Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

I Washed and Hung My Wedding Dress

I didn't know it was supposed to snow, so the static beneath the streetlight caught my eye. "It's snowing outside," I said to Italics as he had his shower. Steam rolled out into the hall as precipitation illuminated the bruised sky. I left an offering of vodka and food, whispering Tibeh yeast-eh, Baba. to the middle of the night. The clouds parted and the crescent moon shone.

"Maybe I'll get my period tonight," I mused, kneeling over THE WHITE OUTSIDE BUCKET. The offerings sat, perfectly still, perfectly dry. The cats hadn't come around, and it was still too early for the crows and blackbirds. I thought of snow, briefly, and then inhaled smoke on all fours, remembering what snow-diluted vodka tasted like.

Four thirty in the morning and something pulled an internal string, drawing it between my legs and up into my lower stomach. There was blood, rust-colored pieces of coral on white quilted fabric. The blood that's more flesh than blood. "I got my period," I shouted to Italics, the bathroom door open, wiping myself just as my eyes caught the static beneath the streetlight, illuminating the once again bruised sky.

Notes: Remember to take pill on Easter. Moved apron to bedroom. Spanning from Feb. 16th (the late evening) into Feb. 17th (the very early morning).

Gethsemane

"All roads lead to me," She said. Nearly two years on I can still remember every marbled hallway, every earthen corridor, and every mask She showed me. I looked too hard and the brilliant veneer was gone, realization washing away the richness and the opulence, leaving cardboard facades and track lighting where there once were temples and the greatest of all cathedrals. “It’s a set,” I said, and without changing everything changed, and She was there, white and black, amused and all-knowing, the beginning and ending, casually leaning against a flimsy cut-out as my voice echoed through the empty set. “It’s all a bit Hollywood around here,” She explained with wink.

SON YOUR BLACK PEPPER

So on Thursday, the 13th, I discovered Hank was rotting. Somewhere between floating to the patio doors to watch the dwarf flowers rustle and gliding past the turntable I noticed leather where there was sun before. Christ, Hank, I thought, my stomach sank, and I found myself reacting to an entirely fictional story with too much reality. It was expected, anticipated, and really fucking futile – but, when it finally happened, I still managed to feel disappointed.

(HANK YOU ASSHOLE, YOU SAID THAT YOU’D BE WITH US FOREVER!)

Hank’s now in intensive care (aka: the white plastic serving tray at the bottom of the recently cleared bedroom dresser which suspiciously smells like stale incense and pot) and not expected to recover. We’re hoping he’ll last until Easter where he’ll be gutted, carved, illuminated, and then buried to rot with our nonperishable offerings from 2007 so future Hank juniors will flourish “from his seed”. (Ahem.)

Hank, of course, brought it down on himself. It’s the ultimate price an artist pays for his art. (Add a precocious young girl as a daughter and/or love interest for some edge. Now we’re proper Channel 4.) Just last week I caught him on the decks, surrounded by half-empty bottles of booze. Somewhere in the mix were scented cigars and a fractured coffee cup stained light brown. SOMEWHERE IN THE MIX THERE WAS A WRITER’S DEATH. Without thinking, while cleaning out the bedroom for a “deep clean”, I set up an unintentional shrine and altar. It was Hank, and everything that was Hank was there. A week later I found leather; crocodile skin crawling up thick orange ribs, Hanksxtc. (Santa Muerte’s hand even touches the most inauspicious of creatures, the gourd.)

Jesus, Hank, you fucking asshole. (I still love you, you know.)

There are three gardenias where there once were four. (I noticed the triangular pattern when I was watering the plants on Friday, the 14th.) This’ll be their first season after your virgin pruning. You didn’t kill them; don’t ever be afraid to prune again in your fucking life. (Life will continue to find a way of living.) Keep watering them, and make sure the rocks stay moist – we might have a blossom for your birthday with some nurturing. (You did what even your mother couldn’t do it, and you did it blindly.)

Gifts have been brought back from the States. Italic's 4/20 gift, and card set. 4/20 gift is right; keeping from giving it to him will be near impossible. I need to just forget about it. (Unlikely. I WANT TO WAKE HIM UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT TO SHARE WITH HIM MY BURNING, TORTUROUS FORCED-TO-BE-SECRETIVE-AND-THUS-SILENT-IN-MY-MIND LULZ!) Card set will be put away for Halloween, and will eventually go MIA until Christmas. (<- A NICE WAY OF SAYING “PENDING I DON’T ACT LIKE A CRACK WHORE ON THE DAY!”)

Tawaret’s come home. (How am I going to lose what I love? GAH.) She’s black; a powder sky blue dust brightens her etchings. (How many times before she’s completely striped of her polish?) She’s warm and cold and perfectly smooth beneath the pads of your fingers. She’s gorgeous (but Italics already knew that), and I adore my new sex pig. For now she’s standing next to the wicker basket on top of the closet. To ensure that SOMEONE IN THIS HOUSE WHO CONTINUES TO BUY ME EXPENSIVE CHOCOLATE DESPITE MY INSISTENCE THAT I GO BACK ON A DIET doesn’t begin leaving her sugar-laden offerings I’ll have to move her where there’s little surface area. (Maybe enough space so a lazy fucking crocodile whose ass should be on the grind can climb onto her back? MMmhmm.)

That one Pazuzu poster that you ran into at least one billion and eighty three thousand times (A CONSERVATIVE ESTIMATE!) on Ebay is now in your possession. (Yessssss…it is oursssssss!) Printed in 2006, was under the impression that it was a little bit older. Originally meant to go above the computer, but then wondered if it’d fit above the wicker bed on the closet roof. (PERFECT FUCKING FIT!) Now you need to remember to GET A FUCKING POSTER DISPLAY KIT THING SO YOU DON’T GO POKING EVEN MORE HOLES IN THE GODDAMN POSTER! (<- This should be written somewhere other than a journal I don’t see on a day-to-day basis! LULZ.)

Incense book arrived, almost too awesome to comprehend. (Now I understand why it’s considered the “bible” of incense making/knowledge.) Flipped through it briefly, and became GREAT HEAP HAPPY when I noticed that some sections were roughly split by ethnic origins and ancient recipes used by ancient people. NEW EXCITING CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE STYLE ADVENTURE AHEAD – MAKE MINE A PSYCHOACTIVE ADVENTURE BLEND WITH COPAL, PLZ! Too afraid I might start crying from the awesome, I put it away without much more than a three page flip. TOMORROW, TOMORROW, TOMORROW.

Find myself thinking about Ma’s old Ghost Beads again. Felt the same sort of antsy, desperate need to have them in my possession. (Felt the same frustration and bitterness that T got them despite the sentimentality. Forget it, never mind. Not worth it, right? We got the earrings, we got the hippo…) Went searching for possible surrogate candidates on Ebay, found the same yellow strand I’ve seen once or twice before. (Liked it enough design wise, but wasn’t sold on the choice of yellow beading. CLEARLY IT DOESN’T BLATANTLY DEMONSTRATE THE COMPLEX THOUGHTS AND EMOTIONS I EXPERIENCE ON A DAILY BASIS!) Went searching on the net, found several stores that carried a variety of designs, but always found myself defaulting to the original yellow version on Ebay. Eventually found a site that offered juniper seeds with holes bored.

INSPIRATION LIGHTENING BOLT!!!

Yellow Ghost Bead necklace from Ebay is currently en route courtesy of Italics. In the next few months several strands of strung juniper beads will find their way into my lap, and half-dozen seed beads of various colors. (NEW EXCITING CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE STYLE ADVENTURE AHEAD – MAKE MY OWN ONE-OF-A-KIND, HAND-MADE GHOST BEAD NECKLACES ADVENTURE WITH A HALF-DOZEN SEED BEADS OF VARIOUS COLORS, PLZ!) I predict a distant future of financial ruin for Italics, unless he has a Producers-like scheme up his non-gentile sleeve. (WAIT, WAIT, LET ME GUESS! IS YOUR IDEA…NOT SOMETHING GAY AND LAME? I DUNNO, THAT MIGHT BE A BIT, WELL, YOU KNOW…MUCH. MAYBE WE NEED TO TAKE THE EDGE OFF WITH SOME RACISM, OR THAT PRECOCIOUS DAUGHTER-MUSE-NYMPHET FIGURE? HOW ABOUT HALF-AND-HALF TO INTEREST BOTH PARTIES? (LOL! BOTH PARTIES WITH THEIR INFAMOUSLY WELL KNOWN DIVERGING INTERESTS!))

Etsy, you are inevitable.

In news that isn’t CHIN EYE, CHIN EYE – I started corning the beef for Ostara 2008, and even managed to NOT BLOW UP THE HOUSE IN THE PROCESS. (Those one teaspoons of sodium nitrate are tricky sons of bitches! DON’T EVER TRUST ANYTHING THAT BEGINS WITH SODIUM AND ENDS IN NITRATE! <- LOL I’LL MAKE SOME EXPECTATIONS FOR THE LATER, LOL!) In a week’s time, if I haven’t forgotten how to follow a recipe, or cook, or lose three or more limbs, or suffer form a serious case of Time Traveleritis, we should have homemade, home cured corned beef.

Oh, and a cannoli cake.

ETA: Our pistol candlestick and Bull Heart tomato seeds from Ukraine finally arrived today. Possibly get vintage Russian leather holster to hold candlestick when disassembled? YES? NO? YES? NO? ...YES, OF COURSE.