#the answer involves bundling a LOT of twigs together

[proprietous]

How do you know if a tree is homosexual or not

This is the best question I have ever been asked

[a-l-ias]

Friction

It is so freaking cold up here! As much as I love winter,  this is a bit too much. So naturally, let’s put Hiccstrid in the same situation.

           Astrid Hofferson was freezing.

           Frigid.

           Frozen.

           Frosted over.

           Turning into an ice-cube, for lack of a better term.

           The heavy woolen furs she had cocooned herself in before falling asleep (or attempting to) did very little to shelter her skin from the sting of the arctic air, and even less to ward away the tiny, fluffy snowflakes just beginning to fall lightly from the star-less sky. She could no longer feel her fingers, or her toes, and she vividly pictured each digit slowly turning a brilliant blue beneath the covers. Her body had long since given up on shivering, for it seemed fruitless; her lips were chapped and blistering from the burning wind that rushed past and shook the branches of the empty trees; her eyes dry and aching from the bitter bite of the Archipelago's winter. She would have been fine she hadn’t neglected to pack warmer clothes for their impromptu expedition into the northern woods of the Piquolot Mountains. She would have been fine if the gusts hadn’t blown the campfire out. She would have been fine if she had decided to curl up with Stormfly and the other dragons in their messily adorable muddle of limbs and teeth. Of course, all her mistakes would have been easy to correct, but that involved getting up and out of the relative safety of her layers, and Astrid preferred to suffer only half of what the elements could dish out for the whole night, instead of the entirety of the weather’s wrath for a couple minutes.

          However, as the night wore on, she started to regret her decision.

          As soon as the snow had started, Astrid had glanced longingly over at the bundle of blankets a few feet away from her, knowing that he would provide more warmth than her layers could ever hope to (most likely from his blushing at the close proximity). Her friends, though, slept near, and if she and Hiccup wanted to keep their relationship on the down low, they couldn’t be discovered in such a compromising position by the other riders. She imagined waking up to the jeering sneer of Snotlout, the scandalized expression of Fishlegs, the utterly bewildered faces of the twins, and Heather’s smug “I told you so” grin. Not something she was too keen on.

        Astrid rolled over on the hard forest floor, feeling a twig dig into her hip, and telling herself firmly that she didn’t care, because if she did, she’d have to reach outside the blankets to move it, and her hand most surely would not return. She wiggled her torso irritably in a vain attempt at shuffling it out of the way. Sighing, frustratedly beyond all else, she curled in on herself farther.

        Astrid had been sick plenty of times—once with a horrible hacking cough and bloodied phlegm at age six that had the entire village worried she wouldn’t survive; once with a stomach bug that had her rejecting everything slammed down her throat; more recently, she came down with a bout of eel pox that had her drunkenly tottering around her house hopped up on pain herbs. She’d wondered if that was how it would end—if this soggy heap of sweat and pale, glistening skin was how she would be remembered. Her nights spent tossing and turning with aching limbs and a pounding skull, grimaces torn from her raw throat with every shift of her exhausted frame were anything short of torture. If asked, Astrid would have, hands down, replied that those short stints of malady were the worst days in all her nineteen years; the lingering stench of stale body and rotting barf and sour clothes haunted her every time she so much as sneezed. Right now, though, she would take those sleepless, boiling hot, crampy, achy nights over this sleepless, freezing cold, shivering, frore night any day.

        Pursing her lips—which was painful and probably ripped the skin open in multiple places—she finally came to a conclusion: she didn’t give a damn what her friends thought. Better to endure the teasing and the invasions of privacy than the endless glacial winds. Resolutely gathering the blankets about her shoulders, Astrid stood up, stumbling a bit as feeling started to flow back into her feet with a barrage of pins and needles, and marched over to her sleeping boyfriend. Her teeth chattering, she knelt down next to him and carefully removed her pauldrons and arm guards, along with her skirt and (sadly) her boots, attempting to minimize the amount of metal she brought into the huddle.

       As she pulled the top blanket back, he moaned in his sleep and shifted deeper into his bed roll, exposing his peaceful countenance. His lips were slightly parted; the worry lines in his forehead that had become a common occurrence during the day had faded. Astrid—as much as she hated to sound soft—found herself staring at him intensely when he slept, reveling in the fact that only she received the honor of seeing him in such a vulnerable position. With a slight smile on her face, Astrid crawled under the covers, tucking it around the both of them. Wiggling her way between his arms, weaving her frozen fingers into his shirt, and burying her face in his chest, she felt the heat of her breath radiate back. She heaved a contented sigh and burrowed further into his loose, sleepy embrace. It wasn’t until Astrid hooked a leg over his hip that Hiccup finally woke up.

        “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice husky and laced with sleep.

        “I was cold,” she answered concisely.

        Hiccup let out a breathy chuckle, gracing her scalp with his warm exhale. He stretched his arms out behind her languorously, and settled his right hand on her thigh over his hip.

        “Obviously.”

        She felt his other hand wander its way into her braid, combing lightly through it until it found the band that tied the end off.

        “Hiccup - “ 

        “Shh,” he whispered. “You look so beautiful with it down, it’d be a wasted opportunity.”

        Despite hating the feeling of her hair as it hung loose, Astrid did love the feeling of Hiccup’s fingers carding through the russet strands, so she stayed quiet.

        “Besides,” he added, the low and quiet sound rumbling in his chest. “You’re cold, aren’t you? It’ll help.”

        He tugged at the end and the braid quickly uncoiled. Hiccup looped his fingers in her hair, and ran his hand through the curls.

        Astrid hummed into his neck.

        Hiccup smiled into her forehead.

        “You had a good idea,” he said finally, planting a kiss to her temple. “It’s a lot warmer now.”

        “Took me forever to make up my mind. Glad I did though.”

        “I was contemplating joining you before I fell asleep.”

        “You should have. I was freezing my fingers off.”

        He chuckled again. “I can tell. They’re like snowballs.”

        Just out of playful spite, Astrid raised her numb palms to his face, cupping his cheeks.

        “Geeze! You’ll give me hypothermia!” Regardless of his complaints, he didn’t move.

        Astrid smiled with him, tilting her head up to look at him from beneath her eyelashes.

        His eyes were half-lidded, and in the dim and moonless night, it was hard to tell what he was thinking.

        Astrid scraped her fingertips against the day-old stubble adorning his jaw - an activity that had become a habit for her in their most intimate moments.

        It was his turn to hum contentedly.

        His hand in her hair stopped moving at the base of her head, and he gently pushed her forward—into a kiss.

        It was slow and lazy - Astrid’s arms curled around his neck, and Hiccup’s equally cold fingers pushed her tunic up slightly to cradle her closer to his body. It was casual swipes to tongues, soft scrapes of teeth, and gentle caresses all intended to get the other as close as possible. They parted once for air before they were lip-locked again, taking their sweet time. Astrid’s hands and feet slowly regained warmth as Hiccup reached down to rub her toes, and untangled her fingers from his hair to press them under his shirt and on his chest, never once breaking away.

        She could feel his heartbeat against his ribcage, a steady rhythm that was devoid of the frantic pace that had been commonplace during the nascent stages of their relationship. She mumbled incoherently at the feeling of his smooth skin and lean muscles beneath her palms.

        Hiccup snickered into the kiss. “Miss me?”

        She smacked his shoulder, but nonetheless tittered herself. It had been quite a while since things had progressed to a physical level between them. Between Viggo and Berk and the Dragon Eye, they hadn't really had the time for anything other than a swift peck. She honestly did miss the nights tangled together in his bed, cuddling close to seize the rapidly escaping warmth, or the mid-afternoon assignations on newly discovered islands, heat entirely dependent on their fervid movements and torturous friction. It wasn't a desperate need, though, to feel him pressed against her—and aspect Astrid cherished. They didn't need the physicality to verify their happiness. They were perfectly content with simply being in each other's presence, laughing at corny jokes, sharing secret smiles, and goofing off in ways only best friends could.

        While most couples Astrid met relied on physical intimacy, Hiccup and she had progressed to a relationship involving emotional intimacy.

        And she loved it.

       Hiccup caught her wrist on its retreat, gently pinching it between long fingers. His lips parted in a sort of reverence that became habit even before they had started dating, as if she had fallen from heaven. She felt her cheeks warming, no doubt flushing ridiculously. Hiccup was probably beyond elated—he took so much pride in his ability to make her gush like a giggling pre-teen. Soft fingertips glided over her hand, hooking her digits over his, and bringing her knuckles to his lips.

        “Stop it,” she chided, uncommitted.

        “They’re still frigid,” he commented, eyes never leaving hers. “Is your other hand cold, too?” He didn't wait for an answer, simply grabbed her left hand and raised it to join the other. Evidently deciding they were colder than acceptable, he huffed a cloud of hot air over their entwined fingers.

        A shuffle echoed from across the campsite, and both of them stiffened, trading momentary looks of identical panic. If one of their friends woke up and found Astrid’s place empty…

        Footsteps padded across the stony dirt, petrified blades of grass crunching under heels that advanced towards the couple. Hiccup stifled a yelp, placed an anxious hand atop his girlfriend’s head and pushed her down, stuffing her face into his abdomen in an attempt to conceal the incriminating evidence of their relationship.

        A stifled and indignant “what!” came from below the furs, and Astrid struggled, infuriated, against the offending movement. Her heartbeat sped up as she took a deep breath of the stuffy air filled with the musty odor of unopened closets, and she clawed at Hiccup’s wrist.

        A curious, low warble interrupted her plight, and the pressure on the top of her head lessened considerably, allowing Astrid to resurface and roll over in their burrito. Toothless whined pitifully as he pawed desperately at Astrid’s leg, ears flattened against his inky scales and gums bared in an adorable pleading smile.

        “Odin’s ghost, Hiccup. It’s just your dragon!” she snapped.

        She could feel his embarrassment emanating from every pore. “Sorry,” he stuttered.

        Astrid heaved an enormous sigh and gave Toothless a commiserating pat. She clicked her fingers by her feet and the dragon obediently followed the direction, slumping down with a muted thump on top of the extra blankets. Rolling over, she gave Hiccup a soft smack on the forehead.

        “Owww,” he griped. “Why do you keep abusing me?”

        Astrid ignored the question. “You’re a dork,” she scolded, settling back down in his arms.

        “Yes,” he conceded. “But I’m your dork.”

        Astrid laughed, a genuine show of mirth that had been absent from her life for a couple weeks now. “Not to mention cheesy. And cliché.”

        He smiled again (Astrid noticed there seemed to be a lot of that going on), and smoothed his palm in circles over her back.

        Astrid’s eyes started drifting closed, now droopy from the much needed heat and weighed down by the anchor of slumber. Her mind sank into the fog creeping through her senses and she let out a yawn fit for a giant.

        “Remind me again,” she muttered around the yawn, “why you decided that searching for dragons in the middle of Vetr was a good idea?”

        Hiccup leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on her shoulder. Her face smashed into his neck, but this time, she didn’t mind, grateful for the loving embrace.

       “I don’t know. Remind me never to do it again, though.”

        “How did the idea even surface though? Yesterday you were perfectly content with pounding out whatever inane project you have going on.” Her words were muffled from the fabric of his fur doublet. It took him a moment to decipher what she’d said.  

        He shrugged. “It really wasn’t my idea. Fishlegs suggested it.”

        “Of course Fish suggested it,” Astrid grumbled. “Idiot.”

        Hiccup scoffed softly. “You came, didn’t you?”

        Astrid pulled back just a smidge, enough to look her boyfriend directly in the eyes. She pointed at herself forcefully. “Yeah, but I had an obligation to come.”

       “What obligation was that?”

        She raised a questioning eyebrow. “You, stupid.”

        The smile that pressed against her skin was more effective than any fur cloak.

        “I—oh,” he decided.

        She wriggled farther away and studied his expression. His haphazard russet hair flopped in front of his eye, crinkled against the mound of wadded up blanket he’d fashioned as a pillow. A half smile danced across his lips slyly, and he brushed his knuckles against her cheek.

        “You think I’m an idiot, too,” she accused, punctuating her point with a series of forceful jabs to his chest.  

        His smile slowly melted. “I—you—seriously, you decided to leave the safety of your heated hut back on Berk for a trip you’d heard about the day you were supposed to leave. That’s a bit of moron showing right there. You traded a fluffy piece of cushion perfection for a sad little pile of withering leaves. Hence, you are an idiot.”

        Astrid blinked, and then frowned doubtfully. “By that definition, you’re also an idiot.”

        “But that was established a while ago.” Hiccup grinned, the gap between his teeth displayed adorably.

        She snuggled closer again, rubbing her thigh over his hip for added heat.

        Friction. Wonderful friction. The force that warmed her heart and stoked her passion and gave her a purpose. This was how love was supposed to feel: trapped in the supreme tug of someone else’s gravity, constantly hurtling towards each other, colliding, crashing. They were mutual. Partners. Equals. And their monumental ardor fueled their actions. Their friction gave them life.

        Astrid pressed a gentle kiss to Hiccup’s neck, noticing that his breathing had become shallow and steady in their comfortable silence.

        “Love you,” she hummed.

        Hiccup exhaled a soft murmur in a sleepy response.

        It wasn’t long before she joined him in the haven of dreamland.

[hunterdeuling]

Hoping this helps non-Quilters understand the logic of quilter this amazingly well written piece from a judge. I laughed and laughed and hope you will also.

A speech given at a conference on quilting (Quilt Canada 2010) by Allan Fradsham, a criminal court judge in Calgary, Alberta, where the conference was held.

Here's the text. It's long but amusing, and so worth a read:

“When, some years ago, Gloria told me that she was going to build upon her years of sewing experience, and take up "quilting", I thought she was telling me that she was going to take up a new hobby or a new craft. I was completely oblivious to the fact that what she was really announcing was that she was taking up membership in a tightly knit (if you'll pardon the expression) group of individuals whose loyalty to one another makes motorcycle gang members seem uncommitted, and whose passion for quilting activities makes members of cults look positively disinterested. As is the case with many spouses, I was completely unaware that there existed this parallel universe called quilting.

However, to be completely unaware of a world-wide sub-culture operating right under our noses and in our homes is a bit obtuse even for husbands. But there it is, and here you are. And, most oddly, here I am. You might wonder how all this came to pass; I know I certainly do.

I cannot now identify what was the first clue I detected indicating that Gloria had entered the fabric world equivalent of Harry Potter's Hogwarts. It might have been the appearance of the fabric. Bundles of fabric, mounds of fabric, piles of fabric, towering stacks of fabric. Fabric on bolts, and stacks of small squares of fabric tied up in pretty ribbons (I later learned these were "fat quarters" which to this day sounds to me like a term out of Robin Hood). The stuff just kept coming into the house as thought it were endless waves crashing onto a beach. And then, just like the waves, the most amazing thing happened: it would simply disappear. It was as though the walls of the house simply absorbed it. Metres and metres (or as men of my generation would say, yards and yards) of fabric would come into the house. It would arrive in Gloria's arms when she returned from a shopping excursion. It would arrive in the post stuffed in postal packs so full that they were only kept together by packing tape (these overstuffed Priority Packs are the equivalent of me trying to fit into pants I wore in law school). These packages would arrive having been shipped from unheard of towns and villages in far away provinces or states or overseas countries (I am convinced the internet's primary activity is not to be found in pornography; that is just a ruse, the internet's real function is to facilitate the trafficking and distribution of fabric). Wherever we went, be it in Canada, the U.S., Europe, wherever there was a collection of more than three houses, Gloria would find a quilt shop from which she would pluck some prize from some bin with the enthusiasm and unerring eye of an archaeologist finding a new species of dinosaur.

And of course, the reason that there are quilt shops everywhere is because there are quilters everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE. A few years ago, Gloria had been visiting her sister-in-law in Kelowna. While there, she found and purchased a Featherweight sewing machine. I understand that making such a find is a matter of such joy that it may eventually attract government taxation. When it came time to fly back to Calgary, Gloria worried about what the people at airport security would have to say when she tried to take the machine onto the plane. She need not have been concerned. Now, airport security takes pride in preventing me from carrying onto a plane a small squirt of toothpaste left in a rolled up toothpaste tube if the tube in which it is lodged did at some point in the distant past, contain a prohibited amount of toothpaste. My spot of toothpaste is a national security threat. However, when it came time for Gloria to go through security with the Featherweight, which is made of metal and has needles in secret compartments, airport security came to a standstill. Why? Were they about to confiscate the machine, and detain the person who dared to try to board with it? Of course not. They gathered around it in awe and admiration, asking Gloria questions about where she had found it, and expressing admiration for her good fortune in finding it. And why did Gloria get such warm treatment when I am shunned for trying to maintain some degree of oral hygiene? Well, the answer is obvious; the assembled airport security staff were all quilters, complete with the secret handshake.

Maybe I should have twigged to what was happening when the washing of all this fabric led to having to replace our washing machine, which was clearly not designed for such industrial use. Now, let me pause here. I understand that there is an intense debate within your world about whether or not fabrics should be washed upon purchase. I do not wish to be caught in any cross-fire between the two camps, for all I know, as an outsider, I may not be authorized to even know of the controversy. I do suspect that if men were making the decision, quilting would involve lot less fabric washing and a lot more beer drinking.

I did eventually discover where all the fabric went. It went into drawers, cupboards, shelves, and, eventually it completely filled up a closet, which took up one full wall in Gloria's newly built "sewing room". What we now call Gloria's "sewing room", we used to call "the basement".

I have discovered that one of the art forms mastered by quilters is the ability to purchase container loads of fabric, conceal it in the house, and camouflage the purchase so that it slips right under the nose of the unsuspecting spouse. As a loving and obedient spouse, I have on many occasions found myself in quilt stores where I serve two useful functions: I can reach bolts of fabric stored on top shelves; and I can carry numerous bolts of fabric to a cutting table. However, I have also started to listen to what is said in quilting stores, and one day, in a little quilting shop in the heart of Alberta farming country, I heard something that made it clear to me that quilters are so clever and, dare I say, devious, that there is really no sport for them in fooling we naive husbands. Gloria had decided to buy some fabric (which is similar to saying that Gloria had decided to breathe), and had gone to the till to pay for it. Upon running through Gloria's charge card, the clerk quietly said, "Now, when you get your credit card statement, don't be alarmed when you see an entry for our local feed store. We run our charges under that name so that if a husband looks at the credit card statements, he will think that the entry is just something he bought at the feed store for the farm". That sort of financial shell game would make Goldman Sachs proud. I knew at that moment that there had been a major and probably irrevocable shift in the world's power structure. I concede it is basically over for the non-quilting husband.

As you have been told, I sit as a criminal law judge, and as such I often find myself sitting on drug trials, or issuing search warrants in relation to drug investigations. I must say that the more I learned about the quilting world, the more I started to see similarities between that world and the drug world. It has caused me some concern.

We all interpret events from our own perspectives using the lessons we have learned through life. When I saw the extent to which Gloria's collection of fabric was growing, I began to worry. In the law relating to drugs, the amount of a drug one has in one's possession is an important factor in determining the purpose for which the person has the drug. For example, if a person is in possession of crack cocaine (to use a drug with an addictive power equivalent to fabric), one look at the amount of crack the person possessed. If the amount exceeds the amount one would realistically possess for personal use, then one may reasonably draw the inference that the purpose of the possession is not personal use, but, rather, it is for the purpose of trafficking the drug. So, you can imagine what I thought when I saw Gloria's collection of fabric grow to a point where she readily admitted that she could never use all that fabric in several lifetimes. I reluctantly concluded that I was married to a very high-level fabric trafficker. Mind you, in order to qualify as a trafficker, one does have to part with fabric, and I see very little evidence of that happening.

In fact, the more I thought about the parallels between the quilting culture and the drug culture, the clearer the similarities became. Consider the jargon. I have learned that this vast collection of fabric, which is stored in our house, is a "stash". Well, drug dealers speak of their "stash" of drugs. Gloria speaks of doing "piece" work. In the drug world there are often people who bring together the crack cocaine dealer and the buyer; think of a real estate agent, but not as well dressed, through perhaps somewhat less annoying. Those people speak of breaking off a "piece" of crack as payment for bringing the parties together. Sounds to me like a type of "piece work". Those who transport drugs are often called "mules"; I have frequently heard Gloria refer to me as her mule when I am in a quilt store carrying stacks of fabric bolts (or did she says I was stubborn as a mule?). Well, it was something about mules. And I should think that this whole conference is a testimony to the addictive qualities of quilting.

In my role as a Sherpa, I have accompanied Gloria on various quilting expeditions, and I have been impressed by many things. One is, as I have mentioned, that no matter where one goes, there will be a quilt store. The proliferation of quilt shops makes Starbucks outlets seem scarce. One day Gloria led me into a hardware store, which seemed odd to me, that is until I discovered that, as I walked towards the back of the store, the store had become a quilt shop. The metamorphosis was extraordinary, and very crafty (if you will pardon the pun). At that moment, I knew how Alice felt as she followed that rabbit down the rabbit hole. Suddenly, one was in a different universe.

Another thing I have learned is that the operators of quilt shops have great business acumen. In one of Gloria's favourite shops, upon entry I am greeted by name and offered a cup of coffee. If the grandson is with us, he is allowed to choose a book to take home. It is all so friendly that I don't even notice that I cannot see over the growing pile of fabric bolts which fill my arms. I wish that my doctor did such a good job of distracting me when it is time to do a prostate exam.

I have learned that quilting is both international in scope and generous in spirit. I have learned that quilters are quick to assist those in need, and that they have always been prepared to stand up for what is right. For example, I think of Civil War quilts, which often conveyed messages about the Underground railway for slaves escaping to Canada. I think of the One Million Pillowcase Challenge, and the Quilts of Valour project. At one point, I thought of suggesting the creation of an organization akin to "Doctors Without Borders", but decided that an organization called "Quilts Without Borders" would indeed be illogical.

And of course, there are the resultant quilts. We have quilts throughout the house. They adorn beds, chesterfields, the backs of chairs. They are stacked on shelves, they are stored in drawers, they are shoved under beds, they are hung on walls. There is even one on the ceiling of the sunroom. They compete for any space not taken up with the fabric, which will eventually result in more quilts. I live in a cornucopia, which disgorges quilts instead of produce. I have decided that quilts are the zucchini of crafts. But who can complain? Quilt seriously, each one is a work of art, and an instant family treasure. While family members and friends are delighted to receive them, I churlishly begrudge seeing them go out the door.

Though I tease Gloria about the all-consuming nature of her obsession, I am constantly amazed at the skill necessary to create those works of art. I stand in awe as I watch her do the mathematics necessary to give effect to (or correct) a pattern. When she quilts, she combines the skill of an engineer, a draughtsman, a seamstress, and an artist. Her sewing machines require her to have, as she does, advanced computer and mechanical skills. She knows her sewing machines as well as any Hell's Angel knows his Harley. She uses measuring and cutting tools and grids, which would challenge the talents of the best land surveyors.

A

Gloria and I very much appreciate your warm hospitality this evening.

In closing, the hotel management has asked me to remind you that those found cutting up the table cloths for quilting fabric will have their rotary cutters confiscated and forfeited to the Crown.”

[lughnasadhborn]

More witchcraft asks

21. Do you use feathers, claws, fur, pelt, skeletons/bones, or any other animal body part for magical work? I never have, although I have some fish teeth and bird bones from the beach.  The traditions I’ve been following don’t seem to incorporate that sort of thing very much. 22. Do you have an altar? I do, although it’s not particularly amazing.  Candle, water, feather, and salt (sea salt and pink Himalayan mixed), some incense, my athame, seashell and sand dollar, sage bundle for smoke cleansing, a bell, a figurine to represent Brigid on a little Connemara marble pedestal and flanked by a Connemara marble candleholder and a Connemara marble Celtic cross, my wand (just a forsythia branch straight from the bush, but I like it), my cauldron, a couple boxes of crystals, and some flowers from our garden.  I recently got altar cloths to correspond to each season, though.  Summer is a yellow cloth covered with a gauzy, transparent yellow piece of tulle or something with a sparkly spiral pattern on it.  Here’s a not very good picture of part of it:

23. What is your preferred element? When I started practicing witchcraft I was like I’M SUCH A FIRE WITCH I LOVE FIRE ALL FIRE ALL THE TIME, but as I’ve worked with the other elements I’ve built connections with them too.  I particularly like working with Fire and Air together, burning twigs and herbs in my cauldron and watching the wind blow the smoke around. 

24. Do you consider yourself an Alchemist? I am not familiar with this term in this particular context so I guess not. 

25. Are you any other type of magical practitioner besides a witch? I’m not really sure what this means either; do you mean am I a Druid or something?  I tend to subsume all the magic I do under the title of “witchcraft.” 26. What got you interested in witchcraft? I was working on writing a book with Wiccan main characters and the more research I did the more I felt drawn to it.  But to be perfectly honest, LJ Smith’s Secret Circle books got me interested before that; I kind of dismissed it as “just YA fantasy novels, obviously this isn’t REAL witchcraft,” but actually they are significantly grounded in real pagan/Wiccan traditions (or the first two are, the ones actually written by Smith herself) and that’s probably what got me interested in crystals and herbs and the Wheel of the Year. 27. Have you ever performed a spell or ritual with the company of anyone who was not a witch? Nope.  I’m solitary and have never done a spell in the direct presence of anyone else; my wife (and my cats) are around but not involved. 28. Have you ever used ouija? No, I’m still spooked by that.  I have never heard a good story about that, but I’ve heard plenty of bad ones. Of course the bad stories tend to be from people who had no idea what they were doing and just set up a board and dove in, demanding to speak to dead people or any other spirits who happen to be around, which is just not a great idea. But I do get spooked by the thought of communicating with dead people and otherworldly spirits at all, so I’ve given Ouija a bye. 29. Do you consider yourself a psychic? Ha, I wish.  I have never had the slightest amount of psychic ability; I’ve tried to cultivate it since I started practicing witchcraft but I don’t think I’ve come very far yet. 30. Do you have a spirit guide? If so, what is it? I don’t have one that I know of. 31. What is something you wish someone had told you when you first started? You can do spells with birthday candles instead of buying chime candles and then babysitting them for 2-3 hours while they burn down. Everything else is stuff I think I had to figure out on my own as I got more comfortable with practicing. (Well, no, actually, one thing it would have been useful to have someone tell me: “Wildberry incense is all cheap sawdust and synthetic fragrance, no real herbs or spices in it, and also your wife is *horribly* allergic to it, so if you want real herbs in your incense and you also don’t want your wife to choke to death, go with Shoyeido Japanese incense, which is less smoky and not made with crappy fake perfumes.”) 32. Do you celebrate the Sabbats? If so which one is your favorite? I do, yes.  I have several favorites; Imbolc is Brigid’s holiday, and Lughnasadh is my birthday, and I love the fire of Beltane and the symbolism of dark turning to light on Yule. 33. Would you ever teach witchcraft to your children? I’m sure I will teach them some things about witchcraft and paganism, but I think the primary religious tradition I’m raising them in is Unitarian Universalism.  But that meshes with paganism and witchcraft well anyway, so we’ll see.  I don’t intend to hide witchcraft from them. 34. Do you meditate? Me and my ADHD are terrible at meditating, but I like to try. 35. What is your favorite season? I love the profusion of flowers and the gentle weather of spring and early summer. 36. What is your favorite type of magick to perform? Candle magick, I guess.  Pretty much all my spells include some kind of candle magick. 37. How do you incorporate your spirituality into your daily life? It’s just the outlook that I take, the way that I look at things.  I do brief spells nearly every night, but my belief that the divinity in the universe and in nature is greater and more complex than any one belief system could incorporate means that I regard people with different belief systems as also taking part in that search to tap into divinity.  Basically I think Christian prayers, say, are or can be as magickal as any spell I can do, and so I regard myself as having a lot of company in the search for the divine, and I try to treat other people treading different paths as brethren.  I’m not sure that answered the question at all. 38. What is your favorite witchy movie? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a movie that incorporated witchcraft in a way that I thought was even vaguely based on real practices of real-life witches.  Like I think I saw The Craft when I was in 10th grade and liked it OK, but that’s the last thing I can think of, unless you count stuff like Harry Potter. 39. What is your favorite witchy book, both fiction and non-fiction? Why? Non-fiction – as I mentioned in the previous set of questions, I’ve been having cognitive problems that have made it hard for me to really focus on books that are new to me, so I haven’t read as much as I would like to, and most of what I’ve read is Wiccan stuff because I identified that way when I first began practicing, but it didn’t really work for me over time.  I like what I’ve read of Courtney Weber’s Brigid, but I haven’t finished it.  For fiction, OK, fine, probably the Secret Circle books. I have a whole headcanon where all the girls are queer and the boys don’t have much to do with anything. :P (Seriously, though, Deborah is REALLY REALLY GAY.) 40. What is the first spell you ever performed? Successful or not.  It was a confidence spell; I lit a gold chime candle and held a piece of tiger’s eye (the first crystal I ever bought, and my cat stole it that night and lost it God knows where) and meditated on confidence, and there may have been a sachet or amulet involved, I forget.  I was trying to develop the confidence to go back to working on writing.  I wouldn’t say it was terribly successful, but I liked it.  (all questions here, blank and C&P-able)