...but once a year.

I had a lovely Christmas and am sad it's over. The world looks a bleaker place without bright lights continually promising cheery respite from real life.

But...

Something happened a few days before Christmas that, while is most likely for the eventual (and even present) best, has caused much sorrow between myself and my mother.
Ever since it happened I've had trouble getting my brain to focus and get things done. I am really not sure why. Perhaps because the air is full of disrupted dust from memories that I had let settle in a dark corner a while ago.

Not to be histrionic, but I don't really want to talk about it. I don't really want to talk about anything, really.

I'm not uninspired, just terribly unsettled. So I'm writing snippets of stories, eating entirely too many sweet things, falling in love with Nina Nastasia's album, Dogs [a Christmas present from Younger Brother #1], and waiting to see what will happen next.

(The aforementioned Nina Nastasia album with a penguin puppet Younger Brother #2 gave to me since I have quite a thing for penguins. He joked that he regretted getting it for me since I was having waaay to much fun with it Christmas morning. I haven't decided what to name her yet... I know it must be a her since the rest of the penguins in my collection are boys.)


This is not much of a post, but I haven't posted for almost 3 weeks which is uncharacteristic of me. I wanted to let you know I am still here, as alive as I ever was.

I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas. ♥



{'Dear Rose' by Nina Nastasia - the opening track of Dogs. Hmm, I'm noticing a trend of me putting music at the ends of my posts these days. What can I say? Music is good.}

the wanderer

tranquil roaming, wind knocking against my soul.
the spaces 'neath my eyes look kissed by the lavender wings of the moths that would fly up against the stars on summer nights.
summer nights--oh, strange they should come up again, just when the scar wrapped around me became another irrelevant story. twas you! your doing. you had me in your jaws; caused me cringes in the ringing silence between clock strikes.

you made a wanderer out of me.

domesticity is no way to live when one's hands are too raw to even pick up the truth. you were too, too anchored to your reality. what call could i answer but that of transiency?
now a wanderlust beats where cowardice once lay. power in every step, though my bones have magnified and delirious perseverance is my main emotion.

it is autumn & i know i will fall with the rest.

as the leaves flame & break away, i watch: drifting to my knees, admiration on the tip of my tongue. beautiful, i sigh. beautiful.
i reach a hand up to catch their whispery caresses. things are so beautiful when they are dying, i murmur.
the earth reaches to hold me; a rustle under my head, a last rustle of my heart.
beautiful! i am beautiful!





{I don't know what this is, really. It was written one recent midnight, and I was so happy to actually have a story to tell. I think while writing, I unconsciously had in mind conversations I'd had with my friend Jessica about autumn and transiency and such.
The picture is by me, and was taken on our back porch on a lovely, lonely rainy autumn afternoon. Those are my fat feet, yes. :P}

all the lonely people

Playing piano in a darkened room:
'Eleanor Rigby' (because I need to know
where all the lonely people belong)

I was playing
and the keys
gleamed like phantoms;
tender ghosts that glowed with solace
and sustenance

the hours and weeks before
had been full of voiceless screams,
of sighs and trembling

the ghosts and the
bittersweet darkness
of their ebony threads
were the sole thing that could
bind these tatters of mine

they filled me, stopped the disintegration
(I'm a grey colour now, but still here)

And my fingers keep on pacing,
always looking for their songs


(for this is the only way
I know how to speak.
This is the only way
I can communicate.

Listen;
know me. )


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My emotional hurricane has calmed to a rainstorm. It's much easier to live with, but I'm tired of being anywhere from damp to soaked all the time; I just want to be dry!

On a happier note, I started a new journal yesterday! I don't know why, but I love starting a new journal (though finishing the old one is somewhat bittersweet). Through the years, especially when I was younger, I've kept various diaries... but it is only my journal(s) that I have stayed faithful to.
I kept my first journal from December 2000 to January 2009. My second journal I kept from February 2009 to, well, August 2011! (As you can see, my writing habits have greatly spiked in the last few years.)
The journal I have just started was given to me for Christmas by my brother.


I love it so much since I'm a Beatles fan of astronomical proportions and Abbey Road is one of my favourite albums. It has been lying around my room tempting me for around 8 months, so I'm excited to finally be writing in it!

Eh, it's the little things in life, isn't it?




{Both photos by me.}

out of sorts

I've been feeling out of sorts, as of late.
I've been wishing I could tear myself into thousands of tiny, insignificant pieces.
Or I wish I could shatter my heart like a china plate and make mosaics with the shards; even if I can't make something beautiful at least it would be different.

I just need something new to look at, that's all.

"I know what you mean about wishing that somebody wasn't there, though. It's usually, it's myself that I wish I could get away from. Seriously, think about this: I have never been anywhere that I haven't been. I've never had a kiss when I wasn't one of the kissers. Y'know, I've never gone to the movies, when I wasn't there in the audience. I've never been out bowling, if I wasn't there, y'know, making some stupid joke. I think that's why so many people hate themselves. Seriously, it's just they are sick to death of being around themselves."

~Jesse, Before Sunrise


My worn out, green-flecked emotions have been flaring up again. Mix in a pinch of apathy, a good dose of loneliness and a tumult of hormones and you have the mess known as me.

While some things have gotten better, some have just gotten worse. Though I'm no longer the unstable mess I was this winter, I've grown complacent. Change is something that needs to be worked at, even after it's already happened. I suspect we never truly finish changing, or growing rather. I need to pay more attention to myself, my emotional and spiritual well-being seems to slip under my radar too often. That needs to stop...


-'It All Got Worse' by Destry-
(my current favourite song)

Sorry, this post is rather moany. But what are blogs for, right? I almost disabled comments on this which is something I've considered doing many times but never actually done. I don't want anyone feel they have to or should respond to my pathetic complaints, but at the same time, I thrive on hearing from my blogging friends. Maybe I'm over-thinking this... (But I just may do a post without comments one of these old days, just you wait and see! :P)

{Picture taken from the text of the book "Home" by Marilynne Robinson.}

Ravings of a Bibliophile

You know what makes me sad?
When people (kids and teens in particular) tell me they don't like to read.
It makes me want to hide in the back of a dark, dark closet and mutter curses against our current society. Of course, I'd take a flashlight in the closet with me so I could read in between tears and anguished cries.

I mean, how sad would it be to not like to read?
How tragic is it that some consider reading to be something one is forced to do for school? (I am related to some of these people too! *shudders*)

Books mean the world to me. I cannot remember a time when reading was not something I enjoyed. This past year I have started taking trips twice a week to the library. Like one diseased, I search online for interesting and new-to-me books to read. (Which reminds me, got a recommendation? Leave it in the comments!)
This winter, especially, books have been invaluable. Books were my drug. When life got too stressful, too sad, too lonely, I lost myself in an inky world. According to goodreads.com I have read 175 books so far in 2011 (only a handful of which are re-reads since I don't usually log my re-reads.) Yes, I read a disgusting amount these days. It wasn't always like this, believe me. But I figure I probably won't have this kind of time later on in life so I am taking advantage of it now.

If you are reading this and don't like to read, I'm sorry. Sorry for for my vehement opinions or sorry for your incomplete existence, you may wonder. Well, I'm... not going to answer that. :P


Some of my favourite book quotes I have collected in my readings:

"I closed my eyes, put my right hand on top of the book, and passed it lightly across the cover. It was cool and smooth like a stone from the bottom of the brook, and it stilled me. A whole other world is inside there, I thought to myself, and that's where I want to be."
-From Ida B. by Katherine Hannigan


"Literature is a source of pleasure, he said, it is one of the rare inexhaustible joys in life, but it's not only that. It must not be disassociated from reality. Everything is there. That is why I never use the word fiction. Every subtlety in life is material for a book. He insisted on the fact. Have you noticed, he'd say, that I'm talking about novels? Novels don't contain only exceptional situations, life or death choices, or major ordeals; there are also everyday difficulties, temptations, ordinary disappointments; and, in response, every human attitude, every type of behavior, from the finest to the most wretched. There are books where, as you read, you wonder: What would I have done? It's a question you have to ask yourself. Listen carefully: it is a way to learn to live. There are grown-ups who would say no, that literature is not life, that novels teach you nothing. They are wrong. Literature performs, instructs, it prepares you for life."
-from A Novel Bookstore by Laurence Cossé


"As I stood outside in Cow Lane, it occurred to me that Heaven must be a place where the library is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

No ... eight days a week."
-From The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley


"When you sell a man a book you don't sell just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue - you sell him a whole new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by night - there's all heaven and earth in a book, a real book."
-From The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley


"I feel, holding books, accommodating their weight and breathing their dust, an abiding love. I trust them, in a way that I can't trust my computer, though I couldn't do without it. Books are matter. My books matter. What would I have done through these years without the library and all its lovely books?"
-From The Girls by Lori Lansens

(A few of my very favourite books.)

{1st picture from the film "Les Parapluies de Cherbourg" and 2nd picture taken by me.}

mostly true musings on missing

I put my memories of you on the gramophone and played them all night long.
I awoke in the morning, stretched out on the floor like a cadaver.
All I felt was sadness and confusion. Had I awoken from a dream? I don’t remember.
But the sadness and confusion decided to make themselves at home; one nestled in my right pocket, the other in my left.

The rain sang drowsily all morning and dampened the world's colours. I sat at the window and mused how if I should touch any part of the wet world, the colours would come off on my hand.
I contemplated going outside and tracking the grass's green into the worn, grey asphalt. Perhaps I should have run my hands across our blue car and then streaked my fingers across the sky, making it blue again.


I took the poem with the cracked frame off the wall and replaced it with a Monet: vague, colourful, whoami?; it seems to fit my life right now.

Do you know how to say 'I miss you' in French? 'Tu me manques.' That literally translates as 'You are missing to me'. I love that.
The phrase 'I miss you' seems so solitary, as if the missing process only concerned 'I', myself. But 'tu me manques': your presence is evident, you are the subject of the sentence.
Likewise, you do not miss me, I am missing to you. Je te manque. We are a whole that makes no sense apart.

At first, I thought I would be fine. Now I feel as if my subconscious has been dyed the colour of your eyes. Underneath every thought and action it’s there, a wandering, green phantom. I can't wash it out no matter how hard I try. Though perhaps I was hardly trying at all... (It's too wearying to care enough these days.)

It seems to be my fate to miss the times and places that have gone, and the people too. The times and places cannot be helped, but the people... perhaps I am at fault. Maybe there is something I could have said or done, so that I would not be here, feeling lost and dreaming of you. Yet there is a thought that haunts me: I am happier this way, missing you. That I have made you transcendent as an intangible and your reality could never measure up.
For all I know, that could be true. But it has no chance of being proved or amended because... tu me manques (and I fear it will last forever).





{1st picture taken from text of "Miss Bishop" by Bess Streeter Aldrich, 2nd picture taken by me [the painting is, of course, by Monet], 3rd picture is of Paul and Linda McCartney taken from his 'Maybe I'm Amazed' music video.}

the colour green

Have I mentioned how much I love the colour green?
When asked what my favourite colour is I never reply "green" since my favourite colour is actually blue. But still, I love green.
I think I forget that, though. Because saying "I like green" is so flat. It doesn't convey the vitality of green that I love, the spectrum of shades that emblazon nature.
I love the profusion of green from trees in our backyard;
they almost blot out everything else.
I love the bucolic green of fields or freshly-mown lawns
stretching out like neatly-made beds.
I love the darker green of forests when we're driving down the road whose density seems to drench the air in green so it almost feels like being submerged in an ocean.
And I love the light, almost aquatic green of his eyes whose hue I cannot find in nature...
The list goes on.

{This picture is crummy but it kind of shows the effect of the green density I was talking about above. I am reading Tender Is the Night and Fitzgerald mentions the trees making a "green twilight". I could only sit there and mentally curse F. Scott for being able to casually put into words what I had found ineffable. I suppose that's why he's legendary and I'm not. ;)}


Speaking of green, one of my absolute most favourite albums is Colour Green by Sibylle Baier and this time last year I was listening to it a lot.
Colour Green is an album of understated beauty and it's one of those albums I know like the back of my hand. (Aren't those the best?) Also, it has an interesting story behind it which, in a nutshell, is this: armed with her guitar and a renewal of a sense of life's beauty after a period of depression, Sibylle Baier wrote and recorded the songs on Colour Green secretly in the early 70's. Years later, thanks to her son and Orange Twin records, people all around the world can enjoy the quiet beauty of her album. {You can read a longer post I wrote last year about it on my music blog, if you want.}

Not only do I love Sibylle's music, but a picture of her had a very important impact on me...

{I love this picture. I love how her face is out-of-focus but you can still see how beautiful she is. I love how you can see in the mirror what would normally be hidden. I just love it.}

In this instance, a picture is worth much more than a thousand words. For once, when looking at this photo, I found myself wondering who the person you could see taking the picture was. All the sudden, I found myself giving birth to a story. I decided the person holding the camera was, indeed, a man and the story I was writing became his memoir, of sorts. A memoir full of memories of the girl he loved (who I based on Sibylle).
I also drew a little bit of inspiration from her lyrics. Especially from the first song on the album, 'Tonight'. I knew he was the man she mentions in the lyrics, who she dedicates her song to.

{You can listen to the song, 'Tonight', if you'd like! Though, the first time I heard her music I thought I didn't like it, heh.}




I've been writing this story/book/novel/whatever it is on and off for about a year and a half now. There have been times I've set it aside, sadly frustrated at my incompetence. Even now I think it is no good, really and rather boring. Not to mention way past my youthful knowledge. I'm writing about subjects that are so difficult to pinpoint: depression, the sanctity of marriage, what it means to love someone... And, to top it off, it's narrated by a man! I'm not sure I'm sufficiently able to get into a man's brain! (Which sounds... really strange. :P)
Since most of the story is handwritten or typed on my typewriter, the narrative will break off every now and then to the anguished author (moi) typing or writing things like "OH, THIS STORY WILL NEVER BE ANY GOOD." With notes under that saying things such as, "Ignore the author, please. She is crazed." (As you can see, writing with me is a rather schizophrenic affair!)
But even as I am wracked with insecurities, I have, for the most part, greatly enjoyed writing this story. It is nowhere near being done but originally it was just supposed to be a short story!
I know nothing will probably ever come of it. But I've loved telling their story and I guess that's all that matters. :)



Alright, I don't even know why I am rambling on about all this. Terribly sorry if it's not very interesting. I almost considered not posting this but I spent too much time on it for that. *deep sigh* (Pardon, I'm feeling kind of frustrated today and unable to cope with/accomplish anything. On a happier note though, I vanquished Mt. Chaos yesterday!)

her spring, his winter

I couldn’t sleep last night.
I could smell the winter on your skin and its dry, bitter scent clogged my mind.

I lay beside you. Felt you so close, so far. I listened to the gentle ocean swell of your breathing, so much deeper than the uneasy waters of mine.
I slowed my breathing, synchronized it with yours. But my heart screamed faster, faster so I sped ahead, leaving you behind.

The air in the room was bland, neither cold nor warm. As if my boiling agitation and your frozen stillness had cancelled each other out.

I could hear thunder clearing its throat in preparation for a debate with lightning. Disentangling myself from the sheets and your smothering frigid-sleep, I opened the window as the raindrops started their patient tapping.
The argument between surly thunder and passionate lightning was fully underway. Through their chaos, a breeze reached its hand in my window. It stroked the skirt of my nightgown and ran its damp fingers through my hair.
It smelled of spring. It said come.

I almost took the offered hand of the breeze. I leaned towards the window, the black night and the rain.
But I looked over to your bed just as the lightning swore an oath that echoed between the bedroom’s narrow walls.
I saw you, in that flash of light. You were awake, watching me.
Only vaguely did I see the paleness of your skin, the purple smudges under your eyes, your half-open lips, the bristly hint of a beard.
Your eyes I saw clearly. They met mine for a second. They looked at me as if I were a ghost, a stranger. Your clouded vision had sharpened and in them I saw a fever. A desperation that belied your stiff exterior.
I felt like a criminal, a thief, a murderer.
I shut the window slowly. It closed with a dull thud, shutting out the elements that had offered a newness, a coming alive. I pulled the curtain over the argument that still droned on and, almost ashamed, slunk back into bed.

You pulled me close to you with your cold hands, laid your lips against mine.
Your kiss tasted of snow.

We lay entwined, your bare branches twisted up with my budding vines.
Soon you drifted into sleep again. I lay, ear pressed against your chest, and listened to your heart, trying to learn its pattern, trying to slow my heartbeat to parallel yours.
I couldn’t.

And I don’t know how long this can last. For there is spring in my soul which I can stifle for no one… No, not even you.
Someday I must break away from your stagnant, icy slumber. I must bloom; I must leave.
But oh, I think I shall always miss you, my other half, my winter-soul.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I didn’t feel you leave my side;
didn’t feel your warmth slip away.
But I awoke.
I saw you, at the window.
Saw you illuminated, your nightgown waving around you.
My little bird, perched for flight.
And I could no longer ignore the fact I’d caged you too long.
I must let you go.

Tonight I am selfish.
Tonight I want you.
I pull you back.
But I know I will set you free,
my dearest sparrow-heart,
before you are forced to escape.

Thoughts of Spring!

I am going through a barren spell, at the moment. I didn't even notice till the other day I realized I have been writing next to nothing. It's alright, though. I know the words will come back. With a vengeance, undoubtedly, in copious, overwhelming amounts. I have been writing in my journal, though. I thought I'd post this journal entry I wrote last week. It was written on a day that felt like spring. My mother had opened all the windows and I sat on the floor in front of mine and wrote this entry. (It was penned over a period of 20 minutes or so with quite a few pauses in between to revel in the inspiring atmosphere. So, it is a little choppy. Especially since I copied it verbatim from my journal... with a few punctuation and spelling corrections, of course. :P)

{My window! Taken from my seated position on the floor.}

Feb. 28, 2011

I love Spring. I can see why people (stereotypically?) fall in love during springtime. There is something in the air that is most inspiring. An intoxicating scent that makes one feel like doing foolish or impossible things.
Just after I wrote that I impetuously decided to put on a skirt I have worn only once before when I was home alone. It is what I call a "regrettable shade of pink". It is also a rather shocking shade. But there is Spring in the air and I don't care.
I am sitting in front of my window which is open. I was reading "I Capture the Castle" but was captured myself by the bewitching breeze.
It is only 2:09 but it feels hours later. I don't know what the sun is doing but its presence is somewhat lacking.
Bright, sunny days are shallow things, anyway.
The breeze, that temptress, just caressed my cheek & whispered thoughts of rain in my ears.
I have just leaned up against the windowsill to get closer to the intoxicating air. I can hear sounds like raindrops hitting the pavement but I do not see any... Perhaps it is the leftover autumn leaves playing with the breeze.
I wish I could stick my hand out the window but I cannot. Darn window screens!
Ah! It is raining! I couldn't tell by looking at the street or our driveway but I can tell from our neighbour's driveway.

The rain song & scent have become very noticeable now. Though I still cannot see the rain. I can see the effects of it, though. The workmen across the street have stopped working & I just saw someone with an umbrella.
I still want to feel it, though.

My mind is made up:
I'm going outside!
Love, ineffable me

{A corner of my journal and my "regrettable pink" skirt.}

In case you were wondering, I did indeed go outside! I stood on the back porch for a minute or two and got speckled by the raindrops.
Ah, I am remembering how much I love spring. Especially since it feels like winter again here. :(
I cannot decide which I love more, spring or autumn. I seem to love each one most while it is happening. How quixotic of me! Or perhaps I am just forgetful. ;)


What is your favourite season?

Silence is priceless.

I've been try to weave a tent of words to hide in... but the softest wind topples it to the ground.
Why can I never be alone? Their abrasive voices always find me.
I would so love to be alone...
Because when people are nearby making noise, I am reminded of their presence.
Even if it's just a sniffing or a rustling... it ties me to the real world.
The sounds they make are ropes, binding me to the things I want to escape.
Silence is much more precious than gold.
Silence is priceless.
I wish people would stop referring to silences as awkward.
Why can't we embrace the quiet?

If I have to fill my silence it will be with the sounds of my favourite musicians.

I've been listening to the girl with the lemonade voice again. The songs from the days when it was just her and a guitar and a boy and a guitar.
I've missed them.
I've been missing the place they sing about.
And I don't even know where it is...

Ah, my lovelies. This past week there has been an inexplicable sadness trailing behind me. It's nothing serious - I hope it is just the winter settling in my ventricles. But I am unable to concentrate. Probably why I have been endeavouring to find silence; in hopes it will give me what I can't hold.
So, I've been holing up in my room, re-reading books like Miss Bishop and I Capture the Castle. And listening to The Finches, remembering summer days swinging in the backyard with my ipod. Back when sunlight barely pierced the canopy of leaves.
I have felt rather absurd in my quest for quiet and solitude. Indeed, it has wreaked havoc on my affability. But still... I desire it more than anything at the moment.

I am curious... what do you, my dearest readers, want at this moment?

{Both pictures were taken by me. I messed with the contrast on the first one. It kind of looks like I have red hair. I don't really, the light was shining on my hair and I have [natural!] red highlights.}

running away, not going anywhere

let's not leave the house today…

shall we be rebellious for once?
you laugh at that – i'm serious!
say you'll stay in with me.
we could snuggle into the eiderdown's warm embrace,
open a recipe book at random and make the first thing we see.
proclaim our favourite poems to each other!
waltz to the melodies we sing, forgetting words and tripping over each other.
we could compose a song of love in a minor key
(for of course i love you!
i would not be willing to break the rules with just any old person, you know).
we'll be renegades together!
traitors to the mundane existence!
outcasts of society! i must say it sounds awfully fun…
so please, forget your job. forget your life.
forget everything except me and what we will do today.
we may never want to go back again…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wrote this a couple months ago. But lately I've been wishing I really could run away from life. It's not that I am terribly unhappy it's just... life can just be a drag sometimes, you know?
Also, I've been wishing that I actually had someone that I'd want to "escape reality" with. That person is little more than an illusion I dreamed in the darkness to make loneliness seem less permanent.


{This is a minuscule playlist I made. These two songs reminded me of this post's concept so I thought, why not include them? Especially since they're by two of my most favourite artists. The first is 'Gold in the Air of Summer' by Kings of Convenience and the second is 'Our Day Trip' by Nina Nastasia. The lyrics can be found here and here.}

If you could run away, or rather, retreat from the real world where would you go? What would you do?

{Photo by me and made possible by my typewriter Donovan.}

Because the world needs more happy thoughts.

Here are a couple random things that have made my week happy:

I have been a part of a local, non-profit theatrical organization the past 8 years or so and this Spring they are putting on a production of Alice in Wonderland which I am going to be in!!
As in most versions, this play is a combination of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. I'm very excited to be in this play because those are two of my most favourite books ever!!! (The adaptation doesn't always follow the books as much as I would like, but c'est la vie.)

Auditions were on Saturday and I got the role of the White Rabbit! I am rather pleased about that.
I went into auditions not wanting any specific character but during auditions I decided that was the part I wanted most. I try not to get too attached to roles, though, in case I don't get them. :P (I don't view myself as an actress, really. Drama is a pleasant past time but I have no desire to pursue it later in life. I am a much better actress then I used to be, though. And I do get such an exhilaration from being on stage. I really don't understand how reticent moi could enjoy it so much, but I do.)

On Monday, my sister took us (my brothers, mom, & I) to her favourite used bookstore. We started in the children's section which was located downstairs but then moved upstairs to the "adult" books.
As I stood in the corner where the "A's" started and surveyed the shelves brimming with books just waiting for me, I couldn't decided whether it was heaven or hell! I suspect the latter since I grew very warm with all the bending over and developed a headache. Though the headache might have had something to do with the cat wandering about. (I am horribly allergic but I love cats so I pet them anyway.) I think all used bookshops should have cats. It was so wonderful to have that lissome black and white creature rubbing against my ankles obligingly as I perused the numerous titles.
Slowly and surely, I made my way through the adult fiction section. My purchases of the day were The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield and The Waves by Virginia Woolf. (Two books I read last year and loved.) I could have bought so much more since there were many books there to tempt me... But I don't have steady income so I try to keep my expenditures low. The two books I got were only about 10 dollars total. (I don't even want to tell you how many books my sister bought...! O_o)
I do hope to go back someday. I didn't even get to the poetry section!

Then, the next day (yesterday) I was at the Library looking at the books they have for sale in the foyer (books that people have donated and such). And usually, I can't find much that I want but I got lucky and found Inkheart by Cornelia Funke and Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (which I haven't read yet but have been wanting to read). Got them both for $1.50! Oh yes.

Altogether it was a very good week for a bibliophile like me. But I have noticed the available spaces on my bookshelves are filling in rather rapidly......
What about you all? What has made you happy this week? :)



{Drawing of the White Rabbit is by Tenniel and other two pictures are mine.}

December

{The Charlie Brown Christmas tree in our foyer. ♥ }

December
At first it was doubt. Feeling that there was something horribly wrong with me. Nearly having a breakdown, crying sobs that threatened to consume me. {I haven't had a cry this ravaging in so long...}
Baking my melancholy, my disappointments into batches of Christmas cookies and half-heartedly harmonizing in church to the familiar carols.
I was afraid my favourite season would finish before I could get out of my blue funk...

Then, one morning: an unforeseen coating of snow and the scent of cinnamon rolls.

{I love our back yard when it snows. The snow-covered branches turn it into a veritable winter wonderland.}

After that... somehow... December was beautiful.

~A party I was loath to attend turning out lovely in one of the most unexpected ways possible.

~Watching White Christmas for the first time with some of my very favourite people. {The weather forecast has informed us that we may experience a "white Christmas" of our own...!}

~Being swept away by the beauty of song in the annual concert of the girl's ensemble I sing in.
This was possibly one of the most wonderful things of all. Why?
Well, I love singing in the ensemble but lately I've been frustrated and unable to enjoy it because of the relatively small dissonances around me. We are undoubtedly amateurs and I could feel the discrepancies dragging me down. I couldn't appreciate the other parts around me nor the important story {of Jesus' birth} that our words were telling.
But at the concert it all seemed to come together. {It helps that we have the most amazing, loving director ever.}
So what if the girl on my left was off-key at times and singing the soprano part instead of the second soprano?
So what if the girl on my right doesn't know the meaning of the word "pianissimo"?
I was able to sing with absolute joy in my voice! With happiness tinging every note. There is something so thrilling about harmony and being a part of a choir. I'm glad I could be reminded.

Now I bake my content and my joy into Christmas cookies. I made the cookies pictured above last week. They were supposed to be gingersnaps but I did something wrong and they ended up being more like gingerbread. {We suspect I put in too much flour.} But they tasted incredible. That is one mistake I would not mind repeating.

So, yes. I am enjoying this season. Even though I am "grown-up" I still get twinges of the all-consuming, childish anticipation. This quote sum it up pretty well:

"Christmas Eve was a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body. It warmed your heart... filled it, too, with a melody that would last forever. Even though you grew up and found you could never quite bring back the magic feeling of this night, the melody would stay in your heart always - a song for all the years."
-Excerpt from Song of Years by Bess Streeter Aldrich


And with that, I just want to wish everyone the merriest of Christmases! I hope you all are having a lovely December and Christmas season?


{P.S. - I'm sorry I'm so longwinded all of the time! I try to restrain my train of thought but it goes chugging on, regardless.}

the steadfast tin soldier & other meanderings

Imagine what it must be like to be a music box ballerina. They must live for the time when thoughtless hands open their cages and set their souls free. They can dance! Only for a little while, though… What a terrible fate! I wish a steadfast tin soldier for every one of them.

I would like you to be my steadfast tin soldier. What is a delicate, paper castle to me when I could have someone who understands?
But what will be left of our love in the end? A spangle {burned} and a lump of tin {heart-shaped}, lying a pile of ash. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But beautiful does not mean happily-ever-after. Sadness is beautiful. {I know that boy agrees with me. I once remarked that “sadness is beautiful” and he agreed. A girl protested. But it’s alright… she just doesn’t know. Don’t you think sadness is beautiful?}


Lately, I have found myself, expressing joy through an impulsive but meaningful medley of songs. I let my voice canter unrestrained as I run around and drape myself across banisters. {As if I was starring in my own musical improvisation.} No one has made me feel this giddy in a long time. It’s all because of you. I wonder if you’ll ever know what you've done to me.

So quickly, it seems, my devotion changed. I am not capricious - not in the least! I am the steadfast, tin soldier to my feather-friends. You will find that loyalty runs steadily through my veins, mixing completely with my blood. But it was time. Time to let go. Time to wake-up from my dream of who that boy is and finally see his reality. I shook his dream from my shoulders and it slithered to the floor like a velvety cape. I hadn’t realized how old and worn the fabric was. I know now. And I haven't felt this free, this content in a long time. This story made have a sad ending, but for now I don't care. Even if all that remains will be...

{1st picture found here, 2nd & 3rd picture taken by me from my book of The Steadfast Tin Soldier by Hans Christian Andersen with illustrations by Angela Barrett. The nail-bitten fingers belong to me...}

ta ta for now!

The other day, my father was going out and he agreed to pick up some books at the library for me. {I had put a hold on quite a few books but I thought only a couple had come in.}
Turns out, all 11 of my books were in. Plus one that my sister had put a hold on. Hahaha!
He called to complain that we hadn't told him that he would need a furniture dolly. XD


{From top to bottom: Selected Poems of Carl Sandburg, Selected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay, Madam, Will You Talk? by Mary Stewart, Miss Clare Remembers by Miss Read, The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale, My Own Two Feet and A Girl From Yamhill both by Beverly Cleary, Bloomability by Sharon Creech, The Fairacre Festival by Miss Read, The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti, and The Complete Poems of e. e. cummings.}

Anyhow, my family and I are leaving for vacation tomorrow. We're going to stay in a chalet by a lake! I'm very excited because it's my favourite kind of vacation: a relaxing kind where you don't have to go running all over looking at the sights. So, I'm planning on reading a lot, in case you hadn't guessed. I'm also hoping to write and, of course, hang out with my awesome family!
I'll be back in about a week. A bientôt!! :)

the pearls

"Abbie, I want ye to have the pearls. I'm savin' the fan for Mary. Janet has the breast-pin, you know, and Belle the shawl. {...} And the pearls are fer you. Ye'll ne'er starve as long as ye have 'em." She opened the little hairy-skinned chest and took out a small velvet box and from it the pearls themselves. She twined them through her short stubby fingers, their creamy shimmers incongruous in the plump peasant hand.
{...}
There were tears in Abbie's brown eyes when she took them. {...} She held the pearls up to the wine-colored merino and looked in the small oblong glass.{...}Then she turned to her mother. Her face was flushed and tender. "Thank you Mother... so much,... I'll keep them always. But with the dark dress and the high neck,... I'll just not wear them tonight. After awhile when Will and I are wealthy, I'll wear them. And {...} maybe we'll have a daughter some day and she can wear them on her wedding night,... in white satin...and all the things that go with it..."
Abbie swept across the dingy loft room, {...} She knelt down by her mother's chair, {...}, and laid her head against the older woman's.

"And besides, Mother, you understand, don't you... when you follow your heart you don't need pearls to make you happy?"

-Excerpt from A Lantern in Her Hand by Bess Streeter Aldrich
(the {...}'s represent edits I made for brevity's sake)

{Pictures taken by me.}

Your Ring

You bought me a ring once. It was a pretty ring, but cheap I suspected. Not that I cared.
You told me the ring symbolized your love for me. You told me many pretty, cheap things like that.
Well, y'know what I've realized? The ring you bought to "symbolize your love for me" is too big for my ring finger. It strays from where it's supposed to be... It flew off one day and I almost lost it... It gets twisted around and screwed up so it's facing the wrong way....
Yes... I'd say that's a pretty accurate description of your love for me.

My note: Just to beat the rumour mill, this isn't based on something that really happened to me, haha. And the picture was taken by me.