Since I don't have the entire house to myself, I steal pieces of it whenever I can. Last year I appropriated the kitchen's windowsill (most subtle Ms. Graveyard Dirt altar ever? probably), but before that I staked my claim to a patch of carpet next to the backroom's patio door. In Spring it serves as a greenhouse for my germinating plants, in Summer it provides the heat needed for Papa's chili plants to fruit, in Fall I spread our harvest out on the ground to dry and in Winter, if I have my shit together (obviously this year I didn't), it's where we proudly display our stoner Christmas tree.
As retarded as it sounds, one of the huge highlights of my day is walking into the backroom and staring down at all of my little "projects". (Satisfaction is surveying all that you own - every piece with its own story - on mismatched vintage plates and trays.) Despite the familiarity I still somehow manage to get excited when soaking in the scene.
I suppose it reminds me that I don't need to wear a label, or know the "technical" name for what I'm doing or what I'm engaging in. I don't NEED to know what everyone else calls it, or what everyone else is doing, or how everyone else is doing it. I'm already doing "it", and I've been doing it for years without anyone's help or without referring to a book. If you took the scarlet word "witch" away from me I'd still live it, I'd still breathe it. It's always been there, regardless of what I or other people call it (as if that wasn't already evident enough).
My father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, returns home on the 26th. It's been a blissful month of a certain sort of serenity. In the past several weeks I know that no one's touched my shit, thrown my shit out, broke my shit, stolen my shit or ruined my shit. That peaceful certainty ends soon, which is precisely why I'm executing THE LAST CLEAN. Everything you see above? The very last of 2009 that needs to be bagged, tagged and put away. I need to sort as much as I can - as quick as I can - so I don't experience the all to familiar "misunderstandings" and "accidents" that seem to dog my father-in-law's existence.