That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die.

John Kenn's illustrations may be reminiscent of the wonderful Edward Gorey but Kenn's mindblowing attention to detail sets him apart. Below his works that I've featured here is a link to his blog, which contains more scary magical works worth peeking through hand guarded eyes.

don kenn gallery

Have you ever seen black flowers?

Halloween Pick:

I, Tituba Black Witch of Salem
Maryse Conde

 Based on a real woman ( Tituba was the first woman to be accused, and to confess to, practicing witchcraft in Salem during the 17th century), Maryse Conde brings an old character back to life within the first few pages; her rendition is captivating and her prose is beautifully crafted. While this novel is the type that you cannot put down, beware for it is filled with harrowing tales of oppression and subjugation.

"The body is an instrument which only gives off music when it is used as a body." A.N.

To celebrate the end of the hell that was anatomy class, I wanted to focus on a themed entry about the human body. Scouring the internet was an easy task; ribcage shirts are back in style and the various bone adorned jewelry and fabrics seem to be popping up everywhere.

OMUT

Vivetta Hands Collar

The Lovely Marlena of Self Constructed Freak

Heart and Arrow Brooch

Iron Fist Ribcage Dress

Vertebrae pendant

Phrenology Head Tote

The Vamp

Theda Bara was a well known silent film actress in America, outranked only by Charlie Chaplin(duck soup. nuff said) and Mary Pickford (an actress and more, she pioneered new camera techniques and co-founded the United Artist studio). She was considered to be the first sex symbol and many of her roles were that of the femme fatale.

Her genuine ethnicity (polish and swiss) was discarded and she became a woman of egyptian and french descent, giving her that perceived air of mystery needed to become famous at that time. The name "Theda Bara" is an anagram for "Arab death".

She never starred in any "talkies" and much of her work was destroyed in a fire, but A Fool There Was can still be experienced by devoted movie watchers everywhere.

A Fool There Was

So long, and thanks for all the fish

Just when you think The Hitchhiker's guides couldn't get any better, they go and get Jonathan Burton to illustrate. 

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ~S.P.

“Keep writing”.  James looked at me intensely and sincerely, hoping my answer would compliment the thoughts floating through his broken mind. “Just write”, he urged. So I do. I try to say something pithy, or something that matters, but when I try it all seems so meaningless. What can I say that hasn’t already been printed, edited and sold? I say this to myself as the drive lengthens, expands, making me all the more anxious with every mile lost. “You need to write”, he says again. I know. But what have I to offer? With such small stature and little left of who I used to be, it seems unnatural to pretend I still thrive inside this body that can barely hold my temperament. I arrive at the destination no less relieved than I was when I left. I peered into the sad eyes of the sad faces that look like mine, proud noses, soft eyes that betray the memories of a hardened childhood, one that I myself did not share. Just write, he tells me again. “About what?” I asked. “It doesn’t matter, just keep writing”.  So I do.  I created sentences in my head that open a few doors for anyone who cares to peek in.  “You can see him now” the nurse says, my cousin standing tall next to her. She never looked more beautiful, womanly even. Her tired expressions said more than she cared to admit. My love for her was more profound than I could have imagined, and so I put on my brave face and slowly walked down the hospital corridor. “Be strong, make him laugh” I though to myself as we inched closer to the hospital room that smelled so clinical I almost threw up. I needed a cigarette and a chance to catch my breath. My body deceived my head, pleading me not to cry, not to let him know how defeated he looked.  Tears streamed down the side of my face as naturally as fireflies glow, I needed to cry as I held him and he needed to cry for the loss of his old life that he loved so dearly. Instantly humiliated as guilt ridden, I tried to make him laugh, nervous that I had made the situation worse than it needed to be. I am not funny; I know this as I stumble with words that usually come so easy. His gentle nature eludes a smile anyway and I sit down next to him.  Few words are said that I can even remember, but somehow being there made me feel like I missed the chance to be different. My opportunity to remain close with my family, to revolt against teenage desires and self indulgences, and be a real person. It didn’t matter much at the time, but looking back at that hospital room, I realized what loss of time could do to someone. His slight grimace, handsome still, told me he needed to rest. We walked down the same hospital corridor and retreated to the waiting room. “Have a cigarette with me?” I asked.  My cousin and James followed to the parking lot. Sullen faces all around, we indulged in what we had vowed to quit a thousand times before. It felt good to have some control over how your body behaves. “Are you still writing?” He asked. I lied. “Yes, whenever I can.” I couldn’t bear to break another heart and so I pretended I was still the girl he used to know.  He looked satisfied but something told me that he knew I was being insincere.  It didn’t matter at that moment. Everything had gotten darker than I was used to, I couldn’t brush this off because I had no control over the minutes that passed by me, at once both quickly and slowly.  I had this urge to scream but my sensibilities told me this type of outburst wouldn’t be helpful to any one, least of all myself.  I looked to my cousin, who was more resilient than I could ever be, and admired her ability to maintain her sanity for her father’s sake.  The last pull of the cigarette signaled it was time to walk that endless route back to the waiting room. My uncle related stories about my family that I was never there for, stories of people whom I was related to, but would never know at that stage in their lives.  I thought, for an instant, how boundless it would be to know everything and immediately thought the opposite. It was starting to get late and I knew the time had come to leave, sad that my uncle could not do the same, not yet.  I tried to kiss him goodbye but my height was lacking, mirroring my self-control.  Laughing it off and cursing my parents, I took one last look at a man who had been through as much as one person could stand, yet continued to smile and fight and maintain his kindness towards others. Humbled, I crossed over to the other side of the hospital; no less anxious than I was when I arrived.  Upon the many goodbyes and see you soons, I took one last look at the proud features of the people whose arrangements I admired on others but disliked on myself. It’s strange that we should be such a longing species, never satisfied until something is taken away, and then we pray for things to be as they were. I recoil when realizing I do this often, and hoped my uncle would be okay.  He will be okay, with a little time, a little patience.  “Keep writing” James said. And I do. 

painting by Aron Wiesenfeld

You're beautiful, like a May fly~E.H.

Weekends are the only time I've got to put on my sunday's best. During the week I'm either cleaning up after cats or rushing to my classes, so I try to really play it up when I can. That being said, I'm generally on a limited time frame due to my Mr. rushing me out the door in order to catch the remaining daylight. Sundays are my best bet, Mr. is working and I've got a few hours to myself. Usually I try to catch up on my sewing, but this weekend I thought I'd get dolled up for date night.

Floral Crown- Alexandra Grecco

Dress- Family Affairs

Ghost Necklace- Family Affairs

Stockings-ASOS

Shoes-Seychelles via ebay

Cameo Ring- etsy

Spoon Ring-my mother's