Charles Lessing Polacheck, R.I.P.
by angeliska on February 29, 2012
Charles Lessing Polacheck, R.I.P.
born January 19th, 1914 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin – died February 27th, 2012 in Austin, Texas
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.
And in its bark I chiseled
my messages of love:
My pleasures and my sorrows
were welcomed from above.
Today I had to pass it,
well in the depth of night –
and still, in all the darkness,
my eyes closed to its sight.
Its branches bent and rustled,
as if they called to me:
Come here, come here, companion,
your haven I shall be!
The icy winds were blowing,
straight in my face they ground.
The hat tore off my forehead.
I did not turn around.
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. The 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
A Labyrinthine Masquerade
by angeliska on February 8, 2012
I’m still reeling from the magic of our Labyrinthine Masquerade Ball. My goal of recreating
the ballroom scene from Labyrinth was realized, not only for me, but also for the scads of
costumed revelers that braved stormy weather to come pack the dance floor all night. My
friend Patrick Halferty warmed my cockles when he wrote this on our event page:
“I feel I can no longer watch that movie because nothing would compare with seeing
a sea of people before a backdrop of the ballroom scene, as though the movie itself
had poured out into the Swan Dive.” So sweet! I hope he will watch the film again,
though! I loved doing this event so much, I may have to make it an annual ball!
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….
As The World Falls Down
by angeliska on February 3, 2012
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.
Deep in your eyes, a kind of pale jewel
Open and closed within your eyes
I’ll place the sky within your eyes
Beating so fast in search of new dreams
A love that will last within your heart
I’ll place the moon within your heart
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 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
By the by, Garbage Reign by Danil Golovkin may just
be the best thing I’ve ever seen.
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.
Love is colder than death – Non Lievi Alchun
Labyrinth Series – How To Make Your Own Goblin Ballroom Mask Part1
An Epically Epic and Fairly Tardy Year in Review – or, HOLY SHIT: 2011!
by angeliska on January 23, 2012
My goodness, but 2011 was a whirlwind – I feel like I’ve barely caught my breath from it all, though
we’re weeks into it now. For a lot of reasons, it feels like the new year didn’t really begin until
my birthday on the 10th. I stayed up late the night before, cleaning every nook and corner madly in my
own version of the Japanese tradition of osoji, which involves thorough cleaning and taking stock so that
one can walk into the new year free and clean. Mainly, I just like to wake up on my birthday knowing
that the house will be as calm and beautiful as possible – so that I can begin again with a clean slate.
The other thing that I’m only just getting to do now is a thorough wrap-up of all the things I’ve done
this year. This was kind of a birthday present to myself as well, as indulgent as it felt at first, it made
me realize that although I’d been finishing the year up with a sense of dread at how much more I
wanted to have accomplished, I’m not sure where exactly any of that would have fit in! It was a
pretty crazy non-stop magical banner year for me when I really stop to take a look at it. There’s
a lot here that hopefully I’ll have time to expand upon and write more about, if I don’t get swept
away in the rushing river of time and projects, as tends to happen – but for now, here’s a peek
at what kept me running this year, what I’m proud of, and what hopefully, is only the beginning.
There are moments when I feel terrible for not sending all the letters I wished I had time to write,
or taking enough walks, or a whole slew of other activities I didn’t manage to fit into a year – but
when I really sit and look at this list of accomplishments, I feel a bit better about all that! It’s been
incredible, really. I’m crossing my fingers that 2012 is even more full of marvels, for me and for you.
I’m hoping at some point, I’ll have time to elaborate on a few of these projects, but for the time being,
I think it might be now or never! I got exhausted just writing all this – I can’t imagine how it all fit into a year!
(Photo by John Leach)
Being featured on the cover of the Austin Chronicle for the ‘Best of Austin’ 2011 issue was absolutely
the biggest highlight of my year, and a completely surreal and wonderful experience. Vintage Vivant
won a Critics’ Picks Award for Best Reason To Learn the Charleston Amelia and I were utterly floored,
and so thrilled to have our party honored so, and after six years of doing events in Austin, it felt amazing
to get this kind of recognition. Take a minute to read this wonderful accompanying article:
It’s the Economy, Dollface, plus this sweet shout-out from Coilhouse – Angeliska & Amelia & Vintage Vivant.
Also, here’s more of John Leach’s fabulous photos from the shoot that the cover image came from: DRISKILL HOTEL PHOTOSHOOT
(Photo by John Pesina)
Vintage Vivant was also featured in a spread and article in Tribeza Magazine.
Starting Vintage Vivant with Amelia, as well as my other monthly party, Exquisite Corpse has been quite a wild ride.
Back during the days of Gadjo Disko, I swore off doing a monthly party gig. It was just too much –
by the time one was wrapped, it’d be a few days of recovery, and then time to start on another.
I’m not exactly sure how, then, I ended up doing not one, but two monthly events this year!
Both are at Swan Dive, which is such a wonderful venue – it’s gorgeous inside, all white and
ghostly (designed by sweet Miss Mickie Spencer of East Side Showroom), and serves real cocktails
in proper glasses made of actual glass by the best bartenders in town. Exquisite Corpse began as
a weird hybrid of goth/new wave/witch house music with a Dada/Black Lodge aesthetic. I wanted
it to serve as a haven for all the swirly, fey witchy goths that got pushed off the dance floor when
stompy EBM and industrial took precedence in the goth clubs. The Dada mantle has since shuffled
off for unknown, surely to return again when we least expect it, but in the interim, there have been
so many brilliant nights of dancing and carousing. My favorite theme so far: Egyptian Goth, hands down!
(Photo by Devaki Knowles)
(Photo by Devaki Knowles)
On my birthday last year, Colin proposed to me. We set the wedding for 11.11.11. – but then decided to postpone it
until we can do it right. Lots of big changes, developments and growth in our relationship, but I can say that after six years
of being together, I love this man more than ever. He constantly inspires and surprises me, and I think we make a great team.
(Photo by Leon Alesi)
I dressed like a tiger a lot this year. Maybe I saw CATS too many times when I was younger, but it feels right somehow.
Does the make me a furry? Oh well. This feline incarnation was for Vintage Vivant: A Night at The Circus.
(Photo by Lauren McKinley for Bleach Magazine)
In the Spring of 2011, I resumed giving tarot readings – something I had not been doing regularly since I lived in New Orleans. I missed doing it so much when I moved to Austin, but for the longest time, I couldn’t imagine how I could make it work here. I require a private, neutral space to give readings. I don’t read for people at parties or social gatherings, and I think a quiet environment is key to both relaying and absorbing information. I’m not sure why it took me so long, but when I realized that our 1951 Royal Spartanette trailer would make the perfect tarot parlor, I knew that I could finally start giving readings again. I inherited my mother’s tarot deck when I was 11, and after my initial skepticism was blasted away by the accuracy and wisdom the cards imparted, I fell in love with the symbols and archetypes of the major and minor arcana. I spent the next 11 years studying the tarot, and giving readings to friends and reading for myself, until I started reading for the public out of an occult shop called Esoterica. The time I spent there served as my apprenticeship in a sense – both to the greater mysteries and to the intricacies of doing divination work for other people. I encountered many strangers in my reading room: some open, some skeptics, some kindred spirits and some just drunk tourists off on a lark. Regardless of who they were or why they came, I worked hard to give them the clearest and most accurate reading possible, and I learned so much in the process. I am so grateful to be able to resume doing this work once more – to be able to help others and offer some clarity. I truly love reading the tarot and working directly with people who are seeking deeper answers. It’s amazing work, and I feel that this step is only the beginning: I can’t wait to start teaching tarot more, writing about the cards, and getting a separate site for that work up. Also, soon I hope to be able to offer readings via skype or phone, so stay posted if you think you might like to do that. If you’re curious, I have a Yelp page, with all my reviews and also a Facebook page, with more testimonials from people I’ve read for:
Sister Temperance Tarot on Yelp
Sister Temperance Tarot on Facebook
Charm School Vintage: Wonders of the Tarot
(Photo by John Leach)
Right after Mardi Gras last year, I had the honor of working with Miss Allyson Garro of Coco Coquette on entertainment for The Texas Film Hall of Fame Awards Afterparty, for which we created a tableaux vivant of some of our most favorite dancing ladies, all bedecked in buckskin and diamonds, antlers and silver. The spectacle was so captivating that we were invited back again to work on making this year’s event very special indeed!
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.
This October, I was inspired by the fabulous ladies of Bedpost Confessions to write and read aloud a spooky erotic story for their Halloween show. I hadn’t attempted to write a piece of fiction in years and years – I think not since high school, actually. Perhaps because I found the idea so utterly terrifying, I agreed to try and come up with something. On the flight back from Pittsburgh, I started tapping out the first whisperings of a story that had been needling at the back of my brain – a dark little tale about a lascivious seance. As I delved in, the 13 year old girl seated next to me on the plane tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Are you a writer” It felt wonderful to tell her yes, that indeed I was. Writing this piece was a big deal for me – in some ways, it was one of the biggest things I did all year – but reading it aloud, into a microphone, in front of a crowded room full of people was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done. I’m still not sure how I managed it without falling over or barfing. I hate talking into microphones on stages, but reading something I’d written, particularly an erotic story – well – I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more naked. Somehow, I pulled it off, and I’m so, so glad I made myself do it. Another motto for this year is: if it’s scary, it’s probably worth doing. If you’d like to listen to my story, you can, as it was included as a podcast on Bedpost Confessions website. Listening to this (oddly enough) has been the first time hearing my own voice on a recording didn’t make me want to crawl under the bed and hide! Also, contrary to the lovely Mia Martina’s great introduction, this piece is entirely a work of FICTION! Not a true story, folks – though wouldn’t it be exciting if it was? Enjoy, but be forwarned: it’s naughty!
BedPost Confessions Podcast – Episode 18 – The Seance
(Photo by Ed Lehman)
One of my great joys this year was getting to participate in helping to plan the magic that is QUEERBOMB!: Austin’s own alternative gay pride parade. Queerbomb is a family of LGBTQIA individuals gathering to reclaim the radical, carnal and transgressive lineage of our ever-changing community while celebrating every facet and form of our people as a unique and vibrant whole. I wrote few things about what Queerbomb means to me below: Queerbomb Magic 2010
and
QUEERBOMB!
I designed an ensemble for Dreaming in Color, a benefit for AIDS Services of Austin
orchestrated and created by none other than Coco Coquette.
(Photo by ATX Street Style)
I enlisted Sarah Marsh of The Brass Ovaries pole-dancing crew to be my dancer/model, and she made all my childhood Lisa Frank rose-shaded unicorn fantasies come true with her astonishing acrobatic skills – not only that, but we won the big prize of the night!
$1000 bucks! It felt incredible to win something that big, and couldn’t have come at a better time for both Sarah and myself. Magic!
(Photo by Demilitia Stryker)
(Photo by Morgan Sasser)
Colin and I collaborated on an interactive musical sculpture called Tintinnabulation Station, which lives inside a beautiful glass house shanty created by Elizabeth Shannon and Micah Learned. All this was part of The Music Box, A Shantytown Sound Laboratory: Phase one of Dithyrambalina
The Music Box – Oct 22 from TungstenMonkey on Vimeo.
The New Orleans Airlift presents The Music Box: A Shantytown Sound Library.
Short teaser edit of the opening night performance, October 22, 2011.
(Photo by Demilitia Stryker)
We were so thrilled to learn that Theris Valdery, of the Black Feathers Mardi Gras Indian Tribe sang and shook the bells of Tintinnabulation Station for the November 19th performance of the Shantytown Orchestra. What an amazing honor!
Not to mention The Music Box being featured in a lengthy and glowing article on the front page of the NYT Arts Section!New York Times: A Symphony of Floorboards, Pipes and Stairs
Juxtapoz: Swoon in New Orleans – The Music Box, A Shantytown Sound Laboratory
Artnet: Swoon, Shout It From The Roof Tops
Offbeat: THE MUSIC BOX IN THE BYWATER: A HOUSE IN E MAJOR
SHANTYTOWN ORCHESTRA AT THE MUSIC BOX, NOVEMBER 19TH, 2011, 2ND PERFORMANCE
PHOTOGRAPHER TOD SEELIE CAPTURES THE MUSIC BOX
Dithyrambalina: Musical Architecture in New Orleans
I’ve also been making a lot of jewelry, including these sterling silver and antique bone button cuffs, all hand-fabricated:
And painting in gouache again!
Goat Girls – for The Swallow Show here in Austin.
St. Seraphia for Christy Kane’s Carnival of Saints and Souls in New Orleans.
Justine’s Marquis de Sade Night from 2HeadedHorse on Vimeo.
I organized dancers for the delightful peepshow booth for Justine’s 1937 – Marquis de Sade Valentine’s night of debauchery…
(Photo by Annie Ray)
I also judged the costume contest for their Bastille Day celebration, PARIS IS CALLING, which was great racous fun.
Justine’s Brasserie – Bastille Day from Mishnoon on Vimeo.
I performed as the Snow Queen at Justine’s for their Russian New Year’s eve party, and organized a
coterie of ice nymphs and white wolves to ring in 2012 in a frozen forest with cake and champagne!
(Photo by Remy Veuillet)
More on that soon, I promise!
I flew up to New York at the tail end of summer for the Coilhouse Black and White and Red All Over Ball,
which was such an unforgettable experience. So many beloved friends reunited, and new friendships kindled!
Plus, we succeeded in raising money for Coilhouse, and creating a truly magical and totally singular evening.
Coilhouse Black and White and Red All Over Ball from Brainwomb on Vimeo.
Video Mementos of the Black & White & Red All Over Coilhouse Ball
(Photo by Anna Fischer)
This photo of the tremendously talented Kim Boekbinder from that night is one of my very favorites.
(Photo by Clayton Cubitt)
As is this one of Siege and I, from his series of people who kissed him in 2011. Definitely a highlight of my year.
The absolute cherry on the cake of my year was without a doubt this wonderful portrait Molly Crabapple
created of me as the Ace of Hearts, for the 52 Aces card deck by Zeixs, a German creative firm.
Here’s Molly’s awe-inspiring Year in Review post, as well as a handful of other from ladies I admire and adore:
♥ Molly Crabapple’s Year in Review
♥ Amelia Foxtrot’s 2011 in Review
♥ Kim Boekbinder – Thing I Did in 2011
♥ Yumna Al: 2011, A YEAR IN REVIEW
♥ Audrey Penven’s 2011 – a year of many things
♥ 2011 : A Year in Pictures.
From Miss Pandora (who reminds me so much of another Pandora –
our dear departed Pandora Aurora Rose, aka. Kathie Hastings)
Did you write one of these, too? I want to know all about your year! Do tell.
NOW WITH 100% MORE GOAT!
by angeliska on January 13, 2012
I’m getting excited for my ersatz birthday party – VOTE FOR THE GOAT – Exquisite Corpse presents A Capricornian Celebration!
Here’s an onslaught of goatly inspiration for your ensembles and general amusement:
Ghost Goat from Andrew & Matt McCracken of DOUBLENAUT
Capricorn – “Elsie The Sea Goat Wonder” by Sanya Glisic
Source: etsy.com
Goat of Hades from Funeral French
In honor of Exquisite Corpse – Vote For The Goat and Deathrock Disko, my friend Iana is doing an
amazing HAIRSTYLE SPECIAL! Twin spiral french braids for goatlings, and hyper-ratting for deathrockers!
Horns!
Source: heretique.net
Source: Hollis Ireland
A FRESH WOUND IN THE WING OF THE YOUNG YEAR (for Esme)
by angeliska on January 8, 2012
Photo of the memorial altar at Esme’s gate by Laura Skelding / AMERICAN-STATESMAN
A week ago, in the wee hours of the new year’s dim beginnings, a girl was murdered.
She was a friend of many of my friends, and it’s likely that we had even been introduced,
at a show or a house-party. I definitely remember seeing her around town: her petite frame,
her amazing face – both radiating a crackling energy, a vibrance. Tomorrow is her funeral.
Her name was Esme Barrera. The man who killed her is still out there. He has attacked other
women, and will continue to unless caught. Until then, my city and community is riled up like
a nest of bees: mobilizing, sharing information, entreating each other to stay safe from the
man who did this, and hopefully – to help find him and make sure that he is prevented from
hurting any more women. Memories of Esme, stories of good times with her, and reflections
of grief at her loss are making the rounds, and this line from a poem by Jim Harrison that I
read recently keeps coming back to me – “Death steals everything except our stories.”
Photo of the memorial altar set up at Helen Hill’s doorstep by Infrogmation
I’ve lost a lot of loved ones over the years, so unfortunately I am am more experienced than
I would like to be in the ways of grieving – the long, dark process that wrings your soul out
like an old rag shredded in the teeth of a big, black dog. Until a few years ago, though, no
one I’d known had died because another person took it upon themselves to end a life.
Murder is different. It requires a whole different set of tools for coping, for processing,
for coming to peace. It’s the hardest to reconcile, because the thought of another human
taking that kind of action – willingly pulling the trigger, or wielding the knife or their hands
and just snuffing out someone you loved – it’s just so inconceivable, so fucking wrong.
What’s even worse, is that the people I’ve known who were murdered were the brightest stars,
the most shining examples of what a good friend, a good human it was possible to be.
I know that in retrospect, after someone has died, it’s usually only their very best characteristics
that get remembered or brought up at the memorial. Those who have died are rarely referred to
as “just okay”, nor are their flaws generally brought up or remarked upon. It’s so easy to saint
someone who’s not around to remind us of how messed up or annoying they might have been
sometimes. That being said, I have to say that the friends of mine who were murdered – well,
they truly were like saints in my eyes, and to many others as well. I’m not exaggerating or
speaking with the slightest hyperbole when I try and explain their goodness: they really were
that good. Through and through: just extremely kind, generous, warm, ALIVE people. Until
someone came along and randomly chose them to kill. That’s the part I don’t get, I guess.
Why them? Why these beacons of light, these people who were so well-loved, so active in
their communities? Why people who were always doing things, making things, and helping others?
It should be known that I’m not always universally altruistic in my view of humans as intrinsically
good or even worthwhile, so when things like this happen, I can’t help but wonder – if this was
just some random act of senseless violence, why couldn’t it have happened to some shitty person,
some mediocre jerk with a bad attitude. We all know they’re out there. I’m not saying that anyone
deserves to die, or be murdered, but why take away from this world the ones who add the most to it?
I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing Esme, but I can tell from the outpouring of love
from her friends and from their stories about her that she really was the real deal:
a tiny dynamo of good energy and light. Austin is a darker place without her here.
Five years ago, when my friend Helen was shot in her house by would-be robbers, I wrote this:
“Recently, I’ve been overcome with
thoughts of how dense we’ve become-
our overpopulation choking what
beauty is left in this world,
thinking how the herd needs thinning,
and thinking that the apocalypse
needs to hurry it on up
and get here already.
Then this- and what do you say?
I didn’t mean it like that!
Don’t take the good ones!
Not her! Not the sweethearts,
the innocents, the helpers,
the music-makers..
Don’t extinguish the bright lights
who worked tirelessly to make
change, to make it better..”
and this:
“Helen was such a kind and open person-
bursting with enthusiasm for life and her myriad projects,
always smiling, always excited about being in the world.
I know everyone’s eulogy begins like that,
and we all think, “Oh, sure..”
but honestly, I can’t think of a more loving soul.
I am not understanding life’s lessons today.
It makes no sense to me why or how this could have happened.
I have no words of wisdom, no peaceful sentiments
to impart regarding the destruction of goodness.
If someone could explain it to me, I’d be all ears.”
Memorial outside Helen Hill’s home on Rampart Street, Marigny, January, 2007 – also by Infrogmation
I think back to my grief and confusion then – Helen wasn’t by far the closest friend
I’d lost, and yet – her death just destroyed me. I couldn’t come to terms with it, for
the longest time, until after awhile I had to force myself to think about it like this:
when the most wonderful people we know are taken away from us, a void is made
by their absence in the fabric of our communities. It’s up to us to emulate them, to
step it up, and try and fill that space where they did their good work, to shine our light
twice as strong, to be better, to be kinder, to be more involved in each other’s lives.
In some ways, I think that’s why the idea of saints and martyrs exists: to inspire us to be
more like them, to make good in the world, because they were taken away from it, from us.
And so we must. It feels so fucked to begin a new year with a murder, with the loss of someone
so special. I remember feeling like that when Helen was shot on January 5th. To think of that
darkest and saddest Twelfth Night New Orleans had known in a long time, feeling the sharp
loss of one of its best children when the year was so young, so new. Jon Flee was killed in winter,
too – on Christmas Eve. I think of his family, of Esme’s, never being able to celebrate those holidays
again without the pain of remembrance that your beloved child, sister, brother died on that day.
Now, our New Year’s resolutions take on a sharper poignance: to do right by the memory of our
friends, to be more like them, so that the bad guys don’t win. We cannot let them win.
So: stay positive, stay safe. Be brave, dream big. Help kids, help your friends, support
your community, feed the hungry, and if you want to be like my friend Helen, write and
send a postcard to someone every day. Isn’t that a good idea? Let’s try and do it together.
From Helen’s Jazz Funeral, photo by Derek Bridges
✶ For.Our.Esme.B. is a place where you can donate to help Esme’s family pay for her funeral service.
✶ Missing Esme: Making sense of loss in the new year
✶ From her friends at Waterloo Records – In Loving Memory of Esme B.
✶ In Memoriam – Esme Barrera
✶ Homicide victim was teaching assistant, camp counselor, music fan, friends say
✶ After the death of beloved Esme Barrera, does Austin need a head check?
✶ Esme Barrera Tributes, Benefits
✶ Helen Hill – R.I.P.
✶ Epiphanies
✶ Jon Flee – R.I.P.
VOTE FOR THE GOAT
by angeliska on January 4, 2012
This month we are throwing the mother of all Saturnalias:
A Capricornian Celebration to honor all my favorite sea-goats!
I’m a Capricorn too, so this will also be my de facto birthday party,
as well as the 1 year anniversary of us doing Exquisite Corpse!
Exquisite Corpse presents: VOTE FOR THE GOAT! A Capricornian Celebration
Oh, hey – the party has been moved to Friday the 13th!
More time to prepare!
The Devil’s Playground – Martin Wittfooth
Phooka – Brian Froud
So many reasons to celebrate in satanic style!
Wear your most beastly finery in our honor –
we want to see your horns, your hooves and your little goat beard!
Sexy satyrs and fabulous fauns, come hither! The hour of the goat is nigh!
Fauna – Jeremy Enecio
From Coilhouse –Jeremy Enecio’s Painted Mythos
Virgin sacrifices, elaborate spectacles and all manner of extravagance
will be happily received on the GOAT GOD altar.
In lieu of gifts, bring gifts. Kidding. Kind of.
VOTE FOR THE GOAT!
Virgin sacrifices!
Source: spaceghetto.st
MUSIC FOR WITCHES
from DJ Pasht
Projections from Lau of RECSPEC
www.recspec.org
Photobooth from Devaki Knowles of Fun Loving Photos!
www.funlovingphotos.net
$5 = dressed to transgress
$7 = sad trombone
EXQUISITE CORPSE
A monthly party for witches
at The Swan Dive
hostessed by Miss Angeliska
every 1st Thursday
old school goth – new wave – witch house – dance party
cocktails
dark dances
creepshows
magie noire
goat girl
Did you know that goats love to dance? We do! Come dance with us!
FUCK THE PLAN 2012
by angeliska on December 31, 2011
So. 2012 is upon us, the juggernaut peeping out coyly from behind the broom-closet door.
I barely have time to glance at it, really – my hair still wet from the deluge of 2011, my arms
full of projects, my feet always moving inexorably forward. No time to look back in reflection,
lately. The air is thick with resolutions and goals for the future though, but they hang like a thick
miasma, amorphous and vague until I can actually hew them out of my intention and make them real.
I want to make a lot of stuff happen this year, for myself. Just for today, though – let’s simplify.
I’ve been into that lately, which is odd, because I’m an avid sybarite, a collector, an embellisher.
I’ll never be spartan, perhaps – but lately, I crave a bit of simplicity, at least in my outlook.
Here’s something that made me re-think my approach to this year’s resolutions (especially the ones
I wince at, realizing that they have been carried over, unfulfilled, from years previous – hello: driving,
exercise, new website et cetera.) Well, whatever! This will be the year, damn it! But listen to this:
“You can’t punish yourself into change.
You can’t whip yourself into shape.
But you can love yourself into well-being.”
– Susan Skye
That’s via my friend Olivia Pepper, who is lovely. It also applies to other people. I’m working on that
whole not being able to change other people concept. It ain’t easy, but life gets easier if you can remember.
But back to “you can love yourself into well-being” – I think that’s pretty huge, and is such a deeper incentive
than the slog of obligation and guilt that I feel when I contemplate (shudder) getting a gym membership.
Here’s the other thing, the main thing that I’ve been grappling with this year – my big lesson,
the karmic doozie that’s been whipping me upside the head non-stop for nearly every damn bit
of 2011: YOU MUST RELINQUISH YOUR ATTACHMENT TO THE OUTCOME.
In other words: Be here now.
In other, other words: You can’t always get what you want.
(But if you try sometimes, you just might find…)
Paraphrased into my motto for 2012? FUCK THE PLAN.
Yep, that’s right – fuck the fucking plan. It’s inelegant, but it works for me, you see – because
I am a first-rate blue-ribbon planner. I love to plan. I love to dream and plot and make lists and
research and figure how exactly how it’s all going to be, how it’s all going to go down, right up
to the tiniest detail. I’m not anal retentive exactly, just thorough – and I think it’s part of what makes
a lot of what I do work so well. Then again, I think it can lead to hardcore procrastination and wool
gathering, but that’s another story. The deal here is that when my best-laid plans go astray for whatever
reason, life intervenes, shit happens – well, it’s really hard for me. I hate it. A lot. I get so attached to “the PLAN” and “the way things were supposed to be” that it’s hard for me to adjust to the new plan,even if it’s actually better than what I had all worked out. This rigidity, this inability to let go, and just “go with the flow” has made a lot of unpleasant situations way more horrid than they really needed to be. I see that now.
It’s one of those things where, even though you’ve heard it countless times from your hippie parents, or read it in the books about zen you pilfered (okay, yes – it was me) off their shelves, until you have a big moment where it hits you, it’s hard to really get. I got lucky, sort of. Or maybe I pursued it, but between last year’s winter solstice and summer solstice, the wheels started to turn. When the message finally arrived, I was up on a high hill, at the beginning of a medicine ceremony. A storm was coming. Everyone was buzzing about, debating whether or not we ought to move our gathering to safer ground. Normally, I am overly concerned with my environment – I’m a nazi about ambiance, lighting, smells, and especially where I’m sitting. I’m also kind of a stickler for safety. Crazy, I know. So, do we stay or go? Tough call, as it was so ideal where we were, and we had everything set up beautifully: the circle, an altar, our bedding. But the storm was coming. I could feel it in my bones. I wanted everyone to be safe. I didn’t want to be soaking wet and cold and miserable. Yet, for some reason, I hung back. I sat quietly while arguments for and against leaving the hill circulated. Smartphone weather-stations were consulted, trees meditated with, mothers called – and any other time, I would be right in the thick of all that decision making, planning for the group. I have another role, one that goes with being a planner: Cruise Ship Tour Director. Cat Herder Extraordinaire. These can be thankless roles, as cruise tours never go as planned, and cats are hard to herd. So I sat quietly, until a decision was made for us by the first fat drops, preceded by a huge black cloud covering the sky, and a sharp temperature drop. I’ve never seen so many people move camp so efficiently and quickly.Down the hill in the rain to a big open barn, where I could lay down and watch the most intense lightning show I’ve ever seen arc and ripple dazzlingly across the night sky. At one point the horses got spooked and ran out from the barn into the field before
us. Seeing them illuminated in flashes as bright as day remains one of the most stunning sights I have ever seen. That night, nothing went according to plan, and yet – before those first drops fell, I’d said to myself, “Whatever happens, whatever decision is made, I’m okay with it. I’m here for the ride, for the adventure.” I knew that the lesson would stay with me, but I had no idea then how it would play out, or how hard it would be. Over and over, during the past months, I’ve had this lesson presented to me, and the challenge to accept my ruined plans with grace and serenity has been beyond trying at times. It’s been devastating, honestly. But I’m still here.
A trip to New Orleans that I’d been preparing for for weeks was cancelled when my ride flaked at 3:00am – an hour before we were supposed to hit the road. Money I’d expected fell through. People bailed on things they’d promised to do. My computer’s hard drive failed and hundreds of hours worth of writing disappeared with a whimper. So many posts slated to go up here – it will take some time to recover from that one, and things may be a bit sparse here for a while. Oh and, the big one – our wedding? Postponed. That one was the hardest. You can plan and plan, but life will often find a way to intervene, to get into the cracks of your tightly sealed vessel and bust it wide open. If you can somehow find a way to ride that river, to (oh yes) go with the flow, man – well, I’m telling you – life will get easier. Just keep rollin’ with the punches.
Or anyway, that’s what I was trying to remind myself yesterday, stranded in a suburb of Dallas with a broken down car and a head full of broken glass and snot. It doesn’t always work. Sometimes it’s as if the universe is just messing with you, daring you to forget what you know. This wasn’t how I thought my day was going to go. This isn’t the way things were supposed to be. But that happens, and it’s better if you can at least not totally wig out about it. I only kinda-sorta succeeding in that. Mostly I sulked and brooded and read a book. Then I blew up at my sweetheart and stomped off yelling “FUCK”, much to the horror (or delight?) of the neighborhood kids on their razor scooters. Yeah. No points for me that day. Deep breaths. We had the car towed, got a rental car, and made it home after days and days of cross-country travel around midnight. Hollering and moaning about it didn’t get us there any faster.
So. It’s New Year’s Eve – my mama’s birthday. She would be what, 65 years old today, if she had lived.
Since 1999, I’ve devoted myself to the tradition of going out to the country to ring in the New Year under the stars and moon, on my ancestral land, surrounded by friends and family. This year, however – something had to shift. When I thought about trying to get everything together to make a camping trip happen right after the epic journey we just returned from, my soul just sort of crumpled. After postponing the wedding, the idea of going all out to make parties (aside from the two monthly events I already do) happen just seemed insurmountable exhausting. That, and our favorite neighborhood brasserie, Justine’s 1937, is doing a Dr. Zhivago inspired Russian fete for the ages tonight, and they’ve asked me to be their Snow Queen. Wolves, caviar, champagne towers – plus they’re bringing in 20,000 pounds of snow and 200 pine trees! How could I refuse? It would break my heart to miss a party so tailor-made to my favorite things – it’s like the theme of my annual Eastern European Feast birthday party and our Russian Folktale wedding combined! On that same tip, I’m not doing my giant insane potluck birthday this year, either. Breaking traditions right and left, this year. I need a break from constant hostessing. I need to catch my breath. That being said, I have no idea what I’m going to do on my actual birthday. Zero plan. It’s liberating and terrifying for someone who usually starts planning this stuff months in advance. I’ve tried to make a few plans, but they’ve all been nixed due to scheduling conflicts and money constraints, and I’m just…done with trying to figure it out. Hopefully something magical will happen. I have eleven days to ponder it.
As for tonight, I’ll be festooned in frosty sparkle, pouring the champagne tower and counting down the New Year in Russian. I can’t wait to get lost in an opulent ice-glazed world of broken mirrors, paperwhite-hung chandeliers, and stark black branches all designed by one of my favorite geniuses, Mr. Douglas Little, modern alchemist and purveyor of curiosities at DL & Company. It will be beautiful, and I will make wishes. If you’re in Austin, please come: VOLK.
So much happened in 2011. It will take me awhile to gather it all up, but I do want to write about it, to share it here.
In the meantime, I have work to do. It’s beautiful work, and I love it. So I’m excited, whatever the future may hold.
Here’s hoping your 2012 is bright and full of promise, and that we can all keep rolling with whatever fortune tosses our way.
For those that need more to go on, here are some Russian divination techniques shared with me by Nica Davidov:
“To be performed on New Year’s night/morning:
take a glass of water, pour candle wax onto the surface, let it harden, take it out, flip it over, look for meanings in the shapes formed on the bottom side of the wax, the images are supposed to represent significant events or important numbers for the new year. if you see a horseshoe, it’s for luck, a star means you will get long-awaited news. there is also a version of this with egg yolk, although I prefer wax.
this next one only works if it is cold enough for water to freeze (so probably not in Texas but maybe you could improvize with a freezer!)–you take a bowl, fill it halfway with water, put it outside at night, and look at it in the morning. If the ice is kind of rising, it will be a calm year, if it has frozen in waves, there will be lots of ups and downs, if it’s concave, an inauspicious year
for love: on onion bulbs write the names of all the various romantic possibilities/contenders. whichever onion bulb flowers first, that’s the one that is meant to be
then there is one with thirteen needles, you take thirteen needles, bend 3 or them, the 10 straight ones assign names of people close/important to you, one of the needles is your name, don’t name the bent ones. spill out all the needles onto a white sheet of paper. look where the needle with your name fell, if it’s in the middle of the paper, you will have a stable year, at the top of the paper, expect changes soon, the bottom part of the paper means unpleasant changes you can’t control are coming. the paper is divided into “zones” with each zone signifying something–upper right corner is spiritual growth, lower right corner is bad luck but with a maintained dignity and integrity, upper left corner–success in all beginnings, lower left corner is bad luck combined with strong internal turmoil. for your needle with your name, the eye determines what you will be striving towards in the new year, and the sharp end–what you will be avoiding. if the needle is lying in the same direction as the long side of he paper, there will be big changes in the new year, if it lies across, the changes won’t happen in the immediate future. as for the other “named” needles, the ones pointing towards you with their eyes will be your allies, and with their sharp edges will be adversaries, or at least people who will produce tensions and challenges. needles that cross your needle will be very close to you. for the bent needles: if the eye of your needle points at a bent needle, it means your own actions can bring you trouble, if a pointy end of a bent needle is pointing directly at your needle, it means problems and trouble await you, and are out of your control.”
More reading material from New Year’s Eves of yore:
✶ A Bright Blue Wish
✶ New Year’s Redux
✶ Stargazer Honey
✶ Blue Moon
✶ Lone Grove New Year
✶ Pink Moons
✶ The New Year
✶ Lucky Stars and Garters
✶ La Nouvelle Année
Wintry Hexmas Snippets
by angeliska on December 24, 2011
Evil gnomes + eldritch elves + poisonous mushrooms! This is what Hexmas means to me.
Amanita muscaria = holiday cheer!
Soma mushroom spirits are truly the reason for the season.
Unsere Tannenbaum
The Roches – Hallelujah Chorus 1982
✶ Happy Gothmas! Top 10 Goth Christmas Songs
✶ From Sighs and Whispers: Bazaar’s Christmas Scrapbook, 1970: Photos by Mel Dixon. So wonderful. I want it all.
✶ Caron Nuit de Noel – from Elena Vosnaki’s ever-wonderful Perfume Shrine
My mama collected these beautiful vintage bottles. I want to smell it!
The Guardian’s Winter Reads – I have a thing where I have to read wintry books in winter,
and summery books in summer. I listen to certain albums and songs based on the season/weather.
There is day music, and there is night music. When I travel, I like to read books that take place in
the same places I’m visiting. Some of my favorite books are on this list, though there are a few I would
add to it! Lots I want to read here, but haven’t yet.
Chocolate gingerbread stars, made with the help of Holly Bobisuthi
I baked hexmas cookies! This is actually a really big deal. For me.
I’ve been collecting cookie cutters, sprinkles and silver & pearly dragees
for ages, hoping that one holiday season, I would have time to do this…
This year was about making time, taking the time, to do things I never
have gotten to do that made everything so much brighter. Latkes, the ballet,
even writing some hexmas cards and sending a few paltry parcels! This is
all big stuff for me lately, given how insane my schedule has been for too long…
This little lady is continually doing flips & arabesques inside my brainpan.
So, I finally got to indulge my childhood dream of going to see The Nutcracker. Crazy, I know,
that I should take me so long to make an opportunity to go, but thanks to kind friends (who I got
to see dance that night!), my dream came true – and it was marvelous. I’ve been obsessed with the
music from the ballet since I was wee, and most especially, the Arabian Dance. I remember my music
teacher playing it for us, and how many times I would listen to it, and imagine how the dancers would
move to that gorgeous piece. I’ve since discovered that my concept of how the choreography should be
and much of what I’ve seen do not match up at all. Too often, the dancers are stilted, formal – doing
prissily proper ballet. The music is slow and sinuous, and calls for dancers that can nod to the actual
culture the music is meant to portray. I do think it should definitely be a pas de deux, but most of what I
had seen the male and female dancers doing was sort of stiffly showing off – it never felt sensual or
authentic. I searched and searched until I found my perfect (nearly!) Arabian Dance, performed by
(no surprise) The Moscow Ballet. It gave me shivers and made my eyes sting from the beauty. Sergey
Chumakov and Elena Petrechenko do this piece absolutely right, and their performance is astonishing.
They are so fluid, their carriage so proud, yet gentle – and you feel that they have some chemistry.
Her costume could be a little bit better, but his is super. Only once or twice does it feel circus-y.
Also, the backup dancers are good, and well – you can’t really beat giant pink elephant heads!
On the first night of Hannukah, I was craving my Grampa’s latkes intensely.
I have vivid memories of him standing over the stove, cursing into the pan!
✶ Potato Latkes – Overcoming the Fear of Frying By Levana Kirschenbaum
The full nine minute version of The Toy Shop (1928), a original Technicolor short film from Tiffany-Stahl with a synchronized music and sound effects track, features Josef Swickard and child actress Virginia Marshall.
Ансамбль “Берёзка – “Прялица”
This is my my most favorite thing that I have seen in a long time. Watching it brings me to my happy place.
Thank you, Boing Boing!
✶ Winter Music for Golden Thoughts, Potion Brewing & Medicine Making
By RENÉE A.D.
✶ A Love Letter to Winter from The Spine Witch, Kiva Rose
“Barks and roots, lichen and mushrooms, resin and sap, needles and boughs are my lights in this fertile, rich darkness of Winter. In too many years past, I found myself wishing for the season to pass me by in sleep and to live in perpetual green and constant flowering. While I certainly realized all the reasons why the land and we humans need the rest and time turned inwards, I met this shift in seasons with a certain amount of resistance and defiance. This year I finally realize, gut-deep, how much I benefit by the sweet silence and visceral rooting that can take place only now. Such a huge shift has left me not only enjoying the snow and dark, but relishing it and realizing I’ll actually feel sadness when the wheel turns and the next season emerges, even as I welcome the return of the light.”
I have been on the road for the last two day, making the journey up north for hexmas,
so I didn’t get to honor the Solstice properly. Hopefully, I can find a little time in the winter
woods to do some work and magic. In the meantime, my ruminations from solstices past:
✶ Winter Solstice – Blood Moon
✶ Winter Solstice – Messe de Minuit
✶ Winter Solstice – Dark Season
And, ghost of hexmases past as well! Hope yours is merry and bright. oxox
✶ Hexmas Spirits
✶ Texas Hexmas
✶ Happy Hexmas!
✶ Imps of Winter
✶ send me your flowers of your december
Exquisite Corpse: TEEN GOTH part II.
by angeliska on December 1, 2011
I keep finding more and more amazing photos from my errant youth that I’d still never managed to get scanned
in after all these years. Irritatingly, there are a few of my favorites that are still eluding me, though perhaps I’ll
just have to do another post like this at some point when they decide to pop up. They’re my favorites, alas!
This was me at maybe 15 or 16? It was for a fashion show at the old Club 404. I was total monster-child jail bait, who spent
most of my time scampering around in the woods on drugs wishing I wasn’t human, poring over Elfquest and Sandman comics
and Storm Constantine’s Wraeththu trilogy. I made my outfit in five minutes out of electrical tape, eyeliner, wire and black tulle.
Oh, and a thong. Heaven forbid that should I ever spawn a girl-child as naughty as I was! With any luck, I’ll end up with a Saffy.
(photo by Monte McCarter)
At the tender age of barely 17, I became the armed spokesmodel for FringeWare Review’s book catalogue.
This involved posing in my underpants and various getups made of rubber and dollparts with books and guns.
Real guns. That’s totally an actual Uzi or Tech-9 or whatever the hell, too. As you do, when you are a teen goth.
My best friend and first (gay, middle-school) boyfriend, Milé Boban and I in the high-school cafeteria, being spooky.
(Photo by Milé Boban)
Baby vamps reign supreme. This is maybe my favorite picture of Pandora and I, ever. Wild goth children!
Moments before this photo was taken, I had snatched that martini glass off the table of a fancy sidewalk cafe,
and ran shrieking down the street with it. I was obsessed with the idea of martinis, though I had never had one.
Dressing up before our second ever excursion to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. She was 11, and I was 13.
It’s a marvel our parents ever let us out of our rooms at all. I remember wailing and telling my stepmom that
I’d DIE if I wasn’t allowed to go out to the midnight showing of Rocky Horror at the crappy mall movie theater.
Sassing it up in the junior high parking lot. Brash and invincible as only baby goth warrior girls can be.
My shaved sides and purple dye growing out, brown eyeliner for lipstick, a pore-squeezer for an earring.
With my old friend Blake at our alternative high-school that was a haven for goths, gays, teen moms and wastrels.
It was also where feral children raised by wolves ended up. We were allowed to smoke cigarettes and go barefoot.
I wrote elaborately researched papers about my interests: alien abduction, Freemasons, Ecstasy, and Absinthe.
(Photo by Milé Boban)
Gothic Marilyn at 15. One thing about being a goth in Texas – no one ever could take themselves or each other
too seriously down here. Something about the heat, or the hicks (Beers, Steers, and Queers, anyone?), but I really
do think that Southern goths seem to be less afraid of cracking their porcelain pancaked faces when busting into a big grin.
