The Luniferous Gazette #35: That Time I Thrifted a Fashionista

She is the Moment – And So are You

*

As the last issue was rather philosophical in nature, this week’s gazette shall be devoted to an utterly ludicrous affair—the proper appreciation of this singular diva currently hanging on a peg on my wall. 

I thrifted her from my local Savers for about thirteen dollars. She’s such a large pendant that she easily over-spans the palm of my hand. She’s not one to be stuffed in a jewelry drawer. No, this signature piece deserves to be displayed to study the fascinating combination of all her bold and subtle details. Designed by Karla Jordan, my Google lens investigations reveal that she is a vintage abalone construct most likely from the 1980’s. In some lights, her hat gleams deep pink, in other slants, an almost blazing red hue. I adore her. 

However, I must admit that my other family members’ reactions have been rather mixed: “hideous, tacky—absolutely fabulous!—definitely ‘a look’ that must be planned carefully.” I suppose I can agree with all three assessments of my newfound fashionista. What is a “fashionista,” precisely? The Oxford Dictionary gives us two possibilities, a “fashion designer,” or “someone who is always dressed in a fashionable way.” And she amply deserves that title in my opinion. She pairs so well with polka dots, after all . . .

And transitions easily from such ladylike elegance to the fierce, feline charisma of leopard spots. 

I wouldn’t go so far as to declare her a “neutral,” perhaps more the surprise chameleon of fashion accessories! But what of a name? At first glance, she bears a striking resemblance to a certain cinematic “Amélie,” but her faraway eye never meets another human’s gaze, lending her an untouchable air of dreamy composure. Upon deeper reflection, I believe she appears to be a lady who enjoys reading mystery novels by the poolside while sipping from ice-chilled goblets, so perhaps I shall call her “Agatha!” Yes, that’ll do nicely. 

Dear Agatha, I’m glad I discovered you on the middle shelf of the thrift store’s jewelry counter. I could hardly miss you and your gaudy aura of self-possession. 

Her confidence and soft-curled bob remind me of a well-loved 1951 book that belonged to my mother, The Seagulls Woke Me by Mary Stolz. Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced my copy, so I am relying on vivid fragments of memory from my own reading. 

The protagonist, Jean, is a young teenager whose entire identity has been controlled by her mother down to the last detail. She is not allowed to cut her burdensome long hair, a “mane of glory” that is always bound tightly to her head. She is also forced to wear frumpy clothing at social functions that embarrasses her around her peers—including a particularly sad “taupe” dress, if I recall correctly. 

Yet Jean gains the courage to discover her own style when she decides to go to St. Kethley that summer, an island off Maine where her uncle runs a hotel. Cutting her heavy locks off to free her trapped curls, sixteen-year-old Jean embarks on a personal journey to become her true self (*and incidentally, also gains a handsome summer crush). I think every human goes through such phases of change, sometimes multiple times in our life, where we tear free from old selves and experiment with a new way of being. 

I wonder if the person who owned this pendant before me felt free and gorgeous when she donned the hatted lady. Did her necklace also inspire a sassy sense of aplomb and grace as she stepped out to face a new day? This Valentine’s, may we all wear whatever makes us feel bold, or comfy, or quietly beautiful. You don’t have to dress for anyone but yourself. You don’t need to be iconic, or take pictures, or share them, unless you want to—but I hope you feel worthy of existing in your own skin as you are now.  

I have almost no photos of my mother in the last decade of her life because she had low self-esteem due to chronic health problems that affected her body image. I wish I could tell her that I loved her exactly as she was, fiercely, in every moment that I had the privilege to know her. 

And I want to embrace my own brief moment on Earth with all the fearless poise of abalone Agatha!

She is the moment:
Vintage fashionista queen—
Ever in style.

Source:

“Fashionista.” Oxford Learner’s Dicitonaries.com.
https://www.oxfordlearnersdictionaries.com/us/definition/english/fashionista

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #34: Salt and Sugar Musings on Okaloosa Island

Erasing the Space Between Thought and Being

* 

Please enjoy these captured flashes of sight and sound from Okaloosa Island taken last week: 

I was born with a brain that rarely shuts up, and this mental susurrus cuts deeply sometimes. Yet I can always find respite in the unruly rhythm of the ocean. It’s too loud to ignore or overcome. Its vast wildness must be heeded. Duly humbled, I readily surrender my tangled thoughts to the wholeness of the sea. 

Perhaps this heron senses the immense totality, too? The complete creature breathing over Earth in soft curls of foam and salty spray . . .

The sea breezes soothe my internal head gale with a relentless lullaby of waves, reminding me: 

 

I’m just another sand speck on the shoreline of time, a brief bonding of matter and thought that will be pounded into oblivion in a temporal gust one day. 

Wandering beside the waves allows me to feel the edges of my own insignificant parameters. How could I not next to a fiercely fluid body that envelops 71 percent of our planet? Sometimes, with continents and capitols stuck in the craw of my consciousness, I forget the blue side of Earth where there’s barely any dry dirt visible from space. Yet the Ocean rolls in sapphire solitude while we stick things clamor over landmasses. 

Know your smallness. I think it’s the only way for us to reconnect with everything else. Yet sometimes, we get so bogged down in our own unique desires and dreams, desperate to leave some kind of mark that time won’t take away . . . 

Our fate was always set for ultimate erasure. Still, I naively wish it was possible for humanity to understand itself better first. Terribly trite, but I make no apologies for that starry-eyed girl who grew up on Star Trek, and once believed.

Did you know that if the space between the atoms in every human body was erased, you could shrink our entire species down to the volume of a sugar cube? All our genetic data, tragedies, and triumphs compressed into a tiny object that rests easily in the palm of a hand. Would that inescapable closeness link all our minds in some grand heaven or hell? I wonder. Some shimmering horizons seem almost impossible to imagine anymore . . . 

What if to be human, a conscious being, is to become in some ways unshareable? Set apart, each thought a million light years from every truly fathoming the deepest core of another’s heart? Maybe so. But I reject those bonds and bounds! And I will leave this last golden sun song from my time in Okaloosa with you, a small offering from my own shattered wishes.

  

Sources:

“Just how Big is the Ocean?” Smithsonian Natural History Museum. ocean.si.edu.

https://ocean.si.edu/planet-ocean/seafloor/just-how-big-ocean

“A Different View of Earth.” Smithsonian Natural History Museum. ocean.si.edu.

https://ocean.si.edu/planet-ocean/different-view-earth

Sundermier, Ali. (30 August 2016) “You Could Fit The Entire Human Race Into A Sugar Cube — And 13 Other Facts To Put The Universe Into Perspective.” iflscience.com

https://www.iflscience.com/you-could-fit-the-entire-human-race-into-a-sugar-cube-and-13-other-facts-to-put-the-universe-into-perspective-37650

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #33: My Dear Little Viand

Draconic Advice for Mortal Crumbs

*For reasons that shall remain unexplained until a later date, this issue is short and entirely fictional.

Viands: "Articles or dishes of food, now usually of a choice or delicate kind" (Dictionary.com). 

My Dear Little Viand,

I know you’re terribly afraid right now. You don’t feel like you are enough for this moment. And you aren’t, not really—not even a mealy mouthful worth crunching between my fangs. But what you lack in mortal substance, you make up for in scrumptious gumption.

You can’t measure that. You can’t squash it under claw. No matter how small you crush  a quantum of courage, a stubborn fleck always survives and flutters free. What a delicious intangibility! I think you call that iron flavor “free will”?

Please remember: I didn’t spare your life all those years ago just to watch you crumble now. You’re not a cookie. Trust me, I would’ve downed you in a gulp with a barrel of fresh cream if that were so.

You’re only human, and for such a brief snatch of seasons, too! But you’re also exactly the right amount of spice and spark breathed into being by the universe today. And I believe your heart will always be big enough to hold a million times more stars than seconds in this life. Gleam on in the gloaming tide, Little Grit. 

Yours in eternal ravening,

Antiquarius

Source:

"Viand.”

https://www.dictionary.com/browse/viand

Collins English Dictionary — Complete & Unabridged" 2012 Digital Edition © William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. 1979, 1986 © HarperCollins Publishers 1998, 2000, 2003, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2009, 2012

The Luniferous Gazette #32: A Thousandth of a Gleam

Our Biophotonic Birthright

“No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.” 
-Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own. 

I love this short and simple triad of sentences penned by Virginia Woolf—especially in January, the start of a new year. Societal expectations often dictate the formation of grand, character-building resolutions now! Yet the rush to shine as fiercely and quickly as possible can be utterly exhausting and counterproductive. Sometimes, a deep winter hibernation is in order. Or perhaps just a quiet determination that need not be spoken aloud, just sheltered in the heart.

No need to hurry . . . 

Did you know that your body glows? The gleam is just 1000 times too dim for your eyes to perceive it. Metabolic reactions turn energy into bioluminescence. But this light is “ultraweak,” meaning that the human gaze will never be sensitive enough to see the biophotons that are our birthright. 

No need to sparkle . . . 

Whether our sheen is just a thousandth of a gleam or a solar flare of creativity, beauty and power that dazzles many, the tiny shimmer in our cells will last until our final breath on Earth. There is something comforting in knowing this constant flicker is always a part of me. 

No need to be anybody but oneself . . .   

Sometimes I feel that the older I get, the less sure I am of anything—especially myself. But I do know that I won’t be announcing inktacular writing goals anymore. I’ve heard that such splendiferous pronouncements can bypass the steady, boring growth of hard work and hit the brain’s reward center too early. Why disrupt my innate motivation by breaking out the celebratory pom-poms prematurely?

Instead, I shall scribble dark starlight quietly with my diamondiferous writing group for a solid chunk of months. Some sparkles, like the last shining grit of Fantasia, must be held closer than a whisper until it’s finally time to let them go. 

I do have one monthly Artweaver goal to share today, though. I’m getting back into drawing horses again! My mom adored those creatures above all other animals on Earth, raising her daughters on The Black Stallion, Black Beauty, Flicka, and all horse-related adventures. I suppose it was only natural that I would fall in love with them, too. After rummaging through my old art supplies, I even found my cherished horse sketch books:

While I’m quite rusty at equine art, I’m determined to pursue the noble form once more. I must admit that I chuckled when I ran across this quotation by Paul Brown in Drawing the Horse: “Lots of people, especially artists, say that the horse is one of the most beautiful things that God ever made but the d---dest thing to draw. Nonsense. He is beautiful all right, and there is no more pleasant thing to sketch.” 

I agree! Presenting January, the first of twelve dreams I dedicate to the Year of the Horse (*it begins on February 17th of 2026, so this horse is an early admission): 

Sources:

Brown, Paul. Drawing the Horse: Gaits, Points, and Confirmation. Van Nostrand Reinhold Company. 1981. 

Masaki Kobayashi, Daisuke Kikuchi, and Hitoshi Okamura. Edited by Joseph Najbauer. July 16, 2009. “Imaging of Ultraweak Spontaneous Photon Emission from Human Body Displaying Diurnal Rhythm.” <https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC2707605/>

~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #31: A Review of Not A Lot of Reasons to Sing, but Enough

 A Novel by Kyle Tran Myhre with Art by Casper Pham

* 

 “I will write. For the whisper of a possibility that it might matter. For the fun of it if it doesn’t.” 
—Kyle Tran Myhre 

I must confess that I was given this book by friends for my birthday last year, but only just finished it this January. I thought I would tear through it quickly, but after reading only a few pages, I quickly realized that this was no afternoon page skimmer. This was a story that would shatter my mind and make my heart ache as the ink pushed me to question what it means to be human . . . and a writer. 

Was I ready for it then? Nope. I set the whispering pages aside and forgot about the book until the start of this new year. I’m so glad I finally sat down with it and breathed in the soul-deep syllables. Now I’m ready to review Not a Lot of Reasons to Sing, But Enough by Kyle Tran Myhre, featuring art by Casper Pham. 

The tale is set in a dystopian future on the moon. The human populace—descended from exiled prisoners dumped on lunar soil with their prior memories of Earth stripped away—are now dying of a deadly plague even as their society fractures under tyrannical forces. The format is broken into a series of poems, conversations and correspondence between different characters, each record a prism that shines a different slant on a civilization on the verge of annihilation. Amid this clamor, the journey of two poets (the human Nary and the robot Gyre) spans the pages with both grief and hope.  

The poets contend that writing is not just an abstract hobby, but rather a vital way for people to connect on a historical and ancestral level of existence (Tran Myhre 25). As Nary notes of the act of writing poetry, “It’s about how we take all the random stuff swirling around inside of our bodies—the frustration, the fear, the courage, the darkness, the desire—and we translate it into images, into stories, into something we can hold in our hands and give to someone else” (24). 

(Spoiler ahead)

Yet despite Nary and Gyre’s best efforts to engage the minds of their lunar listeners, their final fates are left in question for the reader . . . . 

In some ways, this story reminds me of another one of my favorite sci-fi tales, the verse novel Aniara by Harry Martinson. The people stuck on the errant spaceship Aniara are doomed, too. It’s also a study of humanity as all options for salvation are winnowed away one by one and we must face ourselves completely alone, at the end.

Who are you then?

Who am I? 

When overwhelmed by what needs fixing, or worse, can’t be fixed, what’s the point of creating art in life? 

Art, anyway.  

Perhaps the point is to simply take another step. As the robot Gyre reminds us, “You do not have to have a map of the entire galaxy to know in which direction to start walking” (156). 

Ultimately, Tran Myhre contends, it is through our art that we can truly learn from one another. But we need to keep doing the hard work of showing up, revising, listening, sharing and growing together (157).   

At the start of the story, lunar school children are asked to write “I am from” poems. I was struck by the innocent mirror of a young mind reflecting on our planet, Earth:

“I am from a place I’ve never been, although I’d like to go there someday. A whole world floating above us. Maybe there is someone who looks like me looking down at this moon, wondering” (16).   

I give this book *ALL THE STARS.* I know I will be re-reading it again, for the rest of my life, as my wrinkles settle deeper and the frayed song of being human only grows keener. 

Work Cited:

Tran Myhre, Kyle. Art by Casper Pham. Not A Lot of Reasons to Sing, But Enough. Button Publishing Inc., Minneapolis. 2022.

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #30: What I Take from Niagara Falls . . .

And Leave in the Vortex.

~*~ 

“Everything flows, nothing stands still.” 
― Heraclitus  

When my family member M invited me on a road trip last fall, I was excited as I’m easily lost and would never venture on such a voyage alone. Thanks to her superior navigation skills, I found myself visiting Niagara Falls for the first time ever in my life. I was born on the East Coast and spent many years there, but sometimes it takes moving far away to realize what you missed. 

From afar, the falls are quite obviously magical, an indisputable grand marvel of nature…

 

 

So much so, at night, our species gather along the shores and throw gigantic, scheduled sparkle stars into the air . . .

 

 

But do you dare to move your feet a little closer into the zone of relentless back spray from Niagara Falls, puny human? You will shiver against glistening-wet iron railings just to catch a wider glimpse of its veiled beauty lit up against evening skies . . .

 

 

You’ll battle chattering teeth because you don’t want to miss the evening parade of gem box colors—from pearly white to ruby red, shimmering gold, sapphire blue, aquamarine and alluring auras of emerald green . . .

 

 

Follow me for a stroll inside the tunnels under Niagara Falls where wishes are tossed freely into the waters, nameless and bright as full moons and spilled suns. Go on and make a wish, but I’ll never tell you mine—some secrets are meant only for the clarity of crystal-clear currents. 

 

Emerge from the tunnels only to blink in startled awe as the roar of the falls suddenly kisses your skin— 

 

Or, for a different panorama, ascend the Skylon Tower and peer down at the ferries bobbing like tiny toy ships in the fierce currents of the falls . . .   

 

 

Now, do you dare to take a ferry yourself? Feel your own smallness down to the deepest cell in your bones? For up close, the falls are utterly ferocious and will swallow all your senses whole!

 

 

I must confess that the silver thunder of the falls mesmerized me, drowning out my noisy consciousness. And I was grateful for that. The wind coming off the falls blew sideways and pummeled my ears, almost driving through my skull like an invisible spear. Still, I pressed eagerly against the ferry’s railing—

 

 

*Photo by M. Special thanks for letting me borrow your RainSisters jacket, which held up admirably against the falls and was far more fashionable than my flimsy plastic poncho. 

 

I wanted all of it, the sheer humbling and raw wonder shaking my skeleton and nerve bundles to the last quark. I didn’t feel real, more like a flickering dream wavering in and out of existence in a liquid holodeck. The sound and the spray soaked into my dehydrated decades and imprinted me with nature’s sternest reminder—

Nothing stays still. Everything flows through, then away . . .  

Sometimes, though, it doesn’t feel that way. There are days, months, years even, when our life tangles up into impossible knots. Or maybe vortexes. 

Until last year, I didn’t know that just a few miles from the legendary falls, the Niagara Whirlpool swirls with deadly counterclockwise lethality. Gazing down upon the vicious white currents from the high safety of a viewing platform, I could feel the bone-deep shiver traveling through my DNA:

Not safe. 

Yet curious thrill-seekers can ride an antique cable car over the whirlpool, and stare straight down into its voracious maw . . . 

Some have even tried to traverse the whirlpool as far back as the ill-fated swim of the intrepid Captain Matthew Webb in 1883. The whirlpool is currently off-limits to people because of the extreme danger posed by its snarling currents, although that hasn’t always stopped foolhardy attempts. 

The crushing power of both the falls and the whirlpool remind me that sometimes, you will never be as strong as what breaks you in life. No human is immune to heartbreak, health problems, or catastrophe. You are changed, and maybe, you won’t even mend the same way again. But you will survive. And there is still beauty beyond the vortex, and wide blue skies, and those who will pull you up on your feet when you slip and fall. So when the vortex calls your name, don’t linger and listen too long. 

Nothing stays still. Everything flows through, then away . . .  

Sources:

Hudson, Jack (20 August 2025). “‘Nothing Great is Easy’: The Story of Captain Matthew Webb.” Swimtrek.com. 
<https://www.swimtrek.com/blog/nothing-great-is-easy-the-story-of-captain-matthew-webb>

“Whirlpool Aero Car.” Niagara Parks.com. 

<https://www.niagaraparks.com/visit/attractions/whirlpool-aero-car>

 

  ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #29: My Last Thrift Find of 2025 and My First Wish for 2026

 For the Age of Dreamers

* 

So I meant to ink something about waterfalls and vortexes for my final post of 2025, but a sudden bout of severe indigestion and insomnia has reminded me yet again of the firm boundaries of my mortal intelligence.  

Instead, I want to share my last thrift score of 2025! The gleam of this 12-karat gold-filled vintage Anson pen was the first thing that caught my eye when I entered my favorite thrift store four days after Christmas. 

The pen came with an ink cartridge, but unfortunately, it seems to have dried up (or maybe it was used up by its previous owner?). Worse, the Anson company apparently went bankrupt in 1983, and many of these exquisite writer’s implements were discontinued by the company that bought them. My $12.99 score might prove more expensive to restore to working order, assuming I can even find the right type of ink cartridge. 

The box is a bit stained and beat up, and I can’t help wondering who owned the little golden treasure inside it before me. Did they ever use the pen, or was it merely a gilded desk ornament? Were they overjoyed when they first received it in all its shiny newness and potential to ink their dreams into paper-thin reality? I have so many unanswerable questions . . . .

I’ll end with a poem I wrote in 2024 that reminds me of this golden pen, which might as well be a glorified wand for wishes now. As humans, we keep tracing new dreams in our heart even when the old ones evaporate. And if that is all we can accomplish sometimes, that’s okay. And while I keep my tears and most of my cat pictures to myself these days, I will confess that I’d be lying if I claimed that 2025 was a magically profound journey to healing and inner happiness. 2025 has been a tough year for many humans across our micro-plasticized planet. But if I can light a single wish for 2026, it’s that we aren’t afraid to keep tracing dreams in the dust, anyway—for the age of dreamers is immortal. 

And if I can’t fix this nifty golden pen for its original intended use, I do believe it will make quite a splendiferous hair stick! 

A poem—pain—pang

I feel a poem,
I feel a pain
echoing inside me
like a fable only
the shadows share
when they’re bored
of human tears.
Over the years,
I’ve grown old
in these bones and
I never wrote most
of the lovely stories
under my skin
I meant to tell,
and now
I’m not even sure
there’s any ink left
to wet the words
pooling like ancient
blood and dreams
in my heart.
But as long as I can
still trace my name
in the dust, I know
I’ll try to cast yet
another spell.

*For the Age of Dreamers

 ~*~ 

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