I did it myyyyy waaaaaaay

I had a conversation with a friend the other day about "negative attention." Such a thing is only sought after by people so starved for attention and obsessed with being the center of it that they will resort to the kind of spotlight that shines with a cruelly bright light and a hateful audience. Why in the world would someone want to offend people just for the sake of standing out from the crowd? Why would one want to belittle another's personal beliefs just for the sake of differentiating oneself? Does it provide some kind of sick thrill to be looked at as someone who will say whatever they want without any sensitivity to the people around? Cruel, unkind, insensitive, obnoxious, melodramatic, egotistical, idiotic.
Grow a backbone, you say?
Grow a brain.

Rubbish

She first noticed him across the hall once in one of her more reflective moods. She reflected how much he reminded her of one of her favorite singers, a man with a sensitive soul and a voice that could break her heart. (She often reflected what rubbish her reflections were after she reflected on them.) He was quite tall and always walked with a strikingly straight and masculine posture, so that she spotted him the instant he appeared in the room. Unfortunately for her, she lacked the ability to boldly meet a stranger's eyes, especially one whom she was dying to talk to. There was absolutely no excuse for her to walk over and introduce herself, even when they two sat alone at separate tables not a few feet apart. Try as hard as she might, she could not think of any topic of conversation she could strike up with him, just to get his attention, to get him to notice her. She knew his name, and was ashamed of the fact, because she had to research to discover it. She knew he played the violin, as she happened to work at an orchestra concert; she snagged one of the programs on her way out, just to learn who he was. Music major, no doubt. Huh. Too bad she'd given up playing an instrument long ago... five years ago, to be exact. (Thus, she had no reason to visit the music building outside of departmental work, other then as a short cut to the art building on cold mornings.) Still, she was happy with her art. Happier than she could ever be with anything else, despite the way some of her "friends" looked down on her for it. They were "intellectual" because they could constantly and obnoxiously spout facts that no one really cared to hear. Someday she would be a Michaelangelo and paint an inspiration. She'd show 'em. And often she promised herself that her pursuit of art would never be a hobby; never tossed on the back burner to be replaced by family life. If anything, the two could co-exist.
In any case, sadness set in whenever reality did. Life was good, but it wasn't satisfying; it was happy, but not thrilling. When was it going to be wonderful instead of just "fine"?
Good question, she reflected.

words

Elsa of the House

The frost is here. Earlier than I would ever have expected and somehow I feel it reflects the unsettling emotions of the Great House inhabitants.
I was holding out on the first blow of winter and now that it has come I miss the summer air so much.

I have not seen Prince Albir for three days, now.
Perhaps he has fallen through a crack or melted into the walls.

This is such a frustratingly isolated place! The prince's presence here has put the acknowledgement into my mind. I never gave a thought to it before and I've begun to obsess over a way to defeat the lonlieness, especially the kind that creeps in with the wintertime.
Prince Albir is still waiting for news of his mother's death. I wonder sometimes if a miraculous recovery is not possible, since Great House gossip knows nothing of the illness or what caused it. Cook has taken to adding special spices to the prince's tea in a poor attempt to alleviate... or at least to defy monotony. Thera tried to persuade me to visit the prince's room--the brash, insensitive, careless girl. To even think of attempting such a thing without reason or invitation. If I had an excuse, perhaps... still, I feel as though I am on thin ice already. Who knows but I may lose my station here if I continue to act on impulse. If anyone else knew of my behavior, unreasonable suggestions and implications would arise and that would be the end of me. If there's one thing I've learned about bored, uneducated people living in close quarters, it's to expect the absurd.

Lena

remembered a summer lightning storm when she was in middle school. She was wide awake at midnight and bravely made her way down the stairs in her nightgown to sit on the front porch and watch. A burst of lightning flashed, midnight became noon, and Lena was jarred to see that all the things in the mysterious night world were exactly the same as they were in the cheery, prosaic day.
After that she spent a lot of time convincing herself that what you saw, even what you felt, had an unreliable relationship to what was actually there. What was actually there was reality, regardless of whether you saw it or how you felt about it.
But after that she'd started drawing and painting and had to unravel all the convincing she'd done. There was no way to access a visual reality beyond what you saw. Reality was what you saw. "We are trapped in our senses," her old teacher, Annik, told her once. "They are all we have of the world."
And so they are the world, Lena remembered thinking then, and many times since.

Why did she spend so much of her life unlearning? It was so much harder than learning, she mused as she timidly made her way around Leo's canvas.
She was almost afraid to look--scared of its being worse than it was supposed to be but more scared of its being better.
She waited until she was fully in front of his painting to take it on.
After three days in the studio, his painting was really only begun. More suggestion than execution. And yet it was so far beyond hers she felt like crying. Not just because her looked so amateurish in comparison, but also because his had a gesture and a quality, even at this young stage, that was unaccountably sad and lovely.
She was devoting her life to art school, and she knew she could learn a lot of things here, but in a flash of recognition, she also knew that this couldn't be taught. She couldn't say why this painting struck her so, what was the particular insight into the pathos of Nora, but she felt it. And she felt her own set of standards and ambitions swirling down the toilet.
She could practically hear the flush.
She put her fingers to her eyes, unnerved to feel actual wetness. She had hoped those would be conceptual tears, not wet ones.
She thought of Leo. His hair and his hand. She tried to reconcile the look of him with this painting.
And in a rush she felt ashamed of her fatuous games as she realized she was going to be thinking about him whether or when or how he ever looked at her.

From
Forever in Blue: The Fourth Summer of the Sisterhood
by Ann Brashares

Unforgettable

Sing!

More LMNOP

NOLLOPVILLE

Toes, September 19

Ella,

Mr. Warren is here. I wasn't aware that he was so young! Perhaps he only looks young. I chose not to ask his age so as not to embarrass him. Maybe twenty-four. No more than twenty-six, I think.
He is also very attractive. He parts his hair in the center, picking up on the style of the local boys. I can tell he wants to fit in. I can tell that he wishes not to arouse anyone's suspicion.
He is single, as well--at least from what I have been able to learn. He was happy to show me pictures of his mother, his cocker spaniel, even his eight-year-young niece, but no beautiful fiancee, thank heaven!
I'm not sure why I am acting the schoolgirl. Perhaps because it has been so long since we've given welcome to such an interesting visitor. I know what you must be thinking. But I can assure you: the purpose of Nate's visit is not to fall in love with me. Yet in my heart of hearts, I must confess: I simply cannot stop myself from the inevitable "what if"!
He got in last night, by the way.
Have I written that he's witty? Clever to near-fault, it turns out. Not to mention the fact that he speaks with such a mellifluous Savannah-honey-voice that I come close to simply melting away each time he opens his mouth!
I must confess, as well, to being still in the thrall of two full glasses of Sonoma cabernet. I write you--glancing at the clock near my cot-at one in the a.m. Sleepy, I know I ought to be, but I am not!
I must also relate how taken Mother is with our new house-guest. For his part, Mr Warren has been most open to our smile-accompanying, eager-to-please hospitality--reciprocating our courtesies with southern-tangy flattery, in couplet with sweet masculine grace.
He will be staying with us for a week or so before traveling to your neck of the forest to meet with Mr. Lyttle. If I am lucky, his trip to town will concomitate perfectly with my own trip to see my most favorite cousin.
Tomorrow I shall wake, thereupon to wish none of this were put to paper, but by then it will be too late, for this letter is going into the corner mailbox as soon as I can throw on a robe to venture out. What a lovely time we have spent this evening, Sweet Ella, even without the use of the four illegal letters.
(I must own to a slippage on occasion; there was slippage from each of us as the evening wore on, our tongues becoming looser; it was almost impossible not to stumble in light of the intoxicating circumstances. But we were lucky in that when such a misspeak took place, there were no ears pressing themselves against the portals or fenesters to overhear.)
I trust, as always, the safe, nonintercept passage of this letter. For while arguable is the possibility that Nollop speaks to us post-mortem--sans mortem as it were--the only thing that isn't contestable, that rings with pure alloyless truth, is the last thing that left our venerable vocabularian's mouth prior to his expiration: "Love one another, push the perimeter of this glorious language. Lastly, please show proper courtesy; open not your neighbor's mail." (You may recall that this was a rare pet peeve of Mr. Nollop's.)

Love,
Tassie

NOLLOPVILLE

Wetty, September 20

Ella,

I beg you to ignore that last letter. I was in a state of shameful inebriation. Mr. Warren is a nice man. That is all. A nice man. I am near mortification!

Love,

Tassie

From

Ella Minnow Pea

A Novel in Letters

by Mark Dunn

LMNOP

NOLLOPTON, NOLLOP

Montae, Nophemger 13

To the Towgate Phamilee:
Please asept mie hartphelt simpathee at this time. Georgeanne passt awae last night phrom let poisoning. She paintet her whole selph phrom het to toe with manee prettee, ornamental hews. She was so resplentent, almost ratiant in repose--the happee, appealing pigments an aesthetit reminter oph her lophlee warm spirit.
She shoot loog smashing 4 the phooneral.
Her remains shoot arriph shortlee.

With all regrets,
Ella Minnow Pea

From
Ella Minnow Pea
A Novel in Letters
by Mark Dunn

Thurby, Januarious 4

A new year.
So much has been written about new years. Fresh start, hopeful resolutions... lots of optimism. Huh. I call myself an optimist. Are optimists allowed to get angry at pessimists? Is that against the optimists' code of behavior? Hmm. 'Cause sometimes I just wanna slug 'em. Right in the shnoz.
You know what's funny? Songs that have a happy beat, but contain super depressing lyrics. And you only notice it when you actually listen to the words, and then it isn't so fun anymore. And then you hear your roommate listening to the song and you feel it your duty to inform her what the song is really about, and then she's all depressed too. Spread the joy!
It's a really pathetic metaphor for new years. Close off all the depressing crap going on around you and just be happy and hopeful! Listen to the catchy tune but ignore the kill-joy.
I gave up on new years resolutions long ago. Mine are made and broken every day.
Ha.