(Photo of us by Chip Warren)
11.11.11 – the day we intended to be our wedding day. For reasons beyond our control, we decided that it would be wisest to postpone the celebration, and hopefully be more ready to do it justice a year from today. It’s just numbers, just another day out of the year, I know – but still, I want to take the time to honor it for what it is to me, to us. A magical occurrence – my favorite number. I always wished on 11:11, always managed to catch it both morning and night, and was taught from an early age to make a wish when it happened. It wasn’t until years later, when I got a copy of my birth certificate that I realized that I had been born at exactly 11:11am. On the 10th day of the 1st month – another eleven. I’ve never been much of a numbers person – I’m not mathematically inclined, but I have always ascribed some magical and even emotional significance to them. I have always believed in the power of wishing – call it praying, positive thinking, or just creating your own reality, but it’s always worked for me. Not always in the ways I had expected, but my wishes do tend to come true in one way or another. So, with the full moon high above our little bed, far, far away from everything familiar, in the desert of West Texas, I make these wishes – for us, for him and for me. I wish with hope and love. I wish.

This one.
Owl-eyes that contract and expand when they alight upon me, making shivers run up my spine even after these six years in each other’s company. My tall drink of clear water, my true arrow. Colin, sweet and strong, the blacksmith who courted me and won my heart all in the space of one afternoon, one moment where I woke from rainbow goblin dreams to find him kneeling at the foot of my bed, my hands suddenly running through the thick bear pelt of his hair, and us locked in a kiss, a lover’s knot from which we’ve never come unbound. It was never a question, from that moment on – our lives were twined like ivy.
He is stubborn as steel, the steel he commands with his hammer and forge. He is that bull, sweet in the field, horns garlanded with wildflowers. He has taught me so much about kindness, about honesty, about generosity. He inspires me to be better, to be stronger, more fearless, more fierce. He is both mighty and gentle. Sometimes I think that he is not of this earth – that he is a tree-spirit come to life, a bird-king, long-taloned and downy-chested. He is the deep water – the purest subterranean river – elusive, mysterious, unknowable. After all these years, at times I get that sense that I’ve only glimpsed the barest tip of the iceberg of who he is. His mind is a cavern of giant crystals, constantly creating, cogitating, ruminating. When he’s thinking, his eyes go distant and I can almost hear the sound of enormous wings beating.When I lay my head on his chest, and listen to his heart, I hear an ancient song. It is in that place, our skins dissolving into one another, that I feel most at peace. His heart is the cave I want to make my home in, forever.
He proposed to me on my birthday, in our kitchen, surrounded by our dearest friends. The happiness I felt in that moment was as if all the birthday candles I’ve ever wished on were simultaneously ablaze inside my chest. I want to find that joy again, here, in the middle of nowhere with my love. This is the year that the lesson of completely letting go of my attachments to the outcome, or to “the plan” has come up and smacked me in the face again and again. I’ve had the rug well and truly pulled out from under me so many times, that you’d think I’d have absorbed the lesson by now, but it takes time – and a lot of work – to really live in the moment as much as possible. That’s my only goal for the moment – just to do that thing, to BE HERE NOW. To sit across from this man I’ve built a life with and not worry about the past, or the future, but just to enjoy being present with him, to enjoy each other’s company. This is the letting go, and it hasn’t been easy – no, in fact, I’ve fought it nearly every step of the way. Letting go for me, is the hardest thing. I’m learning, though. I’m trying. We came out here, to the wilds of West Texas by train in the dead of night, leaving behind all our friends and family, our animals, our home, our plans. We took a different track instead, and will find ourselves, as dawn breaks over the mountains and the moon sets, embarking on a wholly different journey than the one we had put so much thought into planning. I hope that path still waits for us. That beautiful cave, that majestic valley. I hope that we can stand strong in a circle of all our loved ones one day, with no fear in our hearts. The terrain we cover now is unknown – it is rocky, and full of dangerous crags and pitfalls. At times this landscape looks bleak, but I know I just have to wait for the sun to rise and bathe those unforgiving edges in peachy light to remember how beautiful it can be.
I know that this is the right thing, the right work.
I put myself into it with my whole heart, my whole soul:
loving unconditionally, loving without expectation, without judgement.
That’s the true love.

McDonald Observatory by Michael Cummings
I am excited to explore this new territory, to wish on stars, on the moon.


The Marfa Lights by Jeremy Zilar
The Marfa Mystery Lights are unexplained lights (known as “ghost lights”)
usually seen near U.S. Route 67 on Mitchell Flat east of Marfa, Texas.
If I see the Marfa lights, then I’ll wish on those too.

Given over to lesser men by Trey Hill from Everything’s Bigger in Texas – Pictory
“There’s a vastness here and I believe that the people who are born here breathe that vastness into their soul.
They dream big dreams and think big thoughts, because there is nothing to hem them in.” Sitting on top of Enchanted
Rock at sunrise, these words by Conrad Hilton (about the state my family has called home for nine generations)
ring incredibly true. They give a voice to the pride I have long had difficulty putting into words.”
– Trey Hill is a commercial photographer and a story teller living in Dallas.

Sunset over Davis Range by Michael Cummings
There’s a rough beauty here in these hills that I treasure.
I know I breathed that vastness into my soul when I was born.
No matter where I go, I’ll always be from Texas.

Prada Marfa by Noel Kerns

Early morning railroad by lomokev
Let this be a new dawn. Here is my wish on this most magical day:
that we celebrate each other, revel in each other,
that our paths will always run parallel,
for our tracks to join and intersect,
and carry us onward into the wild blue yonder and beyond.
Happy 11.11.11 and many bright blessings to us, and to you and yours.

This Halloween Season was a flurry of fancy parties, fabulous shows, and numerous costumes –
a few of which I will attempt to recount in the following snaps from a week of spooky fun.

Coco Coquette’s astounding Beautiful Monsters show provided an excellent opportunity
to don my beloved Nadia wig (also from Coco Coquette, of course!) and bloody tears.
If you were unfortunate enough to miss actually seeing this amazing spectacle, I recommend
you check out more images from the show from Leon Alesi.

A gun moll look I tossed on for the Goodwill Ghoul Ball that I attended with the beautiful ladies of Maison D’Etoile. Always with the tears!

Aoud whispers at Zola Jesus.

I was a goat priestess – or as a friend cleverly dubbed me “Goatfra Haza”!

I was Vali Myers for Halloween – I’ll post more photos from Halloween proper soonly…

Cruella de Garro! Miss Allyson of Coco Coquette workin’ that wig at the Ghoul Ball – there were a bevy of other Cruellas
at the ball that night, but they scurried away in shame and awe when faced with the undeniable glory of that powerful coif!

Miss Shari Ella Gerstenberger of Charm School Vintage getting excited about mashed potatoes in a martini glass. Heaven!

Oh, Sharilyn!

Alanna of Lovecraft Vintage rockin’ her rusalka waterwitch magic.

Who you gonna call? If only this could be my daily chariot!

Quadruple Satan!

Don’t forget the reason for the season!

There was an incredible array of vintage Halloween goodies at Uncommon Objects this year –
lots of devils, witches, ghosts and pumpkins! German die-cuts and tchotchkes galore…

I’m not exactly sure how I managed to restrain myself from snatching it all up!

Demonic name tages from the Flametrick Subs/Satan’s Cheerleaders Reunion show.
I love it when you can recognize a dear friend’s handwriting right off the bat…

Jeepers, creepers – A tin of eyeballs, soon to be made into jewelry…
Oh, and bonus – I didn’t manage to go to any haunted houses this year (alas!),
bu looking at photos from Nightmare Fear Factory photostream almost made up for that…
Trust me, they’re hysterical. Hope you all had a magical Halloween holiday – what did you dress up as this year?
Magic from Halloweens of yore:
✪ New Orleans Hallowe’en
✪ Spookhouse Honey
✪ The Witches’ New Year
✪ Ha-ha-halloweenie

Alas, this year’s flurry of activity and happenings left me entirely wrung out, and in a state of disrepair,
having been bogged down with whatever malaise has got everyone around me likewise gripped in its
throes. Thus, I find myself abed and click-clacking, rather than painting my face skullwise and taking a
krewe of deathly maidens and men out into this windy night to make the Día de los Muertos procession
I have long dreamed of. My cohorts in New Orleans have by now wended their way through the Vieux Carré,
and are now strewn along the riverside, keening low and long for our lost loves – for Flee, for Ray, for
them all. My death-work is undone, just begun. Much altar-building, preparing, writing and processing
remains for tomorrow, and into this dark season we’ve tiptoed into. For now, let these portraits of La
Catrina in her various incarnations serve as inspiration for All Souls’ Nights to come. Some of these
ladies are more sugary than others, some more bleak. All are sacred – death’s daughters, calaveras lindas.

Beautiful Catrina portrait by Mary Kuzmenkova

La Catrina by Sylvia Ji

Ruby Joule photographed by Jeremiah Newton for the recent Beautiful Monsters show from Coco Coquette.

by Gustave Adolphe Mossa

From “Giving up the ghost” in issue #3 of Sokozine. The photographer is Emir Eralp.

Amelia Foxtrot, also by Jeremiah.

My friend Erin Free-man in her exquisite Catrina ensemble, eating cotton candy at this year’s Ghoul Ball.

She did such a fantastic job on both her and her beau’s maquillage! Love the autumnal hues.

This, and the next two photographs are all by John Rees.



by Fumie Sasabuchi

I love this makeup my friend Liz did a few years back.

Brilliant!

Death – Alexander McQueen

From Metropolis
Further reading from November 2nds of yore:
✂ Day of the Dead in New Orleans
✂ Cempasúchil por los Muertos
✂ Día de los Muertos – R.I.P. Studs Terkel
✂ Santissima Muerte!

Inspired by both elaborate historic costume and animal architecture, Tintinnabulation Station’s shape
is reminiscent of a beehive or igloo. The piece is a tipi-canopy created to resemble a meticulously
constructed bird’s nest or spider’s web. Once inside, any movement made will make a musician
(intentional or otherwise) from any temporary inhabitant, as the walls are webbed and hung with bells,
chimes, and found objects – when bumped against, these create a joyous tintinnabulation. Found objects
represent the spider-bird’s collection – an assortment of household treasures, lost tokens, and bits of metal
(silverware, clock parts, odd baubles) which all contribute to sound-making, and to the sense of entering into
a strange creature’s lair. The hoop-skirt shape is the hollow body of the bride, who keeps all her secrets and
treasures hidden. Is it a wedding dress, or a wedding cake? Encased in a glass gazebo like the sleeping body
of Snow White, Tintinnabulation Station is elegant and inviolable. Enter in, and tell stories, share secrets, sing
songs, ring the bells with your hand, or just rest a while and dream of lost brides and storm-torn gardens.


I am so excited and honored to have been able to collaborate with Colin
(he created the metal and strapping frame structure) on this piece,
part of a larger collaboration with Swoon and many other amazing
artists called The Music Box. Eventually, all these elements will be combined to create Dithyrambalina!
Micah Learned and Elizabeth Shannon built the most beautiful shanty to house Tintinnabulation Station.
It’s all old windows, silvery antique ceiling tin, candles and magic. A Tibetan sigil is burnt into the floor.
All the amazing shanty and sound artists that have collaborated to create this village have just totally blown me away
with their creativity and inventiveness. You really have to see it with your own eyes to truly understand, but I will do my
best to capture it in photos over the weekend, and share some of the magic here. It is quite a marvelous accomplishment.

I spent many months spray painting hundreds and hundreds of little bells and metal objects to be incorporated into the piece.
Possibly many brain cells were lost during this process, despite eventually acquiring a respirator. A sacrifice for art!



bellshadows.

milkybells.

Within the first layers of Tintinnabulation Station.

It’s like being inside a Cocteau Twins album cover!

In the final days of installation, many changes and adjustments were made,
and layers of more objects and fairy lights were added. Magical.

I worked through the night to complete it before needing to hit the road at 6am.
It was crazy – a vicious cold-front and wind-storm blew in, and the entire town
was creaking and shaking. My glass shanty doors kept blowing open, and I
feared I might end up in Oz before the night was done. Hot tea & good music
got me through! I know I’ll probably keep adding and tweaking it continually,
but it felt great to step away from it happy with what I’d created. Deep sigh.


Proto-Dithy!

The village fence, with art by Swoon.

Quintron playing the Kalalophone
Some great stories about the project from the NOLA Defender:
Sound Town – A Sneak Peek at ‘The Music Box,’ Where Sculptures Form a Symphony
Bywater ‘Music Box’ to Wind Up for the First Time This Weekend


Borscht break on the stoop. Myrtle thought it was a daiquiri! Ah, New Orleans.

The most beautiful door in New Orleans – on one of my favorite houses,
where some of my favorite people live. Aren’t they the luckiest ever,
to live next door to a musical village? Yes, they are indeed.

More than 60 fires have erupted all around my city. Over 500 homes have been consumed by flames.
Recently, I dreamt of fires erupting in my ancestral home, the home that my great-grandmother,
and my grandparents lived in. My mother died there. My aunt and uncle live there now. I watched
in horror and shock as the fire erupted, the rafters, the walls all draped in sheets of flame. I put them
out with my hands & a rug. I had never dreamt of fire like that – always water. Floods, tidal waves.
I noticed the second fire burning behind me while looking at myself in the mirror of my grandfather’s
armoire. I put out both fires. Calling 911 was ineffective, I couldn’t manage to dial it correctly for some
reason. I was forced to deal with it on my own, and somehow managed to stave off total destruction.
The rafters afterwards were blackened, but the house was more or less intact. Still standing.
I was searching for the symbolism in this, thinking the fire represented repressed passion.
Maybe so, but now it’s hard not to see it so much more literally. That little stone house in
Lone Grove houses all my memories, all my most beloved ghosts. Llano County has been
dry as a bone for a long time now. I’m praying the fires will stay away from there. From here.

I know people who’ve been evacuated now, and some who’ve lost their houses, lost everything they had.
I’m trying to help organize to get them what they need, so if anyone is interested in making donations, let
me know. The volunteer line isn’t accepting any more help fighting the fires (which makes no sense, because
none of the blazes seem anywhere close to being contained.) However, there’s still lots to be done. If you live
in Texas, and have the ability to foster or adopt a cat or dog, I can tell you that the shelters are stuffed full,
and desperately need help. If you are able to donate to the Red Cross of Central Texas, please do.
How You Can Help Fire Victims: Donation Locations & What To Donate
+ more: Help for fire victims

(Photo by Lizzie Chen for KUT News.)
As the Bastrop wildfire continues to spread, hundreds of families are seeking help from Red Cross
and other shelters in the region. This family from Bastrop was at a local shelter around 1 a.m.

I had a moment about an hour ago, where the thing I had been trying to block out all week
was suddenly staring me down with a gaze as black and pitiless as a shark’s or a dog who’s
had all the love beaten out of it. I’ve found myself kneeling on the edge of that abyss not a few
times in my life, but usually I have more preparation when finding myself faced with that long,
dark tunnel, the double barreled shotgun that is utter loss. The total, final, irrevocable taking
away of all that you love, loved. Usually there’s time, usually I’ve known it was on the way – my
face having time to adjust into that ugly silent scream, that endless echoing rictus of NO.
An hour ago, it came upon me in a different way – sidling up along side of me, a dark shape,
a phantom creeping at my peripheral vision. My mind’s been batting it away gamely, all through
this beautiful, strangely cool singing afternoon. The most gorgeous, perfect day we’ve had in
weeks, months. Every minute, I’ve been trying to keep thoughts of the fires at bay, going through
my to-do list systematically, attacking it with a fervor. Keeping myself from thinking about the possibility
of doing that one thing I want least to do. And then, without warning, here it is – standing in front
of me, that beast who says in a voice closing down on you like an iron gate,
“I’ve come to take it all away from you. There’s nothing you can do.”

The idea of packing that bag, of seeking out the most important objects, the things that you would
save from the fire, from the storm – makes me shut down. I think I actually passed out when I started
even going there, like Tony Soprano having a panic attack. In fact, maybe that’s what’s happening
to me now, in slow motion. My joints feel like they’re full of rust. Locked up, confused between fight
or flight. Sand for blood, rabbit heart. Every nerve is shrieking, “Run, run, RUN!” and instead I curl
up into a ball and go somewhere else for a while. At this moment, it isn’t any better, but if I keep
writing, I can keep the buzzing of anxiety down slightly. It’s like I’ve been living suspended in amber
for eons, and now time is speeding up, moving backwards, becoming sludge from stone. I’m wiggling
one leg free at a time. This is what happens when you’ve already been through this. This is what I’ve
been fighting for the last six years, but it can sneak up on you. I’ve noticed for awhile that I get anxiety
for about half an hour, almost every time I leave the house. The series of questions flood my brain: Did
I lock all the doors? Put the dog in her crate? Turn the stove off? Blow out the candles? Shut the window?

The threat of imminent disaster short circuits my brain. It activates the damaged part that knows forever now
that no house is safe, that the idea of home as a fortress protecting you from the evils of the world is nothing
but a cherished illusion. I’ve lived in a half-gutted house for years now. Most of the rooms don’t have walls,
or ceilings – just bare framing strewn with fabric, fairy-lights, tree branches. This, for a person who loves the
idea of home, who falls in love with houses, who loves entertaining, and who works from home – well, let’s
just say it’s less than ideal. I’ve seen my homes now burst open, ripped apart, deconstructed down into their
base parts. I understand now how fragile an idea home is – how fallible our buildings are. Every time I hose
down an anthill and watch as the fire-ants scramble in the ruins of their earthen compound, I feel a pang.
I know what it feels like. It’s just been too much this week, really. I’ve been directly affected by a slurry of
last month’s natural disasters, and those combined the two catastrophic anniversaries has gotten me into
a state of end-times fear-fever. The media, of course, is not helping. I’m tired of thinking about it, I’m tired of
writing about it, I’m fucking tired of it always being so close to home. Is anywhere safe? Is there anywhere
in this whole goddamn world where I could go and not worry about having my life destroyed by a storm
or a fire or an earthquake? Maybe not. This planet is trying to tell us something, and our ears are still plugged.
I’m trying fervently not to indulge too much in scenarios where I run off naked to go live mud-covered in a cave,
but it ain’t easy these days. Could I find home cradled in a curve of rock, a bare ridge where there’s shade and
water? Maybe if everything were stripped back again I could walk off into the hills, forget my name, start again
like a newborn animal, a feral child who forgot her mother tongue. I’d really rather not, though. Just let it rain.

Let me say that at this moment, we’re not in any immediate danger. The fires are still miles and miles away
from us, and the air isn’t hazy here, though my throat is burning like I’ve been sleeping in a smoky club.
But it’s close enough, and it’s moving – jumping highways and rivers and nothing seems to be stopping
it. If the winds calm, and no one flicks any cigarette butts, I think we’ll be fine. I have to keep reminding
myself to let go of the fear that tracks me, to learn to evade it stealthily – lest it sniff and my heels and
catch me unawares again. I’m working on it. To just sit here breathing slowly. To let that be enough.


“The skyline was beautiful on fire
All twisted metal stretching upwards
Everything washed in a thin orange haze
I said, “Kiss me, you’re beautiful –
These are truly the last days”
You grabbed my hand
And we fell into it
Like a daydream
Or a fever
We woke up one morning and fell a little further down
For sure it’s the valley of death
I open up my wallet
And it’s full of blood “