It’s long been called the resurrection plant, but in deserts where stories outlast seasons, the Rose of Jericho is something more. Dry and knotted, it tumbles in like a relic—mistaken for dead. Yet with water, it stirs. In hours, it opens, green curling back like breath to a body. Science explains the trick; folklore gives it soul.
From pharaohs’ courts to the storm drains of Stephen King’s nightmares, clowns have worn a lot of faces—some joyful, some menacing. They’ve popped up across cultures and centuries, equal parts entertainer, trickster, and social commentator. So how did we get from sacred jesters to something out of a horror movie?
Forget trends and logos—dandyism has never been about fitting in. It’s the art of becoming a statement, of turning elegance into something sharp enough to cut. A dandy doesn’t just get dressed; he composes himself, one detail at a time, like a playwright building a character. Every gesture, every fold, every glint of polished leather is part of the act.
High above the Mediterranean, nestled in Deià’s olive-strewn hills, Villa Son Ru wears its past like a poem. Once a monastery believed to date back to the late 13th century, today it’s a sanctuary of soft light, stone arches, and soul-stirring stillness. In this feature, we step inside a place where time lingers, artists have long found muse, and every sunset feels like a quiet blessing.
A rose, utterly without thorns yet brimming with charm, carries an unbelievable tale of survival. Discover the Peggy Martin Rose, the blossom that weathered a hurricane’s fury.
What do Adam and Eve, a mischievous devil, and a bewildered donkey have in common? They’re all starring roles on Slovenian beehives. Yes, beehives. For over two centuries, these tiny canvases, known as “panjske končnice,” have been buzzing with stories, turning honey-making into a folk-art spectacle.
Lizzie Magie’s story is one that’s slipped through the cracks of popular knowledge. Though she’s the original creator behind Monopoly, a board game that’s achieved iconic status, her part in its history is largely overlooked. To add insult to injury, she gained minimal recognition, and even less monetary reward.
That little aster, fragile as it looks, packs a punch. It’s not just a nice bit of garden color, you know. It’s got this whole weight of feeling to it, like someone reaching for something beyond, a real cosmic sort of beauty, and deep, down emotions. Those petals, the way they kind of shine, like tiny stars, and even its name, “aster” from the Greek for “star,” tells a story. People have been seeing that starlight in its petals, in gardens and in old stories, for ages and ages.
They speak of Lee Godie—Jamot Emily Godee, born 1908, died 1994—in hushed tones, a blend of wonder, curiosity, and maybe a little confusion. She called herself a French Impressionist, though she learned art on her own. And at the age of 60, homeless, she took to the streets, reinventing herself. You’d find her on Chicago’s Michigan Avenue, a street artist, almost a ghost, from the late sixties to the early nineties.
Japan is a land of neon lights, pristine city streets, meticulously crafted gardens, and the Rising Sun. But beneath its orderly surface lies a quiet phenomenon that much of the world has never even heard of. It’s not an urban legend or a cultural curiosity—it’s real. It’s called Johatsu, the mystery of Japan’s “vanishing people.”
