Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Longest Night

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"Na rukakh trymaye (In her arms, she holds Him)
I Yemu spivaye (And she sings to Him)
Vsemohuchym Stvorytelem (The Supreme Creation)
Yoho nazyvaye. (She names Him.)" - Dyvnaya Novyna

Regardless of the light that illuminates your path, may you find peace, happiness and understanding at the end of your longest night.

Pictured above: The kolach is lit for Sviata Vechera ("Holy Supper") acting like an invitational beacon for our ancestors, relatives and deceased friends to join us in holiday festivities. See also 2008 Kolach.

Hexenhaus

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Days of the Dead

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Man, this writing shit is some hard motherfucking work. I've been circling my dinky little laptop for days, eyeing the case warily while half-pretending that house chores are infinitely more important than resuming my cardinal fire-fueled campaign to take over the effin' internet. (<- I start with a ram and end with a pair of fish; fear me and my Alpha & Omega astrological bookends!) And there's nothing I can do - or have done - that's managed to distract me from one unavoidable real world truth: my ass is seriously out of practice.

It's not just the lack of practice reeking saturnalian havoc in my journal life (could havoc be anything OTHER than saturnalian in this house?); nothing's familiar. I mean, at all. My carefully crafted decade-old Rainman routine bit the fucking dust the second Peck-Man became a permanent member of this household to the extent that, for the first time in 10 motherfucking years, I'm working on an unfamiliar computer (dinky little laptop) in an unfamiliar room (the kitchen).

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For someone who's got revolution running in her veins I'm autistically incompatible with change. Any disruption to routine kick starts a butterfly effect that tsunamis its way through every fucking aspect of life. There's room for spontaneity in autism's habitual nature, but it's structured and fragmented into neat little Tetris compartments carefully arranged around great expanses of familiarity. (In other words, I'm totally capable of running a wild card round, but only because I found a way to view the element of randomness as a fixed feature in a fixed routine.)

This groove, this rhythm, this life I'm leading right effin' now is so fucking foreign and alien to me that I'm a half-heartbeat away from an Oscar-winning FOUR MINUTES TO WAPNER! freak out.

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I guess what I'm trying to say as I blow through all of these older Fet Ghede pictures without addressing what's being depicted is that if I sound sorta off, or only make a quarter of sense (instead of my usual half, although I'm willing to make 100% sense if your ass is paying for that secret pleasure) it's because I'm caught in a tide pool of motherfucking rabbits...and because I'm probably high.

(It's a little known fact that if I wasn't high all the goddamn time natural disasters of cataclysmic proportions would occur leading to the extinction of the world as we fucking know it.)(<- See? Beneath my cloven hooves and forked tongue there's an honest-to-fucking-God humanitarian; look upon the bleeding heart of your ovarian Christ, world, for She smokes AND inhales because of Her love for you.)

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While it's been all kinds of swell wading through rabbit-populated shorelines, it's time to decisively navigate towards terra-fucking-firma to get my work on before next year's serpent-tinged onslaught. (Hello and welcome, year of the motherfucking dragon! <- It could either be a really good fucking year for St. George in this house, or it could be absolutely disastrous. 2012, you're a giant fucking question mark only slightly overshadowed by the fat-assed reptilian monster hovering above you.)

Getting my work on, though, is easier said then done when I'm hella fucking rusty and writing in an entirely new environment on an unfamiliar computer. (FOURMINUTESTOWAPNER!) I mean, how the fuck do I go back to baring some of the most intimate parts of myself when I've been hiding behind photos for most of the year?

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Out of necessity I allowed Graveyard Dirt to slip into a formulaic existence (i.e., image, two or three mostly on-topic sentences, image, two or three mostly on-topic sentences...) because it was the easiest fucking way to provide consistent content throughout Harvest. Six months later that journal-saving device has become an automatic routine, and my Taurus midheaven is more than reluctant to let that productive formula go.

As much as I hate the thought, fear the thought and down-fucking-right loathe the thought, I'm going to have to sacrifice that detrimental familiarity on the high altar of Asperger's otherwise my ass ain't progressing no-effin'-where. Cause let me tell you, I've spent a third of my fucking life chasing after spectral perfection to no avail, and it's taken me this effin' long to realize that you're not moving the fuck forward if the scenery around you never fucking changes. (<- Look at me making those motherlovin' rabbits proud!)

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But now's not the time to be radical. In fact, now's the time to be uber-radical but not being radical at all. (<- Hey now, this is some seriously gutsy shit coming from an autistic Aries animal.) Up until now all of my changes have been volatile fucking processes, obliterating everything - and, occasionally, everyone - in their path. What if, just for once, I took a deliberate step back from my natural inclinations to find a new method of creation from change? What if this time I didn't push over the mothereffin' Tower in one monstrous go to create something new? What if I continuously changed one small aspect of it until it eventually became something new through measured means?

So maybe the answer to serious journal writing isn't balls-fucking-out blocks of text in the vain hope that I'll somehow net myself some older entry sparkle. Maybe the real fucking answer is building on something successfully preexisting that accommodates change (much like our old Christian friends!). It's not about dropping pictures (yeah, I considered), Godzilla-ing metaphorical towers (although it's tempting), or Lady Godiva-ing some of the most intimate parts of myself prematurely - if I'm really effin' serious about returning focus to the diary aspect of Graveyard Dirt then I just gotta write more. (Novel, right?)

Fuck! Guess who just pissed away six Fet Ghede photos from 2009 on a blog-gazin' tangent. (<- Guilty as mothereffin' charged!) Now any attempts to steer this journal entry in the right fucking direction will seem like a bolted-the-fuck-on addendum...

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I work the dead. No, sugar, you didn't read that wrong, and I didn't accidentally forget to jam a "with" between "the" and "dead"; I work the motherfucking dead. As far as I'm concerned, if you wanna be on this team you better be willing to pick up an effin' shovel and get your sweat on. (<- Ain't nothin' free in this life, or in the after.)

Almost every effin' facet of my feral witchcraft has roots in traditions and experiences that both our ancestors - Ukrainian (me), Native American (me) and Scottish (him) - would've been familiar with (i.e., hunting, gathering and growing), so the biggest contribution the dead make to this house is providing the reassuring knowledge that I'm not the first fucking one in the line to personally encounter the trials and tribulations, agonies and ecstasies of living with - and off - the land. (Admittedly not to the same extent they were forced to.)

As retarded as it might sound, I actually feel closest to my predecessors when I'm crying about and/or freaking out over shit that I know they experienced and dealt with in their own lifetime(s).

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November is winter's spring, and it's really fucking hard not to have a slight bounce of joy in your step when your ass works the dead because the last and final harvest of the agricultural year is celebrated as a sort of necro-homecoming. Over here in NE Scotland hard frost signals when it's time to haul the dubious Ms. Dirty & Co. carnival indoors for five to six mothereffin' months of hardcore merrymaking. (<- The ancestor gig? Has its perks.)

Halloween, in all of its John Carpenter glory (I was born in 1980 and was lucky to have experienced the vintage crepe paper'n'cardboard version of the holiday before it went all decals'n'plastic in the 90s), is the opening ceremony of our necro-homecoming that ignites winter's indoor revelry. Our observance of All Hallows' Eve is a tribute to everything childish and sinister wrapped up in a nostalgically creepy death-themed bow.

Gaping skulls and whitewashed bones then psychopompically lead the skeletal trail to Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead), when we thank, honour and remember those who've already taken the big fucking leap into the unknown. Fet Ghede - Papa's super-special feast day on November 2nd - has a different spin in this house since my relationship with The Old Man is a double shot of unorthodox. (Despite their tough guy appearances even spiritual sugar daddies need an annual Father's Day to feel appreciated.)

Pictured above: 2009's Full Moon of the Dead Día de Muertos/Fet Ghede kitchen altar. For more Ghede-centric adventures, altars and stories simply plug "Fet Ghede" into Graveyard Dirt's search engine, and be sure to hit up my Fet Ghede Flickr tag for pictures. Similarly, you'll find all of my Halloween shit the same way: through my Flickr altar set, my Flickr Halloween tag and by combing through older entries using the search engine.

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There's no effin' way I can succinctly address wheat's significant role in our lives and religious practices in several paragraphs, so I'm just gonna gloss over the finer details of its importance and save my mental bullet points for a different journal entry. What I can probably cram in this tight space is that wheat represents two major aspects of my spiritual beliefs: the body of God (which is ground down into meal as a form of sustenance - you know, flour), and my ancestral heritage (Ukraine's known as "the breadbasket of Europe" thanks to its famously fertile steppes).

So baking bread, for me, isn't just a kitchen witch role-play of domestication, it's an ancient, ritualized art that involves growing, nurturing and inevitably "killing" one of God's tangible forms before physically manipulating it into something that's then consumed. We view the act of consumption as a sort of holy communion, which is why I hold all of God's forms - whether flesh (meat) or blood (hooch) - as sacred; they were all derived from one of His once-living manifestations.

The act of baking bread is one of sacrifice and compassion. One of my metaphysical obligations is to create and destroy; with one hand I hold His body upright (I plant and care for His seed), and with the other I ceremonially cut Him down (I reap, protect and distribute His seed). Wheat, as I've defined in my Choose Your Own Adventure spirituality, is my husband, my lover, my king and God, and His death - by the hand of His wife, His lover, His queen and God(dess) - ensures that others (including myself) live. So it only makes sense that the first offering I ply our collective ancestors with during the Days of the Dead is a loaf of homemade bread reverently made from the body of my beloved.

Pictured above: One of 2009's Pan de Muertos. While I don't have a drop of Hispanic blood in me, I do have fond memories of my Ukrainian grandparents feeding me quarters of fresh oranges in their retro-as-fuck prefab kitchen. Those experiences established a significant connection between me, the dead and orange-flavored bread, so it's no effin' surprise I eventually created a tradition of baking Pan de Muertos for All Souls' Day (aka as Fet Ghede, and day number two of Día de Muertos) to commemorate the lives of those we love who've passed the fuck on.

All Souls' Day

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Fet Ghede

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Evisceration (Revisited)

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The dehydrated remains of TTC (aka Tourist Trap Crow), and the eyes'n'ears from Love and Sorrow's mature rabbit. All of the ritually eviscerated organs* were naturally sun-dried, and what I wasn't able to use of the rescued wildlife was immediately returned to the earth.

* How the fuck have I managed to ritualize the process of roadkill reduction, rot and resurrection? Start with the journal entry Tourist Trap Crow, and then sink your teeth into the Asphalt & Entrails archive.

Exhuming the Dead

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My first crow - my first death, my first rescue, my first funeral, my first tears - freshly exhumed from a ritual growing container (some years wheat, some years dill) after five long years of earthbound sleep.

Trade-Off

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This year my Lammas fox didn't arrive until Harvest Home. The trade-off? An unshattered skull instead of a shattered body.

Bluebell Funeral for a Blackbird

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Processing #01

#01's mummified body was a mystery to me. I was use to fresh; fresh fractures, fresh decapitations, fresh trauma. My scavenging teeth had been cut on the grisly and grotesque to ensure my ass had the necessary fortitude to work with pungent, unsavory remains*. (<- 2009's Lammas fox is a good example.) After a year of rescuing roadkill I was familiar with new death, and all of the sordid sights'n'stenches that inevitably accompanied it. Old death, though, was completely foreign to me, so everything about #01 and his dehydrated carcass was greeted with autistic curiosity.

* Just incase you're wondering: old death has its own unique, musty scent, unlike fresh death which has a tendency to smell like sauerkraut that even Ukrainians wouldn't eat.

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To free #01 I had to break him. He was lost to some forgotten phantom zone, and it was my job to find'n'drag his spectral ass back to act as my woodland king, forest guide and otherworldly mediator between me and my land. So with bare hands and feet I broke his twisted body - joint by joint, bone by bone - to release him from the fatal mid-leap he had been trapped in since his death.

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This is all of #01's body broken down into smaller, more workable segments. Some of his teeth, jaw bones, toes and the one ear I managed to salvage are sitting in a small glass dish on the bottom left corner of the tarp, and above it you can see his skull, legs and an assortment of his other skeletal remains. I was able to save most of his dehydrated golden retriever coat for personal use (bottom right corner of tarp), but what couldn't be used was ritually buried in my container garden to return some of his physical remains back to the earth.

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#01's skull freshly exhumed from its mummified cocoon. (<- Is he fucking gorgeous, or what? Over a year later my cunt still skips a beat whenever I see his pictures. Goddamn if that motherfucker doesn't have some in-your-fucking-face presence!)

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Future #01 fetishes: an ear to hear, toes to run and teeth to bite and grind.

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I managed to strip off most of the dehydrated flesh'n'fur from #01, but an infuriatingly tiny piece of skin just beneath the right antler remained steadfastly glued to the skull.

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Rather than risk damaging #01's fragile remains (even though it isn't entirely obvious, the skull suffers from several internal fractures; I mean, his dead ass is roadkill, after all) I left the flap of skin attached to his forehead knowing that it'd eventually fall off during cold water maceration. (<- My favorite bone cleaning method.)

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A gratuitous close-up of #01's skull to make gluing in his teeth a little easier.

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A second gratuitous close-up of #01's skull to make gluing in his teeth a little easier.

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The third and last gratuitous close-up of #01's skull to make gluing in his teeth a little easier.

The two teeth missing are the only calcified relics unaccounted for. Within a day or two of discovering #01 I returned to his death site in the hopes of finding the fuckers, but I left empty handed. (Well, sort've. #01 is still the only roadkill stag I've found whose antlers weren't obliterated despite his unfortunate hit'n'run end.)

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The fatal damage #01 received reverberated through his skull, shattering the mandible (lower jaw) and weakening some of his cranium's sutures. Due to the trauma I'll never be able to piece his skull fully together, but at least I have all of the fractured components in my witchcraftin' arsenal.

PS: For obvious reasons none of #01's remains will be offered for sale. But, if you're serious about becoming a caretaker of one of my roadkill rescues I can help make that a dream a reality.

Ablutions for the Dead

I never got the chance to bathe my dead mother's body. Sometimes I think all of this - i.e., the entire rescuing dead animals thing - can be traced back to the fact that I never got to say my silent good-byes to the person who had birthed, loved and raised me.

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Even in the muddy haze of grief I dimly appreciated the gut feeling of wrongness when encountering the distance put between the living and the newly dead. Not bathing the body that had once bathed me felt wrong, not dressing the body that had once dressed me felt wrong, not sitting in wake with the body that had once lulled me to sleep felt wrong.

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My mother unexpectedly died, had an autopsy performed, was cremated and had her life commemorated with a small memorial service at a funeral home; but, at no point was I allowed to see, touch, or say good-bye to her lifeless body. Our modern attitude towards death created a wall that I just couldn't scale, and six years on I still grieve for the intimate closure I never got.

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So it's with a sense of loving duty that I do what I do, and why the quiet act of embracing every broken body that passes through my resurrectionist hands allows me to observe the one meaningful rite that I never got to perform.

Pictured above: the newly exposed skeletal remains of Tourist Trap Crow and Love and Sorrow's mature rabbit.

A Life Once Lived

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Calcified relics of a life once lived.

August 27th, 2011

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Last year's fallen king has risen.

August 27th, 2010 II

The August 27th, 2010 story doesn't actually end with the discovery of #01. (What, you were expecting an easy fucking read? Honey, I'm Ms. Dirty - every-motherfucking-thing I do is overly complicated and supremely fucking epic.) After a week of non-stop Harvest work - i.e., from dawn till dusk foraging, late night (and early fucking morning) wild mushroom processing, fleshing roadkill, bone cleaning, graveyard garden hooching and preparing my container garden (aka Gothel's Garden) for the inevitability of winter - I had to throw my towel in early last night due to some low energy levels.

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I mean, what kind've weak ass initiatory experience would have me running down a Scottish country road at six in the fucking morning with Chippy strapped to my back - all, like, papoose-style - as the mummified remains of a roadkill deer ecstatically swing in a plastic bag hanging off my arm for all the early commuters to see only once? To ensure that I'd forever be emblazoned as the crowned queen of fucking weirdos to the very local people of this community the Universe decided I needed to repeat the performance, stat.

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Within an hour of cramming #01's dehydrated body into a grocery bag and running breathlessly to my car with a muffin-top of bones'n'fur (much to the confusion, disgust and wonder of passing drivers; which, hey, is to be expected, but if you ask me - I'll just pretend you did (you're welcome, btw!) - the real confusion, disgust and wonder comes from the crazy fucking idea of spending 6-10 hours in a cage thinly disguised as a semi-personal office cubicle), I was, once again, running breathlessly to my car with another plastic bag bulging with the dried remains of a second roadkill deer (#02; a juvenile).

My motherfucking trunk? Packed. (<- Just FYI: I'm still talkin' about the car, although that statement's totally applicable to other areas of my life...ahem.) Despite the severe lack of trunk space - it's not like my ass wasn't warned, right? - August 27th, 2010's day of initiatory experiences wasn't over just yet.

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I didn't know at the time, but I had one more significant find to make because I had one last niggling curiosity to sate.

It was curiosity that pulled on my fucking reigns as I began passing the familiar skank ass carpet, so I slowed the fuck down until the rolled up offcut transformed into the motherfucking deer I had been waiting for. It was curiosity that lured my adrenaline-buzzing body out of the effing car and into a coniferous hedge with hopes of locating a basket worth of pine-lovin' boletes that lead to #02's discovery (and subsequent rescue), and it was that same siren song of curiosity that drew me out of my car one last fucking time because I had to know just one more goddamn thing before going home that day: what the fuck did the Black Laird's loch look like?

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It wasn't growing on the banks of the Devil-ridden loch, but along the moss-covered footpath leading up to the manmade reservoir. Nestled snuggly between the fairy tale dimples of a shadow-filled forest was one perfect toadstool (Amanita muscaria) swaddled in woodland down. It was the first fly agaric I had ever seen, ever touched, and ever held, and when my deer-scented fingers sank into the damp cool of the earth to accept the chthonic (psychoactive) gift I suddenly understood the intrinsic connection between me, the deer, the Old Woman, our land and the ancient, conscious entity living beneath our collective feet.

This is how I became the Old Woman's resurrectionist butcher, and its story of initiation, death and rebirth? Has finally been told.

Crowhawk

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Crowhawk; it's what all the stylish carrion crows are wearing this season while decomposing at triple cemetery crossroads.

One Goddamn Picture

Two days ago I: made an edible anointing oil from herbs growing out of the garden container with #01's remains, used one of my in-laws' crystal vases to macerate some pheasant bones (if you don't tell them they'll never notice), finally pulled out all the motherfucking fireweed and ragwort that's been driving Italics's allergies in-fucking-sane, made an executive decision to prune all the effing patio shrubs Mr. Awesome's been ignoring, tackled five years worth of invasive ivy that's slowly destroyed our fucking fence, seriously contemplated the possibility of pulling Mr. Awesome's non-hedge hedge out and planting something actually useful (i.e., elder), recklessly bounced way too enthusiastically for far too long on an epic mountain of garden debris (to compact the shit into a bag...well, mostly to compact the shit into a bag), freed one of the plum trees from being completely swallowed by a neighbor's tall line of monster fucking cedars and then watched the setting sun illuminate portions of the backyard for the first time in fucking years.

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

Yesterday I: dragged my sore fucking ass outside to examine and flesh the heads of #08, #09 and #10, shallowly buried the decomposing remains I removed from their skulls so our fox(es) have access to a quick meal, packed the three flayed deer heads into my upgraded roadkill altar to begin the process of rot, checked on the assorted pieces of #01, #02, #03, #04 and #05 macerating in one of the outside rooms, potted on some home-fucking-grown comfrey seedlings, excavated the skeletal remains of Love & Sorrow's mature rabbit from one of my gardening pots, transplanted one of my container lavenders using some of the decayed rabbit dirt, dressed my sage, bay tree and tiny little gooseberry plant with leftover rabbit dirt, paid a visit to the roadkill graveyard situated beneath our office window (where fleshy remains are buried until they become bone), clipped small coniferous tufts from huge motherfucking juniper branches (pruning casualty; why let good magic shit go to waste?) and spent the next eight motherfucking hours in the fucking kitchen rubbing my hands raw by squeezing juice out of seven motherfucking pounds of wild necro-gooseberries - by fucking hand - to make four different motherfucking types of Hedgerow Hooch.

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

Today I: swore my supremely sore fucking ass that I'd take the day off until I remembered the last time I performed any sort of mushroom sweep was last Friday (work is work, Internet), cackled madly - and even paused to call Italics mid-picking - at the completely unexpected porcini harvest, stumbled across a new bolete-tastic hot spot situated between two other bolete-tastic hot spots, indulgently savored the first mothereffin' brambles of the season, paused to admire the late evening sun reflecting across the ripe blackberries' latex shine, briefly returned home for Italics so we could toadstool hunt together near the banks of the Black Laird's loch, crawled through low-hanging boughs of birch and pine, and scrambled over crumbling, lichen-encrusted walls filling a second magic wooden basket with cherry-red agarics, a birch bolete explosion of massive fucking proportions and the incomplete remains of a carrion crow, single-handledly cleaned - and processed! - 1085 grams of porcini, 1194 grams of mixed boletes and 8 effing toadstools for dehydration, stirred every fucking 2011 Hedgerow Hooch (all (lucky) 13 of them), made a helluva meal which included homemade holubsti (Ukrainian stuffed cabbage) inexcusably smothered with leftover Poulet Marengo sauce and a quick chorizo-smoked pancetta-homegrown sage chicken thing, prepped #11's body for its future funeral and watery interment, and preened vainly in the mirror all evil sorceress-style when I caught the secondhand stains of midnight sex smeared garishly across my lower face.

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

Ms. Dirty's Day Off

A day off - Ms. Dirty-style! - in ten pictures:

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First item of order? Exhuming the skeletal remains of #01 (body), #02 (skull and body), #03 (skull), #04 (skull and body) and #05 (skull) from the roadkill altar, and submerging the lot into water-filled buckets to begin the process of bone cleaning.

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Second day off duty: shaking up the contents of my Hedgerow Hooch. (<- Sticky, but satisfying work.) Pictured above is my plain wild necro-raspberry gin, the other batch of gin's been flavored with a vanilla bean and spices.

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After soiling myself with dead deer - and accidentally anointing myself with homemade hooch - it was time for my favorite chore: cooking. In this case, it was a very special meal made with homegrown and locally foraged ingredients for a Mercury-talented husband.

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Since Poulet Marengo is a braised dish I swapped the chicken for our first guinea fowl (from Gressingham Food's; if you're in the UK be sure to check this welfare-concerned company out, most major grocery stores seem to carry a portion of their catalog, and I can personally vouch for the quality of their products), but before I could braise anything I had to pan fry guinea fowl portions in olive oil and butter until crisply golden.

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Even though I was involved in some serious cooking my ass couldn't resist a quick break to admire the rainbow cresting over our crossroads rowan tree through the kitchen window.

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Something dark and sweet to mop up boozy dinner juices*: a gluten-free quick bread made with buttermilk, brown sugar and molasses.

* Both Marsala and brandy are featured in this dish, along with fresh mushrooms, tomatoes and homemade vegetable stock. The end result? A sauce that'd ecstatically inspire the heavenly motherfucking host.

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Another day off duty: prepping even more recently picked chanterelles for the dehydrator while the guinea fowl braises and the Boston Brown Bread bakes.

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The braised guinea fowl's become so tender that it's begun pulling away from the bone.

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A special dinner requires a special atmosphere, so the kitchen lights were turned off, the stars were turned on and I further illuminated the room with the soft glow of candlelight.

Our ancestors, friends and roommates with benefits (you know, the folk that never leave: Papa, Chippy, et cetera) were invited, but their setting wasn't as grand as the ancestral altars I usually build during special feasts and holy days. On more low key occasions their table setting is just as fancy as ours, but I always situate the bread next to them because I know where I get my ravenous bread appetite from. (<- Ukraine? Is known as "Europe's Breadbasket". In fact, our flag has only two colors: blue for the sky, and yellow for our fields of wheat.)

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And the last day off duty of the day? Sitting down with 30+ cookbooks to yank out every motherfucking recipe that involves gooseberries and black currants since both of those have recently come into season at my graveyard garden.

Casa dels Ossos (House of Bones)

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Casa dels Ossos (House of Bones) was our August harvest.

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Some of #05's incisors on a recently acquired graveyard spade.

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Fresh crow remains from a fragmented find (large glass), a shattered piece of jawbone from a roadkill badger (small glass), Stone Throne Pheasant's cleaned wishbone (on the plate) and miscellaneous bones found while foraging in the woods.

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The cleaned skull of Love and Sorrow's mature rabbit waiting to be glued back together.

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The wishbone, keel and several wing bones from an incomplete forest find.

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The skeletal remains of Stone Throne Pheasant which, once cleaned, will be used to decorate gifts and projects (see Bones, Twine & Feathers).

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#04's alien head peering silently out of the murky water.

Lost'n'Found

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How do you locate a lost cairn? Take a loaf of bread, a pomegranate and a bottle of water to the projected location and walk around until you trip over absolutely nothing. Lost cairn? Found.

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Other things found on this adventure: more porcini and fly agarics, an unseasonal badger roadkill (too far gone to take, although I did manage to rescue a piece of jaw with some teeth), nearly ripe currants, crazily ripe raspberries, almost ripe gooseberries, blooming comfrey and two new mushroom hot spots.

#11

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Today my toadstool hot spot revealed one of its partially buried secrets: #11, a juvenile roe deer. (How my ass managed to miss a skeleton worth of bones beneath the long line of firs I've been foraging at for two fucking years is beyond me.)

Herd in a Handbasket

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#08, and March's twitterpated couple (#09 & #10) are getting ready to follow the rest of the 2010-2011 herd (#02, #03, #04 & #05) into macerating buckets.

Evisceration

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The still-moist remains of TTC (aka Tourist Trap Crow), and the eyes'n'ears from Love and Sorrow's mature rabbit. All of the ritually eviscerated organs* were naturally sun-dried, and what I wasn't able to use of the rescued wildlife (the entrails, primarily) was immediately returned to the earth.

* How the fuck have I managed to ritualize the process of roadkill reduction, rot and resurrection? Start with the journal entry Tourist Trap Crow, and then sink your teeth into the Asphalt & Entrails archive.

Blessed By the Dead

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Shed by the living, blessed by the dead.

Almost There

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Tourist Trap Crow's almost there.

Giving Thanks, Revisited

I give thanks for the meat that'll feed us, the crop full of bilberries that'll grow into fruit-bearing shrubs, the underdeveloped eggs for fairy tale witchcraft and the special heart, liver and gizzard offering for our Saturday night black magic cat (Mr. Mistoffelees). Thanks for the feathers, bones, flesh and feet that'll be turned into project-ready parts, and for the vitamin-rich internal organs that'll feed and strengthen the new generation of carrion crows, rooks and magpies that visit us every day.

I give thanks for a life I didn't take by ensuring that its death isn't wasted.

Touché, Universe

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On July 14th this fridge drawer was finally emptied of grossly belated Hieros Gamos offerings (beer, phallic resurrection bread, homemade Peking duck, organic beef mince and Peeps), overly ripe roadkill birds (one carrion crow, one European blackbird) and - PSA: y'all with junk might want to grab your vomit bag right about now; ready? - a bottle of duct-taped* menstrual blood-infused water that's been rolling around since June 7th (I'll explain later).

For the first time since motherfucking Easter this space was vacant, clean and totally sanitized, and it managed to remain in that pristine fucking state for two goddamn hours before it was unexpectedly filled with brand fucking new roadkill (a pheasant hen).

* I didn't want anyone mistaking it for iced tea, although it would've made one holy fucking hell of a story.

When Inclined

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It seems that our friend Tourist Trap Crow is more than capable of feeding itself.

First Feeding

We're busier than I'd like to be. Shit's begun piling up again, and the rooms that were once 96% clean are slowly degrading into a post-apocalyptic mess of epic fucking proportions. The constant running in circles (from living animal to dead animal, from chore to errand) has left us both of us exhausted as fuck - as you've probably noticed since my journal entries haven't been exactly stellar in the past few weeks - but we've got to keep on pushing; once berry'n'mushroom season hits (late July) there'll be zero time to get the house in order.

(TRANSLATION: If shit ain't complete within a month, then shit won't be complete until AFTER Christmas, and I really fucking hate even having to consider the fucking notion that my ass'll still be spring cleaning in motherfucking January of next fucking year.)

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I've been holding off writing this entry because I wanted to explain the biological process of maceration, and all of my rituals, rites and spiritual practices that coincide with the grand pageant of reducing rotting flesh to clean, sterile bones. Unfortunately, I'm just too fucking busy to devote that much time and effort to one journal entry (unless I've got a serious motherfucking axe to grind). So, for now, you'll just have to settle for a handful of pictures with a quick explanation of what's going down in each image.

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My altars are usually elaborate fucking things, but those sacred spaces tend to be spread out on giant fucking plateaus of furniture so they aren't normally constrained to cramped, tiny ass areas. (First unspoken tenet of witchcraft? Work within your means. Sometimes that means setting up shop in an undesirable space, sometimes that means using clean, flat bed sheets instead of fancy tablecloths and sometimes it means rummaging through kitchen drawers to see what you have on hand, or what's currently available to you.)

When reducing roadkill from flesh to bone I use my Bean Nighe bowl (actually, I put the macerating pot'o'animal in the bowl, but you get the point), but seeing how Peck-Man's (aka TC) currently living in the fucking thing it's unofficially out of commission until further notice (or until a heavy fucking duty emergency). Instead, my decomposing animals were ritually interred into Second Hand Sunday purchases, and then placed at the feet of my Santa Muerte black rabbit (the head honcho of my rabbit militia) who'll oversee the rite of rot.

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Tourist Trap Crow's (usually abbreviated to TTC) skeletal frame slowly sinking into its watery womb of transformation.

Before submerging the crow's body I ritually stripped it of soft tissue to help expedite the maceration process (which, hopefully, won't be too long since the warm weather should really encourage the bacteria to make short work of decomposing muscle). To learn more about TTC, my rite of reduction and how a fully feathered roadkill crow will eventually turn into project-ready pieces (i.e., bones, preserved skin (complete with tail feathers and wings), organs and blood) be sure to check out my Tourist Trap Crow journal entry.

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Unlike Tourist Trap Crow, the rabbit head that was ritually interred in this Second Hand Sunday vessel sank like a motherfucking rock. (In fact, the pot turned out to be just a little too tight for TTC - it was inhibiting the crow from sinking properly, which doesn't sound like a big deal but a waterline could potentially stain a bone (or so I've heard) - so it was carefully rehomed to a roomier maceration pot until it decomposes to the point of bone separation.) To learn more about the roadkill rabbit, how it came into my possession and how I sent it off Ms. Dirty-style be sure to check out my Love and Sorrow journal entry.

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I ritually feed, water and interact with the animals as their physical remains decompose and separate from the perishable to the preservable. (It's not so much "taming" as it is luring them into a sense of familiarity; I don't "break" them, I make them comfortable around people and modern living. After all, these are wild fucking animals whose natural disposition is to be wary of human beings.) These pictures are from the roadkill animals' first feeding, a semi-ceremonial event that normally happens once or twice a week (regardless if it's the first, third, tenth or last feeding).

Left section (based on a carrion crow's diet): locally grown oatmeal (dry, cracked grain), Rice Krispies, mealworms and a scrambled organic'n'free-range egg

Middle section (based on a living organism's diet): fresh water

Right section (based on a common rabbit's diet): locally grown oatmeal (dry, cracked grain), Rice Krispies, organic parsley and organic celery

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My Santa Muerte (literally translated to Saint Death) black rabbit, with wispy tendrils of incense smoke woven around her head. To understand this black rabbit you have to understand the Black Rabbit, and to understand the Black Rabbit you have to understand the Black Goddess, and without the entry Black Rabbit Altar none of the above is fucking possible.

Next Big Thing: Ladders

I posted this over on my Tumblr blog the other day (<- think of it as Graveyard Dirt lite; I write less, but update more), and it's so fucking OH, INTERNETS! ridiculous that I had to record it here for posterity (and to ensure - once this shit goes Llewellyn mainstream (snort) - that I'm remembered as the originator of the altar ladder fad):

How to Make a Halloween Altar @ eHow

Or, more accurately, "How to Make Ms. Dirty's Halloween Altar". (<- Do you think the eHow writer knows that the use of ladders isn't standard practice, and I have a very personal, very ancestral reason for including the item in my rituals and beliefs?)

PS: LOL @ "THINGS YOU'LL NEED...A LADDER". Christ.

PPS: Pictures of my completed Halloween altar can be found here (lights on) and here (lights out).

PPPS: I resent the fact that the difficulty's been listed as "easy"; the fuck it is! How many motherfucking ladders has this eHow writer dressed with multiple cloths, garlands, fairy lights and dangling paraphernalia? APPARENTLY NOT MANY (OR NOT WELL).

Moulting

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May 10th, 2011

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I'll be completely fucking honest with y'all - I love every effing aspect of my roadkill work (from building altars, exercising funerary rites, to carefully fishing out still-warm organs with my bare fucking hands - which, BTW, isn't recommended, but it does give you a better entrails reading) except for having to tackle pictorial logs of our rescue expeditions. Because, really, what the fuck do I have to cleverly offer other than "OH, HEY, CHECK IT OUT - ANOTHER DEAD ANIMAL WE FOUND" with each passing picture? So it goes without saying that I deliberately leave the tres undesirable work* for as long as fucking possible in the hopes that somehow it'll miraculous write itself up (hey, it could happen).

* When you designate evisceration, flaying and psychoactive-fueled butchery as "FUN AND AWESOME WORK OMG" there's only one direction for the coma-inducing boredom of record keeping to go - it becomes the dirty work you try to avoid with almost every motherfucking inch of your life.

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Even though I've had my eye on it for years, May 10th was the first time we managed to explore this particular carrion crow rookery. It's very local - by car, anyway - although it's set back in agricultural fields and scrub woodland so the nesting sites (there seem to be several very large clusters) are a safe distance from the hustle and bustle of human life. (<- I've seen way too many fledglings flattened by cars due to rookeries being built over areas of heavy fucking traffic.)

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I haven't had a chance to sort, edit and upload the funeral pictures - so I can't check my Flickr photostream for verification, and I'm too goddamn lazy to hunt down my physical roadkill journal/log - but I think we left the rookery that day with the remains of 10 carrion crow fledglings that died a natural death. (Not necessarily a painless, comfortable or easy death; just a death that wasn't at the hands - whether intentional or not - of humans.) My roadkill crows tend to be unlucky adults or inexperienced juveniles, but my fledglings are almost always found at the base of their nests. (As you may have already guessed, birds have a devastating infant mortality rate - something like 1 out of every 3 or 4 actually make it past a certain stage of life - so the body count isn't abnormal, even if it is heartbreaking.)

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OH, HEY, CHECK IT OUT - ANOTHER DEAD ANIMAL WE FOUND! (Snort.)

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Even though we pass by this field every effing time we perform any sort've roadkill round-up we've never, ever noticed this so-suave-it's-super-fucking-natural stallion. The second it caught sight of us walking back to the car it immediately began posing for pictures, and we couldn't help but stop for a few minutes to immortalize the uber ridiculous vogue-like flaunting (oh, that motherfucker was workin' it).

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The majority of our rookery excursion was beneath a heavily overcast sky, but - and I kid you not - the second we became aware of the suave stallion's presence the rolling clouds parted and a single ray of sunlight broke through the crevice and fell like a heavenly beacon RIGHT ON THE MOTHERFUCKING HORSE. We stood mesmerized as that solitary beam expanded, engulfing the entire field with warm, radiant light while Euan Garlogie, wonder horse extraordinaire, effortlessly stole the moment by striking many a pose.

Gone to Flowers

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Where have all the graveyards gone? Gone to flowers, everyone.

By Ribbon and Thread

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Learn more about TTC (Tourist Trap Crow) here.

Tourist Trap Crow

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There's twenty-four mothereffing photos internet-stapled to this particular journal entry, so I'm going to ditch the overly verbose shit I'm usually known for since the pictures should, for the most part, speak for themselves. If you're looking for a wordier explanation regarding my, uh, unique spiritual practice of rescuing, butchering and working with roadkill you'll probably find some of your answers in Reduce, Reuse, Recycle which explains the process in better detail. Be sure to also check out my roadkill specific journal category (Asphalt & Entrails), and its correlating Flickr set for even more stories, information and images.

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If you've been visiting Graveyard Dirt for over a week - hi, hello and thanks for coming back for seconds (or thirds or fourths or, you know, whatever) - chances are you're already acquainted with Tourist Trap Crow in some form (see Panikhida). TTC's the "saturated, spring chicken" carrion crow Italics and I found during one of our recent roadkill rounds (May 31st, 2011), and since bringing the soaked-to-the-motherfucking-bone bird back home I've conducted various funerary rites (Corvid Funeral), ritually prepared the bird for decomposition (Resurrection) and ceremonially interred its skeletal remains into a decay-inducing womb (The Black Rabbit's Cauldrons).

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Just by gently examining roadkill with my bare hands I usually get a fair idea of the internal condition of the body, and, sometimes, where the animal received the fatal blow. The only noticeable external trauma was the compound fracture blithely jutting from one of TTC's feet, but, despite feeling solid, I found more broken bones beneath feathers and flesh.

Even though it isn't 100% apparent in the photos below the carrion crow's sternum was slightly crushed and its wishbone cleanly snapped in two (it doesn't take a mothereffing genius to figure out what part of this bird collided with a fast moving vehicle). To ensure no more bones were broken during the ritual of reduction I very carefully worked at joints to disconnect appendages naturally so the only damage visible in the skeletal remains is the damage it sustained when getting nailed by a car.

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A ribbon was tied around the crow to restrain, comfort and relax it during the rite, and then, after prayers, libations and multiple cleansings it was unraveled to release TTC's spirit from the burden of its physical body.

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A sideways peek at TTC's white beard.

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A much better shot of TTC's white soul patch.

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I used a blend of several incenses throughout the ritual of reduction. (The miniature bird-footed bottle is probably familiar, but I think this was the first time I busted out the vintage Russian cruet set that Italics gave me for Christmas.)

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The bowls, tools and brushes used during the ritual of reduction. (I only nicked myself once during the first incision - accidental blood offering, ahoy!)

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TTC's ribboned body resting on layered plates. (One set down for the flayed feathers'n'flesh, and the other to hold its skinned body.)

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Whenever I work with one of my roadkill animals I try to document its appearance and any visible trauma through photographs for two reasons:

1.) It's a quick reference guide that illustrates the condition of the animal which allows me to decide how best to reduce the animal without having to dig it out of the fucking freezer to physically examine it multiple times.

2.) It allows the caretaker-to-be* to develop a bond with the creature they'll be opening their home to.

* I know it probably sounds hella retarded, but I really fucking despise using the word "owner" when referring to people who'll eventually give my critters new homes; these roadkill animals aren't property, and if anything's going to do the owning you better fucking believe it'll be the animal that decides if it wants you.

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TTC has a set of beautiful fucking wings, although this photo only relates half of the glory because there was no effing way to effectively keep the wings spread while taking a picture of them at the same goddamn time. (Shame about the ratty tail, although those feathers can easily be cleaned. <- I try and leave some "grooming" jobs for the caretaker-to-be; perfect animal'n'human bonding activity.)

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More of that white motherfucking soul patch that I love so damn much.

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May 31st, 2011: Appearances can be really fucking deceiving. When we picked up the juvenile carrion crow (aka "Tourist Trap Crow") it was nearly frozen and soaked to the motherfucking bone. Despite its saturated, spring chicken state we picked it up anyway - it was a clean hit; skull unfractured, no bodily ruptures or glimpses of internal organs - making it the first official roadkill crow of 2011. After some serious TLC (which required 24 hours of gentle feather fluffing while breathing onto the cold body to warm and dry the bird) the roadkill crow magically transformed from an ugly (dead) duckling to a taxidermy worthy specimen.

From ugly duckling to slightly-ruffled-around-the-edges swan.

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I have such tender affection for TTC, and every fucking time I see this photo my black, shriveled heart somehow manages to swell with love. I don't want to get all, you know, magic-woo-woo on you, but the rituals of release and reduction were so effortless and smooth that the entire process left me with the biggest sense of affirmation, serenity and happiness.

I'll be honest, there've been countless times this past month when I was at the end of my sharing-my-life-and-office-with-an-injured-fucking-crow rope and all I could do to deal with the stress of the routine-shattering detour was throw my hands up to the sky demanding FOR MOTHER LOVIN' CHRIST, WHY?!. It wasn't until after TTC was spread out in front of me that I understood where that feeling of intimate connection came from: TC.

By devoting time, energy and emotion to a living crow I've created an association that, like it or not, unlocks my maternal instinct whenever I interact with them. Every crow - dead, alive, roadkill or natural death - is now, and forever will be, the injured fledgling we rescued, lived with, cared for and loved, and because of that I can't help but work more carefully, more gently and with the greatest amount of compassion when handling any crow.

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When inspecting TTC's body I noticed an egg-like bump bulging out from its lower abdomen. The force of the impact had caused the internal organs to distend down - ultimately tearing the thin abdominal sheet between skin and viscera - into the lower abdominal cavity. In this picture you can see the liver, gizzard and the tattered remains of the thin ass membrane that once protectively covered the organs.

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TTC's flayed skin in one complete piece (feather side up).

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TTC's flayed skin in one complete piece (feather side down).

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Carrion crows have bristle-like "hairs" that grow along their upper beak (in the opposite direction of their other feathers), and thanks to an extra sharp medical grade scalpel I was able to include those feathery "hairs" in TTC's flayed skin.

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TTC stripped down to muscles, bones, organs and feet. (Sorry about the intestine spillage; I, uh, wasn't wearing gloves - DON'T BE LIKE ME; ALWAYS WEAR FUCKING GLOVES WHEN WORKING WITH ANY DEAD ANIMAL, OKAY? - so I didn't want to gingerly tuck in entrails with my bare hands.)

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TTC's feet, cleanly separated from the body without breaking any bones or inflicting any new damage.

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Most of TTC's organs waiting to be separated into two piles (the skin's already been removed, and I allow the brain to liquefy within the skull as the remains macerate in water): the shit that's kept and dried, and the shit that's returned back to the earth. I kept the heart, liver, eyes and tongue (which is still attached to its trachea), and buried the other internal organs in my borlotti bean container. (Magic crow beans, anyone?)

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TTC finally reduced to muscle and bone.

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To help expedite the maceration process I removed as much soft tissue as I could from TTC's body. Whatever was cut off ended up in the shit-that's-kept-and-dried pile to be used at the discretion of the eventual caretaker (for obvious fucking reasons I don't recommend treating the dehydrated breast steaks as homemade jerky).

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After a long ass afternoon of serious motherfucking work TTC had been ritually reduced to six distinct parts: the muscle and organs I kept (blue glass bowl), its flayed skin, complete with soul patch, beak hairs, wings and tail feathers (ceramic oval dish), five giant blood clots (paper squares), feet (rectangular white dish), skeleton (blue glass dish) and the muscles'n'organs I returned back to the earth (white metal bowl). Nothing, as you can clearly see, was wasted or thrown out.

...but that's not the end of Tourist Trap Crow's story, because, really, it's only just begun. Like I mentioned in Panikhida, I'll be updating Graveyard Dirt over the next few weeks with pictures of TTC's progression from cold, wet roadkill to naturally cleaned, project-ready parts (bones, feet, blood, organs, skin and feathers). So if you do come back for seconds - or thirds or fourths or, you know, whatever - you'll be able to witness the slow transformation of flesh to bone.

The Black Rabbit's Cauldrons

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Manmade wombs cradle the newly dead as they sleep beneath a still sheet of filmy water.

Love and Sorrow

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On June 3rd the Orthodox Church observes the feast day of The Vladimir Madonna. This particular Mary's called Vladimirskaya (to us Slavs, anyway), and it's her heartrending expression that simultaneously reflects maternal love and sorrow that's made her one of the most highly revered icons of all Orthodoxdom. As a devout witch I have unending respect and admiration for what the Blessed Mother stands for, and I regularly drag my city-hatin' ass downtown to church to invite Her influence of mercy, compassion and love into my life. (Praying for those virtues is way, way easier than practicing them. <- I'd normally cap a statement like that with "just trust me on this", but I don't think you need to be wearing the Ms. Dirty dress to get where I'm coming from.)

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My holy day of reverence began with the old dead (love), and ended with the new dead (sorrow). The sad, autistic reality is that mercy, compassion and love comes easily when you can cradle fur and feathers to your chest, but those qualities'n'characteristics - which pour out naturally for wild and domesticated animals - isn't a default response when dealing with people. I could probably give you one million and two reasons why I do this entire roadkill thing, but at the heart of it I sometimes wonder if it's all an exercise in relating, understanding and, ultimately, forgiving.

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I found the youngest of the two rabbits at the base of a small crow rookery built in tall pine trees towering over a heavily trafficked country road. One or two fledglings had already met their asphalt death, and to ensure that the same deaths weren't repeated I removed the bunny from the road to eliminate any scavenging temptation. Unfortunately, this rabbit's skull was shattered, so I skinned the body, took the fur, feet and tail, and buried the rest of its physical remains in one of our sweet corn containers (which'll then be emptied at the end of the year for the insect-cleaned bones).

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Graveyards have a tendency of leaving gifts for me - even new, unexplored ones - and to foster a feeling of goodwill I always reciprocate with something in return. Most cemetery visits are planned (working out that shit in advance gives me a chance to bake an appropriate offering), but when they aren't I can always fall back on the individually wrapped candy, cookies and oatcakes that I keep in my magic wooden basket.

I very nearly didn't take anything when exploring this kirkyard since it was our first introduction (and because my magic wooden basket wasn't actually with me; I didn't think I needed it while haunting the cemetery at 5:30 in the motherfucking morning), but I couldn't resist the celestial dead bell in my path. Sometimes a gift's just a gift and you need to suck it up and simply say DUDE, THANK YOU! least you upset the generous, non-expectant gesture.

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The elder of the two rabbits found on the 3rd wasn't as immaculate as the first (one of its hind legs had burst open - presumably upon impact - revealing the gravel-embedded muscles beneath), but its soulful, doe-like eyes hinted of wisdom gained through experience and I found myself returning, again and again, to stare into the dead eyes of the roadkill rabbit. Unlike the bunny this mature rabbit's head was in perfect condition, but, as I soon discovered, the sustained internal injuries far exceeded the more obvious external damage.

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To be perfectly blunt, the organs had exploded and were floating in a sea of vegetative chyme in the abdominal cavity. I salvaged 2/3 of this rabbit's coat (it was impossible to hygienically skin the lower third) leaving its two front feet attached (like a hand puppet), took its head (the eyes and tongue to dry, and the skull to clean) and buried the rest of its physical remains in Papa's tobacco container (which'll also be emptied at the end of the year for the insect-cleaned bones).

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Most roadkill I find is usually hugging the sidelines, but this fledging carrion crow with three white nails (see them?) was brazenly spread eagle in the middle of a small country road. It seemed like a clean kill until I gently turned over the dead bird's body and saw the majority of its entrails hanging out in a tangled knot. Skinning was an option, but the head - just like the young rabbit's - was crushed, which meant there wasn't much of a skull to retrieve, and I would've had to been insanely careful about flaying it thanks to the bacteria ridden organs hanging out. Since it was already partially eviscerated I decided to hollow out the rest of the bird to prepare it for my first foray into homemade mummification.

May 31st, 2011

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I've been so fucking busy that I've been shying away from the inevitable dirty work that comes with my spiritual practices. Finding the effort to drag my sorry ass out of the house at 5:30 AM to do my roadkill rounds is a piece of motherfucking cake, as is collecting mangled animals, building and creating altars for their funerals and then working with each animal individually (which includes rites, cleansings and, eventually, ritual dismemberment to ensure there isn't any physical baggage keeping the animal anchored unnecessarily to our world).

It's recording shit here in Graveyard Dirt - I mean, past posting "One A Day" photos - that's always felt like a divinely foisted curse that I've had to suck up and endure. Some days there aren't words, but there aren't enough photos, either, which means I have to strike some sort of balance between the two. Today's one of those days where my brain just isn't on (probably because I've been ankle deep in dead wildlife, and, after a while, funeral fatigue starts setting in) and I'm just not feeling this entire journal writing thing, so, like, apologizes in advance if this entry seems sort've flat and listless.

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It's not any secret that Scotland's fostered a strong hate towards wildlife for most of its history. Nature was an enemy, and certain indigenous species were deliberately hunted to extinction due to their pest and/or fashion status, or because folks felt that the animals posed a threat to either humans or livestock.

Recently there's been renewed interest in reintroducing species that had been previously obliterated (i.e. beavers, wild boar, etc.), but any introduction seems to be met with resistance (mostly from people who own serious amounts of land and don't want to see their property affected by animals setting up camp in their territory). Some gamekeepers are still poisoning raptors (predatory birds) despite their protected status, and some farmers seem all too fucking eager to scapegoat and condemn any animal that seems to benefit from living on the fringes of human habitation.

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Here in Scotland (I'd say "in the UK", but Scotland and England have differing wildlife laws, so I'm only versed in what's applied to me and my work here in the northeast corner of the country) it's completely legal to hunt crows, rooks and magpies provided you follow a few simple rules and go about the business as humanely as possible. What I wasn't aware of was the practice of using hunted, dead corvids as scarecrows to deter birds from fields.

We only managed to liberate this hooded crow; there were just too many posts to check and morning traffic had picked up which meant our rescue operation was in plain view. Whoever this farmer is, they're the first to go on this witch's very personal, very local shit list (enjoy your agricultural blight, motherfucker).

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Crow nests are known for being unstable fucking things, and dangerous, to boot, because they build them high up in towering trees which means a tumble out of the nest can be fatal, but even living in the nest can be deadly - it's easy to get picked off by predator birds when you're young, defenseless and sitting on an elevated platter.

This year has been particularly hard on this generation of birds because we've had some seriously unseasonable weather including frequent gale force winds. We suspect that TC was a victim of one of those unusual storms, and after falling out of the nest - or gliding, since it was definitely in its fledgling stage when we found it - an animal tried to grab it by its wing but failed to make a meal out of young crow.

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Appearances can be really fucking deceiving. When we picked up the juvenile carrion crow (aka "Tourist Trap Crow") it was nearly frozen and soaked to the motherfucking bone. Despite its saturated, spring chicken state we picked it up anyway - it was a clean hit; skull unfractured, no bodily ruptures or glimpses of internal organs - making it the first official roadkill crow of 2011. After some serious TLC (which required 24 hours of gentle feather fluffing while breathing onto the cold body to warm and dry the bird) the roadkill crow magically transformed from an ugly (dead) duckling to a taxidermy worthy specimen.

The second corvid from the left - the one with grey shoulders and back - is the hooded crow that we liberated from the farmer's field. (Some people use "hooded crow" and "carrion crow" interchangeably even though hooded crows were granted a separate species status back in 2002. It's hard to change a conception that's been around since the beginning of time - especially since the reclassification happened less than a decade ago - but I feel its important to acknowledge the differences between the species and not lump everything together under a giant umbrella.)

Hooded crows in particular are associated with the Morrigan, the Cailleach (more like "veiled crows"?) and fairies, and it was once custom to throw a variety of shit at one to weasel out information from the Universe about your husband-to-be. I'll be the only one chucking shit at this hooded crow, though, since it's the first of its kind and I have a hard'n'straight rule about keeping firsts for myself.

From left to right: juvenile carrion crow (roadkill; near "Tourist Trap"), adult hooded crow (hunted; field), fledgling carrion crow (natural death; Pine Hedge Rookery) and an undetermined rook (natural death; Pine Hedge Rookery)

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The third corvid from the left is the fledgling carrion crow that we found at the Pine Hedge Rookery later in the morning. It was one of two birds discovered at that particular nesting site, and the first to be spotted as we clambered over the fallen stone wall into the peninsula-shaped hedge. Still hot to the touch I papoose-wrapped its warm, limp body in a clean towel just incase it hadn't finished the processing of passing over (although I didn't feel any sort of pulse). I'm not sure if it was just barely alive (or just barely dead) when we found it, but it was certainly gone by the time I performed the outside funeral.

The fourth and final corvid found that day was also discovered at the Pine Hedge Rookery. It was much further along the decaying process than most birds I pick up - you could see the emaciated, almost mummified body beneath ratty feathers - but its body seemed perfectly intact and I felt like I could still gently break the carcass down into bones. So the stinking rook - which I didn't know was a rook at the time since I didn't get to examine its head to spot the hairless beak, but I did know it stunk to high fucking heaven in that familiar HOLY FUCKING SHIT, HOW CAN SOMETHING ORGANIC AND NATURAL SMELL LIKE GODDAMN BURNING TIRES?! dead mothereffing animal way - was taken home, along with all of the pine needles, beetles and dirt attached to it.

This is the first rook I've found, so its remains - like the hooded crow - will be staying with me.

From left to right: juvenile carrion crow (roadkill; near "Tourist Trap"), adult hooded crow (hunted; field), fledgling carrion crow (natural death; Pine Hedge Rookery) and an undetermined rook (natural death; Pine Hedge Rookery)

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When the weather becomes more favorable I perform the majority of my funerary rites outdoors (naked, usually - I'd rather wash blood off my body than out of my clothes), which is especially useful when you're bringing home multiple animals and can't use the garage as a giant refrigerator due to rising temperatures. (<- Winter in Scotland is a scavengers dream. But the second summer rolls around? You got to either work with your roadkill animals super quick, or cleverly hide them in the fridge until you're ready to start and finish the process in one go).

We make offerings to visiting wildlife on a daily basis - now two times a day since fledglings have left their nest and are being taught foraging skills by their parents - and on this occasion I used breakfast cereal to create edible veve-like patterns around the bodies of the dead to feed both the crows and the wildlife that the food would inevitably attract.

Garden Funeral

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Panikhida

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One of May 31st's carrion crows (the more mature one that was hit by a car): Tourist Trap Crow. Over the next few weeks I'll be updating Graveyard Dirt with pictures of TTC's progression from cold, wet roadkill to naturally cleaned, project-ready parts (bones, feet, blood, organs, skin and feathers). Once I perform the last and final panikhida all of this white-bearded carrion crow will be offered for sale.

Corvid Funeral

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An open air funeral for four corvids (two carrion crows, one rook and one hooded crow) found on the 31st of May.

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Only one of the birds - the more mature carrion crow (bottom right) - was roadkill. The hooded crow (top left) was found hanging from a fucking pole in the middle of a farmer's field, and the rook (bottom left) and infant crow (top right) were both natural deaths.

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Resurrection

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Scarecrow

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At first I thought NO FUCKING WAY, IT COULDN'T BE, but by the third body it was undeniable - some barbaric cunt actually made real life scarecrows out of dead fucking birds. And the worst fucking part? IT WASN'T EVEN EFFECTIVE.

The one goddamn thing it succeeded in doing? Bringing down a hardcore case of agricultural blight straight out've the 16th fucking century. In fact, I'm ready to Janet Horne this motherfucker and ride his bridled ass across country until nothing's left except ashes like I'm some mothereffing Wendigo.

August 26th, 2010

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The woods of a broken crow, wild, edible mushrooms, forgotten feathers, misplaced bones and, once upon a time, seven lousy rabbits.

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(Un)Salvageable

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Salvaging the unsalvageable.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

I start each of my roadkill animals with the best photographic intentions, but by the time I'm elbow-deep in muscle, fat and skin I forget to reach for my trusty camera to document each stage of skinning and - if the meat's safe for human consumption - butchery. So one thing you'll notice with most of my processing-themed images is that the set's never the whole production, just a slight tease of a few steps before I obviously became too engrossed with my work to continue snapping pictures.

While I wouldn't consider this particular set of processing images "complete" (it's missing the all important gutting stage), it does give you a good idea of what skinning an animal's like and how ungross, unbloody and ungrotesque it really is. (I'll be honest - it can be a messy affair. It all depends on how the animal died and where it received the hardest trauma. But a complete, unruptured, fresh animal usually yields a clean and almost effortless job provided you have a sufficiently sharp object (I work with a pair of kitchen scissors and a medical grade scalpel) and comfortable amount of space to work in.)

Over the next 16 images you'll be able to see how I reduced the pair of badgers we found on March 7th from abandoned roadkill to pelts (for tanning), meat (for consumption) and bones (for use in our personal practices) while wasting nothing in the process (unless you count the small amount of bruised, overly bloody badger meat that I offered to my corvids and visiting scavengers as "a waste"). These images aren't gratuitous; in fact, I barely consider them "graphic". If you can stomach eating meat, working with meat, visiting a butcher's shop and watching culinary-based TV shows where entire sides of animals are whittled down to roasts, chops and ribs then you can definitely digest this entry without feeling queasy.

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The night of the badger funeral. I've now conducted roadkill funerals (which involves everything from altar creation to ritual butchery) in the bathroom, kitchen, backroom and directly on my roadkill altar outside beneath The Shango Tree. This was the first time I used the bathroom, and it would've been fucking perfect - a toilet, sink, and bathtub only a stretch away, not to mention the ability just to wipe laminated floors and tiled walls clean in an instant - if the room wasn't so goddamn small.

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Bee (sometimes known as Beh) was one of our pet rats who had an overwhelming compulsion to dig up the fucking carpet. ("BEE! FOR FUCK'S SAKE! STOP TEARING UP THE MOTHERFUCKING CARPET!") When she passed on we chose a badger toy to represent her, a sort've magical effigy, or spirit doll. Within fucking months I discovered that someone - or something - was repeatedly digging up my goddamn outside altar and tossing heavy shit like Stone Cock aside. And then we caught that thing red-fucking-handed; a badger, on our tiny little subdivision property, digging up the fucking yard. ("BEE! FOR FUCK'S SAKE! STOP TEARING UP THE MOTHERFUCKING GARDEN!")

Not every pet rat became a woodland toy animal, and not every roadkill animal has a correlating rat spirit living in a stuffed toy. Bee's a little special in that way, and that unique connection was hard to overlook. So instead of invoking Chippy - who normally helps me with ritually processing wildlife - I called on our Busy Bee to act as a psychopomp for our March 7th pair. It must've been an exhausting fucking job, because the stuffed badger actually looked wrung-the-fucked-out after the ritual and she kept falling over without anyone knocking into her. After an offering of fresh water and a peanut butter'n'pumpkin seed sandwich Bee looked less ragged and finally stopped tipping over without provocation.

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This was the first badger we found on March 7th, the female. She was in worse shape than her possible mate (we found the other badger, the male, within eyesight the female), and was much larger, dustier and more battered (she had been hit multiple times).

She had exaggerated teats and extensive mammary tissue, which lead me to believe that there was probably a den of orphaned pups that had been left behind. (Whenever I pick up a female that was obviously lactating I always make an extra offering of rich cream to her offspring, because I know that their food source - their mother - won't be returning home to nurse them.) Her absence will ultimately result in their death, and that's something I always try to keep in mind when working with my roadkill animals: death doesn't just take the hit animal, sometimes it takes its mate and/or children as well.

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This was the second badger we found on March 7th, the male. Rigor mortis hadn't set in, so when I lifted his skank ass - and, Lord, it was fucking skank (three potent and intense "M" words: male, mating season, musk) - he rolled into my arms like a cuddly teddy bear, all soft limbs and bristly, pliable fur. He was visibly smaller than the female, and weighed less which meant I carried the motherfucker around the house like my baby for as long as I could. (Or, uh, bear. I mean, even the fucking MUSCLE of the male badger naturally stunk to high heaven, and not because he was so old he was "off".)

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Badger feet, they get me every fucking time. (Aren't they fucking adorable?) Whenever I see them I immediately think of Flower, from Bambi. (Although we don't have Flowers here, or raccoons, or possums, or even chipmunks. We're also very, very lucky to live in an area where wildlife diseases don't run rampant, so, for me, the risk of running into something is very low. Rabies, for instance? Practically non-existent here.) When I skin most roadkill I leave everything intact, so along with the face, head, tail and external reproductive features I also leave things like the paws attached so the animal's entire body is present in the flayed skin.

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...if you have a better fucking suggestion of how to weigh large roadkill animals I'd like to hear it. Until then, though, I'm sticking with "old plastic trash can sitting on top of the house's communal scales". The female clocked in at 2 stones ("stones" is a legitimate weight system here in the UK, medieval or what?) and since a stone's something like 14lbs that roughly made her about 30lbs. The male weighed around 10lbs less, and didn't seem as at home in the trash can. (I didn't get a picture of it, but when he went in to get weighed his arms stuck up and out of the container and beseechingly stretched to me like a toddler desperate to get out of a playpen.)

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For me, blood's inevitable at some point of flaying large roadkill because I can't bleed the animal before skinning it (I don't want to ruin the pelt, either by staining it or introducing marks, cuts or holes that'd detract from the fur's eventual appearance), and because it has a tendency to pool around the site of massive trauma (i.e., where it got hit) and form pockets on the side bearing the animal's weight (the parts of the body touching the ground). If you work carefully with a crazily sharp object (I use a pair of kitchen scissors and a medical grade scalpel) you'll find that skinning an animal - even one as big as a badger - doesn't necessarily have to be a Bathory bloodbath affair.

(If you look really fucking closely you can see a dark stripe running along the male badger's neck - that's blood. It's still neatly contained because I didn't puncture the artery, which is why working slow and with a seriously sharp instrument is highly recommended when skinning unbled animals. You can literally skate around some of the major blood vessels in the body if you just take your time.)

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Like I said earlier, skinning in the bathroom was almost fucking perfect but there was only one drawback: not enough leg room. I processed the entire male badger in the bathroom, but when it came time to work with the female I set up camp in the backroom. It was far more comfortable - and relaxing, I plugged our MP3 player directly into the turntable's speakers and listened to The Moors while flaying, gutting and cleaning - but the lighting wasn't as great, so the pictures below look darker and less detailed than the ones above.

I tried taking a few pictures of the mostly skinned female badger to give people a sense of anatomy, but flash photography isn't the best way to show off the intricate weaving of nature and evolution. A badger's jaw is hinged in a way that can't be dislocated unless physically broken, so the skull and upper vertebrae get a tremendous amount of support from an insane amount of muscles (which is clearly visible in this picture). The abdominal cavity isn't open, although you can see some of her internal organs just peeking beneath the disrupted mammy tissue towards the back legs and tail (the muscle holding them in split in one or two places along the inner thigh).

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While the female badger's skull looks undamaged, it was actually in fractured pieces. (The only thing holding the skull together was muscle.) The male sustained much less damage, although his jaw was severely dislocated. In this picture you get a good fucking idea of how goddamn robust a badger's neck is; it doesn't taper down gracefully, and the thick, muscular layers extend straight from the skull to the shoulders.

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The flayed pelt of the female badger. What you see is the entire animal: her fur, feet, ears, whiskers, nipples, asshole - everything. I haven't yet taught myself how to tan hides and furs (that's one of my 2011 goals), but when it's time to preserve her I'll be working with her complete skin. In fact, out of respect to the animal I won't be "grooming" my furs for symmetrical appearance, but that's just my personal feelings as the caretaker of my animals.

(In addition to selling the bones and feathery remains of my roadkill animals I'll also be selling their preserved pelts, although the decision to pop in lower jaws or groom furs will entirely be up to the animal's caretaker. Any pieces trimmed away would be kept - either by myself or the caretaker - to ensure that all of the animal's preserved remains were properly honored.)

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One of the female badger's beautiful little paws, studded with five super long nails that once ripped through the earth to find food and create homes.

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Meat is fucking meat, and we're carnivores, so I don't expect anyone to be blown away by the fact that we eat roadkill (provided that the animal's safe for human consumption). There are certain animals that we won't eat for spiritual or legal reasons, but everything else is fair game. And to be completely honest? If given a choice between hunted food and roadkill food I'd always prefer the roadkill option. (I've eaten hunted game and had to spit out fucking shots; there ain't no bullets to accidentally break your fucking teeth on when eating a roadkill animal.)

People might not believe it, but eating roadkill has drastically changed our diets and personal beliefs of how an animal - one destined to be eaten - should live and die. We've always been concerned about animal welfare, but I've always felt - at least until recently - that two people couldn't really make that much of an impact on industrial farming.

I'm now entering my second year of scavenging and we no longer eat full-priced meat from battery operations (we only purchase the reduced-to-clear shit that's on the verge of being thrown out - our feelings are that letting the animal go to waste by being dumped in a landfill would be the bigger crime), we've drastically reduced our intake of pork and beef, we've instigated vegetarian-only days (which is really fucking hard when you're a flesh-eating troll like me) and drastically raised our intake of local, welfare-assured meat and indigenous game (not just roadkill).

Even though I'm not responsible for the roadkill animal's death, I feel like I make peace by using the dead body. And that's what this picture's all about: communion.

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In these last four pictures you'll see how I reduced the female badger's body down to bone and meat. She isn't 100% complete; her body was so badly damaged I had no choice but to take off her lower legs and bury them with her internal organs. To the right of her partial carcass is a section of her spine, one of her arms (she sustained serious injury to her head, one of her shoulders, her back and one of her hips) and a sheet of fat I managed to rescue off her otherwise inedible lower third.

If you're a meat eater (and, most importantly, a cook), you might be able to pick out familiar cuts in the image above. The most obvious are the ribs which flank the spine on either side, and the two fleshy medallions of meat hugging part of the vertebrae are the tenderloins. Tenderloin is also known as "fillet steak" (here in the UK), or "filet" (French); it's the most tender - and most expensive - cut of meat you can get. Filet mignon comes from tenderloin, so, essentially you're staring at what was eventually removed and made into badger filet mignon.

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Before I could extract those two prized strips of tenderloin I had to remove the excess fat hiding the meat, which is a prize within itself. Pure animal fat is gold in a motherfucking jar to a witch and cook, so I take my adipose harvesting really fucking seriously. Once I have enough reserves from a certain type of animal I gently warm the solid lumps until they've melted, and then strain the liquid fat clean into glass jars which are kept in the fridge. One of my goals is to be able to offer rendered fat from roadkill animals to the witchcraft community through my store-to-be, but first I have to find a supplier of tiny jam jars to see if the idea's even viable.

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By this point I've removed the fat, extracted the tenderloins and removed most of the edible meat from the bones. Because I wasn't sure how to separate the ribs cleanly from the spine (we're totally having BBQ badger ribs) I left the spinal column intact for later butchery.

Her fractured head sits in the middle of the photo, and to her right are her practically meatless bones which will be cleaned for divinatory purposes (I'll be digging up her leg bones once the flesh has rotted off). The two bowls crowning the towel hold fat for rendering and meat for eating, and the clear bowl at the bottom of the towel holds the small, inedible portions which was offered to fellow scavengers. (Picking up roadkill means taking a prospective meal away from carrion eaters, so I like to right the balance by sharing remains with them.)

The ritualized funeral'n'butchery process is hella involved, but it allows me to make most of the unfortunate deaths I come across and, as you can see, nothing - not even a scrap of membrane - gets wasted.

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...and here's most of the female badgered butchered, cleaned, portioned and vacuum sealed. Her head and bones were kept together for cleaning, her fat gathered up into one neat pile for rendering and her spinal column and neck were left whole for future BBQing. The other air-tight plastic envelopes contain meat, and they was separated by cut. (Thin, fleshy flank steaks and thick, chunky casserole bites.)

For the curious, I haven't had badger yet, but I can tell you that it smells like any other red meat. I wouldn't describe the scent as "gamey", but I did detect a faint lamb-like aroma when my mouth began watering. (And, holy fuck, it watered. It watered often.) I'm keeping the tenderloin pieces for something special (badger stroganoff, anyone?), so our first foray into roadkill badger eating will probably be shish kebabs using the chunkier grade of meat flavored with a Mediterranean-style marinade.

Fledgling

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My baby's turning into a fledgling. Soon it'll be time for Beech Hedgerow Crow to leave this nest and enter the loving home of a new caretaker.

Four Funerals and a Bath

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The badger funeral was conducted in our bathroom, and was overseen by Bee (our pet rat who turned into a badger after death; the stuffed toy is Beh's spirit doll, which was invoked to act as a psychopomp for the recently deceased). Offerings were a fresh bowl of cold water, resin-based incense and a shared peanut butter and honey sandwich with raisins on gluten-free brown bread.

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The pheasant funeral was conducted in our kitchen (if the animal's fit to be eaten, then it's fit to be butchered in the culinary heart of our home), and its spirit was ushered outside with the rest of our "chickens" who we regularly feed using old bread, table scraps and Rice Krispies. Offerings were a fresh bowl of cold water, stick incense and a bowl of locally grown oats (not that this motherfucker needed any more food with how much wheat he had stuffed in his crop).

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The rabbit funeral was conducted in our backroom, and was overseen by my Santa Muerte rabbit (the head rabbit of my five black rabbits). Most animals that come into this house end up being processed in the kitchen, but because I'm not allowed to eat rabbit - and because we both picked up an initiatory illness from one that lasted a fucking month - I try and do my rabbit butchery as far away as possible from where I prepare food for consumption. Offerings were a fresh bowl of cold water, a carrot, resin-based incense and a little gem lettuce and parsley open face sandwich on gluten-free brown bread.

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The deer funeral was conducted in our backroom, and the twitterpated couple spent the entire evening nuzzling one another over a shared sandwich as I worked on the female badger in the same room (our tiny bathroom turned out to be too cramped to process a nearly 30lb animal, so I relocated my skinning operation to a larger area with more leg room). Offerings were a fresh bowl of cold water, resin-based incense and a little gem lettuce, parsley and hummus sandwich dressed with some of my "uniquely special" fly agaric/toadstool oil on gluten-free brown bread.

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Amidst the mourning there was some bathing. A few days after our March 7th roadkill haul we stumbled across the mud-soaked body of a dead male pheasant who, despite being plastered with gravel, was still in fairly good condition. We took him home and I Bean Nighed its ass in my orange roadkill bucket filled with cool, sudsy water, rinsed him until the water ran clean and then preened some of his feathers back into place before reducing him down to bones, feathers, meat and feet. I think it must've appreciated the care; this particular pheasant was practically odorless (either that or I've become totally desensitized to the sour, bile-y scent of busted crops and internal organs).

Twitterpated

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For obvious reasons these two (#09 and #10) will be sold as a set.

The Day of 7

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Here's a sterling example of my recent streak of bad fucking luck: within days of passing its mothereffing MOT - which took longer than fucking usual, so we were without access to a vehicle for something like 1/2 a week instead of the usual overnight - my car broke. I mean, like, within 48 effing hours of being returned home. On our first foray out after a long nocturnal period I lowered all four car windows to clear them of condensation and only three came back up. And then the door of the non-working window began whining, even AFTER I turned the fucking engine off. My ass? Never even left the effing driveway that day.

We sealed the open window with a trash bag (a sight I haven't fucking seen in something like 15 or 20 years; Scottish people are notoriously car-vain, so you don't see dirty ass beaters chugging down the highway with homemade plastic windows like you do in the States) and I braced myself for the inevitable: the frustrating disbelief of how much fucking time would be necessary to fix what was, essentially, a small fucking problem. Because that's what happens with this car. (Last summer? It was out of commission for nearly a fucking month because the speedometer stopped working. Not a complicated problem, but, LOL!, the repair guys ordered the wrong part, couldn't fit the used one they found and...)

I'd totally agree with you about needing to be more laidback and zen about this shit, but with our fucked up sleeping schedule - which has been in place for over ten fucking years, so it ain't gonna change anytime soon - there are month long periods where we're up exclusively at night. And being up at night, in Scotland, during the depths of winter means I have to abandon my roadkill duties entirely until our bizarre way of living finally falls in synch with the normal world for a few long weeks. In reality, I actually have a very small window of opportunity to engage in those duties (at least during the darker months of the year), so I begin biting my nails when the car suddenly goes down just as our schedules align with the ability to go out.

Within a half a fucking hour Italics had already pegged what had gone wrong. Apparently, my make of car is notoriously fussy about moisture. Water got into where it shouldn't have been when I lowered the windows, and a fuse freaked. But we aren't mechanics, so the car had to be turned over to professionals who wouldn't listen to Italics, and therefore spent over a motherfucking week taking shit apart going "WOW, WE REALLY DON'T KNOW WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS THING".

After 8-9 days of nail biting we finally get a "LOL! HE WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG! LOL!" call from them, and I tried really, really fucking hard not to see red, but it was hella hard, internet, when I finally got my fucking car back only to find that the repair guys busted our radio and internal clock. Which means it needs to go back to the shop. Again. So something else can break within a week of bringing it back home.

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(The serious fucking kicker? My father did all of the mechanical upkeep of our cars, but when I asked to be taught those skills he laughed the idea off. Neither of my parents took the time to talk to me about drugs, alcohol or sex, so you'd think they'd try to strike a balance by teaching me something useful like simple auto repair, but...no.)

Anyway, this entry isn't solely about me bitching about my car, I just sort've wanted to give you an idea of how life can get royally fucked when I don't have one when we're up during the day. (I suppose I could've been succinct and said something like: no car = no roadkill work, nocturnal mode = no roadkill work.) And this time of the year is a crazy special time because all of the hibernating animals are sluggishly coming to, which means certain species are getting hit as they groggily stumble around.

(Roadkill definitely has its "seasons", and right now we're knee-deep in badger season. It's not that badgers don't get hit off-peak, it's just that during this time of the year they're slowly waking up, emerging from their dens and diving headfirst into mating season. In badger world it's a crazy motherfucking time, although it's an unfortunate time that often sees a high body count and leaves many badgers windowed (they mate for life). 2011 is my second year of scavenging, and in that time - at least until yesterday - I've only come across two roadkill badgers and both of those were found in early March of last year.)

So, like, that's why the car's broken window had me biting my motherfucking nails: badgers (the dead ones, anyway). Because, fuck, we love badgers. Seriously. Out of all of the indigenous wildlife here in northeast Scotland they secured the biggest chunk out of our collective hearts. They're amazing, wonderful creatures burdened by medieval beliefs. They're maligned animals - much like foxes - and seem to have become the farmer's scapegoat. For all of those reasons and more we place badgers pretty fucking high on our roadkill pedestal; to be given one is a tremendously huge gift, and one we don't take for granted.

But badgers aren't the only animal of this story, (roe) deer play a pretty significant role, too. During this past Yuletide season we created an altar beneath the Christmas tree (an altar beneath another altar? talk about motherfucking talent!) around our Yule log, and we used apples, oranges, pears, plums and foil-wrapped candy to decorate the space. After the holidays we split the food into three lots: one was offered to the kids at the boarded up orphanage and home for disturbed children, the other went to the cemetery cairn for Papa, our ancestors and the locally buried dead and the last and final lot - comprised of 6 plums and 1 pear - were set aside for the roadkill deer I found, and, subsequently, took home in 2010.

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So, yeah, okay, it took my fucking ass three motherfucking months to finally execute the ritual (I ended up freezing the fruit to preserve it), and you'd think there might be some residual hard feelings about the delay, but even before we began leaving each deer its offering (at its death site; we left a whole plum - a significant choice because my roadkill altar is beneath a fruiting plum tree which means my spectral herd got a-fucking-lot of fresh, homegrown plums as offerings during last year's Harvest season - wherever we found the body of one of my deer) we stumbled across the ruffled - but unruptured - body of a male pheasant. (I mean, that find in itself makes a successful roadkill haul.)

Within minutes of dropping the first plum and ringing the deer bell for the first of 6 times (I spent 21 fucking days last October "herding" these motherfuckers with Chippy to get them to associate the sound of the goddamn bell with food) we came across the near perfect body of a wild rabbit. Unless you get them early on, roadkill rabbits tend to get mangled within an hour of death. Miraculously, this one - who wasn't warm to the touch in the slightest - somehow managed to remain unscathed, which meant I found my first intact rabbit of 2011. (Two usable roadkill animals in one day? That's a hella successful roadkill haul.)

After approximately placing #2's offering down (it was a drive-thru operation; I drove, and Italics rang the bell and tossed the plums out the window in the general direction of where the body had been found) I caught the dingy, yellowed belly fur of a large animal. "BADGER! BADGER! OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! BADGER!" I started screaming - almost swerving - because all I needed to see was that dusty, ivory stomach hair to know what animal was lying at the side of the road for me.

I cried. Just a little. It was a weird mix of grateful, happy and sad. I would never, ever choose anything but life for any creature, but when death happens in my little kingdom-territory I want to be there for the animal. When I use the word "happy" to describe how I feel when it comes to roadkill, it's only because I'm relieved that the animal isn't lost and wasn't deprived of a funeral with mourners. I'm "happy" because I made sure that the animal wasn't forgotten, and that its death wouldn't have been in vain. I'm "happy" because I know how much love it'll get once it gets home (I admit it; I'm autistic and hug things, especially roadkill animals), and how much love it'll receive when it's time for me to transfer responsibilities to a new caretaker.

But, fuck, yeah. A badger. Pristine. Huge. A mother of a mother, in fact. (Teats; she's got them.) She had a somewhat shitty ass that needs to be babywiped, but otherwise she was in perfect condition. I moved the roadkill pheasant and rabbit aside and gently laid her giant corpse in trunk of the car, stopping to caress the depth of her winter coat. (Three usable roadkill animals in one day and one of them's a motherfucking badger? That's a crazy hella successful roadkill haul, even if she did unceremoniously fart in my fucking face as I loaded her into the car.)

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Before I could make my third offering - literally, just around the road's bend from the badger - I caught the battered remains of a deer in a ditch. So Italics, for the fourth time, had to patiently wait in the driveway of someone's house as I assessed the new animal. The buck (#9!) was too old, too broken and too gutted (his stomach had been hollowed out, but was filled with bloodied water) to be carted home, so I dragged his mangled-shattered-eaten remains far from the side of the road to give me - and fellow scavengers - a safe place to do our business. Despite being somewhat bruised his head seemed otherwise undamaged, so I decapitated him, took his head, released his spirit back into the wild and left the rest of his body tucked under some budding gorse for Nature.

I just barely pulled out of that motherfucking driveway when my eyes caught the all-too-familiar tuft of yellowed belly hair. Another badger, within seeing distance of the other roadkill badger and deer. Perfect. Amazing. Soul-crushingly teddy bear cute. And when I lifted it up into my arms, spying his little package, my heart almost broke. We found a male and female badger within less of a 1/4 of a mile of one another; it's very likely they were a mated pair.

On one hand you think "well, fuck, at least they're together, you know?", but on the other hand you think "fuck, what must've it been like to experience your mate for life get killed? and then to be killed the same way as you stumbled around confused and grieving?" and that second thought still causes everything in my chest to ache. So it was a little downbeat in the car as we inched closer to home, because finds like that really make you appreciate the serious prices that need to be paid for a "crazy hella successful roadkill haul" and that an animal's death doesn't just impact that specific animal, it potentially spells disaster, death and loneliness for offspring and mates as well.

Within a few miles of offering #3 (we've found two deer and one badger in that spot; I'm going to do my goddamn hardest to get some sort of animal crossing sign put up at that deadly bend to see if I can lower the wildlife body count) I caught the bristly hair of another deer (#10!). For a second I thought I hallucinated the crumpled body because, fuck, who finds 6 motherfucking usable roadkill animals within a 15 mile radius of their fucking house in one fucking drive?

#10 remained a questionable hallucination for about a half an hour; with no more room in the trunk (2 badgers, 1 pheasant, 1 rabbit and 1 decapitated deer head) we had to make a quick pit stop at home to unload our haul just in case the phantom deer turned out to be a reality (a tangible reality that was complete enough to take the entire body).

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Plum offering #4 was made on our way home, and then plum offering #5 was made on our way back to the maybe-for-real-but-who-knows? roadkill deer. She - #10 - was a rare fucking find; a treasure. Only 3 of the 10 deer I've found have been female, most of my herd's made up of young males. While Italics became acquainted with another driveway (just so I'm not giving the wrong impression: Italics is crazy active and helps me with most of my physical work, but yesterday his bad back was acting up so I benched his ass) I got out to inspect the very real deer.

Her state was near identical to #9's, which we found less than 10 minutes away. My guess is that both had been dead between 2-4 days; long enough for the eyes to turn milky white, to give scavengers a chance to empty the abdomen (but not make a huge dent in any other area of the body) and to be a little too far gone to take home and process in our little Scottish kitchen. (My mother-in-law? Just LOVES sharing her white kitchen with my roadkill.)

Her head, like most hit'n'run deer, felt solidly intact, so I dragged her partially eaten remains up a hill - jamming my fucking wrist against the ground when we both started sliding down the steep dirt mound - where I performed my decapitation/release ritual away from speeding cars and prying eyes. (Cause, like, the last thing people want to see is my fat fucking ass hanging out of my fucking jeans while beheading a dead animal at the side of the fucking road.)

A secondary surprise came in the form of detached wings, which I found on the way back to the car. Not even full, proper wings, but the very tips made up of a handful of bashed feathers on either side. But it was only the tips, plus a few nature-cleaned bones still attached to the structures, that I found. With no other feathers or scattered remains it seemed like something had carried those remnants from the original site of death. From the looks of them, they came from a rather large bird. (I have my suspicions, but I haven't had a chance to actually ID them yet.)

No offense to the trunk full of dead animals we were carting around, but fuck were we shattered after finding #10 and the tattered wings. That particular roadkill route usually takes me about 30-40 minutes to perform. Yesterday? It took three fucking hours. You would not fucking believe how thankful we were when it became clear that the roadkill slot machine was finally empty.

The last deer offering (#6) was made on the way home, and shortly after - just down the road where I pick the majority of my fly agarics/toadstools - a seventh offering was made (a large pear), because, as we all know, "7" is way, way more magic than "6". And it wasn't until later that night I realized that I had arbitrarily chosen March 7th to make my 7 offerings, which, in turn, rewarded me with 7 animals. 7 usable roadkill animals in one day? That's not just a crazy hella successful roadkill haul, that's a seriously magic roadkill haul from a Universe that evidently doesn't hold grudges.

PS: I realize that the entire roadkill thing is a niche interest, and that not every visitor to Graveyard Dirt is going to understand or accept my practices. That's cool, I totally get that. But if you ARE interested in learning about how I incorporate roadkill into my feral version of witchcraft (what I do, why I do it, etc.) two good places to start are my roadkill Flickr set and my Asphalt & Entrails journal category. Happy scavenging!

Wild, Full and Fertile

Three days before celibacy I'm sprinting barefoot across the recently swept March-cold patio, past the just-planted tobacco, the sleeping fruit trees and crowning foxgloves, past stainless steel offering bowls, buried remnants of roadkill animals and Stone Cock's vacant throne. Naked and flushed from sex I run from the comfortable heat of the house into the cold of the night; wild, full and fertile holding-gripping-cupping the precious fluids trickling warmly out of my well-loved cunt to bless and consecrate the King's divine seed lovingly sowed over the shrouded remains of a long dead crow.

Being Tolerated

There's a bunch of website bullshit running through my head (big changes, big overhauls, big updates - but more on that later), and combined with my occasional diversions streak my brain hasn't felt securely bolted to my skull in fucking weeks. The invisible behind-the-scenes work for Graveyard Dirt is mostly occupying my mental facilities, but I thought I'd try and push through a quick entry to keep the content kind've sort've fresh round these parts.

But, fuck, where do I start? I've got to go back farther than dead deer, August 27th and 2010. Maybe as far back as December, 1997 when my 17-year-old gothed out ass crossed the metallic threshold of the airplane onto Scottish ground for the very first time. (Slightly buzzed, I should add, because the British Airways stewardess couldn't give me pain medication for my menstrual camps, but she COULD give me mini-bottles of white wine. And in those days - before my period symptoms drastically changed - I would've taken anything an adult gave me for fucking pain.)

Yeah, 12/1997 is a good start, because that was my first introduction to Scotland. Granted, the time spent was only two weeks (Christmas vacation; it was the first and last year I had a motherfucking Yuletide turkey), but it eventually lead to frequent trips, long stays, and inevitably settling in Italics' home after five long motherfucking years of international traveling. (My ass has been haunting Scottish soil since 1997, but it wasn't until 2001 (when Italics and I had a shotgun immigration wedding) that I became a permanent fixture in this country.)

2009 is-was-is another important year, because that was the year I finally managed to ram my foot in the doorway of independence. After petitioning for nearly 13 motherfucking years Italics' parents - my in-laws - finally buckled and exchanged one of their two cars for a car I could actually fucking drive. My new found freedom coincided with Harvest Moon, and I celebrated the event with an impromptu joyride that took us on a small rural circuit that looped around the local landscape as the Manhunter full moon rose in the distance.

I hit the ground running in 2010 and I never looked back. As the hours of light extended I spent time exploring every little country lane within a 15 mile radius of our home. I got to intimately know the landscape we live in, and I carefully learned the rhythm of the natural world surrounding us. Within months I knew the semi-local countryside better than my in-laws. I knew the forgotten bends and secret stretches, and I knew the distinct personalities that imbued those meadows, thickets, stone walls, hedges and forests.

By late August, 2010 the miniature outside freezer was already packed with roadkill animals. My introduction to what eventually evolved into my roadkill duties first reared its head around early Harvest of 2008 (when we stumbled across the near perfect remains of a wild rabbit on our way to steal some potatoes), and within a year the freezer that once stocked frozen pizzas was stuffed to the brim with rabbits, crows, foxes and even a badger, but nothing remotely deer-related.

That's the thing, though. Deer were curiously scare around these parts until about a year ago. In all of my trips, outings, visits and explorations in those 13 years of confinement (sponsored by my in-laws who'd drive us, park and then sit and fucking read - or sleep - while I had my one or two hours of "freedom" in the wilderness) we never came across a body or even the remains of a deer. They were invisible woodland entities that I knew existed, but they seemed to live without a trace.

I mean, it took me something like ten fucking years before I saw my first deer in the wild. And that? Totally blows my rural Midwest mind because white-fucking-tailed deer were everywhere growing up. Those motherfuckers were so fucking blasé about man and the modern world that you could catch a small fucking herd just grazing within miles of O'Hare airport. My USA association with deer wasn't just rural, they boldly encroached on urban settings and barely gave you a second glance as you whizzed by in your car.

I'd almost go as far as saying that American white-tailed deer were weirdly domesticated in the sense that they just don't give a fuck about humans. ("People? Fuck those motherfuckers." <- How very Ms. Dirty of them.) Their Scottish counterparts, though, are considerably less brazen. They're fleeting, feral mirages that appear and disappear in the transient gloam of twilight, and the first misty vestiges of a dusty pink dawn. The deer I know and now live with are wary of humans, cars and the modern world; they still retain their bestial innocence and untamed wildness.

My relationship with the deer of Scotland evolved as my personal flavor of witchcraft evolved. The deeper I crawled into the earthy rabbit hole the more relaxed nature seemed around me. I'm not talking miraculous Dr. Doolittle shit where overly friendly wildlife swarmed me with affection and song the second I stepped into the wild, but the more I worked with roadkill - and the more familiar I became with the heart and soul of my slice of countryside - the more nature opened up to me.

I was gradually made privy to an entirely different way of life, and even though my presence was a disturbance it was no longer taken as an immediate threat; foxes sat and waited for me in meadows, and deer - unimpressed with me and my car - would look me over once before totally dismissing me by returning to eat unalarmed. It was like nature didn't have to hold its breath when my ass was around; even if I wasn't accepted, I was being tolerated and that was more miraculous than sewing mice and duet singing bluebirds.

Lunch & a Funeral

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#7 - Italics' little cheeky devil - enjoyed a fresh basil, Chinese cabbage and romaine lettuce heart open faced sandwich on a slice of multi-grain brown bread (served with a generous trickle of my toadstool oil), and a bowl of fresh water before we embarked on our six hour funeral rite.

Blood, Bone & Water

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Valentine's Day Funeral

I know I've mentioned it before, but there's this curious phenomenon I experience after a long period of nocturnal-related absence from my roadkill duties: on the first day out I'm always given some sort of gift. In winter it's usually a pheasant, in summer it's usually a rabbit but on February 13th we stumbled across the broken body of a young roe buck at Dead Animal's Curve (so far we've found one adult badger (Under the Bed Badger) and two adult deer (#6 and now #8) on the bend; like the oldie song goes "it's no place to play") bringing my roadkill deer total up to 8.

By the look'n'smell of him I could tell that he'd been at the side of the road for a few days. Thankfully the cold snap we've been experiencing helped preserve his body, so the scent was more "old meat getting more old" than "rotting, bloated corpse". Unlike #7 who had a cheeky little glint in his beady eyes (he's a mischievous little fucker; trust me) #8's corneas were glazed over-milky, and they had already begun the process of retreating back into the skull.

Scavengers had obviously not wasted any time tucking into the free, nourishing meal. (In fact, an entire flock of crows took the air as I approached the deer's body, ferociously cawing down at my ass from naked beech trees for disturbing their Sunday brunch.) A huge patch of fur and flesh had been stripped from #8's body leaving a section of his ribs exposed. Something had also perforated the deer's abdomen revealing a couple of strands of puffed up intestine. Needless to say, this particular buck wasn't in any condition to take home. So I took the one body part I could "save": his head.

After apologizing on the behalf of the human race for what happened (you're welcome, human race, and if you're going to send me a box of chocolates as a thank you I totally prefer "dark"), and asking the Old Woman (the Cailleach) for strength and speed I furiously began cutting through inches of fur, skin, fat, muscle and bone (winter coats are a motherfucking bitch to work through) with my dinky little hacksaw. (Because, like, that's totally what people want to see on their late Sunday morning drive in the country: a woman with her fat ass hanging out of her pants while decapitating a roadkill deer.)

Once the connection was completely severed I bagged the head, slapped the buck on its ass to encourage his spirit to take off (I release animals back into the wild instantly, but they do occasionally get rounded up - herded by Chippy in the case of my spectral deer - to be fed and watered) and dragged the decapitated body deeper into the beech hedge to give scavengers a safer place to consume the deer's remains. (I mean, the spot's been nicknamed "Dead Animal's Curve" for a reason.)

Because it was so late in our "day" (we're still rocking weird, nocturnal hours but we're slowly inching to a more normal sleep pattern) I left #8's head in the garage overnight so I could perform a proper funeral the day after (Valentine's Day) without feeling rushed by my early afternoon bedtime. The pictures below are of that funeral ritual, which, by this point - if you've been following Graveyard Dirt for a bit - should probably look sort've familiar. (Why mess with a formula that works?)

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Normally I hold wakes outside on my roadkill altar, but that's only if I'm physically in the backyard keeping an eye on the dead animal (or dead animal part). Despite living in a rural subdivision our property's a hotspot for wildlife activity (everything from hedgehogs, badgers, foxes and deer), and it's forever being patrolled by every goddamn cat that lives in a five mile radius. So it goes without saying, if I'm not able to keep a hawk's eye on the funeral (and the bodily contents that make up the funeral) then the shit comes into the house - no matter how god-fucking-awful the scent is.

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Dying is an exhausting process, so to help my roadkill animals overcome the disorientating sluggishness of death I always juice them up with offerings of incense, fresh water and a freshly prepared sandwich. I have yet to explain it (I'm several years behind on stories), but I have a magic little deer bell I ring to alert my spectral herd that it's feeding time. (The process of them associating the sound with a free meal took 21 fucking days and was a huge pain in the motherfucking ass.)

#8's open face sandwich was made up of organic little gem lettuce and fresh dill on a slice of gluten-free white bread served with a generous drizzle of my "uniquely special" psychoactive toadstool (fly agaric) oil. (<- Reindeer aren't the only deer that enjoy the buzz from consuming the hallucinogenic mushroom, although they're probably the most well known for the behavior.)

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The damage sustained to #8's antlers. Even though you can't tell, the one that looks intact - the one on the left - was actually loose and slightly floppy. I've "rescued" four bucks since starting my roadkill duties, but only one - the first deer I ever found - came with a pair of antlers that didn't suffer major trauma.

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Roe deer - what this young buck is-was-is - was the original Bambi. Walt Disney swapped roe for white-tailed deer because the species was more familiar to American audiences.

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Tiny, adorable antler nubs. When I eventually rot #8 down to retrieve the skull I'll try my best to retrieve any broken or shattered parts of the antler so the person who ends up buying the head will also receive the fragmented bits which they can add to a mojo bag, place on an altar or carry around in a pocket or purse.

Year of the Rabbit

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2010 was one helluva fucking year in this house. And even though I was sorely out of practice, I rode that motherfucking wave fearlessly. Granted, my legs might've buckled a few times, but they never gave away and I shakily coasted the roaring monster without wiping out once. After such a tre-fucking-mendous ride I figured 2011 would be more laid back, since, you know, the first time around always seems to be crazy-intense-fast.

That sense of respite was spectacularly obliterated when I realized what animal was slated for the new effing (Chinese) year. Standing victoriously at my figurative beach with my 2010 board in hand I watched in abject horror as an Old Testament tsunami of fluffy tails and floppy ears thundered towards me, and as the towering avalanche of SEX'N'DEATH advanced and grew I could only sum up my gut reaction in two words: "fuck" and "me".

(Year of the motherfucking Rabbit. Holy fucking shit. I'd ask for God's help, but he sent the Leporidae plague in the first place so the joke's on my fucking ass while he sits back with a case of fucking beer.)

Since Bride's Day - the eve of the Chinese New Year - I've stayed deathly silent on that non-existent beach, and like an ostrich with it's fucking head buried in the sand I've been standing completely still with eyes firmly covered by both hands as diabolical rabbits hop around my feet. I don't even need to apprehensively peep through the cracks of my fingers to know what's going on - I can feel it, I can hear it. "ONE OF US," they say, again and fucking again, "ONE OF US."

It's true, I'm a Rabbit. Well, technically, I'm a monkey (both Italics and I are since we were both born in 1980), but the first time I went Underground I was informed, all no uncertain terms-like, that my motherfucking ass was a rabbit (amongst other things). And while I might not get - and totally, totally resist - the other animals/concepts that supposedly define me and what I'm doing, I feel like I understand (or at least MOSTLY understand) the entire rabbit thang.

But, fuck, rabbits. They're a hot fucking mess, you know? They're a boon and a disaster, a blessing and motherfucking curse. Singularly they're innocent and easy to control, but once they start multiplying you're totally fucked, son. Unchecked they can ravish and lay land to waste (that's a sort've running theme in a lot of my "special" animals) and that's when the death part comes in - for both the animals and the ecological system they're potentially destroying.

With no real predators left here in Scotland they had to use biological warfare to eradicate overpopulation problems, and the end result - myxomatosis - was grisly, and, ironically, hard to contain and control. To this fucking day the disease still resurfaces and PSAs aren't uncommon to warn pet owners of the resurgence of the contagious virus. I have yet to encounter a wild rabbit - either dead or living - infected by myxomatosis, but for Italics and his brother it was a common sight when playing in the countryside as kids.

But it ain't all about death and disease; that's just one side of the coin. You flip that motherfucker and renewal, regeneration, reincarnation and rebirth's waiting for you. I mean, if you're dying that fucking easy - and, dude, trust me, rabbits are always fucking dying somehow, that's 1/2 of their cosmic job - then it goes without saying that the waiting line for rebirth is going to be hella fucking short. If you think about it, even sex is followed by la petite mort ("the little death").

So, to help me embrace the inevitable (and there are so many fucking inevitables when working with/being an effing rabbit), I decided to honor and welcome the Old Testament tsunami of fluffy tails and floppy ears on the Chinese New Year by creating a rabbit-themed altar on top of my sparse Bride's Day altar. (Building a sacred space over a previously sacred space? How old world Christian of me!)

And then like a good little rabbit I fucked Italics in front of the altar to ensure that they completely, totally, for really real understood that in this motherfucking house there'd be more fucking than dying during their 2011 reign. (Do as I say, but also do as I fucking do. In this case, literally.)

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Good fucking Lord, where the fuck do I begin?

Let's start with Pot Bunny, the plush toy rabbit who lives in the ceramic vessel it's perched on. (If you've been reading Graveyard Dirt for some time, you might already be familiar with P.B. - it was the terminally wounded rabbit we found last summer. I knew a special rabbit would come to me to breathe life into P.B., but I never expected it'd be (mostly) alive and that I'd have to personally euthanize it to get the ball rolling.) Pot Bunny's my messenger-in-training, but I haven't had a chance to really start working with it yet.

Next to Pot Bunny is my rabbit flower pot, which I filled with organic lettuce and fresh basil as a food offering to the rabbits. Squat next to the two ceramic vessels is Chooch, who, okay, isn't really a rabbit (she was one of our pet rats - our last pet rat - who died just before Halloween), but goddamn if the garden ornament's chubby little cheeky face wasn't reminiscent of a chuffed Choney. (Chooch's effigy is a rabbit, while Shakey Bear turned into a surprised looking armadillo and Wuzza became a sour-faced, mischievous weasel.)

The glass of water, empty vase, glass of sparkling cider and cutlery are all parts of my Bride's Day altar, but the illuminated plate held more offerings to the rabbits. In addition to the fresh lettuce and basil I also left out miniature carrots I pulled up from my roadkill graveyard (I grow vegetables and herbs over the bodies of buried animals to make sure they're always well fed), a small container of water and several handfuls of dried tormentil root (a type of cinquefoil).

(The tormentil thing is a huge story I haven't tackled yet, but the gist of it is: when I contracted a disease from a raptor-killed rabbit the fucking thing actually had motherfucking medicine in its mouth that would've combated the gastric/intestinal symptoms I experienced. Unfortunately, I was so goddamn sick - for an entire fucking month! - that I didn't have the energy to identify the strange yellow flower still tucked in its mouth until AFTER the illness ran its course. And then? And then I felt like a complete and utter retard. <- Initiation is a bitch, but I defined what was - and wasn't - acceptable, and now I've got to live with the decision.)

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My beloved little pot-bellied chiminea, the tiny ceramic bird, the pewter chalices and the small, decorative platter they're sitting on are all part of my Bride's Day altar. Everything else, though, is year of the motherfucking rabbit related.

Because rabbits are such a big fucking deal in this house I snatched up five plastic garden ornaments years ago and spray painted them black (in honor of the Black Rabbit), and we've been using them in various altars and rituals since. To keep them in line - control and contain, baby! - I selected a head honcho rabbit, and it got a second coat of spray paint which gave its ass (and other assorted body parts) a golden sheen. It was then adorned with my Santa Muerte pendant, and a skull prayer bead mala made from carved bone.

The two stacked boxes contain all of my plant seeds, which probably SEEMS counterproductive to bless on a fucking rabbit altar but death and disease goes hand in hand with life and prosperity so, really, asking the rabbits to impart some of their divine powers to all that I grow and nurture isn't totally out there. Sitting on top of those seeds is one of my many rabbit skulls (this one in particular was found behind the boarded up disturbed children's home and orphanage), and protectively guarding the lot is one of last year's chocolate Easter rabbits who was shortly after melted down and transformed into a chilli-chocolate-espresso-roasted almond cake bribe to ensure the team we bet on won the Superbowl.

(They did. In fact, they won within 6 points - something Italics predicted and bet on as well - which resulted in even more money. <- Papa? Hates to lose, and a homemade cake with a generous serving of cheerleader-flavored Superbowl sofa sex only sweetened the deal.)

Me and #7

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If I still smell like wet ass deer fur, this is probably why.

Before & After

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I still have a bannock to bake, a bed and altar to create for Bride, and one roadkill deer to skin and butcher, so this "before'n'after" entry's going to be hella short. (I was expecting to bake and create today, but I so wasn't anticipating working with any sort of roadkill beside Beech Hedgerow Crow. <- Whose macerating water, by the way, smelled like nasty ass morning breath today. Just incase you were wondering.)

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After several post-flu infused days of cleaning for the Bride, my work was finally done late yesterday night. Now all I have to do is create a bed for Her on the couch, put together an altar for Her (and Spring) on the tiled coffee table and somehow break it to my mother-in-law that in my inscrutable wisdom I've decided to skin and butcher the roadkill deer on the motherfucking kitchen floor.

#7; Italics' Ultrasound Deer

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...like I totally didn't have enough to do in the next 48 hours.

Cleaning for the Bride

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Holy shit, whoa, we aren't actually inching nearer the winter-spring threshold, are we? A part of me can't fucking believe that it's that time again, yet I found my sick fucking ass in the backroom yesterday engaged in the yearly tradition of cleaning up for the Bride. (I made a dent. Sort've. I don't have any "after" pictures yet, but I promise you that it'll look like I achieved a lot fucking more once I move the exercise bike and Rock Band drum kit out've the room.)

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Everywhere you fucking turned there was a project-in-progress to be found.

In this photo I'm macerating two organic, free-range chicken wishbones for a couple of Junkyard Amulets, and drying off a few pieces of Beech Hedgerow Crow (the two shriveled, jerky looking bits are his breast meat, and the feathered boa is actually his skin and feathers which I washed, dried and preserved in one piece). Just beneath the wooden table - to the right of the picture - you can see part of a cardboard box that, until last night, contained a pheasant's head buried in a mixture of cornmeal, salt and rosemary.

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Here's Beech Hedgerow Crow macerating in one of my old cooking pots set within my bean nighe bowl. (The seaweed fridge block and cheesecloth rubberbanded across the top of the pot help keep the smell down while bacteria does its thang.)

To its left is one of my homegrown dragon's blood trees (well, "plant", anyway - I think my friend Carolina said they need about 15 years before you can harvest any resin from them), and in front of it is B.H.C.'s offerings of food (coarsely ground local oatmeal, popcorn and wheat I personally grew) and water. To its right is my Victorian (I think?) fox trivet, and sitting on top of it is a miniature enamel casserole pot that I use for incense burning.

Before the flu snatched away my health I made a point of spending time with B.H.C. every other day by burning incense (yesterday I burned kyphi for both him and Egypt), speaking to it, playing records (by this point there's no way it WON'T respond to classic Neil Diamond) and generally living my life around it to help it become accustomed to the daily noises and actions of human beings. (What, you think all it takes to create a spectral companion is finding a dead animal? I'm afraid it's not that simple when dealing with undomesticated wildlife.)

Even though it doesn't have anything to do with B.H.C., I should probably mention the preserved sycamore leaf buds in the butterscotch-colored ceramic dish. Last spring - before they sprung open - I harvested a small basket of buds and covered the motherfuckers in organic grapeseed oil. Just a few days ago I finally strained the two jars of oil, and the physical remains were then added to our ritual bonfire trash can for this year's Lent fire. (<- To make ashes for Ash Wednesday. Yeah, I'm on the verge of getting all Russian Orthodox Catholic on your asses again.)

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It's not even fucking February, and I've already busted out one of my wooden foraging baskets. Just before I got sick I went into the country to leave a major offering to my fellow scavengers, but the usual place where I piss and leave food (so my scent's associated with a free meal) was blocked off. I parked elsewhere, and trampled out to a lone rowan tree growing between a wheat field and the gradual opening of a boggy woodland.

The tree's significant because that's where I laid 1/2 of #4's (the lactating doe) remains. Last year I totally wasn't expecting the good (bad?) fortune of working with roadkill deer, so I had to make some hefty sacrifices. Because we live in a small house in a subdivision I had no fucking room to bury the bodies of six fucking deer, so I took what was most important - the head, and, in one case, the entire skin - and then hauled the bodily remains to various forests and woodlands to give back to nature what I didn't have room to work with.

When I went back 5 months later she was still there, but in scattered pieces. As Italics waited in the car with the flu I plucked bones from the frozen ground and filled my basket for the first time this year, happy to see how much of #4 was coming back home with me.

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What became of last year's didukhy (decorated wheat bundle) when this year's didukhy was made. The straw was scattered beneath our Sviata Vechera table, and all of the heads - containing the untreated wheat kernels - carefully sealed in a bag until spring planting. (I'm, uh, working on getting something a little more ceremonial than a Ziploc bag. These things take time, okay?)

Beneath the bag'o'wheat are my Midwinter greens, which LOL, weren't actually harvested on Midwinter for Midwinter celebrations (aka Sviata Vechera) because there was too much goddamn snow. This is all the evergreen that graced my 2010 altar (cedar, ivy and yew), dried and ready to be bottled up for 2011 uses. (Anything brought in from outside to decorate any altar is normally dried and stored for future witchcrafting since it carries with it an essence of season and purpose.)

PS: The rubber handle of the plastic basin? Chewed to fucking bits by some very bad, very rubber-crazed rats. (Shakey Bear was eventually redubbed "Rubber Robber" and held the title for several long weeks before succumbing to mammary tumor complications. RIP, our little rubber robbing bear.)

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After I gave thanks and purified the two roadkill pheasants we recently found I spent an afternoon ritually breaking down the birds into usable parts. I literally skinned the hen and kept her in (mostly) one piece, but I clipped the tail feathers and wings off Jan. 14th Pheasant because he was a motherfucking beauty.

While she dries au naturale for crafting purposes (everything's in tact - all her feathers, feet, wings and head), I carefully pinned the cock's tail feathers and wings to cardboard to dry in a spread position. We braised his body in red wine, herbs and wild mushrooms and after three hours in a low oven he became our first homemade post-flu meal after four days of serious discomfort. The rest of him - feet, head, skin and body feathers - is sitting in the freezer, waiting for a final decision.

To the left of the wings you can make out Sviata Vechera's kolach peeking from beneath the table. In a day or two - once our strength properly returns - our asses will be pilgrimaging their way to the local graveyard to leave Midwinter offerings for the dead. (In other words: racing against fucking time to get all of the winter shit taken care of by the first day of spring, no matter how seasonal (or unseasonal) it may look like.)

Scotland Sunset

Another Scotland sunset...

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2010's Harvest Meals

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January 14's roadkill pheasant find (and what a fucking find!) reminded my ass that I never got around to writing a formal entry about our special Harvest meals of 2010. (Food, if it already isn't obvious, is my favorite sort've daily magic.)

The majority of my fall-winter/winter-spring celebrations and holy days have a menu set in stone. (We'll always have Brunswick stew and bread on Halloween, either gumbo or a glazed ham for Fet Ghede, turkey on Thanksgiving, Ukrainian shit on Sviata Vechera, goose for Christmas and homebrined corn beef for Bride's Day.) It's the complete fucking opposite for spring-summer holidays, though, and our Harvest meals - neither summer or winter - fall somewhere between those two opposing camps.

I can't permanently chisel a course into my yearly menu because I never know what the land's going to offer throughout the warm months leading up to Harvest. Our celebratory autumn meals focus on what we've grown, gathered, foraged, picked and butchered, so it's very much dependent on my relationship with the local land that year. (The more time I spend outdoors working in the wild, the more opportunities I get to find mushrooms, berries, fruit, roadkill and edible plants'n'herbs.)

2010 was a bumper fucking Harvest thanks to finally having a car. Up until last year nothing was accessible to me; everything was just one or two or three miles away too far to walk. (The trio of standing stones I recently mentioned? A five to seven minute drive from the house, but to pilgrimage to that shit on foot? Nearly two fucking hours.) Last year I finally had the ability to really get to know the land I'm living on, and it seemed to reciprocate my excitement by ensuring I never came home with an empty basket.

In fact, on Harvest Moon (which fell on the autumnal equinox last year) I actually found one of our meals: a roadkill pheasant hen. After performing a funeral, and ritually butchering the wild bird I plastered homegrown bay leaves to the breasts, wrapped the carcass with strips of fatty pancetta and roasted her over Scottish grown root vegetables (it's very important to me to use as many local ingredients as possible).

Once she was cooked I added the contents of the roasting pan into my soup pot and made stock from the pheasant and vegetables, and once THAT was cooked I strained the stock, shredded every bit of meat, cleaned off the bones (a gift for a friend) and offered the remains - the vegetables, with some token pieces of meat - to the wildlife that visits our back garden. (If I take a meal from my scavenger brethren I make sure I compensate them somehow, which is why we have foxes and a variety of corvids reeking havoc in the back fucking yard.)

We made a risotto out of her lovingly prepared body (along with homegrown garlic, homegrown herbs and wild mushrooms - porcini, the queen of feral fungi! - we had picked and dried ourselves), and it was the best goddamn risotto we've ever fucking eaten. (Seriously. We're STILL talking about it several months later.) My in-laws wouldn't touch it, though, so a small portion ended up rotting in the fridge because neither of them had the balls to tell me that they were apprehensive about eating "wild food" even though they watched both Italics and I enjoy the meal without so much as a burp of fucking indigestion.

Our second major Harvest meal involved another roadkill pheasant, although Mr. Two Cocks was actually a January find. Because he was so beautifully large (and fatty since he was killed during winter) my hoarding instinct kicked in and I ended up stashing him in the freezer for "something special". I sat on his vacuum sealed pheasant ass for 8 to 9 fucking months before I finally decided that I was giving the Universe the wrong fucking signal.

(Surely the best way to get MORE of what you want is by actually using and appreciating what you were given, right? So far, so good. Since deciding to use him back in fall we've stumbled across 10+ roadkill pheasants, 3 of which were fit for human consumption (4, actually, but I lost one due to being sick, so I buried his body in my little roadkill cemetery to retrieve his bones at a later date). While I'm planning on freezing one of the two currently hanging in the garage, the other one is destined for an imminent casserole grave.)

So, during the peak of the Harvest season I finally defrosted Mr. Two Cocks, and both Italics and I paused for a minute to give thanks for all we were blessed with before making a meal out of herbs from my container garden, garlic that I grew in the dirt yard, wild mushrooms picked by Italics and I, locally grown, organic vegetables and one roadkill pheasant we found on a windy fucking day in late January. (I have a horrible fucking stoner memory, but one thing I don't fucking forget? Where I pick up my roadkill animals.)

It was a dinner so fucking perfect - so fucking delicious; everything tasted ~MAGIC~ and all of the flavors (from the sweetness of the swede to the nutty crunchiness of the skirlie) melted together perfectly - that I actually began crying while eating, and I had to take a minute to compose my damn ass in order to continue. (It wasn't just me! Italics said, without any emotional blackmail or manipulative prodding, that it was one of the best effing meals he had eaten in a long time.)

Maybe I'm just being sentimental (because I love this land, Italics and our endless adventures), but it was a gratifying experience to be able to sit down to a meal that I found, I cleaned and I prepared. Sure, the lemons and balsamic vinegar weren't local, but what really counted - the backbone of each dish - I discovered myself. That dinner happened because I dug my fingers deep into the earth to pull out bulbs and mushrooms, because I stopped my car to lift the dead body of an animal off asphalt, because I allowed myself to be covered in dirt, blood, feathers and death. As a being who lives on consuming, it was the most profound, most personal experience of communion I ever had the honor of participating in.

Pictured above: red wine-braised roadkill pheasant casserole with porcini, herbs and balsamic vinegar, porcini & white wine gluten-free bread stuffing, boiled swede topped with toasted gluten-free breadcrumbs, skirlie; a traditional Scottish dish of broken oatcakes fried in fat, and lemon & rosemary roast potatoes.

Pheasants of Love

What? You didn't know Kate Bush's Hounds of Love album and ritual butchery go hand in hand? Well, you do now.

Today, We Didn't

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Yesterday we came home empty-handed. Today, we didn’t.

Beech Hedgerow Crow

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"Do you wanna park?" I asked Italics as we loaded the car with our grocery shopping. It was just after 10PM in early July, which meant the natural lighting had dimmed, but it wouldn't truly be dark for another hour or so.

(We live far enough north to experience dawn breaking around 2:30AM during summer; night doesn't properly fall until around midnight, and even then - especially around Midsummer - there's this luminous blue ribbon that hugs the tiny space between the horizon and sky that doesn't disappear during the 2-3 hours of darkness.)

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So I drove to the small country lane that begins with crossroads and ends in a 3-way junction, where my wild roses grow, where I ritually reap wheat, where we pick up roadkill pheasant for dinner, wave to the familiar cattle, get followed by the local raptors and occasionally pilgrimage over to the trio of standing stones that've seen countless generations live, die and work the sacred land that the ancient stone monuments inhabit.

We pulled into the beginning of a blocked off, feral road (nature's reclaimed the unused stretch of asphalt, and now it's covered with grass and wild flowers providing the local rabbits a lush playing field) and parked, but hot'n'heavy car action didn't come into play because I was dying for a piss. (I'm a woman of many curses, one of them being the inexplicable need to fucking urinate the second I'm in the fucking country.)

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In that dimming July night we broke through the tricky hedge separating open country and forest, and spilled into the twilight hushed woods. Silent and eerie we maneuvered around pockets of pooled water, broken pine boughs and the dilapidated remains of a pheasant coup as we explored new, uncharted territory.

(One of the reasons why I find so many goddamn pheasants is because we live a few miles off an estate that provides hunting, so the gamekeepers artificially inflate the number of birds by introducing human-reared pheasants into the wild.)

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And then we did what we always do when it's just us and nature: we fucked. This time against a tree as I simultaneously tried to keep the position (the second I lost the perfect angle his cock would pop out) AND not slip off the two different dirt mounds I was standing on. We both laughed, we both climaxed and we both ended up having to pick bits of broken bark from our hair once we finished our amorous encounter.

As I scooped the combined sexual fluids trickling out of my cunt to offer it to the ground - to the woods, nature and earth - we found the remains of a solitary wild rabbit skull, perfectly cleaned and white washed by the elements. (Which is usually standard for us. For whatever reason the wild likes to repay favors, and it repays them pretty fucking quickly. The year before we ended up having ritual sex in another pine forest, and as we left a hunter gave me seven shot rabbits for free.)

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We did manage to park despite our unintended foray in the woods, and we sat - side by side - in the front of the car passing a bottle of chocolate milk back and forth while I enjoyed a reduced-to-clear apple turnover. (<- Post-sex munchies!) And when it was time to leave, we came home via the tiny, old village that we often walk to in order to visit the local graveyard (and abandoned wall garden, the ruins of an antique chapel, the beech hedgerow, the field where I first ritually reaped wheat several years ago and the disturbed children's home and orphanage).

Even though it was much darker than when we originally set out "to park" I instantly identified the black anomaly resting against the low stone wall separating the beech hedgerow from the road: a youngish carrion crow. I quickly pulled into a partially barred field opening leaving Italics (and the running car) to quickly jog down the length of the stone wall to pick up the roadkill bird to take home.

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(Corvids nest in that particular hedgerow, but I'm not sure of the actual type. The bird I picked up was definitely a carrion crow - it's kind've easy to misidentify/mix up juvenile rooks and crows because rooks don't develop their garish, gray-colored beaks until adulthood - due to the beak beard it sported. (<- Carrion crows, regardless of age, will always have a smattering of bristly feathers growing along the top of the beak.) I can't say for certain that this crow lived in those beeches, but it was a lot smaller than the other crows I handled later in the year so the assumption that it was a youngin' from that group of nests isn't exactly unfeasible.)

Once home I promptly ignored all the fucking groceries that needed to be unpacked and sat my ass down on the kitchen floor to release and ritually deconstruct the dead crow. First the two sets of gravel-crusted wings were clipped from the body, then its tail feathers (they're still attached to a dried bit of skin so instead of being reduced to loose feathers they form a tiny fan), and once the major appendages had been removed I carefully skinned the bird's head with a model craft scalpel to save the feathered hood to dry.

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Having never actually seen the internal anatomy of a crow - or any wild bird, for that matter - I gently opened Beech Hedgerow Crow to take a respectful peek inside, although its small body sustained massive trauma which reduced the majority of the internal organs to a pulpy mess.

(When you get hold of a larger roadkill animal it's always obvious where it got hit. Internally, I mean. The smaller the animal, the more damage it takes throughout its whole body, so instead of having one isolated area that's bruised and battered the entire fucking body can get beaten up and liquefied.)

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The youngin's clipped feathers and hood were pinned against cardboard, salted and dried. I bagged the more perishable remains - the body, feet and head - and immediately froze them, leaving the eyes and tongue in tact for later extraction. (Waste not, want not.)

And in the outside freezer Beech Hedgerow Crow still sits with the other corvids, waiting for the day when a witch comes along and knows in his/her heart'o'hearts that this lovingly prepared roadkill crow was meant to come home to them.

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Just incase this entry grabbed your interest:

I'm selling both the wild rabbit skull and all of Beech Hedgerow Crow's parts. Currently both of its wings, its tail feathers and hood are dried and ready to be shipped, although they do require a little TLC to remove gravely bits. The skull, bones, few internal organs and feet aren't ready, though, so they require some processing time before they can be mailed. (I know, I know, I hate waiting too, but at least the tradeoff is knowing I'll be working on those parts especially for you.)

I have video footage of me ritually cleansing the wings and feathers that I need to post (not to mention an entire fucking folder of still photos), but if you already feel strongly about any part of this carrion crow (or the rabbit skull) you're more than welcome to contact me (graveyarddirt@gmail.com) about reserving or purchasing your desired piece(s).

Stigmata

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"From now on let no one cause me trouble, for I bear on my body the marks of Jesus." ~ Galatians 6:17

2010 Altar

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2010; a year of bones, a year of death, a year of green and wheat, a year of animals, a year of roadkill, a year of wild mushrooms and berries, a year of hedges, a year of forests, and a year of graveyards and standing stones. 2010 was the year my land reached out to me, initiating an intense period of acceptance which I clutched in my tight-fisted hands as if it was the only meaningful thing in the entire motherfucking world.

So how the fuck do you gratefully wave good-bye to a year that's given you so goddamn much? You deconstruct it, piece by piece, gift by gift, until you're left with the raw basics that built it. With bones and seeds and leaves and musty, fall-scented fungi I created and layered an altar of thanksgiving, working on the tangible hymn up until the last few minutes of the 31st. (<- Something better've duly noted that I worked to the very fucking end, OR ELSE.)

"2010," my voice cracked, overcome with emotion. Italics didn't say anything, but he draped an arm across my body in comforting agreement. And we silently stood, side-by-side, before our altar of adventures, trials, victories, failures and achievements as husband and wife, king and queen, god and goddess and - my personal favorite - devoted shepherd and loving (even if somewhat willful) goat.

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I first started with the kitchen's stark fucking naked altar. Traditionally evergreen is brought indoors during Holy Supper to decorate the table (I use a mix of ivy, yew and cedar - all from bushes growing on our property), but because we were buried under an insane amount of snow around the Winter Solstice I couldn't get out to our shrubs to take cuttings. (<- That's why the window's Sviata Vechera altar looked so fucking bare on the 21st.)

On the 30th of December the snow had receded enough to let me take clippings from outside, so on New Year's fucking Eve I finally got to tangle a variety of evergreen up and around my Khokhloma pieces, candleholders, skulls and candy. (Better late than never?) With the layer of greenery set, I embellished the curtain of foliage with homegrown wheat, the first set of deer bones we ever found (I, uh, still need to write this particular story AND upload the pictures), two homegrown chili peppers, the conjoined bolete triplets we found in October, my jar of "uniquely special" toadstool (fly agaric) oil created on Halloween and one of the miniature kolaches baked for Sviata Vechera.

2010 Halloween Altar, Light

So, like, around late October I posted a series of "dark" altar pictures (Fet Ghede and Halloween) with the promise that I'd return to the elaborate spreads with the lights on. I kept putting the job off because, fuck, I really, really wanted to do them justice, and it wasn't until this morning that I realized I was being retarded - the altars don't really require an in-depth explanation, because the seasonal-specific decorations and ritual items speak for themselves: death (good ole #13).

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...and I give you light! (Well, light AND 2010's Halloween altar.) Even though I refer to the entire spread as "the Halloween altar", there are actually two altars present: one for the Black Goddess (central table), and another for the Black Rabbit (the two units flanking the central table). Last year I wrote a lengthy journal entry regarding my relationship with the Black Rabbit as I explained away Her altar(s), so to get a low down on Her (and them) be sure to read Black Rabbit Altar.

Before I move on to the next picture I'd like to take a moment and personally thank everything that helped provide the most stress-free altar creating experience, ever: the iron, sewing pins, duct tape, our meter stick, the spirit level and the motherfucking lint roller. Without you guys I couldn't be the anally straight, symmetrical, even and wrinkle'n'lint free witch I am; thank you.

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Even if you've only recently began watching the train wreck known as my life, things like the little pot-bellied chiminea, ladder, sheepskin rug, "masks" and sickle should be familiar. (If you've been following my adventures for a long ass time then the majority of this shit should be hella familiar.)

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Some shit (i.e., the "masks", the brandy sniffers filled with the corresponding element, black rabbits and the sheepskin rug) has permanent altar status, while other familiar items (i.e., the ladder, sickle, #13 key and my bean nighe/washer woman basin) are rotated in depending on the seasonal celebration.

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The asymmetrical centerpiece; the matching candlesticks on either side begin to display the symmetry that eventually pulls everything together in a visual balancing act.

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I know EXACTLY what you're thinking, and you're totally effing right - it COULD use more bones, skeletons and skulls. (I'll try harder next year, promise.)

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The Assyrian figures represent Italics and I (I'm the busty wifey holding the chalice/censer, just in case that wasn't - you know - obvious), the key in front of them is #13 key (it's my spirit key used by relatives, friends and ancestors so they can easily enter the house) and the glass jar behind holds some of our ritual jewelry and Thai fertility pendants.

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The left side of the altar represents Italics (as Papa) and the divine male. You'll always find Papa's "mask", his skull incense burner and a brandy sniffer filled with his Fet Ghede dirt (earth being his element) on the left of any lounge altar.

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The right side of the altar represents me (as Tentacle Monster; who, bizarrely enough, is a masculine entity - go figure that I have a cock representing my tits) and my subconscious/the divine female. You'll always find Tentacle Monster's "mask", his octopus handle (the base screws into a walking stick/cane) and a brandy sniffer filled with salt water (water being his element) on the right of any lounge altar.

2010

2010 has been a year of so many fucking firsts I don't even know where the fuck to begin. I dreaded stepping over the threshold of 29 to 30 earlier in April, but graduating into full-fledged adulthood has been one of the most amazing goddamn rides I've ever fucking experienced. For twenty-nine fucking years I existed; on my thirtieth year I finally began living.

This year's seen the culmination of a huge fucking chunk of my most treasured dreams and aspirations metamorphosize from "unfulfilled longing" to "motherfucking reality", and without hesitation I sunk my teeth deep into the proverbial flesh of time and space and clamped onto this way of fairy tale life because there's way in fucking hell I'm ever letting go of it.

Toadstools (also known as amanita muscaria, but more commonly as "fly agarics") are something I've wanted to work with for a helluva long time. If you've been following Graveyard Dirt throughout the Harvest season you probably know that they're prolific in my neck of the woods (northeast Scotland), but, until this year, they've been out of reach (as were all of the other "edible" mushrooms I collected, the berries I've harvested and the roadkill I've taken home) because I didn't have a goddamn car.

For ten fucking years I had very limited access to the countryside of Scotland, even though it begins just a few blocks out of our rural subdivision. Nothing - except the beech hedge, boarded up disturbed children's home and orphanage, ruined chapel, abandoned wall garden and local graveyard - was within walking distance, and none of those places (as special as they were/are to us) were suitable environments for the sort of activities I wanted to engage in (i.e., wildcrafting, harvesting and living off the land).

Suitable environments were always just over the next hill...literally. The crow rookery and woods, the closest standing stones, old wells, the stone throne, the Black Laird's loch and my High Priestess B & J columns are all places I habitually frequent - my "offices", I've joked - but are just a little too far to regularly visit on foot. In the car? Three, sometimes five minutes and then several more of walking. By foot? Hours, in some cases.

Without a mode of transportation those places - as close as they were/are - were inaccessible to me. As my relationship with my father-in-law deteriorated, so did my connection with the outside world. Because I couldn't drive (I only know how to operate an automatic, and both family cars were stick shifts) we had to rely on Mr. Awesome to get around, but he had (and still has) a bad habit of turning off his phone or just leaving it at home if he doesn't want to be bothered, so when he'd forget to pick us up we had no method of contacting him.

After a few years it wasn't worth the frustration, especially when my stomach first broke; there's nothing worse than being sick as a fucking dog in public with no idea when or how the fuck you're going to get back home. I became a living ghost. I haunted windows and patio doors, blankly staring out transparent portals to an increasingly distant world while watching the seasons fluctuate and change. Days would pass, weeks would pass, months would pass. Years, eventually, would pass, and as they faded away the time between outings became more and more drawn until I realized in moments of sharp lucidity that sometimes those times would last 4-5 months.

Four to five fucking months of not leaving your house. Ever. No movies, no shopping, no post office, no grocery store, no real human contact. Nothing. Just the familiar box I lived in that became a prison without bars. I tried to escape; we wore down the path to the local graveyard and explored whatever countryside there was within reasonable walking distance, but then I got sick. Twice.

I cut my left tonsil on a piece of hard skin from a pork roast I had ritually made. Within 24 hours the cut went septic, and in under 48 hours my ass was hospitalized. I didn't leave the sickbed for another year and a fucking half. It took something like six effing months for my tonsils to finally clear (I was given two weeks worth of penicillin, but the second I went off the medication the infection would return and that game played continuously for a half a fucking year until I was prescribed THREE WEEKS worth of penicillin which finally killed the fucking infestation), but when it did the most hardcore and fucking violent symptoms of my stomach breaking began surfacing.

It's hard to leave the house when you feel exhausted, lethargic and your stomach's constantly unsettled because you've been on some serious antibiotics for an infection that won't go away for a significant part of the year. It's even harder to leave the house when you suddenly begin experiencing gut-wrenching burps 200+ times a day, throwing up everything you eat and finding yourself unable to breathe or exert yourself.

I went from being tested to being initiated. I knew the first part was the Universe getting up to something, but I never expected that the hospital/tonsil thing was just the tip of the fucking iceberg. I never expected that I'd have to spend nearly a year bedridden, unable to eat, drink, breathe, sleep, fuck or live because something was happening in my body that I had no fucking control over. I lost myself, I lost my life and I lost my physical connection to the outside world.

Initiation is hard. Initiation breaks you. Initiation doesn't provide rubber cement or a fucking helping hand to glue your pieces of you back together. I asked for big things; I got a big thing. My wish had been granted, but it came at a price. I had to be reborn, and, as if birth wasn't already painful enough, I had to relearn how to live with a problem that couldn't be medically fixed. At the darkest times it was a blight, a good ole biblical old testament pox, but even in the despair I had a tiny grain of truth embedded under a nail - to be resurrected you have to be torn asunder.

To play God is a dangerous, tricky thing if you're just a human being. You're asking for shit that normally isn't issued with this finite, mortal gig. As a fearless, impetuous twenty-something I stood in the face of what I believed in and demanded an ability that has no root in logic, reasoning or science. It cost me nearly two years of my life, and drove me to desperate hopelessness that had me questioning everything, including the foundation of my beliefs and my very purpose for being. Retrospectively, it's not an unfair price to pay when you've asked for the breath of God, but to say that there wasn't a period of intense adjustment as I learned to carry the gift would be the understatement of the fucking millennia.

Anyway...

2010 has been a fucking monumental year for me. In addition to having access to all of those "suitable environments" that were always just a hill or two away I've been well enough to retain a worrying frenzied pace of life. Nearly two years ago I couldn't breathe without some form of difficulty (it's my stomach valve; because it's broken it allows air, food and liquid to come and go as it pleases without involuntary regulation). Two months ago? I was lifting adult roadkill deer into the trunk of my fucking car all by my fucking self.

If I seem unusually hyperactive or enthusiastic about the things I've done this year - or the projects I've finally been able to begin - it's because I've waited a decade for this sort of freedom, not to mention thirty fucking years to live a meaningful existence that I've spent an entire lifetime dreaming about. My fantasies are becoming a reality, and the prison that's kept me walled up behind a barrier of stone and glass has finally been relocated from the biography section of my library of life to fiction.

Death, Disease & Bacteria

This entire roadkill thing isn't about picking up dead animals from the side of the fucking road. Or waving their battered remains over eye-stinging incense. Or finding poetic ways to justify modern kitchen butchery. It's about stewardship and sovereignty of the land, and all the life that exists within the boundaries of the territory I've carved out and claimed for myself. It's about responsibility, sacrifice and a pretty heavy fucking commitment to playing out an unsavory - but necessary - role that has to be performed to maintain balance.

I know I make this shit look easy, which sort've worries me because I haven't had a chance to delve deeper into my personal practices regarding the spiritual processing of physical remains and my continued work with the animals long after the bones are clean and flesh has rotted the fuck away. What I do isn't as easy as having a strong enough stomach to pick up decomposing bodies, or owning the right tools or space to carry out rites and rituals, or having an innate fucking ability to convince others that everything's executed "with the utmost respect".

I'm not going to make any friends by saying this, but this shit's got to be said: blindly throwing yourself into scavenging - regardless if it's because you think it's cool, you're enthusiastically inspired by what I'm doing, or you've always felt a distant longing to work with Death - is one of the dumbest motherfucking things you can do, not to mention seriously dangerous for your fucking health and the well-being of those around you.

There. It's finally been said.

You're exquisitely retarded if you think engaging in this roadkill thing I'm doing is as easy - on a non-spiritual, basic level - as finding a dead animal and taking it home. There are hazards and difficulties with any interest or practice, but this one in particular can have disastrous outcomes which can ultimately prove fatal for either you or a loved one. There's zero room for you to be cavalier about picking up, handling and processing roadkill; it's not a game, hobby or way to idly pass fucking time.

I'll be completely honest - no matter how thoroughly anal you think you've been about disinfecting yourself and your environment (I have YET to see any tutorial or how-to site unapologetically rag on readers to carry sanitizing products IN THE MOTHERFUCKING CAR so you can IMMEDIATELY clean ANYTHING your roadkill hands have touched, including YOURSELF) you still stand a chance of getting seriously sick. I know because I've been there; twice.

Thanks to going into this shit blind - see? I'm bitching at you FROM MOTHERFUCKING EXPERIENCE - I was completely unaware of the hazards of working with wild rabbits in Scotland. Because I didn't know better both Italics and I contracted a disease from one; a disease that the UK government's actually fucking around with for bioterrorism-based warfare*. We were agonizingly sick for a month, but we were lucky. Some people with the same illness suffered complete kidney failure within 48 hours of picking up the disease.

It'd be dishonest of me to not acknowledge that getting sick, for me, is an initiatory process. I've tried focusing on the non-magic aspect of working with roadkill in this entry to scare everyone into the reality of exposing yourself to dead, bacteria-ridden bodies and how fucking dangerous that sort of activity can be to your health (which includes getting hit by a car yourself; animals frequently get wiped out in blind spots and bends, what makes YOU any different crouched on the edge of asphalt scraping up physical remains?).

Sometimes, though, no matter how carefully I wipe, wash and clean it's not going to be enough when it comes time for me to "walk" with my animals. But that's the sacrifice I make; that's the difference between what I do and what other people do. I pay the price with my own flesh when Death enters me. My skin sweats and burns, my joints and muscles ache and throb and I claw tiled bathroom walls while projectile vomiting over the toilet, floor and myself as my living body goes into labor, splits open and purges itself of Death transformed. I'm willing to undergo the pain, discomfort and delirium because nothing special is worth having if you don't fight and bleed for it.

I know I make shit seem easy, I know I exude a bizarre Pied Piper vibe that excites and inspires people to do things they normally wouldn't, but to live like I live, to do what I do requires not only a calling, but some common fucking sense and a lot of fucking research. Please don't go swinging around roadkill without first educating yourself on any governing laws, known diseases local animals carry and how to find, transport and then process your animal as safely and efficiently as possible. Witchcraft and spiritualism aside; surrounding yourself with death, disease and bacteria comes with some fucking heavy duty risks, and you'd better be willing to pay the price when Death finally comes knocking.

* See Tularemia, Tularemia: Natural Disease Vs. Act Of Bioterrorism and Wikipedia's entry for bioterrorism.

Harvest Home Pheasant

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A word of warning that's totally unnecessary, but I'm feeling unusually nice today so I'm stamping a disclaimer on this shit just in case someone wakes up screaming in the middle of the night because they couldn't handle what food looks like before it appears shrinkwrapped at their grocery store: this journal entry involves a dead animal; specifically, a roadkill pheasant I found and then ritually butchered for one of our celebratory Harvest meals. This is probably one of the tamest, least gratuitous entries that falls under my Asphalt & Entrails category. There are zero fucking pictures that involve blood and/or gore, so readers with a sensitive nature should be mostly okay with the content within provided they can handle feathers, raw meat and a stainless steel dog bowl full of internal organs (in the non-grossest way possible).

Right. So. Now with that out of the way, allow me to introduce to you my Harvest Home hen. Come to think of it, you guys are already acquainted. Back around the autumnal equinox I posted Funeral for a Pheasant which incorporated a short video clip and an explanation on why the fuck I was posting a video where nothing (seemingly) happened.

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Not every roadkill animal I pick up has the pleasure of being ritually processed in the kitchen (rabbits are a non-negotiable "NO", but I MIGHT be able to wrangle a pensive "WELL...OKAY" for something less bioterrorismtastic), but every roadkill animal that I pick up is given the same treatment regardless of their physical condition, what they are and how they died: a period of getting to know one another (I visit them frequently while they "lay in wake" on an altar, petting, stroking and taking to them so they recognize I'm not a threat), offerings of food and water (usually a sandwich; deer get lettuce sandwiches, badgers get peanut butter'n'honey and foxes get smoked ham on whole wheat - you think I'm joking?), ceremonial cleansing via a smoke bath (frankincense, usually) and then, finally, release (of the spirit) through physical dismemberment.

Pictured on the altar: my favorite kitchen knives (which I ended up not needing since I rely so fucking heavily on my ritual scissors), locally grown pinhead oats (oats in whole form that haven't been flattened into flakes) and water for the pheasant, my ritual scissors (consecrated by my own effing flesh and blood), one of Chippy's outside offering bowls (I needed something to read entrails in, and since Chippy was already involved he suggested using one of his stainless steel dog bowls), a piece of thin roofing slate that came off a ruined building we discovered earlier this year (with a glowing charcoal block on top of it) and, finally, the hen.

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See? No effing gore, just like I promised. (Unless you count the "flesh wound" on Chippy's nose; we learned Choney liked to bite-play thanks to that particular run-in a few years back.) In under an hour I was able to hold the pheasant funeral, butcher the wild bird and reduce it to six usable pieces (entrails, body, feathers, feet, head and seeds) without wasting one part of the animal. I kept the entrails to read (haruspicy!) and the body to roast (dinner!), but everything else - feathers, feet, head and seeds - were set aside for a friend. (I actually need to get on drying the feet and head for her because everything else is ready to go.)

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Her head, which is currently sitting intact - feathers, beak and all - in the freezer until I can get my hands on a bag of fucking cornmeal. Sometimes I pick up roadkill with no visible wounds, but, on most occasions, I find big and little reminders that the animal didn't die a natural death (i.e., broken antlers, crushed skulls, split skin and scuff marks on beaks (above) and feet). I'd be lying if I didn't admit that the smaller, almost unseen injuries always affect me the most.

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Her feet, which were bound with ordinary white string so I could hang her in the garage until I was ready to process her. I've always suspected that I liked my game fresh, but it wasn't until she accidentally hung* for almost a week to confirm my suspicions. The scent was...intense. Not rotting, or sick, or "like farts" (I know it's incredibly childish, but that's really the best fucking way to describe the internal scent I get from the combination of organs - it's like sour/bitter farts); just intensely robust with a sneaking waft of smoke.

* Long short? I caught a fucking cold the day I picked her up. Normally I hang the birds for only 2-3 days, but in this particular case I had no choice but to leave her until I was well enough to handle her properly.

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She looks elegantly swan-like, doesn't she?

Within the glass bowl are grain seeds I removed from her crop, and feathers that fell out during the butchering process. Pheasants initially store food in their crop before digestion (you know that pocket space between the start of the bird's breast? just in front of what remains of the neck? that's where food's deposited and momentarily kept). Depending on how much your bird has (or hasn't) eaten you might have A LOT of fucking seeds to scoop out, or, in this case, not many at all.

I always save the grains - along with any feathers or particles of skin and meat that are too small to cook with - and plant them the following year (seeds, feathers, skin and all) so the grains germinate from the physical remains of the dead bird. (<- Death and rebirth, baby.)

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Her internal organs and entrails that were read in Chippy's bowl. Once I finished the positively fucking medieval dead of haruspicy I offered the contents of the bowl to my crows. To say they "tucked into the leftovers" would be putting it delicately (which, admittedly, isn't usually my style, but I'm kind've sort've eager to get this entry written in entirety in one fucking day because this sort've shit can drag on and fucking on).

They took everything but the stomach - and part of the intestine still attached to it, but for simplicity's sake let's just say "stomach", okay? - and left that delectable blob of dead tissue sitting in the fucking rain on the motherfucking patio for three fucking days. I eventually had to admit defeat and respectfully dispose the unwanted remains via container garden burial. (Thanks, crows, because Christ knows I already don't have enough to do.)

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Her body, which was then plastered with fresh bay leaves, seasoned and snugly wrapped in smoked, fatty pancetta strips. I roasted her over a bed of sweated rooted vegetables and fresh herbs, and then made brown stock out of everything. The stock was strained (and then frozen), the carcass was stripped of all of the meat (and then frozen; the meat, I mean) and then the leftovers - cooked vegetables and pheasant bones - were either left as offerings to visiting wildlife (vegetables) or cleaned off and dried for gifting purposes (bones).

Because she had matured longer than I originally intended I had to trim a few pieces of discolored meat from the body (only because it smelled just too damn strong for my palate), but those pieces were added to the organs and entrails. In fact, I caught one of our magpies happily making off with one of the blue-green tinged pieces of meat, so even if I couldn't get any use out of those small bits it still managed to feed another life.

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One of her wings, prior to being pinned to a piece of cardboard to dry. I clip them ridiculously close to the body - essentially giving up one of my favorite eating parts of a bird; the wing - so if you end up buying a preserved specimen from me you'll be getting the complete deal. I was a total retard and forgot to take pictures of everything pinned down prior to cornmealing (although I do have a set of fixed wings and feathers from another pheasant); I'll try and remember to take a few photos when I finally remove them and dust them off.

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Pheasant's such a lean fucking meat you generally need to cover it with a source of fat to keep it moist as it roasts. Because the skin's going to be hidden beneath a layer of smoked pork fat there's almost no point in retaining the skin (which is blasphemy, I know, because crispy skin and fat is, hands down, my absolute favorite part of eating meat), so when I butcher pheasants I don't really bother plucking - I flay them like any furry creature.

Pictured above is the hen's skin - with all her feather's still attached (except, of course, the pair of wings) - which I peeled off in one piece. I then turned it feather-side down (to expose the inner flesh), pinned the Leatherface atrocity down and covered it in a stupid amount of cornmeal. That way my friend now has all of the pheasant's feathers without the threat of them snowglobing her house upon arrival.

Fet Ghede Altars, Dark

Due to Chooch's very recent passing neither of us were up for the wet'n'wild Halloween celebration we had planned (she left us three effing days before Halloween; an awesome-ideal time to die, although NOT an awesome-deal time to deal with death - especially "so fresh it's only been 72 fucking hours!" death).

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What energy wasn't spent on eight hours of entheogen-flavored ritual sex in front of the Black Goddess altar got funneled into observing Papa's holy feast, Fet Ghede, with gifts, homemade food and new altars created on-the-fly. (Throwing myself into the festival with every ounce of my motherfucking being? Equal parts of loving devotion and a not-so-fucking-sneaky execution of my best coping mechanisms - cooking and cleaning.)

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Normally I keep Fet Ghede - or anything Ghede related - low key in this house because any sort've voodoo shit is still motherfucking "voodoo" to the average person (namely, my in-laws - specifically my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, who, incidentally, is carrying more graveyard dirt in his bowels than the local cemetery).

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This year, though, I threw caution to the psychopomp-tinged wind and created two altars for the occasion: one on the kitchen windowsill (that bit of tiled ledge is about as close as I get to having a sacred space in a shared, communal setting) that oversaw the blessing of ritual items and food that was used in our celebratory meals, and the second incorporated some of Papa's very favorite things (i.e., his Tupac and Biggie votive candleholder) and gifts we bought him for the occasion on a corner unit momentarily residing in the hallway. (<- Famous last words.)

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To keep things from getting too goddamn epic I'm posting these dark images first, and then - once I have more time - I'll write a follow-up entry explaining what's going on. If you want to see my Halloween and Fet Ghede altars "unveiled" (in other words, "with the fucking lights on") be sure to keep an eye on Graveyard Dirt, where all will (eventually) be revealed. (Or, you know, something to that effect.)

2010 Halloween Altar, Dark

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I knew I couldn't continue postponing the inevitable, so after a lot of feet dragging (I've been STUPID tired; who knew that pulling several 12 hour shifts in the kitchen AND losing the very last of your pets could be so goddamn exhausting?) I finally dismantled the Halloween altar last night - but not before snapping a few pictures to document this year's seasonal spread. I'll soon be uploading clearer photos (translation: with the lights on!) to better illustrate what's going on, so be sure to check Graveyard Dirt in a few days for longwinded explanations about shit.

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Fet Ghede, 2010

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"Give me any grief," I said to him, "and next Fet Ghede you'll be hanging by your neck." The Old Man just laughed and laughed and laughed.

RIP, Shoney Bear

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Shoney Bear; Late April, 2008 - Oct. 28th, 2010

My Chooch Fantastic left us yesterday morning. Italics woke up several times throughout his sleeping schedule to check on her and give her fluids. He was so tired he didn't even notice that she wasn't drinking out of her bottle, so he loitered there, half-asleep, dangling blue Gatorade-like "juice" in front of a dead rat for a few minutes before realizing she wasn't moving.

I was still in bed when I heard the words I've been dreading for the past two weeks: "HEY, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT?" I knew what Italics was going to say even before I reluctantly replied with "Yeah?"; our Shoney Bear had passed on. Choney - my Choochinka - was dead, and for the first time in nearly a decade we found ourselves alone.

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When Bee finally succumbed to her "brain thing" (<- what the vet said; she had a brain tumor that we initially didn't know about) we knew that Denny's (aka Wuzza, Gary Balls, Whoosh and a million other nicknames including "THE DEVIL HIM-FUCKING-SELF, WUZZA, DO YOU HEAR THAT? THE DEVIL HIM-FUCKING-SELF!"), who was still just a baby, needed companionship.

We came home with a pair of sisters - two hooded fancy rats - each the polar opposite of the other. Shakey was anxious, nervous and excitable, Shoney was fearless, enthusiastic and obnoxiously people orientated. Shakey needed encouragement and patience to open up to us, but Chooch knew right from the start what Italics and I were good for (i.e., "fun food" and "rough play").

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Any pet owner will tell you that their pet is special, but, if you get an honest one, you can usually extract one hushed truth after hours of physical torture - all pets are "special", but, sometimes, there's a pet who's super special. As a caretaker you love all of your companions equally, but, once in a while, there's one who's just a little more - a little more smart, a little more empathic, a little more interested, a little more magic.

Chouchen spent so much time with us that I think she sort've got us more than the other rats (with an exception of Jigga). She put up with her roommates (Shakey and Wuzza), but her preference was always "people". As retarded as it sounds, I think the only reason why Choo Bear lasted as long as she did (she was stamped "terminal" in late May, but stayed with us for another five months) was because she only needed one thing to live for - love.

And that's exactly what she got; love (and homemade soup and milkshakes and tres fashionable pain medication and sponge baths and Ben & Jerry's Phish Food and assisted walks and movie nights), 24/7.

Soon, but Not Yet

Every day I ask Chippy "HOW MUCH LONGER?", and he says "SOON, WOMAN, BUT NOT YET". Every day I watch another piece of Choney slip further away. Every day I try and forget the inevitable. Every day I'm reminded that she won't be here with us much longer, and, one morning, I'll wake up utterly heartbroken, missing my Chooch Fantastique. Every day I whisper, stroke and love, knowing that it's soon, but not yet.

Harvest Festivities & Rites

itmoons asked: Hello! I've emailed you before and I am a great admirer of what you do. My boyfriend and I have been discussing the old ways and pagan holidays and such things and decided we'd like to celebrate them correctly (we did an informal ritual for mabon). With samhain coming, i was wondering what you did for mabon and what you will do for samhain. also, any sources you can direct me too would be helpful. apologies if these questions are too forward/personal/presumptuous. just two lil pagan boys lookin to give the goddess her due.

Ever since I received this question I've been hella excited by the prospect of answering it, but I've been so knee-fucking-deep in various observances and celebrations (and work - will the mushroom season EVER FUCKING END?) that I haven't had a chance to address it. (I'm actually pushing this question to the top of my list because 1.) it's seasonal and 2.) it provides an explanation as to where my AWOL ass has been for the past few months.)

At this point in my life my Gregorian year is split into halves. In the first half, the Light Year (spring and summer), I'm the virginal Bride who marries the divine king and throughout the growing months we reign together ensuring fertility and new life. The second half, the Dark Year (fall and winter), I'm the great Whore who sacrifices her husband, consort and king (wheat, vine and bull) and harvests his blood, flesh and seed for consumption and resurrection.

(This is a really quick, basic breakdown to give you an idea of where I'm coming from. I've addressed the Virgin/Whore dynamic and perpetual tug-of-war far better in previous diary entries. If you hit up the categories BRIDE and CAILLEACH you'll find more thorough explanations that I'm much happier with.)

Because we live in a mostly rural setting and I work with the idea of female-based sovereignty the majority of my Harvest (from Lammas to Mabon to Samhain to Fet Ghede) is agriculturally themed. Rather than just focusing on our little patch of property I've incorporated this entire area that we live in as my land, and I routinely drag Italics across the local landscape to perform various rites and rituals in the Scottish countryside we see every day out our windows.

The following is a list of activities, rituals, celebrations, observances and traditions that we try and nail every year. Some, it goes without saying, are more important than others, so we prioritize things and keep our schedules flexible for unplanned disasters (i.e., bad weather, catching a cold, family drama) to ensure that the most important shit is executed. (<- Like Italics/the divine king, har har.)

* Reap wheat; Every year I ritually reap wheat from local fields and from containers in my backyard patio garden that I've personally grown. The wheat is then gathered into a bundle and decorated with a blessed cloth embroidered with traditional Ukrainian designs. The venerated bundle - also known as didukh in Ukrainian (pictured here) - represents my ancestors, this land, my sacrificed king, consort, and husband. Throughout the Dark Year the bundle's featured in every major ritual and altar until spring, when I dismantle it and plant the king's seed I've been protecting and holding since Harvest. (See Cereal Mariticide and The Widow is Born.)

* Change the guard; Our companion for the Light Year is Chile Bird, but when it flies the coop for winter it's replaced by Cobweb Spider. Around the time of the equinoxes I remove everything from our office/computer room windowsill altar, wash everything (the objects sitting on the space, the window (inside and out), the frame (inside and out), the ledge (inside and out) and even the hinges, handles, blinds and areas of the wall touching the window), return the permanent altar shit and swap to the appropriate "guard". (See Changing of the Guard.)

* Clean bedroom; Before I drag out our vintage coffin cover to keep our asses warm throughout winter I have to thoroughly clean our bedroom to remove traces of the Bride. I've jokingly referred to the ritualized act as "cleaning up after the Bride" since I have a tendency to leave incomplete projects scattered across any flat surface. But this is serious, crazy magic cleaning that involves blood, sweat, urine and protective washes. (See Cleaning Up After the Bride, Cleaning Day I and Cleaning Day II.)

* Plant garlic; I use a lot of garlic in my cooking and magic work (not that cooking isn't magic), so I've started to grow my own which allows me to add "special" ingredients to the soil for themed bulbs. Garlic's the only thing I plant as the Whore that the Bride harvests.

* Turn down the yard for winter; During the Dark Year my major altars are located within the house, but during the Light Year my major altars are located outside of the house. When it's time to begin moving indoors I "turn down" the yard for winter which involves planting garlic, cutting the grass (for the final time), raking leaves, collecting seeds, emptying pots, straightening up sacred spaces (i.e., the Shango Tree roadkill altar and the patio altar) and covering vulnerable plants from extreme weather.

* Move Stone Cock; At first snowfall Stone Cock (and his black pebble balls) is brought indoors (this year He sat at the base of my peach tree as my patio altar's centerpiece), where he'll stay until the first day of summer. On May Day (Beltane), He'll be paraded out with blessed ribbons (that decorated the "maypole"; nudge, nudge, wink, wink) which will then be hung on branches of fruiting trees.

* Cut the grass; Which, understandably, doesn't sound hella magic, but I then rake up the grass and dry it so I can offer homegrown green (albeit dried green) to local lactating ewes on Bride's Day (Imbolc).

* Harvest from the backyard; I usually choose a single day to complete the majority of my backyard harvesting. Half-naked and high I burn incense on my patio offering pillar as Italics helps me pick plums, cut herbs and gather other backyard food we've managed to grow during the year. Everything is then washed, processed and divided into what we keep, and what we give as tribute. (See 2009 Harvest.)

* Create a Harvest altar; I created a Harvest altar for the very first time last year (pictured here) and it kicked so much fucking ass that I really regretted the fact that I was too busy this year with roadkill, mushrooms and berries to raise it for 2010. Fingers crossed that next year I'll manage my time better to give myself a chance to recreate the place of thanksgiving.

* Create a Halloween altar; The only time I've ever missed constructing a Halloween altar was several years ago when both of us came down with a serious case of influenza that lasted the entire Halloween vacation (and then some). (<- Because we cohabit with my in-laws I'm only able to have a spacious altar four times a year when they're away on holiday: Easter, summer, Halloween and Christmas. Creating altars is a huge fucking deal for me because I normally don't have the ability to dedicate spaces to elaborate setups for any real length of time.) Oops! I just realized I never uploaded any pictures of last year's altar. I have one photo, but the job's only been partially done: 2009 Halloween altar construction.

* Perform the Whore's Black Mass; At some point in our Halloween vacation we celebrate the Whore's Black Mass which involves various intoxicants (pot, MDMA, mushrooms, nitrous and alcohol) and ritualized marathon sex in front of the Halloween altar. When we celebrate Hieros Gamos (the sacred marriage), the drugs'n'sex rite is a ceremony of union, which I've always found to be gentle, loving and tender. Black Mass, though, is all about out-of-your-fucking-head screwing for the pure sake of pleasure. (Reproduction be fucking damned, let's see how far you can force your fist into my cunt!)

* Observe Fet Ghede; My Harvest ends with Papa's feast, Fet Ghede, which I celebrate on November 1st and 2nd. We bake Pan de Muerto for the occasion, using the dough to fashion offering cakes to those who've died since last Fet Ghede. (We then take the bread to the local graveyard and leave it on a cairn.) I also whip up a special meal specifically geared for Papa. Sometimes it's homemade gumbo, sometimes it's baked ham, but there's always cornbread, rum and Hoppin' John. (Not to mention pot, cigars and sexy lingerie.)(See Fet Ghede, 2008.)

* Pay tribute; It's important for me to give back what I've taken or have been given throughout the Light Year as the Bride. It's a thank you, a tribute and a celebration of everything I've done and achieved. With baskets and bags I take a fraction of the roadkill I've found, food I've grown (and gathered) and bread I've ritually baked to the nearest standing stone and leave my tribute at the base to give back to the land that's fed me, and to show my gratitude for all that I've been given. (See Harvest Home Offering.)

* Steal potatoes; The local farmers don't know it, but they pay tribute to me. When the wheat turns gold I reap from their fields, and when the potato plants shrivel up I unearth potatoes. It's a teeny, tiny price to pay to have a witch personally looking after your crops (and the land they're growing on), especially when all of the agricultural land here is either grain or potato. "Stealing potatoes" is more of a LOLOLOL tradition, though, and nothing more than a bit of fun to fluff up our celebratory Harvest meals.

* Bake Castle Pie; One of the local castles has an annual sale of produce grown within its walled gardens. Every year we go to buy plums and apples, walk the castle grounds, visit the bees still hard at work, have sex beneath the same tree and return home to bake Castle Pie together. (The yearly event must be magic because Italics isn't really into fruit, but I often find him picking at the pie when no one's looking.)

* Visit the apple and pear sale; Once a year, on one day only, a pay-to-enter heritage site holds an apple and pear sale selling fruit grown within its gardens. This is the one chance to get a hold of really old varieties I've never heard before ("cat's head" and "bloody ploughman" come to mind). We normally buy three bags of fruit and then take a long walk along a path that circles and winds around old stone walls, farming fields, hedges and beech woodlands (usually pausing to pick blackberries because, holy shit, dude, you would not believe the size of the motherfuckers that grow there).

* Bake Baba's Ukrainian apple cake; Using some of the apples purchased from the heritage site sale I bake a traditional Ukrainian apple cake for my (now deceased) Ukrainian grandmother. My grandparents fashioned themselves a slice of "the old country" in southeast Wisconsin which meant I spent my growing years running around barefoot in a fruit (pear, plum, cherry and apple) orchard, so I have a strong, sentimental attachment to autumn fruits and how they're incorporated into festive cooking and I've tried to keep that tradition alive in my own way. (See Dreading Mortality.)

* Bake bread; Wheat is enormously significant to me; it's the face of my God, my husband, lover, consort and king. With one hand I kill Him, and with another I resurrect Him. I drink His blood, I crush His bones and I eat His flesh. When He's alive and living (Light Year) I refrain from baking bread, but once I perform the reaping ritual I'm allowed to use His body until resurrection. My baking season begins with a traditional Ukrainian bread (paska or babka; babka's like paska plus, using more butter and egg yolks) during Harvest, and ends on Easter (with the same bread, although this particular loaf gets toted off to church on Holy Saturday to be blessed by a priest) when I bake my last and final loaf for the year.

* Prepare celebratory meals; The only thing more celebrated than sex in this house is food. We try to eat seasonally, and as locally as possible. (Pretty goddamn "local" when you're digging up your own potatoes, plucking berries off bushes just yards away from your house and picking mushrooms only a few miles from your rural subdivision.) We have several Harvest related feasts (not including Fet Ghede), and when preparing those I focus on incorporating as much wild or homegrown food as possible. This year, for example, we're roasting a roadkill pheasant with the "stolen" potatoes, and we'll also be making homemade wild mushroom and pheasant risotto using boletes I've picked throughout fall and a roadkill pheasant I picked up on the autumnal equinox.

* Transition from Bride to Whore; Because my hair takes for-fucking-ever to grow I only cut it two times a year: spring and fall (the same goes for Italics, although I usually cut his hair for him while my hair is trimmed by a professional). In addition to getting my hair lopped off I also get my eyebrows done (threading all the way, baby!), and thoroughly rub my ass down with a homemade purifying scrub out of salt, olive oil, honey and rosemary essential oil. (In spring I give my physical appearance a boost because I'm a bride getting ready to be married, but in fall I become a mistress, so my preparations are less wedding based and lean more towards "super extended night on the town".) During the Dark Year I use henna to dye my hair darker (Whore), but during the Light Year I use henna to dye it red (Bride).

This year's Harvest has been crazy mental, but insanely rewarding. I've never experienced anything quite like it because, up until recently, I didn't have a car. I spent nearly a decade fantasizing about a way of life I was desperate to live, repeatedly telling myself "IT'S OKAY, YOU'LL GET TO DO IT ~NEXT YEAR~, IT WON'T ALWAYS BE LIKE THIS" to keep it together. 2010 has been a breakthrough year for me; it's been the year I officially began to live and everything I've done and experienced has been a complete and utter joy and revelation.

My boyfriend and I have been discussing the old ways and pagan holidays and such things and decided we'd like to celebrate them correctly (we did an informal ritual for mabon).

If you're exercising a Choose Your Own Adventure-style spiritual journey there isn't a right or wrong way to celebrate and observe special days; it's an experimental process that evolves yearly. If you're involved in a religion with a hardcore set of beliefs I'm sure there is a "correct" way of doing things, but if you haven't committed yourself to a one specific path you aren't obligated to follow anyone else's instruction manual.

The beautiful thing about going solo and doing what makes sense (to you) is that sometimes it'll work spectacularly, and sometimes it'll end disastrously funny. But - BUT! - no matter what the outcome, it's always a learning experience that ultimately shapes the rest of the game.

My suggestion? Do shit. Do a lot of shit. Do stupid shit, do funny shit, do crazy shit, do serious shit. Just do shit, and keep the shit that makes you laugh, cry, and feel alive and work on that shit so next time around you'll laugh even harder, cry more meaningfully and feel so fucking alive that the very core of your being is on celestial fire.

also, any sources you can direct me too would be helpful. apologies if these questions are too forward/personal/presumptuous.

Man, I'm the worst person to come to when resources are involved. I've written my own mythology, created my own gods and crowned myself a divine queen in my world. And the worst part? The Universe is playing along. (I guess that means my "script" has been optioned?) I can tell you what I believe, what I do and the meaning behind everything, but I'm not a quotable resource.

What I can do, though, is direct you to the blogs, diaries and journals of witches, pagans, spiritualists and rootworkers that I follow who are a LEETLE less out there that might be able to provide different views and approaches to celebrate this time of year. (Hit up the index page of Graveyard Dirt; you'll find those links on the left under the "READING" category.)

I'll also point you towards my Amazon wishlist so you can get an idea of the reading material that most interests me. (I always feel weird providing the link, but I've had a lot of people ask for it to discover new material to add to their own personal wishlist.)

Right! I hope I've been slightly helpful (or at least moderately interesting). Whatever you guys do, just make sure it's coming from the heart (and/or gut), because that's the shit that sculpts your beliefs and transforms your life. Good luck with Halloween/Samhain, and thank you for prompting me to finally sit my ass down and write about our Harvest festivities and rites. (I actually began drafting an entry along those lines to explain my absence, but with all of these new activities, all of the old traditions and taking care of our tumor-ridden pet rat, Choney, I just haven't had a chance.)

PS: Just FYI; when you're the type of person who posts a picture of yourself barebacking the New Year roast, naked, there's no question that's "too forward/personal/presumptuous", *winks*.

Deer #6: Midmar Roe Doe

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As late August passed into early September I stumbled across six roe deer roadkill (two bucks, two does and two fawns) in just under a week. The first was the mummified remains of a male, stiffly compressed into a crumpled jump until I came along, took him home and gently broke his body free from the leaping pose he was frozen in. The sixth, a doe, was the freshest of all the deers; the complete opposite of the first. Warm and pliable I carried her to the car, panting, envisioning roasted venison haunches for Midwinter.

Unfortunately, there won't be any venison haunches for Midwinter, because Italics said "THERE IS NO EFFING WAY, DON'T EVEN THINK I'M GOING TO LET YOU". (The smaller the animal the more likely the fatal trauma occurs to the head, which doesn't spoil the meat. (Which is why it's really fucking hard to get a skull from a roadkill fox, badger or rabbit - everything liquifies into a creamy grey-pink-white mess.) But a larger animal normally doesn't die of a crushed skull, so any internal injury usually involves organ-based explosions which taints the meat.)

So there won't be any haunches, but there also won't be any bones, toes, teeth and skull because I lost her. I lost my sixth deer, the doe we picked up feet away from where we discovered Under the Bed Badger back in March. I have nothing left of her except three leg bones, connected by rotting tissue. I had gently laid her to rest and then, one day, she was gone. All of her, save the amputated leg I found amongst the rusty-colored bracken.

My stomach's been in knots for days - since Saturday, when I first discovered I lost her. By the time she came into my life there was no aspect of myself that wasn't exhausted. Even before she arrived I had found the complete bodies of five other deer, I had already spent every day for almost a week going out, finding a deer, carrying it to the car, lifting it into the trunk, driving back home, lifting it out of the trunk, hauling it through the garage into the backyard, processing the body and returning the remains back to nature. All the work - the moving, lifting, butchering, everything - was done without help from anyone.

After the fifth deer - the crossroads buck with broken antlers - I was worn out to the core. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. You name it, it profoundly ached. I took the glut on the chin, Pollyanna-style. Two, three years ago I was bedridden due to my broken stomach, and now, suddenly, I was well enough to haul the dead weight of roadkill deer for a quarter of a fucking mile. I overdid it, even at the time I knew I was precariously close to some sort of brink, but the deer felt like such a significant gift that I felt driven to PROVE myself. Who the fuck was I to say SHUT THE ASSEMBLY LINE DOWN; SMOKE BREAK, MOTHERFUCKERS! when the Universe saw fit to keep me working?

We were out for a romantic day in country (no roadkill, just a spot of rural exploration because in northeast Scotland you're only ever a few miles away from some sort of holy well, graveyard, standing stone, neolithic monument or ancient ruins of some sort) and within ten fucking minutes of being out we found #6 lying in the same bend where we had found Under the Bed Badger earlier in the year. "I, UH, CAN ALWAYS GO BACK FOR IT," I assured Italics. He gave me his blessings and we turned around, parked in someone's driveway and I hauled her to the car.

She was the freshest, but she was also the one that sustained the most trauma. Carrying her back to the car was a chore within itself - I was wearing nice clothes and her lower abdomen had burst open. No entrails were apparent, but it was obvious that the intestines had ruptured since gritty, henna-like body fluids were oozing out of the gaping wound. With my hands pinching her toes together I lifted* her and waddled back to the car where Italics was waiting (just in case the homeowner came out to investigate the strange car parked in their driveway).

(* I never, ever "drag" even if I use the word when telling my stories (HEY, THERE'S ONLY SO MANY SYNONYMS TO USE, OKAY?). Dragging a dead animal along the asphalt it was killed upon seems like major disrespect. I always make a point of physically carrying roadkill back to the car in my arms, only ever letting the body momentarily pause on some grass if I need to catch my breath.)

I wanted to butcher her, but that was a no-go. ("OKAY, OKAY, OKAY. WHAT IF I ONLY TOOK THE MEAT FROM THE ~FRONT~ INSTEAD OF THE ~BACK~?" Yeah, he didn't buy that either.) I wanted to skin her despite the unhygienic condition of the body (we've caught two insanely overwhelming illnesses from roadkill animals I've picked up, and since our last run-in Italics hasn't allowed me to act on my default cavalier attitude of working with bodies that've ruptured open exposing torn organs), that was a no-go, too.

Eventually I kind've sort've worked him down to allowing me to maybe skin the front half of the deer (starting at the head), but because she was in such poor condition between her back haunches I couldn't really take her home which meant I had to find a private, secluded spot that was easily accessible by car to rest her body. Further up the road was a significant spot for us featuring a standing stone, a stone circle, graveyard and church rolled into one that gently backed into an oak hedge that extended into rolling farmland.

She was lifted, for the last and final time, and lovingly placed beneath a young oak tree, hidden from view by gnarled roots and indigenous vegetation. I stroked her warm body and assured her that I'd come back for her to take her home. I never actually managed to skin her like I wanted. After handling her - she was the heaviest of all six and I had a helluva time moving her - my body shut down; my back and shoulders were on fire for days. "Fine," I thought, "not flaying her is a sacrifice I'm going to have to make. At least I'll have the rest of her to work with."

I was unsure about leaving her. Anyone - anything - could take her. Italics assured me, on several occasions, that she was just too big to move, and, after a point, she'd become too decomposed to do anything to her other than let her rot. I checked up on her almost daily. Every fucking time I visited I was tempted to decapitate her and at least take her head home so I could perform a proper funeral service, but I was afraid I'd get scolded for beheading her when she was so far along (and in doing so exposing myself to another round of roadkill sickness).

"Are you absolutely sure?" I asked again and again, and got the same answer every effing time. I guess deep down inside I was reluctant to believe him, but I wanted to. What would stop scavengers from tearing her apart? What would stop wild animals from dragging portions of her body away? She was a free fucking meal, sleeping beneath a crooked oak tree. But, at the same time, the first two roadkill deer I found were absolutely complete (the fawn still had all of its fucking teeth for Christ's sake). So instead of acting on my secret paranoid fear I didn't do anything other than visit, wait and piss (not ON her, but I repeatedly marked my territory whenever I swung by for a social calling).

And then? And then, one day, she was gone. All of her. There was nothing beneath the moss-encrusted tree except a few ghostly hairs. I wanted to throw up, but, instead, I began crying. I stood in the dark imprint left by her body, surrounded by dying nettle and bracken, and realized, with a guilty, irresponsible horror that I failed her. I promised her I would be back for her, I promised her I would take her home. I promised her I would set her free. In the end, though, I had done none of the above.

We combed the area. I sobbed, off and on. Twigs and dried leaves crunched and snapped beneath our feet, but despite our efforts we found nothing. There was simply nothing left of her except the putrid leg bones, which I clutched mournfully in my hand while searching and crying. She had simply vanished, leaving no trace whatsoever. We don't even know if it was wild animals or people. We don't know anything, other than something took her and I let it fucking happen because I'm a retard who should've known better.

I'm now down one roe deer leaving me at five. I don't expect to find another one this year. Roadkill, like everything wild, has its seasons. The badgers are hit when Winter groggily shuffles into early Spring. The crows are hit throughout Spring and Summer when food becomes plentiful. The deer are hit during rutting season, when hormones and natural instincts override usual caution. Foxes and rabbits are the unlucky creatures whose season is never officially over.

I'll be honest, there's a small part of me that's going "...BUT THE MONEY! BUT THE GOODS! BUT THE MONEY!" but that's mostly eclipsed by "I AM A HORRIBLE HUMAN BEING WHO CAN'T KEEP HER PROMISES TO DEAD, WILD ANIMALS". I willingly gave up her hide, but I never signed away the rest of her. By being down "one deer" I have one less to sell, and that means one less skull, one less set of complete bones, one less set of teeth, one set less of organs and one set less of toes.

I won't lie; my primary interest, right now, is to profit from what I find, release, process and clean. I'm not afraid to admit it because the Universe has said - in its own way - that what I'm doing is completely cool. (I mean, being given SIX roadkill deer in SIX DAYS isn't exactly a slap on the wrist for being bad.) I want to continue doing what I'm doing, but at this time I'm working with a pair of fucking house scissors, a cheap ass plastic hack saw and a rusty scalpel set that was made for model plane making. (Seriously. Everything I've broken down, skinned and flayed has been with one of those totally unprofessional items.)

I need things, and things cost money. For every animal I process I need a new pair of surgical gloves and a dust mask. I need buckets filled with hot, soapy water. I need environmentally safe detergent. I need antibacterial wipes and hand sanitizers. I need salt, borax and cornmeal to dry wings, tails and feet. I need ziploc bags, vacuum sealing bags, permanent markers and clothes that are just for roadkill projects. (The pants that I'm wearing right now? Have forever been stained with fox brains because I only own TWO pairs of house pants.)

I want to be able to tan my own hides, but that requires special preserving solutions. I want to be able to macerate bones throughout winter, but that requires a fish tank fitted with a heater. I want to be able to skin animals efficiently and quickly, but that requires a proper skinning knife and a set of stainless steel medical-grade scalpels. To do what I'm doing costs money, and in order to afford buying the basic things I desperately need I have to go balls out with this roadkill thing because I'm currently using the equivalent of theatrical props to get shit done. (And, man, I am getting some serious shit done, but I could get it done better if I had the proper tools.)

So grieving over #6 is a mix of unsavory emotions. I can't help but revisit the empty space beneath the oak tree in my mind, and the feeling of gut-wrenching shock doesn't subside. It's so much more than just losing money, it's about losing one of my herd. I was a bad shepherd and didn't keep the wolves at bay. And even though animals don't need my "help" to relieve them of their excess (physical) baggage, it still feels like she's lost in the grey wilderness between life and death.

I've learned my most valuable lesson so far - there is no code of conduct, or unspoken etiquette amongst scavengers, just a fleeting sense of ownership until the next opportunist comes along.

Funeral for a Pheasant

I'll be completely honest with you guys: I don't actually consecrate and sanctify every piece of clearance meat I buy over billowing incense before cooking and consuming it. (In a bizarre way (which makes absolute, total sense to me) I feel that I make amends for "taking a life" by choosing to primarily eat reduced-to-clear meat that would otherwise be thrown out. It might be a lame excuse for my carnivore ways, but it's also one less wasted life unapologetically rotting in a dump.)

Roadkill, however, gets the red fucking carpet treatment. The butchering process combines several rituals in one act. While breaking the physical carcass down I'm also holding a funeral, releasing the spirit, spiritually cleansing the body (to bless and purify the meat that'll be eaten, and the various parts (i.e., organs, feathers, feet) that'll be used for future witchcrafting), giving thanks (to the animal) for the gifts received and, if time/situation permits, I usually sneak in a quick haruspicy (aka entrails reading) session.

I'm planning on dedicating a much larger journal entry to this specific roadkill ritual, so I'll save my trademark wordy ass explanations for then. In the meantime, you can marvel at the once-in-a-blue-fucking-moon cluttered state of my windowsill kitchen altar. (How do you know when an autistic anal aries witch has too much going on? When you can't see the surface of her altars/work areas.)

Broken Deer Funeral

The funeral of a broken deer found at a crossroads.

Death's Lunchbox

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In this house? Offerings of sandwiches transcend species. Ask the fox (smoked ham on whole wheat), ask the badger (peanut butter and honey on white), ask the deer (organic romaine heart on handsliced pieces of gluten-free bread).

Death; Rebirth

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A new deer priestess is born.

Fox's Funeral

Fox's offerings of omani frankincense, a bowl of organic milk and a smoked ham sandwich (on whole wheat, naturally).

RESURRECT! RESURRECT!

How do you explain to your in-laws why you're naked (on all fours), crassly exposing yourself to the sacrificial bull and his wheat (on the First Reaping altar) while groaning RESURRECT! RESURRECT! as you climax spectacularly in a frankincense smoked out room at 2:30 AM?

You don't; it's just another normal day in this house.

The Widow is Born

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Now you, Husband, King, and Lover, will nourish and feed as I have nourished and fed. (The Bride weeps; the Widow is born.)

Cereal Mariticide

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Not many women get away with mariticide, but, somehow, this witch does. (It helps when your divine consort's life-death cycle is symbolically embodied within the germination (resurrection & new life; celebrated in our annual Hieros Gamos rites) and harvest (death & communion; celebrated in our annual Harvest rites) of wheat.)

Yesterday I ritually reaped the first bundle of wheat that'll go into my 2010-2011 didukh. I really, really want to hit four other locations and create a sort've magic bouquet of locally grown wheat:

* the crow rookery (where I now go to leave super special corvid-based offerings)

* the stone throne (I still need to write about this place, it's my sovereignty seat)

* the Drum Stone (it isn't a battlefield, but it IS a field where companies once met BEFORE engaging in a bloody war)

* the field near our graveyard (the location of my first Reaping)

I also like the idea of gathering wheat from a field overlooking the loch (famous for it's black magician Laird who supposedly stole unbaptized babies from our graveyard and once rode across the winter waters of the loch in the company of the Devil himself) so that's my emergency/plan b location.)

If I somehow manage to pull off this most righteous plan there'll be way too much wheat for one person. I'm thinking about, maybe, selling smaller bundles tied up with a ribbon and charm to spread the resurrection-death-resurrection love. (Whether people want to place their bundles on their altar, or even dismantle the bundle after a few months to have wheat seeds they can plant - and then harvest - themselves. <- Easily grown within containers. Seriously. I've been doing it for years.)

The only thing is...there'll be traces of red wine and body fluids (saliva, semen and vaginal sex juice) on the wheat since I anointed my hand with the substances and then grabbed the first fistful with that hand when making my sacrificial strike. (I figure most people who are familiar with the way I work won't be surprised by the questionable ingredients involved.)

ANYWAY. I need to hold a wheat funeral while it's still dark. (Yesterday I stripped the unnecessary leaves off the stalks, today I need to allow the bundle to lay in wake before I string it up to dry.) I ALSO need to create a super special magic embroidered cloth (using a traditional Ukrainian design) because my divine consort deserves a more fitting death shroud than the old t-shirt (which I use as a menstrual rag) He got wrapped up in yesterday.

(Man, you don't know you need that sort've shit until you're naked in a misty Scottish wheat field at six in the fucking morning hacking down what's meant to be your cosmic other half (who you'll cannibalisticly consume throughout the Dark Year). And when you DO finally realize that maybe a torn up Dolemite t-shirt doesn't properly illustrate the gravity of the situation all you can do is stand there, naked, holding a handful of wine and sex fluid soaked wheat going "UH...OOPS?". <- True story.)

Until the Fucking End

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Make them take you down snarling; fight until the fucking end.

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.

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)

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).

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.)

A Slippery Fish

I'm staring dumbly at the blank (well, not SO blank now) "CREATE A NEW ENTRY" interface because I have no fucking idea what I want to say.

(I want to say something, right? I mean, why settle your ass down to write a journal entry when you've got fuck all to say AND you've got a manila envelope stuffed full of seeds waiting to be planted on this glorious Saturday afternoon? Oh, wait. That's why - Saturday; one of TWO days I have to share the house with both in-laws simultaneously.)

("Weekend" doesn't exist when you cohabit with your in-laws and you work at home. There's no point in working because within 10 minutes someone'll start making noise you can't fucking ignore, there's no point in cleaning because within 10 minutes they'll trash the room, there's no point in engaging in a hobby because within 10 minutes they'll find a reason to bug your fucking ass.)

(Saturday and Sunday are write-off days here where I get NOTHING accomplished (SORRY, BUT FEELING FRUSTRATED DOESN'T COUNT AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT) and chant my way ("IT'S ONLY FOR TWO DAYS, THEN IT'S MONDAY, IT'S ONLY FOR TWO DAYS, THEN IT'S MONDAY, IT'S ONLY FOR..") throughout the 48 hours to help me retain any semblance of sanity.)

(Pot, as you'd imagine, helps, but that's a tricky game that needs to be played carefully. <- See "GOOD LORD, WHY ARE YOUR EYES SO RED?" and "YOU TWO LOOK AWFULLY SLEEPY TODAY!".)

We've been so busy that it's thrown me out of whack. House busy I can handle, house busy is usual busy which I've categorized, compartmentalized and refined over the course of several years. I'm a motherfucking PRO when it comes to house busy. It's the non-house shit - appointments, interacting with people, living life to a schedule - that always rocks the fucking boat and leaves me feeling unsettled.

(Is it noticeable? I feel like it is. The past few weeks it feels like I've been wrangling with a floundering fish covered in extra slippery lube. I haven't dropped it, but restraining the goddamn thing has required some exquisite fucking acrobatics and I'm beginning to wonder what's the fucking point. <- PERHAPS "PUT THE FISH IN THE FUCKING WATER WHERE IT FUCKING BELONGS AND LEAVE IT THE FUCK ALONE, I MEAN, JESUS, YOU DON'T EVEN //LIKE// FISH IN THE FIRST PLACE!".)

I keep saying shit like IT'S BECAUSE IT'S SPRING and IT'S BECAUSE SHAKEY/WUZZA'S DIED and IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S A LOT OF FUCKING SHIT GOING DOWN but I'm beginning to wonder if I'm already sort've unconsciously panicking at the thought of what was routine, for nearly 10 years, soon coming to an end.

When Choney leaves us we'll be ratless/petless for the first time in nearly a decade. A decade. A fucking decade. That's a fucking 10 year old bringing home their math homework asking for help in fields of geometry you don't fucking remember. Ten years is a way of life; it's a significant fraction of a person's existence.

I know superficially it'll be the same - I'll still cook, still clean, I'll still hammer away in this little space of mine, I'll still masturbate before falling asleep and I'll still get stoned and watch nature programs just before bed to cut dreaded thoughts of mortality off at the pass. The motions will be the same, but it'll be emptier without that feeling of companionship.

We took Chooch to the vet the other day for surgery consultation and I got slapped in the face with an option that I didn't even bother considering: it would kill Choney to remove the massive mammary tumors clustered behind one of her front legs. They're too large to be operable, and they're growing in an awkward position (just behind the armpit) that'd open her up to serious infection.

I went in for a miracle (that I thought was a sure thing), and instead I got handed a death sentence. I had a hormonal moment in the consultation room and cried. It was HELLA embarrassing; the vet had to tear off a handful of paper towels for me. Italics went quiet and held onto my forearm. In our silence we thought the same thing: we're going to lose her because of those fucking tumors.

We just lost Denny's because of mammary tumors (which are totally benign, believe it or not, it's just that they inevitably get in the way of living after a certain point of growth) and I'm plagued with horrendous, soul crushing guilt because if we could've afforded it and had them removed early on she'd still be with us. How many months did those fucking tumors steal from Wuzza? How many months will Choo-Choo's tumors steal from her?

All I've heard from the vet, friends and in-laws is "BUT YOU GUYS DO YOUR VERY BEST AND IT'S OBVIOUS THAT YOU GUYS REALLY, REALLY CARE FOR YOUR RATS" and I want to scream "THAT'S BULLSHIT, BECAUSE IF THAT WAS THE CASE I WOULD'VE BEEN SELLING BLOWJOBS LEFT AND RIGHT TO AFFORD SURGICALLY REMOVING THEIR MAMMARY TUMORS" but I politely thank them, offer a weak, forced smile and shuffle away to quietly spend time with my morbid thoughts.

Anyway. So.

A slippery fish. An end of things; some major Death, some minor Death. A semi-recent passing of a pet, a very recent passing of a pet and an eventual passing of a pet. Possibly a friendship (I'm a shit friend, anyway), possibly a husband (although I've been quietly working on that one), possibly a way of life. So many changes, so much upheaval, it's no fucking wonder why I feel unsettled and antsy.

Slippery fish that I've desperately been clinging onto, if I let you go will you be Boadicea's hare for me?

Denny's Dumpster

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When we first saw her - when she was an impossibly small baby - Italics said "she looks like a rat who'd live in a dumpster behind a Denny's" and the name just sort've suck. To celebrate her life with us we built Wuzza her very own Denny's dumpster to rest in during last night's wake.

The Last Clean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Sort've Witch

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

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

January 29th, 2010

January 29th, 2010 - the day I read my very first entrails. (It was so beautiful I cried.)

Jan. 27th Pheasant

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This past Wednesday I threw my arms open and said "NATURE, I'M BACK! DID YOU MISS ME?". Evidently Nature DID, because it threw a freshly clipped pheasant at me. (Nature's ALWAYS doing that. Last time? Seven rabbits, no joke.) I guess It heard me say I wanted one last gigantic cock before the season's over...

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The only noticeable flaws of the roadkill were two friction burns - one along the crest of a wing, another just above ear. With an exception of those two frazzled and featherless patches the bird was in otherwise immaculate condition. (We were EXCEPTIONALLY lucky to find him so perfectly intact.)

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My first pheasant was a juvenile cock who hadn't yet molted to his darker hood. This guy? Just by sizing up his tail feathers and the spurs on the back of his feet (which are rose thorn shaped) you can tell he's at least two years old. As morbidly retarded as this sounds...I don't feel that his death is a tragedy. He's spent two full years shacking up with hens and living it all free-range style, how many chickens sold at the grocery store have a remotely similar history? (<- THERE'S the real tragedy.)

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There were tiny twigs still woven into his breast when I pulled him out of the trash bag. After a rinse or two of tap water I managed to get the few splatters of blood out of his feathers. (I didn't save ANY feathers from the last pheasant, so one of my top priorities was to harvest as many as I could from this cock. <- I LOVE SAYING THAT SHIT WITH A STRAIGHT (WELL, SEMI-STRAIGHT) INTERNET FACE.)

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They're so over-the-top dragon scaly it verges on unreal. I haven't decided what I'm going to do with them yet, but I know it's going to be something /special/.

Six Months

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She Washes Her Plaid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANYWAY...!

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

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

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

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

Dreading Mortality

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY.

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

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

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

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

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

Full Moon of the Dead

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

Happy Halloween

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Dearest Witches and Imps,

Rock that thinning veil, baby.

Happy Halloween,
Ms. Graveyard Dirt, XOXO

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Black Rabbit Altar

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When we celebrate the Dark year we welcome back the return of the Black Goddess. To me the Black Goddess is a very specific archetype - a concept found universally - more of an idea, an understanding than actual person-woman-deity locked inside an accepted image. She's THE SOURCE, She's THE IDEA, She's OUR UNDERSTANDING OF HER, She's WHAT WE WITCHES ASPIRE TO BE.

The Black Rabbit is both the living incarnation of the Black Goddess and Her representative. And unlike the Black Goddess the Black Rabbit has a first name (fuck, She even has an ethnicity and an entire biography). She's mortal. She's modern. She's Divine made flesh, and in being born again She suffers like us, She feels like us - She understands what it's like to be human because She is.

In very personal terms the Black Rabbit is my subconscious. When I went Underground for the first time and followed Her around like an awe-struck puppy (THERE WAS NO WAY TO HIDE HOW OVERWHELMED I WAS; I WAS FIVE ALL OVER AGAIN, BREATHLESS AND MARVELING OVER AN OLDER, LIVING WOMAN-GODDESS WHO EPITOMIZED EVERYTHING AWESOME AND COOL IN THE UNIVERSE, EVER) I had an anvil dropped on me when She let me in on a secret - She was me.

(OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.)

The Black Rabbit is the very best of me; She's ALL of me - my conscious and subconscious balanced - Baphomet, the sacred goat (or, uh, "rabbit" in this case). The exercise in this lifetime? To be as much of Her as I can be before death. Going Underground the Universe showed me a picture of myself - a future template - and said "THIS. YOU NEED TO BECOME //THIS//. THIS IS YOUR JOB. NOW, GO TO WORK." before letting me loose on the world, aware and knowing, but splintered and fragmented.

All of this sounds magnificently crazy, I know. (BLACK GODDESS? WHAT? BLACK RABBIT? WHAT? SUBCONSCIOUS? WHAT? MESSIAH COMPLEX? WHAT?) But when you break it down and translate it non-magic terms it's a lot less mystical and more psychological - the brain controls every function of our biological lives, and despite being the most important organ it's the one as we, human beings, aren't using to full capability. I simply created a bridge - an anchor, a link - from my conscious self to my subconscious self, and rather than outsourcing the job (to gods, goddesses, demons, etc.) I went inwards and created my own guide - me.

((IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE? THAT'S OKAY, IT'S A ROUGH DRAFT. HALF THE TIME I MANAGE TO CONFUSE MYSELF AND NEED TO WALK AWAY FROM THE TANGLE OF STRING BEFORE I BLOW A GASKET. IT'S HARD TO TRANSLATE (AND CONDENSE) EMOTIONS AND AN INNATE UNDERSTANDING OF YOUR BEING INTO A PERFECTLY COHERENT EXPLANATION FOR OTHERS. IN FACT THIS ENTIRE GRAVEYARD DIRT THING - PRACTICING, LIVING, WRITING, RECORDING - IS ALL BEING EXECUTED FOR A SINGLE REASON - TO ONE DAY EXPLAIN IT AS SUCCINCTLY AS POSSIBLE WITHOUT LOOKING LIKE A COMPLETE CRACKWHORE.))

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The communal lounge is symmetrically structured, which makes my autism BIG HEAP HAPPY. (THERE MUST ALWAYS BE MIRRORED BALANCE; ALWAYS.) Even though you can't see it in this image, there are four five wooden units against the wall. In both corners are a two cabinet blocks, and in the center there's a "floating" table (where the main altar sits).

Because the two speaker units closest to the centered table are identical I often use them as altar bookends. For Easter (The Great Rite / The Sacred Marriage / Hieros Gamos) and Halloween I create identical miniature altars for the Black Rabbit, and during the Yuletide season I fill in the spaces with a festive evergreen display (cedar, ivy and yew).

After creating this Halloween's altar(s) I turned to Italics and asked "YOU DON'T THINK I'M //OVER// BONING THE ALTAR, DO YOU?"; he refrained from comment, but snorted/laughed. (<- IT TOOK ME A SECOND, BUT IT GOT IT...EVENTUALLY.)

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This particular altar? Almost entirely courtesy of ASDA (the UK's Wal-Mart). We bought five teal rabbits from their gardening aisle years ago and spray painted them black for ritual/altar use. The fake bones, skeletal candle holder and skull candles were all scavenged from the Halloween aisle. (WHILE I DO LOVE ANTIQUES AND PRICEY SHIT SOMETIMES YOU JUST HAVE TO MAKE DO WITH WHAT YOU HAVE AND/OR CAN AFFORD. But that's the entire point of witchcraft, right?)

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The skull figure is the only altar decoration NOT bought at ASDA, but was still bought at a discount store. (<- A LOLTASTIC HEADSHOP WHERE WE ALSO BOUGHT OUR RITUAL BLACK GODDESS BONG.) I have two skull figures like this, one's a skull/iron cross/naked woman which is situated on Papa's side of the room (left), and the other is the skull/iron cross/snake/tentacle figure above which is situated on Tentacle Monster's side of the room (right).

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This particular altar? Almost entirely courtesy of ASDA (the UK's Wal-Mart). We bought five teal rabbits from their gardening aisle years ago and spray painted them black for ritual/altar use. The fake bones, skeletal candle holder and skull candles were all scavenged from the Halloween aisle. (WHILE I DO LOVE ANTIQUES AND PRICEY SHIT SOMETIMES YOU JUST HAVE TO MAKE DO WITH WHAT YOU HAVE AND/OR CAN AFFORD. But that's the entire point of witchcraft, right?)

Halloween Altar Building

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Yesterday was THE DAY. Yesterday I plucked the fruit, vegetables, herbs and flowers off our Harvest Home altar (pictures forthcoming!) and began piecing together our Halloween altar. (The Spring Bride / Return of Light / Easter / Great Rite / Hieros Gamos altar is more minimal and elegant, while the Winter Whore / Return of Darkness / Black Goddess / Chthonic altar's a little more fun and over the top.)

It's MOSTLY done now (I still need to string a strand of skull lights on the other side of the ladder, fill the brandy glasses with their correlating element (graveyard dirt for Papa's side, and salt water for Tentacle Monster's side), replace the red votive candles with white, glue the skeletons to their ribbons and maybe - MAYBE - replace the triad of bones behind the candle holders with vases filled with yew branches) but not done enough to warrant a second picture.

(THAT'S RIGHT, YOU GET //1// "PARTIALLY DRESSED ALTAR" PICTURE ONLY!)

Scotland Poultry Scissors Massacre

It's the first day of vacation and I'm taking it stupidly easy. (AS EASY AS YOU CAN GET AFTER GETTING UP WITH ONLY ONE AND A HALF HOURS OF SLEEP TO DRIVE YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW TO THE AIRPORT AT 4:30 IN THE MORNING AS SHE SITS IN THE BACK OF THE CAR AND INFORMS YOU OF EVERY FUCKING FEATURE OF THE ROAD AHEAD LIKE YOU CAN'T //SEE// ANY OF THEM OR UNDERSTAND ROAD SIGNS.)

I woke up for a second time feeling strung out and nauseous, and I was TOTALLY ready to pass on writing an entry today, but after a long, hot shower (using a Brazilian coffee bean shower gel sent by a friend), a cup of fancy pants tea (also sent by my friend - TEA DOESN'T GET ANY BETTER THAN IT DOES IN BELGIUM, APPARENTLY) and a bowl of apple and blueberry oatmeal I was in one million percent better shape.

And even though I have a kitchen to clean and dinner to prepare and a lounge to clean and papers to sort and an altar to deconstruct and an altar to build and a backroom to clean (to be able to get to my altar'n'tool boxes in order to deconstruct and build the altars) and a gutted bedroom to ritually clean I decided "FUCK IT, I'M WRITING AN EFFING ENTRY!". (<- I HAVE TOO MANY GODDAMN FOLDERS OF PICTURES TO //NOT// WRITE ENTRIES DURING VACATION THIS OCTOBER. SRSLY.)

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A few things I've learned about butchering dead rabbits: DO THE DIRTY DEED AS SOON AS FUCKING POSSIBLE, FOR GOD'S SAKE WEAR GLOVES, A DUST MASK AND DISINFECT //EVERYTHING// YOU USE AND TOUCH and IF YOU'RE GOING TO SIT FOR SEVERAL FUCKING HOURS SKINNING AND CHOPPING UP SEVEN FUCKING RABBITS ON A CONCRETE PATIO STEP FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY //SIT ON A FUCKING PILLOW// OR SUFFER THE (SORE ASS) CONSEQUENCES.

After spending an evening skinning, decapitating and, uh, defooting (?) my seven rabbits from Mr. Alpha Buck I froze the feet and the pelts, piled the heads in a pyramid on the Shango Tree/Phallic Worship altar and dropped the carcasses into a covered bucket and left the ALMOST disposed/buried parts as work for the next day.

(I tried hosing off the bloodstains, but it didn't work. (TEXAS SCOTLAND CHAINSAW POULTRY SCISSORS MASSACRE!) I'm more than happy with the patio's make-over (THE BLOOD OF SEVEN RABBITS ANOINTING THE THRESHOLD OF THE HOUSE? SOUNDS PRETTY MAGIC TO ME!), but I suspect my mother-in-law probably isn't. It'll fade in time...eventually.)

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The morning after MAGIC FOREST SEX WITH THE HORNED GOD and THE GIFT OF SEVEN DEAD RABBITS and BUTCHERING SAID RABBITS ON THE CONCRETE PATIO STEP WITHOUT A FUCKING PILLOW I found myself dizzyingly high in the backroom pruning my chili plants. At some point, while working, I glanced over my shoulder towards the Shango (Bone) Tree/Phallic Worship altar and was horrified to see A CHICAGO-STYLE WASTE GROUND IN THE BACK FUCKING YARD OF MY SCOTTISH HOME.

The picture SAYS IT ALL. (Broken fence? Check. Shit hanging from a dead looking tree? Check. Overgrown grass? Check. Bricks and bones and bizarre garbage accumulating into one inexplicable trash heap? CHECK.)

This is //EXACTLY// why I'm reluctant to allocate ANY SPACE to Papa or Shangoman; give them an inch and their black asses will clutter it up with trash. (LIKE PARTIALLY DRUNK BEER BOTTLES AND USED UNDERWEAR AND EMPTY BOXES OF FOOD. <- THAT'S NOT AN ALTAR, DAMMIT, THAT'S A MESSY ASS BACHELOR PAD!)

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"OH MY GOD MY BABY SWEETCORN ARE FINALLY DOING SO WELL AND THEY LOOK SO AWESOME AND PRETTY THAT I SHOULD TOTALLY CUT THEM DOWN AND INCLUDE THEM IN THE HALLOWEEN ALTAR SOMEHOW! I NEED PICTORIAL EVIDENCE! OH, WAIT, THE CAMERA'S INSIDE. NEVER MIND, I'LL TAKE A PICTURE FIRST THING TOMORROW - WHAT COULD POSSIBLY HAPPEN BETWEEN NOW AND THEN?"

One word: WINDSTORM.

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HOLY SHIT, SHANGOMAN, HOW DID YOU MAGICALLY TRANSPORT A PIECE OF MY CHILDHOOD (CHICAGO) MEMORIES TO SCOTLAND, 2009? (I remember passing lots between buildings and thinking "WHY THE FUCK WOULD ANYONE LET VIABLE SPACE GET SO FUCKED UP AND MESSY?"; I SUPPOSE I KNOW THE ANSWER NOW. &kt;- THERE ISN'T AN ANAL WHITE WOMEN BITCHING ABOUT THE MESS AND THREATENING TO KICK PEOPLE OUT OF THE HOUSE IF THEY KEEP IT UP.)

(For reference the Shango (Bone) Tree/Phallic Worship altar originally looked like THIS before the property value took a nosedive.)

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My pyramid of skinned, decapitated rabbit heads left overnight on the altar (covered by a dome lid off my cemetery dirt trash bin) waiting to be buried. Even though you can't see it, there are eight in total. (Seven from the day before, plus the remains of a previously butchered rabbit. <- THE ONE WE FOUND ON OUR WAY TO THE LOCAL STANDING STONES.)

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When I posted the SEVEN LOUSY RABBITS picture the number one thing I was asked was "HOW ARE YOU GOING TO COOK THEM?!" - the answer (conveniently copied and pasted from my livejournal account)?

Nothing culinary, unfortunately. (I've always been quite keen on trying as much game as possible, but before I could source some {rabbit} I had one of those PESKY SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCES where I was told, point blank, that I'm totally not allowed to eat rabbits. Wear them, butcher them, keep them, taxidermy them, and sell their organs and bones? Yes. Eating? No. <- BOOOOOOOOOO!)

Because I have very little dirt space in the backyard I can't bury anything whole to retrieve later, so I cut off the legs (44! 44 WILD RABBIT LEG/FEET/PAWS IN MY FREEZER!), removed the pelts (I skin them taxidermy like - a slit along the inner thigh to the anus, and then I "roll" the skin off the body keeping the head and ears and whiskers and nose and everything perfectly in tact in one whole hand puppet piece) and heaped the decapitated heads on my outside dirt altar (so I can bury them in the altar space and go back for them once insects have cleaned off the flesh).

I decided this time around to take the remains (the footless, headless carcasses still with organs and skeletal frame and meat) and give them as an offering to my scavenger peeps. (<- A LOT OF MY "SPIRIT ANIMALS" - OH MY GOD THAT'S SO GAY TO SAY BUT I DON'T KNOW HOW ELSE TO DESCRIBE IT - ARE SCAVENGERS, AND NOW WITH MY ROADKILL HOBBY I FEEL MORE IN TUNE WITH THAT SORT OF LIVING.)

In fact, when I was skinning last night the crows came around and saw me outside and began their daily demand for food and I REAAAAAALLY wanted to heap the bodies on the patio pillar to give crows choice pick of eyes and offal and stuff but I didn't want my mother-in-law to have a heart attack when opening her bedroom curtains the morning after. (SIGH, COHABITATION WITH NON-WITCHES, SIGH.)

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In order to get decent depth I had to move the rabbit heads and various bones* off the dirt altar to loosen and break up the soil. Once the earth was broken up I buried all eight heads, covering each of them with ancestral food offerings, before packing dirt down on everything. (The birds? They've been happily feasting on maggots for DAYS now.)

* Unfortunately, the Shango (Bone) tree can't be called "The Shango (Bone) Tree" anymore. Within days of creating the brick'n'dirt altar we had a freak summer windstorm, and at some point during the storm the Shango Tree broke free from his reigns (my father-in-law wired him to the fence he grows in front of) and shook off the majority of his bones. I originally planed on ritually burning everything, but I've since changed my mind - at least for the time being - since some of the bones have interesting shapes. (<- DIVINATION BONES, AHOY!)

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STRAIGHTENED UP, CLEANED AND READY FOR WINTER, BABY!

I rearranged the slabs of rock against the fence, picked up every stray bone, buried the heads'n'food, pulled up grass on either side of the bricks (I want to put wood chips down, or something, and ceramic pots filled with magic herbs and plants), straightened up the bricks (and swept them clean), cleared out debris that my father-in-law "threw out" next to the altar space, removed the Beltane/Midsummer ribbons out of the tree (they were tied to the branches that bore fruit this year), filled the bird feeder with peanuts, situated the peanut filled coconut shell in a more predominate place (for years it's been hidden behind the tree) and lovingly dusted off my stone cock and balls. (<- I'LL TAKE THEM IN DURING THE FIRST SNOW FALL, RUN THEM THROUGH THE DISHWASHER AND KEEP THEM INDOORS UNTIL SPRING.)

Now all I have to do is get that damn fence back together...

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One of the first offerings I made to Shangoman was a coconut - split open with an axe during a thunderstorm - years ago. I kept half of the coconut shell deliberately hidden behind the trunk of the Shango Tree in fear that Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, would find it and throw it out. (<- AN ONGOING PROBLEM.)

I rediscovered it when cleaning up the altar and figured, PERHAPS STUPIDLY SO, that IT'S PRETTY DAMN OBVIOUS THAT I'M DELIBERATELY DOING SOMETHING WITH THE SPACE SO IT SHOULD BE SAFE TO PUT OUT THE HALF SHELL NEXT TO MY ERECT STONE PHALLUS (AND BALLS).

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When I took the previous picture something in my brain WENT OFF but I couldn't put my finger on what made me go "HMMM..." - at least not until I was sitting at the computer sorting through my pictures and stumbled across this photo.

EXCUSE ME, DISNEY, BUT WHY IS MICKEY MOUSE IN MY SHANGOMAN/PHALLIC WORSHIP ALTAR? INQUIRING MINDS WOULD LIKE TO KNOW, THANKS.

(Even better? This image suddenly reminded me of a dream I had just a few days prior where a supernatural lover draped a golden chain across my bare shoulders and neck as a gift and I felt SPECIAL AND AWESOME AND SUPREMELY DESIRED until I glanced down and saw two solid gold pendants of fucking GOOFY AND PLUTO hanging off the expensive chain.)

Rabbits Out of Thin Air

I have an innate talent for attracting adventures. (Or, maybe, I have an innate talent for turning everything into a story which retrospectively MAKES everything an adventure. Which then lengthens every experience and LOL! into several thousand words when a few sentences would usually suffice.) Today's epic adventure (that could otherwise be summed up in a simple paragraph)? How I recently transformed a basket of three pitiful boletes into seven dead rabbits.

If you somehow missed the memo, the majority of my ethnic heritage hails from Eastern Europe (Ukraine, to be exact, where, crazily enough, I ALSO get my Native American genes, but that's another story for another day...). As a kid the highlight of my year was mushroom picking with my grandmother; it was-is-was THE European family activity to do (eff Monopoly when there's an entire forest filled with edible fungi!).

Foraging was instilled at a very young age by my grandmother, who didn't see fruits and nuts and mushrooms as PROPERTY, but as useful, free commodities just waiting to be picked. (<- Much to the dismay of allotment owners adjacent to my grandparents' house which were frequently raided for blueberries and raspberries and gooseberries and currants and rhubarb and anything else I could get my young hands on.)

While I don't brazenly forage in other people's backyards anymore (STEALING AN APPLE AND SOME SWEET CORN FROM A CASTLE'S WALLED GARDEN DOESN'T COUNT, DOES IT?) I still experience the driving urge to get out in the forest once the weather becomes damp and cold in the hopes of unearthing some fungal treasures. (Primarily boletes, but I'm happy to harvest puff balls, purple amethyst deceivers, shaggy caps, morels, chicken of the woods, and chanterelles.)

It was a difficult passion to maintain when we weren't independent. In order to get to ANY woods we'd have to enlist the help of an in-law, and because ONE SPECIFIC IN-LAW (the only one who was ever available) has a hard time remembering to CARRY HIS FUCKING PHONE WITH HIM SO WE CAN CONTACT HIM WHEN WE'RE READY TO BE PICKED UP the foraging party always had to expand to three. Two's an adventure (a picnic, pot, sex, forest exploring and mushroom picking adventure), three's a crowd and involvement of my father-in-law warrants an entirely new category.

A car was dropped on my lap at the brink of Harvest this year, but because I had been - and still am - insanely busy with other things we haven't had a chance to mushroom hunt properly. (I used "next year will be different, next year will be different" as an optimistic mantra while watching seasons change. After eight years of chanting, next year WILL finally be different and the disappointment I've experienced for nearly a decade will soon be nothing more than old memories.)

Because Italics has been feeling under the weather (when we don't have pot in the house we smoke a synthesized version so his lungs are okay, but the second a shipment of weed arrives so does his ongoing struggle with bronchitis) we decided to stay local which gave us the ability to hunt for mushrooms AND hunt for this year's stoner tree. (<- WE HAVE TWO CHRISTMAS TREES DURING THE YULETIDE SEASON - THE ONE IN THE COMMUNAL LOUNGE WHICH HAS A STRICT COLOR THEME, AND THE STONER TREE IN THE BACKROOM THAT'S NO HOLDS BARRED.)

We arrived just in time to watch a hunting party emerge from the forest's parking lot with several people, dogs and guns in tow. "IT'S GOING TO BE SAFE TO BE IN THE WOODS, RIGHT?" I asked Italics while eying up the hunters warily. (<- I GREW UP IN THE MIDWEST, AND AS A FERAL MIDWESTERN CHILD MY PARENTS DID EVERYTHING BUT DRESS ME ENTIRELY IN NEON ORANGE WHEN ALLOWING ME OUT IN THE WILDERNESS DURING HUNTING SEASON TO ENSURE I WOULDN'T GET SHOT BY DRUNKEN DEER HUNTERS.)

Since there was no resemblance to the deer hunters of my Midwestern/American youth I assumed they were after different game - birds. So, surely, it should be safer if they were hunting something that needed to be flushed into the air by dogs first, right? Right. Fine. Okay. We should be safe, then. (The hunters, in turn, eyed us warily as we inched past the party and into the semi-full parking lot. <- SUSPICION ON BOTH SIDES!)

We've recently had a glorious glut of weather, and despite the drop in temperature (I AM //NOT// PULLING OUT MY WINTER COAT, DAMMIT! AS LONG AS I DON'T HAVE TO PUT ON MY WINTER COAT IT CAN'T BE WINTER (THAT'S HOW IT WORKS)! Therefore I've been wearing FOUR LAYERS OF LONG-SLEEVE SHIRTS AND A FLANNEL like some sort of socially maladjusted, unfeminine lumberjack woman - SO THERE, WINTER, SO THERE!) we've attempted to enjoy every minute.

The unfortunate drawback to this glorious glut of weather? No rain. As in, not a proper drop for weeks - not exactly awesome or ideal growing conditions for mushrooms. (The dirt? Looks like sand. Seriously.) The foray started off promising; just a few feet off the beaten track we managed to excavate two lovely little boletes. The discovery gave me hope that by the end of our fungal expedition I'd have a choice array of boletes and the treasure-prize I was really after - homegrown fly agaric.

Within minutes of stepping over broken boughs and rotting wood we heard the first of the gunshots. While we didn't witness an exodus of terrified Disney animals - all stampeding in our direction - the quiet serenity of the forest was broken. (BECAUSE THERE'S NOTHING MORE ATMOSPHERIC THAN GETTING HIGH AND APPRECIATING THE SILENT, CALMING BEAUTY OF THE FOREST WHILE MUSHROOM PICKING WITH YOUR LOVED ONE AS UNSEEN, UNHEARD HUNTERS UNEXPECTEDLY BREAK THE TRANQUIL MOOD WITH SPORADIC GUNFIRE.)

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Our fungal adventure peaked with those two boletes. What started off as promising finds became our ONLY finds. We sifted through different terrains and mini-ecosystems, trampled over beaten paths, gently prodded moss encrusted bumps, stood in the golden rain of the Fox's Wedding, waded through bright meadow grasses and briskly parted seas of purple-brown heather beneath disrobing birches and prickly gorse. Nothing. (Well, SOMETHING - another bolete beneath a birch, but a flabby, larger one that wasn't nearly as firm as the two smaller ones we initially found when starting our walk.)

That sad ass looking mushroom was the last nail in the coffin. (It was at that point when our SUPER GREAT AND AWESOME MUSHROOM HUNTING ADVENTURE reinvented itself as our SUPER GREAT AND AWESOME FOREST SEX AND STONER TREE ADVENTURE.) Disappointed, but with a new goal in mind (MUST. FIND. PERFECT. SPOT. TO. HAVE. FOREST. SEX. MUST. FIND. PERFECT. TREE. FOR. STONER. TREE.), we continued to trail the edge of newish growth in the hopes of finding a crevice large enough between the trees to allow us to (AHEM) penetrate the coniferous grove.

There were dark, shadow filled clusters of spiraling pine trees reaching towards the ceiling of the sky. There were slivers of meadows with tufted grass and dry heather, fluff and insects lazily floating through the air, all illuminated by shafts of bright autumn sun. There were great living mounds; the remnants of ancient trees now gone, tucked in by a a thick blanket of all-consuming damp moss. There were small granite boulders, paths partially blocked by swinging branches and partings so tight that all you could do was close your eyes and push forward into the darkness towards the warmth of light as you felt dead and broken twigs snap beneath the driving force of your blind body.

There was all of that, but none of it caught on camera. (ACTUALLY, THAT'S A KIND'VE SORT'VE LIE. THERE ARE //A LOT// OF PICTURES, IN FACT, OF A NEARLY THIRTY YEAR OLD WOMAN WITH WAIST LENGTH HAIR AND A HUGE ASS RUNNING AROUND A MEADOWY CLEARING WEARING NOTHING BUT HER SHOES AND A PAIR OF KNEE LENGTH STRIPED (BLACK AND RAINBOW, BABY!) SOCKS IN THE OCTOBER SUNSHINE.) But you know how it is - those special moments, those special places and special images never like getting photographed, anyway.

It was arched against a moss padded rock at the foot of a natural heather and pine altar where I fucked the horned god of the forest*. With hair spilling into dying grass and body bridged up to meet his I watched the pointed tips of coniferous trees tremble in the unfelt breeze. Between thrusts and long seconds of eyes-closed-and-face-turned-to-the-sun there was a moment when everything froze and the only certainty in the world was that the sky was endlessly blue and the towering, cathedral pines would always be as they were then - fierce and beautiful, a protective fortress forever separating modern man from nature.

(* OH, GOD, HOW DO I MAKE THIS QUICK, EASY AND TOTALLY UNDERSTANDABLE? I'm not your average run-of-the-mill witch - I'm not pagan, I don't worship deities and the concept of "horned god" has been replaced by the "horned goddess" in this house. (I'm the fertility goat, the sacrificial ram, the divine nursemaid and deer priestess.) In other words, I don't do Cernunnos.)

(But what I DO do is the Old Woman, the Cailleach, the divine deer keeper. As the Old Woman I have vested interest in Our deer stock, so what better way to assess the virility and power of Our herd than by "mating" with the alpha buck? Cernunnos? Doesn't click. Coupling with the mythical MASTER OF THE FOREST (aka MY DIVINE ALPHA MALE COUNTERPART) in deer form? OH, HEY, THAT MAKES SENSE!)

Three boletes, two pot breaks and one MAGIC FOREST SEX session later I was fully dressed and complaining about our shitty lucky. An entire afternoon of searching and for what? Three mushrooms, a good selection of possible stoner trees and a helluva lot of jizz mopped off my tits - AWESOME. Being myself, I bitched all the way back to the parking lot, bemoaning my relatively empty basket and nature's inherent hatred of me and all of my nature-based adventures.

By the time we made it back to the car park the hunting party had returned. "I HOPE YOU GUYS SHOT MORE PHEASANTS THAN I FOUND MUSHROOMS," I joke-shouted over my shoulder at them while shoving my (nearly) empty basket into the trunk of the car. One of the older gentlemen said something to me which I didn't completely understand. Eventually my brain partially translated the mishmash of English, Doric (a local dialect) and heavy Scottish accent and I caught the gist of what he had said.

"OHMYGODREALLY?!" I squealed, processing that HE HAD OFFERED A PORTION OF THEIR KILL TO ME. "SERIOUSLY?!" It wasn't pheasants, it was something better - rabbits. (A mind-boggling mountain of wild rabbits.) He asked me how many I wanted, I laughed and said "ALL!" but negotiated down to "AS MANY AS YOU CAN SPARE!". (<- IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY NOTICED, MY SIDE OF THE CONVERSATION ENDED ENTIRELY IN EXCLAMATION POINTS. I WAS V. EXCITED BY THE PROSPECT OF FREE GAME.)

(You don't know "heavy" until you lug a reusable, eco-friendly grocery bag filled with rabbits (SEVEN! 7! THAT'S A SUPER MAGIC NUMBER!) across a gravel parking lot and hoist the bag'n'contents into your car's trunk.)

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And that, dear readers, is how this witch magically transformed a basket of three pitiful boletes into seven dead rabbits. (<- THE HORNED GOD OF THE FOREST? PAYS //REALLY// WELL FOR SEX.)

Harvest Home Altar (Dark)

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The picture above is my ancestral altar where I'll be plying my recently - and not so recently - deceased ancestors and relatives with food and drink throughout our harvest celebration. (Because I'm somewhat estranged from my family I don't have any pictures of anyone except for my mother, and even THAT image is the only one I have of her.)

Tonight's menu? Leftover yogurt soup (I made fresh stock using frozen bones from last year's Christmas goose and dumped in carrots, baby corn, potatoes, rice, roast duck and grilled sirloin steak marinated in miso soup), cubes of cornmeal spoonbread (it's a Ukrainian thing) and homemade garlic bread.

The bowl to the right contains Mabon's first meal - an oatmeal breakfast using PROPER pinhead oats, whole milk, a shredded apple, nuts, plums from outside, whole milk and honey. (Everyone in the house - including the rats - had a bowl before we began harvesting on the equinox.) On top of it is an offering of a glazed donut (REDUCED TO CLEAR GLAZED DONUTS? YES PLZ!) and an Italian cookie. (<- I continuously add whatever we're eating to their altar so they don't miss out on anything.)

Below are a few blurry candlelit shots of our main harvest home altar, thanks to baking bread all day (FOUR RISES? WHY DOES UKIE BREAD ALWAYS NEED EXCESSIVE RISING?!) I'm dead tired so I'll skip out on explaining shit until I have better quality pictures. (There are A LOT of skulls and A LOT of food and A LOT of Slavic kitsch.)(It'll look a billion times more impressive with some light. Honest for real.)

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Last Job

Death follows me so closely that it occasionally trips me up like a dog underfoot. And I don't mean that in a extraordinarily supernatural way where everyone and everything I know and love dies suddenly or inexplicably and I leave a blazing trail of lifelessness and despair in my wake (although that has, on one or two occasions, happened). It's more subtle than that, more LULzy than that.

When I was born I was dealt #13, but it wasn't until a few years ago that I finally accepted the category I had been filed under - mostly out of reluctance to admit that I got branded with THE COOLEST, MOST AWESOMEST CARD/CONCEPT OF THEM ALL, THANK YOU. (I mean, everyone wants the bestest one, right? And without even trying - without even hoping - I got issued the coveted badass one - death. Which in itself is worth a billion and two LOLs since I'm absolutely petrified of my own mortality. Death, fittingly enough, is afraid of dying.)

I didn't have one big, defining moment when the heavens split open and granted me divine enlightenment. I have small moments, small LOLS, small serving sizes of understanding and acceptance. Instead of one lightening bolt I have daily electric shocks that form a themed pattern that stretch back to as far as I can remember. Instead of being told once, I get reminded every day.

(Which makes up for the fact that I don't have an impressive or cool story of my birth (boringly average, no storms, no complications, although I WAS born at Resurrection hospital, and the joke's punchline had to sit for nearly thirty years before I finally got it), or a pivotal death defying moment that shaped the rest of my life (I nearly suffocated in gym class - rolled up in a gym mat with no air as classmates sat on top to stop me from "escaping" until I eventually blacked out - but the only significant thing that came from that experience was developing a touch of claustrophobia).)

I had no definite career plans until advanced anatomy and microbiology (university level classes offer to the "gifted" seniors to bulk up their GPAs and academic records). Two weeks into anatomy and suddenly my Rainman savant talent was switched on - I was made to dissect and wield a scalpel. The teacher marveled at my innate ability and I was satisfied, finally, that I could do SOMETHING remotely "artistic" with my hands - other than apply liquid eyeliner.

(My mother? A famous Native American potter. I felt cheated by life that I didn't inherit her natural talent for drawing. I desperately wanted to do something creative with my hands, but sketching and painting and drawing were SO out of the question because even though I could apply liquid eyeliner flawlessly, I couldn't draw a fucking circle without it looking misshapen.)

Advanced anatomy showed me I had natural surgeon hands - accurate, confident, quick. When cutting through the connective tissue loosely binding the small intestine (of my fetal pig) together in condensed ruffles my teacher watched through her fingers occasionally squeaking "SLOW DOWN, SLOW DOWN, YOU'LL CUT THE INTESTINE IN HALF!" but without result. (NEWSFLASH: STUBBORN ARIES IS STUBBORN.)

In seconds I spread the intestine out like an organic boa, smiling as proudly as Edward Scissorhands with his garland of paper dolls in front of a stunned classroom. (The object of the exercise was to extract the small intestine, unblemished, so we could measure who had the biggest and smallest - if you accidentally damaged yours you were immediately disqualified).

DOCTOR, I thought. SURGERY, I thought. But then, at the end of the semester, we visited a morgue at a semi-local medical school to watch an "autopsy" of a mummified woman. AUTOPSIES, I decided, surrounded by cadavers and drawn sheets, holding the cold hands of a corpses. When everyone else had gathered at the vestibule of the cold storage chamber I was still lost in a maze of gurneys and silence, touching, listening and sitting with the dead.

I cried the entire bus ride home. Quietly, silently. I remember staring at the barren landscape of the Midwest's winter, everything saturated in rain and gray. I don't know if "hollow" or "empty" covered it, but I wasn't "full" either. I just was, I guess, and even to this day I don't completely understand the reaction. (Guilty for leaving? Grieving for people who were never claimed so their bodies were donated to medical research and study? My first taste - my first introduction - to the concept of mortality?)

When I graduated later that academic year I had already been accepted into a pre-med program with a major of microbiology to become a forensic pathologist*. (HAPPINESS IS HANDLING ORGANS AND, ALSO, GROWING BACTERIA IN BEEF CONSOMME AGAR.) Unfortunately, higher education and I didn't mesh. My first stab saw me dropping out after a semester due to contracting glandular fever (infectious mononucleosis), my second stab saw me almost stabbing my lab partner (LOL!) thanks to my unnatural levels of aggression being goaded on by an anti-depressant I shouldn't have been on.

(* I feel the need to point out, just in case eyes are being rolled, my decision to go into that specific medical field predates all of those godawful CSI and BONES shows that are directly responsible for "forensic pathology" being one of the most popular areas of medical science now. I graduated from high school in 1998 and was a university student the same year.)

(PHEW, OKAY, GOOD, WE GOT THAT UNCOMFORTABLE EXPLANATION OUT OF THE WAY AND NOW WE ALL KNOW THAT I'M NOT PART OF THE CRINGINGLY LAME POPULATION INSPIRED TO MAKE MAJOR DECISIONS REGARDING MY LIFE AND CAREER DUE TO MINDNUMBINGLY FADDISH TV SHOWS.)

Despite my love of anatomy, of microbiology and all things sharp, slippery and begging to be cut open and removed I never returned to university or pre-med. I regret not returning in my own way, but I know, now, I don't have the temperament for it. I hate rules, I hate schedules, I hate the bullshit game you have to play pretending to be interested in people and things. I hate school and its lack of freedom and I'm not patient or tolerant or a team player, so I can't imagine spending an additional decade (or more) of school while putting myself into debt just for the ability to perform autopsies.

Italics eventually made the point that I didn't really want to become a doctor, I just wanted to get paid for being a skilled butcher. (LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, MY HUSBAND, WHO KNOWS ME BETTER THAN I KNOW MYSELF.) That burst of clarification most certainly saved me from a third failed attempt. I have the stomach and heart for the work, just not the patience or motivation to jump through the overly complicated (and costly) hoops. (Sigh.)

(I mean, there is embalming and becoming a mortician, but I famously hate people and interacting with them. I'm anti-social, solitary and any social interaction I make is always half-fueled by autism. I lack the inherent empathy and sympathy needed to deal with people, let alone emotionally fragile and grieving people. I suppose Italics and I could become a husband and wife team, but I'd hate to saddle him up with the position of "PERSON DEALER" because Christ knows I don't fucking want to do it.)

The prospect of becoming a certified butcher never seriously crossed my mind until I relocated to Scotland. (BUTCHER? WHAT? YOU MEAN YOU DON'T ALWAYS HAVE TO GET YOUR MEAT FROM THE GROCERY STORE? WOW.) Even though I had helped process and portion up several deers when spending my childhood summers with my family on the reservation (I'm part Native American; plains folk, Lakhota) it never occurred to me that it could be an occupation.

Those experiences made a lasting impression on me - skinning a deer with my bare hands (literally, after making the incision using your fingers to break up the bubbly layer of adipose between skin and muscle to pull back the pelt), carefully stripping whole haunches of meat into neat piles of muscles, cupping gelatinous, warm organs in the palms of my hands as blood raced down my arms and stained my clothing.

If it wasn't for the fact that that I had - and still have - a huge reverence and empathy for animals (more so than people, but that's not entirely uncommon with autistic people) I suppose "ENJOYMENT FROM DISMEMBERING ANIMALS AND BEING COVERED IN BLOOD" would be a hint at something darker and more disturbing that needed to be addressed.

(I don't want to kill, I want to give a second life. Every animal feels like a pet and when I find a dead one - either freshly killed and perfectly intact, or rotting and unsalvageable - a part of me cries, sometimes holding the more intact ones and apologizing for the car that hit it, feeling somehow personally responsible that I wasn't there to save it and feeling angry and vengeful that something was taken away from me.)

I don't know what came first - butcher or taxidermist. My only experience with butchering is of the deer mentioned above, my only experience with taxidermy is thanks to a jar of Vick's VapoRub.

(My Mom, for reasons I'll never know, took up taxidermy when I was crazy young. When I was two I was left to my own devices long enough to rub an entire jar of VapoRub in my hair, and no matter what she did she couldn't get the oil out. Supposedly she washed my hair until my scalp was irritated, she tried rubbing alcohol - she even called my pediatrician for advice, but nothing. It wasn't until she remembered that she dusted fur with cornstarch to absorb excess grease that the crisis was finally averted, and I was introduced to the art of taxidermy as a sort've kind've subject/study.)

I think butchering came first. Taxidermy came after, once I became interested in ritual slaughter and preserving the otherwise unfavored offal and organs. (There's a purpose for everything, from hearts to eyes to tongues to wind pipes.) My first love was meat and how layers of muscles were seamless sewn together with ligaments and cartilage, my second love was taxidermy - immortalizing and celebrating not only a lost life but creating a corporeal marker of my BLACK MAGIC work.

When I REALLY got into cooking I REALLY got into the food I was working with. Meat became a seductive, sensual things to touch and handle which appealed to my (legitimately) retarded tactile self. (Old walls arouse me. Touching them, rubbing them, brushing my skin against old mortar and bricks and stones. Fur, mud, blood, water and meat. They all evoke a desire - a need, a want - to strip off and run my naked body over the texture, to feel it slip across my bare skin and scratch and cover and blanket me until I'm enveloped in sensory ecstasy.)

So it started with cooking. But then I wanted to know more. I wanted to cut my own pieces of meat, I wanted to carve distinct portions recognized by butchers and cooks. I wanted a slab of an animal to reduce to piles of workable pieces. But I also wanted to know where the animal came from, how it lived, how it died. And then, ultimately, I wanted to be the hand of death knowing that the life I was going to take lived to its fullest and died with respect and reverence it deserved.

I wanted everything - the experience, the meat, the fur, the bones, the organs, the hooves. Nothing wasted, everything used from testicles (or ovaries) to mountains of fat and skeletal frames. I wanted to be the slaughterer, the butcher, the bone cleaner, the hide tanner, the taxidermist, the organ preserver and the feared witch of the woods from ancient fairytales. (The last one, admittedly, came a little bit more naturally.)

For the ability to take life I wanted to be able to restore the balance and give that sacrificed life (whether by my own hands or by an unfortunate circumstance) a second chance. That, and, I love our pets too much to commit them to the ground, even though "chthonic" seems to be encoded in my spiritual DNA. As morbid as it might seem, I'd rather have the things I loved the most in my life with me for the remainder of my life (and I'm not just taking about "golden, happy memories").

So when I say "death follows me so closely that it occasionally trips me up like a dog underfoot" it's not that I embody the concept of the grim reaper, but, instead, I'm a conduit. (I mourn, I offer relief, I give second life.) It's around me, it's always here. My life is a memento mori; dying animals find peace in my arms and I grieve their loss and my inability to be Life instead of Death. (I want to SAVE and HEAL, but all I've ever been able to do is COMFORT and PREPARE.)

I'm the last thing they know before they succumb to the mystery of death. I'm a gateway, the middleman. I'm the other side of the coin, but I'm flesh and blood. My job is the Last Job, and by writing this entry I finally understand why I wasn't programed to be the type of person who has the patience or tolerance to commit to something as all-encompassing as medical school and a career in forensic pathology - while Death is part of me, and I'm a part of Death, working as the bridge isn't what I was destined for (regardless of having the heart and stomach for it) and any career which involved me playing the role of Preparer would ultimately detract and detour me from the reason why I'm here.

(Sometimes understanding and enlightenment is bittersweet, isn't it?)

Down the Rabbit Hole

I've been sick for a week. It started with - well, it probably started with the rabbit, but I'm not going that far just yet - flashes, hot and cold ones. Flu fluctuations; one second I was ice cold and the next I was uncomfortably sweating buckets beneath a thin bed sheet. I couldn't get warm so I had a bath, I couldn't get cold so I slept naked. When Italics brushed up next to me in bed we both could feel my body burning up as I became weaker.

It was two days before my period; way, way too early to begin feeling the affects of the monthly routine. (Now a days I'm a "hot body, upset stomach and occasionally crampy" sort've woman, and these suspiciously flu-like symptoms seemed like amped up period symptoms.) I lost a lot of fluid the first day, in fact I've lost count how many times I performed THAT one person ballet in the bathroom.

(Tensely posed on the toilet, toes digging into the decorative rug beneath, calves flexing and straining as sweat ran down my naked, shivering body as my bowels peristaltically contracted again and again. I had red welts where blunt nails scratched and groped, desperately holding onto the fleshy anchor of my stomach with every undulating wave of internal movement.)

The show went on for almost a week. Encores lasted throughout the night, so when I slept it was for one, maybe two hours before repeating the performance. Some nights there were black kelp-like strings and I thought "OH, GOD, PLEASE DON'T LET THIS BE BLOOD" (black blood in your stools, V. bad, red blood in your stools, not so bad) because I had nothing better to do than be pessimistic while sitting by myself for 20 minutes on end in the bathroom being sick. (I can't even remember a time that either equaled or trumped this bowel related episode.)

Eventually my period arrived so blood - fresh, red, beautiful blood - was added to the mess. And then, after a day or two, I began suspecting that my cunt wasn't the only thing staining white porcelain red, but it took my period ending before I realized that the kelp-strings had been replaced by something less worrying (and more decorative!). As of today, a week after the first stomach flu symptoms appeared, there's no blood (from any orifice, thank you very much) and, further more, semi-solid stools.

I quietly suspected the rabbit all along, but didn't want to say anything.

(After finding the rabbit I pocketed a weathered deer bone. Being the retard I am I forgot I jammed the fucking thing in one of my pockets so when I reached around to scratch my ass the bone got me - first across my wrist and then across the back of my hand. One of the scratches drew blood and I thought "THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I NEED, AN OPEN FUCKING WOUND WHILE CARRYING A DEAD ANIMAL" - the last time something significant scratched me and created an open wound (on my tonsil) I was hospitalized for nearly 48 hours.)

(Keeping "CARRYING DEAD ANIMAL NEAR OPEN WOUND" and "BLEEDING SCRATCH CREATED BY FOUND BONE OF DEAD WILD ANIMAL" in mind the first thing I did when I got home - OTHER THAN STUFF THE DEAD RABBIT IN AN OPAQUE GROCERY BAG AND SHOVE IT NEXT TO THE OLIVE OIL SPREAD AND PITA BREAD IN THE FRIDGE - was wash the area thoroughly and apply an antibacterial cream.)

My mother-in-law saw me the morning after the first round of fireworks. "IT'S THAT RABBIT!" she insisted, but it seem far-fetched. I ate something bad, or caught the stomach flu. (Although no one else in the house displayed the symptoms I did, and we had all eaten the same thing(s). Not to mention that one instance when I succumbed to the maenad need for period sex and despite exchanging body fluids with Italics he never - and still hasn't - shown any signs of a delicate stomach.)

Unlike my toxic tonsil which turned green and swelled to the size of a well-fed golf ball I didn't have an obvious infection. The two scratches from the deer bone never became irritated or swollen, they never wept any body fluid. "It's just a bad period, or you've eaten something," Italics said, but by day 5 (or 6?) he was asking if I thought I should see a doctor. And then, immediately after, "I THINK IT WAS THAT RABBIT."

Sigh.

It was a storm I knew was coming. It was the deer in the middle of the beaten down track that ran perpendicular to the trail we were on creating a wooded crossroads. It was the freshly killed rabbit practically dropped at my feet by a hawk. It was the hawk, it was the deer bone, the scratch. (ESPECIALLY the scratch. Drawing blood always leads to some sort of fight or battle.) It was knowing that in order to use blood you have to know blood, because if you haven't fought the battle and experienced the pain, suffering and war how are you supposed to inflict it upon someone else?

To draw blood, you need to know blood. (Simple. Primitive. Intuitive. Don't make it any more complex than it needs to be. It's perfect as it is; childishly uncomplicated, but fiercely testing. Victory leaves you bloodied and weak, but stronger, smarter...experienced. Pain, She said, is the absence of death. You hurt, you live; be grateful for pain, it means you're still alive. Harsh words of compassion, but We aren't Mothers, We're fighters.)

So a week was lost, and the weather went wild. (That's the problem with Sovereignty - when you're divinely connected to the land the weather sometimes becomes a reflection of your state of being or mind.) For two or three days straight inexplicable fronts came crashing in - one second the house shuddered beneath driving rain that threatened to flood out the streets outside, the next second featured the sun gloriously shining down on deep puddles of rainwater.

On the second day I woke up from a delirious sleep and shambled to the patio door to watch a Fox's Wedding through the heavy glass partition, the sun blearily glowed behind a translucent veil of mist and rain. A winter wind howled when I threw back the door, warm air and cold air collided as the stillness of the backroom sucked in the volatile weather outside, pelting me with rain and frantically tearing at my nightshirt.

"OH, SO IT'S THIS GAME," I thought, half-amused and half-weary, smearing rainwater across my forehead when trying to dry my face with an equally wet forearm. Wind blasted through trees, shaking and whipping the hedge into a frenzy, breaking limbs and stealing my summer fruit. I watched for as long as my stomach cramps would let me, taking in the bizarre contradiction of Winter in Summer; Death and Sleep grappling Life and Growth in my beloved little garden.

Little rabbit, I followed you down the black rabbit hole, first cradling your body like a child, a pet, a silent, beloved companion, then dismembering you like a surgeon, a hunter, a chef, an opportunistic witch. Every step loving, every step careful. Every step with a hand on your back, petting, stroking, whispering you and I, my beautiful gem, we're one - I see what you see, I hear what you see, I feel your life and death in my veins.

After pain, discomfort, suffering, sickness, illness, death, dismemberment, butchering, mutilation, nightmares, sweat, darkness, dreams, rain, sun, wind and hail what did I walk away with? THIS. (And God fucking help you if your name ever gets etched on any one of those organs cause, baby, I know blood.)

...and, also, I should probably use a face mask when pawing through the intestines of a day old dead wild animal. (I REMEMBERED THE LATEX GLOVES - TO KEEP MY SCRATCHES COVERED - BUT CLEARLY IT WASN'T ENOUGH.) Live and learn, right?

Aug. 16th Walk

When all four of us are in the house I'm a ghost - unseen, unheard, quietly slipping from one closed room to another, hiding and waiting for the time I can become a person instead of a shadow. When my father-in-law leaves for the weekend the anti-social creature of darkness costume gets slipped off and the three of us (Italics, his mother and I) fall into a happy communal harmony where there isn't any real stress or anxiety because the one person who causes the bulk of both isn't in the house.

On those glorious weekends I can sometimes be found sitting with my mother-in-law at the kitchen table having long talks (this past weekend the hot topic was comparing the textures of various body hair over a pot of tea), and I'm almost definitely found in the kitchen, at some point, concocting a cliched Sunday meal from scratch for the three of us to enjoy with a glass or two of wine (I'm not much of a drinker but a half glass of red wine after several hours in the kitchen does sort've hit the spot in a satisfying, social drinker sort've way).

When there's four of us Italics and I primarily exist in the office (or computer room) and skulk around, waiting for people to exit a room so we can slip in just after to avoid contact and/or conversation. When there's three of us an unseen switch gets flipped and suddenly, as if by magic, this segregated house becomes a proper home. We eat together, we talk to one another, we don't avoid rooms (or eating) because the space is occupied by someone else; we just spend time together which isn't done AT ALL when Mr. Awesome is home. (I wonder if there's still a split personality view to the change, or if by this point my mother-in-law finally understands that we deliberately remove ourselves from socializing with them to limit the possibility of an "incident" which is bound to happen after prolonged exposure.)

When my mother-in-law mentioned she wanted some fresh air on Sunday evening I dropped the non-work I was engaged in because, DUDE, "fresh air" equals "walk in the country" and since SHE HAS A CAR AND CAN DRIVE that meant new scenery for me. (Don't get me wrong - I love the long, rambling walks Italics and I take to the cemetery, but that route is out of necessity and it never changes. We've grown accustomed to that view, to that "country". And now that they've bulldozed most of the wild fields leading to the cemetery - FOR FUCKING HOUSES, FOR MORE FUCKING HOUSES, GODDAMMIT - I'm heartbroken since it was the only piece of "country" we could access by foot.)

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With wild heather still in flower I suggested a local piece of wooded area, near a castle we frequent and just a short distance from one of my favorite cairns. So with my Easter basket in hand (and a bottle of water, my ritual scissors, my camera and a plastic bag "JUST IN CASE") we set out across the country passing crumbling stone walls, standing stones and quaint half-modern and half-ancient cottages. Setting out for the walk I expected a bundle of heather, maybe locating a few edible mushrooms and finding unripened patches of wild blackberry. What I DIDN'T expect was a hawk to drop a freshly killed rabbit (practically) at my feet.

The woods are divided into a quartered circle. You can walk the entire circumference or you can cut through the woods using one of four shortcuts. Just as we started our walk we caught sight of a doe, graceful and still, poised cautiously in the middle of the path leading into the center of the woods. She looked over her shoulder at us before bounding away, and we watched, captivated, as the beautiful creature slipped into a sea of green, disappearing almost instantly.

I paused for a second, wondering if the encounter was some sort of nudge. (I work with the indigenous - and very local - winter/storm/death/magic hag and goddess, the Cailleach. Deer are HELLA sacred to her and there's evidence to suggest that long, long ago She and Her deer were revered and venerated by the people here through deer cults headed by deer priestesses.) In my experience when I see a deer - WHICH ISN'T AS COMMON AS YOU'D THINK IN SCOTLAND, OKAY? I GREW UP IN THE MID-FUCKING-WEST WHERE WHITE TAILED DEER WERE ALL LIKE "WHAT THE FUCK EVER, DUDE" AND GRAZED ON ABANDONED GRASSY LOTS NEXT TO O'HARE AIRPORT - some serious shit is about to go down.

Sometimes animals lead, and sometimes they're there to give you a jolt so you're paying better attention. (Crows are good for leading, in a pinch I've asked them for directions and they've pointed me straight every effing time.) When you have one of those moments, though, it takes a second to get your bearings, and if you think too long - or too hard - you find yourself faffing around in the same spot, not doing anything. ("SHOULD I FOLLOW? SHOULD I STAY ON COURSE?")

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We stayed on course, and after that hushed moment of communion my wooden Easter basket was swinging again as we veered around rocks and roots, gently prodding moist mushroom caps as we passed hoping that every fungi poked would have sponge instead of gills. (You can't misidentify boletus, baby!) Within minutes there was a wild explosion of air, feathers and fur as a predator bird - a hawk - took flight, its giant wings slicing through the air as it cut across our path before settling on a nearby pine tree.

Not having my glasses (I need them for distance, but they're so fucking cumbersome thanks to the fucking frames being bent out of shape that I usually just leave them at home if I'm going to be bending over a lot when out) I used the camera's zoom function - as far as it'd go - and managed one picture of the bird before it took off with a single, sharp cry. (In the picture you can see that it's looking over its shoulder at us, and I didn't completely understand why it was so interested in our presence until a few minutes later.)

A freshly killed rabbit surrounded by a tufted halo of fur lay strewn across our path. It was a fresh kill; an immediate kill. It was nearly decapitated, sprawled over uneven mounds of thick, dense moss and red cap mushrooms. When I stroked its body it was HOT (not "warm" but "HOT"; THE ALL CAPS IS V. IMPORTANT TO ACCURATELY DESCRIBE THE LEVEL OF BODY HEAT STILL EMANATING FROM THE BODY) and I suddenly understood the dirty look the hawk had given both of us in the one picture I got of it.

What's harder than deciding whether to follow one of your spiritually significant animals or stay on course despite the unexpected run-in? DECIDING WHETHER TO TAKE AN ANIMAL'S MEAL. (On one hand She was there, as a deer, signaling for me to PAY ATTENTION, STUPID. And both the rabbit and hawk are significant to me (the rabbit is another one of my personal animals, and the hawk was my mother's). On the OTHER hand if I took the rabbit then I'd be depriving an animal of sustenance, maybe even a nest filled with fledglings.)

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In the end I felt like it was a test. Not, you know, about stealing food out of the mouth of wildlife, but a personal test to see if I had what it takes to continue my interest in preserving animals. (I have HUGE interest in becoming a taxidermist, but also harvesting fur, organs, bones and other body parts of roadkill for witchcraft purposes. OH HONEY, YES, I'M //THAT// SORT'VE OF WITCH!)

I had it easy with the Lammas fox I found and scooped up from the roadside; its stomach cavity exploded on impact and everything - AND I MEAN EVERYTHING - was gone except for the heart (which I was most interested in, along with tongue and eyes). There was no gutting involved whatsoever since all of the internal organs weren't present, which totally wasn't the case with the rabbit. The fox was all about skinning and scraping liquefied brains and skull from the pelt, the rabbit? The rabbit was ALL THE WAY, BABY.

I apologized to the hawk, but it wasn't there to accept (or revoke) my attempt at making amends for the appropriation. So I talked to her (or him; I didn't find any nuts but I also couldn't find a uterus or ovaries - practice makes perfect, eventually?) and stroked its downy coat, lifting the hot-blooded animal into my arms like a pet as its nearly separated head rolled and gurgled, emitting familiar clicking noises from its torn throat.

(We euthanize our own rats and we know that there's no turning back when they begin "clicking"; it's the sound of their lungs shutting down as they slowly begin to suffocate. When we hear that we know it's time to use nitrous - laughing gas - to gently and painless put them to sleep.)

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At first I carried the rabbit like a burping baby, a third of its body over my shoulder, its bleeding neck thumping against my shoulder leaving a swatch of fresh blood on my white t-shirt. I ran my free hand down its back, stroking, whispering, petting; loving it like it was my own, loving it like I knew it from the second of birth. When the lactic burn began eating away at my arm I cradled it against my chest like a sleeping infant, its head nestled into the crook of my elbow, its legs, soft and pliable, extending against my forearms as it seemed to sink into a peaceful sleep, the position perfectly hiding the neck trauma and giving an illusion of contented life.

All the while my mother-in-law interjected with "ARE YOU SURE YOU WOULDN'T JUST RATHER PUT IT IN THE BASKET?" and "OH, BUT YOU'RE GETTING BLOOD ALL OVER YOUR SHIRT!" not understanding that the residual discomfort that came from holding the rabbit as we walked on was a necessary part of the game. I tried to explain to her that I was establishing a link - a connection - with it, but I think even my dumbed down explanation went over her head and my reluctance to part with my find was written off as another one of my weird quirks.

(By treating it like a beloved pet I was creating a bond so it knew me. I was creating an emotional resonance with it so, later on, when I needed it it would work with me because what animal, especially wild, would do anything for you if it wasn't acquainted with you somehow? I know ultimately it's a very simple way of thinking, but that's my magic - almost stupidly simple to the point of ridiculousness. (WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE COMPLEX, ANYWAY? ISN'T MAGIC AT ITS VERY HEART NATURAL, PRIMITIVE AND INTUITIVE?))

The rest of the walk was terrifically unremarkable. As we pottered along my mother-in-law found a weather beaten bone (deer, due to the size, probably from the pelvic/haunch region due to the sockets and shape) hanging from a branch (something I should've easily see myself but without my glasses I had given up looking up and over my surroundings and simply focused concentration on the rabbit and the occasional outcropping of mushrooms along the beaten path).

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At the very last leg of our walk we passed a lane of towering rowans where wild bee balm grew, the purple hassocks covered with wild bumblebees drunkenly ambling from one nectar filled stem to another, none of them particularly bothered with the fact that I was shoving a camera directly in their face as they gathered food. (The BEST picture I got has my mother-in-law in the corner ("I'LL MOVE OUT OF THE WAY SO I DON'T RUIN THE PICTURE BY BEING IN IT!", prophetic or what?), so much for submitting it to the bumblebee conservation newsletter (SIGH).)

PS: Rabbit butchery tomorrow; way, way too tired to talk through another 17 pictures. (<- CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED, FAINT OF HEART!)

A Taste of Fall

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Even with the brambles still flowering you can see fall creeping in around the small, ruined church next to the abandoned walled garden (just a hop, skip and jump from the cemetery). Sometimes I pinch myself and think HOLY FUCK, I LIVE //HERE//; on days like these it totally blows my fucking mind.

Lammas 2009

This year's Lammas celebration in 54 pictures. (<- WITH EXPLANATIONS TO FOLLOW!)

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Taxidermist in the Making

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I just spent the afternoon cleaning and processing the carcass of a fox road kill.

(The worst part of butchering a dead fox whose chest and stomach exploded leaving only its heart, windpipe and esophagus intact? Not popping joints, tearing muscle from skin, snapping cartilage, dismembering whole haunches, getting covered with several layers of gore'n'blood or scraping liquefied brains and skull remains off the inside of the pelt - it's smelling of wet fucking dog, everywhere.)

Wild Raspberries & Blackbirds

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Hiking to the wild raspberries I found her on the gray asphalt, her body still warm and fluid. I held her limp form next to my heart, against my dead mother's flannel and stroked her downy head.

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Construction workers paused to glance out car windows at the woman in the plaid flannel holding an empty wooden basket and a dead female blackbird against her chest, wandering down a slightly misty country lane by herself at six in the morning.

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Cemetery Currants

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Currants harvested from the local cemetery.

(What does a witch do with fruits harvested from a graveyard? I dunno. What does a witch do with fruits harvested from a graveyard knowing that they'll be useful for something even if she really fucking hates the way they taste so they'll in no way EVER be used for anything culinary? She cleans them, dries them and bottles them in a clean spice jar for future witchery.)

Incense Making In Progress

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I'm dissolving a dehydrated blood clot (<- I PICK BLOOD CLOTS OFF MY MENSTRUAL RAGS WITH A PAIR OF TWEEZERS AND THEN DRY THEM ON GREASEPROOF PAPER FOR LATER USE) in some whiskey to add to a personalized necromancy incense blend I'm working on. (To the left are the first two WITCH'S GARLIC bulbs I've harvested this year.)

Cycle of the Sycamore

It's official, we're parents! Well, okay, maybe adopted parents, or, uh, legal guardians, or something. ("Or something" = "suckers who fill up three separate bird feeders every other day providing an all-you-can-eat 24/7 buffet for pint-sized cheep-cheep birds"; yeah, we're pushovers - even the crows know how to get table scraps out of me.)

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Just as I was getting ready for bed (I'm currently up at night and going to sleep around eight in the morning) I saw it - all puffed up with baby fluff and giving every bird that passed it a narrowed look of MAJOR CRANKYPANTS. ("Are you my Mommy? No? Are you going to feed me, anyway? No? FUCK YOU, THEN! Are you my...")

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A baby! A round ball of feathers and fat! A BABY! A teeny tiny beak that cranked open whenever another bird - regardless of species, although they were all small since it was breakfast time for the little cheep-cheeps - came in close proximity. (OUR baby! Fed and nurtured with food we've provided all year long.) I nearly melted into a sleepy pool of "awwww!" (so much for my title of QUEEN BITCH DESTROYER, right?).

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There's a sycamore outside our office window which I've been fighting to keep. (When Mr. Awesome gets bored with something he chops it down; there isn't any REAL reason why he wants to kill the tree outside our office/computer room window other than sheer boredom, and I'm not about to let someone who's otherwise abandoned and ignored the garden for 10+ years make major decisions that'll affect me and the local wildlife I've worked on attracting. IT AIN'T HAPPENING, YO, THE CRAZY BITCH DAUGHTER-IN-LAW HAS SPOKEN.)

In Fall I listen to the howl of The Old Woman as her breath tears through dozing branches and rips withered leaves from stems. In Fall I watch the whirlwind of crackling leaves sweep off the ground and into the air, tumbling across asphalt and concrete and covering the ground below; a forecast, a premonition of what's to come.

(Sparrows and Wren flutter on the ground like animated leaves, partially camouflaged in the new layer of wizened foliage from the sycamore, looking, hunting and finding the last of the insects before easy, free food disappears for a season and a half.)

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In Winter I stand breathless at the window altar in the middle of the night, watching a black sky turn violet as the first reflective flakes of frozen lace drift aimlessly in the sharp air. In Winter I kneel at the holy altar of Death and Sleep, the sycamore barren and bony, fiberglass snow tracing branches and stems outlining a skeletal mirage on the living and sleeping.

(Robins, with their red breasts, flutter from branch to branch, singing and calling on still mornings, when the only sound beside their territorial calls is the steady, static crunch of snow falling.)

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In Spring I celebrate the tight buds of growth - crowns of leaves shrink wrapped into tight, little bullets, waiting for the trigger pull and explosion of cordite. In Spring the world celebrates as the warming breeze rustles through waking branches, rain and wind stimulating tiny, oval clitoral buds as crocuses and snowdrops blanket the ground in a living, breathing carpet of wedding flowers as The Old Woman regresses and becomes The Virgin Bride.

(Blackbirds, with their dipping tails, jump from branch to branch excitedly, replacing the Robin's fragile hope of Spring with a robust and optimistic promise of Spring as they race along the tender shoots of my witch's garlic looking for moss to pad their nests-in-progress.)

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In Summer...well, in Summer I take the season off because, Jesus, I've already spent three quarters of the year celebrating something. (A GIRL NEEDS SOME TIME OFF, ESPECIALLY WHEN "DEATH" AND "WINTER" IS SORT'VE HER THING.) In Summer the sycamore opens like an umbrella, obscuring everything within behind a thick cloak of green and I forget about the bird feeder hidden behind the downy cover of leaves but rediscover it, later on, when the leaves begin to thin and curl, exposing, once again, the endless cycle of the sycamore - a home, an altar, a church, a symbol.

(...HE IS SO TOTALLY NOT CUTTING IT DOWN. EVER.)

Baby Book

I don't know what to say anymore, that's why I take pictures. Things, ideas, events and memories have been wiped off the blackboard of my mind so any motivation I feel is pressure to remain active, to keep running because if I stop for a breath at this point it'll all unravel.

(Keep moving, keep pushing, keep taking pictures to record it all. Winter'll be the time to introspect and retrospect, but now - right now - is the time to plant the seeds for those long, dark nights. Now's the time to run, bare feet to the earth, heart screaming in your chest, and concentrate on making it TO the end, not the end itself.)

This diary thing is like needles and pins. I know where I want to go with it, I know what I want to do, how it should look, how I should present it. I've spent a year braiding different parts of my life into one single plait, but the harder I work on it, the more I see I'm forcing things and the end result is starting to look sloppy.

I want to write. I want to record dreams and stupid MAGIC LOL! happenings. I want to share what I'm cooking, sharpen my food photography. I want to crack open all of these goddamn desktop folders labeled with past events (i.e., "LENT RITUAL", "EASTER BASKET", "WEDDING ALTAR", ETC.) and share the images, explaining every little article and object tucked away in the background.

I want to show you MY LIFE and how I'M DOING THIS MAGIC THANG; but the grit of it, the dirt, the very substance that creates a foundation of belief. I want to showing the beginning and the end, and have the transition from one to the other felt and experienced by others. I want to show, because it's so goddamn easy, so much easier than any other person, book, or site makes it seem.

But I don't have time to write, or show, or share. I did before, when it was cold. That schedule was perfected, flawless. (It's easy to be a housewife and witch when you're confined to six rooms in a single level "bungalow". When it's freezing outside and everything's covered with ice there's time to think and plan and scheme and mull over the year's previous events while doing the laundry and making dinner and cleaning the house.)

I never anticipated being this knee-deep in Spring. I connected with Winter a few years back; the first winter after my longest, most intense period of depression. (OH, GOD, I HATE USING THE "D" WORD BECAUSE EVERYONE'S FUCKING DEPRESSED NOW, AND I REALLY FUCKING HATE GETTING LUMPED UNDER THE "CLINICALLY DEPRESSED" CATEGORY BECAUSE THE LAST THING I WANT PEOPLE TO THINK IS THAT I'M, OH MY GOD, JUST LIKE YOU, OR HER, OR THEM. I'M NOT.)

I was anxious in November, not knowing what December or January or February or even March had in store. Daylight receded, darkness prevailed; the cycle didn't stop just because I was apprehensive about my reaction towards the change of the season. And then? And then, one night, the blackened heavens opened up, turning the sky violet as snow began to fall for the first time that winter.

Snow's breathtaking, especially at night. I don't know what it is about frozen flakes of water that still manages to captivate me (STILL MANAGES TO CAPTIVATE ME = I'M 30 BUT STILL ACT LIKE I'M 7 THE SECOND I SEE SNOW), but when it's present, so am I, my face pressed up against the window fogging the glass with my breath as I watch the white noise rustle and settle on a dead world. Sometimes I think it's just me being my autistic self, having my own Rainman moment, staring transfixed for hours at the living, swirling static outside.

(ALTHOUGH DON'T DROP A BOX OF TOOTHPICKS IN FRONT OF ME BECAUSE I'M A -HIGH FUNCTIONING- RETARD WHICH MEANS MY NATURAL RESPONSE TO PEOPLE MAKING A MESS AROUND ME IS TO BE PISSED OFF. I'M CURRENTLY A SELF-EMPLOYED HOUSEWIFE, NOT A HUMAN CALCULATOR, THANKS.)

I did the most obviously stupid, simple thing - I went outside, in the middle of the night, high off my ass while wearing my wedding dress (which hadn't been become my wedding dress yet; that wouldn't happen until April 2008) and welcomed The Old Woman for the first time. (During the cold, lifeless months we're The Crone, The Old Woman, The Whore. During the warmer, life-filled months we're The Virgin, The Bride. Our year is from extreme to the other, and We experience the transformation gradually as the spectrum of the seasons slowly slide back and forth.)

(I suspect that's why death terrifies me so much; We don't die. We're always here, present, in some form. There isn't a time when We aren't here watching, existing and being. In my mythology He dies, We remain. When there's no end, the concept of "the end" is petrifying; the only thing Death fears is death.)

That's how I cured my depression, I welcomed Winter. (OKAY, AND I ASKED FOR GUIDANCE AND THE ABILITY TO FIND STRENGTH AND RESOLVE IN MYSELF WHEN I MOST NEEDED STRENGTH AND RESOLVE. (WHY OUTSOURCE AND BEG FOR A ONE-TIME MAGIC WISH OF "COURAGE AND STRENGTH" WHEN THERE'S AN UNLIMITED RESERVOIR WITHIN THAT YOU JUST NEED TO LEARN HOW TO TAP?) OH, AND, ALSO, I ASKED FOR CONTROL OF THE WEATHER. BUT THAT'S ALL, THOUGH, CONTROL OF THE WEATHER, INTERNAL STRENGTH AND RESOLVE. I DON'T ASK FOR MUCH. <- LOL!)

That was, Jesus, three years ago, or something. And it hasn't come back, not once. I accepted the inevitable I couldn't pause or change and requested - from myself - to be able to adapt to what I couldn't control, and control what I could. OH, AND ALSO ALL OF THAT WEATHER MAGIC STUFF WHICH I DIDN'T ENTIRELY BELIEVE IN BEFORE (OH, HONEY, IN MY GAME I DON'T HAVE TO ACKNOWLEDGE EVERYONE ELSE'S GAME. I'VE GOT BETTER THINGS TO DO THAN FAKE INTEREST, SYMPATHY OR BELIEF IN OTHER PEOPLE'S "PSYCHIC ATTACKS" AND THEIR MAGICAL ATTRIBUTES AND/OR SPECIAL POWERS THAT READ STRAIGHT OFF A ROLE-PLAYING CHARACTER SHEET.) BUT I DO NOW.

I didn't expect to connect with Spring like I have. For the past few years I've felt the burden of death on my shoulders and I've accepted the job, sometimes hating it, sometimes loving it (almost always, though, feeling complete). I never anticipated that I could get such a spiritual and emotional high off something like PLANTING and BEING OUT WITH NATURE and NURTURING DEFENSELESS SEEDLINGS; that's all, you know, LIFE STUFF, and We're DEATH STUFF.

Once I caught Papa standing in the middle of his chili peppers, hunched over and "gardening" amongst the potted, in-door vegetables. "HOLY SHIT," I balked, "DEATH ENJOYS GARDENING?!" And suddenly IT MADE SENSE - of COURSE DEATH ENJOYS FUCKING GARDENING. It's completion, you know? It's the other half We don't have, it's submerging yourself in the radical newness of THE OPPOSITE.

But it's a strong, addictive drug. When my mind wanders, it wanders to gardening. When my eyes wander, they wander to a window, the patio door, whatever transparent sheet of glass that's present in the room with me. When the weather is dealing me shitty hands (I ONLY TRY AND GIVE WEATHER SYSTEMS A PUSH WHEN I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY NEED TO) I bemoan my inability to go outside and finish my trench digging and I pace around the house, unsatisfied with the day, waiting for the next one in the hopes that I can return to the self-appointed manual labor sitting outside.

Spring's entirely consumed me, and thanks to that consumption I'm finding it increasingly harder to sit down and THINK when all I feel racing through my veins is "BE ACTIVE, BE ACTIVE, BE ACTIVE, BE ACTIVE". (It's a bizarre compulsion, an insane 180 from any other Spring in any other year.)

So I take pictures hoping that, one day, the images will be able to convey what I was thinking, feeling and hoping when snapping the photo. So I take pictures because they're my baby book for this year, and at the year's closing when everything's covered and asleep I can go back - The Old Woman - and relive those fleeting green moments, when a young woman made the transition from Virginal Spring Bride to the new matriarch of the house to The Old Winter Hag Whore.

2009 Pysanky

Easter ain't Easter without two things - Paska and Pysanky. WAIT, NO! I TAKE IT BACK! Easter ain't Easter without THREE things - Paska, Pysanky and paschal lamb butter. (BREAD WITHOUT BUTTER? WUT? IN WHAT AWFUL, NIGHTMARISH ALTERNATIVE REALITY? <- Called "Event Horizon", I believe!) If you don't have the holy trinity, you don't have Easter, period.

Paska? Pysanky? WTF? Let's focus on the second and I'll get around to the first later. (HEY, IT'LL HAPPEN! I EVEN PREPPED THE IMAGE FOLDER YESTERDAY!) Pysanky are those crazy colorful, sometimes awe-inspiring geometrically designed Easter eggs made by an ancient dye and wax method.

(I'm not sure if "pysanky" is a blanketing term that most Eastern Europeans use, or if it's strictly the Ukrainian translation for the art. Seeing that I'm Ukrainian myself, I can only go by what was evident to me growing up.)

If you're Ukie and know it (i.e., practicing certain traditions from THE OLD COUNTRY), you most definitely either HAVE pysanky or, if you don't, you're only one person removed from someone who does (your ma, for example, or your elderly aunt).

Some folks only bust out the decorated eggs around Easter (they help to fill out the Easter basket which gets blessed on Holy Saturday and give an injection of color to baskets ladened with bread, butter, salt and smoked pork products - HOW DO YOU JAZZ UP A SIDE OF BACON? BATIK EGGS, OBVIOUSLY!) and others, like my grandparents, keep them on proud display throughout the year along with horrendous, cheap ass homages to the delicate and fragile art.

(THERE ARE WOODEN VERSIONS OF PYSANKY WITH TASSELS. SERIOUSLY. WOODEN EGGS SITTING IN WOODEN CUTS WITH WOODEN TASSELS. I CAN STILL SEE HEAVILY LACQUERED EGGS SITTING NEXT TO THE DUSTY SAMOVAR ON THE DINING ROOM'S BUFFET AND THE WOODEN BEADS THAT'D SWING BACK AND FORTH, WOOD RATTLING AGAINST WOOD, AS WE RAN PAST PLAYING HIDE-AND-SEEK IN THE PREFAB HOUSE AS KIDS.)

My family were particularly close to their roots since they were forcibly uprooted themselves thanks to the second world war. My grandfather was forced into serving the Russian army after they swept through his village at the foot of the Carpathian mountains. They killed a sibling (an infant brother), institutionalized another (a sister who spoke out against Russia, collective farming and Communism) and enslaved every able man and older boy to fight the war.

(HELL, IF AN ARMY CAME INTO YOUR LITTLE VILLAGE AND KILLED PART OF YOUR FAMILY, STOLE OTHER MEMBERS AND THEN NON-NEGOTIABLY MARCHED ANYTHING REMOTELY RESEMBLING MALE TO FIGHT A WAR ONLY TO KILL ANYONE WHO SO MUCH AS ATTEMPTED TO DESERT THE CAUSE I THINK YOU - OR, UH, "I", I MEAN - ARE SOMEWHAT JUSTIFIED AND ENTITLED USING THE WORD "ENSLAVED")

My grandfather deserted despite knowing the repercussions if he was ever found. (So much so that he was terrified to to go back home, even after the USSR was disbanded. He died never being able to return home for one last time.) He walked from Manchuria - WALKED! DUDE, HE FUCKING //WALKED//! - to Germany where he was given sanctuary at a refugee came.

There he met my grandmother and married having my mother in 1947. They eventually left for the USA in 1951, crossing the Atlantic ocean in the last great wave of immigration. My uncle was born in the States, but I'm the first generation of female born in America, and I didn't join the LIVING BEING scene until 1980.

Sometimes I feel like I got such a tight hold on my roots that there's dirt from the homeland caked beneath my nails. Growing up in an immigrant household all my grandparents had, in the very beginning, were their memories and traditions, and while they adapted and joined the American culture they dearly held onto their heritage.

My mother, at some point, began making pysanky. I don't know where the interest came from, or who she learned from (I'D ASK, BUT SHE UNEXPECTEDLY DIED A FEW YEARS BACK SO THERE'S A LOT I DON'T KNOW AND THERE'S A LOT I WISH I HAD LEARNED) because I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of my grandmother having even a passing interest in drawing a straight line.

(WEARING LIME GREEN POLYESTER 70S SHORTS WITH NOTHING ELSE BUT A GIANT GRANDMA BRA AND A BEEHIVE DURING SUMMER? BABA HAD THAT COVERED, YO.)

My mother did amazing, amazing work. (I'd show you if MY ESTRANGED FAMILY ACTUALLY ALLOWED ME TO TAKE A FEW OF HER THINGS, BUT THEY DIDN'T. AT LEAST NOT THE VERY IMPORTANT STUFF I WAS PROMISED LIKE HER UKIE CROSS-STITCHING, HER EGGS, AND ALL OF THE THINGS NEEDED TO CREATE BOTH.) She made the leap from late-night squinting at eggs to late-night squinting at pottery and, by the time of her death, she had become so accomplished as a Native American potter that some of her pieces were inducted into museums.

(We have a mixed heritage - my grandmother's father was Lakhota (IT'S A VERY LONG STORY THAT INVOLVES AN INDIAN TRAVELING ACROSS THE OCEAN IN A WILD WEST SHOW AND GETTING HELLSA SEA SICK AND NEVER WANTING TO GO ON A BOAT AGAIN) which made my mother a 1/4th and me a laughable 1/8th.)

OKAY, MAYBE THAT'S A LITTLE TOO MUCH FAMILY HISTORY, BUT I JUST WANT TO ILLUSTRATE THE DEPTH SOMETHING AS STUPID AS A DECORATED EASTER EGG HAS FOR ME.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the skill required to create these terrific gems. And the older I get, the more I fucking kick myself for not having expressed interest in learning the art before my mother passed. (LOOK, I WASN'T EXPECTING HER TO DIE FROM A FRACTURED ANKLE IN HER LATE 50S. HAD I KNOW THAT, I WOULD'VE ADJUSTED MY LIFE SCHEDULE ACCORDINGLY.) This year was the tipping point for me when it became increasingly clear that, OH, HEY, MAYBE I CAN DO THIS AFTER ALL! but the inherent skill I felt wasn't translated/expressed through a dull-tipped Sharpie marker.

(THE PENCILING IN OF SHIT? EASY. TRYING TO CREATE FINE, THIN BLACK LINES WITH BLUNT PERMANENT MARKERS AND SCENTED CHILDREN'S MARKERS? (<- LIGHT BLUE/MANGO IS MY FAVORITE!) NOT SO EASY, EVEN WHEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF MEPH. <- WOW, WAS IT EASY TO CONCENTRATE ON DIVIDING EGGS IN PENCILED SECTIONS WITH RUBBER BANDS WHEN STIMULATED OUT.)

Ever since Italics and I were able to import smoked kielbasa from Wales (OKAY, TECHNICALLY IT WAS DOMESTIC, BUT WALES, LIKE SCOTLAND, IS DOING ITS OWN THANG WITHIN THE UNITED KINGDOM) we've been observing Easter the traditional Eastern Orthodox way. (You can check out the journal entry EASTER SUNDAY for more information if your interest is suitably peaked.) Friends in the States take pity on us and every few years we receive a giant box of USA Easter paraphernalia (PAAS dying kits, Peeps, etc) to replenish diminishing stock.

(YES, VIRGINIA, YOU CANNAE GET PEEPS IN SCOTLAND FOR EASTER. OR EGG COLORING KITS, FOR THAT MATTER. ALTHOUGH I'VE BECOME INCREASINGLY FRUSTRATED WITH THE TABLET-AND-VINEGAR METHOD AND AM PLANNING TO USE NATURAL PLANT-BASED DYES NEXT YEAR FOR BETTER AND MORE EVEN COLOR.)

Despite neither of us being skilled in creating proper pysanky (I'M WORKING ON THAT, THOUGH) we still derive great stoner joy in sitting down together as a couple with a dozen dyed eggs, a box of non-toxic markers, weed and a movie (which can be partially ignored as we do our own late-night squinting).

The annual activity's become even more special thanks to last year when we began the tradition of decorating an egg for people, relative, friends and pets that've passed on since last Easter. Once our highly personalized eggs are done, we leave them as offerings at the base of an ancient tree in the local cemetery's cairn.

When I relocated to Scotland (Italics is Scottish and we decided that we'd rather have an entire ocean separating us from MY family rather than his) my favorite Easter tradition - Swieconka - was a thing of the past. In fact, it took me several years to even FIND a deli that carried smoked polish meat so I could have some shipped up to northeast Scotland for Easter brunch.

Eastern Europeans, especially the Polish, have begun immigrating to the UK in a major way. Last year, due to the huge influx of Poles, a Polish deli opened in town. (DEAR AND GENTLE READERS, YOU CAN ONLY IMAGINE MY REACTION.) This year? This year, due to the huge influx of Poles, a single Swieconka service was held at the Catholic cathedral I occasionally pop into to pray at the feet of the Blessed Virgin.

(FIRST OF ALL, I'M NOT GOING TO APOLOGIZE FOR APPROPRIATING AN ALREADY ESTABLISHED ARCHETYPE - I.E., THE VIRGIN MOTHER. SECONDLY, THERE'S A FUCKING STARBUCKS AND TWO LINGERIE SHOPS ON THE SAME STREET - CASE CLOSED, THE JURY FINDS MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT INNOCENT!)

And? AND IT HAPPENED ON MY BIRTHDAY! So on top of preparing the house and ourselves for THE GREAT RITE / SACRED MARRIAGE / HIEROS GAMOS I also had to get my first Easter basket - MY FIRST ONE! MY FIRST, ALL-BY-MYSELF, I AM THE MATRIARCH OF THIS HOUSEHOLD BASKET! - prepared for the single service.

We only managed to dye the eggs, but at least I was able to take my grandfather's egg - along with a few plain eggs wrapped up in those decorated plastic shrinking sleeves - to church and get it blessed by a priest before sitting down and dedicating it him with pencil and Sharpie.

(I TAKE THAT BACK! AFTER THUMBING THROUGH PICTURES NOT YET UPLOADED TO FLICKR I CAN SEE I TOOK ONE PLASTIC WRAPPED EGG (THE ONE WE ENDED UP EATING), MY GRANDFATHER'S RED EGG AND BEH'S YELLOW BUMBLEBEE EGG. NOW THAT THAT'S CLARIFIED...)

This year's pysanky event began on the day we unexpectedly got married after the long (VERY LONG) observation of celibacy during Lent. (I was raised orthodox Catholic, but I consider myself a witch. Since being exposed to the terrific Byzantine opulence of Eastern orthodoxy - which, needless to say, made helluva impression on me - I cherry pick the best of both worlds, or anything that moves and speaks to me. While not being Catholic I observe Lent as a period of spiritual, mental and, most importantly, physical purification as I undergo the process of becoming THE VIRGIN SPRING BRIDE after reigning as THE WINTER HAG WHORE. <- OH, I GET TO BE THE CAILLEACH //AND// THE BRIDE! THE WINNER IS...ME!)

I use the term "UNEXPECTEDLY" because "HAVING ANAL SEX WHILE SUPER INTOXICATED AND SCREAMING "I DO! I DO!" WHEN CLIMAXING" wasn't exactly on the agenda. (SEX SHOWERS = GATEWAY ACTIVITIES. WE WERE SO DAMN GOOD UP UNTIL WE CLIMBED INTO THE TUB AND BROKE OUT THE WAFFLE CONE SCENTED SHOWER GEL!) So we were unexpectedly wed on Easter Sunday, and our reception was the BBC's Easter service followed by the Pope's address from the Vatican.

After a long day of SEX and TURNING THE EARTH (<- literally, we spent some of the glorious day outside planting vegetables together) we retired to the couch with blank, dyed eggs in our lap and, with a Ukrainian Easter brunch spread before us for dinner, our first real act as newly joined husband and wife was honoring and remembering loved ones that've passed by selecting and dedicating Easter eggs as THE TEN COMMANDMENTS played in the background.

(LOOK, I HAVE //NO IDEA// WHY MY FAMILY MADE THE TEN FUCKING COMMANDMENTS AN EASTER TRADITION, BUT THEY DID. ALTHOUGH, SEEING HOW I'M A WITCH INCORPORATING CATHOLIC TRADITIONS INTO HER CRAFT I CAN'T REALLY CRITICIZE MY CRACKHEAD FAMILY FOR MAKING AN OLD TESTAMENT STORY MANDATORY WHEN CELEBRATING A NEW TESTAMENT EVENT. DOING YOUR THING REGARDLESS OF WHAT THE MAINSTREAM'S DOING MUST BE GENETIC, OR SOMETHING.)

As I bring this entry to a close I wish I could offer more folklore regarding Ukrainian Easter eggs, but I wasn't taught the folkish, symbolic side of pysanky. Everything I've learned so far (but haven't mentioned because this entry is already hella, hella long) is due to Google search and the few Ukie cookbooks in my possession. In my family they were viewed as a cultural art form, something done and admired because THAT'S JUST WHAT UKIES DO.

Although doesn't take a lot of imagination to get the feeling of what my ancestors must've thought or felt when undertaking this exquisitely complicated ancient art. Because, as we all know (whether pagan or Catholic), almost everything starts with a blessed egg...

Alex Fullerton, Druggist Egg (no picture)

A week before staying in town overnight a friend sent me an email requesting some graveyard dirt (the hotel we stay in is directly opposite of the St. Nicholas kirkyard, perfect timing!). Since she wanted something specifically to help her in her new career field (she's a health worker) I knew exactly where to go - The Late Alex Fullerton, Druggist. In return for the dirt I left behind a gold foiled wrapped chocolate coin and one of the (blank) red eggs.

  
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Beh's Bumblebee Egg (above)

After her roommate died partially blind Beh Beh quickly succumbed to her "BRAIN THING" (the very scientific diagnosis by the vet; she had some sort of brain tumor) and passed away just over a month after Crazy Rat (aka Hezbollah). We've never lost two rats so quickly in succession; it was utterly heartbreaking.

JB was my Beh Beh, my busy little Beh and my sexy Bumblebeh. So when it came time to select Beh's egg we immediately knew that the yellowest, most golden egg had to be hers. We spent ZERO TIME deciding on the design since it was so obviously obvious and her bumblebee egg will be buried in the same container where her Bee Balm will be planted.

  
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Didi's Egg (above)

My grandfather ("Dido" is Ukie for grandfather, but we never stopped calling him "Didi" even though it was the incorrect baby pronunciation) recreated the orchards from his youth in southern Wisconsin. My grandparents' two acres were filled with ancient oaks, gigantic lilac bushes, a vegetable garden almost two acres long, a patio vineyard and an orchard filled with nearly 50 plum, pear and apple trees.

When I think of my grandfather, I think of the Red Delicious trees that grew in straight lines buzzing with honeybees; I think of the two McIntoshes that were easy to climb and had the best tasting apples. I think of blood - from war, from loss, from life, from beets (heh) - and I see his hands stained red, the imagined sight forever haunting him despite the happiness that his displaced Eden brought him.

Dido was the only grandfather I ever knew and he was a very important (and active) figure in my life. He passed away in September of last year, but none of my estranged family decided to contact me. I only found out about his passing after Christmas when my uncle finally sent me a "HE'S DEAD, STOP SENDING HIM STUFF" letter.

It was just before this past Easter season when I learned, long, long ago Ukrainians left red eggs on the graves of relatives, friends and ancestors to celebrate the concepts of reincarnation and resurrection (reincarnation eventually replaced by the Christian resurrection) - something we've already been doing for a few years now.

So I gave my grandfather the brightest, most deepest, most perfect red egg we had and decorated it with Eastern Orthodox tinted art. Not knowing when he was born I could only Sharpie in the year he died. The other side of the egg features the phrase "CHRIST HAS RISEN" and a folkish pussy willow branch (since palms weren't indigenous to Ukraine they use/d branches of budding pussy willows as a substitute) paying tribute to the tree that grew in front of my grandparents' house and provided us with branches for the Easter season.

Dido's egg will be buried next to the roots of my new Red Spur apple tree since he, apples and the color red go hand-in-hand.

Egg-tagon Egg (no picture)

The Egg-tagon egg's life started out as a blank, teal-colored Easter egg until I began outlining the penciled cross sections I created with a rubber band. (OH NO, I'VE GIVEN AWAY THE PYSANKY SECRET - RUBBER BANDS!) For whatever reason, the second the black Sharpie touched eggshell the damn thing began to leak.

I abandoned it, frustrated, and gave it a few days to see if it'd dry. (It did. Well, mostly...) Not entirely sure what to do with the quartered egg I turned it over to Italics who immediately said he'd make it into an EGG-TAGON (you know, octagon, like the MMA CAGE OF WAR) and he'd bury it in the backyard since that's the new part of the house that we're currently fighting for control over. (MY HUSBAND, HE IS ACE AT THE MAGIC, YOU KNOW.)

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Haduka Egg (above)

The haduka design is a very old, very ancient design. (WOW, WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT A DESIGN FEATURING A SPIRAL HAD THAT SORT OF PROVENANCE, RIGHT?) Because I'm difficult and Ms. Opposite I decided to 180 the standard depiction and feature the head of the snake as the starting point of the coil. (I wanted the picture to reflect something internal, something going within itself.) This baby's being taken to water - the North Sea - so I can leave it as an offering to my tentacled water correspondent.

(Papa, otherwise known as Baron Samedi, is my chthonic earth, Chippy, otherwise known as Pazuzu, is my chthonic air and the Tentacle Ones, otherwise known as, well, you can take a wild guess, is/are my chthonic water. Everything that's arrived in a big way, uninvited, unexpected has an underlying theme of "deep" and "underground". When I met the Black Rabbit for the first time I had to go Underground, where the Queen of Heaven's cathedral blazed Byzantine blue deep in the belly of the earth.)

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Hail Ukraine! Egg (above)

I'm annoyingly nationalistic for someone who identifies herself with a country and heritage, but can't speak her native tongue. (It's so native, in fact, that it was my first language. For the first several years of my life I spoke Ukrainian exclusively, but when it came time to enter public school I had to have a crash course in English and during that frantic pace of learning I forgot my mother tongue. I still understand it, though, but only if people are speaking a westernized version of it. <- EASTERN UKRAINIAN IS MORE RUSSIAN, WESTERN IS MORE ROMANIAN. IN FACT, I HAVE AN EASIER TIME UNDERSTANDING SOME ROMANIANS THAN I DO SOME UKRAINIANS DUE TO MY FAMILY'S DIALECT.)

When the Ukrainian soccer team's playing I pull out my Ukie soccer jersey, Orange Revolution scarf and my mother's golden tryzub pendant and run around the house like a maniac when goals are scored. (PRETENDING, ALL THE WHILE, THAT THE ENTIRE CORRUPTION / SCANDAL / BAN THING NEVER HAPPENED.) It was Italics, though, who suggested I take one of the yellow eggs and paint half of it blue - the colors of the Ukrainian flag.

(The blue symbolizes the sky, and the yellow represents wheat fields - Ukraine is known as the "breadbasket of Europe". According to Wiki the two colors also correlate with fire and water and the pair of colors have been used together way, way before Christianity, OH, WIKI, YOU NEVER CEASE TEACHING ME ABOUT MY OWN CULTURE! <3!)

I'm not sure where I'm going to bury this one. I recently purchased three dwarf fruit trees (two apples and a pear) to start my own orchard, albeit in containers. (You got to start somewhere, right?) When the trio arrived they were all battered and bruised due to the shit packaging; the two apple trees survived, but the pear, disappointingly, perished. I was originally going to join the Hail Ukraine! egg with the pear tree, but I'm not sure if I should take the unfortunate pear death as a sign to match the egg up with the Golden Spur apple.

  
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Hezbollah's Hitman Egg (above)

Hezbollah was our Arab rat from Lebanon who lead a secret life as Hitman while disguised as a gardener, talent agent and occasional cracker salesman. Rats, in this house, never get called by their "vet names". (i.e., the normal names, non-nickname names that we don't have to explain to anyone else - Hezbollah, for instance, started out as "Rhonda" from the Beach Boys' song "Help Me Rhonda" and Beh was "JB" from "Sloop John B" and Jigga was "Barbara Ann"...)

Crazy Rat (aka Rhoda / Hezbollah) arrived on the scene during the 2006 Hezbollah war, and while Italics and I racked our brains for a nickname the only thing we heard in the background was HEZBOLLAH, HEZBOLLAH, HEZBOLLAH (for our daily dose of LULZ we keep FOX NEWS on in the background); the name/word stuck. And that, dear and gentle readers, is how you accidentally name your pet after "a Shi'a Islamist political and paramilitary organisation based in Lebanon", TRUFAX.

Italics carefully sketched and filled in the Hitman suit on Crazy Rat's egg, and even marked in a bar code at the base of the egg's "neck". This is another egg we haven't got a clue what to do with so it's currently lying in state until a decision's made. (Something related to gardening is my guess.)

Leprechaun Egg (no picture)

You know how they say a picture can tell a thousand words? Well, a YouTube video can tell a million more. If you've seen LEPRECHAUN IN ALABAMA then you can guess what our sole green Easter egg looked like (someone's profile sketch of it - THAT'S AN HONEST TO GOD FOR REAL NON-HOAXED SKETCH OF WHAT ONE EYE-WITNESS INSISTED THEY SAW), and where it's going to go (IN A TREE, NATURALLY, WHERE LEPRECHAUNS AND CRACKHEADS LIVE).

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Mask's Egg (above)

This is another one of Italics's patient creations. A few months before Easter someone involved in the MMA scene died after crashing his car. He was known for his 24/7 face paint and outrageous clothing. I can't remember who suggested it first, but Italics took the wheel and drew an approximation of his war paint and even created a hat for the egg. (To give you a rough idea, here's a picture of the semi-recently deceased before he became semi-recently deceased: CLICK!)

Pac-man Ghost Egg (no picture)

The very last egg left sitting by itself was blue. And it sat, and sat, and sat while all the others were selected and scribbled upon. Every day I'd spend a few minutes frowning at it, all pysanky-ed out, trying to figure out what we should do with the final blank Easter egg. (I mean, we had to do SOMETHING since blue - especially dark blue - is a tremendously huge MAGIC color for me.) PACMAN GHOST, I suggested, since it was about the right color. And Pacman ghost it became, although neither of us know where Inky's going to haunt...

  
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Pysanka w/Folk Designs (above)

Every year I make one or two eggs that reflect the simple folk art of my ancestors. (OH, THEY LOVED SPIRALS AND LADDERS AND HAMMERS AND SHARP, ANGULAR ANIMALS.) With my tiny Ukie cookbook on my lap and meph helping me concentrate I carefully freehanded designs from a book onto a quartered egg as the Ten Commandments played in the background. (AS CHILDISH AS THEY LOOK, THEY'RE PRETTY SPOT ON. I WASN'T JOKING WHEN I SAID "SIMPLE" BEFORE "FOLK ART".)

One panel reflects a stylized rooster, another a sheath of wheat. The other side's decorated with a bee, and the final quarter is a jumble of images - a growing leaf, a ladder, a rake and the symbol for "maiden" (which doubles as Aries; my sun sign).

YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MUCH I LOVE THE FACT THAT MY ANCESTORS PAINTED LADDERS AND RAKES ON EGGS THAT SYMBOLIZED THE CIRCLE OF LIFE AND REINCARNATION. (<- Ladders, strangely enough, became spiritually significant to me a few years back, so it's a double LOL! to find out that even my ancestors had a religious and spiritual reverence for them.)

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Striped Pysanka (above)

This is about the closest I got to a proper pysanka from my youth. Normally I just freestyle shit, but with this one I wanted to reflect a simplified version of a symmetrical pattern running all across the egg. Italics, for some reason, was impressed. (And me? I was frustrated that the lines couldn't be finer, but when you're working with a blunt Sharpie marker you've got to throw any notions of "finely detailed" out the window.)

This is also the Easter egg that finally made me go - OKAY, SO YOU CAN DRAW A STRAIGHT LINE WITH LIQUID EYELINER, AND HAVE A HAND STEADY ENOUGH TO GO INTO MEDICINE - WHAT'S YOUR EXCUSE FOR NOT GETTING A BEGINNERS KIT TO START MAKING PROPER PYSANKY?

Once we snag a vacuum sealer (OUR FROZEN RATS ARE GETTING FREEZER BURNED! GAH!) I'm totally getting my first pysanky kit and giving up my dependency on Sharpie markers. (BUT YOU CAN'T TAKE THE SCENTED MARKERS AWAY FROM ME. LIGHT BLUE / MANGO AND I WERE MEANT TO BE!)

Wheat Egg (Laid) (no picture)

You so don't want to know what happened to this egg, but since this is MY ENTRY and this is MY DIARY you're going to find out what happened to this particular egg, regardless. (SO THERE.) I'll give you a hint - CHICKENS AREN'T THE ONLY THINGS THAT LAY EGGS. (Ahem.)

Spanking Day was observed twice this year, both on the Julian and the Gregorian calender. Italics's first egg was the shell of a real egg filled with hazelnut praline (it's still sitting on his beside altar / nightstand space), the second was a bright yellow duck egg laid straight into his hand.

We never got a proper picture of it, but you can see the Wheat Egg in two Flickr images as we performed a quick wheat planting ritual before going way for the night. Wheat Ritual III has the egg sitting with seeds, and Wheat Ritual IV shows the egg and a golden coin being buried deep in the dead crow dirt container.

(I'm not delving into too much detail about the laying and planting since I intend to record the ritual properly in its own journal entry.)

Wrapped w/Plastic Sleeve X 3 (no picture)

EVERY GODDAMN YEAR I FORGET THAT OUR STANDARD "MEDIUM" SIZED EGGS WON'T FUCKING FIT THOSE DECORATIVE PLASTIC SLEEVES THAT SHRINK OVER EGGS ONCE SUBMERGED IN BOILING WATER. Thankfully, this year, we managed to squeeze one perfectly within its PAAS jacket; the other two needed a slight nip in the side to fit more properly.

The smallest of the three was taken with my grandfather's red egg and Beh's yellow egg and blessed at a special Holy Saturday church service. We ritually ate the smallest one, and then left the other two in the cemetery as Easter offerings. (Muriel - this being her first Easter deceased - got one, and I left the other one at the foot of a homemade cross on the nun's grave which can be seen in the picture Sisters of St. Mary.)

STICK A FORK IN ME; I'M DONE. (If that wasn't already apparent a few pictures back when the information regarding each egg became less enthusiastic and wordy.) If you aren't done, though, and can't get enough of my pysanky pictures and/or stories you're in luck because there's a few more pictures that show some HOT PYSANKY ACTION: Altar Set, Tribute to the Deceased, Witch's Workspace I, and Witch's Workspace II.

(If you've read this far you totally deserve a pysanka of your own.)

April 29th Walk

When my mother-in-law mentioned she had a work related appointment at Balmedie and offered Italics and I a chance to roam the shoreline there was a mad scramble for showers and clean clothes.

(HOLY SHIT, DUDE, IT'S BEEN AT LEAST //2 YEARS// SINCE I LAST VISITED A FOR REAL BEACH EVEN THOUGH IT'S LESS THAN A HALF AN HOUR AWAY. <- When you depend on others for a ride, spontaneous trips to the beach become an elusive thing of the past.)

There was a bit of back and forth between Italics and I because Balmedie has a reputation for being one of the very few recognized SEX ZONES of the area (everything from swinging to voyeurism), at least during the beach's AFTER hours.

(WHICH, HONESTLY AND TRULY, MUST BE TOTALLY AWESOME FOR THE LULZ, AND I WOULD 100% GO TO INVESTIGATE IF I DIDN'T THINK THAT SHOWING UP DURING THE RUMORED HOURS WAS PARTIAL CONSENT AND/OR GAVE THE APPEARANCE OR IMPRESSION OF GENUINE INTEREST ON MY PART. I MEAN, IT WOULD BE GENUINE INTEREST, BUT IT WOULDN'T BE THE SAME INTEREST SHARED BETWEEN MYSELF AND ANY POSSIBLE EXTRA-MARTIAL PARTNERS, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.)

With us galloping towards the solstice the days are stretching out and claiming territory that used to belong to night. Right now we still have remnants of sunset that hang around in the sky long after the sun's disappeared, so the Scottish gloam period extends further and further into military hours. Around four in the morning Byzantine blue erupts in the east and pushes back the glittering cover of night, by five the first incandescent streaks of light peek over neighboring houses and spills across concrete.

SEX PERVERTS BE DAMNED, I ultimately decided. (LOLOLOL @ SEX PERVERTS BE DAMNED, AS IF THE WOMAN WHO SAT COMPLETELY NAKED ON THE RAW NEW YEAR'S PRIME RIB AND DEMANDED HER HUSBAND TAKE PICTURES COULDN'T POSSIBLE FALL UNDER "SEX PERVERT" HERSELF) In the end we agreed that it wouldn't be dark enough to warrant anything overtly sleazy and dubious so we could fly Chippy's butterfly kit undisturbed and, more importantly, unmolested.

(LOOK, IT'S NOT THAT I'M AFRAID OF SAYING "CHEERS, BUT NO THANKS!" AS POLITELY AS I CAN; IT'S JUST THAT I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO BROKEN RECORD IT THROUGHOUT THE DURATION OF OUR NON-SEXUAL KITE FLYING BEACH TRIP. I TOTALLY GET THAT //I'M// THE ONE NOT USING THE BEACH FOR WHAT IT'S INTENDED FOR, RUMORS AND ALL, SO, IN A WAY, //I'M// THE ONE GIVING OFF THE WRONG MESSAGE.)

Showers were taken, eyebrows were plucked, better-than-nice clothes were crawled into (I WAS GETTING READY TO VISIT MY SPIRITUAL AND EMOTIONAL HOUSE; YOU DON'T GO TO CHURCH WEARING YOUR RAT-CHEWED SWEAT PANTS, DO YOU?), best white push-up bra and favorite crotchless panties were donned, ritual jewelry was adorned, Chippy's butterfly kite (Chippy's my chthonic air correspondent who has a soft spot for little cheap-cheap birds and dainty butterflies) was located and the blue haduka pysanka (an Easter egg dyed blue with a black Sharpie drawing of a coiled serpent; a very old, very ancient Ukrainian design that's thousands of years old) was plucked from the egg carton to leave in the North Sea as an offering to my chthonic water correspondent.

...and after ALL of that effort we never actually went. (FOR SERIOUS.) It mostly boiled down to wind, if you can believe it. (NO, NOT SEX PERVERTS SINCE I FEEL I COULD OUT SEX PERVERT ANY SEX PERVERT YOU PUT IN FRONT OF ME.) It was already hella windy here, about 15-20 miles inland, and, apparently, it was a lot worse on the actual coast. So we folded our kite flying and Easter egg offering cards in favor of going for a walk to the local cemetery to leave some of our overly ripe pysanky at the cairn for the dead (which we meant to do on Easter Sunday).

((This is the point where I'm going to break down our walk through pictures so the V. IMPORTANT SHIT (i.e., the shit that almost always seems to happen when we're in transit to, or from, the local cemetery) gets noted for personal reference. I love being overly enthusiastic with unnecessary words; just not today, especially when photos can easily get the job done.))

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Just after we crossed the tiny road trailing up the hill and began passing the first fenced in pasture field (SHEEP! BABY LAMBS! TREMENDOUS "AWWS!" ALL AROUND!) next to the DISTURBED CHILDREN'S HOME (some pictures are HERE and HERE and HERE and HERE and HERE) I discovered a bit of fur fluff on the grass next to the wire fence.

Something popped, literally, when I bent over, which made me pause for a split second before I dismissed the sensation in favor of investigating the piece of (wild) rabbit fur. Upon further inspection, it turned out that bit'o'fluff was actually a detached tail, connecting bones (or cartilage) and all. After expressing concern for the now tailless rabbit I tucked my pointed fluff into my breast pocket and we continued on towards the stove and cemetery.

(When I went Underground for the first time and encountered the female deity-entity-person-thing who governs over me She told me that rabbits were sacred to Us and that I wasn't allowed to eat them. (Although I AM allowed to wear them, which means I didn't have to retire my beloved white rabbit fur coat.) As frank as She was, it was Her straight-faced amusement that made me wonder if She was just yanking my chain. OH, BLACK RABBIT, I KNOW THAT WE COMMUNICATE THROUGH LOLS BUT THIS IS ONE MYSTERY I HAVE YET TO UNRAVEL COMPLETELY.)

(I SRSLY THINK SHE'S JUST SNICKERING AT ME BEHIND MY BACK AND SILENTLY NUDGING EVERYONE ELSE WITH HER ELBOWS IN MY DIRECTION SO THEY CAN JOIN IN AND LOL AT ME, MISS HOLY-SHIT-SHE-DIDN'T-GET-THAT-IT-WAS-A-JOKE. "OH, YEAH, SURE, WE DON'T EAT RABBITS, YOU KNOW, BECAUSE WE'RE THE BLACK RABBIT, AND RABBITS REPRESENT SEX AND DEATH...")

The rabbit tail is sitting on the saucer of my Russian divining tea cup set (THE BLACK RABBIT IS RUSSIAN, BTW, WHICH, I GUESS, IS PROBABLY IMPORTANT TO MENTION) but it's going to be dropped in a clean baby jar with lid and packed away with all of my other semi-gruesome witch jars filled with dehydrated animal parts. (OH, HONEY, YES, I'M //THAT// SORT'VE WITCH.)

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Since our normal route to the cemetery always involves crossing the beech hedge into a cow pasture we decided to stop at the stove (it resides at the very start of the narrow line of ancient trees) to see if any of the offerings we left about a week ago still remained.

(BEECH HEDGES? COW PASTURES? OUTSIDE STOVE AND OFFERINGS? Sounds like you might need to read the ARCTIC RIVER entry which explains our annual outside stove ritual.)

Everything was gone; they didn't leave a trace. All of THIS had disappeared - without leaving so much as a crumb - except for the two pomegranates which laid discarded amongst the broken stone. I pocketed both, deciding that I'd leave them (secondhand offering, YAY!) at the cairn with the eggs.

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Last year we started the tradition of decorating an egg for friends, relatives, pets and people who've passed once since the previous Easter. We dye about a dozen eggs and then carefully designate which egg will represent the deceased and decorate it accordingly.

Once the eggs begin smelling ripe (they have a tendency to get left on the altar a little bit TOO long, YOU KNOW HOW IT GOES) they get carted off to the cemetery where they're left at the roots of the giant tree that grows in the middle of the cairn.

(As it turns out Ukrainians - 7/8th of my genes; the other 1/8th is Lakhota - left red eggs on the graves of their ancestors and friends around Easter long, long ago to celebrate the concepts of resurrection and reincarnation. It's amazing to find the shit you're doing through spontaneous instinct actually has a FOR REAL history with your heritage.)

This year we decided only some of the eggs we decorated would be left at the cemetery. My grandfather's egg, Beh's egg and Hezbollah's egg are still at home with us waiting to be buried in various plant and tree containers along with a few other eggs that were decorated purely for decoration purposes. (You don't throw away pysanky; it's bad luck. You respectfully bury it, burn it or drop it in running water.)

(We've already agreed that Beh's bumblebee egg will be buried beneath the bee balm we planted her this year (bumble bees live underground! they're chthonic, you know!), Didi's red pysanka will be buried beneath the red apple tree that's just arrived, but we aren't entirely sure what to do with Hezbollah's egg...)

Italics made a LOL! pysanky tribute for two guys involved in MMA that've passed recently (Mask and Evan Tanner) and I left behind two slightly more traditional Ukrainian pysanky with folkish designs (done in Sharpie marker - ONE OF THESE YEARS I WILL PICK UP A BEGINNERS KIT TO MAKE FOR REAL PYSANKY, UNTIL THEN NON-TOXIC MARKERS WILL HAVE TO DO).

So the eggs and pair of pomegranates were left, and I took the opportunity to trim some overhanging branches that've made getting to the hidden cairn a bit difficult. It took me shaking off my flannel jacket (so I could have an unencumbered woodland piss) to discover that OH SHIT, THAT POPPING SENSATION FELT EARLIER WHEN PICKING UP THE DETACHED TAIL WAS ACTUALLY THE BRA STRAP OF MY VERY NEW, VERY FAVORITE WHITE PUSH-UP BRA SNAPPING AND SEPARATING FROM THE BACK.

(And I only realized THAT once one of my unleashed boobs came tumbling out of my t-shirt. OH, BABY, EVEN UNINTENTIONALLY I AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT //CLASSY//!)

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One of these days I'll tell you guys about how - long, long ago - I desperately wanted to be a nun. (Blame AGNES OF GOD and my mother allowing me, as a fix-six-seven-eight-nine-ten year old, to watch it whenever the fuck I wanted. I was raised on a movie diet of RED SONJA, BARBARELLA, AGNES OF GOD, STAR WARS, and SHEENA, QUEEN OF THE JUNGLE.) I mean, they're just priestesses in uniform, you know?

Whenever I visit the cemetery to leave something for Papa or Muriel (ANOTHER STORY I V. SRSLY NEED TO TELL) I occasionally leave something for my fellow sister, so it only seemed right to leave her a less ostentatious Easter egg. Both Sister MacDonald and Muriel were given undyed eggs and a long drink of bottled water.

(LOLOLOLOL! IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT, IT TOOK ME LOOKING AT THE PICTURE ABOVE TO REALIZE THAT THE CATHOLIC CHURCH I VISIT IN TOWN TO PRAY AT THE FEET OF MARY'S STATUE ("ZOMG SHE DOES //WUT//?!" DUDE, I'M NOT PICKY WITH MY VIRGIN MOTHER ARCHETYPES, OKAY? BESIDES, A STARBUCKS AND A LINGERIE BOUTIQUE ARE ON THE SAME STREET - SCORE!) HAPPENS TO BE THE SAME ST. MARY'S THAT SISTER MACDONALD WAS FROM. LOL, WHOOPS?)

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WAIT, WAIT, WAIT - THAT'S NOT THE AVERAGE LENGTH AND WIDTH OF A GRAVE THEY DIG HERE! (So what the EFF is going on? THE WITCH WHO ADOPTED THIS CEMETERY AS HER GRAVEYARD STOMPING GROUNDS WOULD LIKE TO KNOW.) What I DO know is that it wasn't impressive enough for me to yank off my favorite pair of crotchless panties to drop into the to-be grave (or whatever it is).

(I ACTUALLY HAVE A DRAWER IN THE BEDROOM PARTIALLY FILLED WITH USED PANTIES. ONCE MY THONGS OR WHATEVER GET SHOT THEY GET TRANSFERRED TO THE PANTY OFFERING DRAWER TO BE DONNED FOR THE FINAL TIME BEFORE BEING LEFT AS AN OFFERING.)

(FOR INSTANCE, I CLAIMED MURIEL'S GRAVE BY PISSING IN IT (WHICH IS HARD TO DO WHEN YOU'RE HIGH AND TRYING NOT TO PISS ON YOUR FEET WHILE BALANCING ON WOBBLING PLANKS ONLY PARTIALLY COVERING AN EMPTY HOLE WAITING FOR A CASKET) AND THEN DROPPED IN THE (WHITE) UNDERWEAR I HAD BEEN WEARING. AFTER SHE WAS BURIED AND THE SOD WAS THROWN BACK OVER THE GRAVE I LIFTED A PATCH AND TUCKED A SECOND PAIR OF WHITE PANTIES IN, EFFECTIVELY SANDWICHING HER BETWEEN MY USED UNDERWEAR.)

(YOU DO MAGIC YOUR WAY, I DO MAGIC //MY// WAY.)

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OH DEAR, JESUS, LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE'S BEEN BREAKING //A LOT// OF BREAD RECENTLY (PERHAPS IN "ALL YOU CAN EAT" BUFFET FORM?). OR MAYBE YOU'VE SECRETLY FORSAKEN YOUR DIVINE FATHER IN FAVOR OF CAKE? (IT REALLY WAS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME, WASN'T IT?)

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When walking back home from the cemetery we passed an overly friendly couple ambling in the opposite direction. I flashed a polite smile and glanced away, not in the mood for direct contact. As it turned out it was my old doctor - the one who blatantly disregarded everything I said and, in doing so, set back treatment for my several diagnosed digestive disorders - and his wife, and once Italics clued me in I felt saliva burst into my mouth and spat the froth behind my shoulder in my former GP's direction.

(I BAKED HIM A LOAF OF BANANA BREAD, YOU KNOW. MY SECRET INGREDIENT? A PINCH OF MY HOMEMADE FET GHEDE GRAVEYARD DIRT. HE SAID IT WAS INORDINATELY DELICIOUS; HIS WIFE, IN FACT, FINISHED MOST OF IT OFF. NEWS USUALLY TRICKLES DOWN FROM HIS WIFE TO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, AND THEN FROM MY MOTHER-IN-LAW TO ITALICS. ONE OF THESE DAYS, WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT, I'LL HEAR SOMETHING AND KNOW THAT THAT PARTICULAR STORY SOLELY BELONGS TO ME.)

Italics spat too, a few second after me, and I've wondered ever since if that was deliberate, or accidentally coincidental. (It's not like he doesn't have his own personal grievances when it comes to our once shared doctor.)

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It was only after the walk that I realized that it was April 29th, which meant it was my mother's birthday. She was born in Hanover; a German refugee camp because her father - my grandfather - was a Russian army deserter (after killing an infant sibling and institutionalizing a sister (for speaking out against the Russians and communism) the red army came and forced my Ukrainian grandfather - and all other able men and boys from his village - to join the army).

She died in one of our two ancestral homelands - the Black Hills, South Dakota. (The Black Hills are sacred to the Lakhota people. She took her quarter of Native American and discarded everything else; I've embraced my 7/8ths of Ukrainian and left her with my eighth of Indian.) If she hadn't died of a pulmonary embolism a few years ago (she fractured her ankle after falling on ice when letting one of the dogs in, a blood clot formed and traveled up to her lungs where it got stuck and effectively caused an artery to blow up) she would've been 62.

After the bra strap, after the tail, after the stove, after the pomegranates, after the eggs, after the mysterious grave, after ALL YOU CAN EAT Jesus, after spitting in the dust of my previous doctor (THEY SO WOULD'VE BURNED MY ASS FOR THAT A FEW HUNDRED YEARS AGO), after receiving two orgasms and reciprocating with a handjob it suddenly dawned on me - as I glanced out the bedroom window to the sickle hanging in the sky - that it was my mother's birthday.

So, after all of it, I stood in silent communion on the cold concrete steps, and took a picture of the blazing crescent moon (IT BLAZED A LOT MORE IMPRESSIVELY TO THE NAKED EYE, BTW) for my mother; the stubborn bull that was the precursor to this stubborn Aries.

Arctic River

This Spring's been an arctic river overflowing with winter run-off. Fast moving, non-negotiable waters thunder past my legs pushing, pulling and sweeping me away with the charging current. There's no use fighting the tidal wave of lightening movement, so I haven't tried. (No struggling means freedom, even when lost amongst the tumbling chaos, and with my attention undistracted I can almost catch all of the beautiful, awe inducing gems the season's hidden away just for me.)

(IN OTHER WORDS, I'VE BEEN SO GODDAMN BUSY FOR THE PAST THREE WEEKS DUE TO SPRING RELATED ACTIVITIES THAT I'VE HAD TO RELY ON MY BRAND NEW BIRTHDAY CAMERA AS A DIARY.)

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Late last year I stole a narrow stretch of waste ground where I loosened the earth and haphazardly planted over three heads of garlic. (I didn't think it'd work, but it DID.) Very early in February there were suspicious shoots popping up in a semi-neat row, and now, at the very end of April, this is what it looks like. Next year? Next year I'll try even //harder//. (Any more effort than I originally expended would already be an improvement. Srsly.)

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No signs of scrapes yet. (Once the garlic is ready to flower it grows out a tentacle - the scrape - which'll eventually blossom. To encourage bulb growth you need to cut the scrape before it flowers so the energy is diverted below.) But, baby, once those fuckers pop up it'll be garlic scrape pesto time...

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Sections of Aberdeen were built on a hill, so a part of it slopes down at a slow angle and is only disturbed by stairs and old buildings. Wild city rabbits live in any patch of green (along roadsides, next to towering blocks of apartments and in cemeteries) and as we were cutting through lanes and streets and alleys to get to our dinner reservation, we saw that the rabbits had already beaten us to Sunday dinner.

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I always feel stupidly disappointed when wild animals don't respond to my ANIMAL SPEAK. (ANIMAL SPEAK = PURSING LIPS TOGETHER AND SUCKING AIR IN JUST A LITTLE TO MAKE A SQUEAKING SOUND.) Italics and I have spent years developing ANIMAL SPEAK since our first pair of rats, Ann and Nancy (after Heart, although Nancy was the one who got fat out of the pair).

Animal Speak gets used when I want to attract the attention of the rats (they know it's my COME HERE RIGHT NOW or FOOD PEOPLE HAS FOOD or I WANT TO SEE YOUR LITTLE RAT FACES voice), but it'll also work on wild animals - they cock their head, blink and then give you a straight up WHAT THE FUCK? expression.

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Last year we celebrated the winter solstice by renting a hotel room and staying in town overnight. (Aberdeen's roughly 15 minutes away from us; we're in a subdivision in the shire where it's mostly rural.) Even though we were running late we took a few minutes in the privacy of the alley to take some pictures.

(AND WHEN I SAY "TAKE SOME PICTURES" I MEAN, "GET HIGH BEFORE EATING A RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF CHINESE FOOD AND, ALSO, TAKE SOME PICTURES".)

The above picture was taken mid-April (spring!), and THIS HERE PICTURE was taken mid-December (winter!); both show Marischal College's tower erupting in the background.

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In the few instances we've used the stairs as a shortcut we were always on schedule for something. This past trip, however, we were running early so we were able to loiter more leisurely around ancient brick and stone.

While Italics was trying to get our pipe working (JOINTS ARE NICE IN A SUPERFICIAL VISUAL WAY, BUT WASTEFUL - AND, ALSO, I DON'T LIKE MY FINGER SMELLING LIKE CIGARETTES) I noticed, for the first time, that there was writing on the wall.

(I have NO idea what it means, but Aberdeen's known for keeping crazy ass insane records, so it should be easy to find out the history behind the engravings.)

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I don't know anything about this church other than it's OLD, OLD, OLD (you can tell by the structure of the buildings attached to it, and the look of the building materials) and IT'S ANOTHER ABERDEEN CHURCH (you guys would not believe how many fucking churches there are in the city). I haven't made my way up to visit it, but I do intend to...eventually. (To see the church at night in winter click on THIS HERE LINK.)

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I chose this little Italian cafe place for my belated birthday dinner. Despite being absolutely desperate for a pizza (I'VE TOLD ITALICS V. BLATANTLY AND WITHOUT ANY SUBTLETY THAT I'M WILLING TO PROVIDE SEXUAL FAVORS FOR A REALLY FUCKING GOOD PIZZA; YOU JUST CAN'T GET THE PIZZA I WANT HERE IN SCOTLAND) I saw that they served veal Marsala and my Evil Queen heart (I ALSO WEAR FUR. THAT'S RIGHT - I EAT VEAL AND WEAR FUR AND ADMIT TO BOTH; CRUCIFY OR WORSHIP ME AS YOU PLEASE.) skipped a beat and all notion of pizza was gone.

Italics, either up for the challenge or hoping to fill the pizza void in my Chicago-born heart, ordered a calzone. The picture above does absolutely no justice to the sheer size of the fucking monster; that plate could fit a decapitated head on it easily - EASILY. My veal? A little tough due to being overcooked, but the Marsala sauce was exquisite. Their cured meats (our starter) were terrific, but the Tiramisu was only so-so (they put a layer of jam, or something, through the dessert, but it tasted like apricot-flavored petroleum jelly at best, and apricot-flavored toothpaste gel at worst).

The coffee? To fucking die for. (It was seriously the star of the evening.)

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By the time we saw a movie, walked up from the beach, had dinner and returned back to the hotel it was edging just past nine in the evening. I had to keep a straight face while gnawing on a inner cheek when I noticed that our hotel neighbors opposite of us, despite having two trash cans in the room, decided to discard their take-away garbage in the hall.

(LOL, CLASSY! I ESPECIALLY LOVE HOW THEY HUNG THE "DO NOT DISTURB" SIGN. OH, POOR PEOPLE, YOU'RE AN ENDLESS SOURCE OF DISGUSTED AMUSEMENT FOR ME. PS: THIS PICTURE'S BLURRED BECAUSE I FORCED ITALICS TO GO BACK OUTSIDE AND TAKE A PICTURE AND AS HE WAS DOING SO ONE OF THE OCCUPANTS BEGAN OPENING THEIR ROOM DOOR.)

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Italics didn't know that I packed away my blond wig, a pair of knee high socks and my cheerleader outfit for fun later that night. I posed, for a second, in his semi-new sort've Indiana Jones BUT NOT REALLY jacket, and the whole cheerleader thing went out the window. (FIGURATIVELY, I MEAN. DO YOU KNOW HOW EXPENSIVE NICE WIGS ARE? JESUS.)

After dinner entertainment was wearing my husband's jacket and nothing else (WAIT, I TAKE THAT BACK - I WAS STILL WEARING A BRA!) and the "movie" mode on our recently retired digital camera. (I was feeling the affects of the coffee - even though it had been a decaf - so I needed a visit from THE FIREMEN to soothe the affects of GERD. <- LAUGH NOW, BUT WAIT UNTIL YOUR OVERLY ACIDIC STOMACH IS IN DIRE NEED OF A SHOT OF SOMETHING ALKALINE TO CALM IRRITATION.)

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This is a shot of Union Street running down into Castlegate (the smaller, secondary looking castle in the middle of the picture) in downtown Aberdeen taken by Italics the morning after our belated birthday celebrations. (IT STARTED WITH HIS JACKET, AND ENDED WITH A CHIPPER AND A BAG OF MALTEASERS IN BED.)

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Aberdeen, to the naked eye, appears to have been built around a church (St. Nicholas) and its graveyard. This is a picture of the more formal entrance to the kirkyard which is used as a thoroughfare and public park. (I've never seen people so happily sit on green cemetery grass like they were visiting a botanic garden until St. Nicholas.)

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"Marischal College is a building in the Scottish city of Aberdeen belonging to the University of Aberdeen. It was formerly an independent university in its own right. A significant portion of the building is currently leased on a long-term basis to Aberdeen City Council for office space. As well as being the tallest building in Aberdeen, it is also the second largest granite building in the world."

Oh, Wiki, you're a blessing to this lazy shell of a human being! (View right outside the newest Starbucks in town.)

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Since the St. Nicholas kirkyard is in the center of the city, it's one of the best semi-private places to have a joint before galloping off to diner. Our preferred spot is near Mr. Alex Fullerton, Druggist, which is wonderfully aged and picturesque on gloriously sunny days. (LOLOLOL, I KNOW. WE ONLY REALIZED THE "DRUGGIST" PART SORT'VE RECENTLY.)

When a friend who's involved in medicine and health care requested some graveyard dirt I immediately knew whose grave the dirt was coming off of. (NOTE TO SELF: In return you left one of the red-dyed Easter eggs (Ukrainians, in the olden days, left red eggs at the graves of ancestors and friends to encourage reincarnation and resurrection) and a gold foiled chocolate coin.)

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This is the infamous dirtyard, post-crocus season. (IT HAS SERIOUSLY SAT LIKE THIS FOR OVER THREE YEARS NOW.) I took this picture just before I went to work with a flattened box of cereal and a spade to mark the strip where I intended to plant carrots and beets. Unfortunately, the street extends too far beneath the soil so some of the chthonic vegetables I wanted to grow in the dirtyard (carrots!) will have to be planted elsewhere.

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Last year my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, threw away all of my spring bulbs that Italics had given me as a gift. (IN THIS HOUSE, HE GETS TO DECIDE WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR THINGS.) He never apologized or acknowledged that he had thrown away another gift (or ashes that belonged to my mother, or an anniversary gift I was making for Italics, or...) so Italics stepped in and bought me another round of bulbs.

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"Richly coloured tulip of burnt orange-red with petal edges of yellow-gold."

One of my favorite parts of Spring is watching the giant, almost unbelievable changes that seem to happen overnight. One day tulips are tight, pursed buds; the next they've unfurled with a gasp for fresh air. Transformations always seem so immediate during the season of renewal.

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Oh, nasty ass Starlings, I love how you don't give a fuck about me even if I'm outside doing gardening work next to your bird food. (Nothing comes between you and the food I put out for you guys, NOTHING.)

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When planting out CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE Spring flowers last fall (grape hyacinths, dwarf irises, dwarf tulips, tulips and daffodils) I discovered a handful of mysterious bulbs hidden deep within a dirt filled container. I rescued them (they were buried too deep to properly sprout, Christ only knows how long they've just sat in that plastic bucket) and relocated them to the container with my Finnish poppies. This Spring solved the mystery; they're Narcissus, and they smell like heaven.

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Whenever I cook with Italics there's always a fifty percent chance of ass.

(This is our third batch of Cowboy Bread (sort've like a flour tortilla meets pita bread) - THE BEST YET! - after its first rise. Italics is dividing the dough into eight smaller portions so after the second rise we can roll them out and "bake" them in a skillet.)

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The Cowboy Bread's risen twice, rolled out and then pan-fried in olive oil until golden spots appear. (We made two super huge ones - the size the recipe suggests - and then halved the other portions so they were more pita than giant, fluffy flour tortillas.)

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Once cooked-baked-fried you shove the flat bread(s) into a ziploc bag, or cover them with a damp towel, so the steam keeps them soft and pliable. (We never got around to artfully arranging them on a plate for SRS FOOD PHOTOGRAPHY because all we wanted to do was tear into the fuckers and shovel hummus into our mouths.)

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Shango blossoms on the Shango (Bone) Tree. (Technically, Mr. Awesome (my father-in-law) owns the tree, but I adopted it a few years back and have been gradually and systematically exerting control over it.)

Two years ago - the first REAL year I started getting V. serious about all of this magic business - the Shango Tree (a plum tree), bore fruit. Thanks to everyone's complete disinterest in the the garden I was able to secretly reap the reward and ritually consumed the tree-ripened plums without having to share.

I was so swept up in foraging hedonism that I didn't occur to me to KEEP THE FUCKING PITS SO I COULD GROW NEW SHANGO (BONE) TREES FROM SEED. I kicked myself for fucking MONTHS for discarding the pits and anxiously waited for the next growing season to roll around. And what did the tree do last year? NOT FLOWER, OBVIOUSLY. (No flowers = no fruit; no fruit = no seeds; no seeds = no new Shango (Bone) Trees.)

I spent all of last year coaxing it to flower (everything from leaving offerings of food, watering it by hand almost every other day, laying my hands on the tree and giving it some Barry White vocal love) this year, and all of that effort paid off. (Although it would've been A LOT MORE AWESOME if the Shango (Bone) Tree hadn't decided to stick out the ONE FLOWERING BRANCH IT PRODUCED like a fucking flasher with an erection. <- WAY TO ATTRACT MR. AWESOME'S ATTENTION, S(B)T! WHATEVER HAPPENED TO SUBTLE MAGIC? JESUS.)

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I can't remember a time when Scotland wasn't washed with some sort of green. Even in winter the wild azaleas and mosses and lichen and holly trees retain their vibrant colors. It takes late Spring to alter my perception of "green".

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We're on route to the cemetery and stove to leave belated Easter offerings, passing pasture land, green wheat fields and weathered stone walls. With every new walk to the kirkyard the landscape gets more green and alive.

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There's a hedge of ancient beeches that outline an entire side of pasture which touches the crumbling wall that runs in front of the ruined church (with the abandoned walled garden in the background) and the back of the local cemetery. Discarded in the line of trees is this old water trough (or at least that's what I //think// it is) which we call "the stove".

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Even though the metal's rusted and old the hinge and latch work perfectly, which allowed me to safely hide roadkill (a rabbit, fresh and in near pristine condition) last autumn when we were stealing potatoes out of a local potato field. (I didn't want to bang up the rabbit while we scrambled over walls and frantically dug up potatoes from an agricultural field at six in the morning.)

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There comes a point, every year around Spring, where non-perishable food offerings begin taking over the house. When we begin feeling claustrophobic we know it's time to visit "the stove" and leave the offerings to their Fate*; we've been doing that for two or three years now.

(* IN OTHER WORDS - WE LEAVE IT FOR OUR ANCESTORS, BUT KNOW THAT THE INDIGENOUS WILDLIFE WILL ALSO BE ENJOYING THE SPREAD.)

This Easter season, while I was flipping through one of my Ukrainian cookbooks, I stumbled across a passage explaining several ancient customs Ukies observed around Easter. Apparently, long ago, food was deliberately left IN A STOVE as an offering to feed and sustain ancestors, relatives and friends who have passed on. (WE ARE SO ON THE BALL WITH SOME OF THIS SHIT THAT SOMETIMES IT SCARES ME.)

(NOTE TO SELF: This is the first year you put individual Paska/Babka for loved ones who died since last Easter (i.e., Hezbollah, Beh and Didi) in the stove rather than at the cairn in the cemetery.)

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It took until LAST FUCKING YEAR for me to even notice there was a wild gooseberry bush growing in the ruins of the church. By the time I realized what the shrub was the berries were the size of quail eggs. (I AM SO NOT JOKING IN THE SLIGHTEST; THIS BUSH HAS GOT SOME SERIOUS JUNK ON IT.)

Unfortunately, I was hella, hella sick last year (bedridden due to symptoms and ailments that's baffled the medical community and put me in the very familiar category of "atypical") so by the time I was well enough to leave the house the animals had enjoyed every ball-sized gooseberry and left none for me, SIGH.

(Behind the bush you can see one of the walls and doors of the abandoned wall garden directly behind the ruins of the small church.)

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When I was a kid and running naked through Midwestern waste fields and woodlands I could name almost every flowering plant I ran across. Finding something totally new felt like discovering new species of previously unidentified vegetated life.

That excitement and drive totally disappeared around the time I started high school, but resurfaced recently (just over ten years later) the deeper I got into indigenous folklore. If I haven't misidentified it, this is Green Alkanet (in the same family as good ole Borage) and it grows rampant in the space between the NEW OLD CRUMBLING WALL and the OLD OLD NOT SO CRUMBING WALL.

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Until last year it was an absolute mystery where they were burying the majority of the recently deceased. As it turns out, what I thought was a community football pitch was the new section of the cemetery. (There aren't a lot of headstones, and they're way, way in the far corner of the very long stretch of land. Until you're physically in the open space it's difficult to tell there are bodies actually buried there.)

This was post-stove and pre-cairn, just before we hopped over the road and had lunch in an open meadow beneath an oak tree. Two fields and a line of trees over you can see a man-made loch created a very long time ago.

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The stone wall neatly bordering the graves in the background is the wall that separates the cemetery from the pasture field which touches the hedge of beech trees and ruined church. This is the new portion of the old cemetery, where Muriel and the nun are buried.

Our visit to the kirkyard had to be quick on this occasion because hired help were mowing the lawn. (HOW AWESOME OF A JOB IS THAT? MOWING THE VELVETY SOFT LAWN OF AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH CEMETERY ON A GLORIOUS SPRING DAY? HOLY SHIT, DUDE, WHERE DO //I// SIGN UP FOR THAT GIG?)

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I HAVE NOT HAD "NORMAL" SEX SINCE FUCKING MARDI GRAS. When the GREAT RITE was celebrated it was celebrated IN MY ASS, so since Easter Sunday we've been joking that I'm only half married (OR PERHAPS "ASS MARRIED"?) and that I'll remain only partially married until ACTUAL VAGINAL PENETRATION IS MADE.

Because I'm so good at making things difficult I suggested we wait to have "normal" sex until we can have sex in the same wheat field where we reaped last year for the first time. (IT MAKES SENSE, RIGHT? IF I'M REAPING AND HARVESTING THE FRUIT, I BETTER BE FERTILIZING THE LAND TOO, YO.)

Content with the half he married (THE ASS HALF, IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN) he agreed, so we're now just waiting for the right moment (i.e., WHEN WE HAVE POT, WHEN IT'S DRY AND WHEN IT'S DARK ENOUGH) to finish the rite we started on April 12th.

(My idea is to have sex in the space between the two wooden posts, effectively performing Hieros Gamos on and in the threshold of a "door". If not there there's always an unused water trough right next to it...)

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The very first local Spring lambs we saw were a pair of black kids. (Ever since Imbolc I've been meaning to leave an offering of oats to the lactating sheep but I never got a chance.) (LAMBS HAVE A PECULIAR AVERSION TO FACTORY PRODUCED STRAWBERRY-FLAVORED MARSHMALLOWS. I, UH, READ THAT SOMEWHERE ON THE NET, OR SOMETHING.)

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OH, SKELETON ZOMBIE I WANTED TO TAKE YOU HOME WITH ME, OR AT LEAST TAKE YOU TO SEE A MOVIE. (BUT IT'S PROBABLY GOOD THAT I DIDN'T SINCE MONSTERS VERSUS ALIENS, EVEN IN 3-D, WAS SHOCKINGLY SHIT, EVEN WHEN REALLY, REALLY HIGH.)

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I think they must've recently painted and decorated the Haunted Mansion because I don't remember it ever looking so fresh and new. (ONE OF THESE DAYS I'LL FORCE ITALICS TO BUY SIX TOKENS SO I CAN SEE WHAT THE HAUNTED MANSION'S ALL ABOUT.)

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I wish I could remember more of this day. I know we saw two movies (I Love You Man and Monsters Versus Aliens), I know we went out to eat (Jack Daniel's Monterey Burger at TGI Friday's) and I know we visited the shoreline twice to get high (once before eating and once again before the second movie).

I also know that I realized something, or said something, or Italics said something - THERE WAS SOMETHING THAT SEEMED OBVIOUS - but now I can't remember what IT was. ("Zoe" was scribbled into the sand, which, if I remember right, means "life" in Greek, and seeing the name/word and even being able to translate it somehow felt significant.)

I poured fresh water on wet, salty sand as an offering, and it left the impression of a dick with balls. Cruelly, the camera's battery died just before I was able to secure a picture of my sand cock. (OH, MAGIC, SOMETIMES YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED.)

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This is my fat little bizza bear, Shoney, who's pretty sure that my camera might be food. (DON'T TELL HER IT ISN'T, OTHERWISE SHE MIGHT NOT BOTHER SITTING STILL THE NEXT TIME I SHOVE IT IN HER FACE.)

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OH, BEGGAR RAT SISTERS, LOOKING FOR A FOOD HANDOUT WHILE LOITERING IN MY COMPUTER DESK. (My lap's the bridge between two hollowed out spaces in my desk so there's constant rat traffic streaming back and forth when there's a suspicion of food.)

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The trio of rats we have now - Wuzza (Denny's), Choney (Shoney's) and Shakey (Shakey's Pizza) - are damn near impossible to take pictures of. All the other generations of rat roommates we had managed to sit still longer than three seconds which allowed us to build a library of photos. These guys? They've been restricted to "movie" mode on the camera because they're always just a blur of motion in anything remotely resembling a picture.

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Within a day of noticing that I turned over earth in the dirtyard to possibly plant some carrots and beets Mr. Awesome drove through the dirt with a car leaving two very distinct tire marks across the strip of land I had marked in the soil.

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We've had the dirtyard for years. (AND WHEN I MEAN "YEARS" I MEAN "AT LEAST THREE, PROBABLY FOUR".) After several years of no obvious intent I decided if I can't plant grass I might as well make use of the available dirt and grow some vegetables. After several years of no obvious intent my father-in-law suddenly DROVE OVER THE EXACT SPOT WHERE I HAD BEGUN MAKING A ROW FOR BEETS. (Should I take that as a hint?)

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The thing about this NEW DRIVEWAY he's created is that UP UNTIL THIS POINT - THE POINT WHERE I MADE AN OBVIOUS MOVE TO CLAIM SOME UNUSED DIRT - HE'S NEVER, EVER DRIVEN OVER WHAT IS, EFFECTIVELY, THE FRONT YARD.

I don't know what's changed, if he's acting out or if it was a honest necessity when he found he couldn't maneuver any other way out of the driveway. At any rate, it isn't exactly an auspicious start to my adventure into creating a dirtyard vegetable patch.

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You know to expect some MAN BEHAVIOR when your husband helps you with the Spring gardening. I was instructed to sit still as Italics ran for the camera to document how perfectly he dropped a Sharpie down my pants on his first try. (OH HEY, I'M WEARING UNDERWEAR FOR ONCE! EVEN IF IT IS A PAIR OF BOXERS.)

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Oh, we do horrible, awful things to our Lindt Easter bunnies. This white chocolate one, for instance, graced our Easter basket this year which was blessed at a special church service on Holy Saturday. Even divine intervention couldn't save him (her?) from the melting pot when it came time to make Chex Muddy Buddies. (The giant dark chocolate rabbit? Oh, his (her?) fate's already been determined - dark chocolate brownies.)

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My inside outside vegetable garden post-growing closet and pre-bonsai house. (Once the plants get too big in the confined space of the closet they get repotted and moved to the backroom where they'll sit for a few weeks to bulk up before being relocated to the bonsai house to become acclimated to outside temperatures.)

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There are two other fruit trees other than the Shango (Bone) Tree trained against a wooden fence in the backyard. One of them is an apple tree, but I can't remember what the other one - the one pictured above - is. It might be another apple, or it might be another plum. Either way, it's getting some extra love this year to encourage the flowers to fruit.

(In the background you can see all of Mr. Awesome's bonsai trees and shrubs that he said would only sit in the backyard for a few weeks. That? That was last year. And on top of that, he killed off all the grass in the backyard - after digging it all up in the front yard - so we literally had NO LAWN to sit on last year during summer.)

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WHOOPS, I FORGOT I HAD ALREADY TAKEN A PICTURE OF THE SHANGO BLOSSOMS ON THE SHANGO (BONE) TREE! (This one was taken about a week after the first one. Nearly a week after THAT the petals of the plum blossoms are almost gone, and whatever remains is hidden behind leafy buds that get bigger every day.)

BEAR ME FRUIT, DAMMIT, I'VE MASSAGED YOU LIKE A PAMPERED COW, FED YOU LIKE A HUNGRY HUSBAND AND WATERED YOU LIKE...UHM...A CAR (OR SOMETHING).

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The backyard's become a bird sanctuary due to the high ratio of bushes, shrubs and trees to gravel and concrete. (FOR SOME REASON SOME SCOTTISH FOLK LOVE TO TEAR EVERYTHING GREEN OUT OF THEIR YARD, FILL IT WITH GRAVEL AND DUMP A CONTAINER OR TWO OF TULIPS AMONGST THE ROCKS.) It helps that their natural predators - the neighborhood cats - are too busy scarfing down (people) food offerings to be bothered with them.

(That feed container? Yesterday, on May Day, I decided to refill all bird seed containers no matter how full they were in honor of the day. Just before twilight I filled that exact feeder until it was spitting seeds, this afternoon - just after three - it was virtually empty. THESE BIRDS ARE GOING TO PUT ME IN THE POOR HOUSE.)

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I first began wedging bones into tree branches as a joke (on my father-in-law, who's forever getting in trouble for TOUCHING THINGS THAT AREN'T HIS), but then the joke grew and before I knew it the Shango Tree had become the Shango Bone Tree. (Winter's a much better time for the S(B)T, with the onset of Spring all of the whitened and weather-stripped decorations get lost behind a canopy of green.)

(I can't believe that A.) that the Christmas goose carcass is still hanging off the truck and B.) Mr. Awesome hasn't touched ANY of the bones dangling off the plum tree I stole from him.)

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HOLY HELL OH MY GOD MY ABU HASSAN TULIPS HAVE FINALLY BLOOMED! (OOPS for thinking they were dwarf! WTF gave me //THAT// idea?)

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What was it the internet said about the appearance of these tulips? WAIT, HOLD ON, I MENTIONED IT EARLIER IN THIS ENTRY: "Richly coloured tulip of burnt orange-red with petal edges of yellow-gold." OH, NATURE, YOU DO DELIVER, DON'T YOU?

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Italics bought these Flava tulips for himself (although I'm taking care of them for him), and they're the very last bulbs to flower from the bags'o'bulbs he bought me on our CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE last year. (I swore they were an early dwarf bloomer, but I also swore that about all of the Abu Hassans I planted.)

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The amazing two-headed Bull Heart tomato plant from Ukraine. (OH, GREAT APIS/BA'AL MAY YOU BE EXALTED IN FUTURE TOMATO SAUCES!) I might just keep this one indoors since it refused to grow outside last year. (You can see part of Chippy as he inspects the inside outside garden; he's a very keen gardener, you know.)

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What our backroom "lounge" looks like when a witch is hard at work.

(The plastic skull bowl is the ritual bowl I use when I'm doing something a little more heavy duty than baking bread or soaking menstrual rags. The scattered wheat sheaths inside is the last bit of the didukhy that I've systematically picked apart so every wheat kernel from every sheath got saved for growing or ritual use.)

(The eggs are our version of Sharpie pysanky, some especially decorated for pets, relatives, friends and others who've passed on since last Easter. When it's time to leave our Easter offerings at the stove and cairn we leave the decorated eggs amongst the food for the dead.

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Beh's bee egg is sitting in a carton as the glue attaching the wings to the egg dries. There's a handmade miniature hat that Italics created for another egg, a bowl of partially shucked wheat (the kernel's still attached to the long, skewer-like spikes), Papa's skull planter with some of his dried tobacco leaves and a Jack Daniels gift set that Italics had given me earlier in the day.

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From a tiny, withered peanut to a vibrant, lush plant. Only two of the five peanuts I bought germinated; I can't decide if I want to buy and plant more, or just stick with the two healthy plants I already have. OH, DECISIONS, DECISIONS...

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OH, IT'S ALL SUPER CUTE, NOW, WITH ITS BLACK AND WHITE TUXEDO AND LITTLE SMILING BEGGING FACE BUT ONE DAY, DAMMIT, ONE DAY NEAR THE SUMMER SOLSTICE WHEN IT GETS LIGHT HERE AT THREE IN THE FUCKING MORNING THAT FUCKER WILL BE ON MY GODDAMN BEDROOM WINDOWSILL SCREAMING THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW FOR BREAKFAST. (HOW THE FUCK DOES A MAGPIE KNOW WHICH ROOM IS OUR BEDROOM? I DON'T KNOW, TRY //MAGIC//.)

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That's one of the four (five?) aubergines (eggplants) that I've grown from seed. One of these days I'll have to relocate them outside to the bonsai house, but until then they get a chance to flourish in better-than-green-house conditions.

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One of my Sub-Arctic tomatoes which will most definitely be moved outside since they were deliberately bought for their "sub-arctic" nature. (GROWING TOMATOES IN SCOTLAND WITHOUT A PROPER GREEN HOUSE CAN BE HELL. I'M SO DESPERATE I'M GROWING THE EQUIVALENT OF SIBERIAN TOMATOES.)

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One of my thriving courgettes (zucchini) on the verge of blossoming. (Which is EXACTLY why I kicked that very nearly flowering plant out of this house - the second I let ONE plant mature, flower and fruit in the house is the second I breakdown and let ALL of the damn plants mature, flower and fruit in the house and we don't have the room for that sort've Eden.)

Easter Sunday

My grandparents, Ukrainians who immigrated to the US from a German refugee camp, being from THE OLD COUNTRY half-observed some of the tenants of the Orthodox's mutilated version of Catholicism. (IF YOU CAN'T BEAT THEM, THEN YOU INCORPORATE THEIR ANCIENT PAGAN BELIEFS INTO YOUR SYSTEM, FILTER THE INFLUX OF INDIGENOUS FOLKLORE, SUPERSTITION AND MAGIC BEFORE GIVING IT ALL A NEW NAME AND A FLIMSY DISGUISE. HEY, IT WORKED FOR THE CELTS, RIGHT?)

And when I say "HALF-OBSERVED SOME OF THE TENANTS" I actually mean "THEY TOOK EVERY GOD-FUCKING-GIVEN OPPORTUNITY TO CRITIQUE THE BEHAVIOR AND MANNERISMS OF OTHERS WHO WEREN'T OBSERVING THE TENANTS". My grandparents were the critical wallflowers pretending to be indifferent while clocking every abomination against god (more about bitching, less about condemning) - like working on Sunday!

(No working on Sunday? FOR REALS? Even as a kid I couldn't wrap my head around certain aspects of the idea, and it didn't help that I was getting unclarified, mixed messages from my grandparents. Is gardening considered working? And, if so, when did gardening stop being a hobby and begin to become work? Why was God totally cool with letting my grandmother water the flowerbeds on Sunday evening, but morally offended by me trimming the hedges with a pair of garden shears?)

(GOD, I'VE BEEN WONDERING ABOUT THE GARDENING WORK VERSUS HOBBY THING SINCE THAT SUMMER EVENING LONG, LONG AGO. WHEN IT'S MOST CONVENIENT FOR YOU PLEASE SEND YOUR ANSWERS ON A POSTCARD, BUT PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO INCLUDE A SASE SO I CAN GET BACK TO YOU. <- LOL, BECAUSE I'M SO DAMN GOOD AT GETTING BACK TO PEOPLE'S LETTERS, EMAILS AND NOTES.)

SO, RIGHT, ANYWAY.

So, being that Easter was on a Sunday and we both woke up around five in the morning I made an executive decision to get all of the grunt work around the house done before sunrise. Cause, baby, Easter morning sunrise = celebration of life, renewal and reincarnation. (I don't care if it's Catholicism and I'm doing my witch thing, some ideas out there transcend any one religion and if a bunch of people are celebrating the conquering of death with chocolate and paska (<- it's a traditional Ukrainian egg-rich Easter bread, not unlike brioche) then this biological creature who's petrified of her own mortal demise is more than happy to jump on the ETERNAL LIFE celebration bandwagon.)

When I was a kid Easter was spent at my grandparents' house digging into the blessed Easter baskets. ("DIGGING INTO THE BLESSED EASTER BASKETS" PROBABLY SOUNDS LIKE A HELLA AWESOME WAY TO SPEND THE MORNING, UNTIL YOU FIND OUT THAT UKRAINIAN EASTER BASKETS - BLESSED AT CHURCH ON HOLY SATURDAY - ARE FILLED WITH SALT, BUTTER, CHEESE, BREAD, EGGS AND A VARIETY OF SMOKED PORK PRODUCTS (BASICALLY, ANYTHING YOU INTEND ON EATING FOR EASTER BRUNCH). DUE TO MY GENETIC BIAS I CAN SAFELY SAY I'D RATHER BE GIVEN A UKIE EASTER BASKET OVER A PLASTIC WAL-MART BASKET FILLED WITH FOIL-WRAPPED CHEAP CHOCOLATE ANY DAY. SERIOUSLY.)

(STOP GROANING, HEART. YOU'VE BEEN GENETICALLY ENGINEERED TO HANDLE COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF PURE BUTTER AND PORK FAT!)

While all celebrated holidays at my grandparents' were an event to look forward to, Easter was slightly bittersweet because there wasn't a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow (in other words, Christmas Eve meant presents after dinner, Easter meant no presents). Whenever our family congregated around the dining table it was a several hour event. Once adult asses sat in plastic covered chairs (WHAT IS IT WITH OLD UKIE PEOPLE AND THEIR COMPULSION TO COVER EVERYTHING - TABLES, CHAIRS, FLOORS - WITH FUCKING PLASTIC?) they couldn't be budged, not even for a crisis that involved a minute amount of blood.

Two hours into worshiping at the mighty trough the coffee would finally surface, an indication to any child that the celebratory meal was at the beginning of its end. (I MEAN, YOU WOULD THINK THAT, RIGHT? WELL, YOU'RE WRONG.) Coffee was half-time. Coffee was when the adults gradually shook themselves out of the smoked pork stupor realizing that they've been sitting stagnant for the past two hours. Coffee brought on a second realization right after the first - after one hundred and twenty minutes they were hungry, again. The third and final realization? They were sitting around a table still covered with food. (GOD BE PRAISED, GOD HAS RISEN!)

(OH THE AWFUL, TRAUMATIZING HORRORS THAT AN UNFORTUNATE, INNOCENT CHILD SOMETIMES MUST FACE. LIKE SECRETLY PEEPING IN ON THE ADULTS WHILE HOLDING YOUR BREATH SO YOU DON'T GIVE YOURSELF AWAY, ONLY TO SEE THE TERRIFYING SIGHT OF YOUR FATHER REACHING OVER THE SEMI-CLEARED TABLE TOWARDS THE SMOKED BUTT, OR KIELBASA, EFFECTIVELY RESTARTING THE NEFARIOUS CYCLE OF EATING. COFFEE? COFFEE WAS A JOKE, A SICK, TWISTED, PERVERTED JOKE. IN EVERYONE ELSE'S FAMILY COFFEE WAS THE END, THE GRAND FINALE, IN MY DERANGED, DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY IT WAS THE HIT THEY NEEDED TO CLEAR DIGESTIVE SPACE.)

HOLY SHIT, TANGENT MUCH!

So, in the dark, we cleaned and straightened, and I reconstructed the EASTER / GREAT RITE / WEDDING altar. (It had been dissected the day before for Holy Saturday so I could take some of the altar contents in our basket to get blessed at the church service.) We deliberately had a light lunch to ensure we wouldn't feel too weighed down since we had a kind've sort've loose schedule to keep - a walk to the cemetery to make our offerings, back home for Ukrainian crepes, decorating eggs for those who've passed since last Easter, eating out of the basket while watching the 10 Commandments ("HIS GOD, IS GOD") and dragging out the tarot "board game" to work with Muriel.

And the schedule would've TOTALLY WORKED if we hadn't IMMEDIATELY OFF-ROADED FROM IT TO INCLUDE THE SEX SHOWER. (LOL! "THE"! LIKE IT'S ONLY HAPPENED ONCE IN OUR 10+ YEAR RELATIONSHIP.)(HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU GUYS ABOUT THE TIME WE BROKE THE BATHTUB WHILE HAVING ANAL SEX? AND MY IN-LAWS WERE HOME? OI VEY.) I should've known better than to break out our waffle cone scented sex shower exfoliating gel. (Sex showers, as you may already know, are gateway activities.)

I stepped into the shower an untouched woman. Pure, innocent - Spring's virgin bride, not yet knowing a man or a husband. (FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO AREN'T AS UP TO SPEED AS OTHERS: I OBSERVE LENT...SORT'VE. DESPITE BEING LEGALLY MARRIED TO ITALICS, FROM MARDI GRAS TO OUR WEDDING NIGHT (WE CELEBRATE THE GREAT RITE AS AN ANNUAL EVENT IN CONJUNCTION WITH EASTER AND SPRING) I ABSTAIN FROM MASTURBATION, SEX AND SOME SEXUAL CONTACT. IT'S MY PERIOD OF PURIFICATION BEFORE I TAKE ON THE ROLE AS THE VIRGIN BRIDE.) Hours later, having felt the ecstasy of my husband's touch and body, I stepped out of bed a married woman.

(ACTUALLY - I KNOW, I KNOW "OH, HERE WE GO..." - MY ASS STEPPED OUT OF BED - IF ASSES CAN EVEN STEP - A MARRIED WOMAN. OR, I GUESS, A MARRIED ASS. AN ASS THAT HAD BEEN MARRIED //3// TIMES IN QUICK SUCCESSION. <- ITALICS IS TRYING TO NEGOTIATE "2 1/2" SINCE THERE "WASN'T A LOT" THE SECOND TIME AROUND.)

(SWEPT UP IN THE SPIRIT OF CONSUMMATION - IN THE MIDST OF SHUDDERING AND TREMBLING, GROANING AND THRUSTING - I ARCHED MY BACK WITH MY "I DO" AND WHEN ITALICS, MY NEW AND OLD HUSBAND, HEARD MY ACCEPTANCE HE COMMITTED HIMSELF TO ME, IN A SOMEWHAT UNORTHODOX ORIFICE, HIS "I DO" MOVING IN TANDEM WITH HIS OWN ORGASM.)(OR TWO.)(OR THREE.)

It wasn't the sex shower that derailed us, or even that THE GREAT RITE had somewhat unexpectedly taken place (IT WASN'T IN THE SCHEDULE, DAMMIT!), it was my patented LAUGHING WHILST CRYING orgasm. (IT'S EMBARRASSING, BUT I'LL ADMIT IT - WHEN I'M REALLY FUCKED UP ON SOMETHING, OR WHEN MY CLIMAX TURNS OUT TO BE OUT-OF-THIS-FUCKING-WORLD ASTOUNDING I START SOBBING AFTER MY ORGASM. AND THEN, WITHIN A SECOND OR TWO, I START LAUGHING UNTIL BOTH SPECTRUMS OF HYSTERIA MERGE IN AN EXPLOSION OF HORMONES AND SEROTONIN. OH, BRAIN AND BODY CHEMICALS, MAKING ME SEEM LIKE SOME SORT OF CRAZY, EMOTIONALLY UNCHAINED WEEPY-AFTER-SEX WOMAN!)

Wait, no, I take that back - I can partially blame THE GREAT RITE for ritually slaughtering our carefully crafted schedule. Once someone's unloaded three separate deposits of jizz in your ass, you usually want to have a bathroom handy for the rest of the day. (BETWEEN LOOSENED SPHINCTERS THAT'LL SURPRISE YOU WITH THEIR INABILITY TO FLEX AND TIGHTEN TO A SATISFYING DEGREE THERE'S THE ENDLESS STREAM OF SEMEN AND SALIVA ENCOURAGED ON BY GRAVITY. AND WHEN YOU FINALLY THINK THAT YOU'VE GOTTEN RID OF THE LAST OF IT, YOU'RE WRONG.) Look, I'm more than happy to piss in the woods, but draining various body fluids out of my ass behind a crumbling wall or next to a beech tree? Nice landscape, but I'd rather be sitting on white porcelain, thanks.

ANYWAY. By the time we cleaned, had our light lunch, embarked on the sex shower and ensured prosperity and fertility for the upcoming year (YOU NORTHERN HEMISPHERE FOLK CAN THANK US LATER; WE'RE JUST DOING OUR COSMICALLY DIVINE JOB) it was coming up towards ten in the morning and what little remnants of Catholic knowledge I had left warned me about the possibility of a church service at eleven. (It's nine in the morning and eleven on Sundays, right?)

So we ditched the schedule, not wanting to draw too much attention to ourselves since we aren't your standard cemetery visitors and the church was probably going to be occupied for the second Sunday service. (Especially since we cut through the cow field, climb over the electrical wire, scramble up the old wall in the overgrown lane of woods before using the unused side entrance to access the cemetery. AND THAT'S ONLY DURING THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY, THAT'S US TOTALLY VANILLA.)

Instead, we got high, and with the BBC's Easter morning church service and the Pope's address from the Vatican playing in the background Italics turned to work. (WORK? ON SUNDAY? ON A SUNDAY THAT'S EASTER? OH DEAR. <- NOT THAT I DIDN'T WANT TO SAY "BUT, BABY, IT'S EASTER AND WE JUST GOT MARRIED! WHAT'S YOUR EMPLOYER GOING TO SAY? YOU'RE FIRED IF YOU DON'T WORK ON EASTER SUNDAY?" BECAUSE I DID. BUT, THANKS TO BEING ALL MATURE AND GROWN UP AND RATIONAL AND LOGICAL NOW (LOLOLOLOLOL!), I UNDERSTOOD THAT THE ONLY REASON WHY ITALICS IS HOME 24/7 WITH ME IN THE FIRST PLACE IS BECAUSE HE HAS FOUR AT HOME JOBS THAT REQUIRE HIS ATTENTION WHETHER IT'S EASTER SUNDAY OR NOT.)

Too tired to walk to the cemetery long after the eleven o'clock mass I decided to stay home and capitalize on the gorgeous weather we were experiencing. (NOTICE MY CHOICE OF PAST TENSE. WE HAD A DAZZLING HOLY SATURDAY, EASTER SUNDAY AND EASTER MONDAY, BUT EASTER TUESDAY IS OVERCAST AND DRAB. SIGH.) Since we were now married - OR AT LEAST HALF MARRIED - I decided on BOTH of our behalves that one of the first things we'd do together as man and wife (other than get high) was garden.

Armed with a battered selection of LPs (Tufty the Road Safety Squirrel, Dire Straits and Clannad) I potted on the courgettes, peppers and tomato plant that were threatening to overtake our closet garden as Italics broke discarded trunks and branches (MR. AWESOME, MY FATHER-IN-LAW, PRUNED THE SHRUBS AND BUSHES OUTLINING THE PERIMETER OF THE YARD LAST YEAR, BUT INSTEAD OF DISPOSING OF THE GARDEN WASTE HE LEFT IT BLOCKING THE OPENING OF THE BACKYARD. WHEN HE OBVIOUSLY WASN'T GOING TO MOVE IT - THREE OR FOUR MONTHS ON - I FINALLY SPENT AN AFTERNOON DRAGGING EVERYTHING TO A BETTER LOCATION, BUT EVEN THEN IT JUST SAT FOR ANOTHER SEVERAL MONTHS.) for our eventual GREAT RITE bonfire. (IT'S LESS EXCITING AND CLASSY WHEN YOU FIND OUT OUR RITUAL BONFIRES ARE MADE AND BURNED IN A METAL TRASHCAN.)

He watered my witch's garlic for me, and I watered my sprouting herbs, budding tulips and bonsai house seedlings. (OH MY EFFING GOD. I HAD NO IDEA THAT MY SUNFLOWERS HAD SPROUTED! AND MY PEAS! AND ALL THREE APPLE TREES - SEEDS I PLANTED LAST YEAR THAT ACTUALLY GERMINATED - SURVIVED THE SCOTTISH WINTER! THE PEACH TREE HAD A BUD! THE STRAWBERRIES LOOKED INSANELY HEALTHY!)

Together we scouted THE PERFECT SPOT for the robin/blackbird nesting box we bought earlier in the year. Together we moved the trash can bulging with kindling to a safer, rain-free location so the can's contents had a chance to dry. Together we sat - me outside on the concrete patio steps, and him inside on the carpet - and planted cucumbers, peanuts and two more chili plants, my hands soil stained, my nails caked with dirt, passing on every lovingly filled peat pot to him so he could nestle each seed in the prepared bed. Together - I think, I hope - we marveled at the feeling of newness of life brought on by seeds, earth and tender Spring shoots. (THAT WAS THE IDEA, ANYWAY.)

(GOD, THIS IS WHERE YOU COULD BE INORDINATELY HELPFUL IN LETTING ME KNOW WHEN GARDENING CEASES BEING A HOBBY AND BECOMES WORK. AT WHAT POINT, EXACTLY, DID US NEWLYWEDS CROSS THE INEXCUSABLE LINE OF "NO WORK ON SUNDAY"? AND HAVE WE TERRIFICALLY SINNED AGAINST YOU AND YOUR SON FOR HAVING THE AUDACITY TO GARDEN/WORK ON //EASTER// SUNDAY?)

(FUCK IT, I'M STICKING WITH A BELIEF SYSTEM THAT ISN'T SO DAMN GREY. I'M STICKING WITH A BELIEF SYSTEM THAT GLORIFIES AND CELEBRATES CAKE. WHEN YOU FEELING LIKE CLARIFYING AND/OR CHANGING YOUR OPINION ON CAKE, GOD, PLEASE DO LET ME KNOW. I HAVE NICE COFFEE IN THE FREEZER AND STILL REMEMBER HOW TO USE THE CAPPUCCINO MACHINE.)

Worn out from excessive fertility we retired to the lounge after toiling under the sun, eating Easter brunch (Ukrainian basket!) for Easter dinner as The King of Siam, dressed as the Prince of Egypt, proclaimed there was no god, except God. (LOOK, I DON'T KNOW WHY IT BECAME FAMILY TRADITION TO WATCH THE 10 COMMANDMENTS ON EASTER - MIXED TESTAMENT MUCH? - BUT I'M NOT ABOUT TO BUCK A LONGSTANDING RITUAL. ESPECIALLY IF IT INVOLVES YUL FUCKING BRYNNER.)

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Due to co-inhabiting with my in-laws I can only stretch my creative license so far. ("SO FAR" = NO HOLES, RIPS OR TEARS IN THE WALLPAPER WHICH MEANS NOTHING CAN GET PROPERLY HUNG UP - I.E., BACKDROPS - UNLESS I'M TACKING IT TO THE BACK OF A PICTURE FRAME. <- I SUSPECT IF THEY KNEW I PUT TWO TACK HOLES IN THE BACK OF A CHEAP ASS PICTURE FRAME IN ORDER TO HANG UP SWAG THEY WOULDN'T BE SO HAPPY.)

I REALLY wish I had more space to work with (and a more neutral backdrop), but you work with what you got. This particular spot in the room - the CD cabinet - only gets used ritually three times a year: Halloween (the Santa Muerte shrine goes up), Christmas (where a special setting is placed for our ancestors so they can dine with us) and Easter (for our WEDDING / GREAT RITE / SPRING / EASTER celebration).

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The CD cabinet altar is our secondary EASTER / WEDDING / GREAT RITE / SPRING altar. (I'll be taking pictures later today of the primary altar which is just off to the left of the picture.)

I won't go too much into detail about symbolism just yet (the bread, eggs and butter sort've detracts and clutters up the picture, I have better images that don't have our Easter brunch spread on the tabletop), but I wanted our beliefs and my cherished memories of Easter (I was raised orthodox, which greatly influenced my need for ELABORATE OPULENCE) to come through in a mishmash of "old country", orthodox Catholicism and witchcraft (with a heavy leaning towards home, hearth and agriculture - hence the chimney, sickle, wheat bundle, etc.).

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Paska - the cylinder loaf of bread (ACTUALLY, I LIED, IT'S BABKA AND NOT PASKA, BUT BABKA IS LIKE PASKA PLUS SO, TECHNICALLY, I GUESS IT IS SORT'VE KIND'VE LIKE PASKA IN THE END) - is an egg-rich yeast bread (12 duck yolks and two whole chicken eggs) with a cake-like consistency that's only baked once a year for Easter. To get the long shape modern Ukrainian women usually use metal coffee cans (I used a decorative cookie container bought from TK Max - YOU WORK WITH WHAT YOU'VE GOT, DAMMIT).

It's taken - along with anything you plan on eating on Easter morning - to a special church service on Holy Saturday in a basket to be blessed by a priest. (ALL THIS SHIT IS EXPLAINED ABOVE IN THE TEXT PORTION OF THIS ENTRY.) Pictured on the altar are some of the non-perishable food that graced our basket this year, and my ultra awesome, ultra new ALPHA AND OMEGA candle. (HEY, IF THEY CAN DIP INTO OUR SHIT, WE CAN DIP INTO THEIR SHIT BECAUSE, TECHNICALLY, IT WAS OUR SHIT FIRST.)

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My favorite part of Easter? BUTTER. (<- I KID YOU NOT!) Growing up nothing thrilled me as much during the Spring season as seeing all of the lamb-shaped butters on sale. (I HAVE NO IDEA, SO DON'T EVEN BOTHER ASKING.) The paschal butter lamb was a huge staple in every Ukie's Easter basket and, to me, it somehow silently sums up the gastronomic delight of the orthodox celebration of resurrection.

Since you can't get lamb-shaped butter here (do they still sell them in the States, or has that sort've died out?) I scored a vintage kit from the States earlier in the year so we could make our own from now on. (This particular lamb was made by Italics, it was the one that got taken to the Easter basket blessing service on Holy Saturday, which was also my birthday. <- HELLO, 29!)

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Last year we embarked on a new tradition of decorating Easter eggs for those who've passed on through the course of the year ("through the course of the year" = since the previous Easter) and leaving them at the cairn in the local cemetery as an offering.

A few months back I stumbled across an off-hand comment about how Ukrainians left red eggs on the graves of their ancestors around Easter to celebrate reincarnation and the resurrection of Christ (that, uh, came later, once the heathens had been partially tamed); the red egg is for my Grandfather, who passed in September of last year (but no one bothered to tell me until around Christmas).

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When you haul your Easter basket to the Saturday service to get the contents blessed you take a portion of EVERYTHING you plan on eating on Easter morning - that includes butter, grated horseradish colored with beets (I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT MY HERITAGE EXCEPT FOR GRATED HORSERADISH) and even salt.

(AND HOW DOES THAT CONTAINER OF SALT TRAVEL UNSPILLED? PLASTIC WRAP OVER THE TOP, SECURED BY A RUBBER BAND! <- ALTHOUGH I'M BEING SLIGHTLY MORE CLASSY USING CUT GLASS AS MY CONTAINER, TRADITIONALLY UKIES USE SHOT GLASSES.)

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Grape hyacinths from the garden, and the tasseled end of the goat whip / riding crop.

(In some Slavic countries the Monday after Easter is SPANKING DAY where, traditionally, men swatted the asses of women they liked to "bless" them with otherworldly beauty and good health for the coming year. After being spanked the woman offers an egg or some token change to her spanker as a thank you.)

(This is the first year we're observing the ancient ritual. The goat whip / riding crop was a martial gift given to me last year when Italics and I were married. To ensure it was on hand for SPANKING DAY I hung it on my cast iron chimney. What Italics doesn't know is that there's an egg - a real egg, hollowed out and filled with chocolate - in the chimney, behind the whip.)

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When you can't afford actual needlework you buy the stamped shit. The good thing about the stamped shit? It's easy to replicate via cross-stitch by graphing the pattern and doing the work yourself. (In other words - I'LL GET AROUND TO IT...EVENTUALLY.)

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The three daffodils flanking the babka (usually Ukies make paska for Easter, but I like making babka because it's like the super gourmet version of paska) were picked from my containers outside. (It was a worthy sacrifice, although I miss seeing my blooming daffodils nodding in the spring breeze.)

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As a wedding gift I'm giving my husband a jar of homemade bridal honey. (Honey which has been spiced and flavored with black pepper, cinnamon, cloves, rosebuds and a pinch of saffron.) I filled a small glass with the spices I was going to use and topped it with rosebuds so I could get the contents blessed - along with a jar of honey - at the Easter basket blessing service on Holy Saturday.

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Another daffodil, the braided leather extension of the goat whip / riding crop, and Beh's egg which still needs to get decorated before being left at the cemetery. (Easter is sort've like Christmas - impossible to fit everything you want to do or celebrate in one day. Italics and I celebrate holidays and sabbats over the course of a long week which takes the pressure off of making the most of one 24 hour period.)

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I didn't realize until I was outside and gardening how close to unfurling my dwarf tulips are.

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Last year for Chippy's birthday we bought him a strawberry growing kit because my house trained chthonic Sumerian demon is totally into strawberries (and butterflies and lesbians). This year I'll probably separate the plants and repot them into a proper strawberry container.

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Russian sunflower seeds sprouting.

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Russian sunflower seeds sprouting. (AGAIN BECAUSE IT'S SO DAMN EXCITING.)

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Second year apple trees grown from seed. I've heard there's a chance they'll never produce fruit, but the likelihood of them germinating at all was pretty slim so I'll keep my hopes up. (At least I've got three attempts, right?)

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I thought I had lost this apple seedling, but I finally noticed unfurling buds yesterday.

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I planted two trays of early maturing sweet peas for our rats since their favorite treat involves decimating sweet pea pods to pluck out the tender peas.

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I planted two trays of early maturing sweet peas for our rats since their favorite treat involves decimating sweet pea pods to pluck out the tender peas.

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Nearly 15 years on I still fantasize about my mother's peach tree that grew next to the side of the house where I grew up. When Aldi's - here in Scotland - was selling fruit trees for a £5.00 in February I snatched up one of the only peach trees they had. Up until yesterday I wasn't sure if it had even survived its long slumber in the bonsai house.

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Some of the vegetable plants weren't exactly thrilled about being potted on. Give them a day or two and they'll bounce back better than ever.

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One of the two chili types that sprouted (hot chocolate and prairie fire didn't make it for some reason, but I planted two more prairie fires yesterday so, hopefully, things'll even out). I kind've sort've forgot to label the containers once I transplanted them so it'll take flowering for me to identify what chili species they are.

(DUE TO MY AWESOME POWERS OF DEDUCTION I CAN SAFELY CONCLUDE THAT THIS PLANT IS EITHER MY CHERRY BOMB OR MY RING OF FIRE.)

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You try and be careful but there's always one or two stem or leaf casualties.

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F's chili plant - the one she sent me last year for my birthday - has begun flowering again. Since it survived the Scottish backroom winter, it was transplanted yesterday, on Easter, in a lapis colored ceramic pot and welcomed as a FOREVER houseplant.

Some Say Prayers, I Say Mine

Spring happened sometime between borsht and The Sisters of Mercy; before the last of the slanting, sloping rays of the setting sun disappeared behind subdivision roofs, and after the first hissing pop-n-crackle of the turntable's speakers instantly coming to life with the push of one rectangular button.

Or maybe it happened during Lucretia, My Reflection when swimming in the golden light of dark matter - dirt embedded under fingernails, damp earth clinging to jeans, seeds spilling from hand to soil, body dancing, dancing, dancing under the beam of the last light, the final streak of glowing warmth hitting skin and setting flesh alight like an incandescent orthodox icon.

"WE GOT THE KINGDOM, WE GOT THE KEY / WE GOT THE EMPIRE, NOW AS THEN," I sang - I prayed - while planting on the concrete patio steps, the upper half of my body crossing the open threshold from outside to inside for seeds and biodegradable peat cups, only just aware of the significance of the movement - the moment - of mirrored life.

("WE DON'T DOUBT, WE DON'T TAKE REFLECTION...")

Lost in the whirling, tumbling pull of cannabinoids I shed my skin of self-consciousness (whatever thin, transparent, negligible "skin" I have) and freed myself into the rushing current head first, heart open and body willing. It was prayer, it was praise, it was giving thanks while simultaneously grieving, it was the soul speaking directly without words, without thought, without distractions or filters. It was tribute, it was worship, it was exaltation and glorification of being.

("SOME SAY PRAYERS / I SAY MINE...")

Or, perhaps, Spring might've begun the second I dropped the dull needle to vinyl, and, as Dominion began playing, I threw open the patio door and knelt at the concrete pew of nature. (THE PEW OF NATURE, ADMITTEDLY, WOULD'VE BEEN MORE...NATURE-Y...IF THE GROUND HADN'T BEEN SO FUCKING DAMP MAKING IT ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO DO ANY PLANTING ON THE BARE EARTH.) Papa's birds, roused by sound, crept closer to the house, the melodious song of the blackbirds echoing lyrics, joining Chippy (who was sitting on an empty bag of seedling compost) and I in the ancient rite, reveling and paying homage to the beginning of the end.

And when all was said and done, all was celebrated, when the warmth waned, the night breeze cooled, when the seeds were covered, the soil spent, when the remnant of the sun was just a faint haze of fading orange in the obscured horizon I bowed my head in reverence, in thanksgiving, and tenderly held the promise of new life while filling earthen chalices with water, one biodegradable peat pot at a time.

Clannad's Past Present, the closing hymn, gently ironed out the electricity of jangly guitar rock and ecstatic, heady dancing gave way to reserved thankfulness. In the chill of the gloam - with the blue Loch Ness monster watering can in hand - I found myself suddenly chanting "BEE BEE, COME HOME, BEE BEE, COME HOME, BEE BEE, COME HOME..." when watering Beh's only-just-planted container of bee balm.

Maybe Spring began when my eyes welled up with tears that threatened to break the barrier of lashes and spill across my sun-kissed cheeks. Watering, I felt the bitter sting of loss, the ache as sharp as it was almost a year ago when we lost our Bee, and then when I lost her, again, when the honey bee, at the send of the season, crawled through the office window and clung onto the sagging DIY screen and slowly died next to me - less than a foot away - as I cried and stroked it's listless, buzzing body. "BEE BEE, COME HOME," I coaxed my Bee, I coaxed all of my vanishing, dying Bees, so they knew that they haven't been forgotten, so they knew that they were still needed.

God, I don't know, maybe Spring actually began with the decision to bake fresh bread a day before (molasses oatmeal "farmer's bread"). Or to defrost one of the last frozen blocks of borsht and have it - along with the freshly baked bread - for lunch this afternoon. Or when I said "FUCK IT, IT'S NEVER TOO LATE!" to the idea that maybe, just maybe, it was a little TOO late to start Spring planting when the sun was about to set.

Or when I saw the haggard, Old Woman in the sediment of my tea cup, reaching over the deep ravine to the young Bride, becoming and yet letting go. Or after I jokingly scattered pumpkin seeds I cleaned and toasted ("LOL! WE CAN USE THESE FOR DIVINATION! WATCH!") to find a poised scorpion lurking within the contents ("LOL! MR. AWESOME CAN HAVE THESE! LOLOLOL!"). Or the wild, careless dancing I gave into when Children of Bodom's covers of Somebody Put Something in My Drink and Rebel Yell came on while I was cooking dinner.

Or, fuck, maybe Spring officially began when I took two homemade pheasant pot pies out of the oven that Italics and I had made together and we discovered that my set of asterisks had magically transformed - through the power of baking - into a promise of what was to come:

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(DUDE, WHEN YOU'RE HIGH //ANYTHING LEAF-LIKE// LOOKS LIKE POT LEAVES, OKAY?)

(PLANTED: aubergines (5), bee balm (approx. 60), courgettes (5), peas (2 trays), Russian sunflowers (11) and sub-arctic tomatoes (5). WATERED: apple trees grown from seed (3, but one hasn't sprouted leaves yet), Russian olives (no signs of life yet) and strawberries (need to separate and plant into strawberry pot). INSIDE: aubergines, courgettes and sub-arctic tomatoes. LEFT OUTSIDE: bee balm, peas and Russian sunflowers.)

(IMPORTANT NOTES: Crumbled up Beh's two-pack of BEBE COOKIES (CRACKERS?) and added the crumbs to the compost before planting Beh's bee balm over it. <- THAT? THAT'S CALLED //MAGIC//, BABY!)

Patience, Grasshopper

Due to a serious case of almost-way-too-near-NO-I-AM-NOT-FUCKING-JOKING-GIVE-ME-ONE-REASON-TO-START-SCREAMING-LIKE-A-TODDLER burnout and the newest installment of OVERLY INTELLECTUALIZED IDENTITY CRISIS this journal entry's going to be excruciatingly mundane. (APOLOGIZES IN ADVANCE; I'LL UP THE FUCKING SWEARING IN THE HOPES THAT THE CHRONICALLY RECURRING EXPLETIVES SOMEHOW DISTRACTS YOU FROM THE FACT THAT I'M SERIOUSLY FUCKING LACKING IN THE "FEELING LIKE A REAL HUMAN FUCKING BEING" DEPARTMENT.)

(AND WHEN I MEAN "SWEARING" I MEAN HILARIOUSLY OVERUSING "FUCK" SINCE THAT'S THE ONLY EXPLETIVE THAT'S WORTH SPITTING OUT LIKE A TOURETTE'S STUTTER.)(AND WHEN I MEAN "HILARIOUS" I ACTUALLY MEAN "NOT ACTUALLY AMUSING OR FUNNY IN ANYWAY" LIKE WHEN SOMETHING IS "SICK" OR "FAT" (OR ANY OTHER MODERN INTERPRETATION OF A WORD THAT, LOL, SPINS THE ORIGINAL MEANING INTO //THE EXACT OPPOSITE//! LOLOLOL!) WHEN THE THING IN QUESTION IS, IN FACT, NEITHER LITERALLY "SICK" AND/OR "FAT".)

I'm going to leave the HEAVY shit with Marty "SORRY BOYS, YOU'RE JUST TOO LOUD" McFly and dazzle the internet world with a shocking amount of INNER PERSONAL DEPTH that's SO OVERWHELMINGLY COMPLEX THAT ANY ATTEMPT TO COMPREHEND THE CORE OF MY BEING WOULD SURELY DRIVE THE AVERAGE PERSON TO THE EDGES OF SANITY for another day. (SORRY, INTERNETS, YOU'RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO SETTLE FOR ANOTHER EXTRA SPECIAL PERSON TODAY WHO ISN'T ME.)

The wonderful thing about Spring is even when I'm in the throes of despair and beating my flailing fists against my chest in existential crisis I can't help but be taken in by the awe-inspiring beauty and rejuvenation of this season. Waking up at twilight I shuffle around the house and watch - through windows - as darkness begins to blanket my mirror to the outside world. Everything disappears beneath a wave of blackness, all the life, all the brown turning green, all the tender shoots that gently bend beneath the sharp breeze.

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When night comes it drapes a curtain over the world I spy on, obscuring everything except the highlighted, glowing outline of neighbors' drawn windows. When night comes the light illuminating my world - the light I live by - is cold and clinical, spilling out of spiral shaped, environmentally friendly florescent light bulbs. When night comes I feel Diana stirring in me, and, like Her, I covet the golden warmth of light, and pine for the feeling of absolute completion that comes with the morning's sunrise.

(OH, DEATH, WITH YOUR IRONY AND ATTRACTION: AFRAID OF WHAT YOU ARE, NEEDING WHAT YOU AREN'T.)

Morning's first pitch black, with twinkling stars that pulse blue-white-red against an endless backdrop frozen in time. In the east the horizon cracks and splits; the fringes of space and sky interweave, slowly painting the domed curvature of a Byzantine cathedral. (AND FROM AN ANCIENT, EARTHEN PASSAGE I EMERGED INTO THE GREATEST CATHEDRAL OF THEM ALL AND THOUGHT MY HEART WOULD BREAK IN DIVINE ECSTASY WHEN I SAW THAT THE HEAVENS WERE UNDERGROUND - THE GOLDEN ORTHODOX STARS BREATHING LIFE INTO THE FLAWLESS, MAJESTIC BLUE THAT CLOAKED THE CONCAVE UNIVERSE IN A UNHEARD, BUT STIRRING, HYMN.)

And from that deep, unconscious blue the hope of light appears, lifting the rolling darkness from the world, drawing up the curtain until black is blue and blue is a lighter blue, a free, exhilarating blue of promise that races at full speed to the very end of the world. (LIGHT FROM DARKNESS, SOMETHING FROM NOTHING.) My world - everything I love, everything that brings me happiness, everything that brings me joy and makes my heart sing - reappears, and I stand on the other side of glass watching a waking world, a living person instead of a forgotten ghost.

(NIGHT, SHE SAID, IS OUR TIME. BUT WITHOUT DAY, WITHOUT LIGHT, WE'RE INCOMPLETE. SO WE KNEEL AT THE HOLY ALTAR OF THE SUN, OUR OPPOSITE, OUR OTHER HALF - WHAT WE INHERENTLY AREN'T, WHAT WE INHERENTLY WANT, WHAT WE INHERENTLY ARE DRAWN TO - FINDING THAT HE'S ALREADY THERE, KNEELING, WAITING AND DESIRING OUR DARKNESS WHICH BRINGS RESPITE AND RENEWAL.)

LOLOLOLOL, WAIT, I SAID I //WASN'T// GOING TO GET ALL HEAVY BECAUSE I DIDN'T THINK I HAD IT IN ME. (I GUESS "HEAVY" IS MY DEFAULT SETTING? WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT, RIGHT?) I'm ditching the waxing poetic tangent from this point on and filling that self-analysis void with THE PREVIOUS PLEDGE OF OVER-THE-FUCKING-TOP SWEARING!

Back in February we were hit with an amount of snow I've never, in the eight or nine years living here in Scotland, seen. It took nearly two fucking weeks for the overlaying quilt (I OFFICIALLY OVERUSED "BLANKET" SO NOW I'M GOING TO HAVE TO GO THROUGH ALL OF MY BED SHEET SYNONYMS!) of white to recede, and when it did I found that Spring had been cozying it up beneath that figurative quilt of ice'n'snow.

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I was, if you remember (see Bride's Awakening), inspired to brush off months of dormancy and air my winter gardening sweater. (WINTER GARDENING SWEATER = A HORRENDOUS WINTER SWEATER BOUGHT AT FASHION BUG IN THE LATE 90S AND GIVEN TO ME AS A CHRISTMAS GIFT BY A BEST FRIEND.) Due to my sleeping schedule I didn't have a chance to tackle the few outside jobs I had planned, so the evening was spent planting seeds indoors.

Within days of planting two of the six Voodoo seeds germinated, the dill, basil and tobacco sprouted and all of the vegetable seeds bought to fill my GIANT SEED VOID arrived. The dill and basil were left in the backroom while the rest of the seeds/sprouted plants were moved beneath the light. (OH, I AM TOTALLY ENJOYING HAVING THAT FUCKING GROW LIGHT ON FOR 18 HOURS A MOTHERFUCKING DAY AGAIN.)

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I managed to complete some pretty intense gardening over the course of a day or two, shit that //HAD// to get done before my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, returned from his month long sabbatical at the Florida property. (THE DIRTYARD IN THE FRONT AND THE APOCALYPTIC WASTELAND KNOWN AS THE BACKYARD HAS BEEN, FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, ABANDONED BY HIS ROYAL GARDENING HIGHNESS AND WE'VE WATCHED THE COMMUNAL SPACE SLIDE QUICKLY INTO RUIN, UNABLE TO DO //ANYTHING// TO PREVENT IT SINCE, TECHNICALLY, THIS ISN'T //OUR// HOUSE SO IT ISN'T //OUR// GARDEN.)

Once I noticed that the bulbs Italics bought me during our 2008 CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE were beginning to bud all six terracotta containers were dragged from their under-the-bedroom-window pad and moved to the concrete patio steps so I could monitor their progress through the patio door. (MONITOR PROGRESS = STAND FOR A SUSPICIOUSLY LONG TIME WITH MY FIRST CUP OF TEA OF THE DAY WHILE SILENTLY ADMIRING THE DWARF BLOSSOMS TREMBLING IN THE CHILLY SPRING AIR.) They were relocated just in time; the day after the first of the irises unfurled beneath the cold February sun displaying their ghetto velvet purple to the world.

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The green scrapes of my witch's garlic were covered with buckets of dirt, each pail of damp earth carried (CARRIED = CRUSHED) against my chest from backyard to sideyard, almost every trip back and forth accompanied by the overprotective blackbirds who've nested in the ivy hedge. (THEY'LL GET USE TO ME...EVENTUALLY. IN THE MEAN TIME THEY GO APE SHIT LIKE A FAMILY OF SOCIALLY DISTURBED CRACKHEADS WHEN SOMEONE WALKS PAST THE NEST.)

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I weeded what was once the predominant garden feature - the raised rock bed - something I don't think I've ever seen my father-in-law do. (I MEAN, SOME OF THE BRACKEN THAT I REMOVED WAS ON THE VERGE OF BECOMING FOSSIL FUEL, OKAY? THAT'S POSSIBLY DECADES OF NEGLECT!) Unfortunately, I'm currently waking up at a super awful bad time to take pictures to reveal the finished product, so the images below convey the BEFORE rather than the AFTER.

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(I USED A HAND HELD BROOM AND ACTUALLY SWEPT THE ROCKS COMPRISING THE EXTERIOR OF THE WALL. I USED A HAND HELD BROOM AND EVEN SWEPT ALL OF THE EFFING STONES MR. AWESOME HAS SITTING ON TOP OF PILES OF ROTTING BEAMS OF WOOD. I USED A HAND HELD BROOM AND EVEN SWEPT THE FUCKING //DIRT//, OKAY?)(DIRT, BTW, CAN ALWAYS USE A ONCE OVER WITH A BROOM - DIRT CAN ALWAYS BE CLEANER, ALWAYS!)

Now that Mr. Awesome's returned from his holy crusade I'm pretending like I did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING OUTSIDE and if he notices any change, any discrepancy, any difference out back I'M JUST GOING TO PRETEND THAT I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK HE'S TALKING ABOUT. (Even if I did leave the pile of weeds and rotted wood just sitting at the foot of the cloth's line...OOPS.)

The problem now? Since I've dug it out of ruin, cleaned and polished it until it gleamed it feels like it recognizes ME as the ALPHA LEADER because, clearly, ALL OF THOSE SPLINTERS, ALL OF THOSE CUTS, ALL OF THOSE RAW WELTS FROM YANKING WEEDS OUT OF AN UNYIELDING GROUND IS INDICATIVE OF NEW OWNERSHIP. (THE ONLY THING I DIDN'T DO WAS PISS ON IT TO MARK IT AS MY TERRITORY.)(PS: DON'T THINK THAT IT'S BENEATH ME TO DO IT, BTW, BECAUSE IT'S NOT. AT ALL. NOT EVEN A FRACTION.)

Patience, grasshopper, for the crazy old man will inevitably get nothing but crazier and older, and in that maze of dementia you will inherit what is rightfully yours. (I HAVE SPLINTERS TO PROVE OWNERSHIP AND RIGHT, OKAY?)

When Death Comes Ripping

OH, HEY, MY GRANDFATHER DIED -- THREE FUCKING MONTHS AGO.

MY SIDE OF THE FAMILY? I AM DELIBERATELY ESTRANGED FROM THEM. AND THEY ARE ALL "BUT WHHHHY?" AND "YOU'RE JUST AS CRAZY AS YOUR MOTHER WAS" AND "WE KNOW THAT ITALICS HAS BRAIN WASHED YOU AND TURNED YOU AGAINST US" AND I WILL NOW GIVE AN EXAMPLE TO THE WORLD WHY I HAVE DELIBERATELY ESTRANGED MYSELF FROM THEM:

ON THE 10TH OF THIS MONTH (JANUARY) I GOT A LETTER FROM THE STATES WITH MY GRANDFATHER'S NAME IN THE RETURN ADDRESS, BUT THE ADDRESS LISTED BENEATH WASN'T HIS REAL ADDRESS (<- LIVED WITH MY UNCLE AND HIS WIFE, AND I KNOW THEIR ADDRESS). (I GOOGLED IT AND, AS IT TURNS OUT, IT'S SOME EQUINE LEARNING CENTER, OR SOMETHING.)

APPARENTLY, MY GRANDFATHER DIED IN SEPTEMBER, BUT NO ONE BOTHERED CONTACTING ME. WAIT, NO, I TAKE THAT BACK - APPARENTLY MY UNCLE SENT ME A FUCKING EMAIL...BUT THAT WAS IT. MY UNCLE SENT ME AN EMAIL TO AN ADDRESS HE ADMITTED THAT HE ALREADY KNEW THAT I NO LONGER USED (AND HADN'T USED IN YEARS), AND THOUGHT THAT WAS, YOU KNOW, SUFFICIENT. (I GUESS MY SISTER AND FATHER ALSO THOUGHT IT WAS SUFFICIENT BECAUSE NEITHER OF THEM CONTACTED ME, OR EVEN MENTIONED THE FACT IN THE CHRISTMAS CARD/LETTER THEY SENT ME.)

AND THE ONLY REASON WHY MY UNCLE WAS CONTACTING ME - PRETENDING TO BE MY GRANDFATHER BECAUSE OTHERWISE I GUESS I WOULDN'T HAVE OPENED THE LETTER AND JUST THROWN IT OUT (WTF? I HAVE NO IDEA, SRSLY.) - WAS BECAUSE I HAD SENT A GIFT AND CARD, LIKE I ALWAYS DO, FOR CHRISTMAS. SO, REALLY, HE WAS ONLY TELLING ME -SO I DIDN'T SEND ANY MORE SHIT TO THEIR HOUSE-, NOT BECAUSE HE FELT OBLIGATED TO INFORM HIS NIECE THAT HER GRANDFATHER HAD FUCKING DIED.

AND THE WORST PART? I MEAN, LOL, OTHER THAN THE FACT THAT NO ONE BOTHERED CONTACTING ME THAT MY FUCKING GRANDFATHER - MY ONLY GRANDFATHER THAT I HAVE EVER KNOWN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE - HAD DIED THREE MONTHS AGO, IS THAT IF I CONTACT ANY OF MY IMMEDIATE FAMILY GOING "WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?" I'LL BE TAGGED AS THE CRAZY ONE. (TRUFAX.)

FOR FUCK'S SAKE - YOU SEND AN EMAIL WHEN YOUR FUCKING DOG OR GOLDFISH DIES, NOT WHEN SOMEONE IN YOUR IMMEDIATE FAMILY PASSES AWAY - ESPECIALLY NOT TO AN ADDRESS YOU'VE ALREADY EFFING ADMITTED YOU KNOW -NO LONGER WORKS-. MAYBE I'M JUST OLD-FASHIONED THINKING THAT IT BORDERS ON INAPPROPRIATE TO RELY ON, OSTENSIBLY, ONE FUCKING -TEXT MESSAGE- TO INFORM PEOPLE OF THE DEATH OF AN IMMEDIATE FAMILY MEMBER. (HOW FUCKING LAZY IS THAT? I MEAN, REALLY? THAT SHIT IS FUCKING INEXCUSABLE, AND I CAN'T BELIEVE AN ADULT DOUBLE MY AGE THINKS HE'S ACTED FAULTLESSLY AND FLAWLESSLY.)

AND THAT IS WHY, WORLD, I HAVE CUT THE STRINGS. THAT IS WHY.

(AND -I'M- THE FUCKING CRAZY ONE. JESUS EFFING CHRIST. DO YOU SEE WHAT I HAVE TO WORK WITH? ON BOTH SIDES? FUCK ME.)

How Many...?

Q: How many witches wake up at 4:30 in the fucking morning to consecrate a hole that city workers dug up right in front of her house (SYMBOLICALLY IT'S A GRAVE, OKAY?) the day before with blood, urine, magic mushrooms, and antique hair pins?

A: NONE, LOL, THEY HIT THE SNOOZE BUTTON BECAUSE IT'S WAY TOO FUCKING EARLY IN THE MORNING AND IT'S RAINING, ANYWAY, AND SLEEP FOR ANOTHER TWO HOURS AND THEN RUSH TO GET EVERYTHING DONE BEFORE EARLY COMMUTERS CAN CATCH THEM IN ACTION. (BURN THE WITCH!)

Last of the Best

Not yet, I guess.

(I had an entire entry written here with realizations I came to early this morning while on mushrooms, but I lost it. All of it. In one gut-crushing MySQL error - that's never happened in all of my years of journaling - all of the words were gone.)

(It's okay, though. The error registered as "#2" which is significant enough for me to understand that IT'S JUST NOT TIME YET.)

(There are no flukes in this game; only unrealized opportunities and unseen messages written on the wall. You don't have to be schizophrenic, but obsessively connecting seemingly fictitious dots helps. Especially if you can do it on a daily basis.)

Bratz Princess

I never really understood the practice of cursing a deity for a desired outcome. I mean, I get WHY, but it always seemed counterproductive to me, and I can't imagine that it leads to a very happy home. (Don't even get me started on the fallout that happened after I kicked Papa's ass out of the house when both of our stubborn wills butted - we didn't speak all Spring and Summer long. That was years ago, but it's still fresh in our minds.)

I still do it, though.

Not in that archaic "AND MAY YOU NEVER FIND REST, NEVER FIND SOLACE, NEVER FIND..." way that sounds all OLD AND EPIC and OLD TESTAMENT BIBLICAL, but I swear. And curse. And cry. And, when I feel all justified about it, scream at the top of my lungs in Their face.

(Nothing's safe, nothing's sacred.)

There's little else that makes me feel like I'm a force of nature made flesh when I howl and scratch the faces of the things I love, the things I am. To have that sort of primal audacity, to become the roaring wind that weathers stone faces and lashes out like a caged animal is simultaneously beautiful and terrible - a cursed blessing, destructive yet courageous.

(She said I was a fighter, a "warrior". (YES, I KNOW. NOW IMAGINE HOW I MUST FEEL KNOWING THAT I HAVE TO, SOMEHOW, SPIN THIS "WARRIOR" BUSINESS INTO SOMETHING ALL MODERN AND COOL AND SEXY.) And She anointed me with Her bloody hand during a lunar eclipse, telling me (during the baptism) that "you will know blood".)

It yields results...quickly. (I suppose priorities change when you have a LIVING BANSHEE WOMAN threatening to CLAW OUT THE EYES OF HER IDOLS while she withers, thrashes, and spiritually foams at the mouth.) Not that I recommend this method to anyone, but if you want results - immediate, lightening-from-heaven OH MY GOD NO ONE IS GOING TO BELIEVE ME acknowledgement - you need to be willing to prove it.

This isn't the Halloween vacation I expected. I could go into it - and I probably will, later on - but I don't feel up to the IMMENSE FRUSTRATION that I'd experience while doing so.

(One of the reasons why I don't post here as often as I like is because THERE'S A LOT OF EXCESS BAGGAGE WITH ALMOST EVERYTHING I WANT TO SAY. Almost everything - right now - seems so drive-by, so manic. But there's sense, and there's rhythm to my life; I just haven't found a balance between WHAT I WANT TO SAY and WHAT I NEED TO SAY TO BACK UP WHAT I WANT TO SAY. Because no matter how far back I go, I always realize that it isn't far enough, and there will always be something else I need to add, or explain, or clarify and dragging out those memories to put to words seems too goddamn daunting.)

Due to being chronically sick with a mystery illness (we're banking on a hiatal hernia, I don't know what the NHS is banking since no one from the medical community has contacted me about the testing they said I had to undergo NEARLY 10 FUCKING WEEKS AGO) I knew that I had to take it easy (meaning, no HALLOWEEN WHORE RETURNS HOME parties) and even went as far as outlining several small PERSONAL TIME projects for myself so I couldn't go overboard.

(In addition to decorating the house for Halloween and setting up the altar I wanted to: clean out our bedroom (one of the smallest rooms in the house), make bagels from scratch, plant spring bulbs, clear out vegetable plants, and prepare a SOUTHERN COOKING spread from an old cookbook that once belonged to my mother. <- This is me scaling back crazily, I usually do -a lot- more during two vacation weeks.)

The decorations aren't up. The altar - the focus, the point, the reason; where we pray and fuck and party and connect - never got constructed. Not one room in this house is to my standard of cleanliness, and we're still sleeping in the same sweaty sheets, in the same cluttered bedroom. No bulbs have been planted, no vegetable plants uprooted. No rest, no relaxation, no reflection...no vacation.

We've been sick. I'm sick on an every day basis - but it's a sickness I'm used to by now, even though something's broken inside of me. Being struck down with a chronic mystery illness means that I haven't really left the house this year. In fact, last week was the second time I even left city limits in all of 2008.

Italics took me to see Cyndi Lauper in Glasgow to kick start our Halloween vacation. (The sad part? The sad I FEEL LIKE I'VE BEEN PUNCHED IN THE GUT part? I haven't even had a chance to go over the concert in my head or with Italics. Something so huge, so meaningful, so monumental to me and us and work and EVERYTHING and it's just hanging in limbo; a visceral memory without any feeling or emotion. A picture without words.)

Even before the concert I was exhausted; at the concert there was a critical point where I almost had to throw in the cards during the support band. Do you know how depressing it is to know that TRAVELING and GOING TO A CONCERT is enough to leave you fucking bedridden for over a week? Do you know how depressing it is knowing you're NOT EVEN FUCKING THIRTY and your body can't handle letting you out of the house for a change of scenery?

We got sick. There was no food in the house. There were no clean clothes. The rats began to smell, and then, as our colds got worse, they didn't smell at all - but not because we cleaned their cages. I was so sick I couldn't unpack our bags. (One is still sitting in the lounge right now.) I couldn't do the laundry. I couldn't feed us (LOL, ON WHAT? THREE FUCKING CARS IN THE FUCKING DRIVEWAY AND I CAN'T FUCKING DRIVE ONE OF THEM). So there was no way I could decorate the house for Halloween, set up the altar, and begin the ancient VIRGIN TO WHORE pageant.

It's October 25th today; we're still sick. Italics's parents come home on the 31st. I don't see celebration, I don't even have a designated place to pray.

This isn't the Halloween vacation I needed.

I've been crying for days. I wish I could explain, but I can't. (SEE "FRUSTRATION", ONCE AGAIN.) I cried to Italics that it felt like They were taking Halloween away from me this year. (I WISH I COULD EXPLAIN, I DO. OTHER THAN BEING MY FAVORITE TIME OF THE YEAR IT'S WHEN ITALICS AND I GOT ENGAGED. IT'S WHEN CHIPPY FIRST MADE CONTACT WITH ME. IT'S WHEN PAPA COMES HOME FOR WINTER. IT'S WHEN I TAKE OFF MY EASTER WEDDING DRESS. IT'S WHEN THE VIRGIN BRIDE BECOMES THE WHORE. IT'S THE FINAL ACT OF REAPING, THE CLOSING OF THE HARVEST AND THE TIME OF THE OLD WOMAN. IT'S WHEN I GO WITHIN MYSELF TO JOIN THE DARKNESS SO I CAN EMERGE FROM MY SECOND SKIN A VIRGIN BRIDE FOR EASTER.)

This was the first year Italics married his Easter Bride. 2008 was the first year that our union represented the responsibility that we agreed to undertake; it was acceptance of the way things were/are, an invitation to the universe to help us expand our efforts and point us in the right direction. Having never really done this before I know that everything, right now, is a learning experience (THIS SHIT? ALL OF THIS SHIT? TRIAL AND ERROR WITH A SIDE OF GUT INSTINCT) but I can't help but feel disappointed and frustrated at the lack of closure and the ability to seamlessly slide from one role into the other.

I know I'm spoiled, but they let me be spoiled. I stamp my foot, I scream, I claw at stony visages in my mind and the world shakes and the trees bend and everything, all around me, holds its breath during that audacious second when the howl that deafens and shakes me crashes through the universe like a burst of white lightening.

...I don't get ignored.

Paint it Black

Black death shroud thrown over Chippy. Got package today, played "dress up" with torn cloth. Chippy eventually moved to floor with Jigga. When watching TV looked over at both and noticed how black cloth became mourning shroud, and how Jigga leaned into Chippy as if both comforting each other while grieving.

(I really wished I hadn't noticed that.)

Stone Fruit Season

IMMORTALITY THROUGH WRITING? LOL, ONLY IF YOU'RE THE CHARACTER! BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME AROUND, BRAH! (LOL @ THE ATHEISTS WHO WON'T BE SITTING THE RETEST.)

(THE SHEER FABRIC OF TIME AND SPACE AND EVERYTHING THAT IS ANYTHING COULD SPLIT IN HEAVENLY GLORY BEFORE MY EYES AND I'D STILL BE ALL "...BUT I STILL DON'T ACTUALLY -KNOW-, YOU KNOW?". EVEN THEN.)

(I GUESS I WILL SOMEDAY.)

(LOL, "I GUESS"! LIKES IT'S SOME SORT OF VOLUNTARY CHOICE!)

(LOL @ THIS ONE HANDED DISCUSSION TAKING PLACE AS JUICE FROM A HALF-EATEN PLUM RUNS DOWN MY ARM LIKE BLOOD.)

(OH, SYMBOLISM. <3.)

Buy Me Things

Papa is an opportunistic bastard. When you have your guard down he'll slip in during that second when you're too far past the threshold to go "OH, HEY, HEY NOW! LET'S NOT BE HAVING NONE OF THAT BUSINESS HERE, PLEASE!". He waits until you've crossed the point of no return, and then invites himself over (invites himself in?).

Sometimes he slides in for a partial ride, and sometimes I discover, afterwards, a skull or skeleton inexplicably staring me in the face when there wasn't a skull or skeleton there before. ("WAIT, HOW DID THIS GET HERE AGAIN?") FOR INSTANCE (OH, LORD, YOU KNEW THIS WAS GOING SOMEWHERE DEEP DOWN INSIDE!), FOR EXAMPLE, FOR THIS ONE SITUATION CIRCUMSTANCE I GIVE YOU...TODAY!

Today? Today I pulled my brand new BUY ME THINGS t-shirt over my demi-cupped tits and proudly showed off my newest gift from Italics to Italics. And then, approximately 15 minutes later, we were both on our knees, stoned, and he was fucking me in the ass against my computer chair while the Commodore's song Nightshift was playing in MP3 form. (THE SAD PART OF ALL OF THIS? I WASN'T EVEN TRYING. (COME TO THINK OF IT, THAT'S ALWAYS THE SAD PART.))

(LOL, ACTUALLY, THAT'S A SORT'VE FUNNY STORY WITHIN ITSELF! I WAS ALL "WHAT SONG DO YOU THINK WOULD BE GOOD FOR BUTT SEX?" AND HE WAS ALL "I DON'T KNOW" SO I THUMBED THROUGH MY 80S COLLECTION AND WAS ALL "SOMETHING, YOU KNOW, NOT CRAZY BUT MORE FUNNY" AND KNEW THAT THAT DIDN'T MEAN PURPLE RAIN, OR, UHM, THE OTHER ONE I SUGGESTED WHICH MADE ITALICS LAUGH AND MADE ME GO "OH, RIGHT, THAT PROBABLY FALLS IN THE "CRAZY" CATEGORY, DOESN'T IT?" (DAMN MEMORY) SO I WENT "WHAT ABOUT WE GOT THE BEAT?" AND HE WAS ALL, LIKE, "ISN'T THAT MORE NITROUS MUSIC?" AND I WAS "YES, TOTALLY, 100%! WHAT ABOUT I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW?" AND HE LAUGHED AND I LAUGHED AND WE BOTH LAUGHED AND WHEN SETTING IT UP I NOTICED THAT WINAMP LOADED NIGHTSHIFT AGAIN BUT I DECIDED TO -NOT- REMOVE THE SONG AFTER HITTING "REPEAT" BECAUSE ME KNOWING ME I KNOW HOW QUICKLY I COME DURING ANAL SEX AND I KNOW I AIN'T GOING TO LAST AS LONG AS TIFFANY DOES IN I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW. (OR, LOL, SO I THOUGHT!) SO WE ACTUALLY STARTED ON I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW BUT BECAUSE I TOOK SO GODDAMN LONG WE ENDED UP FINISHING DURING NIGHTSHIFT. ("GONNA BE SOME SWEET SOUNDS, COMING DOWN ON THE NIGHTSHIFT...") SEE WHAT I MEAN ABOUT HOW I'M NOT REALLY TRYING EVEN THOUGH IT MAY APPEAR THAT WAY? I'M JUST A VICTIM (OF MYSELF, APPARENTLY).)

What's the first thing I see after collapsing into my computer chair? Four top hatted skulls and three crows staring at me (at eye level):

Click thumbnail for larger image.

See what I mean about SKULLS and SKELETONS inexplicably appearing? I hadn't planned on having anal sex, let alone against the computer chair next to the window. But the next thing I know I'M BUTT BEEF EXTREME (just think of "butt beef" as a pet name for the act in this house; kind've like how you give your favorite child a cutesy nickname...or something) AND MOVING IN TIME WITH THE COMMODORES IN FRONT OF A BLACK CLOTH ALTAR WITH GREY SKULLS AND WHITE CROWS. (I THINK what must've happened was me thinking that I would quickly pull my new FOUR OF A KIND tee on after sex to see how it fit and slung it, all absently, over my computer chair for safe keeping. AND THE REST HAS BEEN SLOPPY RECORDED IN PREVIOUS PARTS OF THIS PARTIALLY CAPS LOCKED ENTRY.)

Sneaky bastard. (I hope he got my "message". (LOL! "BUY ME THINGS"! LOL!)

About a week back I heard that René Cigler from StrangeMonster.Com passed away. The name stuck with me for a day or two but I couldn't remember why it seemed so familiar until I remembered, long, long, ago, that I had bookmarked (DOG EARED?) a hoodie she had designed.

When poking around Strange Monster I came across FOUR OF A KIND and was immediately sold. I mean, HOW COULD I NOT BE - it was on -SALE-! It was BLACK and had THE ACE OF SPADES and SKULLS and PAPA and CROWS and IT WAS ON SALE! So I ditched the hoodie (it wasn't there, anyway), and wound up with an unexpected, 100% out-of-the-blue purchase.

My FOUR OF A KIND t-shirt arrived the day before my first appointment with the specialist. I felt sad for a second, handling something so obviously death related, knowing that the only reason why I was holding it in the first place was because of René's unexpected death, and then it felt...I don't know...right.

And fall.

It felt like fall had come, and it felt like Papa was letting me know that he's getting ready to come home for winter. (I've missed you, Old Man.)

As #33

Earlier today, when speaking about/thinking about tomorrow's appointment I pulled #33 from ma's "Soul Cards" deck. (I believe my reaction - and this is a direct quote - was "JESUS, IT'S NOT THAT BAD!".)

There's a slight discrepancy between the on-line version of the image and the printed card version of the image. For some reason all of the blue featured in the glossy card doesn't pop up on the jpg (it looks more sand blasted on-line - WHO KNOWS, MAYBE MY INTERNET EYES ARE BROKEN?).

The first thing I said/thought (not the VERY FIRST THING, mind you, because that was the "OH JESUS WTF IS THIS BLACK HOLE OF DESPAIR?!" reaction above) was "OKAY, DON'T FREAK OUT BECAUSE YOU CAN -CLEARLY SEE- THAT SHE HAS A PROTECTIVE WHITE HALO/AURA AROUND HER BODY (WHITE = GOOD COLOR, DEATH/REBIRTH) WHICH IS A V. V. V. GOOD SIGN". And then "OH, HEY, WE'RE GETTING MORE BLUE!" (in my card version there's a blue smudge streaked across her face making it seem like the indigo is staining her white skin) and that's V. V. GOOD too because BLUE AND WHITE ARE VERY SPECIAL MAGIC COLORS FOR ME and WE SHOULD BE TURNING BLUE BY NOW, ANYWAY, BECAUSE FALL IS COMING ON.

(Time to ditch the Easter bride virgin thing and do a 180. ANCIENT, PERPETUAL CYCLE OF LIFE AND DEATH AND ALL OF THAT.)

So, yeah, not bad, you just need to look at it a bit harder. (BESIDES, IT'S ONLY A HERNIA, YOU KNOW. SO, THERE'S NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT BECAUSE IF IT WAS SOMETHING REALLY BAD, BAD SOMETHING REALLY BAD, BAD WOULD HAVE HAPPENED BY NOW.)

(CAN I PLEASE HAVE ANOTHER RABBIT GRIN? MAYBE ONE MORE JUST BEFORE BED?)

#33 notes:
* Atomic number of arsenic
* This number has the meaning that good will always triumph over evil.
* A significant number in modern numerology, one of the master numbers along with 11 and 22
* A normal human spine has 33 vertebrae when the bones that form the coccyx are counted individually
* The double triangle is another word for, "33."

Thirty Minutes After

I stopped it from raining last night.

(It held for an evening and thirty minutes; it waited for a shower and a beer. I pulled Our apron tight - high above the stars - and We cradled the rain against Our body, against Ourselves, with arms unwavering as the clouds billowed and rolled below Us. The Universe said "YOU DID THIS. YOU DID THIS, YOURSELF." and I laughed and I cried while we watched my rain from the kitchen windows, after a shower, after a beer - thirty minutes after I looked up at the sky and said "NOW IT CAN RAIN!" as the blood and semen and spit and wine sank into the earth where there were roots without sheaves of wheat.)

Aquarius Lunar Eclipse

Tonight I Reaped.