Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Hexenhaus

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Necro-Squared Motherfuckers

ETA: Sold out!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now for the nitty-fucking-gritty:

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

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

Winter

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

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

One Down

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

One Goddamn Picture

Two days ago I: made an edible anointing oil from herbs growing out of the garden container with #01's remains, used one of my in-laws' crystal vases to macerate some pheasant bones (if you don't tell them they'll never notice), finally pulled out all the motherfucking fireweed and ragwort that's been driving Italics's allergies in-fucking-sane, made an executive decision to prune all the effing patio shrubs Mr. Awesome's been ignoring, tackled five years worth of invasive ivy that's slowly destroyed our fucking fence, seriously contemplated the possibility of pulling Mr. Awesome's non-hedge hedge out and planting something actually useful (i.e., elder), recklessly bounced way too enthusiastically for far too long on an epic mountain of garden debris (to compact the shit into a bag...well, mostly to compact the shit into a bag), freed one of the plum trees from being completely swallowed by a neighbor's tall line of monster fucking cedars and then watched the setting sun illuminate portions of the backyard for the first time in fucking years.

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

Yesterday I: dragged my sore fucking ass outside to examine and flesh the heads of #08, #09 and #10, shallowly buried the decomposing remains I removed from their skulls so our fox(es) have access to a quick meal, packed the three flayed deer heads into my upgraded roadkill altar to begin the process of rot, checked on the assorted pieces of #01, #02, #03, #04 and #05 macerating in one of the outside rooms, potted on some home-fucking-grown comfrey seedlings, excavated the skeletal remains of Love & Sorrow's mature rabbit from one of my gardening pots, transplanted one of my container lavenders using some of the decayed rabbit dirt, dressed my sage, bay tree and tiny little gooseberry plant with leftover rabbit dirt, paid a visit to the roadkill graveyard situated beneath our office window (where fleshy remains are buried until they become bone), clipped small coniferous tufts from huge motherfucking juniper branches (pruning casualty; why let good magic shit go to waste?) and spent the next eight motherfucking hours in the fucking kitchen rubbing my hands raw by squeezing juice out of seven motherfucking pounds of wild necro-gooseberries - by fucking hand - to make four different motherfucking types of Hedgerow Hooch.

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

Today I: swore my supremely sore fucking ass that I'd take the day off until I remembered the last time I performed any sort of mushroom sweep was last Friday (work is work, Internet), cackled madly - and even paused to call Italics mid-picking - at the completely unexpected porcini harvest, stumbled across a new bolete-tastic hot spot situated between two other bolete-tastic hot spots, indulgently savored the first mothereffin' brambles of the season, paused to admire the late evening sun reflecting across the ripe blackberries' latex shine, briefly returned home for Italics so we could toadstool hunt together near the banks of the Black Laird's loch, crawled through low-hanging boughs of birch and pine, and scrambled over crumbling, lichen-encrusted walls filling a second magic wooden basket with cherry-red agarics, a birch bolete explosion of massive fucking proportions and the incomplete remains of a carrion crow, single-handledly cleaned - and processed! - 1085 grams of porcini, 1194 grams of mixed boletes and 8 effing toadstools for dehydration, stirred every fucking 2011 Hedgerow Hooch (all (lucky) 13 of them), made a helluva meal which included homemade holubsti (Ukrainian stuffed cabbage) inexcusably smothered with leftover Poulet Marengo sauce and a quick chorizo-smoked pancetta-homegrown sage chicken thing, prepped #11's body for its future funeral and watery interment, and preened vainly in the mirror all evil sorceress-style when I caught the secondhand stains of midnight sex smeared garishly across my lower face.

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

Ms. Dirty's Day Off

A day off - Ms. Dirty-style! - in ten pictures:

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First item of order? Exhuming the skeletal remains of #01 (body), #02 (skull and body), #03 (skull), #04 (skull and body) and #05 (skull) from the roadkill altar, and submerging the lot into water-filled buckets to begin the process of bone cleaning.

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Second day off duty: shaking up the contents of my Hedgerow Hooch. (<- Sticky, but satisfying work.) Pictured above is my plain wild necro-raspberry gin, the other batch of gin's been flavored with a vanilla bean and spices.

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After soiling myself with dead deer - and accidentally anointing myself with homemade hooch - it was time for my favorite chore: cooking. In this case, it was a very special meal made with homegrown and locally foraged ingredients for a Mercury-talented husband.

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Since Poulet Marengo is a braised dish I swapped the chicken for our first guinea fowl (from Gressingham Food's; if you're in the UK be sure to check this welfare-concerned company out, most major grocery stores seem to carry a portion of their catalog, and I can personally vouch for the quality of their products), but before I could braise anything I had to pan fry guinea fowl portions in olive oil and butter until crisply golden.

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Even though I was involved in some serious cooking my ass couldn't resist a quick break to admire the rainbow cresting over our crossroads rowan tree through the kitchen window.

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Something dark and sweet to mop up boozy dinner juices*: a gluten-free quick bread made with buttermilk, brown sugar and molasses.

* Both Marsala and brandy are featured in this dish, along with fresh mushrooms, tomatoes and homemade vegetable stock. The end result? A sauce that'd ecstatically inspire the heavenly motherfucking host.

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Another day off duty: prepping even more recently picked chanterelles for the dehydrator while the guinea fowl braises and the Boston Brown Bread bakes.

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The braised guinea fowl's become so tender that it's begun pulling away from the bone.

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A special dinner requires a special atmosphere, so the kitchen lights were turned off, the stars were turned on and I further illuminated the room with the soft glow of candlelight.

Our ancestors, friends and roommates with benefits (you know, the folk that never leave: Papa, Chippy, et cetera) were invited, but their setting wasn't as grand as the ancestral altars I usually build during special feasts and holy days. On more low key occasions their table setting is just as fancy as ours, but I always situate the bread next to them because I know where I get my ravenous bread appetite from. (<- Ukraine? Is known as "Europe's Breadbasket". In fact, our flag has only two colors: blue for the sky, and yellow for our fields of wheat.)

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And the last day off duty of the day? Sitting down with 30+ cookbooks to yank out every motherfucking recipe that involves gooseberries and black currants since both of those have recently come into season at my graveyard garden.

Feather Blessing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Celebration of Spring

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Promising clusters of white flowers have begun crowning the very tops of our plum trees in celebration of spring, and all I can think is "how the fuck are we going to reach this year's prolific crop of mothereffing plums?". Then I think "dude, fuck that shit and worry about something more immediate. like: when the fuck do we get to fuck outside in close proximity to our fruiting trees, bushes and shrubs to ensure a fuckload of a harvest?".

Just Go Along with It

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Fresh leaves from my scented geranium houseplant, organic rhubarb from the grocery store (no car means no access to the rhubarb growing near the local stone circle) and one enamel coated casserole pot blessed by a celebrity chef rat with a comically debilitating anxiety disorder. (<- If I were you, I'd just go along with it.)

Cherry Bomb Chillies

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Penis Pots

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

Maybe Tomorrow

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Groggy, but Conscious

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

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Dwarf irises on the patio steps.

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The pinecone beginnings of my grape hyacinths.

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

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

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

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Sorrel shooting up from cold, heavy earth.

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

Wild, Full and Fertile

Three days before celibacy I'm sprinting barefoot across the recently swept March-cold patio, past the just-planted tobacco, the sleeping fruit trees and crowning foxgloves, past stainless steel offering bowls, buried remnants of roadkill animals and Stone Cock's vacant throne. Naked and flushed from sex I run from the comfortable heat of the house into the cold of the night; wild, full and fertile holding-gripping-cupping the precious fluids trickling warmly out of my well-loved cunt to bless and consecrate the King's divine seed lovingly sowed over the shrouded remains of a long dead crow.

Year of the Rabbit

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2010 was one helluva fucking year in this house. And even though I was sorely out of practice, I rode that motherfucking wave fearlessly. Granted, my legs might've buckled a few times, but they never gave away and I shakily coasted the roaring monster without wiping out once. After such a tre-fucking-mendous ride I figured 2011 would be more laid back, since, you know, the first time around always seems to be crazy-intense-fast.

That sense of respite was spectacularly obliterated when I realized what animal was slated for the new effing (Chinese) year. Standing victoriously at my figurative beach with my 2010 board in hand I watched in abject horror as an Old Testament tsunami of fluffy tails and floppy ears thundered towards me, and as the towering avalanche of SEX'N'DEATH advanced and grew I could only sum up my gut reaction in two words: "fuck" and "me".

(Year of the motherfucking Rabbit. Holy fucking shit. I'd ask for God's help, but he sent the Leporidae plague in the first place so the joke's on my fucking ass while he sits back with a case of fucking beer.)

Since Bride's Day - the eve of the Chinese New Year - I've stayed deathly silent on that non-existent beach, and like an ostrich with it's fucking head buried in the sand I've been standing completely still with eyes firmly covered by both hands as diabolical rabbits hop around my feet. I don't even need to apprehensively peep through the cracks of my fingers to know what's going on - I can feel it, I can hear it. "ONE OF US," they say, again and fucking again, "ONE OF US."

It's true, I'm a Rabbit. Well, technically, I'm a monkey (both Italics and I are since we were both born in 1980), but the first time I went Underground I was informed, all no uncertain terms-like, that my motherfucking ass was a rabbit (amongst other things). And while I might not get - and totally, totally resist - the other animals/concepts that supposedly define me and what I'm doing, I feel like I understand (or at least MOSTLY understand) the entire rabbit thang.

But, fuck, rabbits. They're a hot fucking mess, you know? They're a boon and a disaster, a blessing and motherfucking curse. Singularly they're innocent and easy to control, but once they start multiplying you're totally fucked, son. Unchecked they can ravish and lay land to waste (that's a sort've running theme in a lot of my "special" animals) and that's when the death part comes in - for both the animals and the ecological system they're potentially destroying.

With no real predators left here in Scotland they had to use biological warfare to eradicate overpopulation problems, and the end result - myxomatosis - was grisly, and, ironically, hard to contain and control. To this fucking day the disease still resurfaces and PSAs aren't uncommon to warn pet owners of the resurgence of the contagious virus. I have yet to encounter a wild rabbit - either dead or living - infected by myxomatosis, but for Italics and his brother it was a common sight when playing in the countryside as kids.

But it ain't all about death and disease; that's just one side of the coin. You flip that motherfucker and renewal, regeneration, reincarnation and rebirth's waiting for you. I mean, if you're dying that fucking easy - and, dude, trust me, rabbits are always fucking dying somehow, that's 1/2 of their cosmic job - then it goes without saying that the waiting line for rebirth is going to be hella fucking short. If you think about it, even sex is followed by la petite mort ("the little death").

So, to help me embrace the inevitable (and there are so many fucking inevitables when working with/being an effing rabbit), I decided to honor and welcome the Old Testament tsunami of fluffy tails and floppy ears on the Chinese New Year by creating a rabbit-themed altar on top of my sparse Bride's Day altar. (Building a sacred space over a previously sacred space? How old world Christian of me!)

And then like a good little rabbit I fucked Italics in front of the altar to ensure that they completely, totally, for really real understood that in this motherfucking house there'd be more fucking than dying during their 2011 reign. (Do as I say, but also do as I fucking do. In this case, literally.)

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Good fucking Lord, where the fuck do I begin?

Let's start with Pot Bunny, the plush toy rabbit who lives in the ceramic vessel it's perched on. (If you've been reading Graveyard Dirt for some time, you might already be familiar with P.B. - it was the terminally wounded rabbit we found last summer. I knew a special rabbit would come to me to breathe life into P.B., but I never expected it'd be (mostly) alive and that I'd have to personally euthanize it to get the ball rolling.) Pot Bunny's my messenger-in-training, but I haven't had a chance to really start working with it yet.

Next to Pot Bunny is my rabbit flower pot, which I filled with organic lettuce and fresh basil as a food offering to the rabbits. Squat next to the two ceramic vessels is Chooch, who, okay, isn't really a rabbit (she was one of our pet rats - our last pet rat - who died just before Halloween), but goddamn if the garden ornament's chubby little cheeky face wasn't reminiscent of a chuffed Choney. (Chooch's effigy is a rabbit, while Shakey Bear turned into a surprised looking armadillo and Wuzza became a sour-faced, mischievous weasel.)

The glass of water, empty vase, glass of sparkling cider and cutlery are all parts of my Bride's Day altar, but the illuminated plate held more offerings to the rabbits. In addition to the fresh lettuce and basil I also left out miniature carrots I pulled up from my roadkill graveyard (I grow vegetables and herbs over the bodies of buried animals to make sure they're always well fed), a small container of water and several handfuls of dried tormentil root (a type of cinquefoil).

(The tormentil thing is a huge story I haven't tackled yet, but the gist of it is: when I contracted a disease from a raptor-killed rabbit the fucking thing actually had motherfucking medicine in its mouth that would've combated the gastric/intestinal symptoms I experienced. Unfortunately, I was so goddamn sick - for an entire fucking month! - that I didn't have the energy to identify the strange yellow flower still tucked in its mouth until AFTER the illness ran its course. And then? And then I felt like a complete and utter retard. <- Initiation is a bitch, but I defined what was - and wasn't - acceptable, and now I've got to live with the decision.)

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My beloved little pot-bellied chiminea, the tiny ceramic bird, the pewter chalices and the small, decorative platter they're sitting on are all part of my Bride's Day altar. Everything else, though, is year of the motherfucking rabbit related.

Because rabbits are such a big fucking deal in this house I snatched up five plastic garden ornaments years ago and spray painted them black (in honor of the Black Rabbit), and we've been using them in various altars and rituals since. To keep them in line - control and contain, baby! - I selected a head honcho rabbit, and it got a second coat of spray paint which gave its ass (and other assorted body parts) a golden sheen. It was then adorned with my Santa Muerte pendant, and a skull prayer bead mala made from carved bone.

The two stacked boxes contain all of my plant seeds, which probably SEEMS counterproductive to bless on a fucking rabbit altar but death and disease goes hand in hand with life and prosperity so, really, asking the rabbits to impart some of their divine powers to all that I grow and nurture isn't totally out there. Sitting on top of those seeds is one of my many rabbit skulls (this one in particular was found behind the boarded up disturbed children's home and orphanage), and protectively guarding the lot is one of last year's chocolate Easter rabbits who was shortly after melted down and transformed into a chilli-chocolate-espresso-roasted almond cake bribe to ensure the team we bet on won the Superbowl.

(They did. In fact, they won within 6 points - something Italics predicted and bet on as well - which resulted in even more money. <- Papa? Hates to lose, and a homemade cake with a generous serving of cheerleader-flavored Superbowl sofa sex only sweetened the deal.)

Witchcraft

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

Bones, Twine & Feathers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cleaning for the Bride

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Holy shit, whoa, we aren't actually inching nearer the winter-spring threshold, are we? A part of me can't fucking believe that it's that time again, yet I found my sick fucking ass in the backroom yesterday engaged in the yearly tradition of cleaning up for the Bride. (I made a dent. Sort've. I don't have any "after" pictures yet, but I promise you that it'll look like I achieved a lot fucking more once I move the exercise bike and Rock Band drum kit out've the room.)

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Everywhere you fucking turned there was a project-in-progress to be found.

In this photo I'm macerating two organic, free-range chicken wishbones for a couple of Junkyard Amulets, and drying off a few pieces of Beech Hedgerow Crow (the two shriveled, jerky looking bits are his breast meat, and the feathered boa is actually his skin and feathers which I washed, dried and preserved in one piece). Just beneath the wooden table - to the right of the picture - you can see part of a cardboard box that, until last night, contained a pheasant's head buried in a mixture of cornmeal, salt and rosemary.

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Here's Beech Hedgerow Crow macerating in one of my old cooking pots set within my bean nighe bowl. (The seaweed fridge block and cheesecloth rubberbanded across the top of the pot help keep the smell down while bacteria does its thang.)

To its left is one of my homegrown dragon's blood trees (well, "plant", anyway - I think my friend Carolina said they need about 15 years before you can harvest any resin from them), and in front of it is B.H.C.'s offerings of food (coarsely ground local oatmeal, popcorn and wheat I personally grew) and water. To its right is my Victorian (I think?) fox trivet, and sitting on top of it is a miniature enamel casserole pot that I use for incense burning.

Before the flu snatched away my health I made a point of spending time with B.H.C. every other day by burning incense (yesterday I burned kyphi for both him and Egypt), speaking to it, playing records (by this point there's no way it WON'T respond to classic Neil Diamond) and generally living my life around it to help it become accustomed to the daily noises and actions of human beings. (What, you think all it takes to create a spectral companion is finding a dead animal? I'm afraid it's not that simple when dealing with undomesticated wildlife.)

Even though it doesn't have anything to do with B.H.C., I should probably mention the preserved sycamore leaf buds in the butterscotch-colored ceramic dish. Last spring - before they sprung open - I harvested a small basket of buds and covered the motherfuckers in organic grapeseed oil. Just a few days ago I finally strained the two jars of oil, and the physical remains were then added to our ritual bonfire trash can for this year's Lent fire. (<- To make ashes for Ash Wednesday. Yeah, I'm on the verge of getting all Russian Orthodox Catholic on your asses again.)

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It's not even fucking February, and I've already busted out one of my wooden foraging baskets. Just before I got sick I went into the country to leave a major offering to my fellow scavengers, but the usual place where I piss and leave food (so my scent's associated with a free meal) was blocked off. I parked elsewhere, and trampled out to a lone rowan tree growing between a wheat field and the gradual opening of a boggy woodland.

The tree's significant because that's where I laid 1/2 of #4's (the lactating doe) remains. Last year I totally wasn't expecting the good (bad?) fortune of working with roadkill deer, so I had to make some hefty sacrifices. Because we live in a small house in a subdivision I had no fucking room to bury the bodies of six fucking deer, so I took what was most important - the head, and, in one case, the entire skin - and then hauled the bodily remains to various forests and woodlands to give back to nature what I didn't have room to work with.

When I went back 5 months later she was still there, but in scattered pieces. As Italics waited in the car with the flu I plucked bones from the frozen ground and filled my basket for the first time this year, happy to see how much of #4 was coming back home with me.

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What became of last year's didukhy (decorated wheat bundle) when this year's didukhy was made. The straw was scattered beneath our Sviata Vechera table, and all of the heads - containing the untreated wheat kernels - carefully sealed in a bag until spring planting. (I'm, uh, working on getting something a little more ceremonial than a Ziploc bag. These things take time, okay?)

Beneath the bag'o'wheat are my Midwinter greens, which LOL, weren't actually harvested on Midwinter for Midwinter celebrations (aka Sviata Vechera) because there was too much goddamn snow. This is all the evergreen that graced my 2010 altar (cedar, ivy and yew), dried and ready to be bottled up for 2011 uses. (Anything brought in from outside to decorate any altar is normally dried and stored for future witchcrafting since it carries with it an essence of season and purpose.)

PS: The rubber handle of the plastic basin? Chewed to fucking bits by some very bad, very rubber-crazed rats. (Shakey Bear was eventually redubbed "Rubber Robber" and held the title for several long weeks before succumbing to mammary tumor complications. RIP, our little rubber robbing bear.)

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After I gave thanks and purified the two roadkill pheasants we recently found I spent an afternoon ritually breaking down the birds into usable parts. I literally skinned the hen and kept her in (mostly) one piece, but I clipped the tail feathers and wings off Jan. 14th Pheasant because he was a motherfucking beauty.

While she dries au naturale for crafting purposes (everything's in tact - all her feathers, feet, wings and head), I carefully pinned the cock's tail feathers and wings to cardboard to dry in a spread position. We braised his body in red wine, herbs and wild mushrooms and after three hours in a low oven he became our first homemade post-flu meal after four days of serious discomfort. The rest of him - feet, head, skin and body feathers - is sitting in the freezer, waiting for a final decision.

To the left of the wings you can make out Sviata Vechera's kolach peeking from beneath the table. In a day or two - once our strength properly returns - our asses will be pilgrimaging their way to the local graveyard to leave Midwinter offerings for the dead. (In other words: racing against fucking time to get all of the winter shit taken care of by the first day of spring, no matter how seasonal (or unseasonal) it may look like.)

2010 Altar

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2010; a year of bones, a year of death, a year of green and wheat, a year of animals, a year of roadkill, a year of wild mushrooms and berries, a year of hedges, a year of forests, and a year of graveyards and standing stones. 2010 was the year my land reached out to me, initiating an intense period of acceptance which I clutched in my tight-fisted hands as if it was the only meaningful thing in the entire motherfucking world.

So how the fuck do you gratefully wave good-bye to a year that's given you so goddamn much? You deconstruct it, piece by piece, gift by gift, until you're left with the raw basics that built it. With bones and seeds and leaves and musty, fall-scented fungi I created and layered an altar of thanksgiving, working on the tangible hymn up until the last few minutes of the 31st. (<- Something better've duly noted that I worked to the very fucking end, OR ELSE.)

"2010," my voice cracked, overcome with emotion. Italics didn't say anything, but he draped an arm across my body in comforting agreement. And we silently stood, side-by-side, before our altar of adventures, trials, victories, failures and achievements as husband and wife, king and queen, god and goddess and - my personal favorite - devoted shepherd and loving (even if somewhat willful) goat.

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I first started with the kitchen's stark fucking naked altar. Traditionally evergreen is brought indoors during Holy Supper to decorate the table (I use a mix of ivy, yew and cedar - all from bushes growing on our property), but because we were buried under an insane amount of snow around the Winter Solstice I couldn't get out to our shrubs to take cuttings. (<- That's why the window's Sviata Vechera altar looked so fucking bare on the 21st.)

On the 30th of December the snow had receded enough to let me take clippings from outside, so on New Year's fucking Eve I finally got to tangle a variety of evergreen up and around my Khokhloma pieces, candleholders, skulls and candy. (Better late than never?) With the layer of greenery set, I embellished the curtain of foliage with homegrown wheat, the first set of deer bones we ever found (I, uh, still need to write this particular story AND upload the pictures), two homegrown chili peppers, the conjoined bolete triplets we found in October, my jar of "uniquely special" toadstool (fly agaric) oil created on Halloween and one of the miniature kolaches baked for Sviata Vechera.

On Motherfucking Schedule

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Garlic's close to being one of the only things that the Whore plants for the Bride to harvest. Here in Scotland it's a fall activity; you bury the bulbs in October and then dig the motherfuckers up sometime in July. It might SOUND easy to get 20-40 cloves of effing garlic into the ground at some point in October, but when you have to contend with Scottish weather, engage and execute other Harvest activities AND sacrifice weeks of your life to living nocturnally your window of opportunity gets really fucking slim.

2010 is the first fucking year I've managed to jam those fuckers in on schedule. My first attempt - 2008, beneath the office/computer room window - saw me frantically planting on fucking Midwinter (no, seriously) because the weather was so damn mild. My second stab at growing garlic then moved from the side of the house to the infamous dirt yard (no idea what the fuck I'm taking about? just search for "dirt yard" and all will be revealed), but those cloves didn't get wedged into nearly frozen earth until late February 2010.

(It's a really long fucking story, but the short of it is: rather than throwing out garden waste like he was supposed to, my father-in-law (aka Mr. Awesome), buried it in my prepared garlic patch. Last winter was so severe I only had a few days in February when the ground was exposed to get them in, but those days were spent digging out leaves, weeds and other organic waste that he had "hidden" (by covering it with dirt) in my garden bed. By the time I finished cleaning up his fucking mess the bad weather closed in on me again and I had to wait several more weeks to actually plant the fucking garlic.)

You know how sometimes you absolutely fucking dread doing something because you know how much goddamn work has to go into it? And then one day, out of the effing blue, you're suddenly motivated (unenthusiastically motivated, but motivated nonetheless) and shit gets done in double time and the only rational explanation you can come up with is "I was momentarily possessed by an external source"? (It's logical, shut up.) Yes, well, that.

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On a cold, grey Scottish afternoon in mid-October I uneagerly dragged my unenthused ass outside with a bowl of organic garlic bulbs and, without even considering the sheer amount of work needed to get EVERYTHING done in one go, I threw myself into the job.

First the line of dirt needed to be loosened, turned over, broken up, weeded and de-stoned by hand. Then I had to mix in a full bag of organic manure, used coffee beans (which came from a celebratory Harvest meal), and after those additions were dumped over the soil I had to rake the shit out of everything to ensure it was properly combined. Once the bed was prepared (and even) I then created holes (one inch deep, about four inches apart) to plant the cloves of garlic, dropped the bulbs underground, covered them up and then sealed everything with menstrual blood infused water.

Gardening is a serious hedonistic joy for me. I get naked, get high and spend hours in the backyard with the birds and the bees doing my stoner witch thang. But when you take away the summer, the warmth, the sun, the nudity and the pot - this past October was one of our longest "dry" months - you're left with a grumpy ass Ms. Graveyard Dirt who, despite wearing two pairs of fucking socks AND gloves, still can't feel any of her motherfucking fingers or toes. Needless to say, I wasn't in the greatest of fucking moods when I finally crawled indoors 3-4 hours later.

The amount of physical labor required to turn cold, damp soil - and then pick through it all by fucking hand - was effing insane; I was stiff and achy BEFORE I began defrosting indoors. Italics had to peel off my frozen, mud-encrusted clothes off of me as I stood like Randy in his immobilizing snowsuit. ("...BUT I CAN'T PUT MY ARMS DOWN, RALPHIE!") It wasn't until after a long bath, hot cup of tea and change of clothes that I found myself in the right frame of mind to stand back and appreciate what I had just accomplished for the very first time: balls out garlic planting on motherfucking schedule.

PS: I know it might SEEM like I'm trying to appear all witchcraft fantastique, but I swear to fucking God the entire "bones and roots and eggs and oils and ritual breads and hollowed out fly agaric stems and skeletal candlestick holders" look is honestly, for really real, what this fucking house looks like when I'm too damn busy to put all of my projects away.

Harvest Altar, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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My first Harvest, and my first Harvest altar.

Oct. 2nd, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Nature's blazing Eucharist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harvest Festivities & Rites

itmoons asked: Hello! I've emailed you before and I am a great admirer of what you do. My boyfriend and I have been discussing the old ways and pagan holidays and such things and decided we'd like to celebrate them correctly (we did an informal ritual for mabon). With samhain coming, i was wondering what you did for mabon and what you will do for samhain. also, any sources you can direct me too would be helpful. apologies if these questions are too forward/personal/presumptuous. just two lil pagan boys lookin to give the goddess her due.

Ever since I received this question I've been hella excited by the prospect of answering it, but I've been so knee-fucking-deep in various observances and celebrations (and work - will the mushroom season EVER FUCKING END?) that I haven't had a chance to address it. (I'm actually pushing this question to the top of my list because 1.) it's seasonal and 2.) it provides an explanation as to where my AWOL ass has been for the past few months.)

At this point in my life my Gregorian year is split into halves. In the first half, the Light Year (spring and summer), I'm the virginal Bride who marries the divine king and throughout the growing months we reign together ensuring fertility and new life. The second half, the Dark Year (fall and winter), I'm the great Whore who sacrifices her husband, consort and king (wheat, vine and bull) and harvests his blood, flesh and seed for consumption and resurrection.

(This is a really quick, basic breakdown to give you an idea of where I'm coming from. I've addressed the Virgin/Whore dynamic and perpetual tug-of-war far better in previous diary entries. If you hit up the categories BRIDE and CAILLEACH you'll find more thorough explanations that I'm much happier with.)

Because we live in a mostly rural setting and I work with the idea of female-based sovereignty the majority of my Harvest (from Lammas to Mabon to Samhain to Fet Ghede) is agriculturally themed. Rather than just focusing on our little patch of property I've incorporated this entire area that we live in as my land, and I routinely drag Italics across the local landscape to perform various rites and rituals in the Scottish countryside we see every day out our windows.

The following is a list of activities, rituals, celebrations, observances and traditions that we try and nail every year. Some, it goes without saying, are more important than others, so we prioritize things and keep our schedules flexible for unplanned disasters (i.e., bad weather, catching a cold, family drama) to ensure that the most important shit is executed. (<- Like Italics/the divine king, har har.)

* Reap wheat; Every year I ritually reap wheat from local fields and from containers in my backyard patio garden that I've personally grown. The wheat is then gathered into a bundle and decorated with a blessed cloth embroidered with traditional Ukrainian designs. The venerated bundle - also known as didukh in Ukrainian (pictured here) - represents my ancestors, this land, my sacrificed king, consort, and husband. Throughout the Dark Year the bundle's featured in every major ritual and altar until spring, when I dismantle it and plant the king's seed I've been protecting and holding since Harvest. (See Cereal Mariticide and The Widow is Born.)

* Change the guard; Our companion for the Light Year is Chile Bird, but when it flies the coop for winter it's replaced by Cobweb Spider. Around the time of the equinoxes I remove everything from our office/computer room windowsill altar, wash everything (the objects sitting on the space, the window (inside and out), the frame (inside and out), the ledge (inside and out) and even the hinges, handles, blinds and areas of the wall touching the window), return the permanent altar shit and swap to the appropriate "guard". (See Changing of the Guard.)

* Clean bedroom; Before I drag out our vintage coffin cover to keep our asses warm throughout winter I have to thoroughly clean our bedroom to remove traces of the Bride. I've jokingly referred to the ritualized act as "cleaning up after the Bride" since I have a tendency to leave incomplete projects scattered across any flat surface. But this is serious, crazy magic cleaning that involves blood, sweat, urine and protective washes. (See Cleaning Up After the Bride, Cleaning Day I and Cleaning Day II.)

* Plant garlic; I use a lot of garlic in my cooking and magic work (not that cooking isn't magic), so I've started to grow my own which allows me to add "special" ingredients to the soil for themed bulbs. Garlic's the only thing I plant as the Whore that the Bride harvests.

* Turn down the yard for winter; During the Dark Year my major altars are located within the house, but during the Light Year my major altars are located outside of the house. When it's time to begin moving indoors I "turn down" the yard for winter which involves planting garlic, cutting the grass (for the final time), raking leaves, collecting seeds, emptying pots, straightening up sacred spaces (i.e., the Shango Tree roadkill altar and the patio altar) and covering vulnerable plants from extreme weather.

* Move Stone Cock; At first snowfall Stone Cock (and his black pebble balls) is brought indoors (this year He sat at the base of my peach tree as my patio altar's centerpiece), where he'll stay until the first day of summer. On May Day (Beltane), He'll be paraded out with blessed ribbons (that decorated the "maypole"; nudge, nudge, wink, wink) which will then be hung on branches of fruiting trees.

* Cut the grass; Which, understandably, doesn't sound hella magic, but I then rake up the grass and dry it so I can offer homegrown green (albeit dried green) to local lactating ewes on Bride's Day (Imbolc).

* Harvest from the backyard; I usually choose a single day to complete the majority of my backyard harvesting. Half-naked and high I burn incense on my patio offering pillar as Italics helps me pick plums, cut herbs and gather other backyard food we've managed to grow during the year. Everything is then washed, processed and divided into what we keep, and what we give as tribute. (See 2009 Harvest.)

* Create a Harvest altar; I created a Harvest altar for the very first time last year (pictured here) and it kicked so much fucking ass that I really regretted the fact that I was too busy this year with roadkill, mushrooms and berries to raise it for 2010. Fingers crossed that next year I'll manage my time better to give myself a chance to recreate the place of thanksgiving.

* Create a Halloween altar; The only time I've ever missed constructing a Halloween altar was several years ago when both of us came down with a serious case of influenza that lasted the entire Halloween vacation (and then some). (<- Because we cohabit with my in-laws I'm only able to have a spacious altar four times a year when they're away on holiday: Easter, summer, Halloween and Christmas. Creating altars is a huge fucking deal for me because I normally don't have the ability to dedicate spaces to elaborate setups for any real length of time.) Oops! I just realized I never uploaded any pictures of last year's altar. I have one photo, but the job's only been partially done: 2009 Halloween altar construction.

* Perform the Whore's Black Mass; At some point in our Halloween vacation we celebrate the Whore's Black Mass which involves various intoxicants (pot, MDMA, mushrooms, nitrous and alcohol) and ritualized marathon sex in front of the Halloween altar. When we celebrate Hieros Gamos (the sacred marriage), the drugs'n'sex rite is a ceremony of union, which I've always found to be gentle, loving and tender. Black Mass, though, is all about out-of-your-fucking-head screwing for the pure sake of pleasure. (Reproduction be fucking damned, let's see how far you can force your fist into my cunt!)

* Observe Fet Ghede; My Harvest ends with Papa's feast, Fet Ghede, which I celebrate on November 1st and 2nd. We bake Pan de Muerto for the occasion, using the dough to fashion offering cakes to those who've died since last Fet Ghede. (We then take the bread to the local graveyard and leave it on a cairn.) I also whip up a special meal specifically geared for Papa. Sometimes it's homemade gumbo, sometimes it's baked ham, but there's always cornbread, rum and Hoppin' John. (Not to mention pot, cigars and sexy lingerie.)(See Fet Ghede, 2008.)

* Pay tribute; It's important for me to give back what I've taken or have been given throughout the Light Year as the Bride. It's a thank you, a tribute and a celebration of everything I've done and achieved. With baskets and bags I take a fraction of the roadkill I've found, food I've grown (and gathered) and bread I've ritually baked to the nearest standing stone and leave my tribute at the base to give back to the land that's fed me, and to show my gratitude for all that I've been given. (See Harvest Home Offering.)

* Steal potatoes; The local farmers don't know it, but they pay tribute to me. When the wheat turns gold I reap from their fields, and when the potato plants shrivel up I unearth potatoes. It's a teeny, tiny price to pay to have a witch personally looking after your crops (and the land they're growing on), especially when all of the agricultural land here is either grain or potato. "Stealing potatoes" is more of a LOLOLOL tradition, though, and nothing more than a bit of fun to fluff up our celebratory Harvest meals.

* Bake Castle Pie; One of the local castles has an annual sale of produce grown within its walled gardens. Every year we go to buy plums and apples, walk the castle grounds, visit the bees still hard at work, have sex beneath the same tree and return home to bake Castle Pie together. (The yearly event must be magic because Italics isn't really into fruit, but I often find him picking at the pie when no one's looking.)

* Visit the apple and pear sale; Once a year, on one day only, a pay-to-enter heritage site holds an apple and pear sale selling fruit grown within its gardens. This is the one chance to get a hold of really old varieties I've never heard before ("cat's head" and "bloody ploughman" come to mind). We normally buy three bags of fruit and then take a long walk along a path that circles and winds around old stone walls, farming fields, hedges and beech woodlands (usually pausing to pick blackberries because, holy shit, dude, you would not believe the size of the motherfuckers that grow there).

* Bake Baba's Ukrainian apple cake; Using some of the apples purchased from the heritage site sale I bake a traditional Ukrainian apple cake for my (now deceased) Ukrainian grandmother. My grandparents fashioned themselves a slice of "the old country" in southeast Wisconsin which meant I spent my growing years running around barefoot in a fruit (pear, plum, cherry and apple) orchard, so I have a strong, sentimental attachment to autumn fruits and how they're incorporated into festive cooking and I've tried to keep that tradition alive in my own way. (See Dreading Mortality.)

* Bake bread; Wheat is enormously significant to me; it's the face of my God, my husband, lover, consort and king. With one hand I kill Him, and with another I resurrect Him. I drink His blood, I crush His bones and I eat His flesh. When He's alive and living (Light Year) I refrain from baking bread, but once I perform the reaping ritual I'm allowed to use His body until resurrection. My baking season begins with a traditional Ukrainian bread (paska or babka; babka's like paska plus, using more butter and egg yolks) during Harvest, and ends on Easter (with the same bread, although this particular loaf gets toted off to church on Holy Saturday to be blessed by a priest) when I bake my last and final loaf for the year.

* Prepare celebratory meals; The only thing more celebrated than sex in this house is food. We try to eat seasonally, and as locally as possible. (Pretty goddamn "local" when you're digging up your own potatoes, plucking berries off bushes just yards away from your house and picking mushrooms only a few miles from your rural subdivision.) We have several Harvest related feasts (not including Fet Ghede), and when preparing those I focus on incorporating as much wild or homegrown food as possible. This year, for example, we're roasting a roadkill pheasant with the "stolen" potatoes, and we'll also be making homemade wild mushroom and pheasant risotto using boletes I've picked throughout fall and a roadkill pheasant I picked up on the autumnal equinox.

* Transition from Bride to Whore; Because my hair takes for-fucking-ever to grow I only cut it two times a year: spring and fall (the same goes for Italics, although I usually cut his hair for him while my hair is trimmed by a professional). In addition to getting my hair lopped off I also get my eyebrows done (threading all the way, baby!), and thoroughly rub my ass down with a homemade purifying scrub out of salt, olive oil, honey and rosemary essential oil. (In spring I give my physical appearance a boost because I'm a bride getting ready to be married, but in fall I become a mistress, so my preparations are less wedding based and lean more towards "super extended night on the town".) During the Dark Year I use henna to dye my hair darker (Whore), but during the Light Year I use henna to dye it red (Bride).

This year's Harvest has been crazy mental, but insanely rewarding. I've never experienced anything quite like it because, up until recently, I didn't have a car. I spent nearly a decade fantasizing about a way of life I was desperate to live, repeatedly telling myself "IT'S OKAY, YOU'LL GET TO DO IT ~NEXT YEAR~, IT WON'T ALWAYS BE LIKE THIS" to keep it together. 2010 has been a breakthrough year for me; it's been the year I officially began to live and everything I've done and experienced has been a complete and utter joy and revelation.

My boyfriend and I have been discussing the old ways and pagan holidays and such things and decided we'd like to celebrate them correctly (we did an informal ritual for mabon).

If you're exercising a Choose Your Own Adventure-style spiritual journey there isn't a right or wrong way to celebrate and observe special days; it's an experimental process that evolves yearly. If you're involved in a religion with a hardcore set of beliefs I'm sure there is a "correct" way of doing things, but if you haven't committed yourself to a one specific path you aren't obligated to follow anyone else's instruction manual.

The beautiful thing about going solo and doing what makes sense (to you) is that sometimes it'll work spectacularly, and sometimes it'll end disastrously funny. But - BUT! - no matter what the outcome, it's always a learning experience that ultimately shapes the rest of the game.

My suggestion? Do shit. Do a lot of shit. Do stupid shit, do funny shit, do crazy shit, do serious shit. Just do shit, and keep the shit that makes you laugh, cry, and feel alive and work on that shit so next time around you'll laugh even harder, cry more meaningfully and feel so fucking alive that the very core of your being is on celestial fire.

also, any sources you can direct me too would be helpful. apologies if these questions are too forward/personal/presumptuous.

Man, I'm the worst person to come to when resources are involved. I've written my own mythology, created my own gods and crowned myself a divine queen in my world. And the worst part? The Universe is playing along. (I guess that means my "script" has been optioned?) I can tell you what I believe, what I do and the meaning behind everything, but I'm not a quotable resource.

What I can do, though, is direct you to the blogs, diaries and journals of witches, pagans, spiritualists and rootworkers that I follow who are a LEETLE less out there that might be able to provide different views and approaches to celebrate this time of year. (Hit up the index page of Graveyard Dirt; you'll find those links on the left under the "READING" category.)

I'll also point you towards my Amazon wishlist so you can get an idea of the reading material that most interests me. (I always feel weird providing the link, but I've had a lot of people ask for it to discover new material to add to their own personal wishlist.)

Right! I hope I've been slightly helpful (or at least moderately interesting). Whatever you guys do, just make sure it's coming from the heart (and/or gut), because that's the shit that sculpts your beliefs and transforms your life. Good luck with Halloween/Samhain, and thank you for prompting me to finally sit my ass down and write about our Harvest festivities and rites. (I actually began drafting an entry along those lines to explain my absence, but with all of these new activities, all of the old traditions and taking care of our tumor-ridden pet rat, Choney, I just haven't had a chance.)

PS: Just FYI; when you're the type of person who posts a picture of yourself barebacking the New Year roast, naked, there's no question that's "too forward/personal/presumptuous", *winks*.

Graveyard Work

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

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

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

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

August, 2010

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The Shango Tree (once the outside phallic worship altar, now the outside roadkill altar), decked with ripening plums and "maypole" ribbons.

Almost

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The Widow is Born

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Now you, Husband, King, and Lover, will nourish and feed as I have nourished and fed. (The Bride weeps; the Widow is born.)

Cereal Mariticide

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Not many women get away with mariticide, but, somehow, this witch does. (It helps when your divine consort's life-death cycle is symbolically embodied within the germination (resurrection & new life; celebrated in our annual Hieros Gamos rites) and harvest (death & communion; celebrated in our annual Harvest rites) of wheat.)

Yesterday I ritually reaped the first bundle of wheat that'll go into my 2010-2011 didukh. I really, really want to hit four other locations and create a sort've magic bouquet of locally grown wheat:

* the crow rookery (where I now go to leave super special corvid-based offerings)

* the stone throne (I still need to write about this place, it's my sovereignty seat)

* the Drum Stone (it isn't a battlefield, but it IS a field where companies once met BEFORE engaging in a bloody war)

* the field near our graveyard (the location of my first Reaping)

I also like the idea of gathering wheat from a field overlooking the loch (famous for it's black magician Laird who supposedly stole unbaptized babies from our graveyard and once rode across the winter waters of the loch in the company of the Devil himself) so that's my emergency/plan b location.)

If I somehow manage to pull off this most righteous plan there'll be way too much wheat for one person. I'm thinking about, maybe, selling smaller bundles tied up with a ribbon and charm to spread the resurrection-death-resurrection love. (Whether people want to place their bundles on their altar, or even dismantle the bundle after a few months to have wheat seeds they can plant - and then harvest - themselves. <- Easily grown within containers. Seriously. I've been doing it for years.)

The only thing is...there'll be traces of red wine and body fluids (saliva, semen and vaginal sex juice) on the wheat since I anointed my hand with the substances and then grabbed the first fistful with that hand when making my sacrificial strike. (I figure most people who are familiar with the way I work won't be surprised by the questionable ingredients involved.)

ANYWAY. I need to hold a wheat funeral while it's still dark. (Yesterday I stripped the unnecessary leaves off the stalks, today I need to allow the bundle to lay in wake before I string it up to dry.) I ALSO need to create a super special magic embroidered cloth (using a traditional Ukrainian design) because my divine consort deserves a more fitting death shroud than the old t-shirt (which I use as a menstrual rag) He got wrapped up in yesterday.

(Man, you don't know you need that sort've shit until you're naked in a misty Scottish wheat field at six in the fucking morning hacking down what's meant to be your cosmic other half (who you'll cannibalisticly consume throughout the Dark Year). And when you DO finally realize that maybe a torn up Dolemite t-shirt doesn't properly illustrate the gravity of the situation all you can do is stand there, naked, holding a handful of wine and sex fluid soaked wheat going "UH...OOPS?". <- True story.)

Nature's Reclamation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1.) Pot, most of the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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(Roadkill) Cat Out of the Bag

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Midsummer's Breeze

Midsummer's breeze rippling through my pheasant wheat.

Already Forgotten

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Another long day spent with the summer sun on my (sunscreened) bare skin. (I've got COLOR on me! The sort've ruddy, sun blushed warmth that wipes away large traces of "adult" making you look six years old again. <- That's not weird, is it? It's not weird if you're talking about yourself, right? ...RIGHT?)

REPOTTED:
18 x Sunflowers
18 x Sweet Peas
06 x Tomatoes
04 x Baby Corn
03 x Squash
01 x Cucumber

I started with 108 vegetable seeds and ended up potting only 14 fucking plants. This year was so amazingly catastrophic - at least in terms of starting vegetables from seed - that it's seriously going down in the record books. If it wasn't for the fact that all of the non-vegetable plants germinated and are happily growing in trays and containers I'd swear someone had an evil eye (or two) on me.

SOWED:
1 tray x Basil, Christmas
1 tray x Basil, Italian Large Leaf
1 tray x Grazing Mix

It's beyond my motherfucking capability to sow basil early in the fucking season. It's an annual fucking curse. Seriously. Every effing year I find myself panic sowing basil for the very first fucking time (in the growing season) in late June/early July. Every. Effing. Year. Hopefully this year the "cat" won't guerilla weed my basil trays. (<- Long story short? Mr. Awesome pulled all my fucking basil out one year and BLAMED THE NEAT PILE OF WEEDS LEFT SITTING NEXT TO THE EMPTY TRAYS ON A FUCKING CAT.)

Just before lunch I managed to wiggle in some pea seeds to help replenish the emaciated looking plants crawling up my DIY frame. (<- SLUGS AND SNAILS ARE HELLA BAD THIS YEAR.) Four borage seeds got planted in every dirt filled drainage hole on the patio. (I'M TAKING OVER THE BACKYARD, MR. AWESOME, ONE BORAGE SEED AT A MOTHERFUCKING TIME.)

Repotting, planting, hammocking, pool inflating, pool filling, hammocking, plant watering, dishwasher loading, lunch making, muffin baking, hammocking, homemade scrubbing (<- I FINALLY GOT OFF MY FUCKING ASS AND WHIPPED UP A BATCH OF SPIRITUALLY CLEANSING SALT'N'HONEY SCRUB), shaving, showering, photo editing and journal entry writing has me fucking beat.

What is it I fucking do in Winter, again? Because - just between you and me - I've already forgotten.

Midsummer 2010, II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Midsummer 2010, I

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

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.

Gardening Business

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

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

REPOTTED:
* Thyme

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

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

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

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

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

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

VEGETABLES:
* Courgette, Eight Ball
* Cucumber, Gherkin

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

FLOWERS:
* Sunflower, Henry Wilde
* Sweet Pea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Garden, May 7th

Death's come calling again and this time it's for Gary Balls (aka Denny's, Wuzza, Wazzle, Wiz Wham Bam, Wooshu, Miz Deniz, Miss Kiss Kiss Bang, Gary, Craig, Gary Craig Wuzza, Woosh, Wooshook, Wooshinka, Wooch, Werewooch and all of the other nicknames she's accumulated throughout her three year stay with us).

Both Italics and I are still reeling from shock; we haven't had a rat whose health declined this quickly in years (and years and years). Two and a half days ago she was her Wuzza self, and then within a half a day I was on the floor, crying, holding a rapidly weakening Woosh while Italics kept repeating "DON'T PANIC, WE DON'T KNOW FOR SURE". (I knew for sure, though. Death sees Death, it knows the look, the scent, the motionless agitation. Death knows itself.)

We're only starting day three of this chapter, but Wuzza already has the dreaded EUTHANIZE ME NOW, PLEASE look. I have a tendency to predict quick deaths (maybe I'm being optimistically pessimistic?), but those proclamations rarely follow through. (i.e., Shakey Bear who took over two months.) With Denny's plunging health I wouldn't be surprised if the dying process is unusually quick this time around. (A quick'n'fast death for a quick'n'fast rat who ran motherfucking circles around us when we first brought her home.)

For the past several days I've spent my morning breaking down the Walpurgisnacht altar item by item, but - for obvious reasons - I just don't have it in me to pop open the text file to chip away at that particular journal entry. (At least I'm actually working on that motherfucker, right? When's the last fucking time my ass got altar pictures up, let alone detailed explanations of said altar pictures?)

Even though it was partially cloudy (and I had already been up for something like 12 hours before even strapping my sneakers on) I decided to potter around outside in the backyard to help even out the weighted feeling of impending death. Just as I began sowing the clouds dissipated, the sun miraculously appeared and the bumblebees - mostly buff-taileds - made everything just a little more bearable.

PLANTED: another row of beets and carrots (along the side of the house where I grew garlic last year), a tray of lettuce, a tray of rocket, a tray of grazing mixture (for the rats), three long rows of peas, pumpkin (in the Shango Tree phallic worship altar), two containers of wheat (from the February pheasant), butternut squash, caveman gourds and seeds from the pinecone that decorated Midwinter's Yule Log.

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Normally I grow Papa tobacco in this container, but his black ass has so much fucking tobacco (due to previous years of growing) that I decided to take this year off. (He hasn't protested, probably because he's got more interest vested in the chili peppers and weed.)

Last year my wheat looked a little crowded so this year I split the seeds between two large containers. I haven't had a chance to sit down and dismantle 2009's didukh (it's an ancient Ukrainian thing; the last bundle of wheat that's harvested is ritually reaped and then decorated with a ceremonial embroidered towel and kept on an altar throughout Winter) so I ended up using the wheat kernels I cleaned out of a pheasant's crop.

If you look REALLY, REALLY CLOSELY you'll see fluff and tiny feathers floating around the dirt with the seeds. I deliberately added pieces of the roadkill pheasant - skin, fat, feathers - to the wheat kernels so when I planted them I'd be planting them with the bird's remains. When the seeds germinate they'll grow from the earthly remnants of the pheasant's physical body. (<- Life/Death cycle, anyone?)

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Mystery Phoenix Tree - MPT for short - has finally unfurled its leaves. It kind've sort've LOOKS rowanish (maybe walnut?), but it's still early days. At least it survived the winter and established roots. Getting to know this sapling is probably going to be one of the highlights of this agricultural year.

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My teeny tiny little dwarf Flava tulips opening up to the May sun.

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The lilies-of-the-valley are getting there, but the flower heads are still pea green instead of creamy, virginal white.

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Holy fucking shit! Three pink blossoms (on one of my dwarf apple trees)!

This tree was in a sorry fucking state when it arrived last year around Midspring (May Day / Beltane). I bought a fruit tree package deal - two different types of apple and one pear - and when my dwarf saplings arrived they were limp, wilting and covered in powdery mildew. We lost the pear and spent the majority of Summer trying to wrangle another one out of the company.

Had I known that one of my dwarf apples was even considering putting out flowers I so would've added a third ribbon around the phallic Paska that sat on our Walpurgisnacht altar. (<- I wrap the ribbons around my living, breathing "maypole" and once they've been blessed through various means I hang them from the branches of our fruiting trees for the duration of the agricultural year.)

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Two trays of Chippy's strawberries (grown from seed!) that need to be repotted into larger containers, peas (in the elongated plastic tub) and a tray of lettuce, rocket and "grazing feed" for the rats. (Or, uh, "rat", seeing as how Wuzza's time with us now is now nearing its end.)

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When I accidentally knocked our Yule Log off its crab holder (back in December) it dislodged a handful of seeds from the decorative pinecone. I saved the seeds - along with fragments from other parts of the Log (i.e., pine needles, mushrooms (fly agaric and bolete) and egg shell) - for 2010 planting.

I have not a fucking clue what I'm going to do with fucking pine trees, but I'll worry about that shit once I've actually got trees to worry about.

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It's May fucking 8th and there's discernible berries on my gooseberry bushes. (<- Maybe I'm just easily impressed, but that blows me the fuck away.)

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The other plastic container of pheasant crop wheat.

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A row of carrots and beets were planted in the long patch of damp dirt. I know it's an exercise in futility - since that part of the yard falls under "partial shade" - but if I could get just one amazing bunch of beets and carrots this year I'll be a happy fucking Ukrainian woman.

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The garlic growing in my sidewalk vegetable garden's getting bigger every day (although there's no signs of beets or carrots yet).

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We're still trying to figure out what to do with the goddamn bones of seven fucking rabbits. (Italics wants to somehow bury them beneath the house, I want to grind the bones up and make a witch cocktail of rabbit bones, Stone Cock fertility dirt and egg shells (I saved every fucking eggshell we used during Easter celebrations) and circle the house with the mixture.)

I spent a fucking month deliberating what I should plant this year in the phallic worship altar (I originally was going to plant our passionflowers at the base of the Shango Tree and train the vines upwards, but none of our plants survived the winter) and eventually went with something stupid and hopeful (instead of logical and boring): pumpkin.

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Plum blossoms on the Shango Tree.

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Plum blossoms on the not-the-Shango Tree.

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A new beginning? An early ending? I found a fragment of eggshell in my peach tree container.

Directly above the tree, just under the roof, there's a metal grate that leads into the attic. At some point something pecked a hole large enough to accommodate a small bird which makes me wonder if this house is playing host to a family of birds that live just above my immortality tree (which, by the way, has motherfucking leaf curl).

7 Down 86 To Go

Overnight three baby corn seeds sprouted, and all it took was smoking meph, decorating the "maypole" and engaging in ritual sex on the sheepskin rug for five hours. (If the other 86 plants require this sort've attention I'm going to be one fucking tired fertility goat by the end of this agricultural year).

Assessing Spring

April 29th, my mom's birthday (and Walpurgisnacht Eve). I was going to write something here about a terrifying monster who gave birth to an even MORE terrifying monster, but I started getting all emotional in the shower when thinking about what the fuck I wanted to say and SERIOUSLY, INTERNET, THIS IS NOTHING MORE DEPRESSING THAN CRYING ABOUT YOUR DEAD FUCKING MOM ON WHAT WOULD'VE BEEN HER 63RD BIRTHDAY DURING YOUR MORNING SHOWER.

(Actually, there is - crying while exercising. Universe, please fucking explain to me why you CAN'T cry and eat at the same fucking time, but you CAN cry and exercise without so much as batting a fucking (waterlogged) eyelash. <- CLEARLY THIS SHOULD PROVE THE EXISTENCE OF AN OLD TESTAMENT GOD.)

Tomorrow's Hexennacht, and the last thing I want to do is spend all of today shuffling around in an emotionally fragile state because I talked about my mom (and how much I love/d and hate/d her, and how inconsolably ANGRY I am for not having a chance to even look, touch and say my final farewells to her dead body before she was fucking cremated) in my journal, because talking about shit, here, isn't even remotely cathartic. If anything, addressing shit that's upsetting turns me into a rabid fucking wolverine and I end up desperately waiting for Italics to wake up so I can unload an atom bomb's worth of emotions on him.

So I'm canning it - at least for a few days - to give us a running chance to enjoy Walpurgis weekend without my unresolved mom issues popping up and ruining the festivities. (OH, MOM, YOU'VE BEEN DEAD FOR FIVE YEARS BUT YOU CAN STILL REACH ACROSS THE GREAT ABYSS TO THROW A SPANNER IN THE WORKS. <- MOMS, STILL RUINING SHIT FOR THEIR KIDS EVEN AFTER DEATH.)

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Whenever I wander into the backroom to check on my seedlings this is the sight that welcomes me. Regardless of weather or time of day I can always make out the shapes and silhouettes of my spring flowers, and their constant nodding and exuberance makes me ridiculously happy.

(These, by the way, are my second round of spring bulbs. In 2008 my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, raided my bulb containers and threw out the contents without notifying/asking me. By the time I realized what had happened it was too late to rescue anything so I ended up losing everything. I never got an apology, but I did get "I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY SHE'S SO UPSET IN THE FIRST PLACE" from him. In this house? I'm the crazy irrational bitch who erupts for no logical explanation.)

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When I wrote my huge ass journal entry Gothel's Garden Reopens I deliberately "forgot" to photograph (or mention) a sapling of a tree that lives in the plastic container lineup beneath our bedroom window out of dirty, secretive guilt.

CONFESSION: I was so worried and worked up over the fate of my peach tree that I devoted all of my energy to her welfare and in doing so I kind've sort've neglected the one tree that could've really benefited from some serious attention and love, our mystery phoenix tree.

MPT came into our lives last year after a wild windstorm in mid-October:

You know that windstorm that took down my sweet corn? My corn weren't the only things lying on their sides the morning after. Walking through the oaky clearing was like walking through a battlefield - trees split down to the roots, huge limbs and branches lying haphazardly on the ground, whole trees actually uprooted exposing giant pits of unsettled dirt and rocks.

While scouting for a place to have OUTSIDE FOREST SEX we stumbled across this split tree behind a fallen oak. Growing out of an exposed tuft of decomposed leaves and dead bark was a slender seedling standing at half-mast like a little yellow flag. "OOO! OOO! MAGIC!" I said - more so now that I realize that the tiny tree wasn't growing from the roots, it actually had situated itself INSIDE THE TREE making it an epiphyte - and got Italics to remove it for me.

I'm not sure if mid-October is an ideal time for transplanting trees, but it's not like I had a choice. The slender, leafless pole's outside wedged between my peach tree and sunflowers, and I hope with A LOT of coaxing it might actually survive winter and properly take root in spring. Fingers crossed, anyway.

There should've been more compassion in my heart (because, like, there's just SO MUCH EFFING ROOM in this black heart of mine), but given the choice between a peach tree and a sapling we hacked out of the split remains of a tree with a pair of scissors (which we couldn't identify let alone guess or know if it survived the transplant until nearly a half year later) I'd always gravitate towards the tree that I knew would produce edible fruit.

I mean, I didn't completely ignore the fucking thing. It got pensive looks, apologetic frowns and thoughtful considerations, it just didn't get THE WORKS like the tree three containers down. Whenever I pessimistically inspected the tight buds of the peach tree I did the same with MPT; whenever I worried out loud I worried about both of them. I never really mentioned the rescued sapling after I wrote about finding it (AFTER THE WINDSTORM) in fear of an unhappy ending.

Just a few days ago a tiny sprout of green cracked through the chitinous bud signaling life and new growth. This particular story? An unexpected happy ending. Now to wait until it produces full leaves so I can identify what MPT really is...

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"DO YOU SEE ANY BLOSSOMS?" I asked Italics as we both hung out the open patio door, squinting at the plum tree (the OTHER plum tree which isn't the Shango Tree) as harsh morning light threatened to blind us. "OH, WAIT, NEVER MIND, I SEE PATCHES, JUST NOT A LOT."

From a distance I saw only two - maybe three - whip-like branches dotted with unfurled blossoms on the Shango tree. Between those and the few patches on the other tree I knew we weren't in for a stellar plum year, which was hella disappointing since last year was the first year either tree produced viable fruit in memory (in MY memory, anyway, and I've lived here for nearly a decade).

Despite feeling somewhat down about this year's crop I whipped out the camera, anyway, and snapped one or two pictures to post here. It wasn't until my nearsighted eyes glanced through the zoomed camera that I realized that BOTH fucking trees were BLANKETED with tight white flowers, they just hadn't gotten big enough to be seen from the patio steps.

Provided that we aren't hit by hard frost (or snow) and Mr. Awesome DOESN'T TOUCH ONE FUCKING BLOSSOM, LEAF OR TWIG ON EITHER FUCKING TREE this year's harvest will totally blow last year's harvest out the fucking water.

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Stupidly charming forget-me-nots. Like I mentioned in Gothel's Garden Reopens, I got a pack of seeds for free last year and even though it was a little late in the season to sow spring flowers I planted them in a tray and set it aside in the hopes that they'd germinate this year. They recently got transplanted and there's NO denying they aren't enjoying the added depth of their new home.

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8 AM in my tiny spring bulb garden. Just behind the shaft of morning light are my fragrant narcissus flowers, in front of them are my dwarf tulips who are about to join the pagent and mugging for the camera front and center are my grape hyacinths who've already begun the process of winding down for the season.

2010 Vegetables, Round 1

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

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

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

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

ANYWAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Essence #1

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

Macerating All Night Long

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

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

Gothel's Garden Reopens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That trash heap? Still there, 10 years later. (<- I AM A COOL, CALM OCEAN. I AM NOT GRITTING MY TEETH IN DISBELIEF AND FRUSTRATION. I DO NOT WANT TO GRAB EITHER OF MY IN-LAWS BY THE NAPE OF THEIR NECKS, DRAG THEM OUTSIDE AND POINT TO THE MOUND OF JUNK AND SCREAM "IS THAT WHAT A FUCKING BBQ PIT LOOKS LIKE?". DEEP BREATH. HOLD IT. EXHALE. I AM A RAY OF GOLDEN WELL-BEING...)

I began gardening more seriously several years back, and every year I add something new to the already overcrowded space. (Last year? Fruit trees (five apples, one pear and one peach) and fruit bushes (two gooseberries) in pots.) This year I plan to get grape vines, blueberries, a cherry tree and take cuttings from wild raspberries and blackberries that grow locally to grow at home. Within a year or two there won't be a patio. Revenge, dear internet, will literally be sweet (and organic).

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Gooseberries! In flower! Already! I had absolutely no fucking idea how early gooseberry budded or bloomed until this year. We bought two bushes last year from a local garden center and the pair produced enough fruit for me to make a cheesecake and a batch of honey/hazelnut/oat cereal bars. This year I'm toying with the idea of making jam and some homemade gooseberry vodka. Wasps - HOLY SHIT, ALREADY? SERIOUSLY? - seem to love the flowers, the first day they opened there was a swarm crawling over the bushes.

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My immortality tree, my peach tree. We bought her last year (YES, "HER", FOR OBVIOUS (OR MAYBE NOT SO OBVIOUS?) REASONS) at a discount grocery store, and she sat torpid for several months until I was able to plant her into a huge ass container.

I think the late planting affected her natural cycle; she didn't produce full, mature leaves until late summer/early fall and she didn't shed ANY of them until mid-January. (ONLY IN A WITCH'S GARDEN WOULD A TEMPERAMENTAL DECIDUOUS FRUIT TREE KEEP ITS LEAVES INTO THE DEAD OF SCOTTISH WINTER.)

I was hella worried about her throughout the Dark year because I didn't know how well she'd react to THE WORST WINTER IN 30 YEARS! (since peaches aren't very cold-hardy). Throughout the deep freeze I fed her homemade chicken stock, menstrual blood water and water from our bong/rocket bucket. Whenever I went outside to feed the Old Woman I always made a point of visiting my peach tree before returning indoors, occasionally laying a hand (or two) on her trunk in reassurance.

You could easily imagine how relieved I was when I saw the first green buds push past their scaly covering into the light of day. My immortality tree? Survived the deep freeze. Now to gently coax her into flowering and bearing fruit...

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Foxgloves - grown from seed last year - post "haircut". In the past few years there's been a rapid decline in wild foxgloves (at least locally) as housing developments encroach further and further into the country, hedgerows and grazing fields. Missing their elegant presence when walking into the country I decided they'd be the very first homegrown installment of my witch's flying ointment/baneful herb garden.

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Growing lavender, as you can see, isn't my strong suit. I can trace back the spindly, totally unlush appearance to my fear of pruning. After successfully cutting back several of my favorite shrubs and herbs last year (for the first time), I'm totally prepared to take the pruning plunge this year to restart my poor dwarf lavender plants.

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Because palms aren't indigenous to Ukraine the eastern orthodox church accepts a substitute for religious/ritual use: pussy willows. But even before Catholicism adopted pussy willows the tree was considered sacred and spiritually significant to my ancestors. (<- You'll find single, stylized branches decorating a lot of folk art from pysanky (Ukrainian decorated eggs) to traditional embroidery designs.)

Before we had a car we scoured the local countryside (anywhere and everywhere within reasonable walking distance) in the hopes of finding pussy willows (also known as "goat willow" here in the UK). Nothing, nada, not ONE. Desperate for pollen-y catkin goodness I broke down and bought a pair of seedlings last year on Ebay.

Just a few days ago we accidentally stumbled across a towering pussy willow while exploring the countryside. I really, really, really wanted to jump out of the car and hack off a branch to take home, but there was a farmer poking around in an adjacent field and a car riding my ass. I heard they grow at the base of Bennachie - a range of hills religiously important to the ancient inhabitants of this area - so I'm hoping to make it out there within the next week to locate and harvest catkin laden branches.

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One of three apple trees I germinated from seed two or three years ago. (I THINK this is their third year, just like Chippy's strawberries.) I've read that trees started from seed don't normally produce fruit, but I've also read (somewhere) that even getting an apple seed to sprout is-was-is pretty tricky (although that sounds like some dodgy misinformation). Fruit producing or not, I'll find some use for my three trees.

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A bucket of death created in Fall, finally exposed to light and air in Spring. Last year - just after I decided to fashion myself a fur blanket made entirely out of roadkill rabbits - I was given a gift of seven dead rabbits by hunters after engaging in some HOT MAGIC FOREST SEX with my divine male counterpart.

I skinned and froze their pelts, decapitated their heads and buried them within the dirt bed of my Shango tree/phallic worship altar and decided to share everything else - the bones, meat and organs - with my fellow scavengers. The bucket of headless (and footless) rabbits, however, had different plans.

No matter how fucking hard I tried to discreetly dispose of the remains the multiple attempts always fell through. After two weeks I finally had to admit defeat (especially after the car battery died, which REALLY put the last nail in the coffin) and the bucket was carefully turned over to keep the rotting remains contained (within the upturned vessel), but allow the blood and fermented body juices to sink into the earth.

About a month ago I released the carcasses from their prison, but found everything still moist and not entirely decomposed. They got covered again for about two weeks, although this time by a bucket with large vent holes. After "airing" the pile for a fortnight I removed the container and left the contents exposed to the elements to dry (and clean).

My natural instinct is to pick through the debris and collect the bones, but they displayed such an unmistakable preference to stay with me that I'm not sure if I should harvest the remains and treat them as untradable goods or bury the remains somewhere on our property and create a small rabbit-themed garden on top of them.

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Yet more outside bones* that'll need to be cleaned up for divination use. (Although the t-bone, lamb shoulder blade and goose back might be a little too big for bone spillin' work.)

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

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The Shango Tree's been special for several years now, but on a balmy July evening last year it became even more special after I created a raised garden bed using discarded stones and bricks. (When hunting for appropriately sized sheets of rock I unearthed my Stone Cock, which transformed the "Shango Tree altar" into "the phallic worship altar at the base of the Shango Tree".)

Last year I grew parsley on the earthen altar space, and harvested the herbs - roots and all - on the Autumn Equinox. I buried eight rabbit heads over winter, to allow the essence of SEX'N'DEATH sink into the space, and finally dug up the remains after I was done reorganizing the patio.

The raised bed's been turned over, sifted (with my bare hands because, dude, rabbit bones are SMALL motherfuckers!), added to (fresh compost and soil) and now sits and waits for Walpurgisnacht weekend. (<- I'll be ritually parading Stone Cock - my miniature may pole - down to His outside home where He'll preside over the Light year until Winter's first snowfall.)

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The very happy looking green shoots? Lilies of the Valley, at least what remained after the GREAT GARDEN HOLOCAUST OF 2008. (Long story short? They plentifully grew in the backyard until Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, dug 90% of them up and simply threw them away. Only a tiny colony was spared and I'm HELLA protective of it.)

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The backyard - where projects go to die. With an exception of the pile of rabbit bones and the empty plastic pots everything pictured within this photo is one of my father-in-law's abandoned projects. From the rotting, wooden balancing beams, to the unfinished pond (which is really a glorified kiddie pool sunk into the ground), to the unkept rock garden, to the slabs of concrete (with no definitive purpose), to the neglected fruit trees, to the potted shrubs that've taken up a significant portion of the already tiny yard (which we were promised were only going to be there "this year" - that? that was over four fucking years ago).

The absolutely worst thing about these forgotten projects? He doesn't want you touching anything, rearranging anything, cleaning anything, or organizing anything even though some of this shit's been sitting around FOR TWENTY YEARS (with ZERO attention from him). I've repeatedly asked for space to grow things to benefit the family, but I've been flat out refused because outside trash heaps, decaying wood and concrete slabs have a higher status in this house than me.

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This is the abandoned rock garden (and the pile of rotting wooden beams) I just mentioned above. He doesn't even bother weeding the space any more, but gets territorial when he sees me cleaning out dead grass and weeds. I know it looks HELLA messy, but it's a HUGE improvement from last year. (Last year? When he was gone for a month? I spent a week seriously weeding and removed debris that was YEARS old. What you see above is what managed to grow within a space of a year.)

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It's amazingly fucking hard to tell this story without my blood pressure rising. So I don't blow a gasket this is totally going to be the Cliff Notes version of the story:

When I first moved in, ten years ago, I noticed an unwanted section of the garden filled with dead wood, broken pots, plastic trays and other forms of garbage. Even though it wasn't the BEST place to grow shit I asked if I could clean it and use the patch to grow flowers, fruits and vegetables.

That request was shot down in a panic. I was told they were going to build a BBQ pit in that EXACT place THAT YEAR. So, naturally, I backed off. The thing was, though, it was never built. I asked the following year if I could use the area since they didn't do anything with it the previous summer, but the second request was shot down with the same response.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn't built. It also wasn't built the third, forth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth or tenth year. In fact, they completely stopped mentioning building the BBQ pit after the third year. The trash heap just sat, growing bigger with every fucking year.

In 2008 the backyard experienced the GREAT GARDEN HOLOCAUST OF 2008 when Mr. Awesome went on a gardening rampage and killed hacked down and destroyed the vegetation that made the space. I lost A LOT of my container garden because he threw EVERYTHING away (without even bothering to consult me about MY plants), and he even went as far as using WEED KILLER ON THE GRASS and DELIBERATELY KILLED THE MAJORITY OF THE LAWN for no apparent reason.

(BLOOD PRESSURE, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, BLOOD PRESSURE.)

What could've been the ONLY silver lining to that situation turned out to be my worst possible nightmare. I watched, with baited breath, as Mr. Awesome thoroughly cleaned the trash heap and got rid of almost EVERYTHING. (Finally! After nearly ten fucking years of waiting (and watching the landfill get larger and larger), I was going to get the small patch of yard I requested!) I then watched, horrified, as he PROMPTLY FILLED THE CLEAN SPACE WITH NEW TRASH, RIGHT BEFORE MY FUCKING EYES.

Imagine requesting a piece of waste ground that people didn't give a fuck about. Imagine being denied what was ostensibly a trash heap because people who WEREN'T interested in the space were suddenly VERY INTERESTED in it because YOU WANTED TO DO SOMETHING TO IT. Imagine watching, for ten fucking years, that patch of yard sit - only changing by becoming bigger and more of an eyesore - knowing they were never actually going do anything with it other than not let you use it for something productive. Imagine seeing, a decade later, the waste ground emptied and cleaned ONLY TO BE RE-FUCKING-FILLED WITH TRASH, GARBAGE, DEAD WOOD, BROKEN POTS, WOODEN CHAIR FRAMES AND TORN-UP SEED TRAYS.

My father-in-law? Seriously, genuinely FOR REAL doesn't understand why I seem perpetually pissed off at him. DUDE, TAKE YOUR FUCKING PICK OF TEN YEARS WORTH OF THIS SORT'VE BULLSHIT AND YOU'VE GOT MORE THAN ONE FUCKING ANSWER.

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The one thing I learned from the waste ground/non-existent BBQ pit fiasco? Don't involve the in-laws by asking; just fucking do it. Last year I sneakily appropriated a narrow stretch of land adjacent to the side of the house (just beneath our computer room/office window). I grew garlic there, which did okay, but the area's far too shaded during summer due to the sycamore.

Last year was also the year I got so fucking sick of the fucking dirtyard (Mr. Awesome deliberately killed the front lawn, so for the past 5-7 years we've literally lived with a giant dirt fucking pit as our front yard) that I decided to grow some vegetables in a neat line hugging the side walk. As you'd expect, the second my in-laws saw me sifting dirt to remove stones they came racing out to inform me THEY WERE PLANNING TO PLANT THINGS IN THE FRONT YARD THAT SUMMER/YEAR.

Yeah, I didn't buy it either. Italics invoked HEY, REMEMBER HOW YOU GUYS WERE GOING TO BUILD A BBQ PIT...TEN YEARS AGO? and they sort've backed off, but after one too many "ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO PLANT VEGETABLES? WOULDN'T SHRUBS BE NICER?" and "YOU KNOW AFTER THIS YEAR WE'RE GOING TO LANDSCAPE THE ENTIRE FRONT YARD" I walked away from several months worth of effort and simply focused on my container garden on the patio.

This may come as a shock, but...my in-laws never actually did anything with the front yard last year despite all of the hassle I got for trying to improve the crackhouse appearance of our property. Without asking for permission I planted a long line of garlic in last year's prepared bed. In the next day or two I'll be planting beets behind the garlic, and parsley, dill and maybe basil in front of the bulbs. There's another small stretch of dirt that hugs the driveway's curve, and I really, really want to sift the earth there so I can plant a row of carrots.

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There's only one insanely short season when a portion of the dirtyard becomes a proper front yard - early-to-mid spring. Once the snowdrops and crocuses disappear there's only a smattering of squill, and once they're gone their leaves remain green for a month or two before dying back to expose the lack of a lawn beneath.

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Squill, close up and reflecting April's bright afternoon sun.

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This is that "narrow stretch of land" I quietly appropriated last year to grow garlic. I had originally planned to turn the space into a witch's flying ointment garden of baneful herbs, but the lack of full sun might affect some plants so until I do proper hardcore research (into preferred planting positions) the prepared space is in limbo. I'll probably grow a few herbs that don't mind partial shade this year (to keep the patch visibly occupied so Mr. Awesome isn't tempted to reclaim it) while figuring out what'll thrive (long term) in the garden bed.

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Under the Bed Badger's final resting place (of his physical remains, I mean). Near Bride's Day (aka Imbolc) we came across our first ever roadkill badger, which we sadly took home. (<- Just because I pick up and butcher roadkill doesn't mean I don't feel inherently ANGRY, RESENTFUL, PISSED OFF, and SAD when I come across a dead animal on the side of the road.)

I fed, bonded and then skinned the animal, froze his pelt (to preserve and tan myself) and buried his earthly remains in the yard. I intended to go back for the bones within a few weeks (once they were mostly clean), but both Italics and I sort've like the idea of allowing the first set of badger bones to remain buried beneath our office window.

I read somewhere that they're HELLA into bluebell bulbs, so I'm seriously considering creating a tiny badger-themed garden above UtBB's decomposed body to help strengthen our bond with him.

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You harvest garlic relatively early (plant on the shortest day of the year, harvest on the longest day of the year - or so the saying goes), so when I dug up my last bulb the garden bed looked incredibly empty. So empty, in fact, that I was hella worried it'd attract my father-in-law's attention.

Within days of lifting the last garlic plant I sowed beets and carrots to give the impression that the land was still in use, but in reality it was an exercise in marking my place because it was too late in the season - at least for Scotland - to expect any sort of fruitful harvest.

Some of the seedlings survived the winter - mostly carrots - but a single beet somehow managed to live despite direct exposure to the elements. If it continues to grow I'll probably let it bolt to gather seeds since this is a V. special little beet plant.

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An exceptionally tiny row of carrots that, like the single beet plant previously mentioned, somehow managed to survive THE WORST WINTER IN 30 YEARS! without any sort of covering.

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Sycamore buds. The tree just outside our office window has really wormed its way into magic life, so much so that one of the first things I do, ever fucking day, is open the computer room's blinds to glance outside at the sycamore. For over a year now we've been leaving offerings at the base of the tree, and last year we loped off one of the budding branches - together - for a spring-themed broom for myself.

Even though it isn't traditional (at least I don't think it is, but I deliberately stay ignorant of what people do (and don't do) so there's a good chance that somewhere someone's using sycamore buds for something) I'm going to harvest the buds and macerate them. I want to start with buds, move to flowers, continue with leaves and end with seeds to encompasses the tree's yearly growth in one bottle of oil.

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Where the driveway ends and the side walk begins. Last year on Lammas we came across two dead animals along the side of the road - a fox and an elephant-sized (<- APPROXIMATION) hedgehog. I skinned, butchered and processed the fox, but the hedgehog was a little too far gone for any sort of organ extraction so I buried his huge ass directly beneath the rock.

I'm on the fence about digging up his remains. I did bury him with the intent of going back for his bones, but after awarding several other "firsts" with permanent burial status I'd hate for him to feel left out. So, I think Mr. Hedgehog will stay buried in the hopes he'll continue blessing our property with his foraging presence.

(We had a soul crushing epidemic of mutant snails that decimated my vegetables year in and year out until Chippy called the hedgehogs. Before our nocturnal insect eaters arrived you couldn't even go outside at night because the patio was always swarming with snails and slugs. Within months of putting Chippy's offering dishes outside - the contents of which he shared with the hedgehogs - the number of gastropods plummeted. Now all it takes to deter snails and slugs from eating my vegetable plants are a few strategically placed lettuce leaves and the occasional buffalo wing (or two) for the hedgehogs.)

February, 2009

When I'm not overloaded with stressful real life stuff I'm almost always taking pictures. I think I manage writing about 75% of the photos I take, but a small percent almost always slips through my fingers and sits untitled, undescribed and untagged in my Flickr stream.

My original idea was to scoop up those motherfuckers - one year later, month by month - and finally give them the journal entry they deserve (even if "the journal entry they deserve" involves being part of a picture dump). January (when I came up with and incepted the plan) was on time, but due to House and Shakey and Mr. Awesome I kind've sort've lost my way.

This is February 2009's catchup, almost two months late. (WHOOPS.) After reading through the entire month I feel slightly resentful that last year's Feb. was such a piece of fucking cake (at least when compared to this year). In fact, the obvious contrast between 2009 and 2010 borders on fucking comedy, although my ass ain't laughing.

You don't have to take my word for it, you can READ FOR YOURSELF. And I recommend you do, because I did a decent job in explaining - or at least emoting - my take on the entire Spring/Winter, Bride/Whore dynamic that I engage in.

Everything I should've said and shown you this year? Got said and shown last year. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that next year I'll in the right mental place and have less peripheral distractions which'll allow me to reexperience the awakening I did in 2009. (<- SPRING 2009? ABSOLUTELY //MAGIC//; IT WAS THE SORT'VE SHIT THAT BECOMES THE FOUNDATION OF YOUR BELIEFS.)

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It's been virtually impossible to get a decent picture of our current rat brigade. The last trio we had (Jigga, Hezbollah and Beh) were lazy ass, docile lap rats which made photo taking a piece of cake. The current triad of terror (Denny's, Shakey's and Shoney's) are so hyperactive that almost every fucking picture we've taken of them has come out blurred in the (near) three years we've owned them.

(Pictured just above my hand is Choo-Choo (aka Shoney, who's also called Choney), and off to the side is most of Wuzza (aka Denny's).)

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Choney doing what she does best: theatrically waiting for attention.

(The triad of terror have successfully ruined a huge percentage of our books. You don't even want to know what they've done to some of our OUT OF PRINT and STUPID EXPENSIVE erotic fantasy art books. No, seriously. Jesus himself would fucking weep.)

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Who was more excited by an unexpected package (date filled cookies and a bottle of sandalwood perfume) from my good friend F? Hezbollah, by the looks of it. (One day I promise to explain the entire Crazy Rat/Hezbollah thing, but until then just PRETEND like you totally get what's going on. <- I HAVE A FEELING THAT ANYONE WHO READS MY JOURNAL IS PROBABLY USE TO THAT.)

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2009's love cake for Valentine's Day. (ME? CANDY? HA! I GOT A //CAKE//!) Just for him I ate it like a little piggy with my nose buried deep in the sponge and filling. (<- It's easy to keep your relationship interesting when activities involve chocolate, sugar, frosting and cake.)

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Sunlight streaming down on the dead crow dirt. (You can't see the layer of gray, gelatinous mess beneath the surface layer of new food. Eventually all of the fat, grease and food sinks into the earth and creates a rich compost which I use around planting time.)

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My container of dead crow dirt sunbathing in February sunshine. (I know what you're thinking - WTF IS "DEAD CROW DIRT"? One of these years I'll sit down and tell the story.)

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I love how it looks like early morning (I think this was taken around 11 or noon) and how the damp earth is full of promise.

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My spring bulbs woke up beneath a blanket of snow that lasted about two weeks.

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An important ingredient for weather magic? Bottled snow.

This is snow gathered from February 2009's winter storms. I stuffed an empty plastic water bottle with freshly fallen snow, allowed it to melt at room temperature on my office altar (OH, HEY, LOOK, ANAT'S STILL IN ONE PIECE IN THIS PICTURE! <- HER WAR HAND GOT CAUGHT ON MY BRA AND SHE WAS ACCIDENTALLY SWEPT OFF THE ALTAR AND FELL TO THE FLOOR WHERE SHE BROKE INTO SEVERAL PIECES; SHE'S SINCE BEEN REPLACED BY WADJET) and then tossed the vessel in the freezer for future witchery.

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The remains of Snow Jigga. (<- A GIANT SNOWMAN MODELED AFTER JIGGA. I ACTUALLY HAVE PICTURES OF IT, BUT THEY'RE HIDDEN IN A FOLDER WITHIN A FOLDER WITHIN A FOLDER SO IT'LL REQUIRE A LITTLE BIT OF EXCAVATION ON MY PART TO FIND THEM.) It took two - maybe even three - weeks to fully melt and disappear.

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HOLY FUCKING SHIT, THEY WEREN'T THERE A DAY OR TWO AGO!

The unfolding purple flowers are Purple Gems (a dwarf iris), the lone yellow shoot is probably Danfordiae (a dwarf iris, I think) and the curling green leaves with raindrops are probably one of my two dwarf tulips.

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A streak of yellow against gray and gray.

House of Cards

I just want to wake up from this Groundhog Day nightmare and get the next day started, but I've been stuck on the same day - the same routine - for nearly two months. Some days it doesn't feel like there's any meaning or purpose (so there's nothing worth fighting for), other days I wake up screaming like a Valkyrie, ready to crawl across a cosmic minefield if it means victory.

I feel the boot bearing down on me, but I'm throwing both shoulders into it and pushing against what feels like a brick wall because I know, eventually, it'll collapse like a house of cards.

(2010, I WILL BREAK YOU. I WILL CRUSH YOU BENEATH MY CALLOUSED, BARE FEET. I WILL STRETCH OUT MY SCARRED FINGERS AND BRING DOWN BIBLICAL SHIT YOU HAVEN'T SEEN SINCE FUCKING MOSES AND HIS PLAGUES. I MIGHT BE BLOODIED AND BROKEN, BUT BY DECEMBER FUCKING 31ST I'LL BE WEARING YOUR FUCKING BATTERED SKIN LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING FUR COAT GIVEN TO ME BY GOD HIM-FUCKING-SELF.)

(AND YOU KNOW THAT AIN'T AN IDLE THREAT BECAUSE A WOMAN DOESN'T DISH THAT SORT'VE SHIT OUT LIGHTLY.)

And Then, Spring

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...and then, Spring.

Scary minimal for me, but the in-laws are home and after the recent "NO I DIDN'T, YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY!" debacle (<- my father-in-law denied a bunch of shit ranging from throwing away ashes that belonged to my mother to throwing garbage on my Winter altars (yes, plural; it's happened twice) earlier this week in an absolutely stunning display of audacious lying and insistent memory loss (the later of which, admittedly, is less "stunning" and more "worrying")) I've deliberately tried to scale back what gets left out in communal living areas.

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Last year Italics and I made a set of paschal lambs out of butter for our Easter marriage celebrations. (A block of butter is a must have in any traditional Ukrainian Easter basket, a block of butter moulded into the shape of a little lamb is a must have in any Ms. Graveyard Dirt Easter basket. <- You think I'm joking? I had to fucking IMPORT a fucking VINTAGE BUTTER MOULDING KIT from the fucking United States in order to live up to my Easter expectations.)

One lamb was taken to church (to be blessed*), placed on Easter Sunday's altar and consumed during a ritualized Ukrainian brunch. The other was slung in the freezer for "something special". With Easter only a few weeks away I figured it was time to use up our last paschal lamb before creating a new pair to mark the start of the agricultural season.

(I'm totally making an herbal butter with fresh sage, thyme and rosemary and coating a lamb shoulder roast with the mixture. <- OUR OSTARA/SPRING MEAL; LAMB BASTED WITH SYMBOLIC LAMB, MORBID OR WHAT?)

(* Basically? Basically you haul all of the shit you're going to eat on Easter Sunday brunch - paska (that's a traditional Ukrainian Easter bread), boiled eggs, salt, butter, horseradish (sometimes tinted magenta with beets) and insane amounts of smoked pork (sausages, bacon, ham, loin) - to church on Holy Saturday to get it all blessed by the priest for Easter Sunday.)

The crocuses are from our dirtyard; these three mark the beginning of my crocus and snowdrop harvest to create a bee incense. (Last year I kept a close eye on all of the flowering plants, shrubs and trees on our property to see which ones the bees favored. This year I'll be collecting those blossoms throughout the growing season as the major ingredient in my homemade incense blend.)

I always bake something extra special for our Easter wedding. I mean, a marriage requires some sort of cake or dessert, right? (CORRECT ME IF I'M WRONG, BUT I'M PRETTY SURE THAT AN ABSENCE OF PURE, REFINED SUGAR AT A WEDDING CELEBRATION IS GROUNDS FOR AN ANNULMENT.) This year Italics and I decided we wanted some Easter tat in the form of little chenille baby chicks decorating our high sugar content celebratory dessert, now all I have to do is figure out what the fuck to make. (But, hey! At least we've got the dessert decorations, right? Snort.)

(Italics says the baby chicks look like they're singing in the picture above. Ever since he brought it up to my attention THAT'S ALL I FUCKING SEE. WHAT ARE THEY SINGING? WHY ARE THEY SINGING? CLEARLY, THIS IS A SPRING MYSTERY.)

Everything is gingerly sitting on a rectangular offering dish that I regularly use to create "spirit plates" (what my mom called them) for visiting relatives, friends and ancestors that have passed on. (Not spectacularly significant, but since I explained away everything else...)

Where the Bride Walks

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The Bride's finally walked through the dirtyard, leaving the first announcements of Our approaching wedding.

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Making Hawthorn Syrup

Cooling recently boiled hawthorn berries (to make hawthorn syrup) while a cover of Purple Rain plays in the background.

Home Remedies

I swear to God I must be the only fucking witch who feeds homemade chicken soup to plants when she's worried about their health.

The Last Clean

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Since I don't have the entire house to myself, I steal pieces of it whenever I can. Last year I appropriated the kitchen's windowsill (most subtle Ms. Graveyard Dirt altar ever? probably), but before that I staked my claim to a patch of carpet next to the backroom's patio door. In Spring it serves as a greenhouse for my germinating plants, in Summer it provides the heat needed for Papa's chili plants to fruit, in Fall I spread our harvest out on the ground to dry and in Winter, if I have my shit together (obviously this year I didn't), it's where we proudly display our stoner Christmas tree.

As retarded as it sounds, one of the huge highlights of my day is walking into the backroom and staring down at all of my little "projects". (Satisfaction is surveying all that you own - every piece with its own story - on mismatched vintage plates and trays.) Despite the familiarity I still somehow manage to get excited when soaking in the scene.

I suppose it reminds me that I don't need to wear a label, or know the "technical" name for what I'm doing or what I'm engaging in. I don't NEED to know what everyone else calls it, or what everyone else is doing, or how everyone else is doing it. I'm already doing "it", and I've been doing it for years without anyone's help or without referring to a book. If you took the scarlet word "witch" away from me I'd still live it, I'd still breathe it. It's always been there, regardless of what I or other people call it (as if that wasn't already evident enough).

My father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, returns home on the 26th. It's been a blissful month of a certain sort of serenity. In the past several weeks I know that no one's touched my shit, thrown my shit out, broke my shit, stolen my shit or ruined my shit. That peaceful certainty ends soon, which is precisely why I'm executing THE LAST CLEAN. Everything you see above? The very last of 2009 that needs to be bagged, tagged and put away. I need to sort as much as I can - as quick as I can - so I don't experience the all to familiar "misunderstandings" and "accidents" that seem to dog my father-in-law's existence.

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My foraging isn't limited to indigenous plant life. I'm routinely picking up discarded or lost articles. Stupid things, little things - broken pieces of jewelry, old playing cards, parts fallen off cars or equipment. If it's in my path it's significant, so it gets picked up, cleaned off, bagged, tagged (including the date, where I found it and the circumstances behind the outing) and stored away for future use.

I found the aborted Pac-man coin on a cemetery excursion, and it's nestled in a bag with two black plastic pieces - one rectangular (it reminded me of a blank domino) and one circular (it reminded me of a blank poker chip). There's also fingernail clippings (mine), a pair of diaper pins (the white plastic heads slide over the tucked in needles so they can't spring open), Wadjet's key and Tawaret's steering wheel (we've been trying to get a car for several years now, but it wasn't until I put the toy steering wheel at the foot of my Tawaret statue and a key I found at the foot of Wadjet's statue that the wish actually materialized) which all sits on a white envelope filled with some of my hair clippings.

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I WANT to say these are the very last pieces of dried animal I need to deal with, but that'd be a lie. (If I remember right there's several roadkill hedgehog skins in the outside room (and when I say "skins" I really mean the bristly spines attached to a piece of leathery hide), four sets of feathers (off the most recent pheasant roadkill I scavenged) and I think there's one or two inside-out poached rabbit pelts I found when walking in the woods.)

Buried beneath the two wishbones (the larger, more robust looking one is from our Christmas goose, the smaller, fragile looking one is from a chicken) is Italics' fajita dolphin; we're planning on setting him free the next time we make it to the ocean. The snakeskin looking mess at the back of the dish? One of the Christmas goose's toes. For whatever reason they forgot to remove one of the appendages which meant one very special Yuletide gift from the Universe this year: a goose claw.

(I have pictures of all of this shit uploaded on Flickr, I just haven't had the time to tell the stories yet. If you promise not to appear openly bored when I tell unseasonal Ms. Graveyard Dirt stories, I promise to eventually get around to telling unseasonal Ms. Graveyard Dirt stories.)

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The very last of our offerings to various spirits, entities, helpers and ancestors that need to be disposed of. (The chocolate cigar was given to Papa during Christmas, the chocolate heart is my Aries Valentine's Day chocolate, the toffee candies were placed in offering bowls at the foot of the Christmas tree and the gingerbread man, who totally was Italics' idea, dubiously sat amongst other Yuletide treasures.)

I'm planning to leave the cigar at Papa's grave, and I'm going to leave the toffees for the kids at the disturbed children's home (which we pass when walking to the graveyard). I haven't really decided where I'm going to lay the rest, but when I do it'll either be the cemetery, the cairn at the cemetery, the outside "oven", or the local standing stones.

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Miniature brandy snifters that sat on the Winter altar. The one on the left is filled with Fet Ghede dirt (for a more detailed explanation of WTF Fet Ghede dirt is click through to the journal entry CLEANING DAY 1) and the one on the right is filled with salt (the salt water evaporated leaving crystals behind).

The homemade dirt mix correlates with Papa, who's my chthonic earth representative (Papa's one of the major aspects of the divine male/king that I work with, live with and fuck), the salt water correlates with Tentacle Monster, who's my chthonic water representative (TM represents my spiritual and emotional house). The unpopped popcorn seed in the empty salt water glass? Representative of the garbage my father-in-law dumped on my Winter altar when he was too fucking lazy to throw in the kitchen's trash can. (He got seriously told off for doing it in 2008, so what did he do in 2009? The same fucking thing.)

The Fet Ghede has been funneled back into its jar, but I'll be adding a pinch into the ash mixture and homemade salt scrub I'll soon be making to anoint and purify our bodies and bed frame. (I haven't had a chance to address how I observe Ash Wednesday and Lent, so just pretend you know what the fuck I'm talking about.) I've already rehydrated the salt glass with a mixture of freshly fallen snow (scooped off the top of sprouting spring bulbs) and some icicle water (I collected the most impressive icicles off the house this year and poured their melted forms into a plastic bottle for various witchery) so I can add the moistened mixture to my ash paste and cleansing scrub.

I'm keeping the popcorn kernel, though, because there are some things you shouldn't have to be told twice, Mr. Awesome. (DOES THAT SOUND OMINOUS? GOOD, IT SHOULD.)

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I went outside to make an offering, and when I opened the patio door my stone cock - THE stone cock from my outside Phallic Worship altar at the base of the Shango Tree - hurdled itself to the floor without ANY provocation, smashing one of my ritual plates below. Three days later I still have no fucking clue what "pushed" the heavy ass rock off the center of the table.

Remember? From the journal entry 96 HOURS? Thankfully the tray wasn't one of my super awesome beloved FOR REALS ritual plates (in other words, the little Italian number I picked up last year). I was pretty fucking resentful over the loss, so I left the mess untouched for days.

The dried leaves on the broken dish are off my indoor lemon rose geranium. There's some rosemary, too, underneath the mess (which I swept into the homemade chicken stock I made last night for Shakey Bear). (<- Dying pets are fed homemade soup made with homegrown ingredients, and freshly boiled potatoes mashed with sour cream and cream cheese.)

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This ramekin of dirt has been the bane of my existence for not one, not two, but at least three years. (Long story short? Several years back a water pipe broke in the street adjacent to our property. The event was significant for several reasons, so before they closed the coffin-sized hole I threw in a homemade witch bottle (filled with urine, pins, magic mushrooms, nails, hair and other things) and scooped out some dirt for myself. I mean, it's not every day the crossroads YOU LIVE ON are dug up for your benefit, right?)

Soon, crossroads dirt, I'm going to pry you out of your ramekin tomb, batter you into a fine powder and funnel your ass into an appropriately labeled baby food jar.

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Leaves from the bay tree on the patio. This past "Dark Year" (what I call the time between Harvest and Easter) I incorporated a lot of evergreen growing in our yard into various altars (Harvest Home, for example, and the kitchen's ever-changing Yule spread). I'm an unapologetic bay whore; it goes in EVERYTHING. (Probably because my signature dishes - which I cook often during winter - are peasant-y soups, stews and casseroles.)

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The absolute BEST part of this log? (Other than it being the nicest one we've ever created?) When I accidentally bumped into it and knocked it off its crab pedestal (crabs are a big juju animal for Italics, which is why it's carrying his St. George and the Dragon ritual fire poker and the log itself) about twenty seeds spilled out of the pine cone. Come Spring I'll be planting seeds that came from our Yule/2009 Log, how awesomely magic is /that/?

Last night I carefully tapped 2009's Yule Log seeds out of their ceramic dish into a plastic baggie and tucked the packet into my seed box. I have no fucking clue what I'm going to do with pine trees, but I'm sure I'll come up with something. (<- I ALWAYS DO.)

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Wheat from the crop of the most recent roadkill pheasant we picked up. When I butchered and cleaned the bird I saved all of it so I could plant the seeds in Spring. I also added a token amount of the pheasant (i.e., small bits of skin and tiny feathers) so when I did sow the kernels they'd grow from the remains of the bird. (<- Life, death and rebirth.)

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Hardneck garlic that was SUPPOSED to be planted back in October of last year. (I was busy, okay?) When the month old (and THEN some) blanket of snow finally melted I raced outside to plant the motherfuckers, only to find that my father-in-law had BURIED LEAVES HE WAS INSTRUCTED TO THROW AWAY AT A LOCAL COMPOSTING SITE IN THE SAME SPOT I HAD PREPPED TO GROW GARLIC.

(It's even more involved than that, but I keeping that particular WTF? story for later. Suffice to say - I raked those leaves in November to finish the job he started (and walked away from), packed them in bags for him to cart away only to discover he BURIED A PORTION OF THE GARDEN WASTE in a spot that I OBVIOUSLY HAD PREPARED TO PLANT SOMETHING IN so instead of sowing late, late garlic I actually spent the day RERAKING LEAVES I HAD ALREADY RAKED UP ONCE AND REPACKING THE SAME BAGS WITH THE SAME FUCKING LEAVES.)

The most upsetting part? I mean, other than having to redo the work that I did over three fucking months ago because someone decided they were too fucking lazy to do the easier job (i.e, simply throwing out prepackged waste)? It snowed the day after, and it's been snowing since. I never actually got my garlic in the ground because I had to spend the ONE DAY it was conducive to plant cleaning up Mr. Awesome's mess (which I originally had to do in November as well).

"Pissed" doesn't even cover it. Seriously.

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Some of the shots I managed to pull out of the SEVEN LOUSY RABBITS that the Universe gave me last Fall. (It's long, involved and complicated. My suggestion? Read the journal entry.) These are shots that killed; they're worth their weight in magic gold. (If you don't understand why, then you're probably not cut out for my personal brand of witchcraft.)

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Unshelled nuts that I incorporated into the kitchen table's Christmas centerpiece and dried rowan berries from our tree out front. We're going to split open the nuts and scatter the broken pieces as an offering to the local wildlife, and I'm currently picking through the rowan clusters to finally jar up the dried berries.

(I was supposed to string the motherfuckers, but we were stupid busy this past Fall so they all dried before I could thread one effing berry. NEXT YEAR, DAMMIT, NEXT YEAR. <- Especially since I now have A CAR which means I can gather rowan berries from all of our special places further afield (i.e., near standing stones, cairns and stone circles).)

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Because I chose to refrain from (most) contact with (most of) my family, they didn't bother notifying me when my grandfather died. I got a letter, several months after the fact, requesting that I stop sending my grandfather cards and gifts because he had died earlier in the year. Since I wasn't even given the chance to send flowers to his funeral I spent all of the next year - 2009 - incorporating Didi into my practices and our celebrations.

When I heard he had passed on one of the very first things I did was pick him up a bottle of Heineken (his favorite beer) and I left it - for almost an entire year - hidden behind Papa's headstone. (I removed it when Winter came, so the glass wouldn't break.) The bottle was displayed on several altars throughout the Dark Year to keep my grandfather close to me during his first year of death.

Soon I'll be taking the beer back to the graveyard to pour the contents out as an offering. (HE'S WAITED LONG ENOUGH FOR HIS BEER, RIGHT?) I've decided to keep the emptied bottle, though. I'm planning on refilling it with regular ole water and asking Didi to bless it so I can anoint/water my fruit trees with his expertise and wisdom.

(For those of you who don't know, my grandparents recreated THE OLD COUNTRY (aka Ukraine) in southeastern Wisconsin. I grew up running around barefoot on two acres filled with vegetable gardens, ancient oaks, fruit bushes, manicured flower beds and an orchard. I'm MOSTLY growing fruit trees and bushes because I FUCKING LOVE FRUIT AND I LOVE HARVESTING FRUIT, but also because it's my ancestral link to THE OLD COUNTRY and, in a weird way, I'm sort've paying homage and respect to the memory of the Eden I grew up in.)

The bottle of water? Melted icicles. I harvested the most impressive specimens that grew off the roof this past December and funneled their unfrozen forms into a plastic water bottle. (Sometimes you need Winter in Summer so I store snow and ice in the freezer for various forms of witchery (ranging from weather magic to purification rites).)

I'm almost afraid to freeze the contents of the bottle because I was planning on using an ice cube tray (so I wouldn't have to defrost the entire container every time I needed some Winter), and I know EVEN IF I say DON'T TOUCH THIS SHIT and go as far as STICK A NOTE ON THE TRAY SAYING "DON'T TOUCH THIS SHIT" my father-in-law will still use the cubes in his daily nightcap. (You wouldn't believe how many supplies and bottles I've cleaned that he's thrown out even though I taped a neon sticky note to it (reading "I NEED THIS, PLEASE DON'T THROW IT OUT").)

Clock It

January 27th, approximately 2PM: paused on the way back from leaving an offering at the base of the Shango Tree/phallic worship altar and nipped several weeds out of spring bulb containers. (<- IT'S OFFICIAL, INTERNET, 2010 GARDENING HAS //BEGUN//.)

Cleaning Up After the Bride

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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My side of the bedroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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My nightstand tabletop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scotland Poultry Scissors Massacre

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One word: WINDSTORM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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STRAIGHTENED UP, CLEANED AND READY FOR WINTER, BABY!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This House is Clean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009 Harvest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(OI FUCKING VEY.)

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

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

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

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

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

Harvest Home Offering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harvest Home Altar (Dark)

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The picture above is my ancestral altar where I'll be plying my recently - and not so recently - deceased ancestors and relatives with food and drink throughout our harvest celebration. (Because I'm somewhat estranged from my family I don't have any pictures of anyone except for my mother, and even THAT image is the only one I have of her.)

Tonight's menu? Leftover yogurt soup (I made fresh stock using frozen bones from last year's Christmas goose and dumped in carrots, baby corn, potatoes, rice, roast duck and grilled sirloin steak marinated in miso soup), cubes of cornmeal spoonbread (it's a Ukrainian thing) and homemade garlic bread.

The bowl to the right contains Mabon's first meal - an oatmeal breakfast using PROPER pinhead oats, whole milk, a shredded apple, nuts, plums from outside, whole milk and honey. (Everyone in the house - including the rats - had a bowl before we began harvesting on the equinox.) On top of it is an offering of a glazed donut (REDUCED TO CLEAR GLAZED DONUTS? YES PLZ!) and an Italian cookie. (<- I continuously add whatever we're eating to their altar so they don't miss out on anything.)

Below are a few blurry candlelit shots of our main harvest home altar, thanks to baking bread all day (FOUR RISES? WHY DOES UKIE BREAD ALWAYS NEED EXCESSIVE RISING?!) I'm dead tired so I'll skip out on explaining shit until I have better quality pictures. (There are A LOT of skulls and A LOT of food and A LOT of Slavic kitsch.)(It'll look a billion times more impressive with some light. Honest for real.)

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Hanging Out Windows

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OHHEYLOOK! You can see my whole ONE sunflower through the bedroom window!

(Left to right: halloween bats from 2006 (HOW COULD I TAKE THEM DOWN WHEN THEY COMPLIMENT OUR OSSUARY THEME SO DAMN WELL?), the skeletal frame of our woefully unloved hammock ("NO, NO SUMMER WILL HAPPEN AGAIN! I CAN'T PUT IT AWAY JUST YET!" <- IN COMPLETE AND UTTER DENIAL), blue-purple borage growing along the maroon fence and one of Chippy's outside offering dishes way in the bottom corner.)

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"OH, GOD, I GUESS SINCE I'M ALREADY TAKING A PICTURE OF THE DAMNED FLOWER THROUGH THE WINDOW I MIGHT AS WELL OPEN IT AND GET A BETTER SHOT."

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These seeds? Claim to be "early maturing", LOL! (LOL = "IT'S AUGUST FUCKING 27TH AND ONLY ONE OF MY FUCKING "EARLY MATURING" SUNFLOWERS HAS EVEN BLOOMED!")

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"OH, GOD, I GUESS SINCE I'M ALREADY HANGING OUT OF THE EFFING WINDOW TAKING A PICTURE OF THE DAMNED FLOWER I MIGHT AS WELL FLOP OVER EVEN MORE AND TAKE A PICTURE OF WHAT'S BENEATH THE BEDROOM WINDOW."

(Left to right: a peach tree to the left with tobacco in the center, a baby pumpkin smack dab between the two, cucumbers growing up bamboo sticks in the middle and an apple tree (grown from seed), some baby corn and parsley in the bottom right corner.)

August 13th Gardening

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Finally there are some MOTHEREFFING FLOWERS IN THE HOUSE. (And when I say "HOUSE" I actually mean "IN MY CONTAINER GARDEN OUT BACK ON THE PATIO".) The majority of what makes up the mess you see are fruit trees and vegetables, and most of those didn't flower this year. (The trees are seedlings and a lot of the vegetables are shit like artichokes grown from seed. It'll be a few years before I'm able to harvest ANYTHING from them, but I'm determined to grow (almost) everything by seed, so it's an exercise in patience.)

Yesterday the gray clouds parted just long enough for me to patter around outside for a few minutes leaf checking and picture taking before another wave of rolling, thunderous clouds blanketed out the sun. The big, leafy yellow-green leaves between the sweet peas and dutch irises are tobacco which has grown EXCEPTIONALLY well compared to last year. (Last year? Last year my tomatoes didn't even reach knee height. Seriously. The weather was that bad.) I asked Papa (Ghede) for some help this year since I'm technically growing the tobacco for him and he was all "BABY GIRL, DON'T YOU WORRY ABOUT A THING" and, sure enough, he's kept true to his word.

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I love irises. (LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE!) I'd be hard pressed to choose between LILIES or IRISES as my favorite flower, but I'm more compelled to grow irises due to golden memories of my childhood. (My Ukrainian grandparents grew a thick line of bearded irises along their south facing wall near the plum trees.) While other flowers were okay to pick there was something about the majesty commanded by the double-bearded irises that deterred me from collecting the monster sized blooms. I think one of the first plants I ever wanted to cultivate were irises, and it's taken me THIS LONG to get my hands on a pack of bulbs.

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I had a HELLUVA time germinating squashes and gourds this year. (I think I planted five of each - or more - and only one of each actually made it to the seedling stage.) This is the one honey bear squash that managed to escape death's clutches - two times over! (Last month we had a terrific wind storm - something totally unseasonal - and when I assessed the damages I saw that my poor squash had been nearly decapitated at the base of the root. Overcome with grief - I WAS REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO HOMEGROWN SQUASH! - I couldn't bear snapping the plant off completely and just left it to see what it'd do. And, dude, I'm so glad I did because YOU CAN SEE FOR YOURSELF WHAT IT DECIDED TO DO.) I think I have three healthy balls swelling beneath chanterelle blossoms with a billion little buds forming into pursed flowers.

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DILLLLLLLLL! If you're Ukrainian and you're NOT growing garlic, tomatoes, cucumbers (or pickles) and dill YOU ARE NOT UKRAINIAN, SO STOP LYING. (<- "Onions" should be in that mix but since both Italics and I are allergic to them my Ukrainian gardening has had to make some exceptions.) I have a crazy holy reverence for the herb - it goes into my favorite bread (Swedish dill bread with cream cheese), my favorite potatoes (boiled potatoes with butter, pancetta, garlic, cabbage, white wine and fresh herbs) and my favorite main course (Ukrainian dill chicken, created by yours truly). I'm not sure how well it burns as incense, but I thinking about experimenting (with either dried leaf or dried seed) to incorporate it in a "cleansing" blend. (< Sort've like, you know, invoking my ancestors for help by the use of their favorite herb.)

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My bag'o'dutch irises arrived on Beltane with three sorry looking dwarf fruit trees (two apples and one pear, the pear dead and all covered with powdery mildew). I wanted to plant the bulbs beneath our computer room/office window, but that narrow stretch of land (where I grew my witch's garlic, remember?) doesn't get a lot of light. So, instead, at least for the time being, I planted them around my brand new peach tree. (I originally wanted to plant lilies of the valley around the base of the tree, but that project will have to wait until the irises have been evacuated.) This was one of the better pictures of the flowers, but it doesn't include the male red-tailed bumblebee that was hopping from iris to iris as I took photos.

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My sunflowers? Haven't even flowered yet. Seriously. And it's NOT because I planted them late in the season - they were all up by Easter this year! (April 12th, dude.) I'm having the same problem with my tomatoes - not one is even remotely close to being sunblushed in anyway. This year has been A LOT better for sun (two years ago it biblically rained and there were crazy severe floods further down south, last year it didn't rain nearly as much but we didn't get any sun AT ALL), but still not enough to make certain plants flourish without the aid of a greenhouse. Sigh.

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I had basil growing around the base of the sunflowers (since the soil got so much light due to the leggy stalks) but they've practically withered away to nothing. Basil, for whatever reason, refuses to tolerate the climate here. I've only ever had ONE year where I was able to grow it successfully, and I lost the entire crop because A CAT PULLED ALL OF MY PLANTS OUT OF THE TUB. (<- What my father-in-law told me when I discovered something had pulled out all of my basil and left it in a neat, heaped pile next to the container. It's funny how the "cat" selectively chose my basil to weed exclusively leaving all other vegetation without so much as a broken leaf; THAT'S ONE SMART CAT, YO.)

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When I ran out of bamboo garden stakes I had to get creative to provide support for some of my climbing plants so I dove into a drying pile of recently pruned hedge cuttings (lilac, butterfly bush and honeysuckle vine) and created a frame. (It, uh, looked a lot more...rustic and charming...before the leaves withered and dried.) You can totally make out some of my baby sweetcorn growing in front (another vegetable not doing so well in this Scottish climate; I'm either going to need a greenhouse or I'm going to have to buy arctic strains of shit in the hopes they'll do better).

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Two things about being an April baby that I've never really come to terms with - diamonds being my gem stone and sweet peas being my flower. (I seriously must be one of the few ladies you'll ever meet who makes a "EWW, WTF, WHY?" face at the thought of diamonds.) I'm slowly coming around to sweet peas with the help of heritage seeds and the deep, dark gothic bruise flowers they produce. Last year my sweet peas never flowered due to Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, chucking my container of plants into a dark and dank area of the yard where they never got any light. (Some sort of "sacrifice" has to be made every year, whether it's my basil that a "cat" pulled out, having some of my sun-loving plants condemned to a darken corner of the yard or having my tobacco butchered and left out, exposed, to winter weather.)

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I mean, in addition to the bleeding-under-the-skin colors they do smell heavenly - maybe I'm just not a pastel hued sweet pea April baby? (Does that mean I might like black diamonds? Hmm...)

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In winter food offerings and table scrapes are committed to the dead crow dirt bucket (the birds - crows, magpies, blackbirds, starlings and all of the tiny little cheap-cheap birds that flit around our hedge - know that's the place to go and get a good meal), and what doesn't get eaten breaks down and creates a beautiful soil enriched with nutrients from the ancestral offerings. During summer food offerings and table scrapes are committed to Chippy's dish (what dog owner doesn't lovingly slip a morsel or two of dinner to their beloved companion?), and with the influx of wildlife (birds, mice, hedgehogs, neighborhood cats and even, last year, a pair of foxes) there's usually nothing left the next day. (In this house we're ALL well fed here, even the portly wild animals that meander up the patio steps for a free meal.)

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Earlier in the growing season I began finding an epidemic of seedlings I didn't plant, but were very obviously something NOT weed-like. (Once germinated the plants had a very cucumber/gourd/squash look to them, but I didn't carelessly spill a packet of vegetable seeds into my bucket of compost so they were, FOR SURE, not cucumber/gourd/squash.) I plucked out the foreign occupants from my tubs and containers, but let them set root in any "waste ground". As it turns out they're borage, something I planted ONCE nearly five years ago. (HOLY SHIT, DUDE, THEY'RE HELLA SERIOUS WHEN THEY SAY IF YOU INTRODUCE BORAGE INTO YOUR GARDEN YOU'LL NEVER GET RID OF IT!) Borage is TRES good for bumblebees (on average most flours require approximately four hours to refill their nectar reserves, borage, however, only requires about two hours) so I think I'll be deliberately introducing it to the backyard next year. (Besides, the flowers have a lovely fuzzy, sweet cucumber taste and I'd love to be able to incorporate the edible blossoms in next year's cooking.)

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I use peat pots. I know a lot of gardeners don't like them, but goddamn if it doesn't stress the plant out when it comes time to pot them on. (And some vegetables - cucumbers and squashes, I think - hate having their roots fucked with.) This year I was in a serious pinch for soil when creating my PHALLIC WORSHIP RAISED GARDEN BED ALTAR beneath the Shango Tree (no longer "the Shango Bone Tree" since he broke free from his confinement to the fence during that wind storm and has shaken most of the bones out of his branches) so I recycled compost from peat pots whose seeds never germinated. Within days several curious seedlings sprung and I was thoroughly convinced they were NOT tomatoes. (But, like, that would be CRAZY because those seeds - pot seeds - need so much goddamn babying that there's only a 50% success rate. This time around we planted six, but only four germinated. Apparently the other two just needed a touch of tough love?)

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So, two days ago I'm pottering around in the backyard checking on various bits of waste ground (CARROTS AND BEETS ARE UP, YAY! BASIL'S DISAPPEARED FROM AROUND THE POND AND WOODEN BEAMS, BOO!) and while weeding the raised garden bed I finally re-notice the two very peculiar seedlings that are definitely, 100%, not tomatoes. (Pot and tomatoes are somewhat similar during their first stage of growth.) I mean, I KNEW they weren't tomatoes, really, when they first appeared about a month back - they looked EXACTLY like the sprouts that popped up way earlier in the year in the backroom down to the pinkish hue to the stems. But I didn't want to get crazy hopeful so I just resigned the unexpected germination as loose tomato seeds that finally got the right conditions. Now? Now there's absolutely NO DOUBT WHATSOEVER. Italics and I marveled at the unexpected gift given by the Shango Tree - all six pot seeds we sowed in the beginning of this year have grown, with two of the "lost" seeds sprouting on my phallic altar.

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I'm scheming again, which is always a dangerous thing for other people (and their things). After harvesting my witch's garlic after Midsummer the narrow stretch of land running adjacent to the side of the house looked pathetically barren. I decided I was going to sow a second batch of early maturing peas for a late harvest to fill up the empty space. Before I embarked on a day of planting I thought OH, HEY, I DISCOVERED MR. AWESOME'S INDUSTRIAL SIZED SIFTER SO I CAN SIEVE THE DIRT AND GET RID OF DEBRIS AND ROCKS AND SHIT TO HAVE "CLEAN" SOIL TO WORK WITH. Me, being me, thought it'd take a day or two of work. (LOLOLOLOL!) Two weeks later I was finally done sifting dirt. (I worked down the line emptying buckets of earth into the sifter sitting on top of a beer barrel sized growing container until it was free from junk and then dumped it back in the hole created. Hard labor, but satisfying labor.) Shortly after completing the task I decided AFTER ALL OF THAT GODDAMN WORK I'M NOT GIVING BACK THAT NEGLECTED AND ABANDONED STRETCH OF DIRT, I'M KEEPING IT FOR MYSELF AND PLANTING A MOTHEREFFING FLYING OINTMENT GARDEN, SO THERE, MR. AWESOME, SO THERE. To sort've hold my "place" on the strip of waste ground I immediately planted carrots (above) and beets (below) to ensure that the area looked suitably occupied.

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These babies were up in under a week! I mixed magic ashes (<- since I can't compost our magically/ritually grown plants we burn them during ceremonial bonfires and then add the ashes to compost for the second generation of magically/ritually grown plants) and worm casting soil into the "clean" dirt and then immediately sowed my carrot and beets the day before Lammas (July 31st).

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I mean, I know Lammas is all about HARVESTING and shit, but with our mild climate I thought there was a good chance there'd be just enough time to allow baby sized carrots and beets to develop. That way I had something homegrown as the basis for this year's pot of borsht (a Ukrainian beet soup, since making it is a two day affair I normally make a giant batch at the beginning of December in preparation for Christmas festivities). Besides, even if I don't manage to harvest any viable vegetables the seedlings are still performing the most important task of all - making it HELLA clear that THIS SPACE IS OCCUPIED AND WITHIN USE, THANK YOU.

Fall Already?

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Fuck, fall already?

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I guess so. (Sigh.)

Lammas Bread

Despite not being pagan (<- IF YOU'RE GOING TO WORRY ABOUT WITCHES, THIS IS THE SORT'VE WITCH YOU'VE GOT TO BE MOST WARY OF!) I still observe the majority of neo-pagan festivals that celebrate the shifting of the seasons (from the super big solstices to the smaller, quieter dates in between).

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At the heart of it I know the REAL reason (WHO DOESN'T WANT AN EXCUSE TO GET INTOXICATED, CELEBRATE AND HAVE MAD SEX WITH THE ONE(S) YOU LOVE?) but the older I get the more my foot eases off the gas pedal in a deliberate attempt to appreciate and understand the subtle changes throughout the year and how they, in turn, affect not only me but my relationship with my husband, the world, Universe and all that's Divine.

(That, and there's also the ANYTHING GOES element to grocery shopping when it comes time to creating the sabbat menu. "BUT, BABY, IT'S THE FIRST OF THE HARVEST FESTIVALS! HOW CAN WE //NOT// GET A VENISON HAUNCH AND SEVERAL BOTTLES OF ELDERFLOWER CHAMPAGNE?! IT IS OUR SEMI-DIVINE DUTY TO CELEBRATE TO ENSURE HAPPINESS, GOOD LUCK AND HEALTH IN THE FOLLOWING SEASON!")

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I bake homemade bread for every sabbat - regardless of my state of health (WOE BE UNTO THIS HOUSE WHEN THE WOMAN IS TOO SICK TO GIVE THANKS FOR THE GRAIN THAT SHE USES TO FEED HER FAMILY!) - certain breads and dates set in stone (for Christmas/Yule I bake a kolach and at Easter/Hieros Gamos I bake paska - two ancient, traditional Ukrainian breads baked for ritual use to either give thanks or feed the dead) but I freestyle with other celebrations provided they reflect the season/event we're observing in our own off-roading way.

Thanks to Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, being away for the majority of June and July my container garden was spared of the dreaded BLACK SPOTTED POX which, up until this summer, plagued my plants every fucking year. (<- Long story short? He has a stagnant partial pond that's sat unfinished for nearly twenty years. Instead of letting me water my own plants (which I've politely requested NUMEROUS TIMES for SEVERAL YEARS) he splashes them with the fetid, diseased water and, within a few weeks, black patches of blight would appear on everything rendering it unfit for consumption.)

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My favorite parts of the day during (this past) summer vacation? My early mornings (whenever they happened; we tend to be nocturnal for half the month and then have a more normal sleeping schedule for the rest of the month) and late evenings when I'd make my first (or final) check of the day, naked, pattering around the warm concrete of the patio while stroking and whispering to my trees, bushes, vegetables, flowers and herbs.

Sometimes Italics would come out with me, trailing behind in his blue bathrobe as I cooed and loved, pointing out the small changes to my beloved garden. "LOOK HOW HEALTHY AND HAPPY MY HERBS ARE!" I'd proclaim, satisfied and proud, my hands on my naked hips (perfumed with Moroccan mint or golden marjoram or lavender or oregano or...) as I surveyed the miniature orchard, berry patch, vegetable, flower and herb garden, the twice daily activity never getting boring or old.

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To capitalize this year's blemish free bounty I thought it was only fitting to include the herbs I've otherwise been unable to use (or even harvest for any purpose) up until this point, specifically my oregano and marjoram which sat happy and lush on the patio steps without even a trace of a black, damning speck ("OH MY GOD HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THEM LOOK SO AWESOME BEFORE?!").

Serendipity said YES, IT WOULD BE FITTING, WOULDN'T IT? as I gingerly flipped through my The Herb & Spice Book looking for raspberry, blackberry and elderberry recipes and stumbled across a recipe for Oregano Salt Sticks (which called for both fresh oregano and marjoram). And with THAT decision made for (and by) me the recipe got earmarked for the upcoming Lammas celebration.

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With the in-laws away for the weekend I had a blissful Lammas morning in the kitchen - high and partially naked, apron on and music playing, drifting in and out of the culinary trace of restful, content meditation as the sun streamed through the window and gently rested on ritually harvested produce on my makeshift window altar.

I bled, very slightly, despite not expecting my period so when time came to add a little of myself to the bread I dipped my fingers in warm full milk and ran my moistened fingers along my cunt, gently grazing between my labia to collect traces of (sort've) menstrual blood before submerging my wet fingers into the dough and kneading.

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And when time came to knead in the fresh herbs and grated Parmesan I carefully plucked one of my Virgin Hag Hairs (<- two dark hairs grow just beneath my chin, and they take FOREVER to regrow so I use them sparingly since there's a bit of magic when using hair from "the beard of a virgin") and dropped it in amongst the other ingredients so a bit of the Virgin and a bit of the Hag were both represented (since the scale is slowly tipping from one to the other; one still in play, the other getting ready for Her turn).

This recipe turned out to be THE PERFECT recipe for the day. I originally liked it because it starred and celebrated the fresh herbs I had growing in the back, but I liked it even more when I realized the short time needed to create a batch from scratch meaning we could spend the entire day in town at the local farmer's market.

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(Only 30 minutes of resting time? With another 10 before baking? HOLY SHIT, DUDE! DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW LONG PASKA TAKES TO MAKE? Try THREE FUCKING SEPARATE RISES in addition to BAKING SEVERAL DIFFERENT BATCHES BECAUSE ALL OF THE LOAVES WON'T FIT IN THE OVEN AT ONCE. This was totally - TOTALLY! - the fast food version of bread making, but still homemade!)

Lammas 2009

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

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Lammas Cheesecake

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Homemade Lammas gooseberry cheesecake decorated with fresh gooseberries, hyacinth and borage flowers.

Lammas Gooseberries

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600g of organically grown gooseberries from containers outside. (Just enough for a celebratory Lammas cheesecake and a granola bar recipe.)

First Time, Old Time Witchery

The backroom's become an epicenter of first time (but old time) witchery. On every surface - the tiled coffee table, the secondhand speakers, the turn table's glass lid, the tv's flat pack cabinet, the robust 70s tinged carpet - there's a half-finished project sitting in limbo. (Living, breathing in damp soil and plastic containers, not yet spent but close to the end, and the dead and gone, lost and loved, drying on old newspapers and kitsch ceramic trays.)

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Delicate sheets of tobacco leaves sit in Papa's (Ghede) skull planter, waiting to be ground down into autumnal flakes of gold. Open jars of dried elderflowers and black currants tremble on glass whenever I walk past, the jingling spice jars warning me of future catastrophe. (YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO LEAVE OPEN JARS ON THE EDGE OF A SURFACE!) Colored tissue paper from a belated birthday gift shivers in the stirred air like a origami bird, its wings gently fluttering against the ceramic planter filled with brittle amber leaves.

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Up until yesterday a bucket of blood gingerly peered from beneath the coffee table, my soaking menstrual rags lost beneath an opaque ocean of red whose still and stagnant waters began exhaling the scent of fetid Woman with every passing day. (After the rags were wrung the blood water was funneled into an empty plastic water bottle to feed the wheat outside and the two plants in the closet.) Up until two or three days ago a scuffed plastic bowl - more gray than black now - sat, offering the nearly dried necromancy contents to the air. (After the first grinding I saturated the incense blend with (my) blood and whiskey, and then, once dry, I ground the mixture a second time until a pinch fell like granulated sand.)

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Pot leaves and bird wings dry together on a 60s ceramic tray, the curling leaves and black feathers hiding the grotesque, textured pattern of celery. (HEY, IT'S 60S KITCHEN WEAR, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT?) Charcoal and candle wax from Midsummer still sit in a cast iron pan next to the consecrated spiral from the Yule log, but now they're joined by a new spiral found at the edges of our property around Midsummer. Papa's chilies, proud and strong, create a living barrier of green with flashes of ever ripening red that sections off the indoor garden that grows next to the patio doors.

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Nestled between an underdeveloped pot plant, recently repotted succulents and a baby chili I'm drying graveyard dirt from the Nun's grave. (A few days ago I finally made good on a promise and planted some lavender next to her headstone creating a miniature altar with two plants, a small slab of rock, a partially broken snail shell and an angel statue that had drifted off its resting place. Displaced dirt was gingerly pocketed in a ziploc bag and brought home to add to my growing collection (one from a farmer, one from a druggist, one from a nun and earth from an unfilled grave).) The branches of my jade plant dip into the plastic tub like chlorophyll powered tentacles, curiously investigating the new addition to the room.

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Everywhere I look there's magic, but in two days it'll all be gone - potted up, put away, tidied up...hidden away like a deep, dark secret. (Because, in two days, the in-laws return home, and, in this house, leaving //anything// out //anywhere// is an invitation for my father-in-law to touch, play with, ruin, kill and/or throw out without asking. In this house everything belongs to him, and if you don't want it appropriated, confiscated or tossed out you need to keep it out of reach and sight.)

From Seed to Sheaf

HOLY SHIT, I GREW THIS FROM SEED:

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ONE OF THESE DAYS I HAVE TO RECORD THIS TWO YEAR PROJECT/RITUAL.

(The short short of it? We performed a reaping ritual during a lunar eclipse in a local wheat field last August (or was it September?). After I spilled His blood I cut a huge bundle to create a didukh that was dressed for Christmas, featured in our Easter/Great Rite altar (you can't see the wheat itself, but you can see the decorative cloth it's wrapped up in behind the sickle) and then "threshed" (<- FANCY FOR SEPARATING EACH FUCKING GRAIN BY FUCKING HAND AND DISLODGING THE SEED FROM ITS SPINY, PAPERY COVERING) the sheath so we could ritually plant the ritually gathered and ritually infused seeds at home.)

(There's a lot more than that, but at least you get the gist.)

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Every day I go out - rain or shine - and stroke my beautiful, beloved wheat. (And when I water it it BLEEDS. <- NO JOKE. I'VE BEEN MEANING TO TAKE A PICTURE!)

ETA: HEZBOLLAH, WHEAT FARMER!

July 11th Gardening

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I'm SUPPOSED to be braiding freshly harvested garlic right now because we're leaving tonight for a few days to let our hair down in town. (I LOVE MY SLICE OF EDEN THAT I'VE CREATED, BUT ONE MONTH OF STARING AT IT EXCLUSIVELY - BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO TRANSPORTATION WHATSOEVER, SO YOU CAN'T GO ANYWHERE OR DO ANYTHING - CAN GET BORING. THANK GOD FOR CHEAP HOTEL ROOMS FOR A CHANGE OF SCENERY.)

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I should be braiding garlic because I still need to SHAVE and DEEP CONDITION MY HAIR and WASH and STYLE MY HAIR and PUT ON MY MAKE-UP FOR TONIGHT and GET DRESSED and PACK and MAKE A RESERVATION FOR DINNER and FIGURE OUT IF IT'S WORTH WALKING TO THE MOVIES IN THE RAIN and...well, you get the point.

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I've wanted to be more active here, but I just can't find the motivation to sit in front of a 600X800 screen when there's the botanic gardens bursting with life out back (complete with swarms of bumblebees and frisky cheap-cheap birds and crows who pace back and forth on the roof of the outside room, waiting for a chance to attack the pile of peanuts I've left for them). I suspect, with how vacation's been going this far, that my attitude's probably not going to change anytime soon.

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I AM more active on Livejournal right now, though. (It's a terrific place to post "LOL @ THIS!" entries and, also, pictures of my ass. <- YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.) If you have an account please feel free to look me up and friend me (I'm msgraveyarddirt), and if you DON'T have one that's cool, too, because all of my entries are public (so you can read them without having to create an account for yourself). The link, if you're interested, is: http://msgraveyarddirt.livejournal.com/

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I didn't plan on any major gardening yesterday (it's been gray and cloudy for days now; in fact, I've actually had to wear CLOTHES - including pants! - due to the temperature drop) but when I heard that the weather was supposed to take a turn for the worst I knew I needed to haul ass to get the elderflower heads I needed to jump start my homemade hooch and get my witch's garlic out of the ground to cure. What started as a simple mission to collect 7-10 heads of blossoms eventually ended in butchering part of our hedge and pulling moss encrusted wooden planks off their fence posts. (It was just one of those days.)

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OH, GOD, I ONLY EVER SHARED ONE PICTURE OF MY BRAND NEW RAISED BED PHALLIC WORSHIPING GARDEN ALTAR, DIDN'T I? (I have an entire folder just sitting on my desktop next to a billion other folders that I haven't touched since transferring them from camera to computer.) Sometime last week I created the Shango (Bone) Tree Altar; it wasn't something planned or even considered, it just sort've happened (thanks to a pile of bricks and stones sitting right next to the tree).

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I planted dill in the raised bed knowing that it'd do better in kind've partial shade than basil (which got planted elsewhere). And thanks to another patented moment of Ms. Graveyard Dirt brilliance I also inadvertently planted birdseed. (Long story short? After the last brick was fitted, after the last firming pat on the earth, after the last dill seed scattered, after the fitting of the balls (YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE THE EFFORT IT TOOK TO FIND TWO STONES THAT WERE CLOSELY PROPORTIONAL AND THE SAME COLOR, SRSLY), after hammering in our Midsummer signs I filled and hung Shango's bird feeder - directly above the new "garden" I had created. <- DUMBASS, I KNOW.)

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Not 100% satisfied with dill (and, uh, birdseed) - MORE, MORE! I WANT TO GROW MORE! I WANT TO SEE MORE GREEN! MORE NEWNESS! MORE LIFE AND TENDER SHOOTS! - I planted early maturing peas in the holes of the bricks and transplanted homegrown parsley. (I REALLY, REALLY WANTED TO PLANT BUNCHES NEXT TO MY PHALLIC MONUMENT FOR PUBIC HAIR, BUT I KNEW THAT WITHIN WEEKS IT'D DWARF AND THEN COMPLETELY OBSCURE MY STONE COCK. SIGH.)

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I weeded what I could (thankfully the birdseed hasn't completely choked the dill along with an EXCITING MYSTERY BAG OF UNIDENTIFIED GERMINATED SEEDS*) and picked through the earth to remove any twigs and leaves - you know, general altar clean up activity. (* Are they pot? Are they tomatoes? WHAT THE EFF ARE THEY? <- Stay tuned to find out when we find out!)

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The Shango (Bone) Tree broke free (Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, used wire to "stake" the tree to the fence behind it, but during a recent bout of gusty Scottish wind the binding popped) and has begun dropping some of his bones and gifts (feathers found in the yard, a bulb of early garlic that got accidentally pulled when I was weeding) I've painstakingly wedged between branches straight onto the altar top. I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to do with the second life gifts so everything got gathered and placed around my V. erect stone monument for safekeeping.

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(Lord only knows what my in-laws are going to think once they come back from their American sabbatical. <- I WILL ALSO KEEP YOU POSTED ON THIS SO WE CAN BOTH LAUGH AND CRY //TOGETHER//.)

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A lot of the gardening I do is intuitive - I'm too lazy and proud to read books or on-line tutorials (JESUS, READING - WHY?!) so I go with my gut feeling and learn through trial and error. The system works okay with NON-CHTHONIC vegetable and plants (BRIGHT, SOFT, SCENTED? TIME TO PICK!) but anything truly (and deeply!) underground is a whole new game.

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The great and wise INTRANETS told me that it's time to start harvesting garlic when the exposed plant is 1/2 to 2/3 withered'n'dry. (LOOKS ABOUT RIGHT, YO.) And, also, that it's best to stop watering them about two weeks before picking. (IT HASN'T RAINED IN THAT LONG, BUT WE WERE SCHEDULED FOR SOME - WHICH TURNED OUT TO BE TRUE SINCE I WOKE UP TODAY AND IT'S BEEN RAINING NON-STOP FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS - WHICH MEANT I NEEDED TO GET THEM OUT OF THE GROUND PRONTO.)

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With my elderflower champagne fermenting and the Shango (Bone) Tree altar cleaned I knelt on dry earth and dug my fingers into the course, sand-like soil and lovingly uprooted every single bulb of garlic until there was nothing left except a vast expanse of empty, black dirt. (MAGIC, BABY, PURE, WONDERFUL "I MADE THIS!" MAGIC.)

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Now to get those mofos braided together and curing...

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I steal what I can get away with. Since outside is still considered my father-in-law's territory I can't do any overt or deliberate gardening - if I want to grow something it has to be in a container. I've watched small patches of ground, over the course of several years, either succumb to the V. MUCH HATED trash heap phenomena (WHY CAN'T HE JUST THROW SHIT OUT? WHY DOES HE HAVE TO CREATE MINI-PILES OF TRASH THAT CLUTTER UP THE GARDEN?) or become completely abandoned until there's nothing left except an exposed section of earth with absolutely no growth whatsoever.

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Last year, around October, I stole a neglected, narrow stretch of land directly beneath our office/computer room window. Without asking I turned and prepped the dirt as Mr. Awesome suspiciously spied on me in the distance, and without asking, I planted cloves of hardneck garlic around Midwinter. (PLANT AT MIDWINTER AND GATHER A MIDSUMMER!) This year I properly stole his plum tree (aka The Shango (Bone) Tree) and created an altar at the base. And then I stole even more land - two small, raked over sections on either end of the wooden beams that he's left outside to rot. (AND ROT THEY HAVE, DEAR AND GENTLE READERS.)

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I gave him a chance, though. Early on in the year - hella early on - I weeded the jungle of a rock garden and removed two small trash piles and left the cleaned space to see what'd happen. And after four months of "nothing" I claimed the land and promptly planted a variety mix of basil. (I MEAN, WHAT'S HE GOING TO BITCH ABOUT? THAT I PLANTED SOMETHING THAT EVERYONE IN THE FAMILY CAN ENJOY IN A SPOT THAT WAS ONCE DEDICATED TO GARDEN TRASH? SRSLY, WHAT COULD HE POSSIBLY BITCH ABOUT? THAT I'VE STOPPED THE EROSION PROCESS THAT'S BEEN EATING AWAY AT THE GROUND NEXT TO THE "POND"? THAT I'VE HIDDEN DIRT BENEATH A BLANKET OF VEGETATED LIFE?)

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I wasn't sure if the seeds would germinate and the plants take since I literally raked up the exposed soil and sprinkled a thin layer of compost over it, but, HOT DAMN, they did which is crazy evident with the V. liberal sprinkling of butterfly winged seedlings. (MY FAVORITE ARE THE PURPLE ONES, AWW!)

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(One day, when I have time and the inclination to feel my blood pressure skyrocket, I'll tell you guys the story behind the garden's "pond". <- ANOTHER ONE OF MR. AWESOME'S PROJECTS THAT HE STARTED AND NEVER FINISHED. THE INCOMPLETE POND IS NEARLY - IF NOT - TWENTY YEARS OLD.)

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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH, SO //THIS// IS WERE I "STORED" THE HYACINTH BULBS I NABBED FROM MY MOTHER-IN-LAW'S BIRTHDAY PLANT ARRANGEMENT! (Uh...whoops?) BUT IT'S COOL AND AWESOME AND OKAY BECAUSE I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO MAKE THIS PARTICULAR SABBAT WINE THAT CALLS FOR FRESH HYACINTH FLOWERS AND HOW FUCKING COINCIDENTAL IS IT THAT IT BLOOMED AGAIN JUST AS I BEGAN MAKING HOMEMADE ELDERFLOWER CHAMPAGNE? CLEARLY IT'S A SIGN. (<- A sign to pluck every little hyacinth flower off the stalk and drop them into my fermenting moonshine, which, naturally, I did.)

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I totally regret not getting a BEFORE and AFTER picture of this effort. (I can still get the AFTER but it's raining right now so that particular photo's going to have to wait.) The wooden fence that runs along the hedge between our yard and the street has begun falling apart, literally. And since "home repair" now falls on us we decided to tackle the problem ourselves which involved prying off all of the boards along the section in order to prune back the undergrowth pushing against the wooden planks. I think we spent several hours pruning, cutting and clearing and the only picture I have to record the monumental change is a small portion of the hedge we cleared.

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The "stolen" and "narrow stretch of land" that runs beneath our office/computer room post-garlic harvest and post-weeding. (IT LOOKS SO SAD AND DEPRESSED WITHOUT ANY PLANTS! I'm planning on creating a proper witch's garden in this area (it's too shady for garlic which I'm going to grow in containers and in the local graveyard), but in the meantime I think I might fertilize the soil and sneak in a long row of early maturing pea plants...)

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MY LINE OF WITCH'S GARLIC HAS OFFICIALLY BEEN HARVESTED! (That calls for a harvest celebration, right? RIGHT? <- ANY EXCUSE TO CELEBRATE!) I need to braid these guys together and let them cure in a dry, dark place. Once they're cured I'll take pictures and write up an entry tracking the entire WITCH'S GARLIC process. (WATCH THIS SPACE!)

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We ended up gathering WAY, WAY more elderflower heads than needed. (I SWEAR ONE OF THE CHAMPAGNE RECIPES CALLED FOR 1 1/4 LBS OF ELDERFLOWERS!) The skankiest portion's been dried for bath use (I'm going to make a batch of industrial sized tea and add it to a SEX BATH for Italics and I), the nicer portion's being dried in my in-law's bedroom for medicinal and cosmetic use, and the best, most fragrant and beautiful heads were added to the champagne bucket. (<- I STILL NEED TO GET A PICTURE OF OUR FERMENTING VAT. <- "FERMENTING VAT" = ORANGE BONG BUCKET. I KNOW, I KNOW, THE LULZ.)

Buff-Tailed Bumblebee

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A (worker) Buff-Tailed bumblebee visits my courgette flowers.

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Thunder Moon Gardenia

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A single gardenia flowered in time for July's full moon.

Questions Asked

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How the fuck did I not hear this break? (Our bedroom overlooks the patio, where both Italics and I were sleeping with the window open. ONCE AGAIN, UNIVERSE, I MUST ASK THE QUESTION: HOW THE FUCK DID I NOT HEAR THIS BREAK?)

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Thankfully I haven't had a chance to plant the gooseberry bush in the container (it was just squatting looking pretty), so the only thing that I lost was a pretty ceramic pot. (HOW THE FUCK DIDN'T WE HEAR THAT THING SHATTER?)

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Eating Well Tonight

What's more awesome than getting a perfectly wonderful terrific gorgeous reduced to clear duck? When the perfectly wonderful terrific gorgeous reduced to clear duck comes with some of its innards.

  
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We weren't the only ones who ate well tonight. (Go on, baby, you deserve it.)

Accidental Altar

You know how sometimes when cleaning you throw everything you don't know what the fuck to do with in one room with the grudging acceptance that you're creating a new mess, but at least it's contained in one room that you can kind've sort've ignore?

(OH, I KNOW YOU DO. THE VERY BEST, VERY ANAL OF US DO IT. <- UH OH, I THINK I JUST SPOILED THE ANCIENT SECRET OF WOMEN'S MYSTERIES. IF THE GREAT CHTHONIC CREATRIX AND DESTRUCTORIX ASKS, IT //WASN'T ME//, OKAY? I'M ALREADY ON PROBATION FOR ONLY HALF FINISHING HIEROS GAMOS.)

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It started with Papa's incense burner. (IT ALMOST //ALWAYS// STARTS WITH PAPA, RIGHT OLD MAN? *nudge nudge, wink wink*) When roasting marrows and cooking the lamb-tomato-spices filling for dinner I thought "OH, HEY, IN-LAWS ARE GONE FOR A FEW DAYS, MIGHT AS WELL ROCK THE HOUSE WITH INCENSE AS MUCH AS I CAN" and dragged the doorstop of an incense burner through to the kitchen.

(I SLEEP WITH A MACHETE NEXT TO THE BED IN CASE WE EVER GET ATTACKED BY ZOMBIES, I SLEEP WITH THE RESIN INCENSE HOLDER NEXT TO THE BED IN CASE WE EVER GET ATTACKED BY A BURGLAR. <- BECAUSE THE LAST THING A CRIMINAL WANTS TO SEE IS THE MATRIARCH OF THE HOUSE (THE MATRIARCH WITH A V. V. V. SHORT FUSE; I AM ARIES, HEAR ME ROAR TEAR OUR YOUR THROAT WITH MY BARE TEETH), BUCK NAKED, SWINGING A HEAD SHOP BOUGHT SKULL BURNER LIKE A NEOLITHIC STONE AXE.)

Too lazy to return it to its rightful place (I'M ANAL AND LAZY, WHORE AND VIRGIN, CHILD AND OLD WOMAN; BLAME GEMINI IN MY VENUS) I dropped it off on the coffee table in the backroom.

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Later on Italics pruned our, uh, houseplants in the bathroom and left the leaves on the cutting board so I could dry them out and store them. (They aren't psychoactive, but still useful in a symbolic/representative sort've way and I've been meaning to grind up our dried leaves to add to incense and things.)

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While he was hacking away I was outside in the back doing my nudist gardening thing in the sun (I TAKE IT BACK; I WORE ONE ITEM OF CLOTHING - A MOTHERFUCKING SPORTS BRA) moving container vegetables around (sub-arctic tomatoes went outside into the bonsai house, so I tossed their plastic coasters onto coffee table), planting newly arrived seeds (cucumbers, parsley and thyme), sweeping the patio floor with a small dust pan brush, weeding my herb containers, planting out seedlings from trays (sweet peas and sunflowers), moving acclimated trees'n'plants to get better sun and arranging everything in a visually pleasing manner.

(TRANSLATION: SYMMETRICAL, UNINTENTIONAL OUTSIDE ALTAR CONSISTING OF CONTAINER TREES, PLANTS, VEGETABLES AND FLOWERS.)

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The glass cutting board and leaves got absently moved into the backroom as I got ready for a shower (post gardening, pre-realization of how red this partial red man...er, uh...woman, red WOman really was) but before I could climb into the tub Papa began a-pattin' my shoulder to remind me that OH, HEY, YOU PROMISED ME A PIECE OF THAT HOMEMADE PIE, BABY GIRL. So, still sweaty, light-headed and covered in dirt I cut him the promised piece and left it on top of the leaves on top of the cutting board which was on top of the table.

(When I'm not making a big production of offering food to ancestors, deceased friends and relatives or our incorporeal housemates I usually leave a plate of food in the backroom which Italics and I use as our private lounge area and greenhouse. <- GARDENING, BOARD GAMES, TURNTABLE, RECORDS, BOOKS, TV AND VIDEO GAMES; I THINK EVERYTHING "VISITING" HAS SOME INTEREST COVERED. <- AS IF "FREE, HOMEMADE FOOD" WASN'T ENOUGH.)

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Once it dawned on me how badly I had been burned I bee-lined to my recently deceased aloe plant (someone - "SOMEONE" = NOT ME, NOT ITALICS, NOT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, BUT MY FATHER-IN-LAW, MR. AWESOME, NOT TO NAME NAMES, OR ANYTHING - moved my aloe into the dark and rather than start WW III I didn't say anything or do anything and it cost me my goddamn plant) and shook out a handful of plump leaves to cut open and apply to my skin. I only needed one, so the rest got dumped on the last uncluttered corner of the table.

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Because I find straight-up aloe vera gel a little sticky I concocted a massage oil (an organic baby oil with an addition of rosehip seed oil) in my communion cup for Italics to rub me down with before applying aloe. I took my paring knife through so he could cut a small portion from a leaf rather than bruise it by breaking one off. Once anointed (LOL!) I threw the knife, used section of leaf and oil filled cup onto the (now V. familiar, no doubt) backroom coffee table.

(LOOK, THE KITCHEN'S ON THE //OTHER SIDE// OF THE HOUSE, THE BACKROOM RIGHT NEXT TO OUR BEDROOM - I'M HUMAN, AND EVEN BEING PARTIALLY DIVINE I HAVE MY HUMAN TRAPPINGS AND FAULTS TO WRESTLE WITH. <- SOMETIMES THE PARTIAL DIVINE JUST WANTS TO GET INTO BED ASAP WITH A LAPTOP TO CATCH UP ON THE DAILY SHOW AND COLBERT REPORT, OKAY? I'M A WEAK THING CONSTRAINED BY THE WEIGHT OF HUMAN EMOTIONS...OR SOMETHING, HEH HEH.)

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At day break, the morning after, I found three feathers at the foot of the mostly-practically-done outside container altar. Seeing as how I consecrated the place with an offering of flesh (sunburned) and blood (scraped my knuckles against concrete and bled onto the patio) - OLD TESTAMENT FIGURATIVE? OH WHY NOT! - I thought there was something significant about the three perfect, downy white feathers sitting on on a surface that I had sweated, bled and exerted control/energy over the day prior.

(Three white feathers - three wishes, three curses? Who knows, only time will tell. They'll get squirreled away with everything else and added to my growing collection of dehydrated animals parts (blackbird feet and wings, hedgehog skins, rabbit skulls with teeth...), rusted junk found while walking through the countryside and various graveyard dirts.)

(OH, HONEY, YES, I'M //THAT// SORT'VE WITCH - THE KIND THAT MAKES THERMITE FROM OLD FARMING EQUIPMENT. <- LOL!)

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You know how something can just appear out of NOTHING? First it wasn't there and then, by a miracle of God and ALL THAT IS HOLY ZOMG, it suddenly exists. (OKAY, OKAY, SO IN THIS INSTANCE IT WAS ROUGHLY 48 HOURS IN THE MAKING, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. <- I THINK WE'VE ALREADY ESTABLISHED THAT YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT I MEAN BY PARAGRAPH TWO.)

Before the white feathers rolled out of my palm and onto the tiled surface of the table it was just the backroom coffee table filled with "OH, GOD, I'LL JUST DEAL WITH IT //LATER//", but the second the feathers fell into a neat pile on 70s ceramic? "HOLY FUCKING SHIT, DUDE, THIS ISN'T A...HOW THE HELL DID IT...MAYBE I'M JUST SEEING THINGS FROM THIS ANGLE..."

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"...OR MAYBE I'M NOT."

(Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooooo accidental altar born from my subconscious and lack of motivation! HOW ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING TO DRINK, OR MAYBE SOME CANDLES? <- LOL!)

I'm pretty hawk-eyed about shit but, somehow, this one managed to slip beneath my radar. Now to turn this mystery around on its axis - all Rubik's Cube-style - to see if I can solve this riddle I left for myself.

May 27th Walk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

...

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cycle of the Sycamore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dilemmas INC.

This period I'm bleeding for every woman who doesn't shed her uterine lining anymore. Srsly. (At least the plants should be super crazy happy once I strain my rags and get around to watering them with the blood rich mix.)

And, on top of it, I'm cramping and horny AND THERE ISN'T ENOUGH POT (READ: ANY POT) IN THE HOUSE TO TACKLE ONE OF THOSE DILEMMAS MUCH LESS BOTH, SIGH. ("JUST STOP THINKING SEXY THOUGHTS, JUST STOP THINKING SEXY THOUGHTS, JUST STOP THINKING SEXY THOUGHTS...")

Baby Book

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Academic Exodus

When I first got up this morning I slowly began piecing together an entry to record our Beltane festivities (I always resize, sharpen and upload pictures to Flickr first, then prep the images with all of the necessary coding within a drafted entry before HI-LAR-R-IOUS commentary is even added), but the closer I got to writing the more I began glancing out the window.

("THE SUN, IT'S STILL THERE, RIGHT? RIGHT? IT'S NOT GETTING TOO OVERCAST, IS IT? NO, PHEW, I GOT SOME MORE TIME. I'LL HAVE ANOTHER CUP OF TEA AND TRY TO GET INTO THE MINDSET OF WRITING SOMETHING. WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, LET ME CHECK TO MAKE SURE THE SUN'S STILL UNOBSTRUCTED AGAIN...")

There's no point in fighting the inevitable; I'm forgoing writing, again, so I can work outside in the dirtyard. (I've been allowed a narrow stretch of land hugging the edge of the sidewalk which I've been digging up to loosen the earth, mix in manure and sift out any rocks, pebbles and debris.) Christ only knows how long this decent patch of weather is going to last, so I'm going to make the most of it and resunburn my already sunburned ass. (LITERALLY, I HAVE A BELLY UP RED CRESCENT JUST ABOVE MY ASS STRETCHING FROM HIP TO HIP.)

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Yesterday the majority of garden work happened in the backyard, but I'll cover that later since I still need to take pictures of the progress. (OH, WE PLANTED THREE THREES, CREATED A PEA POLE TEPEE, RE-POTTED A GIFTED PLANT, PLANTED SOME VEGETABLES AND WATERED, WATERED, WATERED.) Just before work began I took a few minutes to snap pictures of my favorite clump of lilies of the valley that still grace the garden in the back.

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Growing up my best friend was N who lived on the OTHER side of the border. (Our final move away from Chicago was to a tiny village in IL just a mile off the WI border. N and her family lived on a small farm in WI just a mile off the IL border. If the state line hadn't divided us we would've gone to the same elementary and high school; that's how short the distance was between our respective homes.)

As boring as it must've been for her we always played at her house. (DUDE, SHE LIVED ON A //FARM// THAT BACKED INTO CORN FIELDS AND MIDWESTERN HEDGEROWS.) And "playing" usually involved the great outdoors, long walks across tilled fields (we adhered to the strict "WE CAN GO WHEREVER WE WANT PROVIDED WE NEVER, EVER CROSS AN ASPHALT ROAD" code of rural children) and an insane amount of mud. (I'M NOT A SEX PIG FOR NOTHING.)

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As a child you live in two alternate realities simultaneously - the academic year and the natural, seasonal year. When you're young the two move in synch, allowing you to coexist in separate realities. With one foot in each world you're able to see, when combined, how the parallel existences compliment one another. When the natural world was in transition, something was happening in school. Significant dates in school usually marked a period of metamorphosis in the cycle of the seasons.

When the first lilies of the valley appeared beneath the rolling, hunched branches of old trees (where sunlight dappled instead of shined) we knew that soon - very soon - school would be over and we'd be released into the freedom the budding Midwestern summer. When the first of the bramble berries were ripe we weren't captives of the academic year; we were ruled by the law and order of the natural world bursting with life around us. (Until the last week of August when, once again, we relearned how to straddle both worlds; just like riding a bike, but you begin to resent and loathe the bike more and more the older you get.)

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I'm almost thirty now (LORD JESUS IN HEAVEN, THAT HAPPENS NEXT YEAR) and Sunday evenings still make me moody; Friday afternoons still elate me. And the sight of lilies of the valley? They still look like the promise of freedom.

Now, though, I don't need a fistful of white, silent bells as a reminder of the exodus to come. (This ass sauntered out of Egypt long, long ago.) When you're no longer ruled by the academic year you don't need to pick flowers to celebrate the death of another school year. You can enjoy them, sitting back, remembering how they were foraged long ago as a primitive ritual of prayer and hope for the end that was so near.

(Can you still remember what the last day(s) of elementary school felt like? As long as there are lilies of the valley growing in shaded seclusion I'll never forget.)

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Last summer Mr. Awesome (my father-in-law, just in case you two haven't been formally introduced) "cleaned out" the backyard. In doing so he chopped down the majority of the foliage that provided a natural backdrop of privacy between the backyard/garden and the street (when healthy and thick it provides amble cover for me to float around the tiny space nude), killed off whatever grass remained (a backyard with no lawn to match the front which is nothing but dirt), filled in almost every empty space with trees and shrugs in plastic bags, threw out Spring bulbs that Italics had bought me as a gift (I managed to enjoy them for one season before he raided my containers and pots, throwing away plants, bulbs and trees without notifying or asking me) and dug up and discarded the majority of the lilies of the valley that were planted nearly twenty years ago.

The clump of the lilies of the valley above are the only ones that survived the GREAT GARDEN HOLOCAUST OF 2008. My heart broke, as stupid as it sounds, to see everything ripped out, torn up and, without even a thought of saving to replant later, unceremoniously thrown out. But, technically, it isn't my garden, so decisions aren't made democratically amongst the four adults who live and, supposedly, share communal areas.

(Christ, I didn't even have the right to SAVE MY OWN PLANTS - SOME OF WHICH WERE GIFTS ITALICS BOUGHT ME - LET ALONE PUT MY FOOT DOWN AND SAY "NO, YOU CAN'T USE WEED KILLER TO KILL THE LAST OF THE GRASS IN THE BACKYARD". Sometimes I get the feeling that all my in-laws ever want to hear from me is "I MADE YOU GUYS DINNER" and "I JUST FINISHED CLEANING XXX" and if I only stayed in those two areas - cooking and cleaning for everyone - we wouldn't have any problems. Unfortunately, this isn't a fairytale and I ain't no fucking Cinderella.)

Arctic River

This Spring's been an arctic river overflowing with winter run-off. Fast moving, non-negotiable waters thunder past my legs pushing, pulling and sweeping me away with the charging current. There's no use fighting the tidal wave of lightening movement, so I haven't tried. (No struggling means freedom, even when lost amongst the tumbling chaos, and with my attention undistracted I can almost catch all of the beautiful, awe inducing gems the season's hidden away just for me.)

(IN OTHER WORDS, I'VE BEEN SO GODDAMN BUSY FOR THE PAST THREE WEEKS DUE TO SPRING RELATED ACTIVITIES THAT I'VE HAD TO RELY ON MY BRAND NEW BIRTHDAY CAMERA AS A DIARY.)

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Late last year I stole a narrow stretch of waste ground where I loosened the earth and haphazardly planted over three heads of garlic. (I didn't think it'd work, but it DID.) Very early in February there were suspicious shoots popping up in a semi-neat row, and now, at the very end of April, this is what it looks like. Next year? Next year I'll try even //harder//. (Any more effort than I originally expended would already be an improvement. Srsly.)

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No signs of scrapes yet. (Once the garlic is ready to flower it grows out a tentacle - the scrape - which'll eventually blossom. To encourage bulb growth you need to cut the scrape before it flowers so the energy is diverted below.) But, baby, once those fuckers pop up it'll be garlic scrape pesto time...

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Sections of Aberdeen were built on a hill, so a part of it slopes down at a slow angle and is only disturbed by stairs and old buildings. Wild city rabbits live in any patch of green (along roadsides, next to towering blocks of apartments and in cemeteries) and as we were cutting through lanes and streets and alleys to get to our dinner reservation, we saw that the rabbits had already beaten us to Sunday dinner.

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I always feel stupidly disappointed when wild animals don't respond to my ANIMAL SPEAK. (ANIMAL SPEAK = PURSING LIPS TOGETHER AND SUCKING AIR IN JUST A LITTLE TO MAKE A SQUEAKING SOUND.) Italics and I have spent years developing ANIMAL SPEAK since our first pair of rats, Ann and Nancy (after Heart, although Nancy was the one who got fat out of the pair).

Animal Speak gets used when I want to attract the attention of the rats (they know it's my COME HERE RIGHT NOW or FOOD PEOPLE HAS FOOD or I WANT TO SEE YOUR LITTLE RAT FACES voice), but it'll also work on wild animals - they cock their head, blink and then give you a straight up WHAT THE FUCK? expression.

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Last year we celebrated the winter solstice by renting a hotel room and staying in town overnight. (Aberdeen's roughly 15 minutes away from us; we're in a subdivision in the shire where it's mostly rural.) Even though we were running late we took a few minutes in the privacy of the alley to take some pictures.

(AND WHEN I SAY "TAKE SOME PICTURES" I MEAN, "GET HIGH BEFORE EATING A RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF CHINESE FOOD AND, ALSO, TAKE SOME PICTURES".)

The above picture was taken mid-April (spring!), and THIS HERE PICTURE was taken mid-December (winter!); both show Marischal College's tower erupting in the background.

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In the few instances we've used the stairs as a shortcut we were always on schedule for something. This past trip, however, we were running early so we were able to loiter more leisurely around ancient brick and stone.

While Italics was trying to get our pipe working (JOINTS ARE NICE IN A SUPERFICIAL VISUAL WAY, BUT WASTEFUL - AND, ALSO, I DON'T LIKE MY FINGER SMELLING LIKE CIGARETTES) I noticed, for the first time, that there was writing on the wall.

(I have NO idea what it means, but Aberdeen's known for keeping crazy ass insane records, so it should be easy to find out the history behind the engravings.)

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I don't know anything about this church other than it's OLD, OLD, OLD (you can tell by the structure of the buildings attached to it, and the look of the building materials) and IT'S ANOTHER ABERDEEN CHURCH (you guys would not believe how many fucking churches there are in the city). I haven't made my way up to visit it, but I do intend to...eventually. (To see the church at night in winter click on THIS HERE LINK.)

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I chose this little Italian cafe place for my belated birthday dinner. Despite being absolutely desperate for a pizza (I'VE TOLD ITALICS V. BLATANTLY AND WITHOUT ANY SUBTLETY THAT I'M WILLING TO PROVIDE SEXUAL FAVORS FOR A REALLY FUCKING GOOD PIZZA; YOU JUST CAN'T GET THE PIZZA I WANT HERE IN SCOTLAND) I saw that they served veal Marsala and my Evil Queen heart (I ALSO WEAR FUR. THAT'S RIGHT - I EAT VEAL AND WEAR FUR AND ADMIT TO BOTH; CRUCIFY OR WORSHIP ME AS YOU PLEASE.) skipped a beat and all notion of pizza was gone.

Italics, either up for the challenge or hoping to fill the pizza void in my Chicago-born heart, ordered a calzone. The picture above does absolutely no justice to the sheer size of the fucking monster; that plate could fit a decapitated head on it easily - EASILY. My veal? A little tough due to being overcooked, but the Marsala sauce was exquisite. Their cured meats (our starter) were terrific, but the Tiramisu was only so-so (they put a layer of jam, or something, through the dessert, but it tasted like apricot-flavored petroleum jelly at best, and apricot-flavored toothpaste gel at worst).

The coffee? To fucking die for. (It was seriously the star of the evening.)

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By the time we saw a movie, walked up from the beach, had dinner and returned back to the hotel it was edging just past nine in the evening. I had to keep a straight face while gnawing on a inner cheek when I noticed that our hotel neighbors opposite of us, despite having two trash cans in the room, decided to discard their take-away garbage in the hall.

(LOL, CLASSY! I ESPECIALLY LOVE HOW THEY HUNG THE "DO NOT DISTURB" SIGN. OH, POOR PEOPLE, YOU'RE AN ENDLESS SOURCE OF DISGUSTED AMUSEMENT FOR ME. PS: THIS PICTURE'S BLURRED BECAUSE I FORCED ITALICS TO GO BACK OUTSIDE AND TAKE A PICTURE AND AS HE WAS DOING SO ONE OF THE OCCUPANTS BEGAN OPENING THEIR ROOM DOOR.)

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Italics didn't know that I packed away my blond wig, a pair of knee high socks and my cheerleader outfit for fun later that night. I posed, for a second, in his semi-new sort've Indiana Jones BUT NOT REALLY jacket, and the whole cheerleader thing went out the window. (FIGURATIVELY, I MEAN. DO YOU KNOW HOW EXPENSIVE NICE WIGS ARE? JESUS.)

After dinner entertainment was wearing my husband's jacket and nothing else (WAIT, I TAKE THAT BACK - I WAS STILL WEARING A BRA!) and the "movie" mode on our recently retired digital camera. (I was feeling the affects of the coffee - even though it had been a decaf - so I needed a visit from THE FIREMEN to soothe the affects of GERD. <- LAUGH NOW, BUT WAIT UNTIL YOUR OVERLY ACIDIC STOMACH IS IN DIRE NEED OF A SHOT OF SOMETHING ALKALINE TO CALM IRRITATION.)

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This is a shot of Union Street running down into Castlegate (the smaller, secondary looking castle in the middle of the picture) in downtown Aberdeen taken by Italics the morning after our belated birthday celebrations. (IT STARTED WITH HIS JACKET, AND ENDED WITH A CHIPPER AND A BAG OF MALTEASERS IN BED.)

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Aberdeen, to the naked eye, appears to have been built around a church (St. Nicholas) and its graveyard. This is a picture of the more formal entrance to the kirkyard which is used as a thoroughfare and public park. (I've never seen people so happily sit on green cemetery grass like they were visiting a botanic garden until St. Nicholas.)

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"Marischal College is a building in the Scottish city of Aberdeen belonging to the University of Aberdeen. It was formerly an independent university in its own right. A significant portion of the building is currently leased on a long-term basis to Aberdeen City Council for office space. As well as being the tallest building in Aberdeen, it is also the second largest granite building in the world."

Oh, Wiki, you're a blessing to this lazy shell of a human being! (View right outside the newest Starbucks in town.)

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Since the St. Nicholas kirkyard is in the center of the city, it's one of the best semi-private places to have a joint before galloping off to diner. Our preferred spot is near Mr. Alex Fullerton, Druggist, which is wonderfully aged and picturesque on gloriously sunny days. (LOLOLOL, I KNOW. WE ONLY REALIZED THE "DRUGGIST" PART SORT'VE RECENTLY.)

When a friend who's involved in medicine and health care requested some graveyard dirt I immediately knew whose grave the dirt was coming off of. (NOTE TO SELF: In return you left one of the red-dyed Easter eggs (Ukrainians, in the olden days, left red eggs at the graves of ancestors and friends to encourage reincarnation and resurrection) and a gold foiled chocolate coin.)

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This is the infamous dirtyard, post-crocus season. (IT HAS SERIOUSLY SAT LIKE THIS FOR OVER THREE YEARS NOW.) I took this picture just before I went to work with a flattened box of cereal and a spade to mark the strip where I intended to plant carrots and beets. Unfortunately, the street extends too far beneath the soil so some of the chthonic vegetables I wanted to grow in the dirtyard (carrots!) will have to be planted elsewhere.

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Last year my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, threw away all of my spring bulbs that Italics had given me as a gift. (IN THIS HOUSE, HE GETS TO DECIDE WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR THINGS.) He never apologized or acknowledged that he had thrown away another gift (or ashes that belonged to my mother, or an anniversary gift I was making for Italics, or...) so Italics stepped in and bought me another round of bulbs.

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"Richly coloured tulip of burnt orange-red with petal edges of yellow-gold."

One of my favorite parts of Spring is watching the giant, almost unbelievable changes that seem to happen overnight. One day tulips are tight, pursed buds; the next they've unfurled with a gasp for fresh air. Transformations always seem so immediate during the season of renewal.

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Oh, nasty ass Starlings, I love how you don't give a fuck about me even if I'm outside doing gardening work next to your bird food. (Nothing comes between you and the food I put out for you guys, NOTHING.)

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When planting out CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE Spring flowers last fall (grape hyacinths, dwarf irises, dwarf tulips, tulips and daffodils) I discovered a handful of mysterious bulbs hidden deep within a dirt filled container. I rescued them (they were buried too deep to properly sprout, Christ only knows how long they've just sat in that plastic bucket) and relocated them to the container with my Finnish poppies. This Spring solved the mystery; they're Narcissus, and they smell like heaven.

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Whenever I cook with Italics there's always a fifty percent chance of ass.

(This is our third batch of Cowboy Bread (sort've like a flour tortilla meets pita bread) - THE BEST YET! - after its first rise. Italics is dividing the dough into eight smaller portions so after the second rise we can roll them out and "bake" them in a skillet.)

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The Cowboy Bread's risen twice, rolled out and then pan-fried in olive oil until golden spots appear. (We made two super huge ones - the size the recipe suggests - and then halved the other portions so they were more pita than giant, fluffy flour tortillas.)

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Once cooked-baked-fried you shove the flat bread(s) into a ziploc bag, or cover them with a damp towel, so the steam keeps them soft and pliable. (We never got around to artfully arranging them on a plate for SRS FOOD PHOTOGRAPHY because all we wanted to do was tear into the fuckers and shovel hummus into our mouths.)

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Shango blossoms on the Shango (Bone) Tree. (Technically, Mr. Awesome (my father-in-law) owns the tree, but I adopted it a few years back and have been gradually and systematically exerting control over it.)

Two years ago - the first REAL year I started getting V. serious about all of this magic business - the Shango Tree (a plum tree), bore fruit. Thanks to everyone's complete disinterest in the the garden I was able to secretly reap the reward and ritually consumed the tree-ripened plums without having to share.

I was so swept up in foraging hedonism that I didn't occur to me to KEEP THE FUCKING PITS SO I COULD GROW NEW SHANGO (BONE) TREES FROM SEED. I kicked myself for fucking MONTHS for discarding the pits and anxiously waited for the next growing season to roll around. And what did the tree do last year? NOT FLOWER, OBVIOUSLY. (No flowers = no fruit; no fruit = no seeds; no seeds = no new Shango (Bone) Trees.)

I spent all of last year coaxing it to flower (everything from leaving offerings of food, watering it by hand almost every other day, laying my hands on the tree and giving it some Barry White vocal love) this year, and all of that effort paid off. (Although it would've been A LOT MORE AWESOME if the Shango (Bone) Tree hadn't decided to stick out the ONE FLOWERING BRANCH IT PRODUCED like a fucking flasher with an erection. <- WAY TO ATTRACT MR. AWESOME'S ATTENTION, S(B)T! WHATEVER HAPPENED TO SUBTLE MAGIC? JESUS.)

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I can't remember a time when Scotland wasn't washed with some sort of green. Even in winter the wild azaleas and mosses and lichen and holly trees retain their vibrant colors. It takes late Spring to alter my perception of "green".

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We're on route to the cemetery and stove to leave belated Easter offerings, passing pasture land, green wheat fields and weathered stone walls. With every new walk to the kirkyard the landscape gets more green and alive.

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There's a hedge of ancient beeches that outline an entire side of pasture which touches the crumbling wall that runs in front of the ruined church (with the abandoned walled garden in the background) and the back of the local cemetery. Discarded in the line of trees is this old water trough (or at least that's what I //think// it is) which we call "the stove".

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Even though the metal's rusted and old the hinge and latch work perfectly, which allowed me to safely hide roadkill (a rabbit, fresh and in near pristine condition) last autumn when we were stealing potatoes out of a local potato field. (I didn't want to bang up the rabbit while we scrambled over walls and frantically dug up potatoes from an agricultural field at six in the morning.)

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There comes a point, every year around Spring, where non-perishable food offerings begin taking over the house. When we begin feeling claustrophobic we know it's time to visit "the stove" and leave the offerings to their Fate*; we've been doing that for two or three years now.

(* IN OTHER WORDS - WE LEAVE IT FOR OUR ANCESTORS, BUT KNOW THAT THE INDIGENOUS WILDLIFE WILL ALSO BE ENJOYING THE SPREAD.)

This Easter season, while I was flipping through one of my Ukrainian cookbooks, I stumbled across a passage explaining several ancient customs Ukies observed around Easter. Apparently, long ago, food was deliberately left IN A STOVE as an offering to feed and sustain ancestors, relatives and friends who have passed on. (WE ARE SO ON THE BALL WITH SOME OF THIS SHIT THAT SOMETIMES IT SCARES ME.)

(NOTE TO SELF: This is the first year you put individual Paska/Babka for loved ones who died since last Easter (i.e., Hezbollah, Beh and Didi) in the stove rather than at the cairn in the cemetery.)

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It took until LAST FUCKING YEAR for me to even notice there was a wild gooseberry bush growing in the ruins of the church. By the time I realized what the shrub was the berries were the size of quail eggs. (I AM SO NOT JOKING IN THE SLIGHTEST; THIS BUSH HAS GOT SOME SERIOUS JUNK ON IT.)

Unfortunately, I was hella, hella sick last year (bedridden due to symptoms and ailments that's baffled the medical community and put me in the very familiar category of "atypical") so by the time I was well enough to leave the house the animals had enjoyed every ball-sized gooseberry and left none for me, SIGH.

(Behind the bush you can see one of the walls and doors of the abandoned wall garden directly behind the ruins of the small church.)

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When I was a kid and running naked through Midwestern waste fields and woodlands I could name almost every flowering plant I ran across. Finding something totally new felt like discovering new species of previously unidentified vegetated life.

That excitement and drive totally disappeared around the time I started high school, but resurfaced recently (just over ten years later) the deeper I got into indigenous folklore. If I haven't misidentified it, this is Green Alkanet (in the same family as good ole Borage) and it grows rampant in the space between the NEW OLD CRUMBLING WALL and the OLD OLD NOT SO CRUMBING WALL.

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Until last year it was an absolute mystery where they were burying the majority of the recently deceased. As it turns out, what I thought was a community football pitch was the new section of the cemetery. (There aren't a lot of headstones, and they're way, way in the far corner of the very long stretch of land. Until you're physically in the open space it's difficult to tell there are bodies actually buried there.)

This was post-stove and pre-cairn, just before we hopped over the road and had lunch in an open meadow beneath an oak tree. Two fields and a line of trees over you can see a man-made loch created a very long time ago.

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The stone wall neatly bordering the graves in the background is the wall that separates the cemetery from the pasture field which touches the hedge of beech trees and ruined church. This is the new portion of the old cemetery, where Muriel and the nun are buried.

Our visit to the kirkyard had to be quick on this occasion because hired help were mowing the lawn. (HOW AWESOME OF A JOB IS THAT? MOWING THE VELVETY SOFT LAWN OF AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH CEMETERY ON A GLORIOUS SPRING DAY? HOLY SHIT, DUDE, WHERE DO //I// SIGN UP FOR THAT GIG?)

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I HAVE NOT HAD "NORMAL" SEX SINCE FUCKING MARDI GRAS. When the GREAT RITE was celebrated it was celebrated IN MY ASS, so since Easter Sunday we've been joking that I'm only half married (OR PERHAPS "ASS MARRIED"?) and that I'll remain only partially married until ACTUAL VAGINAL PENETRATION IS MADE.

Because I'm so good at making things difficult I suggested we wait to have "normal" sex until we can have sex in the same wheat field where we reaped last year for the first time. (IT MAKES SENSE, RIGHT? IF I'M REAPING AND HARVESTING THE FRUIT, I BETTER BE FERTILIZING THE LAND TOO, YO.)

Content with the half he married (THE ASS HALF, IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN) he agreed, so we're now just waiting for the right moment (i.e., WHEN WE HAVE POT, WHEN IT'S DRY AND WHEN IT'S DARK ENOUGH) to finish the rite we started on April 12th.

(My idea is to have sex in the space between the two wooden posts, effectively performing Hieros Gamos on and in the threshold of a "door". If not there there's always an unused water trough right next to it...)

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The very first local Spring lambs we saw were a pair of black kids. (Ever since Imbolc I've been meaning to leave an offering of oats to the lactating sheep but I never got a chance.) (LAMBS HAVE A PECULIAR AVERSION TO FACTORY PRODUCED STRAWBERRY-FLAVORED MARSHMALLOWS. I, UH, READ THAT SOMEWHERE ON THE NET, OR SOMETHING.)

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OH, SKELETON ZOMBIE I WANTED TO TAKE YOU HOME WITH ME, OR AT LEAST TAKE YOU TO SEE A MOVIE. (BUT IT'S PROBABLY GOOD THAT I DIDN'T SINCE MONSTERS VERSUS ALIENS, EVEN IN 3-D, WAS SHOCKINGLY SHIT, EVEN WHEN REALLY, REALLY HIGH.)

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I think they must've recently painted and decorated the Haunted Mansion because I don't remember it ever looking so fresh and new. (ONE OF THESE DAYS I'LL FORCE ITALICS TO BUY SIX TOKENS SO I CAN SEE WHAT THE HAUNTED MANSION'S ALL ABOUT.)

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I wish I could remember more of this day. I know we saw two movies (I Love You Man and Monsters Versus Aliens), I know we went out to eat (Jack Daniel's Monterey Burger at TGI Friday's) and I know we visited the shoreline twice to get high (once before eating and once again before the second movie).

I also know that I realized something, or said something, or Italics said something - THERE WAS SOMETHING THAT SEEMED OBVIOUS - but now I can't remember what IT was. ("Zoe" was scribbled into the sand, which, if I remember right, means "life" in Greek, and seeing the name/word and even being able to translate it somehow felt significant.)

I poured fresh water on wet, salty sand as an offering, and it left the impression of a dick with balls. Cruelly, the camera's battery died just before I was able to secure a picture of my sand cock. (OH, MAGIC, SOMETIMES YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED.)

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This is my fat little bizza bear, Shoney, who's pretty sure that my camera might be food. (DON'T TELL HER IT ISN'T, OTHERWISE SHE MIGHT NOT BOTHER SITTING STILL THE NEXT TIME I SHOVE IT IN HER FACE.)

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OH, BEGGAR RAT SISTERS, LOOKING FOR A FOOD HANDOUT WHILE LOITERING IN MY COMPUTER DESK. (My lap's the bridge between two hollowed out spaces in my desk so there's constant rat traffic streaming back and forth when there's a suspicion of food.)

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The trio of rats we have now - Wuzza (Denny's), Choney (Shoney's) and Shakey (Shakey's Pizza) - are damn near impossible to take pictures of. All the other generations of rat roommates we had managed to sit still longer than three seconds which allowed us to build a library of photos. These guys? They've been restricted to "movie" mode on the camera because they're always just a blur of motion in anything remotely resembling a picture.

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Within a day of noticing that I turned over earth in the dirtyard to possibly plant some carrots and beets Mr. Awesome drove through the dirt with a car leaving two very distinct tire marks across the strip of land I had marked in the soil.

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We've had the dirtyard for years. (AND WHEN I MEAN "YEARS" I MEAN "AT LEAST THREE, PROBABLY FOUR".) After several years of no obvious intent I decided if I can't plant grass I might as well make use of the available dirt and grow some vegetables. After several years of no obvious intent my father-in-law suddenly DROVE OVER THE EXACT SPOT WHERE I HAD BEGUN MAKING A ROW FOR BEETS. (Should I take that as a hint?)

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The thing about this NEW DRIVEWAY he's created is that UP UNTIL THIS POINT - THE POINT WHERE I MADE AN OBVIOUS MOVE TO CLAIM SOME UNUSED DIRT - HE'S NEVER, EVER DRIVEN OVER WHAT IS, EFFECTIVELY, THE FRONT YARD.

I don't know what's changed, if he's acting out or if it was a honest necessity when he found he couldn't maneuver any other way out of the driveway. At any rate, it isn't exactly an auspicious start to my adventure into creating a dirtyard vegetable patch.

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You know to expect some MAN BEHAVIOR when your husband helps you with the Spring gardening. I was instructed to sit still as Italics ran for the camera to document how perfectly he dropped a Sharpie down my pants on his first try. (OH HEY, I'M WEARING UNDERWEAR FOR ONCE! EVEN IF IT IS A PAIR OF BOXERS.)

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Oh, we do horrible, awful things to our Lindt Easter bunnies. This white chocolate one, for instance, graced our Easter basket this year which was blessed at a special church service on Holy Saturday. Even divine intervention couldn't save him (her?) from the melting pot when it came time to make Chex Muddy Buddies. (The giant dark chocolate rabbit? Oh, his (her?) fate's already been determined - dark chocolate brownies.)

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My inside outside vegetable garden post-growing closet and pre-bonsai house. (Once the plants get too big in the confined space of the closet they get repotted and moved to the backroom where they'll sit for a few weeks to bulk up before being relocated to the bonsai house to become acclimated to outside temperatures.)

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There are two other fruit trees other than the Shango (Bone) Tree trained against a wooden fence in the backyard. One of them is an apple tree, but I can't remember what the other one - the one pictured above - is. It might be another apple, or it might be another plum. Either way, it's getting some extra love this year to encourage the flowers to fruit.

(In the background you can see all of Mr. Awesome's bonsai trees and shrubs that he said would only sit in the backyard for a few weeks. That? That was last year. And on top of that, he killed off all the grass in the backyard - after digging it all up in the front yard - so we literally had NO LAWN to sit on last year during summer.)

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WHOOPS, I FORGOT I HAD ALREADY TAKEN A PICTURE OF THE SHANGO BLOSSOMS ON THE SHANGO (BONE) TREE! (This one was taken about a week after the first one. Nearly a week after THAT the petals of the plum blossoms are almost gone, and whatever remains is hidden behind leafy buds that get bigger every day.)

BEAR ME FRUIT, DAMMIT, I'VE MASSAGED YOU LIKE A PAMPERED COW, FED YOU LIKE A HUNGRY HUSBAND AND WATERED YOU LIKE...UHM...A CAR (OR SOMETHING).

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The backyard's become a bird sanctuary due to the high ratio of bushes, shrubs and trees to gravel and concrete. (FOR SOME REASON SOME SCOTTISH FOLK LOVE TO TEAR EVERYTHING GREEN OUT OF THEIR YARD, FILL IT WITH GRAVEL AND DUMP A CONTAINER OR TWO OF TULIPS AMONGST THE ROCKS.) It helps that their natural predators - the neighborhood cats - are too busy scarfing down (people) food offerings to be bothered with them.

(That feed container? Yesterday, on May Day, I decided to refill all bird seed containers no matter how full they were in honor of the day. Just before twilight I filled that exact feeder until it was spitting seeds, this afternoon - just after three - it was virtually empty. THESE BIRDS ARE GOING TO PUT ME IN THE POOR HOUSE.)

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I first began wedging bones into tree branches as a joke (on my father-in-law, who's forever getting in trouble for TOUCHING THINGS THAT AREN'T HIS), but then the joke grew and before I knew it the Shango Tree had become the Shango Bone Tree. (Winter's a much better time for the S(B)T, with the onset of Spring all of the whitened and weather-stripped decorations get lost behind a canopy of green.)

(I can't believe that A.) that the Christmas goose carcass is still hanging off the truck and B.) Mr. Awesome hasn't touched ANY of the bones dangling off the plum tree I stole from him.)

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HOLY HELL OH MY GOD MY ABU HASSAN TULIPS HAVE FINALLY BLOOMED! (OOPS for thinking they were dwarf! WTF gave me //THAT// idea?)

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What was it the internet said about the appearance of these tulips? WAIT, HOLD ON, I MENTIONED IT EARLIER IN THIS ENTRY: "Richly coloured tulip of burnt orange-red with petal edges of yellow-gold." OH, NATURE, YOU DO DELIVER, DON'T YOU?

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Italics bought these Flava tulips for himself (although I'm taking care of them for him), and they're the very last bulbs to flower from the bags'o'bulbs he bought me on our CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE last year. (I swore they were an early dwarf bloomer, but I also swore that about all of the Abu Hassans I planted.)

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The amazing two-headed Bull Heart tomato plant from Ukraine. (OH, GREAT APIS/BA'AL MAY YOU BE EXALTED IN FUTURE TOMATO SAUCES!) I might just keep this one indoors since it refused to grow outside last year. (You can see part of Chippy as he inspects the inside outside garden; he's a very keen gardener, you know.)

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What our backroom "lounge" looks like when a witch is hard at work.

(The plastic skull bowl is the ritual bowl I use when I'm doing something a little more heavy duty than baking bread or soaking menstrual rags. The scattered wheat sheaths inside is the last bit of the didukhy that I've systematically picked apart so every wheat kernel from every sheath got saved for growing or ritual use.)

(The eggs are our version of Sharpie pysanky, some especially decorated for pets, relatives, friends and others who've passed on since last Easter. When it's time to leave our Easter offerings at the stove and cairn we leave the decorated eggs amongst the food for the dead.

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Beh's bee egg is sitting in a carton as the glue attaching the wings to the egg dries. There's a handmade miniature hat that Italics created for another egg, a bowl of partially shucked wheat (the kernel's still attached to the long, skewer-like spikes), Papa's skull planter with some of his dried tobacco leaves and a Jack Daniels gift set that Italics had given me earlier in the day.

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From a tiny, withered peanut to a vibrant, lush plant. Only two of the five peanuts I bought germinated; I can't decide if I want to buy and plant more, or just stick with the two healthy plants I already have. OH, DECISIONS, DECISIONS...

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OH, IT'S ALL SUPER CUTE, NOW, WITH ITS BLACK AND WHITE TUXEDO AND LITTLE SMILING BEGGING FACE BUT ONE DAY, DAMMIT, ONE DAY NEAR THE SUMMER SOLSTICE WHEN IT GETS LIGHT HERE AT THREE IN THE FUCKING MORNING THAT FUCKER WILL BE ON MY GODDAMN BEDROOM WINDOWSILL SCREAMING THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW FOR BREAKFAST. (HOW THE FUCK DOES A MAGPIE KNOW WHICH ROOM IS OUR BEDROOM? I DON'T KNOW, TRY //MAGIC//.)

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That's one of the four (five?) aubergines (eggplants) that I've grown from seed. One of these days I'll have to relocate them outside to the bonsai house, but until then they get a chance to flourish in better-than-green-house conditions.

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One of my Sub-Arctic tomatoes which will most definitely be moved outside since they were deliberately bought for their "sub-arctic" nature. (GROWING TOMATOES IN SCOTLAND WITHOUT A PROPER GREEN HOUSE CAN BE HELL. I'M SO DESPERATE I'M GROWING THE EQUIVALENT OF SIBERIAN TOMATOES.)

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One of my thriving courgettes (zucchini) on the verge of blossoming. (Which is EXACTLY why I kicked that very nearly flowering plant out of this house - the second I let ONE plant mature, flower and fruit in the house is the second I breakdown and let ALL of the damn plants mature, flower and fruit in the house and we don't have the room for that sort've Eden.)

First Bloom

I don't remember where it came from, or who it was given to, but since I DO know who's been taking care of it (AHEM, AHEM) it officially belongs to me. (It looked ludicrously happy in the cheap ass wicker basket it was potted in, so I never removed it after all of the other plants in the arrangement died. This is the first time in the several years I've been caring for it that it actually bloomed.)

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(IT WAS REALLY, REALLY HARD PICKING ONLY TWO FAVORITES.)

(REALLY HARD.)

(SRSLY HARD, OKAY?)

Warts to Rot

I SWEAR TO GOD IF MY FATHER-IN-LAW TOUCHES ANY OF MY FRUIT TREES, BUSHES, VEGETABLES AND/OR FLOWERS I'M GOING TO SPIT IN HIS EYE AND GLEEFULLY WATCH IT ROT AWAY. (<- IF I CAN SPIT AND GIVE SOMEONE WARTS SURELY I HAVE ROOM TO BUILD ON THAT TALENT.)

She Makes Eden

I DROPPED NEARLY £30.00 ON FLOWERS AND FRUIT TREES YESTERDAY. (Dutch Iris [Mixed Pack] and Midget Fruit Tree Collection [Golden Spur, Red Spur, Dwarf Pear Lilliput])

TODAY? I JUST DROPPED £20.00 ON FLOWER AND VEGETABLE SEEDS. (Artichoke [Violet de Provence], Basil [Spice Boys Mixture], Digitalis [Excelsior Hybrids], Dill [Dukat] , Gourd [Cavemans Club], Monarda [Bees Favourite], Passiflora [Caerulea], Squash [Honey Bear], Sweet Corn [Minipop], Sweet Pea [Heirloom Mixed] and Wild Flower Mixture [Herb Rich Grazing Mixture])

ITALICS AND I ARE ALREADY DISCUSSING VARIOUS PSYCHOACTIVE AND SMOKABLE PLANTS WE NEED TO GROW TO CREATE OUR OWN HOMEGROWN BLEND. AND, DESPITE THE LACK OF DEPTH, I'M STILL GOING TO TRY AND GROW SOME BEETS IN THE DIRTYARD OUTSIDE. (OH LORD, IT'S GOING TO BE ONE OF THOSE YEARS, ISN'T IT?)

Easter's Fruits

Easter Sunday's efforts (see EASTER SUNDAY) were rewarded within 48 hours when the first cucumber seed sprouted beneath the glow of artificial light. (OH HONEY YES, THOSE MOFOS GERMINATE LIKE //MAGIC//.) Today's reward? Coming face-to-face with my first peanut plant.

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HOLY FUCKING SHIT, DUDE, THE PEANUT - THAT DEHYDRATED, WITHERED HUSK OF A LEGUME WE PLANTED IN A BIODEGRADABLE PEAT POT LESS THAN A WEEK EARLIER ON EASTER AFTERNOON - IS FUCKING //GREEN//. NATURE, THERE IS NO MISTAKE - YOU ARE TOTALLY 100% MAGIC. (THIS IS ALL OF THE SCIENTIFIC EVIDENCE I NEED TO SEE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.)

(BY THE WAY, PEANUTS, I BETTER NOT CATCH YOU MAKING DOE EYES AT THE SPROUTING PEAS. YOU GUYS ARE FIRST GENERATION COUSINS AND THERE ARE LAWS ABOUT THAT SORT'VE THING, YOU KNOW.)

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I love cucumbers because they satisfy the need for immediacy. (Cucumbers, courgettes, and pumpkins - OH, YOU LARGE FLAT SEEDS WHICH BURST OPEN WITH LIFE WITH ONE GIGANTIC EXPLOSION OF A BREATH!) One of the draw backs, though, is they seem to mature hella quick. (I probably should've waited one more month - oops?)

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A SECOND ONE JUST BECAUSE I LIKED HOW IT LOOKED. (I'VE GOT A NEW CAMERA AND I'M PLAYING WITH DIFFERENT MODES AND FUNCTIONS.)

(YOU CAN THANK ITALICS FOR MY BIRTHDAY GIFT ONCE YOU FIND YOURSELF SICK OF LOOKING AT MY TOTALLY INCONSEQUENTIAL FLICKR IMAGES TO THE POINT OF THROWING UP.)

...

(SICK BAG, ANYONE?)

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So, the peanuts are sprouting, and four out of five cucumbers that were planted on Easter have already germinated. And everything else? They look pretty content to me.

(I TOTALLY <3 MY INSIDE OUTSIDE GARDEN!)

Easter Sunday

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

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

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

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

SO, RIGHT, ANYWAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOLY SHIT, TANGENT MUCH!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Russian sunflower seeds sprouting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bee Bee's Home

I spy, with my little eye, THE FIRST MOTHERFUCKING (BUMBLE)BEE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING SEASON! (BEE BEE'S COME HOME! BEE BEE'S COME HOME!)

(This announcement totally deserved something better than Twitter.)(Dude! IT'S THE FIRST BEE! OF THIS SEASON! DUDE!)

Some Say Prayers, I Say Mine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patience, Grasshopper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bride's Awakening

RIGHT OKAY SO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

("SEED VOID.")

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