Saurimonde II - The First Chapter

Despite the tragedy and heartbreak over the last few weeks I am so thrilled to be working on this story again and I know Melissa is as well. The pieces are starting to fall into place and I'm dreaming of the characters once more (and c'mon, who doesn't want a man like Sordel in their dreams!). It's going to be a wild ride, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Hope you enjoy it!

Saurimonde II

Saurimonde II - The First Chapter

          Saurimonde placed the journal down as the words swam in front of her eyes, while she tried to wrap herself around the shock of what she read. She already felt intrusive enough reading someone else's diary. She reached forward touching the hem of her damp powder blue dress hanging over the edge of the fire. There wasn't much left of it, only wisps of cotton and lace still tacked together. It wouldn't last through another wearing. Shivering, she wrapped the blanket a little tighter around herself against the bite of the morning air. She wasn't exactly cold, but the night's events had chilled her to the bone. She was sore from head to toe and her muscles protested every little move she made. She was most definitely back in her body again, but she didn't feel quite whole. It was like dancing a waltz and always being a couple of beats behind the rhythm as memories and emotions collided awkwardly with each other. The light was starting to spill cold blue from the windows. The panes of glass were smudged with soot and threw shadows across the floor. She could almost discern a pattern. It looked like beetles crawling, coming ever closer. A tiny insect army ready to attack and take her down.

         Elazki's cottage had a certain charm in daylight. Bundles of drying herbs hung from the ceiling mixed with talismans and other things she didn't want to look at too closely. A stuffed fox on top of a sort of shrine bristled from the center of the room. It was obviously well loved to have such a place of importance. She glanced at it a couple times out of the corner of her eye, half-convinced it was watching her. It was hard to believe she'd never been inside this place before, although she really had never given it's owner, Elazki, the time of day, and now she owed her life to the woman. Now she knew more about the wise woman's life than she'd have ever thought possible. In her mind's eye she saw the raven-haired woman staring at her as ferociously as a blood moon. The events of last night seemed like a million years ago. She'd been trying to put the pieces together, but every time she got the sequence wrong. There were too many gaps in her memory.

          Her husband Gilles and Elazki had been together many years ago and he'd used and abused her affections. But soon after there had been a child which was not named in the diary, but if she did the math then... Stop it, Saurimonde thought as she pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, trying in vain to organize her thoughts and quell the rising panic inside of her. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't be! And how could she tell Sordel? She needed time to figure out whether it could be possible or not. She... She never finished that thought as the sound of a man clearing his throat from the shadowy recesses of the bedroom doorway startled her.

          “Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you.”

          The timbre of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. It was rough and smooth at the same time, like a fine piece of driftwood, inviting you to run your hand over its surface. Greenish gold jungle eyes stared out of the gloom and she could see the vague outlines of a very lithe, well muscled chest. Feeling her breath catch in her throat, she didn't dare let her eyes drop any lower.

          “No... I...” her voice tailed off. How could she explain?

          “Did you get any sleep?”

          Had she slept? She wasn't sure. “I think so,” she answered tentatively

          Sordel moved across the room, stoked the fire with a few quick jabs and put the kettle on. He settled himself into the chair across from her. They stared at each other for a minute as she reflexively tightened the old blanket around her.

          “I don't know how I can ever thank you.”

          “It's not necessary.”

          There was another uncomfortable pause, longer this time. His eyes flickered to the journal lying on the table. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, but wasn't certain he was ready to hear the answers. The water started to boil and Sordel got up moving the kettle to the counter. He added a handful of herbs, stirring them slowly as the smell of mint and Valerian filled the cottage. He sneaked a quick peek at Saurimonde. She was more fragile looking in the daylight. Her large dark eyes had a wounded quality and the bluish circles underneath them only added to the effect. The morning light turned her hair into molten gold as it tumbled riotously down her shoulders and back. She was still lovely, though. Maybe even more so than before. He stifled the urge to gather her in his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right. That would be a lie. Everything was definitely not going to be all right. Elazki...

          Sordel dropped the metal stirrer with a clatter. Grumbling under his breath he pushed it out of the way and grabbed a couple of mugs.

          As if reading his mind she quietly asked, “What are we going to do?”

          Dark waves of hair fell across his handsome face. Irritatedly he pulled it back and tied it in a knot at the nape of his neck. He glanced at the steaming mugs remembering when he bought them for his aunt. He must have been about twelve and was so excited by the look of genuine surprise on her face.

          “I have to find her. No matter what it takes,” he answered.

          “You don't know what you're against.” Her eyes widen and a world of confusion seemed to swim within them.

          It broke his heart to see, but not his resolve. “No. But that won't stop me. She's my aunt. My only family, and the person nearest and dearest to me.”

Saurimonde smiled at him sadly. “You're a hero. It's commendable. But even a hero may not save the day in this situation.

          He shook his head. “I'm not a hero.”

          “You are. At least to me, but we have to be rational here. If you go storming off to the river there's a chance you won't find her. And even if you do, there's no telling what she might do to you. She's not the woman you know any more.”

          “That's bullshit. She would never hurt me.”

          “Listen to me. She would and it wouldn't be her fault. I know better than anyone. You wouldn't believe the things I've done...” A tear slipped down her cheek. She moved to brush it away and then stopped, her hand frozen in mid-air. She had promised herself she would never cry again. She wasn't the same victim as before and, if there was one thing the experience of being possessed had taught her, it was she was going to have to be a whole lot tougher to survive it. Tensing her muscles and taking a deep breath, she wiped the tear away, pushing all her emotions down deep inside farther than she could follow. Her face frozen and mask-like as she managed to do so. It was the only way to keep her sanity.

          “There's nothing else to say. I have to save her.”

She stared at him. “Yes, I know. But to have any kind of chance to do so we're going to have to put the pieces together and that could take some time.” She sighed, “you can run to her rescue and there's nothing I would do to stop you. Nor would I blame you for doing so, but I wish you would listen to what I'm saying first.”

          He took a deep breath as her words settled over him. She might be right, but it went against his nature to do nothing. None of it made sense. He'd watched in slow motion as Elazki stabbed Saurimonde clean through with his sword. She should have been dead. And when she started breathing again apparently unharmed, he'd forgotten everything else around him. Then he'd heard Elazki humming to herself a distance away. She had the strangest look on her face as she stared at him and then, crazily enough, she dove into the river. He'd scanned the water again and again, but she never surfaced. He should have dove in after her, but something inside of him warned him to get Saurimonde and himself out of there as quickly as possible. He wanted to protect her from the sight of Gilles' mutilated body lying by the shore. There was no way he was miraculously coming back to life again. He felt a chill as he remembered Saurimonde's black eyes flashing as she demoniacally gorged the flesh from her husband's body. Sordel closed his eyes not wanting to remember more. He rubbed his temples against the dull thud of a coming headache while saying, “There's a lot we have to talk about, but this isn't the time or the place.”

          She answered him softly, “I know, it's all too fresh. I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

He handed her a steaming mug and she took it gratefully, setting it down on the small wooden table in front of her. She bit her lip trying to decide whether or not it was wise to tell him what she'd discovered. Sordel settled back into the chair and she did her best not to stare open-mouthed at his chest.

          The steam from the tea chased away the last vestiges of sleep as he calmly asked, “What are you going to do?”

          “Go back,” she answered a little more harshly than she would have wished.

          “Go back where?” He frowned, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.

          “To the manor house.”

          “Why? You can stay here with me.”

          The last thing she wants to do is make him angry, but she has to be practical, otherwise she will be doomed. She may have already been doomed for all she knew, but she would survive this. “I know,” she said, “but I have to make an appearance and make things look as normal as possible. Besides, sooner or later someone would know I was here and there would be more trouble. And I'm going to have to explain why Gilles and that girl are suddenly missing.”

          “Her name was Mariel. She was your niece. Gilles said she ran off.”

          “She...” Her lip began to quiver, but she knew this was one of the things she must face.

          “She's gone wherever Gilles has gone.”

          “So she's dead.” He nodded grimly at this. “And Elazki?”

          “I think I know where she's gone, but it isn't somewhere we can go. At least not now.”

          “Then she's not dead.”

          “No, I would know if she were dead. But soon she'll wish she was.” Saurimonde's voice faltered. “There's something else I need to tell you about your aunt.”

          Sordel's stomach dropped. Intuitively he knew this was going to be ugly.

          She took a sip of the hot tea. It scalded her mouth, but it gave her the courage to say what needed to be said. “I read part of her diary after you gave it to me last night. I know you promised her never to read it, but...” She paused, then the words came in a rush. “She had an affair with someone who treated her very badly a long time ago. There was a child.”

          “Elazki never had a child.”

          “It says in her diary she did. She had a son about 24 years ago.”

         Sordel's face started to pale at this revelation. He was 24-years-old and he had very little memory of his mother, Elazki's sister. She had died when he was two. Elazki had never said anything to him before about having a child.

          Saurimonde continued on knowing if she stopped now, she'd never be able to tell him. “It sounds like she had a very bad experience so she sent the child away and...” He stared at her in disbelief while she said, “Gilles' name is mentioned.”

          The words hung in the air. There was no way to take them back now. It was too horrible a notion to comprehend. Sordel's mind glitched, and then it hit him. Holy fuck, Gilles might have been his father. He clutched the table feeling faint for a moment, knocking over the tea. Saurimonde jumped out of the chair, backing away. He stared right through her as a rush of connections in his mind suddenly made a sort of sick sense. His stomach lurched.

          “Sordel...” Saurimonde said as gently as possible.

          He finally focused in on her, but his eyes were wild and a vein throbbed on his forehead. Without a word he turned and strode out the door, slamming it so hard the windows rattled.

          “Wait! I could be wrong...” she called after him. But it was too late. He was gone.

          “Damn it all to hell!” she shouted in exasperation, throwing down the blanket. The mouldering fox in the middle of the room stared at her and she could have sworn she saw it smile. Suddenly feeling naked, she grabbed her damp dress and covered herself as best as possible. Could it really get any worse...?

If you haven't read the first book yet follow the link to order your copy - http://www.saurimonde.com/p/where-to-buy.html

Much love from where the worlds touch,

S- xx

Sisters of the Wasteland

I've been keeping my head down and focusing on the work in the hopes the wrongs in my life will somehow right themselves. It's never that easy, though. Just finished an intensive re-write on 'The Colour Out of Space', and it looks as if the script is possibly going out to cast, although I don't know if I should say anything or not. No one told me not to. Fingers crossed for this beast as I'm rather proud of the modernized adaptation we managed to fasten together.

Before I get started on the next script I've put a little elbow grease in the graphic novel I've been dreaming up in my head. This project is set to slow burn and yet I just can't put it down. It's the story I know the least about and still I keep tinkering with it despite that fact. It's like an object which you aren't quite certain what it's used for, you only know you like the way it looks, and you want it just cause. So I'm going to post some of it here and play around with the text a bit. It's nothing like it's going to look, but maybe it will help clarify my vision. It's still very rough and I won't post the beginning having done so twice already.

photo by Marnie Shelton Klein

Believers of the Unpure

Once upon a time the dark Mother was endless. She was the vast Immaculate Darkness. Mistress on the sea of Infinity. Benevolent. Malevolent. These terms mean nothing and are concepts of cattle. In the center of her swirling chaos a cunning affliction unknowingly came to be. Imperfection in perfection. Creation was conjured without consent. How could perfection recognize Imperfection? And so She fell. Matter took shape and became finite. It became trapped. Days became numbers. Binding concepts. The error in the system. The Demiurge; mad, blind, and insane. But being born of a deficit it never knew it was so. And so it never knew any different. Like us it fights craftily not to cease to exist. But our light reflects its light. Our light reflects our maker.

“May the curse, cunning, and blessing be.”

“Wake up!”

This world has blinded the minds of the Unbelievers.

Nyx, Nul and Nil: Sisters of the Wasteland

Nyx is the earth, the core on which the water's lie.

Nul is the power of the ever-changing tides.

Nil is the breath of wind which guides and navigates.

Together they make up the vessel which traverses the sacred waters.

Positioned equidistantly around the table they ask a question, “who is speaking to us now?”

“I am the one who cast my fire upon this world and will watch it blaze down to the very last ember.”

“And what do we seek?”

“When you can make three into one, and when you can make the inner like the outer, then you will find the keys to the kingdom of high and low... Fire, sword, war... Do you know where you really are?”

"Show us the way, Father.”

The festering breath envelopes them. “Open your eyes Sisters of the Wasteland. Here you find the reality of your garden of delight.”

The scorched earth ripples in a heat haze in front of them, A world of ash and fire, scrub and rock. A world burned clean where nothing can grow. The mountains rise with jagged peaks around them, casting unnatural shadows as they huddle together for protection and warmth. Ravens turn in the skies, the only other inhabitants of this place. Winged messengers of the coming storm.

Nil: “This cannot be.”

Nul: “This world is a carcass, picked clean by the blind.”

Nyx: “Prepare sisters, prepare. For the trouble we expect will come.”

We are dreaming again. And from this dream we cannot awaken.

The three at the table: “Who holds the keys of knowledge?”

Outside of time: “They were lost by those who would not pass themselves, and they have made it so no one else can pass.”

The three at the table: “Does Pamphile know where?”

Outside of time: “Sleep. For you should have found a better answer...”

Seeking shelter the sisters have gone to the cave to weather the storm, hiding frozen in one finite point amongst the chaos.

Clotho – spinner

Lachesis – alloter

Atropos – unturnable

As sly as snakes and as quiet as doves, sisters, see yourselves, and spin us a new tale.

A voice whispers in the Darkness. The remnants of broken threads envelop them. Then, the spark of first light. Luminescence. A refraction of quartz which has never used its reflective skin before. One solitary chamber in the belly of the beast. Airless. Deathless Grace. So cool to the touch. How long have they been there now? Like roots they have grown into the earth, percolating in their shroud.

Three days. Three Ages. Three aeons.

Time to wake up!

And at that base was a stone from the sky, one which wept blood. From this aerolite, mixed with tears, fear, and fire, they forged new blades. The daggers from heaven, born of exile. Blow by blow they hardened them until they were strong enough to rip the fabric of creation itself.

Born of fire we are forged stronger now. A warm breeze catches the spark. The dross of matter burns brightly, bringing with it the breath of intention. We will turn the wine back to water. Hand in hand and heart to heart we conjure you.

Sisters of the Wasteland together in the cave: “We call on you Mother, Mistress, First and Always.”

She comes robed in silver and night and walks in dreams and darkness amongst the lovely, baleful stars.

She: “Can you answer this? When does One become Two. Two become Three, and out of the Third comes One as the Fourth?”

Nil: “First the circle.”

Nul: “Than the square.”

Nyx: “Than the triangle.”

Body, Soul, and Spirit. Realized together they exceed the limits of Nature. The spirit is free of its fetters. The light that shines in the darkness is the fourth.

Nil: “I wish to see the sunrise.”

Nul: “I wish to feel the warmth on my skin.”

Nyx: “I wish to taste the wind.”

Let us leave this place by the secret sign told to us at our reckoning. We know the answer now. Conjunction.

Rock scraping across rock. Stone turns to liquid as if the lower vibrations of nature are working in reverse. The cave mouth opens as they slowly stumble outside. An all encompassing bombardment. New eyes, new senses, new colors. The sun burns low in the sky as the first star gleams in the twilight. The desert is awash in in oranges and reds under the cover of deepening blue. The warm wind brings a fine sand which stings like a sunburn. The wasteland remains, yet they have become a part of it now, hardened like stone sentinels. The trial is not over, the veil persists. They will not see the dawn.

A manic laugh spreads around them, rippling like a heat haze. “Do you not see with new eyes? Your wish has been granted. Nihil Extraneum.”

In that word is a heartbeat. Wake again. In that word is expansion. Psychic stretching. Incubating. Collating. It is a Solution. There is Nothing from outside.
The voice is silenced.


Reading back through it now it strikes me it might be time to stop playing Godspeed You! Black Emperor in such heavy rotation. Maybe not as it's so evocative and such a joy to write to. It's coming on midnight and I'm going to out to stare at the stars for a while and contemplate just where this is all going. As hard as I try there is no linear process to my creativity. It's all cobbled together from different pieces I pick up, discard, and then pick up again later. It's a madhouse.

Much love from where the worlds touch,

S-xx

The Storm Moon

It's the dead of night. The full moon is occulted thanks to the never ending February rains (which beats the never ending February snows by a mile). I would go and chase la luna if I could, and happily sleep under the stars. Not an option. It's just me and my strange thoughts all alone in this house. My fortunes have been rising and falling so fast they scarcely register any more. All I can do is keep one eye on the trolls partying beneath my bridge and try to focus and write.

I don't know what you all do for fun, and given my two cents I'd really rather be riding roller coasters that go upside down, or lying naked on a beach somewhere fabulous, but with the very limited means here I've been perusing Gnostic creation myths and blending them with early witchcraft texts to create my own creator cosmology for the upcoming 'Believers of the Unpure'. It's still ages away from being completed, but at least its a stone that's fun to chip away at.

So here's the story so far which I realize isn't going to make the blindest bit of sense without all the pictures, but that's the way it goes sometimes and I feel like sharing it anyway.

photo by Matthieu Boulard.

Believers of the Unpure -

 Never ask a question first without being able to handle the answer. Not of the Goddess and certainly not one older than the concept of time. She never abandoned you. She never forsake you. Step by step, she followed in the shadows. Letting you fail, and laughing when you did so. Yes, she is fearsome, but there is a beauty to her cruelty. That is where you shut down (wings of brutality flying overhead as the light drains out of the day). Conjuring. There are daemon's dreaming. Three were the norm – past, present, and future, existing all at once, or never at all. A conjuring trinity – three women were the norm. Symmetry and organization.

Could you dream them all at once and hold them within your mind's eye? This was something we once did.  Then things became confused, and we forgot. We cannot find our back home. The mirror grew dim and we lost this aspect of ourselves. You cannot pray for the truth if you cannot face the truth. How can you find your way home if you don't even realize you're lost?

The three are searching for what they already possess. Three sisters. Three stages of alchemy. White, black, red. Blood on the chessboard. They are the Fire hanging between the two pillars of creation 

“How long has she slept?” “Three days. Three Ages. Three Aeons.”

“That should do. Time to wake her.”

Did you ever call its name in the dark? Nemesis. Rex Mundi. The demiurge. The error. The defecit. Jaelousie... Can you feel it whispering the words of forgetfulness as the lights dim, and reality falls away, and you dream dreams of ecstasy, despair, and oblivion. How loving is their gaze from the shadowy corner of the room watching you sleep with psychotic glee. The one who knows there is a way home is the one who makes you forget and pulls the wool over your eyes.

“The moon is changing from milk to blood. Time to wake her.”

Once upon a time the dark Mother was endless. She was the vast Immaculate Darkness. Mistress on the sea of Infinity. Benevolent. Malevolent. These terms mean nothing and are concepts of cattle. In the center of her swirling chaos a cunning affliction unknowingly came to be. Imperfection in perfection. Creation was conjured without consent. How could perfection recognize Imperfection? And so She fell. Matter took shape and became finite. It became trapped. Days became numbers. Binding concepts. The error in the system. The Demiurge; mad, blind, and insane. But being born out of a deficit it never knew it was so, and it never knew any different. Like us all it fights craftily not to cease to exist. But our light reflects its light. Our light reflects our maker.

“May the curse, cunning, and blessing be.”

“Wake up!”

I realize I've teetered over the border of pretentiousness, but I need something to play with while praying for the sun to return and endlessly rewriting scripts that no one will ever know I've worked on anyway. I suspect I'm fumbling towards my version of illumination, or at least a reason why. Strange visions and quickening the blood is a curse as well as a blessing. Those who can read between the lines will understand exactly what I mean. 

In the meantime, here's a picture of the Storm Moon taken last night while there was a fortuitous break in the weather.

Isn't she a beauty?

Much love from where the worlds touch,

S - xx

Catching up - deep in the belly of winter

Skies are gray today and the rain comes like a continuous sheet. At least it beats snow. I'm sitting here alternately staring moodily out the window and staring moodily at the blank page in front of me. My writing gears need to be greased. I've been playing hooky. I'd love to say that I've been taking a break and collating, but that's not necessarily the case. The truth is somewhere towards the end of November my inner ferret took the wheel and adventure was on the agenda.

Believers of the Unpure. Events are set in motion. (photo by Marnie Shelton Klein)

I spent the first half of November in Los Angeles creating the beginnings of another monumental project (and something I've never tried before) with the guerrilla style old school video shoots and off the cuff film shoots. It was chaos and improv brilliantly working together. It was bold, sometimes sloppy, and always majestic and some of it still doesn't make sense... and yet it does... I start to see glimmers of the bigger picture I've been subconsciously striving towards. It's the dream which always returns. Or perhaps the personal obsessions I can never shake. But its creative time has come and it needs to get out there into the world.

Then I left for London. Beautiful, surprisingly warm London. How lovely to be in the heart of it all. A million meetings. Hopes and dreams that spin on a dagger's edge. The dream is so close at times it's only a hair's breadth away. London is affluent again and reawakening like some groggy beast. There's a creative spark in the air that is hard to deny and it feels good. It feels like things are getting done. I like this London. I like the people and the projects, and I adore the quirkiness of it all.

May I take your coat? (photo by Joel Westendorf).

Onwards, onwards to the West Country. Secrets of the craft. My first pair of wellies. Avebury. Glastonbury - all of it desolate and rain lashed. Mumps, tumps, barrow downs and ancient temples. Secret passageways and some things which would be better left alone. Standing in the inner circle of stones with the other Druids on the winter solstice in Stonehenge (thank you, Una!).

Self with arch-Druid, Rollo Maughfling the morning of the winter solstice (photo by Una Woodruff)

The first inklings of real power and the dawning realization that I can have something I have always desperately wanted. The answer was sitting in front of me all along and I just needed a shove from a wiser soul to make me actually see it. Avalon, dragon's eggs and glowing rabbits. I've fallen in love with this place and don't want to leave. I can feel magic here all around me and I want to go deeper and keep searching.

Conjuring on the full moon with arch-Druidess and artist extraordinaire, Una Woodruff. (photo by Richard Stanley).

Across the tumultuous channel to Ireland. Skies so gray and monotonous you can never tell what the time is. A chill which never recedes once it sets in your bones. Caffeine is nowhere to be found. The mission is accomplished, but this dour countryside seems obsessed with death. Death shines through candlelit windows and the stone cutters are the only business in town. Unexpected kindnesses and old friends. Christmas comes and goes with a whimper (question: Is anyone out there actually really good at celebrating Christmas? Just curious because despite some half-assed efforts, I seem to super suck at it.). Dead foxes on the road still in mid-stride. Being stuck in the middle of a horse race and watching through my fingers because they've decided to race on the pavement in the rain like total idiots. I wasn't a fan last time I visited this place and I'm still not a fan.

Trains, boats and more trains back to London. Late night soul talks in Camden Town. Templar churches. Learning Jack the Ripper's secrets. And then the heralding in of a New Year in a sort of drunken style. It's going to be another wild ride of a year, and although I can wish for peace and calm and smooth sailing, I really wouldn't have it any other way. Here's to continued adventures and successes in 2014!

Self and Richard Stanley in front of the cursed Fonthill Abbey while the daemon watches over us. (photo by Una Woodruff)

I owe debts of gratitude to many friends who took such excellent care of myself along the way and reinstated my faith in the human race. Love, love, love you guys...
California: Michele Bigler, Melissa Saint-Hilaire, Yvette Lera, Jeremy Graham, Molly McGee, Joel Westendorf.  London: Richard Stanley, Simon Boswell, Lola Gunn, Andre Price, Eski Thomas, Aimimage. North Country: Kt Mehers, Cobweb Mehers, Russell Cherrington, Sam Henderson. West Country: Una Woodruff. Ireland: Vicky S. and Jim the kilt.

Much love from where the worlds touch,

S - xx

Making wishes under the Goddess trees in Avebury. This time they're coming true... (photo by Richard Stanley).

With forgotten things forever...

I've been on the road for what seems a million miles by now. From France to Belgium than back to France to Amsterdam and then onwards to the city of lost angels. After catching my breath out in the desert for a short while, I hopped a train down to LA to make some plans for the future and get a couple of other things worked out. I have a love / hate relationship with this city like I have with a lot of things in my life. I don't like gray areas and have the inclination to see things in shades of black and white. I love all my friends here and there's a comfort in things which are familiar, but then I get overwhelmed by the vastness of it all, and I know deep inside my soul does not really resound here. Have you ever felt like an ant on a giant chessboard? That's the feeling of panic which overwhelms me here sometimes. It's irrational and unreasonable, but this place is just so damn big, and everything is larger than life. But I'm happy for the moment, although nothing ever happens as fast as I want it to, and I'm really grateful for all we've managed to accomplish in such a short time. I'm eternally grateful for my old friends who've allowed me to crash land into their lives, whirling ball of chaos that I am, and have taken care of me so well.

Did you all enjoy the Hunter's Moon last weekend? It was powerfully huge out here and the opportunity was there so we decided to put together a last minute shoot and go in guerrilla style to the Bronson Caves. Makeup choices were made a la Karin Dreijer Andersson of Fever Ray fame, and the clothes assembled from a grab bag of various gothic fashionista's. Being a moon of luck and love, and heading into the dark abyss of the creative season for projects yet unknown, I decided to have a success sigil cast. There's something to be said for the power of three, and the sigil was the fourth and silent entity.

Behind the scenes with singer Yvette Lera  who also did the makeup.

It all fell together pretty well, and the timing was near perfect. People just assumed we were shooting a promo for American Horror Story and we let them think that. It was good to cast a spell with my sisters. It was good to feel the power of the earth under my bare feet again. It was good to see the crows wheeling in the stormy skies. It was more than good to feel the thrum of an enormous moon as it crested over the mountain ridge just as twilight was breathing its last breath. Truth be told, it was pretty damn close to orgasmic. But maybe that's just me being caught up in the ritual of it all.

My time is coming to an end here and the hour grows late. I have another photo shoot in the morning and have to be at least half prepared, so I'll leave you all with a couple of test images from the Hunter's Moon shoot.

And the curse be lifted never... Melissa St. Hilaire, Self, and Yvette Lera (photo by Marnie Shelton Klein)

That shall find and leave you one... Self, Yvette Lera, and Melissa St. Hilaire (photo by Marnie Shelton Klein)

When I woke up the next morning I got the fantastic news that L'Autre Monde (The Otherworld) had won one of the top top prizes at Morbido Film Festival in Mexico. I'm beyond thrilled and wanted to say thank you to everyone involved with this truly strange and beautiful project, and give my sincerest congratulations to my compadre, Richard Stanley, on the receiving the director award. We all bled a little for this project, but he has most of all.  

Much love from where the worlds touch,

S - xx

Back from the beyond... impressions of the trail

Sometimes I don't know where to begin.Yeah, I know. Start from the beginning. But when you've been on the road for a while, life becomes an endless stream of images, events, and sensations. I like this impressionistic mode. It's less structured and the flow is more random. Like giving up the computer for a week, I think giving up the normal routine, and letting the cards fall were they may, has been very good as well.

Impressions of Sitges (Sitges Festival Internacional de Cinema Fantastic de Catalunya):

Late nights in Nirvana fueled by alcohol & karaoke, amidst the backdrop of the surf. Late mornings eating in silence with knowing smiles. People waving from a white cabana restaurant. Floating in the endless sea while it drowns the waking world away, and life measures down to one drifting cloud. Washing the sand off of tiny, sparkling seashells. Narrow, winding streets, that no matter which way you turn, always open towards the shore. Long lines of film afficianados, shifting from foot to foot, as they casually wait along the pavement for the next movie to start. Endless streams of champagne fueled gossip. Heavy graveyard marker stones of the long dead laden with surprisingly ornate art nouveau script.

Self and director Can Evrenol talk Turkey, literally. (photo by LG White Lola Gunn)

There's a continuous maelstrom of people you know from other times and places, blended with new faces, and yet everyone knows everyone in some sort of context, while they lick their wounds and celebrate their triumphs. I guess this makes it more like a past, present, and future reunion of sorts - survivors from the film fest trenches. Little dogs on leashes and sauntering feral cats lazily taunting them. Naked men walking down the shoreline casually cruising for other men. Yay, yay, for Jagermeister, and new friends to share it with. Standing outside the Prado theatre and sobbing after the documentary MILIUS had finished, feeling that life is often too cruel. Then a low grade panic sets in, and I know I have to get my ass into gear- life is also short, and there's too many things I haven't done or completed yet. More late nights talking with opinionated and smart women, who are experts in their creative fields, without the usual bullshit cattiness which goes a long way towards the last time I was there and a certain 'slee-z' level actress went out of her way to successfully obliterate the future I'd been dreaming of. Being given the sage advice I should say 'bless you' to those who do harm, and then walk away.

Composer Simon Boswell, director Richard Stanley, self, and interpreter at the fascinating and lengthy Q&A session after the L'AUTRE MONDE screening. (photo by Ivan de Castres)

Expectant faces in the q & a after the screening, and telling myself to slow down and choose my words carefully, and silently wishing I didn't feel so tongue tied when put on the spot. Autumn's chill on bare legs late into the night. Shaking sand from snowy white hotel towels. Creative sparks so bright you could literally see them in the night air. Trying desperately to figure out what the time was and never succeeding. Smoking au naturelle on the balcony and no one cares. The old chapel at the tip of the inlet being the first, and last, oddly comforting image I see when I sleep and wake up. Scrambling to see as many cool movies as possible, only there's never enough time to see them all.

RAWR!!! Director Richard Stanley, director Aram Garriga, maestro Simon Boswell, and self in front of the infamous Sitges icon. (photo by LG White Lola Gunn)

Impressions of Lausanne (Lausanne Underground Film & Music Festival):

What is old is new again. The low level buzz of youth searching for art and what their own personal meaning and interpretations are.

Apocalyptic my pretty pony! (fantasmes et tramautismes de l'enfance) photo by alexisrochatphotogtaphies

Ravens staring boldly at you in filtered sunshine and croaking rudely from ornate perches. Timeliness. Cosmic sunsets across the lake in hues of majestic golds and pinks. The magnetism of the jagged Alps rising in the distance - it's easy to see how Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein in such surroundings. Being told about the magic mushrooms which are infamous in the spot where Mary Shelley wrote her Gothic masterpiece. Wondering what strange beasts howl on their snowy slopes during such a powerful full moon. Odd mixtures of smooth modern surfaces against ornately crumbling facades. Watching A FIELD IN ENGLAND and wanting to stand up at the end and shout 'thank you for letting my make up my own mind as a viewer'.

How dead is dead? You be the judge... A FIELD IN ENGLAND

Affluence and influence, and yet always tastefully so. Spiral mists rising off the still waters of the lake in the gentle rain. The smell of Gruyere cows and the taste of real fondue. Feeling ignorant for not being bi-lingual, let alone tri-lingual. Being regaled with stories and songs from my teenage hero's. Clambering up the intense grade of the cobble-stones of Le Rue du Petite Chene every morning and realizing why everyone who lives there is so fit. Intense conversations about the supernatural and the intimate sharing of personal experiences. People who felt like family even though I'd only met them for the first time. The purr of a finely tuned engine. Civilized tea houses and pastry shops for as far as the eye can see. Did I mention chocolate? And more chocolate? Being lost and tired, and more lost after getting conflicting directions. Then, a taxi magically showing up out of nowhere to save us. Falling asleep during an underground movie from the 70's only to happily lucidly dream a whole new plot. Action versus reaction, and being surrounded by the hopeful faces of people who are good to their word. This place is full of secrets.

See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. Director Richard Stanley, self, and the mighty Jello Biafra in front of the H.R. Giger museum in Gruyere. I still haven't fully processed the genius of this place, but promise to write as much as possible about it in the very near future. Talk about inspiration!

The hour grows late and my grammar is getting worse by the minute. Needless to say a very good time was had by all. It was just great to be there and be a part of the surroundings. I felt really lucky and grateful in turns. And I owe a big 'thank you' to all the festival organizers, and hospitality people, who made sure we were taken care of so spectacularly. Like I've said before, travel and new places quicken the blood, it's like a transfusion for creativity. With the turning of the seasons and winter coming on, I know it's time to roll up the sleeves and focus on getting the next Saurimonde book finished. It'll be a turbulent journey, but like always, I hope you'll be along for the ride...

Much love from where the world's touch,

S-xx

Magical Mystery Trail...

I've been here. I've been there... Actually, I've been finishing up a couple of projects and embarking on a new one which I will be announcing soon. Time has become more scarce than I would wish it to be. In a perfect world I would get up (notice I skipped the word morning), take a long walk through the forest, and have a croissant and some cafe au lait. Then I would sit down at my desk, in my comfy chair, and get down to business and put all the crazy thoughts crowding my brain down onto the page. But who's world is perfect? Certainly not mine. In my existence it's a beautiful and sad fact that chaos reigns.

So I figured as I'm up pulling another all-nighter that I'd make a couple of announcements:

Next stop on the magical mystery trail. The new mind-wrenching documentary, L'AUTRE MONDE (THE OTHERWORLD), will be playing at the Sitges Film Festival on Tuesday, October 15 at 16:30 at the Prado. Please come and join myself (co-writer), director Richard Stanley, composer Simon Boswell, and producer Fabrice Lambot (Metaluna Productions) for the screening. Then, because the dagger never stops spinning, it's onwards to The Lausanne Underground Film & Music Festival (LUFF) where it will be screening on October 17 at 22:30 (Paderewski), and October 19 at 16:15 (Zinéma - Salle Thierry Jobin). Be there or be square!

Speaking of being square, I'm still wondering what to wear and staring at my clothes in horror as I always do before a film festival. I don't hate them. They don't hate me - they're just well-worn. I need to be seriously hit up by the glamour fairy and she seems to have headed to south with the warm weather. It's nothing a little spackle and possibly a beach can't fix. It'll do. It'll have to. 

I've gotta run... Planes, trains, and automobiles to catch and connections to make... 

Much love from where the world's touch,

S. - xx