A Reprise

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 ...