Unquiet
Things

An idea sprouted recently when I posed a question on Instagram, asking if there was anything people wanted to see me discuss in a YouTube video.

Someone commented that they’d love to hear about how I came by my love of cooking. This got me thinking – there are quite a few fascinations and fixations that are integral to who I am, making up a large portion of my personality. I realized I’d love to do some serious reflecting and writing about these aspects of myself, beyond chatter for my YouTube channel. Maybe a whole series of writings! Yes, yes, I’ll eventually get around to the YouTube stuff, too.

But then it hit me… wow… that’s an awful lot of talking about myself. Even more so than usual!

This realization led me to contemplate my relationship with self-reflection and self-expression, particularly in my writing. There’s a commonly held belief that it’s rude to talk about oneself. This unspoken rule has long shaped social interactions, tempering personal revelations in polite conversation. And yet, here I am, as I have been for years now, engaging in what some might consider a cardinal sin of etiquette – I write about myself. Constantly. Brazenly. And with a fervor that both thrills and (occasionally) unnerves me.

The irony doesn’t escape me; I find myself perpetually both the subject and the scribe, the observer and the observed. With each essay, each blog post, each scribbled note, I feel a familiar tug – not of hesitancy, but of excitement tinged with a lingering, socially-conditioned squirm of self-consciousness. It’s as if I’m indulging in a pleasure that, according to some unwritten code, should be taken in moderation.

In the depths of my years-long practice of self-reflection, a realization has taken root and blossomed: I am, unabashedly and unequivocally, one of the most interesting people I know. This isn’t vanity speaking, but rather a hard-earned appreciation for the labyrinth of thoughts, experiences, and contradictions that make up my being. Each of us is a universe unto ourselves, a constellation of memories, desires, fears, and wonders. To explore this inner cosmos, to map its terrain and share its marvels – it’s a journey that forever captivates me.

When I write about myself, I’m not just cataloging events or listing traits. I’m continuing an ongoing expedition into the ever-changing territories of my psyche, returning with field notes that chronicle my personal human experience. In my joys and sorrows, my triumphs and blunders, I find a complex mosaic of life that feels endlessly fascinating to explore.

This self-exploration manifests in myriad ways throughout my writing. When I delve into the realm of grotesque, avant-garde fashion, I’m not just analyzing fabric and form – I’m excavating the parts of myself drawn to the unconventional, the shocking, the beautifully disturbing. Each piece is a mirror, reflecting facets of my own complex relationship with aesthetics and identity.

My perfume reviews are much more than descriptions of scent notes and sillage. (I don’t even talk about sillage. Who cares about how long it lasts or how big or small your stink-miasma is? Spray more if you need to!) Instead, they’re portals into the dreamscapes of my inner world. As I write about a fragrance, I weave in the fiction of my imagination, the stories and scenes that each scent evokes. It’s a deeply personal olfactory journey, something uniquely mine.

And my fascination with grief and horror? It’s not just morbid curiosity. It’s an extension of my attempt to understand the depths of human emotion, to explore the shadows that dwell within us all. In writing about these themes, I’m processing my own fears, confronting my own mortality, and finding strange comfort in the universality of these dark experiences.

All of it – every word, every topic, every obsession – comes from a deeply personal place. I see myself reflected in the grotesque and the beautiful, in the imagined worlds conjured by a perfume, in the melancholic and the horrific. My writing is a kaleidoscope of weirdness and relentless self-inquiry, each turn revealing new patterns of my inner world.

I’m my biggest advocate for this practice, and yet occasionally, I am very self-conscious about this proclivity of mine. I’m acutely aware that my enthusiasm for self-reflection, especially when it takes such dark and unconventional forms, might be perceived as self-absorption or edgelordy sensationalism by others. And yet, I can’t deny the deep satisfaction and insight I gain from this practice. It’s a personal indulgence, yes, but one that feels vital to my understanding of myself and my place in the world. In many ways, it’s become the cornerstone of my writing practice.

Interestingly, I’ve noticed a trend in book reviews where critics often bristle at authors who pepper their nonfiction works with personal stories. It’s a critique I’ve never understood. In fact, I love it when authors do this. Personal stories are important, especially in how they relate to the subjects you’re passionately writing about.

If someone is somehow enthusiastic enough to write an entire book about carving wooden soup spoons or the mating habits of jumping spiders, don’t you want to know why? And doesn’t that entail getting to know the author better? These personal anecdotes and reflections provide context, depth, and a human connection to the subject matter. They transform dry facts into lived experiences, making the content more relatable and, often, more memorable.

In embracing this art of writing about myself through these varied lenses, I’m not turning away from the world, but rather processing my experiences of it. I’m creating a record of my journey through life, capturing the evolving landscape of my thoughts and feelings, from the grotesque to the grief-stricken, from the imaginary scent-scapes to the horrific. It’s a deeply personal archive, a testament to my existence and my growth.

So I’ll continue to write about myself, not to challenge any societal norms or to encourage others to do the same, but simply because it feels true to who I am. It’s a practice that brings me joy, insight, and a sense of continuity in my ever-changing life. In the end, perhaps that’s all the justification I need – this is who I am, this is what I do, and I find it endlessly fascinating

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As twilight descends and the world exhales into darkness, a different realm awakens – one populated by creatures that have long captivated our imagination.

In my book, The Art of Darkness: A Treasury of the Morbid, Melancholic, and Macabre, I explored the intricate nocturnal bestiary that has long prowled through dark-themed art. Now, let us both expand beyond the imagery in the book and narrow our gaze to three of night’s most beguiling emissaries: the owl, the bat, and the moth.

Owls: Wisdom’s Watchful Eyes

In the hushed cathedral of the forest, the owl reigns as both sage and specter. Its penetrating gaze has, for centuries, been a mirror for our own search for knowledge in the darkness of ignorance. From Dürer’s meticulous engravings, where owls perch as symbols of wisdom and melancholy, to the surreal, moonlit landscapes of Gertrude Abercrombie, where these birds stand as enigmatic sentinels, owls bridge our world with realms unseen, embodying the very essence of nocturnal mystery.

In literature, the owl’s hoot has heralded profound messages – think of the prophetic bird in Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” or the wise companions in modern fantasy. These creatures, with their ability to pierce the veil of night, remind us that true wisdom often comes from peering into the shadows of our own souls.

Bats: Creatures of Transformation

If owls are the philosophers of the night, bats are its shape-shifters – embodiments of our fears and fascinations with the unknown. Goya’s haunting etching, “The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters,” captures this creature’s darker associations, with bats emerging from the dreamer’s subconscious like fragments of a shadowy psyche. Yet bats also inspire whimsy and wonder, as seen in Richard Doyle’s enchanting “A flight by night of bats and elves.” Here, bats flutter alongside fairy-like creatures in a nocturnal revelry, reminding us that the night holds magic as well as mystery. This duality of the bat – at once ominous and enchanting – reflects our complex relationship with the unknown, inviting us to find beauty in what we fear.

In gothic subcultures and literature, the bat has been elevated to a creature of dark majesty. From the pages of Dracula to the iconic symbolism of Batman, these winged mammals have come to represent fear transformed into strength, reminding us that even in our darkest moments, we have the power to soar. Or that at least we can look really cool and badass in big, black flappy capes.

Moths: Fragile Pursuers of Light

Perhaps the most poetic of our nocturnal trio, moths embody the delicate dance between destruction and desire. Their fatal attraction to light has inspired artists and writers to explore themes of transformation and the allure of the forbidden. The Pre-Raphaelites, with their love of natural symbolism, often included moths in their works, using their ephemeral beauty to speak of mortality and rebirth.

Contemporary artists like Kiki Smith have created haunting works centered around moths, inviting us to contemplate our own fragility and the beauty found in life’s fleeting moments. In literature, from Virginia Woolf’s poignant essay to the chilling motif in “The Silence of the Lambs,” moths continue to flutter through our collective consciousness, reminding us of the thin line between attraction and annihilation.

Together, these creatures form a nocturnal symphony, each playing its part in the grand opera of the night. In art that brings them together, we see a world where wisdom perches watchfully, transformation takes wing, and beauty dances perilously close to the flame. It’s a world that invites us to step beyond the boundaries of our illuminated lives and into the rich, velvety darkness where mystery still thrives.

As we gaze upon artistic renderings of these night dwellers or encounter their symbolism in stories and songs, we’re reminded of the thin veil between our orderly, illuminated world and the vast, unknowable darkness that surrounds us. In the piercing gaze of an owl, the silent swoop of a bat, or the moonlit dance of a moth’s delicate form, we see reflections of our own journeys through light and shadow, wisdom and fear, transformation and ephemerality.

These creatures and the art they inspire invite us to embrace the night – not as a place of terror but as a realm of beauty, mystery, and profound truth. They continue to flutter, flit, and lurk from the edges of our consciousness, reminding us of the unfathomable mysteries that still exist in the universe, just beyond the reach of daylight.

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I approach the highway entrance, a stretch of road I once knew like the back of my hand. But something’s not right. As I prepare to merge, my stomach drops. The once-gentle ramp has transformed into a nightmarish rollercoaster track, rising at an impossible angle. It looms before me, winding ominously with loop-de-loops that defy both gravity and reason.

My car feels suddenly fragile, like a toy at the mercy of this monstrous road. I creep forward, the gentle slope I remember now a vertical wall of asphalt. Other vehicles zoom past, their drivers seemingly oblivious to the Escher-like construct ahead. I grip the wheel, knuckles white, as a voice in my head screams that I can’t do this, that I’ll never make it.

The merge point, once a simple maneuver, now feels like threading a needle while falling from the sky. My breath comes in short gasps as I face this warped version of a once-familiar route.

At least, that’s what happens in my dreams.*

Growing up, I watched my mother’s world shrink as she refused to drive. I became her reluctant chauffeur, ferrying her from place to place, my resentment growing with each mile. I swore I’d never let fear trap me like that. I’d drive. I’d be independent. I’d be free.

And for a while, I was. I moved away to NJ in my 20s and 30s. But suddenly, those comfortable roads where I’d lived most of my life were replaced by a labyrinth of highways and exits. My world shrank to the space between work and home. The fear of accidentally ending up in New York City – a maze of honking horns and aggressive drivers – paralyzed me. I imagined myself trapped on a one-way street to Manhattan, unable to turn back.

(I remember renting a U-Haul for the move to NJ while still in Florida. As I maneuvered that behemoth off the lot, I told myself, “If I can do this, I can do anything. There’s no reason to ever be afraid again.” Oh, how naive I was.)

Life brought me back to Daytona when my grandparents’ health declined. I found myself on familiar ground once more, my anxiety easing as I navigated well-known streets.  It wasn’t my favorite activity, but it didn’t terrify me either.  Then Yvan came into my life, taking the wheel more often than not. I let myself relax into the passenger seat, my driving skills slowly atrophying.

But life, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor. Our move to North Florida thrust me into a world of more intense highways and meaner drivers. For two years, I haven’t driven at all. And then we got a new car – a fresh source of anxiety, a new machine to potentially damage.

Now, as I write this, I’m trying to distract myself from an imminent reality. In ten minutes, I have to drive Yvan to a follow-up appointment with the orthopedist. He broke his foot and suddenly I’m thrust into the driver’s seat again. The appointment is on the other side of town, and I am TERRIFIED.

As I sit here, dreading the drive ahead, I realize that at the heart of my fear, beneath the surreal nightmares and sweaty palms, lies a simple, almost absurd truth: I’m terrified of being honked at.

It’s not the potential for accidents or the complexity of navigating unfamiliar roads that paralyzes me. No, it’s the impatience of other drivers that makes every journey a gauntlet for my nerves.

I imagine their frustration building behind me as I cautiously check my mirrors, as I slow down to read a street sign, as I hesitate before making a turn. In my mind, their horns are always poised, ready to blare out their judgment of my driving. That sound – sharp, loud, accusatory – rings in my ears long before it actually occurs. It’s the sound of my inadequacy, broadcast for all to hear.

This fear transforms every other car on the road into a potential critic, every intersection into a stage where I might fail publicly. The irony is palpable: my caution, born from a desire to drive safely, invites the very reaction I dread. And so I creep along, a bundle of nerves disguised as a car, hoping against hope that today won’t be the day when someone’s impatience boils over into a cacophony of horns.

But the dread of driving doesn’t just affect me when I’m behind the wheel. It casts a long shadow over my entire day. Take today, for instance. I’ve known about this appointment for days, and it’s been like a dark cloud hovering over me, growing larger as the hour approaches.

This morning, I woke up with a knot in my stomach. The drive isn’t until 2 PM, but already, at 8 AM, I’m completely useless. I try to distract myself, to be productive, but my mind keeps circling back to the impending journey. Every task I attempt feels like wading through molasses. I can’t focus on work, I can’t enjoy a book, I can’t even carry on a normal conversation without my thoughts drifting to the drive ahead.

It’s not just driving, either. I’ve experienced this paralysis with other dreaded tasks – important phone calls, difficult conversations, deadlines. The anxiety becomes a thief, stealing hours or even days from me. A 10-minute phone call at 2 PM can render my entire morning a complete wash. It’s as if time stops, trapping me in a limbo of anticipation and fear until the dreaded task is done.

And so I sit, watching the clock tick closer to 2 PM, my productivity and peace of mind held hostage by my own anxiety. I wonder how many hours of my life I’ve lost this way, frozen in anticipation of fears that often prove to be far worse in my mind than in reality. My palms are already sweating. My heart races. In my mind, I see those dream loop-de-loops superimposed on the real roads I’ll have to navigate. But I am not my mother – I will drive.

Unable to focus on anything else, I’ve spent the last hour panic-writing this blog post, desperately trying to distract myself from the impending task. It’s a temporary balm at best. Soon, I’ll have to close my laptop, grab those car keys, and face the road that terrifies me.

But first, another trip to the bathroom. The panic poops have kicked in – that lovely bonus feature of my anxiety that ensures I’ll be as physically uncomfortable as I am mentally distressed. Nothing like a bout of nervous diarrhea to really drive home the point that I’m terrified of driving (does anyone else get the panic poops? They are AWFUL.)

I really don’t know how to end this indulgent, whiny bit of writing other than to say it’s time to leave. I have to go now. Let’s hit the road. IF WE HAVE TO I GUESS.

* I also have driving dreams where my feet stick out through the bottom of the car, like Flintstones characters. Another one is that I am driving, except I am sitting in the back seat, and I have to navigate and handle the steering wheel from around the empty driver’s seat.

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There’s a mesmerizing quality to Jerome Podwil’s book covers that arrests the eye and captivates the imagination. His artistry weaves an irresistible spell, whether depicting the shadowy corridors of gothic romance or the shimmering vistas of far-flung galaxies. Podwil possesses a rare gift: the ability to imbue his subjects with a depth and complexity that transcends the typical boundaries of cover illustration.

Gazing upon a Podwil heroine is akin to peering through a window into a fully realized world. These aren’t mere figments of fantasy, but women with hidden depths and untold stories etched into every line and shadow. Their eyes, rendered with exquisite care, seem to hold secrets just beyond the viewer’s grasp. Each expression is a masterclass in subtle storytelling, hinting at complex emotions and veiled motivations that leave you yearning to unravel their mysteries.

What truly sets Podwil’s work apart is his uncanny ability to marry this psychological depth with an ethereal beauty. His touch is delicate yet assured, creating faces that are at once soft and strong, vulnerable and resolute. The eyes, in particular, are windows not just to the soul of the character, but to entire worlds. They’ve an immersive, expansive quality draw you in so completely that you can almost feel yourself slipping into the character’s perspective, seeing their gothic mansions or starlit skies through their eyes.

Podwil’s affinity for, and fluency in, the gothic is evident in his work on classic tales like Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray or the Dark Shadows novel The Mystery of Collinwood. While these pieces may not be his most daring or groundbreaking creations, they resonate with the eerie charm of the genre. Podwil’s brush dances between light and shadow, conjuring an atmosphere thick with unspoken secrets and lurking supernatural presence. As I gaze at these covers, I’m struck by how effortlessly he distills the essence of gothic literature, that palpable sense of brooding atmosphere and latent supernatural menace, into visual form. These works, while honoring the classic status of their source material, bear the unmistakable mark of Podwil’s artistry – a testament to his ability to infuse even well-trodden paths with his unique vision.

But Podwil’s artistic prowess isn’t confined to the realm of the gothic. His science fiction covers reveal an equally deft touch, transporting viewers to cosmic vistas that feel at once alien and oddly familiar. Where other artists might assault the senses with harsh lines and chromium gleam, Podwil opts for a more nuanced approach. His extraterrestrial landscapes are rendered in muted jewel tones, creating worlds that feel less like cold, distant planets and more like half-remembered dreams.

It’s no wonder that Podwil’s name frequently surfaced during last year’s search for the artist behind the iconic A Wrinkle in Time cover art. While that particular piece wasn’t his work (it is Richard Bober!) the frequent attribution speaks volumes about Podwil’s reputation in the field. His sci-fi illustrations share that same sense of wonder and otherworldly beauty that many associate with classic young adult science fiction.

In Podwil’s hands, celestial bodies become precious gems suspended in the velvet backdrop of space. His galactic empresses and space vampires exude an otherworldly glamour, their alien nature conveyed through subtle, telling details rather than outlandish caricatures. Even his depictions of spaceships and stations possess a whimsical, almost organic quality, as if they’ve grown naturally from the stuff of stars rather than being wrought by future engineers.

Podwil’s approach to science fiction illustration offers a unique perspective in a genre often dominated by sleek, technological imagery. While his covers are rich with detail, they feel more like stumbling upon an ornate treasure chest than poring over a complicated NASA blueprint. Each element, from swirling nebulae to gleaming spacecraft, is rendered with exquisite care, inviting viewers to lose themselves in a galaxy of intricate particulars. This style captures the wonder of space exploration not through sterile precision, but through a sense of opulent mystery that beckons the imagination.

In an era when cover art often served as mere marketing, Podwil elevated it to an art form in its own right. His distinctive style, at once recognizable and ever-surprising, transforms each cover into a carefully composed overture. Layers of visual storytelling complement and expand upon the written word, enriching the reader’s journey from the moment they lay eyes on the book.

Jerome Podwil’s book covers visual feasts and not simply previews, but portals to worlds both familiar and fantastical. When I encounter a Podwil piece, I’m drawn into a narrative that begins long before the first page is turned.

To discover Podwil’s work is to unearth a hidden treasure trove of imagination. His dreamy, evocative style reminds us of the magic inherent in a single image. Whether beckoning us down a gothic mansion’s candlelit corridor or to a distant planet where crystalline spires rise under triple moons, Podwil’s art whispers of midnight revelations and stardust-streaked journeys. Each cover is an invitation to step through the looking glass, a promise of adventure that lingers long after the book is closed. In this artist’s capable hands, the humble book cover becomes a gateway to infinite possibilities, sparking our imagination and priming us for the wonders that await within the pages and beyond

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Tonight over on YouTube, I shared some peeks as to what I did with myself throughout the month of July while I was on my social media break. A little vignette here and there when I otherwise might’ve been wasting time doom-scrolling or falling down useless rabbit holes or being influenced to buy something I definitely did not need. And probably feeling pretty crappy about all of it. Every time I felt tempted to log on, I did something else – anything else! – and this YouTube video is a bit of a cluttered montage of those various random things and activities over the course of the last four weeks.

If you like looking at food, I did a lot of cooking this month! I also shared some current reads, a bookshelf tour, and a little jewelry tour!

This video doesn’t really explain why I sometimes feel compelled to disappear from it all or what I get out of or take away from these breaks, but if you are interested, I wrote all about this a few days ago.

For whatever reason, WordPress has stopped sending email notifications, but just because you are not notified doesn’t mean I’m not writing! I hope you’ll check in every now and again.

Both the video and the blog links can be found in my bio.

P.S. I struggled coming up with a thumbnail idea for this video, and then I remembered how I cut my finger on this creepy antique baby doll’s zipper at one point during the month. I think she cursed me. But the curse then jumped to Ývan, who broke his foot a day or so later.

P.P.S if you are someone who does not like to watch videos, please know that I always put together a pretty robust description box, which includes links to everything that I talk about (and there are A LOT of links!) Feel free to peruse that instead! You should also give the video a like anyway, which then gives me some dopamine. Which is the whole problem with all of this nonsense, isn’t it?

LE SIGH.

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Last month, I embarked on another hiatus from social media – a recurring theme in my digital life, at least in recent years, and one I’ve explored in my writing before. (Six months ago, in fact.)

My decision to step away stemmed from a deeply personal need to create space – space to think, to breathe, to exist without the constant hum of likes, comments, and shares warping my perceptions– but of course, the issues that drove me to this decision are far from unique. They’re the same concerns that many of us grapple with daily as we navigate our increasingly digital lives. However, I felt compelled to examine these problems more closely, to understand their grip on my psyche and their influence on my creative and personal life. With each login, I found myself feeling progressively worse, a creeping, crappy malaise that was becoming impossible to ignore. It was time to step back and really scrutinize why social media was leaving such a bitter taste.

Three main issues kept surfacing, each one familiar yet no less potent:

First, the comparison trap. But it’s not about picture-perfect homes or envy-inducing vacations. No, my comparisons cut deeper, striking at the heart of my creative pursuits. It’s hideously humiliating and somehow vulgar to admit, but it has to do with seeing fellow writers, art enthusiasts, and perfume reviewers garner more success, more followers, more engagement. This is even (and especially) with regard to the people I actually like and respect, but it’s also about people I feel hateful and spiteful toward, ie the agony of watching “art” accounts rack up thousands of likes for posting images without context or depth – a stark contrast to the effort I pour into my efforts. It’s the sting of seeing authors, yes, okay, probably more talented but also infinitely more gregarious, well connected, and good at marketing themselves, embark on glamorous book tours. Or perfume influencers courted by brands to showcase their latest scents.  If I can come right out and say it, it stings to see the loudest people (I might say “most obnoxious” on a crankier day) get all the accolades.

And here’s the rub: it’s not that I necessarily want what they have. I don’t crave to be a brand spokesperson or a social media darling or to be invited as a subject matter expert on some panel or another. But there’s an undeniable twinge of desire to be recognized, to be considered. To have brands (and whoever else) think of me as someone worth approaching, even if I might decline. It’s a peculiar form of FOMO – not fear of missing out on experiences, but fear of missing out on acknowledgment.

This specific brand of comparison is insidious. It doesn’t just make me question my lifestyle or my possessions; it makes me question my worth with regard to the things I’m most passionate about. It’s a constant, gnawing doubt: am I not good enough, or just not visible enough? Or do people just really, really not like me? I once read someone’s musings on Twitter and took it to heart in the worst way. I am very much paraphrasing and embellishing here, but it was something like, “Is it really imposter syndrome? Or are you just unbearably mediocre?” Social media chafes me in this way; my heart is constantly rubbed raw with these feelings.

Second, the pervasive toxicity of online discourse. It’s a landscape where nuance goes to die, and empathy seems in short supply. No matter what you express – be it an opinion, a creative work, or a personal experience – there’s an army of keyboard warriors poised to dissect, criticize, and often, misinterpret your words. This isn’t just about trolls; often, it’s well-meaning individuals who, in their passion for a cause, create an environment where disagreement is tantamount to moral failure. The “discourse” moves at a breakneck pace, with yesterday’s progressive stance becoming today’s faux pas. In this climate, maintaining an authentic voice becomes an exhausting act of resistance, a constant battle between wanting to engage meaningfully and protecting oneself from potential backlash.

Lastly, the insidious nature of manufactured desires. Social media has evolved into a finely-tuned machine, expertly crafting wants we never knew we had. It’s not just about material goods – though suddenly coveting avante gard perfume or books with artfully spooky covers or flowy linen dresses from brands I’ve never heard of is certainly part of it. More pervasively, it sells idealized versions of beauty, relationships, and lifestyles, creating a perpetual state of yearning for often unattainable or even fictional lives. This constant exposure to curated perfection and targeted advertising breeds a gnawing sense of inadequacy. The result is an endless state of low-grade dissatisfaction, a continuous reaching for something just out of grasp. It’s a subtle but persistent assault on contentment, always insinuating that what we have – and who we are – isn’t quite enough.

So I stepped away. And in that absence, I rediscovered something both familiar and startling: a forgotten rhythm of life. It wasn’t just about reclaiming time – though that was certainly part of it. It was about slipping back into a skin I’d long thought I’d outgrown. A simpler, more uncomplicated way of existing that had been patiently waiting for me to remember its cadence.

But time, yes. Lots more of it. The hours previously lost to mindless scrolling and emotional processing of online content were now mine again. And while I didn’t use this reclaimed time to start a revolution or write the next great American novel, I found myself doing more of what I already loved – and loving it even more.

I wrote more blog posts, diving deeper into topics that fascinate me without the distraction of checking for reactions or comparing my output to others. I shared more silliness on Patreon, connecting with my supporters in a way that felt genuine and unhurried. Perfume and book reviews, while they certainly were not without effort, were written at a nearly frantic pace.

Perhaps most surprisingly, I devoured books at a rate that astounded even me – 25 in just one month! It was as if my mind, freed from the constant fragmentation of social media, could lose itself with wild abandon in long-form stories and ideas.

My kitchen saw more action, too, as I experimented with new recipes and rediscovered old favorites. And it’s a good thing I had this extra time and energy because life, as it often does, pulled out the rug from underneath us. Metaphorically speaking. It was more like entangled vines than a rug. Yvan broke his foot, suddenly doubling my household responsibilities (and maybe exponentially skyrocketing my anxiety.) Yet, even with this added stress, I found myself more capable of adapting and managing than I might have been a month ago.

The most profound realization, however, wasn’t about productivity or regaining control over my time. It was a feeling of lightness. And clarity. And I know that sounds cheesy or self-helpy or whatever, but I can’t deny that the constant background noise of comparison, judgment, and artificial desire had lifted in a really significant way, leaving me with a sense of something that, if not “contentment,” well, it was somewhat close. Despite the fact that this had been the month from hell, I guess it at least was a month where I was fully present in my own life. Did that feel “good”? I don’t know about all that.

So how did it feel? It felt a little bit like those summers as a kid when I had nothing to do but lounge around on our overheated screened porch and read all day. I read voraciously, one book after the other. With no thought in my mind about sharing reading stats, taking artful photos of my TBR piles, making public book recommendations after each title was finished, or worrying if the author I just shared was somehow problematic and I didn’t realize it, and now everyone’s going to jump down my throat and make me feel like a giant piece of shit about it

In essence, extrapolating beyond the book analogy, I simply existed. I did things for the sake of doing them, without the compulsion to share or perform for an online audience. It wasn’t about feeling good or bad; it was about just being. Each day was simply a day, lived on its own terms. The word that comes to mind is “uncomplicated.” Without the constant junky noise of social media, life took on a different quality. Even in the face of July’s typical challenges and unexpected hurdles, everything felt… lighter. Easier to navigate. It wasn’t that problems disappeared, but rather that I could face them without the added weight of digital expectations and comparisons.

Now, as I log back in, I’m under no illusion that this is a long-term fix. There’s a good chance I’ll soon be back to mindless scrolling and needless comparisons. It’s a familiar cycle.

Still, this month wasn’t wasted. I’ve rediscovered that I can function—even thrive—without constant connection. When Yvan’s broken foot pulled the rug from under us, I managed without the added malcontent that social media often brings.

Will anything change long-term? Who knows. But I’ve reminded myself there are alternatives when it all becomes too much. You’ll likely catch me contemplating another break soon enough. (Or maybe I’ll spare you the 1500-word exposition next time.)

Until then, see you online. Or not. We’ll see how it goes.

Psst! If you’re curious what I did with myself and all that extra time, stay tuned for a YouTube video where I check in all through the month and share what I’m up to each day!

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Though I have not been sharing perfume reviews on social media this month, I haven’t stopped smelling things and writing about them! I have been especially busy over on the Midnight Stinks Patreon, with these 5 am empty world ruminations being the most current post over there.

Anyway, here are the twenty or so fragrances I tickled my snoot with this past month…!

Aura from Folie À Plusieurs unfolds like a luminous apparition undulating above an endless expanse of sun-baked desert. The opening is a radiant display of warm, peppery ginger and cool, effervescent citrus in an almost holographic way, reminiscent of the way heat ripples above scorched sand—an olfactory mirage. As the initial brilliance settles, there are the cracked and tangled limbs of aromatic woods, the sun-bleached, tenacious timber that survives in arid climes. Incense weaves through these notes, adding an ethereal smokiness, and the vetiver in the base provides a rooty- woody-earthy anchor, amplifying the overall dryness. Ambroxan lends a diffusive quality, creating an expansive halo that seems to pulse and shift with radiance. Aura is a masterful, mesmerizing study in dryness and light that captures the magic of that liminal space where earth meets atmosphere, the mundane touches the divine, and is a testament to the raw beauty of desolate landscapes and the mystical lights that sometimes grace them.

Hexenhaus 23 from Hexennacht is a portal to a fantastical bookstore, softly sagging wooden shelves brimming with magical tomes that smell of mythical desert spices, ancient toadstool-peppered woodlands, and Byzantine basilicas shrouded in clouds of incense, transporting you to the far-away places detailed within their arcane pages. Yet, to access this literary paradise, one must first traverse a basement with an air of enigmatic antiquity – hints of damp stone, the faint tang of old pipes, and the musty whisper of long-forgotten herbs create an air of thrilling mystery, history, and secrets. Hexenhaus 23 is a shape-shifting scent, each inhale a new chapter in an olfactory grimoire, the scented stories of a thousand enchanted realms.

The most wonderful Flannery Grace Good returned from Italy with a bounty of fragrance samples for me from the house of Culti. Apparently, these perfumes have not been sold in the US yet, so this is a mysterious treat! I first tried Tessuto, which I believe is Italian for tissue, or fabric–and it really does conjure a gorgeous gossamer unfolding, a drapey silken or linen scarf unfurling, the memory of its wearer cocooned within. Soft, fluffy cotton flower and delicate jasmine honey entwine with satiny woods and silky musks with subtle wisps of incense in the dry down for a scent that presents a more diffused, hazy interpretation of conventional “clean” fragrances. This is a quiet–almost casual– companion for those who find beauty in simplicity, but which occasionally catches you off guard with its understated elegance.

Kayali Invite Only Amber smells like spotting wonky, off-brand Spirit Halloween costumes in July. As in they attempted to capture the unparalleled autumnal opulence of Hermès Ambre Narguile, and put an orange spray tan on a white gourd and said, “ok, this is good enough, let’s call it Luxe Hookah Honeycomb or Fancy Tobacco Haze or maybe something really dumb, like Invite Only Amber.” It’s like a honeyed saffron cotton candy miasma, a saccharine amber simulacrum from a seedy midsummer carnival that leaves you longing for the rich, resinous depths of October’s golden hour.

Two scents from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab…

Treasure is a bright, gorgeous, golden sweetness, like citrus caramelized by a fiery sunset, beneath which something pearlescent and powdery swirls, rootless blooms born in twilight skies. Seafoam and honey, dissolving at dusk. Salt-weathered driftwood etches washed ashore speaks to liminal spaces between sea and shore, day and night, memory and dream…

…Which brings us to Dreamer of Dreams, wherein loamy lavender blooms, sweetly earthy and aromatic, an amethystine herbaceousness intertwining with the bittersweet floral tang of sour plums. These notes swirl and eddy, pulling you deeper into murky waters of consciousness. From these violet-clouded depths, a sparkling citrusy brightness pierces, as if through deep water, guiding the dreamer upward. But as dreams are wont to do, the scene shifts abruptly. The light turns sharp and piercing, transforming into a pair of eyes – emerald as new leaves, stinging and keen. They cut through the dreamy haze, a surreal beacon in the depths. And just as reality seems within grasp, the scent dissolves into phantom wisps of frankincense smoke, curling impossibly through the watery realm.

I’ve been sitting on these reviews for these two new collabs from BPAL x bloodmilk for over a month now, and in doing so, it looks like both scents have sold out! But I know in the past they have restocked various fragrances, so who knows, we may see them again…

LETHE is the languid escape endlessly downward, deep into the cool, indifferent embrace of shadows, past the mists, the driftwood, the cypress knees. A dream of the sovereign of a rain-soaked realm, their heart a stony tomb where green waters slowly pulse, instead of blood. An eerie, emerald luminescence, the quietude of forgotten things, and the mordant astringency of embittered ghosts clutching pale flowers of the dead.

In PYTHIA, jeweled walls weep with myrrh, their tears an opulent, balsamic wash of whispers. Dusky plums, swollen with strange knowledge and light caught in limbo, stain the tongue a starless sigh. Honeyed and dripping, dreams incubate as thick syrupy glimmers, opaque with the remembrance of things you never knew you’d forgotten, only to be forgotten again and again and again. A narcotic lullaby, a lavish cosmic jest, this ambrosial abundance of oblivion

Zoologist Northern Cardinal I don’t know if I love this scent but I sure appreciate the very specific scene it evokes. This is the crisp chill of a winter garden seen through the warm glow of the kitchen window on an early December evening.  Behind the window, the tea kettle whistles, and the quilts are cozy, but beyond that frost-flowered pane of glass, the world glitters with icicles dripping from the eaves; the bird bath has frozen over, its surface a mirror of pale sky. The fragrance opens with a brisk burst that reflects the scene outside. A profuse, aromatic green note tells of evergreen boughs laden with snow and the tingly bite of frozen air catching your breath and filling your lungs. The snow crunches underfoot before your scuffed brown boot plunges through a six-inch crust of the stuff – a sensation echoed in the scent’s subtle leather undertones and earthy base notes of dormant soil. A beady-eyed, red cardinal glares at you from a fencepost before taking off in a flurry of flight, a scarlet flash against a hush of white, a burst of color that finds its olfactory equivalent in a vivid bramble of winter berries, bright and bittersweet. As the fragrance settles, it reveals woody notes, log piles, and weathered barns, staunch sentinels against the winter landscape. It dries to a musty green whisper, the brushing aside of a swath of snow to find a patch of deeply dreaming grass beneath a blanket of pristine crystalline silence.

Yellow Lemon Tree Dixit & Zak I am on a mission to find something similar to the lemon-ginger-glamazon-15-minute-long guitar solo of TRNP Lemon Blossom (by the time I finished my sample, it was discontinued!). Today, I am trying Yellow Lemon Tree from Dixit & Zak. This is …not it. This is a minute droplet of off-brand lemon extract dribbled into a bottle of embalming fluid with a soupçon of acetone and sold as niche perfumery with a price tag of nearly $300. NEXT PLEASE.

Dark Season from Neil Morris is a scent that calls for a bit of a storytime, and you can read more of that over on my Patreon. But to sum up, It is a scent of smoky woods/rich, dusty amber that smells of the dramatic tenebrism of all those old, spooky gothic novels and musty 19th-century weird fiction, of ancient landscapes and loam, the soot of pine logs, ghostly smoke and sifting snow in a strangely lit field, a somber ochre, an umbral amber, frost-rimmed branches scraping a scrim of leaden sky, footprints vanishing in freshly fallen snow, the creak of the wind whistling around standing stones, something terrible let loose in the dark, something that eventually fades until it’s nothing more than an unquiet feeling or a cold shiver on a warm day.

I received a sample of Chasing Autumn when I ordered Dark Season from Neil Morris, and I might love it so much more than Dark Season that it is actually making me feel disloyal. It brings to life the autumn I’ve always yearned for, living in Florida’s endless summer. It’s a scent that captures not just a season but a frame of mind and a state of being I’m perpetually seeking. Millais’ painting “Autumn Leaves” comes to mind – a twilight scene where young girls gather fallen foliage, their faces touched with a melancholic reverence for the changing season. The painting draws our eyes to a vivid pile of rustling leaves, with only a wisp of smoke hinting at a distant bonfire.

This fragrance, however, boldly brings that bonfire to the forefront. The fir and birch tar notes roar to life, evoking the crackling warmth of autumn nights I’ve only imagined. It’s as if Morris has taken that implied warmth from Millais’ canvas and made it the heart of this olfactory experience. The leather and coffee accords add depth, reminiscent of cozy evenings of the sort I feel in Emily Brontë’s poetry.

Emily Brontë’s “Fall, Leaves, Fall” echoes as I wear this scent. Her words are not just poetry but an invocation – a chant to usher in the coming winter. The line “Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree” feels like a spell being cast, and this fragrance embodies that mystical transition. Where Brontë’s poem is a call to the approaching cold, Chasing Autumn captures the very essence of that summoning.

ALSO this scent conjures the underlying atmosphere of Over The Garden Wall, stripped of its childish elements (I love those elements! But!) It evokes that sense of being lost in an autumnal otherworld, where mystery and melancholy reign supreme. The fragrance captures the essence of wandering through the Unknown, with its subtle menace and ominous presence lurking just beneath the surface of fallen leaves and shadowy forests.

Chasing Autumn is an homage to those flickering fires of autumn, allowing me to immerse myself in a fall feeling that exists more in my mind than in my subtropical reality. It’s a sensory journey to the autumn I chase year after year, never quite reaching but always dreaming of – a season both beautiful and slightly foreboding.

With Witch’s Spell thought I was getting the kind of craggy, forested woodland Vvitch you might find in a Roger Eggers film; this is instead more along the lines of a gloriously kitschy-campy hyper-saturated swinging ’60s meets ruffled Victorian boudoir of Anna Biller’s The Love Witch. Initially, it’s this heady, slithery, intoxicating coil of orange blossom, reminiscent of the almost narcotic allure of Elaine herself. It borders on desperately sweet, but with an edge that hints at something more complex beneath the surface (it made me think of tuberose with its indolic, waxy sweetness.) Cashmere and fir needle bring a cognitive dissonance, mirroring the film’s blend of soft femininity and underlying danger and patchouli and jasmine further amp up the fragrance’s vixienish va-va-voom qualities. The dry-down is powdery and somehow vulnerable, like the illusion of self-dissolving when you realize all you really want is just to be loved, but you keep accidentally killing your paramours with all of your love potion love-bombing. Note: Witch’s Spell is not listed on the site, but according to Neil Morris, the amount of offerings available would make the site unnavigable if they were all listed, so apparently you just order any “vault” perfume or sample, and in the comment section at checkout, simply tell him which unlisted fragrance you want, and he will substitute.

Vietnamese Coffee from d’Annam I really wanted to love this fragrance; I was so intrigued by the idea. But the reality of it is that it smells like sour coffee-breathed admonishments and secondhand smoke from your cranky mother when you’re wearing too much fruity-floral Ex’cla-ma’tion eau de toilette and several greasy layers of cotton candy Lip Smackers before heading off for your first day of junior high circa 1989. It dries down to days-old espresso shots sloshing at the bottom of a pink Caboodles organizer.

Green Star from Cocoa Pink. This is a weird one. I was intrigued by the notes of cypress and fennel list, and along with all the rest of the notes, it coalesces in a perfume that both repulses and obsesses me, like how your tongue continues to probe the bloody hole of a broken tooth and even as you gag at the coppery tang of blood and feel the unsettling discomfort, you can’t stop. That’s not a great analogy. This doesn’t smell anything like blood or broken-toothed phobias, but it does have the vague aspect of something that makes me dry heave whenever I encounter it. I desperately hate all forms of mint, particularly wintergreen with its camphorous confectionary qualities. Green Star, weirdly, and perhaps because of that licoricey fennel, does have this mentholated, candied sweetness. And yet it’s enrobed in this rich, slithery musk, and this gorgeous golden veil of gingery-amber resins and becomes something almost mystical, both sacred and profane. It’s a paradox that leaves me teetering on the edge of revulsion and reverence, and I’m compelled to both sing its praises while also resisting the urge to puke.

In Régime des Fleurs Nitesurf Neroli, many fathoms below the sky and sea, a candied grotto pulses with crystalline sweetness. Whipped orange blossom honey stalactites drip into luminous pools; sirens writhe in neon foam, their voices piercing shards of light. Hypersaturated quartz blooms dissolve in the damp and darkness, a bright ginger and glacé citron pollen strobing in the mist. Fossilized shells from conch and clam and sea snail scatter, their ancient forms crusted with sugared jewels, catching and refracting the shimmering glow. Every surface glistens with a rusk of candied brilliance, and time dissolves in saline musk in this underwater disco frenzy of sugar-coated excess, looping endlessly, eternally electric. This is the sweetness mermaids whisper, each to each, beneath the waves.

Lastly, I was influenced by one of the Japanese lifestyle YouTubers that I watch. It’s a couple; the channel is called Hige and Me, or Hige to Watashi, and they’re the kind of artsy, somewhat minimalist, very too-cool-for-school kind of individuals that I secretly want to be, except I am pretty much the exact opposite of them in every way. Anyway, they live in Tokyo, and she just went on a trip to Korea, and in a recent haul video she did, she shared some perfume she got from the brand Nonfiction. I was suckered in because, if I am being honest, I liked the way the bottles looked. I have only tried about half of them so far, and they’re all pretty subtle, but it’s the one I am wearing now that I really love. Santal Cream is very similar to Le Labo Santal 33 but less picklish, or so I hear. I have never actually tried Santal 33, so my experience is that this one is a very fuzzy, figgy woody scent. Gentle Night is a sour soapy aquatic with the underlying unpleasant effluvium of a mildewed laundry pile. Forget Me Not is a spicy, effervescent herbaceous scent, very green, almost crocodilian in its greenness. A crocodile slithering through a wild patch of mint. But it’s For Rest that has my whole heart. It opens with an incense-y citrus note,  a sort of shadowy yuzu–not smoky per se, but sort of dim lit and flickering. Hinoki can sometimes strike me as a little harsh, but combined with the nutmeg and peppery musk, I think it lends a bright, spiced sweetness here. This is really beautiful. It’s a scent that’s too earthy and grounding to be called mystical or mysterious, but it’s too interesting for me to think of as cozy or even mundane. Perhaps it’s a perfume that straddles both worlds in the sense that it’s somehow deeply familiar and surprisingly evocative, a scent that lulls you into a comfortable reverie even as it leaves you with a lingering sense of wonder.

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My dear weirdlings & kindred spirits,

For two decades, I’ve been living a double life. By day, I’m a dedicated office worker, diligently clocking in my 9-to-5. But in the stolen moments between meetings and after hours, I’m a published author, a prolific blogger, and a passionate creator. While my heart lies in the latter, it’s the former that actually pays the bills.

Today, I’m reaching out to you, not just as an author or a blogger, but as a fellow traveler through life’s rich, vast, sometimes terrifying, oftentimes beautiful weirdness. If you’ve found yourself nodding along to my musings on art that makes your pulse quicken, or music that stirs the shadows in your soul; if you’ve felt seen when I’ve written about the anxieties that keep us up at night, or the grief that colors our days; if you’ve lingered over my words about fashion that tells a story, or perfumes that evoke memories we thought long lost – then this message is for you.

My writing has always been a way to explore the intersections of beauty and fear, of life and death, of the mundane and the supernatural. I’ve poured my heart into examining how horror seeps into our everyday lives, how the ghostly and the gothic inform our culture, and how we can find meaning in the face of mortality. These contemplations are not always easy to ponder upon or fun to write about, but I believe they’re necessary. And I’ve chosen to keep this space – our space – free from ads and sponsored content, to maintain the purity of our conversation.

Let me address the elephant in the room: I know no one asked me to write about these things. And yet, here I am, not only writing but now asking for your support. Is it presumptuous? Perhaps. But here’s the thing: there’s no surer way to make me not want to do something than to feel obligated because someone asked me to. I write because I must, because these words and ideas demand to be expressed. And I share them hoping they might resonate with kindred spirits like you.

Today, I’m stepping out of my comfort zone to share how you, my wonderful readers, can support my creative endeavors if they resonate with you. It’s not easy for me to make these requests, but I believe in the power of community to nurture art and literature. And many, many thanks to the individuals who have supported me in some way over the years.

If my unquiet explorations resonate with you, if they’ve ever made you feel less alone in your fascinations or fears, I’m deeply grateful. And if you’d like to support this work, to help keep this little corner of the internet a sanctuary for the uncanny, the poetic, and the profound, here are some ways you can do so:

Financial Support:

• Buy my books: Whether you prefer a personalized touch with a signed copy directly from me or the convenience of your favorite bookseller, every purchase is deeply appreciated.
• Join my Patreon: For the fragrance enthusiasts among you, I offer a special Patreon where I share my quirky thoughts on perfumes. Certain tiers even receive scented letters – a truly immersive olfactory experience!
• Use Amazon affiliate links: When you shop through the Amazon links on my site, I receive a small commission at no extra cost to you.
• I have also curated a little Amazon shop with all of my favorite and most-used things!
• Browse my Pango bookshop: Looking for gently used books at fantastic prices? My virtual bookshelf is open! You might just find your next favorite read while helping me clear my bookshelves.

Non-Monetary Support:

• Leave reviews: If you’ve enjoyed my books, consider leaving a review. Your words can help others discover my work and make a significant impact.
• Request my books at your local library: This not only makes my work more accessible but also supports our vital public libraries.
• Share on social media: Found a blog post intriguing or a TikTok perfume review entertaining? Sharing, retweeting, or reblogging helps spread the word and reach new audiences.
• Engage with comments: Your thoughts and reactions in the comments sections of my various projects are invaluable. They provide encouragement and spark discussions that often inspire new ideas.

I want to emphasize that while financial support is helpful, it’s not the only way to contribute. Your engagement, whether through sharing a post or leaving a thoughtful comment, is equally precious. Remember, behind every book, blog post, or creative project, there’s a person pouring their heart and soul into their craft. Your support, in whatever form you choose to give it, helps keep the words flowing and the ideas percolating. I mean…I’m probably going to be wordy and weird anyway, but support truly does make it easier!

Thank you for being part of this journey. Your presence in this community means more than you know. Together, we’re nurturing a space for creativity, imagination, and shared experiences – one that remains free from advertising and sponsored content.

So, whether you decide to pick up a book, join the fragrant adventures on Patreon, or simply share a post that touched you, know that you’re making a difference. You’re not just supporting me; you’re championing the arts and helping to keep the literary world vibrant and diverse. But you are also showing this weird misfit who doesn’t always feel like a human person in this world, a bit of human kindness and connection. And I love you for that.

Here’s to many more years of stories, scents, and shared weirdness. I know I sound like a public radio fund drive here, but it’s true: your support makes it all possible.

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I have been blogging in some form or another for over 20 years, but this thing, this Unquiet Thing here, came to be in 2014 or so. I don’t recall when exactly, so I am calling today an anniversary!

(It’s been a stressful month and I need something to celebrate, okay??)

For ten years, I’ve thought of this blog as a portal to excavate and explore the mysterious, the macabre, and the magical – a place where we’ve unraveled artistic enigmas, explored the artistic depths of gothic romance, and even found the tender side of cartoon villains. We’ve delved into obscure traditions, celebrated forgotten artists, and contemplated the profound meaning hidden in the mundane. As we reflect on our journey through the shadows and wonders of art, literature, and life, let’s revisit the ten most popular posts that have captivated readers and sparked curiosity.

From unsolved mysteries in children’s literature to the dark corners of occult art, from winter fashion to webcomic monsters, these articles represent the chimerical/phantasmagorical/numinous/eldritch/uncanny spirit of Unquiet Things. Join us as we embark on a twilight stroll down memory lane, where shadows throb and thrum in the candlelight, where whispers of forgotten lore mingle with the rustle of tattered book pages, and where the veil between the mundane and the marvelous grows gossamer-thin. We will also look at some cheese maggots!

Together, we’ll revisit the stories and discoveries that have made this blog a sanctuary for those who find beauty in cobwebbed corners, meaning in misty legends, and wonder in the wildly weird. Each step will unearth treasures both unsettling and sublime, inviting you to lose yourself once more in the labyrinth of curiosities that is Unquiet Things.

• A Mystery That Should Not Exist: Who Is The Cover Artist For This Edition Of A Wrinkle In Time? A deep dive into an artistic enigma that has puzzled book lovers and art enthusiasts alike.
  — And, of course, the follow-up post: A mystery that no longer exists!
• Monster as Metaphor: John Allison, Webcomics Genius Exploring the clever storytelling and symbolic monsters in John Allison’s acclaimed webcomics.
• A Depraved Brutality: The Art of Aleksandra Waliszewska Delving into the dark, unsettling, and mesmerizing world of Polish artist Aleksandra Waliszewska.
• Jane Whiting (J.M.W.) Chrzanoska Shining a spotlight on the elegant and ethereal works of this artist whose works intrigued the days of my childhood
• How to wear the Winter Solstice A guide to embracing the darkest day of the year through fashion and personal style.
• The Art Of The Occult And The Elusive Rosaleen Norton Uncovering the fascinating life and controversial art of Australia’s “Witch of Kings Cross.”
• About Skeletor Is Love An unexpected exploration of the softer side of everyone’s favorite Masters of the Universe villain and the journey we embarked on together
• The Christmas Service of the Dead  A haunting yuletide tradition that bridges the gap between the living and crusty Christmas skeletons.
• Deep Thoughts: On Old Cardigans A deep philosophical musing on well-worn sweaters. (Just kidding, sort of.)
• Bargain Bin Gothic Romance Poking fun at my favorite overwrought visuals in the world of gothic romance novels.

Bonus! Here is one of my favorites that did not make the top ten most viewed: A Vibrant Rascality of Shenanigans: The Fantasticalicizm Of Anna Mond.

Bonus bonus! Here are the top three most-viewed guest posts:

• Ten Goth Cheeses and How To Pair Them
• Ten Gems of Decadent Cinema
• Vampires, Witches, and Ghosts: The Top Ten Reasons Why I Love the Holiday Season

These posts represent just a fraction of the strange and wonderful blogulations I have shared over the years. They’ve taken us on journeys through haunted yuletides and sun-starved winter days, introduced us to artists both celebrated and obscure, and invited us to look at the world around us with fresh, curious eyes. From the pages of bargain bin gothic romance cover art to the canvases of controversial painters, from the panels of clever webcomics to the whispers of forgotten traditions, Unquiet Things has always sought to illuminate the hidden corners of culture and creativity.

As we look back on a decade of exploration, I am filled with gratitude for every reader who has joined us on this unconventional adventure. Your enthusiasm, your questions, and your own unquiet thoughts have fueled my passion for uncovering the extraordinary in the ordinary.

But the journey is far from over, and I would love to hear from you. What topics would you like to see more of in the coming years? Which of these top ten posts resonated with you the most, and why? Perhaps you have your own favorite post that didn’t make this list? Or maybe there’s an unexplored area of the strange and beautiful that you think deserves some attention here?

Share your thoughts in the comments below. Your input will help shape the future of Unquiet Things, ensuring that we continue to delve into the subjects that fascinate and inspire you. (HA! As if! I will probably only write what I want to write anyway, but it seems like asking you guys is the polite thing to do!) But seriously though–here’s to many more years of asking questions, challenging perceptions, and celebrating the wonderfully weird world around us!

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I probably should have written this intro before I even began this series on cover artists. Actually, it just occurred to me today that I have written so frequently about book cover artists that I should make a series about it. In fact, now is probably a good time to confess that there is zero foresight or planning or scheduling at all when it comes to these blog posts. I get an idea–I write about it–I hit publish. I don’t have a content calendar or a backlog of posts waiting in the wings. I barely even edit these things!

So let me take a moment to apologize properly for my characteristic lack of foresight. But better late than never, right? Classic Sarah, chronically putting the dramatic reveal before the proper setup. Either way, here we are at last…

There’s a peculiar magic in the way a book cover can beckon to you from across a dusty shop or on a quiet library shelf; its ensorcelling visual siren song ensnares your imagination before you’ve even cracked the spine or read the first page. My obsession with cover art is a many-splendored thing, and as a connoisseur of the gloriously over-the-top, I’ve long been enthralled by these gateways to other worlds, particularly those depicting gothic romances, psychedelic fantasies, and golden age sci-fi. These genres, with their unapologetic embrace of the dramatic and fantastical, speak to the part of me that still believes in mythical monsters and mystical creatures and all manner of ghosts and goblins and ghoulies.

I’ve waxed poetic about many a cover artist in these digital pages: Victor Kalin with his brooding heroines and looming castles, Ted Coconis and his fever dream color palettes, Laurence Schwinger’s mastery of shadow and light. I’ve swooned over Hector Garrido’s penchant for placing impossibly coiffed damsels in the most dire of circumstances, marveled at Ed Emshwiller’s ability to make even the most outlandish alien worlds seem plausible, and lost myself in the transcendent visions of Leo and Diane Dillon. But today we turn our gaze to an artist whose gothic romance covers are a veritable feast for the eyes: the inimitable Vic Prezio.

Before we dive into the delicious depths of Prezio’s gothic oeuvre, I feel compelled to acknowledge the elephant in the room – or perhaps more accurately, the scantily clad pin-up and problematic stereotypes in the room. Yes, Prezio is perhaps best known for his ‘men’s magazine’ art. To which I say: yawn and yikes. Let’s just draw a veil over that particular aspect of his career and instead lose ourselves in the fog-shrouded moors and candlelit corridors of his gothic imaginings.

Vic Prezio’s gothic romance covers are a masterclass in atmospheric tension. His heroines, invariably clad in diaphanous nightgowns that seem to exist in a perpetual state of windswept drama, navigate landscapes that are equal parts allure and menace. Crumbling mansions loom against stormy skies, their windows glowing with an eldritch light that promises secrets best left undiscovered.

But it’s in his depiction of landscapes that Prezio truly shines. His seaside scenes rival the most evocative marine paintings, with jagged cliffs and turbulent waters that echo the emotional storms of his characters. The grounds of his manor houses are studies in cultivated wildness, where manicured lawns give way to tangled woods with shadows deep enough to hide a multitude of secrets.

Prezio’s shadowed midnight streets evoke comparisons to the nocturnes of Whistler or the gaslit avenues of Atkinson Grimshaw. While perhaps not rivaling these masters in technical execution, Prezio captures their spirit, transforming ordinary urban scenes into stages for extraordinary encounters. Gas lamps cast pools of sickly yellow light, barely holding the encroaching fog at bay. Cobblestones gleam with recent rain, reflecting the moon in fractured shards of silver.

[Edit: A commenter inquired as to the provenance of the above artwork, and I think…I may have saved it in my Vic Prezio folder by accident. I am but a human person and I do make mistakes! It’s possible the artist is actually Darrell Greene, but I am not entirely sure about that. My first inclination is to be embarrassed about flagrantly misattributing something, but I guess at least it was just in a blog post and not a published book, ha! At any rate, who has time for embarrassment when there’s a new artist to learn about?! And a big thanks to Steve for catching the error, seriously–thank you. ]

His color palette is a thing of moody beauty. He favors rich, deep hues – midnight blues that seem to swallow light, forest greens that whisper of ancient, untamed wilderness, and crimsons that could be passion or peril, depending on how the light hits them. These dark tones are often punctuated by a single, startling splash of brightness – the heroine’s golden hair, a shaft of moonlight piercing the gloom, or the sickly yellow glow of a ghost light leading unwary travelers astray.

There’s a delicious absurdity to many of Prezio’s compositions, a quality that I find utterly irresistible. On one cover, a ghostly woman outside a crumbling wooden house bathed in a crimson sunset looks as if she’s experiencing a head-scratching, logic-defying transporter malfunction  – she appears to be morphing into a tree, her form blurring with the gnarled branches behind her.

Another cover features a negligee-clad woman transfixed by a zombified hand rising from a marsh. Despite the apparent danger, she’s at a comically safe distance, with ample time to turn and flee, yet she remains rooted to the spot in classic gothic heroine fashion.

In yet another, a woman sits at a bloody piano, looking coquettishly alarmed, as if she’s been interrupted mid-way through a flirty rendition of “Three Blind Mice.” Behind her, a menacing figure glowers from a mirror, creating a delightful juxtaposition of the mundane and the macabre. It’s as if Prezio delighted in pushing the boundaries of the genre, seeing just how far he could stretch credulity before it snapped like an overstretched piece of lacy elastic from a flimsy peignoir.

Yet, for all their melodramatic excess (or perhaps because of it?), there’s something undeniably compelling about these covers. They capture the essence of the gothic romance genre – that delicious frisson of fear and desire, the thrill of the unknown, the promise of passion lurking just beyond the veil of propriety.

In Prezio’s hands, these stock elements become something more than the sum of their parts. They become windows into worlds where every shadow holds a secret, and where what should be perceived as menace and danger becomes, to the right kind of connoisseur, a tantalizing promise. In Prezio’s gothic landscapes, threats don’t just lurk—they beckon, transforming the nightmare into a thrilling invitation to adventure.

At least for us, the readers, if not for the artfully terror-stricken lady on the cover.

So here’s to Vic Prezio, master of the gothic cover, weaver of visual tales that have likely caused many a reader to miss their bus stop, so engrossed were they in the promise of the pages within. May his heroines never run out of breath, may his manor houses never succumb to mundane building codes, and may we all find a little of that gothic magic in our everyday lives, with a luxurious abundance of billowing nightgowns.

Billow on, friends. Billow on.

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