A Reprise

"This is all your fault, you wretched creature." My stepmother's eyes flared at me, hot as flames in her haggard, tear-stained face. It was not in me to look at her with anything but sorrow in my heavy heart. Though she and I had much different ways of loving, still we had both loved him. It was my fault. I knew what she meant. She had been driven to impetuosity, endangering my father's life in bad weather, by jealousy over a love in him that my presence had kept alive, a love that was unacceptable to her. Or perhaps it was his fault. He had never been able to get over loving my mother, and Regina knew that he knew, and was able to play him like a marionette, taking advantage of his guilt feelings. However, I said the most sensible thing. "'Twas your stupid bonnet! You and your stupid vanity! You knew he would do anything for you, wasn't that enough? Couldn't I have had his attention for just one evening?" It still rained. The same rain that

On my sixteenth birthday my father gave me a locket which contained a miniature of my mother, whom I had never known. It had been a breast-pin of his that he had sent to a jeweler to have done up fabulously. Encrusted with diamonds and aquamarines the color of water, it glimmered like a sea jewel in my hand, which it filled entirely. I caressed the locket lovingly and threw my arms around him. "Just remember, my child, she is with you still. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of her." I met his eyes, which were misty. He spoke in a hushed whisper, and I knew intuitively that this was a secret time, words that my stepmother must never hear, nor must she know about this gift. It was not something that I needed other people to see. To keep this sweet secret locket was enough for me. As I pressed it against my breast I felt for a moment that my family circle was complete. "I can feel her, father," I whispered, holding him close, as my heart warmed wi

This morning I am contemplating the gray world around me in my bathrobe with a new Christmas coffee blend. This weekend, I desire two things, To buy an American Girl for the toy drive To watch the Bee Movie

"His hair was the color of dead wood. His eyes, like the green heart of a tender leaf. I was still and silent as I looked at him for the first time, and he looked at me." Not much to build a story around, I'm afraid. I have always wanted to put these two together, and now that I have done it, I don't know what to do with them. Like fighting hard for a hopeless love, eloping together, and having no idea what to do now. I have a new, powerful spin on Lind's protege Germaine, formerly Hildegarde, described thus, "She looked back into the parlor, which seemed extremely warm and from the balcony, where candles flickered softly and a fire burned behind the glass hearth doors. A young woman entered the room, all in white, with blue ribbons on her gown and in her hair, signifying the dress of a fashionable ingenue, but her face, though youthful and soft, was like nothing like Lind had seen before. Her mouth was large and red; her face was dead-white, with heavil

My annotations in italics. Notes on text in regular format. Writing with Passion Self-publishing is a viable alternative. Creating a masterpiece. Confront truth on chapter 1, page 1. What is the truth about Madeleine? Can she possibly form a masterpiece? Is she a deep enough character, or is she shallow? Her whining about her dreams and her forgotten past doesn’t cut it. It has to be more than that—an expression of her deepest yearning. That is why putting her together with Hildegarde is tempting. To see Madeleine’s hunger for connection, for belonging, at odds with a porcelain doll of a girl who has never wanted for anything. What do I believe is important in life? What do I hate? What do I love? Where do I stand? What would I be willing to die for? What can I bring to a work that shows the world in a unique light? What would be my gift to other humans? I believe it’s important to get this damn novel finished! I hate the indifference between human beings. I love beauty. I love se

Mind Weeds Pulling out the weeds we give nourishment to the plant. The weeds in my mind turn to nourishment. Though effort creates waves, we must make effort to attain calmness. In this realm, there is no subjectivity or objectivity. We are without awareness-- every effort, idea and thought will vanish. Keep your mind on your breathing until you are not aware of your breathing. At first, the effort will be rough and impure. With time it will become pure-- and body and mind will become pure. We have innate power to purify ourselves and our surroundings. You can act properly, will learn from and become friendly with others. Concentrate on breathing Right posture Great, pure effort The Marrow of Zen In zazen posture, mind and body have great power to accept things as they are, agreeable or disagreeable. The worst horse is the most valuable one. In your way imperfections are the basis for your firm, way-seeking mind. Those who find great difficulties in practicing Zen will find

Cinderella, a companion story to "Snow White"- based on my earlier unfinished story "Windflowers." As with "Snow White" I plan to explore the elements I think are important. Snow White was a story about coming of age. Cinderella is about claiming what you were born to own.

Satori - dramatic Zen mind. To make you wonder, and to answer that wondering with the deepest expression of your own Beginner's mind. What am I? See things as they are, the original nature of everything The student should teach himself Calligraphy, i.e. to write in the most straightforward, simple way, like a beginner. As if discovering what you were writing for the first time. Your full nature will be in your writing. Right Practice - body Right Attitude - feeling Right Understanding - mind roshi - person who has actualized perfect freedom. Consciousness arises spontaneously and naturally from actual circumstances of the present, not fixed repetitive patterns of self-centered consciousness Living in the present Utter ordinariness. A mirror - we feel our own strengths and shortcomings without praise or criticism from him. Our original face, the extraordinariness of our own nature "In the beginner's mind, there are many possibilities, but in the expert's there

This movie scared me to death when I was little, and may have something to do with my fear of excess. I do not remember it as a wholesome children's movie, but as a dissection of the darkest parts of human nature bathed in the sinister light of 1970's film-making, for some reason made into a children's movie. SCENE 2. The Palace of Happiness. When the curtain of clouds opens, the stage represents, in the forefront of the palace, a sort of hall formed of tall marble columns, between which hang heavy purple draperies, supported by golden ropes and concealing all the background. The architecture suggests the most sensual and sumptuous moments of the Venetian or Flemish Renascence, as seen in the pictures of Veronese or Rubens, with garlands, horns of plenty, fringes, vases, statues, gildings, lavishly distributed on every side. In the middle stands a massive and marvelous table of jasper and silver-gilt, laden with candlesticks, glass, gold and silver plate and fabulous vi

    Weatherford, TX

We discussed it this weekend, and we love it when we find people who have discrepancies in their characters-- parts that would not be related to another part. This is, of course, a hallmark to creating an excellent novel character, not something I do as often as I should. I am aware that there are parts of me that don't fit. Things I love, ideals I admire, that have nothing to do with where I come from or even my gender. I find a kind of beauty in the city I can't really live without anymore, and yet when I feel my roots I feel completely myself. We are all, I guess, in a state of flux, and it is only when we are changing that we are living.

I have made a start of putting my Backpackit content on my own pages. This is my first attempt, my tea page . I like how it turned out. There's still some things I want to improve, but I know I have to just put it out there if I ever want to get anything done. It won't be perfect at first. My favorite part about it is the Javascript effect. I am really excited that I will be able to use that in my image galleries. I have decided to control everything through FTP instead of server side, because the latter makes absolutely no sense. I do a lot of my computer work at coffee shops where I don't purchase the Internet access. I can't edit anything if it's all server-side. I'm disappointed in that I would like to push myself into learning those CMS's and wikis, but this is a good, simple start. I have not been so interested in becoming a web designer more recently anyway. I've been busy with my work and my writing, and I don't feel a void so much anymor

All my senses are acute. As the morning sunlight washed over me, and I understood the whole narrative after a month or so of reading, it came upon me to the resolution of my whole perverse nature. One of the questions I have so often asked myself, with the attitude of heartbreak between Romeo and Juliet, or some epic lost love, is why I did not choose the thing that blazes over my nature, with which I have absolute sympathy, as the center of my life. The study of literature, the understanding of human nature, which obsesses me at all times. As I thought of what I really do, I was thrilled with the irony and revelation that I chose a profession that could not touch my heart, nor give me even the remotest satisfaction, nor do that which is my whole aim, giving beauty to the world. A scientist has never and will never give beauty to the world. He exists like a worm beneath a rock. Contributing something, usefulness, but beauty, never, and for someone with my mind, I think it a terrific w

The To-Do list is my life right now, and in going to the Blogger site to gather info on customizing my blog further, which I am actually planning to turn into one big to-do list, I found this blog featured, which I think is neat. Basically the thought is turning to-do lists into some kind of self-confessional art. Not really want I want to do, obviously. I just like putting my goals and accomplishments online as a means of motivating myself. Growing up I would never have expected myself to become so totally immersed in this kind of thing, but the GTD system is exactly what I'm about right now. I have not really looked into this system, but I think it's in line with my current philosophies. Not only am I interested in getting things done, within the last year I have turned the whole process of list-making into a complicated orchestration, and even an investigation of different ways to take notes and make lists. This started probably with my Treo, when I found I could keep boo

Lifetype - is what I am trying out right now; no support in Windows Live Writer or hblogger, but there are plugins for mobile support. Still, limited to email and MMS's. I like because I can create multiple blogs on the fly easily, without using more databases. Ecto for Windows will work with Lifetype and looks like I can do other stuff with it too. MMS's? I'm charged by the message, but it doesn't take away from my monthly Internet allotment. If I use the Internet infrequently, I can get a small plan, and being charged by message is more cost-effective, since I post irregularly. Wordpress - supported by Windows Live Writer, not hblogger. But can post by email, nothing about posting images.

It's really interesting the way this is going. I guess revisions aren't so terrible as I was making them out to be. I like discovering things I did that were right, and I am learning more about the way I write. I can't really plot out an entire novel before I write it, though it is a necessity to plot out the major events. The bits and pieces, "filler," ends up becoming the most important part, and I make it up as I go along-- kind of like sewing a basic garment together, then embroidering and embellishing on it, which is a real joy (in both cases). I guess a storyteller is an embellisher. Some people get on a kick about how they are liars as authors, loving to tell lies. I'm not sure what that's about. I don't have any trouble telling the truth, and when I tell people about things that happened to me I'm pretty bare bones. No one would ever guess that I write novels. The embellishments to my character's basic story are hardly lies. They're

I never saw it stated that way. I wonder why I didn't come across this subgenre in my English studies. Perhaps it's just a pattern people have picked out now based on current thought. A smattering of dark books can be found in any genre, and yet these are the several American writers of chief importance to me. I don't know who Ugo Foscolo is. He looks like someone who would have hung out with the Shelleys though, not the American Romantics. I'm not so much interested in American gothic work right now, even though I am reading The Blithedale Romance . I am still obsessed with the Shelleys. They have a little world in my mind where I can go sometimes. I've built a crazed fantasy around the early English Romantics. I think intensely on what they did on a daily basis, what they wore and even what they ate. My dream is to map out and tour Italy in the order they did. I want to see the places in Greece that inspired Mary Shelley's scenes in The Last Man . The place

I like this small-press candle company. My grandma gave me a kit and I was browsing for new fragrances online. I may order Orange Vanilla or Pomegranate, and try their Bee Butter in Mango.

I cranked out another Aunt Martha cross-stich. I'm slowing up, but I'm going to finish the four, stretch them over canvas and hang them in the kitchen. I like the way this one turned out even better than the other two. My last one will be of strawberries.

This journal is so special to me.

The Way I See It #282 "Childhood is a strange country. It's a place you come from or go to-- at least in your mind. For me it has an endless, spellbound something in it that feels remote. It's like a little sealed-vault country of cake breath and grass stains where what you do instead of work is spin until you're dizzy." Lyall Bush

The second most important topic in my working novel. If I could clone Jonah or Henry, would I do so? I believe a great portion of their qualities to be due to my influence. My bird will live perhaps till I am forty. My cat, possibly. That considered, I could live through another bird, and two more cats. If I raised another bird or cat, they might or might not be similar, because my raising them is combined, of course, with natural predispositions, but if that animal had the same genome as my previous one, combined with my specific manner of care, I believe it would turn out to be exactly the same. Therefore, the cloned bird or cat would love me exactly the same. It would be the same animal and same relationship between us, wouldn't it? I would not be preserving the original animal from old age and death, of course, but I would in a sense be preserving a relationship by reanimating it. The question is, would that be wrong?

6 A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soo

there is a victim who is helpless against his torturer; there is also a victimizer who is associated with evil and whose powers are immense or supernatural; the setting of the gothic story is at some point within impenetrable walls (physical or psychological) to heighten the victim's sense of hopeless isolation--the central gothic image is the cathedral or haunted mansion within which the victim is imprisoned; the atmosphere is pervaded by a sense of mystery, darkness, oppressiveness, fear, and doom to recreate the atmosphere of a crypt--a symbol of man's spiritual death and a "vehicle for presenting a picture of man as eternal victim" [1] ; and finally, the victim is in some way entranced or fascinated by the inscrutable power of his victimizer [2] . Source

I love the comment "He took his sweet time to die." LOL. Gackt is still cranking those albums out, and he's focusing on the stuff I love best-- drama, blend of the Asian traditional with gothic rock. I hope this one is going to be on a full album eventually.

Here's Schmap with two of my photos of River Legacy Park. I'm afraid it rather looks like a wasteland in those winter photos. All the same, I'm thrilled.

My second Aunt Martha fruit is done. I was afraid it would not turn out as well. I ripped out and redid a few sections. I'm glad I did, because I think it turned out even better than the pear. I  won't be able to complete the grape until I get new contacts. I have been way past due for them, anyway, but doing this kind of work has temporarily wrecked my vision. I  need my embroidery. I have gotten really attached to doing this. I may have to switch to glasses just to work on it. I really want to finish the whole fruit set. I have a ton of these transfers in my sewing desk, and I have big plans.

I've spent almost the entirety of the last two days reading over The CSS Anthology: 101 Essential Tips, Tricks & Hacks . I understand that CSS and HTML go in two different places in a web page, that CSS is used to control HTML. It has given me a much better understanding of the code in general, and I think I will have a lot of use for it in designing and altering my own pages. I have always dreamed of making my own version of the Backpackit pages, customizing my Album , having my own design for Winter Light, and having all of it matching.

Schmap may include some of my photos of River Legacy Park in their online guide, like they did of my Lincoln Park, Chicago, picture. That is so exciting, because even though I loved Lincoln Park, I was only there once, and did not feel bonded with it the way I do with River Legacy.

My pear embroidery/cross-stitch from an Aunt Martha transfer. I'm also planning to make the orange, grapes and strawberries and frame them for the kitchen. 

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I dreamed in darkness, cold and alone. Phantasms shifted around me, frightening me, but I was powerless to escape them or even move, as I was sealed in a casket. I thought of the Queen, my Stepmother, and tears dripped from my eyes as I considered the quasi-poignant moments we had once shared, when we might have been considered to be close, when the Queen had nearly been a mother to me, and the face of love had shone radiantly upon me, before eclipsed again by the storms of Venus. I thought of the huntsman, stung to consider that my only friend had been poised to betray me, to kill me, and again in my mind I felt the horror of his shadow, of waiting while he came behind me, knowing there was no escape for me from a death he would inflict. My heart lifted as images of the Prince entered my mind, his grace atop a white-maned horse, always out of my reach, just beyond the words I longed to speak. If only there had been more time for us to fall in love. He might have saved me from those

Ah...! I got my long-awaited Niles and C.C. ep today! Here's a clip from YouTube, but I have a quality version to add to my Nanny favorites DVD. Well, I did not do all of the things on my little list, but I did some of them. I picked up an interesting-looking spray paint from Hobby Lobby for the strawberry bed. It gives it a rough-hewn surface meant to look like stone. That's the first time I ever spray-painted anything. I had no idea it was so easy, just point and spray. It was somewhat forgiving, especially since the texture is uneven by default. I made a meat pie. Ah, it was good. I am nearly done with a few of my books now, namely Wild Rain, Rebel Angels and The Last Man, so we will see how far I can get tonight. It's rather clever in The Last Man, that Lionel actually contracts the plague but recovers from it, so no matter what happens, he can't die from it, and he's the last man. I didn't know they knew so much about medicine in the early 1800's. I'

Of all the pictures I tried to take this morning of our lovely view, none turned out.  Here is an image of my pig from Summer Party. Nathan bought him for me last night. He is such a sweet addition to my desk and will remind me of summer evenings and bubble tea with Nathan. I am really feverish about being at work today. I didn't work on our home last night. The rest has done me good, but I am doubly anxious for tonight to come.

The spiritual man's monster truck

   I loved this place, high above the city. You have to climb up to it; it's called "Mountain."

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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