Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Processing #01

#01's mummified body was a mystery to me. I was use to fresh; fresh fractures, fresh decapitations, fresh trauma. My scavenging teeth had been cut on the grisly and grotesque to ensure my ass had the necessary fortitude to work with pungent, unsavory remains*. (<- 2009's Lammas fox is a good example.) After a year of rescuing roadkill I was familiar with new death, and all of the sordid sights'n'stenches that inevitably accompanied it. Old death, though, was completely foreign to me, so everything about #01 and his dehydrated carcass was greeted with autistic curiosity.

* Just incase you're wondering: old death has its own unique, musty scent, unlike fresh death which has a tendency to smell like sauerkraut that even Ukrainians wouldn't eat.

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To free #01 I had to break him. He was lost to some forgotten phantom zone, and it was my job to find'n'drag his spectral ass back to act as my woodland king, forest guide and otherworldly mediator between me and my land. So with bare hands and feet I broke his twisted body - joint by joint, bone by bone - to release him from the fatal mid-leap he had been trapped in since his death.

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This is all of #01's body broken down into smaller, more workable segments. Some of his teeth, jaw bones, toes and the one ear I managed to salvage are sitting in a small glass dish on the bottom left corner of the tarp, and above it you can see his skull, legs and an assortment of his other skeletal remains. I was able to save most of his dehydrated golden retriever coat for personal use (bottom right corner of tarp), but what couldn't be used was ritually buried in my container garden to return some of his physical remains back to the earth.

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#01's skull freshly exhumed from its mummified cocoon. (<- Is he fucking gorgeous, or what? Over a year later my cunt still skips a beat whenever I see his pictures. Goddamn if that motherfucker doesn't have some in-your-fucking-face presence!)

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Future #01 fetishes: an ear to hear, toes to run and teeth to bite and grind.

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I managed to strip off most of the dehydrated flesh'n'fur from #01, but an infuriatingly tiny piece of skin just beneath the right antler remained steadfastly glued to the skull.

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Rather than risk damaging #01's fragile remains (even though it isn't entirely obvious, the skull suffers from several internal fractures; I mean, his dead ass is roadkill, after all) I left the flap of skin attached to his forehead knowing that it'd eventually fall off during cold water maceration. (<- My favorite bone cleaning method.)

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A gratuitous close-up of #01's skull to make gluing in his teeth a little easier.

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A second gratuitous close-up of #01's skull to make gluing in his teeth a little easier.

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The third and last gratuitous close-up of #01's skull to make gluing in his teeth a little easier.

The two teeth missing are the only calcified relics unaccounted for. Within a day or two of discovering #01 I returned to his death site in the hopes of finding the fuckers, but I left empty handed. (Well, sort've. #01 is still the only roadkill stag I've found whose antlers weren't obliterated despite his unfortunate hit'n'run end.)

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The fatal damage #01 received reverberated through his skull, shattering the mandible (lower jaw) and weakening some of his cranium's sutures. Due to the trauma I'll never be able to piece his skull fully together, but at least I have all of the fractured components in my witchcraftin' arsenal.

PS: For obvious reasons none of #01's remains will be offered for sale. But, if you're serious about becoming a caretaker of one of my roadkill rescues I can help make that a dream a reality.

A Blessing? A Curse?

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A sudden shock of early morning light blasted through tumultuous clouds and briefly illuminated the dubious contents of my magic wooden basket when I presented my homemade toadstool oil to the local stone-circled bronze age cairn this morning. (<- A blessing? A curse? Fuck if I know, but at least my ass got noticed.)

A Life Once Lived

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Calcified relics of a life once lived.

August 27th, 2010 II

The August 27th, 2010 story doesn't actually end with the discovery of #01. (What, you were expecting an easy fucking read? Honey, I'm Ms. Dirty - every-motherfucking-thing I do is overly complicated and supremely fucking epic.) After a week of non-stop Harvest work - i.e., from dawn till dusk foraging, late night (and early fucking morning) wild mushroom processing, fleshing roadkill, bone cleaning, graveyard garden hooching and preparing my container garden (aka Gothel's Garden) for the inevitability of winter - I had to throw my towel in early last night due to some low energy levels.

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I mean, what kind've weak ass initiatory experience would have me running down a Scottish country road at six in the fucking morning with Chippy strapped to my back - all, like, papoose-style - as the mummified remains of a roadkill deer ecstatically swing in a plastic bag hanging off my arm for all the early commuters to see only once? To ensure that I'd forever be emblazoned as the crowned queen of fucking weirdos to the very local people of this community the Universe decided I needed to repeat the performance, stat.

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Within an hour of cramming #01's dehydrated body into a grocery bag and running breathlessly to my car with a muffin-top of bones'n'fur (much to the confusion, disgust and wonder of passing drivers; which, hey, is to be expected, but if you ask me - I'll just pretend you did (you're welcome, btw!) - the real confusion, disgust and wonder comes from the crazy fucking idea of spending 6-10 hours in a cage thinly disguised as a semi-personal office cubicle), I was, once again, running breathlessly to my car with another plastic bag bulging with the dried remains of a second roadkill deer (#02; a juvenile).

My motherfucking trunk? Packed. (<- Just FYI: I'm still talkin' about the car, although that statement's totally applicable to other areas of my life...ahem.) Despite the severe lack of trunk space - it's not like my ass wasn't warned, right? - August 27th, 2010's day of initiatory experiences wasn't over just yet.

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I didn't know at the time, but I had one more significant find to make because I had one last niggling curiosity to sate.

It was curiosity that pulled on my fucking reigns as I began passing the familiar skank ass carpet, so I slowed the fuck down until the rolled up offcut transformed into the motherfucking deer I had been waiting for. It was curiosity that lured my adrenaline-buzzing body out of the effing car and into a coniferous hedge with hopes of locating a basket worth of pine-lovin' boletes that lead to #02's discovery (and subsequent rescue), and it was that same siren song of curiosity that drew me out of my car one last fucking time because I had to know just one more goddamn thing before going home that day: what the fuck did the Black Laird's loch look like?

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It wasn't growing on the banks of the Devil-ridden loch, but along the moss-covered footpath leading up to the manmade reservoir. Nestled snuggly between the fairy tale dimples of a shadow-filled forest was one perfect toadstool (Amanita muscaria) swaddled in woodland down. It was the first fly agaric I had ever seen, ever touched, and ever held, and when my deer-scented fingers sank into the damp cool of the earth to accept the chthonic (psychoactive) gift I suddenly understood the intrinsic connection between me, the deer, the Old Woman, our land and the ancient, conscious entity living beneath our collective feet.

This is how I became the Old Woman's resurrectionist butcher, and its story of initiation, death and rebirth? Has finally been told.

Mercury-Ruled

What happens when your partner's Mercury-ruled? You get to fight fire air with motherfucking fire air. Three cheers for Italics and the two sleepless nights he spent working on my computer to make it virus-free, and to anyone who felt momentarily bad for me. (<- Pity TOTALLY counts as prayers in my book!)

Now that this week's retrograde crisis is over Graveyard Dirt can return to it's Harvest-driven schedule. Normally I don't hint about future content, but since this is a Site Shit post it gives me a rare chance to step out of journal entry mode.

With that being said, I'm: prepping for Bolete Lesson #3 (how to preserve), getting ready to announce GD's first ever giveaway (hint: it involves homework; have you been doing yours?), selecting a few more wild edible recipes to share (mushrooms, raspberries and maybe even gooseberries) and clearing space in my crazy fucking week to finally sit the fuck down and finish up a parade of delayed promises and projects (i.e., dressing up jam jars and hooch bottles, decanting and decorating some of last year's toadstool oil, sending away packages and a stupid amount bone cleaning).

Rabbits Out of Fat Air

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Excerpt from Rabbits Out of Thin Air:

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

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

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

A new picture from an old story.

Stone Throne Pheasant

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Last week's Stone Throne pheasant was a gift from the land after I finally executed the very last of my spring-flavored obligations. "Harvest's come early this year," I kept telling Italics, and the Universe promptly confirmed all of my seasonal suspicions in one unexpected roadkill find.

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Normally we don't find pheasants until the local gaming estate releases their new stock in September. The first few birds we bring home always turn out to be inexperienced juveniles totally unsavvy to the dangers of the outside world. It's a brutal massacre; most of the dead aren't fit for human consumption, so I spend a lot of time moving mangled remains to ensure hungry scavengers don't share a similar fate.

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This pheasant, however, wasn't an inexperienced juvenile (they haven't even been released yet); she was a mature hen. I very rarely find an old gal like this (the majority of the roadkill pheasants I bring home are either newly released hens or unlucky cocks), and I've never found one this early in the year. She was a fucking treasure, and when it came time to ritually reduce her body into usable parts I gave my heartfelt thanks while stroking her feathery chest.

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A broken wing with mostly undamaged feathers.

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Feathers overlapping feathers.

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One of her thighs sustained superficial damage.

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The injury to one of her wings was bone-shatteringly traumatic.

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The pheasant's crop contained remnants of her last meal (bilberries; a kind've sort've wild cousin of the blueberry), which was set aside for planting. The berries - along with a portion of the bird's body - will be sown in the hopes that they'll germinate into fruit-bearing shrubs; a living legacy of the pheasant's life (and death).

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A pheasant first: underdeveloped eggs! They - along with the heart, gizzard and liver - were extracted from the body, cleaned and frozen for future witchcrafting. The salvaged organs were appreciated more immediately by our black magic cat, Mr. Mistoffelees.

What we couldn't use of the roadkill pheasant - the entrails and bruised meat - was left outside for the newest generation of corvids (certain families have been using our property as a fledging playpen for years since it's safely situated on a quiet dead end - admittedly, the rich pickings are a huge incentive to visit daily). Everything else - the feathers, feet, bones, meat and head - was saved, and will eventually be used for something, or serve some sort of purpose.

PS: I realize that the entire roadkill thing is a niche interest, and that not every visitor to Graveyard Dirt is going to understand or accept my practices. That's cool, I totally get that. But if you ARE interested in learning about how I incorporate roadkill into my feral version of witchcraft (what I do, why I do it, etc.) two good places to start are my roadkill Flickr set and my Asphalt & Entrails journal category. More pheasant stories - just in case you're interested - can be found here and here. Happy scavenging!

The Day of 7

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Here's a sterling example of my recent streak of bad fucking luck: within days of passing its mothereffing MOT - which took longer than fucking usual, so we were without access to a vehicle for something like 1/2 a week instead of the usual overnight - my car broke. I mean, like, within 48 effing hours of being returned home. On our first foray out after a long nocturnal period I lowered all four car windows to clear them of condensation and only three came back up. And then the door of the non-working window began whining, even AFTER I turned the fucking engine off. My ass? Never even left the effing driveway that day.

We sealed the open window with a trash bag (a sight I haven't fucking seen in something like 15 or 20 years; Scottish people are notoriously car-vain, so you don't see dirty ass beaters chugging down the highway with homemade plastic windows like you do in the States) and I braced myself for the inevitable: the frustrating disbelief of how much fucking time would be necessary to fix what was, essentially, a small fucking problem. Because that's what happens with this car. (Last summer? It was out of commission for nearly a fucking month because the speedometer stopped working. Not a complicated problem, but, LOL!, the repair guys ordered the wrong part, couldn't fit the used one they found and...)

I'd totally agree with you about needing to be more laidback and zen about this shit, but with our fucked up sleeping schedule - which has been in place for over ten fucking years, so it ain't gonna change anytime soon - there are month long periods where we're up exclusively at night. And being up at night, in Scotland, during the depths of winter means I have to abandon my roadkill duties entirely until our bizarre way of living finally falls in synch with the normal world for a few long weeks. In reality, I actually have a very small window of opportunity to engage in those duties (at least during the darker months of the year), so I begin biting my nails when the car suddenly goes down just as our schedules align with the ability to go out.

Within a half a fucking hour Italics had already pegged what had gone wrong. Apparently, my make of car is notoriously fussy about moisture. Water got into where it shouldn't have been when I lowered the windows, and a fuse freaked. But we aren't mechanics, so the car had to be turned over to professionals who wouldn't listen to Italics, and therefore spent over a motherfucking week taking shit apart going "WOW, WE REALLY DON'T KNOW WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS THING".

After 8-9 days of nail biting we finally get a "LOL! HE WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG! LOL!" call from them, and I tried really, really fucking hard not to see red, but it was hella hard, internet, when I finally got my fucking car back only to find that the repair guys busted our radio and internal clock. Which means it needs to go back to the shop. Again. So something else can break within a week of bringing it back home.

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(The serious fucking kicker? My father did all of the mechanical upkeep of our cars, but when I asked to be taught those skills he laughed the idea off. Neither of my parents took the time to talk to me about drugs, alcohol or sex, so you'd think they'd try to strike a balance by teaching me something useful like simple auto repair, but...no.)

Anyway, this entry isn't solely about me bitching about my car, I just sort've wanted to give you an idea of how life can get royally fucked when I don't have one when we're up during the day. (I suppose I could've been succinct and said something like: no car = no roadkill work, nocturnal mode = no roadkill work.) And this time of the year is a crazy special time because all of the hibernating animals are sluggishly coming to, which means certain species are getting hit as they groggily stumble around.

(Roadkill definitely has its "seasons", and right now we're knee-deep in badger season. It's not that badgers don't get hit off-peak, it's just that during this time of the year they're slowly waking up, emerging from their dens and diving headfirst into mating season. In badger world it's a crazy motherfucking time, although it's an unfortunate time that often sees a high body count and leaves many badgers windowed (they mate for life). 2011 is my second year of scavenging, and in that time - at least until yesterday - I've only come across two roadkill badgers and both of those were found in early March of last year.)

So, like, that's why the car's broken window had me biting my motherfucking nails: badgers (the dead ones, anyway). Because, fuck, we love badgers. Seriously. Out of all of the indigenous wildlife here in northeast Scotland they secured the biggest chunk out of our collective hearts. They're amazing, wonderful creatures burdened by medieval beliefs. They're maligned animals - much like foxes - and seem to have become the farmer's scapegoat. For all of those reasons and more we place badgers pretty fucking high on our roadkill pedestal; to be given one is a tremendously huge gift, and one we don't take for granted.

But badgers aren't the only animal of this story, (roe) deer play a pretty significant role, too. During this past Yuletide season we created an altar beneath the Christmas tree (an altar beneath another altar? talk about motherfucking talent!) around our Yule log, and we used apples, oranges, pears, plums and foil-wrapped candy to decorate the space. After the holidays we split the food into three lots: one was offered to the kids at the boarded up orphanage and home for disturbed children, the other went to the cemetery cairn for Papa, our ancestors and the locally buried dead and the last and final lot - comprised of 6 plums and 1 pear - were set aside for the roadkill deer I found, and, subsequently, took home in 2010.

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So, yeah, okay, it took my fucking ass three motherfucking months to finally execute the ritual (I ended up freezing the fruit to preserve it), and you'd think there might be some residual hard feelings about the delay, but even before we began leaving each deer its offering (at its death site; we left a whole plum - a significant choice because my roadkill altar is beneath a fruiting plum tree which means my spectral herd got a-fucking-lot of fresh, homegrown plums as offerings during last year's Harvest season - wherever we found the body of one of my deer) we stumbled across the ruffled - but unruptured - body of a male pheasant. (I mean, that find in itself makes a successful roadkill haul.)

Within minutes of dropping the first plum and ringing the deer bell for the first of 6 times (I spent 21 fucking days last October "herding" these motherfuckers with Chippy to get them to associate the sound of the goddamn bell with food) we came across the near perfect body of a wild rabbit. Unless you get them early on, roadkill rabbits tend to get mangled within an hour of death. Miraculously, this one - who wasn't warm to the touch in the slightest - somehow managed to remain unscathed, which meant I found my first intact rabbit of 2011. (Two usable roadkill animals in one day? That's a hella successful roadkill haul.)

After approximately placing #2's offering down (it was a drive-thru operation; I drove, and Italics rang the bell and tossed the plums out the window in the general direction of where the body had been found) I caught the dingy, yellowed belly fur of a large animal. "BADGER! BADGER! OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! BADGER!" I started screaming - almost swerving - because all I needed to see was that dusty, ivory stomach hair to know what animal was lying at the side of the road for me.

I cried. Just a little. It was a weird mix of grateful, happy and sad. I would never, ever choose anything but life for any creature, but when death happens in my little kingdom-territory I want to be there for the animal. When I use the word "happy" to describe how I feel when it comes to roadkill, it's only because I'm relieved that the animal isn't lost and wasn't deprived of a funeral with mourners. I'm "happy" because I made sure that the animal wasn't forgotten, and that its death wouldn't have been in vain. I'm "happy" because I know how much love it'll get once it gets home (I admit it; I'm autistic and hug things, especially roadkill animals), and how much love it'll receive when it's time for me to transfer responsibilities to a new caretaker.

But, fuck, yeah. A badger. Pristine. Huge. A mother of a mother, in fact. (Teats; she's got them.) She had a somewhat shitty ass that needs to be babywiped, but otherwise she was in perfect condition. I moved the roadkill pheasant and rabbit aside and gently laid her giant corpse in trunk of the car, stopping to caress the depth of her winter coat. (Three usable roadkill animals in one day and one of them's a motherfucking badger? That's a crazy hella successful roadkill haul, even if she did unceremoniously fart in my fucking face as I loaded her into the car.)

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Before I could make my third offering - literally, just around the road's bend from the badger - I caught the battered remains of a deer in a ditch. So Italics, for the fourth time, had to patiently wait in the driveway of someone's house as I assessed the new animal. The buck (#9!) was too old, too broken and too gutted (his stomach had been hollowed out, but was filled with bloodied water) to be carted home, so I dragged his mangled-shattered-eaten remains far from the side of the road to give me - and fellow scavengers - a safe place to do our business. Despite being somewhat bruised his head seemed otherwise undamaged, so I decapitated him, took his head, released his spirit back into the wild and left the rest of his body tucked under some budding gorse for Nature.

I just barely pulled out of that motherfucking driveway when my eyes caught the all-too-familiar tuft of yellowed belly hair. Another badger, within seeing distance of the other roadkill badger and deer. Perfect. Amazing. Soul-crushingly teddy bear cute. And when I lifted it up into my arms, spying his little package, my heart almost broke. We found a male and female badger within less of a 1/4 of a mile of one another; it's very likely they were a mated pair.

On one hand you think "well, fuck, at least they're together, you know?", but on the other hand you think "fuck, what must've it been like to experience your mate for life get killed? and then to be killed the same way as you stumbled around confused and grieving?" and that second thought still causes everything in my chest to ache. So it was a little downbeat in the car as we inched closer to home, because finds like that really make you appreciate the serious prices that need to be paid for a "crazy hella successful roadkill haul" and that an animal's death doesn't just impact that specific animal, it potentially spells disaster, death and loneliness for offspring and mates as well.

Within a few miles of offering #3 (we've found two deer and one badger in that spot; I'm going to do my goddamn hardest to get some sort of animal crossing sign put up at that deadly bend to see if I can lower the wildlife body count) I caught the bristly hair of another deer (#10!). For a second I thought I hallucinated the crumpled body because, fuck, who finds 6 motherfucking usable roadkill animals within a 15 mile radius of their fucking house in one fucking drive?

#10 remained a questionable hallucination for about a half an hour; with no more room in the trunk (2 badgers, 1 pheasant, 1 rabbit and 1 decapitated deer head) we had to make a quick pit stop at home to unload our haul just in case the phantom deer turned out to be a reality (a tangible reality that was complete enough to take the entire body).

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Plum offering #4 was made on our way home, and then plum offering #5 was made on our way back to the maybe-for-real-but-who-knows? roadkill deer. She - #10 - was a rare fucking find; a treasure. Only 3 of the 10 deer I've found have been female, most of my herd's made up of young males. While Italics became acquainted with another driveway (just so I'm not giving the wrong impression: Italics is crazy active and helps me with most of my physical work, but yesterday his bad back was acting up so I benched his ass) I got out to inspect the very real deer.

Her state was near identical to #9's, which we found less than 10 minutes away. My guess is that both had been dead between 2-4 days; long enough for the eyes to turn milky white, to give scavengers a chance to empty the abdomen (but not make a huge dent in any other area of the body) and to be a little too far gone to take home and process in our little Scottish kitchen. (My mother-in-law? Just LOVES sharing her white kitchen with my roadkill.)

Her head, like most hit'n'run deer, felt solidly intact, so I dragged her partially eaten remains up a hill - jamming my fucking wrist against the ground when we both started sliding down the steep dirt mound - where I performed my decapitation/release ritual away from speeding cars and prying eyes. (Cause, like, the last thing people want to see is my fat fucking ass hanging out of my fucking jeans while beheading a dead animal at the side of the fucking road.)

A secondary surprise came in the form of detached wings, which I found on the way back to the car. Not even full, proper wings, but the very tips made up of a handful of bashed feathers on either side. But it was only the tips, plus a few nature-cleaned bones still attached to the structures, that I found. With no other feathers or scattered remains it seemed like something had carried those remnants from the original site of death. From the looks of them, they came from a rather large bird. (I have my suspicions, but I haven't had a chance to actually ID them yet.)

No offense to the trunk full of dead animals we were carting around, but fuck were we shattered after finding #10 and the tattered wings. That particular roadkill route usually takes me about 30-40 minutes to perform. Yesterday? It took three fucking hours. You would not fucking believe how thankful we were when it became clear that the roadkill slot machine was finally empty.

The last deer offering (#6) was made on the way home, and shortly after - just down the road where I pick the majority of my fly agarics/toadstools - a seventh offering was made (a large pear), because, as we all know, "7" is way, way more magic than "6". And it wasn't until later that night I realized that I had arbitrarily chosen March 7th to make my 7 offerings, which, in turn, rewarded me with 7 animals. 7 usable roadkill animals in one day? That's not just a crazy hella successful roadkill haul, that's a seriously magic roadkill haul from a Universe that evidently doesn't hold grudges.

PS: I realize that the entire roadkill thing is a niche interest, and that not every visitor to Graveyard Dirt is going to understand or accept my practices. That's cool, I totally get that. But if you ARE interested in learning about how I incorporate roadkill into my feral version of witchcraft (what I do, why I do it, etc.) two good places to start are my roadkill Flickr set and my Asphalt & Entrails journal category. Happy scavenging!

The Morning After

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The morning after Superbowl Sunday. (Thankfully my mother-in-law's partially deaf in one ear so she didn't hear me howling "WITHIN SIX FUCKING POINTS, WITHIN SIX FUCKING POINTS!" as I furiously masturbated - and climaxed - during the last three minutes of the game.)

A Miracle

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It's October fucking nineteenth and I still don't have my Halloween altar up. Knowing it'd take a miracle to get my ass motivated I turned to the Universe last night and said "LOOK, IF YOU DON'T MAKE IT RAIN TOMORROW THEN I'M GOING TO BE OUTSIDE PICKING MOTHERFUCKING MUSHROOMS AND THAT EFFING ALTAR WILL NEVER GET FUCKING DONE".

It's been raining all goddamn day. Not even grey, dreary Scottish drizzle, but multiple Fox's Weddings that gloriously burst in the streaming sunlight keeping everything just wet enough from being workable. So no mushrooms, or berries, or roadkill, or planting garlic for me. I'm indoors building a momentary shrine to Our Lady Underground as She readies Herself for Her imminent reign.

Jove's Incense

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

Six Months

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

Midsummer Spread

So, like, I drew *7* pentacle cards for my 10 card Celtic Cross spread on Midsummer. (The other three were THE DEVIL (beneath me), TEMPERANCE (before me) and 7 OF WANDS (final result); ENDING ON A HIGH, YO.)

I'm not ashamed to admit - AT ALL, UNIVERSE, AT ALL - that I have absolutely no knowledge or innate understanding of the entire tarot thang (I do better reading coffee foam or tea sediment or broken egg yolks or blood clots OR ANYTHING ELSE THAT ISN'T A DECK OF CARDS WITH VERY SPECIFIC MEANINGS CREATED BY SOMEONE ELSE) but the fact that I pulled SEVEN FUCKING PENTACLE CARDS is enough for me to go "OH, HEY, WAIT! I THINK SOMEONE OR SOMETHING (OR ME, MYSELF, ALL SUBCONSCIOUS-LIKE) IS TRYING TO TELL ME SOMETHING..." without a worry that I might be reading into things a little too deeply.

#1 (This card covers you / Represents the present situation)

8 of Pentacles:
The future indicates that an opportunity will arise for you to use your strong powers of imagination. You will be able to use your dedicated ability of method and order.

* * *

#2 (This card crosses you / Obstacles that are now, or will confront you)

7 of Pentacles (R):
This is going to be a period of many problems due to your inability to make your mind up. Worrying over money will not make things easier. Trust in your own abilities.

* * *

#3 (This card crowns you / This card casts a strong influence over the present circumstances. It also reflects the best one can achieve under the present conditions.)

6 of Pentacles:
This is going to be a time when you will posses great power over your own fate and also over the destiny of others. With effort you will achieve prosperity and respect.

* * *

#4 (This card is beneath you / An event or matter in the past relevant to the present situation)

The Devil:
You have a selfish desire for money and all it can achieve. You are determined and ruthless in your craving for power and status. The future shows your wildest dreams could come true but you will then have to choose between good and evil.

* * *

#5 (This card is behind you / This reveals an influence in the past which could affect the future)

4 of pentacles (R):
You may find obstacles in your path with regard to finances in the near future. You should listen to good advice offered to you in a spirit of friendship.

* * *

#6 (This card is before you / This unveils the influence which is coming into action and which could operate in approximately six months time.)

Temperance:
You should now begin to work within a budget. The future indicates a long journey for which you will need extra finances. You have a good brain and you are usually right over the outcome of a situation.

* * *

#7 (This is yourself / This card affects you personally.)

Queen of Pentacles:
You will be influenced by a dark skinned mature lady. She has a clear insight into the true character of others. She is domineering but tries to disguise it.

* * *

#8 (This is your home / This affects your family life.)

Knight of Pentacles:
A dark skinned young man who is quick witted and hard working and honorable in his outlook, intent on his pursuit of wealth, features strong in your future. He will be capable of altering your destiny.

* * *

#9 (Hopes and fears / This could reveal your subconscious hopes and fears.)

3 of Pentacles:
Now is the time for you to think about business, as constructive and favorable forces are at work. Money will be gained through speculation or partnership.

* * *

#10 (Final result / Shows the culmination and results which will be brought about from all of the influences as revealed by the other cards in the divination, provided events and influences continue as indicated.)

7 of Wands:
You will overcome delays and obstacles. You can be too casual in love affairs. The future indicates a great victory over a rival.

ALSO, I HAVE FINALLY HAD "NORMAL" SEX.

(We haven't had it NORMAL since Mardi Gras because we said we'd break SEX FAST 2009 in the "doorway" that's in the middle of the wheat field where we Reaped together last year. We kept pushing back the date - FROM FUCKING EASTER SUNDAY - because THE TIME'S JUST NOT GOOD or THE WEATHER IS SHIT or WE DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO SMOKE. But within a few minutes of JUMPING OVER A CAST IRON PAN FILLED WITH FIRE (<- FERTILITY HOP SCOTCH!) I was all "OH HEY LET'S GO TO THE FIELD //RIGHT NOW// AND HAVE SEX".)

(And we did. And it was good. And I got stung by nettles. And we were up before the crows. And the police didn't catch us stumbling out of the field. And the two young girls traveling home around 4 AM (WTF ARE YOU DOING OUT AT FOUR FUCKING AM YOUNG LADIES?!) didn't even bother giving me wide berth despite my purple and black African dress, ritual jewelry (not as ostentatious as my dress), white Scottish apron (aka LAST YEAR'S WEDDING DRESS) and baggy flannel jacket/shirt. <- IT'S A PROGRESSIVE, HOT WITCH LOOK.)

ON A FINAL NON-SEQUITUR NOTE: I can totally dig almost every aspect of periods except - EXCEPT! - the 3-4 days of continuous upset stomach-ed-ness. (SRSLY, UNIVERSE, I DON'T EVEN COMPLAIN ABOUT MY CRAMPS. HOW ABOUT CUTTING ME SOME SLACK HERE? JESUS.)

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!)

In the Beginning

In the beginning there were birds. Small birds; "cheep-cheep" birds. Nameless, faceless little birds that came in small gypsy groups. Then came the blackbirds and magpies and wood pigeons. Then came the rooks and crows. (And the seagulls, but we'll pretend like they don't exist since they always crash and ruin the party. AND THAT'S WHY, FOLKS, THERE ARE TWO SEPARATE BIRD MALLS - THE SEAGULL MALL, AND THE NON-SEAGULL MALL WHOSE PATRONS HOPE, WISH AND PRAY THAT SEAGULLS VISITING THE NON-SEAGULL MALL ARE NOT //REAL// SEAGULLS, BUT ED-YOU-MAH-CATED SEAGULLS WHO ARE TURNING THEIR BACK ON THEIR PARTICULAR BIRD SPECIES TO EMBRACE THE CULTURE AND LIFESTYLE OF THEIR FORMER BIRD OPPRESSORS.)

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Slugs and snails arrived and decimated my container vegetable garden. And when I say "slugs and snails" I mean GIANT RADIO-FUCKING-ACTIVE MONSTERS FROM A FORGOTTEN HELL DIMENSION IN SPACE INTENT ON TAKING OVER THE WORLD STARTING WITH MY DWARF EGGPLANTS. (You may think I'm exaggerating for the LULZ but, truly, honestly, I am not. In the slightest. The size of these fuckers would make you think twice about eating escargot; it's completely unnatural and not of God.) And so I lamented, and I despaired, and I wailed and keened like an honorary banshee as my potted garden slowly crumbled to ruin, one slimy, hole-infested leaf at a time.

On Chippy's first "birthday" with us he was collared (it wasn't a ritual of ownership as much as it was a promise to love and take care of him; that he now had an "owner" and a home and I was prepared to undertake the responsibility of helping turn the wild, junkyard dog into a member of our family) and we presented him with a leash and a set of stainless steel dog bowls engraved with his better known name. ("Pazuzu" - you've seen the Exorcist, right?) Chippy was treated like any other member of our spiritual menagerie but also as the family dog, which meant he always had a fresh bowl of water out, and his offerings'n'treats were placed in his food bowl.

Chippy's method of incorporation came through a keen interest to be involved in whatever we were doing. When planting time came around and I began Papa's chilli peppers Chippy was at my heels requesting responsibility over his own personal slice of vegetation. (I KNOW, I KNOW - LOLOLOLOLOL DEMON OF PLAGUE AND FAMINE WANTS TO GARDEN!) I had visions of locusts swarming over already slimy, hole-infested leaves thanks to our resident slugs and snails and the mental image did, for real serious, make me internally wince. But, BUT! But I placated him and told him he could have the cherry tomatoes and carrots, but he was responsible for their well-being.

Gastropods fear nothing - even ancient demons of plagues, famines and almost all means of a very uncomfortable death. In time Chippy joined the honorary banshee movement and was howling with me as death personified crawled through our bucket garden and left its slimy trail of destruction in its wake. Despite gardening and vegetable growing not being his forte I officially enlisted his help to combat the infestation. (And when I mean "enlisted his help" I mean "got some Burger King and threw it in his food dish outside and explained to him that snails and slugs were V. V. V. bad and he had to get rid of them because they were killing our plants".)

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Not long after we began hearing strange noises outside. Alien, not-of-this-world noises. Noises that convinced me, 100%, that we were being visited by a monster and it was very, very important that I never, ever let the monster know that I was aware of its recurring presence. The heavy, stainless steel dishes got pushed around on the concrete slabs of the patio. (A CAT DOESN'T DO THAT SHIT.) Weird grunting and heavy breathing and loud, pig-like eating sounds emanated from beneath our window - OUR OPEN WINDOW - in the middle of the night and I'd lie in bed, petrified, breathing shallowly until the slithering, wet sounds scuttled further and further away.

A strange but not-so-strange thing happened (STRANGE BECAUSE I COULDNAE FIGURE OUT THE SOURCE, BUT NOT-SO-STRANGE BECAUSE I DID ASK FOR SOME SORT OF INTERVENTION SO I WASN'T SURPRISED THAT SOMETHING WAS ACTUALLY HAPPENING) - the gastropod population suffered an apocalyptic decline. The multitude of intersecting, gossamer trails disappeared. Like the ocean's tide the glistening sea of vegetative death withdrew, and suddenly you could actually walk across the patio at night without invertebrates exploding beneath your bare feet.

So there was an unseen, but definitely heard, monster roaming our small subdivision garden in the middle of the night eradicating our snail and slug problem. And we lived with this phantom monster, sacrificing the night to its devilish deeds while keeping our eyes turned away so we never had to witness the unspeakable horror that moved, thrived and killed in the darkness. It was a silent, unspoken pact made with the Devil. It was a grotesque monstrosity created out of the very worst of man's heart. It was...well, it was a hedgehog, actually. Multiple hedgehogs, in fact, that would get rowdy as fuck and bang on Chippy's empty, stainless steel food bowl, moving it around the patio in the hopes that, somehow, it'd magically fill with MORE FOOD.

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Chippy, rather than fighting fire-with-fire, enlisted the help of nature's indigenous gastropod killer - the hedgehog. (OH, THAT CHIPPY. HE ALWAYS GOES FOR THE CUTE, THE SOFTIE.) Within weeks the heaving, plant-destroying population plummeted, and we had very happy, very well fed nightly visitors who came for the treats in Chippy's bowl but stayed for the slime coated angels of death. And, in time, Italics and I were able to pick up our little prickly visitors and take them indoors, briefly, to pull out any tics or fly larvae with tweezers, check for wounds and give them a very quick bath in the bathroom sink before releasing them into the wild.

Once the hedgehogs came they brought Scotland's wildlife with them. The "cheep-cheep" birds turned into blackbirds, magpies and wood pigeons and the blackbirds, magpies and wood pigeons turned into rooks and crows and then the rooks and crows turned into field mice and hedgehogs and bats and the field mice and hedgehogs and bats turned into neighborhood cats and a pair of foxes that very nearly ate out of my hand and the neighborhood cats and a pair of foxes that very nearly ate out of my hand turned into deer.

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And to think that it all started with just a simple set of stainless steel dog dishes given out of love to something that desperately wanted to come in from the cold and bask in the warmth of belonging.

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Hello, Old Lady

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

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

"TOMORROW IS BRIDE'S DAY!"

But that didn't ring any bells.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nasty Ass Tobacco Spit

ADD "WART" TO THE LIST OF AFFLICTING GIFTS I'VE LOVINGLY BESTOWED UPON MY FATHER-IN-LAW. (I TOLD YOU WITCH'S SPIT IS VENOMOUS.) (LOLOLOLOL! NASTY ASS TOBACCO SPIT. OH, PAPA, YOU DO MAKE ME LOL, <3!)

Bean Nighe

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Not all of us have to die in childbirth.

Sickle Bandits

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

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

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

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

Thirty Minutes After

I stopped it from raining last night.

(It held for an evening and thirty minutes; it waited for a shower and a beer. I pulled Our apron tight - high above the stars - and We cradled the rain against Our body, against Ourselves, with arms unwavering as the clouds billowed and rolled below Us. The Universe said "YOU DID THIS. YOU DID THIS, YOURSELF." and I laughed and I cried while we watched my rain from the kitchen windows, after a shower, after a beer - thirty minutes after I looked up at the sky and said "NOW IT CAN RAIN!" as the blood and semen and spit and wine sank into the earth where there were roots without sheaves of wheat.)

Aquarius Lunar Eclipse

Tonight I Reaped.

Sharp Shooter

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from May 23rd, 2008.

OH HEY REMEMBER A MONTH OR SO AGO I SAID THAT I MALICIOUSLY KNOTTED A PAIR OF MY FATHER-IN-LAW'S SOCKS TOGETHER FOR A BIT OF MAGIC FUN (SEE JOURNAL ENTRY PAYMENT, PUNISHMENT, & PROMISES)? WITHIN THE PAST WEEK (OR TWO?) ITALICS'S MOTHER TOLD HIM (WHO, IN TURN, TOLD ME) THAT ITALICS'S FATHER HAS DEVELOPED SOME GANGLION CYSTS IN HIS HANDS/FINGERS MAKING THE WORK HE'S DOING (I.E., GARDENING ON A RENTED PLOT OF LAND) EXCEPTIONALLY DIFFICULT AND PAINFUL.

...LULZ. (I KNOW, I KNOW, ANKLES/FEET AREN'T HANGS/FINGERS BUT YOU KNOW HOW MAGIC IS - IT'LL DO AS IT WILLS (<- ANYONE? ANYONE? OKAY, SO MAYBE NOT EVERYONE HAS THE SCRIPT MEMORIZED FROM THE MOVIE). IN OTHER WORDS - I SHOULDN'T BE GIVING SPECIFICS TO THE UNIVERSE WHEN MAKING A REQUEST BECAUSE I'M THE LAST PERSON WHO CAN APPRECIATE HOW IT MIGHT ADVERSELY AFFECT ME OR THE SITUATION. BEST LEAVING THAT SORT'VE SHIT OPEN ENDED BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE KNOWS BESTEST.)

ETA: AND IT'S NOT EVEN SO MUCH THAT HE HAS THE CYSTS, BECAUSE THEY'RE THE PRODUCT OF OVER-GARDENING. IT'S THE FACT THAT HE GOT THEM - AND TO MY KNOWLEDGE HE'S NEVER HAD THEM BEFORE - DURING A TIME WHEN HE -CAN'T STOP WORK- BECAUSE HE NEEDS TO MOVE ALL OF HIS SHIT OFF THE LAND ASAP SINCE THEY'RE NO LONGER RENTING TO HIM.

I AM MOSTLY LULZING OVER THE TOTAL DISCOMFORT AND INCONVENIENCE OF IT ALL AND HOW HE CAN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. AND, ALSO, HOW IT DOESN'T AFFECT ME, ITALICS, OR OUR HOME LIFE IN ANY WAY. (<- THE FEET/ANKLE THING LAST YEAR WAS SUPER SPECTACULAR, BUT IT DID END UP LAYING US UP FOR A FEW MONTHS. THEN AGAIN, THAT WAS SORT'VE NECESSARY SO I COULD SEE, FIRST HAND, THE REPERCUSSIVE SHOCK WAVES OF SUCH ACTIONS, AND MADE ME APPRECIATE ALL THE MORE WHY I HAVE TO BE VERY CAREFUL WITH THE GUN I'M SHOOTING.)

Hey, Hey, Mama Lion...

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from December 4th, 2007 (although the events that took place pre-date the writing; actual date of said events would have been late November, 2007 (i.e., during Thanksgiving)).

On Thanksgiving morning I was a vindictive bitch and sprinkled Fet Ghede (07!) Dirt in my brother-in-law's shoes while he slept. (DO NOT PISS OFF SOMEONE WHO COLLECTS BLOOD CLOTS, DIRT, AND DEAD INSECTS, OKAY?) It wasn't enough; it wasn't immediate, and I didn't get a sense of closure. So I went back and spat on his shoes. Both of them. And I felt A+ satisfied and Papa was all "LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!" but also "BABY GIRL, THIS NIGGA AIN'T NEVER GONNA PISS YOUR ASS OFF!". (<- That's because he knows I'll show him the door AND THERE AIN'T NO HOMEMADE CORNBREAD SITTING ON THE DOORSTEP FOR HIM.)

(He's very supportive of my WITCH INSTINCTS but takes a step back when I'm a-cursin' or a-hexin' because he's a V. smart man who understands YOU DON'T GET IN THE WAY OF AN ANGRY WOMAN, ESPECIALLY AN ANGRY WOMAN WHO CAN BREAK LEGS AND BRING SNOW. <- Thus proven and cemented by a conversation Italics and I had regarding his father's medical misfortunes when I told him how Papa sort've becomes passive and very "YES DEAR, NO DEAR, OF COURSE DEAR" when I get all MAGIC STROPPY and Italics was "NO SHIT, WHO WANTS THEIR LEGS BROKEN? I DON'T!" and there was much LOLOLOLOLOLing on my part because two of the most important male figures in my life HAVE COME TOGETHER TO THROW UP THEIR HANDS WITH A "WHOA!" (<- THEY STILL SPINNIN', NIGGA!) AT SOME OF THE COINCIDENTAL THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED JUST AFTER I ANNOUNCED I WAS GOING TO MAKE SOMETHING HAPPEN THEREFORE MAKING EVERYTHING UNDENIABLY SCIENTIFIC.)

Before the Ghede gang were informally invoked for ANGRY WOMAN revenge there was THE SHANGO MAN. Now Papa be all MODERN and HUMAN so ignoring his presence is HARDER than noticing it. (Y'ALL, I GOT A LARGER-THAN-LIFE, STEREOTYPICAL BLACK MAN LIVING WITH ME, OKAY? I'VE WATCHED ENOUGH MAURY TO UNDERSTAND A FEW THINGS: 1) LIE DETECTORS DON'T LIE (DARLIN', IF YOU NEED TO DRAG HIS ASS TO THE MAURY SHOW FOR A LIE DETECTOR TEST HE'S CHEATED), 2) THE BABY CAN -STILL BE YOURS- EVEN IF IT "DON'T LOOK NOTHIN' LIKE ME!", AND 3) THEY ALL PLAYAZ (OR AT LEAST THEY ALL THINK THEY ARE). <- I'm not actually sure how #1 and #2 figure into things, but they're somehow relevant. SOMEHOW.)

TSM is Papa's opposite, and either is V. content to co-inhabit quietly, or is somewhat silenced by Papa's perpetual trash talkin' presence. (THIS MAY SEEM A BIT SHOCKING (MORE SHOCKING THAN THE FACT THAT I'M A 27 YEAR OLD WHITE WOMAN WHO OPENLY ADMITS TO USING THE WORD "NIGGA/NIGGER" (<- I HATE THE A. I HATE IT. I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT BECAUSE IT SOUNDS SO FUCKING -FAKE- COMING FROM ME BECAUSE PAPA WANTS TO HEAR -THE REAL THING- AND BECAUSE I AM WHAT I AM I'M NOT -ALLOWED- TO SAY -THE REAL THING- SO WHENEVER I SAY THE -FAKE VERSION- YOU CAN TOTALLY, TOTALLY TELL THAT I'M THINKING ABOUT THE -REAL VERSION-.) AND THAT I'M A-OKAY IN CELEBRATING ETHNIC STEREOTYPES!) BUT PAPA DOES, IN FACT, ENJOY STEALING THE SHOW. OFTEN. AND GOD FUCKING FORBID ANYTHING MALE (OTHER THAN HIM OR ITALICS, OF COURSE) GET INVOLVED BECAUSE THE SECOND A THIRD PARTY DICK ARRIVES ON THE SCENE IT BECOMES -WAR- AND I'M THE ONE GETTING BOMBARDED WITH "BABY GIRL, WHY YOU TALKIN' TO THAT NEGRO CAT? YOU KNOW HE DON'T UNDERSTAND NOTHIN' COMIN' OUTTA YOUR MOUTH! HE ALL...OOGA BOOGA IN SHIT!" AND "BABY GIRL, WHY YOU WASTIN' THAT PERFECTLY GOOD PIECE OF LIVER ON THAT UNGRATEFUL NIGGER?" AND ALL I CAN DO IS ROLL MY EYES INTO THE BACK OF MY SKULL AND REMIND MYSELF THAT I SHOULD BE -REALLY, REALLY HONORED- THAT PAPA GHEDE IS SO DEVOTED TO MY SPIRITUAL AND MENTAL AND EMOTIONAL AND PHYSICAL WELL-BEING THAT HE IS EVER-FLOWING WITH WISDOM AND GUIDANCE, ESPECIALLY WHEN I'M BENDING OVER WHILE VACUUMING AND MY GHETTO ASS IS SALUTING THE AIR. HAR HAR.)

I met TSM during one of my very first MDMA trips. While standing over a container pouring out ribbons of copal smoke I had a series of hallucinations, and in each split second "vision" my outfit was V. V. similar (in ancient Egypt it was a white dress and green headdress as I walked on flames, and in ancient Britain it was a white dress and green headdress (again), although this time I was more aware that the headdress was a crown of oak leaves - whatever that means (X2 with "green headdress" in ancient Egypt - I GUESS THIS IS SHIT I SHOULD'VE LOOKED UP ALREADY)) except for the last one which found me standing at the top of a South American ziggurat in the mountains. So there I was, bare feet firmly planted on chiseled stone, standing in what I think was a temple and being very aware of my "priestess" status, looking across a grassy courtyard (more like a field pitch) towards a parallel ziggurat.

I don't remember what I was thinking, or what I was doing. It was one of those weird lost-in-non-thoughts moments, when you stare and observe and feel REALLY, REALLY AWARE yet a part of you still feels a million miles away. The thing that broke that disconnection/connection was a large black jungle cat at my side. (ZOMG, I KNOW, HOW WONDERFULLY LLEWELLYN FANTASY, RIGHT?) One second I was 100% absorbed in this non-thought while staring at an overly familiar Super Mario Brothers 3 World 2 pyramid, and the next I'm back in reality, wearing a white dress and super bold, blood red feathers in my hair (RED JUNGLE BIRDS? ALL I CAME UP WITH WAS "MACAW".) as my pet Jaguar/Panther/Black Leopard/Whatever stands by my side. (AND NOT EVEN ALL NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC COOL WITH TEETH FLASHING AND EARS PINNED BACK AND HISSING AND CLAWS EXTENDED, JUST, YOU KNOW, STANDING THERE, QUIET, SILENT, CALM, AND PROTECTIVE.)

Eventually BUT FOR REAL reality trickled in and after a long second or two I was just me - just me in a dim family room hovering over a bowl of V. fragrant incense. No more green headdresses, no more white dresses, no more red feathers in my hair, ziggurats, flames, grassy courtyards, or high priestess imagery that spanned several civilizations over thousands of years. The only thing that remained was my sleek, black jungle cat who (awkward tense shift approaching!) never says anything but stands there, quietly, silently, calmly, and protectively. (Further SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN by the fact TSM adopted a wee stuffed Scottish lamb (THE SHANGO LAMB!) around Easter this year, which doesn't seem like a big deal at all until, ZOMG, you take in account that I spiritually identify with the concept of goat/lamb/ram/sheep SO IT IS V. V. V. OBVIOUS TO ME WHAT HIS JOB IS IN THIS HOUSE.)

I guess what I'm trying to say is - EVERYTHING HAS ITS OWN UNIQUE KINK. (I, uh, think that's what I'm trying to say?) Papa is loud and obnoxious and big and really, really likes to put on a show, which is all in-keeping with how he's generally received in the voodoo/voudon belief system. TSM manifested differently for me, for whatever reason (but still decided to identify himself as "Shango", but that's another long-winded story that y'all probably don't want to hear because if you're like ME these sorts of "OH, HEY YOU GUYS! LOOK AT HOW SPIRITUALLY AWESOME I AM! I SHALL EVEN CAPSLOCK EVERYTHING FOR YOU SO -YOU HAVE TO EAT IT LIKE UNSWEETENED OATMEAL-! HAH! HAH HAH HAH HAH!" entries just piss me the fuck off), and I'm just rolling with it. (i.e., Chango/Shango in voodoo/voudon tradition, to me, isn't entirely different from Papa with his love of woman, vices, and confrontation. But the Shango I know and live with is a 180 from the caricature portrayed, down to preferring blue as his offering color instead of the widely accepted red. (THAT MAKES HIM A CRYPT, I BELIEVE! <- LOL!))

SO, ANYWAY, BACK TO THE STORY I WAS TELLING BEFORE I WENT OFF ON A 6-7 PARAGRAPH TANGENT THAT SEEMED V. V. V. IMPORTANT TO WRITE OUT AT THE TIME. (JESUS H. CHRIST HELP THE WORLD SHOULD I EVER GET MOTIVATED ENOUGH TO PUBLISH MY OWN SILVER RAVENWOLF BRAND OF MAGIC MANUALS! <- LOL! UNLIKELY! HIS DAD DISLIKES US ENOUGH TO MENTION US SEVERAL TIMES IN THE BIBLE! WHY DO YOU HATE CAKE SO MUCH, GOD, WHY?)

Thanksgiving Eve found me in a sullen state with an uninvited guest spending the night (I had Thanksgiving worked into a schedule, people! AN ACTUAL, HONEST TO GOD SCHEDULE WHICH WORKED A+ PERFECT AWESOME UNTIL MY GODDAMN BROTHER-IN-LAW DECIDED TO THROW A SPANNER IN THE WORKS!), and as I crawled all demoralized into bed I caught THE SHANGO MAN'S indignant expression (the, uh, stuffed animal version of him). And THEN I had one of those MEMORY FLASHES where YOU REMEMBER SOMETHING, BUT NOT ALL OF IT, BUT THE GIST OF IT IS ENOUGH TO BE HELPFUL DUE TO ITS GENERAL VAGUENESS AND AMBIGUITY THAT CAN BE BUILT UPON CREATIVELY and it happened to be "VOODOO BLEND - BLACK CAT - BLACK CATS THROW SMALL INCONVENIENT HEXES".

And when THAT happened I thought "I WONDER IF SHANGO MAN WOULD BE UP TO MAKING SOME SHANGO MAN MISCHIEF FOR ME?" and I got SLAPPED HARD with an image of my sleek, black jungle cat darting in front of M's feet while walking and tripping him up. To that I was all "LOLOLOLOLOLOL! YES! EXACTLY!" and I THEN got SLAPPED HARD AGAIN with an image of TSM, in stuffed cat form, sitting in front of a steaming turkey leg. HOW COULD I RESIST THE OFFER? (GOOD...TRADE.)

The morning after I was in a piss-poor mood. Without even really thinking about it I grabbed my baby jar of FET GHEDE DIRT and HEXED IT, HEXED IT REALLY GOOD and spouted something about FEET NOT CROSSING THIS THRESHOLD WITHOUT MY SAY and then came back to SPIT ON THE SHOES to seal the deal, totally forgetting that the previous night M'S LEGS/FEET WERE ALREADY IN PLAY THANKS TO THE SHANGO MAN.

I WOULD SAY THAT THE DIRT WENT DOWN INTO THE SHOES BETWEEN 9:30-10:00 AM. By 11:30 AM I already had my first result - M missed his train by 3 minutes and was then forced to sit in a cold, open train station for 45 minutes for the next one which, no doubt, helped screw up the rest of his day. (SMALL INCONVENIENCE, ANYONE?) I had totally, totally forgotten about this hex because, you know, OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND (I'm really volatile emotionally - I explode like you wouldn't believe, V. quickly scary-like, and then after the Pompeii explosion I'm cool once again and forget all about it), until YESTERDAY.

See, the first thing I did after carving the turkey on Thanksgiving was remove THE ENTIRE LEG OFF THIS 14-18 BEAST and take it outside to THE SHANGO TREE. (Another long story!) SO THERE I WAS, SICK, WEARING A STRING BIKINI & MINI-SKIRT & A COOKING APRON WITH ARMS OF LOCAL SCOTTISH FAMILIES, TRAMPLING OUT IN THE COLD (I HAD MADE IT SNOW EARLIER, REMEMBER?) WITH 1/5 OF A ROASTED TURKEY, FORCING THIS SUPER HUGE TURKEY LEG BETWEEN A WOODEN FENCE AND SOME ROCKS SO NEIGHBORHOOD CATS COULDN'T MAKE OFF WITH IT ON THANKSGIVING'S TWILIGHT.

I had 100% forgotten about this incident until two nights ago when I took some leftover mashed potatoes to THE SHANGO TREE and saw the leg bone, clean as a whistle, sitting perfectly poised on fluffy Scottish moss, at the very base of the tree (one or two feet away from the crevice I had hidden it in). Whatever ate it did so WITH MEDICAL PRECISION and then simply left the huge leg bone BETWEEN THE SHANGO TREE'S BASE AND THE DEAD CROW DIRT CONTAINER. (<- Okay, I'm not saying that it's SPECIAL CRAZY MAGIC that the leg got eaten, because, dude, that's the entire point, what I am doing is LOLing at how WHATEVER ATE IT DIDN'T BOTHER TAKING IT OUT OF THE YARD and WHATEVER ATE IT DIDN'T BOTHER TAKING IT OUT OF THE YARD BUT POSITIONED IT PERFECTLY, IN OBVIOUS SIGHT, SO YOU WOULDN'T HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO SEE WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE SUPER SECRET OFFERINGS!)

I LOLed when I saw what the flash of white was in the darkness, and then I LOLed when I brought it in, and LOLed some more when I retold the story to Italics, and then we LOLed together and speculated what else has happened that we don't know about. (IF THERE WAS AN INCONSPICUOUS WAY TO CALL SOMEONE YOU HEXED AND GO ALL "SO, RIGHT...HI! YOU HAVEN'T BEEN HAVING, YOU KNOW, SOME IRRITATING OR UNFORTUNATE EVENTS HAPPEN TO YOU RECENTLY, HAVE YOU?" I'D BE SO ON THE PHONE THIS SECOND, OKAY?)

...AND IN CONCLUSION, BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE THIS ENTRY IS-WAS-IS GOING, OTHER THAN A SUPER SPECIAL HOMAGE TO THE SHANGO MAN (IT HAPPENS TO BE CHANGO'S/SHANGO'S FEAST DAY TODAY!), THAT IS PRETTY MUCH THE STORY.