Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Bethlehem Gives Tidings

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

Personal Pity Party

I was having a SUPERAMAZINGHOLYSHITWHAT?! bad day on Thursday and to cheer my moody ass up I announced I was going to nab something off my own effing wishlist in the hopes that getting some mail addressed to "Ms. Dirty" would change my hormone-driven song. As insincere as it might sound - I know it probably sounds pretty goddamn insincere, but then I'm a neurotic, overly paranoid person - I totally didn't expect anyone to actually buy me anything (hence the lack of wishlist linkage in that entry), and now I'm feeling insanely guilty over the unexpected gifts.

(Am I a bad accidental manipulator, or what? Christ.)

Here's the thing: I'm currently working on mucho belated thank you packages for folks who sent me Christmas'n'birthday gifts (yeah, I'm so fucking behind that I'm only just tackling Midwinter shit now), and I'd really, really, really like to send a little gift of appreciation to my personal pity party. So, if you did purchase one of my wishlist items for me - either very recently, recently or sort've recently - don't be surprised when I come knocking on your internet door in the next day or two looking for a mailing address to send shit to.

PS: If you want to remain anonymous I'll obviously respect your right to privacy, but you may miss out on some homemade jam (made from local fruit and container garden herbs) or a delectable selection of dried Scottish mushrooms that Italics and I personally harvested last fall (edible, non-psychoactive ones: like these boletes).

Birthday Offerings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naming Names

A few of you guys actually bought me shit from my Amazon wishlist for my birthday (I'm crazily enjoying the mystery; I can see items have been bought, but I don't know what they are and I'm going to keep it that way so it'll be a huge surprise when they arrive), and if you didn't make your ass known when purchasing the item(s) you damn well better because I'll be sending everyone who sent me a present a thank you card'n'gift. So, like, don't be afraid to 'fess up (graveyarddirt@gmail.com), because you'll lose out on a piece of Ms. Dirty magic.

Jove's Incense

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

Jan 23-30

When you spend a huge chunk of your year being nocturnal in Scotland you develop a REALLY intimate relationship with on-line shopping. Some people might've noticed I'm forever buying shit - I'm forever buying shit because we almost never leave the house (no, seriously; I've gone for 4-5 months without even crossing the threshold of the door) which means I never get a chance to buy completely trivial things like novelty ankle socks and bottles of glitter nail polish.

Packages arrive on an almost daily basis. Sometimes I get cards, postcards and surprise parcels from friends. Sometimes the small boxes and padded envelopes are items I bought from Ebay or Etsy or Amazon (as either gifts for myself, or gifts for Italics I then hide away for later). I know that in the end everything - no matter how cheap it is/was/is - still adds up. But! But at least my pocket money's going to something solid and long lasting (i.e., the vintage and antique pieces I pick up for ritual or magic work) rather than a plastic bag from Wal-Mart or Target full of diet soda, potato chips and candy.

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Metal cookie cutters from Ukraine! There are 10 shapes in all - pine tree, horse, mushroom, hedgehog, fish, heart, butterfly, squirrel, owl and rabbit - but the one that sold the lot to me was the cep (porcini mushroom). (Being from the old country my grandparents continued their mushroom hunting habits in the new country. I spent my autumns with my grandmother hunting down the elusive ceps growing beneath local pines. <- An activity that I can properly initiate Italics into since we now have a car.)

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More reading material for a witch who doesn't read! The cooking magazine's a birthday subscription from my friend, F. (I haven't had a chance to even look at the December or February issue, so the first thing I did with the March edition was tear open the plastic covering and flip through the pages. <- I'VE ALREADY MENTALLY CIRCLED SOME OF THE RECIPES!)

The Lent and Easter pamphlet is this year's Aid to the Church in Need catalog. Last year I bought a gorgeous Blessed Mother/Holy Virgin icon candle from them, and two Alpha and Omega Easter vigil candles. (Both eventually made it into 2009's Spring / Hieros Gamos / Easter / Great Rite / Sacred Marriage altar. The icon candle was set on top of our skull mug, and the Alpha and Omega candle decorated one of our Easter babka.)

I'm hella embarrassed to admit that despite all of my magical exploits I don't have any experience or working knowledge in some witchcraft basics, like making your own effing candles. 2010 is the year I officially have to get over my reluctance to start/learn anything new in the off chance that the first item I produce isn't mindblowingly amazing spectacular. (My need for things being perfect outweighs my desire to learn. Seriously.)

The Candlemaker's Companion is the most highly rated/reviewed candle making book on Amazon UK, and when Italics caught me sizing it up and THEN saw the price (I think it was something like £1.47) he encouraged me to nab it. So, candle making book down, now to find a good book on creating lotions, tinctures and salves and get a pysanky (batik-like decorated Ukrainian eggs) kit to begin learning (and practicing) the ancient art of my ancestors.

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At the beginning of the mail week Italics handed over a small package from Amazon Germany. "WTF? I SWEAR NEITHER OF THE BOOKS I BOUGHT WERE COMING FROM FUCKING GERMANY!" (<- In addition to the candle making book I also grabbed Into the World of the Dead: Astonishing Adventures in the Underworld - I KNOW, I KNOW, IT LOOKS LIKE CHTHONIC CHEESE, BUT THERE WAS A COPY FOR ONLY //£0.49//!)

It was neither of my books, it was a Winter/Christmas/New Year/Yule present - a sterling silver scent locket (I love the centralized tiny heart in a completely humiliating girlish sort've way) - from my beloved friend, F. (I've already told her that if she can't find a suitable husband I'll get Italics to convert to Islam so she can marry him. <- THE JOKE'S ON //HER//, BECAUSE I'M PLANNING TO BE THE DOMESTICATED HOUSE ONE, WHICH MEANS SHE WOULD HAVE TO CONTINUE HER PROFESSIONAL CAREER TO SUPPORT THE FAMILY. HAH!)

(Thanks to my strict code of collecting I never kept any perfume that I liked but didn't work on me. I might have a few stashed away, somewhere, but it seems like I'm going to have to revisit some old territory in order to refind scents that broke my heart.)

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A few years ago I bought Italics a one-legged demon/imp/devil brass toasting fork, and it turned out to be gateway cutlery (of the toasting kind!). We've used it for a few years now as our fire poker during ritualized fires, but it spends most of its time either in my witch's work bucket (a middle eastern cauldron that fits my broom, goat whip/riding crop, and covered machete) in the bedroom, or resting in the clutches of Italics' wooden fire crab (we rest our blessed logs and fire pokers on him).

Last year I presented Italics a St. George slaying the Dragon toasting fork (to us the icon's a visual representation of Italics' constant struggle with with my autism/monster self; I kind've sort've made St. George his patron saint to give him courage, strength and, most importantly, hope) as a gift, and this year we jointly added the Devil's Bridge toasting fork (pictured above) to our collection.

(I was all "OH, HEY, THIS SORT'VE LOOKS LIKE AN OLD TIMEY SOUVENIR WHERE THEY STAMP THE NAME OF THE PLACE ON THE ITEM" on the day it arrived. As it turns out, it's an old timey souvenir from Devil's Bridge, Ceredigion.)

(Why DEVIL'S bridge? Legend says that the bridge was built by the Devil as it was too difficult for mortal people to build. The Devil built the bridge in return for the soul of the first life to cross the bridge, but the Devil was tricked by an old woman who threw bread onto the bridge and her dog followed, thus becoming the first life to cross the new bridge. Oh, Wikipedia, <3!)

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Even though I should be focused on Bride's Day (Imbolc) and the Spring Equinox, I'm already looking ahead towards our wedding. (Outfit? Decided. Maenad, complete with a (fake) tiger skin pelt, white tunic, greco spirals and a crown made of ivy, cedar and whatever other greenery I can find during the time of year. <- I can't tell if it's a REALLY GOOD idea, or REALLY BAD idea since my proposed wedding dress sets a theme to the year, which we normally don't do.)

I grabbed this Holy Land set from a seller in Israel. It comes with a bundle of 33 candles (wrapped in an image of the Resurrected Christ, which is hella fitting since the divine king is, essentially, resurrected himself for another agricultural year), a handmade olive wood crucifix, an icon (I requested an icon of the Blessed Mother/Virgin Mary but they wrote back saying they didn't have any, although, weirdly enough, when my set arrived She was there; I'm PRETTY sure that this is Annunciation (when an angel informed Her that She was knocked up), and it's STUPIDLY fitting since it came just in time for Imbolc (which I consider the time of mothers, milk and new life).)

There's also vials containing olive oil from Bethlehem (lubricant to be used when we consummate our marriage), holy earth from the hills of Jerusalem (I haven't decided how I'll use this, I might mix it into the soil of my two dragon's blood trees), holy water from the Jordan River (add it to bath water? add it to the intoxicant punch I'll be making? offer it as a gift to the tentacle monster?) and frankincense from Jerusalem (to be burned during the wedding/consummating ceremony).

The candles are laughable smaller than I anticipated (barely double the size of your standard set of single colored birthday candles), but the store sells a bundle of 33 separate, so I'm hoping that these in the set are the scaled down versions. (I really, really wanted to burn the same candles during our wedding ceremony that people would be using in the Holy Land for Easter. Right now, by the looks of it, it seems more likely I'll be lighting my future birthday cake up with the Resurrected Christ candles instead of illuminating the "temple" for our marriage.)

Spirits of the Snow

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...because a witch who doesn't read can never have enough books. (Yeah, you read that right.)

Yuletide Phallic Worship

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On December 22nd - three days before Gregorian Christmas (as opposed to Julian Christmas which was January 7th (it's an Eastern Orthodox Catholic thing)) - I discovered that a stand of 100 lights had blown on our fully decorated eight fucking foot Christmas tree making it impossible to either remove the broken strand or sneakily add a brand new set of lights. (I felt complete and utter despair, and after ten minutes of silent despondency I got up and poured myself a shot of homemade raspberry vodka and filed the crisis under "WHATEVER, FUCK IT".)

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The garish spread beneath the tree includes gifts from friends, gifts Italics and I exchanged, recently purchased stuffed animals (I'm SO not embarrassed to admit that I'll be turning thirty in three months and I still collect toys), "fun food" (i.e., candy, chocolate, non-perishable cakes) bought especially for Christmas, ornaments bought this past Yuletide season (a lot of rustic birds made from feathers and animals made from sticks this year) and various "special" items that are usually hidden away from prying eyes (aka "in-laws").

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My head Black Rabbit is to the left (unlike the others She's been sprayed with a gold glitter finish and wears one of my Santa Muerte pendants and a skull prayer bracelet), there's a brand new nutcracker ornament peeking from behind a table leg, Pot Bunny's up front (we bought Pot Bunny and Pot Bunny's pot on the same day and for easier transportation we popped the rabbit into the lidded vessel and he never came back out), Christmas Pig's to the right (it grunts/oinks when you squeeze it) and there's a now finished box of chocolate covered gooseberries beneath the felt reindeer ornament.

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I love the goofy fucking pheasant sitting on the Christmas pudding so goddamn much that I've decided he won't get packed away with everything else. Way in the back you can see Christmas Polar Bear peeking over a mound of presents (guarding the presents is his annual job, you'll //always// find Christmas Polar Bear beneath our tree), and one of four plain Black Rabbits sits stoicly in front of a scorpion crucible filled with toffee and red and gold drum ornaments.

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Normally we have a hexenhaus (gingerbread house) beneath our tree, but this year thanks to COLDS and BROKEN COMPUTERS and BROKEN CARS and PETS WITH WEIRD LUMPS GROWING IN THEIR SIDES and BLOWN STRANDS OF CHRISTMAS LIGHTS and a myriad of other things we never managed to create one. Papa stepped up, though, and provided the "centerpiece" with His skull planter.

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Resting on a pile of books and a board game (FROGGER! NO JOKE! THEY MADE A FROGGER BOARD GAME BACK IN 1981!) is Papa's skull planter surrounded by booze (white chocolate flavored vodka, a homemade bottle of sloe and almond gin (from a friend), a bottle of dry Marsala (bought so I could make Chicken Marengo), and a bottle of Famous Grouse that belongs to the Old Woman/Cailleach), and candy (chocolate in the shape of a cigar, a truffle bar and a nougat log).

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More booze, more food, more presents and more ornaments. (The penguins are new, so's the snowman and the papier mache dove.)

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The other plain Black Rabbit and other scorpion crucible plus the Midwinter gifts we exchanged on Yule. (I gave him the antique Halloween lantern in the shape of an owl, he gave me a gold goat/ram's head necklace.)

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Everything pictured above is brand new save the freeloading crocodile riding the hippo's back (He's been waiting for Her for a helluva time) - if you get the "joke" you get a gold star. The cobra shakes and hisses when you press the head, although it seemed friendly enough to let our new owl ornament perch on its coils.

Stag Horse Brass

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Lammas 2009

This year's Lammas celebration in 54 pictures. (<- WITH EXPLANATIONS TO FOLLOW!)

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Grabbin' the Ass

OH, ANUBIS. DON'T TRY AND DENY IT; YOU'RE TOTALLY THINKING ABOUT GRABBING HER ASS. ("BUT I WAS LOOKING/WALKING THE OTHER WAY!" SURE YOU WERE, YOU ANTHROPOMORPHIC, MALE-GENDERED DEITY WITH ONE HAND SLYLY STUCK OUT WHILST SEEMING TO UNKNOWINGLY PASS THE GYRATING NUDIE GIRL CERAMIC MUG. MEN, PFFT.)

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(Both were gifts for Italics that never made it into the GIANT GIFT BOX. He saw the auction for the mug over my shoulder, and after he gave me a belated birthday gift I couldn't help turning over the "ivory" Anubis statue that had just arrived.)

(From certain angles Anubis looks MARGINALLY ACCEPTABLE, but from others he looks like some sort of unfinished Warhammer figurine. Ah, well, "ivory effect"...)

Pure Luxe

As I shake off the "WHAT THE FUCK EVER" Winter Hag (Winter Hag doesn't care about make-up, shaving or split ends) and become the Virginal Spring Bride there's always a rekindled interest in self and all things to beautify the self. (In other words - TIME FOR BLUSH'N'BRONZERS, BAY-BEE!)

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For my birthday Italics dropped nearly $30.00 on me by the way of Pure Luxe (HIGHLY RECOMMENDED, BY THE WAY, THEIR ERASURE PRODUCTS ARE INSPIRED BY GOD), but instead of focusing on palettes of color for my eyes, I decided it was more important to perfect the canvas before applying paint on it. (In other words - LET'S GET MY COMPLEXION EVENED OUT BEFORE SLAPPING ON ANY OVERT AND OSTENTATIOUS COLORS.)

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So money was dropped on a dazzling array of correctional foundations, bronzers, blushes, highlighters, two types of powdered eyeliners (good ole black and a very dark brown), eyeliner gel (to create eyeliner when mixed with the powder(s)), a sample of soap and a host of finishing powders - all in sample form. My husband? He encourages the artist within.

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April 29th Walk

When my mother-in-law mentioned she had a work related appointment at Balmedie and offered Italics and I a chance to roam the shoreline there was a mad scramble for showers and clean clothes.

(HOLY SHIT, DUDE, IT'S BEEN AT LEAST //2 YEARS// SINCE I LAST VISITED A FOR REAL BEACH EVEN THOUGH IT'S LESS THAN A HALF AN HOUR AWAY. <- When you depend on others for a ride, spontaneous trips to the beach become an elusive thing of the past.)

There was a bit of back and forth between Italics and I because Balmedie has a reputation for being one of the very few recognized SEX ZONES of the area (everything from swinging to voyeurism), at least during the beach's AFTER hours.

(WHICH, HONESTLY AND TRULY, MUST BE TOTALLY AWESOME FOR THE LULZ, AND I WOULD 100% GO TO INVESTIGATE IF I DIDN'T THINK THAT SHOWING UP DURING THE RUMORED HOURS WAS PARTIAL CONSENT AND/OR GAVE THE APPEARANCE OR IMPRESSION OF GENUINE INTEREST ON MY PART. I MEAN, IT WOULD BE GENUINE INTEREST, BUT IT WOULDN'T BE THE SAME INTEREST SHARED BETWEEN MYSELF AND ANY POSSIBLE EXTRA-MARTIAL PARTNERS, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.)

With us galloping towards the solstice the days are stretching out and claiming territory that used to belong to night. Right now we still have remnants of sunset that hang around in the sky long after the sun's disappeared, so the Scottish gloam period extends further and further into military hours. Around four in the morning Byzantine blue erupts in the east and pushes back the glittering cover of night, by five the first incandescent streaks of light peek over neighboring houses and spills across concrete.

SEX PERVERTS BE DAMNED, I ultimately decided. (LOLOLOL @ SEX PERVERTS BE DAMNED, AS IF THE WOMAN WHO SAT COMPLETELY NAKED ON THE RAW NEW YEAR'S PRIME RIB AND DEMANDED HER HUSBAND TAKE PICTURES COULDN'T POSSIBLE FALL UNDER "SEX PERVERT" HERSELF) In the end we agreed that it wouldn't be dark enough to warrant anything overtly sleazy and dubious so we could fly Chippy's butterfly kit undisturbed and, more importantly, unmolested.

(LOOK, IT'S NOT THAT I'M AFRAID OF SAYING "CHEERS, BUT NO THANKS!" AS POLITELY AS I CAN; IT'S JUST THAT I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO BROKEN RECORD IT THROUGHOUT THE DURATION OF OUR NON-SEXUAL KITE FLYING BEACH TRIP. I TOTALLY GET THAT //I'M// THE ONE NOT USING THE BEACH FOR WHAT IT'S INTENDED FOR, RUMORS AND ALL, SO, IN A WAY, //I'M// THE ONE GIVING OFF THE WRONG MESSAGE.)

Showers were taken, eyebrows were plucked, better-than-nice clothes were crawled into (I WAS GETTING READY TO VISIT MY SPIRITUAL AND EMOTIONAL HOUSE; YOU DON'T GO TO CHURCH WEARING YOUR RAT-CHEWED SWEAT PANTS, DO YOU?), best white push-up bra and favorite crotchless panties were donned, ritual jewelry was adorned, Chippy's butterfly kite (Chippy's my chthonic air correspondent who has a soft spot for little cheap-cheap birds and dainty butterflies) was located and the blue haduka pysanka (an Easter egg dyed blue with a black Sharpie drawing of a coiled serpent; a very old, very ancient Ukrainian design that's thousands of years old) was plucked from the egg carton to leave in the North Sea as an offering to my chthonic water correspondent.

...and after ALL of that effort we never actually went. (FOR SERIOUS.) It mostly boiled down to wind, if you can believe it. (NO, NOT SEX PERVERTS SINCE I FEEL I COULD OUT SEX PERVERT ANY SEX PERVERT YOU PUT IN FRONT OF ME.) It was already hella windy here, about 15-20 miles inland, and, apparently, it was a lot worse on the actual coast. So we folded our kite flying and Easter egg offering cards in favor of going for a walk to the local cemetery to leave some of our overly ripe pysanky at the cairn for the dead (which we meant to do on Easter Sunday).

((This is the point where I'm going to break down our walk through pictures so the V. IMPORTANT SHIT (i.e., the shit that almost always seems to happen when we're in transit to, or from, the local cemetery) gets noted for personal reference. I love being overly enthusiastic with unnecessary words; just not today, especially when photos can easily get the job done.))

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Just after we crossed the tiny road trailing up the hill and began passing the first fenced in pasture field (SHEEP! BABY LAMBS! TREMENDOUS "AWWS!" ALL AROUND!) next to the DISTURBED CHILDREN'S HOME (some pictures are HERE and HERE and HERE and HERE and HERE) I discovered a bit of fur fluff on the grass next to the wire fence.

Something popped, literally, when I bent over, which made me pause for a split second before I dismissed the sensation in favor of investigating the piece of (wild) rabbit fur. Upon further inspection, it turned out that bit'o'fluff was actually a detached tail, connecting bones (or cartilage) and all. After expressing concern for the now tailless rabbit I tucked my pointed fluff into my breast pocket and we continued on towards the stove and cemetery.

(When I went Underground for the first time and encountered the female deity-entity-person-thing who governs over me She told me that rabbits were sacred to Us and that I wasn't allowed to eat them. (Although I AM allowed to wear them, which means I didn't have to retire my beloved white rabbit fur coat.) As frank as She was, it was Her straight-faced amusement that made me wonder if She was just yanking my chain. OH, BLACK RABBIT, I KNOW THAT WE COMMUNICATE THROUGH LOLS BUT THIS IS ONE MYSTERY I HAVE YET TO UNRAVEL COMPLETELY.)

(I SRSLY THINK SHE'S JUST SNICKERING AT ME BEHIND MY BACK AND SILENTLY NUDGING EVERYONE ELSE WITH HER ELBOWS IN MY DIRECTION SO THEY CAN JOIN IN AND LOL AT ME, MISS HOLY-SHIT-SHE-DIDN'T-GET-THAT-IT-WAS-A-JOKE. "OH, YEAH, SURE, WE DON'T EAT RABBITS, YOU KNOW, BECAUSE WE'RE THE BLACK RABBIT, AND RABBITS REPRESENT SEX AND DEATH...")

The rabbit tail is sitting on the saucer of my Russian divining tea cup set (THE BLACK RABBIT IS RUSSIAN, BTW, WHICH, I GUESS, IS PROBABLY IMPORTANT TO MENTION) but it's going to be dropped in a clean baby jar with lid and packed away with all of my other semi-gruesome witch jars filled with dehydrated animal parts. (OH, HONEY, YES, I'M //THAT// SORT'VE WITCH.)

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Since our normal route to the cemetery always involves crossing the beech hedge into a cow pasture we decided to stop at the stove (it resides at the very start of the narrow line of ancient trees) to see if any of the offerings we left about a week ago still remained.

(BEECH HEDGES? COW PASTURES? OUTSIDE STOVE AND OFFERINGS? Sounds like you might need to read the ARCTIC RIVER entry which explains our annual outside stove ritual.)

Everything was gone; they didn't leave a trace. All of THIS had disappeared - without leaving so much as a crumb - except for the two pomegranates which laid discarded amongst the broken stone. I pocketed both, deciding that I'd leave them (secondhand offering, YAY!) at the cairn with the eggs.

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Last year we started the tradition of decorating an egg for friends, relatives, pets and people who've passed once since the previous Easter. We dye about a dozen eggs and then carefully designate which egg will represent the deceased and decorate it accordingly.

Once the eggs begin smelling ripe (they have a tendency to get left on the altar a little bit TOO long, YOU KNOW HOW IT GOES) they get carted off to the cemetery where they're left at the roots of the giant tree that grows in the middle of the cairn.

(As it turns out Ukrainians - 7/8th of my genes; the other 1/8th is Lakhota - left red eggs on the graves of their ancestors and friends around Easter long, long ago to celebrate the concepts of resurrection and reincarnation. It's amazing to find the shit you're doing through spontaneous instinct actually has a FOR REAL history with your heritage.)

This year we decided only some of the eggs we decorated would be left at the cemetery. My grandfather's egg, Beh's egg and Hezbollah's egg are still at home with us waiting to be buried in various plant and tree containers along with a few other eggs that were decorated purely for decoration purposes. (You don't throw away pysanky; it's bad luck. You respectfully bury it, burn it or drop it in running water.)

(We've already agreed that Beh's bumblebee egg will be buried beneath the bee balm we planted her this year (bumble bees live underground! they're chthonic, you know!), Didi's red pysanka will be buried beneath the red apple tree that's just arrived, but we aren't entirely sure what to do with Hezbollah's egg...)

Italics made a LOL! pysanky tribute for two guys involved in MMA that've passed recently (Mask and Evan Tanner) and I left behind two slightly more traditional Ukrainian pysanky with folkish designs (done in Sharpie marker - ONE OF THESE YEARS I WILL PICK UP A BEGINNERS KIT TO MAKE FOR REAL PYSANKY, UNTIL THEN NON-TOXIC MARKERS WILL HAVE TO DO).

So the eggs and pair of pomegranates were left, and I took the opportunity to trim some overhanging branches that've made getting to the hidden cairn a bit difficult. It took me shaking off my flannel jacket (so I could have an unencumbered woodland piss) to discover that OH SHIT, THAT POPPING SENSATION FELT EARLIER WHEN PICKING UP THE DETACHED TAIL WAS ACTUALLY THE BRA STRAP OF MY VERY NEW, VERY FAVORITE WHITE PUSH-UP BRA SNAPPING AND SEPARATING FROM THE BACK.

(And I only realized THAT once one of my unleashed boobs came tumbling out of my t-shirt. OH, BABY, EVEN UNINTENTIONALLY I AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT //CLASSY//!)

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One of these days I'll tell you guys about how - long, long ago - I desperately wanted to be a nun. (Blame AGNES OF GOD and my mother allowing me, as a fix-six-seven-eight-nine-ten year old, to watch it whenever the fuck I wanted. I was raised on a movie diet of RED SONJA, BARBARELLA, AGNES OF GOD, STAR WARS, and SHEENA, QUEEN OF THE JUNGLE.) I mean, they're just priestesses in uniform, you know?

Whenever I visit the cemetery to leave something for Papa or Muriel (ANOTHER STORY I V. SRSLY NEED TO TELL) I occasionally leave something for my fellow sister, so it only seemed right to leave her a less ostentatious Easter egg. Both Sister MacDonald and Muriel were given undyed eggs and a long drink of bottled water.

(LOLOLOLOL! IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT, IT TOOK ME LOOKING AT THE PICTURE ABOVE TO REALIZE THAT THE CATHOLIC CHURCH I VISIT IN TOWN TO PRAY AT THE FEET OF MARY'S STATUE ("ZOMG SHE DOES //WUT//?!" DUDE, I'M NOT PICKY WITH MY VIRGIN MOTHER ARCHETYPES, OKAY? BESIDES, A STARBUCKS AND A LINGERIE BOUTIQUE ARE ON THE SAME STREET - SCORE!) HAPPENS TO BE THE SAME ST. MARY'S THAT SISTER MACDONALD WAS FROM. LOL, WHOOPS?)

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WAIT, WAIT, WAIT - THAT'S NOT THE AVERAGE LENGTH AND WIDTH OF A GRAVE THEY DIG HERE! (So what the EFF is going on? THE WITCH WHO ADOPTED THIS CEMETERY AS HER GRAVEYARD STOMPING GROUNDS WOULD LIKE TO KNOW.) What I DO know is that it wasn't impressive enough for me to yank off my favorite pair of crotchless panties to drop into the to-be grave (or whatever it is).

(I ACTUALLY HAVE A DRAWER IN THE BEDROOM PARTIALLY FILLED WITH USED PANTIES. ONCE MY THONGS OR WHATEVER GET SHOT THEY GET TRANSFERRED TO THE PANTY OFFERING DRAWER TO BE DONNED FOR THE FINAL TIME BEFORE BEING LEFT AS AN OFFERING.)

(FOR INSTANCE, I CLAIMED MURIEL'S GRAVE BY PISSING IN IT (WHICH IS HARD TO DO WHEN YOU'RE HIGH AND TRYING NOT TO PISS ON YOUR FEET WHILE BALANCING ON WOBBLING PLANKS ONLY PARTIALLY COVERING AN EMPTY HOLE WAITING FOR A CASKET) AND THEN DROPPED IN THE (WHITE) UNDERWEAR I HAD BEEN WEARING. AFTER SHE WAS BURIED AND THE SOD WAS THROWN BACK OVER THE GRAVE I LIFTED A PATCH AND TUCKED A SECOND PAIR OF WHITE PANTIES IN, EFFECTIVELY SANDWICHING HER BETWEEN MY USED UNDERWEAR.)

(YOU DO MAGIC YOUR WAY, I DO MAGIC //MY// WAY.)

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OH DEAR, JESUS, LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE'S BEEN BREAKING //A LOT// OF BREAD RECENTLY (PERHAPS IN "ALL YOU CAN EAT" BUFFET FORM?). OR MAYBE YOU'VE SECRETLY FORSAKEN YOUR DIVINE FATHER IN FAVOR OF CAKE? (IT REALLY WAS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME, WASN'T IT?)

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When walking back home from the cemetery we passed an overly friendly couple ambling in the opposite direction. I flashed a polite smile and glanced away, not in the mood for direct contact. As it turned out it was my old doctor - the one who blatantly disregarded everything I said and, in doing so, set back treatment for my several diagnosed digestive disorders - and his wife, and once Italics clued me in I felt saliva burst into my mouth and spat the froth behind my shoulder in my former GP's direction.

(I BAKED HIM A LOAF OF BANANA BREAD, YOU KNOW. MY SECRET INGREDIENT? A PINCH OF MY HOMEMADE FET GHEDE GRAVEYARD DIRT. HE SAID IT WAS INORDINATELY DELICIOUS; HIS WIFE, IN FACT, FINISHED MOST OF IT OFF. NEWS USUALLY TRICKLES DOWN FROM HIS WIFE TO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, AND THEN FROM MY MOTHER-IN-LAW TO ITALICS. ONE OF THESE DAYS, WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT, I'LL HEAR SOMETHING AND KNOW THAT THAT PARTICULAR STORY SOLELY BELONGS TO ME.)

Italics spat too, a few second after me, and I've wondered ever since if that was deliberate, or accidentally coincidental. (It's not like he doesn't have his own personal grievances when it comes to our once shared doctor.)

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It was only after the walk that I realized that it was April 29th, which meant it was my mother's birthday. She was born in Hanover; a German refugee camp because her father - my grandfather - was a Russian army deserter (after killing an infant sibling and institutionalizing a sister (for speaking out against the Russians and communism) the red army came and forced my Ukrainian grandfather - and all other able men and boys from his village - to join the army).

She died in one of our two ancestral homelands - the Black Hills, South Dakota. (The Black Hills are sacred to the Lakhota people. She took her quarter of Native American and discarded everything else; I've embraced my 7/8ths of Ukrainian and left her with my eighth of Indian.) If she hadn't died of a pulmonary embolism a few years ago (she fractured her ankle after falling on ice when letting one of the dogs in, a blood clot formed and traveled up to her lungs where it got stuck and effectively caused an artery to blow up) she would've been 62.

After the bra strap, after the tail, after the stove, after the pomegranates, after the eggs, after the mysterious grave, after ALL YOU CAN EAT Jesus, after spitting in the dust of my previous doctor (THEY SO WOULD'VE BURNED MY ASS FOR THAT A FEW HUNDRED YEARS AGO), after receiving two orgasms and reciprocating with a handjob it suddenly dawned on me - as I glanced out the bedroom window to the sickle hanging in the sky - that it was my mother's birthday.

So, after all of it, I stood in silent communion on the cold concrete steps, and took a picture of the blazing crescent moon (IT BLAZED A LOT MORE IMPRESSIVELY TO THE NAKED EYE, BTW) for my mother; the stubborn bull that was the precursor to this stubborn Aries.

A New Year

One of these days I'll have to tell you about my thing for lapis, until then we'll just pretend you're suitably mystified and intrigued by "another year, another round of lapis." (Hell's going to need more than seven gates to strip //THIS// ass naked, baby.)

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Love Cake

Love cake received on Valentine's Day.

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(ME? CANDY? HA! I GOT A //CAKE//!)

(Just for him I ate it like a little piggy with my nose buried deep into the cake.)

(It was like the bestest ever Little Debbie snack.)

Bok Chek Stare

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 of 2008 and passed quite suddenly in early June.)

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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.)

Silver-Plated Goat Lid

If I remember right, I believe my initial reaction to finding this silver-plated goat lid on EBay was "OH MY FUCKING GOD, IT'S LIKE A COMMUNION PLATE COVER, BUT WITH A FUCKING //GOAT//! OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! FERTILITY GOAT / BAPHOMET COMMUNION PLATE COVER! WANT IT, NEED IT, CAN'T SANCTIFY THINGS WITHOUT IT!"; I was slightly less ecstatic when I won the item for £1.04 (that's roughly $1.47 USD with current rates), but happy nonetheless.

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Christ only knows what it once covered. (Too circular and small to be part of a butter dish set, so I wondered if it was the top off a mustard container, or some sort of jam or preserve jar.) What I DO know is that it fits PERFECTLY within the metal and cut glass container we use to house our wedding rings for THE GREAT RITE, so now the pair of rings can hang around little Baphomet's neck like joyous, silver wreaths.

I also really dig the COMMUNION PLATE COVER vibe; from first glance I got a strong "BLESS, SANCTIFY AND INFUSE" feeling from it. It's just big enough (especially due to the domed lid) to "seal" things from view - sort've like a spiritual warming plate. The strong imagery of FERTILE FRUITFULNESS and PROLIFIC ABUNDANCE (the goat, blossoming flowers, and lush, thick grasses) makes me think this might be the perfect top for the "SEEDS ARE SUBMERGED IN A COVERED VODKA GLASS FULL OF WATER" method of germination.

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(HOW CAN YOU SAY "NO" TO A COMMUNION PLATE COVER WITH BAPHOMET / A FERTILITY GOAT ON TOP? ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU CAN //ALMOST// PLAY SPIN THE GOAT WHEN YOU LOOSEN UP THE NUT!)

(SPIN THE GOAT; WHEN SPIN THE BOTTLE IS JUST TOO MAINSTREAM AND LACKING PAGAN INFLUENCE.)

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Cosy's Knits

Bad circulation = mind-numbing distraction 24/7 during winter.

To combat my hands turning purple and blue I enlisted CosyPDX to knit me a pair of fingerless gloves. (Purple gloves! HOW MAGIC IS THAT?)

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(PURPLE IS TOTALLY A MAGIC COLOR, YOU KNOW.)

Morning After Offering

The wonderful, awesome, totally amazingly terrific thing about being part-divine (SORT'VE BEING LIKE A MULATTO, BUT WITH MORE BENEFITS, AND LESS INHERITED ETHNIC FEATURES) is that sometimes you wake up in the morning and there's been an offering left by a devoted worshiper.

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(IF YOU CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHAT THE FUCK THE ORANGE THING IS SITTING ON THE BROOM WITH THE GREEN OWL YOU'RE IN GOOD COMPANY; IT TOOK ME ABOUT 10 MINUTES AND SEVERAL DIGITAL PICTURES BEFORE REALIZING IT'S JUST ANOTHER OWL, BUT //UPSIDE DOWN//. "WHOA," I KNOW.)

(AFTER YESTERDAY'S ANTICS I CAN ONLY ASSUME THAT ITALICS IS THE GREEN OWL AND I'M THE ORANGE OWL SINCE THERE WAS A POINT LAST NIGHT - AT THE BAR - WHERE, THONGLESS, DRUNK, AND LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY AT HAVING SPILLED SOME OF MY MOTHER'S ASHES ONTO MY DRESS (AND THEN DELIBERATELY INTO MY DRINK - WHAT, I WAS SUPPOSE TO SWEEP HER CREMATED REMAINS //ONTO THE FUCKING FLOOR//?!) I ANNOUNCED I WASN'T FIT TO DRIVE HOME.)

(WHICH WORKED OUT OKAY SINCE I DON'T OWN A CAR, DON'T HAVE A UK DRIVING LICENSE, AND MY MOTHER-IN-LAW WAS PICKING US UP.)

Maybe it was for the ZIPPER ABRASION received last night on my inner labia after an extended Lent approved lap grind. Maybe it was for me shouting IT PAYS TO BE THE FAT GIRL TODAY! when all of the £1.00 novelty underwear at H&M were size 16. Maybe it was for STRIPPING OFF MY BLACK SEQUIN THONG AT THE BAR TABLE AFTER ASKING ITALICS WHETHER IT'D BE SEXIER IF I ATE MY DOUBLE STEAK BURGER WEARING MY NEW SPUDS MACKENZIE THONG but forgetting to follow-up that two part hypothetical situation by putting the new pair of panties in question (suggestion?) on.

Maybe it was for ACTUALLY STANDING OUT IN THE FEMALE POPULATION and being the only woman who WASN'T wearing THE SAME TWO GODDAMN BANGLES OVER HER CARDIGAN. Maybe it was for suggesting WE SHOULD TOTALLY COME BACK ON THE NIGHT WHERE KNOCKED UP WOMEN EAT FREE and I should DISTEND MY STOMACH TO PROVIDE THE NECESSARY "BUMP", ORDER TWO MAIN COURSES, AND EXPLAIN "I'M EATING FOR TWO, YOU KNOW" to an unknowing waiter who suspects nothing short of honesty from expecting mothers-to-be.

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(HEY, I EFFING BREASTFEED LAST NIGHT, OKAY? THAT MAKES ME AN HONORARY MOTHER, OR THE LIVING EMBODIMENT OF THE GREAT FERTILITY GOAT.)

(I'M GOING WITH "HONORARY MOTHER" SINCE THERE WEREN'T ANY FREEBIE NIGHTS AT THE BAR FOR "LIVING EMBODIMENT OF THE GREAT FERTILITY GOAT". BUT ONCE THAT NIGHT POPS UP, I'M TOTALLY ALL OVER THAT SHIT, YO.)

Maybe it was for MY HAIR BEING HALF-UP (I like it ALL THE WAY UP, he likes it ALL THE WAY DOWN), or WEARING THAT GOTH PLUM MAC LIPSTICK, or BEING SLIGHTLY DRUNK AND NOT GIVING A FUCK, or SUGGESTING HE SHOULD GROPE ME IN THE DISABLED BATHROOM, or JUST BARELY MANAGING TO ESCAPE AN ESPECIALLY LOLERIFIC SITUATION WHEN "SECURITY!" RUDELY INTERRUPTED ME GETTING EATEN OUT BY ITALICS AS I TRIED TO TAKE A PICTURE WITH THE DIGITAL CAMERA.

When you have a day like yesterday you can "MAYBE IT WAS FOR..." indefinitely, so I'll just assume it was one of the above, or a combination of one or two.

(ITALICS REALLY LIKED THE FAT GIRL COMMENT, BUT, THEN, HE ALWAYS DOES.)

Confirmation Gloves

Italics and I get married every year. (And when I mean "MARRIED" I mean "NO, I DON'T MEAN RENEWING PREVIOUS WEDDING VOWS MADE SEVEN YEARS EARLIER, I MEAN WE GET //MARRIED, MARRIED// EVERY YEAR LIKE IT'S NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE." <- I'll explain later, but the short of it? ANCIENT PAGAN FERTILITY RITES, BAY-BEE!)

(That's RIGHT! All you northern hemisphere folk can thank us for Spring and Summer, which surely - SURELY! - wouldn't and couldn't happen if we didn't perform the annual pageant.)

Maybe some frugal witches - ARE YOU OUT THERE, FRUGAL WITCHES? DO YOU EVEN EXIST? ARE YOU JUST A FIGMENT OF THE IMAGINATION? ("FRUGAL WITCHES" SOUNDS TOO LLEWELLYN TO NOT EXIST!) - find joy in dusting off old ritual clothes to be used again, but me? I AM NOT ONE OF THOSE POSSIBLY NON-EXISTENT FRUGAL WITCHES AND I REFUSE TO PRETEND OTHERWISE.

(I vowed, early on with Graveyard Dirt, that I wouldn't PRETEND, LIE, EXAGGERATE or INVENT any of the experiences recorded here because it'd go against the spirit of intent. Hence the lyric "and s/he who tells a bigger tale would have to tell a lie" from Peter, Paul and Mary's Autumn to May.)

(PRETENDING THAT I AM NOT THE MATERIALISTIC "BRING ME GOLD, BRING ME FRANKINCENSE AND SPICES, BRING ME BEAUTIFUL THINGS THAT GLITTER AND SHINE!" WITCH THAT I AM WOULD BE TOTALLY DISINGENUOUS; I'M ONLY BEING COMPLETELY HONEST WITH YOU HERE SO YOU KNOW I'M LIVING UP TO MY SWORN PROMISE OF ABSOLUTELY 100% NON-FICTION CONTENT.)

But, really, you can't expect a virginal, first time bride-to-be to NOT want something totally unique intended to commemorate the special occasion, right? (RIGHT.) And that's why, every year, once the snowdrops begin popping up in the dirtyard I know it's time to find that gift - that special little gift or two from the to-be-groom to his to-be-bride so when he sees her, for the first time during the rite, she's wearing a token of his love - so there's a representation of newness in the union between the flesh and the divine.

(IT SOUNDED LIKE A GOOD EXCUSE TO GET SOMETHING SUPER SPECIAL AROUND SPRING ONCE A YEAR, OKAY? ISN'T THAT PART OF GETTING THINGS YOU WANT? DRAWING UP EXCELLENT ARGUMENTS AS TO WHY YOU NEED - NAY, DESERVE! - SOMETHING A LITTLE MAGIC AND SPECIAL? WITCHCRAFT 101.)

Last year I wore full-length gunmetal opera gloves with my lapis intaglio rings over the gloves (a bull on one hand and a scorpion on the other), so when the lapis and silver and gray material were stripped away all that was left was my naked skin and one simple, understated wedding band.

This year I wanted a more innocent feel (last year I wore seven layers of clothing and jewelry, all seven eventually removed off by my new husband so that by the end of the rite the only thing I was left wearing was my "new" wedding ring) so I've been thumbing through EBay in the hopes of finding some sort of communion or confirmation article that'd fit the bill.

About a month back we thought we found it:

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SOME OF YOU, NO DOUBT, HAVE ALREADY PICKED UP ON THE V. SUBTLE CONTEXT CLUE DUE TO MY USE OF THE WORD "THOUGHT". AS IN, THERE WAS A SLIGHT CONTRADICTION FROM THE ORIGINAL ASSUMPTION MADE. THE SLIGHT CONTRADICTION, IN THIS CASE, IS THAT DESPITE MEASURING MY GODDAMN HANDS AND FEELING CONFIDENT THESE FUCKERS WOULD FIT I ONLY MANAGED TO PULL THEM OVER FOUR FINGERS.

The "AWWW - FUCKSHITGODDAMN - SHUCKS" sentiment was shared by both Italics and I. So these exquisite, crocheted beauties handmade by a French nun will just have to reside in the Black Rabbit Box until that very special little girl comes into our lives. (UNLESS, OF COURSE, I DECIDE TO TAKE A SLEDGEHAMMER TO MY HANDS ALA LOTUS FEET.)

Sickle Bandits

WE STOLE A SICKLE. Wait, strike that out because that's so...wrong (i.e., "STEAL" or "TO STEAL" or "STEALING"). We needed a sickle and one was there during //THE PERFECT MOMENT//, and we enthusiastically accepted the gift from the universe.

(This was AFTER I tried to figure out to forage in the walled garden - peas were still there (the rats LOVE peas, and love tearing into pea pods to remove said peas), gourds, lettuce, lemon balm, and OMFG - TOBACCO?! But I didn't take anything because I stupidly didn't bring my SPECIAL SHEARS with me (the pair that stabbed me back in May; the pair that has seen WAY TOO MUCH OF THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB so the lamb now keeps them wrapped up in the same kitchen towel that was used to staunch the bleeding) and, really, I didn't have any space or proper storage and the one bag I did have ended up getting stuffed with mushrooms we picked from a fairy ring beneath a tree. <- When we go for cemetery walks I have a pre-packed bag I take with me that has scissors, string, various plastic bags, paper towels, baby wipes, etc. so I'm /prepared/ when I come across something - which I always do - that needs to come home with me (usually in the form of roadkill).)

Besides, during my Ebay traveling I had found an ANTIQUE HAY CUTTER and I was all "OH MY FUCKING GOD - WE NEED THAT! CHRISTMAS GIFT FOR ITALICS, CHRISTMAS GIFT FOR ITALICS, CHRISTMAS GIFT FOR ITALICS!" (actually, I had planned on maybe giving it to him as a sort've Harvest gift, so we could use it for Reaping) and was crazy ecstatic when I won it for the opening bid of £0.99. I was significantly less ecstatic, however, WHEN THE SICKLE NEVER APPEARED, THE SELLER REFUSED TO ANSWER EMAILS AND THEIR ACCOUNT WAS FORCIBLY CLOSED BY EBAY PERSONAL.

So clearly, surely, without any question or a shadow of doubt, we had that antique sickle coming. (IF THE WORLD, UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING HOLY DIDN'T WANT US TO HAVE A SICKLE THEY WOULD'VE NEVER WITHHELD THE FIRST ONE, USHERED US OVER TO THE WALLED GARDEN AND THEN SIMPLY LEFT THE MOCK-VICTORIAN GARDENER'S DEN DISPLAY UNLOCKED WITH VARIOUS SHARP AND VINTAGE IMPLEMENTS HANGING UNLOVED, UNUSED ON DUSTY, FORGOTTEN WALLS.)

Seven Sorrows

It's so tiny and delicate; I have no idea what I'm going to do with it...

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From the Seller:
"Sterling silver French vintage replica religious center of Seven Sorrows Pierced Heart cast in antiqued sterling silver using the lost wax method. Approx. 3/4"."

Our Lady of Sorrows on Wiki.

Kybele: Anatolion Collection

I've been on a Cybele kick recently (see WORKING FOR THE WEEKEND), mostly because I found (and eventually won!) this beauty on Ebay (£2.99, approximately $5.44!):

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From the seller:
"THIS IS BRAND NEW STILL IN IT ORIGINAL BOX FROM THE "VITRA ANATOLIAN COLLECTION" RANGE THIS IS A LIMITED ADDITION NUMBER 612 of 1000 A REPLICA OF A CARVING OF KYBELE, WITH IT COMES A SMALL BOOK TELLING YOU A LITTLE OF THE CARVING ALSO A STAND TO DISPLAY IT."

I have absolutely no fucking clue where She'll go (other than somewhere). I came across this when looking up information on the Vitra Anatolian Collection:

Prudentius: The Taurobolion of Magna Mater
The high priestess who is to be consecrated is brought down under ground in a pit dug deep, marvellously adorned with a fillet, binding her festive temples with chaplets, her hair combed back under a golden crown, and wearing a silken toga caught up with Gabine girding. Over this they make a wooden floor with wide spaces, woven of planks with an open mesh; they then divide or bore the area and repeatedly pierce the wood with a pointed tool that it may appear full of small holes. Here a huge bull, fierce and shaggy in appearance, is led, bound with flowery garlands about its flanks, and with its horns sheathed---its forehead sparkles with gold, and the flash of metal plates colors its hair. Here, as is ordained, they pierce its breast with a sacred spear; the gaping wound emits a wave of hot blood, and the smoking river flows into the woven structure beneath it and surges wide. Then by the many paths of the thousand openings in the lattice the falling shower rains down a foul dew, which the priestess buried within catches, putting her head under all the drops. She throws back her face, she puts her cheeks in the way of the blood, she puts under it her ears and lips, she interposes her nostrils, she washes her very eyes with the fluid, nor does she even spare her throat but moistens her tongue, until she actually drinks the dark gore. Afterwards, the corpse, stiffening now that the blood has gone forth, is hauled off the lattice, and the priestess, horrible in appearance, comes forth, and shows her wet head, her hair heavy with blood, and her garments sodden with it. This woman, all hail and worship at a distance, because the ox's blood has washed her, and she is born again for eternity.

That? That's my sort of magic, 100%.

(SO THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME THAT ITALICS CAUGHT ME LAUGHING WHEN WE WERE REALLY, REALLY HIGH AND HE ASKED WHAT I WAS THINKING ABOUT AND I WAS ALL "STUFF. OTHER PEOPLE. THE WAY I AM." BECAUSE I WAS THINKING ABOUT MAGIC AND MY ATTITUDE TOWARDS IT AND OTHER PEOPLE'S ATTITUDE TOWARDS IT AND IT REMINDED ME HOW THE LAST REAL MEMORY I HAVE OF MY OLDEST FRIEND'S HOME (WE MET IN THE 3RD GRADE AND WERE PRACTICALLY INSEPARABLE FOR MOST OF OUR GRADE SCHOOL LIFE, EVEN THOUGH A STATE BORDER RAN BETWEEN OUR HOMES WHICH MEANT WE WENT TO DIFFERENT SCHOOLS DESPITE LIVING ONLY 10-15 MINUTES AWAY FROM ONE ANOTHER) WAS THE AFTERNOON WE SPENT ON THE FARM PLAYING IN MUD (LOL, AS NAKED TEENAGERS, LOL!).)

(INSTEAD OF SWIMMING IN THE HOMEMADE WATERING HOLE WE PASSED TIME WALLOWING NAKED IN A MUD PIT TOGETHER, SLAPPING EACH OTHER WITH BALLS OF OOZING DIRT, AND LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY AS WE BECAME PLASTERED WITH LAYERS OF CLAY AND MUD. THAT MEMORY - THAT SORT'VE GOLDEN MOMENT OF (ALMOST) ADULT LIFE GONE ALL DEVOLUTION - MADE ME LAUGH AND APPRECIATE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND A LOT OF OTHER PEOPLE WHO PRACTICE MAGIC.)

((IN THE END, REALLY, I'M THE ONE PLAYING IN THE MUD.))

Buy Me Things

Papa is an opportunistic bastard. When you have your guard down he'll slip in during that second when you're too far past the threshold to go "OH, HEY, HEY NOW! LET'S NOT BE HAVING NONE OF THAT BUSINESS HERE, PLEASE!". He waits until you've crossed the point of no return, and then invites himself over (invites himself in?).

Sometimes he slides in for a partial ride, and sometimes I discover, afterwards, a skull or skeleton inexplicably staring me in the face when there wasn't a skull or skeleton there before. ("WAIT, HOW DID THIS GET HERE AGAIN?") FOR INSTANCE (OH, LORD, YOU KNEW THIS WAS GOING SOMEWHERE DEEP DOWN INSIDE!), FOR EXAMPLE, FOR THIS ONE SITUATION CIRCUMSTANCE I GIVE YOU...TODAY!

Today? Today I pulled my brand new BUY ME THINGS t-shirt over my demi-cupped tits and proudly showed off my newest gift from Italics to Italics. And then, approximately 15 minutes later, we were both on our knees, stoned, and he was fucking me in the ass against my computer chair while the Commodore's song Nightshift was playing in MP3 form. (THE SAD PART OF ALL OF THIS? I WASN'T EVEN TRYING. (COME TO THINK OF IT, THAT'S ALWAYS THE SAD PART.))

(LOL, ACTUALLY, THAT'S A SORT'VE FUNNY STORY WITHIN ITSELF! I WAS ALL "WHAT SONG DO YOU THINK WOULD BE GOOD FOR BUTT SEX?" AND HE WAS ALL "I DON'T KNOW" SO I THUMBED THROUGH MY 80S COLLECTION AND WAS ALL "SOMETHING, YOU KNOW, NOT CRAZY BUT MORE FUNNY" AND KNEW THAT THAT DIDN'T MEAN PURPLE RAIN, OR, UHM, THE OTHER ONE I SUGGESTED WHICH MADE ITALICS LAUGH AND MADE ME GO "OH, RIGHT, THAT PROBABLY FALLS IN THE "CRAZY" CATEGORY, DOESN'T IT?" (DAMN MEMORY) SO I WENT "WHAT ABOUT WE GOT THE BEAT?" AND HE WAS ALL, LIKE, "ISN'T THAT MORE NITROUS MUSIC?" AND I WAS "YES, TOTALLY, 100%! WHAT ABOUT I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW?" AND HE LAUGHED AND I LAUGHED AND WE BOTH LAUGHED AND WHEN SETTING IT UP I NOTICED THAT WINAMP LOADED NIGHTSHIFT AGAIN BUT I DECIDED TO -NOT- REMOVE THE SONG AFTER HITTING "REPEAT" BECAUSE ME KNOWING ME I KNOW HOW QUICKLY I COME DURING ANAL SEX AND I KNOW I AIN'T GOING TO LAST AS LONG AS TIFFANY DOES IN I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW. (OR, LOL, SO I THOUGHT!) SO WE ACTUALLY STARTED ON I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW BUT BECAUSE I TOOK SO GODDAMN LONG WE ENDED UP FINISHING DURING NIGHTSHIFT. ("GONNA BE SOME SWEET SOUNDS, COMING DOWN ON THE NIGHTSHIFT...") SEE WHAT I MEAN ABOUT HOW I'M NOT REALLY TRYING EVEN THOUGH IT MAY APPEAR THAT WAY? I'M JUST A VICTIM (OF MYSELF, APPARENTLY).)

What's the first thing I see after collapsing into my computer chair? Four top hatted skulls and three crows staring at me (at eye level):

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See what I mean about SKULLS and SKELETONS inexplicably appearing? I hadn't planned on having anal sex, let alone against the computer chair next to the window. But the next thing I know I'M BUTT BEEF EXTREME (just think of "butt beef" as a pet name for the act in this house; kind've like how you give your favorite child a cutesy nickname...or something) AND MOVING IN TIME WITH THE COMMODORES IN FRONT OF A BLACK CLOTH ALTAR WITH GREY SKULLS AND WHITE CROWS. (I THINK what must've happened was me thinking that I would quickly pull my new FOUR OF A KIND tee on after sex to see how it fit and slung it, all absently, over my computer chair for safe keeping. AND THE REST HAS BEEN SLOPPY RECORDED IN PREVIOUS PARTS OF THIS PARTIALLY CAPS LOCKED ENTRY.)

Sneaky bastard. (I hope he got my "message". (LOL! "BUY ME THINGS"! LOL!)

About a week back I heard that René Cigler from StrangeMonster.Com passed away. The name stuck with me for a day or two but I couldn't remember why it seemed so familiar until I remembered, long, long, ago, that I had bookmarked (DOG EARED?) a hoodie she had designed.

When poking around Strange Monster I came across FOUR OF A KIND and was immediately sold. I mean, HOW COULD I NOT BE - it was on -SALE-! It was BLACK and had THE ACE OF SPADES and SKULLS and PAPA and CROWS and IT WAS ON SALE! So I ditched the hoodie (it wasn't there, anyway), and wound up with an unexpected, 100% out-of-the-blue purchase.

My FOUR OF A KIND t-shirt arrived the day before my first appointment with the specialist. I felt sad for a second, handling something so obviously death related, knowing that the only reason why I was holding it in the first place was because of René's unexpected death, and then it felt...I don't know...right.

And fall.

It felt like fall had come, and it felt like Papa was letting me know that he's getting ready to come home for winter. (I've missed you, Old Man.)

New Goals & Aspirations

Two things I am absolutely one million percent sure of:

1. I want to become a professional, certified butcher.

2. I want a Bundt pan.

(The certified butcher thing goes way, way back like...several months...or something. (LOL, OR SOMETHING!) The tin? That's a little more recent.)

("Bundt" is one of those words YOU JUST WANT AN EXCUSE TO SAY OUT LOUD.)

(BUNDT! BUNDT! BUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNDT!)

Harness

A miniature wishbone from Finland surfaced this afternoon; the tiny, delicate thing was still perfectly in tact within the padded envelope it was sent in. (YOU SEE HOW THEY TRYIN’ TO TEMPT ME?) I considered using it earlier in the day (OH, LORD, DID THAT IDEA SOUND GOOD (AND OH SO JUSTIFIABLE)...), but, instead, hung it upside down on Apis’s back and watched the bone swing back and forth like a primitive harness.

(OH, I'M GOING TO TURN INTO THAT MAN'S WORST NIGHTMARE. HE THINKS I'M BAD NOW? ALL HIS ASS SEEN IS A TREACHEROUS, DEVIOUS, SCHEMING WITCH WITH A VOLATILE TEMPER. WAIT UNTIL HE SEES HOW MUCH WORSE A TREACHEROUS, DEVIOUS, SCHEMING WITCH WITH A VOLATILE TEMPER CAN BE WHEN SHE FINALLY GETS THAT SHIT CHECKED. (THE BEST PART IN ALL OF THIS? THE BASTARD WILL NEVER REALIZE HOW MUCH HE'S HELPED ME GROW AS A PERSON. (OH, HEY, I GET TO MAKE YOUR LIFE MISERABLE -AND- BECOME A BETTER PERSON FOR IT? AWESOME!)) THAT'S A PARTY I AM STARTING INVITATIONS FOR NOW.)