Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Deemed Worthy

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Outside of this rural subdivision, past the dental practice, old berry farm and butcher stands a tiny little hamlet of a forest on a busy country road surrounded by wheat fields, industrial complexes and new housing. It's recognized woodland, protected and cared for by the government (official trails tricked out with wooden walkways, painted sign posts indicating various routes, sections actively cleared for conservation purposes) and a favorite haunt for nature-lovin' locals.

(Walking and being in the wild? Super huge big here in Scotland. I've never encountered people so passionate about land and their inherent RIGHT to access it. <- Like I said before, Scotland doesn't have any trespassing laws. You go where you want, when you want, provided it's done respectfully and within reason.)

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The most active corvid rookery I know about - at least "just out the door" locally - is located there. In a tiny stretch of peninsula-shaped land between the parking lot and wheat field exists a cluster of long-needled pine trees, and those coniferous trees have provided nesting grounds for countless generations of crows.

I've always avoided this particular patch of woodland; too popular, too busy (especially being situated on a narrow country lane way too fucking small to accommodate the full-blown trucks barreling down the broken asphalt), too noisy and too fucking messy. (<- Some Scots love nature so fucking much they'll wheel their McDonald's all the way to the fucking woods to have an idyllic backdrop for lunch, but then they'll follow up their appreciation by tossing their garbage out the car window and into the grass, or parking lot, or the very fringes of the forest.)

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I didn't want to get attached to it because people, over the years, have transformed the first section of the forest into a litter-specked wasteland and it's only gotten worse thanks to all of the new houses backing straight up to the woods. I didn't want to be privy to people's love-hate relationship with nature, so I went elsewhere. I spent the last several years exploring the countryside's secret places - far away from people, parking lots and padded trails - which still managed to stay hidden behind crumbling stone walls and overgrown hedges. We haunted the places where you had to slip beneath barbed wire, wade through knee-high grass and scale ancient drystane dykes.

Not this past Saturday, but the weekend before Italics and I visited the rookery in the woods. I knew from previous visits that it wasn't too uncommon to find dead crows there, and seeing how they hadn't moved to a new location it seemed like a prime spot to find the remains of expired birds who died a more natural death (as opposed to being hit by a fucking car). My hunch was right; within minutes of scouting we found one. (A black crow with two white toenails - how's that for auspicious?)

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The next morning I projectile vomited all over the fucking bathroom. Italics almost immediately copycatted my ass, although his execution was a lot less spectacular than mine. Our response was so violent, so fucking immediate that there were only the crows to blame. (After finding the one at the rookery we came across a second further down the road with its head partially bashed in, so we actually came home that Saturday with TWO dead crows.) But that's a story for a different entry (because I've already tangented off my original intent).

So we got sick. "Wretchedly sick", if you remember. We couldn't eat for a whole 24 hours (I was deathly afraid to even drink water in case it set me off for a third time), and when the most extreme aspect of our illness passed our appetites only allowed us the occasional bowl of soup, or piece of plain toast. (Not that I didn't try. Italics watched in horror as I voraciously gobbled down steak, tortilla chips, vanilla ice cream and frozen Reeses Pieces. I spent the next two days regretting the binge, but, hey, the homemade DIY Blizzard was a-fucking-mazing after an entire day of not eating jack shit.)

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I had several huge meals planned - homemade buffalo wings with hot sauce, gingered duck stir-fry with fresh vegetables and a hearty steak dinner complete with slow-baked potatoes - none of which either of us could stomach. I managed grilling the steak, but I couldn't save the poultry. The defrosted portions of chicken and duck pathetically sat in their protective vacuum sealed bags until I decided to haul them out as offerings for the crows (a lame "thank you for only making us sick and not killing us" gesture).

When we were finally well enough to leave the house for an extended period one of the very first things we did was make a pilgrimage to the rookery to express our gratitude for the bodies and experience they gave us. (Initiation, dear and gentle readers, has its price. In this game you rarely get shit for free; if it's worthwhile having, then it's worthwhile suffering for. Admittedly, I regret that Italics had to bear the same discomfort, but I suppose that's the ultimate price he pays for trying to tame and domesticate a half-feral witch who brings dead things into the house.)

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A gift was waiting for us. (Two, actually, if you count the crow we scooped up all Navy Seal-like on the busy, narrow country road.) Beneath the towering pines a lone fledgling laid dead, still soaking wet from the torrential rain that had hammered the countryside a day before. A tiny thing, a wee thing, drenched to the bone and wide-eyed. (It's never pleasant discovering a dead animal, there's always a part of you that wishes you had come earlier as if you somehow stood the chance of saving it if you had only been motivated to go the same route an hour, a day, a week before.)

We tore open plastic bags of rotting meat and neatly piled the offerings into a stinking pyramid of poultry. While I swaddled the baby crow in Ziploc bags Italics poured out a libation of elderflower cider over the meat (which was a particularly nice touch since several bushy elder shrubs grow beneath the collection of nests) as new housing owners jumping on a trampoline with their kids suspiciously looked on. (IT'S CALLED WITCHCRAFT. LET ME SPELL THAT OUT FOR YOU, W-I-T-C-H-C-R-A-F-T. DID YOU GET THAT?)

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Our original intent was to stay for a few hours to get acquainted with the place, but after a short amble on a hella easy path we found our energy reserves declining and decided it was better not to push ourselves after being so goddamn sick. I managed to find the first raspberries of the season, but only two berries (all of the others were still tight green buds despite the two having reached perfect ripeness) and on the way home we managed to pull of a roadkill retrieval stunt that surely deserved a round of applause.

(The road? The narrow, crazily busy country lane flanking the woods? The one with enormous semis tearing down patchy asphalt? Even busier than usual. They closed a major intersection that the public uses to access the only grocery store in town, and the diverted traffic is now being funneled ("funneled" because the route is bordered on either side by two massive stone walls) down that tight, dangerously claustrophobic track. Even without the pressure of added commuters the stretch of road is known for recklessly fast driving despite the twists, bends and blind spots.)

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(A crow - a huge ass motherfucker of a crow - was nestled against one of the walls, seemingly unsmashed due to the protectively solid nature of the dyke it was leaning against. Italics and I had to time our actions just right, in perfect sync. We couldn't get out of the car, let alone really stop it. Like Falkor snatching Atreyu just as Gmork was closing in Italics partially opened the car door as we coasted past, never moving from his seated position in the car, and lifted the dead bird from the side of the road and into his lap. One, two, three. It was over before it began.)

July 22nd was a long ass day. It was our first full non-Saturn Return day (Saturn left Virgo on the 21st and entered Libra; as far as old man Saturn goes he's someone else's problem for the next 30 years) and, I think, the day the sun entered Leo (which is my ascent, I'm part ram, part fish and part lion). Despite just getting over a serious bout of sickness we both found ourselves pottering around outside even after our forest walk and a spot of grocery shopping. I harvested thistle and feverfew growing outside in the front yard, and then let Italics loose with the lawn mower to take down the meadow my in-laws don't want to see (they come home in two days, SIGH) while I ritually dismembered my fridge full of dead crows.

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There was something special about the larger crow we picked up that day. It was a lot of things, the absolute desperation to rescue it despite its awkward (and damn near impossible) positioning, how perfectly preserved and utterly flawless it remained despite having spent several long hours at the very edges of the busiest road in town, it's eerily life-like, frozen appearance. When Italics successfully lifted it from the road I enthusiastically cheered and told him, half-joking, that for all of his effort he could keep it.

It spooked me with its beady, glossy eyes still coal black and sharp (as a roadkill scavenger I'm more used to the frosty, glassy eyes of death). Stiff, but warm, it groggily glared through half-open eyes at its surroundings, dead but very much alive, caught in a bizarre "DON'T ASK ME HOW MY FUCKING DAY'S BEEN" limbo. It must've been hit while walking, and in death it retained its fatal gait. The only obvious trauma it suffered - at least in a superficial appearance - were a few partially twisted toes, and because it wasn't mangled or broken it needed almost no coaxing to stand.

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As ridiculous as it sounds, I was hesitant to dismember the crow. It was dead, it was OBVIOUSLY fucking dead, but something was there. Half-aware. Dazed. Alive. I knew it was dead, but a part of me was terrified that it'd awaken mid-decapitation and I'd only realize, after it was too late, that it had only been stunned for the 3-5 hours it remained perfectly still, perfectly stiff. I processed the oldest two first, and then the baby as the large black crow blearily looked on from its container garden roost.

When I finally severed its head from its body fresh, uncoagulated blood trickled from the decapitated bird and thickly pooled at the tips of my toes as if its heart had only just stopped beating. A gift. A truce. Acknowledgement that I had walked through fire and stayed on course, that even if I didn't follow them into death I sacrificed enough as I accompanied and comforted them as best as I could on the long, painful walk to the other side. Through sickness I was tested, they were satisfied and the blood that trickled from the beheaded crow was my initiation.

I anointed myself and wore the bloody cross with pride; I was deemed worthy.

Goddamn Lucky

Walked down to the cemetery. Ate wild cherries. Watched a raptor hunt. Passed between barbed wire fences. Waded through overgrown pastureland. Had sex in the ruined church. Freed the wild gooseberry bush. Wandered down a shady lane to the local kirkyard. Knocked on A.S.'s "grave". Sat with the graveyard rabbits. Watched Italics take pictures of graveyard rabbits. Watched families of swallows dip above overgrown pastureland. Straightened the nun's grave. Left an offering on Muriel's grave. Left offerings at the cemetery cairn. Poured Didi's ("grandfather") bottle of Heineken over his Midwinter bread at Papa's grave. Left a chocolate cigar for Papa behind his headstone. Left the Leprechaun in the cairn tree. Drank water from the kirkyard's faucet. Waved good-bye to graveyard rabbits and swallows. Walked back home, admiring shimmering wheat fields of green-gold while appreciating how goddamn lucky I am.

Wretchedly Sick

We're sick. Like, wretchedly sick. What started out as "my stomach is acting retarded; I'm swallowing a lot of air" ended with projectile vomiting (over the floor, over two walls, the sink's basin, the sink's stand and practically every part of the fucking toilet). Italics, thankfully, made less of a mess than me (he managed to just hit the bathroom floor).

If you're expecting an email from me it might be another day or two. This is some serious shit we're experiencing (Italics? has only thrown up //4// times in the 13 years we've been involved) and I'm having a helluva time staying vertical. In fact, this is the first time I've been able to get out of bed in 12 motherfucking hours.

Sorry, BTW

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Thanks to the monumental upheaval of our computer room (Italics unexpectedly lost his computer - including everything on his hard drive - a few days ago), Photo Studio not working on my computer (what I use to edit my photos before uploading them to Flickr) and Chooch demanding attention all morning long (that pink, hairless sack-like bulge beneath Choney? her giant mammary tumor) I never got around to writing a journal entry yesterday.

Sorry about that, by the way. (I know you'll forgive me in time.)

2:30 AM, 3:30 AM

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2:30 AM: I

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2:30 AM: II

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2:30 AM: III

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3:30 AM: I

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3:30 AM: II

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3:30 AM: III

Making Spring Happen

So, Winter 09-10. (Yeah, I'm still riding those coattails.) I knew by Midsummer that we'd have snow for Midwinter. (Long short? The date coincided with our rowan tree flowering, so the front yard was littered with blossoms creating a thin blanket of white. The cow parsley flower I wore in my hair (as we performed ritual sex in a local wheat field just before dawn) immediately began shedding its tiny white flower heads on my kitchen windowsill altar (I dropped it into a small glass of water to proudly display my "wedding bouquet") creating a secondary expanse sown over with individualized flecks of white.)

I knew by Midfall-Winter (<- to keep our asses in line I now break down the year by high points in the seasons rather than focus on the Wiccan/neopagan "Wheel of the Year" names, i.e., Imbolc (Spring), Ostara (Midspring), Beltane (Summer), Litha (Midsummer) and so on) that we were in for a long, hard Winter. The rowan tree, which produced a prolific amount of flowers, inevitably produced a prolific amount of berries. (Which I consider, in my own way, a "winter berry" since rowan berries - at least from a culinary aspect - are more palatable and suited for cooking after getting nipped by a hard frost.)

Never in my near decade of living here have I seen the rowan tree out front so heavily laden with flowers. Even before the berries properly ripened I began wondering the folksy ramifications of a summer tree producing an excessive amount of winter fruit (that wildlife depended on). Was it an indication of a good spring/summer? Or was it a chlorophyll-powered premonition of a hard winter? Despite not coming across any indigenous sayings/near forgotten country wisdom - not that I actively looked, or anything - the assumption sort've felt right.

Holy shit, I was right on BOTH counts. (Weather and projected seasonal predictions? Seriously, Universe? You couldn't have given me something, I dunno...MORE FUCKING MONETARILY BENEFICIAL than "having a hunch" about the forthcoming Winter in Midsummer? That shit might've been useful SEVERAL HUNDRED FUCKING YEARS AGO, but seeing how I'm NOT A FUCKING FARMER IN THE 17TH CENTURY it means jack to a witch who lives in a bungalow in a fucking subdivision in semi-rural Scotland. Thanks. No, really. I always wanted to be magically good at something completely useless.)

Snow came just in time to give us a white Midwinter. Snow then decided to stay a spell. In addition to a white Midwinter we had a white Christmas Eve, Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year's Eve, New Year's Day, Ukrainian Christmas (the Julian calendar - which the Eastern Orthodox church uses - is something like 13 days behind our Gregorian calendar), the anniversary of my mother's death, Spring (Bride's Day, Imbolc), Valentine's Day, Mardi Gras, Ash Wednesday and our legal wedding anniversary (which we normally don't celebrate since we're already knee-deep in Lent and preparing ourselves for our annual Hieros Gamos Easter wedding).

I didn't see the ground - you know, the driveway, earth, soil, dirt, dingy grass (even in frozen, sleeping form) - for the better part of three fucking months. We couldn't do anything, we couldn't leave the house and, thanks to several feet of unmoving snow, we couldn't do anything outside in the yard to break our growing cabin fever. It was "THE WORST WINTER IN 30 YEARS!". Nothing melted, and then more snow came. The vicious cycle was left on repeat for days-weeks-months, leaving so much fucking snow that the individual layers of build-up bordered on archeological. ("OH HEY! I JUST HIT THE CHRISTMAS EVE SNOWSTORM! ROCK THE FUCK ON!")

There were intense moments; good and bad. Midwinter was soul achingly magic. I had a MOMENT, all by myself in the wee hours of the morning. Just me, Winter's darkness, the falling, drifting snow, the undisturbed sheet of white enveloping the world outside (hiding every curb, bump and rock, smoothing everything over in a thick layer of flawless snow) and Enya's Gaelic version of "Silent Night" playing on the stereo.

It was, Christ, I don't know...pure? Indescribably pure. As the rest of the subdivision (and house) slept I stood in front of the lounge's window with both hands on the glass, watching, listening and crying. There was love in the silence of Winter, there was compassion, strength and maternal comfort. I cried for the Virgin near birth, I cried for the Sun, I cried for myself, in deeply moved reverence and thanks, for being allowed to experience the communion, for being the person singled out of everyone else to "witness" the event.

...and that MOMENT was special and great and wonderful and soul affirming and crazy fucking moving and I will never in my life forget it, but, dude, once New Year's Day passed? I was totally done with Winter and ready for Spring. Seriously, even more so than usual.

Seasonal holidays during Winter ("Winter", by the way, starts on Halloween / Samhain here) traditionally kept me busy, but after the New Year's Day feast I always felt somewhat lost and aimless until the first tangible signs of Spring. There was no purpose or meaning for the time between Yuletide festivities and Easter celebrations and I just sort've sat around, bored out of my skull, waiting for the seasonal change. Eventually, though, our yearly calendar became more structured and full as our spiritual practices evolved.

It all started with a cosmically euphoric experience on my in-law's brown leather couch one spring vacation ("I THINK...I THINK WE JUST MADE SPRING HAPPEN. THAT'S OUR JOB, EVERY YEAR - MAKE SPRING HAPPEN.") and everything snowballed from there. Now, four or five years on, our Hieros Gamos preparation (aka "making Spring happen") begins with a simple observation on Spring (Bride's Day, Imbolc) and grows increasingly more complex and demanding the closer we get to our wedding date.

BRIDE'S DAY: We observe Spring (Imbolc) simply; a bed is made for the Bride, we invite Her in and we eat a seasonally appropriate meal. Bride's Day is an amber light, a gentle reminder of impending change. I know within three weeks we'll celebrate the season with one last over-the-top night of debauched excess before committing ourselves to a more low key, celibate life.

(I didn't manage this past year, but hopefully NEXT year I'll actually have a chance to feed local pregnant ewes with homegrown grass cut and dried for the specific purpose of honoring teats, lactation, motherhood, femaleness and new life. <- I deliberately let our backyard turn into a motherfucking meadow just so we can harvest something that actually resembles hay.)

MARDI GRAS: Last night of doing, consuming and ingesting anything worthwhile and/or interesting. It's the last full day of the Whoredom, come Ash Wednesday the Whore's reign weakens and She's forced to share the glory with the Bride.

ASH WEDNESDAY: Celibate life begins (for me, anyway - how else do your turn a whore into a virgin?). In addition to refraining from sex (some sexual contact is allowed - for Christ's sake, Italics and I have been together for 13 fucking years, there's no"off" position for an intense relationship that's lasted that fucking long - provided no penetration of any kind occurs), I'm not allowed to masturbate or get myself off in any way and I also give up some sort of worldly love (booze, chocolate, white flour) for the duration of Lent.

LENT: Lent officially starts on Ash Wednesday and lasts, for us, until we're married. The morning after Mardi Gras finds me purifying the bed - stripping the sheets, washing them (with a handful of salt), Febrezing the mattress, flipping the mattress, washing the bed frame with a magic wash and then anointing the frame and our foreheads with an ash mixture made from oils, body fluids and, you guessed it, ash.

Lent is our courtship period, we can't fuck, but we can still touch, grope and explore. We get to know one another, all over again, and throughout the 40ish days we do couple-themed things and focus on being more intimate with one another. Once our martial bed is wiped clean I'm allowed to henna my hair red again (only the Bride's allowed to have red hair) and begin exfoliating six months of hag-crone off my ass (literally, I make a spiritually cleansing salt scrub).

HOLY WEEK: Holy Week is panic week because I know, within two weeks, not only am I going to have to produce a wedding feast to celebrate our union but we'll have to find time to actually perform the Hieros Gamos ritual itself, go to church on Holy Saturday, create a fucking Easter basket for church (which means baking babka or paska, which is an ENTIRE day of babying dough), create several seasonally specific altars and get myself ready to marry a motherfucking resurrected king.

HOLY SATURDAY: The make-or-break Easter day. I'll have spent all of Holy Week in the kitchen preparing for Easter Sunday's ritual feast. In addition to carting along one of my phallic loaves of babka to church I also include other traditional Ukrainian contents: fresh parsley, salt, boiled eggs, pysanky, butter molded into the shape of a lamb (paschal lamb), smoked pork products (sausages, bacon, loin) and some not-so-Ukrainian contents (i.e., honey, homegrown wheat, our Thai fertility pendants). The Easter basket is blessed by a priest during a special ceremony and the food within eaten as brunch on Easter Sunday.

EASTER SUNDAY: We celebrate the resurrection of the Bride's divine bridegroom, who the Whore reaped and killed during Harvest. (Crazy quick: White flour = Ukrainian crack. White flour = wheat. Ukrainian crack = wheat. Wheat = divine bridegroom who is resurrected in Spring and killed at Harvest.) Any worldly loves given up for Lent are welcomed back into our lives, but if we still haven't had a chance to perform the wedding ceremony we still need to abstain from sex or hardcore contact. (NO FINGER BANGING UNTIL "I DO".)

EASTER MONDAY (AKA SPANKING DAY): To ensure a year of good health and otherworldly beauty Italics needs to spank my ass the Monday after Easter. (It's an ancient Slavic thing.) Only women get spanked, though, and in return - since it's meant to be a blessing - we lady folk pay our respects with an egg. (Last year Italics got egged in the face. I, uh, had a spastic moment and laid the duck egg I was cradling in my cunt on Italics' forehead - while he was eating me out - at high velocity. Who knew laying eggs could be so fucking dangerous?)

THE ACTUAL WEDDING: Every year is different. You never really know when it's going to happen, or what it'll be like. Eventually, though, we get around to "making Spring happen" - sometimes it's a spur-of-the-moment act with absolutely no props, sometimes it's a crazy-elaborate seven hour production involving costumes, billowing incense and entheogens.

In something like 4-5 years we went from "there was no purpose or meaning for the time between Yuletide festivities and Easter celebrations and I just sort've sat around, bored out of my skull, waiting for the seasonal change" to "eventually, though, our yearly calendar became more structured and full as our spiritual practices evolved". Through an ongoing process of trial and error, we carved out a time for ourselves using our beliefs and intuition as a compass. Winter, post-Christmas, finally served a purpose (which kept me occupied and gave me a foundation to build an entire year on).

Except, not really, because this past Winter I retreated so far into myself that I entered a bizarre apathetic, amotivated torpor-hibernation state. I got tripped up just after Midwinter and instead of adjusting to the uneven terrain I stomped both feet and screamed "WHY ISN'T THE MOTHERFUCKING GROUND EVEN? HOW THE FUCK DO YOU EXPECT ME TO WALK ON THIS SHIT?". The white blossoms of Midsummer and frostbitten rowan berries of Fall had it right - it was going to be a hard fucking Winter, and not just for the indigenous wildlife.

A part of me called a time-out and benched itself because it just didn't give a fuck. At all. I fucking nailed Bride's day (I still need to upload and share those pictures, don't I?), but I couldn't retain the energy and enthusiasm. When Lent rolled around I gave up bread, abstained from sex and masturbation, stripped the bed on Ash Wednesday but I couldn't find the time or effort to engage in the small seasonal rituals that defined that time of year.

There was no Mardi Gras bonfire which meant no ashes for the morning after. No ashes meant no anointing. Fine, I thought, I shouldn't force things, not every year is going to be the same. Sometimes I'll manage to work shit in, and some years I won't. That's just part of the game. Then I began feeling bad about the "no ashes" thing, which made me feel like I couldn't purify myself with my salt scrub because I hadn't been anointed. Despite feeling that way, I never actually got around to creating ashes, so nothing (and no one) got consecrated and I found myself back at square one with everything ("WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT OF DYING MY FUCKING HAIR WITH HENNA IF I HAVEN'T SCRUBBED MYSELF CLEAN AND BEEN ANOINTED?").

Admittedly, things did pick up around Holy Week (I had a couple really fucking moving moments, but I just haven't had a chance to write about them) but I spent all Midspring and Summer attempting to catch up with Winter and early Spring duties. We just passed Midsummer and I'm STILL ticking off February boxes (scrubbed? check! hennaed? check!), but, fuck, at least shit's getting done, right? And - AND! - I learned a valuable lesson, although the price paid felt like an ounce of (mental and spiritual) flesh.

The absolute worst thing about my semi-recent struggle with SOUL DEPRESSION? I never got a chance to explain anything - what I/we do, what we believe, why we do and believe - during a season that's a big fucking deal to me/us. Just as Graveyard Dirt was really beginning to pick up steam - making me all, you know, excited with the prospect of dissecting everything I do and believe and explaining it all, piece by piece, photo by photo - I fell into a soul slump. All I have to show for it are ten billion folders filled with unedited pictures for unwritten entries.

It's depressing; I feel really fucking lazy and, actually, kind've sort've embarrassed. I have something special. Not, like, mutant powers special, or anything, but I have a belief system that I created brick by metaphorical fucking brick with my bleeding, calloused hands. One thing I hear again and again from people is "OH, GOD, YOU'RE SO...REAL. EVERYTHING YOU DO SEEMS SO REAL".

It's because I am real. My beliefs, my rituals and my daily way of life is real. It's "real" because it was created from the ground up using years of working, testing and experimenting. It's "real" because I'm playing the game, not just watching it from the sidelines. It's "real" because I have a part, an integral role. It's "real" because I made myself someone important and had the fucking audacity to wedge the declaration into the ass crack of the Universe.

And that sort've reality? That sort've fearless, arrogant insolence? Deserves fucking respect and serious fucking commitment. If I call myself a god, I better act like a motherfucking god. If I assign myself spiritual duties, I have a fucking obligation to follow through with them. It's not enough to talk the pretty talk and bomb the fuck out of it with my magic-themed Richard Pryor routine, I've got to live it. Breathe it. Sing it. I've got to fucking bleed it to make it real like the motherfucking Velveteen Rabbit.

I said I was more than worthy of this way of life, now it's time to fucking prove it.

Leukemia Girl

I swear to fucking Christ I bruise more easily than Leukemia Girl from that one Charlie Brown SUCKS THAT YOUR FRIEND HAS LEUKEMIA, LINUS special.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow, internet, I get my life back. (<- MOTHER-IN-LAW LEAVES TO JOIN FATHER-IN-LAW IN FLORIDA FOR ONE MONTH. MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, SUBSEQUENTLY, WILL FINALLY BE GRANTED SOME FREE TIME (WHICH SHE HASN'T HAD FOR ABOUT TWO FUCKING WEEKS).)

Christ fucking almighty, have you missed me as much as I've missed you? Probably not, but I'm good at ~pretending~.

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!)

A Stranger in a Madhouse

I fucking hate getting up around this time. (You would not fucking believe how much I fucking hate getting up around this fucking time.)

My mornings aren't static, but they ARE routine. I get up, have a piss, put the kettle on, say good morning to Choney (and let her out of the cage), turn on my computer, make my tea and sit down to work for several hours. I go from "fast asleep" to "hard at work" in roughly seven steps. It's a system a decade in the making, it's a system that works.

(Aries love spontaneity, but an autistic Aries loves spontaneity carefully penciled into a trusted, familiar routine.)

My daily motions might be habitual, but WHEN I execute those habitual activities changes day to day. Look, I'm a glorified housewife, and even when I wasn't preoccupied with this Cinderella gig my career allowed me to work at home. Time, dates and days mean(t) nothing to me - I'm not obligated to keep appointments so I'm not obligated to keep a schedule. (<- At least once a week I forget what day it is, which then requires a quick computer check so I can pretend I'm part of normal human society.)

It's a strange and occasionally lonely existence (even when sharing it with a partner). There are periods in summer where I don't see any darkness for weeks, and then there are periods in winter where I don't see any light for weeks. For several weeks we'll both be up during the day, for the next several weeks we'll both be up during the night.

We aren't nocturnal, but we aren't diurnal either. Italics and I somehow slipped through the cracks and we now exist in a bizarre limbo following a strange circadian pattern I haven't yet worked out. Almost every day we stay up a few hours longer than the day before, which inevitably means we'll wake up several hours later than the previous day. And on and on it goes, like clockwork, like it has for the past twelve or so years.

There are inherent problems with a free flowing sleep cycle. The world doesn't start and stop for you, especially when you're really fucking removed from any sort of 24 hour culture. Shops in town close around 5:00 PM, restaurants take their last orders around 9:30 PM, the last movie usually begins around 9:10 PM and grocery stores close anywhere from 8-11 PM.

None of that sounds like a big deal until you've only just started your day and run out of milk, or toilet paper, or whatever and it's 1 AM. You have no choice but to wait. None of that sounds like a big deal until you're so fucking cabin fever-y that retaining any semblance of sanity requires an immediate change of scenery (OR ELSE) but there's no where to go, and nothing to do, for another twelve hours. You have no choice but to wait.

None of that sounds like a big deal until you haven't seen the sun - or even natural fucking light - for three weeks and you begin feeling like a shell of a person, a ghost haunting a fucking house it can't ever escape, forced to live the same day over and over and over again without a moment's respite. Even then, you have no choice but to wait.

(There's a lot of waiting involved when you're in nocturnal mode and live in the middle of rural Scotland where the only thing opened 24 hours is a dinky ass gas station five miles away.)

By this point in our lives our sleeping schedules are no longer a choice. The slow, but steady, constant push forward is so heavily engrained into living that we can't untangle ourselves from it. (I've tried; it just doesn't work.) It's hard during winter (really fucking hard during winter), but it's even HARDER sharing the house with people who live by hours, days, dates and time.

Maybe it'd be easier if we were offered the same courtesy we extend to them when they're sleeping/working, but I haven't had enough experience with them reciprocating the favor to make any sort of conclusion. It's just...they're loud human beings. Really, really fucking loud human beings who leave you mystified and angry as to how a pair of 50+ year old adults can be, by default, that fucking loud.

(IT'S. NOT. NATURAL.)

They stomp from room to room. They slam doors shut (even the washing machine, even the dishwasher, even the microwave). They watch TV with the volume blaring and then leave the door to the lounge open when leaving the room so the entire house fills up with noise. Mr. Awesome deliberately stomps his foot on the floor, whistles, claps and shouts for my mother-in-law to get her attention. They shout instead of talk.

I could go on and fucking on, but I won't since you probably get the idea. (I'll deliberately exclude all of the TOTALLY AWESOME SHIT they do when they know we're sleeping - like playing Gloria fucking Estefan on the CD player AS LOUD AS IT'LL FUCKING PLAY.)

(Why is Ms. Graveyard Dirt such a fucking grumpy ass bitch? MAYBE IT HAS TO DO WITH THE FACT THAT SHE GETS WOKEN UP BY THE MOTHERFUCKING CONGA SONG TWO FUCKING HOURS INTO SLEEPING AND THEN HAS TO DEAL WITH HER FATHER-IN-LAW GETTING PISSED //AT HER// FOR COMPLAINING ABOUT BEING WOKEN UP.)

The biggest problem with cohabiting with my in-laws is their inability to appreciate or understand the unique challenges Italics and I face living with them. Like I said earlier, my mornings aren't static, but they are routine. I do the same shit every day, it's just the starting point begins at different times.

Inevitably, my sleeping cycle will unfavorably coincide with my in-laws' scheduled lives which means there's one or two weeks where I get jack shit done because my mornings are their evenings, and all they want to do by that point in their day is eat, be loud, drink (which leads to them being even louder) and watch TV with the volume turned up to full blast. For obvious reasons I don't get a chance to do what I want to do (i.e., work) and by the time they pack up and drag the circus to bed I'm already several hours into my day and need to get on with running a fucking house.

Our office - the computer room - is separated from the communal lounge by a thin ass wall. (How thin ass? So thin ass that part of the wall actually got FILLED IN because, at one point, this room I'm sitting and typing in - which used to be Italics' bedroom - was once the dining room that opened into the lounge.) Everything they do, everything they say is easily heard through the superficial partition.

I hear the talking (which, by natural default, is shouting), the eating, the TV, the drinking, the stomping, the clapping, the whistling, the calling. I hear Mr. Awesome bitching about us, bitching about my mother-in-law to my mother-in-law, bitching about my mother-in-law's work, bitching about other people, bitching about any fucking thing that enters his partially inebriated mind at the time.

I can't work. I can't concentrate. All I can fucking do is feel like a caged fucking animal whose captors are simultaneous shaking and screaming into the cage they've boxed me into. What the fuck am I supposed to do when Italics is asleep (so he can't intervene on my behalf) and they have me frothing at the fucking mouth with all of their unnecessary loud fucking noise when I'm working?

(YOU WANT ME OUT OF YOUR FUCKING HOUSE? THEN SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET ME GET ON WITH MY FUCKING CAREER.)

They aren't my parents, they aren't even blood fucking relations - what right do I have to tell them to give me a fucking break and zip it? I'm not their kid, I don't share chromosomes or DNA with them. All I am is a fucking stranger trying to concentrate in a fucking madhouse that's her home and her workplace.

Mind Your Manners

Sometimes it feels like I'd give anything to share DNA with Italics' parents just so I had the justified luxury of shouting "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?" during moments like this. (Mind your manners, Ms. Graveyard Dirt, your chromosomes don't match theirs.)

Fiercely Lazy, or Fiercely Woman?

You hit 30 and you think FUCK, WHAT'S THE POINT? and bleed without padding because pulling out a cloth menstrual pad requires too much fucking effort. Once a month my inner thighs turn red, I drip on the floor and smell of blood - fiercely lazy, or fiercely woman?

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.

A Slippery Fish

I'm staring dumbly at the blank (well, not SO blank now) "CREATE A NEW ENTRY" interface because I have no fucking idea what I want to say.

(I want to say something, right? I mean, why settle your ass down to write a journal entry when you've got fuck all to say AND you've got a manila envelope stuffed full of seeds waiting to be planted on this glorious Saturday afternoon? Oh, wait. That's why - Saturday; one of TWO days I have to share the house with both in-laws simultaneously.)

("Weekend" doesn't exist when you cohabit with your in-laws and you work at home. There's no point in working because within 10 minutes someone'll start making noise you can't fucking ignore, there's no point in cleaning because within 10 minutes they'll trash the room, there's no point in engaging in a hobby because within 10 minutes they'll find a reason to bug your fucking ass.)

(Saturday and Sunday are write-off days here where I get NOTHING accomplished (SORRY, BUT FEELING FRUSTRATED DOESN'T COUNT AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT) and chant my way ("IT'S ONLY FOR TWO DAYS, THEN IT'S MONDAY, IT'S ONLY FOR TWO DAYS, THEN IT'S MONDAY, IT'S ONLY FOR..") throughout the 48 hours to help me retain any semblance of sanity.)

(Pot, as you'd imagine, helps, but that's a tricky game that needs to be played carefully. <- See "GOOD LORD, WHY ARE YOUR EYES SO RED?" and "YOU TWO LOOK AWFULLY SLEEPY TODAY!".)

We've been so busy that it's thrown me out of whack. House busy I can handle, house busy is usual busy which I've categorized, compartmentalized and refined over the course of several years. I'm a motherfucking PRO when it comes to house busy. It's the non-house shit - appointments, interacting with people, living life to a schedule - that always rocks the fucking boat and leaves me feeling unsettled.

(Is it noticeable? I feel like it is. The past few weeks it feels like I've been wrangling with a floundering fish covered in extra slippery lube. I haven't dropped it, but restraining the goddamn thing has required some exquisite fucking acrobatics and I'm beginning to wonder what's the fucking point. <- PERHAPS "PUT THE FISH IN THE FUCKING WATER WHERE IT FUCKING BELONGS AND LEAVE IT THE FUCK ALONE, I MEAN, JESUS, YOU DON'T EVEN //LIKE// FISH IN THE FIRST PLACE!".)

I keep saying shit like IT'S BECAUSE IT'S SPRING and IT'S BECAUSE SHAKEY/WUZZA'S DIED and IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S A LOT OF FUCKING SHIT GOING DOWN but I'm beginning to wonder if I'm already sort've unconsciously panicking at the thought of what was routine, for nearly 10 years, soon coming to an end.

When Choney leaves us we'll be ratless/petless for the first time in nearly a decade. A decade. A fucking decade. That's a fucking 10 year old bringing home their math homework asking for help in fields of geometry you don't fucking remember. Ten years is a way of life; it's a significant fraction of a person's existence.

I know superficially it'll be the same - I'll still cook, still clean, I'll still hammer away in this little space of mine, I'll still masturbate before falling asleep and I'll still get stoned and watch nature programs just before bed to cut dreaded thoughts of mortality off at the pass. The motions will be the same, but it'll be emptier without that feeling of companionship.

We took Chooch to the vet the other day for surgery consultation and I got slapped in the face with an option that I didn't even bother considering: it would kill Choney to remove the massive mammary tumors clustered behind one of her front legs. They're too large to be operable, and they're growing in an awkward position (just behind the armpit) that'd open her up to serious infection.

I went in for a miracle (that I thought was a sure thing), and instead I got handed a death sentence. I had a hormonal moment in the consultation room and cried. It was HELLA embarrassing; the vet had to tear off a handful of paper towels for me. Italics went quiet and held onto my forearm. In our silence we thought the same thing: we're going to lose her because of those fucking tumors.

We just lost Denny's because of mammary tumors (which are totally benign, believe it or not, it's just that they inevitably get in the way of living after a certain point of growth) and I'm plagued with horrendous, soul crushing guilt because if we could've afforded it and had them removed early on she'd still be with us. How many months did those fucking tumors steal from Wuzza? How many months will Choo-Choo's tumors steal from her?

All I've heard from the vet, friends and in-laws is "BUT YOU GUYS DO YOUR VERY BEST AND IT'S OBVIOUS THAT YOU GUYS REALLY, REALLY CARE FOR YOUR RATS" and I want to scream "THAT'S BULLSHIT, BECAUSE IF THAT WAS THE CASE I WOULD'VE BEEN SELLING BLOWJOBS LEFT AND RIGHT TO AFFORD SURGICALLY REMOVING THEIR MAMMARY TUMORS" but I politely thank them, offer a weak, forced smile and shuffle away to quietly spend time with my morbid thoughts.

Anyway. So.

A slippery fish. An end of things; some major Death, some minor Death. A semi-recent passing of a pet, a very recent passing of a pet and an eventual passing of a pet. Possibly a friendship (I'm a shit friend, anyway), possibly a husband (although I've been quietly working on that one), possibly a way of life. So many changes, so much upheaval, it's no fucking wonder why I feel unsettled and antsy.

Slippery fish that I've desperately been clinging onto, if I let you go will you be Boadicea's hare for me?

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.)

Lost and Found

Yesterday, in fragmented notes, thoughts, sentences and LOLs:

Ventured forth to find 2000 year old souterrain to see if suitable for magic sex. (Executing hieros gamos / sacred marriage Underground in ancient grain storage passage? A+ IDEA!) Accidentally mistook Torphins for Tarland; extra 15 minutes (approx.) added to journey. Road closed 6 miles from Tarland, not awesome. Ms. Graveyard Dirt? NOT amused.

"OH LOOK! A TANNERY! THEY SELL SHEEP SKINS, RUGS AND COATS! OH MY GOD!"

Bump down small country lane towards tannery. Stumble over ruined castle. Recognize walled up windows and doorway. "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD THESE ARE THOSE RUINS I FOUND ON THAT ALFORD PHOTO ALBUM SITE!"

Preen after accidentally finding local site of personal interest. (Grudging feelings towards closed road lessened.) Decide against tannery visit, decide for finding alternative route to Tarland (and 2000 year old earthen passage). See familiar mound. (<- ANOTHER LOCAL SITE OF PERSONAL INTEREST.) See headstone way in distance. Can't believe luck; self-congratulatory preening overload.

Alternative route found via microscopic rural roads. Frequent "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! JUST LOOK AT THOSE WEE BABY LAMBS! IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE ON EARTH AS CUTE AS JUST BORN LAMBS?" cries made. Red sports car not as impressed with new life; allowed misplaced vehicle to pass. Roll eyes at unnecessarily fast car, continue to enjoy scenery at own pace.

Reconnect with main road to Tarland. Cost of unexpected diversion? Found: babbling brook, old castle, tannery, ruined church, miniature graveyard. Acceptable price to pay for detour. Road? Quiet. Scenery? Breathtaking. Never felt as connected with land. America? Too new. Scotland? Steeped in "ancient". Hills call, water beckons, forests tempt. Scotland speaks; USA still needs to find voice. (<- Treasonous talk? Always good at being black sheep.)

See summit of snow capped mountain optically wedged between two hills. "HOLY FUCKING SHIT, LOOK AT ALL OF THE SNOW!" Balk at distance - V. distant - blanket of white. Can't believe visible amounts of snow. Follow road to Tarland. Burst over hill crest, slam on brakes despite acceptable speed. Hill drops to green, fertile valley backing into famous mountain range.

Can't find words, can't find thoughts. Park in road shoulder. Cry. Sit, quietly, staring out over majestic landscape. Think "MY HOME; THIS IS MY HOME", know Old Woman is talking; Old Woman is feeling. Entrance to another world - to another land - through purple and white barrier cradling rich farm fields and forests. Few days ago asked Italics "HOW CLOSE ARE THE CAIRNGORMS TO US?". Yesterday Universe answered. (<- Approximately 30 minutes.)

V. near Tarland. Mighty internet: "EARTHEN HOUSE JUST ONE MILE OUT OF TARLAND!" No obvious indication, squint at anything resembling sign. Try to ignore commanding scenery (mostly fail). "A FEW SITES DID MAKE OUT THAT THERE'S A SIGN POINTING TO THE-" didn't finish sentence, tiny - almost non-existent - street sign to souterrain on left side of road. (Eureka!)

No obvious passage Underground. No obvious parking lot. Obvious "PRIVATE FUCKING PROPERTY, MOTHERFUCKERS, DON'T PARK ON OUR FUCKING LAND" sign. (Farm directly on other side of grassy knoll.) Sigh. Roll eyes. Reverse, drive, reverse. Tuck into dirt track leading to wheat field. Not on private property, n'yah.

Pretend to be interested in tourist signpost explaining earthen house. Still no obvious passage Underground. See nothing except small patch of green lawn. Land slightly mounded, follow gentle slope down. Suddenly, tiny black crack in hill. A tear, a rip, a hidden gash. Wild pheasant shrieks when discovery is made. Startled, we laugh. Silently wonder if mother goddess hips will fit through minuscule threshold to Underground.

Mighty internet: "...AND DON'T FORGET TO BRING A FLASHLIGHT!" Torch? Remembered. Check torch to make sure working properly? Not remembered. (<- Oops!) Congratulations on almost dead flashlight, Ms. Graveyard Dirt. Prepared to Helen Keller dark tunnel (came too far to turn back). Faint illuminated glow from flashlight, battery weak - almost spent - but good enough.

Entrance to souterrain tight. Crossed threshold on hands and knees. Crawled like child, like petitioning supplicant. Humble, stripped of grandeur. Began descent into earth like animal, belly touching dusty ground. Further, deeper, darker. Hands outstretched to either side. Can't see stone walls, but can feel assuringly solid structure. Colder, darker, damper. Wooden beams lift up. Crawling becomes crouching, crouching becomes slouching, slouching becomes standing.

Abrupt end of passage. Facing end? Blackness. Facing opening? White pinprick of light. Earth breathing. Air smells like wet graveyard dirt. Water trickles down sides of walls. Silence engulfs hollowed out space. We stand, side by side, as woman and man, as to-be husband and to-be wife in ancient, man-made chamber. We stand in a prison, a womb, an unexpected bridal bedchamber. We stand in a 2000 year old stone and wood lined tunnel where the fruits of Harvest were stored. We stand Underground; our home, our domain, our sacred ground.

Flashlight reveals tealights dotting unseen ground. (Ritually used? Practically used?) Candles won't burn, not enough wax and/or cheap make. Amused, nonetheless. Touch Italics' cock through pants in enveloping darkness. Span fingers over bump and knead flesh and material encouragingly. Joking grope leads to kissing, kissing leads to serious groping, serious groping leads to blowjob, blowjob leads to unplanned martial sex against wet walls of earthen house.

Had planned for overtly ceremonial rite at home, settled for on-the-fly passion in underground passage two millennia old. (Can't ritualize everything.) Marriage, finally. Sex, finally. (57 days of celibacy? OVER.) Physical and spiritual union of man and woman, god and goddess, groom and bride, king and sovereignty personified.

(Unwittingly swallowed live bug during first penetration; tried not to ruin moment by choking. Pretended accidental consumption of living thing during sacred marriage part of never ending life/death cycle. (Hah fucking hah.) Still would have preferred NOT inhaling insect, thnx.)

Painful. (Amazing.) Uncomfortable. (Wonderful.) Tight. (Perfect fit.) Bride. (Wife.) One orgasm, together, almost two. Stone walls, lengths of wood and earth's darkness beared witness. Sealed union by pressing messy cunt against precipitation covered dead end wall. Married, for one year. Exited Underground with husband-prize in tow. (<- UNINTENTIONAL, BUT FITTING.)

Mutant buff-tailed bumblebee welcomed newlyweds emerging from Underground marital chamber. Air? Fresher, lighter. Sun? Warmer, brighter. Entered earthen passage one season, departed earthen passage to another. Exchanged "HAPPY MARRIAGE!" in front of quivering daffodils. Kissed, cleaned up remnants of sacred marriage still coating inner thighs.

Go home? Why? Just married! Celebrate sacred union exploring countryside? OH, WHY NOT! Stopped at "Queen's View" scenic overlook. Heard bumblebee. Studied tourist plaque. Crossed road, marveled at Alp-like landscape unfolding on other side of valley. Poked commemorative sundial. Crossed road, studied tourist plaque again. Made executive decision - find local kirkyard (V. close, tourist plaque map said). Heard bumblebee.

New country lane, new adventure. Down tree studded hill into fertile, greening valley. Stupid number of pheasants. (Count? Lost count after 10. <- "Stupid number of pheasants" 100% accurate.) "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! JUST LOOK AT THOSE WEE BABY LAMBS! IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE ON EARTH AS CUTE AS JUST BORN LAMBS?" New baby lambs? Never get old. Ms. Graveyard Dirt and Italics testament to bold claim.

Found old church. Found old graveyard. Found old morthouse. Found handy tourist signpost with old church, old graveyard and old morthouse information. Learned morthouse = corpse safe in olden times (to deter would-be body snatchers). Suddenly more interested in morthouse (surprise, surprise).

Return to dank interior of antique morthouse. "THIS TOTALLY FEELS LIKE AN ORDINARY SHED." (Ordinary shed partially buried underground, anyway.) Had to piss. Saw headstone fragments casually tossed into shadowy corners. Wanted them. (Still had to piss.) Saw small wooden ladder resting against stone wall. Wanted it. (Really had to piss.) Saw discarded dusty vase filled with rocks. Wanted it. (Really for real serious had to piss.)

Had piss at base of ladder. (Ladder? Super big Ukrainian ju-ju, FYI.) Groped ladder. Caressed ladder. Fantasized about abducting rickety old morthouse ladder for personal/ritual use. Considered leaving monetary note beneath rock where ladder stood. Too risky, left it. Took vase, though (not entirely stupid, mkay?).

"WAIT FOR ME, I'LL COME BACK FOR YOU!" Ladder seemed to understand.

Found (in total): babbling brook, old castle, tannery, ruined church, miniature graveyard, Cairngorms, 2000 year old souterrain, husband (and king), commemorative sundial, old church, older morthouse, super old cemetery, unloved glass vase & unrequited love for one ladder

Lost (in total): "virginity" & 1/3 of Blessed Virgin trio

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.)

Exquisite Fucking Disaster

The in-laws leave for their Spring vacation on Saturday. I don't feel festive, or celebratory, or elated, or...fuck, anything (hence the recent lack of writing). All I can think of is how I'm not ready for Easter, how I'm even less ready for a fucking wedding and how my 30th birthday (sixteen days and counting) will be nothing short of an exquisite fucking disaster.

Housemaker

"Going out" has become some sort of mythical status that I'm often left daydreaming about. I wish I could explain THE HOUSE CURSE, but it'd require more concentration than I normally have these days. (I think I'd be able to cope with the mental stress of being a shut-in if I could only write about what I'm feeling and what's happening, but my ability to stayed focused enough to write anything remotely cathartic is shot and I feel disinterested in everything, including myself.)

Before Chippy settled into domesticated family life he was a chaotic rocket crashing from one wall to the next. I couldn't work with him because I couldn't physically interact with him. I knew that if he was going to stay with us I had to house train him, but I had no idea how you tamed and built a relationship with something incorporeal. In the end, I picked an inanimate object (a plush Shar Pei dog; that's a story within itself, though) and interacted with it, pouring time, energy and intention into the process until it was brought to life.

Chippy eventually understood why I was lugging around and talking to an extra large stuffed toy and the vessel - a vacant structure waiting for some soul - was filled. If I created SOMETHING out of NOTHING before, why should size matter? What's REALLY the difference between a house and a stuffed animal? Especially if MORE of my heart, soul and physical exertion is given to House on a daily basis?

I'm the caretaker of House, and everything inside of House. House knows my role and my feelings of responsibility towards it. I've screamed at House. I've pounded my fists against House's walls, shrieking like a wild banshee while putting holes through drywall. I've cried within House, I've despaired, felt hopeless and trapped. I've laughed within House, found the meaning of life (and lost it, a few times) and like a queen perched on her royal fucking throne I've governed and ruled within - because of - House.

Our beliefs are kept sacred within House. House holds our altars, our prayers, our joys and fears. We live, grow, create, work, breathe and forge relationships within these walls. Every Spring we're married in House, every Fall we hold the divine king's wake in House. The seasons are celebrated, the cycle of the year is observed and we grow older and wiser within the confines of House.

House is a temple, a school and home. Within the collection of rooms I'm a nun (because "priestess" is totally a DONE concept within the witch/pagan community) observing and fulfilling my sacred duties. Within the collection of rooms I'm a student testing and experimenting with new ideas and theories. Within the collection of rooms I'm a nun, a witch, a wife, a partner, a co-worker, a cook, a gardener and a homemaker. (Housemaker?)

If I told you that House didn't like me leaving, would you believe me? If I told you about the years worth of effort and energy I put into House, caring for it, cleaning it, loving it, interacting with it, praying, loving and living in it and would you believe that House was just as real as the Velveteen Rabbit?

Missed Opportunities

We don't get out often. In fact, in the past six months alone we had to reschedule the same attempt (i.e., Christmas Eve) four fucking times. It's a combination of bad timing, Italics working four jobs, being nocturnal for half of the month, being ill (between his back, my stomach and his inability to process gluten we're a walking, talking pair of chronic discomfort, pain and suffering) and living from one major disaster to the next.

A lot of those cancellations are a result of OTHER people's actions; they bring illnesses home with them (so we get sick and can't go out), they decide they'd rather do something else (AFTER promising that we can definitely rely on them) or someone - and when I mean "someone" I obviously mean Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law - decides to act like an inconsiderate asshole two hours before we're supposed to leave the house (FOR THE FIRST FUCKING TIME IN MONTHS) by picking a fucking fight with us.

(UNIVERSE, CAN I HAVE A LITTLE HELP HERE? IS TWO HOURS BEFORE MY FIRST BIG "DATE" WITH MY HUSBAND IN OVER A MONTH REALLY THE BEST TIME FOR MR. AWESOME TO PITCH A CRAZY OLD MAN TANTRUM? OUT OF ALL OF THE FUCKING DAYS HE COULD'VE PICKED TO THROW THE ENTIRE HOUSE IN TURMOIL, YOU'RE TELLING ME IT ABSOLUTELY HAD TO BE ON THE ONE DAY WE MADE PLANS FOR TWO FUCKING MONTHS AGO AND THAT NO OTHER DAY WAS SUITABLE?)

(I'VE BEEN STUCK IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE FOR SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS - SEVEN! THAT'S HOW LONG SHAKEY'S BEEN ILL AND DYING! SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS! SEVEN WEEKS OF FIVE HOURS OF SLEEP, SEVEN WEEKS OF ALWAYS BEING COVERED IN BABY FOOD, GATORADE, HOMEMADE SOUP, RAT SHIT AND RAT MUCOUS. SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS OF NOT BEING ABLE TO DO FUCKING //ANYTHING// OTHER THAN BE A LIVE IN MAID BECAUSE AN INVALID PET IS SOLELY RELYING ON US TO STAY ALIVE.)

(SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS! AND THE ENTIRE TIME I KEPT THINKING "BUT AT LEAST YOU HAVE MARCH 16TH TO LOOK FORWARD TO! AT LEAST ON MARCH 16TH YOU CAN TAKE THE DAY AND NIGHT OFF, PEEL OFF YOUR RAT STAINED CLOTHING AND PUT ON SOMETHING THAT MAKES YOU FEEL LIKE A SEXY HUMAN BEING AGAIN. AT LEAST ON MARCH 16TH YOU CAN GO OUT WITH YOUR HUSBAND, HAVE A GOOD TIME AND FORGET THAT YOU'RE CONSTANTLY SURROUNDED BY DEATH, ILLNESS AND MADNESS.")

This bullshit? ALWAYS. FUCKING. HAPPENS. Our luck is so shit poor that it borders on cosmic comedy. How many other people have to reschedule their Christmas Eve plans four motherfucking times? How many other people have to reschedule their Christmas Eve plans FOR THE SAME FUCKING REASONS?

(WHO THE FUCK GETS FUCKING SICK AND SNOWED IN, HAS TO CANCEL THEIR PLANS, IS FORCED TO RESCHEDULE EVERYTHING ONLY TO GET SICK (AGAIN) AND SNOWED IN (AGAIN) THEREBY HAVING TO CANCEL THE SECOND ATTEMPT FOR THE VERY SAME FUCKING REASONS THE FIRST ATTEMPT WAS AXED? OH, THAT'S RIGHT, US.)

I did EVERYTHING I COULD POSSIBLY DO to ensure that the 16th went smoothly. I worked out a timetable for showers, grooming, hair styling, dressing, make-up applying. We worked out where we were going to eat, where we were going to get dropped off and at what time. We spent the day taking it easy and deliberately distancing ourselves from anything stressful that could toss a spanner in the works.

What the fuck happens two hours before we're supposed to leave for our big evening in town? Mr. Awesome explodes because Italics caught him CLEANING HIS FUCKING DIRTY ASS MUD AND SHIT CRUSTED SHOES with the sponge we use to WASH THE FUCKING DISHES. When Italics asked his father to throw away the sponge he was using and replace it with a new one Mr. Awesome went mental.

(For the sake of my sanity - since this shit is still fresh - I'm going to gloss over everything my father-in-law pathetically wheeled out to try and justify his over-the-top reaction. Basically? Basically I'm a bitch, we don't give him the respect he deserves, this is HIS house, dammit, and if he wants to throw away or touch or break or ruin something - regardless if it's his - he's going to fucking do it, it's MY responsibility to tell him every day what he can or can't touch, and what he can or can't do otherwise he can't be held responsible for his actions, we're constantly causing problems in the house, when the fuck are we going to move out already and no, Ms. Graveyard Dirt, you're completely mistaken about me throwing out ashes that belonged to your mother, and, also, I never threw any garbage, ever, on any of your altars.)

(Internet, I have never had anyone lie so blatantly, lie so fucking BOLDLY to me before, all the while pretending to casually lean against the stove in deluded smugness. I barely managed to restrain myself from spitting directly into one of his eyes and decking him.)

(I abhor liars. Liars are bottom rung scum. Liars are pathetic insecure retards with tremendous illusions of grandeur who lack the mental facilities to engage in a normal argument or disagreement. They spend inordinate amounts of time convincing themselves that they're some sort of intellectual superman whose mental prowess allows them to pull the wool over everyone else's eyes, but when push comes to shove they realize they have nothing to fucking offer than some on-the-fly bullshit they're forced to invent on the fucking spot.)

He went mental over a fucking sink sponge. A part of me still can't believe that something that stupid, that fucking insignificant became the battle of his fucking life. My big night out - the one we've been talking about for two fucking months, the one I almost didn't mention because I was so fucking afraid that if I showed any signs of being excited I'd somehow jinx the evening - got fucking ruined because my father-in-law couldn't handle being asked to NOT throw the sponge back into the sink if he uses it to clean his fucking dirty shoes.

(I know the bigger WTF reaction is "HOLY SHIT, YOU'RE TELLING ME HE DOESN'T APPRECIATE OR VALUE HOW FUCKING UNHYGIENIC THAT IS?", but that's old news here. My father-in-law uses the dish sponge to clean his shoes, the cars (both inside and outside) and whatever else he's managed to get away with because there wasn't anyone there to intervene.)

At the end of the day we still went out, but the night was ruined.

After engaging in a screaming match with my father-in-law I had to put on make-up and I was so agitated that I kept dropping everything on the floor. My hair dried pinned up so I had no choice but to wear it pinned up (which wasn't the original plan), and when it came time to style it it was all limp and static-y and clingy.

(I'm ashamed to admit that the make-up job was the worst I've done in YEARS and I was SO DEPRESSED and SO EMBARRASSED that I spent an hour sitting in my computer chair, crying, trying to decide if I looked too stupid to go out. <- OKAY, SO I MIGHT'VE OVERREACTED SLIGHTLY, BUT IT'S NOT LIKE I WAS BEING EMOTIONAL FOR NO REASON, RIGHT? IT'S NOT LIKE IT ~CAME FROM NOWHERE~.)

Despite being exhausted, angry, upset, pissed off, resentful and feeling like I looked stupid and embarrassing I still decided to go out. But by the time we dealt with the unforeseen retardation and were ready to go we didn't have enough time to have an actual evening out*. Halfway to the venue Italics discovered he forgot the tickets on the kitchen table, so we had to quickly race back home to get them. Then, because shit wasn't stressful and crazy enough, my mother-in-law (who was driving) almost hit a fucking cat that jumped out in front of the car.

The only reason why I DID go out? Italics' mother offered to drop us off if we were still interested in going. (His father was our ride, but neither of us felt up to getting a lift from him.) I knew if I didn't accept the offer, then the real reason why we didn't go out on the 16th would've been because of me (even if my "SORRY, I'M JUST NOT UP TO IT" excuse would've been perfectly legit and reasonable).

I forlornly looked over at Papa with his cold cup of coffee and thought "I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THAT BASTARD'LL SAY - HE'LL SAY, "WHY YOU CRYIN', BABY GIRL?" AND I'LL SAY "THE AGREEMENT WAS YOU GOT THE COFFEE, I GOT TO HAVE A NIGHT OUT" AND THEN HE'LL SAY "BUT YOUR MAMA STILL OFFERED TO TAKE YOU OUT, YOU //CHOSE// NOT TO GO" and I as much as I hated to admit it, I knew if I stayed home we'd end up having that exact conversation and his black ass would be right. I don't have any right to cry about missed opportunities when I'm the one making a conscious decision to sit them out.

* We were supposed to be in town just after 5:00 PM to allow us to do some window shopping, have a meal, have a few drinks and then have a joint or two before wandering over to the music hall for the choral performance. It was after 7:30 fucking PM when we finally arrived and they were just closing the doors of the hall; we barely caught the opening act by the skin of our teeth.

Fear of Death

Typically, February's a challenging month. Standing on the cusp of Spring my reign as Winter's whore, hag and mistress is beginning to end. As Darkness cracks and Light begins to filter through I straddle the threshold of transformation. After Bride's Day I'm the Old Woman and the Young Maiden; youth taking from age, and age fighting against youth. It's an emotionally tumultuous time marked by tears, frustration, rebellion, grief and sacrifice.

February's a time when hormones rage; there's resistance and submission. The Old Woman's reluctant to give up Her hold ("BUT I LIKE WEARING FUCKING JEANS AND BAGGY ASS T-SHIRTS AND I DON'T WANT TO WEAR MAKE-UP OR GO OUTSIDE..."), the Bride, as strong as seeds pushing against the weight of the earth, represents an inevitable, unavoidable change I/We undergo annually.

The thing is...it's easier getting older, it's harder becoming younger. The Whore is Woman unhinged - She's widowed, but still consorts, still acts as a mistress to the Universe. She's beautiful, She's terrifying, She's powerful, intimidating and awe-inspiring. She's wise, She's hardened, She's the culmination of everything learned, experienced and understood as the Bride. The Whore - the Old Woman - is enlightenment, one agricultural year at a time.

At the start of the year - the Dark year, after harvest, after the king's been cut down - the Whore's still young. She ages with Winter, and, eventually, as time passes and weeks become months the wild, intoxicated parties, celebrations and "black masses" give way to quieter evenings, warmer clothes and amotivation. By February We aren't the sexy, sassy, audacious mistress We once were. We're old, We're tired. We're grouchy and bitter and jaded and hate everything and everyone and SERIOUSLY, WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT OF WEARING THONGS, ANYWAY, BECAUSE WHO AM I TRYING TO IMPRESS? MY PARTNER OF NEARLY 13 YEARS? PLEASE.

We hate and resent youth with its energy, excitement and naivety. I think, really, We're wary of youth; We've been down that road before, generations upon generations, and We're tired of finding Our way year in and year out. Every year - every Spring - We watch our slate get wiped clean, knowing We have to live through it all again and make new mistakes, experience new embarrassments and deal with the annual heartbreak of love and loss.

The curse of aging - the real curse of aging - is realizing there's no satisfactory trade off. A body of a teenager comes with the mind of a teenager who, psychologically, is still a child. At age 29 with two months to go until 30 there's only one prospect that strikes unmitigated terror into my (laughably) adult heart (well, other than death and that there isn't anything after this) - the prospect of being 19 again with two months to go until 20.

The hallmark of being a proper grown up? Finding yourself going "NIGGA, PLEASE!" when offered the chance of reverting to your retarded, younger self for the sake of something purely physical - youth, and youth's young body. When I feel myself struggle against Spring I feel my "old" self resisting the negative and challenging aspect of being young. That's the problem with Winter's end, if I don't pace the season properly I'm left with nothing but reversed tarot cards - I have negative fighting and pushing against negative.

Spring should be a celebration, a joyous revelry. Who else gets to become young again? Who else does the earth miss and mourn? Who else does the resurrected king love? Who else never dies - grows old, as old as time and then, as if by magic, grows young again?

Maybe there's a part of the Old Woman who, even after all of this time, still fears death and the loss of Herself. What the fuck does it matter if you get to be young again if you lose your wisdom, your enlightenment and your life's experiences? To know and be aware that you have to be reborn, new, without the baggage that made you YOU is a fucking terrifying prospect.

Old Woman, you live my fear of death.

96 Hours

The past 96 hours haven't been entirely awesome. I've spent three out of four days in tears (give me enough time and I'm sure I can make it four out of four; I'm just that talented): ritual items have been breaking, Shakey's getting sicker, post-Valentine's Day shopping was canceled, it's been snowing again (so we can't go out AND I can't do any gardening) and I've been stuck in the house cleaning non-stop in preparation for Ash Wednesday and Lent.

Valentine's Day began promising, but chores and pet care kept me from getting ready for the romantic dinner we had planned. Our reservation was for 7:00 PM and I began prepping myself around 4:00 in the afternoon. You'd THINK that three hours would be enough time to slap on some make-up, set your hair in hot rollers, pack an overnight bag (we were spending the night in a hotel), get dressed, style your hair, drive into town and check into your room but you'd be wrong.

With less than an hour to go I still hadn't packed, gotten dressed, styled my hair, driven into town or checked into our room. In fact, with less than an hour to go HOT ROLLERS BEGAN FALLING OUT OF MY HAIR FOR NO APPARENT REASON. I got stressed and manic. Loose hair began itching my face. I got even more stressed and manic. (How do you know when Ms. Graveyard Dirt is about to lose it? She begins scratching her face like an animal because every single fucking strand of hair that touches her skin drives her fucking crazy.)

The reservation was bumped to 8:00. I realized Shakey Bear (our sick pet rat) hadn't been fed dinner, and the cage hadn't been fixed for our overnight absence. In tears - but trying not to cry because it would've totally fucked up my black-gold smoky eyes - I packed, worried, scratched, paced and panted. Italics nearly canceled going out. I wasn't even dressed by 8:00 so Italics had to call, again, and change our reservation, again, for 9:00.

We just barely made dinner by the skin of our teeth. By the time we checked into our room I was so exhausted that it bordered on stupid. I shuffled around in a haze until I realized - while staring at my reflection in the elevator mirror - that I looked like some sort of 80s Patrick Bateman female escort. (Suddenly, as if by magic, I was a little more aware of myself and my surroundings.)

"I LOOK LIKE A PROSTITUTE, DON'T I?" I asked Italics. He didn't say anything. For a long time. And then, after a damning pause, "not with that coat on". (Wearing his gray pea coat apparently offset my curled and teased Jessica Rabbit-like hair, smoky eyes, red lipstick, figure-hugging black halter dress and gigantic ghetto gold hoops.)

(LADIES, TAKE NOTE: A MAN'S FORMAL COAT WILL TOTALLY, TOTALLY DOWNGRADE YOUR WHORE LOOK FOR THE EVENING. THE DISGUISE WORKS PERFECTLY UNTIL YOU GET TO YOUR PLACE OF DESTINATION (WHERE YOU THEN HAVE TO TAKE IT OFF).)

The coat protected my modesty until we arrived at the Turkish restaurant, but the second we crossed the threshold into the establishment my cover was blown. (And - LOL! - how my cover was spectacularly blown. Not only was I the only woman to show up in figure fitting dress with her breasts magnificently on display in a claustrophobicly full restaurant, but I was also the only one working styled hair, hardcore make-up and ostentatious gold jewelry. I'm PRETTY sure I was also the only woman who reeked of black amber, musk, myrrh and leather, but since I was so preoccupied with my unintentional escort look I failed to notice what perfume everyone else was wearing.)

"SO...WHAT DO YOU DO FOR A LIVING?" I asked Italics after we ordered (loud enough so the tables next to us could hear). He laughed. "I GUESS I DON'T REALLY HAVE TO ASK YOU THE SAME," he replied. Women around us wearing cardigans and pearls pushed their food around unenthusiastically; I readjusted my tits at the table and gnawed on Turkish chicken wings (MAC lipstick and all) like it was a Super Bowl party and I hadn't eaten in weeks.

(The restaurant owner had one up on them, though, since he's born witness to my inexplicable ability to transform any classy outfit/look into something sordid and dubious. (We've been patronizing the place for nearly a decade so when we walk through the door we're always greeted with recognition. "Oh, it's that young man accompanied by the same tramp who can't keep her breasts to herself!") It's an accidental talent that Italics doesn't seem to mind.)

(My mother had a sophisticated aura about her, no matter what she wore she always carried a sense of authentic, regal dignity. Me? Authentic white trash slut-whore polished up momentarily with designer make-up and gold plated jewelry. <- I don't know where "regal dignity" went since it's not like my younger sister inherited that particular gift.)

ANYWAY.

The second OH SNAP! moment of the night transpired when one of the straps of my soft Chinese flats literally snapped off in Italics' hand. Cinderella - too full and tipsy to bend over to change out of her heels herself - lost a shoe, but she still had to walk across town to the hotel with Prince Charming. And she did so, swearing, hissing and spitting the entire way, walking with a limp despite not being hurt because it was the only way to keep her broken fucking shoe on as she crossed the icy wasteland of urban Scotland in winter.

(Long story short? I wasn't raised wearing heels. Fuck, I wasn't even raised WEARING SHOES. I'm nearly 30 and I can't walk in anything that's precariously elevated. Blame my hippie upbringing, my mystifyingly tiny, delicate feet and my fat, full-bodied ass which makes balancing on mystifyingly tiny, delicate feet next to impossible. (<- NO, SERIOUSLY. ITALICS HAS OFFICIALLY BANNED ME FROM USING LADDERS.))

(If I'm required to walk any distance in a pair of fucking heels - which, by the way, are the Devil's instrument made for the sole purpose of inflicting as much discomfort, pain and frustration on me as possible - I absolutely have to bring an extra pair of shoes (non-heels) that I can change into. <- JUST KEEP IN MIND THAT SHOES DON'T NECESSARILY MAKE A (SACRED) WHORE.)

We were scheduled to spend the day after (the 15th) in town because it had been something like two months since we were last out of the house. Lunch was planned, along with shopping (Italics promised me all of the half-priced Valentine's Day candy I wanted) and a movie, but we didn't even manage ticking off one box.

Both of us were worried about Shakey Bear. Other than being sick she can't drink by herself (we have to physically syringe liquid into her mouth), she has a hard time moving around and requires special food - baby food, or anything soft and easily broken down without much effort. The other two healthy rats - Wuzza and Choney - make the special care difficult; they eat all of Shakey's food and tip over her containers of juice.

I was anxious that the pair had managed to knock over the two ramekins of juice and eaten all of her food. Italics' mother, not entirely keen on rodents, couldn't be asked to check on, feed or hydrate Shakey. By noon on the 15th I was sick with the prospect that it'd be another six hours before I knew Shakey's state (which could've been TOO long for a sick rat who hadn't had anything to eat or drink in more than 12 hours) so instead of going out to enjoy the day, I checked out of the hotel in tears.

(Out of worry, but also out of disappointment. We rarely have a chance to "go out" - it had been two months since our last foray in - and when we finally made it we had to leave. I ACTUALLY MADE IT //IN TOWN// BUT WE DIDN'T MAKE IT INTO TOWN - HOW FUCKED UP IS THAT?)

(And the worst part? A week earlier? I spent Saturday crying because Italics' mother promised to take us in so I could hit the farmers' market, catch a movie, have lunch out and do some shopping but when the day came the trip got canceled because SHE WANTED TO DRINK A GLASS OF WINE WITH HER FRIENDS WHICH WOULD MAKE HER UNFIT TO DRIVE.)

(Internet, I've spent the last part of January and the entire month of February cleaning up after my mother-in-law. Without leaving the house I've straightened up after her, continuously cleaned rooms (on a daily fucking basis, sometimes twice a day) she dirtied, cooked for her, left her meals, and did her laundry. Despite all of the work, despite knowing in advance and agreeing to take me in, she still effectively canceled the one day off I scheduled for myself.)

(I was...upset. Italics found me on the lounge floor, sobbing, picking apart a faux leather box full of my in-laws' junk. After weeks of being trapped in the house and taking care of other people I found myself doing the same thing I had been doing for nearly a month on the day I was supposed to take it easy. My mother-in-law? In town - where I wanted to be - having a glass of wine as she lunched with her friends.)

(Italics promised me that he'd try to get us in later that week, but I told him it was futile and we wouldn't actually leave the house until the 14th (the dinner, hotel stay and day out had been scheduled way in advance) for one reason or another. I don't think he believed me, but it turned out to be true. (<- YOU DON'T NEED CLOUDS OF SULPHUR TO BE AN ORACLE.))

And it was a fucking good thing we came home, because upon inspection they HAD managed to knock over Shakey's juice (no telling the last time she had anything to drink) and they HAD eaten all of her food (no telling the last time she had anything to eat). I wanted to feel stupid and pessimistic for feeling so anxious and worried, but coming home to find your worst fears confirmed - and the thought that it might've been another six hours before even finding it out - sort've cemented the feeling that I'm imprisoned within this two bedroom bungalow.

(Italics offered "BUT WE CAN GO HOME, CHECK ON HER AND THEN GO BACK OUT!", but being the non-sulphur oracle that I am I knew that'd never materialize. I told him that I knew us too well - we'd come home, check on Shakey, take care of her, let the rats out while we checked on our internet stuff, find ourselves hungry so I'd have to make us something to eat and by that time we'd be too comfortable at home and wouldn't want to drop everything to get dressed up to go out again. He evidently agreed because he didn't bother disagreeing; we both know how we are.)

No lunch. No movie. No shopping. No half-priced Valentine's Day chocolate. Just the House, and everything that I do every day that gets undone by the end of the day. 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.

I retired for the day immediately after the incident; it didn't feel like the Universe wanted me up, anyway. I went to bed assuring myself that the following day - Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday - would be better. In retrospect, it was an overly optimistic act in futility which was rich coming from the crowned royalty of pessimism. After spending an entire day crying my heart out that I failed to, yet again, score a single day off from my routine life I was back to square one - cleaning the house. (This time for Ash Wednesday, when I sweep the Whore out of the house and make way for the coming of the Bride.)

I disinfected, bleached and polished the kitchen until it shined, straightened, dusted and cleared away clutter in the communal lounge, dusted, disinfected and straightened the computer room/office until anything even remotely out of place was dealt with (I finally filed a bunch of old, important papers, bagged and tagged various witch articles floating around and boxed old letters and postcards from friends and correspondents that I've replied to) and stripped the bedroom down to uncluttered furniture so I could dust, wash the window, polish the window ledge, disinfect our nightstands (and the closet, the bed frame, the switches, the electrical outlets, the door handles, window handles and hinges) and clean every article, statue, pen and ritual knickknack that adorns the four surfaces in the room.

Even though I was mostly going through the motions I go through EVERY FUCKING DAY I was making some serious progress. And I knew it wasn't the most fantastically awesome way to spend the last day as the Whore (especially since I undergo a vow of celibacy during the Lenten period), but I knew if I got the involved work done on Tuesday we could spend Wednesday, Ash Wednesday (the first day of Lent), focused more on the spiritual aspect of the early Spring cleaning.

The idea sounded *GREAT* until one of my ritual statues of Kadesh - the one that prominently displays my Czarina earrings on my nightstand altar - tumbled off my peacock tray and broke in four places. I cried for my broken Kadesh, who was now more broken than before. (I got her when I bought several other statues. Her auction suddenly disappeared; it turned out the seller accidentally knocked her over and broke her. When I won some of the statues he was selling he included Kadesh, in pieces, for free. Italics lovingly glued her back together for me and she's sat on my altar until Mardi Gras, 2010.)

When Kadesh broke I seriously very nearly threw in the towel. It was the second ritual item that inexplicably broke within 48 hours. I sat in the hollowed out bedroom and sobbed. It wasn't worth it. The loss of beloved material possessions (which, I know, shouldn't mean so much - things will come and go, and old loves will be replaced by new loves), the feeling of being trapped in a routine I've been shouldering for several years, anger at being "punished" for leaving the House and resentment for having to take several slaps in the face while I dutifully perform spiritual obligations that require tremendous amounts of work, effort and physical energy.

(HEY, YOU KNOW WHAT, UNIVERSE? I'M DOING THE SHIT //YOU'VE// REQUESTED. I'M DOING IT WITH MY HEART AND FUCKING SOUL, SOMETIMES WITH BLOOD RUNNING DOWN MY TORN AND BATTERED SKIN. TAKING THE EASY WAY OUT HAS NEVER BEEN A FUCKING OPTION FOR ME - I GIVE EVERYTHING I FUCKING HAVE. WHAT THE FUCK MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME? MY SANITY? MY HAPPINESS? MY WELL BEING? I'M DOING MY FUCKING BEST WITH WHAT I'VE BEEN GIVEN TO WORK WITH AND IT //STILL// DOESN'T FEEL LIKE IT'S GOOD ENOUGH.)

So, overwhelmed by stress, I cried on Valentine's Day. Then, the day after, I cried on the 15th in mournful disappointment when the one day off I tried to have in two months was canceled. On the 16th I wept as I grieved for my broken goddess, my broken Kadesh, who became an unexpected sacrifice as I fulfilled my spiritual obligations/duties.

The 17th saw me grinding my teeth in bitter resentment as I stripped the sheets off the bed (I left myself one physical task for Ash Wednesday - wash all the sheets and covers, flip the mattress and Febreeze anything that wasn't going to make it into the washing machine) and the anger eventually gave way to indignant tears because I WANTED to execute the bed washing ritual with joy and happiness, but there wasn't any love or light in my heart.

(I also found out, at the very beginning of my day on Ash Wednesday, that my favorite perfume - the one I wore on Valentine's Day, the ONLY perfume I wear from this particular perfume company - had been discontinued without any previous warning in January. Deleting the Whore's trademark perfume just in time for Lent? Way to kick off welcoming the Bride, Universe.)

I'm tired, World. I'm weary, Universe. But you keep asking for more, even when I feel paper thin. And because I'm a fighter I keep on fighting. (Pain, the Black Rabbit said, is the absence of death, and as long as I'm hurting I know that I'm still alive.) If I get broken, will I even know? Or will I keep clawing and dragging myself, unaware, driven by some sort of divinely internal need to just keep going, to just keep moving, to just keep fighting?

Valentine's Day 2010

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Italics' Valentine's Day gifts which I quickly assembled upon awakening. (<- One of the bonuses of us sleeping slightly staggered hours - he has a chance to leave gifts out for me once I've gone to bed, and I have a chance to leave gifts out for him once I wake up (and he's still in bed).)

This year I presented him a "recycled" bottle (we enjoyed the Amaretto two Christmases ago) of homemade bath salts (it's a warming mix meant to soothe aches and pains, prettied up with dried petals from flowers we've given to one another). Decorating the red organza bag is a milagro, and within it there's a heart-shaped sachet filled with lavender and a bottle of perfume wrapped in a vintage embroidered handkerchief.

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Yesterday, when Italics said he needed to go to the shops to "get a few things" I laughed (at him). When he returned (mostly) empty handed he apologized in advance for the lame gift(s) and formally announced "WE CAN GET YOU SOMETHING IN TOWN TOMORROW OR MONDAY". The promise was made official by an I.O.U. in my Valentine's Day mug this morning.

(There's a reason why I didn't wait until the last day to get him a card and gift; there's ALSO a reason why I didn't remind him not to wait until the last day to get me a card and gift - I get to pick my own gift in town, AND I get to scoop up half-priced Valentine's Day candy at the same time. (YES, I AM A CRAFTY, MANIPULATIVE WITCH.))

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The Horned God/dess was in my Valentine's Day chocolate this morning.

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To keep up without our gluten-free diet we bypassed buying chocolate to give, and instead made chocolate to give. Last night Italics and I made the Frangelico truffle mix and this morning, while my hair dried, I rolled out the truffles into bite-sized balls and dusted them with a crunchy cocoa coating.

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Usually I LOVE taking pictures of my culinary adventures, but today's a bit of a rush because I still need to dry my hair (naturally), set it in curlers, style it, apply copious amounts of make-up (I'm going with black and gold to compliment my black halter dress and gold fertility goat jewelry), pack (we're spending the night in a hotel) and get dressed for tonight's romantic meal so these photos aren't as involved as they normally are.

Frangelico Crème Brûlée

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Whenever I prepare a festive meal that celebrates a phase of the agricultural year I try and keep two things in mind when planning the menu: what we're observing (and why), and how I can stay "on topic" by using seasonal food. (I know it might SEEM trivial, but our actions on the day - including what we consume and give thanks for - is supposed to reflect a very specific time in the year, and if you aren't focusing (or even incorporating) what was traditionally on-hand during the celebration, then you really aren't connecting with what the festivities were/are all about.)

Bride's Day - Imbolc, to most - is the first whisper of Spring during the Dark year. In a way, to me, it's Winter's first Harvest. Here in northeast Scotland the only evidence of the warmth to come are the pregnant ewes out in frosty fields. Right now the cloven-footed mothers-to-be have begun lactating, and soon they'll disappear from their brown and gray pastures to give birth to the next generation indoors. (<- Which, HOLY FUCK, I actually GOT TO SEE, but I'll save my pre-Imbolc pheasant entrails reading story for later.)

Imbolc, perhaps more so than any of the other sabbats in the Wheel of the Year, is white here. It's the pristine, crispy white of the Cailleach's bleached plaid that still blankets the earth. It's the dingy, ivory white of the sheeps' gnarled wool, and the color of the nutritious milk they've begun to weep. It's the unblemished white wedding dress of the Virgin Bride who, after spending Winter as a widow, whore and hag, has slowly begun to shake off age and death in preparation to become a young maiden again. (And, in more southernly extremes of the UK, I'm sure it's the awe-inspiring, living white of the very first snowdrops of the season - Spring's first flowers for the sacred marriage between Bride and the divine king.)

Milk, and all things creamy, thick and white (<- ME ATTEMPTING TO BE SUBTLE, ALTHOUGH PROBABLY FAILING MISERABLY) dominate my Imbolc landscape, so it's only fitting to finish our celebratory meal with a dessert that venerates the secreted life force. After a filling dinner of homemade corned beef, potatoes, root vegetables, fried oatcakes (skirlie) and bread we always finish off our Bride's Day ritual meal with an alcoholic-infused happy ending (<- HEE!): crème brûlée. (Do I know how to celebrate lactation, or what?)

Bride's Day, Then and Now

I have an entire folder of Bride's Day (Imbolc) pictures from this year, but I'm still too tired to sit down and pick through the contents. (The build-up this year was frenzied, and we managed to accomplish WAY, WAY more on the day than expected. <- ITALICS MADE US LUNCH! WE BAKED TWO KINDS OF BREAD! I WATCHED A NEIGHBOR DIE WHILE MAKING CREME BRULEE! SEX, OF THE SHOWER, ORAL AND ANAL KIND! WE CLEANED! I CREATED AN ALTAR! WE MADE BRIDE'S BED! THE OLD WOMAN VISITED! WE FINALLY COOKED THE BRISKET THAT HAD BEEN BRINING FOR ALMOST A WEEK!)

While I wait for my energy levels to recover (energy levels of the mental kind, anyway) I thought I'd pluck some seasonally appropriate pictures from LAST year to fill the void. (<- The celebration of lactating void!) Once I feel a little more like myself I'll sort the images from this year and better explain the rituals, menu and reasons behind Bride's Day in this house.

Bride's Day, 2010

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Bride, return to Us and lift the Cailleach's white plaid from the earth so We may be young again.

Bride's Day Eve

It's Bride's Day (Imbolc) Eve. Tomorrow I'll be welcoming the Bride into our home for a homecooked meal (see menu list within), we'll weather predict together and later in the evening I'll turn down a bed for Her so She can stay the night. Since the majority of my Imbolc will be spent in the kitchen (although I'm hoping to sneak out of the house for a snow laced walk to see the local lactating ewes) I did the housecleaning today to get it straight out of the way.

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I honestly for real can't remember the last time the room was //this// clean. (Because it's a secondary room it's the default dumping room.) I'll be making Bride's bed on the leather couch, and decorating the coffee table with some of my ritual linens. (<- It'll be a pretty basic altar: my miniature cast iron pot belly chimney, and a fancy lady-like table setting with Her meal laid out for Her).

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I love this room and already rue the day Italics' parents will "rediscover" it. It's south facing so it's gorgeously balmy in summer and cozily warm during winter. I've lost count how many days I've spent lying naked on a sheepskin rug, high, sunbathing in the light while listening to old The Sisters of Mercy records. (I get excited when I see the room this clean. When I see any open, clean space I feel motivated to do shit, and get shit /done/.)

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The backroom's entertainment unit. Because we're desperate for space the record player has to play witch's closet as the last batch of 2009's wildcrafted goods finish drying.

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The very last of my organic/wildcrafted projects I need to wrap up. The red berries are dried rowan berries from our tree outside, the long tray's filled with almost dried rose-lemon scented geranium leaves (off my indoor plant), the small trinket dish of seeds are the wheat kernels pulled out of the pheasant's crop when I butchered him (there's bits of his feathers, skin and fat mixed in with the seeds so when I plant them in the Spring the wheat plants will emerge from his remains), the small white bowl is filled with crossroad dirt that's so fucking concrete I need to moisten it to break it down more easily and the large wooden bowl is full of the nuts used on/within our kitchen table Christmas centerpiece that we're going to split open and offer to the local wildlife.

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Once I brought my Stone Cock to life I promised him that he'd spend summers outdoors on his phallic worship altar, but during winter he'd be brought in from the cold until Spring had returned. He came indoors the first day it snowed this Winter, and then I bathed him, dried him and glorified him on my succulent altar. (Stone Cock and Harvest Home yam are TOTALLY BFF.)

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Part of Harvest neatly bottled and jared up. Let me see if I can actually make any of this shit out...

I see black currants from the graveyard, 2008's tobacco, dried pot leaves, dried pot flowers and pollen, various chili peppers, lavender buds, wheat collected from local fields, green acorns, Muriel's necromancy incense, outside backyard bones, strips of sycamore bark (off what'll eventually become my Spring broom), plum pits from last year's plum harvest, gun shots out of dead rabbits and a bottle of homemade raspberry vinegar.

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Bride's Day dinner: corned beef, vegetables boiled in corned beef liquid, dill potatoes, skirlie, oatmeal soda bread, Bride's braid bread and, for dessert, homemade creme brulee. (I loathe my handwriting, isn't it awful and totally unspectacular?)

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I was tremendously lucky to find this in tact. (Wishbones are BIG juju for me. Normally they're destroyed due to various forms of cooking (see below), so when I manage to find a wishbone in one piece I extract it VERY carefully and dry the motherfucker out for an emergency.) I spatchcocked our chicken yesterday and popped its chest to break the breast bone so the bone should've snapped along with the ribs and sternum, but it didn't. (SCORE!)

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Candle wax reading.

Jan 23-30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the First Day of...

On the first day of Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, being gone I:

spent the morning sifting through old photographs of nearby locations (<- I'M CREATING MY LIST OF LOCAL ATTRACTIONS I WANT TO SEE), made homemade Monte Cristo sandwiches for breakfast (< BACON, NATURALLY, ON THE SIDE), caught up on American Idol (<- WE'RE STONERS, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT?), spent the afternoon drifting between two worlds while cleaning the backroom (<- HOLY SHIT, I HAVE NOT SEEN THIS LEVEL OF CLEAN IN NEARLY A YEAR), burned grape juice scented dragon blood incense while Russian Orthodox Christmas music played in the background (<- INCENSE + GLORIOUSLY HIGH + SLAVIC CHURCH SINGING = ONE ZEN MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT), crawled onto the counter top to polish and shine my kitchen window (<- ALWAYS BUFF WITH A DRY PIECE OF PAPER TOWEL), decided to keep my star lights up (<- THEY AREN'T OVERTLY CHRISTMAS, OKAY?), placed one potted basil plant, four shiny red apples and one dried chili pepper on my gleaming kitchen altar (<- THERE IS BLISS IN KNOWING THAT NOTHING WILL BE TOUCHED, BROKEN, RUINED, EATEN OR THROWN OUT FOR A MONTH), covered two chicken breasts with white wine, Italian herbs, and garlic pepper and then smeared on a package of locally produced garlic cream cheese and topped the mess with toasted breadcrumbs and parsley for dinner (<- MY VERSION OF "OH, FUCK, THERE'S NOTHING IN THE HOUSE - WHAT'S IN THE FRIDGE?"), took the longest, hottest shower I've had in years (<- ONE OF MY PATENTED "25 MINUTE LONG" SHOWERS), unwrapped and set out the nicest bar of soap in the house (<- I'VE BEEN KEEPING IT HIDDEN FOR A TIME I COULD ENJOY IT WITHOUT THE THOUGHT THAT MY FATHER-IN-LAW'S USED IT ON HIS SACK) and drew Italics a bath while discreetly buying and paying for two bottles of perfume (< VALENTINE'S GIFT - ONE FOR HIM, ONE FOR MYSELF).

In short? Perfection. (And this is only day number one.)

Mountains

You know how dogs will circle a spot before they lay down? They pick out the exact location within seconds, but minutes later they're still running tiny laps around it? (Usually until you finally shout "FOR FUCK'S SAKE, SIT DOWN ALREADY!" and then they give you a dejected, reproachful look like THEY THOUGHT YOU UNDERSTOOD THEM, BUT OBVIOUSLY YOU DON'T.) I've been internally circling for a week now, and it's beginning to make me feel a little unhinged.

I don't know what it is, but it's something. I feel overwhelmed and anxious. There's an uncomfortable giddiness in my stomach that churns. I wake up feeling nervous, take a long look at the folders of pictures I'm trying to get through and within minutes resign myself to the fact that I feel way too fucking jittery to sit in an empty journal interface pretending I'm going to write an entry.

It's been like this for a week. I likened it to standing at the crossroads. One foot's ahead, one foot's behind leaving me straddling the cusp of transition. It's hard to concentrate where I'm standing NOW because I'm fixated on the future. The second great wave of spiritual obligations/duties is about to hit, and rather than visualize everything as individual fragments that make a whole (spread out over the next three months) I see the whole and I find myself (figuratively) gasping for breath.

My concentration has been divided for almost a month. I almost feel slightly out of touch. Normally I live my life walking a fine line between mundane and divine. Performing my daily tasks was a form of meditation. The actions were automatic - almost involuntary - allowing me to tune out what was routine and zone in on the little, subtle magic things that thinly hide beneath the veneer of ordinary life.

I've been blaming the full moon for two weeks now, but that celestial event doesn't happen until this weekend. (OI FUCKING VEY.) I've been blaming being up at night and being sun lonely, but I didn't go to bed until after one in the afternoon yesterday. (It's easy to miss seeing the sun for a few days when you're nocturnal in Scotland during winter.) I've been blaming my in-laws, blaming the shit that needs to get done (but hasn't) and blaming what's looming ahead of me in the not-so-distant future for trying to derail me before I even start.

All I need to do to get my rhythm realigned is move the other foot forward, but the thought of moving out of this infuriating impasse is still too daunting to consider. (Mountains are so fucking easy to create, but next to impossible to cross.)

Bad Witch

It might come as a shock (especially if you manage to catch me on the phone) but for all the fucking talking I do, my natural instinct is to shy away from most social interaction. It's not because I'm an introvert (I'm obnoxiously extrovert; I swear that even my silence screams), it's just because I'm not interested.

(THAT'S PAINFULLY BLUNT, I KNOW, BUT IT SHOULDN'T BE THAT MUCH OF A SURPRISE SINCE I DON'T THINK I'VE BEEN GIVING THE IMPRESSION THAT I'D BE HOLDING ANYONE'S HAND WITH THIS SHIT.)

I'm impatient, short tempered, moody and it doesn't take much to piss me off and send me into grouchy cunt mood. I'm the awesome production of AUTISM, ARIES TYPE-A PERSONALITY and ECSTATIC WAR. I'm actively trying to tone it down, but, at the moment, it's mostly YOU EITHER LIVE WITH IT or YOU DON'T. (Thankfully, Italics has a high threshold - at least when it comes to me - and after twelve years of work there's been some improvement in my retard rage.)

A huge majority of witches - real witches, proper witches, witches that I'd give two gigantic thumbs up to - are friendly, helpful and altruistic. They selflessly devote their work and their time to friends, relatives and strangers. They welcome questions, take part in discussions and remain easily accessible to the public to paint a clearer, most positive picture of witches and witchcraft. The thing is...I'm not one of them.

I'm the one who hates everything, hates everybody, screams at people through her monitor ("WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING CALLING YOURSELF A FUCKING WITCH IF YOU CAN'T EVEN FUCKING STOMACH HANDLING MEAT YOU BUY FROM THE FUCKING GROCERY STORE?"), spits in the path of anyone who even momentarily crosses her, threatens certain death to neighbor cats who kill her garden's wild birds and could find some sort of ungrateful complaint when stumbling across buried treasure.

Me? I'm undoing all of their work with one cliched generalization after another. I'm what gives "witch" a bad name; I live up to every negative stereotype in the book. I'm unsocial, I'm angry, I'm ill-tempered and I'm always riding some level of foul mood. (Any wonder why I feel spiritually closest to the sorceress hags in fairy tales?) And the worst part? I //LIKE// IT.

I'm not a fan of comments; once you give people a forum to interact with you it inevitably becomes open season on your life. And what I'm doing here, with Graveyard Dirt, isn't open for debate - IT'S A DIARY OF MY LIFE. I'm not interested in what people think I should be doing, or how I'm doing it wrongly or differently. I'm doing it - I'm LIVING IT - and I'm simply letting people watch from a distance.

(When in doubt treat Ms. Graveyard Dirt like a wild animal doing her thing in her natural environment. If you wouldn't poke, taunt, harass or draw unwanted attention from an elephant or rhino in the untamed open, then please just stay in your internet safari car and enjoy Ms. GD from a safe distance.)

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY. I'm not trying to frighten, intimidate or paint some sort of on-line badass persona of myself, I'm just attempting to better explain why I decided to opt out of using any sort of comment system here in GD (which, reading back, comes across as unintentionally severe, although I wasn't exaggerating in the least about my volatile personality, it's both my greatest strength and my biggest weakness as a person).

It's not that I don't appreciate comments or emails (I totally LOVE getting emails), I just know criticism, arguments and "suggestions" would inevitably follow and seriously, guys, I already have enough shit to deal with here. GD is meant to be a sort of refuge, and I dread to think there might ever be a time when I find myself avoiding it because other people ruined it for me.

(SORRY, READING AUDIENCE, THE POSITION OF "PERSON WHO RUINS THINGS FOR MS. GD" HAS BEEN PERMANENTLY FILLED BY MR. AWESOME, MY FATHER-IN-LAW, AND DESPITE HIS AGE HE SEEMS PRETTY FUCKING HEALTHY SO IT MIGHT BE SOME TIME BEFORE THE POSITION OPENS FOR NEW APPLICATIONS.)

PHEW, ALRIGHT! Now that I've got GUYS, I'M A BAD PERSON THAT YOU DON'T REALLY WANT TO KNOW, REALLY and DON'T EVER MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH ME WHEN OUT ON SAFARI out of the way I can finally address what this entry's about. (CIRCUITOUS AND UNNECESSARILY COMPLICATED? ...ME?)

Sometimes, when the stars are in the right alignment, I crawl out of my cranky cunt shell and mingle with the population. (It's rare, I admit it. Your chances of finding a four leaf clover is way more likely.) Tumblr has this feature which allows other users to ask you questions, and since we've been up at night (and haven't left the house in practically a month) I've been crawling up the wall for stimulation.

Out of curiosity, I flipped the switch to "on" to see what people would ask (CONFESSION: to see if people would even ask anything at all, I almost always work under the assumption that people haven't noticed me and have no fucking clue as to who I am) and I was pleasantly surprised. The majority of questions I received focused on my beliefs and practices, so I thought I'd copy and paste some of the on-topic Q & A here.

I remember seeing your entry about tarot cards earlier, and I reblogged, noting that I have a hard time meditating and centering my energy. Hell, I have a hard time relaxing and calming down in general. I'd love to learn more about tarot and read cards in general, but I get the impression centering one's energy and being calm and collected is a pretty important element in order to read cards well. Is there any hope that a high-strung mind like mine can relax and interpret the cards?

Man, I'm probably the WORST person to get tarot advice from. Seriously. Along with being able to sympathize with your overactive mind I've also built this mental block because learning a system I didn't create is counterintuitive to the way I work.

I need to be at least marginally familiar with something before I can develop any psychological attachment to it. As of now I've got an okay handle on some of the major arcana cards, but the minor ones? Pfft. Trying to use a tarot deck properly right now would feel like I was playing a board game whose rules I needed to check with every fucking move.

Before embarking on getting in touch with my subconscious, I need to feel like my subconscious is vaguely familiar with the tools I'm using. That's why using things I've made (i.e., bones, runes, whatever) or simply "reading" shit like coffee foam, tea sediment, blood clots and scrambled raw eggs works so well, it's direct interpretation without any prior knowledge needed.

I get the impression centering one's energy and being calm and collected is a pretty important element in order to read cards well.

I think it hugely depends on the person. Me? I do my best work when I'm in ecstatic mode. I don't know if it's the autism, my type-A Aries personality or if I'm just supremely fucked in the head but I can't meditate AT ALL. (I've tried. Honestly. But within five minutes of relaxation and breathing Papa {aka Baron Samedi} pops up and begins talking about his big black cock or Chippy wants to go and play ball. It's like being still and centering myself turns all the channels up to 11 leaving me in the exact OPPOSITE state of mind.)

If you're finding it difficult (or even uncomfortable) to do the shit "quietly" (<- not necessary volume related), then do it loudly. Do something that energizes you, or moves a part of you. (I also recommend getting high, or working under the influence of an entheogen but drug taking, despite its ancient roots in witchcraft and religious worship/work, seems to be irritatingly taboo in many modern witchcraft/paganism circles. If you're totally up to smoking (which I don't think you are since you can't burn incense in the house) or consuming (usually in form of teas and tinctures) something there are organic "visionary" blends you can buy that'll help the reading/connecting process without you having to experience the hardcore "drug" effect things like pot or mushrooms will produce.)

For instance, with Papa I'll put on lingerie, pour us both a drink, get high, share a cigar with him, play something like Dr. John's Gris-Gris and by the time I'm heady, withering around and dancing to the music with careless abandon I know it's time to begin laying cards. But that's for super special occasions, most of the time it's a lot more low key and I rely on something like BEING HIGH and/or MASTURBATING (with a deck in hand) to help unblock access to my subconscious.

Is there any hope that a high-strung mind like mine can relax and interpret the cards?

Yes! Make "being comfortable reading shit" your priority. Find a system that's totally reliant on your interpretations so you can concentrate on feeling confident with your subconscious connection. At the same time (if you're really interested in using tarot), begin familiarizing yourself with the major arcana and then the minor arcana. (That's what I'm doing, anyway, and it's working well enough for me, although these things ARE highly personal...)

My suggestion? Find two divination-themed decks. One should be a tarot deck that appeals to you, and the other should be some sort of card set without prewritten significance. (In other words, a set of cards that requires you to "read" based on intuition rather than referring to the rules book included.) It PAINS ME TO EVEN SUGGEST THIS, but...despite SOUL CARDS being nauseatingly "new age" they're amazingly accurate. (I took my deceased mother's set for sentimental and "LOL @ THIS NEW AGE BULLSHIT, LOLOLOL!" reasons, and I've been recommending them ever since - EMBARRASSING.)

isnt there someplace you can do a perma altar or is this due to your obviously annoying inlaws...?

I have a billion tiny, inconspicuous altars spread throughout the house (mainly the kitchen, our office/computer room, our bedroom and the backroom which kind've sort've acts as our living room when in-laws are in the TV room), but the majority of them are behind closed doors due to my father-in-law's OCD-like tendencies.

(He can't help but move or touch things which sometimes involves him "fixing" things that aren't broken (without asking), throwing away shit that isn't his (without checking first) and/or simply appropriating other people's things for himself (without asking if it's cool). If you leave something out - no matter what it is - it's only a matter of time before he breaks it, ruins it, kills it, takes it or trashes it.)

Unfortunately, we just don't have the space in our super personal rooms (the office and bedroom) for a permanent altar, so I have to wait until the in-laws are gone on their two week vacations to create something seasonally elaborate in the communal lounge. The problem with THAT is reverting everything to its otherwise mundane setting before they get back home.

(Last Christmas? My father-in-law threw garbage on my altar rather than carrying the shit to the kitchen to throw out in a fucking trash can. "Livid" doesn't even remotely describe my initial reaction. I've since learned a valuable lesson - if you don't want a dick to act like a dick, don't give him a chance to be one.)

Did you have a favourite myth/story when you were just a wee wild young thing? What is it?

Man, I was so fucking self-absorbed as a child that this question's stumped me FOR DAYS. You'd think that I would've been under the influence of THE OLD COUNTRY folklore with the way I go on about being Ukrainian, but in reality that aspect of my heritage is completely non-existent. I was told my grandfather thought that the shit was "nonsense" so he didn't allow my grandmother to tell them to my mother, who, in turn, never got exposed to the mythic/mystical side of Ukie life so she had nothing to pass onto me.

(INTERESTING SIDE NOTE: I apparently come from a long line of recognized "witches" on my maternal side - the Hutsul branch; mountain cowboy mystic folk. My female ancestors were supposedly hella proficient in reading signs and exceptionally knowledgeable in herbal lore. The lineage stopped with my grandmother (who was 1/2 Native American despite being Ukrainian, but that's an entirely different story...) who left Ukraine to find a better life. I think our ancient "job" came back with my mother, but she got too caught up in religion and twisted whatever she had to make it fit the Native American thing she was doing. I feel like a stronger, better version of her, unhampered by the feeling that to be a witch/special/magic you have to had adhere to certain religious beliefs.)

I've always been attracted to chthonic themes, although I've only just realized that in the past few years. At the end of the day everything boils down to "under". As a kid I had a natural affinity towards water. (The first time I made it to the ocean? I tried committing suicide. I wasn't depressed, I wasn't confused - it just felt like /home/. Filled with an utter sense of longing drowning myself, at age 12 or 13, seemed like an *awesome* idea. Although, LOL!, deliberate drowning yourself after making the most spontaneous decision, ever, wasn't as easy as I thought it'd be, heh!) But the "water" thing can easily be broken down - the womb, infancy, the security of suspension in fluid. (I haven't worked out "earth" yet, unless this phase is deliberately shining on my fear of mortality and the question of "IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE AFTER THIS?".)

So...selkies. (And mermaids. LITTLE KNOWN FACT: I still collect mermaid shit, although I'm not into the "pretty" aspect. I prefer my divine water women a little more REAL, a little more monster since I see them as a symbol of a woman's darker self. You know, the supernatural Medusa character that strikes fear into the heart of men.) Yeah, definitely, selkies. I practically OWNED the library's copy of FAERIES by Brian Froud and Alan Lee. I don't know why the notion of seal women captivated me, but even as a kid I was enthralled with the idea. I swore that one day I'd visit Scotland and spend Midsummer night with the seals on the coast, waiting to see if I could catch any of them shedding their animal fur for human skin.

But that really isn't a myth or story, is it? HAVE I COMPLETELY FAILED AT ANSWERING THE QUESTION CORRECTLY? (GAH!)

ALSO, will you make out with me in the woods or something? For... uh, magic's sake?

ADMIT IT, YOU JUST WANT TO STEAL MAGIC PUBES. (AND IF THAT'S THE CASE YOUR ASS BETTER GET HERE BEFORE JUNE, OTHERWISE THERE'LL BE NO MAGIC PUBES TO STEAL! (<- INDIGENOUS WISDOM TEACHES FARMERS THAT IT'S SAFE TO SHEAR THEIR SHEEP WHEN ELDERFLOWERS GO IN BLOOM, SO WHEN THE LOCAL SHEEP LOSE THEIR WOOL, THIS SHEEP JOINS THE BODY HAIR REMOVAL PARTY.))

What was the altar to? Do you follow any systems?

You mean the altar that my father-in-law used as a fucking trash can? It was 2008's Winter altar. He apparently failed to see that THIS SPREAD was somehow significant or serving a purpose. (I MEAN, SRSLY? WHEN HE LOOKED AT THE SYMMETRICAL LAYOUT WITH CANDLESTICKS, RITUAL MASKS, OFFERING PLATES AND SEASONAL SPECIFIC DECORATIONS - ALL CENTERED AROUND A HEARTH-LIKE STRUCTURE - IT DIDN'T OCCUR TO HIM IN THE SLIGHTEST THAT IT WAS SOMEHOW /SPECIAL/ AND FOR A REASON?)

I probably would've gone over-the-top mental if it had been the Spring/Easter altar, or the Fall/Halloween. I take the Easter and Halloween shit I do V. SERIOUSLY, THANK YOU since they're part of my spiritual duties (so fucking with THAT shit is like fucking with MY JOB). The Winter and Summer spreads are more celebratory than ceremonial, but I'd still warn against throwing fucking trash on Papa's (aka Baron Samedi) or Tentacle Monster's (aka Cthulhu, although not really - it's easier to say "Cthulhu" because it immediately invokes the tentacle monster image people are familiar with) offering plate.

(Once? Once my father-in-law even stole half of a fucking Burger King bacon cheeseburger out of Chippy's (aka Pazuzu) offering dish. Sometimes I think the man's the dumbest motherfucker in the world.)

Do you follow any systems?

As in magical systems? No, no, not my thing. In fact, I try really fucking hard to stay willfully ignorant about what's out there and what other people are doing. Almost everything I do is based on gut instinct, but that's my sort've witchcraft; I'm redefining things that make sense to me using personal experiences and incorporating my "translations" into my practices.

I differ from your average witch because I don't consider myself pagan. The shit I do? Comes from me. I've deified my subconscious so instead of worshiping or working through an outside source (i.e., gods and/or goddesses) I stay completely internal. I still use deities and idols, but they represent aspects of myself that I either want to work on, or need to access. (The Virgin Mary is a good example. I'm martial all the way, so to encourage traits I don't naturally have - compassion, forgiveness, maternal nurturing - I pray to the Blessed Mother, although I'm really knocking on my subconscious going "HEY, YOU, I KNOW WE'RE CAPABLE OF THIS SHIT, FUCKING HELP ME OUT HERE, OKAY?".)

I'm interested in voodoo, but I feel that as a system it's too structured for the way I practice. (Besides, I have a unique relationship with Papa. He's never asked me to drop what I'm doing to adopt the practices that bore the Baron Samedi image I'm familiar with. If something's not broken, why the fuck fix it?) I'm REALLY interested in rootworking and hoodoo since they're a lot more open ended and it SEEMS like you're given some room for personal interpretation.

I know that as I grow older my practices and beliefs will evolve, but at this point in my life - right now - I kind've sort've follow my own interpretation of the agricultural cycle. For the "Light" half of the year I'm Spring's Virgin Bride, married to the resurrected, divine King. For the "Dark" half of the year I'm Winter's Whore, widowed when the King is sacrificed at Harvest.

(We've actually performed a "reaping" ritual a few years back in a local field where I cut the King's throat and spilled His blood on the land after some wild outside sex. I brought the bundle of wheat I cut home, ritually decorated and displayed it (it's called "Didukh" in Ukrainian) during Winter and then planted the divine King's seeds the following Spring. The Didukh pictured in this year's Winter altar was created from the wheat from those seeds. (<- It's our first "homegrown" Harvest!))

I'm playing my own version of the sovereignty game, but instead of sticking with one straight "myth" I'm incorporating some middle eastern flavor (Inanna/Ishtar/Anat), some Greek flavor (Cybele), some local indigenous flavor (the Cailleach; my Whore/subconscious self) with a huge helping of Byzantine Eastern Orthodox Catholicism for gaudy asceticism.

Despite the mishmash of cultures and beliefs, everything works amazingly well beneath a Ukrainian/Slav veneer. I was hugely influenced by the ritual/ceremonial aspect of Eastern Orthodox Catholicism even though my family weren't hardcore Catholics. The Ukies were a lot like Celts when it came to conversion - they kept their old shit and just accepted a new name for it. Almost all of the annual traditions I now perform by myself are so laughably "pagan" in nature that you can tell Catholicism just didn't want the hassle of stripping the culture down to rebuild it.

ANYWAY. I'm all over the place with this shit today, sorry. Hopefully I've managed to kind've sort've answer your question. (Which, admittedly, probably could've been summed up with "SYSTEM? NONE. NEXT QUESTION!" to spare everyone. I'm not social, but I talk a lot once you get me started.)

"I differ from your average witch because I don’t consider myself pagan. The shit I do? Comes from me. I’ve deified my subconscious so instead of worshiping or working through an outside source (i.e., gods and/or goddesses) I stay completely internal. I still use deities and idols, but they represent aspects of myself that I either want to work on, or need to access. (The Virgin Mary is a good example. I’m martial all the way, so to encourage traits I don’t naturally have - compassion, forgiveness, maternal nurturing - I pray to the Blessed Mother, although I’m really knocking on my subconscious going “HEY, YOU, I KNOW WE’RE CAPABLE OF THIS SHIT, FUCKING HELP ME OUT HERE, OKAY?”.)"

This is exactly the sort of ideology I've had in mind for the sort of "witchcraft" I'm interested in! I just never thought it was something I could actually do for the fact that it may not have been considered "true witchcraft" nor have I wanted to offend any religion and practices involved; this definitely reassures me!! Thanks for sharing the information. :] If you have any more info on different practices you do, please let me know!! Much love, dear.

I'm going to delicately step over "true witchcraft" because that's one topic you don't want to get me started on (unless you want to wade through an expletive-laced tsunami of text). I don't think there are many witches practicing "true witchcraft"; it's primitive, nasty work that requires a strong stomach, a deep understanding of Self and an ability to ignore all of the modern bullshit that's distorted what it really is.

As a practice witchcraft can stand alone. It's a system, much like hoodoo or rootworking. Religion can flavor witchcraft, but you don't necessary need it. For some people it's a necessity since they need something to subconsciously bolster their work, but since I'm already approaching things from a psychological aspect I don't feel like I need to work through an overly religious filter.

If you have any more info on different practices you do, please let me know!! Much love, dear.

That's what the search function on my diary's for. *winks* (A lot of shit doesn't actually make it to Tumblr since I try to keep focus here on the visual aspect of my life. Unless there's a picture accompanying a journal excerpt I don't normally copy and paste my diary entries here. If you plug in keywords like subconscious and black rabbit it should pull up quite a few entries; the most recent ones (I think one entry might actually be called "Black Rabbit" or "Black Rabbit Altar") have the sort've information you're looking for.)

*Not a question so don't stress yo'self!* Your answer to me was totally perfect, thank you for putting such thought into it!! I AM PLEASED. And also, OMG, it was always always mermaids for me too!! Except I thought I was one, and always tried to find them in the ocean. I even bathed in salt water, go figure. xoxoxo

*Not a question so don't stress yo'self!*

BUT THAT'S MY FAVORITE HOBBY THAT I'M (SUPER)NATURALLY TALENTED IN!

Your answer to me was totally perfect, thank you for putting such thought into it!! I AM PLEASED. And also, OMG, it was always always mermaids for me too!!

OMGOMGOMG. SISTERS-IN-MERMAIDISM, AHOY!

After thinking about it I've always been attracted to duel nature water-based concepts. Undines, Rusalky, Kelpies, Mermaids. Anything that had the ability to bless or kill. That sort of...I dunno...terrifyingly beautiful aspect of Woman's nature.

I really liked the story of what's her name, uh, the fairy wifey from under the lake who gets wooed by a human with bread. (YOU KNOW THE STORY, RIGHT? FIRST HE GIVES HER BAKED BREAD, BUT SHE SAYS IT'S TOO HARD, THEN HE GIVES HER UNBAKED BREAD, BUT SHE SAYS IT'S TOO SOFT, THEN HE GIVES HER PARTIALLY BAKED BREAD AND APPARENTLY THAT WAS AWESOME BECAUSE SHE CAME OUT OF THE WATER AND MARRIED HIM. ALTHOUGH IT DIDN'T END WELL. <- LOL, IT NEVER DOES, LOL!)

GWRAGEDD ANNWN! (THANK YOU, GOOGLE, I WAS TOO DAMN LAZY TO GET UP AND PULL OUT MY FAERIES BOOK BY BRIAN FROUD AND ALAN LEE!)

Except I thought I was one, and always tried to find them in the ocean. I even bathed in salt water, go figure. xoxoxo

SDLFHBNGKDSKFG. YES. YES. YES. Although I was the lame retard who was TOO AFRAID TO ADD SALT TO HER BATH because I didn't think I could handle the smallest possible chance that I wouldn't transform into a mermaid. (I BLAME SPLASH, WHICH I'VE BEEN MEANING TO WATCH AGAIN, BUT I WAS TOO CAUGHT UP RUNNING THROUGH ALL OF THE NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET SHIT AND NOW WE'RE WORKING ON PHANTASM AND WARLOCK SIMULTANEOUSLY.)

"Christmas Day"

So...Christmas. (I'M ALMOST SORT'VE DONE WITH THE HOLIDAY, BEAR WITH ME.) On normal, non-cursed years we traditionally get dressed up on Christmas Eve and go out for a fancy pants meal. Christmas Day then entails visiting the cemetery to make an offering, coming home to a special breakfast, exchanging gifts and closing the day with a roast goose dinner.

This past Christmas? We had to cancel celebrations for the first time, ever. We picked up a cold when we were out on Yule, which manifested on the 23rd while grocery shopping. And then? And then we got hit by a blizzard. Our annual Christmas Eve tradition was canceled for the first time since instigating it, and we were so sick and miserable (and grouchy) on the 25th we didn't do anything celebratory.

But that was OKAY because I had AN AWESOME IDEA. The Eastern Orthodox church still uses the old calender system (Julian) which is 12 days behind our current calender system (Gregorian). Because of that a HUGE percentage of Ukrainians would be celebrating Christmas and Sviata Vechera in early January (the 6th for the Eve and the 7th for the Day) which meant, OH MY GOD, we could TRY AGAIN and go out on Jan. 6th for Christmas Eve dinner and then celebrate Christmas the day after.

(AWESOME, RIGHT? BECAUSE IT'D GIVE US NEARLY A FORTNIGHT TO RECOUP AND KICK OUR COLDS TO THE CURB. AND - AND! - WE'D HAVE AN ADDITIONAL WEEK OR SO OF SHOPPING GIVING US THE PERFECT EXCUSE TO FATTEN THE SPREAD BENEATH THE TREE. AND, DUDE, THE WEATHER WOULD HAVE NEARLY TWO WHOLE FUCKING WEEKS TO GET IN CHECK TO ALLOW US OUT OF THE COUNTRY AND INTO THE NEARBY CITY.)

(AND BECAUSE THE IN-LAWS WOULD BE RETURNING HOME ON JANUARY 4TH (THEY SPENT THEIR CHRISTMAS IN SPAIN LEAVING US TO OUR OWN DEVICES) THAT MEANT THAT WE COULD GET A LIFT INTO TOWN FOR DINNER (MAN, THERE WAS A TIME WHERE THE TAXI RIDE HOME COST NEARLY $40.00 USD, NO JOKE). THE ICING ON THE BELATED CHRISTMAS CAKE? THE IN-LAWS WOULD BE AWAY FOR BOTH THE 6TH AND 7TH DUE TO A WORK ENGAGEMENT SO WE COULD OBSERVE ALL OF OUR CHRISTMAS RITUALS WITHOUT DISTURBANCE.)

(YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE PSYCHIC TO SEE WHERE THIS IS GOING, RIGHT?)

Both Italics and I woke up on January 6th with new colds that his parents had brought back with them from Spain. Even better? Our entire area was beginning to buckle down for the brand new blizzard that was about to hit us. Christmas Eve dinner take two? Canceled. Again. For the very same reasons as the first.

...but I didn't cry. Not once, not one tear. Salvation came in the form of a free Holiday Inn room in town that needed to be used on January 9th. Since the 9th is a significant date to us anyway (we officially "got together" on May 9th, 1997) we decided to postpone dinner for a THIRD time and observe it on the 9th, that way we'd celebrate both Christmas Eve and our anniversary. (One of my very few resolutions this year? Make time, every 9th, for date night/day. <- Some things deserve to be celebrated monthly instead of annually.)

The in-laws left early on "Christmas Eve" (the 6th of January) to get ahead of the blizzard since being away was a work related obligation. Even though we weren't going out for dinner we still had "Christmas Day" to look forward to - the walk to the cemetery in a winter wonderland, making our ancestral offerings together at the graveyard, coming home and having homemade crepes with better than jizz sauce, exchanging gifts beneath the tree and then, deviating a little from our normal routine, having a friend over later in the evening for a special meal.

On "Christmas morning" we got a call from the in-laws while we were still in bed - they were coming straight home; the work related obligation had been canceled due to the bad weather. We hadn't had our walk, we hadn't made our offerings, we hadn't had our special breakfast, we hadn't exchanged gifts. Fuck, WE HADN'T EVEN HAD A CHANCE TO GET OUT OF FUCKING BED BEFORE FINDING OUT THAT CHRISTMAS DAY, TAKE TWO, HAD ALSO BEEN CANCELED.

I cried before I got out of bed. Then I cried in the bathroom during my first piss of the day. And then I sobbed like the sorriest motherfucker you've ever seen when I opened the door to the computer room/office to see that "Santa" had left me something special. It was like God, who was solely responsible for all of the cancellations, misfortunes, ill health and bad fucking luck, was sitting on my fucking computer chair LAUGHING AT HOW HE MANAGED TO RUIN NOT //ONE// BUT //TWO// CHRISTMASES FOR ME.

(Want to feel awesomely super special and downright chosen? Have annual hardcore traditions which you REALLY FUCKING LOOK FORWARD TO get canceled on you TWICE (and in some instances THREE FUCKING TIMES since we were TOO FUCKING SICK to leave the house on Jan. 9th so Christmas Eve dinner TAKE THREE was canceled along with the very idea of leaving the house for any sort of make up meal) for the very same motherfucking reasons. It'll feel like heaven enjoys watching YOUR LIFE the most.)

I returned to the bedroom to wallow in self-pity, but that didn't last long. I knew what the SPECIAL gift from "Santa" was, and I had been waiting for that large cat print 70s lounge dress FOR-EV-ER. So, in the end, my insatiable curiosity and Peg Bundy love for leopard, tiger and cheetah print shook me out of my "BUT WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEE?" mind frame and got "Christmas morning" - no matter how aborted - started.

We didn't manage a walk, or offerings at the graveyard, or a super special Christmas morning breakfast, but we did manage a small meal before settling down to exchange gifts (peppered with the occasional sneeze, nose blow and mutual complaints about nasal drips). The in-laws were exceptionally cool and sympathetic and stayed out THE ENTIRE DAY, even going as far as having a meal out together to give Italics and I enough space to have something that loosely resembled "Christmas".

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

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Italics has been growing his hair out for some years now, and while he occasionally gets it trimmed (a biannual event in this house - Spring/Easter, Fall/Halloween), he's never properly cut off any significant length. He missed his Halloween appointment and by Midwinter a clear divide between healthy and damaged appeared.

Without considering the consequences I was given full blessings to brandish my ritual scissors and cut off the weak and split-ended hair. (I'M ALREADY PUTTING MENSTRUAL CLOTS IN HIS FOOD, URINE IN HIS BATH AND PUBIC HAIR IN HIS BUFFALO WINGS HOT SAUCE, WTF DOES IT MATTER IF I'M CUTTING AND KEEPING HIS HAIR, RIGHT? THAT SHIT'S //CHUMP CHANGE// IN THIS RELATIONSHIP.)

At the time I didn't know what I was going to do with it, but I knew I wanted to create something - a braided love charm, or something at least knotted or plaited - so I banded the thick length of hair together with a rubber band and placed the wet, curling lock at the base of Wadjet's statue so it could dry and I could take some pictures the following day.

The problem with "consecrating" anything on an altar - at least for me - is that if you leave it too long you forget about it. Because, at some point, the individuality of the item disappears and when that happens it allows the object to seamlessly merge with its setting. After two weeks I stopped seeing "project that needs to get worked on" and simply saw "office window's altar" and as if by MAGIC the bundled lock of hair became invisible and I simply forgot about it.

...forgot about it until Italics picked up a mangy, tatted clump of hair from beneath his computer desk on one despair filled Christmas vacation morning. I was already crying about something - JUST PICK ONE REASON OUT OF A HUNDRED (EXCEPT FOR "GREY HAIRS" BECAUSE, JUST BETWEEN YOU AND ME, I THINK THE SILVERY STREAKS IN MY OTHERWISE BABY FINE WAIST LENGTH HAIR IS KIND'VE SORT'VE SEXY - SHHH!) - and when Italics held up an aborted felted sculpture that could've been featured on Regretsy and asked "WHAT'S THIS?" and I saw that his hair was missing from the altar I had no other choice but to file the tragedy under "WHATEVER, FUCK IT" (because I had already cried enough that fucking day, thank you very much).

(A FILE THAT'S GAINED A FEW POUNDS DURING THIS PAST YULETIDE SEASON, BY THE WAY. WHATEVER, FUCK IT, AT LEAST I'M NOT SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS AND PUNCHING HOLES THROUGH WALLS (WHICH I WAS DOING SEVERAL YEARS BACK). I REALLY SHOULD BE CELEBRATING MY GRADUATION INTO ADULTHOOD, BUT I THINK THE SHOTS OF HOMEMADE VODKA I'M DOING THAT PREFACES MY RESOLUTION OF "WHATEVER, FUCK IT" IS PROBABLY CELEBRATION ENOUGH.)

I must've unknowingly brushed the rubberbanded lock of hair off the altar when I was feeding the birds (I put Rice Krispies on the office's outside window ledge) and one of the rats found it, dragged it halfway across the room and commenced playing with for God knows how long before Italics made the fateful discovery. (WHATEVER, FUCK IT.) (AT THE SAME TIME, THOUGH, WTF, UNIVERSE? I WAS DOING SOMETHING NICE AND THIS IS HOW MY ASS GETS REPAID? SERIOUSLY, WTF?)

So much for braided love trinkets, right?

(The only "picture" I got of the ponytail in its full glory is in THIS VIDEO posted within the entry SIX MONTHS. What have I learned about this experience? NOT TO BE NICE. EVER. <- LESSON LEARNED!)

Yuletide Phallic Worship

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Goose Day

At this moment in time Christmas and I aren't on speaking terms. I've exiled it - along with all of Yule's misfortunes, Midwinter's bad luck and every fucking festive-themed "coincidence" so LOLerific in nature that even though they have me crying NOW I'll be laughing about them by Midsummer - to the quiet corner. (Just between you and me? I'm thinking about forgetting about it and letting it slowly rot from memory. <- How's THAT for a five minute timeout?)

There's another entry up my proverbial sleeve about THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE, so I won't bother going into the history behind the dark meat revelry. Suffice to say that it's an institution. (To celebrate the Yuletide season my family roasted a goose. Italics's family roasted a turkey. It only took one Christmas for Italics to defect and join my side (and not just because of blowjobs and teenage sex) - such is the power of the goose.)

A normal, perfect, uneventful Christmas sees us getting the goose on either the 23rd or 24th from the butcher. On the day I remove the giblets and excess fat, clip off the wing tips, separate the thighs/legs from the body to make confit, brine both pieces with a mix of salt, garlic and fresh herbs and pour boiling water over the bird's breast before setting the body to dry, overnight, in the garage. On Christmas day I make stock (which eventually turns into gravy) from the giblets, pieces of the broken back and wing tips and roast the goose crown.

This year? We ate our Christmas goose on December 28th...and that wasn't by choice. (LESS SAID, THE BETTER.) I only JUST managed to melt down the mounds of fat and "marinade" the leg/thighs of the goose a day or two ago. (We still haven't opened presents. Seriously. They're all still sitting under the tree, waiting for a magical moment to indicate NOW IS THE TIME! which ISN'T GOING TO FUCKING COME BECAUSE IT'S JANUARY THE FUCKING FIFTH AND CHRISTMAS WAS ELEVEN FUCKING DAYS AGO.)

To try and lighten the abysmal atmosphere Italics suggested we go out on Christmas Goose Day since it was projected to be the nicest day of the week (I, uh, sort've blew the windshield wiper motor BY ACCIDENT which means we have a car with NO WINDSHIELD WIPING ABILITIES and it's been SNOWING, SLEETING and RAINING FOR NEARLY THREE WEEKS) and because the 29th was THE FIRST FUCKING DAY THE MAIL SERVICE DECIDED TO FUCKING RESUME SINCE THE 24TH which meant an avalanche of mail was expected the very next day.

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I was knee deep in clearance Christmas decorations when I caught Italics taking a picture of something halfway across the store. Somehow, I managed to miss "pussy pyramid" when we walked through the pet care section of the garden center (blame my hormonal anxiety over discounted wreath stock).

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The shifty-eyed giant donkey overlord appears to have rewritten the nativity and is directing the production house left.

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It only takes me five minutes of being in the car for me to go OH MY FUCKING GOD SCOTLAND IS SO FUCKING AWESOME I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE I LIVE HERE AND THIS SHIT IS ONLY SEVERAL ROWS OF HOUSES AWAY (the row of houses at the foot of our backyard block otherwise impressive views of not-so-distance hills). Whenever I'm out in the country I feel blessed to live here, and to live so close to ancient secrets (standing stones, cairns, ancient graveyards and stone circles).

The scenery on the 28th was mind-blowingly spectacular. It's been snowing, off and on, for nearly three weeks. At night the temperature drops suddenly, keeping the snow in pristine condition (nearly a month on and this shit still looks FRESH). Pockets of country situated between hills remain outlined in hoarfrost despite the blazing winter sun, while rays of light angle through barren trees highlighting the age of ruined walls and farmhouses.

One of the unfortunate drawbacks of mind-blowingly spectacular scenery is that the best view points are often the ones that have no safe shoulder to straddle. Add treacherous snowbanks, narrow, icy country lanes and SUVS haphazardly plowing down said narrow, icy country lanes with treacherous snowbanks and you have an accident waiting to happen. This is the only picture we got of our country outing.

(In the photo there's a particularly high, snow-capped mountain-like hill in the distance. That's Bennachie, the source of Winter. The Old Woman - better known as the Cailleach - is often associated with the highest point in the region. Here in this region of Scotland the highest point is Bennachie, which holds evidence of bronze age goddess worship at the peak.)

(Note to self: Saw three deer (two babies?) along standing stone road, and then three male pheasants further near the stones. Laughed hysterically when we drove past a predator bird tearing into a freshly killed rabbit in a snow covered field as a single crow stood awkwardly near the hawk (?) pretending that the shared space was a complete and total coincidence and it wasn't waiting for an opportunistic moment to shotgun the remains. "DOE, DEE, DOE, JUST WAITING FOR THE BUS..." Oh, corvids, somehow you find a way to make me laugh daily, <3!)

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The kitchen Christmas altar, pre-stars (my dangling star lights arrived the day after). Normally I create an elaborate center piece altar for the kitchen table using evergreen, ivy, bay, nuts, apples, pears, citrus fruits and candy, all centered around a large loaf of ritual Ukrainian Christmas bread (Kolach, sort've like a communion bread) set with candles.

Due to a million and two reasons - WHICH I WILL NOT TALK ABOUT BECAUSE CHRISTMAS IS STILL IN THE TIME-OUT CORNER - that yearly tradition didn't happen. Instead, I opted for something minimal, but despite the somewhat sparse look I still managed to retain some significance in the otherwise mundane looking setting.

Between the two pillars of candles are a tumbler glass filled with bay cuttings (from our small bay tree out back), a small gold colored oak leaf shaped offering dish holding my TREE NUTS (a pair of English walnuts, joined at the stem), a bottle of late harvest/sweet dessert wine and a bottle of sparkling elderberry (non-alcoholic).

(I bought the Beerenauslese last year and completely forgot about it. It was rediscovered, on Christmas Goose Day, when thumbing through various foil-wrapped bottles looking for my Martini Rossi Asti Spumante (to make the BETTER THAN JIZZ sauce for the Yule Log). The elderberry drink was bought when we were out shopping; I had a feeling the berries would go well with the goose's dark meat (it did, V. well, in fact).)

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Normally we eat off the coffee table in front of the TV (in the communal lounge) to spare us from constant disturbances (aka in-laws). When there aren't any "disturbances" to be had we like to play grown-up and eat at the kitchen table.

Since it was Christmas Goose Day I had no choice but to bring out seasonal table linens (I attempted to create The Saltire, Scotland's flag, using white and red cloth settings), fine china and crystal glasses.

(I was already on my second glass of Beerenauslese by this point, which is evident in the table setting - none of the glasses are full except the designated wine glasses.)

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After the altar candles were lit, the ancestors invited/invoked and ushered into the house (I open the backroom's patio door and call out in Ukrainian to all of our ancestors to beckon them indoors to celebrate the festivities with us), the elderberry bottle uncorked and the water poured (since the wine had already been poured by that point, heh) it was time to sit down and give thanks for the annual tradition that is known as Christmas goose.

In addition to the roasted crown of goose (the thighs and legs, as mentioned above, were taken off to make confit) we had homemade German sweet and sour red cabbage, homemade gluten-free bread dumplings smothered with bacon grease and bacon, pyrohy (aka "pierogies", Slavic potato dumplings) smothered with bacon grease and bacon, new potatoes roasted in goose fat, sour cream (to be eaten with the pyrohy), homemade cranberry sauce and homemade plum sauce.

The dinner ended with Italics laughing at me as I gnawed happily on the one goose wing I was allowed (the wing was my mother's favorite part of any bird, so I make the ultimate sacrifice with every roasted bird and offer one of the two wings to the Mother (who is also the Old Woman/Cailleach; IT'S COMPLICATED, I KNOW, BUT IT MAKES SENSE TO MY BRAIN, OKAY?)); he said I sounded like a wild animal eating.

(Wild animals? Loudest fucking eaters in the world. Seriously. You haven't heard euphoric grunting, panting and gnawing until you catch a hedgehog eating sweet potato pancakes or the remains of buffalo wings.<- DON'T TELL ANYONE OFFICIAL THAT I GIVE VISITING WILDLIFE PANCAKES AND BUFFALO WINGS AND CHEESECAKE AND PIZZA, THEY JUST WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND.)

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I'm beginning to frost our EDIBLE Yule Log*, which was almost as late as our BURNING Yule Log (we finally managed to finish it on December 31st; we renamed it "the 2009 Log"). I can't remember when the tradition started, but every year I make a Yule Log for Midwinter (a dessert so rich and filling it sees us through Yule, Christmas and, typically, New Year) and even though this year's was hella late, it was still made.

* A gluten-free chocolate sponge rolled up and stuffed/frosted with a heavy cream, shaved chocolate, Frangelico and sweetened chestnut filling. I always serve the Log with a homemade dessert wine/cream sauce (aka BETTER THAN JIZZ SAUCE), which is so fucking good you can catch me, at least once a day, eating the sauce straight out of the fridge with a spoon.

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Every fucking year I go I'M TOTALLY GOING TO COOK ONE OF THOSE TEENY TINY LITTLE BABY CHICKEN BIRDS FOR THE RATS FOR CHRISTMAS and every fucking year I forget...except for this year.

While we tucked into our Christmas goose dinner, the rats tucked into their roasted poussin (basted in homemade herbal butter and covered with bay leaves and bacon) and there was a serene peace in the house as living people, deceased people, living rats, deceased rats and everything else incorporeal visiting and celebrating with us that night joined in the yearly tradition known as Christmas goose day.

78 Pretty Pictures

Regardless of what my tarot deck collection might say, I don't do tarot. (I also don't do reading, but every room in the house seems to have several towers of books in various corners.) I like it as a concept, but as a divination system it doesn't mesh well with my Choose Your Own Adventure style of life. In some ways, it even goes against my natural instincts as a witch.

As far as witchcraft goes I'm an innie, not an outie. Meaning that everything I do comes internally; I don't outsource shit, and my ability/talents as a witch are products of my subconscious rather than spirits, gods or celestial tentacle overlords bestowing divine blessings upon me. The sun, in my world, revolves around me.

The very heart and foundation of my beliefs? My experiences - which are solely unique to me - trump everything. My reality's been created by the things I've witnessed and lived through first hand, not something broken down - culture by culture - in a reference book. By examining my relationship with the world around me I create my own definition of things based on one-to-one contact.

Tarot falls in an awkward space between FASCINATING and UTTERLY USELESS (for me). I have no personal connection with it. I didn't create the concepts, I didn't create the art, I didn't create the story and I didn't decide how many cards make a fucking deck. There's nothing inherently "me" there. When I sit down and work with it it's like trying to sit comfortably in a chair specifically made to fit the contours of someone else's ass.

Scrying? Tea leaves, coffee foam, broken eggs and entrails? Second nature. Hand me a joint and a bag of chicken bones and I'll show you old skool divination. It's primitive, it's basic and it's the oldest game around. There's no limitations, no restraints. There isn't a filter to make sense of shit. It's a direct link without the need of translation. But that's my "magic" - consciously accessing the subconscious with as little props as possible (props, I should mention, that I've made and have a personal resonance and history with).

I WANT to like tarot, and I'd REALLY LIKE to be a skilled reader, but my natural reaction to it goes against what the tarot's all about. (The thing about "reading" egg yolks and splattered sexual fluids? I don't need to cross reference shit. It's a split second understanding that reaches deep into your psyche. The problem with tarot? When I look at a card and the images displayed my split second understanding that reaches deep into my psyche greatly differs from the artist's interpretation of the card. And that's what using the deck's all about - the artist's definition, not yours/mine.)

It's a love-hate relationship. Seriously. At least this tumultuous affair occasionally provides 78 pretty pictures and the occasional collector's item bought for an absolute steal (see below for one example).

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New Year's Day, 2010. I wasn't planning on laying out a spread, but once it became dark and began snowing I thought I'd ask the Old Woman (aka Cailleach, the Whore, my "darker"/subconscious self) to show me three things from my past, present and future (since She had already come around for Her daily shot of whiskey).

Normally when I play around with any sort of card I sit down with Chippy on the lounge floor and spread the cards in front of us. This time around, though, I decided the kitchen was more appropriate for some reason (a first for me) and set everything up at the base of my kitchen altar.

I first placed a white cloth on the sink, and then overlapped it with a Ukrainian table linen that I cover the ancestral feeding plate with (when it's not in use). Since it was snowing I fixed the Old Woman a plate of food and poured us both a shot of whiskey (Famous Grouse, very Scottish). Mine was left next to the tarot deck I used, Hers was taken outside.

I got high (but not high enough), slipped into a pair of flip-flops, offered the Cailleach Her food and drink (left on a patio pillar outside), invited Her in, promptly fell in the snow when wading towards the clothes line (She laughed) to untie my wedding dress (a Scottish apron) from the line (I hung it up on New Year's Eve, while snowing, beneath the blue moon, partial lunar eclipse and last full moon of 2009) and returned to the house a colder, wetter, more sober witch.

After donning the damp apron I downed my shot of whiskey and took the deck between both hands and invoked Her/myself while chanting and fire gazing (at the lit candle before me). Once I felt suitably tapped in I opened the box, removed the cards and while shuffling began chanting "three for past, three for present, three for future".

(Just before shuffling I thought "OH, WAIT! THIS DECK DOESN'T HAVE BLANK NON-TAROT CARDS, DOES IT?" but I was so caught up in the moment I was all "LOLOLOL, WHATEVER, WHAT'S THE CHANCES ONE BLANK CARD AMONGST SEVENTY-EIGHT OTHERS WILL SHOW UP IN MY NINE CARD READING?". <- True story.)

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The cards that fell from my hands were the cards that were laid. First the past (top, first), then the present (middle, second) and, lastly, the future (bottom, third).

PAST: Woman of Soul (chalice suit, queen), Man of Soul (chalice suit, king), the Fool/0 (R)

PRESENT: 3 of Jewels (pentacles suit), 2 of Jewels (pentacles suit), Child of Soul (chalice suit, page)

FUTURE: Blank, Blank, the Shaman/V (Hierophant) (R)

Remember "WHAT'S THE CHANCES ONE BLANK CARD AMONGST SEVENTY-EIGHT OTHERS WILL SHOW UP IN MY NINE CARD READING?" and "LOLOLOLOL, WHATEVER"? Yeah, well, the Universe remembered, too. I got not one, but TWO "blank" cards in my future row. I'm still rolling my eyes over it. (LOOK WHO'S LOLOLOLOLING NOW! <- Not me.)

Personal dilemmas and mini-crises ignite and overwhelm the second cards are turned over:

Do I "read" the cards blindly? Do I use the artist's booklet? FUCK, THERE ISN'T ANY INFORMATION FOR REVERSED CARDS! Wait, are these cards even meant to be used reversed? If there's no mirrored pattern on the back, and the artist - who changed the deck enough to make it highly personal and different from your standard Rider-Waite copy - didn't provide definitions or interpretations of reversed cards (and incorporated negative aspects within the overall card rather than separating the card into a clear cut positive and negative) surely that negates reversed cards, right?

HOW THE FUCK DID I MANAGE TO GET TWO FUCKING BLANK CARDS IN MY FUTURE ROW? *PEEKS AT DECK'S BOOKLET* HOLY SHIT, //WHAT//? I'M SORRY, SERGIO TOPPI, BUT MY FIRST IMPRESSION WASN'T "CHILD DROWNING" IN THE CHILD OF SOUL CARD. OH, GOD, SHOULD I EVEN BOTHER USING THE ARTIST'S BOOK? I TOTALLY DIDN'T SEE A CHILD DROWNING, //AT ALL//. IS IT WORTH "READING" THESE REVERSED CARDS, OR SHOULD I TURN THEM STRAIGHT? THAT'S NOT A FUCKING OLD MAN, THAT'S THE CAILLEACH! EFF YOU TAROT, I HATE YOU AND NEVER WANT TO TALK TO YOU EVER AGAIN.

...is the precise reason why tarot and I don't get along. I need to take a fucking Valium just to deal with looking at nine effing cards. My ass is sticking to blood, mud and spit.

New Year Resolutions

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January 1st, 2010: Pizza (bacon, mushroom and green pepper), kebabs (grilled chicken, onions, peppers and lettuce shoved in pita bread and smothered with sour cream), chicken nuggets, potato skins and fries (delivered to the door). Nightmare on Elm Street V and Smokey and the Bandit. Homemade chocolate egg nog, sour bubblegum-flavored gummi worms, strawberry beer, selection of cookie'n'chocolate truffles, selection of regional Italian cookies, cappuccino meringues, Turrón de Chocolate and SECRET sour strawberries.

...new year resowhat? (<- Obviously not in our dictionary.)

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).)

Winter Wash

Never trust a woman who hangs up her washing in the snow.

LONG STORY SHORT?

I have ritual clothes (which never seem to stay on that long, but that's the entire point of lingerie, right?), and I have pre-ritual clothes. Pre-ritual clothes (i.e., the robe above, and a long African dress) are worn as we're "coming up" (when you begin feeling the effects of the entheogen consumed) to keep my ass warm while we wade through the feelings of hyper-stimulation.

When we first began practicing our whimsical black mass rites (it's not a choice, it's a //lifestyle//) something told me to not wash my robe. Which, admittedly, was a super huge challenge since I'm notoriously (verging on anally) clean. I straighten up the house seven days a week, I wash daily and clothing - especially of the stained variety - is laundered immediately.

Without asking "why?" I did.

Years worth of sweat, perfume oils and incense. Years worth of massage oils, ecstatic sex and body fluids. Years worth of fragrant prayers, carnal pleasures and spiritual epiphanies transformed into ribbons of scent woven into the fabric of the robe. When you pressed your face into the perfumed material you could smell Mass; it was a witch's diary, a blank-but-full book of shadows.

Sometimes ritual (and pre-ritual) clothes aren't exclusively kept for ceremony. Like when you wake up in the middle of the day (because you're sleeping at night) and realize that everyone's home which means you can't saunter to the bathroom half-naked (and you're half-naked instead of 100% naked because you have ringworm speckled across your hips, armpits and beneath your tits forcing you to wear a t-shirt to bed) for a piss, but you REALLY, REALLY HAVE TO GO except you forgot to toss a pair of boxers next to the side of your bed so you could emerge from the bedroom "decent" which means your only options are:

1.) Celebrating the beauty of a grown woman's recently shaven cunt by non-chalantly parading to the bathroom, in-laws be damned.

2.) Ritual robe aged to olfactory perfection conveniently hanging on the bedroom door, ringworm be damned.

TAKE A WILD FUCKING GUESS WHICH OPTION I WENT WITH.

Fuck it, it was time to reset the motherfucking thing, anyway. (One word to describe 2009? "RESET".) After washing the robe I purified it in this year's first proper snowfall, hanging it up as it snowed and leaving it all day and night until winter's bitter cold managed to dry it. Unscented and unworn it hangs on the bedroom door again, waiting until New Year's Eve when I'll breath life back into it as we celebrate the full moon, blue moon, lunar eclipse and the new year.

Witchcraft is...

...running around naked, post-sex, with inner thighs firmly locked into place while chanting "KEEP IT IN, KEEP IT IN, KEEP IT IN!" as you frantically search for your AWOL Yule Log so you can release all of the combined sexual fluids from you and your partner out of your clenched cunt directly onto the log. (And if anyone tells you differently, they're lying.)

Unwhole

"...2009 was the year I REALLY got into keeping a diary so I was hella looking forward to the Yuletide season where I had planned to painstakingly go over all of the traditions and foods I grew up with (and then bastardized by mixing it up to suit my unconventional needs). I can take pictures, but I can't resize or sharpen them. I can cook, execute and perform, but I can't write or document what the fuck I'm doing. I feel like I lost something and I find myself pausing to look over my shoulder; I can't believe how writing journal entries became so routine that now I'm left feeling somewhat...unwhole?...when unable to do it..."

I'm trying to pass the time in livejournal, but it isn't the same. (If you're a LJ user stop by and say hello - Ms. Graveyard Dirt.)

Existence of God

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Christmas isn't an ancient winter festival to be celebrated with family and friends, it's a personal challenge specifically created to test my Aries patience (and need for absolute perfection - or maybe that's the autism?). I'm an agnostic witch - I sometimes believe something's (someone's?) out there, but for the most part I spend my days dreading mortality, the inevitability of death and the uncertainty that nothing follows. There are only three things in the world that can placate my fears momentarily - sex, drugs and Christmas. (Four things if you want to count "nature", but since it features heavily in sex AND drugs I figured it was a given.)

Do I believe in the existence of God? Is there a holiday that requires dressing a giant fucking coniferous tree with hundreds of godforsaken lights that DON'T PLUG INTO ONE ANOTHER? (<- HOLY SHIT, BRITAIN, YOU MANAGED TO COLONIZE HALF THE FUCKING WORLD BUT YOU CAN'T PROVIDE MOTHEREFFING CHRISTMAS LIGHTS THAT //PLUG INTO ONE ANOTHER// TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC?)

Is there a holiday where, every fucking year, I discover that I'm short 200 fucking lights because SOMEHOW a string or two inexplicably BROKE while sitting in a fucking box in the fucking attic? Is there a holiday where the tree has to fucking sit for over a fucking week while I frantically try to find new lights that match the brightness of the old lights? Is there a holiday where I eventually break down and howl in sheer frustration and spend a morose evening wallowing in despair and futility beneath a half lit tree covered in fake pine needles?

Is there a holiday where I spend over a fucking week attempting to perfect a fucking tree covered in fucking lights where the Aries drive for A+ TOP CLASS drives me into a festive maenad frenzy? Is there a holiday where the world unites and universally takes part in the greatest, most frustrating and mania-inducing phallic worship pageant of all time? Is there a holiday where a fake cock supersedes a real cock and commands full attention, tinsel and gratuitous amount of sweat and tears?

DO I BELIEVE IN THE EXISTENCE OF GOD? HOLY SHIT, DUDE, WHO //ELSE// CREATED THIS GODDAMN "OH, HEY, LET'S CELEBRATE THE REBIRTH OF LIGHT AT THE FOOT OF THIS THINLY VEILED MONUMENT TO HARD COCK!" HOLIDAY AT MY EXPENSE?

WTF Dinner w/WTF Sauce

OH, GOD HELP US, MY FATHER-IN-LAW HAS BEEN INSPIRED* TO COOK. (<- TIME TO HIDE IN THE BATCAVE.)

* Whenever I spend several consecutive nights in the kitchen he becomes overwhelmed by the insatiable need to cook. ("I CAN DO THAT, TOO!" is something you can't get away from in this house. If finds me working on something - especially if I'm enjoying it - within 48 hours he's playing "LOOK AT MEEEEEEE!" catch-up. (And gets V. pissy if you 1.) fail to notice and 2.) fail to compliment.) 70 years old going on 4, right?)

His end results - which are guesstimated mimic attempts of things I've recently provided the family with** - are at once horrifying, amusing, disgusting and, if I'm being completely honest, occasionally irritatingly offensive (it wouldn't be so bad if he didn't exude his patented "I'VE JUST DONE IT BETTER THAN //YOU//" old man smugness, but he does...every effing time).

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PHOTO CAPTION: I apparently inspired my father-in-law (aka Mr. Awesome) to do some cooking. When I first saw it I couldn't figure out if he made SOUP or PASTA SAUCE, but the leftovers provided just enough context clues.

** The picture above? His attempt at "spaghetti and meatballs". Just ignore the fact that chicken's replaced meatballs (WTF?), fettuccine was used instead of spaghetti (OKAY, OKAY, I'M NIGGLING WITH THAT, I KNOW) and that my in-laws haphazardly throw their uncovered leftovers straight in the fridge for everyone to see (and accidentally touch when searching for EDIBLE food). (<- OH GOD I'M CRINGING NOW JUST THINKING ABOUT IT!)

Two days earlier I fed the family an enormous spaghetti and meatballs dinner where EVERYTHING was created from scratch (well, the garlic bread was made from a bought loaf of ciabatta that I slathered with garlic butter, sprinkled with Italian herbs and grated Parmesan cheese, but beyond purchasing the fresh pasta and bread everything else was entirely homemade). Mr. Awesome, enjoying the meal //so much//, decided to recreate it less than 48 hours later.

My version:

* Tomato sauce made from three different types of tomato (sun-dried, fresh and canned), fresh herbs from the garden, garlic, roasted red peppers (I scorched them under the oven's grill and then peeled the charred skins off), basil infused olive oil, red wine, balsamic vinegar and other spices and seasonings.

* Overnight meatballs (I like mixing the ingredients together and letting them sit overnight so the flavors can intensify before cooking) made from fresh steak mince, more fresh herbs from the garden, grated fresh Parmesan, garlic, basil infused olive oil, balsamic vinegar, locally produced oatmeal (I tend to use oatmeal instead of breadcrumbs when cooking), a touch of the tomato sauce above and other spices and seasonings.

(I normally fry the overnight meatballs in a little bit of olive oil to give them a crispy crust and then transfer them over to a lidded casserole dish so they create an even layer. Once they're snug I pour over the homemade tomato sauce, crumble an entire block of feta over everything, sprinkle over a generous amount of Parmesan, cover the dish with foil and cook everything in a hot oven for about 15-20 minutes until it seems done. I also give the casserole a few minutes beneath the oven's grill (uncovered) to give the feta a wee bit of color before serving the meal.)

(Unfortunately, I don't have any images of this dish (despite it being a somewhat staple), but I'm PRETTY SURE the meal is mostly palatable if these pictures are anything to go by. I mean, it was good enough to "copy", right?)

His version of my version:

* Tomato sauce made from one can of tomatoes, a fried onion, chicken breasts and indistinguishable seasoning served over waterlogged pasta. (Or, as I like to call it, "WTF DINNER WITH WTF SAUCE".)

CLEARLY, YOU CAN SEE THE STIFF COMPETITION THAT I DEAL WITH ON A DAY TO DAY BASIS. HOW I'LL EVER LIVE UP TO HIS CULINARY PROWESS IS BEYOND ME. I SHOULD PROBABLY HANG UP MY APRON(S) (<- APRONS ARE LIKE KITCHEN LINGERIE, YOU NEED A VARIETY TO SUIT THE MOOD AND OCCASION!) AND ADMIT DEFEAT AT AGE 29...SIGH.

My prediction? He's made "chili" ("chili" = any ground meat, an onion, a can of beans and a can of tomatoes). I'll creep even FURTHER up the limb I'm already already on and state that if it is "chili" he was directly inspired by the Turkish beef and haricot bean casserole I made a few days ago that he finished off without asking (so much for leftovers).

She Washes Her Plaid

ETA: I love how this turned out to be journal entry #365. OH, UNIVERSE, <3!

Last night the Old Woman washed Her plaid in Corryvreckan, stripping the bold colors from Her tartan as She plunged it into the ocean's churning spiral, using the whirlpool as Her cauldron as She transformed Her traditional dress into the white shroud of winter. (They say that the snow's the Cailleach's bleached plaid, thrown across the land, blanketing the earth as it dries beneath the sky.)

I'm not unfamiliar with raging, temperamental goddesses. I understand the fire and the ice, I understand the volatility and how a breath of air can either inflame or extinguish. There's a fine line between creation and destruction; one hand lowered, one hand raised, both extended parts of the same body. It's a cosmic balancing act, a tightrope performance as old as time itself.

When the Old Woman called I didn't know about Her, but I knew Her. "We're blue skinned, you know," the Black Rabbit told me when I was Underground. HOLY SHIT, I thought, EVERYONE KNOWS ABOUT US. Blue is, if you think about it, universal. The blue skinned are the creators and destroyers, the raging ones, the fighting ones, the dead and risen ones, the ones who scream, fuck and storm. They tear, they claw, they lash out, but within the whirlwind of passionate action and movement, there's hidden compassion, hidden love and a greater purpose to the maelstrom of violence.

(Of course We're complex and contradictory, We're Woman. That's the beautiful, awe and fear inspiring thing about Us. We storm, sometimes on purpose, sometimes because it gets away from us. The trick is controlling the air flow. INFLAMING (too much air) and EXTINGUISHING (not enough air) aren't the answers, they're primitive - and very powerful, in a primal, animalistic way - extremes.)

(All of Us have extended hands, one lowered, one raised, but not enough of Us work on equalizing the extension. Instead of pointing at the ground and sky (creation, destruction) We should be reaching out with both hands, because, honey, that's the ONLY way you can grab and control something (unless you're thoroughly convinced that Jesus is going to take the fucking wheel, good luck with that, BTW).)

(My stomach valve had to break in order for me to appreciate this shit. Hopefully one of your body's involuntary functions doesn't have to suddenly STOP WORKING so you can have your own personal epiphany. But that's my magic; to know blood you need to know blood. I had to learn the importance of a breath of air, and in doing so it's begun solving two problems (one physical and one spiritual).)

(Now I'm REALLY tangenting from the original point of this entry, sorry.)

The Cailleach called me down to Her whirlpool, where I was stripped clean in the divine washerwoman's "cauldron". There was more than that, though. There was jumping into the tumultuous water of the whirlpool to save people from being swept down into the vortex. ("MOTHERFUCKING RETARDS," I shouted from rocky craigs overlooking the swirling mass of water, having to jump into the dangerous waves again and again to save drowning lemmings.)

The spiral that twisted the sea was feminine. Ancient. Feral. Terrifying. If the burning bush was the face of God, then the whirlpool was the vaginal canal leading to the great Creatrix's womb. I could only look at the roaring waters from the corner of my eyes, partially out of fear, but mostly due to the overwhelming feeling of absolute sacredness. It was the Ark, and even though I wasn't a Nazi I was still at least PRETTY SURE looking directly at the whirlpool would melt my face.

I also dreamt about a terrifying monster of a bull appearing in a field we were cutting through. He charged; there was no place to go. His body blocked the sun as he barreled towards me, and instead of escaping, instead of racing from the inevitable I stood my ground, lacking every survival instinct I otherwise should've had. I was prepared to die, an unseen, silent sacrifice.

Petrified but certain I closed my eyes when I felt his hot breath blast over my skin, not wanting to see my own death...but it never came. Humid heat from the panting bull rolled over me, but not through me. When I opened my eyes - still alive - the sun broke over the bull's back, partially blinding me with fierce light and outlining the massive beast that was kneeling in front of me.

The Great Bull submitted to me as sun spilled over our bodies, his giant, curved horns pointed down in submission and supplication. Breathless I reached out and placed my palm flat against his sweaty brow, reeling in shock that I was still alive and what surely had to be a divine creature was kneeling - BOWING - to me.

I was sick that night almost three (four?) years ago. I had a cold that wormed its way into my chest and was threatening to become a V. serious case of bronchitis. It was also the beginning of the last great depressive episode in my life. When I woke up from the lucid dreams I was shaking and unnerved. I retold both to Italics, and during a moment of curiosity I typed in "goddess" and "whirlpool" into Google and was rewarded with the Cailleach of Corryvreckan.

The Corryvreckan is the world's third largest whirlpool and, unknown to me at the time, is located in Scotland. Attached to the oceanic feature is the ancient figure of the Cailleach, the winter hag, the storm bringer, the divine washerwoman. She's presumed to be old. So old, in fact, that She's believed to have once been considered one of the greatest of goddesses (the goddess of the goddesses, the mother of all), but time's weathered Her image and She's now remembered as an elemental (temperamental, heh!) deity of folklore.

When I realized there was a whirlpool in Scotland I didn't even know about I began crying. When I realized there was a whirlpool in Scotland I didn't even know about AND a very primitive, elemental goddess (at the time I had expressed interest in controlling the weather - bringing the snow, stopping the rain, making the winds blow) was attached to it I began crying even harder. I was bawling by the time I realized every image of Her I came across depicted Her with blue skin.

(I, uh, cry a lot. Language is frustrating, a lot of things don't translate right (or well) when filtered through an autistic brain. Emotions, however, don't need to be explained, so they're naturally expressed through tears. Happy tears. Sad tears. Tears of pain, tears of joy. Ecstatic tears, despondent tears. Freya's golden tears of living, loving and losing.)

A lot people drop the "I WAS CALLED" bomb in paganism and witchcraft. I try not to use popular vernacular (primarily because I don't consider myself your normal, run-of-the-mill witch and don't want to be confused with - or lumped together - with a scene I'm trying my hardest to avoid), but if dreaming about a very specific natural feature (and the primordial goddess attached to it) despite not knowing about it and then finding out that the same natural feature - goddess included - is only SEVERAL FUCKING HOURS AWAY then, fine, yeah, "I was called".

ANYWAY...!

(If you've been reading my journal for any length of time you'll find that it's absolutely impossible for me to tell a story without wandering off the path to tell several stories to better explain the original story. I talk. A lot. But I also want people to UNDERSTAND where I'm coming from, which is the entire point of keeping a diary that's open and accessible to others.)

(The thing is, I don't want people to mimic or copy, I want people to GET ME and GET HOW I THINK so they understand why I do the things I do. And in that understanding I hope that people will BEGIN THINKING FOR THEMSELVES instead of relying on the same book that's been kicked around for years.)

(Not that books are V. V. BAD, but they can become a crutch. Someone who relies on books is someone who isn't working on instinct (or displaying any signs of innate creativity) and, more often than not, simply consuming and regurgitating someone ELSE'S experiences and beliefs.)

This entry was only supposed to be several paragraphs long (re: last night's first snow and how I celebrated the Old Woman returning home and doing Her laundry) but I got a LEETLE sidetracked. I REALLY, REALLY wanted to sink my teeth into how I "work" with the Cailleach, but that'll have to wait for another time. Seeing how winter's officially fallen onto Scotland I'm sure the topic will get kicked around a few times before the (Virginal Spring) Bride returns.

Day of Doneness

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PRAISE GOD IN FUCKING HEAVEN, IT'S //DONE//. (Well, not DONE done. I still need to ritually clean the furniture coming back in, dust'n'polish every book, item and statue before it's returned to its rightful place, clean the backroom that's storing all of our shit, ceremonially unveil the funeral coffin cover which'll be blanketing our bed until Easter and fumigate the bedroom for the last time with a mixture of frankincense, sage and rosemary. <- SORT'VE LIKE A SPIRITUAL VARNISH.)

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Secondary celebration that gets lost behind the super grand celebration of HAUNTED FORESTS and GATED CEMETERIES? I only cried in frustration //once// during the entire wallpapering ordeal. (ACTUALLY, I DIDN'T EVEN CRY //AT ALL// BUT MY EYES GOT MOIST AND I SNIFFLED AND FELT, FOR A SECOND, I COULD COLLAPSE IN A CRYING FIT OF AGITATION AND TIREDNESS.) Thanks to a quick cup of calming tea, some pot and help from Italics I rebounded crazy quick and shot off like a rocket.

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I can't even begin calculating how many (wo)man hours went into this job (from evacuating the room to ritually cleaning it (and its contents) to wallpapering it from ceiling to floor). I've spent the better part of a week climbing, straddling, crouching, kneeling, extending, rolling, hammering, measuring, stretching and sweating my ass off. (STICK A FORK IN ME, BABY, BECAUSE I AM //DONE//.)

A few people have asked where I got the wallpaper and because I'm a notoriously lazy whore I've been copying and pasting the same response throughout the great'n'wide internet:

The first set (SKULL PILLAR OSSUARY W/STONE WALL) we got at a joke/costume shop. This second set (HAUNTED FOREST with GATED CEMETERY) we bought off of eBay.

The only downside using scene setters to decorate a room? The "wallpaper" is actually a thin ass sheet of plastic. One snag and the motherfucker tears like punishment from the devil his-fucking-self. (Which is EXACTLY why I've outlawed wearing heels in bed. <- YOU DON'T EVEN WANT TO KNOW HOW MANY POTHOLES I CREATED IN OUR PREVIOUS "SCENE" (I.E., DUNGEON OSSUARY) WHEN KICKING MY HIGH HEELED LEGS INTO THE AIR DURING SEX.)

(LOL @ MY REPTILIAN LEATHER CORSET STILL HANGING ON THE EFFING DOOR. Last Friday it was laced up (over fishnet) in the office, worn into town and then taken off - AHEM! - in the bedroom later that day. I've been so busy tacking up fucking wallpaper I haven't had a chance to move it back into the closet.)

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It's been this way since mid-September; when I look upon this mess a get despair stirs in my heart. (It's getting tackled. Today. Fuck Thanksgiving (I'm pushing it to Saturday WHICH I CAN TOTALLY DO IF I FUCKING WANT SINCE I'M IN //SCOTLAND// AND //SCOTLAND// DOESN'T CELEBRATE THANKSGIVING, ANYWAY, SO I CAN BE AS NON-FUCKING-TRADITIONAL AS I WANT), I want my house back.)

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I see a mess, but within that mess - making and creating the mess - I see our life, our celebrations, our rituals and our memories. (AND YOU'RE ALL GOING BACK IN THE BEDROOM //TODAY//, DAMMIT.)

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I can't wait to reclaim this room. There's a communal lounge in the front of the house, but it's usually occupied by my in-laws. We created a little niche for ourselves in the backroom where we eat, watch TV, play video games, watch movies, play records, work on projects, play boardgames and just plain ole relax.

We haven't been able to use the room for nearly two months; I'm REALLY looking forward to getting stoned and playing The Sisters of Mercy and Dire Straits while sitting in winter sun. (<- THE ROOM'S SOUTH FACING.) In a few weeks time we'll be decorating it - in addition to the lounge - for Christmas and this year we decided to chop down a tree for our stoner tree.

(IF YOU AREN'T ALREADY FAMILIAR WITH "THE STONER TREE" STICK AROUND FOR A WEEK OR TWO AND EVERYTHING WILL BE EXPLAINED...PROBABLY WITH PICTURES INVOLVING MY ASS.)

(ME TO ITALICS: "OKAY, OKAY, NOW TAKE A PICTURE OF MY NAKED ASS RESTING ON A BRANCH OF THE TREE BEFORE WE CUT IT DOWN!")

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A glorious mess of needing-to-be-wrapped Christmas presents, half-finished witch projects, dried herbs, berries and foliage that are waiting to be bottled and stalwart houseplants that have taken nearly two months of neglect on the chin without so much as a complaint.

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An unexpected rainbow was the grand finale to my celebratory DAY OF DONENESS photo taking. (I saw my first meteor just above the pine tree beneath the bend of the rainbow on Italics' birthday this year. I'll never forget that blue-white sparkler streak of burning magnesium. Within a month I saw my second in the backyard when standing on the patio in the middle of the night watching/listening to the bats feed.)

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I woke up to a windstorm on the DAY OF DONENESS. The weather alternated from dreary, heavy gray clouds and lashings of rain to abnormally bright light blazing across a darkened horizon. (Hence the weird glow to some of the bedroom pictures.) Gusts of wind shook the house and rattled the branches of trees and bushes outside (where my birds took refuge looking both confused and irritated by the storm).

Above: a female blackbird.

(I call them "Papa's birds". A few years back Papa instructed me to boil the last egg in the house for him and bury it outside. I boiled the egg but sat on it for months and months and months (it sat in a shot glass in the backroom), and it wasn't until the deepest part of my most recent depressive episode that I finally buried it. Within seconds of patting the earth down a male blackbird came racing out of the bushes and immediately sat down next to me stupidly unafraid of me or the danger he was putting himself in. That was the very beginning of my relationship with the local blackbirds; a gift from Papa. <- And that's ALSO how Papa hatched a bird out of an old boiled egg.)

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I woke up to a windstorm on the DAY OF DONENESS. The weather alternated from dreary, heavy gray clouds and lashings of rain to abnormally bright light blazing across a darkened horizon. (Hence the weird glow to some of the bedroom pictures.) Gusts of wind shook the house and rattled the branches of trees and bushes outside (where my birds took refuge looking both confused and irritated by the storm).

Above: a juvenile male blackbird (right), probably another juvenile male blackbird in the middle (it's hard to tell if s/he's BLACK or VERY BROWN) and way, way to the left is a tiny little cheap-cheap bird hidden beneath a drooping branch (I didn't even notice it when taking the picture).

(I call them "Papa's birds". A few years back Papa instructed me to boil the last egg in the house for him and bury it outside. I boiled the egg but sat on it for months and months and months (it sat in a shot glass in the backroom), and it wasn't until the deepest part of my most recent depressive episode that I finally buried it. Within seconds of patting the earth down a male blackbird came racing out of the bushes and immediately sat down next to me stupidly unafraid of me or the danger he was putting himself in. That was the very beginning of my relationship with the local blackbirds; a gift from Papa. <- And that's ALSO how Papa hatched a bird out of an old boiled egg.)

Cleaning Day II

The original CLEANING DAY entry became so stupidly long that it had to be halved. The first half was uploaded nearly a week ago (see CLEANING DAY I) and this is the second and final half. (If you haven't read the the first part I HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT since it explains - and goes into greater detail - what I'm doing, and why I'm doing it.)

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Washing an entire room yields some nasty results. So nasty that halfway through you realize that maybe the gray-black-gritty water you're using to physically and spiritually clean an area isn't as effective as it was in the very beginning. That's where the "starter" jug (above) steps in.

Once my bucket's full of super hot (and super fragrant) wash I decant a jug's worth of pristine cleaning water so, half-way through cleaning, I can recreate the magic washing mix without all of the original effort. (<- TOSS DIRTY MAGIC WASH OUT THE DOOR (<- V. IMPORTANT STEP, TO PHYSICALLY "THROW OUT" EVERYTHING YOU'VE GOTTEN RID OF), RINSE BUCKET OUT, POUR IN ECOVER, POUR IN CONTENTS OF JUG, ADD HOT WATER AND RETURN TO WORK - EASY!)

When I heavy duty magic clean the bedroom a lot of effort (and attention) goes into the bed and the thresholds of the room (i.e., window, door). The bed's completely stripped (the sheets, mattress cover, pillow cases and duvet are washed while I'm cleaning), and all of the pillows and mattress are crazily Febreezed and moved out of the room. The frame of the bed is cleaned using my washing mix, down to every cheap wooden slate, joint and screw head.

Nothing gets missed, nothing gets overlooked. I don't cast circles for protection; I clean and anoint the room (and all of the furniture within) with intent, sweat and my wash. It's labor intensive, but that's my magic - overt action. Chanting and invoking various directions mean jack shit if you aren't demonstrating (and exercising) complete and total control of the area.

Cleaning, for me, marks my area - especially when my sweat, urine and blood mingles with my bucket of wash, infusing it with my scent. It's primitive and simple, but at least you can FEEL it (especially the day after!).

The tiny cup next to the jug of wash is Papa's coffee cup (it has a matching saucer, but since I wasn't serving the Old Man a cup of coffee I didn't bother busting it out). While cleaning the bedroom I simultaneously wash the bed linens and with every load I add a cupful of clean, decanted wash from the jug into the laundry. (No point in cleaning the screws of the bed frame if you aren't going to put the same amount of attention into the sheets you'll be sleeping on.)

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Years ago I got some jazz for mentioning I formally invoked Chippy for a healing ritual. One of the much learn-ed pagan/witch moderators (of the forum) couldn't fathom why I'd beseech an entity associated with plagues and sickness for the purpose of recovery. Suddenly realizing the level of retardation I was dealing with, I simply walked off without answering the question and never returned.

(I MEAN, I KNOW I'M ALL AUTISTIC AND SPASTIC AND SIMPLE, BUT...I DON'T FEEL IT TAKES BEING A GENIUS AND/OR HAVING A MASTERS DEGREE IN ARCHEOLOGY OR ANTHROPOLOGY TO UNDERSTAND WHY SOMEONE WOULD INVOKE AND PETITION AN ENTITY KNOWN FOR SICKNESS AND DISEASES TO //LIFT// SICKNESS OR A DISEASE. THAT'S PRETTY BASIC SHIT, YO, AND IF IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE YOU'RE EITHER A.) REALLY DUMB OR B.) PRETENDING TO BE REALLY DUMB.)

I rarely "invoke" Chippy in a ritual or ceremonial way. He's a permanent member of the family preferring to sit in front of the TV (<- HIS FAVORITE THING TO WATCH IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD? CHRISTMAS MUSIC VIDEOS. SERIOUSLY.) than run wild outside. (I can't even remember the last time he asked to be let "out". I DO remember it was winter and I DO remember hearing "WANT IN, WANT IN! WOMAN, WANT IN! TOO COLD, WANT IN!" within seconds of closing the patio door.) It took several years of extensive hands on work, but he's integrated himself smoothly into daily life.

Chippy is, essentially, the guard dog who lives inside of the house. He eats scraps from our plates (he has his own stainless steel doggie bowls engraved with his name), he sleeps next to my side of the bed and, when he's been super extra awesome good, he occasionally gets taken out to the movies and Burger King. Like most devoted canine companions (not having any experience with breaking a demon I fell back to the one thing I knew how to do - house train a dog) Chippy lives to please and understands the importance of family unity.

In addition to healing, divination (not exactly his cup of tea, but the few times I've used him he's been V. terrific in conjunction with tarot and soul cards), companionship and cursing (I HAVE AN ANCIENT DEMON THAT WAS FEARED BY ALL OTHER DEMONS AS A PET, DO YOU REALLY THINK I'D LET THAT ASPECT OF HIM SLIDE? LULZ.) I use Chippy for banishment purposes. When I spiritually fumigate the house he's at my heels - growling and bearing his teeth - ensuring nothing sneaks past while I flush out uninvited guests from room to room.

The picture above is as close as I get to ritually invoking anything. (Unless I'm heavily under the influence of drugs, and in THAT case I'm a laughing, contorting naked banshee throwing fistfuls of incense onto glowing charcoal while hissing-whispering-groaning names like a maenad possessed. <- I KIND'VE SORT'VE GET SWEPT UP IN THE MOMENT. MIND ALTERING, CLASS "A" NARCOTICS HAVE A TENDENCY TO DO THAT TO YOU.)

In the forefront is Chippy's Sassanian amber bead (I HOPE I LOOK //THAT DAMN GOOD// WHEN I'M 2,409 YEARS OLD!) hanging from an unseen (and upturned) leg of our bed. (Looking a WEE BIT cleaner since I dunked it in my bucket'o'magic wash just a few minutes prior to taking the picture. <- GOOD-BYE CAKED ON VAGINAL SECRETIONS, SWEAT AND MENSTRUAL BLOOD, HELLO ANCIENT BEAD THAT PROBABLY COULD DO WITHOUT BEING INSERTED INTO A WOMAN'S CUNT WHILE SHE MASTURBATES!)

In the background, on the windowsill, I'm burning two types of incense. I started my "invocation" (LOL @ "INVOCATION" SOUNDING SO...PLAYING PRETEND, OR SOMETHING) by burning a blend I specifically created for Chippy. (I can't tell you exactly what went in it since it was created way back in 2006 using homegrown plant material (tomatoes, carrots, lavender - CHIPPY ENJOYS GARDENING, HENCE THE ADDITION OF VEGETABLES AND EDIBLE FLOWERS), blood, probably honey, urine (DEFINITELY URINE, THAT WAS THE FIRST THING I COULD SMELL WHEN THE INCENSE HIT THE CHARCOAL BLOCK) and whatever else was appropriate (and made sense) at the time.)

To partially cover the bizarre scent of charred vegetables and body fluids I burned an elemental specific (Air) incense blend from one of my favorite resin retailers, Soma Luna. (Chippy's my "air" correspondent (while Papa is my "earth" and Tentacle Monster is my "water"), although I haven't entirely decided if he fits in the "chthonic" theme that plays so heavily in my spiritual life.)

Once Chippy was formally called I slipped the bead around my neck, and with the tiny piece of antiquity pinballing itself between my tits I rolled up my sleeves and went to work.

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So what exactly gets cleaned on MAGIC CLEANING DAY? (Oh, Christ, where do I start...) Everything, down to handles, hinges and screws. My banishing/exoricising arsenal contains four basic "tools": homemade wash, Chippy's presence, salt and whatever incense feels appropriate for the cleansing.

(AND A TOOL CD FOR THE LULZ. <- "LULZ" ARE V. IMPORTANT IN MAGIC, YOU KNOW. DEEP, HEARTY "OH, WOW, A SIGNIFICANT PERCENTAGE OF YOUR WORK FOCUSES ON CHRISTIANITY BEING A "FALSE RELIGION", HOW 16TH CENTURY OF YOU" LULZ.)

I started with creating the wash and hauling the mother of a fucking bucket of lemon-scented foamy water into the barren bedroom. Once Chippy was invoked and his incense was burning I outlined the entire room with an unbreaking line of salt (on the floor) ensuring that every threshold was "sealed" (i.e., the door and the window, hence the grains of salt swept across the windowsill in the picture above).

Once boxed in there was nothing else to do other than engage in some good, old-fashioned physical labor. The ceiling was dusted several times over, and then the walls, corners, window, vent and dresser. When the surfaces were debris-free it was time to bust out a sponge and commit myself to some serious cleaning. (<- I THINK, IN TOTAL, IT TOOK ME ABOUT 6 HOURS.)

I started with the ceiling fan (the blades, the light, the body and the dangling switches), moved to the dresser (all four walls - both exterior and interior, the handles, the hinges, the doors and the top) and then focused on the bed (all four legs, entire frame, screws, headboard - you name it, I washed it, including feeding a wash soaked towel between every wooden slate of the headboard).

Phase two of washing focused on the room itself (while phase one was primarily furniture based).

Once done with the bed I moved to smaller fixtures that I might've otherwise forgotten to do (if I had left them as the last things to clean) - dresser electrical socket, light switch, vent, the wooden door frame (both inside, outside and middle (<- physically IN the threshold)), the door's hinges and handles (both inside, outside and middle), the door itself (both inside, outside and middle), robe hooks on the back of the door, the slender floorboard that the door sits on, the draw-down blind and the electrical socket on my side of the room.

(I ONLY GOT A SHOCK //ONCE//. OKAY, MAYBE //TWICE//.)

By this point my bucket'o'magic wash was demonically dirty (<- THAT'S A JOKE...MOSTLY) and needed to be refreshed, so I tossed the contents out of the house onto the patio and refueled myself (COFFEE! GRANOLA BAR!) while the second batch of wash was being created. (Normally I do everything in one go, but this time around I decided to physically wash the walls and I didn't want to scrub glaringly white walls with dingy, blackened water.)

The last and final phase of cleaning (at least for the day) meant tackling the four walls (including their floor sideboards), radiator and every part of the window (the frame, the sill, the ledge outside and the glass).

I began with the walls, dipping a tea towel into the new batch of wash, wringing it out and sliding the sopping wet cloth over the great expanse of white. From ceiling to floor - with the help of a chair - I waxed on and waxed off, starting where the last swatch of dampness ended so there weren't any broken links or dry patches.

(Even with the window open it became a sauna; the window steamed up until it was completely opaque, and the humidity became a heavy weight bearing down on my arms and shoulders as I continually slapped the wall with a new coating of magic wash. <- BY SMOKE, BY STEAM, BY SALT AND WILL. AND, ALSO, BY THIS TIME - BY RAMMSTEIN.)

By the time I finished the last wall I was absolutely gassed, but still had the radiator and window to clean. Radiator? Piece of cake. Window? A helluva lot more effort. (Just like the door //everything// gets anally cleaned. The inside, outside and middle of the wooden frame gets washed. Then the handles and hinges, the vent above, the sill below, the ledge outside and both sides (inside, outside) of the glass.)

(Despite being on a diet (I KNOW, I KNOW, BUT I //ACTUALLY LOSE WEIGHT AND KEEPING IT OFF// UNLIKE A LOT OF OTHER VOCAL DIETERS) I felt justified in enjoying a British chipper that night. (<- CHICKEN FILLET SUPPER = AMBROSIA OF THE GODS. EFF YOUR APPLES, IDUN!))

Italics, bless his I AM MARRIED TO AN INSANE FUCKING WITCH heart, took pity on me and my aching body and performed the last important song'n'dance of my cleaning ritual that night - vacuuming the floor (to pick up the dusted debris, flaking white paint and trail of salt that outlined the perimeter of our bedroom).

And that, ladies and gentlemen (and everyone in between), is how this witch "protects" one of the most important rooms in the house - the bedroom. (<- LOL @ MY "THE FUCKING END" STATEMENT, BECAUSE I HAVEN'T EVEN COVERED RITUALLY WASHING ALL OF THE FURNITURE AND ITEMS THAT COME BACK INTO THE ROOM, OR HOW I FUMIGATE IT FOR A SECOND TIME WITH INSANE AMOUNT OF INCENSE AND HERBS TO LOCK AND SEAL THE SPACE.)

Cleaning Day I

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Ritually cleaning (see CLEANING UP AFTER THE BRIDE) and decorating the bedroom has taken over my life (and - seeing as how four other rooms in the house are currently shouldering the weight of our bedroom furniture and things - house). It's been this way ever since we emptied the room in mid-to-late September.

Currently Italics and I have no where to eat, relax, or watch TV since the backroom was transformed into serious storage space (which also means no new witch projects have been started or, gah, finished) and as the Yuletide season creeps steadily closer I've begun having legit fears that this bedroom shit wasn't going to be done in time for Christmas.

With Thanksgiving bearing down on me (I know I'm not obligated to observe an American holiday in Scotland (even if I was born and raised in the States), but since we traditionally eat goose on Christmas Thanksgiving's the only time my ass gets to (justifiably) brine a mother of a turkey) and Christmas not too far away I had to do something drastic. And I did...just a day later than I originally intended.

(HOLY SHIT IT WAS SUPER NICE OUT ON WEDNESDAY! HOW COULD I NOT PLAY HOOKY AND TAKE THE CAR INTO THE COUNTRY AND EXPLORE A NEW GRAVEYARD AND KIND'VE SORT'VE BUT NOT REALLY CHEAT ON MY DIET (HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT IT WAS A FOOD TASTING DAY AT A LOCAL DELI/GOURMET GROCERY STORE? AND CAN IT REALLY BE CHEATING IF YOU SAY NO TO HOMEMADE ICE CREAM, BUT YES TO LITTLE CHUNKS OF BREAD DIPPED IN FLAVORED VINEGARS AND OILS?) BUT MORE ON THAT //LATER//. <- I HAVE PICTURES! UNFORTUNATELY, NONE SHOWCASING MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT'S WINTER ASS OF 2009 PROPPED ON AN ANCIENT HEADSTONE, BUT THERE'S STILL TIME TO SQUEEZE THAT PHOTO SHOOT IN.)

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Not yesterday, or the day before yesterday, but the yesterday of the second yesterday I stepped into the bedroom armed with two things - a flat butter knife, and a plastic skull stein. (THREE things if you count the speakers and the MP3 player. Actually, those are two separate things rather than one so, technically, I stepped into the bedroom armed with FOUR things; five if you want to be super anal and count the bottle of water.)

A Bat for Lashes album later I was standing in the middle of a barren bedroom display. Not a hint of my beloved ossuary remained (unless you take into account the millions of pin holes created by the tacks securing the plastic "scene setter" to the wall); I MISS IT ALREADY AND AM BEGINNING TO REGRET THE DECISION TO "REDECORATE".

The colors were PERFECT. The walls matched the draw-down curtain which matched the bedsheets. For several years we've been cocooned in varying shades of blue (an intensely spiritual color for me) and I've enjoyed the subconscious link to sleep, dreams, death and self. When the final plastic panel was torn from the wall I stood back, horrified, realizing that my bedroom had turned into a Tracey Emin exhibit (albeit one that carried a non-existent risk of contracting an STD).

Neither of us have seen white walls since October 2006 (when we originally hung up the wallpaper and window bats). Stumbling around in the stark emptiness of the bedroom (when not swatting away streaks of bright rainbow colored lights <- MY EYES TOTALLY, TOTALLY REFUSED TO ADJUST TO THE NEW LEVEL OF REFLECTIVE LIGHT IN THE ROOM) I looked for something familiar, but even the bed's frame and sheets were entirely different.

I can't believe there was a point, long ago, when it was white. Pure white. Always white. The white of nothing. A white I can't even remember. When I thumb through memories, skull pillars with a blue veneer are always there smiling at me, no matter how far back I go. "IT'S LIKE...IT'S LIKE A TINY, SOULLESS CHICAGO APARTMENT," I said to Italics as we shielded our eyes, standing next to each other in a room that we've loved in, fought in, fucked in and lived in but no longer recognized.

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Even before I was practicing magic I was practicing magic. When cleaning - WHEN HEAVY DUTY "WE'RE MOVING EVERY SINGLE THING OUT OF THIS ROOM AND I'M WASHING THE WALLS, THE CEILING, THE WINDOW, THE DOOR, THE SIDEBOARDS, THE CEILING FAN, VACUUMING THE CARPET UNTIL IT'S SPARKLING AND THEN WASHING EVERYTHING THAT COMES BACK IN" CLEANING - I've always created a special "wash"; it's just gotten MORE (DELIBERATELY) MAGIC as the years have gone by.

My washes are a haphazard mix of serious and whimsy, three ingredients are the key foundation (a natural cleaner, sea salt, and rosemary) and everything else added is totally spur-of-the-moment (but with personal significance and purpose). Sometimes I add extra herbs or essential oils, sometimes I dribble in a tiny amount of my own urine and sometimes I'll drop in a dried blood clot or two. (<- I pick them off my menstrual rags and dry them out before adding them to my collection; it saves you from having to nick a finger for a drop of blood.)

This year I decided to enlist the help of Papa (he's my chthonic earth and represents the hardcore "masculine" energy I work with) and Tentacle Monster (he's my chthonic water and represents my spirituality, emotions and subconscious self) by using the contents of their offering glasses from this year's Halloween altar (filled with corresponding substances - my Fet Ghede graveyard dirt* for Papa, and salt water for Tentacle Monster).

(* Don't bother googling "Fet Ghede graveyard dirt" because it doesn't exist in voodoo or hoodoo. I created an extra special batch of graveyard dirt for Papa a few years back on Fet Ghede (hence the name). In addition to graveyard dirt it also has remnants of cigars and cigarettes we've smoked together, urine and sexual fluids, ground up chilies (grown specifically for Papa), the ash and unburned remains of incense burned for him, a few drops of rum, shavings of chocolate, pan de muerto (Day of the Dead bread) crumbs and just enough perfume to give the ashy-earthy scent some fragrance.)

The creation of this year's wash began by picking a handful of rosemary from my plant outside, adding it to my orange bucket (ORANGE BUCKET = MAGIC BUCKET, I'VE PISSED, THROWN-UP, COOKED, BRINED, MADE ELDERFLOWER CHAMPAGNE, CLEANED AND CHRIST KNOWS WHAT ELSE WITH THIS BUCKET) and pouring boiling water over the stalks (to make a fresh herb infusion).

Once the hot water was scented I threw in a handful of sea salt, a few drops of lemon balm and lemon essential oil (both are good for cleaning, but they're ALSO good for lifting one's mood), a pinch of Fet Ghede graveyard dirt, half of what remained of the salt water and stirred everything with one of my wooden cooking spoons until the salt dissolved.

To aid with the non-spiritual aspect of cleaning I used Ecover's lemon scented All Purpose Cleaner. The only other thing I added (OTHER THAN HOT WATER) was Chippy's Sassanian amber bead which was briefly dipped in the hot, sudsy wash for PROTECTION'N'BANISHMENT purposes.

(Chippy's our incorporeal guard dog so I routinely include his presence when I'm chasing things out of the house. <- SOMETIMES YOU NEED MORE THAN A GROUCHY WITCH SWINGING A BROOM AROUND, SOMETIMES YOU NEED THE LORD OF THE FLIES HIMSELF TO UNDERLINE THE POINT. <- THAT'S ACTUALLY A JOKE. WHEN I LOOK AT CHIPPY I SEE "CLIFFORD THE BIG RED DOG" AND NOT THE DEMON PRINCE OF FAMINES, PLAGUES AND STRIFE.)

(NOT THAT I RECOMMEND APPROACHING HIM AS A LOVABLE AND FRIENDLY GIANT DOG; I'VE GOT FIVE (SIX?) YEARS FILLED WITH SEX, KITE FLYING, BURGER KING EATING AND BOARD GAME PLAYING ON MY SIDE. THAT, AND, //HE// WAS THE ONE PAWING AT //MY DOOR// AND NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND. AS WITH ANY STANDARD ATTEMPTS AT PICK UP THE BEST POSITION TO BE IN IS THE OBJECT OF AFFECTION/ATTENTION, MORESO WHEN THE DEMON OF DEMONS COMES A-KNOCKIN'.)

Weekends Don't Exist

The thing about working at home is that weekends don't exist. (Sort've like you; if you don't leave the house five days a week and work from nine to five then you're some sort of social anomaly, an undiscovered creature unnoticed by the business world. There are days where you feel like you've completely slipped the attention of society and people, and the world you live in is a parallel universe, invisible to everyone except you and your partner. You become a ghost standing off the shoulder of a highway exit no one every uses, watching speeding cars streak by.)

Weekends don't feel like weekends because they're another day at the office. "Work" sets its own agenda. We live around it (like everyone else), but at least we can do it at home in our pajamas. In addition to our careers Italics has several jobs (via the internet) and I execute stereotypical gender-specific domesticated behavior. (<- In other words, I'm also a housewife.)

Marriage and homemakerdom - it's a bizarre, sick game deliberately played in front of an unsuspecting audience. Sometimes it feels so crude and crass that I glance over to Italics, laughing, and ask "CAN'T THEY SEE? ISN'T IT OBVIOUS THAT THIS IS JUST A SEX GAME INVOLVING PLAYING PRETEND?". Whenever Italics refers to me as his wife I have to gnaw on the inside of a cheek just to keep a straight face; we're married, but I've always felt like a mistress (or a sex roommate).

Little things - innocent things - have a veneer that other people can't see through. I cook on a daily basis, I bake fairly regularly ("OH, YOU'RE ALWAYS IN THE KITCHEN, YOU MUST REALLY LOVE COOKING!") and while I do garner satisfaction from a beautifully created dessert, I get the most enjoyment from having Italics watch me eat a comically large portion just before he forces my face into the cake (piggy style) and fucks me from behind (doggie style).

People see "OH, HOW LOVELY! SHE'S BAKED A CAKE FOR HER HUSBAND, HOW SWEET!", not "OH, HOW LOVELY! SHE'S BAKED A CAKE FOR HER HUSBAND TO FORCE FEED HER WHILE HE'S FUCKING HER LIKE AN ANIMAL, HOW SWEET!". Keeping a straight face around others is a constant battle, but it's an amusing one and the game only gets more interesting as the years pass by.

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY. (I've wandered off the beaten track a little.)

Working at home AND taking care of the more traditionally viewed domestic side of things is tricky business - even if it's an elaborate sex game. While I could, hypothetically, bump REAL WORK aside for a day or two (not that I could ever stop THINKING about work, and thinking about work is the same thing as working, so, in reality, I AM ALMOST ALWAYS WORKING TO SOME DEGREE) it doesn't mean that clothing and dishes won't get dirty, and that rooms won't get trashed by my in-laws.

There IS no "weekend" for a housewife, every day is a day filled with cooking, cleaning and looking after people. In fact, I find the traditional Friday, Saturday and Sunday weekend MORE STRESSFUL because EVERYONE IS AT HOME MAKING A FUCKING MESS I NEED TO CLEAN UP. I don't get to breathe a sigh of relief until early Monday morning, when people return back to their nine to five jobs, leaving me to pick up the pieces of a broken house.

(Friday night is the first night I dread; if there was a problem during the week I can almost count on it bringing brought up by a semi-drunk father-in-law just one wall away. (Unless he's being V. LOUD you can't make out what he's saying, although you CAN make out that he's agitated about something, and that something is probably me.) Friday evenings, for reasons above, are no longer the celebratory evenings of my youth.)

(Saturday either involves hiding in the computer room/office all day since the house is full, or waking up several times during my sleep schedule thanks to Mr. Awesome shouting, stomping or slamming things shut. Sometimes, due to sheer weekend retardedness, he'll kill something, break something, ruin something or throw out something of mine which then requires my mother-in-law to intervene. If that happens you can definitely count on hearing him bitch later in the day, completely oblivious we're on the other side of the drywall.)

(Sunday I'm in a state of despair at the condition of the house. If something happened the night before the house will be tense, uncomfortable and even my in-laws will (typically) avoid us. Sunday is the day that I tell myself "JUST ONE MORE DAY" and get the paper which I WON'T READ because the in-laws usually jump on it first. Even a year or two after walking away from university I hated Sundays for their inevitable Mondays ("NOOOO! I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL TOMORROW!"), but now? I hold my breath for Mondays.)

Daily routines are a double edged sword, they keep me focused and sane, but they make every day of the week identical to the last. Every day I wake up, have a piss, turn on the kettle to boil water, say hello to the rats, turn on the computer, make my tea, let the rats out, write an entry, make breakfast, share breakfast with the rats and do a few internet things. By the time I'm peeking at social network sites and browsing Ebay (or Etsy) Italics is up, and the next phase (II: STRAPPING ON THE APRON) of my day begins.

Despite the photocopied nature of my life I find that having a daily routine calming, it's predictable and it acts as a driving force that keeps me active. (<- I'M RETARDED, I LIKE FAMILIAR THINGS. THEY DON'T SPOOK OR UPSET ME. I KNOW WHAT TO EXPECT AND IT HELPS CENTER ME.) Taking a few days off my everyday life can be catastrophic; I lose my footing. (Fuck, just doing things out of order or adding an unfamiliar element or activity is enough to disrupt my bowel movements. Seriously. <- Even THAT falls into my daily schedule - between letting the rats out and writing an entry, like involuntary clockwork.)

Weekends, for me, are a dangerous, slippery slope. One day of taking it easy eventually justifies another day of taking it easy ("IF OTHER PEOPLE ARE ALLOWED TWO DAYS A WEEK, SO AM I, DAMMIT"). After the second day of ignoring the internet, getting high first thing, eating French toast for breakfast while I read the papers and Italics plays Grand Theft Auto I desperately want to configure my life so that lazy, easy going morning is EVERY DAY instead of ALMOST NEVER DAY.

(You would NOT believe the excruciating amount of effort needed to even write this entry after several days of ignoring my journal/diary. The very act of writing and publishing this entry feels like offering a sacrificial lamb. <- "IT DOESN'T MATTER IF IT'S GOOD OR FUNNY OR NOTEWORTHY, JUST FUCKING //WRITE SOMETHING// TO RECREATE THE DAILY ROUTINE YOU'VE NEGLECTED.")

In abrupt conclusion: weekends are AWESOME, but perhaps too awesome to observe on a weekly - or even monthly - basis.

Cleaning Under a Witch's Bed

Late September we hauled everything out of our bedroom in anticipation of THE GREAT BEDROOM CLEANING OF 2009. (<- SEE CLEANING UP AFTER THE BRIDE.) And thanks to committing ourselves to one too many things we still haven't managed to clean anything, so we've been living in a hollowed out room for over a month now.

Due to living with a nosy father-in-law who flat out doesn't give a shit about other people's personal property (or their feelings) I have to keep the majority of my witchcraft projects hidden in the bedroom. (Mr. Awesome? Loves to throw things out and "fix" things. Unfortunately, they're usually OTHER people's things, and he never asks if it's cool beforehand so you don't know that something's gone or ruined until you notice that it's gone (or ruined) and by that time it's way, way too late to save it.)

Our bedroom? The third smallest room in the house, not counting the hall closet. We have enough space to fit two small nightstands, a double bed and one tiny wardrobe. Things WERE kept in the wardrobe until we began our homegrown operation, but once the lights, fan and seedlings moved in everything had to move out. And when that happened there was only one place for refugee witch items to go - under the bed.

I have wet dreams about those flat, elongated storage boxes with wheels. They're my fantasy storage solution; frictionless movement, clean, sterile compartments and a tetris-like ability for stacking on top of one another. In reality, though, I have the gutted frame of the futon that we once slept on (see link above). Dragging the fucking thing out from under the bed - with the insane amount of shit packed away within - is a Herculean task and something I completely avoid unless absolutely necessary.

Unloading it requires an entire room due to my autistic talent at packing. (<- I SWEAR TO GOD I MUST BE THE ONLY EMPLOYEE IN THE HISTORY OF WAL-MART WHO BECAME FAMOUS FOR HER GROCERY PACKING. PEOPLE ACTUALLY TOLD //OTHER PEOPLE// ABOUT ME AND THEY WOULD ALL MAKE A PILGRIMAGE TO MY CASH REGISTER, OFFERING PRAYERS AND SUPPLICATIONS OF APPEASEMENT ("HONEY, YOU'RE JUST ABOUT THE BEST BAG PACKER THIS WORLD'S EVER SEEN!") AS I CREATED AN INVINCIBLE PLASTIC GROCERY BAG BY USING TWO CEREAL BOXES FOR MY NON-PERISHABLE FOOD MASONRY STRUCTURE.)

A tiny path cuts through the stacks of boxes, books and jars from the backroom's door to the opposite side of the room, the patio door. On either side hidden curses, brittle bones and empty bottles of booze sit silently, collecting dust, waiting to be reunited with the calm darkness beneath our double bed. We have the new wallpaper (AN ABANDONED GRAVEYARD BACKING INTO A HAUNTED FOREST), now we just need to be up at the right time to strip the old wallpaper down, thoroughly wash the walls, room and furniture, hoist up the new wallpaper and put the jigsaw puzzle of our bedroom back together.

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So sometime last year (or the year before?) I glanced away from my computer monitor and went "BABY, DO YOU WANT AN ANTIQUE CEREMONIAL INDIAN SWORD?" to Italics. Normally I don't bother asking - especially if I'm considering getting the item in question as a gift - but "swords" and "daggers" hang on a very precarious line of AWESOME and HOLY SHIT, LAME.

(Antique knives - especially ones specifically created for butchering - garner an automatic "YES, PLZ!" from me (don't EVEN get me started if the handle's made of bone, horn or antler), but due to overexposure to horrifically shit fantasy swords, daggers and axes my inclination to collect anything longer than a plain knife (or a pair of scissors) is practically non-existent.)

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It was listed with its original scabboard, came with a price tag of £10.00 (I think?) and had two beautifully engraved Islamic-like floral patterns stretching across the length of the blade. I saw it and thought "IT'S A SWORD, WHICH IS KIND'VE GAY AND LAME, BUT IT'S A CEREMONIAL SWORD AND IT COMES WITH A SHEATH AND THE ENGRAVED DESIGNS ARE KIND'VE SORT'VE NICE AND IT'S NOT LIKE THERE ARE MALFORMED HUMAN SKULLS OR A HOWLING WOLF STUCK TO THE HANDLE..." but I couldn't reach a final decision, so I asked Italics what he thought.

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Finding it perfectly acceptable - which was my original hunch - we snagged it for its opening bid. (<- MUST'VE NOT BEEN FANTASY/GOTH ENOUGH FOR OTHER SWORD COLLECTORS. "WHAT, NO SCREAMING DEMON SKULL? NO THANKS.")

To the left of the sword and gutted futon are my retired Black Goddess heels. They were my very first stilettos - black satin with golden Asian dragons - bought at a vintage shop for $15.00 when I was a pre-med student at the University of Arkansas.

One of the straps snapped during a particularly debauched New Year's Eve celebration (which was TOTALLY unplanned; who seriously eats a 4-5 course Chinese meal and then pops a bunch of ecstasy immediately after and listens to Sigue Sigue Sputnik while partying their way into the new year? US, NATURALLY) rendering them completely useless, but the witch in me insists that they're still useful for SOMETHING so they've been living under the bed since.

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I have a retarded thing for boxes. Little boxes that preferably fit into larger boxes; a weird sort of forgotten drawer archeology. When I clean I usually rediscover one or two, and opening them up is like stumbling across an entirely new world perfectly contained in a tiny space no larger than three or four inches.

The contents always look magic; an unspoken spell, a quiet blessing. It's okay to paw through the collection of seemingly random objects, to turn them in your hands and remember their origins, but it seems almost...sacrilegious...to remove something. Even though I don't entirely see it, everything is there for a reason - it makes sense to the Universe - and by fucking with it I ultimately fuck with something in perfect harmony and balance.

(This Ace of Spades box contains pink ribbon from an antique table linen purchase (for altar use), an Ebay business card which has a part of my infected tonsil I coughed up (taped to the card; a gift for Italics - "I FOUGHT THIS WAR, YOU DON'T HAVE TO") after coming home from the hospital, a handmade cloth bone from a friend, a piece of sea glass, a toy truck that came out of a Christmas cracker, a ceramic chili charm bought for Papa {Ghede}, some UK change, a snail shell, a hoop earring found when walking in town (there was a period, a few years back, where I ran into "broken circles" daily), a bee charm sitting onto of a Pazuzu pendant (bought from the seller whose business card now contains a portion of my tonsil), an Asian dragon from a friend, a sea shell from the North Sea, a communist propaganda looking button and a set of plastic tires from a non-existent toy.)

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OH, GOD, IF I ONLY LABELED EVERYTHING THE SECOND IT CAME INTO THIS GODDAMN HOUSE. I think - THINK! - the pair of dirty ass rocks forced into the first glass jar on the left might be from the "grave" outside. (Last year around this time they dug up the road - smack dab in the middle of the crossroads we're perched on - and just before they sealed up the hole I threw in a homemade witch bottle, but also stole some earth and rocks for future witchcraft.)

I'm not really a rocks'n'feathers sort've witch, but both still manage to find their way into this house. Behind the pair of crossroads rocks are a collection of feathers (crows, rooks, magpies, wood pigeon) found when walking to and from the cemetery, and behind the feathers are my collection of OUTSIDE BONES.

("Outside bones" = the weathered, whitened remains of offerings I made from the previous year. Throughout the year 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.)

Behind my OUTSIDE BONES (I DON'T KNOW WHY IT REQUIRES CAPS, BUT IT DOES) is Bee's jar of honey. (We associate Bee, our pet ray who passed away last year, with bumblebees and honeybees so more than ever there's a loving focus on the local nectar gatherers. Last year we became members of the Bumblebee Conservation Trust and spent the warmer months learning and identifying visiting bumblebees, and researching what plants, flowers and trees we should be growing to encourage Bee to come back home.)

That bone sitting by itself? I can't remember what it is, specifically, but I know it's a half-completed gift for a friend. (It was one of Chippy's bones which he decided to give away. <- DEMONS ALSO GET A WARM FUZZY GLOW OF HAPPINESS BY SHARING.) I bought the sunflower egg cup for myself since it looked like the PERFECT vessel to soak seeds in (I submerge my seeds in water and then cover them with something larger so they sit in darkness for a day or two; it results in a better germination rate) and I'm drawing a COMPLETE blank where the two rocks behind the egg cup came from, or what the fuck I was planning to do with them.

(WHICH IS EXACTLY WHY I NEED TO //LABEL EVERY-FUCKING-THING THAT COMES INTO THIS GODDAMN HOUSE//.)

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Holy shit, where do I START? In the mess of bottles, jars, containers, tins, mugs and tupperware are:

Graveyard dirt from a grave in the St. Nicholas Kirkyard (ALEX FULLERTON, DRUGGIST), a jar of preserved baby octopuses given to Tentacle Monster as a Christmas gift (I haven't exactly figured out what to do with these yet), a ceramic jar filled with a shea salve, a coffee mug which I still need to fill and bury at Papa's grave in the local cemetery (when pinching some dirt off his grave I unearthed an old flower container which I took with the promise of reburying something in return), what's left of this year's bridal honey (made during Spring / Great Rite / Sacred Marriage / Easter / Hieros Gamos celebrations), dog beer (an offering for Chippy), an empty metal canister for paska/babka baking (paska/babka are traditionally more pannetone-like; more tall than round, and to get that shape you need to bake them in cylinder containers - OH, WAIT, I HAVE A PICTURE (I FORGOT!)), an empty Grand Marnier bottle (kept so I can make a proper witch bottle), an unopened jar of "BONE SUCKIN' BBQ SAUCE" bought for Papa, a bottle of hot sauce given to me by a friend, an empty rum bottle I'm supposed to fill with graveyard dirt and keep under the bed (I DON'T BOTHER ASKING; I JUST DO WHAT I'M TOLD), a coffee jar filled with medicinal bath salts I'm curing for Italics (clove and mint oils with olive oil and rose petals), an empty Amaretto bottle which I've since decanted the curing bath salts into (in preparation of giving as a Christmas gift), a bottle of plant fertilizer, a treasured jar of the sweetest, most syrup-y balsamic vinegar, ever, sent by a friend who lives in Italy, Papa's bottle of Hennessy (PAPA GETS RUM //AND// HENNESSY!) and a sealed container of some homemade incense specifically made for Papa (oh, God, don't ask because I SERIOUSLY can't remember what I put in it other than dried chilies, graveyard dirt, rum, a drop of urine, sexual fluids, coffee and whatever else seemed like a good idea at the time).

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A pair of feet from a male blackbird, and the remains of a crow.

I remember finding both; the blackbird was lying flattened in the middle of the road on the way to the cemetery (I clipped the feet off and carefully placed the malformed body in the ivy hedge (my Native American grandfather's a holy man, and he taught us to leave dead birds in trees and bushes)), and the crow had already begun decomposing in a cow field we were cutting through.

Since it was too far gone to carry to the cemetery and back home I left it hidden beneath a discarded ottoman in the ruined church adjacent to the pasture we were cutting through. (The property which owns the church - an old manor, complete with an abandoned walled garden - is currently being used as a nursing home, and, for whatever reason, they dump old furniture and garbage in what used to be a small chapel.)

A year later my crow was reduced to a pile of bones, and year after THAT someone finally made the effort to clean up the church and the area surrounding it. So now I have two jars filled with one crow - including a perfectly immaculate skull - and a clean ruined church to have outside sex in.

(YAY FOR NO LONGER RUNNING THE RISK OF CONTRACTING TETANUS FROM RUSTY ASS WHEELCHAIRS, BOO FOR GETTING A URINARY TRACT INFECTION AFTER HAVING SEX ON A SKANKY MATTRESS RIGHT NEXT TO THE CHURCH. <- OKAY, OKAY IT WASN'T THE MATTRESS; IT WAS HAVING THE START OF A UTI BUT, DESPITE IT, HAVING SEX ANYWAY, AND THEN NOT MOPPING UP THE JIZZ IMMEDIATELY AFTER.)

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Way in the back (to the left) are Papa's bottles of "Bone Suckin' BBQ Sauce" and hot sauce. To the right - in the three jam jars - are the remains of a black bird (feet) and crow (the skull was so large it needed a jar for itself). In the "DO NOT EAT, DO NOT SMOKE, POISON" container is shredded datura, sent to me by a friend in Finland.

There's an empty bottle of Strega behind the datura (ritually consumed during that debauched New Year's Eve party where my Black Goddess stilettos broke), and an empty bottle of Hennessy. (I CAN'T GET RID OF TINY LIQUOR BOTTLES, THEY'RE LIKE A MAGIC PROJECT JUST WAITING TO HAPPEN. IT'S SO EASY TO PICTURE THEM FILLED WITH SOMETHING - DIRT, INCENSE, HERBAL SALT - AND DECORATED WITH CHARMS AND PIECES OF BONE.)

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Antique "witch" hairpins won on Ebay. I don't know anything about the magical workings of hairpins, but my gut feeling is any mundane object you can twist, bend, break or distort is good for SOMETHING (whether hexing, healing, bonding or separating) - especially if it has WITCH stamped across it. I used a few of the pins when I created an impromptu witch bottle last year to throw into the "grave" created when workers dug up the crossroads in front of the house to fix a broken water pipe.

Monday Morning's Frost

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Is that upturned black plastic bucket familiar? IT SHOULD BE. No matter how hard I tried to dispose of the eight headless, footless and skinless rabbits I found myself back to square one. (WITH SQUARE ONE BEING "A BUCKET OF PUTRID, DECAYING CARCASSES SWIMMING IN THEIR OWN OUTRAGEOUSLY RANK DECOMPOSITION JUICES".)

First the weather wasn't right. For an entire week. (No, really!) So the rabbits festered in their plastic grave, sitting, breaking down, occasionally getting chewed on by neighbor cats. (CATS! THIS HOUSE IS NOT THE FOLLOWING: YOUR BATHROOM, YOUR HUNTING GROUND AND YOUR PERSONAL ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT WILDLIFE BUFFET.) The stench was incredible.

After an entire week of non-stop rain I threw my hands up into the air and admitted defeat. "FINE! FINE! WE'LL GO OUT IN THE COLD AND RAIN AND GET WET. FINE! YOU'VE WON, NATURE, YOU'VE WON. CONGRATULATIONS." In the unforgiving Scottish rain - just before eight in the evening - I hoisted a container filled with the liquefied remains of eight dead rabbits in the trunk of the car, carefully wedging it between several buckets containing rocks.

It was freezing. (I was wet.) It was pitch black. (I was wet.) The car absolutely fucking //REEKED// and I wondered how far I could drive while holding my breath for as long as humanly possible. (Did I already mention that I was wet?) Italics, just as unenthusiastic about the situation, crawled into the car. (He was wet, too.) "OKAY, FINE, LET'S GET THIS OVER WITH," I grumbled. The car - which sat in the cold, rain and damp, unstarted, unused and unloved for a week - refused to turn its engine.

Sitting in the dark soaking wet, miserable, cold and TRYING NOT TO BREATHE, NOT EVEN A LITTLE my less than spectacular mood flat-lined. "YOU'RE JOKING, RIGHT?" I asked the car, the world, the Universe. It wasn't joking (which was good because I TOTALLY wasn't in the mood). After 10 minutes of grinding the engine I called it quits and hauled the effing bucket of dissolving rabbits back OUT from the trunk, back INTO the rain and returned it to the outside "greenhouse" (bonsai house).

By the time the weather evened out and stopped giving my temperamental car excuses for not starting the eight headless, footless and skinless bodies had reduced to a toxic soup with a mouthwatering aroma of raw, rotting sewage. When I yanked on the rickety metal handle the contents of the bucket swished, slooshed and splashed - way too much action for hauling, hoisting and transporting.

"FINE, YOU DON'T WANT TO LEAVE THE HOUSE? FINE. I TRIED TO BE NICE, I TRIED TO SHARE IN THE SPOILS, BUT, CLEARLY, YOU HAVE NO DESIRE TO LEAVE THIS PROPERTY."

And with that I quickly flipped the bucket'o'rabbits upside down, trapping the broken bodies between the earth and the container. The blood and fetid body juices ran off the animals and were drawn into the ground at the exact spot where Italics and I, earlier in the year, had outside summer sex. To ensure none of the opportunistic neighborhood cats could get to the jumble of carcasses I chucked a heavy brick onto the upturned bottom which should keep them deterred until Spring. (<- When I plan to go back for the bones.)

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Bright, November morning sunshine filtering through the bare butterfly and lilac bushes.

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The water's begun freezing in Mr. Awesome's abandoned (TWENTY YEARS AND COUNTING!) "pond" project.

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The Shango Tree altar remains yet unscathed, but its only a matter of time before our visiting badger returns and leaves another horrific scene of senseless gardening violence and altar desecration.

Full Moon of the Dead

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A full moon rising over my El Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) kitchen altar.

Fet Ghede, 2008

My problem's always been with moderation (and not even in (anti)socially accepted "cool" ways). Drugs and alcohol aren't my weakness; going OVERBOARD by expending more energy and effort than necessary is. "Simple", "easy" and "quick" aren't in the forefront of my vocabulary until I'm stressed out, strung out and on the verge of an autistic breakdown. (<- USUALLY INVOLVES FRUSTRATED TEARS, NOT UNLIKE THE TERRIBLE TWOS.)

When two sabbats and/or holidays back into one another I know - despite planning for BOTH - that it's only a matter of time before one leaves the Thunderdome victorious. (TWO SABBATS ENTER, ONE SABBAT LEAVES.) In other words, out of the two religious dates I plan to simultaneously observe, one will eventually garner major emphasis and the other becomes discreetly assimilated into the first (although it's still reflected in ritual and celebration to some degree).

Halloween and Fet Ghede are perfect examples of two major festivals riding each others nuts. Both are crazy important for me (with Halloween welcoming back the Divine Female/Black Goddess, and Fet Ghede welcoming home the (now dead) Divine Male/Papa), but both require exceptional amounts of effort and due to THAT fact I've never managed to celebrate both to my idealized standards.

Samhain requires nearly a month of planning. The Halloween boxes need to be unearthed, and the various altars created. Pumpkins need to be purchased and carved. Music playlists need to be created, ceremonial outfits need to be planned and all of the intoxicants and entheogens need to be sorted. The entire house has to be cleaned (including the bedroom; washing away the Bride to welcome the Whore), certain rituals need to be performed (the changing of the guard, our biannual haircuts) and a magic supper (usually homemade soup and bread) needs to be made.

On the day itself I need to prepare myself, the house, the ritual room and Italics. I brush, floss and choke on mouthwash until my teeth gleam. In a steam bath I massage extra virgin olive oil into my skin and shave my legs, underarms and bikini area. I rub myself down with a homemade sugar and honey scrub to a ridiculous degree (behind ears, the soles of my feet and between my fingers and toes) before turning on the shower to thoroughly wash myself and my hair.

Eyebrows get plucked, my hair gets dried (and set in curlers) and I then spend over an hour in the bathroom - with a glass carving board sitting on top of the sink to create a square ledge for my brushes and jars - applying make-up. Later on in the day/night - just before taking our first MDMA pill (<- A PURER FORM OF ECSTASY) - I'll get dressed in my ritual outfit, take the curlers out and style my hair.

That? That's just me getting ready; one thing out of thousands that need to be accomplished that day. (I'll spare you from what I do to the house, the room and to Italics before the ceremony begins.) Preparing for the Samhain/Halloween ritual requires a tremendous amount of planning, effort and energy - all of which doesn't even take into account the tremendous amounts of effort and energy needed to actually PERFORM the ritual (or put yourself in the right frame of mind to undertake such a serious role).

The problem with celebrating Halloween the way we want to - taking copious amounts of drugs (<- MDMA, POT, MUSHROOMS, POT, ALCOHOL, POT, NITROUS AND, YOU GUESSED IT, EVEN MORE POT) and having ecstatic, debauched sex all night into early morning (<- WE'VE EASILY GONE FOR NINE HOURS) - leaves us pretty wrung out for Fet Ghede.

When you spend the entire night of the 31st pissing in ritual bowls, sexually taunting and teasing your familiars and helpers, having anal, oral and vaginal sex, anointing each other in oils (and alcohol) and assuming the role of the Black Goddess you're going to wake up to three things the morning after:

1.) A stiff jaw which refuses to open for anything wider than a straw.
2.) A happy, but thoroughly exhausted body.
3.) The unholy mess you managed to create the night before.

November 1st, then, is spent laughing about the night before while cleaning the mess up, occasionally complaining about any stiffness and/or soreness experienced. Not much gets done due to the innate need to "keep it easy" so the house gets straightened up and the rest of the waking day/night is spent having more sex or relaxing in front of the TV.

Rather than being better, November 2nd (Fet Ghede) is actually worse - the happy MDMA buzz that was still influencing you on November 1st has finally worn off and you're suddenly aware of how physically (and mentally) exhausted you are. Thanks to the serotonin floodgates of Halloween you suddenly find yourself with a serotonin deficit leaving you irritable, cranky, moody and unmotivated (<- DEPENDING ON HOW MUCH MDMA YOU TOOK) - not exactly an awesome frame of mind to be in while attempting to celebrate the resurrected spirit of the Divine Male. (OR, LOL, RATHER FITTING IF YOU'RE A WOMAN CELEBRATING THE DIVINE MALE. <- HA HA!)

The problem with Samhain is that it requires all of your physical, emotional, mental and spiritual attention. Fet Ghede - at least for me - demands physical and mental exertion more than anything else. (The festival is the first meal of thanksgiving we have during the Dark year, it's the WELCOME HOME, PAPA! feast. I set up an altar for him and create - from scratch - a three course "southern" dinner and we get terrifically stoned (and drunk) while eating and watching God-fucking-awful movies that only Papa could like (i.e., White Chicks).)

If you've never created a multiple course meal solely by yourself for a crowd of folk let me assure you - without my typical Aries exaggeration - IT'S A LOT OF HARD FUCKING WORK. Between planning the meal, shopping for it, creating it and executing everything perfectly so there's no scorched food or delays between courses requires a stupid amount of concentration, motivation and good mood - three things I typically DON'T have two days after a heavy night of exalting the Black Goddess.

Last year we were struck down by a debilitating case of influenza mid-October. Thanks to our ability to only celebrate Halloween/Samhain during a very specific time frame (<- WHEN THE IN-LAWS GO ON VACATION FOR TWO WEEKS LEAVING US ALONE IN THE HOUSE) we never managed to haul out the boxes to create our seasonal altars. For the first time since we began exercising our own unique brand of spirituality and beliefs, the Black Goddess wasn't welcomed home and I was devastated.

(OH, THERE WERE LOTS AND LOTS OF TEARS, LOTS OF FLU-TINGED TANTRUMS AND UNEARTHLY HOWLS OF INCONSOLABLE DESPAIR...OR SOMETHING.)

The ONLY positive from all of that negative? Fet Ghede finally had its (his?) day out of Halloween's shadow. Despite the presence of the in-laws (I normally don't leave any sort of altar when my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, is home since the last time I left an altar out he threw garbage onto one of my offering plates) I brazenly created a quick'n'simple altar in the communal lounge for Papa due to the special circumstances (2008 election year, Papa had some V. SRS investment) and it sat - for all the members in the house to see - from Halloween to November 5th (the day after the election).

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2008's Fet Ghede altar was EXCEPTIONALLY low-key for me. (THIS IS ABOUT AS BASIC AS IT GETS, FOLKS.)

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Papa's altar (and doll) was in perfect position to "watch" TV during election night as we ate our celebratory Fet Ghede feast.

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Despite the lack of complexity I'm sure the Fet Ghede altar spread was more than enough voodoo for my in-laws.

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Some of Papa's favorite things sitting on top of my ballot envelope. (<- I TRADED MY VOTE FOR A PROVERBIAL "GET OUT OF JAIL FOR FREE" CARD. PAPA GOT TO VOTE, I GOT A GOLDEN TICKET.)

On Fet Ghede we bake Pan de Muerto for our ancestors and loved ones recently departed. Unlike the previous year (2006), our skull sculpting wasn't up to scratch (I'M BLAMING THE FLU) so you'll have to excuse our embarrassing foray into bread shaping (something we're usually A LOT better at).

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Last year we lost our Busy Bee (one of our pet rats). It was particularly hard to lose Bee since it was immediately after Hezbollah's death. (Bee always acted strangely - "OH, BEE'S JUST BEING BEE!" - but she began exhibiting even stranger behavior after her roommate, Crazy Rat (aka Hezbollah), passed away. It turned out that our Bee had "a brain thing" (tumor) and quickly succumbed to the disease within weeks of Hezbollah passing.)

Bee's FOR REAL name was Sloop John B (Hezbollah was Rhonda and Jigga was Barbara Ann). Due to being introduced into the family in the later stages of Hezbollah and Jigga's life she often got referred to as "the Baby", which eventually shortened to "Bee".

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Hezbollah got sick out of nowhere (which is typical of rats due to their high metabolism rate). Despite knowing it was her time to go I flexed my magic muscles and attempted my first ever stab at healing. Despite all odds, she lived, but only just. After several weeks of unexpected ups and gut wrenching downs we finally lost her, and I'm 100% sure the only reason why she lasted as long as she did was because of our little magic sessions.

Crazy Rat's favorite movie was Hitman (IT'S A HUGE LONG STORY THAT, ONE DAY, I MAY TELL), so it was only fitting that her individual pan de muerto reflected her taste in cinema.

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I remember being EXCEPTIONALLY frustrated with the ancestral loaf of pan de muerto because, going into the oven, it was PERFECTLY skull shaped. Unfortunately, it entered looking one way, but left looking entirely different. The cloves originally gave it a cutesy jack-o-lantern appearance, but once baked the clove studs lost their Halloween charm. (SIGH.) It tasted fantastic, though - I added a little bit of rum to the orange-sugar glaze before brushing it over the bread, and added just a wee taste of the marmalade glaze made for the ham.

Last year we feasted like we had never feasted before. Dinner was a three course meal spread throughout election night. (Instead of celebrating on the 2nd we postponed the festival until the 4th.) We started with a traditional southern soup - Brunswick stew - and carried on to an eight dish dinner (marmalade glazed ham, roast potatoes, roast squash, crabcakes, hoppin' John, pan de muerto, buttermilk rolls and homemade lemon butter dip (for the crabcakes)) and finished with a homemade pumpkin pie.

Despite wanting to celebrate Thanksgiving (in 2008) I never got a chance to, so Fet Ghede stepped in - unbeknownst to me at the time - and provided us with our thanksgiving meal, albeit earlier in the month than I'm accustomed to. (<- TRADITIONALLY, IN THE USA, THANKSGIVING IS CELEBRATED THE LAST THURSDAY IN NOVEMBER. AND TYPICALLY IT'S TURKEY, NOT HAM, HEH.)

I won't even want go into detail how much food I managed to pack away that night because it just might make me sick to even consider. (NORMALLY I CAN EASILY EAT FOR TWO, BUT, THAT NIGHT, I WAS EATING FOR PAPA, CHIPPY AND ALL OF OUR ANCESTORS.)

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The marmalade glazed ham in all of its glory.

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The marmalade glazed ham in all of its glory.

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Left to right: roasted acorn squash, carved ham and homemade crabcakes.

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Homemade crabcakes.

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More marmalade ham and crabcakes.

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Roasted squash and ham. (<- THE DAMN SPICES - CINNAMON AND NUTMEG - GOT EFFING SCORCHED IN THE OVEN, BUT THE SQUASH DIDN'T TASTE BURNED, THANKFULLY.)

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Hoppin' John. (A traditional beans and rice dish.)

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Roasted potatoes and roasted squash (again).

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Our place settings with the pan de muerto to the left, the homemade buttermilk rolls to the right and the lemon butter dip (for the crabcakes) in the center.

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Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

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Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

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Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

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Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

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Papa's place setting for the Fet Ghede feast (it was right next to his altar space).

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Papa's place setting for the Fet Ghede feast (it was right next to his altar space).

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Papa's place setting for the Fet Ghede feast (it was right next to his altar space).

This year we DID manage to celebrate the return of the Black Goddess Ms. Graveyard Dirt style (with a LITTLE less intoxicants than usual since it's been A VERY LONG TIME (<- NEARLY TWO YEARS!) since we "partied" due to my broken stomach valve) which left us out of commission for Fet Ghede.

Although considering last year's effort - flu and all - I'm sure Papa doesn't mind TOO much for this year's laidback atmosphere. (<- ESPECIALLY SINCE I PROMISED EVERYONE THAT I'D DO THANKSGIVING THIS YEAR //FOR SURE//. <- I AM TOTALLY, TOTALLY READY FOR SWEET POTATO CHEESECAKE WITH A MAPLE PECAN GLAZE.)

Happy Halloween

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Dearest Witches and Imps,

Rock that thinning veil, baby.

Happy Halloween,
Ms. Graveyard Dirt, XOXO

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Black Rabbit Altar

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When we celebrate the Dark year we welcome back the return of the Black Goddess. To me the Black Goddess is a very specific archetype - a concept found universally - more of an idea, an understanding than actual person-woman-deity locked inside an accepted image. She's THE SOURCE, She's THE IDEA, She's OUR UNDERSTANDING OF HER, She's WHAT WE WITCHES ASPIRE TO BE.

The Black Rabbit is both the living incarnation of the Black Goddess and Her representative. And unlike the Black Goddess the Black Rabbit has a first name (fuck, She even has an ethnicity and an entire biography). She's mortal. She's modern. She's Divine made flesh, and in being born again She suffers like us, She feels like us - She understands what it's like to be human because She is.

In very personal terms the Black Rabbit is my subconscious. When I went Underground for the first time and followed Her around like an awe-struck puppy (THERE WAS NO WAY TO HIDE HOW OVERWHELMED I WAS; I WAS FIVE ALL OVER AGAIN, BREATHLESS AND MARVELING OVER AN OLDER, LIVING WOMAN-GODDESS WHO EPITOMIZED EVERYTHING AWESOME AND COOL IN THE UNIVERSE, EVER) I had an anvil dropped on me when She let me in on a secret - She was me.

(OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.)

The Black Rabbit is the very best of me; She's ALL of me - my conscious and subconscious balanced - Baphomet, the sacred goat (or, uh, "rabbit" in this case). The exercise in this lifetime? To be as much of Her as I can be before death. Going Underground the Universe showed me a picture of myself - a future template - and said "THIS. YOU NEED TO BECOME //THIS//. THIS IS YOUR JOB. NOW, GO TO WORK." before letting me loose on the world, aware and knowing, but splintered and fragmented.

All of this sounds magnificently crazy, I know. (BLACK GODDESS? WHAT? BLACK RABBIT? WHAT? SUBCONSCIOUS? WHAT? MESSIAH COMPLEX? WHAT?) But when you break it down and translate it non-magic terms it's a lot less mystical and more psychological - the brain controls every function of our biological lives, and despite being the most important organ it's the one as we, human beings, aren't using to full capability. I simply created a bridge - an anchor, a link - from my conscious self to my subconscious self, and rather than outsourcing the job (to gods, goddesses, demons, etc.) I went inwards and created my own guide - me.

((IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE? THAT'S OKAY, IT'S A ROUGH DRAFT. HALF THE TIME I MANAGE TO CONFUSE MYSELF AND NEED TO WALK AWAY FROM THE TANGLE OF STRING BEFORE I BLOW A GASKET. IT'S HARD TO TRANSLATE (AND CONDENSE) EMOTIONS AND AN INNATE UNDERSTANDING OF YOUR BEING INTO A PERFECTLY COHERENT EXPLANATION FOR OTHERS. IN FACT THIS ENTIRE GRAVEYARD DIRT THING - PRACTICING, LIVING, WRITING, RECORDING - IS ALL BEING EXECUTED FOR A SINGLE REASON - TO ONE DAY EXPLAIN IT AS SUCCINCTLY AS POSSIBLE WITHOUT LOOKING LIKE A COMPLETE CRACKWHORE.))

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The communal lounge is symmetrically structured, which makes my autism BIG HEAP HAPPY. (THERE MUST ALWAYS BE MIRRORED BALANCE; ALWAYS.) Even though you can't see it in this image, there are four five wooden units against the wall. In both corners are a two cabinet blocks, and in the center there's a "floating" table (where the main altar sits).

Because the two speaker units closest to the centered table are identical I often use them as altar bookends. For Easter (The Great Rite / The Sacred Marriage / Hieros Gamos) and Halloween I create identical miniature altars for the Black Rabbit, and during the Yuletide season I fill in the spaces with a festive evergreen display (cedar, ivy and yew).

After creating this Halloween's altar(s) I turned to Italics and asked "YOU DON'T THINK I'M //OVER// BONING THE ALTAR, DO YOU?"; he refrained from comment, but snorted/laughed. (<- IT TOOK ME A SECOND, BUT IT GOT IT...EVENTUALLY.)

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This particular altar? Almost entirely courtesy of ASDA (the UK's Wal-Mart). We bought five teal rabbits from their gardening aisle years ago and spray painted them black for ritual/altar use. The fake bones, skeletal candle holder and skull candles were all scavenged from the Halloween aisle. (WHILE I DO LOVE ANTIQUES AND PRICEY SHIT SOMETIMES YOU JUST HAVE TO MAKE DO WITH WHAT YOU HAVE AND/OR CAN AFFORD. But that's the entire point of witchcraft, right?)

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The skull figure is the only altar decoration NOT bought at ASDA, but was still bought at a discount store. (<- A LOLTASTIC HEADSHOP WHERE WE ALSO BOUGHT OUR RITUAL BLACK GODDESS BONG.) I have two skull figures like this, one's a skull/iron cross/naked woman which is situated on Papa's side of the room (left), and the other is the skull/iron cross/snake/tentacle figure above which is situated on Tentacle Monster's side of the room (right).

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This particular altar? Almost entirely courtesy of ASDA (the UK's Wal-Mart). We bought five teal rabbits from their gardening aisle years ago and spray painted them black for ritual/altar use. The fake bones, skeletal candle holder and skull candles were all scavenged from the Halloween aisle. (WHILE I DO LOVE ANTIQUES AND PRICEY SHIT SOMETIMES YOU JUST HAVE TO MAKE DO WITH WHAT YOU HAVE AND/OR CAN AFFORD. But that's the entire point of witchcraft, right?)

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.

Changing of the Guard

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In Spring we welcome the Virgin Bride, the Bride of Light, the Bride of Spring (aka "The Bride"). In Fall we welcome the Harlot Mistress, the Hag of Dark, the Winter Whore (aka "The Black Goddess"). (<- I'M SO DIFFICULT I'VE THROWN OUT THE SACRED TRINITY (I.E., MAIDEN, MOTHER AND CRONE) AND REDUCED THEM DOWN TO TWO - BRIDE AND WHORE. IN MY WORLD THINGS REALLY ARE BLACK AND/OR WHITE.) To reflect the exchange of power I perform a changing of the guard ritual around the equinoxes.

In Spring we welcome back Chile Bird (a bird-shaped copper, bronze and lapis wall hanging bought on Ebay from, you guessed it, Chile) and he happily lives in the window during the Light part of the year, but when frost appears and the leaves begin falling I know it's time to send Chile Bird on his annual migration to warmer climates.

In Fall we welcome back The Spider (see below) and he weaves his continuous metal web throughout the Dark part of the year, partner to the Witch, the Whore, the Black Goddess of magic and death. When tender green shoots erupt from the defrosting soil with a celebratory spread of crocuses and snowdrops I know it's time to send The Spider to cooler climates, to sleep until the return of the Dark.

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The ritual itself is subtly disguised behind something so commonplace that people wouldn't think twice if they caught me performing it - cleaning. (CAST A CIRCLE? WTF FOR? I EFFING //BLEACH THE BASE OF THE COMMUNAL TOILET WITH MY BARE FUCKING HANDS//. THIS HOUSE? IT'S CLEAN. AND WOE BE UNTO ANY UNINVITED GUEST IN THE HOUSE OF A WOMAN WHO REGULARLY GETS ON HER HANDS AND KNEES - WILLINGLY - TO SCRUB PISS STAINS OFF THE FLOOR. <- NOT THE SORT OF WITCH YOU WANT TO MESS WITH, JUST FYI.)

First the blind comes down and everything gets removed off the window and windowsill. I then roll up my sleeves and physically clean every inch of the "threshold"/altar - the ledge, the inside glass, the decorative window decals, the inside vent, every stick of inside wood, the hinges and handles, the blinds, the outside glass, the outside vent, the outside concrete ledge and every stick of the outside wood.

Once the window's been physically cleaned (and "cleansed" due to all of the attention, work, effort, sweat and focus) I burn incense on the inside ledge, fragrancing the wooden frame with frankincense and spices. When the smoke clears I know it's time to begin piecing the altar back statue by statue, plant by plant and jar by jar. (Not until they, too, have been cleaned with a duster and wipes.) My juniper ghost beads and string of Papa's green chili peppers go up first (both "protective" in their own way), and then The Spider.

The carved jars return, and then the two succulents with their sticks of sandalwood incense (from Egypt). Tawaret (me) and Sobek (Italics) grace the windowsill altar first, and then Wadjet (with Her key) returns, positioned in front of the stone jars. Anubis, Thoth, Serket and Hathor follow suit with the ladies on the left and the men on the right. And with the final positioning of the second tier Egyptian gods and goddesses it's done - the Bride is gone and the Whore's arrived.

NOTE TO SELF: This year when you began the process/ritual of changing the Spring-to-Fall guard (October 17th) you began your period. (<- ATTENTION, WORK, EFFORT, SWEAT, FOCUS AND BLOOD - HOW'S //THAT// FOR MAGIC?)

Halloween Altar Building

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Yesterday was THE DAY. Yesterday I plucked the fruit, vegetables, herbs and flowers off our Harvest Home altar (pictures forthcoming!) and began piecing together our Halloween altar. (The Spring Bride / Return of Light / Easter / Great Rite / Hieros Gamos altar is more minimal and elegant, while the Winter Whore / Return of Darkness / Black Goddess / Chthonic altar's a little more fun and over the top.)

It's MOSTLY done now (I still need to string a strand of skull lights on the other side of the ladder, fill the brandy glasses with their correlating element (graveyard dirt for Papa's side, and salt water for Tentacle Monster's side), replace the red votive candles with white, glue the skeletons to their ribbons and maybe - MAYBE - replace the triad of bones behind the candle holders with vases filled with yew branches) but not done enough to warrant a second picture.

(THAT'S RIGHT, YOU GET //1// "PARTIALLY DRESSED ALTAR" PICTURE ONLY!)

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.)

Rabbits Out of Thin Air

I have an innate talent for attracting adventures. (Or, maybe, I have an innate talent for turning everything into a story which retrospectively MAKES everything an adventure. Which then lengthens every experience and LOL! into several thousand words when a few sentences would usually suffice.) Today's epic adventure (that could otherwise be summed up in a simple paragraph)? How I recently transformed a basket of three pitiful boletes into seven dead rabbits.

If you somehow missed the memo, the majority of my ethnic heritage hails from Eastern Europe (Ukraine, to be exact, where, crazily enough, I ALSO get my Native American genes, but that's another story for another day...). As a kid the highlight of my year was mushroom picking with my grandmother; it was-is-was THE European family activity to do (eff Monopoly when there's an entire forest filled with edible fungi!).

Foraging was instilled at a very young age by my grandmother, who didn't see fruits and nuts and mushrooms as PROPERTY, but as useful, free commodities just waiting to be picked. (<- Much to the dismay of allotment owners adjacent to my grandparents' house which were frequently raided for blueberries and raspberries and gooseberries and currants and rhubarb and anything else I could get my young hands on.)

While I don't brazenly forage in other people's backyards anymore (STEALING AN APPLE AND SOME SWEET CORN FROM A CASTLE'S WALLED GARDEN DOESN'T COUNT, DOES IT?) I still experience the driving urge to get out in the forest once the weather becomes damp and cold in the hopes of unearthing some fungal treasures. (Primarily boletes, but I'm happy to harvest puff balls, purple amethyst deceivers, shaggy caps, morels, chicken of the woods, and chanterelles.)

It was a difficult passion to maintain when we weren't independent. In order to get to ANY woods we'd have to enlist the help of an in-law, and because ONE SPECIFIC IN-LAW (the only one who was ever available) has a hard time remembering to CARRY HIS FUCKING PHONE WITH HIM SO WE CAN CONTACT HIM WHEN WE'RE READY TO BE PICKED UP the foraging party always had to expand to three. Two's an adventure (a picnic, pot, sex, forest exploring and mushroom picking adventure), three's a crowd and involvement of my father-in-law warrants an entirely new category.

A car was dropped on my lap at the brink of Harvest this year, but because I had been - and still am - insanely busy with other things we haven't had a chance to mushroom hunt properly. (I used "next year will be different, next year will be different" as an optimistic mantra while watching seasons change. After eight years of chanting, next year WILL finally be different and the disappointment I've experienced for nearly a decade will soon be nothing more than old memories.)

Because Italics has been feeling under the weather (when we don't have pot in the house we smoke a synthesized version so his lungs are okay, but the second a shipment of weed arrives so does his ongoing struggle with bronchitis) we decided to stay local which gave us the ability to hunt for mushrooms AND hunt for this year's stoner tree. (<- WE HAVE TWO CHRISTMAS TREES DURING THE YULETIDE SEASON - THE ONE IN THE COMMUNAL LOUNGE WHICH HAS A STRICT COLOR THEME, AND THE STONER TREE IN THE BACKROOM THAT'S NO HOLDS BARRED.)

We arrived just in time to watch a hunting party emerge from the forest's parking lot with several people, dogs and guns in tow. "IT'S GOING TO BE SAFE TO BE IN THE WOODS, RIGHT?" I asked Italics while eying up the hunters warily. (<- I GREW UP IN THE MIDWEST, AND AS A FERAL MIDWESTERN CHILD MY PARENTS DID EVERYTHING BUT DRESS ME ENTIRELY IN NEON ORANGE WHEN ALLOWING ME OUT IN THE WILDERNESS DURING HUNTING SEASON TO ENSURE I WOULDN'T GET SHOT BY DRUNKEN DEER HUNTERS.)

Since there was no resemblance to the deer hunters of my Midwestern/American youth I assumed they were after different game - birds. So, surely, it should be safer if they were hunting something that needed to be flushed into the air by dogs first, right? Right. Fine. Okay. We should be safe, then. (The hunters, in turn, eyed us warily as we inched past the party and into the semi-full parking lot. <- SUSPICION ON BOTH SIDES!)

We've recently had a glorious glut of weather, and despite the drop in temperature (I AM //NOT// PULLING OUT MY WINTER COAT, DAMMIT! AS LONG AS I DON'T HAVE TO PUT ON MY WINTER COAT IT CAN'T BE WINTER (THAT'S HOW IT WORKS)! Therefore I've been wearing FOUR LAYERS OF LONG-SLEEVE SHIRTS AND A FLANNEL like some sort of socially maladjusted, unfeminine lumberjack woman - SO THERE, WINTER, SO THERE!) we've attempted to enjoy every minute.

The unfortunate drawback to this glorious glut of weather? No rain. As in, not a proper drop for weeks - not exactly awesome or ideal growing conditions for mushrooms. (The dirt? Looks like sand. Seriously.) The foray started off promising; just a few feet off the beaten track we managed to excavate two lovely little boletes. The discovery gave me hope that by the end of our fungal expedition I'd have a choice array of boletes and the treasure-prize I was really after - homegrown fly agaric.

Within minutes of stepping over broken boughs and rotting wood we heard the first of the gunshots. While we didn't witness an exodus of terrified Disney animals - all stampeding in our direction - the quiet serenity of the forest was broken. (BECAUSE THERE'S NOTHING MORE ATMOSPHERIC THAN GETTING HIGH AND APPRECIATING THE SILENT, CALMING BEAUTY OF THE FOREST WHILE MUSHROOM PICKING WITH YOUR LOVED ONE AS UNSEEN, UNHEARD HUNTERS UNEXPECTEDLY BREAK THE TRANQUIL MOOD WITH SPORADIC GUNFIRE.)

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Our fungal adventure peaked with those two boletes. What started off as promising finds became our ONLY finds. We sifted through different terrains and mini-ecosystems, trampled over beaten paths, gently prodded moss encrusted bumps, stood in the golden rain of the Fox's Wedding, waded through bright meadow grasses and briskly parted seas of purple-brown heather beneath disrobing birches and prickly gorse. Nothing. (Well, SOMETHING - another bolete beneath a birch, but a flabby, larger one that wasn't nearly as firm as the two smaller ones we initially found when starting our walk.)

That sad ass looking mushroom was the last nail in the coffin. (It was at that point when our SUPER GREAT AND AWESOME MUSHROOM HUNTING ADVENTURE reinvented itself as our SUPER GREAT AND AWESOME FOREST SEX AND STONER TREE ADVENTURE.) Disappointed, but with a new goal in mind (MUST. FIND. PERFECT. SPOT. TO. HAVE. FOREST. SEX. MUST. FIND. PERFECT. TREE. FOR. STONER. TREE.), we continued to trail the edge of newish growth in the hopes of finding a crevice large enough between the trees to allow us to (AHEM) penetrate the coniferous grove.

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.

(* OH, GOD, HOW DO I MAKE THIS QUICK, EASY AND TOTALLY UNDERSTANDABLE? I'm not your average run-of-the-mill witch - I'm not pagan, I don't worship deities and the concept of "horned god" has been replaced by the "horned goddess" in this house. (I'm the fertility goat, the sacrificial ram, the divine nursemaid and deer priestess.) In other words, I don't do Cernunnos.)

(But what I DO do is the Old Woman, the Cailleach, the divine deer keeper. As the Old Woman I have vested interest in Our deer stock, so what better way to assess the virility and power of Our herd than by "mating" with the alpha buck? Cernunnos? Doesn't click. Coupling with the mythical MASTER OF THE FOREST (aka MY DIVINE ALPHA MALE COUNTERPART) in deer form? OH, HEY, THAT MAKES SENSE!)

Three boletes, two pot breaks and one MAGIC FOREST SEX session later I was fully dressed and complaining about our shitty lucky. An entire afternoon of searching and for what? Three mushrooms, a good selection of possible stoner trees and a helluva lot of jizz mopped off my tits - AWESOME. Being myself, I bitched all the way back to the parking lot, bemoaning my relatively empty basket and nature's inherent hatred of me and all of my nature-based adventures.

By the time we made it back to the car park the hunting party had returned. "I HOPE YOU GUYS SHOT MORE PHEASANTS THAN I FOUND MUSHROOMS," I joke-shouted over my shoulder at them while shoving my (nearly) empty basket into the trunk of the car. One of the older gentlemen said something to me which I didn't completely understand. Eventually my brain partially translated the mishmash of English, Doric (a local dialect) and heavy Scottish accent and I caught the gist of what he had said.

"OHMYGODREALLY?!" I squealed, processing that HE HAD OFFERED A PORTION OF THEIR KILL TO ME. "SERIOUSLY?!" It wasn't pheasants, it was something better - rabbits. (A mind-boggling mountain of wild rabbits.) He asked me how many I wanted, I laughed and said "ALL!" but negotiated down to "AS MANY AS YOU CAN SPARE!". (<- IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY NOTICED, MY SIDE OF THE CONVERSATION ENDED ENTIRELY IN EXCLAMATION POINTS. I WAS V. EXCITED BY THE PROSPECT OF FREE GAME.)

(You don't know "heavy" until you lug a reusable, eco-friendly grocery bag filled with rabbits (SEVEN! 7! THAT'S A SUPER MAGIC NUMBER!) across a gravel parking lot and hoist the bag'n'contents into your car's trunk.)

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And that, dear readers, is how this witch magically transformed a basket of three pitiful boletes into seven dead rabbits. (<- THE HORNED GOD OF THE FOREST? PAYS //REALLY// WELL FOR SEX.)

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.

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...

Click thumbnail for larger image.

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.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

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.

Tired, Strung Out Witch

OH, INTERNETS, I AM A TIRED, STRUNG OUT WITCH. (Oi vey, Harvest Home 2009, and what you've done to me!) I've been avoiding on-line work like the plague; the mere thought of popping open my journal program to hammer out a one paragraph "ONE A DAY" was enough to make me feel cagey and crazy. (I somehow managed NOT TO PUKE logging into Movable Type this morning - good sign? ONLY TIME WILL TELL!)

It's the season, it's the car, it's the driving, pushing unrelenting need to GET SHIT DONE. It's forgetting, at the end of the day, there's a piece of me that's broken inside, and no matter what I do, or how I do it that little piece will always be tinkering away causing little biological upsets along the way. It's the threat of frost, it's the sudden cold, it's my complete inability to simply accept the fact that WINTER IS COMING AND THERE ISN'T ANYTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT.

(BUT WHERE WAS MY SUMMER, UNIVERSE? YOU CAN'T EXPECT ME TO REIGN OVER SNOW AND ICE AND DREARY, GREY SCOTTISH WEATHER IF YOU DON'T GIVE ME AN EQUAL SHARE OF SUN, WARMTH AND BRIGHT SCOTTISH WEATHER! A BALANCE IN ALL THINGS, PLZ!)

I respond badly to changes - even subtle ones - unless I'm the one enforcing them. I'm forever ticking the SPONTANEOUS, FUCK YEAH, ARIES, THAT'S ME! box when half-taking internet quizzes (AM I THE ONLY PERSON WHO MANAGES TO GET 1/2 OR 2/3 THROUGH A QUIZ BEFORE CASUALLY TOSSING IT ASIDE? APPARENTLY I DON'T NEED TO KNOW WHAT KIND'VE COCKTAIL I AM //THAT BAD//), but in reality I know that the spontaneity I'm thinking about works best in a structured atmosphere that's been allotted a special "OKAY, TIME TO DO SOMETHING UNPLANNED AND AWESOME NOW!" time.

I'm retarded, and retarded people flourish best under routine. (AND, IN SOME CASES, WITH BUCKETS OVER THEIR HEAD. UNFORTUNATELY I DON'T FALL UNDER THAT CATEGORY, BUT I DO WEAR A SOVIET ARMY VISOR CAP DURING DRUGGED OUT RITUAL SEX - CLOSE ENOUGH?) It's TOTALLY true; force me into an unplanned, unscheduled situation 100% out of my daily routine and I'm VERY libel to get cranky. And if I'm SUPER high I'm libel to pull a "OH, GOD, JUDGE WAPNER, GONNA MISS PEOPLE'S COURT, OH GOD" freak-out hidden beneath a layer of protective tantrum.

(OKAY, THAT MIGHT BE A SLIGHT EXAGGERATION FOR COMEDIC PURPOSES. I'VE NEVER ACTUALLY HAD A FULL-ON "FREAK OUT" WHEN ON DRUGS; NOT EVEN THE TWO SEPARATE OCCASIONS WE HAD WAY TOO MUCH SYNTHESIZED CANNABINOIDS AND I BECAME SO DISASSOCIATED THERE WAS A MOMENT OF PANIC WHEN I REALIZED I WAS JUST A FIGMENT OF SOMEONE ELSE'S IMAGINATION - I WAS THE PRODUCT OF A BROKEN, UNFIXABLE BRAIN, I WAS PART OF SOMEONE'S MULTIPLE PERSONALITY DISORDER AND //I KNEW I WAS NOTHING, CREATED BY FUCKED UP NEURONS//.)

(WANT HEAVY? SPEND TEN MINUTES KNOWING THAT YOU'RE NOTHING EXCEPT A PSYCHOLOGICAL SPASM, AND SPEND THAT TIME CLAWING, REACHING, CLINGING TO THE ROCK OF REALITY EVEN THOUGH YOU KNOW YOU DON'T BELONG THERE AND AT ANY SECOND YOU COULD DISSOLVE IN A MOMENT OF SOMEONE ELSE'S RATIONALE. OH, DRUGS, <3!)

(BTW, EGO DEATH? NOT AWESOME. ALTHOUGH ITALICS LOLED WHEN POINTING OUT THAT A LOT OF PEOPLE GO ON AND ON ABOUT HOW AWESOME IT IS. COMING UP ON AMPHETAMINES? NOT AWESOME. ALTHOUGH ITALICS LOLED WHEN POINTING OUT THAT A LOT OF PEOPLE GO ON AND ON ABOUT HOW AWESOME IT IS. MY LITMUS TEST FOR LIFE IS FUCKED UP BEYOND BELIEF, AND SOMETIMES I FEEL THE NEED TO APOLOGIZE BECAUSE //I'M SERIOUSLY NOT DOING IT ON PURPOSE//, OKAY?)

Up until recently I shaped my days and goals around my sedentary lifestyle. (MAYBE THAT'S A BIT...I DUNNO...MISCHARACTERIZED.) It's not that I wasn't active because I was still doing shit - still cooking, still cleaning, still doing the housework for four adults (two of whom, despite being double my age, still treat the house, the contents of the house and any and all clean and open spaces of said house like their personal junkyard playground). But because I couldn't get a job (no car, and my father-in-law was-is-was completely unreliable, so getting a ride to and from work was out of the question) I had no money, so I had A DOUBLE REASON to not bother leaving the house (no car to go anywhere, no money to spend to facilitate "going out").

I spent the previous two summers in bed - in 07 I had a severe case of recurring tonsillitis that took me over 1/3 of the year to beat (not to mention over two hundred pills, and several variants of penicillin since the first few only managed to suppress the infection instead of kill it), and in 08 my mysterious, totally unexplained stomach symptoms and ailments turned themselves up to "11" and the majority of the year was spent crying, eating bread (anything else made me sick) and resting on various flat surfaces (the bed, the couch, the floor, the bathtub) while waiting for medical consultations and tests.

I grew accustomed to not leave the house. In fact, there were periods - like, 4-5 month periods - where I didn't even cross the threshold of the front door into the driveway. Seriously. Between being sick, not being up at the right time and having to rely on others to get around the motivation to SEE NEW THINGS and DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT EVERYDAY died back and I fell into a clockwork lifestyle that revolved around sleeping my symptoms away and picking up after other people.

(JUST IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING - IT WAS EASY AT FIRST, AND THEN IT BECAME HARD. REALLY, REALLY HARD. AS IN, REALIZING THE ESSENCE OF YOUR BEING HAD BEEN REDUCED TO A CINDERELLA-LIKE FAIRYTALE ROLE OF SERVITUDE. <- ADD THAT TO THE "NOT AWESOME" PILE I STARTED EARLIER.)

This year? This was the first year in fucking THREE that I didn't experience some sort of medical calamity. I don't know if it was just A LONG EFFING TIME COMING, or if finding out what was and is wrong with me (well, we MOSTLY know since I've baffled various doctors - my stomach valve is broken, I experience severe GERD-like symptoms and, on occasion, everything acid reflux related EXCEPT FOR THE ACTUAL ACID REFLUX PART (as in, I don't get the acidic splash crawling up my esophagus, but I get everything else); they offered to do more testing, I politely declined - SRSLY, GIVEN THE CHOICE I MIGHT GO WITH "EGO DEATH" THAN UNDERGO ANOTHER ENDOSCOPY) has taken the element of mystery away making it easier to deal with.

Whatever it was, it was good, although I WOULD'VE PREFERRED A LOT MORE SUN. (Ahem, Scottish summer 2009, AHEM.) It was SO good, actually, that for the first time in the nearly ten years I've lived here I was bitten by the exploring bug, and Italics and I reverted to our feral children selves and set off to find NEW PLACES AND NEW PLACES TO BUILD FORTS AT (and then have sex in, JUST LIKE YOUR OTHER AVERAGE, RUN OF THE MILL FERAL CHILDREN). Because we didn't have a car we walked, and, baby, did we fucking //WALK//. (To standing stones, to new cemeteries, to unexplored woods, through wheat fields, over crumbling stone walls and, unknowingly, to a throne, jutting out like a spectacular monument of and to nature.)

And then, just in time for Harvest, I got a car. ("WE" GOT A CAR, ACTUALLY, BECAUSE THIS AUTOMATIC DID REPLACE THE OLDER, BROKEN DOWN MANUAL CAR. IT'S THE SECONDARY COMMUNAL CAR, BUT BECAUSE IT WAS SPECIFICALLY BOUGHT FOR ME TO DRIVE - I.E., THE "AUTOMATIC" PART - I LIKE TO PRETEND THAT IT'S //MY CAR//, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.)

The car represents so many things - freedom, exploration, the possibility of getting a job and, most importantly, independence. Everything I've been (MOSTLY) patiently waiting for has come to fruition; I feel like I'm standing on the cusp of something great (greatly awesome, and/or greatly tragic, who knows except the stars). The car - the chariot? - represents change, change I WANTED (thereby enforcing it myself) but also change I can't predict.

(MOVING ONE ITEM OF FURNITURE ACROSS THE ROOM TO A NEW POSITION HAS EASILY PREDICTED CONSEQUENCES, MOVING MYSELF ACROSS THE COUNTRY IN THE CAR AND HOW IT AFFECTS EVERYDAY LIFE AND MY RELATIONSHIP WITH OTHER PEOPLE IN THIS HOUSE IS A LITTLE LESS EASY TO SPECULATE.)

So Harvest was a weird kaleidoscope of actions and reactions, most of which were entirely new to me since an unfamiliar element was introduced. For a few weeks I didn't recognize my life due to my routine upset, and then Italics and I began waking up at the same time. (I know I've covered the dilemma before, but just in case it was missed - we've kind've sort've structured our lives so that I have 1-3 hours of "alone/work" time first thing in the morning. Since Italics sleeps in during that time he stays up later thus getting his 1-3 hours of "alone/work" time when I go to bed earlier than him. It's become an integral part of my day - and life! - and if I don't get it my entire day feels alien, foreign and totally unproductive no matter what I do.)

And then there were all of the celebrations, rituals, meals and logging all of the activities via photos and journal entries. There were the longish drives in the country at first crack of dawn to find fresh roadkill, but also to watch the sun rise over the gradual flush of colors spreading from tree to tree. There were weekend events (the apple and pear festival last weekend, and this weekend an international market on Saturday and a three hour educational mushroom walk on Sunday), weekday events and the actual act of harvesting along hedgerows and in woods.

And on top of all of this (which is only scratching the tip of the iceberg) I was - and still am - functioning as mother, wife, cook and cleaner. About a week ago I stood in the lounge watching the sun rise and when the weight of things came down - of things I did, or I need to finish, or I needed to start - I almost began screaming, right in front of the main Harvest Home altar. Tired, stressed out and strung out witch? CHECK.

Instead of bellowing to my hearts content - WHICH, LOL, NO DOUBT WOULD HAVE DRAWN ME EVEN CLOSER TO MY ANCESTORS WHO WERE BEING EXALTED AND REMEMBERED ON THE ALTAR BESIDE ME (IN HINDSIGHT, ACTUALLY, IT WAS PROBABLY THE //PERFECT// PLACE TO DO IT SEEING AS HOW MANY PAIRS OF ANCESTRAL, MATERNAL HANDS I WOULD HAVE HAD PATTING ME ON MY BACK, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM INHERENTLY KNOWING THE EXACT FRUSTRATION I WAS EXPERIENCING, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM ENGAGING IN AN ETERNAL FEMALE SUPPORT GROUP REACHING ACROSS GENERATIONS) - I took a deep breath, dropped the weight off my shoulders, made myself a cup of my magic calming tea, turned off the computer and put the car keys away.

And that's where I've been - retracing the steps of old routine in order to forge a new path that'll become the new routine. (No one said it was going to be easy, right?)

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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Mabon Roadkill Dinner

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I just spent twenty effing minutes trying to figure out what sort of pheasant this is because its markings didn't match anything on Google. ("OH MY GOD I'VE DISCOVERED A NEW SPECIES OF PHEASANT!") And then, after a moment of genius, I plugged in "juvenile pheasant" and all was revealed. (STUPID JUVENILE MALE PHEASANT NOT MOLTING ENOUGH FOR THIS NOVICE ROADKILL SCAVENGER TO EASILY ID YOU.)

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My only experience with processing a pheasant was watching my father hand over a brace of birds to my mother that he and our family dog (a German short-haired pointer) caught earlier in the day. I remember bits of downy plumage drifting aimlessly in the air, and my mother sitting on a lawn chair, outside, enveloped in a blizzard of fluff and feathers. (Neither of the memories helped me much when it came to butchering the bird earlier this evening. <- THANKS MOM.)

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I mean, really, the copper feathers should've been the big giveaway (along with the red ring around the eyes), but because I didn't see the all-familiar black-green-purple iridescence I naturally assumed the most ridiculous hypothesis. (NATURALLY!)

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I know I got burned by the rabbit, but lightening, surely, can't strike twice - right? (I MEAN, IT'S NOT LIKE PHEASANTS ARE KNOWN CARRIERS OF ZOMBIE DISEASES, RIGHT? AND THE BODY WAS STILL HOT AND PERFECTLY FLOPPY AND THERE WAS NO OPEN WOUNDS AND SCAVENGERS AND CARRION HADN'T EVEN HAD A CHANCE TO SNIFF IT OUT. SO IT SHOULD BE A-OKAY, RIGHT? I MEAN, ESPECIALLY SLOW COOKED WITH VENISON AND TOMATOES AND FRESH HERBS FROM OUTSIDE AND BALSAMIC VINEGAR AND WINE AND PANCETTA*.)

(* THE PANCETTA TOTALLY, TOTALLY MAKES IT A-OKAY. HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLE GET SICK EATING SCOTTISH COUNTRYSIDE ROADKILL IF YOU COOK IT IN A DECENT WINE?)

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Last night, when falling asleep, my last thought was "OH, GOD, TRY AND REMEMBER TO OPEN UP THE CROP TO SEE IF THERE'S ANY VIABLE WHEAT KERNELS TUCKED AWAY" and I totally, totally forgot about it until I accidentally decapitated the bird a little too high and cut into the crop. (AND THE CROP, IT SPILLETH.)

And there were viable seeds, and it smelled rank, disgusting and sick but I scooped the lubricated kernels out with a spoon and tossed them into a dish and managed to only mentally dry heave. (I'm going to dry them out and then plant them next spring. MY WHEAT? COMES FROM THE BODY OF A DEAD PHEASANT WE ROASTED FOR OUR RITUAL HARVEST MEAL. <- MY WHEAT IS MORE MAGIC THAN YOUR WHEAT.)

Normally I save internal organs for FUTURE WITCHCRAFT but I decided to offer the offal to the crows and the Old Woman (Cailleach), so I spilled the bloody contents of my innards bowl at the base of the sycamore tree outside our office/computer room window. The feathers were binned, but the head and legs were cleanly hacked off with my ritual scissors and sneakily slipped into the freezer.

(OH, GOD, ONE OF THESE DAYS I'LL GET A WOODEN BOARD, SOME NAILS AND A BOX OF BORAX. UNTIL THEN MY SACRED ANIMAL PARTS WILL REMAIN COMMITTED TO THEIR LONELY FREEZER GRAVE.)

Paint it Black Days

OH, GOD, TODAY'S ONE OF THOSE PAINT IT BLACK DAYS. (Sigh.)

September Sickness

Sick again; I caught this nasty bug last week at the movies, we think. (I caught July's nasty bug at the movies, and August's nasty bug from the rabbit.) The weather's been spectacular, but I've been out for the count and I'm dreading all of the haws (hawthorn berries), masts (beech nuts), blackberries and rowan berries I'm missing out on while this unwelcomed shit drops from my nasal cavity down into my lungs. (If this glorious Indian Summer shifts the second I'm well the Universe is going to have to contend with a V. angry witch.)

V SRS Thinking

When I wrote 180 from Convention I got my hands satisfyingly dirty (in a figurative, purging words and thoughts sort've way). And after the first hit of gratification I wanted more. (MORE THOUGHTS! MORE FEELINGS! MORE SPECULATION! MORE V. SRS THINKING!) As you'd expect - if you also lived in this LOL UNIVERSE of mine - circumstances immediately thought otherwise.

Within minutes of me writing and posting the journal entry one of our rats waddled over to the phone jack in the wall and CHEWED ANOTHER FUCKING MICROFILTER. (<- With an exception of perfume - FUCKING PERFUME! - the other delicacy favored by all of our rodent roommates has been computer cables, particularly the all important INTERNET ONES.)

It took two fucking days to get our hands on a fucking replacement. ("THAT'S OKAY, I NEED TO LEARN PATIENCE ANYWAY. AND NOW THAT I'VE BEEN PATIENT AND LEARNED MY LESSON ABOUT THE VALUE OF PATIENCE I CAN GO BACK TO BEING A V. SRS THINKER AND HAMMER OUT MY V. SRS THINKER THOUGHTS ONCE AGAIN.") But then - OH, THAT'S RIGHT, I BEGAN THIS SENTENCE WITH "BUT THEN" INFERRING AND HINTING TOWARDS SOME SORT OF CONFLICT - Italics began waking up with me, effectively wiping out my "computer time".

(We have bizarre schedules that aren't bizarre in the least once you get a handle of our monthly and daily cycles and routines. We aren't completely nocturnal, but we are in tune with our circadian rhythms. Half the month we'll be up at night, the other half we'll be up during the day. Our sleeping patterns slowly creep forward every day so every day we're going to bed a little bit later than the day before which means we're waking up a bit later than the previous day. Slowly, but surely, we work through the hours of the day, so some weeks we wake up early morning, the next week we're waking up mid-morning, the week after we're getting up early afternoon and the cycle goes on, repeating itself indefinitely.)

(Italics does the majority of his computer work during his "night" when I'm in bed which means he's up anywhere 2-4 hours later than me. I do the majority of my computer work during my "morning" when he's still in bed catching up on those 2-4 hours. Our slightly staggered sleeping schedule means we both have a portion of our day where we can work without distraction. <- I AM TOTALLY //AWESOME// WHEN IT COMES TO PROVIDING DISTRACTIONS, BTW.)

(When Italics wakes up the beginning of my real day starts and unless I'm heavily involved in something on-line (or on the computer) I don't have a chance to work on anything again until the next "morning" since the house(demon)wife switch gets flipped to "on". <- Which really isn't HIS fault; once he's up I know it's time to get breakfast started (usually I haven't eaten for my 2-4 hours of computer time) and with my first thought of cooking an avalanche of domestic thoughts comes crashing down and I get way too distracted with superficial shit to be able to concentrate on writing.)

SO! So the rats chewed the damn cable which meant we were without internet connection for a few days, and THEN, when it returned, Italics began waking up with me and by the time we comfortably fell back into our staggered sleeping schedule I totally missed the V. SRS THINKING train by a few days. (Oops! And I had more I wanted to say and explain and clarify and LOL about. It seriously feels like I got interrupted in the middle of a presentation and NEVER GOT TO WRAP IT UP WITH A GRAND FINALE OF "AND IN CONCLUSION...", does that mean I fail or get an incomplete?)

Oh, well, I'll have all winter to engage in V. SRS THINKING (<- BOTH A WARNING AND TEXTUAL TEASE OF THINGS TO COME!).

180 from Convention

If it wasn't enough that I'm part of a dying breed of witch on the verge of extinction (MUD PIT, IRON TEETH CANNIBALISTIC CRONES UNITE! <- living and operating out of a hut on fowl legs is completely optional!) I'm also painfully solitary to the point of unwelcoming; I work alone, learn alone, experience alone and sit on my secrets like a golden hoard, hissing at anyone who gets too close, asks too many questions or attempts to follow by partially obscured example.

(There's a reason why bone crunching, entrail reading fairytale hags don't have Facebook fan clubs. Then again, this bone crunching, entrail reading fairytale hag isn't even on Facebook, so that's pure speculation on my part on the sisterhood of anti-social crones.)

Even on the faceless, nameless internet I stick out like a sore thumb. (COULD IT BE THE CAPS? THE DOUBLE NARRATIVE? THE INABILITY TO REIGN IN JOKES THAT ONLY MAKE SENSE TO ME?) No matter how hard I try to be the inconspicuous wallflower pretending to be completely engrossed in studying wallpaper patterns in a social situation (forums, communities, mailing lists) I can't help but feel like I'm exuding the giveaway scent of "anomaly".

I'm simple, unsophisticated. My instinct is primitive and animal-like. I work with what I have - what's given to me - and spend my days high and schizophrenically connecting dots to find the repeating patterns hiding in my daily life. My hands are soiled from blood and earth and urine and death, my fingers are scared with white lines of accidental offerings. (TYPICAL ACCIDENT PRONE ARIES; EITHER BRUISED ON THE LIMBS OR BLEEDING FROM THE HANDS.)

I'm a witch, but I'm not pagan. I worship, I pray, I ask for intervention, for understanding, for results, but when I wring my hands and kneel in agony or ecstasy, I bow my head and beseech my subconscious. I'm Divine yet human, God but mortal. I laugh inexplicably, I cry inexplicably; my emotions crash through me like ceremony, like ritual. Everything - all that I am, all that I want, all that I will become, all that I'm capable of - comes from me.

The more I meet witches and pagans and magicians and conjurers and eavesdrop on preexisting conversations (or spectacularly crash them, more often than not killing the topic or thread with several caps locked words) the more I feel myself shrinking back with a silent "oh"; alienation and ostracization comes easy when you're naturally paranoid and living in a world that (seemingly) is a 180 from convention, even by witchcraft/occult standards.

I'm not saying that I'm solely unique in my beliefs and actions. There are other witches who aren't pagans, there are other workers who believe in Nature but not "Gaia", there are other people who don't worship gods and goddesses but identify them as aspects or archetypes of self (to be venerated and absorbed). I just feel that I inadvertently tick a few more of the "LOL, WTF?" boxes than the average "witch", inevitably shuffling me into a descriptively gray limbo (i.e., "ARROGANT", "CHILD-LIKE" and "SIMPLE").

I suppose what I'm trying to say - BADLY, VERY, VERY BADLY (<- headache from not drinking enough water and also still skirting the fringes of "sick") - is that I don't feel I have a lot of common ground with what are, ostensibly, my peers. When someone poses a question encouraging interaction I get stupidly excited and spend several days arranging and rearranging mental lists and by the time I've scribbled a rough outline of what I want to say, of what I want to contribute, the conversation's evolved to "...BUT OF COURSE ANYONE WHO DOES XXX IS FOOLISH OR NAIVE OR PLAYING A VERY DANGEROUS GAME NOT FULLY UNDERSTANDING THE CONSEQUENCES."

The problem is, my hyperactive contributions always seem to fall under the categories above - "foolish", "naive" and "playing a very dangerous game not fully understanding the consequences." And when the overwhelming majority is already against you before you even have a chance to launch into your demonstration it creates an awkwardly introspective (and ultimately silent) atmosphere - at least for the person who's not playing the game by the standard rules.

When someone recently asked what the "horned god" meant to others I found myself blindly groping behind myself to find a fissure in the wall to disappear in. (Thankfully I'm an unseen, unheard presence on the mailing list, so my lack of involvement wasn't even noticed.) Horned god? Fuck, how do I explain THAT one? (It's me; I'm the horned god(dess), ovaries instead of testes. I'm the fertility goat, the sacrificial ram, the divine lactating cow who suckles gods and kings.)

(YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN? I CAN'T EVEN DO AN EASY, ACCEPTABLE WITCH/OCCULT/PAGAN CONCEPT RIGHT. I EVEN MESS UP SOMETHING AS SIMPLE AS "THE HORNED GOD".)

It's shit like this that makes me feel like I'll forever be some sort of retarded pariah amongst my peers, even if I'm a retarded pariah LOLing to myself like some crazy ass bag lady. (OH, UNIVERSE, YOU DO HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR, AND AS LONG AS WE'RE LAUGHING TOGETHER I GUESS IT DOESN'T REALLY MATTER IF NO ONE ELSE GETS THE JOKE.)

One of my strengths and weaknesses (due to being autistic) is my instinctual ability to act and then think. I've always said I hated thinking, it infringes on action, on doing. But every once in awhile I find myself with my chin resting on the knuckles of my fist wondering:

If I sincerely, genuinely don't enjoy or favor contact, companionship and interaction why do I join forums, lists and communities? And in the rare instances when I find someone who doesn't immediately make my skin crawl in irritation, why can't I keep it together enough to form some semblance of a relationship? Why join or listen to conversations when, at best, they'll make me laugh at the ridiculousness of it all and, at worst, they'll frustrate and infuriate me (reminding me why I don't talk or speak or interact with others in the first place)? Why am I doing this? Inspiration? Motivation? The need to feel surging emotions? Why am I writing this? How does this help? What do I ultimately take away from all of these experiences?

(Why are you reading me?)

Down the Rabbit Hole

I've been sick for a week. It started with - well, it probably started with the rabbit, but I'm not going that far just yet - flashes, hot and cold ones. Flu fluctuations; one second I was ice cold and the next I was uncomfortably sweating buckets beneath a thin bed sheet. I couldn't get warm so I had a bath, I couldn't get cold so I slept naked. When Italics brushed up next to me in bed we both could feel my body burning up as I became weaker.

It was two days before my period; way, way too early to begin feeling the affects of the monthly routine. (Now a days I'm a "hot body, upset stomach and occasionally crampy" sort've woman, and these suspiciously flu-like symptoms seemed like amped up period symptoms.) I lost a lot of fluid the first day, in fact I've lost count how many times I performed THAT one person ballet in the bathroom.

(Tensely posed on the toilet, toes digging into the decorative rug beneath, calves flexing and straining as sweat ran down my naked, shivering body as my bowels peristaltically contracted again and again. I had red welts where blunt nails scratched and groped, desperately holding onto the fleshy anchor of my stomach with every undulating wave of internal movement.)

The show went on for almost a week. Encores lasted throughout the night, so when I slept it was for one, maybe two hours before repeating the performance. Some nights there were black kelp-like strings and I thought "OH, GOD, PLEASE DON'T LET THIS BE BLOOD" (black blood in your stools, V. bad, red blood in your stools, not so bad) because I had nothing better to do than be pessimistic while sitting by myself for 20 minutes on end in the bathroom being sick. (I can't even remember a time that either equaled or trumped this bowel related episode.)

Eventually my period arrived so blood - fresh, red, beautiful blood - was added to the mess. And then, after a day or two, I began suspecting that my cunt wasn't the only thing staining white porcelain red, but it took my period ending before I realized that the kelp-strings had been replaced by something less worrying (and more decorative!). As of today, a week after the first stomach flu symptoms appeared, there's no blood (from any orifice, thank you very much) and, further more, semi-solid stools.

I quietly suspected the rabbit all along, but didn't want to say anything.

(After finding the rabbit I pocketed a weathered deer bone. Being the retard I am I forgot I jammed the fucking thing in one of my pockets so when I reached around to scratch my ass the bone got me - first across my wrist and then across the back of my hand. One o