Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

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.

Scotland Poultry Scissors Massacre

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One word: WINDSTORM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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STRAIGHTENED UP, CLEANED AND READY FOR WINTER, BABY!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rolling with Pigs

OH, GOD, BEFORE I FORGET //YET AGAIN// -

- LAST NIGHT YOU ROLLED AROUND WITH A WILD BOAR IN YOUR DREAM AND WHEN YOU RUBBED ITS FERAL PIG STOMACH ITS GRUNTING WAS JUST LIKE LAUGHTER.

(JESUS H. CHRIST! LIKE I DIDN'T ALREADY KNOW THAT PIGS ARE ONE OF MY ANIMALS! I KNOW IT TOOK ME //YEARS// TO OFFICIALLY RECOGNIZE PAPA, BUT DO I REALLY HAVE TO HAVE ONE OF MY PATENTED SERPENT AND THE RAINBOW STYLE ANIMAL TOTEM DREAMS TO SLAP ME ACROSS THE HEAD TO PAY ATTENTION AND //LOOK///? FOR FUCKS SAKE!)

(I'M GROWN-UP NOW! *STOMPS HER FEET WHILE THROWING ANOTHER TERRIBLE TWENTY-SOMETHING SPIRITUAL TANTRUM*)

Always Up, Never Down

I dreamt about zombies last night. (How long has it been? A year? Two years? Maybe even three? Not long enough; I still sleep with the machete next to the door, just in case.)

It's my bedroom, but isn't. Two windows, a bed, dressers - everything's familiar but never seen before. Dark, but not night - the gray-black-blue of storms turning day into twilight, panic and horror lingering in the static, stagnant air.

I'm getting my things together, essential things, things to carry me over for the next few days. (I'm always getting my things, always packing, rushed, for something at somewhere. Last time it was a determent camp, and the Nazi officer with a heart of gold gave me a minute longer than he should of. I ultimately decided, after glancing at his sympathetic, handsome face, that the only thing I really needed was my year's supply of birth control. <- YOU CAN LAUGH, FUCK, //I// DID AFTER WAKING UP.)

GET TO THE ROOF, GET TO THE ROOF, GET TO THE ROOF thunders through my racing heart. My escape plan for these situations never changes, regardless of dream or setting - always up, never down. (OH MY GOD THE WINDOWS ARE OPEN!) (Never mind, never mind you've got time - be quick, be smart, have a plan before you execute it. Always be prepared, always have a plan; people who live have a plan.)

Sharp, quick movements cut through the hanging air. Adrenaline's pulsating, but I'm not blindly panicked. I'm driven to survive, but I'm in control, I know what I'm doing and what to do. (Been here before, haven't we?) I slice open the silent room with elbows - stretching, lunging, snatching. My body's on autopilot. It works with and separately from my rushing thoughts, both entities in synch but executing different instincts.

GET THE AMBER NECKLACE, GET THE AMBER NECKLACE, GET THE AMBER NECKLACE. For a split second I'm suspended in air, a ballerina with strings, body contorted and leaning forward over a partially opened drawer as a streak of silver tears through the darkened room. A flash of metal, a flash of resin - it's as if the sun splits opens the oppressive sky and the hand of God reaches down and breathes on my necklace; for a moment everything shines, everything glitters as improbable light reflects off the metal.

(I'm Lara Croft, I'm Indiana Jones, I'm Prometheus with God's treasure dangling in my hand.)

It's the sound of a plane free falling without the noise. It's the thundering sensation of a train barreling towards you without the trembling earthquakes. The world stops and you exist in a timeless vacuum where everything's blanketed with a deep, choking silence. You feel it in your blood, you feel it down your spine, you feel it brush against your hair follicles. Before you know, you know.

WINDOWS, WINDOWS, WINDOWS, but it's already too late. The necklace, the slinky, silver cord wrapped around my fingers as the chunk of amber shakes like a nervous pendulum, flies through the air like a mace, colliding with glass as I spin around. The wooden frame of the window rattles like the scaffolding of a guillotine as it comes crashing down.

(TOO LATE, TOO LATE, TOO LATE, TOO LATE...)

She's blind but Her dead eyes see. The only thing not frozen in the room is my amber pendant, swinging wildly from side to side as my lungs deflate and I hold my breath. (The burglar's been caught, caught stealing her own things.) She stares forward, transfixed, a long layer of hair overlapping a long layer of clothing. A girl, a child, a ghost, an insatiable monster who's disrupted my plan(s).

(TOO LATE, TOO LATE, TOO LATE, TOO LATE...)

Killing comes easy when you've battled zombies all of your life. (I was four, or five, the first time they came, and I made the mistake of hiding in the basement - something I've never repeated again, not in any dream or nightmare.) Everything stops, everything screeches to a deafening halt. I think I'm still breathing; I'm still alive. Muscles tense and body prepared my outstretched fingers trail over the curve of something cylinder - an empty wine bottle? a broken off chair leg? - until my warm, sweaty fingers wrap around the cool surface and grip it tightly against my clammy palm.

Now She sees me. I squeeze the weapon in my hand, the weight and density reassuring. It isn't brittle, it isn't weak - it's solid, hard, unforgiving. It's an extension of me, unafraid, knowing its purpose. (GET TO THE ROOF, GET TO THE ROOF, GET TO THE ROOF...) It only takes Her one ninety degree turn until we're face to face. The battle of life versus death sets up in a tiny, nondescript bedroom, both sides driven by a biological urge to survive, to keep going.

It's that long second before the explosion, when air and being and everything you know and fear and hate and love is drawn in with one final cosmic inhalation. There isn't anything else except us and this moment that feels like eternity. It's war and the solider awakens; purpose replaces fear, panic and uncertainty. My diaphragm expands as my chest swells, a long, deep breath grounds me as the last of my mental armor is locked into place.

A surge of martial excitement ricochets through my poised body and I feel the roar - that Aries, earth shaking battle cry of a lion bellow - bolt through me like a full body orgasm as the last remnants of fear collapse beneath the biblical sound. (I WILL CRUSH YOU, I WILL DEFEAT YOU, YOU WILL BREAK BENEATH THE SOLES OF MY CALLOUSED FEET, YOU WILL LIE DEFEATED, BROKEN, A TESTAMENT TO MY STRENGTH AND COURAGE. YOU ARE NOTHING BUT DUST AND WEAKNESS AND I WILL VICTORIOUSLY OVERCOME.)

I woke up just as Italics was coming to bed, a split second before my lion's roar of goading defiance. No battle this time, no struggle or fight for survival. But they'll be back; the only thing as old as me is Them, and we've been at war since before I could remember. (ALWAYS UP, NEVER DOWN.)

Oh, HELL No

THIS MORNING? JUST BEFORE I WOKE UP? I DREAMT ABOUT BEING BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL AND STEALING FOOD. THAT'S RIGHT - NOT NAKED, NOT LATE FOR A CLASS, NOT FREAKING OUT OVER A TOTALLY UNEXPECTED POP QUIZ, BUT STEALING FOOD OUT OF THE TEACHER'S LOUNGE.

IT WAS THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL AND THE FRIDGE HAD A BAG OF BUTTERMILK FRIED CHICKEN AND I WAS ALL "OH HELL NO, SOMEONE'S JUST GOING TO //LEAVE// THIS CHICKEN HERE?" QUICKLY FOLLOWED BY "OH HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLL NO, IT'S GOIN' HOME WITH ME, THIS CHICKEN'S COMIN' HOME WITH ME!" AND BEFORE I KNEW IT I HAD A BAG OF FRIED CHICKEN, A LOAF OR TWO OF GARLIC BREAD AND A SWORN DUTY TO ORGANIZE A MID-SUMMER BEACH PARTY FOR MY CLASSMATES AT LAKE MICHIGAN.

(I DIDN'T EVEN WAKE UP HUNGRY!)

(AND, ALSO, THE BAG OF FRIED CHICKEN? ALL BREAST. 100% WHITE MEAT AND BATTERED SKIN, BABY.)

I MEAN, LET'S BE COMPLETELY HONEST - WHAT THE FUCK WOULD'VE YOU DONE WHEN FACED WITH THE PROSPECT OF SCORING A FREE BAG OF BUTTERMILK FRIED CHICKEN WHOSE MERE EXISTENCE APPEARED TO HAVE BEEN A DIVINE JOINT EFFORT/PROJECT BETWEEN ANGELS, DEVAS AND BUDDHAS? AND NOW WHAT IF - WHAT IF! - EVERY PIECE IN THAT FREE BAG OF FRIED CHICKEN MADE BY THE SPIRITUALLY ENLIGHTENED WAS PURE, UNADULTERATED CHUNKS OF SUCCULENTLY JUICY, GLEAMING-AS-IF-IT-HAD-BEEN-BLEACHED BREAST?

(EXACTLY, "OH, HELLLLLLLL NO! FUCK THE TEACHERS; THE CHICKEN'S GOIN' HOME WITH ME!")

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!)

Insert Credit

NIGHT TERROR X 2. (OH, WE PLAYIN' THAT GAME AGAIN?)

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!".

It's Time It Begins

(More of an uneasy dream than "nightmare", woke up and spent a portion of the morning feeling somewhat unsettled.)

You're pregnant but you don't know why or how. There's no back story; you're pregnant and practically at full term. You've also been cut. In the darkness (most of this happens during the darkest hours of the night) in some large, black room (abandoned stately house? abandoned warehouse?) a man cut you across your swollen stomach. (An attack? Doesn't seem likely. It feels more like a home attempt at a cesarean.)

The wound bleeds, but it isn't deep. You support your stomach with both hands, holding on either side of the base so the laceration doesn't worsen. Blood seeps through your t-shirt, but it isn't enough to draw unwanted attention. Italics is with you, but is in the background, saying nothing, and doing nothing.

You're in the ocean. There's no reason, no explanation to bridge the black room with the black sea. It isn't cold, just dark. Lights on the buildings on the shore look orange-yellow, and twinkle almost citrine against the backdrop of night. You wade to shore, the ocean's calm, and Italics is by your side. You tell him you have to go to the hospital, holding your pregnant stomach with both hands. The blood on your t-shirt has dried to a flaky rust.

Your hospital room is small, just large enough to hold the bed. There's an uneasy feeling in the room. Tension, anxiety. You might have had a fight with Italics, but the room is now silent. It's just you two, and you're sitting with your hands on your abdomen, always holding the cut stomach. (Is it protective? Is it worry? Is it a fear that you'll somehow lose it? Are you just resting your hands because you don't know what else to do with them?)

You're impatient. The bed is small. You keep looking towards the door, wanting to move, wanting to stay active. No one comes. Italics is falling asleep. It's just you and the sinking feeling that these are the last few hours of your life. You aren't sure if you're scared of death, or scared of the possibility of living. You aren't terrified, or petrified. You're uneasy. Anxious. Tense. You can't stop thinking. (Are you suddenly uncertain?)

You leave the room. You leave Italics. You wander the halls of the modern hospital. Everything is white, everything is glass. Everything is metal, framing the "open" structure so glass acts as the roof and sides of the building. You're looking for the room you'll be delivering in, you know it's in the "G" wing. You were told the number, but you've forgotten. It's enough that you know the floor/wing, and you wander through a closed hall, hearing parts of conversation that are significant.

"How many women have died in this ward?" "30, maybe 40."
"You know there's a fifty percent chance she won't make it if she has to get a white blood cell shot. You don't know your allergic to it until it's given to you."

You're a ghost in the halls and you're being told how you're going to die.

There's nothing. No screaming, no crying, no resistance. Calmly, quietly, and uneasy each step takes you closer to the moment of truth. You're alone. He's sleeping. Your hands on your belly, and you find yourself standing in a food court. There are stands instead of "shops". The room is circular, gigantic. Cathedral glass ceiling. Full-sized trees growing in containers, and green trailing plants hanging over the roof of each "stand".

You're standing in the middle of a modern, indoor utopia. There's no pushing, no raised voices. People move with a purpose, they slide against one another. You remain a ghost, standing there. No one questions the pregnant woman holding her stomach in a blood-stained t-shirt. People walk by with steaming cups of coffee. Without any thought, without any reason you turn around to return to the room.

More tension. Italics briefly wakes up. Groggy, irritable. (He wants you to stay put?) Nods back off. The time is closer. You're probably watching a clock. You wait for Her because you know She will appear soon. You watch him sleep. You watch the clock. Time passes, and you're alone, holding your mortality in your hands.

She's blond. Cheerful. Wearing white. You look at Italics for the last time. He continues to sleep. You wonder if he knows that this is the last time he might see you alive. You wonder if him being asleep was deliberate. You feel a degree of sadness, maybe even a touch of regret. (You think of your younger self with him, but older. You wonder if it's worth it.) Where you are going he can't come with.

You don't say good-bye, you just leave.

The time is closer. She walks with you making friendly conversation. You're drinking a can of diet coke, and with one hand you continue to hold your abdomen. She laughs and says you shouldn't be drinking that right now. I don't know what you're thinking, but I think you don't think it matters. I think you think its funny and sad.

There is no hope. No feeling of excitement. You're there, serving the purpose you intended. You're about to have a baby, but there's no maternal feelings. (No happiness. No joy. No anticipation.) There's nothing. Just you, silence, and the nurse talking as we pass closed off rooms in the "G" wing. You inevitably think of Italics.

You aren't given a wheelchair until you're at the threshold of the room. When you sit your leg skids, and you nearly miss the seat of the chair. You're not usually that clumsy. (But you are, because I am. And you're drinking a diet soda and being told that you shouldn't because of my esophagus condition.) It's an unexpected slip. (So unexpected?)

It's tiny. Clinical. There's a black leather gynecology bed but nothing else. No sheets. No pillows. No blankets. The leather is worn, and broken in places, barely kept together with aged tape. This is the room where you will live and die. You just stare at the empty bed. Think about Italics. Recycle the conversations you've heard.

You wait to hear her tell you she'll need to give you a shot because of your white blood cells. You wait for the birth you'll never see the end of. You think of Italics, sleeping, and there is uncertainty. He makes you silently question. You know it's too late to change your mind; you've always known the second you put your feet on this path you would follow through with it completely.

Your waiting is finally over. It's time it begins.