A Reprise

Gackt's official website now has an English version! It's a little rough, but we'll go with that.

I began Dark Virtue again . I wrote with my heart this time, to the site that existed before almost all of the things in my present life existed, to the character and the place that are still there in my mind. I have been asking myself for a while, how do I re-define this character and scenario for the modern web and modern me. I am not all turrets and bats like I was ten years ago, and the web is not all HTML and frames. When I re-created The Castle of the Seventh Moon , I eliminated frames since I don't remember how to do them anymore. I worked from a paper copy of the site, and still haven't finished rewriting the text for all rooms, but there it is. Still, I didn't want to finish off the project for good. To be true to my core concept, I needed to work within the same account, since I had such an emotional attachment to my very first Internet user name. Luckily, fast-follower Yahoo made blogging available, and even allowed simultaneous posting within the site. I knew

I don't know how to express how much I love summer. It is almost painful to hear the cicadas and feel the heat and know in six months it will be all gone. I anticipate it for half of the year, but it's nearly too much to appreciate. I have taken so little joy lately in the passing of the seasons and the cycle of holidays. I long for them, but I never get that for which I so long, the satisfaction of doing something to commemorate each event. I have begun to do this a little with cross-stitch, small seasonal things that I can handle-- an ornament or wall hanging-- but I want to more fully realize what makes summer summer , what makes Christmas so magical, and make it happen myself, because I have a hard time finding it in the world around me sometimes. For me, summer is snow cones, long walks to Starbucks, cooking and eating food outside, especially hot dogs. It's sitting on the porch in the evenings and listening to cicadas. There are the holidays I celebrate, like New

I've decided to revive my Gather site which never really got off the ground. There are so many awesome new sites out there that I feel like are more modern in their look and feel than Livejournal, like Gather and Multiply. I like the concept of writing articles. I think it would be good writing practice, and a good incentive to develop new theories and interests. I haven't found any writers or categories I really want to follow yet, unfortunately. They have so much great technology and means of communicating articles of interest to you, unlike Livejournal. I have been feeling lately the need for new inspiration and new mediums, and this is a great new thing to play with, at least.

I just found Windows Live Writer for posting to virtually any blog, and while it doesn't address all of my needs, it's a whole lot better than logging into Blogger. I'll have to see how this works.

I have had a resurging interest in fashion lately and thus made a Lookbook on Style. I found traces of all the styles and eras that have been inspiring me lately.

I am discovering the meaning of the Snow White story with my re-write. I am writing it from the first person, and every step of the way I have thought as she thought and felt what she felt. Now I understand what the story is truly about, not from an analytical view, but in connecting with her on life events that have affected me deeply. Now I can see that the tale is about a woman's journey to adulthood-- all the doubts and fears she feels along the way-- the independence she gains. Angela Carter's re-telling of this, my favorite story, in her collection The Bloody Chamber was really hateful. Snow White is not a story about the relationship between a woman and a man. It is about parent and child, and coming of age. My drafts of "Blanche," my re-told Snow White novella, have never felt right. With each draft, I remove a layer of hatred and resentment only to find another layer. I have discovered that I cannot truly tell a story with hatred in my heart. I must embrace

I moved ahead of the huntsman in the woods with my flower-press dangling behind me by a strap. I was not cheerful as on our previous outings. I could not look at the huntsman, who had served as my outdoor companion for much of my life. I was frightened of him. When his shadow fell over me, my heart nearly stopped. My very bones melted and I thought I would fall down with fear. If he intended to kill me, there was nothing I might do to stop him. When I stumbled, he took me and led me into a darkened cave. He looked anxiously behind and around himself, seemingly terrified. "My princess," he said, "what I must tell you will fill you with grief, but it is better that you are aware of the truth. Your stepmother the Queen hates you truly. She has ordered me to kill you today and return to her with your heart. I am committed to preserve you, my princess. Therefore, you must hide in this cave until well after nightfall. Where you must go, truly I know not, but if you would choos

Rain like tears clung to her window pane. Lind touched the glass and matched her fingers to the drops on the other side. She should want to be inside, where she was warm and dry and safe, but she wanted to be out. He eyes scanned the hills, but they were bare. In her dreams at night it was something different. On the hills were unicorns, of all kinds, prancing in the wind. Their beauty filled her heart with delight, and they welcomed her. She stroked their soft, silky manes. The most beautiful of them was their prince, who remained isolated on the highest hill. He watched Lind while she walked with the others. She never dared approach him. But he spoke to her in her heart. He knew her innermost thoughts and touched the subjects which gave her pain with utmost delicacy.

This is really cute. ^^

The next afternoon Gauvain called me to his parlor. His looks were grave and dreadful, as though he hadn’t eaten or slept in a day. I, in turn, felt radiantly alive. The sun which spilled unremittingly from the windows seemed to envelop my frame and pour light out of me. I had been transformed by my love into a new being. I wanted to share my joy with my beloved brother—convince him of my total happiness—but something within me warned me to keep my head. I had almost forgotten about the doctor’s death sentence till I looked in Gauvain’s eyes again and saw the sorrow writ there. “My darling,” he said and came upon me. He wept over my hands, then pressed me close. I surrendered patiently to his embrace, feeling none of the grief he expressed. He looked into my eyes. “What can I tell you, angelic one? How can I…? Yesterday, I thought you heard… because you ran away.” I turned away from him. I would look like a fool to agree to the doctor’s pronouncement, with the happiness on my face.

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I'm having a hard time getting started this morning. I did the vacuuming yesterday, and my arms are quite sore. Since I am using them to do the dusting today, I'm not looking forward to getting things underway. I might go through boxes today instead, since my body is reluctant, and my mind is so active. I have been typing up Prinzessin , which is what I've titled this fragment I found from 1997. It's amazing how little I remember about it. I keep wanting to read ahead to find out what happens next. It's a turn-of-the-century story that crosses over with the one I had previously written-- also untitled-- taking place in the present day. In some instances the heroine, Mary Anne, slips back in time for a moment or two, just long enough to encounter the personalities from a past age, and then back again. I thought it would be interesting to dramatize the doings of Gisela, the woman whose body she inhabits, as she experiences life in the castle a hundred years into the f

This helps me realize what I meant to say in Cambriel . That Ophelia, a flower maiden, is deceived, betrayed and finally destroyed by the worst of human traits, by a scientist who embodied the sacred role of husband for her-- who transcends his faults and works, in this post-apocalyptic fantasy, to bring her back to life. And after he does, all the wrongs of the past, and the ones incurred in the course of the story, are made right. The new Ophelia is made: part Cambriel, her originator, and part Valentine-- similarly a flower maiden betrayed by a protector, whose past Ophelia must resolve. In the end of the story, she and Shelley transcend the fallen earth to a paradise where she becomes Cambriel again. I wrote this to complete the cycle of the flower maiden for myself-- because the flower maiden must by rights end tragically. I wanted to see her betrayer redeemed-- I wanted what was wrong to be made right.

A flower maiden, as I saw once defined, is a woman who has been betrayed by the males who should have loved and protected her. Often associated with flowers, like Ophelia. Also, Desdemona, The Lady of Shalott . Their stories never say anything very kind about the male of the species yet, I admit, I am fascinated and obligated to acknowledge the blame. The flower maidens seem to spring up out of nowhere in stories and times that are threatening to the woman. In Shakespeare, who could not create a realistic woman character-- in Tennessee Williams-- in medieval literature, where the woman is deprived of rights. Perhaps they are the alter egos of these chauvinists, or perhaps a truly great writer must reveal truth, even surpassing his prejudices. Blanche du Bois , in her scene with Mitchell, reveals herself, strips her character of lies to reveal the glowing, powerful beacon beneath. He cannot transcend his narrow-minded views to give her the respect of which she is worthy--or perhaps he

I was a happy child. I loved my father and stepmother. I cherished tales of my mother. My father told me I was her image exactly, matching her snow-white skin, dead-black hair and red lips. When my father died, my stepmother and I grieved. I made myself necessary to her, for it did not seem like she was capable of taking care of herself. Even as she became dependent on me, she made a slave of me. She loved solitude so much that she dismissed all of the servants, and it fell to me to wait on her. My beautiful gowns turned to rags, and I no longer looked like a princess. I looked like a servant. My stepmother, the Queen, grew strange, and the rapport once between us was broken as she no longer confided her thoughts to me. Still I loved and served her faithfully, even as I became starved of the familial love which once had enriched my life. My one solace was the handsome young man I saw when I drew water from the well. He came around the castle on his horse, and I believed he looked for m

Delicious mint tea was served in ornate, old-fashioned dishware at Casbah Restaurant and Grocery. The food was out of this world . My dish tasted like baklava with ground chicken. It was covered in powdered sugar.

It is noted that of course no one else in the land has golden hair. Both kings are brutish to the Princess. Evidently her betrothed does not know her very well, has only seen her a couple of times if he's not sure it's her. Her way of putting little objects in his soup is strange. She notes at every meeting that he throws his boots at her head. It seems she's determined to draw his complete attention and show him her power. All the same, she is obviously seeking his protections only. She's aware of his ill-treatment of her as a servant. His "love" for her is forceful and brutish.