Going back over my photos from last year’s Queerbomb, I’m stepping back a bit and trying to forget for a moment that I am looking at pictures of my amazing friends who I love and admire, and just see them as faces, as people. I am struck most by how happy and comfortable in their own skin they all are – how truly filled with PRIDE they all are. Each and every person pictured here is proud to be who they are, proud to stand up for their rights, proud to dance in the streets of their city wearing sequins and fringe and fishnets and whatnot. Not one of these people carries fear or shame in their faces or in their bodies about who they are. I think that’s the most beautiful thing I could imagine – to picture a world where everyone felt free to whirl and twirl, to hold hands with the person they love in public, to not worry about standing out, or looking silly or odd, but to freely embrace all of that. These faces are strong, are indomitable, courageous, outrageous, creative, and so incredibly precious to me. They are my community. They are Queerbomb.

Raven

Monika

Stanley Roy as Fantasy

Caitlin

Tamicka

Jake

David

LZ Love

Paul

Sing it, sister!

Aaron Flynn

Margie

Angelica

Tamara + Maggie

Drew + Amelia

I really love these shots of the parade, by my friend Ariela Baragona (Skellesix Photo) – these last few are all hers:

Especially this one of Rusty and Johna and I dancing under the bridge.

UNF! GIT IT.

I love how many photos of people hugging during the parade Ariele captured. The love was everywhere.

This one just kills me. So much love and peace in these faces. This right here is what it’s all about.

Beth, proud Queerbomb warrior!

Let that freak flag fly, y’all!

If you’re in Austin, come be a part of it this year. Even if you’re not – spread the word, contribute, or start your own Queerbomb – wherever you are!

QUEERBOMB 2012

My posts from Queerbombs of yore:

QUEERBOMB 2011!

QUEERBOMB MAGIC 2010

QUEERBOMB!

I found myself thinking about the Death card in the Tarot: a card that I find myself explaining to my tarot clients often – always quickly explaining that Death in a tarot spread rarely (if ever) signifies an actual physical death. Death represents transition, transformation, an evolution of spirit from one form to another, greater incarnation. It’s pretty much always a change for the best, though the process can be very painful, both for ourselves and for the people around us. When someone dies, people always say, “Death is hardest for those who are left behind.” and I find that that can ring true often, as we go through an evolution that people in our lives may not be expecting or quite ready for. Maybe they won’t be able to accompany us in the new version of our lives. I’ve been thinking of the image of a shedding snake: staying very still in the corner of its tank while its skin sloughs off. There are things we leave behind, pieces of ourselves, parts of our lives that no longer serve us in what we want to become. I’ve been deep in the chrysalis: a cocoon made of books and writing and reading and being still – seemingly immobile, inactive – while within, strange changes have been taking place. To the outside observer, a caterpillar has done all its work by merely creating its pupa. It would seem that once it has tucked itself away from the world, that it can rest – simply sleep, and awaken only when the transformation is complete. This is not the case. Deep work is happening inside that little shroud, and for a creature to become something so radically different from its former self must be incredibly intense. I realized this once when I found a moth pupa in my garden. It looked so hard, so dead – I wasn’t sure if it has hatched already or not. I touched it, and was shocked when it wriggled! Something profound was occurring within, behind that leathery veil.

(That thing made of pine needles or splinter beneath the doorknob is a tiny cocoon. Unfortunately, I now know that it is a bag worm!)

Finding myself in this state of transition has been a bit unnerving. I’ve tried to be patient with myself, tried to give myself time to process, to brood, to reflect on the subtle changes occurring within – while externally things have been shifting, too. It’s a time of endings, of cutting loose old ways and old ties. I’m taking a break from several projects that have consumed much of my time and energy over the last year – namely, the two monthly events I do, Vintage Vivant and Exquisite Corpse. I’ll talk more about my reasons for that at some point soon, but for now let’s just say that it’s time to take a rest there, and focus on other things. Even though I feel ready, and in many ways relieved – it’s still hard. It represents a shift in identity for me, and even though it likely won’t be permanent, I feel a part of myself retreating inward. I’ve been feeling less inclined towards entertaining huge groups of revelers, and more drawn to connecting in a deeper way with some of the wonderful people I have in my life. I’m not very good with change, with endings, or with people leaving – I’ve also had some very dear friends move away this year, and just when I was shifting things around in my life to have more time for spending quality time with them. I feel like I’m living in an O. Henry story all of a sudden. Tiny deaths, and big ones – all at once.

I know that new things are on the horizon, and that when one door closes, another opens. I do believe that, I feel it in my bones – but I’m not there yet. It’s hard for me to contemplate the future, or begin working on new projects when I’m still processing what’s currently ending. I think of the butterfly, freshly emerged from the cocoon, with wings still sticky, still soft and fragile. It has to sit there on a leaf or twig and flap its wings for a bit until its ready to fly. How strange that must be, to hatch out of your hidey-hole and discover you’ve become something different entirely. Every day I get closer. My wish and intention for this full moon is to fully walk through this door, to process these endings with grace, and to be fully renewed and ready to take on what’s ahead. On to the next one, eh?

It’s only fitting that as I resumed writing this, a massive storm rolled in unexpectedly, and blew away all the stagnant, heavy air that had been dragging me down all day. It put on an incredible lightning show for us, and smashed down one of the loudest thunder strikes I’ve ever heard! Scorpio brings shifting energies, and passionate intensity. I always say, Scorpio is all about sex and death (no surprise then, that New Orleans is a below sea-level city ruled by Scorpio!) Scorpio is the water sign that represents the deep, completely submerged aspect of water. Even though the tarot card assigned to Scorpio, is of course – Death, I always think of Scorpio when explaining the Moon card. When the full moon rises, it beckons up peculiar creatures from the depths, and these things are not always pretty to behold. The moon calls on our primal, animal natures – the parts of our psyches that are wild, savage and strange. I think of deep sea fish, swimming up from the benthic depths, lured by the brightness of that white orb. Things with too many glowing teeth and little lights on their heads – amazing creepy things that have stories to tell us, messages about what they’ve seen down below. The lobster in pictured in the Moon card is a crustacean messenger, (in a way a kind of sea scorpion) – if you’d never seen one before, you might run from it, rather than think of eating it! The wolf and the dog gather together to howl at the moon – the tamed part of ourselves joining with the wild to share in an ancient form of communication. These animals are the bearers of important lessons, and they show them to us through dreams: even (and often especially) the frightening dreams and nightmares that we may initially not want to examine so closely. Up from the depths of our subconscious these bogeymen come floating, to teach us about what we fear, and what we desire. De profundis clamavi. If you’ve been having weird dreams lately, write them down! Pay attention to them, and try and find out what they’re trying to tell you. I know if I did a reading for myself right now, that I would pull both Death and The Moon. I’ve never really thought of them as being connected to each other until now. It’s so odd that I’ve been meditating on my experience with the Death card so much recently, only to find out yesterday that the full moon would fall in the sign of Scorpio – making it all about being challenged to get clear about what we really want and need in our lives, and to let go of things that have ceased to help us grow, or grow with us. At some point soon, I’ll write about the distinction between Death and The Tower, another card of intense change – but instead, a change that is made for us, usually when we refused to do it for ourselves. The Tower is what happens when we reject the natural process that Death brings us – but I’ll expound more on that card another day…

The astrologer Leah Whitehorse has some interesting thoughts about this intense full moon and its key themes:

“Challenge your inner saboteur. Stop poisoning yourself (metaphorically or physically). Be clear about what you want. Who or what is sucking the life out of you? Consider what you would want in your obituary. Imagine the world 100 or a 1000 years from now. Strive to forget if you can’t forgive. Forgive yourself. Redress the balance between the sexes. Redress the balance between your animus and anima. Yin and yang. Check where you have given away too much of yourself. Bring back your power. Autonomy.”

I bought this lunar calendar recently from Rendij Studio – (looks like they’re sold out at the moment, but hopefully they’ll make more soon!) in hopes of staying more in touch with what’s happening in the sky. We have a full moon potluck circle called the Be A Better Witch Full Moon Supper Club, where we meet to share a meal, and to make something of our full moon together – be it a wee ritual, or storytelling, or whatever the host has envisioned. I’m hosting this one, and am planning to make everything I’ve written about here the focus of this month’s gathering – to share stories about subtle deaths, talk about transitions, and discuss how best to work through them. If the wood’s not all wet, maybe we’ll have a last fire for the season – since it is Beltane and all. We can burn what we want to let go of. Oh, and I’m making goat cheese stuffed lychees (little full moons!), and Flower Moon pasta. It will be good to concentrate on hosting something small, something more intimate – with an intention to do this work, and pass through this turning. I’ve been hearing from so many people about their own transitions – so, for better or worse, I know I’m not alone in this. How is the Scorpio Supermoon treating you?

☾ From Ruby Slipper Astrology: Confrontation With The Scorpio Full Moon

☾ Full Moon in Scorpio Horoscopes

☾ 50 Beautiful Pictures Of The Supermoon From Around The World

I’ve been thinking of a painting that made a huge impression on me as a child: Spring, by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema.
I suppose for a long time I didn’t even think of it as a painting necessarily. I had a postcard of little girls bearing flowers in a
procession. It had been my mother’s – sent to her by her dear friend Lenore, years before cancer made off with them both.
I had only ever seen about this much of it, though cut lengthwise. I never knew there was any more than that.
That little window into the parade was all I needed:

The little blonde urchin leading the procession gazes directly at you as she lets drop a handful of lavender.
Her friend with the basket of anemones is more coy, looking sidelong at someone unseen.
The older maidens are resplendent, lush, bearing blooming boughs and branches.

Years ago, I went with my grandparents to the new Getty museum. They had always taken us to the old one, the lovely villa that
I adored. The new one had just opened, and the lines were miles long. In the end we only had about an hour to dash through
and try and see things. The only things I can remember are Edgar Allen Poe’s writing desk, his daguerrotype portrait, and Spring:

I had no idea that all those years, I had only been looking at a tiny detail of this marvelous painting:

I rounded a corner, and there she was – decked in a gilded frame, the entire procession. It brought tears to my eyes, the shock
was so sudden. It was like seeing the girl you had a crush on in nursery school, grown into the most beautiful woman in the
world. There was so much more to see! I had never imagined the rest of it – there was so much more depth, a worldliness, a
wonder. I could’ve spent all day there, and in fact, I stayed rooted to the spot until they rounded everyone up and out.
Have you ever had an experience like that? I have a possessiveness with paintings I grew up with – I think that they belong to
me somehow, are related to me in some oblique way. The little infanta in Las Meninas, by Velázquez: I thought she was me.
My mother was Botticelli’s Venus. But then, I also thought Garrison Keillor was my uncle. Or at least a family friend.
For years, I thought that. My parents created an insular world for me in a way, where I pored over big art books and Little
Nemo and Hop and Pop and made no distinction between all the fantastic images I was drinking in.
They were all there for me, and they all shaped me, enormously.

Garden of Hope – James Gurney

I’ve always adored this illustration from Gurney’s wonderful children’s book Dinotopia. It features scenes of a beautiful dinosaur
parade, that I always thought I’d dreamed when I was a child. I have these very vivid memories of being in the little library in
the tiny town where I grew up. I remember the dim green light in there. It always felt cool, underwatery. There was a book there
that I loved, about a dinosaur parade. It also might have involved giant popcorn falling from the sky. Maybe I did dream it. Can
anyone remember a book like that? I’d love to find it again. I thought it was Dinotopia, but that one wasn’t published until 1991,
and I’m sure this must have been 1985 or so. Also, I’d just like to mention that people born in 1991 are now 21 years old.
Isn’t that bizarre? You’re welcome. Cometh the Spring! Dance while ye may! Gather ye rosebuds, and all that.
Did you celebrate Beltane, Floralia, Walpurgisnacht or any o’ that? If yes, I’d love to know how! Do tell.

The Progress of Spring (1905) – Charles Daniel Ward

“In a land of clear colours and stories,
In a region of shadowless hours,
Where earth has a garment of glories
And a murmur of musical flowers.”
– Algernon Swinburne, Dedication

Lusty Month of May – from Lerner & Loewe’s Camelot.

The Maypole Dance from The Wicker Man

So, I took all these photos from our party last year, but then got busy (as I do) and never really looked at
them or edited them since then. It’s funny to look at them now, a year later. I didn’t take any photos of all
the food, the decorations, the garden or the yard: just our beautiful friends, and their adorable children.
The full set is here: EASTERTIME 2011
And here are some of my favorites (though it was nearly impossible to choose!):

The lovely and always elegant Gail Chovan, lounging in the hammock.

Del Wieding, looking particularly dapper.

Gina + Kitty = basically the best people ever. I cannot handle their amazingness, honestly.

Miss Raven and her marvelous bunny-eared bonnet.

Sweet maidens!

Lovely Rowan.

Raven + Alisan.

Raven + Pearl kissing a tiny rooster!

Francesca made a friend.

Lali, flanked by wee widgets, Seth + Eliza.

Croquet! After the amount of sugar I know these children consumed that day, the focus
they’re all displaying here is truly remarkable. They were pretty serious about it!

Brian Daly and his boys, Mosey Anchor and Ulysses.

Pearl and Rowan – they are my young tarot students!

Sassy & John

Allyson + Greg

Allyson + Erika + easter lily!

Shari baby!

Wolfie

Adelle Rose

Felix

Katinka Pinka!

Sarahfina

A little chickybird!

& Jackie is another…

Scott Loy, purveyor of the wee rooster!

Dylan Blackthorn

Mlle. Lise

Sienna Alexandra O’Banion!

Frannie, working her trombone!

Ashley, beckoning from the doorway as dusk falls on Grackle Gardens…

What a lovely day it was!

And Easterness of yore:

♥ Eastertide

♥ Magic Windows #11

♥ Sketchy Bunnies!

♥ Bunnytown

♥ Easter Egg Hunt!

I’ve been meaning to finally write about my favorite springtime scents for ages, especially since I’ve managed to
write about what I like to wear most in summer, autumn and winter. I do tend to categorize scents by season, by
time of day, by color. I get a little funny about wearing certain perfumes out of context – it always feels a little
odd, a little wrong to wear something bright and summery on a dismal grey day. I’d almost rather embrace the
gloom instead of trying to combat it with an out of season scent. Same with wearing all my beloved, heavy
woods when the weather is warm – they’re too thick, too dark for spring days. But that’s kind of the tricky thing:
I love the idea of florals, but as far as actually wearing them goes, most are far too girly for me. I tend to prefer
men’s colognes, and scents that have a harder edge, more mystery, more depth. It’s been interesting to find
which florals I’ll go back to spring after spring – and I’ve found that there’s really only a handful. I’ve listed
a few of those below, along with others I’m curious about trying. What do you like to wear when spring comes on?

(Violetta’s Dead Baby Girl roses – these smell so marvelous!)

L’Ombre dans l’Eau
One of my very favorites from Diptyque. I think this one is the quintessential spring scent.
Imagine walking alone through a rain-wet wild English garden, tromping over muddy paths
down to a pond surrounded by black-currant thickets. You break a green and thorny cane
to swirl the shadows on the water, and crush pale lavender rose petals in your hands, letting
them float down to the surface, dancing around your reflection. The air is cold and very new.

Here’s a good review from Now Smell This: Diptyque L’Ombre dans L’Eau

I also adore CB I HATE PERFUME’s TEA/ROSE – it’s so simple and perfect:
just Indian Black Tea and Moroccan Rose Absolute that somehow smells so real, so fresh –
not like a powdered granny at all, but just like a true living rose pressed to your face. Magic.

I think Christopher Brosius understands and adores spring like few other souls –
thank goodness he happens to be a genius perfumer so he can translate his
perfect visions of these elusive florals into bottled fragrances. I love the idea
of New Yorkers wearing these underground, in the subways dank and dirty,
crammed full of harried city-dwellers who might catch a fleeting impression
of a wet field, a just-bloomed bulb, a dark purple bud warmed at the nape
of a stranger’s neck. Good perfume, real perfume, can be a secret love letter.
Here are a few I’m looking forward to exploring from CB I HATE PERFUME:

M2 BLACK MARCH
“A fresh clean scent composed of Rain Drops, Leaf Buds, Wet Twigs, Tree Sap, Bark, Mossy Earth and the faintest hint of Spring.”

M1 NARCISSUS
“The scent of narcissus, clean running water over mossy stones, the wind gently blowing through green leaves”

TO SEE A FLOWER
“Delicate spring flowers (hyacinth, daffodils, jonquils & crocuses), green shoots, wet dirt & a bit of moss.”

WILD PANSY
“Wild Pansy is actually the smell of wild violets growing in the forest – very crisp, grassy & casual.”

VIOLET EMPIRE
“Blended from CB Violet Empress, Elemi, Violet Leaf Absolute, Rosewood, Mahogany,
and Russian Leather. Violet EMPIRE is an unusual yet very elegant perfume.
The violet scent perpetually peeps out from behind a shining green veil.”

M4 A ROOM WITH A VIEW
“This perfume captures the scent of the hills above Florence – the vineyards, the wild grass,
the finocchio, the hot dusty Florentine earth. And of course a torrent of Violets…”

Titania calls the violets up from the winter’s frost.

I bought this clover perfume from a little Farmacia in Madrid when I was traveling there with my Grampa.
I’m cursing myself for not buying every bottle they had now, since it seems to be impossible to find now!
If you happen to come across this one ever, won’t you grab some for me pretty please? I miss it so.
I think it’s a very simple perfume – something a young girl would wear. A little coltish doe-child, all
long limbs and freckles on her knees. A sapling bending in a spring gale, laughing and laughing.

“Trebol is Spanish for clover, and at first the impression is of a light floral, a meadow of spring flowers.
The dry down is something quite different, an altogether headier blend of freesia, narcissus and jasmine,
long lasting and true. This is reputedly made to the original 1906 formulation, and displays an old-fashioned
craft in its surprising subtlety and balance. A good find at a very reasonable price, and charmingly packaged too.”

I’m obsessed with Ortigia’s packaging: it really is just flawless, and very dangerous, since it makes me want
to buy it all. “Florio is the scent of Sicilian spring flowers, a remarkable bouquet of Bougainvillea, Narcissus
and Passiflora.” Intriguing. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a Bougainvillea perfumes, or really noticed that ours
had a scent. Passionflowers have a nice aroma, though. I do love paperwhites too, even though they drive me
crazy after awhile. Those and hyacinths – so heady, so powerful! Little flowers pack heavy punches.

I did relent and get this Fico d’India from Tail of the Yak in Berkeley, thinking it was a fig scent. I adore fig
perfumes, and it didn’t occur to me that this wasn’t one. Fico d’India is a prickly pear cactus! Indian Fig! Ha,
joke’s on this Texas girl – particularly as the things grow here like especially naughty weeds! Still good.

“A cactus which grows abundantly in Sicily, Fico d’India
is know to contain healing elements in its juice. A dry, almost
velvety scent, which mirrors the plant: dusky pale green with
explosions of remarkable orange flowers.”

– from the Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night
By E. P. Mathers
(I wonder where I can get some musked sherbets of my own? They sound very erotic, don’t they?)

It’s strange, but somewhere along the way, spring wooed me away from autumn,
which had been my favorite season for as long as I can remember. I guess it
happened when I found myself with a real garden, with a place where I could
plunge my hands into the earth, plants seeds and watch them grow year after year.
Springtime is renewal, hope, and the pleasure of seeing new things sprout up and
bloom – little surprises every day. This is only the beginning, verdant and lush.
Here’s a spring song that I’ve had stuck in my head every day for a month:
(I can’t stop listening to this whole album – Grimes is super magic!)

Grimes – Genesis

More musings on seasons and scents:
WINTER SOLSTICE – MESSE DE MINUIT

Autumnal Perfumes

ENDLESS SUMMER

I’ve been going back and finding the recordings I made of him telling stories from his life, and feeling a sense of loss realizing how few there are. You always think you have all the time in the world, and even when you know for a fact you don’t, I guess it’s easier to pretend there will be other days. Now so many things are lost, and unless someone reveals more recordings made, I will never hear another story, will never be able to ask another question, to share a film, a meal, a piece of music together. Never again to share a journey, a joke – or a plate of profiteroles, or tiny box seats at an ancient marionette theater in Brussels.

In 2003, Grampa came to visit me in New Orleans, just in time for Mardi Gras. It was the first Mardi Gras I knew to get going
early, to get super dressed up (although, in retrospect my ensemble that year was pretty tame.) We met up with the tattered
shreds of St. Anne around the corner from my old place on Esplanade, at the R Bar. I pushed Grampa in his wheelchair, and
we chased the revelers through the Quarter until we were both beat. All the ladies were mad about Grampa, flirting with him
and draping him with beads – much to his delight. The day was foggy, hazy like it is sometimes on spring mornings in Louisiana,
and everything felt strange and dreamy, (though I was not debauching in the least that day) as if the world had been spun inside
a silkworm’s cocoon. The noise and chaos baffled by the gray cotton drifting down from the balconies, obscuring the skyscrapers.

Wig made of Halloween spiderwebs by Miss Alisan and feather bedecked by me. A little emerald tatterdemalion.

Grampa loved Mardi Gras, loved New Orleans – the swirl of masked marauders, grotesque and gorgeous running wild and mad
through narrow streets, their heeled boots rapping the cobblestones, bird-like hoots echoing off the old brick and horsehair mortar. He thought it was all so marvelous – and I’m forever grateful that he got to see my city that way, that I was able to show it to him.

What words have I to convey such a boundless love?
Surely this photograph says it all.
We adored each other. We were so lucky.

I’ve been lighting candles for him, making offerings of candy, making coffee strong and black. It’s springtime, and the world is
more vital and robust than I’ve ever seen it. All the plants in our garden are growing wild and strong with so much rain, and it’s
almost as if all that powerful life force he had poured into the earth itself. The land is rejuvenated, coming back to into itself.
Every night I blow out the candles on his altar, blow him a kiss and say, “Goodnight, Grampa…”
Everywhere, the crane-flies, those long-legged gallinippers flit, ghost-like. The frogs chirp and chitter. It’s almost time for fireflies.

My grandfather the magician, showing my cousin Caleb and I a magic trick. When we were little, he took us to Magic Castle,
where we were totally captivated by the sleight of hand, portraits with moving eyes and my favorite – Invisible Irma, the piano
playing ghost who could play nearly any request. I think I asked her for “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and was duly impressed
when she played it. Aw, lil cowgirl. Grampa told me about how he became a lifetime member of Magic Castle once: one day
his friends Milt and Bill Larsen called him up and said, “We’ve bought this giant run-down Victorian mansion, and we’re gonna
turn it into a private club for magicians! Will you come help us clean it up?” From the Magic Castle site:
“In September of 1961, Milt and a crew of eternally generous friends and volunteers began the extraordinary task of returning this run-down apartment building to its glorious past. After months of scraping and sanding, the rich Victorian elegance began to resurface.”

Here were are falling in love with my cousin Molly when she was a baby.

Grampa enjoying his illicit chocolate cake on his 98th birthday.

Shortly before Grampa fell ill last year, he decided that he needed some new clothes, and asked us to take him shopping.
He was very fixated on the idea of going to a military supply store, and seemed to want something in camo print.
I’m still not sure where here got this notion, given that he was never in the military – far from it, working in radio
during the war (I think his poor eyesight kept him stateside). Maybe he wanted to impress a lady, maybe he wanted
to look tougher – whatever his reasons, we were happy to indulge him. I helped him pick out this urban tiger stripe
camouflage jacket and gray Greek fisherman’s cap. I hope I can find those among his things. I’d like to wear them as armor.
Ever since he died, I feel like I need it. I crave quiet, time to think, to write, to mourn. To learn how to be a bad-ass mofo like him.
Look at that man! Would you tamper with him in a dark alley? I think not. He’d hit you with his stick! I hope to be half as tough.

If you have some time, and want to hear some of my Charlie’s amazing stories about his wild life in the early days of television,
here are some little videos I made while he was in the hospital, and then later at his assisted living home a few months ago.

I wish I had made more, I wish I could remember more. I wish he was here, with me always. I wish he could still tell me stories.
Tomorrow, at his memorial, we’ll hear stories from all the folks he helped in AA – stories like this: Father of We Agnostics Dies.
I’ll meet other people who loved him, whose lives he saved. They’ll tell me his stories instead, stories I’ve not yet heard.

Our amazing dancers: Amae, Raven, Sassy, Stephanie, Johna and Frannie – grabbing a photo with comedian and Master of Ceremonies for the evening, Wyatt Cenac.

Texas Film Hall Of Fame Awards 2011 Highlights – you can see some of our dancing girls here, and get an idea of how amazing this event is.

How do I begin? How can I possibly encapsulate a life so broad, so full of incredible achievement,
tragedy, drama and joie de vivre? The scope and breadth of his life is too large for me to even attempt
to limn, in faint chicken-scratches, cobbled together from all the years of stories I wish I’d recorded –
though I did manage to get some of them… It’s just too much, and I’m overwhelmed by my grief at
knowing he’s gone, truly gone. I feel so small next to his memory, his legacy – I can’t manage it,
can’t do him justice with a ledger of dry facts and dates, people known and places lived, traveled to.

How to tease out the fiber of his story, to draw out that cord that connected this blue star-eyed baby
to the man I only began to know when he was already old? I can only tell you what I know.

He told me once when I asked him what animal he would be, if he could be any at all, that he would be a dolphin.
He told me that his favorite color was heliotrope, but then changed his mind, and said it was really aquamarine.

What if instead I tell the story of how when he was little, his nickname was Pips, which stood for
“Pig-Iron Pete”, a character from a Unionist play his mother Hilda wrote – and that people also
called him Chas, and Polly – for Polacheck, but that later in life, everyone who knew him well
called him Charlie. To me, he was always Grampa. To my littlest cousins, he was Baba.

William and Hilda, my great-grandparents.
When William and Hilda were courting, he would recite
“The Lake Isle of Innisfree”, by W.B. Yeats to her.

Or what if I tell about how Carl Sandburg, the beloved American poet and author of our family
favorite, “The Rootabaga Stories” was friends with my great-grandfather, who was also a poet, and Charlie
used to find him asleep on the sofa in the parlor. Once there was an assembly at the school, and Sandburg
came and read his stories. Those stories my great-grandfather read to my grandfather, my grandfather read
to father, and my father read to me. One day I’ll read them to my children too, I hope. Those tales, a golden thread.

William Polacheck, Charlie’s father committed suicide when my Grandfather was fourteen years old.
It was his second attempt to end his life. The first was foiled when Charlie, then twelve, found his father
suffocating on exhaust in the family car. Charlie dragged him out, and saved his life. A few years later,
William planned better, and there was no one around who could save him. It was this tragedy that shaped
who my grandfather would come to be: for half his life, an alcoholic who drowned his pain in drink,
an actor, a collector of masks. Charles didn’t learn to drive until he was forty years old, and moved to
Los Angeles, where not driving is an impossibility. He overcame his fear of automobiles, and after
many years of subjecting himself and his family to the vagaries of his alcoholism, he discovered
Alcoholics Anonymous. There is no doubt that this program saved his life, and my grandparent’s
marriage. Through AA, my Grampa came through the tempest of his anger, his loss, and the void
left by his father’s death, to become one of the most serene and wise sages I have ever known.
In 1978, he founded We Agnostics, one of the first AA meetings for atheists and agnostics in Los
Angeles, and helped hundreds of people by becoming their sponsor. Years later, he told me about
visiting his father’s grave, and how he had finally forgiven him for succumbing to his depression.
This past September, he celebrated his AA birthday, with 41 years of sobriety. Those two decades
will stand as a testament to his belief in a Higher Power as he understood it – “The total of all energy
in the universe.” My grandfather once told me that he was not a religious person, but that he was a
spiritual person. I thank him for showing me, and many others, the freedom of that distinction.
I hope to live by his tenets of “rigorous honesty, unconditional love, and consistent responsibility.”

Dena (his little sister, and now, the only living sibling of four), with Hilda and Charles.

It’s crazy how much Charlie looks like my cousin Caleb here. It could be a photograph of him, instead.

Wasn’t he the handsomest? Very dashing, indeed. This is my favorite picture of him.

Charles and an old flame, Betty Newman.

“Under the lime tree
On the heather,
Where we had shared a place of rest,
Still you may find there,
Lovely together,
Flowers crushed and grass down-pressed.
Beside the forest in the vale,
Tándaradéi,
Sweetly sang the nightingale.”
–Under the Lime Tree, Walther von der Vogelweide

He and my grandmother Jean met when she came to take a photograph of his folk-singing band.
In that moment where she focused her lens on his face, the first green tendril of our family tree
unfurled. Jean’s father called him a “troubadour”, but they married anyway, in a traditional Jewish
ceremony. When the time came for the sheva brachos, the seven blessings said for the couple over
a glass of wine. The groom drinks, and then passes the glass to the bride – but Charlie gulped it all
down instead. Despite all the trials and tribulations his drinking brought to their marriage, they managed
to survive, and stay together until she died in 2003. I remember vividly him holding my hand, and reciting
to me Wilhelm Müller’s Der Lindenbaum, barely able to get the words out through his tears:

“At wellside, past the ramparts, 
there stands a linden tree. 
While sleeping in its shadow, 
sweet dreams it sent to me.

Away I walked for hours 
whence stands the linden tree, 
and still I hear it whisp’ring: 
You’ll find your peace with me!”

I know he is now under his Linden Tree, with Jean.

He made it into the New York Times, as an actor playing an actor in Elmer Rice’s “Two on an Island” – I think it was while working on this play
that he had the opportunity to meet one of his heroes, Kurt Weill. He attended the Goodman School of Drama in Chicago, and was a member
of the agit-prop Repertory Theater Group in Chicago with Studs Terkel and Lou Gilbert. He and Studs remained friends until Studs died in 2008.

Charles was a folk-singer, and member of “The Detroit Almanac Singers” — the road company of the Pete Seeger’s original Almanac Singers,
with Baldwin “Butch” Hawes and  Bess Lomax Hawes and Cisco Houston. Pete and Woody Guthrie once helped Charlie move, back when
he and Jean were living in Greenwich Village. “As their name indicated, The Almanac singers specialized in topical songs, mostly songs
advocating an anti-war, anti-racism and pro-union philosophy. They were part of the Popular Front, an alliance of liberals and leftists,
including the Communist Party USA (whose slogan, under their leader Earl Browder, was “Communism is twentieth century Americanism”),
who had vowed to put aside their differences in order to fight fascism and promote racial and religious inclusiveness and workers’ rights. T
he Almanac Singers felt strongly that songs could help achieve these goals.” I come from a long line of lefties and political activists!

My Grampa was a voracious reader of everything: history, science, fiction, mysteries, crime noir, and erotica.
He subscribed to the New Yorker, Discover, Scientific American, and The Sunday Times – and he always did
his crossword with a pen. It was so strange when he lost interest in reading, in the last year of his life. It had
always been such a big part of who he was. I remember clearly the moment when I was old enough to appreciate
the variety of his literary tastes – I would spend hours combing his shelves, and exclaiming with delight over what
I found there. So many interesting books. I asked him once if I could borrow a paperback copy of Hubert Selby, Jr.’s
Last Exit to Brooklyn, and he mentioned offhandedly that “Cubby” was an old pal of his. He was constantly popping
out with tidbits like this, as if it were no big deal that he had known various luminaries like Weegee and Stieglitz, over the years.

Grampa giving my father David his first haircut.

Charles + David

My Grampa also worked for CBS, NBC and DuMont, as television director and producer, and he directed, produced and
translated the first televised operas for The Voice of Firestone, including productions of The Magic Flute, Salome, and Kurt
Weill’s Down in the Valley. He was a pioneer in the early days of television, and had many stories about pissing off Arturo
Toscanini, Louis Armstrong, and W.H. Auden, among many others. He was an early champion of Leontyne Price and Sal Mineo.
During his work on Captain Video, one of the first science fiction television shows, he inadvertently became inventor of the
opticon scillometer, an electronic telescope that could see around corners, which he constructed from a spark plug, a rear-view
mirror, an ash tray and some wires and a bent pipe from a vacuum cleaner attachment, because DuMont had no prop department!

Do all these things make up a life? Do they paint a picture of who a person was from, birth to death?
There are no neat bookends here, from this date to that date: there are only the stories, the memories, the love.
How can I neatly tie a knot in that golden thread, bite the end off in my teeth? I can’t. It’s not mine to do,
but instead I can tell you all the things that amazed me about him, that made me love and admire him so much.
Or, what if I tell you about all the things that made him happy?
He loved music, especially opera: his favorite was Gianni Schicchi.
He loved this aria — he said he considered it one of the most beautiful,
if not the most beautiful, in the repertoire:

Pisen Rusalky O Mesiku (Song of the Moon) – Rusalka’s aria from Antonín Dvořák’s Rusalka

O moon high up in the deep, deep sky,
Your light sees far away regions,
You travel round the wide,
Wide world peering into human dwellings

O, moon, stand still for a moment,
Tell me, ah, tell me where is my beloved!
Tell him, please, silvery moon in the sky,
That I am hugging him firmly,
That he should for at least a while
Remember me in his dreams!
Light up his far away place,
Tell him, ah, tell him who is here waiting!
If he is dreaming about me,
May this remembrance waken him!
O, moon, don’t disappear, disappear!

He liked sweets: cookies, pastries and candy.
His favorite cake was Hungarian Dobos torte.
He took his coffee black, and he drank lots of it.
He used to go get a hot fudge sundae every weekend.
He loved pantomime and Commedia dell’Arte.
He loved puppets and used to work in a marionette theater.
He was a magician, and a lifetime member of the Magic Castle.
He loved the circus, and used to have circus posters hanging in his bathroom.
He always smelled good: he wore Crabtree + Evelyn’s Mysore Sandalwood,
Tilleul, 4711 Kölnisch Wasser, and Zizanie, by Fragonard.
Back when he drank, he liked Akvavit and Cherry Heering.
He loved to play chess and gin rummy, and almost always beat me.
He liked to watch Antiques Roadshow, and Jeopardy.
He loved dim sum, Chinese barbecue, and crab and asparagus soup.
He was an excellent cook. I’ll forever miss his latkes and his buckwheat pancakes.
He loved to travel all over the world, with my grandmother, and with me.
He loved the grotesque in art, but not the morbid.

So he probably wouldn’t approve of this photograph.

I’m grateful for it, though. Grateful to see his strong hands at peace, at rest.
Grateful to know that he’s no longer uncomfortable, frustrated, or sad.
Grateful for the time we were able to have sitting with him, with his body.
It’s a long hard road I’m walking to get closer to accepting his loss with grace.
I was afraid to go and see him like this, but now I’m so relieved that I was able
to, to have that vigil until the Neptune Society came to take him away. I’ve long
thought those rituals were important, but I never really knew until I saw for myself.
It looked like him, felt like him – but he wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t there at all.
He is gone. The body is only a shell, and all the things that made him who he was
have flown on beyond. Touching his hand, knowing he can never hold mine again.
Everyone is telling me that he’ll be with me always, and I hope that in some way, that
can be true, because I don’t know what I’ll do without him. He was my favorite person
in the world, and I know how lucky we were to be blessed with such a close bond.
I don’t know how to stop writing about him, so maybe I’ll just stop for today. I still have
so many stories about our adventures to share, and more photographs from his life.
In more ways than one, my grandfather has made me the person I am today.
He always encouraged me to pursue my dreams, and told me,
“You should be a writer. You should write books.”
When I asked him once what he thought of my writing,
he said, “It’s like dragons and turtledoves.”

The grape-lilac scent of mountain laurel blows in the open windows.
It’s a windy spring day, and the birds are making a joyful chorus.
I feel him in that wind, and hear his voice. He shared this with me
years ago, and luckily I had the presence of mind to scrawl it down:

In the midst of a meadow
a skylark singing
free from everything.

- My Grampa’s favorite haiku.
Charles Lessing Polacheck
January 19th, 1914 – February 27th, 2012

This photo and the next are both by Jim Jochetz. The rest are my own.

The belle of the ball, Monika – with the gorgeous Mlle. Asen…

…and with the Junk Lady!

I covet this sweet girl’s crimson ballgown…

A fiery!

How you turn my world
You precious thing.
You starve and near exhaust me.

Everything I’ve done,
I’ve done for you.
I move the stars for no one.

You’ve run so long.
You’ve run so far.
Your eyes can be so cruel,
Just as I can be so cruel,
Oh I do believe in you.
Yes I do.

Live without the sunlight.
Love without your heartbeat.

The lovely Candice.

Johna + Asen – bewitching!

Oh, Callisto..

My Lau!

Beware of beasts in the ballroom…

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered…

I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City

…to take back the child that you have stolen..

…for my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great….

Exquisite Corpse Presents:
AS THE WORLD FALLS DOWN
A Labyrinthine Masquerade Ball

Friday, February 3rd – 2012
10pm until 2am
SWAN DIVE
615 Red River

A night to enter the labyrinth and become a member
of the fairy court – don your tattered ballgowns, your
tightest breeches, and mysterious masques…
You know, you remind me of the babe…

I remember seeing this scene for the first time, and what an enormous impression it made on me –
it influenced my aesthetic indelibly. I just wanted the entire film to continue on in that ballroom…
For years, I’ve dreamed of trying to recreate that magic, and now – I finally get to give it a whirl…

I think I’m not alone in having practiced kissing on my Labyrinth poster with David Bowie as Jareth.
To me, he was the perfect man – a goblin prince who could steal me away to the Underground.
Hades and Persephone as retold by Jim Henson and Brian Froud. Dance, magic, dance.

There’s such a sad love
Deep in your eyes, a kind of pale jewel
Open and closed within your eyes
I’ll place the sky within your eyes

There’s such a fool heart
Beating so fast in search of new dreams
A love that will last within your heart
I’ll place the moon within your heart

As the pain sweeps through
Makes no sense for you
Every thrill has gone
Wasn’t too much fun at all
But I’ll be there for you
As the world falls down

I’ll paint you mornings of gold
I’ll spin you Valentine evenings
Though we’re strangers till now
We’re choosing the path between the stars
I’ll leave my love between the stars

Vogue Germany / photographer Ruven Afanador /

McQueen

Rima Hyena

Shiseido Magic

More Dior, J’adore.

Of course, we’d be delighted to see you all turned out like this…
By the by, Garbage Reign by Danil Golovkin may just
be the best thing I’ve ever seen.

…Or you could just glue a bunch of My Little Pony stickers on your face. That works too.

Just be there!

Vulpes Masquerade by Caitlin Hackett

Let’s get lost…

More inspiration here:
Labyrinthine Masquerade

I’m getting super excited about the playlist DJ Pasht & I have been putting together for Exquisite Corpse’s Labyrinthine Masquerade Ball tomorrow! Finally, we get an opportunity to play so much of my favorites: Qntl, Die Form, Dead Can Dance and a bunch of other gems I haven’t heard played in a club in far too long! Get ready to waltz & twirl to some seriously amazing music: think goth/medieval + 80′s/new wave with a healthy dose of witch house + disco noir! Klaus Nomi, Roxy Music & Stevie Nicks will also be making appearances. WHAT.

Exquisite Corpse Presents: As The World Falls Down A Labyrinthine Masquerade Mix by Miss Angeliska and Dj Pasht from pasht on 8tracks.

Love is colder than death – Non Lievi Alchun

Labyrinth Series – How To Make Your Own Goblin Ballroom Mask Part1