A Reprise

You are Mackerelly!! You feel obligated to create new words just to define yourself as different... I mean diff-tacular. Just remember... ORIGINAL doesn't necessarily mean GOOD. What Weight Watchers recipe card from 1974 are you? brought to you by

So I decided to come sit outside and freeze and be with nature. God I love this weather. It's killing me; I've been out 30 sec and already my fingers and toes are numb. I've always found it physically painful to be cold, but there are some things that are more important than the absence of pain. That, then, is what it means to really be a human being... to know that there is more good than just the absence of pain... that some things are so grand that pain is miniscule and laughable in compare. That is what makes each of us more than an animal. The trees are bare and somehow their barrenness is better to me than all the green leaves of spring. The mournful wail of this incessant wind is thrilling; and the air smells so good. I could not live anywhere but here; oh God, help me, I can't help but become attached to wherever I am, even our small apartment, especially our small apartment. All the things I love are so close to me here that I would feel desolate in a larger pl

I am listening to my "Very Best of Chopin" CD which has long been usurped for "Nocturnes," but now my CD player is broken and will only play certain (probably expensive) CD's, so I am hearing this one for the first time in years. It is this indelible ache when I hear "Prelude in D-flat Minor;" remembering listening to it over and over again in my Granada... in my old CD player... looking out at the bluebonnets and goatweed and just... feeling . I had no idea then that such times are finite, that someday I would have none of those things, that I would have to start all over again. And I didn't know I even could. I didn't know someday I wouldn't have Gregory; or that home; I had no clue I would have a nicer car, but I didn't care, then; I could play the piano then. I could thrill myself with my own music then. How I want to play now. I die to play now, and I can't, really. There's Nathan's keyboard, but I never know how to mak

I really liked these paragraphs I read this morning in Reviving Ophelia: "The junk values of our mass culture socialize girls to expect happiness and regard pain as unusual. Advertisin suggests that if they aren't happy, something is wrong. Pain is presented as something that can and should be avoided by consuming the right things. It's treated as an anomaly, not an intrinsic and unescapable part of being human. Contrast this worldview with Thoreau's line: "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." Or with Buddha's statement: "Life is suffering." "America in the 1990s places enormous emphasis on the gratifcation of every need. It hasn't always been so. When Robert E. Lee was asked the best message to teach the youn, he replied, "Deny thyself." Freud wrote that happiness was the experience of loving and working. He believed that the gratification of all wants was impossible and would be dangerous to individuals a

I carved my first pumpkin today. :)

There is nothing on earth that could make my immediate world any better. I've come from my job interview-- which really couldn't have gone better, not at all-- and I feel very happy about it, and I've just completed Winter's Light and now I'm sitting looking over the woods and it's raining so hard. It's all so beautiful and green and raining and the temperature is perfect, not too hot, not too cold, and here I have all the tea I want to drink, and my beautiful home, and the knowledge that soon I might have a job. These moments are special.

I finished the poet shirt today to good end! Tomorrow I intend to make a pair of tights for Hennessy from my tan trouser socks, and a green vest. Maybe even the matching hat, too, if I've got a bit of extra time. I picked out some old jewelry I can restring as beads for my angels' clothes. My angels. Oh, lord, not much time goes by that I'm not thinking of them! Thoughts of them make all my worries passe. Job interview? Bah. Pap smear? Hah. With Bess and Hennessy coming into my life, everything else is sweeter. I had to make myself release and not touch again the shirt once I finished it. I got that obsessive feeling, like: this should look better! maybe if I...! So I let it go and now I can see that it's just perfect. The best I can do at this point in my dolling. I'm terribly worried it won't fit him. Yesterday I just knew it was a size too small, and now I fear it's a size too big. Well, I'm proud of myself for making anything . I can see th

Poet shirt #2. It's amazing how a small detail can throw a whole project off, sigh! Luckily the second time around, the sleeves look much better and the whole assembly is going a lot faster... but for one little thing. The collar matching up to the shirt. When I cut out the shirt, there was this fold of fabric tucked under on one side, so that one side is 1/4" wider than the other. My eye can't even detect the difference, but I can't match the collar up to the shirt because if I center it, one side will be longer than the other. I'm still wondering on it. Meanwhile the collar itself is proportionally too small for the shirt. How this could have happened I have no idea. I made new patterns, this time expanded to 500% instead of yesterday's 400% and it certainly looks the right size, but it's dwarfed on the shirt. Oh, well. Who cares? I'll just make a new pattern. And I have nothing to eat but corn and cream cheese so I'm eating that and it'

I realized today how closely Love's Shadow and Winter's Light truly are. LS is really the darker side of the story, and WL the lighter, making the titles so perfect! I realized as I came closer today to ending the monstrous 332-page WL some truth about LS and added a paragraph onto the end of it. I scarcely think that will explain what I realized, but it's at least a start. The thing about my writing is-- whatever wicked thing I want happens. I knew Nichol shouldn't be with Luther because he's a serial killer... even within the confines of my story it can't happen, in that world. Nichol knows it can't, but still she loves him. And so I make the story carry on... and I wondered if perhaps the story was only half-written... and I needed to write a sequel. I think I do . Just as LS is the sequel to a story I wrote long ago-- and in this strange world my characters never quite find what they're looking for, so a sequel is always needed. WL is more

I have been terribly obsessed with getting a dollfie, now that I know what they are. I came across some dollfie sites some time ago but I didn't know what they were or how much 67900 yen was. Well, now I know that's about $679, and even on eBay they're going for unbelievable amounts. I just can't fathom spending that kind of money on a doll. So I'm distracting myself, sitting on my hands, in effect, by giving my other dolls some much-needed tlc. I decided what I desired most from a dollfie was interactiveness, however, I spent about 1/4 of that cost on each of my present dolls, but till now have been afraid to do much with them for fear of destroying their value.

This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calmed-- see here it is-- I hold it towards you.

August 31, 2009  Amanda, 29-year-old scientist and author, is acclaimed for her critical essays and in-depth research into Victorian costume and lifestyle, the Pre-Raphaelites, and historical science.  Her poetry and short stories have been published multiple times in [ x ],[ x ] and [ x ].  Her first novel , Cambriel , was published by Silhouette books in 2005, heralded as groundbreaking. Amanda is celebrated for turning Silhouette books into an intelligent, forward-thinking series with her Sleeping Beauties imprint.  Amanda works 8 to 5 as a biochemist in a clinical laboratory.  Her and her husband Nathan's hard work has paid off and they live in a beautiful secluded home. Thanks to years of trial and error, both have excellent culinary skills and trade off making dinner every night for the other so that Amanda can spend some evenings with her writing, and Nathan with his musical compositions.  For fun, Amanda and Nathan love to dine out and travel with friends. They have return

"I love the greenish light in your long eyes, Sweet beauty, but today everything seems bitter to me, And nothing -- not your love, not the boudoir, not the hearth -- Is worth as much to me as the sun shining on the sea."

"I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again."

The next morning Gisele felt slightly dazed. It was early, and everyone seemed to be hiding. No one had brought her her breakfast. Luckily she was no longer under lock and key and could find food herself. When she stepped out into the hallway, she was struck by its stillness. No other patients moved. There wasn’t a sound. Gisele felt slightly dizzy, queasy, but she moved hastily down the hallway. When she would have descended the staircase, she changed her mind and ascended it instead. She went where she usually had no mind to go-- to the prior’s quarters. She passed the prior’s office and it was empty. Beyond that the hall was dark, and the rooms it opened to were uninhabited. Gisele checked all of them as she went, urgent on a sudden prowl, struck by queasy suspicion, fear. The hall went on and on. She tripped and saw a broken doll lying on the floor. Tenderly she picked it up and turned it over, brushing its dirty costume, flicking at dirt on its cracked face. Still holding the

The girl sat on the side of the cot, her lips pressed to a small moue. She had a round, pale face and large blue eyes. Her black hair was center-parted and neatly combed behind her wimple. When she didn't answer or move, Gisele stopped struggling. "Who are you?" she asked finally, meeting the girl's beautiful eyes. She smile gently. "My name is Eden," she said. "I've come to give you some food, Gisele. You've been unconscious for two days. You've lost a lot of blood and will be weak for a long time to come." Lightly she pressed her hand over Gisele's which lay bandaged and still on the cot. "Why did you do what you did?" she asked in a slow, pained voice. Her eyes were so large and innocent that Gisele began to wonder if she had ever encountered a patient who had attempted suicide. Gisele met her blue gaze unflinchingly. "Because I wanted to be with him," she said in a tight, emotionless voice. "I will b

The birdcage was like a little temple, with smooth white lines and a domed roof. The birdcage was like a prison with confining metal bars. The birdcage was fashioned like a small white palace. The birdcage was like a white eggshell, the yellow canary at its center. Like a white moon, the little birdcage illuminated the vast space of the room with its cheer. The birdcage was an asylum, and the canary its sole inmate. The birdcage was a sultan's palace, and the canary its pasha. The birdcage was a harem, and the small canary its pleasure-giver. The birdcage was a white church in vast space, and its singing canary a preacher of glad tidings. The birdcage was a prison in which its inmate served in solitary confinement. The birdcage hung from a hook like an ivy planter. The birdcage hung suspended like a little white moon in the sky. Like a white temple of ancient Atlantis, the birdcage hung suspended in the air. The birdcage hung carelessly from its metal rod like a bucket of water fro

Around, all around, the angels gather. My dread grows as the stroke of death falls against my heart. It smites me, and darkly my life's blood drips to the broken ground. In my madness I cry out while death laughs cruelly. Now alone, my supplication falls upon uncaring eyes. This is because of you

Beautiful and melancholic, you strive to cope with horrors in your past. You are kind but still not sure what you life is for and since living for yourself is not enough, you try to protect those that are important to you at all costs. Manga- What Alichino Character Are You? brought to you by Quizilla

1. Grab the nearest book. 2. Open the book to page 23. 3. Find the fifth sentence. 4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions. "I'll demolish the first who puts me out of temper." Wuthering Heights , Emily Bronte

Very fragile. Very little. Always correctly dressed in white. Through the house her footsteps sounded disciplined and so polite. Dusting, watering flowers too, with busy, little housewife's hands. Baking bread. Walking in the park, writing letters to family and friends. Loving sister. Obedient daughter. A daily game with dolls and house. But deep inside were fires flaring as the silent screams arose. Behind locked doors of maiden's chambers with embroideries and lace lay a stranger, known to no one. Much too lonely. Much too brave. She's like a cold, unfeeling surgeon listening to her naked pain. As her pillow hindered screaming while doing autopsy on her own brain. Translated by Liv Wenger

Linda Ronstadt hearts call hearts fall swallowed in the rain who knows life grows hollow and so vain wandering in the winter light the wicked and the sane bear witness to salvation and life starts over again now the clear sky is all around you love's shadow will surround you all through the night star glowing in the twilight tell me true hope whispers and i will follow till you love me too

As she sat in her room, contemplating the new turn of her life, her thoughts turned to Anton, and his unnerving resemblance to the figment in her dreams. She felt inexplicably drawn to him, as though he were the answer to a puzzle she had worked over in her mind all of her life. She noticed him standing on the balcony, high above her head. Madeleine put her hands to her head, feeling a sudden sense of disorientation. She wanted to shout up to him, to demand the answers from him. But he would think her only mad. Perhaps he was only just there! Perhaps he had not gone there to watch her struggle with her disturbing visions. Did she imagine that he was some sort of sorcerer, and that he had conjured those visions to torment her in her sleep? It could not be! He was not a magician, only a man. But all of this changed for her on the day she met Barbara. Madeleine turned from him in the garden. "I did not know... about Barbara," she said merely. "Didn't you?" he

"Oh, Roger..." Margaret pressed one hand to her bosom. "I'm so sorry..." "Don't." His voice was sharp, his expression forbidding. "Don't say anything like that to me about the matter. I'm very happy for Katherine." She reached out to touch his hand, feeling sad at the stabbing pain in his eyes. "Then I am too, of course," she said. A commotion from down the hall made them both look up. The children were running toward them with energetic cries, trailed by a tall, dark-haired man. For a moment, as Margaret met his stern gray eyes, she almost didn't recognize him. The expression on his face chilled her. She jerked her hand away from Roger's and stood quickly. "Drew!" Roger moved toward him quickly. He shook his hand and clapped him on the back. "What a pleasure! It's been too long since I've seen you, old chap." "Roger." Drew's lips upturned in a terse smile and he sho

This is so embarrassing: I wrote it when I was sixteen. I don't imagine it would be of entertainment to anyone but myself. The prelude is a poem I wrote myself, too, unfortunately. Ah, fickle love! You cannot decide, can you?! Can you?! Thrust me aside and look upon me no more Or kiss me again Even through the near-impermeable walls the storm raged, and as I leaned in an arcade in relief I felt the shudder of thunder. I shivered, and it was then that I realized the cloak I wore was warm, heated with a touch alien to my own, and I shuddered again, in horror, and wrenched it from my shoulders, holding it gingerly in one hand. The walls which surrounded me were unfamiliar, hazy, and seemed even more foreign still as steam rose from an arched, open window and filled the room with curling threads of vapor. There was silence but for the steady roar out of doors. I was not aware that I was in near-darkness until a sudden, alarming orange flame shot up from the wall opposite me. My breath

When she was a girl she had gone there once, wading amidst waist-high weeds and picking through the brambles to get to the old cottage. She remembered it somehow. She had found a key in a drawer in an old dresser box in the spare room and had speculated endlessly about what it might open. It was the size and shape of a key which might fit into a door. One day when Kate had been riding with her father she had seen the old cottage and had asked him about it. It's abandoned, he had told her. It was hard now to recall his voice because he had been dead for so many years. She had developed the idea that the key she had found must open the old cottage. It was on her father's property but it had not been inhabited for years. None of the servants seemed to know anything about it. Kate had gone to the cottage at dusk, when her parents were occupied with preparing dinner and finishing up household tasks. She had opened the door with the key she had found and had entered the small buildin

Wallace Stevens She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean. The sea was not a mask. No more was she. The song and water were not medleyed sound Even if what she sang was what she heard, Since what she sang was uttered word by word. It may be that in all her phrases stirred The grinding water and the gasping wind; But it was she and not the sea we heard. For she was the maker of the song she sang. The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew It was the spirit that we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang. If it was only the dark voice of the sea That rose, or even colored by many waves; If it was only the outer voice of sky An

A re-telling of Snow White, submitted to Gothic Writers, Inc. poetry contest I dreamed of darkness and dreamed of you in my snow-bound sleep Awakened with a kiss my eyes flew wide, my lips red as blood warmed by your touch. You stole me away to a place where the wind in the trees moaned like the restless dead, where spiders plotted my death in the dooryard Where loved bloomed wildly, a rose with plucking thorns You surrounded me with the shadow of your love till all I could see was darkness, and I dreamed.

"You must let me go," she said. She pulled the cloak more tightly around her shoulders and shivered, looking at him longingly. The man she loved had lost his mind. "I cannot do that," he growled through the glass, his features contorted. She knew he felt as cold and dreadful as she did. They both believed that Hildegarde was dead. Anton was certain that Madeleine would be next, and she knew his suspicions were justified. She touched the glass as though to reach the features of his face. His face was more beast-like than ever to her now. It was harsh and angry. He would be easy to push over the edge. He was on the edge of sanity now. "Then come to me. Don't leave me here alone. Please." She shivered. "If my presence in the main house is missed for long then the murderer may grow suspicious. Your presence here must not be detected." "If you leave me I will scream." His eyebrows shot upward. "Don't do that. If you scream I wil

In a high, dilapidated tower she waited, as old as time. Her long pale hair was spread around her on the pillow, glimmering like dark gold in the moonlight. She wore an old gown which was tattered and stained with age, though the hands which lay on the bed, encircled in tattered ruffles, were pale and slender, clearly the hands of a young woman. He stared at her with a sense of obsession, his green eyes narrowed. I will have you, beauty, he thought. You are mine in life or in death.

Procol Harum We skipped the light fandango turned cartwheels 'cross the floor I was feeling kinda seasick but the crowd called out for more The room was humming harder as the ceiling flew away When we called out for another drink the waiter brought a tray And so it was that later as the miller told his tale that her face, at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale She said, 'There is no reason and the truth is plain to see.' But I wandered through my playing cards and would not let her be one of sixteen vestal virgins who were leaving for the coast and although my eyes were open they might have just as well've been closed She said, 'I'm home on shore leave,' though in truth we were at sea so I took her by the looking glass and forced her to agree saying, 'You must be the mermaid who took Neptune for a ride.' But she smiled at me so sadly that my anger straightway died If music be the food of love then laughter is its queen and likewise if

It took a second glance to see that the queen's tastes in art were debauched. In the scenes naked nymphs were straddled by eager Pans, and powerful centaurs made love to helpless maidens, horseflesh against the bodies of the women. The queen was known for her sexual appetite, and everything about her attested to it, including her attire, which clung to her body and accentuated her full breasts and hips. She moved to him with the swift grace of a cat, her black silk skirts smoothing silently over her legs. She lifted his dagger to his throat and raised her black brows as she spoke. "If you do not do as I say, then I will take your brothers and sisters from your home. I will kill them, roast them, and serve them for my court's pleasure for dinner. I will weave your sisters' beautiful hair into a shawl and set your brothers' teeth in gold in my crown. They will glow like pearls in my hair." She smiled evenly, displaying long, even white teeth like those of a pant

I thought sleeping in would help my bad headache, the one that starts behind the eyes, but now I just feel worse and slightly stuffy. Oh no. Not now.  Yesterday I wrote almost all I need to in order to submit "The Golden Palace" to The Marlene and The Merritt. I am going to work on "Angel" today (hhmmm...or possible tomorrow) to submit to the Winter Rose. I was on an absolute role yesterday with "The Golden Palace" and had this deliciously tired feeling afterward, like I had done a hard day's work.  Then, I played Virtua Fighter IV with Nathan-- which I have never done before--- and of course he beat me but it was fun and I would do it again. Eventually I will beat him. Then, I looked up www.dogdoo.com and thought seriously for about 45 minutes about sending my old boss a Poo Poo Platter. Then, over dinner, I found out from Nathan we are in debt, and got freaked out so today, I am going to start cooking dinner for us.  Gosh, I have been so lazy. You

Wallace Stevens 1 Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice. She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe, As a calm darkens among water-lights. The pungent oranges and bright, green wings Seem things in some procession of the dead, Winding across wide water, without sound. The day is like wide water, without sound. Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet Over the seas, to silent Palestine, Dominion of the blood and sepulchre. 2 Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams? Shall she not find in comforts of the sun, In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else In any balm or beauty of the earth, Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow; Grievings in lone

Up very early because the cats were fighting like mad. It's funny, I've rarely been so awake at 6 a.m. And here I am back at the computer. I'm still trying to get the hang of the blog thing. I guess I haven't learned to really write in a blog yet and that's why I feel so awkward about it.