Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Something Real

Cleaning has to be one of my favorite magic acts. (<- I effing hate using the term "magical", it's so...I dunno, Llewellyn. "Magical" is glitter and jasmine and fairies (and not the drowning, flesh-eating kind) and bogus nobility titles followed by compound nouns and adjectives. "Magic" is what Lush USED to be before it became overwhelmed with pink, lavender and candy. "Magic" isn't the apron, it's the stains ON the motherfucking apron. Slapping the letters "a" and "l" onto the end of "magic" draws a certain crowd, but repels another.)

Wait, where was I before I took the early tangent bus to tangent town? Oh, right, cleaning. And magic acts (which sounds more like Vegas than witchcraft, but compared to what "magical" brings to the table I'll fucking take the superficial sleaze, thank you). And how to further alienate yourself from your peers when you're already pretty goddamn alienated (more on that later).

So. Cleaning, one of my favorite magic acts; one of my favorite magic acts that seems suspiciously mundane and totally NOT magic to the casual observer. (Unlike some of my other favorite magic acts like carefully placing a curl of pubic hair on top of Italics' serving of dessert as conspicuously as possible ("HEY, WHAT'S THIS? DAMN YOU WOMAN, AND YOUR WITCHCRAFT!"), or pissing on the concrete steps leading up into the house (to mark my territory with my scent, OBVIOUSLY).)

Yesterday Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, left for an extended vacation of six - 6! - mothereffing weeks. The house? Mine (for six weeks, anyway). Even more so in about two weeks when my mother-in-law also leaves to join my father-in-law at their place in Florida for the entire month of July. Summer, internet, is officially here at Chez Graveyard Dirt and the livin' will be easy.

Take a wild fucking guess what I did immediately after his departure. (I mean, OTHER than "get really fucking high" because that's a given.) You know it, I know it, friends know it and anyone who's even a semi-frequent visitor here knows the answer: I motherfucking cleaned. Hard. Well. Anally. (<- Sounds more like porn than domestication, doesn't it?) Like my neurotic (deceased) mother was going to check with white fucking gloves.

First? The kitchen: the one communal room where I dominate and govern from, the one communal room where I pray-dance-worship-live in on a day-to-day basis. The heart of the house, the hearth of the house and my modern, every day throne room. If this fucking house is seemingly trashed beyond repair I effing guarantee you there will be ONE room in pristine order - the kitchen, MY kitchen.

I removed everything off counters and surfaces, washed the tiles, washed all the counter spaces, washed the cabinets, washed the front faces of the microwave and oven, washed the extractor and its hood, washed the top of the fridge, washed the window, washed the window frame, washed the sink, washed the faucet, washed the windowsill that makes up my subtle kitchen altar, washed everything that was removed off the counters and surfaces and returned them, unloaded the dishwasher, loaded the dishwasher, unloaded the dishwasher, loaded the washing machine, unloaded the washing machine, loaded the washing machine, washed the kitchen table, washed the kitchen chairs and washed the table's linens.

Second? The lounge: less important on a day-to-day basis (especially since my in-laws are often camped there), but still HELLA important. Sort've like how there's that ONE ROOM in the house where your mother won't let you eat, drink or play in because it's the super fancy NICE room reserved for guests and special occasions. But, like, in this case, it's in a ~spiritual~ way.

If the kitchen is my daily throne room/temple then the communal lounge - at least when my in-laws aren't around - is my ballroom throne room/temple reserved for V. special events (i.e., our "black masses", hot'n'heavy ritual celebrations (which, admittedly, probably falls under my tongue-in-cheek version of "black masses") and communing with the higher ups in a more serious, over-the-top setting).

I cook the Hieros Gamos feast in the kitchen (usually for several days leading up to the marriage), but we actually perform the ceremony in the lounge. For every week I get to perform my little secret things in the kitchen I get about a day to perform my BIG secret things in the lounge. Which room is more important? Neither, really, because they both serve very specific purposes that the other one can't.

With all of that being said, I removed everything off surfaces, dusted the track lights, dusted the ceilings, dusted the corners, dusted the hanging pictures, dusted the lampshades, dusted the curtains, dusted the exercise bike, polished the wooden door frame, polished the wooden side tables, polished the wooden legs on the couches, polished the TV unit, polished the floating table, polished the CD unit, polished the coffee table, washed the windows in the wooden door frame, washed the glass tops of the side tables, washed the windows, washed the TV and TV screen, washed the dvd player, washed the playstation, washed the remotes, washed the controllers, washed the CD player, washed the light switches, washed handles and hinges, washed the glass top of the coffee table, washed the radiator, washed the hanging pictures, washed (and changed) the table linens and washed everything that was removed from various surfaces before returning them.

I HAD planned to hit the bathroom - as a grand effing finale - but by the time I finished polishing my last wooden coffee table leg I was ready to throw in the fucking towel. (I only have my friend Carolina to thank - well, her and my above and beyond commitment to completing things as perfectly as possible thanks to my autistic Aries nature - for keeping me going. Just as I was about to start work on the lounge a package arrived from her - expected but completely unexpected because I totally forgot she had mentioned putting one together for me - with a burned CD of traditional Brazilian Kimbanda music "for worship and ritual". This ass? Shook left to right like a motherfucker while dusting the ceiling, no joke.)

I was sore and achy and exhausted and tired and even though my brain totally flatlined (NO DARK AND TROUBLED PAST TO MAKE //ME// FEAR DEATH; THE INEVITABLY OF DEATH IS MORE THAN ENOUGH (TO MAKE ME FEAR IT), THANK YOU) I was stupidly satisfied-happy in the way an overlord must feel surveying all that s/he owns (and exerts control over). In roughly 7-8 hours I had virtually erased my father-in-law's presence - and all of the nasty residual shit that's been hanging around in the atmosphere all stagnant-like - with focus, energy and a lot of hard, physical labor.

I celebrated the GOOD EFFING RIDDANCE (AT LEAST FOR SIX WEEKS) feeling by hitting all of the blogs/journals/diaries I read just before bed (A LIST OF THINGS I DO BEFORE BED: GET HIGH, CATCH UP WITH MY FAVORITE ON-LINE HAUNTS, GET HIGH, WATCH A NATURE PROGRAM TO DISTRACT MYSELF FROM THE INEVITABLY OF DEATH AND MY OVERWHELMING FEAR OF NOTHINGNESS, GET HIGH AND THEN MASTURBATE BEFORE FALLING ASLEEP) and stumbled across this from Charmed, I'm Sure:

THANKS, UNIVERSE. NO, REALLY, I WAS ACTUALLY FOR REAL THINKING "WOW, SELF, YOU KNOW WHAT'D BE AMAZINGLY FUCKING AWESOME AFTER SPENDING THE ENTIRE EFFING DAY MAGIC-CLEANING THE EFFING HOUSE? GETTING FIGURATIVELY PUNCHED IN THE MOTHERFUCKING GUT BEFORE BED, ALL NELSON MUNTZ-STYLE. DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HELP ME OUT?" AND, UNIVERSE, YOU DELIVERED...THANKS (BUT DON'T EXPECT A HALLMARK CARD).

Okay, okay, okay. In all fairness, I really, really like Ms. Drop Out Dilettante (it's really fucking hard finding someone who actually seems REALLY FOR REALLY REAL on-line; I'm not into theory wank, I'm into seeing theory wank being practiced and watching the evolution of said theory wank in day-to-day living) and (LOL) what are the chances that she's really, in secret code, talking about me (LOL AGAIN) when she probably doesn't even know I fucking exist. (Or she does, and as a precaution she's already boarded up her fucking windows and has a shotgun aimed at the door JUST IN CASE I come a-knockin'. If you're smart, you'd do the same.)

I'm totally aboard with the majority of her entry, Cooking Dinner Does Not Make You a Kitchen Witch (subtitled: Making Friends Where Ever I Go), but I have to (politely, and with many charming expletives) disagree with part of the statement above because this entire "cleaning" thing? It's fucking complicated, yo, and probably really objective depending on what circles you do - or don't - travel/commune/interact with.

My magic is weird, basic and simple. So simple, in fact, I can see it being described as "child-like" just before my actions/beliefs get dismissed and filed under "playing pretend". The best thing about "playing pretend", though? You don't need anything except your will because the game you're engaging in isn't being executed by props, it's being executed by you.

I once came across a conversation where one of the parties involved insisted that magic success is 60% dependant on having the right props, several years later I STILL snort-laugh-eye roll to myself whenever that conversational snippet mentally surfaces. Don't get me wrong, I love STUFF, I fucking LIVE FOR stuff. I'm forever buying STUFF and forever experiencing the emotional roller coaster of being able to afford STUFF and NOT being able to afford STUFF.

Stuff, however, makes living; it doesn't make magic.

I'm only saying all of this to cinch my point...well, in a longwinded, roundabout way (heh). It's not that I don't occasionally use STUFF, because I do. It's just STUFF doesn't get shit done, I do. When you strip everything external from a magic act - the incense, the flowers, the music, the oils - does it make the act any less magic? There's something PURE and REAL when it's only you, your energy, your will, your determination and your goal you're working towards.

The absolute best example of that way of thinking is my approach to cleaning and taking care of the house. I don't open (or close) protective circles, I don't create "shields", I don't engage in full-blown rituals which require you to call all of the fucking directions (and all of their corresponding plants and colors and fairies and gemstones and their second removed cousins). I clean - myself, my surroundings, what's important to me - and that's enough.

It's basic, primitive magic. By taking EXTRA SPECIAL CARE into washing and cleaning I'm deliberately removing, discarding and organizing my life and my environment to optimum standards (and in the case of cleaning I'm just not imagining doing it, I'm PHYSICALLY doing it which has IMMEDIATE results) using (seemingly) mundane actions.

I've burned candles and incense for the better part of my life, but I swear to all that's fucking holy that none of those acts have ever made me feel as powerfully magic as spending an entire day laboriously stripping down my surroundings and then, with sweat, tears, will, effort, determination and the occasional, accidental offering of blood reconstructing them in a buzzing atmosphere that's completely saturated with (and by) me.

And, dude, don't even get me started on the entire morning after, when I've slept like a motherfucking log only to wake up stiff as a fucking board thanks to the previous day of excessively exercising control, protection and authority on my terms. How do I know my magic's worked? Because I can't fucking move the next day. Those are successful results you just don't see, you fucking feel.

ANYWAY...so, yeah. Hi, Ms. Drop Out Dilettante! This is me attempting to make friends by arguing one of your viewpoints with you, but not even because I have this bizarre inability to communicate with people via comments. (I DUNNO, INTERNET, LEAVING COMMENTS FEELS LIKE "FOREVER", AND I HATE SEEING MY NAME ATTACHED TO ANYTHING "FOREVER" UNLESS I HAVE ABSOLUTE CONTROL OVER IT (I.E., THE ABILITY TO EDIT AND/OR DELETE). THAT, AND, I ALWAYS FEEL SORT'VE SWARMY LEAVING COMMENTS, LIKE I'M SOME SORT OF DEMONIC KIDDIE SNATCHER ATTEMPTING TO NEFARIOUSLY LURE UNSUSPECTING VICTIMS TO MY SITE FOR MORE TRAFFIC.)

At least I was inspired to get off my fucking ass and write something REAL, you know? And I know "something real" has been woefully absent here as of late with all of the sick and dying pets, unnecessary run-ins with my in-laws and 180ed Winter-to-Spring life. I've been so caught up with completing personal projects that I haven't had the time - or the right frame of mind - to sit down and really dig deep.

(Don't think I haven't noticed you noticing, because I have. I'm also V. disappointed with myself for letting things slide and I'm seriously working on it. I'm a deep person, dammit, the stars just need to be in perfect alignment for me to exude signs of deep personage.)

Way, Way Before My Time

Remember when witchcraft wasn't a jasmine scented nightmare embellished with glitter, fairy wings and "craft names" that can be broken down into three separate nouns without a letter leftover? (<- Don't even get me started on the bogus nobility titles epidemic.)

Me neither; it was way, way before my time.