Alright. We’ve figured out the source of my varying afflictions: I’ve got bronchitis. Cheers. It certainly explains the foggy week I’ve had. Not the best—and certainly it did not end as such. However, I came home to find a ring-necked dove eating the chicken scratch laid out in my yard, and that was rather nice and …
Continue reading Coffeeshop Musings
Yeah. I know. I snaked the title from James Joyce. But Adam and I are on a little Eurotrip, so creativity is waning in favor of staying up a bit too late. Our first night in Dublin is anything but dull, not that dull has ever been a word used to describe Ireland. I’m not …
Adam’s been losing his mind over tax season and I’ve been losing my mind over writing this damn memoir so together we decided, as is our annual tradition, to find the minds we’ve lost somewhere together. This year it’s Twin Peaks, partially because I fell in love with that bizarre Netflix show, and mostly because …
We're on the last stop of the tour—Sorrel Weed House, which at first I thought, as a native Californian, was going to be a lot more exciting than it was. But the only high you get here is a spiritual one, and the only out of body experience you encounter is the disembodied souls that …
Continue reading “Sure, I’m in…” Ghost Hunting, and Famous Last Words.
"I myself have seen this woman draw the stars from the sky; she diverts the course of a fast-flowing river with her incantations; her voice makes the earth gape, it lures the spirits from the tombs, sends the bones tumbling from the dying pyre. At her behest, the sad clouds scatter; at her behest, snow …
Continue reading Stay Wild, my Witchy Little Moon Child
The party was in full swing. Indentured servants did their best to placate the unruly guests, refilling the carafes of thick, mulled wine, pouring the bourbon that glistened in the crystal glasses like casts of amber in the sunlight. The French Doors were open to the patio, letting in the warm Savannah air that clung …
Continue reading Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked
Poor Alice Riley. If you want to know what happened to her, you just have to ask. She still roams the courtyard of Wright Square on foggy nights, searching for her baby beneath the oaks strung in Spanish Moss, the same oaks from which they hung the noose that cradled her body. Her owner, William …
We went outside the walls of the house. Lit up a cigarette, the smoke mingling with the foggy breath protruding from our lungs. In and back out. I had a lot of questions coming forth from the back of my mind but more than anything I wanted to understand how. How you go on living peacefully …
Continue reading A Beginner’s Guide to Hunting Ghosts
The Wild Heart of Life 