House's curse has been lifted, but I'm suspicious enough (of a last second psych-out) to petition the help of Papa. (Our tickets for Mozart's Requiem - the performance we're booked to see tomorrow night - and free coffee from Starbucks arrived on the same day. I promised Papa that he could have one (the coffee) if I could have the other.)

He wanted pancakes. At that very second. Fucking pancakes when I had a million things to do and I was super insanely high on an indica that was barreling through me.

(I KIND'VE SORT'VE FORGOT TO MAKE A SPIRIT PLATE YESTERDAY. THE JAM AND STRAWBERRY SMOTHERED PANCAKE? (FROM YESTERDAY.) WAS FOR MY DECEASED MOM. I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THERE ARE SOME HURT FEELINGS I WASN'T PREVIOUSLY AWARE OF.)

We negotiated; pancakes within seven days.

Mothering Sunday breakfast: homemade drop scones, raspberry jam, fresh strawberries and pineapple guava juice.

Cooling recently boiled hawthorn berries (to make hawthorn syrup) while a cover of Purple Rain plays in the background.

After he was stroked, after he was fed, after he was watered, after he was held, after he was told I was going to help him shed the excess baggage he didn't need anymore I carefully lowered his body to the ground.

He grunted in agreement. (I know WHY and HOW he did it; that doesn't matter. What matters is that just after I finished asking him the question he immediately answered.) The very first thing I did after stepping out of the shower was push a bowl of dry cat food underneath the bed for Under the Bed Badger.

NO, IT ONLY FUCKING HAPPENED //AFTER// I FUCKING HELD A BADGER FUNERAL, BURIED THE FUCKING BODY, CLEANED THE MESS UP, DISINFECTED EVERYTHING, HAD A SHOWER AND WAS WAITING FOR MY FROZEN PASTA DINNER TO COOK IN THE MOTHERFUCKING MICROWAVE.

(NORMALLY? NORMALLY I DON'T HAVE A CHANCE TO BURY THE FUCKING BODY SO THE JOB GETS DONE THE NEXT DAY. TODAY? THE FIRST DAY, EVER, THAT I MANAGED TO SPIRIT BOND, SKIN, BUTCHER, FREEZE AND DISPOSE OF THE CARCASS IN ONE SITTING. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.)

AWESOME PACKAGING, ISRAEL, AND I'M NOT JUST SAYING THAT TO KISS THE ASS OF THE FUCKING "HOLY LAND". (<- Last year? Last year Italics bought the Holy Land candles - for our annual marriage ceremony/ritual - and they never arrived. This year? This year I bought the Holy Land candles and they JUST BARELY managed to arrive. IT'S LIKE THE CHRISTIAN MAIL KNOWS I'M NOT PURE OF HEART, OR SOMETHING.)

Ancestral (I'm 7/8ths Ukrainian (and 1/8th Lakhota, but I favor my Ukie genes for obvious reasons)) heritage folk art goodness. My mother was an exceptional Ukrainian embroiderer and pysanky maker, but when she found out we had Indian blood she dropped everything remotely Ukrainian and let the Native American thing completely consume her.

I've been cross-stitching since childhood, so creating samplers isn't entirely new (or taxing). What I haven't done before is create pysanky (REAL ones, I mean, not the colored Easter eggs I doodle ancient Ukie symbols on with a black Sharpie marker). I've been desperate to learn the art, but my fear of being just "okay" the first time around has held me back.

(LOOK, IF YOU'RE AN AUTISTIC ARIES YOU'LL TOTALLY UNDERSTAND WHY EVERYTHING YOU DO - EVEN IF IT'S THE FIRST TIME - HAS TO BE ABSOLUTELY MINDBLOWINGLY PERFECT, OKAY? NOT TO MENTION THE FACT THAT THIS PARTICULAR AUTISTIC ARIES (WHO HAS TO BE AMAZINGLY SPECTACULAR AT EVERYTHING SHE DOES) HAS THE WEIGHT OF HER HERITAGE SITTING ON HER SHOULDERS WATCHING, WITH GREAT INTEREST, HER ATTEMPTS TO LEARN, CREATE AND EXALT A SACRED ART FORM OF HER ANCESTORS.)

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I laughed when I found a cross-stitching pattern for a pair of sirins in my Russian Folk Needlepoint Designs book. (Not exactly Birds of Joy and Sorrow, is it?) I'm going to tweak the design to give the girls a pair of gravity defying sirin tits because, Jesus, isn't that what being a harpy is all about? (<- I WOULDN'T KNOW BECAUSE I'VE ONLY EVER VIVIDLY HALLUCINATED THAT I WAS A SPHINX SO THE ONLY ANTHROPOMORPHIC CREATURE I CAN RELATE TO IS A WINGED LION WOMAN WITH A FANTASTIC RACK.)

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More patterns from my vintage Russian design book. And, also, my left hand and wedding ring. (One of these days I'll be getting a "purity ring" to wear during Lent. Until I get one, though, I'll continue wearing our matching rings to ensure that everyone - and everyTHING - knows I'm taken.)

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More reading material for a witch who doesn't read. (I CAN'T ACTUALLY SAY THAT. THE INTO THE WORLD OF THE DEAD BOOK? I TOTALLY, TOTALLY READ IT IN ONE SITTING A FEW DAYS AGO. THAT DAMN THING, ALL 49 PAGES OF IT, IS THE FIRST FUCKING BOOK I'VE READY IN //YEARS//. HOW DID I CELEBRATE THE MOMENTOUS EVENT? I BOUGHT ANOTHER BOOK (ON MAKING SALVES AND TINCTURES AND LOTIONS).)

The African black soap? My biggest beauty secret. (No, seriously!) I have thin, sensitive, oily and problematic skin (<- an interesting mix of Indian and Ukrainian genes) which really limits my ability to use cleansers, toners, creams, lotions and moisturizers. For whatever reason my seriously fussy skin absolutely fucking LOVES this soap. Blemishes, period pimples, blackheads and dry skin disappear within days of daily use which officially makes the black soap a magic eraser given to us by God. (And now you know the secret, too. <- YOU CAN THANK ME LATER.)

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Another recently bought vintage book that I can't wait to sink my teeth into. (The pages? Beautifully aged yellow. The sort've dusty old look that makes you feel you've just acquired a long forgotten magic tome. <- JUST BECAUSE I DON'T READ, DOESN'T MEAN I CAN'T APPRECIATE BOOKS.)

I spent a third of last year finally getting acquainted with some of the indigenous plant life and getting an idea of their natural growing environments. (In other words, I scoured the local countryside for edible plants and mentally marked where the best blackberries, brambles, gooseberries, elderberries, rowan trees and hawthorns grew since they were crazy safe to eat and I wouldn't accidentally misidentify them as something else. <- HAVEN'T FOUND SOLES OR CRAB APPLES YET, BUT I'M NOT GIVING UP, DAMMIT.)

This year I want to extend my knowledge, but I want that knowledge to incorporate native (i.e., Scottish) folklore and ancestral (i.e., Ukrainian, Russian, Slavic) folklore. So instead of learning one thing (i.e., Wikipedia stuff) I'm focusing on three (Wikipedia stuff, Scottish stuff and Slavic stuff) thanks to my innate talent for making things more complicated than they need to be.

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I don't have the freedom to decorate the house because we cohabit with my in-laws in Italics' childhood home. While our living situation might stop me from hanging shit on walls, it doesn't stop me from buying shit to EVENTUALLY hang on walls.

In this picture's case it was a pair of vintage prints from the same Ebay seller: a non-fairytale Dulac (LARGER, CLEARER IMAGE HERE!) and a mysterious little conjuring number by George Soper (LARGER, CLEARER IMAGE HERE!).

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I rediscovered an original watercolor that Italics gave me as a birthday gift last year (or was it the year before last year?) shuffled amongst old letters, postcards and newspaper clippings. I know he bought it off Etsy - after I sent him the link - but for the life of me I can't remember the artist's name (or her Etsy username).

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STUFF. Glorious, magic, vintage middle eastern and Slavic themed STUFF. (<- YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE HOW MUCH I LOVE //STUFF//. GOD DEMANDED THE BEST OF THE HARVEST AND THE BEST OF THE FLOCKS, I DEMAND STUFF (AND CHOCOLATE AND FRANKINCENSE, BUT MOSTLY //STUFF//).

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Handmade decorated hair sticks made by a Ukrainian artisan for my Medusa hair. (I struggle fucking DAILY with my hair. While my genes might've favored my Native American bloodline for pubic hair (EVEN MY BIKINI WAXERS HAVE COMMENTED ON MY REMARKABLY ROBUST AND COURSE PUBIC HAIR) they totally favored my Ukrainian bloodline for head hair. I have baby fine waist length hair which looks CRAZY AWESOME AMAZING when made-up (and in photos) but has a wandering life of its own. To keep it in place I normally sweep it up in a bobbing ponytail or bun, which Italics hates (HE PREFERS MY HAIR TO BE FREE-RANGE) but it keeps me sane while doing housework.)

My new hair sticks are resting on one of my new khokholma pieces. I'm trying to incorporate more Ukrainian paraphernalia into my spiritual practices and I figured the beautifully painted folk art of khokholma was a good place to start. I now have four pieces, not including the egg cups I know that Italics got me for my birthday.

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I collect a lot of things - antique/vintage table linen, unfinished embroidery, green depression plates, old spoons (to name a few) and pieces of old horse brass. I already use the pieces ritually (as decoration), but I'm planning to get a leather collar made so I can physically wear them - ponygirl-style - as ceremonial jewelry. Once I get my harness made I can then focus on the next important aspect - the tail.

Because I'm all WAR! (AND OTHER STUFF THAT WILL NOT BE SPELLED OUT IN CAPS LOCK, BUT //WILL BE// MYSTERIOUSLY ADDRESSED IN A DISMISSIVE WAY) I identify and have a fondness for the Queen of Spades. But the good Queen is the Queen of Air, and I'm fire which means I'm technically Queen of Clubs. (I'm reluctantly trying to embrace clubs while wistfully glancing at spades; life's tough, I'll get over it...eventually.)

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Candles from the Holy Land that just barely managed to arrive. I have a bizarre fondness for old skool Christianity (especially if its Russian Orthodox) and incorporate some of the religion's images, concepts and celebrations into my spiritual life. These candles are typically burned during Easter by devout followers of Christ, I'll be burning them during our wedding ceremony when we celebrate the marriage of the resurrected king to the virginal Spring bride.

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They were $3.00 USD! Handmade! From Ukraine! How could I possible say NO to miniature emblems of ancient Ukie life? (OBVIOUSLY I COULD NOT.) The bestest part? The scythe is roughly the same size as all of my hair sticks which means this Ukrainian witch can wear a scythe IN HER FUCKING HAIR. (<- DON'T MESS WITH THIS REAPER.) The axe - which is delightfully sharp despite its small size - has already been claimed by Wadjet, but that's a whole other entry.

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To my delight and surprise I found these vintage sterling silver middle eastern earrings in my TO SEND! box. (<- "TO SEND BOX" = GIFTS WAITING IN A LARGE CARDBOARD BOX TO BE PACKAGED UP AND SENT TO FRIENDS.) Somehow Italics accidentally (mis)placed the padded envelope containing the earrings in my outbound mail box around Christmas and I found them last week when clearing it out. They're absolutely gorgeous, but crazy insane HEAVY.

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Some Slavic countries observe a strange tradition on Easter Monday - spanking women. It's an old practice - and ancient practice - that bestows good luck, good health and beauty for the following year (and also allows a man to (not so subtly) announce his attraction to a certain lady). Because the play spanking/switching (switches and whips were made from fresh tree branches, decorated with ribbons) is considered a blessing it's customary to give a gift of an egg in return.

Last year was the first year we observed Spanking Day. After getting thoroughly spanked I laid a large golden egg in Italics' hand. (<- LITERALLY. ADMITTEDLY, IT DID POP OUT AND HIT ITALICS ON THE FOREHEAD WHEN I HAD A STONED "OH MY GOD WHAT IF I CAN'T GET THIS THING BACK OUT AGAIN?" MOMENT AND PROMPTLY SHOT THE EGG OUT OF MY VAGINAL CANAL WHEN HE WAS PERFORMING ORAL SEX ON ME. THE EGG WAS MORE CAREFULLY LAID THE SECOND TIME AROUND, JUST AFTER AN ORGASM, STRAIGHT INTO HIS HAND.)

I gave Italics an Easter egg - a real shell hollowed out, painted and then filled with chocolate - as his egg payment last year. This year? This year I got a sterling silver egg charm for him to add to his charm bracelet. (<- I KNOW IT'S TOTALLY NOT MANLY TO HAVE A CHARM BRACELET (OR TO BE GIVEN A CHARM BRACELET), BUT WHEN I GAVE ITALICS THE BLANK ANTIQUE BRACELET IT WAS LIKE GIVING HIM A BLANK DIARY. WHENEVER ANYTHING SIGNIFICANT HAPPENS WE FIND A CHARM THAT COMMEMORATES THE EVENT, AND WE ROUTINELY ADD CHARMS OF ANIMALS OR THINGS THAT ARE SOMEHOW SIGNIFICANT TO US.)

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Finally, a pipe to call my own! We have a ritual bong (which sits on my nightstand altar), we have one or two pipes for out of the house smoking (when in the house we congregate at the BONG BUCKET to do rockets together) but until about a week or two ago I didn't have a personal pipe for private use.

My dear friend (and one of my favorite witches), Carolina Gonzalez, sent me a witch-themed package a few months back which included her homemade Lord Krishna Smoking Herbal Blend. I was so fucking excited that the very first thing I did was NOT SMOKE THE HERBAL BLEND OR OPEN ANYTHING UP, AT ALL. (When the mix fell into my little hands I knew I had to make an EXPERIENCE out of using it, which meant finding and buying the right pipe.)

CAROLINA, I FINALLY FOUND THE RIGHT FUCKING PIPE; YOU'LL BE HEARING FROM ME SHORTLY! (AND WHEN I MEAN "SHORTLY" I MEAN MY VERSION WHICH YOU ARE ALL TOO FAMILIAR WITH.)

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The second khokholma piece I bought last month. This one's more subtle and faint than the usual in-your-face boldness that I associate with khokholma designs. I only paid £0.54 for the wooden barrel - not too shabby for a glorified stash box, right?

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I don't really know what the fuck this is - neither did the seller - but I DO know that I liked it, and after several episodes of bad Ebay luck I was hellbent on winning this particular item. It's the perfect offering stand/mini-altar, you can fit a stick of incense (or a flower stalk) in the "vase" perched on the rim and you can leave little trinkets, tokens or candies within the dish itself.

Because I identify with the concepts of FERTILITY GOAT and SACRIFICIAL LAMB I chase after cloven hoofed ritual items, but lately I've been attempting to widen the net to incorporate animals that are exceptionally significant to me (i.e., rabbits, foxes, crows and large felines). When I saw the roaring/yawning lion dish the Leo in me (I'm Aries with a Leo ascent) said THIS IS A GOOD FUCKING PLACE TO START.

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I HAVE AN INEXPLICABLE PASSION FOR NOVELTY SOCKS (PROBABLY BECAUSE I INHERITED BAD UKRAINIAN CIRCULATION; I SLEEP WITH SOCKS ON IN FUCKING //SUMMER//, SERIOUSLY) THAT ITALICS ONLY ENCOURAGES. (THE "NOT LISTENING" AND "I UNDERSTAND, I JUST DON'T CARE" SET ARE TOTALLY HIS DOING. <- YOU SHOULD'VE SEEN US LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY AT THE CASH REGISTER WHEN PURCHASING THEM. <- IT'S THE //LITTLE THINGS// THAT MAKE A RELATIONSHIP, YOU KNOW?)

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OH, GOD, THEY WERE REDUCED TO CLEAR AND I JUST COULDN'T RESIST. I mean, at least the Lady's Mantle is good for WOMAN STUFF and the Golden Rod should make the bees happy way into autumn. (That's what I told myself, anyway. In reality I'm a Midwest girl transplanted in Scotland who kind've sort've misses the flora of her childhood. <- I HAVE NOT SEEN MILKWEED IN OVER TEN YEARS. PLEASE SEND HELP. AND WHEN I MEAN "HELP" I MEAN ENVELOPES STUFFED WITH MILKWEED SEEDS.)

This is the sort've question that strikes dread in my heart because 1.) I hate to disappoint and 2.) I haven't really found a succinct way to sum up my sort of witchcraft/my beliefs, at least not in a way that satisfies me. Everything I do, everything I believe in I built from scratch with my bare hands. (I do appropriate concepts and images, but I redefine them using personal experiences. There's nothing more powerful - or spiritually meaningful - than what you, yourself, have experienced during your lifetime. That's the sort of intimacy that makes up the foundation of my practices.)

I feel that using books, sites or other people is counter-intuitive, they dilute the significance of things. I want something pure, something totally from ME that hasn't been influenced by outside sources. I do, however, understand the importance of books, sites and people; I just feel that a huge majority uses those resources as crutches, or free templates of belief because they're too lazy to engage with themselves. The more you lean on something, the less you're standing on your own two feet.

I think we MAY have crossing interests, so I'll point you towards my Amazon wishlist. A lot of the books listed are more "how to" (i.e., cooking, making candles, making soaps, taxidermy, preserving - things that HELP me practice, rather than teach me how or why to practice), but there are books with chthonic, plant folklore, herbal medicine, mythological and divine woman/goddess themes as well.

I also recommend checking out the diaries, blogs and journals of witches that I follow. (Left side under "READING" on Graveyard Dirt's index page.) Especially Sarah (Witch of Forest Grove, I think you're already familiar with her) who's compiled lists of books on various witchcraft related subjects, and Carolina (Carolina Gonzalez) who's proof you can live the dream.

I hope that my response hasn't deterred anyone from asking questions. I love answering questions, I love explaining what I do, why I do it and how I came to doing it, I just can't teach what I do. I can show you how I live, but, at the end of the day, people have to live for themselves.

Yesterday I sat in front of the backroom's patio door while working on unfinished projects, soaking up the early Spring sun as middle eastern music and cheap ass lemongrass scented incense filled the warm, comfortable silence. (I don't meditate; I'm too high strung. I can appreciate the calming loss of reality, though, through repetitive movements like popping dried rowan berries off their stems and into a crystal vase.)

Dried clusters of rowan berries? Sorted. (I snapped off every fucking viable berry into a vase - only accidentally knocking it over once (see the picture above) - and transferred the lot into another jar. The remains - unsightly berries and brittle, empty stems - were added to our burning pile.)

(Since we can't compost we ritually burn things and I incorporate the ash into our spiritual lives - sometimes we scatter the remains at sacred sites as offerings, other times I use it as fertilizer for our plants and around this time of year I use it to create a paste to anoint our bodies and bed frame for purification as late Winter turns into early Spring.)

The limpet shells? Next in line to get sorted. (We collected them two days ago when beachcombing a little cove next to Dunnottar castle. That story? Requires an entirely new entry; stay tuned.)

The entire neighborhood thinks we're weirdos. And, for once, it's not entirely MY fault. (YES, I DO saunter around the house naked without pulling down any blinds and YES, Italics and I are the freaks that are up in the middle of the night with all of the lights on in the house and YES, it was my decision to leave illuminated stars hanging in the kitchen window despite Christmas being long gone but are we the ones responsible for the dirt yard outside (long short? father-in-law dug up the entire lawn outside a few years ago and left it as dirt, hence "dirt yard" instead of "front yard") and the two broken cars - both parked indefinitely, one partially obstructing access to our street? NO.)

I almost blew a fucking gasket when my mother-in-law had the audacity to complain that the opening of our driveway wasn't getting plowed. FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WOMAN, CAN'T YOU SEE THE RED FUCKING OBSTACLE YOU PARKED //LAST YEAR// IN FRONT OF THE FUCKING HOUSE? CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE HOW LARGE VEHICLES HAVE TO GIVE IT A WIDE BERTH? CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE HOW MUCH OF A FUCKING INCONVENIENCE YOU'VE CREATED FOR EVERYONE ELSE?

(I'd like to add CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE THE ABSOLUTE FUCKING HATED AND IRE DIRECTED AT US EVERY FUCKING TIME SOMEONE HAS TO FUCKING NAVIGATE AROUND THE BROKEN CAR YOU DECIDED TO FUCKING PARK IN A TINY RESIDENTIAL STREET BECAUSE YOU'RE TOO FUCKING LAZY TO DISPOSE OF IT LIKE NORMAL FUCKING PEOPLE? but I can't, because I know she's never gotten the POINTED LOOK OF UNADULTERATED HATRED from drivers due to NEVER BEING AROUND TO EXPERIENCE IT.)

The WORST part of all of this? The car actually disappeared for two weeks. One day I glanced outside and noticed something was amiss, but it took me a few seconds to realize what it was. ("HOLY SHIT THE RED CAR'S FINALLY GONE!") Thank fucking God, I thought, now I don't have to feel embarrassed when a complete stranger throws me a nasty fucking look. For a fortnight I could MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH PEOPLE AGAIN, and not just because I felt obligated to offer some sort of silent, lame ass apology for the aggravation.

Internet, it reappeared fourteen days. At first I thought I was hallucinating, but a harder look out the window confirmed the car wasn't a figment of my imagination. And then? (<- As if it couldn't get any worse.) And then we got hit by several blizzards. I can't even fucking imagine what the snow plow folk must've thought (and felt) when they swung into our little street and saw that the red nightmare was back. (If we get hit by one more snowfall I swear on all that's fucking holy and divine THEY'RE GOING TO DEMAND A HUMAN SACRIFICE FROM THIS HOUSE.)

I apparently missed the memo that we were going to start leaving empty bottles of wine next to the stock pot, heating tray and stale ass Pringles. (I seriously wonder what goes through my in-laws' minds before bed. Granted, this isn't as funny as the time I found the car keys in the cutlery drawer. <- WTF?)

(Maybe it was the daffodils beginning to unfold on the window ledge. Maybe it was the sinuous trails of incense smoke that curled and stretched in the bracing March breeze. Maybe it was the skin warming sun, streaming through the northern window. Maybe it was the music creeping out of this house through all the open windows and doors, magically capturing the essence of celebratory hopefulness that comes after a long dark winter of the soul.)

Standing in front of my daffodils peeling potatoes Spring arrived, and I silently cried in victory.

Further proof why you can't take me //ANYWHERE// (especially old historic sites of national importance).