Unquiet
Things

I know I said I was done with the navel-gazing for the year, but I was obviously mistaken. This may be the final installment in what has admittedly been a rather self-indulgent series of origin stories – explorations of the fascinations and fixations that have shaped who I am, from my love of horror to my magpie attraction to shiny things. And it seems fitting to write about my love of the kitchen and culinary experimentation as the year draws to a close; with the chilly weather and the dark nights, it’s really the coziest time of the year to be thinking about it… and aside from that, it was someone’s question about where my love of cooking came from that sparked and shaped this whole series to begin with!

Thanks to that curious commenter’s question, I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to examining these threads of identity over the past year, these passions that make me uniquely me. Perhaps it’s the looming approach of my fiftieth year that spurs this relentless self-documentation, this need to understand and chronicle the specific alchemy that created this particular human consciousness. Or …perhaps I’m just really self-absorbed?

I spend a lot of time thinking about how incredibly narcissistic it is to write so extensively about oneself. To document every quirk and peculiarity, to chart the etymology of personal obsessions, to treat one’s own development like some fascinating case study worthy of extensive analysis. It’s the kind of thing that keeps me awake at night sometimes – this constant need to examine, to understand, to put into words the how and why of becoming myself. The very existence of this blog, really, is an exercise in sustained narcissism. Who am I to think my thoughts about perfume or jewelry or cooking are worth preserving? What hubris leads me to believe my personal evolution merits documentation? And yet here I am, year after year, continuing to write these missives into the void.

As I edge closer to that half-century mark, I find myself thinking often about all the humans who have existed before me and all those who will come after. We share so many commonalities, so many universal experiences and emotions – and yet each of us is uniquely ourselves in ways that will never be replicated. One day, I will cease to exist. Will anyone remember that I was here? Will it matter that I spent countless hours pondering perfume and cooking and horror stories? Perhaps not. And yet something in me insists that it does matter, that leaving some record of this particular consciousness, this specific combination of passions and proclivities, serves some purpose I can’t quite articulate but feel deeply in my bones.

For someone who spends their leisure time consuming ghost stories, fictional horror podcasts, and gruesome Reddit /no sleep threads, who decorates their home with oddities and memento mori, who gravitates toward the darkest corners of imagined experience – it might seem strange that my greatest joy comes from making the coziest, most life-affirming things. Warm loaves of bread fresh from the oven, bubbling pots of soup that steam up the windows, crocks of tangy homemade pickles lined up on shelves. But perhaps it’s not so strange after all. The same anxiety that draws me to horror – that need to process fear through stories – dissolves completely in the kitchen. I’m still the person who approaches most of life with the hesitant caution of a medieval food taster at a suspicious monarch’s table. But put me in front of a stove and suddenly I have the unearned confidence of a mediocre white man explaining your own profession to you.

This pocket of fearlessness started in my grandmother’s kitchen. Mawga never set out to teach me anything formally – there were no stern lectures about technique, no rigid rules about measuring, no scolding over messes or mistakes. Instead, I was just allowed to exist in her space while she cooked. I’d hover by her elbow as she stirred pots of chicken and dumplings, breathing in the steam and warmth, or sit cross-legged on the linoleum while she rolled out pie crusts, the air heavy with flour and possibility. Sometimes I’d help, sometimes I’d just watch, but always I was absorbing the rhythms of how she moved through her kitchen, calm and sure.

Those lessons in confidence followed me into my twenties, even when everything else felt uncertain. In high school, with my mother’s specific brand of alcohol and mental illness-fueled chaos, everything was tumultuous and fraught. I comforted myself with a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches. In my early twenties, I shared an apartment with a flaky musician while trying to navigate community college (it took me ten years to get my associate degree; classrooms make me very anxious.) Money was tight – my fast food job barely kept the lights on – but I became surprisingly good at transforming leftovers from family dinners at my grandparents’ into completely different meals, and an impressive number of hamburgers and fries would mysteriously make their way home from my shifts, becoming the foundation for whatever inspiration struck. When you’ve successfully turned three-day-old fast food into something not only edible but actually satisfying, you start to trust your instincts in the kitchen.

My thirties brought a different kind of solitude. Living away from family, trapped in a toxic relationship with someone who was rarely there, the kitchen became both my refuge and my laboratory. My then-boyfriend’s picky palate and nasty temper could have made me timid, could have crushed that confidence I’d developed. Instead, in the long hours alone, I threw myself into increasingly ambitious projects. I made butter from scratch just to see if I could. I spent days perfecting homemade udon noodles, testing and adjusting until the texture was just right. Each successful experiment was a quiet rebellion, an unshackling from the cage I’d found myself in, a reminder that in the kitchen, at least, I answered to no one but myself.

Now, I find myself in a kitchen filled with laughter and appreciation, sharing my culinary adventures with someone who approaches each experimental dish with genuine enthusiasm. Yvan compliments everything I make, even my failures. He’s allowed me to edge him out of the kitchen for the most part, but he has actually taken over Christmas cookie duty – not because my cookies aren’t good, but because baking demands a precision that I can’t seem to submit to. I simply can’t be confined by exact measurements. Don’t stifle me, recipe! This works beautifully for soups and sauces, less so for baked goods and pastries that rely on proper chemistry.

The contrast kind of amazes me sometimes. The same person who lies awake rehearsing minor social interactions, who needs to gather courage just to make a phone call, who has a panic attack at the mere thought of making a left-hand turn – that person will confidently modify treasured family recipes without a second thought. For big family dinners, I’ll attempt entirely new dishes for the first time. I’ll cheerfully ignore precise measurements in baking recipes, because come on–I know what’s best, I do!

This kitchen confidence has become such a fundamental part of who I am that I sometimes forget how remarkable it is – this one space where anxiety’s grip loosens, where uncertainty doesn’t feel threatening. It’s a gift from Mawga, really, though she never explicitly set out to give it to me. By creating a space where I could simply be, where mistakes were just part of the process, and perfection wasn’t the goal, she helped shape a part of me that knows how to move through the world without fear.

As I write this final piece for the year, I have two loaves of sourdough doing their slow rise in the refrigerator. I couldn’t tell you exactly how they will turn out. They’ll do whatever they want to do, and it will be okay. I trust that whatever emerges from the oven will be, if not perfect, at least interesting. And really, isn’t that the best way to end a year? Not with rigid expectations but with the courage to try something new, the confidence to accept whatever results, and the comfort of knowing that in your own kitchen, you are exactly who you need to be.

And perhaps understanding exactly who you are and how you came to be that person sometimes requires writing neurotically detailed 5,000-word blog posts examining your curio cabinet of compulsions and preoccupations! Look forward to more of those in 2025!

All photos in this post are by me, of food I have made.

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I often find myself writing these long, meandering posts on social media – you know, the kind where someone in the comments invariably responds with “ma’am, this is a Wendy’s” (or at least my brain does, after I stop and read the train wreck I’ve just posted to Facebook or whatever) and then halfway through I remember: oh right, I literally have a blog for exactly this sort of rambling introspection. You’d think after maintaining a blog for over a decade, I’d remember that’s where these thoughts belong. But no, sometimes they just spill out wherever I happen to be typing.

Like yesterday, when I posted this:

As someone constantly riddled with low-grade, persistent, and utterly nebulous anxiety, it can be hard to tell when you’re having a good day. I go about my life – writing blog posts, working full-time, cooking dinner, maintaining relationships, doing all the regular human things – and underneath it all, there’s always this dull roar of existential dread. Just constant enough to fade into the background, just loud enough to never quite forget it’s there. And sometimes I think how lovely it would be to just… fall apart. To let everything go to shit and fester in my own misery. But I can’t. Maybe it’s being the eldest child, maybe it’s generational repression, maybe it’s just how I’m wired – but I keep going. I keep functioning. Not because I’m especially resilient or brave, but because I literally don’t know how to stop.

Today was one of those days when I got to wear all of my favorite clothes, layered simultaneously. Living in Florida means these precious few cold days are especially welcome – I spend the entire month of July (the worst month for existential dread) dreaming about cardigans and turtlenecks. It might sound trivial to someone else, but those who know, know. It’s a balm that feels like both safety and joy – I guess we call these glimmers now, these tiny moments when the world feels a little more manageable. When I can finally envelop myself in the warmth and textures of this cocoon I’ve been craving, something shifts ever so slightly.

Maybe it’s the gentle pressure of layers, like a wearable weighted blanket, or the way each piece of clothing becomes another small boundary between my skin and everything else. It’s not about modesty or protection from the cold – it’s about creating space between myself and the world, building a soft fortress of fabric that helps me feel more anchored in my own body. I don’t know why I’m always searching for another layer to add, another soft barrier to wrap myself in, but I do know that on days like this, when I can finally dress the way my body craves, something inside me settles just a little bit.

The anxiety doesn’t go away – it never really does. It’s more like turning down the volume on a radio that’s been playing static in the background of your life for so long that you’ve almost forgotten it’s there. Almost, but not quite. Because even when you’ve learned to function around it and built all these little coping mechanisms and comfort rituals, you’re still aware of its presence, humming away beneath everything else. Not debilitating, not stopping you from living your life or doing your work or maintaining relationships – just there, a constant companion you’ve learned to work alongside.

This pattern of normalizing discomfort isn’t new – I wrote about it years ago when I realized I’d spent decades believing I didn’t deserve basic conveniences or comforts. It was about learning to pack snacks for long car rides or keep painkillers in my bag instead of just suffering through headaches. Just like these layers of clothes I’ve always wrapped myself in, these were all ways of coping that I didn’t even recognize as coping. The shape of the adaptations varies, but the core remains: that deep-seated belief that my discomfort isn’t quite real enough to address. I’ve never been diagnosed or medicated – not out of principle, but because every time I’ve tried to describe this constant background hum to a doctor, I find myself automatically downplaying it, making it sound manageable, bearable. Maybe it’s shame, maybe it’s habit, maybe it’s just what happens when you spend so much time trying to convince yourself that everyone probably feels this way, that it’s not really a problem if you’ve learned to function around it.

It’s strange how adaptation becomes second nature. Building elaborate systems of scaffolding around a shaky foundation becomes normal. The layers of clothing aren’t a solution – they’re just another way of existing alongside something that never quite goes away. Sometimes adapting to discomfort feels easier than figuring out why you needed all these layers in the first place.

And because I know someone will completely bypass all of this emotional excavation and existential pondering to demand “WHERE GET CLOTHES???” – yes, I’ll list the items below. Though, I have to laugh at that particular brand of comment that barrels past all the vulnerability straight to the shopping links. (To be fair, I’m also absolutely that person who will read someone’s gutting personal essay and think, “I feel you deeply in my soul… also where did you get those boots?” At least some of us have the grace or self-awareness or whatever to acknowledge both the emotional weight AND our fashion priorities.)

Anyway: Buggyboy cardigan from WeCrowingHens // linen dress from linenfairytales // tissue turtleneck from J. Crew // high waisted black leggings from Hue // Antique chatelaine charm necklace & shield from Caron Power Jewelry  // gold ring from Victoria Sterling Antiques // Black Dr. Martens Chelsea boots

I suppose I should mention what prompted this particular spiral: a Patreon subscriber canceled their subscription. This isn’t the first time it’s happened and if I continue to maintain it, it won’t be the last. But what they didn’t tell me about running a Patreon is how I’d spiral with rejection and self-loathing everytime someone cancels their subscription. People’s financial circumstances (and interests) change! The economy sucks! A thousand other things unrelated to me or my writing! BUT HEAR ME OUT what if I should just crawl into a hole and give up on everything forever???

By the way, there is a free-level of membership on my Patreon, and I just shared a winter fragrance round-up over there yesterday!

So I mean, obviously, I won’t give up on everything forever. Eldest daughter and all that – the perfectionism, the compulsive need to keep it together, the deeply ingrained belief that falling apart isn’t an option because someone has to stay functional, someone has to keep up appearances, keep the plates spinning, someone has to make sure dinner looks Instagram-worthy even when everything else is crumbling. Might as well be me.

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First, I would think of the wild geese. Not the poem—the actual birds themselves, cutting their black paths through the dawn sky, crying out to one another in voices that sound like longing. I would remember how I learned to see them differently, to hear in their calls not just noise but a fierce joy in being alive.

I would sit with my betrayal like a stone in my throat. How many mornings had I carried her words like talismans? How many times had I pressed them into the hands of friends who were drowning in grief or doubt? The grasshopper, the swan, the lily—these were more than just images. They were keys that unlocked something vital in me, something I had forgotten how to name.

But then I would remember: the truth about teachers is that they are always human first. Their genius and their darkness flow from the same well. We drink what nourishes us and leave the rest. The greatest gift a teacher offers isn’t their perfection but their ability to illuminate the path—even if they themselves have stumbled on it.

So I would begin the careful work of separation, like sorting grain from chaff. I would spread out all I had learned about attention, about the sacred in the ordinary, about the weight of a single moment held up to the light. These truths remain true, regardless of their messenger. The lily still opens in its own time. The swan still curves her neck toward her reflection. The grasshopper still fills her body with the day’s sweet excess.

What we learn about beauty doesn’t become ugly just because the one who taught us was flawed. The wild geese still know their way home. They never needed anyone to write them into meaning—they carried it all along, as do we all, waiting for someone or something to teach us how to see it.

In the end, I would keep the lessons and release the teacher. I would thank her, not for being perfect, but for showing me how to look at the world with eyes hungry for wonder. And then I would go walking in the woods, watching for movement in the underbrush, listening for the sounds of small things going about their vital, ordinary lives. Like the great owl moving through darkness, its wings deadly and silent, I would learn to navigate by instinct through this tangle of meaning and messenger.

Because that’s what she taught me, after all—not to worship her, but to worship this: the unfolding miracle of each moment, whether we deserve it or not. And maybe that would be the final lesson—that beauty and truth can flow through crooked vessels, that we are all both monstrous and divine, that the world goes on offering itself to our imagination despite our failings. The wild geese still fly overhead, crying out their harsh and exciting notes, and we still have the choice to look up.

P.S. As far as I know, Mary Oliver was not a monster! But I’ve been thinking lately about what we do with beautiful things we’ve learned from flawed teachers, and how we might salvage the lessons from the borrowed lenses through which we learned to see—even if we have to leave their messenger behind

You can find larger versions of the images featured in this post and more at The 2024 Audubon Photo Awards. 

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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. 

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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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!

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