Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wherein I Return to Catalogue the Trials and Tribulations Of Being a Precocious Regency-Era Child Trapped in an Adult's Body in This Horrible Modern World.
When last we left Our Heroine (Me), she was being lured by the promise of filthy lucre into that vast iniquitous institution that is Big Law, lulled into a false sense of security by her charming little townhouse in the city and the infinite horizon of pretty shoes and handbags. Let us just say, Dear Reader, that Things Did Not Work Out. I made a valiant effort, but in the end, I would have had to give up an essential part of myself to thrive or even, really, to survive.
So I have passed from that place, somewhat wiser, somewhat more willing to compromise on the trivial, but with a a certain sense that there is a limit to the reach of my universe, such as it has been created. Which brings us, more or less, to the present day. Having linked my already ridiculously long name to someone else's I am now, even more horrifyingly, a wife. I am not sure what this word means, but I suppose it can be measured in the absolute value of the cataclysmic deviations from my even keel. For yes, it is true that I am, in fact, moving out of the City. To the suburbs. For the commute. I (or rather mostly my dear, dear Realtor) have packed up the comforting majority of my accumulated worldly goods that had in the easy passage of time accreted to my home reef in colorful disarray. Only a few bare pieces of bric a brac remain. Every few days I am uprooted for an hour or so so that someone can violate the sanctity of my sanctuary for their buying pleasure.
In the meantime, out in the great Marylandian wilds, I myself have been tromping through other peoples houses (I think the count is presently at 60), a little saddened by the sheer pigswill that passes for architecture these days. And so now it has come to this:
I am looking for an apartment.
If there is anything more depressing than trying to find temporary housing in the Baltimore area on a budget, I have not yet encountered it. And I've been to third world countries. These adventures in poverty are really only trying for the sole reason that I like to nest. But I have hope. Somewhere out there is a little castle just for me. Well, other than the Castle that I already found and fell in love with that my mother thinks isn't big enough for my shoe collection, but you get my point, I'm sure...
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Ten Things I Have Discovered Since I Last Wrote
1. The world can be divided into those who fall in love with fictional characters and those who don't.
2. Contractors always take longer than one imagines even if one has taken into account Murphy's Law and added a month.
4. Regency Romance novels are dead.
5. Do not be fooled by the first day in February that feels like Spring. Do not, especially, plant pansies in defiance of what one may imagine will be only a few chill days until the warm weather returns for good.
6. Juggling twenty-seven flaming batons while riding a unicycle across a tightrope over an alligator-infested pond of pease porridge nine-days old with a delightful skin of fragrant mold is unadvisable, even metaphorically.
7. Great Dane puppies are enormous.
8. Despite being considerably older and wiser, I can still be swayed by a really fantastic pair of shoes... or a handbag... or a skirt... or really anything else that catches my fancy.
9. The mice will always find you.
10. Graduation is always closer than it appears in the mirror.
Friday, November 17, 2006
That summer she lost herself in the old garden of words: words mossy with disuse, words thickly woven to block out the sun, words like a crackling carpet of leaves beneath her feet, words to drown in. She carried the seed of a great sorrow that needed nourishing, that needed to be planted between the neat rows of words on a page. The words constricted her, narrowed her world, pulled her ribs tight like a corset and stiffened her spine. She read to find solace, to grow straight of limb and serene, to press her unruly and ragged anger flat, to tamp it down beneath the pungent earth and let it come to her from the roots, distilled and purified into something life-giving and glorious.
She lay in bed between hot sheets peeled back at the ends, toes seeking coolness in the dense air. The day passed outside the windows. The light rose in the morning, warm and diffuse and slanted, in the late afternoon, toward untidy stacks of books lining the perimeter of the bed.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Cure for a Restless Soul in the Throes of a November Drizzle
A cup of tea.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
The Daily Cup of Jonathan: How Jonathan Eats His Brownies Edition
Friday, November 03, 2006
The Chapter in Which Our Intrepid Heroine Discovers Heretofore Unknown Talents in the Trackless Urban Jungle
Dear Timorous Reader, who may perhaps have feared for my safety out of the hill-less dells of my youth, let me tell you something: I am Washington's Hippolyta, brave Amazon Queen who can fell a speeding Jaguar at three hundred paces. Left to my own devices, I can track a Starbucks through the wilderness on the strength of my cunning and infallible inner compass. From the steps of the Corcoran Gallery, I stalked the spoor of steaming white cups and discarded cardboard jackets until the trail went cold, and I had nothing but my keen sixth sense to guide me. From there it was but a heartbeat to the warm carcass of my first kill. Oh the sweet, rich nectar of it, dipping my fingers in the sugary blood to paint my face... Sure, I could have asked someone, but where would the thrill in that be? What a philistine you are, Dear Reader. Really, sometimes I wonder about you...
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Getting to Know Me, Getting to Know Alllllllll About Meeeee...
Skye in her infinite wisdom introduced me to a desk calendar from Koco NY -- the "She" calendar, which personifies every month as some variety of girl. This approach speaks, of course, to the deepest root of my pleasure in things. I love personification (also onomotopeia, anaphora, and anything else that describes literary devices and has a long and complicated name); I love seasons and seasonal imagery.
Here's the one for November:
November can spell "cornucopia" backwards.
She teaches children to remember Pilgrims and Indians.
November likes to linger on the last chapter.
She is self-reflective.
November has a campaign scrapbook.
She creates real connections.
November's voice can be heard by all people.
She gives with all her heart.
November turns departures into arrivals.
She listens. And reaches out.
November inherited the first recipe for pumpkin pie.
She is a historical fact.
November can hear winter's voice.
She moves with simple grace.
November always remembers to give thanks.
Her wisdom is her intution.
November loves to celebrate human qualities.
She dances holding hands.
It's like I'm their poster child!