Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Last Sunset

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The last sunset of 2009.

Christmas Goose Exorcism

"I CAST YOU OUT, SALMONELLA! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!" <- Another unapproved exorcism by yours truly (the Vatican's going to send my ass a nasty fucking letter, heh).

And He Brought Her the Stars

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...and He brought Her the stars.

Six Months

Six months ago I was standing outside on the patio, jar of Bride's Honey in hand, smiling, silent and serene beneath the radiant Midsummer sun. The backyard was singing with life - bumblebees, birds and insects, flitting, buzzing and pollinating. I was standing in the center of Life, enveloped by the certainty of growth and harvest.

"Can you believe in six months it'll almost be Christmas and all of this will be covered in snow?"* I turned and said to Italics. We laughed like it was private joke (immortality laughing at mortality), standing side by side as the honey became warm and slick by the summer sun. Winter - death and darkness and frozen cold - felt like something out of a fairytale, something exotic and too alien to even consider when surrounded by a multitude of green.

The Old Woman (aka Cailleach) has been visiting daily for almost a week. The temperature drops, the snow becomes crisp and everything sits in deafening silence until the scratching, whirling sounds of flurries disturbs the hushed cathedral-like atmosphere. I visit Her every day in my wedding dress (a Scottish apron), collecting the snow in the folds of the material, spiritually bagging away the wind, the cold, the frozen, stinging water for future use.

"OLD WOMAN, TEACH ME YOUR MAGIC," I demanded, and She broke my body. "OLD WOMAN, TEACH ME HOW TO CONTROL THE WIND." With Her rattling, decrepit lungs She blew Winter's wind into my mouth as we kissed and the Breath of God ran through me. (It made me sick; bedridden, for over a year. After 28 years of living my body suddenly forgot how to breathe. After 29 years of living I suddenly realized why.)

"BABA, TI-BEH YEAST-TEH," I call out to Her whenever it snows. (Loosely translated to "GRANDMOTHER, FOR YOU TO EAT".) We always share a shot of Famous Grouse (Scottish whiskey) and now, more than ever, the amber liquid slides down like medicine (instead of poison; neither Italics or I are drinkers, pot's 100% our "vice" and anything that remotely tastes like spirits is likely to garner a serious puke face from us).

I make Her a half sandwich because She likes bread and meat (and bones and booze), and both offerings - the shot of whiskey and sandwich - are always set out on one of the patio's pillars. She shares Her offerings with the birds, She shares Her secrets with me. I occasionally wonder if anyone else feeds Her when She visits, if anyone else goes out to greet Her as She hobbles along. Maybe that's why She visits more frequently than She did before - someone puts a light in a window for Her.

Six months ago I was newlywed, standing barefoot on the sun-warmed patio with a jar of spiced honey in my hands. Six months later the last traces of the Virgin Bride's gone, buried beneath the flawless cover of an awe-inspiring wedding veil - a ghostly apparition, a memory, but also a premonition and promise of what's to come.

(* I knew we'd have snow like I knew Spring would come early. On Midsummer I saw snow covering the yard - the fallen rowan blossoms in the front, the shriveled cow parsley flowers (<- worn in my hair when we performed the sacred marriage rite in a local wheat field) on the window ledge (my kitchen altar). Where ever I looked - even indoors - I saw a delicate blanket of fragile white. "We're going to have a white Yule," I informed Italics, but no one else, because it's embarrassing to get this shit wrong in public (even though I've never been wrong).)

Winter Wash

Never trust a woman who hangs up her washing in the snow.

LONG STORY SHORT?

I have ritual clothes (which never seem to stay on that long, but that's the entire point of lingerie, right?), and I have pre-ritual clothes. Pre-ritual clothes (i.e., the robe above, and a long African dress) are worn as we're "coming up" (when you begin feeling the effects of the entheogen consumed) to keep my ass warm while we wade through the feelings of hyper-stimulation.

When we first began practicing our whimsical black mass rites (it's not a choice, it's a //lifestyle//) something told me to not wash my robe. Which, admittedly, was a super huge challenge since I'm notoriously (verging on anally) clean. I straighten up the house seven days a week, I wash daily and clothing - especially of the stained variety - is laundered immediately.

Without asking "why?" I did.

Years worth of sweat, perfume oils and incense. Years worth of massage oils, ecstatic sex and body fluids. Years worth of fragrant prayers, carnal pleasures and spiritual epiphanies transformed into ribbons of scent woven into the fabric of the robe. When you pressed your face into the perfumed material you could smell Mass; it was a witch's diary, a blank-but-full book of shadows.

Sometimes ritual (and pre-ritual) clothes aren't exclusively kept for ceremony. Like when you wake up in the middle of the day (because you're sleeping at night) and realize that everyone's home which means you can't saunter to the bathroom half-naked (and you're half-naked instead of 100% naked because you have ringworm speckled across your hips, armpits and beneath your tits forcing you to wear a t-shirt to bed) for a piss, but you REALLY, REALLY HAVE TO GO except you forgot to toss a pair of boxers next to the side of your bed so you could emerge from the bedroom "decent" which means your only options are:

1.) Celebrating the beauty of a grown woman's recently shaven cunt by non-chalantly parading to the bathroom, in-laws be damned.

2.) Ritual robe aged to olfactory perfection conveniently hanging on the bedroom door, ringworm be damned.

TAKE A WILD FUCKING GUESS WHICH OPTION I WENT WITH.

Fuck it, it was time to reset the motherfucking thing, anyway. (One word to describe 2009? "RESET".) After washing the robe I purified it in this year's first proper snowfall, hanging it up as it snowed and leaving it all day and night until winter's bitter cold managed to dry it. Unscented and unworn it hangs on the bedroom door again, waiting until New Year's Eve when I'll breath life back into it as we celebrate the full moon, blue moon, lunar eclipse and the new year.

Witchcraft is...

...running around naked, post-sex, with inner thighs firmly locked into place while chanting "KEEP IT IN, KEEP IT IN, KEEP IT IN!" as you frantically search for your AWOL Yule Log so you can release all of the combined sexual fluids from you and your partner out of your clenched cunt directly onto the log. (And if anyone tells you differently, they're lying.)

Unwhole

"...2009 was the year I REALLY got into keeping a diary so I was hella looking forward to the Yuletide season where I had planned to painstakingly go over all of the traditions and foods I grew up with (and then bastardized by mixing it up to suit my unconventional needs). I can take pictures, but I can't resize or sharpen them. I can cook, execute and perform, but I can't write or document what the fuck I'm doing. I feel like I lost something and I find myself pausing to look over my shoulder; I can't believe how writing journal entries became so routine that now I'm left feeling somewhat...unwhole?...when unable to do it..."

I'm trying to pass the time in livejournal, but it isn't the same. (If you're a LJ user stop by and say hello - Ms. Graveyard Dirt.)

Not My Week

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This is totally not my week. (KEEP BRINGING IT, UNIVERSE, BECAUSE IT'S GOING TO TAKE MORE THAN THIS TO BREAK ME AT MOTHERFUCKING CHRISTMASTIME.)

Ceremonial Borsht

When making a homemade pot of traditional Ukrainian borsht becomes a ritual. (In this case, the moments post ancestor "invocation" and pre-incense smoke bath (in addition to treating the ringworm with garlic, tea tree oil and topical fungal cream I also fumigated the inflicted skin with frankincense). <- ALL I CAN SAY IS, THIS SHIT BETTER NOT SPREAD (OR ELSE, MR. AWESOME, //OR ELSE//).)

Stumped

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So, like, if one drawer's dedicated to tarot decks and divination tools, the second drawer's full of oils, unguents and salves and the third and last drawer contains everyday misc. magic articles (ritual scissors, incense, spoons, salts, sugars and Chippy's doggie treats) where the fuck do I put the insertable remote control vibrating bullet and bondage tape?

Ringworm

RINGWORM*. //AWESOME//. (Because I don't have enough to fucking worry about.)

* We suspect my father-in-law and his astonishingly low standard of personal hygiene. (THANKS FOR LIVING UP TO YOUR NICKNAME, MR. AWESOME.)

Me. You. Borsht.

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Me. You. Borsht. (Don't know how? Perfect (because I'm going to teach you).)

Existence of God

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Christmas isn't an ancient winter festival to be celebrated with family and friends, it's a personal challenge specifically created to test my Aries patience (and need for absolute perfection - or maybe that's the autism?). I'm an agnostic witch - I sometimes believe something's (someone's?) out there, but for the most part I spend my days dreading mortality, the inevitability of death and the uncertainty that nothing follows. There are only three things in the world that can placate my fears momentarily - sex, drugs and Christmas. (Four things if you want to count "nature", but since it features heavily in sex AND drugs I figured it was a given.)

Do I believe in the existence of God? Is there a holiday that requires dressing a giant fucking coniferous tree with hundreds of godforsaken lights that DON'T PLUG INTO ONE ANOTHER? (<- HOLY SHIT, BRITAIN, YOU MANAGED TO COLONIZE HALF THE FUCKING WORLD BUT YOU CAN'T PROVIDE MOTHEREFFING CHRISTMAS LIGHTS THAT //PLUG INTO ONE ANOTHER// TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC?)

Is there a holiday where, every fucking year, I discover that I'm short 200 fucking lights because SOMEHOW a string or two inexplicably BROKE while sitting in a fucking box in the fucking attic? Is there a holiday where the tree has to fucking sit for over a fucking week while I frantically try to find new lights that match the brightness of the old lights? Is there a holiday where I eventually break down and howl in sheer frustration and spend a morose evening wallowing in despair and futility beneath a half lit tree covered in fake pine needles?

Is there a holiday where I spend over a fucking week attempting to perfect a fucking tree covered in fucking lights where the Aries drive for A+ TOP CLASS drives me into a festive maenad frenzy? Is there a holiday where the world unites and universally takes part in the greatest, most frustrating and mania-inducing phallic worship pageant of all time? Is there a holiday where a fake cock supersedes a real cock and commands full attention, tinsel and gratuitous amount of sweat and tears?

DO I BELIEVE IN THE EXISTENCE OF GOD? HOLY SHIT, DUDE, WHO //ELSE// CREATED THIS GODDAMN "OH, HEY, LET'S CELEBRATE THE REBIRTH OF LIGHT AT THE FOOT OF THIS THINLY VEILED MONUMENT TO HARD COCK!" HOLIDAY AT MY EXPENSE?

And, Also

I LOVE HOW YOU DON'T REACT BADLY WHEN I DELIBERATELY PISS ON YOU DURING SEX. (AND, ALSO, HOW YOU LAUGHED WHEN I THREATENED TO ADD MY URINE TO THE BATH I JUST DREW YOU.)(I DID, BUT I KNEW YOU'D KNOW I'D DO IT.)

WTF Dinner w/WTF Sauce

OH, GOD HELP US, MY FATHER-IN-LAW HAS BEEN INSPIRED* TO COOK. (<- TIME TO HIDE IN THE BATCAVE.)

* Whenever I spend several consecutive nights in the kitchen he becomes overwhelmed by the insatiable need to cook. ("I CAN DO THAT, TOO!" is something you can't get away from in this house. If finds me working on something - especially if I'm enjoying it - within 48 hours he's playing "LOOK AT MEEEEEEE!" catch-up. (And gets V. pissy if you 1.) fail to notice and 2.) fail to compliment.) 70 years old going on 4, right?)

His end results - which are guesstimated mimic attempts of things I've recently provided the family with** - are at once horrifying, amusing, disgusting and, if I'm being completely honest, occasionally irritatingly offensive (it wouldn't be so bad if he didn't exude his patented "I'VE JUST DONE IT BETTER THAN //YOU//" old man smugness, but he does...every effing time).

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PHOTO CAPTION: I apparently inspired my father-in-law (aka Mr. Awesome) to do some cooking. When I first saw it I couldn't figure out if he made SOUP or PASTA SAUCE, but the leftovers provided just enough context clues.

** The picture above? His attempt at "spaghetti and meatballs". Just ignore the fact that chicken's replaced meatballs (WTF?), fettuccine was used instead of spaghetti (OKAY, OKAY, I'M NIGGLING WITH THAT, I KNOW) and that my in-laws haphazardly throw their uncovered leftovers straight in the fridge for everyone to see (and accidentally touch when searching for EDIBLE food). (<- OH GOD I'M CRINGING NOW JUST THINKING ABOUT IT!)

Two days earlier I fed the family an enormous spaghetti and meatballs dinner where EVERYTHING was created from scratch (well, the garlic bread was made from a bought loaf of ciabatta that I slathered with garlic butter, sprinkled with Italian herbs and grated Parmesan cheese, but beyond purchasing the fresh pasta and bread everything else was entirely homemade). Mr. Awesome, enjoying the meal //so much//, decided to recreate it less than 48 hours later.

My version:

* Tomato sauce made from three different types of tomato (sun-dried, fresh and canned), fresh herbs from the garden, garlic, roasted red peppers (I scorched them under the oven's grill and then peeled the charred skins off), basil infused olive oil, red wine, balsamic vinegar and other spices and seasonings.

* Overnight meatballs (I like mixing the ingredients together and letting them sit overnight so the flavors can intensify before cooking) made from fresh steak mince, more fresh herbs from the garden, grated fresh Parmesan, garlic, basil infused olive oil, balsamic vinegar, locally produced oatmeal (I tend to use oatmeal instead of breadcrumbs when cooking), a touch of the tomato sauce above and other spices and seasonings.

(I normally fry the overnight meatballs in a little bit of olive oil to give them a crispy crust and then transfer them over to a lidded casserole dish so they create an even layer. Once they're snug I pour over the homemade tomato sauce, crumble an entire block of feta over everything, sprinkle over a generous amount of Parmesan, cover the dish with foil and cook everything in a hot oven for about 15-20 minutes until it seems done. I also give the casserole a few minutes beneath the oven's grill (uncovered) to give the feta a wee bit of color before serving the meal.)

(Unfortunately, I don't have any images of this dish (despite it being a somewhat staple), but I'm PRETTY SURE the meal is mostly palatable if these pictures are anything to go by. I mean, it was good enough to "copy", right?)

His version of my version:

* Tomato sauce made from one can of tomatoes, a fried onion, chicken breasts and indistinguishable seasoning served over waterlogged pasta. (Or, as I like to call it, "WTF DINNER WITH WTF SAUCE".)

CLEARLY, YOU CAN SEE THE STIFF COMPETITION THAT I DEAL WITH ON A DAY TO DAY BASIS. HOW I'LL EVER LIVE UP TO HIS CULINARY PROWESS IS BEYOND ME. I SHOULD PROBABLY HANG UP MY APRON(S) (<- APRONS ARE LIKE KITCHEN LINGERIE, YOU NEED A VARIETY TO SUIT THE MOOD AND OCCASION!) AND ADMIT DEFEAT AT AGE 29...SIGH.

My prediction? He's made "chili" ("chili" = any ground meat, an onion, a can of beans and a can of tomatoes). I'll creep even FURTHER up the limb I'm already already on and state that if it is "chili" he was directly inspired by the Turkish beef and haricot bean casserole I made a few days ago that he finished off without asking (so much for leftovers).