Gabe stopped by tonight (he's always a pleasure). If you're a regular, chances are you've met this cheerful soul. Tonight the conversation somehow led to the esoteric realm of dreams and ghosts. He had stories of a terror filled re-occurring dream and of a tiny, century-old haunted apartment in Bellingham. I was on the edge of my seat, and found myself thanking G O D everlasting that I'd never been through either of those experiences. I grew up believing that there was no such thing as a ghost, and the closest I ever got to a night terror was running away from a giant chicken--is that the way it went?--that was trying to eat me and my brothers and sister.
As kids, we weren't allowed to entertain the idea of having the all-to-popular-and-enticing séance, and the very thought of a ouija board was in the least sacrilegious. The first time I ever touched one of these notorious boards was as a sophomore in college. The result scarred my psyche, and, though tempted, I haven't been back since. Perhaps it is because of my relatively haunt-free childhood that the mysterious and transcendental represent ultimate romanticism to me. For me, the fact that Keats had death lurking at his shoulder while he wrote infuses his poetry with something far beyond what was meant for mere mortals to understand, and most definitely infected his thoughts of life itself. Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a prime example of the romantic appeal of phantoms, and we see romantic couplings of the dead, undead, and spirit world all the time. Romanticism speaks to our fascination with the unknown, and our urge to experience it while alive. 
First sign of life this spring. Pink roses.
Yohji Yamamoto fashion pic from REUTERS blog
Keats death mask pic from englishhistory.net
<3 fringe vintage
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