Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Midsummer Fire

2008's Yule Log burning in 2009's Midsummer fire.

June 26th Walk

So, like, yesterday was an incredibly misty morning over here in bonnie ole Scotland and I couldn't resist the opportunity to bust out and christen our tripod by catching the sunrise over mist-riddled hills. (<- ONLY EVER USED INDOORS TO TAKE PICTURES OF ALTARS AND THINGS.) But when the ethereal mist transformed into choking fog we gave up any hope to get pictures like THIS and settled for the Silent Hill atmosphere instead.

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Walking on the main road that leads into the rural country towards the cemetery.

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Main road, getting close to "city" limits. (<- Where the new asphalt turns into a country lane no longer flanked by streetlights.)

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Suspended Silent Hill wires that go nowhere.

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Looking back towards the subdivisions while walking to the cemetery.

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Our REAPING and HIEROS GAMOS wheat field. (When we consummated our marriage on Midsummer (in this field) the wheat heads weren't up yet; they appeared immediately after we SEALED THE DEAL.)

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Our REAPING and HIEROS GAMOS wheat field. (When we consummated our marriage on Midsummer (in this field) the wheat heads weren't up yet; they appeared immediately after we SEALED THE DEAL.)

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Our REAPING and HIEROS GAMOS wheat field. (When we consummated our marriage on Midsummer (in this field) the wheat heads weren't up yet; they appeared immediately after we SEALED THE DEAL.)

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Indigenous flora obscuring the stone wall that separates the country lane from the sidewalk.

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Looking back while walking forward. The row of trees to the left marks the road leading up to the disturbed children's home (no longer in use).

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The beech hedgerow to the left (where the stone stove is and the cow pasture that connects the hedge, ruined church, walled garden and cemetery) and our wheat field to the right.

N2S: Found nurses blouse (blue w/white trimming) neatly hanging on fence post when walking to cemetery. Gathered grass and flowers from Muriel's grave to make Muriel specific incense. Found wheel-like object on Nun's grave, and broken piece of statue (looks like pointing finger). Found single, large crow feather in cemetery.

Egg Wash

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I've just finished washing my hands and face with an egg yolk. I DON'T KNOW, DON'T ASK ME; I'M REALLY, REALLY HIGH RIGHT NOW.

(For whatever reason I "wash" my hands with ingredients when MAGIC cooking; when the egg broke crazy and the white (I DIDN'T SEE A WHITE, ACTUALLY, BECAUSE THE YOLK WAS STUCK TO THE INSIDE OF THE SHELL, WHICH IS WHY I GOT SOME ON MY FACE BECAUSE I SMELLED MY HANDS, AFTER, TO SEE IF IT WAS OFF) disappeared I had slippery, liquid gold in my hands and I thought OH SHIT! CAN'T LET THIS GET AWAY, BETTER WASH AND RUB IT ALL IN! and before I knew it I had massaged it into my hands, my forearms and my face. After striping off every gelatinous layer (LIKE AN EASTER CHICK, BABY, FRESH AND NEW AND FLUFFY AND YOUNG) with warmish water I buried my face into a starched kitchen towel catching, just for a second, a scorpion emerging from its watery home and crawling onto land underneath the light of a crescent moon.)

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(OH, LORD, IT'S GOING TO BE ONE OF //THOSE// NIGHTS, ISN'T IT?)

June 20th Walk

Midsummer activities have worn me the fuck out. So while I recoup and ponder MY MIDSUMMER SPREAD, THE RETURN OF ZOMBIES, TAILOR MADE HOLES and THE LAUGHING HIGH PRIESTESS I'll leave you with pictures from a recent walk. (This adventure includes an honest to God MONSTER STORY!)

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This is what northeast Scotland looks like around 11 PM the day before Midsummer. (And THIS is what it looks like around 3:30 AM around Midsummer.) The long, dark winters eventually give way to long, light summers which makes being semi-nocturnal a lot easier to handle. (I think we've patented LONG COUNTRY RAMBLES AT 4 AM. While the rest of the world sleeps we're outside climbing ancient, crumbling walls and crossing oceans of dewy fields finding new places to build SEX FORTS. <- WHAT YOU PLAY WHEN YOU'RE 29 YEARS OLD AND MARRIED!)

In this particular picture you're overlooking the boundaries of the "new" section of the cemetery across the cow pasture towards the (obscured) walled garden. (If you click on the image above I've noted where the wall is, but it's much easier to see if you click on "ALL SIZES" and view the original 912 x 684 image.) Behind the line of trees and the walled garden is the ruined church (which you can't see), and to the very left of the image - where a clump of trees jut out just above the cobbled wall - is the beginning of the beech hedge where the stone "stove" is located.

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Do you see the two pinpricks of orange/amber lights in the distance? That's where we live. (ROUGHLY, APPROXIMATELY, I MEAN.) The lights indicate the start of housing developments; where the street lamps end partially tamed country begins. We live close to the outskirts of country (at one time this part of the subdivision was the outpost, but the town's grown since then and we've watched local, wild fields succumb to compact family homes) so it takes about twenty minutes to walk from home to the cemetery.

In this picture you can sort've see how the one cow field stretches between the beech hedge and the walled garden/ruined church and touches the very back of the cemetery. Contractors want to bulldoze the pasture and build high income homes. So far, they've met with pretty hefty opposition by villagers. Due to the recession plans were axed and withdrawn, but I've read that they're trying to push it again...

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Sometimes when it's just us and the weather's nice and we're pleasantly stoned we'll wander around the cemetery like it's our backyard. We visit familiar graves (Papa's grave, Muriel, the Nun and Bill - BILL, WHEN THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO GET A HEADSTONE, DUDE? IT'S BEEN, WHAT, OVER A YEAR NOW?), knock on the headstones politely to wake up the occupant and leave them offerings of food and drink. (I always carry a bottle of water and a plastic bag full of individually wrapped chocolate in my walking book bag, just in case we're in a hurry to leave and I forget to take something.)

We tidy up graves, pick up litter and remember those who are forgotten. (<- SOMETIMES IT'S NOT CLEAR WHERE THE WEATHER, SUN-STRIPED PLASTIC FLOWERS ARE SUPPOSED TO GO. WHEN THAT HAPPENS WE LEAVE THE ARTIFICIAL BOUQUETS ON GRAVES WHO OBVIOUSLY AREN'T VISITED ANY LONGER.) It's less "caretaker" and more...I don't know..."ensuring everyone is happily tucked in for eternity", I guess. (<- WOW, IS THAT MATERNAL OR WHAT? Death's the only thing that brings out the nearly non-existent maternal nurturer in me. Maybe that's Santa Muerte's influence?)

That's Chippy my Sumerian house trained demon dog sitting in my leather bag behind the flower arrangements. (LONG STORY. VERY LONG STORY, IN FACT. SHORT STORY? I TRAINED A NON-CORPOREAL ENTITY TO REACT TO A PLUSH TOY. CHIPPY'S - MORE COMMONLY KNOWN TO PEOPLE AS "PAZUZU" - CHOSEN FORM WAS A SHAR PEI SO YOU'LL SOMETIMES SEE ME WALKING AROUND THE COUNTRY (OR THE MOVIES) WITH CHIPPY STRAPPED TO MY BACK LIKE A PAPOOSE.)

(DUDE, EVEN DEMONS TRAINED TO ACT LIKE DOGS NEED TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE SOMETIMES, YOU KNOW?)

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A simultaneously garish and eerie sight are the solar powered lights that glow an icy blue/white against shadowed headstones at night. We first encountered them on our February full moon walk after receiving a staggering amount of snow. (<- NOT STAGGERING ENOUGH TO STOP US FROM OUR 4 AM WALK, ALTHOUGH I DID GET THROWN A SERIOUS "WTF?" LOOK FROM A WOMAN AS SHE PASSED BY. JESUS, WIFEY, "WTF?" YOURSELF. WHY ARE //YOU// OUT WALKING IN THE SNOW AT 4 FUCKING AM? I'VE GOT AN EXCUSE - I'M A SEMI-NOCTURNAL WITCH.)

(ALSO, YES, IT IS REAL FUR; IF YOU CAN'T WEAR YOUR KNEE-LENGTH FUR COAT IN THE SNOW ON A 4 AM WALK TO THE LOCAL CEMETERY WHEN CAN YOU?)

The blur of festive looking Halloween light in the center of this picture? That's me, naked from the waist up (ITALICS TOTALLY NEEDED TO BLOW HIS NOSE AND I WAS TOTALLY LOOKING FOR A REASON TO GET NAKED SO, CLEARLY, I HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO TAKE OFF MY FUR COAT, MY LONG-SLEEVE SHIRT AND MY BRA SO HE COULD BLOW HIS NOSE IN THE ONE ARTICLE I DIDN'T NEED - MY BRA; BUT ONLY BECAUSE I WASN'T WEARING UNDERWEAR, AS USUAL), pausing for just a second to wave around a solar powered snowman that was flickering on someone's grave.

(That makes me a full fledged witch, right? Running half-naked in a cemetery on a full moon just after receiving the most snow Scotland's seen in almost a generation? <- THAT'S //MY// SNOW, BTW. YOU DON'T CHOKE DOWN SHOTS OF WHISKEY WITH THE INDIGENOUS WINTER HAG FOR NOTHING.)

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I wanted to capture the 60s artificial yellow/green of the miniature ferns growing out of the stone wall "containing" the beech hedge, but by the time we passed the row of gnarled trees it was too dark to capture the inorganic, plastic quality of the plants. Although it wasn't too dark to see how the light behind the ruined church filtered through one of the empty, arched windows making the inhabitable spookily habituated on the night before Midsummer.

"It's something out of a fairytale," I whispered to Italics, although in this story Gretal was also the Witch. (Poor, poor Hansel...)

(Some of these images have notes, so be sure to click on the thumbnails above to see what I've added. ALSO, ALSO, ALSO! Also, these picture's are one billion percent best viewed in the dark and at their original 912 x 684 size (just click on "ALL SIZES"); you'll be surprised how much more you see if you turn off all the lights and let your eyes adjust. See? SEE? AND SEE?)

(If you look hard enough/let your eyes adjust you can see how the ruined church has no roof and even see the empty frame of one of the windows in the last picture.)

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THIS PICTURE COMES WITH A LOLOLOLOL! STORY! (A story? WHAT? You mean there might be a reason why the Midsummer stove* offering was ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE instead of neatly arranged within?)

(* An outside stone stove with offerings? DOUBLE WHAT? MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, WHAT CRACK ARE YOU SMOKING NOW? An older journal entry, ARCTIC RIVER, should explain away some of the confusion.)

RIGHT! SO!

Because darkness grants a wee bit more privacy than light and I have the extraordinary ability to DRAW THINGS OUT FOR AS LONG AS I EFFING CAN I decided that we'd leave our Midsummer stove offering - water, homemade flat bread, dried dates and a banana - AFTER we visited the cemetery so there was no chance that nosy country folk could interrupt the ritual.

("OI, YOU TWO! FET YE DOOIN'?" <- Italics laughs at my Doric but I think that's pretty close. WAIT, NOT CLOSE ENOUGH! Apparently it's "FIT YE DEEIN?" - close enough? Probably, at least I can intuitively understand most of it even if I can't speak it. <- YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR ME READING ROBERT BURNS OUT LOUD. IT'S AN AWKWARD AND DEMORALIZING EXPERIENCE FOR ANYONE WHO'S SCOTTISH.)

I pride myself on being stupidly fearless. (STUPID IN THE SENSE THAT I SHOULD PROBABLY KNOW BETTER, BUT DON'T GIVE A FUCK.) The only thing that really terrifies me is DEATH (LOL, I KNOW, I'M GOING TO NEED TO GET OVER THAT ONE, RIGHT? I MEAN, IT'S NOT LIKE IT'S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN, OR I'M GOING TO BE ABLE TO BULLSHIT MY WAY OUT OF IT) with a close second being HUMIDITY AND/OR RAIN. (<- WEATHER, DON'T YOU BE RUININ' MY HAIR AND MAKE-UP, GODDAMMIT. ALSO, I ONLY LIKE TO GET WET ON TWO VERY SPECIFIC OCCASIONS: WHEN I'M BATHING, AND WHEN I'M SWIMMING. THE END.)

Monsters? Ghosts? Demons? Hell? Jesus H. effing Christ, I live with a fucking SUMERIAN DEMON and A RANDY FUCKING BLACK MAN (Papa Ghede, also known as Baron Samedi), there's a broken car parked in the fucking driveway, there's a trash heap in the backyard and there's no lawn in the front, only exposed dirt and piles of rocks heaped beneath cast aside pieces of driftwood. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WHEN YOU LIVE IN HELL HOUSE MONSTERS, GHOSTS AND DEMONS DON'T ENTER YOUR RADAR AT //ALL//.

Fearless and proud we entered the dark expanse beneath the beeches, having just enough light to maneuver around fallen limbs and ditch-like grassy pits. It was almost midnight when I dropped the black leather book bag (<- DEAR DECEASED MOM, YOU WILL NEVER APPRECIATE HOW MUCH I LOVE THE BLACK LEATHER WHIRLPOOL (<- HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I ONLY JUST REALIZED THAT! WHIRLPOOL! FUCK! STAMPED RIGHT ON MY FUCKING BOOK BAG! FUCK! HOW DID I NOT "SEE" THAT BEFORE? FUCK!) BAG I "INHERITED" WHEN NEEDING EXTRA LUGGAGE TO TAKE BACK SOME OF YOUR THINGS) next to the foot of a tree, Chippy and his yellow and orange t-shirt were the only things easily visible to the naked eye in an otherwise sea of shadowy ground.

Methodically I loosened the leather straps securing the bag around his neck (I tuck the book bag's "flap" into the bag itself so when I draw the strings closed the bag tightens around his neck for a cosy fit) and pulled him out for a moment of freedom (the last time I did that he took off and upset a whole herd of cattle who, honest to fucking God, tried to scale A STONE FUCKING WALL WITH BARBED WIRE just to get away from the unseen phantom terrorizing them; we've since discussed what is - and isn't - appropriate "out for a walk" behavior) so I could get to the offerings.

In the dark everything was still and quiet, even the crows overhead were silent in their nests as the sound of a crunching plastic bag intruded on the otherwise deep and heavy summer solemn. The bottle of water and bag of food were removed from the book bag and, to ensure our getaway was quick, Chippy was instantly return to his snug carrier despite protests of disappointment. (OH, HE TALKS. HE SOUNDS LIKE ANIMAL, FROM THE MUPPETS, AND SPEAKS IN SIMPLE THREE TO FIVE WORD SENTENCES WITH ONE OF THOSE WORDS USUALLY BEING "WOMAN". <- That's me, if that wasn't, you know, entirely obvious.)

It was all going to plan until I squatted at the base of a beech for my ritual "piss in the woods, ruins, cemetery or other places of great importance". (<- LET'S DISCUSS THE ENTIRE EMPTYING OF THE BLADDER RITUAL LATER, OKAY?) As my jeans dropped to the ground there was a sudden rustle in the overgrown grasses to our right. JUST AN ANIMAL OUT AND ABOUT, I assured myself, but my muscles tensed and my eyes flitted from patch of grass to patch of grass because I knew, deep down in my totally not afraid stomach, that the horror movie had started.

JUST A BADGER, JUST A HEDGEHOG, JUST AN ANIMAL OUT FOR A WALK SINCE IT'S ANIMAL TIME HERE IN SCOTLAND, but I was still unsure. I gathered folds of denim into a tight fist so I wouldn't accidentally piss on my clothing, but, really, I just wanted something to unapologetically cling to for moral support. I couldn't see ANYTHING; not even with my glasses on. What natural light remained was reflected off the tips of meadow grass - the downy kind that stretches up to your knees - but past the tapered blades there was nothing, an entire ecological kingdom of "nothing" that was 100% obscured (and leering at me and my naked ass hovering a few inches from the twig-riddled ground).

But the entire "piss in the woods, ruins, cemetery or other places of great importance" is sort've our THING (one of many, anyway), and I didn't want to rush the job because it'd be like rushing foreplay or sex or, you know, that special stuff that couples do that's serious but really a weird, evolved in-joke that can't be explained. So, for reasons imagined and stated above, I didn't want to do a piss'n'run (it's more piss'n'shake the ass, slap the ass, point to the ass, pole dance around the tree trunk/ruins as sexily as one can with pants still shackling ankles and then...well, and then CENSORED MARRIED STUFF).

Performance anxiety hit, but it wasn't //MY// fault. Amidst the darkness, the gnarled grey trees and their trunks, the tall meadow grasses and sunken pits blanketed with rotting leaves there was movement. Unmistakable, undeniable clumsy, heavy movement that was zeroed in on me and steadily moved closer and closer. My heart, healthily hammering away in my chest, leapt into my throat with the first hissing, spitting, huffing sound. (HOLY FUCKING SHIT SOMETHING WAS FUCKING HISSING IN THE FUCKING GRASS AND IT WAS HISSING AS IT WAS MOVING IN MY FUCKING DIRECTION.)

I swear to all that's holy and divine I TRIED MY BEST TO BE COURAGEOUS, I TRIED MY BEST TO BE BOLD AND UNAFRAID, I TRIED MY BEST TO REMEMBER THAT MONSTERS DON'T EXIST but, in the end, I got swept into a story that ended with A RABID FUCKING BADGER BURSTING OUT OF SHUDDERING GRASSES - JAW AGAPE AND RAZOR SHARP TEETH GLEAMING IN THE NIGHT - AND SINKING ITS BACTERIA INFESTED MUTATED TUSKS INTO MY WHITE EXPOSED ASS GORGING PAPA'S (AND ITALIC'S) PRIDE AND JOY.

(Monsters aren't real but mutant, rabid badgers with mastodon tusks who hunt the naked asses of unsuspecting nubile young women having a piss in Scottish hedgerows are, okay?)

If you saw how quick I hauled ass to get the fuck out of there you'd think I was competing against the Devil himself in a supermarket sweep stake. Jeans were unsexily yanked up, Chippy and the tote wildly thrown over a shoulder and the offerings unceremoniously dumped at an APPROXIMATION of the stove's opening (ritual? what ritual? THERE'S A CRAZED BADGER AFTER ME!) all in one whirling movement before I was off like a rocket, charging through grass and brush and over the toppled stone wall not stopping until I crossed the street to the safety of the modern world - asphalt.

For a day or two we speculated what the fuck it could've been, and we always wound up with "badger" due to the sheer size (when it moved it displaced A LOT of fucking grass) and sound. And "badger" we stuck with until the evening of the 21st when THE SAME EXACT NOISE WAS SUDDENLY IN THE BACK FUCKING YARD. ("OH MY GOD IT KNOWS WHERE I LIVE!") I tore through the house like a fucking maniac to find a flashlight hoping, praying and wishing that whatever IT was that IT wouldn't leave until I had a chance to uncover this potentially ass biting mystery.

The noise - MY GOD, THE NOISE! - that hissing, huffing, wheezing sound! Barefooted I carefully crept closer to the unsuspecting visitor, my naked toes curled into the wet grass as I inched closer to the bristled sound, the beam of light from the torch jumping from left to right as my hand shook with uncertainty. I almost didn't want to look. Seriously. There was a second where I thought of several reasons why INSIDE was better than OUTSIDE. (i.e., "MAYBE YOU SHOULD JUST, YOU KNOW, LEAVE IT ALONE. MAYBE IT'S NOT A GOOD IDEA TO BE OUT HUNTING MONSTERS WITHOUT SHOES. MAYBE...")

With an utterly brave flick of a wrist I caught the soft glow of an luminsecent eye. And there IT was; there THEY were. My Scottish hedgerow monster(s) who fiendishly hunted down my scent turned out to be THIS. (VICIOUS! HORRIBLE! LOOK AT THOSE ASS THIRSTY EYES! LOOK AT THOSE AWFUL, SOULLESS FEATURES MADE POSSIBLE ONLY BY THE POWER AND WILL OF SATAN!)

Like a pair of retarded turkeys the two male hedgehogs puffed and huffed at each other, taking turns to circle one another as they competed for dominance. (How can something so fucking small make such a loud fucking sound? HEDGEHOGS, CEASE WITH YOUR ASTHMA-LIKE MONSTER NOISES! But DON'T cease with your asthma-like eating noises because it's pretty goddamn cute to hear you guys happily wheeze while eating homemade sweet potato pancakes. Awwww!)

And that, dear and gentle readers, is how you spook a witch who isn't afraid of monsters, ghost, demons or hell - you throw her in an overgrown hedgerow where she can't see a fucking thing and set loose the hedgehogs.

Midsummer Spread

So, like, I drew *7* pentacle cards for my 10 card Celtic Cross spread on Midsummer. (The other three were THE DEVIL (beneath me), TEMPERANCE (before me) and 7 OF WANDS (final result); ENDING ON A HIGH, YO.)

I'm not ashamed to admit - AT ALL, UNIVERSE, AT ALL - that I have absolutely no knowledge or innate understanding of the entire tarot thang (I do better reading coffee foam or tea sediment or broken egg yolks or blood clots OR ANYTHING ELSE THAT ISN'T A DECK OF CARDS WITH VERY SPECIFIC MEANINGS CREATED BY SOMEONE ELSE) but the fact that I pulled SEVEN FUCKING PENTACLE CARDS is enough for me to go "OH, HEY, WAIT! I THINK SOMEONE OR SOMETHING (OR ME, MYSELF, ALL SUBCONSCIOUS-LIKE) IS TRYING TO TELL ME SOMETHING..." without a worry that I might be reading into things a little too deeply.

#1 (This card covers you / Represents the present situation)

8 of Pentacles:
The future indicates that an opportunity will arise for you to use your strong powers of imagination. You will be able to use your dedicated ability of method and order.

* * *

#2 (This card crosses you / Obstacles that are now, or will confront you)

7 of Pentacles (R):
This is going to be a period of many problems due to your inability to make your mind up. Worrying over money will not make things easier. Trust in your own abilities.

* * *

#3 (This card crowns you / This card casts a strong influence over the present circumstances. It also reflects the best one can achieve under the present conditions.)

6 of Pentacles:
This is going to be a time when you will posses great power over your own fate and also over the destiny of others. With effort you will achieve prosperity and respect.

* * *

#4 (This card is beneath you / An event or matter in the past relevant to the present situation)

The Devil:
You have a selfish desire for money and all it can achieve. You are determined and ruthless in your craving for power and status. The future shows your wildest dreams could come true but you will then have to choose between good and evil.

* * *

#5 (This card is behind you / This reveals an influence in the past which could affect the future)

4 of pentacles (R):
You may find obstacles in your path with regard to finances in the near future. You should listen to good advice offered to you in a spirit of friendship.

* * *

#6 (This card is before you / This unveils the influence which is coming into action and which could operate in approximately six months time.)

Temperance:
You should now begin to work within a budget. The future indicates a long journey for which you will need extra finances. You have a good brain and you are usually right over the outcome of a situation.

* * *

#7 (This is yourself / This card affects you personally.)

Queen of Pentacles:
You will be influenced by a dark skinned mature lady. She has a clear insight into the true character of others. She is domineering but tries to disguise it.

* * *

#8 (This is your home / This affects your family life.)

Knight of Pentacles:
A dark skinned young man who is quick witted and hard working and honorable in his outlook, intent on his pursuit of wealth, features strong in your future. He will be capable of altering your destiny.

* * *

#9 (Hopes and fears / This could reveal your subconscious hopes and fears.)

3 of Pentacles:
Now is the time for you to think about business, as constructive and favorable forces are at work. Money will be gained through speculation or partnership.

* * *

#10 (Final result / Shows the culmination and results which will be brought about from all of the influences as revealed by the other cards in the divination, provided events and influences continue as indicated.)

7 of Wands:
You will overcome delays and obstacles. You can be too casual in love affairs. The future indicates a great victory over a rival.

ALSO, I HAVE FINALLY HAD "NORMAL" SEX.

(We haven't had it NORMAL since Mardi Gras because we said we'd break SEX FAST 2009 in the "doorway" that's in the middle of the wheat field where we Reaped together last year. We kept pushing back the date - FROM FUCKING EASTER SUNDAY - because THE TIME'S JUST NOT GOOD or THE WEATHER IS SHIT or WE DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO SMOKE. But within a few minutes of JUMPING OVER A CAST IRON PAN FILLED WITH FIRE (<- FERTILITY HOP SCOTCH!) I was all "OH HEY LET'S GO TO THE FIELD //RIGHT NOW// AND HAVE SEX".)

(And we did. And it was good. And I got stung by nettles. And we were up before the crows. And the police didn't catch us stumbling out of the field. And the two young girls traveling home around 4 AM (WTF ARE YOU DOING OUT AT FOUR FUCKING AM YOUNG LADIES?!) didn't even bother giving me wide berth despite my purple and black African dress, ritual jewelry (not as ostentatious as my dress), white Scottish apron (aka LAST YEAR'S WEDDING DRESS) and baggy flannel jacket/shirt. <- IT'S A PROGRESSIVE, HOT WITCH LOOK.)

ON A FINAL NON-SEQUITUR NOTE: I can totally dig almost every aspect of periods except - EXCEPT! - the 3-4 days of continuous upset stomach-ed-ness. (SRSLY, UNIVERSE, I DON'T EVEN COMPLAIN ABOUT MY CRAMPS. HOW ABOUT CUTTING ME SOME SLACK HERE? JESUS.)

Be(d)side Papa

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Midsummer, 2009

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Morning after altar.

OMG WAR

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Civil unrest + internet speak = juxtaposition mindfuck

Summer Solstice 2009

Forgotten gods awaken as their ancient streets run red with fresh blood. (Tonight I'll burn a candle - not to celebrate the zenith of Light, but for those who became seeds today. May their sacrifice lead to a bountiful harvest that was worth dying for.)

Always Up, Never Down

I dreamt about zombies last night. (How long has it been? A year? Two years? Maybe even three? Not long enough; I still sleep with the machete next to the door, just in case.)

It's my bedroom, but isn't. Two windows, a bed, dressers - everything's familiar but never seen before. Dark, but not night - the gray-black-blue of storms turning day into twilight, panic and horror lingering in the static, stagnant air.

I'm getting my things together, essential things, things to carry me over for the next few days. (I'm always getting my things, always packing, rushed, for something at somewhere. Last time it was a determent camp, and the Nazi officer with a heart of gold gave me a minute longer than he should of. I ultimately decided, after glancing at his sympathetic, handsome face, that the only thing I really needed was my year's supply of birth control. <- YOU CAN LAUGH, FUCK, //I// DID AFTER WAKING UP.)

GET TO THE ROOF, GET TO THE ROOF, GET TO THE ROOF thunders through my racing heart. My escape plan for these situations never changes, regardless of dream or setting - always up, never down. (OH MY GOD THE WINDOWS ARE OPEN!) (Never mind, never mind you've got time - be quick, be smart, have a plan before you execute it. Always be prepared, always have a plan; people who live have a plan.)

Sharp, quick movements cut through the hanging air. Adrenaline's pulsating, but I'm not blindly panicked. I'm driven to survive, but I'm in control, I know what I'm doing and what to do. (Been here before, haven't we?) I slice open the silent room with elbows - stretching, lunging, snatching. My body's on autopilot. It works with and separately from my rushing thoughts, both entities in synch but executing different instincts.

GET THE AMBER NECKLACE, GET THE AMBER NECKLACE, GET THE AMBER NECKLACE. For a split second I'm suspended in air, a ballerina with strings, body contorted and leaning forward over a partially opened drawer as a streak of silver tears through the darkened room. A flash of metal, a flash of resin - it's as if the sun splits opens the oppressive sky and the hand of God reaches down and breathes on my necklace; for a moment everything shines, everything glitters as improbable light reflects off the metal.

(I'm Lara Croft, I'm Indiana Jones, I'm Prometheus with God's treasure dangling in my hand.)

It's the sound of a plane free falling without the noise. It's the thundering sensation of a train barreling towards you without the trembling earthquakes. The world stops and you exist in a timeless vacuum where everything's blanketed with a deep, choking silence. You feel it in your blood, you feel it down your spine, you feel it brush against your hair follicles. Before you know, you know.

WINDOWS, WINDOWS, WINDOWS, but it's already too late. The necklace, the slinky, silver cord wrapped around my fingers as the chunk of amber shakes like a nervous pendulum, flies through the air like a mace, colliding with glass as I spin around. The wooden frame of the window rattles like the scaffolding of a guillotine as it comes crashing down.

(TOO LATE, TOO LATE, TOO LATE, TOO LATE...)

She's blind but Her dead eyes see. The only thing not frozen in the room is my amber pendant, swinging wildly from side to side as my lungs deflate and I hold my breath. (The burglar's been caught, caught stealing her own things.) She stares forward, transfixed, a long layer of hair overlapping a long layer of clothing. A girl, a child, a ghost, an insatiable monster who's disrupted my plan(s).

(TOO LATE, TOO LATE, TOO LATE, TOO LATE...)

Killing comes easy when you've battled zombies all of your life. (I was four, or five, the first time they came, and I made the mistake of hiding in the basement - something I've never repeated again, not in any dream or nightmare.) Everything stops, everything screeches to a deafening halt. I think I'm still breathing; I'm still alive. Muscles tense and body prepared my outstretched fingers trail over the curve of something cylinder - an empty wine bottle? a broken off chair leg? - until my warm, sweaty fingers wrap around the cool surface and grip it tightly against my clammy palm.

Now She sees me. I squeeze the weapon in my hand, the weight and density reassuring. It isn't brittle, it isn't weak - it's solid, hard, unforgiving. It's an extension of me, unafraid, knowing its purpose. (GET TO THE ROOF, GET TO THE ROOF, GET TO THE ROOF...) It only takes Her one ninety degree turn until we're face to face. The battle of life versus death sets up in a tiny, nondescript bedroom, both sides driven by a biological urge to survive, to keep going.

It's that long second before the explosion, when air and being and everything you know and fear and hate and love is drawn in with one final cosmic inhalation. There isn't anything else except us and this moment that feels like eternity. It's war and the solider awakens; purpose replaces fear, panic and uncertainty. My diaphragm expands as my chest swells, a long, deep breath grounds me as the last of my mental armor is locked into place.

A surge of martial excitement ricochets through my poised body and I feel the roar - that Aries, earth shaking battle cry of a lion bellow - bolt through me like a full body orgasm as the last remnants of fear collapse beneath the biblical sound. (I WILL CRUSH YOU, I WILL DEFEAT YOU, YOU WILL BREAK BENEATH THE SOLES OF MY CALLOUSED FEET, YOU WILL LIE DEFEATED, BROKEN, A TESTAMENT TO MY STRENGTH AND COURAGE. YOU ARE NOTHING BUT DUST AND WEAKNESS AND I WILL VICTORIOUSLY OVERCOME.)

I woke up just as Italics was coming to bed, a split second before my lion's roar of goading defiance. No battle this time, no struggle or fight for survival. But they'll be back; the only thing as old as me is Them, and we've been at war since before I could remember. (ALWAYS UP, NEVER DOWN.)

Questions Asked

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How the fuck did I not hear this break? (Our bedroom overlooks the patio, where both Italics and I were sleeping with the window open. ONCE AGAIN, UNIVERSE, I MUST ASK THE QUESTION: HOW THE FUCK DID I NOT HEAR THIS BREAK?)

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Thankfully I haven't had a chance to plant the gooseberry bush in the container (it was just squatting looking pretty), so the only thing that I lost was a pretty ceramic pot. (HOW THE FUCK DIDN'T WE HEAR THAT THING SHATTER?)

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Eating Well Tonight

What's more awesome than getting a perfectly wonderful terrific gorgeous reduced to clear duck? When the perfectly wonderful terrific gorgeous reduced to clear duck comes with some of its innards.

  
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We weren't the only ones who ate well tonight. (Go on, baby, you deserve it.)

A Tailor Made Hole

Across the street in the Murder House a family of tiny cheap-cheap birds have made their home behind an air vent leading into the attic. Through evergreen boughs I can see the hole the parents created in the lower right corner of the grate where they swoop out in sharp nosedives and fledglings, unsure, loiter around the opening, curious and wary of the world on the other side of slotted bars.

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(The BLESS THIS HOME image's framed by feathery fronds of eternal summer, bobbing, bowing and trembling in the breeze, moving but never obscuring, shaking but never distracting. Alive, perfect, a living, breathing point of focus, funneling attention to the blemish in the horizontal pattern, a literal "hole in the wall" that's not always perfectly centered in nature's changing picture, but close enough to make a point - LOOK, WATCH, SEE, UNDERSTAND.)

Yesterday there was a frantic explosion of feathers and wings which fought against the damaged air vent. A fat puffball of down hovered an inch below the hole, beating its wings against the immovable barrier. After several long seconds of struggling it dropped - free falling from exhaustion - before finding the strength to spread its wings and fly to safety.

Sometimes it'd rest on the ceramic tiles of the roof. Sometimes it'd rest on the ceramic tiles of the porch. Sometimes it rest in neighboring trees. Sometimes it'd rest just inches below the hole to its home, clinging to the grooves and protrusions of the concrete and pebble siding. Despite the variants of sometimes, despite the recurring failure there was only one poignant "always" - it always tried again, despite all of the "sometimes".

"COME ON, BABY, YOU CAN DO IT, YOU CAN DO IT," I breathed into the office/computer room's window, fogging up the glass with my vocalized encouragement. I stood and offered imaginary hands for it to perch on. I stood and gently wrapped my hands around its desperate, fighting body to guide it into the hole. I stood and worried; wishing, guiding, encouraging, pushing and goading the baby bird. The only thing more relentless than its driven nature to survive was my will for it to succeed.

"Maybe it's too big to fit through the hole now," Italics wondered as we watched it struggle and fight, attempt and rest, the cycle never ending and never breaking.

Maybe it's too big to fit through the hole now never occurred to me. I spent an entire afternoon pacing and watching, worrying and "helping" and it never occurred to me, once, that I was forcibly pushing it into a hole that it just wouldn't fit through. All that time spent cheering was cheering for something futile, something that wasn't going to happen. (And if it DID happen - or even partially happened - it'd happen to the very possible detriment of the fledgling; and there I was forcing, pushing, jamming it on.)

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Sometimes things just don't fit, and the solution isn't struggling and fighting under the pretense of "maybe, eventually" - it's creating a new hole, a tailor made hole, that fits //exactly//.

"Reduced to Clear" Witchcraft

One for love, one for hate and one for divination.

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(You don't EVEN want to know what I'm planning to do with the divination one; it's the more interesting of the three, trust me.)

Maybe It's

Tired. I've been sleeping like it's punishment; like I'm a kid again, grounded, locked in my room with nothing to do. It still isn't enough, though. Within an hour or two of being up I'm exhausted. Halfway through the day I retire to the bedroom with the laptop and play a game of hearts or solitaire or spider solitaire or freecell or even - if I'm feeling REALLY fucking sharp - minesweeper.

Admitting defeat is popping open the BBC's iplayer and lazily learning about different cultures, different mythologies and different histories. Sometimes one show's enough, sometimes I need two. After two, though, my stomach begins getting restless and I'm back on my feet making dinner or cleaning up or checking on the rats because twenty minutes of nodding off in front of an LED screen is about as close as I get to napping. (<- I'm an AWFUL napper, I only sleep out of schedule when I'm REALLY sick or having a mother of an effing period.)

Maybe I'm still recovering from a touch of heat stroke. (The only thing I was wearing that day was a sports bra. It hadn't occurred to me to, oh, I don't know...COVER MY FUCKING HEAD AND SLAP ON SOMETHING WITH AN SPF FACTOR IF I WAS GOING TO SPEND 6+ HOURS IN DIRECT SUNLIGHT DOING MY NUDIST GARDENING THING.)

Maybe I'm still recovering from lower GI issues. (Last Saturday we went to a one day "foodie" event - Taste of Grampian. I don't know if it was the venison burger shared with Italics, the jams and preserves I tested, all the crackers that were eaten when tasting the jams and preserves, the bread, the ale, the gluten-free cakes, the three different varieties of rapeseed oil, the cheeses, the oatcakes, the oak and elderberry sparkling wine or the local Chinese takeaway we shared after a day of eating our way through regional food that slayed everything south of my gall bladder for nearly a week. <- I'M MOSTLY LOOKING AT YOU, SATAY SPECIAL. THERE'S A REASON WHY YOUR TEMPTING SAUCE OF DEATH AND FARTS IS NO LONGER WELCOMED IN THIS HOUSE.)

Maybe it's the nightmares, the dreams, because I've never been good at dealing with the aftermath of one-on-one time with my subconscious. (TALKING AND EMOTIONS AND INTROSPECTION AND FEELINGS WEAR ME THE FUCK OUT. I DON'T WANT TO THINK, I WANT TO //DO//. I'M SOVIET STOCK - HARD, REPETITIVE MANUAL LABOR MAKES ME FEEL SATISFIED DEEP DOWN IN MY SOUL.)

Maybe it was the full moon, or the fight we had on Friday. Maybe it's all of the lame, gay ass, new age ENERGY WORK I've been doing. Maybe it's the bizarre, yo-yo weather that's forcibly halted every aspect of gardening. (For two weeks now it's rained every day in short Amazonian bursts; the ground never really dries despite the frequent blasts of sun. It's hailed and rained with the sun streaming, it's thundered and rainbowed in the wake of heavy, grey darkness. It's been two weeks of fragmented memories of what summer was like in the Midwest.)

Christ only knows what the fuck IT is, I just want it GONE so I can get back to my life. (I AM TWENTY-FUCKING-NINE, UNIVERSE, IT'S NOT LIKE I'VE GOT A LOT OF TIME LEFT HERE, YOU KNOW. HELP A GIRL OUT HERE.)

Full Moon Upheaval

AHOY, FULL MOON UPHEAVAL! (Oh, HEY!, HELLO! and HI! nightmares, fighting, sickness and exhaustion - AWESOME TO SEE YOU, IT'S BEEN WHAT...A MONTH SINCE THE LAST TIME WE SAW EACH OTHER? HOW TIME FLIES WHEN YOU'RE //NOT// HAVING NIGHTMARES, FIGHTS, BEING SICK AND/OR EXHAUSTED!)

As much as I'd love to continue pushing (MUST WRITE! MUST DOCUMENT! MUST MAKE DIGESTIBLE SERVING SIZES OF MY LIFE FOR THE WORLD TO SEE!) I ran out of gas a few days ago and haven't had a chance to recover. The in-laws are away tonight so I'm going to shake my hair loose, throw off my clothes, don an apron (MY NEIGHBORS HAVE SEEN MY NAKED ASS SO MANY DAMN TIMES THAT IT ISN'T EVEN WORTH CENSORING IT ANYMORE), get as high as possible and lose myself in the kitchen with Roy Orbison.

If you find yourself desperately missing CAPS LOCK and unnecessary references to my NAKED ASS (<- whose numbers border on the ridiculous, yo) then please feel free to stalk my semi-new livejournal account "msgraveyarddirt". I've also uploaded a crazy amount of pictures to Graveyard Dirt's Flickr account; a lot of them don't have commentary because I haven't written the correlating journal entry, but they'll give you an idea of what to expect later this week.

The Laughing High Priestess

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TIRED, CHARRED and ACHY; welcome to battered and burned world of Ms. Graveyard Dirt, nudist gardener in training and "the laughing high priestess" extraordinaire. (<- When I was worried that my LOLOLOLOLOL! view, take and communication with LIFE AND THE UNIVERSE shoved me under the "Trickster" category Italics saved me from the label and described me as "you're more like the laughing high priestess who sees the joke in everything." PHEW; STILL UNDEFINABLE BY CLICHED ARCHETYPES, YESSSS!)

(I see punch lines everyday, they're the undercurrent of life. If you look hard enough and discard your narrow view of what's significant (LOOK, IT'S NOT GOING TO BE LIGHTENING BOLTS EVERY SINGLE TIME, OKAY? THE BEAUTY OF THIS GAME IS THAT IT'S ALWAYS BEING PLAYED, YOU JUST NEED TO PAY ATTENTION TO THE LITTLE THINGS THAT GET OVERLOOKED) you'll find all the validation and confirmation you'll need is already present, waiting for you to relax the stringent rules and checkboxes you created.)

(I like "the laughing high priestess." In my mind I see #2 sitting between her B and J (LOLOLOLOL! BJ! GET IT? GET IT?) pillars, partially obscured and veiled, the moon at her feet and head, her solemn expression betrayed by a single kink in the hard line of her lips as she attempts to BE SERIOUS and NOT RUIN THE PICTURE BY LAUGHING. Christ, if you can't snicker, can't giggle, can't laugh what sort've priestess are you? How are you connecting with the Divine? I mean, in the end, isn't this all really a joke worth laughing at?)

(But maybe that's just me; just me and my miswired, autistic brain. I laugh a lot, sometimes when I shouldn't - most times I don't know why, it just happens. Maybe on a subconscious level I understand the absurdity, the ridiculousness. Maybe on a subconscious level I represent Woman, laughing at Man and his eternal struggle with understanding Woman and what (and why) She is. Maybe on a subconscious level I accept that I'm Human and Monster, and pity the futility of the Hero slaying the Monster to save the Human because He doesn't see that We're one and the same. Or maybe I'm just retarded, and I'm reading too heavily into things, BUT THEY MAKE SENSE, DAMMIT, AND LIFE IS ABOUT MAKING SENSE OF THINGS.)

(You know all of those stories where a human man takes a supernatural wife? And their life is mostly perfect and wonderful, but she has a bad habit of reacting inappropriately during certain social situations? She laughs at funerals and cries at baptisms? More than ever I find myself remembering bits of folklore I read as a child, sifting through snippets of memories and text and finding parallels between old fairy tales and myself. I now wonder if the supernatural wife was autistic, if her charmed existence was just an innate understanding of the world and people through shards of her broken brain.)

(OH, WOW, THIS IS HELLA HEAVY AND THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF MY ORIGINAL INTENT. UH, WHOOPS?)

So I'm tired and fatigued and exhausted and burned and sore and achy and every other fucking adjective and adverb that falls in between. I haven't really mentioned it here because I prefer to JUST IGNORE THE PROBLEM (like, LOL, it's going to magically GO AWAY, or something) but...I'm sick. A stupid, infuriating chronic sort've sick. After several years of pretty extreme symptoms and a year of specialist consultations and a myriad of invasive testing the medical community's deemed me as being "atypical" and, also, A HUMAN COW.

DOCTOR: "You know how cows have multiple stomachs? Well, sure you do, you're a Midwest girl! And in order to move food from one stomach to the other they need to bring it up, and that's why their stomach valve has a hair trigger - to facilitate bringing food up and down."

YES, REALLY, THEY SAID I WAS A COW WOMAN. (AND, LOL, MY HATHOR COW STATUTE ARRIVED A DAY BEFORE I SAT DOWN WITH THE SPECIALIST TO GO OVER MY TEST RESULTS.) AND, ALSO, THAT I'M "ATYPICAL":

MS. GD: "WAIT, WAIT, LET ME GUESS...MY SYMPTOMS DON'T TICK ALL OF THE BOXES SO YOU DON'T HAVE ANY CONCLUSIVE EVIDENCE TO TELL ME WHAT, EXACTLY, IS WRONG WITH ME."

DOCTOR: "OH GLORIOUS AND DIVINE MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT?"

MS. GD: "BECAUSE THE ONLY THING TYPICAL ABOUT ME IS THAT I'M ALWAYS ATYPICAL".

Rather than going into little details I'll just say - being sick affects every fucking awesome thing about being human (i.e., eating, having sex, taking drugs, enjoying a beer, exercising, sleeping and the list goes on and on and on...). Some days are good, some days are bad. Some days I can't leave the bed, or couch. (LOL, "SOME DAYS" - I SPENT ALL OF 2008 CURLED UP ON SOME SORT OF MATTRESS OR CUSHIONED SURFACE WHILE WAITING FOR APPOINTMENTS AND VARIOUS TESTS.) Some days I forget that I'm even sick.

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"Moderation" is one of my big problems (and not even in a dangerous or reckless or sexy way; I'm overly cautious about drugs, less concerned about food serving sizes, heh!). I have a hard time physically moderating myself when I'm feeling well; I always over do it, but don't know until the day after, and the day after that and, LOL, usually several more days after those days. I sometimes treat being sick as a DO OR FUCKING DIE battle; I throw myself in, teeth gnashing, screaming, swearing, brandishing bloodied weapons and fight against the constraint of my illness, but it's a monster that can't be vanquished. (OH, FUTILE HERO!)

So I overdid it a few days ago when engaging in HARDCORE EXTREME (PARTIALLY) NUDIST GARDENING and I'm currently paying the price. One of these days I'll finally learn YOU CAN'T FIGHT SOMETHING THAT CAN'T BE BEATEN. Until I wise up and accept that the only way to best my adversary is by employing a more cerebral approach I'll always be an ARIES WITH A LEO ASCENT racing into battle. (HEY, AT LEAST I'M READY AND WILLING, RIGHT? RAWRR!)

I wanted to take some time off of THINKING (LOL, THINKING? FUCK THINKING, GIVE ME EXPERIENCE(S)! I'LL THINK LATER, WHEN I'M OLD AND GREY AND REMINISCING; LET ME BE WISE AT THE END OF MY DAYS, BUT LET ME BE WISE FROM EXPERIENCE, RIGHT NOW I JUST WANT TO TAKE MUSHROOMS AND ROLL IN MUD WHILE COMMUNING WITH THE DIVINE, THANKS) but I was worried about damaging my writing momentum. Middle ground was originally intended to be the recipe for a rhubarb pie I've been flashing all over the internet but then I started talking - OH, LORD, THE TALKING - and, well, all I'll say is - LAUGHING HIGH PRIESTESS. (Ahem!)

The "cookbook" aspect of this diary is embarrassingly underdeveloped. It's hard, though, to keep so many balls juggling in the air - when I'm hardcore gardening I'm not hardcore cooking, and when I'm hardcore cooking I'm not hardcore writing. Something, inevitably, needs to be dropped from time to time in order for me to fit MOST of it. (I know I'm capable of balancing it and the lesson here is FINDING A WAY OF DOING IT.)

I REALLY, REALLY want to explain how significant cooking is to me, all magic-style, but I'm afraid it'll lead to an epic tangent which'll conclude with wild assertions ("HOLY SHIT, DOES SHE FUCKING SMOKE CRACK?" LOL, NO, I ONLY SNORT MEPH!) and no pie recipe. So, for now, let's just accept that fact that I cook (see my THE BLACK ARTS diary/journal category (YOU CAN LAUGH, IT'S MEANT TO BE FUNNY) and my FLICKR COOKING SET) and the motivation'n'drive to cook and provide for my husband falls between MAGIC and QUASI-SEXUAL FOREPLAY.

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Now, pies and cookies are two branches of the culinary world that Mademoiselle Graveyard Dirt rarely ventures in. Italics isn't too keen on fruit-based pies or desserts*, so it's a rare occurrence to find me paring with my paring knife. But once in blue moon I get an intense CRAZY AMOUNTS OF FRUCTOSE NESTLED IN A FLAKY, GOLDEN CARBOHYDRATE craving and when THAT happens things like castle pie (see below) and homemade rhubarb pie with summer fruits and orange flower water are the end results.

(WELL, USUALLY. THIS RHUBARB PIE IS SEVERAL MONTHS IN THE MAKING THANKS TO MY FATHER-IN-LAW AND A DAY OF AWESOME; NO, I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, THEY'RE COMING BACK HOME TONIGHT AND I DON'T WANT TO FIND MYSELF HIDING BEHIND A DOOR WITH A PARING KNIFE IN HAND.)

* Castle pie (I & II) was a V. rare exception, and Papa's sweet potato pie (I & II) doesn't count.

Accidental Altar

You know how sometimes when cleaning you throw everything you don't know what the fuck to do with in one room with the grudging acceptance that you're creating a new mess, but at least it's contained in one room that you can kind've sort've ignore?

(OH, I KNOW YOU DO. THE VERY BEST, VERY ANAL OF US DO IT. <- UH OH, I THINK I JUST SPOILED THE ANCIENT SECRET OF WOMEN'S MYSTERIES. IF THE GREAT CHTHONIC CREATRIX AND DESTRUCTORIX ASKS, IT //WASN'T ME//, OKAY? I'M ALREADY ON PROBATION FOR ONLY HALF FINISHING HIEROS GAMOS.)

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It started with Papa's incense burner. (IT ALMOST //ALWAYS// STARTS WITH PAPA, RIGHT OLD MAN? *nudge nudge, wink wink*) When roasting marrows and cooking the lamb-tomato-spices filling for dinner I thought "OH, HEY, IN-LAWS ARE GONE FOR A FEW DAYS, MIGHT AS WELL ROCK THE HOUSE WITH INCENSE AS MUCH AS I CAN" and dragged the doorstop of an incense burner through to the kitchen.

(I SLEEP WITH A MACHETE NEXT TO THE BED IN CASE WE EVER GET ATTACKED BY ZOMBIES, I SLEEP WITH THE RESIN INCENSE HOLDER NEXT TO THE BED IN CASE WE EVER GET ATTACKED BY A BURGLAR. <- BECAUSE THE LAST THING A CRIMINAL WANTS TO SEE IS THE MATRIARCH OF THE HOUSE (THE MATRIARCH WITH A V. V. V. SHORT FUSE; I AM ARIES, HEAR ME ROAR TEAR OUR YOUR THROAT WITH MY BARE TEETH), BUCK NAKED, SWINGING A HEAD SHOP BOUGHT SKULL BURNER LIKE A NEOLITHIC STONE AXE.)

Too lazy to return it to its rightful place (I'M ANAL AND LAZY, WHORE AND VIRGIN, CHILD AND OLD WOMAN; BLAME GEMINI IN MY VENUS) I dropped it off on the coffee table in the backroom.

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Later on Italics pruned our, uh, houseplants in the bathroom and left the leaves on the cutting board so I could dry them out and store them. (They aren't psychoactive, but still useful in a symbolic/representative sort've way and I've been meaning to grind up our dried leaves to add to incense and things.)

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While he was hacking away I was outside in the back doing my nudist gardening thing in the sun (I TAKE IT BACK; I WORE ONE ITEM OF CLOTHING - A MOTHERFUCKING SPORTS BRA) moving container vegetables around (sub-arctic tomatoes went outside into the bonsai house, so I tossed their plastic coasters onto coffee table), planting newly arrived seeds (cucumbers, parsley and thyme), sweeping the patio floor with a small dust pan brush, weeding my herb containers, planting out seedlings from trays (sweet peas and sunflowers), moving acclimated trees'n'plants to get better sun and arranging everything in a visually pleasing manner.

(TRANSLATION: SYMMETRICAL, UNINTENTIONAL OUTSIDE ALTAR CONSISTING OF CONTAINER TREES, PLANTS, VEGETABLES AND FLOWERS.)

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The glass cutting board and leaves got absently moved into the backroom as I got ready for a shower (post gardening, pre-realization of how red this partial red man...er, uh...woman, red WOman really was) but before I could climb into the tub Papa began a-pattin' my shoulder to remind me that OH, HEY, YOU PROMISED ME A PIECE OF THAT HOMEMADE PIE, BABY GIRL. So, still sweaty, light-headed and covered in dirt I cut him the promised piece and left it on top of the leaves on top of the cutting board which was on top of the table.

(When I'm not making a big production of offering food to ancestors, deceased friends and relatives or our incorporeal housemates I usually leave a plate of food in the backroom which Italics and I use as our private lounge area and greenhouse. <- GARDENING, BOARD GAMES, TURNTABLE, RECORDS, BOOKS, TV AND VIDEO GAMES; I THINK EVERYTHING "VISITING" HAS SOME INTEREST COVERED. <- AS IF "FREE, HOMEMADE FOOD" WASN'T ENOUGH.)

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Once it dawned on me how badly I had been burned I bee-lined to my recently deceased aloe plant (someone - "SOMEONE" = NOT ME, NOT ITALICS, NOT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, BUT MY FATHER-IN-LAW, MR. AWESOME, NOT TO NAME NAMES, OR ANYTHING - moved my aloe into the dark and rather than start WW III I didn't say anything or do anything and it cost me my goddamn plant) and shook out a handful of plump leaves to cut open and apply to my skin. I only needed one, so the rest got dumped on the last uncluttered corner of the table.

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Because I find straight-up aloe vera gel a little sticky I concocted a massage oil (an organic baby oil with an addition of rosehip seed oil) in my communion cup for Italics to rub me down with before applying aloe. I took my paring knife through so he could cut a small portion from a leaf rather than bruise it by breaking one off. Once anointed (LOL!) I threw the knife, used section of leaf and oil filled cup onto the (now V. familiar, no doubt) backroom coffee table.

(LOOK, THE KITCHEN'S ON THE //OTHER SIDE// OF THE HOUSE, THE BACKROOM RIGHT NEXT TO OUR BEDROOM - I'M HUMAN, AND EVEN BEING PARTIALLY DIVINE I HAVE MY HUMAN TRAPPINGS AND FAULTS TO WRESTLE WITH. <- SOMETIMES THE PARTIAL DIVINE JUST WANTS TO GET INTO BED ASAP WITH A LAPTOP TO CATCH UP ON THE DAILY SHOW AND COLBERT REPORT, OKAY? I'M A WEAK THING CONSTRAINED BY THE WEIGHT OF HUMAN EMOTIONS...OR SOMETHING, HEH HEH.)

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At day break, the morning after, I found three feathers at the foot of the mostly-practically-done outside container altar. Seeing as how I consecrated the place with an offering of flesh (sunburned) and blood (scraped my knuckles against concrete and bled onto the patio) - OLD TESTAMENT FIGURATIVE? OH WHY NOT! - I thought there was something significant about the three perfect, downy white feathers sitting on on a surface that I had sweated, bled and exerted control/energy over the day prior.

(Three white feathers - three wishes, three curses? Who knows, only time will tell. They'll get squirreled away with everything else and added to my growing collection of dehydrated animals parts (blackbird feet and wings, hedgehog skins, rabbit skulls with teeth...), rusted junk found while walking through the countryside and various graveyard dirts.)

(OH, HONEY, YES, I'M //THAT// SORT'VE WITCH - THE KIND THAT MAKES THERMITE FROM OLD FARMING EQUIPMENT. <- LOL!)

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You know how something can just appear out of NOTHING? First it wasn't there and then, by a miracle of God and ALL THAT IS HOLY ZOMG, it suddenly exists. (OKAY, OKAY, SO IN THIS INSTANCE IT WAS ROUGHLY 48 HOURS IN THE MAKING, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. <- I THINK WE'VE ALREADY ESTABLISHED THAT YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT I MEAN BY PARAGRAPH TWO.)

Before the white feathers rolled out of my palm and onto the tiled surface of the table it was just the backroom coffee table filled with "OH, GOD, I'LL JUST DEAL WITH IT //LATER//", but the second the feathers fell into a neat pile on 70s ceramic? "HOLY FUCKING SHIT, DUDE, THIS ISN'T A...HOW THE HELL DID IT...MAYBE I'M JUST SEEING THINGS FROM THIS ANGLE..."

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"...OR MAYBE I'M NOT."

(Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooooo accidental altar born from my subconscious and lack of motivation! HOW ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING TO DRINK, OR MAYBE SOME CANDLES? <- LOL!)

I'm pretty hawk-eyed about shit but, somehow, this one managed to slip beneath my radar. Now to turn this mystery around on its axis - all Rubik's Cube-style - to see if I can solve this riddle I left for myself.

Gefjon

A few days ago someone pointed me towards Völsa þáttr, and when I caught "virgin goddess" in the translated footnotes it was a split second hop, skip and jump to Wiki's entry on Gefjon. (ZOMG, VIRGIN PLOUGHING GODDESS?! WUT?! OH, GREAT AND MIGHT INTRANETZ - TELL ME MOOOOOORE!)

HOLY FUCKING SHIT, A //PLOUGHING// VIRGIN GODDESS! (SHE'S the one who PLOUGHS! She's a virgin AND SHE'S THE ONE WHO'S DOING THE PLOUGHING! What a tremendous - BUT POWERFULLY EXCITING - mindfuck. SHE'S the one penetrating the earth, SHE'S the one turning the dirt, SHE'S the who parts the soil. Did I mention that SHE'S THE VIRGIN WHO IS DOING THE PLOUGHING RATHER THAN BEING THE VIRGIN WHO'S GETTING PLOUGHED?)

THAT'S IT, IT'S OFFICIAL AND ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY; I NEED A PLOUGH.