The Oddest Thing She's Ever Said

Last night was one of those horrible nights when you know that somewhere, something is going wrong. I was hot. I was uncomfortable. It was past 3 AM and I couldn’t sleep. And it wasn’t like there was any reason for me to be tetchy— I just had the feeling that something was happening that I should be aware about, but I wasn’t. Call it my sixth sense; call it women’s intuition; call it whatever you like, but it was ringing like a fire station during a 5-alarm fire. Klaxons were going on in my head and all— danger, danger.

I HATE being the last to know things.

It’s not a fun feeling. When I finally DID fall asleep, I had the same sort of unsettling dreams I’ve been having lately, haunted by the same characters, and even in my dreams, there was nothing I could do about it but sit there and argue the same arguments, over and over and over again.

Futility is not a feeling I enjoy, at all.

XOXO

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You know how there are those old wives’ tales and folklore that says that if you put a sieve or a broomstick or a handful of sand at your door to keep witches, hags, and vampires at bay, they’ll be obsessively compelled to stay there and count the holes in the sieve, twigs of the broom, or pieces of sand until the task is complete?

Well, I also believe that English people are compulsively compelled to have to accept every single cup of tea offered to them. Whether manners or folklore, it seems to be the case.

XOXO  

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The one downside to being up in the middle of nowhere and running around after a demanding elderly dog is that a lot of the time, it’s both silent and feels a little bit like hospice care.

To make things feel not quite so lonely, I started reading aloud to Alex (…the dog). Nevermind the fact that she’s partially deaf— the cat seems to like it, too. This extended all the way from my new book “French Women Don’t Get Fat” to the tarot card readings I was doing for myself, right up until the point I pulled the Devil card as a person’s signifier, and it was just so. damn. perfect. that I ended up rolling across the living room floor in raucous laughter, tears streaming down my face, scaring the cat, and mystifying the dog, who chose that sound to pick up on.

Life is too funny sometimes.

XOXO

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And This Is Why I Love Being Lore-Conscious.

The other day, I was trying to open a beer bottle (rather stupidly) with the end of my lighter, rather than the appropriate bottle opener. I was being lazy, and couldn’t be arsed to get up and walk across the room to get one. So, instead, my hand slipped, and my knuckles dragged across the sharp, jagged underside of the bottle cap, and I got some rather large chunks of flesh and skin ripped off from the back of two of my knuckles. Enter lots of bleeding, plenty of staring at said chunks of flesh.

I washed them off, wrapped them up in Band-Aids, and went on my way. But today, when I pulled the plastic strips off, a distinct “damp dead skin” smell rose from my mangled fingers. And, of course, this is the time where I cannot for the life of me find any Neosporine or other wound disinfectant in the house; not even rubbing alcohol, not even witch hazel.

So, this is where my belief system and lore-of-old featured interests come in.

Beat, but knowing my knuckles needed something if they weren’t to, like, turn black and fall off, I found the book I picked up at a town library book sale the other week called “Herbal Rituals” by Judith Berger, and looked up “wound healing” in the index. Then, I went to the kitchen windowsill, found two green, fresh, fat leaves from the best of the violet plants, and crushed them up in a bowl with a wooden spoon. The mucilage produced by this treatment results in a natural healing, cooling, relieving gel that can be applied to surface wounds like my punctures to kill off bad bacteria and promote cell-reconstruction.

I love the fact that in a WebMD and vaccine-happy world, what I’ve chosen to study and live my life in accordance with helps me help myself without being dependent on the modern, manic, medicated world.

XOXO

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