Day #3 of My Life As a Fright Mask

Drought! Plague! Pestilence! Worst corn crop in two decades. Figures. I know! None of you reading this are actually here, are you? This is my own personal hell, where my favorite grain of all time dies in the soil, right? See, if I were someone else, it would have been the BEAN crop, or an apple tree blight or something. But because it’s me, it’s the corn crop!! Ahhh, it all makes sense now! We’re in a hell of my own personal intent!

OK, fine. Maybe you are here. But I’m sure this is my fault, too; another arm of my own peculiar gypsy curse. Not sure what I’ve done to the gypsies, since I’m pretty sure I don’t know any gypsies, but maybe one of them can clear up the confusion.

Delayed awareness: two entries ago I was commenting that the only way I could think of to stop my biting the inside of my mouth every two and a half seconds was to viciously slap my own face, as hard as I could. I wasn’t doing that in public, I was, however, doing it at home. To the degree that I had ugly self-inflicted bruises on myself. Well, I have to admit that it worked. My face was so bruised and swollen from the self-abusive face punching that I stopped biting myself. But it took me a little while to realize: I’m on steroids.

Correct that: I knew I was on steroids for the Bell’s Palsy; I didn’t realize the effect that steroids has on women: murderous rage. Agression. Hostility. Short-temperedness. At one point in my self-directed rage, I had asked, "Why am I acting like this?" And I heard a voice from someone, somewhere, calmly: "You’re on steroids." Startled, I went and looked it up on Web MD. Yup! Those were the effects of steroids on women!  I realize I’m short tempered and crabby to begin with. Steroids just made it 100x worse.

Personally, I think that I need a better Day Book to learn from. On August 11th, I went and looked up the day on my three daybooks. The Pagan Books of Days is completely empty for August 11th. The Real Witches’ Year talks about the color orange.

This was from the Witches’ Book of Days:

"Puck Fair. Dress in boyish clothes and with your female friends enjoy a night of playful masculinity!"

After 2/10ths of a second’s contemplation: no, no, non, nyet, not happenin’. First of all: why would I do that? Second of all: why would any of my female friends want to do that? Third: what exactly IS "playful masculinity"? Grab my crotch and yell "Gotta get me some o’ THAT!" at passing bimbos? With my luck, one of those passing trollops would have taken self-defense classes, see me as a threat to her safety, and level me with a well-placed kick in my non-existent nuts. I already have enough physical health problems. Grab a basketball and head for the courts? I’m five feet, two inches tall! I can’t even see the basket, much less be able to dump a ball into it! Fourth: what are "boyish clothes"? Jeans? Most women already wear those. A jock strap? How weird and uncomfortable. And fifth: um ..... no.

I’m still not sure why the writers of this day book saw the 11th as a bizarre cross-dressing event. Not my thang, sorry. Luckily, Wikipedia has another version of the Puck Fair:

Every year a group of people go up into the mountains and catch a wild goat. The goat is brought back to the town and the "Queen of Puck", traditionally a young school girl from the local primary schools who crowns the goat "King Puck". The "King" is then put into a small cage on a high stand in the middle of the town square which signifies that the festivities may begin. The pubs stay open until 3.00 AM, which is a legal exception due to the fair as all bars in Ireland normally must close at 2.00 AM, this is a source of contention for the local police ...

Scholars speculate that the fair's origins stems from Pre-Christian Ireland, from the Celtic festival of Lughnasa which symbolized the beginning of the harvest season, and that the goat is a pagan fertility symbol.

Now, I have no intention of torturing and imprisoning a wild goat. I am a Capricorn, so have some idea who the "pagan fertility symbol" is. Not quite sure what to do as far as celebrating Puck Fair Day, though.

See, this is what we’re missing. The quintessential Daybook Writer. Damien was a genius at this – if you go through his prison journal, it’s much easier to use that as a Daybook than some of these dumb books. DAMIEN!!! Write a Daybook!

He was best at the preparation, or the anticipatory side of things. Because he saw things so far ahead, he would be perfect at saying (for example): "You’re going to need a carnelian crystal 4 weeks from now. Look for an occult store or an online vendor and buy a ...", or "Prepare your grocery list for the Harvest Feast next week. Here are some ideas."

These other books spring things on you without warning, and you don’t have the advance notice to celebrate things properly. He could also connect his passion, the Tarot, to his Daybook.

(*sigh*) Well, in the meanwhile, until Mr. Signpost figures out that the world is in desperate need of his talent for writing daybooks ...or Tarot books as well ... I’ll have to continue with mine. He was also saying that he wanted to do Tarot readings. Fortunately for him, I’m still completely set against going back to Salem for anything, so he’ll never get the opportunity to do a Tarot reading that practically screams, "She’s under a contagious curse! Step back! Very carefully! And now ... RUN LIKE HELL!" (I wonder how that would show up in a tarot reading, anyway?)

Tonight – my obsession is in the United States, in Minneapolis.