Woman with Cross and Skull
19th c. – Qajar period, Iran
Opaque watercolor and gold on paper

Mistick Krewe of Comus float design, by Jennie Wilde — 1910
(see link below for the full set!)

(Any idea about who painted this? Tin Eye was stumped.
I traced it back toblessedwildapplegirl but the buck stopped there.)

✸ Bibiodyssey’s post on vintage Mardi Gras Designs
Mistick Krewe of Comus 1910 float designs
of float design drawings by Jennie Wilde
browse them all at the Louisiana Research Collection
I remember at French Quarter Postal Emporium they used to sell little postcard books of these.
I was always too broke to buy them, so would look at them when standing in line waiting to mail
my parcels, much to the chagrin of the fussy queens who worked there.

✸ I think I’ve mentioned my love for Shirley & Spinoza Radio before,
but it’s been awhile. I had forgotten how much I loved them. How could I?
They play the best, oddest and most obscure scraps of brilliance ever.

✸ Academy Award-nominated actress and Austin artist Susan Tyrrell loves sex, fags and gangsta rap.
Hooray for Susu Tyrrell, and hooray for my friend Chris Apollo Lynn, who interviewed her.

This article on the temptation of memory engineering is extremely absorbing:
✸ Removable Truths – A memory expert’s indestructible past.
By William Saletan
Reading it has made me fixate on our fallible and flexible memories. I recently
had an odd experience, where I realized that I had vividly remembered something
(the color, make and model of a friend’s car) that turned out to be wildly inaccurate.
It’s disturbing to think about, really. How could I remember it to be a burgundy Chevy
hoopty when it was really a white Mercedes diesel? I guess it was dark, and I was very
distracted – but really? That’s kind of a huge discrepancy. I was shocked to discover it.
Thanks to William Gibson for recommending this article, among many other things-
and speaking of, for the following recommendations as well:

✸ William Gibson’s favorite science fiction novels
I haven’t read a single one of these, though Wiley Wiggins did try to foist
Dhalgren on me years ago. Gibson says, “It won’t work unless you can allow
it to become your head for a few weeks; it helps if you’re rather young.” I think
I was too jaded by that point to really get into it. I’d discovered early on what my
bag was as far as science fiction went, from devouring my dad’s 70′s pulp paperbacks.
I tend not to dig anything where the characters are named Zorn or live on planet Xerzon.
The incredible images on the covers definitely made a huge impression on me, though.
I think I’ll need to see if my pops has any of the books on that list, and get my summer
space-sorceror escapist thing going. How about you? Got any favorite science fiction
I need to read? Lay it on me. We’re getting a new hammock tomorrow, so I need book-fuel!

✸ I just went on a bookspree and snatched up seven new books
but I absolutely must get this one next – it looks amazing:
CYCLONOPEDIA – Complicity with Anonymous Materials
By Reza Negarestani

“An American woman arrives in Istanbul to meet a pseudonymous
online acquaintance who never arrives. Discovering a strange manuscript in her hotel room,
she follows up its cryptic clues only to discover more plot-holes, and begins to wonder whether
her friend was a fictional quantity all along. Meanwhile, as the War on Terror escalates, the US
is dragged into an asymmetrical engagement with occultures whose principles are ancient, obscure,
and saturated in oil. It is as if war itself is feeding upon the warmachines, leveling cities into the desert,
seducing the aggressors into the dark heart of oil …

At once a horror fiction, a work of speculative theology, an atlas of demonology, a political samizdat
and a philosophic grimoire, Cyclonopedia is work of theory-fiction on the Middle East, where horror
is restlessly heaped upon horror. Reza Negarestani bridges the appalling vistas of contemporary world
politics and the War on Terror with the archeologies of the Middle East and the natural history of the Earth
itself. Cyclonopedia is a middle-eastern Odyssey, populated by archeologists, jihadis, oil smugglers,
Delta Force officers, heresiarchs, corpses of ancient gods and other puppets. The journey to the Underworld
begins with petroleum basins and the rotting Sun, continuing along the tentacled pipelines of oil, and at last
unfolding in the desert, where monotheism meets the Earth’s tarry dreams of insurrection against the Sun.”

✸ Burkas and Birkins -
I Watched 146 Minutes of Sex and the City 2 and All I Got Was This Religious Fundamentalism by Lindy West
This is so goddamn hilarious – and I’m so grateful to Lindy for seeing this awful bit o’ tripe
so I don’t have to! I still have never seen even one episode of that show, and an entire film
based on it sounds completely intolerable. I do love pretty frippery and all, but whoa. Scary!

✸ Pamela Colman Smith’s Russian Ballet
Pixie Smith is my number one magicienne inspiration.
She’s at the head of the invite list for my fantasy seance
dinner party, along with Joseph Cornell, Edward Gorey,
Louise Brooks, Vali Myers, and Austin Osman Spare.
Who would you invite to yours?

✸ Why are the East of Cities usually Poorer?
(via the always kick-ass from Brainpickings)
Interesting! I’d always wondered about this.

✸ Honeybee death mystery deepens
Colony collapse disorder linked to mix of fungal and viral infections.
A good article with actual information rather than hysteria. Don’t get me
wrong – I am worried about the bees every day, but having any clues as
to what is actually ailing them is the only way we can setting about changing
that. I can’t wait for the day when I can start to set up my hives. Honey magic!

✸ Post Pridematic Stress Syndrome – Shaking out Austin’s weekend of Pride
Here’s the run-down of articles, info and tantalizing tidbits from Pride,
including the entire text of Silky Shoemaker’s stunning speech at Queerbomb!

My dear friend Ooops is an amazing aerial artist who recently choreographed
and performed this piece as an homage to our friend Noah Vasilchek.
With Niki Frisky as her deer-twin, and the inimitable Chris Lane as emcee, and a bunch of
rowdies at One Eyed Jacks hootin’ and hollerin’. This is one of my favorite aerial performances, ever.

That’s what’s floatin’ around the rusty brainpan of late!
If you’ve got any suggestions for books/music/art/culture/information
that I need to know about, drop me a line on my tin can telephone.
I’ll be hanging out with the reading in my cave by the river with the
skulls of obscure saints to keep me company. Passenger pigeons
or smoke signals are accepted also, and if you travel in dreams,
come say hello. I get around most nights, more than I would’ve
guessed – but judging from how often I seem to pop up in the
dreams of friends and future friends, it seems I’m a nightly roamer.

My plan is to be a unicorn. More specifically, my childhood ideal
of a unicorn girl incarnate. It’s a natural progression from my
Unicorn Princess costume circa Mardi Gras 2005.
This time, I’ll actually be the creature, rather than just having
it emerge from my ribcage. I thought about trying to recycle my
unicorset, but decided against it for various reasons, namely:
1. It’s nailed to Dana’s pantry wall in New York.
2. It’s all moldy from Hurricane Katrina
3. It would be a total cop-out to re-use it.

(Photo by Steve Passlow)
My inspirations have a lot to do with Lisa Frank Trapper Keepers
and puffy stickers, as well as more traditional sources like
De Historia Et Veritate Unicornis and ancient woodcuts and tapestries.

(Sara, age 7, at SLC Pride. Photo by D Sharon Pruitt.)

I think it’s a pretty common thing to have been totally obsessed with
unicorns if you were a little girl who grew up in the eighties,
but of course I feel like I was particularly fixated. Freudian, yeah okay.
I am unashamed of my hardcore unicorn infatuation. They represent
everything that is perfect and magic, and I still believe in them.

Kesh is always an inspiration to me. I wanna make dresses with her
and then go dancing! The girl is made of unicorn magic, for real.

Oh, um. Now I die from the cute. Sorry, but I had to include sno-cone kitty!

(Photo by Nymphadooora)
Must figure out the macquillage! No doubt it will involve
many tiny iridescent stars and hearts. I’m kidding around
here folks – we’re going whole hog, rainbows and moonbeams.

The wig I ordered is super magical and mane-like,
and even better than what Miss Moss has – though
it’s true that I’ve long wished for cotton candy pale pink
hair since I was little bitty. I think it’s the loveliest.
Very hard to find a wig that really gets it right.

This is perfection, as far as I’m concerned.
Makes my heart pitter-patter!

Where am I going to find a herd of candy goats anyway?

I wish I knew who this artist was. Any leads, anyone?

It’s been kind of a heavy time over here in Grackleville,
and I feel like embodying my childhood fantasy might
take me to a place that I used to venture to in daydreams.
You know, the meadows of silvery clover behind the waterfall?
I think that dressing up as your hopes and dreams, (or your nightmares)
can be very cathartic. Costume therapy, maybe. Mummer’s magic.
And yourself? What will you be dressing up as for Halloween?
Where are you drawing your inspiration from?

She was born to be my Unicorn
Robed head of ferns
Cat child tutored by the learned.

She Was Born to Be My Unicorn
- T. Rex

Well, not really! I’ve been hard at work and doing a lot of thinking, my friends-
and so I do apologize for the quiet. Exciting things are soon to be revealed!
The season is turning, and in these liminal states we find hidden knowledge.
My dreams are getting wild again- are yours? What’s the latest from dreamland?

I can’t recall where I found this now, but I remember being shocked and delighted
to stumble upon it! Someone liked my kookla costume, and decided to sketch it…
But who? Was it you? Do tell. It’s like going through the looking glass, to find such a thing!

Thanks to Miss Ghoul Next Door, I’ve become totally obsessed with this carte de visite
depicting Maria Germanova of the Moscow Arts Theatre, costumed for her role
in Bluebird of Happiness. She is my perfect style icon, now and forever.

Onward, says she! Spurring me towards greater heights and flurries of productivity!

With that in mind, as I take a break from other writings,
here are some bits of fascinating distraction to inspire and delight:

✧ When I was in New York recently, I took a calming sojourn in St. Mark’s Bookshop
(one of my favorite spots) and very nearly bought a copy of Finding Frida Kahlo.
The weight and price deterred me, but imagine my pique when I discovered
the controversy! I think I still need it, even if it’s all a hoax- as literary hoaxes
have their own magic- think Thomas Chatterton and JT Leroy, hmm?

✧ Asgarda – Amazons of the Ukraine!
“In the Ukraine, a country where females are victims of sexual trafficking
and gender oppression, a new tribe of empowered women is emerging.
Calling themselves the “Asgarda”, the women seek complete autonomy from men.
Residing in the Carpathian Mountains, the tribe is comprised of 150 women of varying ages,
primarily students, led by 30 year-old Katerina Tarnouska. Reviving the tribal traditions
of the Scythian Amazons of ancient Greek mythology, the Asgarda train in martial arts,
taught by former Soviet karate master, Volodymyr Stepanovytch, and learn life skills
and sciences in order to become ideal women. Little physical documentation
existed on the tribe, until recently, when renowned French photographer,
Guillaume Herbaut, met the Asgarda back in 2004 in the midst of the Orange Revolution.”

Looking at these images, I am filled with a powerful emotion I can barely articulate.
I think this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s so crazy that I had this powerful
urge to shave part of my head, as a ritual for shedding the old, and to become a warrior.
That was my impetus for doing it, and the minute it was done- I felt so strong and right!
It’s an Asgarda haircut! Please go look, and read about them.
I feel like I’ve been dreaming about this my whole life.
Pictures soon- I need to re-do it already, it’s grown out so much.

On a less profound note, some news from the ether:

✧ Did you know the Chuck Berry and Sylvia Plath were lovers?
You learn these things from Bishi, twitter, and The Independent.
“The archetypal rock’n'roller met the legendary poet at Smith College in 1955,
when he and his band played at a summer “homecoming ball”.
Berry was then 29 and tasting success for the first time with Maybellene,
named after a line of cosmetics. His band, the Sir John Trio, were No 1
in the charts and their hard R’n'B sound was a “cool” alternative,
among progressive colleges, to the soupy country and western fare
generally heard at college “hops”. Plath was 22, a senior student at Smith
and in the process of conquering her demons. After a failed suicide attempt,
a period of electroshock and therapy, she had sailed through the final exams
and was about to graduate summa cum laude. In a mood to let her hair down,
she danced through Berry’s entire set and, through the college ball committee,
arranged to meet him backstage. They conversed for an hour about
the underpinning of rhythm by the human heartbeat and Berry invited
the flushed and excitable Plath to join him at a nearby motel.
College friends provided a cover story for Plath in the next two weeks
as she accompanied the band on a tour of Maine, New England and Maryland,
occasionally helping with cooking and washing duties, before returning to Smith.
Berry fondly commmemorated their brief but passionate union in Little Silver Dollar,
while Plath immortalised her quondam lover in Berry Song
(“Love set you ticking like a fat gold watch …”)
She was to meet and marry Ted Hughes in Cambridge only a few months later.”

Thanks to Darla Teagarden and Coilhouse, I am now officially in the painful throes
of wool-want. For only £870.00 I can have this incredible thing, the CP 1919 Woolen Cape.
Now no other winter covering will do. I’m going to be shivering, naked in the streets without it.

✧ Speaking of naked.. Really? I want one!
Plans Put on Hold for Gold Statue of Semi-Naked Nick Cave

✧ Oh and I love this photo set of Kate Bush when she was a wee girl! Thanks Tara!

The past month has been quite a whirlwind. I feel like I’ve been on a constant carousel,
or perhaps in a speeding racecar with a lion. “Whee!” says the lion. “Waah!” says me.

Perhaps this should be more my pace for the next little while, eh? Llama races!
What else? Black tea, seaweed, Balsam fir incense, and cool winds.
Summer’s gone baby gone, just like that. Hello, October!
Tell me all about your favorite tidbits, won’t you?

I realized also, in reading the comments, how much addiction
turns up in our subconscious- even many years after habits
have been kicked. I can’t believe I forgot to mention one of my
most common recurring dreams: the smoking dream!
I quit smoking in January of 2006, the day after my birthday.
It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do,
and one of the best things I ever could’ve done for myself.
I started smoking when I was about 12 or 13- awful, I know!.
It was Sobranie Black Russians- I figured if I was going to ruin my health,
I had better do it in style with the very best- and they really are!
Anyhow, after many years of looking real cool and hacking up lung oysters,
I fell in love, and quickly realized that my smoking days were done.
You see, it’s hard to do something that limits your days on this earth
when you’ve found someone you want to spend the rest of your life with.
I knew it would be utterly hypocritical to feel that way and keep smoking,
so that was it. Cold turkey, no acupuncture or nicotine gum. Nada.
I was tearful and monstrous, and after a few months it wasn’t something
I thought about too much. But I do, at least when I’m asleep.
Three years later, I still have the most vivid dreams where I’m inhaling
deeply on a cigarette, sucking it almost down to the filter. Sometimes
I realize what I’m doing and freak out. Other times, I shrug- realizing that
I’m dreaming, and that dream cigarettes aren’t harmful- or are they?

(This photo, and the ones below by Ineke Kamps)

Oh, and whilst searching for images to accompany my recurring dreams,
I stumbled upon the amazing photography of Ineke Kamps (aka. moggierocket).
How I would love to discover this secret room, awake or dreaming!
Her photos reminded me of another dream I have all the time:

MY DUSTY FORMER HOMES:
I go and visit my old houses sometimes
and find the remnants of my old life
covered in a thick grey dust.
I wander around, touching things I left behind.
It makes it very clear that past is past,
and that I can never go back-
and that’s a good thing.

Despite the heavy tone of all this, I’m actually
dancing around to Tina Turner (Sexy Ida, yeah!)
and go do frivolous lady-things, hooray!

Do you have recurring dreams? What are they? What do you think they mean?

Mine are these:

TIDAL WAVES

I’ve had this dream since I was little.
I used to think it indicated that I lived in Atlantis
in a past life. I discovered later that in dreams
water = emotion – aha!
Suddenly it all made sense- running from a behemoth,
a moving wall of water hundreds of stories high.
Terrified of being caught beneath it when it finally
crashes down. Most times I would wake up before then,
but sometimes it would crash over me, and then I’d be
paddling around in a salty morass of soggy papers
and suitcases and floating four poster beds,
frantically trying to rescue all my memories
from the water. I would survive it.
Mostly this dream had to do with the immense grief
I felt after my mother died when I was a little girl.
I never really dealt with it, because it was too big.
I thought that if I let myself feel all of that pain
that it would kill me. Drown me in tears.
I made some headway with those dreams-
now I pay attention to the water, the choppy currents,
the great white sharks and the little leaks and trickles
that suddenly become overwhelming floods.
I try to be aware of my emotions in the same way,
confront them and give them release before
they overwhelm me utterly and I run.

MISSING THE PARADE – MARDI GRAS COSTUME NOT FINISHED!

(Photo by Lisa Loffenn)

This is my number one anxiety dream.
Some people have anxiety dreams about
not studying for a test or being naked in public,
and I suppose this is my version of that.
In these dreams, I’ve not finished my costume
or I’ve stayed out all night and find myself at 10am
far from home and my ensemble, stranded and stressed.
Sometimes the parade passes me by, everyone bedecked
in glory, and I stand tattered and smeary, utterly crushed.
A few times I’ve dreamt that a parade (maybe Krewe de Vieux)
is passing on the street below, but I can’t get out onto the balcony
or down the stairs because my costume is too big!
Ridiculous, I know- but these really are the things I worry about.

TEETH FALLING OUT

(A still from The Deadly Spawn, 1980)

(Photo by Horrible Cherry)

(Photo by Paddy Patterson)

I only have this dream occasionally,
but I know a lot of people that have it.
So disturbing. I’ve heard lots of interpretations:
loss of control, important decisions, money worries..
I think it has to do with a loss of control,
or a loss of face. Maybe it’s different for everyone,
but it seems to be a universal stress dream.

TORNADOS

(Photo by P Josh D)

Tornados mean something very specific
in my dreams, but I’m not really sure I have words to explain it.
I’m not afraid of them. They are exciting, and somehow sentient.
Sometimes I’m driving very fast over dusty desolate roads
with my sister. We gun the engine and head straight towards
them laughing, laughing. The most significant dream I’ve
had about them is as follows:

I see a white tornado in the distance,
a churning, whirling wraith intent on
savaging the idyllic scene I see before me:
deep slate blue sky and golden fields,
the pristine farmhouse stark and shivering..
I try to warn my companions, who are hazy
and faceless and who don’t seem to be alarmed.
I climb up on the hood of a broken-down car
for a better view, my only thought is that I
must stop this thing- somehow.
I hear a howling behind my left shoulder
and turn to see that another furious funnel
of white wind has begun to form behind me.
Without thinking, I reach into it and
separate it with my hands into two-
as you would a thick fall of hair for plaiting.
I take both cyclones in heavy handfuls
and crack them like bullwhips,
the way you do with rattlesnakes-
grabbing them by the tails,
shattering their spines
and whipping their brains out
of their mouths with a sharp snap.
Having dispersed these minor monsters,
I turn to intercept the juggernaut
rushing my way with the intention
of disposing of it by a similar method.

This may be the most intensely symbolic dream
I’ve ever had- entirely vivid, and visceral in every way.

KISSING WOLVES

I have this dream every once in awhile
where I am making out with a wolf.
It’s not some bestial thing, and it’s not
really clear if I’m a wolf or a woman,
or how the logistics of kissing wolves
really works with all those teeth and all.
Strange.

SECRET ROOMS

I’ve had this dream since I was little,
of discovering secret rooms or chambers.
One of the first dreams I can remember,
I found an enormous cathedral-like theater
in the steeple of my church. Swooping
red curtains. An apt analogy for my young
mind to make, hmm? When I lived in
a tiny baba yaga shack with only one room,
I constantly dreamed that I would find other rooms
that always been there, behind walls or partitions.
Once I dreamt of a whole second floor!

THIS CERTAIN PART OF THE FOREST

The Higgeldy-Piggledy Tree – Lullingstone Park
Photo by Glen

I find myself in this place sometimes.

NICK CAVE

I used to dream about Nick Cave constantly.
He was my number one schoolgirl crush.
I don’t guess I really need to go into major
detail regarding these, though I will say that
mainly we were having extremely engaging
conversations and strolling. Mostly.

And you? Can you interpret any of these?
I’ve heard it said that there is nothing more dull
than hearing about someone else’s dreams,
but I completely disagree! I love dreams,
and when friends have strange and fascinating ones,
it makes me love them even more.
I hate not remembering my dreams.
I love lucid dreaming, and visiting friends
and future friends there.
I have premonitory dreams,
but they’re mostly useless prophecies.
Have you ever predicted the future in your dreams?

I finally get to visit Casa Francesca,
a magical abode stuffed with wonderful books,
and nooks and typewriters.
It is around 100 years old,
and at night the tiny staircase
will tell you noisy stories.

Oh how I love peeling paint on old houses.

In Muncie, Indiana times are hard.
So many of these once grand, now tattered houses
are boarded up- doomed to ruin in ghost-town
neighborhoods. The inhabited houses are obvious
for their strollers sprawled in the lawn and tied-up dogs.

Twin maple wings

Spring has only just begun in earnest here,
so I’m tilted back to weeks ago, and the tulips
have erupted in a fanfare of petalled flame.

Burned out wrecks have fields of wood violets in the back.

Walking through deserted alleys, you may come across
piles of mysterious hair, discarded fright wigs
left by forgetful or tearful witches.

DESOLATION STATION
Indiana is beautiful, bleak buildings and bright riots
of flowers, dying dogs, big thunderstorms.
That, and the sound of trains off in the distance-
when I was little I had tapes of storms and locomotives
I would listen to help me get to sleep.
This place is somewhere between GUMMO
and In Cold Blood, which I am now reading.
The midwest, where “the tawny infinitude of
wheatstalks bristle, blaze.”

EVERYTHING FOR EVERYBODY

Dodge City Road Dawgs
is not our favorite bar however,
that would be the Red Dog Saloon,
where the bartendress is hawk-nosed
cree-looking woman with a black eye
and a nasty cut on the ridge of one eye.

Many perfect mornings spent here,
waking with shuffleboard sand under my fingernails.
A red cardinal levitating outside the window.
Yesterday we visited a parliament of wee screech owlets.
I’ve been dreaming of snakes, and earthquakes.

The Blanchette is a goat-fairy who appears
on New Year’s Eve to bestow blessings upon a household.
She comes bearing two babies, one is sweet
and rosy-cheeked and crowned with a garland of blossoms.
The other child is sickly, wan and hollow-cheeked.
If you keep your hearth swept free of ashes,
and your house cleaned thoroughly,
then you may be blessed by the Blanchette’s visit.
A room must be prepared and a table laid out
with a crisp white cloth and bread and wine
and fruits and other delights so that the Blanchette
will leave the sweet happy babe there
to bless the home and those who dwell in it
with health, wealth and good luck.
However, if the Blanchette alights
to find the house a slovenly sty strewn
with ashes, debris and filthy garments-
she will leave the wretched child there
to shiver and cough and snivel
and torture all inhabitants
with its pitiful mewling.
Ill luck will befall the unkempt hearth!

Attract the boon and blessing of the Blanchette with a tidy and happy home!
The Blanchette was made for me by my darling Pandora Gastelum.

This year has been amazing-
lots of firsts, playing sticky wings like a newly hatched bug.
Trying new things and discovering great joy in them..

♥ I started taking a jewelry class, from an amazing teacher.
So far I’ve made a bracelet and a wee little ring.
(Pictures to follow whenever I get a new camera,
as mine perished over the holiday, alas!)
I was a bit intimidated when I first began,
for a number of reasons- but it is such
absorbing and satisfying work, in a great studio
with wonderful people. I’ve got so many projects
in mind- so many things I’m excited to make..

♥ I’ve been performing a lot this year-
playing ocean-harp and also singing
onstage in front of lots and lots of people
for the first time ever! I was so terrified
for weeks, but somehow I managed to do it,
without forgetting any words or screwing up!
I did this in a mermaid costume also.
Apparently, it all went over quite well!

♥ Also Hello Lovers asked me to play ocean harp
on their upcoming album. I’d never worked in a
recording studio before. I really enjoyed the
experience and was so honored to be a
part of their music. I can’t wait for it to come out!

♥ I had work in a group show at Volitant Gallery:

♥ I started painting again, in gouache.

♥ I became a full-fledged antiques dealer!
So far, it’s going extremely well.
It’s sort of the perfect thing for me
to be doing- I am finding the most
incredible things.. Dangerous!

♥ We planted fruit trees and devoured the harvest!
Shockingly sweet pomegranates! Juicy wee peaches!
Figs and blackberries and pecans and mandarin oranges!

♥ I began my Saturn Return. So far, I think it’s a very good thing. Lots of work to do.

♥ I set up my studio recently- this is something
I have been longing for and needing
for such a long time.
Right now it’s the only place I want to be.

♥ I frolicked in snow in Michigan for hexmas!

As far as resolutions go..
I’ve been a terrible correspondent this year-
Apologies to all who deserve letters from me,
I have rarely been so busy- but now I have a desk..

I really must-must-must learn to drive.
I started with lessons, but didn’t progress
incredibly far. I’m terrified, actually.
Seems silly when I’ve gotten around on a bicycle
for so long, but it’s true.

Break the black ice!

Love and luck to you and yours in the New Year!

I am Spirulina, the Seaweed Queen!

Amazing Jebus

Beautiful Princess Mombi

Violet made a gorgeous cuckoo clock costume.
So very black forest fancy!

Pris threatened to twist heads off with her thighs all night.

Mimes!

Colin was an incredible bone collector/forest-creature/river-spirit
(川の神 kawa no kami)

His mask was so amazing, the bones made a lovely sound when he walked.

Alisan was an Alligator Princess with the most unbelievably stunning
crocheted metal tail festooned with prickly pear cactus spikes.
I wish I’d gotten a good picture of her entire ensemble..

Here she is, however- at the end of the night
where we are heavy-lidded and dreamy,
turning into pumpkins..

All Soul’s Day is honored at my tiny muertos altar,
a meagre ofrenda for my beloved dead ones..
My heart is parading for Day of the Dead in New Orleans..
Recently, I had this strange dream:
We are riding high on the overpass
past burnt out buildings, skyrises
and office complexes destroyed by fire, explosions.
I smell the lingering odor of jet-fuel and realize
that I am mixing up my disasters.
The airplanes flew into these skyscrapers,
immolating all the grey-suited workers and then
tidal waves of briny salt water rushed in to carry
them all out to sea.
The gutted husks, blackened with soot and mold
gape at eye-level, a testament to the destruction
of business as usual.
Next thing I know I’m on the street-car,
bumping over the tracks and as I gaze down
(somehow out and over, extended through the window
my nose inches from the ground)
the sunlight through the slats
makes chiascuouro stripes, strobing black and gold.
In between the wooden slats and metal rails,
tiny bisque dollies, frozen charlottes, are lined up.
Each one represents a victim of the terrible serial killer
that has been plaguing New Orleans neighborhoods.
There are so, so many.
Black dolls, white dolls, boy dolls,
girl dolls, baby dolls, and granny dolls.
Mardi Gras Indian dolls too.
I am crying, gasping doubled over, uncontrollably seized
by this inexorable loss- insult to injury, to murder
a community when it’s so far down.
So many dolls, each one lined up tenderly.
Placed there between the rails as testament
by the ones who loved them, who are left,
who may be next.
The old ladies on the streetcar tut-tut
and hand me hankies and shake their
gaudy prayer beads. They tell me:
“You know he sat in that very seat
where you are sitting right now.
Everyone says he’s very stupid,
but he’s not.
He is extremely intelligent.
That’s how he’s been able to kill
so many and not get caught.”
The serial killer is our president.
He is willful neglect, ethnic cleansing
using natural disaster as a weak guise.
Hiding murderous intention behind ham-handed fumbling.
I get off at the Cafe du Monde Train Station (I wish it really existed!)
where the sympathetic ticket-seller lady
nods kindly at my tear-smeary face and gives me an eclair.
I get on my bicycle and there’s this church
I need to get to in a field where a party is happening
but I’ve never been there before and I’m lost.
I ask the neighbors for directions
and pull out a map, tracing imaginary itineraries
for routes I’ve never taken, but only dreamed of.
I’m always dreaming about bike routes in New Orleans
I never saw before. There are so vivid, so real.
I wonder if they are really there.

Santissima Muerte!

Darling San Francisco Kittens,
I am coming your way!
My grandfather and I will be in town
from November 11th-17th
short and sweet..
Please, let’s frolic-
show me your favorite places!

For everyone in Austin,
please come to the GHOSTS SHOW
at the Museum of Ephemerata
Saturday, November 3rd
from 7pm-10pm
I’ve lent them some pieces
for the exhibition, Luna Tart
will be performing, and it
will be glorious.

Last month, during the freak ice storm
it snowed. In Texas.
Something I haven’t seen since
I was about five years old..

It was eerie.
Everything shut down for a few days.
I stayed home and shivered.
Huddled around the heater,
sipping soup and dreaming.
When I ventured out doors
to try and capture the flurries,
I was captivated instead by
an unfamiliar sound.
The clatter of frozen leaves
and branches creaking in the wind.

Such icy fingers you have!

To many of you who live in regions
with four distinct seasons,
these images and revelations
will no doubt seem mundane..
But for a southern girl who has
seen snow only a scant handful of
times, it was terribly exciting!

Thick coatings of ice on every object
made for excellent staring,
until my fingers got too numb
for shooting.

A slivery chip of ice stuck in a cat skull
by chance. It was found under the house
and the other animals won’t stop
gnawing on it. There’s not much
left of it at this point.

Frozen pollywog and shiny china.

My bicycles were covered in icicles!

It was just lovely.

Much better, however to be inside, in the warm kitchen with Miss O.
It’s the kind of weather that makes you want
to stay inside and drink tea and read this
very wonderful book that was my favorite
when I was small:

Arm in Arm: A Collection of Connections,
Endless Tales, Reiterations, and Other Echolalia
by Remy Charlip
One of my favorite pages went like so-
On the left, a child playing in the snow says,
“Isn’t it better to be out in the cold snow saying,
‘Isn’t is better to be out in the cold snow
rather than in a warm bed?’
rather than in a warm bed saying,
‘Isn’t it better to be out in the cold snow
rather than in a warm bed?’”
On the right, a child in a bed
of six sleeping children says,
“Isn’t it better to be in a warm bed saying,
‘Isn’t it better to be in a warm bed
rather than out in the cold snow’
rather than out in the cold snow saying,
‘Isn’t it better to be in a warm bed
rather than out in the cold snow?’”
Charmingly, the windows of each side
present a view of the other scene,
with a hint of each element
echoed in reverse on either side.
You really should just go look
at it for yourself.

J-bird looking sweet and thoughtful.
Just the other day, he called me and asked me to send him a copy
of the first (or earliest surviving) picture I ever drew.

Here it is!
Check out the fat hummingbirds,
stripey socks, arms and dress..
I must have been about 4 or 5
when I drew this.
It’s a fancy lady! With hearts!
Long eyelashes!
Wearing dangly earrings!
Holding a plant!
My mom had framed it,
but I found it in a box
with the glass all smashed
in my parent’s garage.
It’s about to disintegrate.
It makes me happy.

I meant to write about the cold weather,
but somehow I’m writing about being little.
I had this dream the other night:
We are walking past
a little girl has a hole in her
bicycle tire- when she shakes it
water pours out.
They ask if we can patch it,
so we do- and I am looking
for a clean hankie to wipe
the smudges and tears
from her face.
I materialize one in my pocket
and a dab o’ spit and I’m
scrubbin’ at her cheek when
I see that she looks just like me.
Or just like me when I was wee.
I want to say something,
but it sounds too strange to say..
I think she was me, actually.
Or I am still, only bigger.