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An Open Letter to the AMPTP

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  To the membership of the AMPTP: Ladies, gentleman and variations thereupon, my name is Sheri-Lynn Gleason (aka C.P. Crowley). In the interest of transparency, I am not a member of SAG-AFTRA or the WGA (yet). My involvement and employment in this industry is peripheral at best. That, however, does not that I do not have thoughts on what is not happening for these unions. What you all need to accept is the hard truth that without the artists who make the product that makes you the money you are selfishly hoarding, you will not be able to make the product that makes you the money that you are selfishly hoarding. Do you see how that works? I know some intrepid keyboard jockeys sold you on the idea of art made by artificial intelligence. Those people don’t understand the meaning of art and, as you are making painfully evident, neither do you. All they and you see is product. Something to be bought and sold. As a consumer and a creator myself, I can tell you that it is so very much mor
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The Emotional Intelligence of Art

 Like everyone else, I have found myself spending a lot more time on social media since March of 2020. (Gee, wonder what happened.) One of the very first things that I found myself missing - desperately - was human contact. Hugs, face to face conversations over a good meal or a cup of coffee, concerts, all the good stuff that comes with human experience. However, it would seem that some people... don't miss it. Or maybe they just don't understand it. Over the last year or so, I have been seeing more and more companies and apps offering A.I. generated "art". I'm not just talking about visual arts. I recently heard an ad for a company that sells A.I. generated books that wannabe authors can put their names on and make a buck. I have seen A.I. generated screenplays that look like they were written in English then translated into Japanese, then into Russian, then into Klingon and back into English. This isn't art. None of it is. It's just regurgitating informa
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Someone Else's God - A Poem

 Thoth and Seshat call to me And tell me to seek knowledge  And share what I have learned But someone else tells me "My God says no" Loki calls to me And teaches me the importance Of chaos in maintaining balance But, again, someone else tells me "My God says no" Aphrodite, Freya and Oshun call to me And help me find beauty and love Within myself, within others and in the Divine Someone else tells me "No. My God doesn't work that way." My Gods don't need to make threats to keep me They lead by example Teaching me to think, to love, to lead They teach me how to be human Someone else's God has a lot to learn This is what' it's like trying to explain my spiritual beliefs to others... to "someone else". Someone else can't relate, so they tell me I'm wrong. It's exhausting. 
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Wisdom of the Kitchen Witch

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         This was not the post I had planned for this Samhain Eve. I had this whole thing about the beauty of death and decay that autumn represents, but this one hit me this morning and I thought it was slightly more pertinent to more people. (Note: I typically need a full bottle of red wine under my belt to wax this philosophical, but I assure you that I am completely sober.)           When making my coffee today, I thought I would grab my mom's old kitchen witch mug. It being one of the most important Sabbats for those of us who honor the old ways, I though she was appropriate. What I didn't think about until my first few sips of the magic bean water was all that she represents to me and what that means in the grand scheme of everything.           She's been in my family for almost as long as I have been alive. We moved from Chicago, IL to Salem, MA in March of 1985. I was about 4 and half at the time. She was one of the first things my mother bought in Salem. The shop s
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Accounting for Time

            It was seven o’clock… on the dot. I never had to look at the clock behind the counter. I always knew. The old man told me.           The old man was Hank Miller. Hank was one of the longtime local characters in town. He was someone everyone saw, but no one ever actually knew. Hank was a CPA who operated out of a small storefront office on the main drag, across the street from the café where I worked in college and now own. He was a man of his time. He was a man out of time.           Old Hank hadn’t changed anything since the moon landing. He wore the same crew cut, the same black trousers and black wingtips, the same short sleeved white button-down shirt and the same skinny black tie. Every day for fifty years. I doubt he ever changed the prescription of the vintage horn-rimmed glasses he wore. The overall effect was that of an extra from Apollo 13 or The Right Stuff .           Like clockwork , I purred under my breath when I saw Hank ambling up to the door of his
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Seeking Loose Spirits

Hello, ducklings.             If my note on Quarrelsome Women wasn't enough of a giveaway, I have been buried up to my bountiful bosom in research on the Salem witch trials. Why have I been cartwheeling down this well worn path? Because I hate myself, apparently. I'm joking (kind of). I decided to write a novel and I chose one of the lesser known but terribly interesting victims of the trials as my central protagonist.              Why would I say I hate myself? To start, I am not a historian. I'm a hobbyist. I don't have the patience or education to decipher seventeenth century handwriting or make sense of the non-standard spellings used. Praise Danu for the advent of standardized spelling and the Palmer method of penmanship. I will say that, particularly in the case of Salem, trying to recreate the dialect based how certain words are spelled in the transcripts has been a fun challenge for someone who is obsessed with language, which I am. I can definitely see the bu
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Quarrelsome Women

  Quarrelsome Women A Poem by C. P. Crowley   We are the Daughters of Lilith The True first Woman The first to refuse to be cowed The first woman to demand equality The first to make her voice heard We are the Witches of antiquity So called because we refused to accept our lot in life Because we dared to challenge the Will of God To challenge the Will of Men Because we dared to live life on our own terms We are the Children of Loki The Queer Ones, the Lesbians, the Bisexuals We are Cisgendered and we are Trans We ignore the so-called Natural Order And live and love as our hearts tell us We are the Mothers Who chose our families, by marriage, birth or friendship And we are the ones who cannot or choose not to have this We are the ones who choose to walk a solitary path But may we never forget that we are not alone We are the Quarrelsome Women We are the ones who raise our voices We are the ones who stand up for those who cannot raise theirs We are All Co
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