Though I am by predilection more like Akeldama (those shoes! Those cravats!) I fear I am more a combination of Lyall (manners towards strangers and intellectualism) and Maccon (“…clearly had only two modes of operation: annoyed and aroused.”)
Ugh. Yes. Humans vex me.
Ugh. Boys. Ugh.
This confession does not surprise me. Not one little bit. But I’m sorry to hear that humans and boys are vexing you.
And I’ve come to gleefully embrace my being Ivy Hisselpenny
No imp’s ears are available for Limited Edition scents. Presented in an amber apothecary glass vial.
All limited edition scents are $23!
Last year, we held a pumpkin carving contest; the winning gourds are featured on this year’s Patch labels. A million thanks to everyone that participated! It was an absolute joy sharing in your artistry!
Autumn is my favorite season. Though it harbingers the onset of the death of the year, it rings in a peculiar melancholy, a bittersweet life of its own. The harvest ensures the strength of the community, the leaves fall to give renewed life to the earth, and the winds and wildfires cast away the detritus and make way for new growth.
Autumn is equal parts grief and compassion. It is the soul’s twilight: the dusk of reflection before the solitude of winter.
I don’t remember the last time we had a proper autumn in Los Angeles. I know that sounds melodramatic—I’m a Pisces; we thrive on internal melodrama—but the weather has been so consistently hot for so long that autumn, and certainly winter, seem like a distant memory. I’ve been daydreaming quite a bit about how autumn makes me feel—I miss it so much!—and these daydreams gave birth to seven visions of autumn. I started playing with perfume without the desire to interpret a specific concept other than the drifting idea of Fall: a story in scent without words or images, just a winding path of memory and longing.
Based on a venerable French pontifical incense blend: monastic frankincense and myrrh, Damascus rose, Russian gardenia, cassia, and lily of the valley wafting on a chill Autumn wind. A celebration of the glory and suffering of the saints and martyrs of the Church.
A day of remembrance and intercession. Without the prayers and sacrifices of their families and loved ones, the faithful departed may not be cleansed of their venal sins, and thereby cannot attain beatific vision. On November 2nd, prayers are sung and offerings are made to aid lost souls in transcending purgatory. An incense blend that invokes the higher qualities of mercy and compassion, mingled with the soft, sugared currant scent of offertory soul cakes.
Autumn — overlooked my Knitting Dyes — said He — have I Could disparage a Flamingo Show Me them — said I Cochineal — I chose — for deeming It resemble Thee And the little Border — Dusker For resembling Me
For my knitter posse! A warm scent, as delicate as lace and as soft as cashmere, and as cozy as wool, punctuated with red currant for the blazing red of cochineal and surrounded a border of soft grey ambergris and a swirl of autumn leaves.
Devil’s Eve, Devil’s Night, Gate Night, Trick Night, Mischief Night; whatever your name for it might be, the chaos is still the same. Contrary to popular belief, this festival of pandemonium isn’t unique to Detroit. Falling on October 30th, it is an evening of mayhem and destruction. On the gentler side, it may be celebrated by practical jokes, an egging, Ding-Dong-Ditch, or enthusiastic TP’ing of your most hated neighbor’s trees, and on the more violent side, arson and vandalism. This is the scent of autumn night, fires in the distance, with a touch of boozy swoon, playful sugar and thuggish musk.
“Why do you wait at your door, woman, Alone in the night?” “I am waiting for one who will come, stranger, To show him a light. He will see me afar on the road And be glad at the sight.”
“Have you no fear in your heart, woman, To stand there alone? There is comfort for you and kindly content Beside the hearthstone.” But she answered, “No rest can I have Till I welcome my own.” “Is it far he must travel to-night, This man of your heart?” “Strange lands that I know not and pitiless seas Have kept us apart, And he travels this night to his home Without guide, without chart.”
“And has he companions to cheer him?” “Aye, many,” she said. “The candles are lighted, the hearthstones are swept, The fires glow red. We shall welcome them out of the night— Our home-coming dead.”
- Winifred M. Letts
A welcome for the home-coming dead: an incense of dried ivy and maple leaf with honeyed fig, black cypress, and grave dirt.
By what a subtle alchemy the green leaves are transmuted into gold, as if molten by the fiery blaze of the hot sun! A magic covering spreads over the whole forest, and brightens into more gorgeous hues. The tree-tops seem bathed with the gold and crimson of an Italian sunset. Here and there a shade of green, here and there a tinge of purple, and a stain of scarlet so deep and rich, that the most cunning artifice of man is pale beside it. A thousand delicate shades melt into each other. They blend fantastically into one deep mass. They spread over the forest like a tapestry woven with a thousand hues.
Magnificent Autumn! He comes not like a pilgrim, clad in russet weeds. He comes not like a hermit, clad in gray. But he comes like a warrior, with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.
The scene changes.
It is the Indian summer. The rising sun blazes through the misty air like a conflagration. A yellowish, smoky haze fills the atmosphere; and
A filmy mist,
Lies like a silver lining on the sky.
The wind is soft and low. It wafts to us the odor of forest leaves, that hang wilted on the dripping branches, or drop into the stream. Their gorgeous tints are gone, as if the autumnal rains had washed them out. Orange, yellow, and scarlet, all are changed to one melancholy russet hue. The birds, too, have taken wing, and have left their roofless dwellings. Not the whistle of a robin, not the twitter of an eavesdropping swallow, not the carol of one sweet, familiar voice! All gone. Only the dismal cawing of a crow, as he sits and curses, that the harvest is over, – or the chit-chat of an idle squirrel, – the noisy denizen of a hollow tree, – the mendicant friar of a large parish, – the absolute monarch of a dozen acorns!
The wind sweeps through the forest with a sound like the blast of a trumpet. The dry leaves whirl in eddies through the air. A fret-work of hoar-frost covers the plain. The stagnant water in the pools and ditches is frozen into fantastic figures. Nature ceases from her labors, and prepares for the great change. In the low-hanging clouds, the sharp air, like a busy shuttle, weaves her shroud of snow. There is a melancholy and continual roar in the tops of the tall pines, like the roar of a cataract. It is the funeral anthem of the dying year.
A scent that wanders through the Ages of Autumn, from the last green leaf to the first breath of winter.
Ay, thou art welcome, heaven’s delicious breath! When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, ‘mid bowers and brooks And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.
Dry, cold autumn wind. A rustle of red leaves, a touch of smoke and sap in the air.
Alane upon the field she stood, The tattie-bogle, tall an’ prood. But certie, she wis smairt an’ braw, A bonnie lass, tho’ made o’ straw. Her gowden hair wis made o’ oo. Her dentie goon when it wis new Langsyne, hid been the guidwife’s best. Sae trigly wis the bogle drest! The beasts they cam’ frae a’ the airts. (The tod ran tours frae furrin’ pairts.) They cam’ by day, they cam’ by nicht, To see a maist byordnar sicht. An’ craws an sparras by the score, A wale o’ burds, mair nor afore. The fermer roared an’ raged aboot. ‘A’ll cast yon tattie-bogle oot!’ Pair tattie-bogle, she wis wae. ‘Eh!’ said the houlet, ‘Whits a dae?’ He flew doon frae the elder tree. ‘Noo, dry yer e’en an’ herk tae me. ‘See, lassie, tak ma guid advice. There is nae yiss ye bein’ nice. Can ye nae glower an’ skreich an’ a’ Tae sen’ thae cooardie burds awa’?’ The bogle grat nae mair: instead ‘A’m much obleeged tae ye,’ she said ‘Ma voice is lood – jist like the craik!’ ‘Then sing,’ he said, ‘ for ony sake!’ It chilled the verra bluid tae hear The bogle’s sang : frae far an’ near The burds rose up, a’ frichtit sair An’ nivver cam back ony mair. Sae should ye pass at skreich o’ day Alang the road frae Auchenblae, An’ hear a strange uncanny soun, That scares the burds for miles aroon, A soon like pincils on a sclate, Be on yer way an’ dinna wait. Ye can be shair as onything Ye’ve heard the tattie-bogle sing. Hay, gunpowder, patchouli, a sliver of bark, autumn herbs, and sun-baked wood.
O brothers mine, take care! Take care! The great white witch rides out to-night. Trust not your prowess nor your strength, Your only safety lies in flight; For in her glance there is a snare, And in her smile there is a blight.
The great white witch you have not seen? Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth, Like nursery children you have looked For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth; But no, not so; the witch appears In all the glowing charms of youth.
Her lips are like carnations, red, Her face like new-born lilies, fair, Her eyes like ocean waters, blue, She moves with subtle grace and air, And all about her head there floats The golden glory of her hair.
But though she always thus appears In form of youth and mood of mirth, Unnumbered centuries are hers, The infant planets saw her birth; The child of throbbing Life is she, Twin sister to the greedy earth.
And back behind those smiling lips, And down within those laughing eyes, And underneath the soft caress Of hand and voice and purring sighs, The shadow of the panther lurks, The spirit of the vampire lies.
For I have seen the great white witch, And she has led me to her lair, And I have kissed her red, red lips And cruel face so white and fair; Around me she has twined her arms, And bound me with her yellow hair.
I felt those red lips burn and sear My body like a living coal; Obeyed the power of those eyes As the needle trembles to the pole; And did not care although I felt The strength go ebbing from my soul.
Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs, And heard your laughter loud and gay, And in your voices she has caught The echo of a far-off day, When man was closer to the earth; And she has marked you for her prey.
She feels the old Antaean strength In you, the great dynamic beat Of primal passions, and she sees In you the last besieged retreat Of love relentless, lusty, fierce, Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.
O, brothers mine, take care! Take care! The great white witch rides out to-night. O, younger brothers mine, beware! Look not upon her beauty bright; For in her glance there is a snare, And in her smile there is a blight.
Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet: gold-flecked honey amber pulsating with red musk, patchouli coeur, bourbon vanilla, inky vetiver, pomegranate rind, myrrh, blackened violet leaf, and blood red rose petals.
I found the ankh from The Hunger. (No, I don’t need a tiny dagger but the Fairy Gothmother does.)
That’s the Ankh of the Dead from Alchemy Gothic, and yes, I have one. :)
It’s not an exact replica of the ankh from The Hunger, but it’s the closest thing anyone can find these days. I know someone who used to make sterling silver reproductions, but he’s not answering his email or FB messages at the moment, drat him.
You are never not enough. Life and living isn’t a competition, you cannot do it wrong.
If there is someone out there telling you that you are doing your subculture or your belief systems wrong, pardon me, but fuck them. There are no rulers out there measuring, goth enough, smart enough,…
I couldn’t agree more. I heard some jackasses discussing whether or not they would ever date a goth girl - and one of them said - well, maybe a “real” goth, but not a goth who shops at Hot Topic. I would have KILLED for Hot Topic back in the 70’s and 80’s. Taking advantage of something which is readily available doesn’t make you less authentic it makes you lucky to have found it.
DING DING DING.
I (and others) joke about the Elder Goth Cabal, Goth Points, Goth Cards, and so on. THOSE ARE JOKES.
How to tell if you’re being a Real Goth: Are you having fun? There you go, you’re a Real Goth, whatever that is. People who try to act as gatekeepers to a subculture are exclusionary, elitist jerks, and you should ignore them.
If you run across someone who hasn’t heard your favorite band/read your favorite book/watched your favorite movie - fantastic! You get to be the lucky person who introduces them to it, and they get the joy of experiencing it for the first time.
I hate to be That Guy, but maybe could you use a tag if you're going to post things related to suicide/mental illness? I love gothic imagery as much as the next person but I do not love being triggered. Uh, sorry.
Oh, I am so sorry! Yes, I will absolutely do that. Don’t apologize, I should have realized those images needed some extra tags.
More of the sugar skull & Day of the Dead discussion
(I’m trying to avoid a WALL! OF! TEXT! with multiple posts. Bear with me.)
*I* would be respectful about the imagery, and I have done a lot of research over the years about the holiday. But as some of you pointed out, not everyone does, and one gothy white lady dabbling in it can look an awful lot like tacit approval for cultural appropriation by people who don’t know better.
A few years ago, I went to one of the big Day of the Dead fairs in L.A. at the Hollywood Forever cemetery. It was a wonderful event, but there were crowds and crowds of people there who probably didn’t know some of the significance of the symbols and the holiday. And every other vendor at the market was a face painter offering sugar skull makeup.
So, still very conflicted, but it’s probably better for me to err on the side of caution and not add fuel to the fire, right?
I want more discussion about the sugar skull/Day of the Dead comic that I reblogged earlier today.
Because on the one hand, yes, I would really like to use Dia de los Muertos imagery in some of the things I do, and I would eventually like to try my hand at sugar skull makeup.
On the other hand, someone I respect enormously (who I’m not naming, because I don’t want them to get possible fallout and anon hate) pointed out that there’s still a huge amount of appropriative baggage that goes along with it, including racism, dehumanization, hate crimes, police brutality, and a lot of other horrible things.
So I’m conflicted. I don’t want to be That Clueless White Lady, but I’ve seen information supporting both sides of the argument.