Unquiet
Things

I’ve been making a habit this year of following the fleeting strangeness of my thoughts down their winding paths. When an odd question or observation surfaces, instead of brushing it aside, I’ve been letting myself explore it fully – turning it over, examining its edges, seeing where it leads. This practice has turned into an unexpected series of bloggerly meditations, each one revealing something I hadn’t anticipated when I first began picking at the thread.

Today’s contemplation springs from a rather mundane source: my head is pounding, a dull ache that makes the glare of my laptop screen feel like a personal affront. The logical solution seems obvious: take a nap. Step away from my desk, find a quiet corner, and let consciousness slip away for just a little while. Such a simple fix, in theory.

Yet I find myself resistant, and not for the usual practical reasons – the fear of oversleeping, the worry about nighttime insomnia, or the guilt of stepping away from work. My hesitation runs deeper, rooted in a peculiar existential anxiety that has haunted my relationship with daytime sleep since childhood. In truth, I have not had a nap since September of 2014, in a tiny bedroom in our Reykjavík lodgings, after a full day of air travel.

This resistance to naps has always marked me as the odd one out in my family. Both my sisters, my late mother, and my late grandmother were all devoted practitioners of the afternoon nap. They could – and still can, in my sisters’ case – drift off contentedly at any hour, emerging refreshed and bewildered by my inability to do the same. “Are you sure we’re related?” they tease when I remind them of my napping aversion.

While nighttime sleep feels like a natural rhythm, a universal pause in the world’s turning, afternoon naps have always felt like acts of rebellion against the very fabric of social reality. Waking from a nap would leave me profoundly discombobulated, grappling with questions that went far beyond the usual sleep inertia. These brief glimpses into an alternate reality – where our carefully constructed routines dissolve – leave me wrestling with what philosopher Martin Heidegger called “thrown-ness”: that unsettling awareness that we’re thrown into existence with all these structures and routines that can suddenly feel arbitrary when disrupted. If we can simply check out of our structured reality for an unauthorized break in consciousness, what does that say about the structures themselves?

It makes sense, in a way. I’ve always been motivated by ritual, routine, and an almost visceral need to avoid “getting into trouble.” Since childhood, the prospect of breaking rules – even unspoken ones – has been enough to keep me rigidly in line. Regular sleep feels sanctioned, a shared agreement we all participate in. But naps? Naps feel like temporary anarchism, little ruptures in the social contract. Each time I’ve emerged from one, I’ve found myself questioning everything: Why do we partition time the way we do? What makes these hours “working hours” and those hours “sleeping hours”? The arbitrary nature of it all becomes suddenly, uncomfortably apparent.

So here I am with my headache, contemplating the strange choice between physical discomfort and existential disorientation. There’s something telling in the fact that I’d rather push through pain than face the void of afternoon sleep – that space where the careful constructs of daily life reveal themselves as exactly what they are: constructs.

Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe a nap is just a glorious midday escape, as my sisters would surely tell me. But what if there’s an opportunity here, buried beneath my resistance? What if I approached this age-old family divide not as a quirk to be overcome but as a window into something deeper? Perhaps in examining why I find such profound discomfort in these sanctioned moments of chaos, I might discover something about the nature of order itself – and my relationship to it.

What would happen if I treated each nap as a kind of meditation on structure and chaos? I could keep a journal of the thoughts that surface in those disorienting moments between sleep and wakefulness. Why do certain types of rest feel “legitimate” while others feel transgressive? What makes me guard so fiercely these artificial boundaries between day and night, work and rest? There’s something about voluntary unconsciousness in the middle of the day that still feels like a small betrayal of the orderly world I’ve constructed.

Maybe in deliberately crossing these self-imposed boundaries, I’d find they’re more flexible than I imagined. Or perhaps I’d discover that my resistance isn’t about rule-breaking at all, but about a deeper need to remain tethered to the waking world, even when it hurts.

As someone who delights in recalling and recounting my dreams, what different flotsam might rattle around in my brain during these contested hours? While my nighttime dreams unfold in their sanctioned space, what unique consciousness might emerge in these guerrilla afternoon sessions? It’s like having access to two different dream laboratories: the official nighttime one where the subconscious is allowed to roam free, and this rebellious afternoon version, where different rules might apply. What revelations await in these unauthorized territories of rest?

I touch my tender, throbbing temple and wonder: what might I learn by finally letting myself drift away in the forbidden afternoon light?

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Earlier this week, I shared that medieval woodcut I love sharing periodically,  the one where a woman is steadfastly avoiding the devil’s attempts to show her his booty hole. With the reminder that “there will be days that the devil’s gonna try and show you his butthole every chance he gets but friends, the secret is you don’t have to look.” It was meant to be gentle wisdom about protecting your peace, about not torturing yourself with election numbers.

Now, that wisdom feels hollow in my throat.

Today, what’s crushing isn’t just the devil’s same old routine – it’s watching so many Americans eagerly lining up for front-row seats to the show again, crawling right back up that hellish poopshoot even when it works against their own interests. The choreography hasn’t changed, and neither, it seems, has their appetite for it.

I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours, deleting and rewriting, trying to find words that don’t feel inadequate. Maybe that’s the point – maybe there aren’t “right” words for moments like these. Maybe all I can offer is my raw truth: I am angry. I am heartbroken. I am sitting here with fury choking my throat and tears clouding my vision because, once again, we’re watching basic human dignity being treated as debatable.

To my friends who are trans, who are queer, who are Black and brown, who are immigrants, who are disabled, who are existing every day in a world that keeps trying to legislate you out of being: I see you. I love you. I am holding space for your rage and your grief and your exhaustion. Your humanity is not up for debate. Your right to exist is not a political issue. Your lives matter infinitely more than my comfort in speaking up.

I keep thinking about how we’re all just trying to be human in a world that seems hellbent on grinding down our edges until we fit into smaller and smaller boxes. The exhaustion feels physical – a weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I’m cycling through waves of rage and despair and a bone-deep weariness that comes from watching the same patterns play out again and again.

I am so disgusted, so disappointed right now that I don’t even know what to do with these feelings. It would be so easy to sink into this muck of despair, to let it swallow me whole. But even in this darkness, I see you all still shining. Still creating. Still making beauty and joy and community in the face of everything. You remind me that resistance doesn’t always look like grand gestures. Sometimes it looks like surviving. Sometimes it looks like joy. Sometimes it looks like loving each other so fiercely that it becomes its own kind of revolution.

I don’t have answers. I won’t pretend to have wisdom to offer. What I do have is my voice, my vote, my resources, and my promise to keep showing up. To keep listening. To keep learning. To keep doing the work.

Because the devil and his butthole aren’t going to banish themselves. And we’ve got work to do. Right now. Today. This minute.

If you need me, I’m here. If you need to rage, I’m here. If you need to cry, I’m here. If you need resources or support, I’m here. We get through this together, or not at all.

In my doom-scrolling over the past 24 hours, I’m seeing it all – yes, people threatening to leave the country and berating their friends and family members for voting with hate and fear in their hearts. I’m seeing the wishy-washy “we can still be friends no matter how you voted, show some compassion and empathy” posts, as if basic human rights were just a difference of opinion. But I’m also seeing people rallying, sharing resources, posting actionable items, building networks of support. And then I came across these words from Tyler Thrasher that struck me right in the chest: “nothing changes [in how we engage and show up for each other.] We continue to love. To foster community. To advocate for those in need and most importantly protect our peace.”

I know these movements, these sentiments aren’t new. Not after disappointment in 2016, not before that, not now. I’m clear-eyed enough to know things aren’t going to fundamentally change in our lifetime, or our children’s, or even our grandchildren’s. This is long work. Ancient work.

And so we keep going. Because in all this darkness, I see you persisting, nurturing each other, holding space for tenderness even now…. and somehow, in between the tears and the rage, we’re all still imagining better worlds into being.

Even in expressing all this, I still worry all the time that I don’t have the correct language or the proper words for moments like this, that no matter what I say in moments like these, someone’s going to have a problem with it. But they’re going to have a problem with my silence, too. So you might as well speak what’s in your heart and mean it. What other choice do we have?

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Were you the kid who sat on the floor next to a grimy, dusty corner of a vending machine to eat lunch alone? I was. I was reminded of this in some of the opening scenes of I Saw The TV Glow. A part of me wishes that I’d had a kindred weirdo to connect with. But…not like this.

I Saw the TV Glow unfolds as a tale of two outsiders, Owen and Maddy, bond via their shared obsession with a mysterious TV show called “The Pink Opaque”. Set against the backdrop of a nondescript suburban town in the late ’90s, the film follows Owen from his introduction to the show as a shy seventh-grader through to his unfulfilling adulthood.

The Pink Opaque, a Buffy-esque series about two psychically linked girls battling supernatural forces, becomes more than just entertainment for Owen and Maddy – it’s a lifeline. When Maddy suddenly vanishes, leaving only a burning TV behind, Owen is left adrift. Years pass, and he finds himself trapped in a dreary existence, unable to move on or fully embrace who he is. The film weaves between Owen’s memories, the eerie world of The Pink Opaque, and his present-day struggles, building towards a confrontation with the truths he’s long avoided about himself and the inexplicable events of his youth.

I’m not quite sure what to think of I Saw the TV Glow, and yet even so, this strange, sad tale of outcasts searching for belonging and identity has burrowed its way into my thoughts. And sad it was. Relentlessly sad. Owen and Maddy’s journey, so intertwined with The Pink Opaque, speaks to the pain of not truly knowing yourself yet being acutely aware that the version of you the world sees isn’t authentic. Their diverging paths – one fading into an uncertain void, the other slowly suffocating in suburban purgatory – leave a hollow ache in my chest, with its heart that already carries an inexplicable emptiness all its own.

I found myself entranced by the moody soundtrack, which, according to an NPR article, was curated with a great deal of care. Featuring original songs from indie artists, the music captures what the article describes as “teenage malaise and … a ‘Ph.D. interpretation of goth.'” It perfectly complements the film’s themes of alienation, longing, and despair.  Also, I want a perfume that smells like how King Woman’s brutal, howling “Psychic Wound” performance in this movie makes me feel.

Day Thirteen of 31 Days Of Horror in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021

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Sarah Baker Loudo is a fragrance that seems to exist in two separate realities on my skin. On one wrist, it’s all about comfort and nostalgia – musty, creamy expired chocolate milk powder that somehow still manages to be utterly delicious. It’s like stumbling upon a forgotten tin in the back of a childhood cupboard, the scent enveloping with a sweetness that’s both familiar and slightly off-kilter. (Probably because of the time-traveling aspect to procure it.) But turn to the other wrist, and suddenly the ground shifts wildly beneath your feet. Here, Loudo reveals its feral side – pungent and fermented, with an earthy leather primal weirdness and a smoky tang that catches in your throat. It’s as if time itself has soured and shifted, transforming innocent memories into something into something visceral and unrestrained. The contrast is jarring, yet oddly compelling. I find myself sniffing compulsively, trying to reconcile these two facets of Loudo. Is it a sweet reminder of what I was, or a glimpse into the strange beast my past has become? Perhaps it’s both, a scented reminder of how our memories ferment and mutate, leaving us with something barely recognizable yet undeniably part of us.

Le Jardin Retrouve Verveine d’Été, wherein vibrant verbena radiates with lemony green herbal brightness, its zesty wistfulness infusing the air with an energy that feels almost palpable. Yet beneath this effervescent surface lies a deeper, more enigmatic presence. Oakmoss evokes secluded corners of a vast garden, its aromatic notes of lavender bitters and musky hay adding an unexpected depth that anchors the composition. There’s a timeless quality to this fragrance; one breath brings the crisp clarity of herbs warmed by morning sun; the next envelops you in the cool shade of a venerable tree, standing sentinel over manicured paths and wild patches alike. The interplay between the soaring verbena and grounded oakmoss creates a scent that seems to breathe with you, expanding and contracting, always maintaining that lovely, delicate tension between levity and gravitas. This is only the second fragrance I’ve tried from Le Jardin Retrouvé. In contrast to Citron Boboli’s sorcery which thrives at the heart of summer, Verveine d’Été offers a more temperate enchantment, a spell for all seasons – an olfactory talisman to carry a piece of that perfect, verdant morning with you always, no matter the hour or weather.

One White Crow from Fantôme Perfumes smells like the light of the moon and the long shadows it casts along a meandering path of fern and moss in a lost landscape, a place that no longer exists or that no longer exists as it did in your memory from some time before now. A place where violets bloom in reverse in the dusky glooms just before dawn, the silence yawning hour when dreams are most vivid and reality most fragile. It’s that ancient spill of grief, an aubade lamenting the eerie honeysuckle light of a world that’s tilted just a fraction off its axis, whose sun no longer shines in a way you recognize. And while, of course, the world has changed and the sunlight does gleam from a different angle, the scent is mostly the realization that it’s you, your own heart, that has become different, estranged. Estrange, to make oneself a stranger. This is the scent of all the yous you’ve lost. That you’ll never meet again. In the sunlight or the moonlight or any landscape at all.

April Aromatics Calling All Angels is plump unearthly fruits, gorged on ancient amber nectar, hanging heavy at twilight, eventually drying and cracking in the heat of a dying sun. Silent sisters, veiled in mystery, stretch these honey-drunk orbs across a vast expanse of time littered with bone, their flesh becoming supple leather under reverent, unceasing hands. Wisps of aromatic smoke rise from flint-scattered pyres and the air crackles with the essence of aeons compressed into chips of burnished crystal, shards of petrified sunlight, and the tawny tears of grieving trees. The sisters’ nimble fingers arrange fragments of balsamic fruit-flesh and sticky sap-jewels, the assemblage of an olfactory mosaic, redolent of a hallowed sweetness entirely beyond mortality’s grasp. In this fragrance of plummy depths wreathed with leathery whispers, of resinous rituals and sacred smoke, the boundaries between plant, mineral, and devotion blur into a hazy, intoxicating mirage, an ambrosial testament to the everlasting, endless, and eternal.

The folks at Shay & Blue generously sent me a handful of travel-size perfumes to try.I think these today are generally what you might consider their best sellers, people-pleasing kinds of fragrances; while they are all generally nice–they are not necessarily what I might have chosen for myself. I actually do have a few from this brand that I have previously purchased and enjoy, and of course, I chose those with my preferences in mind. That said, let’s talk about what they sent.

Black Tulip was probably my least favorite of the bunch. A sweet, fruity, woody, musky floral, it reminded me of a less noxious Flowerbomb or less syrupy Black Opium. I name those two in particular because if you read my reviews, you know I have feelings about both of them. But I also know that a lot of people love those scents, so if that’s your thing, Black Tulip will call to you. I hadn’t read the notes beforehand, but when I checked, I saw they specifically referenced both Black Pium AND Flowerbomb–well! That was gratifying. Good to know my nose knows! Also, in my head, I keep calling this perfume Black Philip–now THAT would be an interesting one!

Melrose Apple Blossom smells exactly like its copy, which is to say full of trendy-speak. Which also means “appealing to the youths.” I’m not here to tell you anyone’s too young or too old to smell like anything, but this scent really is the olfactory equivalent of gently patting someone on the head and intoning, “Oh, you sweet summer child.”

Salt Caramel At first, I thought it was more of an abstract caramel, a sort of brown sugar sweetness through sandalwood salty sea blossom lens, but the second time I wore it, I got a vanilla cereal graininess, a hot buttery popped corn note. This is like a box of crackerjacks.

Blood Oranges is unexpectedly bracing. It was like a gin & tonic with a scarlet dollop of pulp. Herbaceous and effervescent but also quite subdued and rather fleeting.

Lilac and Gooseberries was probably my favorite of the bunch. Tart, tangy berries against a delicate floral backdrop. Even so, it’s not as sharp or bitter as I would have expected, nor interesting. It smells more like the idea of a person than a person. Like someone is describing his amazing sorceress girlfriend, and she’s so perfect and wonderful and never farts or eats onion sandwiches or draws blood or makes mistakes, and he leaves out all the nuance and complexity of what makes his beloved so intriguing. (A Yennefer-bot, if you will.) It’s like someone fed all their perfect girlfriend material into an AI machine, producing an android to their specifications, but she has no personality and hasn’t yet become self-aware. And yet…there are some days when I really need that blank slate to build myself up to be pretty and put together and definitely very normal–because this is what the world expects of me.

I am not sure how I got on Shay & Blue’s PR list, and I probably was not the target audience for these. But it’s always fun to play around with something different from what I might usually wear, so I appreciated the opportunity. I do think these would make excellent discovery scents for someone who is new in their fragrance journey and still figuring things out, or for the person who likes their perfumes on the lighter and milder side. Who just likes to smell nice. And even if that is not you  (as I know it’s mostly not me) some days even ghosts and vampires and dark queens need a bit of olfactory camouflage to blend in with the daywalkers.

On The Wing from Arcana Wildcraft is an EDP flanker of their Moth Like Stars perfume oil, which I understand is meant to be a fancier, more luxurious version of the original. I haven’t tried Moth Like Stars, but I can tell you that On The Wing is a confoundingly gorgeous study in contradiction. It opens with a balsamic sheerness, a paradoxical shimmering shadow. When you think of skin scents, you probably think subtle, delicate, and intimate… but what of, say, Maleficent’s skin scent? It’s not just clean, soft, and simple. Imagine a fragrance that embraces both light and shadow, a scent that sighs and susurrates with complexity and depth, that embodies the beautiful…and the terrible. Take what you thought you knew of skin-like fragrances and remix it with the most masterful, barest glimmer of midnight glamour and gothic opulence. As it unfurls, this effervescent richness ebbs and flows – champagne bubbles rising through inky depths or the cold vapors of the void with an incandescent vein of cosmic dust. This juxtaposition of light and heavy is disorienting, an olfactory illusion that tricks the senses. You’re wearing a scent as weighty as a motheaten cloak, yet as insubstantial as mist. It’s the broken-winged beating of the hollow heart, the devastating language of wounds, the darkness that embraces everything. On The Wing rasps a silken truth: you do not have to be whole or perfect or even good to claim your own skin. Your wild darkness and your luminous scars are part of your magic, so wear it like you mean it, in all that contradictory glory.

When Scout Dixon West first came across my radar, I thought, holy hell. This is the most charismatic being I have ever seen. She’s this very groovy mix of articulate elegance, subversive weirdness, and sly humor, and she gives off this aura, the overwhelming impression of a woman who very much knows who she is and what she’s about. And that’s what strikes me immediately about these three perfumes; how, they could be from no one else but her.  They are flawlessly executed compositions embodying Scout’s exceptionally cool spirit and singular vision.

But of course, the thing about fragrance and perfume, the really wild and wonderful and beautiful thing, I think, is that whatever the inspiration, whatever the memories and dreams go into its creation, it’s going to be interpreted through the lens of someone else’s experiences

So, when I smell El Dorado, I’m transported not to Scout’s hometown, but to my own, in Ohio at Christmastime, circa 1980. The Christmas tree box has just come down from the attic and as it’s opened, a potpurri of memories escapes. There’s a mild, woody coniferous sweetness mingled with a bracing herbaceous note – the artificial wreath tucked inside, its plastic pine needles frosted and snowy.  Nestled among the tinsel and ornaments is the bitter mossy, musty spice of bayberry candles, their green wax still bearing the imprint of fingertips from last year. It’s a wistfully aromatic winter holiday poem.

Coney Island Baby smells of the sweet mechanical buzz of machine oil and candy floss, and someone who definitely knows what you did last summer. Have I ever been to Coney Island? No. But I have seen a lot of horror movies about boardwalk park slashers, and underneath the bumper cars’ sun-warmed rubber, the ozone spark of arcade machines, the sticky salt taffy, and clouds of spun sugar, there’s a thrilling frisson of fear, a gritty underbelly that whispers of danger lurking just beyond the neon-lit facades, turning this olfactory carnival into a deliciously unsettling journey through nostalgia’s dark mirror.

I think Scout is a bit of a rascal, and this is the perfume that really drives that saucy devilry home. Incarnate offers a perversely charming, impishly, beautifully weird take on the sacred and the profane. This is a heady cocktail inspired by visions of saints nibbling rock candy and sugar crystal rosaries off of each other, the provocative sweetness spiked with a tincture of sacred wounds, infused with smoldering resins, and laced with a patina of tarnished halos. Imagine Ken Russell’s ‘The Devils’ given a Tim Burton treatment – an olfactory experience both irreverent, irresistible and irrepressibly playful, evoking fever dreams of ecstatic visions and whimsical, baroque excess. 

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Part I.

I was a little girl with a penchant for all things that bloomed, sparkled, or glittered. But for all my love of bold baubles and blooms, I was a timid soul, scared of her own shadow and just about everything else that crossed her path.

In those early days, the world seemed divided into two camps: the pretty things that delighted me, and the ugly, scary, angry, loud things that sent me scurrying for cover. And oh, what a rogues’ gallery of terrors awaited my trembling psyche! There was Lou Ferrigno’s horrific green grimace as the Incredible Hulk, looking like he’d eaten something that violently disagreed with him. My cousin’s KISS posters leered at me from her bedroom walls, their feral, alien visages promising a world of chaos that my fairytale flower garden-loving heart wasn’t prepared for. Helicopters, motorcycles, Scooby Doo Draculas, George Harrison in Love At First Bite — you name it, it made me cry.

As I grew older, though, something strange began to happen. That heart-pounding panic and fright regarding bloodsuckers and monsters from outer space began to give way to an inexplicable curiosity. It was as if the fear and fascination wires got mixed up in my brain. Suddenly, instead of hiding my face behind a pillow when something scary flickered across the TV screen, I felt an itchy urge to peek. This fascination with fearsome things lurking in the darkness slowly turned into an obsession. I found myself voraciously consuming every form of frightening or unsettling media I encountered. Literature, film, music, art – if it possessed an aura of the unearthly or strange, if it whispered of the ghastly or ghostly, if it dared to explore the gruesome or grotesque, I was irresistibly drawn to it. Like a scholar of the sinister – or more accurately, a C-student of the supernatural, because even with my most passionate interests, I’ve never aspired to become an expert or guru – I immersed myself in these dark waters. Each new discovery was a key to another door in the sprawling, shadowy mansion of horror, rooms I’d wander through with equal parts trepidation and delight.

My burgeoning fascination with the macabre found fertile ground in my unconventional home environment. My mother’s boyfriend at the time, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in the weird, nurtured these budding interests with a steady diet of horror movies and cheap weird fiction paperbacks. These books, with their spectacularly deranged cover art that would probably be banned in several states today (I’m pretty sure some violated the Geneva Convention), became my first proper forays into the world of horror literature.

But it wasn’t just fiction that fed my growing appetite for the uncanny. My mother was an astrologer, a tarot reader, and a dabbler in an assortment of arcane practices. She was, for all intents and purposes, a witch, though I never heard her call herself that. Our home was a testament to her esoteric pursuits, a place where the mystical was as commonplace as morning coffee. Tarot cards were tucked into every nook and cranny, as if she were the Madame Fortuna of squirrels preparing for a psychic winter. Mysterious artworks adorned every wall, transforming our house into a veritable gallery of the weird and wonderful. Fabulous posters of Erté’s dramatic Art Deco fashions hung alongside large-scale reproductions of Lady Frieda Harris’ Thoth tarot paintings. I would lose whole afternoons gazing at these images, my imagination stepping into them, getting lost in their swirling colors and intricate designs. It was as if we had portals to other worlds right there on our living room walls, each frame a window to realms both beautiful and bizarre.

This immersive environment, rich with symbolism and the promise of hidden meanings, undoubtedly shaped my evolving taste in horror. As I matured, the simple scares of childhood gave way to more complex terrors. I found myself drawn deeper into the labyrinthine world of horror literature, discovering authors who could articulate the nameless fears and existential dread that had begun to take root in my psyche. Edgar Allan Poe’s psychological depths resonated with my burgeoning understanding of human nature, his stories of guilt, madness, and the thin veil between life and death echoing the complexities I was beginning to perceive in the world around me. H.P. Lovecraft’s cosmic horror, despite the author’s problematic views, laid a foundation of existential dread that fascinated me. However, it was the contemporary writers who truly captured my imagination. These authors took Lovecraft’s concepts of cosmic horror and paranoia and rebuilt them, infusing them with diverse perspectives and experiences that reflected the world I knew. In their works, I found a horror that was at once more inclusive and more expansive, speaking to fears both ancient and modern.

I reveled in the gothic romance of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, where whatever walked there, walked alone. Stephen King’s sprawling universes and his characters, who feel like old friends, enchant me to this day. Clive Barker’s Books of Blood opened my eyes to the strange beauty that can be found in the grotesque. I delved into the works of classic British ghost storywriters, finding a different kind of terror in their subtle, atmospheric tales. M.R. James, with his scholarly protagonists and ancient curses, taught me the power of suggestion and the horror of the unseen. Algernon Blackwood’s cosmic wilderness horror showed me how nature itself could be a source of terror, vast and indifferent to human concerns.

But.  While I may have grown out of hiding behind the sofa during Scooby-Doo, I never quite outgrew my anxious nature. As a child, I was the kid who needed coaxing to join in games at birthday parties. As an adult, I’m the one who needs coaxing to attend the birthday party at all. Anxiety has been my constant companion, an uninvited guest who crashes every party in my mind.

But here’s the fun twist in this tale of terror: horror, in all its gruesome glory, has become my unlikely ally in facing these fears. It’s as if by immersing myself in fictional frights, I can better manage the real-world anxieties that threaten to overwhelm me. There’s a certain logic to it, I suppose. When you’re worried about tentacled monstrosities from beyond the stars or shambling zombies crawling through your windows, somehow mustering up the nerve to call the insurance company or make a request to your boss doesn’t seem all that daunting.

Horror provides a controlled environment where I can face my fears on my own terms. In my daily life, anxiety can strike at any moment, triggered by the most mundane of circumstances. My mind, ever eager to catastrophize, can spiral into worst-case scenarios faster than you can say …well…something creepy in Latin from a real gnarly book that you definitely should have left alone. But in horror – whether in books, films, or art – the monsters are contained. They exist within defined boundaries, and there’s usually a resolution, even if it’s not always a happy one. It’s like exposure therapy, but with more fake blood and crappy reboots, and fewer copays.

Moreover, horror often deals with outsiders, with those who don’t quite fit in. As someone who has always felt a bit out of step with the world due to my shyness and anxiety, I find a strange kinship with the misunderstood monsters and troubled protagonists of horror stories. Their struggles, albeit exaggerated and supernatural, sometimes feel like funhouse mirror reflections of my own.

There’s also something to be said for the catharsis that horror provides. When I engage with horror, my anxiety has a focus, a concrete outlet. Instead of worrying about nebulous future possibilities, I can channel that nervous energy into the immediate experience of the story. And when the book is closed or the credits roll, there’s often a sense of release, of having survived something intense – a feeling that can be hard to come by when dealing with the chronic, low-level anxiety of everyday life.

Horror, I have come to realize, is more than just a genre – it was a lens through which to view the world, a palette with which to paint the full spectrum of human experience. It offered a canvas to confront our deepest fears, to explore the shadows of the human psyche, and to grapple with the unknown. In a world that often demands relentless positivity, horror provides a necessary counterbalance, an emotional chiaroscuro, acknowledging the darkness that exists alongside the light, an interplay that gives depth and dimension to our understanding of life.

This fascination with the darker aspects of existence led me to curate and create The Art of Darkness, a treasury of the morbid, melancholic, and macabre in visual art. In this book, I explored how we all experience darkness, and why it’s crucial to embrace it. We can’t avoid it, and I don’t think we should. If we’re eternally trying to live in the light where it’s always bright and happy, where we ignore or evade our distressing, uncomfortable feelings, then we are starved of shadows, of nuance, and risk an existence robbed of the richness of contrast. When we only validate our positive feelings, we vastly restrict our tools for looking at the world. We are neither dealing with reality as it is nor adequately readying ourselves for the random pains and struggles that life has in store for us. It’s like trying to paint a masterpiece using only the brighter end of the color spectrum – you might create something cheerful, but you’ll miss out on the depth and complexity that the full palette of human experience offers.

This exploration of the darker side of art opened up new avenues of sensory experience for me. Just as a Goya painting or a Louise Bourgeois sculpture can evoke visceral reactions through visual means, I discovered another form of art that could stir the senses in equally profound ways – but through an often-overlooked medium. This invisible art form would become my next obsession, leading me down a fragrant path of discovery and self-expression.

Part II

In the experiential realm of human senses, scent often gets overlooked, relegated to the background behind the more immediate impressions of sight and sound. But for me, the olfactory world has always been front and center,  a vivid, visceral presence that perfumes my perception of everything around me. It’s not just a sense; it’s a vital conduit to memory, emotion, and imagination.

I can trace this fascination back to my childhood, to stolen moments in front of my mother’s vanity. The mirrored tray, cluttered with an array of gleaming bottles, was a forbidden wonderland that beckoned to me with an almost otherworldly magnetism. Each bottle held not just a fragrance, but a world of possibilities, a story waiting to be told. Despite stern warnings to leave them be, I couldn’t resist. In moments of daring defiance, I would embark on olfactory adventures, spritzing and spraying with reckless abandon, creating my own fantastical, if somewhat chaotic, perfume compositions. These clandestine experiments, always followed by unconvincing denials (as if the lingering cloud of scent didn’t give me away), were my first steps into the world of fragrance. Little did I know that those illicit spritzes were planting olfactory time bombs in my psyche, set to detonate years later in explosions of creative inspiration. This innocent fascination would ferment in the dark corners of my mind, brewing a potent elixir of perception-altering potential. Like a haunted perfume, it would trail me through life, leaving an invisible sillage that reshaped my reality.

As I grew older, my love for perfume deepened, intertwining with my other passions – literature, art, and storytelling. My tastes evolved dramatically; the sweet vanilla cake and marshmallow fluff-scented gourmands that marked my initial aromatic dabbling gave way to an appreciation for the dry, the bitter, the verdant, and the resinous. I found myself drawn to the complexities of vetiver, the smoky allure of incense, the sharp green of galbanum, and the mysterious depth of oakmoss.

This olfactory journey took an exceptionally exciting turn when I discovered there was a world of fragrance beyond the drugstore and department store counters. I stumbled upon independent perfumers crafting wild, weird, and wonderful scents that I never imagined could exist. I will forever blame (and bless) Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab for this Pandora’s box of alternative options, this irrevocable initiation into a hidden world of olfactory marvels. In the marking of my life in time before/after A Thing–I can say with utter conviction that my life has never been the same since I discovered BPAL; it offered me knowledge of things that I can never again un-know. And naturally, it was around this time that I began to see fragrances not just as pleasant scents but as narratives in their own right, invisible paintings that unfold over time on the canvas of skin and air. Each spritz became the opening line of a story, each waft a brushstroke in an unseen masterpiece. The development of perfume from top notes to base became a plot unfolding, revealing new facets and twists with each passing hour.

This perspective has guided my approach to writing about perfume for over a decade now. I’m not a chemist dissecting molecular structures, nor am I a seasoned industry insider with decades of experience. Instead, I’m a storyteller, an art enthusiast who happens to work in the medium of scent. My goal isn’t to provide technical breakdowns or expert analysis, but to capture the emotional journey that a fragrance takes you on, to translate the wordless poetry of scent into something tangible and relatable.

When I encounter a new perfume, I don’t just smell it – I experience it. I let it transport me to the arid deserts of a planet with binary moons or snowy moonlit forests where witches dwell in their chicken-legged huts, to the bombastic spice of bustling bazaars or quiet papery riffle of near-empty libraries. I listen to the stories it tells, the memories it evokes, the emotions it stirs. And then, I try to put all of that into words, to share that experience with others who might find beauty and meaning in bottled dreams.

This approach, born out of pure passion rather than professional expertise, has its own unique value. It offers a perspective that’s closer to that of the average perfume lover, unburdened by industry jargon or technical minutiae. It’s an invitation to engage with perfume on a more emotional and imaginative level, to see it as more than just a pleasant smell, but as a form of artistic expression accessible to everyone.

In my writing, I often draw connections between perfumes and other art forms. A fragrance might remind me of a particular painting, its notes unfolding like brushstrokes on canvas. Another might evoke a piece of music, its composition a symphony of scents. And many, of course, call to mind literary passages, their olfactory narratives as rich and complex as any written story.
This interdisciplinary approach reflects my belief that perfume is part of a larger conversation about aesthetics, emotion, and sensory experiences. It’s not isolated from other forms of art but exists in constant dialogue with them, each medium informing and enriching the others in an ongoing exchange of ideas and sensations.

My journey with perfume has been one of continuous self-discovery. Each fragrance I’ve fallen in love with has taught me something about myself, my perceptions, my memories, and my desires. It’s been a journey of exploration, not expertise – I’m still learning, still discovering, still being surprised and delighted by new scents and experiences.

And you know what? That’s okay. More than okay, actually – it’s wonderful. There was a time when I felt inadequate for not being an “expert,” for not having studied under master perfumers or created my own fragrances. I looked at those who had dedicated their lives to perfumery with a mixture of admiration and envy, wondering if my passion was somehow less valid because it wasn’t my sole focus.

But over time, I’ve come to accept that you don’t need to know everything about something to love it deeply and authentically. You don’t need to be a Michelin-starred chef to appreciate good food or a classical composer to be moved by music. And you certainly don’t need to be a master perfumer to find joy, meaning, and beauty in fragrance.

This acceptance has been incredibly liberating. It’s allowed me to embrace my role as an enthusiastic audience member, a passionate amateur in the truest sense of the word. I may never create my own perfume or run a fragrance house, but I can appreciate, celebrate, and share the art that others create. I can be a translator of sorts, putting into words the wordless experiences that perfumes create, helping others to engage with and appreciate this often-overlooked art form.

In fact, I’ve come to believe that there’s real value in this kind of enthusiastic, non-expert appreciation. It makes the world of perfume more accessible, more welcoming to those who might be intimidated by more technical or insider-focused discussions. It encourages people to trust their own experiences and perceptions, to engage with perfume on a personal, emotional level rather than worrying about whether they’re smelling the “right” notes or using the “correct” terminology.

This doesn’t mean I’ve stopped learning or exploring. Far from it! I’m constantly discovering new things about perfume, diving into its history, its cultural significance, its connections to other art forms and disciplines. But I do so as a curious explorer, not as someone striving to become the ultimate authority. For me, each new scent is an invitation to wander through olfactory landscapes, to uncover hidden narratives wafting from each bottle, to indulge in a fragrant feast. I don’t need to be an expert or a guru; I’m just here for the sensory buffet. But now we’re getting into cooking and food…and that’s an origin story for a different time!

Part III 

Last month as I prepared to be a guest on an upcoming podcast, I found myself thinking of how the worlds of horror and perfume might seem diametrically opposed at first glance – one reveling in the grotesque and terrifying, the other celebrating beauty and pleasure. But in my experience, they’re more closely linked than one might expect, each offering a unique lens through which to explore the depths of human experience and emotion.

At their core, both horror and perfume are about evoking visceral reactions. One does it through fear, the other through scent – but both bypass our logical brain to trigger something primal within us. They speak directly to our subconscious, stirring emotions and memories that we might not even be aware of harboring.

Just as a well-crafted horror story can transport you to another world, so too can a carefully composed perfume. With a single spritz or a turn of the page, you can find yourself locked in an ancient crypt, adrift at sea on a ghost ship, or wandering the halls of a decaying mansion. Both have the power to conjure memories, emotions, and atmospheres in an instant, pulling you into a fully realized experience that engages all your senses.

There’s an intimacy to both horror and perfume that I find utterly captivating. They get under your skin, they linger, they transform your perception of the world around you. A haunting story can leave you looking over your shoulder for days, while a compelling fragrance can change how you perceive yourself and others. Both have the power to alter your reality, if only for a moment.

In both horror and perfume, there’s a fascinating preoccupation with decay and the passage of time. Think of those classic dark, gothic notes in perfumery – leather, incense, dark woods. They’re not just scents; they’re storytellers, weaving tales of abandoned monasteries, moonlit séances, forgotten rituals, and long-buried secrets. Similarly, horror often deals with themes of aging, death, and the inevitability of time’s march. Both invite us to confront our own mortality and find beauty in the ephemeral nature of existence.

Creating a perfume, I imagine, is not unlike crafting a horror story. You’re building tension, creating contrast, leading the audience through a carefully orchestrated experience. A perfumer, like a skilled horror writer, knows how to build anticipation, when to reveal a shocking twist, and how to leave a lasting impression. The nose, like the mind, can be led down dark and twisting paths, encountering surprises and revelations along the way.

In my perfume collection, you’ll find scents that could easily belong in a horror story: the metallic tang of blood, the damp earth of a freshly dug grave, the acrid smoke of smoldering ruins, or the otherworldly aroma of strange, alien flowers. These fragrances tell visceral and evocative stories, inviting the wearer to step into worlds both familiar and unknown. They complement the more traditional scents in my collection, each offering a unique olfactory journey and expanding the emotional palette of perfumery.

Ultimately, my love for both horror and perfume stems from the same place: a fascination with the full spectrum of human experience, from the sublimely beautiful to the hauntingly macabre. Both allow me to explore different facets of existence, to step into other worlds and other skins, if only for a moment. Whether I’m lost in a chilling tale or enveloped in an evocative scent, I’m chasing the same thrill – the excitement of discovery, the brush with the unknown, the expansion of my own perception.

About the artwork in this blog post: In a serendipitous twist of fate, I recently stumbled upon the haunting artwork of Masha Gusova. I thought that her pieces, which blend historical imagery with contemporary narratives to explore the human condition, resonated deeply with the themes of this essay. Like a perfectly composed perfume or a masterfully crafted horror story, Gusova’s art invites introspection and evokes visceral emotions, making it a natural visual companion to our journey through shadows and scents.

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

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It struck me the other day, as I was going through my evening skincare routine, how little I know about my sisters’ daily lives. We’re all in our forties now, living far apart, each carving out our own paths. I’m the oldest of three, and there was a time when I could have told you exactly how each of my sisters started their day, what they ate for lunch, and how they unwound in the evening. Now, those details feel like distant memories, faded photographs I can’t quite bring into focus.

I have my routines, not strict by any means, but regular enough. They’re the scaffolding of my days, providing a sense of structure and comfort. But what about my sisters? One recently mentioned that she hasn’t been eating much lately, and her appetite has diminished due to stress or circumstances. The other, in a moment of self-deprecating humor, declared herself “feral,” claiming to have no routine at all. These snippets of information, casual as they were, left me feeling oddly bereft.

It’s a peculiar sort of longing, isn’t it? This desire to know the minutiae of their lives. I find myself wondering: Does my middle sister still order the blonde roast and the sous-vide egg bites, or has she succumbed to the allure of brown sugar shaken oat milk lattes? Does the youngest still stay up too late, reading Cynthia Harrod Eagles until the wee hours, or has adulting finally caught up with her sleep schedule? These may seem like trivial details, but to me, they feel like vital pieces of a puzzle I’m trying to complete.

Why does this matter so much to me? Perhaps it’s because routines are the invisible architecture of our lives. They’re the quiet rituals that shape our days and, by extension, who we are. To know someone’s routine is to hold a map to their inner world, to understand the contours of their current lives in a way that occasional phone calls and holiday gatherings can’t quite capture.

This desire to know and to share has led me to broadcast my own routines into the digital void. My blog posts and social media updates often feature snippets of my daily life – a photo of my morning reading, my latest sourdough attempt, the serum I swear by for inflamed skin. It’s a way of saying, “This is me, this is my life now.”

But here’s the irony that doesn’t escape me: my sisters rarely engage with these posts. They don’t read my blog, and their interactions with my social media are sporadic at best. I am not criticizing. It’s just a fact. I think I’m probably interesting to literally everyone but them. After all, I’m only the oldest sister they’ve known all their lives. And who am I to talk? I’m the one who won’t even pick up the phone to call them! (I hate phone calls, come on!) But seriously, if I did, I know they’d be happy to chat and we’d probably talk for hours. So I can’t be mad that they didn’t comment on my Facebook post, that’s unreasonable. There’s no one to blame here except me.

But it’s a strange paradox of modern life, isn’t it? We have more ways than ever to share our lives, yet true connection often feels more elusive. We mistake glimpses for insight, likes for understanding, and comments for conversation. I’m guilty of this too, scrolling through my sisters’ profiles, seeing one sister’s naughty dog, another sister’s pithy observations, and feeling like I’ve caught up with them–when in reality, I’ve only seen a carefully curated moment of their lives.

In the absence of shared physical space and daily interactions, these fragments of routine become almost talismanic. I cling to the few details I know, extrapolating entire days from a single data point. My middle sister shares in chat that she is coveting a particular picture frame she has seen at my house – does this mean she is coming out from under the exhaustion of the moving process and the decorating of her new house is commencing? The youngest updated her profile picture to a quirky illustration… is there some bigger meaning there, some inside joke I’m not privy to? Or is it simply a reflection of her mood that day, a small window into her current state of mind?

These small glimpses into their lives are like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle scattered across a coffee table. I find myself picking up each piece, turning it over in my hands, squinting to see how it might fit into the larger picture of their daily lives. Sometimes, I suspect I’m trying to force connections where there are none, creating patterns from random brushstrokes. It’s a habit born from years of shared history and a desire to maintain that closeness we once had, even as our lives diverge and our daily routines become mysteries to one another.

My own routines have become a form of connection, even if it’s one-sided. As I apply my nightly Juicy Calendula Cream, I wonder if my sisters are doing something similar, if they’ve found products they love, or if skincare is just another chore in their day. When I sit down to dinner with Yvan, while watching Beryl eat from around the world or Dungeon Meshi,  I try to imagine my sisters’ evenings unfolding in their own spaces, but the pictures in my mind are blurry, incomplete. Are they ordering in, venturing out to a local spot, or just having a bowl of cereal? Do they have favorite shows they watch while eating? Are they reading a book? Or is their table free of distractions because they are trying to eat “mindfully?” (Ugh.) The distance between us seems to grow with each passing day, measured not in miles but in the accumulation of these small, unknown moments.

Perhaps this urge to know and share our daily rituals is a grown-up version of the secret languages and inside jokes we had as children. It’s a way of maintaining that sense of intimacy, of shared history, even as our lives diverge. Or maybe it’s simpler than that – maybe it’s just the human need to feel connected, to know that we’re not alone in our daily struggles and small victories.

As I reflect on this, I realize that my fixation on our routines stems from a deeper desire to feel connected to my sisters. It’s not really about knowing the minutiae of their days, but about finding ways to bridge the gap that time and distance have created between us. Perhaps instead of wondering about their routines, I should be creating new shared experiences, even from afar. But honestly, even as I write these words, I have no idea what that really means or how it might look.

A weekly video call? (We tried that during the pandemic, I don’t think we liked it.) Online watch-parties? A book club just for the three of us? Maybe a collaborative playlist where we each add songs that remind us of our childhood? Or a private Instagram account where we post one moment from our day, however mundane?

Yet, as soon as these ideas form, I feel a familiar dread creeping in—the dread of obligation, of carving out precious time from our already packed schedules. And I can’t help but wonder if my sisters would feel the same. There’s a certain irony in the fact that the one thing that hasn’t changed over the years is our shared, unspoken hope for a last-minute cancellation. That instant, exhilarating relief when plans fall through—it’s a feeling we all know well, a silent understanding that binds us even as it keeps us apart. How do we balance this desire for connection with our equally strong need for unstructured time? Is there a way to nurture our sisterhood without it feeling like another item on our to-do lists?

As I sit here, pondering the intricacies of our sisterhood, I’m left with just this. The truth is, our relationships have evolved. We’re no longer the little girls who played with Barbies or who fought with the neighbor kid because she didn’t play with Barbies the same way we did (she was a little fascist!). We’re not even the same people we were a dozen years ago, at Thanksgiving -a time when we’d all convene at our grandparent’s house and sleep together in the guest room together and drink too much and get rowdy but shush ourselves because we didn’t want to wake the grandparents! We’re women with our own lives, routines, and responsibilities. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s the way it was always going to be.

I don’t have a neat solution or a heartwarming conclusion to offer. Some days, I’m content with our sporadic texts and occasional calls. Other days, I long for a closeness we may never recapture. But I’m learning to find comfort in the small moments of connection we do share, fleeting as they may be.

When one sister sends me a meme that she can’t post in her feed because it’s too weird or niche, and we revel in our shared, bizarre, very grim sense of humor. When the other sister messages me about a vintage Betty Crocker cookbook we recall belonging to our grandmother, but we couldn’t remember what it was called…and she finally found it! For sale on Etsy for $16! This is what I’ve got of my sisters right now. And as small as it is, it fills me with a love too big to put into words. And I fucking treasure it.

So, I’ll continue to share my routines, to cast them out into the world. Not because I expect my sisters to read or respond, but because in doing so, I keep alive the possibility of connection. I maintain an open door, an invitation to step into my daily life whenever they choose. I’ll post about the oatmeal cookie creamer I use in my coffee, the miracle balm I tried when I found a weird rash on my butt a few weeks ago (it worked!), and my attempts at lucid dreaming, per this book. And when we meet in our dreams, I’ll tell them we are lucid dreaming and that we can do whatever we want! Which is, of course, summoning a unicorn and riding off to find 1993-era Glenn Danzig. This is a true story. I dreamed it last month.

Meanwhile, in the waking world, I’ll wonder about their days, share snippets of my own life into the digital void, and yes, feel that guilty relief when plans occasionally fall through.

And to my sisters, if by some chance you’re reading this: I miss knowing the rhythm of your days. I miss being a daily part of your lives. But more than that, I miss you. The door is always open, whether for a meme, a memory, or a middle-of-the-night lucid dream adventure. Until then, I’ll be here, living my life, sharing my routines, and always keeping a piece of my heart open for you.

Even if that piece is currently occupied by dream-Glenn Danzig.

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Last year, feeling a bit downtrodden by Florida’s reluctance to embrace autumn, I made a video titled “September Magics: Manifesting Autumn.” In it, I chronicled my efforts to summon the spirit of fall, even when the weather refused to cooperate. The video was a montage of all things autumnal – from crafts to cooking, reading to perfume sampling – condensed into five minutes of cozy, magical (low production value but whatever) enchantment.

At the time, I shared a synopsis of the video here on my blog, just summing it up and sharing the links. I know a lot of people (see also: me) forego the video altogether and skip straight to any links included, I get it! This year, I’m turning that video synopsis into a full-fledged blog post, marking the beginning of what I hope will become an annual tradition. Even if the Florida weather still hasn’t gotten the memo about fall, I’m committed to bringing autumn into my life through intentional actions and cherished rituals.

So, without further ado, here are ten ways I’m manifesting autumn this year, building on the foundation I laid in last year’s video…

1. Through my reading

When autumn approaches, I dive into contemporary folk-horror novels. There’s something about the blend of modern settings and ancient, creeping dread that perfectly captures the essence of the season for me.

Unlike folk horror in the form of historical fiction, these stories allow me to imagine supernatural terrors unfolding in familiar surroundings, making the experience more immersive and chilling. I find myself drawn to tales that explore current societal fears through a folk-horror lens. The faster pacing and relatable characters of these contemporary stories keep me engaged, while the autumnal themes – often featuring harvests, ancient rituals, or the thinning veil between worlds – resonate deeply with the season. Whether it’s a tale of ancient rites resurfacing in a gentrifying neighborhood, a podcast investigation uncovering a town’s dark agricultural past, a social media challenge spiraling into eldritch terror, or a solstice celebration in a remote eco-community taking a sinister turn, these books help me manifest the eerie, atmospheric qualities of autumn in my imagination.

Here are some titles in this vein I have enjoyed in recent years (or as recent as last week!) A few of them may be more…folk horror-adjacent, but they have similar vibes and are too good not to mention.

The Ritual by Adam Neville // Wylding Hall by Elizabeth Hand // Experimental Film by Gemma Files // Harvest Home by Thomas Tryon // The Owl Service by Alan Garner // Childgrave by Ken Greenhall // Dark Matter by Michelle Paver // Withered Hill by David Barnett // The Watchers by A.M. Shine // Starve Acre by Andrew Michael Hurley // Pet Sematary by Stephen King // The Singing Bone by Beth Haun // The Witches and The Grinnygogg (takes place at midsummer but whatever) // Ghost Wall by Sarah Moss // The Silent Companions by Laura Purcell

Please note that many, many books could be on such a list, but I am not listing something that I haven’t read. If you don’t see one of your favorites among these titles, that could be why.

2. Through food and drink

Autumn is a feast for the senses, and nowhere is this more apparent than in my kitchen. I love creating hearty harvest stews and soups that capture the essence of the season. Rich, velvety butternut squash bisques, chunky vegetable stews brimming with root vegetables and tender beef, and earthy mushroom soups with wild rice all make appearances. These concoctions, simmering with seasonal herbs and warming spices like sage, thyme, and nutmeg, infuse the house with an irresistible fragrance that seems to whisper, “Fall is here, motherfuckers.” Baking becomes a weekly ritual, with aromatic loaves emerging from the oven, their crusts crackling, and interiors soft and squishy and begging to be slathered in butter or to clean your stew bowl with.

Recipes that I often return to are: Chef John’s pumpkin-braised pork // Boeuf Bourguignon // butternut squash mac & cheese // pumpkin & kale curry // apple cider doughnut cake // brown butter pumpkin oatmeal latte cookies

Even fruits–of which I am not a fan–make their way onto my countertops: pomegranates, pears, and persimmons, oh my! I usually cook them down to a compote with citrus zest, sugar, and spices…and then I make Yvan eat it over yogurts or oatmeal. I love the way they make the kitchen smell, but I am not about to eat that shit.

But it’s not just about homemade treats. I’ve become something of an amateur barista–very crappy amateur kind that screws up your drink or forgets your order altogether– recreating and putting my own spin on popular coffee house autumnal menu drinks. From pumpkin spice lattes to brown sugar pecan cappuccinos to gingersnap dirty chai*, with every experimental cup, I am trying to recreate the feeling of this 2008 October afternoon when I took this photo, styling a pair of fingerless mitts that I knit with a huge mug of tea and a pot of chrysanthemums.

*Some of these are aspirational and made up, but I am working on it!

3. Through decor

When it comes to autumn decorating, I’m all about strategic minimalism. DIY projects? Not my thing. Instead, I opt for a few carefully chosen, eye-catching pieces that transform my space with minimal effort.

This year, I’ve adorned my front door with a whimsical mushroom welcome mat. Inside, a cutesy (bordering on twee, but I am okay with that) felt fall leaf garland drapes across my mantel. On the coffee table, you’ll find a glass pumpkin bowl filled with candy corn – and no hate for candy corn in this house! When I can find them at the store, a vase of autumnal blooms adds a touch of seasonal color.

My favorite decorations are two felted, weighted Halloween figures I snagged from Target a few years back. One’s pumpkin-headed, the other skull-faced, and they preside over my autumn domain with a quirky charm. You might catch them overlooking my latest seasonal cooking experiment, like my homemade pumpkinmallow sauce.

This approach to autumn decor suits me perfectly. It’s just enough to satisfy my craving for seasonal change without overwhelming my space or my energy levels. After all, the best kind of decorating is the kind that leaves plenty of time for enjoying the season itself.

These small touches of autumnal decor create a cozy atmosphere that makes me want to curl up with a good book and a warm drink, fully embracing the hygge spirit of the season.

4. Through music and film

I’ve got this autumn playlist that’s all shades of wistful and melancholy. To me, they’re all secretly riffing on Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon” or The Mamas & The Papas’ “California Dreamin’.” These two represent the different ends of my internal autumn spectrum – “Harvest Moon” with its mellow, relaxed vibe and “California Dreamin'” bringing a more intense, melodramatic feel. Everything else on the playlist seems to echo the magic of these two somehow…even if it’s gothy folk metal or experimental ambient electronica!

These songs intensify my natural introspection as if giving permission to fully embrace that side of myself. It’s become my little autumn ritual, a way to explore the depths of my thoughts as the world changes around me. And then, of course, there’s the Over the Garden Wall soundtrack – absolutely perfect in every way. Those folksy, slightly eerie tunes set the perfect mood for all my autumn activities, be it cooking, reading, or just watching the leaves turn.

I should note that this music is all pre-Halloween. Post-Halloween is completely different. November 1st and beyond gets gloomy, sonorous cellos. Unearthly violins. Ghostly theremins. Awash with mournful motifs and evocative of dusk fall grey and cold, eerie midnight winds and candlelit windows. I wrote more about this “Night Music” and shared several examples over on the bloodmilk blog several years ago.

When it comes to films, my autumn viewing leans heavily into the realm of the spooky and atmospheric. As the nights grow longer, I find myself drawn to movies that blend eerie vibes with that distinct autumnal feeling. John Carpenter’s Halloween is a perennial favorite – it’s practically a ritual to watch Michael Myers stalk through leaf-strewn streets as October draws near. For a more intense, party-gone-wrong vibe, Night of the Demons hits the spot with its deliciously ’80s take on Halloween horror. And when I’m in the mood for something more psychedelic and witchy, Rob Zombie’s Lords of Salem provides a trippy, unsettling journey that somehow feels perfectly aligned with those hazy, late autumn afternoons.

These films might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for me, they capture something essential about the season – a mix of nostalgia, unease, and that weird, wonderful comfort found in embracing the darker, more mysterious aspects of fall. I’m especially excited for this autumn because I’ll be watching Something Wicked This Way Comes for the first time! I’ve heard it’s the perfect blend of dark fantasy and autumn atmosphere, and I can’t wait to add it to my fall repertoire. For the last several years I have done 31 Days of Horror, wherein I watch a scary movie every day and then blog about it, so if that piques your interest, check back next month when I get started on this year’s month-long marathon!

5. Through planting fall vegetables

Autumn isn’t just about harvesting; it’s also a time for planting. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself every year. The truth is, I’m not much of a gardener. The idea of getting my hands dirty in the cool earth and sowing seeds for fall vegetables is far more appealing than the actual act. I don’t test the soil, I never fertilize, pruning is a foreign concept, and more often than not, I forget to water. Any success I’ve had in growing anything is mostly due to dumb luck, despite Florida’s challenging climate.

But oh, how I love the idea of it all. Every autumn, I do the bare minimum – maybe toss some seeds into a pot or two – always thinking that any day now, a switch is going to flip and I’ll suddenly transform into this amazing, dedicated gardener who goes the extra mile. It hasn’t happened yet, but hope springs eternal. Or autumns eternal, as the case may be.

Being in Florida offers some unique opportunities for autumn planting, but it’s not without its challenges, even for experienced gardeners (which I am decidedly not). Our longer growing season is a double-edged sword – sure, we can plant later, but we also have to contend with intense heat that can scorch young plants and unpredictable rainfall that can either drown or parch them. Leafy greens like kale and spinach, or root vegetables such as carrots and beets, are supposed to be good for fall planting. I’ve thrown some of these seeds around before, and occasionally, against all odds and the whims of Florida weather, they’ve decided to grow.

The act of planting, minimal as it may be, still connects me to the idea of the cyclical nature of the seasons. It’s a reminder that in Florida, the rhythm of nature marches to a slightly different, and often challenging beat – perfect for aspiring gardeners who are long on dreams and short on follow-through, and who can appreciate the irony of trying to create autumn in a place that often feels like eternal summer.

6. Through cozy autumn clothing

When it comes to autumn fashion in Florida, forget the heavy sweaters and cozy scarves – sometimes even in October, we’re still sweating it out in the 90s. But that doesn’t mean I can’t bring a touch of fall to my wardrobe. It’s all about getting creative with lighter fabrics and subtle nods to the season.

My autumn wardrobe conjuring act starts with warm harvest colors. A russet-colored cardigan becomes my go-to layer for overzealous air conditioning, easily removed when I step back into the Florida heat. Underneath, you’ll find me in t-shirts that hint at autumn’s darker side without screaming “Halloween!” (Although I do have at least one really good one.) There’s my favorite bat conservation tee, a subtle nod to the season’s flying mammals. Horror movie tees make regular appearances – nothing says “fall is coming” quite like a vintage Cryptkeeper graphic. And for other days, I’ve got my enthusiasm literally spelled out, on my “the season for goblins and witches is upon us” tee. And when the temps drop to at least 70, I am throwing on my Haunted sweatshirt from Altar & Orb!

Accessories are where the real autumn magic happens. Ghost socks make an appearance, peeking out from under my sandals (sandals in autumn – Florida life!). Earrings with tiny autumn leaves and clackering bones, or a light scarf with a subtle spiderweb pattern add that autumnal touch without causing heat stroke.

Layering becomes an art form, but with a lighter touch. That russet cardigan might find its way over a mustard-yellow tank top, or I might opt for a thin, flowing kimono-style cover-up over my Brett Manning-illustrated dress. (P.S. Brett’s artwork is in my book The Art of Fantasy, and you can read more about this artist here.) The goal is to channel those cozy autumn vibes without adding too much warmth – it’s all about creating the illusion of fall layers while staying cool in the relentless heat.

The key is to embrace the spirit of the season without letting the thermometer dictate my style entirely. It might not be the traditional autumn look, but it’s my way of thumbing my nose at the persistent summer and welcoming fall on my own terms.

7. Through evocative fragrances

Scent is a powerful trigger for memories and moods, and I use it to manifest autumn regardless of the weather outside. When it comes to personal fragrances, I’m drawn to scents that evoke those impossibly dark nights when the veil between worlds feels thin, and every shadow might be hiding something otherworldly.

This year, I’m revisiting some favorites from last year’s autumn fragrance lineup. Zoologist Bat, with its damp earth and overripe fruit notes, captures the essence of early autumn evenings. Chris Collins’ Autumn Rhythm brings to mind the rhythmic crunch of leaves underfoot and the incense of chilled smoke clinging to a cashmere sweater in a sophisticated fragrance that is the epitome of Ray Bradbury’s “autumn people–” if they were monied and super posh.

This year, I’m adding Neil Morris’s Chasing Autumn to my autumnal rotation: a fragrance that captures the essence of the autumn I’ve always yearned for while living in Florida’s endless summer, evoking Millais’ melancholic “Autumn Leaves,” Emily Brontë’s invocational poetry, and the underlying eerie atmosphere of “Over the Garden Wall” – all distilled into a scent that brings to life crackling bonfires, rustling leaves, and the slightly foreboding mystery of an autumnal otherworld, allowing me to immerse myself in the fall feeling that exists more in my mind than in my subtropical reality.

On the lighter side of my autumn fragrance spectrum, I’m also incorporating Tartan by Sarah Baker Perfumes: a scent that deftly balances the sweetness of October with acrid leather and peaty whiskey, conjuring images of wooly moss, molten gold sunlight, and migrating geese – a fragrance that reveals different facets with each wearing, much like the ever-changing moods of autumn itself.

And, of course, I can’t talk about autumnal fragrances without mentioning the Weenies (Halloween and autumn scents) from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab. They are the premier no.1 experts in conjuring the olfactory enchantments of the autumn season. Every year, they explore strange new depths in diablerie to bring us perfumes that conjure dead leaf-maple ghost-pumpkin blood-moon hag-scented nightmares, and I am eagerly anticipating this year’s collection! I have a feeling it will be available any day now. Wearing, musing upon, and penning reviews of these fragrances is a staple of my Halloween season, and if you are curious about what you can look forward to, here is nearly 10 years’ worth of BPAL Weenie reviews to peruse: 2023 // 2022 // 2021 // 2020 // 2019 // 2018 // 2017 // 2016 

While I don’t love pumpkin spice perfumes, I do seek them out in candles. There’s something comforting about filling my home with the warm, spicy aroma of pumpkin, cinnamon, and nutmeg. It’s like being enveloped in the essence of autumn, even when the temperature outside says otherwise. I’ll often light a pumpkin spice candle while curled up with a book, creating my own little autumn oasis.

By surrounding myself with these evocative scents, I can close my eyes and be transported to an autumnal wonderland, regardless of the actual season outside my window. It’s a small act of olfactory rebellion against Florida’s persistent summer, and a cherished part of my autumn ritual.

8. Through comforting knitting projects

As the days grow shorter, I find myself reaching for my knitting needles more often. There’s something inherently autumnal about the rhythmic click of needles and the soft yarn running through my fingers. This year, I’m working on a new cozy shawl project, after nine months of letting my wrist heal! The act of creating something warm and comforting feels like the perfect way to usher in the season.

My current project is a simple shawl, perfect for easing my sore wrist back into the craft. I’m using two strands of laceweight yarn held together – one an obsidian cashmere, the other a smoky silver-grey silk. The combination creates a foggy night effect that feels quintessentially autumnal. It’s not a huge or intricate project, but there’s something so meditative and lovely about the simple, repetitive stitches.

I find myself working on this shawl in the evenings while watching Evil – a show that perfectly complements the mood of my knitting. As I loop yarn around my needles, I’m drawn into a world where the lines between science and the supernatural blur, where skepticism and faith collide. The show’s eerie atmosphere and moral ambiguity create an oddly fitting backdrop for crafting a cozy shawl.

There’s something about the perpetually autumn/winter atmosphere of Evil that I find irresistible. The Bouchard’s house under the train trestle, the grey skies, and bare trees create a gloomy yet perfect backdrop that feels like the autumn I’m always chasing. Sure, the show can be a little goofy at times, but it’s compelling nonetheless. Its visual palette of perpetual autumn is a stark contrast to the endless summer outside my window, making it the perfect companion to my knitting sessions. Michael Emerson as Leland Townsend is a maniacal treat–and HOW does he look exactly the same as he did 20 years ago in Lost??

9. Through mindful nature walks

Even in Florida, where autumn’s touch is subtle, I make an effort to connect with nature and spot the small signs of the changing season. My neighborhood, graced with many old oak trees (about half of which are in my very own yard…or at least it feels like that when I am cleaning up post-hurricane detritus), provides the perfect setting for these mindful walks.

I prefer to venture out in the liminal hours – just before sunrise or as the sun is setting. Partly to avoid the brutal heat of the evil day star, but also as a squirrelly introvert, I just don’t like people looking at me. These quiet hours offer a cocoon of solitude, allowing me to immerse myself fully in the experience.

Our proximity to the river adds another layer to these walks. The air feels different near the water, carrying a hint of moisture and the promise of cooler days. From the back of the neighborhood, which overlooks a major bridge, I can see the headlights of early morning commuters – a distant sign of life as I stand in the pre-dawn quiet.

In these hours, my familiar surroundings transform. I observe slight shifts in the oak leaves, watching for subtle changes that signal the season’s turn. The quality of light itself becomes a marker of autumn’s approach, its angle shifting almost imperceptibly as summer wanes. Migrating birds, their silhouettes dark against the sky, offer the most reliable signs of autumn’s arrival.

These walks are a mindful practice, grounding me in the subtle seasonal shifts that might otherwise pass unnoticed. Surrounded by ancient oaks and with the river nearby, I can almost convince myself that autumn has truly arrived, even as the day’s heat waits just around the corner.

10. Through Autumn Reflection and Renewal

As the leaves sloo-owly change and the year winds down, autumn offers a gentle invitation for introspection, quiet goal-setting, and subtle personal renewal. This season of transition, with its sense of things drawing to a close, naturally inclines us towards observation, reflection, and preparation for the coming quietude. This is where it gets a little cheesy, but stick with me here; it’s all in service of ushering in a big autumn mood.

This year, I’m cautiously embracing the reflective spirit of autumn in a few ways. Autumn-themed journaling is on my list, though I’m almost too self-conscious to admit it. I’ve got a few fall-themed writing prompts that I’m considering; this is where things get really cheesy, and I’m slightly mortified to be sharing this, but… I might actually ponder questions like, “What would I like to let go of, like leaves falling from a tree?” and “If my life were a harvest, what fruits am I reaping now?” I might even describe my perfect autumn day, from dawn to dusk, even if it’s more fantasy than reality here in Florida. (I can feel myself cringing as I type this, but there’s something about autumn that makes even this level of sentimentality seem almost acceptable.)

I’m also setting some autumn goals, channeling that residual “back to school” energy into my own little “Fall Semester.” I’ve got three specific objectives in mind:

First, reading – I’m always reading, typically juggling half a dozen fictional stories on my e-reader at any given time. But for autumn, I’m making a concerted effort to dive into some nonfiction, which I prefer to read in physical form at my desk (it’s easier on the wrists and eyes, you know?). I’ve got Katherine May’s Wintering and Robert Macfarlane’s The Old Ways lined up. May’s exploration of the power of rest and retreat seems particularly fitting for the season, while Macfarlane’s deep dive into ancient paths and the human connection to landscape feels like the perfect companion for my autumnal musings.

Second, cooking – I want to try my hand at making pozole. It’s a rich, warming stew with flavors I don’t typically cook with, and I’m eager to expand my culinary horizons. There’s something about the combination of hominy, meat, and aromatic spices that feels perfect for those rare cooler days we might get. Plus, the process of preparing it – the slow simmering, the melding of flavors – seems like a meditative autumn activity in itself.

Lastly, bird watching – Here’s the thing – I was born 90 years old. I’ve always been an old soul, and I’ve finally decided to lean into it by getting serious about bird watching. As the autumn migrations begin, I’ll be out there with my binoculars, probably wearing a cardigan and sensible shoes, learning to identify the species that pass through Florida. I’m settling into being the charming eccentric I was always destined to be, and I’m not even mad about it.

These goals are my way of embracing the season’s introspective energy, even if the weather outside doesn’t quite match the autumnal mood I’m cultivating. Between the books, the new culinary adventure, and my newfound ornithological pursuits, I’ll be living my best autumn life, Florida style.

Bonus: Through the Magic of Art

Oh, how could I forget? ART. This post is liberally peppered with autumnal paintings ranging from the Pre-Raphaelites to still lifes, to fairytale illustrations. Because if I can’t have real autumn leaves outside my window, I can at least feast my eyes on rendered ones, right? I really shouldn’t have forgotten art, because I did a whole-ass blog post about it only two years ago!

I’ve included works like John Melhuish Strudwick’s “A Story Book,” which captures that cozy, introspective autumn mood I’m constantly chasing. There’s Arthur Rackham’s “A Dish of Apples,” because nothing says fall like a a couple of creepy goblins and an apple tree. John Atkinson Grimshaw’s “An October Afterglow” gives us that perfect melancholic autumn twilight that Florida stubbornly refuses to deliver.

For a more whimsical take, there’s Giuseppe Arcimboldo’s “Autumn,” because sometimes you just need to see a face made of seasonal produce to really get into the fall spirit. And, of course, what’s an autumn art collection without Andrew Wyeth’s iconic “Autumn,” capturing the stark beauty of the season in a way that makes me yearn desperately for bitingly crisp air the crunch of leaves underfoot, and a crow cawing for your attentuion just outside the frame?

These paintings serve as windows into the autumn of my imagination, portals to a season that exists more in my mind than in my subtropical reality. They’re a visual manifestation of the fall feels I’m trying to conjure, proof that even if I can’t change the weather, I can at least change the view.

What autumn rituals do you practice to welcome the season? Share your favorite ways to manifest fall in the comments below!

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

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When I was about fifteen, I fell in love with a kiwi-scented lip balm from the Body Shop. It came in a cute little pot, a gloopy treasure trove of bright green goodness. I was completely smitten. I remember telling my sister, “If they ever interview me and ask what product I’d recommend, this would be the first one!” Looking back, I realize I had no idea who “they” were, but… I think it’s the same mysterious “them” that I write these blog posts for now.

As a teenager, I wrote in my diary with the subtle awareness that someone might read it someday. Maybe it wasn’t written explicitly for an audience, but there was always that thought, a quiet, pervasive tickle in the back of my mind. And so maybe events were exaggerated, embellished. Real-life with a flourish, little semi-fictions, Without realizing it, I was planting seeds for something that would bloom years later.

When I discovered blogging, it felt like I’d found a hidden door in my own house, one that opened onto a weird little garden where those earlier plantings were waiting for me. All those years of scribbling in private had unknowingly set the stage for this new kind of writing. New, but it already felt so familiar! Blogging gave me a chance to share my thoughts with real people, to start conversations, and to connect with others who shared my peculiar blend of interests. It was exhilarating to think that my words could leap beyond the confines of my diary and potentially touch someone else’s life.

Each blog post became a bottle cast into the digital sea, carrying a piece of my inner world to shores unknown. But now, instead of just daydreaming about being interviewed, I was actually putting my thoughts out there for people to read. It was both thrilling and a little unnerving, like stepping onto a stage I’d been preparing for without realizing it.

This summer, I spent much more time writing for this blog than I typically do over the span of 30 days. I was avoiding social media the month of July, so every time I got the itchy urge to start scrolling through Instagram, I’d come here instead and draft a bunch of ideas. A lot of them were terrifically, soul-searchingly self-absorbed because, as you can imagine, I was in my own head and up my own ass quite a bit while I was trying to find things to do with myself. And apparently, the place in between the brains and the butthole is where I ended up: the navel. And there was a lot of gazing.

That’s how I came to be rewriting my “About” page, and this, too, was a peculiar exercise in introspection. As I wrestled with words to encapsulate the essence of Unquiet Things, a question bubbled up from the depths of my psyche like a particularly persistent specter’s fart: for whom exactly (other than myself) am I writing for?

It struck me as ironically familiar. In my journey as a writer, I’ve often found myself on the other side of this question. When interviewing artists and other creators, I frequently ask them, “Who are your creations for?” It’s funny how life unfolds – I once dreamed of being the subject of interviews, but I grew up to be the one asking the questions.

Now, I found myself putting that same question to myself. Who is my audience? Who are these posts for? It was an attempt to define that ill-defined “them,” to put faces on the nebulous, shifting idea of an audience that had been with me since those lip balm daydreams. I wanted to understand who, beyond myself, was reading these posts and exploring this cabinet of curiosities with me.

In this post, I am shining a light on this question and taking a stab at pinning down some answers.  I’ve identified five main types of readers who seem to frequent these digital halls. Each group brings its own interests and perspectives, collectively creating the “Them” I’ve been looking to connect with my entire life.

The Curious Explorers and Enthusiastic Amateur Investigators

These are the readers who love to uncover hidden knowledge and explore the lesser-known corners of history and culture. They’re drawn to obscure facts, forgotten stories, and the mysteries that linger in old places. Every post about an arcane subject or a little-known historical figure is a treasure map for these curious souls.  You’re the ones reading the Mary Roach books,  the Atlas Obscura & Public Domain Review websites; you may have a subscription to the Fortean times, and I bet you have been to The Museum of Jurassic Technology more than once.

The Aesthetic Appreciators

These readers find beauty in unexpected places. They’re drawn to the elegance of vintage objects, the artistry in melancholy, the allure of the slightly unconventional. They appreciate the visual aspects of the blog – the carefully chosen images, the descriptions of unique fashion or decor or fragrance. For them, beauty often lies in the details and the stories behind them. You no doubt have a piece of Victorian hairwork in your collection, own several copies of The Picture of Dorian Gray, you have curated a collection of vintage slips, and have a list of pleasing (or hateful) things a la Sei Shonagun.

The Reflective Souls

These are the readers who appreciate moments of quiet introspection. They’re drawn to posts that ponder life’s big questions, explore emotional landscapes, or offer a different perspective on familiar experiences. They find comfort or resonance in the more personal, vulnerable aspects of the writing here. I bet you have read Joan Didion’s The Year Of Magical Thinking or  Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist (not saying you had to enjoy it–I didn’t care for either one– but they’ve been checked off your list.) You may have attended a Death Cafe, you probably have a list of favorite Ingmar Bergman film’s ranked. You definitely keep a dream journal or a gratitude journal or a commonplace book. It seems colorfully, boisterously counterintuitive, but I bet you enjoyed Steven Universe and think about it quite frequently. For all your musings on mortality and meditations on melancholy, I think you are also in love with the idea of “demented glee” and “unhinged joy.”

The Horror Aficionados and Fantastical Dreamers

These are the thrill-seekers of the psyche, the connoisseurs of the uncanny who find exquisite pleasure in the chill of fear crawling up their spine. They devour tales of terror with voracious appetites, from cosmic horrors that unravel sanity to the quiet dread that lurks in everyday shadows. Yet, their palates are equally attuned to the fantastical where nightmares and dreams intertwine. Whether it’s book or film reviews of gothic fiction, dark fairy tales, horror stories, or explorations of the uncanny in everyday life, these readers are here for the stories that blur the lines between reality and imagination. You no doubt know one person who plays the theremin and have tried to listen to Diamanda Galás, though it’s 50/50 as to whether that’s your thing or not. You keep trying. You have a favorite Suspiria (“both” are an acceptable answer.) The Time Life Enchanted World Ghosts book was a formative tome for you. You swear you’re never again going to visit the /nosleep subreddit when you’re home alone, but you keep doing it anyway. Stephen King and/or George Romero may be surrogate fathers for you, and you have read the book club edition Dracula/Frankenstein omnibus with the Frank Frazetta cover art at least 50 times.

The Gentle Spirits and Solitude Seekers

These readers find joy in solitude and simple pleasures while also nurturing an appreciation for the slightly offbeat. They might be the quiet crafters, the thoughtful gardeners, the solo wanderers. They’re drawn to posts that celebrate small moments of beauty or tranquility, especially when those moments have a touch of the unusual or unexpected. You own at least one Mary Oliver collection. You knit/crochet/cross-stitch/needlepoint.  You’ve named your sourdough starter and are obsessed with pickling and fermenting. You were probably obsessed with Tasha Tudor at one point, and Frog & Toad feel like old friends. And oh my god, the Beatrix Potter ballet! You’re definitely in the Haunted Cottagecore Facebook group, and you wish it didn’t take the admins three weeks to approve your very relevant artwork post when it seems like the stupid meme posts get approved right away. Over the Garden Wall is a year-round staple. You know the words to “Potatoes & Molasses” by heart.

As I reflect on these different groups of readers, I’m struck by how they overlap and intertwine. And really, how they are all pieces of my very own heart and soul. Each category represents a facet of my own interests, a reflection of the various corners of my mind where curiosity, aesthetics, introspection, imagination, and gentleness reside. In a way, by writing for you, I’m also writing for all the different versions of myself – past, present, and perhaps even future. Many of you probably see yourselves in more than one category or perhaps in none of them exactly. That’s the beauty of this community – it’s as diverse and multifaceted as the topics we explore here.

This blog has become a meeting place for all these varied interests and perspectives. It’s a space where we can indulge our curiosity, appreciate unconventional beauty, reflect on life’s complexities, explore imaginative realms, and find moments of quiet connection. Blogging, for me, is a way to reach out to this wonderfully diverse “them” I once only imagined. It’s a chance to share ideas, to learn from others, to make sense of the world together. Every post is an invitation to explore, to reflect, to connect.

So why do I blog? I blog because it’s the realization of that teenage dream, the manifestation of that imaginary “them” I’ve carried with me since my kiwi lip balm days. I blog because it allows me to be both the interviewer and the interviewed, to ask questions and offer answers, to seek and to share. I blog because in this digital garden, I’ve found a place where my peculiar blend of interests can flourish alongside yours.

In the end, “them” turned out to be you – the curious explorers, the aesthetic appreciators, the reflective souls, the horror aficionados, the gentle spirits. You’re the ones who read about Victorian hairwork and then go make a sourdough starter named after a gothic heroine. You’re the ones who can quote Mary Oliver and Stephen King in the same breath. You’re the ones who find beauty in melancholy and joy in the uncanny.

Every comment, every shared experience, every “me too!” moment in the blog is a reminder that the “them” I once imagined has become real. It’s you, reading these words right now. You’re the community I never knew I needed, the audience I always hoped for.

I’ll be the first to admit that this whole exercise has been tremendously self-involved. But you know what? It’s also been tremendously fun. It’s given me a chance to reflect on why I do what I do, to appreciate the community we’ve built here, and to dream up new ideas for future posts. After all, now that I’ve imagined you all so vividly, how can I not want to create more content that speaks to every facet of this wonderfully eclectic audience?

So hooray to you, to us, to this weird and wonderful “them” we’ve created together. We figured it out, together! Thank you for being here, for exploring this cabinet of curiosities with me, for making Unquiet Things more than just a collection of posts. It’s a conversation, a connection, a community of kindred spirits – or rather, kindred glooms! Together, we’ve created a space where our unquiet thoughts can roam freely, where our shared fascinations with the beautiful, the melancholic, and the mysterious can flourish.

Huzzah, weirdos! You’re my favorite Them in the gloopy green lip balm of life. And thanks for letting me tell you all about it.

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

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Pieces Of My Heart from Filigree & Shadow is a fragrance that asks, “Speak, what brings you to me?” And in its presence, we cannot help but be laid bare. This scent brooks no pretense; it deftly dismantles our carefully constructed facades, leaving us vulnerably authentic and, paradoxically, empowered. A sacred space where honesty becomes ordained and inevitable. It opens with a whisper of sweetness – not quite citrus, but rather the essence of some rare citrine blossom, distilled and crystallized. Flecks of golden light seem to float within this initial accord, a luminous beginning, a beacon, guiding irresistibly, inexorably toward self-revelation. As it unfolds, a velvety incense emerges, not heavy or overwhelming, but as steadfast and reassuring as a hand held in the dark. There’s a smooth quality that defies easy categorization – a silken, buttery, almost unctuous texture that speaks of softness and solace. This textural element persists, both olfactory and emotional, as if the scent itself could heal. The gentle resins and this satiny accord intertwine in an aroma at once ethereal and grounding, conjuring a feeling of ineffable comfort, the essence of a prayer exhaled into cupped palms, gently smoothed over troubled skin and spirit. It evokes a sense of resolute serenity – the essence of that still, small voice affirming, “I am not afraid. I was born for this.” Wearing this fragrance feels like standing at the threshold of revelation, where all the raw, messy horrors of being human finally crystallize into a single, breathtaking moment of grace, a benediction of tender acceptance of our whole flawed, stupid selves. Pieces Of My Heart is an olfactory sacrament that whispers a terrifying truth: we, in all our awful humanness, our flaws and frailties, our fears and faltering steps, are okay. We are enough. This revelation is at once frightening and profoundly liberating. With each inhalation, we are confronted with our own worthiness – a concept so vast and beautiful it threatens to undo us.

Treading Water’s The Observer is a scent that lingers at the threshold of something undefined, evoking the curious sensation of having one foot out the door. Upon first encounter, a clean, green leaf note emerges crisp and bright, soon followed by a dry, woody sharpness. Weaving through these more familiar elements is an unexpected rubbery undertone, an oddly compelling accent that keeps drawing me back for another sniff. There’s an elusive quality to the scent that I struggle to pinpoint – it hovers somewhere between “new car smell” and “unused room.” Not quite sterile, but rather a bit stale and unlived-in, like a well-maintained but uninhabited house. It’s as if a caretaker visits occasionally, but the absence of human presence is palpable in the air. This strange emptiness persists as the fragrance develops on my skin, leaving me to ponder what lies beyond that metaphorical door, and whether I’m prepared to step through it.

Amouage Lilac Love When one thinks of lilac fragrances, the words “delicate” and “demure” often come to mind. Amouage Lilac Love, however, is…not that. This scent is a fragrant homage to larger-than-life, flamboyant femininity and old-school glamour, conjuring the essence of bosomy madam Miss Mona swanning around in her feather boas and silk peignoirs in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. I have heard this described as a floral gourmand, which seems accurate, but I can’t pinpoint exactly how. There’s an abstract richness and creaminess that evokes an elusive decadence, and the floral element feels somewhat speculative as well. Not a lush bouquet of actual fresh cut blooms, but the lavish ideal of them swirled into a velvet wallpaper design in a dim-lit boudoir. A plush, powdery musk settles on the skin, a rope of pearls pooled across a soft expanse of warmed skin. Luxurious and heady, and combined with the honeyed floral sweetness, it’s a scent that seems to revel in its own sumptuousness. Lilac Love is A LOT. And every bit of it is gorgeous.

L’Artisan Histoire d’Orangers is the very gothest orange blossom. If you could distill all the words in every language for “melancholia,” capture the essence of a flick of heavy black eyeliner, or bottle the resonance of a sorrowful minor chord, that would sum up this perfume. It’s the poetry of abandoned orange groves at twilight, their spectral blossoms an incense of Saudade, Sehnsucht, of Mono no aware. For those moments when you long to wrap yourself in a tremulous sublimity of sadness, to revel in the exquisite pain of being achingly alive in a world that’s always slipping away. I’m aware this is the biggest, corniest cliche you’ve ever heard, but as a Florida goth awash in perpetual summertime glooms, I don’t know what else to tell you.

Aedes de Venustas Cierge de Lune is a vanilla bean moonbeam threading its way through a labyrinth of mirrors. Silken jasmine vines unravel from the moon’s negligee, weaving themselves into a veil that drapes across sleeping cities. A silvered net catching soft, pale fragments of dreams – a half-remembered kiss, the touch of cool desert air, the rustle of invisible wings. A drop of liquid light falls through layers of reality, a holy garland of tears and stardust-dappled night blooms. The slow stretch of time across a lunar landscape, captured in a sleepy smoked amber glass.

bloodmilk x Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Bat Moth A chiaroscuro of earthy depth and hallucinatory sweetness, Bat Moth is the ecstatic fever dream intricacies of a Victorian fairy painter’s tiny fae revelers, filtered through Silky Bat’s sugar-spun patchouli charms. Or perhaps replace all the fairies in this frenzied vision with a wondrous delirium of bats: a warm-woody-fuzzy-fleecy chiropteran cloud of musk, beady black-jellied eyes, leathery-resinous flitterings in a dizzying expanse of sweetly dewy night air. For all the frenetic moonrise mania as the scent begins its evening’s flight, its midnight repose is a softly patchoulified haze, a velvet brown sugar nocturne, a drowsy incantation, a dissolving reverie.

blood milk x Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Ultramarine, to my nose, is a wistful, romantic reverie of introspective painter Charles Burchfield’s mystical naturalism viewed through Beatrix Potter’s whimsical lens. A scent for gathering wild berries as twilight fog swirls underfoot, to be savored later with billowing clouds of softly sweetened, vanilla-scented cream. The faded cotton of ruffled floral aprons cradle dusky harvests, the tart sweetness tempered by evening’s cool breath. Mist-shrouded meadows drowse in the gloaming, where weathered fences stand sentinel to deepening indigo shadows. Nightbirds trill a tender lullaby as tendrils of aromatic steam curl through dampened air. Petals pearled with dew unfurl in the blue hour, their fragrance mingling with the earthy whisper of leaf litter and loam. A first-quarter moon’s reflection shivers in a porcelain cup, its slanted light filtering through lace-curtained windows to illuminate lilac petals steeping in its wake.

In honor of the availability of Arcana’s Holy Terror in an EDP form, I thought I’d go back to my original, very half-assed review of the scent and expand upon it in the way that one of my top-ten forever fragrances deserves. This is a scent that unfolds like a waking dream, a fragrant tale that blurs the boundary between consciousness and slumber, where honeyed richness of beeswax candles intertwines with resinous incense. As it settles on the skin, the frankincense and myrrh meld with the mellow warmth of the beeswax, their individual notes blurring like secrets inked on damp parchment. There’s a golden amber vein comfort woven through the austere resins, reminiscent of candlelight flickering against ancient stone walls. The longer you wear it, the more Holy Terror becomes a sensory lullaby. It’s the olfactory equivalent of that drowsy state just before sleep claims you, when the words on the page of your gothic novel begin to swim and the tendrils of incense seem to form shapes in the air. The sandalwood provides a steady backdrop, like the spine of an old book, while the honeyed incense notes dance and swirl, becoming indistinguishable from one another. As you drift deeper into this scented reverie, you find yourself wandering the shadowy corridors of a crumbling castle, where portraits seem to breathe and suits of armor creak with unseen movement, and the amber-tinged air is suffused with ancient prophecy and long-buried secrets. In your mind’s eye, you observe yourself fleeing through moonlit cloisters, your feet bare and stumbling, leaving trails in the dust of centuries, the shadows descending upon you, unfolding you like a cloak. In the end, this fragrance doesn’t so much evoke fearsome abbey spirits as it does the gentle ghosts of stories half-remembered, of dreams that linger upon waking. It’s what you might smell if you fell asleep reading by candlelight and woke to find the smoke from the snuffed flame mingling with the last wisps of incense, all suffused with the ambery glow of beeswax

Stora Skuggan Azalai conjured forth SUCH a very specific image for me. Does anyone else remember Peaches & Cream Barbie from the 1980s? I don’t know if she had a specific scent, but Azalai is the fantasy aroma of that resplendent frothy pale coral gown she wore. Saffron-infused honey, champagne-candied apricots, and a golden halo of spun sugar amber clouds filtered to a honeyed, hazy glow through countless layers of delicate fabric, gossamer veils of tulle, and organza. Sheer and luminous, light and dreamy, this is everything little-me dreamed was so special about that doll. Even if I did eventually chop her hair off and marry her off to a small, plastic Lando Calrissian, only for her to disappear under mysterious circumstances on a skiing trip in the French Alps during their honeymoon.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. I really did not want to like Bianco Latte. Everyone seems to adore it, and I am the kind of annoying person who doesn’t want to like something that everyone else likes. But sometimes…everyone else might be on to something? Stop it! I hate that! Bianco Latte opens incredibly sweet, like a decadent caramel macchiato with extra vanilla syrup and plush, honey-infused cream. It’s so sweet it almost makes me mad, which almost makes me weepy, because I’m one of those people who cries instead of yells when they get mad. And it makes me think of super cute animals, how sometimes when we see a little fluffy furry cutie-patootie, we just burst into tears. Even though they’re adorable and charming, and they make us happy! And this, in turn, makes me think of that old 2006-era website, Cute Overload, and this one particular chubby, floofy bunny, whose fur was so white and its eyes were so big and innocent, and I just died every time I saw it. I think that’s the essence Bianco Latte is trying to capture – that overwhelming, almost painful sweetness that stirs up complex emotions. As the scent settles on your skin, it softens, much like how you’d calm down after that initial rush of seeing an impossibly adorable creature. As Bianco Latte dries down, the white musk emerges, creating an airy softness that mimics the imagined touch of that bunny’s impossibly fluffy fur. The vanilla becomes more rounded and marshmallow-squishy, reminiscent of how you’d want to cuddle that sweet little guy. The honey notes linger, reminding you of the golden glow of nostalgia for simpler internet days when a cute animal picture could be the highlight of your afternoon. It’s a scent that doesn’t just evoke memories, but feelings – that mix of joy, tenderness, and inexplicable sadness that comes from encountering something almost too precious for this world.

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Dusklight filters through ink-dark wings, casting otherworldly shadows on a sea of cornstalks below. A feline passenger, obsidian as midnight and unperturbed by its lofty perch, gazes intently ahead. Its makeshift carriage? A witch’s hat, upended and suspended by gossamer threads from a cloud of fluttering bats. The field below teems with tiny, watchful eyes—mice perhaps, or spirits of the harvest, bearing witness to this fantastical journey.

Welcome to the bewitching scenes of the twilight tableau, “Straight On Till Morning,” where we realize that some creative brain out there has dreamed up the enchanted chiropteran taxi service that we didn’t even know we needed in the world! That big, beautiful, creative brain, as it happens, belongs to artist Maggie Vandewalle, a master of watercolor whimsy whose paintings transport us to a world where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, and the impossible seems just within reach.

The hijinks in Maggie’s paintings often center around her animal subjects’ delightful misadventures and whimsical reveries.

In “Joyriding,” a quartet of cats finds themselves airborne on a witch’s broom, though their expressions suggest this is hardly cause for alarm. True to feline nature, they appear utterly nonplussed by their unusual mode of transportation. They’re not so much commandeering the broom as they are lazily draped across it, as if it were nothing more than an oddly shaped, floating cat tree. Adding to the whimsy, a tiny Siamese cat has made itself comfortable among the broom’s frizzly bristles, fast asleep and oblivious to the aerial escapade. It’s a scene that perfectly captures the essence of cats – even amid magic and mischief, they maintain their air of complete indifference and their unerring ability to make themselves comfortable in the most unlikely of situations.

In stark contrast to the aerial antics of “Joyriding,” “Constellations” invites us into a moment of quiet wonder. Here, an unlikely gathering of woodland creatures—a bear cub, a raccoon, a hare, and a mouse—sit in companionable silence, their gazes fixed upon the vast night sky above. The scene captures that universal moment of awe when one first truly sees the stars, their twinkling magnitude humbling and thrilling all at once. Each animal’s posture and expression is a study in rapt attention, reminding us that the capacity for wonder knows no species.

Maggie’s talent for visual storytelling and playful misdirection shines in “Obsession.” At first glance, we’re presented with a rust-stained concrete wall that serves as nature’s own curio cabinet. A dazzling array of insects—iridescent beetles, delicate butterflies, and mysterious moths—have alighted upon this urban canvas, creating a living mosaic of entomological wonders. Our eyes dance from one exquisite creature to the next, lost in a glittering sea of chitinous marvels and papery wings.

But as our gaze wanders downward, expectation gives way to delightful surprise. There, at the bottom of the painting, we discover a pair of bats, their furry faces buried in a feast of insects. What we initially perceived as an artist’s obsessive collection reveals itself to be nature’s own buffet, the bats’ rumbling tummies the true curators of this display. Vandewalle’s clever composition transforms our interpretation from aesthetic appreciation to ecological observation, reminding us with a wink that beauty in nature often serves a practical purpose. In “Obsession,” she invites us to look closer, to question our assumptions, and to find humor in the unexpected intersections of art and appetite.

From insects to flora, Maggie’s attention to detail never wavers. In “Thicket,” her mastery of texture comes to the fore in a breathtaking autumnal scene. A rustle of colorful birds flock around dying sunflowers, their wings a symphony of delicate brushstrokes that seem to flutter on the page. The lacy, spent florets of the sunflowers are rendered with exquisite detail, their intricate patterns a testament to nature’s fading beauty. Brown leaves curl at the edges, almost crackling with dryness, while the tufted seed heads of various Asteraceae add a softness to the composition. Concealed among the dying blooms, a tiny fae creature observes us with curious eyes, her delicate form melding with the stem she embraces—an enchanted detail awaiting discovery by the imaginative soul.

Her landscapes, too, carry this sense of enchantment. “Brume II” offers a glimpse of a mountain ridge beyond a fog-shrouded tree line, the scene suffused with a delightfully moody atmosphere. Yet, true to Vandewalle’s style, it never veers into the realm of the creepy or unsettling. Instead, it evokes a sense of cozy mystery, inviting the viewer to wrap themselves in the mist and dream of what might lie beyond.

This ability to balance the otherworldly with the comforting is what I love about Maggie’s work! Her paintings embody the spirit of eternal Octobers, capturing a unique emotional landscape that’s not quite melancholy, yet tinged with a gentle wistfulness. It’s a world too good-natured to be spooky, where even the fading of summer into autumn feels like a warm embrace rather than a chilling portent.

This is art that speaks to the child in me, sweet little Sarah (my grandmother always used to say, “Here comes little Sarah!” and sometimes that is still how I think of myself!), who still believes in the rustle of faerie wings in garden shadows and the possibility of stepping through a mirror into another world. A world where cats lounge nonchalantly on flying broomsticks, where woodland creatures gather under starlit skies, and mist-cloaked trees whisper secrets of hidden glades where time stands still. It’s a place where the impossible becomes probable, where whimsy reigns supreme in each bustling brushstroke and dreamy detail.

The scamper of tiny paws across attic floorboards, the scurry of leaves chasing each other down empty streets, the shiver that runs down our spine when we glimpse something just out of sight—these are the moments Maggie Vandewalle captures and magnifies, reminding us that the world is stranger and more wonderful than we dare to believe. Through her art, we’re shown that magic isn’t something we grow out of but something we grow deeper into, if only we keep our hearts and eyes open.

…And I believe in Maggie’s magic, I really do! Now, where’s my midnight palanquin of bats?  My body is ready for a haunted nightwing rideshare!

Extra tidbits! The fabulous, fantastical (and featured in The Art of Fantasy) “Straight On Til Morning” is currently a finalist for the RAYMAR Traditional Art Award, which is amazing–well done, Maggie, and best of luck!  Read more about this over at Beautiful Bizarre Magazine.

And…you know I had to ask about perfume! Maggie revealed that her favorite perfume is Light Blue by Dolce and Gabbana, with patchouli oil a close second. Additionally, I learned that she is a Magic: The Gathering enthusiast…and like me, nearly all her decks are green & black! I already felt a kinship with this wonderful artist through the happily haunted magics she conjures in her paintings, and this bit of intel sealed the deal.

Find Maggie Vandewalle: Website // Shop // Instagram // YouTube

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

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