Valentine's alternatives and the Garden.
I think Caitlin Kiernan's bit about Lupercalia is spot-on - "if you want to sacrifice a couple of goats and a dog to Lupa, then run around town naked, save for a bloody thong of goatskin -- that's a goddamn reason to get out of bed. This sugar-coated hearts and flowers crap? Not even a weak echo of a genuine fertility rite." (Ms. Kiernan's ell jay, http://greygirlbeast.livejournal.com/534669.html). So in that spirit, I flog each and every one of you who'd like my gory little blessing, since I'm pretty sure the Romans whacked everyone with a strip of the aforementioned goatskin as well.*
No, I have no idea if it was a thong around the wrist or buttfloss (as a friend of mine once called thongs and g-strings). Go figure it out for yourselves. Do I have to do everything around here? I work and I clean and I propitiate the Gods, and all you can do is chase me around the domus with your questions....
Anyhow. Happy Lupercalia to all.
I have broken ground and planted seed, and now we'll see if it grows. I sometimes think gardening is one of the more sincere forms of prayer. Please let it grow, please don't let birds or bugs or animals eat it, please let it be enough for me and mine with some left over so we can share, please don't let the backbreaking work end in nothing. Because it really is, even just for fun; I have blisters on my left hand like nobody's business, my back is stiff, my knees hurt, and that was only a three-hour effort to turn up the stuff in one 8 x 10 patch in the front yard, put wildflower seeds down, cover them, and move what was dug up about ten feet away.
At one point, whacking away at the bloody grass that's barely worth the name, I thought, I could just run to Lowe's and see how much it is to rent a rototiller, but then I changed my mind. It wasn't the expense, really. It was that this recent interest of mine, one I've previously thought of as a hobby of little importance, is what kept my grandmother and her four sisters fed during the Great Depression. My great-grandfather was a gardener, and I've been told that one of the families he gardened for gave him oranges and sugar for Christmas. The great-aunts remember that to this day, because hardly anyone had either, and almost no-one had both. Great-grandpa had no rototiller, and it seems like I should figure out how to do this without one before I figure out how to do it with one.
I'm waiting for my seeds and an upturn in the economy, and I'm trying to figure out how to grow us out of the need for supermarkets just in case the first is far more successful than the second.
*I object to personally performing animal sacrifice, and I especially object (with firearms) to animals personally known to me being involved. However, I respect the right of all persons whose religions genuinely require it to do so in a humane manner, and urge those of you who are all squicked-out by the thought of Santerians next door offing that cute little goat to take a serious look at where that burger you're eating came from, m'kay?
No, I have no idea if it was a thong around the wrist or buttfloss (as a friend of mine once called thongs and g-strings). Go figure it out for yourselves. Do I have to do everything around here? I work and I clean and I propitiate the Gods, and all you can do is chase me around the domus with your questions....
Anyhow. Happy Lupercalia to all.
I have broken ground and planted seed, and now we'll see if it grows. I sometimes think gardening is one of the more sincere forms of prayer. Please let it grow, please don't let birds or bugs or animals eat it, please let it be enough for me and mine with some left over so we can share, please don't let the backbreaking work end in nothing. Because it really is, even just for fun; I have blisters on my left hand like nobody's business, my back is stiff, my knees hurt, and that was only a three-hour effort to turn up the stuff in one 8 x 10 patch in the front yard, put wildflower seeds down, cover them, and move what was dug up about ten feet away.
At one point, whacking away at the bloody grass that's barely worth the name, I thought, I could just run to Lowe's and see how much it is to rent a rototiller, but then I changed my mind. It wasn't the expense, really. It was that this recent interest of mine, one I've previously thought of as a hobby of little importance, is what kept my grandmother and her four sisters fed during the Great Depression. My great-grandfather was a gardener, and I've been told that one of the families he gardened for gave him oranges and sugar for Christmas. The great-aunts remember that to this day, because hardly anyone had either, and almost no-one had both. Great-grandpa had no rototiller, and it seems like I should figure out how to do this without one before I figure out how to do it with one.
I'm waiting for my seeds and an upturn in the economy, and I'm trying to figure out how to grow us out of the need for supermarkets just in case the first is far more successful than the second.
*I object to personally performing animal sacrifice, and I especially object (with firearms) to animals personally known to me being involved. However, I respect the right of all persons whose religions genuinely require it to do so in a humane manner, and urge those of you who are all squicked-out by the thought of Santerians next door offing that cute little goat to take a serious look at where that burger you're eating came from, m'kay?