Dusty Altars

[Salty]

It's hard to let go sometimes.

Especially when you spent so much time reading, discovering, practicing. And then, because humans are as humans do, you go out and you buy things.

Shiny trinkets, specifically. Shiny trinkets carefully layered  with mysticism and bubble wrap. You choose each one special, a tiny chunk of pretty designed to fill the crevices in dog-tired skull.

Also, because of the humanity, we can loosely agree on a standard these physical fillers should possess. An alter with a bunch a mish-mash is...well that'd be a voodoo altar, I suppose. But most CIVILIZED people agree on standard altar-ware, otherwise what's the point in showing off your new athame or your bloody new crucifix?

So that makes things easier, you know what to get already. It was in those books you read.

But then...you keep reading. And no matter how long that little altar sits there, no matter how close you hold those trinkets to your heart, if you do keep reading you will eventually let them collect dust. That place of peace and worship is now little more than a corner of your room you don't need to decorate anymore.

And perhaps it still gives off a quiet sense of peace, that's why it stays, inside you and inside your home. Because you chose all those little things. Each one means something to you. Because religion, any religion (yes Discordianism too) is just a way of connecting, a way of explaining and discussing all those things that words and actions by themselves do not accomplish.

But man, don't tell me the altars in your head, the ones where you put little pictures of horror and humor Eris seeks to imprint on your fragile meat-mind, never gets dusty.

Fortunately, the dust settles in with all that jenkem and you don't notice so much.

*whew* another religious crisis averted, and further proof the Discordian Way Of Life is better whatever the hell YOU are doing.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

My Erisian altar doesn't get dusty because I don't have one except in my head.  And while there may be a ton of mad dog's shit up there, there's certainly no dust (that can be found on my scabby, hairy ass, where it belongs).

Mad dog's shit, hideous memories, and jokes that make other people leave the room.  That's how MY garden grows.

DOUR,
Taking it back to the old skool, cause I'm an old fool.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES WHILE YOU SLEEP!
Using Alty's patented Rage Control™ technique!

[Anna Mae Bollocks]

CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES WHILE YOU SLEEP!
Using Alty's patented Rage Control™ technique!

I was just turning over the concept of an altar in my head and pictured a kind of voodoo doll called THEM^(TM) with dildoes shoved into it instead of pins, when you posted that.

IT'S WORKING ALREADY

[Salty]

CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES WHILE YOU SLEEP!
Using Alty's patented Rage Control™ technique!

Patent pending!
    /

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

All kindsa shit gets dusty around me. And in my head. But I never worry too much about my altars, because they always stay fresh. At least, whichever one I'm working on lately. I have a series of abandoned altars stretching back into the decades, but I don't really worry about those. They make fond memories at least. Well, the ones I can remember. I think that the first one I recall was when I started writing poetry; a slim volume called A Pretty Good Year. Then there is a blur of memories of altars that look like fire and glass or like pregnancy and motherhood, an agonized novel I can no longer remember the name of, one lost moustache, three children's stories, fifty five laments, and a shrine to Santa Muerte. Now, my altar is an arrangement of credits and loans, books and binders and classes and homework.

[Salty]

All kindsa shit gets dusty around me. And in my head. But I never worry too much about my altars, because they always stay fresh. At least, whichever one I'm working on lately. I have a series of abandoned altars stretching back into the decades, but I don't really worry about those. They make fond memories at least. Well, the ones I can remember. I think that the first one I recall was when I started writing poetry; a slim volume called A Pretty Good Year. Then there is a blur of memories of altars that look like fire and glass or like pregnancy and motherhood, an agonized novel I can no longer remember the name of, one lost moustache, three children's stories, fifty five laments, and a shrine to Santa Muerte. Now, my altar is an arrangement of credits and loans, books and binders and classes and homework.

THIS. Is what I mean to say.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]