Bless Lula and AnOther magazine for showing up and being magical as always.

You know what I found in Aunt Charlotte’s closet? Seven unfinished manuscripts. All written by her, all starting with the same sentence,

‘She left the party then, crossing the wet grass and entering the forest by the darkened path that she knew so well..’

I haven’t been writing, there is almost too much happening and I’m not sure where to start. And every day it rains. I shuffle my Halloween Tarot deck and draw randomly a card, the Six of Imps; success, the pleasure of recognition gained through creative hard work. Stability in action. Optimism, triumph, advancement. You can’t get better than that.

There is a rumbling that we may be working with a very cool fashion house on a men’s line which excites us greatly. It’s time for the dandy in goth, the well dressed vampire, Gomez Addams at Oxford. We can’t say much, but that has made us so happy and excited about the future we can’t even put it in to words.

And in the gray and the cold and the rain comes word from Alice, who posted the other night a journal entry from Belgium. She didn’t contact our parents, she didn’t contact us, she just posted. We took it down as we wanted our parents to see it first, to know she is okay, but I guess we will put it up. It is, as always, heart wrenching and so beautifully written.

In the market today I bought edible flowers.

Elizabeth and I have been talking a lot about what we leave behind. Certainly shuffling through the apartment here cataloguing Aunt Charlotte’s world has made me think more and more of this. I have a trunk of letters and journals that I now want to go home to Canada and burn. Elizabeth wants to destroy her old sketchbooks. We’ve done so little though, our mark is so insignificant.

I’ve been thinking about places that have become museums. I remember we three jumping out of the car in front of the Viper Room and bursting in to tears. Who remembers now the death of River Phoenix, that Vegan saint? What a horrible moment.

Edward Gorey passed away and left his magical house and cats. His home, Elephant House has now become a shrine of sorts and headquarters to a museum dedicated to him. I have been slowly photographing Aunt Charlotte’s apartment inspired totally by a haunting book by Kevin McDermott a friend of Mr. Gorey’s, who was allowed in to his house soon after his death and photographed it as it was left, haunting.

What else is there? What other places are haunted by what’s left behind? I am being morbid tonight, perhaps a(nother) cocktail.

love,

- Sarah