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Chapter 8. The Making of a Seiðman 203
and disinformation; if everything worked out right, they quickly became one of the
corpses below.
By 1990, I had become one of the big names in my field. Whenever anybody
talked about who was actually doing cutting edge research my name always came
up with my group of cronies. For quite a longtime this made me feel good about
who I was until I realized that I was pretty much alone. Being King of the Hill is
great but it is also very lonely and the corpses who form the foundation below don’t
make for very good company. Most people did not want to be around me for any
great length of time. They were bored by my narcissistic tendencies. My family had
left me, my children didn’t want be around me, and my friends quit calling.
It was during the same period of time that I started to drink more than usual.
“Usual” meant every evening. However, I was spending many weekends alone, drunk
and often passed out. Looking back at the period of time I realize that I had burnt
every bridge that I had. My breaking point came fast and hard.
One morning, a week after being fired from a good job “because of my attitude”
I woke up and realized that the game was over. All my luck had been squandered
away. From an Asatru point of view I was on the brink of death. Without luck,
a human body cannot survive. Intuitively, I knew this. I resigned myself to my
apartment to wait for death. I would like to say that death never came but it did.
I never, to this day, have recovered any of my luck. On that day I became one of
the walking dead.
Now, if I were in the reader’s shoes, I would certainly question this last paragraph.
“How poetic! How romantic sounding! But obviously you’re not dead since
your writing this book!” Then I would roll my eyes upward and make one of those
sighing sounds that I often make one I’ve had my fill of a New Ager’s rant. Let me
just say that I’m not being poetic or romantic. That which I had built up over a
time of 35 years completely fell apart before my eyes. I didn’t care whether I lived
or died, whether I ever saw my children again. I walked the streets of my small
town in a daze, hollow-eyed, and severely underweight. I didn’t care if I was clean
or dirty, if my teeth were brushed, or if my hair had been combed at some point in
the last week. My clothes were full of holes and were often dirty. Although I hadn’t
had drop of alcohol to drink during that time I walked about as if I were in the
middle of a blackout and, in a sense, I was.
My consciousness, my hugr, was not often inside my body at the time. In general,
my body was simply animated and my hugr would check in every once in a while to
see if it was still alive. This is a common definition of death for Asatru or anyone
else for that matter. The soul separates from the body, then the body is buried
or burnt. In my particular case, however, the body didn’t die (although some who
knew me at that particular time would say that whether my body had died or not