castles in the clouds

What can't you live without? For me, it is I Capture the Castle, Cassie, and giant volumes of Austen, Dickinson and Plath. It is curling up under the covers with The Secret Garden, Beauty and the Beast, or Tess of the D'urbervilles. It is tea tea tea in fancy goblets of all shapes and sizes. And, my latest caffeine addiction, hazelnut coffee.

It is Lula magazine, giant ribbons you tie in your hair, Simon when he is with Garfunkel. It is living vicariously through Angela Chase, Anne Frank, and that little Romanov princess. 

But, best of all, it is knowing that this list will not be ending anytime soon. That I could go on and on...I can't live without mermaid hair or lockets or wandering aimlessly though libraries on rainy November afternoons, and a thousand other luxuries.

I feel sorry for those who can't reside in their own sacred world of characters and made-up places. Who can't empathize with the creatures of their own imagination. I think I'll never grow out of pretending. 

the secret of roan inish

"Once a selkie find its skin again, neither chains of steel nor chains of love can keep her from the sea"

I went to the library yesterday afternoon and picked up a few films. I was having a very horrible day, and needed to give my mind some distraction from reality. One of the films was The Secret of Roan Inish and I can say with confidence that, after watching it last night with a cup of raspberry tea, it is one of the most enchanting movies I’ve ever seen. The swelling Irish landscapes, the haunting score, the beautiful costuming, and the folklore, all left me missing something that I didn’t know I’d ever lost. The film was so full of Ireland and the rolling blue sea that my heart could hardly remain inside my chest. It wanted to leap into the screen, and reside with its Gaelic roots permanently.

That night, I dreamt I lived on the Irish coast as a fisherman’s wife. My home was a cozy little seaside cottage with low ceilings, roaring fires, and an endless simmering pot of stew. We survived the tempestuous stormy winter evenings by curling up under quilts and reciting ghost stories in fevered whispers. We always smelled of salt, of brine, of fish. It was a dream that kills your spirit a little when you realize you must awake. I realized that, if I ever find myself in Ireland again, I won’t be coming back.