A Reprise

I have been thinking there are two kinds of power. A human can be a force, a conqueror, and this is a lesser, more limited kind of power. Or by being still and waiting you can experience a power that will move through you, and this is the greater power. I feel the Western world values this lesser kind of power, while Earth-based societies value the greater. The lesser power can create chaos and destruction, and it does in ways I can see. By disconnecting with the greater power waste, destruction and suffering come to people or a society.

I was really interested by the small Ute exhibit in the Mesa Verde National Park museum. The patterns in the beadwork had a distinct Renaissance influence I thought both beautiful and fascinating.

Highway 550 , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr.

Last night I dreamed that I chanced upon a beautiful garden and cemetery. Everything was covered in verdure and blooms, and I was seized with the desire to take every possible photograph. I didn't know why I had never noticed that place before. I hurried home to find my camera, but I became distracted by a dozen things, and I never returned to that beautiful place. This morning, I felt heartsick that it has been so long since I have spent time in a place of beauty photographing it. I decided to take some time the next few days to reconnect with photography. As I entered this pavilion the way the light fell reminded me of a dream. I wish I could find a place like the place in my dream.

My new Rhode Island Reds , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr. I got two more chickens, and it's great to have four again. No more excursions outside of the coop, no matter what. These are full-grown bantam Rhode Island Reds, and they are much smaller than my other two, one of which is a Barnevelder, and the other possibly a mixed breed. The new cockerel is fighting a little with my old hens, who are bothering "his" hen, but they are already calming down, and hopefully some day I can have happier chickens and more eggs again. Since my rooster's death my hens haven't left the nesting boxes or laid eggs, and one of them is turning an ashen color, feathers and comb. I hope more birds and and a new rooster will help her feel better. Winter isn't their favorite time I know.

Scarlet looked up with alarm, real alarm. Cassandra had never seen her supervisor look discomposed, but just now her fear was unmistakable. She rose suddenly, a whole foot taller than Cassandra, though she was as slender as a willow, and similarly pale. "I thought you'd gone home, Cassandra. Why are you still here? It's late." "I had some work to finish up. I guess there's nothing more I can do. I'm sorry to have startled you." "You shouldn't hang around here after dark, Cassandra. It won't be safe for you to go home. You walk, don't you?" "I don't mind the dark," Cassandra said quickly. "I like to work late. I could use some extra hours, if you don't mind, Dr. Thorn," she added, recalling a conversation she had overheard between her co-workers. Humans liked to work extra hours, though she didn't truly understand why. But as a princess, she had never wanted for anything, and didn't t

Hi! I have made some changes to my sidebar syndications. I have not found any new material for Fuck Yeah Generation X lately, which I'm sorry for, because it seems like a lot of people are interested in it. So right now I am syndicating The Magic Circle , which is my spirituality journal. This is partly to encourage me to write spiritual thoughts there  instead of here , and keep it all on track. I tend to not write there. Do I have anything else to say here? I don't think I do. Oh, I read about a new kind of water spirit. This is relevant of course. The rusalka . I was absolutely captivated by these readings and they've been in my thoughts much this week. I think there is much wisdom in words about women idealizing these water maidens as what women once might have been, or could be. The mermaids are our kindred. This becomes a deep truth when I realize that deep within us lies both the male and female entity. I am not talking about the surface ideas of men and w

So I am switching stories again .. and we will start with famous opening lines (almost -- "it was a dark and stormy night" is bad writing, most nights are dark)..  It was dark and storming .. (Sorry for my manga-ka asides .. ) From within the laboratory, Cassandra could hear the clatter of Dr. Thorn's polished red nails across her keyboard. She sensed Dr. Thorn was in another bad mood. She wanted to reach out to her but had no idea how. She knew in the human world their status was disparate. Dr. Thorn was her supervisor, and Cassandra had to focus on the work Dr. Thorn set out for her to do. It was obvious she didn't want to be bothered, and Cassandra couldn't be pushy with her. But she found she was so lonely. She couldn't connect to any of the other girls in the laboratory at all. This was likely because she was more different from them than they could possibly imagine, but it didn't dissipate the feeling of failure that loomed over her when th

I would have been surprised to know that I sank into a deep death-like sleep following the stressful events of the evening and the morning. Despite the sun radiating across the ivory counterpane that covered my prone form, I remained oblivious until a loud clatter shocked me into alertness. The door burst open and a tall, slender figure entered. A beam of sunlight illuminated her closely-coiffed golden hair. "Who is this person?" she demanded. "What is going on here?" On her elegant heels was a slightly smaller form, a young, slim man whose pale face was framed by locks of black hair. His eyes, pale as a cat's, met mine for an infinitesimal moment before I panicked and gave a terrified shriek of indignation. My room was filled with even more people. Suddenly I found myself at the center of attention, torn from the grips of deep slumber, my hair loose and lost within the linens, my chemise a barely sufficient barrier against the penetrating gaze of the yo

You aren't supposed to talk about your writing, because it can hinder your creativity, but that is really half the fun for me, to get these ideas out and play with them. The Awakening is a new version of my same story I keep re-writing. I have put some elements back into it that were there in my first version that I took out when I re-wrote it as a regular gothic romance. Now it is back to being a dark fantasy/gothic romance, but it is presently, and may always, be without a hero-focus. Originally Gisele/Gisela was an angel/savior figure toward the damned inhabitants of the castle with their animal curses. I'm doing that again, and I'm also going more toward the ambiguous about her "true love," and I'm not sure she's going to have a true love. I'm exploring Gisele deeply. I find she is deeply moved by the thought that others would want or love her. This is basically "enough" for her, and the technique I have been studying in my very favorit

Finally it grew so dark that I was forced to cease reading the poetry book. I glanced ruefully at the darkened landscape, which was cloaked in a dusky haze through which a few stars winked. The moon, which I knew to be full, was swathed in clouds and offered no light to my passenger car. I returned the book to Hildegarde's reticule and leaned back into the seat, taking a breath to still my increasingly erratic nerves. - The post-chaise clabbered along the shining rocks of the road at breakneck speed. Hildegarde was awake but unperturbed, while I was sickened. In my efforts to fight down sickness I remained motionless as possible staring at my fawn-colored gloved hands. "We should arrive at the castle by early dawn," Hildegarde told me. "No one will be awake to greet us. I will show you a room, and then we will sleep all day, and in the afternoon, perhaps, we will feel suitable to meet with my father about your work." I nodded, unable to trust myself to

First frost , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr. The frostiest the ground has been so far this year .. still it seems the day will be very sunny.

South Congress, Austin , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr.

Paris, present-day. In her apartment Oriente shuffled through the stack of books she had brought home for the weekend to review. She knew that she would probably return to the museum to do more work on the antique clothing, on her own time, but she was going to make the effort to be sedentary. She looked at the number again on her phone. The person had called again during her walk home, but she must not have heard her ringtone above the bustle of the streets on Friday night. It was starting to creep her out that someone was calling repeatedly, especially so late into the evening. She knew it must be a wrong number, it had to be. To reassure herself she laid her phone upon her desk and turned the ringer all the way up. If she had the opportunity, she would speak to the caller tonight and clear up any misunderstanding. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was now 2 a.m. The perfect time to go to bed, perhaps? Not at all. Oriente inconvenienced no one with her frequent insomnia;

Despite the hectic flush mounting her cheeks, Delphinia sought the Markgraf's gaze directly. "I hope I may rely on your good advice as to a horse," she said. "As you know, I have a physical weakness, and a spirited mount will not do for me." "I have a horse," he replied, in a voice that was intended to have more force than it did; its sudden gravel surprised her. No one else gave it any notice, and Delphinia knew none of them suspected anything might be between herself and the Markgraf, except Oskar, who knew all. "She is gentle as a dove, easily led by the most timid hand. Since her mistress departed months ago, she has been ridden only for exercise by the stable hands." Delphinia paused in astonishment as the import of his words washed over her. He intended her to ride Oriente's mare. She glanced at Oskar to see if he disapproved; his face was impassive and cold. He disliked his brother and wanted to ruin his happiness. What if

Christoph escorted Delphinia to the stable-yard. "You look exceedingly pale," he murmured. "I would not have come, but I promised Adelia." There was only one thing Delphinia wanted to know, and as soon as it was natural that she should do so, she lifted her gaze to the other riders coming into view, strolling amongst the stable yards looking at the horses. Her breath caught on a sudden hitch as in the gloom she saw the loose fall of Adelia's burnished hair. Her arm was lodged within the Markgraf's. A flush crawled across Delphinia's face. She could not name the feeling that swept her, but it seemed a mixture of all the things that cause one to flush: shame, anger, desire. She ducked her head away. "Miss Rumford seems contended enough," Christoph murmured. "I do not think that she will begrudge our return t England to plan our own happy future." Delphinia was silent. Something had turned within her. Christoph was an emble

I swayed, lulled by the movement of the train. The wind outside blew puffs of black smoke across my window, obscuring my vision of the bystanders watching the train leave the station. My heart beat quickly as in moments all familiar to me had passed away, and we were diving like a bird through green pastures where sheep grazed, pale, ghostly blurs on the hillside veiled by mists rising. I wore a blue-gray traveling suit that was one of several gowns sewn for me on a breakneck schedule of only a few days. Beneath it, I wore the proper foundation garments which felt as strange to my body as if I were a man wearing women's clothing, so completely alien were a corset and bustle against my form. I struggled quietly as I learned to breathe all over again in our passenger compartment. Our hurry to make the train had involved running. I was no stranger to physical exertion, but it was a different matter in the bell-like skirt and tiny slippers I presently wore. Hildegarde seemed oblivi

But I really feel like saying something. Don't even know what. Today has been a little strange. I did this thing a couple of months ago where I spent seven hours unraveling a tangled ball of yarn. I felt a deep compulsion to do it, and I could barely even stop myself long enough to go to the bathroom or eat. But I was getting this deep satisfaction from doing it. And when I was done, it was like Ahhhhh !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Today I was in a completely different mindset, but I felt very existential, I needed to say, time does not exist. It doesn't matter if I waste this whole day doing something meaningless. I don't want the illusion of doing something "meaningful" right now, because no matter what I do it will be meaningless. So I have these paper dolls from what I guess is my childhood, but more like probably middle school, or when I really got into costuming and vintage movies. I have some Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable paper dolls that I cut out then, kind of mes

That day I found myself in Paris shops I had never dreamed of entering. It was clear to me from Hildegarde's assertive manner toward my future that I was by no means to be a separate entity from herself and her household. When she insisted on purchasing a couple of dresses for me I acquiesced, because the clothes I wore were ragged and scarcely decent, and I knew I would be consulting often with her and her family. I knew I was an offense to the eyes of anyone. Over my tattered garments I wore an extra riding coat of Hildegarde's. It was a rich plum-colored wool, and my fingers traveled over the soft, firm pile continually. I felt warm and suddenly very, very tired, as though something within myself was giving itself up after a long stretch of diffidence and solidarity. After our initial selections, Hildegarde softly touched my arm. "You are tired. Of course neither of us has had our breakfast. This cafe looks promising." Hildegarde was aware I had no money. I

Is what makes all the colors vivid, I experience life and take delight, I create and express and make bold, It's feeling like I can't hold on so I must take this goodness while I can.

Dragon cloud , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr.

Meadows Museum , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr.

The philosopher , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr. Meadows Museum, Dallas

Or an absinthe fantasy The world smears around me dreary and splendid I feel bound and complicated, unable to meld with minds seeking simple thoughts and pleasures. My philosophy seems a formula for life-long unhappiness and yet I feel powerless to choose another way, because there is this sense in my loneliness, mourning and sorrow that I am connected to my authentic self, and years of losing myself in frivolous holidays, in meaningless shows, movies and material objects were wasted years when my brain was sleeping or numb. There is the sense that I am awake now, and I don't want to go back to sleep. I like to feel this pain every day because it's my reality. Shit, I sound like Papa Roach.

"Well, what are we going to do with the girl?" one of the officers murmured. "Should we take her into custody?" "She's scarcely more than a child," was the reply. "He kept her here. She's committed no crime as far as we know." "She could have helped him steal the painting." I ducked my head. I had often feared I would end up in a prison or worse for my association with Giraud. Again, the woman's eyes were on me, penetrating. "What's your name, girl?" A long silence ensued as I remained staring at the pock-marked floor, breathing through a sense of deep panic that my relatively stable life was no more. Then, "Gisele," I said reluctantly. The woman looked at the officers. "I press no charges against Gisele. Merely M. Giraud for the theft of my family's painting." "As you wish, mademoiselle." The blue-eyed officer, German in appearance I decided, nodded at me. "

Urban deconstruction , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr. My fave places are once-urban places that have been taken over by nature. Like this parking lot that is mostly not visible anymore.

Sunflowers blowing , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr.

November sun flowers , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr.

I awoke to the sound of commotion, and my mind juddered with panic. I stumbled to my feet from the floor whose filth was revealed in the early morning light, my tools surrounding me, a damp, dirty rag stuck to my elbow. M. Giraud was shouting. I moved to the top of the stairs to watch in horror as policemen shackled him and dragged him to the door. His protests were as vehement as they were meaningless. He was a criminal, and I had dreaded this day when my life would once more become upheaved and uncertain. As an officer glanced upward, his eyes blue and sharp in the gloom, I ducked, but too late. He alerted his comrades to my presence, and they were thundering up the stairs, those remaining, while M. Giraud was out of sight and out of earshot. "Mon dieu, he's keeping a girl. Look at this waif. Poor creature." I trembled and hulked in the corner, kicked at their advancing shins shrieked when arms came around me. The officer who held me had not a cruel or biting

so fast, and something has sort of turned inside of me, and I feel listless.. So my thoughts have turned to what I will do to occupy myself the next couple of months, I have much I am going to create. Besides my novel, many small craftings to express my feelings but also to hone my skills. I have been turning sort of desperately lately to the idea of a Guardian Angel. And I have felt very weak myself, sort of pale and passive. Hm is it the things I read, or am I turning to read these things because I feel this way? It is this season coming forward. It is the hollow inner space, here is a snow globe with no warm and glowing hearth inside of my heart, when you shake it, it only looks like a blizzard. And then I think I have been wrong, I should have had children of my own and made a glowing hearth, not that I am by any means beyond that possibility but my mind, no, my mind, I would be like one of those Victorian women going mad at the thought of bearing children. Some people are

I am trying to work on some Ecto formatting problems, hoping to make my blog more readable. An offline blog editor is an absolute essential for me. Since acquiring a Mac, I have not found anything satisfactory. I have switched to HTML Editor Mode, hoping the editor will not put "br" tags between my paragraphs and double-space them anymore. It is possible to remove these in my in-browser Blogger interface, but I might as well be saving my entries to a text file and copy-pasting when online if this is the case, rendering this not-free software useless. The Mac switch has been a tricky adjustment for me. I have always used Windows-based computers and am used to a great deal more control over my files than I now have. I first encountered the "Apple" culture on my iPhone which was basically the only option available to me when my last Treo died, and Palm was no longer a part of my plan. I loved the fast browsing and brilliant visuals. My Treo looked like an 8-bit game

Torrents of rain falling, tremendous energy But it's so incredibly comforting The wind is so fierce but feels so friendly I feel locked in its embrace

Because I find that you are always on my heels. As soon as I find resolution with one problem, it disappears, and then I am presented with another problem. So I say, what way can I twist to rid myself of this cramp, is there some way I can contort myself such that in the worst case scenario I can still manage. And amazing even though I know I'm not approaching this problem in the right way, I do always come up with a way to twist myself, and I realize I am re-inventing myself, I am re-inventing myself to run away from a monster, but somehow it works. I face the monster and I say, here is my arsenal, and I lay out my weapons before him, I lay out my philosophies and my loves and desires and dreams and say, here, this is not something you can be or understand. And then I win that battle, and then there's another monster to face me. What do you do when there is this kind of problem within yourself, where these monsters will always come. What can I write, what can I craft, what can

1789 Gervaise was the first one to enter Delphinia's bedchamber. Golden light spread through a crack in the white curtains, throwing a lacey pattern onto the silk-shrouded bed. Delphinia lay in the finest guest bedchamber in the castle. It had been converted from the room of the dowager Markgrafin upon her death. Though Gervaise's entrance was not quiet, there was no stirring in the midst of the great bed. Gently Gervaise laid down the tray of chocolate and great cinnamon rolls and approached the bed, pushing aside the curtain to view the prone figure there. Delphinia lay in a contorted state, her limbs drawn up against her protectively, looking like a frightened child, though she was in the depths of sleep. Her hair, dark-colored, the finer strands gilded and curling around her face and brow, was mangled, freed from its pins without a combing. She wore a loose white shift, no nightgown. Gervaise was not offended by disorder or carelessness, but Delphinia's disarray gave he

Can I turn off this mind that's always figuring Can I quit being interested in every word that's spoken, every bit, every piece, every clue about every human being Can I stop being obsessed with what it all means What this part means and this part It has gotten to the point where I can't be offended by anything anymore because I'm caught up in the cultural ramifications I can't be interested in anything because I am obsessed with why I am interested Asking me to fill out an about me and I can just put a <3 Actually that's not true, I am just going through this change This deep figuring I thought about deleting this blog weeks ago and all of a sudden I can't stop posting I am interested in plenty of stuff I am obsessed with YouTube people Blogging people Etsy people An artist, a musician I have no idea who famous people are any more Screen name people are a common subject at my dinner table I read an interesting article about Gen Y, actually it grouped me

I thought it would be fun to experiment a little bit since I can't get really involved in any big writing before NaNoWriMo. In the past, Delphinia really idolizes the idea of Oriente and is positive they will be soul sisters if they meet. In the present, in their modern incarnations, they meet. But I thought, would Oriente really be this impressed with Delphinia? I began detailing her character and my imagination went off. She is really, really different than my past characters. I can recognize that I created something new here. My characters have often stayed innocent instead of intelligent, but Oriente uses her mind to the utmost. She's a little cynical. Buried beneath this coolness is a great deal of pain her visit to the castle will unlock in her past-life memories. She may have a second chance with her ill-fated love, and she and Delphinia have a chance to change each other in what will really not be a lovey dovey friendship after all.

When I was eight and nine years old, I started to think a lot about death. There was one summer, when I realized that I would be dead one day, with absolute certainty, that my mind would no longer form thoughts, my senses would no longer receive information from the world around me. I would no longer exist. At night I would lay awake and think of the nothingness, and I felt an absolute despair. I felt like life was meaningless if there was death. My belief system didn't allow me to resolve these feelings, because the only thing I learned was that one day I would die and go to Heaven, which was no consolation to me at all. Today I was thinking about it and realized why that wasn't a consolation. Because "Heaven" is a static entity. "Death" is a static entity. "Life" is ever-changing, and this is what my spirit desires. I believe in reincarnation, and I have always believed in reincarnation. I never felt the need to resolve this belief with the idea

Oriente handled an old silk dress carefully in white cotton gloves, the disposable kind that fitted loosely over her fingers. Her heavy round glasses were perched on the end of her nose, her hair carefully wound to the top of her head to prevent escaping strands, though half had fallen hours ago and she had not been at liberty to attend it in the midst of her project. The silk dress was a shade of peach-pink, the kind of color she could never wear-- she stuck to black, gray and occasionally white-- and she placed it in 1789. The shape, loosely gathered at the sides with a shortened hem meant to display the pointed-toe slippers of the time, was in the pastoral style, and the yellowed and degraded fichu was to drape over decollete. The Brussels lace was fine. It was clearly the gown of a noblewoman, a gown for taking afternoon tea. The other dress in the trunk was completely destroyed and would not be an appropriate museum piece. She hoped her director would not dispose of it. It clearly

Fire depts. showed up , a photo by ladyhildegarde on Flickr. The fire depts. from Crowley, Rendon and Everman came. Even though it may look like the deep country here, I'm glad it's not. City services here are good. They used the hydrant outside our home, stayed all afternoon. There was even a police car and ambulance. At the beginning though watching the fire trucks drive right into the flames was terrifying. I realized how dangerous it really is. They did not hold back and hose it down. They jumped off the truck and went right into it. It was more stressful than I even realized at the time, still trying to take in all I saw yesterday. The only casualty was Nathan's tractor. The policeman said if we put new tires and belts on it it would probably be fine. It will be a while till he does anything with it, but I think he will go back to it in a while when the drought is over.

In studying generational theory and the turning-over of eras, and the repetition of eras, I feel like I can see this pattern in my own life, but it's not completely clear. Often I feel like I've entered a time when I am just like I was at a certain age. I can see it in my actions, words and preferences. I can also characterize my eras by discoveries of art, culture or entertainment that have made an astounding change in me that starts radiating outward. I can also think of eras when I have not had a reference art/culture to inspire me, and I have struggled artistically and otherwise. I normally don't recognize the discovery at first. It will bother my mind as something "strange" bother me more and more until I turn it over and reconcile it. It is always frightening to reconcile this new thing into my character. I tend to be drawn to things that I know other people will think are strange, so there will be a time of resistance and questioning as I ask myself who