| (vii) & speak of me in present tense; |
[Mar. 18th, 2009|06:02 pm] |
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| (vi) you find all your ugly meanings in the things I find beautiful; |
[Mar. 5th, 2009|10:11 am] |
Sixteen days, nine hours, and 44 minutes → duration of the time I have spent in the stables, each day braving bites and kicks from spirited stallions (of the purest blood), cleaning up after their majesties and trying to earn their approval with offerings of apples, carrots, sugar cubes and such. It is exhausting.
I sorely miss the libraries; but I cannot ask to return, and I cannot hope to get more than what has been afforded me.
Yesterday, the stablehands let me help them break in the newest addition to the stables. A magnificent black thoroughbred. I believe they expected me to perish and be ground to dust, but I managed to get a saddle on his back – even if it was for a fraction of a minute. By the end of the day, he was responding to my calls. I have named him Prometheus, but – before any eyebrows are raised, I have absolutely no fantasy about him belonging to me. One cannot ask to own such a magnificent creature and be answered with a 'yes, you may'.
Is that the lesson, then? It has been learned. |
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| (v) but sister, it's the opposite of hallelujah, it's the opposite of being you; |
[Feb. 4th, 2009|10:55 am] |
Today is a day of questions:
- How does one restore a thousand year old priceless magical text when one doesn't want to touch it for fear it will crumble?
- How does one tell a wolf-hound the new guest sitting in the library is not his soul mate?
- How does one choose between grapes and pomegranates?
- When can one walk out of the house to inspect the fountain?
- Can I sneak in a few floor cushions into the Chapel? Why is there a Chapel in this House?
- How many Ravenclaws does it take to sniff out a pretentious & self-righteous hack?
And last but not the least:
Where is Professor Snape? |
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| (iv) would you like the chance to shatter heaven? |
[Jan. 28th, 2009|10:46 am] |
Clean & compact.
I have:
My own room.
Which contains:
A bed
A writing desk
Two chairs
Clean robes
A pair of slippers & outdoor shoes
A wardrobe
Inkwell & three new quills
Writing paper (with the Lestrange family crest!)
I have access to a bathroom.
I have not yet seen the entire house; I haven't yet even seen the kitchen (it is huge). But oh, the room. I'll boldly state here that a woman must have (some form of - imagined or real) independence, the ownership of her form, mind, heart & soul, and a room of her own if she is to write her own history as it unfolds.
I have some of it. And that's a start. |
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| (iii) waging wars to shape the poet & the beat; |
[Jan. 19th, 2009|12:45 pm] |
The world will rush back to me. All of it; the sunlight, the colours, the smells, the sounds, the deficiencies and the defects – all the little imperfections. Faces I have loved, bodies I have hated. It will all come to me and I will grab at it with greedy fists. I will gulp it down and feel it filling my frame (and the new robes). I will clutch it and hold it close to my heart, my eyes and my lips; not even a thousand dead gods from the pits of earth will be able to wrest away the joy and the laughter.
What do you think happens to a person when all hope, all light and all the normal tracings of life are taken away from her in a place like this? Madness? Perhaps. But not entirely. There is still a handful of sunlight that sneaks in through the cracks, and the gust of sea-air that makes breathing worthwhile. Water seeps through stone and makes a tiny hole; I find myself whole again when witnessing these audacious displays certifying existence.
Now I am to be released (so I have heard) and the designation is 'slave'.
Oh my.
I have been murdered a thousand times over and then again. I have emptied my screams into this place. Even if as a slave, I will step out of here and the world will rush back to me.
I will rush to it. And ask for it to love me, love me again.
The bows and curtsies and the tea services and the cleaning apparatus come next. Come last. |
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| (ii) dark hearts & black poetry; |
[Dec. 31st, 2008|02:11 pm] |
This is what I need:
warmth.
lack of silence.
a reason to move.
a damn book.
soap.
Pity the poor so-and-so's? |
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| (i) every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end; |
[Dec. 22nd, 2008|10:35 am] |
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FACT: Rat tastes like chicken and noodles. |
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