Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

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.

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.)

She Washes Her Plaid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANYWAY...!

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

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

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

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

Fet Ghede, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The marmalade glazed ham in all of its glory.

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The marmalade glazed ham in all of its glory.

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

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Homemade crabcakes.

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More marmalade ham and crabcakes.

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

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

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Roasted potatoes and roasted squash (again).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black Rabbit Altar

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

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

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

(OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cleaning Up After the Bride

At this point in my life The Bride and The Whore have a symbiotic relationship (even though they're technically one in the same - The Whore becomes the Spring Bride, and as the Light year progresses She "ages" until the cycle comes full circle transforming the virginal Bride into The Sacred Harlot who reigns over winter and the Dark year).

The Bride creates and makes the martial bed, the Whore sleeps (and stains) the martial bed. The Bride sows the ritual wheat in Spring, the Whore reaps the ritual wheat in Fall. The Bride grows and gathers, the Whore harvests and uses. It's all about enlightenment gained from experience, celebrating the fruition of uninitiated ignorance to initiated wisdom and Venus's placement in my natal chart (<- GEMINI; TALK ABOUT A VIRGIN/WHORE DYNAMIC!).

Despite my fantastically anal attitude towards cleanliness The Bride's been exquisitely messy and unorganized this year. I've decided to point the finger of blame on one thing - all the new shit I've "tested" and created this year. For the first time in my life I worked on a billion things simultaneously which meant overlapping projects sitting in various states of doneness. (Me? I finish EVERYTHING, although not always on the deadline I've assigned myself...)

Since a lot of this year's activities have been strongly influenced by witchcraft I couldn't leave the majority sitting out for anyone to snoop and touch. (AHEM, MR. AWESOME, AHEM.) I think any seasoned witch will probably agree that in order to be a witch YOU NEED FULL USE OF EVERY GODDAMN ROOM IN THE HOUSE WITHOUT FEAR THAT PEOPLE WILL BE FUCKING WITH YOUR SHIT BEHIND YOUR BACK.

Thanks to living in a communal situation with someone who frequently "forgets" to NOT TOUCH, THROW OUT, RUIN, BREAK, OR KILL MY THINGS, EVER (despite nearly 10 years of asking in varying degrees of politeness) all of my activities, projects, gifts and work has no choice but to be allocated to the third smallest room in the house (behind my in-law's en suite bathroom and the house's main bathroom) - our bedroom.

I observe the shift from Light to Dark (and vice versa) with three rituals: the changing of the guard (JOURNAL ENTRY HERE!), stripping our bedroom down and cleaning everything (JOURNAL ENTRY HERE!) and celebrating the return of the Bride/Whore through an ecstatic, entheogen-fueled bout of ceremonial sex with my husband/consort, Italics. (THE LONGEST RUNNING "BOUT"? NINE FUCKING HOURS. SERIOUSLY.)

The changing of the guard took place last Saturday, Italics has already taken his "mistress" out (<- HE TOOK ME TO SEE BAT FOR LASHES IN GLASGOW, PAID FOR A HOTEL ROOM SO WE COULD SPEND THE NIGHT IN TOWN (IT'S A THREE EFFING HOUR BUS RIDE TO GET THERE!), PAID FOR ME TO GET MY MAKE-UP AND EYEBROWS PROFESSIONALLY DONE, TOOK ME OUT FOR DINNER AND THEN BESTOWED GIFTS AND OFFERINGS (AKA SHOPPING, SHOPPING, SHOPPING!) UPON ME), the Black Goddess altar is finally done and Halloween's only a week away.

The only thing left? "Washing" away the very last vestiges of the Bride from the bedroom to fully welcome the Whore.

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The bedroom in its ossuary glory. We hung up the plastic/vinyl wallpaper for 2006's Halloween (normally ritual sex happens in the lounge but we decided to celebrate the return of The Whore that year in the bedroom) and liked it so much we never took it down.

Just last week we bought a new "scene" to rewallpaper the bedroom - a cemetery backing into a haunted forest. (I have this horrible feeling that I'm REALLY going to miss my blue-tinged skulls and pillars...)

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My side of the bedroom.

It's a well-known fact that I fucking HATE reading, but despite that hatred I still buy and collect books. (<- I CAN CHOKE DOWN NON-FICTION, JUST DON'T ASK ME TO READ ANYTHING REMOTELY FICTION, EVER.) In fact, we have so many goddamn books that you'll find a pillar of print in almost every room of the house. The bedroom? Has two.

PS: Despite the appearance I don't usually leave laundry lying around - those are my BEDROOM MONSTER SOCKS. (MONSTER SOCKS = SOCKS MADE OF MUPPET-LIKE MATERIAL. IT FEELS LIKE YOU'RE SHOVING YOUR FOOT INTO THE MOUTH OF ONE OF THOSE SESAME STREET YIP-YIP ALIENS.) I have god-fucking-awful circulation in my hands which means I wear socks to bed during winter AND summer.

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His side of the bedroom. (Note how much cleaner it is (on the floor) next to his side. Although I win for having a slightly more organized nightstand top.)

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When we celebrated in the bedroom in 2006 the entire room got decked out - ossuary wallpaper, cobweb drapes, skeletons hanging like garland from the window, glowing pumpkins in the corners of the room and a glow-in-the-dark night scene featuring the moon, stars and bats stuck on the window. We got so attached to the wallpaper AND the night scene we decided to just leave them, and they've been hanging up - undisturbed - since.

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Particles of incense, dust, debris and my extended lighter (for starting charcoal blocks) on the windowsill.

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This is seriously an abomination to my house cleaning skills. There is, honest to all that is holy and divine, no room that even REMOTELY looks like this in the house. I've been so busy with projects and taking care of the rest of the home that I haven't had a chance to DUST MY OWN BEDROOM IN MONTHS.

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My nightstand tabletop.

Anything look familiar? Papa's mask hangs to the side of our ritual bong, my ritual scissors are tucked in the ceramic pot filled with incense, the goat bell's wedged between the ceramic pot and a jar of shea lotion, the ribbons wound around my headphones are off the Shango Tree, the vase I found in the cemetery (just behind my Apis Bull figurine) holds a spray of dried flowers that I wore in my hair when we performed Hieros Gamos in a local wheat field on Midsummer. (<- ALL OBJECTS AND THINGS THAT HAVE BEEN RECORDED VIA PICTURE'N'ENTRY EARLIER THIS YEAR.)

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The growing closet. We start the majority of our seeds in the closet, move them to the backroom and then harden them off in the bonsai house outside.

Here's the second pillar of print in the bedroom, limbs off of various trees for broom making (beech and sycamore), the key and lock fetish I hang on our ritual/altar ladder when celebrating the Sacred Marriage (between the virginal Spring Bride and the King) and my zombie machete.

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The top of the closet is the closest I get to "altar space" in the bedroom. Normally only the basket full of animals (all significant in someway - not so much the stuffed animal as what they represent) and two scorpion bowls occupy the space, but I have a bad habit of filling in the emptiness with UNBELIEVABLE AMOUNTS OF SHIT. (IT'S ALL GETTING CONSECRATED, OKAY?)

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His nightstand tabletop. (There's a metallic Baphomet sigil beneath all of that shit. You can kind've sort've make out one of the ears in the clearing between the ceramic crab trinket box, the bunched up paper towel and the ceramic bowl covered by CDs.)

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My storage solution for everything "witch" related. Empty alcohol bottles, curing herbal salts and sugars, non-perishable sabbat cakes (solar AND lunar), homemade incense, organic and inorganic finds, our vintage funeral casket cover topped with my craft supply boxes and seeds (it gets pulled out and fumigated with frankincense during the Dark part of the year, and gets wrapped up and put away for the Light part of the year), harvested and dried potion/incense ingredients and a few choice pieces of fur (Edwardian ermine muff and collar/scarf set) tucked safely away in a box.

Changing of the Guard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Halloween Altar Building

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

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

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

Down the Rabbit Hole

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

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

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

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

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

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

(After finding the rabbit I pocketed a weathered deer bone. Being the retard I am I forgot I jammed the fucking thing in one of my pockets so when I reached around to scratch my ass the bone got me - first across my wrist and then across the back of my hand. One of the scratches drew blood and I thought "THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I NEED, AN OPEN FUCKING WOUND WHILE CARRYING A DEAD ANIMAL" - the last time something significant scratched me and created an open wound (on my tonsil) I was hospitalized for nearly 48 hours.)

(Keeping "CARRYING DEAD ANIMAL NEAR OPEN WOUND" and "BLEEDING SCRATCH CREATED BY FOUND BONE OF DEAD WILD ANIMAL" in mind the first thing I did when I got home - OTHER THAN STUFF THE DEAD RABBIT IN AN OPAQUE GROCERY BAG AND SHOVE IT NEXT TO THE OLIVE OIL SPREAD AND PITA BREAD IN THE FRIDGE - was wash the area thoroughly and apply an antibacterial cream.)

My mother-in-law saw me the morning after the first round of fireworks. "IT'S THAT RABBIT!" she insisted, but it seem far-fetched. I ate something bad, or caught the stomach flu. (Although no one else in the house displayed the symptoms I did, and we had all eaten the same thing(s). Not to mention that one instance when I succumbed to the maenad need for period sex and despite exchanging body fluids with Italics he never - and still hasn't - shown any signs of a delicate stomach.)

Unlike my toxic tonsil which turned green and swelled to the size of a well-fed golf ball I didn't have an obvious infection. The two scratches from the deer bone never became irritated or swollen, they never wept any body fluid. "It's just a bad period, or you've eaten something," Italics said, but by day 5 (or 6?) he was asking if I thought I should see a doctor. And then, immediately after, "I THINK IT WAS THAT RABBIT."

Sigh.

It was a storm I knew was coming. It was the deer in the middle of the beaten down track that ran perpendicular to the trail we were on creating a wooded crossroads. It was the freshly killed rabbit practically dropped at my feet by a hawk. It was the hawk, it was the deer bone, the scratch. (ESPECIALLY the scratch. Drawing blood always leads to some sort of fight or battle.) It was knowing that in order to use blood you have to know blood, because if you haven't fought the battle and experienced the pain, suffering and war how are you supposed to inflict it upon someone else?

To draw blood, you need to know blood. (Simple. Primitive. Intuitive. Don't make it any more complex than it needs to be. It's perfect as it is; childishly uncomplicated, but fiercely testing. Victory leaves you bloodied and weak, but stronger, smarter...experienced. Pain, She said, is the absence of death. You hurt, you live; be grateful for pain, it means you're still alive. Harsh words of compassion, but We aren't Mothers, We're fighters.)

So a week was lost, and the weather went wild. (That's the problem with Sovereignty - when you're divinely connected to the land the weather sometimes becomes a reflection of your state of being or mind.) For two or three days straight inexplicable fronts came crashing in - one second the house shuddered beneath driving rain that threatened to flood out the streets outside, the next second featured the sun gloriously shining down on deep puddles of rainwater.

On the second day I woke up from a delirious sleep and shambled to the patio door to watch a Fox's Wedding through the heavy glass partition, the sun blearily glowed behind a translucent veil of mist and rain. A winter wind howled when I threw back the door, warm air and cold air collided as the stillness of the backroom sucked in the volatile weather outside, pelting me with rain and frantically tearing at my nightshirt.

"OH, SO IT'S THIS GAME," I thought, half-amused and half-weary, smearing rainwater across my forehead when trying to dry my face with an equally wet forearm. Wind blasted through trees, shaking and whipping the hedge into a frenzy, breaking limbs and stealing my summer fruit. I watched for as long as my stomach cramps would let me, taking in the bizarre contradiction of Winter in Summer; Death and Sleep grappling Life and Growth in my beloved little garden.

Little rabbit, I followed you down the black rabbit hole, first cradling your body like a child, a pet, a silent, beloved companion, then dismembering you like a surgeon, a hunter, a chef, an opportunistic witch. Every step loving, every step careful. Every step with a hand on your back, petting, stroking, whispering you and I, my beautiful gem, we're one - I see what you see, I hear what you see, I feel your life and death in my veins.

After pain, discomfort, suffering, sickness, illness, death, dismemberment, butchering, mutilation, nightmares, sweat, darkness, dreams, rain, sun, wind and hail what did I walk away with? THIS. (And God fucking help you if your name ever gets etched on any one of those organs cause, baby, I know blood.)

...and, also, I should probably use a face mask when pawing through the intestines of a day old dead wild animal. (I REMEMBERED THE LATEX GLOVES - TO KEEP MY SCRATCHES COVERED - BUT CLEARLY IT WASN'T ENOUGH.) Live and learn, right?

Baby Book

I don't know what to say anymore, that's why I take pictures. Things, ideas, events and memories have been wiped off the blackboard of my mind so any motivation I feel is pressure to remain active, to keep running because if I stop for a breath at this point it'll all unravel.

(Keep moving, keep pushing, keep taking pictures to record it all. Winter'll be the time to introspect and retrospect, but now - right now - is the time to plant the seeds for those long, dark nights. Now's the time to run, bare feet to the earth, heart screaming in your chest, and concentrate on making it TO the end, not the end itself.)

This diary thing is like needles and pins. I know where I want to go with it, I know what I want to do, how it should look, how I should present it. I've spent a year braiding different parts of my life into one single plait, but the harder I work on it, the more I see I'm forcing things and the end result is starting to look sloppy.

I want to write. I want to record dreams and stupid MAGIC LOL! happenings. I want to share what I'm cooking, sharpen my food photography. I want to crack open all of these goddamn desktop folders labeled with past events (i.e., "LENT RITUAL", "EASTER BASKET", "WEDDING ALTAR", ETC.) and share the images, explaining every little article and object tucked away in the background.

I want to show you MY LIFE and how I'M DOING THIS MAGIC THANG; but the grit of it, the dirt, the very substance that creates a foundation of belief. I want to showing the beginning and the end, and have the transition from one to the other felt and experienced by others. I want to show, because it's so goddamn easy, so much easier than any other person, book, or site makes it seem.

But I don't have time to write, or show, or share. I did before, when it was cold. That schedule was perfected, flawless. (It's easy to be a housewife and witch when you're confined to six rooms in a single level "bungalow". When it's freezing outside and everything's covered with ice there's time to think and plan and scheme and mull over the year's previous events while doing the laundry and making dinner and cleaning the house.)

I never anticipated being this knee-deep in Spring. I connected with Winter a few years back; the first winter after my longest, most intense period of depression. (OH, GOD, I HATE USING THE "D" WORD BECAUSE EVERYONE'S FUCKING DEPRESSED NOW, AND I REALLY FUCKING HATE GETTING LUMPED UNDER THE "CLINICALLY DEPRESSED" CATEGORY BECAUSE THE LAST THING I WANT PEOPLE TO THINK IS THAT I'M, OH MY GOD, JUST LIKE YOU, OR HER, OR THEM. I'M NOT.)

I was anxious in November, not knowing what December or January or February or even March had in store. Daylight receded, darkness prevailed; the cycle didn't stop just because I was apprehensive about my reaction towards the change of the season. And then? And then, one night, the blackened heavens opened up, turning the sky violet as snow began to fall for the first time that winter.

Snow's breathtaking, especially at night. I don't know what it is about frozen flakes of water that still manages to captivate me (STILL MANAGES TO CAPTIVATE ME = I'M 30 BUT STILL ACT LIKE I'M 7 THE SECOND I SEE SNOW), but when it's present, so am I, my face pressed up against the window fogging the glass with my breath as I watch the white noise rustle and settle on a dead world. Sometimes I think it's just me being my autistic self, having my own Rainman moment, staring transfixed for hours at the living, swirling static outside.

(ALTHOUGH DON'T DROP A BOX OF TOOTHPICKS IN FRONT OF ME BECAUSE I'M A -HIGH FUNCTIONING- RETARD WHICH MEANS MY NATURAL RESPONSE TO PEOPLE MAKING A MESS AROUND ME IS TO BE PISSED OFF. I'M CURRENTLY A SELF-EMPLOYED HOUSEWIFE, NOT A HUMAN CALCULATOR, THANKS.)

I did the most obviously stupid, simple thing - I went outside, in the middle of the night, high off my ass while wearing my wedding dress (which hadn't been become my wedding dress yet; that wouldn't happen until April 2008) and welcomed The Old Woman for the first time. (During the cold, lifeless months we're The Crone, The Old Woman, The Whore. During the warmer, life-filled months we're The Virgin, The Bride. Our year is from extreme to the other, and We experience the transformation gradually as the spectrum of the seasons slowly slide back and forth.)

(I suspect that's why death terrifies me so much; We don't die. We're always here, present, in some form. There isn't a time when We aren't here watching, existing and being. In my mythology He dies, We remain. When there's no end, the concept of "the end" is petrifying; the only thing Death fears is death.)

That's how I cured my depression, I welcomed Winter. (OKAY, AND I ASKED FOR GUIDANCE AND THE ABILITY TO FIND STRENGTH AND RESOLVE IN MYSELF WHEN I MOST NEEDED STRENGTH AND RESOLVE. (WHY OUTSOURCE AND BEG FOR A ONE-TIME MAGIC WISH OF "COURAGE AND STRENGTH" WHEN THERE'S AN UNLIMITED RESERVOIR WITHIN THAT YOU JUST NEED TO LEARN HOW TO TAP?) OH, AND, ALSO, I ASKED FOR CONTROL OF THE WEATHER. BUT THAT'S ALL, THOUGH, CONTROL OF THE WEATHER, INTERNAL STRENGTH AND RESOLVE. I DON'T ASK FOR MUCH. <- LOL!)

That was, Jesus, three years ago, or something. And it hasn't come back, not once. I accepted the inevitable I couldn't pause or change and requested - from myself - to be able to adapt to what I couldn't control, and control what I could. OH, AND ALSO ALL OF THAT WEATHER MAGIC STUFF WHICH I DIDN'T ENTIRELY BELIEVE IN BEFORE (OH, HONEY, IN MY GAME I DON'T HAVE TO ACKNOWLEDGE EVERYONE ELSE'S GAME. I'VE GOT BETTER THINGS TO DO THAN FAKE INTEREST, SYMPATHY OR BELIEF IN OTHER PEOPLE'S "PSYCHIC ATTACKS" AND THEIR MAGICAL ATTRIBUTES AND/OR SPECIAL POWERS THAT READ STRAIGHT OFF A ROLE-PLAYING CHARACTER SHEET.) BUT I DO NOW.

I didn't expect to connect with Spring like I have. For the past few years I've felt the burden of death on my shoulders and I've accepted the job, sometimes hating it, sometimes loving it (almost always, though, feeling complete). I never anticipated that I could get such a spiritual and emotional high off something like PLANTING and BEING OUT WITH NATURE and NURTURING DEFENSELESS SEEDLINGS; that's all, you know, LIFE STUFF, and We're DEATH STUFF.

Once I caught Papa standing in the middle of his chili peppers, hunched over and "gardening" amongst the potted, in-door vegetables. "HOLY SHIT," I balked, "DEATH ENJOYS GARDENING?!" And suddenly IT MADE SENSE - of COURSE DEATH ENJOYS FUCKING GARDENING. It's completion, you know? It's the other half We don't have, it's submerging yourself in the radical newness of THE OPPOSITE.

But it's a strong, addictive drug. When my mind wanders, it wanders to gardening. When my eyes wander, they wander to a window, the patio door, whatever transparent sheet of glass that's present in the room with me. When the weather is dealing me shitty hands (I ONLY TRY AND GIVE WEATHER SYSTEMS A PUSH WHEN I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY NEED TO) I bemoan my inability to go outside and finish my trench digging and I pace around the house, unsatisfied with the day, waiting for the next one in the hopes that I can return to the self-appointed manual labor sitting outside.

Spring's entirely consumed me, and thanks to that consumption I'm finding it increasingly harder to sit down and THINK when all I feel racing through my veins is "BE ACTIVE, BE ACTIVE, BE ACTIVE, BE ACTIVE". (It's a bizarre compulsion, an insane 180 from any other Spring in any other year.)

So I take pictures hoping that, one day, the images will be able to convey what I was thinking, feeling and hoping when snapping the photo. So I take pictures because they're my baby book for this year, and at the year's closing when everything's covered and asleep I can go back - The Old Woman - and relive those fleeting green moments, when a young woman made the transition from Virginal Spring Bride to the new matriarch of the house to The Old Winter Hag Whore.

April 29th Walk

When my mother-in-law mentioned she had a work related appointment at Balmedie and offered Italics and I a chance to roam the shoreline there was a mad scramble for showers and clean clothes.

(HOLY SHIT, DUDE, IT'S BEEN AT LEAST //2 YEARS// SINCE I LAST VISITED A FOR REAL BEACH EVEN THOUGH IT'S LESS THAN A HALF AN HOUR AWAY. <- When you depend on others for a ride, spontaneous trips to the beach become an elusive thing of the past.)

There was a bit of back and forth between Italics and I because Balmedie has a reputation for being one of the very few recognized SEX ZONES of the area (everything from swinging to voyeurism), at least during the beach's AFTER hours.

(WHICH, HONESTLY AND TRULY, MUST BE TOTALLY AWESOME FOR THE LULZ, AND I WOULD 100% GO TO INVESTIGATE IF I DIDN'T THINK THAT SHOWING UP DURING THE RUMORED HOURS WAS PARTIAL CONSENT AND/OR GAVE THE APPEARANCE OR IMPRESSION OF GENUINE INTEREST ON MY PART. I MEAN, IT WOULD BE GENUINE INTEREST, BUT IT WOULDN'T BE THE SAME INTEREST SHARED BETWEEN MYSELF AND ANY POSSIBLE EXTRA-MARTIAL PARTNERS, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.)

With us galloping towards the solstice the days are stretching out and claiming territory that used to belong to night. Right now we still have remnants of sunset that hang around in the sky long after the sun's disappeared, so the Scottish gloam period extends further and further into military hours. Around four in the morning Byzantine blue erupts in the east and pushes back the glittering cover of night, by five the first incandescent streaks of light peek over neighboring houses and spills across concrete.

SEX PERVERTS BE DAMNED, I ultimately decided. (LOLOLOL @ SEX PERVERTS BE DAMNED, AS IF THE WOMAN WHO SAT COMPLETELY NAKED ON THE RAW NEW YEAR'S PRIME RIB AND DEMANDED HER HUSBAND TAKE PICTURES COULDN'T POSSIBLE FALL UNDER "SEX PERVERT" HERSELF) In the end we agreed that it wouldn't be dark enough to warrant anything overtly sleazy and dubious so we could fly Chippy's butterfly kit undisturbed and, more importantly, unmolested.

(LOOK, IT'S NOT THAT I'M AFRAID OF SAYING "CHEERS, BUT NO THANKS!" AS POLITELY AS I CAN; IT'S JUST THAT I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO BROKEN RECORD IT THROUGHOUT THE DURATION OF OUR NON-SEXUAL KITE FLYING BEACH TRIP. I TOTALLY GET THAT //I'M// THE ONE NOT USING THE BEACH FOR WHAT IT'S INTENDED FOR, RUMORS AND ALL, SO, IN A WAY, //I'M// THE ONE GIVING OFF THE WRONG MESSAGE.)

Showers were taken, eyebrows were plucked, better-than-nice clothes were crawled into (I WAS GETTING READY TO VISIT MY SPIRITUAL AND EMOTIONAL HOUSE; YOU DON'T GO TO CHURCH WEARING YOUR RAT-CHEWED SWEAT PANTS, DO YOU?), best white push-up bra and favorite crotchless panties were donned, ritual jewelry was adorned, Chippy's butterfly kite (Chippy's my chthonic air correspondent who has a soft spot for little cheap-cheap birds and dainty butterflies) was located and the blue haduka pysanka (an Easter egg dyed blue with a black Sharpie drawing of a coiled serpent; a very old, very ancient Ukrainian design that's thousands of years old) was plucked from the egg carton to leave in the North Sea as an offering to my chthonic water correspondent.

...and after ALL of that effort we never actually went. (FOR SERIOUS.) It mostly boiled down to wind, if you can believe it. (NO, NOT SEX PERVERTS SINCE I FEEL I COULD OUT SEX PERVERT ANY SEX PERVERT YOU PUT IN FRONT OF ME.) It was already hella windy here, about 15-20 miles inland, and, apparently, it was a lot worse on the actual coast. So we folded our kite flying and Easter egg offering cards in favor of going for a walk to the local cemetery to leave some of our overly ripe pysanky at the cairn for the dead (which we meant to do on Easter Sunday).

((This is the point where I'm going to break down our walk through pictures so the V. IMPORTANT SHIT (i.e., the shit that almost always seems to happen when we're in transit to, or from, the local cemetery) gets noted for personal reference. I love being overly enthusiastic with unnecessary words; just not today, especially when photos can easily get the job done.))

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Just after we crossed the tiny road trailing up the hill and began passing the first fenced in pasture field (SHEEP! BABY LAMBS! TREMENDOUS "AWWS!" ALL AROUND!) next to the DISTURBED CHILDREN'S HOME (some pictures are HERE and HERE and HERE and HERE and HERE) I discovered a bit of fur fluff on the grass next to the wire fence.

Something popped, literally, when I bent over, which made me pause for a split second before I dismissed the sensation in favor of investigating the piece of (wild) rabbit fur. Upon further inspection, it turned out that bit'o'fluff was actually a detached tail, connecting bones (or cartilage) and all. After expressing concern for the now tailless rabbit I tucked my pointed fluff into my breast pocket and we continued on towards the stove and cemetery.

(When I went Underground for the first time and encountered the female deity-entity-person-thing who governs over me She told me that rabbits were sacred to Us and that I wasn't allowed to eat them. (Although I AM allowed to wear them, which means I didn't have to retire my beloved white rabbit fur coat.) As frank as She was, it was Her straight-faced amusement that made me wonder if She was just yanking my chain. OH, BLACK RABBIT, I KNOW THAT WE COMMUNICATE THROUGH LOLS BUT THIS IS ONE MYSTERY I HAVE YET TO UNRAVEL COMPLETELY.)

(I SRSLY THINK SHE'S JUST SNICKERING AT ME BEHIND MY BACK AND SILENTLY NUDGING EVERYONE ELSE WITH HER ELBOWS IN MY DIRECTION SO THEY CAN JOIN IN AND LOL AT ME, MISS HOLY-SHIT-SHE-DIDN'T-GET-THAT-IT-WAS-A-JOKE. "OH, YEAH, SURE, WE DON'T EAT RABBITS, YOU KNOW, BECAUSE WE'RE THE BLACK RABBIT, AND RABBITS REPRESENT SEX AND DEATH...")

The rabbit tail is sitting on the saucer of my Russian divining tea cup set (THE BLACK RABBIT IS RUSSIAN, BTW, WHICH, I GUESS, IS PROBABLY IMPORTANT TO MENTION) but it's going to be dropped in a clean baby jar with lid and packed away with all of my other semi-gruesome witch jars filled with dehydrated animal parts. (OH, HONEY, YES, I'M //THAT// SORT'VE WITCH.)

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Since our normal route to the cemetery always involves crossing the beech hedge into a cow pasture we decided to stop at the stove (it resides at the very start of the narrow line of ancient trees) to see if any of the offerings we left about a week ago still remained.

(BEECH HEDGES? COW PASTURES? OUTSIDE STOVE AND OFFERINGS? Sounds like you might need to read the ARCTIC RIVER entry which explains our annual outside stove ritual.)

Everything was gone; they didn't leave a trace. All of THIS had disappeared - without leaving so much as a crumb - except for the two pomegranates which laid discarded amongst the broken stone. I pocketed both, deciding that I'd leave them (secondhand offering, YAY!) at the cairn with the eggs.

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Last year we started the tradition of decorating an egg for friends, relatives, pets and people who've passed once since the previous Easter. We dye about a dozen eggs and then carefully designate which egg will represent the deceased and decorate it accordingly.

Once the eggs begin smelling ripe (they have a tendency to get left on the altar a little bit TOO long, YOU KNOW HOW IT GOES) they get carted off to the cemetery where they're left at the roots of the giant tree that grows in the middle of the cairn.

(As it turns out Ukrainians - 7/8th of my genes; the other 1/8th is Lakhota - left red eggs on the graves of their ancestors and friends around Easter long, long ago to celebrate the concepts of resurrection and reincarnation. It's amazing to find the shit you're doing through spontaneous instinct actually has a FOR REAL history with your heritage.)

This year we decided only some of the eggs we decorated would be left at the cemetery. My grandfather's egg, Beh's egg and Hezbollah's egg are still at home with us waiting to be buried in various plant and tree containers along with a few other eggs that were decorated purely for decoration purposes. (You don't throw away pysanky; it's bad luck. You respectfully bury it, burn it or drop it in running water.)

(We've already agreed that Beh's bumblebee egg will be buried beneath the bee balm we planted her this year (bumble bees live underground! they're chthonic, you know!), Didi's red pysanka will be buried beneath the red apple tree that's just arrived, but we aren't entirely sure what to do with Hezbollah's egg...)

Italics made a LOL! pysanky tribute for two guys involved in MMA that've passed recently (Mask and Evan Tanner) and I left behind two slightly more traditional Ukrainian pysanky with folkish designs (done in Sharpie marker - ONE OF THESE YEARS I WILL PICK UP A BEGINNERS KIT TO MAKE FOR REAL PYSANKY, UNTIL THEN NON-TOXIC MARKERS WILL HAVE TO DO).

So the eggs and pair of pomegranates were left, and I took the opportunity to trim some overhanging branches that've made getting to the hidden cairn a bit difficult. It took me shaking off my flannel jacket (so I could have an unencumbered woodland piss) to discover that OH SHIT, THAT POPPING SENSATION FELT EARLIER WHEN PICKING UP THE DETACHED TAIL WAS ACTUALLY THE BRA STRAP OF MY VERY NEW, VERY FAVORITE WHITE PUSH-UP BRA SNAPPING AND SEPARATING FROM THE BACK.

(And I only realized THAT once one of my unleashed boobs came tumbling out of my t-shirt. OH, BABY, EVEN UNINTENTIONALLY I AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT //CLASSY//!)

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One of these days I'll tell you guys about how - long, long ago - I desperately wanted to be a nun. (Blame AGNES OF GOD and my mother allowing me, as a fix-six-seven-eight-nine-ten year old, to watch it whenever the fuck I wanted. I was raised on a movie diet of RED SONJA, BARBARELLA, AGNES OF GOD, STAR WARS, and SHEENA, QUEEN OF THE JUNGLE.) I mean, they're just priestesses in uniform, you know?

Whenever I visit the cemetery to leave something for Papa or Muriel (ANOTHER STORY I V. SRSLY NEED TO TELL) I occasionally leave something for my fellow sister, so it only seemed right to leave her a less ostentatious Easter egg. Both Sister MacDonald and Muriel were given undyed eggs and a long drink of bottled water.

(LOLOLOLOL! IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT, IT TOOK ME LOOKING AT THE PICTURE ABOVE TO REALIZE THAT THE CATHOLIC CHURCH I VISIT IN TOWN TO PRAY AT THE FEET OF MARY'S STATUE ("ZOMG SHE DOES //WUT//?!" DUDE, I'M NOT PICKY WITH MY VIRGIN MOTHER ARCHETYPES, OKAY? BESIDES, A STARBUCKS AND A LINGERIE BOUTIQUE ARE ON THE SAME STREET - SCORE!) HAPPENS TO BE THE SAME ST. MARY'S THAT SISTER MACDONALD WAS FROM. LOL, WHOOPS?)

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WAIT, WAIT, WAIT - THAT'S NOT THE AVERAGE LENGTH AND WIDTH OF A GRAVE THEY DIG HERE! (So what the EFF is going on? THE WITCH WHO ADOPTED THIS CEMETERY AS HER GRAVEYARD STOMPING GROUNDS WOULD LIKE TO KNOW.) What I DO know is that it wasn't impressive enough for me to yank off my favorite pair of crotchless panties to drop into the to-be grave (or whatever it is).

(I ACTUALLY HAVE A DRAWER IN THE BEDROOM PARTIALLY FILLED WITH USED PANTIES. ONCE MY THONGS OR WHATEVER GET SHOT THEY GET TRANSFERRED TO THE PANTY OFFERING DRAWER TO BE DONNED FOR THE FINAL TIME BEFORE BEING LEFT AS AN OFFERING.)

(FOR INSTANCE, I CLAIMED MURIEL'S GRAVE BY PISSING IN IT (WHICH IS HARD TO DO WHEN YOU'RE HIGH AND TRYING NOT TO PISS ON YOUR FEET WHILE BALANCING ON WOBBLING PLANKS ONLY PARTIALLY COVERING AN EMPTY HOLE WAITING FOR A CASKET) AND THEN DROPPED IN THE (WHITE) UNDERWEAR I HAD BEEN WEARING. AFTER SHE WAS BURIED AND THE SOD WAS THROWN BACK OVER THE GRAVE I LIFTED A PATCH AND TUCKED A SECOND PAIR OF WHITE PANTIES IN, EFFECTIVELY SANDWICHING HER BETWEEN MY USED UNDERWEAR.)

(YOU DO MAGIC YOUR WAY, I DO MAGIC //MY// WAY.)

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OH DEAR, JESUS, LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE'S BEEN BREAKING //A LOT// OF BREAD RECENTLY (PERHAPS IN "ALL YOU CAN EAT" BUFFET FORM?). OR MAYBE YOU'VE SECRETLY FORSAKEN YOUR DIVINE FATHER IN FAVOR OF CAKE? (IT REALLY WAS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME, WASN'T IT?)

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When walking back home from the cemetery we passed an overly friendly couple ambling in the opposite direction. I flashed a polite smile and glanced away, not in the mood for direct contact. As it turned out it was my old doctor - the one who blatantly disregarded everything I said and, in doing so, set back treatment for my several diagnosed digestive disorders - and his wife, and once Italics clued me in I felt saliva burst into my mouth and spat the froth behind my shoulder in my former GP's direction.

(I BAKED HIM A LOAF OF BANANA BREAD, YOU KNOW. MY SECRET INGREDIENT? A PINCH OF MY HOMEMADE FET GHEDE GRAVEYARD DIRT. HE SAID IT WAS INORDINATELY DELICIOUS; HIS WIFE, IN FACT, FINISHED MOST OF IT OFF. NEWS USUALLY TRICKLES DOWN FROM HIS WIFE TO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, AND THEN FROM MY MOTHER-IN-LAW TO ITALICS. ONE OF THESE DAYS, WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT, I'LL HEAR SOMETHING AND KNOW THAT THAT PARTICULAR STORY SOLELY BELONGS TO ME.)

Italics spat too, a few second after me, and I've wondered ever since if that was deliberate, or accidentally coincidental. (It's not like he doesn't have his own personal grievances when it comes to our once shared doctor.)

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It was only after the walk that I realized that it was April 29th, which meant it was my mother's birthday. She was born in Hanover; a German refugee camp because her father - my grandfather - was a Russian army deserter (after killing an infant sibling and institutionalizing a sister (for speaking out against the Russians and communism) the red army came and forced my Ukrainian grandfather - and all other able men and boys from his village - to join the army).

She died in one of our two ancestral homelands - the Black Hills, South Dakota. (The Black Hills are sacred to the Lakhota people. She took her quarter of Native American and discarded everything else; I've embraced my 7/8ths of Ukrainian and left her with my eighth of Indian.) If she hadn't died of a pulmonary embolism a few years ago (she fractured her ankle after falling on ice when letting one of the dogs in, a blood clot formed and traveled up to her lungs where it got stuck and effectively caused an artery to blow up) she would've been 62.

After the bra strap, after the tail, after the stove, after the pomegranates, after the eggs, after the mysterious grave, after ALL YOU CAN EAT Jesus, after spitting in the dust of my previous doctor (THEY SO WOULD'VE BURNED MY ASS FOR THAT A FEW HUNDRED YEARS AGO), after receiving two orgasms and reciprocating with a handjob it suddenly dawned on me - as I glanced out the bedroom window to the sickle hanging in the sky - that it was my mother's birthday.

So, after all of it, I stood in silent communion on the cold concrete steps, and took a picture of the blazing crescent moon (IT BLAZED A LOT MORE IMPRESSIVELY TO THE NAKED EYE, BTW) for my mother; the stubborn bull that was the precursor to this stubborn Aries.

Yule Log '08

THE STORY OF THE YULE LOG.

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This was the first year we had a proper Yule Log. (Or my version of a Yule Log. <- ADMITTEDLY I DON'T KNOW MUCH; I LIKED HOW THE IDEA SOUNDED AND JUST RAN WITH THE CONCEPT WITHOUT BOTHERING TO DO ANY REAL RESEARCH, WHICH IS, NATURALLY, THE BEST WAY TO MAKE IDEAS -MORE REAL AND SPECIAL- TO YOU.)

On the 23rd of December (I KNOW, I KNOW, POST-YULE) we went out for winter walk to specifically find a Yule Log and possible Stoner Tree. (<- CHRISTMAS IS A BIG DEAL, OKAY? SO I HAVE A NAZI CHRISTMAS TREE IN THE LOUNGE THAT IS THE SHOW CHRISTMAS TREE THAT ADHERES TO A VERY STRICT COLOR-THEMED CODE WHICH MEANS A LOT OF FUN AND STUPID AND LOLTASTIC ORNAMENTS DON'T GET HUNG UP ON IT. SO, IN THE BACKROOM, WE HAVE THE STONER TREE WHICH IS DECORATED WITH MULTI-COLORED LIGHTS AND EVERYTHING THAT MAKES US LOL! AND AWW! THROUGHOUT THE FESTIVE SEASON.)

Along the way I found holly growing at the Disturbed Children's Home (<- A SMALL VICTORIAN MANORESQUE HOUSE ALONG THE ROAD THAT WAS ONCE USED TO HOME "DISTURBED" YOUNG BOYS, GIRLS, AND ORPHANS. RIGHT NOW IT'S ABANDONED BUT IS IN GOVERNMENT CUSTODY SINCE IT WAS ONCE A GOVERNMENT FACILITY. IT IS CREEPY, BUT THE KIDS HAVE WARMED UP TO US WITH BRIBES OF CANDY AND SWEETS AND A GIFT OF TOYS LAST YEAR DURING CHRISTMAS. SO -DON'T PISS ME OFF- BECAUSE I HAVE A SPECTRAL HOUSEHOLD OF DISTURBED CHILDREN WHO ENJOY BEING DISTURBED AT MY DISPOSAL.) so we clipped several branches for eventual house decoration.

After that winter harvest we meandered through our usual walking route of: crossing the beech hedgerow over the stone wall, through the cow field, over another stone wall, getting high at the small ruined church, taking dubious pictures in the sort've abandoned walled garden behind it (NEXT TIME WE'LL STEAL THE CLAW, OLD FOLKS!), exiting the walled garden and following the path through to the road to the now old folks' home (once a much larger manor; the walled garden and ruined church is part of it), ambled down the road and out onto the street, turned the corner and entered the cemetery so we could make our offerings and visit our ancestors before returning home.

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Winter mist descending from the hills.

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Every year I love Scotland more and more.

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Ruined church across the cow field.

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There's only one cross on the building AND I WANT IT SO BAD.

This year in the field in front of the manor a farmer grew potatoes. (AND I WENT MENTAL WHEN I HAD THE SNEAKING SUSPICION WHAT THE CROP WAS; I CIRCLED THE STONE WALL MANIC, PACING BACK AND FORTH WHILE TRYING TO REMEMBER IF THOSE LEAVES AND STALKS AND PLANT MATERIAL LOOKED FAMILIAR TO ME AT ALL, SINCE I WAS A KID THE LAST TIME I WAS FACE-TO-FACE WITH A POTATO PLANT. THANKFULLY, SOMEONE UPROOTED A FEW PLANTS AND BABY POTATOES WERE STILL ATTACHED TO THE WITHERED STALKS. THEN, AS EXPECTED, I WENT EVEN MORE MENTAL - FRESH POTATO FREE-FOR-ALL!)

When the crop was confirmed we came back closer to harvest time, around six in the morning, and harvested a little for ourselves. (THERE WERE SO MANY HIGH-LIGHTS TO THIS YEAR, BUT ONE OF THEM - I MEAN, RIGHT UP THERE - IS SNEAKING INTO A FARMER'S FIELD IN THE EARLY AM AND FRANTICALLY DIGGING UP EARTH TO REVEAL A RICH TREASURE OF POTATOES WITH MY HUSBAND WHICH WERE SMUGGLED AWAY IN ENVIRONMENTALLY FRIENDLY GROCERY BAGS.)

Those potatoes? FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC. (Oh, we had them hashed, fried, dilled, roasted...) (<- You can officially add "potato thieves" to our list of criminal and moral offenses.)

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As if the treat of stolen potatoes wasn't enough I was very lucky to find Her. She had just been killed, and a pair of crows were keeping her company. By the time I was able to scoop her up she had only lost her eyes and there was a small hole in her thigh, but she was otherwise immaculate. And soft and pliable, but cold. I cradled this beautiful thing who had just lost her life in my arms, and took her home with me, later burying my face in fur and crying on the back step. (She was just so...real. I don't know, she felt like a pet, and I mourned her as if she was a pet.) She's in the freezer now - DON'T TELL MY IN-LAWS, THEY HAVE NO CLUE THAT I HAVE A WHOLE DEAD RABBIT AND CROW IN THE OUTSIDE FREEZER - because I wasn't sure how to preserve certain aspects of her body, so she's frozen until I'm more knowledgeable.

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I carried her over a mile; at first cradled in my arm like a sleeping pet, and then like contraband that had to be sneaked in the house least the parents find out. Her fur gleamed like gold in the rays of the rising sun, and she was the single more gorgeous thing I had seen in a long time. (It was so hard finally breaking the connection and wrapping her up in her plastic grocery bag death shroud before committing her to her freezer grave.)

RIGHT, OKAY, I AM RAMBLING WITH PICTORIAL EVIDENCE NOW, TIME TO GET BACK ON TRACK.

We kept our eyes out for a fallen piece of limb that we could use as our Yule Log. I had a feeling that we'd end up finding it along the long stretch of road from the manor/old folks' home to the street, and those ovary instincts were right. Just as we had stopped for a second to snap a few pictures of the potato field in winter I noticed THE PERFECT LOG. (We never found THE PERFECT STONER TREE, but with so many things going on this year we opted not to have one.)

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Barren potato field.

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Setting winter sun over the potato field.

Once home it got decorated with the evergreen and holly we had cut down, using some of my mother's (she died several years back, so the very few things I have of hers are super special and only get used for super special occasions) green embroidery thread I bound the branches to the log. We both found a part of the center piece on that walk; Italics found the gold star in the cemetery, and I can't remember where I found the spiral coil. (<- WHIRLPOOL ALERT.) (I have a sneaking suspicion that I might've found the coil at the ruined church...)

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The Yule Log sat in front of the altar on the sheepskin rug Italics was bundled in when he was younger. (LULZ, IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT, IT TOOK UNTIL I APPROPRIATED THE SKIN BEFORE THE RUG GOT EXPOSED TO DRUGS AND SEX, AND, ON A FEW OCCASIONS, A COMBINATION OF BOTH.) The wooden crab is one of Italics's special pieces (it's one of his animals / symbols) and I often use it for incense burning. (You can't see it, but it has a carved out dip in the middle of the shell, so it perfectly holds my bowls of burning incense and also absorbs the emanating heat.)

I'm not entirely sure how to concisely explain the Black Rabbit thing. I'm governed by (and am part of) a female deity who's all about SEX, DEATH, DRUGS, VIOLENCE, WAR, FIGHTING, INEBRIATION, NIGHT, MAGIC - you know, ALL OF THE FUN STUFF THAT MAKES LIFE WORTHWHILE. She has different names in different cultures, but in this lifetime She came to me with a Russian heritage, with an entirely new name. "Black Rabbit" isn't her name, but it is Her. And to honor the Black Rabbit we bought five teal plastic rabbits from the gardening section of ASDA (that's the UK equivalent of Wal-mart) and spray-painted them black for ritual/altar use. There's a HEAD Black Rabbit - pictured above - who got a coating of gold glitter and was decorated with my Santa Muerte pendant and a strand of skull prayer beads.

(WHEN YOU'RE UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF A LOT OF DIFFERENT INTOXICANTS THE SHADOWS OF THE RABBITS ON THE WALLS BECOME ELONGATED AND SHARP UNTIL THEY BECOME SILENT, IMPOSING JACKALS.)

The brass devil/imp fire poker was a gift from me to Italics this year. We're slowly getting more into ritually burning things (I like to burn any flowers or foliage used for magic or altar work, and the remains of vegetable and herb plants that were grown for special purposes) so we can incorporate the ash into the dirt that'll be used to grow even more vegetables, herbs, and flowers. After THE NIGHT OF HECATE experience (OH, LULZ, THAT NIGHT) I decided Italics probably needed something a little more swish than the METAL HANDLE OFF A BROKEN BADMINTON RACKET he was using to stoke the fire.

AND THAT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IS THE STORY OF 2008'S YULE LOG. (WHICH STILL NEEDS TO BE BURNED. <- WE'LL GET AROUND TO IT...EVENTUALLY.)

How Many...?

Q: How many witches wake up at 4:30 in the fucking morning to consecrate a hole that city workers dug up right in front of her house (SYMBOLICALLY IT'S A GRAVE, OKAY?) the day before with blood, urine, magic mushrooms, and antique hair pins?

A: NONE, LOL, THEY HIT THE SNOOZE BUTTON BECAUSE IT'S WAY TOO FUCKING EARLY IN THE MORNING AND IT'S RAINING, ANYWAY, AND SLEEP FOR ANOTHER TWO HOURS AND THEN RUSH TO GET EVERYTHING DONE BEFORE EARLY COMMUTERS CAN CATCH THEM IN ACTION. (BURN THE WITCH!)

Last of the Best

Not yet, I guess.

(I had an entire entry written here with realizations I came to early this morning while on mushrooms, but I lost it. All of it. In one gut-crushing MySQL error - that's never happened in all of my years of journaling - all of the words were gone.)

(It's okay, though. The error registered as "#2" which is significant enough for me to understand that IT'S JUST NOT TIME YET.)

(There are no flukes in this game; only unrealized opportunities and unseen messages written on the wall. You don't have to be schizophrenic, but obsessively connecting seemingly fictitious dots helps. Especially if you can do it on a daily basis.)

Bratz Princess

I never really understood the practice of cursing a deity for a desired outcome. I mean, I get WHY, but it always seemed counterproductive to me, and I can't imagine that it leads to a very happy home. (Don't even get me started on the fallout that happened after I kicked Papa's ass out of the house when both of our stubborn wills butted - we didn't speak all Spring and Summer long. That was years ago, but it's still fresh in our minds.)

I still do it, though.

Not in that archaic "AND MAY YOU NEVER FIND REST, NEVER FIND SOLACE, NEVER FIND..." way that sounds all OLD AND EPIC and OLD TESTAMENT BIBLICAL, but I swear. And curse. And cry. And, when I feel all justified about it, scream at the top of my lungs in Their face.

(Nothing's safe, nothing's sacred.)

There's little else that makes me feel like I'm a force of nature made flesh when I howl and scratch the faces of the things I love, the things I am. To have that sort of primal audacity, to become the roaring wind that weathers stone faces and lashes out like a caged animal is simultaneously beautiful and terrible - a cursed blessing, destructive yet courageous.

(She said I was a fighter, a "warrior". (YES, I KNOW. NOW IMAGINE HOW I MUST FEEL KNOWING THAT I HAVE TO, SOMEHOW, SPIN THIS "WARRIOR" BUSINESS INTO SOMETHING ALL MODERN AND COOL AND SEXY.) And She anointed me with Her bloody hand during a lunar eclipse, telling me (during the baptism) that "you will know blood".)

It yields results...quickly. (I suppose priorities change when you have a LIVING BANSHEE WOMAN threatening to CLAW OUT THE EYES OF HER IDOLS while she withers, thrashes, and spiritually foams at the mouth.) Not that I recommend this method to anyone, but if you want results - immediate, lightening-from-heaven OH MY GOD NO ONE IS GOING TO BELIEVE ME acknowledgement - you need to be willing to prove it.

This isn't the Halloween vacation I expected. I could go into it - and I probably will, later on - but I don't feel up to the IMMENSE FRUSTRATION that I'd experience while doing so.

(One of the reasons why I don't post here as often as I like is because THERE'S A LOT OF EXCESS BAGGAGE WITH ALMOST EVERYTHING I WANT TO SAY. Almost everything - right now - seems so drive-by, so manic. But there's sense, and there's rhythm to my life; I just haven't found a balance between WHAT I WANT TO SAY and WHAT I NEED TO SAY TO BACK UP WHAT I WANT TO SAY. Because no matter how far back I go, I always realize that it isn't far enough, and there will always be something else I need to add, or explain, or clarify and dragging out those memories to put to words seems too goddamn daunting.)

Due to being chronically sick with a mystery illness (we're banking on a hiatal hernia, I don't know what the NHS is banking since no one from the medical community has contacted me about the testing they said I had to undergo NEARLY 10 FUCKING WEEKS AGO) I knew that I had to take it easy (meaning, no HALLOWEEN WHORE RETURNS HOME parties) and even went as far as outlining several small PERSONAL TIME projects for myself so I couldn't go overboard.

(In addition to decorating the house for Halloween and setting up the altar I wanted to: clean out our bedroom (one of the smallest rooms in the house), make bagels from scratch, plant spring bulbs, clear out vegetable plants, and prepare a SOUTHERN COOKING spread from an old cookbook that once belonged to my mother. <- This is me scaling back crazily, I usually do -a lot- more during two vacation weeks.)

The decorations aren't up. The altar - the focus, the point, the reason; where we pray and fuck and party and connect - never got constructed. Not one room in this house is to my standard of cleanliness, and we're still sleeping in the same sweaty sheets, in the same cluttered bedroom. No bulbs have been planted, no vegetable plants uprooted. No rest, no relaxation, no reflection...no vacation.

We've been sick. I'm sick on an every day basis - but it's a sickness I'm used to by now, even though something's broken inside of me. Being struck down with a chronic mystery illness means that I haven't really left the house this year. In fact, last week was the second time I even left city limits in all of 2008.

Italics took me to see Cyndi Lauper in Glasgow to kick start our Halloween vacation. (The sad part? The sad I FEEL LIKE I'VE BEEN PUNCHED IN THE GUT part? I haven't even had a chance to go over the concert in my head or with Italics. Something so huge, so meaningful, so monumental to me and us and work and EVERYTHING and it's just hanging in limbo; a visceral memory without any feeling or emotion. A picture without words.)

Even before the concert I was exhausted; at the concert there was a critical point where I almost had to throw in the cards during the support band. Do you know how depressing it is to know that TRAVELING and GOING TO A CONCERT is enough to leave you fucking bedridden for over a week? Do you know how depressing it is knowing you're NOT EVEN FUCKING THIRTY and your body can't handle letting you out of the house for a change of scenery?

We got sick. There was no food in the house. There were no clean clothes. The rats began to smell, and then, as our colds got worse, they didn't smell at all - but not because we cleaned their cages. I was so sick I couldn't unpack our bags. (One is still sitting in the lounge right now.) I couldn't do the laundry. I couldn't feed us (LOL, ON WHAT? THREE FUCKING CARS IN THE FUCKING DRIVEWAY AND I CAN'T FUCKING DRIVE ONE OF THEM). So there was no way I could decorate the house for Halloween, set up the altar, and begin the ancient VIRGIN TO WHORE pageant.

It's October 25th today; we're still sick. Italics's parents come home on the 31st. I don't see celebration, I don't even have a designated place to pray.

This isn't the Halloween vacation I needed.

I've been crying for days. I wish I could explain, but I can't. (SEE "FRUSTRATION", ONCE AGAIN.) I cried to Italics that it felt like They were taking Halloween away from me this year. (I WISH I COULD EXPLAIN, I DO. OTHER THAN BEING MY FAVORITE TIME OF THE YEAR IT'S WHEN ITALICS AND I GOT ENGAGED. IT'S WHEN CHIPPY FIRST MADE CONTACT WITH ME. IT'S WHEN PAPA COMES HOME FOR WINTER. IT'S WHEN I TAKE OFF MY EASTER WEDDING DRESS. IT'S WHEN THE VIRGIN BRIDE BECOMES THE WHORE. IT'S THE FINAL ACT OF REAPING, THE CLOSING OF THE HARVEST AND THE TIME OF THE OLD WOMAN. IT'S WHEN I GO WITHIN MYSELF TO JOIN THE DARKNESS SO I CAN EMERGE FROM MY SECOND SKIN A VIRGIN BRIDE FOR EASTER.)

This was the first year Italics married his Easter Bride. 2008 was the first year that our union represented the responsibility that we agreed to undertake; it was acceptance of the way things were/are, an invitation to the universe to help us expand our efforts and point us in the right direction. Having never really done this before I know that everything, right now, is a learning experience (THIS SHIT? ALL OF THIS SHIT? TRIAL AND ERROR WITH A SIDE OF GUT INSTINCT) but I can't help but feel disappointed and frustrated at the lack of closure and the ability to seamlessly slide from one role into the other.

I know I'm spoiled, but they let me be spoiled. I stamp my foot, I scream, I claw at stony visages in my mind and the world shakes and the trees bend and everything, all around me, holds its breath during that audacious second when the howl that deafens and shakes me crashes through the universe like a burst of white lightening.

...I don't get ignored.

Let's Exchange the Experience

First windstorm night; pulled and tied gusts in fluttering apron just after midnight. I'M THE OLD WOMAN, THE WASHER, AND I BRING THE RAIN. (She's getting closer to the top of the hill.) It crashed and hissed and exploded like wings (surf breaking? only a lobster, clinging to the ground...) and when the cold air touched the small of my back I arched and shuddered in the darkness, my fingers knotted around the old white cotton of my wedding dress, holding the wind and feeling the weight of the world bear down on me as I inched up the hill.

Happy 100 posts, baby.

As #33

Earlier today, when speaking about/thinking about tomorrow's appointment I pulled #33 from ma's "Soul Cards" deck. (I believe my reaction - and this is a direct quote - was "JESUS, IT'S NOT THAT BAD!".)

There's a slight discrepancy between the on-line version of the image and the printed card version of the image. For some reason all of the blue featured in the glossy card doesn't pop up on the jpg (it looks more sand blasted on-line - WHO KNOWS, MAYBE MY INTERNET EYES ARE BROKEN?).

The first thing I said/thought (not the VERY FIRST THING, mind you, because that was the "OH JESUS WTF IS THIS BLACK HOLE OF DESPAIR?!" reaction above) was "OKAY, DON'T FREAK OUT BECAUSE YOU CAN -CLEARLY SEE- THAT SHE HAS A PROTECTIVE WHITE HALO/AURA AROUND HER BODY (WHITE = GOOD COLOR, DEATH/REBIRTH) WHICH IS A V. V. V. GOOD SIGN". And then "OH, HEY, WE'RE GETTING MORE BLUE!" (in my card version there's a blue smudge streaked across her face making it seem like the indigo is staining her white skin) and that's V. V. GOOD too because BLUE AND WHITE ARE VERY SPECIAL MAGIC COLORS FOR ME and WE SHOULD BE TURNING BLUE BY NOW, ANYWAY, BECAUSE FALL IS COMING ON.

(Time to ditch the Easter bride virgin thing and do a 180. ANCIENT, PERPETUAL CYCLE OF LIFE AND DEATH AND ALL OF THAT.)

So, yeah, not bad, you just need to look at it a bit harder. (BESIDES, IT'S ONLY A HERNIA, YOU KNOW. SO, THERE'S NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT BECAUSE IF IT WAS SOMETHING REALLY BAD, BAD SOMETHING REALLY BAD, BAD WOULD HAVE HAPPENED BY NOW.)

(CAN I PLEASE HAVE ANOTHER RABBIT GRIN? MAYBE ONE MORE JUST BEFORE BED?)

#33 notes:
* Atomic number of arsenic
* This number has the meaning that good will always triumph over evil.
* A significant number in modern numerology, one of the master numbers along with 11 and 22
* A normal human spine has 33 vertebrae when the bones that form the coccyx are counted individually
* The double triangle is another word for, "33."

Make A Wish

I finally pulled my magic witch hair out. (I believe I fit in the category of BEARD FROM A VIRGIN/MAIDEN. <- When virgin means "WOMAN WITHOUT CHILDREN", obviously! (OBVIOUSLY.)) I'd been saving it for weeks and months, not knowing what I was going to use it for, so I just waited and saved and watched and stroked and wondered and then finally (FINALLY!), about five minutes ago, I knew what I wanted to use it for.

(12 hours before my appointment.)

I ran a thumb across my hairless witch chin (A CRONE NO MORE), just before I dropped the single black hair onto Her phone. And then I looked at Her, and She looked at me, and I said "YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS FOR" and She just gave me the rabbit grin.

Gethsemane

"All roads lead to me," She said. Nearly two years on I can still remember every marbled hallway, every earthen corridor, and every mask She showed me. I looked too hard and the brilliant veneer was gone, realization washing away the richness and the opulence, leaving cardboard facades and track lighting where there once were temples and the greatest of all cathedrals. “It’s a set,” I said, and without changing everything changed, and She was there, white and black, amused and all-knowing, the beginning and ending, casually leaning against a flimsy cut-out as my voice echoed through the empty set. “It’s all a bit Hollywood around here,” She explained with wink.