Dutifully reporting in.
We're listening to the Lord of the Rings radio play this morning, after having stayed up waaaaaay too late last night watching Battlestar Galactica. I am looking around for the Winter Olympics viewing scheduel, I remember how insanely difficult it was to co-ordinate all the summer games and even watch a half of what i was interested in. Hardly saw any archery, but plenty of Equestrian, could have had more fencing...And way less swimming. I am sick unto death of swimming. I never want to see an Australian wunderkind in a speedo again. Gotta see the Skeleton, of course. It's so popular that there won't be much chance of it's not being shown at a good hour. Last summer games it was a good thing we had satellite and Tivo, or we'd seriously never had seen anything but swimming. I love Tivo. It's a problem.
Still haven't ripped that toe decrease on the husband socks, I've been obsessing about re-ordering the kitchen. And the whole house, really. It doesn't yet feel like it's used to being really lived in, something about the doorways are bothersome, unsafe. Well, perhaps unsafe is too strong a word. The house seems a bit, fey. And not fey as in it's full of brownies and house faeries looking over us, but a bit wild, not quite ferral, but undomesticated. The previous owner was a single guy and a firefighter who's family and station were in the city, so we figure he was only ever here briefly, just to sleep and eat. He had lived here just barely a year, and had never even used the dishwasher, couldn't tell us how the automatic lights and sprinkler systems worked, or much else about the place. He just didn't know the house very well. So, it seems, that left to her own devices, she went a bit barmy. But nothing permanent, she just has to get used to being lived in again. This is the first house that I can definitely say is female. Our last house was absolutely male, and possibly the house before that. The house before that was a bit of a tranny. Very coy. And haunted by a very odd but mostly harmless former heroin addict. The guy who lives there now still takes care of the place and the ghost. Wolfy's three dollar bill is still attacthed to the wall near the kitchen, and the place seems very happy every time we go back for a visit or party.
After this big re-org fest, I'm going to really get down to blessing the place, putting out salt, consecrating my brooms, doing up my kitchen altar for real, instead of the charming yet spiritually ambiguous one I have now. I've never told anyone that I'm a witch. It sounds ridiculous to say. A woman at the DMV once just starred at me and asked me point blank. I squirmed and was non-committal. Why do I feel this way? I don't not believe in the whole Christian thing, neither do I not believe in Islam, Judaism, or many others. I've been trying to be Buddhist for years, but it just isn't me. I'm a pagantype witchy-poo. I like to pinch salt and hang herbs and make charms. It seems no different to me than prayer. I call on Kali to steady me in times of chaos, I look to hestia when the kitchen feels like a foreign land. I think of the lady and lord of the woods when I think of myself and the husband. I grab earth in my hands, have a special knife and a small black teapot next to my money tree. I fill little pots with rice and move the incense in a square cross pattern before putting it in it's holder. Magical thinking fills my head. Is it like I can ride my swiffer off into the light of a full moon? Turn a former boyfriend into a toad? Hells no. No buff the vampire type crap, no samantha from bewitched. It's a small, personal thing. I don't run around that back yard sky-clad or jog with wolves. I don't belong to a coven, and most likely never will. It doesn't feel like home.
A window box full of herbs, walking out into my yard and naming every plant, and there's more, but i can't put it in words. Maybe I should learn how to write or sumpthin'.
ok, that's all, good blog, I'll most likely delete you in the morning.
Still haven't ripped that toe decrease on the husband socks, I've been obsessing about re-ordering the kitchen. And the whole house, really. It doesn't yet feel like it's used to being really lived in, something about the doorways are bothersome, unsafe. Well, perhaps unsafe is too strong a word. The house seems a bit, fey. And not fey as in it's full of brownies and house faeries looking over us, but a bit wild, not quite ferral, but undomesticated. The previous owner was a single guy and a firefighter who's family and station were in the city, so we figure he was only ever here briefly, just to sleep and eat. He had lived here just barely a year, and had never even used the dishwasher, couldn't tell us how the automatic lights and sprinkler systems worked, or much else about the place. He just didn't know the house very well. So, it seems, that left to her own devices, she went a bit barmy. But nothing permanent, she just has to get used to being lived in again. This is the first house that I can definitely say is female. Our last house was absolutely male, and possibly the house before that. The house before that was a bit of a tranny. Very coy. And haunted by a very odd but mostly harmless former heroin addict. The guy who lives there now still takes care of the place and the ghost. Wolfy's three dollar bill is still attacthed to the wall near the kitchen, and the place seems very happy every time we go back for a visit or party.
After this big re-org fest, I'm going to really get down to blessing the place, putting out salt, consecrating my brooms, doing up my kitchen altar for real, instead of the charming yet spiritually ambiguous one I have now. I've never told anyone that I'm a witch. It sounds ridiculous to say. A woman at the DMV once just starred at me and asked me point blank. I squirmed and was non-committal. Why do I feel this way? I don't not believe in the whole Christian thing, neither do I not believe in Islam, Judaism, or many others. I've been trying to be Buddhist for years, but it just isn't me. I'm a pagantype witchy-poo. I like to pinch salt and hang herbs and make charms. It seems no different to me than prayer. I call on Kali to steady me in times of chaos, I look to hestia when the kitchen feels like a foreign land. I think of the lady and lord of the woods when I think of myself and the husband. I grab earth in my hands, have a special knife and a small black teapot next to my money tree. I fill little pots with rice and move the incense in a square cross pattern before putting it in it's holder. Magical thinking fills my head. Is it like I can ride my swiffer off into the light of a full moon? Turn a former boyfriend into a toad? Hells no. No buff the vampire type crap, no samantha from bewitched. It's a small, personal thing. I don't run around that back yard sky-clad or jog with wolves. I don't belong to a coven, and most likely never will. It doesn't feel like home.
A window box full of herbs, walking out into my yard and naming every plant, and there's more, but i can't put it in words. Maybe I should learn how to write or sumpthin'.
ok, that's all, good blog, I'll most likely delete you in the morning.
posted by roccermom at 10:02 AM
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