Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Happy Halloween

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Dearest Witches and Imps,

Rock that thinning veil, baby.

Happy Halloween,
Ms. Graveyard Dirt, XOXO

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Black Rabbit Altar

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When we celebrate the Dark year we welcome back the return of the Black Goddess. To me the Black Goddess is a very specific archetype - a concept found universally - more of an idea, an understanding than actual person-woman-deity locked inside an accepted image. She's THE SOURCE, She's THE IDEA, She's OUR UNDERSTANDING OF HER, She's WHAT WE WITCHES ASPIRE TO BE.

The Black Rabbit is both the living incarnation of the Black Goddess and Her representative. And unlike the Black Goddess the Black Rabbit has a first name (fuck, She even has an ethnicity and an entire biography). She's mortal. She's modern. She's Divine made flesh, and in being born again She suffers like us, She feels like us - She understands what it's like to be human because She is.

In very personal terms the Black Rabbit is my subconscious. When I went Underground for the first time and followed Her around like an awe-struck puppy (THERE WAS NO WAY TO HIDE HOW OVERWHELMED I WAS; I WAS FIVE ALL OVER AGAIN, BREATHLESS AND MARVELING OVER AN OLDER, LIVING WOMAN-GODDESS WHO EPITOMIZED EVERYTHING AWESOME AND COOL IN THE UNIVERSE, EVER) I had an anvil dropped on me when She let me in on a secret - She was me.

(OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.)

The Black Rabbit is the very best of me; She's ALL of me - my conscious and subconscious balanced - Baphomet, the sacred goat (or, uh, "rabbit" in this case). The exercise in this lifetime? To be as much of Her as I can be before death. Going Underground the Universe showed me a picture of myself - a future template - and said "THIS. YOU NEED TO BECOME //THIS//. THIS IS YOUR JOB. NOW, GO TO WORK." before letting me loose on the world, aware and knowing, but splintered and fragmented.

All of this sounds magnificently crazy, I know. (BLACK GODDESS? WHAT? BLACK RABBIT? WHAT? SUBCONSCIOUS? WHAT? MESSIAH COMPLEX? WHAT?) But when you break it down and translate it non-magic terms it's a lot less mystical and more psychological - the brain controls every function of our biological lives, and despite being the most important organ it's the one as we, human beings, aren't using to full capability. I simply created a bridge - an anchor, a link - from my conscious self to my subconscious self, and rather than outsourcing the job (to gods, goddesses, demons, etc.) I went inwards and created my own guide - me.

((IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE? THAT'S OKAY, IT'S A ROUGH DRAFT. HALF THE TIME I MANAGE TO CONFUSE MYSELF AND NEED TO WALK AWAY FROM THE TANGLE OF STRING BEFORE I BLOW A GASKET. IT'S HARD TO TRANSLATE (AND CONDENSE) EMOTIONS AND AN INNATE UNDERSTANDING OF YOUR BEING INTO A PERFECTLY COHERENT EXPLANATION FOR OTHERS. IN FACT THIS ENTIRE GRAVEYARD DIRT THING - PRACTICING, LIVING, WRITING, RECORDING - IS ALL BEING EXECUTED FOR A SINGLE REASON - TO ONE DAY EXPLAIN IT AS SUCCINCTLY AS POSSIBLE WITHOUT LOOKING LIKE A COMPLETE CRACKWHORE.))

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The communal lounge is symmetrically structured, which makes my autism BIG HEAP HAPPY. (THERE MUST ALWAYS BE MIRRORED BALANCE; ALWAYS.) Even though you can't see it in this image, there are four five wooden units against the wall. In both corners are a two cabinet blocks, and in the center there's a "floating" table (where the main altar sits).

Because the two speaker units closest to the centered table are identical I often use them as altar bookends. For Easter (The Great Rite / The Sacred Marriage / Hieros Gamos) and Halloween I create identical miniature altars for the Black Rabbit, and during the Yuletide season I fill in the spaces with a festive evergreen display (cedar, ivy and yew).

After creating this Halloween's altar(s) I turned to Italics and asked "YOU DON'T THINK I'M //OVER// BONING THE ALTAR, DO YOU?"; he refrained from comment, but snorted/laughed. (<- IT TOOK ME A SECOND, BUT IT GOT IT...EVENTUALLY.)

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This particular altar? Almost entirely courtesy of ASDA (the UK's Wal-Mart). We bought five teal rabbits from their gardening aisle years ago and spray painted them black for ritual/altar use. The fake bones, skeletal candle holder and skull candles were all scavenged from the Halloween aisle. (WHILE I DO LOVE ANTIQUES AND PRICEY SHIT SOMETIMES YOU JUST HAVE TO MAKE DO WITH WHAT YOU HAVE AND/OR CAN AFFORD. But that's the entire point of witchcraft, right?)

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The skull figure is the only altar decoration NOT bought at ASDA, but was still bought at a discount store. (<- A LOLTASTIC HEADSHOP WHERE WE ALSO BOUGHT OUR RITUAL BLACK GODDESS BONG.) I have two skull figures like this, one's a skull/iron cross/naked woman which is situated on Papa's side of the room (left), and the other is the skull/iron cross/snake/tentacle figure above which is situated on Tentacle Monster's side of the room (right).

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This particular altar? Almost entirely courtesy of ASDA (the UK's Wal-Mart). We bought five teal rabbits from their gardening aisle years ago and spray painted them black for ritual/altar use. The fake bones, skeletal candle holder and skull candles were all scavenged from the Halloween aisle. (WHILE I DO LOVE ANTIQUES AND PRICEY SHIT SOMETIMES YOU JUST HAVE TO MAKE DO WITH WHAT YOU HAVE AND/OR CAN AFFORD. But that's the entire point of witchcraft, right?)

Opportunistic Neighborhood Cats

Too sore to make an offering of the bodies immediately after skinning, beheading and defooting them (SEVEN RABBITS + TWO HOURS OF INTENSE WORK SITTING ON A CONCRETE STEP = A V. UNHAPPY ASS) I decided to briefly lay the carcasses to rest in a black plastic bucket which I covered with a lid and left outside in the (back)yard to "air".

When I woke up the next morning I found the lid lying on the grass next to the bucket of exposed rabbits. "THAT'S WEIRD," I said, fitting the top back on, "IT'S NOT LIKE WE HAD WIND OR EVEN A BREEZE LAST NIGHT." Despite wanting to ritually dispose of the bodies ASAP I couldn't, so the rabbits spent another night in the yard with the lid firmly covering the bucket.

There was no wind or breeze that night, but the lid was, once again, on the ground the next morning. "THE FUCK? I'M MOVING THIS SHIT INTO THE BONSAI HOUSE," I declared, still working under the assumption of PHANTOM, MAGIC WIND. So the rabbits were moved outdoor-indoors and the lid was fitted - AGAIN - and the bucket'o'rabbits were left in a more secure place until I had the time to offer them properly.

(YOU TOTALLY KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING, RIGHT?)

The next morning? I discover the top partially flipped off. "SOMETHING'S GETTING TO THE RABBITS," I announced, "BECAUSE I'VE MOVED THE BUCKET INDOORS INTO THE BONSAI HOUSE SO IT'S NOT THE WIND THAT'S BLOWING OFF THE LID." The rabbits, by this point, had a ripe bouquet, and the bloated, blackening bodies had begun oozing juices.

For nearly a week I played the bucket lid game, getting no closer to the mystery. And then? And then, on a day I went outside to do some serious gardening I caught one of the neighborhood cats - ONE OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS WHO SHITS IN MY FUCKING BEETS AND TRAMPLES OVER THE SEEDLINGS, ONE OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS WHO STALKS MY FUCKING SONGBIRDS AND KILLS THEM - with its head fully submerged in the black plastic bucket CHEWING ON A FUCKING RABBIT LEG (THE OPPORTUNISTIC BASTARD).

GODDAMMIT, CATS, I KNOW I'M //THE ONLY WITCH IN THE VICINITY// BUT THAT DOESN'T GIVE YOU LICENSE TO TREAT MY HOUSE AND YARD AS A PUBLIC FUCKING BATHROOM AND AN ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT BUFFET.

Cleaning Up After the Bride

At this point in my life The Bride and The Whore have a symbiotic relationship (even though they're technically one in the same - The Whore becomes the Spring Bride, and as the Light year progresses She "ages" until the cycle comes full circle transforming the virginal Bride into The Sacred Harlot who reigns over winter and the Dark year).

The Bride creates and makes the martial bed, the Whore sleeps (and stains) the martial bed. The Bride sows the ritual wheat in Spring, the Whore reaps the ritual wheat in Fall. The Bride grows and gathers, the Whore harvests and uses. It's all about enlightenment gained from experience, celebrating the fruition of uninitiated ignorance to initiated wisdom and Venus's placement in my natal chart (<- GEMINI; TALK ABOUT A VIRGIN/WHORE DYNAMIC!).

Despite my fantastically anal attitude towards cleanliness The Bride's been exquisitely messy and unorganized this year. I've decided to point the finger of blame on one thing - all the new shit I've "tested" and created this year. For the first time in my life I worked on a billion things simultaneously which meant overlapping projects sitting in various states of doneness. (Me? I finish EVERYTHING, although not always on the deadline I've assigned myself...)

Since a lot of this year's activities have been strongly influenced by witchcraft I couldn't leave the majority sitting out for anyone to snoop and touch. (AHEM, MR. AWESOME, AHEM.) I think any seasoned witch will probably agree that in order to be a witch YOU NEED FULL USE OF EVERY GODDAMN ROOM IN THE HOUSE WITHOUT FEAR THAT PEOPLE WILL BE FUCKING WITH YOUR SHIT BEHIND YOUR BACK.

Thanks to living in a communal situation with someone who frequently "forgets" to NOT TOUCH, THROW OUT, RUIN, BREAK, OR KILL MY THINGS, EVER (despite nearly 10 years of asking in varying degrees of politeness) all of my activities, projects, gifts and work has no choice but to be allocated to the third smallest room in the house (behind my in-law's en suite bathroom and the house's main bathroom) - our bedroom.

I observe the shift from Light to Dark (and vice versa) with three rituals: the changing of the guard (JOURNAL ENTRY HERE!), stripping our bedroom down and cleaning everything (JOURNAL ENTRY HERE!) and celebrating the return of the Bride/Whore through an ecstatic, entheogen-fueled bout of ceremonial sex with my husband/consort, Italics. (THE LONGEST RUNNING "BOUT"? NINE FUCKING HOURS. SERIOUSLY.)

The changing of the guard took place last Saturday, Italics has already taken his "mistress" out (<- HE TOOK ME TO SEE BAT FOR LASHES IN GLASGOW, PAID FOR A HOTEL ROOM SO WE COULD SPEND THE NIGHT IN TOWN (IT'S A THREE EFFING HOUR BUS RIDE TO GET THERE!), PAID FOR ME TO GET MY MAKE-UP AND EYEBROWS PROFESSIONALLY DONE, TOOK ME OUT FOR DINNER AND THEN BESTOWED GIFTS AND OFFERINGS (AKA SHOPPING, SHOPPING, SHOPPING!) UPON ME), the Black Goddess altar is finally done and Halloween's only a week away.

The only thing left? "Washing" away the very last vestiges of the Bride from the bedroom to fully welcome the Whore.

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The bedroom in its ossuary glory. We hung up the plastic/vinyl wallpaper for 2006's Halloween (normally ritual sex happens in the lounge but we decided to celebrate the return of The Whore that year in the bedroom) and liked it so much we never took it down.

Just last week we bought a new "scene" to rewallpaper the bedroom - a cemetery backing into a haunted forest. (I have this horrible feeling that I'm REALLY going to miss my blue-tinged skulls and pillars...)

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My side of the bedroom.

It's a well-known fact that I fucking HATE reading, but despite that hatred I still buy and collect books. (<- I CAN CHOKE DOWN NON-FICTION, JUST DON'T ASK ME TO READ ANYTHING REMOTELY FICTION, EVER.) In fact, we have so many goddamn books that you'll find a pillar of print in almost every room of the house. The bedroom? Has two.

PS: Despite the appearance I don't usually leave laundry lying around - those are my BEDROOM MONSTER SOCKS. (MONSTER SOCKS = SOCKS MADE OF MUPPET-LIKE MATERIAL. IT FEELS LIKE YOU'RE SHOVING YOUR FOOT INTO THE MOUTH OF ONE OF THOSE SESAME STREET YIP-YIP ALIENS.) I have god-fucking-awful circulation in my hands which means I wear socks to bed during winter AND summer.

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His side of the bedroom. (Note how much cleaner it is (on the floor) next to his side. Although I win for having a slightly more organized nightstand top.)

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When we celebrated in the bedroom in 2006 the entire room got decked out - ossuary wallpaper, cobweb drapes, skeletons hanging like garland from the window, glowing pumpkins in the corners of the room and a glow-in-the-dark night scene featuring the moon, stars and bats stuck on the window. We got so attached to the wallpaper AND the night scene we decided to just leave them, and they've been hanging up - undisturbed - since.

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Particles of incense, dust, debris and my extended lighter (for starting charcoal blocks) on the windowsill.

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This is seriously an abomination to my house cleaning skills. There is, honest to all that is holy and divine, no room that even REMOTELY looks like this in the house. I've been so busy with projects and taking care of the rest of the home that I haven't had a chance to DUST MY OWN BEDROOM IN MONTHS.

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My nightstand tabletop.

Anything look familiar? Papa's mask hangs to the side of our ritual bong, my ritual scissors are tucked in the ceramic pot filled with incense, the goat bell's wedged between the ceramic pot and a jar of shea lotion, the ribbons wound around my headphones are off the Shango Tree, the vase I found in the cemetery (just behind my Apis Bull figurine) holds a spray of dried flowers that I wore in my hair when we performed Hieros Gamos in a local wheat field on Midsummer. (<- ALL OBJECTS AND THINGS THAT HAVE BEEN RECORDED VIA PICTURE'N'ENTRY EARLIER THIS YEAR.)

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The growing closet. We start the majority of our seeds in the closet, move them to the backroom and then harden them off in the bonsai house outside.

Here's the second pillar of print in the bedroom, limbs off of various trees for broom making (beech and sycamore), the key and lock fetish I hang on our ritual/altar ladder when celebrating the Sacred Marriage (between the virginal Spring Bride and the King) and my zombie machete.

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The top of the closet is the closest I get to "altar space" in the bedroom. Normally only the basket full of animals (all significant in someway - not so much the stuffed animal as what they represent) and two scorpion bowls occupy the space, but I have a bad habit of filling in the emptiness with UNBELIEVABLE AMOUNTS OF SHIT. (IT'S ALL GETTING CONSECRATED, OKAY?)

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His nightstand tabletop. (There's a metallic Baphomet sigil beneath all of that shit. You can kind've sort've make out one of the ears in the clearing between the ceramic crab trinket box, the bunched up paper towel and the ceramic bowl covered by CDs.)

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My storage solution for everything "witch" related. Empty alcohol bottles, curing herbal salts and sugars, non-perishable sabbat cakes (solar AND lunar), homemade incense, organic and inorganic finds, our vintage funeral casket cover topped with my craft supply boxes and seeds (it gets pulled out and fumigated with frankincense during the Dark part of the year, and gets wrapped up and put away for the Light part of the year), harvested and dried potion/incense ingredients and a few choice pieces of fur (Edwardian ermine muff and collar/scarf set) tucked safely away in a box.

Changing of the Guard

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In Spring we welcome the Virgin Bride, the Bride of Light, the Bride of Spring (aka "The Bride"). In Fall we welcome the Harlot Mistress, the Hag of Dark, the Winter Whore (aka "The Black Goddess"). (<- I'M SO DIFFICULT I'VE THROWN OUT THE SACRED TRINITY (I.E., MAIDEN, MOTHER AND CRONE) AND REDUCED THEM DOWN TO TWO - BRIDE AND WHORE. IN MY WORLD THINGS REALLY ARE BLACK AND/OR WHITE.) To reflect the exchange of power I perform a changing of the guard ritual around the equinoxes.

In Spring we welcome back Chile Bird (a bird-shaped copper, bronze and lapis wall hanging bought on Ebay from, you guessed it, Chile) and he happily lives in the window during the Light part of the year, but when frost appears and the leaves begin falling I know it's time to send Chile Bird on his annual migration to warmer climates.

In Fall we welcome back The Spider (see below) and he weaves his continuous metal web throughout the Dark part of the year, partner to the Witch, the Whore, the Black Goddess of magic and death. When tender green shoots erupt from the defrosting soil with a celebratory spread of crocuses and snowdrops I know it's time to send The Spider to cooler climates, to sleep until the return of the Dark.

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The ritual itself is subtly disguised behind something so commonplace that people wouldn't think twice if they caught me performing it - cleaning. (CAST A CIRCLE? WTF FOR? I EFFING //BLEACH THE BASE OF THE COMMUNAL TOILET WITH MY BARE FUCKING HANDS//. THIS HOUSE? IT'S CLEAN. AND WOE BE UNTO ANY UNINVITED GUEST IN THE HOUSE OF A WOMAN WHO REGULARLY GETS ON HER HANDS AND KNEES - WILLINGLY - TO SCRUB PISS STAINS OFF THE FLOOR. <- NOT THE SORT OF WITCH YOU WANT TO MESS WITH, JUST FYI.)

First the blind comes down and everything gets removed off the window and windowsill. I then roll up my sleeves and physically clean every inch of the "threshold"/altar - the ledge, the inside glass, the decorative window decals, the inside vent, every stick of inside wood, the hinges and handles, the blinds, the outside glass, the outside vent, the outside concrete ledge and every stick of the outside wood.

Once the window's been physically cleaned (and "cleansed" due to all of the attention, work, effort, sweat and focus) I burn incense on the inside ledge, fragrancing the wooden frame with frankincense and spices. When the smoke clears I know it's time to begin piecing the altar back statue by statue, plant by plant and jar by jar. (Not until they, too, have been cleaned with a duster and wipes.) My juniper ghost beads and string of Papa's green chili peppers go up first (both "protective" in their own way), and then The Spider.

The carved jars return, and then the two succulents with their sticks of sandalwood incense (from Egypt). Tawaret (me) and Sobek (Italics) grace the windowsill altar first, and then Wadjet (with Her key) returns, positioned in front of the stone jars. Anubis, Thoth, Serket and Hathor follow suit with the ladies on the left and the men on the right. And with the final positioning of the second tier Egyptian gods and goddesses it's done - the Bride is gone and the Whore's arrived.

NOTE TO SELF: This year when you began the process/ritual of changing the Spring-to-Fall guard (October 17th) you began your period. (<- ATTENTION, WORK, EFFORT, SWEAT, FOCUS AND BLOOD - HOW'S //THAT// FOR MAGIC?)

Sutured Chicken

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My first sutured chicken*. (If I said "I HONESTLY, TRULY FOR REALLY REAL DIDN'T MEAN FOR IT TO LOOK LIKE A ROASTED BABY," would you believe me?)

(No, I didn't think so either.)

* A boneless chicken stuffed with a walnut-pita bread-spice-pancetta filling, lined with parma ham and massaged with rendered duck fat and spices.

Anti-Succubus

AN HOUR AGO I BUMPED MY EFFING HEAD ON PAPA'S EFFING ALTAR WHEN PRETENDING TO BE A SUCCUBUS AND IT //STILL// HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER. (<- NOTE 2 SELF: Papa {Ghede} is very anti-succubus.)

Halloween Altar Building

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Yesterday was THE DAY. Yesterday I plucked the fruit, vegetables, herbs and flowers off our Harvest Home altar (pictures forthcoming!) and began piecing together our Halloween altar. (The Spring Bride / Return of Light / Easter / Great Rite / Hieros Gamos altar is more minimal and elegant, while the Winter Whore / Return of Darkness / Black Goddess / Chthonic altar's a little more fun and over the top.)

It's MOSTLY done now (I still need to string a strand of skull lights on the other side of the ladder, fill the brandy glasses with their correlating element (graveyard dirt for Papa's side, and salt water for Tentacle Monster's side), replace the red votive candles with white, glue the skeletons to their ribbons and maybe - MAYBE - replace the triad of bones behind the candle holders with vases filled with yew branches) but not done enough to warrant a second picture.

(THAT'S RIGHT, YOU GET //1// "PARTIALLY DRESSED ALTAR" PICTURE ONLY!)

After the Windstorm

I have an awful memory for everything except landmarks. (Me? I don't get lost. At least not when I can identify buildings, landscapes or architectural focal points. My mother joked it was my Indian genes that gave me a good sense of direction, but I blame the "talent" on two things: autistically visualizing my environment as a giant Tetris grid, and my compulsive need to constantly check my surroundings thanks to my ZOMBIE ESCAPE PLAN paranoia. <- I SLEEP WITH A MACHETE NEXT TO THE BED. SERIOUSLY.)

Sometimes when we go walking we'll discover a new spot or a new tree or a new woodland feature that we've never seen before. And while I'm busy dancing around naked (<- WELL, SORT'VE NAKED. IT'S MID-OCTOBER AND I HAVE POOR CIRCULATION IN MY FEET; I REFUSE TO REMOVE MY SHOES AND KNEE HIGH SOCKS, DAMMIT!) or foraging (while my jeans comically inch down my ass exposing WILDCRAFTER'S CRACK) or giving head Italics is busy taking pictures for me (AND - IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING - OF ME) so the spot isn't forgotten.

Taking pictures of these spots creates pictorial bookmarks for me. By committing a tree or valley or monument to a photograph I'm making a deliberate point to MEMORIZE IT so it doesn't become just another notable feature used for navigation. (<- WHICH IS BECOMING HELLA USEFUL FOR WILDCRAFTING SINCE EVERYTHING I NEED OR COULD POSSIBLY WANT DOESN'T CONVENIENTLY GROW NEXT TO ONE ANOTHER, DISAPPOINTINGLY ENOUGH.)

Occasionally we'll stumble across a new tree or mushroom or berry or plant we've never seen before, and instead of picking it and bringing it home to ID Italics takes a picture instead. Other times I just want to capture the moment, and while I know other people won't necessary GET IT by looking at the photograph, the picture has everything I need to DEAD ZONE that frozen second in time.

I suppose you could blanket all of the above under "LEARNING EXPERIENCE" - I'm intentionally attempting to learn and memorize local landscapes and ecosystems, I'm intentionally attempting to familiarize myself with my local environment and indigenous wildlife and vegetation and I'm intentionally attempting to memorize all the factors that went into that outing (i.e., the mood, the weather, what was harvested, where it was harvested, under what conditions it was harvested, any and all sexual escapes and where they took place).

((I guess what I'm saying is YES, I KNOW IT'S A PICTURE OF AN ARGUABLY UNREMARKABLE TREE THAT YOU'LL NEVER ACTUALLY SEE IRL, BUT IT'S A SEX/WILDCRAFTING/SPECIAL TREE TO ME AND I DON'T WANT TO FORGET ABOUT IT.))

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There are several ancient yew trees dotted along this particular walk; this is the first one encountered. Despite toppling over ages ago it's still growing happily (if you look REALLY closely you can see the poisonous red berries dotted amongst the evergreen). By this point in the day the light wasn't fantastic so you can't see the intricate, almost sculpted twists winding the tree's trunk into a forked narwhal horn.

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My foraging basket and ass. (<- Which isn't nearly as nice as it was in summer: HERE and HERE. I MISS MY SUMMER TAN AND I MISS RUNNING AROUND NAKED. EFF HAVING TO WEAR FRUMPY CLOTHING, AND EFF AUTUMN'S SHITTY LIGHT MAKING MY BEAUTIFUL ASS ALL DISCOLORED AND SHADOWY.)

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When we go for one of our patented walks I have everything I need in a black leather book bag - camera, baby wipes, antibacterial gel, paper towels, ziploc bags, empty tupperware containers, ritual scissors, a ball of string, a craft knife, a branch cutter, jolly ranchers, a granola bar, a bottle of water and a small book on edible plants.

What I DON'T have is a pen and paper, and that's the ONLY reason why I haven't had sex in the fort above and left a "PS: I HAD SEX IN YOUR FORT" note for the current tenants.

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Two people can comfortably fit in the space between the oak pillars. (<- MY ALL NATURAL B & J/#2 PILLARS!) And that moss encrusted indentation at the base of tree(s)? An organic hassock (<- THE PILLOW YOU KNEEL ON IN CHURCH OR IN PRAYER), perfectly fitting one knee while you're kneeling and giving head.

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The oaks in my youth were fantastic cathedrals with majestic limbs starting beyond the reach of any ladder. It wasn't until discovering this castle walk that I finally achieved one of my lifetime goals - TO GET ON A GODDAMN OAK TREE.

But these weren't the serene oaks from my youth, these were wild and violent trees erupting from the earth like molten lava with sculpted deformities partially hidden beneath a disguise of green moss. And while I miss the silent austere of the ancient oaks of southern Wisconsin, I can't help but feel somewhat enchanted by the feral trees of Scotland - untouched, unkept and free from the bonsai vision of man.

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"I'M TIRED OF WEARING EFFING BOXERS WITH THESE EFFING JEANS. MAYBE I'VE FINALLY GAINED ENOUGH WEIGHT TO KEEP THESE FUCKING JEANS ON WITHOUT ANY SORT OF UNDERWEAR."

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A rowan tree growing directly beneath an oak. (<- I HARVESTED SOME BERRIES FROM THIS TREE FIGURING THE ROWAN AND OAK'S ROOTS WERE TANGLED TOGETHER. I MEAN IT SOUNDS PRETTY MAGIC, RIGHT?)

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Just behind the two oak trees and clump of ferns is a tiny stone wall dam, damming up nothing but mud, fallen leaves and some cattails. I'm hoping that the small water feature is seasonal and it'll be fuller - and more photogenic - in spring. (Fingers crossed?)

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Unidentified berries now identified! When trampling through the forest we encountered a vine snaking up whatever tree it could get its tendrils on, which produced these beautiful, currant-like berries. My first stab in the dark was "WILD HONEYSUCKLE!", and, as it turns out, it is, in fact, wild honeysuckle.

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This thing? MASSIVE. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything to give a sense of scale, so it's hard to appreciate how large the nest really is. (TRY "A HOBO SHACK IN A FUCKING TREE", SRSLY.) We circled the base hoping for some feathers but didn't find anything - not even streaked droppings - so we figured the family must've moved out a while ago.

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I'm going to be boring and rip a page out of Wikipedia and glue it here:

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So far I've been frustratingly unsuccessful in getting Italics to "STICK YOUR DICK IN IT!", although - ALTHOUGH! - I've recently heard "NOT WITHOUT SANITIZER!" which gives me hope. (<- THERE'S NOTHING THAT NAGGING CAN'T ACCOMPLISH, //NOTHING//.)

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You know that windstorm that took down my sweet corn? My corn weren't the only things lying on their sides the morning after. Walking through the oaky clearing was like walking through a battlefield - trees split down to the roots, huge limbs and branches lying haphazardly on the ground, whole trees actually uprooted exposing giant pits of unsettled dirt and rocks.

While scouting for a place to have OUTSIDE FOREST SEX we stumbled across this split tree behind a fallen oak. Growing out of an exposed tuft of decomposed leaves and dead bark was a slender seedling standing at half-mast like a little yellow flag. "OOO! OOO! MAGIC!" I said - more so now that I realize that the tiny tree wasn't growing from the roots, it actually had situated itself INSIDE THE TREE making it an epiphyte - and got Italics to remove it for me.

I'm not sure if mid-October is an ideal time for transplanting trees, but it's not like I had a choice. The slender, leafless pole's outside wedged between my peach tree and sunflowers, and I hope with A LOT of coaxing it might actually survive winter and properly take root in spring. Fingers crossed, anyway.

PS: Holy shit, dude, writing this entry? IT WAS LIKE PULLING FUCKING TEETH. I've spent almost two weeks chipping away at it - AND ONLY BECAUSE I LIKE TO HAVE A RECORD OF OUTINGS WHERE WE HARVEST STUFF (and this time around it was a huge oak limb, a seedling tree, a mushroom and some rowan berries) - so if it sounds disjointed and below par YOU KNOW WHY.

Scotland Poultry Scissors Massacre

It's the first day of vacation and I'm taking it stupidly easy. (AS EASY AS YOU CAN GET AFTER GETTING UP WITH ONLY ONE AND A HALF HOURS OF SLEEP TO DRIVE YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW TO THE AIRPORT AT 4:30 IN THE MORNING AS SHE SITS IN THE BACK OF THE CAR AND INFORMS YOU OF EVERY FUCKING FEATURE OF THE ROAD AHEAD LIKE YOU CAN'T //SEE// ANY OF THEM OR UNDERSTAND ROAD SIGNS.)

I woke up for a second time feeling strung out and nauseous, and I was TOTALLY ready to pass on writing an entry today, but after a long, hot shower (using a Brazilian coffee bean shower gel sent by a friend), a cup of fancy pants tea (also sent by my friend - TEA DOESN'T GET ANY BETTER THAN IT DOES IN BELGIUM, APPARENTLY) and a bowl of apple and blueberry oatmeal I was in one million percent better shape.

And even though I have a kitchen to clean and dinner to prepare and a lounge to clean and papers to sort and an altar to deconstruct and an altar to build and a backroom to clean (to be able to get to my altar'n'tool boxes in order to deconstruct and build the altars) and a gutted bedroom to ritually clean I decided "FUCK IT, I'M WRITING AN EFFING ENTRY!". (<- I HAVE TOO MANY GODDAMN FOLDERS OF PICTURES TO //NOT// WRITE ENTRIES DURING VACATION THIS OCTOBER. SRSLY.)

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A few things I've learned about butchering dead rabbits: DO THE DIRTY DEED AS SOON AS FUCKING POSSIBLE, FOR GOD'S SAKE WEAR GLOVES, A DUST MASK AND DISINFECT //EVERYTHING// YOU USE AND TOUCH and IF YOU'RE GOING TO SIT FOR SEVERAL FUCKING HOURS SKINNING AND CHOPPING UP SEVEN FUCKING RABBITS ON A CONCRETE PATIO STEP FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY //SIT ON A FUCKING PILLOW// OR SUFFER THE (SORE ASS) CONSEQUENCES.

After spending an evening skinning, decapitating and, uh, defooting (?) my seven rabbits from Mr. Alpha Buck I froze the feet and the pelts, piled the heads in a pyramid on the Shango Tree/Phallic Worship altar and dropped the carcasses into a covered bucket and left the ALMOST disposed/buried parts as work for the next day.

(I tried hosing off the bloodstains, but it didn't work. (TEXAS SCOTLAND CHAINSAW POULTRY SCISSORS MASSACRE!) I'm more than happy with the patio's make-over (THE BLOOD OF SEVEN RABBITS ANOINTING THE THRESHOLD OF THE HOUSE? SOUNDS PRETTY MAGIC TO ME!), but I suspect my mother-in-law probably isn't. It'll fade in time...eventually.)

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The morning after MAGIC FOREST SEX WITH THE HORNED GOD and THE GIFT OF SEVEN DEAD RABBITS and BUTCHERING SAID RABBITS ON THE CONCRETE PATIO STEP WITHOUT A FUCKING PILLOW I found myself dizzyingly high in the backroom pruning my chili plants. At some point, while working, I glanced over my shoulder towards the Shango (Bone) Tree/Phallic Worship altar and was horrified to see A CHICAGO-STYLE WASTE GROUND IN THE BACK FUCKING YARD OF MY SCOTTISH HOME.

The picture SAYS IT ALL. (Broken fence? Check. Shit hanging from a dead looking tree? Check. Overgrown grass? Check. Bricks and bones and bizarre garbage accumulating into one inexplicable trash heap? CHECK.)

This is //EXACTLY// why I'm reluctant to allocate ANY SPACE to Papa or Shangoman; give them an inch and their black asses will clutter it up with trash. (LIKE PARTIALLY DRUNK BEER BOTTLES AND USED UNDERWEAR AND EMPTY BOXES OF FOOD. <- THAT'S NOT AN ALTAR, DAMMIT, THAT'S A MESSY ASS BACHELOR PAD!)

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"OH MY GOD MY BABY SWEETCORN ARE FINALLY DOING SO WELL AND THEY LOOK SO AWESOME AND PRETTY THAT I SHOULD TOTALLY CUT THEM DOWN AND INCLUDE THEM IN THE HALLOWEEN ALTAR SOMEHOW! I NEED PICTORIAL EVIDENCE! OH, WAIT, THE CAMERA'S INSIDE. NEVER MIND, I'LL TAKE A PICTURE FIRST THING TOMORROW - WHAT COULD POSSIBLY HAPPEN BETWEEN NOW AND THEN?"

One word: WINDSTORM.

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HOLY SHIT, SHANGOMAN, HOW DID YOU MAGICALLY TRANSPORT A PIECE OF MY CHILDHOOD (CHICAGO) MEMORIES TO SCOTLAND, 2009? (I remember passing lots between buildings and thinking "WHY THE FUCK WOULD ANYONE LET VIABLE SPACE GET SO FUCKED UP AND MESSY?"; I SUPPOSE I KNOW THE ANSWER NOW. &kt;- THERE ISN'T AN ANAL WHITE WOMEN BITCHING ABOUT THE MESS AND THREATENING TO KICK PEOPLE OUT OF THE HOUSE IF THEY KEEP IT UP.)

(For reference the Shango (Bone) Tree/Phallic Worship altar originally looked like THIS before the property value took a nosedive.)

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My pyramid of skinned, decapitated rabbit heads left overnight on the altar (covered by a dome lid off my cemetery dirt trash bin) waiting to be buried. Even though you can't see it, there are eight in total. (Seven from the day before, plus the remains of a previously butchered rabbit. <- THE ONE WE FOUND ON OUR WAY TO THE LOCAL STANDING STONES.)

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When I posted the SEVEN LOUSY RABBITS picture the number one thing I was asked was "HOW ARE YOU GOING TO COOK THEM?!" - the answer (conveniently copied and pasted from my livejournal account)?

Nothing culinary, unfortunately. (I've always been quite keen on trying as much game as possible, but before I could source some {rabbit} I had one of those PESKY SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCES where I was told, point blank, that I'm totally not allowed to eat rabbits. Wear them, butcher them, keep them, taxidermy them, and sell their organs and bones? Yes. Eating? No. <- BOOOOOOOOOO!)

Because I have very little dirt space in the backyard I can't bury anything whole to retrieve later, so I cut off the legs (44! 44 WILD RABBIT LEG/FEET/PAWS IN MY FREEZER!), removed the pelts (I skin them taxidermy like - a slit along the inner thigh to the anus, and then I "roll" the skin off the body keeping the head and ears and whiskers and nose and everything perfectly in tact in one whole hand puppet piece) and heaped the decapitated heads on my outside dirt altar (so I can bury them in the altar space and go back for them once insects have cleaned off the flesh).

I decided this time around to take the remains (the footless, headless carcasses still with organs and skeletal frame and meat) and give them as an offering to my scavenger peeps. (<- A LOT OF MY "SPIRIT ANIMALS" - OH MY GOD THAT'S SO GAY TO SAY BUT I DON'T KNOW HOW ELSE TO DESCRIBE IT - ARE SCAVENGERS, AND NOW WITH MY ROADKILL HOBBY I FEEL MORE IN TUNE WITH THAT SORT OF LIVING.)

In fact, when I was skinning last night the crows came around and saw me outside and began their daily demand for food and I REAAAAAALLY wanted to heap the bodies on the patio pillar to give crows choice pick of eyes and offal and stuff but I didn't want my mother-in-law to have a heart attack when opening her bedroom curtains the morning after. (SIGH, COHABITATION WITH NON-WITCHES, SIGH.)

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In order to get decent depth I had to move the rabbit heads and various bones* off the dirt altar to loosen and break up the soil. Once the earth was broken up I buried all eight heads, covering each of them with ancestral food offerings, before packing dirt down on everything. (The birds? They've been happily feasting on maggots for DAYS now.)

* Unfortunately, the Shango (Bone) tree can't be called "The Shango (Bone) Tree" anymore. Within days of creating the brick'n'dirt altar we had a freak summer windstorm, and at some point during the storm the Shango Tree broke free from his reigns (my father-in-law wired him to the fence he grows in front of) and shook off the majority of his bones. I originally planed on ritually burning everything, but I've since changed my mind - at least for the time being - since some of the bones have interesting shapes. (<- DIVINATION BONES, AHOY!)

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STRAIGHTENED UP, CLEANED AND READY FOR WINTER, BABY!

I rearranged the slabs of rock against the fence, picked up every stray bone, buried the heads'n'food, pulled up grass on either side of the bricks (I want to put wood chips down, or something, and ceramic pots filled with magic herbs and plants), straightened up the bricks (and swept them clean), cleared out debris that my father-in-law "threw out" next to the altar space, removed the Beltane/Midsummer ribbons out of the tree (they were tied to the branches that bore fruit this year), filled the bird feeder with peanuts, situated the peanut filled coconut shell in a more predominate place (for years it's been hidden behind the tree) and lovingly dusted off my stone cock and balls. (<- I'LL TAKE THEM IN DURING THE FIRST SNOW FALL, RUN THEM THROUGH THE DISHWASHER AND KEEP THEM INDOORS UNTIL SPRING.)

Now all I have to do is get that damn fence back together...

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One of the first offerings I made to Shangoman was a coconut - split open with an axe during a thunderstorm - years ago. I kept half of the coconut shell deliberately hidden behind the trunk of the Shango Tree in fear that Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, would find it and throw it out. (<- AN ONGOING PROBLEM.)

I rediscovered it when cleaning up the altar and figured, PERHAPS STUPIDLY SO, that IT'S PRETTY DAMN OBVIOUS THAT I'M DELIBERATELY DOING SOMETHING WITH THE SPACE SO IT SHOULD BE SAFE TO PUT OUT THE HALF SHELL NEXT TO MY ERECT STONE PHALLUS (AND BALLS).

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When I took the previous picture something in my brain WENT OFF but I couldn't put my finger on what made me go "HMMM..." - at least not until I was sitting at the computer sorting through my pictures and stumbled across this photo.

EXCUSE ME, DISNEY, BUT WHY IS MICKEY MOUSE IN MY SHANGOMAN/PHALLIC WORSHIP ALTAR? INQUIRING MINDS WOULD LIKE TO KNOW, THANKS.

(Even better? This image suddenly reminded me of a dream I had just a few days prior where a supernatural lover draped a golden chain across my bare shoulders and neck as a gift and I felt SPECIAL AND AWESOME AND SUPREMELY DESIRED until I glanced down and saw two solid gold pendants of fucking GOOFY AND PLUTO hanging off the expensive chain.)

Rabbits Out of Thin Air

I have an innate talent for attracting adventures. (Or, maybe, I have an innate talent for turning everything into a story which retrospectively MAKES everything an adventure. Which then lengthens every experience and LOL! into several thousand words when a few sentences would usually suffice.) Today's epic adventure (that could otherwise be summed up in a simple paragraph)? How I recently transformed a basket of three pitiful boletes into seven dead rabbits.

If you somehow missed the memo, the majority of my ethnic heritage hails from Eastern Europe (Ukraine, to be exact, where, crazily enough, I ALSO get my Native American genes, but that's another story for another day...). As a kid the highlight of my year was mushroom picking with my grandmother; it was-is-was THE European family activity to do (eff Monopoly when there's an entire forest filled with edible fungi!).

Foraging was instilled at a very young age by my grandmother, who didn't see fruits and nuts and mushrooms as PROPERTY, but as useful, free commodities just waiting to be picked. (<- Much to the dismay of allotment owners adjacent to my grandparents' house which were frequently raided for blueberries and raspberries and gooseberries and currants and rhubarb and anything else I could get my young hands on.)

While I don't brazenly forage in other people's backyards anymore (STEALING AN APPLE AND SOME SWEET CORN FROM A CASTLE'S WALLED GARDEN DOESN'T COUNT, DOES IT?) I still experience the driving urge to get out in the forest once the weather becomes damp and cold in the hopes of unearthing some fungal treasures. (Primarily boletes, but I'm happy to harvest puff balls, purple amethyst deceivers, shaggy caps, morels, chicken of the woods, and chanterelles.)

It was a difficult passion to maintain when we weren't independent. In order to get to ANY woods we'd have to enlist the help of an in-law, and because ONE SPECIFIC IN-LAW (the only one who was ever available) has a hard time remembering to CARRY HIS FUCKING PHONE WITH HIM SO WE CAN CONTACT HIM WHEN WE'RE READY TO BE PICKED UP the foraging party always had to expand to three. Two's an adventure (a picnic, pot, sex, forest exploring and mushroom picking adventure), three's a crowd and involvement of my father-in-law warrants an entirely new category.

A car was dropped on my lap at the brink of Harvest this year, but because I had been - and still am - insanely busy with other things we haven't had a chance to mushroom hunt properly. (I used "next year will be different, next year will be different" as an optimistic mantra while watching seasons change. After eight years of chanting, next year WILL finally be different and the disappointment I've experienced for nearly a decade will soon be nothing more than old memories.)

Because Italics has been feeling under the weather (when we don't have pot in the house we smoke a synthesized version so his lungs are okay, but the second a shipment of weed arrives so does his ongoing struggle with bronchitis) we decided to stay local which gave us the ability to hunt for mushrooms AND hunt for this year's stoner tree. (<- WE HAVE TWO CHRISTMAS TREES DURING THE YULETIDE SEASON - THE ONE IN THE COMMUNAL LOUNGE WHICH HAS A STRICT COLOR THEME, AND THE STONER TREE IN THE BACKROOM THAT'S NO HOLDS BARRED.)

We arrived just in time to watch a hunting party emerge from the forest's parking lot with several people, dogs and guns in tow. "IT'S GOING TO BE SAFE TO BE IN THE WOODS, RIGHT?" I asked Italics while eying up the hunters warily. (<- I GREW UP IN THE MIDWEST, AND AS A FERAL MIDWESTERN CHILD MY PARENTS DID EVERYTHING BUT DRESS ME ENTIRELY IN NEON ORANGE WHEN ALLOWING ME OUT IN THE WILDERNESS DURING HUNTING SEASON TO ENSURE I WOULDN'T GET SHOT BY DRUNKEN DEER HUNTERS.)

Since there was no resemblance to the deer hunters of my Midwestern/American youth I assumed they were after different game - birds. So, surely, it should be safer if they were hunting something that needed to be flushed into the air by dogs first, right? Right. Fine. Okay. We should be safe, then. (The hunters, in turn, eyed us warily as we inched past the party and into the semi-full parking lot. <- SUSPICION ON BOTH SIDES!)

We've recently had a glorious glut of weather, and despite the drop in temperature (I AM //NOT// PULLING OUT MY WINTER COAT, DAMMIT! AS LONG AS I DON'T HAVE TO PUT ON MY WINTER COAT IT CAN'T BE WINTER (THAT'S HOW IT WORKS)! Therefore I've been wearing FOUR LAYERS OF LONG-SLEEVE SHIRTS AND A FLANNEL like some sort of socially maladjusted, unfeminine lumberjack woman - SO THERE, WINTER, SO THERE!) we've attempted to enjoy every minute.

The unfortunate drawback to this glorious glut of weather? No rain. As in, not a proper drop for weeks - not exactly awesome or ideal growing conditions for mushrooms. (The dirt? Looks like sand. Seriously.) The foray started off promising; just a few feet off the beaten track we managed to excavate two lovely little boletes. The discovery gave me hope that by the end of our fungal expedition I'd have a choice array of boletes and the treasure-prize I was really after - homegrown fly agaric.

Within minutes of stepping over broken boughs and rotting wood we heard the first of the gunshots. While we didn't witness an exodus of terrified Disney animals - all stampeding in our direction - the quiet serenity of the forest was broken. (BECAUSE THERE'S NOTHING MORE ATMOSPHERIC THAN GETTING HIGH AND APPRECIATING THE SILENT, CALMING BEAUTY OF THE FOREST WHILE MUSHROOM PICKING WITH YOUR LOVED ONE AS UNSEEN, UNHEARD HUNTERS UNEXPECTEDLY BREAK THE TRANQUIL MOOD WITH SPORADIC GUNFIRE.)

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Our fungal adventure peaked with those two boletes. What started off as promising finds became our ONLY finds. We sifted through different terrains and mini-ecosystems, trampled over beaten paths, gently prodded moss encrusted bumps, stood in the golden rain of the Fox's Wedding, waded through bright meadow grasses and briskly parted seas of purple-brown heather beneath disrobing birches and prickly gorse. Nothing. (Well, SOMETHING - another bolete beneath a birch, but a flabby, larger one that wasn't nearly as firm as the two smaller ones we initially found when starting our walk.)

That sad ass looking mushroom was the last nail in the coffin. (It was at that point when our SUPER GREAT AND AWESOME MUSHROOM HUNTING ADVENTURE reinvented itself as our SUPER GREAT AND AWESOME FOREST SEX AND STONER TREE ADVENTURE.) Disappointed, but with a new goal in mind (MUST. FIND. PERFECT. SPOT. TO. HAVE. FOREST. SEX. MUST. FIND. PERFECT. TREE. FOR. STONER. TREE.), we continued to trail the edge of newish growth in the hopes of finding a crevice large enough between the trees to allow us to (AHEM) penetrate the coniferous grove.

There were dark, shadow filled clusters of spiraling pine trees reaching towards the ceiling of the sky. There were slivers of meadows with tufted grass and dry heather, fluff and insects lazily floating through the air, all illuminated by shafts of bright autumn sun. There were great living mounds; the remnants of ancient trees now gone, tucked in by a a thick blanket of all-consuming damp moss. There were small granite boulders, paths partially blocked by swinging branches and partings so tight that all you could do was close your eyes and push forward into the darkness towards the warmth of light as you felt dead and broken twigs snap beneath the driving force of your blind body.

There was all of that, but none of it caught on camera. (ACTUALLY, THAT'S A KIND'VE SORT'VE LIE. THERE ARE //A LOT// OF PICTURES, IN FACT, OF A NEARLY THIRTY YEAR OLD WOMAN WITH WAIST LENGTH HAIR AND A HUGE ASS RUNNING AROUND A MEADOWY CLEARING WEARING NOTHING BUT HER SHOES AND A PAIR OF KNEE LENGTH STRIPED (BLACK AND RAINBOW, BABY!) SOCKS IN THE OCTOBER SUNSHINE.) But you know how it is - those special moments, those special places and special images never like getting photographed, anyway.

It was arched against a moss padded rock at the foot of a natural heather and pine altar where I fucked the horned god of the forest*. With hair spilling into dying grass and body bridged up to meet his I watched the pointed tips of coniferous trees tremble in the unfelt breeze. Between thrusts and long seconds of eyes-closed-and-face-turned-to-the-sun there was a moment when everything froze and the only certainty in the world was that the sky was endlessly blue and the towering, cathedral pines would always be as they were then - fierce and beautiful, a protective fortress forever separating modern man from nature.

(* OH, GOD, HOW DO I MAKE THIS QUICK, EASY AND TOTALLY UNDERSTANDABLE? I'm not your average run-of-the-mill witch - I'm not pagan, I don't worship deities and the concept of "horned god" has been replaced by the "horned goddess" in this house. (I'm the fertility goat, the sacrificial ram, the divine nursemaid and deer priestess.) In other words, I don't do Cernunnos.)

(But what I DO do is the Old Woman, the Cailleach, the divine deer keeper. As the Old Woman I have vested interest in Our deer stock, so what better way to assess the virility and power of Our herd than by "mating" with the alpha buck? Cernunnos? Doesn't click. Coupling with the mythical MASTER OF THE FOREST (aka MY DIVINE ALPHA MALE COUNTERPART) in deer form? OH, HEY, THAT MAKES SENSE!)

Three boletes, two pot breaks and one MAGIC FOREST SEX session later I was fully dressed and complaining about our shitty lucky. An entire afternoon of searching and for what? Three mushrooms, a good selection of possible stoner trees and a helluva lot of jizz mopped off my tits - AWESOME. Being myself, I bitched all the way back to the parking lot, bemoaning my relatively empty basket and nature's inherent hatred of me and all of my nature-based adventures.

By the time we made it back to the car park the hunting party had returned. "I HOPE YOU GUYS SHOT MORE PHEASANTS THAN I FOUND MUSHROOMS," I joke-shouted over my shoulder at them while shoving my (nearly) empty basket into the trunk of the car. One of the older gentlemen said something to me which I didn't completely understand. Eventually my brain partially translated the mishmash of English, Doric (a local dialect) and heavy Scottish accent and I caught the gist of what he had said.

"OHMYGODREALLY?!" I squealed, processing that HE HAD OFFERED A PORTION OF THEIR KILL TO ME. "SERIOUSLY?!" It wasn't pheasants, it was something better - rabbits. (A mind-boggling mountain of wild rabbits.) He asked me how many I wanted, I laughed and said "ALL!" but negotiated down to "AS MANY AS YOU CAN SPARE!". (<- IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY NOTICED, MY SIDE OF THE CONVERSATION ENDED ENTIRELY IN EXCLAMATION POINTS. I WAS V. EXCITED BY THE PROSPECT OF FREE GAME.)

(You don't know "heavy" until you lug a reusable, eco-friendly grocery bag filled with rabbits (SEVEN! 7! THAT'S A SUPER MAGIC NUMBER!) across a gravel parking lot and hoist the bag'n'contents into your car's trunk.)

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And that, dear readers, is how this witch magically transformed a basket of three pitiful boletes into seven dead rabbits. (<- THE HORNED GOD OF THE FOREST? PAYS //REALLY// WELL FOR SEX.)

Answer's Always "Smoked Bacon Fat"

THEY SAY YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO PUT BUTTER ON A BURN TO TAKE OUT THE STING ALL MAGIC-STYLE. SO, LIKE, LOVINGLY COLLECTED AND PRECIOUSLY STORED BACON GREASE SHOULD TAKE OUT THE STING ALL MAGIC-STYLE //EVEN MORE//, RIGHT? ...RIGHT? (BECAUSE, LOL, THE ANSWER'S ALWAYS "SMOKED BACON FAT". ALWAYS.)

PS: IT DOES STING LESS! (IT WORKS! OH, POLISH SMOKED PORK PRODUCTS - <3!)

Some Women Love Smoked Bacon Fat

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What could possibly make this homemade roast chicken dinner casserole* any better?

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If your answer was "covering each homemade dumpling/biscuit with a thick slab of smoked Polish bacon" you are correct, congratulations.

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Holy shit how sexy is //THAT//? (Some women love chocolate, some women love champagne and some women love smoked bacon fat. <- BEWARE OF THE LAST TYPE, FELLAS, THEY'RE INFAMOUSLY CRAZY.)

* I roasted a paprika-oregano-lemon chicken over a bed of vegetables'n'herbs (celery, swede, carrots and potatoes mixed through with lemon thyme, butter, garlic, brandy, bay and mushrooms) and served it with homemade stuffing (gluten-free bread, pumpkin and sunflower seeds, spices, cayenne pepper, garlic, celery and mushrooms) and cabbage (sauteed in butter with oak smoked pancetta and roasted hazelnuts).

The next day I made brown chicken stock using the leftover carcass, skin, and wing tips and added all of the roasting pan juices from the previous day. The day after THAT I cubed up the stuffing in little squares, cut the leftover vegetables and chicken into tiny pieces and combined everything (meat, vegetables, stock, cubed stocking, sauteed cabbage leftovers and some frozen peas) into a bacon greased casserole pan and topped it with a homemade biscuits**.

It was JUST BEFORE I capped the pan with greaseproof paper and foil when I had my moment of smoked Polish bacon genius. And the rest? Pictorial history.

** A traditional Ukrainian biscuit recipe. Instead of using two cups of flour I ended up with one cup of wholewheat flour and one cup of gluten-free flour and made the bland dough more interesting by seasoning it with garlic infused Scottish rapeseed oil and herbes de provence.

Seven Lousy Rabbits

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I FUCKED THE HORNED GOD OF THE FOREST AND ALL I GOT WERE THESE SEVEN LOUSY DEAD RABBITS*. (<- LOL! PUT //THAT// ON A T-SHIRT!)

(* OH, GOD, I'LL TELL THE STORY WHEN MY BACK ISN'T ACHING FROM DECAPITATING, SKINNING AND PULLING GUNSHOT PELLETS OUT OF SEVEN EFFING RABBITS.)

This House is Clean

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The altar building gremlins have been exorcised! ("THIS HOUSE IS CLEAN.") And, on top of THAT dazzling feat, I cut the throat of a few houseplants (<- GIFTS FROM MY SEMI-ESTRANGED FATHER; SORRY, DAD, NOT INTERESTED IN YOU OR THE BORING ASS HOUSEPLANTS YOU SEND ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY) and rearranged what was spared for the oncoming winter.

Up until this summer the wooden table in the backroom was an accidental Wadjet altar. (I had three succulents of varying sizes in terracotta colored ceramic pots grouped together on the carved table top. My small statue of Wadjet lived in the dark cove between the three pots, peeking accusingly at anyone who got too close to Her succulents.)

At some point in the beginning of the year Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, decided to move around some of his backroom plants and it ended up costing me one of MY plants. (He moved a tree - A FUCKING TREE! - in front of all of my succulents! IN FRONT OF MY CACTUS-LIKE PLANTS WHO LIVE IN THE DESERT AND LOVE AND NEED AND DEMAND SUN. WTF, MR. AWESOME, WTF?)

Once he was gone for an extended period of time I sat down and rearranged his rearrangement but the damage was done - I lost my aloe (which I had for nearly, Jesus, six years?) and almost lost my jade plant. With the jade tottering towards death I immediately placed it in front of the patio doors (along with the other succulent, a kind've sort've aloe looking thing whose name I can't remember) to get full sunlight. (The backroom patio is south facing, so it's the work room and record room and drying room and movie room AND plant room.)

With Wadjet and Her succulents gone (Wadjet eventually replaced Anat on our office/computer room windowsill altar when Anat's war hand caught on my tit, fell to the floor and broke in several pieces - OOPS) I filled the void with a seasonal arrangement - Hezbollah's lemonade / cracker / head shop / Hitman stand (<- WE BOUGHT A WOODEN HOUSE FOR THE TINY CHEAP-CHEAP BIRDS OUTSIDE, BUT FOUND OUT THAT CRAZY RAT FIT //PERFECTLY// IN IT SO WE DECIDED TO GIVE IT TO HER AND KEEP IT INDOORS), my no-longer-dormant Apache chili plant (which grew layers and layers of dangling tentacles), Hezbollah's special friend (a ceramic European robin), and my crocodile'n'brush pollinating set (<- I KEPT A MAKE-UP BRUSH ON TOP OF A CARVED CROCODILE ASHTRAY SO I COULD POLLINATE ALL OF THE INDOOR VEGETABLES MYSELF SINCE THEY WEREN'T EXPOSED TO OUTSIDE POLLINATORS).

Now that there's a legit threat of frost in the air it felt somewhat unseasonal to see the mostly pruned chili plant and Hezbollah's shack stand occupying the table top, so Wadjet's repotted succulents (the jade plant looks AMAZING now, BTW) were moved back, and to make a magic three I nestled the last survivor from the Shango (Bone) Tree's altar against the two thriving plants. (<- SHH! THEY'RE ACTING AS //ROLE-MODELS// FOR THE BABY SPROUT!)

The stubby Apache chili and my GARDENIA THAT WILL NOT QUIT GROWING EVER OR AT ALL (I swear to all that's holy that I PRUNE THAT FUCKING THING MORE THAN I SHAVE, SRSLY) got moved against the radiator, and I'm really hoping they'll situate themselves happily there because once winter hits the space you're looking at in the picture will - FINGERS CROSSED! - be occupied by this year's STONER TREE. (<- It's a Christmas tree BUT WITH A DIFFERENCE! And now that we have A CAR and NO FEAR OF AUTHORITY and a CHAINSAW we're thinking about having a fresh tree this year - OH, NO, ANOTHER CUT'N'RUN CHRISTMAS/YULE TRAGEDY!)

Of course you can't actually SEE any of the work I've painstakingly described in this entry and I've one million percent neglected explaining what actually IS going on in the photo, but knowing me that's to be expected, right?

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Here's the sad reality: regardless of all of the evidence that says otherwise, I'm not always an intuitive cook who gets things amazing-awesome-right the first try.

WAIT, NO, I TAKE THAT BACK! Because in actuality, I did pause, and I even asked Italics if he knew (LOLOLOLOL, LIKE HE'D MAGICALLY KNOW FOR SOME REASON MORE THAN ME, RIGHT?) if lemon reacted to metal. THAT INTUITIVE, GUT FEELING WAS THERE, DAMMIT, I WAS JUST LAZY AND TIRED AND WANTED TO GET THE JOB DONE SO I IGNORED THAT LITTLE QUESTION OF UNCERTAINTY.

If it wasn't the wire whisk I used then I WILL BLAME THE METALLIC TWINGED DISASTER ON MY DECEASED GRANDFATHER AND HIS EFFING BOTTLE OF HEINEKEN THAT SAT FOR A YEAR IN THE GRAVEYARD. (<- HE DIED LAST YEAR IN SEPTEMBER, SO I PUT A BOTTLE OF HIS FAVORITE BEER BEHIND PAPA'S HEADSTONE AND PAPA KEPT IT SAFE FOR ME, BUT MORE ON THAT LATER!)

OKAY, OKAY IT ISN'T //THAT// BAD. The curd didn't set like store bought shit, it has more of a runny honey consistency (one that begs you to dip a spoon in for a second and third and fourth time), and there IS a slightly metallic taste just at the very start, but it eventually fades away and you're left with golden sunshine in your mouth (OR SOMETHING). So it isn't a disaster as much as it's a disappointment, since I like to be supernaturally awesome at things the first time around (in this case, making lemon curd).

This was SUPPOSED to be a lemon mint curd using the last of the Moroccan mint out back, but fuck me if you can actually TASTE the mint (they said use 6 leaves, I used 13). I'm quite keen on trying this again using ONLY WOODEN SPOONS and maybe a few leaves off my lemon-rose scented geranium. (I WILL GET LEMON CURD RIGHT, DAMMIT - DO YOU HEAR THAT UNIVERSE?)

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Because the patio door faces the south it's the perfect place to grow plants AND sun dry anything harvested, so for the next few weeks this spot will be continually occupied with a rotating line-up of leaves, mushrooms, seeds and berries until everything's fully dehydrated and ready to be packed away in jars, bottles and bags. (<- THE WITCH IS STORING SHIT UP FOR WINTER.)

Way, way in the top left corner there's a ramekin filled with concrete looking dirt sitting in a white bowl with a red rim. That? That's crossroads dirt from right outside our property*. One of these days I'll get around to moistening the hardened dirt to pry it out and dry it for a second time in order to reduce it to fine powder; it's been sitting like a lump of coal for almost a year now because sometimes I can be REALLY lazy about things (really, REALLY lazy).

(* Long story short? A water pipe burst near the center of the crossroads last year - the crossroads our house is situated on - and when the street got dug up I stole some dirt and buried a witch bottle there before it got filled and covered with asphalt. BUT MORE ON THAT LATER BECAUSE I HAVE //PICTURES// AND EVERYTHING!)

The mustard colored ceramic bowl in the top center - the one with leaves poking out - house the rowan berries picked on the autumn equinox. Rather than throwing away the leaves that were attached I decided to dry them out as well since they're probably good for SOMETHING. (LOL @ HOW "SOMETHING" ALMOST ALWAYS DEFAULTS TO "OH, HEY, THIS COULD GET BURNED AS PART OF AN INCENSE BLEND...", TRUFAX.)

In front of the rowan bowl sits an orange ceramic bowl with a line of blue waves. That's some of the parsley that was picked on the equinox and then featured in our main Harvest Home altar. It'll be a mixture of parsley grown around our corn (to promote bigger plants with large roots), and parsley grown at the foot of the Shango (Bone) Tree on the phallic worship altar.

To the left of the parsley is my resin skull incense burner (IF I HAVE TO BLUDGEON A WOULD-BE INTRUDER IT WILL BE WITH THIS CRANIUM CRACKING INCENSE BURNER, SRSLY FOR REAL) filled with green acorns collected on this weekend's educational mushroom walk at a local castle. (OH, GOD, I DON'T EVEN WANT TO GO INTO IT. YOU KNOW HOW SOMETIMES YOU CAN GO TO A SOCIAL EVENT (EVEN WHEN YOU AREN'T EVEN SOCIAL TO BEGIN WITH) AND IT TURNS OUT THAT YOU - YOU, WHO ARE A LEGIT FREAK AND YOU KNOW HOW MUCH OF A FREAK YOU ARE - AREN'T EVEN A REAL FREAK COMPARED TO THE OTHER PEOPLE ATTENDING THE EVENT? YEAH. THAT.)

The huge tray of red berries taking up most of the picture are haws (hawthorn berries) that we picked over a week ago at an apple and pear festival. (I had a helluva time finding hawthorn shrubs locally, but after we picked a few pounds worth at the harvest festival I naturally discovered bushes upon bushes growing along a country lane within walking distance - NATURALLY, OF COURSE.)

I really, really wanted to make syrup with these guys, but with the threat of frost looming I still want to be able to harvest the rest of the rowan berries, blackberries (I want to make a bottle of blackberry whiskey for the Old Woman / Cailleach) and elderberries so this batch is getting dried while I focus on other wild berries. (Besides, the recipe calls for one cup of fresh or 1/2 cup of dried; best to dry them off and deal with what's more delicate and requires cooking from a fresh state first.)

Behind the haws are heads of wheat gathered from a local field. I meant to ritually reap wheat from a few locations, but due to a fucked up sleeping schedule we missed out on being able to cut bundles for ourselves. Thanks to the tractors farmers use every few feet there's a thin line of crushed wheat that didn't get cut, so we managed to pick a good handful of heads off the ground for seed/planting purposes.

These wheat heads come from a field famous for a stone (THE DRUM STONE). I was lead to believe that a bloody battle took place there ("OH MY GOD I WANT SEEDS OF WHEAT GROWING ON AN ANCIENT BATTLEGROUND!"), but when researching the monument I found that it was more of an ancient marker and men marching TO battle stopped there to "make arrangements" before going off to war. (Next year? Next year I hope to collect wheat growing next to standing stones and other neolithic monuments.)

Behind the wheat are drying chilies and plum seeds. This year I grew several varieties of chilies indoors - Apache, Cherry Bomb, Prairie Fire and Ring of Fire. The Ring of Fires are the longest, the Cherry Bombs are the short, fat grenade shaped ones and all of the others are Apaches. (The Prairie Fire was a late bloomer, so late, in fact, that it only finished flowering about a week ago.)

The first batch of plums were given as a gift when I made an offering at the local standing stones, another two batches were committed to a vodka grave (<- I'M MAKING A SPICED PLUM LIQUEUR FOR RITUAL USE!), the fourth batch were baked in a seasonal pie and the fifth now sit in the fridge awaiting their inevitable fate. The only pits I got from our plum crop this year are the ones pulled out when making pie (since the liqueur recipe called for the flesh AND pits of the fruit) and the ones still sitting in containment, so I'm saving and drying what I can for God knows what.

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A gift from Italics who knows me TOO well. (TO HELL WITH THE HERO, GIVE ME THE MONSTER! *MONSTER LOVE GRABBY HANDS*) Although I don't entirely understand why an alien is representing monsters and monster love...

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The tall row of plants are the very last of my vegetables. Way in the back - so way in the back you can't see anything other than the stem and the bamboo stick supporting it - is my Ring of Fire chili who reflowered so I have one or two more I'm waiting to harvest. The middle plant with upturned yellowish fruit is my Prairie Fire, and the last plant in line is the one aubergine (eggplant) I spared from the seasonal cold and brought indoors. Eventually all three will get cut down and ritually burned so I can mix magic ash into dirt used next year for all of my gardening (I'd compost if I could, but I can't so I burn and mix instead).

The two spiky plants in front of the line of vegetables? DRAGON'S FUCKING BLOOD, BABY! (Holy shit SRSLY! That's what Dragon's Blood looks like as a teeny tiny little thing!) Much love to my witch friend, Carolina, who sent me some seeds when I bought some of her V. awesome homemade kyphi. (<- THIS IS ANOTHER "BUT MORE ON THAT!" STORY/SCENARIO.)

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Whenever I go out of my way to make something EXTRA SPECIAL NICE I always make a point of sharing it with everyone (and by "everyone" I mean everything ancestral and incorporeal that we live with, not necessarily my in-laws). Because I don't have a kitchen altar I normally set a special place next to us using our best linens and then move the offering of food and drink to the backroom after we're done eating.

Last year we attended a harvest festival at a local castle where they sold produce, fruit and plants grown within the walled garden throughout the year. Our Castle Pie Adventure had it all - apples, plums, springtime bulbs and outdoor sex in a very public place against a tree. To celebrate the event I decided to bake a plum pie, but discovered I was one pound short of plums so I used the apples we bought instead.

(And THAT'S how Castle Pie was created! One pound of plums, one pound of apples, a plethora of spices, shortcut pastry and a topping of spiced streusel. I have pictures of Castle Pie 2008 HERE and HERE. It must've been sort've okay good because I found Italics, who doesn't like fruit, picking at the pie on more than one occasion. <- I crudely joke that he got Castle Pie twice, heh!)

This year the sale wasn't advertised so Castle Pie 2009 didn't actually come from a castle - it came from the backyard (plums) and a heritage garden (apples). I was HELLA disappointed because I really wanted CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE to become an annual harvest tradition for us - especially now since we have a car and don't have to have QUICK public outdoor sex against a tree because one of my in-laws is sitting in the parking lot waiting for us.)

When we went to the mushroom walk this past weekend THERE WAS A SIGN ADVERTISING THE EFFING WALLED GARDEN SALE. For whatever reason the company that manages Scottish heritage sites (i.e., castles and gardens and monuments and large houses) didn't bother UPLOADING THE INFORMATION ON THEIR OFFICIAL SITE so we missed out (not once, not twice but THREE FUCKING WEEKENDS IN A FUCKING ROW). I seriously wanted to make rude Italian gestures at the NTS.

Rolling with Pigs

OH, GOD, BEFORE I FORGET //YET AGAIN// -

- LAST NIGHT YOU ROLLED AROUND WITH A WILD BOAR IN YOUR DREAM AND WHEN YOU RUBBED ITS FERAL PIG STOMACH ITS GRUNTING WAS JUST LIKE LAUGHTER.

(JESUS H. CHRIST! LIKE I DIDN'T ALREADY KNOW THAT PIGS ARE ONE OF MY ANIMALS! I KNOW IT TOOK ME //YEARS// TO OFFICIALLY RECOGNIZE PAPA, BUT DO I REALLY HAVE TO HAVE ONE OF MY PATENTED SERPENT AND THE RAINBOW STYLE ANIMAL TOTEM DREAMS TO SLAP ME ACROSS THE HEAD TO PAY ATTENTION AND //LOOK///? FOR FUCKS SAKE!)

(I'M GROWN-UP NOW! *STOMPS HER FEET WHILE THROWING ANOTHER TERRIBLE TWENTY-SOMETHING SPIRITUAL TANTRUM*)

Tired, Strung Out Witch

OH, INTERNETS, I AM A TIRED, STRUNG OUT WITCH. (Oi vey, Harvest Home 2009, and what you've done to me!) I've been avoiding on-line work like the plague; the mere thought of popping open my journal program to hammer out a one paragraph "ONE A DAY" was enough to make me feel cagey and crazy. (I somehow managed NOT TO PUKE logging into Movable Type this morning - good sign? ONLY TIME WILL TELL!)

It's the season, it's the car, it's the driving, pushing unrelenting need to GET SHIT DONE. It's forgetting, at the end of the day, there's a piece of me that's broken inside, and no matter what I do, or how I do it that little piece will always be tinkering away causing little biological upsets along the way. It's the threat of frost, it's the sudden cold, it's my complete inability to simply accept the fact that WINTER IS COMING AND THERE ISN'T ANYTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT.

(BUT WHERE WAS MY SUMMER, UNIVERSE? YOU CAN'T EXPECT ME TO REIGN OVER SNOW AND ICE AND DREARY, GREY SCOTTISH WEATHER IF YOU DON'T GIVE ME AN EQUAL SHARE OF SUN, WARMTH AND BRIGHT SCOTTISH WEATHER! A BALANCE IN ALL THINGS, PLZ!)

I respond badly to changes - even subtle ones - unless I'm the one enforcing them. I'm forever ticking the SPONTANEOUS, FUCK YEAH, ARIES, THAT'S ME! box when half-taking internet quizzes (AM I THE ONLY PERSON WHO MANAGES TO GET 1/2 OR 2/3 THROUGH A QUIZ BEFORE CASUALLY TOSSING IT ASIDE? APPARENTLY I DON'T NEED TO KNOW WHAT KIND'VE COCKTAIL I AM //THAT BAD//), but in reality I know that the spontaneity I'm thinking about works best in a structured atmosphere that's been allotted a special "OKAY, TIME TO DO SOMETHING UNPLANNED AND AWESOME NOW!" time.

I'm retarded, and retarded people flourish best under routine. (AND, IN SOME CASES, WITH BUCKETS OVER THEIR HEAD. UNFORTUNATELY I DON'T FALL UNDER THAT CATEGORY, BUT I DO WEAR A SOVIET ARMY VISOR CAP DURING DRUGGED OUT RITUAL SEX - CLOSE ENOUGH?) It's TOTALLY true; force me into an unplanned, unscheduled situation 100% out of my daily routine and I'm VERY libel to get cranky. And if I'm SUPER high I'm libel to pull a "OH, GOD, JUDGE WAPNER, GONNA MISS PEOPLE'S COURT, OH GOD" freak-out hidden beneath a layer of protective tantrum.

(OKAY, THAT MIGHT BE A SLIGHT EXAGGERATION FOR COMEDIC PURPOSES. I'VE NEVER ACTUALLY HAD A FULL-ON "FREAK OUT" WHEN ON DRUGS; NOT EVEN THE TWO SEPARATE OCCASIONS WE HAD WAY TOO MUCH SYNTHESIZED CANNABINOIDS AND I BECAME SO DISASSOCIATED THERE WAS A MOMENT OF PANIC WHEN I REALIZED I WAS JUST A FIGMENT OF SOMEONE ELSE'S IMAGINATION - I WAS THE PRODUCT OF A BROKEN, UNFIXABLE BRAIN, I WAS PART OF SOMEONE'S MULTIPLE PERSONALITY DISORDER AND //I KNEW I WAS NOTHING, CREATED BY FUCKED UP NEURONS//.)

(WANT HEAVY? SPEND TEN MINUTES KNOWING THAT YOU'RE NOTHING EXCEPT A PSYCHOLOGICAL SPASM, AND SPEND THAT TIME CLAWING, REACHING, CLINGING TO THE ROCK OF REALITY EVEN THOUGH YOU KNOW YOU DON'T BELONG THERE AND AT ANY SECOND YOU COULD DISSOLVE IN A MOMENT OF SOMEONE ELSE'S RATIONALE. OH, DRUGS, <3!)

(BTW, EGO DEATH? NOT AWESOME. ALTHOUGH ITALICS LOLED WHEN POINTING OUT THAT A LOT OF PEOPLE GO ON AND ON ABOUT HOW AWESOME IT IS. COMING UP ON AMPHETAMINES? NOT AWESOME. ALTHOUGH ITALICS LOLED WHEN POINTING OUT THAT A LOT OF PEOPLE GO ON AND ON ABOUT HOW AWESOME IT IS. MY LITMUS TEST FOR LIFE IS FUCKED UP BEYOND BELIEF, AND SOMETIMES I FEEL THE NEED TO APOLOGIZE BECAUSE //I'M SERIOUSLY NOT DOING IT ON PURPOSE//, OKAY?)

Up until recently I shaped my days and goals around my sedentary lifestyle. (MAYBE THAT'S A BIT...I DUNNO...MISCHARACTERIZED.) It's not that I wasn't active because I was still doing shit - still cooking, still cleaning, still doing the housework for four adults (two of whom, despite being double my age, still treat the house, the contents of the house and any and all clean and open spaces of said house like their personal junkyard playground). But because I couldn't get a job (no car, and my father-in-law was-is-was completely unreliable, so getting a ride to and from work was out of the question) I had no money, so I had A DOUBLE REASON to not bother leaving the house (no car to go anywhere, no money to spend to facilitate "going out").

I spent the previous two summers in bed - in 07 I had a severe case of recurring tonsillitis that took me over 1/3 of the year to beat (not to mention over two hundred pills, and several variants of penicillin since the first few only managed to suppress the infection instead of kill it), and in 08 my mysterious, totally unexplained stomach symptoms and ailments turned themselves up to "11" and the majority of the year was spent crying, eating bread (anything else made me sick) and resting on various flat surfaces (the bed, the couch, the floor, the bathtub) while waiting for medical consultations and tests.

I grew accustomed to not leave the house. In fact, there were periods - like, 4-5 month periods - where I didn't even cross the threshold of the front door into the driveway. Seriously. Between being sick, not being up at the right time and having to rely on others to get around the motivation to SEE NEW THINGS and DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT EVERYDAY died back and I fell into a clockwork lifestyle that revolved around sleeping my symptoms away and picking up after other people.

(JUST IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING - IT WAS EASY AT FIRST, AND THEN IT BECAME HARD. REALLY, REALLY HARD. AS IN, REALIZING THE ESSENCE OF YOUR BEING HAD BEEN REDUCED TO A CINDERELLA-LIKE FAIRYTALE ROLE OF SERVITUDE. <- ADD THAT TO THE "NOT AWESOME" PILE I STARTED EARLIER.)

This year? This was the first year in fucking THREE that I didn't experience some sort of medical calamity. I don't know if it was just A LONG EFFING TIME COMING, or if finding out what was and is wrong with me (well, we MOSTLY know since I've baffled various doctors - my stomach valve is broken, I experience severe GERD-like symptoms and, on occasion, everything acid reflux related EXCEPT FOR THE ACTUAL ACID REFLUX PART (as in, I don't get the acidic splash crawling up my esophagus, but I get everything else); they offered to do more testing, I politely declined - SRSLY, GIVEN THE CHOICE I MIGHT GO WITH "EGO DEATH" THAN UNDERGO ANOTHER ENDOSCOPY) has taken the element of mystery away making it easier to deal with.

Whatever it was, it was good, although I WOULD'VE PREFERRED A LOT MORE SUN. (Ahem, Scottish summer 2009, AHEM.) It was SO good, actually, that for the first time in the nearly ten years I've lived here I was bitten by the exploring bug, and Italics and I reverted to our feral children selves and set off to find NEW PLACES AND NEW PLACES TO BUILD FORTS AT (and then have sex in, JUST LIKE YOUR OTHER AVERAGE, RUN OF THE MILL FERAL CHILDREN). Because we didn't have a car we walked, and, baby, did we fucking //WALK//. (To standing stones, to new cemeteries, to unexplored woods, through wheat fields, over crumbling stone walls and, unknowingly, to a throne, jutting out like a spectacular monument of and to nature.)

And then, just in time for Harvest, I got a car. ("WE" GOT A CAR, ACTUALLY, BECAUSE THIS AUTOMATIC DID REPLACE THE OLDER, BROKEN DOWN MANUAL CAR. IT'S THE SECONDARY COMMUNAL CAR, BUT BECAUSE IT WAS SPECIFICALLY BOUGHT FOR ME TO DRIVE - I.E., THE "AUTOMATIC" PART - I LIKE TO PRETEND THAT IT'S //MY CAR//, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.)

The car represents so many things - freedom, exploration, the possibility of getting a job and, most importantly, independence. Everything I've been (MOSTLY) patiently waiting for has come to fruition; I feel like I'm standing on the cusp of something great (greatly awesome, and/or greatly tragic, who knows except the stars). The car - the chariot? - represents change, change I WANTED (thereby enforcing it myself) but also change I can't predict.

(MOVING ONE ITEM OF FURNITURE ACROSS THE ROOM TO A NEW POSITION HAS EASILY PREDICTED CONSEQUENCES, MOVING MYSELF ACROSS THE COUNTRY IN THE CAR AND HOW IT AFFECTS EVERYDAY LIFE AND MY RELATIONSHIP WITH OTHER PEOPLE IN THIS HOUSE IS A LITTLE LESS EASY TO SPECULATE.)

So Harvest was a weird kaleidoscope of actions and reactions, most of which were entirely new to me since an unfamiliar element was introduced. For a few weeks I didn't recognize my life due to my routine upset, and then Italics and I began waking up at the same time. (I know I've covered the dilemma before, but just in case it was missed - we've kind've sort've structured our lives so that I have 1-3 hours of "alone/work" time first thing in the morning. Since Italics sleeps in during that time he stays up later thus getting his 1-3 hours of "alone/work" time when I go to bed earlier than him. It's become an integral part of my day - and life! - and if I don't get it my entire day feels alien, foreign and totally unproductive no matter what I do.)

And then there were all of the celebrations, rituals, meals and logging all of the activities via photos and journal entries. There were the longish drives in the country at first crack of dawn to find fresh roadkill, but also to watch the sun rise over the gradual flush of colors spreading from tree to tree. There were weekend events (the apple and pear festival last weekend, and this weekend an international market on Saturday and a three hour educational mushroom walk on Sunday), weekday events and the actual act of harvesting along hedgerows and in woods.

And on top of all of this (which is only scratching the tip of the iceberg) I was - and still am - functioning as mother, wife, cook and cleaner. About a week ago I stood in the lounge watching the sun rise and when the weight of things came down - of things I did, or I need to finish, or I needed to start - I almost began screaming, right in front of the main Harvest Home altar. Tired, stressed out and strung out witch? CHECK.

Instead of bellowing to my hearts content - WHICH, LOL, NO DOUBT WOULD HAVE DRAWN ME EVEN CLOSER TO MY ANCESTORS WHO WERE BEING EXALTED AND REMEMBERED ON THE ALTAR BESIDE ME (IN HINDSIGHT, ACTUALLY, IT WAS PROBABLY THE //PERFECT// PLACE TO DO IT SEEING AS HOW MANY PAIRS OF ANCESTRAL, MATERNAL HANDS I WOULD HAVE HAD PATTING ME ON MY BACK, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM INHERENTLY KNOWING THE EXACT FRUSTRATION I WAS EXPERIENCING, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM ENGAGING IN AN ETERNAL FEMALE SUPPORT GROUP REACHING ACROSS GENERATIONS) - I took a deep breath, dropped the weight off my shoulders, made myself a cup of my magic calming tea, turned off the computer and put the car keys away.

And that's where I've been - retracing the steps of old routine in order to forge a new path that'll become the new routine. (No one said it was going to be easy, right?)