A Reprise

Yesterday we came around three, but the sky had already begun to grow dusky, and we walked around the property and saw the tanks and the pond, and talked, and I walked on some logs, which I never before enjoyed, but since practicing yoga, I have developed a balance I did not know I possessed and like the feeling of mastering my balance on a slim log. I realized there are some in River Legacy I would like to try, and I think perhaps I have found my newest possibility of death. Anyway, we talked a good deal but I actually thought a great deal about The Garden of Virtues, and I visualized clearly Shelley's return to the garden and just how it would look. I saw a trail of antique photographs, and I would tell the old story with the sense of tragedy it deserved, the children deserting the garden, and I clearly saw Shelley's larger booted foot stepping upon one of the weathered photographs, him lifting it, looking at it, and becoming involved in a reverie of the past as slowly he re-

I am reading The Fourth Turning to understand first and foremost where I am in the great scheme of things. I am at the end of Generation X. This is the generation begotten by the Baby Boomers. At the tailing end of Generation X I experience the least identity with and power in my generation, which is the most dysphoric generation of this generational cycle, which is about to end. This is true for me. I have a sense that I came of age very late. I have a sense that I did not come of age at all, that I was always of age. My generation, according to this book, is extremely dependent on self and does not look to the outside. In general for my generation there have been no grand messages or themes. The unity comes in its unraveling and dysphoria. Like a natural autumn, we are the drying-up, the dying part of the cycle. According to the book, we will experience a monumental crisis around the year 2025, when the nation will experience death and rebirth, as it did with World War II/Great Depre

Ideas from reading The Fourth Turning, by Strauss and Howe. I have come of age. I have come to a time when I struggle constantly with what is important to me, what should be lasting in my life. I want to express myself. Succeeding in that expression is more important to me than having a successful career of that expression. I want to express my individuality in ways permanent and impermanent. Impermanent ways are my dress and appearance, more permanent ways are physical objects I create, and the most permanent are my writings and photos. I do not totally understand how to balance the importance of these three. My life feels devoid of immediate happiness when I focus myself entirely on writing, and it feels devoid of lasting happiness when I focus exclusively on creating objects and on my personal style, both of those I consider as lifestyle. In fact, I would consider all three to be what I call an artistic lifestyle. It is very important to me to have and preserve the concept of myself

For my new player, I bought a treasure trove of albums, Barry Manilow (for Mandy) Linda Ronstadt America Mannheim Steamroller Vivaldi Castles and Cathedrals, classical compilation Barbra Streisand/Barry Gibb Stravinsky Romeo and Juliet soundtrack Fame soundtrack John Denver

This novel was one of Austen's earliest, if not the earliest published. I was reading her early unpublished work, Love and Freindship (sic) and saw some decided similarity between it and Northanger Abbey. Love and Freindship (sic) was written before Austen knew how to spell, and I find it nearly unreadable, even with grammar corrected. Northanger Abbey has emotional conflict arising from love, friendship, gossip, speculation and is overwrought and excruciating with satire and dry interjections from the author. The end had me cringing. How different from Mary Shelley's loving and lovely interpositions in her own works. I feel discouraged from this work in continuing to read the rest of Austen. Technically now I have read all of her books, but I was going to re-read the big and cinematic three before watching the Masterpiece Theatres. My focus as a writer of love has shifted considerably. In high school I tested every boundary I knew in my work and as I matured I decided most of

I am a little disappointed in the way things have panned out. Catherine became a little too obsessed with the gothic, to the extent of tasteless behavior jeopardizing her love relationship. She seems immature and I do not share Henry's admiration for her. The love story has been very weak overall, everything subordinate to the cautionary message about getting too obsessed with gothic romances. In addition, a great deal of this story has been devoted to the main characters talking about other people. That seems very amateurish to me. I tended to do that in my early writing to shy from the lack of action going on with the main characters. All around, there has been very little conflict in the story and now, in the last 7/8, there is absolutely none.

In the morning I was awakened by the sound of a key turning in the lock, and I rose up in bed immediately on the alert. I expected Shelley to turn away and leave, but my door opened a crack, then wider. He brought a tray of tea and breakfast food to me. “I thought you would be hungry,” he said by way of apology. I did not know whether to renew my anger that he had locked me in again, or be delighted that he was trying to make it up to me. My hunger seized me, and I took the tray with alacrity. “I’m starved. Stay and eat with me.” I tossed my wild hair from my shoulders as Shelley brought my bed jacket around me. “I can’t. I’m in the middle of my work—“ As he moved close to me, I turned abruptly and kissed him. He was shocked—too shocked to respond to me. “You must spend the morning with me.” “I told you that I cannot.” I pulled the yellow ribbon from my waist and wound it about his neck. Curiously, it immobilized him. “You are bound to me. I won’t let you go.” Shell

This weekend we enjoyed the last temperate weekend probably for a time to come. I was able to decorate pretty thoroughly. We have the tree now and other ornamented locales. My monks are across the mantel on a pallet of snowy fleece. I want to get long candles for an advent wreath. I also disassembled the broken Christmas angel my mother gave me and used the lights for a tiny Christmas tree. They are incredibly hot, and I'm hoping they will not set the tree on fire, since they melted the angel's plastic cone. I am still not sure how to complete reparations of the angel. I don't really know how to make another cone, need to remove the last sharp bits of the present one, and figure out how to brush, iron, glue and clean the various parts to rightness. I don't need her this year anyway. I still want to make the Snow White Christmas tree skirt. I also want to glue the sequins back on the felt Advent calendar. I will need to buy some as well as the candles. Last night I was a

I use this online program called Zamzar to rip Youtube videos into files my portable device can read. My favorite video has always been "Anything for Love" by Meatloaf. I have been foiled time and again in my effort to capture this video. In the old days, on one tape recording, the tape ran out. On another, it warped. On a third, I staked out the couch for the whole weekend during a video marathon and was forced to leave when the video was aired. In the early days of the Internet I scouted this video for hours on end. I never found it. I priced it on a Meatloaf video collection for $100. It wasn't worth that much to me. However, when Youtube came out the video became commonplace. I tried time and again to rip it, but the file size was so large it would take hours to get my email link. Usually by then I would be asleep, and Zamzar only keeps the video for 24 hours, so I missed it again and again. I decided to try again this afternoon and persevere, however, "This

It's very fast reading. It is the most engrossing thing I've read in a while. My initial impression of it was wrong in many ways. It's not completely a spoof. The characters are like the characters in her other works. The heroine is staunch though, like a gothic heroine, I find myself wanting to shout directions at her, and cringing when her decisions, or lack of them, cause trouble. I have a couple of questions. One is about Henry Tilney. When Catherine first meets him he is clearly a likeable fellow, really more teasing and fun rather than aloof. He parleys with her a great deal. He is very talkative. However, he is in fact elusive. He disappears. There are explanations for some of his seeming coldness, but there is cause for suspicion. Not everything adds up. Am I misinterpreting his playful and extremely verbose speeches? What he has to say is very interesting, but I wonder if I am interpreting him as being too flippant because I am unaccustomed to heroes speaking so mu

This is the second lunch I've passed in this downtown Barnes and Noble. I like this place. If I worked here I would undoubtedly come here for lunch. It is going to be hard forfeiting the hour and fifteen lunches, but normal life is less stressful than this. I am not cut out for city living. I still had driving troubles today. These one way streets are so difficult. I don't understand parking, and I like finding locations that I "cain't miss" from the road. Everything is so densely packed. Everyone else seems to have walked somewhere, but I celebrate lunchtime as the time to get as far away from the work as possble with as much comfort as possible, and Subway, I'm sorry, is not comfortable. Last night I slept from 7 p.m. to 5 a.m. when I had to call in. I have slept so much lately, but I feel in such a muddle. My head is pounding. If I were home I don't think I could put myself together enough to do any of my things. I really long to do things, too. Writing

Wildlife preserve near Lake Worth. At the end of our journey we found ourselves in a vast meadow bordered on all sides by high fence topped with barbed wire directed inward. We quickly crawled beneath the gate and looked at the fence to the sign posted on the outside.

Red Rose ends with an epilogue . It's my first epilogue and more the kind of vignette I have missed writing for A Fine and Private Place. I have made it a cycle, or I hope I have. I believe the reader will know after all that Rose, the watcher at the window, has done that of course she will follow Jude and Scarlet into the wilderness, and there the calamity will begin, culminating to crisis once more. The fullness of summer had waned and all was still in the old house as the first autumnal rust curled the edges of the surrounding trees. One figure moved in the old house. She kept the fire glowing, an inviting flicker to tired or curious passersby. A long braid hung comfortably over one shoulder as she lit each taper along the wall with a long match. She extinguished the match with a blow, leaving the smoke to curl in the near-darkness. She was perfectly still, listening. Outside of the old house, a figure made his way around the perimeter. His was a shabby form, careworn. He

Pages: 119 Words: 60,823 Characters (no spaces): 281,843 Characters (with space): 342,848 Paragraphs: 1,349 Lines: 4,319 Welcome me back to the land of the living. Welcome me to reading, to my vignettes and projects, to catching up on Internet stuff, to photo-work, to the land of dreaming. I began in Indian summer. Here I cease in the fullness of autumn, and I verify that never has a more beautiful season has passed in this territory, never more colorful leaves or life-giving air. I bear with me a full novel not one word of which was writ thirty days previous. I cannot believe I was so deeply tempted to abandoned NaNoWriMo that I passed nearly twelve hours at one point with the attitude that my manuscript was entirely shelved. How could I? I love it. When I feel clearer, I will decide how much to polish, if I want to serialize it in Winter Light, or what. I have to admit I am tempted by Lulu. Anyway, this afternoon I am going to verify my word count and get on the Internet. I will try

This morning I began the anti-gothic, Northanger Abbey . The main reason I did was so that I can watch my Masterpiece Theatre DVD after I read it. I have felt a great reluctance because I really do not like satire. So far, though, I find it amusing. Every jibe she gives to the forlorn, tormented heroes and heroines makes me want to close it and start on something else in my list, but the story itself actually moves and generates curiosity, and there is some of her own moralism and criticism of shallow people, which I like to hear at times. The heroine has met her hero, Henry Tilney. Can it be possible that subsequent authors were inspired by this anti-gothic in their gothics, because I have read of some heroes like Henry, entirely opposite of the dark, brooding? I question as I read. I wonder how much I am missing, if each sentence is making fun or if I dare relax and enjoy the story without being made fun of. That's what I hate about satire. So far, though, Catherine bears a stron

I completed Caleb Williams early Thanksgiving morning. I did not expect the ending, but it was very interesting. Falkland as villain is the character about whom Caleb's feelings are profound and enduring. Destroying Falkland is necessary in the preservation of his own life, but due to the great love he bears for his persecutor he is destroyed to vanquish him. That is very gothic in a different way than the usual to me in that the story is so action-oriented and short on description, atmosphere. Godwin's style was not what I expected. It was plain. There were few characters and no tender feelings, except those which Caleb bore his master and destroyer. I guess that relationship would be a truly gothic element. It deepened my understanding of plot and character-driven work, maintaining suspense and focusing a story to a single character.

According to my former schedule I would be done now. This does it for the work until after Thanksgiving, at least officially. I decided I would not attempt to write more until Saturday, hoping my creative reserve will replenish. However if I have the urge, I will not hold back. I will feel much better when the deed is done. I opened Cambriel last night to do a word count. It ended around page 100. How is this? At 116 I am still struggling along. I must have used larger paragraphs, but I don't see how. I had many characters, and they talked often to each other. Red Rose has been silent and very difficult. My vision came together. I can see that it did only because I put myself before the computer and did the hard thing. In truth I think it is better in many ways than Cambriel.

Pastor T____, I'm so upset. I'm all grown up now. But I am separated from God. I can't believe the things I used to believe. I don't want to be near a God who condones what I see. I've been there too. And my mother. You know, she and M____ are divorced now. You know, everyone believed in their love. I remember once I asked you about marriage and divorce. God's messages about that were frighteningly clear to me when I studied the catechism. I was upset, and I asked you, what about my mother's divorce and remarriage? You said that was different. You never explained why. It isn't something I mentioned after that. It was a sort of puzzle in my mind I knew I had no hope of solving. However, now I believe you were wrong. There was nothing different. There was absolutely nothing different. God's messages about marriage and divorce have always been clear. No one has ever tried to argue about that. Divorce is legal, but divorce is divorce, and everyone knows

I reformatted my word count to do 2000 a day till the end of the month, with some days off. That is much easier. As you can see I'm almost done. I came up with a great setting today, but I'm totally blank now, so I'm glad to rest.

As I had peeked through a Cloud, To see that which was not allowed, Like the flash from a Falling Star, Winged Messengers appear so far. We're ascending up a narrow Path, Which are to make one realize that, A Place of peace and love does exist, To be taken in whole, do no resist, As the Pearly Gates are opened, Arch Angels shall be summoned, On a tree branch sat a White Dove, Welcoming you to the world above.

For the weekend...

I'm struggling pretty desperately with Red Rose right now. To make myself feel a little better, I'm recounting Cambriel . In desperation I wrote some really embarrassing stuff  that year that will never see the light of day. There is one part though that is so terrible it's amusing. One morning I remembered Lamb Chop singing that "Anything you can do, I can do better" song. It always amused me so much. So I actually worked it into a scene. “I made bread,” I reported to Shelley as I brought him food on a tray in his study. “It’s a little funny-looking, but it tastes good.” “Capital for a first effort.” He didn’t even break a smile at the swollen mound of bread. “The yeast must have survived the time.” “That would be something for you to study beneath your microscope,” I said, pouring him a measure of tea. “A particularly vigorous form of life.” I crooked a smile at him. Shelley looked particularly intent on his work when he wore glasses, tiny roun

I may have to steal Nathan's DS for this.

I did not reach my day's goal and am behind again, but I am out of danger. My story has changed a great deal in only one day. I have other things I have to do tonight and can't write any more. But it is feasible at this point that I will make my goal. I am 1750 words behind today's target.

I may not be one for writing novels anymore, more like short stories. Writing so much in such a short time is not conducive to a story with few characters and a narrow focus. Leisure time is very important. I miss writing vignettes for the Summerhouse, walking in River Legacy and crafting. I can't wait to get back to it. If I put the time in, it will happen, no matter how blocked I am. I need to follow the core force of the story, no matter how unexpected it may be or what strange place it leads. The story then flourishes, rather than becoming skewed or distended. I am really interested in the balance of power between various people. This is what the story is indicating. Also, my story is quite focused on the protection of the weak and defenseless. I have taken some writing lessons to heart. Particularly giving the protagonist some point on which the reader can feel sympathy. Also exploring the dynamic of the three possible romance situations, as defined in Story Structures. It red

That's four words away from today's goal-- a total of 5000-odd words written today. I really didn't think I could do that today. I'm not so behind after all, but I really miss having a life.

I ended right on the word today. I don't think I have ever done that before. Well, it will be useful for me to write more this weekend if I can find the time, but I am done for the day. I am tired, and I need ideas. The scenes I constructed today were better and more vivid than anything I have done before in the book. I will be very happy if I can ever find an easy portion of this to write.

I have been struggling to write all day. After 7000 words I have to call it done. I have the weekend to catch up on the 3000 words I need before Monday. I am so tired and so out of ideas for now.

I received my red 1960's dress today. It fits wonderfully. The fabric looks and feels like a couch. It also has a lot of hand tailoring and special details to enhance the fit that you cannot do in a factory, so that is special for me as well.

8:  Merge onto I-30 E toward DALLAS. 14.4 mi 9:  Merge onto I-35E N/ US-77 N via EXIT 45A on the LEFT toward DENTON. 1.6 mi 10:  Take the VICTORY AVE/ HI LINE DR exit, EXIT 429C. 0.2 mi 11:  Turn RIGHT onto VICTORY AVE. 0.4 mi 12:  End at 2500 Victory Ave Dallas, TX 75219 Estimated Time: 27 minutes      Estimated Distance: 19.81 miles

I met my day's goal, though tomorrow I have a great deal to do and so I feel nervous about it. I have been using every spare moment of my time lately like the last bits of gravy on a plate. Gone is my restless, fearful sense that I am not doing what I should be doing, but in truth I long for the days when I can go where I wish after work, read or do whatever I please.

I'm 2000 words short of my word count today, but I have a day off this week to catch up, so I'm not yet worried. Also, my productivity increased dramatically. That was 1500 words in an hour and a half. The story is coming quickly now. I also found time to go to the store and pay for my seven eBay auctions today. So I consider today productive. The best thing is ending off well and putting confidence toward my next session. Also it's really storming out there tonight. It has been a really great day and night.

I did not meet my goal on Thursday or yesterday, and last night in despair I elected to discontinue the novel. However this morning after nearly twelve hours' sleep I was cleansed of all discouragement and took it up again. It is going with more strength now, and even happier, I am done with it for the rest of the weekend.

I reformatted my week's goals to allow myself more space tonight. I will try to write this weekend, and on my day off next week I will be able to catch up.

Can it be possible with all the changes in my life and the world outside my window that Winter Light is still there, kindly receiving my desperate letters in the middle of the day or the middle of the night? When I was a child and had the chicken pox my mother hid all the mirrors from me. When she left the room I rose painfully on the soles of my inflamed feet on the couch and peered into the mirror above me, and screamed. "I will never be beautiful again," I said hysterically, which is some kind of emblem of my conscious being, the solipsistic fairy tale where I am the maiden and wicked queen together. In what was kind of an emotional thing I decided to change my look. Last September after the BJD convention I got a hime cut, then got my job in October. I fought with my hairdresser over the cut and enjoyed the results, even though I didn't have the time to style it with my new job, and it looked dreadful pulled back. There was no way I could drag my princess hair in solv

It is bright and cold this morning, a chill overlaid with sun. I am so many places at once, I have no idea where I am anymore, but I think I would like to be in River Legacy most now. My writing is different for me now. It's a lot of effort, every paragraph. I can see that I am making every piece count now instead of streaming material from a well-ploughed tract over and over. My stories are starting to remind me of no one else's at all. Red Rose is accelerating at this point into something I had not intended, but welcome as I desperately need the word count. I am struck as I inhabit this unfamiliar landscape by faces and places that if I look long enough can trace back to Earth. When I recognize someone or something I am startled. I realize my writing is like a dream, not a place that I can control, but a mindfield where my waking world is transformed into something strange and compelling. All that said, I am tired. I have not been sleeping well at all lately. You would not th

That was time-consuming, even though I invented a great deal and kept typing at a frantic pace. I will have to start sooner tomorrow. It's actually a little scary, definite horror aspects.

The house looks ghostly in this near-darkness. I have kept at my writing and not turned on any lamps. I wrote much better today. I am not struggling as I did yesterday. I even had time to vote. I have not had time to read or rest. I am already feeling longing to have an afternoon to do other things. I am so glad I have a day off soon.

My story is only beginning, and though I have the main events outlined, I struggle to lock onto its source of energy. I am at no shortage of obstacles and conflict, however.

Throughout the park this morning there was evidence of a great natural harvest.   

A plastic tea set in bone/ivory color, like new, looked 1960's, with two dessert plates, saucers, cups and cream/sugar. $5. Pre-Raphaelite painting by unknown artist, transfixed me with its beauty, $9000. Amazing white and beige straw purse, possibly 1970's, floral accents, $20.

This is wonderful when I crave something sweet but want the health benefit and relaxation of tea. It has smells like Fruit Loops, with a faint fruity taste laid over a golden tea foundation.

I created this cover for my profile today and added NaNoWriMo info to the side bar of Winter Light. Tomorrow I'm going to complete my writing schedule and work on my plot outline. I also have to find time this week to read the whole story structure book. This is already working out to be a very busy NaNoWriMo, and it hasn't even started.

To decorate: white walls with palladian windows, overstuffed sofa, chairs in pastel colors To wear: Silk blouses in white, hair spray To listen: Belinda Carlisle

The roof of our apartment is visible in the distance.

I'm no longer stranded in the woods. A previous occupant of this bank consumed a box of calf livers.

Waiting out my toe cramp.

View from the ground.

I wish we could have seen this! He canceled his U.S. tour. It would have been so awesome. I love it. This Delicate Thing is my favorite album ever, I've decided...

Teaism is a cult founded on the adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence, a worship of the Imperfect, a tender attempt to accomplish something possible. The Philosophy of Tea - enforces cleanliness, comfort in simplicity, defines our sense of proportion to the universe.

Quiet or sober refinement, or subdued taste, characterized by humility, restraint, simplicity, naturalism, profundity, imperfection, and asymmetry emphasizing simple, unadorned objects and architectural space, celebrating the mellow beauty that time and care impart to materials. Belief that each meeting should be treasured, for it can never be reproduced. Broken tea bowls are painstakingly repaired using lacquer, powdered gold. Used mainly in November, when tea practitioners begin using the ro, or hearth, again, as an expression and celebration of the concept of wabi, or humble simplicity. Study is through observation and hands-on practice. Students do not take notes, and some schools discourage note-taking. Taken from Wikipedia, Japanese tea ceremony.

I have long been unable to perfect the art of denying my own gratification in writing. I do not know how it is possible to feel so deeply what Delphinia feels and deny her her desires. I come home with a great headache, and this is not what I should do. If I had had my camera, I would have gone to the garden to take photos. I long to express, but my mind is too tight and rigid for me to be writing. I know the only way to make my story as I want it to be is to make the desire of Delphinia's heart my own, and thus consumed in them, write my way through every possible denial of them, torturing her in every conceivable moment. That is the story I want, but after a scene that tormented her effectively my imagination conjures an even better torment, with no interim of relief for her emotions, and yet I am too weak to continue. I can see that the romance stories I like to write now are more akin to torture. I am bored with anything less. Then I wrote a little on A Fine and Private

I am coming to the burnt-orange season when I can sit on the porch and write just like this. I have settled on the heart of my anxiety. I have not written for weeks. I have been bottling it all up, hoping the force of my stashed passions will get me through 6,000 words each day next month. I did not participate in NaNoWriMo last year, and I think that was a good decision, though I regretted it afterward. I remember how deeply I struggled to learn to do my job, and for how many weeks. It would have been idiotic to try to write a novel then. I have felt myself change. I do not want to hide from the truth. That is not the point of writing in a blog. I realize that all throughout my life I have been holding myself back from my present situation. I have been aloof. Always my eyes were fixed on the horizon, and my attitude was that one day I would be in a position that suited me. I can see that last year I did that, reserving myself for my writing session at Starbucks. However, I hav

I was not writing in my journal a year ago today. I was overwhelmed with learning my new job and abandoned all thoughts of Cambriel , Snow White , and my other WIP's for a very stressful several weeks. So this is the closest entry I have to that time. My life… is totally different than when last I wrote. Wow . I was waiting on the job news. Now I’m one month into the job. I feel kind of insecure right now. I’m afraid I’m a lousy scientist—and my fear is not so much in losing my identity because I’m an ineffectual scientist—it’s more like being found for a sham and thrown out. I think it’s kind of funny I do for a career something that interests me not at all while my passions lie elsewhere. But my passions are only passions. They don’t last me very long every day. I am too capricious to devote myself to writing... However, I screwed up a lot today... Some of the things I have to do—like pretending to review those folders again and again to learn them—are so mentally excruc

I drive out to the old house at the end of a dirt road. She has seen me from the window. She has put on a kettle of hot water. We will have tea and talk. She opens the door even as I gesture with agitation. "We must talk," I say. "And I, I did not know you would still be here." Josette laughs at me with her green eyes. "Where would I go? You have set me up so comfortably." I study her red apron trimmed in rick rack. I remember that fabric. "I cannot do this without you," I say. "I simply cannot. My judgment is skewed. I have been a fool." "But you are not a fool now," she guesses. "As long as I am this person, I say I am a fool. But on a particular point I have been foolish. If only you had been there. You could have told me better." "No one can tell you anything, madame." "Actually I have been a fool on many points." "As Hokei admonished Hofuku, 'That is enough talking. Let us have a cup

This afternoon I saw the photographs of Nell Dorr at Amon Carter, which was a boon as I am interested in a feminine and antiquated perspective over the 1950's and 1960's. My energy is now concentrated in this century. After work I came to the museum and walked around. I am possessed with a terrible energy now. I work furiously, and then I can't rest. I want to learn more. I am frantic to understand things and people. My mind never rests. At night, my dreams are frenetic. I feel impotent to express, because I have no understanding. In my world I see work. I see industry. I see people shaped by their experiences and by their innate person. I do not understand why I work, why I desire to work. Is it because I believe in the American value of hard work? What is that value, even? Working hard for its own sake, or working hard for material gain. Is either one a reason for living? What can I learn from my day-to-day life? What meaning can I extrapolate? I also desire to understand

Remove the impurities from silver, and the sterling will be ready for the silversmith.

Hi~ customer^_^ Let me introduce NEW Glamor Model line - Nayuta Kenzo that have a manly semblance and a delicate body more than 71cm Model doll Male. His delicate muscles and perfect body lines are soooo cool! Glamor Model doll would be a good match for Model doll female. ^^ His masculine beauty is absolutely stunning. - Normal head + assembled body - D Glass Eyes(random) - wig - boxer short - Box, 2 cushions, COA * Tall : 75cm * Circumference of Head : 23cm * Circumference of neck : 12cm * Circumference of chest : 29cm * Circumference of waist : 23cm * Circumference of hips : 27.6cm * Width of shoulders : 16cm * Lenth of \"from hips to ankle\" : 43cm * Lenth of \"from knee to ankle\" : 24cm * Foot size : 10cm * Eye size : 14mm (Diameter) That's pretty huge! Well, I am putting aside the BJD business for a while but not forever. One day I'm going to have a tea master, and we're going to continu

Is erratic behavior true insanity, or is it a result of not understanding yourself? What is my position on obsession? Is it bad? Can it be good? In my fiction it has always been a subject of dark beauty, stemming with King Haggard's obsession with unicorns in Beagle's The Last Unicorn. However, there are many ill effects to obsession, dramatic and ugly, that I have never communicated in my writing. What is depression? Is it different from melancholy? I was interested in and acted out the subject through my first hero Anton, who rather than being brooding and dark, was actually depressed. But at that time I had never experienced true depression. Are anxiety and depression different sides of the same disorder? Do either of these conditions result from obsession, or does obsession result from these conditions? Emotions and issues to be presented in Red Rose. Understanding of the self. What makes each of us unique? Obedience to authority versus personal ethic. Curiosity about

Picture from Nathan. Henry uses my tea table for his cave.

I have had her from childhood.

There's something I'm been trying to do lately. Sometimes I get a clue about something I should do. I hear them in the aether, making themselves felt at random times. Sometimes they bother me incessantly, and sometimes I hear the suggestion but once. But I realized that these are a kind of guiding light. I spend so much time feeling lost. If I would just listen to these whispers of suggestion echoing in my mind, then I will do what I should do, and I have become convinced of that. I hope that if I follow these slight suggestions they will become easier to hear, and I will ignore fewer of them. Perhaps then, then I will be on the path of doing what I should do. It has stayed with me what Shunryu Suzuki said. Do something you should do. That is advice for all times and places. But I never know what I should do, on a grander scale. I don't know if that's something I should know or worry about. I don't know.

This article explained some points on which I have been curious, especially with regard to Queen Elizabeth II. The British monarchy, an institution that epitomizes the heritage and long history of its country, has come under increasing criticism in the past decade as an archaic relic badly in need of an overhaul if it is to earn its place in the 21st century. What does the future hold? Will it survive? Royal correspondent Alan Hamilton of The Times of London offers his predictions for the future of the ever-adapting monarchy. The Future of the British Monarchy By Alan Hamilton When Diana, Princess of Wales, tragically died in a car crash in Paris, France, in August 1997, the whole world’s heart missed a beat. The mountains of flowers that piled up at the gates of London’s palaces were an unprecedented sight; many of people thought it medieval, as though the crowd was paying homage to a holy relic. To her huge and adoring public, Diana embodied the all-too-scarce values of hum

Just when I thought I would not learn the truth of Falkland till the very end of the book, he declared it himself in just the next paragraph. To tell the truth, I feel an unexplained hurt and discord when I reflect on Falkland's character, the setting and the events in the story. I guess that would be called verisimilitude. To experience something so brutally ugly in a human being and recognize it instantly as very possible. That what seems to be true, is true, and as in the story we must trust to what seems right or not right to guide us to the truth about a person. The story has told me so much of what I already know, it hurts sometimes. I understand the story is not about myself or my problems, but it is like a faceted crystal one can turn around in the sunlight. Interactive, reflective, many-faced.

After I returned to Arlington I went to Potbelly and got a PB&J. I could think of nothing I desired more. The climate and slant of light is such that I feel lost and found at the same time, and I sat outside, the only other table occupied by a woman who kept going into and out of the restaurant laboriously, with her walker. As I ate I noticed a female grackel picking her way beneath the tables. I realize that of all creatures the female grackel rouses in me deep feeling. She is brown and ornery and slightly tattered. She does not look or move with the aggression of the male. She is not shy about sharing your table or your food, but she is quiet. In the afternoon rush hour began to accumulate around us. I felt the busyness that Arlington can acquire sometimes. I felt complacent and sheltered because the air was crisp and the right temperature, I was eating as I had for so long wished. I had somewhere to go, but in brief flashes over time, I have felt disembodied and unsure. Like thi

The wind has blasted all day long. The air has been cool and gray, a pall hanging over the earth, causing my brain to feel pleasantly disengaged. This after the burning heat is so welcome. It is dizzying to think that fall is here. It's nearly a year since my life changed so much. Yet I am entering into its anniversary in the most graceful season.

In Caleb Williams , Falkland is like a Confederate hero in nearly every sense. I feel in sympathy with Caleb. Falkland was a man of high honor and virtue who interested himself in the well-being of others so as to go above and beyond himself in their protection. This incurred the wrath of the man tormenting them, a man who hated him and it cannot be denied that Falkland hated in return. When Falkland attempted to make peace, there was more show than sincerity. His high-handedness was even more instigation for Tyrrell's wrath, and of course Falkland knew this. After Tyrrell's death and Falkland's acquittal of his murder, it is easy to see how little clues of his showiness and high-handedness revealed themselves in the narrative. Another complication in the story is that the narrative was given by Collins, and without knowing Collins' true opinion of Falkland we cannot determine if the story was biased against him. This long narrative was an interesting feature and device

Each day is special, because each day I learn a little more about who I am and what I like. And though it may be selfish, that has been really important to me lately.

This song floats over my senses like an airy curtain from a past life brushing against my face. Elton sings of a bridge of cold, hard iron, yet in his music I lose sight of iron realities and sense exclusively the past, especially that one day long, long ago when I stayed home sick from school. Driven by a sense I uncovered a huge stack of 45's in a back closet (I lived in a house of abandoned things and we had not yet explored every cranny). I found several of his and I listened. It was so special to me. I have never, ever felt so not alone while being alone. I remember the simplicity of that day as one of my finest. This song is relatively new, but its sound hearkens back to that which invaded and shaped my developing senses, and gives me a bittersweetness.

Say hello to your future I'm real pleased to meet you You're a million miles away Say hello to your lion's heart Queen Victoria's circlet You'll never ever be the same Giddy-up! (horse neigh) Don't confuse your beauty with the insolence of youth. I was saved by the enemy That dare not speak its name. -- Darren Hayes I can sleep when I'm dead. -- my Starbucks barista Darren Hayes' lyrics are among the ones that get stuck in my head. This is the most important to me: "I believe forgiveness is the key to your unhappiness."