crew played stuff I hadn’t heard in decades. It was a night of sweat and catharsis. And it made me realize what I’d been missing.

Movement, dear readers. Movement and rhythm. Dancing brought me out of the depths of despair. Dancing in a community of strangers and people who would become friends soon, I found myself again.

There’s the lesson for today. In the words of Ludacris, Move, bitch! Don’t stop moving. There was a woman in a wheelchair grooving when I went back. I think communal dancing, even in small groups, is a ritual that’s good for the soul. Doesn’t matter what kind of music you like. Square dance if that’s your jam. But being all cooped up all the time sitting with just the screen isn’t good for you.

If you start dancing, you find your rhythm. Your heart rate lowers and you feel better. And you learn what you don’t like, and remember what you do. For the love of the gods, don’t age gracefully. I started dying my hair different colors and painting my nails again. If I hadn’t gone out that night, I don’t know how the last 8 9 months would have turned out. I would have surrendered to the ennui, I think. I never would have met the amazing people I’ve met along the way. And I wouldn’t have found love again.

People are going to read this and be unhappy. They’ll say how dare in the middle of all my issues I talk about happiness. I would tell them this:

Get a grip. Life is precarious in this country. We’re int he middle of a revolution/takeover/whatever you want to call it, it isn’t good. It’s so easy to give in to despair. Whatever joy we can get, take it, so long as it doesn’t hurt anybody. And if your world changing revolution means I can’t get my groove on every now and then on a weekend or any night, then I don’t want it. Emma Goldman had it down, baby. Good night.

I don’t like to talk about the divorce I’m going through. I don’t discuss details, don’t go into particulars. One, because my kids read this, and it’s between me and her, and it would hurt them to hear some of my feelings about the matter. Two, it’s my life and I don’t want to. But a couple things happened and like it or not, my divorce relates to one of them.

First of all, had a really great beginning to the week. Riot Fest was amazing, but the thing I wanted to talk about was taking Aubry to see Twenty One Pilots Tuesday night. It was my birthday gift to her. It was important to her, because the latest record is the end of a storyline that’s been woven through most of their records.

What struck me, without going into too much detail, is how the story dealt with the cyclical nature of life. How life has ups and downs, peaks and valleys, round and round it goes. The wheel turns forever. While the music was great, and mostly uplifting, it was sad to see the story end. The band is at the end of their contract with their label, and who knows when, if ever, they’ll be back around.

The next couple days were rough. Things got bad between my ex and me again. A cycle I thought we’d gotten past erupted again. And much to my chagrin, I reacted with trauma responses, behavior I thought I’d gotten past. I felt I was backsliding, like I hadn’t learned anything.

But then I realized, life goes in cycles. Things are never going to go on the way you think they will. All you cna do is go through them. And all you cna do is try to do better with them than you did the last time. Sometimes you’ll succeed. Sometimes, you don’t. I definitely didn’t.

So what to do in that situation? First, recognize that it’s happening. That was easy for me. Second, don’t beat yourself up for it. Much harder for me to do. I’m an expert at beating myself up. Third, allow yourself some grace for not doing it the way you wanted to. Feel your feelings, and let them go through you. Lastly, see what you can do to make it go better next time. In my case, I made an appointment with my therapist.

Also, realize that you can’t control a lot of life. You can wish for things to be different, but it also helps to have gratitude for the things in your life that are positive. I could wail about my troubles, or I could be happy about the positive people like Jasmine, Ryan, Leesa and AJ who lift people around them up. I aim to be more grateful every day.

To wrap things up, life’s going to hit you hard. It does everyone. Can’t help that, it’s life. And you’ll sometimes slip up and react in a not so good way.But forgive your trespasses against yourself. Know better, do better as much as possible. The universe is perfect. Good night.

I am an only child. It’s not that rare anymore, but growing up, it was considered weird. And I remember my mother getting questioned at length by strangers about it. And it colors your worldview, and how you see things. It really reinforced a belief in me, that I don’t belong anywhere.

I’ve never really felt like I belonged anywhere, I was kept away from people by my parents. Dad, because frankly, he didn’t like people and I was an embarrassment and he was ashamed of me. He told me this on several occasions, starting at ten years old.

So as I grew and walked through this world, I sought to join things, to find where i belonged. It certainly wasn’t normal society. I was bullied until I had a growth spurt at 15. It wasn’t the church, I was excommunicated for asking too many questions.

Then one day, my friend Billy gave me a tape. One side was Master of Puppets by Metallica. The other was Dealing with It by Dirty ROtten Imbeciles. This was my first exposure to metal and punk. And so I went to go experience this in person.

My first show was Ozzy/Metallica at Poplar Creek in 1986. That blew my mind, but it was one the next year that changed me forever. Anthrax, Exodus and Celtic Frost. I like to say, Fishbone was my Sex Pistols, but to be honest it was Anthrax. They came out to the Blues Brothers theme song. They wore Jamz onstage, and they rapped. They were so not the normal, but holy cats were they fun, angyr and wrote about comic books and Stephen King.

That began a long, long road of live music. More shows than I can think of , more bands than I can list. But the one that is important to todays writing happened in 1993. Dead Can Dance at the Vic in Chicago, exact date is unimportant.

What was important about that show is that I had a spiritual awakening during it. I had participated in a couple of circles. That show, that night , something else, something I can’t explain, spoke to me. I had what my friend Miles calls a UPG. It stands for Unverifiable Personal Gnosis. I encountered something divine in nature, and I know it, and I will never be able to prove it to you.

That too, started a road of spiritual seeking and searching. Books, meetings, circles, and fellowship. I miss FWOMP, the monthly meeting we had in the suburbs of Charlotte.

Along the way, I lost track of those two forces. I enjoyed shows, but didn’t experience them with the same oomph. And I hadn’t found any fellowship spiritually around here since moving back.

Then the last two days happened. First was Riot Fest. From running into people I knew online in person, to breaking down crying in the crowd for Dance Hall Crashers and Bad Religion, it was a level of catharsis I hadn’t had during a show in a few years. And it was a release, and needed, and I will be forever grateful for the people who made it possible.

Tonight, I did a ritual with other people for the first time in years. It was certainly the first time since moving back here, I felt the energy, I was welcomed. I was shown friendship and shared stories and conversation. It was the best time I’ve had spiritually in years.

As I sat here, trying to process the last couple days, it hit me: I belong here. I have friends, family of choice, and I matter to these people, and they openly care about me. It’s not transactional, I’m not wondering what it’s going to cost me. This is a new feeling, and it took me a minute to figure it out. In a pretty dark time in my life, these people have shown me a way towards the light, and are willing to hang with me while I get there. And they aren’t asking anything in return. I can’t thank them enough. Good night.