Once upon a time, there was a young woman who was desperately longing for love that did not stop to count the cost of loving. She had lived a long time with love doled out based on merit, and had learned that that kind of love never stayed, if it ever arrived. After this many years, she had learned to stop setting a place for love at her table, and then she stopped going to her own table. It had become such a lonely place, that it wasn't worth going there to wait for any visitors, and so she never ate there, herself.
She had once grown a garden, but since no one seemed to want to enjoy what she grew, she stopped tilling the soil, and stopped planting, or watering or tending at all. Her little cottage became very overgrown, and the dark forest that had long occupied her back acres encroached, and soon the sun barely touched her little roof. She had once thought that she would sing out in her front yard as she tended to her little plot, but the songs she had planned to sing became long and lonely, haunted verses that she barely recognized as her own.
This little home was so unsatisfying and unfulfilling without any Love visiting her, that she stopped going back. For many days at a time, she would wander in the woods, fascinated by the shadows and thick gnarled trees, scavenging whatever she could for sustenance. Sometimes she wondered when she would accidentally pick a poisonous mushroom or berry, and the thought never really frightened her as it should have. When she saw the quick moving shadows of wolves and strange lunatic birds, she contented herself with the thought that they were farther off than was dangerous. Sometimes she wondered how she would fare if they were close enough. In her heart, she knew that one day she would meet one face to face, and there would be no sunshine, no torch, to keep them at bay. The thought brought only vague curiousity, and the ebb of sadness that flowed in her would rise and wash over her.
There was a village of run-down sheds and cottages somewhere in the forest, that she sometimes stopped at and met and sang her lonely songs to the people that lived there. Sometimes they listened, and one or another villager would walk with her for a day or two. But they would always go back, because her little cottage was too far to walk to, and no one really wanted to do more than walk awhile, anyway.
One day, while walking along the outskirts of the village, she saw another lone figure along the path up ahead. This person was so bundled against the cold that she could not tell if it was a man or woman, old or young, dangerous or safe. It had been so long since she even thought of her little cottage, that she forgot that anyone might visit her at all. So when she saw this figure, all she thought was that it might be fun to walk with someone else for a time. She knew that just like every other villager, they would leave her to the dark woods.
As they passed, she saw that this was a young man, whose face showed the same sadness that she lived with. He breifly glanced up, but neither spoke. She took comfort in the simple fact that she was not alone.
The woods were darker than ever over the next few days, and more and more she found herself travelling through dangerous territories. More and more she could glimpse the wolves darting between the trees, hear the flutter of the owls that took more than small rodents. She stumbled into an opening in the forest one night, tired from so long wihtout a roof. With great surprise she found it was her very own little cottage, nearly overtaken by the grasses and thorns. the paint was chipping and one shutter was hanging from one nail, but inside the table was set and there was everything she needed to host a lovely little party.
The supplies and the lovely table made her sadness harder to bear. She laughed at her own innocent hopefulness, and the laugh was so bitter it tasted foul in her mouth. It was too painful to stay, so she left her little house by the front door.
Out by her broken down little garden plot was the same young man she had passed by those few dark days ago. When he heard the door, he looked up, the remaining delight from the sight of her little garden plot still on his face. There was hope, and longing, and she recognized both because she had never been able to shed either from her lonely heart.
There had never been any fence around her cottage or her garden, because she had taken them down, believing that Love must have been convinced that the fence was there to keep it out. All that happened was strangers would come and take her fruit and flowers, and leave. That seemed so long ago, and so full of hope.
This young man apologized for trespassing, and complimented he ron her little plot, and she went out to him and they stood for a long time by her poor little garden plot. After awhile, he shuddered from the cold, even with all his layers. So she invited him in to sit by the fire, and he agreed, more delighted than she could ever fathom. Why would anyone want to sit in such a broken little home? She hoped she could get the fireplace to work. She didn't bother to warn him how mean and poor it was inside, because she was quite sure it all spoke for itself.
But it seemed the young man never noticed. His face registered such delight and wonder and pleasure at her dusty little rooms. The old curtains were still up, and the interior, which she had taken such care to furnish, were dirty, but unchanged. She looked around and began to see what she had once taken such care to create- a place where Love could live.
Sometimes they walked together in the woods, and mostly they shared the little dusty cottage. After awhile, she began to dust, and clean, and fluff out her table cloths, and curtains, and she began to clean out the flu, and prepare her table setting for a feast. After all, she had the supplies, and finally there was a guest who cared to stay and share the food with her.
She tended her garden, and pulled out the paint cans in the cellar. Just when spring was coming to her little cottage, her visitor came and spent the day with her, but he was preoccupied. He told her he wouldn't come to visit her anymore. The woman felt all her hopefulness like a dagger in her heart. She realized what a fool she had been, and turned her eyes to the beckoning night of the woods. Maybe if she let an owl tear her heart from her chest, it wouldn't hurt like this.
But before he left her yard, she called to him, and laid all her heartache on his shoulders. She pulled out all the feast plans she had made, and handed them to him, and when he left, at least he would know what he had cost her.
The trees were gnarled and ugly, and the wolves circled her from a distance, and she wandered so far, so long, that she stumbled and fell asleep on her feet. But it was never far enough, because she still felt that dagger in her heart. She went to the village, and took no company. There were nights she laid down in the woods and slept, dreaming frightening dreams, and woke shivering in the cold dawn. It was always a disappointment that she had not been devoured.
After days of sleeping in the woods and walking the windy paths of the village, her paths crossed with the young man once more. The sight of him was so comforting, that she thought maybe if they would only walk together, and no more hoping- then maybe she would be alright. There would be company but no hope. That, she thought, would be alright.
He agreed to this arrangement, but as they walked the dark cold paths, she found that he was leading them back towards the little warm cottage. He was shivering, and he smiled with great longing. When they came within sight of the tended plot, she stopped. "Please." he whispered. "I did not know how cold I was, until I sat by your fire. I did not know how dreary it was, until I saw the pretty curtains, and soft chairs. I did not know how hungry I was until I could not eat wiht you any more. I dis not know how terrible it was to wander until I had a home."
And in her heart, she knew she felt the same. There was no home without Love. "Please don't turn away." he pleaded, and reached out his arms. It was not her sadness, or her loneliness that moved her then- it was the greatest thing she feared and longed for. It was Love.
She went in wiht him, then. Laid out a hot feast and warming mugs of mulled wine, and they sat and ate and when they were done with all their fruit, they went out together and planted a garden full of seeds. During the day, they worked to bring the little cottage back to it's original state- bright and warm and cheery. He chopped down the trees that had come too close, and the sun shined on their little yard. Together they put up the fence that she ahd taken down, and she realized that it had never kept Love out, but kept out those who had the worng intentions.
After a time, they took in visitors who needed the warmth, and they saw many a traveler stop and take heart at the sight of their chimney puffing smoke and the windows lit with yellow glowing light.
There were days when she wondered if she would have met him if she had never wandered- if he would have come to stay when her garden was blooming and her fence was still up- but she knew that it was no matter, now. The old scars had healed, and she was cold no longer. The night outside was not hers, and she knew that it never had been. Wherever the villagers were, whatever they did, she could not find it in her heart to care. If there were wolves and the lunatic birds out there, she lived within strong walls that kept them out.
Love had finally come, and this Love stayed.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Takes two to tango, or the Tragedy of the Duchess
I recently watched the movie "The Duchess" starring Keira Knightley, and I am still wheeling from it. I have heard, of course, that it was not historical on some things, but to be honest, I am not terribly interested in that.
It was a story of a woman born to privilege, who was married at seventeen for the politics and status. Her husband wanted only to have a son, and she had no idea what the hell she was getting into. From the beginning she was uncomfortable with her husband- who did not woo her, talk to her, or even get too affectionate while making heirs, if you get me. At one point her dear friend tell her to imagine a man kissing her back as he unfastened her dress, and she replied "They do not do such things." Oh how sad.
Suffering miscarriages and stillbirths, she believed that she as a woman was incapable of carrying a boy to term, as if it was her biological inability. (Oh the irony that it's the man that determines the sex of a child) Her husband had many affairs, sired a daughter out of wedlock, and Georgiana suffered quietly. Dressing extravagantly, going to parties and striving to be winsome and winning, she succeeded in being adored by everyone but her husband. When she did have an affair, one that may have promised love, she was forbidden by her husband to see him, and told her if she did not turn from him, she would be denied her children. (four, by now)
She bore a daughter to her lover, Charles Grey, and went off on "vacation" to be pregnant, and then hand over the tiny infant to her lover's family.
If ever there was a scene that ripped my heart from my chest and stepped on it, it was this. Accompanied by her best friend and her husband's mistress, she took her tiny baby Eliza and in the middle of nowhere, handed her over to a nurse. The baby was silent, until the carriage began to draw away, and then when her daughter began to cry, Georgiana flung herself forward, but her friend was there to hold her, whispering in her ear as G wailed and floundered.
Can any mother watch this, can any woman watch this, and not wither in horror and grief? A loveless life save for her children, a friendship that struggled to continue through the affair wiht her husband, and now this? The abandonment of her only chance for affection, and the giving up of her baby?
My poor husband didn't know what to do with me, as I quailed and silently sobbed as the baby cried. I went and held my sleeping boy in my arms for a long time, savoring his healthy adoring weight.
I watched a portrait of a woman whose extravagant exterior and social life belied a miserable shriveled marriage and a lonely interior life. Her children were her only source of love, and at the same time her burden. There was no blessing without it being mixed. How should I come away from this?
A selfless woman, who sacrificed her own happiness for the well-being of her children? A poor mistaken soul who suffered for no good reason? I think the movie lends itself towards the former interpretation, but truly, there was no overwhelming moral lesson. I found one moment interesting.
She confronts her husband after many years of affairs and failed pregnancies- after he has bedded her best friend. After exploding at him, she finally, in desperation and pure vulnerability, asks him "What is wrong with me?" implying his lack of interest in her. He goes to her, face full of concern and sorrow- and she leans towards him. Before he touches her, though, she shudders away and shakes him off.
There was one single moment where there might have been something real- a seed of possibility. Personally, I believe that no matter how ugly, a marriage can be patched up and given some kind of life. It takes a hell of a lot of work, and requires that one be completely vulnerable, and then be willing to continue with that. If she had let him hold her, as she so desired, if he had accepted her as she so wanted, (which it seemed he would) then their love might have become real. I believe the movie does make it clear that she wanted her husband to love her more than any other.
And the truth is, it takes two to tango, right? She wants his love, and he only has so much to give. He has a set idea of what will come of this, and does not believe that he is willing to change. But as the movie proved, he was willing, in some extent. If only they had read "The most important year ina Man/Woman's life." then maybe they would have had some luck!
Mawidge
My husband and I are coming up to our second anniversary of marriage ( May 11th) and now past is our second anniversary of
a) having met ( February 8th)
b) our first conversation (February 11th)
c) our first "date" (February 12th)
If you have been paying attention you will notice that we married about three months after having met. I don't really tell people that right away. I try not to, since most people tend to react with a sense of restrained surprise and doubt. How do I express to these folks that in our three month courtship, we crammed in three years' worth of life? How would they believe me?
How can I tell these nice people that though their concern is well-intentioned, and based on reality ( so says the great relational cynic) but totally unnecessary? That we know exactly what challenges we face as a married couple, let alone one who has only recently gotten to know one another ( and continue to do so). We know what a failed marriage costs, and so we know what a successful one is worth.
Well, let me say that life with Fuzzy has finally settled down, somewhat. In our first year of marriage, God changed both he and I dramatically, and we went through EPIC adventures. We also lost a baby and then had a baby shortly after our first anniversary. We are now learning how to be parents, and learning how to love one another in the midst of a life that feels more like regular life.
While the changes we go through are smaller, they are no less dramatic. I want to post a tribute to my husband, to the beautiful man he has become, and is still becoming. But before I do, I think it is important to talk about us.
I am motivated strongly not only to praise him to whoever will listen, but to lavish him with affection this Valentines' Day, and I am excited by this. Every day my hubby goes to work, to earn us a living and to allow me to stay home to raise our little Tristan. Every day, he chooses to put me and our son first, and for each small sacrifice he makes, I resound like a bell in gratitude. How can I show him what this means to me?
I come from a broken home, as many of you know. My father has chosen to love himself more than any other being, and as such he is not very well equipped to love ANYTHING let alone himself. My mother has a tendency to love based on production and behavior. I believed that God loved like that, too.
Until my husband came along, I didn't believe that anyone would or could ever love me like he does. Even God. For that alone, I am thankful. I keep that in my mind whenever I have the choice to get angry for the little stupid things. Because of him, God is introducing me to the love that He really has for me, and who I really am in Him. What a blessing!
On the anniversary of our first meeting ( four days from now) I am overwhelmed at how much we have both changed, and how we have been changed for the better. Marriage is a constant refining of one's self in order to put another first- and so is parenting. Much refining is going on, little by little. In the beginning, it was like refining metal- boil it up, skim off bad stuff, boil it up again, lather rinse repeat. While such a process is volatile and painful, it may have been easier to take for someone like me, who is drawn to extremes in myself and in others. I also enjoy using extremes to challenge people. But the slower process? More like water on a stone? ( Isn't there a torture like that? Chinese water torture?) I have a hard time with the slower ways, because it's easy to forget what's going on, lose focus and just complain.
But there are times when I am bored out of my mind and so rocked by what feels like stagnancy, and in comes a still small voice saying "this is so painful- there must be a purpose. What compels you to run, and what good comes of staying still?" and I thank God for that voice. It is this very inclination that causes me to realize that there is a purpose.
Joni Earekson Tada is a quadriplegic. She is strapped into a wheelchair, and is so much more than many people ever will be with all four limbs functioning- but one of the things that blew me away about her was what she said one day about when she gets to meet Jesus face to face. In her glorified body, she will have all the uses of her limbs and digits. She said that she used to tell people that when she met Jesus she would dance for Him. Later, and still, she said that now she knows that when she meets Jesus, she will
just
sit
still.
I felt that through my whole body as if I had been hit. An offering to Jesus to be still in His Presence, after a lifetime of being still. How amazing and self-sacrificing. I think of this whenever I feel frustrated. My stillness as an offering.
a) having met ( February 8th)
b) our first conversation (February 11th)
c) our first "date" (February 12th)
If you have been paying attention you will notice that we married about three months after having met. I don't really tell people that right away. I try not to, since most people tend to react with a sense of restrained surprise and doubt. How do I express to these folks that in our three month courtship, we crammed in three years' worth of life? How would they believe me?
How can I tell these nice people that though their concern is well-intentioned, and based on reality ( so says the great relational cynic) but totally unnecessary? That we know exactly what challenges we face as a married couple, let alone one who has only recently gotten to know one another ( and continue to do so). We know what a failed marriage costs, and so we know what a successful one is worth.
Well, let me say that life with Fuzzy has finally settled down, somewhat. In our first year of marriage, God changed both he and I dramatically, and we went through EPIC adventures. We also lost a baby and then had a baby shortly after our first anniversary. We are now learning how to be parents, and learning how to love one another in the midst of a life that feels more like regular life.
While the changes we go through are smaller, they are no less dramatic. I want to post a tribute to my husband, to the beautiful man he has become, and is still becoming. But before I do, I think it is important to talk about us.
I am motivated strongly not only to praise him to whoever will listen, but to lavish him with affection this Valentines' Day, and I am excited by this. Every day my hubby goes to work, to earn us a living and to allow me to stay home to raise our little Tristan. Every day, he chooses to put me and our son first, and for each small sacrifice he makes, I resound like a bell in gratitude. How can I show him what this means to me?
I come from a broken home, as many of you know. My father has chosen to love himself more than any other being, and as such he is not very well equipped to love ANYTHING let alone himself. My mother has a tendency to love based on production and behavior. I believed that God loved like that, too.
Until my husband came along, I didn't believe that anyone would or could ever love me like he does. Even God. For that alone, I am thankful. I keep that in my mind whenever I have the choice to get angry for the little stupid things. Because of him, God is introducing me to the love that He really has for me, and who I really am in Him. What a blessing!
On the anniversary of our first meeting ( four days from now) I am overwhelmed at how much we have both changed, and how we have been changed for the better. Marriage is a constant refining of one's self in order to put another first- and so is parenting. Much refining is going on, little by little. In the beginning, it was like refining metal- boil it up, skim off bad stuff, boil it up again, lather rinse repeat. While such a process is volatile and painful, it may have been easier to take for someone like me, who is drawn to extremes in myself and in others. I also enjoy using extremes to challenge people. But the slower process? More like water on a stone? ( Isn't there a torture like that? Chinese water torture?) I have a hard time with the slower ways, because it's easy to forget what's going on, lose focus and just complain.
But there are times when I am bored out of my mind and so rocked by what feels like stagnancy, and in comes a still small voice saying "this is so painful- there must be a purpose. What compels you to run, and what good comes of staying still?" and I thank God for that voice. It is this very inclination that causes me to realize that there is a purpose.
Joni Earekson Tada is a quadriplegic. She is strapped into a wheelchair, and is so much more than many people ever will be with all four limbs functioning- but one of the things that blew me away about her was what she said one day about when she gets to meet Jesus face to face. In her glorified body, she will have all the uses of her limbs and digits. She said that she used to tell people that when she met Jesus she would dance for Him. Later, and still, she said that now she knows that when she meets Jesus, she will
just
sit
still.
I felt that through my whole body as if I had been hit. An offering to Jesus to be still in His Presence, after a lifetime of being still. How amazing and self-sacrificing. I think of this whenever I feel frustrated. My stillness as an offering.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
a portion of the story
Tonight was going to be my last with Will, and I had to dress.
Suiting my education, I took to my suites and began to prepare. Since we were in New York, I had Merrique’s servants at my disposal. Gretchen pulled up the bath for me, and scented to water with bergamot and vanilla. After I had soaked, she rubbed me with lotion and left my cosmetics out. Michel was our hair stylist, and he would arrive in an hour.
In the mirror, I sat in my lingerie, La Perla Coup de Couer- a black lacy feminine pairing that was both deadly serious and fragile femininity. My nipples were just visible through the bra. Unadorned, I was pretty. With make-up and the right attitude- now, I could be anything I wanted. Marilyn Monroe used to sit in front of the mirror for hours, practicing facial expressions. I always used this time before and during the application of make-up for that very purpose. A meditative appraisal of my face, of my eyes and mouth and the tilt and turn that crafted the right look. Cheekbones and a nose give a face it’s character, the hardware a woman learns to use. I had been blessed by genetics with a fat plush bottom lip, and a chubby cupid’s bow for my top lip. This was my easiest ace. I had learned to highlight the inside of my bottom lip to make it appear rounder and fuller, which was a trick that never failed to seduce me, let alone a man.
Slowly, I watched myself as I moisturized, applied foundation with my make up brushes- some of the girls used an air brush, but I preferred the slightly heavier look of brush application. Geishas of Japan would leave a thin line of flesh visible around their nape and hair line, to suggest the mask of their white face paint. It was as sensual as letting your dress slip to show your bra strap. It suggested the warmth of the living flesh beneath, which in turn, eroticized the mask. As my face took on the even tone of foundation, I dabbed at my mouth, and it disappeared beneath the nude make-up. I covered my eyelids and under my eyes, which had always given me trouble. Just as I was born with a mouth to worship, I was born with under eye circles. No matter how well I slept, they were always there, the purple of a bruise.
When all my blemishes were covered, I smiled at my ghost face- the base of my empire. I used powdered eye liner, which took great skill to apply, but was worth the trouble. Befitting my mysterious dark woman persona, I gently tilted the line to appear more like cat eyes, and dusted a soft black of shading around the final line. This too, I had to take care not to look like I had a black eye.
There have been times where I was called on to wear false eyelashes, which I loved for their drama. This was not such a time. The up close and personal tussling I would be engaging in would have melted the glue, and nothing is less sexy that a sudden sprouting of a limb of hair from your eyelid. When I first met Will, I wore them. To be seen from across the room. The opera houses of old were the right atmosphere for false lashes.
I gently slid the mascara brush over my long curling lashes, and smiled at myself. With the right curling, they hung low, which added to the unfolding woman in the mirror. I brushed over my cheekbones, a bare bare blush, and turned my mind to my mouth. If anything could persuade me of what kind of a goddess I was to be, it was this mouth. It told me who I was that night. IT is hard to say what goes through my mind, because as I lined my lips, very little did. It is perhaps my greatest refuge- make up. It is so technical and delicate as to require full attention, and as I do this, I watch the appearance of a woman who is beautiful and formidable. Poor Will.
The color is red, as always. Will falls into the Victim Persona of the Sensualist, a sucker for the bright and lovely, for the sensations. In his world, that which is colorful, striking and pleasing is extremely desirable. I drag the lipstick brush down and up the lines of my lips, and smile slowly.
“Bernadette Godfrey.” I said, to the smiling woman in the mirror, fair skinned, dark haired, and almost naked save for a few bits of supportive black lace. I laughed.
I feel sexier when I put on my shoes first. Tall heels, with a seductive swoop to the heel itself, my foot was strapped and wound by the shoe, that invoked bondage severity. Gretchen helped me slither into the jersey dress (black) that covered me from my collarbones to above my knees. Long sleeves clung to my arms, and I could see the lift of my wrist bone under the fabric. I loved this dress because it gave away nothing but hinted towards everything. Michel arrived, and attended to me as I watched in my mirrors. He was tall, French, and bleached blonde. He wore dark rimmed glasses, and eyeliner. Despite stereotypes, he was flamboyant and straight. An artist from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet, he prattled adorably, but was all seriousness about my hair. After awhile, he became too absorbed to talk, and I had the distinct pleasure of watching him. A tight chignon, so simple and smooth and beautiful. I had to be able to take it down easily, so it was very difficult work. One pin to unravel his knot meant he had to tie it up with great balance.
“Adieu, Michel. Merci beau coups.” I said, shutting the door on my suites, letting Gretchen see him out. Once more I glanced at myself, and was surprised by the creature that watched me with wide dark eyes. The whites of her eyes were very white, and there was a hint of fear in the expression.
Suiting my education, I took to my suites and began to prepare. Since we were in New York, I had Merrique’s servants at my disposal. Gretchen pulled up the bath for me, and scented to water with bergamot and vanilla. After I had soaked, she rubbed me with lotion and left my cosmetics out. Michel was our hair stylist, and he would arrive in an hour.
In the mirror, I sat in my lingerie, La Perla Coup de Couer- a black lacy feminine pairing that was both deadly serious and fragile femininity. My nipples were just visible through the bra. Unadorned, I was pretty. With make-up and the right attitude- now, I could be anything I wanted. Marilyn Monroe used to sit in front of the mirror for hours, practicing facial expressions. I always used this time before and during the application of make-up for that very purpose. A meditative appraisal of my face, of my eyes and mouth and the tilt and turn that crafted the right look. Cheekbones and a nose give a face it’s character, the hardware a woman learns to use. I had been blessed by genetics with a fat plush bottom lip, and a chubby cupid’s bow for my top lip. This was my easiest ace. I had learned to highlight the inside of my bottom lip to make it appear rounder and fuller, which was a trick that never failed to seduce me, let alone a man.
Slowly, I watched myself as I moisturized, applied foundation with my make up brushes- some of the girls used an air brush, but I preferred the slightly heavier look of brush application. Geishas of Japan would leave a thin line of flesh visible around their nape and hair line, to suggest the mask of their white face paint. It was as sensual as letting your dress slip to show your bra strap. It suggested the warmth of the living flesh beneath, which in turn, eroticized the mask. As my face took on the even tone of foundation, I dabbed at my mouth, and it disappeared beneath the nude make-up. I covered my eyelids and under my eyes, which had always given me trouble. Just as I was born with a mouth to worship, I was born with under eye circles. No matter how well I slept, they were always there, the purple of a bruise.
When all my blemishes were covered, I smiled at my ghost face- the base of my empire. I used powdered eye liner, which took great skill to apply, but was worth the trouble. Befitting my mysterious dark woman persona, I gently tilted the line to appear more like cat eyes, and dusted a soft black of shading around the final line. This too, I had to take care not to look like I had a black eye.
There have been times where I was called on to wear false eyelashes, which I loved for their drama. This was not such a time. The up close and personal tussling I would be engaging in would have melted the glue, and nothing is less sexy that a sudden sprouting of a limb of hair from your eyelid. When I first met Will, I wore them. To be seen from across the room. The opera houses of old were the right atmosphere for false lashes.
I gently slid the mascara brush over my long curling lashes, and smiled at myself. With the right curling, they hung low, which added to the unfolding woman in the mirror. I brushed over my cheekbones, a bare bare blush, and turned my mind to my mouth. If anything could persuade me of what kind of a goddess I was to be, it was this mouth. It told me who I was that night. IT is hard to say what goes through my mind, because as I lined my lips, very little did. It is perhaps my greatest refuge- make up. It is so technical and delicate as to require full attention, and as I do this, I watch the appearance of a woman who is beautiful and formidable. Poor Will.
The color is red, as always. Will falls into the Victim Persona of the Sensualist, a sucker for the bright and lovely, for the sensations. In his world, that which is colorful, striking and pleasing is extremely desirable. I drag the lipstick brush down and up the lines of my lips, and smile slowly.
“Bernadette Godfrey.” I said, to the smiling woman in the mirror, fair skinned, dark haired, and almost naked save for a few bits of supportive black lace. I laughed.
I feel sexier when I put on my shoes first. Tall heels, with a seductive swoop to the heel itself, my foot was strapped and wound by the shoe, that invoked bondage severity. Gretchen helped me slither into the jersey dress (black) that covered me from my collarbones to above my knees. Long sleeves clung to my arms, and I could see the lift of my wrist bone under the fabric. I loved this dress because it gave away nothing but hinted towards everything. Michel arrived, and attended to me as I watched in my mirrors. He was tall, French, and bleached blonde. He wore dark rimmed glasses, and eyeliner. Despite stereotypes, he was flamboyant and straight. An artist from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet, he prattled adorably, but was all seriousness about my hair. After awhile, he became too absorbed to talk, and I had the distinct pleasure of watching him. A tight chignon, so simple and smooth and beautiful. I had to be able to take it down easily, so it was very difficult work. One pin to unravel his knot meant he had to tie it up with great balance.
“Adieu, Michel. Merci beau coups.” I said, shutting the door on my suites, letting Gretchen see him out. Once more I glanced at myself, and was surprised by the creature that watched me with wide dark eyes. The whites of her eyes were very white, and there was a hint of fear in the expression.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
The writing place
There is a room, a loft studio. It has white walls, with years of paint on it and dents on the corners of the walls and doorjams from years of use and it looks well worn and a little fudged around the edges. But the light is amazing. The floors are a soft bright maple, a warm color, but in the winter the floors are so cold. All day long there is a bright bar of sunlight across the floor, and the writer has positioned her desk right by that window. The desk is an old cheapo kitchen table from the fifties. It's white Formica-ish surface is free of clutter entirely. In fact, the only thing on it is sometimes a typewriter, and sometimes a sleek little word processor.
If she wishes it, there is street noise, and traffic. She can look out the window and see the gritty sidewalks of the lower east side, and all the man hole covers say NYC WATER and SEWAGE. Sometimes there is a fire escape she can smoke on, drink her hot perfect cup of Starbucks and crawl back in the window, back to her words. If she looks up and sees a plant on the far windowsill, it is her old white orchid, pristine and sweet. Sometimes there is a snake plant, like her mother's mother grew, in a small terracotta pot.
There are old dressers on the two far walls, again the warm of maple. One of them has the fish-bone design on it's drawers and fronts like her mother's old art-deco vanity. Gone for years now.
When she needs them, certain women appear. Lately it's been Marilyn Monroe, dressed in a white sleeveless zip-up dress, with her pale pale blonde hair and baby soft cheeks, her gentle doe-y eyes and the voice that she did not have to make breathy. She has a small voice, but she's got a lot to say, and she says it all with the sigh of resign. She smokes with the writer, and stands just in front of the window, the light glowing along all her paleness.
Sometimes it's a dark beauty, like Monica Bellucci, who is wry and smiles with one corner of her mouth, tosses her dark hair, and sits on the farthest dresser, being beautiful. When asked questions, she gives simple one word answers, smiling like Mona Lisa. She is there to be mysterious and dark, and Marilyn is there to be world-weary and wise- the thing she never got to be.
Sometimes men are there, but there haven't been any men in a long time. The most recent one was Stuart Townsend, a faux-hawk and a torn black Clash tee shirt on. There was Sam Rockwell for awhile, sweaty and tanned, half-naked and swaggering. They all talked and she listened. They all told their stories, or rather, let the characters they brought to life for her tell the tales. There is a new face in her repertoire now, the right kind of face for a character she never could fit well wiht any person. She heard him loud and clear, but his face was hard.
But for now she listens to Marilyn sigh, and watches Bellucci smile. They all smoke and she drinks her coffee, talking to a voice that is not quite hers, but not unlike her. She tucks up one foot under her leg, wraps a scarf around her neck, because it is cold in the loft, but her fingers never get too stiff to type. She sets her coffee down and stretches out her hands to the machine before her. It is the Word Processor, this time, and when she lifts her head, both of her pretty muses are gone. Ann Bancroft stands in front of her, slick and bitchy and so wry. "Hey kid." she says, "Watch this." Ann Bancroft as she was in GI JANE, all business and Southern charm.
She throws open a door, and out walks a young woman, and when she begins to talk it sounds like this:
If she wishes it, there is street noise, and traffic. She can look out the window and see the gritty sidewalks of the lower east side, and all the man hole covers say NYC WATER and SEWAGE. Sometimes there is a fire escape she can smoke on, drink her hot perfect cup of Starbucks and crawl back in the window, back to her words. If she looks up and sees a plant on the far windowsill, it is her old white orchid, pristine and sweet. Sometimes there is a snake plant, like her mother's mother grew, in a small terracotta pot.
There are old dressers on the two far walls, again the warm of maple. One of them has the fish-bone design on it's drawers and fronts like her mother's old art-deco vanity. Gone for years now.
When she needs them, certain women appear. Lately it's been Marilyn Monroe, dressed in a white sleeveless zip-up dress, with her pale pale blonde hair and baby soft cheeks, her gentle doe-y eyes and the voice that she did not have to make breathy. She has a small voice, but she's got a lot to say, and she says it all with the sigh of resign. She smokes with the writer, and stands just in front of the window, the light glowing along all her paleness.
Sometimes it's a dark beauty, like Monica Bellucci, who is wry and smiles with one corner of her mouth, tosses her dark hair, and sits on the farthest dresser, being beautiful. When asked questions, she gives simple one word answers, smiling like Mona Lisa. She is there to be mysterious and dark, and Marilyn is there to be world-weary and wise- the thing she never got to be.
Sometimes men are there, but there haven't been any men in a long time. The most recent one was Stuart Townsend, a faux-hawk and a torn black Clash tee shirt on. There was Sam Rockwell for awhile, sweaty and tanned, half-naked and swaggering. They all talked and she listened. They all told their stories, or rather, let the characters they brought to life for her tell the tales. There is a new face in her repertoire now, the right kind of face for a character she never could fit well wiht any person. She heard him loud and clear, but his face was hard.
But for now she listens to Marilyn sigh, and watches Bellucci smile. They all smoke and she drinks her coffee, talking to a voice that is not quite hers, but not unlike her. She tucks up one foot under her leg, wraps a scarf around her neck, because it is cold in the loft, but her fingers never get too stiff to type. She sets her coffee down and stretches out her hands to the machine before her. It is the Word Processor, this time, and when she lifts her head, both of her pretty muses are gone. Ann Bancroft stands in front of her, slick and bitchy and so wry. "Hey kid." she says, "Watch this." Ann Bancroft as she was in GI JANE, all business and Southern charm.
She throws open a door, and out walks a young woman, and when she begins to talk it sounds like this:
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Lascivious, a novel
las⋅civ⋅i⋅ous [luh-siv-ee-uh
s]
–adjective 
| 1. | inclined to lustfulness; wanton; lewd: a lascivious, girl-chasing old man. |
| 2. | arousing sexual desire: lascivious photographs. |
| 3. | indicating sexual interest or expressive of lust or lewdness: a lascivious gesture. |
Origin:
1400–50; late ME < class="ital-inline">lascīvi(a) playfulness, wantonness (lascīv(us) playful, wanton + -ia -ia ) + -ous
So let's review. Amanda Quick's novels always contain
So what about a wicked woman as my heroine? A woman scarred by life and embittered? A woman more like the heroes in Quick's novels, but so much juicier....
This idea slowly evolved into two very different stories, but they both featured the two issues I had with all the romances I had ever read: The innocence of the heroine, and the bright redemptive version of sex these authors kept propagating. That kind of sex is possible, but not the way they keep selling it.
I decided to write a story that took those ideas up, and I am currently writing one of those stories-
I began with a woman in Regency England, who was young and brilliant, and fell in love. She was betrayed by the man she loved, and went off to become a character named Madame Merrique- a madam of a brothel, and a spy. She took several young women under her wing, and trained them in languages, etiquette, and the ideas of love in her culture. They used their knowledge to manipulate men- and the most important part of their training is the crux of the story. To abhor love, to see it only as a means to their destruction.
the story takes place in modern day, narrated by a new student of Merrique ( the original named her successor, and this passing of the baton went on for generations. Like the Dread Pirate Roberts.) She stands at the decision of becoming the new Merrique, or choosing to love.
It has a lot to do with arguing with the current ideas of sex, of womanhood, of love and marriage. I'm reading a whole lot of books to research it, The Art of Seduction, The Book of the Courtesans, Seductress, and those are what I've got right now. Veronica Franco will also be a very big part of my research, but I'm not reading up on her just yet.
Next time I'll give you a clip of the story.
1400–50; late ME < class="ital-inline">lascīvi(a) playfulness, wantonness (lascīv(us) playful, wanton + -ia -ia ) + -ous
So let's review. Amanda Quick's novels always contain
- A heroine who is considered an eccentric spinster (at 27)
- She is intellectual and also very naive in the ways of the world, men, and sex
- She is accused of a crime she did not commit, and must clear her name
- She needs the help of the hero to do this
- The hero is always disfigured in some mild way,
- he is emotionally reserved if not downright cold, hiding a tender and wounded heart.
- The word the "ton" meaning London society. There is also always a ball. And the heroine never digs the threads of the day.
- It's always in regency England.
So what about a wicked woman as my heroine? A woman scarred by life and embittered? A woman more like the heroes in Quick's novels, but so much juicier....
This idea slowly evolved into two very different stories, but they both featured the two issues I had with all the romances I had ever read: The innocence of the heroine, and the bright redemptive version of sex these authors kept propagating. That kind of sex is possible, but not the way they keep selling it.
I decided to write a story that took those ideas up, and I am currently writing one of those stories-
I began with a woman in Regency England, who was young and brilliant, and fell in love. She was betrayed by the man she loved, and went off to become a character named Madame Merrique- a madam of a brothel, and a spy. She took several young women under her wing, and trained them in languages, etiquette, and the ideas of love in her culture. They used their knowledge to manipulate men- and the most important part of their training is the crux of the story. To abhor love, to see it only as a means to their destruction.
the story takes place in modern day, narrated by a new student of Merrique ( the original named her successor, and this passing of the baton went on for generations. Like the Dread Pirate Roberts.) She stands at the decision of becoming the new Merrique, or choosing to love.
It has a lot to do with arguing with the current ideas of sex, of womanhood, of love and marriage. I'm reading a whole lot of books to research it, The Art of Seduction, The Book of the Courtesans, Seductress, and those are what I've got right now. Veronica Franco will also be a very big part of my research, but I'm not reading up on her just yet.
Next time I'll give you a clip of the story.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
I'm thinking about a lot of things lately, and it's kind of like Jack of All Trades, Master of None. Nothing has really been wearing my wheels out, you know? I've had a whole bunch of ideas for posting, but nothing really said "write me". I knew a few of them could turn into something, if only I started the spinning wheel turning- hey, maybe even gold- but I just never got the motivation to do it. I have been writing a story, and maybe that's where my energy has been going. When I was in art class in high school, I spent a lot of time drawing, and none writing. Like I have only room for one expressive medium- or better yet, to do one medium right, you have to focus on it, and it alone. It's like a language, in that to really be able to converse in it, you have to speak it more than any other.
So writing a story takes up all the space, it is far more fragile than blogging. Blogging can be hodge podge and sometimes it can be half-assed. A story will tell you right away if it's lying to you.
But that's a whole other post, isn't it? The fine and delicate art of fiction? Even cheap fiction, like "beach novels" or "Subway Reads" the kind of throw-away literature you can buy at the grocery store- even that is fine.
That's where I got my idea for this story- cheap fiction. When I was in Junior high and high school, I had a friend who introduced me to Romance novels. She had entire boxes of these books, pastel colored covers with elaborate fonts and the inner cover had a picture of semi-pornographic embraces. All the heroines were short, fiery/spunky/strong-willed/determined/hell-bent, and they all had hair the color of some kind of jewel.
My friend liked the western romances, but I fell head over heels( ha ha ha) for a writer named Amanda Quick, a period romance writer who stood out from all the others I had been reading, because she could actually write with some skill. The first book of hers I read was a sweet iced tea (even if it was the instant Tops brand).
I began reading these romances in short obsessive bursts, two or thee, one right after another. I usually had what I called a mourning period after books, especially good books, but I didn't need that at all with the bodice-rippers. I read enough of them to notice several common threads. The genre was extremely limited, it seemed, much to my eventual dismay.
I came to realize that a romance novel is a collective fantasy, a culture of women longing to be women ( short, spunky and with hair the color of sapphires- shoot, those are blue! ugh.....hair the color of copper? too common, not precious...shoot! Hair the color of honey- oooh, yeah.) But seriously, folks. Fantasies are very specific- the wrong note and the whole song is ruined. And in this way, romance is limited. In fact, there's a definition:
"According to the Romance Writers of America, the main plot of a romance novel must revolve around the two people as they develop romantic love for each other and work to build a relationship together. Both the conflict and the climax of the novel should be directly related to that core theme of developing a romantic relationship, although the novel can also contain subplots that do not specifically relate to the main characters' romantic love. Furthermore, a romance novel must have an "emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending." Others, including Leslie Gelbman, a president of the Berkley Group, use a more shortened definition, that a romance must make the "romantic relationship between the hero and the heroine ... the core of the book."[2] In general, romance novels reward characters who are good people and penalize those who are evil, and a couple who fights for and believes in their relationship will likely be rewarded with unconditional love.[1] Bestselling author Nora Roberts sums up the genre, saying 'The books are about the celebration of falling in love and emotion and commitment, and all of those things we really want.' "
excerpt from wikipedia
So, like I said- Amanda Quick. It turned out all her novels share the same bone structure. In fact, some of them share the same sentences, just shift out one name for another. I do find that kind of entertaining, and highly encouraging, since I could make MILLIONS as a romance writer and not work hard at all, but that's not the point.
The point is I got tired of reading these stupid miserable fantasies that reflected nothing of what I knew of human relationships, men, women, SEX for crap's sakes...oh the crappy bullcrappy sex....
They never acknowledged the dark side of sex, and maybe that's because everyone lives with it already, but still. I needed it to be said, and nobody seemed to be saying it. The heroine was always a virgin, was always more intellectual than physically oriented ( though she has a great body...and usually she feels self-conscious about some part of it, if not the whole thing, but the hero assures her just how perfect she is to him, can you dig it.) and was always F@$%ing CLUELESS about everything and anything sexual. She'd maybe been kissed, but not so well, usually poorly enough to convince her that sex was nothing to compare to a good rousing debate!
And Quick's heroines are always being accused of something that they are innocent of, and need the hero's help (reluctantly asking) to get their name cleared.
I was so tired of innocent sexually clueless heroines. I was so sick and tired of everything working out just fine, of the emotionally stony hero with a broken heart (and usually some kind of very mild disfigurment a scar, a limp, whatever.) who is won over in the end by the heroine's sweet fiery independent nature (toss jewel colored hair over shoulder and lift tiny chin pugnaciously)
So I came up wiht this idea- I even had the title of the book-
Lascivious
to be continued.
So writing a story takes up all the space, it is far more fragile than blogging. Blogging can be hodge podge and sometimes it can be half-assed. A story will tell you right away if it's lying to you.
But that's a whole other post, isn't it? The fine and delicate art of fiction? Even cheap fiction, like "beach novels" or "Subway Reads" the kind of throw-away literature you can buy at the grocery store- even that is fine.
That's where I got my idea for this story- cheap fiction. When I was in Junior high and high school, I had a friend who introduced me to Romance novels. She had entire boxes of these books, pastel colored covers with elaborate fonts and the inner cover had a picture of semi-pornographic embraces. All the heroines were short, fiery/spunky/strong-willed/determined/hell-bent, and they all had hair the color of some kind of jewel.
My friend liked the western romances, but I fell head over heels( ha ha ha) for a writer named Amanda Quick, a period romance writer who stood out from all the others I had been reading, because she could actually write with some skill. The first book of hers I read was a sweet iced tea (even if it was the instant Tops brand).
I began reading these romances in short obsessive bursts, two or thee, one right after another. I usually had what I called a mourning period after books, especially good books, but I didn't need that at all with the bodice-rippers. I read enough of them to notice several common threads. The genre was extremely limited, it seemed, much to my eventual dismay.
I came to realize that a romance novel is a collective fantasy, a culture of women longing to be women ( short, spunky and with hair the color of sapphires- shoot, those are blue! ugh.....hair the color of copper? too common, not precious...shoot! Hair the color of honey- oooh, yeah.) But seriously, folks. Fantasies are very specific- the wrong note and the whole song is ruined. And in this way, romance is limited. In fact, there's a definition:
"According to the Romance Writers of America, the main plot of a romance novel must revolve around the two people as they develop romantic love for each other and work to build a relationship together. Both the conflict and the climax of the novel should be directly related to that core theme of developing a romantic relationship, although the novel can also contain subplots that do not specifically relate to the main characters' romantic love. Furthermore, a romance novel must have an "emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending." Others, including Leslie Gelbman, a president of the Berkley Group, use a more shortened definition, that a romance must make the "romantic relationship between the hero and the heroine ... the core of the book."[2] In general, romance novels reward characters who are good people and penalize those who are evil, and a couple who fights for and believes in their relationship will likely be rewarded with unconditional love.[1] Bestselling author Nora Roberts sums up the genre, saying 'The books are about the celebration of falling in love and emotion and commitment, and all of those things we really want.' "
excerpt from wikipedia
So, like I said- Amanda Quick. It turned out all her novels share the same bone structure. In fact, some of them share the same sentences, just shift out one name for another. I do find that kind of entertaining, and highly encouraging, since I could make MILLIONS as a romance writer and not work hard at all, but that's not the point.
The point is I got tired of reading these stupid miserable fantasies that reflected nothing of what I knew of human relationships, men, women, SEX for crap's sakes...oh the crappy bullcrappy sex....
They never acknowledged the dark side of sex, and maybe that's because everyone lives with it already, but still. I needed it to be said, and nobody seemed to be saying it. The heroine was always a virgin, was always more intellectual than physically oriented ( though she has a great body...and usually she feels self-conscious about some part of it, if not the whole thing, but the hero assures her just how perfect she is to him, can you dig it.) and was always F@$%ing CLUELESS about everything and anything sexual. She'd maybe been kissed, but not so well, usually poorly enough to convince her that sex was nothing to compare to a good rousing debate!
And Quick's heroines are always being accused of something that they are innocent of, and need the hero's help (reluctantly asking) to get their name cleared.
I was so tired of innocent sexually clueless heroines. I was so sick and tired of everything working out just fine, of the emotionally stony hero with a broken heart (and usually some kind of very mild disfigurment a scar, a limp, whatever.) who is won over in the end by the heroine's sweet fiery independent nature (toss jewel colored hair over shoulder and lift tiny chin pugnaciously)
So I came up wiht this idea- I even had the title of the book-
Lascivious
to be continued.
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