Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

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."

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.

Snakes and Ladders

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Homecoming

The first brittle leaves of autumn are scraping against the night.

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.

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.

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.

#11

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

Herd in a Handbasket

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

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.)

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.

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.)

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.

Winter Lightning

Only in motherfucking Scotland do you get lightning during a winter freeze. (If I haven’t already made it inadvertently clear: Scotland? Pretty fucking magic.)

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.

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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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.

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.

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.)

Fairy Lights

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I have fresh fly agarics hanging from wall to wall like mushroom fairy lights.

Broken Deer Funeral

The funeral of a broken deer found at a crossroads.

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.

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.)

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.

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.)

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.

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.)

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...)

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").)

Fear of Death

Typically, February's a challenging month. Standing on the cusp of Spring my reign as Winter's whore, hag and mistress is beginning to end. As Darkness cracks and Light begins to filter through I straddle the threshold of transformation. After Bride's Day I'm the Old Woman and the Young Maiden; youth taking from age, and age fighting against youth. It's an emotionally tumultuous time marked by tears, frustration, rebellion, grief and sacrifice.

February's a time when hormones rage; there's resistance and submission. The Old Woman's reluctant to give up Her hold ("BUT I LIKE WEARING FUCKING JEANS AND BAGGY ASS T-SHIRTS AND I DON'T WANT TO WEAR MAKE-UP OR GO OUTSIDE..."), the Bride, as strong as seeds pushing against the weight of the earth, represents an inevitable, unavoidable change I/We undergo annually.

The thing is...it's easier getting older, it's harder becoming younger. The Whore is Woman unhinged - She's widowed, but still consorts, still acts as a mistress to the Universe. She's beautiful, She's terrifying, She's powerful, intimidating and awe-inspiring. She's wise, She's hardened, She's the culmination of everything learned, experienced and understood as the Bride. The Whore - the Old Woman - is enlightenment, one agricultural year at a time.

At the start of the year - the Dark year, after harvest, after the king's been cut down - the Whore's still young. She ages with Winter, and, eventually, as time passes and weeks become months the wild, intoxicated parties, celebrations and "black masses" give way to quieter evenings, warmer clothes and amotivation. By February We aren't the sexy, sassy, audacious mistress We once were. We're old, We're tired. We're grouchy and bitter and jaded and hate everything and everyone and SERIOUSLY, WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT OF WEARING THONGS, ANYWAY, BECAUSE WHO AM I TRYING TO IMPRESS? MY PARTNER OF NEARLY 13 YEARS? PLEASE.

We hate and resent youth with its energy, excitement and naivety. I think, really, We're wary of youth; We've been down that road before, generations upon generations, and We're tired of finding Our way year in and year out. Every year - every Spring - We watch our slate get wiped clean, knowing We have to live through it all again and make new mistakes, experience new embarrassments and deal with the annual heartbreak of love and loss.

The curse of aging - the real curse of aging - is realizing there's no satisfactory trade off. A body of a teenager comes with the mind of a teenager who, psychologically, is still a child. At age 29 with two months to go until 30 there's only one prospect that strikes unmitigated terror into my (laughably) adult heart (well, other than death and that there isn't anything after this) - the prospect of being 19 again with two months to go until 20.

The hallmark of being a proper grown up? Finding yourself going "NIGGA, PLEASE!" when offered the chance of reverting to your retarded, younger self for the sake of something purely physical - youth, and youth's young body. When I feel myself struggle against Spring I feel my "old" self resisting the negative and challenging aspect of being young. That's the problem with Winter's end, if I don't pace the season properly I'm left with nothing but reversed tarot cards - I have negative fighting and pushing against negative.

Spring should be a celebration, a joyous revelry. Who else gets to become young again? Who else does the earth miss and mourn? Who else does the resurrected king love? Who else never dies - grows old, as old as time and then, as if by magic, grows young again?

Maybe there's a part of the Old Woman who, even after all of this time, still fears death and the loss of Herself. What the fuck does it matter if you get to be young again if you lose your wisdom, your enlightenment and your life's experiences? To know and be aware that you have to be reborn, new, without the baggage that made you YOU is a fucking terrifying prospect.

Old Woman, you live my fear of death.

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?)

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 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.

Cailleach Stalking the Bride

It began snowing when I started brining Bride's brisket (to make corn beef for Imbolc/Bride's Day), and it hasn't stopped since. (Pictured above: a sandwich and whiskey offering to the Cailleach; I always set out a meal and a shot for the Old Woman whenever She comes to visit.)

Yesterday, between butchering the pheasant and pining its feathers to cardboard, I paused for a second to watch a cloud of snow pass the sun. Sol glowed like a luminous orb in a dust storm, a soft, round disc of glowing white emanating heat through disintegrating cobwebs. I tried to get a video, but it didn't pickup the contrast that the naked eye saw. I did kind've sort've manage a picture, but it pales in comparison:

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Breakfast of Champions

I woke up with a burning hole in my stomach, and then the Old Woman decided to visit - before breakfast - which meant the first thing that went into the internal blaze was a shot of Scottish whisky. (Oi fucking vey.) It hasn't snowed in weeks; how did She know we were taking down the Christmas tree and all of the "winter" decorations today?

Bad Witch

It might come as a shock (especially if you manage to catch me on the phone) but for all the fucking talking I do, my natural instinct is to shy away from most social interaction. It's not because I'm an introvert (I'm obnoxiously extrovert; I swear that even my silence screams), it's just because I'm not interested.

(THAT'S PAINFULLY BLUNT, I KNOW, BUT IT SHOULDN'T BE THAT MUCH OF A SURPRISE SINCE I DON'T THINK I'VE BEEN GIVING THE IMPRESSION THAT I'D BE HOLDING ANYONE'S HAND WITH THIS SHIT.)

I'm impatient, short tempered, moody and it doesn't take much to piss me off and send me into grouchy cunt mood. I'm the awesome production of AUTISM, ARIES TYPE-A PERSONALITY and ECSTATIC WAR. I'm actively trying to tone it down, but, at the moment, it's mostly YOU EITHER LIVE WITH IT or YOU DON'T. (Thankfully, Italics has a high threshold - at least when it comes to me - and after twelve years of work there's been some improvement in my retard rage.)

A huge majority of witches - real witches, proper witches, witches that I'd give two gigantic thumbs up to - are friendly, helpful and altruistic. They selflessly devote their work and their time to friends, relatives and strangers. They welcome questions, take part in discussions and remain easily accessible to the public to paint a clearer, most positive picture of witches and witchcraft. The thing is...I'm not one of them.

I'm the one who hates everything, hates everybody, screams at people through her monitor ("WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING CALLING YOURSELF A FUCKING WITCH IF YOU CAN'T EVEN FUCKING STOMACH HANDLING MEAT YOU BUY FROM THE FUCKING GROCERY STORE?"), spits in the path of anyone who even momentarily crosses her, threatens certain death to neighbor cats who kill her garden's wild birds and could find some sort of ungrateful complaint when stumbling across buried treasure.

Me? I'm undoing all of their work with one cliched generalization after another. I'm what gives "witch" a bad name; I live up to every negative stereotype in the book. I'm unsocial, I'm angry, I'm ill-tempered and I'm always riding some level of foul mood. (Any wonder why I feel spiritually closest to the sorceress hags in fairy tales?) And the worst part? I //LIKE// IT.

I'm not a fan of comments; once you give people a forum to interact with you it inevitably becomes open season on your life. And what I'm doing here, with Graveyard Dirt, isn't open for debate - IT'S A DIARY OF MY LIFE. I'm not interested in what people think I should be doing, or how I'm doing it wrongly or differently. I'm doing it - I'm LIVING IT - and I'm simply letting people watch from a distance.

(When in doubt treat Ms. Graveyard Dirt like a wild animal doing her thing in her natural environment. If you wouldn't poke, taunt, harass or draw unwanted attention from an elephant or rhino in the untamed open, then please just stay in your internet safari car and enjoy Ms. GD from a safe distance.)

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY. I'm not trying to frighten, intimidate or paint some sort of on-line badass persona of myself, I'm just attempting to better explain why I decided to opt out of using any sort of comment system here in GD (which, reading back, comes across as unintentionally severe, although I wasn't exaggerating in the least about my volatile personality, it's both my greatest strength and my biggest weakness as a person).

It's not that I don't appreciate comments or emails (I totally LOVE getting emails), I just know criticism, arguments and "suggestions" would inevitably follow and seriously, guys, I already have enough shit to deal with here. GD is meant to be a sort of refuge, and I dread to think there might ever be a time when I find myself avoiding it because other people ruined it for me.

(SORRY, READING AUDIENCE, THE POSITION OF "PERSON WHO RUINS THINGS FOR MS. GD" HAS BEEN PERMANENTLY FILLED BY MR. AWESOME, MY FATHER-IN-LAW, AND DESPITE HIS AGE HE SEEMS PRETTY FUCKING HEALTHY SO IT MIGHT BE SOME TIME BEFORE THE POSITION OPENS FOR NEW APPLICATIONS.)

PHEW, ALRIGHT! Now that I've got GUYS, I'M A BAD PERSON THAT YOU DON'T REALLY WANT TO KNOW, REALLY and DON'T EVER MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH ME WHEN OUT ON SAFARI out of the way I can finally address what this entry's about. (CIRCUITOUS AND UNNECESSARILY COMPLICATED? ...ME?)

Sometimes, when the stars are in the right alignment, I crawl out of my cranky cunt shell and mingle with the population. (It's rare, I admit it. Your chances of finding a four leaf clover is way more likely.) Tumblr has this feature which allows other users to ask you questions, and since we've been up at night (and haven't left the house in practically a month) I've been crawling up the wall for stimulation.

Out of curiosity, I flipped the switch to "on" to see what people would ask (CONFESSION: to see if people would even ask anything at all, I almost always work under the assumption that people haven't noticed me and have no fucking clue as to who I am) and I was pleasantly surprised. The majority of questions I received focused on my beliefs and practices, so I thought I'd copy and paste some of the on-topic Q & A here.

I remember seeing your entry about tarot cards earlier, and I reblogged, noting that I have a hard time meditating and centering my energy. Hell, I have a hard time relaxing and calming down in general. I'd love to learn more about tarot and read cards in general, but I get the impression centering one's energy and being calm and collected is a pretty important element in order to read cards well. Is there any hope that a high-strung mind like mine can relax and interpret the cards?

Man, I'm probably the WORST person to get tarot advice from. Seriously. Along with being able to sympathize with your overactive mind I've also built this mental block because learning a system I didn't create is counterintuitive to the way I work.

I need to be at least marginally familiar with something before I can develop any psychological attachment to it. As of now I've got an okay handle on some of the major arcana cards, but the minor ones? Pfft. Trying to use a tarot deck properly right now would feel like I was playing a board game whose rules I needed to check with every fucking move.

Before embarking on getting in touch with my subconscious, I need to feel like my subconscious is vaguely familiar with the tools I'm using. That's why using things I've made (i.e., bones, runes, whatever) or simply "reading" shit like coffee foam, tea sediment, blood clots and scrambled raw eggs works so well, it's direct interpretation without any prior knowledge needed.

I get the impression centering one's energy and being calm and collected is a pretty important element in order to read cards well.

I think it hugely depends on the person. Me? I do my best work when I'm in ecstatic mode. I don't know if it's the autism, my type-A Aries personality or if I'm just supremely fucked in the head but I can't meditate AT ALL. (I've tried. Honestly. But within five minutes of relaxation and breathing Papa {aka Baron Samedi} pops up and begins talking about his big black cock or Chippy wants to go and play ball. It's like being still and centering myself turns all the channels up to 11 leaving me in the exact OPPOSITE state of mind.)

If you're finding it difficult (or even uncomfortable) to do the shit "quietly" (<- not necessary volume related), then do it loudly. Do something that energizes you, or moves a part of you. (I also recommend getting high, or working under the influence of an entheogen but drug taking, despite its ancient roots in witchcraft and religious worship/work, seems to be irritatingly taboo in many modern witchcraft/paganism circles. If you're totally up to smoking (which I don't think you are since you can't burn incense in the house) or consuming (usually in form of teas and tinctures) something there are organic "visionary" blends you can buy that'll help the reading/connecting process without you having to experience the hardcore "drug" effect things like pot or mushrooms will produce.)

For instance, with Papa I'll put on lingerie, pour us both a drink, get high, share a cigar with him, play something like Dr. John's Gris-Gris and by the time I'm heady, withering around and dancing to the music with careless abandon I know it's time to begin laying cards. But that's for super special occasions, most of the time it's a lot more low key and I rely on something like BEING HIGH and/or MASTURBATING (with a deck in hand) to help unblock access to my subconscious.

Is there any hope that a high-strung mind like mine can relax and interpret the cards?

Yes! Make "being comfortable reading shit" your priority. Find a system that's totally reliant on your interpretations so you can concentrate on feeling confident with your subconscious connection. At the same time (if you're really interested in using tarot), begin familiarizing yourself with the major arcana and then the minor arcana. (That's what I'm doing, anyway, and it's working well enough for me, although these things ARE highly personal...)

My suggestion? Find two divination-themed decks. One should be a tarot deck that appeals to you, and the other should be some sort of card set without prewritten significance. (In other words, a set of cards that requires you to "read" based on intuition rather than referring to the rules book included.) It PAINS ME TO EVEN SUGGEST THIS, but...despite SOUL CARDS being nauseatingly "new age" they're amazingly accurate. (I took my deceased mother's set for sentimental and "LOL @ THIS NEW AGE BULLSHIT, LOLOLOL!" reasons, and I've been recommending them ever since - EMBARRASSING.)

isnt there someplace you can do a perma altar or is this due to your obviously annoying inlaws...?

I have a billion tiny, inconspicuous altars spread throughout the house (mainly the kitchen, our office/computer room, our bedroom and the backroom which kind've sort've acts as our living room when in-laws are in the TV room), but the majority of them are behind closed doors due to my father-in-law's OCD-like tendencies.

(He can't help but move or touch things which sometimes involves him "fixing" things that aren't broken (without asking), throwing away shit that isn't his (without checking first) and/or simply appropriating other people's things for himself (without asking if it's cool). If you leave something out - no matter what it is - it's only a matter of time before he breaks it, ruins it, kills it, takes it or trashes it.)

Unfortunately, we just don't have the space in our super personal rooms (the office and bedroom) for a permanent altar, so I have to wait until the in-laws are gone on their two week vacations to create something seasonally elaborate in the communal lounge. The problem with THAT is reverting everything to its otherwise mundane setting before they get back home.

(Last Christmas? My father-in-law threw garbage on my altar rather than carrying the shit to the kitchen to throw out in a fucking trash can. "Livid" doesn't even remotely describe my initial reaction. I've since learned a valuable lesson - if you don't want a dick to act like a dick, don't give him a chance to be one.)

Did you have a favourite myth/story when you were just a wee wild young thing? What is it?

Man, I was so fucking self-absorbed as a child that this question's stumped me FOR DAYS. You'd think that I would've been under the influence of THE OLD COUNTRY folklore with the way I go on about being Ukrainian, but in reality that aspect of my heritage is completely non-existent. I was told my grandfather thought that the shit was "nonsense" so he didn't allow my grandmother to tell them to my mother, who, in turn, never got exposed to the mythic/mystical side of Ukie life so she had nothing to pass onto me.

(INTERESTING SIDE NOTE: I apparently come from a long line of recognized "witches" on my maternal side - the Hutsul branch; mountain cowboy mystic folk. My female ancestors were supposedly hella proficient in reading signs and exceptionally knowledgeable in herbal lore. The lineage stopped with my grandmother (who was 1/2 Native American despite being Ukrainian, but that's an entirely different story...) who left Ukraine to find a better life. I think our ancient "job" came back with my mother, but she got too caught up in religion and twisted whatever she had to make it fit the Native American thing she was doing. I feel like a stronger, better version of her, unhampered by the feeling that to be a witch/special/magic you have to had adhere to certain religious beliefs.)

I've always been attracted to chthonic themes, although I've only just realized that in the past few years. At the end of the day everything boils down to "under". As a kid I had a natural affinity towards water. (The first time I made it to the ocean? I tried committing suicide. I wasn't depressed, I wasn't confused - it just felt like /home/. Filled with an utter sense of longing drowning myself, at age 12 or 13, seemed like an *awesome* idea. Although, LOL!, deliberate drowning yourself after making the most spontaneous decision, ever, wasn't as easy as I thought it'd be, heh!) But the "water" thing can easily be broken down - the womb, infancy, the security of suspension in fluid. (I haven't worked out "earth" yet, unless this phase is deliberately shining on my fear of mortality and the question of "IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE AFTER THIS?".)

So...selkies. (And mermaids. LITTLE KNOWN FACT: I still collect mermaid shit, although I'm not into the "pretty" aspect. I prefer my divine water women a little more REAL, a little more monster since I see them as a symbol of a woman's darker self. You know, the supernatural Medusa character that strikes fear into the heart of men.) Yeah, definitely, selkies. I practically OWNED the library's copy of FAERIES by Brian Froud and Alan Lee. I don't know why the notion of seal women captivated me, but even as a kid I was enthralled with the idea. I swore that one day I'd visit Scotland and spend Midsummer night with the seals on the coast, waiting to see if I could catch any of them shedding their animal fur for human skin.

But that really isn't a myth or story, is it? HAVE I COMPLETELY FAILED AT ANSWERING THE QUESTION CORRECTLY? (GAH!)

ALSO, will you make out with me in the woods or something? For... uh, magic's sake?

ADMIT IT, YOU JUST WANT TO STEAL MAGIC PUBES. (AND IF THAT'S THE CASE YOUR ASS BETTER GET HERE BEFORE JUNE, OTHERWISE THERE'LL BE NO MAGIC PUBES TO STEAL! (<- INDIGENOUS WISDOM TEACHES FARMERS THAT IT'S SAFE TO SHEAR THEIR SHEEP WHEN ELDERFLOWERS GO IN BLOOM, SO WHEN THE LOCAL SHEEP LOSE THEIR WOOL, THIS SHEEP JOINS THE BODY HAIR REMOVAL PARTY.))

What was the altar to? Do you follow any systems?

You mean the altar that my father-in-law used as a fucking trash can? It was 2008's Winter altar. He apparently failed to see that THIS SPREAD was somehow significant or serving a purpose. (I MEAN, SRSLY? WHEN HE LOOKED AT THE SYMMETRICAL LAYOUT WITH CANDLESTICKS, RITUAL MASKS, OFFERING PLATES AND SEASONAL SPECIFIC DECORATIONS - ALL CENTERED AROUND A HEARTH-LIKE STRUCTURE - IT DIDN'T OCCUR TO HIM IN THE SLIGHTEST THAT IT WAS SOMEHOW /SPECIAL/ AND FOR A REASON?)

I probably would've gone over-the-top mental if it had been the Spring/Easter altar, or the Fall/Halloween. I take the Easter and Halloween shit I do V. SERIOUSLY, THANK YOU since they're part of my spiritual duties (so fucking with THAT shit is like fucking with MY JOB). The Winter and Summer spreads are more celebratory than ceremonial, but I'd still warn against throwing fucking trash on Papa's (aka Baron Samedi) or Tentacle Monster's (aka Cthulhu, although not really - it's easier to say "Cthulhu" because it immediately invokes the tentacle monster image people are familiar with) offering plate.

(Once? Once my father-in-law even stole half of a fucking Burger King bacon cheeseburger out of Chippy's (aka Pazuzu) offering dish. Sometimes I think the man's the dumbest motherfucker in the world.)

Do you follow any systems?

As in magical systems? No, no, not my thing. In fact, I try really fucking hard to stay willfully ignorant about what's out there and what other people are doing. Almost everything I do is based on gut instinct, but that's my sort've witchcraft; I'm redefining things that make sense to me using personal experiences and incorporating my "translations" into my practices.

I differ from your average witch because I don't consider myself pagan. The shit I do? Comes from me. I've deified my subconscious so instead of worshiping or working through an outside source (i.e., gods and/or goddesses) I stay completely internal. I still use deities and idols, but they represent aspects of myself that I either want to work on, or need to access. (The Virgin Mary is a good example. I'm martial all the way, so to encourage traits I don't naturally have - compassion, forgiveness, maternal nurturing - I pray to the Blessed Mother, although I'm really knocking on my subconscious going "HEY, YOU, I KNOW WE'RE CAPABLE OF THIS SHIT, FUCKING HELP ME OUT HERE, OKAY?".)

I'm interested in voodoo, but I feel that as a system it's too structured for the way I practice. (Besides, I have a unique relationship with Papa. He's never asked me to drop what I'm doing to adopt the practices that bore the Baron Samedi image I'm familiar with. If something's not broken, why the fuck fix it?) I'm REALLY interested in rootworking and hoodoo since they're a lot more open ended and it SEEMS like you're given some room for personal interpretation.

I know that as I grow older my practices and beliefs will evolve, but at this point in my life - right now - I kind've sort've follow my own interpretation of the agricultural cycle. For the "Light" half of the year I'm Spring's Virgin Bride, married to the resurrected, divine King. For the "Dark" half of the year I'm Winter's Whore, widowed when the King is sacrificed at Harvest.

(We've actually performed a "reaping" ritual a few years back in a local field where I cut the King's throat and spilled His blood on the land after some wild outside sex. I brought the bundle of wheat I cut home, ritually decorated and displayed it (it's called "Didukh" in Ukrainian) during Winter and then planted the divine King's seeds the following Spring. The Didukh pictured in this year's Winter altar was created from the wheat from those seeds. (<- It's our first "homegrown" Harvest!))

I'm playing my own version of the sovereignty game, but instead of sticking with one straight "myth" I'm incorporating some middle eastern flavor (Inanna/Ishtar/Anat), some Greek flavor (Cybele), some local indigenous flavor (the Cailleach; my Whore/subconscious self) with a huge helping of Byzantine Eastern Orthodox Catholicism for gaudy asceticism.

Despite the mishmash of cultures and beliefs, everything works amazingly well beneath a Ukrainian/Slav veneer. I was hugely influenced by the ritual/ceremonial aspect of Eastern Orthodox Catholicism even though my family weren't hardcore Catholics. The Ukies were a lot like Celts when it came to conversion - they kept their old shit and just accepted a new name for it. Almost all of the annual traditions I now perform by myself are so laughably "pagan" in nature that you can tell Catholicism just didn't want the hassle of stripping the culture down to rebuild it.

ANYWAY. I'm all over the place with this shit today, sorry. Hopefully I've managed to kind've sort've answer your question. (Which, admittedly, probably could've been summed up with "SYSTEM? NONE. NEXT QUESTION!" to spare everyone. I'm not social, but I talk a lot once you get me started.)

"I differ from your average witch because I don’t consider myself pagan. The shit I do? Comes from me. I’ve deified my subconscious so instead of worshiping or working through an outside source (i.e., gods and/or goddesses) I stay completely internal. I still use deities and idols, but they represent aspects of myself that I either want to work on, or need to access. (The Virgin Mary is a good example. I’m martial all the way, so to encourage traits I don’t naturally have - compassion, forgiveness, maternal nurturing - I pray to the Blessed Mother, although I’m really knocking on my subconscious going “HEY, YOU, I KNOW WE’RE CAPABLE OF THIS SHIT, FUCKING HELP ME OUT HERE, OKAY?”.)"

This is exactly the sort of ideology I've had in mind for the sort of "witchcraft" I'm interested in! I just never thought it was something I could actually do for the fact that it may not have been considered "true witchcraft" nor have I wanted to offend any religion and practices involved; this definitely reassures me!! Thanks for sharing the information. :] If you have any more info on different practices you do, please let me know!! Much love, dear.

I'm going to delicately step over "true witchcraft" because that's one topic you don't want to get me started on (unless you want to wade through an expletive-laced tsunami of text). I don't think there are many witches practicing "true witchcraft"; it's primitive, nasty work that requires a strong stomach, a deep understanding of Self and an ability to ignore all of the modern bullshit that's distorted what it really is.

As a practice witchcraft can stand alone. It's a system, much like hoodoo or rootworking. Religion can flavor witchcraft, but you don't necessary need it. For some people it's a necessity since they need something to subconsciously bolster their work, but since I'm already approaching things from a psychological aspect I don't feel like I need to work through an overly religious filter.

If you have any more info on different practices you do, please let me know!! Much love, dear.

That's what the search function on my diary's for. *winks* (A lot of shit doesn't actually make it to Tumblr since I try to keep focus here on the visual aspect of my life. Unless there's a picture accompanying a journal excerpt I don't normally copy and paste my diary entries here. If you plug in keywords like subconscious and black rabbit it should pull up quite a few entries; the most recent ones (I think one entry might actually be called "Black Rabbit" or "Black Rabbit Altar") have the sort've information you're looking for.)

*Not a question so don't stress yo'self!* Your answer to me was totally perfect, thank you for putting such thought into it!! I AM PLEASED. And also, OMG, it was always always mermaids for me too!! Except I thought I was one, and always tried to find them in the ocean. I even bathed in salt water, go figure. xoxoxo

*Not a question so don't stress yo'self!*

BUT THAT'S MY FAVORITE HOBBY THAT I'M (SUPER)NATURALLY TALENTED IN!

Your answer to me was totally perfect, thank you for putting such thought into it!! I AM PLEASED. And also, OMG, it was always always mermaids for me too!!

OMGOMGOMG. SISTERS-IN-MERMAIDISM, AHOY!

After thinking about it I've always been attracted to duel nature water-based concepts. Undines, Rusalky, Kelpies, Mermaids. Anything that had the ability to bless or kill. That sort of...I dunno...terrifyingly beautiful aspect of Woman's nature.

I really liked the story of what's her name, uh, the fairy wifey from under the lake who gets wooed by a human with bread. (YOU KNOW THE STORY, RIGHT? FIRST HE GIVES HER BAKED BREAD, BUT SHE SAYS IT'S TOO HARD, THEN HE GIVES HER UNBAKED BREAD, BUT SHE SAYS IT'S TOO SOFT, THEN HE GIVES HER PARTIALLY BAKED BREAD AND APPARENTLY THAT WAS AWESOME BECAUSE SHE CAME OUT OF THE WATER AND MARRIED HIM. ALTHOUGH IT DIDN'T END WELL. <- LOL, IT NEVER DOES, LOL!)

GWRAGEDD ANNWN! (THANK YOU, GOOGLE, I WAS TOO DAMN LAZY TO GET UP AND PULL OUT MY FAERIES BOOK BY BRIAN FROUD AND ALAN LEE!)

Except I thought I was one, and always tried to find them in the ocean. I even bathed in salt water, go figure. xoxoxo

SDLFHBNGKDSKFG. YES. YES. YES. Although I was the lame retard who was TOO AFRAID TO ADD SALT TO HER BATH because I didn't think I could handle the smallest possible chance that I wouldn't transform into a mermaid. (I BLAME SPLASH, WHICH I'VE BEEN MEANING TO WATCH AGAIN, BUT I WAS TOO CAUGHT UP RUNNING THROUGH ALL OF THE NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET SHIT AND NOW WE'RE WORKING ON PHANTASM AND WARLOCK SIMULTANEOUSLY.)

Medicine and Vice

When the whiskey stopped tasting like medicine, I stopped doing shots. (It's been snowing significantly less now. Not that it's like, you know, coincidental or anything...)

Christmas Goose Day

At this moment in time Christmas and I aren't on speaking terms. I've exiled it - along with all of Yule's misfortunes, Midwinter's bad luck and every fucking festive-themed "coincidence" so LOLerific in nature that even though they have me crying NOW I'll be laughing about them by Midsummer - to the quiet corner. (Just between you and me? I'm thinking about forgetting about it and letting it slowly rot from memory. <- How's THAT for a five minute timeout?)

There's another entry up my proverbial sleeve about THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE, so I won't bother going into the history behind the dark meat revelry. Suffice to say that it's an institution. (To celebrate the Yuletide season my family roasted a goose. Italics's family roasted a turkey. It only took one Christmas for Italics to defect and join my side (and not just because of blowjobs and teenage sex) - such is the power of the goose.)

A normal, perfect, uneventful Christmas sees us getting the goose on either the 23rd or 24th from the butcher. On the day I remove the giblets and excess fat, clip off the wing tips, separate the thighs/legs from the body to make confit, brine both pieces with a mix of salt, garlic and fresh herbs and pour boiling water over the bird's breast before setting the body to dry, overnight, in the garage. On Christmas day I make stock (which eventually turns into gravy) from the giblets, pieces of the broken back and wing tips and roast the goose crown.

This year? We ate our Christmas goose on December 28th...and that wasn't by choice. (LESS SAID, THE BETTER.) I only JUST managed to melt down the mounds of fat and "marinade" the leg/thighs of the goose a day or two ago. (We still haven't opened presents. Seriously. They're all still sitting under the tree, waiting for a magical moment to indicate NOW IS THE TIME! which ISN'T GOING TO FUCKING COME BECAUSE IT'S JANUARY THE FUCKING FIFTH AND CHRISTMAS WAS ELEVEN FUCKING DAYS AGO.)

To try and lighten the abysmal atmosphere Italics suggested we go out on Christmas Goose Day since it was projected to be the nicest day of the week (I, uh, sort've blew the windshield wiper motor BY ACCIDENT which means we have a car with NO WINDSHIELD WIPING ABILITIES and it's been SNOWING, SLEETING and RAINING FOR NEARLY THREE WEEKS) and because the 29th was THE FIRST FUCKING DAY THE MAIL SERVICE DECIDED TO FUCKING RESUME SINCE THE 24TH which meant an avalanche of mail was expected the very next day.

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I was knee deep in clearance Christmas decorations when I caught Italics taking a picture of something halfway across the store. Somehow, I managed to miss "pussy pyramid" when we walked through the pet care section of the garden center (blame my hormonal anxiety over discounted wreath stock).

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The shifty-eyed giant donkey overlord appears to have rewritten the nativity and is directing the production house left.

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It only takes me five minutes of being in the car for me to go OH MY FUCKING GOD SCOTLAND IS SO FUCKING AWESOME I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE I LIVE HERE AND THIS SHIT IS ONLY SEVERAL ROWS OF HOUSES AWAY (the row of houses at the foot of our backyard block otherwise impressive views of not-so-distance hills). Whenever I'm out in the country I feel blessed to live here, and to live so close to ancient secrets (standing stones, cairns, ancient graveyards and stone circles).

The scenery on the 28th was mind-blowingly spectacular. It's been snowing, off and on, for nearly three weeks. At night the temperature drops suddenly, keeping the snow in pristine condition (nearly a month on and this shit still looks FRESH). Pockets of country situated between hills remain outlined in hoarfrost despite the blazing winter sun, while rays of light angle through barren trees highlighting the age of ruined walls and farmhouses.

One of the unfortunate drawbacks of mind-blowingly spectacular scenery is that the best view points are often the ones that have no safe shoulder to straddle. Add treacherous snowbanks, narrow, icy country lanes and SUVS haphazardly plowing down said narrow, icy country lanes with treacherous snowbanks and you have an accident waiting to happen. This is the only picture we got of our country outing.

(In the photo there's a particularly high, snow-capped mountain-like hill in the distance. That's Bennachie, the source of Winter. The Old Woman - better known as the Cailleach - is often associated with the highest point in the region. Here in this region of Scotland the highest point is Bennachie, which holds evidence of bronze age goddess worship at the peak.)

(Note to self: Saw three deer (two babies?) along standing stone road, and then three male pheasants further near the stones. Laughed hysterically when we drove past a predator bird tearing into a freshly killed rabbit in a snow covered field as a single crow stood awkwardly near the hawk (?) pretending that the shared space was a complete and total coincidence and it wasn't waiting for an opportunistic moment to shotgun the remains. "DOE, DEE, DOE, JUST WAITING FOR THE BUS..." Oh, corvids, somehow you find a way to make me laugh daily, <3!)

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The kitchen Christmas altar, pre-stars (my dangling star lights arrived the day after). Normally I create an elaborate center piece altar for the kitchen table using evergreen, ivy, bay, nuts, apples, pears, citrus fruits and candy, all centered around a large loaf of ritual Ukrainian Christmas bread (Kolach, sort've like a communion bread) set with candles.

Due to a million and two reasons - WHICH I WILL NOT TALK ABOUT BECAUSE CHRISTMAS IS STILL IN THE TIME-OUT CORNER - that yearly tradition didn't happen. Instead, I opted for something minimal, but despite the somewhat sparse look I still managed to retain some significance in the otherwise mundane looking setting.

Between the two pillars of candles are a tumbler glass filled with bay cuttings (from our small bay tree out back), a small gold colored oak leaf shaped offering dish holding my TREE NUTS (a pair of English walnuts, joined at the stem), a bottle of late harvest/sweet dessert wine and a bottle of sparkling elderberry (non-alcoholic).

(I bought the Beerenauslese last year and completely forgot about it. It was rediscovered, on Christmas Goose Day, when thumbing through various foil-wrapped bottles looking for my Martini Rossi Asti Spumante (to make the BETTER THAN JIZZ sauce for the Yule Log). The elderberry drink was bought when we were out shopping; I had a feeling the berries would go well with the goose's dark meat (it did, V. well, in fact).)

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Normally we eat off the coffee table in front of the TV (in the communal lounge) to spare us from constant disturbances (aka in-laws). When there aren't any "disturbances" to be had we like to play grown-up and eat at the kitchen table.

Since it was Christmas Goose Day I had no choice but to bring out seasonal table linens (I attempted to create The Saltire, Scotland's flag, using white and red cloth settings), fine china and crystal glasses.

(I was already on my second glass of Beerenauslese by this point, which is evident in the table setting - none of the glasses are full except the designated wine glasses.)

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After the altar candles were lit, the ancestors invited/invoked and ushered into the house (I open the backroom's patio door and call out in Ukrainian to all of our ancestors to beckon them indoors to celebrate the festivities with us), the elderberry bottle uncorked and the water poured (since the wine had already been poured by that point, heh) it was time to sit down and give thanks for the annual tradition that is known as Christmas goose.

In addition to the roasted crown of goose (the thighs and legs, as mentioned above, were taken off to make confit) we had homemade German sweet and sour red cabbage, homemade gluten-free bread dumplings smothered with bacon grease and bacon, pyrohy (aka "pierogies", Slavic potato dumplings) smothered with bacon grease and bacon, new potatoes roasted in goose fat, sour cream (to be eaten with the pyrohy), homemade cranberry sauce and homemade plum sauce.

The dinner ended with Italics laughing at me as I gnawed happily on the one goose wing I was allowed (the wing was my mother's favorite part of any bird, so I make the ultimate sacrifice with every roasted bird and offer one of the two wings to the Mother (who is also the Old Woman/Cailleach; IT'S COMPLICATED, I KNOW, BUT IT MAKES SENSE TO MY BRAIN, OKAY?)); he said I sounded like a wild animal eating.

(Wild animals? Loudest fucking eaters in the world. Seriously. You haven't heard euphoric grunting, panting and gnawing until you catch a hedgehog eating sweet potato pancakes or the remains of buffalo wings.<- DON'T TELL ANYONE OFFICIAL THAT I GIVE VISITING WILDLIFE PANCAKES AND BUFFALO WINGS AND CHEESECAKE AND PIZZA, THEY JUST WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND.)

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I'm beginning to frost our EDIBLE Yule Log*, which was almost as late as our BURNING Yule Log (we finally managed to finish it on December 31st; we renamed it "the 2009 Log"). I can't remember when the tradition started, but every year I make a Yule Log for Midwinter (a dessert so rich and filling it sees us through Yule, Christmas and, typically, New Year) and even though this year's was hella late, it was still made.

* A gluten-free chocolate sponge rolled up and stuffed/frosted with a heavy cream, shaved chocolate, Frangelico and sweetened chestnut filling. I always serve the Log with a homemade dessert wine/cream sauce (aka BETTER THAN JIZZ SAUCE), which is so fucking good you can catch me, at least once a day, eating the sauce straight out of the fridge with a spoon.

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Every fucking year I go I'M TOTALLY GOING TO COOK ONE OF THOSE TEENY TINY LITTLE BABY CHICKEN BIRDS FOR THE RATS FOR CHRISTMAS and every fucking year I forget...except for this year.

While we tucked into our Christmas goose dinner, the rats tucked into their roasted poussin (basted in homemade herbal butter and covered with bay leaves and bacon) and there was a serene peace in the house as living people, deceased people, living rats, deceased rats and everything else incorporeal visiting and celebrating with us that night joined in the yearly tradition known as Christmas goose day.

Stag Horse Brass

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78 Pretty Pictures

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six Months

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winter Wash

Never trust a woman who hangs up her washing in the snow.

LONG STORY SHORT?

I have ritual clothes (which never seem to stay on that long, but that's the entire point of lingerie, right?), and I have pre-ritual clothes. Pre-ritual clothes (i.e., the robe above, and a long African dress) are worn as we're "coming up" (when you begin feeling the effects of the entheogen consumed) to keep my ass warm while we wade through the feelings of hyper-stimulation.

When we first began practicing our whimsical black mass rites (it's not a choice, it's a //lifestyle//) something told me to not wash my robe. Which, admittedly, was a super huge challenge since I'm notoriously (verging on anally) clean. I straighten up the house seven days a week, I wash daily and clothing - especially of the stained variety - is laundered immediately.

Without asking "why?" I did.

Years worth of sweat, perfume oils and incense. Years worth of massage oils, ecstatic sex and body fluids. Years worth of fragrant prayers, carnal pleasures and spiritual epiphanies transformed into ribbons of scent woven into the fabric of the robe. When you pressed your face into the perfumed material you could smell Mass; it was a witch's diary, a blank-but-full book of shadows.

Sometimes ritual (and pre-ritual) clothes aren't exclusively kept for ceremony. Like when you wake up in the middle of the day (because you're sleeping at night) and realize that everyone's home which means you can't saunter to the bathroom half-naked (and you're half-naked instead of 100% naked because you have ringworm speckled across your hips, armpits and beneath your tits forcing you to wear a t-shirt to bed) for a piss, but you REALLY, REALLY HAVE TO GO except you forgot to toss a pair of boxers next to the side of your bed so you could emerge from the bedroom "decent" which means your only options are:

1.) Celebrating the beauty of a grown woman's recently shaven cunt by non-chalantly parading to the bathroom, in-laws be damned.

2.) Ritual robe aged to olfactory perfection conveniently hanging on the bedroom door, ringworm be damned.

TAKE A WILD FUCKING GUESS WHICH OPTION I WENT WITH.

Fuck it, it was time to reset the motherfucking thing, anyway. (One word to describe 2009? "RESET".) After washing the robe I purified it in this year's first proper snowfall, hanging it up as it snowed and leaving it all day and night until winter's bitter cold managed to dry it. Unscented and unworn it hangs on the bedroom door again, waiting until New Year's Eve when I'll breath life back into it as we celebrate the full moon, blue moon, lunar eclipse and the new year.

She Washes Her Plaid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANYWAY...!

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

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

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

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

Cleaning Day I

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Ritually cleaning (see CLEANING UP AFTER THE BRIDE) and decorating the bedroom has taken over my life (and - seeing as how four other rooms in the house are currently shouldering the weight of our bedroom furniture and things - house). It's been this way ever since we emptied the room in mid-to-late September.

Currently Italics and I have no where to eat, relax, or watch TV since the backroom was transformed into serious storage space (which also means no new witch projects have been started or, gah, finished) and as the Yuletide season creeps steadily closer I've begun having legit fears that this bedroom shit wasn't going to be done in time for Christmas.

With Thanksgiving bearing down on me (I know I'm not obligated to observe an American holiday in Scotland (even if I was born and raised in the States), but since we traditionally eat goose on Christmas Thanksgiving's the only time my ass gets to (justifiably) brine a mother of a turkey) and Christmas not too far away I had to do something drastic. And I did...just a day later than I originally intended.

(HOLY SHIT IT WAS SUPER NICE OUT ON WEDNESDAY! HOW COULD I NOT PLAY HOOKY AND TAKE THE CAR INTO THE COUNTRY AND EXPLORE A NEW GRAVEYARD AND KIND'VE SORT'VE BUT NOT REALLY CHEAT ON MY DIET (HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT IT WAS A FOOD TASTING DAY AT A LOCAL DELI/GOURMET GROCERY STORE? AND CAN IT REALLY BE CHEATING IF YOU SAY NO TO HOMEMADE ICE CREAM, BUT YES TO LITTLE CHUNKS OF BREAD DIPPED IN FLAVORED VINEGARS AND OILS?) BUT MORE ON THAT //LATER//. <- I HAVE PICTURES! UNFORTUNATELY, NONE SHOWCASING MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT'S WINTER ASS OF 2009 PROPPED ON AN ANCIENT HEADSTONE, BUT THERE'S STILL TIME TO SQUEEZE THAT PHOTO SHOOT IN.)

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Not yesterday, or the day before yesterday, but the yesterday of the second yesterday I stepped into the bedroom armed with two things - a flat butter knife, and a plastic skull stein. (THREE things if you count the speakers and the MP3 player. Actually, those are two separate things rather than one so, technically, I stepped into the bedroom armed with FOUR things; five if you want to be super anal and count the bottle of water.)

A Bat for Lashes album later I was standing in the middle of a barren bedroom display. Not a hint of my beloved ossuary remained (unless you take into account the millions of pin holes created by the tacks securing the plastic "scene setter" to the wall); I MISS IT ALREADY AND AM BEGINNING TO REGRET THE DECISION TO "REDECORATE".

The colors were PERFECT. The walls matched the draw-down curtain which matched the bedsheets. For several years we've been cocooned in varying shades of blue (an intensely spiritual color for me) and I've enjoyed the subconscious link to sleep, dreams, death and self. When the final plastic panel was torn from the wall I stood back, horrified, realizing that my bedroom had turned into a Tracey Emin exhibit (albeit one that carried a non-existent risk of contracting an STD).

Neither of us have seen white walls since October 2006 (when we originally hung up the wallpaper and window bats). Stumbling around in the stark emptiness of the bedroom (when not swatting away streaks of bright rainbow colored lights <- MY EYES TOTALLY, TOTALLY REFUSED TO ADJUST TO THE NEW LEVEL OF REFLECTIVE LIGHT IN THE ROOM) I looked for something familiar, but even the bed's frame and sheets were entirely different.

I can't believe there was a point, long ago, when it was white. Pure white. Always white. The white of nothing. A white I can't even remember. When I thumb through memories, skull pillars with a blue veneer are always there smiling at me, no matter how far back I go. "IT'S LIKE...IT'S LIKE A TINY, SOULLESS CHICAGO APARTMENT," I said to Italics as we shielded our eyes, standing next to each other in a room that we've loved in, fought in, fucked in and lived in but no longer recognized.

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Even before I was practicing magic I was practicing magic. When cleaning - WHEN HEAVY DUTY "WE'RE MOVING EVERY SINGLE THING OUT OF THIS ROOM AND I'M WASHING THE WALLS, THE CEILING, THE WINDOW, THE DOOR, THE SIDEBOARDS, THE CEILING FAN, VACUUMING THE CARPET UNTIL IT'S SPARKLING AND THEN WASHING EVERYTHING THAT COMES BACK IN" CLEANING - I've always created a special "wash"; it's just gotten MORE (DELIBERATELY) MAGIC as the years have gone by.

My washes are a haphazard mix of serious and whimsy, three ingredients are the key foundation (a natural cleaner, sea salt, and rosemary) and everything else added is totally spur-of-the-moment (but with personal significance and purpose). Sometimes I add extra herbs or essential oils, sometimes I dribble in a tiny amount of my own urine and sometimes I'll drop in a dried blood clot or two. (<- I pick them off my menstrual rags and dry them out before adding them to my collection; it saves you from having to nick a finger for a drop of blood.)

This year I decided to enlist the help of Papa (he's my chthonic earth and represents the hardcore "masculine" energy I work with) and Tentacle Monster (he's my chthonic water and represents my spirituality, emotions and subconscious self) by using the contents of their offering glasses from this year's Halloween altar (filled with corresponding substances - my Fet Ghede graveyard dirt* for Papa, and salt water for Tentacle Monster).

(* Don't bother googling "Fet Ghede graveyard dirt" because it doesn't exist in voodoo or hoodoo. I created an extra special batch of graveyard dirt for Papa a few years back on Fet Ghede (hence the name). In addition to graveyard dirt it also has remnants of cigars and cigarettes we've smoked together, urine and sexual fluids, ground up chilies (grown specifically for Papa), the ash and unburned remains of incense burned for him, a few drops of rum, shavings of chocolate, pan de muerto (Day of the Dead bread) crumbs and just enough perfume to give the ashy-earthy scent some fragrance.)

The creation of this year's wash began by picking a handful of rosemary from my plant outside, adding it to my orange bucket (ORANGE BUCKET = MAGIC BUCKET, I'VE PISSED, THROWN-UP, COOKED, BRINED, MADE ELDERFLOWER CHAMPAGNE, CLEANED AND CHRIST KNOWS WHAT ELSE WITH THIS BUCKET) and pouring boiling water over the stalks (to make a fresh herb infusion).

Once the hot water was scented I threw in a handful of sea salt, a few drops of lemon balm and lemon essential oil (both are good for cleaning, but they're ALSO good for lifting one's mood), a pinch of Fet Ghede graveyard dirt, half of what remained of the salt water and stirred everything with one of my wooden cooking spoons until the salt dissolved.

To aid with the non-spiritual aspect of cleaning I used Ecover's lemon scented All Purpose Cleaner. The only other thing I added (OTHER THAN HOT WATER) was Chippy's Sassanian amber bead which was briefly dipped in the hot, sudsy wash for PROTECTION'N'BANISHMENT purposes.

(Chippy's our incorporeal guard dog so I routinely include his presence when I'm chasing things out of the house. <- SOMETIMES YOU NEED MORE THAN A GROUCHY WITCH SWINGING A BROOM AROUND, SOMETIMES YOU NEED THE LORD OF THE FLIES HIMSELF TO UNDERLINE THE POINT. <- THAT'S ACTUALLY A JOKE. WHEN I LOOK AT CHIPPY I SEE "CLIFFORD THE BIG RED DOG" AND NOT THE DEMON PRINCE OF FAMINES, PLAGUES AND STRIFE.)

(NOT THAT I RECOMMEND APPROACHING HIM AS A LOVABLE AND FRIENDLY GIANT DOG; I'VE GOT FIVE (SIX?) YEARS FILLED WITH SEX, KITE FLYING, BURGER KING EATING AND BOARD GAME PLAYING ON MY SIDE. THAT, AND, //HE// WAS THE ONE PAWING AT //MY DOOR// AND NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND. AS WITH ANY STANDARD ATTEMPTS AT PICK UP THE BEST POSITION TO BE IN IS THE OBJECT OF AFFECTION/ATTENTION, MORESO WHEN THE DEMON OF DEMONS COMES A-KNOCKIN'.)

Cleaning Under a Witch's Bed

Late September we hauled everything out of our bedroom in anticipation of THE GREAT BEDROOM CLEANING OF 2009. (<- SEE CLEANING UP AFTER THE BRIDE.) And thanks to committing ourselves to one too many things we still haven't managed to clean anything, so we've been living in a hollowed out room for over a month now.

Due to living with a nosy father-in-law who flat out doesn't give a shit about other people's personal property (or their feelings) I have to keep the majority of my witchcraft projects hidden in the bedroom. (Mr. Awesome? Loves to throw things out and "fix" things. Unfortunately, they're usually OTHER people's things, and he never asks if it's cool beforehand so you don't know that something's gone or ruined until you notice that it's gone (or ruined) and by that time it's way, way too late to save it.)

Our bedroom? The third smallest room in the house, not counting the hall closet. We have enough space to fit two small nightstands, a double bed and one tiny wardrobe. Things WERE kept in the wardrobe until we began our homegrown operation, but once the lights, fan and seedlings moved in everything had to move out. And when that happened there was only one place for refugee witch items to go - under the bed.

I have wet dreams about those flat, elongated storage boxes with wheels. They're my fantasy storage solution; frictionless movement, clean, sterile compartments and a tetris-like ability for stacking on top of one another. In reality, though, I have the gutted frame of the futon that we once slept on (see link above). Dragging the fucking thing out from under the bed - with the insane amount of shit packed away within - is a Herculean task and something I completely avoid unless absolutely necessary.

Unloading it requires an entire room due to my autistic talent at packing. (<- I SWEAR TO GOD I MUST BE THE ONLY EMPLOYEE IN THE HISTORY OF WAL-MART WHO BECAME FAMOUS FOR HER GROCERY PACKING. PEOPLE ACTUALLY TOLD //OTHER PEOPLE// ABOUT ME AND THEY WOULD ALL MAKE A PILGRIMAGE TO MY CASH REGISTER, OFFERING PRAYERS AND SUPPLICATIONS OF APPEASEMENT ("HONEY, YOU'RE JUST ABOUT THE BEST BAG PACKER THIS WORLD'S EVER SEEN!") AS I CREATED AN INVINCIBLE PLASTIC GROCERY BAG BY USING TWO CEREAL BOXES FOR MY NON-PERISHABLE FOOD MASONRY STRUCTURE.)

A tiny path cuts through the stacks of boxes, books and jars from the backroom's door to the opposite side of the room, the patio door. On either side hidden curses, brittle bones and empty bottles of booze sit silently, collecting dust, waiting to be reunited with the calm darkness beneath our double bed. We have the new wallpaper (AN ABANDONED GRAVEYARD BACKING INTO A HAUNTED FOREST), now we just need to be up at the right time to strip the old wallpaper down, thoroughly wash the walls, room and furniture, hoist up the new wallpaper and put the jigsaw puzzle of our bedroom back together.

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So sometime last year (or the year before?) I glanced away from my computer monitor and went "BABY, DO YOU WANT AN ANTIQUE CEREMONIAL INDIAN SWORD?" to Italics. Normally I don't bother asking - especially if I'm considering getting the item in question as a gift - but "swords" and "daggers" hang on a very precarious line of AWESOME and HOLY SHIT, LAME.

(Antique knives - especially ones specifically created for butchering - garner an automatic "YES, PLZ!" from me (don't EVEN get me started if the handle's made of bone, horn or antler), but due to overexposure to horrifically shit fantasy swords, daggers and axes my inclination to collect anything longer than a plain knife (or a pair of scissors) is practically non-existent.)

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It was listed with its original scabboard, came with a price tag of £10.00 (I think?) and had two beautifully engraved Islamic-like floral patterns stretching across the length of the blade. I saw it and thought "IT'S A SWORD, WHICH IS KIND'VE GAY AND LAME, BUT IT'S A CEREMONIAL SWORD AND IT COMES WITH A SHEATH AND THE ENGRAVED DESIGNS ARE KIND'VE SORT'VE NICE AND IT'S NOT LIKE THERE ARE MALFORMED HUMAN SKULLS OR A HOWLING WOLF STUCK TO THE HANDLE..." but I couldn't reach a final decision, so I asked Italics what he thought.

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Finding it perfectly acceptable - which was my original hunch - we snagged it for its opening bid. (<- MUST'VE NOT BEEN FANTASY/GOTH ENOUGH FOR OTHER SWORD COLLECTORS. "WHAT, NO SCREAMING DEMON SKULL? NO THANKS.")

To the left of the sword and gutted futon are my retired Black Goddess heels. They were my very first stilettos - black satin with golden Asian dragons - bought at a vintage shop for $15.00 when I was a pre-med student at the University of Arkansas.

One of the straps snapped during a particularly debauched New Year's Eve celebration (which was TOTALLY unplanned; who seriously eats a 4-5 course Chinese meal and then pops a bunch of ecstasy immediately after and listens to Sigue Sigue Sputnik while partying their way into the new year? US, NATURALLY) rendering them completely useless, but the witch in me insists that they're still useful for SOMETHING so they've been living under the bed since.

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I have a retarded thing for boxes. Little boxes that preferably fit into larger boxes; a weird sort of forgotten drawer archeology. When I clean I usually rediscover one or two, and opening them up is like stumbling across an entirely new world perfectly contained in a tiny space no larger than three or four inches.

The contents always look magic; an unspoken spell, a quiet blessing. It's okay to paw through the collection of seemingly random objects, to turn them in your hands and remember their origins, but it seems almost...sacrilegious...to remove something. Even though I don't entirely see it, everything is there for a reason - it makes sense to the Universe - and by fucking with it I ultimately fuck with something in perfect harmony and balance.

(This Ace of Spades box contains pink ribbon from an antique table linen purchase (for altar use), an Ebay business card which has a part of my infected tonsil I coughed up (taped to the card; a gift for Italics - "I FOUGHT THIS WAR, YOU DON'T HAVE TO") after coming home from the hospital, a handmade cloth bone from a friend, a piece of sea glass, a toy truck that came out of a Christmas cracker, a ceramic chili charm bought for Papa {Ghede}, some UK change, a snail shell, a hoop earring found when walking in town (there was a period, a few years back, where I ran into "broken circles" daily), a bee charm sitting onto of a Pazuzu pendant (bought from the seller whose business card now contains a portion of my tonsil), an Asian dragon from a friend, a sea shell from the North Sea, a communist propaganda looking button and a set of plastic tires from a non-existent toy.)

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OH, GOD, IF I ONLY LABELED EVERYTHING THE SECOND IT CAME INTO THIS GODDAMN HOUSE. I think - THINK! - the pair of dirty ass rocks forced into the first glass jar on the left might be from the "grave" outside. (Last year around this time they dug up the road - smack dab in the middle of the crossroads we're perched on - and just before they sealed up the hole I threw in a homemade witch bottle, but also stole some earth and rocks for future witchcraft.)

I'm not really a rocks'n'feathers sort've witch, but both still manage to find their way into this house. Behind the pair of crossroads rocks are a collection of feathers (crows, rooks, magpies, wood pigeon) found when walking to and from the cemetery, and behind the feathers are my collection of OUTSIDE BONES.

("Outside bones" = the weathered, whitened remains of offerings I made from the previous year. Throughout the year 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.)

Behind my OUTSIDE BONES (I DON'T KNOW WHY IT REQUIRES CAPS, BUT IT DOES) is Bee's jar of honey. (We associate Bee, our pet ray who passed away last year, with bumblebees and honeybees so more than ever there's a loving focus on the local nectar gatherers. Last year we became members of the Bumblebee Conservation Trust and spent the warmer months learning and identifying visiting bumblebees, and researching what plants, flowers and trees we should be growing to encourage Bee to come back home.)

That bone sitting by itself? I can't remember what it is, specifically, but I know it's a half-completed gift for a friend. (It was one of Chippy's bones which he decided to give away. <- DEMONS ALSO GET A WARM FUZZY GLOW OF HAPPINESS BY SHARING.) I bought the sunflower egg cup for myself since it looked like the PERFECT vessel to soak seeds in (I submerge my seeds in water and then cover them with something larger so they sit in darkness for a day or two; it results in a better germination rate) and I'm drawing a COMPLETE blank where the two rocks behind the egg cup came from, or what the fuck I was planning to do with them.

(WHICH IS EXACTLY WHY I NEED TO //LABEL EVERY-FUCKING-THING THAT COMES INTO THIS GODDAMN HOUSE//.)

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Holy shit, where do I START? In the mess of bottles, jars, containers, tins, mugs and tupperware are:

Graveyard dirt from a grave in the St. Nicholas Kirkyard (ALEX FULLERTON, DRUGGIST), a jar of preserved baby octopuses given to Tentacle Monster as a Christmas gift (I haven't exactly figured out what to do with these yet), a ceramic jar filled with a shea salve, a coffee mug which I still need to fill and bury at Papa's grave in the local cemetery (when pinching some dirt off his grave I unearthed an old flower container which I took with the promise of reburying something in return), what's left of this year's bridal honey (made during Spring / Great Rite / Sacred Marriage / Easter / Hieros Gamos celebrations), dog beer (an offering for Chippy), an empty metal canister for paska/babka baking (paska/babka are traditionally more pannetone-like; more tall than round, and to get that shape you need to bake them in cylinder containers - OH, WAIT, I HAVE A PICTURE (I FORGOT!)), an empty Grand Marnier bottle (kept so I can make a proper witch bottle), an unopened jar of "BONE SUCKIN' BBQ SAUCE" bought for Papa, a bottle of hot sauce given to me by a friend, an empty rum bottle I'm supposed to fill with graveyard dirt and keep under the bed (I DON'T BOTHER ASKING; I JUST DO WHAT I'M TOLD), a coffee jar filled with medicinal bath salts I'm curing for Italics (clove and mint oils with olive oil and rose petals), an empty Amaretto bottle which I've since decanted the curing bath salts into (in preparation of giving as a Christmas gift), a bottle of plant fertilizer, a treasured jar of the sweetest, most syrup-y balsamic vinegar, ever, sent by a friend who lives in Italy, Papa's bottle of Hennessy (PAPA GETS RUM //AND// HENNESSY!) and a sealed container of some homemade incense specifically made for Papa (oh, God, don't ask because I SERIOUSLY can't remember what I put in it other than dried chilies, graveyard dirt, rum, a drop of urine, sexual fluids, coffee and whatever else seemed like a good idea at the time).

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A pair of feet from a male blackbird, and the remains of a crow.

I remember finding both; the blackbird was lying flattened in the middle of the road on the way to the cemetery (I clipped the feet off and carefully placed the malformed body in the ivy hedge (my Native American grandfather's a holy man, and he taught us to leave dead birds in trees and bushes)), and the crow had already begun decomposing in a cow field we were cutting through.

Since it was too far gone to carry to the cemetery and back home I left it hidden beneath a discarded ottoman in the ruined church adjacent to the pasture we were cutting through. (The property which owns the church - an old manor, complete with an abandoned walled garden - is currently being used as a nursing home, and, for whatever reason, they dump old furniture and garbage in what used to be a small chapel.)

A year later my crow was reduced to a pile of bones, and year after THAT someone finally made the effort to clean up the church and the area surrounding it. So now I have two jars filled with one crow - including a perfectly immaculate skull - and a clean ruined church to have outside sex in.

(YAY FOR NO LONGER RUNNING THE RISK OF CONTRACTING TETANUS FROM RUSTY ASS WHEELCHAIRS, BOO FOR GETTING A URINARY TRACT INFECTION AFTER HAVING SEX ON A SKANKY MATTRESS RIGHT NEXT TO THE CHURCH. <- OKAY, OKAY IT WASN'T THE MATTRESS; IT WAS HAVING THE START OF A UTI BUT, DESPITE IT, HAVING SEX ANYWAY, AND THEN NOT MOPPING UP THE JIZZ IMMEDIATELY AFTER.)

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Way in the back (to the left) are Papa's bottles of "Bone Suckin' BBQ Sauce" and hot sauce. To the right - in the three jam jars - are the remains of a black bird (feet) and crow (the skull was so large it needed a jar for itself). In the "DO NOT EAT, DO NOT SMOKE, POISON" container is shredded datura, sent to me by a friend in Finland.

There's an empty bottle of Strega behind the datura (ritually consumed during that debauched New Year's Eve party where my Black Goddess stilettos broke), and an empty bottle of Hennessy. (I CAN'T GET RID OF TINY LIQUOR BOTTLES, THEY'RE LIKE A MAGIC PROJECT JUST WAITING TO HAPPEN. IT'S SO EASY TO PICTURE THEM FILLED WITH SOMETHING - DIRT, INCENSE, HERBAL SALT - AND DECORATED WITH CHARMS AND PIECES OF BONE.)

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Antique "witch" hairpins won on Ebay. I don't know anything about the magical workings of hairpins, but my gut feeling is any mundane object you can twist, bend, break or distort is good for SOMETHING (whether hexing, healing, bonding or separating) - especially if it has WITCH stamped across it. I used a few of the pins when I created an impromptu witch bottle last year to throw into the "grave" created when workers dug up the crossroads in front of the house to fix a broken water pipe.

Monday Morning's Frost

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Is that upturned black plastic bucket familiar? IT SHOULD BE. No matter how hard I tried to dispose of the eight headless, footless and skinless rabbits I found myself back to square one. (WITH SQUARE ONE BEING "A BUCKET OF PUTRID, DECAYING CARCASSES SWIMMING IN THEIR OWN OUTRAGEOUSLY RANK DECOMPOSITION JUICES".)

First the weather wasn't right. For an entire week. (No, really!) So the rabbits festered in their plastic grave, sitting, breaking down, occasionally getting chewed on by neighbor cats. (CATS! THIS HOUSE IS NOT THE FOLLOWING: YOUR BATHROOM, YOUR HUNTING GROUND AND YOUR PERSONAL ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT WILDLIFE BUFFET.) The stench was incredible.

After an entire week of non-stop rain I threw my hands up into the air and admitted defeat. "FINE! FINE! WE'LL GO OUT IN THE COLD AND RAIN AND GET WET. FINE! YOU'VE WON, NATURE, YOU'VE WON. CONGRATULATIONS." In the unforgiving Scottish rain - just before eight in the evening - I hoisted a container filled with the liquefied remains of eight dead rabbits in the trunk of the car, carefully wedging it between several buckets containing rocks.

It was freezing. (I was wet.) It was pitch black. (I was wet.) The car absolutely fucking //REEKED// and I wondered how far I could drive while holding my breath for as long as humanly possible. (Did I already mention that I was wet?) Italics, just as unenthusiastic about the situation, crawled into the car. (He was wet, too.) "OKAY, FINE, LET'S GET THIS OVER WITH," I grumbled. The car - which sat in the cold, rain and damp, unstarted, unused and unloved for a week - refused to turn its engine.

Sitting in the dark soaking wet, miserable, cold and TRYING NOT TO BREATHE, NOT EVEN A LITTLE my less than spectacular mood flat-lined. "YOU'RE JOKING, RIGHT?" I asked the car, the world, the Universe. It wasn't joking (which was good because I TOTALLY wasn't in the mood). After 10 minutes of grinding the engine I called it quits and hauled the effing bucket of dissolving rabbits back OUT from the trunk, back INTO the rain and returned it to the outside "greenhouse" (bonsai house).

By the time the weather evened out and stopped giving my temperamental car excuses for not starting the eight headless, footless and skinless bodies had reduced to a toxic soup with a mouthwatering aroma of raw, rotting sewage. When I yanked on the rickety metal handle the contents of the bucket swished, slooshed and splashed - way too much action for hauling, hoisting and transporting.

"FINE, YOU DON'T WANT TO LEAVE THE HOUSE? FINE. I TRIED TO BE NICE, I TRIED TO SHARE IN THE SPOILS, BUT, CLEARLY, YOU HAVE NO DESIRE TO LEAVE THIS PROPERTY."

And with that I quickly flipped the bucket'o'rabbits upside down, trapping the broken bodies between the earth and the container. The blood and fetid body juices ran off the animals and were drawn into the ground at the exact spot where Italics and I, earlier in the year, had outside summer sex. To ensure none of the opportunistic neighborhood cats could get to the jumble of carcasses I chucked a heavy brick onto the upturned bottom which should keep them deterred until Spring. (<- When I plan to go back for the bones.)

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Bright, November morning sunshine filtering through the bare butterfly and lilac bushes.

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The water's begun freezing in Mr. Awesome's abandoned (TWENTY YEARS AND COUNTING!) "pond" project.

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The Shango Tree altar remains yet unscathed, but its only a matter of time before our visiting badger returns and leaves another horrific scene of senseless gardening violence and altar desecration.

Black Rabbit Altar

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

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

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

(OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cleaning Up After the Bride

At this point in my life The Bride and The Whore have a symbiotic relationship (even though they're technically one in the same - The Whore becomes the Spring Bride, and as the Light year progresses She "ages" until the cycle comes full circle transforming the virginal Bride into The Sacred Harlot who reigns over winter and the Dark year).

The Bride creates and makes the martial bed, the Whore sleeps (and stains) the martial bed. The Bride sows the ritual wheat in Spring, the Whore reaps the ritual wheat in Fall. The Bride grows and gathers, the Whore harvests and uses. It's all about enlightenment gained from experience, celebrating the fruition of uninitiated ignorance to initiated wisdom and Venus's placement in my natal chart (<- GEMINI; TALK ABOUT A VIRGIN/WHORE DYNAMIC!).

Despite my fantastically anal attitude towards cleanliness The Bride's been exquisitely messy and unorganized this year. I've decided to point the finger of blame on one thing - all the new shit I've "tested" and created this year. For the first time in my life I worked on a billion things simultaneously which meant overlapping projects sitting in various states of doneness. (Me? I finish EVERYTHING, although not always on the deadline I've assigned myself...)

Since a lot of this year's activities have been strongly influenced by witchcraft I couldn't leave the majority sitting out for anyone to snoop and touch. (AHEM, MR. AWESOME, AHEM.) I think any seasoned witch will probably agree that in order to be a witch YOU NEED FULL USE OF EVERY GODDAMN ROOM IN THE HOUSE WITHOUT FEAR THAT PEOPLE WILL BE FUCKING WITH YOUR SHIT BEHIND YOUR BACK.

Thanks to living in a communal situation with someone who frequently "forgets" to NOT TOUCH, THROW OUT, RUIN, BREAK, OR KILL MY THINGS, EVER (despite nearly 10 years of asking in varying degrees of politeness) all of my activities, projects, gifts and work has no choice but to be allocated to the third smallest room in the house (behind my in-law's en suite bathroom and the house's main bathroom) - our bedroom.

I observe the shift from Light to Dark (and vice versa) with three rituals: the changing of the guard (JOURNAL ENTRY HERE!), stripping our bedroom down and cleaning everything (JOURNAL ENTRY HERE!) and celebrating the return of the Bride/Whore through an ecstatic, entheogen-fueled bout of ceremonial sex with my husband/consort, Italics. (THE LONGEST RUNNING "BOUT"? NINE FUCKING HOURS. SERIOUSLY.)

The changing of the guard took place last Saturday, Italics has already taken his "mistress" out (<- HE TOOK ME TO SEE BAT FOR LASHES IN GLASGOW, PAID FOR A HOTEL ROOM SO WE COULD SPEND THE NIGHT IN TOWN (IT'S A THREE EFFING HOUR BUS RIDE TO GET THERE!), PAID FOR ME TO GET MY MAKE-UP AND EYEBROWS PROFESSIONALLY DONE, TOOK ME OUT FOR DINNER AND THEN BESTOWED GIFTS AND OFFERINGS (AKA SHOPPING, SHOPPING, SHOPPING!) UPON ME), the Black Goddess altar is finally done and Halloween's only a week away.

The only thing left? "Washing" away the very last vestiges of the Bride from the bedroom to fully welcome the Whore.

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The bedroom in its ossuary glory. We hung up the plastic/vinyl wallpaper for 2006's Halloween (normally ritual sex happens in the lounge but we decided to celebrate the return of The Whore that year in the bedroom) and liked it so much we never took it down.

Just last week we bought a new "scene" to rewallpaper the bedroom - a cemetery backing into a haunted forest. (I have this horrible feeling that I'm REALLY going to miss my blue-tinged skulls and pillars...)

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My side of the bedroom.

It's a well-known fact that I fucking HATE reading, but despite that hatred I still buy and collect books. (<- I CAN CHOKE DOWN NON-FICTION, JUST DON'T ASK ME TO READ ANYTHING REMOTELY FICTION, EVER.) In fact, we have so many goddamn books that you'll find a pillar of print in almost every room of the house. The bedroom? Has two.

PS: Despite the appearance I don't usually leave laundry lying around - those are my BEDROOM MONSTER SOCKS. (MONSTER SOCKS = SOCKS MADE OF MUPPET-LIKE MATERIAL. IT FEELS LIKE YOU'RE SHOVING YOUR FOOT INTO THE MOUTH OF ONE OF THOSE SESAME STREET YIP-YIP ALIENS.) I have god-fucking-awful circulation in my hands which means I wear socks to bed during winter AND summer.

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His side of the bedroom. (Note how much cleaner it is (on the floor) next to his side. Although I win for having a slightly more organized nightstand top.)

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When we celebrated in the bedroom in 2006 the entire room got decked out - ossuary wallpaper, cobweb drapes, skeletons hanging like garland from the window, glowing pumpkins in the corners of the room and a glow-in-the-dark night scene featuring the moon, stars and bats stuck on the window. We got so attached to the wallpaper AND the night scene we decided to just leave them, and they've been hanging up - undisturbed - since.

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Particles of incense, dust, debris and my extended lighter (for starting charcoal blocks) on the windowsill.

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This is seriously an abomination to my house cleaning skills. There is, honest to all that is holy and divine, no room that even REMOTELY looks like this in the house. I've been so busy with projects and taking care of the rest of the home that I haven't had a chance to DUST MY OWN BEDROOM IN MONTHS.

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My nightstand tabletop.

Anything look familiar? Papa's mask hangs to the side of our ritual bong, my ritual scissors are tucked in the ceramic pot filled with incense, the goat bell's wedged between the ceramic pot and a jar of shea lotion, the ribbons wound around my headphones are off the Shango Tree, the vase I found in the cemetery (just behind my Apis Bull figurine) holds a spray of dried flowers that I wore in my hair when we performed Hieros Gamos in a local wheat field on Midsummer. (<- ALL OBJECTS AND THINGS THAT HAVE BEEN RECORDED VIA PICTURE'N'ENTRY EARLIER THIS YEAR.)

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The growing closet. We start the majority of our seeds in the closet, move them to the backroom and then harden them off in the bonsai house outside.

Here's the second pillar of print in the bedroom, limbs off of various trees for broom making (beech and sycamore), the key and lock fetish I hang on our ritual/altar ladder when celebrating the Sacred Marriage (between the virginal Spring Bride and the King) and my zombie machete.

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The top of the closet is the closest I get to "altar space" in the bedroom. Normally only the basket full of animals (all significant in someway - not so much the stuffed animal as what they represent) and two scorpion bowls occupy the space, but I have a bad habit of filling in the emptiness with UNBELIEVABLE AMOUNTS OF SHIT. (IT'S ALL GETTING CONSECRATED, OKAY?)

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His nightstand tabletop. (There's a metallic Baphomet sigil beneath all of that shit. You can kind've sort've make out one of the ears in the clearing between the ceramic crab trinket box, the bunched up paper towel and the ceramic bowl covered by CDs.)

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My storage solution for everything "witch" related. Empty alcohol bottles, curing herbal salts and sugars, non-perishable sabbat cakes (solar AND lunar), homemade incense, organic and inorganic finds, our vintage funeral casket cover topped with my craft supply boxes and seeds (it gets pulled out and fumigated with frankincense during the Dark part of the year, and gets wrapped up and put away for the Light part of the year), harvested and dried potion/incense ingredients and a few choice pieces of fur (Edwardian ermine muff and collar/scarf set) tucked safely away in a box.

Changing of the Guard

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In Spring we welcome the Virgin Bride, the Bride of Light, the Bride of Spring (aka "The Bride"). In Fall we welcome the Harlot Mistress, the Hag of Dark, the Winter Whore (aka "The Black Goddess"). (<- I'M SO DIFFICULT I'VE THROWN OUT THE SACRED TRINITY (I.E., MAIDEN, MOTHER AND CRONE) AND REDUCED THEM DOWN TO TWO - BRIDE AND WHORE. IN MY WORLD THINGS REALLY ARE BLACK AND/OR WHITE.) To reflect the exchange of power I perform a changing of the guard ritual around the equinoxes.

In Spring we welcome back Chile Bird (a bird-shaped copper, bronze and lapis wall hanging bought on Ebay from, you guessed it, Chile) and he happily lives in the window during the Light part of the year, but when frost appears and the leaves begin falling I know it's time to send Chile Bird on his annual migration to warmer climates.

In Fall we welcome back The Spider (see below) and he weaves his continuous metal web throughout the Dark part of the year, partner to the Witch, the Whore, the Black Goddess of magic and death. When tender green shoots erupt from the defrosting soil with a celebratory spread of crocuses and snowdrops I know it's time to send The Spider to cooler climates, to sleep until the return of the Dark.

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The ritual itself is subtly disguised behind something so commonplace that people wouldn't think twice if they caught me performing it - cleaning. (CAST A CIRCLE? WTF FOR? I EFFING //BLEACH THE BASE OF THE COMMUNAL TOILET WITH MY BARE FUCKING HANDS//. THIS HOUSE? IT'S CLEAN. AND WOE BE UNTO ANY UNINVITED GUEST IN THE HOUSE OF A WOMAN WHO REGULARLY GETS ON HER HANDS AND KNEES - WILLINGLY - TO SCRUB PISS STAINS OFF THE FLOOR. <- NOT THE SORT OF WITCH YOU WANT TO MESS WITH, JUST FYI.)

First the blind comes down and everything gets removed off the window and windowsill. I then roll up my sleeves and physically clean every inch of the "threshold"/altar - the ledge, the inside glass, the decorative window decals, the inside vent, every stick of inside wood, the hinges and handles, the blinds, the outside glass, the outside vent, the outside concrete ledge and every stick of the outside wood.

Once the window's been physically cleaned (and "cleansed" due to all of the attention, work, effort, sweat and focus) I burn incense on the inside ledge, fragrancing the wooden frame with frankincense and spices. When the smoke clears I know it's time to begin piecing the altar back statue by statue, plant by plant and jar by jar. (Not until they, too, have been cleaned with a duster and wipes.) My juniper ghost beads and string of Papa's green chili peppers go up first (both "protective" in their own way), and then The Spider.

The carved jars return, and then the two succulents with their sticks of sandalwood incense (from Egypt). Tawaret (me) and Sobek (Italics) grace the windowsill altar first, and then Wadjet (with Her key) returns, positioned in front of the stone jars. Anubis, Thoth, Serket and Hathor follow suit with the ladies on the left and the men on the right. And with the final positioning of the second tier Egyptian gods and goddesses it's done - the Bride is gone and the Whore's arrived.

NOTE TO SELF: This year when you began the process/ritual of changing the Spring-to-Fall guard (October 17th) you began your period. (<- ATTENTION, WORK, EFFORT, SWEAT, FOCUS AND BLOOD - HOW'S //THAT// FOR MAGIC?)

Halloween Altar Building

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

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

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

Rabbits Out of Thin Air

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This House is Clean

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The altar building gremlins have been exorcised! ("THIS HOUSE IS CLEAN.") And, on top of THAT dazzling feat, I cut the throat of a few houseplants (<- GIFTS FROM MY SEMI-ESTRANGED FATHER; SORRY, DAD, NOT INTERESTED IN YOU OR THE BORING ASS HOUSEPLANTS YOU SEND ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY) and rearranged what was spared for the oncoming winter.

Up until this summer the wooden table in the backroom was an accidental Wadjet altar. (I had three succulents of varying sizes in terracotta colored ceramic pots grouped together on the carved table top. My small statue of Wadjet lived in the dark cove between the three pots, peeking accusingly at anyone who got too close to Her succulents.)

At some point in the beginning of the year Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, decided to move around some of his backroom plants and it ended up costing me one of MY plants. (He moved a tree - A FUCKING TREE! - in front of all of my succulents! IN FRONT OF MY CACTUS-LIKE PLANTS WHO LIVE IN THE DESERT AND LOVE AND NEED AND DEMAND SUN. WTF, MR. AWESOME, WTF?)

Once he was gone for an extended period of time I sat down and rearranged his rearrangement but the damage was done - I lost my aloe (which I had for nearly, Jesus, six years?) and almost lost my jade plant. With the jade tottering towards death I immediately placed it in front of the patio doors (along with the other succulent, a kind've sort've aloe looking thing whose name I can't remember) to get full sunlight. (The backroom patio is south facing, so it's the work room and record room and drying room and movie room AND plant room.)

With Wadjet and Her succulents gone (Wadjet eventually replaced Anat on our office/computer room windowsill altar when Anat's war hand caught on my tit, fell to the floor and broke in several pieces - OOPS) I filled the void with a seasonal arrangement - Hezbollah's lemonade / cracker / head shop / Hitman stand (<- WE BOUGHT A WOODEN HOUSE FOR THE TINY CHEAP-CHEAP BIRDS OUTSIDE, BUT FOUND OUT THAT CRAZY RAT FIT //PERFECTLY// IN IT SO WE DECIDED TO GIVE IT TO HER AND KEEP IT INDOORS), my no-longer-dormant Apache chili plant (which grew layers and layers of dangling tentacles), Hezbollah's special friend (a ceramic European robin), and my crocodile'n'brush pollinating set (<- I KEPT A MAKE-UP BRUSH ON TOP OF A CARVED CROCODILE ASHTRAY SO I COULD POLLINATE ALL OF THE INDOOR VEGETABLES MYSELF SINCE THEY WEREN'T EXPOSED TO OUTSIDE POLLINATORS).

Now that there's a legit threat of frost in the air it felt somewhat unseasonal to see the mostly pruned chili plant and Hezbollah's shack stand occupying the table top, so Wadjet's repotted succulents (the jade plant looks AMAZING now, BTW) were moved back, and to make a magic three I nestled the last survivor from the Shango (Bone) Tree's altar against the two thriving plants. (<- SHH! THEY'RE ACTING AS //ROLE-MODELS// FOR THE BABY SPROUT!)

The stubby Apache chili and my GARDENIA THAT WILL NOT QUIT GROWING EVER OR AT ALL (I swear to all that's holy that I PRUNE THAT FUCKING THING MORE THAN I SHAVE, SRSLY) got moved against the radiator, and I'm really hoping they'll situate themselves happily there because once winter hits the space you're looking at in the picture will - FINGERS CROSSED! - be occupied by this year's STONER TREE. (<- It's a Christmas tree BUT WITH A DIFFERENCE! And now that we have A CAR and NO FEAR OF AUTHORITY and a CHAINSAW we're thinking about having a fresh tree this year - OH, NO, ANOTHER CUT'N'RUN CHRISTMAS/YULE TRAGEDY!)

Of course you can't actually SEE any of the work I've painstakingly described in this entry and I've one million percent neglected explaining what actually IS going on in the photo, but knowing me that's to be expected, right?

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Here's the sad reality: regardless of all of the evidence that says otherwise, I'm not always an intuitive cook who gets things amazing-awesome-right the first try.

WAIT, NO, I TAKE THAT BACK! Because in actuality, I did pause, and I even asked Italics if he knew (LOLOLOLOL, LIKE HE'D MAGICALLY KNOW FOR SOME REASON MORE THAN ME, RIGHT?) if lemon reacted to metal. THAT INTUITIVE, GUT FEELING WAS THERE, DAMMIT, I WAS JUST LAZY AND TIRED AND WANTED TO GET THE JOB DONE SO I IGNORED THAT LITTLE QUESTION OF UNCERTAINTY.

If it wasn't the wire whisk I used then I WILL BLAME THE METALLIC TWINGED DISASTER ON MY DECEASED GRANDFATHER AND HIS EFFING BOTTLE OF HEINEKEN THAT SAT FOR A YEAR IN THE GRAVEYARD. (<- HE DIED LAST YEAR IN SEPTEMBER, SO I PUT A BOTTLE OF HIS FAVORITE BEER BEHIND PAPA'S HEADSTONE AND PAPA KEPT IT SAFE FOR ME, BUT MORE ON THAT LATER!)

OKAY, OKAY IT ISN'T //THAT// BAD. The curd didn't set like store bought shit, it has more of a runny honey consistency (one that begs you to dip a spoon in for a second and third and fourth time), and there IS a slightly metallic taste just at the very start, but it eventually fades away and you're left with golden sunshine in your mouth (OR SOMETHING). So it isn't a disaster as much as it's a disappointment, since I like to be supernaturally awesome at things the first time around (in this case, making lemon curd).

This was SUPPOSED to be a lemon mint curd using the last of the Moroccan mint out back, but fuck me if you can actually TASTE the mint (they said use 6 leaves, I used 13). I'm quite keen on trying this again using ONLY WOODEN SPOONS and maybe a few leaves off my lemon-rose scented geranium. (I WILL GET LEMON CURD RIGHT, DAMMIT - DO YOU HEAR THAT UNIVERSE?)

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Because the patio door faces the south it's the perfect place to grow plants AND sun dry anything harvested, so for the next few weeks this spot will be continually occupied with a rotating line-up of leaves, mushrooms, seeds and berries until everything's fully dehydrated and ready to be packed away in jars, bottles and bags. (<- THE WITCH IS STORING SHIT UP FOR WINTER.)

Way, way in the top left corner there's a ramekin filled with concrete looking dirt sitting in a white bowl with a red rim. That? That's crossroads dirt from right outside our property*. One of these days I'll get around to moistening the hardened dirt to pry it out and dry it for a second time in order to reduce it to fine powder; it's been sitting like a lump of coal for almost a year now because sometimes I can be REALLY lazy about things (really, REALLY lazy).

(* Long story short? A water pipe burst near the center of the crossroads last year - the crossroads our house is situated on - and when the street got dug up I stole some dirt and buried a witch bottle there before it got filled and covered with asphalt. BUT MORE ON THAT LATER BECAUSE I HAVE //PICTURES// AND EVERYTHING!)

The mustard colored ceramic bowl in the top center - the one with leaves poking out - house the rowan berries picked on the autumn equinox. Rather than throwing away the leaves that were attached I decided to dry them out as well since they're probably good for SOMETHING. (LOL @ HOW "SOMETHING" ALMOST ALWAYS DEFAULTS TO "OH, HEY, THIS COULD GET BURNED AS PART OF AN INCENSE BLEND...", TRUFAX.)

In front of the rowan bowl sits an orange ceramic bowl with a line of blue waves. That's some of the parsley that was picked on the equinox and then featured in our main Harvest Home altar. It'll be a mixture of parsley grown around our corn (to promote bigger plants with large roots), and parsley grown at the foot of the Shango (Bone) Tree on the phallic worship altar.

To the left of the parsley is my resin skull incense burner (IF I HAVE TO BLUDGEON A WOULD-BE INTRUDER IT WILL BE WITH THIS CRANIUM CRACKING INCENSE BURNER, SRSLY FOR REAL) filled with green acorns collected on this weekend's educational mushroom walk at a local castle. (OH, GOD, I DON'T EVEN WANT TO GO INTO IT. YOU KNOW HOW SOMETIMES YOU CAN GO TO A SOCIAL EVENT (EVEN WHEN YOU AREN'T EVEN SOCIAL TO BEGIN WITH) AND IT TURNS OUT THAT YOU - YOU, WHO ARE A LEGIT FREAK AND YOU KNOW HOW MUCH OF A FREAK YOU ARE - AREN'T EVEN A REAL FREAK COMPARED TO THE OTHER PEOPLE ATTENDING THE EVENT? YEAH. THAT.)

The huge tray of red berries taking up most of the picture are haws (hawthorn berries) that we picked over a week ago at an apple and pear festival. (I had a helluva time finding hawthorn shrubs locally, but after we picked a few pounds worth at the harvest festival I naturally discovered bushes upon bushes growing along a country lane within walking distance - NATURALLY, OF COURSE.)

I really, really wanted to make syrup with these guys, but with the threat of frost looming I still want to be able to harvest the rest of the rowan berries, blackberries (I want to make a bottle of blackberry whiskey for the Old Woman / Cailleach) and elderberries so this batch is getting dried while I focus on other wild berries. (Besides, the recipe calls for one cup of fresh or 1/2 cup of dried; best to dry them off and deal with what's more delicate and requires cooking from a fresh state first.)

Behind the haws are heads of wheat gathered from a local field. I meant to ritually reap wheat from a few locations, but due to a fucked up sleeping schedule we missed out on being able to cut bundles for ourselves. Thanks to the tractors farmers use every few feet there's a thin line of crushed wheat that didn't get cut, so we managed to pick a good handful of heads off the ground for seed/planting purposes.

These wheat heads come from a field famous for a stone (THE DRUM STONE). I was lead to believe that a bloody battle took place there ("OH MY GOD I WANT SEEDS OF WHEAT GROWING ON AN ANCIENT BATTLEGROUND!"), but when researching the monument I found that it was more of an ancient marker and men marching TO battle stopped there to "make arrangements" before going off to war. (Next year? Next year I hope to collect wheat growing next to standing stones and other neolithic monuments.)

Behind the wheat are drying chilies and plum seeds. This year I grew several varieties of chilies indoors - Apache, Cherry Bomb, Prairie Fire and Ring of Fire. The Ring of Fires are the longest, the Cherry Bombs are the short, fat grenade shaped ones and all of the others are Apaches. (The Prairie Fire was a late bloomer, so late, in fact, that it only finished flowering about a week ago.)

The first batch of plums were given as a gift when I made an offering at the local standing stones, another two batches were committed to a vodka grave (<- I'M MAKING A SPICED PLUM LIQUEUR FOR RITUAL USE!), the fourth batch were baked in a seasonal pie and the fifth now sit in the fridge awaiting their inevitable fate. The only pits I got from our plum crop this year are the ones pulled out when making pie (since the liqueur recipe called for the flesh AND pits of the fruit) and the ones still sitting in containment, so I'm saving and drying what I can for God knows what.

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A gift from Italics who knows me TOO well. (TO HELL WITH THE HERO, GIVE ME THE MONSTER! *MONSTER LOVE GRABBY HANDS*) Although I don't entirely understand why an alien is representing monsters and monster love...

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The tall row of plants are the very last of my vegetables. Way in the back - so way in the back you can't see anything other than the stem and the bamboo stick supporting it - is my Ring of Fire chili who reflowered so I have one or two more I'm waiting to harvest. The middle plant with upturned yellowish fruit is my Prairie Fire, and the last plant in line is the one aubergine (eggplant) I spared from the seasonal cold and brought indoors. Eventually all three will get cut down and ritually burned so I can mix magic ash into dirt used next year for all of my gardening (I'd compost if I could, but I can't so I burn and mix instead).

The two spiky plants in front of the line of vegetables? DRAGON'S FUCKING BLOOD, BABY! (Holy shit SRSLY! That's what Dragon's Blood looks like as a teeny tiny little thing!) Much love to my witch friend, Carolina, who sent me some seeds when I bought some of her V. awesome homemade kyphi. (<- THIS IS ANOTHER "BUT MORE ON THAT!" STORY/SCENARIO.)

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Whenever I go out of my way to make something EXTRA SPECIAL NICE I always make a point of sharing it with everyone (and by "everyone" I mean everything ancestral and incorporeal that we live with, not necessarily my in-laws). Because I don't have a kitchen altar I normally set a special place next to us using our best linens and then move the offering of food and drink to the backroom after we're done eating.

Last year we attended a harvest festival at a local castle where they sold produce, fruit and plants grown within the walled garden throughout the year. Our Castle Pie Adventure had it all - apples, plums, springtime bulbs and outdoor sex in a very public place against a tree. To celebrate the event I decided to bake a plum pie, but discovered I was one pound short of plums so I used the apples we bought instead.

(And THAT'S how Castle Pie was created! One pound of plums, one pound of apples, a plethora of spices, shortcut pastry and a topping of spiced streusel. I have pictures of Castle Pie 2008 HERE and HERE. It must've been sort've okay good because I found Italics, who doesn't like fruit, picking at the pie on more than one occasion. <- I crudely joke that he got Castle Pie twice, heh!)

This year the sale wasn't advertised so Castle Pie 2009 didn't actually come from a castle - it came from the backyard (plums) and a heritage garden (apples). I was HELLA disappointed because I really wanted CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE to become an annual harvest tradition for us - especially now since we have a car and don't have to have QUICK public outdoor sex against a tree because one of my in-laws is sitting in the parking lot waiting for us.)

When we went to the mushroom walk this past weekend THERE WAS A SIGN ADVERTISING THE EFFING WALLED GARDEN SALE. For whatever reason the company that manages Scottish heritage sites (i.e., castles and gardens and monuments and large houses) didn't bother UPLOADING THE INFORMATION ON THEIR OFFICIAL SITE so we missed out (not once, not twice but THREE FUCKING WEEKENDS IN A FUCKING ROW). I seriously wanted to make rude Italian gestures at the NTS.

2009 Harvest

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THE GAME: 2009 Harvest. THE OBJECTIVE: Get in as much shit as you can before it gets dark. THE CONFLICT: Waking up just after FIVE IN THE FUCKING AFTERNOON, thus giving you only an hour or two to successfully complete the game. THE PRIMARY FRUSTRATION: Lack of natural light forcing the use of flash indoors creating shitty, blurred pictures. (OH, FLASH, WHY MUST YOU BE MY ONLY NATURAL ENEMY?)

Everything pictured above is what we managed to gather before night fell completely. Italics woke up just after six in the evening and immediately clambered up a ladder to help pick the plums out of my reach and dutifully pulled down branches of the rowan trees so I could cut down the berries.

(I WASN'T ALLOWED ON THE LADDER DUE TO MY TINY GODDESS FEET. <- TINY GODDESS FEET DON'T EASILY SUPPORT HUGE ASS GHETTO GODDESS ASSES. MY BALANCE? COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY FUCKED UP BEYOND BELIEF. THAT'S THE PRICE OF MY HOURGLASS FIGURE.)

Half-naked in Summer's waning warmth (NAKED WITCH ENJOYS BEING NAKED BUT ALSO UNDERSTANDS THAT SOMETIMES THERE IS A NEED FOR MINIMAL AMOUNTS OF CLOTHING, LIKE WHEN HUGGING PRICKLY PLANTS AND MOVING SHARP, BONE DRY TWIGS) I pottered around in the garden barefoot, my toes sinking into the cold grass as the scent of Frankincense wafted in the air.

(I had to test if a roofing slate would take the direct heat of a charcoal block so I set up a tiny altar on one of the patio's small columns - the one where I normally leave offerings for the crows - and burned dusty chunks of resin during the act of harvesting, bathing my ritual scissors and gathered fruits, vegetables and herbs in the fragrant, sanctifying smoke.)

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Way, way in the back in the plastic terracotta colored container is my sad looking wheat which looked so pitiful and pathetic that I attempted to cheat out on my wheat growing, harvesting and displaying responsibilities by cruising local wheat fields to see if there were any patches of field left unharvested. (The answer? NO. (NATURALLY OF COURSE!))

With no other option I sat down at one in the fucking morning and cut down my wheat, and sitting on the floor I gathering each stalk - sheaf by sheaf - tightly in my left hand until I created a mace-like scepter. Didukh? Done, and not nearly as awful as I envisioned it'd be. (Last year when we ritually Reaped I cut the wheat down when it was still green and straight in the field so it naturally dried in a desirable shape, this time around I waited too damn long and the majority of the VERY dry wheat slumped over itself in a cascade of honey gold. DESPITE THE USE OF FLATTERING ADJECTIVES IT WASN'T A HOT LOOK, YO.)

The huge yellow-white-green leaves next to the wheat are Papa's tobacco, and the bundle of long, tall stalks resting on top of the leaves is the very last of our dill. The orange-red berries are just a fraction of what's still left on our dirtyard rowan tree, and there were so many goddamn plums that I began running out of containers to keep them in. In the bottom right corner you can see some of the parsley that was cut down, but the majority of the herb got shoved in a giant orange bucket filled with water (CLASSY, I KNOW).

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HERB TRAY, AHOY! (Actually, it's a roasting pan so I guess it should be "HERB ROASTING PAN, AHOY!".) This is the very last of my beloved herbs, cut down deliberately (AND OH, HOW IT PAINED ME TO DO SO!) to offer to the Old Woman. (She gets a portion of EVERYTHING, including all of my culinary herbs.) In the mess you can sort've kind've see parsley, thyme, rosemary, mint, marjoram, oregano, bay and our last cucumber.

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PLUMS, PLUMS, GLORIOUS PLUMS! I waited YEARS for the plum trees in back to bear fruit, and the second I saw masses of white flowers around Beltane I guarded the trees with a crazy insane she-bitch ferocity. ("I'LL TELL YOU SOMETHING, HE [MY FATHER-IN-LAW] BETTER NOT EVEN FUCKING //LOOK// AT THE TREES, OR ELSE, DAMMIT! MARK MY WORDS - //OR ELSE//!")

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That effing basket is quickly climbing "MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT'S TOP FIVE RITUAL ITEMS" list. It was originally bought to transport our Easter/Great Rite ritual meal to church to be blessed (BECAUSE I'M SPECIAL AND DIFFERENT AND A PAIN IN THE FUCKING ASS I COMBINE BOTH SLAVIC CATHOLICISM - EASTERN ORTHODOX PRACTICES I GREW UP WITH - AND VARIOUS PAGAN TRADITIONS WHEN CELEBRATING EASTER / SPRING / THE GREAT RITE / HIEROS GAMOS), but it's since been used for all forms of wildcrafting, carrying fresh roadkill home, moving my witchcraft junk from one room to another (i.e., BOTTLES, MILLIONS AND BILLIONS OF LITTLE BOTTLES AND JARS) and, more recently, gathering the fruits (vegetables and herbs) of this year's harvest.

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A close-up shot of Papa's tobacco, dill, some of the plums picked and the top sprigs of a parsley plant.

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It was nothing short of STUPIDLY BLISSFUL JOY when tugging on the soft, swollen fruits and feeling them separate from the tree straight into my hand. I grew up partially feral in my Ukrainian grandparents' orchard (two acres of oaks, apples, pears, plums, cherries, grapes and vast flower and vegetable gardens), but as kids we never took part in mass harvesting. The only time I picked fruit was for instant consumption, so it was something of a novelty to collect all of the plums off the trees and gently drop them in my basket.

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The Old Woman's portion of my herbs were gathered together in neat little bundles and banded together (YAY FOR RUBBERBANDS! THEY SECURE CLING FILM OVER PITCHERS OF STOCK, OPEN PAIN IN THE FUCKING ASS STUCK JARS AND BUNDLE FRESH HERBS TOGETHER!) to create an herbal posy. This bouquet (GARNI! HAH HAH HAH, GET IT? GET IT? BECAUSE IT'S BAY AND PARSLEY AND THYME AND...oh God, never mind, it's a lame cooking joke) was placed on a miniature altar adjacent to our main Harvest Home altar next to even more parsley, my basil plant and a few bulbs of garlic.

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Fresh, organic herbs! (OH, GOD, HERBS, I WILL MISS YOU V. MUCH DURING THE DARK YEAR AND LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU AGAIN DURING THE LIGHT YEAR.) The last - the best - for Her. (OH, THE SACRIFICES I MAKE TO - AND FOR - MYSELF! <- WHEN YOU WORSHIP YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS AS A DEITY YOU GET THE BEST OF //BOTH// WORLDS!)

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I struck a deal with the Old Woman - anything that touched the earth belonged to Her. So all of the windfall fruit - no matter how viable they were - were instantly turned over to Her and placed in Her offering bowl. And anything that fell out of my hands or basket when I was collecting, cutting and gathering shared a similar fate.

And that system was great and fine and She cheekily stole one or two plums off the branches while I was plucking their siblings, but the super major LOLOLOLOLOL! from the Universe came when there wasn't enough ladder (or Italics) to reach the plums at the very top of the tree and he was forced to shake the trunk to dislodge the last of the fruit. My job? My job was running back and forth at the foot of the ladder like a retard trying to catch every goddamn plum as they came crashing down so they wouldn't touch the ground.

(OI FUCKING VEY.)

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Moroccan mint! (A lot of it!) When bundling up the mint I actually GOT SICK just from the scent clinging to my hands. (Long story short? I have a broken stomach. There's a long list of UH OH! foods that set off my symptoms, and any sort of "mint" is RIGHT THE FUCK UP THERE. Even the perfumed fragrance of fresh mint is enough to get my lame ass stomach worked up.)

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My bucket'o'parsley! I grew a ring of parsley around one of my sweet corn plants to be able to dig them up later - roots and all. The rest of the parsley was planted in the raised dirt bed at the base of the Shango (Bone) Tree and grown exclusively for their leaves. (IF I PROMISED YOU ANY SORT OF WITCH PACKAGE YOU BETTER BELIEVE YOU'LL BE GETTING SOME HOMEGROWN SHANGO (BONE) TREE/PHALLIC WORSHIPING ALTAR PARSLEY.)

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These plums got some crazy love this past year. From Beltane to Mabon I was outside whispering, stroking, murmuring, kissing and affectionately touching the growing fruits. My day wasn't complete unless I went outside to inspect my plants and leave a little bit of love on clusters of ripening plums.

To give something back to the trees that brought me endless amounts of happiness during this year's growing season I'm going to give them an offering of my grandfather's beer (a 40oz Heineken that's been sitting in the graveyard since last year, diluted in a bucket of water), and I'm going to begin burying the carcasses of roadkill in the raised dirt bed that makes up the outside altar.

(That way the tree gets the nutrients from the decomposing bodies, I can grow magic herbs over the flesh and bones of ritually butchered roadkill and, once stripped by insects, I can go back and dig out the bare bones for personal use. <- WASTE NOT, WANT NOT!)

Harvest Home Offering

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Is it criminal that we haven't been back to the semi-local standing stones since walking to them for the first time earlier in June? (YES, PROBABLY.) In June it was effort - it was a fucking EXPEDITION - that had us cutting through sopping wet cow fields, hugging the linear trail of dashes along the sides of country lanes, receiving shocks from electrified fences and cutting through fields of growing wheat as summer's morning sun beat down on us with a crazy amount of ferocity for six in the fucking morning.

But now? But now we have a car - A CAR! AFTER NEARLY TEN YEARS! A FOR REAL CAR WITH FOR REAL WHEELS AND A FOR REAL ENGINE AND A FOR REAL GAS TANK - and the Scottish countryside is my oyster. (<- Hence the lack of quality posting recently. First we were sick, then we were having country sex in historical settings (OH, NEOLITHIC MONUMENTS AND ANCIENT CEMETERIES AND IMPOSING SCOTTISH CASTLES) and THEN Harvest Home hit and I've been scrambling madly to try and retain a quickened pace of urgency to ensure all of my proposed activities, celebrations and rituals come to fruition.)

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When I picked up the fox roadkill on Lammas (I haven't yet written an entry about it, but there are pictures of me processing the body nearly step by step in LAMMAS 2009) I didn't waste ANYTHING. The majority of its vital organs were gone (the stomach cavity must've exploded on impact leaving nothing noteworthy except a friction burned heart) so what remained was carefully extracted and frozen - the hide was gently peeled from the mangled carcass, the feet cut and bundled together, the windpipe, eyes, tongue and teeth meticulously removed and muscles from the mostly undisturbed haunches were stripped off and frozen into little fox steaks.

What I couldn't salvage and use I carefully wrapped in plastic and froze as well, packing it alongside the rabbit, crow and female blackbird in the outside freezer. (LOL @ THAT GODDAMN FREEZER TURNING INTO MY CREEPY GIRL ROADKILL MORGUE. IF ONLY MY IN-LAWS KNEW THEY WERE PAYING EXTRA FOR ME TO RUN AN EFFING FREEZER FOR WILD ANIMALS AND THEIR BUTCHERED PARTS.) I wanted to give those remains as an offering, but I couldn't make up my mind WHERE I wanted to leave them. (The standing stones were the first place I thought of, but I was afraid if people found the pile of gruesome leftovers there'd be some SATANIC PANIC in the air. <- POOR LITTLE MISUNDERSTOOD DEVIL-WORSHIPING WITCH!)

In the end, though, the idea came full circle and the fox remnants were left at the foot of the original standing stone (the other two in the background were later added - they seem to be proper standing stones, although probably not part of the original circle). And to combat any SATANIC PANIC I naturally went overboard making the offering look EVEN MORE SUSPICIOUSLY LIKE DELIBERATE WITCHCRAFT. (Although how BLACK MAGIC can it be if I'm also leaving plums, rowan berries and a small loaf of bread? <- CLEARLY, I AM IN LEAGUE WITH SATAN HIMSELF.)

This is my offering to the Old Woman, the Cailleach, my "darker" self (as opposed to the Virginal Spring Bride, my "lighter" self). With this offering I'm effectively giving thanks for what I received during my reign as the Bride and passing on a portion of my gifts and bounty to my other self. I've sowed, I've nurtured, I've reaped, harvested and learned, and by giving a portion to myself I'm also accepting the experience, wisdom and riches that comes from work. (LOOK, I NEVER SAID IT WAS GOING TO MAKE PERFECT SENSE, DID I? Although it makes PERFECT sense to me...)

The magenta pile of raw meat are the remains of my beloved fox (I DID EVERYTHING BUT STRIP NAKED AND FLING THE BLOODIED AND FLAYED PELT ON MY BARE BODY) and behind it is a huge ass soup bone that I picked up for Chippy, our live-in demon who's been house trained like a dog. (<- WHAT DOES AN AUTISTIC GIRL DO WHEN AN ANCIENT SUMERIAN DEMON COMES KNOCKING? SHE PUTS A DOG COLLAR ON IT, GIVES IT LOVES AND HUGS AND FLIES KITES WITH IT.)(HE HAPPENS TO LOVE FLYING KITES V. MUCH, THANK YOU.)

The round loaf of bread is a traditional Ukrainian bread called babka (it's sort've like a cake bread; rich, sweet and fragrant like brioche) that I normally bake during our Easter/Hieros Gamos celebrations. Normally I only bake babka (or paska) in Spring, but I found a recipe for a pumpkin version and after THAT I wouldn't consider anything else. Thanks to me being me the bread wasn't gloriously orange-gold like it was supposed to since I opted to substitute sweet potatoes for pumpkin (I think they have a better, more rounded flavor) and the tres swish potatoes I used were more corn silk gold than pumpkin orange. (SIGH.)

The babka is sitting on a jellied stack of bones from the three different birds consumed during our Harvest Home celebrations. (Long story short? Because I identify the Cailleach as my MONSTER HAG BABA YAGA SELF I offer Her/Me/Us primitive witch food - booze, bread and bones. <- THREE THINGS, LOLTASTICALLY ENOUGH, UKRAINIANS ARE VERY FOND OF.) I made a stock using the frozen bones and gizzards of last year's Christmas goose (I always offer the carcass of the body to the Woman, but keep the shit trimmed away prior to roasting for stock making) and then added leftover roast duck to the soup. The last set of bones comes from our ROADKILL PHEASANT which I butchered, tidied up and then casseroled with venison.

The plums are windfall fruits from the two plum trees that I've been babying for the past couple of years. (It's taken A LOT of effing work to get those fuckers to flower and bear fruit. Like NEARLY THREE YEARS WORTH OF EFFORT AND WORK AND CAJOLING, PLEADING, DEMANDING AND THREATENING.) I promised any fruit, vegetable or herb that touched the ground to the Old Woman which made plum picking V. interesting when Italics was forced to shake branches way above me because he couldn't reach the ones at the very top. (OH, BUT IF ONLY YOU ALL COULD'VE SEEN ME HALF-NAKED AND RUNNING BACK AND FORTH WITH A HUGE ASS BASKET OVER MY HEAD TRYING TO CATCH EVERY PLUM PLUMMETING TO THE GREEDY GROUND BELOW.)

Last are a huge handful of fresh rowan berries from our overloaded tree in the dirtyard which sits at one of the perpendicular angles of the crossroad we're situated on. (I've been meaning to sit down and string the fuckers up into necklaces and garlands and shit BUT I JUST HAVEN'T HAD THE TIME. Currently I have bunches of rowan berries liberally scattered throughout our altar and in various ceramic bowls throughout the house.) Italics said that it was the berries that finally pushed the Harvest Home offering into OBVIOUS WITCHCRAFT TERRITORY. (BECAUSE, LIKE, PILES OF ROTTING MEAT, PLUMS AND A LOAF OF BREAD ARE CLEARLY AMBIGUOUS UNTIL YOU ADD ROWAN BERRIES.)

OH WAIT ALSO! I also offered water at the stone, pouring it over the very tip of the stone and letting it race down to the earth below. (You can kind've sort've see the streaks in the first picture, especially if you view it in a larger size.) As we departed I managed to unearth an oddly shaped stone - really reminiscent of the one we were just at - from the soil and I took it home with us in the hopes I can create a miniature recumbent circle at the base of the Shango (Bone) Tree's altar next year.

(I'm just going to let the next few pictures speak for themselves. ME? RUIN THE THE PERVASIVE ATMOSPHERE? SURELY NOT!)

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The nipple peak tentatively emerging from the dense morning mist is Bennachie, also know as "Mither Tap" ("Mother Tap" due to the breast shape of the hill). In ancient times it had a significant religious role in the indigenous people's lives. (The Old Woman, the Cailleach, usually inhabited the largest hills and peaks in the area.) While I can't see Mither Tap from any of our windows, the second we're on the road that winds down to the cemetery it (She?) comes into view.

For a year or two now I've been desperate to get to the summit to collect materials to create my own neolithic/stone age hammer. (In stories the Old Woman brings Winter down by striking the ground with Her hammer.) I have no idea how to fashion a hammer out of stone, sinew, leather and wood BUT THAT ISN'T GOING TO STOP ME. (FEAR ME, SCOTLAND, FOR ONE DAY I WILL CONTROL WINTER AND YOU WILL TREMBLE IN THE RIPPLING WAKE OF MY AWESOME POWER! (<- Actually, LOLOLOLOL, I just want to ensure A WHITE FUCKING CHRISTMAS EVERY YEAR, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.))

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After collecting a mostly perfect roadkill rabbit (THAT'S ANOTHER STORY I'M SAVING FOR LATER, BUT THE CONDENSED VERSION IS: FOUND A DEAD RABBIT - RATHER BLOATED BUT 100% IMMACULATE FUR - ON THE WAY TO THE STANDING STONES AND SKINNED ITS PELT TO BEGIN THE LONG ROADKILL FORAGING PROCESS OF CREATING A HOMEMADE RABBIT BLANKET; YAY FOR STANDING STONES PAYING IT FORWARD!) and offering this year's bounty at the stones we casually drove around the country as the sun rose, admiring the mist riddled landscape, gawking at the sheer number of pheasants and carefully looking for even more roadkill.

This is mist rising from the local loch (a man made feature created hundreds of years ago) during sunrise. If you have a super great memory you might remember me mentioning "THE LOCH" when pointing out the glimmer of water in the distance in pictures taken at the new cemetery (as opposed to the old cemetery where we go to leave offerings and gifts and help tend the graves of complete strangers since I'm unable to care for the resting place of my family and ancestors).

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The loch and village containing both cemeteries are named after an infamous magician that lived and practiced the black arts just a mile away (the "Wizard Laird"). He spent part of his youth in Italy, supposedly studying magic, and upon returning home continued his "satanic" practices here. He's buried in the very graveyard we visit - the same cemetery where he allegedly stole corpses of unbaptized babies for his nefarious deeds - although the exact location of his burial site has been "lost" and a modern marker in the shape of a headstone was created to commemorate him and his family.

(I have a kind've sort've maybe idea of where he is. Occasionally I leave a treat for him when we visit the graveyard, knocking on the totally nondescript monument to "wake" him up. The first time I did that I requested that he send me his magic birds - crows, rooks, magpies and jackdaws (I already had the crows and magpies, I eventually got the rooks but I'm still waiting for the jackdaws) - and that very night I had an unsettling dream where I found myself standing in a very specific location in the cemetery, practically choking on the overwhelming, blinding presence of something with big heap ju-ju.)

Glass Bottle Cemetery

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I have a crazy huge thing about glass bottles; I can't get rid of them. From blocky garlic salt bottles to impossibly narrow hot sauce bottles they all, eventually, get run through the dishwasher and committed to a semi-final resting place. And they late in state for a week, a month, sometimes a half-year collecting dust until I finally need one for something.

There are two places empty glass bottles go to die - the detached outside room (which is currently being used as storage, but we're planning to clean it out and renovate it so we have a much larger - and much more private! - bedroom), and the top of the bedroom dresser (which kind've sort've serves as an altar space when not cluttered up with bottles and bones and feathers and plants and half-started projects and gifts for others).

With fall barreling down upon us I'm starting to get a nesting itch, but I've been trying to hold off on scratching it until the end of the harvest (the blackberries are just about to ripen and then, not long after, the elderberries and rowan berries should be ready). As the house tempts me with forgotten, dusty corners I'm beginning to find partially finished projects and gifts strewn across various altar spaces that quicken that sense of cleaning'n'organizing urgency. ("OH, GOD, I PROMISED I'D GET THIS THING OUT //LAST FUCKING YEAR//! I'LL PUT THIS GIFT RIGHT HERE AND TRY TO GET TO IT NEXT WEEK FOR REALZ.")

I haven't planned it, but in the next few weeks we'll be dismantling the bedroom piece by piece for winter cleaning (in Spring we welcome the Bride, in Winter we welcome the Hag). The room will be completely emptied except for the dresser (too heavy to move so it gets pushed into the center of the room to open up the space it normally occupies) and the bed frame which'll get turned on its side to make vacuuming the entire room a billion times easier.

Following the skirting boards I'll outline the perimeter of the room with salt, and then create my MAGIC CLEANING MIX (natural cleaning solution (Ecover, usually) + sea salt + rosemary, lemon balm and lemon essential oils + hot, crazy hot, water). Then, using an ordinary scouring pad for dishes, I wash everything*, leaving no corner or side or panel untouched.

(* The skirting boards, the walls, the ceiling, the ceiling fan, the outside of the dresser, the inside of the dresser, the two nightstands, the three drawers that reside in each nightstand, the bed frame, the thresholds of the room (window and door), the radiator and every fucking thing that resides in the room - whether it's a statue sitting on top of one of the nightstands or a tarot deck usually kept within a drawer. Nothing - not even a book thrown into a corner - is allowed back into the room without being thoroughly cleaned.)

While I'm cleaning - because it's usually a one day, if not two, event - the bedsheets get washed with a sprinkle of salt and sometimes a drop of ritual oil in the detergent. Slowly, but surely, the room beings to reknit. After washing and drying everything with my MAGIC CLEANING MIX I vacuum the room picking up debris and salt, right the frame and return the dresser to its corner.

The nightstands, empty, get moved back into place revealing the skeletal foundation of our bedroom. The mattress returns, febreezed and flipped, the various altars get reassembled and drawers are carefully filled once again. By the time the last laundered sheet is fitted the room's perfumed with the scent of cleansing, living green (the essential oils) followed shortly by purifying smoke (a mix of pure frankincense - in resin form - burned with dried rosemary and sage).

And after an exhausting day of hard, manual labor I pass out - sore, but satisfied - on bedsheets that feel like new, in an ossuary that smells like an herbal garden knowing that for the rest of the season we're secure and protected* in the magical fortress built by sweat and intention by an anally retentive matriarch who feels that cleaning isn't just a social necessity, but a fine fucking art.

(* HONEY, WHEN YOU'VE SPENT 12-24 HOURS CLEANING THE FUCKING SCREWS THAT KEEP YOUR NIGHTSTAND DRAWERS TOGETHER THERE'S NO NEED TO CAST A CIRCLE FOR "PROTECTION"; I BLEACH THE TOILET WITH MY BARE HANDS, I SCRUB THE PADDING ON THE FEET OF THE BED - NOTHING, AND I MEAN //NOTHING//, CROSSES THE LINE OF A WOMAN WHO SCRUBS URINE STAINS FROM THE BASE OF THE TOILET WILLINGLY.)

How do I know winter cleaning's going to happen in the next few weeks without even planning or scheduling it? Because I've already begun shifting empty glass bottles from their makeshift cemetery, gradually but methodically freeing up the space on top of the closet. (<- That's the instability that creates the avalanche. When my neurotic attention is drawn to one mess, it's not long before I compulsively attack the others and everything, like the Tower, comes tumbling town.)

Down the Rabbit Hole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aug. 16th Walk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 27th Walk

It seems criminal to be sitting here, hammering out an entry when there's a perfect (bordering near FLAW-FUCKING-LESS) Friday evening outside with a robin egg colored sky and a warm-but-still breeze that breathes across the hairs of your arm.

(Soon - SOON! - will be the time for sunglasses and amphetamines, the bottom half of string bikinis (<- NO SHOULDER STRAP TAN LINES, THANKS, I'LL FORGO THE TOP AND BARE MY TITS TO THE NEIGHBORS) and Dire Strait LPs, hammocks, inflatable pools, barbecues, bonfires and sex beneath the The Shango (Bone) Tree - provided, of course, my father-in-law doesn't manage to kill ALL OF THE FUCKING GRASS again this year.)

I meant to keep the momentum of writing going, but then I got hit by my period and all of those wonderful intentions wrapped up in satiny bows got misplaced (or stolen and sold on the black market). I'm probably the last girl you'll ever hear complaining about her period (NO "I WISH I WAS A GUY" OR "STUPID FUCKING UTERUS, WHAT ARE YOU GOOD FOR, ANYWAY?"; LONG STORY SHORT? I DIG BEING FEMALE, I DIG HAVING MY SEXUAL REPRODUCTION ORGANS SHAPED LIKE A RAM'S HEAD, I DIG THE POWER, THE HORMONES, THE ENERGY, THE BLOOD - I TOTALLY DIG BEING FEMALE, PERIOD, THE END, THANK YOU) but this one - thanks to two previously light ones - was like being hit by a steam powered STRIPPING UTERINE LINING TRAIN.

I bled for five days non-stop, changing menstrual rags twice a day. I bled and cramped while curled up next to Catfish sleeping (our giant six foot Wal-Mart catfish pillow brought home to Scotland during our last trip to the States), I bled and cramped while standing in the shower washing my hair, I bled and cramped while cooking dinner, marching while standing still, lifting each foot just enough to trick my body into thinking I was actually walking. (<- WALKING = BEST THING TO DO WHILE WAITING FOR PAIN MEDICATION TO KICK IN TO COMBAT CRAMPS.)

INTERNETS, I AM WIPED OUT (AND, HOPEFULLY, SO IS MY WOMB). Physically and...well, actually, only physically, because everything else is pretty awesome-okay (or, at least, somewhere in between "awesome" and "okay"). For instance - FRESH, HOMEMADE RHUBARB PIE WITH SUMMER FRUITS (BLUEBERRIES, RASPBERRIES, BLACKBERRIES, RED AND BLACK CURRANTS) AND ORANGE FLOWER WATER? AWESOME! Having to share said FRESH, HOMEMADE RHUBARB PIE WITH SUMMER FRUITS (BLUEBERRIES, RASPBERRIES, BLACKBERRIES, RED AND BLACK CURRANTS) AND ORANGE FLOWER WATER with my in-laws? Just "okay".

Yesterday I spent three hours hard core gardening (hard core = continuing work in the first trench in the dirtyard; I've got permission to plant vegetables there this year, but I have to physically sift all debris, stones, pebbles and boulders from the dirt by hand and cut-break-snap tree roots in my way, otherwise my chthonic vegetables don't stand a chance). Just as I was about to retire - all dirted up and sun-kissed across the bridge of my nose and cheeks (A FACE TAN TO FINALLY MATCH MY CRESCENT MOON ASS TAN) - I figured I better check all of my seedlings and plants to make sure nothing needed to get watered.

And, OH SNAP, shit needed to get watered so the garlic was dowsed and the lilies of the valley were drenched and I offered water ("BEAR ME FRUIT, BEAR ME FRUIT, BEAR ME FRUIT") to The Shango (Bone) Tree and the two other fruit trees (an apple and another plum, I think). The peach tree and tobacco was checked, the peas prodded, and everything inside the bonsai house and outside on the patio was loved, touched and watered. (YOU NEED TO BE V. HANDS ON WITH PLANTS; THEY NEED TO KNOW THEY'RE LOVED!)

While watering my witch's garlic I noticed how overgrown the narrow stretch of dirt had become (we toss rat food leftovers out the office/computer room window so the birds are fed; unfortunately, since a lot of the leftovers are in seed form they happily root themselves below the window giving us a lush patch of rat food seed grass - LOL, THE ONLY HEALTHY GRASS IN THE ENTIRE YARD, SRSLY) so, fuck, since I was ALREADY muddy and sore and tired and damp it didn't matter if I got anymore muddy and sore and tired and damp and went to work on weeding the garlic bed.

(And it was still and cool and beautiful. Hidden in the shade of nearing twilight I knelt on damp earth and turned it up with my bare hands, the only sounds accompanying the tearing sound of plants-from-soil were the metallic pings from the freshly filled bird feeders as the cheep-cheeps came back for one last meal, and the bumbling, stumbling sound of a fattened bumblebee (BEH!) investigating everything but me as the heavy load of its body hugged the ground.)

That moment - with the pinging and the buzzing and the overwhelming smell of saturated, living earth - was Church, the sycamore's growing umbrella of green a breathing Byzantine cathedral. I prayed and didn't even know it, but there was something about that steady, contented silence that felt simultaneously like thanksgiving and hope. (And I wasn't even high! NOT EVEN, DEAR AND GENTLE READERS!)

"AGAIN!" tends to be my motto; experience taking precedent over thinking. (Thinking's for later, in winter, when I'm locked up indoors and have nothing better to do than be intro and retrospective.) But, SIGH, no, not again, because Saturday morning (tomorrow) is the farmer's market and I'm waking up in the evening (today was around 7:30 PM) which means I need to reserve energy to be able to spring out of the house in roughly twelve hours.

So, instead of gardening, instead of thinking (LOL, THINKING? BUT IT'S NEARLY SUMMER!), instead of writing I give you...

...

...

...

...another one of our patented early morning walks. (OKAY, OKAY, CALM DOWN, DON'T GET OVEREXCITED.) After being awake at night for about a week you begin getting itchy and the super awesome thing about living here in Scotland (at least where we're located) is that dawn begins to break around 2:30 AM in summer. So, by 3 AM - especially near the solstice - there's more than enough light to let you explore the countryside while the rest of the (local Scottish) world sleeps.

Italics celebrated his 29th birthday on Sunday (HE'S CAUGHT UP, I'M NO LONGER A CRADLE ROBBER! <- WE'RE BOTH MONKEYS, BUT I WAS BORN A MONTH EARLIER) and due to a retarded mix-up ("retarded mix-up" = I forgot to include the portions in the care packages of home baked goods I recently sent) there were five defrosted chunks of Ukrainian angel food cake (vanilla almond) that needed to be used and a 40oz bottle of cider that neither of us could bare to drink (way too acidic and carbonated; it set off both of our acid reflux issues just after one swig).

Unwanted cake and cider? Sounds like a perfect excuse to go leave celebratory offerings...

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Something was DIFFERENT, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was. And then, right in mid-sentence, it hit me - LOL, WAIT, I DIDN'T PUT THAT MOTH ON MY ANTIQUE CRESCENT NECKLACE! (SAVE THE SILK!)

My mom's Elizabeth Arden "Treasures of the Pharaohs" hippo figure was the seed that sparked SEX PIG 2K; I worshiped the glossy white porcelain figure from afar as a kid (translation: IN THE CHINA CABINET, BUT NEVER TOUCHED OR HELD IN FEAR OF BREAKING IT). It was one of several things I managed to "inherit" when my mother died unexpectedly a few years ago.

Not only does it spiritually resonate with me (the entire hippo thang; which perfectly compliments Italics's crocodile thang), but, in a weird way, it makes me love my mother even more when I see it. (It's hard to remember the crazy, the angry, the everything when you're looking at something so simple, white and pure - it's like seeing the best of my mom.)

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I couldn't find any indigenous folklore about Brimstone moths, but they apparently love rowan and we have a single rowan tree that marks our side of the crossroads we live on. (I've been hacking either rowan or sycamore roots; all of the pieces have been kept since I figure you can do something MAGIC with roots the width of bean poles - CHTHONIC ROWAN BROOM, ANYONE?)

I've only worn the crescent necklace once; it was one of those split second, spontaneous decisions. It was worn with the rest of my ritual jewelry, my favorite ass-hugging jeans, my magic grey long sleeve shirt, my wedding dress (a Scottish apron that I wore when we performed last years GREAT RITE / SACRED MARRIAGE / HIEROS GAMOS ritual) and my black leather jacket when we went reaping last year during Harvest's lunar eclipse. (MORE ON THAT LATER!)

"LET'S GO FOR A WALK," I suggested, out of no where, staring at the Brimstone moth. It was still dark - inky black with a faint crack of cerulean blue where the sun would rise in a few hours - perfect for catching some wildlife still out and about before early commuters began their weekly cycle of wake-work-sleep.

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When the rural town we live in began seriously encroaching on the countryside the occupants of the new houses began using abandoned fields to walk their dogs. After several years walkers have beaten in a path that loops around a cairn and several fields passing hillsides that were once filled with endless gorse bushes and giant foxgloves.

Sections of old stone walls have been removed and two corners of the field - the two split by a gravel road leading up to a farm - have been disturbed. There are piles of gravel and stacks of plastic irrigation pipes and the beaten path has been flanked with flags on wooden stakes; looks like the council has finally decided to make a permanent path for walkers and their dogs and create two small parking lots to discourage people from parking on the side of the road.

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My father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, believes himself to be an expert bullshit artist. We feign ignorance and play along, only because it's easier to go "YEAH, RIGHT, UH HUH" absently while periodically nodding your head in faux agreement. (NO, SERIOUSLY. I'VE WITNESSED A "CONVERSATION" BETWEEN ITALICS AND HIS FATHER THAT LASTED TEN MINUTES AND THE ONLY THING ITALICS EVER SAID - THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE DURATION OF THE ONE-SIDED INTERACTION - WAS A DISMISSIVE "UH HUH".)

Mr. Awesome alerted us to the fact that a new building scheme was going up, that they were going to put houses where people walk their dogs. You know, the place where the council's outlined the beaten track with flags - like they do with every other path they create and pave in the shire - and carved out two small parking lot sized plots right next to the street. The same two fields were rocks have been deliberately removed from the stone wall to provide access into the carved out plots of land, where piles of gravel are sitting (to use instead of asphalt or concrete) next to a handful of pipes to irrigate the to-be flattened, graveled patch of land.

"Uh huh," we said, in unison, his father speaking to both of our backs as we pretended to be inordinately interested in the dinner we were preparing. "Uh huh," we said, a day earlier having seen an official posting at the community hall saying that the building scheme that had been planned - something I was personally angsting about - was withdrawn and not to be pushed forward (thank you, recession, thank you!).

"Uh huh," we said, thinking "what a fucking oblivious retard."

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Just as we began passing the disturbed children's home (boarded up and no longer in use, but still being maintained in the hopes that one day it can be reopened for the benefit of children) I caught a flash of white bobbing in our wheat field ("our wheat field" = the wheat field where we performed the Reaping ritual last year).

It was, honest to all that's fucking holy, the first deer I've seen locally since first moving here in 2001. (I now LOLOLOL! at my memories of white tailed deer eating so non-chalantly next to O'hare airport when driving in to pick Italics up from the airport or drop him off.)(OH, THE OLD DAYS WHERE EVERY FEW MONTHS THERE'D BE A TEARFUL DEPARTING, WAITING AND DREAMING ABOUT THE DAY WE'D FINALLY BE TOGETHER WITH NO ATLANTIC OCEAN BETWEEN US.)

Deer are sacred to The Old Woman (the Cailleach), and I think I've read that the ancient, primitive deer priestess cults were somehow connected to Her. (WORKS FOR ME, YO. GIVE ME SOME DRUGS, A WEAPON, AND I'LL HAPPILY GO RITUALLY HUNTING SO I CAN KILL, WEEP, SKIN AND THROW A FLAYED, STILL WARM HIDE OVER MY NAKED BODY WHILE ROLLING ON THE GROUND ALL EXORCIST-STYLE. <- Oh honey, yes, I'm THAT sort've witch.)

"I wonder if it'll run through the threshold," I mused, the "threshold" being a cleared section of a stone wall running through the middle of the wheat field - the place where, a few months ago, I declared we should finish our WEDDING RITE. (I mean, JESUS, what could be MORE MAGIC than having ritual fertility sex IN THE THRESHOLD OF A "DOOR"? PRETTY DAMN MAGIC.)

A minute or two later - just long enough to be comical - it darted through the gap, racing up the incline of the field towards Rabbit Hill. (YEAH, YEAH, I GET IT, I GET IT. NIGHTTIME MOTH ON MY CRESCENT REAPING NECKLACE, A DEER RACING THROUGH OUR PROPOSED MARTIAL BED - "FOR FUCK'S SAKE! GET IT ON, GET IT OVER WITH!" DEMANDS THE UNIVERSE. <- We still haven't had "proper" sex; we've been saving that for SEX IN THE FIELD, so Hieros Gamos / the Great Rite has been only half finished since Easter Sunday - ASS FINISHED!)

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The local cemetery at dawn. The new section's contained behind the wall; everything in front is much, much older. The row of trees in the background - the super huge ones in the distance - are the ancient beech trees that create the hedgerow where the stone "stove" is. Just behind the trees is our wheat field.

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The flat, risen grave is our makeshift bench and cemetery sex bed. Unfortunately, it's too dark to see, but there's a weathered skull and crossbones carved into the stone beneath the top. (IF YOU CLICK ON THE IMAGE ABOVE I'VE HIGHLIGHTED WHERE IT IS; YOU CAN JUST MAKE OUT SOME OF THE CROSSBONES.)

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Sister Mary Cabrini's still holding on to her resurrection egg. (For the full story hit up my previous journal entry 2009 PYSANKY which explains the entire egg thing a lot better.) I wonder what visiting relatives or fellow sisters must've thought the first time they saw the hard boiled egg sitting at the foot of the cross. (Which reminds me - I've still got a wee lavender that I've been meaning to plant at her grave for the past two years, BETTER GET THAT SHIT DONE, DUDE.)

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No one there except for us, birds, rabbits and the recently (and not so recently) deceased. It's a beautiful, still quiet that's shared between us and the wildlife - Scotland at dawn, twenty-two days before the summer solstice.

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Wild rabbits in the cemetery. (REINCARNATION, RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE DEATH CYCLE, ANYONE?) If the birds don't get to our graveyard offerings first, the rabbits have a picnic. (The shot's so blurred because Italics had to zoom in super crazy to be able to get a picture of the rabbit cutting through the rows of graves.)

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OH HEY, AS IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY GOTTEN YOUR FILL OF BLURRED RABBIT IMAGES! This one was taken on the way back as we passed the beech hedge. Next time we go out for one of our morning walks I'll staple my detached rabbit tail so I can blend in with the locals. ("I AM YOUR RABBIT MESSIAH, THROUGH ME I WILL BRING YOU AND YOUR LAGOMORPHA BRETHREN EVERLASTING LIFE!")

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While Italics was having a slash behind the disturbed children's home I made friendly with the neighboring cows until I was scolded for arousing suspicion.

(Some people aren't as respectful as we are of the home; recently it's been broken into several times by kids who get drunk (OH LOOK, ANOTHER BROKEN BOOZE BOTTLE, AWESOME!), wrench the boards off windows and smash whatever they can get their hands on. For obvious reasons we don't want people thinking that we're the vandalism culprits so we try to keep our presence under the radar.)

(IF WE DIDN'T LEAVE CANDY AT HALLOWEEN AND PRESENTS AT CHRISTMAS FOR THE KIDS, WHO WOULD?)

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I don't have kids and don't have any experience with them, but if they're anything like wildlife then I know they can be bribed with food. (WHO WOULDN'T WANT A DEAD ARMY OF DISTURBED CHILDREN TO DO THEIR BIDDING?) Every once in a while we visit the home to leave offerings of food and water for the girls and boys.

Pictured above is a piece of Ukrainian angel food cake moistened with flat alcoholic cider. (RIGHT, OKAY, I KNOW THAT MAYBE GIVING DISTURBED CHILDREN ALCOHOL ISN'T EXACTLY KOSHER, BUT, FUCK, IT'S NOT LIKE I GAVE THEM A PACK OF MATCHES, OR SOMETHING.) Papa's bird (blackbirds), the ever ready opportunist, has already found the cake sitting on the door step. (I'VE SAID IT ONCE, AND I'LL SAY IT AGAIN - WHERE THERE'S FOOD, THERE'S PAPA.)

Clearer images of the whole house can be found on my Flickr photostream here, here and here.

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Why waste words on something that doesn't need any? EXACTLY. (All photos within this entry were taken by Italics; if it isn't at a weird, close-up artsy angle than you know it's him behind the camera.)

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NOTES TO SELF: Carried back two recently cut logs from children's home for solstice bonfire. Italics found a denim kid's hat near the dog walking fields with a crocodile on the label. (<- OOO, MAGIC SPECIAL!)

Cycle of the Sycamore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby Book

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009 Pysanky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My mother did amazing, amazing work. (I'd show you if MY ESTRANGED FAMILY ACTUALLY ALLOWED ME TO TAKE A FEW OF HER THINGS, BUT THEY DIDN'T. AT LEAST NOT THE VERY IMPORTANT STUFF I WAS PROMISED LIKE HER UKIE CROSS-STITCHING, HER EGGS, AND ALL OF THE THINGS NEEDED TO CREATE BOTH.) She made the leap from late-night squinting at eggs to late-night squinting at pottery and, by the time of her death, she had become so accomplished as a Native American potter that some of her pieces were inducted into museums.

(We have a mixed heritage - my grandmother's father was Lakhota (IT'S A VERY LONG STORY THAT INVOLVES AN INDIAN TRAVELING ACROSS THE OCEAN IN A WILD WEST SHOW AND GETTING HELLSA SEA SICK AND NEVER WANTING TO GO ON A BOAT AGAIN) which made my mother a 1/4th and me a laughable 1/8th.)

OKAY, MAYBE THAT'S A LITTLE TOO MUCH FAMILY HISTORY, BUT I JUST WANT TO ILLUSTRATE THE DEPTH SOMETHING AS STUPID AS A DECORATED EASTER EGG HAS FOR ME.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the skill required to create these terrific gems. And the older I get, the more I fucking kick myself for not having expressed interest in learning the art before my mother passed. (LOOK, I WASN'T EXPECTING HER TO DIE FROM A FRACTURED ANKLE IN HER LATE 50S. HAD I KNOW THAT, I WOULD'VE ADJUSTED MY LIFE SCHEDULE ACCORDINGLY.) This year was the tipping point for me when it became increasingly clear that, OH, HEY, MAYBE I CAN DO THIS AFTER ALL! but the inherent skill I felt wasn't translated/expressed through a dull-tipped Sharpie marker.

(THE PENCILING IN OF SHIT? EASY. TRYING TO CREATE FINE, THIN BLACK LINES WITH BLUNT PERMANENT MARKERS AND SCENTED CHILDREN'S MARKERS? (<- LIGHT BLUE/MANGO IS MY FAVORITE!) NOT SO EASY, EVEN WHEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF MEPH. <- WOW, WAS IT EASY TO CONCENTRATE ON DIVIDING EGGS IN PENCILED SECTIONS WITH RUBBER BANDS WHEN STIMULATED OUT.)

Ever since Italics and I were able to import smoked kielbasa from Wales (OKAY, TECHNICALLY IT WAS DOMESTIC, BUT WALES, LIKE SCOTLAND, IS DOING ITS OWN THANG WITHIN THE UNITED KINGDOM) we've been observing Easter the traditional Eastern Orthodox way. (You can check out the journal entry EASTER SUNDAY for more information if your interest is suitably peaked.) Friends in the States take pity on us and every few years we receive a giant box of USA Easter paraphernalia (PAAS dying kits, Peeps, etc) to replenish diminishing stock.

(YES, VIRGINIA, YOU CANNAE GET PEEPS IN SCOTLAND FOR EASTER. OR EGG COLORING KITS, FOR THAT MATTER. ALTHOUGH I'VE BECOME INCREASINGLY FRUSTRATED WITH THE TABLET-AND-VINEGAR METHOD AND AM PLANNING TO USE NATURAL PLANT-BASED DYES NEXT YEAR FOR BETTER AND MORE EVEN COLOR.)

Despite neither of us being skilled in creating proper pysanky (I'M WORKING ON THAT, THOUGH) we still derive great stoner joy in sitting down together as a couple with a dozen dyed eggs, a box of non-toxic markers, weed and a movie (which can be partially ignored as we do our own late-night squinting).

The annual activity's become even more special thanks to last year when we began the tradition of decorating an egg for people, relative, friends and pets that've passed on since last Easter. Once our highly personalized eggs are done, we leave them as offerings at the base of an ancient tree in the local cemetery's cairn.

When I relocated to Scotland (Italics is Scottish and we decided that we'd rather have an entire ocean separating us from MY family rather than his) my favorite Easter tradition - Swieconka - was a thing of the past. In fact, it took me several years to even FIND a deli that carried smoked polish meat so I could have some shipped up to northeast Scotland for Easter brunch.

Eastern Europeans, especially the Polish, have begun immigrating to the UK in a major way. Last year, due to the huge influx of Poles, a Polish deli opened in town. (DEAR AND GENTLE READERS, YOU CAN ONLY IMAGINE MY REACTION.) This year? This year, due to the huge influx of Poles, a single Swieconka service was held at the Catholic cathedral I occasionally pop into to pray at the feet of the Blessed Virgin.

(FIRST OF ALL, I'M NOT GOING TO APOLOGIZE FOR APPROPRIATING AN ALREADY ESTABLISHED ARCHETYPE - I.E., THE VIRGIN MOTHER. SECONDLY, THERE'S A FUCKING STARBUCKS AND TWO LINGERIE SHOPS ON THE SAME STREET - CASE CLOSED, THE JURY FINDS MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT INNOCENT!)

And? AND IT HAPPENED ON MY BIRTHDAY! So on top of preparing the house and ourselves for THE GREAT RITE / SACRED MARRIAGE / HIEROS GAMOS I also had to get my first Easter basket - MY FIRST ONE! MY FIRST, ALL-BY-MYSELF, I AM THE MATRIARCH OF THIS HOUSEHOLD BASKET! - prepared for the single service.

We only managed to dye the eggs, but at least I was able to take my grandfather's egg - along with a few plain eggs wrapped up in those decorated plastic shrinking sleeves - to church and get it blessed by a priest before sitting down and dedicating it him with pencil and Sharpie.

(I TAKE THAT BACK! AFTER THUMBING THROUGH PICTURES NOT YET UPLOADED TO FLICKR I CAN SEE I TOOK ONE PLASTIC WRAPPED EGG (THE ONE WE ENDED UP EATING), MY GRANDFATHER'S RED EGG AND BEH'S YELLOW BUMBLEBEE EGG. NOW THAT THAT'S CLARIFIED...)

This year's pysanky event began on the day we unexpectedly got married after the long (VERY LONG) observation of celibacy during Lent. (I was raised orthodox Catholic, but I consider myself a witch. Since being exposed to the terrific Byzantine opulence of Eastern orthodoxy - which, needless to say, made helluva impression on me - I cherry pick the best of both worlds, or anything that moves and speaks to me. While not being Catholic I observe Lent as a period of spiritual, mental and, most importantly, physical purification as I undergo the process of becoming THE VIRGIN SPRING BRIDE after reigning as THE WINTER HAG WHORE. <- OH, I GET TO BE THE CAILLEACH //AND// THE BRIDE! THE WINNER IS...ME!)

I use the term "UNEXPECTEDLY" because "HAVING ANAL SEX WHILE SUPER INTOXICATED AND SCREAMING "I DO! I DO!" WHEN CLIMAXING" wasn't exactly on the agenda. (SEX SHOWERS = GATEWAY ACTIVITIES. WE WERE SO DAMN GOOD UP UNTIL WE CLIMBED INTO THE TUB AND BROKE OUT THE WAFFLE CONE SCENTED SHOWER GEL!) So we were unexpectedly wed on Easter Sunday, and our reception was the BBC's Easter service followed by the Pope's address from the Vatican.

After a long day of SEX and TURNING THE EARTH (<- literally, we spent some of the glorious day outside planting vegetables together) we retired to the couch with blank, dyed eggs in our lap and, with a Ukrainian Easter brunch spread before us for dinner, our first real act as newly joined husband and wife was honoring and remembering loved ones that've passed by selecting and dedicating Easter eggs as THE TEN COMMANDMENTS played in the background.

(LOOK, I HAVE //NO IDEA// WHY MY FAMILY MADE THE TEN FUCKING COMMANDMENTS AN EASTER TRADITION, BUT THEY DID. ALTHOUGH, SEEING HOW I'M A WITCH INCORPORATING CATHOLIC TRADITIONS INTO HER CRAFT I CAN'T REALLY CRITICIZE MY CRACKHEAD FAMILY FOR MAKING AN OLD TESTAMENT STORY MANDATORY WHEN CELEBRATING A NEW TESTAMENT EVENT. DOING YOUR THING REGARDLESS OF WHAT THE MAINSTREAM'S DOING MUST BE GENETIC, OR SOMETHING.)

As I bring this entry to a close I wish I could offer more folklore regarding Ukrainian Easter eggs, but I wasn't taught the folkish, symbolic side of pysanky. Everything I've learned so far (but haven't mentioned because this entry is already hella, hella long) is due to Google search and the few Ukie cookbooks in my possession. In my family they were viewed as a cultural art form, something done and admired because THAT'S JUST WHAT UKIES DO.

Although doesn't take a lot of imagination to get the feeling of what my ancestors must've thought or felt when undertaking this exquisitely complicated ancient art. Because, as we all know (whether pagan or Catholic), almost everything starts with a blessed egg...

Alex Fullerton, Druggist Egg (no picture)

A week before staying in town overnight a friend sent me an email requesting some graveyard dirt (the hotel we stay in is directly opposite of the St. Nicholas kirkyard, perfect timing!). Since she wanted something specifically to help her in her new career field (she's a health worker) I knew exactly where to go - The Late Alex Fullerton, Druggist. In return for the dirt I left behind a gold foiled wrapped chocolate coin and one of the (blank) red eggs.

  
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Beh's Bumblebee Egg (above)

After her roommate died partially blind Beh Beh quickly succumbed to her "BRAIN THING" (the very scientific diagnosis by the vet; she had some sort of brain tumor) and passed away just over a month after Crazy Rat (aka Hezbollah). We've never lost two rats so quickly in succession; it was utterly heartbreaking.

JB was my Beh Beh, my busy little Beh and my sexy Bumblebeh. So when it came time to select Beh's egg we immediately knew that the yellowest, most golden egg had to be hers. We spent ZERO TIME deciding on the design since it was so obviously obvious and her bumblebee egg will be buried in the same container where her Bee Balm will be planted.

  
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Didi's Egg (above)

My grandfather ("Dido" is Ukie for grandfather, but we never stopped calling him "Didi" even though it was the incorrect baby pronunciation) recreated the orchards from his youth in southern Wisconsin. My grandparents' two acres were filled with ancient oaks, gigantic lilac bushes, a vegetable garden almost two acres long, a patio vineyard and an orchard filled with nearly 50 plum, pear and apple trees.

When I think of my grandfather, I think of the Red Delicious trees that grew in straight lines buzzing with honeybees; I think of the two McIntoshes that were easy to climb and had the best tasting apples. I think of blood - from war, from loss, from life, from beets (heh) - and I see his hands stained red, the imagined sight forever haunting him despite the happiness that his displaced Eden brought him.

Dido was the only grandfather I ever knew and he was a very important (and active) figure in my life. He passed away in September of last year, but none of my estranged family decided to contact me. I only found out about his passing after Christmas when my uncle finally sent me a "HE'S DEAD, STOP SENDING HIM STUFF" letter.

It was just before this past Easter season when I learned, long, long ago Ukrainians left red eggs on the graves of relatives, friends and ancestors to celebrate the concepts of reincarnation and resurrection (reincarnation eventually replaced by the Christian resurrection) - something we've already been doing for a few years now.

So I gave my grandfather the brightest, most deepest, most perfect red egg we had and decorated it with Eastern Orthodox tinted art. Not knowing when he was born I could only Sharpie in the year he died. The other side of the egg features the phrase "CHRIST HAS RISEN" and a folkish pussy willow branch (since palms weren't indigenous to Ukraine they use/d branches of budding pussy willows as a substitute) paying tribute to the tree that grew in front of my grandparents' house and provided us with branches for the Easter season.

Dido's egg will be buried next to the roots of my new Red Spur apple tree since he, apples and the color red go hand-in-hand.

Egg-tagon Egg (no picture)

The Egg-tagon egg's life started out as a blank, teal-colored Easter egg until I began outlining the penciled cross sections I created with a rubber band. (OH NO, I'VE GIVEN AWAY THE PYSANKY SECRET - RUBBER BANDS!) For whatever reason, the second the black Sharpie touched eggshell the damn thing began to leak.

I abandoned it, frustrated, and gave it a few days to see if it'd dry. (It did. Well, mostly...) Not entirely sure what to do with the quartered egg I turned it over to Italics who immediately said he'd make it into an EGG-TAGON (you know, octagon, like the MMA CAGE OF WAR) and he'd bury it in the backyard since that's the new part of the house that we're currently fighting for control over. (MY HUSBAND, HE IS ACE AT THE MAGIC, YOU KNOW.)

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Haduka Egg (above)

The haduka design is a very old, very ancient design. (WOW, WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT A DESIGN FEATURING A SPIRAL HAD THAT SORT OF PROVENANCE, RIGHT?) Because I'm difficult and Ms. Opposite I decided to 180 the standard depiction and feature the head of the snake as the starting point of the coil. (I wanted the picture to reflect something internal, something going within itself.) This baby's being taken to water - the North Sea - so I can leave it as an offering to my tentacled water correspondent.

(Papa, otherwise known as Baron Samedi, is my chthonic earth, Chippy, otherwise known as Pazuzu, is my chthonic air and the Tentacle Ones, otherwise known as, well, you can take a wild guess, is/are my chthonic water. Everything that's arrived in a big way, uninvited, unexpected has an underlying theme of "deep" and "underground". When I met the Black Rabbit for the first time I had to go Underground, where the Queen of Heaven's cathedral blazed Byzantine blue deep in the belly of the earth.)

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Hail Ukraine! Egg (above)

I'm annoyingly nationalistic for someone who identifies herself with a country and heritage, but can't speak her native tongue. (It's so native, in fact, that it was my first language. For the first several years of my life I spoke Ukrainian exclusively, but when it came time to enter public school I had to have a crash course in English and during that frantic pace of learning I forgot my mother tongue. I still understand it, though, but only if people are speaking a westernized version of it. <- EASTERN UKRAINIAN IS MORE RUSSIAN, WESTERN IS MORE ROMANIAN. IN FACT, I HAVE AN EASIER TIME UNDERSTANDING SOME ROMANIANS THAN I DO SOME UKRAINIANS DUE TO MY FAMILY'S DIALECT.)

When the Ukrainian soccer team's playing I pull out my Ukie soccer jersey, Orange Revolution scarf and my mother's golden tryzub pendant and run around the house like a maniac when goals are scored. (PRETENDING, ALL THE WHILE, THAT THE ENTIRE CORRUPTION / SCANDAL / BAN THING NEVER HAPPENED.) It was Italics, though, who suggested I take one of the yellow eggs and paint half of it blue - the colors of the Ukrainian flag.

(The blue symbolizes the sky, and the yellow represents wheat fields - Ukraine is known as the "breadbasket of Europe". According to Wiki the two colors also correlate with fire and water and the pair of colors have been used together way, way before Christianity, OH, WIKI, YOU NEVER CEASE TEACHING ME ABOUT MY OWN CULTURE! <3!)

I'm not sure where I'm going to bury this one. I recently purchased three dwarf fruit trees (two apples and a pear) to start my own orchard, albeit in containers. (You got to start somewhere, right?) When the trio arrived they were all battered and bruised due to the shit packaging; the two apple trees survived, but the pear, disappointingly, perished. I was originally going to join the Hail Ukraine! egg with the pear tree, but I'm not sure if I should take the unfortunate pear death as a sign to match the egg up with the Golden Spur apple.

  
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Hezbollah's Hitman Egg (above)

Hezbollah was our Arab rat from Lebanon who lead a secret life as Hitman while disguised as a gardener, talent agent and occasional cracker salesman. Rats, in this house, never get called by their "vet names". (i.e., the normal names, non-nickname names that we don't have to explain to anyone else - Hezbollah, for instance, started out as "Rhonda" from the Beach Boys' song "Help Me Rhonda" and Beh was "JB" from "Sloop John B" and Jigga was "Barbara Ann"...)

Crazy Rat (aka Rhoda / Hezbollah) arrived on the scene during the 2006 Hezbollah war, and while Italics and I racked our brains for a nickname the only thing we heard in the background was HEZBOLLAH, HEZBOLLAH, HEZBOLLAH (for our daily dose of LULZ we keep FOX NEWS on in the background); the name/word stuck. And that, dear and gentle readers, is how you accidentally name your pet after "a Shi'a Islamist political and paramilitary organisation based in Lebanon", TRUFAX.

Italics carefully sketched and filled in the Hitman suit on Crazy Rat's egg, and even marked in a bar code at the base of the egg's "neck". This is another egg we haven't got a clue what to do with so it's currently lying in state until a decision's made. (Something related to gardening is my guess.)

Leprechaun Egg (no picture)

You know how they say a picture can tell a thousand words? Well, a YouTube video can tell a million more. If you've seen LEPRECHAUN IN ALABAMA then you can guess what our sole green Easter egg looked like (someone's profile sketch of it - THAT'S AN HONEST TO GOD FOR REAL NON-HOAXED SKETCH OF WHAT ONE EYE-WITNESS INSISTED THEY SAW), and where it's going to go (IN A TREE, NATURALLY, WHERE LEPRECHAUNS AND CRACKHEADS LIVE).

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Mask's Egg (above)

This is another one of Italics's patient creations. A few months before Easter someone involved in the MMA scene died after crashing his car. He was known for his 24/7 face paint and outrageous clothing. I can't remember who suggested it first, but Italics took the wheel and drew an approximation of his war paint and even created a hat for the egg. (To give you a rough idea, here's a picture of the semi-recently deceased before he became semi-recently deceased: CLICK!)

Pac-man Ghost Egg (no picture)

The very last egg left sitting by itself was blue. And it sat, and sat, and sat while all the others were selected and scribbled upon. Every day I'd spend a few minutes frowning at it, all pysanky-ed out, trying to figure out what we should do with the final blank Easter egg. (I mean, we had to do SOMETHING since blue - especially dark blue - is a tremendously huge MAGIC color for me.) PACMAN GHOST, I suggested, since it was about the right color. And Pacman ghost it became, although neither of us know where Inky's going to haunt...

  
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Pysanka w/Folk Designs (above)

Every year I make one or two eggs that reflect the simple folk art of my ancestors. (OH, THEY LOVED SPIRALS AND LADDERS AND HAMMERS AND SHARP, ANGULAR ANIMALS.) With my tiny Ukie cookbook on my lap and meph helping me concentrate I carefully freehanded designs from a book onto a quartered egg as the Ten Commandments played in the background. (AS CHILDISH AS THEY LOOK, THEY'RE PRETTY SPOT ON. I WASN'T JOKING WHEN I SAID "SIMPLE" BEFORE "FOLK ART".)

One panel reflects a stylized rooster, another a sheath of wheat. The other side's decorated with a bee, and the final quarter is a jumble of images - a growing leaf, a ladder, a rake and the symbol for "maiden" (which doubles as Aries; my sun sign).

YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MUCH I LOVE THE FACT THAT MY ANCESTORS PAINTED LADDERS AND RAKES ON EGGS THAT SYMBOLIZED THE CIRCLE OF LIFE AND REINCARNATION. (<- Ladders, strangely enough, became spiritually significant to me a few years back, so it's a double LOL! to find out that even my ancestors had a religious and spiritual reverence for them.)

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Striped Pysanka (above)

This is about the closest I got to a proper pysanka from my youth. Normally I just freestyle shit, but with this one I wanted to reflect a simplified version of a symmetrical pattern running all across the egg. Italics, for some reason, was impressed. (And me? I was frustrated that the lines couldn't be finer, but when you're working with a blunt Sharpie marker you've got to throw any notions of "finely detailed" out the window.)

This is also the Easter egg that finally made me go - OKAY, SO YOU CAN DRAW A STRAIGHT LINE WITH LIQUID EYELINER, AND HAVE A HAND STEADY ENOUGH TO GO INTO MEDICINE - WHAT'S YOUR EXCUSE FOR NOT GETTING A BEGINNERS KIT TO START MAKING PROPER PYSANKY?

Once we snag a vacuum sealer (OUR FROZEN RATS ARE GETTING FREEZER BURNED! GAH!) I'm totally getting my first pysanky kit and giving up my dependency on Sharpie markers. (BUT YOU CAN'T TAKE THE SCENTED MARKERS AWAY FROM ME. LIGHT BLUE / MANGO AND I WERE MEANT TO BE!)

Wheat Egg (Laid) (no picture)

You so don't want to know what happened to this egg, but since this is MY ENTRY and this is MY DIARY you're going to find out what happened to this particular egg, regardless. (SO THERE.) I'll give you a hint - CHICKENS AREN'T THE ONLY THINGS THAT LAY EGGS. (Ahem.)

Spanking Day was observed twice this year, both on the Julian and the Gregorian calender. Italics's first egg was the shell of a real egg filled with hazelnut praline (it's still sitting on his beside altar / nightstand space), the second was a bright yellow duck egg laid straight into his hand.

We never got a proper picture of it, but you can see the Wheat Egg in two Flickr images as we performed a quick wheat planting ritual before going way for the night. Wheat Ritual III has the egg sitting with seeds, and Wheat Ritual IV shows the egg and a golden coin being buried deep in the dead crow dirt container.

(I'm not delving into too much detail about the laying and planting since I intend to record the ritual properly in its own journal entry.)

Wrapped w/Plastic Sleeve X 3 (no picture)

EVERY GODDAMN YEAR I FORGET THAT OUR STANDARD "MEDIUM" SIZED EGGS WON'T FUCKING FIT THOSE DECORATIVE PLASTIC SLEEVES THAT SHRINK OVER EGGS ONCE SUBMERGED IN BOILING WATER. Thankfully, this year, we managed to squeeze one perfectly within its PAAS jacket; the other two needed a slight nip in the side to fit more properly.

The smallest of the three was taken with my grandfather's red egg and Beh's yellow egg and blessed at a special Holy Saturday church service. We ritually ate the smallest one, and then left the other two in the cemetery as Easter offerings. (Muriel - this being her first Easter deceased - got one, and I left the other one at the foot of a homemade cross on the nun's grave which can be seen in the picture Sisters of St. Mary.)

STICK A FORK IN ME; I'M DONE. (If that wasn't already apparent a few pictures back when the information regarding each egg became less enthusiastic and wordy.) If you aren't done, though, and can't get enough of my pysanky pictures and/or stories you're in luck because there's a few more pictures that show some HOT PYSANKY ACTION: Altar Set, Tribute to the Deceased, Witch's Workspace I, and Witch's Workspace II.

(If you've read this far you totally deserve a pysanka of your own.)

Easter Sunday

My grandparents, Ukrainians who immigrated to the US from a German refugee camp, being from THE OLD COUNTRY half-observed some of the tenants of the Orthodox's mutilated version of Catholicism. (IF YOU CAN'T BEAT THEM, THEN YOU INCORPORATE THEIR ANCIENT PAGAN BELIEFS INTO YOUR SYSTEM, FILTER THE INFLUX OF INDIGENOUS FOLKLORE, SUPERSTITION AND MAGIC BEFORE GIVING IT ALL A NEW NAME AND A FLIMSY DISGUISE. HEY, IT WORKED FOR THE CELTS, RIGHT?)

And when I say "HALF-OBSERVED SOME OF THE TENANTS" I actually mean "THEY TOOK EVERY GOD-FUCKING-GIVEN OPPORTUNITY TO CRITIQUE THE BEHAVIOR AND MANNERISMS OF OTHERS WHO WEREN'T OBSERVING THE TENANTS". My grandparents were the critical wallflowers pretending to be indifferent while clocking every abomination against god (more about bitching, less about condemning) - like working on Sunday!

(No working on Sunday? FOR REALS? Even as a kid I couldn't wrap my head around certain aspects of the idea, and it didn't help that I was getting unclarified, mixed messages from my grandparents. Is gardening considered working? And, if so, when did gardening stop being a hobby and begin to become work? Why was God totally cool with letting my grandmother water the flowerbeds on Sunday evening, but morally offended by me trimming the hedges with a pair of garden shears?)

(GOD, I'VE BEEN WONDERING ABOUT THE GARDENING WORK VERSUS HOBBY THING SINCE THAT SUMMER EVENING LONG, LONG AGO. WHEN IT'S MOST CONVENIENT FOR YOU PLEASE SEND YOUR ANSWERS ON A POSTCARD, BUT PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO INCLUDE A SASE SO I CAN GET BACK TO YOU. <- LOL, BECAUSE I'M SO DAMN GOOD AT GETTING BACK TO PEOPLE'S LETTERS, EMAILS AND NOTES.)

SO, RIGHT, ANYWAY.

So, being that Easter was on a Sunday and we both woke up around five in the morning I made an executive decision to get all of the grunt work around the house done before sunrise. Cause, baby, Easter morning sunrise = celebration of life, renewal and reincarnation. (I don't care if it's Catholicism and I'm doing my witch thing, some ideas out there transcend any one religion and if a bunch of people are celebrating the conquering of death with chocolate and paska (<- it's a traditional Ukrainian egg-rich Easter bread, not unlike brioche) then this biological creature who's petrified of her own mortal demise is more than happy to jump on the ETERNAL LIFE celebration bandwagon.)

When I was a kid Easter was spent at my grandparents' house digging into the blessed Easter baskets. ("DIGGING INTO THE BLESSED EASTER BASKETS" PROBABLY SOUNDS LIKE A HELLA AWESOME WAY TO SPEND THE MORNING, UNTIL YOU FIND OUT THAT UKRAINIAN EASTER BASKETS - BLESSED AT CHURCH ON HOLY SATURDAY - ARE FILLED WITH SALT, BUTTER, CHEESE, BREAD, EGGS AND A VARIETY OF SMOKED PORK PRODUCTS (BASICALLY, ANYTHING YOU INTEND ON EATING FOR EASTER BRUNCH). DUE TO MY GENETIC BIAS I CAN SAFELY SAY I'D RATHER BE GIVEN A UKIE EASTER BASKET OVER A PLASTIC WAL-MART BASKET FILLED WITH FOIL-WRAPPED CHEAP CHOCOLATE ANY DAY. SERIOUSLY.)

(STOP GROANING, HEART. YOU'VE BEEN GENETICALLY ENGINEERED TO HANDLE COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF PURE BUTTER AND PORK FAT!)

While all celebrated holidays at my grandparents' were an event to look forward to, Easter was slightly bittersweet because there wasn't a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow (in other words, Christmas Eve meant presents after dinner, Easter meant no presents). Whenever our family congregated around the dining table it was a several hour event. Once adult asses sat in plastic covered chairs (WHAT IS IT WITH OLD UKIE PEOPLE AND THEIR COMPULSION TO COVER EVERYTHING - TABLES, CHAIRS, FLOORS - WITH FUCKING PLASTIC?) they couldn't be budged, not even for a crisis that involved a minute amount of blood.

Two hours into worshiping at the mighty trough the coffee would finally surface, an indication to any child that the celebratory meal was at the beginning of its end. (I MEAN, YOU WOULD THINK THAT, RIGHT? WELL, YOU'RE WRONG.) Coffee was half-time. Coffee was when the adults gradually shook themselves out of the smoked pork stupor realizing that they've been sitting stagnant for the past two hours. Coffee brought on a second realization right after the first - after one hundred and twenty minutes they were hungry, again. The third and final realization? They were sitting around a table still covered with food. (GOD BE PRAISED, GOD HAS RISEN!)

(OH THE AWFUL, TRAUMATIZING HORRORS THAT AN UNFORTUNATE, INNOCENT CHILD SOMETIMES MUST FACE. LIKE SECRETLY PEEPING IN ON THE ADULTS WHILE HOLDING YOUR BREATH SO YOU DON'T GIVE YOURSELF AWAY, ONLY TO SEE THE TERRIFYING SIGHT OF YOUR FATHER REACHING OVER THE SEMI-CLEARED TABLE TOWARDS THE SMOKED BUTT, OR KIELBASA, EFFECTIVELY RESTARTING THE NEFARIOUS CYCLE OF EATING. COFFEE? COFFEE WAS A JOKE, A SICK, TWISTED, PERVERTED JOKE. IN EVERYONE ELSE'S FAMILY COFFEE WAS THE END, THE GRAND FINALE, IN MY DERANGED, DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY IT WAS THE HIT THEY NEEDED TO CLEAR DIGESTIVE SPACE.)

HOLY SHIT, TANGENT MUCH!

So, in the dark, we cleaned and straightened, and I reconstructed the EASTER / GREAT RITE / WEDDING altar. (It had been dissected the day before for Holy Saturday so I could take some of the altar contents in our basket to get blessed at the church service.) We deliberately had a light lunch to ensure we wouldn't feel too weighed down since we had a kind've sort've loose schedule to keep - a walk to the cemetery to make our offerings, back home for Ukrainian crepes, decorating eggs for those who've passed since last Easter, eating out of the basket while watching the 10 Commandments ("HIS GOD, IS GOD") and dragging out the tarot "board game" to work with Muriel.

And the schedule would've TOTALLY WORKED if we hadn't IMMEDIATELY OFF-ROADED FROM IT TO INCLUDE THE SEX SHOWER. (LOL! "THE"! LIKE IT'S ONLY HAPPENED ONCE IN OUR 10+ YEAR RELATIONSHIP.)(HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU GUYS ABOUT THE TIME WE BROKE THE BATHTUB WHILE HAVING ANAL SEX? AND MY IN-LAWS WERE HOME? OI VEY.) I should've known better than to break out our waffle cone scented sex shower exfoliating gel. (Sex showers, as you may already know, are gateway activities.)

I stepped into the shower an untouched woman. Pure, innocent - Spring's virgin bride, not yet knowing a man or a husband. (FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO AREN'T AS UP TO SPEED AS OTHERS: I OBSERVE LENT...SORT'VE. DESPITE BEING LEGALLY MARRIED TO ITALICS, FROM MARDI GRAS TO OUR WEDDING NIGHT (WE CELEBRATE THE GREAT RITE AS AN ANNUAL EVENT IN CONJUNCTION WITH EASTER AND SPRING) I ABSTAIN FROM MASTURBATION, SEX AND SOME SEXUAL CONTACT. IT'S MY PERIOD OF PURIFICATION BEFORE I TAKE ON THE ROLE AS THE VIRGIN BRIDE.) Hours later, having felt the ecstasy of my husband's touch and body, I stepped out of bed a married woman.

(ACTUALLY - I KNOW, I KNOW "OH, HERE WE GO..." - MY ASS STEPPED OUT OF BED - IF ASSES CAN EVEN STEP - A MARRIED WOMAN. OR, I GUESS, A MARRIED ASS. AN ASS THAT HAD BEEN MARRIED //3// TIMES IN QUICK SUCCESSION. <- ITALICS IS TRYING TO NEGOTIATE "2 1/2" SINCE THERE "WASN'T A LOT" THE SECOND TIME AROUND.)

(SWEPT UP IN THE SPIRIT OF CONSUMMATION - IN THE MIDST OF SHUDDERING AND TREMBLING, GROANING AND THRUSTING - I ARCHED MY BACK WITH MY "I DO" AND WHEN ITALICS, MY NEW AND OLD HUSBAND, HEARD MY ACCEPTANCE HE COMMITTED HIMSELF TO ME, IN A SOMEWHAT UNORTHODOX ORIFICE, HIS "I DO" MOVING IN TANDEM WITH HIS OWN ORGASM.)(OR TWO.)(OR THREE.)

It wasn't the sex shower that derailed us, or even that THE GREAT RITE had somewhat unexpectedly taken place (IT WASN'T IN THE SCHEDULE, DAMMIT!), it was my patented LAUGHING WHILST CRYING orgasm. (IT'S EMBARRASSING, BUT I'LL ADMIT IT - WHEN I'M REALLY FUCKED UP ON SOMETHING, OR WHEN MY CLIMAX TURNS OUT TO BE OUT-OF-THIS-FUCKING-WORLD ASTOUNDING I START SOBBING AFTER MY ORGASM. AND THEN, WITHIN A SECOND OR TWO, I START LAUGHING UNTIL BOTH SPECTRUMS OF HYSTERIA MERGE IN AN EXPLOSION OF HORMONES AND SEROTONIN. OH, BRAIN AND BODY CHEMICALS, MAKING ME SEEM LIKE SOME SORT OF CRAZY, EMOTIONALLY UNCHAINED WEEPY-AFTER-SEX WOMAN!)

Wait, no, I take that back - I can partially blame THE GREAT RITE for ritually slaughtering our carefully crafted schedule. Once someone's unloaded three separate deposits of jizz in your ass, you usually want to have a bathroom handy for the rest of the day. (BETWEEN LOOSENED SPHINCTERS THAT'LL SURPRISE YOU WITH THEIR INABILITY TO FLEX AND TIGHTEN TO A SATISFYING DEGREE THERE'S THE ENDLESS STREAM OF SEMEN AND SALIVA ENCOURAGED ON BY GRAVITY. AND WHEN YOU FINALLY THINK THAT YOU'VE GOTTEN RID OF THE LAST OF IT, YOU'RE WRONG.) Look, I'm more than happy to piss in the woods, but draining various body fluids out of my ass behind a crumbling wall or next to a beech tree? Nice landscape, but I'd rather be sitting on white porcelain, thanks.

ANYWAY. By the time we cleaned, had our light lunch, embarked on the sex shower and ensured prosperity and fertility for the upcoming year (YOU NORTHERN HEMISPHERE FOLK CAN THANK US LATER; WE'RE JUST DOING OUR COSMICALLY DIVINE JOB) it was coming up towards ten in the morning and what little remnants of Catholic knowledge I had left warned me about the possibility of a church service at eleven. (It's nine in the morning and eleven on Sundays, right?)

So we ditched the schedule, not wanting to draw too much attention to ourselves since we aren't your standard cemetery visitors and the church was probably going to be occupied for the second Sunday service. (Especially since we cut through the cow field, climb over the electrical wire, scramble up the old wall in the overgrown lane of woods before using the unused side entrance to access the cemetery. AND THAT'S ONLY DURING THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY, THAT'S US TOTALLY VANILLA.)

Instead, we got high, and with the BBC's Easter morning church service and the Pope's address from the Vatican playing in the background Italics turned to work. (WORK? ON SUNDAY? ON A SUNDAY THAT'S EASTER? OH DEAR. <- NOT THAT I DIDN'T WANT TO SAY "BUT, BABY, IT'S EASTER AND WE JUST GOT MARRIED! WHAT'S YOUR EMPLOYER GOING TO SAY? YOU'RE FIRED IF YOU DON'T WORK ON EASTER SUNDAY?" BECAUSE I DID. BUT, THANKS TO BEING ALL MATURE AND GROWN UP AND RATIONAL AND LOGICAL NOW (LOLOLOLOLOL!), I UNDERSTOOD THAT THE ONLY REASON WHY ITALICS IS HOME 24/7 WITH ME IN THE FIRST PLACE IS BECAUSE HE HAS FOUR AT HOME JOBS THAT REQUIRE HIS ATTENTION WHETHER IT'S EASTER SUNDAY OR NOT.)

Too tired to walk to the cemetery long after the eleven o'clock mass I decided to stay home and capitalize on the gorgeous weather we were experiencing. (NOTICE MY CHOICE OF PAST TENSE. WE HAD A DAZZLING HOLY SATURDAY, EASTER SUNDAY AND EASTER MONDAY, BUT EASTER TUESDAY IS OVERCAST AND DRAB. SIGH.) Since we were now married - OR AT LEAST HALF MARRIED - I decided on BOTH of our behalves that one of the first things we'd do together as man and wife (other than get high) was garden.

Armed with a battered selection of LPs (Tufty the Road Safety Squirrel, Dire Straits and Clannad) I potted on the courgettes, peppers and tomato plant that were threatening to overtake our closet garden as Italics broke discarded trunks and branches (MR. AWESOME, MY FATHER-IN-LAW, PRUNED THE SHRUBS AND BUSHES OUTLINING THE PERIMETER OF THE YARD LAST YEAR, BUT INSTEAD OF DISPOSING OF THE GARDEN WASTE HE LEFT IT BLOCKING THE OPENING OF THE BACKYARD. WHEN HE OBVIOUSLY WASN'T GOING TO MOVE IT - THREE OR FOUR MONTHS ON - I FINALLY SPENT AN AFTERNOON DRAGGING EVERYTHING TO A BETTER LOCATION, BUT EVEN THEN IT JUST SAT FOR ANOTHER SEVERAL MONTHS.) for our eventual GREAT RITE bonfire. (IT'S LESS EXCITING AND CLASSY WHEN YOU FIND OUT OUR RITUAL BONFIRES ARE MADE AND BURNED IN A METAL TRASHCAN.)

He watered my witch's garlic for me, and I watered my sprouting herbs, budding tulips and bonsai house seedlings. (OH MY EFFING GOD. I HAD NO IDEA THAT MY SUNFLOWERS HAD SPROUTED! AND MY PEAS! AND ALL THREE APPLE TREES - SEEDS I PLANTED LAST YEAR THAT ACTUALLY GERMINATED - SURVIVED THE SCOTTISH WINTER! THE PEACH TREE HAD A BUD! THE STRAWBERRIES LOOKED INSANELY HEALTHY!)

Together we scouted THE PERFECT SPOT for the robin/blackbird nesting box we bought earlier in the year. Together we moved the trash can bulging with kindling to a safer, rain-free location so the can's contents had a chance to dry. Together we sat - me outside on the concrete patio steps, and him inside on the carpet - and planted cucumbers, peanuts and two more chili plants, my hands soil stained, my nails caked with dirt, passing on every lovingly filled peat pot to him so he could nestle each seed in the prepared bed. Together - I think, I hope - we marveled at the feeling of newness of life brought on by seeds, earth and tender Spring shoots. (THAT WAS THE IDEA, ANYWAY.)

(GOD, THIS IS WHERE YOU COULD BE INORDINATELY HELPFUL IN LETTING ME KNOW WHEN GARDENING CEASES BEING A HOBBY AND BECOMES WORK. AT WHAT POINT, EXACTLY, DID US NEWLYWEDS CROSS THE INEXCUSABLE LINE OF "NO WORK ON SUNDAY"? AND HAVE WE TERRIFICALLY SINNED AGAINST YOU AND YOUR SON FOR HAVING THE AUDACITY TO GARDEN/WORK ON //EASTER// SUNDAY?)

(FUCK IT, I'M STICKING WITH A BELIEF SYSTEM THAT ISN'T SO DAMN GREY. I'M STICKING WITH A BELIEF SYSTEM THAT GLORIFIES AND CELEBRATES CAKE. WHEN YOU FEELING LIKE CLARIFYING AND/OR CHANGING YOUR OPINION ON CAKE, GOD, PLEASE DO LET ME KNOW. I HAVE NICE COFFEE IN THE FREEZER AND STILL REMEMBER HOW TO USE THE CAPPUCCINO MACHINE.)

Worn out from excessive fertility we retired to the lounge after toiling under the sun, eating Easter brunch (Ukrainian basket!) for Easter dinner as The King of Siam, dressed as the Prince of Egypt, proclaimed there was no god, except God. (LOOK, I DON'T KNOW WHY IT BECAME FAMILY TRADITION TO WATCH THE 10 COMMANDMENTS ON EASTER - MIXED TESTAMENT MUCH? - BUT I'M NOT ABOUT TO BUCK A LONGSTANDING RITUAL. ESPECIALLY IF IT INVOLVES YUL FUCKING BRYNNER.)

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Due to co-inhabiting with my in-laws I can only stretch my creative license so far. ("SO FAR" = NO HOLES, RIPS OR TEARS IN THE WALLPAPER WHICH MEANS NOTHING CAN GET PROPERLY HUNG UP - I.E., BACKDROPS - UNLESS I'M TACKING IT TO THE BACK OF A PICTURE FRAME. <- I SUSPECT IF THEY KNEW I PUT TWO TACK HOLES IN THE BACK OF A CHEAP ASS PICTURE FRAME IN ORDER TO HANG UP SWAG THEY WOULDN'T BE SO HAPPY.)

I REALLY wish I had more space to work with (and a more neutral backdrop), but you work with what you got. This particular spot in the room - the CD cabinet - only gets used ritually three times a year: Halloween (the Santa Muerte shrine goes up), Christmas (where a special setting is placed for our ancestors so they can dine with us) and Easter (for our WEDDING / GREAT RITE / SPRING / EASTER celebration).

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The CD cabinet altar is our secondary EASTER / WEDDING / GREAT RITE / SPRING altar. (I'll be taking pictures later today of the primary altar which is just off to the left of the picture.)

I won't go too much into detail about symbolism just yet (the bread, eggs and butter sort've detracts and clutters up the picture, I have better images that don't have our Easter brunch spread on the tabletop), but I wanted our beliefs and my cherished memories of Easter (I was raised orthodox, which greatly influenced my need for ELABORATE OPULENCE) to come through in a mishmash of "old country", orthodox Catholicism and witchcraft (with a heavy leaning towards home, hearth and agriculture - hence the chimney, sickle, wheat bundle, etc.).

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Paska - the cylinder loaf of bread (ACTUALLY, I LIED, IT'S BABKA AND NOT PASKA, BUT BABKA IS LIKE PASKA PLUS SO, TECHNICALLY, I GUESS IT IS SORT'VE KIND'VE LIKE PASKA IN THE END) - is an egg-rich yeast bread (12 duck yolks and two whole chicken eggs) with a cake-like consistency that's only baked once a year for Easter. To get the long shape modern Ukrainian women usually use metal coffee cans (I used a decorative cookie container bought from TK Max - YOU WORK WITH WHAT YOU'VE GOT, DAMMIT).

It's taken - along with anything you plan on eating on Easter morning - to a special church service on Holy Saturday in a basket to be blessed by a priest. (ALL THIS SHIT IS EXPLAINED ABOVE IN THE TEXT PORTION OF THIS ENTRY.) Pictured on the altar are some of the non-perishable food that graced our basket this year, and my ultra awesome, ultra new ALPHA AND OMEGA candle. (HEY, IF THEY CAN DIP INTO OUR SHIT, WE CAN DIP INTO THEIR SHIT BECAUSE, TECHNICALLY, IT WAS OUR SHIT FIRST.)

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My favorite part of Easter? BUTTER. (<- I KID YOU NOT!) Growing up nothing thrilled me as much during the Spring season as seeing all of the lamb-shaped butters on sale. (I HAVE NO IDEA, SO DON'T EVEN BOTHER ASKING.) The paschal butter lamb was a huge staple in every Ukie's Easter basket and, to me, it somehow silently sums up the gastronomic delight of the orthodox celebration of resurrection.

Since you can't get lamb-shaped butter here (do they still sell them in the States, or has that sort've died out?) I scored a vintage kit from the States earlier in the year so we could make our own from now on. (This particular lamb was made by Italics, it was the one that got taken to the Easter basket blessing service on Holy Saturday, which was also my birthday. <- HELLO, 29!)

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Last year we embarked on a new tradition of decorating Easter eggs for those who've passed on through the course of the year ("through the course of the year" = since the previous Easter) and leaving them at the cairn in the local cemetery as an offering.

A few months back I stumbled across an off-hand comment about how Ukrainians left red eggs on the graves of their ancestors around Easter to celebrate reincarnation and the resurrection of Christ (that, uh, came later, once the heathens had been partially tamed); the red egg is for my Grandfather, who passed in September of last year (but no one bothered to tell me until around Christmas).

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When you haul your Easter basket to the Saturday service to get the contents blessed you take a portion of EVERYTHING you plan on eating on Easter morning - that includes butter, grated horseradish colored with beets (I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT MY HERITAGE EXCEPT FOR GRATED HORSERADISH) and even salt.

(AND HOW DOES THAT CONTAINER OF SALT TRAVEL UNSPILLED? PLASTIC WRAP OVER THE TOP, SECURED BY A RUBBER BAND! <- ALTHOUGH I'M BEING SLIGHTLY MORE CLASSY USING CUT GLASS AS MY CONTAINER, TRADITIONALLY UKIES USE SHOT GLASSES.)

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Grape hyacinths from the garden, and the tasseled end of the goat whip / riding crop.

(In some Slavic countries the Monday after Easter is SPANKING DAY where, traditionally, men swatted the asses of women they liked to "bless" them with otherworldly beauty and good health for the coming year. After being spanked the woman offers an egg or some token change to her spanker as a thank you.)

(This is the first year we're observing the ancient ritual. The goat whip / riding crop was a martial gift given to me last year when Italics and I were married. To ensure it was on hand for SPANKING DAY I hung it on my cast iron chimney. What Italics doesn't know is that there's an egg - a real egg, hollowed out and filled with chocolate - in the chimney, behind the whip.)

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When you can't afford actual needlework you buy the stamped shit. The good thing about the stamped shit? It's easy to replicate via cross-stitch by graphing the pattern and doing the work yourself. (In other words - I'LL GET AROUND TO IT...EVENTUALLY.)

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The three daffodils flanking the babka (usually Ukies make paska for Easter, but I like making babka because it's like the super gourmet version of paska) were picked from my containers outside. (It was a worthy sacrifice, although I miss seeing my blooming daffodils nodding in the spring breeze.)

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As a wedding gift I'm giving my husband a jar of homemade bridal honey. (Honey which has been spiced and flavored with black pepper, cinnamon, cloves, rosebuds and a pinch of saffron.) I filled a small glass with the spices I was going to use and topped it with rosebuds so I could get the contents blessed - along with a jar of honey - at the Easter basket blessing service on Holy Saturday.

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Another daffodil, the braided leather extension of the goat whip / riding crop, and Beh's egg which still needs to get decorated before being left at the cemetery. (Easter is sort've like Christmas - impossible to fit everything you want to do or celebrate in one day. Italics and I celebrate holidays and sabbats over the course of a long week which takes the pressure off of making the most of one 24 hour period.)

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I didn't realize until I was outside and gardening how close to unfurling my dwarf tulips are.

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Last year for Chippy's birthday we bought him a strawberry growing kit because my house trained chthonic Sumerian demon is totally into strawberries (and butterflies and lesbians). This year I'll probably separate the plants and repot them into a proper strawberry container.

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Russian sunflower seeds sprouting.

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Russian sunflower seeds sprouting. (AGAIN BECAUSE IT'S SO DAMN EXCITING.)

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Second year apple trees grown from seed. I've heard there's a chance they'll never produce fruit, but the likelihood of them germinating at all was pretty slim so I'll keep my hopes up. (At least I've got three attempts, right?)

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I thought I had lost this apple seedling, but I finally noticed unfurling buds yesterday.

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I planted two trays of early maturing sweet peas for our rats since their favorite treat involves decimating sweet pea pods to pluck out the tender peas.

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I planted two trays of early maturing sweet peas for our rats since their favorite treat involves decimating sweet pea pods to pluck out the tender peas.

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Nearly 15 years on I still fantasize about my mother's peach tree that grew next to the side of the house where I grew up. When Aldi's - here in Scotland - was selling fruit trees for a £5.00 in February I snatched up one of the only peach trees they had. Up until yesterday I wasn't sure if it had even survived its long slumber in the bonsai house.

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Some of the vegetable plants weren't exactly thrilled about being potted on. Give them a day or two and they'll bounce back better than ever.

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One of the two chili types that sprouted (hot chocolate and prairie fire didn't make it for some reason, but I planted two more prairie fires yesterday so, hopefully, things'll even out). I kind've sort've forgot to label the containers once I transplanted them so it'll take flowering for me to identify what chili species they are.

(DUE TO MY AWESOME POWERS OF DEDUCTION I CAN SAFELY CONCLUDE THAT THIS PLANT IS EITHER MY CHERRY BOMB OR MY RING OF FIRE.)

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You try and be careful but there's always one or two stem or leaf casualties.

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F's chili plant - the one she sent me last year for my birthday - has begun flowering again. Since it survived the Scottish backroom winter, it was transplanted yesterday, on Easter, in a lapis colored ceramic pot and welcomed as a FOREVER houseplant.

Gold Star

Shoney Bear, our obese, bowling pin shaped (I BELIEVE THIS MAKES HER A "PEAR" IN WOMAN SPEAK) rat chewed a hole in my wedding dress last October. (I WAS NOT AMUSED IN THE SLIGHTEST, CHONEY CHARK PARK, BUT I THINK WE CAN AGREE, ALL AROUND, THAT I TOOK THE WEDDING DRESS MUTILATION PRETTY WELL SEEING HOW YOU'RE STILL ALIVE AND NONE OF YOUR FUR WAS USED TO PATCH UP THE CHARK PARK PUNCTURE.)

And, I admit, there was a LOL! worthy element to the unexpected event, which is often the case when something DISASTROUS or STUPID or INFURIATING or ANNOYING happens in this house. (LOOK, WHEN YOU OUTLINE TO THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING THAT EXISTS WITHIN THAT YOUR PRIMARY LANGUAGE OF COMMUNICATION AND INTERACTION SHOULD ADHERE TO A STRICT "LOL!" CONTEXT ALMOST ALL OF YOUR DISASTROUS OR STUPID OR INFURIATING OR ANNOYING INSTANCES AND OCCASIONS CAN BE REDUCED DOWN TO SOME SORT OF "LOL!" ELEMENT MAKING THE DISASTROUS OR STUPID OR INFURIATING OR ANNOYING INSTANCES AND OCCASIONS JUST A LITTLE BIT MORE BEARABLE.)

(IT'S A SYSTEM THAT //WORKS//, YO.)

(FOR THE RECORD, AGAIN, I WOULD LIKE TO DRAW ATTENTION TO THE FACT THAT I, THE BRIDE WHOSE WEDDING DRESS WAS JUST RUINED, TOOK THE MASTICATION MISHAP WELL. EXCEPTIONALLY WELL. ALMOST, YOU COULD SAY, SUPERNATURALLY-DIVINELY-I-AM-ENLIGHTENED-NOW-FUCKERS! WELL.)

Despite being an EMOTIONALLY VIOLATE, HORMONALLY CHARGED AUTISTIC WOMAN WITH A REALLY FUCKING SHORT FUSE I was COOL WITH IT. (YOU NOTICED THAT, UNIVERSE, RIGHT? ...RIGHT? SURELY I GOT A GOLD STAR NEXT TO THE EVENT IN SOME SORT OF SPIRITUAL PROGRESS REPORT, RIGHT?)

Things break. They fall apart, they wear down, they succumb to use, abuse and life. Things evolve WITH YOU, and during that time you learn THE THING, ITSELF, WHILE V. V. V. SPECIAL, IS STILL, REALLY, JUST A THING and one of the most important lessons you can learn - at least if you're a shallow, superficial materialistic person like me WHO REALLY, REALLY LOVES //STUFF// AND REALLY, REALLY LOVES //HER STUFF// - is that IT'S NOT ABOUT THE THING, IT'S WHAT THE THING //REPRESENTS// that counts. (GOLD STAR, PLZ!)

(SOMEONE ONCE ATTRIBUTED SUCCESS IN RITUAL TO THE ITEMS USED. (LOL, SERIOUSLY.) THAT THE INTENT, ITSELF, WASN'T AS IMPORTANT AS THE SPECIFIED PROPS. (LOL, SERIOUSLY TIMES TWO.) THAT SUCCESS IN RITUAL WAS 60% DEPENDENT ON HAVING THE //EXACT// ITEMS CALLED FOR. (LOL, SERIOUSLY FOR SERIOUS SERIOUSNESS!)

So I was COOL WITH IT. (OKAY, MAYBE NOT "COOL WITH IT" IN A NONCHALANT SORT'VE WAY, BUT I MOST DEFINITELY ROLLED WITH THAT PARTICULAR PUNCH, EVEN IF A FUSSY FACE OR TWO WAS MADE IN THE PROCESS.) 2008's Wedding Dress Massacre was the final HARVEST NAIL in the HARVEST COFFIN and thanks to the previous HARVEST NAILS (our first reaping (1 & 2), giving Italics HARVEST HOME as a gift, finding an antique sickle, celebrating the season with locally grown produce) the schizophrenic pattern I'm always looking for was, for once, more than totally obvious.

The perfume I had randomly chosen to test? Kincardine Maiden? It was-is-was based on the concept of Scottish corn dollies, an indigenous harvest idol and symbol. By October 28th we had already reaped, gifted, sickled and feasted on the fruits of the year so the Kincardine Maiden hole was just a representation of completion - three days before the Old Woman's reign began on Halloween (Samhain).

Some Say Prayers, I Say Mine

Spring happened sometime between borsht and The Sisters of Mercy; before the last of the slanting, sloping rays of the setting sun disappeared behind subdivision roofs, and after the first hissing pop-n-crackle of the turntable's speakers instantly coming to life with the push of one rectangular button.

Or maybe it happened during Lucretia, My Reflection when swimming in the golden light of dark matter - dirt embedded under fingernails, damp earth clinging to jeans, seeds spilling from hand to soil, body dancing, dancing, dancing under the beam of the last light, the final streak of glowing warmth hitting skin and setting flesh alight like an incandescent orthodox icon.

"WE GOT THE KINGDOM, WE GOT THE KEY / WE GOT THE EMPIRE, NOW AS THEN," I sang - I prayed - while planting on the concrete patio steps, the upper half of my body crossing the open threshold from outside to inside for seeds and biodegradable peat cups, only just aware of the significance of the movement - the moment - of mirrored life.

("WE DON'T DOUBT, WE DON'T TAKE REFLECTION...")

Lost in the whirling, tumbling pull of cannabinoids I shed my skin of self-consciousness (whatever thin, transparent, negligible "skin" I have) and freed myself into the rushing current head first, heart open and body willing. It was prayer, it was praise, it was giving thanks while simultaneously grieving, it was the soul speaking directly without words, without thought, without distractions or filters. It was tribute, it was worship, it was exaltation and glorification of being.

("SOME SAY PRAYERS / I SAY MINE...")

Or, perhaps, Spring might've begun the second I dropped the dull needle to vinyl, and, as Dominion began playing, I threw open the patio door and knelt at the concrete pew of nature. (THE PEW OF NATURE, ADMITTEDLY, WOULD'VE BEEN MORE...NATURE-Y...IF THE GROUND HADN'T BEEN SO FUCKING DAMP MAKING IT ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO DO ANY PLANTING ON THE BARE EARTH.) Papa's birds, roused by sound, crept closer to the house, the melodious song of the blackbirds echoing lyrics, joining Chippy (who was sitting on an empty bag of seedling compost) and I in the ancient rite, reveling and paying homage to the beginning of the end.

And when all was said and done, all was celebrated, when the warmth waned, the night breeze cooled, when the seeds were covered, the soil spent, when the remnant of the sun was just a faint haze of fading orange in the obscured horizon I bowed my head in reverence, in thanksgiving, and tenderly held the promise of new life while filling earthen chalices with water, one biodegradable peat pot at a time.

Clannad's Past Present, the closing hymn, gently ironed out the electricity of jangly guitar rock and ecstatic, heady dancing gave way to reserved thankfulness. In the chill of the gloam - with the blue Loch Ness monster watering can in hand - I found myself suddenly chanting "BEE BEE, COME HOME, BEE BEE, COME HOME, BEE BEE, COME HOME..." when watering Beh's only-just-planted container of bee balm.

Maybe Spring began when my eyes welled up with tears that threatened to break the barrier of lashes and spill across my sun-kissed cheeks. Watering, I felt the bitter sting of loss, the ache as sharp as it was almost a year ago when we lost our Bee, and then when I lost her, again, when the honey bee, at the send of the season, crawled through the office window and clung onto the sagging DIY screen and slowly died next to me - less than a foot away - as I cried and stroked it's listless, buzzing body. "BEE BEE, COME HOME," I coaxed my Bee, I coaxed all of my vanishing, dying Bees, so they knew that they haven't been forgotten, so they knew that they were still needed.

God, I don't know, maybe Spring actually began with the decision to bake fresh bread a day before (molasses oatmeal "farmer's bread"). Or to defrost one of the last frozen blocks of borsht and have it - along with the freshly baked bread - for lunch this afternoon. Or when I said "FUCK IT, IT'S NEVER TOO LATE!" to the idea that maybe, just maybe, it was a little TOO late to start Spring planting when the sun was about to set.

Or when I saw the haggard, Old Woman in the sediment of my tea cup, reaching over the deep ravine to the young Bride, becoming and yet letting go. Or after I jokingly scattered pumpkin seeds I cleaned and toasted ("LOL! WE CAN USE THESE FOR DIVINATION! WATCH!") to find a poised scorpion lurking within the contents ("LOL! MR. AWESOME CAN HAVE THESE! LOLOLOL!"). Or the wild, careless dancing I gave into when Children of Bodom's covers of Somebody Put Something in My Drink and Rebel Yell came on while I was cooking dinner.

Or, fuck, maybe Spring officially began when I took two homemade pheasant pot pies out of the oven that Italics and I had made together and we discovered that my set of asterisks had magically transformed - through the power of baking - into a promise of what was to come:

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(DUDE, WHEN YOU'RE HIGH //ANYTHING LEAF-LIKE// LOOKS LIKE POT LEAVES, OKAY?)

(PLANTED: aubergines (5), bee balm (approx. 60), courgettes (5), peas (2 trays), Russian sunflowers (11) and sub-arctic tomatoes (5). WATERED: apple trees grown from seed (3, but one hasn't sprouted leaves yet), Russian olives (no signs of life yet) and strawberries (need to separate and plant into strawberry pot). INSIDE: aubergines, courgettes and sub-arctic tomatoes. LEFT OUTSIDE: bee balm, peas and Russian sunflowers.)

(IMPORTANT NOTES: Crumbled up Beh's two-pack of BEBE COOKIES (CRACKERS?) and added the crumbs to the compost before planting Beh's bee balm over it. <- THAT? THAT'S CALLED //MAGIC//, BABY!)

Patience, Grasshopper

Due to a serious case of almost-way-too-near-NO-I-AM-NOT-FUCKING-JOKING-GIVE-ME-ONE-REASON-TO-START-SCREAMING-LIKE-A-TODDLER burnout and the newest installment of OVERLY INTELLECTUALIZED IDENTITY CRISIS this journal entry's going to be excruciatingly mundane. (APOLOGIZES IN ADVANCE; I'LL UP THE FUCKING SWEARING IN THE HOPES THAT THE CHRONICALLY RECURRING EXPLETIVES SOMEHOW DISTRACTS YOU FROM THE FACT THAT I'M SERIOUSLY FUCKING LACKING IN THE "FEELING LIKE A REAL HUMAN FUCKING BEING" DEPARTMENT.)

(AND WHEN I MEAN "SWEARING" I MEAN HILARIOUSLY OVERUSING "FUCK" SINCE THAT'S THE ONLY EXPLETIVE THAT'S WORTH SPITTING OUT LIKE A TOURETTE'S STUTTER.)(AND WHEN I MEAN "HILARIOUS" I ACTUALLY MEAN "NOT ACTUALLY AMUSING OR FUNNY IN ANYWAY" LIKE WHEN SOMETHING IS "SICK" OR "FAT" (OR ANY OTHER MODERN INTERPRETATION OF A WORD THAT, LOL, SPINS THE ORIGINAL MEANING INTO //THE EXACT OPPOSITE//! LOLOLOL!) WHEN THE THING IN QUESTION IS, IN FACT, NEITHER LITERALLY "SICK" AND/OR "FAT".)

I'm going to leave the HEAVY shit with Marty "SORRY BOYS, YOU'RE JUST TOO LOUD" McFly and dazzle the internet world with a shocking amount of INNER PERSONAL DEPTH that's SO OVERWHELMINGLY COMPLEX THAT ANY ATTEMPT TO COMPREHEND THE CORE OF MY BEING WOULD SURELY DRIVE THE AVERAGE PERSON TO THE EDGES OF SANITY for another day. (SORRY, INTERNETS, YOU'RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO SETTLE FOR ANOTHER EXTRA SPECIAL PERSON TODAY WHO ISN'T ME.)

The wonderful thing about Spring is even when I'm in the throes of despair and beating my flailing fists against my chest in existential crisis I can't help but be taken in by the awe-inspiring beauty and rejuvenation of this season. Waking up at twilight I shuffle around the house and watch - through windows - as darkness begins to blanket my mirror to the outside world. Everything disappears beneath a wave of blackness, all the life, all the brown turning green, all the tender shoots that gently bend beneath the sharp breeze.

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When night comes it drapes a curtain over the world I spy on, obscuring everything except the highlighted, glowing outline of neighbors' drawn windows. When night comes the light illuminating my world - the light I live by - is cold and clinical, spilling out of spiral shaped, environmentally friendly florescent light bulbs. When night comes I feel Diana stirring in me, and, like Her, I covet the golden warmth of light, and pine for the feeling of absolute completion that comes with the morning's sunrise.

(OH, DEATH, WITH YOUR IRONY AND ATTRACTION: AFRAID OF WHAT YOU ARE, NEEDING WHAT YOU AREN'T.)

Morning's first pitch black, with twinkling stars that pulse blue-white-red against an endless backdrop frozen in time. In the east the horizon cracks and splits; the fringes of space and sky interweave, slowly painting the domed curvature of a Byzantine cathedral. (AND FROM AN ANCIENT, EARTHEN PASSAGE I EMERGED INTO THE GREATEST CATHEDRAL OF THEM ALL AND THOUGHT MY HEART WOULD BREAK IN DIVINE ECSTASY WHEN I SAW THAT THE HEAVENS WERE UNDERGROUND - THE GOLDEN ORTHODOX STARS BREATHING LIFE INTO THE FLAWLESS, MAJESTIC BLUE THAT CLOAKED THE CONCAVE UNIVERSE IN A UNHEARD, BUT STIRRING, HYMN.)

And from that deep, unconscious blue the hope of light appears, lifting the rolling darkness from the world, drawing up the curtain until black is blue and blue is a lighter blue, a free, exhilarating blue of promise that races at full speed to the very end of the world. (LIGHT FROM DARKNESS, SOMETHING FROM NOTHING.) My world - everything I love, everything that brings me happiness, everything that brings me joy and makes my heart sing - reappears, and I stand on the other side of glass watching a waking world, a living person instead of a forgotten ghost.

(NIGHT, SHE SAID, IS OUR TIME. BUT WITHOUT DAY, WITHOUT LIGHT, WE'RE INCOMPLETE. SO WE KNEEL AT THE HOLY ALTAR OF THE SUN, OUR OPPOSITE, OUR OTHER HALF - WHAT WE INHERENTLY AREN'T, WHAT WE INHERENTLY WANT, WHAT WE INHERENTLY ARE DRAWN TO - FINDING THAT HE'S ALREADY THERE, KNEELING, WAITING AND DESIRING OUR DARKNESS WHICH BRINGS RESPITE AND RENEWAL.)

LOLOLOLOL, WAIT, I SAID I //WASN'T// GOING TO GET ALL HEAVY BECAUSE I DIDN'T THINK I HAD IT IN ME. (I GUESS "HEAVY" IS MY DEFAULT SETTING? WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT, RIGHT?) I'm ditching the waxing poetic tangent from this point on and filling that self-analysis void with THE PREVIOUS PLEDGE OF OVER-THE-FUCKING-TOP SWEARING!

Back in February we were hit with an amount of snow I've never, in the eight or nine years living here in Scotland, seen. It took nearly two fucking weeks for the overlaying quilt (I OFFICIALLY OVERUSED "BLANKET" SO NOW I'M GOING TO HAVE TO GO THROUGH ALL OF MY BED SHEET SYNONYMS!) of white to recede, and when it did I found that Spring had been cozying it up beneath that figurative quilt of ice'n'snow.

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I was, if you remember (see Bride's Awakening), inspired to brush off months of dormancy and air my winter gardening sweater. (WINTER GARDENING SWEATER = A HORRENDOUS WINTER SWEATER BOUGHT AT FASHION BUG IN THE LATE 90S AND GIVEN TO ME AS A CHRISTMAS GIFT BY A BEST FRIEND.) Due to my sleeping schedule I didn't have a chance to tackle the few outside jobs I had planned, so the evening was spent planting seeds indoors.

Within days of planting two of the six Voodoo seeds germinated, the dill, basil and tobacco sprouted and all of the vegetable seeds bought to fill my GIANT SEED VOID arrived. The dill and basil were left in the backroom while the rest of the seeds/sprouted plants were moved beneath the light. (OH, I AM TOTALLY ENJOYING HAVING THAT FUCKING GROW LIGHT ON FOR 18 HOURS A MOTHERFUCKING DAY AGAIN.)

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I managed to complete some pretty intense gardening over the course of a day or two, shit that //HAD// to get done before my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, returned from his month long sabbatical at the Florida property. (THE DIRTYARD IN THE FRONT AND THE APOCALYPTIC WASTELAND KNOWN AS THE BACKYARD HAS BEEN, FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, ABANDONED BY HIS ROYAL GARDENING HIGHNESS AND WE'VE WATCHED THE COMMUNAL SPACE SLIDE QUICKLY INTO RUIN, UNABLE TO DO //ANYTHING// TO PREVENT IT SINCE, TECHNICALLY, THIS ISN'T //OUR// HOUSE SO IT ISN'T //OUR// GARDEN.)

Once I noticed that the bulbs Italics bought me during our 2008 CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE were beginning to bud all six terracotta containers were dragged from their under-the-bedroom-window pad and moved to the concrete patio steps so I could monitor their progress through the patio door. (MONITOR PROGRESS = STAND FOR A SUSPICIOUSLY LONG TIME WITH MY FIRST CUP OF TEA OF THE DAY WHILE SILENTLY ADMIRING THE DWARF BLOSSOMS TREMBLING IN THE CHILLY SPRING AIR.) They were relocated just in time; the day after the first of the irises unfurled beneath the cold February sun displaying their ghetto velvet purple to the world.

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The green scrapes of my witch's garlic were covered with buckets of dirt, each pail of damp earth carried (CARRIED = CRUSHED) against my chest from backyard to sideyard, almost every trip back and forth accompanied by the overprotective blackbirds who've nested in the ivy hedge. (THEY'LL GET USE TO ME...EVENTUALLY. IN THE MEAN TIME THEY GO APE SHIT LIKE A FAMILY OF SOCIALLY DISTURBED CRACKHEADS WHEN SOMEONE WALKS PAST THE NEST.)

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I weeded what was once the predominant garden feature - the raised rock bed - something I don't think I've ever seen my father-in-law do. (I MEAN, SOME OF THE BRACKEN THAT I REMOVED WAS ON THE VERGE OF BECOMING FOSSIL FUEL, OKAY? THAT'S POSSIBLY DECADES OF NEGLECT!) Unfortunately, I'm currently waking up at a super awful bad time to take pictures to reveal the finished product, so the images below convey the BEFORE rather than the AFTER.

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(I USED A HAND HELD BROOM AND ACTUALLY SWEPT THE ROCKS COMPRISING THE EXTERIOR OF THE WALL. I USED A HAND HELD BROOM AND EVEN SWEPT ALL OF THE EFFING STONES MR. AWESOME HAS SITTING ON TOP OF PILES OF ROTTING BEAMS OF WOOD. I USED A HAND HELD BROOM AND EVEN SWEPT THE FUCKING //DIRT//, OKAY?)(DIRT, BTW, CAN ALWAYS USE A ONCE OVER WITH A BROOM - DIRT CAN ALWAYS BE CLEANER, ALWAYS!)

Now that Mr. Awesome's returned from his holy crusade I'm pretending like I did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING OUTSIDE and if he notices any change, any discrepancy, any difference out back I'M JUST GOING TO PRETEND THAT I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK HE'S TALKING ABOUT. (Even if I did leave the pile of weeds and rotted wood just sitting at the foot of the cloth's line...OOPS.)

The problem now? Since I've dug it out of ruin, cleaned and polished it until it gleamed it feels like it recognizes ME as the ALPHA LEADER because, clearly, ALL OF THOSE SPLINTERS, ALL OF THOSE CUTS, ALL OF THOSE RAW WELTS FROM YANKING WEEDS OUT OF AN UNYIELDING GROUND IS INDICATIVE OF NEW OWNERSHIP. (THE ONLY THING I DIDN'T DO WAS PISS ON IT TO MARK IT AS MY TERRITORY.)(PS: DON'T THINK THAT IT'S BENEATH ME TO DO IT, BTW, BECAUSE IT'S NOT. AT ALL. NOT EVEN A FRACTION.)

Patience, grasshopper, for the crazy old man will inevitably get nothing but crazier and older, and in that maze of dementia you will inherit what is rightfully yours. (I HAVE SPLINTERS TO PROVE OWNERSHIP AND RIGHT, OKAY?)

Bride's Awakening

RIGHT OKAY SO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

("SEED VOID.")

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

Night Terror Lite

You know how sometimes children wake up in the middle of the night, inconsolable and screaming? After a feverish few minutes, they eventually settle down again, their eyelids get heavy and, as if it never happened, they drift back off into a quiet sleep? Add me to that "children" statistic you've so keenly observed.

It's been a helluva while since I woke up SCREAMING TO SAVE MY IMMORTAL SOUL WHILE CLAWING ITALICS'S ARM SO HE DIDN'T LET GO AND DROP ME INTO THE BLACK ABYSS OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS but I still, on occasion, experience night terror lite. (Instead of SCREAMING TO SAVE MY SOUL I suddenly wake up in mid-gasp, mid-movement and the next conscious thing I'm aware of is sitting straight up in bed, panting, while adrenaline courses through my body and drowns out the otherwise eerie silence and blackness of the bedroom.)

I have a general idea of what triggers them (TERRORS = NO CHEESE OR HEAVY DAIRY BEFORE BED, SLEEP PARALYSIS = NO INTENSE SHOT OF CAFFEINE AFTER A VERY LONG DAY JUST BEFORE BED), but sometimes you just can't prepare for that sort've shit because the matter is totally out of your hands. (I, uh, mean that in a more spiritual MY UNCONSCIOUS BRAIN AND POSSIBLE DIVINE INTERVENTION COLLUDING TOGETHER sense.)

Occasionally, it's obvious what set me off, but sometimes - in the more bizarre and unwarranted cases - it takes the experience to make me sit the fuck down with my LIFE PUZZLE PIECES and slowly put my previous day's activities into view to get some perspective. (Usually I find NIGHT TERROR LITE indicative of me reacting to my environment, and then the environment responding to my initial reaction.)

(EXAMPLE: I love my pot but I seriously for real DON'T LOVE the 18 hour light cycle that the plants require to produce the pot I love so much. Last year we grew for the first time and had to learn how to sleep with the grow light glowing in the bedroom closet at all hours of day (AND NIGHT). I HATED those months and prayed and prayed for the eventual release of the perpetual day so we could sleep in pitch black once again. The first night the light was officially turned off? NIGHT TERROR, AHOY!)

(EXAMPLE: I'm an anally clean person. I MEAN, CRAZY NEUROTIC YOUR MOTHER OR MOTHER-IN-LAW CANNOT TOUCH ME IN THE SLIGHTEST anally clean person. It's never, ever a good sign when shit begins collecting on special (i.e., altar-like) surfaces. After something like a fucking half year of watching my nightstand altar transform into an apocalyptic wasteland (ala ESCAPE FROM BEDROOM NIGHTSTAND) I finally cleaned up the fucking mess (see journal entry COLD MOON, 09). End result? NIGHT TERROR, AHOY!)

My recurring night terror lite complaint? "SOMETHING BLACK AND SHADOWY WAS LEANING OVER ME!" (Seriously, it's //always// that.) (You'd think since part of my life is devoted to most things SHADOWY AND BLACK that I'd, I dunno, maybe HANDLE HAVING SOMETHING SHADOW AND BLACK TRY AND INTERACT WITH ME A BIT BETTER.) It's kind've sort've like an out-of-body experience, except it's more out-of-mind (LOLOLOL, YES, THAT //EXACTLY//) when my brain's obviously working REALLY, REALLY HARD but the rest of me isn't conscious enough to take everything in but I know, deep down inside, THE JIG, IT IS UP, YO.

ANYWAY.

So I get these night terrors, but I consider them NIGHT TERROR LITE because they aren't a really big deal, and they always end up being about the same damn thing. ("ZOMGSOMETHING'SLEANINGOVERME!")

The tail end of my unconscious/conscious gasp dissolves in the still, darkened room and the only thing I hear - the only thing I FEEL - is my once racing heart suspending in painful silence. And then? And then the familiarity of it all begins trickling in. The black isn't so black, the shadows recede, the room breathes again and, even if I'm still slightly feverish and unsettled, I eventually fall back asleep finding comfort in seeing Papa's white, bony mask surface like a lifeguard's floating ring in a sea of undulating black.

For as many times I've complained about the intrusive interest of THE BLACK BEING(S) I've never actually seen anything honestly, truly corporeal. (BUT I'VE NEARLY TRIPPED OVER THEM!) They're just a smear - a streak - of displaced shadow in the most unlikely place, gone in the blink of an eye before you have a chance of second guessing yourself. (I did second guess myself, once. It moved directly behind me in the cinema foyer in the middle of the fucking day, from one shoulder to the other, and I followed it by craning my neck but only managed to catch the alias edges. At least, in that instance, Italics saw it too.)

(I did manage to disrobe an amorous visitor, once, although that instance falls under "sleep paralysis" rather than "night terror". I'd tell you the story - IT INVOLVES THE MINOTAUR...SORT'VE! - but this ramble is already treading epic proportions so I'll save the tale of my half-bull half-man lover who got a justly smack on his half-bull half-man ass for picking the fruit without asking.) (SEE? I CAN BE POLITE AND SUBTLE AND ELOQUENT AND STUFF.)

I think, if I'm reading my tea leaves and entrails right, a more direct contact was attempted. I saw a body. I saw ethnicity and clothing and shoes and, after all of these years, a face. But it wasn't a night terror where I bolted up gasping for breath and searching for Papa's mask in the swirling darkness; it was a lucid dream. And in that dream, when He leaned over me I saw His face (or one of His faces, or one of many faces) and I finally saw.

(Thinking back, now, this situation isn't too entirely different from the bull/man lover; both "revealed" themselves to me in a dream a few days later after I put my proverbial foot down with "OH HELLLLLLLLLLLLLL, NO, YOU SHOWIN' ME YOUR ASS, BOY!", both "revealed" themselves to me in the spirit of our previous meeting in a reference-y sort've way, and both played out the second meeting via a lucid dream rather than through a recurrence of either night terror or sleep paralysis.)

(I suppose, in one way, I have a better ability to interact and think on my toes in a dream than I do when under the influence of sleep paralysis and/or night terrors. SP and NT are more physical, while lucid dreams are more...explanatory, if that makes sense.)

And now that I've clued you into some of the psychological ticks my disturbed unconscious dogs me with I can finally get to the real reason why this entry was drafted in the first place - SO I COULD RECORD AN EFFING DREAM I HAD. (Everything above the short paragraphs of caps locked, fragmented sentences pertaining exclusively to my dream? JUST FOR YOUR BENEFIT.)

DRAFTED ON FEB. 23, WRITTEN UP ON MAR. 1:

LYING ON LARGE SOFA IN LOUNGE. ITALICS LYING ON LARGE SOFA IN LOUNGE, TOO. BOTH IN POSITION OF FIRST REAL MDMA TRIP; HEADS RESTING ON OPPOSITE (SOFA) ARMS AND FEET/LEGS TOUCHING IN CENTER OF COUCH. SPEAKING, TALKING, LYING AROUND.

BLACK MAN SUDDENLY APPEARS AND LEANS OVER ME. THIN, AVERAGE HEIGHT, VERY THIN ACTUALLY, MORE WESTERN-BLACK THAN AFRICAN-BLACK. ILL-FITTING CLOTHING (MODERN, BAGGY, TOO LARGE FOR THIN FRAME - HOODIE, I THINK). NO HAT, NO HEAD COVERING, BUT WEARING WHITE SNEAKERS. ABSOLUTE STRANGER, NEVER SEEN BEFORE.

BLACK MAN LEANS OVER ME INTENSELY. SAYS NOTHING. DOES NOTHING. FACES ARE ONLY INCHES APART; ME PRONE, HE STANDING AND LEANING OVER ME, IMPOSING AND INTIMIDATING. (NOT LIKE PAPA, NOT LIKE SHANGO MAN.) HIS APPEARANCE OUT OF LITERAL THIN AIR, ONE MINUTE NOT THERE, AND THEN, SUDDENLY, RIGHT IN MY FACE.

LONG SECONDS FEEL LIKE MINUTES. STILL SAYS NOTHING, BUT STARES, NOT MOVING, NOT GIVING SPACE. BLANK EXPRESSION, ALMOST ZOMBIE-LIKE. EYES GLAZED OVER AS IF CRAZY OR SICK. NO DISCERNABLE PERSONALITY OR MOTIVE, NO REAL DISPLAY OF BODY LANGUAGE OR THOUGHTS. CAN'T READ ANYTHING; FEEL LIKE RODENT TRAPPED IN SNAKE CAGE.

BEGIN TO INTERNALLY PANIC. SILENCE TOO LONG, MOTIONLESS TOO LONG. TOO MUCH LIKE MODERN ZOMBIE-MOVIE; LONG, AWFUL, SILENT MINUTE BEFORE NORMAL LOOKING HUMAN BEING GOES ZOMBIE BALLISTIC AND REVEALS TRUE FORM KILLING HELPLESS ONLOOKER. (ONLOOKER = ME.) BLACK MAN STRANGER STILL SAYS NOTHING, STILL DOES NOTHING.

SECONDS PASS FEELING LIKE HOURS. SILENCE AND MOTIONLESS DEAFENING. JUST STARES AND STARES INTENSELY WITH GLAZED EYES, BLOCKING EASIEST AND QUICKEST ESCAPE ROUTE. (WOULD HAVE TO CLIMB OVER BACK OF COUCH OR BACKWARD SOMERSAULT TO GET OUT OF POSITION. BOTH VIRTUALLY IMPOSSIBLE.)

EACH LONGHARDPAINFUL HEARTBEAT ASSURES NEXT LONGHARDPAINFUL HEARTBEAT IS WHEN HE ATTACKS. MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON COUCH TO PREVENT IMMEDIATE DEATH BY NORMAL LOOKING HUMAN BEING BUT ACTUAL MODERN ZOMBIE MONSTER. MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON COUCH TO PREVENT IMMEDIATE DEATH BY NORMAL LOOKING HUMAN BEING WHO WILL TEAR THROAT OUT AND FACE OFF IN ONE CINEMATIC SPED UP SECOND.

MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON COUCH TO NOT DIE. MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON COUCH TO NOT DIE. MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON THE COUCH TO NOT DIE. MUST...

Sitting on my figurative floor arranging my metaphorical puzzle pieces the few fragments that stand out most to me are:

1.) I was having one of my very, very rare and near non-existent "BUT I'M NOT SEXY AND ATTRACTIVE ANYMORE, SO..." moments. (We were suppose to henna my hair but I was depressed and didn't want to wake Italics up so I sat around and cried for about an hour and a half instead. (Henna hair days = 9+ hours of having it sit in my hair; the earlier on the better!))

2.) I dyed my hair Cailleach dark. (Typically I dye my hair darker around Samhain/Halloween when assuming the WINTER WHORE HAG archetype, and my hair gets dyed a lighter henna red around our Easter wedding when assuming the VIRGINAL SPRING BRIDE archetype. This past spiritual year I've been way, way off course and only got around to dying my hair Cailleach dark a few days ago, just almost verily missing the Lent deadline.)

3.) I slept uncomfortably due to having only rinsed - not washed - the dye out to deliberately leave the olive oil in to condition my hair overnight. (I sleep naked and with my long hair free, so sleeping with my hair pulled back is ZOMG TOO MUCH LIKE BEING RESTRAINED AND CHOKED ZOMG.) (If you rinse out the henna and don't wash it out immediately it super conditions your hair leaving it glossy, healthy and all Pantene Pro-V for WEEKS.)

Verdict?

Sleeping uncomfortably (itchy, sleeping on a towel on top of a pillow, feeling restrained) on top of dying my hair. (I KNOW THAT "DYING ONES HAIR" DOESN'T SEEM LIKE A BIG ENOUGH DEAL FOR THE UNIVERSE, WORLD OR WHATEVER TO REACT TO, BUT I'VE MORE OR LESS ANNOUNCED TO THE UNIVERSE, WORLD OR WHATEVER ELSE THAT DYING MY HAIR IS A //BIG FUCKING SPIRITUAL DEAL// SO WHY AM I SO SURPRISED THAT THE NIGHT I GOT AROUND TO FINALLY DOING IT - NEARLY FIVE MONTHS LATE! - SOMETHING NOTICED AND REACTED ACCORDINGLY?)

And let's not even get started on how GUILTY I FELT after waking up and feeling a little nervous and apprehensive and unsettled and every other emotion you might feel when you know you probably almost FOR REAL got killed in what felt like a modern cinematic take on the zombie genre. The "MUST GET OUT OF PRONE POSITION ON COUCH TO NOT DIE..." eventually became "OH, THAT POOR GUY, HE MUST'VE BEEN MORE SCARED THAN ME AND I REACTED SO BADLY TO HIM TRYING TO INTRODUCE/INTERACT WITH ME..." although, DUDE, the are SLIGHTLY BETTER WAYS to get acquainted with me other than silently psyching me out like that, you know?

Men. Pfft.

(LOL @ HOW THIS ENTRY ORIGINALLY WAS JUST SUPPOSE TO BE THE CAPS LOCKED DREAM SEQUENCE. OH, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, YOU'VE DONE IT AGAIN!)

Hello, Old Lady

Currently the UK is being wiped out by snow. (I WOULD LOL, REALLY, BUT THIS WAS SO OBVIOUSLY EXPECTED THAT ALL I CAN REALLY DO IS ROLL MY EYES AND GRIN THAT ALL-KNOWING "OH, UNIVERSE, THAT'S SOOOOOO //YOU//" GRIN.)(<- IT WAS BRIDE'S DAY ON THE 2ND, AND THE ANCIENT PEOPLE IN THIS AREA USED THAT DAY AS A SPRING FORECAST. IF THE WEATHER WAS FAIR IT MEANT THE OLD WOMAN - THE CAILLEACH, THE YOUNG BRIDE THAT INEVITABLY TURNED CRONE AND REIGNED AS THE WINTER HAG FROM SAMHAIN UNTIL BELTANE - WOULD LEAVE HER HOUSE TO COLLECT MORE FIREWOOD, AND WITH MORE FIREWOOD SHE WAS SET FOR MORE WINTER. IF THE WEATHER WAS FOUL, THOUGH, SHE COULDN'T BE FUCKED TO LEAVE THE HOUSE (OH, OLD WOMAN, HOW YOUR BLOOD FLOWS THROUGH MY VEINS!) TO STOCK UP ON WOOD, SO SPRING, NATURALLY, CAME EARLY.)

Last year I learned about the Scottish GROUNDHOG'S DAY SANS GROUNDHOG and spent the last few weeks of January running in mental circles. ("BUT HOW DO YOU KNOW, EXACTLY? I MEAN, WHAT IF THE WEATHER IS MOSTLY SHITTY WITH A FEW BRIGHT SPELLS? WHAT IF THE WEATHER IS MOSTLY AWESOME BUT THEN CLOSES WITH A TYPHOON? WHAT IF...?") My mother-in-law, noticing my mental agitation (and constantly window checking of weather the eve of Candlemas/Imbolc), asked me what I was up to.

"TOMORROW IS BRIDE'S DAY!"

But that didn't ring any bells.

"TOMORROW IS BRIDE'S DAY! YOU KNOW, BRIDE'S DAY! WHEN EVERYONE WATCHED THE WEATHER SINCE IT FORE-CASTED THE ARRIVAL OF SPRING. IF THE WEATHER WAS BAD THE OLD WOMAN, THE CAILLEACH, STAYED INDOORS, BUT IF THE WEATHER WAS FINE SHE WOULD LEAVE HER HOUSE TO PICK UP STICKS AND KINDLING TO HAVE ENOUGH FIREWOOD FOR THE EXTENDED PERIOD OF WINTER."

She was still pretty much lost her after "Bride's Day", even with the expanded explanation.

"BRIDE'S DAY IS SORT'VE LIKE GROUNDHOG'S DAY IN THE STATES BUT WITH SAINT BRIGID."

"OOOOOOOOOOOOH! GROUNDHOG'S DAY AND SAINT BRIGID!"

And that, dear readers, is how common ground was found and met between an older Scottish woman and a younger American woman. (FUCKING GROUNDHOG'S DAY AND SAINT BRIGID. HOLY FUCK, DUDE, I'M THE //AMERICAN// LIVING IN SCOTLAND, AND I HAVE SCOTTISH PEOPLE LOOKING AT ME LIKE I'M //RETARDED// FOR KNOWING THIS SHIT BECAUSE THEY'VE NEVER HEARD IT BEFORE.)(DOES THAT SEEM INSANE TO ANYONE ELSE? TO LIVE IN AN EFFING COUNTRY CHOKING ON MYTHOLOGY AND FOLKLORE AND HAVE THIS STUFF BE VIRTUALLY UNKNOWN AMONGST THE NATIVE INHABITANTS?)

(JESUS, I'M AMERICAN. //I'M// THE ONE COMING FROM A LAND OF FOLKLORE THAT CELEBRATES SOME FUCKING MOUNTAIN MAN WHO WALKED AROUND WITH A POT ON HIS HEAD THAT PLANTED APPLE SEEDS AND //YOU// HAVE AN ANCIENT DEATH/LIFE CREATOR GODDESS WHO PERSONIFIED WINTER STORMS AND SOVEREIGNTY, AND WAS SO INTRINSICALLY LINKED TO THE LAND THAT THE VERY EARTH DEMANDED HER BLESSING AND ATTENTION TO ENSURE PROSPERITY AND FERTILITY.)

(LET'S NOT EVEN TRY AND DECONSTRUCT "JOHN HENRY", OKAY? WHAT'S SO TALL TALE ABOUT AN "ATHLETIC" BLACK MAN?)(LOL, "ATHLETIC". <- IF YOU WATCH ANY UFC EVENT YOU'LL QUICKLY NOTICE HOW ANY AND ALL BLACK FIGHTERS ARE DESCRIBED AS BEING NATURALLY "ATHLETIC".)

So, ANYWAY, I spent the weeks leading up to Bride's Day searching the sky for some sort of hint or clue because READING THE WIND AND CLOUDS AND MOVEMENT OF BIRDS was still a little new to me. (LOL, BECAUSE I'M LIKE AN //EXPERT// NOW AT IT, OR SOMETHING.)(ALTHOUGH, HONESTLY, IT'S NOT AS HARD AS YOU'D THINK. YOU ONLY NEED THREE THINGS - KEEN OBSERVATION, A DECENT MEMORY AND CONFIDENCE IN YOUR GUT FEELING. SOMETIMES I WONDER HOW MUCH PREDICTION AND DIVINATION IS FUNDAMENTALLY ABOUT //JUST PAYING ATTENTION TO SHIT//.)

I remember that it was cold, and I remember it was gray, and I remember it was windy, but it didn't snow, and it didn't rain. ("BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!") By the time the sun set and twilight fell on northeast Scotland the seasonal breeze picked up to gale force winds and ripped through the bare trees and shrubs, shaking everything including the mostly concrete/stone house we live in.

We went out for something, both Italics and I, and I watched the countryside through a pane of glass as we bumped along the road, looking for any sort of sign, any sort of point in the right direction. There was nothing except for blackness and wind, and the cold blue-white twinkle of stars partially hidden beneath a thin layer of streaming gray cloud.

Usually we pull straight into the drive when we come home but this time, for some reason, Italics's mother (father? I think, maybe, father) dropped us off in front of the house to turn the car around in the street. Crossing from asphalt onto brick I saw something lying on the driveway, exactly where the car would've otherwise pulled into.

There, laying on lichen encrusted brick, was a small bundle of sticks. (We don't have any shrubs or bushes in the front yard, so the wind must've snapped off the branch from a neighbor's yard and carried it to our driveway. Carried it to my feet, to my /house/.) If we HAD parked it would've crushed the kindling that was left for me, and I would've been none the wiser.

I wanted my sign, and I got it. (AND I STILL HAVE IT, IN FACT, PERFECTLY CONTAINED IN A PLASTIC BAGGIE, MARKED WITH ALL RELEVANT INFORMATION INCLUDING DATE AND TIME AND ALL OF THAT SCIENTIFIC JAZZ. <- THERE'S NO REASON TO BE A MESSY, DISORGANIZED WITCH, OKAY? LABELING EVERYTHING WITH V. IMPORTANT INFORMATION IN JARS AND BAGGIES DOESN'T MAKE IT ANY LESS //MAGIC//, JUST EASIER TO FIND THE SHIT YOU'RE AFTER.)(E.G., TRYING TO FIND MY GRATED/DEHYDRATED PUMPKIN SHAVINGS TO ADD INTO OUR SOLAR SABBAT CAKES. BUT EVEN THEN I HAD TO PULL THE FUCKING LONG BOX FROM UNDERNEATH THE BED //TWICE//...)

Winter Robin

So Hezbollah's special little friend (THAT WOULD BE THE EUROPEAN ROBIN) was singing his little heart out (I HEARD HIM THROUGH A CLOSED WINDOW AND ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE ROOM) and since he was singing so fine, and since he was singing so lovely I came over to the window to tell him how beautiful he sounded. It was only after I cupped my fingers against the glass to find him in the darkness I understood why he was serenading me...

...She's come back home, again.

(I've been waiting all day and night hoping She'd come back. Waiting and wanting to see the white down, wanting to see the violet skies, wanting to feel the snow under my skin to give me a reason to pull up our coffin/casket cover further up the bed until I'm sleeping beneath a blanket of other people's eternity.)

I asked the Old Woman, Whisky and Wangs night, to teach me Her magic and bring me snow that would make my tired, old heart happy. (I guess the wangs worked, then.)

(THE SECRET TO WEATHER WITCHERY DOES INVOLVE SPIRITS, BUT THE KIND YOU CAN MEASURE BY THE DRAM.) (I BET I'D GET EVEN BETTER RESULTS IF I LEFT AN OFFERING OF HEROIN. I MEAN, SHE IS //SCOTTISH//, AFTER ALL.)

This and That

This? This was so amazingly, insanely gorgeous that it seriously made me want to fuck every single fucking time I walked into the kitchen while it was boiling. (I BELIEVE THIS NOT-SO-HYPERBOLIC-HYPERBOLE (<- I DID, ACTUALLY, GET HORNY; I'M NOT GOING TO LIE TO YOU, OKAY? IT HAPPENS AND WE'VE LEARNED TO JUST //DEAL WITH IT//) STATEMENT AT LEAST PARTIALLY COVERS THE POETRY AND FREE VERSE THAT WAS A-SINGIN' IN MY HEART EARLIER THIS EVENING AROUND DINNER TIME.)

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And this? This is something damned near special, too. It's a shame that you guys can't see what I can see without a camera lens. (You can't translate snow, not with a not-so-shitty digital camera pressed up against the window on the warm side of the glass. <- I LOVE YOU GUYS LOTS, BUT JUST NOT ENOUGH TO TAKE PICTURES ANKLE DEEP IN SNOW AT SIX IN THE FUCKING MORNING. PERHAPS NEXT TIME WHEN THERE ARE MORE DRUGS IN THE HOUSE AND/OR IN MY SYSTEM.)

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Outside the computer room/office window just before 6AM on Feb. 4th, 2009. (Looks a bit like Legend, doesn't it?)

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Whisky and Wangs

I hope the Old Woman's happy with her Famous Grouse and "Restaurant-Style Buffalo Chicken Wings", because that's all I got 'round these parts to feed her ass tonight.

(APPEASING A NEAR FORGOTTEN, ANCIENT CREATOR/DESTROYER GODDESS WHO IS CURRENTLY RUNNING RAMPANT IN EVERY AREA OF THE UK -EXCEPT- FOR THE NORTH-EAST OF SCOTLAND (WHERE I'M LOCATED - OBVIOUSLY, NATURALLY AND OF COURSE) WITH A SHOT OF CHEAP ASS WHISKEY AND SOME HOMEMADE CHICKEN WINGS SMOTHERED IN A BUTTER AND CHILI HOT SAUCE? OH, WHY NOT.)

(AT LEAST SHE'LL //REMEMBER// ME, RIGHT?)

Spring w/Random Intervals of Winter

It's almost 8PM on Bride's Day (Imbolc / Candlemas or, if you're not THAT into celebrating sheep beginning to lactate like us northern hemisphere heathens, Groundhog's Day) and this Scottish* weather witch is ready to make her annual Spring forecast:

SPRING WILL COME EARLY TO NORTH-EAST SCOTLAND, BUT WE SHOULD EXPECT AT LEAST ONE OR TWO MORE SNOW STORMS IN THE INTERIM.

(Since about midnight it's been snowing on and off; mostly "on". I woke up just as the sun was setting, just as the sun was disappearing behind a thick layer of snow clouds. We've mostly had a bad day, but just enough sunshine to complicate things.)

* I'm //technically// American, but we've been having sex without a condom now for OVER A YEAR (I'm only very recently on a contraceptive pill despite my weathered age of 28) - longer if you count anal sex from around 18 (CONDOMS FOR ANAL SEX WITH MY ONE AND ONLY SEXUAL PARTNER EVER? LOL, RIGHT, WHATEVER) - so, scientifically, I've absorbed enough Scottish jizz into my system via anal sex, swallowing instead of spitting and now normal sex (LOL, "NORMAL") to make me a "Scottish witch". (THERE IS JUST THAT MUCH SCOTCH IN ME! ALSO, LOL, "SCOTCH".)

(AND WHILE WE ARE ON THE SUBJECT OF LULZ: LOL @ ME AND MY THEORY OF SCOTTISH WITCH JIZZ WHICH IS, SURELY, THE PERFECT WAY TO ESTABLISH AND KEEP THE INTEREST OF NEW READERS.) (HI, HELLO AND WELCOME, BTW!)

I Ruin Moments

One of these days I'll be able to tell you how much I love you without the safety net of work doing it for me. One of these days I'll be able to tell you that I don't care if you want the Bride or the Whore as long as you'll let me continue loving and worshiping you as the King. One of these days I'll be able to tell you how much I selfishly hope that I'll go first because, like V$, I don't know how I'd survive being without you.

(In the off chance you DO go first, please be sure to leave a list of your preferred 6 or 7 "life force" friends in an easy-to-find place.)

(LOL, I RUIN MOMENTS. <- I NEED TO GET THAT ON A BUMPER STICKER.)

("I'LL DO IT LIVE!")

Last of the Best

Not yet, I guess.

(I had an entire entry written here with realizations I came to early this morning while on mushrooms, but I lost it. All of it. In one gut-crushing MySQL error - that's never happened in all of my years of journaling - all of the words were gone.)

(It's okay, though. The error registered as "#2" which is significant enough for me to understand that IT'S JUST NOT TIME YET.)

(There are no flukes in this game; only unrealized opportunities and unseen messages written on the wall. You don't have to be schizophrenic, but obsessively connecting seemingly fictitious dots helps. Especially if you can do it on a daily basis.)

Bean Nighe

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Not all of us have to die in childbirth.

Harvest Holes

Shoney chewed a hole in my wedding dress last night, Shakey chewed a hole in my last decent pair of house pants. (NOW, SURELY, WE'RE DONE WITH THE REAPING...RIGHT?)

Bratz Princess

I never really understood the practice of cursing a deity for a desired outcome. I mean, I get WHY, but it always seemed counterproductive to me, and I can't imagine that it leads to a very happy home. (Don't even get me started on the fallout that happened after I kicked Papa's ass out of the house when both of our stubborn wills butted - we didn't speak all Spring and Summer long. That was years ago, but it's still fresh in our minds.)

I still do it, though.

Not in that archaic "AND MAY YOU NEVER FIND REST, NEVER FIND SOLACE, NEVER FIND..." way that sounds all OLD AND EPIC and OLD TESTAMENT BIBLICAL, but I swear. And curse. And cry. And, when I feel all justified about it, scream at the top of my lungs in Their face.

(Nothing's safe, nothing's sacred.)

There's little else that makes me feel like I'm a force of nature made flesh when I howl and scratch the faces of the things I love, the things I am. To have that sort of primal audacity, to become the roaring wind that weathers stone faces and lashes out like a caged animal is simultaneously beautiful and terrible - a cursed blessing, destructive yet courageous.

(She said I was a fighter, a "warrior". (YES, I KNOW. NOW IMAGINE HOW I MUST FEEL KNOWING THAT I HAVE TO, SOMEHOW, SPIN THIS "WARRIOR" BUSINESS INTO SOMETHING ALL MODERN AND COOL AND SEXY.) And She anointed me with Her bloody hand during a lunar eclipse, telling me (during the baptism) that "you will know blood".)

It yields results...quickly. (I suppose priorities change when you have a LIVING BANSHEE WOMAN threatening to CLAW OUT THE EYES OF HER IDOLS while she withers, thrashes, and spiritually foams at the mouth.) Not that I recommend this method to anyone, but if you want results - immediate, lightening-from-heaven OH MY GOD NO ONE IS GOING TO BELIEVE ME acknowledgement - you need to be willing to prove it.

This isn't the Halloween vacation I expected. I could go into it - and I probably will, later on - but I don't feel up to the IMMENSE FRUSTRATION that I'd experience while doing so.

(One of the reasons why I don't post here as often as I like is because THERE'S A LOT OF EXCESS BAGGAGE WITH ALMOST EVERYTHING I WANT TO SAY. Almost everything - right now - seems so drive-by, so manic. But there's sense, and there's rhythm to my life; I just haven't found a balance between WHAT I WANT TO SAY and WHAT I NEED TO SAY TO BACK UP WHAT I WANT TO SAY. Because no matter how far back I go, I always realize that it isn't far enough, and there will always be something else I need to add, or explain, or clarify and dragging out those memories to put to words seems too goddamn daunting.)

Due to being chronically sick with a mystery illness (we're banking on a hiatal hernia, I don't know what the NHS is banking since no one from the medical community has contacted me about the testing they said I had to undergo NEARLY 10 FUCKING WEEKS AGO) I knew that I had to take it easy (meaning, no HALLOWEEN WHORE RETURNS HOME parties) and even went as far as outlining several small PERSONAL TIME projects for myself so I couldn't go overboard.

(In addition to decorating the house for Halloween and setting up the altar I wanted to: clean out our bedroom (one of the smallest rooms in the house), make bagels from scratch, plant spring bulbs, clear out vegetable plants, and prepare a SOUTHERN COOKING spread from an old cookbook that once belonged to my mother. <- This is me scaling back crazily, I usually do -a lot- more during two vacation weeks.)

The decorations aren't up. The altar - the focus, the point, the reason; where we pray and fuck and party and connect - never got constructed. Not one room in this house is to my standard of cleanliness, and we're still sleeping in the same sweaty sheets, in the same cluttered bedroom. No bulbs have been planted, no vegetable plants uprooted. No rest, no relaxation, no reflection...no vacation.

We've been sick. I'm sick on an every day basis - but it's a sickness I'm used to by now, even though something's broken inside of me. Being struck down with a chronic mystery illness means that I haven't really left the house this year. In fact, last week was the second time I even left city limits in all of 2008.

Italics took me to see Cyndi Lauper in Glasgow to kick start our Halloween vacation. (The sad part? The sad I FEEL LIKE I'VE BEEN PUNCHED IN THE GUT part? I haven't even had a chance to go over the concert in my head or with Italics. Something so huge, so meaningful, so monumental to me and us and work and EVERYTHING and it's just hanging in limbo; a visceral memory without any feeling or emotion. A picture without words.)

Even before the concert I was exhausted; at the concert there was a critical point where I almost had to throw in the cards during the support band. Do you know how depressing it is to know that TRAVELING and GOING TO A CONCERT is enough to leave you fucking bedridden for over a week? Do you know how depressing it is knowing you're NOT EVEN FUCKING THIRTY and your body can't handle letting you out of the house for a change of scenery?

We got sick. There was no food in the house. There were no clean clothes. The rats began to smell, and then, as our colds got worse, they didn't smell at all - but not because we cleaned their cages. I was so sick I couldn't unpack our bags. (One is still sitting in the lounge right now.) I couldn't do the laundry. I couldn't feed us (LOL, ON WHAT? THREE FUCKING CARS IN THE FUCKING DRIVEWAY AND I CAN'T FUCKING DRIVE ONE OF THEM). So there was no way I could decorate the house for Halloween, set up the altar, and begin the ancient VIRGIN TO WHORE pageant.

It's October 25th today; we're still sick. Italics's parents come home on the 31st. I don't see celebration, I don't even have a designated place to pray.

This isn't the Halloween vacation I needed.

I've been crying for days. I wish I could explain, but I can't. (SEE "FRUSTRATION", ONCE AGAIN.) I cried to Italics that it felt like They were taking Halloween away from me this year. (I WISH I COULD EXPLAIN, I DO. OTHER THAN BEING MY FAVORITE TIME OF THE YEAR IT'S WHEN ITALICS AND I GOT ENGAGED. IT'S WHEN CHIPPY FIRST MADE CONTACT WITH ME. IT'S WHEN PAPA COMES HOME FOR WINTER. IT'S WHEN I TAKE OFF MY EASTER WEDDING DRESS. IT'S WHEN THE VIRGIN BRIDE BECOMES THE WHORE. IT'S THE FINAL ACT OF REAPING, THE CLOSING OF THE HARVEST AND THE TIME OF THE OLD WOMAN. IT'S WHEN I GO WITHIN MYSELF TO JOIN THE DARKNESS SO I CAN EMERGE FROM MY SECOND SKIN A VIRGIN BRIDE FOR EASTER.)

This was the first year Italics married his Easter Bride. 2008 was the first year that our union represented the responsibility that we agreed to undertake; it was acceptance of the way things were/are, an invitation to the universe to help us expand our efforts and point us in the right direction. Having never really done this before I know that everything, right now, is a learning experience (THIS SHIT? ALL OF THIS SHIT? TRIAL AND ERROR WITH A SIDE OF GUT INSTINCT) but I can't help but feel disappointed and frustrated at the lack of closure and the ability to seamlessly slide from one role into the other.

I know I'm spoiled, but they let me be spoiled. I stamp my foot, I scream, I claw at stony visages in my mind and the world shakes and the trees bend and everything, all around me, holds its breath during that audacious second when the howl that deafens and shakes me crashes through the universe like a burst of white lightening.

...I don't get ignored.

Hazy Shade of Winter

Winter sky this morning; the kind that makes you want to give thanks in the most embarrassing neo-pagan way.

Fox and the Hound

SCOTTISH JACKALS HAVE COME TO FEED.

(I'VE ALWAYS BEEN GOOD AT PICKING UP STRAYS WITHOUT TRYING.)

She's Home

I knew She was coming; I knew it'd be any day now.

It was the bee that crawled through the window to die on the screen. (I cried. My Bee, my Beh, came home to die. And all I could do was choke up and stroke this tiny, beautiful creature through flimsy, black mesh as its light diminished. (I sat with her, though, only a foot away in my computer chair.))

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It was the two pairs of socks I had to put on before I could fall asleep. (Even with the windows closed, blankets pulled high, and a miniature closet greenhouse in the corner of the bedroom. Even when it was eight in the fucking morning, the sun had risen, and I had been curled up for over thirty minutes in bed. (Long enough to defrost, right?))

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It was finding my yellow juniper bead necklace and string of green chillies lying on the windowsill. (Papa said to hang the chillies on the window; never asked why, although Italics speculated that the greener ones tend to be more powerful. (First instance of plastic-hook-attached-to-window-via-sucker fatigue.))

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It was saying "ANY DAY NOW, I THINK" to Italics and then noticing, right after, the metallic swirls frozen across the roof of the car. It was feeling the cold bite of winter for the first time as the heat of my finger sank through the layer of ice to touch metal as I proclaimed Her homecoming.

Two Pairs

She's not here, not yet. Every night I check, and every night my finger slides against the roof of the car, displacing water but never melting any ice. Soon, though, if my freezing feet are any indication.

(Two pairs last night? Two pairs beneath a sheet, a duvet, with the window closed and a huge ass indoor florescent light on in a small enclosed space. And it was near nine in the fucking morning.)

(SO DEATH IS AFRAID OF DEATH AND WINTER HAS POOR CIRCULATION IN HER FEET AND HANDS.)

(AWESOME.)

Strawberry Mug

I gave the last three to the old woman. (The last nicest three.) The last overripe plum, the last three nicest strawberries, a crust of stale rye bread, and a shot of apple cider. TEH-BEH YEAST-EH, BAH-BAH. (She's old, She knows what I mean.) Her plate and glass are sitting on the back step next to the wooden chair leg that we used to beat the ice off the outside freezer two or three weeks ago.

("YOU BROUGHT THE SNOW AGAIN," ITALICS SAID, AND I SNORTED, DUMPING ANOTHER BUCKET FULL OF MELTING SLUSH ONTO THE SUMMER GRASS. THAT NIGHT THE MIST SWIRLED AROUND THE LAMPLIGHT LIKE THE EXORCIST; I CAUGHT MY FATHER-IN-LAW STARING INTO THE DENSE FOG MUMBLING "IT'LL BE FROSTY TONIGHT" TO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW. SHE LAUGHED - "DON'T BE SILLY!" - AND BROKE THE SPELL. HE DIDN'T KNOW THAT SNOW PASSED THROUGH MY HANDS EARLIER IN THE EVENING, BUT HE KNEW.)

Then there were five left, and five - as we all know! - is a magic number. So those five, naturally, went out to the hedgehogs just after I spoke to the wind and cold, just after I invited Her to eat, just after setting Her plate of overripe fruit and stale bread and booze on the back step next to the sun bleached, wooden chair leg used to shatter a layer of overgrown ice off the outside freezer way, way too long ago.

AND IMMEDIATELY FUCKING AFTER FEEDING HER STRAWBERRIES, AFTER FEEDING THE HEDGEHOG STRAWBERRIES ONE OF THE OLDEST GODDAMN COFFEE MUGS IN THE FUCKING HOUSE SLIPS OUT OF MY MOTHERFUCKING HAND WHEN I'M DOING THE DISHES AND SHATTERS AGAINST ANOTHER COFFEE MUG ALREADY LOADED IN THE DISHWASHER.

THE DESIGN OF THE NOW BROKEN COFFEE MUG? THE DESIGN OF WHICH THERE WAS ONLY -ONE OF- THAT I EVER REMEMBERED SINCE MOVING HERE NEARLY EIGHT YEARS AGO?

STRAWBERRIES.

Let's Exchange the Experience

First windstorm night; pulled and tied gusts in fluttering apron just after midnight. I'M THE OLD WOMAN, THE WASHER, AND I BRING THE RAIN. (She's getting closer to the top of the hill.) It crashed and hissed and exploded like wings (surf breaking? only a lobster, clinging to the ground...) and when the cold air touched the small of my back I arched and shuddered in the darkness, my fingers knotted around the old white cotton of my wedding dress, holding the wind and feeling the weight of the world bear down on me as I inched up the hill.

Happy 100 posts, baby.

Sunrise Over Scotland

Today I woke up to a rainbow and Fox's Wedding, so the very first thing I did - before pissing, before making a cup of tea, before saying good morning to the rats - was tie on Our apron and collect rain in the folds while watching the sunrise over Scotland.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(NOT EVERY TIME IS ALL STORMS AND LIGHTENING AND THUNDER, OKAY? SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO CATCH THE RAINBOWS AND SUMMER DRIZZLE TO -BALANCE THINGS OUT-!)

(LOL, I AM COMPLETELY JOKING 100%, BTW. ABOUT THE RAINBOWS AND BALANCE SHIT, I MEAN.)

(I WAS, IN FACT, STANDING IN MY DASHIKI IN THE BACK GARDEN IN MY BARE FEET JUST BEFORE EIGHT IN THE MORNING COLLECTING RAIN IN AN APRON I APPROPRIATED FROM MY MOTHER-IN-LAW THAT WAS WORN AS MY -FOR SERIOUS- WEDDING DRESS THIS YEAR BECAUSE YOU GOT TO MAKE SURE YOU GET -ALL KINDS OF RAIN-, NOT JUST THE BLISTERY KIND, WHEN DOING THIS CAILLEACH / WEATHER STUFF. BUT I WASN'T DOING IT TO "BALANCE THINGS OUT", SO LET'S NOT BE CONFUSED WHATSOEVER.)

(I MEAN, LOL, WTF YOU THINK THIS SHIT IS, LLEWELLYN?)

As #33

Earlier today, when speaking about/thinking about tomorrow's appointment I pulled #33 from ma's "Soul Cards" deck. (I believe my reaction - and this is a direct quote - was "JESUS, IT'S NOT THAT BAD!".)

There's a slight discrepancy between the on-line version of the image and the printed card version of the image. For some reason all of the blue featured in the glossy card doesn't pop up on the jpg (it looks more sand blasted on-line - WHO KNOWS, MAYBE MY INTERNET EYES ARE BROKEN?).

The first thing I said/thought (not the VERY FIRST THING, mind you, because that was the "OH JESUS WTF IS THIS BLACK HOLE OF DESPAIR?!" reaction above) was "OKAY, DON'T FREAK OUT BECAUSE YOU CAN -CLEARLY SEE- THAT SHE HAS A PROTECTIVE WHITE HALO/AURA AROUND HER BODY (WHITE = GOOD COLOR, DEATH/REBIRTH) WHICH IS A V. V. V. GOOD SIGN". And then "OH, HEY, WE'RE GETTING MORE BLUE!" (in my card version there's a blue smudge streaked across her face making it seem like the indigo is staining her white skin) and that's V. V. GOOD too because BLUE AND WHITE ARE VERY SPECIAL MAGIC COLORS FOR ME and WE SHOULD BE TURNING BLUE BY NOW, ANYWAY, BECAUSE FALL IS COMING ON.

(Time to ditch the Easter bride virgin thing and do a 180. ANCIENT, PERPETUAL CYCLE OF LIFE AND DEATH AND ALL OF THAT.)

So, yeah, not bad, you just need to look at it a bit harder. (BESIDES, IT'S ONLY A HERNIA, YOU KNOW. SO, THERE'S NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT BECAUSE IF IT WAS SOMETHING REALLY BAD, BAD SOMETHING REALLY BAD, BAD WOULD HAVE HAPPENED BY NOW.)

(CAN I PLEASE HAVE ANOTHER RABBIT GRIN? MAYBE ONE MORE JUST BEFORE BED?)

#33 notes:
* Atomic number of arsenic
* This number has the meaning that good will always triumph over evil.
* A significant number in modern numerology, one of the master numbers along with 11 and 22
* A normal human spine has 33 vertebrae when the bones that form the coccyx are counted individually
* The double triangle is another word for, "33."

Thirty Minutes After

I stopped it from raining last night.

(It held for an evening and thirty minutes; it waited for a shower and a beer. I pulled Our apron tight - high above the stars - and We cradled the rain against Our body, against Ourselves, with arms unwavering as the clouds billowed and rolled below Us. The Universe said "YOU DID THIS. YOU DID THIS, YOURSELF." and I laughed and I cried while we watched my rain from the kitchen windows, after a shower, after a beer - thirty minutes after I looked up at the sky and said "NOW IT CAN RAIN!" as the blood and semen and spit and wine sank into the earth where there were roots without sheaves of wheat.)

Aquarius Lunar Eclipse

Tonight I Reaped.

I Break Legs, Bring Snow

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from Nov. 22nd, 2007.

So Italics's Dad was all "OCH IT'S NAE GOWIN TA SNEW!" (<- LOLOLOLOLOL! GROUND'S KEEPER WILLY!) to me when it V. V. V. V. V. CLEARLY WAS GOING TO SNOW and I was all "I DON'T KNOW, IT'S THE RIGHT SORT OF WIND" and he was all "BUT IT'S TOO BRIGHT" and then "IT'S TOO WARM" and I was all "I DON'T KNOW, IT'S THE RIGHT SORT OF WIND" and he CLEARLY DIDN'T BELIEVE ME so I was all "I'LL SHOW THAT CRAZY OLD BASTARD!" and I marched outside with a shot of vodka and I said "BABA, LET LOOSE YOUR APRON AND BRING ME SNOW!" and, lo and behold, within two hours, just as Italics's Dad and Mom were leaving for their trip (which prevented them from having Thanksgiving with us), just as they were CROSSING THE THRESHOLD FROM THE DOOR INTO THE OUTSIDE it started snowing and I was all "OH, HEY, LOOK, I WAS RIGHT - IT'S SNOWING!" in my happy cheerful "WHAT NOW, NIGGA?" voice.

DANCE, MAGIC, DANCE!

(In return I said "T'BEAH YEAST-TEH, BABA!" when I left her a turkey wing and a homemade crescent butter roll out in the snow on the patio's ledge . (<- LOL! A+ HAPPENING, UNINTENTIONAL LUNAR CRESCENT CAKE OFFERING! A+++! I IZ TEH BEST @ MAGIC!))

Certain Shade of Gray

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from Nov. 22nd, 2007.

I woke up this morning, looked outside, and thought "it could snow today" and that secret, silent hope has been something that partially carried me through the M bomb situation.

It's that certain wind, that certain shade of gray, and the way the clouds roll off the hills and slowly creep across the sky. Snowsnowsnowsnow. It'd be perfect, and magical, and special-wonderful if it snowed today. It'd be like all of the best Thanksgivings I ever had, rolled into one day, even with my funny feeling throat (it's gotten drier and rougher; a cold is definitely eminent).

I hope She washes Her plaids today. I wonder if She'll listen to me if I tug on the edges of Her apron...?

Perfect Storm

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from Sept. 21st, 2007.

Showed off unintentional sigil to Italics last night (*), and took spoonful of cough syrup before bed to sleep uninterrupted. Chippy asked for bone while settling down to sleep, talked him down from bone to raw hide treat, but decided, at last second, he wanted chocolate. Shared w/Papa but gave him the silver one (kept gold one for himself). Got praised for sharing, seemed very happy.

Can't remember full details of dream, or any sort of lead-in or explanation to why Italics, Chippy, and I were on triangular (TRIANGLE! MAGIC SHAPE! SHAPE OF FIRE & MASCULINITY! (SHAPE ALSO HEAVILY FEATURED IN SIGIL!)) warship in the middle of ocean. "Perfect storm" storming, all three on deck in middle of huge ship. Gigantic waves crash into massive boat rocking everything. Lightening illuminates otherwise pitch black sky, able to see massive maelstrom heading directly towards. (WHIRLPOOL? OH, GOD, HERE WE GO...) Frozen petrified panic. Bury face deep into Chippy's fur, ask, beg, plead, demand he take control of boat and navigate to safety. (CAPTAIN CHIPPY, LOLOLOLOLOL!) Crush dog toy to body and half will and half wish triangular warship to skim very edges of whirlpool, brave enough to look up just as boat sails through or past swirling vortex.

(Already identified possibility of "fire" (triangle) as "male" and "water" (ocean) as "feminine". Symbolic of balance needed in life? Ocean represents aspect of uncontrollable emotion that can't be navigated? Warning not to be swallowed (Aries/fire/consciousness) by overemotional aspect of life (Pisces/water/emotional unconsciousness)?

"In Scotland, the Cailleach is a blue-faced hag and represents the three months of winter. Her reign is broken by the appearance of Brigit at Imbolc. At Beltaine, the Cailleach hides her staff underneath a holly bush. In the game of Sibyl, which is very similar to the game of Snakes and Ladders that children play today, the Cailleach was the Dragon. This game was played on a seasonal basis and demonstrated the battle which was fought between the Cailleach Bheara and Brigit."

LOL!

(*) FROM LJ ACCOUNT: IT IS MY BELIEF THAT I HAVE V. V. V. RECENTLY CREATED (SEPT. 19TH, 2007) MY FIRST MAGIC SIGIL, EVER, BY ACCIDENT. (<- AND IT LOOKS COOL COOL COOL, AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME! (OKAY, SO I THINK IT LOOKS COOL AND R SEEMED TO LIKE IT THEREFORE IT HAS TO BE "COOL COOL COOL, AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME" TO SOME DEGREE, RIGHT?)) I <3 THESE LITTLE MAGIC "OOPS!" and "LOLS!".

Famous Grouse

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from April 8th, 2008 (although the events that took place pre-date the writing; actual date of said events would have been during the 2008 Easter Wedding holiday).

(ALSO IT'S SNOWING AGAIN AND I THINK THIS IS PRETTY MUCH MY FAULT BECAUSE AT THE BEGINNING OF WINTER I GOT IT IN MY MIND TO LEARN HOW TO MAKE IT SNOW SO I GOT ALL BUDDY-BUDDY WITH THE INDIGENOUS WINTER HAG AND BECAUSE SHE'S SORT'VE AN ASPECT OF THE RUSSIAN SEX'N'DEATH GODDESS THAT GOVERNS ME I LEFT AN OFFERING OF A SHOT OF VODKA AND A CRUST OF BREAD EVERY FUCKING TIME IT SNOWED AND LAST MONTH I WAS ALL "I AM A DUMB ASS BECAUSE THE WINTER HAG HERE IS SCOTTISH AND NOT ACTUALLY RUSSIAN WHICH MEANS SHE WOULD PROBABLY PREFER WHISKEY TO VODKA" SO I WENT AND GOT HER A SMALLISH BOTTLE OF "FAMOUS GROUSE" TO LEAVE INSTEAD OF VODKA AND EVER SINCE THEN IT HAS BEEN SNOWING -EVERYWHERE- AND -EVERYONE- IS COMPLAINING AND I'M ALL "OH DEAR, I DID WONDER WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF I CONTINUED TO LEAVE OFFERINGS THAT ARE ADDICTIVE SUBSTANCES AND NOW I KNOW." BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT -THIS- "PAGAN/WITCH" DEBATES IN HER MIND (I.E., "IS IT MORALLY ETHICAL TO LEAVE ADDICTIVE SUBSTANCES AS OFFERINGS KNOWING THAT THEY'RE ADDICTIVE AND A SERIOUS ADDICT WILL DO SOME SERIOUS THINGS FOR A QUICK FIX?") SINCE THE ENTIRE LOVE SPELLS VERSUS MORALITY THING IS SO WAY OVER MY HEAD PHILOSOPHICALLY. <- SOMETIMES YOU JUST NEED TO ADMIT WHEN YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR INTELLECTUAL DEPTH.)

(SO, UH, SORRY ABOUT THE SNOW, YOU GUYS, BUT I THINK SHE'S SET ON FINISHING THE BOTTLE OF WHISKEY.)

(PPS: THERE'S LIKE 2/3 LEFT.)

Divine, but Not Sacred

So I wake up this morning and I’m fine, but as the day progresses my tonsil – the one I cut after accidentally swallowing a piece of sharp pork crackling (YES, THE SKANKY TONSIL, THE HOSPITAL TONSIL, THE DEFORMED TONSIL, THE “WOW, I REALLY WISH THE MEDICAL PHOTOGRAPHER WAS HERE TODAY TO TAKE A PICTURE OF YOUR TONSIL BECAUSE IT’S DEFINITELY ONE FOR THE BOOKS” TONSIL, THE WITCH TONSIL, THE TONSIL THAT IS FOREVER SWELLING AND NOT BACKING THE SHIT UP WITH AN ACTUAL COLD - THAT TONSIL) – begins to twinge, and that familiar feeling is eventually followed by dryness and the dryness, surprisingly enough, is just as familiar as the oh so familiar twinge I recently mentioned which means the depth of my shock and disbelief was very shallow indeed by the time my old acquaintance, the last of the mysterious and wise magi (aka swelling), appeared on the scene. (PERHAPS I COULD HAVE A NEW CONNECT THE DOTS PATTERN SOON? SOMETHING DIFFERENT AND UNTRACED FOR, OH, I DON’T KNOW...VARIETY?)

And I go “IS IT THE WEATHER? IS THE GODDAMN WEATHER GOING TO TURN BAD?” because it would SO BE LIKE THE WEATHER to suddenly TURN BAD just as our schedules shift (we’ve been sleeping days and working nights) so we miss the really fucking great spell. I mean, it’s NOT LIKE THIS HASN’T HAPPENED BEFORE, HAS IT, WEATHER? It’s not like you HAVEN’T decided to have glorious, unseasonably balmy days for weeks on end when we were sleeping during the days, RIGHT? IT’S NOT LIKE YOU HAVEN’T DECIDED TO INEXPLICABLY TURN THAT FAUCET OFF WHEN YOU NOTICED WE WERE INCHING OUR WAY TO BEING ABLE TO ENJOY THOSE GLORIOUSLY, UNSEASONABLY BALMY DAYS THAT WE HAD BEEN PREVIOUSLY MISSING BY SLEEPING, RIGHT? Let’s be honest, weather, it’s not like we haven’t been here before – you, me, and the tonsil.

(OKAY, SO, I KNOW IT MIGHT SOUND REALLY, REALLY LEFT FIELD, BUT YOU’RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO BELIEVE ME ON THIS ONE...I HAVE OLD PEOPLE ARTHRITIS WEATHER DIVINATION SKILLS, BUT WITH MINOR DIFFERENCES. LIKE, INSTEAD OF BEING OLD I’M YOUNG AND, UHM, INSTEAD OF HAVING ARTHRITIS I HAVE A MUTATED TONSIL. CLEARLY, AS YOU CAN SEE, THE BASIC PRINCIPAL’S THE SAME AND SO IS, MOST IMPORTANTLY, THE END RESULT. I FEEL BAD WEATHER – IN MY SWOLLEN TONSIL.)

Guess who’ve been experiencing some fan-fucking-tastic weather? And guess who’ve been sleeping days, but are quickly creeping up on the light to make up for some lost time? AND GUESS, IF YOUR IMAGINATION IS POWERFUL ENOUGH TO ALLOW YOU TO NAVIGATE THIS MULTI-LAYERED, MULTI-DIMENSIONAL WORLD WE ARE CREATING, WHO’VE BEEN VERY, VERY EAGER TO ENJOY THIS SPECTACULAR CLIMATE PHENOMENON WE’VE BEEN PRIVY TO WHILE FAST ASLEEP IN OUR BED? Now take a wild, crazy, insane out-of-this-world guess at why my left tonsil feels inflamed and comically enlarged today, out of nowhere?

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(PS: Today’s Monday!)

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL! MY FAVORITE IS HOW THERE’S A TWENTY-FUCKING-THREE DEGREE TEMPERATURE DROP IN THE SPACE OF FOUR FUCKING DAYS. (NOW THERE’S SOMETHING EXCITING AND TOTALLY WORTH GETTING OUT OF BED FOR!) MY SECOND FAVORITE IS HOW MY WITCH TONSIL IS SORT’VE LIKE CASSANDRA – DIVINE, BUT NOT SACRED. (IT’S LIKE AN ORACLE WHOSE PREDICTIONS NO ONE REALLY WANTS TO HEAR IN THE FIRST PLACE.) MY THIRD FAVORITE IS HOW THE WEATHER HAS A PERSONAL GRUDGE AGAINST ME. (BITCH, DON’T YOU KNOW I CAN MAKE IT SNOW? YOU DON’T WANT TO BE MESSIN’ WITH THIS SHIT.)

Wing and a Prayer

Thinking back, now, it seemed so obvious, it seemed so perfect – being instructed to bury an egg beneath the window on nothing more than a wing and a prayer (oh, that time was tragic and epic and the whole “wing and a prayer” sentiment played beautifully in that near final act and is no part, in anyway, an artistic exaggeration or embellishment for my previous bohemian sadness), hoping that, one day, it’d all make sense. Back then, though, the egg sat (Christ, did that fucking egg sit!).

That hard boiled egg sat, nestled in a purple shot glass, from near Fet Ghede (2006) until Ostara (2007) with only a trio of succulents and a handful of Ukrainian newspapers to keep it company. Every fucking day I’d see the damn thing staring blankly at me, making me frustrated that I hadn’t found the fucking time to bury one single goddamn egg like Papa told me to all those weeks and months and days before.

IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN AN EASY FUCKING JOB, YOU KNOW? ALL I HAD TO DO WAS BURY ONE GODDAMN HARD BOILED EGG IN SOME DIRT JUST BELOW MY COMPUTER ROOM WINDOW. It was never the right time, or conditions, or I was too busy, or I’d forget, or I just couldn’t be bothered (which, really, is just an accumulation of everything previously listed) and before I knew it March had come on and the egg Papa traded for back in November had become a permanent resident on my intricately carved, yet almost unusable £5.00 middle eastern wooden table.

(“ONLY A FIVER? FOR SERIOUS? ONLY BECAUSE THE TABLE TOP IS COMPLETELY WARPED AND STARTING TO SLIGHTLY ROLL INTO ITSELF? AND BECAUSE THE LEGS ARE UNSTABLE AND SLIGHTLY MISSHAPEN DUE TO “ONE OF A KIND ARTISTIC CRAFTSMANSHIP”? OH, AND BECAUSE THE LEGS THAT ARE UNSTABLE AND SLIGHTLY MISSHAPEN DUE TO “ONE OF A KIND ARTISTIC CRAFTSMANSHIP” DON’T ACTUALLY FIT INTO THE TABLE TOP THAT IS COMPLETELY WARPED AND STARTING TO SLIGHTLY ROLL INTO ITSELF MAKING EVERYTHING UNBALANCED AND LACKING IN ANY STRUCTURAL CAPABILITY? HELL, WE’RE TAKING THAT FUCKER HOME!”)

After four months it started to smell. Not, like, full on, or very in-your-face noticeable, but something was slightly off. By the time I realized where the very organic scent was coming from a small puddle of liquid had appeared at the very bottom of the shot glass. (I don’t know, I didn’t want to know, I didn’t even bother to look.) I was disgusted, but that statement, surely, could not be fully appreciated unless you knew me completely.

(Long short – way before all of this CSI business became popular I had entered pre-med with the intention of becoming a forensic pathologist; anatomy, dissection, microbiology – loved it, loved it, loved it and excelled in it all savant-style. I’ve butchered animals, fed pets menstrual blood clots, picked apart putrefying road kill, scrubbed the remnants of a friend’s father off a wall, and regularly clean the house toilet without so much as a complaint. I DO GROSS AND SICK, AND I DO IT GOOD BECAUSE, MOSTLY FOR THE MOST PART, IT’S FASCINATING AND WONDERFUL AND TERRIFIC AND MAKES ME FEEL ALIVE AND TALENTED...EXCEPT FOR THE TOILET. I FEEL THAT I COULD REMAIN LIVING AT THIS LEVEL OF ALIVE AND TALENTED WITHOUT HAVING TO CLEAN THE TOILET. (I have surgery hands whose goodness is now only known to liquid eyeliners. LOLOLOLOL, MAYBE SHE’S BORN WITH IT?) With that sort’ve in mind – imagine what would really disgust me. In fact, I don’t even want to think about it...ew.)

But that was when I was depressed. I was Underground, waiting in hopeless limbo for a resurrection that was only supposed to take a few days but took a few months. (It’s easy to get lost down there, and even easier to not find your way back. I GUESS THAT’S WHERE THE BALL OF STRING COMES IN HANDY.) By spring of 2007 I was tired of the whirlpool (which made it even worse since I was the one who originally decided to jump into it, thinking I was one billion percent ready of the consequences because, GEE, I HAD COME ALONG WAY, YOU KNOW? HOW HARD CAN THE ROAD TO A BETTER, MORE COMPLETE PERSON BE?), and in that fed up restlessness I finally did something and broke out of that hollow mould I had been living in – I buried the petrified egg.

“Cailleach Beara, goddess of the changing seasons, renewed her own youth whenever she was tired of being a hunchbacked old woman.” – Goddesses, A World of Myth and Magic

I Washed and Hung My Wedding Dress

I didn't know it was supposed to snow, so the static beneath the streetlight caught my eye. "It's snowing outside," I said to Italics as he had his shower. Steam rolled out into the hall as precipitation illuminated the bruised sky. I left an offering of vodka and food, whispering Tibeh yeast-eh, Baba. to the middle of the night. The clouds parted and the crescent moon shone.

"Maybe I'll get my period tonight," I mused, kneeling over THE WHITE OUTSIDE BUCKET. The offerings sat, perfectly still, perfectly dry. The cats hadn't come around, and it was still too early for the crows and blackbirds. I thought of snow, briefly, and then inhaled smoke on all fours, remembering what snow-diluted vodka tasted like.

Four thirty in the morning and something pulled an internal string, drawing it between my legs and up into my lower stomach. There was blood, rust-colored pieces of coral on white quilted fabric. The blood that's more flesh than blood. "I got my period," I shouted to Italics, the bathroom door open, wiping myself just as my eyes caught the static beneath the streetlight, illuminating the once again bruised sky.

Notes: Remember to take pill on Easter. Moved apron to bedroom. Spanning from Feb. 16th (the late evening) into Feb. 17th (the very early morning).