Creepy / Occult / Staff Picks / Vintage

An Intimate Look Into The Boudoir Of An Amateur Gypsy Witch: A Voyeur’s View

LUNA LUNA loves: playing voyeur. You often find that, when you are renting a house with a number of other people, your bedroom is the only space wherein you can articulate your personality through various forms of decorative self-expression.

Sure, the kitchen is a space reserved for imaginative culinary creativity over routine discussions about who forgot to wash their dirty dishes, and the lounge area is where I, in my usual state of embarrassing inebriation, go full throttle artistic musical princess with my shrill rendition of Wrecking Ball – but my bedroom, with all its whimsy, witchy oddities, is where one will fall upon the scented ghost of my character.

And in true (neurotic) Clementine Kruczynski fashion, I apply my personality in a paste. Granted, the rent is too high, I’m in a permanent state of breath-cold freezing and I’m certainly no stranger to getting on all fours and scrubbing mould off of the walls (in fact, as Winter sets in, we’re becoming close acquaintances) – but it’s mine.

Bedroom number six in crappy old Cardiff Central is my quaint hippy haven wherein I am the Goddess of my own spiritual centre. I am the High Priestess of my very own candle-lit coven. Now, darlings, I invite you to peek, with smouldering voyeuristic lust, into some of the secrets that hide quietly inside my coven, materialising my aura whilst waiting for their turn to play.

Within this lovely little wicker basket contained my little gypsy oddities upon arrival at my new Welsh home. Now dotted variously around my bedroom, most of the knick-knacks around which this article centres began their journey within this Moroccan wicker basket of wonder.


My first ever copy of the Oxford English Dictionary (that I stole many years ago from an art class in primary school, the pages of which are now in the heat of an unhappy divorce from its spine — forgive me Father, for I have sinned), a wooden, hand-crafted/painted Buddha tea light holder, my Moon Diary, my collection of Incense, Tibetan prayer flags, an unholy array of candles, a Pirate flag, my spirit-catching Key, a Tunisian camel ornament, my miniature laughing Buddha and finally, my larger Buddharupa.

Sadly, I didn’t have enough car space for my gorgeous, purple-ribboned broomstick to make the first journey. I miss her.

Nag Champa incense, Buddharupa and my spare change. I collect and give my spare change to Buddha to stimulate good luck and prosperity. Alongside him rests my miniature Budhai, who brings me both wisdom and contentment.


My 2013 Moon Diary. My go-to-guide for all things Pagan, including: traditions and archetypes, Moon phases, eclipses and Plantings, as well as sunrises, the dates of Sabbats, Esbats, and all the secrets I could ever need about how to carve a really awesome wand. Duh.


My bookcase, home of my Tibetan prayer flags.

You will notice my German flag and alongside it, a small bottle containing pieces of the Berlin Wall. Also: my vintage teapot, a gift from my beautiful mother, photos of me and my lovely (and totally crazy teacher best friend) and a handful of my favourite books, including: The Second Sex, Slaughterhouse 5, Crime and Punishment, The Unbearable Lightness of Being and various books of poetry. Bukowski is my lover.

My desk, David Bowie vinyl and all:

desk …And a key, which hangs on my bedpost. Instead of throwing away an old key, tie it to your bedpost where it will function as a rustic dream-catcher, trapping inside its body malevolent spirits and night terrors. A key, which hangs on my bedpost.

And finally, my lovely little bed, adorned with Indian tapestries to help with dreams of being a beautiful Indian princess, amongst various other delusions of grandeur.


 – –

Sophie Elizabeth Moss is a second year undergraduate at the Cardiff school of Journalism, Media and Cultural Studies, a faculty of Cardiff University. When not searching for the perfect leather jacket, she can be found wincing the night away in a quiet corner of the English countryside, penning gritty horror novels of grandeur supernatural splendour and nurturing a dysfunctional relationship with her out-of-tune bass guitar and misanthropic pendulum. Disillusioned with societal expectations of the ‘modern woman’, she is a pro-choice, body positivity advocate and is haunted by the ghost of Simone de Beauvoir. @Sophiedelays

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