Learning Day: Basic Witchcraft

I finally know what’s wrong with me. Why my chants go unanswered. Why my most illiterate enemies still reign, a hundred animal sacrifices later. Why none of my piss-grenades work.

Magick’s real, I just lack fundamentals.

Foundation matters. Channeling spirits without knowing your circles is like running for mayor without an accuser. You’re not ready for midtown demons. They’ve labeled your future kids terrorists before you light the first candle.

My soul needs years of training, and fuck that. Someone else can slow down and humble themselves before the universe. What can I play at double speed?

Finally. Thank Demeter. Is Demeter right? A spiritually-tuned VHS should get me magick’d up by 90’s standards, and those warlocks had attention spans. Then I can conjure hip alt goddesses. And invoke obscure deities for magick.

Basic Witchcraft graced VCRs in 1989, to help aspiring witches ditch the adjective. The hosts, armed with public access production and cult sincerity, convert skeptics into believers, believers into experts, and experts into nothing. I assume “Advanced Witchcraft” is buried in the LaserDisc archives.

Interesting. This once said Action International Martial Arts Association. If I’ve learned anything reading here, newspaper comics lead to padded walls. If I’ve learned a second thing, flashbangs were someone’s second worst creation. If I’ve learned a third thing, anyone with a liger should be in prison. And if I’ve learned a final thing, it’s that karate and magick are twins. The pit you fall into first depends on your favorite D&D class. If it’s not monk or wizard, I don’t get you.

An organization by that name’s still around, focused on the teachings and products of Grandmaster Hee Il Cho. A master of Tae Kwon Do, entrepreneurship, and 1997 Dreamweaver.

We laugh, but some seek mastery at all costs. It leads to extra sanity. Try it sometime.

Lee still offers perfectionists training DVDs for every belt level, which is nice. I’d love to know what kicking secrets the blue belt DVD hides that green eyes weren’t ready for. The Grandmaster isn’t involved in Basic Witchcraft, so you’ll have to work out the nuances of punching spirits yourself. Maybe a staff made of red candlewax?

Basic Witchcraft isn’t listed today, sparing mankind an open spell race. Maybe the nuke count isn’t inspiring, but our rulers have done well containing magick. In fact, I haven’t seen it in my life.

Unfortunately, that success also left me casting at a pre-k level. Along with my entire generation. If mage war comes, we’ll lose it faster than the trade one with less dignity than 1812. Let’s close the spellbook gap.

Basic Witchcraft opens on a candid bit of culture—a classic mistake. That draws clowns the way empty chairs invite spirits. We, the children of Attell, are ravenous and must insult to feed.

The dancing’s wonderfully stilted. One senses that this is the rec center version of the ritual, shielding young witches from gangs and elder witches from dying alone. The spring fling, like everything else, is narrated by Gruntilda. We get her real fake name, (Breeson) about 36 minutes into the video, but by then I’d settled on Gruntilda. Unnamed characters draw the children of Attell, like sitting in the front row.

Grunty’s a bit different than the witches we’ve slandered so far. For one, she has about ten robed minions. She calls them her coven of equals, but they enter and exit the film at her whim. That’s minion behavior.

The real distinction’s her delivery. Gruntilda didn’t come to act, but has to for this to exist. She delivers everything with a slow, even, flat affect. Whether it’s competent apathy or incompetent passion, she sounds like a substitute teacher in Faerun. I played a punching machine, so there’s novelty here.

The scene reaches for enigmatic, risks insane, and lands on goofy. Gruntilda introduces the Way of the Wise next to a New Age hoe-down. Hollywood’s hard-wired me to link robed chanting with imminent death, and I’m still stuck on a pajama party reinventing square dancing.

As for content, strap in. The group fitness was a lure. Like Abragail before her, Gruntilda came to fucking play. But while Abragail spiked punch bowls with menstrual blood, Grunty took enrichment classes about biblical angels. We get witch history on full blast before anyone draws a circle or waves a branch.

Yeah, we’ll be here for a while. You can’t teach good luck charms without proper context. That’s how you get Von Dooms. Especially since witches draw mockery, or so I hear. Imagine, if you can, an entire industry steered by vengeful ahistorical egoists.

Aw, it’s a love story. Shame to learn we couldn’t outthink cows or notice snow, but it’s nice to see people come together.

Like I said, a love story.

A lawyer would love that “mostly.” It takes pesky questions about how we got this tape without a smiting, and tells us to get fucked. An unmedicated sci-fi writer might wonder, however, if this leaves us in a dark forest scenario. Are sufficiently magickal civilizations snuffing each other out at random? Does every love potion risk elves casting Eliminate Monkey VII? Did the Inquisition have a motive beyond “because Jesus?” Am I six hundred words into a draft?

Sorry, thought spiral. Won’t happen again.

Gruntilda hits familiar themes, if you’re into Christian mythology (as in bible monsters and the like, calm down) or know a few madmen. Mankind’s a ten, and half the Great Old Ones paid for dates in spellbooks. The lonelier half responded to competition with apocalyptic violence. Instead of finishing this joke, let’s talk about Hello Kitty. Sanrio says she’s not a cat! Wild. That’s counter-intuitive, like burning Earth over dry dick.

Okay, that’s two spirals. Before we move on to actual spells, know that she monologues while staring into the camera like a Watcher just invented it.

Back on her compound, Gruntilda explains the four phases of spellcasting. Based on my outline, there are at least twelve. Fair: this is Basic Witchcraft, not Emerging Ideas in Soul Barter. Gruntilda’s just getting us on the broom.

Said phases are preparation, opening, activity, and closing. In theory. If your weekly workload fits current trends, preparation’s out. And if your executive function fits current trends, closing’s gone too. Leaving open hellgates in the sink unites magick strivers and burnouts. Still, we might as well try preparing.

First, there’s breathing. Know how to breathe? Then let’s keep moving.

Sorry, some jokes cut reality in line. Gruntilda actually says ritualistic breathing, and it’s a whole fucking production. The simplest part is posture—your desk slouch/phone slouch/lifting slouch/perfectly natural slouch poisons your mana.

Grunty suggests a familiar pose for gathering your energy:

Analyze her t-posing form. It’s pretty complex.

Wonderful. Next, it pays to find the right spot.

I’d ditch my group, since sirens foreshadow sore ribs. You might be paler. Just try not to burn down your state. Outside works, if your neighbors aren’t the type to burn you first. As you can see, magick’s setup time is not crisis-friendly. The Inquisition zerged their way through a generation of casters.

We’re almost ready to breathe. You need to inhale with the right mindset:

Skip any wacky porny visualization, the point’s relaxing. Unless your kinks peak with eye contact, trysts with sitcom spouses will just waste magical energy. Think serene, like a brightly burning mayoral manor. See the sparks gently leaping from blackened wood. Hear a cheap lock melting, trapping all bald life. Smell bacon. Feel the pro-am camera in your grip, preserving the moment forever.

Zen.

Wait, don’t exhale yet! You’ll fucking kill us all! Exhale, and demons own the planet. Forget the news, these things have a hundred hands, fifty dicks, and sane plans. Unless you think Mammon will piss himself if Tesla dips, hold your fucking breath.

Hold it in. You need the right uniform. For a traditional option, Gruntilda suggests a homemade tabard and directly notes that you can cut it out of a bedsheet. Gruntilda doesn’t give a fuck if you laugh, and I love it. She’s here for the students awake in front.

Hold it in. If toga parties aren’t your jam, you can skip clothes altogether. Once again, Gruntilda demonstrates with zeal.

Now, exhale if you’re cool with killing us all. Otherwise, first it’s time to choose: magick or Christ.

Hold it in. Sadly, I can’t help you here. My advice on witchcraft vs. Christianity just makes me sound like a dick, and I have a brand to build. Gruntilda could also be talking about other faiths, but no she isn’t. Her mailbox isn’t full of death threats from Jainists.

Picked one? Dope. Breathe away. Congrats on your newfound fun hobby/ruined Sundays. I hope your room’s bigger than mine, because you’re gonna need a lot of gear.

Now that you’re naked in a lightless room, Grunty’s sending you out for supplies. Maybe you have a knife, chalice, candles, small bell, stone tablet, giant homemade protractor, pure well water, and more candles sitting around. If so, see you next year for Advanced Witchcraft. The rest of us are still new, and would appreciate some privacy while we learn to land on the skateboard without eating pavement and turning every keystroke of Sucker Punch recaps into both kinds of agony. In theory. That’s a joke.

Correction: having this junk around already doesn’t help. You’re not allowed to mix your normal knives and witch knives:

For reasons known only to The Watchers, this is the longest part of the video. And it’s a shopping list. Not even the scam shopping list we’ve grown numb to. More of this stuff is at Home Depot than the Action International Martial Arts Association website. In fact, none of it’s on that site. Maybe you can use the disc as a tablet, if you’re cool pissing off primal forces. Just make sure to reject Christ first.

The protractor’s my favorite piece. It’s a craft project dedicated to drawing a larger-than-usual circle. Which you then cut into stone in a second craft project. Juno’s safety goggles should be on the shopping list.

While I scan Temu for flint knives (I suspect that my belief that it’s flint is enough), Grunty defends pentacles. Again, I don’t know why. We’re a half hour into a legit (in intent), fuckery-free (in intent) witchcraft tutorial. Anyone watching’s either fine with album covers, or committed to bombing the compound. The Satanic Panic wasn’t known for fence-sitters.

Help me out here. What’s the best word for losing an argument you started, on an issue you’re right about, against no one? The best I have is straw suicide.

Also, how’s this flashlight knife look? The seller says it’s flint. Along with carbon steel, magnesium, no refunds, and dreams.

Just kidding, I’m an unstable American. I’ve got more weapons than books, and I have a lot of books. That sounds troubling, but I get bored and they’re cheaper than eating out. Don’t worry: I don’t know how to use any of them. Now, back to joining a fringe religion.

The woodworking segues nicely into a long, theoretical discussion of pentacles. To keep this shorter than a Watcher’s life: each point’s a direction and an element, except the fifth. That’s a “non-directional dimension of mystery.” I’d mock that non-committal, geographer-taunting line for a year, but half of this shit is sharp or hot. I need to focus.

After our pre-pre-magic, we can cast a pre-magic spell: the consecration of the stone. I suspect the Watchers are fucking with me for making fun of fake magic. This is too much magic. Give me less magic. I don’t even own a bandsaw.

That’s exactly what I’d say, if Gruntilda didn’t become a god.

Majestic.

Then, just when I’m ready to give a finger to carpentry, Gruntilda’s friend turns up and says it’s not that deep. We’re halfway in, and haven’t heard from another soul until now. It’s extremely jarring. He’s appeared out of a non-directional dimension of mystery.

Ser Roc (Sirrak? Ciroq? Are we clubbing?) just draws a circle.

Done. Spell time.

It’s a familiar moment, if you’ve ever fallen down a fitness hole. One source suggests dropsets of Sumerian Post-Lunges at dawn, while rubbing protein-rich paste into your gums. The other suggests squats.

There’s some wiggle room between the two. I might just draw the circle.

You’ve got a carpenter on speed dial. But can you rhyme, all the while? Shit. I need practice. My hard drive’s mostly Meshuggah in flac.

Early in my archmage career, I thought that magic was just making shit up. Another lie of the Inquisition. It’s really making bars up. Take this chant, rhyming fire with desire.

It’s your workaday love potion. The magick version of the Swollen Tiger Powder in every gas station. And while red peppers and Pentacle Trigonometry 203 are both key, Gruntilda underlines that the active ingredient’s imagination. The witchier you think your rhymes and pop-locks are, the witchier they will be.

Gruntilda and Ciroq explain this phenomenon. Well, they don’t. But they discuss it and flail through some sample spells.

Fun? What kind of mortal bullshit is fun? I’m not making a hoodless klan outfit for fun. Or writing 3000 words of spiritual bullying, watching a pass/fail course for incense addicts, and comparison-shopping bandsaws for fun. I’m saving and/or destroying the world. Once you accept magick as real, dicking around with broomsticks and talking paintings becomes detestable. Fuck fun.

Still, the first two reasons track. Etrigan doesn’t rhyme because he’s the best, he’s the best because he rhymes. Next, Ciroq teaches a rap for opening magic circles, which is helpful if you’d rather read a poem than build a table from scratch. I’ll pocket that for later.

For now, it’s time for magic’s other crowd pleaser: escaping poverty. If you’re still stuck in the market, cast this twice:

Sorry, wrong notes. The other crowd-pleaser’s hexing your ex. Draw/3D print a pentacle, and think of whoever left that monthly “birthmark” on your lip.

The fuck?

The fuck?

Oh, bullshit. Someone paid money for this, hand over the breakup rap. Is it “No Scrubs?” “Kim?” “500 Miles,” spoken backwards? This is one of the three magick things. You’re skipping Hello, World. What am I supposed to do, freestyle whatever over my $200 rock?

Oh. This is one of those baby bird moments. Got it.

Yeah, we’re ready to graduate. Any final lessons, Grunty?

Sounds like we’re done. Any parting words?

Yeah, I totally memorized that. You too, right?

We get a handful of disclaimers on the way out. Standard orientation week stuff. Take the love potion’s warning to avoid rape:

Ducking the issue, aren’t we? Technical difficulty isn’t the problem with casting Summon Rohypnol IV. It’s like trying to teleport citizens to Santa Ana. Your wizard hat’s the fifth biggest problem in play.

Oh, there are also safety warnings on the way in. Mostly “you must be this enlightened to ride” boilerplate:

Eat broccoli, wear knee pads, don’t inject that, whatever. I might draw the safety circle, if I can find a nice pen. But, as a completionist, here’s Grunty’s closing warning. It’s a little stronger.

Sounds like jedi D.A.R.E. Drinking all day was pretty sweet until the last part, so I’ll take my own counsel.

Fine, I guess power warps people that aren’t me. I hear and respect that. I’ll only use the Watchers’ gifts when necessary or hilarious or I’m pissed or the 1 train fucks with me.

Let’s do this shit.

Pascal’s wager is half-assed emotional terrorism, so I never did well in the pews. But I’m all in on the sunk-cost fallacy. An hour of magic lessons demands a stress-test.

First, breathing. Done.

Kidding, there’s too much tryhard in me. I got this far by holding my childhood underwater until it stopped kicking. You know, “DEI.”

Step one, happy place.

Soothing. Now, uniform and location.

Adequate. Next, a fancy circle.

One with a personal touch, since the coven said energy’s important. My blood’ll get on it eventually. There’s also a cheat sheet with 1/10th of today’s pentacle facts.

Whatever’s wrong, ask Gruntilda. But just in case more oomph helps cover my tracks:

Think of it as threatening the Watchers.

Failing that, the following rap was good enough to make Ciroq’s looseleaf magick. So I should be fine. I’ll recite it to the backbeat of “Euphoria,” the most powerful curse of our era. The rest was a victory lap.

It’s charged. If I turn back now, I can never take myself seriously again. If I finish, I can never take myself seriously again. Perfect. Ego kills the drive that built your ego.

Now to rap. My lyrical influences are Meshuggah, Snow Crash, and bands that sound like Meshuggah. We’ll see how it goes.

Hmm. I don’t feel different. But it’s an interpretive art. The results might be interpretive too.

Oh. I’ve mocked powers above my weight class again.

Nothing to panic over. Growing pains. During the next full moon I’ll god damn it.

I picked this topic in bad faith, and remain full of bad faith. I love bullying and bullying loves me. So it burns that my quest to deride everyone that thinks differently turned me into a fucking witch.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Elizabeth Shope who reminds us that mocking a VHS coven is all fun and games until you accidentally join it.

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