Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Hook, Line and Sinker

I'm god-fucking-awful with endings. They're my creative blight; the constant reminder that I typically blow my wad with an irresistible hook, line and sinker. I have supernova beginnings and low battery endings because I have an ongoing problem with pacing myself: I wail on the gas like a motherfucking valkyrie going to war, and the only fucking thing that can stop the unholy momentum behind my fat, martial-ruled ass is an empty fucking tank completely devoid of juice.

I mean, I'm so goddamned tunnel visioned that I'll continue running if there's vaporized fumes to consume. And then - out of nowhere - the ride'll suddenly stop, and I'll come to a jarring, what the flying motherfuck? halt miles away from the finish line. (You'd think I'd get wise to the route I've floored so many times before, but the scenery doesn't look familiar until the last fucking second, and by that point it's already too fucking late to ease off the gas.)

In other words, I'm so fucking exhausted that I'm ready to slip into an indica induced post-Harvest coma. (Last year Harvest began on September 1st, and it took me three shell shocked weeks to recover. This year? Harvest began mid-July.) In addition to catching up on lost sleep, I also need to mentally decompress. For approximately four months I lived, fucked and worked exclusively outside, and now I've got to get my head around the new indoor-themed set I'll be tyrannically ruling over for the next six months of life.

As you'd imagine I'm woefully behind on shit. Emails, trades, thank yous, private messages, packages, mentions, promises, direct messages, reviewing, birthdays - you name it, and I'm knee-fucking-deep (and sinking). In fact, I was several years behind with some shit BEFORE Harvest began this year. A quarter of a year later I'm even worse off than I was before: my desktop containing my entire life might be fried (not to mention all of the homemade porn I made for "Santa Claus" this year), and this dinky laptop Italics got me requires some mighty repairs to get it working properly.

I know it probably sounds corny, but I really want to thank everyone for giving me such a wide fucking berth these past few months. You guys have been hella patient with me as I got my Harvest on, and I appreciate that everyone respected the distance I needed in order to perform all of my crazy-ass duties, obligations and responsibilities. Now that my feral, non-hibernating ass is indoors for winter I can refocus my attention to Graveyard Dirt, catch up with all forms of communication and finalize the all-important details of future sales and giveaways.

No Unsacred Place

A quick shout of thanks to No Unsacred Place for making my photo Bluebell Funeral for a Blackbird their Wordless Wednesday entry this week.

The Good, the Bad & Ms. Dirty

The good news: I have internet connection again! The bad news: I only have it in one motherfucking room (the communal lounge). The testing-your-fucking-patience news: it's going to take my ass weeks to catch up with shit. The testing-my-fucking-patience news: my desktop - the one with 10+ years worth of saved work - refused to load operating systems yesterday morning. The why-the-fuck-are-you-taunting-us-you-fucking-witch-whore news: still no frost, Darlings, but when it finally arrives I'll be sure to let you know.

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).

Ms. Dirty @ Offbeat Home

"Let me introduce you to my new Flickr obsession, Ms. Graveyard Dirt. MGD is a witch living in the UK. Here, she gives us a tour of one day this summer — in ten photos." -- Cat Rocketship (via Offbeat Home)

Here's how mothereffin' busy we are: I didn't even get a chance to mention that my semi-feral life was recently featured at Offbeat Home through a ten picture photo tour before rushing out the door for a short romantic getaway. Many thanks to Cat for presenting me with such a terrific opportunity to expose new people to my work (and all of its sticky-gory-boozy-fungal glory), and a whole round of fresh thanks to anyone who reblogs/tweets/links the photo tour.

Ms. Dirty on Facebook

Hell's officially frozen over: Ms. Dirty's now on Facebook!

With Graveyard Dirt's first sale looming in the not-too-distant horizon I thought it was high fucking time to drag my expletive-rich ass over to the social networking giant to get better connected with readers, friends and future customers. Right now I'm holding the personal aspect of FB at arm's length (i.e., adding friends, filling out my profile), but I'm planning to be hella active in maintaining the Ms. Graveyard Dirt page to provide interested parties an intimate peek on projects (that'll eventually be for sale), and to give folks a public place to ask questions about products.

If you have an account, be sure to stop by and say hello! If you don't have a Facebook account you can still access the page and all of the information in it, but you won't be able to comment or take part in polls.

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).

Good Trade?

Today's hedgerow hooch haul total: 1 ½ lbs of wild necro-raspberries, 7 lbs of wild necro-gooseberries and 1 mother-of-a-fucker retrograde virus. My personal computer? Toast. But, hey, at least the car started first thing instead of taking its usual 20 minutes. (<- Good trade?)

Pray for me, Internet; my beloved desktop could really use the fucking help.

Your Homework's Late

Not one goddamn person handed in their effing homework (re: Bolete Lesson #1), and I'm about to release Bolete Lesson #2. It's time to fess up, Internet - did you find your bolete? Answers (and/or pictures) can be emailed (graveyarddirt{AT}gmail{DOT}com), sent through Tumbr's ask me anything feature (for a very short time I've turned on anonymous commenting for non-Tumblr users) or pinged across Twitter either as a reply or direct message (@graveyarddirt).

Harvest 2011

I've got some good news and some bad news, Internet, and I'm so not going to bother dressing either up on this groggy Sunday evening: Harvest 2011, for this effing witch, has officially started. From now until early November our asses will be out in hedges, fields, woodlands, graveyards and ancient monuments (i.e., standing stones, stone circles and other neolithic markers) fucking our way through the countryside while foraging for the wild bounty northeast Scotland provides.

Harvest is when I traditionally have more time to take pictures, but less time to write about them since I'm usually knee-deep in roadkill, mushrooms and a whole fucking fruit salad worth of indigenous berries. (<- Picking, finding and harvesting? Is the easy part. The REAL work begins when my magic wooden basket - and all the contents within - enters the fucking house.) In the past I've actually held off from updating Graveyard Dirt consistently from late summer to late fall because I really fucking hate posting entries without a gag-inducing amount of substance (with my One A Day photos/videos being the sole exception), and I didn't want to misrepresent myself, my practices or the real content (i.e., the off-season shit) of this journal to new visitors.

Most photos from previous Harvests? Never got written about or posted here. I had sincere intentions, but motivation for "substance" is a hard fucking thing to find after spending weeks carting around a stupid amount of roadkill deer and processing never-fucking-ending baskets of toadstools hunched over a motherfucking sink. The sad fact is that I'm STILL trying to play fucking catch-up with last year even though I'm pathetically falling behind with this one. If I continue to treat every goddamn picture I upload as unquestionably sacrosanct and that it can't be fucking touched unless I write a mother of a fucking novel about it then 70% of my shit will never get published on this fucking journal.

So here's the bad news I promised you: Harvest's begun. (<- I think I might've cushioned that blow by this point.) Graveyard Dirt will inevitably take a hit due to all of the discovering, finding, foraging, fucking, harvesting, picking and wildcrafting (and then the cleaning, skinning, gutting, drying and preserving) I'll be doing over the next several months. (I'm not joking in the fucking slightest when I say that this is the busiest time in my year.) I won't have the luxury of time to pick over the tiny details of my practices and projects so you may notice that my entries are a bit light, and that they aren't published as consistently as they are from November to July.

And the good news? I've decided to be radical this Harvest and give posting-shit-without-worrying-about-a-motherfucking-word-count a try. I highly fucking doubt I'll be able to post daily (as I do now), but at least Graveyard Dirt won't grind to a complete effing halt. The content might not be intellectually exhilarating, but it'll be mostly fresh and - if you live in the northern hemisphere - you'll unavoidably learn a thing or two about wild edibles possibly growing in your local hedges, fields and woods when I tackle what shit you should be looking for, how to find it, how to prepare it and, most importantly, how to enjoy the fuck out of it.

10 Ms. Dirty Harvest Stories (& a link**):
* 2009 Harvest
* 2010's Harvest Meals
* Cereal Mariticide
* Harvest Altar, 2009
* Harvest Festivities & Rites
* Harvest Home Altar (Dark)
* Harvest Home Offering
* Harvest Home Pheasant
* Harvest Moon Foraging
* The Widow is Born

** Psst! There's more Harvest stories here!

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.

Know First

When's my ass going to be finished "seriously reevaluating shit"? The Graveyard Dirt mailing list folk will probably know first. Until then, there's three years worth of Ms. Dirty stories in the Master Archive Index.

Clusterfuck of Celebrations

I know it's been a long ass while, but I still need just a little bit more time before I can fully return to journal writing. Spring Cleaning's done (it's more like "Spring Storage" or "Spring Organizing" now), and my birthday's passed, but I still have a long list of shit to tackle in the next two weeks thanks to the clusterfuck of celebrations, observations and holy days that lead up to this season's climax: Hieros fucking Gamos. And then? And then it's Walpurgisnacht and May Day. (<- Is it any fucking wonder why I've never managed to talk about Lent, Holy Week, Holy Saturday, Easter Sunday, Spanking Day and Hieros Gamos?)

There's no fucking way I can devote myself to both Graveyard Dirt and my religious duties, so journal writing's going to continue taking hits until this insane round of festivals finally ends. I'm not going to stop posting; the entries just won't be those epic monsters that older readers were used to (if you seriously miss those you can always hit up the Master Archive Index and read your favorite stories there). I'm obviously going to return to my annoying-as-fuck longwinded ways, but until things've calmed down on my end I just won't have the time and mental inclination to hammer out a couple of thousand words a day.

Epic Spring Clean 2011

I know people are waiting for emails and responses to questions through various social networking sites (i.e., Twitter, Last.fm, Livejournal, Flickr & Tumblr), but I really, really need to complete EPIC SPRING CLEAN 2011 before dedicating my nocturnal cycle to addressing shit on the internet. (It's way easier for my autistic concentration to stay focused in an orderly environment, hence the need to keep things anally clean and organized. <- Even chaos loves a taste of order.)

We've JUST finished magic washing the bedroom yesterday, so the majority of our work, now, is sorting through everything to decide what gets saved, what gets stored and what gets sold. If you guys can bear with me just a little fucking longer I swear I'll devote an entire sleep cycle to catching up with the emails (201), Tumblr drafts (507), Tumblr messages (35), private Livejournal messages (2), Livejournal comments (22), direct Twitter messages (13), Flickr mail (5) and Flickr comments (you'd weep if you knew) that've been languishing without attention.

24-72 Hours

Pulling teeth would be easier than getting my antsy fucking ass to sit down for five minutes to write a proper entry, so I'll just get this announcement out've the way without my usual wordiness: Graveyard Dirt will be down for a day or two. In the non-existent chance that someone panics, can you please let them know that I haven't converted to Christianity and I'm just souping up my service to facilitate my future shop-to-be? I'd be crazy grateful.

PS: If you find yourself experiencing Graveyard Dirt withdrawal symptoms you can always get a quick Ms. Dirty hit by thumbing through my Flickr photos, Twitter feed or Tumblr blog. See you guys in 24-72 hours, XO.

Occasional Diversions

I don't know what fucking heavenly body entered what house, but for the past several weeks it's been nothing but GO-GO-GO! here at Chez Graveyard Dirt. (I don't even want to consider how fucking mental it might be - right now - if the Universe hadn't recently slowed my ass down with the motherfucking flu.) My head? Officially spinning, and if it wasn't for all of the Rainman lists I create to keep me on track I think I would've had some sort of breakdown by this point.

Around mid-to-late January some sort've cosmic switch was flipped, and suddenly I wanted to work with my hands again. (Not that cooking and cleaning and general everyday Ms. Dirty activity - ahem, chronic masturbation, ahem - isn't "working with my hands", it's just a different kind've physical expression.) But the problem with changing focus is that it inevitably impacts other areas of your life, and the energy I once had to write epic journal entries is now being funneled through a different creative channel.

I know it might sound sort've weird - cause, like, I'm totally not getting paid to keep an on-line journal - but I consider maintaining Graveyard Dirt a full-time job. My #1 internet-based priority involves producing new content for this diary on a daily basis. It keeps me writing, it keeps me thinking and it definitely keeps me motivated to learn, try and experiment with new things and ideas. The problem is, when I'm knee-deep in creative projects I have a hard time dividing my energy equally amongst other areas of my life (mostly because my mental focus shifts, and all I can think about is working on - and finishing - the exciting new distraction).

So, if you've noticed that the word count's become sort've lean around these parts recently, that's the reason why. It isn't a permanent change, but these occasional diversions do affect the intensity and frequency of my journal entries, and until I exhaust myself the fuck out you might find that I'm a little less wordy than usual.

Christmas-y Air

With all of the unexpected shit that happened this Yuletide season (the most recent SURPRISE!? finding out that my father-in-law left a light on in my fucking car and totally killed the battery leaving us with NO WAY TO GET THE FUCK AROUND while they're away on vacation for over two weeks) my carefully constructed schedule was bound to unravel at the last minute.

The GOOD news is that we were able to execute everything on effing time this year (Sviata Vechera happened on Winter Solstice night, we actually managed to make it out of the house on Christmas Eve for our annual fancy pants Turkish meal and I remembered to leave out an extra special treat for Santa and his reindeer), the BAD news is that it came at a slight price: all my energy got diverted to my rituals, rites and traditions and I had ZERO time to sit down and write about them here in Graveyard Dirt.

But dear and gentle readers, all is not lost. Thanks to THE OLD COUNTRY (that's, uh, Ukraine - just in case you haven't been paying attention to the shit I've been writing about this entire effing month) and my baptized Eastern Orthodox genes I have the not-so-secret ability to celebrate Christmas either on December 25th OR January 7th. (<- A lot of Eastern European countries still observe feasts and holy days using the old Julian calendar, while the rest of the world trudges on with the new Gregorian calendar.)

And THAT means I have a legitimate, TOTALLY justified excuse for posting Christmas-themed shit for the next 12 motherfucking days. (I know it probably sounds retarded, but I really, really, really want to cover all of my Yuletide bases this fucking year so I can devote all of next December telling personal stories about our annual Midwinter customs. Right now I'm carefully laying a simple foundation to give people a basic idea of what I'm doing, and why my not-so-distant-and-also-very-distant ancestors performed these rituals.)

So, for the next two weeks there'll probably be a distinctively Christmas-y air to Graveyard Dirt as I thumb through holidays past to tell forgotten stories, post ancient Flickr photos and share some of my favorite Yuletide recipes. And - if y'all are really fucking good - there might even be a blog giveaway at the end of this festive season. (<- Don't get too excited, though, because this particular giveaway actually requires some culinary effort on your part.)

Thank You

For the folks who've decided to stick with me despite last night's roadkill content: thanks - no, really, thank you.

I really wanted to introduce people to what I'm doing, why I'm doing it, how it's affected me (despite being hardcore carnivores - fuck, we pick up dead animals from the side of the road for dinner, how much more of a carnivore can you get? - this entire roadkill thing has brought about a new lifestyle for us which actually involves eating LESS meat than we did before) and reveal that the entire butchery process isn't as Texas Chain Saw Massacre as you'd think.

If you enjoyed last night's entry (Harvest Home Pheasant), then you can look forward to future entries along the same vein involving crows, rabbits, badgers, deer, foxes and even more pheasants (think of them as the chickens of the wild). The majority of the images I've taken follow the same effing formula - dead animal laying in wake, close-up shots of fur'n'feathers and then, in most cases, what the animal was reduced to (usually pinned wings or a flayed pelt spread out on the ground).

There are only four instances I can think of where I actually documented the entire process of skinning and dismembering a roadkill animal (a fox, a rabbit, a crow and pheasant - all animals you guys are likely to come across yourselves so I wanted to write a Ms. Graveyard Dirt-flavored tutorial for any budding scavengers), and those were only done for purely educational reasons. (I'll be completely up front with y'all - I might not warn people of "tame" roadkill pictures in the future, but I will definitely warn people in advance if there's more gratuity than you guys are familiar with.)

If this entire witchcraft-based roadkill thing really caught your interest I have an entire diary category devoted to it on Graveyard Dirt (Asphalt & Entrails) and a Flickr set that should be MOSTLY up-to-date (Roadkill). The majority of the animals that pass through my hands - and in front of my digital camera - will be for sale at a later date (their bones, skulls, feathers, organs, feet, teeth, fur, nails, toes - you name, I can produce it), so if you're keen on acquiring your own specimen you'll actually get a chance to become acquainted with your animal through diary entries and photos.

I know the unnatural passing of animals - and using them in spiritual practices - can be a touchy, sensitive subject. If you have any questions or concerns I'm happy to address them, just shoot me over an email (graveyarddirt@gmail.com). One word of warning, though - my ass is seriously fucking backlogged in the email department. I do my best to reply to anything super-crazy-important, but I've got to juggle a lot of fucking shit on a day to day basis and "responding to email" is always the first thing that falls off my TO DO list when it's running a motherfucking mile long (not that you guys don't already know that, heh).

Yeah, Those

Okayokayokay. All I have left to do - other than email, which is (no surprise) last on my list (OH, YOU KNOW ME TOO WELL, INTERNET) - is hammer something out for Category-Based Archives, Date-Based Archives and Master Archive and I'll be done with my internet-based chores. (<- The ones I've been quietly working on for the past several weeks; the ones that've kept me from writing proper journal entries...yeah, those.)

In the mean time - if you're going through Ms. Graveyard Dirt withdrawal and need a quick fix - stop by and say hello: http://graveyarddirt.tumblr.com

Domestic Witch Blog Award

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Right. Okay. So.

So my obnoxious witch ass was presented with a Kreativ Blogger Award a few days ago by the V. generous Sarah from Crooked Ways. "WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, BUT IT SAYS DOMESTIC WITCH BLOG AWARD ABOVE!" Yeah, I know. That's because Carolina bestowed upon me the Domestic Witch Blog Award LAST FUCKING YEAR and up until this morning I still hadn't cinched that honor.

(See? SEE? Didn't I tell you that I was bad motherfucking news? Didn't I tell you that you'd ultimately be disappointed with me because one thing I fucking excel at is failing to live up to expectations? SERIOUSLY, INTERNET, CHUMMING UP WITH ME IS AN EXERCISE IN THE WORST POSSIBLE JUDGEMENT. I AM A HOT MESS OF FRUSTRATING CRAZY GILDED BY THE (FREQUENT) USE OF "FUCK". YOU'D FOR REAL HAVE A BETTER CHANCE GARNERING A SEMI-PROMPT RESPONSE FROM A BLACK FUCKING HOLE IF YOU EMAILED IT/PRESENTED IT WITH AN AWARD.)

Right. Okay. So.

So before I handle NEW BUSINESS the responsible adult in me (I SWEAR I HAVE A FRACTION OF THAT...SOMEWHERE - MAYBE IT'S HIDDEN BENEATH MY STRETCH MARKS?) feels compelled to handle OLD BUSINESS. First and foremost I have to thank Carolina, for the award (which was a seriously flattering surprise) AND for putting up with my, uh, unique approach at communication/interaction. (<- I KEEP TELLING MYSELF THAT ONCE JULY 21ST COMES AND GOES (when Saturn moves from Virgo to Libra finally ending the Saturn Return Italics and I share) I'LL SUDDENLY BE //TOTALLY// ON TOP OF THINGS AND I'LL BE AN ENTIRELY NEW WOMAN AND IT'LL BE THE DAWN OF A TERRIFIC-AMAZING-GREAT CHAPTER IN MY LIFE AND I'LL SIMPLY ~DAZZLE~ EVERYONE WITH MY AGE OF AQUARIUS 180.)

(Just let me enjoy my fantasy, okay?)

When I was first awarded the honor (ALMOST A MOTHEREFFING YEAR AGO) I spent a week wringing my hands in exquisite internet despair, not knowing how to choose THREE people from the long list of blogs / journals / diaries I follow. I eventually settled on selecting people who have the distinct misfortune of knowing me (I mean, past the occasional page hit from stat tracking) to the point they all shared a common Ms. GD theme - "OH, GOD, I PROMISE I'LL GET BACK TO YOUR EMAIL REALLY, REALLY SOON, OKAY?".

01. I Have a Garden (you'll also find her on Tumblr as Phoebeb & Twenty-One)

02. Crooked Ways (you'll also find her on Tumblr as Crooked Ways)

03. A Mango Lassie (you'll also find her on Tumblr as Ghoul Next Door)

Right. Okay. So.

So one award down, three witches chosen. One award left, seven witches needing to be chosen and seven "interesting facts" about me need to be invented. (HOLY SHIT, WHAT? //7// FUCKING THINGS? EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS WHAT MY FAT ASS LOOKS LIKE AND THAT I (OCCASIONALLY) SMOKE MEPH DURING FERTILITY RITES, WHAT THE FUCK ELSE IS THERE LEFT? (MY WELL OF MYSTIQUE? DRY AS A MOTHERFUCKING PLAGUE OF EGYPT.))

Sarah, I should be able to come up with something good in a year. (<- I'M JOKING, I'M JOKING. Well, partially joking. I mean, let's be honest, it's not like I have a stellar track record, right?)

PS: Footnote thanks to Domestic Witch for creating the award.

Caught Up w/the Bride

With an exception of providing links to a few journal entries (SPRING W/RANDOM INTERVALS OF WINTER and HELLO, OLD LADY) I think that's me caught up with Bride's Day (Imbolc) 2009.

In the next few days I'll be posting this year's pictures, accompanying recipes and break the celebration down into profanity riddled chunks of partially caps lock text, but if you can't wait that long to get your fix you can always plunder the CAILLEACH and BRIDE sections of my archive for past entries regarding the Bride and the Old Woman.

RE: Cleaning Day (I & II)

I've been working on the same effing journal entry for DAYS now. The post's become so long that I've decided to cut it in half for easier digestion. The first part is CLEANING DAY I (which is buried beneath an entry or two since it was saved as a draft on Nov. 20th), and the second part will - HOPEFULLY! - be done by tomorrow.

Social Networking

I'VE RESPONDED TO AN EMAIL! (THAT'S ONE DOWN AND 51 MORE TO GO! WOO!) EXCUSE ME WHILE I POP OPEN A BOTTLE OF ELDERFLOWER AND LIME CIDER TO CELEBRATE.

(I'm conveniently "forgetting"/not mentioning all of the Livejournal comments I need to respond to. And all of the Flickr comments AND emails I need to reply to. And all of the Twitter and Tumblr nudges I've gotten recently. AND, ALSO, LIVEJOURNAL'S INSTANT MESSAGES AND, ALSO TIMES TWO, ALL THE BUILT UP CORRESPONDENCE ON MYHOODOOSPACE. <- OH MY GOD SOMEONE PLEASE PRY "SOCIAL NETWORKING" OUT OF MY DIRTY LITTLE WITCH HANDS BECAUSE I'M CLEARLY NOT RESPONSIBLE ENOUGH TO INTERACT WITH OTHERS.)

I See You Looking

I love seeing variants of Ms. Graveyard Dirt turn up in my stats; I know you're looking for me, and I can see you. (Although I can't be held responsible for the repercussions of typing out my name three times in front of your computer monitor in a darkened room.)

Full Moon Upheaval

AHOY, FULL MOON UPHEAVAL! (Oh, HEY!, HELLO! and HI! nightmares, fighting, sickness and exhaustion - AWESOME TO SEE YOU, IT'S BEEN WHAT...A MONTH SINCE THE LAST TIME WE SAW EACH OTHER? HOW TIME FLIES WHEN YOU'RE //NOT// HAVING NIGHTMARES, FIGHTS, BEING SICK AND/OR EXHAUSTED!)

As much as I'd love to continue pushing (MUST WRITE! MUST DOCUMENT! MUST MAKE DIGESTIBLE SERVING SIZES OF MY LIFE FOR THE WORLD TO SEE!) I ran out of gas a few days ago and haven't had a chance to recover. The in-laws are away tonight so I'm going to shake my hair loose, throw off my clothes, don an apron (MY NEIGHBORS HAVE SEEN MY NAKED ASS SO MANY DAMN TIMES THAT IT ISN'T EVEN WORTH CENSORING IT ANYMORE), get as high as possible and lose myself in the kitchen with Roy Orbison.

If you find yourself desperately missing CAPS LOCK and unnecessary references to my NAKED ASS (<- whose numbers border on the ridiculous, yo) then please feel free to stalk my semi-new livejournal account "msgraveyarddirt". I've also uploaded a crazy amount of pictures to Graveyard Dirt's Flickr account; a lot of them don't have commentary because I haven't written the correlating journal entry, but they'll give you an idea of what to expect later this week.

Tweets to the Tweet

Mademoiselle Graveyard Dirt is now on Twitter as Graveyarddirt. (OH, WE'LL SEE HOW LONG //THIS// LASTS.)

Still Life

Every picture tells a story.

(I just haven't been motivated enough to write them down...yet.)

Flickr Update

Flickr photostream updated.

#1 Source for Voodoo Socks

Click thumbnail for larger image.

This is what makes it all worth while.

Flickr Update

Graveyard Dirt's FLICKR PHOTOSTREAM has just been updated. In the next few days I'll hopefully get around to writing the entries they're meant to accompany. (FAMOUS LAST WORDS.)