Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

The Last Clean

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Since I don't have the entire house to myself, I steal pieces of it whenever I can. Last year I appropriated the kitchen's windowsill (most subtle Ms. Graveyard Dirt altar ever? probably), but before that I staked my claim to a patch of carpet next to the backroom's patio door. In Spring it serves as a greenhouse for my germinating plants, in Summer it provides the heat needed for Papa's chili plants to fruit, in Fall I spread our harvest out on the ground to dry and in Winter, if I have my shit together (obviously this year I didn't), it's where we proudly display our stoner Christmas tree.

As retarded as it sounds, one of the huge highlights of my day is walking into the backroom and staring down at all of my little "projects". (Satisfaction is surveying all that you own - every piece with its own story - on mismatched vintage plates and trays.) Despite the familiarity I still somehow manage to get excited when soaking in the scene.

I suppose it reminds me that I don't need to wear a label, or know the "technical" name for what I'm doing or what I'm engaging in. I don't NEED to know what everyone else calls it, or what everyone else is doing, or how everyone else is doing it. I'm already doing "it", and I've been doing it for years without anyone's help or without referring to a book. If you took the scarlet word "witch" away from me I'd still live it, I'd still breathe it. It's always been there, regardless of what I or other people call it (as if that wasn't already evident enough).

My father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, returns home on the 26th. It's been a blissful month of a certain sort of serenity. In the past several weeks I know that no one's touched my shit, thrown my shit out, broke my shit, stolen my shit or ruined my shit. That peaceful certainty ends soon, which is precisely why I'm executing THE LAST CLEAN. Everything you see above? The very last of 2009 that needs to be bagged, tagged and put away. I need to sort as much as I can - as quick as I can - so I don't experience the all to familiar "misunderstandings" and "accidents" that seem to dog my father-in-law's existence.

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My foraging isn't limited to indigenous plant life. I'm routinely picking up discarded or lost articles. Stupid things, little things - broken pieces of jewelry, old playing cards, parts fallen off cars or equipment. If it's in my path it's significant, so it gets picked up, cleaned off, bagged, tagged (including the date, where I found it and the circumstances behind the outing) and stored away for future use.

I found the aborted Pac-man coin on a cemetery excursion, and it's nestled in a bag with two black plastic pieces - one rectangular (it reminded me of a blank domino) and one circular (it reminded me of a blank poker chip). There's also fingernail clippings (mine), a pair of diaper pins (the white plastic heads slide over the tucked in needles so they can't spring open), Wadjet's key and Tawaret's steering wheel (we've been trying to get a car for several years now, but it wasn't until I put the toy steering wheel at the foot of my Tawaret statue and a key I found at the foot of Wadjet's statue that the wish actually materialized) which all sits on a white envelope filled with some of my hair clippings.

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I WANT to say these are the very last pieces of dried animal I need to deal with, but that'd be a lie. (If I remember right there's several roadkill hedgehog skins in the outside room (and when I say "skins" I really mean the bristly spines attached to a piece of leathery hide), four sets of feathers (off the most recent pheasant roadkill I scavenged) and I think there's one or two inside-out poached rabbit pelts I found when walking in the woods.)

Buried beneath the two wishbones (the larger, more robust looking one is from our Christmas goose, the smaller, fragile looking one is from a chicken) is Italics' fajita dolphin; we're planning on setting him free the next time we make it to the ocean. The snakeskin looking mess at the back of the dish? One of the Christmas goose's toes. For whatever reason they forgot to remove one of the appendages which meant one very special Yuletide gift from the Universe this year: a goose claw.

(I have pictures of all of this shit uploaded on Flickr, I just haven't had the time to tell the stories yet. If you promise not to appear openly bored when I tell unseasonal Ms. Graveyard Dirt stories, I promise to eventually get around to telling unseasonal Ms. Graveyard Dirt stories.)

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The very last of our offerings to various spirits, entities, helpers and ancestors that need to be disposed of. (The chocolate cigar was given to Papa during Christmas, the chocolate heart is my Aries Valentine's Day chocolate, the toffee candies were placed in offering bowls at the foot of the Christmas tree and the gingerbread man, who totally was Italics' idea, dubiously sat amongst other Yuletide treasures.)

I'm planning to leave the cigar at Papa's grave, and I'm going to leave the toffees for the kids at the disturbed children's home (which we pass when walking to the graveyard). I haven't really decided where I'm going to lay the rest, but when I do it'll either be the cemetery, the cairn at the cemetery, the outside "oven", or the local standing stones.

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Miniature brandy snifters that sat on the Winter altar. The one on the left is filled with Fet Ghede dirt (for a more detailed explanation of WTF Fet Ghede dirt is click through to the journal entry CLEANING DAY 1) and the one on the right is filled with salt (the salt water evaporated leaving crystals behind).

The homemade dirt mix correlates with Papa, who's my chthonic earth representative (Papa's one of the major aspects of the divine male/king that I work with, live with and fuck), the salt water correlates with Tentacle Monster, who's my chthonic water representative (TM represents my spiritual and emotional house). The unpopped popcorn seed in the empty salt water glass? Representative of the garbage my father-in-law dumped on my Winter altar when he was too fucking lazy to throw in the kitchen's trash can. (He got seriously told off for doing it in 2008, so what did he do in 2009? The same fucking thing.)

The Fet Ghede has been funneled back into its jar, but I'll be adding a pinch into the ash mixture and homemade salt scrub I'll soon be making to anoint and purify our bodies and bed frame. (I haven't had a chance to address how I observe Ash Wednesday and Lent, so just pretend you know what the fuck I'm talking about.) I've already rehydrated the salt glass with a mixture of freshly fallen snow (scooped off the top of sprouting spring bulbs) and some icicle water (I collected the most impressive icicles off the house this year and poured their melted forms into a plastic bottle for various witchery) so I can add the moistened mixture to my ash paste and cleansing scrub.

I'm keeping the popcorn kernel, though, because there are some things you shouldn't have to be told twice, Mr. Awesome. (DOES THAT SOUND OMINOUS? GOOD, IT SHOULD.)

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I went outside to make an offering, and when I opened the patio door my stone cock - THE stone cock from my outside Phallic Worship altar at the base of the Shango Tree - hurdled itself to the floor without ANY provocation, smashing one of my ritual plates below. Three days later I still have no fucking clue what "pushed" the heavy ass rock off the center of the table.

Remember? From the journal entry 96 HOURS? Thankfully the tray wasn't one of my super awesome beloved FOR REALS ritual plates (in other words, the little Italian number I picked up last year). I was pretty fucking resentful over the loss, so I left the mess untouched for days.

The dried leaves on the broken dish are off my indoor lemon rose geranium. There's some rosemary, too, underneath the mess (which I swept into the homemade chicken stock I made last night for Shakey Bear). (<- Dying pets are fed homemade soup made with homegrown ingredients, and freshly boiled potatoes mashed with sour cream and cream cheese.)

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This ramekin of dirt has been the bane of my existence for not one, not two, but at least three years. (Long story short? Several years back a water pipe broke in the street adjacent to our property. The event was significant for several reasons, so before they closed the coffin-sized hole I threw in a homemade witch bottle (filled with urine, pins, magic mushrooms, nails, hair and other things) and scooped out some dirt for myself. I mean, it's not every day the crossroads YOU LIVE ON are dug up for your benefit, right?)

Soon, crossroads dirt, I'm going to pry you out of your ramekin tomb, batter you into a fine powder and funnel your ass into an appropriately labeled baby food jar.

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Leaves from the bay tree on the patio. This past "Dark Year" (what I call the time between Harvest and Easter) I incorporated a lot of evergreen growing in our yard into various altars (Harvest Home, for example, and the kitchen's ever-changing Yule spread). I'm an unapologetic bay whore; it goes in EVERYTHING. (Probably because my signature dishes - which I cook often during winter - are peasant-y soups, stews and casseroles.)

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The absolute BEST part of this log? (Other than it being the nicest one we've ever created?) When I accidentally bumped into it and knocked it off its crab pedestal (crabs are a big juju animal for Italics, which is why it's carrying his St. George and the Dragon ritual fire poker and the log itself) about twenty seeds spilled out of the pine cone. Come Spring I'll be planting seeds that came from our Yule/2009 Log, how awesomely magic is /that/?

Last night I carefully tapped 2009's Yule Log seeds out of their ceramic dish into a plastic baggie and tucked the packet into my seed box. I have no fucking clue what I'm going to do with pine trees, but I'm sure I'll come up with something. (<- I ALWAYS DO.)

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Wheat from the crop of the most recent roadkill pheasant we picked up. When I butchered and cleaned the bird I saved all of it so I could plant the seeds in Spring. I also added a token amount of the pheasant (i.e., small bits of skin and tiny feathers) so when I did sow the kernels they'd grow from the remains of the bird. (<- Life, death and rebirth.)

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Hardneck garlic that was SUPPOSED to be planted back in October of last year. (I was busy, okay?) When the month old (and THEN some) blanket of snow finally melted I raced outside to plant the motherfuckers, only to find that my father-in-law had BURIED LEAVES HE WAS INSTRUCTED TO THROW AWAY AT A LOCAL COMPOSTING SITE IN THE SAME SPOT I HAD PREPPED TO GROW GARLIC.

(It's even more involved than that, but I keeping that particular WTF? story for later. Suffice to say - I raked those leaves in November to finish the job he started (and walked away from), packed them in bags for him to cart away only to discover he BURIED A PORTION OF THE GARDEN WASTE in a spot that I OBVIOUSLY HAD PREPARED TO PLANT SOMETHING IN so instead of sowing late, late garlic I actually spent the day RERAKING LEAVES I HAD ALREADY RAKED UP ONCE AND REPACKING THE SAME BAGS WITH THE SAME FUCKING LEAVES.)

The most upsetting part? I mean, other than having to redo the work that I did over three fucking months ago because someone decided they were too fucking lazy to do the easier job (i.e, simply throwing out prepackged waste)? It snowed the day after, and it's been snowing since. I never actually got my garlic in the ground because I had to spend the ONE DAY it was conducive to plant cleaning up Mr. Awesome's mess (which I originally had to do in November as well).

"Pissed" doesn't even cover it. Seriously.

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Some of the shots I managed to pull out of the SEVEN LOUSY RABBITS that the Universe gave me last Fall. (It's long, involved and complicated. My suggestion? Read the journal entry.) These are shots that killed; they're worth their weight in magic gold. (If you don't understand why, then you're probably not cut out for my personal brand of witchcraft.)

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Unshelled nuts that I incorporated into the kitchen table's Christmas centerpiece and dried rowan berries from our tree out front. We're going to split open the nuts and scatter the broken pieces as an offering to the local wildlife, and I'm currently picking through the rowan clusters to finally jar up the dried berries.

(I was supposed to string the motherfuckers, but we were stupid busy this past Fall so they all dried before I could thread one effing berry. NEXT YEAR, DAMMIT, NEXT YEAR. <- Especially since I now have A CAR which means I can gather rowan berries from all of our special places further afield (i.e., near standing stones, cairns and stone circles).)

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Because I chose to refrain from (most) contact with (most of) my family, they didn't bother notifying me when my grandfather died. I got a letter, several months after the fact, requesting that I stop sending my grandfather cards and gifts because he had died earlier in the year. Since I wasn't even given the chance to send flowers to his funeral I spent all of the next year - 2009 - incorporating Didi into my practices and our celebrations.

When I heard he had passed on one of the very first things I did was pick him up a bottle of Heineken (his favorite beer) and I left it - for almost an entire year - hidden behind Papa's headstone. (I removed it when Winter came, so the glass wouldn't break.) The bottle was displayed on several altars throughout the Dark Year to keep my grandfather close to me during his first year of death.

Soon I'll be taking the beer back to the graveyard to pour the contents out as an offering. (HE'S WAITED LONG ENOUGH FOR HIS BEER, RIGHT?) I've decided to keep the emptied bottle, though. I'm planning on refilling it with regular ole water and asking Didi to bless it so I can anoint/water my fruit trees with his expertise and wisdom.

(For those of you who don't know, my grandparents recreated THE OLD COUNTRY (aka Ukraine) in southeastern Wisconsin. I grew up running around barefoot on two acres filled with vegetable gardens, ancient oaks, fruit bushes, manicured flower beds and an orchard. I'm MOSTLY growing fruit trees and bushes because I FUCKING LOVE FRUIT AND I LOVE HARVESTING FRUIT, but also because it's my ancestral link to THE OLD COUNTRY and, in a weird way, I'm sort've paying homage and respect to the memory of the Eden I grew up in.)

The bottle of water? Melted icicles. I harvested the most impressive specimens that grew off the roof this past December and funneled their unfrozen forms into a plastic water bottle. (Sometimes you need Winter in Summer so I store snow and ice in the freezer for various forms of witchery (ranging from weather magic to purification rites).)

I'm almost afraid to freeze the contents of the bottle because I was planning on using an ice cube tray (so I wouldn't have to defrost the entire container every time I needed some Winter), and I know EVEN IF I say DON'T TOUCH THIS SHIT and go as far as STICK A NOTE ON THE TRAY SAYING "DON'T TOUCH THIS SHIT" my father-in-law will still use the cubes in his daily nightcap. (You wouldn't believe how many supplies and bottles I've cleaned that he's thrown out even though I taped a neon sticky note to it (reading "I NEED THIS, PLEASE DON'T THROW IT OUT").)

Way, Way Before My Time

Remember when witchcraft wasn't a jasmine scented nightmare embellished with glitter, fairy wings and "craft names" that can be broken down into three separate nouns without a letter leftover? (<- Don't even get me started on the bogus nobility titles epidemic.)

Me neither; it was way, way before my time.

Fear of Death

Typically, February's a challenging month. Standing on the cusp of Spring my reign as Winter's whore, hag and mistress is beginning to end. As Darkness cracks and Light begins to filter through I straddle the threshold of transformation. After Bride's Day I'm the Old Woman and the Young Maiden; youth taking from age, and age fighting against youth. It's an emotionally tumultuous time marked by tears, frustration, rebellion, grief and sacrifice.

February's a time when hormones rage; there's resistance and submission. The Old Woman's reluctant to give up Her hold ("BUT I LIKE WEARING FUCKING JEANS AND BAGGY ASS T-SHIRTS AND I DON'T WANT TO WEAR MAKE-UP OR GO OUTSIDE..."), the Bride, as strong as seeds pushing against the weight of the earth, represents an inevitable, unavoidable change I/We undergo annually.

The thing is...it's easier getting older, it's harder becoming younger. The Whore is Woman unhinged - She's widowed, but still consorts, still acts as a mistress to the Universe. She's beautiful, She's terrifying, She's powerful, intimidating and awe-inspiring. She's wise, She's hardened, She's the culmination of everything learned, experienced and understood as the Bride. The Whore - the Old Woman - is enlightenment, one agricultural year at a time.

At the start of the year - the Dark year, after harvest, after the king's been cut down - the Whore's still young. She ages with Winter, and, eventually, as time passes and weeks become months the wild, intoxicated parties, celebrations and "black masses" give way to quieter evenings, warmer clothes and amotivation. By February We aren't the sexy, sassy, audacious mistress We once were. We're old, We're tired. We're grouchy and bitter and jaded and hate everything and everyone and SERIOUSLY, WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT OF WEARING THONGS, ANYWAY, BECAUSE WHO AM I TRYING TO IMPRESS? MY PARTNER OF NEARLY 13 YEARS? PLEASE.

We hate and resent youth with its energy, excitement and naivety. I think, really, We're wary of youth; We've been down that road before, generations upon generations, and We're tired of finding Our way year in and year out. Every year - every Spring - We watch our slate get wiped clean, knowing We have to live through it all again and make new mistakes, experience new embarrassments and deal with the annual heartbreak of love and loss.

The curse of aging - the real curse of aging - is realizing there's no satisfactory trade off. A body of a teenager comes with the mind of a teenager who, psychologically, is still a child. At age 29 with two months to go until 30 there's only one prospect that strikes unmitigated terror into my (laughably) adult heart (well, other than death and that there isn't anything after this) - the prospect of being 19 again with two months to go until 20.

The hallmark of being a proper grown up? Finding yourself going "NIGGA, PLEASE!" when offered the chance of reverting to your retarded, younger self for the sake of something purely physical - youth, and youth's young body. When I feel myself struggle against Spring I feel my "old" self resisting the negative and challenging aspect of being young. That's the problem with Winter's end, if I don't pace the season properly I'm left with nothing but reversed tarot cards - I have negative fighting and pushing against negative.

Spring should be a celebration, a joyous revelry. Who else gets to become young again? Who else does the earth miss and mourn? Who else does the resurrected king love? Who else never dies - grows old, as old as time and then, as if by magic, grows young again?

Maybe there's a part of the Old Woman who, even after all of this time, still fears death and the loss of Herself. What the fuck does it matter if you get to be young again if you lose your wisdom, your enlightenment and your life's experiences? To know and be aware that you have to be reborn, new, without the baggage that made you YOU is a fucking terrifying prospect.

Old Woman, you live my fear of death.

Leave an Effing Message

DEAR PERSON WHO CALLED FOR MY MOTHER-IN-LAW 4-5 TIMES IN A FUCKING HOUR WHILE ITALICS AND I WERE SLEEPING EVEN THOUGH WE HAVE AN ANSWERING MACHINE THAT CAN TAKE A MESSAGE*: FUCK YOU. SERIOUSLY.

(As I was falling asleep slumped over the kitchen counter waiting for the kettle to boil to make my first cup of tea she called, again, although this time I wasn't trying to sleep - I was in the middle of cursing her.)

* She said she THOUGHT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW WAS //OUTSIDE//. WTF? Dude, it's fucking FEBRUARY and THERE'S SNOW ON THE FUCKING GROUND. WHAT THE FUCK WOULD MY MOTHER-IN-LAW - WHO DOESN'T GARDEN, CLEAN OR DO ANYTHING OUTSIDE OTHER THAN SIT, READ AND DRINK WINE - BE DOING OUTDOORS FOR SUCH AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME? SPARE ME FROM BIZARRE EXCUSES YOU'RE USING TO DISGUISE THE FACT THAT YOU'RE ACTING LIKE AN OBSESSIVE, PSYCHOTIC RETARD. JESUS.

ETA: Holy fucking shit, even AFTER Italics told the woman to STOP CALLING BECAUSE WE'RE SLEEPING RIGHT NOW she's //STILL FUCKING CALLING//.

96 Hours

The past 96 hours haven't been entirely awesome. I've spent three out of four days in tears (give me enough time and I'm sure I can make it four out of four; I'm just that talented): ritual items have been breaking, Shakey's getting sicker, post-Valentine's Day shopping was canceled, it's been snowing again (so we can't go out AND I can't do any gardening) and I've been stuck in the house cleaning non-stop in preparation for Ash Wednesday and Lent.

Valentine's Day began promising, but chores and pet care kept me from getting ready for the romantic dinner we had planned. Our reservation was for 7:00 PM and I began prepping myself around 4:00 in the afternoon. You'd THINK that three hours would be enough time to slap on some make-up, set your hair in hot rollers, pack an overnight bag (we were spending the night in a hotel), get dressed, style your hair, drive into town and check into your room but you'd be wrong.

With less than an hour to go I still hadn't packed, gotten dressed, styled my hair, driven into town or checked into our room. In fact, with less than an hour to go HOT ROLLERS BEGAN FALLING OUT OF MY HAIR FOR NO APPARENT REASON. I got stressed and manic. Loose hair began itching my face. I got even more stressed and manic. (How do you know when Ms. Graveyard Dirt is about to lose it? She begins scratching her face like an animal because every single fucking strand of hair that touches her skin drives her fucking crazy.)

The reservation was bumped to 8:00. I realized Shakey Bear (our sick pet rat) hadn't been fed dinner, and the cage hadn't been fixed for our overnight absence. In tears - but trying not to cry because it would've totally fucked up my black-gold smoky eyes - I packed, worried, scratched, paced and panted. Italics nearly canceled going out. I wasn't even dressed by 8:00 so Italics had to call, again, and change our reservation, again, for 9:00.

We just barely made dinner by the skin of our teeth. By the time we checked into our room I was so exhausted that it bordered on stupid. I shuffled around in a haze until I realized - while staring at my reflection in the elevator mirror - that I looked like some sort of 80s Patrick Bateman female escort. (Suddenly, as if by magic, I was a little more aware of myself and my surroundings.)

"I LOOK LIKE A PROSTITUTE, DON'T I?" I asked Italics. He didn't say anything. For a long time. And then, after a damning pause, "not with that coat on". (Wearing his gray pea coat apparently offset my curled and teased Jessica Rabbit-like hair, smoky eyes, red lipstick, figure-hugging black halter dress and gigantic ghetto gold hoops.)

(LADIES, TAKE NOTE: A MAN'S FORMAL COAT WILL TOTALLY, TOTALLY DOWNGRADE YOUR WHORE LOOK FOR THE EVENING. THE DISGUISE WORKS PERFECTLY UNTIL YOU GET TO YOUR PLACE OF DESTINATION (WHERE YOU THEN HAVE TO TAKE IT OFF).)

The coat protected my modesty until we arrived at the Turkish restaurant, but the second we crossed the threshold into the establishment my cover was blown. (And - LOL! - how my cover was spectacularly blown. Not only was I the only woman to show up in figure fitting dress with her breasts magnificently on display in a claustrophobicly full restaurant, but I was also the only one working styled hair, hardcore make-up and ostentatious gold jewelry. I'm PRETTY sure I was also the only woman who reeked of black amber, musk, myrrh and leather, but since I was so preoccupied with my unintentional escort look I failed to notice what perfume everyone else was wearing.)

"SO...WHAT DO YOU DO FOR A LIVING?" I asked Italics after we ordered (loud enough so the tables next to us could hear). He laughed. "I GUESS I DON'T REALLY HAVE TO ASK YOU THE SAME," he replied. Women around us wearing cardigans and pearls pushed their food around unenthusiastically; I readjusted my tits at the table and gnawed on Turkish chicken wings (MAC lipstick and all) like it was a Super Bowl party and I hadn't eaten in weeks.

(The restaurant owner had one up on them, though, since he's born witness to my inexplicable ability to transform any classy outfit/look into something sordid and dubious. (We've been patronizing the place for nearly a decade so when we walk through the door we're always greeted with recognition. "Oh, it's that young man accompanied by the same tramp who can't keep her breasts to herself!") It's an accidental talent that Italics doesn't seem to mind.)

(My mother had a sophisticated aura about her, no matter what she wore she always carried a sense of authentic, regal dignity. Me? Authentic white trash slut-whore polished up momentarily with designer make-up and gold plated jewelry. <- I don't know where "regal dignity" went since it's not like my younger sister inherited that particular gift.)

ANYWAY.

The second OH SNAP! moment of the night transpired when one of the straps of my soft Chinese flats literally snapped off in Italics' hand. Cinderella - too full and tipsy to bend over to change out of her heels herself - lost a shoe, but she still had to walk across town to the hotel with Prince Charming. And she did so, swearing, hissing and spitting the entire way, walking with a limp despite not being hurt because it was the only way to keep her broken fucking shoe on as she crossed the icy wasteland of urban Scotland in winter.

(Long story short? I wasn't raised wearing heels. Fuck, I wasn't even raised WEARING SHOES. I'm nearly 30 and I can't walk in anything that's precariously elevated. Blame my hippie upbringing, my mystifyingly tiny, delicate feet and my fat, full-bodied ass which makes balancing on mystifyingly tiny, delicate feet next to impossible. (<- NO, SERIOUSLY. ITALICS HAS OFFICIALLY BANNED ME FROM USING LADDERS.))

(If I'm required to walk any distance in a pair of fucking heels - which, by the way, are the Devil's instrument made for the sole purpose of inflicting as much discomfort, pain and frustration on me as possible - I absolutely have to bring an extra pair of shoes (non-heels) that I can change into. <- JUST KEEP IN MIND THAT SHOES DON'T NECESSARILY MAKE A (SACRED) WHORE.)

We were scheduled to spend the day after (the 15th) in town because it had been something like two months since we were last out of the house. Lunch was planned, along with shopping (Italics promised me all of the half-priced Valentine's Day candy I wanted) and a movie, but we didn't even manage ticking off one box.

Both of us were worried about Shakey Bear. Other than being sick she can't drink by herself (we have to physically syringe liquid into her mouth), she has a hard time moving around and requires special food - baby food, or anything soft and easily broken down without much effort. The other two healthy rats - Wuzza and Choney - make the special care difficult; they eat all of Shakey's food and tip over her containers of juice.

I was anxious that the pair had managed to knock over the two ramekins of juice and eaten all of her food. Italics' mother, not entirely keen on rodents, couldn't be asked to check on, feed or hydrate Shakey. By noon on the 15th I was sick with the prospect that it'd be another six hours before I knew Shakey's state (which could've been TOO long for a sick rat who hadn't had anything to eat or drink in more than 12 hours) so instead of going out to enjoy the day, I checked out of the hotel in tears.

(Out of worry, but also out of disappointment. We rarely have a chance to "go out" - it had been two months since our last foray in - and when we finally made it we had to leave. I ACTUALLY MADE IT //IN TOWN// BUT WE DIDN'T MAKE IT INTO TOWN - HOW FUCKED UP IS THAT?)

(And the worst part? A week earlier? I spent Saturday crying because Italics' mother promised to take us in so I could hit the farmers' market, catch a movie, have lunch out and do some shopping but when the day came the trip got canceled because SHE WANTED TO DRINK A GLASS OF WINE WITH HER FRIENDS WHICH WOULD MAKE HER UNFIT TO DRIVE.)

(Internet, I've spent the last part of January and the entire month of February cleaning up after my mother-in-law. Without leaving the house I've straightened up after her, continuously cleaned rooms (on a daily fucking basis, sometimes twice a day) she dirtied, cooked for her, left her meals, and did her laundry. Despite all of the work, despite knowing in advance and agreeing to take me in, she still effectively canceled the one day off I scheduled for myself.)

(I was...upset. Italics found me on the lounge floor, sobbing, picking apart a faux leather box full of my in-laws' junk. After weeks of being trapped in the house and taking care of other people I found myself doing the same thing I had been doing for nearly a month on the day I was supposed to take it easy. My mother-in-law? In town - where I wanted to be - having a glass of wine as she lunched with her friends.)

(Italics promised me that he'd try to get us in later that week, but I told him it was futile and we wouldn't actually leave the house until the 14th (the dinner, hotel stay and day out had been scheduled way in advance) for one reason or another. I don't think he believed me, but it turned out to be true. (<- YOU DON'T NEED CLOUDS OF SULPHUR TO BE AN ORACLE.))

And it was a fucking good thing we came home, because upon inspection they HAD managed to knock over Shakey's juice (no telling the last time she had anything to drink) and they HAD eaten all of her food (no telling the last time she had anything to eat). I wanted to feel stupid and pessimistic for feeling so anxious and worried, but coming home to find your worst fears confirmed - and the thought that it might've been another six hours before even finding it out - sort've cemented the feeling that I'm imprisoned within this two bedroom bungalow.

(Italics offered "BUT WE CAN GO HOME, CHECK ON HER AND THEN GO BACK OUT!", but being the non-sulphur oracle that I am I knew that'd never materialize. I told him that I knew us too well - we'd come home, check on Shakey, take care of her, let the rats out while we checked on our internet stuff, find ourselves hungry so I'd have to make us something to eat and by that time we'd be too comfortable at home and wouldn't want to drop everything to get dressed up to go out again. He evidently agreed because he didn't bother disagreeing; we both know how we are.)

No lunch. No movie. No shopping. No half-priced Valentine's Day chocolate. Just the House, and everything that I do every day that gets undone by the end of the day. I went outside to make an offering, and when I opened the patio door my stone cock - THE stone cock from my outside Phallic Worship altar at the base of the Shango Tree - hurdled itself to the floor without ANY provocation, smashing one of my ritual plates below. Three days later I still have no fucking clue what "pushed" the heavy ass rock off the center of the table.

I retired for the day immediately after the incident; it didn't feel like the Universe wanted me up, anyway. I went to bed assuring myself that the following day - Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday - would be better. In retrospect, it was an overly optimistic act in futility which was rich coming from the crowned royalty of pessimism. After spending an entire day crying my heart out that I failed to, yet again, score a single day off from my routine life I was back to square one - cleaning the house. (This time for Ash Wednesday, when I sweep the Whore out of the house and make way for the coming of the Bride.)

I disinfected, bleached and polished the kitchen until it shined, straightened, dusted and cleared away clutter in the communal lounge, dusted, disinfected and straightened the computer room/office until anything even remotely out of place was dealt with (I finally filed a bunch of old, important papers, bagged and tagged various witch articles floating around and boxed old letters and postcards from friends and correspondents that I've replied to) and stripped the bedroom down to uncluttered furniture so I could dust, wash the window, polish the window ledge, disinfect our nightstands (and the closet, the bed frame, the switches, the electrical outlets, the door handles, window handles and hinges) and clean every article, statue, pen and ritual knickknack that adorns the four surfaces in the room.

Even though I was mostly going through the motions I go through EVERY FUCKING DAY I was making some serious progress. And I knew it wasn't the most fantastically awesome way to spend the last day as the Whore (especially since I undergo a vow of celibacy during the Lenten period), but I knew if I got the involved work done on Tuesday we could spend Wednesday, Ash Wednesday (the first day of Lent), focused more on the spiritual aspect of the early Spring cleaning.

The idea sounded *GREAT* until one of my ritual statues of Kadesh - the one that prominently displays my Czarina earrings on my nightstand altar - tumbled off my peacock tray and broke in four places. I cried for my broken Kadesh, who was now more broken than before. (I got her when I bought several other statues. Her auction suddenly disappeared; it turned out the seller accidentally knocked her over and broke her. When I won some of the statues he was selling he included Kadesh, in pieces, for free. Italics lovingly glued her back together for me and she's sat on my altar until Mardi Gras, 2010.)

When Kadesh broke I seriously very nearly threw in the towel. It was the second ritual item that inexplicably broke within 48 hours. I sat in the hollowed out bedroom and sobbed. It wasn't worth it. The loss of beloved material possessions (which, I know, shouldn't mean so much - things will come and go, and old loves will be replaced by new loves), the feeling of being trapped in a routine I've been shouldering for several years, anger at being "punished" for leaving the House and resentment for having to take several slaps in the face while I dutifully perform spiritual obligations that require tremendous amounts of work, effort and physical energy.

(HEY, YOU KNOW WHAT, UNIVERSE? I'M DOING THE SHIT //YOU'VE// REQUESTED. I'M DOING IT WITH MY HEART AND FUCKING SOUL, SOMETIMES WITH BLOOD RUNNING DOWN MY TORN AND BATTERED SKIN. TAKING THE EASY WAY OUT HAS NEVER BEEN A FUCKING OPTION FOR ME - I GIVE EVERYTHING I FUCKING HAVE. WHAT THE FUCK MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME? MY SANITY? MY HAPPINESS? MY WELL BEING? I'M DOING MY FUCKING BEST WITH WHAT I'VE BEEN GIVEN TO WORK WITH AND IT //STILL// DOESN'T FEEL LIKE IT'S GOOD ENOUGH.)

So, overwhelmed by stress, I cried on Valentine's Day. Then, the day after, I cried on the 15th in mournful disappointment when the one day off I tried to have in two months was canceled. On the 16th I wept as I grieved for my broken goddess, my broken Kadesh, who became an unexpected sacrifice as I fulfilled my spiritual obligations/duties.

The 17th saw me grinding my teeth in bitter resentment as I stripped the sheets off the bed (I left myself one physical task for Ash Wednesday - wash all the sheets and covers, flip the mattress and Febreeze anything that wasn't going to make it into the washing machine) and the anger eventually gave way to indignant tears because I WANTED to execute the bed washing ritual with joy and happiness, but there wasn't any love or light in my heart.

(I also found out, at the very beginning of my day on Ash Wednesday, that my favorite perfume - the one I wore on Valentine's Day, the ONLY perfume I wear from this particular perfume company - had been discontinued without any previous warning in January. Deleting the Whore's trademark perfume just in time for Lent? Way to kick off welcoming the Bride, Universe.)

I'm tired, World. I'm weary, Universe. But you keep asking for more, even when I feel paper thin. And because I'm a fighter I keep on fighting. (Pain, the Black Rabbit said, is the absence of death, and as long as I'm hurting I know that I'm still alive.) If I get broken, will I even know? Or will I keep clawing and dragging myself, unaware, driven by some sort of divinely internal need to just keep going, to just keep moving, to just keep fighting?

Creamy Nut Truffles

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If your past four days have been anything like mine, you're going to need an army of these truffles, too. (You can thank me for the recipe later.)

Valentine's Day 2010

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Italics' Valentine's Day gifts which I quickly assembled upon awakening. (<- One of the bonuses of us sleeping slightly staggered hours - he has a chance to leave gifts out for me once I've gone to bed, and I have a chance to leave gifts out for him once I wake up (and he's still in bed).)

This year I presented him a "recycled" bottle (we enjoyed the Amaretto two Christmases ago) of homemade bath salts (it's a warming mix meant to soothe aches and pains, prettied up with dried petals from flowers we've given to one another). Decorating the red organza bag is a milagro, and within it there's a heart-shaped sachet filled with lavender and a bottle of perfume wrapped in a vintage embroidered handkerchief.

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Yesterday, when Italics said he needed to go to the shops to "get a few things" I laughed (at him). When he returned (mostly) empty handed he apologized in advance for the lame gift(s) and formally announced "WE CAN GET YOU SOMETHING IN TOWN TOMORROW OR MONDAY". The promise was made official by an I.O.U. in my Valentine's Day mug this morning.

(There's a reason why I didn't wait until the last day to get him a card and gift; there's ALSO a reason why I didn't remind him not to wait until the last day to get me a card and gift - I get to pick my own gift in town, AND I get to scoop up half-priced Valentine's Day candy at the same time. (YES, I AM A CRAFTY, MANIPULATIVE WITCH.))

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The Horned God/dess was in my Valentine's Day chocolate this morning.

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To keep up without our gluten-free diet we bypassed buying chocolate to give, and instead made chocolate to give. Last night Italics and I made the Frangelico truffle mix and this morning, while my hair dried, I rolled out the truffles into bite-sized balls and dusted them with a crunchy cocoa coating.

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Usually I LOVE taking pictures of my culinary adventures, but today's a bit of a rush because I still need to dry my hair (naturally), set it in curlers, style it, apply copious amounts of make-up (I'm going with black and gold to compliment my black halter dress and gold fertility goat jewelry), pack (we're spending the night in a hotel) and get dressed for tonight's romantic meal so these photos aren't as involved as they normally are.

Tiger's Metal Tiger Ribeye

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After several years filled with empty promises, Tiger finally got his steak. (Ancestors, friends, relatives and Papa get fed at their own place setting, anything remotely animal-like gets fed on the floor.) I coincidentally made the offering on the eve of the Chinese New Year (2010 is the year of metal tiger) which was TOTALLY unplanned or premeditated. (<- My mother-in-law bought a steak she didn't eat, and when it began emanating interesting odors I tactfully intervened for spiritual profit.)

My proper Tiger fetish is in our bedroom - a faux tiger skin throw (with head). When we first got him he adorned the bed while we slept (one of his front paws always managed to migrate to my cunt, covering it protectively (<- I've had "spirit sex" problems so I employ Tiger and Chippy - and even Papa to some extent - to keep unwanted nocturnal visitors at bay)), but straightening out five levels of sheets and coverings (fitted sheet, duvet, loose sheet, coffin cover and tiger) every fucking day got old, quick, and Tiger was moved to the top of our closet altar.

When retiring last night I had to remove the steak from the top of the closet because the scent was absolutely noxious. WOW, HE LOOKS PISSED, I thought as I held the ceramic tray with the rotting ribeye, unsure if I should take it away, but sure that I wouldn't be able to sleep in a room that carried the stench of putrefying meat. Then Italics appeared and suddenly said "WOW, HE LOOKS PISSED THAT YOU TOOK THE STEAK" to me I could only roll my eyes.

To placate my irritated large feline (Tiger's more aggressive and pissy, Shango Man (a jaguar) is more confused and laid back) I unearthed his statue and created a mini-altar on the ground in the backroom, returning the wrapped steak and giving him an offering of fresh whipping cream. After I publish this entry I'm going to bust open his energy drink (appropriately named "Tiger") and add it to his spread to ensure he's sufficiently buzzed for his reigning year.

HAPPY YEAR OF METAL TIGER, TIGER!

Workin' Her Glamour

There's an egg yolk whipped with olive oil and lemon essential oil in my hair, a garlic and oat mask plastered all over my face and a silver-plated last rites anointment vessel sitting on the edge of the tub filled with extra virgin olive oil (my preferred shaving lubricant) - can I get a "OH SHIT, THE WITCH IS WORKIN' HER GLAMOUR!"?

(Italics is taking me out for Valentine's Day, so I'm getting the physical grunt work (i.e., shaving, conditioning and shaping my eyebrows) done this evening in order to focus solely on hair and make-up tomorrow (I take these things V. SERIOUS, THANK YOU). <- HE MAY OR MAY NOT LIVE TO REGRET IT; I'M PULLING OUT MY SILK STOCKINGS //AND// MY GOLD FERTILITY GOAT JEWELRY. IF IT'S A WITCH HE WANTS FOR THE 14TH, IT'S A WITCH HE GETS.)

That Sort've Witch

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One of these days (most likely after I finish up with my Bride’s Day/Imbolc shit) I’ll sit down and tell you all about my first foray into haruspicy (entrails reading).

(OH, HONEY, I’M //THAT// SORT'VE WITCH.)

Crathes Walk, Feb. 10th

Desperate for some fresh air and a change of scenery Italics and I hit a local castle (Crathes) for a short walk a couple of days ago. I had originally intended to engage in some V. SRS PHOTOGRAPHY, but it turned out to be way too fucking cold to wander around with exposed skin. For the moment the tripod's been shelved, but the second it begins warming up we'll wake it up from its winter hibernation.

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Standing on a stone balcony that overlooks the walled gardens.

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How gorgeous is that winter blue sky?

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Within Crathes' famous walled gardens.

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Technically out of the walled garden (it's the "Woodland Garden", I think), but the area's enclosed by fencing. Also, SNOWDROPS!

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Back within the walled gardens. I can't remember what's the deal with the large stone bowls; I'll have to see if there's any information provided by the feature the next time we visit.

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We're standing in the garden that the stone balcony overlooked.

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Another perspective of the castle.

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Italics took this picture in a parking lot in Banchory. It SEEMS like there's a monument topping the hill, but the distance made it difficult to judge.

Magic Thread

BEHOLD, MY ENCHANTED, MAGIC THREAD! (NOW WHO AMONGST YOU DARES QUESTION MY DIVINE, GOD-LIKE POWER?)

January, 2009

I usually manage to upload and write about 70% of the photos I take, but occasionally an adventure or two manages to slip through my fingers. To give the forgotten images and stories their chance to shine I decided I'd gather all of the loose ends and consolidate them in a monthly entry.

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Smooth, creamy and melt-in-your mouth golden.

(Pssst! It's goose fat, you know.)

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First full moon of the new year (Cold Moon) welcomed by THE NOTHING. (I love the tiny star way above the expanding darkness.)

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I appropriated an otherwise abandoned plum tree in the backyard and named it THE SHANGO TREE. To freak out the natives (aka MY IN-LAWS) I've begun wedging oversized bones in the branches so they'll get white and weather beaten. (WE'LL SEE HOW LONG IT LASTS UNTIL MY FATHER-IN-LAW DECIDES TO UNDECORATE MY BONE TREE.)

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When Beh was alive she's sit and stare blankly for hours at a time and neither Italics nor I knew what the fuck she was up to. It wasn't until recently - very, very recently - that Italics discovered that "fixed staring" was a symptom of a brain tumor. (Beh was diagnosed with "a brain thing" around May and passed quite suddenly in early June.)

We found this incense burning frog in the local health food store when Christmas shopping on Winter Solstice and couldn't resist its Bok Chek stare.

(BEH WAS ALWAYS CHEWING UP THE FUCKING CARPET, HENCE ALL OF THE CHEWED UP FUCKING CARPET.)

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Chark Park eating part of a buttermilk oatmeal muffin.

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How I spent sick day number three. (I MEAN, SERIOUSLY, HOW DOES THIS SHIT HAPPEN IN A HOUSEHOLD OF FOUR ADULTS AND GO TOTALLY UNNOTICED AND UNCLEANED UNTIL I DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?)

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Shakey Bear testing every pea to ensure they're all top quality.

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Shakey and Shoney looking like pea gremlins.

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It's an hour of back and forth, and constantly changing positions.

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Sun rising through the trees leading to the disturbed children's home.

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Hezbollah contemplates the garden.

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Graffiti on the door of the disturbed children's home. (I'M GOING BACK WITH A RED MARKER AND TEACHING THOSE ASBO KIDS A LESSON. <- LOL, IN GRAMMAR AND SPELLING, ANYWAY.)

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It was originally used as a home for disturbed children, but also had a stint of being an orphanage, I'm told.

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"Wank" has been scribbled on the lower left window, and "wanker" on the lower right.

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Through the trees you can see how the windows and doors have been boarded up.

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When we amble down to the semi-local cemetery (it's about a miles walk, or so) we pass a now abandoned (but still kept) home for disturbed children.

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Pac-Burger at T.G.I. Friday's (in Scotland).

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A piece of streusel topped summer fruits buttermilk coffeecake (with orange flower water!) discreetly drizzled with a Cointreau & summer fruits happy ending (LOLOLOLOL) made for my mother-in-law's birthday.

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A piece of streusel topped summer fruits buttermilk coffeecake (with orange flower water!) made for my mother-in-law's birthday.

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An impromptu dinner:

A thick cut, boneless pork chop stuffed with a feta cheese, cream cheese, sundried tomato, fresh basil and black pepper filling. Flavored with generic Italian seasoning before wrapping up in three slices of Oscar Meyer bacon. Pan fried, and then quickly roasted in the oven with a bit of white wine, mushrooms and vine-ripe tomatoes.

Verdict? Worth remembering.

(Picture snapped after dinner. (No time for arty photographs!))

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We started off the weekend on the right foot.

(And he even rolled up his Oscar Meyer bacon in a pancake.) (Maybe in another 10 years I'll be able to convince him to drench it all with maple syrup.)

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...even classier? I went to the movies the day after wearing a ripped Punisher t-shirt and a wrench necklace. (SO...DAMN...CLASSY.)

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A cock to ride in T.G.I. Friday's (in Scotland).

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Fuck, what a nightmare. This is a photo of the manometry monitor that I had to carry around last year for twenty-four hours when I was undergoing a battery of medical tests to figure out what was wrong with my stomach. (The short version? Hiatal hernia, weak stomach muscles, GERD, acid reflux and a broken stomach valve. They don't know how it happened, or how to fix it.)

It's not pictured in this photo, but a spaghetti-sized tube/wire had been fed up my nose, down my throat and into my stomach so the monitor could record my gut's activity. (I had to eat, sleep, bathe and live with the chord for an entire day - every fucking time I swallowed the wire yanked like a motherfucker causing the tube to jerk, jump and tighten in my body.)

LOL SIDE NOTE: They had to postpone this particular test because I admitted to the doctor that I was partially stoned. (She claimed the data would be "inconclusive" since I was under the influence of a relaxing drug. Pfft.) Thankfully, she thought I was cute and/or funny and simply rescheduled the monitor insertion without any sort of lecture. (Thank fucking God I didn't mention I was high to the medical stuff who performed my endoscopy because that's SERIOUSLY an experience I can totally live without undergoing again.)

Imbolc's Oatmeal Soda Bread

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Here's how well you can know someone, but not know them at all: after 13 years of being together (Italics and I hooked up when we were both 16, we're 29 now) it's only been in the last several months that either of us realized that Italics' body can't handle gluten.

For a Ukrainian homemaker whose favorite past time is baking bread from scratch the revelation came with a mixed bag of emotions (notably relief (Italics has been a lot less depressed, physically sick and has more energy than he's had in years), and then exquisite despair - my husband, the UNTIL DEATH DO US PART guy, the partner who I said "YES, FOREVER!" to can't touch the one thing Ukrainian women are internationally known for working with, and what makes food even worth eating - gluten).

Even worse than a Ukie woman's husband not being able to eat wheat or anything gluten laced? A Ukie woman whose autistic reaction to things lessened once she partially adopted a gluten-free diet. (Apparently gluten, dairy and I think something else - excessive sugar? - can exacerbate autism, and once I stopped eating REAL bread and REAL pasta and REAL COOKIES Italics noticed a drastic improvement in my mood.)

As much as I want to run around the house screaming "NO! NO! NO!" to the thought of a mostly gluten-free diet (I MEAN, HAVE YOU HAD ANY GLUTEN-FREE BREAD? 98% OF THE SHIT OUT THERE TASTES LIKE //IT DOESN'T HAVE A SOUL//) I've had to suck it up for the sake of Italics' health (both physical and mental). Within the past few weeks it's become pretty official - there's a bag of plain gluten-free flour where the plain white flour once sat, and that bag's been replaced several times.

The only limitation I've really found is making bread - PROPER YEAST BREAD - with gluten-free flour. (It was a Thanksgiving disaster. Well, "disaster" for a gluten junkie who really, really wanted fluffy buttermilk blue ribbon rolls for dinner.) Even the blends for making yeast bread leave A-FUCKING-LOT to be desired; we attempted a batch of gluten-free white bread using the recipe ON THE BACK OF THE FUCKING BAG OF FLOUR and we ended up with a homemade brick in a red silicon loaf pan.

After two failed attempts at "yeast" breads I took a step back from baking loaves to work on simple basics/staples of everyday cooking to get a feel of what gluten-free flour will and won't do. Will: thicken sauces, make pancakes, make Yorkshire pudding, make cookies, make crepes, make brownies, make cakes, make dumplings, make potato pancakes and make "quick" breads. Won't: make yeast based breads. (<- Despite the seeming ability to do almost everything else, the one "won't" still manages to inflame some ire.)

For me, sitting down and breaking bread at a celebratory meal is hella important. Regardless of my health I always bake something fitting for the sabbat/festival out of respect for my ancestors whose livelihood depended on wheat.

(Fuck, I've even started ritually GROWING MY OWN WHEAT for veneration purposes, which is CRAZY FUCKED UP when you consider that I'm effectively "worshiping" the one thing my husband's body can't process. Although, in terms of MAGIC and WITCHCRAFT, it's CRAZY FUCKED UP FITTING since the divine king is wheat and the agricultural year - resurrected/reborn at Spring, harvested/killed in Fall. I can't eat rabbit for spiritual reasons, but Italics was MADE to not be able to eat wheat.)

To ensure that Italics and I could break bread together we baked two different kinds for Bride's Day/Imbolc - Bride's Braid (gluten-rich) and an oatmeal soda bread (gluten-free, sort've, since oats can be a bit "iffy" to some, but Italics seems to be able to process it along with spelt). The soda bread came out beautifully, although it turned out to be a little too sweet to be eaten with a corned beef dinner (it's gorgeous toasted with melted butter and jam, though).

Nature's Fridge

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Nature's undomesticated refrigeration unit = outside Scotland in winter. (Pictured above: leftover creme brulee in a Tupperware box sitting outside on the patio steps because the fifteen foot walk to the detached garage was too fucking long. <- I EXCEL AT BEING LAZY IN WAYS YOU CAN'T EVEN IMAGINE.)

Winter Drive, Feb. 4th

A winter drive in Scotland:

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The ORIGINAL plan was to hit Monymusk, but I became willfully distracted the second we stumbled across Scottish explorers' crack - a brown sign (the color of SITE OF INTEREST) with the word "CHURCH" in all capital letters. After a brief private castle, church, graveyard, graveyard and graveyard (YES, THREE SEPARATE GRAVEYARDS) diversion we eventually found our way to our original destination.

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Cluny kirkyard, complete with an impressively rotund mausoleum. (I'm absolutely desperate to see this graveyard in Spring, so expect more pictures of this cemetery in the distant future.)

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Cluny kirk, opposite the kirkyard. I read that it was either built in 1798 or 1804 (two different sources quote two different dates), but it's been "greatly altered" since construction. The church's site mentioned that the kirk above was built over a much older church that serviced the countryside.

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I don't know if this over-the-top stable/farm building is still in the possession of Cluny castle, but it was definitely part of the spread at one point.

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Finally, Monymusk (with Bennachie's (<- where this region's Old Woman/Cailleach lives) imposing figure above the treeline).

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Pitfichie Castle. If I remember right they tore off the roof in the late 1700s which caused it to fall into ruin. Someone intervened when they wanted to bulldoze the castle, although I don't know how long it sat before they began rebuilding. Construction ended in the mid-1990s which means a huge chunk of the castle you now see is relatively new.

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Italics having a slash while I wait in the car (while inconspicuously taking pictures).

Frangelico Crème Brûlée

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Whenever I prepare a festive meal that celebrates a phase of the agricultural year I try and keep two things in mind when planning the menu: what we're observing (and why), and how I can stay "on topic" by using seasonal food. (I know it might SEEM trivial, but our actions on the day - including what we consume and give thanks for - is supposed to reflect a very specific time in the year, and if you aren't focusing (or even incorporating) what was traditionally on-hand during the celebration, then you really aren't connecting with what the festivities were/are all about.)

Bride's Day - Imbolc, to most - is the first whisper of Spring during the Dark year. In a way, to me, it's Winter's first Harvest. Here in northeast Scotland the only evidence of the warmth to come are the pregnant ewes out in frosty fields. Right now the cloven-footed mothers-to-be have begun lactating, and soon they'll disappear from their brown and gray pastures to give birth to the next generation indoors. (<- Which, HOLY FUCK, I actually GOT TO SEE, but I'll save my pre-Imbolc pheasant entrails reading story for later.)

Imbolc, perhaps more so than any of the other sabbats in the Wheel of the Year, is white here. It's the pristine, crispy white of the Cailleach's bleached plaid that still blankets the earth. It's the dingy, ivory white of the sheeps' gnarled wool, and the color of the nutritious milk they've begun to weep. It's the unblemished white wedding dress of the Virgin Bride who, after spending Winter as a widow, whore and hag, has slowly begun to shake off age and death in preparation to become a young maiden again. (And, in more southernly extremes of the UK, I'm sure it's the awe-inspiring, living white of the very first snowdrops of the season - Spring's first flowers for the sacred marriage between Bride and the divine king.)

Milk, and all things creamy, thick and white (<- ME ATTEMPTING TO BE SUBTLE, ALTHOUGH PROBABLY FAILING MISERABLY) dominate my Imbolc landscape, so it's only fitting to finish our celebratory meal with a dessert that venerates the secreted life force. After a filling dinner of homemade corned beef, potatoes, root vegetables, fried oatcakes (skirlie) and bread we always finish off our Bride's Day ritual meal with an alcoholic-infused happy ending (<- HEE!): crème brûlée. (Do I know how to celebrate lactation, or what?)

Burn Her, Kill Her

REASON #78,437 WHY THE NEIGHBORS THINK I'M A FUCKING WEIRDO: I JUST SPENT SEVERAL MINUTES STANDING IN FRONT OF THE KITCHEN WINDOW HUFFING THE SCENT OF THE SMOKED HAM HOCK I WAS GETTING READY TO THROW IN A CASSEROLE. ("AND ONCE I SAW HER THROUGH THEIR KITCHEN WINDOW AND SHE WAS //SMELLING// A PIECE OF MEAT, BUT NOT TO DETERMINE WHETHER IT WAS SAFE FOR CONSUMPTION...WITCH! WITCH! SHE'S A WITCH! BURN HER, KILL HER, SHE'S A WITCH!")

Caught Up w/the Bride

With an exception of providing links to a few journal entries (SPRING W/RANDOM INTERVALS OF WINTER and HELLO, OLD LADY) I think that's me caught up with Bride's Day (Imbolc) 2009.

In the next few days I'll be posting this year's pictures, accompanying recipes and break the celebration down into profanity riddled chunks of partially caps lock text, but if you can't wait that long to get your fix you can always plunder the CAILLEACH and BRIDE sections of my archive for past entries regarding the Bride and the Old Woman.

Bride's Brined Brisket, 2009

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Brining beef to make corned beef for Bride's Day (Imbolc) coincided with some medical testing. Since I had a tube up my nose and down my throat into my stomach monitoring the tension, pressure and pH of my stomach I passed on the metaphorical reigns to Italics.

Pictured above is a spice mix comprised of cracked peppercorns, ground allspice, dried thyme, smoked paprika and bay leaves. Italics first massaged the spices into the brisket log, and then followed it with about 1/4 cup of table salt.

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Italics rubbing the brining mixture into the brisket.

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Italics punching the brining mixture into the brisket.

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Italics shakaing the brining mixture into the brisket. (At the very bottom of this picture you can see part of the monitor I was wearing resting on the counter top.)

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Anointed, massaged and ready for the brining bucket.

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The recipe said to use two pots and some bricks. We used a skank ass garage bucket primarily used to clean the cars, some towels, a plastic bag, a cooking pot worth shit and a huge ass stone I stole from the front yard. (HEY, IT //WANTED// TO COME INTO THE HOUSE, OKAY? OTHERWISE IT WOULDN'T HAVE ROLLED OUT OF THE DIRT MOUND IT PREVIOUSLY LIVED IN FOR NEARLY 20 YEARS.)

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Clearly our culinary sophistication is off the fucking charts.

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I was going to indulge in some CHILDHOOD HYMN PARODY ("AWAY IN THE MANGER, NO CRIB FOR ITS BED, THE SIX POUND BEEF BRISKET, LAID DOWN ITS SWEET HEAD...") but I'm just too damn tired. (Knock yourselves out, though.)

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The brine's been rinsed off, the brisket's been patted dry and now all we need to do is boil it for about three hours.

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Not glaringly corned beef pink, but the taste made up for the lack of ruby red grapefruit color.

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There's no point in hiding it - this is clearly just a gratuitous fat shot taken for, and by, a fat enthusiast.

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Seven days of flipping, seven days of darting out in the cold and wet to turn over a six pound piece of meat sitting in a brine solution in the detached garage.

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There's the pink I was looking for...

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Seven days worth of brining, three hours worth of boiling and nearly two weeks worth of planning.

...it was worth every second.

Bride's Day Sex, 2009

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I wish I could remember more details about the pair of pictures, but all I can vaguely remember is BRIDE'S DAY and BREAD MAKING SEX. (I even remember being stoned out of my mind and laughing "NOW THAT WAS SOME /REAL/ WITCHCRAFT!" over something, but I can't recall anything beyond the punchline.)

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Bride's Sabbat Cakes, 2009

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Sabbat cakes started on the solar eclipse (Jan. 26, 2009) and finished on Imbolc (Feb. 2, 2009). "Solar" additions: dried grated pumpkin, pumpkin pie spice, gingersnap crumbs, toasted pecans, Hennessy and various bodily fluids (menstrual blood, semen, and vaginal secretions).

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Lunar crescent? TOO MUCH EFFORT.

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Cut out, sprinkled with vanilla sugar and ready to bake.

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Cut out, sprinkled with vanilla sugar and ready to bake.

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A week worth of effort.

PS: This entry is kind've sort've related to ON SCHEDULE which is buried deep in Graveyard Dirt's archive.

Bride's Day, Then and Now

I have an entire folder of Bride's Day (Imbolc) pictures from this year, but I'm still too tired to sit down and pick through the contents. (The build-up this year was frenzied, and we managed to accomplish WAY, WAY more on the day than expected. <- ITALICS MADE US LUNCH! WE BAKED TWO KINDS OF BREAD! I WATCHED A NEIGHBOR DIE WHILE MAKING CREME BRULEE! SEX, OF THE SHOWER, ORAL AND ANAL KIND! WE CLEANED! I CREATED AN ALTAR! WE MADE BRIDE'S BED! THE OLD WOMAN VISITED! WE FINALLY COOKED THE BRISKET THAT HAD BEEN BRINING FOR ALMOST A WEEK!)

While I wait for my energy levels to recover (energy levels of the mental kind, anyway) I thought I'd pluck some seasonally appropriate pictures from LAST year to fill the void. (<- The celebration of lactating void!) Once I feel a little more like myself I'll sort the images from this year and better explain the rituals, menu and reasons behind Bride's Day in this house.

Bride's Braid, 2009

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Three different types of bread which will be halved - once risen - and each half will be braided together to form two separate loaves. Starting from left: cornmeal, white flour and whole wheat and molasses.

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Three different types of bread which will be halved - once risen - and each half will be braided together to form two separate loaves. Starting from left: whole wheat and molasses, white flour and cornmeal.

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Risen once, deflated, rolled out, braided, shaped, risen again and now ready to bake.

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Risen once, deflated, rolled out, braided, shaped, risen again and now ready to bake.

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Risen once, deflated, rolled out, braided, shaped, risen again and now ready to bake.

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One of the fucking fuses has gone which means I CAN'T TAKE MY SEMI-ARTY FOOD PICTURES. Until I get better natural light (OR UNTIL I GET SO FUCKING DESPERATE I ARRANGE THE LOAVES IN THE EFFING BATHTUB) this picture of the finished bread will have to do.

(YES, IT IS, IN FACT, AS GOOD AS IT LOOKS. DARE I SAY EVEN //TRIPLE// BETTER THAN IT LOOKS SINCE THERE ARE THREE DIFFERENT BREADS PRESENT IN THAT ONE LOAF.)

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Sliced and ready to serve.

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Fluorescent light doesn't lend any sort of kindness to photography, but when you're nocturnal in Scotland (especially during winter) you either suck it up, or get off your lazy ass and create some sort of lightbox. (Guess which option I've been engaging in for nearly two years?)

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Fluorescent light doesn't lend any sort of kindness to photography, but when you're nocturnal in Scotland (especially during winter) you either suck it up, or get off your lazy ass and create some sort of lightbox. (Guess which option I've been engaging in for nearly two years?)

Bride's Day, 2010

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Bride, return to Us and lift the Cailleach's white plaid from the earth so We may be young again.

Merry Lactating!

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How do you know when you've become a boring ass grown-up? When you realize you're just too fucking full for dessert. (Poor homemade Frangelico creme brulee, you'll have to wait until tomorrow!)

Bride's Day Eve

It's Bride's Day (Imbolc) Eve. Tomorrow I'll be welcoming the Bride into our home for a homecooked meal (see menu list within), we'll weather predict together and later in the evening I'll turn down a bed for Her so She can stay the night. Since the majority of my Imbolc will be spent in the kitchen (although I'm hoping to sneak out of the house for a snow laced walk to see the local lactating ewes) I did the housecleaning today to get it straight out of the way.

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I honestly for real can't remember the last time the room was //this// clean. (Because it's a secondary room it's the default dumping room.) I'll be making Bride's bed on the leather couch, and decorating the coffee table with some of my ritual linens. (<- It'll be a pretty basic altar: my miniature cast iron pot belly chimney, and a fancy lady-like table setting with Her meal laid out for Her).

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I love this room and already rue the day Italics' parents will "rediscover" it. It's south facing so it's gorgeously balmy in summer and cozily warm during winter. I've lost count how many days I've spent lying naked on a sheepskin rug, high, sunbathing in the light while listening to old The Sisters of Mercy records. (I get excited when I see the room this clean. When I see any open, clean space I feel motivated to do shit, and get shit /done/.)

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The backroom's entertainment unit. Because we're desperate for space the record player has to play witch's closet as the last batch of 2009's wildcrafted goods finish drying.

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The very last of my organic/wildcrafted projects I need to wrap up. The red berries are dried rowan berries from our tree outside, the long tray's filled with almost dried rose-lemon scented geranium leaves (off my indoor plant), the small trinket dish of seeds are the wheat kernels pulled out of the pheasant's crop when I butchered him (there's bits of his feathers, skin and fat mixed in with the seeds so when I plant them in the Spring the wheat plants will emerge from his remains), the small white bowl is filled with crossroad dirt that's so fucking concrete I need to moisten it to break it down more easily and the large wooden bowl is full of the nuts used on/within our kitchen table Christmas centerpiece that we're going to split open and offer to the local wildlife.

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Once I brought my Stone Cock to life I promised him that he'd spend summers outdoors on his phallic worship altar, but during winter he'd be brought in from the cold until Spring had returned. He came indoors the first day it snowed this Winter, and then I bathed him, dried him and glorified him on my succulent altar. (Stone Cock and Harvest Home yam are TOTALLY BFF.)

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Part of Harvest neatly bottled and jared up. Let me see if I can actually make any of this shit out...

I see black currants from the graveyard, 2008's tobacco, dried pot leaves, dried pot flowers and pollen, various chili peppers, lavender buds, wheat collected from local fields, green acorns, Muriel's necromancy incense, outside backyard bones, strips of sycamore bark (off what'll eventually become my Spring broom), plum pits from last year's plum harvest, gun shots out of dead rabbits and a bottle of homemade raspberry vinegar.

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Bride's Day dinner: corned beef, vegetables boiled in corned beef liquid, dill potatoes, skirlie, oatmeal soda bread, Bride's braid bread and, for dessert, homemade creme brulee. (I loathe my handwriting, isn't it awful and totally unspectacular?)

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I was tremendously lucky to find this in tact. (Wishbones are BIG juju for me. Normally they're destroyed due to various forms of cooking (see below), so when I manage to find a wishbone in one piece I extract it VERY carefully and dry the motherfucker out for an emergency.) I spatchcocked our chicken yesterday and popped its chest to break the breast bone so the bone should've snapped along with the ribs and sternum, but it didn't. (SCORE!)

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Candle wax reading.

Italian Hazelnut Cake

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I've shown, so I might as well tell...

Jan 23-30

When you spend a huge chunk of your year being nocturnal in Scotland you develop a REALLY intimate relationship with on-line shopping. Some people might've noticed I'm forever buying shit - I'm forever buying shit because we almost never leave the house (no, seriously; I've gone for 4-5 months without even crossing the threshold of the door) which means I never get a chance to buy completely trivial things like novelty ankle socks and bottles of glitter nail polish.

Packages arrive on an almost daily basis. Sometimes I get cards, postcards and surprise parcels from friends. Sometimes the small boxes and padded envelopes are items I bought from Ebay or Etsy or Amazon (as either gifts for myself, or gifts for Italics I then hide away for later). I know that in the end everything - no matter how cheap it is/was/is - still adds up. But! But at least my pocket money's going to something solid and long lasting (i.e., the vintage and antique pieces I pick up for ritual or magic work) rather than a plastic bag from Wal-Mart or Target full of diet soda, potato chips and candy.

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Metal cookie cutters from Ukraine! There are 10 shapes in all - pine tree, horse, mushroom, hedgehog, fish, heart, butterfly, squirrel, owl and rabbit - but the one that sold the lot to me was the cep (porcini mushroom). (Being from the old country my grandparents continued their mushroom hunting habits in the new country. I spent my autumns with my grandmother hunting down the elusive ceps growing beneath local pines. <- An activity that I can properly initiate Italics into since we now have a car.)

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More reading material for a witch who doesn't read! The cooking magazine's a birthday subscription from my friend, F. (I haven't had a chance to even look at the December or February issue, so the first thing I did with the March edition was tear open the plastic covering and flip through the pages. <- I'VE ALREADY MENTALLY CIRCLED SOME OF THE RECIPES!)

The Lent and Easter pamphlet is this year's Aid to the Church in Need catalog. Last year I bought a gorgeous Blessed Mother/Holy Virgin icon candle from them, and two Alpha and Omega Easter vigil candles. (Both eventually made it into 2009's Spring / Hieros Gamos / Easter / Great Rite / Sacred Marriage altar. The icon candle was set on top of our skull mug, and the Alpha and Omega candle decorated one of our Easter babka.)

I'm hella embarrassed to admit that despite all of my magical exploits I don't have any experience or working knowledge in some witchcraft basics, like making your own effing candles. 2010 is the year I officially have to get over my reluctance to start/learn anything new in the off chance that the first item I produce isn't mindblowingly amazing spectacular. (My need for things being perfect outweighs my desire to learn. Seriously.)

The Candlemaker's Companion is the most highly rated/reviewed candle making book on Amazon UK, and when Italics caught me sizing it up and THEN saw the price (I think it was something like £1.47) he encouraged me to nab it. So, candle making book down, now to find a good book on creating lotions, tinctures and salves and get a pysanky (batik-like decorated Ukrainian eggs) kit to begin learning (and practicing) the ancient art of my ancestors.

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At the beginning of the mail week Italics handed over a small package from Amazon Germany. "WTF? I SWEAR NEITHER OF THE BOOKS I BOUGHT WERE COMING FROM FUCKING GERMANY!" (<- In addition to the candle making book I also grabbed Into the World of the Dead: Astonishing Adventures in the Underworld - I KNOW, I KNOW, IT LOOKS LIKE CHTHONIC CHEESE, BUT THERE WAS A COPY FOR ONLY //£0.49//!)

It was neither of my books, it was a Winter/Christmas/New Year/Yule present - a sterling silver scent locket (I love the centralized tiny heart in a completely humiliating girlish sort've way) - from my beloved friend, F. (I've already told her that if she can't find a suitable husband I'll get Italics to convert to Islam so she can marry him. <- THE JOKE'S ON //HER//, BECAUSE I'M PLANNING TO BE THE DOMESTICATED HOUSE ONE, WHICH MEANS SHE WOULD HAVE TO CONTINUE HER PROFESSIONAL CAREER TO SUPPORT THE FAMILY. HAH!)

(Thanks to my strict code of collecting I never kept any perfume that I liked but didn't work on me. I might have a few stashed away, somewhere, but it seems like I'm going to have to revisit some old territory in order to refind scents that broke my heart.)

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A few years ago I bought Italics a one-legged demon/imp/devil brass toasting fork, and it turned out to be gateway cutlery (of the toasting kind!). We've used it for a few years now as our fire poker during ritualized fires, but it spends most of its time either in my witch's work bucket (a middle eastern cauldron that fits my broom, goat whip/riding crop, and covered machete) in the bedroom, or resting in the clutches of Italics' wooden fire crab (we rest our blessed logs and fire pokers on him).

Last year I presented Italics a St. George slaying the Dragon toasting fork (to us the icon's a visual representation of Italics' constant struggle with with my autism/monster self; I kind've sort've made St. George his patron saint to give him courage, strength and, most importantly, hope) as a gift, and this year we jointly added the Devil's Bridge toasting fork (pictured above) to our collection.

(I was all "OH, HEY, THIS SORT'VE LOOKS LIKE AN OLD TIMEY SOUVENIR WHERE THEY STAMP THE NAME OF THE PLACE ON THE ITEM" on the day it arrived. As it turns out, it's an old timey souvenir from Devil's Bridge, Ceredigion.)

(Why DEVIL'S bridge? Legend says that the bridge was built by the Devil as it was too difficult for mortal people to build. The Devil built the bridge in return for the soul of the first life to cross the bridge, but the Devil was tricked by an old woman who threw bread onto the bridge and her dog followed, thus becoming the first life to cross the new bridge. Oh, Wikipedia, <3!)

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Even though I should be focused on Bride's Day (Imbolc) and the Spring Equinox, I'm already looking ahead towards our wedding. (Outfit? Decided. Maenad, complete with a (fake) tiger skin pelt, white tunic, greco spirals and a crown made of ivy, cedar and whatever other greenery I can find during the time of year. <- I can't tell if it's a REALLY GOOD idea, or REALLY BAD idea since my proposed wedding dress sets a theme to the year, which we normally don't do.)

I grabbed this Holy Land set from a seller in Israel. It comes with a bundle of 33 candles (wrapped in an image of the Resurrected Christ, which is hella fitting since the divine king is, essentially, resurrected himself for another agricultural year), a handmade olive wood crucifix, an icon (I requested an icon of the Blessed Mother/Virgin Mary but they wrote back saying they didn't have any, although, weirdly enough, when my set arrived She was there; I'm PRETTY sure that this is Annunciation (when an angel informed Her that She was knocked up), and it's STUPIDLY fitting since it came just in time for Imbolc (which I consider the time of mothers, milk and new life).)

There's also vials containing olive oil from Bethlehem (lubricant to be used when we consummate our marriage), holy earth from the hills of Jerusalem (I haven't decided how I'll use this, I might mix it into the soil of my two dragon's blood trees), holy water from the Jordan River (add it to bath water? add it to the intoxicant punch I'll be making? offer it as a gift to the tentacle monster?) and frankincense from Jerusalem (to be burned during the wedding/consummating ceremony).

The candles are laughable smaller than I anticipated (barely double the size of your standard set of single colored birthday candles), but the store sells a bundle of 33 separate, so I'm hoping that these in the set are the scaled down versions. (I really, really wanted to burn the same candles during our wedding ceremony that people would be using in the Holy Land for Easter. Right now, by the looks of it, it seems more likely I'll be lighting my future birthday cake up with the Resurrected Christ candles instead of illuminating the "temple" for our marriage.)

Barrel of Laughs

Waking up in the morning when you know you have a sick and/or dying pet on your hands is an ordeal and a half. Your urge is to rush the room to ensure they're still with you, but you don't want to leave the bed. (Because if something DID happen while you were sleeping you don't want to know about it.) If you're me then every morning is an "OH, GOD, I'M GOING TO THROW UP" morning.

Last night, just before bed, I masturbated for Shakey Bear. Although, it wasn't the USUAL "nightcap" I'm accustomed to just before sleep (directing energy requires a little more effort than the lazy affair I engage in almost nightly). Instead of lying I sit up (practically straight up), keep my eyes open throughout the duration of the "work", chant a simple phrase that sums up my intentions and, most importantly, I don't allow myself to daydream, fantasize or visual anything OTHER than what I'm focused on achieving (in last night's case, healing vibes for our little Rubber Robber (she LOVES chewing on anything remotely rubber-like)).

This morning I didn't go straight through to the computer room/office. Bracing myself for the worst I first went to the bathroom, then turned on the kettle to boil water, then lazily wandered into the backroom to admire the full moon casting light across freshly fallen snow. I then returned to the kitchen to make my first cup of the day (Earl Grey), grabbed several spoons and a jar of baby food (when rats lose control over their hands they have a hard time eating since they can't grip food anymore; that's where baby food steps in) and it was only when I was armed with Shakey's breakfast did I tentatively venture into the room.

That goofy animal had her ass parked in the bottom of the wire cage so she was facing the door when I opened it this morning. Shakey Bear, looking the brightest I've seen her in days, was the only one who bothered to crawl out of bed this morning to greet me when I came through. (I'm not going to celebrate just yet. Hezbollah reacted the same towards my masturbation trick, and rather than going down in flames within a 48 hour period her illness/death was drawn out for weeks with exhausting ups and downs.)

Anyway, on-and-off blizzard conditions be damned, we have a sick rat to haul to the vet today. (A sick and THE MOST ANXIOUS AND NERVOUS RAT WE EVER HAD who's NEVER BEEN SEPARATED FROM HER SISTER OR OTHER RAT ROOMMATE or BEEN INEXPLICABLY FORCED INTO A TINY TRAVELING CAGE FOR AN UNDETERMINED TIME.)

Today's going to be a barrel of laughs.