Lo! Here be magical bears!

My new blog. Not much is up there yet, but I'm going to make it a little haven for my photography, whimsical prose, and disastrous
attempts at photography and outfit making. I wanted a place to create a bit of lighter fare. Forsooth*, the days of my internet blogging angst have long been over! Upward and onward.

*Any excuse to say forsooth, right?

roll your eyes, & move right along.

I will not try to be eloquent

Nor impress you with my wordy ways

Elongating sentences with strings of adjectives

Fragments for emphasis.

No, I'll cut straight to the chase. I

was prettiest when I wasn't eating

At all

And taking my cues from Cassie and Daisy

and Sylvia Plath

And it isn't about the boys,

Because they either like you or

They don't

Most of the time it is the latter

At least, when it comes to the good ones

It's about the girls you see, and how they all get together and talk.

About their thighs that jiggle, and look like cottage cheese

In shorts, in summer heat.

Those girls, more than anything, make me want to stick my finger Down my throat.

Not eat for three days.

It's about being lovely, you see

To yourself

And to the mirror,

Like a wisp of smoke.

(summer daze)

Truly good film is rare. Truly good film is when you can’t get the characters out of your mind, no matter how hard you try. It's when the emotions you felt lingers for days afterward. Recently I just saw (500) Days of Summer and, I have to say, it was a pretty decent movie. Go on, roll your eyes. I know it has become the Garden State 2.0 in some regards, mostly because hipsters around the world are embracing it. But I really think (500) Days lives up to its hype, and even beyond.

Why? Well, sitting through (500) Days of Summer is a lot like falling in love. At first, it charms you, excites you, and exhilarates you. Then, just as you have invested yourself completely, it rips your heart out. I’m pretty sure I left the theatre murmuring, “ow!” and clutching my chest. I wanted to laugh, cry, and shake my fist at humanity all at once.

Above all, (500) Days was a scary, startling wake-up call. It made me realize I’ve spent the past three years being a Tom. Just because someone likes the “same bizarre crap” as you, doesn’t mean you are soul mates. Even worse still, you can like someone as much you want, but that doesn’t guarantee that they are going to like you back. Love isn't sports. It isn't academics. It doesn't matter how much toil and work you put into pining after someone. There is a point when you have to get over someone, and move on. Maybe (500) Days of Summer was just the push I needed to finally let go of my perspective Summers.

See it. You won’t be disappointed, not if you’ve been at the wrong end of a relationship.

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.

digging my watery grave

I used to believe I was a mermaid, and that is why the sea had such an almighty grip on me. Why I had this unexplained need to be intimate with the water, tip-toeing around its shore and caressing its current. I revered the ocean to the point of fear. The sea was neither bad nor good, but rather omnipotent and unmerciful. I dared not awaken its anger, and even my earliest recollections involve the insistence of life jackets and wary wades.

Yet I have not grown fins. I have not begun breathing while submerged under the murky waters of my bathtub. Mermaid, I am not. But I cannot deny the allure of the ever beckoning salty air. The answer seems so frighteningly simple: I must be some backwards reincarnation of Annabel Lee.

Am I the only one? Are you Annabel Lee too? Do our hearts thump and thud so wildly inside our chest only because our secret souls are searching for our star-crossed other halves? Oh, I’ve often suspected the angels had qualms with me. My consistent ill luck could only be the work of some sinister cosmic intervention.

I am not very brave. If I was, I’d slip out in the quiet of the night and escape to a kingdom by the sea. I’d let the tempestuous storms whip my hair into a million tangles. I’d correspond with the ghosts of sailors and pirates. Watch your mouth in front of the lady, they would all grumble and scold at each other. I’d revel in their company to such an extent that I’d withdraw completely from the living brand of humans altogether. A nautical citadel full of souls drowned and drowning still.

I am an Annabel Lee, and you are an Annabel Lee, and so is every other girl who is equally in love with the sea and the schoolboy she never will meet.

"Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands."

the book thief.

of ticks and tocks

I’ve wanted to write. I’ve wanted words to drip out of my ink pen and onto the unblemished white page. But it has all gotten in the way. The books, the work, the incessant cuckooing of the clock. There are days I’m afraid I might go mad with all of it. Until I am cuckooing myself, faithfully on the hour.

I’m clinging onto the shards of sanity by refusing to neglect the inner workings of my own private little world. Going on adventures with Daisy and Piper, and mourning for My Tess. Angel’s in his heaven. Eating white chocolate ice cream out of my Chesire Cat mug. It was as white as snow, you know. It had me wishing for December.

Do you know what would be ever-so-lovely? Going to the cinema in a town where not one soul knows my name. I’d smuggle in candy hearts, gooey popcorn balls, and a giant thermos of tea. When you go to the cinema by yourself, you don’t have to be afraid to cry. You can rest your head in your hands and sob the whole way through (which I always do, especially when we went and saw Finding Neverland. I didn’t even stop when we went back to the car, cried the whole way home).

sping awakening

I'm reaching out for Spring. April mornings that begin with squishing your bare toes in the dewy grass. Bike rides that bleach your knuckles white and leave tangles in your hair, that exhilarate you more with each lusty inhale. I want to eat berries until my fingers have turned every shade of purple. I want to take off my coat and feel the warm air lick at my skin.

Summer is swollen ankles and feeling restless. Summer I can live without. Spring, however, I need if I am to be revived from this Winter's coma. I yearn to thaw out, to once again become reborn.

white winter hymnal

The snow that cascaded out my window yesterday morning had me feeling wild, untamed. Every fiber in my being yearned to be exploring this newly acquired frosty wonderland where snow angels and arctic foxes ran free. It was if I had been put under a spell, able to explore the land of my dreams for one blissful day. Let’s go find Mr. Tumnus, I proclaimed to my sister as we pulled on our winter jackets sleeve by sleeve and set foot on our first snowy adventure in years.


The lamppost in the woods. We found it, and knew that Narnia had come alive.

Tilly didn't know what to think of the phenomena, a mix of curiosity and terror. Nevertheless, we named her princess of all the forest creatures and she reigned over her barbaric subjects with glee.

I adore these mittens. They remind me of a story that was read to me so long ago about a tiny girl who dropped one of her own favorite mittens in the snow. This would have been very distressing, except that on Christmas night a little field mouse crawled into her mitten and was able to escape the bitter cold. I recall liking the tale, but but feeling sad that the little girl never found out what a service she had done for the mouse.

Porthos, the polar bear. He used to be real, but tragically the White Witch turned him to stone.

I live in the real Stars Hollow. Except there is no disgruntled café owner to fall in love with, to my immense disappointment.

Little orca whales swam by, riding on ferocious winter gales.

Frostbitten and satisfied with our adventures through the wardrobe, my sister and I retreated to the coziness and warmth of the local coffee place. Rich scents of cinnamon and clove wafted up to our nostrils and transported us to some European haunt. Contently, we sipped our hot cocoa as we watched the few remaining flakes descend from the sky. It was Mother Nature’s early Christmas present to us, and we had enjoyed every minute.

wuthering heights

I’ve always admired fiery women. Why is that determination and ambition, traits that we praise in men, are found to be so repulsive in the gentler sex? Maybe that’s why I love Vivien Leigh so, she wasn’t afraid to go out and conquer her aspirations. She truly was a real life Catherine Earnshaw, Scarlett O’Hara. Tempestuous tantrums, doomed love affair, and all. And the face of an angel. I could stare at her portrait for all eternity and still be stunned by the beauty it captured. Perhaps we will meet in Wonderland someday, finding ourselves journeying on the same imaginary train. Here take this, she’ll say as she hands me a note sealed with wax. Could you please give it to my Larry?

all pictures courtesy of the lovely kendra at viv&larry{dot}com

wintry reverie

There is something about knowing that Christmastime is drawing closer that makes everything infinitely better. It is as if the sparkling lights and roaring fires have magic over all the monstrosities present in your life. There is nothing as restorative as huddling under blankets and near vents with stacks of beloved books. Escaping winter’s bite with steaming cups of cocoa. I’ve been drinking ungodly amounts of cocoa lately and all of it in festive Holiday mugs. All whilst desecrating the virgin pages of my journal with sketches of mermaids and sonnets that shall never be finished. I am a solitary creature, and even more so when nighttime begins to fall earlier than it did the day before. During these interludes, I am utterly content to be surrounded by nothing but my music, my literature, and dozens of creative ventures that are crying to be conquered.

This Christmas season I dedicate myself to be a Narnian wholly. I shall intently pray for snow, bundle up for all occasions, light too many candles, and befriend pleasant strangers. In fact, I made a new acquaintance the other night when I went to see a play by myself. He told me all sorts of things I never would have known by just looking at him. I will try to not just look from this moment on.

What are your favorite Christmas movies? Mine are Little Women, A Muppet Christmas Carol, Elf, White Christmas, and The Lion, the Witch, and The Wardrobe. I’m sure I am forgetting some. This truly is the most darling time of year.

clair de lune

When the time becomes four parallel lines, I make a point to close my eyes and make a wish. It may be nothing more than a hopeless pagan ritual, but the release of all my irrational yearnings is nothing short of liberating. Last evening, as I drove under the foggy November sky, I saw the clock turn into dual elevens and I swiftly wished for the moon. It had looked perfectly luminescent from where I sat, a beacon of light in the starless void. As I drifted off to sleep later in the night, either by fate or the hand of God, I dreamt that my futile wish had come true.

I was sitting on the rooftop with braided hair and an ivory nightdress when the unexpected happened. Two angels, equal in both beauty and reverence, flew in from space with my grand present folded into their wings. Please tell us, they whispered in unison. What will you do with our friend, the moon, now that she is yours to keep? I thought about this for some time as they looked on. Well, I began. I suppose it would be awfully selfish to keep such a sacred gift to myself.

So I ordered them to cut the moon in two and I gave a half to you. A token for you to remember me by, I wrote in cursive scrawl on the accompanying card. The angels were so moved by my romantic little notion that they decided to take the gesture even further. They murmured an enchantment over my newly acquired satellite in hushed tones, and then turned to me in explanation when they were finished.

Whenever you speak softly into your piece of moon, they told me. He will hear it.
And the same for him? I asked.
The same for him.

I wept and kissed the feet of the two celestial messengers. They had cast a spell so tender that I was sure the constellations themselves were stirred by it. Inside, I too leapt for joy at the thought of communing with you through our lunar halves. How would it be possible for you not to love me now that I offered such a virtuous union?

In my waking life, do not be surprised if you catch me glancing up wistfully towards the moon. I’m simply mourning the departure of a dream so heavenly that it couldn’t last in the mind of one so tragically bound to earth.

the skull and its defender

Ran into your father today.

It made me think about all those memories ago when you were the stranger nestled in my shoulder. They all said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust him” but I did anyway. You pierced through bone and marrow and shot shivers down my spine. I’d like to think I did the same to you. I often imagined that when our blue eyes met and harmonized it brought a smile to God’s face. But I was young, and spent the rest of the time staring at my ankles. And you got scared or maybe bored, stopped reciting all that sappy prose you thought I’d find romantic. Still, I fantasized about our children. If I got chilly in dreamland, you were always there to extend some make-believe body heat.

“Daughter, you’ll grow thin on these backwards glances and restless grins,” the vicar said with true affect. “A love poem is the same as a death ballad, you’ll kill yourself from deep within.”

I agreed, and promised to kick the habit. Except nostalgia was a harder drug than I expected, and I found no rehabilitation center that would cure me. This little bird named The Recollection of You flew into my mind's eye and made quite the nest. All my better qualities infiltrated the area with bow and quiver to try and kill the creature but he remained. That is to say, you remain. After all these changing seasons, and slow weeks that turn to years, there are still shadows of you that send my heart into a bittersweet palpation without proper warning.

The grey clouds migrate in the same direction, as if they were a flock of Beluga whales caught in the sky. They move on. Time continues. The young grow old, and the old pass away. Yet I am stuck in a moment that never ends. The only thing that reassures me of my own existence is the sweet inhale and exhale of breath.

Your father told me to stop by and say hello sometime, but I don’t think I’ll be able to bring myself to. I would hate for you to find me so unchanged, and so in remembrance.

if you want to move on

pilgrim's progress

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep."

I’m persevering through this steady, upward climb. It’s a straight and narrow path, with more twists and obstacles than I’ve come prepared for. “You’re being set apart,” my guides say with weighed assurance. “Reaching the next peak is never an easy journey.” I nod in strained agreement, but find the ascension into greatness a bit more than I can handle. Former allies meet me on my way with gritted teeth that expose jagged grins and acidic words. When did friends become adversaries? Is this change of character recently acquired, or was I swayed long ago by attractive masks they wore?

On this course, my focus must never be pulled from the trail before me. Distractions tantalize me from my peripheral vision, and I stumble every time I turn my head to stare. I’m a weary traveler, and each step takes more determination than the one before it. The end feels no closer than it did ten miles before, and alternate paths flash at me like gaudy neon lights on the Vegas strip. How does one not get sidetracked on such a single-minded mission? Especially when the aligning forestry offers up both gratification and liberation from this longsuffering I endure.

Yet, despite their initial tantalization, I am not so enticed by these temptations. I have an assignment to complete, and a mountain to conquer. I promised my maker I would not waste time peering over my shoulder. I will not stop to lick my wounds, or drift around in my current surroundings. It is upwards and onwards, until I can no longer sense the burning in my thighs that escalating hikes are so notorious for.

I do not trek without aid, but sometimes I am lonely. Won’t you be my walking stick?

too much of water hast thou

"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown."

When I was small, I didn’t believe that people drowned. I thought they were merely escaping to some deep aquatic world hidden under the layers of sand. I’ve always gravitated toward the sea, and the sweet ecstasy it brings. There is no greater transcendence than a pair of lungs full of salty air and waves that nip at your ankles and toes. When I close my eyes and hear the gulls cry in the distance, I can almost picture the make believe sea town of my childhood. As I allow my imagination to roam free, I can faintly envision Ophelia and Virginia calling me to their underwater playground. They would have me retreat into the watery depths and be reborn into a mermaid.

So you see, when I ask you to take me to the sea it is only because you have touched me to the very core. You call me adorable and playfully stroke my chin. “What pretty hands you have,” you say in that tender, lulling tone. And when I am upset, “being flustered only makes you cuter,” is uttered from those lips. These words of yours are the oldest trick in the book, but they are winning me over all the same. Take me to the ocean and I’m yours.

I’m afraid that the sea could persuade me to do anything. It could convince me to throw myself into its waters. It could convince me to throw myself into your arms.

i pray the lord my soul to keep

I have been put under a spell.

I boast neither vanity nor false pretenses about my looks. Some girls are blessed with being extraordinarily pretty or striking, and I am not one of them. I have made peace with this. I’d rather be considered attractive for what lies beneath skin and bone.

Yet, in the small window of time before slumber, I am no longer the plain faced, short limbed creature that walks the Earth by day. I become reborn, my skin glowing from a fresh washing and my usually unremarkable figure being hugged by nightclothes. The invisibility of eyelashes and cheek hue only adds to the mystique. Before my very eyes, I have turned into a woman completely foreign to me. Yet she is familiar and safe.

I watch this stranger braid her hair in front of the bedroom mirror. She is some resurrection of Isolde, of Titania. Her nimble fingers entrance me, and her long tresses ripple down her back as if they were the current of a river. Someone could learn to love this apparition of the night.

The ritual finishes and the girl dives into her undefiled bed sheets. She shivers under their coolness, yet they are a chill that can only bring serenity. In one last habbit before sleep, she turns off the light and curls up under the blankets like a child in the womb.

In one of life’s many ironic tragedies, the few minutes that I am beautiful are also the ones that I am completely alone.

dysphoria/euphoria

There is an expanding pond of blood on the kitchen counter. On second look, it is the cough syrup you knocked over in your delirium. Your psyche is swimming with mirages and hallucinated conversations.

Do you hate me?
Why?
I was just wondering.
Oh.
Well, do you?
Yes.

“Tiffany, are you ok?” they ask. “Tiffany, you better go get some sleep. Let us clean up that mess”. They shove you Nyquil and vapor rub before you stumble down the stairs like a drunkard. Eyes shut, you begin to swim in a channel of medicated dreams. Now delivered from a swelling throat and coated lungs, a different kind of purgatory stands before you. The ghosts of the night hover around your bedside and whisper distant, feverish memories into your ear.

Why do you hate me?
I don't know.
Really?
No.
Please tell me.
You are loud, and needy, and you never remember what day of the week it is.
That is silly.
Also, you love me when I can't love you back. I hate that.
I'm sorry. I don't know how to stop.

You toss and turn through these nocturnal visions. You long to bolt upright, but the fumes in your brain refuse to let your eyelids do anything but remain tightly shut. Then, as quick as a change of thought allows, you are no longer suffocated by the nightmarish torture. You are transported into the loveliest wonderland imaginable. Waltzing around in blue frocks with white ribbons, chasing rabbits down holes, and playing croquet with the queen. You have been frozen into a painting, a concerto. You soak in the sweetness.

Do I disgust you?
No.
I don’t? That’s funny I always thought I did.
I think you’re perfect, let’s go for a walk.

When you awake, you cry to dream again.

tie me to the end