OMG! Being an empath sucks dishwater.
Just dropped Kurt off at work. It’s another home game. I always forget I am going to the middle of Empath Hell. 80,000 people, all in a high emotional state. The fans are either pumped or depressed depending on the score, and there are waaaaay too many whores. Due to the fact that all kinds of men like football, a game is the best place in the state to go man hunting. Those desperate women are filled with lust, rage, envy, and jealousy. All this drama is magnified by the alcohol everyone has been drinking all day. Last week I came come with a splitting headache. I didn’t figure out why until after I got home. Today it hit me before I got on campus. I thought it was because nearly every route to the stadium was blocked. The closest I could get to the office was the campus library, half a mile away. Who decided to put a security office right behind a football stadium anyway?! Suddenly it dawned on me I haven’t felt this bad since I worked a Black Friday in the mall. As soon as I got to the outskirts of town, I bought headache pills and I could not open them fast enough. Next home game I need to go in with my shields already up and comfortably numb on painkillers.
It looks like Saturday will be my day to blog because that is the only time I have alone. I’m going to try writing a few posts, BUT in the past when I scheduled posts they didn’t go up as planned so I don’t know how that will work. Stupid Blogger.
On to the magick.
The whole purpose of planning my 8 point garden was so I could plant gourds. I have tried three times, unsuccessfully, to grow gourds. The first time was an accident. I left a gourd as an offering. It broke and the seeds sprouted immediately. I didn’t get any gourds, but since the plants popped right up, I assumed they were easy to grow. (Ha!)
Next, I tried growing them along a fence. Again, they came right up. Then did nothing. Finally a single bloom appeared. Then my landlord sprayed the fence with herbicide.
Thinking I needed a better location, I planted several in pots. Which my puppy destroyed. I got two seedlings and I thought that was enough. I planted them by the house and waited for gourds.
I got two. Then there was a storm, the cages supporting the vines blew over, thus uprooting the plants, and really, I didn’t get squat. The gourds are drying in the store room. They are very small and I don't think they matured enough to make seeds. One is moldy looking. The other is still as green as the day I hung it up.
Evidently, gourds need other gourds. They need something sturdy to grow on. They need protection.
Gourds are funny. They bloom at night, putting them squarely under the rule of the moon and feminine energies, but they are usually phallic shaped. I’ve heard one needs to be a bit mad to plant gourds and after all the problems I’ve had, I can see why a person would nut up trying to grow them. They need a lot of TLC, however, I’ve seen forgotten gourds growing abundantly in dead trees at the back of neglected property. Gourds are useful and can be used in many crafts, everything from birdhouses, to baskets, to art, but people tend to look down as gourds as being low folk art.
At this point I got tired of writing. I had some ideas about gourds being symbols of community but my ideas needed to brew into coherent statements. I started cleaning the store room. I got tired of that, so I went to the store. Kurt called me to say he had free BBQ. The catch was I had to come get it. I went home first to put up groceries, then headed back to Cow College. Half way there I realized even though it’s my day off, I am not enjoying myself. I have kept busy with household chores. I don’t have time to complete them. The store room is only half clean, I have to cook, and I need to do something with the three pounds of meat I just brought home. Obviously, I need to spend more time away from my house. Maybe I could join a book club or sewing circle or coven. Or something. I’m giving up on the magick post for now. Evidently this will have a part three, maybe a part four and five.