Smells like Autumn

She had an adventure in the city with a dear friend. There she saw Mr. Elephant on the store shelf, and decided that he must come live with her immediately. Mr. Elephant enjoys tea and perpetually spouts it from his nose. Now he sits, content, with Earth Mother and magick incense on the stove.



She also purchased some orange candles, in accordance with the coming autumn. Such smells! Potpourri, candles, and incense make for a delightful concoction of seasonal scents. She suggests an earthy blend; try some patchouli and sandalwood and pumpkin spice for crispy fall nights and wriggling toes beneath fuzzy blankets. And to top it off, brew a pot of warm, cozy tea--compliments of Mr. Elephant.

Magickal Dolly, Itty Bitty Spider

Tis a time for charms and enchantments. She's found an escape in the countryside, away from the crowds and dust of the city. Loud music is replaced by the chirping of crickets and cicadas and the whistle of the wind through the trees.





She made Earth-Mother dolly of yarn and scrap fabric. In Earth-Mother's head, she placed a spell on thin piece of paper, a reminder to keep nature close to her heart. Earth-Mother sits on her couch in Apartment Eight, tsk-tsking every time one forgets to recycle.



The apartment has a new resident. His name is Ben and he lives in the upper-corner of the bathroom. He comes and goes as he pleases.

Gray, Sticky, Awkward Summers

Misty mornings that melt into nowhere. Foggy streams and dewdrops on the leaves. Trees murmuring to themselves. Ancient tales, magic herbs, spells and lore from ages long lost. Laughing children, musing women. Broken glass and concrete.





Unyielding nights. 24-hour diners. Sunken eyesockets, purple and bruise-like. Combat boots and safety pins. Eyeliner as dark as coffee. Relentless car rides, jarring music, open windows, city lights. Concerts until the wee hours. Sweaty bodies, writhing pits. Chords and beats that rattle your bones, vibrating up from your collar bone, causing your teeth to chatter.



For her, summer lies somewhere in between childhood and adulthood--an odd gray area where the only certain things are late nights and early mornings.

Keep your hearts nailed to your heads. Keep your hopes lofty. Keep your eyes glazed and wide. This is a time to run barefoot and blow bubbles and believe in dragons and light candles and make wishes on stars. Because, really, most of these pretty things will be gone as soon as the leaves grow crisp.

I think I must be a Troll

Oh, hello.

I've come to believe that I am a troll and not a young lady.

I am short and skinny with eyes the color of nature-things, and my hair is lopsided and messy in the mornings. I am rather fond of being nocturnal, and when I neglect showers, I tend to smell funny. I am quite fine with crawling about on my hands and knees. I rather dislike itchy things and spend a good deal of my time thinking very troll-like thoughts--[trolls think about things like birds and peppermints and leaves and dancing troll dances, if you were wondering, dear friends].

I must say, I would be rather content living in the hollow of an old tree and munching on grass and leaves and twigs all my days. I could make friends with the woodland animals and splash in muddy-mud puddles. It all sounds rather nice, doesn't it?

I visited some trollkin a while ago. They lives in a low-lying valley to the south, surrounded by hills and trees and rivers and llama farms.

I met the dear Hans Pipkin, who was kind enough to show me his accordion. There was a troll with a tophat and large feet, and a motherly looking troll as well. There was merriment and dancing, and trollfood and trollcheer. I really, gosh, think I must be a troll.


My dear wonderland friend came with me. I do not think she is a troll. I don't know what she is, rightly, but she is my friend all the same. Aside from visiting trollkin, we explored the shore of a great river. There was rain on the horizon and jovialty in our laughter. The sun was lost and weary amongst the clouds--this was how I felt the whole day. I felt quite fond of being lost in my surroundings, lost in what was life. I was a good deal tired, mind you. But by no means does my weariness imply sadness. Sometimes, when I am so very tired, time seems to move slower. I have some of my most wonderful adventures when I am weary.