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