A Reprise

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.