In the Backyards of Our Neighborhood

Sometimes we wander amongst the city twilight, losing our souls to the beginnings of winter.

Domesticity is Delightful

She's coming to understand that there can be joy in simple things, things long forgotten by many. Traditional things, old-fashioned things.

She's come to appreciate turning the pages of a book, for she'd rather have something tangible rather than digital.



She's come to appreciate brightly colored threads and dexterous little needles, for she'd rather come up with her own patterns than settle for something sold in a store.





She'd rather eat apples that are red and ripe, for things in noisy packages seem uncannily artificial.



She'd rather draw and dream, for sitting in front of a television seems a waste of intellectual potential.

Domesticity can be a delightful thing--not archaic relic meant to confine one to the home. Rather, it's a return to simple pleasures, a revert from the digital age, a revisiting of dwindling crafts that, if not practiced, will surely sink into forgetfulness.

All Hallows

It's almost upon us! Choose your costume wisely and light the candles! Cover the windows, keep an eye for spirits, and prepare your wits lest you have a run-in with goblins!

She's decided to dress up as Ash Ketchum this year--a trip to Goodwill and a few snippets of felt went a long way.



The apartment is cold now, filled with the sorts of smells fall ought to have. Emma got her a pretty candle that smells like spice; it sits on the stove, by Mr. Elephant, accompanied by bright orange pumpkins. Her apartment is small, and she's afraid smallish pumpkins will have to do when it comes to festive ornamentation!



Happy Hallows Eve, everyone!

Snippets, Drawings

She's been quite the domestic dame lately. She's attempting to do needlepoint. It's been quite an adventure, indeed! Her pieces strut proudly across the fabric, little trophies of her efforts.







What lovely things should she stitch next?

Drawings, like daydreams, rise from blank paper with unexpected lines, miscalculated emotion.

Pretty Red Lips, Driftless

Today she visited a little town with art galleries lining the main street, called Mineral Point. It's Fall Art Tour weekend, where all the artists open their shops and display their very best pieces. For the occasion, she decided to do her lipstick and makeup and wear a checkered dress she bought from the mall in the city.

Her mom gave her earrings with spiders in them; she said that they were too "Halloweeny" to be worn everyday. She thinks they're just right.





A friend picked this book up for her a year ago, and she's decided to read it recently. Funny how the book is about the area in which she lives. What a coincidence! The small villages, rolling hills, and sleepy country roads are so very familiar, yet they seem from a faraway dream...

Vacation House

She wants to find herself a little niche somewhere in between city and the countryside. There she'll construct a house made of paper, woven together by bits of daydreams and snippets of longings. Inside will smell of fallen leaves, and she'll watercolor the walls with songbirds and dandelions. There'll be tea in the cupboards and cakes in the fridge; cats will lounge flatly against the windows and somewhere, salvaged from her grandmother's centenarian dining room, a record player that will only tolerate Pavarotti and Swan Lake will be housed comfortably.

Mornings here are greeted with golden dawns and dark mugs of coffee. Evenings are celebrated with a fireplace and chamomile. There is plenty of time here for those menial things one leaves behind, those domestic little delights that newer generations have chosen to forget. Here, in a house of walls as thin as flesh, there is little separation between obligation and whimsy. One does as one wishes.
Stay here for a bit. Lounge and contemplate. Read and wonder.

But remember.
This is only a vacation house, a little oasis for troubled times. You mustn't come here too often. Beginning with the very tips of your extremities, you're sure to disappear bit by bit as soon as you hop the return train to Reality.

The Door Tree

The door tree stands at the center of the world. Its branches pierce the veil that is the heavens, its roots wind deep into the layers of hell. When the time is right, the windows and doors open. They are mirrors of humanity, reflections of our own souls. At the seat of the tree a demon dwells, pulling strings and opening doors, beckoning to passerby.

Come, look inside.