Tag: forest

FEELS

A Pagan Ritual Your Grandma Would Like

X. Jupiter Hart

That macabre time of year is upon us — the time when I take that pile of unwearable old clothes that’s been accumulating for the past year deep into the eerie haunted wood, where I incorporate them in a scarecrow-esque effigy for immediate sacrifice to the dying sun. Stuffed with generous handfuls of that ubiquitous dry foliage that all species deciduous have been shedding like tears…

This year’s wicker man, in the headless early stages of construction.

Part of the autumnal wicker man tradition is to attach a handwritten list somewhere on the effigy, detailing all the things one would like to lose in the coming year. Like a letter to Antisanta. For this ritual is not about gaining things one presently does not have, but about letting go of things one no longer needs. As the forest itself does in fall.  

Upon attaching the aforementioned list, it’s time to get the party started and douse the whole thing in booze. This year’s choice of rocket fuel was inspired by a certain man who currently reigns supreme as the most moronic politician in all of Canada…

The cowboy hat prevents his microscopic brain from blowing away in the chinook.

Speaking of politicians and their moronicity, we had a (highly underwhelming) federal election last month. I brought along a campaign letter I received during said election, which I never bothered to open. Mostly because I didn’t like the sanctimonious tone of the first two letters they sent me. I sensed I’d be none the wiser had I opened the third letter. But I found plenty good use for it in this haunted wood.

I always walk away from this experience feeling like my inner manitou just shed an exoskeleton. I don’t know if it’s the sacred smoke, or the way the pieces of burnt fabric flutter about like faceless dark angels in the wind high above. Or maybe it’s the spectres that always manifest themselves in the flames. Like this one, which immediately struck me as bearing an uncanny resemblance to a young Bernadette Peters…

Or this one. A phoenix rising, which for some reason looked like either a rubber chicken or one of those Instant Martians from the old Looney Tunes shorts that grew to full size when you added water.

Last but not least, there’s this image. You have to use your imagination a bit to see him, but you can vaguely make out the Cat in the Hat.

SMELLS

Summer’s Last Crumbs: A Duology (Part II)

X. Jupiter Hart

I was not aware that entire buildings were constructed for such a purpose. That’s now a thing that I know.

Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese…

Regrettably, Jack-in-the-Green mysteriously disappeared the other weekend, somewhere along another nature trail near another lake. This is his replacement, Professor Plum.

I would have called it Deep Purple if it was a slightly different hue.
SMELLS

Summer’s Last Crumbs: A Duology (Part I)

X. Jupiter Hart

Nestled somewhere deep in the woods is a spot where a dude can really get his Zen on. Well worth the (slightly steep) price of a parking permit. The province will soon be shutting down that spot for the winter, so I decided to squeeze in one last visit.

This strain is called Monkey’s Breath. I think. Most of the bowl was already smoked before I even thought to take a picture of it.
That’s one fancy looking outhouse.
I bet there’s at least one jackass every year who’s actually glad to pay that extra $150.

Behind the fancy outhouse is a yellow brick road. Except it’s a more of a drab grey colour, and the bricks are wooden. Didn’t see any lions or tigers, but at one point I thought I heard a bear. Which turned out to be just a very loud squirrel. Oh my!

“…and you’ve just had some kind of mushroom, and your mind is moving low…”

There’s no Emerald City at the end of that yellow brick road. Instead, one finds something arguably even better. Another lake.

That’s probably the Wizard’s house, but I ain’t swimming that far.

That feeling of sand between one’s toes is regrettably nowhere near as blissful as it was but a few weeks ago. I spent very little time at the beach, save a quick polar bear plunge to wash off the sweat accrued from a four-kilometre hike. One I didn’t have to apply two coats of DEET all over every inch of my body for. The mosquitoes (which are the size of small dogs around these parts) have been thankfully reclaimed by the spirits.