From... Caitlin Van Horn No. 2

remembering October

Where did October go?
it ran away
with the leaves
laughing at the early night
and calling frost to take its place
so it could chase the sun



I saw my siblings in October
I finished my first eight weeks of college in October
My sister and I placed two pumpkins on our porch to celebrate the season in October
I began working out for the first time in October
I remembered when I first got my cat Pumpkin from the local apple farm in October

Most of all, I noticed the swiftness of the season, and after one blink against the apple crisp air, it was gone.

M.

singing ice

  Winter has begun. Autumn never stays long where I live. Though it has only snowed once so far and yesterday it was warm enough to rain, there is that sharp scent in the air. An almost metallic cool that hardens the wind and clears the night sky. It means winter is waking up, and stretching her frigid body over the earth before curling tightly her frosted fingers around each branch and windowpane and coating the very veins of the earth with rebirth.

  It has been one year since I started this blog. When I wrote that first post, I craved nothing more than rebirth. And still, I crave it. Like the river, hardening, freezing in upon itself before breaking, releasing and melting to a crystalline surface, I hunger for metamorphosis.

M.

Journal no. 3: metamorphosis

Foreward

It is not often I write from the heart. I prefer to hide my feelings. Many of these things I had not even admitted to myself until I wrote them out. After writing this, I mostly feel this sense of suspension. I feel like I am halted mid-jump and my stomach is permanently flipping over and over. I am so, so weary of pretending to heal, so I would like to state, for the sake of my sanity, that I haven't made it to the end, my journey has just begun and the road goes ever on and on... I'm not even sure if what I wrote makes any sense. But, for once, I meant it. 

the melody

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep... that have taken hold.”

 


I don't like to look back to last year. The image of it is nightmarish, smokish, dark, and dripping with despair. And me- I am unrecognizable. An emaciated, hollowed puppet who wears a thick wooden mask with a carefully carved insane smile stretching from ear to ear. She sits, barely breathing, glassy-eyed and so close to spiritual death, and she stares at nothing. No past. No present. No future.

For so long, I ran and refused to accept that my heart had been ripped from my chest, wrung of all its crimson contents, and been trampled, left to shrivel and decay. I wanted so badly, so desperately to be happy, to be perfect, to be peaceful. I would have torn my own teeth from my skull if it meant I could have any one of those things. Happiness. Peace. Perfection. The hunger for them defined my every quaking step and those steps became a looping dance, a wild fight for control. I could not control the direction of my life, or the actions of the wolves around me, so I controlled my thoughts, my hunger, my dreams, my voice, my laugh, myself.

I turned my skin inside out and folded it in on itself like an old rag, desperately trying to find new fabric, something I had missed, something I could make a person out of. Tearing the fleshy folds up and up until the shreds were indeterminate between monster or woman. All natural thought was replaced with repetitive formulated phrases. All simple imperfection was hunted down and removed, burned, torn off, covered up to match those around me.

And once the storm of soul mutilation had settled, there was loneliness. Such acute loneliness. As if a stake made from ice was being driven down through my heart into the pit of my stomach. My mind was not a cave, but a black hole sucking in every thought and whispering it back to me. God's voice became a subdued and distant call. The soft beat of a butterfly's wing in a mess of screaming wind. Was it even there? Was I even there?

Love. Peace. Prosperity. Faith. Health. They were myths to me. Legends. Lies told by the fortunate and thrown to the downtrodden like muddied leftovers thrown to a dog. I refused to lap them up. I did not trust them. And I began to say to myself and to God, every night as I lay in the darkness, that if this was life, I did not want to live it. I told him, again and again, each night with more fervor, and during the day, I daydreamed of ceasing to exist in human form, imagining myself as a tree, or a bird, or the wind, something without pain or regret or sorrow. But still, I awoke to find myself trapped in the fleshy cage, with the horrible prospect of the day to come, and an acute memory of the days, and days, and days before it.

The sun only began to rise and gently, softly warm the tips of my hair, my fingers, my ruined soul, when I uprooted myself from the pit where I lay.

Like tearing a rotted, tarnished tree from the ground, it took strength, and bits of me, memories, traits, dreams, were left, still cacked with mud and clinging to the floor of the pit. The wormy walls and vermin-infested dirt told me that I had hit deeper than rock bottom. Leaving the hellish hole was unfathomable. If circumstance had not forced me to claw from the rotten and watery pit, I wonder, even now,

Would I have laid, gazing at the far away expanse of stars, and heaved one final breath, allowing my body to churn in on itself and reduce to pitiful mud, my hair to green and twine with the moss, and my eyes, once a sparkling chestnut to pale to beetle black, rolling into hopeless oblivion?

To this day, the question haunts me. And from it are born more terror-inducing thoughts.

Why did I start to grow again? Why. Who told me to fight for my future? God? Myself? And why, why did it

take

so

l o n g ?

Bitter, bitter regret laces everything I do now. Everything, every step, every goal, every achievement is too late, too little, too few. The weight of it drives me to madness. And longing, longing as I have never known for a time when I would smile, and dream, and dance, and believe takes over my mind. It consumes me, toxic and tantalizing. As I panic to heal, to fight the feelings I used to have, to cover up all traces of my past's existence, to burn them from my memory, to break the surface of those times with bare and bloody hands, I have begun to understand.

There is no going back.

Our lives are made of everyday choices. Just as a single stroke to a single letter creates the epic poem of time, so does my every thought shape my every action, which creates my life.

Yes, my life. I had given up on it, you know. Perhaps you would not think it, if you were to see me, pass me by. But I have fought an indescribable battle. The battlefield was my mind, the victory my soul, and the soldiers were my fear against my hope. Brutal, bloody, and utterly damaging are the battles fought inside. Secret and sinful.

And still, I wake up in a fitful sweat, my mind screaming, begging for proof that I have made it through. That I am free of that hellish regime I fabricated for myself. I still doubt my own thoughts. I question my intentions. And sometimes, God's voice seems far away. I still ache for that time when all was gold and warm and light.

But something is different. A little different. Not even my fear can explain it away, deny it, or cover it up. Where once there was only darkness, I now see a golden hue, just hovering in a crystal thin line on the horizon of my soul. I think it is hope. Hope for something called love. peace. prosperity. faith. happiness.

God sent a silver rope of hope, threaded with dreams and beaded with faith, to pull me from that lifeless marsh. He told me to remember who I am. He told me that nothing ever happens the same way twice, and often, as I stand, I feel not like a soft and silken flower, nor a fresh and tossing wave, but a bright and spitting flame. A pillar of strength, determination, wisdom, and white-hot hope. Because everything is looped, is circled, is connected, and the person I became is from the person I was and will birth the person I will be. Though I fear my past, it gifts me the dear appreciation of my present. It fuels my fierce determination. It forces me to remember.

Remember.

Remembrance is painful, but every time I have resolved to forget, I've lost myself in the process. It is time for me to accept myself, my life, my purpose, my past, my anger, my convictions. I must stop running, stop controlling and

remember

   who
        I
          am.



M.

peppermint veins (playlist)

 

  

I. Sun by Thomas Bergersen
II. Suns and Stars by Really Slow Motion
III. Reborn by Really Slow Motion
IV. Aeon by Nick Murray
V. Sitka's Death by Mark Mancina

X. XXI. MMXIX

if only we could turn back time

-the melody-

Springtime has left.

Not the windy, simple season. My spring. The springtime that gave me endless laughter during the day, and a reason to dream in the star freckled night. Shaky eggs and messy rooms. Coffee and early, misty mornings.

Springtime with brassy blonde hair and puckish green eyes. With a laugh like ringing bells and a heart that burns like the sunset. Thoughts that challenge mine. Straight, frowned brows ever judging.

This spring has left me right when I need it most. In its wake, I find frigid winter has settled in. Ice coats every branch of life, keeping the blossoms at bay. Springtime introduced me to blossoms. Told me to dance with them. Now they are curled in on themselves, tight, pale, and soulless.

And all I can do is remember.
Wish.
Dream.
Hope, that springtime will come back soon. Come back soon, and brush the frost from my weathered face with milky angel's wings. And make my heart beat again. That the blossoms will uncurl, face the sun, and breathe again.

Come back soon springtime.

If only we could turn back time 

Take back the day we said goodbye

Maybe your heart would still be mine

My love, if only

M.

From... N'Rae

 A stunning lament written and sung by my sister who also plays the guitar throughout it. I am convinced she actually is a witch because this is haunting.

M.

skincare routine

 I spend time on my skin at night because it helps me wind down. In the morning I will mostly just moisturize. 

I. I remove my makeup with coconut oil, warm water, and makeup removing wipes.
II. I either cleanse or exfoliate depending on how my skin feels. I cleanse with a Yes To Cucumber facewash right now. Once I run out of it, I will have to find a cruelty free vegan option. If I choose to exfoliate, I use my favorite spiced honey scrub.
III. I use witch hazel to tone my face.
IV. I moisturize with Nivea face cream, and again, I will have to find a vegan alternative when it runs out.
V. I then use castor oil on my eyebrows and eyelashes.
VI. Finally, I put rosehip oil all over my face, but especially on my dry spots.

M.

I am crying for myself tonight

I am crying for myself tonight
like shooting stars from Venus' eyes
bright and beautiful feeling-
sweetly seasoning the empty skies

I am crying for myself tonight
like lightening splitting willow's branch
so shreds my hollow, wooden heart
weeping sap in sticky dance

I am crying for myself tonight
like berries bursting thick, tart sorrow
secret sadness poisons -
and sends me to sleep with
cold blue corpses
'till
  tomorrow.

M.

from... celtic woman

This song reminds me of my little sister, who I haven't seen since my older sister and I moved out together. I miss her very much, but I know I am setting off to make a better life for myself, and her too. I am counting down the days until I see her and my two younger siblings this Christmas.

M.

impressions: sadly, free.

listen

  

  

 



“And thus ever by day and night, under the sun and under the stars, climbing the dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains, journeying by land and journeying by sea, coming and going so strangely, to meet and to act and react on one another, move all we restless travellers through the pilgrimage of life.” ― Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit

M.

journal no. 2 : lessons in living

Listen

 I have learned a lesson over these past few months since I moved out with my sister. Actually, I have learned several lessons, but this is the most recent. And it is... *drumrollllllllLLLLLL*

 If I want a valuable life, one that I am happy to live, I must add value to my life. No one else will do this for me. I will not get handed magical experiences. I will not be given a list of life lessons. I will not be rewarded for work I do not do, or risks I do not take. But every day, every day, God gives me the opportunity, and the free will, to add value to my life.

And that is something in and of itself, to be excited about!

So, if you are unhappy with what consumes your life, if you feel controlled by your circumstances, or if you believe that nothing good or magical or special ever happens to you, perhaps you too need to be awakened to all of the endless possibilities, as I have been. I am sure this realization of mine will be challenged. I will compare my life to other people's lives. I will grow weary of work and school. I will probably want to give up, because giving up always seems like the answer. But I truly believe I have learned something that has the potential to be life-changing. 

After all, who knows what miracles can happen when you believe.



M.

sail away

Listen to Benedictus

Watching this was a lot like what I imagine meditation to be. I have to imagine it because I can never calm my mind down enough to truly meditate. I am always thinking frantically and worrying. My mind won't stop whispering and my brows are stuck in a furrow. But this was transcendent. You cannot tell where the sea ends and the sky begins. It feels as if you are sailing through nebulas. God's world is the epitome of beauty. Its simplicity is splendor, its quiet is mighty, and its chaos is order.

M.

From... John Keats

self care recipes

 I really like taking good care of myself. It makes every part of my life more enjoyable. Sometimes when I am busy, I push it away thinking it a waste of time. But that is when I need to stick to it most so that I can feel sane and remind myself that I am h u m a n. I have become enthralled by making my own self-care products because, one, I can be 100% sure they are cruelty-free and vegan, two, they. work. so. well. I don't use natural deodorant or toothpaste because, well, they don't work. But these skincare and haircare concoctions are MAGIC. And, three, I spend a lottttttt less money than I would buying the finished products. I don't have a lot of money to put towards products, so this enables me to have what I need and I am so happy that I can at least do this. I thought I'd share my favorite discoveries and creations so far so that you too can benefit from them!

Face

Spiced Scrub

I came across this recipe years ago on Pinterest. (That one had specific measurements and was for the body. I forgot the measurements and use it on my face. oh well.) I have used it off and on ever since, but recently it has become the only exfoliant I use on my face. It tones, cleanses and exfoliates all in one. My skin loves this for some reason. I (should) use it every other day so as to not over scrub my skin.

Mix organic honey with cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove. Measurements don't matter much here. If you add more cinnamon, you will definitely feel a tingling sensation on your skin. I have no idea if that's a good thing. I like to add more cloves because they are the best exfoliant out of the three. You just want to have enough spices in the honey that they can work their magic. Sometimes I make mine close to a paste and other times it is mainly honey. I store mine in the fridge because I like the cold. Spread on face, neck and decolletage (you can use this on your entire body if you so desire) and leave sit until skin begins to tingle orrrrrr as long as you feel like it. To remove, don't splash your face with water. Instead, wet your hands and fingertips and start rubbing in circular motions all over your face to exfoliate. Rinse face and always moisturize.

Coconut Oil Makeup Remover

Fairly simple. I use coconut oil to break down all of my makeup and then I go over with a regular remover. The best thing about this is the fact that the oil actually starts to disintegrate my mascara which WILL NOT come off of my eyelashes with a standard remover, and that you are moisturizing your face and especially your eyes when you use it.

Body

1/2 & 1/2 oil scrub

NO animal products involved, nor any milk for that matter. It is simply equal parts of oil and sugar. I would suggest olive, avocado or almond oil and a mixture of the large crystals of cane sugar and some finer ground coconut sugar. You can also add an essential oil of your choice. Use this to scrub your whole body.

Hair

As of right now, I haven't tried very many handmade hair masks besides blending avocado up with honey and oil. It was pretty good, but rubbing the ends of my hair with coconut oil about a half an hour before I shower seems to give me better results.

Those are my favorite recipes so far, but I hope to find many more. I want to use oranges, green tea, and shea butter in the future. I will update this post when I come across new favorites.

M.

the stolen child by W. B. Yeats

 This, and Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats are two of my favorite poems. One summer night, I created a melody to sing the poem to. I imagine a banshee would sing this as she cries.


WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

the sleeping human

I miss Steven Moffat's Doctor Who. Everybody's thinking it, I'm just saying it. The latest season is positively disgraceful. It's so unfortunate that they should switch writers JUST as they decided to make The Doctor female. Now, it looks as though the series is weakened by this gender switch, which is not the case. Perhaps I will write a post on this to get my feelings out.

But for now, I have written something that reminds me of good ol' Doctor Who. There is a very special balance of the magic of fairytales, myths or legends, and the intense and baffling mystery of sci-fi in every episode of Doctor Who. That is what I tried to capture here. The concept (which I gave .3% thought to) is that some humans left to live on Mars, while others stayed on Earth. Eventually, the "Martians" returned to help Earth with their new knowledge, etc. to find that all the Earthens were dead except one. That one is asleep in Camber's living room. When things got very bad, the Earthens attempted to preserve their lives by sleeping in the pods until the Martians could return and save them; however, something went wrong (villainous sabotage? a fluke in the system? I don't know) and only the sleeping woman is left. I never finished it, but I imagined they would go on a great adventure together.

(quick note: I had an OBNOXIOUS time getting this to paste into blogger without all of the text going into one longggg line across my blog and into the white abyss of the internet. So if some of the formating is messed up, it is 50% because of Google Docs and 50% because I'm stupid.)

 

The Sleeping Human.

There's a woman asleep in my living room.
She's been there for a while. So long, in fact, that most days, I don't even see her. I rest my oatmeal on her face, and mother sets her tea on her knees. Before you call us names, you should know that she's in an immovable case made of titanium glass. It's basically indestructible. My family should know. She's been here for decades. Centuries probably! My parents have tried everything, but here she stays, asleep amongst all of our history. Sometimes I wonder if she's listening. If she can hear me through the glass. I put my face right next to it, and see if I can catch a flicker of an eyelid or a finger twitching. But she's always as still as stone, save for her chest rising and falling in a slow breath. A breath as slow as death. 

This morning, my parents kissed me goodbye and told me for the billionth time how to use the food dispenser, and not to forget to turn the solars on. They are going on a tour of the Old Landscapes. They're historians, and that means everything in our house is historic too. Old chairs, old paintings, old gadgets, and collectibles. We even have a sink! I like it. It makes me feel like an Earthen.
(Long story really short, my people are descended from the humans who were brave enough to venture to Mars, but years and years and years later, we came back to find that there were only a few Earthens left. We tried to help them, to heal them. But, they all died. Every one of them. Except the one in my living room.)

"Camber?"
I pull my eyes away from the sleeping woman's hypnotic breathing.
"Why don't you cover it up, or something?" My friend Lux says, standing at the edge of the living room, her feet rooted to the ground. I smile. Lux is terrified of the woman in the box.
"Because," I pause, thinking about it. "Because, I think she'd be lonely," I say.
Lux doesn't stay long. She and I play around with my projector, making shadow mustache's on Earthen art, and I think she's forgotten about the woman. But, when we eat our food packs, she continues to glance over her shoulder at the case until she mumbles something about homework and rushes off. I don't mind that Lux doesn't like the sleeping woman. Perhaps I would find her scary too if I hadn't grown up with her.

It wasn't until late that night, the eve of an old Earthen holiday called Christmuse, that I noticed something strange. Yes, it was very late. Yes, I ate close to ten A.M. food packs, but I know what I saw.

My head was bobbing as I sat slumped in the armchair watching the holovision. Flakes of snow cast shadows on the wall, like dozens of shadow fairies, (something I love about Earth is the seasons! There are four of them!) I followed one with my eyes as it danced down the wall, over the couch, and onto the sleeping woman's face.

That's when I froze.

The woman in the box. There was something different about her. Something very different. I squinted. In the dark, her hair looked dull, her clothes pale. Her chest rose and fell as it always had, but then I saw it. Her mouth. She was... smiling. A small smile, yeah, but she was smiling. I jumped up and tripped over the chair. My mind felt numb. I always imagined what it'd be like if she woke up, the things I'd ask her. But now, I just felt… scared. I didn't have time to think about it though, because no sooner did I stand up, than a hissing noise fill the room and the top of the case slide in on itself like one of those elveator doors. I think I screamed, but let's pretend I didn't. I know I stood there, rooted to the spot like Lux. A sort of mist dissipated from around the woman, and I could see her face clearly for the first time in my life. You could've heard my heart beating from the street. She was still, so still. Her white hair was long and twisty, her lips a purplish red. Nothing happened. She didn't move a micrometer. I looked at her clothing. She was dressed in jeans and a sweater that I was pretty sure was made of actual animal fur. Snowflake shadows twirled over her face, and as if they tickled her awake, her eyelids began to flutter. Okay, I admit it, I started to panic. I stepped back to the wall, hiding behind the solar lamp (not my best hiding place, I know.)

Her silver eyebrows fell into a frown.

"Oh…" she spoke. She actually spoke. Then, she coughed, "My mouth is so dry," She blinked, staring at the ceiling, swallowing millennia of dust bits. I considered running for it, but I honestly couldn't move. I was transfixed by her. Then, like a spring from a box, she sat up with a woosh, and looked right at me. All I could think was that her eyes were green. I'd always wondered what they'd be. Earthen's had a high rate of brown I think, but I'd dreamed of blue.

"Um… Hello," she said.

Imagine if your pet or your favorite doll just stood up and started talking to you. Something that you've known for a long time, but that's never known you. Now multiply that by one hundred. That's how I felt.

"H-hello," I stuttered from behind the solar lamp's pole.

"Sorry," she spoke with a strange accent. (If you're wondering how I could understand her, all students have to learn Old Earthen, A.K.A the single most boring subject I've ever taken. Now, I wish I'd paid closer attention. I hate it when school comes in handy.) "Could I have a glass of water, please?" she said.

"H-have at it ," I said in a tone at least two octaves higher than usual. I was actually afraid I was going to faint, "The kitchen…" I pointed weakly to it. The woman lifted her legs over the edge of her case and stood. She was taller than I'd expected. That is, until she fell over, sending an end table flying.

"Sorry! It's been a while," she pulled the table upright again, adjusting the now broken petals of mother's onyx mechrose. Then, she used the wall to stand again. She began bandy-legging to the kitchen, but I stayed in the living room, too shocked to move. The sleeping woman. She'd woken up! What would Lux say? What would my parents say? I watched the woman search through the cupboards. They would probably tell me she was dangerous. But they weren't there. I was. So, I followed after the woman, who had given up searching the cupboards and had placed her head under the faucet, gulping water.

"Yes, hello!" I said again, sounding stupid. "I've been waiting for you to wake up for ages!" She came up for air, the tip of her nose dripping.

"You? Waiting for me? What ever for?" she said, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. I frowned too.
"Well, you've been asleep for a really long time, and I've been watching over you, I guess."
"Oh, I see. Are you a volunteer, then?" she said and then suddenly, her face darkened and her eyes darted to and fro as if she were seeing everything for the first time. "This isn't The Hold…" 

"No… It's my house," I answered. Without a word, she wobbled past me, looking up the staircase, out the windows, and up the chimney. She then began inspecting every inch of her case. I joined her, eager to see the inside.

M.

From... Enya

some quizzes

 A couple of years ago now, my sister and I (visit her blog here) made some quizzes together. I am quite fond of quizzes. I like anything that forces me to stop and think about who I am. We made these in summer while eating copious amounts of protein bars and sitting in my dark closet. We always use our time well. Always.

(This particular quiz website requires an email for you to be able to see your result. Just make one up, you don't need to get into it or anything. That's what I did anyway. My fake email is: BilboIsBae@verizon.net... I wish I was lying)

No. 1
Are You a Changeling?

Celena and I have a dread fascination with Changelings. In fact, if I am completely honest, I am convinced I am one. It would explain a lot.

No. 2
Which Ever After High Character Are You?

We loved watching Ever After High and were unabashedly borderline obsessed with it when it first aired. I do love fairytale retellings. There is something so timeless about them.

No. 3
Which Merlin Character Are You?

Celena and I  L O V E Merlin. We love it. It is right underneath Robin Hood on our list of favorite shows.

I got,
I am a forgotten elven changeling, most like Raven Queen, and most like Morgana Pendragon. Do share your results with me in the comments below.

M.

the season said so

spring
taught me to lie,
told me the grizzly likes honey,
and to feed it,
so I wouldn't die

summer
spun me a chrysalis,
put me to sleep,
drugged me with morning mist,
so I wouldn't
have to weep.

autumn
dried me out,
dug me a hole in the wormy ground,
said the sun
was ugly,
so I wouldn't
feel left out.

winter
froze my lips,
pressed the passionate words,
like flattened rose hips,
so
I can't
remember
my
name.

M.

dried flowers (playlist)

 
 

 I find myself listening to the same cycle of songs knit together, like the seasons coming and going. I have previously shared my winter playlist. This one, while not season- specific is equal parts dark and dream-filled. When I listen to these songs, I think of dried flowers and wax seals on forbidden letters and drinking creamless hot tea all alone.

I. Cry Me A River - Julie London
II. Just A Gigolo - Louis Prima
III. My Valentine - Paul McCartney
IV. Bel Air - Lana Del Rey
V. No One Would Listen - The Phantom of The Opera
VI. Moon River - The Honeytrees
VII. Winter On The Weekend - Julia Stone
VIII. Concrete Wall - Zee Avi
IX. Mad Girl's Love Song - Carol Anne McGowan

love died in the regency era

 Important note: I am basing this entire post off of the writings of Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, Charles Dickens & wonderfully flowered and powdered films. Probably frightfully unrealistic, but I would like to think that the real Regency era was at least a silhouette of these beautiful concepts. 

  I am not a classically romantic person. However; when I watch regency era films, or read those soft paged novels, I feel a side of me that so usually hides in the shade, come out into the light. Suddenly, I want to know a good man that I am interested in, and experience the kind of peculiar adventure romance brings. Why? Because the regency era translated human relation and love into action.

 I remember the first Jane Austen film I ever watched. Emma (1996). Not only was I struck by their fascinating way of life, but their fascinating approach to love. Love was taken seriously and was cherished. Conversations between two people who were interested in each other were thoughtful, almost artful. Women were ladies and men were gentlemen. There was just so much... class. 



Writing letters

 No one writes letters anymore. We use the mail to pay bills and receive packages. Why did we ever stop writing to each other? To see a person's handwriting, to see how hard they pressed their pen into the paper and to hold the folded paper in your hands is worth so much more than a text message. Take into consideration, Captain Wentworth's letter to Anne in Persuasion.

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart, even more, your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in 

F.W.

 I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never. 

Social media, emails and text messages can no more replace handwritten letters than a public pool can replace a foaming, roaring beach.

Dancing

No, not loose jumping and moving at the cluuuuub. Dancing together, with other people, and using it to relate to them and laugh with them.

 While I don't have anything against modern dancing, I think we left something behind that is valuable. We could keep hip-hop AND hold dances of the regency kind. Although, now that I think of it, it would be kind of weird if you were spending time with your friends and then you all got up in the middle of the living room to start synchronized dancing...

Conversations



 Have you ever been three minutes into a conversation and realized that you haven't been paying attention at all? Yeah, me too.

 Modern conversations consist of:

First person: "Whatttt's upppp?"
Second person: *complains about privileged life*
First person: *ignores other person to complain about their own life* "I, like, hate everythingggg."

 Honestly, I don't even know why we talk to each other at all nowadays. Conversation should be for the purpose of getting to know the other person, working through problems or, I don't know, something other than complaining or making yourself look better.











Courting

There is an entire book to be written on why modern dating makes 0.0000000000000 % sense to me.  But, alas, I have neither the desire or the wordcount space to write it. Instead of focusing on the negative, let's direct our attention to some positive factors of relationships in the regency era.

1. Having romantic feelings for another person wasn't a joke. It was serious and not to be taken lightly. Playing with another's feelings, even if you didn't do any "real" harm, was enough to darken your reputation. (unless you were as good-looking and charmingly manipulative as Frank Churchill.)

2. There were soooooo many opportunities to get to know the person you are interested in. Social interactions were the priority back then. (Which could truthfully get very tiresome.) Dancing, walking, talking, writing, meeting at gatherings and parties. A lot more than just conversing online and awkwardly standing near each other in public.

3. Men made an effort. I am not harkening to 'chivalry is dead and men don't hold doors open for women anymore', but rather men's attitudes towards the women they were interested in. They put in direct and intentional effort and it is so attractive in comparison to the aloof and lackluster style of attraction today. Modern men ( and women too, I've seen you vixens do this) seem to make you feel like you are temporary and there are a dozen other women they can replace you with if it goes south.

 The proposals

 I confess, I have never been proposed to. SO, this is highly theoretical. But, when I see people who are newly engaged, I can't help but think to myself,

"what must he have said to get her to marry him?"

 Was it gentle and awkward like Edward's to Elinor? or frank and passionate like Darcy's to Elizabeth?

 This question comes to my mind, not because I think the female is in any way superior to the male, in either looks, integrity or intelligence. I just genuinely wonder if it was a profession as passionate as the fictional proposals of Austen's novels. Because, however impractical it is, that's what I require.

Though there are many unrealistic things in the world of fiction, the expectation of true love is worth every let down in reality.

M.

perspective in writing

 I was looking through my old scribblings today and came across something that has helped me a lot with my writing. Considering perspective.  It's like taking a picture of the same place during different weather. 

  
(not the same place. similar. best I could do)

What you write and how you write it depends on which character is seeing and experiencing it.

If you have a character who is generally positive and upbeat but has recently had something bad happen, they might be relating everything regrettably e.g.

"Persephone usually liked the sun, but today the open deck of the ship was sickeningly yellow. The sound of laughter set her teeth on edge and the shape of every cloud was 'blob'."
She is still noticing the sunshine, people's laughter, and the shapes of clouds, but it's rubbing her the wrong way because of whatever happened that upset her.

Or say you have someone who's on that same boat, and they feel amazing because it's a dream come true to be traveling to New York. They might find that nothing can ruin their mood and that everything is absurdly great. e.g.

"The alespotted floorboards smelled like musk and adventure. Neville leaned over the banister, the sun bore down on his skin with vicious rays; it reminded him of the fireside. And when the bitter seawater spilled onto his lap and soaked his trousers he shivered with excitement and hypothermic joy."

Or imagine you have someone who's on that same boat merely for business. They might hide away where they could focus and overlook the more beautiful parts of the trip. e.g.

"Violet folded her body into the corner where the wall cast a small pie slice of shade. Finally. She could shorthand without the sun in her eyes. If only the boat would stop swaying, then she might be able to keep her lunch in her stomach and her pen in her hand."

Characterization is something I find difficult. Trying to describe people's feelings is almost impossible for me because I can't even describe my own feelings! But this concept has taught me to stop and think about the differences between my characters.


M.

beyond belief

  

beyond belief

Clouds bubble round horizon's glass rim,
The world spilleth over,
staining, 'The End."
and
bright animal eyes speak eons of truth,
but Trappist fur cloth,
deceive us, the youth
and
bodies curl up like petals and waves,
but souls cast in amber,
continue

to
    play


M.

From... New York City Ballet

fly

Dream

/drēm/

noun 

2. a cherished aspiration, ambition, or ideal

 Everyone has dreams. To be this, to be that. To achieve this, achieve that. I have some of those too. But they pale to nothing in comparison with my lifelong dream. A real d r e a m. To fly. 

 My sister showed me this video today. I am not a bit ashamed to say that I cried watching them float in the celestial sky, away from people's thoughts and impressions and control. I suggest you mute the video and play this melody as you watch. 

the melody

M.

Welcoming March

 March is a beautiful month. Not only are the blossoms beginning to blink their eyes against the sun, but the birds are speaking to one another, passing rumors that spring is coming on the wind. And green returns. I love green. Almost as much as I love blue. There is also St. Patrick's day. Irish culture is something I love to learn about.
But, most importantly, Lent began on March 6th.



I used to participate in Lent every year. I looked forward to it, in fact. Anything that is meant to better me as a person and help me to shed habits and realize what is truly important, is fascinating and almost addictive to me.
This year will be the first time I have participated in Lent in a long time. I am excited and a little ashamed that I missed so many opportunities to participate before.

My choice for Lent is to stop wasting money. For the entirety of this holiday, I shall only purchase what I need. Need. Not want. It is going to be difficult. I have very bad spending habits, I'm ashamed to say. But I am, nevertheless, very excited. I want to be a better person. I want to be the absolute best version of myself.

That means no more junk food runs to the store. No more renting endless movies. No more buying shirts I will never wear on an impulse. And it means standing in the kitchen for longer than it takes to microwave vegan macaroni and making better choices for my budget and my health.

It has been one day, and I already feel better. I prayed more intentionally last night. And though I only have twenty dollars in my account, I know that I won't waste a penny of it.

M.

impressions: life or death?

the melody



 "I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart." - Robert Frost









"It's necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live." - Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo



M.