Study the punk chick, for she’s got witch written all over her.
Free is the chick who lives by her own rules, she does stuff like whatever the fuck she wants. It looks like many things, but just to give you a better idea it looks like the following:
Wearing her hair against the social grain.
Cutting her hair super short or shaving it completely off.
Piercing her body, tattooing and being tattooed.
Wearing the first thing she finds & owning the fuck out of it.
Not giving many fucks about the state of her hair.
Giving lots of fucks about the color and cut.
Wearing too many rings.
Wearing zero jewelry.
Putting together all styles and calling it her own.
Using clothes until they fall to shreds, then shredding them more.
This chick is punk. And she is a witch. For those two words are nearly synonymous. The punk chick goes against all ideas of what she should be. She invents and reinvents herself a hundred times; the witch is no different.
They are pioneers. And because they are pioneers others will copy. There are imitations all over the place. A punk and a witch stay away from that mess. It’s a matter of being lost in their own world. They are of this world, but not of this world. That’s why it’s hard to catch one.
They are sisters if not nearly identical reflections in a mirror, or a lake.
The punk chick finds all aspects of her natural self beautiful. She might have unshaved armpits and legs, she might have hairs growing from her face, a mole, or her nipples. She might have all of that at once. Witchy as hell. And she surely has pubic hair for pubic hair is bestial, it give scent in the form of warning and attraction. Pubic hair claims womanhood, full-force. She praises her unruly hair.
The punk chick likes black not because it’s slimming but because it represents her emotional state and the absence of all color. Black is the color of nothing, it’s rebirth and birth and death and reincarnation; it’s the cycle and it’s not the cycle. Sat-ta-nam-ah that beauty ritual.
The punk chick breaks rules in every sense. Her idea of beauty and fashion are not ideas, they are lifestyles. She is both feminine and masculine, she is in between and outside of, she is marginalized and might not realize it –mostly she doesn’t care because she does life according to her. She traverses spaces that might not have clear-cut titles. If she’s authentic, she avoids categories altogether. She might never call herself a punk or a witch; at least, not to your face. She’s tricky like that.
The punk chick is not rebellious for any other reason than to understand herself better. She rebels against stagnant states, against the state, against the state of things. She rouses because to not do so would be denying herself of real life. Her life is full of exploration and rejection of what everyone else says. She does what’s best for the whole because she’s on all-inclusive and intersectional levels.
The punk chick takes, but she takes with purpose. Her constructs of beauty rituals might be taken from other cultures, but she does so with the utmost respect. She does not wish to mimic, but rather she longs to learn. This is not appropriation, this is conjuring, this is fucking magic. And that is witch all day, everyday.
The punk chick marks herself in some way. This is the distinguishing factor between her and those who wish to reproduce her. Some think punk is merely a look and not a lifestyle. Punk and witch are lifestyles. They are not cute t-shirts or necklaces, they are not claiming anything, they are not practicing stuff you know nothing about. This stuff isn’t sold in boutiques, major stores, or online. This is shit finds you. That’s how it works. That’s why you either are or you aren’t.
Besides beauty, or non-beauty, the punk chick stands for other things, things that are super fucking important. The witch has been living that life for centuries. One in the same, baby.
Punk chicks may have stolen or been stolen from; either way, it doesn’t matter, it’s just stuff.
Punk chicks reject that garbage eating; but that doesn’t mean there aren’t rewards. Eating right is the reward. Stop bandwagon eating.
Punk chicks lay down in grass or get as close to the earth as possible because it recharges, it invigorates, it’s what animals do.
Punk chicks talk like they want and take up as much space as they want; they are not against man, but against what man has done to women. So yep, they’re against men. And the market slash capitalism.
Punk chicks don’t buy that store crap. They care about buying local and fair trade.
Punk chicks are into thrift stores not for fashion, but for reusability sake. And because money.
Punk chicks hate your love of money; there’s so much sadness in chasing paper that doesn’t have the words of a song or a poem on it.
The words “punk chicks” could be replaced with witch and nothing changes. For inside every punk is a witch and vice versa. What of the egg and the chicken, my dear, what of them?
Both seem to be saying, Navigate yourself, dear child, ignore the propaganda, laugh at beauty standards, grow a garden inside yourself, tend to it well, feed the world, start again.
Why the Madwoman in the Attic should move to the Basement.
Here is where you should do your make-up, your self-care routine, your beautifying regimen, sister.
Here, down here, come down here, closer, closer still. That’s it. Leave the attic, sweet Madwoman. Come down to the below, the dredges of this here home where you’ve been dwelling, below ever near the depths. This is not any hell of Lucifer because he’s still up there bouncing on clouds like teardrops from recently born babies; he’s never really made a basement space for himself. That’s all myth. He’s a gorgeous buoyant creature; he is translucence best orgasm.
This below reeks of alchemy and witchery –this is where you belong, temptress of the night, moonbeam, wolf sister.
Take the stairs if you’re feeling energetic, if you’ve got the lust to move those lovely legs. If not float, fly, make yourself dust. However you do it, just come down to the basement. *waits*
There, that’s much better.
Glad you came. Glad you’re here. It’s been like forever. You’ve been stuck up there for so many centuries. We weren’t sure how to contact you. You’ve been on our radar for decades upon decades. But we never lost hope, witches don’t lose hope. And you are like so well-known among our more educated dames. Gilbert & Gubar paid you homage girl, you’re academic famous.
We’re thrilled to hear what you’ve been up to, we’ve been anticipating your arrival. We knew you’d come. *hugs*
We’re sure you’ve written your way through volumes of poetry and scientific formulas. We’re dying to read every shred of paper, every fucking piece. But now, you can relax. You can chill. That’s what the young ladies say these days. Chill. You can chill down here, with us, the rest of us. Yes, we’re all here. But first things first. Let’s give you some attention, some glorified feminine touches.
Look at all this trimming. For you, dearest. It’s been too long since you’ve had a milk bath, made with the breast milk of a few hundred young women. First milk. Some hints of wormwood for mood’s sake. The appeal is enchanting. You’ll see.
The cauldron, an herbaceous delight, has just come to a boil. Inhale the vapors, that’s it. Let the plant’s powers digest what ails you, open your pores, freshen your skin. We can already see the rosy cheek peeking through.
All those bottles, oils and elixirs. Give us your tresses, let us dress them with hands drenched in oil. Let us pour sweet things down your throat, let us caress those parts that have been forgotten. Give us your bosom, we shall oil them, too, patron saint Madwoman.
Here lie beauty secrets that don’t touch the lips of the common female for she has grown accustomed to what the sundry stores offer, she has forgotten that nature is the best beautifier.
Here is where you will learn to lather your body with the foam of roots. Here is where you will learn positions that keep your organs cleaning toxins. Here is where you will learn the principles of water.
You will stay here with us, dear Madwoman. This is where you belong. You are with us. You are of us. We will teach you the new ways which are really old ways that your generation might have forgotten. We don’t forget. We are witches. Our job is to ensure prosperity of each coming nymph and newt. All the remembering is done on a cellular level. We tattoo cells, that’s what we do.
Your entrance came as expected, on time. We polished the tools, we’ve readied the flasks, we’ve scrubbed the tubes and vessels. Now we’re going to make magic. It’s so easy, don’t panic, it’s in your blood. By the way, we’ll be needing some of your blood. Again, don’t panic. Beauty is pain. That’s another thing the young girls say these days. Go with it. *winks*
If this feels strange at first, that’s normal. Beauty rituals, as with any ritual, can be shocking. But as with anything, and with time, all things become familiar. All things will become new again. You have not aged a bit. That’s standard for our line. And despite access to the essentials, we’d say you’re doing better than expected. Hardly n’er a wrinkle, dearest. You are clearly of the pack.
We don’t like to use the word coven, but for language sake we will. This is your new beauty coven. We will beckon only organic products. We pluck only what Mother Earth says we can. We take from the soil, we take from the trees, we take from the air and water –we are not greedy, we are conservative despite popular belief. Witches are prudent as fuck about this land. You will not find the same constitution among other women of similar breed, stature, pigment, race, or culture. There’s quite a discrepancy even among our divine descendants.
We press into you because we are becoming you. And you are becoming what you should be. Madwoman, you might have forgotten the splendor of clay as it dries on your skin, squishes between your toes, cleans your fangs. We are honored to witness your transformation in real time. It’s like you’re going live, it’s like your alive again, it’s like you’ll be alive forever. And you will be. Believe it. Being here below with us fortifies everything. Your bones are not like attic glass, dear, you are of concrete basement blocks, mortar, iron and steel. Today there’s material stronger than steel, but we don’t have access to it yet. We might not need it. Our strength comes from genesis bones.
And our beauty is the stem of all living things for we are all living things. Our beauty gallops on the hoofs of many creatures, our beauty brushes dusk and dawn, our beauty reaches far beyond Eve.
jacklyn janeksela is a wolf and a raven, a cluster of stars, & a direct descent of the divine feminine. she can be found @ Thought Catalog, Luna Magazine, Talking Book, DumDum Magazine, Visceral Brooklyn, Anti-Heroin Chic, Public Pool, Reality Hands, The Feminist Wire, Word For/Word, Pank, Split Lip; Civil Coping Mechanism anthology A Shadow Map & Outpost Rooted anthology; & elsewhere. she is in a post-punk band called the velblouds. her baby @ femalefilet. she is an energy. find her @ hermetic hare for herbal astrological readings.