Brief Character Study

Tower de Eiffel - Parisian Daydrems
Photo by me

She lives in a fantasy world that changes with her whims. One day she dreams of wearing long, tailored gowns and meeting with her very own moody, enchanting Rochester. The next, she is living in the City of Lights, learning the culture, language, and her inner most heart. In the next breath, she may be deep in an imaginary conversation with those she’s only met in her mind.

She does this more and more, this thing that dulls the pangs of rut and boredom. She willingly deludes her own reality for the taste of something more, even if it is only a dream.

Write or Die...take 1

Here it goes, write or die time.  I am not quite sure where to go, but I do know that I need to get my fingers, and more importantly, my brain working with words.  These glorious things that paint beautiful pictures, slight variations of each other, pulling together a mosaic that will only fade at the next rush of inspiration. 

Why do words matter?  Why not use one word if so many mean something similar.  To be mollified is to be calmed, to be pacified is to be calmed, to be placated is to be calmed, to be calmed is to be, well, calmed.  So why so many?  Wouldn't that be like asking why there are so many types of dogs, birds, butterflies, etc?  Would you be satisfied with nothing but squawking crows?  The ugly crow turning graceful doesn't have the same enticement as the ugly duckling's realization that she is, in fact, a swan: a thing of beauty to behold and even envy.  The subtle differences in nature are essential, as are the subtle differences in words.  Each word is its own unique shade used to paint a verbal or written portrait. 

Wasn't part of Orwell's admonishments in 1984 to protect our language?  Our ability to think in degrees helps us to argue, love, hate, defend, evolve in degrees as well.  Apathy is the cancer of society.  What better way to become apathetic than to lose your ability to pinpoint a feeling, a passion.  How do you tell someone that they are oppressing you when you have no word "oppression"?  How do you tell a society it is time for a revolution when you've boiled the sentiment down to "change"?  If you ask this lexicon admirer, it would be super plus good to actually express ourselves in as many shades and complexities as our potentially infinite language will permit.

Looking at an Old Photo...

Looking at an old photo taken in my childhood/adolescent room…

I wonder what I would feel if I could magically walk into that room again. Would I view it through the eyes of a stranger- a mere observer, or would I know every detail, every secret? Would I have the same sentimental attachment to the pictures, posters, and other bits of “décor” lining my walls and bulletin board? Perhaps I would shake my head and grin at the absurdity of it all.

And if I could leave a note, just one little note, what would I say? Would I warn about the future pitfalls, missteps, and heartaches? I could try to prevent some of the bigger bumps of my life and risk the time-travel-paradox fallout. I imagine it could serve as a shortcut to life’s lessons; a shortcut to confidence; a shortcut to gratitude.

Of course, even hypothetical, time-traveling me would realize I couldn’t leave such a note because a shortcut to life is no life at all really. It would ultimately be cruel of current me to rob past me of learning those valuable lessons, even the ones learned through the sting of life as well as the laughter of life. As it is said, calm seas do not make good sailors.

But I think before I left my adolescent sanctuary, I’d simply write: The journey is bumpy but brilliant. 

Photo from: http://www.starwarsreport.com/tag/time-travel/

Mirror, Mirror...

Like many women raised in the beauty-obsessed culture of California, I have spent much time criticizing my appearance from tip to toe, lamenting the dissimilarities of my reflection and those of magazines, friends, what- have-you.

Today, in the midst of what could only be described as a visual vivisection of my physique, I stopped. I stopped after I had slandered my voluminous legs and realized how incredibly pointless, harsh, and ungrateful my sentiments were. How speaking such ideas was a horrible waste of precious breath, and not just a waste of breath, but a bit blasphemous.

I have the gift of movement. My legs take me around my apartment, my city, my world. My legs work and work well. My legs are the foundation to a body that is, for the most part, healthy. How lucky am I? I also have arms that allow me to hug those I love; I have eyes that see the beauty in the world; I have ears that take in harmonies and all the sounds of life. I am blessed. My body is a blessing – imperfections and all.

I am not taking this as a simple resolution that will get me to the gym so that I can finally like my body. Nope. Instead, I am taking this moment to love my body as is and begin to take of it as much as I take care of anything I love: with kindness, patience, and perseverance.

Do I want to be healthier? Of course, but it begins with my attitude.  

Poem Prompt - Dickenson

I know prompts are a crutch, but I'd rather hobble on the field than sit on the sideline.  Don't judge. Or do. I really can't stop you.

Prompt: write a poem that begins with Emily Dickenson's first line "Bring me the sunset in a cup." Much to my shame, I was unfamiliar with the Lady in White's poem, so I wrote mine then read hers. Needless to say, mine is a fun little exercise and hers is a look into her soul. Well, I hope you enjoy both (though selfishly, I begin with mine).

If this doesn't inspire serenity, I'm afraid you're doomed.
(For original Photo: Click here)

Bring me the sunset in a cup,

  warm from simmering,

  with wispy clouds and soft hues.

Bring me the day’s end -

  the things still undone offset

  by the promise of tomorrow.

Bring me the beginnings

  of stargazing and dreaming

  that fill the night with beauty.

Bring me the sunset in a cup.

- Me :) 

Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning's flagons up
And say how many Dew,
Tell me how far the morning leaps—
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the breadth of blue!

Write me how many notes there be
In the new Robin's ecstasy
Among astonished boughs—
How many trips the Tortoise makes—
How many cups the Bee partakes,
The Debauchee of Dews!

Also, who laid the Rainbow's piers,
Also, who leads the docile spheres
By withes of supple blue?
Whose fingers string the stalactite—
Who counts the wampum of the night
To see that none is due?

Who built this little Alban House
And shut the windows down so close
My spirit cannot see?
Who'll let me out some gala day
With implements to fly away,
Passing Pomposity?

Emily Dickinson

I love Writing Prompts!

Once again I turn to the internet for prompts; I chose this one:

Winter is a great time for warm soup and hot chocolate. Describe the ingredients that you would put into your own soup recipe.

I love soup. I love the comfort. I love the magical properties certain soups have, the ones that heal the body and the soul. I am not, however, going to give you a recipe for food. Instead, I give you this:

Ingredients for my winter “soup” would include the familiar with a dash of the new. Cozy and cute scenes of scarves, boots, and other superficial goodness would set the base. I would then add rustic  chunks of old movies and classic books – something British and set in fog. That should simmer for a while. Once the flavors meld, add hot tea or coco (season to taste). 

Also, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a good soup is in want of a good side dish. So, I would pair freshly baked adventure with this warming, wintery concoction. It doesn’t have to be too fancy – a new band or coffee shop, checking out a new artist or new city – it just has to be fresh.

Share this meal with good company to fully bring out the flavors.

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is my winter stew.

What is your winter recipe?
(Photo: Three Kitcheneers)