words from two

Albir

Impending doom. I would rather--and gladly--face Konnick and his army of accusers than wait here... wait for the sorrow to hit full-force. If I wasn't one straw short of a hay bale before, I will soon be-- this incessant waiting will drive me to insanity. My mind will not find solace in anything; I cannot focus on the written word, cannot eat anything... cannot concentrate on anything for more than a few moments. My hands shake constantly and I cannot sleep, though I feel my body rebelling at my constant restless movement.

I confess I sought her out; I knew she would be somewhere unlikely. (How? I've no idea.)
She was in the Great Hall, standing before the full-length windows across the great expanse of Italian tile flooring. She held something in her hand-- a broom, or some such cleaning device. Yet she simply stood there, unmoving, staring up and out of the enormous windows which were letting in brilliant red and orange hues.
She still remained unmoving as my footsteps echoed in her direction. She didn't turn when I reached her or even when I addressed her with an awkward cough. I realized after a second or two that she was softly humming to herself.
I envied how still and quiet she could be; I longed for a bit of physical peace.
Finally, I spoke. My voice was uncommonly loud and abrasive in the stillness of the hall.
I said, "Will you not at least acknowledge my presence?"
She answered by turning to meet my eyes and bending her head inquisitively.
Here I was not so forthright; in fact, I stammered like a stable boy. I wanted to apologize to her, even to thank her. But all that issued from my mouth was a request for her name. She gave it, "Elsa." Her voice was bright and sweet.
Here I slipped into silence. I did not know how to proceed, for my mind continued to rebuke me for addressing a servant, for seeking the companionship of a household maid.
Still I knew it was what I needed.
She asked me if there was something she could do for me.
I understood that she was asking whether there were some menial task she could perform.
I wanted to answer, yes, there was something she could do for me: she could stand there, silent and still, and let me absorb the calm that radiated from her.
She watched me from the corner of her eye. After a moment she asked, "May I get you some tea?"

Tea? Tea?

Yes. Yes, of course she could get me some tea.
I watched her cross the Hall. Her footfalls made no sound at all, as though she might disappear into the atmosphere of this quiet splendor.
My legs suddenly threatened to buckle underneath me, so I sat down on the floor and leaned back against the cold glass of the window pane.
When she came back, she found me once again with head in hands. She touched my knuckles with the tips of her fingers; hers were warm and mine were cold as ice.
It had grown dark in the hall. She asked me if there were anything more she might do.
She took my long drawn-out pause to suggest she was excused.
On impulse I stood up, spilled my tea and thanked her awkwardly for her patient company.
Her eyes were large and luminous with surprise, but she nodded in reply. As she turned her back, I thought I heard her faintly bid me good night.

It's so lonely here. There are ghosts everywhere. Not in the shadows or the darkness; in the dusty sunlight. In the darkness there are nightmares taken from lost memories-- horrible in their sentimentality. I can't stand it!
God help me.


Elsapatience

Patience. The virtue I'm named for and the one I lack fully. What irony.

This morning I woke early to help in the kitchen. There, cook was singing. Her strong, resonant, bass voice pierced the dim, damp day. Even the sterile blue-white light coming through the windows attributed to the aura of her song. What a lovely morning.

Life is so unusual. To be sure, I know little of it for my age. Still all the same this is my constant reflection.
I feel a need to reach out. It is not an obligation, but a privilege in that I am not sure I am allowed it, if it will be accepted. So I wait.

I was guilty when he discovered me in the Hall, but tremulous that he would seek me out. With the ferocious restlessness he's displayed, I was sure he would reproach me. He didn't, only asked for my name, which I gave--the short version anyway. The poor young man looked so desperate, so sick at heart. If only I were not bound by servitude, I might offer any consolation, even conversation available to me. Still, quietude and docility are all I am allowed. Already I have broken these limits and thankfully have not been punished. I must not do it again.
I asked him if he wanted tea; when I returned with the cup, I found his posture despondent again. He accepted the cup with hands that were like ice. When I asked if he required anything more, he replied with silence. I turned to leave and he leapt up. He... he then thanked me for my company. I didn't expect that, and rather befuddled, I awkwardly wished him a good night.

Tell me what I should do. For once in my life, I am consumed with worry for someone besides myself. Give me permission to extend a bit of solace-- a compassionate piece of my soul. It is for you; I don't know why.

Afternoon

words

Elsapatience of the Great (and sorrow ridden) House

I have discovered the source of the prince's tears. His mother is dying. They say he expects news of her death any day, a letter arriving at any moment. The poor young man's father abandoned him here at the Great House, left early in the morning nearly a fortnight ago. (With Duke Elderberry went the General and Ariella.) Here the prince is trapped, without even a last goodbye.
Every moment I think of the desparing expression on the prince's face, my heart aches for him. All past desire for retirbution has dissolved. I was thrust into the arena of unwanted attentions without having any business there; now I find I can't get away without ripping away a few fibers from my heart. I didn't ask for this! But it has been cast upon me.
The question is what actions are now required of me: do I play the common silence of the Great House servant, or is more needed?

words: a response to compassion

Albir

I miss the life I had as a child. Everything was black and white. Nothing gray, no shades.
But then there were no sudden bursts of color either.

Ariella walked with me last night. In my silence, she left me there in the garden. It wasn't abandonment, it was understanding.

Tears came immediately to my eyes and my efforts to angrily send them back from whence they came were unheeded. I cried like a child; with complete abandonment, weeping as loudly as I dared. There was nothing to help it!

There was a girl standing in the bushes. That girl. The unfortunate girl who became the object of Alphonse's misjudged obsession. The girl who still bears the bruises I inflicted.
I expected ridicule, spite... cruelty in revenge for my abuse.
She stood there for a moment with loose strands of her hair caught in the branches behind her.
I never imagined such a graceful gesture; in one movement she was on her knees before me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and pressing her face against my chest.
I confess that despite my expectations, I welcomed her embrace. She could be nothing but one of the most beautiful beings I have ever encountered. Her eyes, when she finally released me, were bright with tears, and I kissed her. A kiss in a garden and a wooden seat swinging slowly back and forth.

I seek solitude for my despair, but long for an end.

words: compassion

Elsapatience

To the gardens to nurse my wounds.
I was startled when I encountered Ariella coming down the little path between the grove and the rose bushes. She didn't see me, however. In fact, she didn't even look up; she was completely oblivious to everything except her own footing.

These are the last warm days before autumn and I let my hair loose in the breeze as I came round the bend to my swing.
I stopped short and my heart began to pound.
There was Prince Albir by the oak tree, curled up and bent over across his knees. He held his head in his hands and I could see his body shake. He was crying.

I stood and watched him for a moment. I watched him slowly break down until I could see the tears falling from his eyes, though his face was hidden.
In a most peculiar way, I felt a painful, wrenching sensation in my chest. After all my professed hatred and anger for the man, my heart was breaking for him.
This wasn't the same sorrow that Evelyn gave up here in the gardens; hers was of betrayal... this terrible, heart-wrenching pain was complete despair.
I gave an involuntary sigh and he looked up immediately, right into my face.
The poor man started, choking a bit in the attempt to conceal his weeping. I thought for a moment that he would start flinging insults at me. I thought too, that perhaps he would send a fist flying my way. But he didn't.
And in the moment of suspended silence, I took a heavy step towards him and without even thinking, threw my arms around him and buried my face in his shoulder.
Contrary to what I expected, he didn't move, didn't thrust me away in revulsion and disgust. Save for the occasional shudders, he was completely still in my embrace.
Moments went by, and I could feel the leaves above slowly break away from their branches and fall... and catch in the wind.

When I finally found the courage to break away, I found to my astonishment that there were tears in my eyes. The prince saw them too.
The prince... in one seamless gesture, bent his head and kissed my cheek. He didn't say a word, but stood up and left me kneeling in the grass.

And now my wounds have healed in a way I would never have expected, and still have trouble believing. I continue to see in my minds eye the bent over, broken down young man lost in his own desolation. I have nothing left now but to forgive.

words

Albir of the Great House

I am convinced there is a rule in life that when one wrong thing happens, there will be more, much more, to follow.

Mother is dying.

They haven't officially said so, but I can hear it in Father's silence and see it in his constant absences.
He won't tell me how long she has or even why she's sick.
He will leave soon, and it will be abrupt and unspoken. He will leave without me, and I will be trapped here in hell without her and without any last goodbyes.
My life is shattering around me like a pane of glass.

To be friends

Fall is here, hear the yell
Back to school, ring the bell
Brand new shoes, walking blues
Climb the fence, books and pens
I can tell that we are going to be friends
Yes I can tell that we are going to be friends
Walk with me Suzy Lee
Through the park and by the tree
We can rest upon the ground
And look at all the bugs we've found
Safely walk to school without a sound
We safely walk to school without a sound
Well here we are no one else
We walk to school all by ourselves
There's dirt on our uniforms
From chasing all the ants and worms
We clean up and now it's time to learn
We clean up and now it's time to learn
Numbers letters learn to spell
Nouns and books and show and tell
Play time we will throw the ball
Then back to class through the hall
The teacher marks our height against the wall
The teacher marks our height against the wall
And we don't notice any time pass
Because we don't notice anything
And we sit side by side in every class
The teacher thinks that I sound funny
But she likes it when you sing
Tonight I'll dream in my bed
While silly thoughts run through my head
Of the bugs and alphabet
And when I wake tomorrow I'll bet
That you and I will walk together again
Because I can tell that we are going to be friends
I can tell that we are going to be friends

From långfredag to påskdagen

KRISTINA: Suffering does that-- happiness only makes everything commonplace.
ELIS: Perhaps it might be-- love. Don't you think those two young people--
KRISTINA: Sh! Sh! Sh! If you touch a butterfly's wings, it'll fly away.


ELEONORA: Benjamin! We can go to the country-- in two month's time. Oh, if only the time would pass quickly! [She tears the pages off the calendar, and scatters them in the shaft of sunlight that streams into the room.] See how the days fly.... April... May... June... And-- look, the sun shines on all of them! Now you must thank God for helping us to get to the country.
BENJAMIN [shyly]: Can't I say it to myself?
ELEONORA: Yes, you can say it to yourself, for the clouds have gone now, so it will be heard in Heaven.

from

EASTER

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS

(1901)

by August Strindberg

baby light

Smile

Smile though your heart is aching

Smile even though it's breaking

When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by

If you smile through your fear and sorrow

Smile and maybe tomorrow

You'll see the sun come shining through for you

Light up your face with gladness

Hide every trace of sadness

Although a tear may be ever so near

That's the time you must keep on trying

Smile, what's the use of crying?

You'll find that life is still worthwhile

If you just smile

That's the time you must keep on trying

Smile, what's the use of crying?

You'll find that life is still worthwhile

If you just smile

another's words

Evelyn

My tears have all dried up. At least now it's easier to pretend.
Pretend, pretend, pretend. I could be a talented actress with my acquired skill at pretend.

What a wrong they have dealt me; what hypocrites!

The events come back to me again and again.
The poor girl fought and struggled; still the energy of her refusal to submit was nothing to Alphonse's physical size and strength. He forced himself upon her so-- how lucky I came upon them when I did. I can't think of what might have happened!
Oh, but the indignity my own cousin inflicted was something I never expected. He shouted and swore that my anger was unjust and unfounded and grew so incensed that he turned round and slapped the poor victim across her face. He released his anger into the force of that blow; it knocked her to the floor.
I still cannot comprehend such an action. So much abuse leveled at one girl! She will have numerous bruises and I feel as though it is my fault.

Will her bruises at least be evidence of Alphonse's misdoings? Or will Father continue in the idiotic vein that the maid consented to Alphonse's advances? How can something so obviously abusive and twisted be construed as consent?
Why do my accusations carry no weight? Why is my love and dignity insignificant when compared to Alphonse's pride and honor? He is a coward; only a fool would be blind to it and only a fiend would deny it.

I have been blind.

words

Elsapatience of the Great House

There she is.
There she lies, facedown on the grass. She has been weeping uncontrollably and would continue, but for her physical exhaustion. One can see the emotional stress rending her entire body and her muscles shuddering with the strain.
What would I do if I wasn't myself? If I were her friend instead of her maid, would I kneel down in the grass and comfort her? Offer my shoulder to cry on and my arms to embrace?
I think that I would. But our different situations distance us and withhold any kind of compassionate assistance I could off her. If I were her equal instead of her maid, I would be her friend at a time when she desperately needs one.
Now all I can do is discretely observe, if only to make certain sure she doesn't hurt herself.

It has been about a month since certain pressures on the princess gradually began to take effect.
Life at the Great House has exploded... or imploded, actually, into chaotic melodrama.
'Tis a far cry from the monotony that my life was before the strange mysterious Albir and his comrades.
I almost prefer the monotony.

Evelyn caught Alphonse red-handed. It offends my sensibilities to go into detail on the matter, of which I know all and from which I have not quite recovered.
Honestly, I've never seen anyone so angry before. It wasn't the yelling, crying, cursing-the-heavens kind of anger that the princess displayed. It was calm, serene, level-headed anger. The shock of the blow she bestowed on Alphonse was all in the deep, decisive hatred positively flaring from her eyes. He was leveled by it. It nearly took off his head.
He cowered behind Albir, weak in the knees and quivering.
Evelyn remained calm and collected, while the hatred in her eyes grew. I believe that hatred shocked Albir as well. It shocked, upset and unsettled him; thus his response was the yelling, cursing anger described above. His rebuttals to Evelyn's accusations were about as worthless as his current state as heir. He is a complete fool. And if there's one thing I can surely say about my character, it is that I don't pass such judgement lightly.
Prince Albir will forever be the bane of my existence. I level curses at his hollow head.


If there is one absolute example of an "intrinsically evil" action, it is the destruction of another's hope and dignity.

Evelyn's father has sided with Albir and Alphonse as well, and told her that she was behaving like an over-emotional child. Her response was that if all men used the same logic and displayed the same behavior as the three whom she had--at one point--loved and respected, then she would vow at that moment never to submit to marriage.
To this, the king did not respond, though he grew very red in the face.

Alphonse continues to cower and quiver like the horse-excrement he is and Prince Albir continues to mumble, glare and curse like the lunatic he ever resembles.

All this whilst Evelyn hides away in the gardens and weeps, if only to save the last shred of dignity she possesses.
And I was born without it, so I have lost nothing.

words

Albir Elderberry of Farwood

Alright. My guilt has finally taken hold.
I really must intervene for the sake of my cousin.
This afternoon I witnessed him interfering with a maid. I could just tell by the smile on his face... it made me shudder. He touched her once and I saw the poor girl cringe. She was certainly not charmed by his advances, unfortunately for her. 'Tis unfortunate, for the more he is rejected, the more he pursues--any woman, no matter their class.
I should speak to him.

My enemies are growing. Konnick has successfully taken hold of three provinces now, including his own. How can there be so many bitter people in such a peaceful, prosperous country?

words

Elsapatience

Oh! I hate him!
If I believed in reincarnation, I would be quite certain that he was a snake in another life. I can almost see the hissing tongue between his teeth every time he speaks.

I can't see how everyone in the Great House has been duped by him. They all agree he's the most charming thing around. Even Evelyn, whom I'd always admired for her strength of character. She smiles and flirts and encourages. There's no doubt he's been the ruin of many a young woman... how can no one see it but me?

He will not solicit my attention or my admiration, no matter what he says to me. Augh! Just the idea that he would go so far as to pursue a servant girl! If that doesn't reveal the true nature of his character, than we are all blind, deaf and dumb.

Words

Albir Elderberry of Farwood

Good lord, that's bad timing. Still, I can't help but be relieved at someone from the outside who isn't seeking my mental destruction.

He's been here barely a week, and already he's solicited for and obtained my cousin Evelyn's favor. I keep telling myself to intervene on her behalf; she doesn't know what she's getting into by egging him on. Alphonse is one of my most loyal friends, but he's dangerously close to becoming a terrible cad. Rejected women have often referred to him in other terms that I certainly won't mention. But intervening between Alphonse and his next victim is like trying to swim against the current and my experiences as his friend have shown my intervention rather meaningless. I suppose he's quite a charming fellow. My uncle and aunt certainly like him. Father and Mother always have.
Evelyn has always impressed me with a strong will and character. I'm sure she can handle herself.

TODAY

I am a second thought.

Modern Art: What the hell are they thinking? A question cliche.

NOTICE, EXAMINE THE LITTLE THINGS
THE LITTLE DETAILS

PROVIDING EMOTIONAL, AESTHETIC CONNECTION

IN QUESTION:

IS THERE ANY MEANING IN GENERAL TO MODERN INSTALLATION AND PERFORMANCE ART?

WHAT ARE THE CONCEPTS? THE IDEAS?

THE CONNECTIONS?

THE PURPOSE?

IS ART SUPPOSED TO NECESSARILY HAVE A PURPOSE IN LIFE?

OR IS IT JUST ABOUT THE WITHDRAWAL FROM THE NORM? SOMETHING DIFFERENT TO LOOK AT?

IS THERE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ANY PERSONAL OUTPUT? SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT? THOUGHT PROVOKING?

AM I GENERALIZING?

IS THAT BAD?

AM I MISSING SOMETHING?

AM I A REAL ARTIST?

OR AM I JUST A COPIER?

BY THAT I MEAN, AM I UNORIGINAL? AM I BORING? IS MY ART NECESSARY? CHALLENGING? DOES IT HAVE ANY PERSONAL, EMOTIONAL CONNECTION TO VIEWERS?

HOW DO I , WILL I, FIT INTO THE ART WORLD?

IS IT NECESSARY TO BE OFFENSIVE? SHOCKING?

OR IS IT ABOUT DRAWING SOMEONE IN?

OR IS IT ABOUT THE ARTIST'S PERSONALITY, EXPERIENCES, INTERESTS?

DOES THAT MATTER?

WHAT IS THE NATURE OF CONTEMPORARY ART?

HAS IT TAKEN ON SOCIETY'S CONCEPT OF "DO WHAT FEELS RIGHT"?

OR IS THERE ANY REASON? IS THERE A PLACE FOR IT IN THE WORLD? IS THERE A NECESSITY FOR ART ANYMORE? IS IT STILL NEEDED? DO PEOPLE STILL HAVE THE CAPACITY TO QUESTION, WONDER, ANALYZE, GAZE, DEVELOP, ADMIRE? OR HAVE PEOPLE BECOME THE DRONES OF TECHNOLOGY, OF CONVENIENCE? CAN ONE SOMEONE STAND STILL, ANALYZE AND ADMIRE, PATIENTLY AND INTELLIGENTLY FOR MORE THAN A FEW MINUTES?

DO PEOPLE ACTUALLY CARE ABOUT ART ANYMORE?

IF PEOPLE DON'T, HOW AM I , AS AN ASPIRING ARTIST, SUPPOSED TO FIT INTO THE WORLD? DOES THAT MATTER?

IF PEOPLE DO, HOW DO I RESPOND AS AN ASPIRING ARTIST? DOES THAT MATTER? IS ART ONLY AROUND FOR TRADITION'S SAKE?

DOES ART MATTER?

DO I MATTER?

These are just questions. I'm not even able to come up with reasonable answers.

A letter to a friend that I'm too afraid to send.

I don't understand you.
I don't understand why I am naturally supposed to respect you. Why I naturally must accept your beliefs, your opinions and your rants but I don't naturally deserve the same respect in return. I don't understand why my beliefs and my opinions are singled out because they happen to be so different from yours. I don't understand why you pledge to be open-minded and considerate, but display this open animosity and disrespect for the ideals and faith that are innately important to me. I don't understand why my feelings are not important. I don't understand why you call me your friend but don't treat me as such, or only treat me like a friend at your own convenience. I don't understand your definition of friendship.

Can you honestly make me understand? Can you show me why you behave this way?

You say I'm not that conservative, and yet you laugh at the positions that I hold. You say you believe in diversity, and yet you openly mock my faith, assuming that I can laugh it off too, that I can be flexible, that I can forgive and forget, that I have this wonderful sense of humor. You have immediately, from the very beginning, stereotyped me as the quiet, passive, simple, religious prude. Did you do this accidentally? Will you tell me that I'm interpreting all of this completely wrong? Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you don't hate everything I hold as important? That I shun away from sexuality because I'm a conservative Catholic prude? Oh, alright, so you never said that, perhaps never purposely implied it. Then why do you immediately interpret my expression as one of disgust, displeasure, hatred and fear? Why do you label me this way just because I believe in respecting the human body (because it is beautiful) because I believe in the dignity of a person's sexuality? Am I wrong?

Have you ever thought, just once, that perhaps the reason I keep my beliefs and my faith so quiet and so close is because they are entirely inherent to who I am and how I see myself that I can't bear to expose them to people like you, who instead of offering constructive criticism, selfishly and cruelly pull them apart bit by bit for your own pleasure (pleasure in offending people) and amusement? You're pulling me apart, and it hurts. And I hide it because I am a coward and afraid to lose friends. But are you really my friend if you can't see that what you say, as innocent and insignificant as it sounds to you, is hurting me? I'm afraid that I'm not as flexible as you want me to be. I can't let things go so easily, shrug them off as though they didn't stick in my skin like little needles.
You sit there and you lament about humanity: it's so twisted, so cruel, so corrupt. Have you never thought how much you're contributing? I don't pretend to say they effect the whole of humanity; but they effect individuals, and right now they are effecting your friend.
So I invite you to walk--if not a mile, at least a couple of steps--in my shoes. I would do it for you. Go ahead and disagree with me as I do with you; I accept that, I invite it, I expect it. Just remember that what you say has an impact, no matter how trivial you find it.

Words

Alphonse Burntrod of Farwood to Prince Albir Elderberry of the Great House

Dear Albir,

I have heard of the plights you've endured at the Great House. Let me tell you that you are sorely missed amongst your friends, Robert, Gil, Ron and I. My sister speaks especially often of your absense, interpret that as you will.
So I've decided to undertake the journey to visit you (and your father, of course) provided I will not be imposing on the household. I trust this will not be the case, as I am sending this letter to you on the rough road to the House. You will simply have to put up with me for a few weeks, at least until I can gather enough first-hand information on your health and happiness to carry back to your poor mother (who worries constantly-- to me, of all people-- that you are not keeping up your strength.)

Expect me in a fortnight or less.

Your greatest of friends,
Alphonse

Too much missing for one day

I miss the leaves.
I miss the green.
I miss the smell of summer. And how my friends and I took advantage of it.
I miss the carefree laughter of summer, the walks with a coffee cup in hand. I miss the open air! I miss the deep breaths and sprawling on the grass looking up at that awesome sky.
I miss not worrying about school and it's armfuls of stress (stress always comes in bundles... when one nasty shows up, you can bet there's more to follow)
Lord! I miss the flowers and the even the annoying summer insects!
I miss my backyard and my trees. I miss painting on my patio.

I've done a lot of missing today.

Sun walk

with a pen she has used since she found the right words and sitting beneath her own falling leaves, comfortable besides the air, she wrote,
David
I don't see colors anymore. It's plain to me that my eyes are defused with silver. Everything is soft. But lord, I am forced to wear my hideous lenses in class, since the professors are all irritated with my constant squinting. I can't help but squint; it keeps me concentrating on the knowledge I can't see worth digesting. My last pair of lenses I forgot hidden in a book, and the librarian squashed them with an armful of encyclopedias. She scolded me; I told her encyclopedias have always had it out for me.
I see in silver, but I dream in blue, and sometimes in orange. So you see, much of the color has gone out of my life. Even before such a drastic change in my vision, I always saw you in shades of silver.
she stopped. The wind almost blew the page from beneath her fingers, but she pulled it away and in doing so, crinkled the edges with her grasp. she sighed; he always hated wrinkled papers.
The wind thrust away a cascade of crinkled paper leaves. White and silver, they clung to her hair.

Resolute

I WILL NOT:
seek a reason to be upset with my friends
pick a fight
be depressed
cave to pressure
force myself on people
obsess
immerse myself in ridiculous daydreams
focus on the bad
agree with everyone
break down
panic
make known my embarrassment
dwell on the past
hit rock bottom

I WILL:
question
cling to common sense
listen
form my own opinions
remain patient and optimistic
work harder
speak with kindness
show my delight in my friends' joy
keep issues to myself
pick up my art again, full force
enjoy
breathe
live

Regina

I never loved nobody fully
Always one foot on the ground
And by protecting my heart truly
I got lost in the sounds
I hear in my mind
All these voices
I hear in my mind all these words
I hear in my mind all this music
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my heart
It breaks my heart
And suppose I never ever met you
Suppose we never fell in love
Suppose I never ever let you kiss me so sweet and so soft
Suppose I never ever saw you
Suppose we never ever called
Suppose I kept on singing love songs just to break my own fall
Just to break my fall
Just to break my fall
Just to break my fall
Break my fall
Break my fall
All my friends say that of course its gonna get better
Gonna get better
Better better better better Better better better
I never love nobody fully
Always one foot on the ground
And by protecting my heart truly
I got lost In the sounds
I hear in my mind
All these voices
I hear in my mind all these words I hear in my mind
All this music
And it breaks my heart
It breaks my heart
Breaks my Heart
Breaks my heart
I hear in my mind
All these voices
I hear in my mind all these words
I hear in my mind
All this music
And it breaks my heart
It breaks my heart
Breaks my Heart
Breaks my heart and it breaks my heart it breaks my heart and it breaks my heart and it breaks my heart

Don't Jump

Stand still. Don't move. And definitely don't jump.
Look. Stretch your sight. Pan the horizon. Collect with your gaze. Grasp the memories and hold them. Your arms may not carry all. Some may

slip

out of your grasp and fall. Just don't trip on the ones that lie beneath your feet.
Get ready. Capture and leave room. This is wholly yours to keep. Water sends its ripples. Colors are never stationary and the world doesn't listen to your Stop! Don't move! Stand still so I can catch up!
I can't catch up.

The Butterfly

The butterfly wanted a sweetheart, and naturally it had to be a flower. He inspected them. Everyone sat as properly and quietly on her stalk as a young maiden should. The trouble was that there were too many of them to choose from, and the butterfly didn't want to be bothered by anything so fatiguing. He flew over the the chamomile flower. She is called by some the French Daisy and she knows how to tell the future. Young maidens and boys who are in love ask her questions, and then answer them by tearing off her petals, one at a time. This is the rhyme they usually recite:

"With all her [or his] heart...

With only a part...

Not lost forever...

She'll love me never."

Or something like that. You can ask the chamomile flower any questions you want to. When the butterfly came, he did not tear off any of the petals; he kissed them instead, for he was of the opinion that you get furthest with compliments.
"Sweet daisy, dear chamomile flower, matron of all the flowers, you who are so clever that you can see the future, answer me: which of the flowers will be my sweetheart? This one or that one? Please tell me so that I can fly directly over to her and propose at once."
The chamomile flower did not answer. The butterfly had insulted her by calling her a matron. She was a virgin and hadn't been proposed to yet. The butterfly asked the same question a second time and a third, then he got bored and flew away to go courting on his own.
It was early spring. Snowdrops and crocuses were still in bloom. "How sweet they are," he remarked. "Just confirmed, but they have no personalities." Like so many young men, he preferred older girls. He flew to the anemones but he found them too caustic. The violets were a little too romantic and the tulips a little too gaudy.
Soon the Easter lilies came, but they were a little too bourgeois. The linden blossoms were too small and had too large a family. The apple blossoms were so beautiful that they could be mistaken for roses, but they were here today and gone tomorrow. "Our marriage would be too short," the butterfly muttered.
He was most attracted by one of the sweet peas. She was red and white, pure and delicate; and was one of those rare beauties who also knows what a kitchen looks like. He was just about to propose when he happened to notice a pea pod with the withered flower at its tip. "Who is that?" he asked with alarm.
"That is my sister," replied the sweet pea.
"So that is what she will look like later," though the butterfly. "How frightening!" And he flew away.
The honey suckle had climbed over the fence. What a lot of girls there were, and all of them with long faces and yellow skins. The butterfly didn't care for them. But whom did he like? To find out, you must ask him.
Spring passed, summer passed, and then autumn came. Still the butterfly had no wife. The flowers were dressed in their finery, but they had lost their fresh innocence and scent of youth. As the heart grows older it needs scent, odor, perfume to arouse it and the dahlias and the hollyhocks have none.
The butterfly lighted on a little mint plant with curly leaves. "She has no flowers, but she is a flower from her roots to the tip of her tiny leaves. She smells like a flower. I shall marry her." And the butterfly proposed.
The mint plant stood stiff and silent. At last she replied: "Friendship, but no more! I am old and you are old. We can live for each other, but marriage, no! It would be ridiculous at our age."
And that is how it happened that the butterfly never got married.
He had searched too long for a wife, and now he had to remain a bachelor.
It was late in the autumn. The rains had come and the wind blew down the backs of the willow trees. It was not the weather to be out flying in, especially in summer clothes. But the butterfly was not outside, he was in a room that was kept summer-warm by a stove, where he could keep himself alive.
"But to live is not enough," declared the butterfly. "One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower." He flew to the windowpane. There he was seen admired, and a pin was stuck through him. He was "collected" and that is as much as a human being can do for a butterfly.
"Now I sit on a stalk just like the flowers," he said. "It isn't very comfortable, probably just like being married: you are stuck." And with that he consoled himself.
"Not much of a consolation," said the potted plants who lined the window sill.
"But you cannot trust potted plants," thought the butterfly, "they have associated too much with human beings."

-Hans Christian Andersen

Words

Albir Elderberry of Farwood

The matters of state seem trifling when you read them out of a book. In practice, they are much more daunting... much more terrifying.

The story is quite long, and I myself do not understand it fully. But here I relate it.

It seems a knave of the name Konnick, dwelling in the small southern province Slightly, has brought serious condemnations against my uncle. His imaginative accusations and over-zealous personality has begun to stir up discontent amongst even Gerald's most devoted subjects. That this is a potentially dangerous situation is made quite clear by uncle's constant adherence and concern with his subjects' peace and comfort. I have indeed, always thought uncle's devoted compliance to his people on the point of the ridiculous.
And so here, he is at a loss. As am I. And yet, to my astonishment (and the astonishment of Father as well) he seeks my advice.

Oh, lord.
My advice isn't worth horse crap.

Goin' Down!

Sock it to me...

Floatin' down the river

With a saturated liver

And I wish I could forgive her

But I do believe she meant it

When she told me to forget it

And I bet she will regret it

When they find me in the morning wet and drowned

And the word gets round

Goin' down

Goin' down

Coming up for air

It's pretty stuffy under there

I'd like to say I didn't care

But I forgot to leave a note

And it's so hard to stay afloat

I'm soakin wet without a boat

And I knew I should have taken off my shoes

It's front page news

Goin' down

Goin' down

I wish I had another drink

It wouldn't be so hard to sink

I should have taken time to think

Besides I got the picture straight

She must have had another date

I didn't need this extra weight

I wish that I could see the way to shore

Don't want no more

Goin' down

I'm goin' down

And now I see the life I led

I slept it all away in bed

I should have learned to swim instead

And now its really got me stumped

I can't believe why I jumped

I'd like to get my tummy pumped

I can't believe they drink this stuff in town

This dirty brown

Goin' down

Goin' down

I wish I looked before I leaped

I didn't know it was so deep

Been down so far I don't get wet

Haven't touched the bottom yet

This river scene is gettin' old

I'm hungry, sleepy, wet and cold

She told me to forget it nice

I should have taken her advice

I only want to go on home

I'd gladly leave that girl alone

What a way to spend the night

If I don't drown, I'll die of fright

My pappy taught me how to float

But I can't swim a single note

He threw me in to teach me how

I stayed there floatin' like a mama cow

And now I've floated way down stream

I know this has to be a dream

If I could find my way to shore

I'd never, never do this anymore

Il'l give you three, I've been down nine

I'm goin down just one more time.

Goin' down.

Goin' down.

Now the sky is gettin' light

An everything will be alright

Think I finally got the knack

Just floatin' here lazy on my back

I never really liked that town

I think I'll ride the river down

Just movin' slow and floatin' free

There's a river swingin' under me.

Waving back to the folks on shore

I should have thought of this before

I'm floatin' on down to New Orleans

Goin' to pick up on some swingin' scenes

I know I'll know a better day

I'll go down groovin' all the way

Goin' down

Goin' down

Dream

How creepy are dreams?

Once I had a dream about a dream. Seriously, in my dream I told about the dream that I'd just had.
Then I get this overwhelming sense of deja vu in my dreams. I keep telling myself (in my dream) that I've done this before. I've been here... hasn't this already happened?

Apparently, though, I can predict future events in my dreams. It sounds ridiculous, but only a week ago I had a strange dream in which a friend of mine was singing outside of a girl's window (other things were going on at the same time-- like a jumble of things-- you know how dreams go). He had the whole orchestral thing going. It was... weird, for lack of another adjective.
Anyway, just a few days ago this dude hooked up with a girl (in reality, not in my dream) he'd worked with for a while. Apparently the whole 'singing outside a girl's window' was code for dating or something.
Well, I think it's ironic.
Or whatever. I thought it worth mentioning.

Too bad it doesn't work for me. How cool would it be to predict real events in your own life?

Can't stop now?

Refuse of thoughts. blegh.

And yet another one of those days when I wonder what the hell I'm doing here.

It makes me tired.
physically, yes, but just... emotionally drained. Energy sapping out of every corner.

Another one of those days that makes me wish there were a spot on this earth between my two lives.
I have a feeling, though, that a place of escape only exists in sleep.
you know... when your brain turns off and submits entirely to your subconscience...
Even that's not the same, since somehow, my conscience life seeps relentlessly and disturbingly into my dreams.

Go the hell away!

I hate questioning. I hate it.
You're supposed to grow and mature through doubting and wondering.
Not me. I fight it every step, and it comes back and bites me in the ass.
There's another energy drainer.

Ugh.
Homework calls.

Goodbye

Pink tangent

I want pink hair.
I have a feeling, though, that pink just wouldn't work for me.
The type of people that have pink hair who say they're "asserting their individuality" are really just asserting how brave they are. Which is just as admirable, in my opinion.

The more I learn about my own heritage, about the Svedes and Germans... the more I wish I were Greek... or something like that. Like My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Tula was always so embarrassed. But how cool would it be to say "Opa!" and not sound like an idiot (or in my case, to have your roommate laugh at you... which isn't always a bad thing, it just means you aren't taken seriously.) I mean, my family is JUST as crazy, embarrassing and totally oblivious as Tula's and I don't get to run around yelling "Opa" and roast lamb on a spit. Obviously, you don't have to be Greek to have 27 cousins. Or to have to explain the pronounciation, spelling and origin (for people who are either totally blind or iliterate-- I used to get phone calls from soliciters asking for the "Eckersons"-- what the hell?) of the name you were given after your Swedish great aunt who apparently died at a young age. At some point I'm going to have to start spelling my name with an 'o': Honnah. (Maybe with two 'h's' at the end: Honnahh. Inevitably, though, that will just confuse people even more thoroughly.) My sister used to complain to me about her name. She'd tell me that the name Emily was such a common name, and not unique at all. Oh, right. Then maybe she'd like to go through life with people calling her 'Yohanna.' Bloody hell.

Well, that was quite a tangent. Geoff would be proud.

And now, quite to my surprise, I have just wasted thirty minutes of valuable study time.

Oh, woe is me, my life is so traumatic.
I shall swoon.

Summarizing

quoth anna,
"The saddest life is one summarized in a paragraph."

Mine Educations

And so back to education.
I am enjoying, really.
For the most part.
Some I just don't understand
And most likely never will.

Similar
To my friends
As well. We
think so
radically different.
Behave so
oppositely.
It's hard to believe
We can even stand
each other.
Life
must just be like that.

Hehe. This is fun.

It's dangerous. Seriously.

The only experience I have with baseball was when I was eight and my brother and I decided to play in the front yard. Basically, he threw the ball, I didn't hit it, and it went through the window.

Whoops.

Don't try to tell me that paying for that window built character. Don't even.

coffee just doesn't cut it

I am exhausted
With really no reason to be.
Still I can't bring myself to sleep
it's times like these
that remind me of that special resolution
I have always wanted to keep
to sap every moment out of each day
to feel like I am actually living them
and not just moving in a mindless, pointless
circle.
I always imagine
happiness and satisfaction
but
it doesn't feel so good right now

Tomorrow. Already?

Here it comes...

There it goes...

It's okay. It'll be back.
In the immortal words of John Mayer, if I keep waving goodbye, sooner or later I'll be waving hello again. It makes sense, but I suppose my arm would get awfully tired.

Carnival Town

Round and round carousel
He’s got you under its spell
Moving so fast going no where

Up and down Ferris wheel
Tell me how does it feel
To be so high
Looking down here

Is it lonely, lonely, lonely

Did the clown make you smile
He was only your fool for a while
But now he’s come back home
And left you wandering there

Is it lonely

 lonely

lonely

That lucky old sun

At this point
It's so hard to believe the summer is nearly over and college classes return. It really drives home the fact that the term 'summer' refers more to the three months of school-free vacation than to the warm weather.

Stupid Back-to-School commercials.

I won't get to post here as often as I have.
August was the month that all my thoughts exploded out in one big...
...splurt into a nice mess of creative writing.
I wish I could have more explosions like that, say... for papers and such...

Up in the mornin'
Out on the job
Work like the devil for my pay
But that lucky old sun got nothin' to do
But roll around heaven all day.

Sun seeking: Step four

Sun seeking: Step three and a half

Sun seeking: Step three

Summer's ending...

Day by Day

Once I had a secret love
That lived within the heart of me
All too soon my secret love
Became impatient to be free

So I told a friendly star
The way that dreamers often do
Just how wonderful you are
And why I am so in love with you

Now I shout it from the highest hills
Even told the golden daffodils

At last my heart's an open door
And my secret love's no secret anymore

Doris Day

Words

Albir Elderberry of Farwood

Lord! The incessant boredom!
I am surprised I survived.
My life... my waking life... has become one continuous strand of tasteless, unextraordinary, monotonous events.

I suppose explanations are in order.
The good doctor pronounced me cured of all ill health. He requested a private interview with me yesterday afternoon. He began by making me promise never to reveal the truth to my father, but confessed that he found no proof of mental instability in my "symptoms". He ruled that the symptoms my father had witnessed were no more than the behavior common in young men my age that had been erroneously blown out of proportion. He admitted that I'd been bed-ridden for the past two weeks merely because he feared for his job and position. Perhaps, he concluded, I might be grateful for a good long rest away from Father.
And on my part, I had to admit the two-week peace had been beneficial to my health... or at least, to my sanity.

All the same, I cursed that apothecary as I stood and exchanged empty conversations with nobility that I would never remember. Father had his hawks eye on me nearly the entire evening.
I owe my short escape to the General's daughter Ariella. I must admit I like the girl. She is quite clever, friendly and boisterous. Very amiable, even if she does possess a trail of freckles across her nose. I'm still laughing over her admittance to me that she'd spent the entire evening stealing feathers from the dames' and damsels' headdresses.

I awaited the late hour when the general population would retire for the night, and the wonderfully expansive Hall would be empty. I dismissed the staff so that I might have the small pleasure of extinguishing each candle myself. My steps echoed through the hall. Each waxing candle shimmered dimly in the reflection from the Hall windows.
I was surprised when each candle sconce had been snuffed, but still a small light burned dimly somewhere. I noticed it reflected off the glass.
It came from high above, that lone light, and I followed it up a hidden stair to a balcony I had never noticed before.
There she was.
Asleep. Lying across the balcony floor in a white nightgown, a tiny, dying candle at her elbow.
Her skin glowed with the candlelight that I immediately snuffed.
I tripped halfway down the steps and ran away, forcing my mind to believe I had imagined it.

Words

Elsapatience of the Great House

Today is my birthday.
Funny to think that I barely noticed it coming. And now I am one year older. What have I to show for it?

Duke Elderberry has the entire staff of the Great House on their toes with preparations for a Grand Reception given on behalf of Prince Albir and his returning health. It is also, so I hear, a show of splendor to welcome (and impress) the General and his daughter.
Tonight I shall watch the crowd congregate in the Grand Hall.

My favorite thing, as I sit atop the balcony stairs of the attic, high above the milling and mingling assembly, is to watch the elegant people through their reflections in the Grand Hall windows. The blurred images represented in the glass create a scene of delicate delusory figures rather than the over-dressed pompous peacocks they all appear in stark reality. Though these lords and ladies do have a very creative taste in color and decoration, I must admit. I wonder what species of bird produced the feathers in some of the most interesting ladies' headdresses.

I do enjoy watching Ariella. She has a sense of humor which I find, despite myself, I admire. She dances with great skill, one can see plainly, but I have caught her once or twice purposely treading upon an undeserving partner's foot. Once she misplaced her elbow.
I suppose one must make one's own fun when one is forced into dull settings.

I confess I have noticed the Prince amongst the confusion of the crowd. I cannot tell whether he is pleased or not. He looks quite stiff. He greets each new comer with a smile and a short conversation.
And as the night wears on, and the candles burn lower and the Hall dims and empties, the Prince stands out more and more in my mind.

I fell asleep on the balcony. I do hope no one missed me.

Words

Elsapatience

I've seen General Lauphinstok and his daughter Ariella, who arrived at the Great House yesterday afternoon. The General is surprisingly very short. He must be an inch shorter than myself and I am not tall. Ariella is very thin and very pale, with enormous brown eyes. One would think just by looking at her that she would have a quiet, timid character. And one would think wrong. She is quite loud, in fact. She speaks to my fellow servants and I as though we were deaf. Though she is rather friendly, which speaks well in my book. I wonder what Prince Albir will think of her when they meet, for Great House gossip whispers that she is here on the hopes that they will make a good match. I cannot even guess.
In any case, Duke Elderberry spent a good half hour apologizing to the General and his daughter on his sickly son's behalf.
Cook tells me the Prince's mental health is improving; his prospects are quite good.
We shan't see another episode like that of the night I shall never forget. At least, so I hope.

Dream

I dreamt that during my last few weeks of summer break I had randomly decided in a moment of desperation to work the nightshift. I've no idea what the company was, or what we really did. It was, however, on a train. We worked and slept on the train, and it seemed like it was always nightime and the moon was always full. There was a guy and a girl my age who I remember working with.
The train went all over the world. I remember thinking to myself how it traveled across the ocean, because obviously we visited places in Europe. Once, I stepped off the train. It was like being inside a painting. Amazing. I walked through a forest with the guy I worked with, who then asked me to marry him. I don't remember what I said to him.

it's my dancing dress.

ghost dreams

You can't have my marbles. Get your own.

My Mom's brother died when he was fifteen. He had been riding his bicycle when he was hit by a car. But Mom has kept a lot of his things. She still has his ancient toy cars. And all of his marbles, too. My brothers and sisters and I used to love looking at all of those marbles.
For some reason, one day I was looking for her jar of marbles. Mom wasn't home, so I asked Dad, who was fixing himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen.
"Hey, Dad, where did Mom put her marbles?"
Dad stopped. He paused... he grinned...
... and then I realized what I'd just said.
It was the silliest thing, but all the same, I couldn't stop laughing.

The Secret Life of Keys

"Well, my good man. If you're so clever at finding things, then how do you manage to lose them in the first place?"

By Jove.
I've lost it.
Not sure what 'it' is.

Perhaps my sanity.

remove the plank in your own

You know what's fun?

Hearing people tell you all the things that are wrong with you.

Words

Albir Elderberry of Farwood

Apparently and unbeknownst to me, I am- or else I have become- mentally unsound. Those were the words of Uncle's own private apothecary. His diagnosis is due to my apparent lack of sleep and appetite, erratic behavior and inability to concentrate.
Father is in a rage, though he has finally stopped shouting. Uncle's patience grows thin.
I can tell the news has spread to the gossiping House servants. Whenever I encounter a maid or manservant, they stare. The maiden who brought me my tea and medicine stepped right up to my bed and stared down at me, squinting, as though she were examining me. As she finally left, I watched her take a furtive look round the room. Hmph. At least I still possess some dignity. And when one thinks on it, mental instability is rather dramatic and adventurous. Almost dashing and romantical. Many a novel's hero has struggled under the suggestion of insanity before accomplishing some daring, life-saving deed.
I think.

Trapped beneath my sheets for days now, I am striving to be optimistic.

My ghost has not come back.

Words

Elsapatience of the Great House

From Thera I learned Duke Elderberry has sent for an apothecary for Prince Albir.

From Cook I learned that the apothecary diagnosed the prince to be delusional and very ill. He recommended a two week seclusion. I am afraid this did not bode well with Elderberry. He demanded a second opinion and then a third opinion. Apparently, this two week seclusion interferes with the arrival of General Lauphinstok (and his daughter.)
King Gerald finally intervened, or so it would seem.
The good doctor has made certain things clear to me. Prince Albir's strange behavior of the other night was not due to a case of sleep walking, nor of an odd change of character and sensibilities; it was a minor case of psychosis. I can't say whether this news distresses me or not. I can't tell whether it concerns or even interests me. For once in my small experience, I am completely and erratically uncertain.

I do know that the mentally unsound prince still possesses my blue ribbon and my letter. And I still plan to retrieve them.

Sun seeking: Step two

Sending my clouds home

Sun seeking: Step one

Words

Elsapatience of the Great House

Oh, heaven and earth.
The strangest and most ethereal of nights.

I awoke in the night with a terrible pain in my chest and stomach. It drove me from my bed, from my room, from the servant's quarters.
The pain seemed to lessen and grow in turn, and in the latter moments, I was nearly doubled over in pain. I scrambled blindly up and down the stairs, through the hall, clenching my teeth to keep from sobbing.
Finally, I sat down where I was, clenching my stomach. It was a long time since last I was ill like this. I'd no idea what I could do, I just kept praying and hoping it would cease.
I didn't realize where I was until I heard a creak that made my heart jump.
There in the dim hallway, stood Prince Albir. He leaned a little against the wall as if he were drunk, or sleep walking. He looked half-asleep, I say, but his eyes were clear and awake, as though he hadn't ever slept.
I bit my lip to keep from whimpering. Half my mind was fixed on the horrible hurt in my stomach, and the other half worried about what the prince was going to do, finding me there outside his door, dressed only in a nightgown.
To my utter and complete astonishment, he bent over and slipped his arms beneath me. He picked me up in one sweeping motion, as though he expected I weighed no more than a small cat. My surprise gave way to the terrifying idea that he might, indeed, be sleep walking, and thus as likely as not to drop me at any moment. I could do nothing but remain perfectly still and silent.
As my mind was wholly fixed on this thought, I didn't notice where he was carrying me. But he laid me down on a sofa in a room somewhere down a long hallway. And then he just knelt there, as though he expected something. He had an unearthly look in his eyes, like the kind of look one has when one has suddenly seen a bright light or perhaps a ghost.
And he just knelt there, for hours. He didn't even speak.
Close to morning (for the light that began to stream across the hallway) I realized my chest pain had gone. The poor prince's head had sunk down across his arm, where he remained kneeling by the couch. Terrified of the circumstances I might find myself in if I stayed on, I crept out of the room. Eventually I regained my room and my bed, upon which I promptly collapsed.

And now I must avoid him in order to avoid trouble.

I must confess, shamefacedly, that I have been a complete git.

Words

Albir Elderberry of Farwood

Father reminded me three times today that General Lauphinstok and his daughter Ariella are arriving at the end of the week. I received an hour and a half lecture on how I was to behave.

Last night I dreamt of my ghost.
I could hear her footsteps traveling back and forth past my bedchamber door. They were light steps, but I could instinctively tell they were agitated. Without even thinking, I got up out of bed and crossed the room.
There she sat, down the hall, hunched over. Her dark hair spilled over her knees, and she was hugging her stomach. She appeared as if she were in terrible pain.
For what purpose, I'd no idea, but I knew she needed help. I quietly crept closer to her, and she looked up quickly, a terrified expression on her pale face. Her large, wide-set eyes were glossy with tears. I could tell her jaw was clenched tight against the pain.
Quite carefully and comparatively easily, I lifted her up in my arms and carried her down the hall. She lay completely still. It occurred to me to be surprised that she was, in fact, substantial; that I could indeed lift and carry her just as I could a human girl. It didn't directly puzzle me, and I didn't really bother to wonder about it until later.
To a small room with a large couch I carried my ghost girl, though I hardly seemed to pay any attention to which direction I turned, which corner, which hallway. Perhaps I was only drawn by any light that succeeded to guide my footsteps. It really was strange; so dreamlike, and yet, I remember everything so clearly and so detailed.
Without protest, she permitted herself to be lain on the couch. She no longer clutched at her stomach. She looked relatively calm and easy. She simply lay on the couch, gazing up at me. I don't know if I even wondered what I was to do next. The look in this ghost's face seemed to impart to me that I had done all that was needed. So I knelt down and remained where I was, now and again reaching out to stroke her hair and allowing her to gaze at me as she did.
Then that strange dream was broken, and I seemed to awaken from a stupor. I had been sitting beside an empty couch, my arm propped up, and my head resting heavily against my arm. Hazy, pale morning light filled the room.
When I finally awoke, exhausted and bewildered, I was in my own bed. And I was cold.

I was chastised for falling into a dead sleep during an ongoing lecture from Uncle on parliament history. I am afraid Uncle does not hold out much hope for me. He seems to grow increasingly wearier every day. Hmph. My failure to digest the knowledge daily bestowed on me only makes Father angrier.

And so I wonder now if my duties are done. It seems such a simple thing. Nothing, really. I had expected a burdensome task from this ghost girl, something that deserved the term unfinished business. And it was all done in a dream.
It does not feel like it is over.

Sweet David

"You've got a very interesting face. Would you mind if I painted it?"
"What color do you want to paint my face?"

"I'm Sophie, by the way. What's your name?"
"David."
"Oh, that's too perfect. Well, Michaelangelo had his David. So you've got to let me have mine."

"That doesn't mean you can't move your mouth. Talking won't ruin the painting. I'm not that bad."
"I don't really have anything to say."
"Oh, then you don't have to say anything at all. There are an awful lot of people in this world who have nothing to say but seem to spend all the time talking. You're right to conserve your words. It means you'll be a man of great power."
"I don't want to be a man of great power."
"Then you don't have to be. Just be happy that you're the kind of person who could be if he wanted to."

Clever, Creative and Evilly Mischievous? Me? Never.

Someone has it out for you.

Words

Elsapatience

He's stolen my blue ribbon! That rat-faced weasel. Horrid little mouse turd.
Now he has my letter and my ribbon. What does he think he is, that he can just take what doesn't belong to him? And carry it round like a trophy. Augh I hate him.

Albir Elderberry of Farwood

Perhaps the book is a load of rubbish. Haven't seen or made any contact with the ghost, and it has been nearly a week.
I did, however, find that my new leather boots have been in the slop bucket since yesterday morning. I can't quite get the stink out of them. And there was grit in my tea this afternoon. And a maid tripped me with a broom as I went to join Father and Uncle in the drawing room.
Bad luck, perhaps? An onslaught from the impatient ghost?

Forgetting and Remembering

"I doed it again!"
She hops up and down on the sofa cushions. She looks so funny, only one side, the curly side of her hair bouncing as she hops. The other side, straight and stubborn, remains limpish. She mis-steps and lands on her bottom on the floor. Immediately, she gets up, struggles back onto the couch and begins hopping again.
"Again. I doed it again."
She keeps hopping until her sister plucks her off the sofa and carriers her down the hall. She kisses her sister on the shoulder (missed her cheek). And her sister says goodnight.

Words

Albir Elderberry of Farwood

I decided something must be done.
Visited the library after Uncle retired to bed early. He looked rather ill.
I searched the endless shelves for books on ghosts and poltergeists.
There was only one.
It was thick and heavy and ancient, smelling of mold and thick with dust along the top. Its pages were terribly yellowed.
I read through the interesting parts. Am not quite sure whether the advice it gives is sound or not. But I've decided it's worth a try. In any case, the book explains that ghosts only haunt in order to request help. Unfinished matters and all that. The sooner one discovers what the ghost wants, the sooner one can finish it's unfinished business, and the sooner it will cease haunting. Therefore, the book suggests the victim of the haunting should carry around any article the ghost has left behind, in order to draw its attention and command its presence as often as possible, and thus discover what it needs done.
And so I've taken to wearing the bright blue ribbon tied beneath my belt, where it is slightly exposed.
What fascinating business this all is! It has almost succeeded in helping me pay attention to uncle's lectures. Mayhaps I'll not have to visit the garden so often to escape.

Music in my sleep. But it was different this time. Familiar, almost.

Uncle informs me that General Lauphinstok is arriving (with his daughter) in a fortnight.
Lord I hope she isn't cross-eyed. Or wears rouge. Or snorts when she laughs.