The Adventures of Melody Andrewsdottir,
Lady Shaman

Editor’s note:  Following is a continuation of a Mysterious Manuscript I discovered while dumpster diving.  It is the story of Melody Andrewsdottir, once the humble keeper of the only thrift shop on Rodeo Drive, now Lady Shaman to the Rich and Famous.  Preceding installments told of how she met Naomi Chortling Wolverine and the legendary Josephine Takaflying Leaphorn (from the Mysterious Tonyman Hills), and became involved in the quest for the sacred wedding waffle iron.  Due to age and the elements, the MS suffered greatly, and I am greatly indebted to Professor Neil Dreary, professor of shamanism and origami at the University of Northern South Dakota at Hoople, for his transcription.

Through the esoteric and etheric techniques I learned from the famous actress Laverne La Lane, I did numerous past life regressions and discovered to my immense surprise although I knew it perfectly well, I had been perfectly wonderful in many past lives as well.  It seems that I had been Cleopatra, the Queen of Sheba, Queen of the May, the Whore of Babylon, the Virgin Mary, Mary Todd Lincoln, the Queen Mary, Mary Queen of Scots, Dred Scott, Madame Corvettesky, and Hunk-Ra.  Not in that order, of course, I’m not stupid, you know.  Vain, venal, and ignorant, maybe, but NEVER stupid.

Anyway, the strain of all these past lives was beginning to show–several of my black roots were turning gray.  So I turned to one of the great pioneers in the self-delusion movement–Dirk Pigpen, the Santa Monica shaman.  I hoped for enlightenment, I hoped for the raising of my sequential vibratory frequencies, I hoped for a professional discount.  And so I was finally admitted to see him, his Bushido-trained bodyguards reluctantly letting me close to him–administering only a few admonitory chops and kicks to my Bushido.  The marks would fade.  He reminded me of several movie stars–almost as tall as Robert Redford, almost as handsome as Charles Bronson, with an attractive aura of Jack Daniels and equine perspiration about him.  He smiled inscrutably.

“Breathe completely and relax deeply;  deethe breaply and collax repletely; seethe cheaply and collapse repeatedly,” he said, opening our session and my kudzu.  “Through the inclement power of your little mind, see the white light of the void, a protective white light, come down from above, enter your left nostril, exit from your right ear, glance off the bathroom mirror, and enter your navel.  You are sooo relacked, completely relacked….”  And so he went, and as I gently fell into a wide awake state of being sound asleep, I could only think and wonder.  “Who does he think he is?” I thought, “and I wonder why he never pronountheth that final eth thound on wordth.”

Still, he made a wonderful impression on me, pointing out that the dharma of my karma was safe from harma in Parma.  Or something like that.  Anyway, I hopped the next jet for Parma.  On the way, I made a stopover in Hawaii to see the renowned Polynesian poobah, Lint Kahuna Queen.  What an imposing figure he made, doing the hula, with a pyramid-shaped paper hat on his imposing head, a small ball of wadded-up Saran Wrap and aluminum foil taped to each of his imposing kudzus.  “Welcome to New Mexico, white woman,” (*)  he smiled, and I realized with a start of terror that here was an in-joke that would make sense to only two people in the entire world, and I wasn’t one of them.

*  For an explanation of this in-joke (sorry, only THIS one–for the rest, you’re on your own) go HERE.

This episode of Melody first appeared in The Shaman Papers Volume Two, Number Four, Winter 1990.  That issue included a lengthy somewhat personal letter from the editor which will be excerpted in that very same NEXT entry at SuSu’s place, plus…

• 
  
  a review of Urban Shaman by Serge Kahili King, PhD
  
  
• 
  
  article:  Stones and Geode Journeying

The Adventures of Melody Andrewsdottir,
Lady Shaman

Unfortunately, the Mysterious Manuscript detailing her adventures has become more and more illegible, and has been forwarded to the University of Southern North Dakota at Hoople for examination and testing.  Their work should be done in time for the next issue.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Following episode two of Melody, in Fall of 1990, The Shaman Papers consisted of a news release announcing the formation of The Denali Center for Holistic Health and Personal Growth, and a single-page Letter from the Editor:

With this issue, TSP will go on a bit of a hiatus.  The enclosed news release will give you an idea of what is going on.  When you read this, I do not know where I will be or what I will be doing–hunting diamonds in Arkansas, scaling Devil’s Tower, doing psychic readings in Montana, whatever.

This is a big step and a big challenge, especially for one who had had a civil service job for over 18 years, and who lived his entire life within 30 miles of the birthplace.  But the wheel turns, changes happen, and life goes on.

One interesting change which I have not spoken of publicly before is a change in religious orientation.  Once a Seax-Wicca solitary, I am more and more leery of any religion with capital letters.  The best I can come to defining my own beliefs is animism, pantheism, and reincarnation.  But I don’t so much as believe in these things as know these things.  I know that the mystery of the infinite is in all things, I know that all things have their spirits (or consciousness resonance matrix, as Larry Cornett puts it), and I know I have been here before, and that I will be back.  What has all this to do with shamanism?

Off hand, I dunno.  Maybe this is just some editorial self-indulgence.  On the other hand, John Muir wisely observed that when we try to pick out any one thing by itself, we find it to be hitched to everything else in the universe.

…

Finally, everyone who reads this–please keep in touch.  My personal correspondence has suffered greatly lately due to the demands of getting ready to leave my job and move to Alaska.

 

The Adventures of Melody Andrewsdottir,
Lady Shaman

EDITOR’S NOTE:  Following is the continuing transcript of a Mysterious Manuscript whch I found whilst browsing through the neighborhood dumpster looking to augment my casual wardrobe.  In the previous installment, Melody Andrewsdottir, while running the only second-hand thrift shop in Beverly Hills, met the mysterious Bushwa Indian woman, Naomi Chortling Wolverine, and learned about the Society of the Sow, a network of powerful, enlightened, compassionate women (plus a few moody bitches), whose mission it is to heal the palnet, keep the men from killing each other, and make sure that everyone burshes and flosses–every day!  On to the story….

The world peace and all that was one thing, but getting everyone to brush and floss–every day?  It seemed hopeless.

“That is a tall ordure,” I said.

“We are a tall group,” she replied.  And I suddenly realized I had a crick in my neck from looking up to speak with her–she was nearly seven feet tall.  No wonder I had never heard of her.  And was my digital watch still marinating?

While getting off the plane at the jetport that was a mere ten minutes’ cab ride from her obscure Indian village in Erewhon, she explained why the sacred wedding waffle iron had to be returned.  It seems it was not the thing itself, but the power supply, a nuke plant about the size of a loaf of Wonder Bread.  And it was in the hands of the man who would become my most fearsome foe–Mad Dog.  “Is he so named because of his disposition?”, I asked.

“No.”

“Is he so named because of his looks?”

“Nope.”

“Then why the hell is he so named, ” I asked.  This inscrutable Indian bullshit gets irksome at times, as my friend Carlos Castthenetin can tell you.  And will.  For the right price….

“He is so named because of his favorite beverage, MD 20-20.  He kept seeing pink kachinas when he drank Thunderbird.”

I was taken aback.  I had heard of the red man’s weakness vis a vis booze.

“And how will I know him?” I asked

“Your kudzu will tell you,” she replied.

And so it did.

I spent the next few days or weeks or years preparing myself to confront Mad Dog and recover the sacred wedding waffle iron.  During one of my many vision quests, I sat behind a huge dune and my power animal came to me–Muad D’Ib.  Still later, I learned the power gait, the power stroll, the power saunter, the power limerick, and the power mower.  Truly, I was becoming a woman of power.

And I learned more about Naomi Chortling Wolverine, the mysterious Bushwa Indian woman who got me into all this.  It seems she was a mid-ranking member of the Society of the Sow.  Although she was not a pipe carrier, she was a carrier of the sacred pipe cleaners.  The pipe carrier herself was the legendary Josephine Takaflying Leaphorn.

TO BE CONTINUED….

This episode first appeared in Volume Two, Number Two of The Shaman Papers Summer 1990.  That issue also included:

• A shamanic solstice ritual


• Review by Crow of Nevill Drury’s Elements of Shamanism


• Another round of the debate on what makes a shaman a shaman


• Quotes to impress your friends and awe enemies:

It may be that those who do most, dream most.
Stephen Leacock

When we all remember we are mad, the mysteries
 disappear and life stands explained.
Mark Twain

A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY!

The Adventures of Melody Andrewsdottir,
Lady Shaman

Episode I

(Editor’s note:  Students of shamanism will be familiar with the concept of synchronicity, when things seem to coincide, but in reality are all bound together.  Recently I was browsing through the neighborhood dumpsters looking to augment my casual wardrobe when I came upon an odd wicker basket affair, which seemed to be stuffed with a roll of paper towels.  I dragged the whole thing home, thinking maybe I could burn the basket in the fireplace and recycle the paper towels.  Imagine my amazement when I discovered writing on the towels–I had discovered a Mysterious Manuscript.  This took place, by the way, when the moon was trine Scorpio, and Daylight Savings Time had just begun.  Following is a transcript of the MS–it may not be 100% accurate, as the MS was written in lipstick, which I later identified as Revlon #127, Kiss My Kudzu Coral.)

When I look back over the last few years of my wonderful life, and how I went from being a modest Beverly Hills shopkeeper to being Melody Andrewsdottir, Lady Shaman and Healer to the Rich and Famous, I can only conclude that no one deserves it more.  Certainly not the jealous redskins who picket my workshops.  Anyway, it all started one day in my shop on Rodeo Drive, the only second-hand thrift shop in Beverly Hills.

It was a slow business day–nearly three in the afternoon, and I had made only one sale, a small jar of Eric Severreid’s plaque.  That would pay the rent for the day, but just barely.  The market for periodontal memorabilia was soft.  Suddenly I noticed it.  Her, I mean.  Such presence had this individual, such charisma, such body odor, that I will never forget the thought which came to mind:  “What is this person, what does she want, and how do I get her the heck out of here before she scares off a paying customer?”

She appeared to be an elderly Indian woman, although there was a certain youthfulness about her.  She was dressed in a style I later learned was endemic with Bushwa Indians–black hightopped Keds; ankle-length bowtie-dyed skirt; and a Boston Athletics t-shirt.  Her name, I would learn later, was Naomi Chortling Wolverine.  Her long flowing hair was tied back into a bun–a Sara Lee egg bagel, to be exact.

“May I help you, madam?” I inquired, not without a bit of spleen.

“Perhaps,” she replied with a touch of bile.”

“Indeed,” I riposted, not without gall.”

“Look, this is getting us nowhere,” she said urgently.  “We are running out of organ metaphors, we are halfway through the first page, and the plot is just barely getting off the ground.”

Although I didn’t know what she was talking about, I immediately knew what she meant.  Although I lacked shamanic certainty, there was a certain something there which told me there might be other alignments and aspects and. . .

“This is the deal,” she said, breaking into my internal monologue.  “The sacred wedding waffle iron must be returned to the Society of the Sow.”

“Say what?” I replied.  Of course I knew about the sacred wedding waffle iron–what second hand dealer to the Rich and Famous didn’t?–the wedding gift from the Slaw of Cole to Jackie J on the occasion of her marriage to that geek…  uh, Greek!  Sorry Ari.  But this business of the Society of the Sow was beyond me.

“The business of the Society of the Sow is beyond you at this time,” she said, amazingly.  “It is a world-wide network of powerful, enlightened, compassionate women–plus a few moody bitches, to be quite frank.  Our mission is this–to heal the planet, keep all the men from killing each other and us in the bargain, and to make sure that everyone brushes after every meal, and flosses–every day.”

The world peace and all was one thing, but getting everyone to brush–and floss–every day?  It seemed hopeless.  “That is a tall ordure,” I said.

TO BE CONTINUED:  Next issue, Melody meets the legendary Josephine Takaflying Leaphorn; learns of her adversary Mad Dog; learns the secret of the sacred wedding waffle iron; and much more.

Melody first appeared in Volume Two, Number One of The Shaman Papers, Spring 1990.

That issue also included:

• a review of Amber Wolfe’s In the Shadow of the Shaman
  
• Michael Harner on crystals and shamanism
  
• Totem Notes by Flying Eagle
  
• news of the discovery of an 8-foot, 17,000 lb. crystal
  
• and a few quotes:

“How glorious it is–and also how painful–to be an exception.”
Alfred de Musset

“It is characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.”
Henry David Thoreau