“Aieeee.”
The witch’s white hair swooshed over my face when she dropped from the ceiling dangling on the chains that stopped her right above me. I was an elementary school kid at a haunted house and giggled relieved while the ghost train rattled on its old rails around squeaky dark turns where skeletons and monsters waited to scare me further.
Such fun to feel fear knowing that it isn’t real and I was in control but as I was a nerdy kid the novelty of boos wore off fast. I was a child of the Old Continent, of deep and dark Europe with its long and tempestuous history, frightening legends, and century-old castles and dwellings. I was steeped in the mysterious vibes of old Catholic churches, Latin Sunday sermons and wafts of Frankincense evoking yearning and medieval magic. Fairy tales of the Brother’s Grimm with poisonous apples, murderous wolves, forever disappearing children, boiling cauldrons, chopped limbs and warped witches had wrapped me into their dark wings; I wasn’t into easy scares. I was also a ponderer of reality at a pretty young age and pretty sure of being an alien. I rolled my eyes at silly humans afraid of mechanical puppets with big teeth.
I had heard whispers though of ghosts coming alive at midnight on “all martyrs” day and, open to believe in the impossible, I pulled my covers over me and made sure I was asleep before midnight. I wasn’t ready to meet any ghosts or wear crazy costumes to fight them off. Ghosts who could appear in my reality would be too smart to mistake my mask for the real me. Why didn’t people get that?
Two decades later I met the ghost of my diseased mother staring at me from an arm chair like an evil empress.
“Leave me be. Stop judging me.”
She scared me.
I was always more into my “real” of things, which also means that I see visions, fantasies and desires - and costumes - as “real” or real opportunities of gaining insight and strength.
The theater of fashion is my daily art and a story book of discoveries.
I didn’t need Halloween. I was in character on social media every day dressing my thoughts and feelings; my truth with all her ghosts and magical creatures.
I didn’t need sugar highs and crazy parties lit by plastic jack-o-lanterns where I’d meet men and women mostly in prefab costumes from big warehouses; witches, Cleopatras, Wonder Women and many pirates. Where was the sense of that? To loosen up for this kind of lighthearted fun I'd need a bottle of Tequila.
Let go of what you think you know….
I felt compelled to go on one of my spontaneous photo outings in the afternoon of October 31, a shoot featuring my new storytelling leggings. I like black and yellow and chose yellow leopard boots, a yellow belt and hey, this French ancient looking coat sported yellow tie dye. I could finally show this one too.
The perfect backdrop called me into an alleyway, to the gates of a mysterious church back yard. The black Angel’s wings backpack had arrived today from China after ordering it on IG - and then forgetting that I did - half a year ago. I loved it; it was the perfect accessory for my mysterious storytelling dark side.
One of the pictures expressing my surprise turned out to be perfect for the day. I gave in to Halloween.
Why so serious? I thought. My pants talked gibberish already. I’ll make this into my Halloween costume. I stayed true to my independent rebel princess; let the pig tails scare away those grown up suitors.
““If you want to be the queen of your life you have to be the rebel against your limitations first.””
I slung my vintage power coat like a cape. The location and the feeling of the coat warped me into the Count of Monte Cristo’s Paris. The metal gates and crosses of my Catholic childhood let me feel the flames of pyres and requested that I’d “rattle my limitations.” I wrote under the picture;
“If you want to be the queen of your life you have to be the rebel against your limitations first.”
Comments on the photos on IG described me as a “heroine in her cape.“ I paused and looked again. I felt a story unraveling.
Was there more to Halloween?
Were there indeed souls peaking through from the other side whispering wisdom? Was the separation between “here and there” thinner on this night like the ancients believed? I always proclaim that “outfits talk to me”. My ghosts made me play with clothes on Halloween, “Believe it, we do!!” Pretty damn obvious “on the nose” as the screen writer says.
I read up on Halloween’s history. In the old days people made their costumes; they were individual power suits to fend off the scary and completed by masks hiding or augmenting the identity of their wearer.
Theatrical exaggeration is a cool tool for awareness.
“They had nothing better to do,” you might say. Who has the time today to get into the full blown spirit of this spooky night, meditate about the absolute perfect dress up and then make it too?
When I walked the trick and treat streets of my neighborhood last year with my dog, a spectator passing dozens of witches, Wonderwomen and pirates I felt that I was right to avoid Halloween dress up as too trivial. Yet I also felt elevated by the joy of smiling faces and embraced by the feast of passionate colors and flickering lights form candles in lanterns and bonfires.
After many pink princesses, toddling tigers and tiny batmen I met a girl in a black petticoat dress, a crown on her cute blonde head.
“I’m not a princess,” she said with a piercing glance into my questioning eyes and right into my soul,
“I am a black queen.”
Girl you’re maybe ten. I wasn’t that woke with forty!
Her image stayed with me. Like on time release for when the time is right, I looked her shadowy royalty up this year. I found the Black Madonna and Lilith but no black queen. The girl had created her. She had walked her story in black lace and velvet ruffles as an avatar of her dreams. I had started my avatar on Instagram two years ago slowly reviving my truth and magic like in a sorceress lab; cleaning up and organizing my Queendom to come.
I was the “heroine in her cape.”
The little girl had foreshadowed my path. I had become my own, rebelliously reinvented queen.
I had intuitively styled my Rebel Queen with her sword of fearless uniqueness and the scepter of a mischievous smile, the woman I had arrived in after many journeys and so many temptations to leave my truth for the pretty little lady pictures my followers rewarded me for with many more likes.
Everything is always there but we have to look at it with open eyes to make it real.
Schroedinger’s cat is a Halloween cat, I thought as my middle name, Regina, the queen sparkled. I had disregarded the name, disliking the regal archetype as a traditionally stiff, regimented ruler in uptight robes and weird hats. The sexy princess was rebellious fun at the beginning of my IG journey but I never wanted to be a queen. I would never feel incomplete without a king, which was part of her annoying description.
I stayed true to my rebel girl in my Halloween picture; let the pig tails scare away boring grown-up-ness and grown up suitors alike.
“Are you coachable?” asked a business coach on the phone in a loud and threatening voice.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
I didn’t book her but I took it as a sign to be open, to listen and observe. My life not offering me an effortless throne to my inner majesty had caused my rebellion through decades. I had felt entitled to ‘more’ but aristocracy isn’t inherited it is earned. I earned it with fierce selfies, by fashion&stories embodying my 16 year-young self, my wild and sexy, my aversions against lady-like and age appropriate behavior. I earned it by fighting for my real against the odds. When I found the treasures of what I really wanted in my formerly tantrum throwing princess, I grew up. My way. I accepted the idea of the queen, a woman in her power.
There was more to Halloween.
Now I was alerted. There must be a message in the gibberish on my storytelling pants. It took me a couple minutes to turn them up and down before I found a few real and coherent words.
“Chaos is a ladder. Some are given a ladder. The climb is all there is.”
I stared at my wild cat booties.
“You’re standing in your untamable spirit,” they said.
Halloween is a celebration of our harvest.
Don’t be so serious. Dress your child-like innocence. Play. Believe in magic. Those had been my messages throughout the year. My ghosts messaged me: Rake in the empowerment of your affirmations; you are your avatar. Believe in your own creation.
A warrioress will earn her royalty in many journeys and battles.
I look at Halloween different now; it can be an amazing storyteller getting us to plunge a little deeper into our human make up; how many hidden ghosts swirl in our psyche, bullies or beneficiaries alike and influence our daily actions and outlook on life?
Only when they’re visible we can scare them away or harvest their gifts.
Questions for Halloween 2020
What did the costume you wore this year mean to you? Why did it matter to you? Did you feel your lineage of witches, the power of Poison Ivy, the mischievous of the mermaid? Do they have a message for you?
What attracts us to a costume and its inherent archetype?
Who would we be as a powerful person to scare away evil? Which evil? What’s hindering us?
What would we wear to express our deepest desires, the not yet fulfilled?
What mask would we chose to hide our truth or show our truth?
What can Halloween costumes do for us?
Scare away ghosts, inner and outer ones
Evoke power
Feel connected to magic, to a deeper meaning of life
Connect to other witches, Aliens etc….
Message our deepest thoughts
Reveal our secrets in a playful way
Dress up a hidden self
Attract your like minded tribe
What can “costumes” for us in daily life?
See above.
Life is like the Legend of Zelda.
After the harvest comes winter. I am in a new “map” with new challenges and monsters, new allies and oracles. I love the eerie sound of the Occarina of time and who knows what can happen without the pigtails of resistance.
“There’s no stopping for the wanderer on her path to fulfillment.””
Here’s an idea for 2020, https://www.festivalofthedead.com/witchesball/