She is too living a parcel to be packed up and stowed away in the corner. That kind of treatment is left for broken toys and old ladies. Not yet.
There is a sincerity to her walls; no one but herself put them there, and now she defies them, scraping her fingers, flesh to cardboard. She is not plastic.
She screams and writhes and cries out, pushes and cranks.
It's time to wake up; It's time for bed.
Enough.
Where is the girl with the smile? Her return is overdue. Look, for outside, the world lives. Spring alights gently, softly, casting a green cloak about the snow. There is no such thing as plastic.
She wanted to sink into the city. There is a sort of transparency here, a luminosity; the trees are gray, as blank as doves, and alight. They are bony and balding, their little snippets of red and orange hair hanging by tips. Roads seem to sparkle in the dim fog. Now the mornings are like weak coffee, dark and without substance.
Driving through the night with him, she thought that the car ride mustn't end, not here. The fall is too glamorous, the landscape too greedy for souls, the wind far too quick and the car interior far too heavy.
Fall brings all sorts of little memories to call. The smell of leaves ushers in visions of blanket tents, the dawn of early runs in the prime of high school days. Everywhere the world is calm and in hiding, idle thoughts the only live beings in this dying world. But yet, it is pleasant; there is a joy in this season.
She wants to watch this movie. Badly. For some reason it seems seasonal and appropriate. There are unicorns and fond times of mothers baking fall treats, and ponderings of where the wild things are.
She turned her ankle in a Cross Country race and got to ride in a silly little golf cart. It's only a little sprain--a wee, tiny one. She never thought that she'd miss running a race so badly. It was a hard thing. But life is full of all sorts of hard things, and lessons can be learned if one is true and wise.
This brings about a decision for thinking on. Shall she continue to run, or be swept away to the city?
She's home now, too, for a little while. Nothing so much has changed; it doesn't smell like fall here. Winter came prematurely. She likes the smell better in her apartment in the south-land. She also misses her prince.
She's also decided that dear Edward Scissorhands must be a very sad and lonely fellow indeed. His story made her eyes sting with salt and think of crystalline walks on silent winter evenings. And if she should ever have liked an old-man actor, she would choose Vincent Price. At least he likes cookies.
Oh, do smell that?
The house is beginning to come alive! The musty corners are fretting and retreating; mother has made pumpkin pie. Tonight there is also noodles and sauce, bread and faux sausages. Little by little the sun creeps away and the pumpkin-orange decorative lights turn on. The branches outside are shivering, shirking.
There is a coziness here, one not present in the girl's apartment. There is a serenity, a monotony. Instead of the old man that lives upstairs and goes to work at 5am, there are cats mewing and an early-rising father. The latter are far quieter and a little more sympathetic to sleeping ears.
She has missed the simple, heavy joy of returning home. She shan't get used to it for long. Tomorrow she will be whisked away again in a silver car. Home, never change.
Ever.
If there ever was a constant in one's life, it must be in this house, she thought. It must be here, tucked in the far north-land, in a wash-out suburbia with sidings the color of dishwater.
There has been an awful lot of business lately, and the girl has not been able to write here in ever so long.
There is an apartment, too, finally, full of cobwebby corners and dusty mornings. The lamps here shine dimly at night. It is almost sad.
The girl goes to school again, too. It is a wonderful time, full of insides, outsides, and upside-downs. Dear things were missed over the summertime. There is an air of intellectualism about the school grounds. The girl feels in a bubble, little bits of knowledge buzzing about her like bumble bees.
Memories nip at one's toes here a little bit like the coming fall. Sometimes it is unnerving. The girl is reflective, pondering the exploitation of happiness, the doubt of humanity. There have been realizations and little happy moments, flashes of contentment and solace, prickly little heartaches, and truths and perceptions.
Human emotion is a lovely little riddle.
She is beginning to believe in an overall sense of being, a mentality for the positive, but permeable to the negative.
But she believes in beauty. Oh, there is infinity in beauty!
There are such wonderful little things to be had in this world, savory little moments to ponder and allow. There was a glimmer of serenity in the crunch of the leaves on the sidewalk. There is solace in the smell of burning candles and the far-off thrum of opera music. There is softness in Sunday mornings, when there is no need to get up early, and one is content to waste the day away giggling over nonsensical things.
She has come to believe in herself, to believe in being. She believes in emotion, sometimes in the beauty of suffering, in artistic expression, in reality, in perception, in phantasmagoria, in inhibitions, in happiness, in choice, in caring, in hurt and anger, in memory, and also in unicorns and caterpillars.
I feel like this song. Floating and transparent, absorbing things, processing, neutral, yet dynamic. It is wonderful how some music comes to one just as needed.
The distant sky, in the noise of the revolving ring of flowers That day, on the day, the moment that I cross over, I wake up Sketch the flame in the haze and pursue the girl playing in the street Someone whose name I don't know appeared on the high ground and its moving
That road seen in a dream and the shadow's voice murmurs The coming days too, the coming days too, thousands of hours crossing over The wise man in the darkness is assembling the meanings that were cast aside On the coastlands, on the coastlands, the invisible flames were made to dance
The high sky, the dyed scarlet day's flamelike cloud patterns That day, that day, at that time show me the road that was lost Repeating, the resounding dream, the time of chasing the wind descends Along the river, along the river, the invisible scarlet flower was spotted
Aah, the mantle goes up in fire from loquacity Congratulate the one standing up in the abandoned field Aah, it's peaceful, it's peaceful, the girl's field of vision Aah, in the strange city the lamp is lit.
Leave this with a sense of beauty, an idea, a thought to stick in the dusty corners of one's mind for a later date. I do not yet know if beauty and happiness are related. I think there is also beauty in sad things, too. Beauty is emotion.
People do not recognize beautiful things anymore. There is too much hurry, too much gazing at watches, too much of this and that. Emotions are far too materially influenced; there is not enough realization to allow the raw.
I think one needs time alone once in a while to appreciate the noise the world makes in the mean time. Silence is sometimes just as gratifying.
Dawn is a treacherous thing. It always seems to come suddenly. The girl far preferred dusk. Why, the day only begins so it may end, she thought. And isn't the ending a fantastic deal indeed? The end begins at three in the afternoon. The windows grow weary from so much light, and the dear sentient sun takes pity upon these flat transparent beings, dimming and departing.
And it is slow, like a damask Victorian funeral processional, that the evening comes to be. The sun flees, a wanton traveling salesman to the day, pettying the wares of presumed warmth and shamefully dressing itself in cloaks of vagabond clouds. The sun is a petty and overrated thing, sometimes. The girl is happy to see it go this eve. Night seems much calmer--and the Princess Moon much more a composed extrovert. The moon does not care for gaudy displays of affection; she floats in her cosmic void as silent as a dove.
She welcomes day's unwanted creatures, too. She is not one to judge.
There are fireflies living in the garden now. The strike their lanterns as soon as free from the sun's maurauding, suspicious glances.
They play around the trellises and hum around the garden-gate. The girl finds them merry things and does wish more to come.
Soon it will be high summer, and the nights will be as sticky as caramel taffy. Slowly one comes accustomed to this, though, as it is far more comfortable being nocturnal than facing the sweltering of the day. The smoke of candles and burning incense is suited better for night anyways, mimicking cobwebs and whisking one away to some gauzy tale out of the Arabian Nights.
The girl has been listening to these three synth songbirds lately. They make her think of summer things, and the season is due for summer-things indeed. Here is a snippet left by a finch for your own viewing:
Best wishes and shining, treasure-like thoughts to reader[s] and dear browsers.
It's too quiet here, she thought to herself, unfolding like a moth from sheets of cream and buttery hue. It's much too quiet. Here, where people wake and work and do the same thing they've done the day before. Here, where the only pronounced change in weather comes predictably with the roulette of the seasons. Here, where if you listen long enough and devoutly enough, you can here that savage scraping of shovels, the grand sifting of time, the removal of ages of memory and woe, working to expose rude and nameless things one has sought to forget.
But oh! she observed. But here, look how the sun shines ever-so quaintly through the window. Regardless of the space and memories, how the sun still persists!
There was an impromptu tea party outdoors this afternoon. The girl invited her dearest wonderland friends to join. There was a merry chirrup of birds in the trees and the sweet, earthy-sticky smell of grass clippings. The tea was green and minty.
Later on a gnome was kind enough to visit. The girl had a multitude of gnomes that inhabited her backyard.
There was an invitation sent out for Pooker, but he seemed far more interested in bumblebees and leaves and catching sunbeams than tea.
Reynaldo seemed to want to visit, but missed the invitation.
After tea and goodies, the sidewalk looked due and prime for some artwork. The girl decided to draw her favorite things. There was a walrus and a troll, and also some pudgy birds and dill pickles.
And the girl thought to herself, why must we perceive what is at our immediacy as boring and dull? Why must life be an outlet for discontent? And the decision came to be that day--it does not pay to suffer and pine over the doldrums of life. The situation in question is a neutral stimuli, and what affects being is what is perceived, this being either positive or negative. I dare not write or leer over what is already writ, but I stand to emphasize and proclaim. There is a choice at every crossroads, dearest wonderland friends, and we are made to harbor our own destiny. This does not mean that one is not entitled to emotion or opinion; simply, there is always a choice to be had, we must only allow ourselves the action.
Find wonder in your lives. For every realist there is a dreamer, for every daydream a thought rooted in our perception.
This anecdote stands as a footnote to the greater portion of the entry. Today there was an appointment and a bill to be paid and a surgery announced. There were checks to write and cars to drive. Icky, adult-like things that are tarnished with monotony and media. And my dear friends, I've decided I shall never grow up.
Because make-believe is far too much fun. I will play the role of the adult, but I think I shall ever be a child--the world is simply too wide and splendid to allow otherwise.
Greatest love to my reader[s] and browsers and friends.
I've come to believe that I am a troll and not a young lady.
I am short and skinny with eyes the color of nature-things, and my hair is lopsided and messy in the mornings. I am rather fond of being nocturnal, and when I neglect showers, I tend to smell funny. I am quite fine with crawling about on my hands and knees. I rather dislike itchy things and spend a good deal of my time thinking very troll-like thoughts--[trolls think about things like birds and peppermints and leaves and dancing troll dances, if you were wondering, dear friends].
I must say, I would be rather content living in the hollow of an old tree and munching on grass and leaves and twigs all my days. I could make friends with the woodland animals and splash in muddy-mud puddles. It all sounds rather nice, doesn't it?
I visited some trollkin a while ago. They lives in a low-lying valley to the south, surrounded by hills and trees and rivers and llama farms.
I met the dear Hans Pipkin, who was kind enough to show me his accordion. There was a troll with a tophat and large feet, and a motherly looking troll as well. There was merriment and dancing, and trollfood and trollcheer. I really, gosh, think I must be a troll.
My dear wonderland friend came with me. I do not think she is a troll. I don't know what she is, rightly, but she is my friend all the same. Aside from visiting trollkin, we explored the shore of a great river. There was rain on the horizon and jovialty in our laughter. The sun was lost and weary amongst the clouds--this was how I felt the whole day. I felt quite fond of being lost in my surroundings, lost in what was life. I was a good deal tired, mind you. But by no means does my weariness imply sadness. Sometimes, when I am so very tired, time seems to move slower. I have some of my most wonderful adventures when I am weary.
Here is a place for the stories in my head--the endless little tales of wicked woodlands and conflicted gentlemen that waltz their way into my daydreams.
