Unquiet
Things

Happy birthday to my three beloved art books, published in Septembers 2020, 2022, and 2023!

Let’s take a moment to appreciate these visual feasts that explore the mystical, the dark, and the fantastical.

✨ The Art of the Occult: A Visual Sourcebook For The Modern Mystic (2020)
A journey through the esoteric and spiritual in art, from theosophy to sacred geometry. This book showcases how artists have been drawn to the mystical, creating works that transcend time and place.

“The Art of the Occult crosses mystical spheres in a bid to inspire and delight, acting as a light introduction to the art of mysticism.”

✨ The Art of Darkness: A Treasury Of The Morbid, Melancholic & Macabre (2022)
Dive into the shadows with this exploration of how artists have grappled with the darker aspects of the human condition. From the haunting to the horrifying, this book asks: what comfort can be found in facing our demons?

“We deny our inner darkness at our own peril. This book invites us to sit for a while with these shadows – from the safety of our armchairs.”

✨ The Art of Fantasy: A Visual Sourcebook Of All That Is Unreal (2023)
Embark on a magical journey through the realms of imagination. From mermaids to mythical creatures, this book celebrates the fantastical visions that have captivated artists throughout history.

“Our most madcap adventures and extraordinary flights of fancy – this is the fabulous realm of fantasy, and the spectrum of fantastic art is an abundant, richly diverse wonderland to explore.”

These books are more than just curations of art – they’re gateways to other worlds, invitations to explore the depths of human creativity and imagination. Whether you’re drawn to the mystical, the macabre, or the magical, there’s a book in this trio for you.
Find them here or grab a signed copy here and join me in celebrating these weird little art goblins and the windows they open into extraordinary realms!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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More than once over the past few months, I heard myself mumble despairingly, “I don’t think I can take another Florida summer.”

Even though I have lived here practically my whole life, I know deep in my soul that this is not where I am meant to be. (I’m certain that my soul is meant to be on the misty Pacific Northwest coastline or in a quaint New England town.) And yet, for the foreseeable future, Florida is where I must be. How to reconcile this?

This tension between where we feel we belong and where circumstances have us living is a struggle I know I’m not alone in facing. As I write this, I’m exploring the idea of “making peace with place” – trying to understand if it’s possible to find a way to thrive and find joy in our current location, even if it’s not our ideal. Can we truly make peace with a place that doesn’t feel like home?

I don’t have the answers, but I’m compelled to examine this conflict between my reality and my desires.

I was born in Ohio and lived there until the summer after my third-grade year. I know we had “seasons” there, but being indoctrinated in the hellscape of Florida summers for most of my life must have scoured all the experiences of cool temperatures and crisp air from my memory: the only season I can recall growing up in Milford Ohio is summer.

Weeks of being conscripted into summer camp arts and crafts and snacks with the Brownies, more weeks of vacation summer Bible school with my neighbor’s kids (I suspect summer camp was an excuse for my mother to get us out of her hair; no one in my family was religious.) Fireflies, sandboxes, and my mother’s small garden of snapdragons. I spent weekends at my grandparents’ house with my sisters, learning to ride a bike and reading stacks and stacks of books. This all happened in the heat and warmth of the summer. Curiously, I have no memories of autumn or winter.

My grandparents moved to Florida just before my fourth-grade year, and they brought their daughter, a single mother, and her three children with them. Growing up, we never lived more than ten minutes away from our grandparents, and I suspect that’s because, while yes, my mother was theoretically a fully functioning adult, she was also troubled in many ways and not actually a very responsible adult.

I spent my elementary school, junior high, high school, and college years in the same beachside town we moved to in 1985. I lived there until I was 28 years old. At this point, I moved from Florida and all my ties to the place. It was a bad move.

In 2011, the bad scene of that move to NJ culminated in my leaving to return to FL.

I initially landed in Orlando and lived there for about a year because that’s where my sister and best friend were, both having escaped Daytona’s skeezy orbit. But as luck would have it, I began dating someone who lived less than ten minutes from the house I grew up in, so back to Daytona, I went.

The timing worked out well because not long after that, my mother was diagnosed with cancer and died a year later. After that began my grandfather’s rapid decline, and my grandmother followed a few years later. Yvan and I lived together throughout this process, and we would have loved to move away (neither one of us sees ourselves as Florida people), but of course, I couldn’t leave the grandparents with no one else there to care for them.

Now the shoe is on the other foot. Two years ago, we finally left the Daytona area, but it was to move only two hours north (still in Florida, UGH) for the sake of being closer to Yvan’s aging parents. Having already been through this with my own family, I’m acutely aware of the bittersweet nature of this time. It’s a harsh truth that we’re essentially waiting for loved ones to pass before we can pursue our relocation dreams.

But this realization comes with a crucial understanding: we can’t put our lives on hold. We can’t live as if everything will be better somewhere else, sometime else. We have to find a way to live our best lives now, right where we are.

It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of “someday” thinking. Someday we’ll move. Someday, we’ll be happier. Someday, we’ll start living. But life is happening now, in this place, at this moment. Putting our lives on hold not only robs us of present joy but can lead to regret and resentment. So, how do we make peace with a place that doesn’t feel like home? How do we find contentment and purpose in a location that doesn’t resonate with our souls?

Cheesy as it may sound, I’m trying to create a little list. While pondering these strategies is a start, the real challenge lies in putting them into practice. Here’s how I’m trying (emphasis on trying) to implement each one:

Find beauty in your current environment:

🐊   Keep a “Stupid Sexy Florida Beauty” journal: Each day, I try to note one beautiful thing (okay, that’s a stretch, I’ll confess I have downsized this to “nice thing”) I’ve observed, no matter how small. Sometimes, it’s as simple as how the light filters through the lacy grey tangles of Spanish moss or, say, the vibrant colors of a sunset reflecting off a retention pond. Listen, we work with what we’ve got.
🐊 Explore local natural areas: Florida has some stunning springs and nature preserves. I’m making a list of nearby spots to visit, even if it’s just for a short walk or a brief looky-loo.
🐊 Embrace the night: Since daytime can be unbearable, I’m re-learning to appreciate Florida’s nighttime beauty. Taking a walk around the neighborhood to gaze at the stars or say hello to the moon, or sitting on the porch during a thunderstorm can be magical.

(Re)Create a sense of home:

🐊 Declutter and redesign: I’m gradually going through each room, removing items that don’t resonate with me anymore (goodbye, excess skulls) and introducing elements that do (hello, cozy Shire-inspired nooks).
🐊 Create a “home away from home” corner: I’m designating a small area in our house to represent my ideal place. It might be a reading corner with pieces from PNW artists or a New England-style writing nook. I don’t know what that means really, but it’s very autumnal. In my imagination, anywhere north of, say, North Carolina is this perpetual, enchanted October otherworld (which I know can’t be true because I lived in New Jersey…but how quickly we forget!)

Engage with local community and culture:

🐊 Start small:  I’m setting a modest goal of one social interaction every few months. Which doesn’t sound like much, but that is the best this introvert can do! We have actually made a few friends in the area (huzzah! and thank you to former Jax-resident Shana for the introductions!)
🐊 Explore local food scenes: Every place has its culinary gems. I’m making it a point to try one new local restaurant or food truck each month.
🐊 Virtual engagement: For days when leaving the house feels overwhelming, I’m looking into online communities centered around local interests or issues. Local gardening groups, knitting groups, whatever. I will probably never meet these people, but it would be nice to have some local-feeling camaraderie.

Plan trips to places that resonate:

🐊 Create a travel fund: We’re setting aside a small amount each month specifically for trips to places we love. And maybe eventually go on our honeymoon to Japan! Which…is probably going to be a lot like Florida, whoops.
🐊 Weekend getaway list: I’m compiling a list of drivable destinations (like Savannah) for quick escapes when we need a change of scenery.
🐊 Bring vacation home: After each trip, I’d like to incorporate an element of that place into our daily lives. It might be a new recipe, a decor item, or a habit we picked up.

Shift perspective through creativity:
🐊 Write fictional vignettes set in Florida: By imagining fantastic or intriguing scenarios in my current setting, I’m trying to see the place through new eyes.
🐊 Photography challenge: I’m challenging myself to take beautiful or interesting photos of my surroundings, encouraging me to look for beauty in unexpected places.

Practice gratitude:

🐊 Daily, I try to note one thing I’m grateful for about our current situation. It might be as simple as “I’m grateful for air conditioning, this ice-cold gin gimlet, and having cultivated a viciously grim sense of humor” on particularly hot days.

Implementing these strategies is an ongoing process, full of two steps forward and one step back. Some days, the only thing I manage is not cursing the sun. I know, lordy, how I know, that Florida isn’t all beaches and bikinis and whatnot; it’s actually kind of a weird, creepy place, and I know I am not the only weirdo here.

So this is less about loving every aspect of where you are and more about finding ways to thrive despite the challenges. It’s about creating pockets of joy and meaning, even when the overall environment doesn’t resonate with your soul. Pockets full of moss and lizards and little creamed-colored seashells that whisper terrible things in ancient marine languages when you hold it to your ear.

Making peace with place often requires a shift in perspective. Instead of focusing on what’s missing, we can choose to see the unique opportunities our current location provides. For me, living in Florida means I can be there for family during an important time. It means I can explore a state that many only dream of visiting. Moreover, this experience of feeling out of place is shaping me. It’s teaching me resilience, adaptability, and the art of finding joy in unexpected places. These lessons will (theoretically?) serve me well, no matter where I eventually end up.

While it’s natural to dream of other places, I recognize it’s crucial to live fully in the present, and by making peace with my current place, I open myself up to unexpected joys and growth opportunities. So yes, I may never fully embrace Florida’s sweltering, sticky, butt-and-boob-sweat summers. I may always feel a pull towards the charming small-town Stars Hollows or the Derry, Maines (just kidding about that one…sort of?) But for now, I’m here. And here, I am trying to find beauty, create meaning, and live fully. Home is much more than just a place. It’s the feelings we create, the life we build, and the perspective we choose.

My grandfather, and probably grandfathers the world over, used to say, “Wherever you go, there you are.” Even if I wind up in the perfect little cottage, high on a bluff, with a bunch of old-growth forests over the ridge and listening to the eerie tremolo of the loons from an ancient lake in my backyard (I am combining all the places I want to live into one extra amazing place here), I’ll still be me with all my wanting and yearning and seeking. Who knows, I might not be happy anywhere. But I am especially not going to be happy in a place where I am not. So I might as well try to make it happen in the place where I actually am.

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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In the grey gloaming realm that stretches between the living and the dead, Dylan Garrett Smith’s monochrome reveries unfurl like smoke from a snuffed candle. His artistry is a nocturne played on the bones of forgotten beasts, a serenade to the wild things that lurk just beyond our peripheral vision.

Smith’s canvas is a chiaroscuro otherworld where vitality and decay intertwine in a spectral palimpsest, each layer revealing new depths of existence.

In one haunting tableau, corvids engage in a macabre game of cat’s cradle – or is it shibari? – with a skull, their ebony feathers a stark contrast to the bone’s pallid gleam.

Nearby, a small ram reclines in blissful repose, unaware of the arrows that surround it like a halo of impending doom. This particular piece, a poignant illustration of innocence amidst danger, can be found in my book The Art of Darkness: A Treasury of the Morbid, Melancholic and Macabre.

Suspended in the void, a broken bird’s nest becomes a mobile of bones, dangling precariously and giving dark new meaning to the phrase “cradle to grave.”

A fox bounds away into the darkness, its back turned to us. Its burden, both grisly and beautiful, is revealed: upended skulls serve as macabre baskets, overflowing with phantasmal autumn leaves. This juxtaposition of death and seasonal beauty encapsulates the cyclical nature of existence, a memento mori adorned with life’s fleeting splendor.

In Smith’s hands, a deer skull becomes a temple, its antlers reaching skyward like gothic spires, enrobed in a tapestry of forest flora that speaks of life’s persistence in the face of death.

Elsewhere, rats perform a macabre quadrille, their lithe forms weaving intricate patterns around a juicy pomegranate – a Persephone’s bargain made flesh, the promise of cyclic renewal amidst decay.

I have a fixation on “hands holding things,” and in Dylan Garrett Smith’s hands this obsession finds a dark playground of endless fascination. His monochrome world is populated by a menagerie of spindly, clawed fingers that grasp and clutch at various objects, each image a haunting vignette that pulls at the threads of the subconscious.

In one particularly arresting piece, skeletal hands cradle a guttering candle, its flame a fragile light against encroaching darkness, while rosary drape gently about around the wrists, as if anchoring the soul in its futile quest for salvation.

In another striking image, a snake coils sinuously around an arm, its scales a stark contrast to the human flesh streaked with dark, bleeding veins of dirt. From this liminal fusion of animal and human sprout leaves and berries, as if the arm itself is transforming into a branch, blurring the lines between flesh and flora, predator and prey.

These spectral appendages haunt the penumbral spaces of Smith’s work and our psyche. A wrist pierced by an arrow evokes a pagan stigmata, while elsewhere, a disembodied sorcerer’s hand plays puppeteer to a decaying apple, its fishhook strings a grim reminder of the manipulations that lie beneath life’s surface.

Each eerie hand draws me in, their skeletal digits beckoning me closer, telling stories of grasping desire, occult power, and the ever-present reach of mortality. They speak to something primal, a recognition of hands as tools of creation and destruction,  acting out dark fantasies and ancient rites.

Smith renders these visions in ash, chalk-lead, and ink on black cotton rag, his choice of medium as much a part of the story as the images themselves. The ash speaks of transformation and endings, the chalk-lead whispers of impermanence, while the ink etches permanence into the ephemeral. On the black canvas, these materials come alive, each stroke a revelation of light amidst shadow, of form emerging from void.

This interplay of light and dark extends beyond technique, embodying the very essence of Smith’s artistic philosophy. His work is a meditation on the cycle of life, death, and rebirth, on the beauty found in decay and the inevitability of nature’s reclamation. In Smith’s art, ecological concerns intertwine with occult symbolism, creating a visual language that speaks to both the natural world and the supernatural realms that haunt our collective unconscious.

This shadow play extends beyond the confines of gallery walls and into the pulsing heart of the music world. For over half his life, he’s been weaving his spectral visions into the very fabric of the industry, birthing nearly a thousand designs that clothe the devotees of darkness. From the hallowed racks of Hot Topic to the curated collections of Foxblood, Smith’s creations lurk, waiting to ensnare unsuspecting shoppers in their gossamer threads of ink and imagination.

Throughout his career, his artistry has been embraced by titans of the metal scene, with Smith creating designs for renowned bands whose music shakes our very souls. One can almost hear the eldritch roar of guitars and the seismic percussion echoing through his creations, each design a portal to a concert at the end of the world. “Through these designs,” Smith muses, “many of my favorite artists are now my closest friends.” It’s a testament to the alchemical power of his art, transmuting admiration into connection, fandom into friendship.

He has also lent his talent to the folks at Cadabra Records, where — small world!– I was perusing their website years ago and came across a spoken-word Dracula album, narrated by the one and only Tony Todd. “Hot dog!” I thought, “This is amazing! But wait a second…I recognize the style of this artwork…!” And sure enough, there are several albums in their catalog whose covers are awash in Dylan’s particular brand of darkness.

To stand before a Dylan Garrett Smith piece is to feel the veil between worlds grow gossamer-thin. Time becomes elastic; the boundaries between observer and observed blur. We find ourselves not simply viewing foxes and snakes, skulls and hands, but inhabiting a liminal space where the arcane and the ecological converge.

This is art as ritual, as invocation. Each piece a spell cast against forgetting, against the numbing comfort of artificial light. Smith’s work demands we rekindle our relationship with shadow, with the rich loam of decay that nourishes new life. It whispers of old gods and older truths, of the wisdom found in bone and root and stone.

In an age of ecological crisis, where the wild places shrink beneath our ever-expanding footprint, Smith’s art serves as both warning and balm. It reminds us that nature’s triumph is inevitable, not as a cataclysm to be feared, but as a homecoming to be embraced. To engage with Dylan Garrett Smith’s art is to pilgrimage into the heart of darkness – not as an absence of light, but as a fertile void teeming with possibility.

It is to remember that we, too, are creatures of ash and shadow, of bloom and decay. In his funereal monochrome, we glimpse not just the face of nature, but our own wild souls gazing back, asking to be remembered, to be set free. In Smith’s stark compositions, we find a memento vivere cloaked in the guise of a memento mori – a poignant reminder that in breakdown lies the promise of renewal, in endings, the whisper of beginnings.

Between these poles of existence, Smith reveals the raw, mesmerizing complexity of life’s perpetual cycle.

For all the haunting grimness of his canvases, you’d be hard-pressed to find a more amiable soul than Dylan Garrett Smith.

In my few DMs with him, our conversations have meandered through art and perfume, revealing an artist as relatable as he is talented. Smith’s Instagram offers a window into this duality: interspersed among his spectral creations are posts that showcase a genuine love for his artistic community and a delightfully goofy sense of humor.

I’m particularly fond of his allergy season jokes accompanying some of his woodland flora vignettes – a cheeky reminder that even artists who traffic in the realms of decay and darkness aren’t immune to the prosaic irritations of pollen. This juxtaposition of the macabre and the mundane, the profound and the playful, adds yet another layer of depth to Smith’s already multifaceted persona.

In contemplating Smith’s art, one can’t help but draw parallels to another realm of sensory experience: perfume. Both dark art and fragrance possess the power to evoke visceral reactions, bypassing our logical mind to trigger something primal within us. Like Smith’s meticulously crafted monochrome visions, perfume can transport us to liminal spaces, conjuring the essence of spectral forests and forgotten rituals in an instant. There’s an intimacy to both, a way of getting under the skin and lingering, transforming our perception of the world around us.

In the earthy notes of soil and roots, the metallic tang of blood, or the ethereal whisper of smoke, we find olfactory echoes of Smith’s visual themes – a shared fascination with the cycle of life, death, and rebirth that permeates both art forms. Just as Smith’s hands grasp candles and cradle skulls, certain scents can hold us in their thrall, telling stories of nature’s reclamation and the thin veil between worlds.

I recently inquired with Dylan about his favorites, and he got back to me with the following …

“Since moving to Los Angeles from Pennsylvania a few years ago, I had to completely overhaul my fragrance collection – everything I had was dark, smoky, spicy, and warm for the cooler weather and now that’s it’s like 80 all year long, I’ve had to do some soul searching and branch out, haha!”

Some of my favorites right now:

“Vertical Oud” by Hermetica Paris
“La Capitale” by Xerjoff
“Super Cedar” by Byredo
“Oud Wood” by Tom Ford (author note: ME TOO, IT’S SO GOOD!)
“Woodphoria” by Boy Smells
“Bulletproof” by Tokyomilk Dark
“FFCC33” (“Sunglow”) by Hans Hendley

Also, according to Dylan, “If you’re reading this from Southern California or New England, I have some events and art shows coming up that I’d love to see you at! Check out the Upcoming Events page on my site for more info!”

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Many years ago, on this very blog, I wrote about my jewelry collection along with a current (at that time) wish-list of pieces of jewelry I was coveting. That post was dated for sometime in September of 2011, but I can assure you my love of all things shiny began much longer ago than that!

As a child, my imagination was captivated by visions of overflowing treasure chests, a fantasy undoubtedly born from the pages of storybooks and the flickering images on our TV screen. I recall being transfixed by the jewelry in every show and movie, my eyes drawn to the glittering accessories more than the plot or characters. The annual Miss Universe pageant was a particular delight – not for the competition itself, but for that moment when that ridiculously massive diamond(?)-studded tiara was placed upon the winner’s head, a coronation of sparkles that set my heart racing.

My fascination with jewelry and glamorous adornments wasn’t limited to real-world spectacles. The fictional realm provided just as much, if not more, fodder for my glittering dreams.

I was mesmerized by Glinda the Good Witch’s sparkling crown and wand, symbols of her benevolent magic. Princess Leia’s regal jewelry in the awards scene of Star Wars: A New Hope left me starry-eyed, dreaming of far-off galaxies where such elegance was commonplace. When not in her Wonder Woman attire, Diana Prince’s elegant looks captivated me, showing how jewelry could be both powerful and understated. I remember being glued to the TV during Susan Sarandon’s appearance on Masterpiece Theatre, drinking in every detail of her period-appropriate accessories. And who could forget Crystal Dreams Barbie? With her iridescent gown and crystal jewelry, she embodied the pinnacle of 80s glamour in miniature form, fueling my own crystal-centric fantasies.

The Sears catalog became my personal wish book, its pages dog-eared and worn as I revisited the jewelry section time and time again. And oh, the illustrations in my beloved copy of Aladdin! The Cave of Wonders, with its jeweled fruit trees, was a scene I’d lose myself in for hours, imagining the weight of those riches in my small hands. Actually–scratch that. My hands were 16 years old by the time I saw the animated movie, and I was every bit as enthralled ! But so what! Gimme all the sparkles now and forever!

Among my most treasured childhood memories is the ritual of exploring my grandmother’s jewelry box. It was a world unto itself, a miniature treasure trove that held endless fascination for me. The soft creak of its lid as I opened it, revealing tiers of compartments filled with glittering wonders. The musty, balsamic scent of Youth Dew perfume would waft up, an olfactory time capsule that instantly transported me to a realm of grown-up glamour. I’d spend hours trying on her collection of brooches, each one a miniature work of art in costume jewels and gilt metal. Strings of faux pearls would drape around my neck, clinking softly as I moved, while clip-on earrings pinched my earlobes with a delightful discomfort that made me feel impossibly sophisticated. These moments, playing dress-up with decades of collected memories and style, were more than just childhood fancy – they were my first real lessons in the power of jewelry to transform, to tell stories, and to connect generations.

As I grew, my tastes evolved, expanding far beyond the simple allure of sparkle and shine. The egg-shaped diamond rings that once seemed the height of sophistication gave way to more intricate, esoteric designs. I discovered the beauty in the unconventional, the strange, the downright occult – skulls adorned with crowns of thorns, talismanic claws clutching mystical stones, raw crystals seemingly plucked from the heart of some alien world. My collection began to resemble less a traditional jewelry box and more a cabinet of arcane curiosities.

Ouroboros rings coiled around my fingers, whispering secrets of eternity. Pendants bearing alchemical symbols and obscure runes nestled in the hollow of my throat, promising hidden knowledge. Earrings fashioned after rare deep-sea creatures dangled from my lobes, evoking the mysteries of the abyss. Each piece was a far cry from the princely jewels of my childhood fantasies, instead embodying a darker, more enigmatic allure.

Yet, there’s a cyclical nature to our tastes, isn’t there? Sometimes, I find myself longing for the overwrought melodrama of those childhood dreams. I’ll catch myself coveting a tiara so ostentatious it would make a soap opera diva blush, or a statement necklace so bold it could easily upstage its wearer. In these moments, I’m reminded of the little girl who dreamed of treasure chests overflowing with gems the size of a fist.

This pendulum swing between the esoteric and the extravagant, the subtle and the showy, has become a defining characteristic of my relationship with jewelry. It’s as if my collection is engaged in a never-ending masquerade ball, with each piece playing a role in an ever-unfolding drama of personal expression and transformation. More than just adornments, my jewelry has become a form of self-expression, each piece carefully chosen to reflect a facet of my personality or commemorate a moment in time.

After she died, a silver octopus pendant fashioned from a fork was found in my mother’s belongings wrapped for gift-giving. My sisters decided that she must have meant to give it to me as a Christmas gift. A weighty diamante four-leaf clover brooch with pearls at the center sits in my jewelry cabinet. It belonged to my grandmother; it was one of the very pieces from the jewelry box I mentioned above. But I can never seem to find the occasion to wear it.  A goddess smiles enigmatically, carved from the depths of a golden moon. This is a necklace I purchased for myself after I wrote my third book.

The emotional resonance of jewelry continues to surprise me. A simple charm can transport me back in time, while a new acquisition can fill me with a sense of possibility for the future. Each piece in my collection tells a story, whether it’s the tale of where it came from, who gave it to me, or what it represents in my personal journey. As my collection grew, so did my appreciation for the deeper meanings behind each piece. Jewelry, I’ve come to understand, is far more than decoration. It’s a form of symbolic language, a way to communicate beliefs and aspirations, and even to provide protection.

The esoteric symbols that now populate my collection – the all-seeing eyes, the protective hamsa hands, the intricate sacred geometry – each carry a weight of meaning that goes beyond aesthetics. These pieces have become talismans, objects imbued with significance and power. On days when I need an extra boost of courage, I might reach for my arrow necklace, a reminder to stay focused and move forward. When seeking clarity, my labradorite ring becomes a touchstone, its flashes of blue-green light seeming to illuminate my thoughts.

This idea of jewelry as a metaphysical shield has become increasingly important to me. In a world that can often feel chaotic and overwhelming, there’s comfort in adorning oneself with objects that feel like talismanic bulwarks against negative energies. My skull ring, far from being macabre, serves as a memento mori, a reminder to live fully and authentically. The weight of a substantial cuff bracelet can feel grounding, a barrier between myself and the world when I need that extra layer of security. The concept of jewelry as talisman is ancient, spanning cultures and centuries. From Egyptian scarabs to Victorian mourning jewelry, humans have long invested these small, wearable objects with great power. In embracing this tradition, I feel connected to a long line of individuals who have found strength, comfort, and identity in their adornments.

Beyond the visual allure, there’s an intimate, tactile dimension to jewelry that often goes unspoken. The weight of a substantial pendant against my chest, the cool touch of metal warming to my skin, the gentle clinking of bangles on my wrist – these sensations ground me in the present moment, a constant, subtle reminder of adornment and intention. I find myself absently tracing the contours of a ring while deep in thought, the familiar ridges and smooth surfaces becoming a form of tangible meditation. There’s a unique pleasure in the way different materials interact with the senses: the soft, warm glow of amber, the cool, liquid feel of pearls, the sharp facets of a cut crystal. Even the act of putting on jewelry becomes a ritual, a moment of mindfulness as I fasten a clasp or slip a ring onto my finger. Yet, for all this weighty symbolism, there remains in me that child who simply delighted in beautiful things. The enduring allure of “treasures” persists, speaking to something fundamental in human nature. We are drawn to that which glitters and shines, to objects that seem to capture light and transform it into something magical.

My passion for jewelry has profoundly influenced how I perceive the world, infusing everyday experiences with an unexpected sparkle. I’ve come to see the jewel-like qualities in nature and everyday objects, finding gems where others might see mere produce. The glossy, deep purple skin of an eggplant reminds me of polished amethyst, its curves mimicking the smooth cabochons in my favorite rings. Strawberries, with their vibrant red hue and seed-studded surface, evoke images of intricately worked rubies. This jewelry-tinted lens extends beyond the visual realm, coloring my other senses in surprising ways. In the world of perfumery, I often find myself describing scents in gemstone terms – this fragrance smells “amethystine,” with deep, purple notes of lavender and wine; that one has an “emerald” quality, fresh and verdant like newly unfurled leaves.

As I look at my collection now, arranged on my dresser top at eye level, heaped and draped in dishes and trays, and tucked away into several ornate little boxes, I’m struck by how it embodies both change and constancy. The specific pieces may be different from what I once dreamed of, but the joy they bring – that feeling of wonder and delight – remains unchanged from when I first pored over those catalog pages.

In many ways, my jewelry collection has become my own personal Cave of Wonders. Each piece, whether a finely crafted artisanal item or a quirky flea market find, is a treasure in its own right. They are artifacts of my journey, markers of my growth, and yes, still objects of beauty that make my heart sing just as they did when I was young. My love for jewelry has been a constant companion, evolving as I have, reflecting my growth and changing perspectives. From the imaginary treasure chests of my childhood to the carefully curated collection of my adulthood, it’s been a journey marked by sparkle, significance, and self-discovery.

As I alluded to in a post last week, as I reflect on this lifelong fascination, I realize that my relationship with jewelry is just one of many threads that have woven the tapestry of who I am today. After two decades of blogging, I find myself drawn to exploring these origin stories – the experiences, passions, and influences that have shaped me.

In the grand scheme of things, I may be less than a nobody. Yet, I can’t help but envision a future where someone stumbles upon an old perfume review I’ve written or finds one of my books in a dusty corner of a used bookstore and thinks, “Hey, this person seems really interesting. I wonder what they were like?” It’s a small hope, perhaps, but isn’t that a fundamentally human desire? To leave behind some essence of ourselves, some breadcrumbs for future curious souls to follow?

Who doesn’t like to tell the story of who they are? Who doesn’t, in some small way, want to be known and understood? These origin stories – of my love for jewelry, my fascination with scent, my adventures in cooking and art – they’re my way of saying “This is who I am. This is what shaped me.”

It eventually shaped me into a ghoul who loves jewels (which, in my imagination, looks a bit like the imagery of Maria Germanova below!) Read more on my fascination with her here and here and here!

So, dear future reader (if you exist), consider this the beginning of a trail. In the coming weeks and months, I’ll be delving into other formative fascinations and pivotal moments in my life. From my early encounters with scary terrors to my first sprays of perfume, from a childhood love of all things “flowerdy” to adult adventures in cooking – each of these stories has contributed to the person I’ve become and the way I see the world. I invite you – whether you’re reading this hot off the press or years down the line – to join me on this journey of reflection and rediscovery in unearthing these defining experiences and their resulting passions.  And I hope you’ll share yours as well along the way!

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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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