*You are now reading this is Barry White’s sumptuous and velvety voice. Awwwww, yeah, baby. That’s right.*
Now listen here, darlin’. You know that I know that you know…you are soooooo beautiful.
And I just have to tell you….You?…..You’re all I need, baby…….
[This concludes you're quarterly Barry White cameo.]
I'm back, bitches! And you wouldn't believe the gangster-ass shit I seen!
Well what do you know. I get an hour or so to catch up with some blog reading and writing, and I find out that G Dirty‘s site is taking a dirt nap, Sarah Lawless is a damned zombie, and the Great Gonzalez is an auctioneer in the church of Get Shit Done! (My advice? Get her tea; that woman grows potent shit from what I hear tell of!)
Meanwhile, it looks like Blood Milk is still threatening to steal my paycheck, Jason Pitzl-Waters sic’d the hounds on Newt (keep at ‘em, Jason!), New World Witchery is printing the playbook, and the Quaker Pagans are making us all look like shit writers.
My face after realizing how much I missed
—–=—–
Meanwhile over in my half of the hemisphere, I’ve been squeezing out all my writing juices at my job. Which is great because I get to write, and not-so-great because I’m so deep in the broom closet that I’m getting bitchslapped by Narnia.
I’m so tied up in working 14+ hour days that I’ve barely had time to mutter a prayer or two. (Think I’m going to have to relocate Sangoma to the truck so I can spend time with her. She seems a bit lonely.) God help me if I ever get a chance to do that hoodoo that I do. Fortunately, I was smiled upon one night recently. Here’s what went down:
—–=—–
The job is an hour away from my house. I was required to be there for a 7pm event, despite getting out at 5:30pm. So, thank-ya-JEEESUS, I went to grab a drink with some co-workers in the meantime.
I’d just sat down and turned to one of the co-workers who was already waiting there. She introduced me to someone she’d just met from Haiti. She drunkenly announced that he practiced Voodoo. I made eye contact. I “reached out”. (You know what i’m talking about right? Like when you are desperately sending out the antennae, trying to get good reception, trying to either send or receive a psychic sorta “ping”?).
I felt a deep well, a bright light, a long train of people or things or spirits or something (like a line following him). I also saw a bunch of shallow vanities and average human vices layered over top of it– something about fancy cars, and unethical dealings in money, trickery. But it was there, goddammit. He was definitely one, too.
Thankfully, the bar mostly ignored her slurry ass. My blood ran cold for the poor guy. If this was true, and she had been mistakenly trusted to be discrete, then he might be genuinely embarrassed and might try to leave. Note also that this is a bar filled with Christian white men, and he is a voodooisant man of color. Good move there, ya drunk bitch. Way to blow cover and potentially get us in shit.
She then starts yammering about how she can read the tarot, and spouting out a litany of victory stories that I’m sure most of you all have had to sit through. “I told her she was pregnant at her bachelorette party!” and “I said, ‘Don’t worry about the money, dear’ and then wouldn’t you know it, we realized that we still have a trust fund and we were gonna be fine!”
And the best of course: “My great great grandmother was actually a Romani gypsy, so I think that’s where I get it.”
Second only to: “I have experienced racism! I know what it’s like! I [a white rich woman] went to Hawaii, and at a restaurant they waited till last to serve me my food!”
At some point, she plopped down off the bar stool and waddled to the bathroom. I looked over at my new acquaintance, smiled and said, “I hope you aren’t planning to leave here before you put Papa Legba’s blessing on me.” He laughed and had a wonderfully impressive smirk.
He said, “You’re ok with voodoo? Most people are scared, you’re not?”
I said, “So long as voodoo is ok with me! I wish that I knew a mambo where I lived that I could talk to! But I haven’t been giving Papa Legba his coffee in the mornings like he usually likes, because I’ve been on the road so much. He’s probably thought that I’ve forgotten him, even though I need his help now to travel safely. Maybe if you pray him over me, he will know that I’m still thinking of him.”
He motioned for me to stand near him, and I did. He held out his upturned palms, and I rested mine on top of them. The smoke from the cigarettes wrapped around us while the jukebox rattled out a blues guitar, and the glasses clinked against one another. I closed my eyes for a half second, and a softly incomprehensible prayer began, first as a whisper, then as a mutter, and then as a few words that sounded as french as the day is long.
We lifted our heads, he kissed each hand very lightly and with polite reserve, then kissed his own hand and placed it to my head.
—
When I left that bar, I felt like I could chop a fucking tree down with my goddamned enormous psychic hard-on.
Turns out that even if you can’t find them, sometimes they find YOU.
But LOL of all LULZ, as I pulled back into the parking lot of my work, some crazy bitch wasn’t looking and backed out into the ass of my car, skimming the bumper before I could pull completely away. I laughed my ass off and said to my compatriots (who knew NOTHING of what had just happened in the bar), “Now we’re even, Papa! You gotta watch my ass from now on!!”
—–=—–
“I think I’ll go for a walk!”
Christ on a fucking stick.
This job is hard, people. No joke. This new gig has me up at 5am every morning, pulling 12 hour shifts, then shutting down shop and snoring by 9pm. And that’s not even counting Mondays– when I’m up at 4am. Its left me absolutely zero time for anything other than sleep and occasionally feeding myself. Its 5:21am right now, and I feel like I’m sneaking around just to write this.
Without a doubt, this is one of the best gigs I’ve ever gotten in terms of what it will do for my future. Its way too dangerous for me to describe where it is (or much of what I’m doing) without giving it away. But suffice to say that if they ever found out I did the things I tell you all about here, much less BLOG about the shit, I’d find myself shit-canned and black-listed quicker than a newb can mutter “burning times”.
But gawds! I can’t tell you what this type of gig means to my trailer-raised-dirty-barefoot ass. No, wait– I can tell you. I can tell you that it means a sort of social mobility hereto for un-fucking-known to myself or any member of my family. It means I have a sharply competitive edge for getting into a decent law school if I want to, and a fucking dazzling polished shine to my resume even if I don’t.
For these reasons, its been a fucking ghost town around here since December (when I started). I’m not abandoning ship, though. I’ll probably still be blogging for years to come. But this season may be kind of sparse. At least until April, when the gig is over. Feel free to leave messages, comments, stinkbombs, whatever the hell you want. I miss all you fabulous peeps (and am SORELY missing out on your adventures WHICH FUCKING KILLS ME!).
I assure you I am still reading them, loving them and being entertained to hell and back by them during the long hours– even if I can’t always respond back as quickly as I’d like to.
With Fond Regards to You In Your Witchfuckery,
Hieronyma
Phew. *sweat dripping from brow*
Glad that’s all over. I’ll be ready to avoid the hell out of anything Christmas for at least another year…maybe 6 or 7. In my part of the world it seems that Christmas started its angry looming before Halloween was even out of the door (pagans, don’t argue semantics with me here. I beg you. We all fucking know what Christmas and Halloween really are, so I hope you won’t jump my shit for not using semi-gaelic general linguistic reconstructions). I barely had my Baron and Maman relocated before bitches were selling evergreens on the roadside. And Thanksgiving? What thanksgiving? All I saw here was the wrathful hand of … DUN DUN DUN…. BLACK FRIDAY!
Too much, man. Fuck that noise. It was everything I had in me just to slow the wheel long enough to enjoy one of the three aforementioned holy-days.
Enough bitching, though!
Sviata Vechera happened and I got to dig into it! WITH PICTURES TEW! Update forthcoming!
No?
Fuck…I’m staying underground until this whole fucked up commercialized monster of an affair is over. Guess I’ll see you guys in a couple of days. No worries, I’ll have some hungover crazy-ass Sviata photos to share of the goods and…the bads.
The run up to Thursday’s throwdown is getting intense. The Matriarch gave me a lesson in cooking and passed down some legacy recipes, then shared the deer that my uncle killed this year while bowhunting. 8 pointer, no less!! Summer sausage for the fucking WIN.
The bread, The egg, The meat, The blade
Double double toil and ….DEER MEAT STEW MUHFUKKAH!
My cauldron is a 1978 Deluxe Crock. You just can't BUY that type of fucking magic, holmes.
Yesterday I also finally inherited the legendary Pecan Pie and Banana Bread recipes. Much to the Hellhounds’ delight.
The pie crust for these always start out a little dry, but that’s how you know you’re doing it right.
AND THENNNNNNNN…..
BADDOW!
This recipe has been in my family for I don’t even know how long. I’ve been eating these things from my grandmother’s hands since I grew my first little witchlet snaggle tooth. Now, I know how to make them, and will feed them to little witchlets of my own. This Sviata is gonna be fucking DELICIOUS!
Given that I’ve been lately gathering my mental and emotional resources in order to better do battle with my dread fears, I thought I might take a moment to update my progress/process. And then to list a bit of inspiration that might help others as it helped me.
Mainly, my greatest fear in working with magic, has been turning into this:
Since I’ve gone batshit mad before, and am not eager to do so again, I’ve been pushing through some old scars and trying to get past the fear of losing my fucking mind again. Not an easy one to overcome, but I’ve been working on it bit by bit and doing my best to look at it from new perspectives.
Other than that, my major magical fears that wash over me from time to time are the one’s that I was SHOCKED AS SHIT to find in the first paragraph of a blog post I read today. Below is my response. Enjoy.
__________________________
Of course she’s right. This is Sara Lawless we’re talking about, the fucking Witch of Forest Grove, a woman on my short list of People Who Get Shit Done. It should come as no surprise that this witch would have some dealings with fear and madness in her little bit of time. And, as it turns out, she most certainly has. Furthermore, she has something very relevant to say about that business, something that I needed to hear: when it comes to fear and doubt, you are NOT alone.
From her December 5th post, “Fear and Doubt”, I give you a few choice quotes (each one more reason than the last to indulge in her blog):
I tell myself and others that if you are uncomfortable and feel a little chill of fear up your spine when you practice magic and ritual, you’re doing it right.
The exhilaration of accomplishment from pushing through your fears is well worth it and you will need to do it again and again walking this crooked path.
This path isn’t meant to be easy after all, if it was everyone would walk it, but they don’t because it is narrow, crooked, steep, and sometimes treacherous.
And my personal favorite– all those times I’ve said this to myself when I thought I was most alone. She snatched it right out of my mouth and pressed it under her keys:
The initiation, the becoming, never stops.
___________________________________
_________________
I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
– the Bene Gesserit litany against fear from Dune
________________
Now what’s all this ruckus I’m hearing about Ol’ G Dirty’s Sviata Vechera!?
A dumb supper yuletide feast from the Ukraine?
You’re telling me that y’all want a drunk-dancing, balls-out, family-food-flinging, sexy-shaking, death worship around the Big Green Dick? A “Christmas” party that is not even ON Christmas, but it doesn’t matter because all the relatives are around and we’re getting fucking lit because we ain’t gotta work, and talkin’ shit about that one time before grandad died when he accidentally set the fucking barn on fire after he drank Uncle Jim’s moonshine?
Fuckin’ aye, baby! That sounds like a trailer park Christmas in a dirty-ass Appalachian holler. If I’d've known that my last 20+ Christmases counted for cross-cultural credit, I mighta made me one of them crazy looking butter sheeps that Ms. Dirty’s always mouthing off about by now!
A butter monkey riding a butter sheep totally counts as paschal, right?
Well, y’all, if it’s crazy Sviata fun you want, then it’s crazy Sviata fun you get. This year, you’re all getting some (non-identifying) pics and recipe’s of the annual hoedown at Hieronyma’s Holler. Till the pics come, here’s our yearly game plan…
Let’s start with the drinks, shall we?
Every year, my family replicates the favorites of our forbearers, the coal-miners and riverboaters. We crack open a bottle of good Kentucky bourbon (bourbon balls are also a favorite but that falls under food) and work that fucker to the end of the night. Moonshine, although plenty of our family ran and stilled ‘shine back in the day, we do rarely. Why? Because we’re all getting too old for that shit, man. And we’ve not got the iron tanks for stomachs that we used to. Continuing the family legacy of brewing, though, is my Homebrew Hubby, whose most recent batch of Triplet has just finished it’s final fermentation and will be ready for sipping come Thursday.
Food is always simple. Being poor Irish-descended muck-mining potato lovers, combined with that perfectly preserved streak of English heritage, generally equates some god-awful cooking where everything on the plate has been boiled to the point of being completely fucking flavorless.
DO NOT WANT!
No worries on that one, though. See, I’m the only one in my family that cares to tap into our badass motherfucking southern cooking background (and having spent time in Louisiana don’t hurt a bit either).
Fried chicken? I done learnt it.
Cornbread? Step aside, Grama. I’m bout to blow yo’ muhfukkin’ mind.
The only thing I ASBOLUTELY can’t get close to in the kitchen is Grama’s sweets. Her pecan pie, her homemade fudge and cookies, her LEGACY STATUS banana bread? Sheesh– that woman is GOOD. (I got a plan, though. And come Monday I’m gonna be in her kitchen right next to her with my hands in the batter– updates to come).
What I’m saying here is that in our family, our ghosts get fed and partied with, their memories remain as their stories get retold and laughed about by their kin, every year– whether the folks realize what they’re doing or not. This year, though? This year, I’ll be throwing down with the knowledge that all of our online sprawling witchdom will be throwing down with us.
I can’t wait to share it here.
Cheers, bitches! And a happy Sviata Vechera to come!
~Hieronyma
(P.S. All you other mothuh lovuhs that are partying your asses off on Thursday need to hit up G Dirty and regale her with your tale, yo. Word is she’s giving out some of her mad magical swag to contestants.)
Looking to get my hands on some medals and holy cards while making some rosaries and amparos (didn’t I tell you this is an interfaith household? Like extreeeemely interfaith?), the googles turned up a Catholic supply shop with decent prices in my area. OK, so it was the ONLY Catholic supply shop in my area.
I mosied on over to the place and, as luck would have it, I was the only customer in what appeared to be a very small front room. The greeting was warm and sincere and she immediately gave over to conversation about the business and asked if I would like a tour….
Ladies and Gentleman, my face in response…
But something was stirring in me. Something deep down inside was starting to form. And it looked like this:
I looked at her and said, “Sure.”
The next thing you know, an older man from the back, likely a priest, was leading me through the business, describing how they receive donations, what their mission provisions are like, the organizations and such that they are involved with, etc.
After arriving back to the front I FINALLY got a chance to look at the motherfucking medals and cards. As I was doing so the priest continued talking, and sort of eerily appraising me. He asked things like, “It’s just hard to believe that a young, attractive woman like yourself is involved with all this. Our demographic is usually in their 60′s.”
I nodded politely and all. Then he goes, “So what parish do you go to?”
Dames and Mentlegen, mah face…
I thought I was busted for fucking sure. But magically, a wellspring of half-truths began flowing easily from from my lips…
“You know,” I said, “I haven’t really found the right church for me yet.”
He nodded and smiled, then said, “So how long have you lived in [city]?”
I looked him in the eye and said, “Oh, almost five years.”
Then I paid and left. I’m going to hell.
