Selling Sorcery: How do you price it?

So there I was, talking to Linda over a kitchen table loaded down with the nine oils, the Dragonsblood tincture and Hyssop extract, and the live dill ( a sprig for each little bottle) needed for my new Protection Oil, which I'm bottling for sale at PPD along with the Wellness Oil previously mentioned. See the small plastic box in the photo? That's full of bottles of Protection Oil.

None of the bottles are new; all are found or bought old and recycled. Many of the corks are new, and some of the old corks had to be drilled and sanded out. The largest one is two ounces, the smallest about 9 ml. I was looking at a tube about midway between the two sizes and thinking I'd sell it for $7 or $8 — and Linda said that was too cheap. "How do you price it, then?" I asked. Her phone rang. The discussion ended. I still don't know for sure, but maybe a DIY cost comparison is in order.

If you wanted to make two ounces of this oil you'd have to buy (or already have) each of the nine essential oils — Petitgrain and Black Pepper (both nowhere on local niche stores' shelves, so I ordered them online); Jasmine absolute, which is $24 for a 10ml bottle; and Sandalwood, Patchouli, Cedarwood, Juniper Berry, Cypress, and Geranium, at an average of $11 a bottle. You'd have to have or make some Dragonsblood tincture; it's sold only in solid chunks, and you have to smash it up and figure out the solvents. You'd have to have some Hyssop extract on hand; it's not uncommon, but what are you going to use the rest of the bottle for? And you'd need a sprig of fresh dill and a nifty antique bottle; fresh live organic dill is sold in $6.49 packages with about a hundred sprigs (I made 20 bottles total), and cool old bottles run around $3 to $9 — more, if they're really pretty or rare.

Then there's the labor: I bathed ritually, dressed up in my casual witchy robe, put on makeup and did my hair, brushed my teeth with tea tree oil toothpaste and mouthwash, even did my eyes before beginning the ritual to make this oil. I won't count that, because the labor being prepared for was for love.

When I woke up this morning and smelled the result of adding enough olive oil to fill my pottery oils chalice, I doubled the ingredients — did the spell again — then carefully placed dill sprigs in each bottle before filling them (using a clean hypodermic syringe, no needle). And I still have to print and attach the ingredient cards with gold cord!

So here's my price, which I will be happy to justify to the incredulous: the smallest bottle will be priced at $7, the largest at $40. Of course, anyone who needs two ounces of protection oil — which is used pretty much solely to anoint windowsills and thresholds — will probably be a professional home cleanser and thus well able to make his or her own oils, so I'll probably be bringing that one back home to keep as stock. Then again, maybe he or she will appreciate the convenience!

What would you think to pay for the ingredients of sympathetic magick? How much would you think feathers (for a wind-calming spell), empty wasp nests (for getting rid of harassing pests and nuisances), big bird bones (for fast flight away from troubling persons and situations), or powdered cow horn (so someone will "blow your own horn" appropriately) would cost? I'm telling you, this business of selling sorcery and sorcery accessories isn't nearly as easy as giving them away!

I haven't even started trying to price the staff lengths or the wonderful matched antler sheds (for Stag King crowns) or the marvelous twisty Barbados sheep horns. Miserere!

North Texas Pagan Pride Day 2008

Woohoo! PPD is only 11 days away. (See http://ntxppd.org ) I am going to be a vendor there — first time anywhere, and first pagan fair!

The universe has provided me with a marvelous, experienced pagan mentor for vending, Linda Hall — who is also the person responsible for getting us two "pop-up" tents, which I understand are a vendor's dream. She's bringing some gorgeous batik hangings and sarongs. (The sarongs have another name in the Caribbean; thanks to my friend, Margaret, I remember now that it's called a pareu or pareo.)

I'm bringing my famous herbal oils — "Wellness" oil, excellent for massage and for rubbing on owwies, bull-nettle and insect stings and spider bites, and the skin over unwell body parts, and for a wonderfully renewing bath. (I call it healing oil when I give it away, but I have a feeling the FDA or the FCC would get upset and make me put disclaimers on the labels of any bottles for sale.) This oil is presented in highly ornamental big bottles with a story/ingredient card attached.

I'll also be offering some Pagan Security Devices: Protection Oil, for windowsills and thresholds, in pretty corked, antique and unusual small bottles; freshly made organic sage smudge sticks; sticks of fresh organic rosemary; pentacles and maybe baguas for the porch and front door; and some big huge (sterilized) bones with big teeth marks to place on doorsteps and porches as thief deterrents — that is, if Bubba and Khan don't chew through the steel cables tying them to the porch and take them away for burial. (Mo suggested making a huge, heavy paw imprinter for the yard ... maybe next year!)

I'll be bringing some handmade witchy ornaments and accessories, some staff lengths, reclaimed and recycled antlers and horns (NOTE: no animals were harmed so I could offer them) for do-it-yourselfers, bundles of feathers, and a few wonderful Feng Shui remedies. If I can convince Mo to gather and work them, I may be bringing long willow and grapevine braids, suitable for wands and staves or wreaths, respectively. (I'll put up a photo of my own staff as soon as I finish attaching the willow braid and crystal to it.)

I will be proudly offering a polymer clay product that Mo invented, Patriotic Pagan pins: They feature the sacred spiral in red, white and blue, and some feature tiny Swarovski crystals. And if my buddy Leslie obliges with the design in time, I'll even be offering "Goddess Bless Our Troops" vehicle "ribbon" stickers!

I will also, in accordance with the Bright * Green * Light theme of this year's PPD, be offering an extremely "green", sun-charged lighting product, Lunabrite. (See www.lunabrite.com ) It comes in blue and green and I'll be offering it by the foot, cut to the desired length, or in precut necklace/collar/bracelet lengths. The company is sending me several coils, and I will also be taking orders for bulk quantities.

BEST of all, though, I'll be bringing high-quality prints of three Thick Air(C) images and of the "Tranquil Cats" photo seen earlier in this blog. If you want to be sure you get one, please let me know which images you want, whether you want them mounted or rolled, and about what size you want them. I'll let you know the price by return e-mail. If it's not too windy, I'll be offering smoke divination — and you can take your reading/image home.

Look for the beautiful double tent with the gorgeous tall young pagans (Mo's oldest grandson, Rusty, and one of my granddaughters, Angel), probably in costume, somewhere near it. I'm so excited!

Pagan copyeditor ("Will edit for Dragonsblood," maybe?)

Tricia Ferguson, whose Pragmatic Existentialist blog link I have attached, challenged me to write about the common practice of using a fish symbol or the word "Christian" on your business card, your business sign, or your advertising. So far I've only seen Christians flaunting their religious leanings, which was also her observation; and this makes it seem that advertising your Christianity is meant as reassurance that you will both follow the Golden Rule and charge humble-carpenter-like fees.

But let's turn it around a moment: Would the word "Catholic" or "Muslim" or "Jewish" in a business's marketing make you more or less apt to choose that advertiser? How about "Pagan"? How about "Mormon"? How about "Atheist"?

I submit that religion is properly marketed only in a religion-oriented context. On the Churches page of your local weekly paper, for example — though I wouldn't expect most said weeklies to respond with anything but civil thanks when you pay for the ad, at least here in Christian Church-heavy Azle. In an ad offering pulpit supply, or ritual robes, or hymnals or religious instruction: in those places it's necessary and indeed, desired information. But where else is it appropriate?

And is it really any kind of guarantee of goodness? Of course not. Think of Bob Jones, and then think of all the religious right-wing figures who've wound up sobbing apologies and promising repentance on prime-time news.

From a strictly business standpoint, I think it's best to keep religion private; you never know who will see your marketing, and not everyone thinks like you do about your religion. Personally, unless the person using religion in marketing is a minister or runs a religious educational entity, I take the inclusion of symbols of Christianity as an indication that I should avoid that business. For one thing, that person is unlikely (based on a lifetime of experience) to embrace my paganism. For another, I don't want to be "saved," which Christians are obligated to do to nonbelievers and heathens if they want to get to heaven. And finally, I've done business with such people, and every single time I've been disappointed or disgusted. I see the symbols and the word as a warning that some kind of con or misrepresentation is likely.

Freedom of religion is also freedom from religion. Thank Goodness!

Blessed be!

Real Racism: The Mediavore's Knee-jerk Outrage

Fantasy Talking Head With Brain, to caller: Don Imus has been charged with racism so often he's almost as tied to the word as Al Sharpton. Why do you think that's happened?

Caller: Well, what color is he?

FTHWB: Well, duh, Imus is white and wears a cowboy hat.

Caller: Well, there you go. Now we know.

FTHWB: Res ipsa loquitur, huh?

Caller: Boy, howdy ...

***

If Al Sharpton hates racism so much, why isn't he stamping it out where it's deepest? He could start with himself, if he weren't too busy setting himself up to be The Great Equalizer or maybe Vice Miracle.

The talking heads on CNN have once again loaned America's news-watching time to the Rev. Al Sharpton, enabling the attention-hungry racist icon's insatiable limelight addiction. Once again CNN and, to a lesser extent, other networks, in their insatiable greed for bloodthirsty, even incendiary and therefore loyal viewers, unleash Al Sharpton to fulminate and shake his fist. And once again, Sharpton is being allowed and even encouraged to sully Don Imus' name and endanger his livelihood — by attacking Imus' right to the freedom of speech.

This is so sick. Honestly, it looks like a strikebreaking B movie writer thought it up, just to resettle Sharpton more deeply into his homemade Holy White PC Vigilante frame (gold, poster size, adorned with signed wallet photos of Don King, Rosa Parks and Marjoe Gortner).

I think the reason more Americans haven't figured this out is that most of us don't listen to gangsta rap. We hear Sharpton and what Imus said (and didn't say), but the networks can't play what the black rap stars are saying about white people. Consequently, we don't know what a new rap slang word means until it gets into street circulation, like "nappy-headed" and "ho". And if we use it, all of a sudden it's an insult. We are not allowed to say something because only blacks can use that word — like only whites used to be able to use certain water fountains: as if letting "whitey's" lips touch it would befoul it, somehow make it unusable.

The way Sharpton acts, he's operating on some false assumptions. One of them is that only white people can be charged with racism: I wonder how he would react if a class action civil rights discrimination suit were brought against him and/or the CNN producer that keeps him on the air? Or just "Theft of valuable enjoyment and broadcast time"? Come to think of it, CNN is culpable. Cable subscribers pay for journalism, but we are not getting it: For balance the story should present an equally well-known white person speaking against Sharpton's endless, unhelpful consumption of the networks' news time — and reminding us that every American has both the right to Free Speech and the right to change the channel!


It used to be Jesse Jackson, remember? But he didn't get nearly this picky, and I don't recall his being so quick to get into the media. He basically just snapped to the Clintons' side as if spring-loaded anytime there was a catastrophe they could blame on Republicans, and then he said whatever and whenever the Clintons decided he should. In his own inimitable style, of course. Sharpton is different.

Sharpton appears to think that he is defending all African-Americans' inviolable right to not be offended by other people's free speech. For one thing, of course, he's not the spokesman, and for another that's a nonexistent, impossible right; but the image is solidifying. But he goes further: since the First Amendment is still in force, he can only wail loudly that whatever the offender said should be punished — and he can only do that because, ironically, the very people who should be most alert to encroachments on our freedom of speech and of the press pay him to.

Their currency is what he loves most: His name and image in millions of Americans' living rooms, many white. The attention — and the invaluable assistance — of the world's media. Free publicity. The ability to climb a ladder in a valley and call that the moral high ground because it's on CNN. And the positioning to use his credentials to incite race rioting and call it preaching.

Reverend Sharpton, minister to thyself: WWJD? RTFM*.

I think Sharpton and CNN both need to be called sharply to task. They are acting racist, but in such a blatant way that the fact is ignored — and they never bring his assault on the First Amendment up as the chilling news it is. I think it is racist that he is given my time to cast such stones at broadcasting professional whites while black rappers are becoming multimillionaires by spewing out hatred and threats that are far more racist than anything Don Imus ever dreamed. And I think that it is blatant racism, not to mention illegal discrimination, to attack only whites for using the exact words that blacks themselves first used. Apparently, you can only be called a racist if you're white, but you can only practice racism openly if you're black.

What America needs is for Don Imus to sue Al Sharpton for harassment and stalking and win big. And maybe that class action suit would be great backup — and an excellent reason for the networks to reinvest in journalists.

*Phrase (C) 1998 elan communications (T-shirt design)

Dan Jenkins' Lists

Mankind's 10 Stages of Drunkenness, one of the most essential lists I've ever come across. Here it is, copyrighted by Mr. Jenkins, of course:

Witty and Charming
Rich and Powerful
Benevolent
Clairvoyant
Fuck Dinner
Patriotic
Crank up the Enola Gay
Witty and Charming, Part II
Invisible
Bulletproof

If I didn't keep liking people and lending them Baja, Oklahoma, I could quote the lovely story in which this list is related. http://fareastcynic.blogspot.com/2005/06/10-stages-of-drunkenness.html lists them a bit differently but in a style that calls Dan Jenkins to mind.

But there's another list that three Jenkins characters — Billy Clyde Puckett, Shake Tiller and Barbara Jane Bookman, in Semi-Tough — came up with. I couldn't find it to link to,  so I had to hand-copy it out of the Google book. This is, to say the least, an interesting look into some Southern men's minds. Once again, quoting from Semi-Tough, (C) Dan Jenkins, American:

            "A long time ago, way back in college at TCU, me and Shake and Barbara Jane to a certain extent had worked up this rating system for girls, or wool.

            "Mostly, it was Shake’s terminology and we had never forgotten it.

            "Anything below ten was a Running Sore. That was something that only a Bubba Littleton or a T.J. Lambert would fool around with, but of course either one of them would diddle an alligator if somebody drained the pond.

            "From the bottom up, our rating system went like this:

            "A Ten was a Healing Scab. Had a bad complexion, maybe, but was hung and could turn into some kind of barracuda in the rack.

            "A Nine was a Head Cold. Good-looking but sort of proper and didn’t know anything at all about what a man liked.

            "An Eight was a Young Dose of the Clap, but pretty in a dimestore kind of way, and not bad for an hour.

            "A Seven was just rich.

            "A Six was a Stove or a Stovette. A Stove was over thirty and preferably married. A Stovette was just under thirty, divorced, talked filthy, and tried to make up for all the studs she never got to eat because she got married so young.

            "A Five was a Dirty Leg. She wore lots of cheap wigs, waited tables or hopped cars, was truly hung, might chew gum, posed for pictures, and got most of her fun in groups.

            "A Four was a Homecoming Queen or a Sophomore Favorite and a hard-hitting dumbass. Fours married insurance salesmen and got fat and later in life stayed sick a lot.

            "A Three was a Semi, which a Texan pronounces sem-eye. You had to beware of Semis because you might marry them in a weak minute. Threes had it all put together in looks and style and sophistication. They could drink a lot and dance good and hang out and make conversation.

            "A Two was a Her. With a capital. If a Semi was tough, a Her was tougher. You might marry the same Her twice. Or three times. Barbara Jane was a Her, or a Two.

            "And there just had never been a One. Ever."

Your share of genius

This piece I wrote in 2004 was originally published by MIND Bets, the newsletter of Suthern Nevada Mensa:
http://www.southernnevada.us.mensa.org/0304_mindbets/archive_012004/how.php3

“Redneck” is not an adjective most people associate with Mensans. On the contrary, most non-Mensans, no matter how smart they allegedly are, think of Mensans as sherry-sipping, opera-going, bridge-playing, erudite, refined (if occasionally snotty about it), lightning quick and only ill-mannered when they win Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit games, at which time they are indecently smug. (I know better, but I don't want Mensa's Advocate [think Homeland Security] on my tail about Acts Inimical to Mensa.)

On the other hand, most people think of what I call the “yellowhammer” when they hear the word “redneck.” And the yellowhammer — the banjo-picker on Deliverance, whose parents probably shared the same parents — isn't who comes to mind when I call someone a redneck. See, I've met yellowhammers. They're about useless, unless you need a fence corner stretcher, while a redneck invariably has all manner of handy talents. I used to think “redneck” = “yellowhammer,” I admit it: Now I know better.

I would never have called Mo a redneck, but he calls himself one — and he could pass the Mensa test but refuses to take it. (I already think he's the smartest, and he's too smart to mess up that situation.) He earned an A. A. degree in aerospace engineering, he can drive or fix anything that runs, and he designed and built our home without a mortgage. But he comes of humble, hardworking stock: “Aw, shucks, ma' am,” he grins. “Ah'm just an old West Texas redneck.” Yeah, right. And I'm Momma Theresa, tennis shoes and all.

What I really am, besides Mrs. Mo, is a writer and copyeditor. And before I tested positive for Mensan-ness a few years ago, I wrote a short piece for my local weekly newspaper, called “You Might Be A Redneck's Wife If .” It was full of the kinds of habits and skills you pick up when you're married to a triple Leo (Type A++) excavating company owner/operator with a strong sense of command. (Of course, it hasn't hurt that he has also wrangled, fixed and fenced cows, driven and mechanicked trucks and equipment, demolished and built buildings, and troubleshot and crewchiefed just about everything the USAF flies.) I got what I thought were amazingly few chuckles (or come-ons) in response to the article. I speculated that this paucity of feedback indicated how few cowboys (or real rednecks) remained in traditionally rural but growing Azle, Texas. Then I met Mensa, the High IQ Society(SM) and figured it out.

There were plenty of rednecks, plenty of good ol' boys left in Azle. They just felt threatened that some girl had the gall to tell them that, if a woman appreciated what they think of as their best qualities, she'd clean the engine grime out from under her fingernails by building something with mortar. Their wives weren't too tickled about it, either. That's when being Mensa material came in handy: Shortly after I wrote that article, I found my car full of dirty shop rags and a worn-out tire one day when I came out of the Kwik Shop. Realizing that I'd been patterned by a pro tracker, I changed gas stations, banks and grocery stores immediately.

What scared them was just a list of the things I'd never have figured out in a scholar's ivory tower, but have learned from watching and helping my beloved redneck do what he's a genius at. It has since dawned on me, however, that every very smart person, certified genius or not, probably has been curious enough to fill a whole new portfolio with skills and accomplishments that originally belonged to every person he or she ever loved and every job we ever had. Those knowledges would frequently astonish even close acquaintances, not to mention strangers.

For example, I find troubleshooting an interesting challenge and am always tickled to be asked to help. But who would think to ask the slightly plump, graying Grandmama ahead of him at Auto Zone what might cause that clicky squealing 10 days after installing a new CV joint, much less what bodily fluids can take the place of brake fluid in a pinch?

Conversely, no one looking at Mo's boots, boot-cut jeans, western shirt and crumpled Resistol straw would suspect it, but he recognizes all the Carmen music. He also knows that certain rare Georgette Heyer romances cost $75 and up — and that they're worth it. He can tell a genuine Webster dictionary from a pseudo-Webster, and he has developed a very good eye for the value of genuine Regency furniture and certain nautical watercolorists' work. He built the house, so I know how to straighten real old finish nails; I continually redecorate it, so he knows faux effects. We owned a bar, so I can tap a keg, stop fights and do inventory; I did the promotion work, so he knows advertising language.

What's more, such secondarily acquired knowledge can come in handy first-hand. Finding myself substitute teaching one day, I stunned a real teacher by quelling a class of high-school students with command voice and The Look (to my relief). I had successfully used the same high-handed attitude on waiters and watched Mo use it on a certain half-Brahma bull. Turn about, I have seen Mo use a familiar eyebrow lift on high-handed bureaucrats, then turn and grin so that only I could see.

More practically speaking, troubleshooting and preventive maintenance became second nature early in the mission. I would rather run back into freeway traffic than call Mo and tell him the engine seized up because I forgot to check the oil. So that's not going to happen — that's at least one of my used cars saved, not to mention two of my daughter's. He's never going to hang a shelf or a picture without my final okay, if he can help it; I won't store the antique plane on its blade, and he won't store the unabridged dictionaries closed, on the shelf. That's close to a thousand not spent on repairs to unlock a silent spouse's mouth. And we decided, close to our first anniversary, that we would never be or threaten to be “spring-loaded to the 'I'm outta here!' position.” That's one marriage saved. (I'm sending the recyclable anniversary card idea to Hallmark. Mo loved it.)

So what if diesel fuel has sometimes been essential to doing the laundry or cleaning the floor? So what if some of my pans have been used to test a thermostat? The counter people at parts and hardware stores treat me respectfully, and even Mr. GoodPliers doesn't try to sell me anything I don't need: This twinkly-eyed Grandmama can reload, troubleshoot and drive a grease gun. Not only that, but learning all these skills has taught me where to find the answer to just about any mechanical problem you can name. See, I've learned the most essential skill of all: Inside every genius lives a mensch with one fine practical ability. Speak to this king (or queen) appreciatively, and he will help: If he doesn't know the answer, he will even tell you; and you both will enjoy looking it up.

Spring Things

Some things I love to hear in spring:
Pulsating sprinklers. The DoD schools I went to on Puerto Rico (and the Golf Club near where we lived on Lighthouse Drive) and in Washington state (at Moses Lake) had humongous, movable sprinkler heads on miles of metal conduit, and they made the most wonderful sound in summer as I swung on the giant swingsets.
Hummingbirds fighting each other off the feeders. Three days ago, having seen a tiny hummer inspecting our empty feeders, Mo filled two of them more than half full, and the mob descended on us. I need two more feeders at least, and I'm thinking of using my credit balance at a certain mail-order greenhouse to plant more Salvia Ostfreilandii.
Hawks hunting. At least two adult redtailed hawks and perhaps a broad-winged pair have nested in the three giant stone pines on our north property line. The hawk calls you hear in movies are generally single, drawn-out imitations of the repetitive, raucous short real calls, meant to scare some small thing into moving so the hawk can stoop on it and feast.
My wind chimes. I collect James W. Stannard tuned wind chimes. On a windy spring day, our porch sounds like the middle of a fairy spell, all tinkling major arpeggios in the high range ... which Mo can't hear, thanks to 20 years of jet engines and heavy equipment, pre-hearing protection. He can hear the bamboo chimes I bought, which hang from the Fresno handle at the southeast corner of the garden; he says they sound like a beer-can alarm on a fence.

Something I hate to hear in spring:
Tax attorneys and the TV talking heads browbeating Americans with threats and implied threats about what can happen if you don't pay taxes.
I'd be willing to bet that the IRS pays co-op for the tax attorneys' ads; and of course, being the hidden arm of the U.S. enforcement triad, it's never going away unless we follow Boutros Boutros-Ghali's advice about dealing with bureaucracies. The IRS cannot be attacked with any of the redress avenues by which any other government agency is assailable: People who have not paid taxes for years as a protest against what the government is doing with their hard-earned stolen funds are no longer dignified by the title "protestors;" they're now going to be termed (ready, media talking heads?) "tax defiers." Protesting what your government is doing by withholding the money that allows them to do it is no longer a First Amendment option, folks.

Even if you're really, really smart, deciding that you will not pay for idiocy is now illegal. You can't even say, "Look -- I'm really, really smart; if I can't make sense of the tax code, how can the average person?" That must just make too much sense to be allowed; if one person did it, everybody might.