Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Bean Nighe

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Not all of us have to die in childbirth.

Harvest Holes

Shoney chewed a hole in my wedding dress last night, Shakey chewed a hole in my last decent pair of house pants. (NOW, SURELY, WE'RE DONE WITH THE REAPING...RIGHT?)

Bratz Princess

I never really understood the practice of cursing a deity for a desired outcome. I mean, I get WHY, but it always seemed counterproductive to me, and I can't imagine that it leads to a very happy home. (Don't even get me started on the fallout that happened after I kicked Papa's ass out of the house when both of our stubborn wills butted - we didn't speak all Spring and Summer long. That was years ago, but it's still fresh in our minds.)

I still do it, though.

Not in that archaic "AND MAY YOU NEVER FIND REST, NEVER FIND SOLACE, NEVER FIND..." way that sounds all OLD AND EPIC and OLD TESTAMENT BIBLICAL, but I swear. And curse. And cry. And, when I feel all justified about it, scream at the top of my lungs in Their face.

(Nothing's safe, nothing's sacred.)

There's little else that makes me feel like I'm a force of nature made flesh when I howl and scratch the faces of the things I love, the things I am. To have that sort of primal audacity, to become the roaring wind that weathers stone faces and lashes out like a caged animal is simultaneously beautiful and terrible - a cursed blessing, destructive yet courageous.

(She said I was a fighter, a "warrior". (YES, I KNOW. NOW IMAGINE HOW I MUST FEEL KNOWING THAT I HAVE TO, SOMEHOW, SPIN THIS "WARRIOR" BUSINESS INTO SOMETHING ALL MODERN AND COOL AND SEXY.) And She anointed me with Her bloody hand during a lunar eclipse, telling me (during the baptism) that "you will know blood".)

It yields results...quickly. (I suppose priorities change when you have a LIVING BANSHEE WOMAN threatening to CLAW OUT THE EYES OF HER IDOLS while she withers, thrashes, and spiritually foams at the mouth.) Not that I recommend this method to anyone, but if you want results - immediate, lightening-from-heaven OH MY GOD NO ONE IS GOING TO BELIEVE ME acknowledgement - you need to be willing to prove it.

This isn't the Halloween vacation I expected. I could go into it - and I probably will, later on - but I don't feel up to the IMMENSE FRUSTRATION that I'd experience while doing so.

(One of the reasons why I don't post here as often as I like is because THERE'S A LOT OF EXCESS BAGGAGE WITH ALMOST EVERYTHING I WANT TO SAY. Almost everything - right now - seems so drive-by, so manic. But there's sense, and there's rhythm to my life; I just haven't found a balance between WHAT I WANT TO SAY and WHAT I NEED TO SAY TO BACK UP WHAT I WANT TO SAY. Because no matter how far back I go, I always realize that it isn't far enough, and there will always be something else I need to add, or explain, or clarify and dragging out those memories to put to words seems too goddamn daunting.)

Due to being chronically sick with a mystery illness (we're banking on a hiatal hernia, I don't know what the NHS is banking since no one from the medical community has contacted me about the testing they said I had to undergo NEARLY 10 FUCKING WEEKS AGO) I knew that I had to take it easy (meaning, no HALLOWEEN WHORE RETURNS HOME parties) and even went as far as outlining several small PERSONAL TIME projects for myself so I couldn't go overboard.

(In addition to decorating the house for Halloween and setting up the altar I wanted to: clean out our bedroom (one of the smallest rooms in the house), make bagels from scratch, plant spring bulbs, clear out vegetable plants, and prepare a SOUTHERN COOKING spread from an old cookbook that once belonged to my mother. <- This is me scaling back crazily, I usually do -a lot- more during two vacation weeks.)

The decorations aren't up. The altar - the focus, the point, the reason; where we pray and fuck and party and connect - never got constructed. Not one room in this house is to my standard of cleanliness, and we're still sleeping in the same sweaty sheets, in the same cluttered bedroom. No bulbs have been planted, no vegetable plants uprooted. No rest, no relaxation, no reflection...no vacation.

We've been sick. I'm sick on an every day basis - but it's a sickness I'm used to by now, even though something's broken inside of me. Being struck down with a chronic mystery illness means that I haven't really left the house this year. In fact, last week was the second time I even left city limits in all of 2008.

Italics took me to see Cyndi Lauper in Glasgow to kick start our Halloween vacation. (The sad part? The sad I FEEL LIKE I'VE BEEN PUNCHED IN THE GUT part? I haven't even had a chance to go over the concert in my head or with Italics. Something so huge, so meaningful, so monumental to me and us and work and EVERYTHING and it's just hanging in limbo; a visceral memory without any feeling or emotion. A picture without words.)

Even before the concert I was exhausted; at the concert there was a critical point where I almost had to throw in the cards during the support band. Do you know how depressing it is to know that TRAVELING and GOING TO A CONCERT is enough to leave you fucking bedridden for over a week? Do you know how depressing it is knowing you're NOT EVEN FUCKING THIRTY and your body can't handle letting you out of the house for a change of scenery?

We got sick. There was no food in the house. There were no clean clothes. The rats began to smell, and then, as our colds got worse, they didn't smell at all - but not because we cleaned their cages. I was so sick I couldn't unpack our bags. (One is still sitting in the lounge right now.) I couldn't do the laundry. I couldn't feed us (LOL, ON WHAT? THREE FUCKING CARS IN THE FUCKING DRIVEWAY AND I CAN'T FUCKING DRIVE ONE OF THEM). So there was no way I could decorate the house for Halloween, set up the altar, and begin the ancient VIRGIN TO WHORE pageant.

It's October 25th today; we're still sick. Italics's parents come home on the 31st. I don't see celebration, I don't even have a designated place to pray.

This isn't the Halloween vacation I needed.

I've been crying for days. I wish I could explain, but I can't. (SEE "FRUSTRATION", ONCE AGAIN.) I cried to Italics that it felt like They were taking Halloween away from me this year. (I WISH I COULD EXPLAIN, I DO. OTHER THAN BEING MY FAVORITE TIME OF THE YEAR IT'S WHEN ITALICS AND I GOT ENGAGED. IT'S WHEN CHIPPY FIRST MADE CONTACT WITH ME. IT'S WHEN PAPA COMES HOME FOR WINTER. IT'S WHEN I TAKE OFF MY EASTER WEDDING DRESS. IT'S WHEN THE VIRGIN BRIDE BECOMES THE WHORE. IT'S THE FINAL ACT OF REAPING, THE CLOSING OF THE HARVEST AND THE TIME OF THE OLD WOMAN. IT'S WHEN I GO WITHIN MYSELF TO JOIN THE DARKNESS SO I CAN EMERGE FROM MY SECOND SKIN A VIRGIN BRIDE FOR EASTER.)

This was the first year Italics married his Easter Bride. 2008 was the first year that our union represented the responsibility that we agreed to undertake; it was acceptance of the way things were/are, an invitation to the universe to help us expand our efforts and point us in the right direction. Having never really done this before I know that everything, right now, is a learning experience (THIS SHIT? ALL OF THIS SHIT? TRIAL AND ERROR WITH A SIDE OF GUT INSTINCT) but I can't help but feel disappointed and frustrated at the lack of closure and the ability to seamlessly slide from one role into the other.

I know I'm spoiled, but they let me be spoiled. I stamp my foot, I scream, I claw at stony visages in my mind and the world shakes and the trees bend and everything, all around me, holds its breath during that audacious second when the howl that deafens and shakes me crashes through the universe like a burst of white lightening.

...I don't get ignored.

Frustration

I have so much to say but it gets lost in the frustration. (It kills me; knowing what I'm capable of and what I'm supposed to do, and how something as stupid as feeling ANGRILY IMPATIENT is enough to impede on something as simple as expressing myself through a journal.)

(Jesus, the shit I could tell you guys if I just didn't care about EFFORT and THE FINAL PRODUCT. I'm now starting to wonder if I'm protecting myself from myself. (Early works syndrome?))

Fox and the Hound

THE NEIGHBORS WILL BE DELIGHTED IN KNOWING THAT FOXY IS BEING FED HIS VERY OWN FOXY CASSEROLE EVERY NIGHT OUT OF CHIPPY'S* DISH, AND HE IS ENJOYING IT IMMENSELY, THANK YOU. ("FUCK YOUR CHICKENS, NIGGA!")

ON A MORE SERIOUS NOTE, IT APPEARS THAT FOXY HAS SOME BUGZ ON HIS NUGZ, BUT HOW DO I TEMPT HIM INSIDE FOR A LUSH BUBBLE BATH? HMM...

(I'm still worried about the overly tame one of the two; I don't think I've seen him since we've come back.)

* SEE? OLD - VERY, VERY, VERY OLD - DOGS CAN LEARN NEW TRICKS, LIKE -SHARING- WITH HIS FELLOW (INDIGENOUS) SCAVENGERS!

My Life

I WANT TO MAKE HOT CHOCOLATE BUT THERE'S NO FUCKING MILK IN THE FUCKING HOUSE.

JESUS, MY LIFE.

Paint it Black

Black death shroud thrown over Chippy. Got package today, played "dress up" with torn cloth. Chippy eventually moved to floor with Jigga. When watching TV looked over at both and noticed how black cloth became mourning shroud, and how Jigga leaned into Chippy as if both comforting each other while grieving.

(I really wished I hadn't noticed that.)

Matching Set

The woman across the street said to me "YOU WOULDN'T KNOW BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT FROM AROUND HERE" with a straighter-than-arrow face. Oh, honey, you didn't just imply that I'm some sort've naive and mentally incompetent "American nigger", did you?

I think you diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid*!

(MAYBE I SHOULD FIND LOVE AND RAINBOWS AND KINDNESS IN MY BLACK HEART AND GIVE YOU A PASS BECAUSE GOD AND ABOVE ALREADY TOOK ONE OF YOUR FUCKING TITS VIA CANCER. OR MAYBE YOU'RE ITCHING TO LOSE THE OTHER FOR A MATCHING SET?)

(*I'M NOT, ACTUALLY. BLACK, I MEAN. I'VE LIVED IN SCOTLAND FOR NEARLY EIGHT (NINE?) YEARS AND THE FACT THAT I'M AMERICAN HAS NEVER, EVER COME UP OR BEEN BROUGHT UP IN EVEN A REMOTELY XENOPHOBIC WAY...UNTIL TODAY. AND THAT FIRST MEMORABLE EXPERIENCE CAME FROM A NEIGHBOR (WHOM I'VE -NEVER- MET) WHO LIVES ACROSS THE STREET.)

(ACTUALLY, I DID, ONCE, GET ACCOSTED BY A TRAMP (MUCH LIKE SOPHIE ELLIS BEXTOR ZOMG!) ON A BUS DOWN TO GLASGOW AFTER I TOLD HIM TO PUT HIS GODDAMN CIGARETTE OUT. BUT THAT AMOUNTED TO A DRUNK GLASWEGIAN CALLING ME A "FUCKING AMERICAN YANKEE PROFESSOR" WHICH, OBVIOUSLY, WAS COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY FULL OF LULZ ALL THE WAY.)

(I AM SO AMAZINGLY ANGRY THAT I AM PREPARED TO WRITE HER A -LETTER-. (AND MAYBE EVEN BAKE HER A BATCH OF GRAVEYARD DIRT COOKIES.))

Hazy Shade of Winter

Winter sky this morning; the kind that makes you want to give thanks in the most embarrassing neo-pagan way.

It Gets EVEN Better

My father-in-law has a death wish. (This death wish? It's entirely different from yesterday's death wish. That's how talented he's been in the past 48 hours.)

She Spits, She Scores

My father-in-law? He never learns. (And now he's walking in slippers filled with graveyard dirt and his daughter-in-law's fury. <- OH, I WAS SO ANGRY I HAD TO SPIT -FIVE TIMES- BEFORE FUCKING HITTING THE SHOE.)

I've been growing tobacco, from seed, for Papa. Since Imbolc (LOOOOOOOOOOOOOL, I KNOW, I KNOW! I THOUGHT IT WAS AN -APPROPRIATE- TIME!) I've tended to his plants, and when they got hardy enough to withstand the "greenhouse" (where Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, keeps his plants and trees) they were transported outside.

Since mid-May my/our/his plants have been happily growing without any interference - ANY INTERFERENCE UNTIL YESTERDAY WHEN I FOUND ONE OF MY THREE CONTAINERS SITTING OUT-THE-FUCKING SIDE, EXPOSED TO THE ELEMENTS AND MUCH COLDER AIR (WE'VE ALREADY EXPERIENCED FROST AND SNOW IN THIS REGION OF SCOTLAND), WITH THE TIP OF ONE OF THE PLANTS INEXPLICABLY CUT OFF.

If I hadn't gone outside to make an offering to ANCESTORS, FRIENDS, and HELPERS I would've never seen the container - THE CONTAINER WITH MY ONCE SUPER HUGE TOBACCO PLANT WHICH I WAS HOPING TO GET SEEDS FROM (BUT NOT ANYMORE SINCE HE CUT OFF THE FLOWERS THAT WOULD'VE PRODUCED THE SEEDS) - sitting on the patio because it's not like he ASKED ME IF HE COULD DO IT or even INFORMED ME OF WHAT HE HAD DONE. I was livid, and then so frustrated that all I could do was cry because there's nothing I CAN DO.

The plants? They'll either survive or they won't. I can't do anything about that now. The tip of the plant with the flowers for seed? Cut off. I also can't do anything about that now. Complain, shout, threaten, or demand an apology or at least an explanation as to why he was still touching and breaking and killing and ruining my things after being told so many times for over seven fucking years not to touch my things (or, at least, JUST ASK ME BEFORE YOU TOUCH MY THINGS)?

Or why a near seventy year old man can't seem to remember the one simple thing I ask from him (i.e., PLEASE ASK ME BEFORE YOU TOUCH OR THROW OUT ANYTHING THAT'S MINE.)? (One, simple thing that EVEN A CHILD WITH LEARNING DIFFICULTIES CAN UNDERSTAND.) Or why, when I confront him after he's threw away part of an Anniversary gift I was working on for Italics, or my mother's ashes, or -

- actually, let's not even start with the "ORs". In fact, I'm totally done with this entry before my blood pressure rises any more and I find myself screaming at five in the fucking morning because one of the hardest fucking things I've ever had to deal with in my entire fucking life is living with someone who has told me, face on, that they will decide the inherit value of an object on -my- behalf and will act accordingly without consulting me.

I am completely, hopelessly bound in a situation where there is someone else in my life who doesn't have to live at the standard he expects everyone else to live at, and that it's easier - for the entire family - to let him act out and ruin other people's lives because it's -less tense and stressful- than to reprimand him for things like THROWING AWAY ASHES THAT BELONGED TO YOUR FUCKING MOTHER.

HEY, YOU KNOW WHAT'S WORSE THAN HAVING ASHES THAT BELONGED TO YOUR MOTHER GET THROWN AWAY? THE PERSON WHO DID IT NEVER APOLOGIZING TO YOU FOR IT, EVEN THOUGH THEY WERE TOLD WHAT THEY HAD DONE. (IT'S BEEN FOUR YEARS NOW, MR. AWESOME, AND MY MOTHER AND I ARE STILL WAITING.)

(YEAH. -THAT'S- WHAT I LIVE WITH, AND HE'S FUCKING LUCKY THAT I DIDN'T ASK FOR HIS BALLS BECAUSE -I ALMOST ALWAYS GET WHAT I FUCKING WANT-. <- AND HE, MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD, SHOULD KNOW THAT BY NOW.)

Fox and the Hound

SCOTTISH JACKALS HAVE COME TO FEED.

(I'VE ALWAYS BEEN GOOD AT PICKING UP STRAYS WITHOUT TRYING.)

Sex Yoga

SEX YOGA.

(LOL @ ME ALMOST NOT SAYING IT AT ALL.)

(LOL @ ME NOT SAYING THE MCCAIN THING AND THEN ITALICS IMMEDIATELY SAYING IT AFTER I WAS DONE.)

(AND WHILE WE'RE AT IT LOL @ HOW 86% OF FOX VIEWERS SAID THAT MCCAIN WON.)

She's Home

I knew She was coming; I knew it'd be any day now.

It was the bee that crawled through the window to die on the screen. (I cried. My Bee, my Beh, came home to die. And all I could do was choke up and stroke this tiny, beautiful creature through flimsy, black mesh as its light diminished. (I sat with her, though, only a foot away in my computer chair.))

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It was the two pairs of socks I had to put on before I could fall asleep. (Even with the windows closed, blankets pulled high, and a miniature closet greenhouse in the corner of the bedroom. Even when it was eight in the fucking morning, the sun had risen, and I had been curled up for over thirty minutes in bed. (Long enough to defrost, right?))

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It was finding my yellow juniper bead necklace and string of green chillies lying on the windowsill. (Papa said to hang the chillies on the window; never asked why, although Italics speculated that the greener ones tend to be more powerful. (First instance of plastic-hook-attached-to-window-via-sucker fatigue.))

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It was saying "ANY DAY NOW, I THINK" to Italics and then noticing, right after, the metallic swirls frozen across the roof of the car. It was feeling the cold bite of winter for the first time as the heat of my finger sank through the layer of ice to touch metal as I proclaimed Her homecoming.

"Three Fold Law"

IF I HAVE TO SEE ONE MORE GODDAMN THING ABOUT THE "THREE FOLD LAW" I'M GOING TO PUKE.

(AND WHEN THAT FINALLY HAPPENS THE POSTER IS GOING TO HAVE TO FUCKING COME TO -MY FUCKING HOME- AND CLEAN VOMIT OFF -MY FUCKING MONITOR- BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT THE "THREE FOLD LAW" STATES.)

(WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE, ANYWAY? I SWEAR TO FUCKING CHRIST IT'S LIKE -ESTABLISHING AND MAKING UP YOUR OWN RULES- HASN'T EVEN BEEN -CONSIDERED-.)

(I MEAN, YOU GUYS KNOW THIS ENTIRE -MAGIC- THING EXISTED BEFORE BOOKS BY NEW AGE PUBLISHERS CAME OUT, RIGHT? YOU KNOW THAT THERE WAS A TIME -PEOPLE HAD TO MAKE UP SHIT FOR THEMSELVES- BECAUSE THEY COULDN'T REFER TO A BOOK OR SITE OR A LJ USER WHO'S ALREADY PRETTY HARD ON THE EYES WITHOUT HER ICON BEING (DELIBERATELY) DEFACED TO LOOK LIKE THE JOKER.)

(THERE WAS A TIME WHEN NONE OF THIS SHIT WAS TALKED ABOUT OR PERSONALLY ENFORCED AND SHIT STILL GOT DONE AND SHIT WAS FINE AND THE WORLD CONTINUED SPINNING ON ITS AXIS AND THERE WERE A HELLUVA LOT LESS "OMG, GUYS, LOVE SPELLS - IMMORAL AND WRONG OR OKAY?" DEBATES GOING ON.)

(GRANTED LIFE WAS TOUGHER, HARDER, AND REQUIRED MORE WORK TO ENDURE THAT SORT OF LIFESTYLE. BUT AT LEAST IN THAT LIFESTYLE PEOPLE WERE FORCED TO TAKE PART IN THE NATURAL CYCLE OF LIFE AND THE SEASONS, GET THEIR HANDS DIRTY, AND SEE THAT LIFE AND ALL OF THE EXPERIENCES THAT COME WITH IT AREN'T BLACK AND FUCKING WHITE, AND CAN'T BE SHOVED AND CONTAINED IN A FUCKING "WICCAN REDE". MODERN (WESTERN) SOCIETY'S SO REMOVED FROM THE HARSH REALITIES OF LIFE AND DEATH AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN THAT MAGIC'S BEEN REDUCED TO ARGUING ABOUT WHETHER "LOVE SPELLS" ARE AMORAL, OR NOT, ON-LINE.)

(DO YOU REALLY FUCKING THINK THAT A SCOTTISH WITCH TWO OR THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO WHO WORKED AS A CROFTER IN THE FUCKING HIGHLANDS AND WHOSE ENTIRE LIFE DEPENDED ON HER SHEEP AND WHAT HER FIELDS COULD PRODUCE IN THE VERY MEAGER GROWING SEASON WE GET IN THIS PART OF THE WORLD FUCKING CARED WHETHER A FUCKING LOVE SPELL WAS AMORAL OR NOT? AND THAT IF SHE DID SOMETHING, IT WOULD COME BACK TO HER -THREE TIMES OVER-? JESUS FUCKING CHRIST - DON'T MAKE THIS TOTALLY HYPOTHETICAL CROFTING SCOTTISH WITCH LOL, OKAY? <- LOLOLOL, BECAUSE SHE DOESN'T FOLLOW THE "THREE FOLD LAW", LOL!)

(JESUS, I DON'T KNOW, MAYBE I'M THE ONLY PERSON WHO'S REALLY DECIDED THAT THE ONLY LIMITATIONS SHE HAS ARE THE LIMITATIONS SHE -CREATES-. (WITHIN REASON, OKAY? DON'T GET ALL CHEEKY ASTROPHYSICS WITH ME BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.) "OH, HEY I'M GOING TO PLAY THIS GAME MY ENTIRE LIFE THAT SOMEONE ELSE MADE UP!" FUCK, WOULDN'T YOU RATHER PLAY A GAME WITH RULES THAT YOU CAME UP WITH YOURSELF USING YOUR UNIQUE LIFE EXPERIENCES? DOESN'T THAT FUCKING -RESONATE- WITH ANYONE ANYMORE?)

Two Pairs

She's not here, not yet. Every night I check, and every night my finger slides against the roof of the car, displacing water but never melting any ice. Soon, though, if my freezing feet are any indication.

(Two pairs last night? Two pairs beneath a sheet, a duvet, with the window closed and a huge ass indoor florescent light on in a small enclosed space. And it was near nine in the fucking morning.)

(SO DEATH IS AFRAID OF DEATH AND WINTER HAS POOR CIRCULATION IN HER FEET AND HANDS.)

(AWESOME.)