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.
Exquisite Corpse: Teen Goth!
by angeliska on November 30, 2011
This is Cinamon. I remember seeing her on the very same day, though I didn’t take this photograph of her.
I was probably 12 at the time, and as I passed by her on The Drag down by Sound Exchange, the trajectory
of my life changed. I was completely mesmerized. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen – a vision
in black tatters, a gorgeous alien-wraith who seemed like an apparition, drifting down a banal sidewalk in the
bright Texas sun. I stopped and told her how beautiful I thought she was, and she was so sweet to me. I’ve held
this photo dear for years, a treasured gift from a mutual friend. She was such a huge influence on not only my style,
but scores of others, (maybe even yours!) – Cinamon was the original inspiration for Neil Gaiman’s Death character
from the Sandman series. Her friend Mike Dringenberg drew her years before, and by an odd twist of chance
(or fate), this woman unwittingly helped shape the style of scads of wee gothlings. Cheers to you, Cinamon!
Dressing like a Russian vampire countess was my thing even back then – pretty hilarious,
considering that this was in Texas. I wore that fur hat and coat everywhere, despite the mild weather.
Oh, and – this was taken in a Whataburger at 3am. The cereal box was because of my friend
Christopher Daniello, who wrote songs about Raisin Bran, and liked to photograph people holding it.
I got inspired on a gray day to take “post-apocalyptic” gloomy goth photos of my best friend Pandora in my backyard.
I always really loved how this photo of her turned out – it has nice movement to it, despite (or because of)
being taken with a crappy-ass disposable camera. Oh the angst! The torment!
The rusty wreckage & glow-in-the dark rosaries! Oh, and she’s 11 years old here. Ummm…
Pandora, Renee and I being weird and bitchy at some party.
This one was taken by Pandora’s papa, at their dining room table. Note my clever accessorizing with black cat and juice boxes.
Teen goth afterschool special all the way. Also, I love how her dad insisted on having Dali’s Last Supper hanging in there.
I love that my sweet granny took these photos. All four of my grandparents were the most accepting, tolerant and loving
a grandchild could ask for. I was so blessed to have them. No matter how bizarre or dark my ensemble, they were always
able to look beyond it, and just see me. I think you can see the love in these photos. I know it’s there, caught like a lizard in
amber – the memory of my grandparent’s wonderful backyard in Los Angeles, the smell of lemons and oranges from their
trees, spicy roses, ice cream and fir needles. I asked my grandmother what she thought of my outfit, and she said that I’d
be more beautiful without the black lipstick, but that that was just her opinion. She captured me as I was. So much love.
My mom’s beautiful antique rosaries which I destroyed and then lost.
Still regret doing that, dammit! Also, a neon yellow rat, because, you know.
Aw, look – it’s baby’s first pair of Doc Martens! They were oxblood steel-toe
and I bought them on sale. I really wanted 20-hole boots, but these were all I
could afford on my three dollar a week chore-slave allowance. The rest I spent
on clove cigarettes and LSD. Sorry ma + pa! I turned out all right, though!
Dancing for New Bohemia’s first fashion show. I think I’m maybe 14 or 15 here? Jeez.
That was me watching Nick Cave and falling in love before swooning from sunstroke.
Baby vampires + outdoor summer music festivals are a bad combo. Lollapalooza 1994
was my first and last! I fainted on the ground and everyone just thought I was on
drugs and stepped over me. It was pretty rad. At least I made it into the paper, I guess.
Moving into some club kid-isms. Electrical tape bra + kiddie barrettes. Hey there 1990s.
My sweetheart Colin, pre-beard. Who would have known that 18 years later,
I’ve ended up with my perfect sulky goth-boy dreamboat? He’s a lot less sulky
(with way more facial hair!) these days, but he still insists that we have
Skinny Puppy marathons on long road trips and is prone to pensiveness!
Is he not the prettiest goth-boy, ever? Yes, yes he is. Major swoon!
11.11.11 – Eleven Eleven Eleven – A wish.
by angeliska on November 11, 2011
(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.
Queens of Halloween
by angeliska on November 10, 2011
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
Las Catrinas
by angeliska on November 3, 2011
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!
Tintinnabulation Station
by angeliska on October 21, 2011
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.
