#ritual dancing and spirit calling and maybe a little bit of commanding the spirits of the departed to do your bidding as a treat

[whitherwanderer]

. : r i t u a l i s t : .

[hennyjolzen]

by PAM GROSSMAN May 30, 2019

Pam Grossman is the author of Waking the Witch: Reflections on Women, Magic, and Power.

Witches have always walked among us, populating societies and storyscapes across the globe for thousands of years. From Circe to Hermione, from Morgan le Fay to Marie Laveau, the witch has long existed in the tales we tell about ladies with strange powers that can harm or heal. And although people of all genders have been considered witches, it is a word that is now usually associated with women.

Throughout most of history, she has been someone to fear, an uncanny Other who threatens our safety or manipulates reality for her own mercurial purposes. She’s a pariah, a persona non grata, a bogeywoman to defeat and discard. Though she has often been deemed a destructive entity, in actuality a witchy woman has historically been far more susceptible to attack than an inflictor of violence herself. As with other “terrifying” outsiders, she occupies a paradoxical role in cultural consciousness as both vicious aggressor and vulnerable prey.

Over the past 150 years or so, however, the witch has done another magic trick, by turning from a fright into a figure of inspiration. She is now as likely to be the heroine of your favorite TV show as she is its villain. She might show up in the form of your Wiccan coworker, or the beloved musician who gives off a sorceress vibe in videos or onstage.

There is also a chance that she is you, and that “witch” is an identity you have taken upon yourself for any number of reasons — heartfelt or flippant, public or private.

Today, more women than ever are choosing the way of the witch, whether literally or symbolically. They’re floating down catwalks and sidewalks in gauzy black clothing and adorning themselves with Pinterest-worthy pentagrams and crystals. They’re filling up movie theaters to watch witchy films, and gathering in back rooms and backyards to do rituals, consult tarot cards and set life-altering intentions. They’re marching in the streets with HEX THE PATRIARCHY placards and casting spells each month to try to constrain the commander-in-chief. Year after year, articles keep proclaiming, “It’s the Season of the Witch!” as journalists try to wrap their heads around the mushrooming witch “trend.”

And all of this begs the question: Why?

Why do witches matter? Why are they seemingly everywhere right now? What, exactly, are they? (And why the hell won’t they go away?)

I get asked such things over and over, and you would think that after a lifetime of studying and writing about witches, as well as hosting a witch-themed podcast and being a practitioner of witchcraft myself, my answers would be succinct.

In fact, I find that the more I work with the witch, the more complex she becomes. Hers is a slippery spirit: try to pin her down, and she’ll only recede further into the deep, dark wood.

I do know this for sure though: show me your witches, and I’ll show you your feelings about women. The fact that the resurgence of feminism and the popularity of the witch are ascending at the same time is no coincidence: the two are reflections of each other.

That said, this current Witch Wave is nothing new. I was a teen in the 1990s, the decade that brought us such pop-occulture as Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed and The Craft, not to mention riot grrrls and third-wave feminists who taught me that female power could come in a variety of colors and sexualities. I learned that women could lead a revolution while wearing lipstick and combat boots — and sometimes even a cloak.

But my own witchly awakening came at an even earlier age.

Morganville, New Jersey, where I was raised, was a solidly suburban town, but it retained enough natural land features back then to still feel a little bit scruffy in spots. We had a small patch of woods in our backyard that abutted a horse farm, and the two were separated by a wisp of running water that we could cross via a plank of wood. In one corner of the yard, a giant puddle would form whenever it rained, surrounded by a border of ferns. My older sister, Emily, and I called this spot our Magical Place. That it would vanish and then reappear only added to its mystery. It was a portal to the unknown.

These woods are where I first remember doing magic — entering that state of deep play where imaginative action becomes reality. I would spend hours out there, creating rituals with rocks and sticks, drawing secret symbols in the dirt, losing all track of time. It was a space that felt holy and wild, yet still strangely safe.

As we age, we’re supposed to stop filling our heads with such “nonsense.” Unicorns are to be traded in for Barbie dolls (though both are mythical creatures, to be sure). We lose our tooth fairies, walk away from our wizards. Dragons get slain on the altar of youth.

Most kids grow out of their “magic phase.” I grew further into mine.

My grandma Trudy was a librarian at the West Long Branch Library, which meant I got to spend many an afternoon lurking between the 001.9 and 135 Dewey decimal–sections, reading about Bigfoot and dream interpretation and Nostradamus. I spent countless hours in my room, learning about witches and goddesses, and I loved anything by authors like George MacDonald, Roald Dahl, and Michael Ende — writers fluent in the language of enchantment. Books were my broomstick. They allowed me to fly to other realms where anything was possible.

Though fictional witches were my first guides, I soon discovered that magic was something real people could do. I started frequenting new age shops and experimenting with mass-market paperback spell books from the mall. I was raised Jewish but found myself attracted to belief systems that felt more individualized and mystical and that fully honored the feminine. Eventually I found my way to modern Paganism, a self-directed spiritual path that sustains me to this day. I’m not unique in this trajectory of pivoting away from organized religion and toward something more personal: as of September 2017, more than a quarter of U.S. adults — 27% — now say that they think of themselves as spiritual but not religious, according to Pew Research Center.

Now, I identify both as a witch and with the archetype of the witch overall, and I use the term fluidly. At any given time, I might use the word witch to signify my spiritual beliefs, my supernatural interests or my role as an unapologetically complex, dynamic female in a world that prefers its women to be smiling and still. I use it with equal parts sincerity and salt: with a bow to a rich and often painful history of worldwide witchcraft, and a wink to other members of our not-so-secret society of people who fight from the fringes for the liberty to be our weirdest and most wondrous selves. Magic is made in the margins.

To be clear: you don’t have to practice witchcraft or any other alternative form of spirituality to awaken your own inner witch. You may feel attracted to her symbolism, her style or her stories but are not about to rush out to buy a cauldron or go sing songs to the sky. Maybe you’re more of a nasty woman than a devotee of the Goddess. That’s perfectly fine: the witch belongs to you too.

I remain more convinced than ever that the concept of the witch endures because she transcends literalism and because she has so many dark and sparkling things to teach us. Many people get fixated on the “truth” of the witch, and numerous fine history books attempt to tackle the topic from the angle of so-called factuality. Did people actually believe in magic? They most certainly did and still do. Were the thousands of victims who were killed in the 16th- and 17th-century witch hunts actually witches themselves? Most likely not. Are witches real? Why, yes, you’re reading the words of one. All of these things are true.

But whether or not there were actually women and men who practiced witchcraft in Rome or Lancashire or Salem, say, is less interesting to me than the fact that the idea of witches has remained so evocative and influential and so, well, bewitching in the first place.

In other words, the fact and the fiction of the witch are inextricably linked. Each informs the other and always has. I’m fascinated by how one archetype can encompass so many different facets. The witch is a notorious shape-shifter, and she comes in many guises:

A hag in a pointy hat, cackling madly as she boils a pot of bones.

A scarlet-lipped seductress slipping a potion into the drink of her unsuspecting paramour.

A cross-dressing French revolutionary who hears the voices of angels and saints.

A perfectly coifed suburban housewife, twitching her nose to change her circumstances at will, despite her husband’s protests.

A woman dancing in New York City’s Central Park with her coven to mark the change of the seasons or a new lunar phase.

The witch has a green face and a fleet of flying monkeys. She wears scarves and leather and lace.

She lives in Africa; on the island of Aeaea; in a tower; in a chicken-leg hut; in Peoria, Illinois.

She lurks in the forests of fairy tales, in the gilded frames of paintings, in the plotlines of sitcoms and YA novels, and between the bars of ghostly blues songs.

She is solitary.

She comes in threes.

She’s a member of a coven.

Sometimes she’s a he.

She is stunning, she is hideous, she is insidious, she is ubiquitous.

She is our downfall. She is our deliverance.

Our witches say as much about us as they do about anything else — for better and for worse.

More than anything, though, the witch is a shining and shadowy symbol of female power and a force for subverting the status quo. No matter what form she takes, she remains an electric source of magical agitation that we can all plug into whenever we need a high-voltage charge.

She is also a vessel that contains our conflicting feelings about female power: our fear of it, our desire for it and our hope that it can — and will — grow stronger, despite the flames that are thrown at it.

Whether the witch is depicted as villainous or valorous, she is always a figure of freedom — both its loss and its gain. She is perhaps the only female archetype who is an independent operator. Virgins, whores, daughters, mothers, wives — each of these is defined by whom she is sleeping with or not, the care that she is giving or that is given to her, or some sort of symbiotic debt that she must eventually pay.

The witch owes nothing. That is what makes her dangerous. And that is what makes her divine.

Witches have power on their own terms. They have agency. They create. They praise. They commune with the spiritual realm, freely and free of any mediator.

They metamorphose, and they make things happen. They are change agents whose primary purpose is to transform the world as it is into the world they would like it to be.

This is also why being called a witch and calling oneself a witch are usually two vastly different experiences. In the first case, it’s often an act of degradation, an attack against a perceived threat.

The second is an act of reclamation, an expression of autonomy and pride. Both of these aspects of the archetype are important to keep in mind. They may seem like contradictions, but there is much to glean from their interplay.

The witch is the ultimate feminist icon because she is a fully rounded symbol of female oppression and liberation. She shows us how to tap into our own might and magic, despite the many who try to strip us of our power.

We need her now more than ever.

[blame-canada]

Life in Color - Creek

Once Craig realized the rainbow came from a person—one steadily beating heart, two wide green eyes—the world was never quite the same again. Maybe he's gotten a bit too poetic with time, maybe a bit too over-dramatic and strange- but he's worth it. God, is Tweek ever worth it.

I wrote this a little bit ago but realized I never made it a post on Tumblr so here we are! Also, it’s Tuesday, so this is even more appropriate. Find it on AO3 here! 

It’s a Tuesday morning.

Craig hates Tuesdays. They’re too early in the week, and they always feel too long. The rest of the week looks like a mountain from Tuesday morning. The cold is particularly biting this Tuesday, and he rubs at his subtly leaking nose, sniffing loud enough to hear it through his headphones. Summer barely existed this year, and he’s not looking forward to the snow. Nobody ever really is. Oh well.

The bus rolls to a stop in front of him, and with the snap of its shitty little stop sign popping out to blink red in his eyes, the doors crumple in like the gates to a particularly teenaged hell, and his sister shoves in front of him to get to her friends first. He just wants to get to school. He sighs and climbs in after her.

His road is bumpier than the main ones and he’s not sure if it’s because he doesn’t live in the best neighborhood or if it’s because none of the roads get enough attention from city hall. Plow trucks are unkind to asphalt. A particularly deep and familiar pothole makes his palm jam into his chin. He’s bitten his tongue like that before, so he’s learned better; he doesn’t talk on the bus. There’s not much point, anyway.

Everything looks so grey this morning. He hates mornings. Tuesday mornings, though, they’re the worst, and he’ll say it all day long.

The snow adds another layer to the dull monochromatic landscape, covering the last bits of mostly dead brown grass with greyish sludge. It’s still white in the middles, though, and that part’s alright. Besides that, even the sky matches. For a moment, Craig wonders if he’s suddenly gone completely colorblind. Then he catches a glimpse of a horrendously hot pink and red monstrosity of a scarf wrapped around Heidi Turner’s neck, and he is horribly reminded. He glares at it, as though it can hear his disdain for its existence, and scrolls through his playlists for something new to listen to. Nothing is really working for him though, so eventually he gives up and keeps his headphones in for the only reason that it completes the tired Tuesday morning look he’s going for. He’s also lazy, and the bus is loud. Everything feels slow.

They file off the bus in a neat line, their backpacks smacking into the corners of the benches because they’re filled with too many papers and the rows are too small. Craig notices his shoe is untied and takes care to take higher steps to prevent tripping on it. He’s sure if anyone caught him they’d laugh, but it’s the aisle of a bus, and he can’t be assed to care, really. He yawns and follows the crowd to the front doors.

Even though Heidi so rudely reminded him of the existence of color, everything seems so muted, and it isn’t a good thing. His eyes are sweeping the crowd, picking out bits and pieces of crucial information to analyze later. There’s a lot going on and he doesn’t want to forget any of it.

He finds himself at his locker without remembering how he got there, but that’s fine. He’s here for only two reasons, and the first is easy. He drops his backpack to the floor and shrugs off his winter jacket, tearing open the locker and carefully hanging his coat by the tag to avoid warping the fabric. No one actually keeps their backpacks in their lockers, so he closes it loudly after that and presses one hip against it to stare out into the crowd.

He can feel him before he can see him, like a tiny sun with a flow of energy that radiates from him in the form of soft, comfortable heat. He steps within his radius and a switch in Craig’s brain is flipped, and one by one the colors start to flood back into his vision. He can now clearly see just how ugly that shade of green is and question why anyone would ever want to wear that somewhat regularly in the winter. That red clashes with her hair dye. He doesn’t know where to begin with him.

His right side is leaning into cool metal while his left side is hearing the very beginning of a symphony orchestra tickle his ear, and he’s not wearing headphones anymore. Craig doesn’t have to look to know. He can feel the growth of flowering vines blooming from a familiar heart, green and shocking yellow, from here. The vines start to dance in his peripherals, like a frame to the picture that’s playing out in front of him. A body brushes up against his left side, instantly warming it, and Craig’s insides begin to melt from the heat.

“Did you see Eric’s new hat?” the voice he adores mutters, bitter as the coffee he’s sure to have in at least one hand. “Atrocious,” he sneers, and Craig hums his agreement.

“I wouldn’t expect any better. Did you see-”

“God, yes, you’re talking about Heidi’s scarf, right? Those colors don’t go together in any universe.” He shivers, probably half in disgust and half involuntary, his side pressing even closer to Craig’s, and he’s not complaining. His chest is feeling so hot, his heart turned to soup, and the affection he has for this body that hasn’t even looked at him yet is all-consuming.

“They’re ‘complicated’ again,” Craig mentions.

The sun scoffs. “No they’re not. They’re barely together in the first place. I give them a week before that status changes to either ‘in a relationship’ or ‘single.’”

Craig smirks, chuckling via a heavy breath through the nose that he knows is recognizable as a laugh, but maybe only to him. “I’m betting on ‘single.’”

“They’re so co-dependent it’s ridiculous. You’re going to lose, y-you know,” the sun, his sun, insists, and he laughs a bit more for real this time. He doesn’t have to look to know he’s smiling now too, because he can feel it in his bones when their hands clasp together. The essence of his spirit drips into his veins like a poison, but the good kind, and one he would happily die to. As it rushes up his arm and straight into his heart, it warms every inch of him to the core. He lets out another sigh, but this one isn’t bad. The energy has simply given him more air than he needs in his lungs, and with his heart stopped, he doesn’t need it expanding his chest anymore.

They stand side by side for a moment, watching the sea of people wade around them like an obstacle course. Craig knows they’re catching the same faux pas, even when they aren’t verbalizing them. He has on the scarf Craig has called his favorite before, and it’s true, it is a favorite. It’s just the right shade of heather grey to complement his pea coat. He’s adorable in a pea coat.

The first warning bell sounds overhead, telling Craig that he needs to let go of the hand he hasn’t looked at yet and go to class, and the thought nearly breaks his heart. His partner grunts at it. Craig squeezes their fingers together once more, for good luck. “I hate Tuesdays,” he adds, as is customary, and as he’s sure he’s heard a million times before from his own lips.

“I know, right?” he responds, and the moment Craig feels him turn his head he copies him so that they’re catching each other’s eyes. “There’s so much left of the week; I can’t stand it.”

His name is shouted at him from within his head, over and over, ‘Tweek Tweek Tweek,’ and each repetition feels like a new hymn. Craig is grateful for the ability to see color only when he looks into the hazel-green of his boyfriend’s eyes, takes in the rich brown of the freckles that dust his nose and pock everywhere else, and the rosy tint of his cheeks from his own trek outside no less than ten minutes prior. Tweek is artistic perfection, with his long nose and wide round eyes and high cheekbones. Tweek is everything Craig could ever look for in a model for his photography, and so his portfolio reads less like a college application and more like an extended love letter. At worst, he will have proof of how much he adores him, though it’s hardly a worst. At best, he’ll be accepted to every university he applies to next month.

“You got your phone?” Craig asks, because Tweek forgets it some days, the quietest his phone ever gets. Tweek nods though, and he’s a little relieved. School passes faster when he has sloppy texts to read under his desk. The teachers know they’re texting but don’t care much to stop them anymore. Detention never matters anyway, because they just both end up in it for the same crime, and they spend an entire fifty minutes doing nothing but stare at each other.

It’s why Craig feels so confident he’s memorized the curve of his brow, the hook of his nose, the shell of his ears and how they stick out slightly. He knows exactly where all six of Tweek’s cowlicks are located on his scalp. He can trace them like a children’s activity book the same way he can trace the moles on his back on Sunday mornings, slow and lazy with a gentle index finger he hopes can transfer love without words. He knows it can but it’s never, ever enough.

Craig blinks when he hears the second bell ring, and he realizes he is still standing in the hallway with their fingers intertwined, the floors nearly empty save for the occasional speedwalking student who cares about attendance. They’re always late to their first classes; this ritual is crucial to Craig’s day, and he swears he can’t survive a Tuesday without it.

Tweek squeezes his hand gently and tugs on it, pulling at Craig’s marionette strings that he has always had wrapped around his fingertips. It is a silent command that Craig obeys, and he leans down to kiss his forehead, but snags a peck to the tip of his nose too. Tweek’s smile is the sun again, blinding him, and then their hands are disconnected, and it’s so unbearably cold. “See you at lunch,” Tweek says, and Craig nods, flexing his empty fingers to shake away their fidgeting at the lack of contact they so desperately desire. Tweek gets on the tips of his toes to kiss him and it blesses him, and Craig can feel vines blooming from his own lips, transferred in the contact. They snake through his body and plant flowers in his stomach, fill his brain with sweet nectar and his lungs with fresh water. He’s drowning, but it’s nice, so he accepts his fate.

Tweek takes his first steps away and Craig feels like his heart may as well be breaking, he’s so obsessed. God, is he obsessed, but he doesn’t care. “I love you,” he says, and Tweek turns, and his brilliance is so unsurpassed he wants to sob.

“I love you too,” he replies, and he walks away to his first period English class. As he walks, the change is gradual, and Craig’s heart is sinking and his stomach fills with lead. The green of the posters on the wall and the bright orange of the senior lockers fade slowly, slowly, until everything is muted again and nothing is beautiful. It’s because Tweek takes the beauty with him, Craig’s sure, and he’s never given it back. God help him if he ever loses him, because he’s not sure he’d survive without color. It is the life around him, and it grows from Tweek through his wandering vines and yellow rays of sunshine and green irises. It is everything.

Craig picks up his backpack, slings it over one shoulder, and only begins walking away when his sun turns the corner and the last of the sunrise blinks away from him. He trudges to history, his red converse dulled to maroon, and he sighs, because it’s Tuesday, and he hates Tuesdays.

Lunch never comes soon enough, but at least the pulses of rainbows that radiate from his pocket with each text can carry him through.

[pellicano-sanguino]

Random thoughts while watching zuka, part 4; a collection of random thoughts about zuka vampires.

Sometimes, when people post about stuff they like in Tumblr, they make these weird posts where they just state a small trivial thing that makes their heart go all aflutter and explain no further. Like, a post that just reads “Women in suits with the cravat undone.” and then they wait for likes and reblogs to see who is into the same small details as they are, I guess. *shrug* It’s a kinda weird post trend.

I admit I was tempted to make a post that just reads: “Zuka vampires doing the hand thing after blood drinking.” and leave it at that. But since when can I write about vampires and be that brief? So I will explain. But I was tempted to do that kind of post.

The hand thing is this, when they bring their hand to their mouth as if to wipe away blood stains. I can’t explain why I love it. I just do.

I was pretty convinced the gesture was “wipe away the blood,” but then I saw Vampire Succession, and there Alucard does the hand thing before attempting to drink someone.

What is he doing? Wiping away drool? Testing the sharpness of his fangs? I have no idea. There is no blood that needs cleaning. My only guess is, that since (*Spoilers*) he doesn’t actually get to drink anyone and thus doesn’t get to do the hand thing when it’s appropriate, he does the gesture before attempting blood drinking. Also, performing this gesture lets the audience know what he is about to do (well, assuming there’s at least one another besides me who associates this gesture to post-feeding blood stain wiping).

When I heard the first short plot description of Vampire Succession, I was a bit disappointed to learn that Alucard is the type of vampire who doesn’t drink blood (except he totally tries to. Several times, I might add). But then the promo photos started to surface, and I had to roll my eyes. Yeah, sure, he doesn’t drink blood. He just happens to do the hand thing in promo photos and cast his eyes at the camera like he’s judging the edibility of your neck.

A variation of the hand thing, that appeared in Seal of Roses: When Lydia has performed the turning ritual to Francis, she doesn’t wipe her mouth, but Francis does reach his fingers up to touch her lips, as if a little disturbed at seeing his own blood on the lips of the woman he loves. (You asked for it, so endure it like a man, Francis.)

Of course, not all zuka vampires do the hand thing. But one other thing they sometimes do, that I like as much as the hand thing, is when they make a face like this after blood drinking.

You are correct, random vampire lord from Apassionado. Blood is magical.

One thing that zuka hasn’t done often, and which I would like them to do, is have more active donors. Sure, not all blood drinking is dub-con in zuka, but the willing donors often just passively let the vampire have his/her meal, often going limp like a ragdoll. Why not more communication and/or cuddling between the donor and his/her vampire?

An example: The donor could just gently place his/her hand at the back of the vampire’s head, petting his/her hair and with a little pressure letting the blood drinker know that it doesn’t hurt, that they are ok and actually want to do this. This kind of touch-based communicating would especially be needed when the vampire’s going for the neck-chest area (instead of arm) and he/she loses eyecontact with his/her donor during the feeding.

Look, the vampires can do the hand at the back of the head thing. And yes, it is cute. But if it was the donor doing it, then it would be heartmeltingly adorable.

One thing that I find very weird in zuka vampire stories, is that they rarely go the easy route when it comes to defining vampire lore. When you make a vampire story, you have to set the rules; how does one become a vampire, what strengths and weaknesses the vampires have, how can you kill one. There are some very common, easy choises to answer those questions (it spreads by biting, strengths include immortality, regeneration and hypnosis, and you’ll kill them by sunlight or stabbystab through heart), yet Takarazuka often insists on going the “Our vampires are different” route.

The vampire lore in zuka can be very confusing, inconsistent and poorly explained. I think the worst case is Seal of Roses (don’t think I’m dissing the show, it’s still my favourite vampire musical). When Francis talks to the monks of Valley of Roses, they just crypticly explain that vampires are “an undying race.” So, were the vampires in Valley of Roses born to vampirism? Were they humans that were somehow infected and corrupted by the “evil vampire souls” the Seal of Roses eventually bound and sealed away? Nobody knows!

We see two full turning processes; Mikhail and Francis. Mikhail is turned by becoming possessed by the evil vampire souls he freed. So, is vampirism like a demonic possession in this universe? No...  maybe? Francis is turned by the traditional infecting bite to the neck. So, in his case the vampirism is a curse that spreads through blood drinking. Only, no, it can’t be, because later a whole bunch of mortals get their necks nommed by Francis, Mikhail or Mikhail’s minions (more about those later) without full turning into vampirism. Before the turning process, Francis asks Lydia to “give him a soul.” But...  what? You only get one soul, you can’t split it and share with your boyfriend to make him like yourself! Souls don’t work that way (ok, maybe they do in Japan, maybe this soul is more like “spirit energy” or something that you can share without losing who and what you are).

So, my current theory about how vampirism works in Seal of Roses is this: The vampirism takes shape in the form of a Second Soul (capital letters, because I’m feeling dramatic today). You have your original human soul, but when you are given a Second Soul by another vampire, whether via blood drinking or demonic possession “invading your body because you messed with a roseseal”- style, you will turn. But what makes this transformation confusing is, that the Second Soul can be taken back. By more blood drinking.

I have noticed that a lot of people think the Sun King story is the best part of Seal of Roses. Yes, that chapter has lots of amazing dances, but I used to dislike this part, because it confused the hell out of me until I finally saw the musical with subtitles (and even then it didn’t make much sense). Just...  just what an earth was going on with Mikhail’s clever plan to fill Versailles with vampires (or half-vampires, or whatever his minions should be called). Well, ok, I guess I can get Mikhail’s deal (attempt to get into a position of power by having all the nobles become his loyal servants, since these newly made vampires/half-vampires seemed to obey their turner blindly). But what was Philippe’s plan? Get rid of the king by having a suspicious alchemist put a spell on a dancer with hopes that she will attack the king during ballet? What the hell, Philippe, what happened to just hiring assassins or buying poison from La Voisin? This is a ridiculously complicated plot to simply murder someone.

So yeah, Mikhail transforms the dancer girl (I don’t remember her name), by blood drinking, and I assume he does it by passing on his Second Soul. Initially I thought that he turned her fully (after all, Francis was turned by blood drinking too), but this girl is different. Unlike Francis, she seems to lose her free will after turning, instantly obeying Mikhail’s command to go forth and multiply (make more vampires). This is why I wonder if instead of a genuine, full vampire she is some sort of half-vampire or other diet coke version of real vampires. Or maybe she is a full vampire, but since she received the Second Soul from Mikhail, who is possessed by evil vampire souls, the evil Second Soul will dominate her own soul, taking full control and obeying Mikhail not because she’s under hypnosis or similar, but because the evil souls have a hive mind and when taking possession of a body, they will immediately co-work together to reach common goal. Maybe Mikhail too has his own soul completely overtaken by his Second Soul, and is actually as helpless and pitiable, a prisoner in his own body, unable to control it.

Vampire or half-vampire, the turned dancer girl is immediately capable of infecting other mortals with vampirism (by more blood drinking. Yay!), and the newly turned are just as capable of passing on the Second Soul. But then Francis crashes the party and puts an end to it. He turns the dancer girl back to human, apparently by taking back the Second Soul. By blood drinking. (This should be called Blood Drinking - the Musical). This confused me greatly. I have very rarely seen vampire stories where turning isn’t permanent. Sure, there are some where the process is slow and if you interfere before the transformation is complete, the victim can be saved (like Mina in Dracula). But these bats were pretty ready to fly. They were going around, drinking blood and infecting others, to me that’s too far gone to turn back. And it confused me how everything was done by the same method. Making vampires - blood drinking. Making half-vampires - blood drinking. Turning vampires/half-vampires back to human - blood drinking. Bottom line: blood drinking can do whatever. It’s multi-purpose magic. Turning or anti-turning, it’s all blood drinking, so it’s all good.

Then, in the Berlin chapter we are actually introduced to the concept of half-vampires. Francis claims that Mikhail’s female minion is one. So, a diet coke version of vampirism does exist in this universe. But how does it work? How does it differ from real vampires? Nobody knows! Argh! Takarazuka! You can’t just make stuff up as you go, when you introduce a new story element, you have to explain it! And you don’t have to have such a complicated and unusual vampire lore. You don’t need any soul-sharing turning&anti-turning and half-vampire nonsense. Why not have more straightforward, easy-to-understand vampires, when you only have 2,5 hours to build your universe?

Oh well. All the confusing vampire lore aside, I do love Seal of Roses. It doesn’t always make sense, but I like Mikhail, who is a rarity among zuka vampires, being a genuinely evil one. And I adore Francis. He is a great dancer. And always does the hand thing after drinking.

(and yes, Mikhail does the hand thing too.)