Tag Archives: Faeries

What’s in a faerie-name? By Princess Cuntmuscle.

What’s In A Name?

 

Within Radical Faeries there is somewhere between a tradition and habit of assuming a Faerie Name. Something that marks a transition of Self into Faerie Space. Perhaps it conveys a sense of the mystical, of whom one might wish to become, or like a super hero, it is the truest name that represents your innate special power, whilst your given or everyday name is the disguise.

 

There have at times been leanings towards flowers for names, evocative of the Victorian Flower Fairies. Others have felt a call towards some animal as a power totem and taking the name imbues them with its attributes. Some Faeries even assume the mantle of a deific name, or a choice from folktales and legends. Eco-centric (and sometimes ego-centric) names remain very much in vogue.

 

Others feel no such compulsion and of course should never be forced to relinquish their common name for a created one. It can become tiresome though when a group who know each other from similar events insist on calling everyone by their mundane name “because it’s easier”. There’s a special look I reserve for those types, often accompanied by a swift kick – just one, we’re all still chums after all.

 

There are a number of faeries whose names change periodically and it can be something of a test to stay abreast of alterations, though more of a challenge to remain congenial when someone refers to you by a name you no longer hold as being true to yourself. Worse yet, when someone steadfastly refuses to speak your Faerie name at all.

 

This brings us, gentle reader, to a small but hearty crew of Faeries who dare to take for themselves the Faerie Names Others Take Offence At.

 

There have been 2 Faerie Names that I have held. I count 2 because they are the ones I have spoken in Circle, and thus they are locked in to physical Faerie Space. There was a third, Roadkill, which was only ever filled out in a registration form and very much represented how I felt about myself coming back into Faeries after a period of estrangement.

 

My first Faerie name, which I took at my first gathering, was Titz. The full version was Hairy Tit Wank, as I felt that to be rather subversive but also empowering as a larger hirsute Faerie. I further felt that it fitted with being something natural and it’s a lovely thing to give someone (to this day I have had no complaints and even one letter of recommendation). The nomer of Titz was also brought to mind having read a wonderful tome called I Lick My Cheese, which was a collection of mostly passive-aggressive notes between flatmates (recommended to anyone engaged in communal living as a warning guide). There was a note left by someone who signed it as “Tits” and the author remarked “who would refer to themselves as Tits?” whereas I found it rather charming and somehow in my mind placed it on a par with Quaint Irene from EF Benson’s Mapp & Lucia novels. The Z was brought in to replace the S as a nod to my (vaguely) mundane name, Zander.

 

It was farewell to Titz after a few years though, as by that time I had garnered a reputation as a stressed-out, emotionally-removed and ill-tempered organising Faerie who was Not Having Fun Any More. The thing about Titz was that everyone seemed to get on them, including myself.

 

The ill-fated and speedily-aborted Roadkill could have worked out had I given the poor soul a chance but I fear he would have been a most dour Faerie, truth be told. Bitter, even.

 

As the wheel turns, so it is time to explore my current and most offensive nom de fey, Cunty. Princess Cuntmuscle for the more formal occasions but day-to-day Cunty is fine. Are you clutching your pearls or reaching for the holy water yet?   For indeed, what would possess me to refer to myself as Cunty?

 

Again, inspiration came from an outside source. This time, a very dear friend who over the few years we have known each other taught me two standout terms “metric fuckton” and “cuntmuscle”. The unkind among us may infer the former is more appropriate to myself and they shall meet their fate in a dark alleyway someday, I’m sure. This friend has remained a staunch supporter of my endeavours and I am blessed to have her as a core member of my logical family, thus my Faerie name honours one of her favourite swearwords.

 

I quite imagine that the prefacing of Cuntmuscle with Princess is some innate intention to Disnefy the whole thing. To make it whimsical and thus soften the blow just a little. I must admit that when dealing with official Faerie business that necessitates minutes of meetings and such, there is a raw delight in hearing the words “I’d like to refer to the point Princess Cuntmuscle made a moment ago…” Truly priceless.

 

Mostly, though, my abbreviated Faerie name is a challenge. It’s a reclaiming of a word with many undertones and connotations. As a Faerie who strongly engages with his shadow energy, the implication of being shady, devious or a Dark Fey is something woven into the name. As a guttural word for a penetrable hole it intrinsically resonates with my being a shameless power bottom (hi, Mum!).

 

I find being Cunty a challenge within which I am both a student and teacher. With this name I present the opportunity for someone else to see past something that may offend, to see the gifts of friendship, healing, humour and solace that I am blessed to be able to pass along. I also learn how to fight for my right to my own name, to have it heard and honoured as any other would be. I discover more about my own comfort levels and the gifts conflict can bring in its own way. I find a gentle voice to discuss it when the most delicate and polite faerie i have ever encountered says “I just want something nice to call you”. This most recent gathering I have been stunned at the tenderness and affection that can be conveyed in my special 5 Letter Word.

 

The notion that people have the right to not be offended is ludicrous to me. How can we expect to grow and to learn if nothing challenges us or shocks us from our comfortable ingrained thought patterns? In the 5 years I have been a Faerie my comfort zone has relocated to another continent and I am glad of it. I am proud to take my part in the chaotic furry (rub me!) underbelly of Faeriedom, which is well meaning but often deeply misunderstood.

 

And here is the Lesson of the Day – so pay attention – if the worst thing that happens to you today is that you’re offended by what a little Scottish faerie calls himself, your day’s pretty fucking golden. Be glad that you can’t think of anything more important or traumatising. Everyone else is jealous of you right now. Isn’t that a nice present from your Auntie Cunty? You’re welcome.

 

C x

Sacred Vulnerability by Cunty.

At Midsummer in that most magical place we gathered. Under azure skies of a week’s eternal summer we came together to speak words of empowerment, to engage in acts of healing and to find our once-dentorian voices yet again. We danced, massaged, opened our hearts and gave our darkest secrets to a circle of welcoming arms, then threw our shame into the fire.

 

Sacred Vulnerability is what I have seen and felt in a circle of Faeries. As the talisman passes into the hands of another of my brethern I can see his spirit move deeper into the room, I sense the rest of us draw a collective breathe as we make room for his shining heart, as we bear witness to the shamanic journey he undertakes into the Otherworld of his hidden truths and emotions. We challenge our own hearts to stay open and connected, ready to be moved and reminded of our own wounds and joys, shames and successes. It seems such a simple truth that only when we are all open-hearted can we manifest that transformative magic that is such an intrinsic aspect of Faerie space.

 

Outside of the circle, there are ripples and echoes of this Sacred Vulnerability. I see it by the campfire as one young faerie runs his hand on the back of the head of one who will weep such tears when they part days later, like a first love. I hear it in the voice of an older faerie who talks to me of his initial discomfort of being there, of how he is slowly learning how to open up again. I feel it rise in my own chest as I ask another of us to share my bed that final night of our gathering, choosing to step beyond my own deeply embedded fear of rejection.

 

In my mind I am reminded of the Sumerian tale of the Descent of Inanna. As she travels into the underworld there are seven gates and at each of these she must remove another item that represents her power and position, until she walks through that final gate naked and resplendent, simply and completely her own self and being.

 

This to me in Sacred Vulnerability. No hierarchy, no titles, no logos, no pretence, no shame, no connections, no ego. This is the Temple of our Collective Souls. They must be tended and worshipped, cared for and offered up. There will be times we will act as the priestesses of that place, guiding others with a measured and experienced hand. We may find ourselves paupers and pilgrims, seeking answers and solace there. Perhaps other times we merely sweep the floors or find ourselves the sacrifice on the altar.

 

When we act in service to our own Spirit, when we offer respite to another’s, when we find the courage to abandon the masks, to bring forward kindness for both Self and Other knowing they are not separate – we take a step closer to shedding that frog skin, to becoming our own Healers and Guides.

 

The real challenge is to embrace that role when we are in conflict with our community, our lovers and ourselves. To acknowledge that everyone, including us, has the right to belong without undergoing the burdensome task of fitting in.

 

These are the lessons I learned in those seven dazzling days of summer, that I carry with me and that have changed me irrevocably.

 

With Love

 

Cunty

Faeries Fire Solstice in Avalon by Dido / Bowerbird.

Hard by Paddington Farm,

Stands Paddington Wood.

Where deep within Ananga and his Faery friends from far,

Blissfully danced, pranced and vaguely stood.

What sounds were heard!

What scenes appeared!

Oh those flames did bond and purge!

I kisses a god that night.

And hidden in their secret bower,

All in fragrant flower,

The Satyrs of Paddington Wood,

Crouched silently and watched in wonder struck.

And turning to his shaggy mate one did whisper in a hush:

“For never yet did I behold mortals like to these,

Neither man nor woman.

I am awed as I look upon them”.

The Summer Solstice by Qweaver / Rainbow Childe.

In the nut-brown green womb
emerald of the woods, in the splash
of the grass, the weave of the wind,
the drum flames

to its heart-born rhythm lambs,
wild flowers, clouds dance, water
sheds its gifts, moon shapes her wisdom

how our eager limbs grew golden,
fused, lusted, roared, self-given,
all-given joy rose that night,
swept back the black with a rainbow dawn

lip to lip, elementals, butterfly children,
swell the chant, voices layered as air or earth,
eyes now diamonds larger than stars,

bodies as steel, as fire, fire and water, breath-bright,
breath-flight, breath-height potency,
hand to hand a surge of angels,
united, perfect, unashamed

Summer Solstice by BrotherSun

Love is loving.
Drums are drumming.
Guitars are playing,
As the fires burning.

Time went timeless,
Our energies grew,
We shed our skins,
And were born a new.

Hands were touching.
Skin caressing.
Magic flowed,
And lips were guessing.

The sun is rising,
The magics growing,
The moons reflecting,
Our souls are glowing.

So here we stand,
In time and space,
A new found joy,
Written upon our face.

Faerie Daisy reflects on the summer Solstice in Glastonbury, with the radical faeries.

AWESOME SOLSTICE.

We came together around the hearth bringing ourselves to each other. The drums sang together, no room for prima donnas; flutes played, the band struck up and the choir chanted, a constellation of voices weaving and rising. Pan was rampant around the sacred flames celebrating audaciously the horniness of life itself. As the energy rose, the leaves of the trees vibrated and danced and sang with us. All of life in and around that epicentre praised the joy of life and the coming solstice.
I left the circle to find water and found myself in moocow field, the young brown creatures were breathing it all in. Stars glittered and led me to water. It was then I heard the sounds of other tribes on the hills and in the surrounding valleys playing their drums. Each had a familiar sound within the complexities of their music. It was the sound of the Faerie drum/heartbeat, they’d incorporated it into their music. In that marvellous wonderful moment I realised that we had inserted ourselves into the whole of life. Nobody, no group nor tribe was in a position to accept us or allow us in, we quite simply inserted ourselves into LIfe. Back home where we belong. There is no going back.

Daisy xxx

Joie de Folleterre by Queaver – 15th August 2013.

A time for joy.
Tears ripen.

Nothing in the trees’ gaze contradicts the flowers
that dare declare they love. All the colours of music,
all the music of the forest, bright with wonder’s blessing.

Think of it as a merry-go-round,
a subaqueous garden.

Bones blur, outlines loosen, a little like trees, indistinct
in summer’s haze, splinters smoothed away.
Hands unfold, steady on another’s touch.
Around the flames of laughter,
the glow of conversation,
kisses tickle, settle,
rest, depart, rainbow-winged.
Settle again and again.

There is something like music that eases each
separate note into one swelling melody.

Wildly beautiful shapes, colours, swirl
and swoon in this lava lamp.

Somewhere bees get busy with tomorrow’s fruiting.
As your fingers coax rope into baskets I drop
my doubts inside. Your offering eyes ignite
my soul that’s been singing
to itself these years, by the far lake.

Yes, eyes meet here, shadows
steepen their lustre
into jewel-light that
bursts beyond words.

Words are clumsy messengers. Here the language is pretty
wraps, wigs, dresses sexpressively excessive.
Fireworks fixed in half motion. Star-beams caught
between silk and skin,
skin and skin.

With the night they sprawl shifting abruptly to dodge
the fire’s frisky smoke.

The days would be roaring and hungry,
gone in a few gulps, just flakes
to record the feast.

A time for sadness.
Dreams ripen. You snuggle in my heart.

A buoyant soul, unshackled and rising – Odanata on Summer Gathering 2013 @ Folleterre.

The way to Folleterre was scenic, light and full of promise. The approach greeted by a meandering stream carving out picturesque spaces for habitation and country-folk recreation in the humble valley place of Folleterre’s home. Pines postured green and tall in peaceful and watchful communion with other brothers and sisters of bark and leaf. The sun held the whole scene in a warmth you felt on the breath, in the chest. The pull up the mountain was a calling – a silken leash gently tugging on the fluttering hearts of a thousand butterflies in the stomach.

I can’t give you many words for my first glimpse of our Faerie haven. I jostled with the tension of a superficial desire to have my expectations fulfilled and the heartfelt attempt to breathe in the first moment of being there. To grasp it authentically, untainted by my prior lust for and dreams of Folleterre.

Nevertheless I had arrived – I was here now. Follettere held me whilst I gained some composure. The environment so strange yet so perfectly familiar. Faerie intention and detail etched into the most inconspicuous places. The pinecone tinsel up the shit tower, the wisps of an absent-minded doodle in the sand of a faerie-claimed beach and crochet-flowers adorning the branches of random trees down the way to the prairie.

And holding I would need. The bosom of Follettere took some nesting. The first task being unpacking my other-world baggage, inspecting the contents with care and sharing some of them round for knowing reflection in heart circle. Then, either making adjustments, scrapping entirely or re-crafting them with a new found, or better honed, loving faerie-artisanship. Of course there are a few bits wedged in the cognitive crevices of a worn luggage, undetectable to naked-faerie eye – but a gathering is a tonic for perspective. There will be other times for these, of that I’m sure.

The appropriate camp caveat of “you better WERQ” accompanied my initiation to Folleterre – a cyclical process of processing and learning and bonding and sharing. But what sweet soulful bounty and harvest did the perseverance yield – akin to bursting out, wild and running, from the dank and thorny thickets of a strange forest into a boundless meadow of wild flower harmony. Each murmur of summer life so present, so disarming.

And then the connections. Thrilling and physical, enriching and penetrative – a reaching out beyond the pre-conceived and anxious, without grasping, to merge with the welcome of another faerie soul. Faerie souls that taught me the boundless nature of love. It’s transcendental quality – the simple, divine antidote to the unfathomable, to the dark.

Anchored in the tired conceptions of how to love and how to be loved, a new way of being with one another in perfect sharing became the new horizon. A personal metamorphosis still unfolding. A flaking off of a tired rusty hue, stripped back by perfect flows of clarity – the buoyancy of the soul unshackled, and rising.

I re-enter the other place consolidated, holding onto perfect realisations, trying all the time with your love and support, to make them permanent manifestations.

Odanata x