^ Friday the 13th
Ever wonder why Friday the 13this supposed to be bad luck? It’s rooted in … wait for it … religious propaganda,of course! Romans – those precursors to the Holy Roman Catholic Church –believed that witches gathered in groups of 12, and the 13thparticipant was the devil. (It’s really the number of a full coven in the OldEarth religions.) Friday is presumed by most Judeo-Christian faiths to be theday of Christ’s crucifixion. So this day gets a bad rap for no good reason.
I have spent a lot of time researchingreligious history, and there are hundreds of “borrowed” images from variousprevious religious streams that now live in the current “christian” crop – fromthe Hero myth regarding a resurrected hero, to virgin births, to pagan symbolsthat are not christian symbols (crosses, Christmas trees, fishes, doves, etc.).
This repeating trend of humanity to borrowmythology from the myths that went before, it’s a trend I myself often repeatwith the people in my life. I don’t see reality; I see my own version ofreality. I build it on my own perceptions as well as constructs I receive andmold from whomever I’m appraising. Friend, lover, family member, it mattersnot. I console myself by saying I see their “potential” more than I see theirreality. It’s my own stupid fault for vesting in that not-yet-realized versioninstead of the fully-present version. I create my own mythology around someoneand then proceed to worship at their feet.
For instance, I can quickly – instantly –quantify someone from surface to core. I can visualize the layers of charm thatsomeone thickly veneers over acres of smoke, a veil of haze to shroud and hidea tender inner core where traditions stand guard like a barbed fence around acore of truly compelling substance. I will hone right in on that inner core,completely disregarding the possible MILES of smoke, veneer and barbed wirebetween me and that core. I set myself up every single time for a battle ofwills, of me trying to win entrance to that inner shrine. More often than not Isucceed, but at great personal cost to myself. This is a battle I grow tired offighting. I don’t know if I am gravitating to folks in late bloom (or outrightdenial) or if I just think I have to have a brutal challenge to stave offboredom. It’s something maladjusted, some character flaw in myself, I’m moreand more convinced, because the only common variable in all these human passionplays is … me.
Unfailingly, I am drawn in by bravado. I’msnared in that net of confidence that is like catnip. In drives me into a frenzy,the sticky-pull of confidence cloaking a tightly hidden vulnerability.
I bump back into a sense of narcissismagain, because that description is me to a “T.” I pursue versions of myself.