Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Conjuring the Dead

How do I spend my first morning of utter freedom? I drive myself up the fucking wall trying to track down a copy of Harry Belafonte's Jump in the Line (Shake, Senora) (in record form) for future necromancy rites*.

* This shit? Is precisely why other witches and magic orientated folk don't give me the time of day. (CAN I HELP IT THAT MY BIGGEST NECROMANTIC INFLUENCE (AND STRONGEST MENTAL ASSOCIATION FOR RAISING THE DEAD) INVOLVES CALYPSO MUSIC AND A LINE OF DECEASED FOOTBALLERS DANCING? IF GOD DIDN'T WANT ME PLAYING HARRY BELAFONTE WHILE CONJURING THE DEAD THEN HE WOULDN'T HAVE CREATED CALYPSO, BEETLEJUICE AND ME.)

Tomorrow

Tomorrow, internet, I get my life back. (<- MOTHER-IN-LAW LEAVES TO JOIN FATHER-IN-LAW IN FLORIDA FOR ONE MONTH. MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, SUBSEQUENTLY, WILL FINALLY BE GRANTED SOME FREE TIME (WHICH SHE HASN'T HAD FOR ABOUT TWO FUCKING WEEKS).)

Christ fucking almighty, have you missed me as much as I've missed you? Probably not, but I'm good at ~pretending~.

Midsummer's Breeze

Midsummer's breeze rippling through my pheasant wheat.

Already Forgotten

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Another long day spent with the summer sun on my (sunscreened) bare skin. (I've got COLOR on me! The sort've ruddy, sun blushed warmth that wipes away large traces of "adult" making you look six years old again. <- That's not weird, is it? It's not weird if you're talking about yourself, right? ...RIGHT?)

REPOTTED:
18 x Sunflowers
18 x Sweet Peas
06 x Tomatoes
04 x Baby Corn
03 x Squash
01 x Cucumber

I started with 108 vegetable seeds and ended up potting only 14 fucking plants. This year was so amazingly catastrophic - at least in terms of starting vegetables from seed - that it's seriously going down in the record books. If it wasn't for the fact that all of the non-vegetable plants germinated and are happily growing in trays and containers I'd swear someone had an evil eye (or two) on me.

SOWED:
1 tray x Basil, Christmas
1 tray x Basil, Italian Large Leaf
1 tray x Grazing Mix

It's beyond my motherfucking capability to sow basil early in the fucking season. It's an annual fucking curse. Seriously. Every effing year I find myself panic sowing basil for the very first fucking time (in the growing season) in late June/early July. Every. Effing. Year. Hopefully this year the "cat" won't guerilla weed my basil trays. (<- Long story short? Mr. Awesome pulled all my fucking basil out one year and BLAMED THE NEAT PILE OF WEEDS LEFT SITTING NEXT TO THE EMPTY TRAYS ON A FUCKING CAT.)

Just before lunch I managed to wiggle in some pea seeds to help replenish the emaciated looking plants crawling up my DIY frame. (<- SLUGS AND SNAILS ARE HELLA BAD THIS YEAR.) Four borage seeds got planted in every dirt filled drainage hole on the patio. (I'M TAKING OVER THE BACKYARD, MR. AWESOME, ONE BORAGE SEED AT A MOTHERFUCKING TIME.)

Repotting, planting, hammocking, pool inflating, pool filling, hammocking, plant watering, dishwasher loading, lunch making, muffin baking, hammocking, homemade scrubbing (<- I FINALLY GOT OFF MY FUCKING ASS AND WHIPPED UP A BATCH OF SPIRITUALLY CLEANSING SALT'N'HONEY SCRUB), shaving, showering, photo editing and journal entry writing has me fucking beat.

What is it I fucking do in Winter, again? Because - just between you and me - I've already forgotten.

Midsummer 2010, II

Decided to do something "productive": went outside, harvested fresh chives and bay leaves to make flavored olive oil. Made said oil. Cleaned kitchen. Diced 1lb of pork fat. Stopped halfway, CRAMPING PAIN OH MY GOD, switched over to ritual scissors. (<- NEVER USE A KNIFE WHEN FUCKING SCISSORS WILL DO). First rendering pig fat (into lard) foray? A+ successful.

"NOW WHAT? MAYBE I SHOULD DO SOMETHING OUTSIDE? LIKE REARRANGE PLANT CONTAINERS, OR SOMETHING?"

Grey, dull, listless sky. Felt despair at post-apocalyptic patio. ("FUCK ME, WHERE DO I FUCKING START WITH THIS FUCKING MESS?") Decided to focus on hammock corner. (<- MOST IMPORTANT CORNER.) Moved plants off steps. Moved plants off palette. Moved spring bulb containers to bottom of patio. Swept steps, swept palette. Moved REPOT ASAP! vegetables and flowers to steps and palettes. Framed REPOT ASAP! garden with herb containers. Swept steps again.

Visited by familiar female blackbird. "SURE YOU DON'T WANT THESE?" Mentally assured bird not interested in upturned worms and grubs. Mama bird? De-fucking-lighted. Came close, V. close, within two feet. (Lady blackbirds = courageous crazy ass bitches. Female-to-female props.) Cocked head at me. "YOU COOL? YEAH, YOU COOL." Worked around one another. Brave little bird.

Moved strawberry containers and poppy/narcissus box away from palette. Swept area. Squatted and weeded/pruned strawberry plants. Silently acknowledged return of female blackbird. Gently danced around one another. Returned box and strawberry plants next to palette. Reswept. Stepped back with hands on hips; patio looked better already.

"WELL, THERE'S NO FUCKING WAY I CAN DO ALL OF THIS SHIT IN ONE DAY, BUT MAYBE I SHOULD TRY EXTRA SPECIAL FOR REAL HARD IN THIS ONE CORNER AND PICK UP THE WORK TOMORROW OR THE DAY AFTER..."

Swept stone pillars clean. Swept brick patio fence clean. Moved Chippy's offering dishes aside. Moved plastic patio chairs aside. Moved two dehydrated peat cup trays aside. (SORRY, MAGPIES, I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU LOVE FUCKING THAT SHIT UP.) Pulled every effing weed, plant and clump of grass between concrete patio slabs (except for borage). Swept patio, incrementally. (<- LITTLE BIT OF WEEDING, LITTLE BIT OF SWEEPING. REPEAT, DON'T GET BORED, REPEAT.)

Sun struggled. Worked harder, more dedicated. Figured sun would eventually follow suit. ("THIS IS HOW YOU GET SHIT DONE, MOTHERFUCKER!") High; head rush high, floating on air high. Noticed, after time lapse, somehow managed to weed'n'sweep 60% of patio instead of 25%. (Whoops?) "FUCK IT, LET'S SEE HOW FAR I CAN GO WITH THIS SHIT." Grey skies broke. Sun, inspired by work ethic, decided to join Midsummer effort.

Hauled spring bulb containers to wooden beams. Hauled rusty BBQ grill (not ours) into bonsai house. Hauled father-in-law's plastic box of dirt into bonsai house. (<- I DON'T KNOW, AND DON'T FUCKING CARE PROVIDED I CAN'T FUCKING SEE IT.) Stopped, rested and conversed with female blackbird. (<- STEADY MIDSUMMER VISITOR.) Swept patio steps leading down to bonsai house.

Moved foxgloves next to garage door. Moved two boxes of lavender, three apple trees, two dwarf apple trees, one dwarf pear tree, two pussy willows, one unidentified shrub, one unidentified flowering container, box of sorrel and box of peas next to foxgloves next to garage door. (PHEW.) Swept OTHER side of patio. Swept steps leading down to bonsai house (again).

"WAIT, IS THAT AN ICE CREAM TRUCK I HEAR?"

Weeded kitchen sink with bay tree. Weeded barren kitchen sink next to kitchen sink with bay tree. Weeded wheat (first pot). Weeded dill. Weeded gooseberry bush (first pot). Weeded peach tree. (<- SHE LIVES!) Weeded gooseberry bush (second pot). Weeded rowan sapling. Weeded wheat (second pot). Weeded lavender. Weeded several ceramic containers. (<- TECHNICALLY NOT MY TERRITORY, BUT IT'S HARD TO LEAVE A THOROUGH JOB PARTIALLY UNDONE.)

"OH MY GOD, IT //IS// A MOTHERFUCKING ICE CREAM TRUCK PLAYING MUSIC! ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM! ICE CREEEEEEEEAM!"

Weeded, then moved two similarly sized apple trees behind wheat containers. (<- SYMMETRY IS V. IMPORTANT AND SACRED, OKAY?) Weeded, then moved larger apple tree onto barren kitchen sink. Pruned, weeded, then moved unidentified shrub next to apple tree on barren kitchen sink. Opened strawberry beer. Sat down on patio step leading to bonsai house. Drank beer, pruned lavender plants, weeded lavender containers. Ice cream truck played music again.

"OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE! OH MY GOD, ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM!"

Raced through the house, raced through the kitchen, picked up loose change left by Italics, raced out of the house ("SHOULDN'T YOU PUT ON SHOES?" <- LAST THING I HEARD ITALICS SAY AS I BOLTED OUT THE KITCHEN DOOR), raced down the driveway, raced down to street. Waited at opening of subdivision.

Waited barefooted, waited wearing traditional African shirt (dashiki), purple shorts and black kitchen apron. (<- FORGOT TO TAKE OFF AFTER MAKING LARD) Oops. Realized not normal clothing combination for grown woman to be wearing standing at side of busy street. Oops. Realized, only after standing on gravel barefooted in not normal clothing combination, how bizarre must've looked. ("I'M JUST WAITING FOR THE ICE CREAM TRUCK, DON'T MIND ME!")

Ice cream truck? Never appeared. Dejected, took barefooted/aproned self and loose change back home. (SIGH.)

Came home to partially drunk strawberry beer, partially cleaned patio and partially pruned/weeded lavender containers. ("FINE! I'LL MAKE UP MY OWN ICE CREAM TREAT! I'LL MASH UP TWO OF THOSE CHOCOLATED COATED VANILLA ICE CREAM BARS WITH SOME FROZEN PEANUT M&Ms AND WHIP CREAM AND MAKE MY OWN GODDAMN SUPER ICE CREAM SPECTACULAR." <- TRUE STORY.)

Moved pruned lavendar containers back to patio. Weeded, then moved foxgloves, two dwarf apple trees, one dwarf pear tree, two pussy willows, one unidentified shrub and one unidentified flowering container back to patio. Meticulously rearranged containers into symmetrical spread. (<- ALTAR CREATING = V. SRS BUSINESS, OKAY?) Swept patio (again), swept patio steps leading to bonsai house (again).

Weeded box of peas. Weeded box of sorrel. Created frame for peas. Moved both peas and sorrel back to patio. Moved plastic chairs back to patio. Returned gardening tools to bonsai house. Cleaned, then moved Chippy's offering dishes back to patio. Swept steps leading from garage to patio. Swept patio steps leading to bonsai house. Swept along concrete corridor passing bonsai house. Weeded as swept, swept as weeded.

Dirt and gravel swept into grass, organic material swept into compost bags. Celebrated inadvertent altar creation/Midsummer by finishing beer. Retired broom at dusk, but couldn't stop. ("MORE, DO MORE! JUST KEEP GOING, JUST DON'T STOP!") Little things, tiny things, finishing touches needed. Wanted cosmic closure; decided to check off all boxes with fine print. (<- ANAL ARIES WITCH REIGNS SUPREME!)

Paraded Stone Cock out onto super magic clean patio. (Stone Cock? V. pleased: loves outdoors, loves attention.) Proudly displayed cock at base of Shango Tree? No. Proudly displayed cock at base of peach tree? Yes. (STONE COCK ("HIM") + SURVIVOR PEACH TREE ("HER") = MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN) Wondered what mother-in-law would think, then wondered what mother-in-law thinks on daily basis. (Same old, same old with Ms. Graveyard Dirt.)

Done? No, not yet. Hung up Walpurgisnacht/Summer (aka Beltane, May Day) ribbons on plum trees. (Immediately fell in love with long blue ribbon rippling above fat, cheerful Buddha. <- GOOD ENERGY. GAY, BUT TRUE.) Filled Chippy's offering bowls with water and food. Searched for hammock swing and frame, couldn't find. (FRUSTRATED.) Done? Almost. ("JUST KEEP GOING, JUST KEEP GOING!")

Washed shit off wooden patio fence. (Sayonara, white streaks!) Got splinter. (Fuck you, white streaks!) Watered. Watered EVERYTHING. Watered container garden/Midsummer altar. Watered REPOT ASAP! garden. Watered herb containers. Watered strawberries. Watered sorrel. Watered peas. Watered sinks. Watered Shango Tree. Watered other plum tree. Watered lupines. Watered bonsai trees in bonsai house. Everything? Watered.

Done? Almost; bird feeders. Unexpected inward groan. Second thought, fuck bird feeders. (Too sore, too achy.) Swore to refill feeders first thing in morning. Felt guilty, but felt more tired than guilty. Line? Drawn. Done? Yes, done - six hours later. Patio? Flawless, immaculate. Mother-in-law V. impressed (mother-in-law also pointed out hammock frame in corner of bonsai house - score! but hammock swing...?), Italics V. impressed. Ms. Graveyard Dirt? Exhausted, but also V. impressed.

Midsummer? Not yet over. Still needed to clean, still needed to cook, still needed to finish last lard step. Washed hands on autopilot. Conscious, but not. Present but gone. Found self moving by instinct. ("DON'T STOP, DON'T SIT, JUST KEEP GOING, JUST KEEP GOING...") Briefly existed in place between worlds. Moved like vessel, like instrument commandeered by God. Throbbing feet only anchor to reality.

Strained cooled fat into glass container. Refrigerated lard. Made boiled rice (full absorption method). Unloaded dishwasher, loaded dishwasher. Cleaned kitchen. Made Korean beef marinade. Sliced rump steak into tiny strings. Tossed steak into marinade. Prepared vegetables (ginger, garlic, mushrooms, broccoli, string beans, baby corn, and carrots). Stir-fried beef. Stir-fried vegetables.

Sat down, gave thanks and consumed non-traditional Midsummer "feast". Followed through with SUPER ICE CREAM SPECTACULAR promise. (AKA, "DIY BLIZZARD") Dishes? Fuck dishes, too tired. Simpsons? Fuck Simpsons, new episode. Italics? Retired, too goddamn full. (LOL @ WIFE BEING ABLE TO OUT EAT HUSBAND.)

Stupid crazy tired. Zero idea why still up. (Stimulated by feelings of deep satisfaction?) Went through "getting ready for bed" motions: straightened up computer room, gave Chooch treat, put Chooch away for night, straightened up living room - bird feeders. One job left undone. Felt less satisfied (also felt like collapsing).

"FUCK IT, I'LL FEED THE GODDAMN BIRDS AND THEN I CAN GO TO FUCKING SLEEP IN FUCKING PEACE."

Padded back outside, walked across clean patio and opened detached room. Filled ceramic Halloween pumpkin mug with seed. Stumbled out of room and into backyard. Filled feeder in non-Shango plum tree. Stumbled back into room, refilled mug, stumbled out of room, crossed backyard, crossed side of house. Filled feeder in sycamore in front of computer room/office window.

Stumbled for third and final time to backroom. Accidentally walked into box pile. Box pile collapsed revealing missing hammock swing. (SCORE SCORE SCORE SCORE SCORE!) Learned valuable Midsummer lesson - haul ass, get rewarded. Thanked God, birds, feet (for still moving). Done? Yes, done. All boxes checked, nothing leftover - Midsummer success.

Came back into quiet house. Turned off computer. Flossed, brushed teeth. Felt sticky. Shower? LOL, whatever - could barely keep eyes open. Shower? Imagined falling asleep 100% clean on cotton sheets. Showered, pumiced aching feet. Got more high. Watched Tribal Wives (Mexico) on laptop in bed. Italics? Passed out. Ms. Graveyard Dirt? Barely conscious.

Maybe too tired to masturbate? Never too tired to masturbate. Masturbated. Stretched out happily, then curled next to Italics. Fell asleep without fearing death or dreading mortality. Fell into gentle Midsummer sleep as entire body hummed with life. (Woke at 5AM thanks to effing magpie tapping on bedroom window begging for food. <- NO JOKE!)

Midsummer 2010, I

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Stone Cock, master of the Midsummer altar. (<- Cleverly disguised as a container garden. Shhh!)

Playing Pretend

Today's super big adventure: rendering pig fat (to make lard) for the very first time. Not an entirely glamorous way to spend Midsummer (and not an entirely sexy fat to work with; you still own my heart, soul and sexual fantasies, goose fat), but I can ~pretend~ it came from an unbaptized child.

Cup O' Idol

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Some idols are lovingly transported in golden tabernacles, others are proudly hoisted into the air on shoulders and backs of the devoted. A very small percentile, though, are blessed enough to cross distant lands and vast bodies of water stuffed in a fucking Styrofoam cup. (How many stars should I give this particular Ebay seller for "packaging"?)

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I promise that one of these fucking days I'll sit down and try to explain the entire "divine nursemaid" thing. Until then, though, you can pass the time by chalking a point under "number of people I know who have a lactation/breastfeeding fetish". I mean, if you like to keep tallies of shit like that. (HEY, I'M NOT JUDGING YOU. EVERYONE NEEDS A MOTHERFUCKING HOBBY, RIGHT?)

Hathor, for me, falls somewhere between Ishtar (SEX! DEATH! WAR!) and the Virgin Mary (COMPASSION! FORGIVENESS! UNRELENTING LOVE!). As of now I've mostly got both feet stuck in Ishtarville, but I'm slowly bridging the gap between Her and Madonna to help balance the cosmic scale. (I've got "WAR" down to a perfected art, "COMPASSION"; however, remains a mystifying, elusive skill reserved for the very patient, very understanding and very saintly. <- i.e., not fucking me)

She's always been in the background (in that sort've "WELL...I FEEL THE IDEA AND LIKE THE LOOK, MORE SO THAN A LOT OF THE OTHERS" way (<- i.e., Bast - SORRY, INTERNET, BUT I'M A CANINE GAL ALL THE MOTHEREFFING WAY AND MS. CAT LADY DOES NADA FOR ME)) but when I learned she wasn't just a DIVINE FUCKING COW she was a DIVINE //MOODY// FUCKING COW I inevitably became hella, hella sweet on her. (Predictable, or what?)

Hormonal, irritable, fickle-ass exalted she-cow whose bad fucking temperament is so fucking well known that she's constantly plied with music, song and dance just to keep her relatively happy and appeased? I don't only dig that; I fucking live it.

For obvious reasons, "moody cow" is no longer a pejorative description in this house. "It's not PMS, baby, it's a divine fucking state of being, okay? Now play some effing sistrums for me before I stampede over your fucking day with my bad motherfucking attitude." (<- "YOU HAVE A BAD FUCKING ATTITUDE" = the condensed biography of my life. Seriously.)

Hathor; not exactly Ishtar, not exactly the Virgin Mary, but temperamentally lactating somewhere in between.

Witch's Mark

How you know you're a witch reason #29,865,491:

While in the kitchen at 2:30 AM with your husband you see one of your offering bones sitting across the street on the sidewalk. So you go outside barefooted, because it's summer and dry, and as you stand under the street lamp with your lamb shoulder bone you strip off all your clothes into a pile and dance naked beneath the artificial light until your husband - who's still in the kitchen - notices.

But he's not the only one who notices. A cat - a strange, foreign, alien cat - launches its furry ass from the shadows and throws its purring, arched body against your naked legs demanding love and attention. At 2:30 AM. On a weekday. Outside. During a public, mightnight hour sex dance. When you're still 100% naked (and your husband is making "GET BACK IN THE HOUSE OR PUT YOUR DAMN CLOTHES ON, WOMAN!" insistences).

How do you know you're a witch? When classic - seemingly invisible (WHERE THE FUCK DID THAT CAT COME FROM, ANYWAY?) - familiar animals begin catapulting themselves at you the second you show any skin while carelessly dancing under a night sky. Sorry, furball, but I don't have a witch's teat secretly hidden near my armpit or inner thigh for you to nurse on. Maybe you confused me with, oh, I don't know - A FICTIONAL 17TH CENTURY WITCH.

Note to Self: Just as you were writing the last sentence of this entry one of your small "cheap-cheap" birds flew into the window you were looking out of. (Did I check the wrong box before being reincarnated into this form? I did, didn't I? I fucking checked "ANIMALS" instead of "MEN" when asked what I'd prefer being thrown at me throughout my fucking life. Anyone have some cosmic grade Wite-Out they could lend me?)

69 Days

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69 days of "I DON'T EVEN GIVE A RAT'S ASS".

The line to fuck me starts behind Italics (who probably won't even be getting any since I'm so goddamn tired from marathon shaving). (<- 30 MINUTES, NO JOKE.)

Version 2.0

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Shakey Bear lives on.

(Lives on and LIVES IT LARGE! How many other pet rats reincarnated as a plush armadillo get to visit castle grounds AND a garden center IN THE SAME FUCKING DAY? Answer: not many. Chef Shakey, you're a goddamn ~star~.)

(PS: Chef Shakey's memorial culinary-themed garden is complete: lemon thyme, marjoram, oregano and rosemary. <- I'm planning on planting her egg and daffodil in the center of the planter that'll hold the perennial herbs. Now to figure out how to decorate the container to make it Shakey Beartastic...)

Something Real

Cleaning has to be one of my favorite magic acts. (<- I effing hate using the term "magical", it's so...I dunno, Llewellyn. "Magical" is glitter and jasmine and fairies (and not the drowning, flesh-eating kind) and bogus nobility titles followed by compound nouns and adjectives. "Magic" is what Lush USED to be before it became overwhelmed with pink, lavender and candy. "Magic" isn't the apron, it's the stains ON the motherfucking apron. Slapping the letters "a" and "l" onto the end of "magic" draws a certain crowd, but repels another.)

Wait, where was I before I took the early tangent bus to tangent town? Oh, right, cleaning. And magic acts (which sounds more like Vegas than witchcraft, but compared to what "magical" brings to the table I'll fucking take the superficial sleaze, thank you). And how to further alienate yourself from your peers when you're already pretty goddamn alienated (more on that later).

So. Cleaning, one of my favorite magic acts; one of my favorite magic acts that seems suspiciously mundane and totally NOT magic to the casual observer. (Unlike some of my other favorite magic acts like carefully placing a curl of pubic hair on top of Italics' serving of dessert as conspicuously as possible ("HEY, WHAT'S THIS? DAMN YOU WOMAN, AND YOUR WITCHCRAFT!"), or pissing on the concrete steps leading up into the house (to mark my territory with my scent, OBVIOUSLY).)

Yesterday Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, left for an extended vacation of six - 6! - mothereffing weeks. The house? Mine (for six weeks, anyway). Even more so in about two weeks when my mother-in-law also leaves to join my father-in-law at their place in Florida for the entire month of July. Summer, internet, is officially here at Chez Graveyard Dirt and the livin' will be easy.

Take a wild fucking guess what I did immediately after his departure. (I mean, OTHER than "get really fucking high" because that's a given.) You know it, I know it, friends know it and anyone who's even a semi-frequent visitor here knows the answer: I motherfucking cleaned. Hard. Well. Anally. (<- Sounds more like porn than domestication, doesn't it?) Like my neurotic (deceased) mother was going to check with white fucking gloves.

First? The kitchen: the one communal room where I dominate and govern from, the one communal room where I pray-dance-worship-live in on a day-to-day basis. The heart of the house, the hearth of the house and my modern, every day throne room. If this fucking house is seemingly trashed beyond repair I effing guarantee you there will be ONE room in pristine order - the kitchen, MY kitchen.

I removed everything off counters and surfaces, washed the tiles, washed all the counter spaces, washed the cabinets, washed the front faces of the microwave and oven, washed the extractor and its hood, washed the top of the fridge, washed the window, washed the window frame, washed the sink, washed the faucet, washed the windowsill that makes up my subtle kitchen altar, washed everything that was removed off the counters and surfaces and returned them, unloaded the dishwasher, loaded the dishwasher, unloaded the dishwasher, loaded the washing machine, unloaded the washing machine, loaded the washing machine, washed the kitchen table, washed the kitchen chairs and washed the table's linens.

Second? The lounge: less important on a day-to-day basis (especially since my in-laws are often camped there), but still HELLA important. Sort've like how there's that ONE ROOM in the house where your mother won't let you eat, drink or play in because it's the super fancy NICE room reserved for guests and special occasions. But, like, in this case, it's in a ~spiritual~ way.

If the kitchen is my daily throne room/temple then the communal lounge - at least when my in-laws aren't around - is my ballroom throne room/temple reserved for V. special events (i.e., our "black masses", hot'n'heavy ritual celebrations (which, admittedly, probably falls under my tongue-in-cheek version of "black masses") and communing with the higher ups in a more serious, over-the-top setting).

I cook the Hieros Gamos feast in the kitchen (usually for several days leading up to the marriage), but we actually perform the ceremony in the lounge. For every week I get to perform my little secret things in the kitchen I get about a day to perform my BIG secret things in the lounge. Which room is more important? Neither, really, because they both serve very specific purposes that the other one can't.

With all of that being said, I removed everything off surfaces, dusted the track lights, dusted the ceilings, dusted the corners, dusted the hanging pictures, dusted the lampshades, dusted the curtains, dusted the exercise bike, polished the wooden door frame, polished the wooden side tables, polished the wooden legs on the couches, polished the TV unit, polished the floating table, polished the CD unit, polished the coffee table, washed the windows in the wooden door frame, washed the glass tops of the side tables, washed the windows, washed the TV and TV screen, washed the dvd player, washed the playstation, washed the remotes, washed the controllers, washed the CD player, washed the light switches, washed handles and hinges, washed the glass top of the coffee table, washed the radiator, washed the hanging pictures, washed (and changed) the table linens and washed everything that was removed from various surfaces before returning them.

I HAD planned to hit the bathroom - as a grand effing finale - but by the time I finished polishing my last wooden coffee table leg I was ready to throw in the fucking towel. (I only have my friend Carolina to thank - well, her and my above and beyond commitment to completing things as perfectly as possible thanks to my autistic Aries nature - for keeping me going. Just as I was about to start work on the lounge a package arrived from her - expected but completely unexpected because I totally forgot she had mentioned putting one together for me - with a burned CD of traditional Brazilian Kimbanda music "for worship and ritual". This ass? Shook left to right like a motherfucker while dusting the ceiling, no joke.)

I was sore and achy and exhausted and tired and even though my brain totally flatlined (NO DARK AND TROUBLED PAST TO MAKE //ME// FEAR DEATH; THE INEVITABLY OF DEATH IS MORE THAN ENOUGH (TO MAKE ME FEAR IT), THANK YOU) I was stupidly satisfied-happy in the way an overlord must feel surveying all that s/he owns (and exerts control over). In roughly 7-8 hours I had virtually erased my father-in-law's presence - and all of the nasty residual shit that's been hanging around in the atmosphere all stagnant-like - with focus, energy and a lot of hard, physical labor.

I celebrated the GOOD EFFING RIDDANCE (AT LEAST FOR SIX WEEKS) feeling by hitting all of the blogs/journals/diaries I read just before bed (A LIST OF THINGS I DO BEFORE BED: GET HIGH, CATCH UP WITH MY FAVORITE ON-LINE HAUNTS, GET HIGH, WATCH A NATURE PROGRAM TO DISTRACT MYSELF FROM THE INEVITABLY OF DEATH AND MY OVERWHELMING FEAR OF NOTHINGNESS, GET HIGH AND THEN MASTURBATE BEFORE FALLING ASLEEP) and stumbled across this from Charmed, I'm Sure:

THANKS, UNIVERSE. NO, REALLY, I WAS ACTUALLY FOR REAL THINKING "WOW, SELF, YOU KNOW WHAT'D BE AMAZINGLY FUCKING AWESOME AFTER SPENDING THE ENTIRE EFFING DAY MAGIC-CLEANING THE EFFING HOUSE? GETTING FIGURATIVELY PUNCHED IN THE MOTHERFUCKING GUT BEFORE BED, ALL NELSON MUNTZ-STYLE. DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HELP ME OUT?" AND, UNIVERSE, YOU DELIVERED...THANKS (BUT DON'T EXPECT A HALLMARK CARD).

Okay, okay, okay. In all fairness, I really, really like Ms. Drop Out Dilettante (it's really fucking hard finding someone who actually seems REALLY FOR REALLY REAL on-line; I'm not into theory wank, I'm into seeing theory wank being practiced and watching the evolution of said theory wank in day-to-day living) and (LOL) what are the chances that she's really, in secret code, talking about me (LOL AGAIN) when she probably doesn't even know I fucking exist. (Or she does, and as a precaution she's already boarded up her fucking windows and has a shotgun aimed at the door JUST IN CASE I come a-knockin'. If you're smart, you'd do the same.)

I'm totally aboard with the majority of her entry, Cooking Dinner Does Not Make You a Kitchen Witch (subtitled: Making Friends Where Ever I Go), but I have to (politely, and with many charming expletives) disagree with part of the statement above because this entire "cleaning" thing? It's fucking complicated, yo, and probably really objective depending on what circles you do - or don't - travel/commune/interact with.

My magic is weird, basic and simple. So simple, in fact, I can see it being described as "child-like" just before my actions/beliefs get dismissed and filed under "playing pretend". The best thing about "playing pretend", though? You don't need anything except your will because the game you're engaging in isn't being executed by props, it's being executed by you.

I once came across a conversation where one of the parties involved insisted that magic success is 60% dependant on having the right props, several years later I STILL snort-laugh-eye roll to myself whenever that conversational snippet mentally surfaces. Don't get me wrong, I love STUFF, I fucking LIVE FOR stuff. I'm forever buying STUFF and forever experiencing the emotional roller coaster of being able to afford STUFF and NOT being able to afford STUFF.

Stuff, however, makes living; it doesn't make magic.

I'm only saying all of this to cinch my point...well, in a longwinded, roundabout way (heh). It's not that I don't occasionally use STUFF, because I do. It's just STUFF doesn't get shit done, I do. When you strip everything external from a magic act - the incense, the flowers, the music, the oils - does it make the act any less magic? There's something PURE and REAL when it's only you, your energy, your will, your determination and your goal you're working towards.

The absolute best example of that way of thinking is my approach to cleaning and taking care of the house. I don't open (or close) protective circles, I don't create "shields", I don't engage in full-blown rituals which require you to call all of the fucking directions (and all of their corresponding plants and colors and fairies and gemstones and their second removed cousins). I clean - myself, my surroundings, what's important to me - and that's enough.

It's basic, primitive magic. By taking EXTRA SPECIAL CARE into washing and cleaning I'm deliberately removing, discarding and organizing my life and my environment to optimum standards (and in the case of cleaning I'm just not imagining doing it, I'm PHYSICALLY doing it which has IMMEDIATE results) using (seemingly) mundane actions.

I've burned candles and incense for the better part of my life, but I swear to all that's fucking holy that none of those acts have ever made me feel as powerfully magic as spending an entire day laboriously stripping down my surroundings and then, with sweat, tears, will, effort, determination and the occasional, accidental offering of blood reconstructing them in a buzzing atmosphere that's completely saturated with (and by) me.

And, dude, don't even get me started on the entire morning after, when I've slept like a motherfucking log only to wake up stiff as a fucking board thanks to the previous day of excessively exercising control, protection and authority on my terms. How do I know my magic's worked? Because I can't fucking move the next day. Those are successful results you just don't see, you fucking feel.

ANYWAY...so, yeah. Hi, Ms. Drop Out Dilettante! This is me attempting to make friends by arguing one of your viewpoints with you, but not even because I have this bizarre inability to communicate with people via comments. (I DUNNO, INTERNET, LEAVING COMMENTS FEELS LIKE "FOREVER", AND I HATE SEEING MY NAME ATTACHED TO ANYTHING "FOREVER" UNLESS I HAVE ABSOLUTE CONTROL OVER IT (I.E., THE ABILITY TO EDIT AND/OR DELETE). THAT, AND, I ALWAYS FEEL SORT'VE SWARMY LEAVING COMMENTS, LIKE I'M SOME SORT OF DEMONIC KIDDIE SNATCHER ATTEMPTING TO NEFARIOUSLY LURE UNSUSPECTING VICTIMS TO MY SITE FOR MORE TRAFFIC.)

At least I was inspired to get off my fucking ass and write something REAL, you know? And I know "something real" has been woefully absent here as of late with all of the sick and dying pets, unnecessary run-ins with my in-laws and 180ed Winter-to-Spring life. I've been so caught up with completing personal projects that I haven't had the time - or the right frame of mind - to sit down and really dig deep.

(Don't think I haven't noticed you noticing, because I have. I'm also V. disappointed with myself for letting things slide and I'm seriously working on it. I'm a deep person, dammit, the stars just need to be in perfect alignment for me to exude signs of deep personage.)

V. Blessed or V. Cursed

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Universe, you're seriously fucking telling me that no one else - EFFING NO EFFING ONE EFFING ELSE! - in this fucking house even notices this shit (other than me)?

I'm either V. blessed or V. cursed.

Yeah, Those

Okayokayokay. All I have left to do - other than email, which is (no surprise) last on my list (OH, YOU KNOW ME TOO WELL, INTERNET) - is hammer something out for Category-Based Archives, Date-Based Archives and Master Archive and I'll be done with my internet-based chores. (<- The ones I've been quietly working on for the past several weeks; the ones that've kept me from writing proper journal entries...yeah, those.)

In the mean time - if you're going through Ms. Graveyard Dirt withdrawal and need a quick fix - stop by and say hello: http://graveyarddirt.tumblr.com

Crazy Little Magical Rituals

INTERNET, I ADMIT IT...

...I'M KIND'VE SORT'VE GOING TO BE SAD WHEN IT'S TIME FOR MY BUSH TO GO THIS SUMMER. (OH, THESE CRAZY LITTLE MAGICAL RITUALS; ELDERFLOWERS BLOOM, SHEEP GET SHORN AND MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT GETS A BRAZILIAN.)

Unspoken Rule

There's probably an unspoken rule about sharing your PAC-MAN mug of Earl Grey with your pet rat who's just finished eating carpet underlayment.

...fuck it, we all got to die sometime.

A Stranger in a Madhouse

I fucking hate getting up around this time. (You would not fucking believe how much I fucking hate getting up around this fucking time.)

My mornings aren't static, but they ARE routine. I get up, have a piss, put the kettle on, say good morning to Choney (and let her out of the cage), turn on my computer, make my tea and sit down to work for several hours. I go from "fast asleep" to "hard at work" in roughly seven steps. It's a system a decade in the making, it's a system that works.

(Aries love spontaneity, but an autistic Aries loves spontaneity carefully penciled into a trusted, familiar routine.)

My daily motions might be habitual, but WHEN I execute those habitual activities changes day to day. Look, I'm a glorified housewife, and even when I wasn't preoccupied with this Cinderella gig my career allowed me to work at home. Time, dates and days mean(t) nothing to me - I'm not obligated to keep appointments so I'm not obligated to keep a schedule. (<- At least once a week I forget what day it is, which then requires a quick computer check so I can pretend I'm part of normal human society.)

It's a strange and occasionally lonely existence (even when sharing it with a partner). There are periods in summer where I don't see any darkness for weeks, and then there are periods in winter where I don't see any light for weeks. For several weeks we'll both be up during the day, for the next several weeks we'll both be up during the night.

We aren't nocturnal, but we aren't diurnal either. Italics and I somehow slipped through the cracks and we now exist in a bizarre limbo following a strange circadian pattern I haven't yet worked out. Almost every day we stay up a few hours longer than the day before, which inevitably means we'll wake up several hours later than the previous day. And on and on it goes, like clockwork, like it has for the past twelve or so years.

There are inherent problems with a free flowing sleep cycle. The world doesn't start and stop for you, especially when you're really fucking removed from any sort of 24 hour culture. Shops in town close around 5:00 PM, restaurants take their last orders around 9:30 PM, the last movie usually begins around 9:10 PM and grocery stores close anywhere from 8-11 PM.

None of that sounds like a big deal until you've only just started your day and run out of milk, or toilet paper, or whatever and it's 1 AM. You have no choice but to wait. None of that sounds like a big deal until you're so fucking cabin fever-y that retaining any semblance of sanity requires an immediate change of scenery (OR ELSE) but there's no where to go, and nothing to do, for another twelve hours. You have no choice but to wait.

None of that sounds like a big deal until you haven't seen the sun - or even natural fucking light - for three weeks and you begin feeling like a shell of a person, a ghost haunting a fucking house it can't ever escape, forced to live the same day over and over and over again without a moment's respite. Even then, you have no choice but to wait.

(There's a lot of waiting involved when you're in nocturnal mode and live in the middle of rural Scotland where the only thing opened 24 hours is a dinky ass gas station five miles away.)

By this point in our lives our sleeping schedules are no longer a choice. The slow, but steady, constant push forward is so heavily engrained into living that we can't untangle ourselves from it. (I've tried; it just doesn't work.) It's hard during winter (really fucking hard during winter), but it's even HARDER sharing the house with people who live by hours, days, dates and time.

Maybe it'd be easier if we were offered the same courtesy we extend to them when they're sleeping/working, but I haven't had enough experience with them reciprocating the favor to make any sort of conclusion. It's just...they're loud human beings. Really, really fucking loud human beings who leave you mystified and angry as to how a pair of 50+ year old adults can be, by default, that fucking loud.

(IT'S. NOT. NATURAL.)

They stomp from room to room. They slam doors shut (even the washing machine, even the dishwasher, even the microwave). They watch TV with the volume blaring and then leave the door to the lounge open when leaving the room so the entire house fills up with noise. Mr. Awesome deliberately stomps his foot on the floor, whistles, claps and shouts for my mother-in-law to get her attention. They shout instead of talk.

I could go on and fucking on, but I won't since you probably get the idea. (I'll deliberately exclude all of the TOTALLY AWESOME SHIT they do when they know we're sleeping - like playing Gloria fucking Estefan on the CD player AS LOUD AS IT'LL FUCKING PLAY.)

(Why is Ms. Graveyard Dirt such a fucking grumpy ass bitch? MAYBE IT HAS TO DO WITH THE FACT THAT SHE GETS WOKEN UP BY THE MOTHERFUCKING CONGA SONG TWO FUCKING HOURS INTO SLEEPING AND THEN HAS TO DEAL WITH HER FATHER-IN-LAW GETTING PISSED //AT HER// FOR COMPLAINING ABOUT BEING WOKEN UP.)

The biggest problem with cohabiting with my in-laws is their inability to appreciate or understand the unique challenges Italics and I face living with them. Like I said earlier, my mornings aren't static, but they are routine. I do the same shit every day, it's just the starting point begins at different times.

Inevitably, my sleeping cycle will unfavorably coincide with my in-laws' scheduled lives which means there's one or two weeks where I get jack shit done because my mornings are their evenings, and all they want to do by that point in their day is eat, be loud, drink (which leads to them being even louder) and watch TV with the volume turned up to full blast. For obvious reasons I don't get a chance to do what I want to do (i.e., work) and by the time they pack up and drag the circus to bed I'm already several hours into my day and need to get on with running a fucking house.

Our office - the computer room - is separated from the communal lounge by a thin ass wall. (How thin ass? So thin ass that part of the wall actually got FILLED IN because, at one point, this room I'm sitting and typing in - which used to be Italics' bedroom - was once the dining room that opened into the lounge.) Everything they do, everything they say is easily heard through the superficial partition.

I hear the talking (which, by natural default, is shouting), the eating, the TV, the drinking, the stomping, the clapping, the whistling, the calling. I hear Mr. Awesome bitching about us, bitching about my mother-in-law to my mother-in-law, bitching about my mother-in-law's work, bitching about other people, bitching about any fucking thing that enters his partially inebriated mind at the time.

I can't work. I can't concentrate. All I can fucking do is feel like a caged fucking animal whose captors are simultaneous shaking and screaming into the cage they've boxed me into. What the fuck am I supposed to do when Italics is asleep (so he can't intervene on my behalf) and they have me frothing at the fucking mouth with all of their unnecessary loud fucking noise when I'm working?

(YOU WANT ME OUT OF YOUR FUCKING HOUSE? THEN SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET ME GET ON WITH MY FUCKING CAREER.)

They aren't my parents, they aren't even blood fucking relations - what right do I have to tell them to give me a fucking break and zip it? I'm not their kid, I don't share chromosomes or DNA with them. All I am is a fucking stranger trying to concentrate in a fucking madhouse that's her home and her workplace.

Mind Your Manners

Sometimes it feels like I'd give anything to share DNA with Italics' parents just so I had the justified luxury of shouting "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?" during moments like this. (Mind your manners, Ms. Graveyard Dirt, your chromosomes don't match theirs.)

You'd BUTTER Believe It!

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I don't even know where to begin. Seriously.

Anal Aries Witch

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Yeah, I don't think "anal" entirely covers it, either.

Corse Castle

I seriously promise, for really reals, that this is the last entry of its kind (at least for awhile). I originally meant to do a second write-up of our (unplanned) Hieros Gamos day out using the pictures we took (of the souterrain, Cairngorms and Corse Castle), but we've been crazy busy so I've had to split the photos up by landmark and deal with them individually. This one, featuring the ruins of Corse Castle, is the last of the Hieros Gamos day out pictures.

Excerpt from Lost and Found: Ventured forth to find 2000 year old souterrain to see if suitable for magic sex. (Executing hieros gamos / sacred marriage Underground in ancient grain storage passage? A+ IDEA!) Accidentally mistook Torphins for Tarland; extra 15 minutes (approx.) added to journey. Road closed 6 miles from Tarland, not awesome. Ms. Graveyard Dirt? NOT amused.

"OH LOOK! A TANNERY! THEY SELL SHEEP SKINS, RUGS AND COATS! OH MY GOD!"

Bump down small country lane towards tannery. Stumble over ruined castle. Recognize walled up windows and doorway. "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD THESE ARE THOSE RUINS I FOUND ON THAT ALFORD PHOTO ALBUM SITE!"

Preen after accidentally finding local site of personal interest. (Grudging feelings towards closed road lessened.) Decide against tannery visit, decide for finding alternative route to Tarland (and 2000 year old earthen passage). See familiar mound. (<- ANOTHER LOCAL SITE OF PERSONAL INTEREST.) See headstone way in distance. Can't believe luck; self-congratulatory preening overload.

Instead of rehashing hastily learned information I'm going to be even more fucking lazy - I'm simply going to copy and paste shit from various sources about this particular roadside ruin. When confronted with the prospect of narrowing photos down I gave up without even starting; too much concentration, too much effort. You'll see duplicates, but at least you won't see the blurred images that got tossed into the recycle bin.

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Fiercely Lazy, or Fiercely Woman?

You hit 30 and you think FUCK, WHAT'S THE POINT? and bleed without padding because pulling out a cloth menstrual pad requires too much fucking effort. Once a month my inner thighs turn red, I drip on the floor and smell of blood - fiercely lazy, or fiercely woman?

Spring Leftovers

Holy fucking shit, I blinked and May was fucking gone! (It's not just me, right?) Everything feels a little rushed, a little quickened. Projects that've been stagnant for years-months-days are finishing one by one, but instead of feeling satisfied I feel edgy and flighty; too many appointments, too much "out of the house" busy, too much interaction with strangers, too much unsettled sleep, too much junk food (Italics is blaming my popcorn addiction) and not enough time to regulate our activities into a new routine of life.

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Grief seeds. I spent the first half of May 23rd visiting with a close friend who came up to see me (all the way from Glasgow which is something like three fucking hours by bus, no joke) and spent the remainder of the day sitting on a bag of seedling compost in the backroom planting tray after tray of vegetables, flowers, herbs and other witchcraft-themed plants.

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Making friends with my new "GOOD LUCK SCARAB BEETLE" that I won off Ebay. I'm slowly but surely acquiring pieces for a proposed Khepri and Anubis taxidermy altar.

(Technically, dermestid beetles are used to clean fleshy remains off bones and
not dung beetles. I've always been a bit of a heretic in the sense that I usually ditch the accepted ideas behind a concept and create a new definition that fits into what I'm doing. Even though Khepri is a dung beetle I still feel the connection is close enough, especially since he's associated with rebirth, renewal, and resurrection - things I'm magically attempting to achieve by preserving bodies, bones, pelts and organs.)

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The vegetable garden that never was. There's a few tomatoes, a few (baby) sweet corn, some squash, a courgette and a pepper. I think I planted 93 individual seeds and what you see is what germinated; disastrous with a fucking capital "D".

If it wasn't for the fact that everything I planted outside is doing amazingly well (my white nightshade just popped up! and my motherwort!) I'd be paranoid someone hexed my green thumbs. I haven't had this sort of gardening-based devastation in motherfucking years. I'm disappointed, but I'm trying really fucking hard to file this year's weak vegetable results under "it wasn't meant to be".

This'll be the first year we've had a car in summer, so I don't expect us to be home like previous summers (a complete 180; last year and all of the years before it? we couldn't leave the house so we just sat a home). I think 2010's agricultural year will be spent learning and identifying indigenous flora, locating wild fruits to harvest, exploring land further afield (to find more elusive plants and trees) and starting various perennial container gardens (herb and witch/flying ointment) instead of tending a container vegetable garden.

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Starting from the left: a fawn leg found immediately after offering The Secret Valley's giant some homemade cake (it's a huge, long story - I've been dying to return to a forest walk my in-laws took us on a few years back where I had an encounter with my first Scottish giant (<- this was BEFORE I started smoking pot and taking mushrooms) who wasn't pleased in the least that the four of us were stomping around his grounds. I took cake and bottled water to sweeten him, but it wasn't enough - part of the footpath got wiped out making the track to the waterfalls inaccessible. Frustrated, we had no choice but to turn back. During a brief rest I left the giant his offering and within several steps a broken fawn's leg laid in my path. I know it might seem like I'm reaching, but my entire experience with the place has involved feet - from walking through his grounds to the footpath being washed away. I gave him cake attempting to show my respect for his property, and he gave me a foot in return. We're even, now, and I expect we'll make it to the waterfalls the next time we go.), two mascerating jars of oil made from sycamore tips (one was gently heated for several hours in a water bath before it was bottled up, the other was left to infuse without a water bath so I could compare the differences), the glass vase found in the cemetery's morthouse on the day we went to the souterrain and a bouquet of artificial graveyard flowers I found discarded in the cemetery's hedge when we were picking beech leaves.

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Starting from the left: wild heather we harvested last August, an antique rabbit's foot brooch (a project), my ritual scissors, the fawn's leg and my jars of oils. You can see my one pepper plant just in front of the white box the rabbit foot's sitting on.

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The ruins of an old homestead situated between wheat fields and grazing pastures.

As we walked towards the remains I noticed a lamb frantically pacing near a metal gate in an adjacent field. "HOLY SHIT, THAT LAMB ISN'T OUTSIDE OF THE FIELD, IS IT?" I asked Italics. We both squinted simultaneously and found that the lamb had, in fact, squeezed itself through the gate and was trying desperately to get back in to its mother.

Scotland doesn't have any trespassing laws (which is why I named the category that documents all of our walks and explorations as "Trespassing"), but I'm sure it has some ancient, archaic sheep rustling laws that a panicked farmer would employ when seeing two strangers lifting one of his lambs for no apparent reason. (Well, no apparent reason from a crazy long distance.)

After a few minutes of reciprocal "GAH, WHAT SHOULD WE DO?" we finally decided to nimbly tip toe through the wheat field (the seeds had just begun sprouting; I didn't want us to be branded as sheep stealers AND wheat killers) to see if we could pass the lamb over the gate to set it back into its field.

LOL @ US FOR THINKING IT WAS GOING TO BE AS EASY AS PASSING A SMALL BALE OF HAY OVER A FUCKING FENCE. LOL @ US FOR EVEN THINKING THE LAMB WOULD INSTINCTIVELY CALM THE FUCK DOWN, SETTLE INTO A SUBMISSIVE STATE AND ALLOW US TO VOLLEY IT OVER THE METAL GATE.

The closer we got to the panicked lamb the more demented it appeared until it finally shot off like a bullet, jetting down the wheat field like the devil was after its fucking soul (ASSUMING, OF COURSE, THE LAMB HAD ANY NOTIONS OF MORTALITY AND WAS COMPLETELY SELF-AWARE) straight to the road. I gasped, slapped both hands over my gaping mouth and watched in horror as the white animal became a white speck running further and further away from the field it belonged.

It felt like I had accidentally killed a defenseless animal with my bare hands. As the lamb galloped away I immediately attempted to string some sort of coherent explanation to the farmer who I was SO SURE was going to turn up any second demanding to know why we were fucking with his livestock.

("NO, NO, NO! IT WASN'T LIKE THAT! THE LAMB WAS OUT! AND IT WANTED BACK IN! WE WERE ONLY TRYING TO HELP! I LOVE YOUR SHEEP; WE DRIVE BY EVERY FEW DAYS TO WATCH THEM!" On second thought, it was probably better to NOT mention the multiple trips made just to visit the farmer's birthing sheep so I mentally edited that damning confession out.)

Just as it was reaching the road it took a sharp turn, scrambled up the stone wall separating its field from the wheat field and leapt back in with such fucking ease IT MADE ME FRUSTRATED. ("EFFING LAMB! IT COULD'VE JUST BOUNCED OVER THE FUCKING WALL WHENEVER THE FUCK IT WANTED!") Relieved - even if slightly irritated by the roller coaster of emotions - we left the lamb and explored what remained of the old stone buildings that once stood between farming fields.

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Despite all my searching I've found jack shit about this particular stone ("stane" if you want to be all Scottish). It looks too small to be a cattle rubbing stone, and it didn't appear to have any neighbors. (Although, if you look closely you can see the homestead ruins and how they align PERFECTLY with the stone.)

I don't know if it's the very last remnant of a stone circle (this area of Scotland is supposed to have the highest number of stone-based Neolithic monuments, but a HUGE percentage has been lost - some farmers left the stones in place, others dismantled circles completely and tossed the stones away), or if it's an ancient marker.

Before I forget again: we managed to catch a boxing match between two rabbits (hares?) in the grassy field with the ruined building(s). It's the first time we saw two rabbits have a go at one another in real life (up until that point all territorial/mating disputes we'd seen had been on nature programs). We also caught two pheasants in the act; we tried to give them privacy, but it was practically over before it began. (<- LESSON LEARNED: DON'T EXPECT A MARATHON SESSION WITH A MALE PHEASANT.)

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Another angle of the stone in the hopes that I can eventually identify this motherfucker.

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Third (and final) angle of the stone in the hopes that I can eventually identify this motherfucker.

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One of two ripe Apache chilli peppers that got added to a homemade duck and beef stew I made last week (or the week before?). Normally I lay to rest all of my pepper plants at the end of the growing season, but this particular one was a birthday gift from a friend a few years back so it's become a year round house plant.

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The morning after the seasonal changing of the guard. I was so fucking busy/lazy (YOU CAN BE BOTH; I'M LIVING PROOF) this year that I didn't have a chance to perform my welcoming ritual on the vernal equinox. (<- In Spring Chile Bird migrates back to us, and in Fall he's replaced by Cobweb Spider.)

#1 problem when engaging in weather witchery: if you establish a tit for tat system you better fucking follow through with your end of the bargain. I've learned a valuable lesson this year* - the Universe isn't obligated to honor its contribution to your agreement if you fail to bring your end to the fucking table.

(* This past Winter was "THE WORST WINTER IN 30 YEARS!" which refused to let us go from its (Her, more appropriately) icy grip. For the first time in years Spring was severely belated, and we were still getting snow in fucking May. Once I got up off my fucking ass and performed the seasonal ritual Winter settled down and finally allowed Spring to take the reigns.)

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Step #3 of my four step equinox ritual. I first remove everything from/on the window (#1), deep clean everything (#2), burn incense on the vacant space (#3) and then return everything, making sure to swap to the seasonally appropriate "guardian". (See CHANGING OF THE GUARD (SPRING 2010) for video footage.)

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Without the statues, plants and stone jars the windowsill looks eerily empty. I think I took this picture around three or four PM (on May 10th); it's so damn dark because it had begun snowing-sleeting-hailing which was the last straw that broke this camel's TOO LAZY TO ENGAGE IN WEATHER MAGIC back. (SNOW AND SLEET ON MAY FUCKING 10TH? NO FUCKING THANK YOU.)

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Once in a while I catch Anubis loitering around the premises.

A few years back shadows cast from a plastic chair and backyard shrub created a silhouette of the jackal-headed God - complete with a pitchfork-like weapon with three sharp prongs; not exactly a trident, but sort've close - on the concrete slabs that make the patio.

This year he appeared on my dinky 600x800 computer monitor (I KNOW, I KNOW, IT'S LIKE I'M STILL LIVING IN THE LATE 90s OR SOMETHING) during sunrise. For a few days the sun's (early morning) position aligned with part of our windowsill altar and some of the statues (Anubis and Thoth) created shadows which tracked across my screen.

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Me and my 420 gift from Italics. (It's a pot leaf necklace. Even though it's a little tighter than what I'm use to it sits PERFECTLY around my lower neck. I wore it throughout our belated 420 celebrations. <- CODE FOR "DRUG-FUELED MARATHON SEX".)

I gave Italics the UFO Tarot (ALIENS, TAROT DECKS AND POT CLEARLY GO HAND-IN-HAND), a yew treen marriage chalice with a pair of rings circling the stem and one helluva anniversary blowjob. (Because we've been so goddamn busy for the past few months we couldn't observe 420 on 4/20 so we opted to save the festivities and combine them with our "THIS IS THE DAY WE OFFICIALLY GOT TOGETHER" celebrations. <- May 9th, 1997; we were both 17 at the time. 13 motherfucking years, world! We're practically an institution by this point.)

There are pictures of the tarot deck and yew chalice, but since you guys already silently suffer by being force fed gratuitous pictures of my fat, naked ass sitting on various neolithic monuments I won't further torture you with frontal nudity involving an unshorn Ms. Graveyard Dirt. (<- I only get to shave mine off when the sheep get theirs off and that only happens when the elderflowers go into bloom.)

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I didn't think that Garlogie's cattle rubbing stone was THAT phallic, but opinions obviously differ.

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Garlogie's cattle rubbing stone from a different angle.

We found this one by pure chance (which is how we normally find them); I was set on exploring a small country lane that hugged a powerful brook, when the lane ended I pulled into the opening of a field to turn around and then saw the rubbing stone only several yards away.

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"...AND MAKE SURE YOU GET PICTURES OF THE AFTERBIRTH AND UMBILICAL CORD STILL HANGING OUT OF HER!"

One of many versions of shit Italics needs to put up with on an almost daily basis. (<- He seriously deserves to win some sort of HUSBAND OF THE YEAR award.) It might not be EASY living with an autistic Aries witch, but at least it's not boring.

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The ewe actually gave birth to a pair of lambs. In the previous picture you can see one - still slightly bloody - but the second's hiding behind her back. In this photo you can see the siblings together.

This is the first Spring we've had a car so the majority of the season was spent behind the wheel exploring all of the tiny roads, lanes and tracks close to home. One of our very favorite activities - I mean, OTHER than outside sex on monuments and in the woods - was simply parking in the middle of nowhere to watch the new lambs of the season frolic, play and take their first few wobbly steps.

In fact, this Spring I came to a conclusion that I should've come to a lot fucking earlier - being a vet doesn't automatically obligate you to work with hamsters and dogs in a clinic. I've always wanted to work with animals, but I didn't think I could handle the emotions that went with treating family pets. It never once occurred to me that I could've gone into providing veterinary care for livestock and farm animals.

(And the WORST-BEST part of THAT? There's such a deficit in that specific type of veterinary medicine that both the UK and USA have begun waiving fees and tuition for prospective students going into that particular field. The thing is, I'm 30 fucking years old and already have a career I need to get back to. There's no way I can dedicate a decade of my life to become a qualified sheep midwife and do what I'm actually supposed to be doing.)

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"OH, HEY, LOOK AT THAT SWAN BEING ALL RETARDED IN THAT FIELD NOT EVEN CLOSE TO WATER. HEY, RETARD, WHAT DID YOU DO, DROP YOUR FUCKING KEYS OR SOMETHING?"

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"OH, SHIT, IT HEARD US! DON'T MAKE EYE CONTACT! I'M JUST GOING TO SLOWLY DRIVE AWAY..."

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A quilted pillowcase I picked up at a resale shop on Good Saturday for Chippy. (It's a long story involving a dog bed that Chippy doesn't sleep in because he'd rather sleep on the floor next to me than at the foot of the bed in his goddamn bed, a pillow covered with a pillowcase I cross-stitched Italics a few years back that he accidentally bombed with ash ("YOU BETTER TAKE IT AWAY AND PUT IT SOMEPLACE SAFE") and my worry that a plush Shar Pei dog toy that houses an ancient Sumerian demon might be cold sleeping on a cross-stitched pillow next to my side of the bed on the floor.)

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A partial closeup of our office windowsill altar, pre-Spring ritual/cleaning. Wadjet - and her axe - act as the centerpiece in front of a pair of stone carved jars. To the left of her is the female side (Tawaret isn't pictured, neither is Hathor or Serket), to the right is the male side (you can see Sobek, but only slivers of Anubis and Thoth).

Everyone got a peanut M&M offering a few months back, all of which were removed, bagged and tagged for later witchcraft. (Initial idea? Grow one or two plants sacred to the ancient Egyptian gods and add the M&Ms to the potting compost.)

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By early May spiders began weaving their webs around the statues. Combine random gossamer strings with a thick layer of dust, spotty glass and dull wood and you got yourself an altar that desperately needs cleaning.

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In Spring and Fall we're joined by a wave of spiders who live along side of us for the season. Since they're are a non-venomous variety they get two giant thumbs up from me, and the occasional escort to the backroom where there's a better supply of insects.

Out of Control

How do I know I'm a witch? Because even the crows - and persistent magpie who obviously worked any fucking angle to get a piece of the soup leftovers - can't resist my cooking; it's like something out of a Slavic fairytale. (I think they need one more year of buffalo wings, cheesecake, nachos and pizza before they're charmed enough to do my evil bidding.)