Places I Meant to Be: The Writings and Photography of Emily, the Hyper Faerie

I don't quite recall how we met--it must have been through one LJ community or another. However that happened, this self-described "average actress/writer/poet/freak/dork/daydreamer/sick-minded individual" charmed me with her writings about places I'd never been, but wished to be. She can take a city and make it come alive, the sights and smells and hidden corners, colors and flashes of light and the taste of a Cosmo cupcake or shades of emotion in the passers-by. They make me want to toss on some gypsy anklets and have a wandering day in a city I don't quite know yet--and you'll want to come along.

Photo by Emily C.

One Foot on Sea and One on Shore: Stratford, Ontario

There is a little tea boutique a few blocks down selling rosemary jelly (rosemary reminds me of Ophelia--pray you love, remember) and tea buds that bloom like flowers in hot water. Lyrical Asiany names-- Lotus Lamp. Phoenix Eyes. Jade Guan Yin. White Jasmine Moon. Wild Love. Pearl in a Shell. I buy tiny tight-fisted greenish buds tied with jasmine called Rishi Fairy Girl--psychedelic flowery orbs for delicate pixie-lady sadhus to imbibe in between their meditations and mischief. Nextdoor is P'Lovers Eco-Store, named for the sea bird and also for P'lanet Lovers; they have patchwork hoodies and pewter pocket tokens adorned with angels, dolphins, faeries, Oms. The whole place smells like sage and lavender and aloe from organic beauty products. The banister knobs leading upstairs have sock puppet covers with funny stories attached: some sockpeople are Finnish dancer exchange students, others purple-black caped vampires.

Faeries by the Sea: Part I, Oslo, Norway and Part II, Brighton, England

Brighton reminds me of a Joni Mitchell song--the sea breezes carrying the sweet melancholy cries of gulls, the tiny cobblestone alleyways lined with pastel-painted boutiques selling sparkly things which look good enough to eat and colorful sweets looking good enough to wear. The bright lights and dazzling cacophony of the touristy little carnival at the Pier. Street performers' songs following you down the blocks where Tarot readers and local artists sell their wares. The Royal Pavilion like Kubla Khan's stately pleasure-dome, all Taj Mahal turrets and overgrown gardens outside, and inside Chinese dragons,snakes, and lotuses decorating every surface of decadent chandeliered dining rooms, plush rococo parlors full of mirrors and lacquered harpsichords, and colorful ballrooms with gilded cockle-shells lining the high ceilings.

The South Side: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Driving down the long long street – on which I have tested my mettle by marching up and down it three times in the cold during and after an anti-war protest– you feel like you're on the Sunset Strip, or a river flowing to exotic locales. Parking down there's shit but who cares; it's worth it to drive around for a bit as long as you can hang out there later. It unfolds before you – storefronts, ethnic restaurants, bars (so many bars), cars full of drunken guys speeding down the street like maniacs, punks loitering, theater-goers speed-walking to shows, and so much more– and it goes on and on until you reach the more corporate chain part but even that's still kinda cool, only not as much as the lower parts of Carson Street. And once your feet tread the pavement you know you're there; you can feel it. So much coolness with a little bit of edgy danger thrown in to spice things up a bit, dark with light shining through, an urban jungle with magic lurking around the corners.

p.s.OMGWTFNIPPLE