Tag Archives: bohemian

just a little more Jeanne…

I’ve always been into fantasy living spaces; tree houses a la Swiss Family Robinson, rambling secret apartments a la C.S. Lewis, impossible hallways and rooms a la House of Leaves.  I think a roulotte would be managable and realistic and just might fill my craving for romantic, bohemian, nomadic (apparently there’s Rom blood in these veins) living.  This style in particular would make a kick ass studio.  I could do tarot readings on a small pedestal table just outside with the cats weaving their way around the legs of guests and amongst the wildflowers.  Add in the Shetland pony and it’s basically my dream come true.



Filed under domestics

J. Morgan Puett stole my life

For reals. The bitch is living the bohemian life I’m supposed to be living. True story. A vedic astrologer told me so. She stole my totem animals; bees & crows. Another true story. A traditional first nations healer told me so. I know, I know. Totem animals are supposed to be dark and edgy, but I’m quite happy with the thought that my spirit guides are are busy bumbling lazily from flower to flower or being distracted by shiny things and bits of string. I don’t care that it means I’m a fickle child. She stole my fashion aesthetic and she anthropomorphises clothing the way I do. And ‘Seussian‘ is my adjective. I made it up in 1992 whilst describing to my father the dining chairs and stair rails I want him to make for me. I have fellow blogger and lover of decay, Leslie, for helping me to discover the transgression. One day I’m going to waltz right up to Ms. Puett’s front door and demand it all back…or propose and hope that she’ll keep me in the manner to which I would like to become accustomed in return for sexual favours, great food and hours of mindless entertainment.

In the meantime, you can read more about my life here, here, & here.

And have some more eye candy too:

Maybe we don’t need to get hitched at all. I could just live in the chicken coop and be her back door Jezebel.

Oh my. Shiney, shiney, dusty books and magnolias and stuffed dead things. How could I not love her?

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Filed under artgasms, domestics