Krishna makes me cranky.

I woke with a tension headache, around 4am. For migraines, I need to stay horizontal. When I wake with the tension headaches, there’s nothing to do but get up, sit at the table and try not to move. I crawled into the shower first, trying to loosen the muscles of my neck with heat, and then I drank a bunch of water just in case, and then I sat and was quiet.

My plan for today was a trip to the bookstore, to see what they had, to buy some books. Not an obscene amount, mind. Just, a book or two or three. I went with an idea of some I wanted, but I also went with the idea to browse. I had to drop packages in the mail for Beth, and the bookstore is literally right across the street from that post office.

I should not have gone. I should not have decided that I would browse. I don’t browse, I overwhelm myself. On good days, I really can’t browse a bookstore the way I used to be able to. Today wasn’t a good day. Today was a bad head day.

The fiction books I wanted (The Name of the Wind, the next in the Jemisin series I’m reading, maybe some C.E. Murphy) their either did not have, or only had new and I didn’t want to pay new book prices, even for a paperback. There were, though, a few other books I saw that I considered. I can’t find any of them online to share, and of course I didn’t take note of authors because headache. One was a book on Hindu deities, and it was a nice size, with very little text and pictures on the facing pages, and the pictures weren’t even half the size of the page, but I still liked thema (there was a Matsya!) nd I wanted it. I carried this book around with me while I browsed.

One was a commentary on Radha and Krishna, and I’m vaguely interested in them enough, and it was a small book, and not expensive at all, and so maybe. Except Krishna (the topic of) makes me angry, and I was already angry, and so I decided no.

I was angry, because there was one that had a promising title that I can’t remember except it made me think: Vishnu and compassion, cool! And instead it was a Krishna Consciousness book (or it was a Krishna Consciousnessesque book) and it just . . . Blargh.


I say it’s irrational anger, but it’s not. It’s not. I can follow it’s trail back to the various roots. I have an outsider’s understanding of Krishna, but I can’t deny the joy of existence that touches Him. I have an immediate disinterest in the human incarnations of Vishnu, and Krishna is by far the most popular of these. He’s The Cool Kid. He’s found in a throng of humanity. I can’t imagine finding any common ground, and I’m just not interested. I don’t like the monotheistic tones. I don’t like the party and the dance and the fun and the crowds, oh the crowds. I find that the feeling is not far from resentment, and that’s likely not fair. I’m not sure what to do about it. Mostly I’m just holding it.

But it’s also – and possibly more? – things like: I don’t want to challenge my ideas of what constitutes compassion. The book spoke of how the way to show compassion was in preaching, and that was extremely off-putting. It touched upon another bit that I find distasteful of this/these paths, and that’s the veneration of elders, of gurus . . . and this brings to mind something I heard the other day that isn’t truly related, but sort of fits?

So, I’ve been watching various interviews on Youtube with Reza Aslan, because he’s a funny, funny guy. In this particular talk, he was discussing American religion, or whether or not there was something unique about the various religions in America (or rather, if there was something “American” about them) and he spoke of our individualism, and how what Christianity or Judaism or Islam or what-have-you in other countries, wherein there is an emphasis on community, looks different than how these religions look in America.

I think about this a lot, really, because I think that at a certain point our individualism works against our ability to build community. At the same time, I think community above the individual can also be undesirable. What if you don’t fit the community you find yourself in? I’m just . . . not interested in anything that gets between me and my relationships with the Powers.


I don’t want to have to even consider looking at different ways of understanding compassion. And that alone has me thinking I need to buy the book. So, we’ll see.

I bought none, and I came home, and I’m agitated and angry and restless and on the verge of saying, fuck it.

All this without even touching the whole white woman browsing the Hinduism section at the bookstore. “No, it’s not what you think.”

I’ll be in my bed, with the blankets pulled up. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll go book shopping.

(edited to add: this was written yesterday. The bookstore might happen today, woohoo!!)

The Hundred Thousand Kingdom; or: A Week for Perfect Stories

First, the delightful series that is C.E. Murphy’s The Negotiator, replete with all my favorite themes, and now this.


I’ve heard praise for this book coming from a lot of different sort of readers. It was recommended enough times that I’ve even gotten the book out from the library two or three times (there’s always a wait for this one) but I never managed to get around to reading it. It promised to have gods as characters, gods interacting with humans, and while that is one of my favorite things, they were not my gods, and it was not my world, and that made it a tad less appealing, and because it’s more high fantasy, I feared it would be gods among mortals the way it’s sometimes done, where they are remote and just . . . I don’t know. I was afraid to get my hopes up, and so, it never really made it to the top of my list of priorities, even when I had a copy in my home.

Silly. So silly. Because, this book, you guys. THIS BOOK.

Is it perfect? Well, it’s not over, exactly — there’s more in the series, so I suppose there’s room for it to fall apart (I hope it won’t; I doubt it will) and the perfection of the whole series is yet to be seen by me, but this first book on its own? Yeah, it hit all the right places. (There are books on my Perfect Book list that are parts of series whose sequels do not make it onto the list. Darkborn is one such book).

Once, there was a war between the gods. Once, there was a murder, and an enslavement, and now one of the remaining Three is a chained weapon of people who have chosen the other remaining one of the Three over all the other gods that exist — and these people are twisted, cruel, selfish, self-serving.

It’s a curious sort of monotheism that exists when the other gods live in your palace, caged in flesh and mortality and interacting with you.

It’s always refreshing to read what is in essence polytheism done well. In secondary world fantasy, polytheist universes often read as polytheism as seen through a monotheistic mindset — an imagining of what something might be like, although the storyteller cannot possibly believe it could be true. I don’t think this is done intentionally; it simple rarely reads as complete or whole or believable or something — there is always some thing missing that I can’t quite name but leaves an ‘off’ taste in my mouth.

I’m planning a trip for the used bookstore today, and I was planning on getting the Kingkiller books (have read the first, want to reread it, do not want to carry around the hardcover that the library has) if they had them, but I have to admit: if the bookstore has the other books in this series, it’s going to win.

A lifetime in a day

Yesterday, I finished up the last of C.E Murphy’s The Negotiator series. It is rare for me to reach the ending of a book or series and feel completely fulfilled as a reader, but this happens from time to time, and when it does, the book or series gets placed upon my Perfect Book list. More importantly, these stories tend to take me and place me gently yet firmly into the Stream of All Possibility.

Yesterday, on my way into work, I was awash with potential. Not merely my potential, but rather Potential Itself. The press of it was encouraging and exhilarating and exciting. It shifted the boundaries of the worlds a bit, or made them flimsy, or reminded me that they (the boundaries) are our doing and need not be. Sometimes, when I read a great book or story, I can’t wait to get back to my own stories — that’s part of what they’re supposed to do, although sometimes instead they make me feel inadequate like I can’t even tell you. Sometimes, though, I just want to bask in all that could-be feeling.

Yesterday, Potential had weight and pressure, but it was kind and it was encouraging and it was wonderful. The story was the best kind, my favorite kind, with dragons and vampires and other creatures, and human-and-other interactions. First contact and finding home and coming into one’s own. My favorite, favorite kind.

Yesterday, I walked to work watching the boundaries between the worlds — the world of consensual reality, which is less one big reality and more just where our realities all overlap, and the spirits worlds, the worlds where my characters live, and the world where Poseidon calls me wife, and the worlds of the dead, all butting up against one another — shimmery and slip and disappear for whole moments at a time.

I excepted Poseidon to walk with me as I  walked to work, to have commentary, to be a part of the experience. I felt held and loved and felt more of my reluctance at this whole, “So, hey, Vishnu,” thing slip away, but He did not dominate the experience.

Do I admit that Thistlethorn Meadowlark is real to me in a way that many of “my” characters are not? Do I admit that I have a Fairy Queen who has offered to step in as my muse, time and time again, as if I’ve never read any stories about human storytellers with fairy queens as patrons? (What could *possibly* go wrong?) She’s kind, if overwhelming, and teasing, most of the time, and patiently waiting for me to get back to her story. She’s also currently head over heels for a mortal woman, and maybe this makes her kinder to humans than she might otherwise be, and cognizant of their frailty.

She may have laughed merrily yesterday, dancing around me, shorter than me but not by much. With ease, she might have plucked an old worry from my mind and held it for me to see. “You used to be terrified about not being able to tell the difference between the reality in which you walk with gods, and the reality in which we come to you and share our stories. You used to allow this fear to arrest you in your gift. You used to be desperate to know the difference between the spirits that were ‘really real’ and where ‘just’ characters sharing their tales with you. Do you remember?”

Of course I remember; it wasn’t all that long ago, and it was a long, abiding fear.

“Do you see?” and she gestured to encompass all of the shattering of boundaries within me. “Do you see?” and she may have laughed again.

Because in that moment, I did see. In that moment, it was all I could see. There was no boundary between those two particular realms at all. Because the differences between them are semantics, and because what does it matter, the kinds of real?

Yesterday, I basked in the joy of being a storyteller, of  having these stories come to me, of being a part of this great, huge thing, and of how one cannot truly embrace this path without admitting to loving, and being captivated by, and curious about, humanity.

And then I went to work, and throughout the day, I was reminded why it’s a struggle to not hate humanity.

But the morning was good.


Surrendering can be pretty.

Especially when it comes with this!


I decided, with Poseidon’s help, and the encouragement of both this video here, that I would honor some of what I know about myself. Icons are too difficult, too much commitment to start out with, too much, but not images. Images are okay. Going in, I know I’m going to be offering sporadic, nocturnal, minimalistic worship, and hey let’s just run with that. Once again, Poseidon reminds me that He’s not asking me to be something that I’m not, and so maybe let’s not fall into that trap.

So, a print of that image is its way to me. After a few hours of trying to find a Vishnu image that I really like, and wanting it to be Vishnu and not so much avatar of Him I came back to this. The non-human avatars are my favorite, and this is my most favorite.

I’ve also got a book on puja coming my way, and largely I’m hoping it’s going to get me to calm the fuck down about this. We’ll see. Worst case scenario, at least I have a new book.

“What are you afraid of?”

I come awake instantly, memories of nightmares following me out of fitful slumber. It’s already bright out, so I know that I’ve overslept, but I don’t use the alarm clock on my days off, so that’s not a huge deal. The dog is gone, so I know Beth’s up and has fed people; I don’t hear them, so I know that they’re out on their morning walk.

He’s there, my Lord God, my Husband, my Beloved. He was there when I woke hours earlier, out of the nightmare, shaking and sobbing and hysterical. I don’t usually dream like that – my dreams are often adventure-y, are often upsetting, are often nightmare-ish, but they rarely come with the emotion that turns them into nightmares. Last night it was all about swarms of zombie ants, which in the bright light of day, may sound laughable, except I have a difficult time with swarms of non-zombie ants, on the best of days. There is no other species of animal in the world that does to me what ants do – and even then it has to be a specific situation. On the whole, I find ants fascinating, and I can handle them in small numbers – though even that depends on particular subspecies. Carpenter ants? Oh hell no, and so zombie carpenter ants that formed chains with their bodies by half-eating the ant in front of them, and then swarming, and then getting on me and I could feel their hard, crunchy bodies –

Hence the sobbing and the shaking, and a good half an hour shaking myself off and checking for ants in my hair in the middle of the night.

And so, He is with me, because terror is terror, and in that state my guard is down, and why wouldn’t He use that to slip in a bit more firmly, more deeply, more obviously?

Before I can toss my blanket back, He wraps around me and pulls me closer into an embrace. He holds me, does my Beloved, and whispers to my heart, “Wait. Stay. Don’t get up yet.”

I snuggle back into the blanket and I close my eyes to feel Him better, to hear Him better, to understand the words His heart speaks to mine. The house is quiet and still. Rain drips from the roof outside. I breathe, and I wait.

“What are you afraid of?” He asks, and it’s such a silly question. His presence, the press of Him against me, the reminder that He is here, that there is no space between us, that I am His, that my very pores drink Him in, illustrates just how silly of a question that is. Or rather, highlights how silly it is to even entertain that fear.

What do I have to fear? I can’t pretend that I’m afraid of losing Him; I’m not. Am I really, really so attached to a name, that I fear losing that, even as He assures me that I won’t? Is my trust in Him so flimsy, so brittle, that I balk when He invites me deeper?

Snugged close, held dear, basking in His presence, I can admit the things I’m ashamed to admit, the things that seem small, that seem like they’re beneath me, that I should know better/be better/be beyond.

Held dear, I can admit that I find the idea of having to learn a whole other set of complex histories and cultures in a part of the world I’ve mostly ignored to be daunting, and I don’t want to do it. This upsets me to realize, because when did learning the stories of other people become something I don’t love doing? When did the idea of learning about things I don’t already know become intimidating and off-putting? I’m ashamed of this, and it’s not a good reason to refuse His invitation.

Held dear, I can admit that I’m reluctant to move forward in this because I don’t want to have to deal anymore than I already have to with having white privilege. I already don’t pay attention to the Hellenic folks who clamor that non-Hellenics cannot worship the Hellenic gods, because I don’t believe that the gods ‘belong’ to people; rather I believe that people belong to gods, and that the gods call whom They will. I am not ever going to a person who will dare to stand between a Power and a person They call to Them. I cannot abide it when the Heathens do it, and I can’t abide it when anyone else does it.

But it’s also important to me to not be an asshole, so I can’t pretend that cultural appropriation isn’t a thing, and I won’t pretend that it’s not on my mind every single time I start pursuing this Vishnu connection. And I remind myself of this while I drag my heels in about learning history, context, and culture of the peoples who worshiped and worship Him – and I hope this helps me guard against sounding like I’m trying to pretend I’m something that I’m not.

And these few things are the bulk of my fears in this – which I think is really more reluctance than fear, come to that. So I name them for Him, and we examine them together, and I’m held fast and close and tight, wrapped in His presence, and He asks again, “What are you afraid of?” and I know that these things will not hold me, they cannot keep me, I can only go where He leads me.

Mindfully. With awareness and compassion, as He has instructed me all along. What else am I to do?

Names Don’t Matter, or: what to do when your god pokes around with your identity by poking around with His own

Jolene Poseidonae:

This was over a year ago, now.

Lately, He has been very present, very Him, and nearly tangible — and there is such, such longing within me. He says, come deeper with Me. He says, don’t hold back, don’t fear. He says that I am the one causing the distances I insist on perceiving that are not really there.

I have a table cleared off in order to build my shrine, to place my Durga mask, to place — when I get them — my icon for Vishnu and whoever else.

I struggle. I don’t want *things*, not having *things* has been such a part of my practice. I understand Poseidon and my connection to Him/our connection together, as minimalist, as not rooted in objects, as not being tied to material things — and puja and aarti are so very much thing heavy. Are there minimalist puja and aarti? Is that a thing? Even the informal approach is so much more formal than what I do, than what I’ve built my practice around . . . so is what I’m doing not good enough/desirable enough/correct enough?

“But you’re comfortable. You’re secure. Take the security that you have, in u/Us ,but let go of the rest. Do you want security and comfort, or do you want Me? Because I can take you deeper. I WILL take you deeper . . . . but you must come willingly.”

I agreed, months ago — MONTHS ago — that I’d stop worrying about studying and about doing things right, and that I’d just approach Vishnu, who is Vishnu-Poseidon-But-Not in my head. Can’t He just matter, the way Hekate does, and matter to me because He matters to Him? Apparently not without struggle.

I’m staggered to realize it’s been over a year. . . and I miss Him. I miss Him, despite His presence in my life, and what does that say about what I’m doing?

Originally posted on Strip Me Back To The Bone:

A young girl is on her hands and knees at the water’s edge, keening into the sea. There is no other word for the sounds coming from her, the sounds of a spirit bound too tightly slipping its cage and splintering from the force of it. She feels herself shattering, and no amount of trying to hold on will stop the process. She is beyond fear, beyond worry, beyond hope. She has given over to this moment, and she is caught up in fury, in desolation, in these big, crushing waves of emotions that are too big, too wild, to be held back. Her spirit has tasted freedom and it will not return to its meager existence. Her spirit knows the depth and beauty of the worlds, and it calls out for rescue.

He comes clad in moonlight and darkness, in denim and leather, in flesh, bone, and magic. The…

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Dear Poseidon, or: I want to reject compassion

Dear Poseidon,

Compassion has been a cornerstone of o/Our relationship since the very first day w/We met and You held compassion for me. You planted a seed of compassion for others within me, though it would be years and years before that would sprout. Awareness, You stress — take in all sides, view the big picture, strive to understand the full story, and then, compassion.

Compassion isn’t complacency. It’s not being a doormat. It’s not turn the other cheek while atrocious things are done to you. Sometimes compassion is action, and sometimes its hard action, but ideally with personal desires removed — justice versus revenge, even when the outcome is the same. It’s why I can say I strive toward being compassionate, and still think the death penalty is sometimes necessary, or at least, more desirable, more proper than letting people continue to live. Though, that’s beginning to slip, these days . . .

I don’t want to be compassionate right now, my Lord. Not in my heart, not in my thoughts, not in my words. I don’t want to have to pause and think about those others. I don’t want to stop and think about what a world must be like to drive others to such hatred and violence. I believe that hatred and violence are things nutured, are taught, are borne of desperation and fear. I don’t want to think about people who hold different world views that I do, and how they can hate ‘others’ and still love their families, how they can still honor their parents and care for their children. I don’t want to think about how we are all human, and how instincts drive us more than we admit.

Neither do I want to think about the shaming that’s going around, on social media, about not paying enough attention to all of the current affairs that warrant attention. I don’t want to be compassionate toward the people who want to use shame to give people grief about being upset about X but not about Y.  I don’t want to have compassion for people who can’t understand that everything is complex, and that we can’t all of us know about all of the things, and that shame is not necessarily the best motivator to get us to become engaged.

I’m afraid for others right now, Poseidon, and I don’t want compassion. I don’t want to engage in compassion. I want my fear to be soothed, and I’m animal enough that I want my fear to be soothed by the destruction or at least the disempowerment of those others. I’m animal enough that, when the news tells me that France, in cooperation with others, has bombed a training region of Daesch’s, I cheer, and I hope for their destruction.

I don’t want to think about the people who are trapped in the region with them, who are innocent and dying. I don’t want to think about others, elsewhere. I don’t want this call to compassion. I don’t want this stress on awareness. I do not want it at all.

You provide no answers; You simply refuse to allow me to set this down. For every time I think, “they need to be destroyed, they cannot be allowed to continue,” You bring me back to compassion. In these moments I want Angry Poseidon, Petulant Poseidon. I want the Poseidon who they say destroyed cities, leveled populaces with one angry shake of the land. I want tidal waves and divine retribution, damn it. I want a clear sign that says We Are Right and Good and Just, and They Are Evil Born — except evil is taught, and You will not let me forget that. You hold still, and You council education, and prayers, and healing, and awareness, and always, unfailingly, compassion. You council distance from gossip and speculation. You council compassion. Always, always compassion.

Compassion is exhausting and undesirable, and still You council it. You have the reputation that You have, and still You urge me in this particular way, so I must listen. I will listen. But I don’t want this compassion right now. I thought You should know.

Learn what works for you — and then honor the shit out of it.

I wasn’t planning on participating in this year’s NaNoWriMo. I participated in the previous two (only ‘won’ in the last one; the year before I stopped at 45k) and knew enough about myself, my writing, and my goals to recognize that, while I enjoy seeing my word count bar fill up, I don’t actually enjoy NaNo.

Oh, the first week is great. The joy of starting a new project, of  having a whole new world to explore and people to meet and stories to find out about — I love that. And, participating in NaNo has taught me some pretty important things, such as, while I may not like planning a project out down to its individual scenes, I do find that having a rough idea of chapters helps me cut down on ‘mistake’ writing. (You know, writing a good 1-3k to find that maybe half that, usually less, is actually useable)

I like that participating in NaNo bumps my word count up, so close to the end of the year. A lot.

And that’s it. That’s my list of things I like about NaNo. Word count, and new story. The word count isn’t even all that valid, because so much of the material needs extensive editing — and I don’t write that way, generally. I edit and tighten as I go, and maybe it makes me a little bit slower . . . but I’m also not rewriting the book from the ground up late on. Scenes, sometimes chapters, but rarely more than one third of the work.

Four years ago I had a really bad writing year, and I decided I needed to pay attention to what I like, what works for me, what doesn’t work for me, and what things I might change to increase my productivity (because there are ALL THESE STORIES and time is running out). I learned a lot of things about my habits. I changed how I did some things, but the most important bit for me was to see what didn’t work, and why it didn’t work, and to work around. For example, a lot of writers will give the advice that one should write every day, that there should be a daily goal, whether it’s 500, or 1k or 2k. I write *most* days, but I also go a day or two without writing, and I regularly hold writing days on my days home from the day job. It’s not uncommon that I’ll get the bulk of my weekly word count in on those days.

I love writing; I hate having to commit to doing something EVERY DAY. Even things I love to do.

And then there’s knowing that anxiety is an asshole, and that I have to deal with that. So the second I skip a day (even if I blame for it!), when I’m doing NaNo, it opens the door for the mental bullying, and the mounting pressure of words I need to hurry up and write, before it gets away from me.

And then writing becomes a chore, and I’m tossing out scenes that aren’t quite right, that I know I’ll have to go back and fix. The material diverges in my mind — the story I’ve written so far, and the story in my mind, and the pieces do not match in too many places, and it’s all out of control and untidy and unwieldy, and it becomes insurmountable.

I want the pace. I want to regularly churn out 40k – 50k a month. This is why NaNo keeps seducing me — because if I can make it work long term for me, I can be happy with my progress levels, and I feel like I’m on the verge of hitting something that’s sustainable for me.

But the added pressure of the rest of NaNo does not work.

Hopefully next year I’ll remember this. Silly Jo.

My new book is now available!

Jolene Poseidonae:

Beth has released her paper on Queen Anne Boleyn, originally published in Walking the Worlds. Definitely worth the $2!

Originally posted on Wytch of the North:

Anne Boleyn ebook cover

This post by Heather Freysdottir on female sovereignty, and male attempts to erase it from the historical record, reminded me that about a year ago I wrote a related piece (a meaty 7200 word article) that was published in the Walking the Worlds journal’s very first issue, which focused on ancestor worship. Galina Krasskova approached me to write the piece because she had heard about my work with Queen Anne Boleyn and was curious about the contributions a Christian Queen might make to a polytheist devotional practice. The journal buys one-time rights, with the understanding that after six months all rights to republication would revert to me. I have held the rights since June or July, and because I felt it deserved a wider audience than the people I was able to reach through the journal, I had intended to put it out as a short ebook–but then I got…

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Poseidon, The Hunt, Winter, Rain, Darkness — aaaaaah.

As Beth wrote about here, the earlier holy days of the dark of the year have slipped by largely unobserved in any sort of outwardly-represented way. In my religious calendar (which looks slightly different than Beth’s, despite our living together and worshiping many of the same Powers), leans heavily in Poseidon’s direction, but my last ‘big day’ for Him is in August, until the rains return, when I hold a little something (generally libations, dancing around like a loon, and tears of elation) for Poseidon and for all the Rain Makers.

Travel of Poseidon by sea, Ivan Aivazovsk

Travel of Poseidon by sea, Ivan Aivazovsk

Poseidon is tied to the Winter Solstice — His festivals around this time were many in antiquity, enough so that I really have zero problem with the way our household Poseidea has sort of attached itself to part of Yuletide (yet more examples of how Odin and Poseidon are the same god?*)

I don’t have a situation where my god in absent from my life — the dying and coming back, or the leaving for a while, is not something that I experience with Poseidon. I do, and have always, experienced cycles — tides, if you’ll forgive the pun — in how He communicates, or maybe in how I can receive said communication. Once, early on, it was acutely painful when the mode switched and He felt gone. It can easily feel like distance, and maybe it even is a distance of a sort, but I understand it less as a spatial distance or a geographical distance and more a distance/difference of kinds. There are times o/Our communication is almost like talking telepathically, but more often it’s emotional exchanges and a press of nearness. Oddly, it’s when He is the most human-seeming, when the exchange is like telepathic talking, that I feel that distance/difference — or rather, it’s perfectly fine, until I’m feeling *more* from Him, and then in retrospect that telepathic talking feels wretched.

It’s been a long time since it’s bothered me or even caught me off-guard. Samhain slipped past without me feeling compelled to do more than get through the day, and then November hit. Just like that, winter was here, gentle and caressing, but here without a doubt. It was wet and it was chilly and it was dark, and it was time for NaNoWriMo, and I felt Him, here. Pressing in and pressing down and not human, and with a briny undertaste/underfeel of water wight. Maybe it’s because I have kelpies on the brain. Maybe it’s because it’s NaNo, and while this year’s NaNo is not about Him or even for Him, I do have a tradition now of writing NaNo with Poseidon as my muse and go-to story bouncee. Maybe it’s because He’s so firmly entrenched in my understanding of Pop’s Hunt.

Maybe it’s because winter is my favorite season, and I feel like I can breathe again with the rains and the dark. Whatever it is, I feel as if He has returned, though I know He is always with me, always reachable, that our connection is firm and established and unbreakable. I feel as if I’ve been missing Him for aeons, though I did not miss Him because I felt no lack.


NaNo is going well. Not writing today, and will slip behind a bit in my work counts. Less than 2k behind though. I have Monday and Tuesday off, and will have a marathon day, maybe.

*said tongue in cheek. I don’t believe they are, as much as I know both Odin and Poseidon play loosey goosey with names. Once, a(n in?)famous heathen suggested that Odin might be a stepped-down version of Poseidon, largely, I suspect, in order to keep taking my monies. Alas, that did not work.