Saturday, July 4, 2015

The Ocelot's Final Word On Gardnerian Practice.

Don't tell me my trad doesn't have moments of wild communion with our Gods.

We were keeping the full moon, tonight, and so graced with the Presence of the divine that Husband is now dead asleep in the bedroom.

Cats under the altar. Rednecks outside with fireworks. Frankincense and myrrh competing with the smell of dog. But here, in this most humble of temples, this most profane of holy places, we knew our Gods. Ecstatically, totally, joyfully. We got some major gnosis.

There's a reason for orthopraxy, babies. A set form means They can come through like water; when you don't have to think about how, you get the full killer heaven rush of why.

And now, time for bed.

When A Witch Can't Garden....

Husband is off at band practice, so I am left to my own vices (a slidy-typing error so awesome I must let it stand).

When a witch tries to make a tool and is dissatisfied with the result, and cannot do any gardening due to her allergic reason to the stupid biting ants which always seem to find her hands, what does she do?

There's laundry. The kitchen. How boring. Now, turning a cheese plate into a tool? HELLS YEAH.

So off said witch goes, Dremel in hand, and makes said tool again. Huzzah! What did our Gard ancestors do without the Dremel? Or the convenience of wood stain? Or latex gloves?

Not that I remembered to wear them. Oops.

Time to go see if the stain is dry. Is there anything better than making your own tools? There's just something so satisfying about the finished product.



Sunday, June 28, 2015

A Witch and Her Garden.

The garden has been neglected for weeks. I admire the rose, the hibiscus with blooms as big as my outstretched hand, the Oregano That Ate The World, the little balloon flowers. But I haven't weeded or pruned or tended in far too long.

Husband didn't work today, due  to the ridiculous storms this morning, so the chores aren't all on me today. I do need to get a few dinner things. I do need to find out where the hell all my work-appropriate t-shirts have gone.

But.

I need to go outside, stick my hands on soil, get dirty. Remind myself that this job and the lousy commute and living in the Trailer Park of the Dammned won't last forever.

Outside, witch.

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Please Shut Up About BTW.

If you're not a member of a family, you probably don't really know Jack about it.

You could find out a decent amount about my family from my Facebook page, if you're that bored/stalkerish/aspire to become a misanthropic old bastard like yours truly. Where we're from. Who's related to who. What some of us do/are interested in/will eventually be arrested for.

You won't find out the old feuds, the secrets we're ashamed of, the ones drummed out or adopted in or why any of that happened. Because we don't share that shit with outsiders. We don't spread the private family business everywhere.

This doesn't mean my family is better than yours - necessarily. Maybe mine is. Maybe you've got white supremacists and rapists and child molesters and people who send their gay children to deprogrammers in yours. I think that shit is bad, and therefore will consider mine better than yours.

Maybe you think so too, and through time and the magic of non-biological family, become part of mine.

Or maybe you don't. Fine. But don't start spouting crap about "Irish upstate NY families" that has no resemblance to our reality and expect us to stay quiet. And don't then be a chickenshit who says, "who says we're even talking about YOU, you Irish upstate NY families always think we're talking about you and we could be talking about all Irish families blah blah bullshit".

What I find weird, all metaphor aside, is the amount of time people spend talking about traditions that they say aren't for them. Asatru, Thelema, Buddhism, Hinduism, Blue Star, Black Forest, Reclaiming, and a host of other trads/faiths are not for me. Notice I don't spend much time talking about them or responding to their adherents' blogs?

If you can't shut up about BTW (which is a specific thing bearing very little resemblance to a lot of things/people calling themselves and what they do "Wicca"), at least ask yourself why you're spending so much time criticizing us instead of dancing to the drum whose rhythm moves your soul.

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Strange Things Afoot At The Trailer Park Of The Dammed.

Driven by Deb's most recent post, Husband's car problems, and the deluge afflicting Texas, I was intent on cleansing the Trailer of Doom tonight.

Was the whole place going to be clean, tidy, and ready for the banish/bless double whammy? No. No, it was not. But given everything going to Heck in a hand basket, I thought doing something was far better than doing nothing. I mean, this is a place where no longer having a kitten under the bathroom sink is a major improvement. We have odd standards here.

Five minutes before we started, I found the very first pentacle I've ever owned. On Husband's desk. Where it has never been before. I am very certain it has never been there before because I have not seen it in years and, frankly, thought it was lost.

Freakishness. The Desk does not appear things. It disappears things.

What to do? Wear it? Put it on the bike? In the car? In the house? What to do?

Why, whip out the pendulum and hold it over the choices above and see where it's supposed to be.

It is now tied to the horseshoe over the door. I suspect we have somehow agreed to MOAR WITCHCRAFT. I suspect Protective Guilt Trip Of the Gods. I suspect "Well, I didn't see that coming".

We'll see.


Saturday, May 9, 2015

AHS - Coven Gives Me Ideas.

The primary one is that every witch needs a Spaulding. I should put an ad on Craigslist.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Brief Update.

New job is less-than-wonderful, but thanks to St. Expedire for making Annoying Co-Worker leave within a few months. I'll take what I can get, I suppose.

Vile Neighbors, on the other hand, are an ongoing issue that the landlord swears he'll deal with, but I sincerely doubt it, Even if he does, if he throws them out, there's nothing to say they won't come back and destroy things. These people are such trash that they're a landfill. In desperation this morning, I bought a St. Jude candle and lit it and said the little prayer on the back. The landlord did at least then text The Husband and say that he's told them any further issues will get them evicted. We'll see, but thanks to St. Jude for what I have to say was definitely swift action.

Now to find black mustard seed so that I can GTFO powder their miserable asses just to be on the safe side.