(Photographer: Daniel Bran Griffith, the Chattering Magpie)
I have discovered over the years a very unique subgenre of witchy woman in the Pagan and Occult community… that is the archetype of the Death Hippie. And they are by far my most favorite fringe. These are loving women, beautiful women; dancers, crafters, body and sex workers. Their style of dress varies slightly, going from spooky boho with loads of Mori-type layers of clothing only matching in hues, to an industrial Goth abandoned in the woods. They have these huge hearts which they wear openly on their small-breasted chests…the kind allowing them braless freedoms I can only be envious of. Sometimes these breasts are pierced, tattooed, but all are fierce in their stature.
Death Hippies smell better than regular hippies…there is no overwhelming patchouli and body odor that floats after them. These creatures smell of the deep loam from moss-covered cedarwood, old boxes of frankincense, whiskey vanillas and delicate roses. Their unshaven legs and underarms are soft, barely there as they did not succumb to modern pressures of femininity. Their souls are feral, their minds sharp and their bodies shaped to reflect the haunted houses they live in.
They are embodied in their spirituality, which is something inspiring. Yoga in candlelit darkness, the slow heavy metal music reflective of their sensuality…the doom is replaced with a sticky sweetness only found in pure rot. Transformative, the Death Hippies are musicians, artisans and mediums. Their psychic vibe is a low hum on the roof of my tongue…it makes teeth vibrate. They taste like the iron of blood and sweet kombucha.
The Death Hippies are not to be mistaken for soft, squishy, love and light basic bitches. Oh no. They are sisters of the Gorgon, daughters of Hekate, lovers of Lilith and queens of the Morrigan. They love fiercely, they defend with a rooted love that gives an ability to reach up and spread terrible wings, a hurricane of invisible blades to cut and destroy in a wake of compassion. They are targets, often underestimated and primal in their magicks. Their witchcraft is raw.
These women, these Death Doulas and Sacred Whores, these braided and caring women bring a seriousness to an otherwise lofty lifestyle. Bones adorning their hair, dirty fingernails not of neglect but recent digging for roots, I welcome them to my table. Their gluten free, dairy free, organic meat diet is compatible with my personal palette. They enjoy and feast, smacking grease-reddened lips. They bring herbal wines and smoking mixtures, carrion wings and goat horns, gifts of glutton and underworld in nature. Strong herbal teas flavored with honey or darkest coffee mixed in heavy cream, it is the lushness of flavors these Death Hippies are drinking from glass mason jars.
So I raise a cup of Chai, made with soy milk and infused with magick, to the dark dancers of the Arte. I offer praise and blessing to these rustic lovelies, like dirty lace falling from dusty altars. May their didgeridoos and shruti boxes ever ring true. May their perfect toenails match their painted eyelids. And may pleasures be manifested from the pains of their surety.
(Photographer: Daniel Bran Griffith, the Chattering Magpie) I have discovered over the years a very unique subgenre of witchy woman in the Pagan and Occult community… that is the archetype of the Death Hippie. And they are by far my most favorite fringe. These are loving women, beautiful women; dancers, crafters, body and sex workers. […]