Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Gefjon

A few days ago someone pointed me towards Völsa þáttr, and when I caught "virgin goddess" in the translated footnotes it was a split second hop, skip and jump to Wiki's entry on Gefjon. (ZOMG, VIRGIN PLOUGHING GODDESS?! WUT?! OH, GREAT AND MIGHT INTRANETZ - TELL ME MOOOOOORE!)

HOLY FUCKING SHIT, A //PLOUGHING// VIRGIN GODDESS! (SHE'S the one who PLOUGHS! She's a virgin AND SHE'S THE ONE WHO'S DOING THE PLOUGHING! What a tremendous - BUT POWERFULLY EXCITING - mindfuck. SHE'S the one penetrating the earth, SHE'S the one turning the dirt, SHE'S the who parts the soil. Did I mention that SHE'S THE VIRGIN WHO IS DOING THE PLOUGHING RATHER THAN BEING THE VIRGIN WHO'S GETTING PLOUGHED?)

THAT'S IT, IT'S OFFICIAL AND ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY; I NEED A PLOUGH.

1 of 2 Cs

EARRING "COW TAG" WORN AS EITHER A PINNA, AURICLE OR CONCH PIERCING? HMM. (LOLOLOL @ "HMM", MORE LIKE "MOOOOOO".) Now if I could only remember what the other fucking "c" was...

(A WRENCH ON MY ANKLE, A CROCODILE ON MY BACK AND A COW TAG DANGLING FROM MY EAR - PAGANISM/WITCHCRAFT 2K!)

Bride's Awakening

RIGHT OKAY SO.

Today? Today I'm //NOT// going to be depressing. Today I'm //NOT// going to hammer out all of the analogies I came up with while crying over my morning oatmeal in the past few days. (LIKE HOW I'M THE SUNDAY NEWSPAPER THAT I MEAN TO READ EVERY FUCKING WEEK BUT NEVER GET A CHANCE TO, SO I SIT ON IT AND SIT ON IT BECAUSE I PROMISE MYSELF I //WILL// FIND TIME TO READ IT AND THEN, THREE WEEKS LATER, I FINALLY GIVE UP THE BATTLE AND USE THE UNREAD SECTIONS TO LINE THE RATS' CAGE AND PROMISE MYSELF THAT NEXT WEEK THINGS WILL BE DIFFERENT.)

Today I stood outside, first thing after I woke up, in the mottled sunlight and inhaled the moist, warm air. Today I stood outside in the bright morning light and breathed in the scent of Spring in all of its damp earth glory, and felt the promise of newness course through my veins. Today, more than ever, I felt the eternal Bride awaken.

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It started with hardneck garlic. (OH, BUT DOESN'T IT ALWAYS?) Actually, it goes way, way back further than the garlic, but to keep this entry POSITIVE and UPBEAT I'll pretend that the actual for real genesis was THE GARLIC. So, for all intents and purposes, GARLIC GARLIC GARLIC.

(Very short story that shouldn't elevate my blood pressure: when I first moved here almost 10 years ago I asked for a small patch of land to grow things in or on. I was immediately denied the piece of property. For nearly 10 years now I've watched that particular spot get used solely as a trash heap. (YOU THINK I'M EXAGGERATING? NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST. IN FACT, LAST YEAR MY FATHER-IN-LAW CLEARED THE SAME SPOT OUT AND I GOT BIG HEAP SUPER HAPPY BECAUSE I THOUGHT THEY WERE FINALLY TURNING IT OVER TO ME. AS IT TURNED OUT, HE CLEARED IT SO HE COULD FILL IT WITH TRASH...AGAIN.))

(A few years back my father-in-law, for no concrete reason, dug up the entire front yard. I mean //everything//. For the past several years we've been the only house on this block that has a giant dirt pit instead of a lawn. And every fucking time some sort of grass manages to seed itself he marches outside AND BEGINS WEEDING IT OUT SO HIS PRECIOUS DIRT PATCH DOESN'T GET OBSCURED.)

(You know that house in a subdivision where the crackhead owner obviously doesn't give a fuck about how their property looks? And how it stands out against all of the other manicured plots of land? Grass that never gets cut, trees that never get pruned, weeds and brush that take over any sort of flower bed? Sometimes they have broken toys or appliances or cars on cinder blocks loitering in the yard? Sometimes they have organic household waste thrown onto the abandoned yard? I LIVE IN THAT FUCKING HOUSE. IN FACT, I CAN DO ONE //BETTER// SINCE WE DON'T EVEN HAVE AN OVERGROWN, SAFARI WASTELAND - WE HAVE AN UNTAPPED DIRT QUARRY.)

SO IT ALL STARTS WITH GARLIC, she says through gritted teeth.

Last year I schemed and stole a little bit of land. I didn't ask, I didn't drop hints, I just took it. It's a narrow, but long stretch of dirt that runs parallel to the side of the house right against the foundations. For years I watched the patch wax and wane, unloved, untended, and naked to the world. So, last year, I tore into it and loosened the earth to create a bed for hardneck garlic while my father-in-law unsubtly spied on me from a not-so-distant distance.

THAT'S RIGHT, WITCH'S GARLIC GROWING AT THE WITCH'S HOUSE!

(When your front-fucking-yard is a thriving dirt pit decorated with a multitude of small, white washed animal bones you don't need gingerbread stapled to the shutters and roof of your home to give off an uneasy, cannibalistic hag vibe.)

(Not that garlic being the sole source of intended vegetation is weird or vaguely witch-like in anyway. I mean, people once grew garlic to WARD OFF WITCHES AND UNPLEASANTNESS so by surrounding 1/4 of the house with it am I effectively boxing myself in? HMM.)

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY!

I managed to prep the bed in decent time, but an unexpected, early bout of winter prevented me from my October planting. (My, uh, October planting sort've ran into November, but that was OKAY and there was NO NEED TO PANIC because surely - SURELY! - the unseasonal weather couldn't hold out for an entire month, right? ...RIGHT?)

Winter prevented me from planting at all until around Yule, the winter solstice. (But that was OKAY and there was NO NEED TO PANIC because a NOT-PANICKING-AT-ALL-IN-THE-SLIGHTEST Google search turned up a little gem of folklore that was amazingly applicable and coincidental: "plant your garlic on the shortest day of the year, and harvest it on the longest.")

I kind've forgot about my single file line of garlic, although I DID remember to eventually (EVENTUALLY BEING THE KEY WORD SINCE THE BAG SAT IN THE FUCKING BACKROOM FOR OVER A MONTH, OR SOMETHING) spread a bag of free coffee grounds from Starbucks over the cloves since alliums ("OH HEY WAIT AREN'T GARLIC AND ONIONS PART OF THE ALLIUM FAMILY? FUCK IT, THE BAG IS FREE, ANYWAY.") apparently dig all of the nitrogen.

And then? And then Saturday, Feb. 21st happened while I was padding around outside in mud and soft earth in Italics's way-too-big-for-me flip-flops and a plastic grocery bag covering my head. (THE ONLY WAY TO COMBAT FINDING LITTLE BLACK-GREEN-BROWN SPECKS OF HENNA STAINS IN THE CARPET AND FLOOR IS TO SHRINK WRAP YOUR HEAD IN SARAN WRAP AND CAP THE FUTURISTIC TURBAN WITH A PLASTIC GROCERY BAG, PREFERABLY OPAQUE.)

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It was like something out of nothing; a "something" so desperately needed at that exact moment in time. (I'M NOT GOING TO BE DEPRESSING OR ANGST RIDDEN IN THIS ENTRY, REMEMBER?) And, as stupid as it sounds, I didn't think it'd actually happen even though I PLANTED A BULB DURING ITS DESIGNATED TIME IN A FAIRLY APPROPRIATE ENVIRONMENT ALLOWING NATURE TO TAKE ITS ETERNAL AND ENDLESS COURSE.

The thing about Spring, though, is that any growth is new growth, and seeing those tender shoots of green for the first time after a period of barren sleep - especially when you're the person accountable for them - makes you forget about previous Springs. With just one look, with just one discovery this Spring takes precedent over any in memory, and there isn't a past season that's so rich with the promise of renewal.

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Click thumbnail for larger image.

During my period of forgetfulness the neighborhood cats (HOW DO YOU KNOW IF A HOUSE IS A WITCH'S HOUSE? I MEAN, IF IT DOESN'T HAVE A DIRT PIT FOR A LAWN, OR SCATTERED, MYSTERIOUS BONES LITTERING THE DIRT, OR GINGERBREAD HAMMERED TO THE DOORS OR A PERFECT LINE OF GARLIC GROWING PARALLEL TO THE HOUSE'S FOUNDATION OR A BONE TREE GRACING THE OTHERWISE WILD BACKYARD OR ALL OF THE WEIRD AND WONDERFUL ANIMALS THAT YOU NORMALLY WOULDN'T FIND SO READILY IN A SMALL SUBDIVISION GARDEN? ALL THE FUCKING CATS THAT INEXPLICABLY COME TO VISIT EVEN THOUGH WE DON'T OWN OR HOUSE ANYTHING REMOTELY FELINE.) began using the turned earth for an outhouse.

(PERHAPS NEXT TIME, SELF, WHEN YOU SEE ONE OF THE CATS SCAMPER AWAY FROM THE AREA WHEN YOU'RE OUTSIDE YOU SHOULDN'T SHOUT AFTER IT "I'M GOING TO USE YOU AS A FUCKING FERTILIZER, STAY AWAY FROM MY FUCKING GARLIC!" WHILE WAVING A GARDENING IMPLEMENT AT IT THREATENINGLY. AND IF YOU FEEL IT'S ABSOLUTELY IMPERATIVE THAT YOU DO ASSERT YOURSELF WITH THE THREAT OF GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM TO VISITING NEIGHBORHOOD CATS, YOU SHOULD PICK A BETTER TIME THAN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY WHILE STANDING OUTSIDE IN THE DIRT YARD IN PLAIN VIEW OF YOUR NEIGHBORS WHO OWN THE VANDALIZING MISCREANTS.)

Several cloves of garlic had been dug up and were strewn across the remnants of the lawn. (OH, THERE'S A TINY PATCH OF LAWN JUST BENEATH THE TREE I'VE BEEN PREVENTING MY FATHER-IN-LAW FROM CUTTING DOWN. AS YOU CAN GUESS, I GUARD THAT SMALL FLUFF OF GRASS WITH MY LIFE BECAUSE IT'S THE ONLY LUSH, LIVING THING I SEE GROWING OUTSIDE THE COMPUTER ROOM/OFFICE WINDOW DURING SPRING AND SUMMER OTHER THAN THE TREE.) I managed to rehouse the bulbs, relocating two cloves beneath the tree.

(IN OTHER WORDS - DON'T FORGET YOU REPLANTED TWO LOOSE GARLIC BULBS BENEATH THE TREE OUTSIDE!)

As with many addictive activities the second I plunged my hands into the wet, loose earth and felt the dirt pack beneath my nails I was hooked. That miraculous moment of excitement, motivation and success was the precise amount of crack I needed. When I first went outside in Italics's flip-flops and a grocery bag over my head I went out feeling empty and lifeless and without an identity. By the time I came back into the house I wasn't that person - that's the beauty about something out of nothing.

Too late in the day to do any serious garden work outside (OKAY, I ADMIT IT, I DIDN'T THINK THAT MY GARLIC SCHEME WOULD ACTUALLY WORK SO I DIDN'T BURY THEM AS DEEPLY AS I SHOULD AND HAVING SEEN THE INITIAL SUCCESS OF HEALTHY, HAPPY SHOOTS I DECIDED I NEEDED TO THROW ANOTHER INCH OR SO OF DIRT ON THEM SO THEY WEREN'T CURSED WITH SHALLOW ROOTS) I retired indoors and announced OH, HEY WE'RE PLANTING SHIT //TODAY// BECAUSE IT NEEDS TO GET DONE AND ALSO BECAUSE THE WITCH'S CALENDER SAYS THAT TODAY IS A PLANTING DAY AND THE NEXT PLANTING PERIOD WON'T BE UNTIL ASH WEDNESDAY.

In under an hour I planted four chili plants (Hot Chocolate, Ring of Fire, Prairie Fire, Cherry Bomb), two tomatoes (Bull's Heart), twelve Russian Olives, an entire tray of tobacco (LOL, I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT STRAIN I'M GROWING THIS YEAR - OOPS?) and six of the ten voodoo seeds. (We were originally going to try and germinate five, but I accidentally labeled six pots and Italics accidentally pulled out six seeds so we took the coincidence as a nudge from the universe. LOL, WATCH THEM //ALL// TURN OUT TO BE FEMALE!)

Once you get bitten by the gardening bug there's no antibiotic that you can take to kill the virus. Discovering that my cloves took root and were now producing shoots flipped the switch; burying my hands into the fertile earth simply bolt-locked that switch into place. I went to bed fantasizing about gardening, I woke up fantasizing about gardening, spent the morning groggily fantasizing about gardening while shopping for even more vegetable seeds.

The fantasizing only stopped once I pulled on my WINTER GARDENING SWEATER, laced up my sneakers, and bounced outside with my new peach tree and tray of Russian olives in hand to rehome them in the greenhouse until warmer weather. Then the strawberries - started from seed last year - were moved next to the Russian olives, as were the three apple trees (also started from seed last year).

The very last of the tobacco leaves were picked (PERFECT SINCE THE WITCH'S CALENDER SAID THAT YESTERDAY WAS AN A+ HARVEST DAY!), the plants pulled up from their containers and added to the RITUAL BURNING VESSEL (a metal trashcan) so I can make RITUAL ASH in my RITUAL BURNING VESSEL and the dirt emptied into a neat pile which was later transported to cover the garlic. (AND SINCE I COULDN'T BUDGE THE WHEELBARROW I HAD TO CARRY THAT DAMN DIRT IN A FUCKING BUCKET CRUSHED AGAINST MY TITS FROM BACKYARD TO...UH...SIDEYARD...MULTIPLE TIMES. I MEAN, //MULTIPLE//, MULTIPLE TIMES.)

By the time I was feverishly pulling weeds from an unkept landscape the sky had clouded over and a biting wind tore through the yard. ("SNOW, WOMAN, SNOW!" CHIPPY SAID, AND I LAUGHED, NOT KNOWING IF HE WAS TALKING ABOUT MY NEW BUT VERY LATE CAILLEACH HAIR (I DYE MY HAIR HENNA BLACK DURING WINTER, DURING THE CAILLEACH TIME, AND THEN I DYE MY HAIR HENNA RED DURING SUMMER, DURING THE BRIDE'S TIME) OR THE COLD WIND BLOWING OFF THE MOUNTAINS. LATER THAT NIGHT I CAUGHT THE FORECAST AND IT DID CONFIRM SNOW FOR CERTAIN PARTS OF SCOTLAND.) And as much as it pained me I retreated from the apocalyptic garden with Chippy under my arm (CHIPPY = EVER READY GARDENING COMPANION) as the sun disappeared behind a sheet of rolling, gray clouds.

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Click thumbnail for larger image.

The wonderful thing about gardening is that even if you're prevented from working outside due to the elements, at least you can find solace in SEED SHOPPING ON THE INTRANETZ! Without blinking Italics whipped out his credit card and before I knew it my seed void was filled with aubergines (eggplant), bee balm, courgettes (zucchini), cucumbers, peas, and tomatoes.

(LOLOLOL, "SEED VOID", AS IF THAT PARTICULAR VOID HADN'T ALREADY BEEN FILLED BY PURCHASING VEGETABLE AND FLOWER SEEDS EARLIER IN THE DAY.)

("SEED VOID", AS IF THAT PARTICULAR VOID HADN'T ALREADY BEEN FILLED BY PURCHASING VEGETABLE AND FLOWER SEEDS EARLIER IN THE DAY AND HAVING IMPROMPTU BEDROOM SEX.)

("SEED VOID", AS IF THAT PARTICULAR VOID HADN'T ALREADY BEEN FILLED BY PURCHASING VEGETABLE AND FLOWER SEEDS EARLIER IN THE DAY, HAVING IMPROMPTU BEDROOM SEX AND LICKING THE EVIDENCE OFF THE CARPET OF THE BEDROOM FLOOR.)

("SEED VOID.")

(THE CARPET ACTUALLY TASTED WORSE, IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT.)

Gorse (Ulex Eureopeaus)

I tore this out of a Sunday Times weekend supplement:

LOOKS LIKE WE'LL BE COLLECTING GORSE FOR MIDSUMMER FIRES, THEN.

(Any reason to burn shit, right?)

On schedule

You do realize there are solar eclipse sabbat cakes you should be baking right now - the day of the solar eclipse - otherwise you're never going to get it done, right?

(Happy year of the Earth (<- chthonic) Ox (<- bull!), baby.) (Chthonic bull? Fuck me, this //is// going to be a "crazy, but fun" year; Negro knows what he's talking about.)

(LOL @ CHTHONIC BULL, BTW, AFTER SPILLING THE BULL'S BLOOD IN THE WHEAT FIELD LAST YEAR. <- LOCAL FARMER OWES US -BIG TIME- FOR THIS YEAR'S HARVEST.)

Graveside Offerings

Remember to buy a Cream LP for P.T.'s grave. Also, remember to look up where he's buried.