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We're All Gonna Die, So.

Happy All Saints, All Souls, Samhain, Day of the Dead, Diwali, or other festival of mortality! We're all gonna die, so let's love it up while we're together.

This year, my family kicked off the season of sweet sorrow by dressing as the three best members of the Addams Family to trick-or-treat at a local park. It's a good thing we took that opportunity for a Halloween "dress rehearsal," because it turned out to be the only chance we had to put on our mysterious and spooky drag this year. Our poor little Wednesday caught the public school pukes two Tuesdays in a row, held out through the next one, and succumbed to a third bout on the morning of Halloween. Sometimes, you spend all month grooming your Gomez mustache (pictured above left) or your Morticia nails (one of which I bent backwards but was able to save--oh, the beautiful agony) and then trick-or-treating is canceled anyway. C'est la vie. We shall carve a pumpkin and roast its seeds for our departed ancestors tonight instead.


In the spirit of dark romance inspired by Morticia and Gomez, however, my husband and I went on a delightful date and joined the Super Secret Cult... Band for an evening show. The SSCB was started by an old friend of ours who founded a rather Lynchian little theatre in an artsy neighborhood. One of his two incredibly talented bandmates describes the act as "celebrating the existential absurdity of the everyday. In this day and age, there’s a lot of material to work with." The doo-wop-influenced set began with a song claiming that "Every Consipiracy Theory Is Real," which fully convinced us to go ahead with the Phase I initiation ceremony.

Right up the road, another friend has started another gem of a small business, where she sells refurbished antique and new vintage-inspired fine jewelry, including this exquisite piece honoring her father.



Meanwhile, I am still honing my own macabre craft by seeking final (for now) feedback on my latest completed novel, Leirah and the Wild Man. I am reading the perilous and anguished latest work of Janet Fitch (Chimes of a Lost Cathedral), and I am listening to Super Secret Cult Band, of course, and also the surprisingly subdued recent single by Lindemann, "Ich weiß es nicht," a touching meditation on traumatic dissociation that resonates perfectly with the middle chapters of Leirah's saga. Ooh, chills.


And more importantly, regardless of whether I'm wearing the wig, I am channeling Morticia's all-accepting warmth, gratitude, generosity, hedonism, twisted creativity, and passionate love for her husband and family. I am remembering those who have gone before us while remembering to cherish and enjoy all the friends, family, and pleasures of life available to me now, in this unique and irreplaceable moment, whatever it may offer.

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