Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Bethlehem Gives Tidings

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"V vyfleyemi novya, (Bethlehem gives tidings,)
Diva Syna porody la (A Son is born to a maiden)
Porodyla v blahodati, (Overshadowed with God's graces,)
Neporochna, Diva Maty, (The pure Virgin, Mother of God,)
Mariya. (Mary.)"

Sviata Vechera Headquarters

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To-effin'-do list(s)? Check. Ukrainian cookery books? Check. One mug of calming tea? Check. Ukrainian music fusing the modern and traditional? Check. First of the best table linens set for Sviata Vechera? Check. 2011's rising Kolach beneath a secondhand Rushnychok? Check.

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.

By Spit, Blood and Smoke

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Consecration; two parts Old Testament, one part Ms. Dirty.

Salve Regina (Hail Queen)

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"All hail, O holy Queen, Mother exceeding merciful;
Life's spring, sweet comfort, our Hope-bearer, all hail."

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.

Magna Mater

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Ms. Graveyard Dirt: one lion away from a motherfucking throne.

Necro-Squared Motherfuckers

ETA: Sold out!

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It's been a helluva couple of days at Casa dels Ossos (House of Bones). After a six week sabbatical my father-in-law returned home from Florida and immediately began fucking with shit. Within 12 hours of stepping off the goddamn plane the motherfucker managed to mess with some of my altar work, single-handedly compromised the controlled environment we keep the mushrooms in, nearly lost our ticket-receipt for our Christmas goose and immediately returned to "hiding" potentially gluten-contaminated dishes, cooking utensils and cutlery.

(The long-short? Wheat and gluten are intestine-destroying poisons that cause Italics's body to attack itself. Any trace of either - whether stuck on metal filaments of toasters, or dusted across used plates and dishes - is enough to make him seriously sick. Despite knowing how severe his symptoms are his parents never seem to clean up after themselves (I tried getting them aboard on the gluten-free express to make our kitchen more safe, but they won't buy into it), so I'm constantly sanitizing the kitchen because they don't even sweep their food crumbs off the fucking counters.)

(Our #1 gluten-free problem? Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, doesn't normally use detergent when washing dishes by hand. (Yes, we DO have a dishwasher, and no, I don't know why he refuses to use it.) Which, obviously, is pretty fucking problematic when you have one person with a crazy-serious medical condition triggered by a food group that 1/2 the house indulges in. Worse yet, he's begun "hiding" the unwashed dishes amongst the properly cleaned ones so he doesn't get caught out. To ensure Italics doesn't get sick I actually have to clean every fucking plate, fork, pot and cup before using it because I don't know if it's safe.)

But wait! There's more! (<- Almost all of Ms. Dirty's dealings come with an extra helping of WHAT THE FLYING FUCK and/or ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?.)

In addition to my father-in-law returning home and completely destroying the rhythm of the house, we were forced to give away our Tori Amos tickets because we just couldn't afford the travel cost (our two concert tickets were equal to the cost of a single one-way train ride), I'm so fucking far behind with shit that I have no idea how I'm going to finish up all of my promises, obligations and duties (everything from working on packages for people to making our Last Harvest offerings at various cairns, standing stones and graveyards) before the holiday season hits, let alone hold a motherfucking Harvest sale at the end of this fucking month and - LOL! YES, THERE'S MORE! - yesterday we learned that I might've potentially lost everything I had on my fried computer because, for whatever divinely comical reason, my files didn't transfer properly to our external drive.

(As in, every-motherfucking-thing; my entire effin' life to this effin' point. Projects, notes, my baby pictures, all of our pet photos, recipes I've created from scratch, unseen homemade porn I made for "Santa Claus" and years worth of fucking work (I mean, like, actual career work-work). Everything I ever saved, created, scanned or noted in my 31 years of life was on that fucking computer.)

So things have been a bit...intense...here recently, and because of that some of my goals for this week (i.e., write some VIP emails, finish a few projects and sell all 11 jars of Papa's rum-infused plum sauce) got unexpectedly jostled around. One minor luxury of working for yourself, though, is having the ability to take a step back for a day or two to get your mind correct. After a long ass crying session - and a good night's sleep - I'm feeling a lot fucking better about everything*, and I'm totally ready to hustle some motherfucking sauce.

(* Although I'd really like my computer shit back, Universe. Christmas - you know, the season of peace'n'love'n'good-effin'-will to all (especially those who've worked REALLY FUCKING HARD this year despite those pesky motherfucking rabbits) - is just around the corner, and I know you don't wanna disappoint Santa's favourite reindeer.)

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If you've been rubbernecking my foul-mouthed adventures on Facebook, you'll know that we harvested 24 effin' pounds of plums from our two backyard trees back in September. A third of the crop was used to make my winterspiced plum liqueur (it's the holy amongst holies in my hedgerow hooch collection), another third was was used to create a rum-based libation for Papa (my attempt to make a ritual His'n'Her set) and the last third was deliberately scattered throughout the countryside to return a portion of the fruit back to the earth.

It'd be utterly retarded to just throw out the rum-preserved plums, and since there's no way I'm going to eat eight fucking pounds of hoochtastic sauce in two weeks I thought I'd offer a wee taste of Harvest goodness to you guys. This necro-culinary delight (necro squared; in addition to being a by-product of a psychopomp-themed libation, half the fruit was harvested from the plum tree growing over my roadkill altar) is a simple puree made from only three ingredients: fairtrade sugar, dark rum and death-enriched homegrown plums.

Before you whip out your wallet to make it rain you need to know one thing: I can't send this shit internationally. It's not that I don't want to; I'm just really worried about the lids of these jars. I saved, sterilized and reused a bunch of baby jars not knowing that the tops wouldn't seal again. These fuckers should travel a-okay within Europe, but I doubt they'd survive longer transits. I feel so effin' bad about fucking this up that I've already promised you non-EU folk the ability to pick my next super-special Harvest project in the hopes you'll forgive my sorry ass. (<- Mushroom ketchup made with my Wild Woodland Mix seems to be winning.)

And now for the nitty-fucking-gritty:

* There are exactly 11 undecorated jars; once they're gone, they're effin' gone.
* Jars are £1.50 GBP each; you can buy as many as you like.
* There's approximately 128g worth of sauce in every jar; jars roughly weigh 221g once filled.
* Postage costs are determined by number of jars being sent; sending one jar within the UK is roughly £2.50, sending one jar within the EU is roughly £3.00.

If you're interested in snagging a jar - or two, or six (ahem) - all you've gotta do is send an email to graveyarddirt@gmail.com with the following information: your paypal address, how many jars you want and what country the jars are getting sent to (it makes figuring out postage a helluva lot easier). First-come, first-served and, like I said above, once these necro-squared motherfuckers are gone, they're gone.

Pampered Psychopomp

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An already pampered psychopomp being deviously plied with offerings of homemade pecan pie, pot-infused rum cocktails, homegrown chilli peppers, miniature bottles of hot sauce (both Italics and Papa thank you, Cosy!) and two carefully selected Ms. Dirty pubes for a very personal - very pussycraft - touch.

Winter

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With one mighty blow of Her world-shaping hammer the Old Woman strikes my chains of servitude*, freeing me from the demanding bonds of Harvest at the cost of my once green and fertile kingdom.

* Sovereignty, unsurprisingly, comes at a price: to be ruled by what you rule, and to serve those that sustain you.

All Souls' Day

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Fet Ghede

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Happy Halloween

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Here's to all you hellbound souls rocking that thin motherfucking veil tonight! May your mischievous merrymaking light the path for your beloved dead (and leave an easily spied trail back to your waiting bed).

Snakes and Ladders

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Harvest Nights

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Saturday night: Secondhand Sundays inventory check.

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Sunday night: organization of 2011's wild mushrooms (boletes, chanterelles & toadstools) while Papa enjoys a piece of chilli chocolate espresso cake, a homemade chocolate chip cookie, a cup of coffee, a pair of used panties and a bottle of pain medication.

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Monday night: necro-hooch straining, sweetening and bottling.

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.

One Down

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One down, twenty more fuckers to go. (<- Doesn't include Halloween, Fet Ghede or post-Harvest menus and duties.)

Harvest Home Hoochery

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How I spent my autumnal equinox: knee-fucking-deep in rum, brandy, gin and vodka-preserved sweetheart cherries (aka hoocher's delight). What I don't remember, though, is how the evening ended; that, my Darlings, remains a hazy, fruit-flavored mystery.

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.

Blood Moon Rising

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October's full moon rising over an ancient Scottish cairn (burial mounds where cremated human remains were once interred), a threadbare rowan tree and a single toadstool (Amanita muscaria).

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.

A Mid-Harvest Offering

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I'm currently piecing together a mother of an effin' entry explaining where my feral ass has been, but until that shit gets posted I'll leave you with a not-so-tiny pre-history taster: a mid-Harvest offering of welfare-assured guineafowl, fresh cherries and homemade Kentucky Butter Cake to a "lost" standing stone.

Bluebell Funeral for a Blackbird

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All Effin' Fronts

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The angelic hosts would weep in divine despair if they had an inkling of how motherfucking behind my earthly ass is right now. We're talking on all effin' fronts: journal writing, photo editing, replying to emails, responding to comments, answering direct messages, sending snail mail, fulfilling promises, working on trades, finishing projects, decorating gifts, bone working, gardening, performing funerary rites, baking homemade offerings and observing my personal Harvest festivities'n'rites.

Fuck, I'm even behind on foraging despite putting in full-time hours every effin' day of every effin' week since mid-July. It's not that shit isn't getting done, because I've never been so goddamn productive in all my motherlovin' life. It's that I'm attempting to give a billion things my undivided attention, and anyone with a rudimentary understanding of mathematics will see that my attempts to force division and fractions to ignore basic Universal rules just isn't working. (Ah, well, back to my areas of expertise: sex, death and perfectly boiled rice.)

Usually when one aspect of work slips I throw more fuel on the fire to help raise an extra dose of energy. It's a panic move, but it shocks my ass to the next level and I find I can close the distance between myself and the belated deadlines that are tormenting me. There's a cost for that expedition, though. Dipping into emergency reserves usually means I experience a burnout period that lasts anywhere from two or three days to two or three weeks. It's a tradeoff I'm more than willing to make (and often do), but one I can't afford to exercise during Harvest since my priorities are solely focused on my sovereign duties.

Normally I don't labor this shit, but recently quite a few folks have dropped my ass a friendly email and most haven't gotten a reply (yet). And because I'm of the pessimistic persuasion I've convinced myself that every-effin'-one of them has come to the very wrong conclusion that I'm deliberately ignoring them. (I'm not. Honest to all that is motherfucking holy, I'm not.) So I'm taking a quick second - er, eight paragraphs - to assure anyone who's still waiting for a reply that 1.) I'm totally not avoiding you, 2.) I'm really sorry I haven't been able to find time to respond to your email and 3.) I really fucking appreciate that you took the time to contact me because receiving a friendly email is like getting a giant fucking internet hug whenever I feel down and unmotivated.

I knew that 2011 was going to be a challenging year because it was the year that we decided to finally go pro. ("We" because I couldn't do this shit entirely by myself. Italics has funded all of my projects, kept me company during foraging sessions/roadkill sweeps, helped pick, process and prepare the majority of the non-gross shit I do, acted like a 24/7 springboard for all of my half-baked ideas and, most importantly, kept me going with regular offerings of support, serenity-inducing shots of sativa and cup after motherfucking cup of freshly prepared calming tea.) What I didn't know, though, was how those challenges would manifest because neither of us have any experience with opening a business.

We're aiming for our first post-Harvest/pre-Midwinter sale in November (save those pennies, guys, and be sure to join the announcement-only mailing list so you don't miss the event!), and I'm on the verge of being able to provide private roadkill services for people interested in adopting one of my resurrected animals. I try to promptly answer any questions regarding my work (i.e., rescued roadkill, Hedgerow Hooch, wild Scottish mushrooms and/or any items featured in Second Hand Sundays), but, right now, I can't afford investing time into journal entry-sized responses, so don't take it personally if my reply lacks its usual epicness.

So, in conclusion: it's totally cool to email my ass and say hi, I absolutely love getting email and I'm sincerely fucking sorry I'm so work-focused right now that I can't find the time to reply to personal correspondence (I'm working on that, though).

Pictured above: fresh toadstools (Amanita muscaria), a partially eaten pomegranate surrounded by more fresh toadstools, dried toadstools just out of the dehydrator, a homemade oil made from edible plants (chives and a single dandelion) growing out of #01's buried remains, two bottles containing the recently strained Simple Strawberry Wine and, lurking to the very right of the picture, the dehydrator that's dried more than 100 toadstools just this year alone (and that's only the agarics; I'm still weighing all of our dried boletes and chanterelles to get an idea of how much we've managed to find and preserve.)

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 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.)

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.)

A Growing Collection

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2011's collection of Hedgerow Hooch continues growing as new fruits come into season.

Starting with the largest Kilner jar while moving counterclockwise: strawberry & geranium vodka, wild necro-raspberry gin, a different batch of wild necro-raspberry gin, wild necro-raspberry vodka, cherry vodka, wild necro-raspberry liqueur (vodka-based with vanilla bean and spices), two jars of Simple Strawberry Wine and a wild necro-raspberry ratafia (brandy-based with vanilla bean and spices).

Mercury-Ruled

What happens when your partner's Mercury-ruled? You get to fight fire air with motherfucking fire air. Three cheers for Italics and the two sleepless nights he spent working on my computer to make it virus-free, and to anyone who felt momentarily bad for me. (<- Pity TOTALLY counts as prayers in my book!)

Now that this week's retrograde crisis is over Graveyard Dirt can return to it's Harvest-driven schedule. Normally I don't hint about future content, but since this is a Site Shit post it gives me a rare chance to step out of journal entry mode.

With that being said, I'm: prepping for Bolete Lesson #3 (how to preserve), getting ready to announce GD's first ever giveaway (hint: it involves homework; have you been doing yours?), selecting a few more wild edible recipes to share (mushrooms, raspberries and maybe even gooseberries) and clearing space in my crazy fucking week to finally sit the fuck down and finish up a parade of delayed promises and projects (i.e., dressing up jam jars and hooch bottles, decanting and decorating some of last year's toadstool oil, sending away packages and a stupid amount bone cleaning).

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.

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?

Same Old Magic

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New (used) wooden basket; same old magic.

Pictured above: chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius), fly agarics (Amanita muscaria), birch boletes (Leccinum scabrum), penny buns (Boletus edulis), miscellaneous bones found in my toadstool hot spot and two halves of discarded wild bird eggs (wood pigeon, I think).

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.

Rabbits Out of Fat Air

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Excerpt from Rabbits Out of Thin Air:

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.

A new picture from an old story.

Stone Throne Pheasant

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Last week's Stone Throne pheasant was a gift from the land after I finally executed the very last of my spring-flavored obligations. "Harvest's come early this year," I kept telling Italics, and the Universe promptly confirmed all of my seasonal suspicions in one unexpected roadkill find.

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Normally we don't find pheasants until the local gaming estate releases their new stock in September. The first few birds we bring home always turn out to be inexperienced juveniles totally unsavvy to the dangers of the outside world. It's a brutal massacre; most of the dead aren't fit for human consumption, so I spend a lot of time moving mangled remains to ensure hungry scavengers don't share a similar fate.

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This pheasant, however, wasn't an inexperienced juvenile (they haven't even been released yet); she was a mature hen. I very rarely find an old gal like this (the majority of the roadkill pheasants I bring home are either newly released hens or unlucky cocks), and I've never found one this early in the year. She was a fucking treasure, and when it came time to ritually reduce her body into usable parts I gave my heartfelt thanks while stroking her feathery chest.

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A broken wing with mostly undamaged feathers.

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Feathers overlapping feathers.

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One of her thighs sustained superficial damage.

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The injury to one of her wings was bone-shatteringly traumatic.

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The pheasant's crop contained remnants of her last meal (bilberries; a kind've sort've wild cousin of the blueberry), which was set aside for planting. The berries - along with a portion of the bird's body - will be sown in the hopes that they'll germinate into fruit-bearing shrubs; a living legacy of the pheasant's life (and death).

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A pheasant first: underdeveloped eggs! They - along with the heart, gizzard and liver - were extracted from the body, cleaned and frozen for future witchcrafting. The salvaged organs were appreciated more immediately by our black magic cat, Mr. Mistoffelees.

What we couldn't use of the roadkill pheasant - the entrails and bruised meat - was left outside for the newest generation of corvids (certain families have been using our property as a fledging playpen for years since it's safely situated on a quiet dead end - admittedly, the rich pickings are a huge incentive to visit daily). Everything else - the feathers, feet, bones, meat and head - was saved, and will eventually be used for something, or serve some sort of purpose.

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. More pheasant stories - just in case you're interested - can be found here and here. Happy scavenging!

July 14th & 15th

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July 14th saw us racing out the fucking door to make a mucho belated offering at the Stone Throne as storm clouds loomed ominously over the heather-covered hills in the not-so-distant distance. Most of the oblations? Stretched all the way back to Easter (when we perform the Great Rite/Hieros Gamos), and had spent the past several months occupying the lower vegetable shelf without paying rent (what can I say? it's just been that sort've year). With Harvest quickly approaching I knew I needed to get the belated offerings to my seat'o'sovereignty, and I had to do it quick.

Pictured above: a bottle of menstrual blood-infused water (to "wash" my throne; the blood's significant because it came from my first REAL period in over two years), a bottle of beer, a loaf of Ukrainian ritual bread traditionally baked at Easter (paska), a row of motherfucking Peeps (how can you celebrate the blessed union without chick-shaped marshmallows covered in granulated sugar?), half of a homemade Peking duck (an offering to the local kites and raptors who suspiciously watch us when we're outdoors) and some microwave popcorn (popped before being offered, obviously) and organic beef mince for the crows at the Pine Hedge Rookery (where TC's from).

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Despite taking a beer it never occurred to me to take a fucking bottle opener, so I convinced Italics to use the side of a rock. The bottle promptly exploded, embedding tiny bits of fucking glass in his hand while soaking the one person who absolutely can't eat gluten with a wheat-based beer. (Sorry about that, baby.) There was no mojo in the air, just a teeth-grinding sense of utter failure and frustration. I blamed myself for not getting shit done on time, but accommodating the Universe's every whim and tangent makes it hard to keep a schedule.

It was a fucking depressing experience. Hot and sweaty for all the wrong reasons, sticky and wet because of a stupid idea, itchy and drainage-y thanks to rolling around in clover (to make a flat space for the crow offerings). I felt so fucking demoralized as we drove home; it was the first time my magic wooden basket was going to come home empty (well, almost empty: there were two naturally shed feathers and one tiny little pine bolete). I'm not ashamed to admit that I was taking it all as a not-so-subtle portent of unpleasant things to come.

Just as I was about to officially lodge a complaint with the Universe about the piss poor results of every-motherfucking-thing that day I jammed the fucking brakes to the motherlovin' ground because, holy fuck, there was a roadkill pheasant at the side of the fucking road. And not just ANY roadkill pheasant, but a beautifully plump hen that was hella safe for human consumption. My magic wooden basket? Didn't fail me after all.

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Having finally fulfilled all of our spring obligations we were ready to turn our attention to the season at hand: mothereffin' Harvest. The day after our Stone Throne pilgrimage we were free to begin poking around our favorite hotspots, so we decided to officially open mushroom picking season at a local castle (a terrific place for birch boletes, penny buns and fly agarics).

Pictured above is a young and particularly phallic Boletus edulis (aka penny bun, cep and porcino) growing amongst forest debris.

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Older Boletus edulis specimens (aka penny bun, cep and porcino); they look a bit ragged and past their best, but their spongy undersides were still unblemished.

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More Boletus edulis specimens (aka penny bun, cep and porcino) partially hidden by long grass.

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The very first Amanita muscaria (aka fly agaric, fly Amanita & toadstool) of 2011. Some critter enjoyed the psychoactive properties before we could, so we left the mostly pockmarked toadstool behind for the agaric lovin' inhabitants of the beech hedge.

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Past the field of clover and line of trees you can hazily make out the bared breast of Bennachie (appropriately named Mither ("Mother") Tap). It's the the highest point in this area and, unsurprisingly, contains evidence of very local, very ancient goddess worship. Whenever I'm outdoors working, playing or fucking Mither Tap is always just once glance away.

Willing to Shed

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It's only when my ass got in the car that I half-wondered if I should've been taking some sort of offering with me, but since the clouds were threatening and I didn't have anything appropriate to give (translation: homemade) I hastily vowed an IOU to the bolete'n'toadstool hotspot as I started the engine. Within an hour my magic wooden basket, brand new mushroom knife, a trimmed variety of wild edibles and a whole host of trees, shrubs and mosses were accidentally anointed by a motherfucking cut that would not clot the fuck up. So I bled as I harvested, knowing that every cut I inflicted drew a drop of blood I was willing to shed.

Henné Color: Mahogany

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Earlier this month I hennaed myself back to the glorious goth years of my youth. Tumblr screamed PICS, OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN!, but because we were - and still are - so fucking busy I never got a chance to take a shot while the color was still crisp. Last week Italics assumed the husbandly duty of refreshing the mahogany while simultaneously covering the missed grey (GREY! AT 31 FUCKING YEARS OF AGE! OUTRAGE, UNIVERSE, OUTRAGE!), and he did such a damn good job I made a point of snapping a few photos in the bathroom mirror just before bed.

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This is Henné Color: Mahogany without the flash, and it's a terrible representation of what the color actually looks like.

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This is Henné Color: Mahogany with the flash, and it's a much better representation of what the color actually looks like.

Feather Blessing

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When Aepril Schaile - bellydancer, musician, witch, animal rights advocate, astrologer, shaman, performance artist, bird watcher and all round renaissance woman - made the horrendous fucking mistake of letting my ass know that TC and my expletive-studded crow tales had actually proved to be inspirationally useful for one of her new corvid-themed projects I immediately threw open my dubious flasher witch coat and asked if she'd be interested in some naturally shed carrion crow feathers for good luck.

(Of course they're genuine! Just nibble on the quills; Corvus corone, the real fucking deal! Do I look like the sort've person who'd pass off junk I found like it was a handful of magic motherfucking beans? On second thought, don't answer that.)

Before I could send the feathers away to Aepril I had to select them (a mixture of old and recent Pine Hedge Rookery finds), tidy them, ritually cleanse them and seek an Otherworldly blessing by those who've already passed on. Now that they've been given the corvid seal of approval they're ready to travel Stateside to bestow a ridiculous fucking amount of good luck and success to a fellow devotee of our Blessed (Underground) Mother.

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Offerings of fresh borage, cornflower, foxglove, harebell and loosestrife from my container garden.

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Beech Hedgerow Crow's skull was my corvid link to the dead, and one of TC's recently shed wing feathers provided my corvid link to the living. Behind my relic anchors are a pair of blue glass chalices filled with offerings of food and water which - along with either a nice piece of diced meat or a mostly intact roadkill animal - will be left at the Pine Hedge Rookery for the carrion crows who generously shared their excess plumage with me.

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Dried flowers from a previous blessing, mixed with fragrant grains of Oman frankincense and white copal.

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A homemade incense blend with air-themed resins and herbs that was used to sanctify and purify the shed carrion crow feathers.

Blessed By the Dead

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Shed by the living, blessed by the dead.

Harvest 2011

I've got some good news and some bad news, Internet, and I'm so not going to bother dressing either up on this groggy Sunday evening: Harvest 2011, for this effing witch, has officially started. From now until early November our asses will be out in hedges, fields, woodlands, graveyards and ancient monuments (i.e., standing stones, stone circles and other neolithic markers) fucking our way through the countryside while foraging for the wild bounty northeast Scotland provides.

Harvest is when I traditionally have more time to take pictures, but less time to write about them since I'm usually knee-deep in roadkill, mushrooms and a whole fucking fruit salad worth of indigenous berries. (<- Picking, finding and harvesting? Is the easy part. The REAL work begins when my magic wooden basket - and all the contents within - enters the fucking house.) In the past I've actually held off from updating Graveyard Dirt consistently from late summer to late fall because I really fucking hate posting entries without a gag-inducing amount of substance (with my One A Day photos/videos being the sole exception), and I didn't want to misrepresent myself, my practices or the real content (i.e., the off-season shit) of this journal to new visitors.

Most photos from previous Harvests? Never got written about or posted here. I had sincere intentions, but motivation for "substance" is a hard fucking thing to find after spending weeks carting around a stupid amount of roadkill deer and processing never-fucking-ending baskets of toadstools hunched over a motherfucking sink. The sad fact is that I'm STILL trying to play fucking catch-up with last year even though I'm pathetically falling behind with this one. If I continue to treat every goddamn picture I upload as unquestionably sacrosanct and that it can't be fucking touched unless I write a mother of a fucking novel about it then 70% of my shit will never get published on this fucking journal.

So here's the bad news I promised you: Harvest's begun. (<- I think I might've cushioned that blow by this point.) Graveyard Dirt will inevitably take a hit due to all of the discovering, finding, foraging, fucking, harvesting, picking and wildcrafting (and then the cleaning, skinning, gutting, drying and preserving) I'll be doing over the next several months. (I'm not joking in the fucking slightest when I say that this is the busiest time in my year.) I won't have the luxury of time to pick over the tiny details of my practices and projects so you may notice that my entries are a bit light, and that they aren't published as consistently as they are from November to July.

And the good news? I've decided to be radical this Harvest and give posting-shit-without-worrying-about-a-motherfucking-word-count a try. I highly fucking doubt I'll be able to post daily (as I do now), but at least Graveyard Dirt won't grind to a complete effing halt. The content might not be intellectually exhilarating, but it'll be mostly fresh and - if you live in the northern hemisphere - you'll unavoidably learn a thing or two about wild edibles possibly growing in your local hedges, fields and woods when I tackle what shit you should be looking for, how to find it, how to prepare it and, most importantly, how to enjoy the fuck out of it.

10 Ms. Dirty Harvest Stories (& a link**):
* 2009 Harvest
* 2010's Harvest Meals
* Cereal Mariticide
* Harvest Altar, 2009
* Harvest Festivities & Rites
* Harvest Home Altar (Dark)
* Harvest Home Offering
* Harvest Home Pheasant
* Harvest Moon Foraging
* The Widow is Born

** Psst! There's more Harvest stories here!

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.

Giving Thanks

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Giving thanks for yesterday's hedgerow bounty.

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When Inclined

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

Gluten-Free Honik Lekach

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Internet, we are crazy fucking beat. Somehow I managed to convince myself that I'd hit the ground running the second we got home from Glasgow (SEND PACKAGES! WORK ON TRADES! WRITE THOUGHT-PROVOKING, SPIRITUALLY MEANINGFUL JOURNAL ENTRIES! <- LOL! Just kidding. I mean, me? Thought-provoking and/or spiritually meaningful? Good fucking grief!), but I soon discovered the grotesquely warped Dorian Gray pictures of those optimistic aspirations locked up in the ATTIC OF MOTHEREFFING TRUTH and had to eventually accept reality for what it was: a force unwilling to yield to the list of my more than reasonable Aries demands.

After two days of traveling, an evening of goth-flavored exhibitionism beneath the world's biggest rotating disco ball (think I'm joking?) and several fucking weeks of constant worry about leaving TC for a whole 24 hours* we've come to the collective conclusion that all our asses need a long weekend off. And, for once, I'm grudgingly accepting the fact, but there's still a teeny tiny part of me that absolutely fucking loathes leaving Graveyard Dirt untouched for more than 48 hours so I've decided to continue posting less mentally taxing entries until I've fully recovered from last week's GO! GO! GO! rush.

* Which, okay, doesn't SEEM like a super big deal, but the crow has a tendency to trip over its lame wing - it hangs more than the uninjured wing - and when it does it can't right itself. We need to physically flip Peck-Man like a turtle otherwise it just lies on its fucking back playing dead with its little corvid feet in the air.

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The story of this particular gluten-free Honik Lekach (a Jewish New Year honey cake) doesn't begin with culinary intent, but with a gag-inducing mistake. While exploring our favorite "Afro-Caribbean, Mediterranean & Middle-Eastern Halal Continental Food Store" a few weeks back I was bewitched by a squat little glass of honey, and without even looking at the ingredients - I'll be honest, Internet, I totally wanted the glass more than the honey - I tossed it into our basket not knowing that it was mostly glucose syrup.

I expected a golden tongueful of luxurious middle eastern honey brimming with exotic, unfamiliar sweetness, but got an unappetizing mouthful of bland, watered-down sugar syrup lamely disguised with a drop or two of unflavorful honey. I won't lie; I dry heaved over the sink. It was only after I choked down the colloidal mess oozing around my mouth that I read the back of that squat little glass and discovered the horrific truth behind the jar that had bewitched me: "glucose-fructose syrup, honey".

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My first instinct was to flush the fucking "honey" down the drain, but that would've been several different types of wasteful I didn't have the fucking heart to consider. I wasn't hot on the idea of using it cosmetically (since it didn't have any real holistic benefits), ritually (I'm all about working with what you got, but even I draw the fucking line at glucose-fructose syrup unless I'm making a goddamn point and/or being terribly clever) or as an additive for any of my homemade liqueurs (high-fructose corn syrup in my hedgerow hooch? not in a million motherfucking years).

So what the fuck do you do with imitation honey if you really don't want to taste it, let alone use it? You deviously hide the monstrosity within a homemade cake (in this case, a gluten-free Jewish New Year honey cake) by covering it with a neutral - but intriguingly nutty tasting - oil, an indulgent trickle of Madagascar vanilla, the aromatic woodiness of autumn spices and a shot or two of Papa's super fucking fine cognac. Then you present the finished product to the #1 psychopomp in your life because you know that motherfucker could fucking care less if real honey wasn't used if it resulted in a very fucking real cake sitting on his Ghede-pleasin' altar.

I have to grudgingly admit this cake was good. In fact, it was so fucking good it bordered on being suspiciously good. (Just some lucky black arts magic?) As if it being incredibly edible wasn't bad enough (I was just supposed to make it palatable, not create a top 10 masterpiece!), it also paired perfectly with the pistachio gelato we needed to use up, and when it finally began the process of staling it turned into a chewy breakfast bread that was easily eaten over a hot cup of tea without the need of a fork or plate.

Another Morning After

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Winter Treats

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A wild harvest for the body and soul.

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A winter treat for the red-blooded.

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A wish fulfilled for the witch in the woods.

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.

Ghede-Pleasin'

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Altar photos from a recent weekend session of Ghede-pleasin' pussycraft. I'm way too fucking tired to write anything remotely coherent, so I'll save all stories, explanations, anecdotes and recipe (oh, honey, yes I'm super sharing!) until later.

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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).

Aug. 31st, 2010

Two days ago my oldest friend in the world got married (oh, we go back to the first fucking day of 3rd grade), and my fat, psychopomp-attractin' ass wasn't there. (<- Long story involving lumps (of the worrying HOLY SHIT, ONE'S IN YOUR FUCKING TESTICLE?! kind), broken cars, the lack of a valid driver's license and a certain injured crow (who, incidentally, has begun perfecting its trepanning technique).)

And the worst fucking part? I mean, other than not being there in some sort of vampire-goth-witch designer dress (she made a special request that harkened way back to my teenage years) to exercise all the liberties that only the oldest fucking friend in the world can get away with? She admitted that she was going to force me - in my vampire-goth-witch glory - to read from the good fucking book during the marriage ceremony.

(Cue a never-fucking-ending string of Cartmanesque GODDAMMIT, GODAMMIT!, with each repetition being more fucking ridiculous than the one before. <- But, like, ~forever~.)

Why the fuck am I even mentioning this? Because without her there would be no Ms. Dirty. Or, at least, the dirty wouldn't be the grimy-nasty-algae-scented-sloppy-mud-splattered-nude-body-running-through-the-motherfucking-hedges-and-feral-fields-with-a-recently-found-detached-deer-leg dirty y'all love (and/or hate) today. She might've not created the spark, but she definitely cultivated it, nurtured it and encouraged it to flourish.

Too young to be self-conscious we tore through Midwest thickets around her small farm with wild, half-naked abandon decimating quiet, peaceful patches in irrigation streams (until the clear water ran brown with disturbed silt), scaling deformed, toppled willows bare-footed (much to the chagrin of buzzed deer hunters who had a slightly harder time clambering up to their tree house hunting lofts) and always returning home muddy, bleeding, and tired, but full of anecdotal tales which, to this fucking day, we still reminisce over as if they happened last effing week.

(Our parents, in particular, loved our WE ALMOST GOT EATEN BY WILD FUCKING HOGS! story. <- For fuck's sake! THERE WERE MOTHERFUCKING PIGS IN THE MOTHERFUCKING WOODS! How the fuck were we supposed to know they weren't fucking Cujo hogs? Jesus.)

So, for soppy, sentimental reasons this entry - in which I introduce you lot to my little secret hedge - is dedicated to my first, oldest and most beloved hedge sister: Nicole (even though she has no idea this site exists*, and that I finally found a way to profit off my eagerness to get naked, get dirty and get as goddamn wild as Nature will let me).

* She's just married into the FBI; the less they know about my amphetamine-fueled gardening sessions the better.

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This hella expired bolete mushroom's a lot more fucking useful than it seems. In the cutthroat world of mushroom hunting (you think I'm fucking joking?) it's known as a flag; a large specimen that alerts would-be pickers that they're in prime mushroom country. Normally flags are too deteriorated to consume (although there are occasional exceptions), but they do provide valuable information about the different sorts of mycelia underfoot. When you find one of these fuckers - and it's of an edible variety - take note, that's a spot you'll want to return to next year for a fresher crop. The bolete season in this hedgerow had already past by August 31st, which means it'll be one of the first stretches of local land to provide the very first fungal fruits of 2011.

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While trying to sniff out younger boletes (which I found, but they were also too far gone for a pleasant eating experience) amongst old beech trees and grass-encrusted rock formations I spied something excitingly old and fabulously rusty nestled amongst moss, lichen and stone.

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Internet, I give you Thor's motherfucking hammer. (<- Actually, it's an ancient-as-fuck piece of bicycle that somehow miraculously draped itself across a small boulder for Christ knows how fucking long until I found it (TRANSLATION: not Mjöllnir), but you get the point.) Leaving it would've been a waste of a perfectly good symbolic omen, so it got tucked into one of my magic wooden baskets and hauled back home for future witchcrafting.

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One of the many spectacular views from my secret little hedge. In the distance you can see the purple bloom of wild heather hugging the exposed cap of a nearby hill, and the all-to-familiar ragged line of pine trees that farmers use to separate forested wilderness from open agricultural fields.

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Amethyst Deceivers (Laccaria amethystea); they might look poisonous, but they're not. I was so goddamn focused on BIG EFFING GAME (i.e., porcini and toadstools) last year that I never allotted myself any other edible wild mushroom harvest time. Hopefully this year I'll remember to bag myself a couple of baskets of deceivers when out foraging in the woods. (These fuckers? Love beech trees. Find a row of beeches and you'll almost always find amethyst deceivers, toadstools and a variety of boletes.)

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What's good about a single fucking bilberry (also known round these parts as blaeberry and whortleberry)? One's all you need to help you realize you're standing in a patch of wild motherfucking blueberry bushes. You can see I JUST missed out on 2010's crop, but now that I know where I can locally source wild blueberries (they are slightly different from blueberries, but they're close enough for me to be fucking lazy about it) we're planning multiple trips this year to ensure a bottle of homemade liqueur, a batch of hedgerow jam and enough dried reserves for multiple installments of my new favorite Ukrainian dish: dried fruit compote.

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If my ass goes into the wild you can be sure of two fucking things: I will come out with an assortment of bones, and I will desperately have to take a motherfucking piss within two seconds of entering any sort of woodland. (That last curse? Has dogged me all of my goddamn life. I'm so naturally fucking pushy that I can't help but mark my territory wherever the fuck I go.)

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While crawling through the hedgerow - just after being knee-deep in bilberry bushes - I stumbled across the whitewashed remains of a long dead deer. I scoured the area for other whiter-than-fucking-white pieces, but only found a single rib bone and part of the spinal column. This wasn't the only encounter I had with deer on the 31st; after my hedgerow expedition I rescued my first skinnable roadkill doe (#4; my lactating doe), so in addition to everything I found, foraged and ferreted out in my secret little hedge I also had an adult roe deer to wrestle with once I got home.

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The sun - partially obscured by towering pines - eased through branches and crevices, leaving marks of dappled light along my shadowy, fern-filled path.

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A miniature forest of infant beeches bursting out of their protective braces.

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Too afraid that the forest would steal me away I stuck to the darkened, shrub-choked hedge and gingerly tip-toed around the illuminated paths (<- sometimes shit's overly inviting for a reason) as I made my way back to the car.

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Something managed to enjoy this fly agaric (Amanita muscaria) before I could, so I left the partially eaten toadstool behind. When I returned for my second dose of hedge exploration the local rabbits were kind enough to leave a little magic out for me.

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Chippy; my foraging companion. When Italics can't join me in my rural adventures I take Chippy to keep my ass company (laugh if you want, but he's got a sharp fucking nose for roadkill - he's successfully nailed several outcomes before I managed to start the goddamn car). For obvious reasons he spends the majority of the time strapped to my back like a motherfucking papoose, but he gets his 15 minutes of freedom when it's time for lunch. (<- I try and keep him leashed; cattle and sheep react badly to my presence when I'm out "walking" him, so to spare us from a stampede he's not allowed free reign outdoors unless it's in the yard.)

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As if the first exploration of my secret little hedge wasn't successful enough, I found the chthonic nesting site of stinging, parasitic insects. (<- It takes a true witch to see potential in all things, and it takes a really fucking hacked-the-fuck-off witch to flex that potential.)(<- Consider that one of the few warnings I ever publicly make, Internet.)

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I'm an equal opportunity forager to the point that scavenging has become more of a lifestyle than hobby. It doesn't matter what the fuck it is - i.e., dropped jewelry, rusting farm equipment, dead animals, reduced-to-clear-food and, in this case, the remains of a pheasant egg - if it's in my path then it was most certainly meant to be. In addition to being a bone magnet (snort), I have a weird ass talent for finding discarded wild bird eggs. (Psst! If you're looking for eggshell fragments from carrion crows or game birds I'm totally your dealer.)

Hail Mary

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Pussycraft

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Motherfucker's getting a very personal - very homemade - dose of hot'n'heavy pussycraft* tonight. (My Ukrainian ancestors? Rolling in their motherfucking graves. But, like, proudly.)

* Pussycraft; the Ghede's favorite sort of witchcraft.

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.

Taste of Summer

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Remember the locally grown strawberries bought on our June 4th excursion? Those insanely sweet motherfuckers were ritually offered to Chippy on his birthday (strawberries are one of his favorite foods), and then they were washed, quartered and thrown into a giant Kilner jar with a fistful of scented geranium leaves, a mound of granulated sugar and two bottles of gluten-free vodka*. This strawberry liqueur - the first homemade hooch we've made this year! - should be ready by Midwinter, which means by Christmas we'll be able to drive away the bitter cold with an intoxicating taste of summer.

* Most vodkas use grains in the fermentation process, but Smirnoff uses maize (corn) making it safe for people who need to exclude wheat from their diet.

Easter Ancestor Altar

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By Ribbon and Thread

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Learn more about TTC (Tourist Trap Crow) here.

The Black Arts

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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.

Metaphors, Similes & Analogies

Look, it's not like I don't know that the use of metaphors is a lazy motherfucking thing, but I haven't really written anything with serious chops since February, which means my ass is way out of fucking practice when it comes to writing. And when one can't be articulate as fuck - I can be suspiciously coherent when there's a motive, so don't think this entire "mothereffing Jesus blow me in the fucking ass Christ Almighty" routine is anything more than me being inexcusably lazy - one inevitably employs the use of a grammatical crutch to lamely limp past the obstacle of inarticulation.

My metaphor's a dress. Yeah, you read right: a dress. (Just humor me, okay? I haven't had a full night's sleep in almost a month, I'm constantly covered in crow shit and I haven't felt a sense of satisfaction from completing a project in over three months. I wish I had something more witty to offer than "HEY GUYS, A //DRESS//!" but, right now, that's all I got. Maybe by next week I'll have upped my mental capabilities to allow me to play fast and loose with analogies, or, if you're really fucking lucky, similes.)

So I have this dress - my internet metaphor dress - and Christ only knows how long I've been fucking working on this dress, but it's been a lifelong project full of disasters, miracles, trials and errors. It's a constantly evolving experiment that gets shaped by personal experiences; sometimes the new stitch I'm trying to learn just isn't cut out for what I'm trying to achieve, and sometimes, seeming by divine intervention, I accidentally create a new stitch that nails several problems. The most important thing, though, is that the process of creation has always focused on piecing together an article of clothing that tailor suits my unique needs (and my 36-34-52 physique; Tinkerbell, eat your fucking heart out, you gossamer-winged bitch).

...but the dress didn't just suddenly appear, and it wasn't sewn together overnight by singing vermin and overly optimistic woodland animals. First, the very fucking idea of a dress had to be conceived, and once the question marked suggestion had firmly lodged itself in the back of my mind a long period of mental incubation was needed. Back then I was a kid with an underdeveloped body who still needed to physically grow and learn about myself before committing to a lifelong, balls out project. I mean, Jesus, at that age I could barely thread a needle let alone draft my own sewing patterns.

The thing is, I'm allergic to a lot of manmade fibers. As in, I get tremendous, cystic acne welts on my ass, inner thighs, along my armpits, beneath my tits and along my neckline from inorganic fabric so I have to be careful of what I wear, and, if I'm not wearing anything, what I'm touching or sitting on. So, my dress material had to be made from from something natural, which meant I had to grow, nurture, harvest and then weave the fiber into cloth. But, like, the entire "grow, nurture, harvest and then weave" gig only came AFTER years of agricultural blood, sweat and tears.

In order to reach my very scientific conclusion I had to test every viable option, see every plant through its lifecycle and then produce a finished product from every effing harvest just to find the one fucking fiber that was durable enough to keep up with my version of life while accommodating my sensitive skin. And that work - I'm talking about motherfucking years worth of work just to get an acceptable, workable beta version - wasn't just limited to producing a homegrown, homemade cloth for my dress.

The same effort went into finding and creating dyes to stain it, deciding what thread grade to use, finalizing the all-important cut of the dress and then, finally, masterminding a pattern that both encompassed and reflected years of laborious work, billions of tearful trial and error processes, and some hardcore wisdom that only comes with decades of devoting yourself to a (mostly) singular goal.

At the almost-but-not-quite-new age of 31 (I swapped a digit back in April, so, like, I'm only really a month into my real 30s) I finally have the ability to step back and see something tangible. I've grown my fiber, made my cloth, grown my dyes, dyed my cloth, selected my thread grade, taken my measurements, drafted (and redrafted) my dress pattern into something permanent and, in the last few years, I've begun piecing my metaphor dress together on a Ms. Dirty shaped clothes dummy.

I never intended for my dress to go public - at least not until it registered as done (or, if you're like me, medium rare; if there ain't blood, it ain't worth it) - but without thinking I set up my lifelong, balls out operation in a huge ass bay window (better natural light, y'know?). And even though I didn't promote or push my dress on others, people still somehow managed to find it, whether by coincidentally walking past as I worked on it or being told about it by someone else. Sometimes those people came back, sometimes they didn't and sometimes those people pretended they didn't even though they secretly did (and still do).

A few years ago it was relatively easy to go about my fucking business because it was just me, my dress and my ongoing mission to see this motherfucker of a challenge through to the very end. Things got complicated when uninvited parties attempted to get involved. Even though I hadn't asked for help people began giving me unsolicited advice about my dress, people tried to aggressively educate me on how I was sewing my dress (and where I was getting it wrong) and some people - some pagan/witchcraft-based people - even went as far as telling me I should completely abandon my dress and adopt theirs instead because they thought it was a better fit.

About a year ago I began noticing a new trend: people weren't happy just admiring my dress anymore. They wanted to touch it, try it on and see how it fit. When people reached out towards the Ms. Dirty shaped clothes dummy to cop a feel I politely tried to elbow them back, but, after a while, it was like trying to hold off a motherfucking stampede of PCP tripping wildebeests. Before people actually considered what I was doing and wanted to understand why ("what did you use for X? why did you make that final decision?"), but now people are grabbing fistfuls of fabric while screaming "OH MY GOD! THIS IS ME! THIS IS TOTALLY, TOTALLY ME!", tearing entire chunks out of the dress I've been working on for over twenty fucking years of my life and demanding validation, from me, for a job well done.

Yeah, it chaps my fucking ass, but when you've got something that's considered different or edgy or unique or new people are inevitably drawn to it, and in my experience when a certain sort've person's done admiring something they put on a pedestal they consume it, all Cronus-style. And it's not done out of fear or a futile war waged against the inevitable, but because somewhere, inside, those kinds of people are empty and think they've found something that can fill that dead space.

The problem is, using someone else's experiences to fix your spiritual potholes just doesn't fucking work. You can't use someone else's life like it's an organ donation for your sole benefit; most folks who have a body part from someone else actually have to take an immune suppressing medication for the rest of their goddamn lives to ensure their body doesn't reject the unfamiliar part.

If you're unhappy with that comparison (which, BTW, qualifies as a simile - congrats on getting that motherfucker one week early!), how about this one: those smart ass high school math books with all of the answers right in the fucking back? They never provided an illustrated step-by-fucking-step tutorial on how to get to those specific magic numbers. You had to figure out how the fuck to do the work, and then put what you learned into practice in order to really earn the grade. The answer's fucking meaningless without the theory and work, because without them you can't back your shit up.

Look, guys, the answer isn't eviscerating someone else's dress in a desperate hope that you can patchwork parts of it into your wardrobe. Stealing, tearing and ripping isn't creating, and while I totally get the entire ~*~creation and destruction~*~ process role-playing someone else's life and spiritual duties isn't the way to become one with the cosmic ebb of the Universe.

Why wear a dress that was customized for someone else? It ain't never going to fit your ass right (it certainly isn't going to fit my fucking ghetto racehorse ass), and it belittles all of the experiences, joys and suffering of both you and the dress's real owner. Why put yourself out to the world as a pale imitation of someone else in an unflattering, ill-fitting outfit when you have the ability to be a unique individual in a homemade dress tailor-fucking-made for you by your own effing hands?

Answers, please, on the backs of those little white index cards that we used way, way back in 5th grade to help keep our asses in line when reading out our favorite animal (and why) speeches to the entire effing class. And, dude, no cheating, because the only wrong answer is if you copy and paste someone else's and pretend it's yours.

Sheep Shearing

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Scotland's known for its fickle, changeable weather. "Ne'er cast a cloot til May is oot" is a famous folksy saying; a folksy saying I'm not actually allowed to say because I have, like, zero fucking talent for accents and me reading any sort of Scottish dialect out-fucking-loud is a crime against the indigenous people of my adopted homeland. (Trust me, it really is that fucking bad.)

I experienced the temperamental Scottish weather last year when I stood, dumbfounded, in front of our office window as it snowed in motherfucking May. (That's right, May.) It served me right; I really fell off the sovereignty wagon and couldn't get my ass motivated to perform any of my seasonal rituals or duties on time. Snow in mothereffing May was, needless to say, the kick I needed to get back on track and take the shit I do more seriously.

(Little known fact: you can make the rules. The thing about making rules, though, is that you have to be fully committed to exercising them otherwise the Universe and God's host of angelic drag queens aren't going to play along. The game is for you to create, but you've got to actively participate in the process to keep it going.)

Traditionally Scottish farmers don't sheer their sheep until elder goes into flower, because it's only when the creamy, fragrant blossoms appear that the threat of unseasonably cold weather has passed. Here in the northeast that's typically in June, although this year it feels like we're slightly ahead of schedule. (Could it have anything to do with the fact that I actually managed to change the motherfucking guard on fucking time this year?)

Seeing as how I'm part sheep - Aries with the hugest fucking capital "A" - I couldn't resist joining the sheering party for summer, especially since I spend a significant portion of the season outdoors and naked. For something like eight months a year I let myself go feral, but when the weather turns - for the better - I ritually dehair and tidy myself to enjoy the sensation of the sun warming my bare, hairless skin. It's a stupid little thing, but it's my stupid little thing and I eagerly look forward to the annual meeting between me, my pubic hair, a vat of hot wax and a weirded out beautician who's used to more...uh, sophisticated...clientele.

(This last chick? Had to check on me several times while I was undressing because the mothereffing room was so effing small that my fat fucking ass kept bumping into things - metal things, which clattered and clashed and pinged and rattled - and it made it sound like I was having some sort of closeted epileptic fit. Don't EVEN get me started on how I almost put the waxing panties on wrong...)

This year differs from previous years because I got the deed done early in the season. It wasn't until last year - when my pussy was getting waxed in mid-July - that it dawned on me that I wasn't being much of an Aries leader by waiting until all the other sheep were getting sheered to join the herd. Rather than ensuring an early, warm summer I was waiting for it to happen, and when it did I waxed in celebration. That attitude? Way too passive for someone who's supposed to assure shit happens on fucking time. If it's my job to make sure everything stays on schedule then I've got to be a catalyst and set an example.

Not Exactly; Not Really

Oh, hey! Remember last month when I said I had to take some time off to seriously evaluate shit? Since then I've assessed, considered, deliberated and mentally weighed in on the recurring bullshit that's been bothering me for some time, and after a month (or more?) away from Graveyard Dirt I feel that I've sufficiently revaluated my relationship with myself, my home, my husband, my land and my perpetual love/hate relationship with the mothereffing internet.

In fact, I was so fucking ready to drag my ass back here, settle into my old routine and get back to work that the Universe took note and immediately dispatched a hardcore dose of responsibility:

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Meet TC, the Taurus crow (also known as "That Crow", as in "is THAT CROW asleep yet?" and "don't tell me THAT CROW has fucking egg yolk all over its fucking head again!") who single-wingedly turned our world upside-fucking-down in the matter of days. We found the injured fledgling hopping in the wheat field adjacent to the Pine Hedge Rookery on the 12th, and the time demanding - but adorable - motherfucker has been with us since.

Within minutes of being home TC was eagerly taking food from us (gluten-free white bread and a boiled, free-range egg), and slept comfortably throughout the night until its feathered, corvid ass was carted to the vet for an emergency appointment. We thought it might've dislocated or broken its wing, but, as it turns out, it's suffering from the equivalent of "a pinky injury" and nothing needed to be bound ("time's the only thing it really needs" is what the vet said).

Despite not having any formal education or training on the rehabilitation of wildlife the vet handed the injured crow over to us and said "it could be a week, or it could be three weeks". And that, Internet, was that. After being animal-free for seven months (our last pet rat, Chooch, died just before Halloween last year) we're suddenly sharing our office/computer room with one of my local crows.

(Who, incidentally, is glaring at the back of my computer chair because I'm not drowning it with attention. <- It's past the age of imprinting (so it knows what it is), but goddamn if it doesn't get restless if I don't keep it entertained. Since the picture was taken we've expanded its living quarters; it now has a long perch to sit on, a brass owl wind chime to play with (it likes ringing the bells) and a raised nest made out of a bucket and my Bean Nighe bowl.)

Thankfully, TC's a fledgling and not a nestling which means instead of waking up every 20 minutes in my sleep schedule to feed its ass (we're currently nocturnal, and they need to be fed from dawn to dusk) I only have to wake up every 2-3 hours to ensure that its food bowl is full and its happily hydrated. For novices I think we're doing pretty goddamn good (our first instincts have, so far, always been right), although a huge part of the "pretty goddamn good" factor comes from the fact that we're taking care of a bird that knows it's a fucking bird; it feeds itself (well, mostly), it preens, cleans and fluffs without our help, and while it understands we're the source of food it still maintains a level of suspicion when interacting with us.

Despite all of that, this is seriously some hard fucking work and the effort, energy and time has begun taking its toll. (How the fuck is it that I'm going to bed LATER every goddamn night and I'm still waking up at the same time every fucking day?) Even though I'm known for being recklessly fearless in my adventures, this was one I almost tried to dodge out of. (All my life I've been plagued by dying and dead animals, so what do I do the first time I have a for-fucking-real chance to save something? Try to duck out of the responsibility. I mean, how the fuck is someone who specializes in nurturing the dead supposed to nurture the living?)

But what choice did I have? Leave the bird in the field to die of exposure or get eaten alive? Abandon the bird in a vet's office, or wildlife rescue center and hope that they wouldn't euthanize it because it was too much of a hassle to rehabilitate? For nearly two years the crows at the Pine Hedge Rookery have gifted me their shed feathers and unwanted eggs, trusted me with their dead and dying, and fed generations of offspring with my offerings of food. They've been generous to me, and in that spirit of generosity I want to give back something to them to show my gratitude for accepting me and my practices.

So am I back? Not exactly. Am I still gone? Not really. I've kind've sort've been keeping up with Twitter conversations (@graveyarddirt, if you're interested), but it all depends on how much shit I've got going on that day. Right now it's impossible for me to keep up with anyone on any social networking site (choose your poison from the STALK ME list on your left), and my inbox has become THE GREAT, UNFATHOMABLE ABYSS which'll require several long weeks of untangling to create order out of chaos. (Feel free to email (graveyarddirt@gmail.com), although don't expect a quick response unless you're looking for an expedited route to ego death.)

Anyway, my (r)evaluation period's over, but only TC can decide when my ass returns to the internet. Right now my only priority is mending this injured crow and getting it back home where it belongs - with its parents, siblings and relatives at the Pine Hedge Rookery. I do miss my former life - and, fuck, I was so close to being done with the super serious spring fucking cleaning shit which meant I could finally focus on selling my dried toadstools and working with my roadkill animals - but sometimes responsibility requires a sacrifice, and if giving up/delaying 1-3 weeks of my idealized version of life saves TC then that's the price I'm willing to pay.

Birthday Offerings

Just a few pictorial offerings from April 11th (my birthday):

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My birthday cake; a homemade, gluten-free German chocolate sheet cake. (<- I was too goddamn lazy to bake three separate 9" rounds and do the entire layered thing.) If you can believe it (and you should, because my ability to pack food away borders on being a divine motherfucking gift from God), only a tiny corner remains.

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To include everyone in the birthday festivities offerings were made to my ancestors, companions and the roommates-with-benefits comedy team cohabiting with us. This makeshift altar in the backroom was for my indoor companion animal spirits: Chippy, Tiger and The Shango Man.

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All I can say about this picture is: the less said about it, the better.

Well, maybe one thing - if you really fucking dig German chocolate cake and haven't had it in motherfucking years having your ass eaten out as you dive face first into your piece of birthday cake while under the influence of nitrous is probably the way to go. (I should know.)

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The quiet before the "stoned off my fucking ass and crawled around on the flour at 5:45 AM wearing nothing except my new Sunday school goth dress and an antique wooden goat's harness" debacle: homemade sole'n'almond gin (a gift from a friend), and a spring hedgerow-themed jigsaw puzzle.

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Birthday gifts wrapped in Christmas paper for a mostly benevolent goddess made incarnate. Hidden beneath Yuletide greetings? Vintage jewelry, new altar pieces, some clothing and a handful of other miscellaneous items that fall beneath a Ms. Dirty persuasion.

(Un)Salvageable

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Salvaging the unsalvageable.

Penis Pots

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Penis pots for penis peppers. Insertion is for the daring, and for those of you with a carton of cold ass Greek yogurt. (<- About ten years ago Italics fingered my cunt after shooting off some pepper spray and all I could think about while driving home - as the driver, because, like, it wasn't enough that my motherfucking pussy was on fire - was douching with super thick yogurt. Even worse then that? Every-fucking-time I remember that incident I get horny. Talk about being a glutton for punishment.)

Spoiled Psychopomp

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Offerings of homegrown tobacco, lemongrass beer and ostentatious bling for one spoiled ass psychopomp. (<- Motherfucker transcends "spoiled" in this house.)

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.

Supermoon Altar

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If I tell y'all a secret, do you promise not to burn me for blasphemy? (Don't think I don't know how this relationship ends, Internet. Bad things happen when your arrival's celebrated with palm leaves and rejoicing.) I'm not so hot on the moon. There, I said it. In addition to not worshipping any gods/goddesses - or considering myself pagan - my goto celestial body is the sun. (<- Strike three for Ms. Graveyard Dirt! Watch my witchcraft cred plummet like some bad fucking stock.)

The moon isn't for me; it's for Italics. It's his opposite, as the sun's mine. As Darkness I crave Light (I'm totally a day person who seriously goes stir-fucking-crazy if I don't get enough natural light), and as Light he craves Darkness (he, unsurprisingly, is more of a night person who isn't as affected by the lack of natural light). Our opposites complete us, so it isn't that much of a stretch to understand why I'd intuitively reach out to the heavenly body that's associated most with masculine qualities. (Unconvinced? Just ask Diana; homegirl knows all about Darkness coveting Light.)

It's not that the moon isn't present, or doesn't play an active role in my life or beliefs, because fuck if I don't experience firsthand the very special type of lunacy that comes with being ruled - emotionally, spiritually, mentally, physically - by Luna. It's a wild, feral, untamed energy that I can't harness or control, and more often than not it has me screaming and thrashing around like a rabid fucking beast until I get that rampaging animal out. It's worse during full moons, it's especially bad if I'm nocturnal during a full moon, and it's terrifyingly unnatural if I'm nocturnal during a full moon and I'm on my first week of contraceptive pills.

Because the moon brings out the worst in me - the worst which I can't control - I've done everything from gingerly tiptoeing around it to shoving it into a lockable vault and throwing away the key. (<- Proof you don't need to be emotionally mature to be a witch!) It's not the most conducive environment for personal growth, but at least I realize my instinctual reaction to block the moon's influence is a coping mechanism (and, admittedly, an avoidance tactic).

(Translation: I'm not dumb, I'm lazy and willful. And I JUST manage to get away with it because the Universe seems to like "willful". Or, at least, my homegrown version of willful.)

The pill I'm taking is a 3 week cycle with about a week off so I can have my "period". (It's not a really-for-real period, but I bleed for several days every 24-28 days and that's good enough for me. In fact, that was the deal breaker - I'd go on the pill, but only if it allowed me to have a natural seeming cycle since menstruation is crazy important to my flavor of witchcraft.) After 8 days of being off the pill I begin taking them again for the next 21 days, and holy fuck if the first 1/2 of the first week isn't hell on fucking earth (for both me and anyone who needs to be in close proximity to my raging ass).

Rather than experiencing one or two days of intense PMS symptoms before my period, I now get super ramped PMS symptoms that last for nearly a week. There's no fucking doubt in anyone's mind as to what the contributing factor is because it's so goddamn obvious. I'm fine until I take my first pill, and then within 2 motherfucking hours everything changes. Towards the end of the first week the emotional side affects taper down, and by the second week - which is a different set of pills - you'd never guess that I spent the last 7 days terrorizing NE Scotland with my more-beast-than-woman hormonal routine.

So, for reasons stated above, this entire household cringes when I'm about to go on my contraceptive again, and when we're about to get hit with a full fucking moon. And when the two converge? Sheer fucking white-faced panic. (Why they don't shoot me in the ass with a tranquilizer dart is beyond fucking me; it's not like I couldn't use the extra fucking sleep.) Nothing, we thought, could be worse than a grand conjunction of nocturnal mode, full moon and first week of pills...but we were wrong. We were supermoon wrong.

When I took the last effing pill on the 11th of March I counted out my 8 days on the calendar and my restart day - because the Universe enjoys a good fucking LOL! - was the 19th, the day/night of the supermoon. (<- That's not fucking coincidence, that's the Lamb breaking open one of the first motherfucking seals.) But wait! It gets better! On the 19th the full moon was the closest it's been in nearly 20 effing years, which meant without a fallout bunker Italics and my in-laws were woefully unprepared for the unholy union of hormones, autism and repressed lunar rage.

To say I was apprehensive about the event would be the understatement of the fucking year/decade/existence, but it seemed like a major fucking waste to not tap into what was going on - and I didn't feel like kicking myself for benching my own ass - so I reluctantly acknowledged the full moon's positioning by dragging out anything I wanted consecrated by Luna. As light faded I began grouping objects and tools in front of the backroom's patio door, where rays of moonlight would fall through unobstructed glass and illuminate my most treasured possessions as they rested on the floor. (<- Not exactly my standard altar, but this one had a unique purpose so I'm going to let the unsymmetrical, yard sale-lookin' mess slide. For once.)

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I don't know if it's entirely obvious, but my supermoon altar was composed of 3 separate categories: my tools, objects that celebrate a certain aspect of the divine female and super personal magic items that I wanted sanctified by the grace of the moon.

The first altar tier was dedicated to the tools that I use in daily life and in all of my witchcraft-based practices. Resting on my newly acquired vintage tea towel (which is a ritual item within itself, it's already been used to create an impromptu altar at the foot of a sacred hill as we performed an engagement rite on the Spring Equinox): a knife given to me this past Christmas by my godchildren's parents, two vintage trivets I use when burning incense (one's for roadkill work and the other's for more personal affairs), my deer bell to call my spectral herd, a stag candleholder which I use like trivet'n'stand, the miniature enamel casserole pot I burn resin-based incense in, my antique goat's bell (I wear it during sex rites; if I'm already doing the entire fertility goat thang I might as well wear a goat's bell while doing it), the all-too-familiar sickle, a handmade, boline-like knife given to me by a very generous friend (it was originally made for her), the scalpel I use when skinning/working with roadkill, a vegetable kitchen knife for my wildcrafting adventures (the curved blade is excellent for cutting/peeling mushrooms), my crazy-important ritual scissors (I'm more of a scissor witch than knife witch; I'm a sucker for super functional shit) and my machete which usually lives right next to our bedroom door. (<- Yes, that IS a warning and a threat, uninvited guests.)

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More of the tools that I use in daily life and in all of my witchcraft-based practices: my make-up brushes (I rarely wear make-up, so when I do it's usually because something big's about to go down, and on those occasions I use make-up to create a living mask of the persona I'm preparing to embody), my ritual apron (the first time we celebrated Hieros Gamos I wore seven layers of clothing which were gradually removed during the sacred rite, the Scottish-themed apron - the clothing of a married woman - was one of those layers), a rectangular slab of slate taken from the threshold of a ruined chapel (used like a trivet, incense burner and cutting board) and sitting on top of them all is my goat whip broom that's groaned beneath the weight of my naked, fat ass on many a Walpurgisnacht.

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The second altar tier was dedicated to objects that I felt celebrated the divine female, but more specifically a certain aspect of the divine female that I'm stupidly deficient in. I have She-Who-Wears-Pants war-like aggression in spades, but what I lack is the merciful, nurturing patience present in goddesses like the Virgin Mary (and even Hathor despite her infamous moodiness). While the moon's a source of madness, it's also a source of a sort've Zen compassion and if I could only strike a slight balance between the two I know I could curb my werewolf curse.

Sitting on my wooden tray: Tawaret, Ephesian Artemis, the Blessed Virgin, the small figure of Kadesh bears my gold Czarina earrings (they once belonged to Alexandra), there's a small statue of Hathor partially hidden by a ring box fitted with my wedding ring and my new Lent purity/engagement ring, cutlery that'll eventually be used when I make a special table setting for our ancestors, the first piece of pentacle jewelry I ever bought (I bought the ring last year and wear it inverted on my left thumb for the LOLs), the large intaglio lapis goat pendant is normally worn with my chain link bra (another one of my 7 bridal layers), the sculpted vulva is actually a handmade cicada pendant with a feminine twist, the square pendant is a handmade Hail Mary sigil-made-jewelry and the cock'n'lady charm is a Thai fertility pendant.

Within the wooden bowl is my female chalice (there's a hole in the handle that's yoni-shaped), 2 effigies of me (one slightly more tongue-in-cheek than the other), 3 eggs (the first to be laid this year by battery-rescued hens; they're being saved so I can blow them out for pysanky) and everything's sitting on a bloodied kitchen towel that I normally wrap my ritual scissors and knives in. (<- When I accidentally stabbed myself with the scissors a few years back I applied pressure to the wound using that towel, and I've kept my ritual blades wrapped up in it ever since).

To the top right of the bowl is an antique statue of the Virgin Mary, and hung on the spires of the statue are pieces of female orientated jewelry: my moonstone ring that once belonged to my mother, and a triad of pendants - a quartz crystal, a teardrop-shaped piece of moonstone and a yoni-shaped religious medal of the Virgin - I almost never leave home without. To the bottom right of the bowl is a 18th century silver beaker depicting the Blessed Mother brandishing a sword amidst angelic hosts (no, seriously), and my carved head of Hathor peeks out of the antique cup all Oscar the fucking Grouch-style.

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The third and final altar tier was dedicated to super personal magic items that I wanted sanctified by the grace of the moon. Those objects included: my wooden foraging basket (it performs an amazing trick), two boxes of seeds (of poisons, medicines and entheogens), the Santa Muerte black rabbit (see Year of the Rabbit), my ritual Bean Nighe bowl and #01's skull (which is now slowly drying in a dark, cool room). The ass-shaped sabbat cake (it has the combined sexual fluids of both Italics and I), bar of dark sea salt chocolate and shot of my homemade plum liqueur were offerings left for Luna in thanks for the blessings bestowed on my most sacred of possessions.

Groggy, but Conscious

Right now in Gothel's Garden early spring flowers are unfolding beneath chilly breezes, last autumn's fruit cuttings are crowning with feathered green-gold leaves and sorrel - with its sour'n'sweet lemon/green apple tangy freshness - is starting to shoot up from the cold, heavy earth signaling the groggy, but conscious, stirrings of life-bearing spring.

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Dwarf irises on the patio steps.

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The pinecone beginnings of my grape hyacinths.

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Hairy forget-me-nots bathing in late afternoon sunlight.

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Welcome to my ever expanding patio container garden filled with fruits, vegetables, herbs, grains, flowers and poisons. This picture's just a quick peak at what I've got up my gardening sleeves this year.

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The bay tree's ailing. It needs to get housed into a larger container before it dies, but because it isn't my tree I had to wait to get permission to repot it. Now that I've finally been given the green-fucking-light I can move the unhappy bay into a roomier home.

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Sorrel shooting up from cold, heavy earth.

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Currant clippings taken from a cemetery and an ancient hunting ground, and their feathered green-gold leaves.

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.)

Witchcraft

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What's Ms. Graveyard Dirt's witchcraft made of? The lost, the found, the harvested and foraged. The chipped, the dusty, the once buried and rusty. The splintered, the broken, the discarded and forgotten. That's what Ms. Graveyard Dirt's witchcraft is made of.

The Morning After

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The morning after Superbowl Sunday. (Thankfully my mother-in-law's partially deaf in one ear so she didn't hear me howling "WITHIN SIX FUCKING POINTS, WITHIN SIX FUCKING POINTS!" as I furiously masturbated - and climaxed - during the last three minutes of the game.)

Bones, Twine & Feathers

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Right before the flu benched my fucking ass I was running on some crazy effing energy and actually managed to complete several long-promised packages to friends and fellow witches. The one damn thing I DIDN'T accomplish before being swept out to Influenza Sea? Taking pictures of the finished products. That event finally happened a few days ago in the backroom, which means I can officially box everything up and ship it all out in the next day or two.

Normally I loathe ruining surprises, but I wanted to familiarize folks with my bizarre decorating style before anyone buys anything from me so they at least have a general idea of what to expect. As beautiful as new bottles, lace and fancy charms are, they're expensive, so almost everything in my embellishment repertoire is second hand. I've used, saved and sterilized all the bottles'n'jars, and a lot of the ribbons, trinkets and organic paraphernalia I use I've either found, made or grown.

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I know that this picture is shockingly similar to the one above, and the only reason why I'm double posting the same(ish) image is because I was a complete and utter retard who forgot to take a proper fucking close-up of my hooch twins. (In my defense? I was totally rushing because natural light was fading fast.)

Both mini-bottles of booze are homemade; the dark one is a coffee-vanilla bean vodka, and the transparent yellow one is a raspberry vodka made from wild apricot-colored raspberries that grow near the boarded up disturbed children's home and orphanage. Both were created in 2009, so they've had more than a year to flavorfully mature in my magic closet.

I've decorated the repurposed fruit juice bottles with twine, feathers from roadkill pheasants and some of my nature-bleached outside bones*.

* The weathered, whitened remains of offerings I made from previous years. The bones get kicked around by visiting wildlife until it's time for a YARD CLEANUP. When a yard cleanup happens I round up all the bones I can find and add them to my growing collection. Eventually I clean them and use them for divination, decoration and projects; they were offered to the spirits and ancestors as gifts, consecrated by nature and the weather, stirred, moved and chewed on by wildlife and, after all of that, still managed to return to the hand that gave them away.

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A large handful of dried, wild mushrooms (my "Wild Woodland Mix" that combines at least several types of boletes, including porcini) and a pair of preserved pheasant feet for a friend, carefully wrapped up with an outside bone, pheasant feather, twine and wooden rabbit ornament (a clearance bin purchase) to celebrate the new Chinese year.

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More of my Wild Woodland Mix tucked in brown paper, and secured closed with twine, another outside bone and one of Papa's homegrown Ring of Fire chillies. (Note: If you're (un)lucky enough to receive one or more of my dried chillies, you can totally grow plants from the seeds within. In fact, I've found that indoor chilli plants make the easiest houseplants, and they provide several rich harvests. Just be sure to tickle your flowers with a brush or finger to ensure they're probably pollinated and you'll be rewarded with an avalanche of peppers.)

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Partially wrapped in brown paper and twine is one of my last jars of rose hip, apple and cinnamon jelly made from wild rose hips that I personally harvested back in mid-September of last year. The consistency is just a touch too thick - it was my first attempt at making homemade jelly and I overboiled the mix - but the flavor makes up for the lack of looseness. (The cinnamon lends a hint of fragrant, smoky wood to the candied apple sweetness of the fruits.)

I huffed second life into an old vanilla extract bottle by filling it with some of my chlorophylltastic sycamore oil. (<- What happens when you let several giant handfuls of tightly closed leaf buds infuse in organic grape seed oil for almost a full fucking year.) And then I decorated the emerald elixir with twine, a copper goddess charm (it just seemed more Ms. Graveyard Dirt to hang the charm ass-first), yet another outside bone and a found feather.

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Can I confess something? I was genuinely apprehensive about taking pictures of my bizarre creations. I'm insufferably in-your-fucking-face Aries confident about everything I do, with an exception to anything that falls under the "creative output" header. A lot of my projects and hobbies sit in stagnant limbo for an inexcusable amount of time because I allow my supernaturally perfectionist tendencies to get the better of me.

In short? I'm terrified of producing something shit, and even MORE terrified of the prospect of not realizing that I produced something shit. As lame as it sounds, forcing myself to take and post pictures of my decorated creations has been a tre-fucking-mendous exercise in letting go and getting on with life. Hopefully the recipients of my feral witch gifts will look past the use of dusty bones and ragged feathers and feel all the love I put into those poorly tied bows and recycled glass bottles.

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.)

Smoke Bath

I'm still sick, so I'm pushing through the post-flu phase as gently as possible. Not yesterday, but the day before - the first day back on my feet (even if only for 3 hours) - Italics helped me pot roast the gorgeous roadkill pheasant we found on the 14th. Even though the meal was only a fraction of the size of Harvest's celebratory dinners, it was the first proper serving of real food either of us had in something like five fucking days and I thanked the fuck out of the bird for providing us some hardcore nourishment after a severe wave of illness.

Until I'm fully recovered I'm going to have to pick my daily battles carefully. Now that the brisket's finally brining, my sole focus is cleaning the backroom (currently stuffed with cardboard boxes filled with bones, dried "edible" mushrooms and dried fly agarics, not to mention several sets of feathers pinned to boards, dried Midwinter evergreen that needs bottling up and a basket full of gifts decorated with twine, feathers and bones). But, I can't clean the backroom until I'm finished with the communal lounge, and that motherfucking room can't get the ALL EFFING CLEAR! stamp until I've taken down all the Christmas decorations, boxed them up and tossed them back into the attic for another 11 months.

In lieu of a proper journal entry I've decided to post a short video of me ritually purifying Beech Hedgerow Crow's dried feathers (two wings, one set of fanned tail feathers and one feathered head hood) in an incense smoke bath with Chippy's help. (I suppose I should thank Enya for providing a dated, easy-listening soundtrack for the event? <- Storms in motherfucking Africa!) After we had worked our way through the separate pieces I jokingly held the spread wings against Chippy's back (he's my "air" correspondent, in his original form he has two sets of raptor-like wings) and my ass was instantly met with three booming, crazily enthusiastic words: "BUTTERFLY, WOMAN, BUTTERFLY!"

Good fucking Lord. After several thousand years of existence, Mr. Lord of the Flies - disease, pestilence and famine himself - wants to be a motherfucking butterfly. I can't say I'm surprised (he does have an awful fondness for cuteness), and one of his favorite things to do OTHER than watch Christmas music videos is sit outside near the butterfly bush and wait for his winged friends to visit him. (I, uh, inadvertently domesticated the undomesticated. It's amazing what can be achieved with sex, homemade soup and flying kites.) So, on our belated Christmas Morning, we granted that wish and helped him become an honorary Lepidoptera member.

Carrot Dildos; Phantom Rabbits

Witchcraft in this house: "I NEED A FUCKING CARROT DILDO SO I CAN START FEEDING POT BUNNY (SPIRIT HELPER-IN-TRAINING) REGULARLY."

Bride's Brisket

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It's taken nearly 96 fucking hours, but we've finally rejoined the ranks of the living and mostly conscious. (If your partner has a quick toke in a public bathroom before having lunch in town, and they ominously tell you they got an instant bad feeling that they caught something from that bathroom do not: kiss them, let them fuck you in the ass, rub your face into their genitals, share a bong with them or let them cough in your fucking face for two fucking days straight. <- Just trust me on this.)

Today's only priority was hauling ass to the local butcher's to pick up 6 motherfucking pounds of beef so I could begin brining Bride's brisket this evening for the 2nd (Bride's Day). The only problem? No fucking salt to create the preservative marinade. (It's always fucking something, you know?) Now tomorrow's only priority is haul ass to the grocery store to pick up some sea salt and a turkey bag, which means this year's brining experience will be 6 days instead of 7.

But 6 days is still good. In fact, even 5 days is good. If you were thinking about also preparing a brisket all corned beef-style for Bride (my recipe here), you still have another 48 hours to make up your mind and pick up a piece of suitable meat. (Cause, really, all you need is the brisket, kosher salt, black peppercorns, ground allspice, dried thyme and bay leaves to start. You can totally wait to worry about the boiled vegetables until the 1st or 2nd of February.)

The Witch is Working

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Silver'n'lapis bull on my finger, Scottish wheat seeds scattered across the floor, red thread dangling from my lips; the witch is working.

Spring Menu, 2011

Here's the exciting follow-up to yesterday's heretical journal entry: our annual Bride's Day-Candlemas-Imbolc menu. Before anyone else has another knee-jerk reaction let me just say - no, I'm not trying to subtly* influence and manipulate people into eating what I think is right ("...AND HERE'S THE MOTHERFUCKING FOOD YOU SHOULD BE FUCKING EATING, RETARDS"). What I AM trying to do, though, is give an example of how I'm attempting to eat seasonally when observing a season-based festival or sabbat.

* It's a scientific fact that I'm completely incapable of being subtle.

Four things are always taken into account when creating a menu that's eaten on a holy day that celebrates a turn of the agricultural year: what my ancestors were eating at that time of year, what Italics' ancestors were eating at that time of year, what the land we live on provides at that time of year and any non-traditional food or dish that has a personal - or significant - value to us as a household at that time of year.

(There's potentially five things you can take into account, but because I don't subscribe to any sort of religion I don't have a culture to fall back on. If you don't feel connected to your ancestors or the land you're living on, you always have the option of looking into what the people of your religion ate at that time of the year.)

I'm Ukrainian, with a splash of nomadic plains Indian (Hunkpapa, Lakhota). Italics is, more or less, Scottish (there's Irish and French in there somewhere, but in small amounts). We both live in his homeland, Scotland, so we observe Imbolc - Spring - at the very start of February due to being in the northern hemisphere. Because Bride's Day-Candlemas-Imbolc is so very fucking British Isles I give the Ukie shit a rest for once (but only because Easter is totally Slavtastic) and focus on what the land actually provides during this time of the year, and what it's provided for countless effing generations.

Wheat, barely and oats are the three "grains" I associate with Scotland, and traditional Scottish cookery. But because Italics suffers from coeliac/celiac disease we don't eat wheat or gluten, so we focus on oats instead. (Oats, by the way, are a-okay for celiacs as long as they're prepared and packaged in a wheat/gluten-free environment.) I still bake bread for Bride, but I also bake a loaf that both Italics and I can break in communion together.

At this time of year in Scotland the only fresh vegetables are winter vegetables, and those are primarily greens and chthonic, root-based plants. I know that might sound limiting, but it's not. Think bulbs, vegetables that are at their best once frostbitten, anything that stores happily throughout the cold months and the very new, very tender hardy shoots that are already appearing outside: apples, beets, cabbage, cauliflower, celeriac, chicory, fennel, garlic, horseradish, kale, onions, parsnips, pears, potatoes, rocket, shallots, sprouts, squash, swede (known as rutabaga in the USofA), turnips and wild plants'n'herbs.

The heavily pregnant ewes begin dribbling milk around this time, so a huge focus on Imbolc's meal - at least to me - is the return of milk and dairy products to the diet. (That gets celebrated in dessert, when I make a homemade batch of crème brûlée using organic, full-fat cream.) Because we're carnivores flesh comes in the form of preserved meat (I personally brine a brisket for Bride), but if corned beef wasn't set in stone - which it is - we would probably eat game (pheasant, grouse, duck, partridge, rabbit, venison) because that was what was available during this time of the year.

(PS: I'm only not mentioning fish/seafood as suitable options because I fucking LOATHE fish, and because - like I said above - we always eat homemade corned beef when celebrating Bride's Day. <- Once something gets recognized as an annual tradition it's hard to be cavalier about mixing shit up, ESPECIALLY when you're autistic. I mean, fuck, you've seen Rainman, right? Brined brisket for Bride on Bride's Day is totally Judge Wapner, People's Court at 4 fucking PM in this motherfucking house.)

Taking everything I said into account, this is the meal we eat to celebrate the return of Spring using what's actually available and in season during that time:

* Corned Beef; Did Scottish crofters eat corned beef for Imbolc? Probably not. We eat it because I like the idea of eating "preserved" meat at a time when, traditionally, the pantry and cold room began looking scarily lean. (And, also, because I really fucking love corned beef and unlike the motherfucking United States you can't walk into any grocery store here and pick up a bag of pre-brined shit.)

Beef is also sacred to the Bride, and I like the fact that there's a ritual element infused in the act of brining: creating the herbal mix that'll help preserve the meat as it sits, physically rubbing the mix into the flesh and spending the rest of the week turning the hunk'o'cattle daily. In a bizarre way it sort've feels like you're praying/giving thanks on a daily fucking basis, which brings a satisfying closure when it comes time to boil and eat the corned beef you spent up to seven days preparing.

* Corned Beef Vegetables; Part of the corned beef experience is boiling your winter vegetables in the leftover stock. Normally I add locally grown cabbage, potatoes, carrots and turnips, but, really, you can add whatever the fuck you like as long as the vegetables aren't delicate or fragile. (Carrots and potaotes and turnips are all "hard" clunky vegetables that need some time to soften, and those sorts of vegetables are usually the best for retaining their shape and texture when cooked.)

* Dill Potatoes; Whoops, I take back what I said about the lack of Ukieism during Imbolc. For me, no corned beef meal is complete without a pan of dill potatoes. My version's a little more complicated than my mother's because I tend to add fresh bay, a touch of white wine, butter and bacon lardons. Although this year there may be a distinct lack of bacon since we've made a concious decision to drastically reduce the amount of pork we eat. (We love and respect pigs so goddamn much that we can barely bring ourselves to eat even the super free-range pork that comes from farmers who actually care about the welfare and mental state of their animals.)

* Skirlie; Oats fried in fat until toasted. You can use roughly ground meal straight from the bag, but both Italics and I perfer the type you make out of oatcakes. (Like a cracker but, you guessed it, made out of oats.) I normally use animal fat (goose, lamb or beef) to crispen the broken down cakes (the meal absorbs the grease), and then stir in a knob of proper butter through the mix since the dairy lends a slight creaminess to the fat.

* Swede; Swede - known as "rutabaga" in the States, I think - is a winter root vegetable. It's a lot like turnip, but unlike their white counterparts (swedes are typically a golden orange) they're pleasantly sweet, tasting a bit like carrot-y mashed potatoes once boiled. I consider them part of the holy trinity of old timey, peasant Scottish cooking because any large, traditional meal is often served with some sort of oat dish, potatoes and swede.

* Oatmeal Soda Bread; No old skool attempt at a traditional Scottish meal is complete without some sort of bannock. Last year's oatmeal-based gluten-free bread was just a touch too sweet to eat with dinner (it was perfect for an Imbolc breakfast, though), so this year I'm going to have to plant my ass down and sniff out a new, more savory recipe before the big day.

* Bride's Braid Bread; Bread baking for a ritual meal is an entry within itself, so I'll save the topic for another day and just emphatically state that the act is probably one of the most important aspects of preparing a spiritually significant meal (at least to me). Every year I bake two braided loaves of bread for Bride celebrating the grains that kept our ancestors alive during the long, cold winters: wheat, corn and oats. (The basic dough is divided into thirds, and then to each third something different is added - wholewheat, cornmeal and oatmeal. That way each is represented in the loaf when you braid the separate doughs together.)

* Frangelico Crème Brûlée; Milk, and all things creamy, thick and white (ahem) dominate my Imbolc landscape, so it's only fitting to finish our celebratory meal with a dessert that venerates the secreted life force. After a filling dinner of homemade corned beef, potatoes, root vegetables, fried oatcakes (skirlie) and bread we always finish off our Bride's Day ritual meal with an alcoholic-infused happy ending: crème brûlée. (Do I know how to celebrate lactation, or what?) I use Frangelico (a hazelnut liqueur) because Italics loves the stuff, but to make the dessert more Celtic-Irish-Scottish you can always use Baileys Irish Cream, Drambuie or your favorite whisky instead.

I fucking DREAD having to write "AND IN CONCLUSION..." closings to cinch shit together in a neatly presented package (in fact, I've been avoiding it all fucking day long), so you'll have to excuse any last paragraph awkwardness. The inability to smoothly finalize a series of thoughts and examples aside, I sincerely hope that I've managed to at least shine some fucking light on the idea of eating seasonally when observing a season-based festival or sabbat.

I know it might SEEM trivial, but our actions on those days - including what we consume and give thanks for - is supposed to reflect a very specific time in the year, and if you aren't focusing (or even incorporating) what was traditionally on-hand during those celebrations, then you really aren't connecting with what the festivities were/are all about. "Living with the earth" and "living with the seasons" isn't just a fucking bumper sticker you slap on your paganmobile, it's a way of living, and if you're toting that fucking badge you better be doing shit to back up those words otherwise your actions are nothing but a fucking meaningless theatrical production.

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.

Jan. 14th Pheasant

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While there are definite roadkill seasons (we're currently rocking the game season which is primarily pheasant in this area), it doesn't always mean I'm going to come home with an animal. One thing I have noticed, though, is after a long period of absence I'm often gifted with something on the first or second day of returning to my regular roadkill rounds.

(In summer our shifting nocturnal habits don't influence going out in any way because we only experience 3-4 hours of darkness, but in winter - when it's only light for something like 5-6 hours a day - my ability to go out is nearly non-existent if we're up at night, and we can be up at night for sometimes a month, or a month and a half.)

As morbid as it might sound, I view the offerings of roadkill as a welcome back gift. I think sometimes my longing to be back in my element is so palpable that the land reciprocates the lonely pining, and when I announce OH, HEY, NATURE, I'M ~BACK~! it makes sure I'm not psyching it out by enticing me to stay.

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Usually on my first outing I find something; it wasn't any different on January 13th. After not having done any sort of roadkill sweep or state of the kingdom drive since late October I was desperate to get out and refamiliarize myself with all of my favorite haunts, all of my favorite spots that I've never physically visited, but've lovingly appreciated every fucking time I drove past.

At the end of our epic drive (I still need to post the other pictures, but I did manage to post one a few days ago) we stumbled across the remains of a young deer. Its head was crushed (no skull to retrieve), and its abdomen had apparently exploded on impact. There wasn't much of a mess because a scavenger had obviously come along and eaten their fill, but what I couldn't understand was why the carcass hadn't been dragged away.

And then, when trying to remove the body from the side of the road, I finally understood why: the fawn was frozen to the ground. I mean, frozen fucking solid to fucking asphalt. I'm a strong motherfucking woman - Italics says I'm an obvious Slavic power lifter - but I couldn't budge the fucking thing. With mixed emotions all I could do was rest a hand on the dead deer's body and apologize for what was done, and for what I couldn't do.

(I very rarely delve into the darker, more emotional aspects of being a steward of the land, but there's this crazy, rabid need to "make things right". Someone came along and killed something I love, something that brings me joy and inspires a sense of maternal protection (which, in itself is an amazing feat since that sort've response isn't something autistic people are known for) and I'm the one who has to pick up the fucking pieces.)

(I pick up the equivalent of wild pets, and sometimes - when I'm sobbing and cradling a broken fox to my car - I hate with a vengeance. (My first roadkill animal ever was my black dog, who I found at the side of a crossroad intersection on the day of my senior high school exams.) I'm responsible for a kingdom and everything that resides in it, but I'm powerless when it comes to protecting the inhabitants from people who are speeding to get home five minutes earlier than usual.)

(I try and ease the ache by working with the animals, but not every roadkill animal I discover I can bring home (too decomposed to safely handle and transport in the back of the car), or even move off the road (not enough left to be able to physically remove any real remnants). While I feel like I'm making a difference, it's still an emotionally draining job that has serious drawbacks like having to euthanize an animal yourself because it was road-broken-beyond-repair rather than roadkill.)

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So, on the 13th we came back empty handed, without really coming back empty handed. (There was a gift, I just didn't have a magic fucking ice pick to free the body from its roadside prison.) On the 14th, though, we didn't. Less than a quarter of a mile from the frozen deer - just meters from where I found #5 (the broken antler crossroads buck) last year - was the most glorious fucking pheasant cock I've ever fucking seen.

I WISH I had a picture at how fucking ridiculous his body looked lying on a grass mound; it was as if someone dropped something garishly colored out of a grocery bag on the most predominant spot in the landscape. And because he was fresh - so fresh, in fact, that he was still hot to the touch - he looked more like a narcoleptic pheasant than a roadkill animal. I won't lie; I totally banged a fist off the fucking steering wheel and shouted the most enthusiastic THANK FUCKING YOU! into the air.

(Fine, I admit it. I do love watching pheasants doing their wild bird thing in the fields, but, to me, there's a difference between a pheasant and a fox. I see game birds as free-range food living as it should, and knowing that their hit'n'run deaths are pretty fucking instantaneous compared to larger animals makes their passing a little easier to swallow. (Ahem.) That doesn't mean I respect them any less than any other living creature, it just means their death serves a different purpose for me: food and, ultimately, survival.)

I've been so fucking busy I haven't had a chance to ritually butcher him and prepare the remains for my casserole pot. Today's the day I'm finally going to have to bite the effing bullet and MAKE some goddamn time because we found a second pheasant yesterday (a female; no pictures of her yet, though) and I seriously need to attend to the pair before they get too gamey for my tastes.

In fact, instead of going on about what I need to fucking do, I should really be getting started to do what I need to fucking do...

Winter Altar, 2010

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I'm happy to keep Christmas-Midwinter-Yule shit up until Bride's Day. My in-laws? Not as fucking happy. In fact, if I don't yank my Winter altar out from the communal lounge as soon as humanly possible it's only a matter of time before Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, begins throwing garbage into my offering vessels. (OH YES HE HAS. TWICE, EVEN.)

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Deconstructing one of my elaborate altars is always a fucking downer. I resist the job for as long as possible, but the unavoidable eventually wins because it's only a matter of time before an "incident" occurs between my sacred space and my father-in-law. (I could tell stories, but I get REALLY worked up retelling them and the last thing this household needs is me attacking Mr. Awesome's motherfucking face first thing in the morning.)

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Our communal lounge is a large, open space that only becomes homey when I blanket it with seasonal decoration. The second you strip that seasonal sheet away, you're left with an uninviting environment that verges on feeling medically sterile. In a lot of ways it sort've feels like a empty theater, quietly waiting for the next big production to roll into town.

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Christmas is the only holiday season I'm granted complete and utter control of the shared room. Other celebrations and special dates (i.e., Easter, Halloween, Harvest, etc.) are isolated to one or two spots in the room (the floating table between the speakers, and the CD player's cabinet unit), but because my in-laws understand Christmas they'll put up with all the fake evergreen, strand upon fucking strand of clear fairy lights and even the inverted wooden pentagram I hang up in the window as our private Yuletide joke.

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I meant to create a panoramic view of the decked out lounge, but we were so goddamn busy this past holiday season that I never got a chance to whip out the tripod. You sort've get a sense of the all-encompassing Yuletide cheer in Belated Christmas Morning, but the glorious explosion of wrapping paper, bubble wrap and discarded boxes does a good job at distracting you from what the room would look like if it was actually clean.

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Every year a tiny tweak is made to our Winter altar, but it hasn't radically changed since its first appearance back in 2008.

Last Christmas-Midwinter-Yule we upgraded to a fancier garland, illuminated it with two sets of lights, placed matching wreaths on the black offering plates and included several gifts from friends (the handmade stocking, the bird on the chimney's wreath and the heart dangling from the central skull). This past holiday we included our recently purchased "KNEEL TO PRAY" hassocks on the sheepskin rug, and I managed to improve the didukhy's (the decorated wheat bundle) appearance.

Today's crazy fucking insane schedule includes ritually butchering yesterday's roadkill find, working on Beech Hedgerow Crow, and creating a venison casserole for dinner from scratch while packing up more Christmas decorations and doing eighteen fucking tons of laundry (without a motherfucker dryer; it broke JUST before Christmas). Normally I love to explain every facet of my altars, but I just don't have the minutes to spare this time around.

If you're a Graveyard Dirt regular a lot of the altar items should already familiar. If not, then the brand spanking new "altars" category should help fill in the blanks. Previous incarnations of my Winter altar can be found here (2009) and here (2008), and a drive-by explanation of WTF a didukhy is can be read in my Sviata Vechera, 2010 journal entry.

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).

Winter Altar, 2010

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Just a quickie while I sort through and edit the other images.

Pine Hedge Rookery

The pine hedge rookery, where a lot of our local crows live. This is where I often get the ones that die a natural death, where I pick up pristine feathers from, and where I leave special offerings. (Which is really sort've pointless since all the damn crows hang out in our yard thanks to all the fucking food I put out for them on a daily basis. <- I even got the motherfuckers eating borsht out of a bowl. Seriously.)

Last year - when this was taken - grain was grown next to the rookery, and I spent a very early morning ritually reaping a large bundle to take back home to work with. (You don't want to know how many effing feathers I had to untangle from the sheaves.) Halloween, Fet Ghede, Thanksgiving, Sviata Vechera, Christmas and New Year celebrations sort've overwhelmed me, and I haven't had a chance to sit down and finish that particular project yet.

In 2010 I collected between 5-7 complete crows (a mix of natural death and roadkill), so there's a good chance that some of my freezer crows are actually present in this video. (If you're planning on buying one of my frozen corvids it's totally cool to wave hello to the birds because there's a good chance you'll be waving to your crow.)

Hexenhaus Strange

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One of my biggest problems is that I "shine". Papa's always running after my ass like I'm wantonly cavorting around naked and need to be clothed for public decency. "You shinin' too bright, babygirl," he'll warn, and slap the spiritual equivalent of a handful of fucking mud across my body. (I voraciously clean using ritual washes and scrubs, and the motherfucker's always two seconds behind me scuffing up the surfaces I just finished polishing.)

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Now House shines too, but in different, more obvious ways. They're little, almost normal things: instances of firsts, lasts and just slightly out of the ordinary that suggests that something different, something sort've weird is going on here.

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In spring our flowers bloom first, in autumn our leaves are the last to turn and fall. Without even trying I've attracted hedgehogs, badgers, foxes, deer and an abnormal amount of a variety of birds despite living in a rural subdivision.

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In winter our home is the only residence that sports mammoth-sized stalactites growing from freezing gutters, and the icy motherfuckers comically frame the office window I'm perpetually looking out of as if to damningly say to our neighbors "IT'S HER, FOR FUCK'S SAKE! CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE THE MOTHERFUCKING WITCH HOUSE YOU'RE LIVING NEXT TO?!".

(Oh, they know I'm strange, but they don't know I'm hexenhaus strange.)

Sviata Vechera, 2010

It's Christmas Eve tonight in Ukraine, which means I have blood relations sitting communally around a kolach-decorated table celebrating Sviata Vechera only a time zone away. (If you've been following Graveyard Dirt since early December you already know that we celebrated Holy Supper on Winter Solstice's evening.) And even though I SHOULD be in the motherfucking kitchen getting a new batch of pyrohy ready (we decided to informally observe today's Julian calendar date as well) I thought I'd take a few minutes to share the pictures I took of the ritualized evening.

I'd be lying like a fucking dog if I didn't admit that this was my most ambitious Holy Supper to date. A huge part of the pressure I experienced came from intimately sharing the custom with folks who read this journal; I shared, I educated and in doing so I provoked some major enthusiasm which ultimately meant I had to fucking deliver, and I had to fucking deliver spectacularly because I knew people would be watching.

Our Winter Solstice celebrations began with a total lunar eclipse, and as the rest of Scotland was rising for the day ahead both Italics and I were getting ready for bed. (We've spent a significant amount of November and December in nocturnal mode.) We waited until the full moon's luminous, rounded body was swallowed by shadow, and then in that morning's night we crawled into bed and solstice spooned ourselves to sleep. (And in doing so we actually missed ALL of the 21's light; we went to bed in darkness, and we woke up in darkness. <- Longest night or what?)

Before we could even contemplate celebrating anything the entire house had to be cleaned, the kitchen table had to be set, the hay had to be scattered, the ancestors' setting needed fine tuning, the animals needed to be fed, the house had to be fumigated with frankincense, we had to ritually bathe, Light needed to be brought into the house and our ancestors had to be formally invited for the ancient Midwinter feast. And until we welcomed that single flame indoors we kept the house as dark as possible - no Christmas lights were turned on, and only the most fucking crucial lamps were switched on (to their dimmest settings).

In an apron, gold earrings and crowned with traditional Slavic braids I carefully followed Italics' slow and even pace as he lead us through the pitch black house - room by room, starting with the backroom's open patio door and finishing at the same spot - holding a solitary candle, the tiny, burning flame our only illumination as we welcomed Light back into the house with incense and fire as the Russian Orthodox Church's Christmas mass service played eerily in the darkened background. (Inviting our collective ancestors, relatives and friends was a little less solemn and involved carols, ringing bells and blowing through a cow horn.)

Sviata Vechera officially began with a toast of homemade plum liqueur (since Italics can't eat wheat I performed the kutia ceremony privately with my Ukrainian ancestors), and it was when our solstice-chilled drinks clinked together (I decanted some of our homemade hooch into a fancy pants container and partially buried it in the snow on the 20th) I knew we had created something really fucking special together. Holy Supper 2010 was a tre-fucking-mendous success, and I've never felt more in tune with my past, present and future. It was the sort've experience that seconds, thirds, fourths and fifths the motion that you're doing the right fucking thing, even if you're essentially making up shit as you go along.

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The Sviata Vechera altar on my kitchen window ledge seems a little naked because it should've had some evergreen filling up the empty spaces. We were hit with two fucking monumental blizzards in early and mid-December, so the insane amount of effing snow kept us from being able to clip fresh foliage to bring indoors for Midwinter decoration. (We did eventually manage to bring greenery into the house, but that wasn't until New Year's Eve when I built a 2010 altar on top of the threadbare Sviata Vechera altar.)

The long, tapered golden candle in the middle of the ledge was the one that Italics carefully carried throughout the house to bring Light back indoors. It doubled as an invitational beacon for the Wandering Traveler (both living and dead, mortal and divine) to show that we practice(d) the old ways, and that anyone without a home or meal that night was welcome to join us for food, warmth and companionship. (I'm amazingly bad for feeding strays. Even the unsavory sort that isn't welcomed into this house still get a plate and lit candle placed outside on the patio step. <- Sometimes all it takes is a single act of kindness, y'know?)

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It's customary to feed the dead on Sviata Vechera, whether you fix a plate/setting specifically for them or leave the Holy Supper table dressed with all of the traditional courses all night long. We do both in this house, but the ancestor setting is a semi-permanent set-up in the lounge (where the Christmas tree is, where our stockings are hung and where our Winter altar is located) and our invited guests are continuously feed throughout the Yuletide season, not just on Holy Supper.

I use Ukrainian linens to create the table setting, some which I inherited from my mother when she passed on, some which I created and some which I scored off of Ebay for crazy cheap prices. The seed pot featured in this photo is actually Native American in origin, but it has special value because my mother, a professional potter, created it. (We're Ukrainian AND Native American; my Mom went the Indian route and I ended up embracing my Eastern European roots.) When the place isn't set with a plate of food her handmade pot sits in the center of the ancestral altar acting like a bridge between the world I live in and the world she - and the rest of my family - resides in.

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Sviata Vechera is dictated by the evening sky, the meal isn't allowed to start until the first star of the night - representing the bright light that guided the three wise men to Bethlehem - has been spotted. (That's usually the job of the kids; I still remember rushing into my grandparents' house in southeast Wisconsin to announce the arrival of the star.)

Back in the old days you didn't just sit around and wait for the star, though. There were a lot of agricultural rites and rituals that needed to be exercised before your ass settled down at the dinner table. For starters, you had to ensure that all of your animals were generously fed (I've even read that it was customary to mix in everything you ate that evening in the animals' feed), and the table holding the festive spread had to be decorated a certain way.

Holy Supper's table is meant to be decked out with your finest. A hand embroidered cloth with traditional designs is set down, the ritual bread - the kolach - is placed in the center on fresh-cut evergreen and the braided loaf is meant to be flanked by a pair of candles.

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You're supposed to scatter hay beneath the table to remind everyone of the humble setting of Christ's birth, but I like to think of the hay as an offering to all of the animals we've eaten or consumed the products of throughout the year to ensure we never forget how crucial their presence is to not only our life, but the lives of our ancestors.

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Sviata Vechera usually consists of twelve dishes spread out through four courses: kutia, borsht with pickled condiments and bread, the main dishes and then dessert - and they're always eaten in that order. It's considered very bad form not to have a token amount of everything, but because Italics has coeliac disease he's got super special permission not to take part in the annual kutia (which is a glorified cereal made out of whole wheat kernels) ceremony. Which, you know, is sort've fitting since wheat, for me, is a representation of the divine male; it's my job to grow it, nurture it, harvest it and then keep the sacred seeds safe until it's time to plant again.

The serious shit happens right at the start with the first course, where blessings, prayers and ritual divination takes place using the kutia. After the semi-solemn ceremony the head of the house booms "Khrystos Rodyvsya!" (Christ is born!) and all of the peons (heh) joyously respond with "Slavim Yoho!" (Let us glorify Him!). It's at that moment when everyone finally relaxes and begins enjoying the long evening ahead of them.

This year's Sviata Vechera menu followed the traditional Ukrainian Holy Supper formula - 12 dishes (18, in total, this year (it was supposed to be 19 but I couldn't get my hands on any pickled herring), and 15 of those had to be made from scratch) spread through 4 courses, but it also paid homage to Italics' ancestors and the last course (dessert, aka "the only course that REALLY counts") reflected our addition to the annual feast.

(A proper dessert was never really presented to the family after dinner, and it always seemed a little anticlimactic. On our first Christmas "alone" (the in-laws take off for two weeks to Spain so the 21st, 24th, 25th, 31st and 1st are very quiet, intimate affairs between Italics and I) we baked ourselves a chocolate-chestnut Yule Log, and we've made one every year since.)

Pictured above: kolach (ritual bread centerpiece), kutia (wheat-based cereal), borsht (beet soup), bread (gluten-free and sauerkraut'n'rye), dill pickles, pickled mushrooms, holubtsi (stuffed cabbage leaves), kapusta (sauerkraut), kartoplyanyky (potato pancakes), mashed potatoes, mushroom sauce, pyrohy (pierogies), skirlie (toasted oats), swede and a homegrown garlic bulb (my grandfather fucking LOVED raw garlic). For more in-depth information about any of the food be sure to read my Sviata Vechera Menu, 2010 journal entry which breaks down the menu dish by dish.

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We toasted longer days and the return of the sun with a homemade liqueur made from our backyard plums. I decanted a small amount from our maturing reserves into a decorative glass container and buried it outside in the snow where Stone Cock once proudly stood. It sat outside for the duration of the full moon and total lunar eclipse, and by the time it was brought indoors for Holy Supper it was deliciously winter-chilled.

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Ignore Wuzza, she just wants attention. (Trust me on this one.)

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Our Winter altar (which I still need to take proper pictures of). We traditionally exchange a gift on Midwinter, so those've been tucked near the altar's black rabbits. My mother's seed pot was carefully relocated on top of our new church hassocks ("KNEEL TO PRAY") since the ancestor setting had begun steadily filling with offerings of food and drink.

One aspect of Sviata Vechera I haven't had the time to explain is the ceremonial procession of the didukhy (decorated wheat bundle) indoors for the festive season. The didukhy is the last bundle of wheat to be cut during harvest, and the solemn ritual is executed gravely. The bundle represents our ancestors, whom we invite into our homes for the Yuletide season.

Much like my Ukrainian ancestors I also perform a reaping ritual during Harvest, although my personal rendition is slightly more pagan than the already unsubtle pagan practice. After marrying and nurturing the King throughout spring and summer I sacrifice him in fall for the better good, mourn his death and safekeep his divine seed until spring when I resurrect and remarry him which heralds a new agricultural year.

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Because I view our Christmas tree as one of the major Midwinter altars we have a custom of placing all of our spirit dolls - or dolls at least representing spirits/companions/helpers we work and live with - beneath the tree amongst our presents and non-perishable food bought especially for the Yuletide season.

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To formally invite our ancestors over for Sviata Vechera we threw open the backroom's patio door and made an inconsiderate amount of noise (we weren't ready to celebrate until near midnight) to provide a noisy path to the house.

We both took turns on a cow horn fitted with a silver mouthpiece (which makes the most exquisitely bizarre sound since it doesn't have the length to make the trumpeting bellow deep and grand), and I played a beloved Ukrainian carol that would've been recognized by both Christian and pagan ancestors while enthusiastically ringing a bell. (The infamous Christmas classic "Carol of the Bells" is actually based on an ancient pre-Christian Ukrainian chant.)

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...and one fantastically blurred picture of 2010's edible Yule Log just before we cut into our annual chocolate and chestnut tradition, marking the end of another Eastern Orthodox-themed evening of witchcraft and the celebration of Light, family and ancient customs that've never died.

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.

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.

Winter Altar, 2008

Here's the thing: I've been on my fucking feet since BEFORE December cooking, cleaning and preparing House for the Yuletide season. Yesterday I finally reached my tipping point and nearly blew my culinary gasket (don't get me wrong; cooking is crazy magic, but it can quickly become an unescapable dungeon if you're the sole meal provider who needs to follow a strict dietary code), which means I've been granted a leave of absence from the kitchen for the next few days.

My mood's shot, my holiday spirit's flatlined and all I want to do is crawl under the bed sheets and wait until the first crocus is spotted. Any attempt at proper journal writing today would be a fucking joke, so instead of intensely concentrating on one long entry I think I'll upload a few short ones and spend the rest of my energy focusing on emotional damage control.

(Translation: getting really fucking high with Italics, eating Middle Eastern take-out, watching porn and playing Guitar Hero all goddamn day long.)

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Our first ever Winter altar, which I pieced together in 2008. (Yeah, these pictures are that effing old. This past December I tried incorporating old shit along with the new, so at least half of this month's journal content comes from previous holiday seasons.)

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All the central pieces displayed on this altar are 2008 specific. The miniature chimney was my Halloween gift from Italics, the didukhy (wheat bundle) was the very first one I created from ritually reaped wheat and the twig stag and wreath were both clearance bin finds at a home decorating store.

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I'm proud to admit that I only accidentally set the didukhy on fire once during this photo shoot.

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Every year the Winter altar slightly evolves, but, for the most part, the basic idea never really changes. Last year we added lights to illuminate the garland running behind everything and added matching wreaths on the black offering plates, this year two identical hassocks were thrown on top of the sheepskin rug and were used during the Yule Log's "consecration" (ahem).

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My first two didukhy had Muppet-like afros because the wheat was harvested later in the season. (<- To get a uniform shape for displaying I had to make a collar to keep the seed heads together.) This year, though, I ritually reaped earlier in the season, and then let the bundle dry hanging upside down so 2010's didukhy looks radically different from its previous incarnations.

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And there's Papa on the left with my New Year bell.

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And there's Tentacle Monster on the right with the Black Rabbit's matryoshka doll. (<- Instead of being filled with tinier dolls, she's stuffed with Lindt chocolates.)

Santa Claus (& Reindeer) Altar

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Last year I rediscovered some Christmas magic; put something special out for Santa (in my case: hard cider, cookies and a year's worth of homemade porn featuring yours truly), and Santa leaves something EXTRA special for you.

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...but I don't forget those hardworking reindeer. For the North Pole's flying deer I leave fresh, organic carrots and dry fly agaric mushrooms (in case they need extra OOMPH before going trans-Atlantic).

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Before I go to bed on Christmas Eve I leave out a plate of Santa's favorite treat (khrustyky; a fried - but dainty! - Ukrainian pastry-like cookie), a cold bottle of booze (strawberry and pear cider this year) and a flash drive stuffed with images/videos of my fat (and mostly naked) ass.

(Just between you and me? I think he must genuinely like my non-traditional offerings because he always leaves me a joint and a handwritten thank you note next to the crumb-flecked plate.)

#27

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From December's Golden Ticket:

In this house, Christmas Eve is the new Palm Sunday. (The only fucking thing in the world whose imminent arrival was more heralded and rejoiced? Jesus, sashaying into Jerusalem on an ass.) I wait with frankincense and expletive-tinged hosannas at home as Italics lumbers back from the butcher's, on foot, carrying our Yuletide dinner like a personified deity.

Italics said he could smell the burning frankincense all the way down the street. (Which is nice of him to say, since I deliberately opened the window to help draw out the scent to "welcome" him home.)

Sviata Vechera, 2010

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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. (Now that I've gotten the schmaltz out've the way; may you fuck like the unbridled pagan animals you are. Happy fucking Solstice.)

PS: Only six months until Midsummer!

Winter Altar Creation

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One more Ukrainian dish to cook (Kartoplyanyky; potato pancakes) and my Sviata Vechera menu will be complete. (A day early? That's a motherfucking miracle of divine proportion.) And then? Then Winter altar creation, edition 2010.

Kolach, 2008

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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 (and food). (<- THE FOOD IS THE MOST IMPORTANT, NATURALLY).

In 2008 I embellished the kolach (the braided bread centerpiece*) with evergreen from outside, holly (cut from the disturbed children's home and orphanage), chocolate truffles, apples, pears, limes, and lemons. Throughout the Yuletide season I burn candles in the bread, and at the beginning of the New Year we take the candy, fruit, and bread to the graveyard to leave as offerings.

* Typically the kolach is made of three circular, braided loaves of bread stacked on top of one another. Because I'm difficult and HARD TO LIVE WITH I left mine straight and represented the holy trinity by three candles.

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.)

Goose-Deer

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Part of making the most out of the animals we consume involves making stock out of "inedible" parts*. I normally leave the roasted carcass in tact and then carefully pick through it the day after to remove as much of the meat as possible while breaking it down into smaller pieces to throw into the soup pot. (<- It probably sounds like a pain in the goddamn ass, but once you know what the fuck you're doing I find that I enter a pleasantly calm mediative state - a frame of mind that my autistic brain doesn't often allow me to naturally enter (without the help of pot, anyway).)

Because repetitive, absent-minded work often pulls me into a trance-like consciousness I often find that I "see" things a lot more clearly while involved in seemingly mundane culinary work. Sometimes physically, from the corner of my eyes (you'd THINK they'd be more interested in me showering, or slathering on body oil to seduce Italics, but you'd be wrong - they love to watch me in the kitchen), but I mostly experience profound realizations that seem, once understood, painfully fucking obvious (so I always end up simultaneously rolling my eyes (at myself) while crying).

(I know it sounds weird, but crying - ecstatic crying; that overwhelming sensation of epiphanous joy that can only be expressed by a burst of tears - is sort've like my personal magic meter. I know that I'm onto something special when my initial reaction to it is so fucking powerful that all I can do is weep in response.)

* Bones, mostly, but the skin, fat and organs I don't eat - which, admittedly, is not a lot because I'm part Slavic troll so my first pickings are always the pieces nutritionists and dietitians warn you about eating - are added to enrich the flavor.

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Last year, when peeling off layers of flesh from our Yuletide goose, I saw something emerge beneath my fat-slicked hands. "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, DO YOU SEE IT? DO YOU SEE IT?" Italics, not expecting the greasy carcass of a roasted bird to be non-negotiable shoved in his face, jumped back when I thrust the mortal remains of our Christmas goose into his vision.

"IT'S A DEER...OBVIOUSLY," I informed him before he could guess. I THINK he agreed with me, but then that's the game played in this house - just go the fuck along with whatever I'm doing and PRETEND that it makes sense. (It all makes sense. Eventually. It's just easier to see this shit when your brain's broken and is constantly powered by THC.) I mean, it does sort've abstractly look deer-like, right? ...RIGHT?

Normally I hang the roasted / picked over / boiled frame of our goose on the Shango Tree as an offering to the Old Woman, but when I saw one of Her deer push through meat, fat and bones I knew that being bleached clean by nature wasn't in its future. So instead of being "impaled" on a winter-bare plum branch it was salted down to preserve the appearance (as much as possible, anyway), and it's sat in the garage since - along with my crow feet, a mummified shrew and various pinned wings and tail feathers - waiting for that one cooking session when I suddenly realize what the fuck I should do with it (even though that shit should've been painfully fucking obvious before the golden, epiphanous tears).

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.

December's Golden Ticket

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In late November I send Italics away to the local butcher's - regardless of weather - and he walks down to the former mason's lodge on my behalf; sometimes returning with a pound of smoked bacon, or a glorious piece of fillet steak, but always returning with December's golden ticket: our reservation for the largest Yuletide goose the butcher can provide.

Goose is synonymous with "Christmas" in my family; it's all I've ever known*. As far as I'm aware, it's not a traditional food eaten by Ukrainians during the festive season, so I think my mother must've introduced the practice when she assumed control of Christmas Day dinner.

(In a lot of European countries Christmas Eve is a much bigger deal than Christmas Day, so huge attention was paid to Sviata Vechera (Holy Supper) which is eaten on the night of the 24th. But because it's so damn ethnic you can't pick up the courses and side dishes at any grocery store. Everything - down to the pickled fucking mushrooms - had to be prepared at home, in advance.)

(My grandmother, being the matriarch of the family, was responsible for Holy Supper, and then my mother would step in on the 25th to give her a break from cooking by presenting the family with a traditional roast goose meal. And now that my mother and grandmother have passed on, both jobs haven fallen to me, which, admittedly, isn't as stressful as you'd think since I'm only cooking for Italics, myself and our ancestors.)

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The geese I grew up eating came home vacuum sealed and frozen as fuck from the nearest available grocery store. The geese Italics and I eat are free-range, organic birds who were born, raised and butchered humanely by small, independent farms whose top priority is the happiness and welfare of their animals. The birds are carefully hung to allow the flavor of the meat to develop, and when it comes time for Italics to bring our goose home (Christmas Eve) it's fresh - not imprisoned in an air-locked bag - and has the majority of its offal and fat.

I'm not going to lie: it's an expensive fucking tradition (hell, it's fucking expensive enough just picking up one of those sealed motherfuckers from the grocery store!), but it's tradition, and Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without a goose on the table (along with roast potatoes, homemade black pepper and candied ginger plum sauce, sweet'n'sour red cabbage and bread dumplings).

* Well, sort've - I had the V. good fortune of sampling my father-in-law's signature lunch for the 25th: roast turkey (still raw) and sausage stuffing (no comment). Italics and I were both 17 and I was spending my first holiday away from home with him and his family. Needless to say, that particular Christmas was the first - and last - time either of us ate anything OTHER than goose. (<- I didn't even have to campaign to convert him; with his very first taste he was hooked. Instantly.)

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Unlike my mother - who simply roasted the bird like a chicken (WTF?) and threw out the fat by pouring it over the dogs' dry food (WTF?, SQUARED) - I wring as many meals as I can out of our beloved Yuletide goose, ensuring nothing gets wasted and the bird is used to its maximum potential. I personally process the bird, render the fat, roast the crown, preserve the legs (to make confit), transform leftovers into secondary meals and create brown stock from roasted bones, skin and other unsavory viscera.

What we can't eat - the bones, basically - is offered to the Old Woman and her beasts of winter, but everything else has a purpose whether it's a bowl of homemade soup, a covetable vat of creamy, white fat (looks like ice cream, doesn't it?) for cooking, or a small, secret stash of pure fat (rendered without seasonings) for "winter activity" use. (Ahem.)

Pictured above: Goose legs and thighs sitting in a brining mixture of bay leaves, thyme, garlic and sea salt flakes. After brining, these legs will be fried to extract the fat, and then poached - completely covered - in goose fat. (Due to the blanket of fat covering the meat entirely it'll remained preserved until we're ready to dig them out, fry them up (again!) and eat them with a mountain of fries from the local chipper.)

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In this house, Christmas Eve is the new Palm Sunday. (The only fucking thing in the world whose imminent arrival was more heralded and rejoiced? Jesus, sashaying into Jerusalem on an ass.) I wait with frankincense and expletive-tinged hosannas at home as Italics lumbers back from the butcher's, on foot, carrying our Yuletide dinner like a personified deity.

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The annual ritual of adoration begins! After executing the V. SRS welcoming rite (aka "MS. DIRTY CRUSHES THE BIRD TO HER CHEST AND RUNS AROUND THE HOUSE SCREAMING LIKE RAINMAN") the honored guest is removed from it's loose swaddling, bathed in frankincense smoke (LOLOL, GOOSE EXORCISM, LOLOL!) and aired until it reaches room temperature.

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One of the lesser known annual rites: comparing the size of the goose to a can of soda. (Tizer, by the way, is one of Scotland's national drinks. I can't stomach Irn-Bru (too bubblegum and flat orange soda for me), but Tizer is one of my weaknesses, along with the occasional Tunnock's Chocolate Caramel Wafer.)

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The Blessed Virgin ain't the only one giving birth on Christmas Eve. (The offal and parts - neck, liver, heart and gizzard - are walled up within the empty internal cavity by huge fistfuls of solid fat, which are pulled out and eventually melted down for projects, pleasure and cooking.)

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The traditional Christmas piñata has been opened, revealing a treasure trove of internal organs, fat, flesh and bone.

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Goose fat is one of the most precious things in my world, so great pain goes into stripping whatever I can off bones, skin and organs. Every scrap is then rendered down - melted gently to remove any impurities - into pure fat, which is then used for cooking, moisturizing and lubricating.

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Last year our goose came with a very special gift: one of its toes, complete with claw. (As you'd expect, the second I discovered the "mistake" I went mental. <- You don't often get such an unusual keepsake from your Christmas Day meal.)

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Speaking of claws and nails, my nails are normally never this long. My mom was a potter, so there was zero attention paid to her nails and that attitude trickled down to me (especially since I also work with my hands). I've never been able to reconcile length and productivity; although, once in a while, I do find myself fantasizing about owning a set of fairy tale talons painted scarlet.

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Last year's Christmas goose, disassembled. (Because goose legs have a tendency to get a bit dry I cut them off - along with the thighs - and confit the fuck out of them.)

The pan of assorted parts are waiting to get roasted (for the brown stock), the goose's crown has been scalded, the toe's been cut off, every shred of fat has been picked over and added to the pile, the apron of skin that covered the lower cavity has been saved (I was going to throw it over a pheasant - because they're quite lean birds and need an external source of fat to keep them moist while cooking - but I ended up melting the skin with wild pheasant fat and duck skin to make "winter fowl fat"), the liver set aside as an offering to Shango Man and Tiger and the massive legs/thighs have been cleanly removed from the body for confit brining.

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Brown stock parts seasoned with sea salt, herb salt, garlic salt and garlic pepper.

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Like any true carnivore I know where it's at: skin, marrow and fat. To ensure a perfect goose I always skewer the crown (the fat, not down into the meat), scald the body with boiling water and then allow the skin to get super dry in a cool place until it's time for roasting.

Harvest Moon Foraging

I woke up this morning with a Yuletastic list of things to do (bring the decoration boxes down from the attic, make the templates for this year's gingerbread house and start on the motherfucking Christmas cards), but all that's really on my mind - other than FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WHY DID -OUR- GODDAMN SHOWER HAVE TO BREAK?! - is red and orange dotted with delicate flecks of white. (Fly agarics, if my description of the "white-specked motherfuckers" doesn't sound familiar.)

Two nights ago I finally filled my digital camera to capacity, and when exporting shit over into my archive folder I caught myself sentimentally flipping through photos that were taken as far back as September, and goddamn if nostalgia didn't rise up and bite my motherfucking ankles like a PMS-inflicted viper. With just a few green-tinged images ("HOLY FUCKING SHIT, LOOK HOW FUCKING GREEN EVERYTHING STILL IS IN SEPTEMBER AND OCTOBER!") I found myself sighing longingly for a time as recent as two months ago, when the land stood on a precarious cusp of neither summer or fall and it wasn't buried beneath four feet of motherfucking snow.

Even though everything's sleeping beneath a layer of white and we've already played the first festive song of the season (Run With the Fox, by Yes) I find myself looking back to Harvest, and the one thing I consistently find myself missing is the thrilling sight - it IS thrilling; it never got fucking old or boring, and I doubt it ever will (ladies and gentlemen, I give you the passion of mushroom collecting) - of partially hidden toadstools burning like tequila sunrises beneath mottled birches, purple-blooming heather and sphagnum moss.

So I thought FUCK IT, I'M GONNA INDULGE THAT FEELING OF BABY PICTURE SENTIMENTALITY and earmarked the set of pictures I took of Harvest Moon's foraging expedition (which, by the way, fell on the autumn equinox this year, so these magic mushrooms are totally SUPER magic) near the banks of the Black Laird's loch for today's Graveyard Dirt entry.

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You wouldn't believe how many "HEY, ASSHOLE..." speeches I wrote ~in my mind~ to the fucktard who decapitated my fly agaric patch in mid-September. I was particularly excited by this crop; I had been nurturing them for almost a week, but then I came down with a cold and couldn't check on them daily. By the time I was well enough to crawl out of the house someone had gotten to every fucking toadstool growing along this stretch of land leaving me nothing but broken, bulbous stems.

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The toadstool genocide has a happy ending, though. When I pitched a fit at the Universe for fucking with my wild crop the local land intervened and placated my tantrum by providing me with one of my largest mushroom hauls of the season. So I lost one patch of fly agarics, but I gained one Harvest meal of lamb shanks braised in herbs, tomatoes, red wine and fresh, wild mushrooms.

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There are three toadstools hiding in this picture, can you see them all? (Give yourself an extra point if you find the sacred beer can which was ritually offered by a spiritual pilgrim through their SUV window as they drove (and drank) pass this stretch of nature-blessed land.)

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All of these guys grow along a thin, but long, strip of land right next to a small country road. Because it's off the beaten path I never found beheaded fly agarics, but I did often find them popping up next to discarded junk thrown out of car windows. One of the super fantastic fairy tale toadstools Italics and I found together actually had cellophane from a cigarette box - complete with gold "ribbon" for easy opening - plastered to the fucking cap.

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Alice has already had a bite.

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The fly agarics growing in moss - or the sandy, loose soil beneath firs - are the easiest to ease out of the earth. The swollen base of the stem can sometimes get firmly lodged within the ground, so it takes a little finger digging to encourage the mushroom out in one full piece, but no excavating was ever necessary for the toadstools growing in moss or loose soil.

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How can something so naturally beautiful be so fucking reviled and vilified in our modern society?

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My foraging basket (with a not-to-fucking-shabby amount of "edible" wild mushrooms) and four more hidden toadstools, can you spot them all?

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Parent and child. (They look fused together, but they weren't. The bond between them seemed pretty apparent, though.)

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This picture gives ZERO indication how fucking massive these mushrooms really were. (Try BABY, WILL YOU TAKE A PICTURE OF ME SITTING ON THESE FIBERGLASS TOADSTOOLS TO COMMEMORATE OUR VISIT TO SANTA'S VILLAGE? big.) If I remember correctly, the one on the right - the larger, orange one - was a son of a fucking bitch to dig out of the goddamn ground.

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The largest, most impressive fly agaric specimens seemed to grow beneath ragged heather bushes. Since they were always partially buried beneath musty old leaves, brittle twigs and layers of scrubby heather the ground would release this rich, moist scent of earth, mildew and organic decay when the soil around the mushroom was disturbed.

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A witch is never really alone in the woods. (I love the daddy long legs poised beneath the rim of my basket all Little Critter-style. <- If you aren't familiar with the Little Critter series every page had a spider - and I think a mouse and a cricket (or was it a grasshopper?) - tucked away within the illustration for you to find.)

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This isn't an abnormal sight from August to October in my neck of the woods. You can get an idea of how fucking huge those two mushrooms really were when you compare them to the other fly agarics in the photo. I mean, Christ, just look at the fucking girth of the orange toadstool's stalk!

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Some are fire engine red, some burst into orange-yellow flames and others are golden egg yolks served sunnyside up. What they never are, though, is "boring".

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There's an unwritten rule about mushroom collecting: if they're easy to pick/unearth, then they're going to be a fucking bitch to get to. You don't even want to know how many times Chippy got slapped in the face with a bough of fresh fir (when I'm out foraging I tuck him into my leather book bag that I wear on my back all papoose-style) as I forcefully pushed past natural barriers made of pine branches.

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I won't lie, if you were born with a sharp eye you're fucking miles ahead in this mushroom collecting game. Throughout the season your eyes need to filter and sort through a huge variety of neutral, natural shades, and the only thing between you and a sore fucking back is your eyes eventually adjusting to the spectrum of fall colors lying at your feet.

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Because the grass was goddamn green where I was collecting I never even thought of crossing asphalt to see what was growing on the other side of the road. On the autumn equinox I finally tip-toed over and found yet another stretch of land ripe with fly agarics and various boletes. If it hasn't already been made abundantly clear from my previous journal entries and pictures: my little sovereignty kingdom is wild mushroom fertile like whoa.

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September's full moon (Harvest Moon!) foraging expedition ended on an even more bountiful note when I came across the first edible roadkill pheasant of the year. (I follow two strict rules with small roadkill: if scavengers have already had a chance to put a serious dent in the carcass I won't eat it, and if the body's ruptured open revealing internal organs I also won't eat it. If the animal doesn't fall into either of those categories it's fair, culinary game in this house.)

This hen had just the tiniest scratch in her skin which immediately destined her for the kitchen. In fact, you guys are already acquainted. This is the Mabon roadkill pheasant hen that became one of our Harvest Home celebratory meals. You've already witnessed her funeral, and followed along as I explained how I ritually broke down her body into usable parts without allowing any of it go to waste.

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Her head and asphalt-scuffed beak (now currently drying in a box of fine cornmeal and salt).

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One of her unearthly, scaly feet (which are also drying in a box of fine cornmeal and salt).

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One of her car-tousled wings (which, along with the other wing and her flayed skin, is pinned onto a piece of cardboard in the garage beneath a layer of cornmeal).

Summer, Captured

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Fresh bay leaves and chives from my organic container garden infusing in two bottles of organic, extra-virgin olive oil; gifts made for friends, family and loved ones to help celebrate the rebirth of light on solstice night.

Harvest Altar, 2009

I'm absolutely fucking hopeless when it comes to posting images of my altars. Conceptualizing, creating, building I've got down (<- WAY MORE TALENTED WITH "BEGINNINGS" THAN "ENDINGS"; UNLESS MY ASS FALLS UNDER "ENDINGS", AND IF THAT'S THE CASE THEN I'VE GOT ALPHA AND OMEGA METAPHORICALLY TATTOOED ON EITHER CHEEK), it's taking pictures of everything and then uploading them that always gets me in the end. (Too many adventures = not enough time to write things down.)

2009's small, homey Lammas altar on the kitchen windowsill? Sitting in Flickr limbo. The endless photos of containers spilling with vibrant vegetation and bursting with growth (my outside Midsummer altar)? Having a cup of tea with the Lammas altar photos. (<- TRANSLATION: "ANOTHER FLICKR LIMBO VICTIM.") Our Spring / Easter / Hieros Gamos / Great Rite / Sacred marriage altar photos from last year AND this year? Haven't even left my fucking desktop. (See? Hopeless, with a capital "H".)

So, before I inundate this journal with more images of belated altars (Fet Ghede, Halloween/Black Goddess, Harvest, Walpurgisnacht, Easter/Hieros Gamos and Bride's Day), I thought I'd play a little catch up. Rather than start at the beginning (Spring), I'm going to start at the end (Harvest) and backtrack through the year(s). (<- TYPICAL MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT BEHAVIOR, EVEN MY DEFAULT STOVE TOP STIRRING IS ANTI-CLOCKWISE.)

NOTE: If you notice a change in tone halfway through this entry it's because I wrote the first part last September (when everything was fresh and new), and then promptly forgot about it. (<- New adventures are always eclipsing old ones.) Since I consider Thanksgiving a secular Harvest celebration I knew that this altar's theme wouldn't be too unseasonable, so I finally forced myself to sit the fuck down and finish what I started last fucking year. (And it was like pulling motherfucking teeth; I apologize in advance.)

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Harvest altar, 2009. (MY FIRST EVER "HARVEST" ALTAR!) From the start I wanted it to reflect two things - my ethnic heritage (I'm Ukrainian, which is V. Eastern European/Slavic) and this year's bounty (Inanna has her lapis, I have my bowl of Shango Tree plums).

((OKAY, OKAY, MAYBE I WANTED TO REFLECT //THREE// THINGS WHEN YOU TAKE THE AMOUNT OF SKULL PARAPHERNALIA INTO ACCOUNT (AND IF YOU THINK THIS IS OBSCENE AMOUNT OF MORTAL REMAINS JUST WAIT UNTIL YOU SEE THE BLACK GODDESS ALTAR). SKULLS AND BONES - THEY AREN'T JUST FOR HALLOWEEN.))

In addition to reflecting those two themes I also wanted to incorporate several ritual/altar pieces which are integral to my beliefs and representative of the season we were celebrating - Harvest. So it was V. V. V. important for me to work in the ladder*, the chimney, the sickle and the didukhy (the decorated bundle of wheat, more on that later).

(* Some cultures have world trees or stangs or pillars. Me? I have "LADDER", which works out TRES EXCELLENT since it turns out that my ancestors (and the ancestors of my ancestors) were ALSO really into ladders as well. <- EASIER TO CLIMB THAN A TREE OR PILLAR. WE'RE SMART //AND// LAZY!)

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When God came to the Carpathians (<- my family comes from western Ukraine which backs into - and up - the Carpathian mountains) it put a serious dent in His conversionmobile. Ukrainians - much like the Celts - didn't bother dropping the baggage of their pagan past. Instead, Christianity was incorporated into ancient traditions and beliefs, giving a superficial Christian veneer to longstanding rituals they practiced - and still continue to practice - for thousands of years.

You don't even need to scratch the surface to view Ukraine's pagan past - it's all there, in the open, with the equivalent of a slightly new name. Take the decorated wheat bundle, the didukhy. The very last of the wheat was considered crazy sacred, and great care, ceremony and seriousness went into harvesting it. (There's a lot of mythology and religious practice involved with wheat growing and harvesting, but I'll leave that for another entry.)

It was ritually cut and then ritually decorated and then ritually displayed in a prominent place in the house. Later on, when Eastern Orthodox Catholicism greatly influenced the people, religious icons were added to the display until the didukhy were partially phased out leaving only icons in their place. Growing up I remember token stalks of wheat in my grandparents' dining room, but never a full-fledged bundle decorated with a ceremonial embroidered cloth. (I'm pretty sure a Rushnyk is used.)

I have absolutely no idea what a traditional didukhy even looks like. Seriously. It's not for the lack of resources because I know damn well I could just Google the shit, but I feel like that'd be copying rather than creating. A bundle of wheat cut and revered by my pagan ancestors a thousand years ago is going to look different - symbolize something different - to future generations. For me it's enough that I sowed the wheat myself, that I grew it and reaped it, that I created the didukhy, decorated and displayed it.

(I don't have a proper rushnyk, so, instead, I used a cloth that my mother embroidered which was originally used for covering our Easter baskets when taking them to church on Holy Saturday.)

By creating my approximation of a didukhy I'm at once celebrating the work of my ancestors (not only the effort, sweat and blood that went into growing and harvesting, but also the primitive genetic modifications made through generations of selecting and growing the wheat with the best qualities - it's an exercise in transformation, from something rough with potential to a finalized product sculpted by the idea of "something better"), observing the life/death cycle of the divine male (who I nurture and grow during the Light year as the Bride, and then reap/kill as the Hag fertilizing the dying year with blood and sex, keeping His seed to pass onto next year's Bride) and giving thanks, in my own way, for a food that's become the foundation of western civilization - bread.

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As if my mother's embroidered Easter cloth wasn't enough decoration for the didukhy, I also adorned it with a piece of horse brass from my personal collection (small, but growing annually).

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In an effort to give thanks for the bounty of last year's harvest a token portion of everything gathered, foraged, and grown was added to the altar, along with fruits, vegetables and herbs that were used in all of the celebratory meals.

On the left side of the altar - dedicated to the divine male since it carries His seed (the didukhy) - I grouped the (literal) fruits of the season. The apples were baked into a homemade pie and the lemons were peeled and juiced to make lemon curd. The pear and pomegranate have personal significance (pears and apples I associate with my grandfather - whose life I was celebrating since he died September of last year - who kept a two acre fruit orchard in my youth, and I don't think I need to explain the entire pomegranate thing to witches/pagans, do I?).

The garishly decorated lacquer jar in the center holds pinhead oats (the "raw" oat before the bran's removed and the oat's flattened into a flake) locally grown, a kind've sort've nod to Italics' ancestors (oatmeal was once a super crazy big thing here in Scotland) since we all had homemade porridge with honey, nuts and plums for Harvest morning. I know that the rowan berries look like decorative fillers, but they were added for a purpose - to dry and jar up for winter (to make syrups and teas and other herbal and magical concoctions).

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Words fail to convey the supreme love I have for my little pot-bellied, cast iron chiminea. It was a Halloween gift from Italics several years ago to make up for the fact that we don't have a fireplace in this damn house. Despite being heavy as fuck it gets dragged out for every major holiday that's celebrated within the home, starting with Harvest and ending with Easter. (Fire, then, is transferred outside where instead of detached fireplace chimneys we have open-aired bonfires.)

Draped over the makeshift fireplace is the Black Goddess's string-o-skulls (it's home, normally, is around our Black Goddess ritual bong, but on special occasions we remove Her bling to ensure She's properly represented since neither of my in-laws would be especially thrilled to see me elaborately venerating a fucking bong in a shared, communal space), my ceremonial rosary carefully hangs from the wooden handle of my sickle (even though these pictures are over a year old I still remember experiencing INTENSE FRUSTRATION at the delicate touch needed to situate the necklace on the polished, slippery surface of the wood), and beneath it - just in front of the fruit and leaves - is the base of a stag's antler which stretched across the altar's centerpiece display.

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Death says TAKE WHAT YOU WANT, and you size up the leaves, berries and autumn fruits on display. TAKE WHAT YOU WANT, Death insists, holding out a pomegranate. And you take what's being given, whether it's right or wrong, out of your own freewill, knowing that there isn't any real choice but to accept what's being offered to you.

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2009 and 2010 were two totally different Harvests. In 2009 - when we still didn't have a car - I spent the entire year creating an intimate relationship with my land by exploring every last inch of local rural countryside by foot and slowly assuming control of the yard here at home. Last year I forged a connection with the plants and earth within my tiny Scottish kingdom (and it responded by providing me with my first ever fruitful Harvest), this year that connection was made with the animals that inhabit my space and live by my side (and they responded - and accepted my petition for the vacant sovereign role - by leaving me their dead).

(Yeah, I know, dead animals aren't exactly a cornucopia of squash, pears and tomatoes, but roadkill has provided food, clothing (I love fur, but for obvious reasons I can't - with good conscience - buy new fur, so I've flayed, frozen and will personally tan and create my own articles of clothing using the pelts given to me), a deeper, more profound attitude towards the consumption of meat and materials to work with (and sell). And as much as I'm into gardening, I have to say - it's a special sort of graduation when the Universe entrusts its animals into your care. Being a gardener is by choice, but to be a guardian? You need to get vetted for that shit.)

One of my prized crops last year were plums that came from two trees in the backyard. In 2007 one of them - which eventually became The Shango Tree - beared a single branch of fruit for the first time. I discovered it by chance during a full moon, ritually consumed the five plums and vowed on my Ukrainian orchard growing genes that I'd convince the tree to produce more prolifically (up until that year I had never seen any of the trees produce fruit, and I've been visiting this house since 1997). I spent all of 2008 nurturing it (you don't even want to know how much homemade soup it got), and my efforts were rewarded in 2009 when the tree burst into blossom around May Day.

The parsley to the left of the sickle grew at the base of The Shango Tree within the raised dirt bed of 2009's phallic worship altar. (Stone Cock's altar has since moved to my peach tree, and the raised bed at the foot of The Shango Tree was rededicated as the roadkill altar. You don't even want to know how many fucking plums were produced this year thanks to decomposing bodies providing natural fertilizers.) And you can just make out the braided stalks of my homegrown garlic nestled behind the bowl of plums.

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The altar's centerpiece display, in all of its Harvest glory.

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My first ever crop of homegrown garlic. Tiny, but significant. Making the decision to grow garlic was the first real step in assuming control of the yard. I first tentatively stole a narrow stretch of waste ground that ran beneath our office/computer room window (shit for growing garlic, but totally awesome for building the foundation of my gardening empire). When no one complained or tried to stop me I began pinching other parts of the property - the Shango Tree, for example - and it didn't take long before my "at home" territory expanded like wildfire.

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I know this is probably exquisitely lame to admit it, but...sometimes I sneak into my altars set and silently marvel over this particular spread. A lot of my altars are for show; they're a tiny church, or a temple. They represent the season, or the holiday. But this Harvest altar - much like my Easter altar - encompasses all that I've done, all that I am and everything I aspire to be. Rather than representing a holy day, festival or sabbat it represents me. I'm weirdly proud and vain about all of my altar work (I consider the creation of sacred places a ritual and prayer you physically act out), but this one in particular is special because it's a reflection of who I am.

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In an effort to give thanks for the bounty of last year's harvest a token portion of everything gathered, foraged, and grown was added to the altar, along with fruits, vegetables and herbs that were used in all of the celebratory meals.

On the right side of the altar - dedicated to the divine female - I grouped the (literal) "fruits" of the season. The tiny acorn squash, tomatoes, rowan berries and peppers were grown at home, while the potatoes and pumpkin were bought at a local grocery store. (I've tried growing pumpkins here in northeast Scotland; it's virtually impossible. I haven't tried growing potatoes, though, which are supposed to do pretty damn well in containers.) And the garishly decorated lacquer jar in the center holds sea salt blessed by a priest.

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If you've been following me, or my adventures in altar creations, you'll know that I'm crazy anal when it comes to symmetry. The centerpiece tends to be a bit Choose Your Own Adventure, but when it comes time to balance the appearance I always mirror the objects on either side of the predominant display. Since one side featured my dressed didukhy with a piece of horse brass, the other side needed something complementary - a dressed vase of sunflowers with a piece of horse brass. (Oaks, I think - because that's what it's suppose to be, oak leaves and an acorn - embody the sacred male in Slavic mythology, while birches are considered the sacred female counterpart.)

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The cracked out looking sunflower peering over the neatly uniform sunflowers below came from my container garden. (Despite starting them in March, outside, the majority of them never managed to reach full blooming potential. Just a few were able to cross the finish line, and when they did they were immediately added to the vase of flowers sitting on the Harvest altar.)

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My first Harvest, and my first Harvest altar.

A Slight Case of Saltbombing

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Up until this cleaning my shock'n'awe campaign of seriously purging and blocking off a room utilized a complicated formula wholly comprised of...salt. (Well, sea salt flakes, if you want to be anal.) When I salt bombed our bedroom a few days ago I added ingredients that would absorb, expel, protect and mark our territory: salt (table, sea salt and sea salt blessed by a priest on Holy Saturday), fine cornmeal, garlic powder, hair clippings and eggshells filled with dried remnants of combined sexual fluids.

After blessing the blend over incense smoke and petitioning Papa and Chippy for help I sealed the bedroom by outlining the perimeter with the mixture in a clean, unbroken line. (Special attention was paid to the thresholds of the room - the door and window - to ensure a tight motherfucking lock.) Once I washed and cleaned everything within the room (walls, ceilings, window, door - it's all explained in Building a Fortress) Italics came and personally vacuumed up the mess (it's a "king of the castle" thing), and immediately disposed the collected debris (because you seriously don't want that sort've shit lingering in your fucking house).

Building a Fortress

For the majority of November we've been up at night, which is super awesome great for unwinding after several months of being chronically outdoors, but isn't so super awesome great for working through the remainder of my Harvest to-do list because we cohabit with my in-laws who, unlike us, don't go through extended phases of living nocturnally. Any activity that produces noise or smoke is limited to "normal office hours", so a significant portion of our life has to be put on a nail biting, stagnant hold until everyone in the house is living at the same time.

We went nocturnal when I still had several major "within house" duties to perform: ritually bake bread, change the office's altar guard, create this year's wheat bundle (aka didukh) and magic clean our bedroom. I admit that baking bread and assembling the didukh are two activities that can be executed at night, but when I have something as big as "magic clean the fucking bedroom" looming over me (an annual event that can take anywhere from 12+ hours to several long days) that's all I can fixate on because I know what that seemingly mundane ritual really entails.

(Entails: emptying the entire room of everything, salt-bombing the perimeter of the room, washing the skirting boards, walls, ceiling and thresholds of the room (door and window; inside and out including hinges and ledges and vents and handles), washing light switches, plug outlets, the radiator, the ceiling fan and window blind, washing the pillowcases, bed sheets, mattress topper and duvet, Febrezing the mattress, pillows and window blind, washing the closet, two nightstands and the bed frame (inside and out), washing the contents of my witch's work bucket (including bucket), polishing the window's glass until it shines (both sides), vacuuming up the salt-bombing mess, moving washed furniture back into the room, WD40ing the bed frame, reassembling the bed, washing every fucking object that returns to the bedroom, incense-bombing the newly built fortress and, once everything's cleaned and in place, finally airing our coffin cover which is reserved for ritual work and winter warmth.)

With Thanksgiving rapidly approaching and a fresh set of holidays just around the corner I began getting despondent because, fuck, I needed to start focusing on more Yuletide-based to-do lists but I still had rollover shit from motherfucking Harvest because I couldn't execute one of the V. SRS jobs due to being up at night. And then? And then my in-laws left for the weekend, leaving us with the house and our current nocturnal life. With Italics' blessing - and occasional help - I descended upon six fucking months of bedroom mess at one in the fucking morning and didn't emerge from the room for another thirteen hours.

Magic cleaning the fucking bedroom? Done. Now if I could just cross all of the unexpected stresses that've added themselves to my effing list in the past 72 hours (Italics' pectoral lump and my estranged father phoning my ass for money help) I could get the fuck on with my motherfucking life.

Popcorn Nightmares

If someone asks, you have no fucking clue how an unpopped popcorn kernel found it's way into my father-in-law's pillowcase - capiche?

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.

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.

Fet Ghede's Checklist

Things I need to accomplish in the next 48 hours: create a coffee liqueur out of a bottle of rum bought and dedicated to Papa, give the Old Man his Fet Ghede gifts, bake Pan De Muerto (soul cakes this year need to be made for Shakey Bear, Wuzza and the Chooch), visit the local graveyard to make an offering, lay some cards down and create a gluten-free southern-themed meal from scratch (gumbo, crab cakes, hoppin' john, cornbread and sweet potato pie).

Things I've actually done: make a pot of coffee.

Used G-String Offering

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Never one to miss a party, I relocated Papa's skull to the lounge's coffee table, and the mouthy ass motherfucker started even before I could properly set the Halloween prop down. ("Baby-girl, why don't you plant that sweet pussy on this face?")

Hello (and welcome!) to the next six months of my life.

A Miracle

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It's October fucking nineteenth and I still don't have my Halloween altar up. Knowing it'd take a miracle to get my ass motivated I turned to the Universe last night and said "LOOK, IF YOU DON'T MAKE IT RAIN TOMORROW THEN I'M GOING TO BE OUTSIDE PICKING MOTHERFUCKING MUSHROOMS AND THAT EFFING ALTAR WILL NEVER GET FUCKING DONE".

It's been raining all goddamn day. Not even grey, dreary Scottish drizzle, but multiple Fox's Weddings that gloriously burst in the streaming sunlight keeping everything just wet enough from being workable. So no mushrooms, or berries, or roadkill, or planting garlic for me. I'm indoors building a momentary shrine to Our Lady Underground as She readies Herself for Her imminent reign.

Oct. 2nd, 2010

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It blows my fucking mind that I've been doing the same things since late July (picking wild mushrooms, working with roadkill, harvesting wild food and preserving everything that comes into the house) and I haven't had the time to recap one day worth of "work". I've posted solitary pictures of what I've been up to, but I've never fulfilled the numerous "I HAVE AN ENTIRE FOLDER OF PHOTOS, SO EXPECT A MUCH MORE IN-DEPTH JOURNAL ENTRY SOON" promises made. (Uh...sorry?)

This particular foray started a 9AM in an old Scottish cemetery, and ended, at home, around 5PM when I brushed clean the very last porcini mushroom picked on the grounds of a local castle. (I was absolutely shattered. This was my first full 24 hour day in a long ass time and we hit a cemetery, visited/made an offering to my wild rabbits, did some grocery shopping, visited #6 (and discovered she was gone), did some garden center shopping, picked mushrooms at a castle, took clippings from the castle's woods and stopped at the standing stone circle/cairn to leave an offering.)

October 2nd had tremendous ups and downs, but it finished on a familiar note - a basket full of mushrooms, the remains of dead animals and a fistful of chlorophyll-powered flora.

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Currants and cemeteries seem to go hand in hand here, but I haven't figured out the connection. Usually you find them bordering the old, old cemeteries, and those are the graveyards that typically have yew and beech. Because they haven't been pruned or kept for fruit, the bushes have grown into towering shrubs that produce very little berries. (When you do see them they're egg-shaped and hairy; a little bit more primitive looking than the cultivated currants we know today.)

To propagate currants all you have to do is take an appropriately sized clipping (about a foot, but it needs to be new growth), and plant the motherfucker. Even though I'm not a fan of black currants (too menthol) I can appreciate how special these fruiting bushes are, so I've begun taking clippings to grow my own graveyard currants at home.

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Back in August we visited this particular graveyard and I came across the remains of two rabbits. (One on the wall leading into the cemetery, another tucked behind a pair of headstones.) Because we spent the visit picking wild raspberries I didn't want to handle the decomposing bodies. So both were left, although I did offer a thank you and explanation (the graveyard was so freakishly welcoming that day that I felt it would've been rude if I hadn't acknowledged what was given).

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The remains of the rabbit within the graveyard, just behind the two headstones, was hard to leave behind. I had just learned that the feet of a cemetery rabbit was some serious ju-ju. (Which makes sense since I've always associated rabbits and hares with two things: death and sex. Why? Because fucking and dying are the two things they excel at. So to find a pair of back feet within an old Scottish graveyard? Holy shit, magic.) Having tumbled down the rabbit hole once (it was an entire month of gastric agony) I wasn't keen on revisiting that particular journey.

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When I returned, two months later, the same remains were sitting in the same position in the same fucking place. Unthwarted by my first polite refusal the graveyard kept the rabbit tucked away for me, and on my next visit - on October 2nd - I thanked the cemetery for a second time and took the gift of what was left of the dead rabbit. (If you click on the image to view larger sizes you can perfectly see its long, grey nails.)

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Strange gifts from strange places for a strange witch. This particular graveyard brought toads into my life, gave me wild raspberries growing out of open mausoleum, dropped a rusty nail (which look HELLA old) in my pocket, provided currant clippings for my patio garden and kept half a rabbit for me until I was ready to take it home. (I think this means we're going steady?)

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My graveyard goods: three currant clippings, my foraging basket (which serves as our Easter basket when I take Easter Sunday's brunch into town on Holy Saturday to have the contents blessed by a priest) and the sodden remains of the cemetery rabbit. Everything's sitting on a mortsafe - a protective guard that kept the bodies of the deceased safe during the Burke and Hare era of body snatching. This particular graveyard has three or four mortsafes in front of crazily large (and crazily impressive) mausoleum.

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After our cemetery jaunt we were back in the car working our way across the country to check on #6 beneath her oak tree. We stopped at a wild rabbit colony I discovered when exploring an out-of-the-way beech hedge back in August.

When I first stumbled across the warren I found two rabbit skulls while poking around a creepy dead zone beneath gigantic pines. After being nervously ushered to leave by Chippy (that's a whole story within itself; he kept insisting that the spirits of the place found me "shiny" and I shouldn't stay long for that very reason) I found two perfect fly agarics, joined at the base, growing out of the cliff face that marks the beginning of the colony. (Rabbit magic, remember?)

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Whenever I take the roadkill route (I have various routes I take depending on the weather, season and time of day) that passes the beech hedge and cliff-dwelling warren I always stop and leave an offering for the rabbits. (They're my messengers, so I try and stay on their sweet side.)

Since the skull/mushroom day I haven't returned to the dead zone area of the colony, but that'll change once I manage to locate a pair of old ass rhinestone earrings that once belonged to one of my grandmothers. (The spirits want shiny-sparkly? I'll give them something shiny-sparkly that has significant value.)

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By this point in the day we had already visited the graveyard, stopped to make a rabbit offering, picked up a few groceries at a farmer's shop, checked on #6 (only to discover that she was gone), sullenly made purchases at a garden center (organic manure, rooting powder and buffalo wing-flavored pretzel bites) and made our way into the ancient oak hunting grounds of a local castle to take more currant clippings.

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Earlier in the year we discovered currant bushes inexplicably growing just off the beaten path beneath an oak tree. The patch was much more obvious pre-bracken; I actually walked right past it a few months ago because the shrubs had been swallowed whole by pre-historic looking ferns. (If you look closely you can see the grape leaf-like leaves of the currants growing beneath the canopy of bracken.) Next year I'll make a point of clearing the ferns to give the bushes a chance to breathe to see if they'll produce any fruit.

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My second round of currant clippings (another three), the foraging basket you're already acquainted with and my "out in the country" leather backpack that has everything I need when I'm doing my thing in the wild. (i.e., hand sanitizer, baby wipes, plastic bags, Tupperware boxes, a knife, scissors, paper towels, foil-wrapped candies (offerings), my camera, a bottle of water and a ball of string.)

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While Italics was having a slash it occurred to me that I've never really posted pictures of Drum Castle before. Next year, when we get a National Trust* card, I'll focus some of my attention to local landmarks and heritage sites since we'll have a pass that'll allow us indoors to take guided tours. (Visiting the grounds is free, but going within castles and houses costs money.)

* The National Trust of Scotland manages historic sites that have either been donated to the organization or "loaned" (in some cases families still maintain ownership but can't afford with the upkeep, so they move off the property during tourist season to allow NToS to do it's thing and then move back in once the site closes down for the season).

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The oldest part of Drum Castle is the tower (it's supposed to be one of three oldest unaltered tower houses in Scotland, built in the 13th century), everything around it was tacked on later. When you walk around the perimeter of the castle it's insanely easy to spot the Jacobean and Victorian additions. Despite visiting the castle numerous times (it's one of my personal favorites) I've only been indoors once.

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I think that's the castle's well in the corner of the building. Drum - no longer seasonally inhabited by the family - shuts down for the year in October, along with most other historic/heritage sites owned by the National Trust. You can see that the windows' wooden shutters have been drawn for winter.

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I think MAYBE these were stables once, but they're public bathrooms now. (I don't know about the men's bathroom, but the women's bathroom always has a bouquet of fresh flowers cut from the castle's walled garden during tourist season.)

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This is the Victorian addition to Drum Castle. To left is the tower (obviously not pictured), and "behind" the Victorian addition is the Jacobean mansion (also obviously not pictured). I totally forgot to snap a photo of the south-facing Jacobean addition. Once Italics was out of the bathroom my attention turned to mushroom picking (there were comically large fly agarics growing along the driveway leading into the castle that I wanted to snatch up) and I forgot to lazily document the rest of the castle's structure.

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The various buildings that make Drum Castle create this perfect little courtyard enclosed by mortar and stone. That's passionflower trailing up and over the side of the wall and arc.

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I love the turrets and old stone decorative work that dot and accentuate the historical houses here in Scotland.

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One last picture of the castle while migrating towards the toadstools we passed when driving into the grounds.

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Visually, the gigantically domed fly agarics are awe-inspiring, but they're a pain in the fucking ass to dry (I try and maintain the shape as much as possible, which is super easy for small mushrooms but requires constant care and pampering if the toadstool's larger than your palm). The much smaller ones are less fairy tale looking, but they retain their shape perfectly and, unlike the larger ones, never seem to get infested by larvae.

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These were some robust motherfuckers that immediately caught our attention as we drove along the castle's driveway to the parking lot. I was torn between picking them immediately (I lost an entire cropping of fly agarics about a month back when someone decapitated every single toadstool I had been nurturing) and hiking out to the currant bushes. Eventually we decided to deal with the cuttings first, and I bit my nails the entire fucking time worried to hell that some retard would come along and stomp/kick/squash the two prime specimens while I was busy in the oak woodlands.

We actually ended up startling someone by racing down the driveway shouting "NO! NO! THOSE ARE OURS!" when another castle visitor stopped his car in the middle of the driveway and got out to inspect the pair of fly agarics. As it turned out he only wanted to take a picture ("I WAS TELLING MY GIRLFRIEND HOW MUCH LIKE TOAD FROM MARIO BROTHERS THE MUSHROOMS LOOKED AND I WANTED TO GET A PHOTO.") and I had to sheepishly explain why I was so protective over those particular fungi.

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Unearthing potatoes along the castle's driveway? Not quite, but close.

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It's the second most beautiful fruit of the earth in Scotland; porcini (also known as "ceps"). Porcini are considered the king of the mushrooms; an extremely prized fungi whose only real competition is the elusive truffle. The thing about ceps, though - as with the entire family they belong to (the boletes) - is they can't be cultivated. If you've ever enjoyed a porcini risotto, or a cep-spiked autumn casserole you're eating wild mushrooms picked by someone. (Some people have a fear of eating things from the wild, not knowing that some of the food they enjoy is actually from the wild. Porcini is one of those things.)

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There's a strange delight when it comes to picking fly agarics, I think it has to do with the modern's world perception of toadstools. When I see the unmistakable white-specked orange-red caps I see treasure lying out in the open, and an entire world completely oblivious to the brightly-colored gifts dotting the countryside.

I hear "poison" whispered behind my back when people pass as I'm carefully unearthing agarics (I try to keep as much of the mushroom intact as possible; there's something special about the bulbous end of the stalk and I try and retain the toadstool's shape in entirety), and I can't help but feel sadly disappointed. In under two thousand years Man's already forgotten his link to the divine, and what was once sacred and the highest form of communion is now fearfully kicked aside like garbage.

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Porcini are a joy in every respect - finding, picking, cleaning (as with any mushroom you never wash them, to clean them you simply dust debris off with a brush), slicing and drying (I have to use the oven right now - on a super low setting with the door open - but I'm hoping to make enough money from my mushroom sales this year to buy a dehydrator for next year). Boletes are sturdy motherfuckers, and ceps in particular - even the large ones - remain rigidly firm when you cut into them.

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When I performed a Passover ritual a few days earlier I used lambs' bloods from three hearts bought at the grocery store. I wasn't sure how to dispose of the organs - especially since they sat on the sheepskin altar with the blood, blessed herbs and holy water - so I decided to take all three to a local stone circle/cairn as an offering. The ancient, sacred site? Ecstatic with the gifts. (Why else would it have immediately reciprocated the favor by giving me a tiny field of fly agarics growing within its boundaries?)

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While I was carefully digging the motherfuckers out of the ground Italics wandered around the short pine alley leading to the circle snapping photos of the toadstools on my behalf.

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Toadstools past their prime. I took the fresher looking of the two hoping that maybe it wasn't as old as it seemed, but once under the oven's slightly warm fan it quickly disintegrated into a orange-red puddle of larvae mush. Sigh.

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Nature's blazing Eucharist.

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Fresh lambs' hearts situated in the center most ring within the standing stone circle. (There's something like 8 clusters of small, roundish cairns within the larger stone circle.) In all my years of visiting this particular sacred site I've never seen offerings left by anyone else. (If you ever visit this Bronze Age monument and find powder sugar-dusted almond croissants or internal organs you know who the guilty culprit is.)

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There's a farm that's gently envelopes the sacred site, so the stone circle's flanked by pasture fields and a homestead. Almost every time we visit we're eventually greeted by a dog - usually a friendly Jack Russell, last time, though, it was an exceptionally energetic (and enthusiastic) border collie - that has to be coyly distracted from the stones with playful engagement, although I know it's only a momentary fix. The second we're gone the dog probably trots back and enjoys the "people food" I've left on a cairn. (That is, if the crows who roost above in the pines don't get it first.)

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As we were leaving I realized I've never actually posted a picture of the stone circle before here in Graveyard Dirt, so I had Italics turn around and take a quick shot. To the left there's a rowan tree growing (the birds always get the damn berries before I do), and to the right's the homestead (unseen). The long shadow stretching across half the photo is being cast by the small alley of large pine trees leading up to the circle.

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All that remains of my lost #6. When we discovered she was gone we spent part of the morning scouring the entire woodland hedge, but all that was found was this leg. I carried it by her toes as the scent of burning tires trailed behind us (OH, THE BIZARRE SCENTS OF DECOMPOSITION!), crying, while trying not to touch/wipe my wet face with rotting flesh hands.

I know how to guide her spirit back to my herd (so she isn't completely lost), but because I don't have her skull - or anything else - I've decided to keep her permanently and not sell any part of the remains I did manage to find.

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I think this fall under "cosmic compensation", but my personal preference would've been getting my goddamn deer back rather than receiving two baskets of mushrooms. I thanked the Universe anyway, and underlined the fact that deer will ALWAYS have priority over mushrooms; just in case there was any doubt or ambiguity.

In addition to the two baskets of mushrooms (one batch picked from castle grounds, the other from the pine alley leading to the standing stone circle) we also came home with six currant cuttings (three from the graveyard, three from the ancient oak hunting grounds) and the remains of the cemetery rabbit.

We were out of the house by 9 AM and finally back by 4 PM; a long fucking day of work, especially since I had gotten up between 1-3 PM the previous day which meant I was rocking a 24+ hour day.

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The fly agarics in this smaller basket are/were the ones picked at the stone circle/cairn.

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The largest of the toadstools that were picked at Cullerlie (the circle/cairn). I was hoping that I might've just caught it before it got old, but that wasn't the case. (You can already see how "soft" it looks in the center.) Like I mentioned earlier, this particular fly agaric disintegrated once I began drying it out. The other ones, though, were in good condition and dried without a hitch.

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The smaller "button" toadstools. It's tempting leaving these guys behind to bloom fully, but it's a risky gamble. The older/larger mushrooms are more likely to be infested with larvae, they're harder to dry and people are way too fucking tempted to decapitate, smash or kick the fly agarics into oblivion. I harvest them in various stages of growth, but for purely aesthetic reasons the smaller ones are preferred.

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Something's already enjoyed some of this toadstool. I found it growing where the crows nest, which is sort've fitting since the first thing I "saw" when examining the nibbled top was the head of a baby bird. (Can you see it? With the pointed beak and the bulging eyes?)

This particular mushroom has a lot of strong animal attachment - from the critter who previous dined on the fleshy cap (rabbit? mouse? those look like tiny, precise incisors chipping away), to it's location of growth (beneath a crow rookery at a sacred Bronze Age site) and the pattern gouged into the mushroom's dome.

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We actually weighed our bounty (almost all of them are porcini/ceps, but there's three that aren't - they're all from the same family, though, which is "bolete") and then I lost the fucking paper I wrote the total on. Suffice to say, this is enough to make any mushroom picker a little green with envy. (If you buy those packs of dry porcini from your grocery store you already know they're EXPENSIVE motherfuckers.)

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Processing the basket of porcini was a fucking nightmare. By the time we returned home I had already passed the 24 hour mark and then I ended up spending over an hour bent over the kitchen sink deliriously cleaning/brushing everything we picked. (I felt insanely deranged at the very end. Italics had to herd me to bed. In fact, I don't even have any fucking recollection of GETTING to bed. Oi vey.)

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I won't deny it; this is flat out, disgustingly gratuitous porcini porn.

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These were the biggest of the bunch, but they've recently been dwarfed by a mammoth of a cep I discovered growing at the side of the road that ended up weighing 503g (that's half a fucking kilogram/just over 1lb!). We ended up enjoying some of these mushrooms in a homemade (gluten-free) bread stuffing and red wine-braised roadkill pheasant casserole when celebrating Harvest, but more on that later.

Cupping Wicker Nuts

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Today's achievement: forcing Italics to take a picture of me cupping a Wicker Man's non-existent nuts at the "prehistory park". (<- I wonder if he'll remember the red-headed witch who exalted his balls when they burn him on Halloween night?)

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.

Graveyard Work

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One of my various "offices" spread out through the Scottish countryside. (I need to get a coffee mug that says "YOU DON'T NEED TO BE DEAD TO WORK HERE, BUT IT HELPS".)

This past Saturday Italics and I spent 5-6 hours foraging in old graveyards, ancient oak woodlands and stunning castle grounds collecting bones, taking plant clippings and harvesting wild mushrooms. I have a stupid amount of pictures to share with you guys, but I haven't finished sorting through all of them. This photo's just a teaser of what's to come.

Pictured: my foraging/wildharvesting basket that also serves as our Easter basket for Holy Saturday (Ukrainians traditionally take their Easter Sunday brunch to church on Holy Saturday to have it blessed by a priest in a special ceremony), the remains of a rabbit (graveyard rabbit feet are supposed to be hella magic) and clippings of currant bushes that grow around the cemetery (to plant at home in my container garden).

Everything's sitting on a mortsafe, which was once used to guard the bodies of the dead as they decomposed during the infamous Burke and Hare epidemic. (How morbidly appropriate that I eventually settled in the body snatching capital of the world.)

Fighting Fire with Fire

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If I told you, you'd regret asking.

Passover

"There will be loud wailing throughout Egypt - worse than there has ever been or ever will be again." ~ Exodus 11:6

I didn't hear the "pop". Italics did, though, and came through to tell me that the washing machine made a "breaking sound" and stopped spinning. I remained uncharacteristically optimistic until several days later when the repairman arrived and Italics had to convey some very important news that began with "OKAY, SO THE GUY SAYS THIS IS HIGHLY UNUSUAL" and ended with "WE HAVE TO GET A NEW ONE, BUT IT WON'T BE DELIVERED UNTIL NEXT WEEK".

The motor? Dead. And I mean dead fucking dead; no passing "GO", collecting money or reincarnating. Our washing machine of only four fucking years burst into flames (well, figuratively), but no renewed phoenix rose from the proverbial ashes to continue cleaning our dirty laundry.

Even worse? It'd be another week, at least, until I'd be able to wash anything, and we were both sick (because it's easier on the skin we typically blow our noses into old t-shirts so we had a mountain of crusty shirts that needed laundering), I was expecting my period (I don't use tampons and very, very rarely wear any sort of cloth menstrual pad so I bleed directly on myself/my clothing), Chooch needed her bedding washed and changed daily (her cluster of mammar tumors has gotten so large she can't move to her designated bathroom spot so her towels get soiled pretty quickly), not to mention that, LOLOLOLOLOL, I only have two fucking pairs of house pants to my name. (Seriously.)

Egypt? Had nothing on the loud wailing throughout this fucking house when the dreaded Mercury Retrograde curse unexpectedly struck one of my most beloved appliances.

Ganesh, the Remover of Obstacles, sat (and consequently broke) our motherfucking washing machine. I know it was Him, because it fits his modus operandi. The fat bastard's been breaking our shit since 2007 when Italics and I unwisely snickered at one of his devotional songs sung by a husky Indian boy coifed up like Tom fucking Jones. (WE WERE STONED, IT LOOKED LIKE AN AMERICAN IDOL AUDITION AND THERE WAS NOTHING ON TV AT 5:45 AM EXCEPT FOR ISLAMIC PRAYERS, FOX'S "RED EYE" AND TELEMARKETING.)

If things are going to break - break spectacularly - it's going to be during a Mercury Retrograde period, because that's when we originally cheesed off Lord Ganesha. We've lost multiple DVD players (in fact, within an hour of our fateful snickering the DVD player broke; Italics tried recording the program's repeat, and it died during the Ganesh devotional - that's how fucking quick the Retrograde curse was instated), computers, a plethora of phones, remote controls, toasters, car headlights, showers, toilets - if it plugs into a socket, requires batteries of some kind or makes life bearable, it's fair game (and has been for the past several years).

I knew immediately what I had to do to placate him and call a truce on the wanton destruction (nab a statue, bake him a traditional offering and set up a Ganesh altar every time Mercury went Retrograde), but in the past 3-4 years have I done any of the above to stop the household object genocide? Uh...no. (Does "LISTEN, ASSHOLE, I'VE BEEN BUSY, OKAY?" sound like a totally legit excuse? How about my reluctance to welcome anything else with a pair of fucking balls into this house? Because, seriously, I'm totally fucking drowning in man junk here and it's not like I'm sprouting multiple pairs of ovaries to keep shit balanced.)

Okay, fine. I'm lazy. When I'm unenthused and unmotivated I'm probably one of the laziest motherfuckers you'll ever come across. For some utterly bizarre reason buying a statue and creating a nook altar for a few weeks seems like way more effort than spending 21 days chasing after a phantom elephant who regards any object that falls under "modern convenience" as his personal fucking sofa. (I console myself with the fact that even if I am a lazy motherfucker, at least I'm a lazy motherfucker who's able to be 100% honest about herself to herself.)

"TAKE CARE OF IT, AND IT'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU," the John Lewis man said after installing our brand new Bosch Avantixx WAE24366GB Washing Machine two days ago. I wasn't in the room, but I knew the statement was aimed at me, and I instantly identified the sinister element lurking behind the casual comment (which, granted, is probably said on a daily basis to everyone getting fitted with a new appliance, but not everyone is dogged by a planetary curse caused by an enraged anthropomorphic elephant god) - the second the washing machine was hooked up to the house was the second it became susceptible to Lord Ganesh's Mercury Retrograde curse.

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For the sake of domestic sanity something had to be done; I've lived for over a week without being able to do any laundry and I swear to all that's fucking holy I'm never visiting that particular circle of Hell again. As far as I'm concerned NO ONE'S FAT FUCKING ASS IS GOING TO SIT ON MY BRAND NEW WASHING MACHINE, EVER. (Fine Print: Except for mine, preferably during the spin cycle.) I had to do something to protect it. I had to do something that'd make the appliance the antithesis of "comfortable" to the ass of an elephant-man god. I had to do something that'd force the curse to pass over -

- wait, wait, wait - what was that? "Force the curse to pass over." Pass over, pass over, pass over...Passover. ("The blood shall be a sign for you on the houses where you live: when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and no plague shall destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt." Exodus 12:13) The solution was right there in my own words; I needed to kick it Old Testament-style and perform a Passover ritual.

(Passover (just in case you didn't grow up watching Cecil DeMille's epic The Ten Commandments) is a Jewish observance which commemorates the story of Exodus (when Moses led the Hebrew slaves out of Egypt). It gets its name specifically from the 10th and final plague that was inflicted on the Egyptians: death of the firstborn. To avert God's curse the slaves were instructed to anoint their door/threshold with lamb's blood, and in doing so the plague would "pass over" the household. Generations upon generations later the event is still remembered as the festival of Passover.)

I only really needed two things: fresh lambs' blood and protective herbs (not exactly the cleanest/most inconspicuous of magic washes, but - just between you and me - the very best kinds rarely are). Because there's some dispute over what herb the Hebrews used to smear the blood over doorposts (hyssop is the most commonly accepted story, although I've heard arguments that the biblical hyssop isn't the hyssop we know today) I used herbs that were significant to me and my ancestors: dill, rosemary and parsley.

Three fresh lamb hearts were bought at the grocery store and were wrung dry to supply me with blood. I also bought the rosemary and parsley at the same time, but the dill came from my container garden outside. The eco-friendly detergent, fabric softener, stain remover and washing machine cleaner were purchased as offerings for the new appliance. (Laugh all you want, but I'm trying to seduce a motherfucking washing machine so it never fails me, okay?)

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Grand stories that inspire grand rituals demand grand altars. Just after midnight I pushed back the kitchen table, swept the floor and began piecing together what eventually became my Passover altar while praying to God - er, Elohim - that my mother-in-law wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night thirsty.

(I can bullshit a lot of things - consider the art one of my natural talents - but a very special car salesman job is probably required when explaining to your in-laws why you and their son are fucking on an altar at the foot of the new washing machine at one in the fucking morning. (<- As if the time of day makes any difference in a situation like that.) It physically pains me to say this, but...I might be a gifted bullshit artist, but I'm not THAT fucking gifted (yet).)

Starting from the bottom of the picture and working up: one of three lamb hearts, my charcoal incense burner (a tres swish miniature enamel casserole dish with lid), the bowl of fresh lambs' blood (I added a pinch of blessed sea salt to the liquid, and after ritualized sex our body fluids were mixed in), a roof slate from a ruined chapel (to absorb the heat from the incense burner), herb bundles made from dill flowers, rosemary stalks and bunches of parsley, a tisane made with hot water, a handful of the protective herbs and a pinch of sea salt (I created an internal wash that was run through the machine on its first use), the other two lamb hearts, the user's manual and machine instructions (they're BLESSED WORDS that I will keep holy and sacred in my heart), the washing machine's offerings (the eco-friendly detergents and cleaners) and, finally, the sheepskin rug that Italics once slept/played on as a baby that I (sort've) recently inherited.

I'll be one billion percent honest, the sheepskin? Totally makes the altar Passover fabulous.

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If you've made it this far I'm so not going to bore your ass with minute details of happened because there's no point - I think it's pretty damn clear to both of us what went on. (AHEM, AHEM, AHEM.) What I WILL say, though, is that a doorway is a doorway regardless if it's the threshold of a house, car or washing machine, and that being in two different places at the same fucking time always makes one helluva orgasm.

On a slightly related note: the rubber guard that pads the space between the hinged door and the basket/barrel? One of the most comfortable headrests I've ever had the pleasure of using. (Trufax.)

Exodus 12:13

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"The blood shall be a sign for you on the houses where you live: when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and no plague shall destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt."

Preparing for Passover

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What's Ms. Graveyard Dirt getting ready to do? (HINT: It involves lamb's blood, our brand new washing machine and the tenth plague of Egypt.)

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.)

Jove's Incense

"..and some of my (pubic) hair, so he never forgets the scent of my pussy." *snip*

A Witch's Harvest

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A witch's harvest: ripe grain ritually reaped from an ancient Scottish field (the one that grows next to the local crow rookery where I get my feathers and the occasional dead bird), and fly agaric mushrooms picked near the banks of a loch named after a black arts practicing Laird who met his death over the not-so-frozen waters while in the company of the Devil himself one Hogmanay night.

Magic Wooden Baskets

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If you promise not to tell anyone else I'll let you in on a little secret. (Ready for it?)

...I have magic wooden baskets that perform an amazing trick. (Yes, "trick"; singular form. They do just one, but a good goddamn one, so cut them some slack. <- They are, after all, motherfucking baskets.) Every day when I go to "work" they get loaded into the car empty. Every day when I come home from "work" they get unloaded from the car full. The contents vary on a daily basis, but I never come home empty-handed.

Sometimes it's sweet, wild fruit, flowers in bloom, usable mushrooms or rusted junk that no other human being would guess why I consider it a divinely-given gift. Occasionally I'll find fresh roadkill, or the remains of an animal. Usually tucked between the larger gems are tinier treasures: nature-stained bones from unknown creatures, loose feathers from living birds and eggshell fragments found on forest floors.

Today's haul included: an old lidded metal can with a rotted base (I'm going to partially bury it so I have a safe place to inter skulls and bones until they've been cleaned of flesh), a basket full of wild mushrooms (fly agaric and slippery jack), a basket full of wild rose hips, a crow wing feather, a pair of feet from a roadkill pheasant hen (she was mostly unsalvageable, I took her feet and left the carcass in a safe place (i.e., off the road) for my fellow scavengers) and a dead crow found just a hop, skip and jump away from a blacksmith (who operates in an old church, if you can believe it).

Every Day Business

Why the neighbors don't talk to me, reason #68,343,086:

Standing outside as it hails down a storm, holding a coffee mug up into the air ("Astute Assistant: Proud to be a 100% qualified, dedicated, supportive, accommodating, helpful, reliable Assistant.") to catch the bad weather before downing the contents of the mug and returning to the house as if the Ben Franklin routine is every day business.

(At least I was MOSTLY clothed?)

Gluten-Free Buttermilk Gingerbread

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Since the gingerbread was baked as an offering we can't have any until AFTER our ritual supper with the Cailleach tomorrow night (might as well get on Her sweet side early). In a few days we'll take the remains - along with some deer bones and the mummified hide off my first roadkill deer (the stag with a sexy skull, remember?) - up to Her home on Mither Tap (the tallest point in this region) to return them to Her until their vessels (skulls, bones, body parts and hides) are ready to house their spirits.

Fiery, Red-Headed Witch

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I'm sneaking in one or two more henna sessions before the Whore takes throne. (<- The Whore has dark hair, but the Bride is fairer. I dye my hair a henna red during Spring and Summer (Papa calls me his "fiery, red-headed witch"), but during Winter - when I embody the Whore - the red gets hidden beneath layers and layers of black henna.)

Rabbit Magic

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Today in a forgotten beech hedge the rabbits came out to play, and in the sun-dappled groves of cliff-growing trees they shared their secret magic with me.

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.

Roe Deer #01

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The Old Woman, either confident in my abilities to keep up with this pace of life or deliberately positioning my ass for a nervous fucking breakdown (seriously, how much can one fucking person do?), saw fit to send me one of Her (exceptionally expired) deer. (Actually, She saw fit to send me two - within 20 minutes of picking up this roe buck I stumbled across the remains of a toddler-aged fawn.)

Amanita Muscaria

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Fly agaric (amanita muscaria) for the Old Woman's (rein)deer.

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.)

Fox-tongued Witch

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What do you call a witch with two fox tongues? Anything she slyly - but eloquently - charms you into saying.

Modern Witchcraft

Slapping a palmful of warm jizz'n'juice over a phallic stone situated in the outside garden (aka "the summer altar") at 5:45 AM to usher in the time of Reaping while wearing nothing except a t-shirt and a pair of striped ankle socks? Modern fucking witchcraft, baby.

Be Careful w/Your Machines

"This cannot be. The worlds of magic and logic must exist side by side; not destroy each other. Take care! Be careful with your machines, I say!" Carolinus, Flight of Dragons

There's a scene in the animated movie Flight of Dragons where the green wizard, Carolinus, watches helplessly as a swan's dragged under the powerful current of a watermill. He wades out to the broken bird and resuscitates it while shouting "TAKE CARE! BE CAREFUL WITH YOUR MACHINES, I SAY!" to the oblivious workers within.

Whenever I encounter roadkill that particular scene is always the first thing I think of, and while carrying the dead animal back to the car I'm haunted by Carolinus' words which still loop in my head after 20+ years. But they were never as real, never as poignant until I found myself in the backroom at 4:30 AM, sobbing, cradling a paralyzed rabbit that we had to euthanize because its spine had been broken by a car.

Take fucking care. Be careful with your motherfucking machines. Please.

Deemed Worthy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obsolete

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crow Wishbone; Ultimate Wish

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

Nature's Reclamation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1.) Pot, most of the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Goddamn Lucky

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

Anointed

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

Junkyard Amulet 01: New Beginnings

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

Foster Care

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Roadkill) Cat Out of the Bag

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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).

Making Spring Happen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Midsummer 2010, II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Midsummer 2010, I

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

Playing Pretend

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

Something Real

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spring Leftovers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Garlogie's cattle rubbing stone from a different angle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unexpected Bridal Bedchamber

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Excerpt from Lost and Found: No obvious passage Underground. No obvious parking lot. Obvious "PRIVATE FUCKING PROPERTY, MOTHERFUCKERS, DON'T PARK ON OUR FUCKING LAND" sign. (Farm directly on other side of grassy knoll.) Sigh. Roll eyes. Reverse, drive, reverse. Tuck into dirt track leading to wheat field. Not on private property, n'yah.

Pretend to be interested in tourist signpost explaining earthen house. Still no obvious passage Underground. See nothing except small patch of green lawn. Land slightly mounded, follow gentle slope down. Suddenly, tiny black crack in hill. A tear, a rip, a hidden gash. Wild pheasant shrieks when discovery is made. Startled, we laugh. Silently wonder if mother goddess hips will fit through minuscule threshold to Underground.

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Excerpt from Lost and Found: Entrance to souterrain tight. Crossed threshold on hands and knees. Crawled like child, like petitioning supplicant. Humble, stripped of grandeur. Began descent into earth like animal, belly touching dusty ground. Further, deeper, darker. Hands outstretched to either side. Can't see stone walls, but can feel assuringly solid structure. Colder, darker, damper. Wooden beams lift up. Crawling becomes crouching, crouching becomes slouching, slouching becomes standing.

Abrupt end of passage. Facing end? Blackness. Facing opening? White pinprick of light. Earth breathing. Air smells like wet graveyard dirt. Water trickles down sides of walls. Silence engulfs hollowed out space. We stand, side by side, as woman and man, as to-be husband and to-be wife in ancient, man-made chamber. We stand in a prison, a womb, an unexpected bridal bedchamber. We stand in a 2000 year old stone and wood lined tunnel where the fruits of Harvest were stored. We stand Underground; our home, our domain, our sacred ground.

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.

Gardening Business

No pictures, no Ghede-inspired string of beautifully crafted expletives. Just Death, and a momentary distraction of the inevitable (which is easy enough beneath an early evening sun as the world buzzes and chirps with life).

PLANTED:
* Broccoli (X 10)
* Cabbage (X 10)
* Cauliflower (X 10)
* Dill (dead crow dirt)
* Motherword (ceramic container)
* White Nightshade (ceramic container)

REPOTTED:
* Thyme

One of my dwarf apples has THREE sets of buds ready to blossom (the other one appears to only have one cluster), there's way too much green in the raspberry container to be errant bird seed (last year I planted a handful of raspberries plucked off bushes growing near a ruined church), the parsley's germinated, there's little pockets of rocket springing up in a tray, one or two blades of green are already popping up in the wheat containers and I SWEAR one of the pumpkin seeds planted in the phallic worship altar at the base of the Shango tree has sprouted.

The flowers that crowned our plum trees on Summer (Beltane / May Day) are nearly gone (hopefully the bees have done their work), sycamore buds have burst into brillant new leaves, the garlic's growing in a prosperous (although cramped) line next to the sidewalk and I caught the first glimpses of beet seedlings peering up from top soil. (And? And there's so many fucking violets in the dirt yard that I'm wondering how much I really need to make a violet based sugar syrup.)

Every day I worry about my beloved peach tree, and every day I remind myself not to get my hopes up. (<- She had a devastating case of leaf curl. It was so bad I had to remove all but 4-6 leaves, and I doubt that's enough to sustain a sapling.) The best of a worst possible situation? She's the perfect shape / height / width for a broom. (Mistakes; productive learning experiences in disguise.)

Let's not talk about my indoor vegetable seedlings. (How bad is it? How about "WHAT VEGETABLE SEEDLINGS?" bad. (Yeah, that bad.))

Death loosened Italics' wallet and he suddenly found himself £23.00 GBP poorer after a seed binge of epic proportions. (HEY, MY PET RAT OF THREE YEARS FUCKING DIED, OKAY? THE GRIEVING PROCESS IS DELICATE, FRAGILE TIME WROUGHT BY TUMULTUOUS EMOTIONS AND A INSATIABLE NEED TO COMPLETE ONE'S PROPOSED FLYING OINTMENT GARDEN.)

In the next few days I get to look forward to planting:

VEGETABLES:
* Courgette, Eight Ball
* Cucumber, Gherkin

HERBS:
* Basil, Christmas
* Basil, Italian Large Leaf
* Borage
* Lemon Balm
* Lovage
* Marjoram, Wild
* Oregano, Greek
* Sage, English
* Sorrel, Large French
* Thyme, Creeping

FLOWERS:
* Sunflower, Henry Wilde
* Sweet Pea

WITCHCRAFT PLANTS:
* Hellebore, Black
* Henbane
* Monkshood
* Mugwort
* Rue
* St. John's Wort
* Tormentil
* Wormwood

Most of them, anyway. Some seeds in my ointment garden require very specific temperatures and conditions for germination. What can get planted now will, anything that needs absolute babying is getting filed away for next year. (SEE HOW ON THE BALL I AM WITH THIS SHIT? YOU TURN 30 AND THEN MOTHERFUCKING //BAM//; YOU'RE ALL GROWN UP AND FUCKING RESPONSIBLE AND PLANNING THINGS IN ADVANCE.)

I'm officially only 7 packets away from completing the rough draft of my witch's flying ointment garden:

STILL NEEDED:
* Baneberry
* Datura
* Enchanter's Nightshade
* Mandrake
* Russian Belladonna
* Sweet Flag
* Wolfsbane

I haven't even had a chance to consider a badger, rabbit and hedgehog garden. I also haven't had a chance to do any proper research into gooseberry, raspberry, blackberry and currant propagation (I've heard it's as easy as shoving healthy clippings into some soil) which I TOTALLY need to learn since all of the above has a tendency of growing near/on some very special places (i.e., ancient cemeteries, ruined cottages, ruined churches, standing stones and other neolithic monuments) and I HELLA want to take clippings and grow them at home.

And I STILL haven't had a chance to even sit down and look at ANY-FUCKING-THING potato related. (<- We really, really, really want to grow some new / baby potatoes in containers in the back.) So that, too, needs to get rectified pronto.

All I can say is: holy shit, dude, this gardening business, holy shit. (<- GARDENERS'N'WITCHES, CAN I GET AN A-FUCKING-MEN?)

Changing of the Guard (Spring 2010)

Spring's finally come to our office/computer room altar.

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).

Walpurgisnacht Altar, Dark

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I need to get off my Walpurgisnacht groggy ass and bake a double chocolate espresso cake, so I'll leave uploading non-atmospheric photos and writing up detailed explanations of everything for tomorrow.

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Walpurgisnacht 2010

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Just a quick, blurry shot before bed. Hope everyone's Walpurgisnacht was as eventful as ours. (Did YOU ride the Goat? I DID.)

2010 Vegetables, Round 1

Writing, internet, has been hard. Actually, I take that back. Writing hasn't been hard; feeling motivated to plant my ass down in this fucking computer chair and hammer out something that isn't one or two sentences mostly composed of "MOTHERFUCKER", "SHIT" and "GOD" has been hard.

Ever since (Chef) Shakey's death I've felt flighty; I think it's Spring, and how amazingly stupidly insanely far behind I am on things. (Don't EVEN get me started on all of the shit I haven't done because my list will make you weep with exquisite hopelessness.) I spent a quarter of a year off our perfected routine, and I still don't entirely feel like I'm back on my mojo axis.

It feels like I've taken a partial step forward, but despite the hesitant move I'm still hanging in limbo because my other foot's firmly planted in its original position. I think I'm waiting for something, specifically one of the remaining rats suddenly getting sick (i.e., Wuzza and her mammary tumors), which would require me to retract that partial step and revisit territory I lived in for nearly four fucking months.

In a way it feels like I'm reluctant to move the fuck on because I'm not sure if the Universe has officially closed that particular chapter of my life. So instead of plunging head first into new projects (and completing old ones) in my brash Aries style I'm straddling the threshold of change going "DUDE, ARE YOU SURE? ARE YOU, LIKE, FOR REALLY REAL SURE, OR ONLY KIND'VE SURE, UNIVERSE?" and not getting a lot done.

ANYWAY.

It's raining, which means I can indulge myself with journal writing without experiencing an ounce of guilt. (<- YOU KNOW HOW IN SPRING EVERY NICE DAY FEELS LIKE THE LAST NICE DAY, EVER, SO YOU HAVE TO MAKE THE ABSOLUTE MOST OF IT? YES, WELL...THAT.) But because I'm hella rusty I'll leave the V. SRS shit alone and focus on something that isn't inordinately taxing: gardening.

The madness started with Gothel's Garden being reopened after a day of intensive cleaning. I wish I could be someone who could overlook a mess and get on with her shit, but despite my chaotic personality my need for cleanliness borders on divinely anal. (Isn't that contradiction cosmic poetry? Even chaos requires a certain amount of organization to function properly.)

So before anything - before compost buying, peat pot separating, seed buying and seed sowing - I had to strip, straighten and clean the yard. (I view our property - especially the backyard where I'm often found high as a fucking kite gardening in the nude - as an outside altar during the Light year. Most summers I don't even bother with indoor altars since all of my time, energy and effort is spent on our fruits, vegetables, herbs and plants growing directly beneath our bedroom window.)

The front yard - or "dirt yard", if you're a longtime reader - was taken care of in February. Thanks to my father-in-law burying garden waste in my prepared vegetable bed I had to spend the entire day excavating rocks, weeds, roots and frozen leaves out of my sidewalk strip in order to plant my garlic (which, LOLtastically enough, never got planted because I had to spend the entire day cleaning up after him, but that's story for another day).

I took care of the MAIN PATIO next, and then, yesterday, I tackled the mess that formerly inhabited the OPEN VESTIBULE in front of the outside room. All I have left to do is clean the walkway that runs adjacent to the garage door / bonsai house / outside room, weed Mr. Awesome's ABANDONED ROCK GARDEN, and prune back the hedge that's started to smother the fruit trees.

So, before I forget (because I like to keep this shit noted), yesterday I: watered the garlic in the dirt yard to prep it for seed sowing, planted both beets and carrots behind the garlic, hauled about 10 fucking buckets of earth from the backyard to cover the seeds and sprouted garlic with more soil, buried a reduced to clear 1/2 shoulder of lamb directly beneath our computer room / office window (a badger offering! not the lamb itself, but the insects that'll inevitably break down the decomposing meat which'll - hopefully! - attract Badger Beh), moved the circle of rabbit bones onto the Shango Tree phallic worship altar and cleaned the outside vestibule*.

(* "cleaned the outside vestibule" = moving EVERYTHING out of the space, sweeping the ceiling, walls, frames, doors and corners, digging out the weeds between the concrete slab cracks (I'm hoping that my in-laws will be okay with me planting creeping thyme in those earthen spaces), sweeping the patio thoroughly, moving large wind fallen branches and wooden signs I want to keep for various magical projects behind the old grill to ensure Mr. Awesome understands "THESE ARE MINE AND I WANT/NEED THEM", emptying the old grill of garbage (WHY THE FUCK WERE THERE BENT PIECES OF METAL FRAMES IN MY BONFIRE WOOD?), refilling the old grill with wood for Beltane fires, cleaning the ceramic container that holds my support canes, bundling up errant bamboo canes into the cleaned ceramic container, throwing out all non-burning junk (including metal frames and broken pottery) and dumping the contents of the containers filled with garden waste into sacks for future disposal.)

That? That's all OUTSIDE STUFF which doesn't even hint at all of the INSIDE STUFF going on. Vegetablewise, I grow everything from seed. And because we have such a short growing season here in Scotland (short to my Midwest American ass, anyway) I get everything started indoors and acclimate whatever germinates and grows around early June (believe it or not, I've actually experienced motherfucking frost in early June).

I planted our first round of vegetables - 93 effing plants! - on April 20th (which was 100% unintentional; I didn't even know it was earth day - or a good day to sow seeds - until after I dusted seedling compost off my hands). Making up those 93 plants are: 36 X sub-arctics (tomatoes), 20 X baby corns, 10 X artichokes, 06 X cherry bombs (chili), 06 X red peppers, 05 X beef hearts (tomatoes), 05 X green bushes (courgette), 04 X rings of fire (chili) and 01 X voodoo (weed).

As of now I still need plant gourds, lettuce, peas, squash and wheat. I'm on the fence on whether I want to start Russian-olives from seed (which I have), or purchase immature seedlings. I'm also tempted to plant more carrots and beets where I grew garlic last year, but that side of the house doesn't get a lot of light when the sycamore's in leaf and I may need the space for my 20 corn seedlings. (I HILARIOUSLY FAILED TO FORESEE THE PROBLEM IN FINDING ROOM FOR 20 CORN AND 36 TOMATO PLANTS.)

I'm short a few vegetables I had my heart set on growing (i.e., bean, broccoli, cabbage, cucumber, marrow and potato), but that'll be easily rectified once I get my shit together and draw up my herb list for this year. (You don't even want to see my fruit, flying ointment and baneful herb "to buy" list. Let's just say that I'm V. lucky that my husband and Papa are EXCEPTIONALLY good gamblers.)

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93 motherfucking plants sown, baby! The two spiky plants on the other side of my skull incense burner are Dragon's Blood trees (the seeds were given to me by my friend, Carolina). The bushy shrub next to them is my gardenia (which looks like it could do with a prune) and you can JUST make out my Stone Cock on the wooden table (a sprouted yam is sitting on His balls).

I'm drying various Spring flowers (crocuses, quills and grape hyacinths) on the plate beneath the metal side table that visiting bumblebees favor to create a bee-themed incense. The glass vessel is the vase I took from the morthouse (remember? instead of taking the ladder I took the discarded vase?), the two plastic packages are lady's mantle and goldenrod (which I still need to plant) and beneath the pewter church goblet was parsley submerged in water (which I've already planted).

The day after my vegetable seed planting extravaganza the sun was shining crazy bright, like God him-fucking-self was smiling down upon my late night work. Hours of unjamming peat pots, ruining markers, packing containers with compost and planting seeds were sanctified by Spring's glorious sunshine.

...and then within ten fucking minutes of taking the picture above IT STARTS MOTHERFUCKING SNOWING. (VERY FUNNY, UNIVERSE, VERY EFFING FUNNY.) I was horrified, but not surprised. Everything's been out of whack for so goddamn long that I haven't even had a chance to change the guard and welcome Chile Bird back home.

As far as the weather in northeast Scotland's concerned it isn't Spring until Ms. Sovereignty 2K gets off her just married ass and updates the Egyptian / computer room / office altar accordingly.

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Normally I start my vegetables way too fucking early, and by May the backroom's a humid, sweat house of a jungle. This year, though, I got an unusually late start which meant, for once, I was actually sowing seeds when you're supposed to.

(Great for not appearing like a unfashionably early spastic, not so great for not appearing like a hyperventilating spastic when it turns out almost nothing germinated and you're way too late in the season to begin an emergency round.)

I'm use to quick germination because we usually start shit in the closet beneath a grow light and I wrap every pot with cling film to create miniature greenhouse conditions. In my experience certain plants - cucumbers, squash and pumpkins - sprout within three days of sowing. Tomatoes generally come next, followed by the rest of the vegetables with some chili and pot seeds trailing behind at the very end.

Our closet is currently packed with ritual/ceremonial objects that are otherwise homeless, so our only options were to either keep them housed in our growing closet (until we can afford buying proper storage containers), or chuck everything out in the backroom (and pray to God that my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, doesn't touch, ruin, break, appropriate or throw anything anyway).

Take a wild fucking guess which option we went with (or, alternatively, simply study the images above). And because there were ninety-fucking-three plants there was no way I was going to sit down and cut out a circular covering out of fucking cling film/saran wrap for every single pot. My vegetables seeds, for the first time ever, were thrown out into the world without a blanket of plastic or any artificial light blazing down upon them.

Yesterday was day six without so much as a tiny crack or disturbance within ANY of the pots. ("Desperate" and "panicked" didn't even cover it.) Anxious I might miss out on vegetable growing this year due to unresponsive seeds I dragged myself over to Papa for help from his black ass. (I don't really consider him a gardener, but he is Underground which means at least he could give the seeds a push in the right direction.)

I'll spare you from the super explicit details, but suffice to say masturbation magic (especially when Papa's along for the ride) has never let me the fuck down. Yesterday there was nothing; today there were tomatoes, and all it took was assuming a birthing position in bed while coaxing stubborn seeds to sprout and grow up into the warmth of my awaiting uterus.

(ADMITTEDLY BIZARRE, BUT ~MAGIC~, READERS, ~MAGIC~. SO MAGIC, IN FACT, I FEEL LIKE I NEED TO MAKE MYSELF ONE BILLION PERCENT CLEAR TO EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING THAT DESPITE MY MASTURBATORY VISUALIZATIONS (WHERE A COCK'S A SEED AND THE WOMB'S THE SUN) I HAVE ZERO INTEREST - AT THIS PARTICULAR TIME, AT LEAST - TO BECOME WEBSTER'S DEFINITION OF "MOTHER". COMPRENDE, UNIVERSE? PERVERSE SEXUAL FANTASIES INVOLVING MOTHERHOOD NEED TO STAY OUT OF MY REALITY UNTIL OTHERWISE NOTED.)

Essence #1

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Essence #1: Spring, New Growth smells like fresh artichokes and earthy nuts (and looks like nearly formed larvae suspended in translucent pupation).

Macerating All Night Long

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I'm dedicating an entire evening to perfecting my macerating technique. (BABY, I'LL BE MACERATING IN THE FUCKING KITCHEN //ALL MOTHERFUCKING NIGHT LONG//.)

ETA: Wow. So, like, my 500th entry on Graveyard Dirt amounts to a cheap masturbating joke. (How amazingly fitting, right?)

Gothel's Garden Reopens

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My (very dry) collection of spring flowers, strawberries and the saddest fucking pots of herbs you'll ever see. The empty space in the corner? Where my six passionflower vines and three artichokes once sat. (<- They unfortunately didn't survive the worst winter in 30 years.)

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Several days ago the weather was so fucking amazing that I jumped straight into the first serious round of gardening this year without taking any "before" pictures. The patio was a post-apocalyptic world filled with dead leaves, mud stacks, empty trays and pots, scattered bones and discarded bamboo canes.

I spent the afternoon weeding my containers, deadheading old stalks, removing leaves past their prime, turning over the soil, potting on perennials, rearranging containers, pulling weeds out from cracks and crevices, sweeping the entire patio, dusting off the patio's pillars, washing the bird shit off the patio's wooden fence, cleaning Chippy's offering bowls, rounding up bones, stacking empty pots, bundling support canes together, excavating rabbit skulls from the Shango tree/phallic worship altar, burying the remains of old offerings that hadn't fully decomposed and packing fresh earth in the altar bed to prepare it for Beltane/Walpurgisnacht. (<- Stone Cock returns home to his outside altar for the length of the agricultural year!)

I secretly wondered if my in-laws would notice the difference; I //think// they did. (<- They spent the next day sunning themselves on the plastic chairs pictured above for the first time this year.)

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The Shango Tree/phallic worship altar - untouched, unblemished and perfectly clean...at least until our resident badger, Bee, returns. (When one of our pet rats die we find a plush animal toy that best represents them/their personality. Bee, our carpet destroying rat ("BEE! STOP DIGGING UP THE FUCKING CARPET!"), took the form of a badger. Just over a year (or two?) after her death a badger began visiting our property and promptly began digging up my outside altar bed ("BEE! STOP DIGGING UP THE FUCKING GARDEN!"). <- HAH HAH, UNIVERSE, HAH HAH.)

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Poppies from my friend in Finland (second year of growth! I wonder if they'll produce flowers this year?), narcissus and Chippy's homegrown strawberries.

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I honestly don't even remember planting a row of narcissus bulbs in with the poppies, but since I combined various dwarf species (tulips, daffodils, irises) in the OTHER containers I know the arrangement must've been my doing.

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Who would've thought that the Sumerian demon of famine, plagues and winds would enjoy gardening? (APPARENTLY NO ONE.) Chippy, for whatever reason, absolutely LOVES strawberries. (And kites and butterflies and the band Chicago...) So as a birthday gift a few years ago we bought him a kiddie strawberry growing kit from the local grocery store.

I *think* this'll be their third year of growth. I spent all of last year pinching off any flowers that managed to bud/blossom to give the roots a chance to establish. After a quick haircut (to remove dead/faded leaves) the plants are looking better than ever. Strawberries? This year? Hopefully. (Probably none more hopeful than Chippy, who takes his gardening V. SRS, okay?)

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Last year I received a packet of forget-me-nots as a free gift with a seed order and even though it was pretty late in the year I sowed them anyway. This spring I spotted the forget-me-nots amongst the growth and transplanted the clumps from their seed tray into a proper pot.

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Terracotta containers, rings of grape hyacinths and budding dwarf tulips in the background. Thanks to the worst winter in 30 years (100 years, in some places) we're about a month behind growthwise. Last year I was able to decorate our Spring and Easter altars with homegrown tulips, daffodils and grape hyacinths. This year? Only crocuses were available.

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OH, DAFFODILS, YOU MAKE ME RIDICULOUSLY HAPPY. I SHOULD REALLY PLANT A LOT MORE OF YOU.

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Saddest motherfucking group of potted herbs, or what? My golden marjoram and Moroccan mint are slowly pushing through, but my oregano (to the right of the rosemary) looks dismally deceased. My rosemary's definitely seen better days, but I remember it looking this dire other years so I'm not in panic mode (yet).

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Mr. Awesome's bay tree which he planted in a sink (NO JOKE! IT'S A PORCELAIN BASIN!) years and years ago. When I first came over to bonnie ole Scotland (over a decade ago) it was nothing more than a scrawny stick, and a it remained a scrawny stick until I began pruning it, using the leaves, watering it and feeding it menstrual blood water. (<- I soak my period rags in water, and then use the blood rich mixture to water plants.)

Since adoption/intervention it's blossomed into the hardiest fucking shrub, ever, and remains a constant source of culinary happiness even in the depths of winter. (NOTE: If you're ever (un)lucky enough to receive a package from me and amongst the bones, rusty nails and dirt you find a handful of bay leaves you now know their origin.)

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When I first moved here I asked for a patch of waste ground that Italics' parents were using as an outside trash heap to grow flowers, vegetables and plants. I was denied the space because they said they were going to build a BBQ pit in the exact spot. Instead, though, they offered to let me use the patio; I could grow anything I wanted in containers.

That trash heap? Still there, 10 years later. (<- I AM A COOL, CALM OCEAN. I AM NOT GRITTING MY TEETH IN DISBELIEF AND FRUSTRATION. I DO NOT WANT TO GRAB EITHER OF MY IN-LAWS BY THE NAPE OF THEIR NECKS, DRAG THEM OUTSIDE AND POINT TO THE MOUND OF JUNK AND SCREAM "IS THAT WHAT A FUCKING BBQ PIT LOOKS LIKE?". DEEP BREATH. HOLD IT. EXHALE. I AM A RAY OF GOLDEN WELL-BEING...)

I began gardening more seriously several years back, and every year I add something new to the already overcrowded space. (Last year? Fruit trees (five apples, one pear and one peach) and fruit bushes (two gooseberries) in pots.) This year I plan to get grape vines, blueberries, a cherry tree and take cuttings from wild raspberries and blackberries that grow locally to grow at home. Within a year or two there won't be a patio. Revenge, dear internet, will literally be sweet (and organic).

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Gooseberries! In flower! Already! I had absolutely no fucking idea how early gooseberry budded or bloomed until this year. We bought two bushes last year from a local garden center and the pair produced enough fruit for me to make a cheesecake and a batch of honey/hazelnut/oat cereal bars. This year I'm toying with the idea of making jam and some homemade gooseberry vodka. Wasps - HOLY SHIT, ALREADY? SERIOUSLY? - seem to love the flowers, the first day they opened there was a swarm crawling over the bushes.

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My immortality tree, my peach tree. We bought her last year (YES, "HER", FOR OBVIOUS (OR MAYBE NOT SO OBVIOUS?) REASONS) at a discount grocery store, and she sat torpid for several months until I was able to plant her into a huge ass container.

I think the late planting affected her natural cycle; she didn't produce full, mature leaves until late summer/early fall and she didn't shed ANY of them until mid-January. (ONLY IN A WITCH'S GARDEN WOULD A TEMPERAMENTAL DECIDUOUS FRUIT TREE KEEP ITS LEAVES INTO THE DEAD OF SCOTTISH WINTER.)

I was hella worried about her throughout the Dark year because I didn't know how well she'd react to THE WORST WINTER IN 30 YEARS! (since peaches aren't very cold-hardy). Throughout the deep freeze I fed her homemade chicken stock, menstrual blood water and water from our bong/rocket bucket. Whenever I went outside to feed the Old Woman I always made a point of visiting my peach tree before returning indoors, occasionally laying a hand (or two) on her trunk in reassurance.

You could easily imagine how relieved I was when I saw the first green buds push past their scaly covering into the light of day. My immortality tree? Survived the deep freeze. Now to gently coax her into flowering and bearing fruit...

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Foxgloves - grown from seed last year - post "haircut". In the past few years there's been a rapid decline in wild foxgloves (at least locally) as housing developments encroach further and further into the country, hedgerows and grazing fields. Missing their elegant presence when walking into the country I decided they'd be the very first homegrown installment of my witch's flying ointment/baneful herb garden.

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Growing lavender, as you can see, isn't my strong suit. I can trace back the spindly, totally unlush appearance to my fear of pruning. After successfully cutting back several of my favorite shrubs and herbs last year (for the first time), I'm totally prepared to take the pruning plunge this year to restart my poor dwarf lavender plants.

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Because palms aren't indigenous to Ukraine the eastern orthodox church accepts a substitute for religious/ritual use: pussy willows. But even before Catholicism adopted pussy willows the tree was considered sacred and spiritually significant to my ancestors. (<- You'll find single, stylized branches decorating a lot of folk art from pysanky (Ukrainian decorated eggs) to traditional embroidery designs.)

Before we had a car we scoured the local countryside (anywhere and everywhere within reasonable walking distance) in the hopes of finding pussy willows (also known as "goat willow" here in the UK). Nothing, nada, not ONE. Desperate for pollen-y catkin goodness I broke down and bought a pair of seedlings last year on Ebay.

Just a few days ago we accidentally stumbled across a towering pussy willow while exploring the countryside. I really, really, really wanted to jump out of the car and hack off a branch to take home, but there was a farmer poking around in an adjacent field and a car riding my ass. I heard they grow at the base of Bennachie - a range of hills religiously important to the ancient inhabitants of this area - so I'm hoping to make it out there within the next week to locate and harvest catkin laden branches.

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One of three apple trees I germinated from seed two or three years ago. (I THINK this is their third year, just like Chippy's strawberries.) I've read that trees started from seed don't normally produce fruit, but I've also read (somewhere) that even getting an apple seed to sprout is-was-is pretty tricky (although that sounds like some dodgy misinformation). Fruit producing or not, I'll find some use for my three trees.

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A bucket of death created in Fall, finally exposed to light and air in Spring. Last year - just after I decided to fashion myself a fur blanket made entirely out of roadkill rabbits - I was given a gift of seven dead rabbits by hunters after engaging in some HOT MAGIC FOREST SEX with my divine male counterpart.

I skinned and froze their pelts, decapitated their heads and buried them within the dirt bed of my Shango tree/phallic worship altar and decided to share everything else - the bones, meat and organs - with my fellow scavengers. The bucket of headless (and footless) rabbits, however, had different plans.

No matter how fucking hard I tried to discreetly dispose of the remains the multiple attempts always fell through. After two weeks I finally had to admit defeat (especially after the car battery died, which REALLY put the last nail in the coffin) and the bucket was carefully turned over to keep the rotting remains contained (within the upturned vessel), but allow the blood and fermented body juices to sink into the earth.

About a month ago I released the carcasses from their prison, but found everything still moist and not entirely decomposed. They got covered again for about two weeks, although this time by a bucket with large vent holes. After "airing" the pile for a fortnight I removed the container and left the contents exposed to the elements to dry (and clean).

My natural instinct is to pick through the debris and collect the bones, but they displayed such an unmistakable preference to stay with me that I'm not sure if I should harvest the remains and treat them as untradable goods or bury the remains somewhere on our property and create a small rabbit-themed garden on top of them.

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Yet more outside bones* that'll need to be cleaned up for divination use. (Although the t-bone, lamb shoulder blade and goose back might be a little too big for bone spillin' work.)

(* "outside bones" = the weathered, whitened remains of offerings I made from previous years. The bones get kicked around by visiting wildlife until it's time for a YARD CLEANUP. When a yard cleanup happens I round up all the bones I can find and add them to my growing collection. Eventually I'll clean them and use them for divination; they were offered to the spirits and ancestors as gifts, consecrated by nature and the weather, stirred, moved and chewed on by wildlife and, after all of that, still managed to return to the hand that gave them away - SOUNDS PRETTY MAGIC TO ME, YO.)

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The Shango Tree's been special for several years now, but on a balmy July evening last year it became even more special after I created a raised garden bed using discarded stones and bricks. (When hunting for appropriately sized sheets of rock I unearthed my Stone Cock, which transformed the "Shango Tree altar" into "the phallic worship altar at the base of the Shango Tree".)

Last year I grew parsley on the earthen altar space, and harvested the herbs - roots and all - on the Autumn Equinox. I buried eight rabbit heads over winter, to allow the essence of SEX'N'DEATH sink into the space, and finally dug up the remains after I was done reorganizing the patio.

The raised bed's been turned over, sifted (with my bare hands because, dude, rabbit bones are SMALL motherfuckers!), added to (fresh compost and soil) and now sits and waits for Walpurgisnacht weekend. (<- I'll be ritually parading Stone Cock - my miniature may pole - down to His outside home where He'll preside over the Light year until Winter's first snowfall.)

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The very happy looking green shoots? Lilies of the Valley, at least what remained after the GREAT GARDEN HOLOCAUST OF 2008. (Long story short? They plentifully grew in the backyard until Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, dug 90% of them up and simply threw them away. Only a tiny colony was spared and I'm HELLA protective of it.)

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The backyard - where projects go to die. With an exception of the pile of rabbit bones and the empty plastic pots everything pictured within this photo is one of my father-in-law's abandoned projects. From the rotting, wooden balancing beams, to the unfinished pond (which is really a glorified kiddie pool sunk into the ground), to the unkept rock garden, to the slabs of concrete (with no definitive purpose), to the neglected fruit trees, to the potted shrubs that've taken up a significant portion of the already tiny yard (which we were promised were only going to be there "this year" - that? that was over four fucking years ago).

The absolutely worst thing about these forgotten projects? He doesn't want you touching anything, rearranging anything, cleaning anything, or organizing anything even though some of this shit's been sitting around FOR TWENTY YEARS (with ZERO attention from him). I've repeatedly asked for space to grow things to benefit the family, but I've been flat out refused because outside trash heaps, decaying wood and concrete slabs have a higher status in this house than me.

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This is the abandoned rock garden (and the pile of rotting wooden beams) I just mentioned above. He doesn't even bother weeding the space any more, but gets territorial when he sees me cleaning out dead grass and weeds. I know it looks HELLA messy, but it's a HUGE improvement from last year. (Last year? When he was gone for a month? I spent a week seriously weeding and removed debris that was YEARS old. What you see above is what managed to grow within a space of a year.)

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It's amazingly fucking hard to tell this story without my blood pressure rising. So I don't blow a gasket this is totally going to be the Cliff Notes version of the story:

When I first moved in, ten years ago, I noticed an unwanted section of the garden filled with dead wood, broken pots, plastic trays and other forms of garbage. Even though it wasn't the BEST place to grow shit I asked if I could clean it and use the patch to grow flowers, fruits and vegetables.

That request was shot down in a panic. I was told they were going to build a BBQ pit in that EXACT place THAT YEAR. So, naturally, I backed off. The thing was, though, it was never built. I asked the following year if I could use the area since they didn't do anything with it the previous summer, but the second request was shot down with the same response.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn't built. It also wasn't built the third, forth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth or tenth year. In fact, they completely stopped mentioning building the BBQ pit after the third year. The trash heap just sat, growing bigger with every fucking year.

In 2008 the backyard experienced the GREAT GARDEN HOLOCAUST OF 2008 when Mr. Awesome went on a gardening rampage and killed hacked down and destroyed the vegetation that made the space. I lost A LOT of my container garden because he threw EVERYTHING away (without even bothering to consult me about MY plants), and he even went as far as using WEED KILLER ON THE GRASS and DELIBERATELY KILLED THE MAJORITY OF THE LAWN for no apparent reason.

(BLOOD PRESSURE, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, BLOOD PRESSURE.)

What could've been the ONLY silver lining to that situation turned out to be my worst possible nightmare. I watched, with baited breath, as Mr. Awesome thoroughly cleaned the trash heap and got rid of almost EVERYTHING. (Finally! After nearly ten fucking years of waiting (and watching the landfill get larger and larger), I was going to get the small patch of yard I requested!) I then watched, horrified, as he PROMPTLY FILLED THE CLEAN SPACE WITH NEW TRASH, RIGHT BEFORE MY FUCKING EYES.

Imagine requesting a piece of waste ground that people didn't give a fuck about. Imagine being denied what was ostensibly a trash heap because people who WEREN'T interested in the space were suddenly VERY INTERESTED in it because YOU WANTED TO DO SOMETHING TO IT. Imagine watching, for ten fucking years, that patch of yard sit - only changing by becoming bigger and more of an eyesore - knowing they were never actually going do anything with it other than not let you use it for something productive. Imagine seeing, a decade later, the waste ground emptied and cleaned ONLY TO BE RE-FUCKING-FILLED WITH TRASH, GARBAGE, DEAD WOOD, BROKEN POTS, WOODEN CHAIR FRAMES AND TORN-UP SEED TRAYS.

My father-in-law? Seriously, genuinely FOR REAL doesn't understand why I seem perpetually pissed off at him. DUDE, TAKE YOUR FUCKING PICK OF TEN YEARS WORTH OF THIS SORT'VE BULLSHIT AND YOU'VE GOT MORE THAN ONE FUCKING ANSWER.

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The one thing I learned from the waste ground/non-existent BBQ pit fiasco? Don't involve the in-laws by asking; just fucking do it. Last year I sneakily appropriated a narrow stretch of land adjacent to the side of the house (just beneath our computer room/office window). I grew garlic there, which did okay, but the area's far too shaded during summer due to the sycamore.

Last year was also the year I got so fucking sick of the fucking dirtyard (Mr. Awesome deliberately killed the front lawn, so for the past 5-7 years we've literally lived with a giant dirt fucking pit as our front yard) that I decided to grow some vegetables in a neat line hugging the side walk. As you'd expect, the second my in-laws saw me sifting dirt to remove stones they came racing out to inform me THEY WERE PLANNING TO PLANT THINGS IN THE FRONT YARD THAT SUMMER/YEAR.

Yeah, I didn't buy it either. Italics invoked HEY, REMEMBER HOW YOU GUYS WERE GOING TO BUILD A BBQ PIT...TEN YEARS AGO? and they sort've backed off, but after one too many "ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO PLANT VEGETABLES? WOULDN'T SHRUBS BE NICER?" and "YOU KNOW AFTER THIS YEAR WE'RE GOING TO LANDSCAPE THE ENTIRE FRONT YARD" I walked away from several months worth of effort and simply focused on my container garden on the patio.

This may come as a shock, but...my in-laws never actually did anything with the front yard last year despite all of the hassle I got for trying to improve the crackhouse appearance of our property. Without asking for permission I planted a long line of garlic in last year's prepared bed. In the next day or two I'll be planting beets behind the garlic, and parsley, dill and maybe basil in front of the bulbs. There's another small stretch of dirt that hugs the driveway's curve, and I really, really want to sift the earth there so I can plant a row of carrots.

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There's only one insanely short season when a portion of the dirtyard becomes a proper front yard - early-to-mid spring. Once the snowdrops and crocuses disappear there's only a smattering of squill, and once they're gone their leaves remain green for a month or two before dying back to expose the lack of a lawn beneath.

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Squill, close up and reflecting April's bright afternoon sun.

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This is that "narrow stretch of land" I quietly appropriated last year to grow garlic. I had originally planned to turn the space into a witch's flying ointment garden of baneful herbs, but the lack of full sun might affect some plants so until I do proper hardcore research (into preferred planting positions) the prepared space is in limbo. I'll probably grow a few herbs that don't mind partial shade this year (to keep the patch visibly occupied so Mr. Awesome isn't tempted to reclaim it) while figuring out what'll thrive (long term) in the garden bed.

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Under the Bed Badger's final resting place (of his physical remains, I mean). Near Bride's Day (aka Imbolc) we came across our first ever roadkill badger, which we sadly took home. (<- Just because I pick up and butcher roadkill doesn't mean I don't feel inherently ANGRY, RESENTFUL, PISSED OFF, and SAD when I come across a dead animal on the side of the road.)

I fed, bonded and then skinned the animal, froze his pelt (to preserve and tan myself) and buried his earthly remains in the yard. I intended to go back for the bones within a few weeks (once they were mostly clean), but both Italics and I sort've like the idea of allowing the first set of badger bones to remain buried beneath our office window.

I read somewhere that they're HELLA into bluebell bulbs, so I'm seriously considering creating a tiny badger-themed garden above UtBB's decomposed body to help strengthen our bond with him.

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You harvest garlic relatively early (plant on the shortest day of the year, harvest on the longest day of the year - or so the saying goes), so when I dug up my last bulb the garden bed looked incredibly empty. So empty, in fact, that I was hella worried it'd attract my father-in-law's attention.

Within days of lifting the last garlic plant I sowed beets and carrots to give the impression that the land was still in use, but in reality it was an exercise in marking my place because it was too late in the season - at least for Scotland - to expect any sort of fruitful harvest.

Some of the seedlings survived the winter - mostly carrots - but a single beet somehow managed to live despite direct exposure to the elements. If it continues to grow I'll probably let it bolt to gather seeds since this is a V. special little beet plant.

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An exceptionally tiny row of carrots that, like the single beet plant previously mentioned, somehow managed to survive THE WORST WINTER IN 30 YEARS! without any sort of covering.

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Sycamore buds. The tree just outside our office window has really wormed its way into magic life, so much so that one of the first things I do, ever fucking day, is open the computer room's blinds to glance outside at the sycamore. For over a year now we've been leaving offerings at the base of the tree, and last year we loped off one of the budding branches - together - for a spring-themed broom for myself.

Even though it isn't traditional (at least I don't think it is, but I deliberately stay ignorant of what people do (and don't do) so there's a good chance that somewhere someone's using sycamore buds for something) I'm going to harvest the buds and macerate them. I want to start with buds, move to flowers, continue with leaves and end with seeds to encompasses the tree's yearly growth in one bottle of oil.

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Where the driveway ends and the side walk begins. Last year on Lammas we came across two dead animals along the side of the road - a fox and an elephant-sized (<- APPROXIMATION) hedgehog. I skinned, butchered and processed the fox, but the hedgehog was a little too far gone for any sort of organ extraction so I buried his huge ass directly beneath the rock.

I'm on the fence about digging up his remains. I did bury him with the intent of going back for his bones, but after awarding several other "firsts" with permanent burial status I'd hate for him to feel left out. So, I think Mr. Hedgehog will stay buried in the hopes he'll continue blessing our property with his foraging presence.

(We had a soul crushing epidemic of mutant snails that decimated my vegetables year in and year out until Chippy called the hedgehogs. Before our nocturnal insect eaters arrived you couldn't even go outside at night because the patio was always swarming with snails and slugs. Within months of putting Chippy's offering dishes outside - the contents of which he shared with the hedgehogs - the number of gastropods plummeted. Now all it takes to deter snails and slugs from eating my vegetable plants are a few strategically placed lettuce leaves and the occasional buffalo wing (or two) for the hedgehogs.)

Aries Lambs, Aries Witch

Someone asked me, months ago, how I knew I was a witch. I haven't replied because every day I come up with a new answer. Today's irrefutable (and downright damning) evidence:

After excitedly realizing that the ewe in the above video had just given birth to the twin lambs the first thing I wanted to do was SNEAK INTO THE FIELD AND STEAL AS MUCH AFTERBIRTH, UMBILICAL CORDS and EXPELLED SACS I could get my fucking hands on. (<- "Holy shit! Imagine - IMAGINE! - binding shit up with motherfucking UMBILICAL CORDS! OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! I NEED AN UMBILICAL CORD!")

How the fuck do I know I'm a witch? Because upon coming across a birthing field of sheep my natural instinct was to SNEAK INTO A FARMER'S FIELD TO STEAL AMNIOTIC FLOTSAM AND JETSAM FROM HIS LABORING HERD OF EWES TO SPECIFICALLY USE IN WITCHCRAFT. (That? That isn't even me trying.)

My ass? Wouldn't have survived ten fucking minutes in this place three hundred years ago.

Lost and Found

Yesterday, in fragmented notes, thoughts, sentences and LOLs:

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

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

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

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

Alternative route found via microscopic rural roads. Frequent "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! JUST LOOK AT THOSE WEE BABY LAMBS! IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE ON EARTH AS CUTE AS JUST BORN LAMBS?" cries made. Red sports car not as impressed with new life; allowed misplaced vehicle to pass. Roll eyes at unnecessarily fast car, continue to enjoy scenery at own pace.

Reconnect with main road to Tarland. Cost of unexpected diversion? Found: babbling brook, old castle, tannery, ruined church, miniature graveyard. Acceptable price to pay for detour. Road? Quiet. Scenery? Breathtaking. Never felt as connected with land. America? Too new. Scotland? Steeped in "ancient". Hills call, water beckons, forests tempt. Scotland speaks; USA still needs to find voice. (<- Treasonous talk? Always good at being black sheep.)

See summit of snow capped mountain optically wedged between two hills. "HOLY FUCKING SHIT, LOOK AT ALL OF THE SNOW!" Balk at distance - V. distant - blanket of white. Can't believe visible amounts of snow. Follow road to Tarland. Burst over hill crest, slam on brakes despite acceptable speed. Hill drops to green, fertile valley backing into famous mountain range.

Can't find words, can't find thoughts. Park in road shoulder. Cry. Sit, quietly, staring out over majestic landscape. Think "MY HOME; THIS IS MY HOME", know Old Woman is talking; Old Woman is feeling. Entrance to another world - to another land - through purple and white barrier cradling rich farm fields and forests. Few days ago asked Italics "HOW CLOSE ARE THE CAIRNGORMS TO US?". Yesterday Universe answered. (<- Approximately 30 minutes.)

V. near Tarland. Mighty internet: "EARTHEN HOUSE JUST ONE MILE OUT OF TARLAND!" No obvious indication, squint at anything resembling sign. Try to ignore commanding scenery (mostly fail). "A FEW SITES DID MAKE OUT THAT THERE'S A SIGN POINTING TO THE-" didn't finish sentence, tiny - almost non-existent - street sign to souterrain on left side of road. (Eureka!)

No obvious passage Underground. No obvious parking lot. Obvious "PRIVATE FUCKING PROPERTY, MOTHERFUCKERS, DON'T PARK ON OUR FUCKING LAND" sign. (Farm directly on other side of grassy knoll.) Sigh. Roll eyes. Reverse, drive, reverse. Tuck into dirt track leading to wheat field. Not on private property, n'yah.

Pretend to be interested in tourist signpost explaining earthen house. Still no obvious passage Underground. See nothing except small patch of green lawn. Land slightly mounded, follow gentle slope down. Suddenly, tiny black crack in hill. A tear, a rip, a hidden gash. Wild pheasant shrieks when discovery is made. Startled, we laugh. Silently wonder if mother goddess hips will fit through minuscule threshold to Underground.

Mighty internet: "...AND DON'T FORGET TO BRING A FLASHLIGHT!" Torch? Remembered. Check torch to make sure working properly? Not remembered. (<- Oops!) Congratulations on almost dead flashlight, Ms. Graveyard Dirt. Prepared to Helen Keller dark tunnel (came too far to turn back). Faint illuminated glow from flashlight, battery weak - almost spent - but good enough.

Entrance to souterrain tight. Crossed threshold on hands and knees. Crawled like child, like petitioning supplicant. Humble, stripped of grandeur. Began descent into earth like animal, belly touching dusty ground. Further, deeper, darker. Hands outstretched to either side. Can't see stone walls, but can feel assuringly solid structure. Colder, darker, damper. Wooden beams lift up. Crawling becomes crouching, crouching becomes slouching, slouching becomes standing.

Abrupt end of passage. Facing end? Blackness. Facing opening? White pinprick of light. Earth breathing. Air smells like wet graveyard dirt. Water trickles down sides of walls. Silence engulfs hollowed out space. We stand, side by side, as woman and man, as to-be husband and to-be wife in ancient, man-made chamber. We stand in a prison, a womb, an unexpected bridal bedchamber. We stand in a 2000 year old stone and wood lined tunnel where the fruits of Harvest were stored. We stand Underground; our home, our domain, our sacred ground.

Flashlight reveals tealights dotting unseen ground. (Ritually used? Practically used?) Candles won't burn, not enough wax and/or cheap make. Amused, nonetheless. Touch Italics' cock through pants in enveloping darkness. Span fingers over bump and knead flesh and material encouragingly. Joking grope leads to kissing, kissing leads to serious groping, serious groping leads to blowjob, blowjob leads to unplanned martial sex against wet walls of earthen house.

Had planned for overtly ceremonial rite at home, settled for on-the-fly passion in underground passage two millennia old. (Can't ritualize everything.) Marriage, finally. Sex, finally. (57 days of celibacy? OVER.) Physical and spiritual union of man and woman, god and goddess, groom and bride, king and sovereignty personified.

(Unwittingly swallowed live bug during first penetration; tried not to ruin moment by choking. Pretended accidental consumption of living thing during sacred marriage part of never ending life/death cycle. (Hah fucking hah.) Still would have preferred NOT inhaling insect, thnx.)

Painful. (Amazing.) Uncomfortable. (Wonderful.) Tight. (Perfect fit.) Bride. (Wife.) One orgasm, together, almost two. Stone walls, lengths of wood and earth's darkness beared witness. Sealed union by pressing messy cunt against precipitation covered dead end wall. Married, for one year. Exited Underground with husband-prize in tow. (<- UNINTENTIONAL, BUT FITTING.)

Mutant buff-tailed bumblebee welcomed newlyweds emerging from Underground marital chamber. Air? Fresher, lighter. Sun? Warmer, brighter. Entered earthen passage one season, departed earthen passage to another. Exchanged "HAPPY MARRIAGE!" in front of quivering daffodils. Kissed, cleaned up remnants of sacred marriage still coating inner thighs.

Go home? Why? Just married! Celebrate sacred union exploring countryside? OH, WHY NOT! Stopped at "Queen's View" scenic overlook. Heard bumblebee. Studied tourist plaque. Crossed road, marveled at Alp-like landscape unfolding on other side of valley. Poked commemorative sundial. Crossed road, studied tourist plaque again. Made executive decision - find local kirkyard (V. close, tourist plaque map said). Heard bumblebee.

New country lane, new adventure. Down tree studded hill into fertile, greening valley. Stupid number of pheasants. (Count? Lost count after 10. <- "Stupid number of pheasants" 100% accurate.) "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! JUST LOOK AT THOSE WEE BABY LAMBS! IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE ON EARTH AS CUTE AS JUST BORN LAMBS?" New baby lambs? Never get old. Ms. Graveyard Dirt and Italics testament to bold claim.

Found old church. Found old graveyard. Found old morthouse. Found handy tourist signpost with old church, old graveyard and old morthouse information. Learned morthouse = corpse safe in olden times (to deter would-be body snatchers). Suddenly more interested in morthouse (surprise, surprise).

Return to dank interior of antique morthouse. "THIS TOTALLY FEELS LIKE AN ORDINARY SHED." (Ordinary shed partially buried underground, anyway.) Had to piss. Saw headstone fragments casually tossed into shadowy corners. Wanted them. (Still had to piss.) Saw small wooden ladder resting against stone wall. Wanted it. (Really had to piss.) Saw discarded dusty vase filled with rocks. Wanted it. (Really for real serious had to piss.)

Had piss at base of ladder. (Ladder? Super big Ukrainian ju-ju, FYI.) Groped ladder. Caressed ladder. Fantasized about abducting rickety old morthouse ladder for personal/ritual use. Considered leaving monetary note beneath rock where ladder stood. Too risky, left it. Took vase, though (not entirely stupid, mkay?).

"WAIT FOR ME, I'LL COME BACK FOR YOU!" Ladder seemed to understand.

Found (in total): babbling brook, old castle, tannery, ruined church, miniature graveyard, Cairngorms, 2000 year old souterrain, husband (and king), commemorative sundial, old church, older morthouse, super old cemetery, unloved glass vase & unrequited love for one ladder

Lost (in total): "virginity" & 1/3 of Blessed Virgin trio

Spring Wedding, Winter Setting

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"JESUS, WHY IS IT SO FUCKING COLD?" I asked Italics (who didn't have an answer). To cut off the draft I yanked the computer room's blind down, which put an end to the frigid air that had been rolling into our office. Within minutes of my complaint it began snowing, and it didn't stop for a day and a night.

The snow remained flawless - completely untouched - for over six hours. I watched through water droplet splattered windows as the wind moved and sculpted each fresh wave of precipitation, burying the first fragile signs of Spring beneath a heavy blanket of white. The world was eerily quiet. There were no people, no traffic, no citrine houselights - absolutely nothing except for us and the blizzard swallowing us whole.

What do you do when it feels like you're one of the last people left living on earth? You get naked in front of the huge ass lounge windows and press your tits and ass against the glass you just finished polishing for absolutely no one to see. (<- YOU WOULD IF YOU WERE ME, OKAY?)

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It began snowing just as I began the process of preparing the lounge for our Easter / Spring / Hieros Gamos / Sacred Marriage / Great Rite altars. (<- Spring wedding, Winter Setting!) And even though I've had enough of the Old Woman (SRSLY, INTERNET, I DIDN'T EVEN SCRATCH THE SURFACE OF HOW MUCH FUCKING SNOW WE GOT THIS PAST WINTER - THEY WERE HAULING THE SHIT AWAY IN MOTHERFUCKING //DUMP TRUCKS//) I went out, one last time, to feed Her, welcome Her and invite Her grumpy old ass to the wedding.

As an afterthought I tied Bride's apron and wedding dress to my budding peach tree, hoping to capture the wisdom of age within immortality's sacred fruit. It trembled against the naked tree - a white flag of resurrection and renewal - for a night and a day, sanctified and consecrated by Winter's last and final snow.

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Here in northeast Scotland we always receive one last snowfall on the cusp of deep Spring, and it arrives just in time for our Easter wedding. The Old Woman - tired and worn - eventually admits defeat, deciding it's better to be young and stupid than old and bitter. She abdicates Her reign as Winter Queen, and accepts the counterpart position - virginal Spring Bride. (But only after 40 days of spiritual, mental and physical purification.)

This past Winter the Old Woman's ruled for an inordinate amount of time. For the first time, ever, I felt a drawn out reluctance to abandon Her divine throne. My ass is partially to blame - I didn't get my shit done in time. (And the ONE TIME I didn't get my shit done in time is the one fucking time Spring didn't appear on schedule, NATURALLY.)

I managed the "sacrifice" part of Lent (this year I gave up white flour-based bread, which is nothing short of CRACK to a crack addict (especially a crack addict whose god is the crack she's giving up)), and maintained celibacy throughout the 40 days but I didn't have time to build a Lenten fire (to create ashes), whip up a batch of sacred ashes, anoint our bodies and our bed with the sacred ash mix, dye my hair henna red (I'm only allowed to have red hair during the Light part of the year) and tie up loose spiritual ends (i.e., non-perishable offerings that still need to be given).

Hopefully NEXT year I'll have my fat ass in gear which'll mean an early Spring for northeast Scotland.

Paska Invocation

Before I bake any ritual bread I always start the process by invoking my ancestors (WHEN YOUR ANCESTORS ARE FAMOUS THE WORLD OVER FOR THEIR BREAD BAKING ABILITIES, IT ALWAYS PAYS TO HAVE THEM ON YOUR SIDE - EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO CONTEND WITH BACKSEAT BAKING FROM YOUR GREAT-GREAT-GREAT GRANDMOTHER), and once they've been invited over for their expertise I sanctify the bread making bowl by fumigating it with sacred incense.

PS: If you live in northeast Scotland and woke up hearing Jesus Christ Superstar blaring from some house at 4:30 AM on April 1st I deeply, sincerely apologize (even if it's the BEST MUSICAL EVER and remains THE PERFECT SOUNDTRACK FOR HOLY WEEK). I was really, really high and accidentally smoked out the house with pinon incense to the point that I had to throw open the kitchen door to let the room air so I could continue with Paska baking. (April Fools?)

PPS: In hindsight, starting the video at 25 seconds into taping (I cropped it to make the file shorter) was probably not the best choice. Just in case you were wondering, that wasn't an out-of-tune banjo string breaking at the very start of the embedded video, it was my shitty editing skills.

Great and Holy Thursday

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With one hand I sacrificed my Bridegroom, with two hands I pray for forgiveness.

February, 2009

When I'm not overloaded with stressful real life stuff I'm almost always taking pictures. I think I manage writing about 75% of the photos I take, but a small percent almost always slips through my fingers and sits untitled, undescribed and untagged in my Flickr stream.

My original idea was to scoop up those motherfuckers - one year later, month by month - and finally give them the journal entry they deserve (even if "the journal entry they deserve" involves being part of a picture dump). January (when I came up with and incepted the plan) was on time, but due to House and Shakey and Mr. Awesome I kind've sort've lost my way.

This is February 2009's catchup, almost two months late. (WHOOPS.) After reading through the entire month I feel slightly resentful that last year's Feb. was such a piece of fucking cake (at least when compared to this year). In fact, the obvious contrast between 2009 and 2010 borders on fucking comedy, although my ass ain't laughing.

You don't have to take my word for it, you can READ FOR YOURSELF. And I recommend you do, because I did a decent job in explaining - or at least emoting - my take on the entire Spring/Winter, Bride/Whore dynamic that I engage in.

Everything I should've said and shown you this year? Got said and shown last year. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that next year I'll in the right mental place and have less peripheral distractions which'll allow me to reexperience the awakening I did in 2009. (<- SPRING 2009? ABSOLUTELY //MAGIC//; IT WAS THE SORT'VE SHIT THAT BECOMES THE FOUNDATION OF YOUR BELIEFS.)

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It's been virtually impossible to get a decent picture of our current rat brigade. The last trio we had (Jigga, Hezbollah and Beh) were lazy ass, docile lap rats which made photo taking a piece of cake. The current triad of terror (Denny's, Shakey's and Shoney's) are so hyperactive that almost every fucking picture we've taken of them has come out blurred in the (near) three years we've owned them.

(Pictured just above my hand is Choo-Choo (aka Shoney, who's also called Choney), and off to the side is most of Wuzza (aka Denny's).)

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Choney doing what she does best: theatrically waiting for attention.

(The triad of terror have successfully ruined a huge percentage of our books. You don't even want to know what they've done to some of our OUT OF PRINT and STUPID EXPENSIVE erotic fantasy art books. No, seriously. Jesus himself would fucking weep.)

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Who was more excited by an unexpected package (date filled cookies and a bottle of sandalwood perfume) from my good friend F? Hezbollah, by the looks of it. (One day I promise to explain the entire Crazy Rat/Hezbollah thing, but until then just PRETEND like you totally get what's going on. <- I HAVE A FEELING THAT ANYONE WHO READS MY JOURNAL IS PROBABLY USE TO THAT.)

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2009's love cake for Valentine's Day. (ME? CANDY? HA! I GOT A //CAKE//!) Just for him I ate it like a little piggy with my nose buried deep in the sponge and filling. (<- It's easy to keep your relationship interesting when activities involve chocolate, sugar, frosting and cake.)

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Sunlight streaming down on the dead crow dirt. (You can't see the layer of gray, gelatinous mess beneath the surface layer of new food. Eventually all of the fat, grease and food sinks into the earth and creates a rich compost which I use around planting time.)

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My container of dead crow dirt sunbathing in February sunshine. (I know what you're thinking - WTF IS "DEAD CROW DIRT"? One of these years I'll sit down and tell the story.)

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I love how it looks like early morning (I think this was taken around 11 or noon) and how the damp earth is full of promise.

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My spring bulbs woke up beneath a blanket of snow that lasted about two weeks.

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An important ingredient for weather magic? Bottled snow.

This is snow gathered from February 2009's winter storms. I stuffed an empty plastic water bottle with freshly fallen snow, allowed it to melt at room temperature on my office altar (OH, HEY, LOOK, ANAT'S STILL IN ONE PIECE IN THIS PICTURE! <- HER WAR HAND GOT CAUGHT ON MY BRA AND SHE WAS ACCIDENTALLY SWEPT OFF THE ALTAR AND FELL TO THE FLOOR WHERE SHE BROKE INTO SEVERAL PIECES; SHE'S SINCE BEEN REPLACED BY WADJET) and then tossed the vessel in the freezer for future witchery.

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The remains of Snow Jigga. (<- A GIANT SNOWMAN MODELED AFTER JIGGA. I ACTUALLY HAVE PICTURES OF IT, BUT THEY'RE HIDDEN IN A FOLDER WITHIN A FOLDER WITHIN A FOLDER SO IT'LL REQUIRE A LITTLE BIT OF EXCAVATION ON MY PART TO FIND THEM.) It took two - maybe even three - weeks to fully melt and disappear.

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HOLY FUCKING SHIT, THEY WEREN'T THERE A DAY OR TWO AGO!

The unfolding purple flowers are Purple Gems (a dwarf iris), the lone yellow shoot is probably Danfordiae (a dwarf iris, I think) and the curling green leaves with raindrops are probably one of my two dwarf tulips.

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A streak of yellow against gray and gray.

House of Cards

I just want to wake up from this Groundhog Day nightmare and get the next day started, but I've been stuck on the same day - the same routine - for nearly two months. Some days it doesn't feel like there's any meaning or purpose (so there's nothing worth fighting for), other days I wake up screaming like a Valkyrie, ready to crawl across a cosmic minefield if it means victory.

I feel the boot bearing down on me, but I'm throwing both shoulders into it and pushing against what feels like a brick wall because I know, eventually, it'll collapse like a house of cards.

(2010, I WILL BREAK YOU. I WILL CRUSH YOU BENEATH MY CALLOUSED, BARE FEET. I WILL STRETCH OUT MY SCARRED FINGERS AND BRING DOWN BIBLICAL SHIT YOU HAVEN'T SEEN SINCE FUCKING MOSES AND HIS PLAGUES. I MIGHT BE BLOODIED AND BROKEN, BUT BY DECEMBER FUCKING 31ST I'LL BE WEARING YOUR FUCKING BATTERED SKIN LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING FUR COAT GIVEN TO ME BY GOD HIM-FUCKING-SELF.)

(AND YOU KNOW THAT AIN'T AN IDLE THREAT BECAUSE A WOMAN DOESN'T DISH THAT SORT'VE SHIT OUT LIGHTLY.)

Hair Cuttin'

And in other noteworthy Ms. Graveyard Dirt news: for the first time, ever, I cut Italics' hair today*. (<- "First time" even includes the use of clippers! Holy shit, my God, if I can solidly clean up the nape of his neck I can surely shear some fucking sheep, right? ...RIGHT?)

* SO Y'ALL TRASHY, HAIR SNATCHIN' GHETTO ASS WITCHES BEST BE FINDING A NEW WAY TO STEAL MY MAN. CAUSE NOW? NOW //I// BE DOIN' THE HAIR CUTTIN' IN THIS MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE.

And Then, Spring

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...and then, Spring.

Scary minimal for me, but the in-laws are home and after the recent "NO I DIDN'T, YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY!" debacle (<- my father-in-law denied a bunch of shit ranging from throwing away ashes that belonged to my mother to throwing garbage on my Winter altars (yes, plural; it's happened twice) earlier this week in an absolutely stunning display of audacious lying and insistent memory loss (the later of which, admittedly, is less "stunning" and more "worrying")) I've deliberately tried to scale back what gets left out in communal living areas.

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Last year Italics and I made a set of paschal lambs out of butter for our Easter marriage celebrations. (A block of butter is a must have in any traditional Ukrainian Easter basket, a block of butter moulded into the shape of a little lamb is a must have in any Ms. Graveyard Dirt Easter basket. <- You think I'm joking? I had to fucking IMPORT a fucking VINTAGE BUTTER MOULDING KIT from the fucking United States in order to live up to my Easter expectations.)

One lamb was taken to church (to be blessed*), placed on Easter Sunday's altar and consumed during a ritualized Ukrainian brunch. The other was slung in the freezer for "something special". With Easter only a few weeks away I figured it was time to use up our last paschal lamb before creating a new pair to mark the start of the agricultural season.

(I'm totally making an herbal butter with fresh sage, thyme and rosemary and coating a lamb shoulder roast with the mixture. <- OUR OSTARA/SPRING MEAL; LAMB BASTED WITH SYMBOLIC LAMB, MORBID OR WHAT?)

(* Basically? Basically you haul all of the shit you're going to eat on Easter Sunday brunch - paska (that's a traditional Ukrainian Easter bread), boiled eggs, salt, butter, horseradish (sometimes tinted magenta with beets) and insane amounts of smoked pork (sausages, bacon, ham, loin) - to church on Holy Saturday to get it all blessed by the priest for Easter Sunday.)

The crocuses are from our dirtyard; these three mark the beginning of my crocus and snowdrop harvest to create a bee incense. (Last year I kept a close eye on all of the flowering plants, shrubs and trees on our property to see which ones the bees favored. This year I'll be collecting those blossoms throughout the growing season as the major ingredient in my homemade incense blend.)

I always bake something extra special for our Easter wedding. I mean, a marriage requires some sort of cake or dessert, right? (CORRECT ME IF I'M WRONG, BUT I'M PRETTY SURE THAT AN ABSENCE OF PURE, REFINED SUGAR AT A WEDDING CELEBRATION IS GROUNDS FOR AN ANNULMENT.) This year Italics and I decided we wanted some Easter tat in the form of little chenille baby chicks decorating our high sugar content celebratory dessert, now all I have to do is figure out what the fuck to make. (But, hey! At least we've got the dessert decorations, right? Snort.)

(Italics says the baby chicks look like they're singing in the picture above. Ever since he brought it up to my attention THAT'S ALL I FUCKING SEE. WHAT ARE THEY SINGING? WHY ARE THEY SINGING? CLEARLY, THIS IS A SPRING MYSTERY.)

Everything is gingerly sitting on a rectangular offering dish that I regularly use to create "spirit plates" (what my mom called them) for visiting relatives, friends and ancestors that have passed on. (Not spectacularly significant, but since I explained away everything else...)

Making Hawthorn Syrup

Cooling recently boiled hawthorn berries (to make hawthorn syrup) while a cover of Purple Rain plays in the background.

Love Magic, Ms. GD-Style

Defrosting a raw lamb heart for some love magic. (3 HEARTS IN TOTAL; 1 FOR HEXIN', ONE FOR LOVIN' AND ONE FOR OFFERIN'.)

Seashells and Rowan Berries

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Yesterday I sat in front of the backroom's patio door while working on unfinished projects, soaking up the early Spring sun as middle eastern music and cheap ass lemongrass scented incense filled the warm, comfortable silence. (I don't meditate; I'm too high strung. I can appreciate the calming loss of reality, though, through repetitive movements like popping dried rowan berries off their stems and into a crystal vase.)

My geranium pile? Sorted. (I separated the stems from the leaf heads, and bundled the tiny sticks together. Both dried parts ended up in the same jar because it seemed like a shame to throw out the stems since they're as fragrant as the lemon rose scented leaves.)

Dried clusters of rowan berries? Sorted. (I snapped off every fucking viable berry into a vase - only accidentally knocking it over once (see the picture above) - and transferred the lot into another jar. The remains - unsightly berries and brittle, empty stems - were added to our burning pile.)

(Since we can't compost we ritually burn things and I incorporate the ash into our spiritual lives - sometimes we scatter the remains at sacred sites as offerings, other times I use it as fertilizer for our plants and around this time of year I use it to create a paste to anoint our bodies and bed frame for purification as late Winter turns into early Spring.)

The limpet shells? Next in line to get sorted. (We collected them two days ago when beachcombing a little cove next to Dunnottar castle. That story? Requires an entirely new entry; stay tuned.)

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").)

Tiger's Metal Tiger Ribeye

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

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

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

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

HAPPY YEAR OF METAL TIGER, TIGER!

Workin' Her Glamour

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

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

That Sort've Witch

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

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

January, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Chark Park eating part of a buttermilk oatmeal muffin.

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

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

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Shakey and Shoney looking like pea gremlins.

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

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

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Hezbollah contemplates the garden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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An impromptu dinner:

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

Verdict? Worth remembering.

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

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We started off the weekend on the right foot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imbolc's Oatmeal Soda Bread

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frangelico Crème Brûlée

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

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

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

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

Burn Her, Kill Her

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

Caught Up w/the Bride

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

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

Bride's Brined Brisket, 2009

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

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

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Italics rubbing the brining mixture into the brisket.

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Italics punching the brining mixture into the brisket.

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

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Anointed, massaged and ready for the brining bucket.

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

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Clearly our culinary sophistication is off the fucking charts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...it was worth every second.

Bride's Day Sex, 2009

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

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Bride's Sabbat Cakes, 2009

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

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Lunar crescent? TOO MUCH EFFORT.

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

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

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A week worth of effort.

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

Bride's Braid, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sliced and ready to serve.

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

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

Bride's Day, 2010

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

Bride's Day Eve

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Candle wax reading.

Jan 23-30

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

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

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