Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

She Washes Her Plaid

ETA: I love how this turned out to be journal entry #365. OH, UNIVERSE, <3!

Last night the Old Woman washed Her plaid in Corryvreckan, stripping the bold colors from Her tartan as She plunged it into the ocean's churning spiral, using the whirlpool as Her cauldron as She transformed Her traditional dress into the white shroud of winter. (They say that the snow's the Cailleach's bleached plaid, thrown across the land, blanketing the earth as it dries beneath the sky.)

I'm not unfamiliar with raging, temperamental goddesses. I understand the fire and the ice, I understand the volatility and how a breath of air can either inflame or extinguish. There's a fine line between creation and destruction; one hand lowered, one hand raised, both extended parts of the same body. It's a cosmic balancing act, a tightrope performance as old as time itself.

When the Old Woman called I didn't know about Her, but I knew Her. "We're blue skinned, you know," the Black Rabbit told me when I was Underground. HOLY SHIT, I thought, EVERYONE KNOWS ABOUT US. Blue is, if you think about it, universal. The blue skinned are the creators and destroyers, the raging ones, the fighting ones, the dead and risen ones, the ones who scream, fuck and storm. They tear, they claw, they lash out, but within the whirlwind of passionate action and movement, there's hidden compassion, hidden love and a greater purpose to the maelstrom of violence.

(Of course We're complex and contradictory, We're Woman. That's the beautiful, awe and fear inspiring thing about Us. We storm, sometimes on purpose, sometimes because it gets away from us. The trick is controlling the air flow. INFLAMING (too much air) and EXTINGUISHING (not enough air) aren't the answers, they're primitive - and very powerful, in a primal, animalistic way - extremes.)

(All of Us have extended hands, one lowered, one raised, but not enough of Us work on equalizing the extension. Instead of pointing at the ground and sky (creation, destruction) We should be reaching out with both hands, because, honey, that's the ONLY way you can grab and control something (unless you're thoroughly convinced that Jesus is going to take the fucking wheel, good luck with that, BTW).)

(My stomach valve had to break in order for me to appreciate this shit. Hopefully one of your body's involuntary functions doesn't have to suddenly STOP WORKING so you can have your own personal epiphany. But that's my magic; to know blood you need to know blood. I had to learn the importance of a breath of air, and in doing so it's begun solving two problems (one physical and one spiritual).)

(Now I'm REALLY tangenting from the original point of this entry, sorry.)

The Cailleach called me down to Her whirlpool, where I was stripped clean in the divine washerwoman's "cauldron". There was more than that, though. There was jumping into the tumultuous water of the whirlpool to save people from being swept down into the vortex. ("MOTHERFUCKING RETARDS," I shouted from rocky craigs overlooking the swirling mass of water, having to jump into the dangerous waves again and again to save drowning lemmings.)

The spiral that twisted the sea was feminine. Ancient. Feral. Terrifying. If the burning bush was the face of God, then the whirlpool was the vaginal canal leading to the great Creatrix's womb. I could only look at the roaring waters from the corner of my eyes, partially out of fear, but mostly due to the overwhelming feeling of absolute sacredness. It was the Ark, and even though I wasn't a Nazi I was still at least PRETTY SURE looking directly at the whirlpool would melt my face.

I also dreamt about a terrifying monster of a bull appearing in a field we were cutting through. He charged; there was no place to go. His body blocked the sun as he barreled towards me, and instead of escaping, instead of racing from the inevitable I stood my ground, lacking every survival instinct I otherwise should've had. I was prepared to die, an unseen, silent sacrifice.

Petrified but certain I closed my eyes when I felt his hot breath blast over my skin, not wanting to see my own death...but it never came. Humid heat from the panting bull rolled over me, but not through me. When I opened my eyes - still alive - the sun broke over the bull's back, partially blinding me with fierce light and outlining the massive beast that was kneeling in front of me.

The Great Bull submitted to me as sun spilled over our bodies, his giant, curved horns pointed down in submission and supplication. Breathless I reached out and placed my palm flat against his sweaty brow, reeling in shock that I was still alive and what surely had to be a divine creature was kneeling - BOWING - to me.

I was sick that night almost three (four?) years ago. I had a cold that wormed its way into my chest and was threatening to become a V. serious case of bronchitis. It was also the beginning of the last great depressive episode in my life. When I woke up from the lucid dreams I was shaking and unnerved. I retold both to Italics, and during a moment of curiosity I typed in "goddess" and "whirlpool" into Google and was rewarded with the Cailleach of Corryvreckan.

The Corryvreckan is the world's third largest whirlpool and, unknown to me at the time, is located in Scotland. Attached to the oceanic feature is the ancient figure of the Cailleach, the winter hag, the storm bringer, the divine washerwoman. She's presumed to be old. So old, in fact, that She's believed to have once been considered one of the greatest of goddesses (the goddess of the goddesses, the mother of all), but time's weathered Her image and She's now remembered as an elemental (temperamental, heh!) deity of folklore.

When I realized there was a whirlpool in Scotland I didn't even know about I began crying. When I realized there was a whirlpool in Scotland I didn't even know about AND a very primitive, elemental goddess (at the time I had expressed interest in controlling the weather - bringing the snow, stopping the rain, making the winds blow) was attached to it I began crying even harder. I was bawling by the time I realized every image of Her I came across depicted Her with blue skin.

(I, uh, cry a lot. Language is frustrating, a lot of things don't translate right (or well) when filtered through an autistic brain. Emotions, however, don't need to be explained, so they're naturally expressed through tears. Happy tears. Sad tears. Tears of pain, tears of joy. Ecstatic tears, despondent tears. Freya's golden tears of living, loving and losing.)

A lot people drop the "I WAS CALLED" bomb in paganism and witchcraft. I try not to use popular vernacular (primarily because I don't consider myself your normal, run-of-the-mill witch and don't want to be confused with - or lumped together - with a scene I'm trying my hardest to avoid), but if dreaming about a very specific natural feature (and the primordial goddess attached to it) despite not knowing about it and then finding out that the same natural feature - goddess included - is only SEVERAL FUCKING HOURS AWAY then, fine, yeah, "I was called".

ANYWAY...!

(If you've been reading my journal for any length of time you'll find that it's absolutely impossible for me to tell a story without wandering off the path to tell several stories to better explain the original story. I talk. A lot. But I also want people to UNDERSTAND where I'm coming from, which is the entire point of keeping a diary that's open and accessible to others.)

(The thing is, I don't want people to mimic or copy, I want people to GET ME and GET HOW I THINK so they understand why I do the things I do. And in that understanding I hope that people will BEGIN THINKING FOR THEMSELVES instead of relying on the same book that's been kicked around for years.)

(Not that books are V. V. BAD, but they can become a crutch. Someone who relies on books is someone who isn't working on instinct (or displaying any signs of innate creativity) and, more often than not, simply consuming and regurgitating someone ELSE'S experiences and beliefs.)

This entry was only supposed to be several paragraphs long (re: last night's first snow and how I celebrated the Old Woman returning home and doing Her laundry) but I got a LEETLE sidetracked. I REALLY, REALLY wanted to sink my teeth into how I "work" with the Cailleach, but that'll have to wait for another time. Seeing how winter's officially fallen onto Scotland I'm sure the topic will get kicked around a few times before the (Virginal Spring) Bride returns.

Temporary Limbo

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Normally Papa's mask hangs just above my nightstand in the bedroom, but when time came to strip down the old wallpaper his ass got relocated to the computer room/office (at least until the redecoration's complete). A few days ago I caught him grinning like a fool, looking way too comfortable with the recent change in scenery.

"AIN'T //NO// WAY, NEGRO," I warned before the twinkle in his eye (socket) got any more glittery and flirty, "BLACK MAN? BEDROOM. WHITE MAN? OFFICE. OTHERWISE I'M NEVER GOING TO GET ANY SHIT DONE." He laughed, but I so totally wasn't joking in the slightest. Men (especially the incorporeal, voodoo-flavored subconscious skeletal link to the divine masculine)...pffffft.

Day of Doneness

Click thumbnail for larger image.

PRAISE GOD IN FUCKING HEAVEN, IT'S //DONE//. (Well, not DONE done. I still need to ritually clean the furniture coming back in, dust'n'polish every book, item and statue before it's returned to its rightful place, clean the backroom that's storing all of our shit, ceremonially unveil the funeral coffin cover which'll be blanketing our bed until Easter and fumigate the bedroom for the last time with a mixture of frankincense, sage and rosemary. <- SORT'VE LIKE A SPIRITUAL VARNISH.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Secondary celebration that gets lost behind the super grand celebration of HAUNTED FORESTS and GATED CEMETERIES? I only cried in frustration //once// during the entire wallpapering ordeal. (ACTUALLY, I DIDN'T EVEN CRY //AT ALL// BUT MY EYES GOT MOIST AND I SNIFFLED AND FELT, FOR A SECOND, I COULD COLLAPSE IN A CRYING FIT OF AGITATION AND TIREDNESS.) Thanks to a quick cup of calming tea, some pot and help from Italics I rebounded crazy quick and shot off like a rocket.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I can't even begin calculating how many (wo)man hours went into this job (from evacuating the room to ritually cleaning it (and its contents) to wallpapering it from ceiling to floor). I've spent the better part of a week climbing, straddling, crouching, kneeling, extending, rolling, hammering, measuring, stretching and sweating my ass off. (STICK A FORK IN ME, BABY, BECAUSE I AM //DONE//.)

A few people have asked where I got the wallpaper and because I'm a notoriously lazy whore I've been copying and pasting the same response throughout the great'n'wide internet:

The first set (SKULL PILLAR OSSUARY W/STONE WALL) we got at a joke/costume shop. This second set (HAUNTED FOREST with GATED CEMETERY) we bought off of eBay.

The only downside using scene setters to decorate a room? The "wallpaper" is actually a thin ass sheet of plastic. One snag and the motherfucker tears like punishment from the devil his-fucking-self. (Which is EXACTLY why I've outlawed wearing heels in bed. <- YOU DON'T EVEN WANT TO KNOW HOW MANY POTHOLES I CREATED IN OUR PREVIOUS "SCENE" (I.E., DUNGEON OSSUARY) WHEN KICKING MY HIGH HEELED LEGS INTO THE AIR DURING SEX.)

(LOL @ MY REPTILIAN LEATHER CORSET STILL HANGING ON THE EFFING DOOR. Last Friday it was laced up (over fishnet) in the office, worn into town and then taken off - AHEM! - in the bedroom later that day. I've been so busy tacking up fucking wallpaper I haven't had a chance to move it back into the closet.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

It's been this way since mid-September; when I look upon this mess a get despair stirs in my heart. (It's getting tackled. Today. Fuck Thanksgiving (I'm pushing it to Saturday WHICH I CAN TOTALLY DO IF I FUCKING WANT SINCE I'M IN //SCOTLAND// AND //SCOTLAND// DOESN'T CELEBRATE THANKSGIVING, ANYWAY, SO I CAN BE AS NON-FUCKING-TRADITIONAL AS I WANT), I want my house back.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I see a mess, but within that mess - making and creating the mess - I see our life, our celebrations, our rituals and our memories. (AND YOU'RE ALL GOING BACK IN THE BEDROOM //TODAY//, DAMMIT.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I can't wait to reclaim this room. There's a communal lounge in the front of the house, but it's usually occupied by my in-laws. We created a little niche for ourselves in the backroom where we eat, watch TV, play video games, watch movies, play records, work on projects, play boardgames and just plain ole relax.

We haven't been able to use the room for nearly two months; I'm REALLY looking forward to getting stoned and playing The Sisters of Mercy and Dire Straits while sitting in winter sun. (<- THE ROOM'S SOUTH FACING.) In a few weeks time we'll be decorating it - in addition to the lounge - for Christmas and this year we decided to chop down a tree for our stoner tree.

(IF YOU AREN'T ALREADY FAMILIAR WITH "THE STONER TREE" STICK AROUND FOR A WEEK OR TWO AND EVERYTHING WILL BE EXPLAINED...PROBABLY WITH PICTURES INVOLVING MY ASS.)

(ME TO ITALICS: "OKAY, OKAY, NOW TAKE A PICTURE OF MY NAKED ASS RESTING ON A BRANCH OF THE TREE BEFORE WE CUT IT DOWN!")

Click thumbnail for larger image.

A glorious mess of needing-to-be-wrapped Christmas presents, half-finished witch projects, dried herbs, berries and foliage that are waiting to be bottled and stalwart houseplants that have taken nearly two months of neglect on the chin without so much as a complaint.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

An unexpected rainbow was the grand finale to my celebratory DAY OF DONENESS photo taking. (I saw my first meteor just above the pine tree beneath the bend of the rainbow on Italics' birthday this year. I'll never forget that blue-white sparkler streak of burning magnesium. Within a month I saw my second in the backyard when standing on the patio in the middle of the night watching/listening to the bats feed.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I woke up to a windstorm on the DAY OF DONENESS. The weather alternated from dreary, heavy gray clouds and lashings of rain to abnormally bright light blazing across a darkened horizon. (Hence the weird glow to some of the bedroom pictures.) Gusts of wind shook the house and rattled the branches of trees and bushes outside (where my birds took refuge looking both confused and irritated by the storm).

Above: a female blackbird.

(I call them "Papa's birds". A few years back Papa instructed me to boil the last egg in the house for him and bury it outside. I boiled the egg but sat on it for months and months and months (it sat in a shot glass in the backroom), and it wasn't until the deepest part of my most recent depressive episode that I finally buried it. Within seconds of patting the earth down a male blackbird came racing out of the bushes and immediately sat down next to me stupidly unafraid of me or the danger he was putting himself in. That was the very beginning of my relationship with the local blackbirds; a gift from Papa. <- And that's ALSO how Papa hatched a bird out of an old boiled egg.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I woke up to a windstorm on the DAY OF DONENESS. The weather alternated from dreary, heavy gray clouds and lashings of rain to abnormally bright light blazing across a darkened horizon. (Hence the weird glow to some of the bedroom pictures.) Gusts of wind shook the house and rattled the branches of trees and bushes outside (where my birds took refuge looking both confused and irritated by the storm).

Above: a juvenile male blackbird (right), probably another juvenile male blackbird in the middle (it's hard to tell if s/he's BLACK or VERY BROWN) and way, way to the left is a tiny little cheap-cheap bird hidden beneath a drooping branch (I didn't even notice it when taking the picture).

(I call them "Papa's birds". A few years back Papa instructed me to boil the last egg in the house for him and bury it outside. I boiled the egg but sat on it for months and months and months (it sat in a shot glass in the backroom), and it wasn't until the deepest part of my most recent depressive episode that I finally buried it. Within seconds of patting the earth down a male blackbird came racing out of the bushes and immediately sat down next to me stupidly unafraid of me or the danger he was putting himself in. That was the very beginning of my relationship with the local blackbirds; a gift from Papa. <- And that's ALSO how Papa hatched a bird out of an old boiled egg.)

Cleaning Day II

The original CLEANING DAY entry became so stupidly long that it had to be halved. The first half was uploaded nearly a week ago (see CLEANING DAY I) and this is the second and final half. (If you haven't read the the first part I HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT since it explains - and goes into greater detail - what I'm doing, and why I'm doing it.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Washing an entire room yields some nasty results. So nasty that halfway through you realize that maybe the gray-black-gritty water you're using to physically and spiritually clean an area isn't as effective as it was in the very beginning. That's where the "starter" jug (above) steps in.

Once my bucket's full of super hot (and super fragrant) wash I decant a jug's worth of pristine cleaning water so, half-way through cleaning, I can recreate the magic washing mix without all of the original effort. (<- TOSS DIRTY MAGIC WASH OUT THE DOOR (<- V. IMPORTANT STEP, TO PHYSICALLY "THROW OUT" EVERYTHING YOU'VE GOTTEN RID OF), RINSE BUCKET OUT, POUR IN ECOVER, POUR IN CONTENTS OF JUG, ADD HOT WATER AND RETURN TO WORK - EASY!)

When I heavy duty magic clean the bedroom a lot of effort (and attention) goes into the bed and the thresholds of the room (i.e., window, door). The bed's completely stripped (the sheets, mattress cover, pillow cases and duvet are washed while I'm cleaning), and all of the pillows and mattress are crazily Febreezed and moved out of the room. The frame of the bed is cleaned using my washing mix, down to every cheap wooden slate, joint and screw head.

Nothing gets missed, nothing gets overlooked. I don't cast circles for protection; I clean and anoint the room (and all of the furniture within) with intent, sweat and my wash. It's labor intensive, but that's my magic - overt action. Chanting and invoking various directions mean jack shit if you aren't demonstrating (and exercising) complete and total control of the area.

Cleaning, for me, marks my area - especially when my sweat, urine and blood mingles with my bucket of wash, infusing it with my scent. It's primitive and simple, but at least you can FEEL it (especially the day after!).

The tiny cup next to the jug of wash is Papa's coffee cup (it has a matching saucer, but since I wasn't serving the Old Man a cup of coffee I didn't bother busting it out). While cleaning the bedroom I simultaneously wash the bed linens and with every load I add a cupful of clean, decanted wash from the jug into the laundry. (No point in cleaning the screws of the bed frame if you aren't going to put the same amount of attention into the sheets you'll be sleeping on.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Years ago I got some jazz for mentioning I formally invoked Chippy for a healing ritual. One of the much learn-ed pagan/witch moderators (of the forum) couldn't fathom why I'd beseech an entity associated with plagues and sickness for the purpose of recovery. Suddenly realizing the level of retardation I was dealing with, I simply walked off without answering the question and never returned.

(I MEAN, I KNOW I'M ALL AUTISTIC AND SPASTIC AND SIMPLE, BUT...I DON'T FEEL IT TAKES BEING A GENIUS AND/OR HAVING A MASTERS DEGREE IN ARCHEOLOGY OR ANTHROPOLOGY TO UNDERSTAND WHY SOMEONE WOULD INVOKE AND PETITION AN ENTITY KNOWN FOR SICKNESS AND DISEASES TO //LIFT// SICKNESS OR A DISEASE. THAT'S PRETTY BASIC SHIT, YO, AND IF IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE YOU'RE EITHER A.) REALLY DUMB OR B.) PRETENDING TO BE REALLY DUMB.)

I rarely "invoke" Chippy in a ritual or ceremonial way. He's a permanent member of the family preferring to sit in front of the TV (<- HIS FAVORITE THING TO WATCH IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD? CHRISTMAS MUSIC VIDEOS. SERIOUSLY.) than run wild outside. (I can't even remember the last time he asked to be let "out". I DO remember it was winter and I DO remember hearing "WANT IN, WANT IN! WOMAN, WANT IN! TOO COLD, WANT IN!" within seconds of closing the patio door.) It took several years of extensive hands on work, but he's integrated himself smoothly into daily life.

Chippy is, essentially, the guard dog who lives inside of the house. He eats scraps from our plates (he has his own stainless steel doggie bowls engraved with his name), he sleeps next to my side of the bed and, when he's been super extra awesome good, he occasionally gets taken out to the movies and Burger King. Like most devoted canine companions (not having any experience with breaking a demon I fell back to the one thing I knew how to do - house train a dog) Chippy lives to please and understands the importance of family unity.

In addition to healing, divination (not exactly his cup of tea, but the few times I've used him he's been V. terrific in conjunction with tarot and soul cards), companionship and cursing (I HAVE AN ANCIENT DEMON THAT WAS FEARED BY ALL OTHER DEMONS AS A PET, DO YOU REALLY THINK I'D LET THAT ASPECT OF HIM SLIDE? LULZ.) I use Chippy for banishment purposes. When I spiritually fumigate the house he's at my heels - growling and bearing his teeth - ensuring nothing sneaks past while I flush out uninvited guests from room to room.

The picture above is as close as I get to ritually invoking anything. (Unless I'm heavily under the influence of drugs, and in THAT case I'm a laughing, contorting naked banshee throwing fistfuls of incense onto glowing charcoal while hissing-whispering-groaning names like a maenad possessed. <- I KIND'VE SORT'VE GET SWEPT UP IN THE MOMENT. MIND ALTERING, CLASS "A" NARCOTICS HAVE A TENDENCY TO DO THAT TO YOU.)

In the forefront is Chippy's Sassanian amber bead (I HOPE I LOOK //THAT DAMN GOOD// WHEN I'M 2,409 YEARS OLD!) hanging from an unseen (and upturned) leg of our bed. (Looking a WEE BIT cleaner since I dunked it in my bucket'o'magic wash just a few minutes prior to taking the picture. <- GOOD-BYE CAKED ON VAGINAL SECRETIONS, SWEAT AND MENSTRUAL BLOOD, HELLO ANCIENT BEAD THAT PROBABLY COULD DO WITHOUT BEING INSERTED INTO A WOMAN'S CUNT WHILE SHE MASTURBATES!)

In the background, on the windowsill, I'm burning two types of incense. I started my "invocation" (LOL @ "INVOCATION" SOUNDING SO...PLAYING PRETEND, OR SOMETHING) by burning a blend I specifically created for Chippy. (I can't tell you exactly what went in it since it was created way back in 2006 using homegrown plant material (tomatoes, carrots, lavender - CHIPPY ENJOYS GARDENING, HENCE THE ADDITION OF VEGETABLES AND EDIBLE FLOWERS), blood, probably honey, urine (DEFINITELY URINE, THAT WAS THE FIRST THING I COULD SMELL WHEN THE INCENSE HIT THE CHARCOAL BLOCK) and whatever else was appropriate (and made sense) at the time.)

To partially cover the bizarre scent of charred vegetables and body fluids I burned an elemental specific (Air) incense blend from one of my favorite resin retailers, Soma Luna. (Chippy's my "air" correspondent (while Papa is my "earth" and Tentacle Monster is my "water"), although I haven't entirely decided if he fits in the "chthonic" theme that plays so heavily in my spiritual life.)

Once Chippy was formally called I slipped the bead around my neck, and with the tiny piece of antiquity pinballing itself between my tits I rolled up my sleeves and went to work.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

So what exactly gets cleaned on MAGIC CLEANING DAY? (Oh, Christ, where do I start...) Everything, down to handles, hinges and screws. My banishing/exoricising arsenal contains four basic "tools": homemade wash, Chippy's presence, salt and whatever incense feels appropriate for the cleansing.

(AND A TOOL CD FOR THE LULZ. <- "LULZ" ARE V. IMPORTANT IN MAGIC, YOU KNOW. DEEP, HEARTY "OH, WOW, A SIGNIFICANT PERCENTAGE OF YOUR WORK FOCUSES ON CHRISTIANITY BEING A "FALSE RELIGION", HOW 16TH CENTURY OF YOU" LULZ.)

I started with creating the wash and hauling the mother of a fucking bucket of lemon-scented foamy water into the barren bedroom. Once Chippy was invoked and his incense was burning I outlined the entire room with an unbreaking line of salt (on the floor) ensuring that every threshold was "sealed" (i.e., the door and the window, hence the grains of salt swept across the windowsill in the picture above).

Once boxed in there was nothing else to do other than engage in some good, old-fashioned physical labor. The ceiling was dusted several times over, and then the walls, corners, window, vent and dresser. When the surfaces were debris-free it was time to bust out a sponge and commit myself to some serious cleaning. (<- I THINK, IN TOTAL, IT TOOK ME ABOUT 6 HOURS.)

I started with the ceiling fan (the blades, the light, the body and the dangling switches), moved to the dresser (all four walls - both exterior and interior, the handles, the hinges, the doors and the top) and then focused on the bed (all four legs, entire frame, screws, headboard - you name it, I washed it, including feeding a wash soaked towel between every wooden slate of the headboard).

Phase two of washing focused on the room itself (while phase one was primarily furniture based).

Once done with the bed I moved to smaller fixtures that I might've otherwise forgotten to do (if I had left them as the last things to clean) - dresser electrical socket, light switch, vent, the wooden door frame (both inside, outside and middle (<- physically IN the threshold)), the door's hinges and handles (both inside, outside and middle), the door itself (both inside, outside and middle), robe hooks on the back of the door, the slender floorboard that the door sits on, the draw-down blind and the electrical socket on my side of the room.

(I ONLY GOT A SHOCK //ONCE//. OKAY, MAYBE //TWICE//.)

By this point my bucket'o'magic wash was demonically dirty (<- THAT'S A JOKE...MOSTLY) and needed to be refreshed, so I tossed the contents out of the house onto the patio and refueled myself (COFFEE! GRANOLA BAR!) while the second batch of wash was being created. (Normally I do everything in one go, but this time around I decided to physically wash the walls and I didn't want to scrub glaringly white walls with dingy, blackened water.)

The last and final phase of cleaning (at least for the day) meant tackling the four walls (including their floor sideboards), radiator and every part of the window (the frame, the sill, the ledge outside and the glass).

I began with the walls, dipping a tea towel into the new batch of wash, wringing it out and sliding the sopping wet cloth over the great expanse of white. From ceiling to floor - with the help of a chair - I waxed on and waxed off, starting where the last swatch of dampness ended so there weren't any broken links or dry patches.

(Even with the window open it became a sauna; the window steamed up until it was completely opaque, and the humidity became a heavy weight bearing down on my arms and shoulders as I continually slapped the wall with a new coating of magic wash. <- BY SMOKE, BY STEAM, BY SALT AND WILL. AND, ALSO, BY THIS TIME - BY RAMMSTEIN.)

By the time I finished the last wall I was absolutely gassed, but still had the radiator and window to clean. Radiator? Piece of cake. Window? A helluva lot more effort. (Just like the door //everything// gets anally cleaned. The inside, outside and middle of the wooden frame gets washed. Then the handles and hinges, the vent above, the sill below, the ledge outside and both sides (inside, outside) of the glass.)

(Despite being on a diet (I KNOW, I KNOW, BUT I //ACTUALLY LOSE WEIGHT AND KEEPING IT OFF// UNLIKE A LOT OF OTHER VOCAL DIETERS) I felt justified in enjoying a British chipper that night. (<- CHICKEN FILLET SUPPER = AMBROSIA OF THE GODS. EFF YOUR APPLES, IDUN!))

Italics, bless his I AM MARRIED TO AN INSANE FUCKING WITCH heart, took pity on me and my aching body and performed the last important song'n'dance of my cleaning ritual that night - vacuuming the floor (to pick up the dusted debris, flaking white paint and trail of salt that outlined the perimeter of our bedroom).

And that, ladies and gentlemen (and everyone in between), is how this witch "protects" one of the most important rooms in the house - the bedroom. (<- LOL @ MY "THE FUCKING END" STATEMENT, BECAUSE I HAVEN'T EVEN COVERED RITUALLY WASHING ALL OF THE FURNITURE AND ITEMS THAT COME BACK INTO THE ROOM, OR HOW I FUMIGATE IT FOR A SECOND TIME WITH INSANE AMOUNT OF INCENSE AND HERBS TO LOCK AND SEAL THE SPACE.)

Forest in a Day

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Haunted forest? Done. Gated abandoned cemetery? About to start. (Wish me luck!)

Don't Touch My Things

I love how my father-in-law won't lift a fucking finger to clean the house, but he's more than happy to "clean" my kitchen altar for me without asking. (<- SO MUCH FOR CONSECRATING FOOD AND GIFTS FOR FRIENDS.)

Since he's returned home I've had to ask on a weekly basis for him to NOT TOUCH MY THINGS, but maybe I need to start asking TWICE A FUCKING WEEK until "DON'T TOUCH HER STUFF, ESPECIALLY NOTHING ON HER KITCHEN ALTAR" sinks in.

(Fuck, I've been living here almost a //decade//. If he hasn't gotten it in nearly ten years, what's so special about THIS year?)

Outside Inside

Click thumbnail for larger image.

There's a haunted forest growing in our bedroom...

(OH MY GOD AND ALL THAT'S FUCKING DIVINE AND HEAVENLY, I'VE FINALLY BEGUN TO WALLPAPER THE FUCKING BEDROOM! <- The top half's a haunted forest scene and the bottom half is going to be a gated cemetery).

RE: Cleaning Day (I & II)

I've been working on the same effing journal entry for DAYS now. The post's become so long that I've decided to cut it in half for easier digestion. The first part is CLEANING DAY I (which is buried beneath an entry or two since it was saved as a draft on Nov. 20th), and the second part will - HOPEFULLY! - be done by tomorrow.

"I'M DRESSING UP!" Mess

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Italics said I should dress up more often, but I'm not sure if the house can take it.

Cleaning Day I

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Ritually cleaning (see CLEANING UP AFTER THE BRIDE) and decorating the bedroom has taken over my life (and - seeing as how four other rooms in the house are currently shouldering the weight of our bedroom furniture and things - house). It's been this way ever since we emptied the room in mid-to-late September.

Currently Italics and I have no where to eat, relax, or watch TV since the backroom was transformed into serious storage space (which also means no new witch projects have been started or, gah, finished) and as the Yuletide season creeps steadily closer I've begun having legit fears that this bedroom shit wasn't going to be done in time for Christmas.

With Thanksgiving bearing down on me (I know I'm not obligated to observe an American holiday in Scotland (even if I was born and raised in the States), but since we traditionally eat goose on Christmas Thanksgiving's the only time my ass gets to (justifiably) brine a mother of a turkey) and Christmas not too far away I had to do something drastic. And I did...just a day later than I originally intended.

(HOLY SHIT IT WAS SUPER NICE OUT ON WEDNESDAY! HOW COULD I NOT PLAY HOOKY AND TAKE THE CAR INTO THE COUNTRY AND EXPLORE A NEW GRAVEYARD AND KIND'VE SORT'VE BUT NOT REALLY CHEAT ON MY DIET (HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT IT WAS A FOOD TASTING DAY AT A LOCAL DELI/GOURMET GROCERY STORE? AND CAN IT REALLY BE CHEATING IF YOU SAY NO TO HOMEMADE ICE CREAM, BUT YES TO LITTLE CHUNKS OF BREAD DIPPED IN FLAVORED VINEGARS AND OILS?) BUT MORE ON THAT //LATER//. <- I HAVE PICTURES! UNFORTUNATELY, NONE SHOWCASING MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT'S WINTER ASS OF 2009 PROPPED ON AN ANCIENT HEADSTONE, BUT THERE'S STILL TIME TO SQUEEZE THAT PHOTO SHOOT IN.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Not yesterday, or the day before yesterday, but the yesterday of the second yesterday I stepped into the bedroom armed with two things - a flat butter knife, and a plastic skull stein. (THREE things if you count the speakers and the MP3 player. Actually, those are two separate things rather than one so, technically, I stepped into the bedroom armed with FOUR things; five if you want to be super anal and count the bottle of water.)

A Bat for Lashes album later I was standing in the middle of a barren bedroom display. Not a hint of my beloved ossuary remained (unless you take into account the millions of pin holes created by the tacks securing the plastic "scene setter" to the wall); I MISS IT ALREADY AND AM BEGINNING TO REGRET THE DECISION TO "REDECORATE".

The colors were PERFECT. The walls matched the draw-down curtain which matched the bedsheets. For several years we've been cocooned in varying shades of blue (an intensely spiritual color for me) and I've enjoyed the subconscious link to sleep, dreams, death and self. When the final plastic panel was torn from the wall I stood back, horrified, realizing that my bedroom had turned into a Tracey Emin exhibit (albeit one that carried a non-existent risk of contracting an STD).

Neither of us have seen white walls since October 2006 (when we originally hung up the wallpaper and window bats). Stumbling around in the stark emptiness of the bedroom (when not swatting away streaks of bright rainbow colored lights <- MY EYES TOTALLY, TOTALLY REFUSED TO ADJUST TO THE NEW LEVEL OF REFLECTIVE LIGHT IN THE ROOM) I looked for something familiar, but even the bed's frame and sheets were entirely different.

I can't believe there was a point, long ago, when it was white. Pure white. Always white. The white of nothing. A white I can't even remember. When I thumb through memories, skull pillars with a blue veneer are always there smiling at me, no matter how far back I go. "IT'S LIKE...IT'S LIKE A TINY, SOULLESS CHICAGO APARTMENT," I said to Italics as we shielded our eyes, standing next to each other in a room that we've loved in, fought in, fucked in and lived in but no longer recognized.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Even before I was practicing magic I was practicing magic. When cleaning - WHEN HEAVY DUTY "WE'RE MOVING EVERY SINGLE THING OUT OF THIS ROOM AND I'M WASHING THE WALLS, THE CEILING, THE WINDOW, THE DOOR, THE SIDEBOARDS, THE CEILING FAN, VACUUMING THE CARPET UNTIL IT'S SPARKLING AND THEN WASHING EVERYTHING THAT COMES BACK IN" CLEANING - I've always created a special "wash"; it's just gotten MORE (DELIBERATELY) MAGIC as the years have gone by.

My washes are a haphazard mix of serious and whimsy, three ingredients are the key foundation (a natural cleaner, sea salt, and rosemary) and everything else added is totally spur-of-the-moment (but with personal significance and purpose). Sometimes I add extra herbs or essential oils, sometimes I dribble in a tiny amount of my own urine and sometimes I'll drop in a dried blood clot or two. (<- I pick them off my menstrual rags and dry them out before adding them to my collection; it saves you from having to nick a finger for a drop of blood.)

This year I decided to enlist the help of Papa (he's my chthonic earth and represents the hardcore "masculine" energy I work with) and Tentacle Monster (he's my chthonic water and represents my spirituality, emotions and subconscious self) by using the contents of their offering glasses from this year's Halloween altar (filled with corresponding substances - my Fet Ghede graveyard dirt* for Papa, and salt water for Tentacle Monster).

(* Don't bother googling "Fet Ghede graveyard dirt" because it doesn't exist in voodoo or hoodoo. I created an extra special batch of graveyard dirt for Papa a few years back on Fet Ghede (hence the name). In addition to graveyard dirt it also has remnants of cigars and cigarettes we've smoked together, urine and sexual fluids, ground up chilies (grown specifically for Papa), the ash and unburned remains of incense burned for him, a few drops of rum, shavings of chocolate, pan de muerto (Day of the Dead bread) crumbs and just enough perfume to give the ashy-earthy scent some fragrance.)

The creation of this year's wash began by picking a handful of rosemary from my plant outside, adding it to my orange bucket (ORANGE BUCKET = MAGIC BUCKET, I'VE PISSED, THROWN-UP, COOKED, BRINED, MADE ELDERFLOWER CHAMPAGNE, CLEANED AND CHRIST KNOWS WHAT ELSE WITH THIS BUCKET) and pouring boiling water over the stalks (to make a fresh herb infusion).

Once the hot water was scented I threw in a handful of sea salt, a few drops of lemon balm and lemon essential oil (both are good for cleaning, but they're ALSO good for lifting one's mood), a pinch of Fet Ghede graveyard dirt, half of what remained of the salt water and stirred everything with one of my wooden cooking spoons until the salt dissolved.

To aid with the non-spiritual aspect of cleaning I used Ecover's lemon scented All Purpose Cleaner. The only other thing I added (OTHER THAN HOT WATER) was Chippy's Sassanian amber bead which was briefly dipped in the hot, sudsy wash for PROTECTION'N'BANISHMENT purposes.

(Chippy's our incorporeal guard dog so I routinely include his presence when I'm chasing things out of the house. <- SOMETIMES YOU NEED MORE THAN A GROUCHY WITCH SWINGING A BROOM AROUND, SOMETIMES YOU NEED THE LORD OF THE FLIES HIMSELF TO UNDERLINE THE POINT. <- THAT'S ACTUALLY A JOKE. WHEN I LOOK AT CHIPPY I SEE "CLIFFORD THE BIG RED DOG" AND NOT THE DEMON PRINCE OF FAMINES, PLAGUES AND STRIFE.)

(NOT THAT I RECOMMEND APPROACHING HIM AS A LOVABLE AND FRIENDLY GIANT DOG; I'VE GOT FIVE (SIX?) YEARS FILLED WITH SEX, KITE FLYING, BURGER KING EATING AND BOARD GAME PLAYING ON MY SIDE. THAT, AND, //HE// WAS THE ONE PAWING AT //MY DOOR// AND NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND. AS WITH ANY STANDARD ATTEMPTS AT PICK UP THE BEST POSITION TO BE IN IS THE OBJECT OF AFFECTION/ATTENTION, MORESO WHEN THE DEMON OF DEMONS COMES A-KNOCKIN'.)

Invocation & Banishment

The "invocation" and "banishment" ritual of someone who can't take this shit as seriously as everyone else. (EXTRA "LOOOOOOOOOOOL!" POINTS FOR BACKGROUND MUSIC.)

Weekends Don't Exist

The thing about working at home is that weekends don't exist. (Sort've like you; if you don't leave the house five days a week and work from nine to five then you're some sort of social anomaly, an undiscovered creature unnoticed by the business world. There are days where you feel like you've completely slipped the attention of society and people, and the world you live in is a parallel universe, invisible to everyone except you and your partner. You become a ghost standing off the shoulder of a highway exit no one every uses, watching speeding cars streak by.)

Weekends don't feel like weekends because they're another day at the office. "Work" sets its own agenda. We live around it (like everyone else), but at least we can do it at home in our pajamas. In addition to our careers Italics has several jobs (via the internet) and I execute stereotypical gender-specific domesticated behavior. (<- In other words, I'm also a housewife.)

Marriage and homemakerdom - it's a bizarre, sick game deliberately played in front of an unsuspecting audience. Sometimes it feels so crude and crass that I glance over to Italics, laughing, and ask "CAN'T THEY SEE? ISN'T IT OBVIOUS THAT THIS IS JUST A SEX GAME INVOLVING PLAYING PRETEND?". Whenever Italics refers to me as his wife I have to gnaw on the inside of a cheek just to keep a straight face; we're married, but I've always felt like a mistress (or a sex roommate).

Little things - innocent things - have a veneer that other people can't see through. I cook on a daily basis, I bake fairly regularly ("OH, YOU'RE ALWAYS IN THE KITCHEN, YOU MUST REALLY LOVE COOKING!") and while I do garner satisfaction from a beautifully created dessert, I get the most enjoyment from having Italics watch me eat a comically large portion just before he forces my face into the cake (piggy style) and fucks me from behind (doggie style).

People see "OH, HOW LOVELY! SHE'S BAKED A CAKE FOR HER HUSBAND, HOW SWEET!", not "OH, HOW LOVELY! SHE'S BAKED A CAKE FOR HER HUSBAND TO FORCE FEED HER WHILE HE'S FUCKING HER LIKE AN ANIMAL, HOW SWEET!". Keeping a straight face around others is a constant battle, but it's an amusing one and the game only gets more interesting as the years pass by.

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY. (I've wandered off the beaten track a little.)

Working at home AND taking care of the more traditionally viewed domestic side of things is tricky business - even if it's an elaborate sex game. While I could, hypothetically, bump REAL WORK aside for a day or two (not that I could ever stop THINKING about work, and thinking about work is the same thing as working, so, in reality, I AM ALMOST ALWAYS WORKING TO SOME DEGREE) it doesn't mean that clothing and dishes won't get dirty, and that rooms won't get trashed by my in-laws.

There IS no "weekend" for a housewife, every day is a day filled with cooking, cleaning and looking after people. In fact, I find the traditional Friday, Saturday and Sunday weekend MORE STRESSFUL because EVERYONE IS AT HOME MAKING A FUCKING MESS I NEED TO CLEAN UP. I don't get to breathe a sigh of relief until early Monday morning, when people return back to their nine to five jobs, leaving me to pick up the pieces of a broken house.

(Friday night is the first night I dread; if there was a problem during the week I can almost count on it bringing brought up by a semi-drunk father-in-law just one wall away. (Unless he's being V. LOUD you can't make out what he's saying, although you CAN make out that he's agitated about something, and that something is probably me.) Friday evenings, for reasons above, are no longer the celebratory evenings of my youth.)

(Saturday either involves hiding in the computer room/office all day since the house is full, or waking up several times during my sleep schedule thanks to Mr. Awesome shouting, stomping or slamming things shut. Sometimes, due to sheer weekend retardedness, he'll kill something, break something, ruin something or throw out something of mine which then requires my mother-in-law to intervene. If that happens you can definitely count on hearing him bitch later in the day, completely oblivious we're on the other side of the drywall.)

(Sunday I'm in a state of despair at the condition of the house. If something happened the night before the house will be tense, uncomfortable and even my in-laws will (typically) avoid us. Sunday is the day that I tell myself "JUST ONE MORE DAY" and get the paper which I WON'T READ because the in-laws usually jump on it first. Even a year or two after walking away from university I hated Sundays for their inevitable Mondays ("NOOOO! I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL TOMORROW!"), but now? I hold my breath for Mondays.)

Daily routines are a double edged sword, they keep me focused and sane, but they make every day of the week identical to the last. Every day I wake up, have a piss, turn on the kettle to boil water, say hello to the rats, turn on the computer, make my tea, let the rats out, write an entry, make breakfast, share breakfast with the rats and do a few internet things. By the time I'm peeking at social network sites and browsing Ebay (or Etsy) Italics is up, and the next phase (II: STRAPPING ON THE APRON) of my day begins.

Despite the photocopied nature of my life I find that having a daily routine calming, it's predictable and it acts as a driving force that keeps me active. (<- I'M RETARDED, I LIKE FAMILIAR THINGS. THEY DON'T SPOOK OR UPSET ME. I KNOW WHAT TO EXPECT AND IT HELPS CENTER ME.) Taking a few days off my everyday life can be catastrophic; I lose my footing. (Fuck, just doing things out of order or adding an unfamiliar element or activity is enough to disrupt my bowel movements. Seriously. <- Even THAT falls into my daily schedule - between letting the rats out and writing an entry, like involuntary clockwork.)

Weekends, for me, are a dangerous, slippery slope. One day of taking it easy eventually justifies another day of taking it easy ("IF OTHER PEOPLE ARE ALLOWED TWO DAYS A WEEK, SO AM I, DAMMIT"). After the second day of ignoring the internet, getting high first thing, eating French toast for breakfast while I read the papers and Italics plays Grand Theft Auto I desperately want to configure my life so that lazy, easy going morning is EVERY DAY instead of ALMOST NEVER DAY.

(You would NOT believe the excruciating amount of effort needed to even write this entry after several days of ignoring my journal/diary. The very act of writing and publishing this entry feels like offering a sacrificial lamb. <- "IT DOESN'T MATTER IF IT'S GOOD OR FUNNY OR NOTEWORTHY, JUST FUCKING //WRITE SOMETHING// TO RECREATE THE DAILY ROUTINE YOU'VE NEGLECTED.")

In abrupt conclusion: weekends are AWESOME, but perhaps too awesome to observe on a weekly - or even monthly - basis.

Dreading Mortality

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Last night I woke up from a nightmare where Italics died (supposedly, it never got confirmed) in a freak accident walking to the local shopping center. One of his childhood friends who still lives across the street (whom I never met, but heard plenty of stories about) witnessed the event, and it triggered some sort of psychotic episode and the guy committed suicide, citing Italics's death in his note.

My brother-in-law was with me when news of the neighbor's death surfaced. I was beyond consolable; I was a crazed animal - clawing, screaming, thrashing. Italics's older brother tried to tame the beast, but I fought back in desolation and despair. ("WHO THE FUCK LIES ABOUT SEEING THE DEATH OF A CHILDHOOD FRIEND IN A SUICIDE NOTE?" and "WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT IT'S TRUE? IT'S SO RANDOM, SO BIZARRE IT HAS TO BE TRUE! NO ONE MAKES THAT SORT'VE SHIT UP FOR NO REASON!")

The dream never resolved itself. I woke up with the weight of mortality around my shoulders, and no matter what I did I couldn't shift the burdening yoke. There were fears within fears, and an increasing sense of futility and pointlessness (the kind that makes it easy to accept that there isn't anything after this and we're moving through an one act play that will eventually be swallowed by oblivion).

When Italics stumbled out of bed he found me despondent at the computer. Despite being up several hours I couldn't fall into my normal routine (<- HENCE NO ENTRY YESTERDAY), and by the time he woke up I was wallowing in existential melancholy sprawled over my ancient keyboard (which predates Italics even KNOWING me).

He listened to my dream and let me cry. He patted my head when I confessed I felt guilty spending any "non-work" time on the computer because if this IS all we get, I'm systematically flushing very precious moments of time I could be spending with HIM down the cosmic toilet. He reminded me that even if I felt that way, we still spend more time together than the average married couple (we both work at home so we're never apart) and, despite co-inhabiting with his parents, we live a fairly intimate, woven life together.

So, to distract myself from the inevitably of death (and whatever DOES - or doesn't - follow), I tried to lose myself in cooking. Lunch was prepared, eaten and digested, followed quickly by the creation of a Ukrainian apple cake and while that was baking I prepared ANOTHER reduced-to-clear lamb treasure (this time a whole shoulder weighing nearly 6lb for only £6.00!) for dinner.

(I heavily seasoned the joint with several types of peppers and salts and massaged in a fresh rosemary-garlic-smoked bacon grease-butter unguent just before roasting. Then, once the skin developed a beautiful golden color, I poured over a mixture of stock, bay leaves and red wine and basted the shoulder with the liquid every twenty minutes. Total cooking time? Two hours and thirty minutes. <- THAT'S A LOT OF EFFING BASTING, YO.)

Despite all of the effort and babying of the roast we never managed to eat our lamb supper. An hour before the joint was ready - between PAPERBOY and BUBBLES (because nothing quelches the uncertainties surrounding death better than early 80s video games) - we got hella hungry and raided the kitchen. Dinner ended up being crusty bread, olive oil spread and a platter of mixed cured meats (two types of ham, two types of salami, and chorizo). I did, however, have room for cake. (WHO DOESN'T, RIGHT?)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

My grandparents (and mother) crossed the immigrant ocean in 1951 and settled in Chicago, but when my grandfather retired he and my grandmother relocated to two acres of land in southeastern Wisconsin. There they recreated the Ukraine of their youth - fruit orchards, vineyards, vegetable and flower gardens, it was a veritable paradise of memories brought to life.

The majority of the fruit they planted was apple (more than an entire acre of their property was dedicated to growing various species, my favorite (for both climbing AND eating) was McIntosh), but there were cherries, plums and pears, too (not to mention grapes, rhubarb, strawberries, raspberries, currants and gooseberries).

When picking season began you knew, at some point, my grandmother would bake this impossibly dense brick of an apple cake. (Which makes out like it was hard as fuck, which it totally wasn't. It was, literally, the size of a brick, with no less than four to five inches of rich, moist-yet-dense almost bread-like sponge with an additional inch or two of sugary, spicy baked apples topping it. You struggled to fit just one bite of the tall order in your mouth. Seriously.)

My dad? Loved the cake. He loved it so damn much that I swore, as a child, I'd one day recreate it for him. Unfortunately (for me), my grandmother passed away before I could get the recipe. Unfortunately (for my father), I grew up, met Italics, got married and decided I'd rather devote time blowing my husband than baking cakes for a man I don't even feel close to. (TRUE STORY!)

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY.

Anyway, this cake wasn't for my father. Or Italics. Or my grandmother. It was for me, and my hazy memories of shoving countless pieces of towering blocks of homemade apple cake into my very small mouth without fear of retribution.

(My grandparents, much like Italics, never criticized me for my ignorance regarding appropriate proportion sizes ("LOLOLOLOLOL, "SUGGESTED SERVING SIZE", LOLOLOLOLOLOL!") or my fundamental inability to appreciate the concept of "moderation". <- HOW SHOCKED WAS I WHEN I LEARNED THE PIG WAS ONE OF MY SPECIAL ANIMALS? NOT VERY.)

Stechishin's recipe for Yabluchnyk (Ukrainian Apple Cake) structured the cake exactly like my grandmother's. (<- A thick layer of cake sponge on the bottom, with a thinner layer of sliced apples covered in sugar and spices on top.) Although, UNLIKE my grandmother's I could actually fit a whole piece of Stechishin's apple cake in my mouth - smaller layer of sponge, larger (and a more //experienced//) mouth.

The apples were spot on - soft, but firm, keeping their shape perfectly beneath a sugary glaze of spices and butter. While cooking, the excess moisture bubbled up around the slices like caramel sauce, but once the liquid cooled it seeped down into the sponge beneath. It hit all the marks - something light and crumbly (bottom of sponge), something denser, richer and more moist (top of sponge/bottom of apples where spices, butter, apples, sugar and cake collide) and something fresh, with a giving (yet solid) structure (top of apples).

It's not 100% spot on (of baba's version), but it's close enough.

Cleaning Under a Witch's Bed

Late September we hauled everything out of our bedroom in anticipation of THE GREAT BEDROOM CLEANING OF 2009. (<- SEE CLEANING UP AFTER THE BRIDE.) And thanks to committing ourselves to one too many things we still haven't managed to clean anything, so we've been living in a hollowed out room for over a month now.

Due to living with a nosy father-in-law who flat out doesn't give a shit about other people's personal property (or their feelings) I have to keep the majority of my witchcraft projects hidden in the bedroom. (Mr. Awesome? Loves to throw things out and "fix" things. Unfortunately, they're usually OTHER people's things, and he never asks if it's cool beforehand so you don't know that something's gone or ruined until you notice that it's gone (or ruined) and by that time it's way, way too late to save it.)

Our bedroom? The third smallest room in the house, not counting the hall closet. We have enough space to fit two small nightstands, a double bed and one tiny wardrobe. Things WERE kept in the wardrobe until we began our homegrown operation, but once the lights, fan and seedlings moved in everything had to move out. And when that happened there was only one place for refugee witch items to go - under the bed.

I have wet dreams about those flat, elongated storage boxes with wheels. They're my fantasy storage solution; frictionless movement, clean, sterile compartments and a tetris-like ability for stacking on top of one another. In reality, though, I have the gutted frame of the futon that we once slept on (see link above). Dragging the fucking thing out from under the bed - with the insane amount of shit packed away within - is a Herculean task and something I completely avoid unless absolutely necessary.

Unloading it requires an entire room due to my autistic talent at packing. (<- I SWEAR TO GOD I MUST BE THE ONLY EMPLOYEE IN THE HISTORY OF WAL-MART WHO BECAME FAMOUS FOR HER GROCERY PACKING. PEOPLE ACTUALLY TOLD //OTHER PEOPLE// ABOUT ME AND THEY WOULD ALL MAKE A PILGRIMAGE TO MY CASH REGISTER, OFFERING PRAYERS AND SUPPLICATIONS OF APPEASEMENT ("HONEY, YOU'RE JUST ABOUT THE BEST BAG PACKER THIS WORLD'S EVER SEEN!") AS I CREATED AN INVINCIBLE PLASTIC GROCERY BAG BY USING TWO CEREAL BOXES FOR MY NON-PERISHABLE FOOD MASONRY STRUCTURE.)

A tiny path cuts through the stacks of boxes, books and jars from the backroom's door to the opposite side of the room, the patio door. On either side hidden curses, brittle bones and empty bottles of booze sit silently, collecting dust, waiting to be reunited with the calm darkness beneath our double bed. We have the new wallpaper (AN ABANDONED GRAVEYARD BACKING INTO A HAUNTED FOREST), now we just need to be up at the right time to strip the old wallpaper down, thoroughly wash the walls, room and furniture, hoist up the new wallpaper and put the jigsaw puzzle of our bedroom back together.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

So sometime last year (or the year before?) I glanced away from my computer monitor and went "BABY, DO YOU WANT AN ANTIQUE CEREMONIAL INDIAN SWORD?" to Italics. Normally I don't bother asking - especially if I'm considering getting the item in question as a gift - but "swords" and "daggers" hang on a very precarious line of AWESOME and HOLY SHIT, LAME.

(Antique knives - especially ones specifically created for butchering - garner an automatic "YES, PLZ!" from me (don't EVEN get me started if the handle's made of bone, horn or antler), but due to overexposure to horrifically shit fantasy swords, daggers and axes my inclination to collect anything longer than a plain knife (or a pair of scissors) is practically non-existent.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

It was listed with its original scabboard, came with a price tag of £10.00 (I think?) and had two beautifully engraved Islamic-like floral patterns stretching across the length of the blade. I saw it and thought "IT'S A SWORD, WHICH IS KIND'VE GAY AND LAME, BUT IT'S A CEREMONIAL SWORD AND IT COMES WITH A SHEATH AND THE ENGRAVED DESIGNS ARE KIND'VE SORT'VE NICE AND IT'S NOT LIKE THERE ARE MALFORMED HUMAN SKULLS OR A HOWLING WOLF STUCK TO THE HANDLE..." but I couldn't reach a final decision, so I asked Italics what he thought.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Finding it perfectly acceptable - which was my original hunch - we snagged it for its opening bid. (<- MUST'VE NOT BEEN FANTASY/GOTH ENOUGH FOR OTHER SWORD COLLECTORS. "WHAT, NO SCREAMING DEMON SKULL? NO THANKS.")

To the left of the sword and gutted futon are my retired Black Goddess heels. They were my very first stilettos - black satin with golden Asian dragons - bought at a vintage shop for $15.00 when I was a pre-med student at the University of Arkansas.

One of the straps snapped during a particularly debauched New Year's Eve celebration (which was TOTALLY unplanned; who seriously eats a 4-5 course Chinese meal and then pops a bunch of ecstasy immediately after and listens to Sigue Sigue Sputnik while partying their way into the new year? US, NATURALLY) rendering them completely useless, but the witch in me insists that they're still useful for SOMETHING so they've been living under the bed since.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I have a retarded thing for boxes. Little boxes that preferably fit into larger boxes; a weird sort of forgotten drawer archeology. When I clean I usually rediscover one or two, and opening them up is like stumbling across an entirely new world perfectly contained in a tiny space no larger than three or four inches.

The contents always look magic; an unspoken spell, a quiet blessing. It's okay to paw through the collection of seemingly random objects, to turn them in your hands and remember their origins, but it seems almost...sacrilegious...to remove something. Even though I don't entirely see it, everything is there for a reason - it makes sense to the Universe - and by fucking with it I ultimately fuck with something in perfect harmony and balance.

(This Ace of Spades box contains pink ribbon from an antique table linen purchase (for altar use), an Ebay business card which has a part of my infected tonsil I coughed up (taped to the card; a gift for Italics - "I FOUGHT THIS WAR, YOU DON'T HAVE TO") after coming home from the hospital, a handmade cloth bone from a friend, a piece of sea glass, a toy truck that came out of a Christmas cracker, a ceramic chili charm bought for Papa {Ghede}, some UK change, a snail shell, a hoop earring found when walking in town (there was a period, a few years back, where I ran into "broken circles" daily), a bee charm sitting onto of a Pazuzu pendant (bought from the seller whose business card now contains a portion of my tonsil), an Asian dragon from a friend, a sea shell from the North Sea, a communist propaganda looking button and a set of plastic tires from a non-existent toy.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

OH, GOD, IF I ONLY LABELED EVERYTHING THE SECOND IT CAME INTO THIS GODDAMN HOUSE. I think - THINK! - the pair of dirty ass rocks forced into the first glass jar on the left might be from the "grave" outside. (Last year around this time they dug up the road - smack dab in the middle of the crossroads we're perched on - and just before they sealed up the hole I threw in a homemade witch bottle, but also stole some earth and rocks for future witchcraft.)

I'm not really a rocks'n'feathers sort've witch, but both still manage to find their way into this house. Behind the pair of crossroads rocks are a collection of feathers (crows, rooks, magpies, wood pigeon) found when walking to and from the cemetery, and behind the feathers are my collection of OUTSIDE BONES.

("Outside bones" = the weathered, whitened remains of offerings I made from the previous year. Throughout the year the bones get kicked around by visiting wildlife until it's time for a YARD CLEANUP. When a yard cleanup happens I round up all the bones I can find and add them to my growing collection. Eventually I'll clean them and use them for divination; they were offered to the spirits and ancestors as gifts, consecrated by nature and the weather, stirred, moved and chewed on by wildlife and, after all of that, still managed to return to the hand that gave them away - SOUNDS PRETTY MAGIC TO ME, YO.)

Behind my OUTSIDE BONES (I DON'T KNOW WHY IT REQUIRES CAPS, BUT IT DOES) is Bee's jar of honey. (We associate Bee, our pet ray who passed away last year, with bumblebees and honeybees so more than ever there's a loving focus on the local nectar gatherers. Last year we became members of the Bumblebee Conservation Trust and spent the warmer months learning and identifying visiting bumblebees, and researching what plants, flowers and trees we should be growing to encourage Bee to come back home.)

That bone sitting by itself? I can't remember what it is, specifically, but I know it's a half-completed gift for a friend. (It was one of Chippy's bones which he decided to give away. <- DEMONS ALSO GET A WARM FUZZY GLOW OF HAPPINESS BY SHARING.) I bought the sunflower egg cup for myself since it looked like the PERFECT vessel to soak seeds in (I submerge my seeds in water and then cover them with something larger so they sit in darkness for a day or two; it results in a better germination rate) and I'm drawing a COMPLETE blank where the two rocks behind the egg cup came from, or what the fuck I was planning to do with them.

(WHICH IS EXACTLY WHY I NEED TO //LABEL EVERY-FUCKING-THING THAT COMES INTO THIS GODDAMN HOUSE//.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Holy shit, where do I START? In the mess of bottles, jars, containers, tins, mugs and tupperware are:

Graveyard dirt from a grave in the St. Nicholas Kirkyard (ALEX FULLERTON, DRUGGIST), a jar of preserved baby octopuses given to Tentacle Monster as a Christmas gift (I haven't exactly figured out what to do with these yet), a ceramic jar filled with a shea salve, a coffee mug which I still need to fill and bury at Papa's grave in the local cemetery (when pinching some dirt off his grave I unearthed an old flower container which I took with the promise of reburying something in return), what's left of this year's bridal honey (made during Spring / Great Rite / Sacred Marriage / Easter / Hieros Gamos celebrations), dog beer (an offering for Chippy), an empty metal canister for paska/babka baking (paska/babka are traditionally more pannetone-like; more tall than round, and to get that shape you need to bake them in cylinder containers - OH, WAIT, I HAVE A PICTURE (I FORGOT!)), an empty Grand Marnier bottle (kept so I can make a proper witch bottle), an unopened jar of "BONE SUCKIN' BBQ SAUCE" bought for Papa, a bottle of hot sauce given to me by a friend, an empty rum bottle I'm supposed to fill with graveyard dirt and keep under the bed (I DON'T BOTHER ASKING; I JUST DO WHAT I'M TOLD), a coffee jar filled with medicinal bath salts I'm curing for Italics (clove and mint oils with olive oil and rose petals), an empty Amaretto bottle which I've since decanted the curing bath salts into (in preparation of giving as a Christmas gift), a bottle of plant fertilizer, a treasured jar of the sweetest, most syrup-y balsamic vinegar, ever, sent by a friend who lives in Italy, Papa's bottle of Hennessy (PAPA GETS RUM //AND// HENNESSY!) and a sealed container of some homemade incense specifically made for Papa (oh, God, don't ask because I SERIOUSLY can't remember what I put in it other than dried chilies, graveyard dirt, rum, a drop of urine, sexual fluids, coffee and whatever else seemed like a good idea at the time).

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

A pair of feet from a male blackbird, and the remains of a crow.

I remember finding both; the blackbird was lying flattened in the middle of the road on the way to the cemetery (I clipped the feet off and carefully placed the malformed body in the ivy hedge (my Native American grandfather's a holy man, and he taught us to leave dead birds in trees and bushes)), and the crow had already begun decomposing in a cow field we were cutting through.

Since it was too far gone to carry to the cemetery and back home I left it hidden beneath a discarded ottoman in the ruined church adjacent to the pasture we were cutting through. (The property which owns the church - an old manor, complete with an abandoned walled garden - is currently being used as a nursing home, and, for whatever reason, they dump old furniture and garbage in what used to be a small chapel.)

A year later my crow was reduced to a pile of bones, and year after THAT someone finally made the effort to clean up the church and the area surrounding it. So now I have two jars filled with one crow - including a perfectly immaculate skull - and a clean ruined church to have outside sex in.

(YAY FOR NO LONGER RUNNING THE RISK OF CONTRACTING TETANUS FROM RUSTY ASS WHEELCHAIRS, BOO FOR GETTING A URINARY TRACT INFECTION AFTER HAVING SEX ON A SKANKY MATTRESS RIGHT NEXT TO THE CHURCH. <- OKAY, OKAY IT WASN'T THE MATTRESS; IT WAS HAVING THE START OF A UTI BUT, DESPITE IT, HAVING SEX ANYWAY, AND THEN NOT MOPPING UP THE JIZZ IMMEDIATELY AFTER.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Way in the back (to the left) are Papa's bottles of "Bone Suckin' BBQ Sauce" and hot sauce. To the right - in the three jam jars - are the remains of a black bird (feet) and crow (the skull was so large it needed a jar for itself). In the "DO NOT EAT, DO NOT SMOKE, POISON" container is shredded datura, sent to me by a friend in Finland.

There's an empty bottle of Strega behind the datura (ritually consumed during that debauched New Year's Eve party where my Black Goddess stilettos broke), and an empty bottle of Hennessy. (I CAN'T GET RID OF TINY LIQUOR BOTTLES, THEY'RE LIKE A MAGIC PROJECT JUST WAITING TO HAPPEN. IT'S SO EASY TO PICTURE THEM FILLED WITH SOMETHING - DIRT, INCENSE, HERBAL SALT - AND DECORATED WITH CHARMS AND PIECES OF BONE.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Antique "witch" hairpins won on Ebay. I don't know anything about the magical workings of hairpins, but my gut feeling is any mundane object you can twist, bend, break or distort is good for SOMETHING (whether hexing, healing, bonding or separating) - especially if it has WITCH stamped across it. I used a few of the pins when I created an impromptu witch bottle last year to throw into the "grave" created when workers dug up the crossroads in front of the house to fix a broken water pipe.

Monday Morning's Frost

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Is that upturned black plastic bucket familiar? IT SHOULD BE. No matter how hard I tried to dispose of the eight headless, footless and skinless rabbits I found myself back to square one. (WITH SQUARE ONE BEING "A BUCKET OF PUTRID, DECAYING CARCASSES SWIMMING IN THEIR OWN OUTRAGEOUSLY RANK DECOMPOSITION JUICES".)

First the weather wasn't right. For an entire week. (No, really!) So the rabbits festered in their plastic grave, sitting, breaking down, occasionally getting chewed on by neighbor cats. (CATS! THIS HOUSE IS NOT THE FOLLOWING: YOUR BATHROOM, YOUR HUNTING GROUND AND YOUR PERSONAL ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT WILDLIFE BUFFET.) The stench was incredible.

After an entire week of non-stop rain I threw my hands up into the air and admitted defeat. "FINE! FINE! WE'LL GO OUT IN THE COLD AND RAIN AND GET WET. FINE! YOU'VE WON, NATURE, YOU'VE WON. CONGRATULATIONS." In the unforgiving Scottish rain - just before eight in the evening - I hoisted a container filled with the liquefied remains of eight dead rabbits in the trunk of the car, carefully wedging it between several buckets containing rocks.

It was freezing. (I was wet.) It was pitch black. (I was wet.) The car absolutely fucking //REEKED// and I wondered how far I could drive while holding my breath for as long as humanly possible. (Did I already mention that I was wet?) Italics, just as unenthusiastic about the situation, crawled into the car. (He was wet, too.) "OKAY, FINE, LET'S GET THIS OVER WITH," I grumbled. The car - which sat in the cold, rain and damp, unstarted, unused and unloved for a week - refused to turn its engine.

Sitting in the dark soaking wet, miserable, cold and TRYING NOT TO BREATHE, NOT EVEN A LITTLE my less than spectacular mood flat-lined. "YOU'RE JOKING, RIGHT?" I asked the car, the world, the Universe. It wasn't joking (which was good because I TOTALLY wasn't in the mood). After 10 minutes of grinding the engine I called it quits and hauled the effing bucket of dissolving rabbits back OUT from the trunk, back INTO the rain and returned it to the outside "greenhouse" (bonsai house).

By the time the weather evened out and stopped giving my temperamental car excuses for not starting the eight headless, footless and skinless bodies had reduced to a toxic soup with a mouthwatering aroma of raw, rotting sewage. When I yanked on the rickety metal handle the contents of the bucket swished, slooshed and splashed - way too much action for hauling, hoisting and transporting.

"FINE, YOU DON'T WANT TO LEAVE THE HOUSE? FINE. I TRIED TO BE NICE, I TRIED TO SHARE IN THE SPOILS, BUT, CLEARLY, YOU HAVE NO DESIRE TO LEAVE THIS PROPERTY."

And with that I quickly flipped the bucket'o'rabbits upside down, trapping the broken bodies between the earth and the container. The blood and fetid body juices ran off the animals and were drawn into the ground at the exact spot where Italics and I, earlier in the year, had outside summer sex. To ensure none of the opportunistic neighborhood cats could get to the jumble of carcasses I chucked a heavy brick onto the upturned bottom which should keep them deterred until Spring. (<- When I plan to go back for the bones.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Bright, November morning sunshine filtering through the bare butterfly and lilac bushes.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

The water's begun freezing in Mr. Awesome's abandoned (TWENTY YEARS AND COUNTING!) "pond" project.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

The Shango Tree altar remains yet unscathed, but its only a matter of time before our visiting badger returns and leaves another horrific scene of senseless gardening violence and altar desecration.

Leg of Lamb Boulangere

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I've diced leg of lamb to make souvlaki and shish kebab. I stabbed the fuck out of myself with kitchen scissors (now ritual scissors) when reducing a shoulder of lamb. I've marinated lamb neck fillets in a paste of thyme, garlic, salt, pepper and olive oil for homemade soup. I casseroled a shoulder of lamb in tomatoes and spices all night long in a low oven, roasted lamb bones for the rats as a treat and gathered the rendered fat from the bones for cooking. I've reduced two pounds of leg of lamb into a near fine paste to make an authentic doner kebab. I've diced, sliced, skewered, grilled and casseroled but I've never - despite my frequent forays into the culinary world - roasted lamb until last night.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I saw it over a month ago at the meat counter. It was sitting by itself - a vacuum sealed wallflower - amongst the special offers. There was little love for the leg of lamb, it had already been "reduced to clear" twice. The decision was made even before I realized I had reached a decision. Before I knew it the £10.00 leg of lamb was tucked underneath an arm like a folded up newspaper.

"I JUST MADE THIS GROCERY TRIP MORE EXPENSIVE," I informed Italics, brandishing the clearanced leg like an expensive bottle of wine; there was palatable excitement in the air. (ACTUALLY, NO THERE WASN'T, BUT IT SOUNDED LIKE A GOOD PARAGRAPH END.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Within days of cramming the leg into the freezer ("FOR LATER!") I found THE recipe while reading the Sunday Times. (About the only thing I DO manage to read - other than cookbooks - is the Sunday paper, and if I manage to get to THAT in a timely manner (as in, the week it was published in) it's deemed a miracle by the Vatican.)

"WE'RE HAVING //THIS//," I announced, tilting the supplement magazine in Italics' direction so he could see the recipe's accompanying photo. "NOW TO FIGURE OUT WHEN..."

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Lamb Boulangere, a seasoned leg of lamb smothered with a fresh herbal butter and then roasted directly over wafer thin slices of thyme studded potatoes (basting them with cooking juices, dripping herbal butter and glorious beads of lamb fat). The absolute BEST part? With an exception of the time needed to produce translucent-thin slices of potatoes there wasn't anything else overtly complicated or time consuming - perfect for the super high novice leg of lamb roaster.

The second absolute best part? (YES, THERE CAN BE TWO ABSOLUTE BEST PARTS.) Some serious hands on loving was required (my favorite sort've cooking!). After stabbing (or "cutting", if you aren't a wild animal savage like me) the leg of lamb and rubbing in the salt and pepper seasoning you needed to firmly massage the freshly made herbal butter (garlic, rosemary and lemon thyme) into every nook, crevice and cranny of the leg until it's coated in a glistening sheen of dairy fat heaven. (When food requires a handjob, you know it's going to be worth the effort.)

By partial candlelight - just after one in the morning - I began rhythmically easing my knife down on pungent rosemary leaves, releasing its cleansing, green scent in the air. By one thirty in the morning the leg of lamb had received its full handjob massage and was relaxing on its wire rack, waiting to be placed directly above the roasting pan of potatoes.

By two the lamb and potatoes were formally introduced, by three the house smelled like lemon thyme and butter, by four Italics and I were hovering over the roast like kids on Christmas morning (ITALICS: "IT LOOKS BETTER THAN THE MAGAZINE PICTURE!") and by five I was having an orgasm brought on by my first stimulating brush with boulangere potatoes and roasted leg of lamb.

Our dining experience? It bordered on //spiritual//. (Oh, honey, it was that effing good.) It took me nearly ten minutes to coherently compose myself. And once the smoke cleared, once my thighs stopped trembling, once the golden, magic spell of creamy-divine-melt-in-your-mouth-sunshine-of-the-gods loosened its hold on me all I could manage to say was:

"YOU KNOW HOW WOMEN SOMETIMES SAY THEY HAVE A RECIPE THAT THEY'LL MAKE TO GET LAID? FORGET GETTING "LAID"; I'D MAKE THESE POTATOES TO GET FUCKED." (Homemade panna cotta or creme caramel is for making love; boulangere potatoes is for primitive, animalistic, primal fucking.)

PS: I'm hoping that by some point this winter there'll be a drastic improvement in the quality of my cooking pictures. The majority of my V. SRS COOKING happens when we're up in the middle of the night, which isn't an awesome time to take pictures when all you have are a few eco-friendly fluorescent tubes for lighting. Fingers crossed that by the new year I'll have managed to construct the cardboard photo light box I've mentioned so many damn times in passing.

Full Moon of the Dead

Click thumbnail for larger image.

A full moon rising over my El Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) kitchen altar.

Ms. Graveyard Dirt Baiting

Not yesterday morning, but the morning before, I found myself trudging overripe pumpkins outside to the Shango Tree/Phallic Worship altar just before bed (<- WE'RE CURRENTLY SLEEPING DAYS AND WORKING NIGHTS) and in doing so I stumbled over this scene of carnage and desecration:

Click thumbnail for larger image.

"SOMETHING'S DUG UP THE FUCKING SHANGO ALTAR OUTSIDE AND I'M PRETTY SURE IT WASN'T ONE OF THE FUCKING CATS," I announced in caps lock. Italics, knowing it's always best to drop whatever he's doing when I begin speaking in caps, joined me in the backroom as we stared in the direction of the disturbed altar.

These weren't makeshift toilet holes that the neighborhood cats make in my line of beets (STOP SHITTING ON AND DIGGING UP MY FUCKING BEETS, CATS), they were deep gouges that reached into the very bottom of the raised dirt bed. My (VERY HEAVY, VERY DENSE, VERY SOLID, VERY ERECT) stone cock was knocked asunder, and its two black balls unceremoniously kicked off the surface of the altar.

Something BIG plundered my recently cleaned altar space, going directly to where my eight rabbit heads where buried within. Weirdly enough, it DIDN'T take the huge ass soup bone I left as an offering on the bricks (in fact, it hadn't even MOVED despite the severe disturbance surrounding it) and it DIDN'T bother fucking with the eight rabbit carcasses decomposing beneath a black plastic bucket just a yard or two away.

Whatever IT was it WASN'T a cat, dog or hedgehog - so what the fuck was IT? What the fuck would be large enough to RIP THROUGH BUCKETS OF DIRT and play soccer with dubiously shaped rocks? What the fuck would just IGNORE DECAYING RABBIT CARCASSES and A MOTHER OF A SOUP BONE SITTING OUTSIDE LIKE A COOLING PIE ON A WINDOW LEDGE?

"FOX," Italics hypothesized. In a deliberate attempt to not feel disappointed I didn't believe him. (<- LONG STORY SHORT? A PAIR OF FOXES CAME TO US LAST YEAR IN OCTOBER, BUT THE NEIGHBORS DIDN'T SHARE OUR JOY. AFTER ONE TOO MANY "SOMEONE NEEDS TO KILL THOSE VERMIN" COMMENTS WE HAD TO ASK THE FOXES TO LEAVE. IT BROKE MY HEART SENDING AWAY SOMETHING THAT CAME TO US (THEY CAME FOR OUR OUTSIDE OFFERINGS, AND THEN STAYED WHEN THEY REALIZED THEY WERE WELCOME HERE), AND I'VE SPENT EVERY DAY SINCE LOOKING OUT WINDOWS HOPING THAT, ONE DAY, I'D SEE THE FAMILIAR RUSTY STREAKS OF ORANGE AND BLACK JOGGING ACROSS THE YARD.)

The thing is, there was a sort've kind've maybe chance that it was a fox - just a wee chance, though, and not enough evidence to have me busting out smoked polish sausage. (I DO NOT DEFROST MY BELOVED KIELBASA FOR ANY OLD REASON.) Several nights back, just after midnight, I glanced up from doing the dishes and saw some sort of animal bolting across the street towards the house.

"OHMYGODBADGER!" I gasped, gloriously high and reeling in shock. My brain somersaulted as I tried to piece together what I had just seen. The sighting was a blur - it was dark and raining heavily, I was high and absentmindedly doing the dishes. All I could really remember was a bushy tail, squat body and narrow - but long - face.

"I SAW A BADGER!" I excitedly whispered to Italics, who came racing when he heard my first exclamation of shock and disbelief. "OR, WAIT, MAYBE IT WASN'T A BADGER," doubt had already sunk in. "IT HAD A LONG CONE-LIKE BADGER FACE, BUT I THINK IT HAD A BUSHY TAIL. BUT I DON'T THINK THAT BADGERS HAVE BUSHY TAILS..."

I knew what it WASN'T - a cat. Regardless of how stoned my ass is I know, even on a subconscious level, I'm never going to mistake a cat for something else. ("BADGER!" LITERALLY CAME OUT OF NO WHERE. BEFORE I EVEN PROCESSED THE IMAGE THE WORD TUMBLED OUT.) The body and face just wasn't cat-like despite the tail that I thought I saw. So maybe it was a fox, but wouldn't a fox take a soup bone? The pair of foxes before made off with whatever they could get their little paws on, including old remains of chicken carcasses.

(No, no, not a fox. Don't even consider it because you'll just be disappointed and heartsick.)

Last night was a nocturnal wildlife stakeout. To entice a nighttime visitor an offering of leftovers (venison sausages and homemade yorkshire pudding) were placed at the foot of the sycamore tree (the large tree just outside the office/computer room window). And then? And then we waited, and I spent several hours gingerly peeking over the ledge of the window at any sound of rustling or movement outside.

It happened after midnight. Bitching about the internet's slow ass uploading speed I casually glanced towards the sycamore out of habit only to return my full attention to complaining about our broadband's dial-up speed a few seconds later. That's when it hit me, and I did a classic Scooby Doo double take. Something with white-ish, silvery, gray hair was outside (NOT. A. CAT.), partially obscured by a bag of leaves Mr. Awesome never bothered to dispose of.

"OHMYGODISTHATSOMETHING?" I asked Italics. We squinted, side by side, our faces pressed up against the cold glass. A shape - a robust, squat backside - was jutting out from behind the white bag of fallen leaves. With the room's light off you could see it more clearly amongst the fall foliage, but the identifying majority was, frustrating enough, still hidden behind the sack.

"I'LL GO OUTSIDE," Italics offered, speaking in caps lock because staking out nocturnal Scottish wildlife in your office is V. SRS BUSINESS. I stood in the darkness of the computer room, glasses on and eyes squinting, willing the animal to stay involved in whatever it was doing (EATING) to give Italics enough time to catch a glimpse of our mysterious visitor.

He said it was nasty dirty. As in, dirtballs and leaves stuck to its ass, its wet fur was peppered with organic debris. Its snout was discolored from mud, and its feet caked with damp earth. "HOLY SHIT, OH MY FUCKING GOD," I exclaimed when the startled animal barreled itself towards the side of the house, giving me an excellent view of a miniature black and white striped grizzly bear launching itself into a furious speed that would leave any (mere mortal) human weak in the knees.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have crows, rooks, magpies, and blackbirds, we have European robins (Hezbollah's friend), sparrows, martins, finches, starlings and tits. We have deer running in front of the house around midsummer, and once in autumn we had a pair of foxes eating Burger King and kielbasa out of Chippy's patio offering dishes. We have itsy tiny little Scottish mice, and crazily laid back hedgehogs who don't grudge me too much when I bring them indoors to pull out ticks and fly egg sacs while checking for any obvious wounds.

And now? And now we have a new member to our subdivision wildlife menagerie: Eurasian Badger.

Earthworms, apparently, make up at least 50% of a badger's diet, which explains the altar desecration (ripe with worms due to deliberately adding worm casts to the raised bed to help with the decomposition of the decapitated rabbit heads) and ALSO explains why it didn't actually TAKE any of the half-decayed heads (several were left just lying on the grass without so much as a mark), disturb the plastic bucket of rotting carcasses or bother nudging the hollowed out soup bone.

I straightened up what I could, using Shango's half coconut shell to "ladle" the partially rotted heads back into their altar grave, covering them with what little earth was leftover from the badger's foraging. The pumpkins - with still some structure - were placed onto the surface of the newly patted down space, positioned to at least partially cover a mound of two or three heads.

(A wasted, futile effort since the Shango Tree/Phallic Worship altar is a delectable buffet of worms, insects and maggots for visiting wildlife, but I was SO not up to burying rabbit heads in buckets of dirt at seven in the fucking morning when I was originally getting ready for bed when taking the collapsing pumpkins outside.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

JESUS EFFING CHRIST, WHY CAN'T I HAVE A DIVINE MALE ALTAR SPACE WITHOUT IT GETTING FUCKED UP, TRASHED OR RUINED? (I JUST FUCKING CLEANED THE SPACE UP, GODDAMMIT! {LOOK HOW FUCKING CLEAN IT WAS!} HOW LONG DID IT TAKE BEFORE IT WAS DECIMATED? TWO WEEKS? THREE?) IT'S LIKE GARBAGE, CHAOS AND AN AVALANCHE OF MESS IS ATTRACTED TO ANYTHING WITH A FUCKING DICK (EVEN IF IT'S A COSMIC ONE).

Fet Ghede, 2008

My problem's always been with moderation (and not even in (anti)socially accepted "cool" ways). Drugs and alcohol aren't my weakness; going OVERBOARD by expending more energy and effort than necessary is. "Simple", "easy" and "quick" aren't in the forefront of my vocabulary until I'm stressed out, strung out and on the verge of an autistic breakdown. (<- USUALLY INVOLVES FRUSTRATED TEARS, NOT UNLIKE THE TERRIBLE TWOS.)

When two sabbats and/or holidays back into one another I know - despite planning for BOTH - that it's only a matter of time before one leaves the Thunderdome victorious. (TWO SABBATS ENTER, ONE SABBAT LEAVES.) In other words, out of the two religious dates I plan to simultaneously observe, one will eventually garner major emphasis and the other becomes discreetly assimilated into the first (although it's still reflected in ritual and celebration to some degree).

Halloween and Fet Ghede are perfect examples of two major festivals riding each others nuts. Both are crazy important for me (with Halloween welcoming back the Divine Female/Black Goddess, and Fet Ghede welcoming home the (now dead) Divine Male/Papa), but both require exceptional amounts of effort and due to THAT fact I've never managed to celebrate both to my idealized standards.

Samhain requires nearly a month of planning. The Halloween boxes need to be unearthed, and the various altars created. Pumpkins need to be purchased and carved. Music playlists need to be created, ceremonial outfits need to be planned and all of the intoxicants and entheogens need to be sorted. The entire house has to be cleaned (including the bedroom; washing away the Bride to welcome the Whore), certain rituals need to be performed (the changing of the guard, our biannual haircuts) and a magic supper (usually homemade soup and bread) needs to be made.

On the day itself I need to prepare myself, the house, the ritual room and Italics. I brush, floss and choke on mouthwash until my teeth gleam. In a steam bath I massage extra virgin olive oil into my skin and shave my legs, underarms and bikini area. I rub myself down with a homemade sugar and honey scrub to a ridiculous degree (behind ears, the soles of my feet and between my fingers and toes) before turning on the shower to thoroughly wash myself and my hair.

Eyebrows get plucked, my hair gets dried (and set in curlers) and I then spend over an hour in the bathroom - with a glass carving board sitting on top of the sink to create a square ledge for my brushes and jars - applying make-up. Later on in the day/night - just before taking our first MDMA pill (<- A PURER FORM OF ECSTASY) - I'll get dressed in my ritual outfit, take the curlers out and style my hair.

That? That's just me getting ready; one thing out of thousands that need to be accomplished that day. (I'll spare you from what I do to the house, the room and to Italics before the ceremony begins.) Preparing for the Samhain/Halloween ritual requires a tremendous amount of planning, effort and energy - all of which doesn't even take into account the tremendous amounts of effort and energy needed to actually PERFORM the ritual (or put yourself in the right frame of mind to undertake such a serious role).

The problem with celebrating Halloween the way we want to - taking copious amounts of drugs (<- MDMA, POT, MUSHROOMS, POT, ALCOHOL, POT, NITROUS AND, YOU GUESSED IT, EVEN MORE POT) and having ecstatic, debauched sex all night into early morning (<- WE'VE EASILY GONE FOR NINE HOURS) - leaves us pretty wrung out for Fet Ghede.

When you spend the entire night of the 31st pissing in ritual bowls, sexually taunting and teasing your familiars and helpers, having anal, oral and vaginal sex, anointing each other in oils (and alcohol) and assuming the role of the Black Goddess you're going to wake up to three things the morning after:

1.) A stiff jaw which refuses to open for anything wider than a straw.
2.) A happy, but thoroughly exhausted body.
3.) The unholy mess you managed to create the night before.

November 1st, then, is spent laughing about the night before while cleaning the mess up, occasionally complaining about any stiffness and/or soreness experienced. Not much gets done due to the innate need to "keep it easy" so the house gets straightened up and the rest of the waking day/night is spent having more sex or relaxing in front of the TV.

Rather than being better, November 2nd (Fet Ghede) is actually worse - the happy MDMA buzz that was still influencing you on November 1st has finally worn off and you're suddenly aware of how physically (and mentally) exhausted you are. Thanks to the serotonin floodgates of Halloween you suddenly find yourself with a serotonin deficit leaving you irritable, cranky, moody and unmotivated (<- DEPENDING ON HOW MUCH MDMA YOU TOOK) - not exactly an awesome frame of mind to be in while attempting to celebrate the resurrected spirit of the Divine Male. (OR, LOL, RATHER FITTING IF YOU'RE A WOMAN CELEBRATING THE DIVINE MALE. <- HA HA!)

The problem with Samhain is that it requires all of your physical, emotional, mental and spiritual attention. Fet Ghede - at least for me - demands physical and mental exertion more than anything else. (The festival is the first meal of thanksgiving we have during the Dark year, it's the WELCOME HOME, PAPA! feast. I set up an altar for him and create - from scratch - a three course "southern" dinner and we get terrifically stoned (and drunk) while eating and watching God-fucking-awful movies that only Papa could like (i.e., White Chicks).)

If you've never created a multiple course meal solely by yourself for a crowd of folk let me assure you - without my typical Aries exaggeration - IT'S A LOT OF HARD FUCKING WORK. Between planning the meal, shopping for it, creating it and executing everything perfectly so there's no scorched food or delays between courses requires a stupid amount of concentration, motivation and good mood - three things I typically DON'T have two days after a heavy night of exalting the Black Goddess.

Last year we were struck down by a debilitating case of influenza mid-October. Thanks to our ability to only celebrate Halloween/Samhain during a very specific time frame (<- WHEN THE IN-LAWS GO ON VACATION FOR TWO WEEKS LEAVING US ALONE IN THE HOUSE) we never managed to haul out the boxes to create our seasonal altars. For the first time since we began exercising our own unique brand of spirituality and beliefs, the Black Goddess wasn't welcomed home and I was devastated.

(OH, THERE WERE LOTS AND LOTS OF TEARS, LOTS OF FLU-TINGED TANTRUMS AND UNEARTHLY HOWLS OF INCONSOLABLE DESPAIR...OR SOMETHING.)

The ONLY positive from all of that negative? Fet Ghede finally had its (his?) day out of Halloween's shadow. Despite the presence of the in-laws (I normally don't leave any sort of altar when my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, is home since the last time I left an altar out he threw garbage onto one of my offering plates) I brazenly created a quick'n'simple altar in the communal lounge for Papa due to the special circumstances (2008 election year, Papa had some V. SRS investment) and it sat - for all the members in the house to see - from Halloween to November 5th (the day after the election).

Click thumbnail for larger image.

2008's Fet Ghede altar was EXCEPTIONALLY low-key for me. (THIS IS ABOUT AS BASIC AS IT GETS, FOLKS.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Papa's altar (and doll) was in perfect position to "watch" TV during election night as we ate our celebratory Fet Ghede feast.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Despite the lack of complexity I'm sure the Fet Ghede altar spread was more than enough voodoo for my in-laws.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Some of Papa's favorite things sitting on top of my ballot envelope. (<- I TRADED MY VOTE FOR A PROVERBIAL "GET OUT OF JAIL FOR FREE" CARD. PAPA GOT TO VOTE, I GOT A GOLDEN TICKET.)

On Fet Ghede we bake Pan de Muerto for our ancestors and loved ones recently departed. Unlike the previous year (2006), our skull sculpting wasn't up to scratch (I'M BLAMING THE FLU) so you'll have to excuse our embarrassing foray into bread shaping (something we're usually A LOT better at).

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Last year we lost our Busy Bee (one of our pet rats). It was particularly hard to lose Bee since it was immediately after Hezbollah's death. (Bee always acted strangely - "OH, BEE'S JUST BEING BEE!" - but she began exhibiting even stranger behavior after her roommate, Crazy Rat (aka Hezbollah), passed away. It turned out that our Bee had "a brain thing" (tumor) and quickly succumbed to the disease within weeks of Hezbollah passing.)

Bee's FOR REAL name was Sloop John B (Hezbollah was Rhonda and Jigga was Barbara Ann). Due to being introduced into the family in the later stages of Hezbollah and Jigga's life she often got referred to as "the Baby", which eventually shortened to "Bee".

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Hezbollah got sick out of nowhere (which is typical of rats due to their high metabolism rate). Despite knowing it was her time to go I flexed my magic muscles and attempted my first ever stab at healing. Despite all odds, she lived, but only just. After several weeks of unexpected ups and gut wrenching downs we finally lost her, and I'm 100% sure the only reason why she lasted as long as she did was because of our little magic sessions.

Crazy Rat's favorite movie was Hitman (IT'S A HUGE LONG STORY THAT, ONE DAY, I MAY TELL), so it was only fitting that her individual pan de muerto reflected her taste in cinema.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I remember being EXCEPTIONALLY frustrated with the ancestral loaf of pan de muerto because, going into the oven, it was PERFECTLY skull shaped. Unfortunately, it entered looking one way, but left looking entirely different. The cloves originally gave it a cutesy jack-o-lantern appearance, but once baked the clove studs lost their Halloween charm. (SIGH.) It tasted fantastic, though - I added a little bit of rum to the orange-sugar glaze before brushing it over the bread, and added just a wee taste of the marmalade glaze made for the ham.

Last year we feasted like we had never feasted before. Dinner was a three course meal spread throughout election night. (Instead of celebrating on the 2nd we postponed the festival until the 4th.) We started with a traditional southern soup - Brunswick stew - and carried on to an eight dish dinner (marmalade glazed ham, roast potatoes, roast squash, crabcakes, hoppin' John, pan de muerto, buttermilk rolls and homemade lemon butter dip (for the crabcakes)) and finished with a homemade pumpkin pie.

Despite wanting to celebrate Thanksgiving (in 2008) I never got a chance to, so Fet Ghede stepped in - unbeknownst to me at the time - and provided us with our thanksgiving meal, albeit earlier in the month than I'm accustomed to. (<- TRADITIONALLY, IN THE USA, THANKSGIVING IS CELEBRATED THE LAST THURSDAY IN NOVEMBER. AND TYPICALLY IT'S TURKEY, NOT HAM, HEH.)

I won't even want go into detail how much food I managed to pack away that night because it just might make me sick to even consider. (NORMALLY I CAN EASILY EAT FOR TWO, BUT, THAT NIGHT, I WAS EATING FOR PAPA, CHIPPY AND ALL OF OUR ANCESTORS.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

The marmalade glazed ham in all of its glory.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

The marmalade glazed ham in all of its glory.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Left to right: roasted acorn squash, carved ham and homemade crabcakes.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Homemade crabcakes.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

More marmalade ham and crabcakes.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Roasted squash and ham. (<- THE DAMN SPICES - CINNAMON AND NUTMEG - GOT EFFING SCORCHED IN THE OVEN, BUT THE SQUASH DIDN'T TASTE BURNED, THANKFULLY.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Hoppin' John. (A traditional beans and rice dish.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Roasted potatoes and roasted squash (again).

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Our place settings with the pan de muerto to the left, the homemade buttermilk rolls to the right and the lemon butter dip (for the crabcakes) in the center.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Papa's place setting for the Fet Ghede feast (it was right next to his altar space).

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Papa's place setting for the Fet Ghede feast (it was right next to his altar space).

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Papa's place setting for the Fet Ghede feast (it was right next to his altar space).

This year we DID manage to celebrate the return of the Black Goddess Ms. Graveyard Dirt style (with a LITTLE less intoxicants than usual since it's been A VERY LONG TIME (<- NEARLY TWO YEARS!) since we "partied" due to my broken stomach valve) which left us out of commission for Fet Ghede.

Although considering last year's effort - flu and all - I'm sure Papa doesn't mind TOO much for this year's laidback atmosphere. (<- ESPECIALLY SINCE I PROMISED EVERYONE THAT I'D DO THANKSGIVING THIS YEAR //FOR SURE//. <- I AM TOTALLY, TOTALLY READY FOR SWEET POTATO CHEESECAKE WITH A MAPLE PECAN GLAZE.)