Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Deemed Worthy

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Outside of this rural subdivision, past the dental practice, old berry farm and butcher stands a tiny little hamlet of a forest on a busy country road surrounded by wheat fields, industrial complexes and new housing. It's recognized woodland, protected and cared for by the government (official trails tricked out with wooden walkways, painted sign posts indicating various routes, sections actively cleared for conservation purposes) and a favorite haunt for nature-lovin' locals.

(Walking and being in the wild? Super huge big here in Scotland. I've never encountered people so passionate about land and their inherent RIGHT to access it. <- Like I said before, Scotland doesn't have any trespassing laws. You go where you want, when you want, provided it's done respectfully and within reason.)

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The most active corvid rookery I know about - at least "just out the door" locally - is located there. In a tiny stretch of peninsula-shaped land between the parking lot and wheat field exists a cluster of long-needled pine trees, and those coniferous trees have provided nesting grounds for countless generations of crows.

I've always avoided this particular patch of woodland; too popular, too busy (especially being situated on a narrow country lane way too fucking small to accommodate the full-blown trucks barreling down the broken asphalt), too noisy and too fucking messy. (<- Some Scots love nature so fucking much they'll wheel their McDonald's all the way to the fucking woods to have an idyllic backdrop for lunch, but then they'll follow up their appreciation by tossing their garbage out the car window and into the grass, or parking lot, or the very fringes of the forest.)

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I didn't want to get attached to it because people, over the years, have transformed the first section of the forest into a litter-specked wasteland and it's only gotten worse thanks to all of the new houses backing straight up to the woods. I didn't want to be privy to people's love-hate relationship with nature, so I went elsewhere. I spent the last several years exploring the countryside's secret places - far away from people, parking lots and padded trails - which still managed to stay hidden behind crumbling stone walls and overgrown hedges. We haunted the places where you had to slip beneath barbed wire, wade through knee-high grass and scale ancient drystane dykes.

Not this past Saturday, but the weekend before Italics and I visited the rookery in the woods. I knew from previous visits that it wasn't too uncommon to find dead crows there, and seeing how they hadn't moved to a new location it seemed like a prime spot to find the remains of expired birds who died a more natural death (as opposed to being hit by a fucking car). My hunch was right; within minutes of scouting we found one. (A black crow with two white toenails - how's that for auspicious?)

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The next morning I projectile vomited all over the fucking bathroom. Italics almost immediately copycatted my ass, although his execution was a lot less spectacular than mine. Our response was so violent, so fucking immediate that there were only the crows to blame. (After finding the one at the rookery we came across a second further down the road with its head partially bashed in, so we actually came home that Saturday with TWO dead crows.) But that's a story for a different entry (because I've already tangented off my original intent).

So we got sick. "Wretchedly sick", if you remember. We couldn't eat for a whole 24 hours (I was deathly afraid to even drink water in case it set me off for a third time), and when the most extreme aspect of our illness passed our appetites only allowed us the occasional bowl of soup, or piece of plain toast. (Not that I didn't try. Italics watched in horror as I voraciously gobbled down steak, tortilla chips, vanilla ice cream and frozen Reeses Pieces. I spent the next two days regretting the binge, but, hey, the homemade DIY Blizzard was a-fucking-mazing after an entire day of not eating jack shit.)

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I had several huge meals planned - homemade buffalo wings with hot sauce, gingered duck stir-fry with fresh vegetables and a hearty steak dinner complete with slow-baked potatoes - none of which either of us could stomach. I managed grilling the steak, but I couldn't save the poultry. The defrosted portions of chicken and duck pathetically sat in their protective vacuum sealed bags until I decided to haul them out as offerings for the crows (a lame "thank you for only making us sick and not killing us" gesture).

When we were finally well enough to leave the house for an extended period one of the very first things we did was make a pilgrimage to the rookery to express our gratitude for the bodies and experience they gave us. (Initiation, dear and gentle readers, has its price. In this game you rarely get shit for free; if it's worthwhile having, then it's worthwhile suffering for. Admittedly, I regret that Italics had to bear the same discomfort, but I suppose that's the ultimate price he pays for trying to tame and domesticate a half-feral witch who brings dead things into the house.)

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A gift was waiting for us. (Two, actually, if you count the crow we scooped up all Navy Seal-like on the busy, narrow country road.) Beneath the towering pines a lone fledgling laid dead, still soaking wet from the torrential rain that had hammered the countryside a day before. A tiny thing, a wee thing, drenched to the bone and wide-eyed. (It's never pleasant discovering a dead animal, there's always a part of you that wishes you had come earlier as if you somehow stood the chance of saving it if you had only been motivated to go the same route an hour, a day, a week before.)

We tore open plastic bags of rotting meat and neatly piled the offerings into a stinking pyramid of poultry. While I swaddled the baby crow in Ziploc bags Italics poured out a libation of elderflower cider over the meat (which was a particularly nice touch since several bushy elder shrubs grow beneath the collection of nests) as new housing owners jumping on a trampoline with their kids suspiciously looked on. (IT'S CALLED WITCHCRAFT. LET ME SPELL THAT OUT FOR YOU, W-I-T-C-H-C-R-A-F-T. DID YOU GET THAT?)

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Our original intent was to stay for a few hours to get acquainted with the place, but after a short amble on a hella easy path we found our energy reserves declining and decided it was better not to push ourselves after being so goddamn sick. I managed to find the first raspberries of the season, but only two berries (all of the others were still tight green buds despite the two having reached perfect ripeness) and on the way home we managed to pull of a roadkill retrieval stunt that surely deserved a round of applause.

(The road? The narrow, crazily busy country lane flanking the woods? The one with enormous semis tearing down patchy asphalt? Even busier than usual. They closed a major intersection that the public uses to access the only grocery store in town, and the diverted traffic is now being funneled ("funneled" because the route is bordered on either side by two massive stone walls) down that tight, dangerously claustrophobic track. Even without the pressure of added commuters the stretch of road is known for recklessly fast driving despite the twists, bends and blind spots.)

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(A crow - a huge ass motherfucker of a crow - was nestled against one of the walls, seemingly unsmashed due to the protectively solid nature of the dyke it was leaning against. Italics and I had to time our actions just right, in perfect sync. We couldn't get out of the car, let alone really stop it. Like Falkor snatching Atreyu just as Gmork was closing in Italics partially opened the car door as we coasted past, never moving from his seated position in the car, and lifted the dead bird from the side of the road and into his lap. One, two, three. It was over before it began.)

July 22nd was a long ass day. It was our first full non-Saturn Return day (Saturn left Virgo on the 21st and entered Libra; as far as old man Saturn goes he's someone else's problem for the next 30 years) and, I think, the day the sun entered Leo (which is my ascent, I'm part ram, part fish and part lion). Despite just getting over a serious bout of sickness we both found ourselves pottering around outside even after our forest walk and a spot of grocery shopping. I harvested thistle and feverfew growing outside in the front yard, and then let Italics loose with the lawn mower to take down the meadow my in-laws don't want to see (they come home in two days, SIGH) while I ritually dismembered my fridge full of dead crows.

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There was something special about the larger crow we picked up that day. It was a lot of things, the absolute desperation to rescue it despite its awkward (and damn near impossible) positioning, how perfectly preserved and utterly flawless it remained despite having spent several long hours at the very edges of the busiest road in town, it's eerily life-like, frozen appearance. When Italics successfully lifted it from the road I enthusiastically cheered and told him, half-joking, that for all of his effort he could keep it.

It spooked me with its beady, glossy eyes still coal black and sharp (as a roadkill scavenger I'm more used to the frosty, glassy eyes of death). Stiff, but warm, it groggily glared through half-open eyes at its surroundings, dead but very much alive, caught in a bizarre "DON'T ASK ME HOW MY FUCKING DAY'S BEEN" limbo. It must've been hit while walking, and in death it retained its fatal gait. The only obvious trauma it suffered - at least in a superficial appearance - were a few partially twisted toes, and because it wasn't mangled or broken it needed almost no coaxing to stand.

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As ridiculous as it sounds, I was hesitant to dismember the crow. It was dead, it was OBVIOUSLY fucking dead, but something was there. Half-aware. Dazed. Alive. I knew it was dead, but a part of me was terrified that it'd awaken mid-decapitation and I'd only realize, after it was too late, that it had only been stunned for the 3-5 hours it remained perfectly still, perfectly stiff. I processed the oldest two first, and then the baby as the large black crow blearily looked on from its container garden roost.

When I finally severed its head from its body fresh, uncoagulated blood trickled from the decapitated bird and thickly pooled at the tips of my toes as if its heart had only just stopped beating. A gift. A truce. Acknowledgement that I had walked through fire and stayed on course, that even if I didn't follow them into death I sacrificed enough as I accompanied and comforted them as best as I could on the long, painful walk to the other side. Through sickness I was tested, they were satisfied and the blood that trickled from the beheaded crow was my initiation.

I anointed myself and wore the bloody cross with pride; I was deemed worthy.

Obsolete

When you don't rely on a handbook and compass it's sometimes hard to know if you're on the right track. No one's left a reference book for you at the crossroads, so when you wander down the perpendicular lane to the eternal line cutting through your path it's just you, wilderness and your gut. Guidance and confirmation comes from hours-days-weeks of patiently watching out for signs while schizophrenically dismantling secret codes found in every day (seemingly mundane) experiences. Sometimes you're rewarded with an immediate response that borders on divine intervention, sometimes you have to spend a month sifting through 28-31 days of shit just to find two ("n", "o") or three ("y", "e" & "s") simple letters.

Because my beliefs haven't been built on a foundation based on external sources I don't have a definitive book of answers I can refer to. I don't have any commandments, I don't observe any rede. There are times when I have questions - moral questions, ethical questions - and I find myself wondering BUT, IS IT //TOO// MUCH? because a very small part of me is suddenly aware that I'm towing a delicate, practically invisible line. (<- When Ms. Graveyard Dirt - who's normally oblivious to societal constraints and what third parties view as acceptable practices - worries about pushing the envelope then she knows she's probably pushing the motherfucking envelope.)

This game I'm playing isn't easy and doesn't come with a set of rules, but I'd be fucking lying if I didn't admit there are occasions when the other player (the Universe) deliberately shows me its cards to further my ass along. There are occasions when I don't even get the luxury of contemplating the fork in the road; I unceremoniously get shoved in one direction. There's no enticement, no temptation, no snake oil sales pitch. Fuck, there are times when I'm not extended the courtesy of being allowed to make my own "enlightened" choice. Sometimes it seems that the Universe is so fucking paranoid about keeping me on the right path it panic hits auto pilot to ensure there's zero percent chance I'll accidentally detour from destiny.

I inherently know what's right for me. I know, ultimately, that I do what I do because it makes sense, and if it makes fucking sense then I've reached a logical conclusion (to me, I mean) that justifies my actions. Things, however, get a lot more fucking sketchy when I involve someone else because the actions are no longer personal. To me, there isn't anything questionable about skinning roadkill rabbits for their fur (to create a ritual blanket) or eviscerating a dead crow to extract vital organs because I'm doing it for myself for my own use, but if someone pays me for that sort of service does that make me your friendly middleman witch, or a morally repugnant butcher of wildlife?

I know it might not always seem the case, but I take my shit seriously. Crazy fucking seriously. Just because I have an obnoxious ability to see humor in almost all things doesn't mean there isn't a spectrum of depth beneath the superficiality of continuous laughter. I don't worry about what people don't see (fuck, Momma Fortuna had to put a fake horn on a real fucking unicorn so people could "see" her), I worry about what the Universe doesn't see. In fact, I'm even more worried that it sees really fucking well, but unlike the Universe I'm totally oblivious to the truth because I haven't been completely honest with myself about my own motives.

Just incase it isn't entirely clear: I've been agonizing over the entire fairytale hag-witch roadkill thing. A-fucking-lot. Why I should do it, why I shouldn't do it, if people will understand why I'm offering to do it. In many respects I feel like an archaic, mythical figure thrust into a modern, real world. I'm a fear, a nightmare. I work with blood, entrails and bones, my hands are scarred and stained with death. I'm obsolete, a horrific caricature that tightrope walks between the worlds of fact and fiction. I'm not supposed to exist, but I do, and I'm here (for better or for worse) living amongst you.

Only July 22nd I got my resounding YES! from the Universe (no loitering around the crossroads this time), but I don't know if that emphatic confirmation is enough. I don't know if it's enough for the world whose very fringes I live at. When witchcraft has moved onto glitter, gossamer fairy wings and Vogue photo shoots who the fuck is even going to want (or need) crow eyes, rabbit hearts or fox tongues? Maybe my kind is better off contained in stories, and the best possible outcome for us is having our extinction forever immortalized in fairy tales.

Crow Wishbone; Ultimate Wish

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How much would you be willing to pay for the ultimate wish?

Nature's Reclamation

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I'm so far behind on Graveyard Dirt shit my ass ain't even laughing anymore. I've got so many things to show you, so many fucking stories to tell and projects to talk about and jokes to mess up and mad-brilliant-stupid ideas to tentatively explain and photos that perfectly - PERFECTLY! - illustrate all of the above (well, in most cases). And HOW do I decide to tackle this monumental undertaking? By writing about our (previously) overgrown front yard. (<- You want priories? I got them RIGHT HERE, motherfucker.)

I'll try to keep this yarn short (LOLOLOLOL, I KNOW, I KNOW, LET'S PRETEND I CAN BE SUCCINCT, THOUGH, OKAY?), because some of you might've heard various renditions about a billion times already.

Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, was once the custodian of this house and the property it sits on. What maintenance he could manage he performed himself, and he personally took care of the landscaping and maintaining of said landscaping. About 6-8 years ago he dug up (literally) the entire lawn - and what he didn't manage to dig up he deliberately snuffed with plant killer - and transformed our front yard into a giant dirt pit.

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Little did I know that immediately after trashing the front fucking yard (we're talking about an entire fucking yard totally scraped clean of anything green and living) he benched himself. For, like, forever. The destruction of the lawn - and all of the landscaping - was his swan song, and none of us knew it at the time. Because it was early days (in the sense of me assuming a more active, aggressive caretaker role in this house) I didn't intervene, thinking he had some sort of super-big-huge plan I didn't know about (or couldn't see intuitively).

I gave him way too much fucking credit. The front yard - which I eventually renamed "the dirt yard" - sat barren, abandoned and untouched for years. (Okay, okay, that's a half lie; Mr. Awesome, in the first several years of the wasteland's existence, did routinely go outside with plant killer and spray anything green that had managed to seed and germinate itself in his precious dirt lawn.)

Every subdivision has its "crackhouse". Amongst carefully manicured and pedicured pieces of property there's always one fucking house where grass doesn't grow, where garbage (or rusted, partially broken toys and lawn furniture) pops up like prolific fungi and there's usually 1-3 cars, in various states of disrepair, sitting on, or near, the crackhouse. As a kid cycling past on my bike I couldn't help but stare at the community eyesore, wondering what the living fuck the people were on, and how they managed to not give a fuck and bow under silent peer pressure to conform to the subdivision's standards of appearance.

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To answer my own childhood questions (seeing as how I'm an unwilling inhabitant of this subdivision's "crackhouse"):

1.) Pot, most of the time.

2.) Some members of this house, the ones who actually execute the final decision on anything (cough, in-laws, cough), didn't see any problem with having a giant archeological excavation site instead of a lawn, parking two broken cars in front of the house and throwing indoor vegetative waste outdoors on barren land (you want shit to stick out? throw gigantic fucking banana leaves onto a flat expanse of dirt and just leave it there like it's fucking camouflaged amongst soil and rocks).

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Fed the fuck up with seeing the dirt yard year in and year out I finally decided to do something about it last year - plant motherfucking vegetables. (Why the fuck not? There was a surplus of soil readily available, and it had been something like 6-8 years since my in-laws even touched the naked earth out front and surely something - something the entire family would've benefited from - was better than nothing, right?) The fucking second they saw me disturbing the dirt yard's soil they came racing out to inform me that they were TOTALLY going to do something with the yard THAT YEAR but they just hadn't told either of us (Italics and I).

I didn't buy it. Italics didn't buy it. And if you're familiar with the tale of the trash heap/non-existent BBQ you'll know why neither of us bought it. (Not sure what the fuck I'm talking about? Read this (dig deep! the explanation's there!); everything'll make sense.) The fact that they tried to pull the same bullshit again absolutely blew me the fuck away. In fact, Internet, I was downright insulted with the insinuation that suddenly, after 6-8 years of not giving a fuck about the condition of the front yard, they had SUPER-MAJOR-AWESOME PLANS once they saw ME show interest in the wasteland they had created and walked away from.

I got told they had plans for the front yard. I gave them my best "not even MARGINALLY fucking impressed" Clair Huxtable expression and informed THEM that that was great, but I was growing vegetables in the dirt yard this year and they could do whatever the fuck they wanted NEXT year. (Hey, that gave them an entire year to plan, organize and get their act together so they were ready to go the second 2010 hit. It actually gave them a fucking EXCUSE not to do anything for one whole fucking year.)

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Italics' parents wouldn't leave me and my year with the dirt yard alone. I didn't have a moment's fucking peace working outside. Every single fucking time - and I'm not exaggerating here in the slightest - I went outside to clock in one of them would come outside to remind me that they were going to undo everything I did this year. Every. Single. Fucking. Time. It wasn't a matter of IF, it was a matter of WHEN.

("ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO PLANT VEGETABLES? WOULDN'T YOU RATHER PLANT {INSERT AN UNSUBTLE ATTEMPT TO GET ME TO PLANT WHAT THEY WANTED, WHERE THEY WANTED}?" and "YOU SEE ALL OF THOSE ROCKS YOU'VE BEEN PULLING OUT OF THE GROUND BY HAND FOR SIX HOURS A DAY? KEEP THEM BECAUSE WE'RE GOING TO THROW THEM BACK INTO THE YARD NEXT YEAR.")

While my scraped hands and fingers bled from sifting earth to remove debris and rocks with my bare fucking hands Mr. Awesome would come outside to inform me that every fucking rock I pulled out he was just going to throw "back into the yard" once I was done. And every single fucking time I wanted to shout "MOTHERFUCKER, I'M NOT EVEN DONE PULLING THE FUCKING ROCKS OUT OF THE FUCKING GROUND. AT LEAST LET ME BE DONE WITH THIS FUCKING JOB BEFORE YOU BEGIN TELLING ME YOU'RE GOING TO UNDO EVERYTHING I FUCKING DID. JESUS EFFING CHRIST." but, instead, I got Italics to do it for me (they aren't MY parents).

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After one too many "ARE YOU SURE?", "WOULDN'T YOU RATHER...?" and "NEXT YEAR WE'RE GOING TO..." I walked away. Now, of course, I'm sort've ashamed that I let them wear me down, but I was totally unable to derive any enjoyment from something that's meant to be relaxing. I left them their goddamn dirt yard and walked the fuck away. Ultimately, I decided it wasn't worth the hassle I was getting and turned my focus on expanding my container garden in the back.

Take a wild fucking guess what happened. Go ahead. That's right, nothing. They got their effing dirt yard a fucking year early and they did NOTHING. After all the bullshit I went through, the talk of SUPER-HUGE-BIG PLANS and the power struggle this entire household experienced over a bald front yard they decided they didn't actually want to do anything, but, for some reason, they couldn't reach that conclusion until after I threw my hands up in the air, all exasperated, and finally said "FINE, TAKE IT".

(Just between you and me? I think they finally reached the point where they didn't want to piss me off anymore. I know Italics engaged in a shock and awe campaign on my behalf and pointed out previous situations where I was stopped from doing something that'd benefit the house and family because they had BIG, GRAND PLANS that conflicted with my proposal, and in every instance I backed off they never followed through with those BIG, GRAND PLANS and this was just ANOTHER example of their inability to start, let alone finish, something.)

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They didn't take the dirt yard, I didn't take the dirt yard, but Nature? Nature took the fucking dirt yard. After beating Mr. Awesome back with a proverbial stick, seeds from various indigenous flora, for the first time in years, actually took root. There was enough "growth" last year to warrant the "lawn" being cut for the first time in nearly a decade. From a not-so-distant distance it actually appeared like we had motherfucking grass, just like all of the non-crackhouse houses.

I don't want to be premature, but...it feels like they've backed off. I mean, like, "HOLY SHIT, SHE'S FUCKING CRAZY, JUST LET HER DO WHAT THE FUCK SHE WANTS AND DON'T MAKE FUCKING EYE CONTACT" backed off. That's cool, that's fine, I'm happy to deal with social rabies if it means my pot smoking ass can (figuratively) move out of the crackhouse. Cause, like, I've got plans, baby. Super huge, terrifically awesome plans - but that's another story for a different day.

With an exception of planting garlic, beets and carrots (the later two didn't really perform well; the front yard faces north so they aren't getting as much sun as they need, at least I'll be harvesting a decent garlic crop) I've otherwise "neglected" the front yard. Deliberately, though, just to see what Nature would sow and give me. And, my fucking God, it gave me lots: pansies, feverfew (WTF? I gave up trying to grow feverfew over five fucking years ago because nothing ever fucking germinated - now I have it growing everywhere EXCEPT the containers I sowed it in!), bellflowers, ragwort, violets, thistle, white clover, buttercups and a host of meadow grasses whose names I don't know.

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Much to the chagrin of my in-laws I refused to cut the "lawn". Well, it wasn't an outright refusal, but whenever they complained about the height of the growing grass I'd dismiss their anxieties with a polite "yeah, we're getting to that, we just need to do a couple of things first". I tried REALLY FUCKING HARD not to get pissed whenever my mother-in-law would shake me down with stories about people receiving fines from the council for not taking care of their property, but it was struggle (mostly because she obsessively kept mentioning it).

Holy fuck, dude, if the fucking council didn't fine us when our entire front yard was nothing but fucking dirt and there were two broken cars parked outside next to the exposed dirt I don't think they're going to fine us for some fucking grass that's knee high. I mean, for fuck's sake, how is having an overgrown lawn NOT an improvement of our previous situation? Before we had NOTHING, now we have SOMETHING.

Because I prefer my grass unruly and wild I've allowed it to grow all year long and watched, month by month, as the front yard slowly transformed into a meadow. Eventually the three large rocks dotting the small earthen mound between the rowan and sycamore disappeared beneath a canopy of stalks, leaves and flowers. Eventually the soil was swallowed by green (and yellow and purple and white), and the wildness grew to a height where Summer's breeze rippled through it like a field of shivering wheat.

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It was the meadows of my youth where I'd drape white translucent curtains over the bowing seedheads of wild grasses to create an ethereal canopy. And I'd sink - naked (oh, my preference for "naked" goes back a long, long way) - into a sea of green, lying on my back within my nomadic fairy hut, secluded and perfectly hidden in the rich grasslands that bordered our house. I didn't need to drag out curtains to create my sidhe yurt or throw off all of my clothes and sit in towering grass to appreciate - I mean, REALLY appreciate - the view from outside the kitchen window. Seeing it, everyday, was enough. (At least for now, heh.)

The meadow, unfortunately, had to be tamed. We let it grow for as long as possible, but Italics' folks return from the States in about a week and no amount of storytelling ("BUT I CAN'T CUT THE GRASS BECAUSE IT REMINDS ME OF BEING ALL LORD OF THE FLIES AS A KID!") or excuses ("THE WEATHER'S BEEN BAD EVERY SINGLE DAY SINCE YOU GUYS LEFT!") will fly. A few days ago I finally harvested the thistle and feverfew and gave Italics the green light to take the rest down. He managed part of the yard, but not all of it.

Later on today I'm hoping to step outside and pick the violets and pansies (to dry the flowers for future witchcrafting) and gather some of their seeds before they disappear beneath the blades of the lawnmower. Once the long grass has a chance to dry we'll gather it up and store it for Christmas, where it'll be spread beneath our kitchen table during Sviata Vechera ("Holy Supper", eaten on Christmas Eve) to honor domesticated animals, and then stored away again until Spring (Bride's Day, Imbolc) when we'll offer it to local lactating ewes.

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Goddamn Lucky

Walked down to the cemetery. Ate wild cherries. Watched a raptor hunt. Passed between barbed wire fences. Waded through overgrown pastureland. Had sex in the ruined church. Freed the wild gooseberry bush. Wandered down a shady lane to the local kirkyard. Knocked on A.S.'s "grave". Sat with the graveyard rabbits. Watched Italics take pictures of graveyard rabbits. Watched families of swallows dip above overgrown pastureland. Straightened the nun's grave. Left an offering on Muriel's grave. Left offerings at the cemetery cairn. Poured Didi's ("grandfather") bottle of Heineken over his Midwinter bread at Papa's grave. Left a chocolate cigar for Papa behind his headstone. Left the Leprechaun in the cairn tree. Drank water from the kirkyard's faucet. Waved good-bye to graveyard rabbits and swallows. Walked back home, admiring shimmering wheat fields of green-gold while appreciating how goddamn lucky I am.

Anointed

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"...and thou shalt anoint the tabernacle of the congregation therewith, and the ark of the testimony..." - Exodus 30:26 (King James Version)

My "Office"

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Ladies and gentlemen, my "office". (Well, one of several...)

Saturn Return

See you in another 30 years, old man Saturn.

Junkyard Amulet 01: New Beginnings

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"Junkyard Amulets"; one of a kind talismans, charms and amulets resurrecting the lost, found and excavated into unsubtle pieces of magical intent. Description and details of 01: New Beginnings to follow.

Wretchedly Sick

We're sick. Like, wretchedly sick. What started out as "my stomach is acting retarded; I'm swallowing a lot of air" ended with projectile vomiting (over the floor, over two walls, the sink's basin, the sink's stand and practically every part of the fucking toilet). Italics, thankfully, made less of a mess than me (he managed to just hit the bathroom floor).

If you're expecting an email from me it might be another day or two. This is some serious shit we're experiencing (Italics? has only thrown up //4// times in the 13 years we've been involved) and I'm having a helluva time staying vertical. In fact, this is the first time I've been able to get out of bed in 12 motherfucking hours.

Pretty Fucking Magic

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How magic is a black crow with two white nails? Pretty fucking magic, dude.

Streusel Rhubarb Bread

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So, like, I was bad yesterday. Really fucking bad. I had my pot of coffee (decaf, but that's okay since Papa's black ass has begun to appreciate the wide world of flavored coffee) but I didn't email anyone. I mean, I did, but I don't think the incomplete correspondence totaling five whole paragraphs still sitting in my drafts folder to my girl E really constitutes as "writing and replying to email".

I got off track before even starting. (Fuck, if you're going to do something, do it spectacularly?) I knew if I settled my ass in front of the computer and properly wrote in my diary I'd bleed my reservoir of concentration dry. So, instead, I split the rabbit skull images from the crow photos thinking I'd more or less scribble down an expletive-laden paragraph or two and finish off the exquisite piece of journaling - heh! - by stamping the entry with the skull photos.

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Yeah, I know, that didn't happen. I wrote the effing entry, got emotional, then Italics woke up, we got A LITTLE high (I was still under the false impression that I was actually going to manage tackling some email that day) but instead of turning my attention to my inbox, I tearfully regurgitated what I had just written to Italics and I ended up retiring early in front of the TV to watch a movie with him. ("IT'S ONLY TWO HOURS INTO MY DAY, I CAN TOTALLY RECOUP TIME AFTER WATCHING SOMETHING...")

Today I need to exercise more restraint, and the only way to do that is publish a picture (or two) that doesn't really require a bit of storytelling to put into context. An image that doesn't necessitate an explanation? Sounds like The Black Arts fodder to me...

Things I've learned about working with a gluten-free flour mix: always use an extra egg (g-f flour sucks up moisture like you wouldn't believe), buttermilk always works a dream (it really helps the g-f flour remain super airy and light) and the best possible outcomes always involve a runny batter/dough (I've found that g-f flour HATES being physically worked into shapes, the less I fuss with it the better it rises and appears).

And the super best most awesome thing about gluten-free flour? It still makes damn good streusel. I might not be able to knead gluten-free flour to bake yeast-based bread, or create perfectly crispy buffalo wings (I'm still experimenting!) but, dammit, I can still enjoy my special quiet time that comes with the repetitive, rhythmic action of rubbing cold butter into flour, sugar and spices to make streusel topping. Therapeutic bliss.

Homemade Antidepressant

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Fulfilling a V. old promise for a friend who could use a hug right now. And, also, ruining a surprise. Oops.

Foster Care

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So I opened up my big, fat, scavenging mouth and now everyone wants roadkill. From me. Pronto. I've spent years fantasizing about this sort've situation, but now that it's here a part of me's going WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, EASY COWBOY because I don't have anything ready. Business cards? Nuh uh. Label art? Nope. A store name? LOL, WHATEV. (Just between you and me? I'm so fucking green in this venture that if you pat me on the back you'll smudge the fresh paint.)

I think I might be rushing, but Italics hasn't told me to slow down. (<- That's a good sign, right?) I don't know so many things - how to whiten bones (I mean, I know how, I just haven't had the time to experiment), how to fix feet in specific positions (wings are hella easy, all you need is some soft cardboard, salt and a box of sewing pins), how to preserve organs (other than drying them out into shriveled bits of pemican), how to transform frozen, raw fur into soft, downy pelts (which I REALLY need to learn how to do THIS YEAR since I got more than enough rabbit skins to begin the process of piecing together my proposed wild rabbit ritual blanket) and, ultimately, how to taxidermy like a motherfucking pro.

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The response has been overwhelming. Every effing time I pop open my inbox there's more email. ("HI! YOU DON'T KNOW ME, BUT I'VE BEEN READING YOUR JOURNAL FOR A LONG ASS TIME AND I'D REALLY LOVE TO GET MY HANDS ON...") I've always operated under the assumption that only two or three people - who I'm already sort've associated with - bother visiting this space, and even that's only on a totally uncommitted basis. It blows my mind that people are reading this shit and actually coming back for seconds. (Or, at least, frequently returning to watch what they think is a train wreck in perpetual progress.)

I haven't even sealed one deal yet (BTW, y'all might have to Thunderdome it out amongst yourselves re: corvid skulls, cause, like, I think I might have a whole THREE to offer, and I'm probably saving one for personal use) and I'm already worried. Will people be able to tell how much love, energy and respect (even if filtered through my bizarre sense of humor) I offer every animal that I'm privileged enough to be given? Will they be able to tell I ritualize the dismantling of a physical form to help release the spirit from the burden of flesh? Will they feel the incense? My altered state? The offerings I give and make, the funerals Italics and I hold, the continuation of life that occurs when visiting wildlife finds food and sustenance from the decomposing bodies of their deceased brethren?

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I'm worried my work won't feel "alive" to anyone but myself. I'm deathly terrified that someone'll tear open their box from bonnie old Scotland, eagerly pull out the piece they've been anticipating and the entire experience suddenly flatlines because it - whatever it is - doesn't feel special, doesn't feel magic. And no amount of stories (because there's always a story attached to every animal), no amount of pictures (it's important to know and see where it came from, lived and died), no amount of spiritually feeding, nurturing and sheparding energy will be enough to create a connection between someone else and my animals.

In a bizarre way it almost feels like I'm sending my babies into foster care, and even though I can provide the metaphorical birth certificate and baby photos I can't guarantee that any of the additional information will create a meaningful bond between it and its adoptive parent. Fuck, is it weird that I'm being anxious about shit like this? Is it a GOOD sign? Will prospective buyers think I'm mental, or will they kind've sort've get what I'm doing?

Bottom fucking line? I want to be happy, I want the new caretakers to be happy, but, most importantly, I want my animals to be happy.

PS: I haven't had a chance to write about the crow and wild rabbit skull (which was found in fragments) we found about a week ago. I'm on the fence about selling any part of the crow, but I'll definitely be selling the rabbit skull pictured above (and all of its parts; I'll let the new caretaker glue the teeth back in, it'll be a good bonding exercise).

(Roadkill) Cat Out of the Bag

I just finished posting this to my Tumblr account and thought you guys might be interested:

Tumblr, you never cease to amaze me. I didn't expect a half-drunk OH, BY THE WAY...WHO WANTS TO BUY PRESERVED ANIMAL PARTS FROM YOURS TRULY? comment to get any attention, but, uh, it did. (I actually woke Italics up about an hour ago with "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD - PEOPLE WANT TO BUY MY ROADKILL BABIES*!", no joke!) I'm really glad I did say something, though, because some of these skulls, bones, pelts, feathers, wings and feet desperately need a loving home to go to. (<- I also do eyes, tongues, hearts - if it's internal, gross and still intact I'm happy to retrieve it.)

I have to perform a quick inventory check to see what I have available right now (all roadkill is special to me - it's a gift that I feel very privileged to accept - and I treat everything I pick up with the greatest of respect, but there are a few individual animals that I'm keeping specifically for magic work (a few rabbits, a badger and a fox); I just haven't had a chance to preserve them and their bits properly or get around to consuming body parts**), but I'm totally willing to fill custom requests (I think most people are keen on nabbing corvid skulls?).

I'm ALSO happy to provide specialist ingredients to be used in personal witchcraft. Shells, sand and stones from the North Sea? Graveyard dirt from ancient kirkyards? Dirt or pebbles from cairns or standing stones? Berry seeds from sacred sites (rowans next to cairns, black currants from graveyards, raspberries and gooseberries growing next to - and within - ruined chapels). Wheat heads grown within - and next to - standing stone circles? (<- 100% growable. Out of all of the things I grow for magic, growing wheat from seed is probably the most satisfying.) Dried chilis grown for Papa Ghede in graveyard dirt? I could go on and fucking on (i.e., rusty church nails, small rectangular slates - perfect for burning charcoal tabs on - off abandoned cottages, ruined churches and so on); ask me, I'll probably have something close to what you're looking for (and pictures of the place I'd be gathering - or have gathered - your goods from).

If anything I said strikes your interest please feel free to leave a comment/request in my original entry or, alternatively, contact me directly: graveyarddirt@gmail.com. This is me accidentally letting the (roadkill) cat out of the bag (due to financial reasons - I'm broke, and I want that motherfucking Harry Belafonte record with Jump in the Line (Shake, Senora)) - yes, Ms. Graveyard Dirt is actively working behind the scenes to open up her version of a witch's market complete with dead things (and their parts), organic and inorganic "raw" ingredients (supplying individual components rather than a finished product) and, maybe, if they aren't too lame looking, one of a kind junkyard amulets, charms and talismans made from bits and bobs I've collected on my various adventures.

* They are my babies! If an animal's found within a mile radius of the house you can be PRETTY DAMN SURE it frequently visited our house to eat food I specifically put out for it as an offering. We have two major rookeries in close proximity so any corvid I pick up has probably eaten food I've ritually offered.

** Y'all fucked once I get around to eating my fox tongue. (You think I talk pretty now...?)

4:30 Yesterday Morning

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Things I had planned to do at 4:30 yesterday morning: drive out into the country to pick rhubarb that grows near a local cairn (to make vodka) and harvest linden blossoms (to dry for tea) where the wild garlic grows.

Things I actually ended up doing at 4:30 yesterday morning: driving home to euthanize a wild rabbit (using nitrous oxide) we found which was paralyzed from the shoulders down. (What do you call roadkill that isn't dead? Other than "unlucky".)

Dip for the Stars

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I've been doing too much, which wouldn't be so much of a problem if "doing too much" was more of a chronic issue (thereby raising the personal bar making me a resilient, unstoppable demigod). When I find a workable rhythm I work that reservoir until it runs dry, and it's only when the last trickle of energy and dedication finally evaporates do I realize my recurring mistake - I never fucking pace myself. And - AND! - I inevitably forget that despite feeling one million percent better (from two or three years ago), I still have to contend and work with a broken body.

(For those of you who don't know: in addition to a bust stomach valve I also suffer from a hiatal hernia, GERD, acid reflux and weak stomach muscles. Life was virtually unlivable a few years back - I was burping uncontrollably which caused breathing attacks (and when I mean burping, I mean more than 100 times in an hour), I couldn't keep any food down (everything was either thrown up or regurgitated), I couldn't exert myself physically (exercising, cleaning and even sex was impossible), I couldn't consume a huge variety of food and liquids and I was so fucking physically weak from the constant burping/vomiting that I spent a year bedridden, wondering if death was really as bad as I had initially feared. (Man, you know shit is bad when your paralyzing fear of mortality vaporizes leaving you with romantic notions of nothingness.) I've since spent the better part of 2-3 years relearning how to live - how to breathe, how to eat, how drink, how to fuck, how to exercise, how to sleep - in this downgraded body of mine.)

Ever since Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, left for the States in mid-June I've been running at full capacity to get as much done as I could while he wasn't here to complicate things. And it's been terrific, great and amazingly awesome - I SO get off on the completion of personal projects and goals - but I kind've sort've forgot to take breaks, and after an entire month of GO, GO, GO! I officially ran out of steam about a week ago and I've been all moody, blue and down since.

This is the first fucking morning I've woken up with anything closely resembling "resolve" and I totally want to capitalize on the feeling before it disappears. (I mean, I have managed several fantastic feats in the past few days - gutting out the bathroom cabinet, sorting through out-of-date products and disinfecting the unit, emptying the backroom of junk, newspapers and boxes - but all of that was born out of desperation. This feeling? A mood high of epic proportions.)

My thoughts, Internet, continue to wander back to dusting - super heavy serious dusting, like, LET'S PULL ALL OF THE COMPUTER CABLES OUT AND PULL THE CABINETS AND COMPUTER DESKS OUT AND WIPE //EVERYTHING// DOWN UNTIL IT FUCKING ~GLEAMS~ - so any attempt to ignore the autistic call for cleaning would be utterly futile. (GIVE THE BEAST WHAT IT WANTS - THE ANTI-STATIC, EXTENDABLE, MULTI-COLORED DUSTER.)

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Instead of the evisceration of roadkill, heretical Choose Your Own Adventure-styled spiritual advice (like I'm some sort of motherfucking agony aunt, right?) and obsessively detailed explanations behind otherwise mundane seeming items and/or actions you guys get something even MORE satanic and black magic-tastic: the recipe for our 4th of July dip.

I'm deliberately canning most of my 4th stories for another entry, so you'll have to wait to hear all my ancestor anecdotes. (Long short? Ancestors wanted a summer gathering, we had some gluten-free hot dog bugs - and hot dogs! - so, for the first time in over a decade, we celebrated Independence Day. In, uh, Scotland. At 1:30 AM. Watching Side Out. Yeah, Italics' parents aren't the only ones that have to put up with our bizarre shit - even our ancestors (including the ones we've never fucking met) are along for the ride.)

The cheese mixture was sort've lacking in taste, so I filled the blank space with some homegrown dill. We didn't have any dry vermouth, but we DID have a bottle of gin. (Fuck, I haven't even told you guys about our bottle of beech gin, have I? The one we made using graveyard beech leaves that were gathered on the day Wuzza unexpectedly died? I'll rectify that. Soon.)

The recipe wasn't specific about what kind of sun-dried tomatoes to use (i.e., dehydrated or preserved in oil); I used the dry variety - I mean, I soaked them first, obviously - without a problem. I suspect leftovers of this dip will taste absolutely fucking amazing stuffed in chicken breasts, or gently melted into a sauce for fresh pasta.

Sorry, BTW

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Thanks to the monumental upheaval of our computer room (Italics unexpectedly lost his computer - including everything on his hard drive - a few days ago), Photo Studio not working on my computer (what I use to edit my photos before uploading them to Flickr) and Chooch demanding attention all morning long (that pink, hairless sack-like bulge beneath Choney? her giant mammary tumor) I never got around to writing a journal entry yesterday.

Sorry about that, by the way. (I know you'll forgive me in time.)

Rabbit, Crow and Stag

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Wiping Winter Clean

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What has Ms. Graveyard Dirt learned in seven months that 29 previous years didn't teach her? Two things:

01.) Death, good ole #13, strikes a cosmic balance with Spring's seemingly "new life" monopoly, but in order to appreciate the constant tug and pull you need to witness the body count first hand.

02.) If you inform the Universe how it's supposed to work ("OKAY, OKAY, SO I DO //THIS//, AND IF I DO THAT IT MEANS YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO //THIS//, OKAY?"), you're a fucking moron if you expect it to hold up its end of the deal if you do jack fucking shit yourself.

I've already publicly flagellated myself multiple times for the entire changing of the guard thing. (Long short? Every equinox I'm supposed to thoroughly clean our office/computer room window altar and change the centerpiece (Cobweb Spider for Fall/Winter and Chile Bird for Spring/Summer) to herald in the new "year" (i.e., Dark and Light). This year I was lazy in welcoming Spring; coincidentally, this year was the first year in fucking ages where we got motherfucking snow in May.) I finally admitted my secret Spring-Lent-Easter-Hieros Gamos shame, so what else is there?

On the first day of Summer (aka May Day, Beltane) I, uh, kind've sort've didn't take Stone Cock outside like I was supposed to. Or tie the consecrated ribbons onto the plum trees. Or retire our coffin cover - which we use as a secondary blanket/bed covering when it's Winter - for the Light part of the year. I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW - BAD WITCH. VERY BAD WITCH, NO UNBAPTIZED BABIES FOR A FUCKING MONTH.

It's just...it was never the right time, you know? The stars weren't in alignment, the in-laws were being distracting, I wasn't feeling it, the atmosphere wasn't right, we weren't up at the right time, the weather wasn't being cooperative. I think the immortal words of the king of Siam sums it up best - ET CETERA, ET CETERA, ET CETERA. (<- The problem with et cetera is that it multiples hella quick if you allow a pair to reproduce. DO YOURSELF A HUGE FUCKING FAVOR - NEUTER YOUR EXCUSES OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES OF A POPULATION BOOM.)

It got done. Eventually. (Four months late, but who's counting?) The blessed ribbons somehow found their way onto the plum trees, Stone Cock was paraded out on Midsummer to join my beloved peach tree (THE MIGHTY PHOENIX RISES FROM HER ASHES! Or, well, leaf curl, in actuality, but "RISES FROM HER ASHES!" sounded marginally more impressive) on the Summer altar, and despite belatedly executing the activities by a half a fucking season it still felt like my spastic tardiness was grudgingly acceptable.

(Hey, I'm fucking trying here, okay? As much as I'd like my PERFECT FANTASY WORLD and my REAL, NON-FANTASY WORLD to merge in divine union it's not going to happen; too many IN REAL LIFE factors, too many clauses resting heavily on other fictional clauses.)

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Yeah, so, wiping winter clean - where do I even start?

Normally I don't browse Ebay USA because, inevitably, I'll fall in love with something crazy cheap that I simply can't live without only to find that shipping the cheap ass item overseas to Scotland is the equivalent of sending your first born to university. For financial reasons I usually limit myself to Ebay UK, but, once in a while - when I'm REALLY fucking bored - I'll casually thumb through a few favorite USA-based categories (the mortuary/funeral section, ethnic clothes'n'jewelry and antique holiday decorations).

Several years ago I stumbled across a vintage coffin cover - the real deal - and snagged the motherfucker for the opening bid of $14.95 USD. After a slight kerfuffle (the seller WAY underestimated shipping it internationally and demanded more than double of the postage we already paid, thankfully the in-laws were in Florida at the time so we were able to send it over to them and they brought it home with them via their luggage) the black brocade beauty came home to me.

It only took unfolding the goddamn thing to fall in love with it; despite one or two pinprick holes in the glossy, partially flocked paschal lamb design it was immaculate. Everything about it - the material used, the overlapping gold trim, the handmade cross embellished with embroidery - was lovingly made, giving it the appearance of a serious work of art.

And it is. Serious, I mean (and a work of art, heh). It's a seriously heavy piece of magic that I consider myself lucky and privileged to own. It was created for a specific purpose, and then used repeatedly in a ceremonial setting infusing and defining the object with the passing of countless lives. This ornate, glorified blanket knows its purpose and the biography of its existence is woven into every stitch and crease.

So what did I do with a genuine coffin cover that was used for god knows how many funerals, covering god knows how many dead bodies? What would you do? Wrap it up like the holy fucking grail and stuff it in a locked safe, never to be invoked, but, maybe, occasionally seen once or twice a year when sorting your personal inventory? Keep it eternally folded and on display in a prominent position? Treat it with so much reverence and respect that the only thing it does is gather dust?

Fuck that shit, I tossed it over our fucking bed and used it as a secondary blanket during the colder months (because there's nothing more cosy than the dead keeping you warm as you sleep!). My majestic shroud of death is something I have intimate contact with on a daily basis during the Dark Year: I dream beneath the comforting, lulling weight (you feel them - all of them - the first few weeks, pulling and drawing you down to them, and you go willingly, unafraid, because the pressure pushing down on you is so overwhelming unmalicious and promising), I fuck on the shiny brocade surface (the stains eventually fade away leaving unmarked lambs in their wake), take pictures of newly acquired treasures on the photogenic pattern and every fucking morning, after Italics rises, I pick the crumbled cover up off the floor (it almost always slides off while we sleep), dust it off and fling it back over our bed.

Some things are inherently special, but they're never so special that you have to exclude them from your life and practices. I COULD'VE shelved the cover and only unfolded the motherfucker for V. SRS NECROMANCY/UNDERGROUND TRAVELING but then how would've it been potent? The blanket wouldn't have known me. Fuck, the fucking dead who briefly rested beneath the enveloping material wouldn't have known me. By using it and incorporating it into day-to-day life I made a stronger connection and foraged a personal relationship with it and with everything attached to it. When it's time for me to walk in Darkness I know I won't walk alone.

Because it has such a hardcore link to DEATH, THE OTHER SIDE and SPIRITS it's aired on the first day of Winter (aka Halloween, Samhain) and remains a constant feature until the first day of Summer (aka May Day, Beltane) when it's folded up, ritually cleansed, carefully covered in one of our old bed sheets and retired until the start of the Dark Year. (<- I mean, in my PERFECT FANTASY WORLD. In REAL, NON-FANTASY WORLD it gets done when it gets done, although it normally doesn't take as long as it did this year.)

It's hard to say what requires more effort (i.e., pulling out or putting away). Our bedroom goes through an annual deep clean (all magic-style) in the weeks leading up to the first day of Winter. (See Cleaning Up After the Bride, Cleaning Day I, and Cleaning Day II.) Draping the coffin cover over a just purified bed is the last step in welcoming the Whore, but the activities and events leading up to that moment can take days (and, in some cases, even weeks). Retiring the cover simply requires me to "wipe Winter clean", although I need to be IN THE ZONE which demands a little more effort than physically cleaning a room and washing bed linens.

After folding the coffin cover - with excruciatingly amounts of care - I run it through three types of incense smoke (I start with frankincense, move to rosemary and finish with sage*) before tightly wrapping it up in one of our old bed sheets and placing it beneath our bed for the duration of the Light Year. And beneath our living bodies the dead sleep, for half a year, resting and waiting until Winter's great Whore calls out them to keep us safe and warm throughout the Dark Year.

* This year I found myself petitioning my dead mother while fumigating the cover with sage. Which isn't SO strange because I associate sage with my mom (thanks to being part Native American I was raised following the traditions of my great-grandfather; sage is used to purify ("smudging") and because I was raised using it for that specific purpose I still use it today even though I no longer follow any Lakhota practices), but it is kind've sort've strange because I've never formerly involved her in anything I've ever done (magically and spiritually, I mean).

2:30 AM, 3:30 AM

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2:30 AM: I

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2:30 AM: II

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2:30 AM: III

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3:30 AM: I

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3:30 AM: II

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3:30 AM: III

Phew!

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"The soap is formed in such a way that it keeps a balance in skin types of all Zodiac signs pertaining to both the sexes."

Making Spring Happen

So, Winter 09-10. (Yeah, I'm still riding those coattails.) I knew by Midsummer that we'd have snow for Midwinter. (Long short? The date coincided with our rowan tree flowering, so the front yard was littered with blossoms creating a thin blanket of white. The cow parsley flower I wore in my hair (as we performed ritual sex in a local wheat field just before dawn) immediately began shedding its tiny white flower heads on my kitchen windowsill altar (I dropped it into a small glass of water to proudly display my "wedding bouquet") creating a secondary expanse sown over with individualized flecks of white.)

I knew by Midfall-Winter (<- to keep our asses in line I now break down the year by high points in the seasons rather than focus on the Wiccan/neopagan "Wheel of the Year" names, i.e., Imbolc (Spring), Ostara (Midspring), Beltane (Summer), Litha (Midsummer) and so on) that we were in for a long, hard Winter. The rowan tree, which produced a prolific amount of flowers, inevitably produced a prolific amount of berries. (Which I consider, in my own way, a "winter berry" since rowan berries - at least from a culinary aspect - are more palatable and suited for cooking after getting nipped by a hard frost.)

Never in my near decade of living here have I seen the rowan tree out front so heavily laden with flowers. Even before the berries properly ripened I began wondering the folksy ramifications of a summer tree producing an excessive amount of winter fruit (that wildlife depended on). Was it an indication of a good spring/summer? Or was it a chlorophyll-powered premonition of a hard winter? Despite not coming across any indigenous sayings/near forgotten country wisdom - not that I actively looked, or anything - the assumption sort've felt right.

Holy shit, I was right on BOTH counts. (Weather and projected seasonal predictions? Seriously, Universe? You couldn't have given me something, I dunno...MORE FUCKING MONETARILY BENEFICIAL than "having a hunch" about the forthcoming Winter in Midsummer? That shit might've been useful SEVERAL HUNDRED FUCKING YEARS AGO, but seeing how I'm NOT A FUCKING FARMER IN THE 17TH CENTURY it means jack to a witch who lives in a bungalow in a fucking subdivision in semi-rural Scotland. Thanks. No, really. I always wanted to be magically good at something completely useless.)

Snow came just in time to give us a white Midwinter. Snow then decided to stay a spell. In addition to a white Midwinter we had a white Christmas Eve, Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year's Eve, New Year's Day, Ukrainian Christmas (the Julian calendar - which the Eastern Orthodox church uses - is something like 13 days behind our Gregorian calendar), the anniversary of my mother's death, Spring (Bride's Day, Imbolc), Valentine's Day, Mardi Gras, Ash Wednesday and our legal wedding anniversary (which we normally don't celebrate since we're already knee-deep in Lent and preparing ourselves for our annual Hieros Gamos Easter wedding).

I didn't see the ground - you know, the driveway, earth, soil, dirt, dingy grass (even in frozen, sleeping form) - for the better part of three fucking months. We couldn't do anything, we couldn't leave the house and, thanks to several feet of unmoving snow, we couldn't do anything outside in the yard to break our growing cabin fever. It was "THE WORST WINTER IN 30 YEARS!". Nothing melted, and then more snow came. The vicious cycle was left on repeat for days-weeks-months, leaving so much fucking snow that the individual layers of build-up bordered on archeological. ("OH HEY! I JUST HIT THE CHRISTMAS EVE SNOWSTORM! ROCK THE FUCK ON!")

There were intense moments; good and bad. Midwinter was soul achingly magic. I had a MOMENT, all by myself in the wee hours of the morning. Just me, Winter's darkness, the falling, drifting snow, the undisturbed sheet of white enveloping the world outside (hiding every curb, bump and rock, smoothing everything over in a thick layer of flawless snow) and Enya's Gaelic version of "Silent Night" playing on the stereo.

It was, Christ, I don't know...pure? Indescribably pure. As the rest of the subdivision (and house) slept I stood in front of the lounge's window with both hands on the glass, watching, listening and crying. There was love in the silence of Winter, there was compassion, strength and maternal comfort. I cried for the Virgin near birth, I cried for the Sun, I cried for myself, in deeply moved reverence and thanks, for being allowed to experience the communion, for being the person singled out of everyone else to "witness" the event.

...and that MOMENT was special and great and wonderful and soul affirming and crazy fucking moving and I will never in my life forget it, but, dude, once New Year's Day passed? I was totally done with Winter and ready for Spring. Seriously, even more so than usual.

Seasonal holidays during Winter ("Winter", by the way, starts on Halloween / Samhain here) traditionally kept me busy, but after the New Year's Day feast I always felt somewhat lost and aimless until the first tangible signs of Spring. There was no purpose or meaning for the time between Yuletide festivities and Easter celebrations and I just sort've sat around, bored out of my skull, waiting for the seasonal change. Eventually, though, our yearly calendar became more structured and full as our spiritual practices evolved.

It all started with a cosmically euphoric experience on my in-law's brown leather couch one spring vacation ("I THINK...I THINK WE JUST MADE SPRING HAPPEN. THAT'S OUR JOB, EVERY YEAR - MAKE SPRING HAPPEN.") and everything snowballed from there. Now, four or five years on, our Hieros Gamos preparation (aka "making Spring happen") begins with a simple observation on Spring (Bride's Day, Imbolc) and grows increasingly more complex and demanding the closer we get to our wedding date.

BRIDE'S DAY: We observe Spring (Imbolc) simply; a bed is made for the Bride, we invite Her in and we eat a seasonally appropriate meal. Bride's Day is an amber light, a gentle reminder of impending change. I know within three weeks we'll celebrate the season with one last over-the-top night of debauched excess before committing ourselves to a more low key, celibate life.

(I didn't manage this past year, but hopefully NEXT year I'll actually have a chance to feed local pregnant ewes with homegrown grass cut and dried for the specific purpose of honoring teats, lactation, motherhood, femaleness and new life. <- I deliberately let our backyard turn into a motherfucking meadow just so we can harvest something that actually resembles hay.)

MARDI GRAS: Last night of doing, consuming and ingesting anything worthwhile and/or interesting. It's the last full day of the Whoredom, come Ash Wednesday the Whore's reign weakens and She's forced to share the glory with the Bride.

ASH WEDNESDAY: Celibate life begins (for me, anyway - how else do your turn a whore into a virgin?). In addition to refraining from sex (some sexual contact is allowed - for Christ's sake, Italics and I have been together for 13 fucking years, there's no"off" position for an intense relationship that's lasted that fucking long - provided no penetration of any kind occurs), I'm not allowed to masturbate or get myself off in any way and I also give up some sort of worldly love (booze, chocolate, white flour) for the duration of Lent.

LENT: Lent officially starts on Ash Wednesday and lasts, for us, until we're married. The morning after Mardi Gras finds me purifying the bed - stripping the sheets, washing them (with a handful of salt), Febrezing the mattress, flipping the mattress, washing the bed frame with a magic wash and then anointing the frame and our foreheads with an ash mixture made from oils, body fluids and, you guessed it, ash.

Lent is our courtship period, we can't fuck, but we can still touch, grope and explore. We get to know one another, all over again, and throughout the 40ish days we do couple-themed things and focus on being more intimate with one another. Once our martial bed is wiped clean I'm allowed to henna my hair red again (only the Bride's allowed to have red hair) and begin exfoliating six months of hag-crone off my ass (literally, I make a spiritually cleansing salt scrub).

HOLY WEEK: Holy Week is panic week because I know, within two weeks, not only am I going to have to produce a wedding feast to celebrate our union but we'll have to find time to actually perform the Hieros Gamos ritual itself, go to church on Holy Saturday, create a fucking Easter basket for church (which means baking babka or paska, which is an ENTIRE day of babying dough), create several seasonally specific altars and get myself ready to marry a motherfucking resurrected king.

HOLY SATURDAY: The make-or-break Easter day. I'll have spent all of Holy Week in the kitchen preparing for Easter Sunday's ritual feast. In addition to carting along one of my phallic loaves of babka to church I also include other traditional Ukrainian contents: fresh parsley, salt, boiled eggs, pysanky, butter molded into the shape of a lamb (paschal lamb), smoked pork products (sausages, bacon, loin) and some not-so-Ukrainian contents (i.e., honey, homegrown wheat, our Thai fertility pendants). The Easter basket is blessed by a priest during a special ceremony and the food within eaten as brunch on Easter Sunday.

EASTER SUNDAY: We celebrate the resurrection of the Bride's divine bridegroom, who the Whore reaped and killed during Harvest. (Crazy quick: White flour = Ukrainian crack. White flour = wheat. Ukrainian crack = wheat. Wheat = divine bridegroom who is resurrected in Spring and killed at Harvest.) Any worldly loves given up for Lent are welcomed back into our lives, but if we still haven't had a chance to perform the wedding ceremony we still need to abstain from sex or hardcore contact. (NO FINGER BANGING UNTIL "I DO".)

EASTER MONDAY (AKA SPANKING DAY): To ensure a year of good health and otherworldly beauty Italics needs to spank my ass the Monday after Easter. (It's an ancient Slavic thing.) Only women get spanked, though, and in return - since it's meant to be a blessing - we lady folk pay our respects with an egg. (Last year Italics got egged in the face. I, uh, had a spastic moment and laid the duck egg I was cradling in my cunt on Italics' forehead - while he was eating me out - at high velocity. Who knew laying eggs could be so fucking dangerous?)

THE ACTUAL WEDDING: Every year is different. You never really know when it's going to happen, or what it'll be like. Eventually, though, we get around to "making Spring happen" - sometimes it's a spur-of-the-moment act with absolutely no props, sometimes it's a crazy-elaborate seven hour production involving costumes, billowing incense and entheogens.

In something like 4-5 years we went from "there was no purpose or meaning for the time between Yuletide festivities and Easter celebrations and I just sort've sat around, bored out of my skull, waiting for the seasonal change" to "eventually, though, our yearly calendar became more structured and full as our spiritual practices evolved". Through an ongoing process of trial and error, we carved out a time for ourselves using our beliefs and intuition as a compass. Winter, post-Christmas, finally served a purpose (which kept me occupied and gave me a foundation to build an entire year on).

Except, not really, because this past Winter I retreated so far into myself that I entered a bizarre apathetic, amotivated torpor-hibernation state. I got tripped up just after Midwinter and instead of adjusting to the uneven terrain I stomped both feet and screamed "WHY ISN'T THE MOTHERFUCKING GROUND EVEN? HOW THE FUCK DO YOU EXPECT ME TO WALK ON THIS SHIT?". The white blossoms of Midsummer and frostbitten rowan berries of Fall had it right - it was going to be a hard fucking Winter, and not just for the indigenous wildlife.

A part of me called a time-out and benched itself because it just didn't give a fuck. At all. I fucking nailed Bride's day (I still need to upload and share those pictures, don't I?), but I couldn't retain the energy and enthusiasm. When Lent rolled around I gave up bread, abstained from sex and masturbation, stripped the bed on Ash Wednesday but I couldn't find the time or effort to engage in the small seasonal rituals that defined that time of year.

There was no Mardi Gras bonfire which meant no ashes for the morning after. No ashes meant no anointing. Fine, I thought, I shouldn't force things, not every year is going to be the same. Sometimes I'll manage to work shit in, and some years I won't. That's just part of the game. Then I began feeling bad about the "no ashes" thing, which made me feel like I couldn't purify myself with my salt scrub because I hadn't been anointed. Despite feeling that way, I never actually got around to creating ashes, so nothing (and no one) got consecrated and I found myself back at square one with everything ("WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT OF DYING MY FUCKING HAIR WITH HENNA IF I HAVEN'T SCRUBBED MYSELF CLEAN AND BEEN ANOINTED?").

Admittedly, things did pick up around Holy Week (I had a couple really fucking moving moments, but I just haven't had a chance to write about them) but I spent all Midspring and Summer attempting to catch up with Winter and early Spring duties. We just passed Midsummer and I'm STILL ticking off February boxes (scrubbed? check! hennaed? check!), but, fuck, at least shit's getting done, right? And - AND! - I learned a valuable lesson, although the price paid felt like an ounce of (mental and spiritual) flesh.

The absolute worst thing about my semi-recent struggle with SOUL DEPRESSION? I never got a chance to explain anything - what I/we do, what we believe, why we do and believe - during a season that's a big fucking deal to me/us. Just as Graveyard Dirt was really beginning to pick up steam - making me all, you know, excited with the prospect of dissecting everything I do and believe and explaining it all, piece by piece, photo by photo - I fell into a soul slump. All I have to show for it are ten billion folders filled with unedited pictures for unwritten entries.

It's depressing; I feel really fucking lazy and, actually, kind've sort've embarrassed. I have something special. Not, like, mutant powers special, or anything, but I have a belief system that I created brick by metaphorical fucking brick with my bleeding, calloused hands. One thing I hear again and again from people is "OH, GOD, YOU'RE SO...REAL. EVERYTHING YOU DO SEEMS SO REAL".

It's because I am real. My beliefs, my rituals and my daily way of life is real. It's "real" because it was created from the ground up using years of working, testing and experimenting. It's "real" because I'm playing the game, not just watching it from the sidelines. It's "real" because I have a part, an integral role. It's "real" because I made myself someone important and had the fucking audacity to wedge the declaration into the ass crack of the Universe.

And that sort've reality? That sort've fearless, arrogant insolence? Deserves fucking respect and serious fucking commitment. If I call myself a god, I better act like a motherfucking god. If I assign myself spiritual duties, I have a fucking obligation to follow through with them. It's not enough to talk the pretty talk and bomb the fuck out of it with my magic-themed Richard Pryor routine, I've got to live it. Breathe it. Sing it. I've got to fucking bleed it to make it real like the motherfucking Velveteen Rabbit.

I said I was more than worthy of this way of life, now it's time to fucking prove it.

Leukemia Girl

I swear to fucking Christ I bruise more easily than Leukemia Girl from that one Charlie Brown SUCKS THAT YOUR FRIEND HAS LEUKEMIA, LINUS special.

Find Your Heaven

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They say rooks "escort the souls of the virtuous dead to heaven". I wonder who - or what - escorts the escorts when their time comes. (Fly off, tiny thing, and find your heaven.)

Checkmate

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