Musings from the archives
I'm in the process of packing up to head back to my parents' house for the holidays (a 3 week break from school! Whee!), and I ran across a set of notes that I wrote (by hand!) back in March when I was trying to galvanize myself to write again. They're long, a bit rambling, and a little circuitous, but they include some fascinating insights and reminders that I don't want to lose (and given my relationship with loose pieces of paper, they will get lost).
March ramblings hidden under the cut...
March 11, 2010
4:48 am
It's later than I wanted, but I did another impromptu fashion show for myself. Water is boiling for tea, which is most welcome, although it's already a bit stuffy and toasty warm in my apartment. i woke up a couple of hours ago and found myself thinking, thinking.... The workshop today reminded me, once again, of what I used to be, of who I used to be: whimsical, romantic, dreamy-eyed, filled with fantasy and poetry and song. I constantly had my head in the clouds, and even though it was love that I was dreaming for and wishing for, and even though it's love that I hold in my grasp, at least at the moment.... I can't allow myself to stop dreaming. I can't allow myself to lose my fantasies, my hopeless romanticism, the poetry, the creativity...
I trap myself in rationality: debates over genre, theme, meaning. This isn't for consumption. This is for me, for my heart and soul -- nourishment, much-needed, in the midst of this scholarly world of academe. Hah -- the chocolate mousse to my bread and butter. I create myself, in my mind, as a character in a book or a play.... and in so many ways, I try to emulate that role, that ideal. I always have, ever since I was little and I dreamt of fairyland, of a place so beautiful and magical and mystical it could bring tears to your eyes. I dreamt of dwelling in a fairy garden, all balmy and warm, filled with flitting hummingbirds and lazy butterflies gliding on gossamer wings. Colors abounded -- verdant greens and tranquil blues, vibrant pinks and the warmest yellows, and always, always, the deepest, richest, royal-est of purples. I sat in the midst of it all, clad in shimmering silvery lace, sparkling with sequins and a scattering of jewels, looking for all the universe like some sliver of moonbeam -- circlet in my hair, bracelets encircling my wrists, jeweled rings glittering on my fingers. There I walked and thought and dreamt and sang and prayed, content, tranquil, quiet. Sometimes, only sometimes, would I allow another to trespass upon my solitude -- a prince of sorts, handsome, dashing, the manifestation of all my heart's desires. He would enter, and I suppose we'd make love, but really... we would talk. Talk and share and bond and mind-meld... We would mind-meld and I suppose we would banter -- witty, sharp repartees flying back and forth. Ah, that is what I wished for, what I dreamt of -- to be the goddess in the garden, content, tranquil, at peace.
I miss this. I miss this more than kinky tales of "the boys," more than any attempts to create "a trashy romance novel with a deep philosophical core." I want to embroider fanciful, whimsical things, things without a true beginning or an end. I want to put pen to paper, literally -- I miss the physical presence, the pen gliding along, scratching along, and the splattering of ink on my fingers. I miss that cramp, too, that slight ache, and the callous that would build up on my middle finger -- my writer's mark.
I think of my tendency, my penchant for memorializing things -- mythology from prosaic, banal experience... fanciful fantasy, silly, whimsical musings... but where does this leave me? With the desire to be fully, beautifully human, to embrace and love and nourish this side of myself. To be woman, to create, to embroider... and to weave, I suppose. I love pretty things, ephemeral things, things that are delicate and beautiful, that might be seen by some as saccharine, devoid of substance (I'm thinking of... spun honey. Cotton candy. Delicately fragile trembling things that are exquisitely beautiful and shockingly complex).
Really, I'm but a little girl, still playing pretend and dress-up, still wanting to transform into the beautiful fairy princess and live in her beautiful garden haven... And I'm also the mischievous vixen, playful, wicked, a bit seductive and sexy... Not quite the virgin/whore, but more along the lines of... I don't know. Mind/body? Perhaps -- the ethereal dreamer, philosophical in so many ways, and this carnal corporeal goddess, but of the earth - firmly rooted, deeply sexual, filled with desire and passion for life. The dualism isn't a terrible thing -- as long as they don't dual, as long as they are bonded together in that yin/yang of balance and accord. The light and the dark... shadow and anima? Or -- the fiery phoenix and the calm Nerissa, I think I named her, raging fire and cool ice. That's me in a nutshell, I suppose. I cannot be something completely ethereal and cerebral -- my passions won't allow that. Ay, but really... These are entwined, coupled together, folded in upon each other, this longing for peaceful dreaming and these passions and desires: integrated into one, fueling and feeding the other, all of them resulting in the Good.
I can't help but think of femininity, of these beautiful things that I love, that I've always adored. The fancifulness of it all... It makes me want to commit to taking time out from the internet, to take this time for decadence and luxury: scented lotion, body oils, candles, perfume... dip pen and ink, good music, beautiful paper, tea, or maybe even wine, and these musings for no one, this way to feed my soul, to dream, to create, and to become.
I need this solitude. I need this time to insulate myself, to forget the rest of the world, and to be my goddess, fairy princess self. I wanna write a fairy princess story, the tale of a goddess, of a woman, eternally wise and beautiful, of the man who she blesses. I wish my scholarly self wouldn't intervene ("She's placed upon a pedestal! The male gaze! Objectivity!")... A wandering, tired traveler, led to this small, quiet paradise where he can find peace and love and healing. I love these characters, the women who appear in the mists.... It reminds me of slow lovemaking n dew-moist moss, of release that builds with aching slowness, resulting in the sweetest bliss... gentle, rocking, surging, skin flushed, bodies slick and clasped together... his head upon her golden breast:
There she dwelt in the midst of twilight, sun and moon mingled as one -- bronzed limbs bare beneath silvery gossamer lace... Hair dark as night... When she spoke, her throat (vibrant?) voice struck him to the core...
"You have journeyed far." The breeze ruffled her hair like a lover's gentle fingers. "Rest here for the night."
I think like Byatt's characters from Possession -- so assured of their rationality, their postmodern knowledge, their scholarship... I think of conniving woman-in-the-garden, Circe tempting Odysseus into years of servitude and bondage through sweet delight, of Eve and her apple... but this is not it. This is mercy, pure and simple.
Ah, the traveler who is found dead in the morning, yet rosy-cheeked and smiling, as though asleep -- some fugitive from justice, persecuted, wrongly accused, who found a night of love and mercy from a woman [angel? goddess? fae?], who eased his suffering and took im from the world. I love that image -- the scene closes as he rests his head upon her golden breast ("bronzed breast" reminds me of gold-painted Bond girls), breathing deeply for the first time in an eternity and falling into a deep sleep, embraced so tenderly and lovingly... And a scene transition: the barking of dogs, the search party coming upon his body in the frost-tipped grass, his cheeks inexplicably warm and rosy, a smile upon his lips. Fin.
Yes, I would probably call it "Mercy" or something of that nature. I like it -- embroidered, fanciful, with a touch of the macabre. Really, it is what I would want to write, that deep sort of Byatt stuff -- filled with this gothic sort of imagery and detail and what not, a deeply sensual tapestry of description, yet balanced by a... spare... sort of prose. Hah. Or something. I think I may need to try my hand at short vignettes. Drabbles. Tales. Feminine, fanciful embroidery. I know this has been written somewhere, but I don't care. Campbell identified 7 archetypes. We are always, constantly, retelling.
So... a wanted man (escaped prisoner?) running, running... Winter. So very cold. Forest. Stumbling half-blind, with little more than a flint in his thread-bare coat (patched, fraying)... living off of the very little he could forage.
His hunger was a gnawing pain he had ceased to notice... he had lost all sensation in the fingers of his left hand the morning before... He heard the hounds in his sleep, always howling and baying, snarling for his flesh... and still he pressed on, hoping to lose them in the wilderness...
It's the 4th day of his escape and they're closing in, and all he wants is a place to hide, or to die quietly, frozen in his sleep. And he catches the sound of a running stream - babbling, and all those other lovely onomatopoeia words... and there he goes, pushing past brush and bramble and hedge, stinging nettles, etc, stumbling down into an unexpected clearing... and the stream. He drinks eagerly, washes his face -- the howling has stopped. He's hidden; he's safe. And then he sees her.
Yes, this is what I've needed -- something different, fanciful, new... a chance to just write to my heart's content, to explore, to hear my voice again. I've forgotten what it's like without any interference from anyone. Garden tales. This one is "mercy." I have an outline. I have an end. He sees her, and hunger flees, as does cold and fear. She touches him, and he is transformed, no longer a broken man. I like not knowing his name, or if he was wrongfully accused. He is "the prisoner," and she, "the woman." Sigh... sleepy.
The alarm goes off in a few, so I am going to turn out the light (the sun is rising, anyhow), and lay in bed and contemplate. I feel so grateful for this time, even though I know I must leave... Still. a bit of fuel for the day, no?
6:07 am.
March ramblings hidden under the cut...
March 11, 2010
4:48 am
It's later than I wanted, but I did another impromptu fashion show for myself. Water is boiling for tea, which is most welcome, although it's already a bit stuffy and toasty warm in my apartment. i woke up a couple of hours ago and found myself thinking, thinking.... The workshop today reminded me, once again, of what I used to be, of who I used to be: whimsical, romantic, dreamy-eyed, filled with fantasy and poetry and song. I constantly had my head in the clouds, and even though it was love that I was dreaming for and wishing for, and even though it's love that I hold in my grasp, at least at the moment.... I can't allow myself to stop dreaming. I can't allow myself to lose my fantasies, my hopeless romanticism, the poetry, the creativity...
I trap myself in rationality: debates over genre, theme, meaning. This isn't for consumption. This is for me, for my heart and soul -- nourishment, much-needed, in the midst of this scholarly world of academe. Hah -- the chocolate mousse to my bread and butter. I create myself, in my mind, as a character in a book or a play.... and in so many ways, I try to emulate that role, that ideal. I always have, ever since I was little and I dreamt of fairyland, of a place so beautiful and magical and mystical it could bring tears to your eyes. I dreamt of dwelling in a fairy garden, all balmy and warm, filled with flitting hummingbirds and lazy butterflies gliding on gossamer wings. Colors abounded -- verdant greens and tranquil blues, vibrant pinks and the warmest yellows, and always, always, the deepest, richest, royal-est of purples. I sat in the midst of it all, clad in shimmering silvery lace, sparkling with sequins and a scattering of jewels, looking for all the universe like some sliver of moonbeam -- circlet in my hair, bracelets encircling my wrists, jeweled rings glittering on my fingers. There I walked and thought and dreamt and sang and prayed, content, tranquil, quiet. Sometimes, only sometimes, would I allow another to trespass upon my solitude -- a prince of sorts, handsome, dashing, the manifestation of all my heart's desires. He would enter, and I suppose we'd make love, but really... we would talk. Talk and share and bond and mind-meld... We would mind-meld and I suppose we would banter -- witty, sharp repartees flying back and forth. Ah, that is what I wished for, what I dreamt of -- to be the goddess in the garden, content, tranquil, at peace.
I miss this. I miss this more than kinky tales of "the boys," more than any attempts to create "a trashy romance novel with a deep philosophical core." I want to embroider fanciful, whimsical things, things without a true beginning or an end. I want to put pen to paper, literally -- I miss the physical presence, the pen gliding along, scratching along, and the splattering of ink on my fingers. I miss that cramp, too, that slight ache, and the callous that would build up on my middle finger -- my writer's mark.
I think of my tendency, my penchant for memorializing things -- mythology from prosaic, banal experience... fanciful fantasy, silly, whimsical musings... but where does this leave me? With the desire to be fully, beautifully human, to embrace and love and nourish this side of myself. To be woman, to create, to embroider... and to weave, I suppose. I love pretty things, ephemeral things, things that are delicate and beautiful, that might be seen by some as saccharine, devoid of substance (I'm thinking of... spun honey. Cotton candy. Delicately fragile trembling things that are exquisitely beautiful and shockingly complex).
Really, I'm but a little girl, still playing pretend and dress-up, still wanting to transform into the beautiful fairy princess and live in her beautiful garden haven... And I'm also the mischievous vixen, playful, wicked, a bit seductive and sexy... Not quite the virgin/whore, but more along the lines of... I don't know. Mind/body? Perhaps -- the ethereal dreamer, philosophical in so many ways, and this carnal corporeal goddess, but of the earth - firmly rooted, deeply sexual, filled with desire and passion for life. The dualism isn't a terrible thing -- as long as they don't dual, as long as they are bonded together in that yin/yang of balance and accord. The light and the dark... shadow and anima? Or -- the fiery phoenix and the calm Nerissa, I think I named her, raging fire and cool ice. That's me in a nutshell, I suppose. I cannot be something completely ethereal and cerebral -- my passions won't allow that. Ay, but really... These are entwined, coupled together, folded in upon each other, this longing for peaceful dreaming and these passions and desires: integrated into one, fueling and feeding the other, all of them resulting in the Good.
I can't help but think of femininity, of these beautiful things that I love, that I've always adored. The fancifulness of it all... It makes me want to commit to taking time out from the internet, to take this time for decadence and luxury: scented lotion, body oils, candles, perfume... dip pen and ink, good music, beautiful paper, tea, or maybe even wine, and these musings for no one, this way to feed my soul, to dream, to create, and to become.
I need this solitude. I need this time to insulate myself, to forget the rest of the world, and to be my goddess, fairy princess self. I wanna write a fairy princess story, the tale of a goddess, of a woman, eternally wise and beautiful, of the man who she blesses. I wish my scholarly self wouldn't intervene ("She's placed upon a pedestal! The male gaze! Objectivity!")... A wandering, tired traveler, led to this small, quiet paradise where he can find peace and love and healing. I love these characters, the women who appear in the mists.... It reminds me of slow lovemaking n dew-moist moss, of release that builds with aching slowness, resulting in the sweetest bliss... gentle, rocking, surging, skin flushed, bodies slick and clasped together... his head upon her golden breast:
There she dwelt in the midst of twilight, sun and moon mingled as one -- bronzed limbs bare beneath silvery gossamer lace... Hair dark as night... When she spoke, her throat (vibrant?) voice struck him to the core...
"You have journeyed far." The breeze ruffled her hair like a lover's gentle fingers. "Rest here for the night."
I think like Byatt's characters from Possession -- so assured of their rationality, their postmodern knowledge, their scholarship... I think of conniving woman-in-the-garden, Circe tempting Odysseus into years of servitude and bondage through sweet delight, of Eve and her apple... but this is not it. This is mercy, pure and simple.
Ah, the traveler who is found dead in the morning, yet rosy-cheeked and smiling, as though asleep -- some fugitive from justice, persecuted, wrongly accused, who found a night of love and mercy from a woman [angel? goddess? fae?], who eased his suffering and took im from the world. I love that image -- the scene closes as he rests his head upon her golden breast ("bronzed breast" reminds me of gold-painted Bond girls), breathing deeply for the first time in an eternity and falling into a deep sleep, embraced so tenderly and lovingly... And a scene transition: the barking of dogs, the search party coming upon his body in the frost-tipped grass, his cheeks inexplicably warm and rosy, a smile upon his lips. Fin.
Yes, I would probably call it "Mercy" or something of that nature. I like it -- embroidered, fanciful, with a touch of the macabre. Really, it is what I would want to write, that deep sort of Byatt stuff -- filled with this gothic sort of imagery and detail and what not, a deeply sensual tapestry of description, yet balanced by a... spare... sort of prose. Hah. Or something. I think I may need to try my hand at short vignettes. Drabbles. Tales. Feminine, fanciful embroidery. I know this has been written somewhere, but I don't care. Campbell identified 7 archetypes. We are always, constantly, retelling.
So... a wanted man (escaped prisoner?) running, running... Winter. So very cold. Forest. Stumbling half-blind, with little more than a flint in his thread-bare coat (patched, fraying)... living off of the very little he could forage.
His hunger was a gnawing pain he had ceased to notice... he had lost all sensation in the fingers of his left hand the morning before... He heard the hounds in his sleep, always howling and baying, snarling for his flesh... and still he pressed on, hoping to lose them in the wilderness...
It's the 4th day of his escape and they're closing in, and all he wants is a place to hide, or to die quietly, frozen in his sleep. And he catches the sound of a running stream - babbling, and all those other lovely onomatopoeia words... and there he goes, pushing past brush and bramble and hedge, stinging nettles, etc, stumbling down into an unexpected clearing... and the stream. He drinks eagerly, washes his face -- the howling has stopped. He's hidden; he's safe. And then he sees her.
Yes, this is what I've needed -- something different, fanciful, new... a chance to just write to my heart's content, to explore, to hear my voice again. I've forgotten what it's like without any interference from anyone. Garden tales. This one is "mercy." I have an outline. I have an end. He sees her, and hunger flees, as does cold and fear. She touches him, and he is transformed, no longer a broken man. I like not knowing his name, or if he was wrongfully accused. He is "the prisoner," and she, "the woman." Sigh... sleepy.
The alarm goes off in a few, so I am going to turn out the light (the sun is rising, anyhow), and lay in bed and contemplate. I feel so grateful for this time, even though I know I must leave... Still. a bit of fuel for the day, no?
6:07 am.