Hear a Punk Rock Song, and We Sing Along

There are no better nights for punk rock than those precious few at the summer's end. Her heart aches. The music blares. She rubs the toes of her boots together so the pleather squeaks.

Academia looms just around the corner, and soon these little pains will be masked by books and studying and running. It's all so exciting, so frightening, that it runs tingles up her spine to linger across her sternum.

She helped give Sir Charles a mohawk. The results were ever so fantastic!



Hey, Suburbia!

Drawings, but Colored

Did she ever tell you that she drew pictures? Lots and lots of pictures? Pictures to fill sketchbooks and stick on the walls and take up all the musty corners in one's life? She's one of those fantastical girls, you see, who dreams of ferocious beasts and realms of fantasy.

But there's a little problem.

She despises coloring her own work. But it is so good to have a dear friend who colors her work so willingly! Emma took colored pencils to her linework, and here are the beautiful results to show!





Here's an elephant with squid's legs. He's looking a little plain. Who will color him? ♥

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.

Veronica Hates Me

On a whim she scrambled to the drug store and bought an electric razor. How many people does it take to give one girl a mohawk? Sir Charles measured with a keen eye, while Grahm snip snipped her hair away and Lord Philip wielded an Iphone and hairpins. The results were worthy of a photoblog and a playlist.

She's ready for stomping. Never did her knee-high combat boots suit her so well. Just another East Bay night in the Midwest.

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.

Putting in a Word for the Count...

Oh, so many books to be read! Her shelves are full, her eyes are sore. But how wonderful it is to have things to read.

The pinnacle of her summer reading revolves around a certain swashbuckler by the name of Edmond Dantes, but most of you know him as Monsieur le Comte d'Monte Cristo. Tall, somber, and all that is dashing and dark, our entrepreneuring earl seems a static figure through the layers of years. He is unchanging, yet constantly evolving, sinking through the fabric of time like rot through a fleshy fruit. For in his eyes he holds the promise of revenge, the insanity of imprisonment, the pure heart of a sailor.

The girl insists you read this heavy gem of a book, for hardly has she come upon a book so grand, so impossible. It leaves one rather breathless. What else can be expected of the Napoleonic years? An unstable environment makes shifty, extreme characters.



She gives it 5 hearts. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Apologies for the lacking of posts. She promises that there's more to come.