A Reprise

And this is indeed the end of Oriente's story, and The Soul of the Rose may return to Delphinia's catastrophes, and the reader will have a much-altered perspective of this new villain, Gauvain's arch-nemesis, Oskar, and Gauvain's tragically dead sister, with whose portrait Delphinia has been so long obsessed. And we will wonder at Gauvain's hypocrisy, or is it hypocrisy? Will he pursue his forbidden love with Delphinia, or cut her off? Better yet, what will Oskar do with Delphinia at Gauvain's looking, Delphinia who so resembles his dead, beloved Oriente? And amazingly, the person I feel sorriest for is Gauvain, and I really believe he is the most honorable, lovely character who is being hated and reviled by every person he ever loved for clinging to the honor and law that make him a worthy Markgraf . I wonder who will save this sorry wreck of events? It can only be Gauvain's much-reviled bride Adelia, who is bearing the innkeeper's child. Yes, I thi

It is but a little before my story is told and its end rests with me here, at my writing desk. Gervaise has brought a cup of tea and a shawl to keep me warm, but a part of me that she and they will never see is bitterly cold, in the desolate place with my love. It was not once but twice that my false family stole from me the one thing that made my life purely sweet: my Oskar. We continued to love one another openly until my brother’s return from Baden Baden. Gauvain was stricken immediately by my debilitated looks. I was wasting away; could nothing be done? The fresh air did me good, the fresh air was my enemy—sweet cakes revived my spirit, then reviled it. The doctor was making but guesses and would have put a frailer form through torture who dared to live by his advice. I was dying. What was the difference? I told Gauvain that I wanted Oskar to live with us. I held his hand and wept to recall his letter. I had written my reply in his absence and merely handed it to him when h

Everything is wet and warm and colorful, and I'm alone, no one to share this right now. When once I would not have minded, I do mind now, and there doesn't seem like anything I can do to truly reach out across the universe and share what I feel. The illusion is shattered, and no stories will abate this bittersweet ache. What can I do to describe myself, when the world of stories is netted in premise and hook for me now, and there is no longer a rain-drenched garden in which I can step, where they will be waiting for me? Are they there no longer, and is this where I am left, this place, this earth, that I have seen only in reluctant glimpses because I am always looking impatiently out the window into another place? I want to take a hand that will jerk me into those echoing hallways where rose petals blow in through open windows from the garden, where people with haunting eyes stare. You can't be gone. You can't leave me behind. I will chase you.

At the end of the BJD convention Nathan and I took a fortifying stop at Dhaba Joy, which has become a favorite, despite that everything we've tried tastes a little bit off. If Starbucks beverages are Hollywood productions, these are indie films. This time I had the Dhaba Fire Mocha, which I liked very much, but like an indie film, would not have played at Starbucks. It was even injected with a little "art for art's sake." You can make an arty photo out of just about everything in the shop, including the bathroom; which has two chairs opposite the toilet, so that you can have an earthy conversation with friends. We took a walk after breakfast, but after this old, interesting sign, the street basically ended.

Some shots of Calloway Cemetery, Arlington, TX, with my Treo 650. According to the historical marker, the cemetery was in use from the 1870's and in it are buried many early area pioneers. The marker stated that this shelter was built in 1908.

The Season of Simplicity , nineteenth-century Japan, will begin in autumn. Shiratori is studying to become a tea master when he meets a young, affianced noble. I want to expand on the idea of wabi sabi and the autumnal tradition of using older, humbler things with a sense of care.

Recently I have become interested in the art of James Tissot.  His art is realistic, but there are otherworldly qualities, too. His work fixes on the rare, otherworldly moments we find in our own lives. In "The Captain's Daughter," a father is glancing back at a shipmate. The younger man's clothing probably describes his station exactly, but I can tell the captain considers him a significant prospect for his daughter. The younger man has an animalistic look evoking the realistic and naturalistic subjects in late nineteenth-century literature, like those of Eugene O'Neill. The cool, detached look of the young woman implies she has not concerned herself with the nearby presence of the men. Her collected bearing and binoculars suggest she is intellectual and probably interested in her father's work at sea. There is something very similar about the father and daughter, and the red-haired man is different. Tissot emphasizes this similarity by giving their black

In memory of my grandfather, Robert H. Heins, who passed away this morning around 4 a.m. It's all I have to bring today -- This, and my heart beside -- This, and my heart, and all the fields -- And all the meadows wide -- Be sure you count -- should I forget Some one the sum could tell -- This, and my heart, and all the Bees Which in the Clover dwell. Emily Dickinson  

My life continued as an idle pace as I discovered the joys of the countryside. I heard myself think. I sang to myself as I attacked the momentous prospect of righting the dwarves' neglected abode. I studied the accounts with Dieter over tea and learned as much about this foreign race, attracted to money as moths to light, as I did about dollars and sense. I was almost totally happy. I forged friendships with the dwarves, and they became as much, if not more, my family, than my employers. Edritch assumed a fatherly position over me, which touched me keenly, for father I had never had. But I did not forget the shadowed and incongruous life I had lived before. I almost longed at times for my prison, for my stepmother's cruelty and even more for the stolen moments at the well with my secret prince. By now he must have married a noble maiden, though I would have been more than suitable, because I had been forced to abdicate my home. Soon I would discover, in another unexpected t

Last night, this verse spoke directly to my heart. Then I observed that most people are motivated to success because they envy their neighbors. But this, too, is meaningless-- like chasing the wind. It is something I needed to know. For so long I have struggled with mixed feelings about seeking recognition or publication of my work. Something deep inside me has held back, and I have not known why. I have seen what other people do, and I have thought that I should do that, too, and I have tried to do it, but it hasn't worked. Other people get a lot of recognition and attention for the things they create, and I get almost none. But I have a desire to create and publicize beauty. Whether it's a photograph or a story of my own, or a poem or a painting of someone else's, sharing what I find beautiful gives me joy, and I believe it is good to God, and makes the world a better place. Perhaps this verse was not written for me, because I am not the person who wants more money,

More fantastic blogs than I can read. Every Day is a Holiday .

This blog is about Disney princesses in pop culture. I must check it out later.

I need to give these a closer look later.

I don't kid as I say that I have no idea what the next turn of Snow White will reveal till it's written. I only trust that the underlying passion with which I write promises there is something very pertinent to my life about every piece of this story. My fascination has only grown since last weekend I read The Complete Idiot's Guide to Elves and Fairies in Borders, which revealed Snow White as a core story of the Goddess, her death and rebirth. I found that piece of information captivating, and I think it explains why I feel this strong energy emanating from the story. The story of the Goddess is repeated in the course of every woman's life. I start out in the innocence of childhood, which becomes increasingly shadowed. I find myself shockingly bare in the world, and isolated from everything I have ever known. Then I go into business for myself. Then, who knows? I haven't written that part yet.

Out of the darkness of my disturbed slumber, into light I hurtled as I became aware of a bustle in the house. My eyes flew wide, and of course at first, I knew not where I lay, nor how I came to be in this place. Relentlessly my memories rushed on me and I relived all the terrors of the previous day. My heart wrung within my breast anew as I considered my stepmother's betrayal, and the fugitive life I had begun the previous day when the huntsman had released me into the woods alone. I had never before awakened with such pressing grief and regrets, but my disillusionment was quickly replaced with raw terror as I realized my encounter with strangers was imminent. To what extent they might hold me accountable for my intrusion, or betray my identity to my enemy, I did not know, and I was entirely powerless. I was just rising from my bed when I heard them pounding up the stairs. I told myself they were only children, and yet I knew my assumption false as soon as I beheld them, all se