Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

A Blessing? A Curse?

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A sudden shock of early morning light blasted through tumultuous clouds and briefly illuminated the dubious contents of my magic wooden basket when I presented my homemade toadstool oil to the local stone-circled bronze age cairn this morning. (<- A blessing? A curse? Fuck if I know, but at least my ass got noticed.)

Cracklin' Rosie

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Nothing but me, 4 ½ lbs of necromantic wild raspberries*, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of gin, a bottle of vodka, the blessings of Papa's hard fucking cock and Neil Diamond's greatest motherfucking hits. (Oh, we gonna ride till there ain't no more to go...)

* These fuckers? Were picked at an old Scottish graveyard situated near a pair of effin' cairns. Necrotastic, or what?

Ache in My Heart

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It's been three motherfucking months since I last filled my magic wooden basket with nature's bounty. I don't want to seem all melodramatic and shit, but there's this ache in my heart, and it's been there since the killing frost laid its icy blanket of pre-winter across the land.

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There are days when the loneliness gets so fucking overwhelming that all I can do is sit down and cry, and I wonder if the sleeping land feels stirred by my tears, if it's sluggishly aware and pines for me the way I fucking pine for it on a daily fucking basis.

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I haven't been outdoors - where it counts, where I belong - since October. Winter's kept me busy, and my festive indoor schedule has been running me fucking ragged since Halloween. I haven't had a chance, not one single fucking opportunity, to cast off responsibilities and get in my motherfucking car and just drive until my heart no longer aches.

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I feel like a queen haunted by ghosts. I mourn phantoms and vivid memories, and the pictures that remind me of that time only rub salt in the fucking wounds. My eyes trace over familiar shapes and I can feel them beneath my fingertips; the loose, gritty dirt clinging to bulbous stems, the cobweb-sticky remains of tattered veils, the flawlessness of the waxy caps which burned like tequila sunrises beneath wild birches and heather.

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Maybe Winter is the mutual longing between a queen and her land, the collective ache that throbs and bleeds throughout the long, dark months keeping things alive, keeping things warm. And maybe for every hot tear that runs down my fucking cheek a silent promise is made that Spring must oblige.

Farewell Sendoff

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A monu-fucking-mental year deserves a farewell sendoff in style: homemade vodka* created earlier this year with locally foraged wild berries and backyard-grown fruits, a dab (or two) of my fly agaric oil that's been infusing since Halloween, a bag of imported pot with a hallucinatory slant and sweaty, friction burn sex on a sheepskin rug that Italics once lay on as a baby.

Pictured Above: plum liqueur, wild blackberry brandy, wild blackberry vodka, gooseberry & cinnamon vodka, wild raspberry vodka and strawberry & geranium vodka.

Ecstatically Pure

Even before I fell asleep I felt myself changing. Lying on my side, facing my bedroom altar, Papa's mask, the holiday decorated ladder and the makeshift bed of our "spirit dolls" I animalistically sunk on all fours, and felt the solid, human lines of my forearms and legs melt into the ground. Freedom came when my arched spine split my thinning skin, giving gravity the reigns it needed to separate flesh and spirit, ultimately dissolving away my daily disguise until I was left ecstatically pure.

As Italics drifted off beside me I slipped through the small crack between the window and the windowsill (I like my sleeping environment cold as fuck, so we tend to have our window partially open even during winter), the cold December night not even registering as I magnificently burst from the house in an explosion of crawling-slithering-running-galloping-flying. Each "step" I took gave birth to a new animal - a new skin (the buzzing fly, by the way, was my favorite) - until I was a whirlwind of shrieking laughter tearing across the dark Scottish sky to destinations unremembered.

PS: Last night? The first night in almost a week where I didn't wake up having to be violently ill thanks to this fucking "stomach thing" I've recently been suffering from.

PPS: I think I was someone's wet dream last night; I hope it was as good for him as it was for me. (<- The only thing I can even faintly recall from "traveling" is some seriously classical succubus-like behavior on my part.)

Uniquely Special

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I've been holding off on writing about certain projects because I felt like I had to introduce you to my situation (see journal entry 2010, which is a V. abridged version of the past 10 years) so you could really appreciate where the fuck I'm coming from. To better understand what I'm doing you have to be semi-familiar with my history, because it's in my past where these foundations were laid, and it's in my past where my desperate longing to do this shit originally germinated. Without that decade of Universe-imposed isolation and solitude I wouldn't be the person I am today, let alone the witch you see reeking revolutionary havoc in various social networking sites.

Working with toadstools (fly agarics; the white-speckled red-orange "poisonous" fairy tale mushrooms) is something I always wanted to do, but I never had the opportunity until this year thanks to not having a motherfucking car. When the stars finally aligned and a car dropped into my lap I didn't take the good fortune for granted; I was out, every day, in rain, wind or shine picking and harvesting what I could from ancient woodlands, hedges, castle grounds, roadsides and sacred sites (i.e., standing stones, stone circles and cairns).

After a day of foraging - which wasn't limited to mushrooms, I picked and took home anything that seemed left out for me which included wild berries, roadkill, feathers, bones, wild bird egg shell fragments and whatever manmade "junk" I stumbled across that seemed suspiciously significant despite its rusted mundanity - I'd drag my magic basket home, take pictures to document the day's haul (I want people to feel connected with the products they buy from me, whether it's mushrooms, animal remains or organic plant material and the best way to do that is to provide pictures of said products in their natural environment and to share their stories of how I acquired them through journal entries), perform any required rite or ritual, sort through the treasures, clean them, label them, store them and, in the cases of mushrooms, dry them.

In roughly three months I picked over a hundred mushrooms, and that number doesn't even count the "edible" specimens harvested, cleaned and dried for winter eating. Because this is my first fucking year doing this I don't know if that number's normal, abnormal or amazingly phenomenal. What I do know, though, was that northeast Scotland's countryside was exceptionally welcoming to the point that it verged on being cosmically creepy. (How do you know when the Universe is enthusiastically encouraging you on? When you find yourself engaged in a one person game of dodgeball where your ass gets repeatedly pelted with the shit you're looking for.)

Despite the love and care I put into every fly agaric picked, some of them were beyond my help. When a toadstool wasn't suitable for drying a spore print was taken and all of the remains were committed to the earth (one of my "roadkill buckets"; a container filled with dirt and the unusable parts of one of my animals, I'm PRETTY sure the vessel'o'soil used is either crow or deer based), because, fuck, you just don't go throwing one of the oldest, most powerful tools of communion with the divine into the fucking trash.

Other problem agarics were hard to identify until after I began drying them. The two worst offenders? Infestations of larvae (they travel up from the bulbous base of the stem, through the stalk and into the mushroom cap) that rendered the toadstool unusable (I'm TOTALLY about accepting the nature of Nature; if you pick and consume wild shit, you need to deal with the fact you may be picking and consuming MORE wild shit than you intended - but in these cases? the worms ate EVERYTHING leaving hollowed out, brittle shells of fragile emptiness), and mold.

The mold thing seemed to be dirt related - it only appeared on the bases (speckled, funnily enough, like the white dots on the caps, so the mushrooms weren't blanketed in fuzzy mold, only spackled very gently with tiny Styrofoam pinpricks) of the most soil-encrusted mushrooms. (I tried removing as much earth as I could with a pair of brushes - because you aren't meant to wash mushrooms to clean them, you just dust debris and unwanted junk them off - but in some cases it just wasn't enough.)

I don't think I would've experienced the problem if I had a dehydrator at my disposal, but I didn't. (I'm actually hoping I sell enough of what I harvested this year to afford one for NEXT year's season.) I only had an oven, and even on the lowest temperature setting (with the door open) some of the larger agarics wouldn't dry completely leaving me with a toadstool-themed Sophie's Choice: stick with the oven until they were hardcore dehydrated (which ran the risk of a slightly toasted appearance), or hope that they were dry enough to store them in a brown paper bag with a sachet of silica. In most cases the mushrooms continued to dry without incident, but a small handful developed itty bitty spheres of white where dirt remained transfixed to the base.

I've sort've been pussyfooting around the subject, all NUDGE, NUDGE, WINK, WINK, COUGH, COUGH, AHEM but we all know the score - the majority of people who'll end up buying these mushrooms from me are interested in experiencing the psychoactive reaction from this natural entheogen. With that in mind, it's then my job - as your black market, witchcraft-flavored drug lord - to:

1.) ensure everyone understands that the toadstools being sold are for novelty purposes; you shouldn't eat (or drink) them, and I can't be held responsible for whatever happens if you decide to ingest them

2.) join everyone else who's ignoring #1 and do my very best to provide the cleanest, safest specimens for consumption

Knowing that people will be buying mushrooms for ritual/ceremonial work I've begun the process of grading my stock. The absolute best fly agarics will be left whole (perfect for adding to your curiosity collection!), the second best will be reduced to "chips" (perfect for adding to your magic waters, incense blends and whatever else strikes your fancy) and the deviants of the bunch - the ones that were just a touch too wormy, or developed flecks of mold - were separated from the pack to ensure everything sold is 100% suitable for all uses.

If you've been following my adventures you'll know that I abhor waste, and I'll beat something to proverbial death to wring every last use out of it. One of the things I always wanted to do with fly agaric was create an anointing oil, but I didn't want to dip into stock that I could sell least it took money away from a dehydrator. So instead of using the beautiful and the best to make myself that oil, I used the rejected outcasts which were unfit for human consumption.

Just a few minutes after 11 PM on Halloween night I sat down with an empty pickle jar, my ritual scissors, my bean nighe bowl, rapeseed oil and bags upon fucking bags of dried fly agarics and got to work checking every single fucking mushroom. Whatever fell into the most desirable grades were filed away for sale use, and whatever appeared remotely iffy was reduced to confetti and added to the glass jar.

By the stroke of midnight - and only JUST - the devious deed was done; I had myself a respectable jar of locally picked fly agarics chips infusing in locally grown organic, cold-pressed rapeseed oil. Everything in that glass container - the oil, bits of mushrooms, the dirt, the tiny fragments of pieces of twigs and organic debris - was grown, picked and processed within 15-20 miles of our house. As if the "magic" in the magic mushrooms wasn't enough, every single fucking ingredient that went into this particular oil grew, lived, died and was harvested in my personal jurisdiction.

And now? It'll sit and macerate. For an entire year. And by next Halloween it'll probably reek to fucking hell of preserved pickles, but smelling like a Slavic appetizer is a small fucking price to pay for something so uniquely special.

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.

Midsummer 2010, II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7 Down 86 To Go

Overnight three baby corn seeds sprouted, and all it took was smoking meph, decorating the "maypole" and engaging in ritual sex on the sheepskin rug for five hours. (If the other 86 plants require this sort've attention I'm going to be one fucking tired fertility goat by the end of this agricultural year).

January 29th, 2010

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

78 Pretty Pictures

Regardless of what my tarot deck collection might say, I don't do tarot. (I also don't do reading, but every room in the house seems to have several towers of books in various corners.) I like it as a concept, but as a divination system it doesn't mesh well with my Choose Your Own Adventure style of life. In some ways, it even goes against my natural instincts as a witch.

As far as witchcraft goes I'm an innie, not an outie. Meaning that everything I do comes internally; I don't outsource shit, and my ability/talents as a witch are products of my subconscious rather than spirits, gods or celestial tentacle overlords bestowing divine blessings upon me. The sun, in my world, revolves around me.

The very heart and foundation of my beliefs? My experiences - which are solely unique to me - trump everything. My reality's been created by the things I've witnessed and lived through first hand, not something broken down - culture by culture - in a reference book. By examining my relationship with the world around me I create my own definition of things based on one-to-one contact.

Tarot falls in an awkward space between FASCINATING and UTTERLY USELESS (for me). I have no personal connection with it. I didn't create the concepts, I didn't create the art, I didn't create the story and I didn't decide how many cards make a fucking deck. There's nothing inherently "me" there. When I sit down and work with it it's like trying to sit comfortably in a chair specifically made to fit the contours of someone else's ass.

Scrying? Tea leaves, coffee foam, broken eggs and entrails? Second nature. Hand me a joint and a bag of chicken bones and I'll show you old skool divination. It's primitive, it's basic and it's the oldest game around. There's no limitations, no restraints. There isn't a filter to make sense of shit. It's a direct link without the need of translation. But that's my "magic" - consciously accessing the subconscious with as little props as possible (props, I should mention, that I've made and have a personal resonance and history with).

I WANT to like tarot, and I'd REALLY LIKE to be a skilled reader, but my natural reaction to it goes against what the tarot's all about. (The thing about "reading" egg yolks and splattered sexual fluids? I don't need to cross reference shit. It's a split second understanding that reaches deep into your psyche. The problem with tarot? When I look at a card and the images displayed my split second understanding that reaches deep into my psyche greatly differs from the artist's interpretation of the card. And that's what using the deck's all about - the artist's definition, not yours/mine.)

It's a love-hate relationship. Seriously. At least this tumultuous affair occasionally provides 78 pretty pictures and the occasional collector's item bought for an absolute steal (see below for one example).

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New Year's Day, 2010. I wasn't planning on laying out a spread, but once it became dark and began snowing I thought I'd ask the Old Woman (aka Cailleach, the Whore, my "darker"/subconscious self) to show me three things from my past, present and future (since She had already come around for Her daily shot of whiskey).

Normally when I play around with any sort of card I sit down with Chippy on the lounge floor and spread the cards in front of us. This time around, though, I decided the kitchen was more appropriate for some reason (a first for me) and set everything up at the base of my kitchen altar.

I first placed a white cloth on the sink, and then overlapped it with a Ukrainian table linen that I cover the ancestral feeding plate with (when it's not in use). Since it was snowing I fixed the Old Woman a plate of food and poured us both a shot of whiskey (Famous Grouse, very Scottish). Mine was left next to the tarot deck I used, Hers was taken outside.

I got high (but not high enough), slipped into a pair of flip-flops, offered the Cailleach Her food and drink (left on a patio pillar outside), invited Her in, promptly fell in the snow when wading towards the clothes line (She laughed) to untie my wedding dress (a Scottish apron) from the line (I hung it up on New Year's Eve, while snowing, beneath the blue moon, partial lunar eclipse and last full moon of 2009) and returned to the house a colder, wetter, more sober witch.

After donning the damp apron I downed my shot of whiskey and took the deck between both hands and invoked Her/myself while chanting and fire gazing (at the lit candle before me). Once I felt suitably tapped in I opened the box, removed the cards and while shuffling began chanting "three for past, three for present, three for future".

(Just before shuffling I thought "OH, WAIT! THIS DECK DOESN'T HAVE BLANK NON-TAROT CARDS, DOES IT?" but I was so caught up in the moment I was all "LOLOLOL, WHATEVER, WHAT'S THE CHANCES ONE BLANK CARD AMONGST SEVENTY-EIGHT OTHERS WILL SHOW UP IN MY NINE CARD READING?". <- True story.)

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The cards that fell from my hands were the cards that were laid. First the past (top, first), then the present (middle, second) and, lastly, the future (bottom, third).

PAST: Woman of Soul (chalice suit, queen), Man of Soul (chalice suit, king), the Fool/0 (R)

PRESENT: 3 of Jewels (pentacles suit), 2 of Jewels (pentacles suit), Child of Soul (chalice suit, page)

FUTURE: Blank, Blank, the Shaman/V (Hierophant) (R)

Remember "WHAT'S THE CHANCES ONE BLANK CARD AMONGST SEVENTY-EIGHT OTHERS WILL SHOW UP IN MY NINE CARD READING?" and "LOLOLOLOL, WHATEVER"? Yeah, well, the Universe remembered, too. I got not one, but TWO "blank" cards in my future row. I'm still rolling my eyes over it. (LOOK WHO'S LOLOLOLOLING NOW! <- Not me.)

Personal dilemmas and mini-crises ignite and overwhelm the second cards are turned over:

Do I "read" the cards blindly? Do I use the artist's booklet? FUCK, THERE ISN'T ANY INFORMATION FOR REVERSED CARDS! Wait, are these cards even meant to be used reversed? If there's no mirrored pattern on the back, and the artist - who changed the deck enough to make it highly personal and different from your standard Rider-Waite copy - didn't provide definitions or interpretations of reversed cards (and incorporated negative aspects within the overall card rather than separating the card into a clear cut positive and negative) surely that negates reversed cards, right?

HOW THE FUCK DID I MANAGE TO GET TWO FUCKING BLANK CARDS IN MY FUTURE ROW? *PEEKS AT DECK'S BOOKLET* HOLY SHIT, //WHAT//? I'M SORRY, SERGIO TOPPI, BUT MY FIRST IMPRESSION WASN'T "CHILD DROWNING" IN THE CHILD OF SOUL CARD. OH, GOD, SHOULD I EVEN BOTHER USING THE ARTIST'S BOOK? I TOTALLY DIDN'T SEE A CHILD DROWNING, //AT ALL//. IS IT WORTH "READING" THESE REVERSED CARDS, OR SHOULD I TURN THEM STRAIGHT? THAT'S NOT A FUCKING OLD MAN, THAT'S THE CAILLEACH! EFF YOU TAROT, I HATE YOU AND NEVER WANT TO TALK TO YOU EVER AGAIN.

...is the precise reason why tarot and I don't get along. I need to take a fucking Valium just to deal with looking at nine effing cards. My ass is sticking to blood, mud and spit.

August 13th Gardening

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Finally there are some MOTHEREFFING FLOWERS IN THE HOUSE. (And when I say "HOUSE" I actually mean "IN MY CONTAINER GARDEN OUT BACK ON THE PATIO".) The majority of what makes up the mess you see are fruit trees and vegetables, and most of those didn't flower this year. (The trees are seedlings and a lot of the vegetables are shit like artichokes grown from seed. It'll be a few years before I'm able to harvest ANYTHING from them, but I'm determined to grow (almost) everything by seed, so it's an exercise in patience.)

Yesterday the gray clouds parted just long enough for me to patter around outside for a few minutes leaf checking and picture taking before another wave of rolling, thunderous clouds blanketed out the sun. The big, leafy yellow-green leaves between the sweet peas and dutch irises are tobacco which has grown EXCEPTIONALLY well compared to last year. (Last year? Last year my tomatoes didn't even reach knee height. Seriously. The weather was that bad.) I asked Papa (Ghede) for some help this year since I'm technically growing the tobacco for him and he was all "BABY GIRL, DON'T YOU WORRY ABOUT A THING" and, sure enough, he's kept true to his word.

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I love irises. (LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE!) I'd be hard pressed to choose between LILIES or IRISES as my favorite flower, but I'm more compelled to grow irises due to golden memories of my childhood. (My Ukrainian grandparents grew a thick line of bearded irises along their south facing wall near the plum trees.) While other flowers were okay to pick there was something about the majesty commanded by the double-bearded irises that deterred me from collecting the monster sized blooms. I think one of the first plants I ever wanted to cultivate were irises, and it's taken me THIS LONG to get my hands on a pack of bulbs.

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I had a HELLUVA time germinating squashes and gourds this year. (I think I planted five of each - or more - and only one of each actually made it to the seedling stage.) This is the one honey bear squash that managed to escape death's clutches - two times over! (Last month we had a terrific wind storm - something totally unseasonal - and when I assessed the damages I saw that my poor squash had been nearly decapitated at the base of the root. Overcome with grief - I WAS REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO HOMEGROWN SQUASH! - I couldn't bear snapping the plant off completely and just left it to see what it'd do. And, dude, I'm so glad I did because YOU CAN SEE FOR YOURSELF WHAT IT DECIDED TO DO.) I think I have three healthy balls swelling beneath chanterelle blossoms with a billion little buds forming into pursed flowers.

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DILLLLLLLLL! If you're Ukrainian and you're NOT growing garlic, tomatoes, cucumbers (or pickles) and dill YOU ARE NOT UKRAINIAN, SO STOP LYING. (<- "Onions" should be in that mix but since both Italics and I are allergic to them my Ukrainian gardening has had to make some exceptions.) I have a crazy holy reverence for the herb - it goes into my favorite bread (Swedish dill bread with cream cheese), my favorite potatoes (boiled potatoes with butter, pancetta, garlic, cabbage, white wine and fresh herbs) and my favorite main course (Ukrainian dill chicken, created by yours truly). I'm not sure how well it burns as incense, but I thinking about experimenting (with either dried leaf or dried seed) to incorporate it in a "cleansing" blend. (< Sort've like, you know, invoking my ancestors for help by the use of their favorite herb.)

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My bag'o'dutch irises arrived on Beltane with three sorry looking dwarf fruit trees (two apples and one pear, the pear dead and all covered with powdery mildew). I wanted to plant the bulbs beneath our computer room/office window, but that narrow stretch of land (where I grew my witch's garlic, remember?) doesn't get a lot of light. So, instead, at least for the time being, I planted them around my brand new peach tree. (I originally wanted to plant lilies of the valley around the base of the tree, but that project will have to wait until the irises have been evacuated.) This was one of the better pictures of the flowers, but it doesn't include the male red-tailed bumblebee that was hopping from iris to iris as I took photos.

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My sunflowers? Haven't even flowered yet. Seriously. And it's NOT because I planted them late in the season - they were all up by Easter this year! (April 12th, dude.) I'm having the same problem with my tomatoes - not one is even remotely close to being sunblushed in anyway. This year has been A LOT better for sun (two years ago it biblically rained and there were crazy severe floods further down south, last year it didn't rain nearly as much but we didn't get any sun AT ALL), but still not enough to make certain plants flourish without the aid of a greenhouse. Sigh.

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I had basil growing around the base of the sunflowers (since the soil got so much light due to the leggy stalks) but they've practically withered away to nothing. Basil, for whatever reason, refuses to tolerate the climate here. I've only ever had ONE year where I was able to grow it successfully, and I lost the entire crop because A CAT PULLED ALL OF MY PLANTS OUT OF THE TUB. (<- What my father-in-law told me when I discovered something had pulled out all of my basil and left it in a neat, heaped pile next to the container. It's funny how the "cat" selectively chose my basil to weed exclusively leaving all other vegetation without so much as a broken leaf; THAT'S ONE SMART CAT, YO.)

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When I ran out of bamboo garden stakes I had to get creative to provide support for some of my climbing plants so I dove into a drying pile of recently pruned hedge cuttings (lilac, butterfly bush and honeysuckle vine) and created a frame. (It, uh, looked a lot more...rustic and charming...before the leaves withered and dried.) You can totally make out some of my baby sweetcorn growing in front (another vegetable not doing so well in this Scottish climate; I'm either going to need a greenhouse or I'm going to have to buy arctic strains of shit in the hopes they'll do better).

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Two things about being an April baby that I've never really come to terms with - diamonds being my gem stone and sweet peas being my flower. (I seriously must be one of the few ladies you'll ever meet who makes a "EWW, WTF, WHY?" face at the thought of diamonds.) I'm slowly coming around to sweet peas with the help of heritage seeds and the deep, dark gothic bruise flowers they produce. Last year my sweet peas never flowered due to Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, chucking my container of plants into a dark and dank area of the yard where they never got any light. (Some sort of "sacrifice" has to be made every year, whether it's my basil that a "cat" pulled out, having some of my sun-loving plants condemned to a darken corner of the yard or having my tobacco butchered and left out, exposed, to winter weather.)

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I mean, in addition to the bleeding-under-the-skin colors they do smell heavenly - maybe I'm just not a pastel hued sweet pea April baby? (Does that mean I might like black diamonds? Hmm...)

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In winter food offerings and table scrapes are committed to the dead crow dirt bucket (the birds - crows, magpies, blackbirds, starlings and all of the tiny little cheap-cheap birds that flit around our hedge - know that's the place to go and get a good meal), and what doesn't get eaten breaks down and creates a beautiful soil enriched with nutrients from the ancestral offerings. During summer food offerings and table scrapes are committed to Chippy's dish (what dog owner doesn't lovingly slip a morsel or two of dinner to their beloved companion?), and with the influx of wildlife (birds, mice, hedgehogs, neighborhood cats and even, last year, a pair of foxes) there's usually nothing left the next day. (In this house we're ALL well fed here, even the portly wild animals that meander up the patio steps for a free meal.)

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Earlier in the growing season I began finding an epidemic of seedlings I didn't plant, but were very obviously something NOT weed-like. (Once germinated the plants had a very cucumber/gourd/squash look to them, but I didn't carelessly spill a packet of vegetable seeds into my bucket of compost so they were, FOR SURE, not cucumber/gourd/squash.) I plucked out the foreign occupants from my tubs and containers, but let them set root in any "waste ground". As it turns out they're borage, something I planted ONCE nearly five years ago. (HOLY SHIT, DUDE, THEY'RE HELLA SERIOUS WHEN THEY SAY IF YOU INTRODUCE BORAGE INTO YOUR GARDEN YOU'LL NEVER GET RID OF IT!) Borage is TRES good for bumblebees (on average most flours require approximately four hours to refill their nectar reserves, borage, however, only requires about two hours) so I think I'll be deliberately introducing it to the backyard next year. (Besides, the flowers have a lovely fuzzy, sweet cucumber taste and I'd love to be able to incorporate the edible blossoms in next year's cooking.)

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I use peat pots. I know a lot of gardeners don't like them, but goddamn if it doesn't stress the plant out when it comes time to pot them on. (And some vegetables - cucumbers and squashes, I think - hate having their roots fucked with.) This year I was in a serious pinch for soil when creating my PHALLIC WORSHIP RAISED GARDEN BED ALTAR beneath the Shango Tree (no longer "the Shango Bone Tree" since he broke free from his confinement to the fence during that wind storm and has shaken most of the bones out of his branches) so I recycled compost from peat pots whose seeds never germinated. Within days several curious seedlings sprung and I was thoroughly convinced they were NOT tomatoes. (But, like, that would be CRAZY because those seeds - pot seeds - need so much goddamn babying that there's only a 50% success rate. This time around we planted six, but only four germinated. Apparently the other two just needed a touch of tough love?)

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So, two days ago I'm pottering around in the backyard checking on various bits of waste ground (CARROTS AND BEETS ARE UP, YAY! BASIL'S DISAPPEARED FROM AROUND THE POND AND WOODEN BEAMS, BOO!) and while weeding the raised garden bed I finally re-notice the two very peculiar seedlings that are definitely, 100%, not tomatoes. (Pot and tomatoes are somewhat similar during their first stage of growth.) I mean, I KNEW they weren't tomatoes, really, when they first appeared about a month back - they looked EXACTLY like the sprouts that popped up way earlier in the year in the backroom down to the pinkish hue to the stems. But I didn't want to get crazy hopeful so I just resigned the unexpected germination as loose tomato seeds that finally got the right conditions. Now? Now there's absolutely NO DOUBT WHATSOEVER. Italics and I marveled at the unexpected gift given by the Shango Tree - all six pot seeds we sowed in the beginning of this year have grown, with two of the "lost" seeds sprouting on my phallic altar.

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I'm scheming again, which is always a dangerous thing for other people (and their things). After harvesting my witch's garlic after Midsummer the narrow stretch of land running adjacent to the side of the house looked pathetically barren. I decided I was going to sow a second batch of early maturing peas for a late harvest to fill up the empty space. Before I embarked on a day of planting I thought OH, HEY, I DISCOVERED MR. AWESOME'S INDUSTRIAL SIZED SIFTER SO I CAN SIEVE THE DIRT AND GET RID OF DEBRIS AND ROCKS AND SHIT TO HAVE "CLEAN" SOIL TO WORK WITH. Me, being me, thought it'd take a day or two of work. (LOLOLOLOL!) Two weeks later I was finally done sifting dirt. (I worked down the line emptying buckets of earth into the sifter sitting on top of a beer barrel sized growing container until it was free from junk and then dumped it back in the hole created. Hard labor, but satisfying labor.) Shortly after completing the task I decided AFTER ALL OF THAT GODDAMN WORK I'M NOT GIVING BACK THAT NEGLECTED AND ABANDONED STRETCH OF DIRT, I'M KEEPING IT FOR MYSELF AND PLANTING A MOTHEREFFING FLYING OINTMENT GARDEN, SO THERE, MR. AWESOME, SO THERE. To sort've hold my "place" on the strip of waste ground I immediately planted carrots (above) and beets (below) to ensure that the area looked suitably occupied.

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These babies were up in under a week! I mixed magic ashes (<- since I can't compost our magically/ritually grown plants we burn them during ceremonial bonfires and then add the ashes to compost for the second generation of magically/ritually grown plants) and worm casting soil into the "clean" dirt and then immediately sowed my carrot and beets the day before Lammas (July 31st).

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I mean, I know Lammas is all about HARVESTING and shit, but with our mild climate I thought there was a good chance there'd be just enough time to allow baby sized carrots and beets to develop. That way I had something homegrown as the basis for this year's pot of borsht (a Ukrainian beet soup, since making it is a two day affair I normally make a giant batch at the beginning of December in preparation for Christmas festivities). Besides, even if I don't manage to harvest any viable vegetables the seedlings are still performing the most important task of all - making it HELLA clear that THIS SPACE IS OCCUPIED AND WITHIN USE, THANK YOU.

Egg Wash

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I've just finished washing my hands and face with an egg yolk. I DON'T KNOW, DON'T ASK ME; I'M REALLY, REALLY HIGH RIGHT NOW.

(For whatever reason I "wash" my hands with ingredients when MAGIC cooking; when the egg broke crazy and the white (I DIDN'T SEE A WHITE, ACTUALLY, BECAUSE THE YOLK WAS STUCK TO THE INSIDE OF THE SHELL, WHICH IS WHY I GOT SOME ON MY FACE BECAUSE I SMELLED MY HANDS, AFTER, TO SEE IF IT WAS OFF) disappeared I had slippery, liquid gold in my hands and I thought OH SHIT! CAN'T LET THIS GET AWAY, BETTER WASH AND RUB IT ALL IN! and before I knew it I had massaged it into my hands, my forearms and my face. After striping off every gelatinous layer (LIKE AN EASTER CHICK, BABY, FRESH AND NEW AND FLUFFY AND YOUNG) with warmish water I buried my face into a starched kitchen towel catching, just for a second, a scorpion emerging from its watery home and crawling onto land underneath the light of a crescent moon.)

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(OH, LORD, IT'S GOING TO BE ONE OF //THOSE// NIGHTS, ISN'T IT?)

Accidental Altar

You know how sometimes when cleaning you throw everything you don't know what the fuck to do with in one room with the grudging acceptance that you're creating a new mess, but at least it's contained in one room that you can kind've sort've ignore?

(OH, I KNOW YOU DO. THE VERY BEST, VERY ANAL OF US DO IT. <- UH OH, I THINK I JUST SPOILED THE ANCIENT SECRET OF WOMEN'S MYSTERIES. IF THE GREAT CHTHONIC CREATRIX AND DESTRUCTORIX ASKS, IT //WASN'T ME//, OKAY? I'M ALREADY ON PROBATION FOR ONLY HALF FINISHING HIEROS GAMOS.)

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It started with Papa's incense burner. (IT ALMOST //ALWAYS// STARTS WITH PAPA, RIGHT OLD MAN? *nudge nudge, wink wink*) When roasting marrows and cooking the lamb-tomato-spices filling for dinner I thought "OH, HEY, IN-LAWS ARE GONE FOR A FEW DAYS, MIGHT AS WELL ROCK THE HOUSE WITH INCENSE AS MUCH AS I CAN" and dragged the doorstop of an incense burner through to the kitchen.

(I SLEEP WITH A MACHETE NEXT TO THE BED IN CASE WE EVER GET ATTACKED BY ZOMBIES, I SLEEP WITH THE RESIN INCENSE HOLDER NEXT TO THE BED IN CASE WE EVER GET ATTACKED BY A BURGLAR. <- BECAUSE THE LAST THING A CRIMINAL WANTS TO SEE IS THE MATRIARCH OF THE HOUSE (THE MATRIARCH WITH A V. V. V. SHORT FUSE; I AM ARIES, HEAR ME ROAR TEAR OUR YOUR THROAT WITH MY BARE TEETH), BUCK NAKED, SWINGING A HEAD SHOP BOUGHT SKULL BURNER LIKE A NEOLITHIC STONE AXE.)

Too lazy to return it to its rightful place (I'M ANAL AND LAZY, WHORE AND VIRGIN, CHILD AND OLD WOMAN; BLAME GEMINI IN MY VENUS) I dropped it off on the coffee table in the backroom.

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Later on Italics pruned our, uh, houseplants in the bathroom and left the leaves on the cutting board so I could dry them out and store them. (They aren't psychoactive, but still useful in a symbolic/representative sort've way and I've been meaning to grind up our dried leaves to add to incense and things.)

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While he was hacking away I was outside in the back doing my nudist gardening thing in the sun (I TAKE IT BACK; I WORE ONE ITEM OF CLOTHING - A MOTHERFUCKING SPORTS BRA) moving container vegetables around (sub-arctic tomatoes went outside into the bonsai house, so I tossed their plastic coasters onto coffee table), planting newly arrived seeds (cucumbers, parsley and thyme), sweeping the patio floor with a small dust pan brush, weeding my herb containers, planting out seedlings from trays (sweet peas and sunflowers), moving acclimated trees'n'plants to get better sun and arranging everything in a visually pleasing manner.

(TRANSLATION: SYMMETRICAL, UNINTENTIONAL OUTSIDE ALTAR CONSISTING OF CONTAINER TREES, PLANTS, VEGETABLES AND FLOWERS.)

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The glass cutting board and leaves got absently moved into the backroom as I got ready for a shower (post gardening, pre-realization of how red this partial red man...er, uh...woman, red WOman really was) but before I could climb into the tub Papa began a-pattin' my shoulder to remind me that OH, HEY, YOU PROMISED ME A PIECE OF THAT HOMEMADE PIE, BABY GIRL. So, still sweaty, light-headed and covered in dirt I cut him the promised piece and left it on top of the leaves on top of the cutting board which was on top of the table.

(When I'm not making a big production of offering food to ancestors, deceased friends and relatives or our incorporeal housemates I usually leave a plate of food in the backroom which Italics and I use as our private lounge area and greenhouse. <- GARDENING, BOARD GAMES, TURNTABLE, RECORDS, BOOKS, TV AND VIDEO GAMES; I THINK EVERYTHING "VISITING" HAS SOME INTEREST COVERED. <- AS IF "FREE, HOMEMADE FOOD" WASN'T ENOUGH.)

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Once it dawned on me how badly I had been burned I bee-lined to my recently deceased aloe plant (someone - "SOMEONE" = NOT ME, NOT ITALICS, NOT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, BUT MY FATHER-IN-LAW, MR. AWESOME, NOT TO NAME NAMES, OR ANYTHING - moved my aloe into the dark and rather than start WW III I didn't say anything or do anything and it cost me my goddamn plant) and shook out a handful of plump leaves to cut open and apply to my skin. I only needed one, so the rest got dumped on the last uncluttered corner of the table.

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Because I find straight-up aloe vera gel a little sticky I concocted a massage oil (an organic baby oil with an addition of rosehip seed oil) in my communion cup for Italics to rub me down with before applying aloe. I took my paring knife through so he could cut a small portion from a leaf rather than bruise it by breaking one off. Once anointed (LOL!) I threw the knife, used section of leaf and oil filled cup onto the (now V. familiar, no doubt) backroom coffee table.

(LOOK, THE KITCHEN'S ON THE //OTHER SIDE// OF THE HOUSE, THE BACKROOM RIGHT NEXT TO OUR BEDROOM - I'M HUMAN, AND EVEN BEING PARTIALLY DIVINE I HAVE MY HUMAN TRAPPINGS AND FAULTS TO WRESTLE WITH. <- SOMETIMES THE PARTIAL DIVINE JUST WANTS TO GET INTO BED ASAP WITH A LAPTOP TO CATCH UP ON THE DAILY SHOW AND COLBERT REPORT, OKAY? I'M A WEAK THING CONSTRAINED BY THE WEIGHT OF HUMAN EMOTIONS...OR SOMETHING, HEH HEH.)

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At day break, the morning after, I found three feathers at the foot of the mostly-practically-done outside container altar. Seeing as how I consecrated the place with an offering of flesh (sunburned) and blood (scraped my knuckles against concrete and bled onto the patio) - OLD TESTAMENT FIGURATIVE? OH WHY NOT! - I thought there was something significant about the three perfect, downy white feathers sitting on on a surface that I had sweated, bled and exerted control/energy over the day prior.

(Three white feathers - three wishes, three curses? Who knows, only time will tell. They'll get squirreled away with everything else and added to my growing collection of dehydrated animals parts (blackbird feet and wings, hedgehog skins, rabbit skulls with teeth...), rusted junk found while walking through the countryside and various graveyard dirts.)

(OH, HONEY, YES, I'M //THAT// SORT'VE WITCH - THE KIND THAT MAKES THERMITE FROM OLD FARMING EQUIPMENT. <- LOL!)

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You know how something can just appear out of NOTHING? First it wasn't there and then, by a miracle of God and ALL THAT IS HOLY ZOMG, it suddenly exists. (OKAY, OKAY, SO IN THIS INSTANCE IT WAS ROUGHLY 48 HOURS IN THE MAKING, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. <- I THINK WE'VE ALREADY ESTABLISHED THAT YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT I MEAN BY PARAGRAPH TWO.)

Before the white feathers rolled out of my palm and onto the tiled surface of the table it was just the backroom coffee table filled with "OH, GOD, I'LL JUST DEAL WITH IT //LATER//", but the second the feathers fell into a neat pile on 70s ceramic? "HOLY FUCKING SHIT, DUDE, THIS ISN'T A...HOW THE HELL DID IT...MAYBE I'M JUST SEEING THINGS FROM THIS ANGLE..."

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"...OR MAYBE I'M NOT."

(Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooooo accidental altar born from my subconscious and lack of motivation! HOW ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING TO DRINK, OR MAYBE SOME CANDLES? <- LOL!)

I'm pretty hawk-eyed about shit but, somehow, this one managed to slip beneath my radar. Now to turn this mystery around on its axis - all Rubik's Cube-style - to see if I can solve this riddle I left for myself.

Dilemmas INC.

This period I'm bleeding for every woman who doesn't shed her uterine lining anymore. Srsly. (At least the plants should be super crazy happy once I strain my rags and get around to watering them with the blood rich mix.)

And, on top of it, I'm cramping and horny AND THERE ISN'T ENOUGH POT (READ: ANY POT) IN THE HOUSE TO TACKLE ONE OF THOSE DILEMMAS MUCH LESS BOTH, SIGH. ("JUST STOP THINKING SEXY THOUGHTS, JUST STOP THINKING SEXY THOUGHTS, JUST STOP THINKING SEXY THOUGHTS...")

Co-inhabitation Ache

In-laws are back home and I feel like I'm a cobra about to strike.

(JESUS CHRIST IN HEAVEN, ITALICS, WAKE UP ALREADY SO I CAN GET HIGH AND DULL THIS CO-INHABITATION ACHE.)

To-Be-Bridge

HIGH AND ON THE INTERNET. WRITING DESCRIPTIONS FOR FLICKR IMAGES JUST UPLOADED (RE: Miel de la Mariée INGREDIENTS). ACCIDENTALLY WROTE:

INSTEAD OF:

LOL, BRIDGE! (IT'S ALL ABOUT LADDERS AND BRIDGES, BABY!)(WHEN IS A LADDER NOT A LADDER? WHEN IT'S A BRIDGE; NEITHER GOING UP OR DOWN.)

LATE YESTERDAY DUSTED OFF LADDER IN BACKROOM AND MOVED BROOM FROM LOUNGE TO BACKROOM TO STAND OPPOSITE OF LADDER. (NEW UNEXPECTED ALTAR, AHOY!)(SURPRISE, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, AND NICE OF YOU TO FINALLY JOIN US!)

BRIDGES AND LADDERS BE ON THE MIND, YO.

...

...

I GET MARRIED IN LESS THAN TWO WEEKS.

APRIL FOOLS DAY

FUCKJESUSNO. DON'T FUCKING TELL ME IT'S GOING TO FUCKING SNOW ON APRIL THE FUCKING FIRST; THAT SHIT AIN'T FUNNY. (I'M SO NOT LAUGHING. NOT EVEN //SLIGHTLY//.)

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!)

Personal Savior

Dear God,

I'd consider accepting your son, Jesus Christ, as my personal savior if you deliver a Kate Bush sized loaf of weed - in the pot strain of my choice (GREEN CRACK GREEN CRACK GREEN CRACK) - to my door within the next ten minutes.

(THE CLOCK IS TICKING, GOD.)

Yours, Waiting,
Ms. Graveyard Dirt

PS: I HAVE CAKE.

That Sort've Witch and More

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I just realized, while in the shower, that the bread I gave to the postman yesterday WAS NOT THE 100% VANILLA AND SAFE ENGLISH MUFFIN BREAD I ORIGINALLY THOUGHT IT WAS. (It was the honey'n'oatmeal Samhain bread I baked with leftover PSYCHOACTIVE PLANT MATERIAL.) (LOLOLOL, AND HERE I THOUGH "LABEL IT? WHY? I FUCKING //BAKED// THE FUCKING THING, I THINK I'D KNOW WHAT MY //OWN BREAD// LOOKS LIKE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!")

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LET'S JUST PRETEND THAT I'M YOUR AVERAGE 28 YEAR OLD DOTING HOUSEWIFE AND OCCASIONAL BREAD BAKER AND //NOT// THE VOLATILE 28 YEAR OLD SEX PIG STONER WITCH AND OCCASIONAL BREAD BAKER WHO USES HER CULINARY HOBBY TO PUT ON A HUMOROUS AIR OF NORMALCY AND DECENCY FOR THE UNKNOWING BENEFIT (LOL, "UNKNOWING BENEFIT"? WHAT A NICE WAY OF SAYING I'M ALWAYS DELIBERATELY SCHEMING BEHIND CLOSED DOORS FOR MY OWN AMUSEMENT!) OF THE PEOPLE AROUND HER THAT I REALLY AM.

ALL I'M SAYING IS HE'S LUCKY THERE WAS ONLY LEFTOVER PSYCHOACTIVE PLANT MATERIAL; USUALLY MY RITUAL BREAD FEATURES SOME VERSION OF MY DNA. (Oh, honey, I'm that sort've of witch and more.)

(...AND MORE, SAYS THE VOLATILE 28 YEAR OLD SEX PIG STONER WITCH AND OCCASIONAL BREAD BAKER WHO USES HER CULINARY HOBBY TO PUT ON A HUMOROUS AIR OF NORMALCY AND DECENCY FOR THE UNKNOWING BENEFIT OF THE PEOPLE AROUND HER WHO ACCIDENTALLY, ONCE, DROPPED HER PUBIC HAIR IN THE BUFFALO WING HOT SAUCE INSTEAD OF THE BREAD BATTER SHE WAS WORKING ON FOR THE SABBAT.)

(YES, INDEED, ONE OF //THOSE// SORT'VE WITCHES.)

Bride's Awakening

RIGHT OKAY SO.

Today? Today I'm //NOT// going to be depressing. Today I'm //NOT// going to hammer out all of the analogies I came up with while crying over my morning oatmeal in the past few days. (LIKE HOW I'M THE SUNDAY NEWSPAPER THAT I MEAN TO READ EVERY FUCKING WEEK BUT NEVER GET A CHANCE TO, SO I SIT ON IT AND SIT ON IT BECAUSE I PROMISE MYSELF I //WILL// FIND TIME TO READ IT AND THEN, THREE WEEKS LATER, I FINALLY GIVE UP THE BATTLE AND USE THE UNREAD SECTIONS TO LINE THE RATS' CAGE AND PROMISE MYSELF THAT NEXT WEEK THINGS WILL BE DIFFERENT.)

Today I stood outside, first thing after I woke up, in the mottled sunlight and inhaled the moist, warm air. Today I stood outside in the bright morning light and breathed in the scent of Spring in all of its damp earth glory, and felt the promise of newness course through my veins. Today, more than ever, I felt the eternal Bride awaken.

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It started with hardneck garlic. (OH, BUT DOESN'T IT ALWAYS?) Actually, it goes way, way back further than the garlic, but to keep this entry POSITIVE and UPBEAT I'll pretend that the actual for real genesis was THE GARLIC. So, for all intents and purposes, GARLIC GARLIC GARLIC.

(Very short story that shouldn't elevate my blood pressure: when I first moved here almost 10 years ago I asked for a small patch of land to grow things in or on. I was immediately denied the piece of property. For nearly 10 years now I've watched that particular spot get used solely as a trash heap. (YOU THINK I'M EXAGGERATING? NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST. IN FACT, LAST YEAR MY FATHER-IN-LAW CLEARED THE SAME SPOT OUT AND I GOT BIG HEAP SUPER HAPPY BECAUSE I THOUGHT THEY WERE FINALLY TURNING IT OVER TO ME. AS IT TURNED OUT, HE CLEARED IT SO HE COULD FILL IT WITH TRASH...AGAIN.))

(A few years back my father-in-law, for no concrete reason, dug up the entire front yard. I mean //everything//. For the past several years we've been the only house on this block that has a giant dirt pit instead of a lawn. And every fucking time some sort of grass manages to seed itself he marches outside AND BEGINS WEEDING IT OUT SO HIS PRECIOUS DIRT PATCH DOESN'T GET OBSCURED.)

(You know that house in a subdivision where the crackhead owner obviously doesn't give a fuck about how their property looks? And how it stands out against all of the other manicured plots of land? Grass that never gets cut, trees that never get pruned, weeds and brush that take over any sort of flower bed? Sometimes they have broken toys or appliances or cars on cinder blocks loitering in the yard? Sometimes they have organic household waste thrown onto the abandoned yard? I LIVE IN THAT FUCKING HOUSE. IN FACT, I CAN DO ONE //BETTER// SINCE WE DON'T EVEN HAVE AN OVERGROWN, SAFARI WASTELAND - WE HAVE AN UNTAPPED DIRT QUARRY.)

SO IT ALL STARTS WITH GARLIC, she says through gritted teeth.

Last year I schemed and stole a little bit of land. I didn't ask, I didn't drop hints, I just took it. It's a narrow, but long stretch of dirt that runs parallel to the side of the house right against the foundations. For years I watched the patch wax and wane, unloved, untended, and naked to the world. So, last year, I tore into it and loosened the earth to create a bed for hardneck garlic while my father-in-law unsubtly spied on me from a not-so-distant distance.

THAT'S RIGHT, WITCH'S GARLIC GROWING AT THE WITCH'S HOUSE!

(When your front-fucking-yard is a thriving dirt pit decorated with a multitude of small, white washed animal bones you don't need gingerbread stapled to the shutters and roof of your home to give off an uneasy, cannibalistic hag vibe.)

(Not that garlic being the sole source of intended vegetation is weird or vaguely witch-like in anyway. I mean, people once grew garlic to WARD OFF WITCHES AND UNPLEASANTNESS so by surrounding 1/4 of the house with it am I effectively boxing myself in? HMM.)

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY!

I managed to prep the bed in decent time, but an unexpected, early bout of winter prevented me from my October planting. (My, uh, October planting sort've ran into November, but that was OKAY and there was NO NEED TO PANIC because surely - SURELY! - the unseasonal weather couldn't hold out for an entire month, right? ...RIGHT?)

Winter prevented me from planting at all until around Yule, the winter solstice. (But that was OKAY and there was NO NEED TO PANIC because a NOT-PANICKING-AT-ALL-IN-THE-SLIGHTEST Google search turned up a little gem of folklore that was amazingly applicable and coincidental: "plant your garlic on the shortest day of the year, and harvest it on the longest.")

I kind've forgot about my single file line of garlic, although I DID remember to eventually (EVENTUALLY BEING THE KEY WORD SINCE THE BAG SAT IN THE FUCKING BACKROOM FOR OVER A MONTH, OR SOMETHING) spread a bag of free coffee grounds from Starbucks over the cloves since alliums ("OH HEY WAIT AREN'T GARLIC AND ONIONS PART OF THE ALLIUM FAMILY? FUCK IT, THE BAG IS FREE, ANYWAY.") apparently dig all of the nitrogen.

And then? And then Saturday, Feb. 21st happened while I was padding around outside in mud and soft earth in Italics's way-too-big-for-me flip-flops and a plastic grocery bag covering my head. (THE ONLY WAY TO COMBAT FINDING LITTLE BLACK-GREEN-BROWN SPECKS OF HENNA STAINS IN THE CARPET AND FLOOR IS TO SHRINK WRAP YOUR HEAD IN SARAN WRAP AND CAP THE FUTURISTIC TURBAN WITH A PLASTIC GROCERY BAG, PREFERABLY OPAQUE.)

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It was like something out of nothing; a "something" so desperately needed at that exact moment in time. (I'M NOT GOING TO BE DEPRESSING OR ANGST RIDDEN IN THIS ENTRY, REMEMBER?) And, as stupid as it sounds, I didn't think it'd actually happen even though I PLANTED A BULB DURING ITS DESIGNATED TIME IN A FAIRLY APPROPRIATE ENVIRONMENT ALLOWING NATURE TO TAKE ITS ETERNAL AND ENDLESS COURSE.

The thing about Spring, though, is that any growth is new growth, and seeing those tender shoots of green for the first time after a period of barren sleep - especially when you're the person accountable for them - makes you forget about previous Springs. With just one look, with just one discovery this Spring takes precedent over any in memory, and there isn't a past season that's so rich with the promise of renewal.

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During my period of forgetfulness the neighborhood cats (HOW DO YOU KNOW IF A HOUSE IS A WITCH'S HOUSE? I MEAN, IF IT DOESN'T HAVE A DIRT PIT FOR A LAWN, OR SCATTERED, MYSTERIOUS BONES LITTERING THE DIRT, OR GINGERBREAD HAMMERED TO THE DOORS OR A PERFECT LINE OF GARLIC GROWING PARALLEL TO THE HOUSE'S FOUNDATION OR A BONE TREE GRACING THE OTHERWISE WILD BACKYARD OR ALL OF THE WEIRD AND WONDERFUL ANIMALS THAT YOU NORMALLY WOULDN'T FIND SO READILY IN A SMALL SUBDIVISION GARDEN? ALL THE FUCKING CATS THAT INEXPLICABLY COME TO VISIT EVEN THOUGH WE DON'T OWN OR HOUSE ANYTHING REMOTELY FELINE.) began using the turned earth for an outhouse.

(PERHAPS NEXT TIME, SELF, WHEN YOU SEE ONE OF THE CATS SCAMPER AWAY FROM THE AREA WHEN YOU'RE OUTSIDE YOU SHOULDN'T SHOUT AFTER IT "I'M GOING TO USE YOU AS A FUCKING FERTILIZER, STAY AWAY FROM MY FUCKING GARLIC!" WHILE WAVING A GARDENING IMPLEMENT AT IT THREATENINGLY. AND IF YOU FEEL IT'S ABSOLUTELY IMPERATIVE THAT YOU DO ASSERT YOURSELF WITH THE THREAT OF GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM TO VISITING NEIGHBORHOOD CATS, YOU SHOULD PICK A BETTER TIME THAN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY WHILE STANDING OUTSIDE IN THE DIRT YARD IN PLAIN VIEW OF YOUR NEIGHBORS WHO OWN THE VANDALIZING MISCREANTS.)

Several cloves of garlic had been dug up and were strewn across the remnants of the lawn. (OH, THERE'S A TINY PATCH OF LAWN JUST BENEATH THE TREE I'VE BEEN PREVENTING MY FATHER-IN-LAW FROM CUTTING DOWN. AS YOU CAN GUESS, I GUARD THAT SMALL FLUFF OF GRASS WITH MY LIFE BECAUSE IT'S THE ONLY LUSH, LIVING THING I SEE GROWING OUTSIDE THE COMPUTER ROOM/OFFICE WINDOW DURING SPRING AND SUMMER OTHER THAN THE TREE.) I managed to rehouse the bulbs, relocating two cloves beneath the tree.

(IN OTHER WORDS - DON'T FORGET YOU REPLANTED TWO LOOSE GARLIC BULBS BENEATH THE TREE OUTSIDE!)

As with many addictive activities the second I plunged my hands into the wet, loose earth and felt the dirt pack beneath my nails I was hooked. That miraculous moment of excitement, motivation and success was the precise amount of crack I needed. When I first went outside in Italics's flip-flops and a grocery bag over my head I went out feeling empty and lifeless and without an identity. By the time I came back into the house I wasn't that person - that's the beauty about something out of nothing.

Too late in the day to do any serious garden work outside (OKAY, I ADMIT IT, I DIDN'T THINK THAT MY GARLIC SCHEME WOULD ACTUALLY WORK SO I DIDN'T BURY THEM AS DEEPLY AS I SHOULD AND HAVING SEEN THE INITIAL SUCCESS OF HEALTHY, HAPPY SHOOTS I DECIDED I NEEDED TO THROW ANOTHER INCH OR SO OF DIRT ON THEM SO THEY WEREN'T CURSED WITH SHALLOW ROOTS) I retired indoors and announced OH, HEY WE'RE PLANTING SHIT //TODAY// BECAUSE IT NEEDS TO GET DONE AND ALSO BECAUSE THE WITCH'S CALENDER SAYS THAT TODAY IS A PLANTING DAY AND THE NEXT PLANTING PERIOD WON'T BE UNTIL ASH WEDNESDAY.

In under an hour I planted four chili plants (Hot Chocolate, Ring of Fire, Prairie Fire, Cherry Bomb), two tomatoes (Bull's Heart), twelve Russian Olives, an entire tray of tobacco (LOL, I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT STRAIN I'M GROWING THIS YEAR - OOPS?) and six of the ten voodoo seeds. (We were originally going to try and germinate five, but I accidentally labeled six pots and Italics accidentally pulled out six seeds so we took the coincidence as a nudge from the universe. LOL, WATCH THEM //ALL// TURN OUT TO BE FEMALE!)

Once you get bitten by the gardening bug there's no antibiotic that you can take to kill the virus. Discovering that my cloves took root and were now producing shoots flipped the switch; burying my hands into the fertile earth simply bolt-locked that switch into place. I went to bed fantasizing about gardening, I woke up fantasizing about gardening, spent the morning groggily fantasizing about gardening while shopping for even more vegetable seeds.

The fantasizing only stopped once I pulled on my WINTER GARDENING SWEATER, laced up my sneakers, and bounced outside with my new peach tree and tray of Russian olives in hand to rehome them in the greenhouse until warmer weather. Then the strawberries - started from seed last year - were moved next to the Russian olives, as were the three apple trees (also started from seed last year).

The very last of the tobacco leaves were picked (PERFECT SINCE THE WITCH'S CALENDER SAID THAT YESTERDAY WAS AN A+ HARVEST DAY!), the plants pulled up from their containers and added to the RITUAL BURNING VESSEL (a metal trashcan) so I can make RITUAL ASH in my RITUAL BURNING VESSEL and the dirt emptied into a neat pile which was later transported to cover the garlic. (AND SINCE I COULDN'T BUDGE THE WHEELBARROW I HAD TO CARRY THAT DAMN DIRT IN A FUCKING BUCKET CRUSHED AGAINST MY TITS FROM BACKYARD TO...UH...SIDEYARD...MULTIPLE TIMES. I MEAN, //MULTIPLE//, MULTIPLE TIMES.)

By the time I was feverishly pulling weeds from an unkept landscape the sky had clouded over and a biting wind tore through the yard. ("SNOW, WOMAN, SNOW!" CHIPPY SAID, AND I LAUGHED, NOT KNOWING IF HE WAS TALKING ABOUT MY NEW BUT VERY LATE CAILLEACH HAIR (I DYE MY HAIR HENNA BLACK DURING WINTER, DURING THE CAILLEACH TIME, AND THEN I DYE MY HAIR HENNA RED DURING SUMMER, DURING THE BRIDE'S TIME) OR THE COLD WIND BLOWING OFF THE MOUNTAINS. LATER THAT NIGHT I CAUGHT THE FORECAST AND IT DID CONFIRM SNOW FOR CERTAIN PARTS OF SCOTLAND.) And as much as it pained me I retreated from the apocalyptic garden with Chippy under my arm (CHIPPY = EVER READY GARDENING COMPANION) as the sun disappeared behind a sheet of rolling, gray clouds.

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The wonderful thing about gardening is that even if you're prevented from working outside due to the elements, at least you can find solace in SEED SHOPPING ON THE INTRANETZ! Without blinking Italics whipped out his credit card and before I knew it my seed void was filled with aubergines (eggplant), bee balm, courgettes (zucchini), cucumbers, peas, and tomatoes.

(LOLOLOL, "SEED VOID", AS IF THAT PARTICULAR VOID HADN'T ALREADY BEEN FILLED BY PURCHASING VEGETABLE AND FLOWER SEEDS EARLIER IN THE DAY.)

("SEED VOID", AS IF THAT PARTICULAR VOID HADN'T ALREADY BEEN FILLED BY PURCHASING VEGETABLE AND FLOWER SEEDS EARLIER IN THE DAY AND HAVING IMPROMPTU BEDROOM SEX.)

("SEED VOID", AS IF THAT PARTICULAR VOID HADN'T ALREADY BEEN FILLED BY PURCHASING VEGETABLE AND FLOWER SEEDS EARLIER IN THE DAY, HAVING IMPROMPTU BEDROOM SEX AND LICKING THE EVIDENCE OFF THE CARPET OF THE BEDROOM FLOOR.)

("SEED VOID.")

(THE CARPET ACTUALLY TASTED WORSE, IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT.)

Hardened Dope Criminals

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SO, LIKE, I HEAR THE RATS SCAMPERING BACK AND FORTH IN THEIR EXCITED "HOLY SHIT LET'S TAKE ALL OF THIS SHIT AND HIDE IT SOMEWHERE FOR LATER" WAY AND I'M ALL "WTF ARE THEY EFFING UP TO?" BECAUSE IT'S THE FUCKING //DRESSERS// AND NOTHING'S ON THE DRESSER TO GET THEM THAT WORKED UP EXCEPT FOR MY SEX PIG PLUG-IN TAIL (THEY DON'T COME IN PINK, WTF?!) AND THE BONG BUCKET. BUT! BUT BUT BUT! BUT THERE //WAS// SOMETHING ON THE DRESSER THAT I FORGOT TO MOVE BEFORE I LET THE BEARS OUT OF THEIR CAGE -- OUR CURING POT.

(OH, WE HAVE GROWN AND HARVESTED MY DARLINGS. 2008 SAW THE FIRST OF THREE PLANTS FLOURISH IN OUR LITTLE CLOSET GROWING SPACE AND ITALICS HAS JUST PLUCKED THE LAST TUFTS FROM OUR LITTLE JIMMY PLANT. <- JIMMY TURNED OUT TO BE FEMALE BUT S/HE'S STILL "JIMMY"...IN OUR HEART.)

THE NEXT THING I SEE, ONCE TURNING AROUND, ARE TWO RATS RACING TO THEIR CARDBOARD BOX WITH HUGE ASS DRY BUDS HANGING OUT OF THEIR MOUTH AND A THIRD SITTING IN THE BOX PACKING THE SHIT AWAY IN A CORNER. AND I EXPERIENCE A SOUL SPLITTING "ZOMGWTFLOLOLOLOLCAMERAAAAAAAAAAA!" AND "ZOMGWTFSAVETHEPOTOMGRAAAAAAATS!" BECAUSE IT WAS REALLY, REALLY FUNNY BUT ALSO, WELL, NO, ACTUALLY, IT WAS PRETTY MUCH FUNNY ALL AROUND WITH A TINY FRACTION OF PANIC ("NOT THE POT! NEVER THE POT! SAVE THE POT!") AND I REALLY WISH YOU GUYS COULD HAVE SEEN THEIR FACES AS THEY TURNED THE BUDS IN THEIR LITTLE RAT PAWS LIKE A RUBIK'S CUBE TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW THE FUCK YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO EAT IT.

BAD, BAD RATS. BUT, MY GOD, SO CUTE. (I ACTUALLY REACHED FOR THE CAMERA TO TRY AND VIDEO THEM RUNNING AROUND WITH THE BUDS AND SQUIRRELING THEM AWAY BUT THAT MEANT //EVEN MORE PRECIOUS THC WOULD'VE BEEN LOST// SO I HAD TO MAKE AN EXECUTIVE DECISION, AND ALL THAT I TOOK AWAY FROM THE EXPERIENCE WAS THIS STORY. SIGH.)

(SERIOUSLY, YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MUCH POT THESE RATS, OVER THE COURSE OF THEIR LITTLE RAT LIVES, HAVE INGESTED. WHEN WUZZA IS BEING SUPER BAD AND TRYING TO GET ONTO ITALICS'S DESKTOP SHE'S AFTER TWO THINGS - WHATEVER FOOD HE HAS SITTING AROUND IN CRUMB FORM AND POT. (YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MANY TIMES WE'VE HAD TO YANK A DIME BAG OR WHATEVER OUT OF HER MOUTH. MIZ DENIZE, I DON'T THINK WE CAN IGNORE YOUR SELF-DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR ANY LONG. YOU ARE ON THE VERGE OF AN //INTERVENTION//.))

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.

Etsy Owl

Being high on the internet and forcing other people to interact with you ("LOL! OKAY, WAIT, JUST SO YOU KNOW I'M REAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALY HIGH RIGHT NOW SO...") never gets old.

(NEVER GETS OLD.)

My Best Friend

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from May 23rd, 2008.

ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS IN THE WORLD INVOLVES PEOPLE WHO GO AROUND TELLING EVERYONE WHO'LL LISTEN HOW OPEN MINDED THEY ARE AND HOW THEY'RE CONSTANTLY THINKING OUT OF THE BOX BUT AS IT TURNS OUT THEIR SUPERNATURAL SPECTRUM OF TOLERANCE AND ACCEPTANCE IS LIMITED TO A VERY NARROW VIEW OF HOW THEY SEE THE WORLD (WHICH IS, UNSURPRISINGLY, UNDENIABLY RIGHT).

(ONCE ON SOME DISCUSSION OR THREAD OR SOMETHING SOMEONE WAS BEING ALL ANTI-DRUGS FROM A -PAGAN- PERSPECTIVE AND SHE CLAIMED TO BE A -PRIESTESS OF APOLLO- AND I NEVER REALLY ASKED HOW SHE CAME TO TERMS WITH THE FACT THAT THE ORIGINAL PRIESTESSES OVER AT DELPHI USED TO SIT OVER CRACKS IN THE EARTH WHERE THE SULFURIC FUMES WOULD KEEP THEM HIGH (I HEARD THAT IT WAS NITROUS AND I AM SO NOT SURPRISE BECAUSE NITROUS TRULY IS A COSMIC CONNECTOR) SO THEY COULD SPEAK THE WORDS OF THE GODS TO VISITORS.

OH, THERE'S A LOT MORE WHERE THIS IS COMING FROM, BUT I'LL SPARE YOU...FOR NOW.)

ALSO, LET ME MAKE IT VERY, VERY CLEAR - WHEN YOU PICK ON DRUGS (AND WHEN I MEAN "DRUGS" I PRIMARILY MEAN POT, AND MUSHROOMS, AND ALL OF THOSE NATURAL ENTHEOGENS INDIGENOUS PEOPLE HAVE BEEN USING FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS) AND HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT AND HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO EXPERIENCE WHATSOEVER YOU'RE PICKING ON MY BEST FRIEND WHO I KNOW REALLY, REALLY WELL WHO HAS DONE EVERYTHING FROM MAKING SEX INCREDIBLE TO HELPING ME BEAT CHRONIC DEPRESSION TO MAKING ME A BETTER, MORE COMPLETE PERSON. (<- I WOULDN'T SAY IT CURED MY AUTISM, BUT IT FINALLY HELPED ME FIND THE HEAD SPACE NEEDED TO BE INTROSPECTIVE. AND IF THE ABILITY TO -THINK- ABOUT THINGS (I.E., MYSELF AND THE WORLD AND MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MYSELF AND THE WORD) IN DEPTH HADN'T COME ALONG I WOULD STILL BE THE SAME EMOTIONALLY STUNTED BEING I WAS FOR MOST OF MY LIFE.)

IN CONCLUSION, PLEASE CONSIDER EXPANDING THAT BOX VIEW OF YOURS BEFORE PREACHING "THE MORE YOU KNOW" LINES FROM SOME LAME ASS AFTER SCHOOL PROGRAM YOU SAW AS A KID IN THE 80S, OKAY? (ISN'T IT FUNNY HOW WITH DRUGS EVERYONE CAN BE AN AUTHORITY - ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVE ZERO EXPERIENCE? I CAN'T THINK OF MANY OTHER TOPICS IN THE WORLD THAT HAVE SO MANY FUCKING EXPERTS WITH PHDS, BUT HAVE NO FIELD WORK OR CREDITS OR DEGREES TO SHOW FOR IT.)