Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

"Christmas Morning", 2009

I have a recurring Yuletide curse that I've been trying to best for several fucking years now: celebrating December 25th as Christmas Day. I can execute every other fucking feast, celebration and holiday on effing time (Midwinter? Check. Sviata Vechera? Check. Christmas Eve? Check.), but by Christmas morning the festive train suddenly derails and never gets a chance to arrive at its intended destination on time.

Last year? We ended up coming down with something on the 23rd (while grocery shopping, remember?), and we had a helluva time kicking those motherfucking colds. Christmas just didn't happen because it was impossible to get in the spirit while both of us felt like death warmed over. For the first time, ever, we had to cancel our annual fancy pants Turkish meal AND Holy Supper. (<- To say I was "upset" would've been the understatement of the motherfucking year.)

This year? We were just too goddamn exhausted. Because we lost so much time with my intestinal issues earlier in the month we had to double-time everything the second I was well enough to stand for more than ten minutes. In addition to decorating the house for the winter holidays we also had to clean the kitchen thoroughly before starting any of our Sviata Vechera cooking, create something like 15 of the 19 dishes for Holy Supper from scratch (we must've pulled several 9-12 hour days leading up to the Winter Solstice), write and send cards, buy presents for our godchildren, perform various rituals and rites, clean the entire goddamn house (again), lay the traditional Ukrainian meal down on Midwinter (when we celebrated Sviata Vechera), clean everything up, pick up and prepare the goose, consecrate this year's Yule Log, walk miles in the bitterly cold snow with heavy ass grocery bags (one which comically broke 1/2 way home) because my father-in-law killed my car's battery and we didn't find out until AFTER they left for Spain, race into town to leave my annual pomegranate offering to the Blessed Virgin and get crazy dolled up for our Christmas Eve night on the town (which, by the way, DID manage to happen this year) all while still trying to write here, keep up with various social networking sites and perform all of my daily housewife duties.

By the morning of the 25th we were both absolutely fucking shattered, and because I didn't get a chance to prep the goose on the 24th it meant that it wasn't ready for roasting the next day. As much as I loathe postponing Christmas Day and everything it entails (a walk to the local graveyard to make offerings, a quick visit to the disturbed children's home and orphanage to leave gifts for the kids, a homemade crepe breakfast, opening up presents and then an entire day of loafing followed by the goose dinner) I didn't really have much choice.

As of now, the majority of our gifts are still tucked beneath the branches of our artificial tree. We did exchange a few presents on Midwinter and Christmas Eve, but because we like to place a child-like emphasis on "Christmas Morning" we saved most of the gifts for one epic unwrapping session. (It's unashamedly epic; because we don't have any kids (or relatives who expect more than one gift) we can solely focus on one another, and we do that all goddamn year long. (<- No joke, I've already bought Italics a few gifts off Ebay for NEXT Christmas!))

The pictures below are from last year's "Christmas Morning" (in quotes because we ended up opening gifts in the evening), which was a rushed event because Italics' parents had already come home from their Spanish holiday and managed to infect us with a brand new cold while we were both still sick with the first one we picked up in town on Midwinter. This year, to give us both a chance to catch our breath, we've decided to exchange gifts on New Year's Day, so everything'll sit for just a few more days until 2011 rolls around.

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Last year was the first year - well, the first year in many fucking years - that I left Santa an offering. In return for the beer, cookies and homemade porn he left me a joint, a thank you note, two "special" gifts and an approximation of what his junk would look like if it were made of miniature Swiss rolls.

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One of the gifts was an old amethyst Jerusalem cross necklace, the other a vintage animal print hostess dress from an Etsy boutique.

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It was this Santa Claus plate that restarted the entire offering thing. I found it in some clearance bin - TK Maxx, again? - and was immediately inspired to do something special for, uh, "Santa" on the 24th to revoke some childhood Christmas magic.

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You don't even want to know how much of Santa's Swiss roll junk I managed to fit in my mouth in one fucking go. (I'll give you a hint: everything but one "nut".)

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We were so fucking sick that we couldn't bear the thought of thoroughly trashing the room, so instead of scattering torn wrapping paper like Osiris' body parts we piled everything in a mostly neat tower of bubble wrap, cardboard and wrapping paper.

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This was, unsurprisingly, a motherfucking nightmare to sort for recycling.

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There's Mr. Ants snuggling Beh (he was Italics' new Christmas animal that year), Chippy wearing his brand new handpainted silk butterfly scarf, Jigga with her candy claw sitting next to Skunkan and Hezbollah (aka Crazy Rat) is standing on the skateboard that was given to them all as a Christmas gift. (Spirit dolls can get bored, that's why ours get toys and gifts to keep them occupied when we're too busy to interact with them.)

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A huge percentage of the gifts we exchange are either used, second hand, vintage or antique. Which doesn't necessary make Christmas cheaper, but it does cut down buying brand new, mass produced shit. I think the only "new" things pictured in this photo is an original piece of art, a t-shirt (which, I think, came from the clearance section) and the old skool Nintendo controller. (<- My favorite gift from last year; now I can actually play Super Mario Brothers 2!)

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Looking at this picture - nearly a year effing on - is a fucking revelation, I actually forgot we owned some of this shit! Because we cohabit with my in-laws we have very little space to display things, so everything exchanged last Christmas got carefully fitted in a cardboard box, and that fucking cardboard box is still sitting in the backroom unpacked.

The only thing that DID manage to crawl out of the open grave was the Russian Orthodox Church Music (the LP contains traditional carols and the entire Christmas mass) which was played on Sviata Vechera while invoking my Ukrainian ancestors (the famous Carol of the Bells is actually based on an ancient pre-Christian Ukrainian chant) and provided background music as Italics and I ritually cleaned the kitchen before starting any of our Holy Supper cooking.

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The rabbits are out and playing (even Pot Bunny is looking particular social, for once!), Christmas Pig has gone free-range and Christmas Polar Bear appears to be sniffing out any possible gifts that still require protection. (That's his job, you know. To protect everything under the tree until it's time to open them, and then, like Santa, he has the rest of the year off until it's Christmas once again.)

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I haven't had a chance to cover non-Ukrainian Christmas traditions - all the ever evolving customs that Italics and I have started together - but two fairly recent traditions involves placing stuffed animals beneath the tree with our presents along with any non-perishable "fun food" bought for consumption during the festive season. (<- A few of the reasons why our Christmas tree spread always appears so massive - we put every-fucking-thing beneath it because it's THE major altar of the season.)

Winter Altar, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Midwinter, 2008

I don't always get shit right. Sometimes the stars perfectly align, and forces totally beyond my control convene and produce a perfect moment that I can replicate again and again effortlessly. But when divine intervention doesn't happen right off the bat I find myself fucking with the formula - moving things around, assessing what my REAL goals are - until something finally happens that provides my frustrated ass with a sign.

Sviata Vechera - or, more accurately, the observation date - has been a bee in my fucking bonnet for years. There's never been any question about having Holy Supper, but there's ALWAYS been the question of WHEN we're going to have it. Traditionally the ritual meal is eaten on Christmas Eve, but Italics and I established going out that night for our meal (we always go to the same Turkish restaurant) over a decade ago, so the 24th isn't an option.

Neither is the 25th because that's Christmas (we typically have a more modern menu for Christmas Day), and as much as I'd LIKE to march along to the beat of THE OLD COUNTRY their January 7th date feels just a little too late in the season for me. Without a definite date Sviata Vechera jumped around a lot as I experimented with our ultimate Christmas formula, and the hilarious catastrophes that ensued eventually shaped the ideal schedule (which was finally set in stone this fucking year).

One schedule variant we tried was staying in town (to have a nice meal, catch a movie and stay in a hotel for the night) for the Winter Solstice; it worked in 2008, but 2009 was disastrous - we both caught colds. Christmas, last year, was actually canceled because we were both too sick to do anything. To top it off, when Italics' folks returned home from their two week vacation they brought home ANOTHER bug so we got sick AGAIN with something new while still being sick with the old thing.

That miserable experience was the last "hilarious catastrophe" that drove the nail in the coffin (it really was the worst Christmas in years) - there was no fucking way I was ever going to allow either of our asses to be unnecessary exposed to any sort of seasonal bug several days before the fucking 25th. Thanks to last year's futzing around with our ultimate Christmas formula (and the consequences of dicking around with it) I was finally able to set permanent dates for our annual Yuletide feasts, rites and traditions with some actual wisdom behind the decisions made.

Two years ago we toyed with the idea of going out on the 21st AND 24th (although we don't spend the night in town on Christmas Eve), and the pictures below are the result. I'm going to be crazy honest and admit they aren't spectacular (and certainly aren't ~magic~), but they do give you an idea of what the third largest city in Scotland looks like on a non-snowy Winter Solstice AND you get to see a butterfly-shaped slice of carrot in my bowl of Midwinter Chinese food.

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One of my very favorite outside-of-the-fucking-house games to play throughout the month of December is comparing every Christmas tree we see to our tree at home. Now that Italics helps dress the tree (long short? I had to get a few autistic years out of the way before I could share the job of decorating) he has a personal stake in the long-running winter game.

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A deep water, bio-luminescent Christmas tree at an entertainment plaza on the North Sea.

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After the movie at the plaza we zigzagged through narrow, cobbled lanes towards the Chinese restaurant, stopping just before one of the oldest churches in the city to have a joint.

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I don't know much about this particular church other than it's one of the very few buildings that've survived from Aberdeen's medieval(ish) past. I think it stood near the castle (which sat on a hill overlooking the harbor). The church remains, but the castle's gone. (<- They built tower blocks over the spot, but the area's original memory remains in the forms of street names (i.e., "Castlegate").)

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The stone stairway we just climbed with Marischal College lit up in the background. If you 180 from this spot you're then facing the old church I just mentioned.

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Ha HAH! Dinner! At our favorite Chinese place! (RIP; we always kill the very best, sigh. <- All of our favorite restaurants have met untimely ends through various fires, bankruptcies and, in one case, a stabbing. This year we lost our favorite Italian place, and they made the best fucking cannolis.)

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Of course, this was way before we learned Italics couldn't eat wheat, so every course was somehow crusted with white flour. (I really miss Peking Duck; I'll have to see what's used to make the thin pancakes. Maybe I'll luck out and find out it's rice flour?)

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I ate breakfast a half a fucking hour ago, but I'm sitting here salivating over a meal two effing years old. (That means it's time for lunch, right?)

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When we found out Italics couldn't eat wheat I knew I had to go gluten-free too, because it didn't make sense creating two versions of the same meal for the rest of our lives. I understood that the dietary change would have a huge impact on our lives, but I never expected to personally benefit from living (well, mostly living) wheat-free. The more I cut gluten out of my life the more control I had over my moods, and being able to manage my volatile temperament helped tone down some of my negative autistic qualities.

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HOLY SHIT, OH MY GOD - BUTTERFLY-SHAPED SLICE OF CARROT IN MY BOWL OF WINTER SOLSTICE CHINESE FOOD!

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We got guilted into taking Chippy, Jigga, Hezbollah and Beh with us, so that's them sitting in the window of our hotel room.

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Christmas lights hanging over one of the major streets in town.

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The city's theater - His Majesty's Theater - decorated for Christmas. (There's a whole sunken park between us and the outlined building.)

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The morning after, looking out of our hotel window (to the right) and across the heart of the city.

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The morning after, looking out of our hotel window (to the more right) and across the heart of the city.

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The morning after, looking out of our hotel window (to the left) and across the heart of the city.

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I have a long standing tradition of offering a ripe pomegranate to the Blessed Virgin between the Winter Solstice and Christmas Eve, so this is us trekking to the church the morning after Midwinter to leave Her the chthonic gift.

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This is the Catholic cathedral that I - and the other Eastern Europeans, coincidentally enough (I TOTALLY CALLED IT FIRST, OKAY? I'VE BEEN LIVING HERE FOR ALMOST A MOTHERFUCKING DECADE) - patronize.

Spring Leftovers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Garlogie's cattle rubbing stone from a different angle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

January, 2009

I usually manage to upload and write about 70% of the photos I take, but occasionally an adventure or two manages to slip through my fingers. To give the forgotten images and stories their chance to shine I decided I'd gather all of the loose ends and consolidate them in a monthly entry.

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Smooth, creamy and melt-in-your mouth golden.

(Pssst! It's goose fat, you know.)

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First full moon of the new year (Cold Moon) welcomed by THE NOTHING. (I love the tiny star way above the expanding darkness.)

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I appropriated an otherwise abandoned plum tree in the backyard and named it THE SHANGO TREE. To freak out the natives (aka MY IN-LAWS) I've begun wedging oversized bones in the branches so they'll get white and weather beaten. (WE'LL SEE HOW LONG IT LASTS UNTIL MY FATHER-IN-LAW DECIDES TO UNDECORATE MY BONE TREE.)

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When Beh was alive she's sit and stare blankly for hours at a time and neither Italics nor I knew what the fuck she was up to. It wasn't until recently - very, very recently - that Italics discovered that "fixed staring" was a symptom of a brain tumor. (Beh was diagnosed with "a brain thing" around May and passed quite suddenly in early June.)

We found this incense burning frog in the local health food store when Christmas shopping on Winter Solstice and couldn't resist its Bok Chek stare.

(BEH WAS ALWAYS CHEWING UP THE FUCKING CARPET, HENCE ALL OF THE CHEWED UP FUCKING CARPET.)

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Chark Park eating part of a buttermilk oatmeal muffin.

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How I spent sick day number three. (I MEAN, SERIOUSLY, HOW DOES THIS SHIT HAPPEN IN A HOUSEHOLD OF FOUR ADULTS AND GO TOTALLY UNNOTICED AND UNCLEANED UNTIL I DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?)

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Shakey Bear testing every pea to ensure they're all top quality.

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Shakey and Shoney looking like pea gremlins.

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It's an hour of back and forth, and constantly changing positions.

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Sun rising through the trees leading to the disturbed children's home.

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Hezbollah contemplates the garden.

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Graffiti on the door of the disturbed children's home. (I'M GOING BACK WITH A RED MARKER AND TEACHING THOSE ASBO KIDS A LESSON. <- LOL, IN GRAMMAR AND SPELLING, ANYWAY.)

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It was originally used as a home for disturbed children, but also had a stint of being an orphanage, I'm told.

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"Wank" has been scribbled on the lower left window, and "wanker" on the lower right.

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Through the trees you can see how the windows and doors have been boarded up.

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When we amble down to the semi-local cemetery (it's about a miles walk, or so) we pass a now abandoned (but still kept) home for disturbed children.

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Pac-Burger at T.G.I. Friday's (in Scotland).

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A piece of streusel topped summer fruits buttermilk coffeecake (with orange flower water!) discreetly drizzled with a Cointreau & summer fruits happy ending (LOLOLOLOL) made for my mother-in-law's birthday.

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A piece of streusel topped summer fruits buttermilk coffeecake (with orange flower water!) made for my mother-in-law's birthday.

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An impromptu dinner:

A thick cut, boneless pork chop stuffed with a feta cheese, cream cheese, sundried tomato, fresh basil and black pepper filling. Flavored with generic Italian seasoning before wrapping up in three slices of Oscar Meyer bacon. Pan fried, and then quickly roasted in the oven with a bit of white wine, mushrooms and vine-ripe tomatoes.

Verdict? Worth remembering.

(Picture snapped after dinner. (No time for arty photographs!))

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We started off the weekend on the right foot.

(And he even rolled up his Oscar Meyer bacon in a pancake.) (Maybe in another 10 years I'll be able to convince him to drench it all with maple syrup.)

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...even classier? I went to the movies the day after wearing a ripped Punisher t-shirt and a wrench necklace. (SO...DAMN...CLASSY.)

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A cock to ride in T.G.I. Friday's (in Scotland).

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Fuck, what a nightmare. This is a photo of the manometry monitor that I had to carry around last year for twenty-four hours when I was undergoing a battery of medical tests to figure out what was wrong with my stomach. (The short version? Hiatal hernia, weak stomach muscles, GERD, acid reflux and a broken stomach valve. They don't know how it happened, or how to fix it.)

It's not pictured in this photo, but a spaghetti-sized tube/wire had been fed up my nose, down my throat and into my stomach so the monitor could record my gut's activity. (I had to eat, sleep, bathe and live with the chord for an entire day - every fucking time I swallowed the wire yanked like a motherfucker causing the tube to jerk, jump and tighten in my body.)

LOL SIDE NOTE: They had to postpone this particular test because I admitted to the doctor that I was partially stoned. (She claimed the data would be "inconclusive" since I was under the influence of a relaxing drug. Pfft.) Thankfully, she thought I was cute and/or funny and simply rescheduled the monitor insertion without any sort of lecture. (Thank fucking God I didn't mention I was high to the medical stuff who performed my endoscopy because that's SERIOUSLY an experience I can totally live without undergoing again.)