"There is one solitary spot among those aisles, behind the altar, where the light of day is dim and yellow under the storied window, which I have chosen to visit, and read Dante there."

Shelley, in abandoned cathedral.

"You inhabit a spot, which before you inhabit it, is as indifferent to you as any other spot upon earth, and when, persuaded by some necessity, you think to leave it, you leave it not; it clings to you—and with memories of things, which, in your experience of them, gave no such promise..."

Again, a parallel of Eliot. Do you hear an echo of Preludes in the last phrases? I do, very distinctly. It is my theory that the two had very similar views. It is not my first time to link Eliot to the Romantics. I wrote an English thesis on his similarity to Waterhouse, though my professor thought it invalid.

Also, Shelley's Alastor and Eliot's Prufrock are so similar it seems Love Song must have been written as some kind of response to The Spirit of Solitude.

To say nothing of my own similar and somewhat violent connection to Shelley's passage. I have spent months of my life, altogether, reflecting on just that. I explained it better in a voice post I will share, recorded this weekend, when I make over Winter Light into a podcast.

I was having an awesome rant at lunch today. I barely wrote on A Question but that's okay, because I think working out my feelings was so much more important. So much aggression and darkness is in us humans. I can barely contain it sometimes.

I will definitely be reproducing a few sections in this journal, because I feel like some of it needs to be seen by the whole world. It's time to make the return to innocence.

My writing focus has shifted considerably. The characters I develop are bastions of purity cruelly bound by the strictures of society. I suppose my conflict was previously man vs. self. It's interesting, this sudden and strong change. I find I have no appetite to develop my somewhat shady characters-- the hero-villain and the Lilith woman. A shame, since that comprises my writing for the past ten years.

Yet I seek purity of heart in my writing. I guess that is now the fantasy for which I long.

I am feeling somewhat uncreative today, so I am editing Windflowers rather than writing. What a blessing-- I need badly to edit things, so I will do it for as long as I can and hope I remain in this condition for a long while. I did not need to begin a new novel, but I love The Soul of the Rose, and I think it will be pretty easy to finish up, and pretty appealing, anyway.

I have been obsessed with cross-stitching lately. I am embarking on a new project, to create Innocent World in cross-stitch-- the atmosphere of the website, the soft and romantic feminine beauty. I have a whole set of miniature Victorian items to stitch in pastels on perforated paper. I have also dreamed of a Japanese tea ceremony project as well. I have even more ideas for that. Lately I have been dreaming of perforated paper and backstitching, not post-apocalyptic cities or deconstructed fairy tales. I am seeing how far I can take cross-stitching and experimenting, sometimes with success. I meant to post my pitiful cupcake yesterday-- will have to show you. It is pretty funny. On the other hand, perforated paper can be rendered 3-D, like plastic canvas. I am already overwhelmed with ideas of how to apply that to doll furnishings.

I had Summer Party for lunch today. Not enough of a balm for... other things, but all is temporal, my dear. All things must come to an end. Some sooner than later.

I am doing great on some of my Resolutions-- others, not so much. One I haven't even started on is my hair.

However, I reactivated my account on The Long Hair Community today-- I love looking at my old, old accounts. They're like time capsules. I love my avatar and quote. I forgot how involved I got.

If I stay with the community this time, there's no way my hair can go wrong. I also have a hair appointment tomorrow to trim the dead ends and the horrible bangs. I can't wait.

I have been thinking of starting a Beauty journal for hair and makeup for quite a while. I'd like to record what I learn as I go (and I have so much to learn). The very first blog I discovered was someone's hair journal from that community, and even though the tips didn't pertain to me, I was fascinated. I think that was my introduction to Blogger as well.

Anyway, there are other resolutions I've neglected... My toenails are not presently polished (that goes under Beauty). I haven't spent enough time with my bird. Others I try... But they seem overwhelming. How will I ever finish Finnegans Wake in a year? Or play a song on the erhu, when I haven't yet learned a full scale? These are intermittent desires. I feel like doing them when I can't, and as soon as I get home, I'm so lazy.

I long to be wild and free right now, to taste the wonder of new-discovered things-- waking up, like Snow White, in youth, everything a marvel, life glowing.

Is it possible that we become less alive as time goes on? It seems my vision is darkening. With every one I lose, I feel that part of me is dead, too. I feel quiet and subdued.

I want to taste that cup of happiness forever-- and I must find a way. But it is hard to be a believer, because no one around me believes. Everyone seems dead and dull.

Today our English presenter was so alive somehow. I felt very ugly and insignificant next to her (that doesn't happen to me very often, either)-- but I wanted to learn from Kate Winslet's clone. Actually, I wanted to fly to England, anywhere-- I understand "The Passenger" a little better now except-- I do not mean to say hurtful things. I could not give up the ones I love. It is only that I spend so much time with people I don't like, doing boring stuff. I want to be free.

I want that taste of life. Sitting on playground bars beneath a twilight sky, tasting rapidly chilling wind and knowing soon it will be Halloween and then-- Christmas! Anticipation, excitement-- they are near-strangers to me now. I catch a ghost of it sometimes when I am shopping. I remember all those times shopping with my mom, and picking up a candle or piece of jewelry or color of makeup that reminded me of one of my Idols, or a place with which I was obsessed, or one of my stories, and I bought it with the passion that it would bring that magic into my life. It did, when I believed!

Now, how different it is when I shop. I'm harried. I can't find the magic anymore. It's a dim memory in my mind. I can only remember my mother's encouragement, vaguely.

Will it work, I ask myself, if I say those things to myself, as she said to me? I don't know. I haven't tried. I have to try. I want the magic. If I have it, I will really be free again.

"If you wish to be held in esteem, you must associate only with those who are estimable." Jean de La Bruyere

It is a snowy day, as you can see from the little snow man on the landing at my work. It has been so icy and snowy lately. In part I love it, and in part it's getting pretty old. I am so tired of having hot air blown in my face all the time, but immediately when I turn off the heat, it's freezing.

Yesterday it was so lovely and snowy, and I like to think Bob's family was very glad for the beauty for his funeral. It was altogether a very elegant movement of weather.

I find my mood is not as fitful as it has been for the past several days, though even this morning I am still occasionally touched with rage-- mostly for people I believe should be kinder. I have no tolerance for coldness of demeanor right now in anyone.

I just realized that perhaps my interest in reading Finnegans Wake is due to its similarity to nonlinear fiction-- or perhaps it can be considered nonlinear fiction.

The story comes not through reading the book from start to finish, since it can't be said to begin or end. It comes through examination, study and consultation of other stories. Even if the plot is explained, which can be summed in a page, it still is not the story. The story exists as a synthesis of all of these different sources.

"Winter, a lingering season, is a time to gather golden moments, embark upon a sentimental journey, and enjoy every idle hour." John Boswell.