About now I want to also mention that I have been haunted by what in legend and lore is the Trickster. The Trickster is an entity or spirit, puka or sometimes a god that exists within the myths of almost every culture worldwide. And this beast has sashayed and danced through mythworld, taunting and challenging me for most of my life. Always riding one man’s body or another. For a while. Just like in the movie Fallen.

When I did not guess the game the Trickster moved from man to man disrupting my cool and obfuscating my liberty. Originally this character of lore presented benevolence. Even at my birth. Men who desired to control, to own, to direct, even to be protected. The Trickster sought an outlet for misbehavior, stealing power, imposing a culturally-approved order, impoverishing. 

When I refused to learn of my own choices, embody knowledge, when I have acquiesced to the cultural expectations and norms of female out of laziness or fatigue Trickster discarded the body of the man whose form he wore. Who was left behind? I don’t know. The ones I allowed inside my body became daunted and weak. The Trickster sucking their strength from them and leaving me the aftermath. They all ended up the same. Fitting into some approved paradigm that didn’t work for me or that was just downright ugly in the way of myth: behaviorally.

The Trickster exists within every indigenous culture and also in the modern psyche. Provides stern lessons. Whether Loki or Crow, Coyote or Puck, Bugs Bunny or Reynard the Fox, Eulenspiegel or Dr Who, what Trickster wants, ultimately, is what everyone wants. Worthy stories. So that living is an experience of granite strength but feather-light malleability. Of excitation and liberty. Duende.

The men were possessed by the Trickster until I gained all kinds of true strength. Savvy. The capacity to love without disrespecting my hard won core ideals. Without compromise.

From birth until my early adult years Trickster took upon itself the role of authority. Someone who knew better than I what was good for me. Then, when I turned my back on that archetype—took to anarchy—the tactics changed. The Trickster played the sexy card. Became beguiling, seductive. Chose handsome men to wear, to make love with. The Trickster persuaded men to persuade me that they loved me.

In the latter encounters I was complicit simply because I was naive to the real story. Every woman I have ever met wants to be loved. We also have—or I once had anyway—a propensity to stay, even when the relationship was rabid. Even when the Trickster had abandoned the men weak, broken and bleeding, or violent and controlling, or once again seeking domination because that’s all they had left. The Trickster wanted nothing less that my cultural and gendered weakness abolished. Wanted my neediness to be in an intimate partnership, with any traditional affectations, to be the discarded skin of the python left in a mango tree. To be witch. To learn the language of animal people. To break me, see me bleed. Become bone. Allow myself to be clothed in the body of the long-dead wolf and walk freely into tomorrow.