whisky and whimsy


practically magic.

"i don't believe in any of it, but i do believe in all of it."

-Jack White


whenever i am bummed with life, i call my best friend. as one does. and she doles out the infinite wisdom that only a best friend can provide - knowing just the right words and time and cadence that i need to hear.

once, i called her upset with dating and men (boys) and said that i was done. i was joining a convent.

but like, a cool convent that would respect that i didn't really subscribe to the entirety of their beliefs. one that would allow me to sit and read my books in peace. one that would let me wear my dark lipstick and listen to moody music.

i told her that i liked the idea of wearing only black.

and she told me. she said, "lindsay, that isn't a convent, that's a coven."


the day my grandpa died, the clouds were grey and nondescript and shapeless. but the sun poked through. slowly and patchily. small rays burning through the void in a pattern that wasn't really a pattern; small transporter beams ready to dematerialize at will.


my first love was a musician and a writer. he was funny and cool and didn't yet realize how attractive he was to other people. i fell hard and i fell fast.

he was a Taurus and i a Scorpio. more than that, our birthdays fell exactly six months apart - precisely opposite one another on the Zodiac spectrum. i read somewhere in a book that a love like ours was meant to last forever or burn out in a brilliant spark that shook the earth.

some days, i still feel the tremors.


instead of going to church on Sunday mornings, my dad and i would walk through the paths of a nearby nature preserve. "why stay inside and talk about god when you can walk around and celebrate everything he's made for you?"


when i was little, my religious grandparents would take me on day-trips to Manitou Springs. my favorite place was a tiny little shop run by long-haired women that smelled like spice and earth. the shelves were lined with cards and geodes and old books. the music was soft and soothing.

each trip, i begged and pleaded for a pretty card deck of my own - where every card was unique and full of pretty swirls of color, suits i'd never known. eventually my grandma conceded.

it's an old myth that your first Tarot deck must be given as a gift, a myth i'm certain my Catholic grandma did not know.

or maybe she did.

essayslindsay lelivelt