The Importance of the Trickster Trixie

The Importance of the Trickster by Trixie

Iwas sitting under a cool and drizzly October sky when a man dressed in a red mask with a huge penis flopping over the top of his head came straight over to me from the center of the courtyard. As he skipped over, the giant ribbed wooden dick on his belt swayed like a bright pink pendulum. The white yak wool spraying from the tip of the phallus caught the breeze, flowing back and forth with the rhythm of his steps.

Maybe he chose me because I was the only foreigner on that entire side of the plaza. Maybe it was because he could sense that one reason I had come was to receive his blessing.

Into his hands, I put three tiny penises—talismans from the famous ‘penis monastery’ Chime Lhakhang. ‘Sooooo small’ he said in broken English, ‘tiny, tiny, tiny’, he laughed. ‘Mine BIG’ he swaggered…’you soo, sooo tiny’. A similarly costumed friend had joined him by this time— and he laughed with him, joking in their own language.. And, gently, he handed me my tiny penises back.

I was at Thimpu Teschu, three days of ritual Buddhist dances and plays in the royal palace grounds of the largest city in Bhutan. Over the hours, spectacularly costumed monks spun and leaped in ethereal religious dances. Elegant silk-costumed men and women joined and separated in beautiful choreographed routines. Masked players retold some of the great magical stories and parables of local Buddhism.

But always, alongside them were these atsara, mocking the moves of the beautiful women, thrusting their huge dicks at the swirling monks, teasing and taunting. At one point, they ran into the audience and took up red monks’ robes. Then, in the center of the plaza, under the gaze of the most important Lama in Bhutan, they mocked every aspect of monks’ temple blessings—from mooning the high lama in mock prostrations to a

water fight using the silver-spouted teapot used for dispensing holy water at sacred shrines.

Throughout the day, myriad dancers and players came and went, but the atsara were always there—tirelessly playing their important role. They were the bridge between the audience and the performers, between the sacred and profane,

between austerity and debauchery. I felt a brotharound the circle. It seems the shaman was lost, erhood with these characters who represent what and they muddled the word marakame as they I consider one of the most important aspects of asked every single person jokingly—are you the Faerie magick: the comic, chaotic, magical, sexy maracuya (passionfriut)? Are you the macrame (it role of trickster. seems we’ve lost our plant hanger)? Here in the

Sometimes we intentionally play the trickster, dark, in a haze of dust and peyote, they dissolved and sometimes the trickster plays us. Like a huge the distance between me and the shaman, asking juicy fart that comes ripping out during the quietme to find my own inner marakame with a hint of est moment of a high holy mass—the trickster the ridiculous thrown in. knows just the right moment to burst into the After a time, the marakame reappeared, wearmost reverent and sacrosanct moments, reminding a grass mask— his hands filled with oodles of ing us to not take things movieri (feather-tipped so seriously. blessing sticks). This

Watching these atsara time, he himself was the that I realized how crititrickster, mocking his own cal they are to the energy of the space, and how much the trickster embodies what I consider to

Sometimes we intentionally play the trickster, and sometimes

ritual. Where the shaman blessed and sacrificed a living breathing sacrificial calf, we were given cornbe core to my identity as the trickster plays us. meal ‘calves’ for the mock a Radical Faerie, and one of the great gifts I feel we as a community offer the world.

Like a huge juicy fart that comes ripping out during the quietest moment of

But the trickster does a high holy mass—the pulling back the veil, helpmore than just lighten the mood, he/she sparks us to question our reality and to walk between

shaman to bless for our own personal ‘sacrifices’. This straw marakame was both clown and teacher,

trickster knows just the right moment to burst into the most reverent

I was in a small Wixárika community above Tepic, in central

ing us to realize we were the real shamans in this ceremony, that the real magic of transformation worlds. and sacrosanct moments, was within each one of us.

reminding us to not take things so seriously.

We stayed awake through the night, a man know who you are ). with a whip keeping us from sleeping, a rasping �� So take a moment and give a nod to your inviolin periodically calling us to dance weaving ner trickster, that part of you that loves pushing infinite loops around the two sacred fires in dusty boundaries, offending and delighting, and genercircles. At one point during the timeless night, ally stirring things up. Don’t be afraid about we were allowed a slight respite to sit down. That the occasional bitch-slaps that come with the was when I noticed the marakame (shaman) was territory—for your wisdom, humor, and magick gone. is more healing to the world than you could ever

The dozen or so desert pilgrims then went imagine.

As we faefolk brew our own rituals from ingredients far-and-wide, Mexico for the homeI wanted to remind us of coming of a dozen or how important it is leave so pilgrims. Scratched a seat of honor open for and sunburnt, the pilgrims had walked from the the trickster. Whether it’s calling the four direcsacred desert of Wirikuta to the ocean shrine of tions to the tune of the Hokey Pokey at a memoAramara. Now, they were returning to the village rial for a fallen brother (thank you Paradox), or with gifts of wisdom and medicine, including the having someone try to pee on you while you’re sacred jicuri (peyote). singing your heart out at a no talent show (you