When The Reverie Breaks

Things I think about when I'm not thinking of other things.

SG/NT June 2017: Working and Gothing

So – I finally found a job here in Ann Arbor. It’s with UMich, in the health system real estate department,and this month is my first work anniversary. So, I’ve been here a year, more or less (I temped in this job for six months before being hired full time).

It’s been a long, tough haul, and I feel like I lost a part of myself in the process. Being out of work in general is difficult, but when you feel like a useless burden on someone else (and you’re newly married to that person), it’s that much worse. You lose your sense of worth and your perspective. You begin to deny yourself things for reasons that you say are good though you won’t admit it’s really a punishment, and that becomes a habit.

Working at the university has been good for me in many respects. I enjoy my job, and I like my boss, except for one, tiny thing: I cannot get The Boss-man to call me by my preferred name. In fact, most people in the office use my given name and it completely weirds me out. I feel like they’re chiseling bits of me away. I have requested that they use my preferred name, but The Boss-man says it’s unprofessional to use a nickname. I’ve never heard this reasoning and I don’t understand it at all. It’s got to be some weird Northerner thing, or perhaps it’s too Goth. I don’t know – it’s not like I’ve requested he call me Mistress Onyx of the Ultra-Dark or anything.

Der Mann has suggested legally changing my name, but I think that’s a bit drastic, just to make a point. In his turn, Der Mann argues that it’s disrespectful to not use my preferred name and secondly, if it’s impacting my sense of self, then it’s not mentally healthy for me. However, I’ve begun telling people to call me by my preferred name, and it’s slowly taking. We will see how it works out. If I can get 50% or more to call me what I want to be called, I’ll take it as a win.

Another thing that upsets Der Mann is that I haven’t bought clothes in a long while, unless Der Mann insists I need something, like a pair of shoes. He would like to buy clothes for me because I won’t buy stuff for myself. However, he knows my choices in clothing tend to be eclectic, so he generally sticks to jewelry or art supplies, unless it’s something he can’t resist, like my kitty-paw fingerless gloves. (Love them!) However, he has finally persuaded me that I need to update my wardrobe. I’m going to do it over time, buy a piece here and there, and – for the first time ever – I am going to plan. I’ve been studying Goth fashion blogs, especially those targeted at us older Goths that have to somehow make it in the corporate world. This is a new thing for me. Wish me luck.

I’m also studying Elder Goth corporate make-up. In the summer, I tend to not wear much, usually a swish of mascara and some lip color is about it, because I’m Southern and I’m used to makeup just melting off my face and staining my clothes (yes, makeup shows on everything, even black…especially when you’re pale and therefore, so is your foundation). While it’s a bit cooler up here, I haven’t deviated from that routine. I even keep up the daily moisturizer with sunscreen. However, in winter, I do wear full makeup most days. So while planning a wardrobe, I’m also planning a makeup regime, with updates to my eye and lip palettes. I do so love the Urban Decay matte and creme lipsticks, especially Gash and Blackmail. Yummy!

I have started doing some things for myself. (Der Mann mutters “about time” under his breath every time I mention/do a thing).

I have (with much urging from Der Mann) gotten my hair done; it’s dyed a violet-red, darker than my usual Crayola color, but it works. It’s Goth enough and red enough to make me happy.

Der Mann bought me a muff for Christmas this year, as I wear a cape instead of a coat. So my winter wear now consists of a black cape, a dark-green muff lined with black (fake) fur, and a fuzzy hat with kitty ears and paws. (I am aware that this is very Goth.)

I’ve decorated my desk with Monster High minis, but I can’t do too much with my workspace because I’m situated out in the front. One must be “professional” (or utterly devoid of character, but that might be just my personal definition). I had quite a collection, but had to take them down because of the aforesaid “professionalism” issue. (Yeah, someone complained about tiny dolls. Go figure.) However, I will come up with a new idea soon. You can’t keep a Southern Goth-girl down!*

*(Or her cube undecorated!)

SG/NT May 2017: Coke vs… No, It’s All Coke

We are talking about soft drinks here, not…other things.

“Coke”, in the South, covers a variety of fizzy soft drink products. Northerners do not know this.

If you request a coke in the South, you’ll be asked, “What kind of coke? We got diet, we got sprite, we got orange, we got lemonade….” and so on down the drinks list. If you want the actual, branded product, you request a “Coke-cola” or “Co-cola”.


Cokes. They are ALL cokes.

(If you’re a heathen, you request a Pepsi.)

(And then you are shunned.)

(And you feel shame.)

Anyway, I learned this the hard way.  I learned that if I ask, “What kind of coke do you have?”, I’m going to get a funny look and, “Diet or regular.” For a short while, I thought that Northerners only drank diet or regular Coke, no other kinds of drinks. Then, I was at the grocery store buying Mountain Dew for my sister, and the cashier asked me if the “pop” was mine, too.

Pop. They call coke “pop” or sometimes “soda”. Which is also weird. A soda in the South is an ice cream soda or sometimes a float. It’s cool and creamy and glorious, especially in the summer. Nothing beats a (proper) soda in a southern summer.

Okaaaaaaaaaay then.

I have learned a thing. It’s a strange thing, but now I know – though I really doubt I’ll ever be able to request a pop without giggling or a soda without disappointment at the lack of ice cream. And my first impulse will always and forever be to request a coke.

Now, since we (meaning me, on this blog) are discussing drinks, let’s address tea.

First off, in the South, a request for tea means iced tea. One might drink hot tea if (1) there’s no coffee, (2) you’re sick and need a honey/whisky/tea toddy to feel better, or (3) you’re a transplant from somewhere else, probably Britain. These are the only acceptable reasons for drinking hot tea.

(Yes, even in winter.)

(No, I don’t know why. Just trust me on this.)

Moving on.

Secondly, there is the sweet tea vs. unsweet tea issue.

Let that sink in, those of you in the South. There is a thing called unsweet tea.

UNsweet tea.

This is weird. C’mon, even I know there’s only one kind of tea (and that kind is sweet) and I don’t drink tea of any kind because it all tastes like dirt. Unsweet tea is an abomination of the worst kind according to the tea drinkers I know*.

*(They’re all from the South).

So, beware, all of you. Do NOT ask for tea in the North. You will receive unsweetened iced tea, and everyone knows you can’t fix that, no matter how much sugar you dump in your glass. It won’t dissolve. The sugar will just lay there, in the bottom of your glass, taunting you with all that glorious sweetness that you aren’t having. Tea has to be sweetened while being brewed or it isn’t sweet tea.

And if it isn’t sweet tea, who wants to drink it, anyway?

SG/NT April 2017: A Visit To Hell

When Herself visited for my birthday, we went to Hell.

R&M Hell

Herself & Der Mann in Hell; it wasn’t quite frozen over, but the snow indicates that it was, in fact, a cold day in Hell

Hell, Michigan is a nifty little place. It’s literally a wide spot in the road, and consists of a saloon, a diner, a gift shop, a mini-golf game, and a chapel where they do actually conduct weddings. They go above and beyond to lure victims welcome visitors with everything from hats and sunglasses to an ice cream bar for those really hot days.

It’s kitschy, it’s cute, and it calls to my little black heart. You can get an exit visa, t-shirts, magnets, even a (scorched) postcard that you can send from the tiny post office so it’s actually postmarked Hell. I love it there. There’s just something wonderfully Gothy – though it’s not particularly gothic – about visiting Hell. One of these day, I must convince Der Mann to dress so we can take some photos in Hell. Then perhaps a picnic on the border of Hell? Hmmmm….

I’ve been to Hell several times since Der Mann and I moved here. What made the birthday trip special was that I found someone who was Of My People.

This is a real thing; one doesn’t realize how tribal we are until we are separated from Our People. It makes a difficult situation (say, moving several states away) even harder if we cannot find people that share our interests or lifestyles.

So, the person working in the Hell Gift Shop was One of Us. She turned me on to several things and events in Michigan, including the Lansing Zombie Walk, and The Dark Art of Michigan group, and Detroit’s Science Fiction convention, ConFusion. (I knew about the Renaissance Faire already, having attended last year…and there’s another blog post for later). There is the Dark Arts Bizarre in May – just what it says: creepy, gothic artwork and crafts, then Hell-O Summer Fest in June (in Hell, of course), that is about art, entertainment, and Halloween in the Heat. This should be much fun, as well as an opportunity to meet some people.

While no one will replace my real tribe, it will be nice to (perhaps) find an alternative place to belong.

Now, the important question: what am I going to wear to these events?

And then the vital question: what boots am I going to wear?

R&M Coffee

While the Cold Day in Hell was fun, I believe Herself enjoyed the coffee at Brewed Awakenings more.

SG/NT March 2017: WHO Can’t Drive in Snow?

This post isn’t going to be so much about Southern Goth as just Southern. You have been warned.

The South gets  a lot of heat, so to speak, from other parts of the county for Southerners being unable to drive in snow. Granted, parts of the South get very little snow, so unfamiliarity is an issue. However, what most Northerners don’t see is the ice under the snow, which is extremely detrimental to driving conditions.

Still, I’m not writing this to make excuses, justified though they are.

I’m merely tracking some observations I’ve made over the two (admittedly rather snow-less) winters I’ve been here.

First – y’all Northerners only think you can drive in snow.

You can’t.

Nor can you drive in rain, wind, or sunshine. I thought drivers in Atlanta were bad…until I moved here. In Michigan, I’ve seen some of the worst driving in any kind of weather. In fact, Ohio has replaced Tennessee in my list of Places I Absolutely Hate to Drive.

Second – traffic rules do not apply. Neither do speed limits, no matter the weather conditions. Turn signals are optional. And if you hit someone, it doesn’t matter, just keep on going; Michigan is a no-fault state, so it’s not like there are any repercussions for hitting someone (I mean, hit someone’s car; obviously, it’s disastrous if you hit an actual person, no-fault state or not). Seriously, most cars up here look as though they’ve done at least one round in the Demolition Derby. I’ve driven bumper cars with better drivers – and bumper car drivers are usually ten or so.

Third – do I even need a third? Isn’t this enough?

Okay, wait, I do have one more thing to say. It’s even positive. And believe it or not, it’s about traffic.

While people drive like maniacs up here, at least they’re not driving like maniacs in backed-up, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Traffic here is light, comparatively. People at my work come in complaining that the commute was an extra fifteen minutes today because of weather or a wreck or construction, and they’re genuinely indignant when I laugh.

Really loud.

And can’t stop laughing.

Sometimes I even laugh so hard my eyes water.

Fifteen extra minutes on your commute…which is usually around fifteen minutes in good conditions, twenty if you hit all the lights on red – and you live twenty miles away. They don’t believe me when I say my commute in Atlanta was forty-five minutes on a good traffic day, and I lived eight miles from my office.

So, to tally it up: two bads, one good. Unfortunately, the one good doesn’t make up for the two bads. Der Mann does most of the in-town driving as he’s much more patient than I am, and even he rants about drivers up here.

So, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to wrap this up and realized I forgot to mention one important thing: this is all very definitely tongue-in-cheek*, so I do hope no one is offended. If you are, then I just have one thing to say:

Well, bless your heart.

*(Okay, except for the bit about comparative commute times. That’s a true story.)**

**(Oh, and the bit about black ice in the South? That’s also a true thing.)***

***(And, um, Michigan is actually a no-fault state. And insurance rates are commensurate. But that is a post for another time.)

Commonplace Book(s)

So, I used to do this thing: I had a notebook, usually cheap, and often unlined; it lived in my bag and went everywhere with me. I’d scribble down anything I found interesting or important – phrases, names, dreams, writing or art ideas, notes from books or about books (including my own or my friends’ WsIP), lists, words I liked the sound/spelling/meaning of, song lyrics that spoke to me…anything and everything. I also doodled in the margins and on the covers.

I called it my idea book. I had no idea that what I was doing was keeping a commonplace book, albeit a somewhat disorganized one.

Unfortunately, I fell out of the habit a few years ago. Just…things weren’t going well in my life, and I wasn’t doing many of the things I used to do, so when the notebook was full, I put it away and never started another. (I also stopped keeping  my journal, stopped writing, stopped socializing – like I said, it wasn’t a good period of time.)

But now, my head seems to be coming back online. I’ve suddenly found myself scribbling on anything handy, and then, well, losing the notes – so maybe not completely rebooted.

I’ve been exploring art journaling for the past year or so, and that seems to have broken down the dam*. But now I need to stretch. While I never stopped working on my novel, now I’ve embraced it again, and am enthusiastic about working on it (in my third round of revisions right now – so close to a good, complete manuscript!). I’ve been dreaming, and ideas pop up, germinated from anything and everything – hence the scribbling on whatever is handy.

I decided that I need a new idea book.

I did what I usually do; I grabbed up a blank, wirebound sketchbook, one of the $5 ones from Barnes & Noble that I had lying around, and started scribbling away.

But it felt wrong.

Then I remembered that Der Mann backed a kickstarter a year or two ago.  A kickstarter for a new type of notebook. And it got funded. And he received the notebook. And it was still in a box on my bedroom bookshelf.

So I got it out and looked it over. The notebook is bigger than the ones I’ve used before, being closer to 8.5 x 11 inches, but it’s thinner, so it evens out in terms of carrying.

Notebook 1

The cover is cloth, and feels nice in the hand.

The paper is glorious. It’s thick and creamy, and holds ink well. It’s a stone paper, meaning, from what I’ve googled, that the paper is made from actual stone; per their website, the paper is calcium carbonate “collected from waste material at existing limestone quarries and ground up into a fine white chalk powder”. It smells different than paper, perhaps a bit stronger, but not unpleasant. The paper itself is smooth and silky. It always seems to be cool and feels almost wet to the touch. The notebook is split; one half of the pages are lined, the other half are not, so I have the best of both worlds. There’s a pocket in the front for stashing all those scribbles I’ve lost so I can transcribe them later, two elastic bands (one on each side), and an attached ribbon bookmark. 

Of course, it’s such a nice book that I was leery about using it, until Der Mann also bought me a set of multicolored Frixion erasable gel pens and a set of Frixion erasable markers**. Now I can write and doodle in this notebook with impunity!


Frixion erasable gel pens and markers

So – that’s my new commonplace book. Does anyone out there keep a commonplace? If so, what do you collect? Tell me about your experiences!

*Also, researching art journaling led me to the phrase “commonplace book” and then I had to research that, and here we are.

**They do write and erase quite well. I recommend them, as long as you don’t overheat the notebook (that will erase everything) or put it in the freezer (getting it super cold brings back all the erased stuff). I use them for my planner and for my commonplace. I do not use them in my art journal; I prefer my alcohol markers because I’m usually working on gessoed, painted, or watercolor-crayoned backgrounds.

SG/NT February 2017: What Happened to the Snow?


What happened to all the snow?

Today is the 21st of February and the outside temperature is 61 degrees.

In Michigan.

In February.

I was informed that in Michigan there would be cold. That in Michigan there would be snow. That in Michigan there would be no place for my knee-high, coffin-heeled, Demonia boots.

This is my second winter here…and the second winter with hardly any snow. I’ve had to wear snow boots exactly twice. I don’t know what to make of this.

I am a confused Southern Goth in a Northern Town.

New Idea! A Monthly Feature: Southern Goth in a Northern Town

I’m trying to get back to blogging somewhat regularly. I’ve been very lax about keeping up with this blog, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is… dum…dum…dum…regular employment!

I like my job, but it does cut into my time for scribbling blog posts, working on my various art and writing projects, reading, and general lying about.

Therefore, I’m attempting to plan a bit, and try to do some outside-of-Perfect-Coven writing. I’ve decided to turn my Southern Goth/Northern Town category into a monthly feature where I talk about something up here (Michigan) that strikes my Southern heart as strange, or adversely something up here that makes this Southern girl feel at home. That said, I have the February post prepared and will post it um, posthaste.

Deep Water

I pulled out my (old-school) iPod the other day. I needed some music because things haven’t been good recently. I forget how much music helps with the coping.

One of my favorite songs popped, a song called Deep Water by the Finnish black metal band, Charon (who have broken up, by the way; very  sad day).

An idea popped into my head when I heard the chorus on this particular day. While I know the band themselves would laugh hysterically because, believe me, the song has nothing to do with Arthurian myth, it’s a compelling phrase and I had to get the image onto paper, in my own inadequate way.

I suppose, really, that’s what art – whether it be stories or painting or music – is all about: the resonance a piece creates in your mind.

Deep Water

I don’t normally name my art journal spreads, but I’m calling this one Deep Water after the song that inspired it.

Ghostbusters Review

ghostbusters-2016-girlsWhy not – everyone else has “thoughts” about this movie, so let me show you mine.

Der Mann and I went to see it on the Sunday of its opening weekend, mostly because neither of us wanted to deal with crowded theaters on Friday or Saturday night. That said, I was surprised at how full the theater was, even on Sunday at noon.

I went in not really knowing what to expect. There have been rave reviews, meh reviews, and scathing reviews. As I don’t consider the original one of the seminal events of my teenage years (I think I was 15, maybe 16, when it came out?) I didn’t have much invested in it. I will say that I find the original difficult to watch as an adult because Bill Murray’s character (Venkman) skeeves me out so damn much with all his misogynistic, sexist posing. And yes, I’m aware that it’s supposed to be over-the-top, that it’s an exaggerated stereotype, and all the other defenses; doesn’t make it any less skeevy. Give me Egon’s brains or Ray’s enthusiasm any day. Still, I enjoy the premise of busting ghosts, and the out-and-out silliness of it, then and now.

As for me, I saw a pretty entertaining movie. It was funny, the effects were great, and there were a lot of nods and winks at the original. Many of the cameos were deft touches, except for Bill Murray, who always goes over the top. The bust of Egon outside Erin Gilbert’s office was a poignant touch.

That said, the movie wasn’t without flaws. There was some rushing of the story (really, how did the tour guide get out of the mansion?) and the character of Patty was underdeveloped. I will say, however, that she wasn’t left hanging out there on her own like Ernie Hudson’s Winston Zeddemore, thankfully. I loved that she was the historian of the group, and was able to tell them why ghosts were showing up at certain places. If there is a sequel, I want to see more of Patty and her historical knowledge.

Then there was Holtzmann. Oh, Holtzmann. Wonderful, wacky, weird – the real genius in the group. The reviews were correct – Kate McKinnon stole every scene she was in. There are no descriptors descriptive enough for Holtzmann. Go. Watch. See.

Chris Hemsworth was decidedly un-Thor-like as the ditzy dumb blond receptionist, Kevin. I swear, I think he based at least part of his performance on the Kevin the Minion (you can’t tell me you don’t get the reference). It was funny to see the stereotype turned around and the actor himself seemed to be having such fun with the character. (The behind-the-credits scene is not to be missed.)

After the movie, Der Mann and I saw a woman with two young girls, around 8 and 9, taking pictures with the stand-up display. Der Mann asked the children if they liked the film, and the answer was a loud and excited, oh-so-very enthusiastic, “Yes!”. For that alone, I’d consider this movie a success.


On April 2nd, 2016, I received some very bad news. An old, old friend – and a large part of my (misspent) youth – had died suddenly from back surgery complications. We’re not young anymore, but we’re not old either, and this was a blow to the group of us that lived that era.

Most of us are still reeling, quietly, in moments when the truth hits: there will be other losses. BH was the first. He will not be the last.

When we started trading memories, pictures, and stories, the scenes that flashed into my mind became the first part of the following poem. I’ve been trying to write it since BH’s death; the emotions were there, but the words weren’t. I’m not sure that it’s completely right, not yet, but it’s true. My truth, through my eyes, from that period of my life, and the people that shared it.

We were young,
on our own wild arrogance,
we prowled dark streets,
smoky clubs,
the corners of our own lives.

We built ourselves
word by word,
note by note,
from stories and songs
you to me,
me to her,
her to them.

Stories end,
songs fade,
youth vanishes.
Some lives end,
the rest go on as best we can.
We change,
not really understanding
how we became

When we see the children,
our lips form smiles
as dark chocolate.
Because we know.
“That was us,

~for Mopey~