Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

The Fuck(ed) Shop

It's true; I've been fucked at the fuck shop. I'm so fucking talented at being fucked that I've been granted two extra fucks this holiday season: body-fucked and Christmas-fucked. (<- I can only assume that the Universe thought my personal rendition of being time-fucked was so spectacularly good it demanded multiple encores.) So, if your ass has been wondering where my ass has been; it's been getting fucked...repeatedly.

And as much as I'd love to share the sordid tales of metaphorical fuckery, I'm still currently involved in an extended time-fucking session. What I can share, though, is a gem of an ancient Greek Fuck Shop saga: my time-fucked, body-fucked and Christmas-fucked self is returning to the exact point-of-motherfucking-origin of my first fucked-fucking tomorrow: Edinburgh. (<- Good one, Universe. I so did not see that shit coming at-fucking-all.)

Mushroom giveaway? Still the fuck on. Holy Supper challenge (and giveaway)? Still the fuck on. Right now I need to chase up some museum tickets, pack for our one night getaway, bake a mucho belated Christmas cake, prepare gluten-free food to travel with and sort Peck-Man out for the next 48 hours. When we return from the "Athens of the North" I'll be sure to explain how I went from cervix-banging hotel sex to nearly getting my ass hospitalized in just a few Fuck(ed) Shop weeks.

Hexenhaus

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Evisceration (Revisited)

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The dehydrated remains of TTC (aka Tourist Trap Crow), and the eyes'n'ears from Love and Sorrow's mature rabbit. All of the ritually eviscerated organs* were naturally sun-dried, and what I wasn't able to use of the rescued wildlife was immediately returned to the earth.

* How the fuck have I managed to ritualize the process of roadkill reduction, rot and resurrection? Start with the journal entry Tourist Trap Crow, and then sink your teeth into the Asphalt & Entrails archive.

Exhuming the Dead

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My first crow - my first death, my first rescue, my first funeral, my first tears - freshly exhumed from a ritual growing container (some years wheat, some years dill) after five long years of earthbound sleep.

Office Refugees

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This flightless fucker has brought Graveyard Dirt to a standstill. When Peck-Man (aka TC) was just a wee fledgling it was content to sit on the arm of my chair while I worked on the computer. Several months later that quiet fledgling transformed into a inquisitive juvenile crow (holy shit, where did my blue-eyed baby go?), and its ability to patiently sit on the sidelines became a thing of the effin' past. We enjoyed a few productive months in the office (where it lives), but once it became accustomed to its new environment - and the strange creatures who wander in and out of that environment - it became impossible to concentrate on shit, let alone actually work on shit.

You see, Peck-Man can't fly. I mean, at all. A vet took one look and said that it was "like a pinky injury" and that TC would recover in a few weeks. Five fucking months later the wing still hangs at a dislocated angle, and is, essentially, unusable (Peck-Man has very little to no control over the appendage). We had no choice but to keep it; a bird that can't fly or protect itself won't last a night in the wild, and most rescue centers would have just euthanized it because of its severe disability. (I'll be completely honest and say that I had zero fucking desire to keep it, but I couldn't sign the death warrant of an otherwise healthy living thing.)

Because TC's so defenseless we absolutely couldn't keep it outside - not that we would, since it requires a certain level of companionship - so it remained indoors with us. We never bothered getting a cage because 1.) the bird can't fly, 2.) it seems cruel to stick a bird that can't fly in a cage, 3.) it had never been caged before and 4.) we didn't have enough time, money or space to find and fit one in an already cramped, closet-sized room. So, since May, Peck-Man's lived free-range on the floor of our office, and has grown up in a Muppet Babies-style world filled with computers, books, pot and a pair of occasionally nocturnal we-work-at-motherfucking-home human beings.

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Italics was the first office refugee, but since he's on a laptop he was able to move everything with him. I held on to the bitter end, though, and only recently resigned myself to the fact that the entire fucking office is effectively Peck-Man's home now. TC's gotten too big and bold to ignore; if I don't let it scramble up my leg to play on my shoulders/lap when I'm at the computer it annoyingly pecks at my feet and pinches calf skin until I relent. And when I finally relent? It demands my undivided attention, and will throw a terrible two tantrum if it doesn't get it.

Working in the office became virtually impossible just over a month ago. Up until that point I tried my damnedest to chug along, but between Harvest's grueling schedule and Peck-Man's needy demands something had to give and that tight-fisted sacrifice turned out to be my computer/internet time. I tried really fucking hard to be zen about it - adjusting to new schedules and routines has always been a teeth-grinding effort for me - but I won't lie, Darlings, I was in tears.

(Maintaining Graveyard Dirt is as important as any of my other duties; it's the heart'n'soul of what I do, and without it I don't have a business card (fuck, without it I don't have a business, period). Providing fresh content as frequently as possible is essential because it helps breathe life into my products while giving folks an intimate peek on how I get my magic on.)

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Italics took pity on my sorry fucking ass and surprised me with a laptop, which would've totally solved the problem if the fucking thing actually connected to the internet. (It doesn't. At all. So we bought a new router, but they sent the wrong one. And THEN they sent a broken one with the wrong power supply. <- That's how shit's been rolling recently. It's gotten so Mercury retrograde in this house that I'm on the verge of being suspicious.)

So, as if today, I have two computers, but they're both completely useless. This update's only happening because Italics decided to sleep in today, thereby giving me a very rare chance to use his laptop for more than two minutes. (I've been able to check mail, but I haven't been able to reply to anything in almost a month. I'd steal his computer more often, but he works at home and needs it even more than I do.)

I just want to let you guys know that we're doing everything possible to get this recent bout of hilarity sorted, but it could take several more tries (and/or weeks) to get it fixed. I apologize for the lack of updates, but I've been effectively without internet access for well over a month. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that connectivity coincides with the end of Harvest; I'm hoping that once my feral ass is forced indoors for winter a working computer will be waiting for me.

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PS: I may not be writing here everyday, but I'm trying to stay active on the Ms. Dirty Facebook page. If you're keen on seeing what I've been up to be sure to take a peek; no Facebook account's necessary (although you'll need one to comment, and take part in polls).

Trade-Off

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This year my Lammas fox didn't arrive until Harvest Home. The trade-off? An unshattered skull instead of a shattered body.

Bluebell Funeral for a Blackbird

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All Effin' Fronts

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The angelic hosts would weep in divine despair if they had an inkling of how motherfucking behind my earthly ass is right now. We're talking on all effin' fronts: journal writing, photo editing, replying to emails, responding to comments, answering direct messages, sending snail mail, fulfilling promises, working on trades, finishing projects, decorating gifts, bone working, gardening, performing funerary rites, baking homemade offerings and observing my personal Harvest festivities'n'rites.

Fuck, I'm even behind on foraging despite putting in full-time hours every effin' day of every effin' week since mid-July. It's not that shit isn't getting done, because I've never been so goddamn productive in all my motherlovin' life. It's that I'm attempting to give a billion things my undivided attention, and anyone with a rudimentary understanding of mathematics will see that my attempts to force division and fractions to ignore basic Universal rules just isn't working. (Ah, well, back to my areas of expertise: sex, death and perfectly boiled rice.)

Usually when one aspect of work slips I throw more fuel on the fire to help raise an extra dose of energy. It's a panic move, but it shocks my ass to the next level and I find I can close the distance between myself and the belated deadlines that are tormenting me. There's a cost for that expedition, though. Dipping into emergency reserves usually means I experience a burnout period that lasts anywhere from two or three days to two or three weeks. It's a tradeoff I'm more than willing to make (and often do), but one I can't afford to exercise during Harvest since my priorities are solely focused on my sovereign duties.

Normally I don't labor this shit, but recently quite a few folks have dropped my ass a friendly email and most haven't gotten a reply (yet). And because I'm of the pessimistic persuasion I've convinced myself that every-effin'-one of them has come to the very wrong conclusion that I'm deliberately ignoring them. (I'm not. Honest to all that is motherfucking holy, I'm not.) So I'm taking a quick second - er, eight paragraphs - to assure anyone who's still waiting for a reply that 1.) I'm totally not avoiding you, 2.) I'm really sorry I haven't been able to find time to respond to your email and 3.) I really fucking appreciate that you took the time to contact me because receiving a friendly email is like getting a giant fucking internet hug whenever I feel down and unmotivated.

I knew that 2011 was going to be a challenging year because it was the year that we decided to finally go pro. ("We" because I couldn't do this shit entirely by myself. Italics has funded all of my projects, kept me company during foraging sessions/roadkill sweeps, helped pick, process and prepare the majority of the non-gross shit I do, acted like a 24/7 springboard for all of my half-baked ideas and, most importantly, kept me going with regular offerings of support, serenity-inducing shots of sativa and cup after motherfucking cup of freshly prepared calming tea.) What I didn't know, though, was how those challenges would manifest because neither of us have any experience with opening a business.

We're aiming for our first post-Harvest/pre-Midwinter sale in November (save those pennies, guys, and be sure to join the announcement-only mailing list so you don't miss the event!), and I'm on the verge of being able to provide private roadkill services for people interested in adopting one of my resurrected animals. I try to promptly answer any questions regarding my work (i.e., rescued roadkill, Hedgerow Hooch, wild Scottish mushrooms and/or any items featured in Second Hand Sundays), but, right now, I can't afford investing time into journal entry-sized responses, so don't take it personally if my reply lacks its usual epicness.

So, in conclusion: it's totally cool to email my ass and say hi, I absolutely love getting email and I'm sincerely fucking sorry I'm so work-focused right now that I can't find the time to reply to personal correspondence (I'm working on that, though).

Pictured above: fresh toadstools (Amanita muscaria), a partially eaten pomegranate surrounded by more fresh toadstools, dried toadstools just out of the dehydrator, a homemade oil made from edible plants (chives and a single dandelion) growing out of #01's buried remains, two bottles containing the recently strained Simple Strawberry Wine and, lurking to the very right of the picture, the dehydrator that's dried more than 100 toadstools just this year alone (and that's only the agarics; I'm still weighing all of our dried boletes and chanterelles to get an idea of how much we've managed to find and preserve.)

Processing #01

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ablutions for the Dead

I never got the chance to bathe my dead mother's body. Sometimes I think all of this - i.e., the entire rescuing dead animals thing - can be traced back to the fact that I never got to say my silent good-byes to the person who had birthed, loved and raised me.

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Even in the muddy haze of grief I dimly appreciated the gut feeling of wrongness when encountering the distance put between the living and the newly dead. Not bathing the body that had once bathed me felt wrong, not dressing the body that had once dressed me felt wrong, not sitting in wake with the body that had once lulled me to sleep felt wrong.

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My mother unexpectedly died, had an autopsy performed, was cremated and had her life commemorated with a small memorial service at a funeral home; but, at no point was I allowed to see, touch, or say good-bye to her lifeless body. Our modern attitude towards death created a wall that I just couldn't scale, and six years on I still grieve for the intimate closure I never got.

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So it's with a sense of loving duty that I do what I do, and why the quiet act of embracing every broken body that passes through my resurrectionist hands allows me to observe the one meaningful rite that I never got to perform.

Pictured above: the newly exposed skeletal remains of Tourist Trap Crow and Love and Sorrow's mature rabbit.

A Life Once Lived

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Calcified relics of a life once lived.

Waiting to Be Cleaned

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Naturally shed corvid feathers waiting to be cleaned.

August 27th, 2011

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Last year's fallen king has risen.

August 27th, 2010 II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crowhawk

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Crowhawk; it's what all the stylish carrion crows are wearing this season while decomposing at triple cemetery crossroads.

One Goddamn Picture

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

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

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

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

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

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

Ms. Dirty's Day Off

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Casa dels Ossos (House of Bones)

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Casa dels Ossos (House of Bones) was our August harvest.

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Some of #05's incisors on a recently acquired graveyard spade.

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Fresh crow remains from a fragmented find (large glass), a shattered piece of jawbone from a roadkill badger (small glass), Stone Throne Pheasant's cleaned wishbone (on the plate) and miscellaneous bones found while foraging in the woods.

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The cleaned skull of Love and Sorrow's mature rabbit waiting to be glued back together.

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The wishbone, keel and several wing bones from an incomplete forest find.

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The skeletal remains of Stone Throne Pheasant which, once cleaned, will be used to decorate gifts and projects (see Bones, Twine & Feathers).

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#04's alien head peering silently out of the murky water.

Lost'n'Found

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How do you locate a lost cairn? Take a loaf of bread, a pomegranate and a bottle of water to the projected location and walk around until you trip over absolutely nothing. Lost cairn? Found.

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Other things found on this adventure: more porcini and fly agarics, an unseasonal badger roadkill (too far gone to take, although I did manage to rescue a piece of jaw with some teeth), nearly ripe currants, crazily ripe raspberries, almost ripe gooseberries, blooming comfrey and two new mushroom hot spots.

#11

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Today my toadstool hot spot revealed one of its partially buried secrets: #11, a juvenile roe deer. (How my ass managed to miss a skeleton worth of bones beneath the long line of firs I've been foraging at for two fucking years is beyond me.)

Mercury-Ruled

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

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

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

Herd in a Handbasket

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#08, and March's twitterpated couple (#09 & #10) are getting ready to follow the rest of the 2010-2011 herd (#02, #03, #04 & #05) into macerating buckets.

Evisceration

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The still-moist remains of TTC (aka Tourist Trap Crow), and the eyes'n'ears from Love and Sorrow's mature rabbit. All of the ritually eviscerated organs* were naturally sun-dried, and what I wasn't able to use of the rescued wildlife (the entrails, primarily) was immediately returned to the earth.

* How the fuck have I managed to ritualize the process of roadkill reduction, rot and resurrection? Start with the journal entry Tourist Trap Crow, and then sink your teeth into the Asphalt & Entrails archive.

Stone Throne Pheasant

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

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

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

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A broken wing with mostly undamaged feathers.

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Feathers overlapping feathers.

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One of her thighs sustained superficial damage.

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

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

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

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

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

Grouse Guest

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So it's 5:56 in the morning and I'm in the lounge with the phone because I've got to call the prescription hotline to get a repeat of my proton pump inhibitor and through the partially opened blinds I can see this OTHER coppery-mahogany bird (<- that's only funny if you know that "bird" is UK slang for "girl", and that I recently hennaed my hair a coppery-mahogany; if you can believe it, the joke's even funnier when I don't have to explain any aspect of it!) loitering on the world's most neatly manicured lawn.

Because I'm not driving or watching TV (or watching TV while driving) I'm not wearing my glasses, so all I can see is this blob of a copycat henna job strutting on a neighbor's lawn across the fucking street and I know that it ain't no normal UK subdivision-living garden bird because there's no mothereffing indigenous backyard bird that color, shape or size in this fucking area (unless you're running some sort of chicken operation).

"THERE'S, LIKE, A PHEASANT WITHOUT A TAIL OUTSIDE, OR SOMETHING," I shout to Italics to get him interested (because I'm still trying to call in my prescription which means I've got to shoulder off identification duty to him, obviously). "SOMETHING'S NOT RIGHT WITH THE COLOR OR SHAPE; IT LOOKS LIKE A GAME BIRD." I add, my bum scavenging eyes just sharp enough to pick out the familiar game bird profile.

So he heroically fucks off with flip-flops and the camera while I finish rattling off my contact details for the prescriptions I should've called in a week earlier but never managed to because we've been so goddamn busy that I haven't even remembered to take my fucking medication let alone call it the fuck in to ensure my ass doesn't run out. Once Italics gets within several feet of the fucking thing it bursts into an explosion of metallic russet and disappears in the murky grey morning of the overcast sky leaving the pair of us with the same fucking question: WHAT THE FLYING FUCK WAS THAT FUCKING THING?

That fucking thing - just incase you're as interested as we were - turned out to be one of Scotland's iconic moorland birds: the red motherfucking grouse. Why the fuck a fucking grassland bird was dicking around in a fucking northeast Scotland subdivision is beyond me, but you can add its Harvest-themed presence to our growing list of "hardcore rural shit that inexplicably visits our urbanized crossroads hexenhaus bungalow".

All-Consuming Job

Peck-Man (aka TC) is currently holding our office hostage, and until we find a way to pen in this free-range corvid I'm never going to get a chance to sit at my fucking computer to do any sort of effing work*. If you're waiting for an email or some sort of response from me I'm genuinely sorry for not delivering, but things have been really challenging here lately (I mean, like, sobbing-at-5:30-AM-ready-to-call-a-wildlife-rescue-center challenging) and we're trying to cope with this situation as best as we can.

Taking care of TC has become an all-consuming job, and we've reached a point where we need to decide if we can continue providing for a bird that may never regain its ability to fly. Up until this point I've deliberately withheld the negative experiences we've encountered with rehabbing an injured wild animal because they were taken as small knocks leading up to an eventual good: releasing a healthy bird back where it belongs.

I'm beginning to doubt if Peck-Man'll ever be fit to live outdoors. Nearly three months on it barely has control over the injured wing. There's been some improvement, but not enough to convince either of us that this crow has an airborne future. We're slowly realizing - with much reluctance and emotion - that keeping TC might not be possible; we can't dedicate 95% of our day to it anymore.

We don't want to make a serious decision about Dr. Crow's fate without making some sort of effort at coexistence first. Italics ingenuously purchased a large playpen to act as a roomy holding cell for when we're seriously working (temporary fix), and we're sketching plans for an open-air pen that'll act as a "cage" in this office (permanent fix). In order for this shit to work TC, who's enjoyed complete and total office floor freedom since first arriving, will have to learn boundaries and understand that, once in a while, it'll need to pass time in its third of the room away from us until we're done working.

Anyway, I just wanted to quickly apologize to everyone waiting for an email (or, you know, whatever). Ever since we rescued TC back in mid-May it's been difficult to keep up with internet-related obligations. I know I'm not exactly selling my shit just yet, but Graveyard Dirt's my job and the inability to work (i.e., reply to emails, respond to inquires, write journal entries) has really begun taking its toll. If everyone could bear with me just a little bit longer as we try to make this TC thing work I'd be forever grateful.

* The bird's so goddamn intelligent it's devised a route - which involves jumping on the motherfucking radiator and inching all the way across the fucking device until it gets to my computer chair - straight to me, and once it decides it wants to be with me there's nothing you can do to deter the fucking crow from hopping, schooching and jumping over.

Feather Blessing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blessed By the Dead

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Shed by the living, blessed by the dead.

Almost There

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Tourist Trap Crow's almost there.

Giving Thanks, Revisited

I give thanks for the meat that'll feed us, the crop full of bilberries that'll grow into fruit-bearing shrubs, the underdeveloped eggs for fairy tale witchcraft and the special heart, liver and gizzard offering for our Saturday night black magic cat (Mr. Mistoffelees). Thanks for the feathers, bones, flesh and feet that'll be turned into project-ready parts, and for the vitamin-rich internal organs that'll feed and strengthen the new generation of carrion crows, rooks and magpies that visit us every day.

I give thanks for a life I didn't take by ensuring that its death isn't wasted.

Touché, Universe

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On July 14th this fridge drawer was finally emptied of grossly belated Hieros Gamos offerings (beer, phallic resurrection bread, homemade Peking duck, organic beef mince and Peeps), overly ripe roadkill birds (one carrion crow, one European blackbird) and - PSA: y'all with junk might want to grab your vomit bag right about now; ready? - a bottle of duct-taped* menstrual blood-infused water that's been rolling around since June 7th (I'll explain later).

For the first time since motherfucking Easter this space was vacant, clean and totally sanitized, and it managed to remain in that pristine fucking state for two goddamn hours before it was unexpectedly filled with brand fucking new roadkill (a pheasant hen).

* I didn't want anyone mistaking it for iced tea, although it would've made one holy fucking hell of a story.

Giving Thanks

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Giving thanks for yesterday's hedgerow bounty.

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When Inclined

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It seems that our friend Tourist Trap Crow is more than capable of feeding itself.

First Feeding

We're busier than I'd like to be. Shit's begun piling up again, and the rooms that were once 96% clean are slowly degrading into a post-apocalyptic mess of epic fucking proportions. The constant running in circles (from living animal to dead animal, from chore to errand) has left us both of us exhausted as fuck - as you've probably noticed since my journal entries haven't been exactly stellar in the past few weeks - but we've got to keep on pushing; once berry'n'mushroom season hits (late July) there'll be zero time to get the house in order.

(TRANSLATION: If shit ain't complete within a month, then shit won't be complete until AFTER Christmas, and I really fucking hate even having to consider the fucking notion that my ass'll still be spring cleaning in motherfucking January of next fucking year.)

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I've been holding off writing this entry because I wanted to explain the biological process of maceration, and all of my rituals, rites and spiritual practices that coincide with the grand pageant of reducing rotting flesh to clean, sterile bones. Unfortunately, I'm just too fucking busy to devote that much time and effort to one journal entry (unless I've got a serious motherfucking axe to grind). So, for now, you'll just have to settle for a handful of pictures with a quick explanation of what's going down in each image.

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My altars are usually elaborate fucking things, but those sacred spaces tend to be spread out on giant fucking plateaus of furniture so they aren't normally constrained to cramped, tiny ass areas. (First unspoken tenet of witchcraft? Work within your means. Sometimes that means setting up shop in an undesirable space, sometimes that means using clean, flat bed sheets instead of fancy tablecloths and sometimes it means rummaging through kitchen drawers to see what you have on hand, or what's currently available to you.)

When reducing roadkill from flesh to bone I use my Bean Nighe bowl (actually, I put the macerating pot'o'animal in the bowl, but you get the point), but seeing how Peck-Man's (aka TC) currently living in the fucking thing it's unofficially out of commission until further notice (or until a heavy fucking duty emergency). Instead, my decomposing animals were ritually interred into Second Hand Sunday purchases, and then placed at the feet of my Santa Muerte black rabbit (the head honcho of my rabbit militia) who'll oversee the rite of rot.

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Tourist Trap Crow's (usually abbreviated to TTC) skeletal frame slowly sinking into its watery womb of transformation.

Before submerging the crow's body I ritually stripped it of soft tissue to help expedite the maceration process (which, hopefully, won't be too long since the warm weather should really encourage the bacteria to make short work of decomposing muscle). To learn more about TTC, my rite of reduction and how a fully feathered roadkill crow will eventually turn into project-ready pieces (i.e., bones, preserved skin (complete with tail feathers and wings), organs and blood) be sure to check out my Tourist Trap Crow journal entry.

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Unlike Tourist Trap Crow, the rabbit head that was ritually interred in this Second Hand Sunday vessel sank like a motherfucking rock. (In fact, the pot turned out to be just a little too tight for TTC - it was inhibiting the crow from sinking properly, which doesn't sound like a big deal but a waterline could potentially stain a bone (or so I've heard) - so it was carefully rehomed to a roomier maceration pot until it decomposes to the point of bone separation.) To learn more about the roadkill rabbit, how it came into my possession and how I sent it off Ms. Dirty-style be sure to check out my Love and Sorrow journal entry.

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I ritually feed, water and interact with the animals as their physical remains decompose and separate from the perishable to the preservable. (It's not so much "taming" as it is luring them into a sense of familiarity; I don't "break" them, I make them comfortable around people and modern living. After all, these are wild fucking animals whose natural disposition is to be wary of human beings.) These pictures are from the roadkill animals' first feeding, a semi-ceremonial event that normally happens once or twice a week (regardless if it's the first, third, tenth or last feeding).

Left section (based on a carrion crow's diet): locally grown oatmeal (dry, cracked grain), Rice Krispies, mealworms and a scrambled organic'n'free-range egg

Middle section (based on a living organism's diet): fresh water

Right section (based on a common rabbit's diet): locally grown oatmeal (dry, cracked grain), Rice Krispies, organic parsley and organic celery

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My Santa Muerte (literally translated to Saint Death) black rabbit, with wispy tendrils of incense smoke woven around her head. To understand this black rabbit you have to understand the Black Rabbit, and to understand the Black Rabbit you have to understand the Black Goddess, and without the entry Black Rabbit Altar none of the above is fucking possible.

Next Big Thing: Ladders

I posted this over on my Tumblr blog the other day (<- think of it as Graveyard Dirt lite; I write less, but update more), and it's so fucking OH, INTERNETS! ridiculous that I had to record it here for posterity (and to ensure - once this shit goes Llewellyn mainstream (snort) - that I'm remembered as the originator of the altar ladder fad):

How to Make a Halloween Altar @ eHow

Or, more accurately, "How to Make Ms. Dirty's Halloween Altar". (<- Do you think the eHow writer knows that the use of ladders isn't standard practice, and I have a very personal, very ancestral reason for including the item in my rituals and beliefs?)

PS: LOL @ "THINGS YOU'LL NEED...A LADDER". Christ.

PPS: Pictures of my completed Halloween altar can be found here (lights on) and here (lights out).

PPPS: I resent the fact that the difficulty's been listed as "easy"; the fuck it is! How many motherfucking ladders has this eHow writer dressed with multiple cloths, garlands, fairy lights and dangling paraphernalia? APPARENTLY NOT MANY (OR NOT WELL).

Aug. 31st, 2010

Two days ago my oldest friend in the world got married (oh, we go back to the first fucking day of 3rd grade), and my fat, psychopomp-attractin' ass wasn't there. (<- Long story involving lumps (of the worrying HOLY SHIT, ONE'S IN YOUR FUCKING TESTICLE?! kind), broken cars, the lack of a valid driver's license and a certain injured crow (who, incidentally, has begun perfecting its trepanning technique).)

And the worst fucking part? I mean, other than not being there in some sort of vampire-goth-witch designer dress (she made a special request that harkened way back to my teenage years) to exercise all the liberties that only the oldest fucking friend in the world can get away with? She admitted that she was going to force me - in my vampire-goth-witch glory - to read from the good fucking book during the marriage ceremony.

(Cue a never-fucking-ending string of Cartmanesque GODDAMMIT, GODAMMIT!, with each repetition being more fucking ridiculous than the one before. <- But, like, ~forever~.)

Why the fuck am I even mentioning this? Because without her there would be no Ms. Dirty. Or, at least, the dirty wouldn't be the grimy-nasty-algae-scented-sloppy-mud-splattered-nude-body-running-through-the-motherfucking-hedges-and-feral-fields-with-a-recently-found-detached-deer-leg dirty y'all love (and/or hate) today. She might've not created the spark, but she definitely cultivated it, nurtured it and encouraged it to flourish.

Too young to be self-conscious we tore through Midwest thickets around her small farm with wild, half-naked abandon decimating quiet, peaceful patches in irrigation streams (until the clear water ran brown with disturbed silt), scaling deformed, toppled willows bare-footed (much to the chagrin of buzzed deer hunters who had a slightly harder time clambering up to their tree house hunting lofts) and always returning home muddy, bleeding, and tired, but full of anecdotal tales which, to this fucking day, we still reminisce over as if they happened last effing week.

(Our parents, in particular, loved our WE ALMOST GOT EATEN BY WILD FUCKING HOGS! story. <- For fuck's sake! THERE WERE MOTHERFUCKING PIGS IN THE MOTHERFUCKING WOODS! How the fuck were we supposed to know they weren't fucking Cujo hogs? Jesus.)

So, for soppy, sentimental reasons this entry - in which I introduce you lot to my little secret hedge - is dedicated to my first, oldest and most beloved hedge sister: Nicole (even though she has no idea this site exists*, and that I finally found a way to profit off my eagerness to get naked, get dirty and get as goddamn wild as Nature will let me).

* She's just married into the FBI; the less they know about my amphetamine-fueled gardening sessions the better.

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This hella expired bolete mushroom's a lot more fucking useful than it seems. In the cutthroat world of mushroom hunting (you think I'm fucking joking?) it's known as a flag; a large specimen that alerts would-be pickers that they're in prime mushroom country. Normally flags are too deteriorated to consume (although there are occasional exceptions), but they do provide valuable information about the different sorts of mycelia underfoot. When you find one of these fuckers - and it's of an edible variety - take note, that's a spot you'll want to return to next year for a fresher crop. The bolete season in this hedgerow had already past by August 31st, which means it'll be one of the first stretches of local land to provide the very first fungal fruits of 2011.

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While trying to sniff out younger boletes (which I found, but they were also too far gone for a pleasant eating experience) amongst old beech trees and grass-encrusted rock formations I spied something excitingly old and fabulously rusty nestled amongst moss, lichen and stone.

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Internet, I give you Thor's motherfucking hammer. (<- Actually, it's an ancient-as-fuck piece of bicycle that somehow miraculously draped itself across a small boulder for Christ knows how fucking long until I found it (TRANSLATION: not Mjöllnir), but you get the point.) Leaving it would've been a waste of a perfectly good symbolic omen, so it got tucked into one of my magic wooden baskets and hauled back home for future witchcrafting.

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One of the many spectacular views from my secret little hedge. In the distance you can see the purple bloom of wild heather hugging the exposed cap of a nearby hill, and the all-to-familiar ragged line of pine trees that farmers use to separate forested wilderness from open agricultural fields.

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Amethyst Deceivers (Laccaria amethystea); they might look poisonous, but they're not. I was so goddamn focused on BIG EFFING GAME (i.e., porcini and toadstools) last year that I never allotted myself any other edible wild mushroom harvest time. Hopefully this year I'll remember to bag myself a couple of baskets of deceivers when out foraging in the woods. (These fuckers? Love beech trees. Find a row of beeches and you'll almost always find amethyst deceivers, toadstools and a variety of boletes.)

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What's good about a single fucking bilberry (also known round these parts as blaeberry and whortleberry)? One's all you need to help you realize you're standing in a patch of wild motherfucking blueberry bushes. You can see I JUST missed out on 2010's crop, but now that I know where I can locally source wild blueberries (they are slightly different from blueberries, but they're close enough for me to be fucking lazy about it) we're planning multiple trips this year to ensure a bottle of homemade liqueur, a batch of hedgerow jam and enough dried reserves for multiple installments of my new favorite Ukrainian dish: dried fruit compote.

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If my ass goes into the wild you can be sure of two fucking things: I will come out with an assortment of bones, and I will desperately have to take a motherfucking piss within two seconds of entering any sort of woodland. (That last curse? Has dogged me all of my goddamn life. I'm so naturally fucking pushy that I can't help but mark my territory wherever the fuck I go.)

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While crawling through the hedgerow - just after being knee-deep in bilberry bushes - I stumbled across the whitewashed remains of a long dead deer. I scoured the area for other whiter-than-fucking-white pieces, but only found a single rib bone and part of the spinal column. This wasn't the only encounter I had with deer on the 31st; after my hedgerow expedition I rescued my first skinnable roadkill doe (#4; my lactating doe), so in addition to everything I found, foraged and ferreted out in my secret little hedge I also had an adult roe deer to wrestle with once I got home.

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The sun - partially obscured by towering pines - eased through branches and crevices, leaving marks of dappled light along my shadowy, fern-filled path.

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A miniature forest of infant beeches bursting out of their protective braces.

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Too afraid that the forest would steal me away I stuck to the darkened, shrub-choked hedge and gingerly tip-toed around the illuminated paths (<- sometimes shit's overly inviting for a reason) as I made my way back to the car.

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Something managed to enjoy this fly agaric (Amanita muscaria) before I could, so I left the partially eaten toadstool behind. When I returned for my second dose of hedge exploration the local rabbits were kind enough to leave a little magic out for me.

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Chippy; my foraging companion. When Italics can't join me in my rural adventures I take Chippy to keep my ass company (laugh if you want, but he's got a sharp fucking nose for roadkill - he's successfully nailed several outcomes before I managed to start the goddamn car). For obvious reasons he spends the majority of the time strapped to my back like a motherfucking papoose, but he gets his 15 minutes of freedom when it's time for lunch. (<- I try and keep him leashed; cattle and sheep react badly to my presence when I'm out "walking" him, so to spare us from a stampede he's not allowed free reign outdoors unless it's in the yard.)

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As if the first exploration of my secret little hedge wasn't successful enough, I found the chthonic nesting site of stinging, parasitic insects. (<- It takes a true witch to see potential in all things, and it takes a really fucking hacked-the-fuck-off witch to flex that potential.)(<- Consider that one of the few warnings I ever publicly make, Internet.)

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I'm an equal opportunity forager to the point that scavenging has become more of a lifestyle than hobby. It doesn't matter what the fuck it is - i.e., dropped jewelry, rusting farm equipment, dead animals, reduced-to-clear-food and, in this case, the remains of a pheasant egg - if it's in my path then it was most certainly meant to be. In addition to being a bone magnet (snort), I have a weird ass talent for finding discarded wild bird eggs. (Psst! If you're looking for eggshell fragments from carrion crows or game birds I'm totally your dealer.)

Moulting

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May 10th, 2011

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I'll be completely fucking honest with y'all - I love every effing aspect of my roadkill work (from building altars, exercising funerary rites, to carefully fishing out still-warm organs with my bare fucking hands - which, BTW, isn't recommended, but it does give you a better entrails reading) except for having to tackle pictorial logs of our rescue expeditions. Because, really, what the fuck do I have to cleverly offer other than "OH, HEY, CHECK IT OUT - ANOTHER DEAD ANIMAL WE FOUND" with each passing picture? So it goes without saying that I deliberately leave the tres undesirable work* for as long as fucking possible in the hopes that somehow it'll miraculous write itself up (hey, it could happen).

* When you designate evisceration, flaying and psychoactive-fueled butchery as "FUN AND AWESOME WORK OMG" there's only one direction for the coma-inducing boredom of record keeping to go - it becomes the dirty work you try to avoid with almost every motherfucking inch of your life.

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Even though I've had my eye on it for years, May 10th was the first time we managed to explore this particular carrion crow rookery. It's very local - by car, anyway - although it's set back in agricultural fields and scrub woodland so the nesting sites (there seem to be several very large clusters) are a safe distance from the hustle and bustle of human life. (<- I've seen way too many fledglings flattened by cars due to rookeries being built over areas of heavy fucking traffic.)

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I haven't had a chance to sort, edit and upload the funeral pictures - so I can't check my Flickr photostream for verification, and I'm too goddamn lazy to hunt down my physical roadkill journal/log - but I think we left the rookery that day with the remains of 10 carrion crow fledglings that died a natural death. (Not necessarily a painless, comfortable or easy death; just a death that wasn't at the hands - whether intentional or not - of humans.) My roadkill crows tend to be unlucky adults or inexperienced juveniles, but my fledglings are almost always found at the base of their nests. (As you may have already guessed, birds have a devastating infant mortality rate - something like 1 out of every 3 or 4 actually make it past a certain stage of life - so the body count isn't abnormal, even if it is heartbreaking.)

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OH, HEY, CHECK IT OUT - ANOTHER DEAD ANIMAL WE FOUND! (Snort.)

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Even though we pass by this field every effing time we perform any sort've roadkill round-up we've never, ever noticed this so-suave-it's-super-fucking-natural stallion. The second it caught sight of us walking back to the car it immediately began posing for pictures, and we couldn't help but stop for a few minutes to immortalize the uber ridiculous vogue-like flaunting (oh, that motherfucker was workin' it).

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The majority of our rookery excursion was beneath a heavily overcast sky, but - and I kid you not - the second we became aware of the suave stallion's presence the rolling clouds parted and a single ray of sunlight broke through the crevice and fell like a heavenly beacon RIGHT ON THE MOTHERFUCKING HORSE. We stood mesmerized as that solitary beam expanded, engulfing the entire field with warm, radiant light while Euan Garlogie, wonder horse extraordinaire, effortlessly stole the moment by striking many a pose.

By Ribbon and Thread

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Learn more about TTC (Tourist Trap Crow) here.

Tourist Trap Crow

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There's twenty-four mothereffing photos internet-stapled to this particular journal entry, so I'm going to ditch the overly verbose shit I'm usually known for since the pictures should, for the most part, speak for themselves. If you're looking for a wordier explanation regarding my, uh, unique spiritual practice of rescuing, butchering and working with roadkill you'll probably find some of your answers in Reduce, Reuse, Recycle which explains the process in better detail. Be sure to also check out my roadkill specific journal category (Asphalt & Entrails), and its correlating Flickr set for even more stories, information and images.

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If you've been visiting Graveyard Dirt for over a week - hi, hello and thanks for coming back for seconds (or thirds or fourths or, you know, whatever) - chances are you're already acquainted with Tourist Trap Crow in some form (see Panikhida). TTC's the "saturated, spring chicken" carrion crow Italics and I found during one of our recent roadkill rounds (May 31st, 2011), and since bringing the soaked-to-the-motherfucking-bone bird back home I've conducted various funerary rites (Corvid Funeral), ritually prepared the bird for decomposition (Resurrection) and ceremonially interred its skeletal remains into a decay-inducing womb (The Black Rabbit's Cauldrons).

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Just by gently examining roadkill with my bare hands I usually get a fair idea of the internal condition of the body, and, sometimes, where the animal received the fatal blow. The only noticeable external trauma was the compound fracture blithely jutting from one of TTC's feet, but, despite feeling solid, I found more broken bones beneath feathers and flesh.

Even though it isn't 100% apparent in the photos below the carrion crow's sternum was slightly crushed and its wishbone cleanly snapped in two (it doesn't take a mothereffing genius to figure out what part of this bird collided with a fast moving vehicle). To ensure no more bones were broken during the ritual of reduction I very carefully worked at joints to disconnect appendages naturally so the only damage visible in the skeletal remains is the damage it sustained when getting nailed by a car.

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A ribbon was tied around the crow to restrain, comfort and relax it during the rite, and then, after prayers, libations and multiple cleansings it was unraveled to release TTC's spirit from the burden of its physical body.

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A sideways peek at TTC's white beard.

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A much better shot of TTC's white soul patch.

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I used a blend of several incenses throughout the ritual of reduction. (The miniature bird-footed bottle is probably familiar, but I think this was the first time I busted out the vintage Russian cruet set that Italics gave me for Christmas.)

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The bowls, tools and brushes used during the ritual of reduction. (I only nicked myself once during the first incision - accidental blood offering, ahoy!)

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TTC's ribboned body resting on layered plates. (One set down for the flayed feathers'n'flesh, and the other to hold its skinned body.)

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Whenever I work with one of my roadkill animals I try to document its appearance and any visible trauma through photographs for two reasons:

1.) It's a quick reference guide that illustrates the condition of the animal which allows me to decide how best to reduce the animal without having to dig it out of the fucking freezer to physically examine it multiple times.

2.) It allows the caretaker-to-be* to develop a bond with the creature they'll be opening their home to.

* I know it probably sounds hella retarded, but I really fucking despise using the word "owner" when referring to people who'll eventually give my critters new homes; these roadkill animals aren't property, and if anything's going to do the owning you better fucking believe it'll be the animal that decides if it wants you.

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TTC has a set of beautiful fucking wings, although this photo only relates half of the glory because there was no effing way to effectively keep the wings spread while taking a picture of them at the same goddamn time. (Shame about the ratty tail, although those feathers can easily be cleaned. <- I try and leave some "grooming" jobs for the caretaker-to-be; perfect animal'n'human bonding activity.)

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More of that white motherfucking soul patch that I love so damn much.

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May 31st, 2011: Appearances can be really fucking deceiving. When we picked up the juvenile carrion crow (aka "Tourist Trap Crow") it was nearly frozen and soaked to the motherfucking bone. Despite its saturated, spring chicken state we picked it up anyway - it was a clean hit; skull unfractured, no bodily ruptures or glimpses of internal organs - making it the first official roadkill crow of 2011. After some serious TLC (which required 24 hours of gentle feather fluffing while breathing onto the cold body to warm and dry the bird) the roadkill crow magically transformed from an ugly (dead) duckling to a taxidermy worthy specimen.

From ugly duckling to slightly-ruffled-around-the-edges swan.

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I have such tender affection for TTC, and every fucking time I see this photo my black, shriveled heart somehow manages to swell with love. I don't want to get all, you know, magic-woo-woo on you, but the rituals of release and reduction were so effortless and smooth that the entire process left me with the biggest sense of affirmation, serenity and happiness.

I'll be honest, there've been countless times this past month when I was at the end of my sharing-my-life-and-office-with-an-injured-fucking-crow rope and all I could do to deal with the stress of the routine-shattering detour was throw my hands up to the sky demanding FOR MOTHER LOVIN' CHRIST, WHY?!. It wasn't until after TTC was spread out in front of me that I understood where that feeling of intimate connection came from: TC.

By devoting time, energy and emotion to a living crow I've created an association that, like it or not, unlocks my maternal instinct whenever I interact with them. Every crow - dead, alive, roadkill or natural death - is now, and forever will be, the injured fledgling we rescued, lived with, cared for and loved, and because of that I can't help but work more carefully, more gently and with the greatest amount of compassion when handling any crow.

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When inspecting TTC's body I noticed an egg-like bump bulging out from its lower abdomen. The force of the impact had caused the internal organs to distend down - ultimately tearing the thin abdominal sheet between skin and viscera - into the lower abdominal cavity. In this picture you can see the liver, gizzard and the tattered remains of the thin ass membrane that once protectively covered the organs.

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TTC's flayed skin in one complete piece (feather side up).

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TTC's flayed skin in one complete piece (feather side down).

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Carrion crows have bristle-like "hairs" that grow along their upper beak (in the opposite direction of their other feathers), and thanks to an extra sharp medical grade scalpel I was able to include those feathery "hairs" in TTC's flayed skin.

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TTC stripped down to muscles, bones, organs and feet. (Sorry about the intestine spillage; I, uh, wasn't wearing gloves - DON'T BE LIKE ME; ALWAYS WEAR FUCKING GLOVES WHEN WORKING WITH ANY DEAD ANIMAL, OKAY? - so I didn't want to gingerly tuck in entrails with my bare hands.)

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TTC's feet, cleanly separated from the body without breaking any bones or inflicting any new damage.

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Most of TTC's organs waiting to be separated into two piles (the skin's already been removed, and I allow the brain to liquefy within the skull as the remains macerate in water): the shit that's kept and dried, and the shit that's returned back to the earth. I kept the heart, liver, eyes and tongue (which is still attached to its trachea), and buried the other internal organs in my borlotti bean container. (Magic crow beans, anyone?)

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TTC finally reduced to muscle and bone.

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To help expedite the maceration process I removed as much soft tissue as I could from TTC's body. Whatever was cut off ended up in the shit-that's-kept-and-dried pile to be used at the discretion of the eventual caretaker (for obvious fucking reasons I don't recommend treating the dehydrated breast steaks as homemade jerky).

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After a long ass afternoon of serious motherfucking work TTC had been ritually reduced to six distinct parts: the muscle and organs I kept (blue glass bowl), its flayed skin, complete with soul patch, beak hairs, wings and tail feathers (ceramic oval dish), five giant blood clots (paper squares), feet (rectangular white dish), skeleton (blue glass dish) and the muscles'n'organs I returned back to the earth (white metal bowl). Nothing, as you can clearly see, was wasted or thrown out.

...but that's not the end of Tourist Trap Crow's story, because, really, it's only just begun. Like I mentioned in Panikhida, I'll be updating Graveyard Dirt over the next few weeks with pictures of TTC's progression from cold, wet roadkill to naturally cleaned, project-ready parts (bones, feet, blood, organs, skin and feathers). So if you do come back for seconds - or thirds or fourths or, you know, whatever - you'll be able to witness the slow transformation of flesh to bone.

The Black Rabbit's Cauldrons

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Manmade wombs cradle the newly dead as they sleep beneath a still sheet of filmy water.

Love and Sorrow

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On June 3rd the Orthodox Church observes the feast day of The Vladimir Madonna. This particular Mary's called Vladimirskaya (to us Slavs, anyway), and it's her heartrending expression that simultaneously reflects maternal love and sorrow that's made her one of the most highly revered icons of all Orthodoxdom. As a devout witch I have unending respect and admiration for what the Blessed Mother stands for, and I regularly drag my city-hatin' ass downtown to church to invite Her influence of mercy, compassion and love into my life. (Praying for those virtues is way, way easier than practicing them. <- I'd normally cap a statement like that with "just trust me on this", but I don't think you need to be wearing the Ms. Dirty dress to get where I'm coming from.)

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My holy day of reverence began with the old dead (love), and ended with the new dead (sorrow). The sad, autistic reality is that mercy, compassion and love comes easily when you can cradle fur and feathers to your chest, but those qualities'n'characteristics - which pour out naturally for wild and domesticated animals - isn't a default response when dealing with people. I could probably give you one million and two reasons why I do this entire roadkill thing, but at the heart of it I sometimes wonder if it's all an exercise in relating, understanding and, ultimately, forgiving.

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I found the youngest of the two rabbits at the base of a small crow rookery built in tall pine trees towering over a heavily trafficked country road. One or two fledglings had already met their asphalt death, and to ensure that the same deaths weren't repeated I removed the bunny from the road to eliminate any scavenging temptation. Unfortunately, this rabbit's skull was shattered, so I skinned the body, took the fur, feet and tail, and buried the rest of its physical remains in one of our sweet corn containers (which'll then be emptied at the end of the year for the insect-cleaned bones).

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Graveyards have a tendency of leaving gifts for me - even new, unexplored ones - and to foster a feeling of goodwill I always reciprocate with something in return. Most cemetery visits are planned (working out that shit in advance gives me a chance to bake an appropriate offering), but when they aren't I can always fall back on the individually wrapped candy, cookies and oatcakes that I keep in my magic wooden basket.

I very nearly didn't take anything when exploring this kirkyard since it was our first introduction (and because my magic wooden basket wasn't actually with me; I didn't think I needed it while haunting the cemetery at 5:30 in the motherfucking morning), but I couldn't resist the celestial dead bell in my path. Sometimes a gift's just a gift and you need to suck it up and simply say DUDE, THANK YOU! least you upset the generous, non-expectant gesture.

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The elder of the two rabbits found on the 3rd wasn't as immaculate as the first (one of its hind legs had burst open - presumably upon impact - revealing the gravel-embedded muscles beneath), but its soulful, doe-like eyes hinted of wisdom gained through experience and I found myself returning, again and again, to stare into the dead eyes of the roadkill rabbit. Unlike the bunny this mature rabbit's head was in perfect condition, but, as I soon discovered, the sustained internal injuries far exceeded the more obvious external damage.

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To be perfectly blunt, the organs had exploded and were floating in a sea of vegetative chyme in the abdominal cavity. I salvaged 2/3 of this rabbit's coat (it was impossible to hygienically skin the lower third) leaving its two front feet attached (like a hand puppet), took its head (the eyes and tongue to dry, and the skull to clean) and buried the rest of its physical remains in Papa's tobacco container (which'll also be emptied at the end of the year for the insect-cleaned bones).

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Most roadkill I find is usually hugging the sidelines, but this fledging carrion crow with three white nails (see them?) was brazenly spread eagle in the middle of a small country road. It seemed like a clean kill until I gently turned over the dead bird's body and saw the majority of its entrails hanging out in a tangled knot. Skinning was an option, but the head - just like the young rabbit's - was crushed, which meant there wasn't much of a skull to retrieve, and I would've had to been insanely careful about flaying it thanks to the bacteria ridden organs hanging out. Since it was already partially eviscerated I decided to hollow out the rest of the bird to prepare it for my first foray into homemade mummification.

May 31st, 2011

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I've been so fucking busy that I've been shying away from the inevitable dirty work that comes with my spiritual practices. Finding the effort to drag my sorry ass out of the house at 5:30 AM to do my roadkill rounds is a piece of motherfucking cake, as is collecting mangled animals, building and creating altars for their funerals and then working with each animal individually (which includes rites, cleansings and, eventually, ritual dismemberment to ensure there isn't any physical baggage keeping the animal anchored unnecessarily to our world).

It's recording shit here in Graveyard Dirt - I mean, past posting "One A Day" photos - that's always felt like a divinely foisted curse that I've had to suck up and endure. Some days there aren't words, but there aren't enough photos, either, which means I have to strike some sort of balance between the two. Today's one of those days where my brain just isn't on (probably because I've been ankle deep in dead wildlife, and, after a while, funeral fatigue starts setting in) and I'm just not feeling this entire journal writing thing, so, like, apologizes in advance if this entry seems sort've flat and listless.

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It's not any secret that Scotland's fostered a strong hate towards wildlife for most of its history. Nature was an enemy, and certain indigenous species were deliberately hunted to extinction due to their pest and/or fashion status, or because folks felt that the animals posed a threat to either humans or livestock.

Recently there's been renewed interest in reintroducing species that had been previously obliterated (i.e. beavers, wild boar, etc.), but any introduction seems to be met with resistance (mostly from people who own serious amounts of land and don't want to see their property affected by animals setting up camp in their territory). Some gamekeepers are still poisoning raptors (predatory birds) despite their protected status, and some farmers seem all too fucking eager to scapegoat and condemn any animal that seems to benefit from living on the fringes of human habitation.

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Here in Scotland (I'd say "in the UK", but Scotland and England have differing wildlife laws, so I'm only versed in what's applied to me and my work here in the northeast corner of the country) it's completely legal to hunt crows, rooks and magpies provided you follow a few simple rules and go about the business as humanely as possible. What I wasn't aware of was the practice of using hunted, dead corvids as scarecrows to deter birds from fields.

We only managed to liberate this hooded crow; there were just too many posts to check and morning traffic had picked up which meant our rescue operation was in plain view. Whoever this farmer is, they're the first to go on this witch's very personal, very local shit list (enjoy your agricultural blight, motherfucker).

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Crow nests are known for being unstable fucking things, and dangerous, to boot, because they build them high up in towering trees which means a tumble out of the nest can be fatal, but even living in the nest can be deadly - it's easy to get picked off by predator birds when you're young, defenseless and sitting on an elevated platter.

This year has been particularly hard on this generation of birds because we've had some seriously unseasonable weather including frequent gale force winds. We suspect that TC was a victim of one of those unusual storms, and after falling out of the nest - or gliding, since it was definitely in its fledgling stage when we found it - an animal tried to grab it by its wing but failed to make a meal out of young crow.

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Appearances can be really fucking deceiving. When we picked up the juvenile carrion crow (aka "Tourist Trap Crow") it was nearly frozen and soaked to the motherfucking bone. Despite its saturated, spring chicken state we picked it up anyway - it was a clean hit; skull unfractured, no bodily ruptures or glimpses of internal organs - making it the first official roadkill crow of 2011. After some serious TLC (which required 24 hours of gentle feather fluffing while breathing onto the cold body to warm and dry the bird) the roadkill crow magically transformed from an ugly (dead) duckling to a taxidermy worthy specimen.

The second corvid from the left - the one with grey shoulders and back - is the hooded crow that we liberated from the farmer's field. (Some people use "hooded crow" and "carrion crow" interchangeably even though hooded crows were granted a separate species status back in 2002. It's hard to change a conception that's been around since the beginning of time - especially since the reclassification happened less than a decade ago - but I feel its important to acknowledge the differences between the species and not lump everything together under a giant umbrella.)

Hooded crows in particular are associated with the Morrigan, the Cailleach (more like "veiled crows"?) and fairies, and it was once custom to throw a variety of shit at one to weasel out information from the Universe about your husband-to-be. I'll be the only one chucking shit at this hooded crow, though, since it's the first of its kind and I have a hard'n'straight rule about keeping firsts for myself.

From left to right: juvenile carrion crow (roadkill; near "Tourist Trap"), adult hooded crow (hunted; field), fledgling carrion crow (natural death; Pine Hedge Rookery) and an undetermined rook (natural death; Pine Hedge Rookery)

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The third corvid from the left is the fledgling carrion crow that we found at the Pine Hedge Rookery later in the morning. It was one of two birds discovered at that particular nesting site, and the first to be spotted as we clambered over the fallen stone wall into the peninsula-shaped hedge. Still hot to the touch I papoose-wrapped its warm, limp body in a clean towel just incase it hadn't finished the processing of passing over (although I didn't feel any sort of pulse). I'm not sure if it was just barely alive (or just barely dead) when we found it, but it was certainly gone by the time I performed the outside funeral.

The fourth and final corvid found that day was also discovered at the Pine Hedge Rookery. It was much further along the decaying process than most birds I pick up - you could see the emaciated, almost mummified body beneath ratty feathers - but its body seemed perfectly intact and I felt like I could still gently break the carcass down into bones. So the stinking rook - which I didn't know was a rook at the time since I didn't get to examine its head to spot the hairless beak, but I did know it stunk to high fucking heaven in that familiar HOLY FUCKING SHIT, HOW CAN SOMETHING ORGANIC AND NATURAL SMELL LIKE GODDAMN BURNING TIRES?! dead mothereffing animal way - was taken home, along with all of the pine needles, beetles and dirt attached to it.

This is the first rook I've found, so its remains - like the hooded crow - will be staying with me.

From left to right: juvenile carrion crow (roadkill; near "Tourist Trap"), adult hooded crow (hunted; field), fledgling carrion crow (natural death; Pine Hedge Rookery) and an undetermined rook (natural death; Pine Hedge Rookery)

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When the weather becomes more favorable I perform the majority of my funerary rites outdoors (naked, usually - I'd rather wash blood off my body than out of my clothes), which is especially useful when you're bringing home multiple animals and can't use the garage as a giant refrigerator due to rising temperatures. (<- Winter in Scotland is a scavengers dream. But the second summer rolls around? You got to either work with your roadkill animals super quick, or cleverly hide them in the fridge until you're ready to start and finish the process in one go).

We make offerings to visiting wildlife on a daily basis - now two times a day since fledglings have left their nest and are being taught foraging skills by their parents - and on this occasion I used breakfast cereal to create edible veve-like patterns around the bodies of the dead to feed both the crows and the wildlife that the food would inevitably attract.

Garden Funeral

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Panikhida

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One of May 31st's carrion crows (the more mature one that was hit by a car): Tourist Trap Crow. Over the next few weeks I'll be updating Graveyard Dirt with pictures of TTC's progression from cold, wet roadkill to naturally cleaned, project-ready parts (bones, feet, blood, organs, skin and feathers). Once I perform the last and final panikhida all of this white-bearded carrion crow will be offered for sale.

Corvid Funeral

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An open air funeral for four corvids (two carrion crows, one rook and one hooded crow) found on the 31st of May.

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Only one of the birds - the more mature carrion crow (bottom right) - was roadkill. The hooded crow (top left) was found hanging from a fucking pole in the middle of a farmer's field, and the rook (bottom left) and infant crow (top right) were both natural deaths.

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Resurrection

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Scarecrow

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At first I thought NO FUCKING WAY, IT COULDN'T BE, but by the third body it was undeniable - some barbaric cunt actually made real life scarecrows out of dead fucking birds. And the worst fucking part? IT WASN'T EVEN EFFECTIVE.

The one goddamn thing it succeeded in doing? Bringing down a hardcore case of agricultural blight straight out've the 16th fucking century. In fact, I'm ready to Janet Horne this motherfucker and ride his bridled ass across country until nothing's left except ashes like I'm some mothereffing Wendigo.

Not Exactly; Not Really

Oh, hey! Remember last month when I said I had to take some time off to seriously evaluate shit? Since then I've assessed, considered, deliberated and mentally weighed in on the recurring bullshit that's been bothering me for some time, and after a month (or more?) away from Graveyard Dirt I feel that I've sufficiently revaluated my relationship with myself, my home, my husband, my land and my perpetual love/hate relationship with the mothereffing internet.

In fact, I was so fucking ready to drag my ass back here, settle into my old routine and get back to work that the Universe took note and immediately dispatched a hardcore dose of responsibility:

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Meet TC, the Taurus crow (also known as "That Crow", as in "is THAT CROW asleep yet?" and "don't tell me THAT CROW has fucking egg yolk all over its fucking head again!") who single-wingedly turned our world upside-fucking-down in the matter of days. We found the injured fledgling hopping in the wheat field adjacent to the Pine Hedge Rookery on the 12th, and the time demanding - but adorable - motherfucker has been with us since.

Within minutes of being home TC was eagerly taking food from us (gluten-free white bread and a boiled, free-range egg), and slept comfortably throughout the night until its feathered, corvid ass was carted to the vet for an emergency appointment. We thought it might've dislocated or broken its wing, but, as it turns out, it's suffering from the equivalent of "a pinky injury" and nothing needed to be bound ("time's the only thing it really needs" is what the vet said).

Despite not having any formal education or training on the rehabilitation of wildlife the vet handed the injured crow over to us and said "it could be a week, or it could be three weeks". And that, Internet, was that. After being animal-free for seven months (our last pet rat, Chooch, died just before Halloween last year) we're suddenly sharing our office/computer room with one of my local crows.

(Who, incidentally, is glaring at the back of my computer chair because I'm not drowning it with attention. <- It's past the age of imprinting (so it knows what it is), but goddamn if it doesn't get restless if I don't keep it entertained. Since the picture was taken we've expanded its living quarters; it now has a long perch to sit on, a brass owl wind chime to play with (it likes ringing the bells) and a raised nest made out of a bucket and my Bean Nighe bowl.)

Thankfully, TC's a fledgling and not a nestling which means instead of waking up every 20 minutes in my sleep schedule to feed its ass (we're currently nocturnal, and they need to be fed from dawn to dusk) I only have to wake up every 2-3 hours to ensure that its food bowl is full and its happily hydrated. For novices I think we're doing pretty goddamn good (our first instincts have, so far, always been right), although a huge part of the "pretty goddamn good" factor comes from the fact that we're taking care of a bird that knows it's a fucking bird; it feeds itself (well, mostly), it preens, cleans and fluffs without our help, and while it understands we're the source of food it still maintains a level of suspicion when interacting with us.

Despite all of that, this is seriously some hard fucking work and the effort, energy and time has begun taking its toll. (How the fuck is it that I'm going to bed LATER every goddamn night and I'm still waking up at the same time every fucking day?) Even though I'm known for being recklessly fearless in my adventures, this was one I almost tried to dodge out of. (All my life I've been plagued by dying and dead animals, so what do I do the first time I have a for-fucking-real chance to save something? Try to duck out of the responsibility. I mean, how the fuck is someone who specializes in nurturing the dead supposed to nurture the living?)

But what choice did I have? Leave the bird in the field to die of exposure or get eaten alive? Abandon the bird in a vet's office, or wildlife rescue center and hope that they wouldn't euthanize it because it was too much of a hassle to rehabilitate? For nearly two years the crows at the Pine Hedge Rookery have gifted me their shed feathers and unwanted eggs, trusted me with their dead and dying, and fed generations of offspring with my offerings of food. They've been generous to me, and in that spirit of generosity I want to give back something to them to show my gratitude for accepting me and my practices.

So am I back? Not exactly. Am I still gone? Not really. I've kind've sort've been keeping up with Twitter conversations (@graveyarddirt, if you're interested), but it all depends on how much shit I've got going on that day. Right now it's impossible for me to keep up with anyone on any social networking site (choose your poison from the STALK ME list on your left), and my inbox has become THE GREAT, UNFATHOMABLE ABYSS which'll require several long weeks of untangling to create order out of chaos. (Feel free to email (graveyarddirt@gmail.com), although don't expect a quick response unless you're looking for an expedited route to ego death.)

Anyway, my (r)evaluation period's over, but only TC can decide when my ass returns to the internet. Right now my only priority is mending this injured crow and getting it back home where it belongs - with its parents, siblings and relatives at the Pine Hedge Rookery. I do miss my former life - and, fuck, I was so close to being done with the super serious spring fucking cleaning shit which meant I could finally focus on selling my dried toadstools and working with my roadkill animals - but sometimes responsibility requires a sacrifice, and if giving up/delaying 1-3 weeks of my idealized version of life saves TC then that's the price I'm willing to pay.

August 26th, 2010

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The woods of a broken crow, wild, edible mushrooms, forgotten feathers, misplaced bones and, once upon a time, seven lousy rabbits.

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(Un)Salvageable

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Salvaging the unsalvageable.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

I start each of my roadkill animals with the best photographic intentions, but by the time I'm elbow-deep in muscle, fat and skin I forget to reach for my trusty camera to document each stage of skinning and - if the meat's safe for human consumption - butchery. So one thing you'll notice with most of my processing-themed images is that the set's never the whole production, just a slight tease of a few steps before I obviously became too engrossed with my work to continue snapping pictures.

While I wouldn't consider this particular set of processing images "complete" (it's missing the all important gutting stage), it does give you a good idea of what skinning an animal's like and how ungross, unbloody and ungrotesque it really is. (I'll be honest - it can be a messy affair. It all depends on how the animal died and where it received the hardest trauma. But a complete, unruptured, fresh animal usually yields a clean and almost effortless job provided you have a sufficiently sharp object (I work with a pair of kitchen scissors and a medical grade scalpel) and comfortable amount of space to work in.)

Over the next 16 images you'll be able to see how I reduced the pair of badgers we found on March 7th from abandoned roadkill to pelts (for tanning), meat (for consumption) and bones (for use in our personal practices) while wasting nothing in the process (unless you count the small amount of bruised, overly bloody badger meat that I offered to my corvids and visiting scavengers as "a waste"). These images aren't gratuitous; in fact, I barely consider them "graphic". If you can stomach eating meat, working with meat, visiting a butcher's shop and watching culinary-based TV shows where entire sides of animals are whittled down to roasts, chops and ribs then you can definitely digest this entry without feeling queasy.

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The night of the badger funeral. I've now conducted roadkill funerals (which involves everything from altar creation to ritual butchery) in the bathroom, kitchen, backroom and directly on my roadkill altar outside beneath The Shango Tree. This was the first time I used the bathroom, and it would've been fucking perfect - a toilet, sink, and bathtub only a stretch away, not to mention the ability just to wipe laminated floors and tiled walls clean in an instant - if the room wasn't so goddamn small.

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Bee (sometimes known as Beh) was one of our pet rats who had an overwhelming compulsion to dig up the fucking carpet. ("BEE! FOR FUCK'S SAKE! STOP TEARING UP THE MOTHERFUCKING CARPET!") When she passed on we chose a badger toy to represent her, a sort've magical effigy, or spirit doll. Within fucking months I discovered that someone - or something - was repeatedly digging up my goddamn outside altar and tossing heavy shit like Stone Cock aside. And then we caught that thing red-fucking-handed; a badger, on our tiny little subdivision property, digging up the fucking yard. ("BEE! FOR FUCK'S SAKE! STOP TEARING UP THE MOTHERFUCKING GARDEN!")

Not every pet rat became a woodland toy animal, and not every roadkill animal has a correlating rat spirit living in a stuffed toy. Bee's a little special in that way, and that unique connection was hard to overlook. So instead of invoking Chippy - who normally helps me with ritually processing wildlife - I called on our Busy Bee to act as a psychopomp for our March 7th pair. It must've been an exhausting fucking job, because the stuffed badger actually looked wrung-the-fucked-out after the ritual and she kept falling over without anyone knocking into her. After an offering of fresh water and a peanut butter'n'pumpkin seed sandwich Bee looked less ragged and finally stopped tipping over without provocation.

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This was the first badger we found on March 7th, the female. She was in worse shape than her possible mate (we found the other badger, the male, within eyesight the female), and was much larger, dustier and more battered (she had been hit multiple times).

She had exaggerated teats and extensive mammary tissue, which lead me to believe that there was probably a den of orphaned pups that had been left behind. (Whenever I pick up a female that was obviously lactating I always make an extra offering of rich cream to her offspring, because I know that their food source - their mother - won't be returning home to nurse them.) Her absence will ultimately result in their death, and that's something I always try to keep in mind when working with my roadkill animals: death doesn't just take the hit animal, sometimes it takes its mate and/or children as well.

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This was the second badger we found on March 7th, the male. Rigor mortis hadn't set in, so when I lifted his skank ass - and, Lord, it was fucking skank (three potent and intense "M" words: male, mating season, musk) - he rolled into my arms like a cuddly teddy bear, all soft limbs and bristly, pliable fur. He was visibly smaller than the female, and weighed less which meant I carried the motherfucker around the house like my baby for as long as I could. (Or, uh, bear. I mean, even the fucking MUSCLE of the male badger naturally stunk to high heaven, and not because he was so old he was "off".)

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Badger feet, they get me every fucking time. (Aren't they fucking adorable?) Whenever I see them I immediately think of Flower, from Bambi. (Although we don't have Flowers here, or raccoons, or possums, or even chipmunks. We're also very, very lucky to live in an area where wildlife diseases don't run rampant, so, for me, the risk of running into something is very low. Rabies, for instance? Practically non-existent here.) When I skin most roadkill I leave everything intact, so along with the face, head, tail and external reproductive features I also leave things like the paws attached so the animal's entire body is present in the flayed skin.

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...if you have a better fucking suggestion of how to weigh large roadkill animals I'd like to hear it. Until then, though, I'm sticking with "old plastic trash can sitting on top of the house's communal scales". The female clocked in at 2 stones ("stones" is a legitimate weight system here in the UK, medieval or what?) and since a stone's something like 14lbs that roughly made her about 30lbs. The male weighed around 10lbs less, and didn't seem as at home in the trash can. (I didn't get a picture of it, but when he went in to get weighed his arms stuck up and out of the container and beseechingly stretched to me like a toddler desperate to get out of a playpen.)

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For me, blood's inevitable at some point of flaying large roadkill because I can't bleed the animal before skinning it (I don't want to ruin the pelt, either by staining it or introducing marks, cuts or holes that'd detract from the fur's eventual appearance), and because it has a tendency to pool around the site of massive trauma (i.e., where it got hit) and form pockets on the side bearing the animal's weight (the parts of the body touching the ground). If you work carefully with a crazily sharp object (I use a pair of kitchen scissors and a medical grade scalpel) you'll find that skinning an animal - even one as big as a badger - doesn't necessarily have to be a Bathory bloodbath affair.

(If you look really fucking closely you can see a dark stripe running along the male badger's neck - that's blood. It's still neatly contained because I didn't puncture the artery, which is why working slow and with a seriously sharp instrument is highly recommended when skinning unbled animals. You can literally skate around some of the major blood vessels in the body if you just take your time.)

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Like I said earlier, skinning in the bathroom was almost fucking perfect but there was only one drawback: not enough leg room. I processed the entire male badger in the bathroom, but when it came time to work with the female I set up camp in the backroom. It was far more comfortable - and relaxing, I plugged our MP3 player directly into the turntable's speakers and listened to The Moors while flaying, gutting and cleaning - but the lighting wasn't as great, so the pictures below look darker and less detailed than the ones above.

I tried taking a few pictures of the mostly skinned female badger to give people a sense of anatomy, but flash photography isn't the best way to show off the intricate weaving of nature and evolution. A badger's jaw is hinged in a way that can't be dislocated unless physically broken, so the skull and upper vertebrae get a tremendous amount of support from an insane amount of muscles (which is clearly visible in this picture). The abdominal cavity isn't open, although you can see some of her internal organs just peeking beneath the disrupted mammy tissue towards the back legs and tail (the muscle holding them in split in one or two places along the inner thigh).

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While the female badger's skull looks undamaged, it was actually in fractured pieces. (The only thing holding the skull together was muscle.) The male sustained much less damage, although his jaw was severely dislocated. In this picture you get a good fucking idea of how goddamn robust a badger's neck is; it doesn't taper down gracefully, and the thick, muscular layers extend straight from the skull to the shoulders.

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The flayed pelt of the female badger. What you see is the entire animal: her fur, feet, ears, whiskers, nipples, asshole - everything. I haven't yet taught myself how to tan hides and furs (that's one of my 2011 goals), but when it's time to preserve her I'll be working with her complete skin. In fact, out of respect to the animal I won't be "grooming" my furs for symmetrical appearance, but that's just my personal feelings as the caretaker of my animals.

(In addition to selling the bones and feathery remains of my roadkill animals I'll also be selling their preserved pelts, although the decision to pop in lower jaws or groom furs will entirely be up to the animal's caretaker. Any pieces trimmed away would be kept - either by myself or the caretaker - to ensure that all of the animal's preserved remains were properly honored.)

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One of the female badger's beautiful little paws, studded with five super long nails that once ripped through the earth to find food and create homes.

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Meat is fucking meat, and we're carnivores, so I don't expect anyone to be blown away by the fact that we eat roadkill (provided that the animal's safe for human consumption). There are certain animals that we won't eat for spiritual or legal reasons, but everything else is fair game. And to be completely honest? If given a choice between hunted food and roadkill food I'd always prefer the roadkill option. (I've eaten hunted game and had to spit out fucking shots; there ain't no bullets to accidentally break your fucking teeth on when eating a roadkill animal.)

People might not believe it, but eating roadkill has drastically changed our diets and personal beliefs of how an animal - one destined to be eaten - should live and die. We've always been concerned about animal welfare, but I've always felt - at least until recently - that two people couldn't really make that much of an impact on industrial farming.

I'm now entering my second year of scavenging and we no longer eat full-priced meat from battery operations (we only purchase the reduced-to-clear shit that's on the verge of being thrown out - our feelings are that letting the animal go to waste by being dumped in a landfill would be the bigger crime), we've drastically reduced our intake of pork and beef, we've instigated vegetarian-only days (which is really fucking hard when you're a flesh-eating troll like me) and drastically raised our intake of local, welfare-assured meat and indigenous game (not just roadkill).

Even though I'm not responsible for the roadkill animal's death, I feel like I make peace by using the dead body. And that's what this picture's all about: communion.

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In these last four pictures you'll see how I reduced the female badger's body down to bone and meat. She isn't 100% complete; her body was so badly damaged I had no choice but to take off her lower legs and bury them with her internal organs. To the right of her partial carcass is a section of her spine, one of her arms (she sustained serious injury to her head, one of her shoulders, her back and one of her hips) and a sheet of fat I managed to rescue off her otherwise inedible lower third.

If you're a meat eater (and, most importantly, a cook), you might be able to pick out familiar cuts in the image above. The most obvious are the ribs which flank the spine on either side, and the two fleshy medallions of meat hugging part of the vertebrae are the tenderloins. Tenderloin is also known as "fillet steak" (here in the UK), or "filet" (French); it's the most tender - and most expensive - cut of meat you can get. Filet mignon comes from tenderloin, so, essentially you're staring at what was eventually removed and made into badger filet mignon.

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Before I could extract those two prized strips of tenderloin I had to remove the excess fat hiding the meat, which is a prize within itself. Pure animal fat is gold in a motherfucking jar to a witch and cook, so I take my adipose harvesting really fucking seriously. Once I have enough reserves from a certain type of animal I gently warm the solid lumps until they've melted, and then strain the liquid fat clean into glass jars which are kept in the fridge. One of my goals is to be able to offer rendered fat from roadkill animals to the witchcraft community through my store-to-be, but first I have to find a supplier of tiny jam jars to see if the idea's even viable.

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By this point I've removed the fat, extracted the tenderloins and removed most of the edible meat from the bones. Because I wasn't sure how to separate the ribs cleanly from the spine (we're totally having BBQ badger ribs) I left the spinal column intact for later butchery.

Her fractured head sits in the middle of the photo, and to her right are her practically meatless bones which will be cleaned for divinatory purposes (I'll be digging up her leg bones once the flesh has rotted off). The two bowls crowning the towel hold fat for rendering and meat for eating, and the clear bowl at the bottom of the towel holds the small, inedible portions which was offered to fellow scavengers. (Picking up roadkill means taking a prospective meal away from carrion eaters, so I like to right the balance by sharing remains with them.)

The ritualized funeral'n'butchery process is hella involved, but it allows me to make most of the unfortunate deaths I come across and, as you can see, nothing - not even a scrap of membrane - gets wasted.

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...and here's most of the female badgered butchered, cleaned, portioned and vacuum sealed. Her head and bones were kept together for cleaning, her fat gathered up into one neat pile for rendering and her spinal column and neck were left whole for future BBQing. The other air-tight plastic envelopes contain meat, and they was separated by cut. (Thin, fleshy flank steaks and thick, chunky casserole bites.)

For the curious, I haven't had badger yet, but I can tell you that it smells like any other red meat. I wouldn't describe the scent as "gamey", but I did detect a faint lamb-like aroma when my mouth began watering. (And, holy fuck, it watered. It watered often.) I'm keeping the tenderloin pieces for something special (badger stroganoff, anyone?), so our first foray into roadkill badger eating will probably be shish kebabs using the chunkier grade of meat flavored with a Mediterranean-style marinade.

Fledgling

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My baby's turning into a fledgling. Soon it'll be time for Beech Hedgerow Crow to leave this nest and enter the loving home of a new caretaker.

Four Funerals and a Bath

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The badger funeral was conducted in our bathroom, and was overseen by Bee (our pet rat who turned into a badger after death; the stuffed toy is Beh's spirit doll, which was invoked to act as a psychopomp for the recently deceased). Offerings were a fresh bowl of cold water, resin-based incense and a shared peanut butter and honey sandwich with raisins on gluten-free brown bread.

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The pheasant funeral was conducted in our kitchen (if the animal's fit to be eaten, then it's fit to be butchered in the culinary heart of our home), and its spirit was ushered outside with the rest of our "chickens" who we regularly feed using old bread, table scraps and Rice Krispies. Offerings were a fresh bowl of cold water, stick incense and a bowl of locally grown oats (not that this motherfucker needed any more food with how much wheat he had stuffed in his crop).

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The rabbit funeral was conducted in our backroom, and was overseen by my Santa Muerte rabbit (the head rabbit of my five black rabbits). Most animals that come into this house end up being processed in the kitchen, but because I'm not allowed to eat rabbit - and because we both picked up an initiatory illness from one that lasted a fucking month - I try and do my rabbit butchery as far away as possible from where I prepare food for consumption. Offerings were a fresh bowl of cold water, a carrot, resin-based incense and a little gem lettuce and parsley open face sandwich on gluten-free brown bread.

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The deer funeral was conducted in our backroom, and the twitterpated couple spent the entire evening nuzzling one another over a shared sandwich as I worked on the female badger in the same room (our tiny bathroom turned out to be too cramped to process a nearly 30lb animal, so I relocated my skinning operation to a larger area with more leg room). Offerings were a fresh bowl of cold water, resin-based incense and a little gem lettuce, parsley and hummus sandwich dressed with some of my "uniquely special" fly agaric/toadstool oil on gluten-free brown bread.

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Amidst the mourning there was some bathing. A few days after our March 7th roadkill haul we stumbled across the mud-soaked body of a dead male pheasant who, despite being plastered with gravel, was still in fairly good condition. We took him home and I Bean Nighed its ass in my orange roadkill bucket filled with cool, sudsy water, rinsed him until the water ran clean and then preened some of his feathers back into place before reducing him down to bones, feathers, meat and feet. I think it must've appreciated the care; this particular pheasant was practically odorless (either that or I've become totally desensitized to the sour, bile-y scent of busted crops and internal organs).

Badger Butchery

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Badger meat is gorgeous, with sheets of creamy, dimpled fat and the most subtle - but not gamy - wild lamb scent. March 7th's male was unsuited for human consumption, but the female was a prime candidate for roadkill butchery so I spent the better part of this afternoon processing her carcass until she was nothing more but meat (to eat), fat (to render) and bone (to clean and use in my personal practices). Everything reduced has a purpose-to-be, and nothing - not even a scrap of membrane - went to waste.

Twitterpated

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For obvious reasons these two (#09 and #10) will be sold as a set.

The Day of 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wild, Full and Fertile

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

Being Tolerated

There's a bunch of website bullshit running through my head (big changes, big overhauls, big updates - but more on that later), and combined with my occasional diversions streak my brain hasn't felt securely bolted to my skull in fucking weeks. The invisible behind-the-scenes work for Graveyard Dirt is mostly occupying my mental facilities, but I thought I'd try and push through a quick entry to keep the content kind've sort've fresh round these parts.

But, fuck, where do I start? I've got to go back farther than dead deer, August 27th and 2010. Maybe as far back as December, 1997 when my 17-year-old gothed out ass crossed the metallic threshold of the airplane onto Scottish ground for the very first time. (Slightly buzzed, I should add, because the British Airways stewardess couldn't give me pain medication for my menstrual camps, but she COULD give me mini-bottles of white wine. And in those days - before my period symptoms drastically changed - I would've taken anything an adult gave me for fucking pain.)

Yeah, 12/1997 is a good start, because that was my first introduction to Scotland. Granted, the time spent was only two weeks (Christmas vacation; it was the first and last year I had a motherfucking Yuletide turkey), but it eventually lead to frequent trips, long stays, and inevitably settling in Italics' home after five long motherfucking years of international traveling. (My ass has been haunting Scottish soil since 1997, but it wasn't until 2001 (when Italics and I had a shotgun immigration wedding) that I became a permanent fixture in this country.)

2009 is-was-is another important year, because that was the year I finally managed to ram my foot in the doorway of independence. After petitioning for nearly 13 motherfucking years Italics' parents - my in-laws - finally buckled and exchanged one of their two cars for a car I could actually fucking drive. My new found freedom coincided with Harvest Moon, and I celebrated the event with an impromptu joyride that took us on a small rural circuit that looped around the local landscape as the Manhunter full moon rose in the distance.

I hit the ground running in 2010 and I never looked back. As the hours of light extended I spent time exploring every little country lane within a 15 mile radius of our home. I got to intimately know the landscape we live in, and I carefully learned the rhythm of the natural world surrounding us. Within months I knew the semi-local countryside better than my in-laws. I knew the forgotten bends and secret stretches, and I knew the distinct personalities that imbued those meadows, thickets, stone walls, hedges and forests.

By late August, 2010 the miniature outside freezer was already packed with roadkill animals. My introduction to what eventually evolved into my roadkill duties first reared its head around early Harvest of 2008 (when we stumbled across the near perfect remains of a wild rabbit on our way to steal some potatoes), and within a year the freezer that once stocked frozen pizzas was stuffed to the brim with rabbits, crows, foxes and even a badger, but nothing remotely deer-related.

That's the thing, though. Deer were curiously scare around these parts until about a year ago. In all of my trips, outings, visits and explorations in those 13 years of confinement (sponsored by my in-laws who'd drive us, park and then sit and fucking read - or sleep - while I had my one or two hours of "freedom" in the wilderness) we never came across a body or even the remains of a deer. They were invisible woodland entities that I knew existed, but they seemed to live without a trace.

I mean, it took me something like ten fucking years before I saw my first deer in the wild. And that? Totally blows my rural Midwest mind because white-fucking-tailed deer were everywhere growing up. Those motherfuckers were so fucking blasé about man and the modern world that you could catch a small fucking herd just grazing within miles of O'Hare airport. My USA association with deer wasn't just rural, they boldly encroached on urban settings and barely gave you a second glance as you whizzed by in your car.

I'd almost go as far as saying that American white-tailed deer were weirdly domesticated in the sense that they just don't give a fuck about humans. ("People? Fuck those motherfuckers." <- How very Ms. Dirty of them.) Their Scottish counterparts, though, are considerably less brazen. They're fleeting, feral mirages that appear and disappear in the transient gloam of twilight, and the first misty vestiges of a dusty pink dawn. The deer I know and now live with are wary of humans, cars and the modern world; they still retain their bestial innocence and untamed wildness.

My relationship with the deer of Scotland evolved as my personal flavor of witchcraft evolved. The deeper I crawled into the earthy rabbit hole the more relaxed nature seemed around me. I'm not talking miraculous Dr. Doolittle shit where overly friendly wildlife swarmed me with affection and song the second I stepped into the wild, but the more I worked with roadkill - and the more familiar I became with the heart and soul of my slice of countryside - the more nature opened up to me.

I was gradually made privy to an entirely different way of life, and even though my presence was a disturbance it was no longer taken as an immediate threat; foxes sat and waited for me in meadows, and deer - unimpressed with me and my car - would look me over once before totally dismissing me by returning to eat unalarmed. It was like nature didn't have to hold its breath when my ass was around; even if I wasn't accepted, I was being tolerated and that was more miraculous than sewing mice and duet singing bluebirds.

Lunch & a Funeral

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#7 - Italics' little cheeky devil - enjoyed a fresh basil, Chinese cabbage and romaine lettuce heart open faced sandwich on a slice of multi-grain brown bread (served with a generous trickle of my toadstool oil), and a bowl of fresh water before we embarked on our six hour funeral rite.

Blood, Bone & Water

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Valentine's Day Funeral

I know I've mentioned it before, but there's this curious phenomenon I experience after a long period of nocturnal-related absence from my roadkill duties: on the first day out I'm always given some sort of gift. In winter it's usually a pheasant, in summer it's usually a rabbit but on February 13th we stumbled across the broken body of a young roe buck at Dead Animal's Curve (so far we've found one adult badger (Under the Bed Badger) and two adult deer (#6 and now #8) on the bend; like the oldie song goes "it's no place to play") bringing my roadkill deer total up to 8.

By the look'n'smell of him I could tell that he'd been at the side of the road for a few days. Thankfully the cold snap we've been experiencing helped preserve his body, so the scent was more "old meat getting more old" than "rotting, bloated corpse". Unlike #7 who had a cheeky little glint in his beady eyes (he's a mischievous little fucker; trust me) #8's corneas were glazed over-milky, and they had already begun the process of retreating back into the skull.

Scavengers had obviously not wasted any time tucking into the free, nourishing meal. (In fact, an entire flock of crows took the air as I approached the deer's body, ferociously cawing down at my ass from naked beech trees for disturbing their Sunday brunch.) A huge patch of fur and flesh had been stripped from #8's body leaving a section of his ribs exposed. Something had also perforated the deer's abdomen revealing a couple of strands of puffed up intestine. Needless to say, this particular buck wasn't in any condition to take home. So I took the one body part I could "save": his head.

After apologizing on the behalf of the human race for what happened (you're welcome, human race, and if you're going to send me a box of chocolates as a thank you I totally prefer "dark"), and asking the Old Woman (the Cailleach) for strength and speed I furiously began cutting through inches of fur, skin, fat, muscle and bone (winter coats are a motherfucking bitch to work through) with my dinky little hacksaw. (Because, like, that's totally what people want to see on their late Sunday morning drive in the country: a woman with her fat ass hanging out of her pants while decapitating a roadkill deer.)

Once the connection was completely severed I bagged the head, slapped the buck on its ass to encourage his spirit to take off (I release animals back into the wild instantly, but they do occasionally get rounded up - herded by Chippy in the case of my spectral deer - to be fed and watered) and dragged the decapitated body deeper into the beech hedge to give scavengers a safer place to consume the deer's remains. (I mean, the spot's been nicknamed "Dead Animal's Curve" for a reason.)

Because it was so late in our "day" (we're still rocking weird, nocturnal hours but we're slowly inching to a more normal sleep pattern) I left #8's head in the garage overnight so I could perform a proper funeral the day after (Valentine's Day) without feeling rushed by my early afternoon bedtime. The pictures below are of that funeral ritual, which, by this point - if you've been following Graveyard Dirt for a bit - should probably look sort've familiar. (Why mess with a formula that works?)

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Normally I hold wakes outside on my roadkill altar, but that's only if I'm physically in the backyard keeping an eye on the dead animal (or dead animal part). Despite living in a rural subdivision our property's a hotspot for wildlife activity (everything from hedgehogs, badgers, foxes and deer), and it's forever being patrolled by every goddamn cat that lives in a five mile radius. So it goes without saying, if I'm not able to keep a hawk's eye on the funeral (and the bodily contents that make up the funeral) then the shit comes into the house - no matter how god-fucking-awful the scent is.

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Dying is an exhausting process, so to help my roadkill animals overcome the disorientating sluggishness of death I always juice them up with offerings of incense, fresh water and a freshly prepared sandwich. I have yet to explain it (I'm several years behind on stories), but I have a magic little deer bell I ring to alert my spectral herd that it's feeding time. (The process of them associating the sound with a free meal took 21 fucking days and was a huge pain in the motherfucking ass.)

#8's open face sandwich was made up of organic little gem lettuce and fresh dill on a slice of gluten-free white bread served with a generous drizzle of my "uniquely special" psychoactive toadstool (fly agaric) oil. (<- Reindeer aren't the only deer that enjoy the buzz from consuming the hallucinogenic mushroom, although they're probably the most well known for the behavior.)

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The damage sustained to #8's antlers. Even though you can't tell, the one that looks intact - the one on the left - was actually loose and slightly floppy. I've "rescued" four bucks since starting my roadkill duties, but only one - the first deer I ever found - came with a pair of antlers that didn't suffer major trauma.

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Roe deer - what this young buck is-was-is - was the original Bambi. Walt Disney swapped roe for white-tailed deer because the species was more familiar to American audiences.

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Tiny, adorable antler nubs. When I eventually rot #8 down to retrieve the skull I'll try my best to retrieve any broken or shattered parts of the antler so the person who ends up buying the head will also receive the fragmented bits which they can add to a mojo bag, place on an altar or carry around in a pocket or purse.

Year of the Rabbit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Good fucking Lord, where the fuck do I begin?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me and #7

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If I still smell like wet ass deer fur, this is probably why.

#7; Italics' Ultrasound Deer

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...like I totally didn't have enough to do in the next 48 hours.

Cleaning for the Bride

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smoke Bath

I'm still sick, so I'm pushing through the post-flu phase as gently as possible. Not yesterday, but the day before - the first day back on my feet (even if only for 3 hours) - Italics helped me pot roast the gorgeous roadkill pheasant we found on the 14th. Even though the meal was only a fraction of the size of Harvest's celebratory dinners, it was the first proper serving of real food either of us had in something like five fucking days and I thanked the fuck out of the bird for providing us some hardcore nourishment after a severe wave of illness.

Until I'm fully recovered I'm going to have to pick my daily battles carefully. Now that the brisket's finally brining, my sole focus is cleaning the backroom (currently stuffed with cardboard boxes filled with bones, dried "edible" mushrooms and dried fly agarics, not to mention several sets of feathers pinned to boards, dried Midwinter evergreen that needs bottling up and a basket full of gifts decorated with twine, feathers and bones). But, I can't clean the backroom until I'm finished with the communal lounge, and that motherfucking room can't get the ALL EFFING CLEAR! stamp until I've taken down all the Christmas decorations, boxed them up and tossed them back into the attic for another 11 months.

In lieu of a proper journal entry I've decided to post a short video of me ritually purifying Beech Hedgerow Crow's dried feathers (two wings, one set of fanned tail feathers and one feathered head hood) in an incense smoke bath with Chippy's help. (I suppose I should thank Enya for providing a dated, easy-listening soundtrack for the event? <- Storms in motherfucking Africa!) After we had worked our way through the separate pieces I jokingly held the spread wings against Chippy's back (he's my "air" correspondent, in his original form he has two sets of raptor-like wings) and my ass was instantly met with three booming, crazily enthusiastic words: "BUTTERFLY, WOMAN, BUTTERFLY!"

Good fucking Lord. After several thousand years of existence, Mr. Lord of the Flies - disease, pestilence and famine himself - wants to be a motherfucking butterfly. I can't say I'm surprised (he does have an awful fondness for cuteness), and one of his favorite things to do OTHER than watch Christmas music videos is sit outside near the butterfly bush and wait for his winged friends to visit him. (I, uh, inadvertently domesticated the undomesticated. It's amazing what can be achieved with sex, homemade soup and flying kites.) So, on our belated Christmas Morning, we granted that wish and helped him become an honorary Lepidoptera member.

Carrot Dildos; Phantom Rabbits

Witchcraft in this house: "I NEED A FUCKING CARROT DILDO SO I CAN START FEEDING POT BUNNY (SPIRIT HELPER-IN-TRAINING) REGULARLY."

Scotland Sunset

Another Scotland sunset...

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2010's Harvest Meals

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January 14's roadkill pheasant find (and what a fucking find!) reminded my ass that I never got around to writing a formal entry about our special Harvest meals of 2010. (Food, if it already isn't obvious, is my favorite sort've daily magic.)

The majority of my fall-winter/winter-spring celebrations and holy days have a menu set in stone. (We'll always have Brunswick stew and bread on Halloween, either gumbo or a glazed ham for Fet Ghede, turkey on Thanksgiving, Ukrainian shit on Sviata Vechera, goose for Christmas and homebrined corn beef for Bride's Day.) It's the complete fucking opposite for spring-summer holidays, though, and our Harvest meals - neither summer or winter - fall somewhere between those two opposing camps.

I can't permanently chisel a course into my yearly menu because I never know what the land's going to offer throughout the warm months leading up to Harvest. Our celebratory autumn meals focus on what we've grown, gathered, foraged, picked and butchered, so it's very much dependent on my relationship with the local land that year. (The more time I spend outdoors working in the wild, the more opportunities I get to find mushrooms, berries, fruit, roadkill and edible plants'n'herbs.)

2010 was a bumper fucking Harvest thanks to finally having a car. Up until last year nothing was accessible to me; everything was just one or two or three miles away too far to walk. (The trio of standing stones I recently mentioned? A five to seven minute drive from the house, but to pilgrimage to that shit on foot? Nearly two fucking hours.) Last year I finally had the ability to really get to know the land I'm living on, and it seemed to reciprocate my excitement by ensuring I never came home with an empty basket.

In fact, on Harvest Moon (which fell on the autumnal equinox last year) I actually found one of our meals: a roadkill pheasant hen. After performing a funeral, and ritually butchering the wild bird I plastered homegrown bay leaves to the breasts, wrapped the carcass with strips of fatty pancetta and roasted her over Scottish grown root vegetables (it's very important to me to use as many local ingredients as possible).

Once she was cooked I added the contents of the roasting pan into my soup pot and made stock from the pheasant and vegetables, and once THAT was cooked I strained the stock, shredded every bit of meat, cleaned off the bones (a gift for a friend) and offered the remains - the vegetables, with some token pieces of meat - to the wildlife that visits our back garden. (If I take a meal from my scavenger brethren I make sure I compensate them somehow, which is why we have foxes and a variety of corvids reeking havoc in the back fucking yard.)

We made a risotto out of her lovingly prepared body (along with homegrown garlic, homegrown herbs and wild mushrooms - porcini, the queen of feral fungi! - we had picked and dried ourselves), and it was the best goddamn risotto we've ever fucking eaten. (Seriously. We're STILL talking about it several months later.) My in-laws wouldn't touch it, though, so a small portion ended up rotting in the fridge because neither of them had the balls to tell me that they were apprehensive about eating "wild food" even though they watched both Italics and I enjoy the meal without so much as a burp of fucking indigestion.

Our second major Harvest meal involved another roadkill pheasant, although Mr. Two Cocks was actually a January find. Because he was so beautifully large (and fatty since he was killed during winter) my hoarding instinct kicked in and I ended up stashing him in the freezer for "something special". I sat on his vacuum sealed pheasant ass for 8 to 9 fucking months before I finally decided that I was giving the Universe the wrong fucking signal.

(Surely the best way to get MORE of what you want is by actually using and appreciating what you were given, right? So far, so good. Since deciding to use him back in fall we've stumbled across 10+ roadkill pheasants, 3 of which were fit for human consumption (4, actually, but I lost one due to being sick, so I buried his body in my little roadkill cemetery to retrieve his bones at a later date). While I'm planning on freezing one of the two currently hanging in the garage, the other one is destined for an imminent casserole grave.)

So, during the peak of the Harvest season I finally defrosted Mr. Two Cocks, and both Italics and I paused for a minute to give thanks for all we were blessed with before making a meal out of herbs from my container garden, garlic that I grew in the dirt yard, wild mushrooms picked by Italics and I, locally grown, organic vegetables and one roadkill pheasant we found on a windy fucking day in late January. (I have a horrible fucking stoner memory, but one thing I don't fucking forget? Where I pick up my roadkill animals.)

It was a dinner so fucking perfect - so fucking delicious; everything tasted ~MAGIC~ and all of the flavors (from the sweetness of the swede to the nutty crunchiness of the skirlie) melted together perfectly - that I actually began crying while eating, and I had to take a minute to compose my damn ass in order to continue. (It wasn't just me! Italics said, without any emotional blackmail or manipulative prodding, that it was one of the best effing meals he had eaten in a long time.)

Maybe I'm just being sentimental (because I love this land, Italics and our endless adventures), but it was a gratifying experience to be able to sit down to a meal that I found, I cleaned and I prepared. Sure, the lemons and balsamic vinegar weren't local, but what really counted - the backbone of each dish - I discovered myself. That dinner happened because I dug my fingers deep into the earth to pull out bulbs and mushrooms, because I stopped my car to lift the dead body of an animal off asphalt, because I allowed myself to be covered in dirt, blood, feathers and death. As a being who lives on consuming, it was the most profound, most personal experience of communion I ever had the honor of participating in.

Pictured above: red wine-braised roadkill pheasant casserole with porcini, herbs and balsamic vinegar, porcini & white wine gluten-free bread stuffing, boiled swede topped with toasted gluten-free breadcrumbs, skirlie; a traditional Scottish dish of broken oatcakes fried in fat, and lemon & rosemary roast potatoes.

Pheasants of Love

What? You didn't know Kate Bush's Hounds of Love album and ritual butchery go hand in hand? Well, you do now.

Jan. 14th Pheasant

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While there are definite roadkill seasons (we're currently rocking the game season which is primarily pheasant in this area), it doesn't always mean I'm going to come home with an animal. One thing I have noticed, though, is after a long period of absence I'm often gifted with something on the first or second day of returning to my regular roadkill rounds.

(In summer our shifting nocturnal habits don't influence going out in any way because we only experience 3-4 hours of darkness, but in winter - when it's only light for something like 5-6 hours a day - my ability to go out is nearly non-existent if we're up at night, and we can be up at night for sometimes a month, or a month and a half.)

As morbid as it might sound, I view the offerings of roadkill as a welcome back gift. I think sometimes my longing to be back in my element is so palpable that the land reciprocates the lonely pining, and when I announce OH, HEY, NATURE, I'M ~BACK~! it makes sure I'm not psyching it out by enticing me to stay.

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Usually on my first outing I find something; it wasn't any different on January 13th. After not having done any sort of roadkill sweep or state of the kingdom drive since late October I was desperate to get out and refamiliarize myself with all of my favorite haunts, all of my favorite spots that I've never physically visited, but've lovingly appreciated every fucking time I drove past.

At the end of our epic drive (I still need to post the other pictures, but I did manage to post one a few days ago) we stumbled across the remains of a young deer. Its head was crushed (no skull to retrieve), and its abdomen had apparently exploded on impact. There wasn't much of a mess because a scavenger had obviously come along and eaten their fill, but what I couldn't understand was why the carcass hadn't been dragged away.

And then, when trying to remove the body from the side of the road, I finally understood why: the fawn was frozen to the ground. I mean, frozen fucking solid to fucking asphalt. I'm a strong motherfucking woman - Italics says I'm an obvious Slavic power lifter - but I couldn't budge the fucking thing. With mixed emotions all I could do was rest a hand on the dead deer's body and apologize for what was done, and for what I couldn't do.

(I very rarely delve into the darker, more emotional aspects of being a steward of the land, but there's this crazy, rabid need to "make things right". Someone came along and killed something I love, something that brings me joy and inspires a sense of maternal protection (which, in itself is an amazing feat since that sort've response isn't something autistic people are known for) and I'm the one who has to pick up the fucking pieces.)

(I pick up the equivalent of wild pets, and sometimes - when I'm sobbing and cradling a broken fox to my car - I hate with a vengeance. (My first roadkill animal ever was my black dog, who I found at the side of a crossroad intersection on the day of my senior high school exams.) I'm responsible for a kingdom and everything that resides in it, but I'm powerless when it comes to protecting the inhabitants from people who are speeding to get home five minutes earlier than usual.)

(I try and ease the ache by working with the animals, but not every roadkill animal I discover I can bring home (too decomposed to safely handle and transport in the back of the car), or even move off the road (not enough left to be able to physically remove any real remnants). While I feel like I'm making a difference, it's still an emotionally draining job that has serious drawbacks like having to euthanize an animal yourself because it was road-broken-beyond-repair rather than roadkill.)

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So, on the 13th we came back empty handed, without really coming back empty handed. (There was a gift, I just didn't have a magic fucking ice pick to free the body from its roadside prison.) On the 14th, though, we didn't. Less than a quarter of a mile from the frozen deer - just meters from where I found #5 (the broken antler crossroads buck) last year - was the most glorious fucking pheasant cock I've ever fucking seen.

I WISH I had a picture at how fucking ridiculous his body looked lying on a grass mound; it was as if someone dropped something garishly colored out of a grocery bag on the most predominant spot in the landscape. And because he was fresh - so fresh, in fact, that he was still hot to the touch - he looked more like a narcoleptic pheasant than a roadkill animal. I won't lie; I totally banged a fist off the fucking steering wheel and shouted the most enthusiastic THANK FUCKING YOU! into the air.

(Fine, I admit it. I do love watching pheasants doing their wild bird thing in the fields, but, to me, there's a difference between a pheasant and a fox. I see game birds as free-range food living as it should, and knowing that their hit'n'run deaths are pretty fucking instantaneous compared to larger animals makes their passing a little easier to swallow. (Ahem.) That doesn't mean I respect them any less than any other living creature, it just means their death serves a different purpose for me: food and, ultimately, survival.)

I've been so fucking busy I haven't had a chance to ritually butcher him and prepare the remains for my casserole pot. Today's the day I'm finally going to have to bite the effing bullet and MAKE some goddamn time because we found a second pheasant yesterday (a female; no pictures of her yet, though) and I seriously need to attend to the pair before they get too gamey for my tastes.

In fact, instead of going on about what I need to fucking do, I should really be getting started to do what I need to fucking do...

Today, We Didn't

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Yesterday we came home empty-handed. Today, we didn’t.

Beech Hedgerow Crow

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"Do you wanna park?" I asked Italics as we loaded the car with our grocery shopping. It was just after 10PM in early July, which meant the natural lighting had dimmed, but it wouldn't truly be dark for another hour or so.

(We live far enough north to experience dawn breaking around 2:30AM during summer; night doesn't properly fall until around midnight, and even then - especially around Midsummer - there's this luminous blue ribbon that hugs the tiny space between the horizon and sky that doesn't disappear during the 2-3 hours of darkness.)

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So I drove to the small country lane that begins with crossroads and ends in a 3-way junction, where my wild roses grow, where I ritually reap wheat, where we pick up roadkill pheasant for dinner, wave to the familiar cattle, get followed by the local raptors and occasionally pilgrimage over to the trio of standing stones that've seen countless generations live, die and work the sacred land that the ancient stone monuments inhabit.

We pulled into the beginning of a blocked off, feral road (nature's reclaimed the unused stretch of asphalt, and now it's covered with grass and wild flowers providing the local rabbits a lush playing field) and parked, but hot'n'heavy car action didn't come into play because I was dying for a piss. (I'm a woman of many curses, one of them being the inexplicable need to fucking urinate the second I'm in the fucking country.)

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In that dimming July night we broke through the tricky hedge separating open country and forest, and spilled into the twilight hushed woods. Silent and eerie we maneuvered around pockets of pooled water, broken pine boughs and the dilapidated remains of a pheasant coup as we explored new, uncharted territory.

(One of the reasons why I find so many goddamn pheasants is because we live a few miles off an estate that provides hunting, so the gamekeepers artificially inflate the number of birds by introducing human-reared pheasants into the wild.)

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And then we did what we always do when it's just us and nature: we fucked. This time against a tree as I simultaneously tried to keep the position (the second I lost the perfect angle his cock would pop out) AND not slip off the two different dirt mounds I was standing on. We both laughed, we both climaxed and we both ended up having to pick bits of broken bark from our hair once we finished our amorous encounter.

As I scooped the combined sexual fluids trickling out of my cunt to offer it to the ground - to the woods, nature and earth - we found the remains of a solitary wild rabbit skull, perfectly cleaned and white washed by the elements. (Which is usually standard for us. For whatever reason the wild likes to repay favors, and it repays them pretty fucking quickly. The year before we ended up having ritual sex in another pine forest, and as we left a hunter gave me seven shot rabbits for free.)

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We did manage to park despite our unintended foray in the woods, and we sat - side by side - in the front of the car passing a bottle of chocolate milk back and forth while I enjoyed a reduced-to-clear apple turnover. (<- Post-sex munchies!) And when it was time to leave, we came home via the tiny, old village that we often walk to in order to visit the local graveyard (and abandoned wall garden, the ruins of an antique chapel, the beech hedgerow, the field where I first ritually reaped wheat several years ago and the disturbed children's home and orphanage).

Even though it was much darker than when we originally set out "to park" I instantly identified the black anomaly resting against the low stone wall separating the beech hedgerow from the road: a youngish carrion crow. I quickly pulled into a partially barred field opening leaving Italics (and the running car) to quickly jog down the length of the stone wall to pick up the roadkill bird to take home.

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(Corvids nest in that particular hedgerow, but I'm not sure of the actual type. The bird I picked up was definitely a carrion crow - it's kind've easy to misidentify/mix up juvenile rooks and crows because rooks don't develop their garish, gray-colored beaks until adulthood - due to the beak beard it sported. (<- Carrion crows, regardless of age, will always have a smattering of bristly feathers growing along the top of the beak.) I can't say for certain that this crow lived in those beeches, but it was a lot smaller than the other crows I handled later in the year so the assumption that it was a youngin' from that group of nests isn't exactly unfeasible.)

Once home I promptly ignored all the fucking groceries that needed to be unpacked and sat my ass down on the kitchen floor to release and ritually deconstruct the dead crow. First the two sets of gravel-crusted wings were clipped from the body, then its tail feathers (they're still attached to a dried bit of skin so instead of being reduced to loose feathers they form a tiny fan), and once the major appendages had been removed I carefully skinned the bird's head with a model craft scalpel to save the feathered hood to dry.

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Having never actually seen the internal anatomy of a crow - or any wild bird, for that matter - I gently opened Beech Hedgerow Crow to take a respectful peek inside, although its small body sustained massive trauma which reduced the majority of the internal organs to a pulpy mess.

(When you get hold of a larger roadkill animal it's always obvious where it got hit. Internally, I mean. The smaller the animal, the more damage it takes throughout its whole body, so instead of having one isolated area that's bruised and battered the entire fucking body can get beaten up and liquefied.)

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The youngin's clipped feathers and hood were pinned against cardboard, salted and dried. I bagged the more perishable remains - the body, feet and head - and immediately froze them, leaving the eyes and tongue in tact for later extraction. (Waste not, want not.)

And in the outside freezer Beech Hedgerow Crow still sits with the other corvids, waiting for the day when a witch comes along and knows in his/her heart'o'hearts that this lovingly prepared roadkill crow was meant to come home to them.

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Just incase this entry grabbed your interest:

I'm selling both the wild rabbit skull and all of Beech Hedgerow Crow's parts. Currently both of its wings, its tail feathers and hood are dried and ready to be shipped, although they do require a little TLC to remove gravely bits. The skull, bones, few internal organs and feet aren't ready, though, so they require some processing time before they can be mailed. (I know, I know, I hate waiting too, but at least the tradeoff is knowing I'll be working on those parts especially for you.)

I have video footage of me ritually cleansing the wings and feathers that I need to post (not to mention an entire fucking folder of still photos), but if you already feel strongly about any part of this carrion crow (or the rabbit skull) you're more than welcome to contact me (graveyarddirt@gmail.com) about reserving or purchasing your desired piece(s).

Pine Hedge Rookery

The pine hedge rookery, where a lot of our local crows live. This is where I often get the ones that die a natural death, where I pick up pristine feathers from, and where I leave special offerings. (Which is really sort've pointless since all the damn crows hang out in our yard thanks to all the fucking food I put out for them on a daily basis. <- I even got the motherfuckers eating borsht out of a bowl. Seriously.)

Last year - when this was taken - grain was grown next to the rookery, and I spent a very early morning ritually reaping a large bundle to take back home to work with. (You don't want to know how many effing feathers I had to untangle from the sheaves.) Halloween, Fet Ghede, Thanksgiving, Sviata Vechera, Christmas and New Year celebrations sort've overwhelmed me, and I haven't had a chance to sit down and finish that particular project yet.

In 2010 I collected between 5-7 complete crows (a mix of natural death and roadkill), so there's a good chance that some of my freezer crows are actually present in this video. (If you're planning on buying one of my frozen corvids it's totally cool to wave hello to the birds because there's a good chance you'll be waving to your crow.)

Stigmata

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"From now on let no one cause me trouble, for I bear on my body the marks of Jesus." ~ Galatians 6:17

2010 Altar

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

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

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

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

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

Winter Window Bird

It's been snowing for a fucking week (and when I mean "it's been snowing for a fucking week" I mean "it's been motherfucking snowing non-fucking-stop for a goddamn week, and there are fucking cars abandoned along the sides of non-existent roads and motorways - including my in-laws' - and it isn't even fucking December yet"), and there's no fucking indication that it's going to cease anytime soon.

This is our first serious freeze of the year, and there's no doubt about it: winter's come hella, hella early. To help give visiting wildlife a boost we've been scattering handfuls of food where birds normally expect it (the patio's offering pillar, underneath the sycamore tree, at the roadkill altar and across the snow-blanketed dirt yard), but late this afternoon we broke from standard routine and added a new location to our feeding repertoire - the office's windowsill.

(Well, semi-new. I started leaving dry cat food on our bedroom windowsill for the magpies, and those smart ass, motherfucking birds learned that if they banged on the fucking window with their beaks after eating it all one of us would eventually stumble out of bed, half-asleep, to throw more food outside to shut them the fuck up. As you'd expect, that particular routine didn't last long. Especially once the magpies discovered my tiny inflatable wading pool...)

The European robins, sparrows and finches are daring little cheaps, but it's the female blackbirds that have the biggest fucking balls of the bird kingdom. Fearless, predatory and astute, they live on the fringes of your movements, reacting to your actions, but never running away. Once the smaller songbirds catch wind of you - your voice, your movement, your presence - they're gone in a flash, but the lady blackbirds just cock their heads, study you with their reflective, black eyes and double check that it's cool for them to eat your shit.

Death, Disease & Bacteria

This entire roadkill thing isn't about picking up dead animals from the side of the fucking road. Or waving their battered remains over eye-stinging incense. Or finding poetic ways to justify modern kitchen butchery. It's about stewardship and sovereignty of the land, and all the life that exists within the boundaries of the territory I've carved out and claimed for myself. It's about responsibility, sacrifice and a pretty heavy fucking commitment to playing out an unsavory - but necessary - role that has to be performed to maintain balance.

I know I make this shit look easy, which sort've worries me because I haven't had a chance to delve deeper into my personal practices regarding the spiritual processing of physical remains and my continued work with the animals long after the bones are clean and flesh has rotted the fuck away. What I do isn't as easy as having a strong enough stomach to pick up decomposing bodies, or owning the right tools or space to carry out rites and rituals, or having an innate fucking ability to convince others that everything's executed "with the utmost respect".

I'm not going to make any friends by saying this, but this shit's got to be said: blindly throwing yourself into scavenging - regardless if it's because you think it's cool, you're enthusiastically inspired by what I'm doing, or you've always felt a distant longing to work with Death - is one of the dumbest motherfucking things you can do, not to mention seriously dangerous for your fucking health and the well-being of those around you.

There. It's finally been said.

You're exquisitely retarded if you think engaging in this roadkill thing I'm doing is as easy - on a non-spiritual, basic level - as finding a dead animal and taking it home. There are hazards and difficulties with any interest or practice, but this one in particular can have disastrous outcomes which can ultimately prove fatal for either you or a loved one. There's zero room for you to be cavalier about picking up, handling and processing roadkill; it's not a game, hobby or way to idly pass fucking time.

I'll be completely honest - no matter how thoroughly anal you think you've been about disinfecting yourself and your environment (I have YET to see any tutorial or how-to site unapologetically rag on readers to carry sanitizing products IN THE MOTHERFUCKING CAR so you can IMMEDIATELY clean ANYTHING your roadkill hands have touched, including YOURSELF) you still stand a chance of getting seriously sick. I know because I've been there; twice.

Thanks to going into this shit blind - see? I'm bitching at you FROM MOTHERFUCKING EXPERIENCE - I was completely unaware of the hazards of working with wild rabbits in Scotland. Because I didn't know better both Italics and I contracted a disease from one; a disease that the UK government's actually fucking around with for bioterrorism-based warfare*. We were agonizingly sick for a month, but we were lucky. Some people with the same illness suffered complete kidney failure within 48 hours of picking up the disease.

It'd be dishonest of me to not acknowledge that getting sick, for me, is an initiatory process. I've tried focusing on the non-magic aspect of working with roadkill in this entry to scare everyone into the reality of exposing yourself to dead, bacteria-ridden bodies and how fucking dangerous that sort of activity can be to your health (which includes getting hit by a car yourself; animals frequently get wiped out in blind spots and bends, what makes YOU any different crouched on the edge of asphalt scraping up physical remains?).

Sometimes, though, no matter how carefully I wipe, wash and clean it's not going to be enough when it comes time for me to "walk" with my animals. But that's the sacrifice I make; that's the difference between what I do and what other people do. I pay the price with my own flesh when Death enters me. My skin sweats and burns, my joints and muscles ache and throb and I claw tiled bathroom walls while projectile vomiting over the toilet, floor and myself as my living body goes into labor, splits open and purges itself of Death transformed. I'm willing to undergo the pain, discomfort and delirium because nothing special is worth having if you don't fight and bleed for it.

I know I make shit seem easy, I know I exude a bizarre Pied Piper vibe that excites and inspires people to do things they normally wouldn't, but to live like I live, to do what I do requires not only a calling, but some common fucking sense and a lot of fucking research. Please don't go swinging around roadkill without first educating yourself on any governing laws, known diseases local animals carry and how to find, transport and then process your animal as safely and efficiently as possible. Witchcraft and spiritualism aside; surrounding yourself with death, disease and bacteria comes with some fucking heavy duty risks, and you'd better be willing to pay the price when Death finally comes knocking.

* See Tularemia, Tularemia: Natural Disease Vs. Act Of Bioterrorism and Wikipedia's entry for bioterrorism.

Harvest Home Pheasant

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A word of warning that's totally unnecessary, but I'm feeling unusually nice today so I'm stamping a disclaimer on this shit just in case someone wakes up screaming in the middle of the night because they couldn't handle what food looks like before it appears shrinkwrapped at their grocery store: this journal entry involves a dead animal; specifically, a roadkill pheasant I found and then ritually butchered for one of our celebratory Harvest meals. This is probably one of the tamest, least gratuitous entries that falls under my Asphalt & Entrails category. There are zero fucking pictures that involve blood and/or gore, so readers with a sensitive nature should be mostly okay with the content within provided they can handle feathers, raw meat and a stainless steel dog bowl full of internal organs (in the non-grossest way possible).

Right. So. Now with that out of the way, allow me to introduce to you my Harvest Home hen. Come to think of it, you guys are already acquainted. Back around the autumnal equinox I posted Funeral for a Pheasant which incorporated a short video clip and an explanation on why the fuck I was posting a video where nothing (seemingly) happened.

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Not every roadkill animal I pick up has the pleasure of being ritually processed in the kitchen (rabbits are a non-negotiable "NO", but I MIGHT be able to wrangle a pensive "WELL...OKAY" for something less bioterrorismtastic), but every roadkill animal that I pick up is given the same treatment regardless of their physical condition, what they are and how they died: a period of getting to know one another (I visit them frequently while they "lay in wake" on an altar, petting, stroking and taking to them so they recognize I'm not a threat), offerings of food and water (usually a sandwich; deer get lettuce sandwiches, badgers get peanut butter'n'honey and foxes get smoked ham on whole wheat - you think I'm joking?), ceremonial cleansing via a smoke bath (frankincense, usually) and then, finally, release (of the spirit) through physical dismemberment.

Pictured on the altar: my favorite kitchen knives (which I ended up not needing since I rely so fucking heavily on my ritual scissors), locally grown pinhead oats (oats in whole form that haven't been flattened into flakes) and water for the pheasant, my ritual scissors (consecrated by my own effing flesh and blood), one of Chippy's outside offering bowls (I needed something to read entrails in, and since Chippy was already involved he suggested using one of his stainless steel dog bowls), a piece of thin roofing slate that came off a ruined building we discovered earlier this year (with a glowing charcoal block on top of it) and, finally, the hen.

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See? No effing gore, just like I promised. (Unless you count the "flesh wound" on Chippy's nose; we learned Choney liked to bite-play thanks to that particular run-in a few years back.) In under an hour I was able to hold the pheasant funeral, butcher the wild bird and reduce it to six usable pieces (entrails, body, feathers, feet, head and seeds) without wasting one part of the animal. I kept the entrails to read (haruspicy!) and the body to roast (dinner!), but everything else - feathers, feet, head and seeds - were set aside for a friend. (I actually need to get on drying the feet and head for her because everything else is ready to go.)

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Her head, which is currently sitting intact - feathers, beak and all - in the freezer until I can get my hands on a bag of fucking cornmeal. Sometimes I pick up roadkill with no visible wounds, but, on most occasions, I find big and little reminders that the animal didn't die a natural death (i.e., broken antlers, crushed skulls, split skin and scuff marks on beaks (above) and feet). I'd be lying if I didn't admit that the smaller, almost unseen injuries always affect me the most.

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Her feet, which were bound with ordinary white string so I could hang her in the garage until I was ready to process her. I've always suspected that I liked my game fresh, but it wasn't until she accidentally hung* for almost a week to confirm my suspicions. The scent was...intense. Not rotting, or sick, or "like farts" (I know it's incredibly childish, but that's really the best fucking way to describe the internal scent I get from the combination of organs - it's like sour/bitter farts); just intensely robust with a sneaking waft of smoke.

* Long short? I caught a fucking cold the day I picked her up. Normally I hang the birds for only 2-3 days, but in this particular case I had no choice but to leave her until I was well enough to handle her properly.

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She looks elegantly swan-like, doesn't she?

Within the glass bowl are grain seeds I removed from her crop, and feathers that fell out during the butchering process. Pheasants initially store food in their crop before digestion (you know that pocket space between the start of the bird's breast? just in front of what remains of the neck? that's where food's deposited and momentarily kept). Depending on how much your bird has (or hasn't) eaten you might have A LOT of fucking seeds to scoop out, or, in this case, not many at all.

I always save the grains - along with any feathers or particles of skin and meat that are too small to cook with - and plant them the following year (seeds, feathers, skin and all) so the grains germinate from the physical remains of the dead bird. (<- Death and rebirth, baby.)

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Her internal organs and entrails that were read in Chippy's bowl. Once I finished the positively fucking medieval dead of haruspicy I offered the contents of the bowl to my crows. To say they "tucked into the leftovers" would be putting it delicately (which, admittedly, isn't usually my style, but I'm kind've sort've eager to get this entry written in entirety in one fucking day because this sort've shit can drag on and fucking on).

They took everything but the stomach - and part of the intestine still attached to it, but for simplicity's sake let's just say "stomach", okay? - and left that delectable blob of dead tissue sitting in the fucking rain on the motherfucking patio for three fucking days. I eventually had to admit defeat and respectfully dispose the unwanted remains via container garden burial. (Thanks, crows, because Christ knows I already don't have enough to do.)

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Her body, which was then plastered with fresh bay leaves, seasoned and snugly wrapped in smoked, fatty pancetta strips. I roasted her over a bed of sweated rooted vegetables and fresh herbs, and then made brown stock out of everything. The stock was strained (and then frozen), the carcass was stripped of all of the meat (and then frozen; the meat, I mean) and then the leftovers - cooked vegetables and pheasant bones - were either left as offerings to visiting wildlife (vegetables) or cleaned off and dried for gifting purposes (bones).

Because she had matured longer than I originally intended I had to trim a few pieces of discolored meat from the body (only because it smelled just too damn strong for my palate), but those pieces were added to the organs and entrails. In fact, I caught one of our magpies happily making off with one of the blue-green tinged pieces of meat, so even if I couldn't get any use out of those small bits it still managed to feed another life.

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One of her wings, prior to being pinned to a piece of cardboard to dry. I clip them ridiculously close to the body - essentially giving up one of my favorite eating parts of a bird; the wing - so if you end up buying a preserved specimen from me you'll be getting the complete deal. I was a total retard and forgot to take pictures of everything pinned down prior to cornmealing (although I do have a set of fixed wings and feathers from another pheasant); I'll try and remember to take a few photos when I finally remove them and dust them off.

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Pheasant's such a lean fucking meat you generally need to cover it with a source of fat to keep it moist as it roasts. Because the skin's going to be hidden beneath a layer of smoked pork fat there's almost no point in retaining the skin (which is blasphemy, I know, because crispy skin and fat is, hands down, my absolute favorite part of eating meat), so when I butcher pheasants I don't really bother plucking - I flay them like any furry creature.

Pictured above is the hen's skin - with all her feather's still attached (except, of course, the pair of wings) - which I peeled off in one piece. I then turned it feather-side down (to expose the inner flesh), pinned the Leatherface atrocity down and covered it in a stupid amount of cornmeal. That way my friend now has all of the pheasant's feathers without the threat of them snowglobing her house upon arrival.

Empty House

Dismantling the rats' living area turned out to be a lot harder than I anticipated.

RIP, Shoney Bear

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Shoney Bear; Late April, 2008 - Oct. 28th, 2010

My Chooch Fantastic left us yesterday morning. Italics woke up several times throughout his sleeping schedule to check on her and give her fluids. He was so tired he didn't even notice that she wasn't drinking out of her bottle, so he loitered there, half-asleep, dangling blue Gatorade-like "juice" in front of a dead rat for a few minutes before realizing she wasn't moving.

I was still in bed when I heard the words I've been dreading for the past two weeks: "HEY, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT?" I knew what Italics was going to say even before I reluctantly replied with "Yeah?"; our Shoney Bear had passed on. Choney - my Choochinka - was dead, and for the first time in nearly a decade we found ourselves alone.

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When Bee finally succumbed to her "brain thing" (<- what the vet said; she had a brain tumor that we initially didn't know about) we knew that Denny's (aka Wuzza, Gary Balls, Whoosh and a million other nicknames including "THE DEVIL HIM-FUCKING-SELF, WUZZA, DO YOU HEAR THAT? THE DEVIL HIM-FUCKING-SELF!"), who was still just a baby, needed companionship.

We came home with a pair of sisters - two hooded fancy rats - each the polar opposite of the other. Shakey was anxious, nervous and excitable, Shoney was fearless, enthusiastic and obnoxiously people orientated. Shakey needed encouragement and patience to open up to us, but Chooch knew right from the start what Italics and I were good for (i.e., "fun food" and "rough play").

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Any pet owner will tell you that their pet is special, but, if you get an honest one, you can usually extract one hushed truth after hours of physical torture - all pets are "special", but, sometimes, there's a pet who's super special. As a caretaker you love all of your companions equally, but, once in a while, there's one who's just a little more - a little more smart, a little more empathic, a little more interested, a little more magic.

Chouchen spent so much time with us that I think she sort've got us more than the other rats (with an exception of Jigga). She put up with her roommates (Shakey and Wuzza), but her preference was always "people". As retarded as it sounds, I think the only reason why Choo Bear lasted as long as she did (she was stamped "terminal" in late May, but stayed with us for another five months) was because she only needed one thing to live for - love.

And that's exactly what she got; love (and homemade soup and milkshakes and tres fashionable pain medication and sponge baths and Ben & Jerry's Phish Food and assisted walks and movie nights), 24/7.

A Bit Longer

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If I've seemed more absent/distant than usual it's because our last little bear, Choney, won't be with us much longer; all of our time and attention has gone into making her as comfortable as possible during her last days. Because our priorities have shifted everything else has fallen to the wayside. So, like, if you're waiting for an email, or private message, or, you know, something from me, it'll be a bit longer.

Pheasant Season

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Spilling from the forests, the fields, the heather, the hedges, the roads, the rocks and straight into my motherfucking oven.

Soon, but Not Yet

Every day I ask Chippy "HOW MUCH LONGER?", and he says "SOON, WOMAN, BUT NOT YET". Every day I watch another piece of Choney slip further away. Every day I try and forget the inevitable. Every day I'm reminded that she won't be here with us much longer, and, one morning, I'll wake up utterly heartbroken, missing my Chooch Fantastique. Every day I whisper, stroke and love, knowing that it's soon, but not yet.

Harvest Festivities & Rites

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deer #6: Midmar Roe Doe

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As late August passed into early September I stumbled across six roe deer roadkill (two bucks, two does and two fawns) in just under a week. The first was the mummified remains of a male, stiffly compressed into a crumpled jump until I came along, took him home and gently broke his body free from the leaping pose he was frozen in. The sixth, a doe, was the freshest of all the deers; the complete opposite of the first. Warm and pliable I carried her to the car, panting, envisioning roasted venison haunches for Midwinter.

Unfortunately, there won't be any venison haunches for Midwinter, because Italics said "THERE IS NO EFFING WAY, DON'T EVEN THINK I'M GOING TO LET YOU". (The smaller the animal the more likely the fatal trauma occurs to the head, which doesn't spoil the meat. (Which is why it's really fucking hard to get a skull from a roadkill fox, badger or rabbit - everything liquifies into a creamy grey-pink-white mess.) But a larger animal normally doesn't die of a crushed skull, so any internal injury usually involves organ-based explosions which taints the meat.)

So there won't be any haunches, but there also won't be any bones, toes, teeth and skull because I lost her. I lost my sixth deer, the doe we picked up feet away from where we discovered Under the Bed Badger back in March. I have nothing left of her except three leg bones, connected by rotting tissue. I had gently laid her to rest and then, one day, she was gone. All of her, save the amputated leg I found amongst the rusty-colored bracken.

My stomach's been in knots for days - since Saturday, when I first discovered I lost her. By the time she came into my life there was no aspect of myself that wasn't exhausted. Even before she arrived I had found the complete bodies of five other deer, I had already spent every day for almost a week going out, finding a deer, carrying it to the car, lifting it into the trunk, driving back home, lifting it out of the trunk, hauling it through the garage into the backyard, processing the body and returning the remains back to nature. All the work - the moving, lifting, butchering, everything - was done without help from anyone.

After the fifth deer - the crossroads buck with broken antlers - I was worn out to the core. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. You name it, it profoundly ached. I took the glut on the chin, Pollyanna-style. Two, three years ago I was bedridden due to my broken stomach, and now, suddenly, I was well enough to haul the dead weight of roadkill deer for a quarter of a fucking mile. I overdid it, even at the time I knew I was precariously close to some sort of brink, but the deer felt like such a significant gift that I felt driven to PROVE myself. Who the fuck was I to say SHUT THE ASSEMBLY LINE DOWN; SMOKE BREAK, MOTHERFUCKERS! when the Universe saw fit to keep me working?

We were out for a romantic day in country (no roadkill, just a spot of rural exploration because in northeast Scotland you're only ever a few miles away from some sort of holy well, graveyard, standing stone, neolithic monument or ancient ruins of some sort) and within ten fucking minutes of being out we found #6 lying in the same bend where we had found Under the Bed Badger earlier in the year. "I, UH, CAN ALWAYS GO BACK FOR IT," I assured Italics. He gave me his blessings and we turned around, parked in someone's driveway and I hauled her to the car.

She was the freshest, but she was also the one that sustained the most trauma. Carrying her back to the car was a chore within itself - I was wearing nice clothes and her lower abdomen had burst open. No entrails were apparent, but it was obvious that the intestines had ruptured since gritty, henna-like body fluids were oozing out of the gaping wound. With my hands pinching her toes together I lifted* her and waddled back to the car where Italics was waiting (just in case the homeowner came out to investigate the strange car parked in their driveway).

(* I never, ever "drag" even if I use the word when telling my stories (HEY, THERE'S ONLY SO MANY SYNONYMS TO USE, OKAY?). Dragging a dead animal along the asphalt it was killed upon seems like major disrespect. I always make a point of physically carrying roadkill back to the car in my arms, only ever letting the body momentarily pause on some grass if I need to catch my breath.)

I wanted to butcher her, but that was a no-go. ("OKAY, OKAY, OKAY. WHAT IF I ONLY TOOK THE MEAT FROM THE ~FRONT~ INSTEAD OF THE ~BACK~?" Yeah, he didn't buy that either.) I wanted to skin her despite the unhygienic condition of the body (we've caught two insanely overwhelming illnesses from roadkill animals I've picked up, and since our last run-in Italics hasn't allowed me to act on my default cavalier attitude of working with bodies that've ruptured open exposing torn organs), that was a no-go, too.

Eventually I kind've sort've worked him down to allowing me to maybe skin the front half of the deer (starting at the head), but because she was in such poor condition between her back haunches I couldn't really take her home which meant I had to find a private, secluded spot that was easily accessible by car to rest her body. Further up the road was a significant spot for us featuring a standing stone, a stone circle, graveyard and church rolled into one that gently backed into an oak hedge that extended into rolling farmland.

She was lifted, for the last and final time, and lovingly placed beneath a young oak tree, hidden from view by gnarled roots and indigenous vegetation. I stroked her warm body and assured her that I'd come back for her to take her home. I never actually managed to skin her like I wanted. After handling her - she was the heaviest of all six and I had a helluva time moving her - my body shut down; my back and shoulders were on fire for days. "Fine," I thought, "not flaying her is a sacrifice I'm going to have to make. At least I'll have the rest of her to work with."

I was unsure about leaving her. Anyone - anything - could take her. Italics assured me, on several occasions, that she was just too big to move, and, after a point, she'd become too decomposed to do anything to her other than let her rot. I checked up on her almost daily. Every fucking time I visited I was tempted to decapitate her and at least take her head home so I could perform a proper funeral service, but I was afraid I'd get scolded for beheading her when she was so far along (and in doing so exposing myself to another round of roadkill sickness).

"Are you absolutely sure?" I asked again and again, and got the same answer every effing time. I guess deep down inside I was reluctant to believe him, but I wanted to. What would stop scavengers from tearing her apart? What would stop wild animals from dragging portions of her body away? She was a free fucking meal, sleeping beneath a crooked oak tree. But, at the same time, the first two roadkill deer I found were absolutely complete (the fawn still had all of its fucking teeth for Christ's sake). So instead of acting on my secret paranoid fear I didn't do anything other than visit, wait and piss (not ON her, but I repeatedly marked my territory whenever I swung by for a social calling).

And then? And then, one day, she was gone. All of her. There was nothing beneath the moss-encrusted tree except a few ghostly hairs. I wanted to throw up, but, instead, I began crying. I stood in the dark imprint left by her body, surrounded by dying nettle and bracken, and realized, with a guilty, irresponsible horror that I failed her. I promised her I would be back for her, I promised her I would take her home. I promised her I would set her free. In the end, though, I had done none of the above.

We combed the area. I sobbed, off and on. Twigs and dried leaves crunched and snapped beneath our feet, but despite our efforts we found nothing. There was simply nothing left of her except the putrid leg bones, which I clutched mournfully in my hand while searching and crying. She had simply vanished, leaving no trace whatsoever. We don't even know if it was wild animals or people. We don't know anything, other than something took her and I let it fucking happen because I'm a retard who should've known better.

I'm now down one roe deer leaving me at five. I don't expect to find another one this year. Roadkill, like everything wild, has its seasons. The badgers are hit when Winter groggily shuffles into early Spring. The crows are hit throughout Spring and Summer when food becomes plentiful. The deer are hit during rutting season, when hormones and natural instincts override usual caution. Foxes and rabbits are the unlucky creatures whose season is never officially over.

I'll be honest, there's a small part of me that's going "...BUT THE MONEY! BUT THE GOODS! BUT THE MONEY!" but that's mostly eclipsed by "I AM A HORRIBLE HUMAN BEING WHO CAN'T KEEP HER PROMISES TO DEAD, WILD ANIMALS". I willingly gave up her hide, but I never signed away the rest of her. By being down "one deer" I have one less to sell, and that means one less skull, one less set of complete bones, one less set of teeth, one set less of organs and one set less of toes.

I won't lie; my primary interest, right now, is to profit from what I find, release, process and clean. I'm not afraid to admit it because the Universe has said - in its own way - that what I'm doing is completely cool. (I mean, being given SIX roadkill deer in SIX DAYS isn't exactly a slap on the wrist for being bad.) I want to continue doing what I'm doing, but at this time I'm working with a pair of fucking house scissors, a cheap ass plastic hack saw and a rusty scalpel set that was made for model plane making. (Seriously. Everything I've broken down, skinned and flayed has been with one of those totally unprofessional items.)

I need things, and things cost money. For every animal I process I need a new pair of surgical gloves and a dust mask. I need buckets filled with hot, soapy water. I need environmentally safe detergent. I need antibacterial wipes and hand sanitizers. I need salt, borax and cornmeal to dry wings, tails and feet. I need ziploc bags, vacuum sealing bags, permanent markers and clothes that are just for roadkill projects. (The pants that I'm wearing right now? Have forever been stained with fox brains because I only own TWO pairs of house pants.)

I want to be able to tan my own hides, but that requires special preserving solutions. I want to be able to macerate bones throughout winter, but that requires a fish tank fitted with a heater. I want to be able to skin animals efficiently and quickly, but that requires a proper skinning knife and a set of stainless steel medical-grade scalpels. To do what I'm doing costs money, and in order to afford buying the basic things I desperately need I have to go balls out with this roadkill thing because I'm currently using the equivalent of theatrical props to get shit done. (And, man, I am getting some serious shit done, but I could get it done better if I had the proper tools.)

So grieving over #6 is a mix of unsavory emotions. I can't help but revisit the empty space beneath the oak tree in my mind, and the feeling of gut-wrenching shock doesn't subside. It's so much more than just losing money, it's about losing one of my herd. I was a bad shepherd and didn't keep the wolves at bay. And even though animals don't need my "help" to relieve them of their excess (physical) baggage, it still feels like she's lost in the grey wilderness between life and death.

I've learned my most valuable lesson so far - there is no code of conduct, or unspoken etiquette amongst scavengers, just a fleeting sense of ownership until the next opportunist comes along.

Funeral for a Pheasant

I'll be completely honest with you guys: I don't actually consecrate and sanctify every piece of clearance meat I buy over billowing incense before cooking and consuming it. (In a bizarre way (which makes absolute, total sense to me) I feel that I make amends for "taking a life" by choosing to primarily eat reduced-to-clear meat that would otherwise be thrown out. It might be a lame excuse for my carnivore ways, but it's also one less wasted life unapologetically rotting in a dump.)

Roadkill, however, gets the red fucking carpet treatment. The butchering process combines several rituals in one act. While breaking the physical carcass down I'm also holding a funeral, releasing the spirit, spiritually cleansing the body (to bless and purify the meat that'll be eaten, and the various parts (i.e., organs, feathers, feet) that'll be used for future witchcrafting), giving thanks (to the animal) for the gifts received and, if time/situation permits, I usually sneak in a quick haruspicy (aka entrails reading) session.

I'm planning on dedicating a much larger journal entry to this specific roadkill ritual, so I'll save my trademark wordy ass explanations for then. In the meantime, you can marvel at the once-in-a-blue-fucking-moon cluttered state of my windowsill kitchen altar. (How do you know when an autistic anal aries witch has too much going on? When you can't see the surface of her altars/work areas.)

Broken Deer Funeral

The funeral of a broken deer found at a crossroads.

That's About Right

These days it's getting harder for our Chooch to get around (the bald, pinkish mass attached to her side is a giant mammary tumor). Before it became a burden she happily bounced along, now she saves her energy because the growth is just too goddamn large to constantly pull/drag while moving. In the past few days I've noticed her over-the-top enthusiasm for things plummet; she's getting tired, I can see it in her dulling eyes.

(ARG, FUCK, I'M NOT ACTUALLY GOING TO CRY WHILE TYPING THIS, AM I? FOR FUCK'S SAKE...)

A few days ago I sat and angrily cried for fifteen minutes after coming across a Youtube video where an American-based vet talked about tumor removal like the process was no big thing. Four months ago, when her lump was just a fraction of the size it is now, we talked with two local vets who advised us against getting them removed because the mass was "too large" and "there wouldn't be enough skin leftover to close up the wound".

The rat in the video? Had a tumor about the size of the one Choney's carrying around RIGHT FUCKING NOW. It was operated on (and extracted) without a hitch; standard practice. But here in the UK? If the mammary tumor's larger than a fucking peanut M&M they won't fucking operate. I still have flashing livid moments knowing that if our address ended in a USA zip code we could've got Chooch's growth removed long ago and life would've been so much different - and so much fucking longer - for her.

More lumps are beginning to pop up like murderous mushrooms. The second largest one is on her other side, she has another swelling bud on her underbelly next to one of her back legs, a third's popped up freakishly close to her urinary opening, and another two have sprouted directly beneath her chin. As retarded as it sounds, it sort've feels like because the massive one hasn't killed her yet it's rebelled and sent its benign disease to vital parts of her body to take her down (straight for the throat, in two cases).

With an exception of her neurotic grooming habits Choney's otherwise been pretty cool about the restrictions that come with having a monster tumor stuck to the side of her fucking body. She eats with relish, enjoys basking in attention, chases crow feathers around (she's at war with the "chickens" of the world), rearranges her living quarters and still retains some of her former predatory instincts (I sometimes call her "Chark"; you ain't seen nothin' until you've seen Chooch unexpectedly shoot out of her hiding place all cobra-shark-barracuda-like).

Admittedly, it's hard watching Choney knowing that life could've been so much different for her (even if she's exceeded the average life expectancy for a rat). There've been points where I felt so fucking desperate I was two seconds away from shouting "GIVE ME EVERYTHING I NEED; I'LL FUCKING DO IT" at the heavens. She isn't unhealthy, she isn't unwell - she just has a bunch of fucking benign tumors wearing her the fuck down. It's maddening because it's a simple fucking problem with a simple fucking solution, but a solution we don't have access to so all Italics and I can do is watch our Chooch slowly succumb to something that shouldn't even be an issue at all.

What's that acronym all of the young kids today are saying to express an immense feeling of overwhelming disbelief, frustration and heartbreaking sadness over an utterly futile, unchangeable situation?

...FML (fuck my life)?

Yeah, that's about right.

Wild Chickens

Even when I'm driving by myself (when making my daily roadkill sweep) I'm never alone. Between 4-6 AM it's typically just me - occasionally a blue moon early commuter - and the indigenous wildlife slowly retreating back into the safety of deeper woods as the day slowly shifts in the favor of humans.

The crows normally are just waking up and filling every free space on telephone lines, rabbits and hares begin pulling back further into woodlands, foxes candidly trot through open, sun-glazed meadows, wood pigeons suicidally gather at the side of the road to drink from miniature pools of water, deer haphazardly cross the street knowing they still have another hour (or so) before traffic becomes fatally dangerous and pheasants, the wild chickens of the countryside, flagrantly loiter in confused clusters on empty country lanes looking like perpetually lost toddlers in Wal-Mart.

I see this shit every fucking morning; it never gets old, and my gratefulness for living here never fucking diminishes.

Fox's Funeral

Fox's offerings of omani frankincense, a bowl of organic milk and a smoked ham sandwich (on whole wheat, naturally).

Until the Fucking End

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Make them take you down snarling; fight until the fucking end.

Be Careful w/Your Machines

"This cannot be. The worlds of magic and logic must exist side by side; not destroy each other. Take care! Be careful with your machines, I say!" Carolinus, Flight of Dragons

There's a scene in the animated movie Flight of Dragons where the green wizard, Carolinus, watches helplessly as a swan's dragged under the powerful current of a watermill. He wades out to the broken bird and resuscitates it while shouting "TAKE CARE! BE CAREFUL WITH YOUR MACHINES, I SAY!" to the oblivious workers within.

Whenever I encounter roadkill that particular scene is always the first thing I think of, and while carrying the dead animal back to the car I'm haunted by Carolinus' words which still loop in my head after 20+ years. But they were never as real, never as poignant until I found myself in the backroom at 4:30 AM, sobbing, cradling a paralyzed rabbit that we had to euthanize because its spine had been broken by a car.

Take fucking care. Be careful with your motherfucking machines. Please.

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.

Anointed

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"...and thou shalt anoint the tabernacle of the congregation therewith, and the ark of the testimony..." - Exodus 30:26 (King James Version)

Foster Care

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So I opened up my big, fat, scavenging mouth and now everyone wants roadkill. From me. Pronto. I've spent years fantasizing about this sort've situation, but now that it's here a part of me's going WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, EASY COWBOY because I don't have anything ready. Business cards? Nuh uh. Label art? Nope. A store name? LOL, WHATEV. (Just between you and me? I'm so fucking green in this venture that if you pat me on the back you'll smudge the fresh paint.)

I think I might be rushing, but Italics hasn't told me to slow down. (<- That's a good sign, right?) I don't know so many things - how to whiten bones (I mean, I know how, I just haven't had the time to experiment), how to fix feet in specific positions (wings are hella easy, all you need is some soft cardboard, salt and a box of sewing pins), how to preserve organs (other than drying them out into shriveled bits of pemican), how to transform frozen, raw fur into soft, downy pelts (which I REALLY need to learn how to do THIS YEAR since I got more than enough rabbit skins to begin the process of piecing together my proposed wild rabbit ritual blanket) and, ultimately, how to taxidermy like a motherfucking pro.

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The response has been overwhelming. Every effing time I pop open my inbox there's more email. ("HI! YOU DON'T KNOW ME, BUT I'VE BEEN READING YOUR JOURNAL FOR A LONG ASS TIME AND I'D REALLY LOVE TO GET MY HANDS ON...") I've always operated under the assumption that only two or three people - who I'm already sort've associated with - bother visiting this space, and even that's only on a totally uncommitted basis. It blows my mind that people are reading this shit and actually coming back for seconds. (Or, at least, frequently returning to watch what they think is a train wreck in perpetual progress.)

I haven't even sealed one deal yet (BTW, y'all might have to Thunderdome it out amongst yourselves re: corvid skulls, cause, like, I think I might have a whole THREE to offer, and I'm probably saving one for personal use) and I'm already worried. Will people be able to tell how much love, energy and respect (even if filtered through my bizarre sense of humor) I offer every animal that I'm privileged enough to be given? Will they be able to tell I ritualize the dismantling of a physical form to help release the spirit from the burden of flesh? Will they feel the incense? My altered state? The offerings I give and make, the funerals Italics and I hold, the continuation of life that occurs when visiting wildlife finds food and sustenance from the decomposing bodies of their deceased brethren?

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I'm worried my work won't feel "alive" to anyone but myself. I'm deathly terrified that someone'll tear open their box from bonnie old Scotland, eagerly pull out the piece they've been anticipating and the entire experience suddenly flatlines because it - whatever it is - doesn't feel special, doesn't feel magic. And no amount of stories (because there's always a story attached to every animal), no amount of pictures (it's important to know and see where it came from, lived and died), no amount of spiritually feeding, nurturing and sheparding energy will be enough to create a connection between someone else and my animals.

In a bizarre way it almost feels like I'm sending my babies into foster care, and even though I can provide the metaphorical birth certificate and baby photos I can't guarantee that any of the additional information will create a meaningful bond between it and its adoptive parent. Fuck, is it weird that I'm being anxious about shit like this? Is it a GOOD sign? Will prospective buyers think I'm mental, or will they kind've sort've get what I'm doing?

Bottom fucking line? I want to be happy, I want the new caretakers to be happy, but, most importantly, I want my animals to be happy.

PS: I haven't had a chance to write about the crow and wild rabbit skull (which was found in fragments) we found about a week ago. I'm on the fence about selling any part of the crow, but I'll definitely be selling the rabbit skull pictured above (and all of its parts; I'll let the new caretaker glue the teeth back in, it'll be a good bonding exercise).

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.)

Unspoken Rule

There's probably an unspoken rule about sharing your PAC-MAN mug of Earl Grey with your pet rat who's just finished eating carpet underlayment.

...fuck it, we all got to die sometime.

Chooch

Filmed/written on April 24th: Chooch doesn't entirely know what to make of the raw butternut squash we gave them. (I'd post a picture or video of Wuzza, but she's always in motion. Choney, for reasons beyond me, seems to understand the entire camera thing and patiently sits frozen, like a model, when we're filming her.)

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?

Denny's Dumpster

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When we first saw her - when she was an impossibly small baby - Italics said "she looks like a rat who'd live in a dumpster behind a Denny's" and the name just sort've suck. To celebrate her life with us we built Wuzza her very own Denny's dumpster to rest in during last night's wake.

RIP, Denny's

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Wuzza passed away last night while we slept. It was totally unexpected, and I'm still reeling from shock. (Pictured above: Denny's first day home with us, about three years ago.)

I swear I heard her shuffle around in their sleeping box when I called her out for breakfast, but when she didn't appear - all dazed and confused - I had to peek into the covered bookshelf. She didn't look like she was breathing, but it was hard to tell because I had only JUST gotten up and was peeking through a sliver of a hole with a fucking flashlight.

I told myself I was being fucking retarded and seeing things (or, uh, NOT seeing things). After cleaning the cage and bookshelf last night I threw in a ragged piece of old, black sweatpants to give her some soft bedding; a flap of fuzzy black covered her entire face. I couldn't see a damn thing.

I had to put down the flashlight, let the cardboard covering snap back into place, shove my arm through their little rat hole and fish around blindly to find and pull back the material. Once I pulled out, pulled open and peeked back in I could see her dead, frosty eyes (not even glossy dead; frosty dead) which had been hidden by her sweatpants death shroud.

That's when the crying began. That's when the grief began. That's when the "BUT I DON'T UNDERSTAND, SHE WAS GETTING SO MUCH BETTER - YESTERDAY SHE LOOKED //SO GOOD// AND WAS BACK TO CHASING PAPER TOWELS AGAIN!" began. That's when the guilty feeling of negligence set in.

(If one could be condemned "negligent" despite feeding their sickly rat smoked ham, rice pudding, homemade Kentucky Butter Cake, honeydew melon and blue Gatorade before saying goodnight and tucking her into her just cleaned cage and bookshelf. I suppose you could book me on the bath she didn't get last night, but was supposed to. <- We spent 4-5 hours harvesting beech leaves yesterday so we were both hella tired and left that one job "until tomorrow".)

In all of our rat years (which, by this point, is MANY) we've never, ever been greeted by death first thing in the morning. Death almost always came from our own hands (by nitrous/laughing gas) when living became too much to bear (i.e., when their respiratory systems would shut down, leaving them gasping for breath which couldn't be drawn into the lungs).

I've always wished and prayed for ONE insistence of "passed away in her sleep" ("her" because we exclusively keep females); for ONE insistence where blood wouldn't be directly on our hands. Now that I finally got it I feel nothing except guilt. (What happened? How did it happen? Did she struggle? Was it easy? Was she alone? Was Shoney's/Choochie with her? Was it because of something I did? Was it because of something I DIDN'T do?)

The most amazingly fucked up thing? Yesterday? For the first time in weeks Wuzza was her old self again. In the past few days I discovered that she could handle more heavy duty food - i.e., chunks of soft fruit, tender pieces of meat, soft bread, crumbly cake - so I began feeding her less and less baby food and more and more "people" food. She looked so much brighter, more healthy, more alert.

Yesterday she chased, caught and victoriously fucked up a piece of paper towel. (Something she hadn't done since getting sick.) Yesterday she bit my fucking hand when I reached in to haul her ass out of the bookshelf. (Wuzza would often engage in sit down strikes when it came time to clean out their enclosed living quarters. Sometimes, when I had to physically MOVE HER FUCKING ASS to clean out the space, she'd nip my fucking hand to try and dissuade me from tossing all of her "stuff" in the trash.) Yesterday, after finishing every fucking course of dinner, she looked up at me with her patented "MORE, PLZ?" face.

And then? And then she PASSES AWAY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING NIGHT WHILE WE'RE SLEEPING in a move that was totally unexpected, totally unanticipated and totally Wooch in every single effing way. Jesus, Gary Balls Wuzza, what the fuck? (NO, SERIOUSLY WHOOSH, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?)

(The worst/best/most significant part? We spent most of yesterday collecting beech leaves from various graveyards to make a gin-based spirit. At every cemetery I left an offering of Kentucky Butter Cake, water and gin asking everyone and everything to make the sake-like homemade hooch "as potent as possible". Within 12 hours of coming home Denny's died despite her recent upswing.)

(As a rule I try not to view things old testament negative (i.e., our pet was killed in exchange for services rendered), because that's a loaded way to live. Instead, I just try and accept things as being "significant" rather than GOOD or BAD. Yesterday we had an awesome day. We caught a wedding party in the kirkyard of the first cemetery we were going to hit (auspicious or what?), collected leaves at mindbogglingly beautiful surroundings, ate lunch on top of a neolithic monument and created our first bottle of Beech Tree Noyau deliberately using leaves from ancient (and some not-so-ancient, but still pretty damn old) graveyards.)

So.

So as Miz Deniz sits wrapped up in tea towels in a Tupperware container in the fridge (<- THE IN-LAWS ARE HOME; DON'T WANT TO FREAK OUT THE NATIVES) I have to come up with some sort of Wuzza specific death altar. (How the FUCK do I find/make a rat-sized dumpster? WOOSHU, DAMMIT, YOU'RE EVEN DIFFICULT IN DEATH.)

Unsettled House

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We've been going through varying stages of "unsettled" in the house since Shakey's passing. With Shakey Bear gone the remaining bears (Denny's aka Wuzza & Shoney's aka Choney) are having to cope with the disintegration of a social hierarchy.

Wuzza, who once was top rat (she came into the house first, and then was later joined by Shakey and Choney who were/are sisters), is having treats and food stolen straight out of her hands by an aggressive Choney. Last night she was kicked out of the house by Choochie (CHONEY DOES, IN FACT, HAVE A BILLION AND TWO NICKNAMES) and poor Gary Balls (<- STICK WITH ME, IT'LL ALL GET EXPLAINED) sat alone in miserable exile on top of a skanky shoe box.

When Shakey first died there was obvious confusion. Both surviving rats had time with her dead body; Choney went as far as nipping Shakey's cold nose to revive her. "Gone", though, didn't sink in until nearly a week later. When both realized Shakey wasn't returning they became depressed, lethargic and remained cloistered in their bookshelf rat house.

My Choney Choo-Choo lost her spark which broke my heart (Wuzza, however, having always been a weird rat didn't really lose much of her personality), but I got increasingly worried when they both flat out refused to interact with us. They must've spent a solid week in confinement grieving, wondering and mistrusting.

Part of that time was spent perpetually spooked. Since both are now hindered by large mammary tumours (benign, but insanely cumbersome) we don't need to keep them locked up when we're not in the room. (Their mischievous days of crawling up radiators, using dresser handles as ladders and being driven by the insatiable need to explore desktops are long gone.)

You'd THINK that the sudden freedom would've been met with enthusiasm, but they became hella suspicious of us and our motives. Whenever we breezed into the computer room/office they'd bolt into their bookshelf home like their little rat lives depended on it. For about a half a week we lived with ghosts and I began pessimistically wondering if our relationship with them would ever revert to some sense of familiarity.

Eventually they crawled out of their shells and began interacting with us once again. Chooch, very recently, took up playing chase again. (CHONEY = THE ONLY RAT WE'VE EVER OWNED WHO LOVES TO PLAY CHASE.) Wuzza, well, Wuzza was-is Wuzza. (Denny's is what you get when you pick a rat because "SHE LOOKS LIKE A RAT WHO'D LIVE BEHIND A DENNY'S DUMPSTER!")

Life, though, has slowed down because of their tumours. Choney has a cluster behind one of her front paws, but they aren't large enough to really impact her life negatively. Wuzza, however, lives with the equivalent of a giant pair of truck nuts attached to her body and she's having an increasingly difficult time fending off a food-crazed Shoney.

Denny's is now burdened with two fatty tumours the size of large eggs on either side of her body. She can't climb; she can't jump. By this point of their growth she can barely scamper, but when she does she has to hop like a rabbit to keep a quickened pace. The skin covering the lumps is beginning to grow thin, and she's developed tiny scabs from either overgrooming or chaffing since there isn't a lot of fur to act as a buffer.

Due to financial reasons we had to wait until after my birthday (April 11th) to take Wuzza to the vet. We knew that the surgery itself was pretty straightforward and not crazily risky, it was keeping the rat (and rat roommates) from pulling out the fucking stitches that was the real problem. (We honest to fucking God spent nearly $500.00 USD on getting one of our previous rats restitched several times before supergluing her body ourselves.)

We took her in under the pretence of having her looked at and booking surgery immediately to have the tumours removed. We left the vet, horrified, clutching Wuzza's travel box protectively with a non-committal "WE'LL KEEP IN TOUCH, THANKS". The doctor took one look at Denny's and said "YEAH, WE CAN REMOVE THOSE, BUT IF WE DO SHE MIGHT NOT HAVE ENOUGH SKIN TO CLOSE THE INCISIONS AND IF THAT'S THE CASE WE'D HAVE TO GAS HER ON THE SPOT".

With an exception of the bumps Wuzza is happy, healthy and living comfortably. If she had them cut out I know she'd be even happier and MORE comfortable, but that'd require accepting the fact that there's a chance we might get a call from the vet - during surgery - that there's not enough Denny's to stitch shut. I don't know if I could deal with that scenario, especially since her mammary tumours aren't a life or death deal (at least not yet).

It's a decision we really don't want to make. Both Choney and Wuzza are in their twilight years. This Midsummer will mark their third year with us, and rats have an average lifespan of 2-3 years. I know their time is coming, and I know it's probably going to be this year. (2010? Will be the year of heartbreak.)

Even if there's enough rat - in both their cases (Choochie's cluster might still be small enough to not pose a problem) - will the recovery time steal a significant percentage of their remaining life? Is it better to give them the ability to jump-leap-climb again, or is it better to allow them to live the rest of their lives without the stress of surgery and recovery (even if it means they can't be as active as they'd like)?

I joked on Twitter it was a "rat-themed Sophie's Choice", and even though we've made a decision (to not take either of them in for surgery) I'm still haunted by the thought "but is it the RIGHT one?".

Vaccum Seal Embalming

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Shakey Bear, vacuum sealed with her Flump (a UK marshmallow treat) offering and her picture of Reggie Rat (Shakey's boyfriend).

We spent all of yesterday forgetting she was lying in wake in the fridge (which made each rediscovery a happy surprise whenever we opened the door to grab the butter or a beer), but by the evening we knew we had to seal Shakey to keep her body in optimum condition.

(As if I couldn't get any weirder, right? Vacuum sealing beloved pets so I can later defrost them, skin them and preserve their bodies to allow us to physically interact with them once again.)

(AS IF PUTTING MY NAKED ASS ON NEOLITHIC SACRED SITES, ENGAGING IN GOLDEN SHOWERS, FORCING ITALICS TO FUCK - AND EJACULATE INTO - MY RESURRECTION DOUGH AND BAREBACKING RAW ROASTS WASN'T ENOUGH, I ALSO WANT TO PERSONALLY TAXIDERMY MY OWN PETS BECAUSE IT MAKES ME HAPPY TO STROKE THEIR FURRY LITTLE BODIES.)

(IT SORT'VE MAKES YOU THINK TWICE ABOUT INTERACTING WITH ME, DOESN'T IT?)

No Tattling

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If YOU don't tell my mother-in-law and I don't tell my mother-in-law SHE'LL NEVER FIND OUT. (Yes we ARE having a hard time letting go, why do you ask?)

RIP, Shakey Bear

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Shakey Bear, Midsummer 2008 - Easter 2010

Rest in peace, Shakey Bear. (Easter, Soupie (Bear), is a V. good day to die.) Come back home to us quick; we'll keep your share of prawn crackers safe until you do.

PS: We promise to make you a chef hat and a shakey-shank soon.

Still a Happy Bear

Nearly blindly, severely congested and dying; but, still, a happy bear. (<- Her breathing's so loud (due to her blocked nose) you can't hear her bruxing beneath the noise.)

We've been waiting for death to take Shakey naturally, but the Reaper hasn't come calling. In the past 48 hours her quality of life's quickly deteriorated to the point where both of us feel obligated to intervene. If she doesn't improve in the next day or two I'm going to have to consider the one thing I've been avoiding.

Easter, Peeps and Resurrection

I keep mentioning to Shakey Bear that Holy Week's a terrific awesome amazing time to die hint, hint (with Easter and Peeps and all of that Resurrection stuff), but I don't think she's completely sold on the idea. (<- Maybe she's Jewish? HEY, IT COULD HAPPEN! HEZBOLLAH WAS OBVIOUSLY - OBVIOUSLY! - MUSLIM, SO IT'S NOT *COMPLETELY* UNHEARD OF.)

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.)

January, 2009

I usually manage to upload and write about 70% of the photos I take, but occasionally an adventure or two manages to slip through my fingers. To give the forgotten images and stories their chance to shine I decided I'd gather all of the loose ends and consolidate them in a monthly entry.

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Smooth, creamy and melt-in-your mouth golden.

(Pssst! It's goose fat, you know.)

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First full moon of the new year (Cold Moon) welcomed by THE NOTHING. (I love the tiny star way above the expanding darkness.)

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I appropriated an otherwise abandoned plum tree in the backyard and named it THE SHANGO TREE. To freak out the natives (aka MY IN-LAWS) I've begun wedging oversized bones in the branches so they'll get white and weather beaten. (WE'LL SEE HOW LONG IT LASTS UNTIL MY FATHER-IN-LAW DECIDES TO UNDECORATE MY BONE TREE.)

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When Beh was alive she's sit and stare blankly for hours at a time and neither Italics nor I knew what the fuck she was up to. It wasn't until recently - very, very recently - that Italics discovered that "fixed staring" was a symptom of a brain tumor. (Beh was diagnosed with "a brain thing" around May and passed quite suddenly in early June.)

We found this incense burning frog in the local health food store when Christmas shopping on Winter Solstice and couldn't resist its Bok Chek stare.

(BEH WAS ALWAYS CHEWING UP THE FUCKING CARPET, HENCE ALL OF THE CHEWED UP FUCKING CARPET.)

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Chark Park eating part of a buttermilk oatmeal muffin.

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How I spent sick day number three. (I MEAN, SERIOUSLY, HOW DOES THIS SHIT HAPPEN IN A HOUSEHOLD OF FOUR ADULTS AND GO TOTALLY UNNOTICED AND UNCLEANED UNTIL I DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?)

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Shakey Bear testing every pea to ensure they're all top quality.

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Shakey and Shoney looking like pea gremlins.

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It's an hour of back and forth, and constantly changing positions.

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Sun rising through the trees leading to the disturbed children's home.

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Hezbollah contemplates the garden.

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Graffiti on the door of the disturbed children's home. (I'M GOING BACK WITH A RED MARKER AND TEACHING THOSE ASBO KIDS A LESSON. <- LOL, IN GRAMMAR AND SPELLING, ANYWAY.)

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It was originally used as a home for disturbed children, but also had a stint of being an orphanage, I'm told.

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"Wank" has been scribbled on the lower left window, and "wanker" on the lower right.

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Through the trees you can see how the windows and doors have been boarded up.

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When we amble down to the semi-local cemetery (it's about a miles walk, or so) we pass a now abandoned (but still kept) home for disturbed children.

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Pac-Burger at T.G.I. Friday's (in Scotland).

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A piece of streusel topped summer fruits buttermilk coffeecake (with orange flower water!) discreetly drizzled with a Cointreau & summer fruits happy ending (LOLOLOLOL) made for my mother-in-law's birthday.

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A piece of streusel topped summer fruits buttermilk coffeecake (with orange flower water!) made for my mother-in-law's birthday.

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An impromptu dinner:

A thick cut, boneless pork chop stuffed with a feta cheese, cream cheese, sundried tomato, fresh basil and black pepper filling. Flavored with generic Italian seasoning before wrapping up in three slices of Oscar Meyer bacon. Pan fried, and then quickly roasted in the oven with a bit of white wine, mushrooms and vine-ripe tomatoes.

Verdict? Worth remembering.

(Picture snapped after dinner. (No time for arty photographs!))

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We started off the weekend on the right foot.

(And he even rolled up his Oscar Meyer bacon in a pancake.) (Maybe in another 10 years I'll be able to convince him to drench it all with maple syrup.)

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...even classier? I went to the movies the day after wearing a ripped Punisher t-shirt and a wrench necklace. (SO...DAMN...CLASSY.)

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A cock to ride in T.G.I. Friday's (in Scotland).

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Fuck, what a nightmare. This is a photo of the manometry monitor that I had to carry around last year for twenty-four hours when I was undergoing a battery of medical tests to figure out what was wrong with my stomach. (The short version? Hiatal hernia, weak stomach muscles, GERD, acid reflux and a broken stomach valve. They don't know how it happened, or how to fix it.)

It's not pictured in this photo, but a spaghetti-sized tube/wire had been fed up my nose, down my throat and into my stomach so the monitor could record my gut's activity. (I had to eat, sleep, bathe and live with the chord for an entire day - every fucking time I swallowed the wire yanked like a motherfucker causing the tube to jerk, jump and tighten in my body.)

LOL SIDE NOTE: They had to postpone this particular test because I admitted to the doctor that I was partially stoned. (She claimed the data would be "inconclusive" since I was under the influence of a relaxing drug. Pfft.) Thankfully, she thought I was cute and/or funny and simply rescheduled the monitor insertion without any sort of lecture. (Thank fucking God I didn't mention I was high to the medical stuff who performed my endoscopy because that's SERIOUSLY an experience I can totally live without undergoing again.)

Shakey Bear

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One of our pet rats is sick. She's been acting off for a week now, but there weren't many symptoms past "she looks sort've stiff", "she looks a little dopey" and "she just doesn't seem /right/". I was hoping it was just a sore back leg, or a lingering cold, but she seems weaker every day. It's Sunday today which means it'll be another whole day before we can even take her to the vet. (The very thought makes me want to throw up.)

I spent most of my morning sitting on the floor with her wedged between my thigh and flannel (we've never had any lap rats - we've had shoulder rats and head rats and cradling-in-the arm rats and rats who love snuggling in the small space between pants and overlapping shirts), too worried to leave her in case she's uncomfortable.

I hate these moments that potentially spell out the beginning of the end. Shakey's nearly three, for a rat bought at a garden centre that's already a long life. (Especially since the majority of them are infected with a fatal lung condition.) I've already cried once this morning with Shakey pressed against my chest. She seemed confused when I told her that I loved her V. much, and that I'd do everything humanly possible to -

Scratch this shit. I'm not going to start grieving for a pet that isn't dead. (The LAST thing Shakey needs is for be to be sobbing every fucking time I pick her up or check on her.) I need to yank my morbid panties off and worry about the inevitable when it's impending. If pot and leftover fajitas for breakfast doesn't help me shrug off unnecessary worry, then nothing will.

Ms. Graveyard Dirt Baiting

Not yesterday morning, but the morning before, I found myself trudging overripe pumpkins outside to the Shango Tree/Phallic Worship altar just before bed (<- WE'RE CURRENTLY SLEEPING DAYS AND WORKING NIGHTS) and in doing so I stumbled over this scene of carnage and desecration:

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"SOMETHING'S DUG UP THE FUCKING SHANGO ALTAR OUTSIDE AND I'M PRETTY SURE IT WASN'T ONE OF THE FUCKING CATS," I announced in caps lock. Italics, knowing it's always best to drop whatever he's doing when I begin speaking in caps, joined me in the backroom as we stared in the direction of the disturbed altar.

These weren't makeshift toilet holes that the neighborhood cats make in my line of beets (STOP SHITTING ON AND DIGGING UP MY FUCKING BEETS, CATS), they were deep gouges that reached into the very bottom of the raised dirt bed. My (VERY HEAVY, VERY DENSE, VERY SOLID, VERY ERECT) stone cock was knocked asunder, and its two black balls unceremoniously kicked off the surface of the altar.

Something BIG plundered my recently cleaned altar space, going directly to where my eight rabbit heads where buried within. Weirdly enough, it DIDN'T take the huge ass soup bone I left as an offering on the bricks (in fact, it hadn't even MOVED despite the severe disturbance surrounding it) and it DIDN'T bother fucking with the eight rabbit carcasses decomposing beneath a black plastic bucket just a yard or two away.

Whatever IT was it WASN'T a cat, dog or hedgehog - so what the fuck was IT? What the fuck would be large enough to RIP THROUGH BUCKETS OF DIRT and play soccer with dubiously shaped rocks? What the fuck would just IGNORE DECAYING RABBIT CARCASSES and A MOTHER OF A SOUP BONE SITTING OUTSIDE LIKE A COOLING PIE ON A WINDOW LEDGE?

"FOX," Italics hypothesized. In a deliberate attempt to not feel disappointed I didn't believe him. (<- LONG STORY SHORT? A PAIR OF FOXES CAME TO US LAST YEAR IN OCTOBER, BUT THE NEIGHBORS DIDN'T SHARE OUR JOY. AFTER ONE TOO MANY "SOMEONE NEEDS TO KILL THOSE VERMIN" COMMENTS WE HAD TO ASK THE FOXES TO LEAVE. IT BROKE MY HEART SENDING AWAY SOMETHING THAT CAME TO US (THEY CAME FOR OUR OUTSIDE OFFERINGS, AND THEN STAYED WHEN THEY REALIZED THEY WERE WELCOME HERE), AND I'VE SPENT EVERY DAY SINCE LOOKING OUT WINDOWS HOPING THAT, ONE DAY, I'D SEE THE FAMILIAR RUSTY STREAKS OF ORANGE AND BLACK JOGGING ACROSS THE YARD.)

The thing is, there was a sort've kind've maybe chance that it was a fox - just a wee chance, though, and not enough evidence to have me busting out smoked polish sausage. (I DO NOT DEFROST MY BELOVED KIELBASA FOR ANY OLD REASON.) Several nights back, just after midnight, I glanced up from doing the dishes and saw some sort of animal bolting across the street towards the house.

"OHMYGODBADGER!" I gasped, gloriously high and reeling in shock. My brain somersaulted as I tried to piece together what I had just seen. The sighting was a blur - it was dark and raining heavily, I was high and absentmindedly doing the dishes. All I could really remember was a bushy tail, squat body and narrow - but long - face.

"I SAW A BADGER!" I excitedly whispered to Italics, who came racing when he heard my first exclamation of shock and disbelief. "OR, WAIT, MAYBE IT WASN'T A BADGER," doubt had already sunk in. "IT HAD A LONG CONE-LIKE BADGER FACE, BUT I THINK IT HAD A BUSHY TAIL. BUT I DON'T THINK THAT BADGERS HAVE BUSHY TAILS..."

I knew what it WASN'T - a cat. Regardless of how stoned my ass is I know, even on a subconscious level, I'm never going to mistake a cat for something else. ("BADGER!" LITERALLY CAME OUT OF NO WHERE. BEFORE I EVEN PROCESSED THE IMAGE THE WORD TUMBLED OUT.) The body and face just wasn't cat-like despite the tail that I thought I saw. So maybe it was a fox, but wouldn't a fox take a soup bone? The pair of foxes before made off with whatever they could get their little paws on, including old remains of chicken carcasses.

(No, no, not a fox. Don't even consider it because you'll just be disappointed and heartsick.)

Last night was a nocturnal wildlife stakeout. To entice a nighttime visitor an offering of leftovers (venison sausages and homemade yorkshire pudding) were placed at the foot of the sycamore tree (the large tree just outside the office/computer room window). And then? And then we waited, and I spent several hours gingerly peeking over the ledge of the window at any sound of rustling or movement outside.

It happened after midnight. Bitching about the internet's slow ass uploading speed I casually glanced towards the sycamore out of habit only to return my full attention to complaining about our broadband's dial-up speed a few seconds later. That's when it hit me, and I did a classic Scooby Doo double take. Something with white-ish, silvery, gray hair was outside (NOT. A. CAT.), partially obscured by a bag of leaves Mr. Awesome never bothered to dispose of.

"OHMYGODISTHATSOMETHING?" I asked Italics. We squinted, side by side, our faces pressed up against the cold glass. A shape - a robust, squat backside - was jutting out from behind the white bag of fallen leaves. With the room's light off you could see it more clearly amongst the fall foliage, but the identifying majority was, frustrating enough, still hidden behind the sack.

"I'LL GO OUTSIDE," Italics offered, speaking in caps lock because staking out nocturnal Scottish wildlife in your office is V. SRS BUSINESS. I stood in the darkness of the computer room, glasses on and eyes squinting, willing the animal to stay involved in whatever it was doing (EATING) to give Italics enough time to catch a glimpse of our mysterious visitor.

He said it was nasty dirty. As in, dirtballs and leaves stuck to its ass, its wet fur was peppered with organic debris. Its snout was discolored from mud, and its feet caked with damp earth. "HOLY SHIT, OH MY FUCKING GOD," I exclaimed when the startled animal barreled itself towards the side of the house, giving me an excellent view of a miniature black and white striped grizzly bear launching itself into a furious speed that would leave any (mere mortal) human weak in the knees.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have crows, rooks, magpies, and blackbirds, we have European robins (Hezbollah's friend), sparrows, martins, finches, starlings and tits. We have deer running in front of the house around midsummer, and once in autumn we had a pair of foxes eating Burger King and kielbasa out of Chippy's patio offering dishes. We have itsy tiny little Scottish mice, and crazily laid back hedgehogs who don't grudge me too much when I bring them indoors to pull out ticks and fly egg sacs while checking for any obvious wounds.

And now? And now we have a new member to our subdivision wildlife menagerie: Eurasian Badger.

Earthworms, apparently, make up at least 50% of a badger's diet, which explains the altar desecration (ripe with worms due to deliberately adding worm casts to the raised bed to help with the decomposition of the decapitated rabbit heads) and ALSO explains why it didn't actually TAKE any of the half-decayed heads (several were left just lying on the grass without so much as a mark), disturb the plastic bucket of rotting carcasses or bother nudging the hollowed out soup bone.

I straightened up what I could, using Shango's half coconut shell to "ladle" the partially rotted heads back into their altar grave, covering them with what little earth was leftover from the badger's foraging. The pumpkins - with still some structure - were placed onto the surface of the newly patted down space, positioned to at least partially cover a mound of two or three heads.

(A wasted, futile effort since the Shango Tree/Phallic Worship altar is a delectable buffet of worms, insects and maggots for visiting wildlife, but I was SO not up to burying rabbit heads in buckets of dirt at seven in the fucking morning when I was originally getting ready for bed when taking the collapsing pumpkins outside.)

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JESUS EFFING CHRIST, WHY CAN'T I HAVE A DIVINE MALE ALTAR SPACE WITHOUT IT GETTING FUCKED UP, TRASHED OR RUINED? (I JUST FUCKING CLEANED THE SPACE UP, GODDAMMIT! {LOOK HOW FUCKING CLEAN IT WAS!} HOW LONG DID IT TAKE BEFORE IT WAS DECIMATED? TWO WEEKS? THREE?) IT'S LIKE GARBAGE, CHAOS AND AN AVALANCHE OF MESS IS ATTRACTED TO ANYTHING WITH A FUCKING DICK (EVEN IF IT'S A COSMIC ONE).

Opportunistic Neighborhood Cats

Too sore to make an offering of the bodies immediately after skinning, beheading and defooting them (SEVEN RABBITS + TWO HOURS OF INTENSE WORK SITTING ON A CONCRETE STEP = A V. UNHAPPY ASS) I decided to briefly lay the carcasses to rest in a black plastic bucket which I covered with a lid and left outside in the (back)yard to "air".

When I woke up the next morning I found the lid lying on the grass next to the bucket of exposed rabbits. "THAT'S WEIRD," I said, fitting the top back on, "IT'S NOT LIKE WE HAD WIND OR EVEN A BREEZE LAST NIGHT." Despite wanting to ritually dispose of the bodies ASAP I couldn't, so the rabbits spent another night in the yard with the lid firmly covering the bucket.

There was no wind or breeze that night, but the lid was, once again, on the ground the next morning. "THE FUCK? I'M MOVING THIS SHIT INTO THE BONSAI HOUSE," I declared, still working under the assumption of PHANTOM, MAGIC WIND. So the rabbits were moved outdoor-indoors and the lid was fitted - AGAIN - and the bucket'o'rabbits were left in a more secure place until I had the time to offer them properly.

(YOU TOTALLY KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING, RIGHT?)

The next morning? I discover the top partially flipped off. "SOMETHING'S GETTING TO THE RABBITS," I announced, "BECAUSE I'VE MOVED THE BUCKET INDOORS INTO THE BONSAI HOUSE SO IT'S NOT THE WIND THAT'S BLOWING OFF THE LID." The rabbits, by this point, had a ripe bouquet, and the bloated, blackening bodies had begun oozing juices.

For nearly a week I played the bucket lid game, getting no closer to the mystery. And then? And then, on a day I went outside to do some serious gardening I caught one of the neighborhood cats - ONE OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS WHO SHITS IN MY FUCKING BEETS AND TRAMPLES OVER THE SEEDLINGS, ONE OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS WHO STALKS MY FUCKING SONGBIRDS AND KILLS THEM - with its head fully submerged in the black plastic bucket CHEWING ON A FUCKING RABBIT LEG (THE OPPORTUNISTIC BASTARD).

GODDAMMIT, CATS, I KNOW I'M //THE ONLY WITCH IN THE VICINITY// BUT THAT DOESN'T GIVE YOU LICENSE TO TREAT MY HOUSE AND YARD AS A PUBLIC FUCKING BATHROOM AND AN ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT BUFFET.

Catch and Release

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They stealthily creep into the house late at night through open windows around this time of year. We watch them spin their webs in corners of room in the warmth of modern living, and eventually, after days weeks and months, the perfect gossamer threads become heavy with dust and debris and sag like old Halloween decorations turning our office/computer room into a Hammer horror movie.

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Lammas 2009

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

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Wild Raspberries & Blackbirds

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Hiking to the wild raspberries I found her on the gray asphalt, her body still warm and fluid. I held her limp form next to my heart, against my dead mother's flannel and stroked her downy head.

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Construction workers paused to glance out car windows at the woman in the plaid flannel holding an empty wooden basket and a dead female blackbird against her chest, wandering down a slightly misty country lane by herself at six in the morning.

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Buff-Tailed Bumblebee

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

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Nocturnal Teddy Bear

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"OH, JESUS, SHE'S DRAGGING ME INTO THE HOUSE AGAIN." (<- You can tell he's male by his outie "belly button".)

A Tailor Made Hole

Across the street in the Murder House a family of tiny cheap-cheap birds have made their home behind an air vent leading into the attic. Through evergreen boughs I can see the hole the parents created in the lower right corner of the grate where they swoop out in sharp nosedives and fledglings, unsure, loiter around the opening, curious and wary of the world on the other side of slotted bars.

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(The BLESS THIS HOME image's framed by feathery fronds of eternal summer, bobbing, bowing and trembling in the breeze, moving but never obscuring, shaking but never distracting. Alive, perfect, a living, breathing point of focus, funneling attention to the blemish in the horizontal pattern, a literal "hole in the wall" that's not always perfectly centered in nature's changing picture, but close enough to make a point - LOOK, WATCH, SEE, UNDERSTAND.)

Yesterday there was a frantic explosion of feathers and wings which fought against the damaged air vent. A fat puffball of down hovered an inch below the hole, beating its wings against the immovable barrier. After several long seconds of struggling it dropped - free falling from exhaustion - before finding the strength to spread its wings and fly to safety.

Sometimes it'd rest on the ceramic tiles of the roof. Sometimes it'd rest on the ceramic tiles of the porch. Sometimes it rest in neighboring trees. Sometimes it'd rest just inches below the hole to its home, clinging to the grooves and protrusions of the concrete and pebble siding. Despite the variants of sometimes, despite the recurring failure there was only one poignant "always" - it always tried again, despite all of the "sometimes".

"COME ON, BABY, YOU CAN DO IT, YOU CAN DO IT," I breathed into the office/computer room's window, fogging up the glass with my vocalized encouragement. I stood and offered imaginary hands for it to perch on. I stood and gently wrapped my hands around its desperate, fighting body to guide it into the hole. I stood and worried; wishing, guiding, encouraging, pushing and goading the baby bird. The only thing more relentless than its driven nature to survive was my will for it to succeed.

"Maybe it's too big to fit through the hole now," Italics wondered as we watched it struggle and fight, attempt and rest, the cycle never ending and never breaking.

Maybe it's too big to fit through the hole now never occurred to me. I spent an entire afternoon pacing and watching, worrying and "helping" and it never occurred to me, once, that I was forcibly pushing it into a hole that it just wouldn't fit through. All that time spent cheering was cheering for something futile, something that wasn't going to happen. (And if it DID happen - or even partially happened - it'd happen to the very possible detriment of the fledgling; and there I was forcing, pushing, jamming it on.)

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Sometimes things just don't fit, and the solution isn't struggling and fighting under the pretense of "maybe, eventually" - it's creating a new hole, a tailor made hole, that fits //exactly//.

May 27th Walk

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, OH SNAP, shit needed to get watered so the garlic was dowsed and the lilies of the valley were drenched and I offered water ("BEAR ME FRUIT, BEAR ME FRUIT, BEAR ME FRUIT") to The Shango (Bone) Tree and the two other fruit trees (an apple and another plum, I think). The peach tree and tobacco was checked, the peas prodded, and everything inside the bonsai house and outside on the patio was loved, touched and watered. (YOU NEED TO BE V. HANDS ON WITH PLANTS; THEY NEED TO KNOW THEY'RE LOVED!)

While watering my witch's garlic I noticed how overgrown the narrow stretch of dirt had become (we toss rat food leftovers out the office/computer room window so the birds are fed; unfortunately, since a lot of the leftovers are in seed form they happily root themselves below the window giving us a lush patch of rat food seed grass - LOL, THE ONLY HEALTHY GRASS IN THE ENTIRE YARD, SRSLY) so, fuck, since I was ALREADY muddy and sore and tired and damp it didn't matter if I got anymore muddy and sore and tired and damp and went to work on weeding the garlic bed.

(And it was still and cool and beautiful. Hidden in the shade of nearing twilight I knelt on damp earth and turned it up with my bare hands, the only sounds accompanying the tearing sound of plants-from-soil were the metallic pings from the freshly filled bird feeders as the cheep-cheeps came back for one last meal, and the bumbling, stumbling sound of a fattened bumblebee (BEH!) investigating everything but me as the heavy load of its body hugged the ground.)

That moment - with the pinging and the buzzing and the overwhelming smell of saturated, living earth - was Church, the sycamore's growing umbrella of green a breathing Byzantine cathedral. I prayed and didn't even know it, but there was something about that steady, contented silence that felt simultaneously like thanksgiving and hope. (And I wasn't even high! NOT EVEN, DEAR AND GENTLE READERS!)

"AGAIN!" tends to be my motto; experience taking precedent over thinking. (Thinking's for later, in winter, when I'm locked up indoors and have nothing better to do than be intro and retrospective.) But, SIGH, no, not again, because Saturday morning (tomorrow) is the farmer's market and I'm waking up in the evening (today was around 7:30 PM) which means I need to reserve energy to be able to spring out of the house in roughly twelve hours.

So, instead of gardening, instead of thinking (LOL, THINKING? BUT IT'S NEARLY SUMMER!), instead of writing I give you...

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...another one of our patented early morning walks. (OKAY, OKAY, CALM DOWN, DON'T GET OVEREXCITED.) After being awake at night for about a week you begin getting itchy and the super awesome thing about living here in Scotland (at least where we're located) is that dawn begins to break around 2:30 AM in summer. So, by 3 AM - especially near the solstice - there's more than enough light to let you explore the countryside while the rest of the (local Scottish) world sleeps.

Italics celebrated his 29th birthday on Sunday (HE'S CAUGHT UP, I'M NO LONGER A CRADLE ROBBER! <- WE'RE BOTH MONKEYS, BUT I WAS BORN A MONTH EARLIER) and due to a retarded mix-up ("retarded mix-up" = I forgot to include the portions in the care packages of home baked goods I recently sent) there were five defrosted chunks of Ukrainian angel food cake (vanilla almond) that needed to be used and a 40oz bottle of cider that neither of us could bare to drink (way too acidic and carbonated; it set off both of our acid reflux issues just after one swig).

Unwanted cake and cider? Sounds like a perfect excuse to go leave celebratory offerings...

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Something was DIFFERENT, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was. And then, right in mid-sentence, it hit me - LOL, WAIT, I DIDN'T PUT THAT MOTH ON MY ANTIQUE CRESCENT NECKLACE! (SAVE THE SILK!)

My mom's Elizabeth Arden "Treasures of the Pharaohs" hippo figure was the seed that sparked SEX PIG 2K; I worshiped the glossy white porcelain figure from afar as a kid (translation: IN THE CHINA CABINET, BUT NEVER TOUCHED OR HELD IN FEAR OF BREAKING IT). It was one of several things I managed to "inherit" when my mother died unexpectedly a few years ago.

Not only does it spiritually resonate with me (the entire hippo thang; which perfectly compliments Italics's crocodile thang), but, in a weird way, it makes me love my mother even more when I see it. (It's hard to remember the crazy, the angry, the everything when you're looking at something so simple, white and pure - it's like seeing the best of my mom.)

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I couldn't find any indigenous folklore about Brimstone moths, but they apparently love rowan and we have a single rowan tree that marks our side of the crossroads we live on. (I've been hacking either rowan or sycamore roots; all of the pieces have been kept since I figure you can do something MAGIC with roots the width of bean poles - CHTHONIC ROWAN BROOM, ANYONE?)

I've only worn the crescent necklace once; it was one of those split second, spontaneous decisions. It was worn with the rest of my ritual jewelry, my favorite ass-hugging jeans, my magic grey long sleeve shirt, my wedding dress (a Scottish apron that I wore when we performed last years GREAT RITE / SACRED MARRIAGE / HIEROS GAMOS ritual) and my black leather jacket when we went reaping last year during Harvest's lunar eclipse. (MORE ON THAT LATER!)

"LET'S GO FOR A WALK," I suggested, out of no where, staring at the Brimstone moth. It was still dark - inky black with a faint crack of cerulean blue where the sun would rise in a few hours - perfect for catching some wildlife still out and about before early commuters began their weekly cycle of wake-work-sleep.

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When the rural town we live in began seriously encroaching on the countryside the occupants of the new houses began using abandoned fields to walk their dogs. After several years walkers have beaten in a path that loops around a cairn and several fields passing hillsides that were once filled with endless gorse bushes and giant foxgloves.

Sections of old stone walls have been removed and two corners of the field - the two split by a gravel road leading up to a farm - have been disturbed. There are piles of gravel and stacks of plastic irrigation pipes and the beaten path has been flanked with flags on wooden stakes; looks like the council has finally decided to make a permanent path for walkers and their dogs and create two small parking lots to discourage people from parking on the side of the road.

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My father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, believes himself to be an expert bullshit artist. We feign ignorance and play along, only because it's easier to go "YEAH, RIGHT, UH HUH" absently while periodically nodding your head in faux agreement. (NO, SERIOUSLY. I'VE WITNESSED A "CONVERSATION" BETWEEN ITALICS AND HIS FATHER THAT LASTED TEN MINUTES AND THE ONLY THING ITALICS EVER SAID - THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE DURATION OF THE ONE-SIDED INTERACTION - WAS A DISMISSIVE "UH HUH".)

Mr. Awesome alerted us to the fact that a new building scheme was going up, that they were going to put houses where people walk their dogs. You know, the place where the council's outlined the beaten track with flags - like they do with every other path they create and pave in the shire - and carved out two small parking lot sized plots right next to the street. The same two fields were rocks have been deliberately removed from the stone wall to provide access into the carved out plots of land, where piles of gravel are sitting (to use instead of asphalt or concrete) next to a handful of pipes to irrigate the to-be flattened, graveled patch of land.

"Uh huh," we said, in unison, his father speaking to both of our backs as we pretended to be inordinately interested in the dinner we were preparing. "Uh huh," we said, a day earlier having seen an official posting at the community hall saying that the building scheme that had been planned - something I was personally angsting about - was withdrawn and not to be pushed forward (thank you, recession, thank you!).

"Uh huh," we said, thinking "what a fucking oblivious retard."

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Just as we began passing the disturbed children's home (boarded up and no longer in use, but still being maintained in the hopes that one day it can be reopened for the benefit of children) I caught a flash of white bobbing in our wheat field ("our wheat field" = the wheat field where we performed the Reaping ritual last year).

It was, honest to all that's fucking holy, the first deer I've seen locally since first moving here in 2001. (I now LOLOLOL! at my memories of white tailed deer eating so non-chalantly next to O'hare airport when driving in to pick Italics up from the airport or drop him off.)(OH, THE OLD DAYS WHERE EVERY FEW MONTHS THERE'D BE A TEARFUL DEPARTING, WAITING AND DREAMING ABOUT THE DAY WE'D FINALLY BE TOGETHER WITH NO ATLANTIC OCEAN BETWEEN US.)

Deer are sacred to The Old Woman (the Cailleach), and I think I've read that the ancient, primitive deer priestess cults were somehow connected to Her. (WORKS FOR ME, YO. GIVE ME SOME DRUGS, A WEAPON, AND I'LL HAPPILY GO RITUALLY HUNTING SO I CAN KILL, WEEP, SKIN AND THROW A FLAYED, STILL WARM HIDE OVER MY NAKED BODY WHILE ROLLING ON THE GROUND ALL EXORCIST-STYLE. <- Oh honey, yes, I'm THAT sort've witch.)

"I wonder if it'll run through the threshold," I mused, the "threshold" being a cleared section of a stone wall running through the middle of the wheat field - the place where, a few months ago, I declared we should finish our WEDDING RITE. (I mean, JESUS, what could be MORE MAGIC than having ritual fertility sex IN THE THRESHOLD OF A "DOOR"? PRETTY DAMN MAGIC.)

A minute or two later - just long enough to be comical - it darted through the gap, racing up the incline of the field towards Rabbit Hill. (YEAH, YEAH, I GET IT, I GET IT. NIGHTTIME MOTH ON MY CRESCENT REAPING NECKLACE, A DEER RACING THROUGH OUR PROPOSED MARTIAL BED - "FOR FUCK'S SAKE! GET IT ON, GET IT OVER WITH!" DEMANDS THE UNIVERSE. <- We still haven't had "proper" sex; we've been saving that for SEX IN THE FIELD, so Hieros Gamos / the Great Rite has been only half finished since Easter Sunday - ASS FINISHED!)

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The local cemetery at dawn. The new section's contained behind the wall; everything in front is much, much older. The row of trees in the background - the super huge ones in the distance - are the ancient beech trees that create the hedgerow where the stone "stove" is. Just behind the trees is our wheat field.

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The flat, risen grave is our makeshift bench and cemetery sex bed. Unfortunately, it's too dark to see, but there's a weathered skull and crossbones carved into the stone beneath the top. (IF YOU CLICK ON THE IMAGE ABOVE I'VE HIGHLIGHTED WHERE IT IS; YOU CAN JUST MAKE OUT SOME OF THE CROSSBONES.)

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Sister Mary Cabrini's still holding on to her resurrection egg. (For the full story hit up my previous journal entry 2009 PYSANKY which explains the entire egg thing a lot better.) I wonder what visiting relatives or fellow sisters must've thought the first time they saw the hard boiled egg sitting at the foot of the cross. (Which reminds me - I've still got a wee lavender that I've been meaning to plant at her grave for the past two years, BETTER GET THAT SHIT DONE, DUDE.)

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No one there except for us, birds, rabbits and the recently (and not so recently) deceased. It's a beautiful, still quiet that's shared between us and the wildlife - Scotland at dawn, twenty-two days before the summer solstice.

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Wild rabbits in the cemetery. (REINCARNATION, RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE DEATH CYCLE, ANYONE?) If the birds don't get to our graveyard offerings first, the rabbits have a picnic. (The shot's so blurred because Italics had to zoom in super crazy to be able to get a picture of the rabbit cutting through the rows of graves.)

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OH HEY, AS IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY GOTTEN YOUR FILL OF BLURRED RABBIT IMAGES! This one was taken on the way back as we passed the beech hedge. Next time we go out for one of our morning walks I'll staple my detached rabbit tail so I can blend in with the locals. ("I AM YOUR RABBIT MESSIAH, THROUGH ME I WILL BRING YOU AND YOUR LAGOMORPHA BRETHREN EVERLASTING LIFE!")

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While Italics was having a slash behind the disturbed children's home I made friendly with the neighboring cows until I was scolded for arousing suspicion.

(Some people aren't as respectful as we are of the home; recently it's been broken into several times by kids who get drunk (OH LOOK, ANOTHER BROKEN BOOZE BOTTLE, AWESOME!), wrench the boards off windows and smash whatever they can get their hands on. For obvious reasons we don't want people thinking that we're the vandalism culprits so we try to keep our presence under the radar.)

(IF WE DIDN'T LEAVE CANDY AT HALLOWEEN AND PRESENTS AT CHRISTMAS FOR THE KIDS, WHO WOULD?)

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I don't have kids and don't have any experience with them, but if they're anything like wildlife then I know they can be bribed with food. (WHO WOULDN'T WANT A DEAD ARMY OF DISTURBED CHILDREN TO DO THEIR BIDDING?) Every once in a while we visit the home to leave offerings of food and water for the girls and boys.

Pictured above is a piece of Ukrainian angel food cake moistened with flat alcoholic cider. (RIGHT, OKAY, I KNOW THAT MAYBE GIVING DISTURBED CHILDREN ALCOHOL ISN'T EXACTLY KOSHER, BUT, FUCK, IT'S NOT LIKE I GAVE THEM A PACK OF MATCHES, OR SOMETHING.) Papa's bird (blackbirds), the ever ready opportunist, has already found the cake sitting on the door step. (I'VE SAID IT ONCE, AND I'LL SAY IT AGAIN - WHERE THERE'S FOOD, THERE'S PAPA.)

Clearer images of the whole house can be found on my Flickr photostream here, here and here.

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Why waste words on something that doesn't need any? EXACTLY. (All photos within this entry were taken by Italics; if it isn't at a weird, close-up artsy angle than you know it's him behind the camera.)

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NOTES TO SELF: Carried back two recently cut logs from children's home for solstice bonfire. Italics found a denim kid's hat near the dog walking fields with a crocodile on the label. (<- OOO, MAGIC SPECIAL!)

Cycle of the Sycamore

It's official, we're parents! Well, okay, maybe adopted parents, or, uh, legal guardians, or something. ("Or something" = "suckers who fill up three separate bird feeders every other day providing an all-you-can-eat 24/7 buffet for pint-sized cheep-cheep birds"; yeah, we're pushovers - even the crows know how to get table scraps out of me.)

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Just as I was getting ready for bed (I'm currently up at night and going to sleep around eight in the morning) I saw it - all puffed up with baby fluff and giving every bird that passed it a narrowed look of MAJOR CRANKYPANTS. ("Are you my Mommy? No? Are you going to feed me, anyway? No? FUCK YOU, THEN! Are you my...")

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A baby! A round ball of feathers and fat! A BABY! A teeny tiny beak that cranked open whenever another bird - regardless of species, although they were all small since it was breakfast time for the little cheep-cheeps - came in close proximity. (OUR baby! Fed and nurtured with food we've provided all year long.) I nearly melted into a sleepy pool of "awwww!" (so much for my title of QUEEN BITCH DESTROYER, right?).

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There's a sycamore outside our office window which I've been fighting to keep. (When Mr. Awesome gets bored with something he chops it down; there isn't any REAL reason why he wants to kill the tree outside our office/computer room window other than sheer boredom, and I'm not about to let someone who's otherwise abandoned and ignored the garden for 10+ years make major decisions that'll affect me and the local wildlife I've worked on attracting. IT AIN'T HAPPENING, YO, THE CRAZY BITCH DAUGHTER-IN-LAW HAS SPOKEN.)

In Fall I listen to the howl of The Old Woman as her breath tears through dozing branches and rips withered leaves from stems. In Fall I watch the whirlwind of crackling leaves sweep off the ground and into the air, tumbling across asphalt and concrete and covering the ground below; a forecast, a premonition of what's to come.

(Sparrows and Wren flutter on the ground like animated leaves, partially camouflaged in the new layer of wizened foliage from the sycamore, looking, hunting and finding the last of the insects before easy, free food disappears for a season and a half.)

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In Winter I stand breathless at the window altar in the middle of the night, watching a black sky turn violet as the first reflective flakes of frozen lace drift aimlessly in the sharp air. In Winter I kneel at the holy altar of Death and Sleep, the sycamore barren and bony, fiberglass snow tracing branches and stems outlining a skeletal mirage on the living and sleeping.

(Robins, with their red breasts, flutter from branch to branch, singing and calling on still mornings, when the only sound beside their territorial calls is the steady, static crunch of snow falling.)

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In Spring I celebrate the tight buds of growth - crowns of leaves shrink wrapped into tight, little bullets, waiting for the trigger pull and explosion of cordite. In Spring the world celebrates as the warming breeze rustles through waking branches, rain and wind stimulating tiny, oval clitoral buds as crocuses and snowdrops blanket the ground in a living, breathing carpet of wedding flowers as The Old Woman regresses and becomes The Virgin Bride.

(Blackbirds, with their dipping tails, jump from branch to branch excitedly, replacing the Robin's fragile hope of Spring with a robust and optimistic promise of Spring as they race along the tender shoots of my witch's garlic looking for moss to pad their nests-in-progress.)

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In Summer...well, in Summer I take the season off because, Jesus, I've already spent three quarters of the year celebrating something. (A GIRL NEEDS SOME TIME OFF, ESPECIALLY WHEN "DEATH" AND "WINTER" IS SORT'VE HER THING.) In Summer the sycamore opens like an umbrella, obscuring everything within behind a thick cloak of green and I forget about the bird feeder hidden behind the downy cover of leaves but rediscover it, later on, when the leaves begin to thin and curl, exposing, once again, the endless cycle of the sycamore - a home, an altar, a church, a symbol.

(...HE IS SO TOTALLY NOT CUTTING IT DOWN. EVER.)

Arctic River

This Spring's been an arctic river overflowing with winter run-off. Fast moving, non-negotiable waters thunder past my legs pushing, pulling and sweeping me away with the charging current. There's no use fighting the tidal wave of lightening movement, so I haven't tried. (No struggling means freedom, even when lost amongst the tumbling chaos, and with my attention undistracted I can almost catch all of the beautiful, awe inducing gems the season's hidden away just for me.)

(IN OTHER WORDS, I'VE BEEN SO GODDAMN BUSY FOR THE PAST THREE WEEKS DUE TO SPRING RELATED ACTIVITIES THAT I'VE HAD TO RELY ON MY BRAND NEW BIRTHDAY CAMERA AS A DIARY.)

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Late last year I stole a narrow stretch of waste ground where I loosened the earth and haphazardly planted over three heads of garlic. (I didn't think it'd work, but it DID.) Very early in February there were suspicious shoots popping up in a semi-neat row, and now, at the very end of April, this is what it looks like. Next year? Next year I'll try even //harder//. (Any more effort than I originally expended would already be an improvement. Srsly.)

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No signs of scrapes yet. (Once the garlic is ready to flower it grows out a tentacle - the scrape - which'll eventually blossom. To encourage bulb growth you need to cut the scrape before it flowers so the energy is diverted below.) But, baby, once those fuckers pop up it'll be garlic scrape pesto time...

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Sections of Aberdeen were built on a hill, so a part of it slopes down at a slow angle and is only disturbed by stairs and old buildings. Wild city rabbits live in any patch of green (along roadsides, next to towering blocks of apartments and in cemeteries) and as we were cutting through lanes and streets and alleys to get to our dinner reservation, we saw that the rabbits had already beaten us to Sunday dinner.

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I always feel stupidly disappointed when wild animals don't respond to my ANIMAL SPEAK. (ANIMAL SPEAK = PURSING LIPS TOGETHER AND SUCKING AIR IN JUST A LITTLE TO MAKE A SQUEAKING SOUND.) Italics and I have spent years developing ANIMAL SPEAK since our first pair of rats, Ann and Nancy (after Heart, although Nancy was the one who got fat out of the pair).

Animal Speak gets used when I want to attract the attention of the rats (they know it's my COME HERE RIGHT NOW or FOOD PEOPLE HAS FOOD or I WANT TO SEE YOUR LITTLE RAT FACES voice), but it'll also work on wild animals - they cock their head, blink and then give you a straight up WHAT THE FUCK? expression.

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Last year we celebrated the winter solstice by renting a hotel room and staying in town overnight. (Aberdeen's roughly 15 minutes away from us; we're in a subdivision in the shire where it's mostly rural.) Even though we were running late we took a few minutes in the privacy of the alley to take some pictures.

(AND WHEN I SAY "TAKE SOME PICTURES" I MEAN, "GET HIGH BEFORE EATING A RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF CHINESE FOOD AND, ALSO, TAKE SOME PICTURES".)

The above picture was taken mid-April (spring!), and THIS HERE PICTURE was taken mid-December (winter!); both show Marischal College's tower erupting in the background.

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In the few instances we've used the stairs as a shortcut we were always on schedule for something. This past trip, however, we were running early so we were able to loiter more leisurely around ancient brick and stone.

While Italics was trying to get our pipe working (JOINTS ARE NICE IN A SUPERFICIAL VISUAL WAY, BUT WASTEFUL - AND, ALSO, I DON'T LIKE MY FINGER SMELLING LIKE CIGARETTES) I noticed, for the first time, that there was writing on the wall.

(I have NO idea what it means, but Aberdeen's known for keeping crazy ass insane records, so it should be easy to find out the history behind the engravings.)

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I don't know anything about this church other than it's OLD, OLD, OLD (you can tell by the structure of the buildings attached to it, and the look of the building materials) and IT'S ANOTHER ABERDEEN CHURCH (you guys would not believe how many fucking churches there are in the city). I haven't made my way up to visit it, but I do intend to...eventually. (To see the church at night in winter click on THIS HERE LINK.)

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I chose this little Italian cafe place for my belated birthday dinner. Despite being absolutely desperate for a pizza (I'VE TOLD ITALICS V. BLATANTLY AND WITHOUT ANY SUBTLETY THAT I'M WILLING TO PROVIDE SEXUAL FAVORS FOR A REALLY FUCKING GOOD PIZZA; YOU JUST CAN'T GET THE PIZZA I WANT HERE IN SCOTLAND) I saw that they served veal Marsala and my Evil Queen heart (I ALSO WEAR FUR. THAT'S RIGHT - I EAT VEAL AND WEAR FUR AND ADMIT TO BOTH; CRUCIFY OR WORSHIP ME AS YOU PLEASE.) skipped a beat and all notion of pizza was gone.

Italics, either up for the challenge or hoping to fill the pizza void in my Chicago-born heart, ordered a calzone. The picture above does absolutely no justice to the sheer size of the fucking monster; that plate could fit a decapitated head on it easily - EASILY. My veal? A little tough due to being overcooked, but the Marsala sauce was exquisite. Their cured meats (our starter) were terrific, but the Tiramisu was only so-so (they put a layer of jam, or something, through the dessert, but it tasted like apricot-flavored petroleum jelly at best, and apricot-flavored toothpaste gel at worst).

The coffee? To fucking die for. (It was seriously the star of the evening.)

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By the time we saw a movie, walked up from the beach, had dinner and returned back to the hotel it was edging just past nine in the evening. I had to keep a straight face while gnawing on a inner cheek when I noticed that our hotel neighbors opposite of us, despite having two trash cans in the room, decided to discard their take-away garbage in the hall.

(LOL, CLASSY! I ESPECIALLY LOVE HOW THEY HUNG THE "DO NOT DISTURB" SIGN. OH, POOR PEOPLE, YOU'RE AN ENDLESS SOURCE OF DISGUSTED AMUSEMENT FOR ME. PS: THIS PICTURE'S BLURRED BECAUSE I FORCED ITALICS TO GO BACK OUTSIDE AND TAKE A PICTURE AND AS HE WAS DOING SO ONE OF THE OCCUPANTS BEGAN OPENING THEIR ROOM DOOR.)

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Italics didn't know that I packed away my blond wig, a pair of knee high socks and my cheerleader outfit for fun later that night. I posed, for a second, in his semi-new sort've Indiana Jones BUT NOT REALLY jacket, and the whole cheerleader thing went out the window. (FIGURATIVELY, I MEAN. DO YOU KNOW HOW EXPENSIVE NICE WIGS ARE? JESUS.)

After dinner entertainment was wearing my husband's jacket and nothing else (WAIT, I TAKE THAT BACK - I WAS STILL WEARING A BRA!) and the "movie" mode on our recently retired digital camera. (I was feeling the affects of the coffee - even though it had been a decaf - so I needed a visit from THE FIREMEN to soothe the affects of GERD. <- LAUGH NOW, BUT WAIT UNTIL YOUR OVERLY ACIDIC STOMACH IS IN DIRE NEED OF A SHOT OF SOMETHING ALKALINE TO CALM IRRITATION.)

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This is a shot of Union Street running down into Castlegate (the smaller, secondary looking castle in the middle of the picture) in downtown Aberdeen taken by Italics the morning after our belated birthday celebrations. (IT STARTED WITH HIS JACKET, AND ENDED WITH A CHIPPER AND A BAG OF MALTEASERS IN BED.)

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Aberdeen, to the naked eye, appears to have been built around a church (St. Nicholas) and its graveyard. This is a picture of the more formal entrance to the kirkyard which is used as a thoroughfare and public park. (I've never seen people so happily sit on green cemetery grass like they were visiting a botanic garden until St. Nicholas.)

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"Marischal College is a building in the Scottish city of Aberdeen belonging to the University of Aberdeen. It was formerly an independent university in its own right. A significant portion of the building is currently leased on a long-term basis to Aberdeen City Council for office space. As well as being the tallest building in Aberdeen, it is also the second largest granite building in the world."

Oh, Wiki, you're a blessing to this lazy shell of a human being! (View right outside the newest Starbucks in town.)

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Since the St. Nicholas kirkyard is in the center of the city, it's one of the best semi-private places to have a joint before galloping off to diner. Our preferred spot is near Mr. Alex Fullerton, Druggist, which is wonderfully aged and picturesque on gloriously sunny days. (LOLOLOL, I KNOW. WE ONLY REALIZED THE "DRUGGIST" PART SORT'VE RECENTLY.)

When a friend who's involved in medicine and health care requested some graveyard dirt I immediately knew whose grave the dirt was coming off of. (NOTE TO SELF: In return you left one of the red-dyed Easter eggs (Ukrainians, in the olden days, left red eggs at the graves of ancestors and friends to encourage reincarnation and resurrection) and a gold foiled chocolate coin.)

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This is the infamous dirtyard, post-crocus season. (IT HAS SERIOUSLY SAT LIKE THIS FOR OVER THREE YEARS NOW.) I took this picture just before I went to work with a flattened box of cereal and a spade to mark the strip where I intended to plant carrots and beets. Unfortunately, the street extends too far beneath the soil so some of the chthonic vegetables I wanted to grow in the dirtyard (carrots!) will have to be planted elsewhere.

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Last year my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, threw away all of my spring bulbs that Italics had given me as a gift. (IN THIS HOUSE, HE GETS TO DECIDE WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR THINGS.) He never apologized or acknowledged that he had thrown away another gift (or ashes that belonged to my mother, or an anniversary gift I was making for Italics, or...) so Italics stepped in and bought me another round of bulbs.

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"Richly coloured tulip of burnt orange-red with petal edges of yellow-gold."

One of my favorite parts of Spring is watching the giant, almost unbelievable changes that seem to happen overnight. One day tulips are tight, pursed buds; the next they've unfurled with a gasp for fresh air. Transformations always seem so immediate during the season of renewal.

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Oh, nasty ass Starlings, I love how you don't give a fuck about me even if I'm outside doing gardening work next to your bird food. (Nothing comes between you and the food I put out for you guys, NOTHING.)

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When planting out CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE Spring flowers last fall (grape hyacinths, dwarf irises, dwarf tulips, tulips and daffodils) I discovered a handful of mysterious bulbs hidden deep within a dirt filled container. I rescued them (they were buried too deep to properly sprout, Christ only knows how long they've just sat in that plastic bucket) and relocated them to the container with my Finnish poppies. This Spring solved the mystery; they're Narcissus, and they smell like heaven.

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Whenever I cook with Italics there's always a fifty percent chance of ass.

(This is our third batch of Cowboy Bread (sort've like a flour tortilla meets pita bread) - THE BEST YET! - after its first rise. Italics is dividing the dough into eight smaller portions so after the second rise we can roll them out and "bake" them in a skillet.)

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The Cowboy Bread's risen twice, rolled out and then pan-fried in olive oil until golden spots appear. (We made two super huge ones - the size the recipe suggests - and then halved the other portions so they were more pita than giant, fluffy flour tortillas.)

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Once cooked-baked-fried you shove the flat bread(s) into a ziploc bag, or cover them with a damp towel, so the steam keeps them soft and pliable. (We never got around to artfully arranging them on a plate for SRS FOOD PHOTOGRAPHY because all we wanted to do was tear into the fuckers and shovel hummus into our mouths.)

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Shango blossoms on the Shango (Bone) Tree. (Technically, Mr. Awesome (my father-in-law) owns the tree, but I adopted it a few years back and have been gradually and systematically exerting control over it.)

Two years ago - the first REAL year I started getting V. serious about all of this magic business - the Shango Tree (a plum tree), bore fruit. Thanks to everyone's complete disinterest in the the garden I was able to secretly reap the reward and ritually consumed the tree-ripened plums without having to share.

I was so swept up in foraging hedonism that I didn't occur to me to KEEP THE FUCKING PITS SO I COULD GROW NEW SHANGO (BONE) TREES FROM SEED. I kicked myself for fucking MONTHS for discarding the pits and anxiously waited for the next growing season to roll around. And what did the tree do last year? NOT FLOWER, OBVIOUSLY. (No flowers = no fruit; no fruit = no seeds; no seeds = no new Shango (Bone) Trees.)

I spent all of last year coaxing it to flower (everything from leaving offerings of food, watering it by hand almost every other day, laying my hands on the tree and giving it some Barry White vocal love) this year, and all of that effort paid off. (Although it would've been A LOT MORE AWESOME if the Shango (Bone) Tree hadn't decided to stick out the ONE FLOWERING BRANCH IT PRODUCED like a fucking flasher with an erection. <- WAY TO ATTRACT MR. AWESOME'S ATTENTION, S(B)T! WHATEVER HAPPENED TO SUBTLE MAGIC? JESUS.)

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I can't remember a time when Scotland wasn't washed with some sort of green. Even in winter the wild azaleas and mosses and lichen and holly trees retain their vibrant colors. It takes late Spring to alter my perception of "green".

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We're on route to the cemetery and stove to leave belated Easter offerings, passing pasture land, green wheat fields and weathered stone walls. With every new walk to the kirkyard the landscape gets more green and alive.

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There's a hedge of ancient beeches that outline an entire side of pasture which touches the crumbling wall that runs in front of the ruined church (with the abandoned walled garden in the background) and the back of the local cemetery. Discarded in the line of trees is this old water trough (or at least that's what I //think// it is) which we call "the stove".

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Even though the metal's rusted and old the hinge and latch work perfectly, which allowed me to safely hide roadkill (a rabbit, fresh and in near pristine condition) last autumn when we were stealing potatoes out of a local potato field. (I didn't want to bang up the rabbit while we scrambled over walls and frantically dug up potatoes from an agricultural field at six in the morning.)

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There comes a point, every year around Spring, where non-perishable food offerings begin taking over the house. When we begin feeling claustrophobic we know it's time to visit "the stove" and leave the offerings to their Fate*; we've been doing that for two or three years now.

(* IN OTHER WORDS - WE LEAVE IT FOR OUR ANCESTORS, BUT KNOW THAT THE INDIGENOUS WILDLIFE WILL ALSO BE ENJOYING THE SPREAD.)

This Easter season, while I was flipping through one of my Ukrainian cookbooks, I stumbled across a passage explaining several ancient customs Ukies observed around Easter. Apparently, long ago, food was deliberately left IN A STOVE as an offering to feed and sustain ancestors, relatives and friends who have passed on. (WE ARE SO ON THE BALL WITH SOME OF THIS SHIT THAT SOMETIMES IT SCARES ME.)

(NOTE TO SELF: This is the first year you put individual Paska/Babka for loved ones who died since last Easter (i.e., Hezbollah, Beh and Didi) in the stove rather than at the cairn in the cemetery.)

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It took until LAST FUCKING YEAR for me to even notice there was a wild gooseberry bush growing in the ruins of the church. By the time I realized what the shrub was the berries were the size of quail eggs. (I AM SO NOT JOKING IN THE SLIGHTEST; THIS BUSH HAS GOT SOME SERIOUS JUNK ON IT.)

Unfortunately, I was hella, hella sick last year (bedridden due to symptoms and ailments that's baffled the medical community and put me in the very familiar category of "atypical") so by the time I was well enough to leave the house the animals had enjoyed every ball-sized gooseberry and left none for me, SIGH.

(Behind the bush you can see one of the walls and doors of the abandoned wall garden directly behind the ruins of the small church.)

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When I was a kid and running naked through Midwestern waste fields and woodlands I could name almost every flowering plant I ran across. Finding something totally new felt like discovering new species of previously unidentified vegetated life.

That excitement and drive totally disappeared around the time I started high school, but resurfaced recently (just over ten years later) the deeper I got into indigenous folklore. If I haven't misidentified it, this is Green Alkanet (in the same family as good ole Borage) and it grows rampant in the space between the NEW OLD CRUMBLING WALL and the OLD OLD NOT SO CRUMBING WALL.

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Until last year it was an absolute mystery where they were burying the majority of the recently deceased. As it turns out, what I thought was a community football pitch was the new section of the cemetery. (There aren't a lot of headstones, and they're way, way in the far corner of the very long stretch of land. Until you're physically in the open space it's difficult to tell there are bodies actually buried there.)

This was post-stove and pre-cairn, just before we hopped over the road and had lunch in an open meadow beneath an oak tree. Two fields and a line of trees over you can see a man-made loch created a very long time ago.

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The stone wall neatly bordering the graves in the background is the wall that separates the cemetery from the pasture field which touches the hedge of beech trees and ruined church. This is the new portion of the old cemetery, where Muriel and the nun are buried.

Our visit to the kirkyard had to be quick on this occasion because hired help were mowing the lawn. (HOW AWESOME OF A JOB IS THAT? MOWING THE VELVETY SOFT LAWN OF AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH CEMETERY ON A GLORIOUS SPRING DAY? HOLY SHIT, DUDE, WHERE DO //I// SIGN UP FOR THAT GIG?)

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I HAVE NOT HAD "NORMAL" SEX SINCE FUCKING MARDI GRAS. When the GREAT RITE was celebrated it was celebrated IN MY ASS, so since Easter Sunday we've been joking that I'm only half married (OR PERHAPS "ASS MARRIED"?) and that I'll remain only partially married until ACTUAL VAGINAL PENETRATION IS MADE.

Because I'm so good at making things difficult I suggested we wait to have "normal" sex until we can have sex in the same wheat field where we reaped last year for the first time. (IT MAKES SENSE, RIGHT? IF I'M REAPING AND HARVESTING THE FRUIT, I BETTER BE FERTILIZING THE LAND TOO, YO.)

Content with the half he married (THE ASS HALF, IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN) he agreed, so we're now just waiting for the right moment (i.e., WHEN WE HAVE POT, WHEN IT'S DRY AND WHEN IT'S DARK ENOUGH) to finish the rite we started on April 12th.

(My idea is to have sex in the space between the two wooden posts, effectively performing Hieros Gamos on and in the threshold of a "door". If not there there's always an unused water trough right next to it...)

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The very first local Spring lambs we saw were a pair of black kids. (Ever since Imbolc I've been meaning to leave an offering of oats to the lactating sheep but I never got a chance.) (LAMBS HAVE A PECULIAR AVERSION TO FACTORY PRODUCED STRAWBERRY-FLAVORED MARSHMALLOWS. I, UH, READ THAT SOMEWHERE ON THE NET, OR SOMETHING.)

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OH, SKELETON ZOMBIE I WANTED TO TAKE YOU HOME WITH ME, OR AT LEAST TAKE YOU TO SEE A MOVIE. (BUT IT'S PROBABLY GOOD THAT I DIDN'T SINCE MONSTERS VERSUS ALIENS, EVEN IN 3-D, WAS SHOCKINGLY SHIT, EVEN WHEN REALLY, REALLY HIGH.)

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I think they must've recently painted and decorated the Haunted Mansion because I don't remember it ever looking so fresh and new. (ONE OF THESE DAYS I'LL FORCE ITALICS TO BUY SIX TOKENS SO I CAN SEE WHAT THE HAUNTED MANSION'S ALL ABOUT.)

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I wish I could remember more of this day. I know we saw two movies (I Love You Man and Monsters Versus Aliens), I know we went out to eat (Jack Daniel's Monterey Burger at TGI Friday's) and I know we visited the shoreline twice to get high (once before eating and once again before the second movie).

I also know that I realized something, or said something, or Italics said something - THERE WAS SOMETHING THAT SEEMED OBVIOUS - but now I can't remember what IT was. ("Zoe" was scribbled into the sand, which, if I remember right, means "life" in Greek, and seeing the name/word and even being able to translate it somehow felt significant.)

I poured fresh water on wet, salty sand as an offering, and it left the impression of a dick with balls. Cruelly, the camera's battery died just before I was able to secure a picture of my sand cock. (OH, MAGIC, SOMETIMES YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED.)

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This is my fat little bizza bear, Shoney, who's pretty sure that my camera might be food. (DON'T TELL HER IT ISN'T, OTHERWISE SHE MIGHT NOT BOTHER SITTING STILL THE NEXT TIME I SHOVE IT IN HER FACE.)

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OH, BEGGAR RAT SISTERS, LOOKING FOR A FOOD HANDOUT WHILE LOITERING IN MY COMPUTER DESK. (My lap's the bridge between two hollowed out spaces in my desk so there's constant rat traffic streaming back and forth when there's a suspicion of food.)

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The trio of rats we have now - Wuzza (Denny's), Choney (Shoney's) and Shakey (Shakey's Pizza) - are damn near impossible to take pictures of. All the other generations of rat roommates we had managed to sit still longer than three seconds which allowed us to build a library of photos. These guys? They've been restricted to "movie" mode on the camera because they're always just a blur of motion in anything remotely resembling a picture.

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Within a day of noticing that I turned over earth in the dirtyard to possibly plant some carrots and beets Mr. Awesome drove through the dirt with a car leaving two very distinct tire marks across the strip of land I had marked in the soil.

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We've had the dirtyard for years. (AND WHEN I MEAN "YEARS" I MEAN "AT LEAST THREE, PROBABLY FOUR".) After several years of no obvious intent I decided if I can't plant grass I might as well make use of the available dirt and grow some vegetables. After several years of no obvious intent my father-in-law suddenly DROVE OVER THE EXACT SPOT WHERE I HAD BEGUN MAKING A ROW FOR BEETS. (Should I take that as a hint?)

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The thing about this NEW DRIVEWAY he's created is that UP UNTIL THIS POINT - THE POINT WHERE I MADE AN OBVIOUS MOVE TO CLAIM SOME UNUSED DIRT - HE'S NEVER, EVER DRIVEN OVER WHAT IS, EFFECTIVELY, THE FRONT YARD.

I don't know what's changed, if he's acting out or if it was a honest necessity when he found he couldn't maneuver any other way out of the driveway. At any rate, it isn't exactly an auspicious start to my adventure into creating a dirtyard vegetable patch.

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You know to expect some MAN BEHAVIOR when your husband helps you with the Spring gardening. I was instructed to sit still as Italics ran for the camera to document how perfectly he dropped a Sharpie down my pants on his first try. (OH HEY, I'M WEARING UNDERWEAR FOR ONCE! EVEN IF IT IS A PAIR OF BOXERS.)

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Oh, we do horrible, awful things to our Lindt Easter bunnies. This white chocolate one, for instance, graced our Easter basket this year which was blessed at a special church service on Holy Saturday. Even divine intervention couldn't save him (her?) from the melting pot when it came time to make Chex Muddy Buddies. (The giant dark chocolate rabbit? Oh, his (her?) fate's already been determined - dark chocolate brownies.)

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My inside outside vegetable garden post-growing closet and pre-bonsai house. (Once the plants get too big in the confined space of the closet they get repotted and moved to the backroom where they'll sit for a few weeks to bulk up before being relocated to the bonsai house to become acclimated to outside temperatures.)

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There are two other fruit trees other than the Shango (Bone) Tree trained against a wooden fence in the backyard. One of them is an apple tree, but I can't remember what the other one - the one pictured above - is. It might be another apple, or it might be another plum. Either way, it's getting some extra love this year to encourage the flowers to fruit.

(In the background you can see all of Mr. Awesome's bonsai trees and shrubs that he said would only sit in the backyard for a few weeks. That? That was last year. And on top of that, he killed off all the grass in the backyard - after digging it all up in the front yard - so we literally had NO LAWN to sit on last year during summer.)

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WHOOPS, I FORGOT I HAD ALREADY TAKEN A PICTURE OF THE SHANGO BLOSSOMS ON THE SHANGO (BONE) TREE! (This one was taken about a week after the first one. Nearly a week after THAT the petals of the plum blossoms are almost gone, and whatever remains is hidden behind leafy buds that get bigger every day.)

BEAR ME FRUIT, DAMMIT, I'VE MASSAGED YOU LIKE A PAMPERED COW, FED YOU LIKE A HUNGRY HUSBAND AND WATERED YOU LIKE...UHM...A CAR (OR SOMETHING).

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The backyard's become a bird sanctuary due to the high ratio of bushes, shrubs and trees to gravel and concrete. (FOR SOME REASON SOME SCOTTISH FOLK LOVE TO TEAR EVERYTHING GREEN OUT OF THEIR YARD, FILL IT WITH GRAVEL AND DUMP A CONTAINER OR TWO OF TULIPS AMONGST THE ROCKS.) It helps that their natural predators - the neighborhood cats - are too busy scarfing down (people) food offerings to be bothered with them.

(That feed container? Yesterday, on May Day, I decided to refill all bird seed containers no matter how full they were in honor of the day. Just before twilight I filled that exact feeder until it was spitting seeds, this afternoon - just after three - it was virtually empty. THESE BIRDS ARE GOING TO PUT ME IN THE POOR HOUSE.)

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I first began wedging bones into tree branches as a joke (on my father-in-law, who's forever getting in trouble for TOUCHING THINGS THAT AREN'T HIS), but then the joke grew and before I knew it the Shango Tree had become the Shango Bone Tree. (Winter's a much better time for the S(B)T, with the onset of Spring all of the whitened and weather-stripped decorations get lost behind a canopy of green.)

(I can't believe that A.) that the Christmas goose carcass is still hanging off the truck and B.) Mr. Awesome hasn't touched ANY of the bones dangling off the plum tree I stole from him.)

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HOLY HELL OH MY GOD MY ABU HASSAN TULIPS HAVE FINALLY BLOOMED! (OOPS for thinking they were dwarf! WTF gave me //THAT// idea?)

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What was it the internet said about the appearance of these tulips? WAIT, HOLD ON, I MENTIONED IT EARLIER IN THIS ENTRY: "Richly coloured tulip of burnt orange-red with petal edges of yellow-gold." OH, NATURE, YOU DO DELIVER, DON'T YOU?

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Italics bought these Flava tulips for himself (although I'm taking care of them for him), and they're the very last bulbs to flower from the bags'o'bulbs he bought me on our CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE last year. (I swore they were an early dwarf bloomer, but I also swore that about all of the Abu Hassans I planted.)

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The amazing two-headed Bull Heart tomato plant from Ukraine. (OH, GREAT APIS/BA'AL MAY YOU BE EXALTED IN FUTURE TOMATO SAUCES!) I might just keep this one indoors since it refused to grow outside last year. (You can see part of Chippy as he inspects the inside outside garden; he's a very keen gardener, you know.)

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What our backroom "lounge" looks like when a witch is hard at work.

(The plastic skull bowl is the ritual bowl I use when I'm doing something a little more heavy duty than baking bread or soaking menstrual rags. The scattered wheat sheaths inside is the last bit of the didukhy that I've systematically picked apart so every wheat kernel from every sheath got saved for growing or ritual use.)

(The eggs are our version of Sharpie pysanky, some especially decorated for pets, relatives, friends and others who've passed on since last Easter. When it's time to leave our Easter offerings at the stove and cairn we leave the decorated eggs amongst the food for the dead.

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Beh's bee egg is sitting in a carton as the glue attaching the wings to the egg dries. There's a handmade miniature hat that Italics created for another egg, a bowl of partially shucked wheat (the kernel's still attached to the long, skewer-like spikes), Papa's skull planter with some of his dried tobacco leaves and a Jack Daniels gift set that Italics had given me earlier in the day.

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From a tiny, withered peanut to a vibrant, lush plant. Only two of the five peanuts I bought germinated; I can't decide if I want to buy and plant more, or just stick with the two healthy plants I already have. OH, DECISIONS, DECISIONS...

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OH, IT'S ALL SUPER CUTE, NOW, WITH ITS BLACK AND WHITE TUXEDO AND LITTLE SMILING BEGGING FACE BUT ONE DAY, DAMMIT, ONE DAY NEAR THE SUMMER SOLSTICE WHEN IT GETS LIGHT HERE AT THREE IN THE FUCKING MORNING THAT FUCKER WILL BE ON MY GODDAMN BEDROOM WINDOWSILL SCREAMING THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW FOR BREAKFAST. (HOW THE FUCK DOES A MAGPIE KNOW WHICH ROOM IS OUR BEDROOM? I DON'T KNOW, TRY //MAGIC//.)

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That's one of the four (five?) aubergines (eggplants) that I've grown from seed. One of these days I'll have to relocate them outside to the bonsai house, but until then they get a chance to flourish in better-than-green-house conditions.

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One of my Sub-Arctic tomatoes which will most definitely be moved outside since they were deliberately bought for their "sub-arctic" nature. (GROWING TOMATOES IN SCOTLAND WITHOUT A PROPER GREEN HOUSE CAN BE HELL. I'M SO DESPERATE I'M GROWING THE EQUIVALENT OF SIBERIAN TOMATOES.)

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One of my thriving courgettes (zucchini) on the verge of blossoming. (Which is EXACTLY why I kicked that very nearly flowering plant out of this house - the second I let ONE plant mature, flower and fruit in the house is the second I breakdown and let ALL of the damn plants mature, flower and fruit in the house and we don't have the room for that sort've Eden.)

Little Spiny Friend

So when I was excavating the protruding ruins of the detached room outside for any evidence of PAAS and relics of celebrations past (those stuffed animal Peeps command a mind-blowing price in the Easter antiquities black market) I flipped the light on.

(I KNOW, I KNOW, "SO I WENT TO GET OUR EASTER AND GREAT RITE BOXES OUTSIDE AND TURNED THE LIGHTS ON" DOESN'T SOUND MUCH LIKE A LEAD INTO A STORY BUT TRUST ME ON THIS, OKAY? THERE ARE PICTURES OF ADORABLE INDIGENOUS WILDLIFE TO FOLLOW, JUST STICK WITH ME HERE.)

Right, so, I TURNED ON THE LIGHT. In the outside room. During the day. (YES, THIS STORY IS GOING SOMEWHERE.) The thing is, I didn't mean to flip the switch because there was sufficient ambient light from DAY-FUCKING-LIGHT. (I'M ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE, FOR THE MOST PART, WHO DON'T REQUIRE MORE ILLUMINATION THAN OTHERS. IF THE SUN'S OUT I'M PROBABLY GOING TO BE OKAY WITHOUT THE DESK LAMPS AND CEILING FAN AND SPOTLIGHTS. BUT DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING TOUCH THE LIGHTS - ESPECIALLY IF YOU DON'T ASK ME FIRST - WHEN I'M IN THE FUCKING KITCHEN COOKING. NEVER ASSUME APPROPRIATE LIGHT LEVELS FOR SOMEONE HOLDING A FILLET KNIFE WHO HATES PEOPLE ASSUMING APPROPRIATE LEVELS OF ANYTHING ON HER BEHALF.)

That absentminded folly didn't come to proper fruition until it was cold and dark and late AND DID I MENTION COLD ALREADY? YES? WELL, I'M IN SCOTLAND SO IT'S JUSTIFIED. (<- That'll fleece at least half of you, AT LEAST! I've never endured sissy weather until I moved from the Midwest of the US (WINDCHILL FACTORS AHOY!) to northeast Scotland. There've been days in fucking December where all I needed was a fucking sweater while romping in the countryside. TEXAS, PERHAPS YOU'D BE WILLING TO GIVE UP SOME OF YOUR EXTREME WEATHER TO GIVE NE SCOTLAND JUST A TEENY TINY EDGE? Y/Y?)

Minutes before midnight I noticed the stark light emanating from sloppily closed, homemade curtains. And I inwardly groaned, because I knew it was MY fault, and I couldn't REALLY expect Italics to go galloping outside for me because what's worse than having to put on socks and shoes and a jacket and find a flashlight that works and locate the outside room key and go out in the dark and cold and late to turn off a light in a detached room? PUTTING ON SOCKS AND SHOES AND A JACKET AND FINDING A FLASHLIGHT THAT WORKS AND LOCATING THE OUTSIDE KEY AND GOING OUT IN THE DARK AND COLD AND LATE TO TURN OFF A LIGHT IN A DETACHED ROOM THAT YOU DIDN'T EVEN TURN ON IN THE FIRST PLACE.

(See? I can be perfectly reasonable, mature and understanding during these unimportant obstacles and events in life.)

NO, NO, I'LL DO IT, IT WAS MY MISTAKE, I offered all magnanimously but kind've sort've waited for a second, more earnest offer from Italics that never materialized. (HELL, I DON'T BLAME HIM.) And just as I'm about to wrench the patio door open, just as I'm about to brace all of my weight to move the goddamn thing (it's warped off the track and you can see some of OUTSIDE from INSIDE so we know EXACTLY where heat's escaping in winter but it doesn't seem to bother my in-laws, so...), just as the flashlight goes on, just as the flip-flops begin stamping in the floor mat I see this and shout "OH MY GOD ITALICS! HURRY, HURRY! COME QUICK!":

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For those of you who CAN'T READ MY MIND or USE CONTEXT CLUES TO INTERPRET THE IMAGE YOU'VE JUST SEEN that's a hedgehog - THE FIRST OF THE SEASON! - parked in one of Chippy's stainless steel dog bowls on the patio chowing down on some homemade yogurt soup with root vegetables. Normally our first contact with THE GREAT CHTHONIC WILD PIGS OF SCOTLAND is around June, so an early April visit was a bit of a shock (they traditionally begin to emerge from hibernation around this time).

(I GOT SCOLDED, BTW. MY "OH MY GOD, COME QUICK!" (BECAUSE A HEDGEHOG IS HERE) APPARENTLY SOUNDS MORE LIKE "OH MY GOD, COME QUICK!" (BECAUSE I'VE JUST INJURED, MAIMED, AND AMPUTATED MYSELF) AND IT'S HARD TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE IF I INSIST ON USING BRACKETS TO DENOTE MY REASONING FOR "OH MY GOD, COME QUICK!" USAGE.)

We already had the tripod set up so Italics quickly positioned shit to snap a few pictures from inside the backroom (see above). Plagued by a constant need of closeups I tip-toed back outside, sans jacket but with flip-flops and light, and found our first visitor curled in a hidden corner of the patio. (NOTE TO SELF: Measure the corner to fit a hedgehog box beneath the plant beams! Better to have their house next to the patio door than under a bush next to the road.)

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Usually hedgehog visitations include a quick house call (they're brought into the bathroom so we check them over for any visible wounds or injuries, dislodge ticks and fly larvae sacs and then give them a quick rinse beneath a stream of clean water before releasing them back on the patio) but this little guy (girl? I can't tell, I normally have to do the "belly button" check) looked a bit shell-shocked and scared so it got a free pass.

But next time? NEXT TIME YOU GET THE HEDGEHOG LUSH BATH, MY LITTLE SPINY FRIEND.

Bok Chek Stare

When Beh was alive she's sit and stare blankly for hours at a time and neither Italics nor I knew what the fuck she was up to. It wasn't until recently - very, very recently - that Italics discovered that "fixed staring" was a symptom of a brain tumor. (Beh was diagnosed with "a brain thing" around May of 2008 and passed quite suddenly in early June.)

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We found this incense burning frog in the local health food store when Christmas shopping on Winter Solstice and couldn't resist its Bok Chek stare. (BEH WAS ALWAYS CHEWING UP THE FUCKING CARPET, HENCE ALL OF THE CHEWED UP FUCKING CARPET.)

Black Magic Cat

Mr. Mistoffelees, my elusive, mysterious, two-booted black magic cat, only visits on V. special nights. In total - over the course of nearly two years - I think I've see him (HER? I'LL TELL YOU ONE THING, IF IT //IS// A "HER" THEN SHE'S -STILL- "MR. MISTOFFELEES") five or six times, while we see the OTHER cats on a nearly daily basis.

("OTHER cats" = CATS THAT ARE SIGNIFICANTLY LESS MAGIC AND INTRIGUING AND FUCKING USE MY GARLIC PATCH AS A FUCKING PORT-O-POTTY AND I SWEAR TO ALL THAT IS HOLY, NEIGHBORHOOD CATS, YOU BETTER CHOOSE YOUR OUTHOUSE SPOT IN A NEW FUCKING PLACE BECAUSE I AM //NOT// A CAT WITCH - I'M A CAT FERTILIZER WITCH, IF YOU CATCH MY NOT-SUBTLE-IN-THE-SLIGHTEST DRIFT, AND IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE ONE OF YOU FAT ASSES CHOKES ON A BBQ CHICKEN WING OFFERING AND I HAVE TO BURY YOUR FUCKING ASS IN THE GARDEN.)

The two skin-and-bone orange tabbies live next door and across the street, and pitifully coming running the second we establish eye contact through the kitchen window. I've learned, dear and gentle readers, how to do kitchen work without a single, escapist glance out the window least the moment of distraction - the moment of weakness - is caught and capitalized by these nefarious felines.

(THAT'S RIGHT, I HAVE TO DELIBERATELY IGNORE THE NEIGHBORS' CATS BECAUSE IF I VERIFY THEIR EXISTENCE THROUGH EYE CONTACT IT'S AN INVITATION TO COME RACING OVER LIKE I'M GOING TO THROW OPEN THE DOOR TO MY HOUSE, INVITE THEM IN, AND HAND FEED THEM FOIE GRAS.)

(IF THE RACING OVER PART WASN'T BAD ENOUGH THEY FUCKING START MEOWING LIKE THEY'RE FUCKING DYING BEFORE THEY EVEN BEGIN RUNNING TOWARDS THE HOUSE AND I CAN ACTUALLY HEAR THOSE WAILING NOISES THROUGH THE DAMN CLOSED WINDOW AND, REALLY, WORLD, I'M NOT AS HEARTLESS AS I MAY SEEM, EVEN IF THEY'RE DIGGING UP AND SHITTING ON MY GARLIC.)

Behind us, several houses down, lives a walrus of a cat whose massive, Marlon Brando physique can be traced back to the offerings he's pillaged for the past several years. (LIKE I'M GOING TO STOP MAKING OUTSIDE OFFERINGS BECAUSE SOMEBODY ELSE'S "OUT ALL NIGHT DOING WHATEVER THE FUCK IT WANTS" CAT CAN'T CONTROL ITSELF AROUND FOOD.) I only ever see this cat running - running TO our fucking house ("FOODFOODFOOD!") and running AWAY from our fucking house ("OHSHITCRAZYWITCH!").

This past winter? I caught tubby doing lightening speed at three in the fucking morning outside a window while we were cleaning the house, his excess folds jiggling and crashing into one another in a collision of fat, skin and momentum. "HEY, FAT ASS, WHERE'S THE FIRE?" I shouted through the window, but he was in the ZONE, yo, and completely ignored me - finger tapping on the fogged over glass and all.

Since seeing WALRUS MARLON BRANDO CAT hauling ass wasn't out of the ordinary we - Italics and I - returned to housework, not giving it, or its motives, a second thought. Until - THAT'S RIGHT, THAT INFAMOUS WORD "UNTIL"! - I found myself in the backroom, dropping Mr. Mistoffelees's magic stone (STORY AT 11!) on the coffee table.

AND WHAT, I'M SURE YOU'RE ASKING YOURSELF, HAPPENED, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT? WHAT HAPPENED AFTER YOU DROPPED MR. MISTOFFELEES'S MAGIC STONE ON THE COFFEE TABLE? WELL, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED - Behemoth straddling the patio pillar, barely able to balance while scarfing The Old Woman's offerings of homemade bread and chilli fucking BBQ wings IS WHAT HAPPENED.

"IF YOU'RE EATING THE OLD WOMAN'S BREAD AND CHICKEN WINGS YOU BETTER BE DRINKING HER FUCKING WHISKEY TOO," I warned it through the patio door. Like any gluttonous creature caught mid-binge it paused in that OH SHIT, BUSTED! way, mouth full of food and stunned, half-pretending that the desire to return to its previous, not-yet-disturbed action wasn't the prevailing, dominant urge.

It only took a fleeting glimpse of eye contact for WALRUS MARLON BRANDO CAT to dig how serious I was, and, with some resentful reluctancy, Jabba slithered off the pillar, nearly knocking over the shot glass HE DID NOT DRINK FROM EVEN ONCE (NOT EVEN ONCE!) with a couple of chicken wings for the road.

(THIS CAT? THIS JABBA BEHEMOTH WALRUS MARLON BRANDO CAT? THIS CAT WHO WOULD SURELY LEAVE A DENT IN THE HOOD OF YOUR CAR IF YOU WERE UNFORTUNATE ENOUGH TO OWN THE CAR THAT IT WANTED TO SUN ITSELF ON? HE WASN'T ALWAYS FAT. IN FACT, LONG, LONG AGO, WAY BEFORE I BECAME A RIGHT PROPER WITCH, WAY BEFORE HE BEGAN MISAPPROPRIATING OFFERINGS HE WAS THIN, LITHE AND AGILE.)

(AND, REALLY, I HAVE TO LOL - WE'VE ALREADY LOLED, AND HAVE LOLED ABOUT THIS FOR SOME TIME, ACTUALLY - SOMEWHERE IN THIS REGION THERE'S A VETERINARY CLINIC. AND, SOMEWHERE IN THIS VETERINARY CLINIC THERE'S A DOCTOR WHO, ALONG WITH DUMBFOUNDED, SPEECHLESS AND PUZZLED OWNERS, HAS NO IDEA WHY THIS PARTICULAR CAT CONTINUES TO PUT ON STAGGERING AMOUNTS OF WEIGHT. TO THEM IT'S AN X-FILES MYSTERY, TO ME IT'S CONTINUOUS OFFERING THEFT.)

All the cats I see on a day-to-day basis are normal cats; house pets without a spark. They're either running to or running from, or they're lazily stretched across cars and windowsills. When you look at them and interact with them there just isn't anything there. There's a void of connection, of being. They seem robotic, driven by the most basic animal instincts but nothing else. (AN ANIMAL ACTING LIKE AN ANIMAL? SHOCKING AND DISTURBING, I KNOW.)

Mr. Mistoffelees, though, has something going on. I always catch him mid-action or mid-thought, and just as my sight begins to adjust to the darkness our eyes meet for one long second and, before I know it, he's GONE GONE GONE. In that momentary pause, in that heartbeat of connection, I feel self-awareness. I feel a conscious, sentient being, interacting with his surroundings on a level that makes the other neighborhood cats seem educationally subnormal.

Mr. M, he's got some magic in him, and when he stops mid-action or mid-thought and cranes his head in my direction, he's asking if I saw, or noticed, or understood, or managed to follow along with his train of thought. And because I CAN'T TELEPATHICALLY READ A FUCKING CAT (or any other living, breathing, existing thing - I GUESS I'M NOT ONE OF THOSE LUCKY WITCHES WHO'S BEEN BLESSED WITH MUTANT SUPERPOWERS) I'm always left feeling like I've just been mentally dwarfed by a sophisticated, intellectual giant.

"...AND WHAT DO //YOU// THINK?" Sometimes he'll ask, both yellow eyes intensively fixed on me. The question just hangs the air, suspended by a deafening urge to answer with a cerebral, profound response worthy of the company I unexpectedly found myself in. "UHMMMMMM..." is always my astounding reply which, unsurprisingly, doesn't blow him out of the water.

Dilated eyes flicker away from contact as his haunches tense, the night rolling off the black of his fur as we stand perfectly still in the silence, "YES, THAT'S WHAT I THOUGHT." And without another word he's gone, again, for a month, for two months, for almost a year. Mysteriously appearing, mysteriously disappearing, untraceable and elusive - that's my black magic cat, Mr. Mistoffelees.

Hardened Dope Criminals

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SO, LIKE, I HEAR THE RATS SCAMPERING BACK AND FORTH IN THEIR EXCITED "HOLY SHIT LET'S TAKE ALL OF THIS SHIT AND HIDE IT SOMEWHERE FOR LATER" WAY AND I'M ALL "WTF ARE THEY EFFING UP TO?" BECAUSE IT'S THE FUCKING //DRESSERS// AND NOTHING'S ON THE DRESSER TO GET THEM THAT WORKED UP EXCEPT FOR MY SEX PIG PLUG-IN TAIL (THEY DON'T COME IN PINK, WTF?!) AND THE BONG BUCKET. BUT! BUT BUT BUT! BUT THERE //WAS// SOMETHING ON THE DRESSER THAT I FORGOT TO MOVE BEFORE I LET THE BEARS OUT OF THEIR CAGE -- OUR CURING POT.

(OH, WE HAVE GROWN AND HARVESTED MY DARLINGS. 2008 SAW THE FIRST OF THREE PLANTS FLOURISH IN OUR LITTLE CLOSET GROWING SPACE AND ITALICS HAS JUST PLUCKED THE LAST TUFTS FROM OUR LITTLE JIMMY PLANT. <- JIMMY TURNED OUT TO BE FEMALE BUT S/HE'S STILL "JIMMY"...IN OUR HEART.)

THE NEXT THING I SEE, ONCE TURNING AROUND, ARE TWO RATS RACING TO THEIR CARDBOARD BOX WITH HUGE ASS DRY BUDS HANGING OUT OF THEIR MOUTH AND A THIRD SITTING IN THE BOX PACKING THE SHIT AWAY IN A CORNER. AND I EXPERIENCE A SOUL SPLITTING "ZOMGWTFLOLOLOLOLCAMERAAAAAAAAAAA!" AND "ZOMGWTFSAVETHEPOTOMGRAAAAAAATS!" BECAUSE IT WAS REALLY, REALLY FUNNY BUT ALSO, WELL, NO, ACTUALLY, IT WAS PRETTY MUCH FUNNY ALL AROUND WITH A TINY FRACTION OF PANIC ("NOT THE POT! NEVER THE POT! SAVE THE POT!") AND I REALLY WISH YOU GUYS COULD HAVE SEEN THEIR FACES AS THEY TURNED THE BUDS IN THEIR LITTLE RAT PAWS LIKE A RUBIK'S CUBE TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW THE FUCK YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO EAT IT.

BAD, BAD RATS. BUT, MY GOD, SO CUTE. (I ACTUALLY REACHED FOR THE CAMERA TO TRY AND VIDEO THEM RUNNING AROUND WITH THE BUDS AND SQUIRRELING THEM AWAY BUT THAT MEANT //EVEN MORE PRECIOUS THC WOULD'VE BEEN LOST// SO I HAD TO MAKE AN EXECUTIVE DECISION, AND ALL THAT I TOOK AWAY FROM THE EXPERIENCE WAS THIS STORY. SIGH.)

(SERIOUSLY, YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MUCH POT THESE RATS, OVER THE COURSE OF THEIR LITTLE RAT LIVES, HAVE INGESTED. WHEN WUZZA IS BEING SUPER BAD AND TRYING TO GET ONTO ITALICS'S DESKTOP SHE'S AFTER TWO THINGS - WHATEVER FOOD HE HAS SITTING AROUND IN CRUMB FORM AND POT. (YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MANY TIMES WE'VE HAD TO YANK A DIME BAG OR WHATEVER OUT OF HER MOUTH. MIZ DENIZE, I DON'T THINK WE CAN IGNORE YOUR SELF-DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR ANY LONG. YOU ARE ON THE VERGE OF AN //INTERVENTION//.))

In the Beginning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Winter Robin

So Hezbollah's special little friend (THAT WOULD BE THE EUROPEAN ROBIN) was singing his little heart out (I HEARD HIM THROUGH A CLOSED WINDOW AND ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE ROOM) and since he was singing so fine, and since he was singing so lovely I came over to the window to tell him how beautiful he sounded. It was only after I cupped my fingers against the glass to find him in the darkness I understood why he was serenading me...

...She's come back home, again.

(I've been waiting all day and night hoping She'd come back. Waiting and wanting to see the white down, wanting to see the violet skies, wanting to feel the snow under my skin to give me a reason to pull up our coffin/casket cover further up the bed until I'm sleeping beneath a blanket of other people's eternity.)

I asked the Old Woman, Whisky and Wangs night, to teach me Her magic and bring me snow that would make my tired, old heart happy. (I guess the wangs worked, then.)

(THE SECRET TO WEATHER WITCHERY DOES INVOLVE SPIRITS, BUT THE KIND YOU CAN MEASURE BY THE DRAM.) (I BET I'D GET EVEN BETTER RESULTS IF I LEFT AN OFFERING OF HEROIN. I MEAN, SHE IS //SCOTTISH//, AFTER ALL.)

Chef Shakey's Specials

ME: OH THAT'S CUTE, SHAKEY BEAR FOUND A PRAWN CRACKER.

*STOPS TYPING TO WATCH CHEF SHAKEY WADDLE ACROSS OFFICE / COMPUTER ROOM FLOOR INTO THE CAGE WITH A PRAWN CRACKER*

APPROXIMATELY TWO MINUTES LATER:

ME: OH, THAT'S CUTE, SHAKEY BEAR FOUND ANOTHER PRAWN CRACKER.

*STOPS TYPING TO WATCH CHEF SHAKEY WADDLE ACROSS OFFICE / COMPUTER ROOM FLOOR INTO THE CAGE WITH A PRAWN CRACKER*

A MINUTE LATER:

ME: WHERE THE FUCK IS SHAKEY BEAR GETTING ALL OF THESE GODDAMN CRACKERS?

*STOPS TYPING TO WATCH CHEF SHAKEY WADDLE ACROSS OFFICE / COMPUTER ROOM FLOOR INTO THE CAGE WITH A PRAWN CRACKER*

ANOTHER MINUTE ALMOST PASSES:

ME: EW, JESUS, FUCK, SHAKEY BEAR, DON'T EAT THOSE, THAT'S CORN STARCH, JESUS.

*SOLVES THE MYSTERY OF THE CORNUCOPIA OF PRAWN CRACKERS AFTER WATCHING CHEF SHAKEY GLANCE LEFT TO RIGHT SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE LEAPING ONTO THE SIDE OF THE TRASH CAN TO REMOVE ANOTHER ECO-FRIENDLY CORNSTARCH PACKING PEANUT THING*

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Chef Shakey taking part in a pea diving expedition. (Both Dennys (semi-pictured, left) and Shakey have matching bald patches. BFF?) One thing we've learned with this trio of rats? RATS LOVE PEAS.

PS: The house isn't a scary skanky RAT HOUSE, but they did manage to make it look that way in the picture, didn't they?)

Fox and the Hound

THE NEIGHBORS WILL BE DELIGHTED IN KNOWING THAT FOXY IS BEING FED HIS VERY OWN FOXY CASSEROLE EVERY NIGHT OUT OF CHIPPY'S* DISH, AND HE IS ENJOYING IT IMMENSELY, THANK YOU. ("FUCK YOUR CHICKENS, NIGGA!")

ON A MORE SERIOUS NOTE, IT APPEARS THAT FOXY HAS SOME BUGZ ON HIS NUGZ, BUT HOW DO I TEMPT HIM INSIDE FOR A LUSH BUBBLE BATH? HMM...

(I'm still worried about the overly tame one of the two; I don't think I've seen him since we've come back.)

* SEE? OLD - VERY, VERY, VERY OLD - DOGS CAN LEARN NEW TRICKS, LIKE -SHARING- WITH HIS FELLOW (INDIGENOUS) SCAVENGERS!

Fox and the Hound

SCOTTISH JACKALS HAVE COME TO FEED.

(I'VE ALWAYS BEEN GOOD AT PICKING UP STRAYS WITHOUT TRYING.)

Rat Party

I have to save this for a (much) later LOL:

RATS ESCAPED CAGE THREE NIGHTS AGO.

HAD RAT PARTY IN COMPUTER ROOM.

HAD RAT PARTY IN TRASH CAN.

HAD RAT PARTY ON DESKS.

(ATE MORNING DOSE OF SELENIUM, KELP, AND PRESCRIPTION ANTACID.)

(ATE WALRUS'S PRAWN CRACKER TRIPOD HAT.)

(ATE PIECE OF ASS (SHAPED) BREAD.)

HAD RAT PARTY BEHIND COMPUTERS.

(ATE COMPUTER CABLES.)

(ATE EXTENSION CORD CONNECTING ALL PLUGS TO WALL.)

RAT PARTY MOVED TO EXCLUSIVE -CAGE- LOCATION.

CONTINUED RAT PARTY INDOORS, LOCKED.

HIRED CLEANERS STILL TRYING TO PICK UP PIECES.

(ONE OF TWO HIRED CLEANERS NOW HAS WORKING COMPUTER AGAIN.)

DAMN RAT PARTY.

Things to remember: August 7, 2008. Tower (literally!). All computer room altars torn down, rebuilt. 42 soul card @ bucket. Even chose "tower" from Aldi before incident.

Manchet Bread, Small Beer

I SWEAR TO EFFING GOD THAT IF THAT MAGPIE KEEPS THIS SHIT UP I AM GOING TO GO MEDIEVAL ON ITS ASS AND STICK IT IN A FUCKING PIE AND SEASON THE CARNAGE WITH GODDAMN NUTMEG AND/OR MACE. (ISN’T THAT A DAINTY DISH TO SET BEFORE A KING?)

The Long Walk

When Bee was younger and her Bok-Bok self I used to say to her “BOK-BOK! YOUR FACE IS SO CUTE THAT I’M GOING TO RIP IT OFF, BEE! I’M GOING TO RIP IT OFF, YES I AM! AND THEN, AFTERWARDS, I’M GOING TO BEAT IT WITH A HAMMER, BOK! WE’RE GOING TO BEAT IT WITH A HAMMER AND FLATTEN IT OUT AND MAKE IT INTO A MASK THAT I CAN WEAR LIKE MICHAEL MYERS, BEE-BEE! I’M GOING TO RIP OFF YOUR FACE TO MAKE A MASK!” and she LOVED it, and would give me THAT LOOK (that satisfied and proud look you get from pets when they realize that you’re sweet talking them) and chuff and look right pleased with the attention. (WELL, HOW MANY RATS DO YOU KNOW THAT HAVE BEEN TOLD THAT THEY’RE SO CUTE THAT YOU HAD TO RESTRAIN YOURSELF FROM PEELING OFF THEIR SKIN AND WEARING IT LIKE A MASK? EXACTLY.)

It’s harder to do that now. (I tried the other day, but it wouldn’t stick.) Bee, caught somewhere between living and sleeping, is very nearly comatose now and almost too weak to breathe. Not long after Hezbollah’s death (Bee’s former roommate, aka Crazy Rat, her BFF) she went blind in one eye. I knew something was up, but couldn’t put my finger on it. (YOU KNOW HOW YOU JUST KNOW THESE THINGS WHEN YOU HAVE PETS. YOU JUST KNOW.) That uneasy feeling only became more concrete when “WOMAN, BEE SICK!” boomed (OH, WHEN YOUR SUMERIAN DEMON DOG WHO SOUNDS LIKE ANIMAL FROM THE MUPPETS DECIDES TO CONVERSE WITH YOU WHEN YOU’RE SUSPENDED IN A CONSCIOUS-BARELY CONSCIOUS-ALMOST SUBCONSCIOUS STATE YOU WILL FIND THAT HE HAS A TENDENCY TO BE ALL...BOOMY) through my flashing (HIGH, BUT NOT THAT HIGH, WHICH MADE ME PAUSE AND GO “WOW, I DIDN’T EVEN THINK I WAS HIGH ENOUGH FOR THIS SORT OF THING”) thoughts.

It was so left field, so unexpected, such a non-fucking-sequitur that I automatically knew it was one of two things – I was either really fucking high and making shit up (A PARANOID, OVERREACTING PESSIMIST EVEN SUBCONSCIOUSLY? SWEET!) or it was true, and Bee was a lot sicker than I had imagined. (At the time I had forgotten, but Italics pointed out that both she and Hezbollah had been on antibiotics for a significant time for colds they couldn’t seem to shake, but when you’re not the person administering the medication you have a tendency to sort’ve forget.) I guess, really, it sounded so fucking crazy that it could be true. And, as it turned out nearly a week later, it was true. Bee had gone blind in one eye with no explanation as to how it happened since there weren’t any wounds. The vet told Italics “it could be a brain thing” and when I heard that my stomach dropped to the floor because I knew it WAS instead of IT COULD BE and to know that we’d be back at the same place we were a month ago (with Hezbollah) and have to witness the rapid decline of our last remaining pet…Christ, we had just barely gotten over the Crazy Rat ordeal, you know?

I lost my Bok-Bok Baby (WHO, IN FACT, WAS A GREAT AND TERRIBLE SPACE PIRATE, FEARED FOR HER BRUTAL SAVAGERY AND FOR HER INEXPLICABLE LOVE OF DIRE STRAITS) when she lost her Bok-Bok spring. (It wasn’t a change in disposition or personality, she just lost that gleam that made her BOK-BOK, and it was a very sad thing to witness and realize.) In her place I got my Special Little Flower, my BEE-ZEE-BEE, my Sexy Bumblebee, my Bee. And Bee seemed happy and content, and got to live on the floor ALL OF THE TIME (no other rat we’ve ever had has had the freedom she did) and was let out of the room several times a day for a “walk” (she was allowed supervised expeditions into other areas of the house) and seemed, for the most part, not entirely bothered she was blind in one eye.

But, as the weeks went by, it became more and more obvious that it was, in fact, “a brain thing” and there was nothing we could do other than watch our BEE-ZEE-BEE fade because she’s a rat, and rats have two medical options – take antibiotics (and if they don’t work, they don’t work, the end), or go under the knife (there’s always a good chance they won’t survive the anesthetic). Bee didn’t get either, because there’s no medication for “a brain thing” and neurosurgery hasn’t really advanced in the rodent world.

Our only option with Bee was to make her as comfortable as possible, and to prepare ourselves for the inevitable – the wasting away, the loss of personality, the sleep deprivation, the constant, around-the-clock administration of antibiotics, and pain and allergy medication, the cleaning, the fussing, the preparation of special food that can be easily eaten, the worry, the grief, the angst, and, also, the burst of almost overwhelming resentment knowing that there’s a good possibility that we’ll have to euthanize something that’s become a member of our family by ourselves with our own hands.

(We use nitrous (aka laughing gas) when it’s necessary. When you’re faced with the prospect of watching a beloved pet suffocate to death in front of your own eyes – complete with self-conscious awareness which means they’re panicking while gasping and withering around, and the sounds, Jesus, the sounds they make as their lungs shut down and they can’t breathe, and the looks they give you because they know that in the past you’ve always been able to fix things for them or help them, that you’ve always, always been able to make things better and THEY KNOW THAT and THEY LOOK AT YOU WITH THOSE BEGGING, PLEADING EYES AND FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THEIR LIFE YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING TO MAKE IT BETTER OR MAKE IT STOP (EXCEPT FOR ONE THING) – you harden your heart, cling tightly to something deep, down inside of you (“I KNOW THIS IS RIGHT, I KNOW THIS IS RIGHT, I KNOW THIS IS RIGHT..”) and get on with being Death.)

So it’s harder, now, launching into the entire “BOK-BOK! YOUR FACE IS SO CUTE THAT I’M GOING TO RIP IT OFF, BEE! I’M GOING TO RIP IT OFF, YES I AM! AND THEN, AFTERWARDS, I’M GOING TO BEAT IT WITH A HAMMER, BOK! WE’RE GOING TO BEAT IT WITH A HAMMER AND FLATTEN IT OUT AND MAKE IT INTO A MASK THAT I CAN WEAR LIKE MICHAEL MYERS, BEE-BEE! I’M GOING TO RIP OFF YOUR FACE TO MAKE A MASK!” thing, because reality is hitting home today (we’ve both already agreed that if she didn’t pass on her own accord today, that we would have to finally help her along) and I know the long walk from the computer room to the bedroom is going to be very long, and, inevitably, I’ll feel like I betrayed her, somehow, by ending something that’s already half-done.

(BEE, I JUST WANT YOU TO UNDERSTAND, IF YOU CAN, THAT I REALLY HATE DOING THIS, AND I FEEL LIKE A PART OF ME DIES EVERY TIME WE HAVE TO “HELP” YOU GUYS. I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT I AM VERY ANGRY AND SAD THAT THIS HAD TO HAPPEN, AND I’M ALREADY RESENTFUL THAT YOUR TIME WITH US WAS A LOT SHORTER THAN IMAGINED. (THERE WERE SO MANY CHAPTERS LEFT TO ADD TO YOUR STORY, BEE!) AND THAT I LOVED YOU VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY MUCH, BEEBEE, AND YOU’RE THE ONLY ANIMAL I’VE SHARED MY LIFE WITH THAT GOT TO REMAIN BEING MY “BABY” LONG AFTER YOU BECAME MORBIDLY OBESE AND GROWN-UP. BEE-ZEE-BEE, PLEASE DON’T HOLD WHAT I HAVE TO DO AGAINST ME, OKAY? I’LL MAKE YOU A HOMEMADE BOWL OF GRAVY AFTER, I PROMISE.)

The other thing I heard when Chippy told me that Bee was really sick? Papa chimed in and informed me that I’m not going to be happy with what they find when I get diagnostics done. (I finally got a referral to see a specialist regarding the “condition” I’ve been living with for 15+ months, so I’m now waiting for an appointment to get all of the necessary testing done.) At the time I dismissed it, along with the Bee being sick thing, because, seriously, how fucking unfoundedly pessimistic is THAT shit? I finally had to confess about a week back to Italics (I mean, how couldn’t I after the entire Chippy premonition thing?) but followed it up with “BUT THAT COULD MEAN ANYTHING, YOU KNOW? THAT COULD MEAN THAT IT’S VERY, VERY OBVIOUSLY A HERNIA (LIKE WE SAID), AND I’LL JUST GET PISSED OFF WHEN I FINALLY HAVE UNDENIABLE X-RAY PROOF TO STAPLE TO MY GP’S FUCKING FOREHEAD (HE’S NOT ENTIRELY CONVINCED IT IS BECAUSE, STATISTICALLY, I’M TOO “YOUNG”)” because, honestly? I don’t even want to think about it.