I am listening to my "Very Best of Chopin" CD which has long been usurped for "Nocturnes," but now my CD player is broken and will only play certain (probably expensive) CD's, so I am hearing this one for the first time in years. It is this indelible ache when I hear "Prelude in D-flat Minor;" remembering listening to it over and over again in my Granada... in my old CD player... looking out at the bluebonnets and goatweed and just... feeling. I had no idea then that such times are finite, that someday I would have none of those things, that I would have to start all over again. And I didn't know I even could.
I didn't know someday I wouldn't have Gregory; or that home; I had no clue I would have a nicer car, but I didn't care, then; I could play the piano then. I could thrill myself with my own music then. How I want to play now. I die to play now, and I can't, really. There's Nathan's keyboard, but I never know how to make it make a sound, because it's hitched up to all the software and filters. I guess the only thing I'd like about having a house someday is that I could buy a piano-- that would be my first priority. I want one almost as much as Ophelia and Shelley, who still haven't come home.
Things are different now; sometimes I think I'm different, too, and can't feel the way I used to-- I guess that's a good thing, since I don't cry all the time anymore, but I want to be so close to the world, not remote. I don't want to wrap myself in a warm home and an SUV. I don't want to have mature indifference. I don't want to face unpleasant situations with the sureness of maturity. I want to scream and cry and have a fit over things.
I seem to lose my mind more and more as the evening wears on, till at 4 a.m. I think the illogical driving home... blogging on my phone-- if I get a phone-- might be a dangerous thing, because you never know what I will say. Last night I was taking this peculiar joy in my work-- not because I liked being a scientist and having those structures and procedures, but because I loved the thought that others would come in the next day, and feel pleased that the lab was clean and neat. I feel this strange virtuous need to care for others; I keep scrutinizing myself, wondering if this is just another outpouring, however subtle, of my incorrigible vanity. Or maybe since I am no longer maiden, I am, in the way of the Goddess, "mother;" even if I do not want children. Perhaps this is just what woman becomes when she is no longer a maiden.
Last night I wrote on Love from the North, something I never expected to even start. I can see now that it pays to outline a scene. Months ago, I did so, but didn't have the desire to actually write the scene. But if I hadn't outlined, I would have surely forgotten it.
Here it is:
She watched from the shadow of the porch as the bright dresses of others girls blighted the current gray fog that surrounded the departing soldiers. They looked humble in walnut-dyed tunics; she thought of how her brother had looked in his fine royal-blue uniform, like Prince Albert, and only felt the more heartsick. These men had no money; much of the South was already poor. They couldn't know the insurmountable forces awaiting them north.
She no longer knew who to hate and who to love. It was hard to think of Dominick anymore when she glanced up and saw Adam astride his horse. He was the only man on whom no lady had bestowed a ribbon.
Helen had been praying that someone might do that. She fingered the red satin ribbon in her pocket, that she had tucked there this morning, not on a whim, but with careful deliberation. She had felt white-hot touching the satin ribbon, thinking of tying it to his sleeve. The fact that she had put it in her pocket at all seemed an unthinkable breach in conduct. That she was standing there looking at him, touching it, all the more daring.
She had wished another girl would save her. She wished to God that Adam had a sweetheart, so that the sight of romantic parting could spear her feelings to bits and she would be troubled by them no more. But no golden-haired girl with ruffles and bows clung to his side. There was no ribbon on his sleeve.
An unbearable pain paralyzed her as she considered that she might not see him again. He might very well die on leaving them. Would it matter, then, what she had felt? Would it trouble him too much to know of her regard, undesirable as it might be?
Breathing in a slight gasp, Helen withdrew the red satin ribbon from her pocket and stared at it. Her heart raced wildly as she looked at him. Of course he could not see her from the driveway; none of them could.
"A-" The single vowel escaped her lips just as the soldiers departed in a cloud of dust and cheers. The girls exclaimed loudly, but many of them were crying. Helen turned pale, partially relieved, partially tormented that she had lost this chance.
Lavinia sprang onto the porch unexpectedly and saw Helen there holding the red ribbon.
Lavinia looked at her mockingly, but it was but a shallow wound. Lavinia, then, knew.
As Lavinia brushed past her, the red ribbon fell from Helen's nerveless fingers.
I didn't know someday I wouldn't have Gregory; or that home; I had no clue I would have a nicer car, but I didn't care, then; I could play the piano then. I could thrill myself with my own music then. How I want to play now. I die to play now, and I can't, really. There's Nathan's keyboard, but I never know how to make it make a sound, because it's hitched up to all the software and filters. I guess the only thing I'd like about having a house someday is that I could buy a piano-- that would be my first priority. I want one almost as much as Ophelia and Shelley, who still haven't come home.
Things are different now; sometimes I think I'm different, too, and can't feel the way I used to-- I guess that's a good thing, since I don't cry all the time anymore, but I want to be so close to the world, not remote. I don't want to wrap myself in a warm home and an SUV. I don't want to have mature indifference. I don't want to face unpleasant situations with the sureness of maturity. I want to scream and cry and have a fit over things.
I seem to lose my mind more and more as the evening wears on, till at 4 a.m. I think the illogical driving home... blogging on my phone-- if I get a phone-- might be a dangerous thing, because you never know what I will say. Last night I was taking this peculiar joy in my work-- not because I liked being a scientist and having those structures and procedures, but because I loved the thought that others would come in the next day, and feel pleased that the lab was clean and neat. I feel this strange virtuous need to care for others; I keep scrutinizing myself, wondering if this is just another outpouring, however subtle, of my incorrigible vanity. Or maybe since I am no longer maiden, I am, in the way of the Goddess, "mother;" even if I do not want children. Perhaps this is just what woman becomes when she is no longer a maiden.
Last night I wrote on Love from the North, something I never expected to even start. I can see now that it pays to outline a scene. Months ago, I did so, but didn't have the desire to actually write the scene. But if I hadn't outlined, I would have surely forgotten it.
Here it is:
She watched from the shadow of the porch as the bright dresses of others girls blighted the current gray fog that surrounded the departing soldiers. They looked humble in walnut-dyed tunics; she thought of how her brother had looked in his fine royal-blue uniform, like Prince Albert, and only felt the more heartsick. These men had no money; much of the South was already poor. They couldn't know the insurmountable forces awaiting them north.
She no longer knew who to hate and who to love. It was hard to think of Dominick anymore when she glanced up and saw Adam astride his horse. He was the only man on whom no lady had bestowed a ribbon.
Helen had been praying that someone might do that. She fingered the red satin ribbon in her pocket, that she had tucked there this morning, not on a whim, but with careful deliberation. She had felt white-hot touching the satin ribbon, thinking of tying it to his sleeve. The fact that she had put it in her pocket at all seemed an unthinkable breach in conduct. That she was standing there looking at him, touching it, all the more daring.
She had wished another girl would save her. She wished to God that Adam had a sweetheart, so that the sight of romantic parting could spear her feelings to bits and she would be troubled by them no more. But no golden-haired girl with ruffles and bows clung to his side. There was no ribbon on his sleeve.
An unbearable pain paralyzed her as she considered that she might not see him again. He might very well die on leaving them. Would it matter, then, what she had felt? Would it trouble him too much to know of her regard, undesirable as it might be?
Breathing in a slight gasp, Helen withdrew the red satin ribbon from her pocket and stared at it. Her heart raced wildly as she looked at him. Of course he could not see her from the driveway; none of them could.
"A-" The single vowel escaped her lips just as the soldiers departed in a cloud of dust and cheers. The girls exclaimed loudly, but many of them were crying. Helen turned pale, partially relieved, partially tormented that she had lost this chance.
Lavinia sprang onto the porch unexpectedly and saw Helen there holding the red ribbon.
Lavinia looked at her mockingly, but it was but a shallow wound. Lavinia, then, knew.
As Lavinia brushed past her, the red ribbon fell from Helen's nerveless fingers.