Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

In My Defense

ME: When a witch tells you to drink something, you should just drink it.

ITALICS: That sounds like something a witch would say when she wants you to drink something.

Oh, Lord, they learn fast, don’t they?

(In my defense it was just a cup of herbal tea meant to settle stomachs. YEAH, SO, HE HAD A SORE THROAT AND NOT A STOMACH ACHE (DUE TO A HERNIA AND/OR ULCER) AND I GAVE HIM SOME OF MY “STOMACH EASE” FOR IT BUT THE PRINCIPAL IS STILL THE SAME! (I.E., THE HERBS CREATING A MUCOUS LINING TO EASE IRRITATION) It seemed to work, so I’m in the clear...for now.)

(In my defense (X 2!) sometimes you just need to drop a curl or two of pubic hair on top of his cake frosting so he knows who’s really in charge, RIGHT, LADIES? ...RIGHT?)(Also, I did, admittedly, add a teaspoon of SUPER SEXY LOVE SUGAR that I’ve been curing semi-secretly into that cup of tea, BUT, SURELY, YOU CAN’T BURN ME FOR THAT. THAT WAS AN ACT BORN OUT OF LOVE...AND A PARTIAL NEED FOR ABSOLUTE SEXUAL CONTROL, BUT MOSTLY ALTRUISTIC LOVE.)

Wing and a Prayer

Thinking back, now, it seemed so obvious, it seemed so perfect – being instructed to bury an egg beneath the window on nothing more than a wing and a prayer (oh, that time was tragic and epic and the whole “wing and a prayer” sentiment played beautifully in that near final act and is no part, in anyway, an artistic exaggeration or embellishment for my previous bohemian sadness), hoping that, one day, it’d all make sense. Back then, though, the egg sat (Christ, did that fucking egg sit!).

That hard boiled egg sat, nestled in a purple shot glass, from near Fet Ghede (2006) until Ostara (2007) with only a trio of succulents and a handful of Ukrainian newspapers to keep it company. Every fucking day I’d see the damn thing staring blankly at me, making me frustrated that I hadn’t found the fucking time to bury one single goddamn egg like Papa told me to all those weeks and months and days before.

IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN AN EASY FUCKING JOB, YOU KNOW? ALL I HAD TO DO WAS BURY ONE GODDAMN HARD BOILED EGG IN SOME DIRT JUST BELOW MY COMPUTER ROOM WINDOW. It was never the right time, or conditions, or I was too busy, or I’d forget, or I just couldn’t be bothered (which, really, is just an accumulation of everything previously listed) and before I knew it March had come on and the egg Papa traded for back in November had become a permanent resident on my intricately carved, yet almost unusable £5.00 middle eastern wooden table.

(“ONLY A FIVER? FOR SERIOUS? ONLY BECAUSE THE TABLE TOP IS COMPLETELY WARPED AND STARTING TO SLIGHTLY ROLL INTO ITSELF? AND BECAUSE THE LEGS ARE UNSTABLE AND SLIGHTLY MISSHAPEN DUE TO “ONE OF A KIND ARTISTIC CRAFTSMANSHIP”? OH, AND BECAUSE THE LEGS THAT ARE UNSTABLE AND SLIGHTLY MISSHAPEN DUE TO “ONE OF A KIND ARTISTIC CRAFTSMANSHIP” DON’T ACTUALLY FIT INTO THE TABLE TOP THAT IS COMPLETELY WARPED AND STARTING TO SLIGHTLY ROLL INTO ITSELF MAKING EVERYTHING UNBALANCED AND LACKING IN ANY STRUCTURAL CAPABILITY? HELL, WE’RE TAKING THAT FUCKER HOME!”)

After four months it started to smell. Not, like, full on, or very in-your-face noticeable, but something was slightly off. By the time I realized where the very organic scent was coming from a small puddle of liquid had appeared at the very bottom of the shot glass. (I don’t know, I didn’t want to know, I didn’t even bother to look.) I was disgusted, but that statement, surely, could not be fully appreciated unless you knew me completely.

(Long short – way before all of this CSI business became popular I had entered pre-med with the intention of becoming a forensic pathologist; anatomy, dissection, microbiology – loved it, loved it, loved it and excelled in it all savant-style. I’ve butchered animals, fed pets menstrual blood clots, picked apart putrefying road kill, scrubbed the remnants of a friend’s father off a wall, and regularly clean the house toilet without so much as a complaint. I DO GROSS AND SICK, AND I DO IT GOOD BECAUSE, MOSTLY FOR THE MOST PART, IT’S FASCINATING AND WONDERFUL AND TERRIFIC AND MAKES ME FEEL ALIVE AND TALENTED...EXCEPT FOR THE TOILET. I FEEL THAT I COULD REMAIN LIVING AT THIS LEVEL OF ALIVE AND TALENTED WITHOUT HAVING TO CLEAN THE TOILET. (I have surgery hands whose goodness is now only known to liquid eyeliners. LOLOLOLOL, MAYBE SHE’S BORN WITH IT?) With that sort’ve in mind – imagine what would really disgust me. In fact, I don’t even want to think about it...ew.)

But that was when I was depressed. I was Underground, waiting in hopeless limbo for a resurrection that was only supposed to take a few days but took a few months. (It’s easy to get lost down there, and even easier to not find your way back. I GUESS THAT’S WHERE THE BALL OF STRING COMES IN HANDY.) By spring of 2007 I was tired of the whirlpool (which made it even worse since I was the one who originally decided to jump into it, thinking I was one billion percent ready of the consequences because, GEE, I HAD COME ALONG WAY, YOU KNOW? HOW HARD CAN THE ROAD TO A BETTER, MORE COMPLETE PERSON BE?), and in that fed up restlessness I finally did something and broke out of that hollow mould I had been living in – I buried the petrified egg.

“Cailleach Beara, goddess of the changing seasons, renewed her own youth whenever she was tired of being a hunchbacked old woman.” – Goddesses, A World of Myth and Magic

She Sells Sanctuary

It’s 7:30 AM and I’m in the kitchen walking on clouds as The Cult plays in the background. Somewhere in the day dream I’m wearing this year’s wedding dress/the Hag’s apron and mixing honey and brown sugar together while sunshine streams through the kitchen window, touches my back and spreads over the surface of the golden batter. Somewhere in the day dream I’m drinking a forbidden cup of coffee in my Halloween bat mug, having forgotten I promised Papa the first sip, but I know by the time I remember he’ll understand. Somewhere in the day dream I’m lost in the heady daze of pot and brilliant morning sunshine and my body moves by itself, my hips move by themselves, my arm moves by itself, and before I know it I’m all PRACTICAL MAGIC (or whatever that shit film was called) with a cup of instant decaf in my left and Ukrainian honey cookie batter in my right, and I’m both Fire Woman and The Witch and am - almost a billion million trillion percent sure - that they’ll enjoy this anniversary offering.

(The witch, she need a lover, boy - maybe it could be you.)

Ukrainian Honey Cookies
These are more like miniature cakes than cookies and keep crazy well if stored properly. This recipe was yanked from my Ukrainian Christmas book which was written/compiled by Mary Ann Woloch Vaughn. NO NEED TO CREDIT ME FOR THE IDEA OF USING BROWN SUGAR INSTEAD OF WHITE. (That's a joke. NO, REALLY, IT'S A JOKE.)

- 4 eggs
- 1 cup sugar
- 1 cup honey
- 1/2 cup oil
- 4 cups flour
- 2 1/2 tsps baking soda
- 1/2 tsp baking powder
- 1 tsp cinnamon

Beat eggs until thick. Add sugar, honey, and oil and mix well. Add the dry ingredients, blending well. Place in refrigerator 3 to 4 hours to chill. Drop cookie mixture by teaspoonfuls onto greased cookie sheet. Bake at 400F for 10 minutes. Watch carefully to avoid scorching.

Celestial Display

When I first started lactating the drops appeared like perfectly spherical quartz, and, squeeze after squeeze, I was able to watch quartz turn into moonstone (a clear, watery drop of salty tasting liquid with a tiny, creamy bead in the center), and moonstone eventually clouded over into pearl. What started out like salty sweat eventually turned into cream, and I’d roll the moisture between my fingers to feel the lubricated trail left behind until my hands smelled like tepid milk and perspiration. It’s amazing what three pills a day for vomiting, regurgitation, and nausea can do - with a generous helping of the right attitude (which, apparently, is the hardest part.)

It was during Easter vacation, just after four in the morning. We were watching Arachnophobia (OH, GOD, YOU KNOW HOW IT IS – YOU’RE STONED, UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, AND EASILY AMUSED) after watching Interview with a Vampire (AS BEFORE, ESPECIALLY IN THIS CASE) and stoned in that slumped-on-the-couch-and-will-watch-anything-that’s-on-the-channel sort’ve way that usually involves a bong, partial disinterest in whatever’s going on, and little to no clothes. (For, uh, me. IT IS MY HONEST TO GOD BELIEF THAT THE NEIGHBORS HAVE SEEN MY ASS NAKED MORE THAN CLOTHED.) By that point of vacation I had hit clothing rock bottom – long-sleeve man’s button down work shirt, but with nothing beneath, and not even buttoned (i.e., “WHAT? AN UNDERWIRE? DURING VACATION? CHRIST, I DON’T EVEN GIVE A FUCK ABOUT COVERING MY ASS LET ALONE WEARING SOMETHING WITH ANY TYPE OF SUPPORT…”)

Slouched and stoned and naked (FINE, FINE, MOSTLY NAKED LEAST THIS TURN INTO SOME SORT OF “EROTICA” BLOG AND I PRETEND (LOLOLOLOLOL – “PRETEND”) THAT I’M SOME SORT OF HIGH CLASS SEX WORKER SO I CAN SELL MY SALACIOUS AND OVERLY POETIC PROSE TO A PUBLISHING HOUSE BECAUSE HAVING A DEGREE AND CHOOSING TO PROFESSIONALLY WORK IN THE SEX TRADE IS STILL PUSHING THE ENVELOPE IN 2008) and wondering how many movies Jeff Daniels has been in since Dumb and Dumber I noticed a pinprick of moisture at the very tip of a nipple. And that was weird because, like, I wasn’t drinking anything, wasn’t drooling, and wasn’t aware of any ceiling leakage above me, so this teeny, tiny little droplet of water virtually appeared out of nowhere.

At first I was all “Uh…” in that “WOW, SHOULD I TELL HIM, OR NOT? I MEAN, WHAT’S THE CHANCES THAT I’VE STARTED LACTATING? (NOTE: THE MEDICATION I WAS PRESCRIBED FOR MY HERNIA / BROKEN ESOPHAGUS HAS A SIDE-EFFECT OF LACTATION, AND IS OFTEN USED TO PROMOTE LACTATION IN WOMEN WHO OTHERWISE WOULD NOT BE LACTATING (I.E., MOTHERS WHO ARE UNABLE TO PRODUCE MILK FOR THEIR BABY, AND WOMEN WHO WANT TO BOND VIA BREAST FEEDING WITH AN ADOPTED CHILD) – HAVE I ALSO MENTIONED LACTATION?) AND ISN’T ALL OF THIS A BIT HEAVY WHEN I’VE ONLY NOTICED ONE, MAYBE TWO DROPS OF SOMETHING THAT COULD’VE JUST MAGICALLY FALLEN AND STAYED PERFECTLY BALANCED? PERHAPS I’M JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS TOO QUICKLY?” kind’ve way, so I didn’t say anything – at least, not when I first discovered the very first drop when having a piss.

But when the second drop appeared, my attempts to write it off as a freakish coincidence scaled back about sixty or seventy percent. (VERY SCIENTIFIC CALCULATIONS, ALL DONE BY HAND WITHOUT THE AID OF EVEN AN ABACUS.) “OH HEY I THINK I’M LACTATING, OR SOMETHING,” I said (OKAY, FINE, NOT EXACTLY, BUT I DON’T WALK AROUND WITH A NOTEBOOK LIKE RAINMAN WRITING EVERYTHING DOWN SO YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO EXCUSE MY NON-SAVANT ASS) to Italics, and proved my point by wringing a transparent drop of water out of my other breast. “WELL, DON’T PLAY WITH IT,” he said (OR SOMETHING TO THAT AFFECT) which was like telling a teenage pyromaniac not to touch the matches put in front of them. IT WAS LIKE TELLING A HEROIN ADDICT FROM THE LAST 90S, POSSIBLY IN GLASGOW OR EDINBURGH, NOT TO TOUCH THE SYRINGE FULL OF HEROIN JUST SITTING IN FRONT OF THEM. IT WAS LIKE A JOKE THAT IS REALLY OBVIOUS AND DOESN’T NEED TO BE REPEATED FOR EMPHASIS.

Within an hour I could shoot targets several feet away if I squeezed my tit just right. (THE RIGHT BOOB, IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT, THE GOOD FOR NOTHING TIT I’VE ALWAYS ORDERED TO SHAPE THE FUCK UP, BECAUSE I NOTICED LONG, LONG AGO THAT IT’S JUST A LEETLE BIT BIGGER THAN THE LEFT, AND EVEN THOUGH IT’S 100% NATURAL TO NOT HAVE 100% SYMMETRICAL BOOBS I WANT THEM, AND I WANT THEM NATURALLY.) And when you have that kind’ve ability, you are your own most captive audience, and at that moment in time there was no one who loved breasts as much as I did. (PLEASE DON’T TRY AND ARGUE WITH SOMEONE WHO HAS, FOR MOST OF HER LIFE, HELD A LIFE-LONG SEMI-SECRET PASSION FOR LACTATION THAT BORDERS ON FETISHISTIC.)

I anointed my large Tawaret statue with three drops of milk, wrung out of my breast so they could directly fall onto her head. Standing ankle deep in snow, wearing nothing by a pair of Italics flip-flops and an opened robe, I stood in white as even more white fell, watching and listening to neighbors get in their car and drive to work just a fence away as I splattered the middle column of the patio (where I leave our offerings to ancestors and friends and companions so our birds are fed) leaving a sashay of indentations in an otherwise flawless blanket of snow. With snow melting in my hair and on my skin I stood in front of the unintentional computer room altar (the one on the windowsill, the one with the window facing THE MURDER HOUSE), and offered the last of it to Tawaret once again before giving THE (BRUISED) TWINS a much needed break.

It took until dawn of the next day for me to even notice that there was collateral damage. During the rosy glow of sunrise each imperfect dot stood out against the pristine pane of glass and I saw, for the first time, a linear constellation above the heads of Tawaret, Anat, and Sobek. The milk was just opaque enough to leave cloudy specks behind, and the elongated, frosted circles stretched from wood to metal, stopping, with a small cluster of dots, about an inch or two below the wire cobweb with a spider. That was March 26th, 2008 (March 27th, 2008 was the rosy glow of a sunrise), and to this day I haven’t been able to bring myself to wash the graffiti off. (WASH AROUND, VERY NEAR, AND IN BETWEEN THE COLLECTION OF CRUSTED ON MILK, YES, BUT NEVER, EVER WASH IT/THEM OFF.)

It’s like an accomplishment that shouldn’t have been achieved. Every bright morning, every overcast day my eyes are drawn to the window, for just a second, and my attention briefly rests on the celestial display and it’s almost like I have my own personal reminder that the impossible is very possible provided I’ve got the right attitude. (And that’s always been my problem – having a bad attitude. (Just ask my Dad, or even Italics.))

Domestic Variables?

On Thursday, April 24th I finally got around to laying some cards down after a week or two of ignoring Papa’s ass. I initially went for the Halloween Tarot, but made one of my infamous FUSSY FACES when I realized we owned International Icon Tarot (ZOMG HAPPY SQUIRREL!) and it WOULD’VE BEEN TOTALLY BADASS TO LAY CARDS DOWN USING STICKMEN APPROXIMATIONS. I stuck to my original guns. (Peh, next time.)

Due to the arrangement of junk (LOL, “JUNK”, LOL!) on the windowsill (i.e., devil fish tealight holder & two skull candlesticks) I pulled four cards, and each was placed in the space created by the objects. Throughout the course of the evening (wandering in, getting high, absently pulling out a card that felt “right” (or dropped out of the deck inexplicably), placing it in an empty space, wandering back out – RINSE AND REPEAT THREE MORE TIMES) I pulled: the Sun (R), Judgment (R), Queen of Imps (QoW), and Nine of Imps (NoW, R). The first card laid down was the Sun (R), but the first card I flipped over was the Nine of Imps (NoW, R).

Sun (R):
Shadowy secrets. A worried mind. Possible future trouble

Nine of Imps (NoW, R):
Confinement, conformity, stagnation. Fear of breaking out of a rut. The need for perspective.

…and then I was all “SO THIS IS WHAT YOUR NEGRO ASS WANTS TO SHOW ME?” to Papa. Something didn’t seem right; everything seemed a little too ordinary and obvious and mundane (you know, stuff that otherwise wouldn’t warrant Papa riding my backside for a week or two).

At the time we were dealing with weekly household strife (OH, BUT WHEN ISN’T THERE SOME FORM OF STRIFE AND GRIEF IN THIS HOUSE?) and Hezbollah dying, and even more than before I was feeling trapped and imprisoned by the situation. (i.e., At least with depression I know where the feelings and thoughts are coming from, and I know what needs to be done to shake it off and get my life back on track. Up until this point I’ve primarily dealt with internal struggles that lead to feelings of “stagnation” and “confinement”, but with the Crazy Rat situation I felt PHYSICALLY, FOR REAL SERIOUS, TIED AND LOCKED AND IMPRISONED IN THE HOUSE.)

I’m not surprised I got the cards (in fact, there was a sort’ve “OH, HEY, IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE FACT THAT YOU’RE SERIOUSLY UNDERSTRESSED, EMOTIONALLY EXHAUSTED, AND DEPRIVED OF SLEEP THESE CARDS WOULD HAVE BEEN -THE RIGHT WAY UP-” feeling), but I don’t think they were the ones that Papa was talking about. I’m not sure if it was a bad reading, bad night, or if there were too many domestic variables going on that inevitably influenced this totally underwhelming spread.

Usually I get a good sense of what’s being said, but in this case there was nothing I was being told that I wasn’t already aware of. (Although getting the Sun reversed (i.e., “shadowy secrets” & “possible future trouble”) is-was-is interesting, since it pre-dated the breaking of three different pieces of glassware over the course of three separate days. Superstition says "to break a tumbler is a sign that some secret will be discovered” and a brand new M&S tumbler broke after I had loaded it into the dishwasher.)

Living Memory

I work in the same room where Italics met me nearly 12 years ago. I work using the same KEYBOARD Italics used when he first met me nearly 12 years ago; I work sitting at the same DESK, staring out the same WINDOW, and bumping my feel against the same WALL. (Nearly 12 years ago we were kids, just turned 16, a half a world away from one another.)

It gets lost most days, swept beneath daily life and strife, but, once in a while, something sets me off, and I find myself standing for several long minutes, in complete and utter awe at the utter perfection of it all. We shouldn’t be, let alone be a minor statistic. But we are, and the room still exists, and the keyboard still exists, and the desk and window and wall still exists, and when there once was only one, there are now two.

Half of its life this room only knew him, but the other half knows us. I don’t think I could ever give up this space. It’s not just home; it’s a living memory of something that only happens in fiction.

Hey, Hey, Mama Lion...

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from December 4th, 2007 (although the events that took place pre-date the writing; actual date of said events would have been late November, 2007 (i.e., during Thanksgiving)).

On Thanksgiving morning I was a vindictive bitch and sprinkled Fet Ghede (07!) Dirt in my brother-in-law's shoes while he slept. (DO NOT PISS OFF SOMEONE WHO COLLECTS BLOOD CLOTS, DIRT, AND DEAD INSECTS, OKAY?) It wasn't enough; it wasn't immediate, and I didn't get a sense of closure. So I went back and spat on his shoes. Both of them. And I felt A+ satisfied and Papa was all "LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!" but also "BABY GIRL, THIS NIGGA AIN'T NEVER GONNA PISS YOUR ASS OFF!". (<- That's because he knows I'll show him the door AND THERE AIN'T NO HOMEMADE CORNBREAD SITTING ON THE DOORSTEP FOR HIM.)

(He's very supportive of my WITCH INSTINCTS but takes a step back when I'm a-cursin' or a-hexin' because he's a V. smart man who understands YOU DON'T GET IN THE WAY OF AN ANGRY WOMAN, ESPECIALLY AN ANGRY WOMAN WHO CAN BREAK LEGS AND BRING SNOW. <- Thus proven and cemented by a conversation Italics and I had regarding his father's medical misfortunes when I told him how Papa sort've becomes passive and very "YES DEAR, NO DEAR, OF COURSE DEAR" when I get all MAGIC STROPPY and Italics was "NO SHIT, WHO WANTS THEIR LEGS BROKEN? I DON'T!" and there was much LOLOLOLOLOLing on my part because two of the most important male figures in my life HAVE COME TOGETHER TO THROW UP THEIR HANDS WITH A "WHOA!" (<- THEY STILL SPINNIN', NIGGA!) AT SOME OF THE COINCIDENTAL THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED JUST AFTER I ANNOUNCED I WAS GOING TO MAKE SOMETHING HAPPEN THEREFORE MAKING EVERYTHING UNDENIABLY SCIENTIFIC.)

Before the Ghede gang were informally invoked for ANGRY WOMAN revenge there was THE SHANGO MAN. Now Papa be all MODERN and HUMAN so ignoring his presence is HARDER than noticing it. (Y'ALL, I GOT A LARGER-THAN-LIFE, STEREOTYPICAL BLACK MAN LIVING WITH ME, OKAY? I'VE WATCHED ENOUGH MAURY TO UNDERSTAND A FEW THINGS: 1) LIE DETECTORS DON'T LIE (DARLIN', IF YOU NEED TO DRAG HIS ASS TO THE MAURY SHOW FOR A LIE DETECTOR TEST HE'S CHEATED), 2) THE BABY CAN -STILL BE YOURS- EVEN IF IT "DON'T LOOK NOTHIN' LIKE ME!", AND 3) THEY ALL PLAYAZ (OR AT LEAST THEY ALL THINK THEY ARE). <- I'm not actually sure how #1 and #2 figure into things, but they're somehow relevant. SOMEHOW.)

TSM is Papa's opposite, and either is V. content to co-inhabit quietly, or is somewhat silenced by Papa's perpetual trash talkin' presence. (THIS MAY SEEM A BIT SHOCKING (MORE SHOCKING THAN THE FACT THAT I'M A 27 YEAR OLD WHITE WOMAN WHO OPENLY ADMITS TO USING THE WORD "NIGGA/NIGGER" (<- I HATE THE A. I HATE IT. I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT BECAUSE IT SOUNDS SO FUCKING -FAKE- COMING FROM ME BECAUSE PAPA WANTS TO HEAR -THE REAL THING- AND BECAUSE I AM WHAT I AM I'M NOT -ALLOWED- TO SAY -THE REAL THING- SO WHENEVER I SAY THE -FAKE VERSION- YOU CAN TOTALLY, TOTALLY TELL THAT I'M THINKING ABOUT THE -REAL VERSION-.) AND THAT I'M A-OKAY IN CELEBRATING ETHNIC STEREOTYPES!) BUT PAPA DOES, IN FACT, ENJOY STEALING THE SHOW. OFTEN. AND GOD FUCKING FORBID ANYTHING MALE (OTHER THAN HIM OR ITALICS, OF COURSE) GET INVOLVED BECAUSE THE SECOND A THIRD PARTY DICK ARRIVES ON THE SCENE IT BECOMES -WAR- AND I'M THE ONE GETTING BOMBARDED WITH "BABY GIRL, WHY YOU TALKIN' TO THAT NEGRO CAT? YOU KNOW HE DON'T UNDERSTAND NOTHIN' COMIN' OUTTA YOUR MOUTH! HE ALL...OOGA BOOGA IN SHIT!" AND "BABY GIRL, WHY YOU WASTIN' THAT PERFECTLY GOOD PIECE OF LIVER ON THAT UNGRATEFUL NIGGER?" AND ALL I CAN DO IS ROLL MY EYES INTO THE BACK OF MY SKULL AND REMIND MYSELF THAT I SHOULD BE -REALLY, REALLY HONORED- THAT PAPA GHEDE IS SO DEVOTED TO MY SPIRITUAL AND MENTAL AND EMOTIONAL AND PHYSICAL WELL-BEING THAT HE IS EVER-FLOWING WITH WISDOM AND GUIDANCE, ESPECIALLY WHEN I'M BENDING OVER WHILE VACUUMING AND MY GHETTO ASS IS SALUTING THE AIR. HAR HAR.)

I met TSM during one of my very first MDMA trips. While standing over a container pouring out ribbons of copal smoke I had a series of hallucinations, and in each split second "vision" my outfit was V. V. similar (in ancient Egypt it was a white dress and green headdress as I walked on flames, and in ancient Britain it was a white dress and green headdress (again), although this time I was more aware that the headdress was a crown of oak leaves - whatever that means (X2 with "green headdress" in ancient Egypt - I GUESS THIS IS SHIT I SHOULD'VE LOOKED UP ALREADY)) except for the last one which found me standing at the top of a South American ziggurat in the mountains. So there I was, bare feet firmly planted on chiseled stone, standing in what I think was a temple and being very aware of my "priestess" status, looking across a grassy courtyard (more like a field pitch) towards a parallel ziggurat.

I don't remember what I was thinking, or what I was doing. It was one of those weird lost-in-non-thoughts moments, when you stare and observe and feel REALLY, REALLY AWARE yet a part of you still feels a million miles away. The thing that broke that disconnection/connection was a large black jungle cat at my side. (ZOMG, I KNOW, HOW WONDERFULLY LLEWELLYN FANTASY, RIGHT?) One second I was 100% absorbed in this non-thought while staring at an overly familiar Super Mario Brothers 3 World 2 pyramid, and the next I'm back in reality, wearing a white dress and super bold, blood red feathers in my hair (RED JUNGLE BIRDS? ALL I CAME UP WITH WAS "MACAW".) as my pet Jaguar/Panther/Black Leopard/Whatever stands by my side. (AND NOT EVEN ALL NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC COOL WITH TEETH FLASHING AND EARS PINNED BACK AND HISSING AND CLAWS EXTENDED, JUST, YOU KNOW, STANDING THERE, QUIET, SILENT, CALM, AND PROTECTIVE.)

Eventually BUT FOR REAL reality trickled in and after a long second or two I was just me - just me in a dim family room hovering over a bowl of V. fragrant incense. No more green headdresses, no more white dresses, no more red feathers in my hair, ziggurats, flames, grassy courtyards, or high priestess imagery that spanned several civilizations over thousands of years. The only thing that remained was my sleek, black jungle cat who (awkward tense shift approaching!) never says anything but stands there, quietly, silently, calmly, and protectively. (Further SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN by the fact TSM adopted a wee stuffed Scottish lamb (THE SHANGO LAMB!) around Easter this year, which doesn't seem like a big deal at all until, ZOMG, you take in account that I spiritually identify with the concept of goat/lamb/ram/sheep SO IT IS V. V. V. OBVIOUS TO ME WHAT HIS JOB IS IN THIS HOUSE.)

I guess what I'm trying to say is - EVERYTHING HAS ITS OWN UNIQUE KINK. (I, uh, think that's what I'm trying to say?) Papa is loud and obnoxious and big and really, really likes to put on a show, which is all in-keeping with how he's generally received in the voodoo/voudon belief system. TSM manifested differently for me, for whatever reason (but still decided to identify himself as "Shango", but that's another long-winded story that y'all probably don't want to hear because if you're like ME these sorts of "OH, HEY YOU GUYS! LOOK AT HOW SPIRITUALLY AWESOME I AM! I SHALL EVEN CAPSLOCK EVERYTHING FOR YOU SO -YOU HAVE TO EAT IT LIKE UNSWEETENED OATMEAL-! HAH! HAH HAH HAH HAH!" entries just piss me the fuck off), and I'm just rolling with it. (i.e., Chango/Shango in voodoo/voudon tradition, to me, isn't entirely different from Papa with his love of woman, vices, and confrontation. But the Shango I know and live with is a 180 from the caricature portrayed, down to preferring blue as his offering color instead of the widely accepted red. (THAT MAKES HIM A CRYPT, I BELIEVE! <- LOL!))

SO, ANYWAY, BACK TO THE STORY I WAS TELLING BEFORE I WENT OFF ON A 6-7 PARAGRAPH TANGENT THAT SEEMED V. V. V. IMPORTANT TO WRITE OUT AT THE TIME. (JESUS H. CHRIST HELP THE WORLD SHOULD I EVER GET MOTIVATED ENOUGH TO PUBLISH MY OWN SILVER RAVENWOLF BRAND OF MAGIC MANUALS! <- LOL! UNLIKELY! HIS DAD DISLIKES US ENOUGH TO MENTION US SEVERAL TIMES IN THE BIBLE! WHY DO YOU HATE CAKE SO MUCH, GOD, WHY?)

Thanksgiving Eve found me in a sullen state with an uninvited guest spending the night (I had Thanksgiving worked into a schedule, people! AN ACTUAL, HONEST TO GOD SCHEDULE WHICH WORKED A+ PERFECT AWESOME UNTIL MY GODDAMN BROTHER-IN-LAW DECIDED TO THROW A SPANNER IN THE WORKS!), and as I crawled all demoralized into bed I caught THE SHANGO MAN'S indignant expression (the, uh, stuffed animal version of him). And THEN I had one of those MEMORY FLASHES where YOU REMEMBER SOMETHING, BUT NOT ALL OF IT, BUT THE GIST OF IT IS ENOUGH TO BE HELPFUL DUE TO ITS GENERAL VAGUENESS AND AMBIGUITY THAT CAN BE BUILT UPON CREATIVELY and it happened to be "VOODOO BLEND - BLACK CAT - BLACK CATS THROW SMALL INCONVENIENT HEXES".

And when THAT happened I thought "I WONDER IF SHANGO MAN WOULD BE UP TO MAKING SOME SHANGO MAN MISCHIEF FOR ME?" and I got SLAPPED HARD with an image of my sleek, black jungle cat darting in front of M's feet while walking and tripping him up. To that I was all "LOLOLOLOLOLOL! YES! EXACTLY!" and I THEN got SLAPPED HARD AGAIN with an image of TSM, in stuffed cat form, sitting in front of a steaming turkey leg. HOW COULD I RESIST THE OFFER? (GOOD...TRADE.)

The morning after I was in a piss-poor mood. Without even really thinking about it I grabbed my baby jar of FET GHEDE DIRT and HEXED IT, HEXED IT REALLY GOOD and spouted something about FEET NOT CROSSING THIS THRESHOLD WITHOUT MY SAY and then came back to SPIT ON THE SHOES to seal the deal, totally forgetting that the previous night M'S LEGS/FEET WERE ALREADY IN PLAY THANKS TO THE SHANGO MAN.

I WOULD SAY THAT THE DIRT WENT DOWN INTO THE SHOES BETWEEN 9:30-10:00 AM. By 11:30 AM I already had my first result - M missed his train by 3 minutes and was then forced to sit in a cold, open train station for 45 minutes for the next one which, no doubt, helped screw up the rest of his day. (SMALL INCONVENIENCE, ANYONE?) I had totally, totally forgotten about this hex because, you know, OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND (I'm really volatile emotionally - I explode like you wouldn't believe, V. quickly scary-like, and then after the Pompeii explosion I'm cool once again and forget all about it), until YESTERDAY.

See, the first thing I did after carving the turkey on Thanksgiving was remove THE ENTIRE LEG OFF THIS 14-18 BEAST and take it outside to THE SHANGO TREE. (Another long story!) SO THERE I WAS, SICK, WEARING A STRING BIKINI & MINI-SKIRT & A COOKING APRON WITH ARMS OF LOCAL SCOTTISH FAMILIES, TRAMPLING OUT IN THE COLD (I HAD MADE IT SNOW EARLIER, REMEMBER?) WITH 1/5 OF A ROASTED TURKEY, FORCING THIS SUPER HUGE TURKEY LEG BETWEEN A WOODEN FENCE AND SOME ROCKS SO NEIGHBORHOOD CATS COULDN'T MAKE OFF WITH IT ON THANKSGIVING'S TWILIGHT.

I had 100% forgotten about this incident until two nights ago when I took some leftover mashed potatoes to THE SHANGO TREE and saw the leg bone, clean as a whistle, sitting perfectly poised on fluffy Scottish moss, at the very base of the tree (one or two feet away from the crevice I had hidden it in). Whatever ate it did so WITH MEDICAL PRECISION and then simply left the huge leg bone BETWEEN THE SHANGO TREE'S BASE AND THE DEAD CROW DIRT CONTAINER. (<- Okay, I'm not saying that it's SPECIAL CRAZY MAGIC that the leg got eaten, because, dude, that's the entire point, what I am doing is LOLing at how WHATEVER ATE IT DIDN'T BOTHER TAKING IT OUT OF THE YARD and WHATEVER ATE IT DIDN'T BOTHER TAKING IT OUT OF THE YARD BUT POSITIONED IT PERFECTLY, IN OBVIOUS SIGHT, SO YOU WOULDN'T HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO SEE WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE SUPER SECRET OFFERINGS!)

I LOLed when I saw what the flash of white was in the darkness, and then I LOLed when I brought it in, and LOLed some more when I retold the story to Italics, and then we LOLed together and speculated what else has happened that we don't know about. (IF THERE WAS AN INCONSPICUOUS WAY TO CALL SOMEONE YOU HEXED AND GO ALL "SO, RIGHT...HI! YOU HAVEN'T BEEN HAVING, YOU KNOW, SOME IRRITATING OR UNFORTUNATE EVENTS HAPPEN TO YOU RECENTLY, HAVE YOU?" I'D BE SO ON THE PHONE THIS SECOND, OKAY?)

...AND IN CONCLUSION, BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE THIS ENTRY IS-WAS-IS GOING, OTHER THAN A SUPER SPECIAL HOMAGE TO THE SHANGO MAN (IT HAPPENS TO BE CHANGO'S/SHANGO'S FEAST DAY TODAY!), THAT IS PRETTY MUCH THE STORY.

Nine of Wands

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from November 14th, 2007 (although the events that took place pre-date the writing; actual date of said events would have been October, 2007 (i.e., during our Halloween vacation break)).

So there was this Saturday before Halloween, just before midnight, where I found myself gloriously stoned and in my Ghede thong, absently flipping through a tarot deck as Dr. John played in the background.

Papa and I sat, face to face (face to skull?), and in-between his sweet nothings, in-between long stretches of time where music sank past flesh and muscle and tissue into bone, when we were lost together in a haze of cigar smoke and incense I asked him to skin-walk with me to show me something I needed to know. With hand within hand five cards were pulled, but I only remember one, and it hasn't left me since it was first turned.

When the music stopped and the last of the cigar smoldered away I was left cross-legged on a leather couch in front of a smiling plastic skull. Still somewhat cloudy headed (and with a thong riding up to a totally unsexy degree) I sat and stared at the last card of the triplet, not entirely sure if the birdman wearing a top hat* (bird = blackbird = papa's birds, top hat = well, uh, top hat, and the vines growing up and around the wands on his back = papa's cherry bomb chili plants trained up wooden poles) could see the two thorned clubs that were lying on the ground as he walked past.

So I asked Italics because I couldn't tell if he was AWARE that there were two batons still on the ground, or if he had dropped them and just left them, or if he had walked past completely obvious that there were two more identical wands just waiting to be picked up. He said it didn't matter, but I didn't understand. And I didn't understand for a while, even though the card stayed fresh in my mind, even though I sat for days and days and days trying to understand why it didn't matter.

And then, while ponderingconsideringcontemplating, I got my first "oh, hey, are you okay?" email, but because I was so busy I didn't have a chance to reply. Then another one appeared, and then a livejournal comment sneaked into my inbox followed by another, and another, and another, and another. And all the while I thought "I can't believe anyone even noticed I wasn't around in the first place..." as notifications began to pile up, and, try as I did, I just didn't have the time to sit down and reply with some sort of answer, even though I already had it in the forefront of my mind.

It doesn't matter whether Mr. Birdman Wearing A Top Hat knows (or doesn't know) there are two more wands still strewn on the ground, all that matters is that Mr. Birdman Wearing A Top Hat is totally aware, and totally conscious of the fact that he's carrying all that he can manage. He might've seen them them walking past, or he might've walked right past them without knowing, he might even be thinking about looking over his shoulders and back at the pair while engaging in a brief moment of second thought, but the important thing is he's knowledgeable of his current personal limits.

So if you emailed, or commented, or even thought "WHATEVER HAPPENED TO HER?" the answer is "9 of Wands", and I thank you V. V. V. much for your care and concern, but even more for the fact that despite not being around and in everyone's face you still remembered that I exist. XOXO.

* Bosch Tarot, 9 of Wands

You're the Inspiration

Damn all of this traffic when I haven't had a chance to tell even one RACIST, SHOCKING or OFFENSIVE anecdote or say even one RACIST, SHOCKING or OFFENSIVE thing! (When you're relying on Movable Type's 2.65 (<- LOLOLOLOL! I KNOW!) default template for your journal design you really need to find other ways to grab your readers' attentions.)

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Christ, what the hell...

...I made you look. (Didn't I, you fucking nigger?)