When you get down to it

Right now, I'm trying to ignore the woman here in the coffee shop who just stepped on my foot and is talking at the top of her voice about some kitchen appliance she got for Christmas.

I've discovered some very interesting things. At least, I think they're interesting. One is that there is definitely more to my two little brothers than meets the eye.
The older one, the one we call Adrian, is actually a very intelligent character. I've always suspected as much. This afternoon we spent about an hour or two discussing some very complicated subjects concerning God, humanity and the universe. He was explaining to me about a book he'd been reading called, "A Wind in the Door." The only problem was that, whilst he was trying to explain all these very interesting, very complicated things to me about this book, the smaller one, Matthew, kept interrupting with very interesting, very complicated questions and suggestions of his own. They were endless; he'd barely finished asking one question before he had another he was just bursting to present to us. Needless to say, this was quite frustrating for Adrian, who has a minuscule store of patience for his little brother.
Our discussion centered around our relationship to God and His to us. Adrian told me about Meg, who as a character in this book, was given the job of naming stars. Each star was a person, an individual. Someone asked her, "how do you count the stars?" and she replied, "they don't need to be counted, they only need to be called by name."
That, said Adrian, was very like how we are to God. We are all of us human beings, a species. But to God, we are each individual, each our own entity. God loves all humanity, but He has a specific love to give to each of us, as we each have our own specific identities. Like the words that make up a prayer, each one is individual and means something different, but in all, make up one prayer.

Now, Matthew and his endless flow of questions.
A friend of mine (one with whom I have a very complicated relationship; from the sometimes insensitive and ridiculous things she claims, I've learned quite a lot) once told me that the adults from her family's Catholic Church kicked her out of Sunday School because she asked to many questions. By that she meant to tell me that she was just too smart for them; she asked more questions than they could answer, and even answer clearly and intelligently.
I came back to that this afternoon, trying to keep up with Matt's barrage of constant inquiries and suggestions.
"What does God look like? Why can't I know what God looks like? Why can't I be a god? How does God make everything do everything? Why am I what I am and not a tree or a lightbulb or a cloud? Why do people make God look like an old man? Maybe God doesn't have a beard, maybe He just has a mustache. Couldn't He be a young man and not an old man?" He opened a can of pop, and the edge of the pop tab cut his finger. "Why did God make that happen?" "Why can't I choose to be something else and not myself?"
Now, how do you even BEGIN to answer questions like that? Especially when he has about a million more? How do explain about free will and choices and existence and anything outside of our own time, space and reality to a nine-year-old? How could you explain it in words and ways that would make him understand and pay attention?
So I wonder at my friend and her statement. I wonder at how she believed she was just too clever for her religion teacher. When religion is such a broad, mysterious, sometimes unexplainable, incoherent topic. When you put a curious, knowledge-hungry nine-year-old child with a boundless imagination and the very simpliest and yet unfathomable of subjects (that has confounded many a brilliant theologian) when it comes down to it, how many of us have that bottomless store of patience?
Religion is never as simple as it seems.

Abridged Abroad

I'm in Ireland!

http://joherickson.wordpress.com/

if you're interested in reading about it (there are some pictures, too!)

Reflection on a Life of Devotion: A little shpeel on My Saint

St. Edith Stein (Teresa Benedicta of the Cross) is my confirmation saint. Unable to find the life of a saint that drew me in, a friend of mine (a very intelligent soul) drew my attention to her.

She was raised Jewish, the youngest in a large German family, but converted to Catholicism in the early 1900's. A little more than a decade later, she entered the Cologne Carmel Order. She was removed to Holland due to the political turmoil in Germany (the rise of Nazism.) When Holland was taken by the Nazis, Edith (Teresa) was arrested and eventually taken to a concentration camp where she died in the gas chambers.

"Out of the unspeakable human suffering caused by the Nazis in western Europe in the 1930's and 1940's, there blossomed the beautiful life of dedication, consecration, prayer, fasting, and penance of Saint Teresa. Even though her life was snuffed out by the satanic evil of genocide, her memory stands as a light undimmed in the midst of evil, darkness, and suffering" (http://www.catholic.org/saints)

But here is something I never knew: She was beatified by Pope John Paul II (the Great) at the Cologne Cathedral (where she was originally baptized into the Faith) in 1987 -- the year I was born!
Coincidence? I think not.

My Sweet, Crushed Angel

You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to hold hands with the Beautiful One.

You have waltzed with great style,
My sweet, crushed angel,
To have ever neared God's Heart at all.

Our Partner is notoriously difficult to follow,
And even His best musicians are not always easy
To hear.

So what if the music has stopped for a while.
So what
If the price of admission to the Divine
Is out of reach tonight.

So what, my dear,
If you do not have the ante to gamble for Real Love.
The mind and the body are famous
For holding the heart ransom,
But Hafiz knows the Beloved's eternal habits.

Have patience,
For He will not be able to resist your longing
For long.

You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to kiss the Beautiful One.
You have actually waltzed with tremendous style,
O my sweet,
O my sweet, crushed angel.

FROM
I Heard God Laughing Poems of Hope & Joy
Renderings of Hafiz
by Daniel Ladinsky

Tipperary

It will take me years to make sense of all this -- to make emotional sense, that is. I know that I'll go back over the "evidence" again and again for things that I insufficiently celebrated.

Such as the size of the spirit possessed by my mother, April Burke -- to use the money she had been left for such a noble and brilliant enterprise, to keep beauty preserved. And to perceive the man who loved her, even if it took her a while. Or did it?

And such as my real father, Charles O'Brien, whose writings taught me that we do not have to continue as we were. Or thought we were.
And that life brings out its brightest colors only when you ask.

FROM
Tipperary: A Novel
by Frank Delaney

Euclid

As this is a History of my own life as well as of my country in my time, I shall here acknowledge my brother, Euclid. He passed away on a January day when we all sat with him. I have seen patients die, I have seen them struggle to live, despite their mortal ailments, and I have seen them slip away as quietly and swiftly as a fish into a dark pool. Euclid lingered; he rallied-- two, three, four times. If he knew that he was passing from us, he did not say.
In the previous few years he had grown frailer by the month, then by the week; and since Christmas, by the day. Seeing his condition, I had not returned to the road. In the second week of January, Mother asked Father and me whether we should place Euclid's bed by the fire in the larger drawing-room-- what we call the Terrace Room-- because the long windows give out onto the terrace and thence with a view to the wood. That day, with much effort, we moved a spare bed to a place near the fire; and a day-bed into the room, also, where I lay many nights, talking to him, telling him "tales from the road," as he called them. I carried Euclid downstairs on the day we moved his bed; I have carried five-year-old children who weighted heavier.
He had, Mother now says, ailed since birth. Food never sat well with him; he picked here and there at his plate, he ate like a bird and not a beast. Thin since infancy, he never gained a continuous robustness. I recall no more than two summers, and those not in succession, when Euclid looked strong and healthy, and even then, the impression came principally from the sun's tanning of his face.
We have never known the name or cause or root of his ailment. I believe that he had a weakness since birth, that he lacked a density of blood. He was born into a household where his three family members bulge with energy-- and he was granted none.
But he had the grandest soul. He had wit, humor, quickness, and a fire in his heart that, had it warmed his body, would have taken him upright through life. I believe that he was undermined by his own puzzlement at what ailed him, and that he railed at whatever denied him the same physical force as his father, mother, or brother.
He attempted to compensate with deliberate oddity in his demeanor, and with out-of-the-ordinary intellectual inquiry. Too poorly always to join a college or university, he surrounded himself with books-- of all kinds, on all manner of subjects. To Euclid, the discovery of a new fact was as a gemstone to a lady; it thrilled him, he turned it this way and that, to let the light shine on it, and he carried it with him proudly, his beauty enhanced by showing it to the world.
I believe that he decided to die. The new place to lie, close to the heart of the house, rather than remote in his bedroom, seemed to elevate him for a time. He much enjoyed the flames in the larger fireplace; he found the influx of company exciting-- because those who called to the house now engaged with him, brought him news. Perhaps we made the move too late-- many years too late. Had we sacrificed the Terrace Room earlier, would the energy of the world, as it came to our door, have kept him alive?
But I believe that he had already taken his decision.
He told nobody. On the Sunday, I was sitting with him at two o'clock in the afternoon. The fire blazed; Mother and Father had driven to Holy-cross, where our long-retired and now ancient housekeeper, Mrs. Ryan, had fallen ill. Euclid took a little soup, no more than a spoon or two, and he had said little all day. Then he spoke.
"What do you offer for a pain in the chest and arms?"
I asked him, "Show me where."
"It's been here"-- he indicated his left shoulder and upper arm-- "since Thursday; it keeps coming back."
I said, "Let me get my bags."
Euclid shook his head. "I can't take anything. My mouth, my throat-- I have no way of doing it."
I helped him to sit up a little, but after a few minutes he said, "I want to lie flat."
Those were almost his last words. Mother and Father returned soon and did not need to be told. Their eyes, when they turned to me, were filled with darkness; it is a sight I have seen often, the sight of fear entering a person's soul when they know in their heart that a loved one is going to die.
Did we sleep, any of us, for the rest of the week? I think not. If I went to bed any night, I woke again after an hour or two-- and came downstairs to find Mother or my father, or both, sitting in the shadows thrown by the fire. Mother read to Euclid; he liked Tennyson and Coleridge, and I heard, "on either side the river lie/Long fields of barley and of rye," and I heard of painted ships on painted oceans.
We were all present when he went. He had been lying quieter and quieter, taking no food, sweating a little. At eleven o-clock in the morning, he raised a hand to his left shoulder, said, "This hurts," and then sighed. He did not move or cry out; nor did his throat rattle. None of the things of Death came to his bedside; he merely went away. Father rose from his chair by the fire and spread his hands out from his body, opening and clenching his fists, opening and clenching, and blinking his eyes. And Mother said, looking at me with eyes wide open as though in surprise, "Now what will any of us do?"

FROM
Tipperary: A Novel
by Frank Delaney

Viva Benedetto!

Wow.
What an experience.
There's the good and the bad with every adventure, and this one was no different. However, I feel I've dwelt much too much on the negative. I'm working on memorializing the great things that happened.
The joyful aura that surrounded every person from every different country (I met Venezuelans, Indians, Irishmen, many awesome Aussies, Vietnamese, South Koreans, Africans, Italians, lots of Germans, Mexicans...) will be something I'll always remember. These are few among my fond memories: the Spanish-speaking people walking the five mile pilgrimage through Sydney strumming guitars and singing happily; the "Benedetto!" and "Viva el Papa!" chants; the construction workers high up on a building, blowing their whistles and clapping to our music and WYD chants. Then there was my completely ethereal experience of High Mass in Sydney.

Now here's the icing on the cake.
I've not ever told anyone about this, but I was heartbroken over the death of our beloved JPII. He was my Pope. I never got to see him, I only knew of his life and heard his words, but I loved him heart and soul.
I wasn't interested in the election of a new pope. I didn't much care. And when I first saw and heard of Pope Benedict XVI, I didn't like him much. I'm a little ashamed to admit that, but it's true.

But in Sydney, I heard him speak... and it was like he was speaking just to me. He wasn't cold and harsh like I'd previously imagined (he is German after all...) He was brilliant and straightforward and intense. But he was also incredibly warm. He spoke to us, the Catholic youth, and you could hear the honesty and sincerity in his voice. You could truly believe he meant every word and his encouragements to us were heartfelt.
Maybe this sounds obvious. But it was an awakening for me. It was a new realization.
The cardinal in Sydney remarked upon the general surprise regarding the theme that the Holy Father picked for WYD 2008. He said it was probably the least likely on the list of themes to choose from. But I think I know why he picked the one he did.

"You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses." Acts 1:8

He challenged us at the final, Papal Mass that Sunday. We, the Catholic youth of the World, are charged with being witnesses of this special gift, our Faith. And just as the apostles, lonely and afraid in that upper room were given courage, confidence and a literal fire to spread the Good News, so are we given. We are given so much!

So when the Holy Father came around the race track where we all stood, straining to catch a glimpse and pressed close together against the barrier... as he drove past in his pope-mobile and blessed us, I jumped up and down. I cheered and I cried; I couldn't believe it, there he was!

He's the Bishop of Rome, the Vicar of Christ on Earth, the Successor of Peter.
But until that trip, he never felt like my Pope, not like JPII was. Now he is. He's my Pope.

Soon to Sydney, Mate!

We're quickly gaining on the end of June and the start of July, and I can hardly believe it.

Well, to be perfectly honest, the fact that summer is 1/3 of the way over doesn't bother me all that much. Also, the quicker June goes by, the quicker our trip to Sydney for WYD will arrive.
Though my excitement for this trip was previously, let's say, sub-par, the faster the days go by, the more pumped I get! I'm sure my family has gotten tired of my pessimistic attitude about some of the people I'll be spending time with on this trip (my sister included) but I've somehow become determined to make the best of it. Hey, there's a first time for everything, right? I'm convinced this is going to be an awesome experience.

I continue with the stress of figuring all of the stuff out for Ireland, especially the stress of finances. Though some where along the way I fully decided that I wasn't going to kill myself with worry. If that Great Man Upstairs wanted me to go through with this trip, and I'm pretty much convinced He does, then He'll continue to see me through. All I need is to store up a reserve of self-confidence to get me through my time there. I'm pretty sure I can do it.

And I finally have a job. It isn't much, but it's something.

Pending Decision to use Bad Grammar

Have decided that I am too sentimental.
Also, laugh waaay too loudly and too often overly-caffeinated.
Need more sleep. Less sugar.
Should wear glasses more often.
Could use more sun.
And definitely, definitely ready to be done with this studying crap.
Definitely.

Ode to an Apple Tree

It's true I spend too much time lamenting, but it's sad to see you go.

Your blossoms are all freshness and joy. They are the assurance of pleasure and of hope. They bring to mind all that the future holds and the lovely renew of promise each year.

But as the wind blows your petals away, each one caught to the ground like so many pale stars in the green grass, I am reminded of the journey ahead of me. That hope often fades; resilience to life's great changes is the key to self-preservation. The sun continues to shine and the rain falls to erase your very existence; it will be alright. But it won't be the same. Over anything, the ability to pause, to capture, to press tightly to my chest this tiny moment in time, is what I want; also what I will never have. So instead I compromise, to sit beneath your branches, soak it all into my skin with a kind of mad obsession.

You'll be gone soon and it may be a long time before I see you again.

Corner Coffee

Coffee Shop Open

They charge $4- for a small blended (Fair Trade) coffee, but you really can't beat the atmosphere, (sometimes) conducive to productive studying. Here is something I'll miss. Lordie, I've really got to stop missing the things I'll miss before they're actually gone.
But people tend to ask me how I stand going to school in such a small town. And I could very well tell them that small, homey coffee shops are a very good reason. Who can beat your own table, chair and patch of sunlight?

Lost brain. Missed badly. If found, please contact.

I honestly don't know what's wrong with me.

Finishing up the semester shouldn't be this hard. But today I felt very near a break down-- it just kind of hit me out of no where. When I'm here in the apartment I have absolutely no motivation, and end up doing everything at the very last minute. And then, it all accumulates until I'm about ready to scream. So as I scrambled to finish a paper today and realized with terror that some important paperwork was supposed to be sent in three days ago... and finally I made it to a professor's office to hand in an assignment... I have a bad feeling that he could tell I was very close to tears.
This happens every year! I really should be used to it by now, I should be able to handle it. But instead, I'm running around like a chicken with its head cut off, completely disorganized and bewildered. My head is in the clouds, my mind is far off somewhere else. I can't concentrate. I can't finish anything. I'm sloooowly losing my grip on reality. And I've no idea just how I'm going to make it through this summer.

And it doesn't help that I keep reading the handbooks they send me from the Burren, and getting lost wishing I was anywhere but here.

Five-year-olds

Okay, seriously.
One of the assistant profs who happens to teach my Arts Management class keeps starting off with the line, "when I was your age..." and the dude can't be any more than 28. Honestly. It's almost like he's ASKING his students to make fun of his age. I keep thinking he's going to continue with the "... I had to walk to school up hill both ways in a blinding snow storm" or something like that.
Maybe I've gotten horribly uppity in the last three years, but it's starting to feel a bit belittling. I know this professor has a heck of a lot more experience in the art world that I do, but the phrase within its context gives me the impression that he thinks he's addressing five-year-olds. We are adults, after all.
Yep, that does sound really uppity. I guess I've grown quite a large ego. But I mean, seriously guys! You want college students to act like adults? Then treat us like adults, please! I'm really getting tired of the lazy, irresponsible, partying and drink-until-you-pass-out stereotype! I actually do study and work for good grades! So there! (as I cross my arms and pout like a kindergartener.)

Initially...

So here I go!
Officially accepted to the Burren College of Art in the Republic of Ireland.
The initial excitement has faded into a sort of "ohmygosh I'm-actually-going-to-Europe-and-
now-I-need-to-figure-all-of-this-international-stuff-out! Aaah!" (though the excitement is still there, just accompanied by skin-crawling nervousness.)
As long as I know where I'm going and what I'm doing and can sort-of figure out the currency exchange deal... I think I can handle it. Finances are a problem, as always. But I knew that when I initially decided to apply. ---and hey, finances are ALWAYS a problem.
I don't really want to ramble on about this. And anyway, there will be a lot more rambling in posts when I actually get there.
And besides that, there's so much to do between then and now that it'll be a while before the really scary-nervousness catches up to me.

Oh, Ireland.

Why, oh why, oh why?

Where are you?
Because I am honestly getting impatient.

Lonely, Lonely

Water water on the seeds
To my left they rose and leaf
To my right cross Seven Seas

Maybe maybe they'll stay true
My seeds will cross and then take root
And leave you to an empty room
Lonely lonely that is you
Lonely lonely that is you

Paper paper obsolete
How will you reach out to me
I thought you'd ask me not to leave
Lonely lonely that is me
Lonely lonely that is me

Distance makes the heart grow weak
So that the mouth can barely speak
Except to those who hide their needs
And I have read the golden seal
That tell of how the seedlings feel
Reminds my heart what love can yield

By my only things are clear
Baby boy I'm staying here
Lonely lonely that was you
Lonely and so untrue

-Fiest

Abandoning Society

So here I am, asking the question that I've asked more than a dozen times since becoming a college student.
What is this world coming to?
When an "art student" at an Ivy League college can "artificially induce miscarriages" and use it (whatever part of it-- film? Photography? Hell, I don't care) as "ART" is the day I would rather crawl into a hole somewhere and not come out again.
I am seriously considering becoming a hermit.
It would be very lonely, but at the moment it appears the lesser of two evils.

This is what the art student, Aliza Shvart, is quoted as saying about her project:
"The reality of miscarriage is very much a linguistic and political reality, an act of reading constructed by an act of naming -- an authorial act. It is the intention of this piece to destabilize the locus of that authorial act, and in doing so, reclaim it from the heteronormative structures that seek to naturalize it." (courtesy of the Wall Street Journal.)

I'm just not going to comment on that at all, actually. My point with this post was simply to state my terror (not shock or outrage, I've already covered that; this is outright fear) caused by this one incident in general relation to today's culture.

This affects me deeply. It affects me deeply because I can see quite clearly how hurtful and destructive it is to other people. Of course, the obvious response from this individual is, "I wasn't hurting anyone" and she wasn't; not physically.
I just wonder why, when we have wars, school shootings, murder, suicide, hate crimes and children starving to death in third-world countries, why we have to harm each other emotionally this way too. This has the potential of being physically damaging to a number of people. I want to know why this Yale art student thinks it's necessary.
Perhaps there's some deep, underlying concept that I'm just not grasping.

I won't rail on and on about it, I promise. But as an art student, constantly submerged in the idea that art should be "shocking" (a word usually associated with the term avant-garde, which to me is just utter nonsense) and "provoking," I start to feel like I'm drowning in it.
I want to know what happened to art, that though challenging, was stimulating, that was constructive to society and culture-- that, I don't know, call me crazy-- actually reflected the good in ourselves? You know, the kind that held up a mirror to our souls and reflected an inkling of truth and beauty?
Pshah. Far be it from today's society to be at all interested in truth and beauty. That's so last century.

But I mean, if you want peace, happiness and tolerance--the kind of things that are currently considered chic to today's activists-- it CANNOT BE A ONE-WAY STREET. We can't just promise to not blow each other up. Respect for life includes respect for each other's sensibilities. Why do you demand acceptance and tolerance from me but then turn around and slap me in the face with this shite?

Okay, I can handle Duchamp and his urinal "fountain" and Piero Manzoni's crud-in-a-can, but honestly, this is on an entirely different level.
And, though I hate to say it, because far be it from me to judge what should be considered art, this really makes me want to give up on the whole thing. If I'm to be associated, as an art student, with this stuff, than you can forget it.

Alright, alright, alright. I know.
It's childish and impractical. And abandoning my one passion in life would mean losing a voice against this nonsense in the art world.

Lord have mercy on us all.

A Delicate Reflection on the Various Facts of Life

Why do bad things happen to good people?

My roommate's grandfather died today, very suddenly. A sadder thing couldn't have happened to a nicer person.
It makes me realize what kind of a person I am. I mean... it's important to know yourself, right? Not that I do, really... but let me tell you, I'm really really bad at knowing what to say in tragic times. At funerals, I mostly just cry. I usually choke on my words. But how many times can people say 'I'm sorry?'
I remember early this school year a memorial I attended in the campus chapel. Some friends and I gathered to lead a rosary service for the family of a student who died. I didn't realize who the person was until I saw her picture. I didn't know her--not really, but she and I lived just down the hall from each other our freshman year. Yet, sitting and listening to the things people said... the tears came down my face and they wouldn't stop. I mean... I wasn't sobbing or weeping; in a strange way, I didn't feel I had the right to. But still it was like someone turned on a faucet behind my eyes.

Relay for life was this past weekend and for the kick-off, a girl (whom I also happened to live down the hall from freshman year) gave her testimony of her fight with cancer. She said, something to the effect of, we as twenty-something young people, we know we're going to die, eventually. It's a fact of life. Still we don't actually realize it until something really happens to remind us. (She got a standing ovation as she left the stage.)

So today, right up to when I found out about what happened to my roommate, I had been worrying and complaining about all of the papers and presentations and projects I had to finish; all that work. And then I felt so ridiculous for fussing about it all-- how stupid are all these little minuscule things that everyone has to deal with, when such bigger, life-shaking and heart-breaking things are happening. It makes me wish I could put things into perspective like this more often. Especially when bigger things are happening to the people I care about, and I'm too self-centered to notice.
I told one of my friends earlier this year that I didn't make a new year's resolution; I never do because they're stupid. But actually I did... it just sounded too self-righteous to say aloud. But I want to pay attention more, talk about myself less, notice when my friends and family are upset or hurting, and learn to be more easy-going. I want only the important things to affect me. Because in the long run, why get upset about-- for example, just today in class-- a person who regularly sits next to you and her obnoxious eating habits? Pshah.
Oh yeah, and here's a big one: praying more. And reaching out to others. And... pulling them in with you. (hey, you can reach out to people, but you're still just reaching. And you can reach out and "touch" people. But that's just a touch. Sometimes-- especially in college-- you gotta reach out, grab hold and not let go. If someone were drowning and you were on shore, would you let go?)

So I made a cookie pie for my roommate.
With frosting.

Denying Your Age

It occurred to me the other day-- while watching The Office-- just how crazy human beings are. This reaction was a response to an Avon commercial for some kind of "Age-defying serum" or the like. The make-up industry has effectively taken advantage of a woman's fear of getting older. Not just getting older, LOOKING older. And I really can't pretend, at my young, inexperienced 20 years, to know what that's like. (For heaven's sake, my cousin's husband thought I was 14. MY issue at this point is looking too YOUNG for my age.) But that's just it; at my age, and nearing the summit of my college education, I will very soon be thrown down the mountain into the crazy jungle of real life. For which I feel slightly ill-equipped.
And while watching these constant, obnoxious "lie about your age" and "keep them guessing" age-denying serums and foundations and lotions and facial treatments... I keep thinking, what wouldn't I give to be one of these women? And why are they trying to hide their age? To have the life-success, the life-security, the life-experience... that's all I want right now. I want to KNOW where I'll be in twenty years. I want to be confident, flourishing, secure. Heavens. I want to be past the initial suffering and struggle. I want to know where I am, know where I'm going, know where I've been.
It's a double standard. Women want to BE older without LOOKING older.
Pshah. I could easily start railing on about this ridiculous culture's misconceptions about beauty, (I mean, for heaven's sake, the strength, confidence and intelligence of so many women today, how is that not beautiful?) but I'd really rather not. It's like beating your head against a brick wall, and it makes me tired.

Ireland?

So this is it.
One major crisis averted, and now there's no turning back.
I'm going to Ireland. Next fall. (If it kills me.)
Deep breath.
I would like to be able to express all my anxieties right here on the page and leave them, and be done with them. I know that's not happening.
I know this is what I've wanted to do for the longest time.
It's just now that I know it's more than possible, that now I am in fact obligated to the program... that as long as I'm accepted, I'm going, that's it,
it's suddenly become... really scary thing to think about.
I mean, a whole semester. Three months. In another country. Knowing nobody. Never having traveled so far away before.
I think I'll be able to stave off my fears by reminding myself what an amazing adventure this is going to be.
Still I can't help being scared. I know I can handle it... but I'm still terrified to do so.

I'm constantly reminded of a famous English sculptor of the 1920s, Barbara Hepworth. She was an incredibly independent artist (especially for a woman of her time.)
I desperately wish I could emanate her confidence. Her confidence in herself and in her work.
But, of course, those were different times, when students were veritably forced to make a way for themselves, by themselves. Here and now, we are babied and supervised by virtually everyone.
Well, I suppose here's my chance to see just how much I can rely on my independent person. It'll develop, I'm sure. It'll develop along with the reason I'm doing this: for my art. I will be my own person, and I will comfortable and confident in her.

This will be an amazing journey.


(I might get to live in a cottage!)

The Gabriel Hounds

So here, treading on the ghostly heels of Isis and Ishtar and Astarte and the Great Mother herself who was Demeter and Dia and Cybele of the Towers, came Aphrodite to fall in love with the Syrian shepherd Adonis, and lie with him among the flowers. And here the wild boar killed him, and where his blood splashed, anemones grew, and to this day every spring the waters of the Adonis run red right down to the sea. Now the corrie is empty except for the black goats sleeping in the sun on the ruined floor of Aphrodite's temple, and against the roar of the torrent the drowsy stirrings of the goat bells come sharp and clear. The rags that flutter from the sacred tree are tied there as petitions to the last and latest Lady of the place, Mary.
Even without the legends, it would have been breathtaking. With them, the scene of white water and blazing rock, massive ruins, and bright flowers blowing in the wind from the fall, was something out of this world. And as we turned eventually out of the corrie onto the track-- it could hardly have been called a road-- that would take us home by a different route, the scene had its final touch of Eastern fantasy.
A little way beyond and out of sight of the Adonis corrie, a few Arab houses straggled along the water-side. A path, a white scratch on the rock, climbed out of this at an angle to the road. And up this path, going easily, went a chestnut Arab horse, the white burnous of its rider filled out by the motion like a sail, the scarlet and silver of the bridle winking in the sun. At the horse's heels cantered two beautiful dogs, fawn-colored greyhounds with long silky hair, the saluki hounds which were used by the princes of the East for hunting gazelle.
A curve of the road hid them, and all at once it was time for lunch.
We saw the rider again, on our way down the other side of the valley. We had spent more than an hour over lunch, and the horseman must have used paths which cut off a thousand difficult corners that a car had to take. As we picked our way between the potholes into some tiny settlement in a lost high valley where the snow lay not very far above us, I saw the rider below, walking his horse down a barely visible path that took him thigh-deep through a field of sunflowers. The dogs were invisible below the thick, heart-shaped leaves. Then they raced ahead of him out onto a lower curve of the road, the horse breaking into a canter behind them. So clear was the air that I could hear the jingling of bridle bells above the thud of hoofs in the dust.
The squat peeling houses of the village crowded in on the car and hid him from view.


FROM
The Gabriel Hounds
by Mary Stewart

Fooled

"Yes," I answered you last night;
"No," this morning, sir, I say.
Colours seen by candlelight
Will not look the same by day.

Elizabeth Barret Browning: The Lady's Yes

Those bitter crusts

We had run into another shower, and big drops splashed and starred the windshield. The car slewed overfast around a sharp bend in the road, and rubber whined on the wet tarmac. He hadn't once so much as glanced at me. He was probably hardly aware of who it was he had in the car. So much for Cinderella.
I sat quietly beside him and nibbled the bitter crusts of common sense.

MORE FROM
Nine Coaches Waiting
by Mary Stewart

The Comte de Valmy

A minute or so later I left the salon, to walk straight into as nasty a little scene as I had yet come across.
Philippe was standing, the picture of guilt and misery, beside a table which stood against the wall outside the salon door. It was a lovely little table, flanked on either side by a Louis Quinze chair seated with a straw-colored brocade. On one of the chair seats I now saw, horribly, a thick streak of ink, as if a pen had rolled from the table and then across the silk of the chair, smearing ink as it went.
I remembered, then, that Philippe had been writing to his uncle, Hippolyte, when I called him to come downstairs. He must have come hurriedly away, the pen still open in his hand, and have put it down there before going into the drawing room. He was clutching it now in an ink-stained fist, and staring white-faced at his uncle.
For this time of all times he hadn't managed to avoid Monsieur de Valmy. The wheel chair was slap in the middle of the corridor, barring escape. Philippe, in front of it, looked very small and guilty and defenseless.
Neither of them appeared to notice me. Leon de Valmy was speaking. That he was angry was obvious, and it looked as if he had every right to be, but the cold lash of his voice as he flayed the child for his small-boy carelessness was frightening; he was using--not a wheel, but an atomic blast, to break a butterfly.
Philippe, as white as ashes now, stammered something that might have been an apology, but merely sounded like a terrified mutter, and his uncle cut across it in a voice that bit like a loaded whip.
"It is, perhaps, just as well that your visits to this part of the house are restricted to this single one day, as apparently you don't yet know how to behave like a civilized human being. Perhaps in your Paris home you were allowed to run wild in this hooligan manner, but here we are accustomed to--"
"This is my home," said Philippe.
He said it still in that small shaken voice that held the suggestion of a sullen mutter. It stopped Leon de Valmy in full tirade. For a moment I thought the sentence in that still little voice unbearably pathetic, and in the same moment wondered at Philippe, who was not prone to either drama or pathos. But then he added, still low, but very clearly, "And that is my chair."
There was a moment of appalling silence. Something came and went in Leon de Valmy's face--the merest flick of an expression like a flash of a camera's shutter--but Philippe took a step backward, and I found myself catapulting out of the doorway like a wildcat defending a kitten.
Leon de Valmy looked up and saw me, but he spoke to Philippe quietly, as though his anger had never been.
"When you have recovered your temper and your manners, Philippe, you will apologize for that remark." The dark eyes lifted to me, and he said coolly but very courteously, in English, "Ah, Miss Martin. I'm afraid there has been a slight contretemps. Perhaps you will take Philippe back to his own rooms and persuade him that courtesy toward his elders is one of the qualities that is expected of a gentleman."
As his uncle spoke to me, Philippe had turned quickly, as if in relief. His face was paler than ever, and looked pinched and sullen. But the eyes were vulnerable: child's eyes.
I looked at him, then past him at his uncle.
"There's no need," I said. "He'll apologize now." I took the boy gently by the shoulders and turned him back to face his uncle. I held him for a moment. The shoulders felt very thin and tense. He was shaking.
I let him go. "Philippe?" I said.
He said, his voice thin with a gulp in it, "I beg your pardon if I was rude."
Leon de Valmy looked from him to me and back again.
"Very well. That is forgotten. And now Miss Martin had better take you upstairs."
The child turned quickly to go, but I hesitated. I said, "I gather there's been an accident to that chair, and that Philippe's been careless; but then, so have I. It was my job to see that nothing of the sort happened. It was my fault, and I must apologize too, Monsieur de Valmy."
He said in a voice quite different from the one with which he had dismissed Philippe, "Very well, Miss Martin. Thank you. And now we will forget the episode, shall we?"
As we went I was very conscious of that still, misshapen figure sitting there watching us.
I shut the schoolroom door behind me, and leaned against it. Philippe and I looked at one another. His face was shuttered still with that white resentment. His mouth looked sulky, but I saw the lower lip tremble a little.
He waited, saying nothing.
This was where I had to uphold authority. Curtain lecture by Miss Martin. Leon de Valmy had been perfectly right: Philippe had been stupid, careless, and rude...
I said, "My lamb, I'm with you all the way, but you are a little owl, aren't you?"
"You can't," said Philippe very stiffly, "be a lamb and an owl both at the same time."
Then he ran straight at me and burst into tears.
After that I did help to keep him out of his uncle's way.

FROM
Nine Coaches Waiting
by Mary Stewart