Opportunity

She was suffocating from the stale air of the indoors and her lungs demanded fresh, clean air. She fidgeted the whole hour and a half of her last afternoon class, distracted by the sunshine on her back. Against her better judgment (and her number one pet-peeve) she began to pack her books before the professor had even finished his lecture. He gave her the Look, but she didn't notice. She was the first student out the door.
She bumped into Bridget (literally) in her post-class relief and distracted breath of fresh air. "Where're you headed?" Bridget asked, catching a paper mid-fall.
"The park," she replied, nodding in that direction.
"Hey, I'll join you." Bridget stuffed the paper back in her bag.
She reached the maple overlooking the lake and collapsed on the grass in its shade. She noted that the ground was slightly damp, but decided to ignore it. Bridget, on the other hand, carefully laid her over-sized college sweatshirt on the grass before sitting.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. Ah, sweet freedom she thought. Then she stared incredulously at Bridget. "How can you do homework? It's the afternoon--you're supposed to procrastinate for at least six hours before you start that crap."
"Is that supposed to be like, you're supposed to wait twenty minutes after eating before getting in the pool?" Bridget rolled her eyes. "I have a presentation on Friday."
She groaned and rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her fists. Winter was way too long this year, she reflected. I was sure I'd go insane being shut inside. With these particular reflections, she would always scoff at the stupid commercials advertising all the wonderful stuff you could do up north during the excruciatingly long winters. Ha. Smart (and wealthy) people always vacationed in the warm southern states--or Europe, she sighed--when cold weather hit.
A sudden weariness came over her and she closed her eyes, letting her face drop against her forearms. She mumbled at Bridget to wake her up later. In the back of her mind she knew a religion paper needed writing, but she let her mind wander until her subconscious took over.
She dreamt of her old high school and running up and down flights of stairs trying to find the art studio. She was late, she knew, and the panic only made her clumsy. In her dream she tripped, and her subconscious mind suddenly connected with the rest of her, jolting her roughly out of her dream and back into reality.
It was late afternoon, and the sun was suddenly shining directly in her eyes. She sat up, squeezing her eyes shut. Her muscles were strangely unresponsive; she had to concentrate to make them obey her. She rubbed at her eyes and looked around. Where was Bridget? Her backpack and sweatshirt were still there, but she was gone. Off walking, probably, she thought.
Her stomach suddenly spoke up. Darn that Bridget. She dug her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed Bridget's number. Then she groaned when the muffled ring tone from Bridget's cell sounded from inside her book bag. Her stomach complained again. Well, fine. She picked up Bridget's bookbag and sweatshirt along with her own and trudged toward the park sidewalk. She figured Bridget would know where she went and hopefully wouldn't freak when she couldn't find her stuff.
She stopped when she spotted someone ahead of her. He sat on a park table, reaching inside a brown paper lunch bag. Gulp. How... unexpected. This was the guy she'd planned to meet all year... though it seemed every golden opportunity resulted in a failure of courage on her part. He was alone; that was good. Her mind screamed golden opportunity! over and over. She stomped her foot. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and she was definitely... desperate. And pathetic. And a list of other things...
Without reflecting on how ridiculous she appeared burdened with two bulging bookbags and an oversized sweatshirt, she stomped up to the picnic table... and walked right past it. Her mind continued to scream at her, this time louder. Her heart beating wildly, she whipped around to face him.
The good first step: he actually looked up and acknowledged her presence when she turned. The next step was not so smooth. "H-hi," she said, her voice obviously wavering.
His face was either bewildered or confused. But he hinted a smile. "Hi there."
"Um... okay, this is going to sound really ridiculous. But... I just really wanted to introduce myself. And you were sitting here all by yourself, so I thought I would." This explanation vomited out of her in one big splat. She gulped again.
"Oh, yeah... okay. You are?" He looked over his glasses at her and then pushed them up the bridge of his nose.
"Oh! Sorry! I'm Emilie."
"Hi Emilie. I'm Mark."
She nodded, not sure if she should stick out her hand for the customary greeting. So she just stood there awkwardly, desperately hoping he would continue.
"So, Emilie, would you like to sit?" he gestured to the bench opposite him and picked up his sandwich.
"Uh, yeah sure." She plopped herself down on the seat.
"So you must be a real studier with two book bags. Wow. How many classes?" he took a bite.
"Oh, no. One of these is actually my friend Bridget's. Um... she and I were studying over there. An' well, I kinda fell asleep and she took off. I don't know where she went. I was just gonna wait for her."
"Ah, right."
"Yeah... she didn't take her cell either or I could just call her." She shook her head. She knew she appeared overly nervous with the conversation, but so far, so good.
"Hmmm." he answered. He didn't look uncomfortable. On the contrary, he openly stared at her, like he was studying her appearance. Her face burned.
"So... " she continued, after he'd finished the sandwich and gulped down his drink. "What's your major?"
"Music. Well... music and English... and a little bit of Greek." He adjusted his glasses again. Then he shrugged and said, "You?"
"Art. Studio Art and Art History. I guess I'll be minoring in religion or English. Maybe." She shrugged in response.
"So then, what classes are you taking?" He asked, showing a surprising amount of interest for someone previously nonchalant.
But she just assumed he was being polite. She wondered in the back of her mind whether he wanted her to go and leave him alone. So she tried to sound confident when she answered, "Renaissance and Baroque Art-- that's Art History, I guess... a Ceramic Sculpture class, and Portfolio review. And the Reformation, just to even it out."
He grinned. "Ah, those wonderful religion classes." She recognized the sarcasm. "Who do you have?"
"Um... Mills. He's okay. He rattles on a bit, but not too bad."
"Huh, that's lucky. I had Erica Johnson. She wasn't so great... pretty dry. Plus, it was an eight-thirty class." he rolled his eyes.
She laughed. "Oh, I feel for you. I had to take a math class at eight last year. That sucked."
"Oh hey, what year are you then? Sophomore?"
"Junior."
"Oh." he nodded.
"You?" she asked, even though she was already pretty sure. He had the air of a senior.
He sighed. "This is my last year here."
"Oh, that's sad." She didn't pretend to be sorry. "So what are you planning to do after you graduate?"
"Some student teaching. Then maybe grad school. Maybe. I'm thinking I need a break from studying." He grinned.
"Yeah. That's cool though. You play an instrument?"
"Cello."
"Wow. I've always thought that was impressive. My musical abilities are pretty much nil."
"Really? Well, if it makes you feel any better, my art skills are non-existent. I'm limited to stick figures, and even those are pretty bad."
She laughed again.
"So junior... don't you guys have art shows and stuff?"
"Yeah. It's actually up now. The other art majors have some really impressive stuff up in the gallery. You should check it out, if you have time. The art building's pretty close to the music building. You don't really have an excuse."
"Whoa, okay! I'll probably stop by. So what do you have up there?" He leaned forward a bit, propping his chin up on his fist.
"Oh... not a lot, I guess. Some paintings, a couple drawings... some 3-D stuff." She shrugged and tried to look nonchalant, even though she was excited at the prospect that he might see her stuff.
"Well, I'll definitely stop by. Sounds awesome. I've always admired artsy people. Heh," he grinned again. "You can usually spot art majors, too. Piercings and colorful and weird clothing."
She pretended to look offended, and noted how quickly she was becoming comfortable as the conversation flowed. "Weird clothing?" Piercings? She looked down at herself. She was wearing black, mostly. Her only other piercing besides the customary double ear thing was a tiny nose stud she'd gotten her last birthday. She nodded at him. "And what about you, huh? I notice you wear a lot of black. Typical sensitive musician."
He raised an eyebrow. "You notice, do you?" he teased.
She blushed... but just a bit.
He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."
After a moment of grinning to herself, he said, "so anyway..." and she thought for a sad moment that he was thinking of going. "What are you planning to do after college?"
"Besides live in a box, you mean?"
He grinned. She was beginning to enjoy that grin.
"That's the running joke, I guess. But I think I'll go to Art school. Maybe even somewhere out of state."
He raised an eyebrow. "Out of state, huh? Where're you from?"
"The cities. They have a pretty good school up there, but not exciting enough for me. But how about you? Out of state?"
"Nope. Born and bred right here. I used to live in the cities... where my girlfriend worked."
She was stung inwardly... she'd never thought he might already be attached.
He continued, "But I moved farther south after we broke up."
Relief. She tried not to let it show on her face and hoped he wouldn't guess what she was thinking.
"So you're a city girl, huh? Any favorite city haunts?" He seemed more and more intent on continuing the conversation.
She wouldn't argue. "Oh, there's a bunch of great coffee shops. Shabby compared to the universal Starbucks, but they make the best coffee. And hey, I'm an art freak, right? I spend at least every Saturday in the uptown Art Museum. They have this great new exhibit--"
She was cut off. Bridget was suddenly behind her saying, "There you are, girl! What the hell?"
She looked up and sheepishly shrugged, glancing over at Mark. "Sorry... hey, wait a minute! You're the one who disappeared! Where were you?"
"Where do you think? I got antsy and you were asleep, so I went for a run." Bridget leaned forward on her knees.
She noted that Bridget was out of breath. "A run, huh?" She glanced at him, still sitting expectantly across the table. She noticed he appeared a bit uncomfortable. "Hey Bridget, this is Mark." she gestured to him, trying to appear casual.
"Hey," Bridget waved, still rather breathless.
"Hey," he returned. He fidgeted slightly and for a panicked moment she thought he'd make an excuse to leave. And before they'd ended their conversation properly; she wanted permission to talk to him again.
Thank heaven for Bridget. Instead of ignoring him in her restlessness, she said, "So do you guys have a class together or something?" She sat down on the bench next to her.
"No, actually. We just met." he betrayed a slight grin.
"Yeah," she said. "I kinda interrupted his lunch." She shrugged her shoulders apologetically.
"Hey, no problem. It was a welcome interruption." He smiled kindly at her.
Bridget made a face at her. Her face flushed slightly and she knocked Bridget's ankle under the table. Suddenly Bridget sat up and loudly exclaimed, "Oh! Emilie hun, I just forgot! I have a study meeting I've gotta get to. I should go... I still need to grab some food, too. Damn." Bridget stood up quickly and grabbed her sweatshirt and bag from her. "See you later! Nice meeting you, Mark!" She ran off across the lawn.
She waved at Bridget and slowly turned back to him. "Sorry," she said, "If you have some place to be..."
"Nah," he answered and shrugged. "Not busy tonight, which is a rare occurrence."
A sudden surge of courage egged her on to ask, "Say, if you're not busy... would you maybe like to grab some coffee or something?" Her heart pounded in her ears. That might be good; maybe then she wouldn't hear his 'no.'
"Sure." He grinned and made to get up.
She beamed inwardly and reached down for her bag.
They headed off together toward the college cafe.

And that, my friends, was the start of a beautiful friendship.

Personal

Argh.

Did you ever have one of those days when nothing you did turned out right, even to the minutest details? And you really wanted to cry about it or throw something or scream, and you couldn't even get that out? And on top of that you were exhausted but knew you had two exams, a project, an art exhibit and work the following week? And then you realized just how much more life was going to suck?
But you just wanted to go to bed.

I just want to go to bed.

I have a feeling

I'm not fooling anybody.

Bubble

I need to keep going. I need to keep my spirits up. I need to stop feeling so stupid when I make a mistake. Mistakes help us grow. Imagine how stunted we'd be if we were so careful to avoid mistakes. Gotta keep telling myself that. Positive. I need to stay positive.
If there really is a wheel of fortune, I'm near the bottom now but I know it keeps spinning. I may be at the top again soon. I may have to hit the bottom first, but sooner or later I will achieve a height again. Reality isn't so bad. I still have my bubble, even if it isn't as spacious as it used to be.
Hey, it sounds pathetic, but we all have our little comfort bubbles, right? You can gloat and say you don't have one, or yours is little because you've grown and matured away from your initial comfort zone. But we all have our little necessary securities. Isn't that all we strive for, anyway? Life is about that security: financially, socially, spiritually... through a good job, a steady paycheck, a spouse and family, an identifiable faith (or at least a "faith community.")
Despite what people say about college being the period before a young adult enters the "real world", college is an unsteady place because you're constantly faced with the "where" and the "what" questions. "Where are you going to be after college?" and "What will you do with your life?" One may choose to ignore these scary questions, but they're still there... in the back of your mind. To leap into the lions den of "real life" in order to obtain that security is terrifying for some.
Me? I still have a good four to six years of education. We never stop learning, right? One step at a time. My bubble is still pretty big.

Big and Bright

1 Corinthians

Though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains and have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor and though I give my body to be burned and have not love, it profiteth me nothing. Love suffereth and love is kind. Love envieth not. Love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up.

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But when I became a man, I put away childish things. But now abideth faith, hope, love... these three.
But the greatest of these is love.

Pff.

Message inside my Fortune Cookie:
"expect the unexpected in your love life."
I laughed.

Per Te

Rubbish

Her friend often said that men who played the cello were sexy. She replied that this generalization could be applied to all violins or string instruments, and she firmly believed that statement.
It was embarrassing, but she still enjoyed remembering the evening she ushered at the play. It was an important event-- crazy alumni who paid 250+ for center seats meant the department had to dress it up a bit. The house manager had a box full of old theatre costume pieces: hats, gloves, vests, scarves... all to snazz up the drab black usher uniforms. The supervisor, a funny woman the entire department adored, handed her a big black top hat with a sparkling silver band over the brim. "Put it on," her supervisor demanded. "If I have to wear one, so do you!" She put the hat on, laughing at every one's gleeful expressions and silly remarks. That's when he walked by, violin and music stand in hand... perfect timing, she thought, and she knew her face had taken on a pinker hue. What boggled her more was that her manager assigned her to door 2, right outside of the little string quartet. He sat almost directly across from her, where she stood feverishly steering her mind towards the job at hand. Still, she couldn't help staring... watching them play. If only she could just sit and listen and not deal with rich, crabby jackasses demanding her attention. The music was beautiful, even if it was meant for the said asses and not for her. She wanted to kick that jerk in the face when he goaded her for spacing out. Let me hear the music, dammit! She clenched her teeth. Then the manager signaled for the house to close and the play to begin. The violinists were gone. She yanked the stupid carpeted doors shut and stomped down the hall.
Why was fate constantly landing her in his presence without allowing her a reason or opportunity for introduction? She would settle for anything, which was pathetic in every meaning of the word. In fact, her picture accompanied its definition in the 2006 edition of the Merriam-Webster pocket dictionary. How is that for an applied example?
Well, she was definitely giving herself all four hours of the shift on her time card. Ha.
Dammit.

Not cooperating

There are those of us who possess the genius of a truly uncooperative attitude.
These are mostly children.

gibberish

So there I was, driving myself home at a quarter to ten on a Friday night. It was crazy how I found myself alone on that long stretch of road; no one blinding me ahead, and no obnoxiously bright lights in the rear view mirror. That beautiful curve of street was empty due to the below zero temp, from folks either sensible enough to take advantage of a warm evening indoors, or too wimpy to brave the cold (good old Minnesota; just when you start to wonder about Global Warming, it reminds you of the good ol' days with an impressive blast of freezing weather.) Either way, for about three minutes it was just me in the car, suddenly impressed by the smooth drive and the faraway hilltop of lit windows. The moon, a day away from full, sent stretching shadows across the road over the treetops and a wide lake divided the highway from its quiet little residential neighborhood.
And then, of course, the short little calming spell was over and an over-cautious idiot blinded me with his brights from behind. Humph. Who needs the sudden jerk back into reality? Not me.

Another thought struck me tonight on that long ride home.
I've decided that I've been looking too hard--every minute, in every place-- for what most of my friends are so self-centered with. I need to stop looking. I need to distract myself with my own life, as it is now. The present is what's important. The past is gone and the future is impossible to predict. I need to be content with concentrating on what's important in the moment, in the day. It sounds cliché, but I need to stop obsessing and get my priorities straight; no more romanticizing. No time.

Oh, for heaven's sake.

If I'm going to stop obsessing, I need to get up the courage. There's only one chance, and it isn't as though I'd lose anything by trying.

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.

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