Silence

The silence invades it all, the dim of light is scarse.

My home forces introspection: the old clock, the old books, the high ceilings and long doors, wooden floors and the sutil smell of inciense.

I like it, I like to be obsessed with my insights…Even if the void can go both ways.

Teeth start to bite each other…Yet, in the search of pain, I ride the storm.

It has been a time since I the idea to do this picture. Being in victorian and steampunk sims, since almost day one, made me love the ways of dark victorians: prim and proper from the outside, rotten in the inside. The aesthetic of my automaton always evolves around it.

I wanted a sort of collodionish picture – I add the “ish” because if you know basics of photography is imposible to do it, unless you actually do a wet collodion picture-. The quality of product made with collodion is imposible to imitate, and has a sort of volumetric feel that is hypnotizing.

The Witching Hour

And you say “forever, and ever”….the words come out and the succession of sounds evaporates in the mist.
I gaze the rain outside and mutter “if ever”…
the shapeshifting shadows grow and engulf it all.
Maybe we are all alone, maybe ever and forever do not exist, maybe we are equal in the nothingness.
The mist becomes a wall that close in…the burning candles die and only our gasps of air break the death of it all.
If only we had love to keep us warm.

Ligeia002

Have you ever awaken in the middle of the night having this haunting feeling you are being laughed at by the shadows? I remember when i was little I sat next to the window and watched into the woods that surrounded the house… the trees seemed to shapeshift and grow, and the silence was unbreakable. For those that are from a rural area will know what I mean…there is this time a moment before dawn breaks and when dusk settles, when all stays silent…

I used this time of the day, since i can hold a pen, to write. It was when I felt I could escape sanity and reality. Witting was a way to look into the darkness and make it my friend and confidant. I wrote till i could not more. Since my parents considered any artistic activity sacred, I was left alone with my sudden raptures.

Suddenly I came back to find myself in a silent house filled with shadows and the witching hour upon me…so I closed my notebook and got into bed, hearing the silence from the woods weaving goodbye to my traveling soul.

I am wearing: Babyhead by Genus / PoPo skin Albina+ (BOM) from Boataom / Monso‘s Carol Hair / Agapa Dress (Onix) from Tetra / Kitty Bell Choker from Dazed / Cureless‘s Bindi Moonlight Jewels (Group Gift) / Seashell Headpiece from Dahlia / Pathetic Rose Bouquet from Hotdog

The Mark of the Witch

In my country has been a revival of the feminism. Women in the streets cost the brutal death of a woman every 3 hours. A woman killed because she lost her status of human, most of the time killed by someone close and usually discarded in a trash bag. We hear her name, we hear what she wore the day she was killed, if she was “good” in the most bleached sense of the word.

About 5 years ago, thousand of us spontaneously went out to the streets, shouting and howling in the streets, our bodies pushing against each other, and for the first time i felt safe. Someone started singing “We are the granddaughters of the witches they could not burn”, and a second all were singing as one voice…and thus we are, the dissidents, everything that did not fit the status quo was marching along. I think i can not put to words how empowering it was.

The mark of the witch was a mark that was looked as the physical manifestation of a woman’s pact with the devil. Far from stoping, witch hunts have evolved, and the marked has changed. We are judged in life and in death, if we are hurt or killed, we stand on the scaffold one more time.

We always remember the name and face of those killed, but their murderers could be next door neighbors, because they are not judged. Our shout is primal, we are murdered even if we follow every footstep that is asked of us…if we are walking in broad day light covered as if we were “respectable” victorian women…if we are minding our own business…if we do not talk with anyone…if if if… and the blow usually comes from the person that shares our bed.

Our shout is the prelude of our death…and the mark is as unerasable as it used to be, the witching hour is calling upon us. It’s time to make some magic.

When the Darkness Comes

“…To a long lost soul
With a wanderer’s heart
There is hope hidden somewhere in the dark…”
When the Light Dies, from The Devil and The Almighty Blues

So I sit here, the lights of the day is fading, so is the winter. Seem that in Second life is all very intense, and very hard to keep it drama free, is almost like it missed a big sign “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate“. I often wondered what is with this little community of ours that drags everyone into an emotional tsunami. I think that the fact of being together when you want is not good enough, not when we live in a reality that is so damn meta.

Anyhow, stupid comment aside… when I started to concibe this picture was when I listened the theme When the Light Dies from the album II of the norwegian band The Devil and the Almighty Blues. Awesome band with some early Black Sabbath taste in it. Totally recommend it if you are up for that sort of music.

This picture was taken in the caverns of Abrahamstrup.

I am wearing: Olive‘s Yuky Hair from the Harajuku Event / Ladies Boots from Blues / Hannya demon arms, Kijo horns and Yokai scales from Ghoul / Rose Duelist Uniform from Cureless.

A Kiss of Blood

Lady Seymour Dorothy Fleming and Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed crossover with an Annie Leibovitz undertone

It seems as if we were running with wolves, too afraid to see the blood that pulsated within our veins… we tore the body of the human that brought us to the world, in order to breath.

A tainted kiss to the wind.

I shall live with this storm cunvulsing in my bosom, so lick the corners of my mouth and eat the maggots that fall off my hands. We are tainted, we are, we are… so the crown of butterflies is no more than a crown of blood and spikes.

You said I could run, you said I could try, yet you did not even give me the chance. The doors closed and here we are, strip of all guilt….in the darkness i shall be. In the silence and the void we shall be. It is the bifid tongue that squirms within your eyes that ties our fate.

Fall with me to the pitch black.

We are dead…and yet, we did not die.

Ligeia002

I am wearing the tricorn “Splatter” from Maison de Montgelas‘s gatcha, and the dress “Lady Worsley” form Belle Epoque. This picture was taken in Yorkshire, a beautiful sim to visit and rest. I i highly recommend it.

The Ecstasy

I came back to Second Life after a long time away, and I felt lost… so much had changed. I changed. My list of friends is filled with people that are gone, and so many places I held dear disappeared. It was as if I was dancing alone.

My avatar was always so clear to me. I have always been a doll, almost since day one… So what about now, when most of my roleplay partners were gone? when all was left was an old avi with old clothes…

I started to rebuild myself, searched for my favorite designers that were still here, and found new ones…and I started to take photographs again. So it suddenly it hit me, this was one of my main passions in SL: exploring and taking photographs.

When I was constructing this image, The Ectasy of Saint Teresa of Gian Lorenzo Bernini came to my mind, and this took form. I remembered… I always loved to dance alone in the dark.

Some of us are not meant to be around others.

When I left SL, I left so many things behind and shuttered so much… I am at fault, I took a decision based on my RL at the time…I could say “I did what I could”, but that is such a lame excuse. I made some friends that crossed the digital border, some people I hold dear to my heart…and they were all gone.

So I came back knowing I would find the remains of what It used to be…

I pushed my embarrassed behind and came back for one of them. To my astonished self, she was still here, and with her arms open. She is the sun for me, think there is no better explanation -she fills everyone with warmth and energy-. I dedicate this image to her…she knows who she is, so no need to invade her privacy. She is my light, the light that allows me to dance in the dark.

This photograph was taken in Witchwood (Beautiful sim, home of Petite Mort & Oubliette house of couture), the flowers are from Lode, and the dress from Pixicat.

AHIRU -Silent Devotion –

I went to one of my favourite sims with the plan to take a picture, and eventually photoshop it into a painting, to have displayed on my digital fireplace. So why not make a picture just because.

As it is common knowledge, the victorian times were a restrictive society in the surface, yet things are always more complex. The Lenguaje of Flowers was a kind of dictionary of what flowers meant, in order to say what was badly seen with words or could not be done so easily, such as a declaration of love or an insult.*

Apparently for the victorians the hydrangeas were a symbol of dispassion and were given to heartless person, so if you were given this flower, you were in trouble. The Hydrangeas change color when the ph of the soil is too alkaline, turning from blue to pink, so they were meant for someone voluble.

In Japan it seems they have a bad note too, yet they also have a beautiful meaning, as it stands for silent devotion**.

So on this note, blueberrys stand for eternal optimism, raspberrys for matters of the heart, and the camellias for devotion, gratitude and spiritual growth. So all in all we have a beautiful story here…only waiting to be told.

* https://archive.org/details/languageofflower00gree/page/10

* http://blog.alientimes.org/2011/06/hydrangea-ajisai-%E7%B4%AB%E9%99%BD%E8%8A%B1-in-japanese-history-and-culture-revisited/

Hair pice by lode and kimono by Zenith.

Here is the LM if someone wants to take a stroll:

http://maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Ahiru/56/42/2502

My First Blog Post

(…)Yo no sé del sol.
Yo sé la melodía del ángel
y el sermón caliente
del último viento (…).
La Jaula of Alejandra Pizarnik.

So here we start again, something new…

I guess this will be a kind of blog with nothing special about it. It will be on the service of my brain, more than to others. I will give my mind something to fiddle, you are welcome to perv, i don’t judge since i do not like to be judged.