Magic Windows #24

by angeliska on August 17, 2011

Post photoshoot glitter & grime
Post photoshoot glitter & grime – from a beautiful adventure with the marvelous Darla Teagarden.
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The Tiger’s Wife, by Téa Obreht – I’m almost finished with it. It’s so good it makes me kind of sick.
Ramona, my love - won't you be mine?
Ramona, my love – won’t you be mine? I want this, I want this, I want this – but I cannot have it!
Bird cigarette cards
I also want every single one of these bird cigarette cards!
Mardi Gras 1983 poster. I covet it.
Mardi Gras 1983 poster. Yes, yes – I covet this, also.
I think he was thrilled by the disco goth Cleopatra realness going on...
Back of the taxi cab disco goth Cleopatra realness goin’ on…
Late night drawing
Late night drawing. Sideways roots.
Moon moth cuffs. Done & nearly done.
Moon moth cuffs. Done & nearly done. I make jewelry, y’all. For sale, soonly.
Le bain
Le bain – my happiest refuge.
Bath pavilion, dusk de-glittering.
Bath pavilion, dusk de-glittering.

Star-crossed Troubadours

by angeliska on August 8, 2011

Today marks twenty-five years since my mother died.

This last winter solstice, I had a profound vision during a ceremony:
an old black telephone appeared before me, hunched in celluloid,
with a rotary dial. I could feel the weight of the heavy receiver in my
hand – it was that real. I realized that I could call anyone in the world
on it, and I pondered for a minute, trying to think of who I’d like most
to talk to at that moment – one phone call, to the person whose voice
I’d most want to hear – until it hit me. My mama, of course. To talk to
her again, to be able to have even just one conversation with her –
I think sometimes I’d give almost anything to be able to do that.
My vision faded, and I can’t really recall being able to actually get
through to her – but it was almost more the radical notion that such
a thing could actually be possible that was amazing. That, and the
raw beast of my longing for her, long buried, suddenly so close to
my face, breathing rough right next to me – a wild, savage desire
just to have my mother back with me, even if only for a moment.
Here’s my mom talking about her favorite country songs on the radio (KUT Austin) with her friend Dan Foster.
I hadn’t heard her voice for twenty-five long years, until the day I got this recording.
Her voice is the most beautiful sound in the whole world.
Maggie Cook Polacheck – KUT by Angeliska
To receive the gift of this recording, a few months after that experience,
was such a balm to that deep wound. Her voice is orange-blossom honey
and tabasco, it is the sudden flutter of bird wings, it is soft as owlet’s fluff,
or a mimosa blossom. Her singular country accent: those long a’s and
dropped g’s that I hear in my aunt’s voice – in my own when I get drunk
or go back where I came from. Her cadence is one I used to carry, too.

So, my mother was obsessed with Hank Williams. I mean – really, truly, deeply.
Our first and only family vacation was to go to his grave in Montgomery, Alabama.
She became penpals with his sister. I think she was in love with him, in a way –
in love with a lanky gray ghost, with a crooked smile and a voice that hits you
like bourbon on an empty belly – raw guts churning with lonely lost love.
I inherited her predilection for tall, skinny men with cruel lips and sad eyes,
for wastrels with hearts full of song, careening through life wearing the albatross
that is an incurable awesome death-wish around their scrawny necks. Luckily,
I got over all that a while back. I’m not sure if she ever did. Beautiful disasters
don’t really turn me on anymore – too much damage done, too many old scars…
But oh, those star-crossed troubadours! How compelling they can be.
In the same week that I received the gift of her voice, I also took a horrible blow:
I found out that the works of art she had spent the last months of her
life creating had been lost, irrevocably. It was about this worst news
I could imagine hearing – almost like losing her all over again.
This includes the painting of Hank Williams above, a work I consider her masterpiece,
the pinnacle of her creative life – her swan song. I remember her painting it, vividly.
The vintage print she took the background from, with the sheep in the moonlit pasture
hung in our kitchen. Those cactus flowers bloomed on our back patio – I remember her
photographing them. The tie Hank’s wearing is one of my dad’s – he has it still.
His hands are so beautifully done, so articulate and perfectly rendered – and his face,
his face… Rarely does any artist capture the sensitive angles and gaunt beauty that
was Hank William’s gorgeous sad face – and now to think of all that lost, to know
that it probably ended up in some dumpster, never to be seen again – it kills me.
Her dear friend who she sold them to moved cross country, and discovered upon
unpacking that the movers had somehow overlooked them. I mean, who knows –
they could be hanging above some dude’s ugly couch in a ratty trailer somewhere
in Utah. You never do know. I won’t give up hope that they’ll turn up one day,
and make their way back to me. I can barely begin to describe how badly this
discovery crushed me. For many years, I have been trying to put back together
the puzzle pieces of my mother’s life – to write about her, and to work through
this tangle of briars her death made of my heart. I’ve been fighting through that
thicket since I was a child – searching for clues, for shreds of her legacy.
When I listen to these old country songs, it’s like a message from beyond:
each one is so heartbroken, and totally unashamed. I think that’s what I love
about country music – it’s not self-conscious about coming off as maudlin –
it’s just genuine feeling, even if that feeling is crying down in a ditch,
or being blue because your son calls another man daddy. It’s having the gumption
to pick up a guitar and sing a song about it, through the tears, through the pain.
All this music that she loved so fervently, all her life – it feels like she knew
somehow, that I’d need this music one day, too. Just the song titles, even:
When God Comes and Gathers His Jewels
Alone and Forsaken
Don’t Go
and oh, “Crying Heart Blues
Crying the blues
I’m crying because I have lost you
Blues I can’t lose
I guess it’s too late now to try
I’ve tried to chose another to love but it’s no use
Crying heart blues, there’s nothing that’s left but to cry
I’ll always remember I love you
My teardrops won’t let me forget
Each tear is a wish to be near you
They started the day that we met
A trail of tears will lead you to me if you want me
And from my fears, how hopeless, my crying heart flees

Yesterday I happened across this bit of wisdom from Dear Sugar, (who is beyond amazing)
responding to a woman who had miscarried her baby daughter, and found herself consumed
with grief. Her advice rang true for me, and came to me at the perfect time, so I’ll share it here:
This is how you get unstuck. You reach. Not so you can walk away from the daughter you loved,
but so you can live the life that is yours—the one that includes the sad loss of your daughter,
but is not arrested by it. The one that eventually leads you to a place in which you not only grieve her,
but also feel lucky to have had the privilege of loving her. That place of true healing is a fierce place.
It’s a giant place. It’s a place of monstrous beauty and endless dark and glimmering light. And you have
to work really, really, really fucking hard to get there, but you can do it, honey. You’re a woman who can
travel that far. I know it. Your ability to get there is evident to me in every word of your bright shining grief star of a letter.

So, this is me reaching.
These are too:
Foxes in the Rain
Triumvirate Lemniscate
Gustav + Mama – August 8th

Magic Windows #23

by angeliska on August 7, 2011

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To christen and complete my newly cleaned and decorated studio, I got a little half-moon Siamese fighting fish
that Colin named Finnegan. He’s adorable. It’s been a long time since I had a fish. The last betta I had, Nico,
was given to me by my friend Jentz when she went to Morocco. He had traveled everywhere with her up until
then, swimming around in a big Miracle Whip jar with holes cut into the top. I remember coming to see her in
her pup-tent slung up in the neighbor boy’s backyard, and how she would hang Nico’s jar from wire in the tree
there. That morning it was raining, and there was something so strange and beautiful about seeing that fancy
fish, swimming around in his glass jar while the rain fell down all around. Water and water, separated by glass.
I loved having Nico, but when I went to New Orleans, my friends who were looking after my shack let it get too
hot in there, and I came home to fish soup. So sad! I took him to the bridge and gave him a sea burial in the lake.
We sang Nico songs mournfully, “All Tomorrow’s Parties” and “My Only Child”. I’ll make sure Finny has a better shot!

Before the Joanna Newsom concert at the Paramount. It’s so lovely to see her play there, in that big grand place.
This time and the last, I couldn’t help the tears that just popped out of my eyes and kept flowing, unwished for,
unbidden. Last time, it was “Cosmia” that did it, but that’s a given. This time, only three songs in, “Easy” unexpectedly
slew me, and then “Cosmia” kept it going. I’m trying to get better at weeping. I’m a pretty ugly crier, all red faced,
snot-strewn and crumpled. Maybe it goes easier if you don’t fight it like I’ve been doing all my life. When music moves
me, or a sad film, a book, or a painting – I give myself over as wholly as I can manage. I try and just let it come and
wash over me, run down my face and keep going, deeper into what I am being given: this art, this feeling, this moment.
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It’s funny, because I never noticed the lyric from the end of “Easy” until that night – “Speak my name, and I appear.
Perhaps Miss Newsom is some sylph that can be beckoned in this way, because she did just that once – or twice, that I can
think of… It’s a long story, but I had been saving some little treasures to gift her, in return for all the beauty she’s bestowed
on my life with her songs. I grabbed them by impulse one morning on my way out the door, late already, but still I felt the
weird sting of sight that made me run back inside for them, and then forget as soon as I got to work. By the end of the day,
I lingered over a stack of constellation cards like the one with the sea-monster on it above. I had to choose which ones to buy,
and which must be put back into circulation, and it was very hard, because they’re all so wonderful – with little holes poked in
where the stars shine through when you hold them up, aligned with their originals spangling the night sky. I chose the seamonster,
the unicorn, the lynx, and then paused over Ursa Major, thinking “Oh, this one I ought to keep to give to Joanna, for Ursala in
“Monkey and Bear.” At that moment, the bell over the door clattered and in slipped a cute fourteen year old wrapped in an old
red and black flannel, with a brooch-studded tam perched over one ear. I tried not to goggle, with those constellations shivering
in my hand when I realized it was none other! I wrote a quick note of thanks on the back of the bear, and gathered those treasures
I had unthinkingly run back in for – a silver Victorian owl buckle, a little tin of pretty bits, blue morpho butterfly wings, and went to
summon up my guts to give them to her. She was dear and kind, and even teary – but I had to hug her and run away quick before
I fell over. So that’s my story – Miss Melissa Petitchou has another one, that’s similar – it starts and ends with a bell, a thought of her
and then she appeared. Maybe she’ll share it with us if we ask very, very nicely. Oh, won’t you Miss? Oh, do!
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On my letter writing desk (where very few letters ever get written, alas! Hopefully that shall change soon.)
Green frog ink bottle, fairy compact that was my Nonnie’s, tintype, Mint Humbugs tin filled with pen nibs,
ink sticks and calligraphy accessories in brocade boxes, embroidery of a wishing well by Holly Bobisuthi.
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Discovering a latent love of yellow. Saffron, really. Goldenrod. Especially together with deep teal. Oh my, yes.
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I re-hung all the art on the walls, scrubbed and dusted until I was sneezing black! More evidence
to come. (Of the fanciness and sparkle of my fresh studio, not of my sodden tissues or whatever.)
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Book altar.
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Wooden friends.
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Eulalia Chrysanthemum in her winter hat.
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Treasures.
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My electric stereoscope and a hand-stuffed quail Sarahfina taxidermied for my birthday.
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My instruments. I play the ocean harp much better than I manage the ukulele, I’m afraid.

Hey, hey – last light of day.

The Left Eye of Horus

by angeliska on August 3, 2011


Horus was the ancient Egyptian sky god who was usually depicted as a falcon.
His right eye was associated with the sun Ra. The eye symbol represents the
marking around a Peregrine Falcon’s eye that includes the “teardrop” marking
sometimes found below the eye. The mirror image, or left eye, sometimes
represented the moon and the god Djehuti (Thoth).

I’m getting excited about the theme for the upcoming Exquisite Corpse – The Left Eye of Horus.
Norah came up with it, and I’m so glad because it’s given me the opportunity to explore an aesthetic
that I’ve always found very alluring: Egyptian Goth. I call it that, but really it’s a mish-mash of traditional
and fantastical styles from a variety of Middle Eastern countries and peoples. The bleak tales of death in
the desert from The Sheltering Sky, and the wraithed, black-clad shapes, of kohl-eyed, tattooed Berber
women shimmering on the horizon planted the seed, which grew into a lush little oasis: a stark vision in
black and white, hung with hammered silver and gold. Heavy clouds of incense, sharply scented with
Sandalwood, papyrus, lotus, and sycamore. These are embalming herbs, for canning hearts in canopic jars.
Bear with me while I wax rhapsodic, won’t you? The mysteries from the fertile crescent continue to inspire, even
as in modern Egypt, at the very moment I write this, Hosni Mubarak is standing (or laying down on a bed in a
cage, actually) trial
for the murders of over 850 peaceful protesters who died fighting for change from the days
of ancient Egypt – when pharoahs could hold a throne hostage for generations while amassing untold riches
If you’re interested in keeping up with what’s happening in Egypt, I can’t recommend a better source than Mona Eltahawy.
I had the pleasure of meeting her last year, and we struck up an immediate connection. We talked about writing, but at
the time, I had no idea that she was an award-winning columnist or a total information powerhouse on Arab and Muslim
issues, until January 25th. I had come across her card, and decided to start following her Twitter feed, which is pretty much
the most up to the minute source for whatever’s going down in Egypt politically at any given moment. She’s truly amazing.

Sapho – Methylene
So, in part this post is dedicated to some strong women – Mona, my friend Zahra-Jane, and also Oum Khalthoum (who I’ll get to later…)
Zahra and I were Livejournal friends from way back, and finally had the pleasure of meeting one another for real recently in Chicago.
She has an incredible aesthetic sense and has turned me on to so much awesome stuff over the years. For this post in particular, I asked
her to recommend any treasures I might be overlooking, and she sent me some wonders, indeed. I also heavily pillaged her kick-ass tumblr
The Signs in the Stars and her beautiful blog, Black Celebration – go check out both and be delighted and inspired! I can’t thank her enough for showing me Sapho, a moroccan singer who hung out with Siouxsie in the 80’s and made awesome egyptian-inspired new wave!


Siouxsie and the Banshees – Arabian Knights
I collect khamsas (or hands of Fatima) – my grandmother always wore a big silver filigree one when she traveled,
and I remember always being fascinated and drawn to it. I wear it when I fly, and treasure it immensely. Sacred hands.




Givenchy Haute Couture Fall Winter 2009/2010 Full Show
I am FEELING this show so deeply. Knockin’ ’em cold in black + gold is my permanent fashion motto,
and this just does it all for me. Now where can I get my hands on piles and piles of gold headdresses,
elaborately wrought paillettes, handfuls of massive knuckledusters, et cetera? I need it all by tomorrow.



I love these headdresses:

Dying for this one, made by my girl Miss Arielle de Pinto – her work is beyond fabulous. I desire silvery mounds of it.

Not sure where this one came from, but I sure do love it.

Sequin masks from the Givenchy show… DIY, y’all!

I love this photo of Inga & Anush Arshakyans. Watch out if you click on this link – the video is whoa.
They’re Armenian, but whatever – they look rad.



Oum, Umm, Oumme, Ümmü, OM!

From Zahra-Jane’s killer post on Oum Kalthoum
“The details of a woman. Oum Kalthoum. b. December 31st, circa 1900-1904, Egypt. the capricorn. Star of Egypt.
Queen of tarab, which is that…”this is MY JAM” feeling you get. Tarab is like a state beyond enjoyment, a state of
almost oneness and total ecstasy with the song.
There is also a level of audience participation, the crowd moves the singer,
who moves the crowd, which allows an especially spiritual element which decades later, you feel listening to these recordings.
Enchantment is a popular translation, but the word seems almost too quaint for what I feel when I hear Oum Kalthoum.
It is no shock that she has inspired some of my favorite artists, from Nico, to Maria Callas.”


1938 Kodachrome film of two Ouled Nail dancers. Silent.
I recommend that you watch it while playing the track below.

Egyptian lover – Egypt Egypt

Pola Negri

From a 1970’s Playboy magazine

Nefertiti by Youssef Nabil

Shirin Neshat by Youssef Nabil

Kate performs “Egypt” on a 1979 Christmas special.
She is so bonkers. God, I love her.
Follow the Nile
Deep to much deeper.
The Pyramids sound lonely tonight.
The sands run red
In lands of the Pharoahs.
Their symmetry gets right inside me.
I cannot stop to comfort them.
I’m busy chasing up my demon.
I cannot stop to comfort them.
I’m busy chasing up my demon.
Oh, I’m in love
With Egypt.
My Pussy Queen
Knows all my secrets.
I’ll never fall in love again.
I drift with dunes.
I whisper of the tombs.
They offer me Egyptian delights.
She’s got me with that feline guise,
Got me in those desert eyes.
She’s got me with that feline guise,
Got me in those desert eyes.
Oh I’m in love
With Egypt.


I had the pleasure of meeting Maria Dahvana Headley, author of Queen of Kings,
(my own copy is tantalizing me at this very moment from my nightstand!)
recently – she is a fiercely joyous hummingbird of a woman, who I immediately adored.
We had discussed creating an event around her book-signing here in Austin to celebrate
her new work, which is all about vampires and monsters in ancient Egypt. It didn’t work
out time-wise, but the inspiration lingered – so I’ll dedicate this Exquisite Corpse to her
as well! I can’t wait to delve into this world she’s created…

Another book that comes to mind when developing this theme is an old favorite – Storm Constatine’s Wraeththu, a trilogy that shaped many of my views about style, gender, magic and provided a beautiful vision of a post-human, post-apocalypse future.

Illan Riviere is a consumate androgynous Wraeththu Har – and one of the most incredible dancers I’ve ever seen.

From ZJ’s post on Propaganda Magazine

The Sisters Of Mercy – Temple Of Love (Featuring Ofra Haza)


This was my number one favorite song throughout much of my childhood. I was (and still am) so, so into it.
During the 2011 Egyptian Revolution the song enjoyed a surge in popularity among the younger population of protesters:

All the old paintings on the tombs
They do the sand dance don’t you know
If they move too quick (oh way oh)
They’re falling down like a domino
All the bazaar men by the Nile
They got the money on a bet
Gold crocodiles (oh way oh)
They snap their teeth on your cigarette
Foreign types with the hookah pipes say
Ay oh way oh, ay oh way oh
Walk like an Egyptian


Natacha Atlas – Leysh Natarak

Dithyrambalina: Musical Architecture in New Orleans

by angeliska on July 27, 2011

So! I am very excited to announce that Colin and I will be collaborating on a piece that will be part of amazing project called Dithyrambalina:

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The Brooklyn-based artist Swoon, who may know from her beautiful wheat-pasted cut-out street art (and the following flotillas: Miss Rockaway Armada, Swimming Cities of Switchback Sea, Swimming Cities of Serenissima) is bringing a landmark, permanent sculpture to the Bywater neighborhood of New Orleans. This “house” also functions as a musical instrument. A growing group of local and national sound artists are creating interactive instruments that will be built into its walls and floorboards so that visitors can bring the house to life through their touch. How does a house sing? How does it keep a beat? Can a house be played like a trumpet? These are the kind of questions will be answering this fall when we launch The Music Box – A Shantytown Sound Laboratory, which is the first incarnation of what will evolve into Dithyrambalina. Our prototypes will gather together in a musical village of singing shanties!

Swoon’s “Ice Queen”, (currently debuting at MOCA, Los Angeles’ Art in the Streets exhibition).
Screen print on paper, coffee stained and hand painted, 2’x3′, signed in an edition of ten.
Happy to say that all three of these beautiful pieces went to each of our awesome Kickstarter backers who pledged $3000 or more!

We are very excited to be collaborating with Elizabeth Shannon, a hero of the New Orleans art world since the 1970′s on the shanty that will shelter our piece TINTINNABULATION STATION. This temporary installation will run from October thru early January and will be built on the future site of the Dithyrambalina in the New Orleans Bywater neighborhood. Over the course of the exhibition we will welcome visitors, hold children’s workshops, and present a three-part series of performances featuring local and national musicians who will orchestrate original works on the devices. Check out our fellow artists, also – we’re amongst great company of some dear friends and many future friends! I’d love it if you’d take a moment to go read more about this project – the whys and wherefores, the inspirations, and the spirit behind it. I’m so proud to be a part of this beautiful thing! The Dithrambalina Kickstarter Campaign ends Thursday Jul 28, 8:49am, and not only did meet our goal, but nearly doubled it! However – any and all additional pledges are appreciated and needed! Additional funding will go towards build costs for the Dithyrambalina house, developing more instrumentation, and paying our artists and musicians for all their hard work. We would all be so grateful for any donations, and for any help spreading the word about this project! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Swoon and Sound Collaborator Taylor Shepherd Discuss the Project

P.S. Have you been wondering why Swoon calls the musical house Dithyrambalina? The root of the name comes from the ancient Greek work dithyramb. A dithyramb was the chant of wild abandon sung by the devotees of Dionysus to call for their God.

Dionysus was the god of the grape harvest and wine, and he connotes ritual madness and ecstasy in Greek mythology. He is generally depicted as an enchantingly beautiful man attended by a debauched procession of animals, dancers, and music makers. Suffice it to say that Dionysus has never missed a Mardi Gras in New Orleans!
– from the Dithyrambalina blog, which is chockablock with good stuff – go see!

Magic Windows #22

by angeliska on July 26, 2011

My, it’s been an age since I last made a foray into the world of Magic Windows!
I’m not sure why, exactly – other than that I have heaps of photos tucked away
where I can’t access them without the help of a tech-sherpa. Hopefully soon, those
will be unearthed, but for the moment, here are some images from my various cameras
that will serve as a window into what I have found curious and delightful over this summer:
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A majestic dead leaf moth in the stairwell of my jewelry studio. I don’t know the species name, alas.
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Sidral Mundet Mazana Verde – the prettiest, palest green apple soda ever.
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I could not resist these Kermit the Frog sheets at an estate sale.
I tried, I really did – but I failed. I don’t even have a twin bed
to put them on! But I’m a sucker for a banjo-playing frog, man.
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Weird shadows on a fence at another small-town garage sale.
I think they are super creepy. The people having the sale thought
I was super creepy, taking pictures of their fence and all. Ha!
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This one day my beloved brujita-sister, Sienna O’Banion and I had the perfect summer afternoon:
we took a ride in her vintage bleached bone-colored Mercedes-Benz, Blanca – with all the
windows down, going about 20 miles an hour at all times (because Sienna drives like a granny!)
We drank Topo Chicos and got lollies from the pneumatic tube (magic!) at the bank – Dum Dum pops,
in MYSTERY flavor
, which is of course my favorite. We jammed out to this amazing tape of gospel hits,
The Way Up the Hill – which is the perfect soundtrack for tootling around town in Blanca. We had quite
a time, picnicking on coconut water and chocolate and P. Terry’s under pecan branches, talking of all the
things that dear lady friends talk about – love, loss and life. Then onward to the clear, cold waters of the
hallowed springs, to become mermaids again – our hair streaming out like seaweed, our skin like gold.
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Butter and bacon.
What more do you require?
(Other than to win the lottery, that is…)
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These peaches from came from our trees!
They are little, and very sweet. Nothin’
better than a bowlful of fruit from trees
you grew, eh? I love our miniature orchard.
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Take a bite o’ peach!
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My breakfast, which was too lovely + delicious not to photograph:
greek honey yogurt, blueberries, big ripe figs and sliced angelcots!
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I found this dolly sunbather with her markered-on itty
bitty polka-dot bikini lounging poolside at Deep Eddy.
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The eternal kitten (who these days we are mostly referring to as “Blinky”) teaches me that summer is for catnaps.

Happy Birthday Pandora!

by angeliska on July 22, 2011

Today marks a very special holiday indeed – the birthday of my dearest darling, Miss Pandora Gastelum.
In lieu of getting to celebrate her whelping with her (the travesty of why this cannot be is detailed below),
I am writing this here, so those of you who do not know her can begin to, a little bit – and for those of you
lucky enough to have encountered this very rara avis – this ruby-throated hummingbird of a girl, well –
today’s the day to send her some goodwill and happy wishes! This isn’t just any old birthday either, mind you!
Our little pea-pod princess is has made 30 journeys around the sun today! Can you even believe it? I cannot.
Pandora
School picture day! 7th grade. For real.
You see, we met when I was 13 and she was 11. The setting: a manky teenage boy’s bedroom in the trashiest
trailer in our neighborhood. I was in the middle of having my first kiss with a chubby boy who I agreed to try
making out with on basis of the fact that he had Robert Smith hair (sort of). The soundtrack: The Glove – Blue Sunshine.
With song titles like “Punish Me With Kisses” and “Mouth to Mouth“, it really couldn’t have been much more apt. I was much
more captivated with the album (it took me years to track it down and hear it again! Still a major favorite.) than I was
with the kissing. I think I was a little stoned, and all I could think about was giant pink slugs undulating. ¡El Grosso Maximo!
At the sound of the door creaking open, we wriggled apart, and through a veil of shaggy bangs that I thought hid my awesome
coke-bottle glasses (they totally, uh, didn’t.) I spied a feral wolf-child. A sullen cherub with a nimbus of golden curls that glowed
in the blacklight bulb. She stomped in all tough in plaid skater shorts and monkey boots. We eyed each other, and I think both
realized instantly that we were saved. Literally, in so many ways. We say it all the time, but it doesn’t make it any less true
that if we hadn’t stumbled across each other at that time in our lives, that both of us would have probably ended up dead
or worse. How fate decided to bless us by having our parents find houses right down the street from each other made up
(a bit) for all the other ways she decided to completely fuck us up. Soon, we were spending every free moment together,
hanging out in burned-out, abandoned houses after school and sneaking out of our bedroom windows to smoke pilfered
ciggies and wander around. Eventually we were dressing up like baby hooker vampires and cadging rides to nightclubs
and yet somehow made it back in our beds every night before 4am and go to school in the morning. We were wild, bad
little Lolitas, and it’s a goddamn miracle that we made it out of adolescence so (relatively) unscathed. Amazing, really.
angel + pandora
I can’t find the picture of us as baby vampires, so instead here’s us dazed + starry-eyed after modeling in our first fashion show
at the very first New Bohemia, when it was over on Duval. Back in the day, man. We were such babies! Children! What.

Pea on St. Valentine’s Day back in our old place on Royal + Mandeville.
Observe her emu claw diadem and scars from Cupid’s arrows. Heartbreaker!

Sweet valentines. I am grateful to say that this girl was my very first lover, and who better to be initiated into
the mysteries of love than the person you love most in the world, your best friend and partner in crime?
We were lucky. We are lucky. She has taught me so much in these past (holy shit) 19 years…

Queen Marie, still from Pastrisetimania. – “Cake Sits, a fetishistic photo series.”

CYGNUS OLOR
This video is a collaboration between Dana Sherwood and The Black Forest Fancies
An incorrigible collector with an eye for the exotic captures a swan girl and holds her captive in a confectionary cabin

For the past few years, Pandora was working with the Dream Community in Taiwan,
living in rural villages, and working with the inhabitants to build large scale puppets and stage colorful parades.

I’ll let the beautiful Princess of the Puyuma tell you about it in her own words:
In this year overburdened by impossible goodbyes, I’d simply forgotten to miss Taiwan.
I’ve taken the double life summer dive headfirst into color I never can suffer at home.
The electric magenta hibiscus, relentless fuchsia and indigo of tree climbing orchids.
Tropical shades that sear the retina when viewed at midday and emanate neon through
thunderstorm gray. We have such colors in the swamps where I’ve nestled. We’ve the
requisite cruelty of the hot house garrote, anesthetized in narcotic notes of jasmine and datura.
But here these colors throb with mountains’ magic, erupting from black rock and vapour like Boschian
airships suspended in battle – a mesozoic sex display, the glow of which recalls the natal moments when
this magma formed landscape was molten. The timeless beauty of the mountains underlining indignity
of the cinderblock cityscapes, alive with devouring mold. Tree and trellis spangled with giant spiders,
Giger aliens spinning omens, and all we monstrous spinners on display.


Our parade work this year concerns the rediscovery and celebration of Taiwan’s aboriginal cultures.
There are 14 active and politically recognized tribes in Taiwan today, each with their own unique language,
mythology and cultural practices. There are at least a dozen more unrecognized tribes whose organization is
decentralized, as reflected in the death or morbidity of their language and dispersal of their genetic strains.
Archeological research suggests that the ancestors of the current tribes have been living on this island since 8000
years before Chinese immigration began in the 17th century. They have an ethnic identity that is distinct from the
Asian mainland but now comprise only 2 percent of Taiwan’s population, the majority of the population being
ethnically and linguistically Chinese. From the beginning of recorded history the aboriginal peoples have experienced
economic and military conflict with a global menagerie of covetous colonizers: western and northern Europeans,
north and south Americans, the Japanese, who came armed with the anvil of archeology. They staged digs and
opened museums, nailed bare asses into grey woolen writing desks in a thousand thatch roofed classrooms.
Turning practice into history as they systematically laid the – timeless – life of the village to waste.
A clock forever counting circles round the irrevocable bootprints of modernity.


Today as ever looms the ubiquitous spectre of lady China, face-shifting parasite sister to the all-too-proximal north.
These colonial viruses have redefined the island with almost comic regularity, invasions so frequent that they echo the
seasonal tracks of typhoon – violently resurfacing the patterns of life and landscape with language shifts and cultural
(re)assimilation. In keeping with the common plight of indigenous peoples the world over, Taiwanese aboriginals face
steep social barriers rooted in prejudice and exclusion: unemployment, substandard state provision for healthcare and
education, squalid housing and farming conditions, staggering rates of alcoholism and drug addiction. Since the 1980s
efforts have been undertaken on the part of the surviving tribes toward a revival of ethnic identity.
These include incorporating elements of their culture into commercial and artistic endeavors, pop music and pageantry.
That’s where we parade makers figure in. Putting craft through its paces and the spinners on display.


Falling in love with an enameled sewing machine. I mean, wouldn’t you?
The Mudlark Confectionary a cabinet of curious conceptions.
Dolls of The Mudlark Confectionary

Saint Dymphna
These days though, Pandora owns and operates the Mudlark Public Theatre in New Orleans upper Ninth Ward
neighborhood and is the artistic director of that space’s resident company, The Mudlark Puppeteers and co-founder
of the Black Forest Fancies Ltd. She makes puppets, dolls, sets and stories. She is a weaver of magic webs.

A puppet from The Black Wallows Foundling Hospital.
So here’s the deal, in her own words:
In the month of June I had the extreme pleasure of working as a craftswoman on an installation of my dear friend Mark Dion’s
design for a site on a National Tourist Road in Norway. The piece will be located at the top of a mountain, near a glacier
in the incomparably beautiful area of Ardal. A number of world-reknowned artists have been selected by the Norwegian
Tourist Bureau to contribute work to such sites. Notable among these is the last work of the brilliant metal artist Louise Bourgeois,
which is a memorial to the victims of the witch-burnings at Vardo Island, in the North of Norway.
Mark’s piece is cavern containing manufactured rock and mineral formations and artificial bear sleeping atop a mountain of artifacts
both collected and manufactured for the piece. I spent five beautiful weeks generating the cave architecture and some fake paleolithic
artifacts with a group of very talented and lovable fellow-artists. The hours were long and the weather often extreme, but we were
comfortable and happy from start to finish. Our every need was met while we were on site, and the accommodations were more than
comfortable. I had every reason upon submitting my invoice to think that I would be financially compensated for my time in a manner
as prompt and efficient as that which the other practical aspects of the work had enjoyed. I was sorely mistaken. A week out, I began
my inquiry as to the state of the pay. As a self-employed artist, a full-time New Orleanian, and the owner/operator of both a theatrical
venue and a touring company, I budget my life with extreme care and planning.
I am constantly at work and seeking future opportunities. I now, a month after completing my contribution to the piece in Norway, still
haven’t even the vaguest clue as to when I will be paid. None of us do. Even Mark, with his esteemed reputation and integrality to the
completion of the project next year, has been given what can only be called ‘the serious, red-tape runaround.’ At first we were told simply
to be patient, that everything was being done in its proper order. The latest word is that all payments are on hold until the end of the
Norwegian Summer holidays – at some time in August. While the bureaucrats summer in sunnier climes, our invoices are evidently on some
Kafka-esque nightmare ride through the gears of a grim machine of the very old garde, and as in Kafka, there is no indication as to where
or when the ride might terminate. In short, I budgeted my life around money I have no access to for the indefinite future.
I have been unavailable for all other work in this period and consequently find myself at a pretty serious financial impasse.
I have had to cancel many plans, the most poignant being a visit to my hometown of Austin, TX to visit my oldest friends and
light candles at my parents’ memorials in honor of my 30th birthday, which is July 22nd.
I am hoping to sell some of my past-works, mostly hand sculpted art-dolls, to offset the deficit.
– Pandora Gastelum
If you’d like to help, please take a look at some of her work over at The Mudlark Confectionary,
and be on the lookout for her handmade art dolls for sale soon on etsy under mudlarkconfectionary
(we’re working on getting her shop up, but in the meantime, let me know if you have any questions
about purchasing pieces!) She has gifted me a new dolly for my every birthday for years, and each
one is perfect and comes intact with their very own soul. I treasure them enormously.

(Photo by Petra Arnold)
Happy birthday, star of the sea, poppy petal princess, peach-pie pea-pod, sweet sister, dearheart!

Summer Reading Wonderland

by angeliska on July 19, 2011

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As you might imagine, our summer here in Austin has been ferociously, brutally hot. The kind of fierce, dry heat that sucks all the
air out of your lungs as soon as you step out your door. The kind of heat that inhibits outdoor activity, productivity and even the
thought of doing anything terribly strenuous. So, basically the perfect weather (and excuse) for languishing with a tall stack of
reading material and an icy beverage and allowing yourself to get lost in other worlds, other times. I’ve always been an avid bookworm.
I learned to read when I was 4 or so, frustrated by the inattention of my parents after dinner, both their heads buried in books.
I remember vividly tugging at the book on my father’s lap, struggling to make sense of the squiggly black shapes on the page.
How magic that moment when I suddenly understood their meaning. HOP ON POP! Eureka! My dad reading to me every single
night and teaching me through the magic of Dr. Seuss opened up a door in my reality that made it possible for a lonely, sad and
strange kid to survive childhood. Not to mention adolescence, and oh yes – adulthood! Fiction is my drug of choice, the escape I
can always turn to when my own world is just too much. Libraries have always been my haven, and I was never restricted on what
I was allowed to read, or how many books I could check out at a time. My dad and I would always leave the library staggering
and barely able to see over the tops of our respective towering stacks. So it was kind of embarrassing that I allowed myself to have
a lapse away from the beloved embrace of the public library. It was a sordid tale involving overdue fines on some DVDs that somehow
skyrocketed to an amount that surely would’ve allowed me to have just purchased the movies outright. Ah, procrastination. I let my
account go, and took up a torrid affair with a dangerous hussy named Half.com (do not click on that link unless you have lots of room
on your bookshelves and money to burn!) Oh yes, those 3am sprees! Buying used paperbacks for 75 cents (plus 4 dollars shipping)
doesn’t seem so bad if it’s just every once in awhile, but I got a little out of hand with it. I bought a lot of books that I just don’t need
to own, as well as plenty that I’m thrilled to keep forever – but really, it got a little crazy. See, I also really, really love getting parcels
in the mail – and since I’ve become a shitty correspondent and hardly ever actually send all the letters and packages I intend to, it means
that my mailbox often only holds Netflix envelopes and stupid old bills. Also, the bulk of my books are still packed away in boxes, so that
means that I’ve had to construct a whole new library to tide me over until the day when our house actually has real walls, with bookshelves.
I’m only half kidding. For the most part, all of these books next to my side of the bed are recent-ish acquisitions. I had to bring in another
shelf for them. Before that, it was just a series of waist-high piles. Please don’t judge my organizing by color – it just kind of happened:
books
“The shelf was filled with books that were hard to read, that could devastate
and remake one’s soul, and that, when they were finished, had a kick like a mule.”

Mark Helprin (Winter’s Tale)
Yeah, so… I had to break up with Half.com at last. It wasn’t easy, and we still find ourselves tangled in illicit late-night booty calls every
once in awhile when I can’t seem to find that ONE book that I really want to re-read or reference. The library and I, however, have
rekindled our relationship and are totally in love again. Interlibrary loan, man. I can get ANY book! It’s not instantly gratifying, but
at least there’s a branch about 10 blocks from my house, and you know what? It’s freezing in there. Serious air conditioning, and
a librarian with a penchant for graphic novels and comics, so there’s heaps of all my favorites. Reunited – and it feels so good.
So here’s some of the books I’ve read this summer:
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro – Read it, wept, and then watched the film and wept some more. So cold and beautiful.
Cults, Conspiracies and Secret Societies by Arthur Goldwag – This is an excellent compendium written very humorously and objectively and recommended for both wingnuts and skeptics alike. Totally fascinating, and somewhat horrifying.
“An indispensable guide, Cults, Conspiracies, and Secret Societies connects the dots and sets the record straight on a host of greedy gurus and murderous messiahs, crepuscular cabals and suspicious coincidences. Some topics are familiar—the Kennedy assassinations, the Bilderberg Group, the Illuminati, the People’s Temple and Heaven’s Gate—and some surprising, like Oulipo, a select group of intellectuals who created wild formulas for creating literary masterpieces, and the Chauffeurs, an eighteenth-century society of French home invaders, who set fire to their victims’ feet.”
Carrion Comfort by Dan Simmons
“CARRION COMFORT is one of the three greatest horror novels of the 20th century. Simple as that.” — Stephen King
“Epic in scale and scope but intimately disturbing, CARRION COMFORT spans the ages to rewrite history and tug at the very fabric of reality. A nightmarish chronicle of predator and prey that will shatter your world view forever. A true classic.” — Guillermo del Toro
With blurbs like that, from those guys, I really couldn’t not give this one a try. Turns out they were right. Mind vampires, man!
The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror edited by Paula Guran
Chock full of darkness! Good for devouring on the brightest days.
Random Acts of Senseless Violence by Jack Womack
A recommendation from William Gibson via New York Magazine. Slayed me.
The Tiger’s Wife by Tea Obrecht – Reading it now. The excerpt in The New Yorker kept me sitting in my bath until my fingers were pruned, too captivated to pause.
Locas II : Maggie, Hopey & Ray by Jaime Hernandez – I’ve been obsessed with Love + Rockets since I was a teen. This brilliant comics series has a lot to do with my penchant for punk-rock latina lesbians. That, and Vasquez in Aliens. SIGH!
The Monsters of Templeton and Delicate Edible Birds by Lauren Groff
These books both totally massacred my heart. Drowned it in the lake. Backed over it again and again until it was mashed into the dirt.
This woman’s writing is just superb. I cannot wait for her latest, Arcadia, to come out! The cover is so juicy, and I know it’ll be crazy good.
Also, here’s a list of some of the songs Groff listened to whilst working on The Monsters of Templeton
(this is just the sort of writerly errata that I find totally fascinating, plus she has good taste in music!)
Deathless by Catherynne M. Valente – Fucking brilliant, and a tale so close to my heart. I can’t wait to read it again,
as well as all her other books. Baba Yaga, Marya Morevna, and Koschei the Deathless? Yes, and yes, and yes please. More, please.
Baba Yaga Laid an Egg by Dubravka Ugresic
This is what moved me most from this book:
“‘And so. Tomorrow our story ends,’ she said, with a touch of irony.
The ‘our story’ rang like a shattered glass. She had used the Bulgarian phrase nashiyat s te roman. Russians say the same.
The word roman can mean two things: the novel as a literary form, or a romantic liaison, an affair.
The phrase to have a story with someone means to be in love.”
and this:
We’d meet down at the station in the evening, after all the trains had passed… I remembered that phrase – in the evening, after all the trains had passed – because she must have repeated it. Having adopted the phrase, I further embroidered it with my own colours. Dusk, fireflies, a quiet train station, the warm tracks gleaming in the dark, roaching frogs, a moon in the sky – and my mother’s young, eager heart pounding with excitement.”
The Heretic’s Daughter and The Wolves of Andover by Kathleen Kent
These were both recommended by Maria Dahvana Headley, and they were fantastic.
Beautifully evocative, well told, and so crushingly sad and strong.
summer reading
My blanket at Barton Springs, strewn with an array of delicious magazines. This is how I wish I could spend every single day.
The best holiday reads from The Guardian – Writers recall their most memorable holiday reads – what are yours?
This article is wonderful, and inspired me to add many books to my list, but my favorite bit is from William Gibson:
“If that’s holiday as in “utterly removed from any sense of immediate surroundings”, my most memorable holiday reading is Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, which I started in the cab on the way to Vancouver airport, headed for a first trip to Berlin where I was doing something, I wasn’t sure what, with Samuel Delany and Wim Wenders at the Kunsthalle. I am uncertain as to the year, likely it was 1991, before the publication of All the Pretty Horses. I had recently read McCarthy’s astonishing The Orchard Keeper, and on the urging of the friend who had recommended that, I began Blood Meridian. I remember nothing else, door to door, between my home in Vancouver and the hotel room in which I finished the book in Berlin. I awoke from it as from some terribly potent dream, and found myself, quite unexpectedly, in a strange city. Being Berlin, and particularly then, it was a very strange city. A few nights later, over in the east, I continued to experience intense overlays of Blood Meridian. Indeed, I think those overlays helped me better comprehend what I was seeing, and not to panic. The Judge, I knew, would understand all of this.”
I have my own story about traveling and reading Blood Meridian.
I had been trying to dig into it for a few days, prior to a road trip up to a friend’s ranch in Colorado, but my brain just wasn’t having it.
I couldn’t latch in, for some reason. Something about racing through vast expanses of West Texas brought it home for me, though – and I was
hooked. I read it compulsively, even though reading in the car makes me horribly nauseous. My job was navigator, and I pored over a map,
finding all the tiny towns McCarthy described, passing through them in a blur of brown and bone. The landscape I passed through matched
what I was reading, and it made the book come vibrantly alive for me. It was the first Cormac McCarthy book I’d read, and it marked me indelibly.
“They were watching, out there past men’s knowing, where stars are drowning
and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.”

— Cormac McCarthy (Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West)
✸ The aforementioned Maria Dahvana Headley will be here in Austin on the 19th at Bookpeople to read from (and sign copies of!) her new book, Queen of Kings, which I can’t wait to read.
✸ Rainer Maria Rilke: Trust In What Is Difficult – by Jocelyn K. Glei
This, this, this:
“What is necessary, after all, is only this:
solitude, vast inner solitude.
To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours —
that is what you must be able to attain.”

Fifty-two Stories is awesome
« In Which These Are The Hundred Greatest Novels
Cold Reading by Alan Moore
Why I Live at the P.O. – by Eudora Welty
A Wagner Matinée by Willa Cather
40 literary terms you should know from The Centered Librarian
A fresh look at Flannery O’Connor
You may know her prose, but have you seen her cartoons?
✸ 50 years ago, Borges fell in love with Texas…
A deeply fascinating article from Guernica by Eric Benson
“Texas”
“Here too. Here as at the other
Edge of the hemisphere, an endless plain
Where a man’s cry dies a lonely death.
Here too the Indian, the lasso, the wild horse.
Here too the bird that never shows itself,
That sings for the memory of one evening
Over the rumblings of history
Here too the mystic alphabet of stars
Leading my pen over the page to names
Not swept aside in the continual
Labyrinth of Days: San Jacinto
And that other Thermopylae, the Alamo.
Here too, the never understood
Anxious, and brief affair that is life.”

Becoming Mary Poppins
P. L. Travers, Walt Disney, and the making of a myth.
Lost Recipes Salvaged
Bookstore owner Michael Popek shares the handwritten recipes he finds tucked into books.
I love his collection of forgotten bookmarks, also. Sweet and poignant.
25 Things Every Writer Should Know from the awesome Chuck Wendig at Terrible Minds
The Life Of Edward Gorey, Told By An Old Friend : NPR
The Strange Case of Edward Gorey by Alexander Theroux

This was not the only case of Gorey entertaining his fans at home. He was even listed in the phone book. “He was a very poor hermit,” says Theroux. “Goth people would flock over there — and he would say, ‘We’ve got customers.’ They’d say, ‘I love your work!’ and start gushing, and he’d say, ‘Thank you … now what?’ But he was always very accessible, and people would always stop over to see him.

Your Brain’s Black Box: 1979 Penthouse Interview with Alejandro Jodorowsky
So! What are you reading right now? What are you loving, and what do you think I might love?

Justine's 1937 – Marquis de Sade et cetera

by angeliska on July 13, 2011

“Paris Calling” Bastille Day at Justine’s is imminent, and given
how much fun we had last year, I can’t wait to see what kind of magic this year’s celebration will hold…
Justine’s is so, so special – an amazing French brasserie where you can order a steak & frites and champagne
at 1:00 in the morning,and where beautifully themed parties are hosted all year, attracting flamboyantly costumed
guests like swarms of elegant moths to a lantern. I love it there so much, and I was thrilled to be a part of their Valentine’s
celebration back in February – a Marquis de Sade themed evening, which as you can imagine was rife with naughtiness
and carnal mischief! If you are sensitive to naked body parts (including mine!) or at work, you may want to stop now.

Justine’s Marquis de Sade Night from 2HeadedHorse on Vimeo.

This video makes me so happy! It really captures how beautiful the night was, and utilizes one of my very favorite songs…


Wonderful polaroid by Tim Pipe. I love the jaguar in the background.

(Photo by John Leach)
I helped organize dancers for the delightful peepshow booth that night. Oh my, it was naughty indeed!
Sassy, Raven, Amelia, Johna, Maria and the two Jays kept the voyeurs very entertained. Shades could be lifted
or drawn from within, and tips could be slid in through a slot under that window
Still wishing I managed to keep a hold on my commemorative Justine’s paddle that night. It’s nice to make a mark.

(Photo by Lisa Dean)

(Photo by John Leach)
Look at that mischievous grin! You can tell that Amelia’s been up to no good…

(Photo by Lisa Dean)
It was Mistress Stephanie’s birthday that night – lucky me got to administer her birthday spankings!

(Photo by John Leach)
Sweetness.

(Photo by John Leach)

(Photo by John Leach)
We dined on duckhearts, oysters and sumptuous chocolates – divine decadence, in every sense.

(Photo by Morffyne)
The gorgeous Chella Cardona in a pewter leather jackal bondage mask by FLEET Ilya.

(Photo by Morffyne)
The gory aftermath.
So, as you can imagine, parties at Justine’s are simply not to be missed!
Here’s the details for this year’s Bastille day soiree:
“I’m not here for your amusement. You’re here for mine”
– Johnny Rotten
Sets of punk rock classics from the Sex Pistols to Siouxsie Sioux to the Clash to Black Flag,
by French Punk Rock band Cran d’Arret.
All-girl Ramones band ROCKAWAY BITCH
Cold beer and free cake.
Graffiti wall installation and facsimiles of rare posters for everyone who comes in a Bastille Exhibition by Visual Vitriol
author David Ensminger
, brought to you by the badass Domy Books.
Dirty little show by French Twist.
Annie Ray photo booth.
Celebrate freedom.
Pull out your blue Vivienne Westwood dress, paint your
mohawk red, and find that white Circle Jerks tour t-shirt.
To top it all off, I have honor of judging the BEST FUCKING DRESSED contest!
The prizes are pretty amazing:
1st BLOODY BEAUTIFUL PRIZE:
A glass of whiskey ON THE HOUSE every day of your life until the end of time at Justine’s!
2nd PRIZE:
ENGLISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE, 2LP Enigma Records 1983.
Very rare double album of spoken word pieces and music by HENRY ROLLINS (BLACK FLAG),
MIKE WATT & D.BOON (MINUTEMEN), JOHN DOE (X), CHARLES BUKOWSKI, KIM FOWLEY,
and countless others. Cover features art by legendary punk artist Raymond Pettibon.
Only a handful were pressed in 1983 and this release has been out of print ever since.
Now considered one of the most rare of Pettibon album art releases, cover remains in
excellent condition with both records (all four sides) pristine near mint.
3rd PRIZE:
In 1999, photographer Nan Goldin, conceptual artist Damien Hirst, conceptual artist
Christopher Chiappa, and advertising executives from R.J.Reynolds Tobacco Co.,
began a partnership that defied any sort of industry standard. The art-world and
ad-world elites became entangled during the creation of a one-of-a-kind, test-marketing
campaign for Camel brand cigarettes. The limited edition, signed, rare 1999 Nan Goldin
pack is in excellent condition, and a collector’s item.

10pm – 2am, Bastille Day, Thursday July 14th – 2011
$10
Be there!

Exquisite Corpse – Stray Cat Strut

by angeliska on July 12, 2011

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My look for the evening ended up looking something like if Dark Lily from Legend
had ended up doing it with a cat on the side. Maybe one that had a penchant for KISS?

This scene is definitely at the top of my list of things that made me weird…
Hello! Amazing. This may well have been the birth of my gothness, right here.
If you were a child when this film came out, wasn’t this film just EVERYTHING to you?
I know it was for me. Unicorns, faeries, goblins, Tim Curry as the Devil? I mean!
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I was also thinking a lot about the Tarot of the Cat People by Karen Kuykendall
while I was getting ready… I’ve loved this deck since I was a child – it’s so strange and beautiful.

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Raven + Monika worked all day on their crazy-amazing cat ensembles!
They were totally mindblowing! I honestly still can’t handle how perfect they were.
I’ve instructed them to both wear these costumes as their everyday clothes, from now on.
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Amelia made the perfect mermaid! She was a sequinned sea-treat to tempt all the kitties!
“Do you see that fishy swimming round and round
Maybe we can reaching in and make it drown…
If we sneaking up upon it carefully
There will be head for you a tail for me”

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Beware leaping tigers in the jungle!
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Gina, Kitty, Devi, and myself gettin’ wild….
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Azz everywhere!
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Devi!
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and with Xander Harris
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Casting hexes on my intended! It’s the only way to keep ’em in line!
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Lovely Drew
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Rowr!
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Summer Lawson
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Celeste Chesser
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Meow!
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Proud parents with their litter.
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Oh Norah!
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Kittens!
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Hairballs!
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Lali Ferpecto!
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It kind of ended up being that kind of a night…
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Exquisite Corpse – Lovecats
To purchase prints go here….

Stray Cats – Stray Cat Strut

Squeeze – Cool For Cats