On pixies, witches, magic and stuff

I’ve been fascinated with pixies and witches and magic my whole entire life.  When Tinkerbell drank that poison and Peter asked for anyone in the world that believed in fairies to clap their hands, I’d be clapping my little hands so hard they’d sting. I’d hide out behind the honeysuckle bush on the side of our house peering at the Snapdragon flowers just hoping to get a glimpse of one. Thumbelina slept in a flower after all, right? Fireflys weren’t just beetles darting about the hot humid summer sky in the evening, they were the pixies means of transporation to the fairie realms. That is until my brother would snatch one, killing it and smearing its body across his finger and proclaim ” LOOK! A Glow Ring!” Boys. I’d be left crushed and heartbroken for my little fairie friend never reaching her homeland.tinkerbell-campanilla-gifmaniacos.es-4

My devout Catholic grandmother purchased me a little dell book, the paperback kind that use to sit next to the candy at the grocery store checkout. It was a book of White Magic Spells. It had a cute little white kitty cat sitting next to a lit white candle.  Innocent enough. So who could even begin to resist being a WITCH. I dressed as Casper ‘s best pal Wendy the Good  Little Witch for Halloween when I was in second grade, but secretly I was her in my heart. I just knew it. Samantha Stevens? The hours spent trying to teach my nose to wiggle back and forth. Then there was my brief, though intense love affair with I Dream of Jeannie. How I envied her groovy bottle house all pink and glitzy. Don’t even get me started! If I’d had a groovy bottle to hang out in like that I’d never come out! Hot Major Nelson waiting on the other side or not! My best friend and I had mastered the Jeannie dance and would dance it over and over during free play time in class.

We were vacationing in Sarasota Florida when I was about seven years old, when my mom had purchased my little brother and I for whatever reason escapes me, marionette puppets. My brothers puppet was a Mexican man with a sombrero and guitar, mine was a witch. Being decades before the whole ‘New Age it’s cool to be witch’ era, when I say witch, I really do mean witch. Straight up classic, gray gnarled hair, pointed hat, long nose complete with wart and broom. Ugly. Witch. Now in her defense I’m sure she tried to talk me out of it, I mean I was seven years old and it was creepy looking. Even if it weren’t an old gnarley witch, it was still a marionette puppet, creepy in its own right. But I’m sure I put up a fuss and had to have it, it was after all, magical. She was a witch, surely we were kindred. I was wrong. When we returned home the witch hung in my room, her creepy ass staring me down night after night, suddenly we weren’t so kindred anymore. My mom wouldn’t let me take her down or pack her away since I just had to have her.  She hung on the side of my doorway along with some ribbons and cards of the immaculate Mary and other Catholic novelties,  in hindsight I’m thinking that might have been a plus, even out the creepiness of that ugly thing. I don’t know what ever happened to her. I don’t think I care.tumblr_m3kg4mB58v1r0livmo3_r1_500

When I was 20 my friend had a book called ‘The Modern Witches Spellbook.  Naturally I had to grab me a copy, after all I was the real witch here. Thus would begin my #failedwitch stage of life. The spells seemed a little outrageous to me. One spell consisted of coffin nails. That’s when I knew shit just got real. Where was I suppose to get them? Sure we’d creep around the local graveyards for shit’s and giggles and smoke weed but we weren’t in the habit of searching out coffin nails. Ew. Though now I’m sure they can be easily obtained online. I soon found myself having to abandon my hard core witchery ways due mostly to lack of available material at the time. But not before my hand at a Love Spell. The spell called for the footprint of the object of your affections baked it into a cake. Wtf? I know right. I  was assuming from the directions of the spell this had meant to scoop up some dirt from where the ‘said’ object stood and add a pinch of that to some cake mix, bake it, then feed him a piece of the cake, from that point on he’d be yours forever. Easy enough. I planned an entire fake day out to a park with my friends and invited Mr Whip, sandwich baggy in tow. I’d find clever ways to divert his attention as I’d carefully scoop along the dirt of his shoe prints. In hindsight, this really doesn’t make much sense to me spellwise, I mean if I wanted someone to fall in love with me forever, shouldn’t I be spoon feeding him my dirt footprint. Feeding him his own footprint would seem as though I was contributing to a sense of narcissism, but I digress. Later I’d get to work baking. The book suggested a spice cake as to deflect from the pinch of dirt that you were about to add, you know, like normal people do. When they say pinch I’m sure they mean just that, a pinch, of course I had to put a few more in for extra good measure, maybe like a good handful, it’s all that extra excessiveness of being a Sagittarius. I baked the cake and placed it in our basement fridge to keep, only slicing out a chunk for the night I would see Mr Whip once again at work, only he didn’t show. As a matter of fact he didn’t show for quite a while after our park adventure. Why? Because he was off with another girl (WTF) that’s why! There were four of us all together, I’m not sure I got all the footprints right.  The rest of the cake sat for the longest time in our basement fridge, but my ADD monkey brain had moved on incredibly fast to other pressing things such as obsessing over the newest Arden Fall nailcolor collection with my girlfriends. who knows how terribly long after, my mom wanted know where I got the cake mix from in the basement. She ate a piece of that cake (ew) and said it tasted like dirt and I needed to take it back to the store I bought it from and get my money back!

Later this same year I would stumble upon a life long love. The Tarot.

Moral of all of this. None really, just introducing myself. I’ve been weird my whole life. I was never not this way.  So I add dirt to cakes. Does that make me a bad person? Pffffft ~

 

Image 8-16-17 at 9.58 AM

 

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