Hereditary Witches

So you reckon your granny taught ya? A true aficionado of ye anciente crafte? Well lemme tell you something about Victorian times. A good domestic meant a very well versed knowledge in herbal medicine, because in those days it’s not like you could dial 911, let alone trust any of the doctors or their medical facilities. Indeed, the average household cookbook read much like a medical handbook. As for social entertainment- despite all grand expectations of perfect demeanor, these were megalomanic times, aspiring some of the wildest dreams of avarice. It was not enough to entertain your guests with the most elaborately planned exquisite dinners. Social clubs were full of profligate braggarts, spinning the most fantastic yarns of exotically dangerous places and superhuman feats in the most extraordinary circumstances. Anything that tickled any sense of awe over the great unknown was highly fashionable. As women were expected to serve little other role than household management, this rather limited their means of entertaining the enigma, to that of the occult, and no doubt where the term "parlor tricks" came from. Any truly entertaining parlour came equipped with at least a tarot deck and a Ouija board. Of course reading the grounds in the cup was a must after every tea ritual. Mind you, that doesn’t mean the men were exempt from the esoterica scene. Rather, they had their secret societies of illuminati, which with the reconstruction of Stonehenge, gave rise to a whole host of "druidic" practices within the higher orders of their OTO. It was out of these the Golden Dawn, and subsequently Wicca was quintessentially born. Some would like to think being privy to these "secrets", will grant them some kind of special magical powers of omnipotence. Face it, if that’s what you want to believe, you're obviously barking up the wrong tree. The big difference between you, DaVinci, Fucanelli and especially Tesla. As has been said countless times before, the term "witch" can’t even begin to define true adepthood. Even tapping the bone à la 1734 isn’t gonna wing it. There was someone who could have told you, as not all the cryptic rantings of madmen are necessarily deluded. Too bad you couldn’t tell the difference and drove him away- and that for all the paperback fantasies of your hero in a shiny tin suit. You and all your self-assuming masters of "it is written". That’s all what it really amounts to. Elitist social role play and an anal fixation on a few scribbled recipes of medieval hermetic hocum. The sleeper will never awaken.