Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Personal Savior

Dear God,

I'd consider accepting your son, Jesus Christ, as my personal savior if you deliver a Kate Bush sized loaf of weed - in the pot strain of my choice (GREEN CRACK GREEN CRACK GREEN CRACK) - to my door within the next ten minutes.

(THE CLOCK IS TICKING, GOD.)

Yours, Waiting,
Ms. Graveyard Dirt

PS: I HAVE CAKE.

Tweets to the Tweet

Mademoiselle Graveyard Dirt is now on Twitter as Graveyarddirt. (OH, WE'LL SEE HOW LONG //THIS// LASTS.)

That Sort've Witch and More

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I just realized, while in the shower, that the bread I gave to the postman yesterday WAS NOT THE 100% VANILLA AND SAFE ENGLISH MUFFIN BREAD I ORIGINALLY THOUGHT IT WAS. (It was the honey'n'oatmeal Samhain bread I baked with leftover PSYCHOACTIVE PLANT MATERIAL.) (LOLOLOL, AND HERE I THOUGH "LABEL IT? WHY? I FUCKING //BAKED// THE FUCKING THING, I THINK I'D KNOW WHAT MY //OWN BREAD// LOOKS LIKE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!")

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Click thumbnail for larger image.

LET'S JUST PRETEND THAT I'M YOUR AVERAGE 28 YEAR OLD DOTING HOUSEWIFE AND OCCASIONAL BREAD BAKER AND //NOT// THE VOLATILE 28 YEAR OLD SEX PIG STONER WITCH AND OCCASIONAL BREAD BAKER WHO USES HER CULINARY HOBBY TO PUT ON A HUMOROUS AIR OF NORMALCY AND DECENCY FOR THE UNKNOWING BENEFIT (LOL, "UNKNOWING BENEFIT"? WHAT A NICE WAY OF SAYING I'M ALWAYS DELIBERATELY SCHEMING BEHIND CLOSED DOORS FOR MY OWN AMUSEMENT!) OF THE PEOPLE AROUND HER THAT I REALLY AM.

ALL I'M SAYING IS HE'S LUCKY THERE WAS ONLY LEFTOVER PSYCHOACTIVE PLANT MATERIAL; USUALLY MY RITUAL BREAD FEATURES SOME VERSION OF MY DNA. (Oh, honey, I'm that sort've of witch and more.)

(...AND MORE, SAYS THE VOLATILE 28 YEAR OLD SEX PIG STONER WITCH AND OCCASIONAL BREAD BAKER WHO USES HER CULINARY HOBBY TO PUT ON A HUMOROUS AIR OF NORMALCY AND DECENCY FOR THE UNKNOWING BENEFIT OF THE PEOPLE AROUND HER WHO ACCIDENTALLY, ONCE, DROPPED HER PUBIC HAIR IN THE BUFFALO WING HOT SAUCE INSTEAD OF THE BREAD BATTER SHE WAS WORKING ON FOR THE SABBAT.)

(YES, INDEED, ONE OF //THOSE// SORT'VE WITCHES.)

Bride's Awakening

RIGHT OKAY SO.

Today? Today I'm //NOT// going to be depressing. Today I'm //NOT// going to hammer out all of the analogies I came up with while crying over my morning oatmeal in the past few days. (LIKE HOW I'M THE SUNDAY NEWSPAPER THAT I MEAN TO READ EVERY FUCKING WEEK BUT NEVER GET A CHANCE TO, SO I SIT ON IT AND SIT ON IT BECAUSE I PROMISE MYSELF I //WILL// FIND TIME TO READ IT AND THEN, THREE WEEKS LATER, I FINALLY GIVE UP THE BATTLE AND USE THE UNREAD SECTIONS TO LINE THE RATS' CAGE AND PROMISE MYSELF THAT NEXT WEEK THINGS WILL BE DIFFERENT.)

Today I stood outside, first thing after I woke up, in the mottled sunlight and inhaled the moist, warm air. Today I stood outside in the bright morning light and breathed in the scent of Spring in all of its damp earth glory, and felt the promise of newness course through my veins. Today, more than ever, I felt the eternal Bride awaken.

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It started with hardneck garlic. (OH, BUT DOESN'T IT ALWAYS?) Actually, it goes way, way back further than the garlic, but to keep this entry POSITIVE and UPBEAT I'll pretend that the actual for real genesis was THE GARLIC. So, for all intents and purposes, GARLIC GARLIC GARLIC.

(Very short story that shouldn't elevate my blood pressure: when I first moved here almost 10 years ago I asked for a small patch of land to grow things in or on. I was immediately denied the piece of property. For nearly 10 years now I've watched that particular spot get used solely as a trash heap. (YOU THINK I'M EXAGGERATING? NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST. IN FACT, LAST YEAR MY FATHER-IN-LAW CLEARED THE SAME SPOT OUT AND I GOT BIG HEAP SUPER HAPPY BECAUSE I THOUGHT THEY WERE FINALLY TURNING IT OVER TO ME. AS IT TURNED OUT, HE CLEARED IT SO HE COULD FILL IT WITH TRASH...AGAIN.))

(A few years back my father-in-law, for no concrete reason, dug up the entire front yard. I mean //everything//. For the past several years we've been the only house on this block that has a giant dirt pit instead of a lawn. And every fucking time some sort of grass manages to seed itself he marches outside AND BEGINS WEEDING IT OUT SO HIS PRECIOUS DIRT PATCH DOESN'T GET OBSCURED.)

(You know that house in a subdivision where the crackhead owner obviously doesn't give a fuck about how their property looks? And how it stands out against all of the other manicured plots of land? Grass that never gets cut, trees that never get pruned, weeds and brush that take over any sort of flower bed? Sometimes they have broken toys or appliances or cars on cinder blocks loitering in the yard? Sometimes they have organic household waste thrown onto the abandoned yard? I LIVE IN THAT FUCKING HOUSE. IN FACT, I CAN DO ONE //BETTER// SINCE WE DON'T EVEN HAVE AN OVERGROWN, SAFARI WASTELAND - WE HAVE AN UNTAPPED DIRT QUARRY.)

SO IT ALL STARTS WITH GARLIC, she says through gritted teeth.

Last year I schemed and stole a little bit of land. I didn't ask, I didn't drop hints, I just took it. It's a narrow, but long stretch of dirt that runs parallel to the side of the house right against the foundations. For years I watched the patch wax and wane, unloved, untended, and naked to the world. So, last year, I tore into it and loosened the earth to create a bed for hardneck garlic while my father-in-law unsubtly spied on me from a not-so-distant distance.

THAT'S RIGHT, WITCH'S GARLIC GROWING AT THE WITCH'S HOUSE!

(When your front-fucking-yard is a thriving dirt pit decorated with a multitude of small, white washed animal bones you don't need gingerbread stapled to the shutters and roof of your home to give off an uneasy, cannibalistic hag vibe.)

(Not that garlic being the sole source of intended vegetation is weird or vaguely witch-like in anyway. I mean, people once grew garlic to WARD OFF WITCHES AND UNPLEASANTNESS so by surrounding 1/4 of the house with it am I effectively boxing myself in? HMM.)

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY!

I managed to prep the bed in decent time, but an unexpected, early bout of winter prevented me from my October planting. (My, uh, October planting sort've ran into November, but that was OKAY and there was NO NEED TO PANIC because surely - SURELY! - the unseasonal weather couldn't hold out for an entire month, right? ...RIGHT?)

Winter prevented me from planting at all until around Yule, the winter solstice. (But that was OKAY and there was NO NEED TO PANIC because a NOT-PANICKING-AT-ALL-IN-THE-SLIGHTEST Google search turned up a little gem of folklore that was amazingly applicable and coincidental: "plant your garlic on the shortest day of the year, and harvest it on the longest.")

I kind've forgot about my single file line of garlic, although I DID remember to eventually (EVENTUALLY BEING THE KEY WORD SINCE THE BAG SAT IN THE FUCKING BACKROOM FOR OVER A MONTH, OR SOMETHING) spread a bag of free coffee grounds from Starbucks over the cloves since alliums ("OH HEY WAIT AREN'T GARLIC AND ONIONS PART OF THE ALLIUM FAMILY? FUCK IT, THE BAG IS FREE, ANYWAY.") apparently dig all of the nitrogen.

And then? And then Saturday, Feb. 21st happened while I was padding around outside in mud and soft earth in Italics's way-too-big-for-me flip-flops and a plastic grocery bag covering my head. (THE ONLY WAY TO COMBAT FINDING LITTLE BLACK-GREEN-BROWN SPECKS OF HENNA STAINS IN THE CARPET AND FLOOR IS TO SHRINK WRAP YOUR HEAD IN SARAN WRAP AND CAP THE FUTURISTIC TURBAN WITH A PLASTIC GROCERY BAG, PREFERABLY OPAQUE.)

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It was like something out of nothing; a "something" so desperately needed at that exact moment in time. (I'M NOT GOING TO BE DEPRESSING OR ANGST RIDDEN IN THIS ENTRY, REMEMBER?) And, as stupid as it sounds, I didn't think it'd actually happen even though I PLANTED A BULB DURING ITS DESIGNATED TIME IN A FAIRLY APPROPRIATE ENVIRONMENT ALLOWING NATURE TO TAKE ITS ETERNAL AND ENDLESS COURSE.

The thing about Spring, though, is that any growth is new growth, and seeing those tender shoots of green for the first time after a period of barren sleep - especially when you're the person accountable for them - makes you forget about previous Springs. With just one look, with just one discovery this Spring takes precedent over any in memory, and there isn't a past season that's so rich with the promise of renewal.

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Click thumbnail for larger image.

During my period of forgetfulness the neighborhood cats (HOW DO YOU KNOW IF A HOUSE IS A WITCH'S HOUSE? I MEAN, IF IT DOESN'T HAVE A DIRT PIT FOR A LAWN, OR SCATTERED, MYSTERIOUS BONES LITTERING THE DIRT, OR GINGERBREAD HAMMERED TO THE DOORS OR A PERFECT LINE OF GARLIC GROWING PARALLEL TO THE HOUSE'S FOUNDATION OR A BONE TREE GRACING THE OTHERWISE WILD BACKYARD OR ALL OF THE WEIRD AND WONDERFUL ANIMALS THAT YOU NORMALLY WOULDN'T FIND SO READILY IN A SMALL SUBDIVISION GARDEN? ALL THE FUCKING CATS THAT INEXPLICABLY COME TO VISIT EVEN THOUGH WE DON'T OWN OR HOUSE ANYTHING REMOTELY FELINE.) began using the turned earth for an outhouse.

(PERHAPS NEXT TIME, SELF, WHEN YOU SEE ONE OF THE CATS SCAMPER AWAY FROM THE AREA WHEN YOU'RE OUTSIDE YOU SHOULDN'T SHOUT AFTER IT "I'M GOING TO USE YOU AS A FUCKING FERTILIZER, STAY AWAY FROM MY FUCKING GARLIC!" WHILE WAVING A GARDENING IMPLEMENT AT IT THREATENINGLY. AND IF YOU FEEL IT'S ABSOLUTELY IMPERATIVE THAT YOU DO ASSERT YOURSELF WITH THE THREAT OF GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM TO VISITING NEIGHBORHOOD CATS, YOU SHOULD PICK A BETTER TIME THAN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY WHILE STANDING OUTSIDE IN THE DIRT YARD IN PLAIN VIEW OF YOUR NEIGHBORS WHO OWN THE VANDALIZING MISCREANTS.)

Several cloves of garlic had been dug up and were strewn across the remnants of the lawn. (OH, THERE'S A TINY PATCH OF LAWN JUST BENEATH THE TREE I'VE BEEN PREVENTING MY FATHER-IN-LAW FROM CUTTING DOWN. AS YOU CAN GUESS, I GUARD THAT SMALL FLUFF OF GRASS WITH MY LIFE BECAUSE IT'S THE ONLY LUSH, LIVING THING I SEE GROWING OUTSIDE THE COMPUTER ROOM/OFFICE WINDOW DURING SPRING AND SUMMER OTHER THAN THE TREE.) I managed to rehouse the bulbs, relocating two cloves beneath the tree.

(IN OTHER WORDS - DON'T FORGET YOU REPLANTED TWO LOOSE GARLIC BULBS BENEATH THE TREE OUTSIDE!)

As with many addictive activities the second I plunged my hands into the wet, loose earth and felt the dirt pack beneath my nails I was hooked. That miraculous moment of excitement, motivation and success was the precise amount of crack I needed. When I first went outside in Italics's flip-flops and a grocery bag over my head I went out feeling empty and lifeless and without an identity. By the time I came back into the house I wasn't that person - that's the beauty about something out of nothing.

Too late in the day to do any serious garden work outside (OKAY, I ADMIT IT, I DIDN'T THINK THAT MY GARLIC SCHEME WOULD ACTUALLY WORK SO I DIDN'T BURY THEM AS DEEPLY AS I SHOULD AND HAVING SEEN THE INITIAL SUCCESS OF HEALTHY, HAPPY SHOOTS I DECIDED I NEEDED TO THROW ANOTHER INCH OR SO OF DIRT ON THEM SO THEY WEREN'T CURSED WITH SHALLOW ROOTS) I retired indoors and announced OH, HEY WE'RE PLANTING SHIT //TODAY// BECAUSE IT NEEDS TO GET DONE AND ALSO BECAUSE THE WITCH'S CALENDER SAYS THAT TODAY IS A PLANTING DAY AND THE NEXT PLANTING PERIOD WON'T BE UNTIL ASH WEDNESDAY.

In under an hour I planted four chili plants (Hot Chocolate, Ring of Fire, Prairie Fire, Cherry Bomb), two tomatoes (Bull's Heart), twelve Russian Olives, an entire tray of tobacco (LOL, I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT STRAIN I'M GROWING THIS YEAR - OOPS?) and six of the ten voodoo seeds. (We were originally going to try and germinate five, but I accidentally labeled six pots and Italics accidentally pulled out six seeds so we took the coincidence as a nudge from the universe. LOL, WATCH THEM //ALL// TURN OUT TO BE FEMALE!)

Once you get bitten by the gardening bug there's no antibiotic that you can take to kill the virus. Discovering that my cloves took root and were now producing shoots flipped the switch; burying my hands into the fertile earth simply bolt-locked that switch into place. I went to bed fantasizing about gardening, I woke up fantasizing about gardening, spent the morning groggily fantasizing about gardening while shopping for even more vegetable seeds.

The fantasizing only stopped once I pulled on my WINTER GARDENING SWEATER, laced up my sneakers, and bounced outside with my new peach tree and tray of Russian olives in hand to rehome them in the greenhouse until warmer weather. Then the strawberries - started from seed last year - were moved next to the Russian olives, as were the three apple trees (also started from seed last year).

The very last of the tobacco leaves were picked (PERFECT SINCE THE WITCH'S CALENDER SAID THAT YESTERDAY WAS AN A+ HARVEST DAY!), the plants pulled up from their containers and added to the RITUAL BURNING VESSEL (a metal trashcan) so I can make RITUAL ASH in my RITUAL BURNING VESSEL and the dirt emptied into a neat pile which was later transported to cover the garlic. (AND SINCE I COULDN'T BUDGE THE WHEELBARROW I HAD TO CARRY THAT DAMN DIRT IN A FUCKING BUCKET CRUSHED AGAINST MY TITS FROM BACKYARD TO...UH...SIDEYARD...MULTIPLE TIMES. I MEAN, //MULTIPLE//, MULTIPLE TIMES.)

By the time I was feverishly pulling weeds from an unkept landscape the sky had clouded over and a biting wind tore through the yard. ("SNOW, WOMAN, SNOW!" CHIPPY SAID, AND I LAUGHED, NOT KNOWING IF HE WAS TALKING ABOUT MY NEW BUT VERY LATE CAILLEACH HAIR (I DYE MY HAIR HENNA BLACK DURING WINTER, DURING THE CAILLEACH TIME, AND THEN I DYE MY HAIR HENNA RED DURING SUMMER, DURING THE BRIDE'S TIME) OR THE COLD WIND BLOWING OFF THE MOUNTAINS. LATER THAT NIGHT I CAUGHT THE FORECAST AND IT DID CONFIRM SNOW FOR CERTAIN PARTS OF SCOTLAND.) And as much as it pained me I retreated from the apocalyptic garden with Chippy under my arm (CHIPPY = EVER READY GARDENING COMPANION) as the sun disappeared behind a sheet of rolling, gray clouds.

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Click thumbnail for larger image.

The wonderful thing about gardening is that even if you're prevented from working outside due to the elements, at least you can find solace in SEED SHOPPING ON THE INTRANETZ! Without blinking Italics whipped out his credit card and before I knew it my seed void was filled with aubergines (eggplant), bee balm, courgettes (zucchini), cucumbers, peas, and tomatoes.

(LOLOLOL, "SEED VOID", AS IF THAT PARTICULAR VOID HADN'T ALREADY BEEN FILLED BY PURCHASING VEGETABLE AND FLOWER SEEDS EARLIER IN THE DAY.)

("SEED VOID", AS IF THAT PARTICULAR VOID HADN'T ALREADY BEEN FILLED BY PURCHASING VEGETABLE AND FLOWER SEEDS EARLIER IN THE DAY AND HAVING IMPROMPTU BEDROOM SEX.)

("SEED VOID", AS IF THAT PARTICULAR VOID HADN'T ALREADY BEEN FILLED BY PURCHASING VEGETABLE AND FLOWER SEEDS EARLIER IN THE DAY, HAVING IMPROMPTU BEDROOM SEX AND LICKING THE EVIDENCE OFF THE CARPET OF THE BEDROOM FLOOR.)

("SEED VOID.")

(THE CARPET ACTUALLY TASTED WORSE, IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT.)

Night Terror Lite

You know how sometimes children wake up in the middle of the night, inconsolable and screaming? After a feverish few minutes, they eventually settle down again, their eyelids get heavy and, as if it never happened, they drift back off into a quiet sleep? Add me to that "children" statistic you've so keenly observed.

It's been a helluva while since I woke up SCREAMING TO SAVE MY IMMORTAL SOUL WHILE CLAWING ITALICS'S ARM SO HE DIDN'T LET GO AND DROP ME INTO THE BLACK ABYSS OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS but I still, on occasion, experience night terror lite. (Instead of SCREAMING TO SAVE MY SOUL I suddenly wake up in mid-gasp, mid-movement and the next conscious thing I'm aware of is sitting straight up in bed, panting, while adrenaline courses through my body and drowns out the otherwise eerie silence and blackness of the bedroom.)

I have a general idea of what triggers them (TERRORS = NO CHEESE OR HEAVY DAIRY BEFORE BED, SLEEP PARALYSIS = NO INTENSE SHOT OF CAFFEINE AFTER A VERY LONG DAY JUST BEFORE BED), but sometimes you just can't prepare for that sort've shit because the matter is totally out of your hands. (I, uh, mean that in a more spiritual MY UNCONSCIOUS BRAIN AND POSSIBLE DIVINE INTERVENTION COLLUDING TOGETHER sense.)

Occasionally, it's obvious what set me off, but sometimes - in the more bizarre and unwarranted cases - it takes the experience to make me sit the fuck down with my LIFE PUZZLE PIECES and slowly put my previous day's activities into view to get some perspective. (Usually I find NIGHT TERROR LITE indicative of me reacting to my environment, and then the environment responding to my initial reaction.)

(EXAMPLE: I love my pot but I seriously for real DON'T LOVE the 18 hour light cycle that the plants require to produce the pot I love so much. Last year we grew for the first time and had to learn how to sleep with the grow light glowing in the bedroom closet at all hours of day (AND NIGHT). I HATED those months and prayed and prayed for the eventual release of the perpetual day so we could sleep in pitch black once again. The first night the light was officially turned off? NIGHT TERROR, AHOY!)

(EXAMPLE: I'm an anally clean person. I MEAN, CRAZY NEUROTIC YOUR MOTHER OR MOTHER-IN-LAW CANNOT TOUCH ME IN THE SLIGHTEST anally clean person. It's never, ever a good sign when shit begins collecting on special (i.e., altar-like) surfaces. After something like a fucking half year of watching my nightstand altar transform into an apocalyptic wasteland (ala ESCAPE FROM BEDROOM NIGHTSTAND) I finally cleaned up the fucking mess (see journal entry COLD MOON, 09). End result? NIGHT TERROR, AHOY!)

My recurring night terror lite complaint? "SOMETHING BLACK AND SHADOWY WAS LEANING OVER ME!" (Seriously, it's //always// that.) (You'd think since part of my life is devoted to most things SHADOWY AND BLACK that I'd, I dunno, maybe HANDLE HAVING SOMETHING SHADOW AND BLACK TRY AND INTERACT WITH ME A BIT BETTER.) It's kind've sort've like an out-of-body experience, except it's more out-of-mind (LOLOLOL, YES, THAT //EXACTLY//) when my brain's obviously working REALLY, REALLY HARD but the rest of me isn't conscious enough to take everything in but I know, deep down inside, THE JIG, IT IS UP, YO.

ANYWAY.

So I get these night terrors, but I consider them NIGHT TERROR LITE because they aren't a really big deal, and they always end up being about the same damn thing. ("ZOMGSOMETHING'SLEANINGOVERME!")

The tail end of my unconscious/conscious gasp dissolves in the still, darkened room and the only thing I hear - the only thing I FEEL - is my once racing heart suspending in painful silence. And then? And then the familiarity of it all begins trickling in. The black isn't so black, the shadows recede, the room breathes again and, even if I'm still slightly feverish and unsettled, I eventually fall back asleep finding comfort in seeing Papa's white, bony mask surface like a lifeguard's floating ring in a sea of undulating black.

For as many times I've complained about the intrusive interest of THE BLACK BEING(S) I've never actually seen anything honestly, truly corporeal. (BUT I'VE NEARLY TRIPPED OVER THEM!) They're just a smear - a streak - of displaced shadow in the most unlikely place, gone in the blink of an eye before you have a chance of second guessing yourself. (I did second guess myself, once. It moved directly behind me in the cinema foyer in the middle of the fucking day, from one shoulder to the other, and I followed it by craning my neck but only managed to catch the alias edges. At least, in that instance, Italics saw it too.)

(I did manage to disrobe an amorous visitor, once, although that instance falls under "sleep paralysis" rather than "night terror". I'd tell you the story - IT INVOLVES THE MINOTAUR...SORT'VE! - but this ramble is already treading epic proportions so I'll save the tale of my half-bull half-man lover who got a justly smack on his half-bull half-man ass for picking the fruit without asking.) (SEE? I CAN BE POLITE AND SUBTLE AND ELOQUENT AND STUFF.)

I think, if I'm reading my tea leaves and entrails right, a more direct contact was attempted. I saw a body. I saw ethnicity and clothing and shoes and, after all of these years, a face. But it wasn't a night terror where I bolted up gasping for breath and searching for Papa's mask in the swirling darkness; it was a lucid dream. And in that dream, when He leaned over me I saw His face (or one of His faces, or one of many faces) and I finally saw.

(Thinking back, now, this situation isn't too entirely different from the bull/man lover; both "revealed" themselves to me in a dream a few days later after I put my proverbial foot down with "OH HELLLLLLLLLLLLLL, NO, YOU SHOWIN' ME YOUR ASS, BOY!", both "revealed" themselves to me in the spirit of our previous meeting in a reference-y sort've way, and both played out the second meeting via a lucid dream rather than through a recurrence of either night terror or sleep paralysis.)

(I suppose, in one way, I have a better ability to interact and think on my toes in a dream than I do when under the influence of sleep paralysis and/or night terrors. SP and NT are more physical, while lucid dreams are more...explanatory, if that makes sense.)

And now that I've clued you into some of the psychological ticks my disturbed unconscious dogs me with I can finally get to the real reason why this entry was drafted in the first place - SO I COULD RECORD AN EFFING DREAM I HAD. (Everything above the short paragraphs of caps locked, fragmented sentences pertaining exclusively to my dream? JUST FOR YOUR BENEFIT.)

DRAFTED ON FEB. 23, WRITTEN UP ON MAR. 1:

LYING ON LARGE SOFA IN LOUNGE. ITALICS LYING ON LARGE SOFA IN LOUNGE, TOO. BOTH IN POSITION OF FIRST REAL MDMA TRIP; HEADS RESTING ON OPPOSITE (SOFA) ARMS AND FEET/LEGS TOUCHING IN CENTER OF COUCH. SPEAKING, TALKING, LYING AROUND.

BLACK MAN SUDDENLY APPEARS AND LEANS OVER ME. THIN, AVERAGE HEIGHT, VERY THIN ACTUALLY, MORE WESTERN-BLACK THAN AFRICAN-BLACK. ILL-FITTING CLOTHING (MODERN, BAGGY, TOO LARGE FOR THIN FRAME - HOODIE, I THINK). NO HAT, NO HEAD COVERING, BUT WEARING WHITE SNEAKERS. ABSOLUTE STRANGER, NEVER SEEN BEFORE.

BLACK MAN LEANS OVER ME INTENSELY. SAYS NOTHING. DOES NOTHING. FACES ARE ONLY INCHES APART; ME PRONE, HE STANDING AND LEANING OVER ME, IMPOSING AND INTIMIDATING. (NOT LIKE PAPA, NOT LIKE SHANGO MAN.) HIS APPEARANCE OUT OF LITERAL THIN AIR, ONE MINUTE NOT THERE, AND THEN, SUDDENLY, RIGHT IN MY FACE.

LONG SECONDS FEEL LIKE MINUTES. STILL SAYS NOTHING, BUT STARES, NOT MOVING, NOT GIVING SPACE. BLANK EXPRESSION, ALMOST ZOMBIE-LIKE. EYES GLAZED OVER AS IF CRAZY OR SICK. NO DISCERNABLE PERSONALITY OR MOTIVE, NO REAL DISPLAY OF BODY LANGUAGE OR THOUGHTS. CAN'T READ ANYTHING; FEEL LIKE RODENT TRAPPED IN SNAKE CAGE.

BEGIN TO INTERNALLY PANIC. SILENCE TOO LONG, MOTIONLESS TOO LONG. TOO MUCH LIKE MODERN ZOMBIE-MOVIE; LONG, AWFUL, SILENT MINUTE BEFORE NORMAL LOOKING HUMAN BEING GOES ZOMBIE BALLISTIC AND REVEALS TRUE FORM KILLING HELPLESS ONLOOKER. (ONLOOKER = ME.) BLACK MAN STRANGER STILL SAYS NOTHING, STILL DOES NOTHING.

SECONDS PASS FEELING LIKE HOURS. SILENCE AND MOTIONLESS DEAFENING. JUST STARES AND STARES INTENSELY WITH GLAZED EYES, BLOCKING EASIEST AND QUICKEST ESCAPE ROUTE. (WOULD HAVE TO CLIMB OVER BACK OF COUCH OR BACKWARD SOMERSAULT TO GET OUT OF POSITION. BOTH VIRTUALLY IMPOSSIBLE.)

EACH LONGHARDPAINFUL HEARTBEAT ASSURES NEXT LONGHARDPAINFUL HEARTBEAT IS WHEN HE ATTACKS. MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON COUCH TO PREVENT IMMEDIATE DEATH BY NORMAL LOOKING HUMAN BEING BUT ACTUAL MODERN ZOMBIE MONSTER. MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON COUCH TO PREVENT IMMEDIATE DEATH BY NORMAL LOOKING HUMAN BEING WHO WILL TEAR THROAT OUT AND FACE OFF IN ONE CINEMATIC SPED UP SECOND.

MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON COUCH TO NOT DIE. MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON COUCH TO NOT DIE. MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON THE COUCH TO NOT DIE. MUST...

Sitting on my figurative floor arranging my metaphorical puzzle pieces the few fragments that stand out most to me are:

1.) I was having one of my very, very rare and near non-existent "BUT I'M NOT SEXY AND ATTRACTIVE ANYMORE, SO..." moments. (We were suppose to henna my hair but I was depressed and didn't want to wake Italics up so I sat around and cried for about an hour and a half instead. (Henna hair days = 9+ hours of having it sit in my hair; the earlier on the better!))

2.) I dyed my hair Cailleach dark. (Typically I dye my hair darker around Samhain/Halloween when assuming the WINTER WHORE HAG archetype, and my hair gets dyed a lighter henna red around our Easter wedding when assuming the VIRGINAL SPRING BRIDE archetype. This past spiritual year I've been way, way off course and only got around to dying my hair Cailleach dark a few days ago, just almost verily missing the Lent deadline.)

3.) I slept uncomfortably due to having only rinsed - not washed - the dye out to deliberately leave the olive oil in to condition my hair overnight. (I sleep naked and with my long hair free, so sleeping with my hair pulled back is ZOMG TOO MUCH LIKE BEING RESTRAINED AND CHOKED ZOMG.) (If you rinse out the henna and don't wash it out immediately it super conditions your hair leaving it glossy, healthy and all Pantene Pro-V for WEEKS.)

Verdict?

Sleeping uncomfortably (itchy, sleeping on a towel on top of a pillow, feeling restrained) on top of dying my hair. (I KNOW THAT "DYING ONES HAIR" DOESN'T SEEM LIKE A BIG ENOUGH DEAL FOR THE UNIVERSE, WORLD OR WHATEVER TO REACT TO, BUT I'VE MORE OR LESS ANNOUNCED TO THE UNIVERSE, WORLD OR WHATEVER ELSE THAT DYING MY HAIR IS A //BIG FUCKING SPIRITUAL DEAL// SO WHY AM I SO SURPRISED THAT THE NIGHT I GOT AROUND TO FINALLY DOING IT - NEARLY FIVE MONTHS LATE! - SOMETHING NOTICED AND REACTED ACCORDINGLY?)

And let's not even get started on how GUILTY I FELT after waking up and feeling a little nervous and apprehensive and unsettled and every other emotion you might feel when you know you probably almost FOR REAL got killed in what felt like a modern cinematic take on the zombie genre. The "MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON COUCH TO NOT DIE..." eventually became "OH, THAT POOR GUY, HE MUST'VE BEEN MORE SCARED THAN ME AND I REACTED SO BADLY TO HIM TRYING TO INTRODUCE/INTERACT WITH ME..." although, DUDE, the are SLIGHTLY BETTER WAYS to get acquainted with me other than silently psyching me out like that, you know?

Men. Pfft.

(LOL @ HOW THIS ENTRY ORIGINALLY WAS JUST SUPPOSE TO BE THE CAPS LOCKED DREAM SEQUENCE. OH, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, YOU'VE DONE IT AGAIN!)

Empty Interface

Sometimes I'm afraid there's nothing more to me other than "housewife" these days. (It's present in every thought, in every breath, in every motion.) I wake up most mornings and sit in front of an empty interface and stare at the blank screen, remembering a time when all I had to do to get into work mode was just turn on the fucking computer.

And that was //work//; that was pulling something entirely unplanned out of my ass and going with it for an hour or two. This? This is my life, my daily thoughts. I don't need to be creative for this. It's all here, sitting in figurative piles, and all I have to do is pick up //one// thing - one memory, one conversation, one feeling, one thought, one action - and record it.

I can't do that, not anymore.

(I wake up most mornings and sit in front of an empty interface and stare at the blank screen, remembering a time when all I had to do to get into work mode was just turn on the fucking computer.)

Personal Favorite Favorites

YOU KNOW WHAT'S ONE OF MY PERSONAL FAVORITE FAVORITES? WHEN NEW PEOPLE STUMBLE ACROSS MY CAPS LOCK AND MAKE "OW, MY BRAIN" AND "I FEEL UNINTELLIGENT AFTER READING THAT" AND "THAT DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE" COMMENTS.

WTF, DUDE, DOES THIS LOOK LIKE BROKEN ENGLISH AND FRAGMENTED SENTENCES TO //YOU//? AT WHAT POINT IS YOUR FLUENCY - IN WHAT APPEARS TO BE YOUR NATIVE LANGUAGE - LIMITED BY THE USE OF CAPITAL LETTERS?

SO, YOU'RE TELLING ME, HYPOTHETICAL COMMENTER WHOSE FIRST, PRIMARY AND PROBABLY ONLY LANGUAGE IS ENGLISH, THAT YOU CAN'T READ OR UNDERSTAND THE LANGUAGE YOU WERE BORN AND RAISED SPEAKING IF THE TEXT APPEARS IN ALL UPPERCASE?

AND //I'M// THE ONE WHO'S DUMB?

Hardened Dope Criminals

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SO, LIKE, I HEAR THE RATS SCAMPERING BACK AND FORTH IN THEIR EXCITED "HOLY SHIT LET'S TAKE ALL OF THIS SHIT AND HIDE IT SOMEWHERE FOR LATER" WAY AND I'M ALL "WTF ARE THEY EFFING UP TO?" BECAUSE IT'S THE FUCKING //DRESSERS// AND NOTHING'S ON THE DRESSER TO GET THEM THAT WORKED UP EXCEPT FOR MY SEX PIG PLUG-IN TAIL (THEY DON'T COME IN PINK, WTF?!) AND THE BONG BUCKET. BUT! BUT BUT BUT! BUT THERE //WAS// SOMETHING ON THE DRESSER THAT I FORGOT TO MOVE BEFORE I LET THE BEARS OUT OF THEIR CAGE -- OUR CURING POT.

(OH, WE HAVE GROWN AND HARVESTED MY DARLINGS. 2008 SAW THE FIRST OF THREE PLANTS FLOURISH IN OUR LITTLE CLOSET GROWING SPACE AND ITALICS HAS JUST PLUCKED THE LAST TUFTS FROM OUR LITTLE JIMMY PLANT. <- JIMMY TURNED OUT TO BE FEMALE BUT S/HE'S STILL "JIMMY"...IN OUR HEART.)

THE NEXT THING I SEE, ONCE TURNING AROUND, ARE TWO RATS RACING TO THEIR CARDBOARD BOX WITH HUGE ASS DRY BUDS HANGING OUT OF THEIR MOUTH AND A THIRD SITTING IN THE BOX PACKING THE SHIT AWAY IN A CORNER. AND I EXPERIENCE A SOUL SPLITTING "ZOMGWTFLOLOLOLOLCAMERAAAAAAAAAAA!" AND "ZOMGWTFSAVETHEPOTOMGRAAAAAAATS!" BECAUSE IT WAS REALLY, REALLY FUNNY BUT ALSO, WELL, NO, ACTUALLY, IT WAS PRETTY MUCH FUNNY ALL AROUND WITH A TINY FRACTION OF PANIC ("NOT THE POT! NEVER THE POT! SAVE THE POT!") AND I REALLY WISH YOU GUYS COULD HAVE SEEN THEIR FACES AS THEY TURNED THE BUDS IN THEIR LITTLE RAT PAWS LIKE A RUBIK'S CUBE TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW THE FUCK YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO EAT IT.

BAD, BAD RATS. BUT, MY GOD, SO CUTE. (I ACTUALLY REACHED FOR THE CAMERA TO TRY AND VIDEO THEM RUNNING AROUND WITH THE BUDS AND SQUIRRELING THEM AWAY BUT THAT MEANT //EVEN MORE PRECIOUS THC WOULD'VE BEEN LOST// SO I HAD TO MAKE AN EXECUTIVE DECISION, AND ALL THAT I TOOK AWAY FROM THE EXPERIENCE WAS THIS STORY. SIGH.)

(SERIOUSLY, YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MUCH POT THESE RATS, OVER THE COURSE OF THEIR LITTLE RAT LIVES, HAVE INGESTED. WHEN WUZZA IS BEING SUPER BAD AND TRYING TO GET ONTO ITALICS'S DESKTOP SHE'S AFTER TWO THINGS - WHATEVER FOOD HE HAS SITTING AROUND IN CRUMB FORM AND POT. (YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MANY TIMES WE'VE HAD TO YANK A DIME BAG OR WHATEVER OUT OF HER MOUTH. MIZ DENIZE, I DON'T THINK WE CAN IGNORE YOUR SELF-DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR ANY LONG. YOU ARE ON THE VERGE OF AN //INTERVENTION//.))

Baby Steps

So, I open Word because, FUCK, Lent is only a week away and in a week, almost sort've exactly, both Italics and I go into celibate mode until our Easter wedding. (TECHNICALLY, I'M THE ONE WHO GOES CELIBATE, AND SINCE ITALICS ISN'T CURRENTLY DATING THE OBSERVATION OF RITUAL PURIFICATION GETS OBSERVED BY BOTH OF US. SUCKS TO BE SPIRITUALLY INVOLVED WITH ME, I KNOW, BUT AT LEAST HE CAN STILL RECEIVE HANDJOBS.)

And because practicing celibacy (THAT INCLUDES MASTURBATION OF SELF, IF YOU'RE, YOU KNOW, WONDERING) for something like 1/6th of the year (IT'S RELIGIOUS, OKAY? LET'S ALL PRETEND I'M A BETTER PERSON FOR KEEPING IT IN MY PANTS DURING A TIME UNIQUE TO CATHOLICISM EVEN THOUGH I'M NOT CATHOLIC. <- LOL, BUT I WAS BAPTIZED SO I AM AMONGST YOUR SHEEP, CAKE HATER, CLOTHED AND DISGUISED LIKE ANY OTHER HELPLESS LAMB THAT NEEDS SHEPARDING) is so goddamn easy I decided to up the ante this year; I decided to give up Livejournal and drastically scale back my use of the intranetz.

(I may be giving up good old "EL JAY" and huge amount of time on the INTRANETZ but I'm //NOT// giving up Graveyard Dirt because I'm divinely, and enigmatically contradictory like that. And, also, because I'm deliberately getting rid of distractions so I can focus more clearly on GD to make a longstanding fantasy a reality, baby.)

I'll be honest with EVERY SINGLE PERSON READING THIS SENTENCE RIGHT NOW (past, present AND future!) that I've been using Livejournal as a crutch because I'm a lazy fucking whore. (And in a week's time I'll be a lazy fucking whore in spirit.) I've gotten use to the interface, I've gotten use to selecting privacy modes, I've gotten use to "POST AN ENTRY" always being open, I've gotten use to posting the equivalent of yellow sticky notes to remember significant spiritual experiences and observations and I've grudgingly gotten use to the immediacy of unsolicited advice, regardless of topic, conversation, and/or intent.

("I THINK YOU SHOULD BE DOING //THIS//!" FUCK, DUDE, DID I EVEN //ASK YOU// WHAT YOU THOUGHT? AT WHAT POINT DID MY LIFE BECOME //YOUR// CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE? LOL, TURN TO PAGE 56 AND FIND OUT HOW I REALLY FEEL!)

A lot of time and effort and words that should've been going HERE were going THERE and it was only getting way, way more convenient to hit "POST TO..." in broken, fragmented sentences (OR UNBROKEN, UNFRAGMENTED SENTENCES IN CAPS LOCK) than make a semblance of sense in what's supposed to be, ostensibly, a record of the things I'm doing, seeing and feeling. I mean, even NOW I have "POST AN ENTRY" open in another tab JUST IN CASE I CAN'T KEEP IT TOGETHER IN MOVABLE TYPE.

So I was using Livejournal as an immediacy crutch. And, more recently, I've been using it as an entry writing crutch. I've literally been popping open livejournal, writing an entry for Graveyard Dirt as a Livejournal entry, spellchecking it, modifying it, editing it and then, instead of hitting "POST TO..." I've been copying and pasting the finished project into an empty "NEW ENTRY" tab and saving/publishing it for all of the world to see.

That? That last bit? That's totally bizarre, and totally weird and that shit makes me a little uncomfortable at the very bottom of my soul. (Without dragging out my INTERNET BABY BOOK for strangers to see I'll just say I'VE BEEN DOING THIS SHIT, THIS JOURNALING SHIT, ON AND OFF FOR //YEARS//. I've spent YEARS AND FUCKING YEARS in Movable Type's 2.5 interface and yet, after several years off, suddenly it's COLD AND ALIEN AND UNFAMILIAR AND UNWELCOMING.)

Come Ash Wednesday (the 25th of this month) my preferred method of record keeping and entry writing will be blacklisted. In eight days my self-assigned crutch - which I've grown to depend on, lean on, sleep on, fuck on - gets impounded until Easter morning. This is, needless to say, V. serious, yo. (AND, AS WE ALL KNOW, I'M COMPLETELY SERIOUS IN THE LEAST SERIOUS WAY POSSIBLE.) LULZ aside, I do take this shit pretty hardcore which means you won't find me picking at the tire lock with a hairpin. In fact, there's no hypothetical chainsaw fit with nuclear weapons that's going undo that booted, impounded crutch.

So - SO! So, I open Word because, FUCK, Lent is only a week away and in a week, almost sort've exactly, both Italics and I go into celibate mode until our Easter wedding and, if that wasn't enough, I'm voluntarily impounding my nitrous fitted journaling crutch to refamiliarize myself with an old adversary.

(OKAY, THAT'S HARSH. I GUESS WE DID HAVE A //FEW// GOOD TIMES, WORD, AND IT'S SHITTY OF ME TO HAVE SAID THAT, ESPECIALLY DURING THIS VERY FRAGILE AND EMOTIONAL TIME WHEN WE'RE TRYING TO REESTABLISH OUR ONCE VERY INTIMATE CONNECTION.)

Word, for the first time in a year, was opened on Feb. 17th, approximately 8:08 in the morning. I stared at the flat expanse of a clear, white screen, absolutely virgin, absolutely untouched and unsoiled. I stared at the flat expanse of a clear, white screen that, unlike Livejournal's "POST TO" interface, went on like a vast, endless ocean.

I stared at the solid block of white, neatly framed by my 600X800 resolution, and I didn't see PROMISE or A NEW BEGINNING or even HOPE. I saw the blankest sheet of paper ever known to man. I saw a white black hole, where any and all text entered and returned would immediately sink into a netherworld of eternity. I saw dark matter in negative image, and in that tonal inversion I understood that there would never be enough words to fill this blankest sheet of white black hole paper, neatly framed by my 600X800 resolution.

I got angry.

I got angry at Word. At the blank, white screen. At the cursor, lamely blinking in the corner. At the unnecessary, built-in tabs and drop-down menus above. At not remembering and not knowing which was //MY// font size and font spacing. At realizing I now had a souped up version of Word, one I've never actually used before. At the fucking blank, white screen, that somehow looked bigger and whiter and blanker than any other fucking blank, white screen I've ever seen in my entire fucking life.

And before I knew it I GOT FUCKING MAD AT THE FUCKING SCREEN. I mean, MAD, MAD. I mean ANGRY TO THE FUCKING CORE, DRUNK, WHITE TRASH ITCHING FOR A FUCKING FIGHT AND WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU FUCKING LOOKING AT YOU FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER mad. (KIR MAD! JUNIE MAD!)

...so I wrote the entirety of this entry in Movable Type's "NEW ENTRY" interface because HEY, I might still be using a crutch to write BUT AT LEAST IT ISN'T LIVEJOURNAL, RIGHT? (Baby steps, my dear and gentle readers, baby steps.)

In the Beginning

In the beginning there were birds. Small birds; "cheep-cheep" birds. Nameless, faceless little birds that came in small gypsy groups. Then came the blackbirds and magpies and wood pigeons. Then came the rooks and crows. (And the seagulls, but we'll pretend like they don't exist since they always crash and ruin the party. AND THAT'S WHY, FOLKS, THERE ARE TWO SEPARATE BIRD MALLS - THE SEAGULL MALL, AND THE NON-SEAGULL MALL WHOSE PATRONS HOPE, WISH AND PRAY THAT SEAGULLS VISITING THE NON-SEAGULL MALL ARE NOT //REAL// SEAGULLS, BUT ED-YOU-MAH-CATED SEAGULLS WHO ARE TURNING THEIR BACK ON THEIR PARTICULAR BIRD SPECIES TO EMBRACE THE CULTURE AND LIFESTYLE OF THEIR FORMER BIRD OPPRESSORS.)

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Slugs and snails arrived and decimated my container vegetable garden. And when I say "slugs and snails" I mean GIANT RADIO-FUCKING-ACTIVE MONSTERS FROM A FORGOTTEN HELL DIMENSION IN SPACE INTENT ON TAKING OVER THE WORLD STARTING WITH MY DWARF EGGPLANTS. (You may think I'm exaggerating for the LULZ but, truly, honestly, I am not. In the slightest. The size of these fuckers would make you think twice about eating escargot; it's completely unnatural and not of God.) And so I lamented, and I despaired, and I wailed and keened like an honorary banshee as my potted garden slowly crumbled to ruin, one slimy, hole-infested leaf at a time.

On Chippy's first "birthday" with us he was collared (it wasn't a ritual of ownership as much as it was a promise to love and take care of him; that he now had an "owner" and a home and I was prepared to undertake the responsibility of helping turn the wild, junkyard dog into a member of our family) and we presented him with a leash and a set of stainless steel dog bowls engraved with his better known name. ("Pazuzu" - you've seen the Exorcist, right?) Chippy was treated like any other member of our spiritual menagerie but also as the family dog, which meant he always had a fresh bowl of water out, and his offerings'n'treats were placed in his food bowl.

Chippy's method of incorporation came through a keen interest to be involved in whatever we were doing. When planting time came around and I began Papa's chilli peppers Chippy was at my heels requesting responsibility over his own personal slice of vegetation. (I KNOW, I KNOW - LOLOLOLOLOL DEMON OF PLAGUE AND FAMINE WANTS TO GARDEN!) I had visions of locusts swarming over already slimy, hole-infested leaves thanks to our resident slugs and snails and the mental image did, for real serious, make me internally wince. But, BUT! But I placated him and told him he could have the cherry tomatoes and carrots, but he was responsible for their well-being.

Gastropods fear nothing - even ancient demons of plagues, famines and almost all means of a very uncomfortable death. In time Chippy joined the honorary banshee movement and was howling with me as death personified crawled through our bucket garden and left its slimy trail of destruction in its wake. Despite gardening and vegetable growing not being his forte I officially enlisted his help to combat the infestation. (And when I mean "enlisted his help" I mean "got some Burger King and threw it in his food dish outside and explained to him that snails and slugs were V. V. V. bad and he had to get rid of them because they were killing our plants".)

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Not long after we began hearing strange noises outside. Alien, not-of-this-world noises. Noises that convinced me, 100%, that we were being visited by a monster and it was very, very important that I never, ever let the monster know that I was aware of its recurring presence. The heavy, stainless steel dishes got pushed around on the concrete slabs of the patio. (A CAT DOESN'T DO THAT SHIT.) Weird grunting and heavy breathing and loud, pig-like eating sounds emanated from beneath our window - OUR OPEN WINDOW - in the middle of the night and I'd lie in bed, petrified, breathing shallowly until the slithering, wet sounds scuttled further and further away.

A strange but not-so-strange thing happened (STRANGE BECAUSE I COULDNAE FIGURE OUT THE SOURCE, BUT NOT-SO-STRANGE BECAUSE I DID ASK FOR SOME SORT OF INTERVENTION SO I WASN'T SURPRISED THAT SOMETHING WAS ACTUALLY HAPPENING) - the gastropod population suffered an apocalyptic decline. The multitude of intersecting, gossamer trails disappeared. Like the ocean's tide the glistening sea of vegetative death withdrew, and suddenly you could actually walk across the patio at night without invertebrates exploding beneath your bare feet.

So there was an unseen, but definitely heard, monster roaming our small subdivision garden in the middle of the night eradicating our snail and slug problem. And we lived with this phantom monster, sacrificing the night to its devilish deeds while keeping our eyes turned away so we never had to witness the unspeakable horror that moved, thrived and killed in the darkness. It was a silent, unspoken pact made with the Devil. It was a grotesque monstrosity created out of the very worst of man's heart. It was...well, it was a hedgehog, actually. Multiple hedgehogs, in fact, that would get rowdy as fuck and bang on Chippy's empty, stainless steel food bowl, moving it around the patio in the hopes that, somehow, it'd magically fill with MORE FOOD.

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Chippy, rather than fighting fire-with-fire, enlisted the help of nature's indigenous gastropod killer - the hedgehog. (OH, THAT CHIPPY. HE ALWAYS GOES FOR THE CUTE, THE SOFTIE.) Within weeks the heaving, plant-destroying population plummeted, and we had very happy, very well fed nightly visitors who came for the treats in Chippy's bowl but stayed for the slime coated angels of death. And, in time, Italics and I were able to pick up our little prickly visitors and take them indoors, briefly, to pull out any tics or fly larvae with tweezers, check for wounds and give them a very quick bath in the bathroom sink before releasing them into the wild.

Once the hedgehogs came they brought Scotland's wildlife with them. The "cheep-cheep" birds turned into blackbirds, magpies and wood pigeons and the blackbirds, magpies and wood pigeons turned into rooks and crows and then the rooks and crows turned into field mice and hedgehogs and bats and the field mice and hedgehogs and bats turned into neighborhood cats and a pair of foxes that very nearly ate out of my hand and the neighborhood cats and a pair of foxes that very nearly ate out of my hand turned into deer.

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And to think that it all started with just a simple set of stainless steel dog dishes given out of love to something that desperately wanted to come in from the cold and bask in the warmth of belonging.

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Always Seems

It always seems to happen around a Sabbat, or full moon, or eclipse. (This time it lasted nearly six hours.)(Next time remind me not to leave food sitting in the oven after I turn it off; I know better, but I wasn't thinking.)

Hello, Old Lady

Currently the UK is being wiped out by snow. (I WOULD LOL, REALLY, BUT THIS WAS SO OBVIOUSLY EXPECTED THAT ALL I CAN REALLY DO IS ROLL MY EYES AND GRIN THAT ALL-KNOWING "OH, UNIVERSE, THAT'S SOOOOOO //YOU//" GRIN.)(<- IT WAS BRIDE'S DAY ON THE 2ND, AND THE ANCIENT PEOPLE IN THIS AREA USED THAT DAY AS A SPRING FORECAST. IF THE WEATHER WAS FAIR IT MEANT THE OLD WOMAN - THE CAILLEACH, THE YOUNG BRIDE THAT INEVITABLY TURNED CRONE AND REIGNED AS THE WINTER HAG FROM SAMHAIN UNTIL BELTANE - WOULD LEAVE HER HOUSE TO COLLECT MORE FIREWOOD, AND WITH MORE FIREWOOD SHE WAS SET FOR MORE WINTER. IF THE WEATHER WAS FOUL, THOUGH, SHE COULDN'T BE FUCKED TO LEAVE THE HOUSE (OH, OLD WOMAN, HOW YOUR BLOOD FLOWS THROUGH MY VEINS!) TO STOCK UP ON WOOD, SO SPRING, NATURALLY, CAME EARLY.)

Last year I learned about the Scottish GROUNDHOG'S DAY SANS GROUNDHOG and spent the last few weeks of January running in mental circles. ("BUT HOW DO YOU KNOW, EXACTLY? I MEAN, WHAT IF THE WEATHER IS MOSTLY SHITTY WITH A FEW BRIGHT SPELLS? WHAT IF THE WEATHER IS MOSTLY AWESOME BUT THEN CLOSES WITH A TYPHOON? WHAT IF...?") My mother-in-law, noticing my mental agitation (and constantly window checking of weather the eve of Candlemas/Imbolc), asked me what I was up to.

"TOMORROW IS BRIDE'S DAY!"

But that didn't ring any bells.

"TOMORROW IS BRIDE'S DAY! YOU KNOW, BRIDE'S DAY! WHEN EVERYONE WATCHED THE WEATHER SINCE IT FORE-CASTED THE ARRIVAL OF SPRING. IF THE WEATHER WAS BAD THE OLD WOMAN, THE CAILLEACH, STAYED INDOORS, BUT IF THE WEATHER WAS FINE SHE WOULD LEAVE HER HOUSE TO PICK UP STICKS AND KINDLING TO HAVE ENOUGH FIREWOOD FOR THE EXTENDED PERIOD OF WINTER."

She was still pretty much lost her after "Bride's Day", even with the expanded explanation.

"BRIDE'S DAY IS SORT'VE LIKE GROUNDHOG'S DAY IN THE STATES BUT WITH SAINT BRIGID."

"OOOOOOOOOOOOH! GROUNDHOG'S DAY AND SAINT BRIGID!"

And that, dear readers, is how common ground was found and met between an older Scottish woman and a younger American woman. (FUCKING GROUNDHOG'S DAY AND SAINT BRIGID. HOLY FUCK, DUDE, I'M THE //AMERICAN// LIVING IN SCOTLAND, AND I HAVE SCOTTISH PEOPLE LOOKING AT ME LIKE I'M //RETARDED// FOR KNOWING THIS SHIT BECAUSE THEY'VE NEVER HEARD IT BEFORE.)(DOES THAT SEEM INSANE TO ANYONE ELSE? TO LIVE IN AN EFFING COUNTRY CHOKING ON MYTHOLOGY AND FOLKLORE AND HAVE THIS STUFF BE VIRTUALLY UNKNOWN AMONGST THE NATIVE INHABITANTS?)

(JESUS, I'M AMERICAN. //I'M// THE ONE COMING FROM A LAND OF FOLKLORE THAT CELEBRATES SOME FUCKING MOUNTAIN MAN WHO WALKED AROUND WITH A POT ON HIS HEAD THAT PLANTED APPLE SEEDS AND //YOU// HAVE AN ANCIENT DEATH/LIFE CREATOR GODDESS WHO PERSONIFIED WINTER STORMS AND SOVEREIGNTY, AND WAS SO INTRINSICALLY LINKED TO THE LAND THAT THE VERY EARTH DEMANDED HER BLESSING AND ATTENTION TO ENSURE PROSPERITY AND FERTILITY.)

(LET'S NOT EVEN TRY AND DECONSTRUCT "JOHN HENRY", OKAY? WHAT'S SO TALL TALE ABOUT AN "ATHLETIC" BLACK MAN?)(LOL, "ATHLETIC". <- IF YOU WATCH ANY UFC EVENT YOU'LL QUICKLY NOTICE HOW ANY AND ALL BLACK FIGHTERS ARE DESCRIBED AS BEING NATURALLY "ATHLETIC".)

So, ANYWAY, I spent the weeks leading up to Bride's Day searching the sky for some sort of hint or clue because READING THE WIND AND CLOUDS AND MOVEMENT OF BIRDS was still a little new to me. (LOL, BECAUSE I'M LIKE AN //EXPERT// NOW AT IT, OR SOMETHING.)(ALTHOUGH, HONESTLY, IT'S NOT AS HARD AS YOU'D THINK. YOU ONLY NEED THREE THINGS - KEEN OBSERVATION, A DECENT MEMORY AND CONFIDENCE IN YOUR GUT FEELING. SOMETIMES I WONDER HOW MUCH PREDICTION AND DIVINATION IS FUNDAMENTALLY ABOUT //JUST PAYING ATTENTION TO SHIT//.)

I remember that it was cold, and I remember it was gray, and I remember it was windy, but it didn't snow, and it didn't rain. ("BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!") By the time the sun set and twilight fell on northeast Scotland the seasonal breeze picked up to gale force winds and ripped through the bare trees and shrubs, shaking everything including the mostly concrete/stone house we live in.

We went out for something, both Italics and I, and I watched the countryside through a pane of glass as we bumped along the road, looking for any sort of sign, any sort of point in the right direction. There was nothing except for blackness and wind, and the cold blue-white twinkle of stars partially hidden beneath a thin layer of streaming gray cloud.

Usually we pull straight into the drive when we come home but this time, for some reason, Italics's mother (father? I think, maybe, father) dropped us off in front of the house to turn the car around in the street. Crossing from asphalt onto brick I saw something lying on the driveway, exactly where the car would've otherwise pulled into.

There, laying on lichen encrusted brick, was a small bundle of sticks. (We don't have any shrubs or bushes in the front yard, so the wind must've snapped off the branch from a neighbor's yard and carried it to our driveway. Carried it to my feet, to my /house/.) If we HAD parked it would've crushed the kindling that was left for me, and I would've been none the wiser.

I wanted my sign, and I got it. (AND I STILL HAVE IT, IN FACT, PERFECTLY CONTAINED IN A PLASTIC BAGGIE, MARKED WITH ALL RELEVANT INFORMATION INCLUDING DATE AND TIME AND ALL OF THAT SCIENTIFIC JAZZ. <- THERE'S NO REASON TO BE A MESSY, DISORGANIZED WITCH, OKAY? LABELING EVERYTHING WITH V. IMPORTANT INFORMATION IN JARS AND BAGGIES DOESN'T MAKE IT ANY LESS //MAGIC//, JUST EASIER TO FIND THE SHIT YOU'RE AFTER.)(E.G., TRYING TO FIND MY GRATED/DEHYDRATED PUMPKIN SHAVINGS TO ADD INTO OUR SOLAR SABBAT CAKES. BUT EVEN THEN I HAD TO PULL THE FUCKING LONG BOX FROM UNDERNEATH THE BED //TWICE//...)

Winter Robin

So Hezbollah's special little friend (THAT WOULD BE THE EUROPEAN ROBIN) was singing his little heart out (I HEARD HIM THROUGH A CLOSED WINDOW AND ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE ROOM) and since he was singing so fine, and since he was singing so lovely I came over to the window to tell him how beautiful he sounded. It was only after I cupped my fingers against the glass to find him in the darkness I understood why he was serenading me...

...She's come back home, again.

(I've been waiting all day and night hoping She'd come back. Waiting and wanting to see the white down, wanting to see the violet skies, wanting to feel the snow under my skin to give me a reason to pull up our coffin/casket cover further up the bed until I'm sleeping beneath a blanket of other people's eternity.)

I asked the Old Woman, Whisky and Wangs night, to teach me Her magic and bring me snow that would make my tired, old heart happy. (I guess the wangs worked, then.)

(THE SECRET TO WEATHER WITCHERY DOES INVOLVE SPIRITS, BUT THE KIND YOU CAN MEASURE BY THE DRAM.) (I BET I'D GET EVEN BETTER RESULTS IF I LEFT AN OFFERING OF HEROIN. I MEAN, SHE IS //SCOTTISH//, AFTER ALL.)

This and That

This? This was so amazingly, insanely gorgeous that it seriously made me want to fuck every single fucking time I walked into the kitchen while it was boiling. (I BELIEVE THIS NOT-SO-HYPERBOLIC-HYPERBOLE (<- I DID, ACTUALLY, GET HORNY; I'M NOT GOING TO LIE TO YOU, OKAY? IT HAPPENS AND WE'VE LEARNED TO JUST //DEAL WITH IT//) STATEMENT AT LEAST PARTIALLY COVERS THE POETRY AND FREE VERSE THAT WAS A-SINGIN' IN MY HEART EARLIER THIS EVENING AROUND DINNER TIME.)

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And this? This is something damned near special, too. It's a shame that you guys can't see what I can see without a camera lens. (You can't translate snow, not with a not-so-shitty digital camera pressed up against the window on the warm side of the glass. <- I LOVE YOU GUYS LOTS, BUT JUST NOT ENOUGH TO TAKE PICTURES ANKLE DEEP IN SNOW AT SIX IN THE FUCKING MORNING. PERHAPS NEXT TIME WHEN THERE ARE MORE DRUGS IN THE HOUSE AND/OR IN MY SYSTEM.)

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Outside the computer room/office window just before 6AM on Feb. 4th, 2009. (Looks a bit like Legend, doesn't it?)

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Wings vs Wangs

ME: DO YOU THINK IT'S OKAY TO CHANGE "WHISKY AND WINGS" TO "WHISKY AND WANGS"? I'M AFRAID PEOPLE WON'T GET IT AND BE...I DON'T KNOW...OFFENDED, OR SOMETHING.

ITALICS: PEOPLE NOT UNDERSTANDING YOUR USE OF "WANGS" IN AN ENTRY TITLE IS THE LEAST OF YOUR WORRIES WHEN IT COMES TO THIS SITE.

(HE'S THE SMARTER ONE, IF THAT ISN'T ALREADY BLINDINGLY OBVIOUS.)

IN OTHER NEWS-THAT-DOESN'T-INVOLVE-A-PARAPHRASED-CONVERSATION-THAT-YOU-PROBABLY-WON'T-FIND-FUNNY:

I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED A STRAND OF KINKED, LONG HAIR LYING ON MY KEYBOARD. (I HAVE LONG STRAIGHT, ITALICS HAS LONG KINKED...WELL, SORT'VE.) I SUSPECT, SHE SAYS, MALE WITCHCRAFT. (IT BEGAN WITH THE SALT THROWING AND HAS NOW PROGRESSED TO HAIR ENCHANTMENT. MY ONLY SAVING GRACE IS THAT HE DOESN'T HAVE A UTERUS, SO I HAVE THE MENSTRUAL BLOOD MONOPOLY IN THIS RELATIONSHIP.)

(LOLOLOLOLOL, MALE "WITCHES". SURE, DUDE, WHATEVER. KNOCK YOURSELF OUT WITH ALL OF THOSE WANDS AND BROOMS AND SHIT.)

(LOL, MALE WITCHES. SERIOUSLY, WTF.)

(ALTHOUGH, I THINK, THE CONSENSUS WAS/IS/WAS THAT JULIAN SANDS IS THE SOLE EXCEPTION TO THE MALE WITCHES RULE.)

Whisky and Wangs

I hope the Old Woman's happy with her Famous Grouse and "Restaurant-Style Buffalo Chicken Wings", because that's all I got 'round these parts to feed her ass tonight.

(APPEASING A NEAR FORGOTTEN, ANCIENT CREATOR/DESTROYER GODDESS WHO IS CURRENTLY RUNNING RAMPANT IN EVERY AREA OF THE UK -EXCEPT- FOR THE NORTH-EAST OF SCOTLAND (WHERE I'M LOCATED - OBVIOUSLY, NATURALLY AND OF COURSE) WITH A SHOT OF CHEAP ASS WHISKEY AND SOME HOMEMADE CHICKEN WINGS SMOTHERED IN A BUTTER AND CHILI HOT SAUCE? OH, WHY NOT.)

(AT LEAST SHE'LL //REMEMBER// ME, RIGHT?)

Spring w/Random Intervals of Winter

It's almost 8PM on Bride's Day (Imbolc / Candlemas or, if you're not THAT into celebrating sheep beginning to lactate like us northern hemisphere heathens, Groundhog's Day) and this Scottish* weather witch is ready to make her annual Spring forecast:

SPRING WILL COME EARLY TO NORTH-EAST SCOTLAND, BUT WE SHOULD EXPECT AT LEAST ONE OR TWO MORE SNOW STORMS IN THE INTERIM.

(Since about midnight it's been snowing on and off; mostly "on". I woke up just as the sun was setting, just as the sun was disappearing behind a thick layer of snow clouds. We've mostly had a bad day, but just enough sunshine to complicate things.)

* I'm //technically// American, but we've been having sex without a condom now for OVER A YEAR (I'm only very recently on a contraceptive pill despite my weathered age of 28) - longer if you count anal sex from around 18 (CONDOMS FOR ANAL SEX WITH MY ONE AND ONLY SEXUAL PARTNER EVER? LOL, RIGHT, WHATEVER) - so, scientifically, I've absorbed enough Scottish jizz into my system via anal sex, swallowing instead of spitting and now normal sex (LOL, "NORMAL") to make me a "Scottish witch". (THERE IS JUST THAT MUCH SCOTCH IN ME! ALSO, LOL, "SCOTCH".)

(AND WHILE WE ARE ON THE SUBJECT OF LULZ: LOL @ ME AND MY THEORY OF SCOTTISH WITCH JIZZ WHICH IS, SURELY, THE PERFECT WAY TO ESTABLISH AND KEEP THE INTEREST OF NEW READERS.) (HI, HELLO AND WELCOME, BTW!)