Jester's Stage

Vocal Recital

2008-05-19T09:08:00.000-07:00

Daniel and I attended my voice teacher's vocal recital last night. If ever you've brought an S.O. to a music recital or anything of the like, you know where my worries were: will he fall asleep? Will he get the same enjoyment out of it that I will? Will he be bored to tears?

So none of the above happened: the recital was first off, excellent and we both loved it. Jessica (my voice teacher), had a friend who's an artist, Kerri McGill. Her paintings had the air of preraphaelite in the use of color, and impressionism as far as figure was concerned. We struck up a conversation with her, and within minutes we both had her card and various artistic plans involving poems, paintings and music composed to go with the aforementioned. The evening ended with D. and I helping Kerri load her car. Before the evening was out, I mentioned that I was a costumer and with that she handed me a sheet of mosaic tile (think very small circles of tile glued onto a net. She wants me to turn it into some sort of costume. I suggested something in the burlesque fashion, and she agreed. Yay more projects! I can never have enough.

Weekend Recap

2008-05-12T07:19:00.000-07:00

So this weekend was lovely. I had the opportunity to explore Province Town this weekend as well as figure out some more of Lobster Dress, the play I'm working on. The town itself is relatively small. It's a lot like Venice, in that you can walk the length in about less than an hour. I dragged people into many cute shops, where I was delighted to discover art being sold of some independent artists (and some not). To say that the majority of the weekend was windy, would be an understatement. And you know how it is to get under statements...Anyway, but overall and extremely enjoyable experience. I bought a new knit hat, a pair of fingerless blue and black stripey gloves and a turquoise-blue-black scarf.

Sunday Sam and I did ze move. So the good thing is that I really don't have that much stuff. The entire move, driving from Cambridge to Dorchester, Dorchester to Needham and finally to Somerville (apparently in some people's GPS there is issue that I might actually now live in Cambridge) took about....five hours? Less? Huzzah for efficiency. The new place still needs to be named...Our house in Somerville has at least two doors that do not open, and a door that leads to nowhere. Can we say Winchester Mystery House? Teehee. I'm very happy with the room I chose; it's the middle sized room of the three bedrooms and has a lovely view of the backyard. Also, we have....a basement. And you know what that means. Hehehehehe....And if you don't know what that means, shame on you.

Anyway, to my glorious and dear pen-pals: I hath a new address! I will be sending you letter from the new address. Please do not send letters to my place in Dorchester as they will not be received. To everyone else: if you want my new address, e-mail me.

Today I woke up fuck o' clock in the god damn (thank you for the two people from whom I stole those two particular phrases and permitted me to so profanely smash them together) to take a French quiz before class. It will never cease to annoy me that a) I'm getting absolutely no credit for this class. My advisor informed that "when you don't take classes at the level that you need (i.e. if you take a class below your level), there are "consequences". Excuse me? So the consequence of giving the school money so that I may review a foreign language course has as consequence? We like this not. I'm losing five credits for taking this class. Losing. Who ever heard of education having consequences.. Anyway, to top things off, I'm really not doing nearly as well on the quizzes as I need to be. Now again, I must remind myself, that even if I do do well in this class it will not matter and won't count towards my degree progress. If I do not do well in this class it will not count towards my degree progress. Why no, I don't find this frustrating, not at all. Anyway, I finally changed my schedule for the fall. There's no way of knowing if I'll actually get accepted into Tufts or BU for the fall. I'm far less certain, (and quite frankly, interested) in going to BU at this point. So...I've registered at Umass for theory and sight reading classes, music lit, piano and vocal lessons and a diversity course. So my schedule is set and ready. I sincerely hope that I will not have to make use of that schedule. I so badly want to go to Tufts, and the longer I wait, the closer the notification of the decision making is, the less optimistic I become. Sigh. I've got to get out of Umass....Even...if there are great music teachers here, it's not where I belong.

It should also be mentioned that I bought a new umbrella. Also, I ran out of stationary. I really need to get some more. I refuse to write my letters on lined paper! I utterly refuse!

And now to class.

Tonight Was Exciting

2008-05-06T20:57:00.001-07:00

I...went to my voice lesson, talked to my mother and did homework. Inbetween those amazing, fantastic and truly exciting events...I practiced piano.

Is it Friday yet? *Wants to go to P-Town*

And my bathroom is blue again. I'm attempting to use up all the excess blue dye in my apt not only before I move but also so that I can be as blue as possible for the last few weeks before I come home for the summer. The skies may be gray, but I shall be blue!!

So in talking to my siblings and my mother today I was reminded that how easily the lack of knowledge translates into fear. As of late, my mother and her two minions who have magically evolved into my two older siblings have decided that whatever I'm doing with my life, it must be bad, unsafe and otherwise ......*inappropriate*. Now when I was thirteen, I thought inappropriate meant "not suitable for children". An example that will continue to accompany this phrase will be the move adaptation of The Time Machine by H. G. Wells (the old version...With those creepy blue people). Anyway, so apparently when you're 3000 miles away and have no one reporting to your parental units that you are embarking upon life as any other normal, healthy human would...fear ensues.

This idea is both, well horrifying and slightly entertaining. I could just as quickly hide a present behind my back in a box with a question mark. The present could be something truly delightful, such as a teapot. Or it could be something horrible, such as a dead pigeon. Or it could be something mundane and neutral such as a bag of dried cranberries. The lack of knowing exactly what is in the box hidden behind someone's back allows the mind to drift to the worst possible thought. When this idea of fear coming from nowhere is thrust upon you constantly from three different sources, it becomes exasperating and very quickly tiring to keep a perspective and understanding of why such fears develop.

So for all those out there who are concerned on my behalf:

I currently pole dance llate nights at a lounge for fire breathing dragons. They pay well and the clients are upscale. It's not what I would like to be doing, but you know it allows me to pay my own whims. I'm dating an alien, with whom I'm working on a pirate space ship. At some point we'll go up in space and wreak havoc. I'll call you when it's over. Don't try calling me; att doesn't have reception near the moon.

Minds are such strange things.

Real Post

2008-05-06T08:10:00.001-07:00

Ok, so I'm back to making real posts for my devoted, (if somewhat neurotic), fans!

The past few weeks have been devoted, mostly to figuring out moving plans which my roomies have delightfully allowed me to do. I actually like organizing things like that, so it wasn't too annoying to do. Anyway, so Sunday, after I get back from P-Town Sam and I will be going to Cambridge, pick up moving van. Go to my place, fill the van. Go to his place, fill the van some more. Go to the Somerville house, unload the van. And finally drop off the van. Hopefully....we won't get lost.

Let's see...what else hath I doeth? I've been alternating my weekend between spending time with homework or ze boy. Yeah. I will all spare you the various gushings about my awesome boy because I don't take it as too interesting a topic unless your name is Katrina or Nina. So there. No fountains for you!

I'm almost finished with Malvolio's Hell. And when I mean finished, I mean that I only have yet to write the beginning. I started the lobster dress and e-mailed it my theatre arts friends. We'll see what they think of it.

My air head of a voice teacher assigned my Mein Heirr which I'm apparently to sing at the vocal recital. I laughed. Me singing at anything assumes that my voice is in working order. And then it assumes that it's going to stay that way. I have no proof of this... "Oh," said my voice teacher, "I'll just give you something you can belt." GREAT!! Yeah. Not great. Belting=bad. Sigh. Stupid voice.

I can't wait to go to Gaskells and Valhalla. I miss those balls. I haven't found any here. Yet. I keep hearing the most recent Peers ball was one of the best ever. Sigh. I was sad to miss that.

I now have at least...three penpals. It's lovely. I love writing letters.

That is all.

Lobster Dress (working title)

2008-05-05T21:12:00.000-07:00

(Lights up on Adam. He's in his late 20's and looks very tired. He sits in a chair, looks directly at the audience).
Adam: Don't look at me like that. It didn't start this way, I promise you. (Lights up on Miranda, an early 30's, stylish and seductive waitress. She has an edge to her that's slightly intimidating and smoke a cigarette).
Miranda: And it didn't start this way, either. (Lights up on Mary, a mid 20's, beautiful young girl with long brown hair and beautiful eyes. She has soft curves).
Mary: And it certainly didn't start this way.
Adam: It started like this.. (Lights go out, chair is taken away). I had been seeing Miranda for about eight months. It was never a picnic, but better than nothing. (Enter Miranda, she is smoking a cigarette and is wearing spiky heels. She walks past Adam and blows smoke in his face). As I said..better than nothing. (To Miranda) Honey, do you think, for once, you could put that damn thing out?
Miranda: I'll put it out when you start paying oywn bills and stop depending on some poor, little waitress to care of you.
Adam: Look, I'm sorry. I just have to finish this novel. I'm almost finished with it, I promise!
Miranda: That damn novel is a piece of shit! All I ever hear is "I'll finish it, I promise"!. Have you ever though about me for once? Hmm?
Adam: Miranda..You know my writing is my life.
Miranda: Yeah, "your life". Maybe if you gave me half the affection you gave that damn typewriter, I'd be part of your life, too. (Exits)
Adam (to audience): We tried so hard to love each other. But love never blossomed. Love needs to have that velvety cushion, that little spark. All I ever got from Miranda was burned fingertips. I really don't know why I held onto her for such a long time. For that matter, I don't know why she stayed. Maybe we were both just waiting for some change to come along, something different to spark our lives

M's Hell, II

2008-04-30T12:27:00.000-07:00

Malvolio: And what I am left with now but my own terrifying thoughts? This unescapable state of being...
Feste: Fingles, bingles, tobbles and tingles...here you are, back where you wanted to be. Dare I label it with a more viscious title then your own private hell?
Malvolio: You shall not have my heart...you shall not have my soul..You shall not have my soul!!
Feste and Olivia (united): You who put yourself here
You who must escape from you!
Try as you might, enslaved forever.
Haven't you heard, it's the talk of the town?
Malvolio: Quiet! Quiet you strange, unnatural unhuman voices! Clouding my mind, blinding my touch (starts to navigate through the maze, picking up various articles of clothing). My stockings, my gloves, ripped and stained..Once so vivid in their silken states...But I am bleary eyes and tired. (Finds a rip in the stocking) A hole? What is this? No, my dear memory, you shall not be torn away..
Feste and Olivia: Holes in your plot, dear Malvolio? Your sanity will not mind them well enough, yet!
Malvolio: You shall never know how you have heeled my pride!
Feste and Olivia: Poor, fool, poor old fool...
(Malvolio begins to destroy the maze, tearing the scrims that represent the different ways to go in the maze)
Malvolio: Away with you horrid voices!
Olivia and Feste: (Laugh)
Malvolio: Be gone with you, disgusting stockings! (More destruction of set, until everything is taken apart and the stage is in a perfect state of debris).
Olivia and Feste: Return to your life in the past, would you? You cannot run from it..
Malvolio: Then I shall destroy it, and you with it!
Olivia and Feste: But your permanent residence lies in your insanity. You cannot rip away what is part of you.
Malvolio: I am not so laden with fear, or walled into my own thoughts as you say. (Continues to dismantle and pull apart the maze. While this is done there is a horrible scream of what sound like two voices but come from one person). Begone the walls of my mind, and the limits of my thoughts! Begone and plague me no more! (The last bit of debris is thrown across the stage and makes a great bang. Dust clears and there is silence. Left on stage is a single chair, the same on he has sat in from the beginning. He sits down, his back perfectly straight and movements perfectly contained. He breathes heavily and looks at the audience dead on. He says nothing).

Curtain

Finished college apps!

2008-03-08T20:47:00.000-08:00

I've finished my college apps.

Everyone do a small dance for me.

Blue hair

2008-02-27T14:18:00.000-08:00

No, really, blue hair.

Large Noses and Red Stockings:

2008-02-25T20:02:00.000-08:00

Large Noses and Red Stockings:

A Study of Selected Tales From the Canterbury Tales

In Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, twenty four people of varying estate and character go on a pilgrimage to Canterbury. Each pilgrim presents what they believe is a fine story in hopes of winning a free meal. The two integral parts of a good story are sentence (sense; meaning; significance. Webster dictionary.) and solas ( Pleasure, enjoyment, delight; entertainment, recreation, amusement. (O.E.D.) In this essay, the best tale will be chosen based on personal definition of sentence and solas. A good sentence is one that is not immediately obvious; it forces the reader or audience to think about the critically about the story. An entertaining story is one which engages people of varying class and age because it features characters that mimic the audiences’ estate and personality. Therefore, the individual audience members are able to connect to the characters in the story on a humane level. Ironic plot twists and a versatility in language can improve the story’s solas, but are not vital elements.
A story that possesses the aforementioned elements is the Wife of Bath’s Tale. Her sentence is as follows: women want to be loved, trusted and have power in marriage. They should be in control of their husbands. This bold, feminist statement is different from the typical, submissive Middle Aged woman. The Wife of Bath has taken an unpopular and untraditional role of relaying to her audience that it makes her happy to be in control of men. In the following quote, the crone speaks to the knight who seeks to find out what women want in order to save his life. “...’and swear to do /Whatever I shall next require of you...” (P.285). The queen is both true in her word as well as firm in her will; she takes control over the knight’s life and is very clear that his life is in her hands. The audience is reminded that she is a woman, when she shows the knight sympathy. “...I dare to guarantee/Your life is safe; I shall make good my claim. Upon my life the queen will say the same.” (P. 285). The Wife of Bath presents the idea Women are both powerful and forgiving.
The Wife of Bath uses her female characters as her mouthpiece. This technique impassions the story; it keeps the audience engaged and entertained. Her experience in relationships (five husbands) allows the Wife to tell a believable story very similar to her own life. She gives sound reasons as to why it is better to choose a mate who will be forever faithful, rather than to choose a mate for his youth and beauty.
The wife of Bath is very charismatic and has an excellent ability to keep her audience entertained all throughout her prologue as well as through her story. Embellishing her already well told story is the high style in which the tale is told. The story opens with a feast of words. “The Elf -queen and her courtier joined and broke/Their elfin dance on many a green mead...” (P. 281). While she herself is not noble, the Wife tells a noble tale, demonstrating her skill and versatility in story telling.
The tale itself deals with a knight being rewarded for raping a woman! The king hands over the decision as to how to handle the knight’s punishment to the Queen. This gesture is indicative of the Wife speaking through her characters. The wife shows a woman’s temperance by sparing his life and giving the knight twelve months to figure out what women want. “ ‘If you can’t answer on this moment, though/ I will concede you this: you are to go/ a twelve month and a day to seek and learn/Sufficient answer, then you shall return.” (P. 283) This passage is representational of female temperance as well as female dominance.
Whether or not the Knight will be punished physically is unclear. As opposed to physical punishment, he must endure a far harsher task: he is forced to marry an ugly, old woman. The turnabout of realizations, however, keeps the tale engaging. The knight is absolutely miserable with his old wife: “It was such torture that his wife looked foul/...’You’re old, and so abominably plain.” (P. 287-8). The entertainment value comes when the knight realizes that he is blessed to be married to the old woman. The knight’s wife says in her lecture to her husband, “‘That never will displease you all her life/...you shall find me both,/...fair and faithful as a wife...(P. 291). This is a turning point that reaches out to everyone who has ever known love: what begins as disgust for his wife, transforms into acceptance and admiration upon realizing the richness of what the old woman is offering the knight.
The Wife of Bath’s tale demonstrates that someone who is in poverty can be as just as rich as someone who is well off. This sense of richness comes from the love of life and enjoying what one has and not wanting more. The climax of her tale is the knight’s realization that everything he wants is right before him, but not in the form in which he expected. This is a very sophisticated climax.
Equal in solas, but not in sentence was The Millers Tale. The message of this tale is to avoid cuckholdry by choosing a mate who is not too many years the husband’s junior. While this is a valid sentence and certainly well delivered, it should be common sense that one selects a mate who is well matched to himself. Moreover, the sentence was laid out too soon in the story. The message becomes very clear once the audience learns that John has taken a young, handsome man as a lodger who is well versed in many arts and sciences. A sentence said too early does not force the audience critically about the story, thus the story is superficial in its’ message.
Plot-wise, the story is masterful: three men courting one girl, one of whom is her husband. Each suitor courtier shows his riches, either figuratively or directly. John, Alison’s husband, shows how much he prizes his wife by dressing her in the finest silks. Absolon shows Alison how he prizes her by singing to her. Nicholas shows Alison how he prizes her by showing her his cleverness and offering her a night away from her husband. The climax of the Miller’s tale, which is when the word “water” is echoed from Nicholas to John, is a comical and ironic plot twist. The audience, however, understands how the tale will end, causing it to be flat.
The Miller’s physical description, drunken state and class certainly match the physical humor and demonstration of base behavior present in his tale. The Wife of Bath’s tale was much more elegant and showed a greater versatility in story telling skill.
While the Clerk’s tale is beautiful in the language it uses and fairytale like in form, its’ message is convoluted. Throughout the tale, the message is that women should be obedient, unquestioning and perfectly faithful to their husbands, regarding them divinely. At the end of the tale the Miller says, “It isn’t very easy to find Griseldas round the Town...and if you try imposing these assys.../though the coin looks right.../when you try to bend the thing, it snaps.” (P. 354).
This is a strange way to end an otherwise well told story. In his effort to choose a story that will please everyone, he states his sentence and finishes with saying that women should have a choice in how they act! Women should be submissive and obedient, but only if they want to! This contradicts his message preached throughout his tale.
While the Clerk’s tale is certainly an engaging story and fairytale like in the way the plot unfolds, from the moment Griselda is introduced, the ending is clear. Griselda is an obedient, naive, young girl who sees nobility as well as men as her superiors. Furthermore, Griselda is almost void of any human emotion: she gives up her children too easily and quietly. The Marquise says to Griselda, “...but it is for you/To acquiesce and show no discontent.” (P.334). While such a request was certainly not unheard of in the Middle Ages, the audience expects an emotional response from Griselda. “Apparently unmoved as she received/ what he had said, no change in her expression/Or tone of voice....” (P. 335). This response is inhumane and is not believable. It leaves the audience unsure whether or not to sympathize with her.
The sentence of the Pardoners’s tale is the love of money is the root of all evil. The pardoner reveals the message of his tale in his prologue when he says, “I preach for nothing but for greed of gain/...I make my living out of - avarice/...Myself with others I have the power to win.” (243). This tale does not have a noble purpose: he does not seek to directly educate, entertain or amuse his audience, he seeks to tell them a tale in hopes of tricking the audience into giving him money. He does this by telling a tale dealing with the seven deadly sins. While this is a universal concept and certainly can be widely accessed by a variety of ages and estates, his sentence is overly used. The audience, casting aside the Pardoner’s own financial desires, is not forced to think newly of the concepts expressed in the tale.
The story itself is well told and very symbolic. The Pardoner’s tale can be accessed by everyone who has ever felt the urge or committed one of the seven deadly sins. Attention to the human relationships between the characters, however, is breezed over. Had that not have been the case, the Pardoner’s tale would have taken first place.
The Wife of Bath’s tale stands out for the use of language in the high style when the teller was not highly born. The tale features an unexpected and well delivered sentence. The way in which the message was executed was both beautiful and romantic without sharing any of the basely qualities of the Miller’s Tale, or the excessive flourishes of the Clerk’s tale. The Wife’s tale was an honest statement of her personality; the audience can relate to it on a humane level.

Walk This Way, Master!

2008-02-24T10:34:00.001-08:00

This sign is on my apt complexs' street. Silly Bostonion wind.

This Made Me Laugh

2008-02-21T15:57:00.000-08:00

So I didn't get a callback for Cinderella. Sigh. The whole auditioning process. I've forgotten that it's a very wishy washy thing to put high hopes in....even if you do feel as though you did a good job.

In other news, this made me laugh: http://www.petbrick.com

Shortly before I went to post this blog entry, I saw Graham's picture on the news page of Blogger.. Aw. That made me sad.

2008-02-20T14:31:00.000-08:00

I'm sleepy. Caffeine makes me sleepy, so I can't consume it to keep me awake and doing homework. So I keep around cookies, because sugar works. So you'll excuse me if this post is less than 89% perfect as far as grammar goes; the sugar hasn't kicked in yet. ;)

I was talking to a male friend of mine who had served in Iraq and is currently doing stand up comedy. He was having the ever famous "women problems". Sparing the details, he had opened himself up to someone who was on a serious rebound and wasn't aware until it was pointed out to him. He felt vulnerable, wounded, sad,disappointed, annoyed, etc.. His response to this was that such emotion was "unmanly" and "weak".

I guess with all the lovely (and I do say that genuinely) sensitive gentlemen I am happy to call my friends, the idea of "having emotions" never struck me as being particularly feminine. Naturally, I'm familiar with the concept that to show emotion is sometimes considered a weakness; I went through this battle myself. Such weakness is often paired with femininity, as women are usually expected (allowed?) to be less emotionally strong compared to men.

But just because you're a heterosexual male doesn't mean you aren't entitled to feeling pain, as well as genuine contentedness. I'd feel less compassion, and frankly, less of a connection to someone who's way of dealing with pain was to shut it out. I'd rather hear about in a rant or know that it's being dealt with in some sort of cathartic way.

I understand that our society doesn't encourage men to indulge themselves every time that something less than great happens to them and affects their ego/pride/emotional side. This is not the greatest way to deal with intense emotion. I thought this was common knowledge. I guess I was wrong.

In other news I want to go to school in Sweden. My reasons should be obvious.

I'm getting rapidly better as far as being sick goes. Thank god for that. Looks like I'll be able to go to my piano less tomorrow, afterall.

Sleeeeeeeeeeepy.

Still sleepy. It's times like these where I eat, figuring aha! Food will kill the sleepiness..But no. So now I'm bloated and...still sleepy. I hate being sick...It messes with my sleep schedule.

Saturday Basil is accompanying me to Guitar Center to look at keyboards.

Ok, back to *not procrastinating*

V-day

2008-02-15T06:48:00.001-08:00

Valentines Day: Now with late night texting and early morning classes.

Piano lessons and tango

2008-02-14T21:50:00.000-08:00

Today I had my first piano lesson. It was very intense, which is good. My piano teacher was sort of weirded out that I moved so much while I was playing and suggested that it was affecting my accuracy. Hm. That may or may not be true. I will certainly admit in the past I have not been as careful as I should have been. Anyway, so it looks like I'm going to be relearning some Chopin etudes (which are great for my technique) and doing a Beethoveen Sonata. Well, I guess it could be worse. It could be Bach. Don't tell anyone I said that. Especially not Jerry. Anyway, so he expects me to practice two hours a day. Hm. I can't do it one sitting, but I think if I break it up into two segments it'll be doable. What excites me, is that he's reminding me that I should still be practicing scales and still be going through V7 chords. Hm. I think I stopped doing that, in....high school? Maybe after Owen's classes? It's a good thing to get back to. He's much more on the technical side than Jerry was. This is a good thing as it's just what I need.

This evening I went to MIT and checked out the tango scene. It was intense. I did know what I was doing, and I did have some good dances, but I do need to get back to taking lessons. Tango isn't just like waltzing, where you can just follow if you know the basic. No, in tango there are pauses, there for you to basically show what you can do in three seconds with your leg or etc, etc. So yeah. I need to get back to taking lessons.

Audition!!!!

2008-02-14T08:59:00.000-08:00

I HAVE AN AUDITION FOR CINDERELLA ON MONDAY!! Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Suffering From a Lack of Attention to Logisitics...

2008-02-12T14:51:00.000-08:00

The theatre arts dept. at Umass is a smushing of dance, music and theatre. This dept exists in one building and mainly on one floor. Apparently it wasn't always this way... Umass is currently in the process of building a new PAC building. Okay, great but meanwhile the pianos in the practice rooms are less than desirable.

There are three practice rooms in a narrow, dark hallway. Each tiny practice room has two upright pianos squeezed into the space. The piano benches are hard, and cannot be raised or lowered. The pianos themselves are not sensitive in touch, the paint is chipping and are out of tune.

Ok, so I was an idiot and only applied to two schools, my backup school, I knew did not specialize in music/theatre. Emerson didn't tell me until far to late that they *ahem* didn't accept spring transfers in the Acting BA program. Thanks, guys. So I was stuck with Umass, because I didn't want to wait another semester to move out of the bay area and get going on what I wanted to do. Sigh. So that was stupid of me. Don't go to a school that you know next to nothing about. Don't pick up a backup school as your backup without visiting it first, to make sure it's really a place at which you could really see yourself studying.

I like Umass otherwise. It's a very functional college. It's not amazingly large and playgroundish, like MIT is. It's not ridiculously spread out like BU is. It's a school that caters to commuters and is very doable and has been designed to feed people in and out and get them moving onto their next career. Hopefully I'll get out of hear within due time and be able to move on to a school like BU to do some work in music.

Just have to find a good piano first...

Hm

2008-02-09T21:48:00.000-08:00

Today I ventured out to Salem with some friends. Salem is neat, but very aware of its' lure to tourists. There are many cute little shops that are aware of how cute they are. For instance, they sell you candles and incense and other various thing with which to "invoke" spirits. Naturally, an everyday, household item that everyone needs. The main event of the day was actually going into an army surplus store (I keep leaving my hats and scarves places..) and buying a new, longer, warmer, thicker scarf, a very cute newspaperboy hat and a new purse that I can carry my books in when I'm on the train.

I really need to stop losing things....The other night, I left my trooper hat at a restaurant, and the night before that, I left my scheneil (sp?) scarf at a movie theatre. I hope whomever found the aforementioned items is very happy with them.

List of items I've lost since I've moved here:
One glove
trooper hat
brown scarf
a sock

(I was chatting with John this evening, one of my very dear friends. I realized that we seem to always expect those to whom we feel closest, to always be within easy geographical reach. John and I have always lived within twenty minutes of each other. John called this "living down the street" because it was such a short distance. It's strange, the assumptions and expectations we make of people, simply because we get used to something. While I know I'm capable of making new friendships that may eventually mimick the closeness John and I have, no two friendships are ever really the same. Anyway, but because of the expectation of always being able to have him so geographically close to me, I'm going through shock right now, I know eventually, we'll end up in the same general geographical place.. It's just not going to happen right at this moment.)

After checking out Salem, some friends and I went out to dinner at an Ethopian restaurant called Asmara. I should start calling it The Ethopian restaurant, because it deserves such a pronoun. If you are a party of two, you sit at a straw woven table (imagine a large straw vase with a flat top, on which plates can sit). You have a choice of water, soda or pure fruit juices such as kiwi, strawberry, papaya, mango, etc.. You order a platter, shared among the people at your table which consists of two or three (sometimes four) types of meat, a salad in the middle and various mashed up vegetables. The meat and salad sits on top of a special flat bread, which is a cross between pita (in taste), but has the texture of a crepe. You tear off a piece of this bread, and, with your fingers (twitch now), you pick up whatever part of the food you wish. With the bread as a shell, you grab the food and eat it. There are no utensils, whatsoever. It's an experience, and certainly the idea of polite table manners goes to hell. The food, however, is amazing-- the ingredients are fresh, there are no ridiculously rich sauces that make you sick to your stomach after one bite. Nor, are there any ridiculously spicy sauces that leave your mouth on fire after one bite. You can really have your fill of the dinner, and feel as though you ate something healthy. Nom nom nom!

In other news, orange-pineapple-mango juice is delicious.

I need some more chair for the apt. I'm planning on having a small intimate dinner party with a few friends, and I realize we will be five, and I have.....two kitchen chairs....Or maybe we could eat on the floor....On pillows...Japanese style....Maybe........Maybe not...Or maybe we could.

I should sleep.

Resurrecting Ze Blog

2008-02-06T21:51:00.000-08:00

I like people who hand me cds of the music they like. I'm now a very serious fan of Prodigy. Seriously. It's music everyone should listen to at 9am. Everyone. Only at 9am.

And today I'm checking out the pool at Umass. Have I mentioned I love my British Authors class? I love being in a class in which long winded answers are not sighed upon negatively. My French teacher talks only in French......Hmm.....I understand it most of the time. He's not very specific about having things turned in.....Which I find annoying, as it allows me a sense of accomplishment.

Um....There are....geese outside...This is Boston...Geese?

Today I sat in on BU's choir of about 40-50 people singing the Verdi Requiem. That was....an amazing experience. My eyes were glued on the woman who was conducting; she had an amazing energy and commitment to tone. She had the choir perform an exercise in pitch, in which you take one note, say F natural and you sing twelve different versions of that same note, until the entire choir is on key, as closely possible the F natural. Amazing! I'm totally stealing that for this summer's musical ensemble rehearsals.

Which reminds me...I spoke to Renee (my boss) and it seems like the camp is for sure on for this summer...Yay! After watching tonight's rehearsal, though, I'm extremely intimidated and once again thinking that I'm not worthy of doing musical direction...I have so much to learn.

I was also reminded of what an amazing music dept. BU has...*sigh*. My plan is to get my BA from Umass as effeciently as possible and study music at BU.

Tomorrow: walk to school...In the snow..

Possibly uphill..

Maybe both ways.

Yeah top that east bay.

Apology

2007-09-14T22:04:00.000-07:00

This writing has not been executed to please you, please myself, to vent or even to rant. It is to inform you of the thoughts that have been going through my head for the past few weeks. I invite you to disagree with me, to argue my conclusions, to point out my grammatical errors, to point out my inconsistent thoughts and angrily comment in general. But these thoughts will not be changed. Unlike the rest of our easily, manipulated and molded society, my thoughts are not so easily influenced and changed. They are my thoughts and nothing more.

Recently I've been doing a great deal of thinking and pondering about life and have come to a few realizations. People are not machines. They do not generate emotions in stock and when they run out, produce some more. People are not to be molded into what you see fit as the ideal human being. As much as everyone seems to be similar in some ways, everyone really is different and there is no fast way to get to know someone and become close with them. The media encourages us to often think of people in this way. They pair exciting life styles with alcoholic beverages and sex. How then, are we to see our peers?

Our perceptions of people are largely shaped by the perceptions of others, as well as how we perceive ourselves is shaped by how others see us and how they react to our interactions with others. People are not so difficult to understand, but you must know when to look more closely, and when to take something at face value. A person cannot develop his personality off by himself, he will not be able to observe himself and understand his own actions so well from being solitary. People are social animals; they need other people to survive. If people are not around others, they will eventually go crazy, with the need for contact, communication and the sharing of ideas.

The media, not the government has raised us. The media, our parents, has affected how we dress, think, act, speak, etc..There will be many who passionately disagree with this, but this is a basic staple of reality. The media has also affected me, and has certainly helped shape me to be the person I am today. That is a truly horrifying thought that a simple large mass of people with excellent skills in visual manipulation and a whole lot of money can influence our lives so heavily.

There is a constant battle in our nation to keep us believing that the people we send out to war are more like wooden pegs (as the gov't would like us to believe) than actual human beings who have names, families, interests, etc.. Once a human being looses it's value to us personally, they become nothing more than a wooden peg. We have no more use for them, therefore they are another face in the crowd, and we forget them. Or do we remember, by requirement and human decency, everyone we have ever met, dated, befriended, gotten directions from? Can we truly commit every single person, their relevance and affect they had on our lives, if only momentarily, to memory? If and when we fail to do this, do those forgotten few become just another wooden peg?

Time does not stop, speed up or slow down. It is perhaps the one thing that keeps us moving through the various difficult and trying periods of life. You cannot go back and correct mistakes, instead do not see them as mistakes but as something that can be learned from. Every mistake usually started with an ethically good intention. A perceived bad result cannot always be blamed on someone. People are not mistakes, to say that a person is is to deny his humanity.

Everything is and isn't what it seems. Our world is not so familiar that we can point and label every plant, personality and happening. There will be some things, a breeze, for instance, that may feel something more than mundane, but it is, in fact, simply a breeze. There shall forever be an arguement as to if something feels non-mundane, if it is in fact something phenomenal. I believe that this arguement is based only on people's perceptions of how their personal world works--- not The World, but their personal world, the one which revolves around them, not them it.

How well can a person say he knows himself, if his actions do not follow what his words dictate would do? Perhaps people take pride in hypocrisy, or perhaps they take pride in specifically following their words exactly to please others. Who, then, are they acting for and what are they trying to prove if they have accomplished no feat for themselves? The first step in knowing yourself is admitting that you don't know yourself. I do not know myself. I know I am human, and I know I breathe. Already I can say I know two things about myself, but to say that I know myself, the way I think, my patterns in business and school work, I can only provide printed papers with letters and receipts and referrals. But accomplishments are not knowing yourself, they in fact can often hide who you really are, giving a false appearance, but attractive appearance to everyone who is not you.

I spent the last six years or so developing my vocabularly of large words and of elegant sentence structure (be your own judge). I became aware (or tried) of how I spoke to people, and tried to artificially continue and be consistent with this new sort of personna I had developed. Big words and pretty language are all but fluff when there is no substance with which to support them. Even in my posts and I'm sure in this, unedited, raw excerpt of my thoughts I'm sure you'll find grammatical errors, and inconsistencies in the way I word my sentences. This too, a show of not my flaws, but simply the person I aspire to be and the person I am. It is very difficult to be someone else, when you don't know much about yourself in the first place, much less to try and be someone else on a very superficial level. It is much easier to walk with a curtain in front of your face than wear someone else's mask.

Now as I prepare to finally move, in what I sincerely hope will not only be a phsyical move but one towards not a new life, but a life with matured goals, I wish to appologize. I appologize to everyone in the small ways and moments they provided assistance to me. I appologize for allowing you to drift into being forgotten. To those who I thought were arrogant, self-absorbed, unpleasant people--- I'm sorry for thinking such. There is more to people of your sort, even if I personally cannot see the facade with which you so proudly stride. To my friends-- during the many times in which I held information from you which I opted to post, but then didn't for fear of being not understood. For those who have experienced me in my own sinful hypocrisy. For this I appologize profusely. Following your own words for the sake of simply doing so is a good and bad thing, for if your words be rotten, than your actions should not follow them. However, if your words are sound, and your actions do not follow them, what sort of a person are you then? Then, however, the question becomes, what are sound words to you, and what are they to me? What will benefit one party that does not benefit the other, and on whose words we should act upon, will be a neverending battle. It is, even now, a battle and self dicussion as to who I should appologize to and of what nature the appologies should be in. That is, not all appologies are for uncanny actions. Some are simply more of an acknowledgement that something happened, as opposed to trying to black it out.

I do not appologize for being human. I do not appologize if my lifestyle offends you, or if the decisions I made in life hurt you. You, and you alone are the only person who can say if an action of someone else is good or bad. I am not such a person to go around labeling things. That said, people do not aim to hurt others, or put others in jeopardy, they aim to mostly please themselves. Therefore their decisions often seem thoughtless and selfish. However, he who never thinks of himself is doing himself a disservice as well as to his peers. There is a very delicate balance between being considerate and having a sense of self (does not necessarily mean you know yourself, but that you know what you want/need). Perhaps knowing what you need from others, and needing something from others at all is selfish and co-dependent, but that is the way humans operate. As previously mentioned, humans will go crazy if we are not in communication with other human beings.

Um?

2007-05-18T12:22:00.000-07:00

This is what I found in my inbox today:

Have you ever done accompaniment for musical theatre? Are you interested in doing musical direction for young children (ages 4-7)? We need a musical director for two 4 week summer camps and are looking for someone with some experience, we are willing to help with lesson plans but you would have to be able to know how to accompany and teach the music for a show to this age group.

We start June 18 and end 4 weeks later, have one weekend and start another 4 week session the following Monday. Hours are 9am to 12 pm in Pacifica Mon through Thursday except for show week which is mon through saturday with a friday evening performance.

Let me know if you have any interest :)

Best,

Keira Robalino

Spindrift School of Performing Arts

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Um....Guys? I just signed a contract to with you to do a show a month and a half from now. I'm already going crazy with the score that you managed to only send me yesterday. I mean I know you love me, but DUDE!

2007-04-05T00:11:00.000-07:00

Hello.....I'm...updating this...Because it wishes to be updated.

Rant

2007-02-20T22:12:00.000-08:00

OK well, Philly is awesome. I could totally go to school here...I mean..SNOW!!

The Doctor's office itself is gorgeous. It was built in the 1890s; ahem. That means the passages are extremely narrow and the rooms very cramped. Whatever, the place is gorgeous. If I hadn't been quite so dead tired I'm sure I would've been more appreciative of it. Especially if I hadn't had all of five hours of sleep the previous night and wasn't at the doctors office from 8:30- 2pm. Wait, wait, that's just the beginning.

"Ok, Maya, I'm going to put a couple of sprays up your nose and and into your mouth. By the way, this is doctor ____ (can't remember his name). He's going to be observing the proceedures. Hope you don't mind.....Have you had any acting classes? (I nod weakly) Pretend this is fun." I like this guy, he's gentle (I've had tubes literally forced down my throat before), not condescending and seems to know what he's doing. And he has...so many shiny objects in his office. I mean ahem-- lots of sharp pointy things of which I hope I won't have to find out the uses. The other doctor is about 26 or so and rather attractive. I'm not looking forwrad to making a gag of myself in front of him. Oh well, these proceedures don't claim to be glamorous.

At this point I feel the need to inform you of what horrible tasting sprays feel like running down your throat. The first two sprays were pretty neutral. However, then there's this horrid stuff that tastes like burned bananas (don't ask me how I know) : they pull out your toungue as much as possible with a piece of gauze and metal tongs (gagging, yet?) and spray the back of your throat with this awful smelling and tasting stuff. It numbs as the dropplets run down the back of your throat. Wait, wait, there's more. "Ok, now swallow." Except that you can't. Or you can't feel yourself swallow because the liquid numbs you. Swallowing never tasted so bad. But it does. Imagine having an acidic sharp edge in your throat everytime you try and swallow, and of course, being that your entire throat is numb, you have a constant desire to swallow. So then I get up and follow the two doctors, and two hurses into a second, smaller room. And then I wait....Hurray for waiting with a numbed throat and, well everything I described previously. So here's the worst part they put a very narrow black rubber tube up your nose and down your throat. It has a camera at the end of it. If you swallow it goes further in, if you cough, you gag. They have me sing a scale, say eeeeee over and over and tell me to hold it steady. I have horrible tasting saliva, a tube up my nose and down my throat and at least five people watching me with a childlike interest, and you want me to hold it steady?

The next few hours are a combination of waiting, trying not to fall asleep and going to a variety of speech and vocal therapists who attempt to relax the muscles that apparently are very tense whenever I sing/talk. Nice people, and very helpful.And then...there's the next doctor. We walk a couple of blooks to get to his office. We wait two hours. Hurray. This doctor is a neurologist. Eh heh........... I get into ones of those hospital gowns and soon after the doctor comes in: he's a stereotypical Jewish doctor with a sterotypical Jewish nose, a Brooklyn accent and a speech rapidity of a race car. And my mother starts to talk to him...

---20 minutes later---

"Close your eyes and look at the wall. This won't hurt." He puts things that I can't see on me that has something to do with tape and cold plastic on my neck. I'm lying there, not knowing what exactly to expect and suddenly HOLY SHIT??!! He shocks me. Totally wasn't expecting that. The entire table jerks and moves. A few seconds it's over. But ow? And then there are the needles.....You know those acupuncture needles? Yeah..These go in further. Nauseated, yet? There's only one of them but they go in right above my Adam's Apple (yes, women have one) and oh my god, OW. Imagine having a needle poked into your neck. "Now say eeeee", he says while pushing it in further. About a minute of that and it's over. But good lord I now hate needles. This is the sort of thing that could really discourage me from ever having the desire to become any serious performer. Then again, I've always been afraid of a little effort. So I guess I'll never know potential I have if I don't try...But..Gah...Needles in my neck. I'll leave you with that thought. Pleasant dreams!

Just kidding.. Oh, so last thing: supposedly I probably won't need surgery, just a lot of vocal and speech therapy. Greeaaaaaat. I thought I was finished with that part. At least I'll be able to talk.

On Immortality

2007-02-10T17:28:00.000-08:00

(Warning: spoilers for Callahan's Chronicles)
(Double warning: disconnected thoughts on the horizon)

What is immortality? Is it really living forever, or does leaving a part of yourself (i.e. a masterpiece painting, a famous piece of writing or earth shattering thoughts) work just as well? In Callahan's Chronicles, Rachel, an immortal, complains that she's no longer able to have children, and hasn't been blessed with any sort of artistic talents or unique philosophies. She knows she'll die eventually, even though she's been alive for 232 years.

One quote in particular really struck me. Callahan says at one point, "...'but so what? Anyone in this room could die tomorrow- we're all under sentence of death, like you said. But to stay sane a body just has to live as though they'll go on forever, assume there's a lot of years left." (I know I left a lot of context out, but the purpose of this post, it's sort of irrelevant)

That quote hit me with the same impact a frying pan banging against my forehead would. I live my life in the moment-- not trying to plan for the future, nor thinking of what I could leave behind so I would be remembered. But what is immortality? Is it the actual state of being immortal where nothing can kill you, or is it just a way of living life so you don't concern yourself with the time of when you're going to die? For those who are afraid of dying, is it better to think of one's self as immortal? For those who have no fear of death, is it better to think of one's self as humane, and having an inevitable end?

Is it necessary to leave something behind as proof of one's existence? How can we know if we'll be remembered if we leave something or someone (an offspring). Do all memories eventually fade? Is there any way to remember someone who wasn't famous? Is there enough room in the world for everyone to leave their mark? Why is it important to leave a mark? How do we know that our personal existence is important or significant compared to others? What defines someone's thoughts as earth shattering, and what defines a masterpiece work of art as such? Finally, what defines an importance? I am of the firm belief that the level of something's importance is determined by the surrounding people and the time. That said, we come to the point in which I ask the following: if you're surrounded by people who have values which don't coincide with yours, few things become important. At that point how will anything ever be important if nobody else thinks it is?

I'm done going off on tangents and going around in circles. That is all.

Rant

2007-01-16T16:11:00.000-08:00

I don't expect people to understand my life, or even like it. And really, that's fine! In fact, you all have a standing invitation to verbally beat my life over the head with your words of dislike and hatred.
...

And I promise I will let you in my own warped and understanding way. There is, however, one thing that I will not let pass: do not try to make me deny a part of my identity. My mother has been indenial about my sexuality. She happily chants that her three children are all straight and don't have any "problems". I guess being bisexual is a problem for my her. I tried to keep it quiet; so far it's only been twice that she's discovered it and has consistently gone into denial. Honestly, I don't care if she knows--it's disgusting the way she speaks of bisexuals and homosexuals. It's like there's something wrong with them. She thinks it's a phase, or a way of getting attention. The woman is stuck in the 1950s way of thinking. She can think of me however she wishes and say whatever she wishes. I will not stand for my identity being denied, though. That does not jive with me.

Because godforbid I should be honest with myself.

Just Imagine

2006-10-10T20:05:00.000-07:00

Imagine your mind being so full of thoughts and things you have to do, things you haven't done (i.e. under extreme stress), that you have three streamlines of thought going through your mind at any given time. There is a part of you which is silent, observing the thoughts and being fascinated that you can give each stream an equal part of your attention; this is your neutral self. You are also equally divided into three parts: each part is fully involved in each thought stream.

The first stream: A visual image of what you have to do, what you haven't done, what you shouuld be doing.

The second stream: A visual image of what you would prefer to be doing, who you would prefer to be with, and a feeling of such longing of being elsewhere that you feel you are metaphysically somewhere else.

The third stream: various random thoughts that pass through your mind at any given moment, such as sentences you might have absorbed while reading something, the memory of what something felt like,a sound, a song stuck in your head, etc...

Now imagine being in this tri-thought stage all the time. That's my brain, 24/7.

Now imagine being so totally focused on one thing. Let's take something we're all very familiar with: studying for a test. Here's how the streams change:

The first stream: a visual image of what I was doing when I was supposed to be doing something else, the emotional guilt you feel for doing that something else rather than doing what you were supposed to be doing, a constant nudging of what you're really supposed to be thinking about.

The second stream: a guilty feeling for wanting to do something else and being with someone else at any given moment, a visual image of examples relating to what you're supposed to be studying, random images relating to specific key words that you may have focused on.

The third stream: a stream that absorbs the material, (partially or fully), ir a more linear context, rather than visual. It takes in words, attempts to analyze them and commit them to memory.

The neutral stream: the feeling that you are aware that you are not thinking about what you should be thinking about. The awareness that you are not getting work done, and the recognition that you shouldn't allow your mind to wander, even though you have no desire to do anything about it's wandersome tendency.

Hyper

2006-09-27T00:28:00.000-07:00

BOING BOING BOING BOING BOING BOING BOING BOING BOING

It's scary when you know someone so well that you can read their expressions, hear their voice through their words and figure out what lyrics/poetry/music means to them. Everything in writing has a reason and a purpose. Most people just don't see it.

2006-09-11T18:19:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday caroline!!

Amazon

2006-08-31T15:57:00.000-07:00

Today I ordered something off of Amazon.com.

I'm such a consumer whore.

:/

hehe

2006-08-30T18:26:00.000-07:00

A friend is using this monologue that I wrote a year ago as an audition piece for a play, at Mills. Oh the rockage and self-importance.

A factory worker who packages pickles as they come off the assembly line, ponders what it would be like to have a more exciting job and to take risks.
Sally: You probably wouldn’t understand how exciting it is to package pickles each day. They really do smell wonderful you know! And..I hear they’re pretty healthy for you, too. The conditions in the factory aren’t that bad..It gets a little noisy and you’ve got people yelling at you, but that’s okay, because you just keep grabbing those jars of pickles as they come and if one jar hits the floor, well. Heh! Say goodbye to your job at Pickled Pickles! (Pauses for a minute and her chipper mood diminishes). Fine, so maybe I’m not being completely truthful. But I don’t have a lot of choice! I’ve got two kids with no father and this had good hours and it pays well enough! But you know..sometimes I wonder what would happen if one day..I let a jar of pickles crash to the floor. And ripped off my apron and cap and ran away from this hell of a life! I can only imagine what flowers must smell like...Everything always smells of pickles. And no matter how much perfume I put on when I go to the bank..It just doesn’t go away.

On Madness

2006-07-03T00:41:00.000-07:00

But what is madness, anyway? Is it truly a complete loss of one's mind? Is it failiure to perceive the world as it really is, as it is normal? What is normal, anyway? Can normal even possibly be defined? What if we're all mad and are seeing the world in a warped sense and aren't aware of it?

How does madness occur? Maybe it stems from obsession and grows life a fungus to become more of a recurring annoyance...And then it traps you like the caramel that sticks to your teeth. You can't get off of it and it won't let you out; not until you've resolve the one thing that you've become obsessed over. But by that time you're in so over you're head that it's not just about the object of your obsession, it's about everything. You start to see everything in a red light; everything is suddenly more intense, everything is horrible not bad, and everything is amazing, not good.

And the world becomes inverted. And you start to see things that aren't there and hear things that aren't there. And when someone speaks, it's like a thousand echoes all coming at you at once, garbled in speech, unable to make out a single word.

And then it stops. Like a bullet, like a shock, it stops. And everything's normal again. The cat meows, the horns honk, the light blinks and you return to a normal life. But it's still burried there. Still burried like the fungus that it is, continuing to grow and develop. It never really goes away. It just goes on hiatus. You're not aware that it's there. Then one day when you're at a social laughing with all your friends, it starts again. Out of the blue, it starts again. And you can't stop it. You can't stop laughing. Your eyes become blood shot, your sides ache and you feel nauseated. But it doesn't stop. And then you get tired. Your eyes get blury, you can't stand up straight. Something's wrong; people are upside down. People are talking to you but you can't understand what they're saying. You wake up and you're in a hospital bed except that you're on the roof of a building outside and watching the birds go by. But then the birds turn into people wearing white caps and coats and you realize they aren't birds at all.

And it's happened again. You've gone insane. And you're totally helpless and can't do anything about it at all. Except lie there. Just lie there. Don't say anything, because you can't possibly be aware of what you're saying. You might as well be deaf, too. People start to ask you questions but you can't even hear them. You're still thinking about that thing...that thing that was never resolved. It came back to haunt you, didn't it? And now you're loosing it again. Someone's slapping your face. No, now you're in the middle of a road, trying to cross something like a freeway, with cars coming at you in all directions: up, down, right, left-- all directions. You cross the road and...

You're normal again.

And *that* dear friends is how I see madness. Something which you can't really control: when it is there, it's like being trapped in another demention. When it's absent, it's just another day.

hm..

2006-06-23T23:58:00.000-07:00

I'm "sort of" working as a costume designer at Altarena Playhouse in Alameda. They are doing As You Like It, and costuming it in the 18th century. When I say sort of, I mean that a) there is no pay check, b) I do not per se "design" the costumes. Rather, I do the research for the era in which director wishes to costume the production, and figure out where they can be rented. Ugh. I like it not. It's not what I want to do. Yesterday, however, I was given an opportunity to design and make the fool's motley coat. (Actually it's just a very involved vest, but we're calling it a coat to make it feel important. Vests should feel important. They're far too scorned in this world of anti-vestism.)

Anyway, so I drew a picture of what I had in mind, had it approved by the director and at the moment I'm halfway finished with it. Frankly, I'm tired of it. My kind of fun doesn't go past drawing the design. I do not take pride in the actual construction of a garment. At this point, I firmly believe that all sewing projects should just sew themselves together.

And what of Dear Mr X? Well. A transitional ending is on a hiatus until something dramatic happens in my life again which will inspire me to finish it. I mean, there's an ending, but it's a slap-ending. Or a sticker ending, as I like to call it. I really did just slap/stick on an ending. And....frankly, it sucks. Oh well. It doesn't matter to me enough right now to change it.

And it terms of other things in my life that ya'll want to know about....It's been hot. So I've been swimming and dancing and have been all too lethargic for anything actual to get done.

My voice is still wobbly. Talked too much yesterday. And the day before. I can't describe how annoying it is not to be able to talk as you please. The more I talk, the less I sing. The more I sing, the less I talk. Frustrating. And then of course I get the ever present and never failing "how's your voice? can you sing today? Well? Can you? CAN YOU??" And in addition to working at a theatre, I miss performing. Not performing is sort of like not eating for a day. You gradually begin to notice that you've forgotten to do something very vital.

And in reponse to that and other annoyances, I very much want to either move out or get a car. I have a liscense now, as well as insurance..just..no car. It's very annoying.

So my latest project for myself (for gaskells), is a white, strapless ball gown covered completely in playing cards. I have the top of the bodice done. And that's it. Seriously, don't ever try to hand sew cards onto a dress. I'm just doing it because I'm insane.

Oh yeah. So this year's theme for Haunted Productions is a ghost pirate ship. Or more simply, a pirate ship. Yes, yes, I know I did it three years ago. Bah! I can do it again if I want to. XD

I want a cookie.

Dear Mr. X, thus far

2006-04-25T11:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. X
By Maya Attia. Copyright 2005

(unfinished, unedited.)

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 1: Mr. John Bitsworthy
OK, really I promise I'll really post as much as I can of it. No more procrastinating for me..Or distractions for that matter. (Ooh shiny) Nope! No distractions!! So here we go..From the very first word. This is being typed from my almost illegible handwriting, so it'll be kind of an edit-as-I go sort of thing.

Dear Mr. X
by
Maya Attia

Foreward
Dear Reader,
If you have ever experienced love in its purest form, then you may not enjoy this story. If you have experienced hardships, however, and replaced them or battled them with nothing else then an imagination, this story is for you.
While this story has its comical points, it's not exactly a comedy; while it has it's tragic points, it isn't exactly a tragedy. Rather, it is a compilation of events that happend to a young girl named Lavendar Footsworth, who chose her imagination rather than love.

Chapter 1: Mr. John Bitsworthy
Miss Lavendar Footsworth was of a very ripe sixteen years, and lived in Baths, England. She lived with her mother, Mrs. Footsworth and a vague memory of her father, Major Footsworth. The Footsworths inhabited an apartment on Bitsbats Lane and had tea every afternoon at the hour of four.
Lavendar's mother had been sure that her daughter had received the highest education that was available, and wore the finest dresses and heard only the most important gossip. Lavendar herself didn't care for gossip, pretty dresses or her daily tea. Instead, she much preferred to spend her afternoons reading on the wooden swing in the backyard, warmed by the faint rays of sunlight that sometimes showed through the clouds. If she didn't have her nose in a book, Lavendar would be off somewhere in the garden, imagining she was on an adventure in India, or some such far away place. Such adventures usually resulted in Lavendar ripping her dress in several places. This did not make Mrs. Footsworth happy. Lavendar didn't care if her adventures upset her mother; there was nothing more delightful then to imagine being somewhere else.
One blusterous day, Mrs. Footsworth interrupted one of Lavendar's adventures.
"Today", said Mrs. Footsworth, you will not be taking tea with me. " Lavendar tried to hide her feelings of gladness. During every tea, all her mother did was talk about the rest of the city and what the rest of the city thought about the rest of the city and what the rest of the city was gossiping about and how it was really horrible to gossip but the rest of the city did it--it was horrid.
"Oh," said Lavendar. "Who will I be taking tea with?"
"Mr. John Bistworthy," annouced Mrs. Footsworth. "He is a refined gentleman of twenty-one, is one of four siblings, enjoys politics and despises hot weather."
"Does he like to read?" Lavendar asked meekly, looking out the window at the swing blowing in the wind.
"He enjoys reading the daily post," finished her mother. "Now go up and change. Anna will help you into your dress." Lavendar didn't move from her plush seat in the drawing room . "Well, what are you waiting for?"
"The rain to fall," said Lavendar quietly as she got up from her chair. She climbed the spiraling staircase up to her room. Once inside her room, she found Anna as well as a brand new canary yellow dress waiting for her. It was adorned with silk flowers that had white petals and yellow centers across the neckline. The dress had elbow length sleeves with white lace trim. In the back was a short train, just long enough to be stepped on. Lavendar looked at the dress in disgust. This wasn't quiet as bad as the orange and purple dress her mother had ordered for her a year ago, but nonetheless..It was hideous. Lavendar made a face at herself in the mirror throughout the dressing.
"What's wrong, miss?" asked Anna, slighty amused.
"I...umph! Don't..umph! Like yellow!" said Lavendar as her corset was tightened a bit to allow for the slight snuggness of the dress. Once dressed, Lavendar went downstairs for instructions.
"Now, you must drink only peach tea and eat only fruit tarts. I will not have you bursting the seams of your new dress. You will listen more then you will speak, and don't forget to smile every so often. Be sure your elbows are not resting on the table and that your napkin remains in your lap when not in use. Do not asjust your hair during the tea and do not fidget in your potential boredom. Goodbye dear, here comes your carriage."
The carraige took Lavendar to the house of John Bitsworthy, where his buttler, Ottssmith, answered the door and presented Lavendar to John. John sat the table set for tea for two, sketching.
"Do you..draw?" asked Lavendar nervously, having absolutely no idea what to expect of her tea date. "I mean, a lot?"
"No, not really," John said, squinting one eye. "It's really just something I do when I get bored. Who are you again?"
"My name is Lavendar," said Lavendar, sitting down in the vacant seat.
"Ah, yes I knew it was something of the purple ilk," said John putting his feet up on the nearby window seat. He threw aside his sketch pad and pulled his chair forward to face Lavendar. "So," he continued, "Care for some tea?"
"Yes please--peach, if you have it." John poured Lavendar a cup of the already brewed peach tea.
"Biscuit?"
"No thank you."
"Cake?"
"That's alright."
"Fruit tart?"
"Yes, please."Lavendar rested her hand in her lap and sat up straight to face John.
"So er..what do you like to do in your leisure?" John asked, leaning forward putting one elbow on the table, just missing tipping over the sugar bowl. Lavendar was about to speak when John continued. "I myself like to spend my afternoons practicing my violin. I've only been practicing for about a year now, but I'd say say my skill level is going up at a rapid rate. Would you like to hear some?" Lavendar opened her mouth to speak. "Well of course you do. Wait a minute. I keep it just over here.." John went to the room adjoining with the tea room and came back with a well polished violin and bow. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before he began to play the most ear piercing tune. Calling it a tune was a matter of politeness; for each note squeaked with a horrible shrillness that made Lavendar fidget in her chair. Even the cuterly was clinking on the table, aroused by such a horrid sound. When John finally finished, he stood proudly, instrument in hand.
"Well, what do you think?"
"Oh! Well it was very interesting..I mean in the difference of tones and.."
"Yes, do go on," said John with interest.
"It....transports you," continued Lavendar.
"Transports you?" asked John puzzled. He put his violin aside and and sat back down at the small table to face Lavendar.
"Yes..it does..it takes you out of this place and...brings you to another place.." Lavendar scolded herself for not making sense.
"And what would that other place be?" Asked John, inspecting his spoon.
"Hell," thought Lavendar. "Well, just another place..that only such..pitches..could bring you to," finished Lavendar, sure that John wasn't believing a word.
"Well!" said John, thoughtfully. " I must say, I've never heard anyone say such things about my music! Would you care to hear some more?" John asked hopefully. Lavendar was about to refuse, but there was a boyish, almost child-like excitement in John's eyes. It was like watching the very essence of hope become brighter and brighter. She knew if she refused, she was in for another hour of endless self-praising speeches. She was sure to fall asleep. However, if she said yes, she was in for another painful few minutes. On the other hand, she didn't want to embarrass herself and John by refusing.
"Sure," said Lavendar simply. John took up his instrument once more. Lavendar prepared for the worst. This time, however, a sweet, simple tune came out, backed by passion and encouragement from a single audience member. Lavendar sat back and relaxed in her chair. When the last note was played, Lavendar smiled and clapped softly. John smiled and flipped his hair out his eyes.
Lavendar left John's house feelings unsettled. She hoped she hadn't given the impression that she was interested in John romantically. Worse yet, if her mother had planned another tea date with John, she could only see things becoming worse. John, after all, was
"An arrogant, impolite, forgetful man whom I have absolutely no interest in, " reported Lavendar to her very surprised mother.
"Now Lavendar, John Bitsworthy is a lovely gentleman who comes from a very wealthy family!"Mrs. Footswoth said as she ate a piece of buttered bread. "You musn't say nor think such things."
"I will say what I wish," said Lavendar, much annoyed that her freedom to speak and think had been denied.
"You will go to your room," said Mrs. Footsworth, suddenly becoming very stern. Lavendar smirked at her mother's reaction, but obeyed.
For the next few weeks, Lavendar's mother was persistent that her daughter continue to see John. The more she saw him, however, the more Lavendar grew impatient and became more aware of his arrogance and bored with his childishness. John had also decided that it would be terribly amusing to poke Lavendar in various inappropriate places. Lavendar was not amused and did not stand for such games. One rainy afternoon, Lavendar interrupted one of John's self-praising speeches.
"John!" Lavendar almost cried out. "
"Yes?" John asked, slightly annoyed by such an interruption, obviously of no great importance.
"There is something I must tell you." Lavendar said very seriously.
"John sat back in his chair as Lavendar straightened in hers. They both looked very serious. Slowly, he leaned forward and took Lavendar's hand, which was gently gripping the edge of the table.
"There is something I must tell you, too," said John, looking directly at Lavendar.
"These past few weeks," started Lavendar, "have been-"
"Wonderful! Amazing!" Exclaimed John, excitement overtaking him. "I've never met anyone who's liked my music so much, or..or..listened to me without falling asleep!"
"I-" started Lavendar, not really knowing what to say.
"Lavendar, say you'll become my companion forever, and perhaps even share a life with-"
"No!" shouted Lavendar, as she pulled away from John's tightening grasp on her hand. "Please try to understand. I am..not... fond of you," the words came with great effort. John said nothing. Lavendar felt as if something should be said in the silence; perhaps an appology should be made, but nothing came out. The only sound that was heard was the rustling of skirts as Lavendar headed for the door.
"Will we be seeing you next week, Madam?" asked Ottssmith.
"No," said Lavendar. " You shall not be seeing me, anymore. Goodbye, Ottssmith."
"Goodbye, Madam," said Ottssmith. And with that, Lavendar walked out of the Bitsworthy house and into the rain outside.

Friday, August 05, 2005
Dear Mr. X:Chapter 2 Mr. Andre Teaspout
Lavendar's journey back home was all too short. There was a bitter feeling in her stomach, both of guilt and of disobedience. She had hurt John greatly and felt she had shed shame on her father's grave.
"Well? How did things go?" Mrs. Footsworth asked Lavendar, as she trudged in. Lavendar chose not to answer. She simply took a deep breath and continued up to her room. Once undressed, she collapsed on her bed and did not wake until morning.
The next day lunch was very quiet. Almost no words were exchanged between Lavendar and her mother. Finally, Mrs. Footsworth broke the silence.
"Well," she said, pouring herself some tea, "I heard from Lady Bitsworthy that your affections do not belong to her son." Lavendar dropped her fork. It clattered on the porcelain plate. Lavendar cleared her throat nervously. "I suppose we can't always find love in the first gentleman we take tea with." Relieved, Lavendar tried to smile as she retrieved her fork. "Nonetheless, your cousin Andrea is having a ball tonight in honor of her birthday. The two of us will attend and you will be introduced to several gentlemen."
"Mother!" said Lavendar in surprise. "Do you simply expect me to fall in love and marry in a matter of weeks? That isn't the way love works!"
"Not it's not the way love works, dear, but it's the way our society works. It's the way people like us are kept off the streets. Now tell me, would you prefer to be selling flowers for a living, and not have any sort of respectable future? Here, I'm giving you an opportunity to marry into a wealthy family, and you simply bat it away!"
"Mother, I do not find men so interesting such that I would want to spend unlimited amounts of time with them!" exclaimed Lavendar, finally feeling that she'd had her say. Mrs. Footsworth's face grew very serious.
"Lavendar...are you saying you're affections lie in your own gender?"
"No," said Lavendar, simply. "I just don't feel particular intersted in romance at all." Mrs. Footsworth was silent for a moment, until finally she spoke in a very final tone.
"Well, then we must awaken romance within you! There is no better place then a ball, held in one of the most beautiful ballrooms in all of Baths!"
"Mother!" Lavendar almost cried out, "Please try to understand!"
"Lavendar, I understand. Try to remember I was once a girl, too. I had an imagination too and I had dreams that didn't necessarily involve romance too. But I also had an understanding of society. I knew what I had to do to ensure my status...and health."
"Can't the way of the world be changed?" Sobbed Lavendar, both elbows now the table, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"As I said before," said Mrs. Footsworth coldly, "unless you fancy a life on the streets selling flowers, I suggest you follow my advice. Listen dear," Mrs. Footsworth said, her voice suddenly becoming warm. "Once you marry a respectable gentleman, you can have your own life and live the way you want. But for now, you must understand that the money your father left us in his will becomes less each day. We must ensure our comfort!" Lavendar understood. All too well. This was no longer a matter of self. This was a matter of keeping both her mother and herself alive. Lavendar no longer felt as though she was being forced to love someone: she had a duty to her mother and to herself.
That evening, Lavendar and her mother broth arrived Andrea's birthday party at the beautiful Buzzy Flankets Ballroom. The ballroom really was grand; it had cherubs painted on its domed ceilings, marble staircases leading up to the dressing rooms, an expansive dance floor and red velvet curtains with gold tassles that cascaded down from the ceiling. Both men and women were dressed in their finest! Lavendar wore a striking red velvet dress with off the shoulder, short puffy sleeves with black lace trim and rosettes in her hair. Her mother wore a black dress which swept the floor. Throughout the night, Lavendar was introduced to countless young gentlemen; many of whose names were instantly forgotten. Unfortunately, most of the gentlemen had exceedingly bland personalities. As she was dancing with one gentleman by the name of Picadilly, Lavendar noticed a tall blonde gentleman with a strong jaw and deep set blue eyes.
"Something wrong?" asked Mr. Picadilly, as Lavendar almost tripped over her own feet.
"No, nothing," Lavendar said as the waltz ended. After being escorted back to her chair, Lavendar was joined by her friend Rosemary.
"Hello, Lavendar dear!" said Rosemary, floofing herself down next to Lavendar. "I'm sure you're having a wonderful time, and feel lovely in that new dress!" There was a note of sarcasm in her tone, for Rosemary knew all too well that Lavendar hated balls and hated getting dressed in dresses which wore themselves.
"Ugh," said Lavendar. "I found my previous partner most unpleasant."
"How horrid to hear! I myself have been having a splendid time! So many beautiful gowns to look at, so many gentlemen to dance with and so many beautiful waltzes to dance to! I do so wish Andrea would throw such parties every night! By the way, have you taken notice of Mr. Teaspout, the gentleman with blonde hair?" At this, Lavendar perked up. As much as she really did enjoy talking to Rosemary, there were times when her conversations seemed like they were aimed at herself.
"I did...What did you say his name was?"
"Mr. Teaspout. Andre Teaspout," said Rosemary, amused by her friend's sudden perkiness. "Would you like me to introduce him to you? He's a friend of my brother's you know!" An introduction to Mr. Teaspout was absolutely horrifying. What if he was rude and arrogant or pressumptious?
"Come on, he's right over here..." said Rosemary. Lavendar's thought was interrupted by Rosemary pulling her arm.
"No, no, no!" Protested Lavendar, feeling herself being dragged into what could only be one of Rosemary's mad ideas. Despite her protestations, somehow Lavendar ended up right in front of Mr. Teaspout.
"Hello Andre," said Rosemary.
"Well hello Miss Rosemary, " said Andre, his voice calm and pleasant. "How lovely to see you this evening." Rosemary smiled.
"Andre, may I present my friend Miss Lavendar Footsworth." Lavendar came forward, her cheeks slightly red.
"How do you do," said Lavendar, trying very hard not to become overwhelmed with the pure blueness of Mr. Teaspout's eyes.
"How do you do," returned Mr. Teaspout. "Would you honor me with the next dance, Ms. Footsworth?" Mr. Teaspout asked, as the music started up again.
"I should be delighted," said Lavendar, taking Mr. Teaspout's outstretched arm. He was a fabulous dancer. He had a warmth about him that Lavendar had never felt around any gentleman. After three dances, he and Lavendar went out to one of the balconies to rest. Lavendar looked out at the night, allow her gaze to become fixed, until he spoke.
"You dance very well," he said. "Something you do often?" his speech was smooth and clear, each word seemed to be carefully chosen.
"Uh, well, no not really, but then I suppose you could say sometimes, which is to say when I'm given the reason to do so.." Lavendar scolded herself mentally. Every word that came out was garbled; it was as though she was toungue tied. Andre looked puzzled for a moment and then smiled. This Lavendar obviously was quite taken with him--as she should be; this was often the case with women. He smiled to himself at the thought of this. He sat down next to her on the stone bench that overlooked the beautiful rose gardens below.
"Lavendar," he said looking directly at her, "How would you care to have tea with me?" Lavendar was silent for a moment, as she arranged the proper words to make a comprehensible sentence.
"I should be...delighted." she said with as much as elegance and sophistication as she could.
"Excellent," said Andre. Tea was the next day at four.

Dear Mr. X:Chapter 2 Mr. Andre Teaspout continued
For the first time, Lavendar stood outside her closet happily as she tried to decide what to wear. After fifteen minutes of deliberating, Lavendar decided on a powdered blue dress with white lace at the neck and sleeves. Once dressed, she proudly marched downstairs to her smiling mother. After receiving instructions from her mother on what to do and how to act, Lavendar was taken away in a carriage. Twenty minutes later, she arrived at Andre's apartment. Lavendar was all a flutter when she came face to face with Andre after ringing the doorbell.
"Hello Lavendar," said Andre, kissing her hand.
"Good afternoon," said Lavendar, excitement filling her from head to toe. The two walked through a hallway, where there were many lavishly furnished rooms, and ended at a small room with a table set for tea for two.
"Do you care for tea cake?" Andre asked once they were seated. Lavendar had one elbow on the table with her head cupped in her hand. She was looking into Andre's eyes, forgetting where she was. "Alright, I suppose silence means you don't fancy cake. How about fruit tart?" Andre looked up at Lavendar. Lavendar, startled at the direct eye contact, started.
"Oh," she cleared her throat. "Yes, fruit tart would be lovely, thank you." Lavendar was about to go back to staring in his eyes when Andrew began to speak.
"So, what do you do in your leisure? Besides attending balls that is.."
"Oh! Well, I like sewing...and-and reading! I do like reading..And music! And..drawing."
"Drawing? Suppose you showed me some of your sketches the next time we meet?"
"Oh but I have my small sketchpad right here.." said Lavendar, feeling a small victory over being prepared. The next half hour was spent showing Andre her sketches. Lavendar's sketchpad was filled with fantastical characters, wearing beautiful gowns. When she turned the last page of the book, Andre rose.
"May I show you one of my hobbies?" he asked grinning at Lavendar. Lavendar sat in wonder. Andre opened a long, rectangular cabinet and took out a foil. "This is what I do!" he said lunging at Lavendar, almost brushing past her ear. Lavendar gasped. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm in good practice!" Andre took a few steps back and lunged again. This time, Lavendar felt a small wind by her head and found a piece of her hair ribbon in her lap. "Here, I'll teach you," said Andre, throwing a blunted foil at Lavendar hilt first.
"I really..don't think so," said Lavendar nervously as she caught the sword. Andre and Lavendar's tea dates were no longer simply tea. They were now fencing lessons. During each lesson Lavendar felt herself picking up the art and Andre could feel himself becoming more attracted to Lavendar. There was something so innocent about her; something fragile... After one lesson, Andre asked Lavendar to accompany him to his father's cabin, up North.
"Well that sounds lovely, " said Lavendar, trying to catch her breath. Her legs were sore and her hair was a mess.
"Absolutely not!" said Mrs. Footsworth.
"But Mother! Why not?? Isn't this what you wanted?"
"No, I will not have you put yourself in a potentially scandalous situation."
"Mother! I'm sure Andre has never had a thought of that kind. He is a lovely gentleman," Lavendar protested, although unsure whether or not he really had had such thoughts. He had been very quick to ask her to tea and he was always very direct. In fact-- no. It wasn't possible. She was just Lavendar...No gentleman would ever think of her that way. Would they?
"That's correct," said Mrs. Footsworth rising from her chair, her lean figure towering above Lavendar. "You don't think he would. But he will. There are many things you do not know about men. You must not be taken by what seems to be harmless outings. Men are sneaky in this way. And furthermore, you don't love Andre." Lavendar was silent. She couldn't answer that. She knew she liked having tea with him, but did she love him? It was a rather strong word with which describe their friendship. Yes. A friendship. That was all it was. Nothing more. She would waste no more time on Andre. For she did not love him.
"No," said Lavendar finally. "I do not love him."
"Exactly," said Mrs. Footsworth. "And that is why you will not be accompanying him up North." Lavendar, despite her disappointment, understood. It would be a waste of time.
Andre was sad to receive the news, but seemed to understand. When he inquired about a future tea date, Lavendar sadly, but firmly refused. If she felt anything strong about Andre it was merely infatuation, but not love. Love was a special bond between two equals in which neither person was inferior nor superior. Andre was just a passing fancy. Later that day, Lavendar sat in her rocking chair in her room and looking outside at the ivy climbing up the wall.
"I do hope I'll find love," she thought. "And I hope I'll find it before I turn twenty. For by then I shall be an old maid."

Chapter 3:Mr. Christopher Inkwell
Lavendar spent the next two years going on all sorts of tea dates with various gentlemen, such as Mr. Edwin Pennysack, Mr. Allen Curdoroy and so on. Much to Mrs. Footsworth's dismay, Lavendar was consistently unsuccessful. One was too young or childish, another was not in step with the present, one would go on and and on about his past and another had a rather unhealthy obsession with knives. Lavendar came back from each tea date feeling distraught and sad. Was there no hope for her? Was there simply no gentleman to suit her needs? Was she destined to live in lonliness? Worse yet, her mother's disapproval? She vowed that the answers to her quandries were all in the negative.
One Sunday afternoon, Lavendar and her mother were readying themselves for a walk. Mrs. Footsworth had decided some fresh air would be a good idea for Lavendar.
"And I just can't believe how Mr. Edwin went on and on about his family, as if nothing else in the world existed! And Mr. Allen! Ugh! Mr. Allen thinks that women have no place in our world! Balderdash!" Lavendar was babbling on about her past suitors when she and her mother sat down to rest on the edge of a fountain. When Lavendar paused for breath, she noticed someone's reflection in the water, but could not see the source. She looked around curiously, but to no avail.
"What are you doing?" asked Mrs. Footsworth, "You are making a perfect fool of yourself!" Lavendar was very curious however, and kept trying to find the source of the reflection which seemed to be right behind her..But it wasn't. She leaned a bit farther over the fountain to get a better view of the reflection in the water.
"You don't give up, do you?" Came a voice directly behind Lavendar. Startled, Lavendar fell into the shallow fountain. she emerged, gasping, and drenched from head to toe. Surprised and embarrassed, she tried to gingerly step out of the fountain. Her mother was saying something...scolding her probably. But her attention was elsewhere. Confused, Lavendar looked to her left and found a well dressed young gentleman of about twenty one, looking very amused. Thinking that such amused was mockery, Lavendar sniffed and gathered her things in preperation to leave.
"May I assist you?" asked the gentleman, seeing Lavendar was having trouble manuevering herself in a soaked dress.
"No," said Lavendar coldy.
"As you say," said the gentleman, smiling. Mrs. Footsworth was near fainting. She couldn't begin to bring herself to believe her own daughter had just fallen into a fountain! In spite of her shock, Mrs. Footsworth did not cease her scoldings.
"Shame on you, Lavendar! How could you ever-"
"Now, now," interrupted the gentleman, "I think that's quite enough scolding for one person." Mrs. Footsworth, completely shocked, fainted. Luckily the gentleman saw her faint and caught her before she too, toppled into the water. Lavendar, who looked more harried than shocked, started to stop wringing her dress and tend to her mother. "There, there. I"ll have a carriage take you home." Lavendar, although grateful for the help, was unsure of of the stranger simply assuming that he could tend her mother. A carraige came and the gentleman helped Lavendar and an unconscious Mrs. Footswroth into the carriage.
"Thank you for your help," said Lavendar. "What did you say your name was?"
"Christopher. Christopher Inkwell."
"Well thank you for your assistance, Mr. Inkwell. Now please leave us."
"Oh, no!" said Christopher, jumping into the carriage. I'm going to make sure your arrive home safely. After all, you have a slightly ill woman on your hands. I would be doing you a disservice if I left you now." Mrs. Footsworth groaned and mumbled something incomprehensible. "Ah, I see your mother agrees with me." Lavendar starred at Christopher. He had the nerve to--but then again, he was helping her. Or appeared to be.
"Now then, where do you live?"
"Three-thirteen, BitsBats," said Lavendar. Christopher told the driver.
"Ah! You live near my grandfather!"
"Oh," said Lavendar.
"Yes, Grandfather lives on Bitsbats Lane as well. He owns a shop. He makes string instruments: violins, cellos, violas--"
"Yes, I know what string instruments are, Mr. Inkwell." Despite her annoyance, she found Mr. Inkwell to be rather pleasant. The two of them discussed poetry, art and tea cakes.
"And have you ever read Lord Byron's poetry?
"Oh yes!" Exclaimed Lavendar, "I do so love his poetry!"
"Have you read She Walks in Beauty?"
"Why, no..I don't believe I have."
"Then allow me to recite it." He cleared his throat and recited the poem, not missing a single word or beat. There was a smoothness to his voice and his gaze never left Lavendar's. It was almost as though he was reciting the poem and relating it to her! Suddenly, Lavendar gasped. How improper! Chirstopher stopped and looked at Lavendar. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, no." said Lavendar banishing the thought. "Please continue" Before they knew it, the carriage had stopped in front the Footsworth's apartment. Mrs. Footsworth groaned. Lavendar and Christoper helped her out of the carriage and into the apartment. As Lavendar prepared to show Christopher the door, he spun around and offered Lavendar an afternoon tea the following day.
"Oh, well," said Lavendar, remembering her previous teas and how unsuccessful they'd been. But as she stood there thinking and preparing to refuse, she looked at Christopher and at his dark eyes and recalled how easy he'd been to talk to. "Thank you, I'd love it."
"Excellent," said Christopher and he walked out the door, jumping the last stair down to the ground. The next day, Lavendar, once again, was choosing her most delightful tea gown. A carriage arrived and took Lavendar to the Inkwell Estate. Instead of a butler opening the door, Lavendar came nose to nose with Christopher himself.
"Hello, Lavendar! Come right in!"
"Thank you, " Lavendar said as she stepped inside to a beautifully furnished home with marble staircases and fine lace table cloths. Tea was through a a huge library which consisted of several volumes of fairytales, many history books, a collection of encyclopedias and several volumes of modern science. Old maps decorated the walls of the library, several with push pins and red string, connecting points. "What a beautiful collection, " said Lavendar. "Where did all the maps come from?"
"Oh, those, " said Christopher. "My father was a kind of sailor. Went on many adventures."
"What sort of adventures?" asked Lavendar, intrigued.
"The dangerous kind," returned Christopher. "My father was very curious. Never lingered in one place or did any one thing for too long. Swash buckling was just one of the mad things he may or may not have done during his rather short life, to provide you with an idea."
"Oh," said Lavendar. "He isn't.."
"Sharks, " siad Christopher casuallay. "During one of his voyages he was forced overboard."
"Oh dear!" said Lavendar, shocked.
"Oh, don't worry. He had a wonderful life and did what he loved. He died doing what he loved. That's all that matters. " Lavendar continued to look shocked. "Tea?"
"Thank you, " said Lavendar, her voice cracking a bit. The rest of the tea was spent in small room with large windows where beams of sunlight streamed in. The two shared stories of their family, their views on politics and literature. Lavendar even managed to share some of her iminaginary adventures with Chrisptoher.
"These adventures...Why do you no longer delight in them?" Asked Christopher curiously.
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose I stopped after my mother started sending me on tea dates."
"Really," said Christopher, leaning in towards Lavendar.
"Well, you see, ever since I've been seeing..gentlemen, some of whom cannot even be entitled as such, I haven't had any time for adventures.
"Well then! Let's go on an adventure!" Lavendar blinked.
"What? An adventure? Here? Now?"
"Yes! Come, it'll be fun!" Lavendar wasn't sure what to think. An adventure seemed odd to her now. Before she knew it, she was being pulled by the hand and taken up the stairs to a long hallway filled with many doors to various rooms. After that it was all a blur. One moment she was having tea and the next she was on a pirate's ship.
"Well, well, well.." said Christopher, who had taken on the name of Christopher the Horrible. "What have we here? A stowe-away?"
"Oh please, sir," pleaded Lavendar in her most convincing voice. It was my only choice! They were going to kill me! I had to get away from-"
"Excuses, excuses. If you're going to stay on this ship, you'll have to work!" Christopher the Horrible thought and stroked his imaginary beard. "You can clean my boots!" Lavendar made a face. "What, not good enough? Ha! Anything is better then walking the plank.."
"Oh, no sir! Please not the plank! Yes, yes...cleaning your boots. Yes sir.." The adventure went on for many hours and the two found themselves exploring the seven seas, fighting off other pirates, firing cannons and discovering treasure maps. In the early evening, Lavendar and Christopher sat by the fire, exhausted. Finally, Lavendar returned home. It was very late.
"Well," said Mrs. Footsworth. "That was a very extensive tea."
"Oh, but it was wonderful!" said Lavendar, remembering the adventure.
"And what does this mean?" asked Mrs. Footsworth, expectantly.
"I don't know, said Lavendar. "Something, I hope." Something evolved into many thing, as Lavendar and Christopher continued to have tea and go on adventures. One day at tea, when Lavendar and Christohpher where having a more serious adventure, Christopher asked Lavendar to accompany him to a ball. "A ball," said Lavendar, somewhat reluctantly, remmbering the last one with Andre.
"Yes, a ball! You know, one of those parties where everyone gets dressed up in their finest and-" Lavendar laughed.
"Yes, I know what it is. I must think about it."
"What's there to think about? It'll be wonderful! Just say yes!"
"I don't know," replied, Lavendar gently. As much as she enjoyed his company, attending a ball with Christopher was not something she had thought about. "I suppose there'll be dancing," said Lavendar thoughtfully.
"Yes dancing's delightful! Have you tried it before? I could teach you, easily, really.."
"Alright," said Lavendar carefully.
"Splendid! Now you just put one foot here, and then-"
"I know how to dance, said Lavendar, standing. I was agreeing to go with you."

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 3: Mr. Christopher Inkwell, continued
Christopher smiled. Lavendar smiled back. She very much hoped the ball would be a more pleasant experience then the one where she had met Andre. The evening of the ball, Lavendar primped herself, sure every detail, every curl and every inch of fabric was in tact.
"I wonder," she though, "if Christopher loves me..We certainly do spend a great deal of time together. I wonder if..he'll tell me tonight. Or perhaps I should tell him! Oh, but no..I'd never have the courage..But I do so wish to know! There's simply something about the way he looks at me. Sometihg in his eyes. But perhaps he is simply admiring me, and not in love with me at all. What of that? Or perhaps not..Or perhaps so! Oh dear. "I'm so horribly confused!" Lavendar said aloud.
"About what, Miss?" asked Anna.
"Anna, Lavendar started to say, "have you ever been in love?"
"Well Miss, that's quite a question..I suppose I've been in love. Rather depends on what you say love is."
"I don't know," said Lavendar, almost whispering.
"Well then, how you can ask someone if they've ever felt if it, if you can't define it?" asked Anna slightly confused.
"I don't know," said Lavendar. "Oh Anna do you think he thinks of me fondly?"
"Who, Miss?"
"Mr. Inkwell," said Lavendar, fretfully.
"Well Miss, I couldn't say. but I will say that you can always see when someone's in love. That something in the eyes..."
"The eyes," thought Lavendar. "The way he looks at-- Yes! He must love me!" With that Lavendar dashed some perfume on her neck and prepared to leave for the ball. The ball was a lively arrangement of energetic polkas, beautiful waltzes and many people all talking at once.
"Lavendar!" Christopher said from behind Lavendar. Lavendar turned around and saw Christopher.
"Christopher," said Lavendar softly. The two spent most of the night dancing to the music and talking to mutual friends. After one particularly beautiful waltz, Lavendar and Christopher retired to a balcony opening for air.
"Lavendar," said Christopher thoughtfully. Lavendar looked up at him. "There is something I must tell you."
"Oh?" said Lavendar, getting excited.
"Yes, well, we've been spending quite a bit of time together, and.."
"Yes?"
"Well I just wanted tosay that...I think you're a delightful girl." Christopher concluded with some effort.
"Go on," whispered Lavendar, expectantly.
"Sorry?"
"I said go on.." said Lavendar a bit louder.
"That's all I had to say." Lavendar looked away confused. Christopher looked away, confused. It seemed as though he wans't going to proclaim his love for her after all. Not after all this time, not after so much had happened!
"Christopher," said Lavendar firmly. "I must know something."
"Yes?" he said, rasing an eyebrow. Lavendar paused for a moment and took several deep breaths. The question she was about to ask would determine not only her future, but her happiness. She prayed the answer would be yes.
"Do you or do you not, love me?" Lavendar asked finally. Christopher sat down next to Lavendar and stared at the open night. He did not blink, but just sat still for what seemed an eternity.
"Lavendar...That's a rather difficult question," he said finally.
"It is not. The answer is either yes or no."
"I don't know," said Christopher. "You're delightful and all that, and really are a joy, but I suppose..I just see you as a playmate."
"A WHAT?!?" said Lavendar outraged.
"Yes, a playmate. Someone with whom I go out and have fun with; like on our adventures!" finished Christopher, growing more comfortable with the idea. "Sorry, have I upset you?"
"No, really, not at all," Lavendar said sarcastically. "It's just that..That wasn't what I was expecting to hear!" and with that she broke into heavy sobbing, right in front of her friend.
"Lavendar...you don't mean to tell me that you think of me romantically..." Lavendar nodded vigorously. Christopher wasn't sure what to think or how to respond. He'd been so sure that Lavendar had merely thoguht him a friend: a companion! But a lover? He put his hand on her shoulder, attempting to comfort her. It was all he felt he could do. Lavendar composed herself enough to forceibly shake his hand away and stand. She didn't make eye contact with Christopher. She couldn't bring herself to do it. She felt as though she had ruined her one chance to marry someone she truly and deeply loved. She ran from the balcony and out of the ballroom, and into an awaiting carriage. In a matter of seconds, her one chance at love had disappeared. And it was her fault. It was all her fault. This wasn't some drawing she could tear out of her sketchbook. It wasn't some thought she could shake from her head. This was real. And she had just ruined it. Completely and totally. She would probably never hear from Christopher again.
"How could I...How could I have been so wrong? What didn't I see? What did I do wrong?" These thoughts filled her head during her short journey home. Once home, she did not sleep. She lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, re-running the moment that ended her companionship. Over and over and over.
The next few nights were sleepless ones. She imagined conversations between herself and Christopher. She imagined his responses. She imagined the way it could have been, the way it should have been. The life she could have had. With him. And now it was all gone.
"Damnit!" Lavendar said aloud as she hit her fist on the pillow. "Why did I have to go and destroy it?" She cried into her pillow until half of it was soaked through. Exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep and did not wake until late morning.

Chapter 4: Mr. X
Lavendar awoke the next morning to a terrible headache and heartache. She still couldn't believe what had happened the night before. All she wanted to do was cry some more and throw breakable objects at the wall. Not knowing what else to do, she dressed herself for an afternoon walk. It was pleasant outside. There was a light breeze which felt refreshing on Lavendar's still moist cheeks. Her thoughts were blank. She had nothing to think about, nothing to do and nowhere to go. A little way up, there was a vacant park bench. She sat down on it and leaned back, looking up at the sky.
"I still can't believe he doesn't love me," thought Lavendar, although it did not inspire tears this time. "I felt so led on. How could someone do that? I thought God made people to be good and kind." As these thoughts went through her head, a small child ran just past her, stumbled and fell. When Lavendar moved to help the child up, the child laughed and got up herself. In the child's hand was a doll dressed in overalls and shirt sleeves. Oblivious to Lavendar's presence, the child began speaking to the doll.
"Look at all the clouds, Dolly!" the child said as she pointed up to the sky. "That one looks like a bird! And that one looks like a horse!" The child made the doll nod. "What's that, Dolly?" The doll was nodded again. "You're hungry? Oh, yes! Me too! Grandmother has cookies for us! Let's go home!" The dolly nodded once again. The child hugged the doll and ran off, leaving a small cloud of dust behind her. Lavendar smiled and almost laughed. How sweet. A girl playing with a doll. What simple pleasures. Yes, a girl played with her doll, just as Christopher had played with her heart. A girl who played with the doll could make the doll say anything she wanted it to say; do anything she wanted it to do. The girl would never be alone so long as she had her stuffed companion. It was almost like having an imaginary friend, but with a physical presence. But the girl would never be alone....Never be alone....Never....be...alone.
Lavendar did not eat her lunch that day nor drink her tea. Instead, she sat in her room in her rocking chair and drank thousands of thoughts that collided with each other in her mind.
"Lavendar, would you care for some tea and scones?"
"Never be alone," whispered Lavendar to the window.
"Sorry, dear I didn't hear what you said. Was that a yes?"
"I said I'd never be alone!"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"I'd never be alone...If I had him...And and...he'd always be there, and he'd always respond, and I'd never be alone!" Mrs. Footsworth put down the tray on Lavendar's dresser and sat down on the bed.
"Lavendar...Do you feel alright? Perhaps you had better have something to eat..You haven't eaten all day. Here," Mrs. Footsworth said, passing Lavendar a scone. "Eat this." Lavendar batted the scone away with such force that it hit the wall and crumbled. Mrs. Footsworth, scared, stood up. "Lavendar...Are you sick?"
"I'm fine..I'm never going to be alone, again, Mother!" Lavendar said, suddenly jumping onto the bed. Inbetween bounces she shouted, "I'm never going to be alone! Never!! Ever!! Going! To! Be! Alone! Hahahahahaha-" and as suddenly as the episode had started, it stopped. Lavendar collapsed on the bed, her breath heavy. Mrs. Footsworth stared at her daughter for a moment and then closed the door. On the way downstairs, she gripped the banister as the worst possible thoughts passed through her head. She tried to shake them, but still they stayed. Going downstairs the rest of the way, she decided to to call on one of her old friends, Bianca Lwadlry.
"Oh, my dear Eva! You do not look well at all! No, not at all!"
"Thank you for admitting me on such short notice, Bianca. I didn't know who else to come to." Bianca's face was of concern.
"What happened?"
"It's my daughter. She's...suffering from..heartache. And she's not dealing with it well. I don't know what to do. It's as though she's going mad!" Mrs. Footsworth sputtered. She told Bianca the entire story, up to the moment she had left the apartment.
"Hush, hush, dear. It couldn't be as bad as all that..."
"No..It's worse. She's started repeating things...over and over until she tires herself out. And she throws things.. I'm worried that she'll get hurt!"
"Hm..That doesn't sound good at all..In fact, that almost sounds like-" Mrs. Footsworth gasped.
"No! It couldn't be!" Bianca nodded.
"My dear Eva, I don't know if you've ever experienced heartbreak or losing someone you loved--"
"Well of course I have! What, do you think me a-"
"No, dear, of course not. But Lavendar is young. And from the way you describe it, it seems that this young fellow was more than just someone she was in love with. He sounds like a friend as well. And the loss of a friend far is far worse than the loss of a lover. You see Eva, our world is so eager for young women to marry, that there is no room left for feelings. Perhaps Lavendar is overwhelmed, both with her loss as well as her feelings of obligation."
"So you think it's my fault, do you?" said Mrs. Footsworth suddenly standing and growing stern.
"It's noone's fault, Eva. You may sit down." Mrs. Footsworth sat. "While I cannot offer you any immediate advice, I would suggest that you have a talk with her. "
"A talk?"
"Yes, a talk. Perhaps about slowing the subject of marriage down and not worrying about it so much." Mrs. Footsworth was about to say something when Bianca continued. "You need not worry about your welfare, Eva. I'm quite sure you will be able to find..other ways of dealing with it, shall we say. And now, I believe it is best that you return home." Mrs. Footsworth was about to protest, but knew Bianca was correct. Upon arriving home, Mrs. Footsworth was greeted with an entirely silent apartment.
"Lavendar? Lavendar, dear...?" Mrs. Footsworth crept up the stairs, seeing a very dim light coming from under Lavendar's door. "Lavendar? Supposed we have a bit of a conversation, dearest.." Mrs. Footsworth tried the door. It was locked. "Lavendar! Open this door immediately! Lavendar!!" No sound came from the room except a very soft, muffled laughter. Slowly, the latch of the door was unlocked and the door opened with a very loud creak. Mrs. Footsworth clenched her fists and bit her lip.
"Hello, Mother! I have a new friend I'd like you to meet." Mrs. Footsworth, horrified, looked around the room but saw noone. Lavendar pushed a letter, with very messy and blotted script into Mrs. Footsworth's face. "Read it," said Lavendar with a half laugh. Mrs. Footsworth sat in the rocking chair and read the letter. Lavendar laughed again, twirled and sat on her bed.
The letter read:
Dear Lavendar,
Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Mr. X. I am an ideal gentleman, come from a wealthy family, and (ink blot) looking for a (ink blot) to suit me. I have heard that you are a lovely girl, and I would love to have (ink blot) with you. I should be delighted if you were to honor my request.
Pleasant Regards,
-Mr. X

"Where did this letter come from?" asked Mrs. Footsworth incredulously. Lavendar smiled and cocked her head.
"From Mr. X!" Mrs. Footsworth bit her lip. Had Lavendar written this herself or was there indeed a gentleman that she didn't know about?
"I'm going to have tea with Mr. X, tomorrow!" said Lavendar, gleefully. Mrs. Footsworth's face had gone completely white. She eyed Lavendar uneasily.
"Lavendar, I want you to tell me who Mr. X is." The answer came simply and matter-of-factly.
"Mother: Mr. X is a well brought up gentleman who comes from a good, wealthy family and wishes to have tea with me." Mrs. Footsworth said nothing. Lavendar was not going mad. She wasn't! She refused to believe it! How could she be going mad? She was sitting there..Looking so calm. And happy. And content.
"Very well, Lavendar. Enjoy your tea with Mr. X. Give him my regards," and with that, Mrs. Footsworth exited Lavendar's room and shut the door. There was a lump in her throat and a slight feeling of guilt in her heart, but she ignored that and went down the long staircase to knit. On the way down, however, she slipped on the hem of her dress and rolled violently down the rest of the stairs, ending in an unconscious heap at the bottom.
"Oh, Mr. X it's so delightful to finally meet you! Would you care for some tea? Mother always suggested peach, I rather fancy it myself. Do you care for some cake?" Mr. X didn't respond. "You know, Mr. X, I've never had a gentleman as good a listener as you are. I'm so glad we met. Aren't you?" Mr. X was silent. "Well you're certainly quiet, aren't you..But that's just fine! I am so weary of being so quiet and listening to gentleman go on and on! About absolutely nothing!" Lavendar sighed. Mr. X was perhaps the most handsome gentleman she had ever seen. With his dark, curly brown hair and his piercing blue eyes sitting there staring at her, not saying a word, and yet saying so much. When the tea was over, Lavendar showed Mr. X the door, and bid him goodbye. Mr. X smiled back at Lavendar and took a carriage back to his apartment and Slighter St. Lavendar shut the door, almost stepping on the still unconscious Mrs. Footsworth. "Mother, Mother! Oh I do wonder why you allow people to walk all over you in such situations. Well, you'll never guess what happened! Mr. X and I had the most wonderful tea, and you know that opera next month, well he does so like music, and wishes to accompany me to it! Isn't that wonderful? Mother! Do get up!" Mrs. Footsworth groaned and got up slowly and gingerly.
"What? Opera? Mr. X? Bring me some water, Lavendar," said Mrs. Footsworth putting her hand to her head.

Lavendar just looked at her mother. Mrs. Footsworth looked at her daughter in horror. What had she become? Lavendar smiled.
"Water, did you say, mother? Yes, of course!" Lavendar brought her mother a class of water from the kitchen. "I'm going to go to my room to write Mr. X a nice long letter, Mother and inquire about the opera!" Mrs. Footsworth said nothing. She just stared at her daughter. Lavendar went up the stairs decisively. "I'm going to write Mr. X a letter! Yes, a letter! A lovely letter! Yes, yes, yes!" Lavendar shut and locked the door behind her once she reached her room and sat down next to her window, in her rocking chair.
Dear Mr. X,
I did so enjoy our tea the other day. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. But of course you did. Silly me! You're the perfect gentleman, how could you have not enjoyed it as much as I did? It was a delightful tea. And there was *ink blot* such delight in your eyes! You did enjoy it! Yes you did! Say that you did!! You did enjoy it! Yes you *torn bit of paper*.
Since you enjoyed the tea so much, I wondered if you might accompany my mother and I, well, really me more than Mother, to the opera on Sunday, next. It will be a most delightful opera. Mozart wrote such lovely music, and I do think that the Magic Flute is one of his most enjoyable operas. Say that you're answer will be yes. Oh, I'd be so sad if it was no. Because then...I might think that you didn't fancy me...And you simply must fancy me because of the way you looked at me at tea *ink blot*.

I eagerly await your response.

-Lavendar Footsworth

Lavendar folded the letter, sealed it, and put it on her desk in preperation to be mailed.

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 6
It was Saturday. The sun was shining through the clouds, but it was not a warm light. It was a bright, blinding light that was painful to look at. A light that did not warm the face that looked upon it. At half past one, there was a knock on the Footsworth's front door. Anna opened it.

"Yes?" Anna said cautiously, having returned from her day off only to have met the horrible news of Mrs. Footsworth falling down the staircase and Lavendar not feeling up to herself.
"Yes..Hello..My name is Mr. Inkwell...Christopher Inkwell. I was wondering if I might have a word with Lavendar," Christopher inquired as he tried to see the rather messy interior that was blocked Anna's plump form.
"Oh...I'm sorry, Mr. Inkmill, but the ladies..They haven't been feeling too well lately. Perhaps if you could come back another day, Sir?"
"But Lavendar...I must..I must talk to her!"
"She's asleep, Sir.." From the background, a distant voice uttered something that sounded something like an inquiry as to who was at the door. "A Mr. Inkmill--or Inkwell..for Lavendar, Mrs. Footsworth." A very frail and pale Mrs. Footsworth stumbled her way to the door while Anna looked at her with concern.
"Mr. Inkwell, is it?" she almost spat. "Lovely to make your existence known. Please be on your way. Lavendar is in no way fit to be seen."
"Lavendar? But..what's wrong? Is she alright..I just wanted to.."
"Please be on your way," said Mrs. Footsworth weakly but firmly. Anna nodded, encouragingly. Somewhere inside the house, a faint, high pitched laughter sounded. Christopher heard this.
"Lavendar??" He said, shouting up, hopefully. "Lavendar!" Christopher pushed the two women out of his way and followed the sound of the echo of Lavendar's laugh.
"It's no use. She's not herself. Whatever you want to say to her, she won't here you!" warned Mrs. Footsworth. Christopher didn't care. He had to see her. He had to appologize to his friend; make things right again. He followed the sound of Lavendar's voice up to a shut door, which hid a small stream of dim candle light. He tried the door. It was not locked. He opened it. For day, it was very dark in the room. The curtains were shut, and only two candles lit the entire room. A pale, frail and wilted Lavendar sat at her desk, besides a stack of letters, ready to be sent. Lavendar was writing something. It appeared to be a letter and so important did it seem that she did not even notice that there was someone else in her room. On the floor lay pages and pages of scratched out, ink blotted and torn apart letters.
"Lavendar," said Christopher softly. Lavendar flinched. Someone was in her room. It was a gentleman. She had never had a gentleman in her room, before. Could it be Mr. X?? Could her dear Mr. X finally have come to see her? Could it be true? "Lavendar....I wanted to appologize," said Christopher trying not to ask a million questions as to what had happened. That voice. She knew that voice. It was a familiar voice. For a split second, a warmth came back into her cheeks, a gleam in her eyes. Her heart jumped, the hairs on her neck prickled. Suddenly, Lavendar turned towards Christopher, giving him her full attention. Even in the low candle light, Christopher could see the dark circles under Lavendar's eyes and how pale her skin was. The candle light made her look like a dusty painting that once had been in color, but had accumulated so much dust over the years that it now looked like a crumpled piece of paper.
"Christopher?" Lavendar whispered to the air, almost inaudibly. Minutes went by in which the two simply stared at each other, neither uttering a word.
"Lavendar..tell me what's happened to you. What are all these letters? Why..why are you living like this?" At first, silence was Lavendar's response. She didn't know if she could form sentences, except on paper. Christopher moved closer to Lavendar, and peeked at the recipient of all the addressed letters. He picked up one. It was addressed to Mr. X. What kind of a name was that? He picked up another one. This one, the ink was still tacky. Also addressed to Mr. X. Who was Mr. X? Christopher looked at Lavendar, so meek and fragile. "Who is Mr. X, Lavendar?" Lavendar did not speak, but snatched the letters from Christopher's fingers, so quickly that she gave him a paper cut. A thin line of blood appeared on Christopher's index finger. He flinched slightly, but merely wiped it on his trousers. Lavendar tried to speak. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Discouraged, she ripped a piece of paper from the stack on her desk and wrote Christopher a message.
"Mr. X is true
Mr. X is love
Mr. X will come
For Mr. X is (inkblot)."
Christopher squinted at the message in the poorly lit room. If only he had a bit more light, then he could possibly make the note out. He leaned under the candle that sat on Lavendar's desk.
"Mr...X is true, Mr. X is...love? Mr. X will come..Mr. X is...is..is.." Lavendar suddenly snatched the note from Christopher.
"Mr. X is my true love!" said Lavendar her eyes becoming very wide. Lavendar stood. "Mr. X will come! He will! Mr. X will come for me! One day! You see he writes me letters! Like- like- this one! Read it! No, don't! I've memorized it!" Lavendar spat, almost in Christopher's face, she had such energy about this particular topic. " 'Dearest Lavendar'.. Do you hear, he called me 'Dearest'! Is that not romantic? Isn't it? Well isn't it?!? Isn't it?!?!" Christopher stared at Lavendar, not knowing what to say, not know what what to say. Lavendar started to sway back and forth. "Christopher...I..." Christopher lunged forward, catching Lavendar just in time before she hit her head on her desk. He picked up her frail form in his arms and laid her on her bed. Her forehead was hot but her hands were icy. Her eyes were open but were glazed over. Nothing was right about her. And he didn't know what to do. He had come in hopes of appologizing, repairing their friendship..But he had never expected this. It was as though she had gone mad.

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 7
Christopher was at a loss. He really did care about Lavendar and wanted to help her and see her as herself again.
"I wonder if she could even hear me," he said more to himself than to his taxi driver who was taking him home from a concert that evening.
"What's that, boy?" said the voice of the scruffy cab driver.
"Nothing," said Christopher softly. But the taxi driver hadn't hear his response and being the idiot that he was, turned his head ever so slightly, taking his attention off the road for a moment, allowing the horses to steer themselves.
"Gotta speak up, boy!"
"It's nothing!" Christopher said loudly and firmly.
"Oooh...Well yeh shoulda said that the first time! Hey--just where do yeh think yer goin'?" the taxi driver shouted to his horses, who had taken a wrong turn. The horses seemed agitated by something and had gone off course and were now running at full speed in a different direction. "Whoa! Whoa!" The horses didn't heed the driver. The taxi sped along bumpily down a very wet and mucky road. After about ten minutes, the horses seemed to calm down and stopped in a dimly lit cobblestone street. This was London, but not the side that a respectable gentleman would want to spend time in, and certainly not during the night.
"Where are we, Herald?" demanded Christopher, poking his head out of the taxi's window.
"Docks o' London. We should let th' 'orse settle down a bit, eh?" Herald climed down from the driver's seat and patted the horses maine. Christopher jumped out of the carriage. This was not at all where he wanted to be. His father had told him all about the docks of London: a thriving place by day, crowded with people of all classes, going anywhere and everywhere; merchants, sailors, travelers...But at night...except for a few scattered pubs, it was a dangerous and slumy place to be. It was very quiet around the street on which the taxi had stopped. Almost too quiet. Christopher practically jumped when he heard what he thought to be a woman's scream when he realized it was raucous laughter. More afraid then curious, he followed the sound until he came upon a wooden door with a rusty knocker. Dimly lit windows caked with grime hid the happenings of the upstairs. He cautiously opened the door and was immediately hit with poignant smells of tobacco and gin. From one corner he could hear the muted sound of someone playing a lively polka on the piano. This alone comforted him a bit and he felt as though he could relax. He coughed a few times from all the smells, but eventually found his way to the bar.
"What can I get yeh, boy?" asked the friendly bartender with a rather scratchy voice. Now Christopher had never tasted alcohol before. It was never of any interest to him. He had no idea what sort of drink would be pleasing to him, but had heard his father talk about enjoying scotch.
"Scotch, please," Christopher said nervously. The bartender splashed a small glass onto the counter in front of Christopher who looked at his drink curiously. So this was alcohol..Didn't seem that exciting. He picked up the glass and was about to drink when he heard yelling coming from upstairs and a blurry form of a woman coming down the spiral staircase in the back of the room. Christopher tipped his glass to his lips thinking he would be able to see her better. In doing so, he tipped the entire glass of brandy down. Throat burning, he started to gasp for air and was barely able to get out the word, "WATER!" as he pounded the counter. The woman came to his aid.
"Can't yeh hear anything, Tom? The boy says he wants watah!" Christopher who was sure he was headed in death's favor, was thrust a glass of water which he gulped eagerly. After a moment, he coughed some more, regained his senses and looked at the woman who had come to his aid.
"Thank you, Miss..."
"Rose. You can call me Rose. Rosie if yeh like.." Christopher looked at Rose. She was very pleasing to the eye. She wore a black and white stripped corset and many red and black skirts, pinned up to show her ankles. Her corset showcased her generous bust and the skirts did not fail to hide her generous hips. She looked as though she might have been about thirty six, but her face seemed to be ageless. "Why haven't I seen yeh around 'ere before?" Asked Rose, pushing her bust into better view of Christopher.
"I'm new here.." said Christopher looking around at the rather slumy crowd, hunched over square tables, playing poker or cards. Suddenly, Christopher felt very uncomfortable. He had so many things on his mind, and this was not the place sit and quietly think.
"So whats yer name, dearie," Rose prodded, winking at him and cocking her head. Christopher was about to say, when a very drunk man turned away from his game of cards.
"Always likes to "get to know" the young ones, she does! Heh,heh.."
"Hey Rose, will this be number four, today?"
"Shut up, you lot!" She shouted back at them. Rose grabbed Christopher's arm and almost dragged him up the staircase to a dimly lit hallway with three doors on each side. Rose opened a door turned on the light and grabbed Christopher and encouraged him to go inside. Reluctantly, knowing what was on Rose's mind, he went in.
"Now then...What'd yeh say yer name was?"
"Christopher."
"You'll have to excuse tha' lot down there...They're rude, they are." Christopher smiled weakly. "Now then..shall we get to know each other?" Christopher caught himself quickly.
"Er--no! I mean yes-- I mean..I'm only interested in polite conversation." He took several deep breaths. Rose just looked at him.
"Yer're not well, are ya, dearie..?" Rose asked with slight concern.
"I'm fine." Rose looked at him again.
"What did you want to talk about? Somethings botherin' yeh.." Christopher looked at her for a moment before answering. She had kind and understanding eyes. Her harshness showed in her caked powder and deep red lipstick, but he felt as though he could talk to her.
"I have an extraordinary life..I really do. My father was a sailor and has almost legendary stories to tell for it." Rose raised an eyebrow, smiled and said nothing. "He prepared me for all sorts of things...doing well in academics, thinking for myself....but he never really told me about the world and what to expect from it. And now I feel as though it's taken me by surprise. You see, there's this girl--"
"Oi! There's always a girl! And she's always some young pure thing who's captured your 'eart, 'asn't she?" said Rose with much annoyance. Christopher looked surprised. It was quite an outburst. There was a moment of silence in which Rose looked at Christopher.
"Well...She was a dear friend of mine. But she had...feelings for me that I didn't share." Rose rolled her eyes. "Lately she's taken to a rather strange state. She's not herself. She looks very fragile and pale. It's noticeable in her eyes. Her eyes are almost like ice." As Christopher was saying this, he was noticing how nice and how warm it was in the little room, and how comfortable the chair was in which he was sitting. It was always cold in his house. It had been even colder in the Footsworthy's house when he had visisted Lavendar. He shuddered at the thought.
"Go on," said Rose annoyed that his attention had momentarily strayed from her.
"Oh..well..I want to help her, but I'm not sure how. I suppose I feel slightly at fault for her condition. It seemed to happen almost as a result of my lack of feelings for her...That night..That night.."
"WHAT?? I can't hear yeh, if yeh whisper, speak up!" Christopher, once again was slightly startled by Roses' voice. Rose didn't interject again though, and allowed Christopher to finish his story. Before he was finished, Christopher took out a very small box and showed Rose a very delicate ring on a silver band, with a purple stone. Roses' eyes lit up at the sight of it but Christopher looked at it sadly and then put it away.
"It was supposed to be for her. At the time...I had a plan. I thought that maybe I just wasn't ready to admit to caring about her the way I do now. But I guess it's too late, for that. Rose nodded sympathetically in response but made some obscene offers to which Christopher readily refused. Rose had been very kind and he would've felt horrible for taking advantage of her at that point. He exited the bar and started to back track his way to Herald, but it was so dark now. There were very few street lamps that still worked and Christopher took a wrong turn. Pausing for a moment, he heard a leaf crunch behind him. Thinking nothing of it, he continued at a brisk pace. More leaves crunched behind him. Just as he was turning around to see who it was, he gasped as his chest came in contact with cold metal, piercing his skin and going right through his left breast. Christopher dropped to his knees and tried to remove the knife. His vision was blurred. There was someone or something coming towards him! It was a fist. Christopher just nearly missed it. Successfully pulling out the knife he tried to get to his feet, but felt weak. He ran a few paces, clutching the wound at his chest, and fell again to the ground. He felt a blow to his head and all went black for a moment. A moment later, Christopher was on the sidewalk weaker than before, his wallet gone. He felt in his right pocket..The tiny box with the ring was still there...The last thing he remembered seeing was the most beautiful sky he had ever seen, uninterrupted by the street lamps or the fog. A perfect night sky with bright stars and a sliver of a moon. Everything was blurry as Christopher felt something sticky next to his fingers. It was blood. So much blood. But the sky...was so beautiful. He cherrished every moment of it until he could see it no more...

It was a little after midnight. Lavendar lay awake in her dark bedroom, lit only by a flickering, stubby candle. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin was pale and her fingers were icy. Thoughts ate away at her mind of Christopher.

Why did he come to see me? What did he want? Does he love me? Does he care? Maybe he just came to laugh at me..Yes, that's it. He came to laugh at me! He doesn't love me at all. He just wants to mock me! How ungrateful! I wish...I wish he'd go away and never come back. I don't want to ever see him again. All I want to see is Mr. X. Dear, dear, dear Mr. X. My one true love. He would never use me, he would never lead me on, because he loves me. Where is he now? I must know where he is! I want to feel his strong arms about me and rest my head on his chest. I want to to feel the warmth of his--his---I've never felt Mr. X's arms around me before...I wonder what that feels like. Christopher...Christopher...I l-I hate you! I hate you! Suddenly, Lavendar sat up and screamed, "I hate you!!!"

At that moment there was a second scream, far away and in a very different place. Near the docks of London, a woman of ill repute with creases in her face and fingerless black gloves, let out a blood curtling scream. The scream was in response to a murder. A young man in his early twenties lay quite dead, blood trailing from his chest. His eyes still opened, obviously taken by surprise. The scream alerted two sailors with unshaven faces and holes in their boots.
"Now what's all the screamin' about, dearie? You might as well wake up the entire city!" said the first man.
"There's been a murdah, there 'as, right here!" Said the woman, pointing to the ground where the body lay.
"There 'as, eh? Well let's 'ave a look. He might have presents..."
"Hey! I saw it first, lemme at it!" She argued as she tried to push the man aside.
"You'd be too afraid he'd lash out at yeh," said the second man. "Now scram we've done claimed 'im!"
"I want my share!" Said the woman, holding her ground.
"We 'aven't even found anything ye-" the first man quickly stopped speaking as he came upon a very small box in the jacket pocket of the corpse. The man opened the box and all three peered in side. The three looked at each other.
"Give it 'ere!" said the woman, trying to grab it. But the two men just looked at each other, almost sadly. One pushed aside the woman and the other made off into the night with the box tightly clutched in his hand.

And the corpse was left, forgotten.

Sunday, November 27, 2005
Dear Mr. X, Chapter 8, At the Opera
Lavendar awoke at seven and twenty the next morning to the feel of sun warming her face. It was a feeling she hadn't felt in a long time. The corners of her mouth twitched upwards, trying to remember what a smile felt like. She had loved the morning sunshine long ago; it was almost too long ago to remember. As she arose from her bed, she instantly felt a sharp pain across her forehead. She stood up took a few steps towards the door, stepping on many crumpled pieces of paper. By eight o' clock, Lavendar was dressed, downstairs and enjoying breakfast with a very surprised (and delighted) Mrs. Footsworthy.
"I do love the morning sunlight," said Lavendar. Mrs. Footsworth almost dropped her fork, but sustained her temperance.
"Yes, it's lovely, isn't it, dear." Finishing her breakfast, Lavendar stood.
"I want to go out! I want to feel the sun on my cheeks and see children play!" Mrs. Footsworth couldn't believe what she was hearing.
"Well, Lavendar..Are you sure you feel strong enough to take a walk?"
"I've never felt better!" And off they went on a walk. It was a beautiful day. Still spring, there were birds in the trees and children out playing. There was a refreshing breeze which seemed to whisper softly to anyone who could hear. There were fine ladies and gentleman out walking, enjoying the day. There were smiles on faces and laughter in the air. Mrs. Footsworth watched Lavendar carefully, to be sure her daughter was in fact, quite alright. Lavendar had seemed to take on the persona of a child, for she stopped at every flower to smell it, every tree to feel the shade it provided, smiled at every child and nodded at every person who passed her.
"Lavendar, dear," said Mrs. Footsworth ever so slightly amused. "Do try to keep your gaiety to a minimum." But Lavendar didn't hear her mother. She was too busy trying to keep her skirts just above her ankles and running along the edge of a pond where a frog was leaping from a lily pad. So fast was Lavendar running, that she almost fell into the water and scared a few ducks in the process. At four o' clock, Mrs. Footsworth gently, but firmly gathered Lavendar and her now dusty dress and hustled her home.
"I want to go out again!" said Lavendar, during dinner that evening. Mrs. Footsworth looked at Lavendar and opened her mouth to refuse such a request. "Let's go to the opera!" Mrs. Footsworth put her forehand in her right palm.
"I think it is best that you stay here and rest," said Mrs. Footsworth decidedly. But Lavendar's mind was made.
"I'm going up to dress," and with that she left the table, forgetting to push in her chair, humming to herself.
The Marriage of Figaro was almost sold out. Lavendar and her mother nearly missed having to be turned away. Luckily, there were two tickets left for balcony seats. Mrs. Footsworthy had a headache when she sat down, but Lavendar couldn't keep still.
"Oh, Mother I can't wait! I do so love Mozart, and I just know that this will be a wonderful evening! It seems like an eternity since we've seen an opera. I can barely contain my excitement! I feel as if I'm about to burst!" Upon finishing her sentence, two well dressed gentleman with grim expressions on their faces took their seats. Although they spoke in hushed voices, their conversation was audible from where Lavendar and Mrs. Footsworth was sitting.
"Horrible about that boy...So young," said the first gentleman, shaking his head. "And what was it that they found in his pocket? Some sort of jewelry?"
"A ring, was it not?" Suggested the second, wearing an equally grim expression.
"Ah, yes that was it. Poor fellow.."
"Poor fellow indeed. Well, let us be cheery for the duration of the performance." One gentleman patted the other on the shoulder as the house lights went out.
Two hours passed. It was the first aria, belonging to a very glamorous soprano. She had not reached the climax of the song yet and had not yet screeched the highest notes. In a very hushed voice, one gentleman turned to his friend.
"Can't think of what the poor boy's name was...Inkspot? Something of the like?" There was a pause in the music as the soprano prepared for the somewhat lengthy build to the climax of her aria. Lavendar's ears twitched at the sound of the voices. She had been very involved in the soprano's aria until that very moment when the masculine voice interrupted the sweet melody.
"Ink..." Lavendar's lips parted slightly and her pulse quickened. The soprano was getting higher and higher, seconds away from her highest note.
"Inkwell!" The gentleman loudly whispered. The moment the name left his lips, Lavendar screamed and the soprano sang her highest note as loudly as possible. The pitch of Lavendar's scream almost matched the pitch of the soprano. Lavendar was mute and the soprano finished her aria. Noone hear the scream as they applauded the soprano, who bowed deeply. Lavendar fainted in her chair and Mrs. Footsworth did not take notice of Lavendar until all the applause had died down. The house lights came up, signifying that it was yet another intermission.
"Lavendar? Are you asleep...Lavendar? Lavendar!" Mrs. Footsworthy shook her daughter hard, but Lavendar did not respond: she was unconscious.

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 9
Lavendar awoke in her bed the next morning, sweat covering her forehead. She was very much awake and very aware of where she was. She knew this place: it was her bedroom. Her bedroom, where she had spent so many days writing letters to Mr. X. She looked over at her desk. There still lay the stack of letters that hadn't yet been dealt with. Lavendar sighed and rubbed her eyes. This thing people called romance wasn't enjoyable anymore. Christopher was dead, her mother was a nervous wreck and everyone she and her mother knew were all talking about the happenings at the opera. Lavendar felt as if she wanted to cry, but her eyes were completely dry. At that very moment, she suddenly thought of something: she wanted to get away from England. She didn't want to be among ordinary people who asked her of things she wasn't ready to do. She wanted to be elsewhere: perhaps on a pirate ship where she could sail the seven seas, or maybe in India where she could come into contact with all sorts of wild animals and buy various rare spices. These thoughts flashed like lightning through her mind, each one more desirable than the next. It was up to her to sort out the mess that her life had become.

(to be continued...)

She couldn't run away and pretend to be someone else, somewhere else. It was no use pretending the various horrific events hadn't happened. Lavendar needed to get away from Bath. She needed to get out of England, needed to get away from everything that was familiar. She didn't need suitors anymore. She didn't need her mother anymore. She wasn't really sure if she even needed logic anymore, but Lavendar knew she needed freedom from the chain-like constraints that her life had been thus far.

Maybe it was the amount of alcohol that Mrs. Footsworthy had been having the past few months, or maybe it was that she was so exhausted that her vision was blurred, but Lavendar exited the front door of the Footsworthy residence, a small trunk in hand, completely unnoticed.

It was not cold outside. It was not exactly warm, however. Not knowing where to go, Lavendar started walking in one direction and ended up a taxi stop. Finding money in her bag, Lavendar paid the driver to take her as far as the money given would allow her to be driven. Lavendar felt scared, but not out of control. Wherever she'd end up, it was going to be a far better place than where she had started.

The End.

Argggggh

2006-04-23T21:38:00.000-07:00

My scene partner won't return my phone calls and refuses to rehearse lines with me over the phone. We've worked together all of one time and we perform the scene on Wednesday. He doesn't want to rehearse the scene and seems to be very flaky. Feel my wrath, for ye shall not be my partner much longer.

Romantic Thoughts..

2006-02-03T20:00:00.000-08:00

I want to go to the beach and throw pancakes like frisbees.

I have an excuse..it's january. It's time to pre-pre-pre plan

2006-01-24T11:37:00.000-08:00

Halloween Ideas:
Dante's hell (would be cool, right?)
The Plucker
Pirates (again. But hey, I have a bigger crew now! No pun intended...)

I'm making a dragon puppet. It has a head. I should probably work on it this weekend. Maybe Sunday after socialities. I want to submit it to fairyland and work it during their haunted jamboree. That'd be awesome.

2006-01-16T00:50:00.000-08:00

She couldn't run away and pretend to be someone else, somewhere else. It was no use pretending the various horrific events hadn't happened. Lavendar needed to get away from Bath. She needed to get out of England, needed to get away from everything that was familiar. She didn't need suitors anymore. She didn't need her mother anymore. She wasn't really sure if she even needed logic anymore, but Lavendar knew she needed freedom from the chain-like constraints that her life had been thus far.

Maybe it was the amount of alcohol that Mrs. Footsworthy had been having the past few months, or maybe it was that she was so exhausted that her vision was blurred, but Lavendar exited the front door of the Footsworthy residence, a small trunk in hand, completely unnoticed.

It was not cold outside. It was not exactly warm, however. Not knowing where to go, Lavendar started walking in one direction and ended up a taxi stop. Finding money in her bag, Lavendar paid the driver to take her as far as the money given would allow her to be driven. Lavendar felt scared, but not out of control. Wherever she'd end up, it was going to be a far better place than where she had started.

The End.

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 9

2006-01-03T12:14:00.000-08:00

Lavendar awoke in her bed the next morning, sweat covering her forehead. She was very much awake and very aware of where she was. She knew this place: it was her bedroom. Her bedroom, where she had spent so many days writing letters to Mr. X. She looked over at her desk. There still lay the stack of letters that hadn't yet been dealt with. Lavendar sighed and rubbed her eyes. This thing people called romance wasn't enjoyable anymore. Christopher was dead, her mother was a nervous wreck and everyone she and her mother knew were all talking about the happenings at the opera. Lavendar felt as if she wanted to cry, but her eyes were completely dry. At that very moment, she suddenly thought of something: she wanted to get away from England. She didn't want to be among ordinary people who asked her of things she wasn't ready to do. She wanted to be elsewhere: perhaps on a pirate ship where she could sail the seven seas, or maybe in India where she could come into contact with all sorts of wild animals and buy various rare spices. These thoughts flashed like lightning through her mind, each one more desirable than the next. It was up to her to sort out the mess that her life had become.

(to be continued...)

Hi, it's me..

2005-12-19T14:05:00.000-08:00

Hello "Me", I don't remember assigning that particular name to anyone in particular as of yet. Unless you are my best friend or myself, your name is not "Me" and will not be recognized as "Me" and especially not on messages on my cell phone.

Thanks!
-Me

Things I'd Like to Do Right Now That I Can't

2005-12-08T18:41:00.000-08:00

Work on my dress for Gaskells
Plan my murder mystery party
Work on the set design for the FNW NYE ball
Draw
Play piano just for fun
Write a long e-mail to Cat
See the midnight showing of Narnia with David and company
Work on Dear Mr. X

SIGH, SIGH, SIGH.

But we have cookies, I went swimming and Owen approved my entire recapitulation, so everything is ok.

Yay For Me!

2005-12-01T22:33:00.000-08:00

I have a sequential melody that's void of parallel fifth and octaves...But nobody cares. :<

I also just successfully "Ta-ed" and conducted quarter note triplets in common time. Again...Nobody probably cares. But I do! I do I do I do! I'm proud of myself! And tomorrow Fiona and I perform Rachmaninov's third in a class that I'm not enrolled in! Wee!

Next Semester's Schedule:
Drawing and Painting
Sculpture: Independent Study
Advanced Acting
Math for Liberal Art(ists) Majors
Music Theory IV
Art History

Weeeeeee 18 units! I was going to take a sociology class, but nooooo. Maya isn't capable of handling more than three solids, no sociology class for her. Watch me go into a corner and sulk..

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 8, At the Opera

2005-11-27T22:55:00.000-08:00

Lavendar awoke at seven and twenty the next morning to the feel of sun warming her face. It was a feeling she hadn't felt in a long time. The corners of her mouth twitched upwards, trying to remember what a smile felt like. She had loved the morning sunshine long ago; it was almost too long ago to remember. As she arose from her bed, she instantly felt a sharp pain across her forehead. She stood up took a few steps towards the door, stepping on many crumpled pieces of paper. By eight o' clock, Lavendar was dressed, downstairs and enjoying breakfast with a very surprised (and delighted) Mrs. Footsworthy.
"I do love the morning sunlight," said Lavendar. Mrs. Footsworth almost dropped her fork, but sustained her temperance.
"Yes, it's lovely, isn't it, dear." Finishing her breakfast, Lavendar stood.
"I want to go out! I want to feel the sun on my cheeks and see children play!" Mrs. Footsworth couldn't believe what she was hearing.
"Well, Lavendar..Are you sure you feel strong enough to take a walk?"
"I've never felt better!" And off they went on a walk. It was a beautiful day. Still spring, there were birds in the trees and children out playing. There was a refreshing breeze which seemed to whisper softly to anyone who could hear. There were fine ladies and gentleman out walking, enjoying the day. There were smiles on faces and laughter in the air. Mrs. Footsworth watched Lavendar carefully, to be sure her daughter was in fact, quite alright. Lavendar had seemed to take on the persona of a child, for she stopped at every flower to smell it, every tree to feel the shade it provided, smiled at every child and nodded at every person who passed her.
"Lavendar, dear," said Mrs. Footsworth ever so slightly amused. "Do try to keep your gaiety to a minimum." But Lavendar didn't hear her mother. She was too busy trying to keep her skirts just above her ankles and running along the edge of a pond where a frog was leaping from a lily pad. So fast was Lavendar running, that she almost fell into the water and scared a few ducks in the process. At four o' clock, Mrs. Footsworth gently, but firmly gathered Lavendar and her now dusty dress and hustled her home.
"I want to go out again!" said Lavendar, during dinner that evening. Mrs. Footsworth looked at Lavendar and opened her mouth to refuse such a request. "Let's go to the opera!" Mrs. Footsworth put her forehand in her right palm.
"I think it is best that you stay here and rest," said Mrs. Footsworth decidedly. But Lavendar's mind was made.
"I'm going up to dress," and with that she left the table, forgetting to push in her chair, humming to herself.
The Marriage of Figaro was almost sold out. Lavendar and her mother nearly missed having to be turned away. Luckily, there were two tickets left for balcony seats. Mrs. Footsworthy had a headache when she sat down, but Lavendar couldn't keep still.
"Oh, Mother I can't wait! I do so love Mozart, and I just know that this will be a wonderful evening! It seems like an eternity since we've seen an opera. I can barely contain my excitement! I feel as if I'm about to burst!" Upon finishing her sentence, two well dressed gentleman with grim expressions on their faces took their seats. Although they spoke in hushed voices, their conversation was audible from where Lavendar and Mrs. Footsworth was sitting.
"Horrible about that boy...So young," said the first gentleman, shaking his head. "And what was it that they found in his pocket? Some sort of jewelry?"
"A ring, was it not?" Suggested the second, wearing an equally grim expression.
"Ah, yes that was it. Poor fellow.."
"Poor fellow indeed. Well, let us be cheery for the duration of the performance." One gentleman patted the other on the shoulder as the house lights went out.
Two hours passed. It was the first aria, belonging to a very glamorous soprano. She had not reached the climax of the song yet and had not yet screeched the highest notes. In a very hushed voice, one gentleman turned to his friend.
"Can't think of what the poor boy's name was...Inkspot? Something of the like?" There was a pause in the music as the soprano prepared for the somewhat lengthy build to the climax of her aria. Lavendar's ears twitched at the sound of the voices. She had been very involved in the soprano's aria until that very moment when the masculine voice interrupted the sweet melody.
"Ink..." Lavendar's lips parted slightly and her pulse quickened. The soprano was getting higher and higher, seconds away from her highest note.
"Inkwell!" The gentleman loudly whispered. The moment the name left his lips, Lavendar screamed and the soprano sang her highest note as loudly as possible. The pitch of Lavendar's scream almost matched the pitch of the soprano. Lavendar was mute and the soprano finished her aria. Noone hear the scream as they applauded the soprano, who bowed deeply. Lavendar fainted in her chair and Mrs. Footsworth did not take notice of Lavendar until all the applause had died down. The house lights came up, signifying that it was yet another intermission.
"Lavendar? Are you asleep...Lavendar? Lavendar!" Mrs. Footsworthy shook her daughter hard, but Lavendar did not respond: she was unconscious.

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 7

2005-11-09T12:10:00.000-08:00

Christopher was at a loss. He really did care about Lavendar and wanted to help her and see her as herself again.
"I wonder if she could even hear me," he said more to himself than to his taxi driver who was taking him home from a concert that evening.
"What's that, boy?" said the voice of the scruffy cab driver.
"Nothing," said Christopher softly. But the taxi driver hadn't hear his response and being the idiot that he was, turned his head ever so slightly, taking his attention off the road for a moment, allowing the horses to steer themselves.
"Gotta speak up, boy!"
"It's nothing!" Christopher said loudly and firmly.
"Oooh...Well yeh shoulda said that the first time! Hey--just where do yeh think yer goin'?" the taxi driver shouted to his horses, who had taken a wrong turn. The horses seemed agitated by something and had gone off course and were now running at full speed in a different direction. "Whoa! Whoa!" The horses didn't heed the driver. The taxi sped along bumpily down a very wet and mucky road. After about ten minutes, the horses seemed to calm down and stopped in a dimly lit cobblestone street. This was London, but not the side that a respectable gentleman would want to spend time in, and certainly not during the night.
"Where are we, Herald?" demanded Christopher, poking his head out of the taxi's window.
"Docks o' London. We should let th' 'orse settle down a bit, eh?" Herald climed down from the driver's seat and patted the horses maine. Christopher jumped out of the carriage. This was not at all where he wanted to be. His father had told him all about the docks of London: a thriving place by day, crowded with people of all classes, going anywhere and everywhere; merchants, sailors, travelers...But at night...except for a few scattered pubs, it was a dangerous and slumy place to be. It was very quiet around the street on which the taxi had stopped. Almost too quiet. Christopher practically jumped when he heard what he thought to be a woman's scream when he realized it was raucous laughter. More afraid then curious, he followed the sound until he came upon a wooden door with a rusty knocker. Dimly lit windows caked with grime hid the happenings of the upstairs. He cautiously opened the door and was immediately hit with poignant smells of tobacco and gin. From one corner he could hear the muted sound of someone playing a lively polka on the piano. This alone comforted him a bit and he felt as though he could relax. He coughed a few times from all the smells, but eventually found his way to the bar.
"What can I get yeh, boy?" asked the friendly bartender with a rather scratchy voice. Now Christopher had never tasted alcohol before. It was never of any interest to him. He had no idea what sort of drink would be pleasing to him, but had heard his father talk about enjoying scotch.
"Scotch, please," Christopher said nervously. The bartender splashed a small glass onto the counter in front of Christopher who looked at his drink curiously. So this was alcohol..Didn't seem that exciting. He picked up the glass and was about to drink when he heard yelling coming from upstairs and a blurry form of a woman coming down the spiral staircase in the back of the room. Christopher tipped his glass to his lips thinking he would be able to see her better. In doing so, he tipped the entire glass of brandy down. Throat burning, he started to gasp for air and was barely able to get out the word, "WATER!" as he pounded the counter. The woman came to his aid.
"Can't yeh hear anything, Tom? The boy says he wants watah!" Christopher who was sure he was headed in death's favor, was thrust a glass of water which he gulped eagerly. After a moment, he coughed some more, regained his senses and looked at the woman who had come to his aid.
"Thank you, Miss..."
"Rose. You can call me Rose. Rosie if yeh like.." Christopher looked at Rose. She was very pleasing to the eye. She wore a black and white stripped corset and many red and black skirts, pinned up to show her ankles. Her corset showcased her generous bust and the skirts did not fail to hide her generous hips. She looked as though she might have been about thirty six, but her face seemed to be ageless. "Why haven't I seen yeh around 'ere before?" Asked Rose, pushing her bust into better view of Christopher.
"I'm new here.." said Christopher looking around at the rather slumy crowd, hunched over square tables, playing poker or cards. Suddenly, Christopher felt very uncomfortable. He had so many things on his mind, and this was not the place sit and quietly think.
"So whats yer name, dearie," Rose prodded, winking at him and cocking her head. Christopher was about to say, when a very drunk man turned away from his game of cards.
"Always likes to "get to know" the young ones, she does! Heh,heh.."
"Hey Rose, will this be number four, today?"
"Shut up, you lot!" She shouted back at them. Rose grabbed Christopher's arm and almost dragged him up the staircase to a dimly lit hallway with three doors on each side. Rose opened a door turned on the light and grabbed Christopher and encouraged him to go inside. Reluctantly, knowing what was on Rose's mind, he went in.
"Now then...What'd yeh say yer name was?"
"Christopher."
"You'll have to excuse tha' lot down there...They're rude, they are." Christopher smiled weakly. "Now then..shall we get to know each other?" Christopher caught himself quickly.
"Er--no! I mean yes-- I mean..I'm only interested in polite conversation." He took several deep breaths. Rose just looked at him.
"Yer're not well, are ya, dearie..?" Rose asked with slight concern.
"I'm fine." Rose looked at him again.
"What did you want to talk about? Somethings botherin' yeh.." Christopher looked at her for a moment before answering. She had kind and understanding eyes. Her harshness showed in her caked powder and deep red lipstick, but he felt as though he could talk to her.
"I have an extraordinary life..I really do. My father was a sailor and has almost legendary stories to tell for it." Rose raised an eyebrow, smiled and said nothing. "He prepared me for all sorts of things...doing well in academics, thinking for myself....but he never really told me about the world and what to expect from it. And now I feel as though it's taken me by surprise. You see, there's this girl--"
"Oi! There's always a girl! And she's always some young pure thing who's captured your 'eart, 'asn't she?" said Rose with much annoyance. Christopher looked surprised. It was quite an outburst. There was a moment of silence in which Rose looked at Christopher.
"Well...She was a dear friend of mine. But she had...feelings for me that I didn't share." Rose rolled her eyes. "Lately she's taken to a rather strange state. She's not herself. She looks very fragile and pale. It's noticeable in her eyes. Her eyes are almost like ice." As Christopher was saying this, he was noticing how nice and how warm it was in the little room, and how comfortable the chair was in which he was sitting. It was always cold in his house. It had been even colder in the Footsworthy's house when he had visisted Lavendar. He shuddered at the thought.
"Go on," said Rose annoyed that his attention had momentarily strayed from her.
"Oh..well..I want to help her, but I'm not sure how. I suppose I feel slightly at fault for her condition. It seemed to happen almost as a result of my lack of feelings for her...That night..That night.."
"WHAT?? I can't hear yeh, if yeh whisper, speak up!" Christopher, once again was slightly startled by Roses' voice. Rose didn't interject again though, and allowed Christopher to finish his story. Before he was finished, Christopher took out a very small box and showed Rose a very delicate ring on a silver band, with a purple stone. Roses' eyes lit up at the sight of it but Christopher looked at it sadly and then put it away.
"It was supposed to be for her. At the time...I had a plan. I thought that maybe I just wasn't ready to admit to caring about her the way I do now. But I guess it's too late, for that. Rose nodded sympathetically in response but made some obscene offers to which Christopher readily refused. Rose had been very kind and he would've felt horrible for taking advantage of her at that point. He exited the bar and started to back track his way to Herald, but it was so dark now. There were very few street lamps that still worked and Christopher took a wrong turn. Pausing for a moment, he heard a leaf crunch behind him. Thinking nothing of it, he continued at a brisk pace. More leaves crunched behind him. Just as he was turning around to see who it was, he gasped as his chest came in contact with cold metal, piercing his skin and going right through his left breast. Christopher dropped to his knees and tried to remove the knife. His vision was blurred. There was someone or something coming towards him! It was a fist. Christopher just nearly missed it. Successfully pulling out the knife he tried to get to his feet, but felt weak. He ran a few paces, clutching the wound at his chest, and fell again to the ground. He felt a blow to his head and all went black for a moment. A moment later, Christopher was on the sidewalk weaker than before, his wallet gone. He felt in his right pocket..The tiny box with the ring was still there...The last thing he remembered seeing was the most beautiful sky he had ever seen, uninterrupted by the street lamps or the fog. A perfect night sky with bright stars and a sliver of a moon. Everything was blurry as Christopher felt something sticky next to his fingers. It was blood. So much blood. But the sky...was so beautiful. He cherrished every moment of it until he could see it no more...

It was a little after midnight. Lavendar lay awake in her dark bedroom, lit only by a flickering, stubby candle. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin was pale and her fingers were icy. Thoughts ate away at her mind of Christopher.

Why did he come to see me? What did he want? Does he love me? Does he care? Maybe he just came to laugh at me..Yes, that's it. He came to laugh at me! He doesn't love me at all. He just wants to mock me! How ungrateful! I wish...I wish he'd go away and never come back. I don't want to ever see him again. All I want to see is Mr. X. Dear, dear, dear Mr. X. My one true love. He would never use me, he would never lead me on, because he loves me. Where is he now? I must know where he is! I want to feel his strong arms about me and rest my head on his chest. I want to to feel the warmth of his--his---I've never felt Mr. X's arms around me before...I wonder what that feels like. Christopher...Christopher...I l-I hate you! I hate you! Suddenly, Lavendar sat up and screamed, "I hate you!!!"

At that moment there was a second scream, far away and in a very different place. Near the docks of London, a woman of ill repute with creases in her face and fingerless black gloves, let out a blood curtling scream. The scream was in response to a murder. A young man in his early twenties lay quite dead, blood trailing from his chest. His eyes still opened, obviously taken by surprise. The scream alerted two sailors with unshaven faces and holes in their boots.
"Now what's all the screamin' about, dearie? You might as well wake up the entire city!" said the first man.
"There's been a murdah, there 'as, right here!" Said the woman, pointing to the ground where the body lay.
"There 'as, eh? Well let's 'ave a look. He might have presents..."
"Hey! I saw it first, lemme at it!" She argued as she tried to push the man aside.
"You'd be too afraid he'd lash out at yeh," said the second man. "Now scram we've done claimed 'im!"
"I want my share!" Said the woman, holding her ground.
"We 'aven't even found anything ye-" the first man quickly stopped speaking as he came upon a very small box in the jacket pocket of the corpse. The man opened the box and all three peered in side. The three looked at each other.
"Give it 'ere!" said the woman, trying to grab it. But the two men just looked at each other, almost sadly. One pushed aside the woman and the other made off into the night with the box tightly clutched in his hand.

And the corpse was left, forgotten.

Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

2005-10-30T19:56:00.000-08:00

My little nose likes to dance.
Dance little nose, dance!

This was written on the board in theory class on friday. Somebody was obviously bored. And excited about her halloween costume. Yeah, don't ask.

Halloween. Is. Comming. In less then 9 hours. And it's only 8pm. It feels like midnight.

I'm one actor short for tomorrow. I'm going to have to wing that. I need two people to carry two banners and one person to carry the crown and pillow. Ahhhhh. AHhhhhhhhh I say.

We have curtains. They're black. They're awesome. I created a stage out of a porch. I feel shibby. Shibby shibby shibby. Try saying that 5 times fast. Shibbyshibbyshibbyshibbyshibby! Ha. I beat you.

Can we tell Yam is tired? Yam is tired. Yam was very productive today. I have to figure out what I'm wearing tomorrow. To school. And it has to be manueverable. And it shall have sleeves that will not knock things over. And there will probably be some leather involved. Because, you know..leather is cool. And then when I get home I have to go rip it off, change into t-shirt and jeans, set up forest, rip that outfit off and change into real costume. Lots of changing.

I like my thones. And my skeletons. They are very cool. And my curtains. I like them too. Yeah. I'm still an actor short. This is.....a problem. For me. Just for me. But a problem. Sort of like an unresolved tritone. I'm thinking of having an after party the weekend after Halloween. Maybe I'll drag them all to the Vamp ball. Hm. That could be interesting.
Hi! I ramble.

Ramblerambleramble.

Me: So how're you?
Person: BusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusy...(pause) BusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusyBusy
Me: Wow.

But house..looks good. Not good enough to eat, but good. And I'm going to practice Rachmaninov in costume tomorrow. Hm. That'll be interesting.

There are some people in this world who's cloak of invisibility only lasts them until they are found out.

Tomorrow it all ends. After 11pm tomorrow, Reality and Life comes back. And faire starts. And.....family holidays. Bleeeeeeeeeeeh, family holidays. My friends are my family. I'd much rather spend time with them. Family holidays always turn into a museum exhibit. "And here, we have our daughter, who does x,x,x, and x and also does x, x, x, and x. Roll over, shake hands, play dead."

Ramblerambleramble. I'm exhausted but my brain is bouncy. Bounce bounce bounce. My trees are airing out in the backyard. I hope that no raccoons decide to mangle them. Now listen here you raccoons...

Zzz......Bounce...Zzzz...Bounce!

I want to finish Dear Mr. X. But I haven't been inspired. Since this thing called Halloween threatened to take over my mind. Ah well. At least my mind isn't where it shouldn't be, anymore.

You Know Self..

2005-10-18T22:35:00.000-07:00

Hey Self- You know that story I started a long time ago and never finished? Yeah, well maybe...I should..you know, do something about that.

2005-10-02T01:13:00.000-07:00

A thing can be replaced with any other thing, because it is just a thing and nothing more. And when one thing gets old yet another replaces it and so on and so on. But in the meantime, all things are the same and are of equal significance. It doesn't matter what type of thing it is. As long it is a thing. And when that happens, bad things result, things that weren't supposed to happen. But they happened nonetheless. Because one thing is to another thing: the same.

Dear Mr. X, Chs. 1-6 (Nina made me do it;)

2005-09-26T20:18:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. X
By Maya Attia. Copyright 2005

Well..I almost did it. I just lost inspiration. Try again later.

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 1: Mr. John Bitsworthy
OK, really I promise I'll really post as much as I can of it. No more procrastinating for me..Or distractions for that matter. (Ooh shiny) Nope! No distractions!! So here we go..From the very first word. This is being typed from my almost illegible handwriting, so it'll be kind of an edit-as-I go sort of thing.

Dear Mr. X
by
Maya Attia

Foreward
Dear Reader,
If you have ever experienced love in its purest form, then you may not enjoy this story. If you have experienced hardships, however, and replaced them or battled them with nothing else then an imagination, this story is for you.
While this story has its comical points, it's not exactly a comedy; while it has it's tragic points, it isn't exactly a tragedy. Rather, it is a compilation of events that happend to a young girl named Lavendar Footsworth, who chose her imagination rather than love.

Chapter 1: Mr. John Bitsworthy
Miss Lavendar Footsworth was of a very ripe sixteen years, and lived in Baths, England. She lived with her mother, Mrs. Footsworth and a vague memory of her father, Major Footsworth. The Footsworths inhabited an apartment on Bitsbats Lane and had tea every afternoon at the hour of four.
Lavendar's mother had been sure that her daughter had received the highest education that was available, and wore the finest dresses and heard only the most important gossip. Lavendar herself didn't care for gossip, pretty dresses or her daily tea. Instead, she much preferred to spend her afternoons reading on the wooden swing in the backyard, warmed by the faint rays of sunlight that sometimes showed through the clouds. If she didn't have her nose in a book, Lavendar would be off somewhere in the garden, imagining she was on an adventure in India, or some such far away place. Such adventures usually resulted in Lavendar ripping her dress in several places. This did not make Mrs. Footsworth happy. Lavendar didn't care if her adventures upset her mother; there was nothing more delightful then to imagine being somewhere else.
One blusterous day, Mrs. Footsworth interrupted one of Lavendar's adventures.
"Today", said Mrs. Footsworth, you will not be taking tea with me. " Lavendar tried to hide her feelings of gladness. During every tea, all her mother did was talk about the rest of the city and what the rest of the city thought about the rest of the city and what the rest of the city was gossiping about and how it was really horrible to gossip but the rest of the city did it--it was horrid.
"Oh," said Lavendar. "Who will I be taking tea with?"
"Mr. John Bistworthy," annouced Mrs. Footsworth. "He is a refined gentleman of twenty-one, is one of four siblings, enjoys politics and despises hot weather."
"Does he like to read?" Lavendar asked meekly, looking out the window at the swing blowing in the wind.
"He enjoys reading the daily post," finished her mother. "Now go up and change. Anna will help you into your dress." Lavendar didn't move from her plush seat in the drawing room . "Well, what are you waiting for?"
"The rain to fall," said Lavendar quietly as she got up from her chair. She climbed the spiraling staircase up to her room. Once inside her room, she found Anna as well as a brand new canary yellow dress waiting for her. It was adorned with silk flowers that had white petals and yellow centers across the neckline. The dress had elbow length sleeves with white lace trim. In the back was a short train, just long enough to be stepped on. Lavendar looked at the dress in disgust. This wasn't quiet as bad as the orange and purple dress her mother had ordered for her a year ago, but nonetheless..It was hideous. Lavendar made a face at herself in the mirror throughout the dressing.
"What's wrong, miss?" asked Anna, slighty amused.
"I...umph! Don't..umph! Like yellow!" said Lavendar as her corset was tightened a bit to allow for the slight snuggness of the dress. Once dressed, Lavendar went downstairs for instructions.
"Now, you must drink only peach tea and eat only fruit tarts. I will not have you bursting the seams of your new dress. You will listen more then you will speak, and don't forget to smile every so often. Be sure your elbows are not resting on the table and that your napkin remains in your lap when not in use. Do not asjust your hair during the tea and do not fidget in your potential boredom. Goodbye dear, here comes your carriage."
The carraige took Lavendar to the house of John Bitsworthy, where his buttler, Ottssmith, answered the door and presented Lavendar to John. John sat the table set for tea for two, sketching.
"Do you..draw?" asked Lavendar nervously, having absolutely no idea what to expect of her tea date. "I mean, a lot?"
"No, not really," John said, squinting one eye. "It's really just something I do when I get bored. Who are you again?"
"My name is Lavendar," said Lavendar, sitting down in the vacant seat.
"Ah, yes I knew it was something of the purple ilk," said John putting his feet up on the nearby window seat. He threw aside his sketch pad and pulled his chair forward to face Lavendar. "So," he continued, "Care for some tea?"
"Yes please--peach, if you have it." John poured Lavendar a cup of the already brewed peach tea.
"Biscuit?"
"No thank you."
"Cake?"
"That's alright."
"Fruit tart?"
"Yes, please."Lavendar rested her hand in her lap and sat up straight to face John.
"So er..what do you like to do in your leisure?" John asked, leaning forward putting one elbow on the table, just missing tipping over the sugar bowl. Lavendar was about to speak when John continued. "I myself like to spend my afternoons practicing my violin. I've only been practicing for about a year now, but I'd say say my skill level is going up at a rapid rate. Would you like to hear some?" Lavendar opened her mouth to speak. "Well of course you do. Wait a minute. I keep it just over here.." John went to the room adjoining with the tea room and came back with a well polished violin and bow. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before he began to play the most ear piercing tune. Calling it a tune was a matter of politeness; for each note squeaked with a horrible shrillness that made Lavendar fidget in her chair. Even the cuterly was clinking on the table, aroused by such a horrid sound. When John finally finished, he stood proudly, instrument in hand.
"Well, what do you think?"
"Oh! Well it was very interesting..I mean in the difference of tones and.."
"Yes, do go on," said John with interest.
"It....transports you," continued Lavendar.
"Transports you?" asked John puzzled. He put his violin aside and and sat back down at the small table to face Lavendar.
"Yes..it does..it takes you out of this place and...brings you to another place.." Lavendar scolded herself for not making sense.
"And what would that other place be?" Asked John, inspecting his spoon.
"Hell," thought Lavendar. "Well, just another place..that only such..pitches..could bring you to," finished Lavendar, sure that John wasn't believing a word.
"Well!" said John, thoughtfully. " I must say, I've never heard anyone say such things about my music! Would you care to hear some more?" John asked hopefully. Lavendar was about to refuse, but there was a boyish, almost child-like excitement in John's eyes. It was like watching the very essence of hope become brighter and brighter. She knew if she refused, she was in for another hour of endless self-praising speeches. She was sure to fall asleep. However, if she said yes, she was in for another painful few minutes. On the other hand, she didn't want to embarrass herself and John by refusing.
"Sure," said Lavendar simply. John took up his instrument once more. Lavendar prepared for the worst. This time, however, a sweet, simple tune came out, backed by passion and encouragement from a single audience member. Lavendar sat back and relaxed in her chair. When the last note was played, Lavendar smiled and clapped softly. John smiled and flipped his hair out his eyes.
Lavendar left John's house feelings unsettled. She hoped she hadn't given the impression that she was interested in John romantically. Worse yet, if her mother had planned another tea date with John, she could only see things becoming worse. John, after all, was
"An arrogant, impolite, forgetful man whom I have absolutely no interest in, " reported Lavendar to her very surprised mother.
"Now Lavendar, John Bitsworthy is a lovely gentleman who comes from a very wealthy family!"Mrs. Footswoth said as she ate a piece of buttered bread. "You musn't say nor think such things."
"I will say what I wish," said Lavendar, much annoyed that her freedom to speak and think had been denied.
"You will go to your room," said Mrs. Footsworth, suddenly becoming very stern. Lavendar smirked at her mother's reaction, but obeyed.
For the next few weeks, Lavendar's mother was persistent that her daughter continue to see John. The more she saw him, however, the more Lavendar grew impatient and became more aware of his arrogance and bored with his childishness. John had also decided that it would be terribly amusing to poke Lavendar in various inappropriate places. Lavendar was not amused and did not stand for such games. One rainy afternoon, Lavendar interrupted one of John's self-praising speeches.
"John!" Lavendar almost cried out. "
"Yes?" John asked, slightly annoyed by such an interruption, obviously of no great importance.
"There is something I must tell you." Lavendar said very seriously.
"John sat back in his chair as Lavendar straightened in hers. They both looked very serious. Slowly, he leaned forward and took Lavendar's hand, which was gently gripping the edge of the table.
"There is something I must tell you, too," said John, looking directly at Lavendar.
"These past few weeks," started Lavendar, "have been-"
"Wonderful! Amazing!" Exclaimed John, excitement overtaking him. "I've never met anyone who's liked my music so much, or..or..listened to me without falling asleep!"
"I-" started Lavendar, not really knowing what to say.
"Lavendar, say you'll become my companion forever, and perhaps even share a life with-"
"No!" shouted Lavendar, as she pulled away from John's tightening grasp on her hand. "Please try to understand. I am..not... fond of you," the words came with great effort. John said nothing. Lavendar felt as if something should be said in the silence; perhaps an appology should be made, but nothing came out. The only sound that was heard was the rustling of skirts as Lavendar headed for the door.
"Will we be seeing you next week, Madam?" asked Ottssmith.
"No," said Lavendar. " You shall not be seeing me, anymore. Goodbye, Ottssmith."
"Goodbye, Madam," said Ottssmith. And with that, Lavendar walked out of the Bitsworthy house and into the rain outside.

Friday, August 05, 2005
Dear Mr. X:Chapter 2 Mr. Andre Teaspout
Lavendar's journey back home was all too short. There was a bitter feeling in her stomach, both of guilt and of disobedience. She had hurt John greatly and felt she had shed shame on her father's grave.
"Well? How did things go?" Mrs. Footsworth asked Lavendar, as she trudged in. Lavendar chose not to answer. She simply took a deep breath and continued up to her room. Once undressed, she collapsed on her bed and did not wake until morning.
The next day lunch was very quiet. Almost no words were exchanged between Lavendar and her mother. Finally, Mrs. Footsworth broke the silence.
"Well," she said, pouring herself some tea, "I heard from Lady Bitsworthy that your affections do not belong to her son." Lavendar dropped her fork. It clattered on the porcelain plate. Lavendar cleared her throat nervously. "I suppose we can't always find love in the first gentleman we take tea with." Relieved, Lavendar tried to smile as she retrieved her fork. "Nonetheless, your cousin Andrea is having a ball tonight in honor of her birthday. The two of us will attend and you will be introduced to several gentlemen."
"Mother!" said Lavendar in surprise. "Do you simply expect me to fall in love and marry in a matter of weeks? That isn't the way love works!"
"Not it's not the way love works, dear, but it's the way our society works. It's the way people like us are kept off the streets. Now tell me, would you prefer to be selling flowers for a living, and not have any sort of respectable future? Here, I'm giving you an opportunity to marry into a wealthy family, and you simply bat it away!"
"Mother, I do not find men so interesting such that I would want to spend unlimited amounts of time with them!" exclaimed Lavendar, finally feeling that she'd had her say. Mrs. Footsworth's face grew very serious.
"Lavendar...are you saying you're affections lie in your own gender?"
"No," said Lavendar, simply. "I just don't feel particular intersted in romance at all." Mrs. Footsworth was silent for a moment, until finally she spoke in a very final tone.
"Well, then we must awaken romance within you! There is no better place then a ball, held in one of the most beautiful ballrooms in all of Baths!"
"Mother!" Lavendar almost cried out, "Please try to understand!"
"Lavendar, I understand. Try to remember I was once a girl, too. I had an imagination too and I had dreams that didn't necessarily involve romance too. But I also had an understanding of society. I knew what I had to do to ensure my status...and health."
"Can't the way of the world be changed?" Sobbed Lavendar, both elbows now the table, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"As I said before," said Mrs. Footsworth coldly, "unless you fancy a life on the streets selling flowers, I suggest you follow my advice. Listen dear," Mrs. Footsworth said, her voice suddenly becoming warm. "Once you marry a respectable gentleman, you can have your own life and live the way you want. But for now, you must understand that the money your father left us in his will becomes less each day. We must ensure our comfort!" Lavendar understood. All too well. This was no longer a matter of self. This was a matter of keeping both her mother and herself alive. Lavendar no longer felt as though she was being forced to love someone: she had a duty to her mother and to herself.
That evening, Lavendar and her mother broth arrived Andrea's birthday party at the beautiful Buzzy Flankets Ballroom. The ballroom really was grand; it had cherubs painted on its domed ceilings, marble staircases leading up to the dressing rooms, an expansive dance floor and red velvet curtains with gold tassles that cascaded down from the ceiling. Both men and women were dressed in their finest! Lavendar wore a striking red velvet dress with off the shoulder, short puffy sleeves with black lace trim and rosettes in her hair. Her mother wore a black dress which swept the floor. Throughout the night, Lavendar was introduced to countless young gentlemen; many of whose names were instantly forgotten. Unfortunately, most of the gentlemen had exceedingly bland personalities. As she was dancing with one gentleman by the name of Picadilly, Lavendar noticed a tall blonde gentleman with a strong jaw and deep set blue eyes.
"Something wrong?" asked Mr. Picadilly, as Lavendar almost tripped over her own feet.
"No, nothing," Lavendar said as the waltz ended. After being escorted back to her chair, Lavendar was joined by her friend Rosemary.
"Hello, Lavendar dear!" said Rosemary, floofing herself down next to Lavendar. "I'm sure you're having a wonderful time, and feel lovely in that new dress!" There was a note of sarcasm in her tone, for Rosemary knew all too well that Lavendar hated balls and hated getting dressed in dresses which wore themselves.
"Ugh," said Lavendar. "I found my previous partner most unpleasant."
"How horrid to hear! I myself have been having a splendid time! So many beautiful gowns to look at, so many gentlemen to dance with and so many beautiful waltzes to dance to! I do so wish Andrea would throw such parties every night! By the way, have you taken notice of Mr. Teaspout, the gentleman with blonde hair?" At this, Lavendar perked up. As much as she really did enjoy talking to Rosemary, there were times when her conversations seemed like they were aimed at herself.
"I did...What did you say his name was?"
"Mr. Teaspout. Andre Teaspout," said Rosemary, amused by her friend's sudden perkiness. "Would you like me to introduce him to you? He's a friend of my brother's you know!" An introduction to Mr. Teaspout was absolutely horrifying. What if he was rude and arrogant or pressumptious?
"Come on, he's right over here..." said Rosemary. Lavendar's thought was interrupted by Rosemary pulling her arm.
"No, no, no!" Protested Lavendar, feeling herself being dragged into what could only be one of Rosemary's mad ideas. Despite her protestations, somehow Lavendar ended up right in front of Mr. Teaspout.
"Hello Andre," said Rosemary.
"Well hello Miss Rosemary, " said Andre, his voice calm and pleasant. "How lovely to see you this evening." Rosemary smiled.
"Andre, may I present my friend Miss Lavendar Footsworth." Lavendar came forward, her cheeks slightly red.
"How do you do," said Lavendar, trying very hard not to become overwhelmed with the pure blueness of Mr. Teaspout's eyes.
"How do you do," returned Mr. Teaspout. "Would you honor me with the next dance, Ms. Footsworth?" Mr. Teaspout asked, as the music started up again.
"I should be delighted," said Lavendar, taking Mr. Teaspout's outstretched arm. He was a fabulous dancer. He had a warmth about him that Lavendar had never felt around any gentleman. After three dances, he and Lavendar went out to one of the balconies to rest. Lavendar looked out at the night, allow her gaze to become fixed, until he spoke.
"You dance very well," he said. "Something you do often?" his speech was smooth and clear, each word seemed to be carefully chosen.
"Uh, well, no not really, but then I suppose you could say sometimes, which is to say when I'm given the reason to do so.." Lavendar scolded herself mentally. Every word that came out was garbled; it was as though she was toungue tied. Andre looked puzzled for a moment and then smiled. This Lavendar obviously was quite taken with him--as she should be; this was often the case with women. He smiled to himself at the thought of this. He sat down next to her on the stone bench that overlooked the beautiful rose gardens below.
"Lavendar," he said looking directly at her, "How would you care to have tea with me?" Lavendar was silent for a moment, as she arranged the proper words to make a comprehensible sentence.
"I should be...delighted." she said with as much as elegance and sophistication as she could.
"Excellent," said Andre. Tea was the next day at four.

Dear Mr. X:Chapter 2 Mr. Andre Teaspout continued
For the first time, Lavendar stood outside her closet happily as she tried to decide what to wear. After fifteen minutes of deliberating, Lavendar decided on a powdered blue dress with white lace at the neck and sleeves. Once dressed, she proudly marched downstairs to her smiling mother. After receiving instructions from her mother on what to do and how to act, Lavendar was taken away in a carriage. Twenty minutes later, she arrived at Andre's apartment. Lavendar was all a flutter when she came face to face with Andre after ringing the doorbell.
"Hello Lavendar," said Andre, kissing her hand.
"Good afternoon," said Lavendar, excitement filling her from head to toe. The two walked through a hallway, where there were many lavishly furnished rooms, and ended at a small room with a table set for tea for two.
"Do you care for tea cake?" Andre asked once they were seated. Lavendar had one elbow on the table with her head cupped in her hand. She was looking into Andre's eyes, forgetting where she was. "Alright, I suppose silence means you don't fancy cake. How about fruit tart?" Andre looked up at Lavendar. Lavendar, startled at the direct eye contact, started.
"Oh," she cleared her throat. "Yes, fruit tart would be lovely, thank you." Lavendar was about to go back to staring in his eyes when Andrew began to speak.
"So, what do you do in your leisure? Besides attending balls that is.."
"Oh! Well, I like sewing...and-and reading! I do like reading..And music! And..drawing."
"Drawing? Suppose you showed me some of your sketches the next time we meet?"
"Oh but I have my small sketchpad right here.." said Lavendar, feeling a small victory over being prepared. The next half hour was spent showing Andre her sketches. Lavendar's sketchpad was filled with fantastical characters, wearing beautiful gowns. When she turned the last page of the book, Andre rose.
"May I show you one of my hobbies?" he asked grinning at Lavendar. Lavendar sat in wonder. Andre opened a long, rectangular cabinet and took out a foil. "This is what I do!" he said lunging at Lavendar, almost brushing past her ear. Lavendar gasped. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm in good practice!" Andre took a few steps back and lunged again. This time, Lavendar felt a small wind by her head and found a piece of her hair ribbon in her lap. "Here, I'll teach you," said Andre, throwing a blunted foil at Lavendar hilt first.
"I really..don't think so," said Lavendar nervously as she caught the sword. Andre and Lavendar's tea dates were no longer simply tea. They were now fencing lessons. During each lesson Lavendar felt herself picking up the art and Andre could feel himself becoming more attracted to Lavendar. There was something so innocent about her; something fragile... After one lesson, Andre asked Lavendar to accompany him to his father's cabin, up North.
"Well that sounds lovely, " said Lavendar, trying to catch her breath. Her legs were sore and her hair was a mess.
"Absolutely not!" said Mrs. Footsworth.
"But Mother! Why not?? Isn't this what you wanted?"
"No, I will not have you put yourself in a potentially scandalous situation."
"Mother! I'm sure Andre has never had a thought of that kind. He is a lovely gentleman," Lavendar protested, although unsure whether or not he really had had such thoughts. He had been very quick to ask her to tea and he was always very direct. In fact-- no. It wasn't possible. She was just Lavendar...No gentleman would ever think of her that way. Would they?
"That's correct," said Mrs. Footsworth rising from her chair, her lean figure towering above Lavendar. "You don't think he would. But he will. There are many things you do not know about men. You must not be taken by what seems to be harmless outings. Men are sneaky in this way. And furthermore, you don't love Andre." Lavendar was silent. She couldn't answer that. She knew she liked having tea with him, but did she love him? It was a rather strong word with which describe their friendship. Yes. A friendship. That was all it was. Nothing more. She would waste no more time on Andre. For she did not love him.
"No," said Lavendar finally. "I do not love him."
"Exactly," said Mrs. Footsworth. "And that is why you will not be accompanying him up North." Lavendar, despite her disappointment, understood. It would be a waste of time.
Andre was sad to receive the news, but seemed to understand. When he inquired about a future tea date, Lavendar sadly, but firmly refused. If she felt anything strong about Andre it was merely infatuation, but not love. Love was a special bond between two equals in which neither person was inferior nor superior. Andre was just a passing fancy. Later that day, Lavendar sat in her rocking chair in her room and looking outside at the ivy climbing up the wall.
"I do hope I'll find love," she thought. "And I hope I'll find it before I turn twenty. For by then I shall be an old maid."

Chapter 3:Mr. Christopher Inkwell
Lavendar spent the next two years going on all sorts of tea dates with various gentlemen, such as Mr. Edwin Pennysack, Mr. Allen Curdoroy and so on. Much to Mrs. Footsworth's dismay, Lavendar was consistently unsuccessful. One was too young or childish, another was not in step with the present, one would go on and and on about his past and another had a rather unhealthy obsession with knives. Lavendar came back from each tea date feeling distraught and sad. Was there no hope for her? Was there simply no gentleman to suit her needs? Was she destined to live in lonliness? Worse yet, her mother's disapproval? She vowed that the answers to her quandries were all in the negative.
One Sunday afternoon, Lavendar and her mother were readying themselves for a walk. Mrs. Footsworth had decided some fresh air would be a good idea for Lavendar.
"And I just can't believe how Mr. Edwin went on and on about his family, as if nothing else in the world existed! And Mr. Allen! Ugh! Mr. Allen thinks that women have no place in our world! Balderdash!" Lavendar was babbling on about her past suitors when she and her mother sat down to rest on the edge of a fountain. When Lavendar paused for breath, she noticed someone's reflection in the water, but could not see the source. She looked around curiously, but to no avail.
"What are you doing?" asked Mrs. Footsworth, "You are making a perfect fool of yourself!" Lavendar was very curious however, and kept trying to find the source of the reflection which seemed to be right behind her..But it wasn't. She leaned a bit farther over the fountain to get a better view of the reflection in the water.
"You don't give up, do you?" Came a voice directly behind Lavendar. Startled, Lavendar fell into the shallow fountain. she emerged, gasping, and drenched from head to toe. Surprised and embarrassed, she tried to gingerly step out of the fountain. Her mother was saying something...scolding her probably. But her attention was elsewhere. Confused, Lavendar looked to her left and found a well dressed young gentleman of about twenty one, looking very amused. Thinking that such amused was mockery, Lavendar sniffed and gathered her things in preperation to leave.
"May I assist you?" asked the gentleman, seeing Lavendar was having trouble manuevering herself in a soaked dress.
"No," said Lavendar coldy.
"As you say," said the gentleman, smiling. Mrs. Footsworth was near fainting. She couldn't begin to bring herself to believe her own daughter had just fallen into a fountain! In spite of her shock, Mrs. Footsworth did not cease her scoldings.
"Shame on you, Lavendar! How could you ever-"
"Now, now," interrupted the gentleman, "I think that's quite enough scolding for one person." Mrs. Footsworth, completely shocked, fainted. Luckily the gentleman saw her faint and caught her before she too, toppled into the water. Lavendar, who looked more harried than shocked, started to stop wringing her dress and tend to her mother. "There, there. I"ll have a carriage take you home." Lavendar, although grateful for the help, was unsure of of the stranger simply assuming that he could tend her mother. A carraige came and the gentleman helped Lavendar and an unconscious Mrs. Footswroth into the carriage.
"Thank you for your help," said Lavendar. "What did you say your name was?"
"Christopher. Christopher Inkwell."
"Well thank you for your assistance, Mr. Inkwell. Now please leave us."
"Oh, no!" said Christopher, jumping into the carriage. I'm going to make sure your arrive home safely. After all, you have a slightly ill woman on your hands. I would be doing you a disservice if I left you now." Mrs. Footsworth groaned and mumbled something incomprehensible. "Ah, I see your mother agrees with me." Lavendar starred at Christopher. He had the nerve to--but then again, he was helping her. Or appeared to be.
"Now then, where do you live?"
"Three-thirteen, BitsBats," said Lavendar. Christopher told the driver.
"Ah! You live near my grandfather!"
"Oh," said Lavendar.
"Yes, Grandfather lives on Bitsbats Lane as well. He owns a shop. He makes string instruments: violins, cellos, violas--"
"Yes, I know what string instruments are, Mr. Inkwell." Despite her annoyance, she found Mr. Inkwell to be rather pleasant. The two of them discussed poetry, art and tea cakes.
"And have you ever read Lord Byron's poetry?
"Oh yes!" Exclaimed Lavendar, "I do so love his poetry!"
"Have you read She Walks in Beauty?"
"Why, no..I don't believe I have."
"Then allow me to recite it." He cleared his throat and recited the poem, not missing a single word or beat. There was a smoothness to his voice and his gaze never left Lavendar's. It was almost as though he was reciting the poem and relating it to her! Suddenly, Lavendar gasped. How improper! Chirstopher stopped and looked at Lavendar. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, no." said Lavendar banishing the thought. "Please continue" Before they knew it, the carriage had stopped in front the Footsworth's apartment. Mrs. Footsworth groaned. Lavendar and Christoper helped her out of the carriage and into the apartment. As Lavendar prepared to show Christopher the door, he spun around and offered Lavendar an afternoon tea the following day.
"Oh, well," said Lavendar, remembering her previous teas and how unsuccessful they'd been. But as she stood there thinking and preparing to refuse, she looked at Christopher and at his dark eyes and recalled how easy he'd been to talk to. "Thank you, I'd love it."
"Excellent," said Christopher and he walked out the door, jumping the last stair down to the ground. The next day, Lavendar, once again, was choosing her most delightful tea gown. A carriage arrived and took Lavendar to the Inkwell Estate. Instead of a butler opening the door, Lavendar came nose to nose with Christopher himself.
"Hello, Lavendar! Come right in!"
"Thank you, " Lavendar said as she stepped inside to a beautifully furnished home with marble staircases and fine lace table cloths. Tea was through a a huge library which consisted of several volumes of fairytales, many history books, a collection of encyclopedias and several volumes of modern science. Old maps decorated the walls of the library, several with push pins and red string, connecting points. "What a beautiful collection, " said Lavendar. "Where did all the maps come from?"
"Oh, those, " said Christopher. "My father was a kind of sailor. Went on many adventures."
"What sort of adventures?" asked Lavendar, intrigued.
"The dangerous kind," returned Christopher. "My father was very curious. Never lingered in one place or did any one thing for too long. Swash buckling was just one of the mad things he may or may not have done during his rather short life, to provide you with an idea."
"Oh," said Lavendar. "He isn't.."
"Sharks, " siad Christopher casuallay. "During one of his voyages he was forced overboard."
"Oh dear!" said Lavendar, shocked.
"Oh, don't worry. He had a wonderful life and did what he loved. He died doing what he loved. That's all that matters. " Lavendar continued to look shocked. "Tea?"
"Thank you, " said Lavendar, her voice cracking a bit. The rest of the tea was spent in small room with large windows where beams of sunlight streamed in. The two shared stories of their family, their views on politics and literature. Lavendar even managed to share some of her iminaginary adventures with Chrisptoher.
"These adventures...Why do you no longer delight in them?" Asked Christopher curiously.
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose I stopped after my mother started sending me on tea dates."
"Really," said Christopher, leaning in towards Lavendar.
"Well, you see, ever since I've been seeing..gentlemen, some of whom cannot even be entitled as such, I haven't had any time for adventures.
"Well then! Let's go on an adventure!" Lavendar blinked.
"What? An adventure? Here? Now?"
"Yes! Come, it'll be fun!" Lavendar wasn't sure what to think. An adventure seemed odd to her now. Before she knew it, she was being pulled by the hand and taken up the stairs to a long hallway filled with many doors to various rooms. After that it was all a blur. One moment she was having tea and the next she was on a pirate's ship.
"Well, well, well.." said Christopher, who had taken on the name of Christopher the Horrible. "What have we here? A stowe-away?"
"Oh please, sir," pleaded Lavendar in her most convincing voice. It was my only choice! They were going to kill me! I had to get away from-"
"Excuses, excuses. If you're going to stay on this ship, you'll have to work!" Christopher the Horrible thought and stroked his imaginary beard. "You can clean my boots!" Lavendar made a face. "What, not good enough? Ha! Anything is better then walking the plank.."
"Oh, no sir! Please not the plank! Yes, yes...cleaning your boots. Yes sir.." The adventure went on for many hours and the two found themselves exploring the seven seas, fighting off other pirates, firing cannons and discovering treasure maps. In the early evening, Lavendar and Christopher sat by the fire, exhausted. Finally, Lavendar returned home. It was very late.
"Well," said Mrs. Footsworth. "That was a very extensive tea."
"Oh, but it was wonderful!" said Lavendar, remembering the adventure.
"And what does this mean?" asked Mrs. Footsworth, expectantly.
"I don't know, said Lavendar. "Something, I hope." Something evolved into many thing, as Lavendar and Christopher continued to have tea and go on adventures. One day at tea, when Lavendar and Christohpher where having a more serious adventure, Christopher asked Lavendar to accompany him to a ball. "A ball," said Lavendar, somewhat reluctantly, remmbering the last one with Andre.
"Yes, a ball! You know, one of those parties where everyone gets dressed up in their finest and-" Lavendar laughed.
"Yes, I know what it is. I must think about it."
"What's there to think about? It'll be wonderful! Just say yes!"
"I don't know," replied, Lavendar gently. As much as she enjoyed his company, attending a ball with Christopher was not something she had thought about. "I suppose there'll be dancing," said Lavendar thoughtfully.
"Yes dancing's delightful! Have you tried it before? I could teach you, easily, really.."
"Alright," said Lavendar carefully.
"Splendid! Now you just put one foot here, and then-"
"I know how to dance, said Lavendar, standing. I was agreeing to go with you."

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 3: Mr. Christopher Inkwell, continued
Christopher smiled. Lavendar smiled back. She very much hoped the ball would be a more pleasant experience then the one where she had met Andre. The evening of the ball, Lavendar primped herself, sure every detail, every curl and every inch of fabric was in tact.
"I wonder," she though, "if Christopher loves me..We certainly do spend a great deal of time together. I wonder if..he'll tell me tonight. Or perhaps I should tell him! Oh, but no..I'd never have the courage..But I do so wish to know! There's simply something about the way he looks at me. Sometihg in his eyes. But perhaps he is simply admiring me, and not in love with me at all. What of that? Or perhaps not..Or perhaps so! Oh dear. "I'm so horribly confused!" Lavendar said aloud.
"About what, Miss?" asked Anna.
"Anna, Lavendar started to say, "have you ever been in love?"
"Well Miss, that's quite a question..I suppose I've been in love. Rather depends on what you say love is."
"I don't know," said Lavendar, almost whispering.
"Well then, how you can ask someone if they've ever felt if it, if you can't define it?" asked Anna slightly confused.
"I don't know," said Lavendar. "Oh Anna do you think he thinks of me fondly?"
"Who, Miss?"
"Mr. Inkwell," said Lavendar, fretfully.
"Well Miss, I couldn't say. but I will say that you can always see when someone's in love. That something in the eyes..."
"The eyes," thought Lavendar. "The way he looks at-- Yes! He must love me!" With that Lavendar dashed some perfume on her neck and prepared to leave for the ball. The ball was a lively arrangement of energetic polkas, beautiful waltzes and many people all talking at once.
"Lavendar!" Christopher said from behind Lavendar. Lavendar turned around and saw Christopher.
"Christopher," said Lavendar softly. The two spent most of the night dancing to the music and talking to mutual friends. After one particularly beautiful waltz, Lavendar and Christopher retired to a balcony opening for air.
"Lavendar," said Christopher thoughtfully. Lavendar looked up at him. "There is something I must tell you."
"Oh?" said Lavendar, getting excited.
"Yes, well, we've been spending quite a bit of time together, and.."
"Yes?"
"Well I just wanted tosay that...I think you're a delightful girl." Christopher concluded with some effort.
"Go on," whispered Lavendar, expectantly.
"Sorry?"
"I said go on.." said Lavendar a bit louder.
"That's all I had to say." Lavendar looked away confused. Christopher looked away, confused. It seemed as though he wans't going to proclaim his love for her after all. Not after all this time, not after so much had happened!
"Christopher," said Lavendar firmly. "I must know something."
"Yes?" he said, rasing an eyebrow. Lavendar paused for a moment and took several deep breaths. The question she was about to ask would determine not only her future, but her happiness. She prayed the answer would be yes.
"Do you or do you not, love me?" Lavendar asked finally. Christopher sat down next to Lavendar and stared at the open night. He did not blink, but just sat still for what seemed an eternity.
"Lavendar...That's a rather difficult question," he said finally.
"It is not. The answer is either yes or no."
"I don't know," said Christopher. "You're delightful and all that, and really are a joy, but I suppose..I just see you as a playmate."
"A WHAT?!?" said Lavendar outraged.
"Yes, a playmate. Someone with whom I go out and have fun with; like on our adventures!" finished Christopher, growing more comfortable with the idea. "Sorry, have I upset you?"
"No, really, not at all," Lavendar said sarcastically. "It's just that..That wasn't what I was expecting to hear!" and with that she broke into heavy sobbing, right in front of her friend.
"Lavendar...you don't mean to tell me that you think of me romantically..." Lavendar nodded vigorously. Christopher wasn't sure what to think or how to respond. He'd been so sure that Lavendar had merely thoguht him a friend: a companion! But a lover? He put his hand on her shoulder, attempting to comfort her. It was all he felt he could do. Lavendar composed herself enough to forceibly shake his hand away and stand. She didn't make eye contact with Christopher. She couldn't bring herself to do it. She felt as though she had ruined her one chance to marry someone she truly and deeply loved. She ran from the balcony and out of the ballroom, and into an awaiting carriage. In a matter of seconds, her one chance at love had disappeared. And it was her fault. It was all her fault. This wasn't some drawing she could tear out of her sketchbook. It wasn't some thought she could shake from her head. This was real. And she had just ruined it. Completely and totally. She would probably never hear from Christopher again.
"How could I...How could I have been so wrong? What didn't I see? What did I do wrong?" These thoughts filled her head during her short journey home. Once home, she did not sleep. She lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, re-running the moment that ended her companionship. Over and over and over.
The next few nights were sleepless ones. She imagined conversations between herself and Christopher. She imagined his responses. She imagined the way it could have been, the way it should have been. The life she could have had. With him. And now it was all gone.
"Damnit!" Lavendar said aloud as she hit her fist on the pillow. "Why did I have to go and destroy it?" She cried into her pillow until half of it was soaked through. Exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep and did not wake until late morning.

Chapter 4: Mr. X
Lavendar awoke the next morning to a terrible headache and heartache. She still couldn't believe what had happened the night before. All she wanted to do was cry some more and throw breakable objects at the wall. Not knowing what else to do, she dressed herself for an afternoon walk. It was pleasant outside. There was a light breeze which felt refreshing on Lavendar's still moist cheeks. Her thoughts were blank. She had nothing to think about, nothing to do and nowhere to go. A little way up, there was a vacant park bench. She sat down on it and leaned back, looking up at the sky.
"I still can't believe he doesn't love me," thought Lavendar, although it did not inspire tears this time. "I felt so led on. How could someone do that? I thought God made people to be good and kind." As these thoughts went through her head, a small child ran just past her, stumbled and fell. When Lavendar moved to help the child up, the child laughed and got up herself. In the child's hand was a doll dressed in overalls and shirt sleeves. Oblivious to Lavendar's presence, the child began speaking to the doll.
"Look at all the clouds, Dolly!" the child said as she pointed up to the sky. "That one looks like a bird! And that one looks like a horse!" The child made the doll nod. "What's that, Dolly?" The doll was nodded again. "You're hungry? Oh, yes! Me too! Grandmother has cookies for us! Let's go home!" The dolly nodded once again. The child hugged the doll and ran off, leaving a small cloud of dust behind her. Lavendar smiled and almost laughed. How sweet. A girl playing with a doll. What simple pleasures. Yes, a girl played with her doll, just as Christopher had played with her heart. A girl who played with the doll could make the doll say anything she wanted it to say; do anything she wanted it to do. The girl would never be alone so long as she had her stuffed companion. It was almost like having an imaginary friend, but with a physical presence. But the girl would never be alone....Never be alone....Never....be...alone.
Lavendar did not eat her lunch that day nor drink her tea. Instead, she sat in her room in her rocking chair and drank thousands of thoughts that collided with each other in her mind.
"Lavendar, would you care for some tea and scones?"
"Never be alone," whispered Lavendar to the window.
"Sorry, dear I didn't hear what you said. Was that a yes?"
"I said I'd never be alone!"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"I'd never be alone...If I had him...And and...he'd always be there, and he'd always respond, and I'd never be alone!" Mrs. Footsworth put down the tray on Lavendar's dresser and sat down on the bed.
"Lavendar...Do you feel alright? Perhaps you had better have something to eat..You haven't eaten all day. Here," Mrs. Footsworth said, passing Lavendar a scone. "Eat this." Lavendar batted the scone away with such force that it hit the wall and crumbled. Mrs. Footsworth, scared, stood up. "Lavendar...Are you sick?"
"I'm fine..I'm never going to be alone, again, Mother!" Lavendar said, suddenly jumping onto the bed. Inbetween bounces she shouted, "I'm never going to be alone! Never!! Ever!! Going! To! Be! Alone! Hahahahahaha-" and as suddenly as the episode had started, it stopped. Lavendar collapsed on the bed, her breath heavy. Mrs. Footsworth stared at her daughter for a moment and then closed the door. On the way downstairs, she gripped the banister as the worst possible thoughts passed through her head. She tried to shake them, but still they stayed. Going downstairs the rest of the way, she decided to to call on one of her old friends, Bianca Lwadlry.
"Oh, my dear Eva! You do not look well at all! No, not at all!"
"Thank you for admitting me on such short notice, Bianca. I didn't know who else to come to." Bianca's face was of concern.
"What happened?"
"It's my daughter. She's...suffering from..heartache. And she's not dealing with it well. I don't know what to do. It's as though she's going mad!" Mrs. Footsworth sputtered. She told Bianca the entire story, up to the moment she had left the apartment.
"Hush, hush, dear. It couldn't be as bad as all that..."
"No..It's worse. She's started repeating things...over and over until she tires herself out. And she throws things.. I'm worried that she'll get hurt!"
"Hm..That doesn't sound good at all..In fact, that almost sounds like-" Mrs. Footsworth gasped.
"No! It couldn't be!" Bianca nodded.
"My dear Eva, I don't know if you've ever experienced heartbreak or losing someone you loved--"
"Well of course I have! What, do you think me a-"
"No, dear, of course not. But Lavendar is young. And from the way you describe it, it seems that this young fellow was more than just someone she was in love with. He sounds like a friend as well. And the loss of a friend far is far worse than the loss of a lover. You see Eva, our world is so eager for young women to marry, that there is no room left for feelings. Perhaps Lavendar is overwhelmed, both with her loss as well as her feelings of obligation."
"So you think it's my fault, do you?" said Mrs. Footsworth suddenly standing and growing stern.
"It's noone's fault, Eva. You may sit down." Mrs. Footsworth sat. "While I cannot offer you any immediate advice, I would suggest that you have a talk with her. "
"A talk?"
"Yes, a talk. Perhaps about slowing the subject of marriage down and not worrying about it so much." Mrs. Footsworth was about to say something when Bianca continued. "You need not worry about your welfare, Eva. I'm quite sure you will be able to find..other ways of dealing with it, shall we say. And now, I believe it is best that you return home." Mrs. Footsworth was about to protest, but knew Bianca was correct. Upon arriving home, Mrs. Footsworth was greeted with an entirely silent apartment.
"Lavendar? Lavendar, dear...?" Mrs. Footsworth crept up the stairs, seeing a very dim light coming from under Lavendar's door. "Lavendar? Supposed we have a bit of a conversation, dearest.." Mrs. Footsworth tried the door. It was locked. "Lavendar! Open this door immediately! Lavendar!!" No sound came from the room except a very soft, muffled laughter. Slowly, the latch of the door was unlocked and the door opened with a very loud creak. Mrs. Footsworth clenched her fists and bit her lip.
"Hello, Mother! I have a new friend I'd like you to meet." Mrs. Footsworth, horrified, looked around the room but saw noone. Lavendar pushed a letter, with very messy and blotted script into Mrs. Footsworth's face. "Read it," said Lavendar with a half laugh. Mrs. Footsworth sat in the rocking chair and read the letter. Lavendar laughed again, twirled and sat on her bed.
The letter read:
Dear Lavendar,
Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Mr. X. I am an ideal gentleman, come from a wealthy family, and (ink blot) looking for a (ink blot) to suit me. I have heard that you are a lovely girl, and I would love to have (ink blot) with you. I should be delighted if you were to honor my request.
Pleasant Regards,
-Mr. X

"Where did this letter come from?" asked Mrs. Footsworth incredulously. Lavendar smiled and cocked her head.
"From Mr. X!" Mrs. Footsworth bit her lip. Had Lavendar written this herself or was there indeed a gentleman that she didn't know about?
"I'm going to have tea with Mr. X, tomorrow!" said Lavendar, gleefully. Mrs. Footsworth's face had gone completely white. She eyed Lavendar uneasily.
"Lavendar, I want you to tell me who Mr. X is." The answer came simply and matter-of-factly.
"Mother: Mr. X is a well brought up gentleman who comes from a good, wealthy family and wishes to have tea with me." Mrs. Footsworth said nothing. Lavendar was not going mad. She wasn't! She refused to believe it! How could she be going mad? She was sitting there..Looking so calm. And happy. And content.
"Very well, Lavendar. Enjoy your tea with Mr. X. Give him my regards," and with that, Mrs. Footsworth exited Lavendar's room and shut the door. There was a lump in her throat and a slight feeling of guilt in her heart, but she ignored that and went down the long staircase to knit. On the way down, however, she slipped on the hem of her dress and rolled violently down the rest of the stairs, ending in an unconscious heap at the bottom.
"Oh, Mr. X it's so delightful to finally meet you! Would you care for some tea? Mother always suggested peach, I rather fancy it myself. Do you care for some cake?" Mr. X didn't respond. "You know, Mr. X, I've never had a gentleman as good a listener as you are. I'm so glad we met. Aren't you?" Mr. X was silent. "Well you're certainly quiet, aren't you..But that's just fine! I am so weary of being so quiet and listening to gentleman go on and on! About absolutely nothing!" Lavendar sighed. Mr. X was perhaps the most handsome gentleman she had ever seen. With his dark, curly brown hair and his piercing blue eyes sitting there staring at her, not saying a word, and yet saying so much. When the tea was over, Lavendar showed Mr. X the door, and bid him goodbye. Mr. X smiled back at Lavendar and took a carriage back to his apartment and Slighter St. Lavendar shut the door, almost stepping on the still unconscious Mrs. Footsworth. "Mother, Mother! Oh I do wonder why you allow people to walk all over you in such situations. Well, you'll never guess what happened! Mr. X and I had the most wonderful tea, and you know that opera next month, well he does so like music, and wishes to accompany me to it! Isn't that wonderful? Mother! Do get up!" Mrs. Footsworth groaned and got up slowly and gingerly.
"What? Opera? Mr. X? Bring me some water, Lavendar," said Mrs. Footsworth putting her hand to her head.

Lavendar just looked at her mother. Mrs. Footsworth looked at her daughter in horror. What had she become? Lavendar smiled.
"Water, did you say, mother? Yes, of course!" Lavendar brought her mother a class of water from the kitchen. "I'm going to go to my room to write Mr. X a nice long letter, Mother and inquire about the opera!" Mrs. Footsworth said nothing. She just stared at her daughter. Lavendar went up the stairs decisively. "I'm going to write Mr. X a letter! Yes, a letter! A lovely letter! Yes, yes, yes!" Lavendar shut and locked the door behind her once she reached her room and sat down next to her window, in her rocking chair.
Dear Mr. X,
I did so enjoy our tea the other day. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. But of course you did. Silly me! You're the perfect gentleman, how could you have not enjoyed it as much as I did? It was a delightful tea. And there was *ink blot* such delight in your eyes! You did enjoy it! Yes you did! Say that you did!! You did enjoy it! Yes you *torn bit of paper*.
Since you enjoyed the tea so much, I wondered if you might accompany my mother and I, well, really me more than Mother, to the opera on Sunday, next. It will be a most delightful opera. Mozart wrote such lovely music, and I do think that the Magic Flute is one of his most enjoyable operas. Say that you're answer will be yes. Oh, I'd be so sad if it was no. Because then...I might think that you didn't fancy me...And you simply must fancy me because of the way you looked at me at tea *ink blot*.

I eagerly await your response.

-Lavendar Footsworth

Lavendar folded the letter, sealed it, and put it on her desk in preperation to be mailed.

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 6
It was Saturday. The sun was shining through the clouds, but it was not a warm light. It was a bright, blinding light that was painful to look at. A light that did not warm the face that looked upon it. At half past one, there was a knock on the Footsworth's front door. Anna opened it.

"Yes?" Anna said cautiously, having returned from her day off only to have met the horrible news of Mrs. Footsworth falling down the staircase and Lavendar not feeling up to herself.
"Yes..Hello..My name is Mr. Inkwell...Christopher Inkwell. I was wondering if I might have a word with Lavendar," Christopher inquired as he tried to see the rather messy interior that was blocked Anna's plump form.
"Oh...I'm sorry, Mr. Inkmill, but the ladies..They haven't been feeling too well lately. Perhaps if you could come back another day, Sir?"
"But Lavendar...I must..I must talk to her!"
"She's asleep, Sir.." From the background, a distant voice uttered something that sounded something like an inquiry as to who was at the door. "A Mr. Inkmill--or Inkwell..for Lavendar, Mrs. Footsworth." A very frail and pale Mrs. Footsworth stumbled her way to the door while Anna looked at her with concern.
"Mr. Inkwell, is it?" she almost spat. "Lovely to make your existence known. Please be on your way. Lavendar is in no way fit to be seen."
"Lavendar? But..what's wrong? Is she alright..I just wanted to.."
"Please be on your way," said Mrs. Footsworth weakly but firmly. Anna nodded, encouragingly. Somewhere inside the house, a faint, high pitched laughter sounded. Christopher heard this.
"Lavendar??" He said, shouting up, hopefully. "Lavendar!" Christopher pushed the two women out of his way and followed the sound of the echo of Lavendar's laugh.
"It's no use. She's not herself. Whatever you want to say to her, she won't here you!" warned Mrs. Footsworth. Christopher didn't care. He had to see her. He had to appologize to his friend; make things right again. He followed the sound of Lavendar's voice up to a shut door, which hid a small stream of dim candle light. He tried the door. It was not locked. He opened it. For day, it was very dark in the room. The curtains were shut, and only two candles lit the entire room. A pale, frail and wilted Lavendar sat at her desk, besides a stack of letters, ready to be sent. Lavendar was writing something. It appeared to be a letter and so important did it seem that she did not even notice that there was someone else in her room. On the floor lay pages and pages of scratched out, ink blotted and torn apart letters.
"Lavendar," said Christopher softly. Lavendar flinched. Someone was in her room. It was a gentleman. She had never had a gentleman in her room, before. Could it be Mr. X?? Could her dear Mr. X finally have come to see her? Could it be true? "Lavendar....I wanted to appologize," said Christopher trying not to ask a million questions as to what had happened. That voice. She knew that voice. It was a familiar voice. For a split second, a warmth came back into her cheeks, a gleam in her eyes. Her heart jumped, the hairs on her neck prickled. Suddenly, Lavendar turned towards Christopher, giving him her full attention. Even in the low candle light, Christopher could see the dark circles under Lavendar's eyes and how pale her skin was. The candle light made her look like a dusty painting that once had been in color, but had accumulated so much dust over the years that it now looked like a crumpled piece of paper.
"Christopher?" Lavendar whispered to the air, almost inaudibly. Minutes went by in which the two simply stared at each other, neither uttering a word.
"Lavendar..tell me what's happened to you. What are all these letters? Why..why are you living like this?" At first, silence was Lavendar's response. She didn't know if she could form sentences, except on paper. Christopher moved closer to Lavendar, and peeked at the recipient of all the addressed letters. He picked up one. It was addressed to Mr. X. What kind of a name was that? He picked up another one. This one, the ink was still tacky. Also addressed to Mr. X. Who was Mr. X? Christopher looked at Lavendar, so meek and fragile. "Who is Mr. X, Lavendar?" Lavendar did not speak, but snatched the letters from Christopher's fingers, so quickly that she gave him a paper cut. A thin line of blood appeared on Christopher's index finger. He flinched slightly, but merely wiped it on his trousers. Lavendar tried to speak. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Discouraged, she ripped a piece of paper from the stack on her desk and wrote Christopher a message.
"Mr. X is true
Mr. X is love
Mr. X will come
For Mr. X is (inkblot)."
Christopher squinted at the message in the poorly lit room. If only he had a bit more light, then he could possibly make the note out. He leaned under the candle that sat on Lavendar's desk.
"Mr...X is true, Mr. X is...love? Mr. X will come..Mr. X is...is..is.." Lavendar suddenly snatched the note from Christopher.
"Mr. X is my true love!" said Lavendar her eyes becoming very wide. Lavendar stood. "Mr. X will come! He will! Mr. X will come for me! One day! You see he writes me letters! Like- like- this one! Read it! No, don't! I've memorized it!" Lavendar spat, almost in Christopher's face, she had such energy about this particular topic. " 'Dearest Lavendar'.. Do you hear, he called me 'Dearest'! Is that not romantic? Isn't it? Well isn't it?!? Isn't it?!?!" Christopher stared at Lavendar, not knowing what to say, not know what what to say. Lavendar started to sway back and forth. "Christopher...I..." Christopher lunged forward, catching Lavendar just in time before she hit her head on her desk. He picked up her frail form in his arms and laid her on her bed. Her forehead was hot but her hands were icy. Her eyes were open but were glazed over. Nothing was right about her. And he didn't know what to do. He had come in hopes of appologizing, repairing their friendship..But he had never expected this. It was as though she had gone mad.

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 6

2005-09-17T21:05:00.000-07:00

It was Saturday. The sun was shining through the clouds, but it was not a warm light. It was a bright, blinding light that was painful to look at. A light that did not warm the face that looked upon it. At half past one, there was a knock on the Footsworth's front door. Anna opened it.

"Yes?" Anna said cautiously, having returned from her day off only to have met the horrible news of Mrs. Footsworth falling down the staircase and Lavendar not feeling up to herself.
"Yes..Hello..My name is Mr. Inkwell...Christopher Inkwell. I was wondering if I might have a word with Lavendar," Christopher inquired as he tried to see the rather messy interior that was blocked Anna's plump form.
"Oh...I'm sorry, Mr. Inkmill, but the ladies..They haven't been feeling too well lately. Perhaps if you could come back another day, Sir?"
"But Lavendar...I must..I must talk to her!"
"She's asleep, Sir.." From the background, a distant voice uttered something that sounded something like an inquiry as to who was at the door. "A Mr. Inkmill--or Inkwell..for Lavendar, Mrs. Footsworth." A very frail and pale Mrs. Footsworth stumbled her way to the door while Anna looked at her with concern.
"Mr. Inkwell, is it?" she almost spat. "Lovely to make your existence known. Please be on your way. Lavendar is in no way fit to be seen."
"Lavendar? But..what's wrong? Is she alright..I just wanted to.."
"Please be on your way," said Mrs. Footsworth weakly but firmly. Anna nodded, encouragingly. Somewhere inside the house, a faint, high pitched laughter sounded. Christopher heard this.
"Lavendar??" He said, shouting up, hopefully. "Lavendar!" Christopher pushed the two women out of his way and followed the sound of the echo of Lavendar's laugh.
"It's no use. She's not herself. Whatever you want to say to her, she won't here you!" warned Mrs. Footsworth. Christopher didn't care. He had to see her. He had to appologize to his friend; make things right again. He followed the sound of Lavendar's voice up to a shut door, which hid a small stream of dim candle light. He tried the door. It was not locked. He opened it. For day, it was very dark in the room. The curtains were shut, and only two candles lit the entire room. A pale, frail and wilted Lavendar sat at her desk, besides a stack of letters, ready to be sent. Lavendar was writing something. It appeared to be a letter and so important did it seem that she did not even notice that there was someone else in her room. On the floor lay pages and pages of scratched out, ink blotted and torn apart letters.
"Lavendar," said Christopher softly. Lavendar flinched. Someone was in her room. It was a gentleman. She had never had a gentleman in her room, before. Could it be Mr. X?? Could her dear Mr. X finally have come to see her? Could it be true? "Lavendar....I wanted to appologize," said Christopher trying not to ask a million questions as to what had happened. That voice. She knew that voice. It was a familiar voice. For a split second, a warmth came back into her cheeks, a gleam in her eyes. Her heart jumped, the hairs on her neck prickled. Suddenly, Lavendar turned towards Christopher, giving him her full attention. Even in the low candle light, Christopher could see the dark circles under Lavendar's eyes and how pale her skin was. The candle light made her look like a dusty painting that once had been in color, but had accumulated so much dust over the years that it now looked like a crumpled piece of paper.
"Christopher?" Lavendar whispered to the air, almost inaudibly. Minutes went by in which the two simply stared at each other, neither uttering a word.
"Lavendar..tell me what's happened to you. What are all these letters? Why..why are you living like this?" At first, silence was Lavendar's response. She didn't know if she could form sentences, except on paper. Christopher moved closer to Lavendar, and peeked at the recipient of all the addressed letters. He picked up one. It was addressed to Mr. X. What kind of a name was that? He picked up another one. This one, the ink was still tacky. Also addressed to Mr. X. Who was Mr. X? Christopher looked at Lavendar, so meek and fragile. "Who is Mr. X, Lavendar?" Lavendar did not speak, but snatched the letters from Christopher's fingers, so quickly that she gave him a paper cut. A thin line of blood appeared on Christopher's index finger. He flinched slightly, but merely wiped it on his trousers. Lavendar tried to speak. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Discouraged, she ripped a piece of paper from the stack on her desk and wrote Christopher a message.
"Mr. X is true
Mr. X is love
Mr. X will come
For Mr. X is (inkblot)."
Christopher squinted at the message in the poorly lit room. If only he had a bit more light, then he could possibly make the note out. He leaned under the candle that sat on Lavendar's desk.
"Mr...X is true, Mr. X is...love? Mr. X will come..Mr. X is...is..is.." Lavendar suddenly snatched the note from Christopher.
"Mr. X is my true love!" said Lavendar her eyes becoming very wide. Lavendar stood. "Mr. X will come! He will! Mr. X will come for me! One day! You see he writes me letters! Like- like- this one! Read it! No, don't! I've memorized it!" Lavendar spat, almost in Christopher's face, she had such energy about this particular topic. " 'Dearest Lavendar'.. Do you hear, he called me 'Dearest'! Is that not romantic? Isn't it? Well isn't it?!? Isn't it?!?!" Christopher stared at Lavendar, not knowing what to say, not know what what to say. Lavendar started to sway back and forth. "Christopher...I..." Christopher lunged forward, catching Lavendar just in time before she hit her head on her desk. He picked up her frail form in his arms and laid her on her bed. Her forehead was hot but her hands were icy. Her eyes were open but were glazed over. Nothing was right about her. And he didn't know what to do. He had come in hopes of appologizing, repairing their friendship..But he had never expected this. It was as though she had gone mad.

Wahhhhhh!

2005-09-15T10:50:00.000-07:00

It's not fair!!! I have too many ideas!! And I'm getting all sorts of inspirations now that most everything is done! And the Halloween Home Haunter's Society is finally getting tons of haunters and they all have great ideas to share and ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! WHAT AM I GONNA DO!?!?!

http://www.halloweenmonsterlist.info/

And Now, Some Memorable Moments From Boston..

2005-09-03T11:14:00.000-07:00

Setting: Patti's dorm room, which has no visible corners because they're so chalk-full of stuff. A clamp-fan hangs off of her loft bed. Below the bed sits a desk and a computer which always stays on and emits a low buzzing sound. It's early evening.

I get up, stretch and walk right into the clamp-fan.
Me: Ow...
Patti: But you knew it was a fan! And you knew it was there!

Patti: My room it has no corners, no corners has my room.
For if my room had corners, it wouldn't be my room!
Yay!

Visual memory: Being in the lounge, watching Buffy and being surrounded by people with lap tops all updating their' LJs...at the same time.......and then commenting on each other's..Scaaary.

Hacking with Xavid on the roof top of one of the buildings at MIT:
Xavid: So you know that there's a $50 fine for being up here, right?
Me: !?!?
Xavid: Just thought I should let you know.

Walking accross the bridge to Boston with Basil

Me: So I hear the Charles River is swimable.
Basil: I don't suggest it. You might grow an extra arm.

At the Boston Commons, with Patti, Meghan and a friend of theirs watching Hamlet going mad and bouncing. And then reading the caution label on an air mattress when asked what he reads.

Goooood times.

Recipe for Victorian Romance

2005-09-02T20:22:00.000-07:00

One obsessive young girl, one opressive time period, one stern, unforgiving mother, three charming, self-absorbed suitors, and 3 cups of madness. Shake well.

We're French, But We Speak the Queen's English..

2005-09-01T18:59:00.000-07:00

So I take it that my audience has seen the movie Ever After with Drew Barrymore? Supposedly it's set in France and as far as I remember, the characters have french names. Why then, does everyone speak with an English accent??? That doesn't make any sense!

Chatper 5 (continued)

2005-08-31T15:56:00.000-07:00

Lavendar just looked at her mother. Mrs. Footsworth looked at her daughter in horror. What had she become? Lavendar smiled.
"Water, did you say, mother? Yes, of course!" Lavendar brought her mother a class of water from the kitchen. "I'm going to go to my room to write Mr. X a nice long letter, Mother and inquire about the opera!" Mrs. Footsworth said nothing. She just stared at her daughter. Lavendar went up the stairs decisively. "I'm going to write Mr. X a letter! Yes, a letter! A lovely letter! Yes, yes, yes!" Lavendar shut and locked the door behind her once she reached her room and sat down next to her window, in her rocking chair.
Dear Mr. X,
I did so enjoy our tea the other day. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. But of course you did. Silly me! You're the perfect gentleman, how could you have not enjoyed it as much as I did? It was a delightful tea. And there was *ink blot* such delight in your eyes! You did enjoy it! Yes you did! Say that you did!! You did enjoy it! Yes you *torn bit of paper*.
Since you enjoyed the tea so much, I wondered if you might accompany my mother and I, well, really me more than Mother, to the opera on Sunday, next. It will be a most delightful opera. Mozart wrote such lovely music, and I do think that the Magic Flute is one of his most enjoyable operas. Say that you're answer will be yes. Oh, I'd be so sad if it was no. Because then...I might think that you didn't fancy me...And you simply must fancy me because of the way you looked at me at tea *ink blot*.

I eagerly await your response.

-Lavendar Footsworth

Lavendar folded the letter, sealed it, and put it on her desk in preperation to be mailed.

Stopped Time

2005-08-28T12:43:00.000-07:00

What if time could be stopped?

If there was a huge clock somewhere in the world that held all the time in the universe...And stopping the clock stopped time. And everything would just...stop. The trees would continue to blow, but the sun/moon would just stay where it was and wouldn't move. People would continue moving and breathing, but all the clocks and watches everywhere would be frozen.

Yah..That'd rock.

Magic?

2005-08-20T23:33:00.000-07:00

A couple of people have been questioning what exactly magic is. They're curious as to if there are physical aspects, if it's anything like the way Hollywood displays it, if people back in the 15th century really did practice it, etc... More than anything, however, they've always been curious as to what defines magic. Defining magic is not an easy thing. However, there have been many brave souls who have attempted to define magic. Let's look at some of their (woeful) attempts:

Possessing or using or characteristic of or appropriate to
          supernatural powers; "charming incantations"; "magic
          signs that protect against adverse influence"; "a
          magical spell"; "'tis now the very witching time of
          night"- Shakespeare; "wizard wands"; "wizardly powers"
          [syn: charming, magical, sorcerous, witching,
           wizard, wizardly]

The reason I don't like this definition is because it uses the word "possessing". Possessing can mean many different things. In demonology, it means that an entity's mind is being controlled by an unseen negative force, but when used to define magic, it's almost like defining the word with the word itself. "Supernatural": does this pertain to forces out of the ordinary? "Incantations" (oxford english dictionary: 1. Ritual recitation of verbal charms or spells to produce a magic effect. 2. a. A formula used in ritual recitation; a verbal charm or spell). refers to spells which again leads back to magic which still has yet to be defined!

: an illusory feat; considered magical by naive observers
       [syn: magic trick, conjuring trick, trick, legerdemain,
        illusion, deception]

I like this one. This one says that magic is nothing but a cheap trick: magic does not even exist! It is simply the product of naiveness. Ouch.

Pertaining to the hidden wisdom supposed to be possessed
     by the Magi; relating to the occult powers of nature, and
     the producing of effects by their agency.

  2. Performed by, or proceeding from, occult and superhuman
     agencies; done by, or seemingly done by, enchantment or
     sorcery. Hence: Seemingly requiring more than human power;
     imposing or startling in performance; producing effects
     which seem supernatural or very extraordinary; having
     extraordinary properties; as, a magic lantern; a magic
     square or circle.

This one gets more into the preposed "nature" side of magic. I like the way the words "hidden widsom" are used here. I think that's a bit more accurate. Unfortunately, hidden wisdom can mean many things and can be used in a multitude of ways. We still have not arrived at our goal.

 A comprehensive name for all of the pretended arts which
  claim to produce effects by the assistance of supernatural
  beings, or departed spirits, or by a mastery of secret forces
  in nature attained by a study of occult science, including
  enchantment, conjuration, witchcraft, sorcery, necromancy,
  incantation, etc.

Oooh...Labels! Scary! Nope, still not good enough.

As yet unexplained, or too complicated to explain;
  compare automagically and (Arthur C.) Clarke's Third Law: "Any
  sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

Ironically, I like this definition the most. It doesn't pull undefined terms out of the blue as if to confuse the reader and mock their ignorance, it doesn't mock their ignorance and offer it's own ignorance in place of their's, it doesn't wrestle with labels: it's honest! It simply states that the definer understands that magic cannot be explained because it is too complicated to be understood. Perhaps it has just insulted the reader..Nonethless, herein lies my question and perhaps even an answer: is magic simply our remaining ignorance? Is magic simply the undiscovered?

Many centuries ago people all over the world with different belief systems attributed what they didn't understand to magic or celestial forces. That seemed to make them happy. That was then.

Magic- (courtesy of The New Yamified Dictionary, 2005)- While magic can not and will probably never be able to be completed defined, it can be perceived. For example it can be felt, heard and seen. While magic has always seemed to elude us, it is not as mysterious as we accredit.
Magic was born in the minds of men and it shall die in the minds of men. It is part ignorance, part will and part desire. Our ignorance comes when a seemingly phenomenal event has occurred. For example, a news headline claims that a man has survived a fall from a building. Question it: is the source reliable? How tall was the building? What was there to break his fall? Things as obvious as the seeing the answer in this situation have held many people in their belief of magic.

Will and desire go together. With a desire there is always a strong will to carry it out. Will has always been a major part of magic and creating a result. Will exists in everyone. Some people are so strong willed that if they want something to happen badly enough, they'll make it happen. There comes a time in which strong wills are exercised so frequently that the exerciser can no longer distuinguish it from an intense desire and an unexplainable happening.

Yet still the question what is magic? I've broken down the anatomy of how magic works, but defined what it is. So I shall define it now.

Magic is: ______________________________________

Chapter 5: Dear Mr. X (continued)

2005-08-17T17:16:00.000-07:00

"Where did this letter come from?" asked Mrs. Footsworth incredulously. Lavendar smiled and cocked her head.
"From Mr. X!" Mrs. Footsworth bit her lip. Had Lavendar written this herself or was there indeed a gentleman that she didn't know about?
"I'm going to have tea with Mr. X, tomorrow!" said Lavendar, gleefully. Mrs. Footsworth's face had gone completely white. She eyed Lavendar uneasily.
"Lavendar, I want you to tell me who Mr. X is." The answer came simply and matter-of-factly.
"Mother: Mr. X is a well brought up gentleman who comes from a good, wealthy family and wishes to have tea with me." Mrs. Footsworth said nothing. Lavendar was not going mad. She wasn't! She refused to believe it! How could she be going mad? She was sitting there..Looking so calm. And happy. And content.
"Very well, Lavendar. Enjoy your tea with Mr. X. Give him my regards," and with that, Mrs. Footsworth exited Lavendar's room and shut the door. There was a lump in her throat and a slight feeling of guilt in her heart, but she ignored that and went down the long staircase to knit. On the way down, however, she slipped on the hem of her dress and rolled violently down the rest of the stairs, ending in an unconscious heap at the bottom.
"Oh, Mr. X it's so delightful to finally meet you! Would you care for some tea? Mother always suggested peach, I rather fancy it myself. Do you care for some cake?" Mr. X didn't respond. "You know, Mr. X, I've never had a gentleman as good a listener as you are. I'm so glad we met. Aren't you?" Mr. X was silent. "Well you're certainly quiet, aren't you..But that's just fine! I am so weary of being so quiet and listening to gentleman go on and on! About absolutely nothing!" Lavendar sighed. Mr. X was perhaps the most handsome gentleman she had ever seen. With his dark, curly brown hair and his piercing blue eyes sitting there staring at her, not saying a word, and yet saying so much. When the tea was over, Lavendar showed Mr. X the door, and bid him goodbye. Mr. X smiled back at Lavendar and took a carriage back to his apartment and Slighter St. Lavendar shut the door, almost stepping on the still unconscious Mrs. Footsworth. "Mother, Mother! Oh I do wonder why you allow people to walk all over you in such situations. Well, you'll never guess what happened! Mr. X and I had the most wonderful tea, and you know that opera next month, well he does so like music, and wishes to accompany me to it! Isn't that wonderful? Mother! Do get up!" Mrs. Footsworth groaned and got up slowly and gingerly.
"What? Opera? Mr. X? Bring me some water, Lavendar," said Mrs. Footsworth putting her hand to her head.

Chapter 4: Mr. X (to be edited)

2005-08-16T13:33:00.000-07:00

Lavendar awoke the next morning to a terrible headache and heartache. She still couldn't believe what had happened the night before. All she wanted to do was cry some more and throw breakable objects at the wall. Not knowing what else to do, she dressed herself for an afternoon walk. It was pleasant outside. There was a light breeze which felt refreshing on Lavendar's still moist cheeks. Her thoughts were blank. She had nothing to think about, nothing to do and nowhere to go. A little way up, there was a vacant park bench. She sat down on it and leaned back, looking up at the sky.
"I still can't believe he doesn't love me," thought Lavendar, although it did not inspire tears this time. "I felt so led on. How could someone do that? I thought God made people to be good and kind." As these thoughts went through her head, a small child ran just past her, stumbled and fell. When Lavendar moved to help the child up, the child laughed and got up herself. In the child's hand was a doll dressed in overalls and shirt sleeves. Oblivious to Lavendar's presence, the child began speaking to the doll.
"Look at all the clouds, Dolly!" the child said as she pointed up to the sky. "That one looks like a bird! And that one looks like a horse!" The child made the doll nod. "What's that, Dolly?" The doll was nodded again. "You're hungry? Oh, yes! Me too! Grandmother has cookies for us! Let's go home!" The dolly nodded once again. The child hugged the doll and ran off, leaving a small cloud of dust behind her. Lavendar smiled and almost laughed. How sweet. A girl playing with a doll. What simple pleasures. Yes, a girl played with her doll, just as Christopher had played with her heart. A girl who played with the doll could make the doll say anything she wanted it to say; do anything she wanted it to do. The girl would never be alone so long as she had her stuffed companion. It was almost like having an imaginary friend, but with a physical presence. But the girl would never be alone....Never be alone....Never....be...alone.
Lavendar did not eat her lunch that day nor drink her tea. Instead, she sat in her room in her rocking chair and drank thousands of thoughts that collided with each other in her mind.
"Lavendar, would you care for some tea and scones?"
"Never be alone," whispered Lavendar to the window.
"Sorry, dear I didn't hear what you said. Was that a yes?"
"I said I'd never be alone!"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"I'd never be alone...If I had him...And and...he'd always be there, and he'd always respond, and I'd never be alone!" Mrs. Footsworth put down the tray on Lavendar's dresser and sat down on the bed.
"Lavendar...Do you feel alright? Perhaps you had better have something to eat..You haven't eaten all day. Here," Mrs. Footsworth said, passing Lavendar a scone. "Eat this." Lavendar batted the scone away with such force that it hit the wall and crumbled. Mrs. Footsworth, scared, stood up. "Lavendar...Are you sick?"
"I'm fine..I'm never going to be alone, again, Mother!" Lavendar said, suddenly jumping onto the bed. Inbetween bounces she shouted, "I'm never going to be alone! Never!! Ever!! Going! To! Be! Alone! Hahahahahaha-" and as suddenly as the episode had started, it stopped. Lavendar collapsed on the bed, her breath heavy. Mrs. Footsworth stared at her daughter for a moment and then closed the door. On the way downstairs, she gripped the banister as the worst possible thoughts passed through her head. She tried to shake them, but still they stayed. Going downstairs the rest of the way, she decided to to call on one of her old friends, Bianca Lwadlry.
"Oh, my dear Eva! You do not look well at all! No, not at all!"
"Thank you for admitting me on such short notice, Bianca. I didn't know who else to come to." Bianca's face was of concern.
"What happened?"
"It's my daughter. She's...suffering from..heartache. And she's not dealing with it well. I don't know what to do. It's as though she's going mad!" Mrs. Footsworth sputtered. She told Bianca the entire story, up to the moment she had left the apartment.
"Hush, hush, dear. It couldn't be as bad as all that..."
"No..It's worse. She's started repeating things...over and over until she tires herself out. And she throws things.. I'm worried that she'll get hurt!"
"Hm..That doesn't sound good at all..In fact, that almost sounds like-" Mrs. Footsworth gasped.
"No! It couldn't be!" Bianca nodded.
"My dear Eva, I don't know if you've ever experienced heartbreak or losing someone you loved--"
"Well of course I have! What, do you think me a-"
"No, dear, of course not. But Lavendar is young. And from the way you describe it, it seems that this young fellow was more than just someone she was in love with. He sounds like a friend as well. And the loss of a friend far is far worse than the loss of a lover. You see Eva, our world is so eager for young women to marry, that there is no room left for feelings. Perhaps Lavendar is overwhelmed, both with her loss as well as her feelings of obligation."
"So you think it's my fault, do you?" said Mrs. Footsworth suddenly standing and growing stern.
"It's noone's fault, Eva. You may sit down." Mrs. Footsworth sat. "While I cannot offer you any immediate advice, I would suggest that you have a talk with her. "
"A talk?"
"Yes, a talk. Perhaps about slowing the subject of marriage down and not worrying about it so much." Mrs. Footsworth was about to say something when Bianca continued. "You need not worry about your welfare, Eva. I'm quite sure you will be able to find..other ways of dealing with it, shall we say. And now, I believe it is best that you return home." Mrs. Footsworth was about to protest, but knew Bianca was correct. Upon arriving home, Mrs. Footsworth was greeted with an entirely silent apartment.
"Lavendar? Lavendar, dear...?" Mrs. Footsworth crept up the stairs, seeing a very dim light coming from under Lavendar's door. "Lavendar? Supposed we have a bit of a conversation, dearest.." Mrs. Footsworth tried the door. It was locked. "Lavendar! Open this door immediately! Lavendar!!" No sound came from the room except a very soft, muffled laughter. Slowly, the latch of the door was unlocked and the door opened with a very loud creak. Mrs. Footsworth clenched her fists and bit her lip.
"Hello, Mother! I have a new friend I'd like you to meet." Mrs. Footsworth, horrified, looked around the room but saw noone. Lavendar pushed a letter, with very messy and blotted script into Mrs. Footsworth's face. "Read it," said Lavendar with a half laugh. Mrs. Footsworth sat in the rocking chair and read the letter. Lavendar laughed again, twirled and sat on her bed.
The letter read:
Dear Lavendar,
Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Mr. X. I am an ideal gentleman, come from a wealthy family, and (ink blot) looking for a (ink blot) to suit me. I have heard that you are a lovely girl, and I would love to have (ink blot) with you. I should be delighted if you were to honor my request.
Pleasant Regards,
-Mr. X

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 3: Mr. Christopher Inkwell, continued

2005-08-13T00:09:00.000-07:00

Christopher smiled. Lavendar smiled back. She very much hoped the ball would be a more pleasant experience then the one where she had met Andre. The evening of the ball, Lavendar primped herself, sure every detail, every curl and every inch of fabric was in tact.
"I wonder," she though, "if Christopher loves me..We certainly do spend a great deal of time together. I wonder if..he'll tell me tonight. Or perhaps I should tell him! Oh, but no..I'd never have the courage..But I do so wish to know! There's simply something about the way he looks at me. Sometihg in his eyes. But perhaps he is simply admiring me, and not in love with me at all. What of that? Or perhaps not..Or perhaps so! Oh dear. "I'm so horribly confused!" Lavendar said aloud.
"About what, Miss?" asked Anna.
"Anna, Lavendar started to say, "have you ever been in love?"
"Well Miss, that's quite a question..I suppose I've been in love. Rather depends on what you say love is."
"I don't know," said Lavendar, almost whispering.
"Well then, how you can ask someone if they've ever felt if it, if you can't define it?" asked Anna slightly confused.
"I don't know," said Lavendar. "Oh Anna do you think he thinks of me fondly?"
"Who, Miss?"
"Mr. Inkwell," said Lavendar, fretfully.
"Well Miss, I couldn't say. but I will say that you can always see when someone's in love. That something in the eyes..."
"The eyes," thought Lavendar. "The way he looks at-- Yes! He must love me!" With that Lavendar dashed some perfume on her neck and prepared to leave for the ball. The ball was a lively arrangement of energetic polkas, beautiful waltzes and many people all talking at once.
"Lavendar!" Christopher said from behind Lavendar. Lavendar turned around and saw Christopher.
"Christopher," said Lavendar softly. The two spent most of the night dancing to the music and talking to mutual friends. After one particularly beautiful waltz, Lavendar and Christopher retired to a balcony opening for air.
"Lavendar," said Christopher thoughtfully. Lavendar looked up at him. "There is something I must tell you."
"Oh?" said Lavendar, getting excited.
"Yes, well, we've been spending quite a bit of time together, and.."
"Yes?"
"Well I just wanted tosay that...I think you're a delightful girl." Christopher concluded with some effort.
"Go on," whispered Lavendar, expectantly.
"Sorry?"
"I said go on.." said Lavendar a bit louder.
"That's all I had to say." Lavendar looked away confused. Christopher looked away, confused. It seemed as though he wans't going to proclaim his love for her after all. Not after all this time, not after so much had happened!
"Christopher," said Lavendar firmly. "I must know something."
"Yes?" he said, rasing an eyebrow. Lavendar paused for a moment and took several deep breaths. The question she was about to ask would determine not only her future, but her happiness. She prayed the answer would be yes.
"Do you or do you not, love me?" Lavendar asked finally. Christopher sat down next to Lavendar and stared at the open night. He did not blink, but just sat still for what seemed an eternity.
"Lavendar...That's a rather difficult question," he said finally.
"It is not. The answer is either yes or no."
"I don't know," said Christopher. "You're delightful and all that, and really are a joy, but I suppose..I just see you as a playmate."
"A WHAT?!?" said Lavendar outraged.
"Yes, a playmate. Someone with whom I go out and have fun with; like on our adventures!" finished Christopher, growing more comfortable with the idea. "Sorry, have I upset you?"
"No, really, not at all," Lavendar said sarcastically. "It's just that..That wasn't what I was expecting to hear!" and with that she broke into heavy sobbing, right in front of her friend.
"Lavendar...you don't mean to tell me that you think of me romantically..." Lavendar nodded vigorously. Christopher wasn't sure what to think or how to respond. He'd been so sure that Lavendar had merely thoguht him a friend: a companion! But a lover? He put his hand on her shoulder, attempting to comfort her. It was all he felt he could do. Lavendar composed herself enough to forceibly shake his hand away and stand. She didn't make eye contact with Christopher. She couldn't bring herself to do it. She felt as though she had ruined her one chance to marry someone she truly and deeply loved. She ran from the balcony and out of the ballroom, and into an awaiting carriage. In a matter of seconds, her one chance at love had disappeared. And it was her fault. It was all her fault. This wasn't some drawing she could tear out of her sketchbook. It wasn't some thought she could shake from her head. This was real. And she had just ruined it. Completely and totally. She would probably never hear from Christopher again.
"How could I...How could I have been so wrong? What didn't I see? What did I do wrong?" These thoughts filled her head during her short journey home. Once home, she did not sleep. She lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, re-running the moment that ended her companionship. Over and over and over.
The next few nights were sleepless ones. She imagined conversations between herself and Christopher. She imagined his responses. She imagined the way it could have been, the way it should have been. The life she could have had. With him. And now it was all gone.
"Damnit!" Lavendar said aloud as she hit her fist on the pillow. "Why did I have to go and destroy it?" She cried into her pillow until half of it was soaked through. Exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep and did not wake until late morning.

Chapter 3:Mr. Christopher Inkwell

2005-08-10T23:24:00.000-07:00

Lavendar spent the next two years going on all sorts of tea dates with various gentlemen, such as Mr. Edwin Pennysack, Mr. Allen Curdoroy and so on. Much to Mrs. Footsworth's dismay, Lavendar was consistently unsuccessful. One was too young or childish, another was not in step with the present, one would go on and and on about his past and another had a rather unhealthy obsession with knives. Lavendar came back from each tea date feeling distraught and sad. Was there no hope for her? Was there simply no gentleman to suit her needs? Was she destined to live in lonliness? Worse yet, her mother's disapproval? She vowed that the answers to her quandries were all in the negative.
One Sunday afternoon, Lavendar and her mother were readying themselves for a walk. Mrs. Footsworth had decided some fresh air would be a good idea for Lavendar.
"And I just can't believe how Mr. Edwin went on and on about his family, as if nothing else in the world existed! And Mr. Allen! Ugh! Mr. Allen thinks that women have no place in our world! Balderdash!" Lavendar was babbling on about her past suitors when she and her mother sat down to rest on the edge of a fountain. When Lavendar paused for breath, she noticed someone's reflection in the water, but could not see the source. She looked around curiously, but to no avail.
"What are you doing?" asked Mrs. Footsworth, "You are making a perfect fool of yourself!" Lavendar was very curious however, and kept trying to find the source of the reflection which seemed to be right behind her..But it wasn't. She leaned a bit farther over the fountain to get a better view of the reflection in the water.
"You don't give up, do you?" Came a voice directly behind Lavendar. Startled, Lavendar fell into the shallow fountain. she emerged, gasping, and drenched from head to toe. Surprised and embarrassed, she tried to gingerly step out of the fountain. Her mother was saying something...scolding her probably. But her attention was elsewhere. Confused, Lavendar looked to her left and found a well dressed young gentleman of about twenty one, looking very amused. Thinking that such amused was mockery, Lavendar sniffed and gathered her things in preperation to leave.
"May I assist you?" asked the gentleman, seeing Lavendar was having trouble manuevering herself in a soaked dress.
"No," said Lavendar coldy.
"As you say," said the gentleman, smiling. Mrs. Footsworth was near fainting. She couldn't begin to bring herself to believe her own daughter had just fallen into a fountain! In spite of her shock, Mrs. Footsworth did not cease her scoldings.
"Shame on you, Lavendar! How could you ever-"
"Now, now," interrupted the gentleman, "I think that's quite enough scolding for one person." Mrs. Footsworth, completely shocked, fainted. Luckily the gentleman saw her faint and caught her before she too, toppled into the water. Lavendar, who looked more harried than shocked, started to stop wringing her dress and tend to her mother. "There, there. I"ll have a carriage take you home." Lavendar, although grateful for the help, was unsure of of the stranger simply assuming that he could tend her mother. A carraige came and the gentleman helped Lavendar and an unconscious Mrs. Footswroth into the carriage.
"Thank you for your help," said Lavendar. "What did you say your name was?"
"Christopher. Christopher Inkwell."
"Well thank you for your assistance, Mr. Inkwell. Now please leave us."
"Oh, no!" said Christopher, jumping into the carriage. I'm going to make sure your arrive home safely. After all, you have a slightly ill woman on your hands. I would be doing you a disservice if I left you now." Mrs. Footsworth groaned and mumbled something incomprehensible. "Ah, I see your mother agrees with me." Lavendar starred at Christopher. He had the nerve to--but then again, he was helping her. Or appeared to be.
"Now then, where do you live?"
"Three-thirteen, BitsBats," said Lavendar. Christopher told the driver.
"Ah! You live near my grandfather!"
"Oh," said Lavendar.
"Yes, Grandfather lives on Bitsbats Lane as well. He owns a shop. He makes string instruments: violins, cellos, violas--"
"Yes, I know what string instruments are, Mr. Inkwell." Despite her annoyance, she found Mr. Inkwell to be rather pleasant. The two of them discussed poetry, art and tea cakes.
"And have you ever read Lord Byron's poetry?
"Oh yes!" Exclaimed Lavendar, "I do so love his poetry!"
"Have you read She Walks in Beauty?"
"Why, no..I don't believe I have."
"Then allow me to recite it." He cleared his throat and recited the poem, not missing a single word or beat. There was a smoothness to his voice and his gaze never left Lavendar's. It was almost as though he was reciting the poem and relating it to her! Suddenly, Lavendar gasped. How improper! Chirstopher stopped and looked at Lavendar. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, no." said Lavendar banishing the thought. "Please continue" Before they knew it, the carriage had stopped in front the Footsworth's apartment. Mrs. Footsworth groaned. Lavendar and Christoper helped her out of the carriage and into the apartment. As Lavendar prepared to show Christopher the door, he spun around and offered Lavendar an afternoon tea the following day.
"Oh, well," said Lavendar, remembering her previous teas and how unsuccessful they'd been. But as she stood there thinking and preparing to refuse, she looked at Christopher and at his dark eyes and recalled how easy he'd been to talk to. "Thank you, I'd love it."
"Excellent," said Christopher and he walked out the door, jumping the last stair down to the ground. The next day, Lavendar, once again, was choosing her most delightful tea gown. A carriage arrived and took Lavendar to the Inkwell Estate. Instead of a butler opening the door, Lavendar came nose to nose with Christopher himself.
"Hello, Lavendar! Come right in!"
"Thank you, " Lavendar said as she stepped inside to a beautifully furnished home with marble staircases and fine lace table cloths. Tea was through a a huge library which consisted of several volumes of fairytales, many history books, a collection of encyclopedias and several volumes of modern science. Old maps decorated the walls of the library, several with push pins and red string, connecting points. "What a beautiful collection, " said Lavendar. "Where did all the maps come from?"
"Oh, those, " said Christopher. "My father was a kind of sailor. Went on many adventures."
"What sort of adventures?" asked Lavendar, intrigued.
"The dangerous kind," returned Christopher. "My father was very curious. Never lingered in one place or did any one thing for too long. Swash buckling was just one of the mad things he may or may not have done during his rather short life, to provide you with an idea."
"Oh," said Lavendar. "He isn't.."
"Sharks, " siad Christopher casuallay. "During one of his voyages he was forced overboard."
"Oh dear!" said Lavendar, shocked.
"Oh, don't worry. He had a wonderful life and did what he loved. He died doing what he loved. That's all that matters. " Lavendar continued to look shocked. "Tea?"
"Thank you, " said Lavendar, her voice cracking a bit. The rest of the tea was spent in small room with large windows where beams of sunlight streamed in. The two shared stories of their family, their views on politics and literature. Lavendar even managed to share some of her iminaginary adventures with Chrisptoher.
"These adventures...Why do you no longer delight in them?" Asked Christopher curiously.
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose I stopped after my mother started sending me on tea dates."
"Really," said Christopher, leaning in towards Lavendar.
"Well, you see, ever since I've been seeing..gentlemen, some of whom cannot even be entitled as such, I haven't had any time for adventures.
"Well then! Let's go on an adventure!" Lavendar blinked.
"What? An adventure? Here? Now?"
"Yes! Come, it'll be fun!" Lavendar wasn't sure what to think. An adventure seemed odd to her now. Before she knew it, she was being pulled by the hand and taken up the stairs to a long hallway filled with many doors to various rooms. After that it was all a blur. One moment she was having tea and the next she was on a pirate's ship.
"Well, well, well.." said Christopher, who had taken on the name of Christopher the Horrible. "What have we here? A stowe-away?"
"Oh please, sir," pleaded Lavendar in her most convincing voice. It was my only choice! They were going to kill me! I had to get away from-"
"Excuses, excuses. If you're going to stay on this ship, you'll have to work!" Christopher the Horrible thought and stroked his imaginary beard. "You can clean my boots!" Lavendar made a face. "What, not good enough? Ha! Anything is better then walking the plank.."
"Oh, no sir! Please not the plank! Yes, yes...cleaning your boots. Yes sir.." The adventure went on for many hours and the two found themselves exploring the seven seas, fighting off other pirates, firing cannons and discovering treasure maps. In the early evening, Lavendar and Christopher sat by the fire, exhausted. Finally, Lavendar returned home. It was very late.
"Well," said Mrs. Footsworth. "That was a very extensive tea."
"Oh, but it was wonderful!" said Lavendar, remembering the adventure.
"And what does this mean?" asked Mrs. Footsworth, expectantly.
"I don't know, said Lavendar. "Something, I hope." Something evolved into many thing, as Lavendar and Christopher continued to have tea and go on adventures. One day at tea, when Lavendar and Christohpher where having a more serious adventure, Christopher asked Lavendar to accompany him to a ball. "A ball," said Lavendar, somewhat reluctantly, remmbering the last one with Andre.
"Yes, a ball! You know, one of those parties where everyone gets dressed up in their finest and-" Lavendar laughed.
"Yes, I know what it is. I must think about it."
"What's there to think about? It'll be wonderful! Just say yes!"
"I don't know," replied, Lavendar gently. As much as she enjoyed his company, attending a ball with Christopher was not something she had thought about. "I suppose there'll be dancing," said Lavendar thoughtfully.
"Yes dancing's delightful! Have you tried it before? I could teach you, easily, really.."
"Alright," said Lavendar carefully.
"Splendid! Now you just put one foot here, and then-"
"I know how to dance, said Lavendar, standing. I was agreeing to go with you."

Dear Mr. X:Chapter 2 Mr. Andre Teaspout continued

2005-08-08T23:52:00.000-07:00

For the first time, Lavendar stood outside her closet happily as she tried to decide what to wear. After fifteen minutes of deliberating, Lavendar decided on a powdered blue dress with white lace at the neck and sleeves. Once dressed, she proudly marched downstairs to her smiling mother. After receiving instructions from her mother on what to do and how to act, Lavendar was taken away in a carriage. Twenty minutes later, she arrived at Andre's apartment. Lavendar was all a flutter when she came face to face with Andre after ringing the doorbell.
"Hello Lavendar," said Andre, kissing her hand.
"Good afternoon," said Lavendar, excitement filling her from head to toe. The two walked through a hallway, where there were many lavishly furnished rooms, and ended at a small room with a table set for tea for two.
"Do you care for tea cake?" Andre asked once they were seated. Lavendar had one elbow on the table with her head cupped in her hand. She was looking into Andre's eyes, forgetting where she was. "Alright, I suppose silence means you don't fancy cake. How about fruit tart?" Andre looked up at Lavendar. Lavendar, startled at the direct eye contact, started.
"Oh," she cleared her throat. "Yes, fruit tart would be lovely, thank you." Lavendar was about to go back to staring in his eyes when Andrew began to speak.
"So, what do you do in your leisure? Besides attending balls that is.."
"Oh! Well, I like sewing...and-and reading! I do like reading..And music! And..drawing."
"Drawing? Suppose you showed me some of your sketches the next time we meet?"
"Oh but I have my small sketchpad right here.." said Lavendar, feeling a small victory over being prepared. The next half hour was spent showing Andre her sketches. Lavendar's sketchpad was filled with fantastical characters, wearing beautiful gowns. When she turned the last page of the book, Andre rose.
"May I show you one of my hobbies?" he asked grinning at Lavendar. Lavendar sat in wonder. Andre opened a long, rectangular cabinet and took out a foil. "This is what I do!" he said lunging at Lavendar, almost brushing past her ear. Lavendar gasped. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm in good practice!" Andre took a few steps back and lunged again. This time, Lavendar felt a small wind by her head and found a piece of her hair ribbon in her lap. "Here, I'll teach you," said Andre, throwing a blunted foil at Lavendar hilt first.
"I really..don't think so," said Lavendar nervously as she caught the sword. Andre and Lavendar's tea dates were no longer simply tea. They were now fencing lessons. During each lesson Lavendar felt herself picking up the art and Andre could feel himself becoming more attracted to Lavendar. There was something so innocent about her; something fragile... After one lesson, Andre asked Lavendar to accompany him to his father's cabin, up North.
"Well that sounds lovely, " said Lavendar, trying to catch her breath. Her legs were sore and her hair was a mess.
"Absolutely not!" said Mrs. Footsworth.
"But Mother! Why not?? Isn't this what you wanted?"
"No, I will not have you put yourself in a potentially scandalous situation."
"Mother! I'm sure Andre has never had a thought of that kind. He is a lovely gentleman," Lavendar protested, although unsure whether or not he really had had such thoughts. He had been very quick to ask her to tea and he was always very direct. In fact-- no. It wasn't possible. She was just Lavendar...No gentleman would ever think of her that way. Would they?
"That's correct," said Mrs. Footsworth rising from her chair, her lean figure towering above Lavendar. "You don't think he would. But he will. There are many things you do not know about men. You must not be taken by what seems to be harmless outings. Men are sneaky in this way. And furthermore, you don't love Andre." Lavendar was silent. She couldn't answer that. She knew she liked having tea with him, but did she love him? It was a rather strong word with which describe their friendship. Yes. A friendship. That was all it was. Nothing more. She would waste no more time on Andre. For she did not love him.
"No," said Lavendar finally. "I do not love him."
"Exactly," said Mrs. Footsworth. "And that is why you will not be accompanying him up North." Lavendar, despite her disappointment, understood. It would be a waste of time.
Andre was sad to receive the news, but seemed to understand. When he inquired about a future tea date, Lavendar sadly, but firmly refused. If she felt anything strong about Andre it was merely infatuation, but not love. Love was a special bond between two equals in which neither person was inferior nor superior. Andre was just a passing fancy. Later that day, Lavendar sat in her rocking chair in her room and looking outside at the ivy climbing up the wall.
"I do hope I'll find love," she thought. "And I hope I'll find it before I turn twenty. For by then I shall be an old maid."

2005-08-07T23:10:00.000-07:00

"Lavendar, I understand. Try to remember I was once a girl, too. I had an imagination too and I had dreams that didn't necessarily involve romance too. But I also had an understanding of society. I knew what I had to do to ensure my status...and health."
"Can't the way of the world be changed?" Sobbed Lavendar, both elbows now the table, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"As I said before," said Mrs. Footsworth coldly, "unless you fancy a life on the streets selling flowers, I suggest you follow my advice. Listen dear," Mrs. Footsworth said, her voice suddenly becoming warm. "Once you marry a respectable gentleman, you can have your own life and live the way you want. But for now, you must understand that the money your father left us in his will becomes less each day. We must ensure our comfort!" Lavendar understood. All too well. This was no longer a matter of self. This was a matter of keeping both her mother and herself alive. Lavendar no longer felt as though she was being forced to love someone: she had a duty to her mother and to herself.
That evening, Lavendar and her mother broth arrived Andrea's birthday party at the beautiful Buzzy Flankets Ballroom. The ballroom really was grand; it had cherubs painted on its domed ceilings, marble staircases leading up to the dressing rooms, an expansive dance floor and red velvet curtains with gold tassles that cascaded down from the ceiling. Both men and women were dressed in their finest! Lavendar wore a striking red velvet dress with off the shoulder, short puffy sleeves with black lace trim and rosettes in her hair. Her mother wore a black dress which swept the floor. Throughout the night, Lavendar was introduced to countless young gentlemen; many of whose names were instantly forgotten. Unfortunately, most of the gentlemen had exceedingly bland personalities. As she was dancing with one gentleman by the name of Picadilly, Lavendar noticed a tall blonde gentleman with a strong jaw and deep set blue eyes.
"Something wrong?" asked Mr. Picadilly, as Lavendar almost tripped over her own feet.
"No, nothing," Lavendar said as the waltz ended. After being escorted back to her chair, Lavendar was joined by her friend Rosemary.
"Hello, Lavendar dear!" said Rosemary, floofing herself down next to Lavendar. "I'm sure you're having a wonderful time, and feel lovely in that new dress!" There was a note of sarcasm in her tone, for Rosemary knew all too well that Lavendar hated balls and hated getting dressed in dresses which wore themselves.
"Ugh," said Lavendar. "I found my previous partner most unpleasant."
"How horrid to hear! I myself have been having a splendid time! So many beautiful gowns to look at, so many gentlemen to dance with and so many beautiful waltzes to dance to! I do so wish Andrea would throw such parties every night! By the way, have you taken notice of Mr. Teaspout, the gentleman with blonde hair?" At this, Lavendar perked up. As much as she really did enjoy talking to Rosemary, there were times when her conversations seemed like they were aimed at herself.
"I did...What did you say his name was?"
"Mr. Teaspout. Andre Teaspout," said Rosemary, amused by her friend's sudden perkiness. "Would you like me to introduce him to you? He's a friend of my brother's you know!" An introduction to Mr. Teaspout was absolutely horrifying. What if he was rude and arrogant or pressumptious?
"Come on, he's right over here..." said Rosemary. Lavendar's thought was interrupted by Rosemary pulling her arm.
"No, no, no!" Protested Lavendar, feeling herself being dragged into what could only be one of Rosemary's mad ideas. Despite her protestations, somehow Lavendar ended up right in front of Mr. Teaspout.
"Hello Andre," said Rosemary.
"Well hello Miss Rosemary, " said Andre, his voice calm and pleasant. "How lovely to see you this evening." Rosemary smiled.
"Andre, may I present my friend Miss Lavendar Footsworth." Lavendar came forward, her cheeks slightly red.
"How do you do," said Lavendar, trying very hard not to become overwhelmed with the pure blueness of Mr. Teaspout's eyes.
"How do you do," returned Mr. Teaspout. "Would you honor me with the next dance, Ms. Footsworth?" Mr. Teaspout asked, as the music started up again.
"I should be delighted," said Lavendar, taking Mr. Teaspout's outstretched arm. He was a fabulous dancer. He had a warmth about him that Lavendar had never felt around any gentleman. After three dances, he and Lavendar went out to one of the balconies to rest. Lavendar looked out at the night, allow her gaze to become fixed, until he spoke.
"You dance very well," he said. "Something you do often?" his speech was smooth and clear, each word seemed to be carefully chosen.
"Uh, well, no not really, but then I suppose you could say sometimes, which is to say when I'm given the reason to do so.." Lavendar scolded herself mentally. Every word that came out was garbled; it was as though she was toungue tied. Andre looked puzzled for a moment and then smiled. This Lavendar obviously was quite taken with him--as she should be; this was often the case with women. He smiled to himself at the thought of this. He sat down next to her on the stone bench that overlooked the beautiful rose gardens below.
"Lavendar," he said looking directly at her, "How would you care to have tea with me?" Lavendar was silent for a moment, as she arranged the proper words to make a comprehensible sentence.
"I should be...delighted." she said with as much as elegance and sophistication as she could.
"Excellent," said Andre. Tea was the next day at four.

Oh Dear God

2005-08-07T19:07:00.000-07:00

People really should not call you and pretend to be one of your mother's friends. Seriously freaked me out.

In other news, I have 17 trees and I think I'm stopping there. Betterhalf and I measured them on the driveway; looks like we'll have more than enough. Yay for twees! I got the sceptor made for the princess..The princess has her costume, she has her crown, she has her coronation robe..I'm very excited. And I...have a tiara. Right. I have a character. I think I'll probably be making myself a new jester costume; I'm not really pleased with my current one: (http://www.dragonsgate.net/photopost/showphoto.php?photo=4900&sort=8&cat=3071&page=2) Yeah..I love the skull belt. I think that's probably the only thing I'll repeat. The shirt is too sparkly, though. Spaaaaarkly..Hehe. And the corest...not very jestery. So yeah. I'm done making stuff, as far as halloween set stuff goes. Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhh! This means I have to be productive and do actual work! Aaaaahhh! What am I gonna do!?!? *Curls up in a corner*.

So I think the jester and the princess are going to dance..Hehe..How warped is that?

So the schedule so far:

6:30: Coronation ceremony for Princess Fuscia (yeah, that's her name)
6:30-?: Princess sits in her throne, we welcome guests, pass out candy, confuse people XD, I tell morbidly bad jokes, etc..

Characters: Princess Fuscia, Death Jester and a Mime (yet to be defined sort of thing..I guess she'll re- enact the history of the Castle of Doom..through Mime..Something like that.

Dear Mr. X:Chapter 2 Mr. Andre Teaspout

2005-08-05T22:06:00.000-07:00

Lavendar's journey back home was all too short. There was a bitter feeling in her stomach, both of guilt and of disobedience. She had hurt John greatly and felt she had shed shame on her father's grave.
"Well? How did things go?" Mrs. Footsworth asked Lavendar, as she trudged in. Lavendar chose not to answer. She simply took a deep breath and continued up to her room. Once undressed, she collapsed on her bed and did not wake until morning.
The next day lunch was very quiet. Almost no words were exchanged between Lavendar and her mother. Finally, Mrs. Footsworth broke the silence.
"Well," she said, pouring herself some tea, "I heard from Lady Bitsworthy that your affections do not belong to her son." Lavendar dropped her fork. It clattered on the porcelain plate. Lavendar cleared her throat nervously. "I suppose we can't always find love in the first gentleman we take tea with." Relieved, Lavendar tried to smile as she retrieved her fork. "Nonetheless, your cousin Andrea is having a ball tonight in honor of her birthday. The two of us will attend and you will be introduced to several gentlemen."
"Mother!" said Lavendar in surprise. "Do you simply expect me to fall in love and marry in a matter of weeks? That isn't the way love works!"
"Not it's not the way love works, dear, but it's the way our society works. It's the way people like us are kept off the streets. Now tell me, would you prefer to be selling flowers for a living, and not have any sort of respectable future? Here, I'm giving you an opportunity to marry into a wealthy family, and you simply bat it away!"
"Mother, I do not find men so interesting such that I would want to spend unlimited amounts of time with them!" exclaimed Lavendar, finally feeling that she'd had her say. Mrs. Footsworth's face grew very serious.
"Lavendar...are you saying you're affections lie in your own gender?"
"No," said Lavendar, simply. "I just don't feel particular intersted in romance at all." Mrs. Footsworth was silent for a moment, until finally she spoke in a very final tone.
"Well, then we must awaken romance within you! There is no better place then a ball, held in one of the most beautiful ballrooms in all of Baths!"
"Mother!" Lavendar almost cried out, "Please try to understand!"

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 1: Mr. John Bitsworthy

2005-08-05T13:38:00.000-07:00

OK, really I promise I'll really post as much as I can of it. No more procrastinating for me..Or distractions for that matter. (Ooh shiny) Nope! No distractions!! So here we go..From the very first word. This is being typed from my almost illegible handwriting, so it'll be kind of an edit-as-I go sort of thing.

Dear Mr. X
by
Maya Attia

Foreward
Dear Reader,
If you have ever experienced love in its purest form, then you may not enjoy this story. If you have experienced hardships, however, and replaced them or battled them with nothing else then an imagination, this story is for you.
While this story has its comical points, it's not exactly a comedy; while it has it's tragic points, it isn't exactly a tragedy. Rather, it is a compilation of events that happend to a young girl named Lavendar Footsworth, who chose her imagination rather than love.

Chapter 1: Mr. John Bitsworthy
Miss Lavendar Footsworth was of a very ripe sixteen years, and lived in Baths, England. She lived with her mother, Mrs. Footsworth and a vague memory of her father, Major Footsworth. The Footsworths inhabited an apartment on Bitsbats Lane and had tea every afternoon at the hour of four.
Lavendar's mother had been sure that her daughter had received the highest education that was available, and wore the finest dresses and heard only the most important gossip. Lavendar herself didn't care for gossip, pretty dresses or her daily tea. Instead, she much preferred to spend her afternoons reading on the wooden swing in the backyard, warmed by the faint rays of sunlight that sometimes showed through the clouds. If she didn't have her nose in a book, Lavendar would be off somewhere in the garden, imagining she was on an adventure in India, or some such far away place. Such adventures usually resulted in Lavendar ripping her dress in several places. This did not make Mrs. Footsworth happy. Lavendar didn't care if her adventures upset her mother; there was nothing more delightful then to imagine being somewhere else.
One blusterous day, Mrs. Footsworth interrupted one of Lavendar's adventures.
"Today", said Mrs. Footsworth, you will not be taking tea with me. " Lavendar tried to hide her feelings of gladness. During every tea, all her mother did was talk about the rest of the city and what the rest of the city thought about the rest of the city and what the rest of the city was gossiping about and how it was really horrible to gossip but the rest of the city did it--it was horrid.
"Oh," said Lavendar. "Who will I be taking tea with?"
"Mr. John Bistworthy," annouced Mrs. Footsworth. "He is a refined gentleman of twenty-one, is one of four siblings, enjoys politics and despises hot weather."
"Does he like to read?" Lavendar asked meekly, looking out the window at the swing blowing in the wind.
"He enjoys reading the daily post," finished her mother. "Now go up and change. Anna will help you into your dress." Lavendar didn't move from her plush seat in the drawing room . "Well, what are you waiting for?"
"The rain to fall," said Lavendar quietly as she got up from her chair. She climbed the spiraling staircase up to her room. Once inside her room, she found Anna as well as a brand new canary yellow dress waiting for her. It was adorned with silk flowers that had white petals and yellow centers across the neckline. The dress had elbow length sleeves with white lace trim. In the back was a short train, just long enough to be stepped on. Lavendar looked at the dress in disgust. This wasn't quiet as bad as the orange and purple dress her mother had ordered for her a year ago, but nonetheless..It was hideous. Lavendar made a face at herself in the mirror throughout the dressing.
"What's wrong, miss?" asked Anna, slighty amused.
"I...umph! Don't..umph! Like yellow!" said Lavendar as her corset was tightened a bit to allow for the slight snuggness of the dress. Once dressed, Lavendar went downstairs for instructions.
"Now, you must drink only peach tea and eat only fruit tarts. I will not have you bursting the seams of your new dress. You will listen more then you will speak, and don't forget to smile every so often. Be sure your elbows are not resting on the table and that your napkin remains in your lap when not in use. Do not asjust your hair during the tea and do not fidget in your potential boredom. Goodbye dear, here comes your carriage."
The carraige took Lavendar to the house of John Bitsworthy, where his buttler, Ottssmith, answered the door and presented Lavendar to John. John sat the table set for tea for two, sketching.
"Do you..draw?" asked Lavendar nervously, having absolutely no idea what to expect of her tea date. "I mean, a lot?"
"No, not really," John said, squinting one eye. "It's really just something I do when I get bored. Who are you again?"
"My name is Lavendar," said Lavendar, sitting down in the vacant seat.
"Ah, yes I knew it was something of the purple ilk," said John putting his feet up on the nearby window seat. He threw aside his sketch pad and pulled his chair forward to face Lavendar. "So," he continued, "Care for some tea?"
"Yes please--peach, if you have it." John poured Lavendar a cup of the already brewed peach tea.
"Biscuit?"
"No thank you."
"Cake?"
"That's alright."
"Fruit tart?"
"Yes, please."Lavendar rested her hand in her lap and sat up straight to face John.
"So er..what do you like to do in your leisure?" John asked, leaning forward putting one elbow on the table, just missing tipping over the sugar bowl. Lavendar was about to speak when John continued. "I myself like to spend my afternoons practicing my violin. I've only been practicing for about a year now, but I'd say say my skill level is going up at a rapid rate. Would you like to hear some?" Lavendar opened her mouth to speak. "Well of course you do. Wait a minute. I keep it just over here.." John went to the room adjoining with the tea room and came back with a well polished violin and bow. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before he began to play the most ear piercing tune. Calling it a tune was a matter of politeness; for each note squeaked with a horrible shrillness that made Lavendar fidget in her chair. Even the cuterly was clinking on the table, aroused by such a horrid sound. When John finally finished, he stood proudly, instrument in hand.
"Well, what do you think?"
"Oh! Well it was very interesting..I mean in the difference of tones and.."
"Yes, do go on," said John with interest.
"It....transports you," continued Lavendar.
"Transports you?" asked John puzzled. He put his violin aside and and sat back down at the small table to face Lavendar.
"Yes..it does..it takes you out of this place and...brings you to another place.." Lavendar scolded herself for not making sense.
"And what would that other place be?" Asked John, inspecting his spoon.
"Hell," thought Lavendar. "Well, just another place..that only such..pitches..could bring you to," finished Lavendar, sure that John wasn't believing a word.
"Well!" said John, thoughtfully. " I must say, I've never heard anyone say such things about my music! Would you care to hear some more?" John asked hopefully. Lavendar was about to refuse, but there was a boyish, almost child-like excitement in John's eyes. It was like watching the very essence of hope become brighter and brighter. She knew if she refused, she was in for another hour of endless self-praising speeches. She was sure to fall asleep. However, if she said yes, she was in for another painful few minutes. On the other hand, she didn't want to embarrass herself and John by refusing.
"Sure," said Lavendar simply. John took up his instrument once more. Lavendar prepared for the worst. This time, however, a sweet, simple tune came out, backed by passion and encouragement from a single audience member. Lavendar sat back and relaxed in her chair. When the last note was played, Lavendar smiled and clapped softly. John smiled and flipped his hair out his eyes.
Lavendar left John's house feelings unsettled. She hoped she hadn't given the impression that she was interested in John romantically. Worse yet, if her mother had planned another tea date with John, she could only see things becoming worse. John, after all, was
"An arrogant, impolite, forgetful man whom I have absolutely no interest in, " reported Lavendar to her very surprised mother.
"Now Lavendar, John Bitsworthy is a lovely gentleman who comes from a very wealthy family!"Mrs. Footswoth said as she ate a piece of buttered bread. "You musn't say nor think such things."
"I will say what I wish," said Lavendar, much annoyed that her freedom to speak and think had been denied.
"You will go to your room," said Mrs. Footsworth, suddenly becoming very stern. Lavendar smirked at her mother's reaction, but obeyed.
For the next few weeks, Lavendar's mother was persistent that her daughter continue to see John. The more she saw him, however, the more Lavendar grew impatient and became more aware of his arrogance and bored with his childishness. John had also decided that it would be terribly amusing to poke Lavendar in various inappropriate places. Lavendar was not amused and did not stand for such games. One rainy afternoon, Lavendar interrupted one of John's self-praising speeches.
"John!" Lavendar almost cried out. "
"Yes?" John asked, slightly annoyed by such an interruption, obviously of no great importance.
"There is something I must tell you." Lavendar said very seriously.
"John sat back in his chair as Lavendar straightened in hers. They both looked very serious. Slowly, he leaned forward and took Lavendar's hand, which was gently gripping the edge of the table.
"There is something I must tell you, too," said John, looking directly at Lavendar.
"These past few weeks," started Lavendar, "have been-"
"Wonderful! Amazing!" Exclaimed John, excitement overtaking him. "I've never met anyone who's liked my music so much, or..or..listened to me without falling asleep!"
"I-" started Lavendar, not really knowing what to say.
"Lavendar, say you'll become my companion forever, and perhaps even share a life with-"
"No!" shouted Lavendar, as she pulled away from John's tightening grasp on her hand. "Please try to understand. I am..not... fond of you," the words came with great effort. John said nothing. Lavendar felt as if something should be said in the silence; perhaps an appology should be made, but nothing came out. The only sound that was heard was the rustling of skirts as Lavendar headed for the door.
"Will we be seeing you next week, Madam?" asked Ottssmith.
"No," said Lavendar. " You shall not be seeing me, anymore. Goodbye, Ottssmith."
"Goodbye, Madam," said Ottssmith. And with that, Lavendar walked out of the Bitsworthy house and into the rain outside.

2005-08-05T00:31:00.000-07:00

That was a crazy four days. I had so much fun. I don't think I ever stopped smiling. I'll never forget this visit. This visit..was all too special. Made a few new friends and certainly found the place that I fit in the best. I hope I have a reason to go back very soon.

Because I'm not sure how long I could stay away from it.

No Surgery For Me!

2005-07-29T23:38:00.000-07:00

Just what it says. I don't need surgery and I can start repairing my voice. For a more detailed post, go to livejournal.com/users/blackmoonlight

Castle of Doom X Post

2005-07-22T14:49:00.000-07:00

Right..Just as it says. That's my theme this year for my annual haunt. I really..need ideas. I need to have lots and lots of stuff. So here's the question: what comes into your mind when you see the words Castle of Doom?

Dear Mr. X

2005-07-17T21:08:00.000-07:00

By Maya Attia. Copyright 2005

Well..I almost did it. I just lost inspiration. Try again later.

It's July..Must Be Time for a Post

2005-07-12T21:50:00.000-07:00

I cleaned my room today..Oh the horror. I got up today! I...went swimming today! I like swimming. Swimming is fun.

I feel like I should say something else....Something else! Yay I said it!

I'm going to Boston..soon...Like..next month. Yay for Boston!

I wrote music today. For Dear Mr. X. It's really cool. I was very proud of myself.

Supposedly I should paint. I'm losing the drive to do it. Especially since I continually seem to fail at it.

My driving lessons are scheduled! Yay!

That is all.
Over and out.

Scaramouche

2005-06-19T00:11:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of hanging out with Fidus Aelius this evening. Among other amusing activities, we watched Scaramouche. I must first start off by saying that the movie was delightful; most delightful in it's sword play, of course. I give that my top praise. And now I shall rant about everything else. The costumers couldn't decide whether they liked the 1950's or the 1750's more. Women were wearing..god I don't know what they were..underbust corsets with bullet bras, and then 1700s dresses over that. The correct undergarments is an Elizabethan style corset, which creates a very cylindrical figure..Not something that makes the woman curvy and shapely and horribly modern. As a novice costumer surrounded by professional historical costumer friends, I am personally offended. And don't get me wrong, the costumes were really lovely. Just...not really period.
And the story was so predictable..Horribly so. I kept wanting to see the the two leads burst into song from Kiss Me Kate. (Great musical, btw..). But the costumes...Gah.

And that concludes my rant.

I'm leaving tomorrow, for everyone who doesn't know. XD For the next three weeks I'm going to pretend that compies don't exist. Er....at least the time that I'm not at internet cafes. Ugh. Why can't we just communicate telepathically? I mean..c'mon! It's not that hard!

Night folks.

2005-06-14T00:31:00.000-07:00

Hi. This is me updating! Look at me!! I can update! Weee! Uhhh lessseeeeeeee...School is over for the year, my work has been accepted at a store in Palo Alto called Create It, a ceramic shop which is planning on having a 70/30% profit for my work. Work=foil sculpture.

I updated my website, Maskless.cjb.net Yay! New summer layout, which I think is more welcoming for visitors. I still need to figure out how to do a fade with many images....Anyone care to give a java code for that? XD

I got my grades; I passed bio. This is good, really. I passed with a C. I had anticipated having to retake it, so this is good, friends. I got Bs in English and theory, a very special thanks to everyone who helped me through that class..XD

On June 19th, I leave for Europe for three weeks; I'll be going to England, France (Paris), and Italy (Venice and Rome) and apparently seeing an opera in Rome, Thias. (Sp?) Perhaps I'll meet up with Graham and Miriam there? Maybe? For high tea? XD That'd rock. Meanwhile, I'm furiously making sculptures, so I can hopefully get at least four into the store by thursday...Yeah..Pretty unrealistic, but eh. To see pictures of my latest sculpture, I encourage anyone who wants to, to go to my website, maskless.cjb.net, and click on sculpture and weaponry. Yes, I know odd combination, but hey, they're both 3d!

And today I got a root canal. At least started anyway. I'm not really in pain. At least..not when I don't think about it. I have yet to go to sleep...We'll see how that works. *Imagines waking up at 4 am in pain* Eek.

I had to reinstall our system on Faye-Faye. Unfortunately, all files are gone. Yes, sad. My files, my pictures, my essays, sigh. As well as *everything* else. :< However, there are no more viruses on our compie now! And everything is *much* faster.

I have a new digi camera! Yay! It can hold up to 400 pictures. Very excited. Taking it to Europe with me, so yes, you all have permission to look forward to picture. (Such things must be granted, you know).

I still have *shopping* to do for Europe...>_< I hate shopping for myself. Icky-poo! Much more fun to shop for others. XD But apparently, according to my parents, I need clothes for Europe, because what I have atm will not do. Grrrrr.

I went to Baycon!! Baycon!! It was much fun, I was surrounded my anime, Star Wars, Star Treks and comic geeks. My sister Laura and I were gophers (gofers) so we got free room and board for about three days, in exchange for 18 hours of work, i.e. helping set up for conferences, panels, auctions, etc. My Sabriel costume worked out rather well,although I had to take off the bandelier because (the handles were black and people kept mistakening me for evil! No I wish) it got in the way, and my hastiness in making it was getting obvious. However, I still had the tunic on with the painted gold keys. I offer pictures, but...Alas..I didn't have a camera. :< Don't worry, for all who wish to see, I shall wear it...Again..Sometime. XD

So currently I'm looking for places to dance in Europe, specifically, England; I hear argentine tango is popular there, as well as throughout Europe.

Hey, it's almost 1 am. I'm not sleepy. I've been going to bed at the wee hours of the mornin' and and waking up at...9. Stupid tree cutters RIGHT OUTSIDE MY WINDOW!!! If the birds weren't enough to wake me up, they wanted to make sure I'd be awake before noon. Jeez!!

One Part Finished, One Part Distraught

2005-05-02T21:09:00.000-07:00

I *finally* copied my piece I named the Music Box into Finale and printed it. Yay! That's done. My opinion of Finale, at least in a positive light remains to be seen, however..

I'm quite stressed, but luckily (?) school ends in four weeks. It needs to end now! Now now now! *pout*

I have cookies.

C
o
o
k
i
e
s
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Heheheh.

More Scene(s)!

2005-04-21T18:32:00.001-07:00

::Lessons With God::

God: Good afternoon, boys and girls. Welcome to another session of
Heaven in the Classroom (class smiles together). I have your life
report cards to hand back today (class gasps), if you have any
disagreements, you're more then welcome to talk with me. However, I
promise no covenants about changing evaluatory marks, so please bear
this in mind. Student 1: Er..your..Lordship?

God: Yes, my child?
Student 1: Is "evaluatory" really a word?
God: (pauses for a moment) I'm God! I can make up any words I please.
Question me again, and I'll lower your life markings! (All are silent
as God passes back the evaluations. After all papers are passed back,
the students get up and exit the classroom except for one).

Student 2: Your Lordship?

God: Yes?

Student 2: My markings say "apathy shown towards family, lack of
intelligence in every day life, carelessness, procrastinator, lack of
knowledge in academics, drifting from one's religion..." What does this
mean? I thought my life deserved better then that...

God: Now, now...Not everyone's life is perfect. But you do know, of
course that apathy shown towards family members is not right, nor is
carelessness..

Student 2: But, Your Lordship...I-...Surely, you must understand that not everyone's life emulates perfection!

God: Well in that case, you haven't been following my rules.

Student 2: There are rules to living?

God: Recall the Ten Commandments: "Thou shall not--"

Student 2: But I was never connected with my religion.

God: ...

Student 2: And as far as the other items listed here, I thought just
because someone does't have a vast amount of knowledge in one
particular area, it doesn't constitute stupidity!

God: Ah. I see your problem. (Gets up and takes the student by the hand). Come, let us walk down the Bridge of Reality.

Student 2: But the Bridge of Reality ends with a cliff!

God: (Starts walking with student) Only for those who have failed. Now
then (comfortingly), just open your eyes and walk forward.

Student 2: (opens eyes, takes three steps and screams as he falls off the cliff)

2005-04-17T12:11:00.000-07:00

I do so wish that school was over sooner rather than in five weeks. :< I tired of studying so much.

On another note, I went to a Mandolin Festival today! Yay. I like mandolins. Lots of good energy.

More Scenes

2005-03-31T22:07:00.000-08:00

I really should just call this blog my mono-blog..Or monologue blog, or something of that sort.

Setting: 1982, a desolate farm/ranch)
(The sounds of someone engaged in intense physical activity are heard from off stage before the curtain rises. Tom is shown punching a wall or other hard surface. His hands are bloody).
Clara: (Seeing him). Tom! (Tom ignores her). Tom, stop this....Look at you! You're hurting yourself! I won't let you do this to yourself any longer! (Throws herself in the range of Tom's fists. Tom continues punching unaware that Clara has now taken the hard surface's place). Tom, stop it! Why are you doing this? (Clara tries to restrain him). Stop, it, now!
Tom: (speaking for the first time): You can't...stop me, Clara. I'm doing what I need to do.
Clara: And what you need to do is hurt yourself? (Still restraining him).
Tom: Let go of me, Clara. I don't want to hurt you.
Clara: Hurt, me? Tom...You've already hurt me...You've hurt yourself. (Tom pauses and looks at his hands as Clara tries to start bandaging them. Tom gets disgusted and suddenly throws her aside violently, continuing to bloody his hands further).
Curtain.

Ok, ok so *maybe* the above was inspired by the ever so dramatic Passion (Sondheim) but other than that, this just popped into my head.......Maybe.

Setting: Present day.

Becky: Say it. Say it and look me in the eyes! You never loved me! You teased me and enticed me with your carresses, just like you did other girls. (Bitterly) You're nothing but a womanizer! You probably don't know what love is. (Laughing) All I wanted to be loved. But you couldn't even do that. Because one woman loving you just wasn't enough, was it? You wanted more. You wanted a harem. A harem of lovers, all for you. And you? You didn't love a single one. All you wanted was to touch them. Just feeling the warm, soft touch of a woman is enough for you. She might as well be brainless. All you care about is what you can get out of it, out of us. So tell me...Why not just spend the rest of your life in a brothel?
Sam: (Coldly): It's....not like that.
Becky: Then tell me...What's it like, Sam?
Sam: (Stares at Becky): I never knew true love. Mama never cared for me. Pap was never there. On a good day, Mama wouldn't throw too many things at me, accusing me of acting like Pap. She never looked at me with love in her eyes. Just hate. Hate and fear. She never wanted to touch me. Reminded her too much of Pap, she said. Sometimes..(Verging on tears) sometimes she couldn't even look at me! Sometimes..I just felt like screaming, you know?? It was like having a talking wall for a parent! (Almost laughs). Surely, you can understand what that was like!
Becky: (Sits). I understand, Sam, I understand.

Curtain.

Writing for an Ensemble...

2005-03-29T10:15:00.001-08:00

Is going to attempt a *bit* of a challenge, seeing as how I've never done it before. So far all of my compositions, (yes, er..all 10 of them?) have been for piano, or piano and voice. (Actually, piano and violin would be really cool, too). But I have been encouraged to "live dangerously"..So right after I scribble down some notes for a violin and piano bit, I'll try my hand at writing for a *gulp* ensemble. Right..off to MagicScore, then...

TouchStone, dear, I may wish to kill you after this is done. Don't take too much offense, k? XD

More Monos!(logues)

2005-03-20T01:18:00.000-08:00

Sounds like the monologues have mono, doesn't it? Heheh..Here's my newest installment of scenes and monologues:

Larua comes home and closes the door behind her.
Cherryl: (looks up and looks at Laura) What’s that you’re wearing?
Larua: Make up?
Cherryl: (harshly): What’s wrong with you hair..?
Laura: Oh well my friends and I, we decided to have fun.
Cherryl: Fun? Fun?!? You call this fun?? This will damage your hair!
Lauar: Mama, it was just for fun, they didn’t cut it or anything-
Cherryl: (desperately) Did they cut it?
Laura: No, Mama, the didn’t cut it! What’re you so worried about? They just teased it a bit, that’s all.
Cherryl: This is disgusting..You’re hair will never be beautiful again!
Laura: What? Mama, this is ridiculous..You know something’s bothering you, isn’t it?
Cherryl: (coldly): I’m fine. I’m concerned about your hair. And what they did to it.
Laura: Mama, they didn’t do anything to it. It’s fine! See?? (Combs her fingers through her hair). You know what you’re problem is...You don’t know how to have fun. You don’t even know what fun is, do you? How long has it been since you could really say you had fun and enjoyed yourself, Mama? (With concern) You worry too much, don’t you. Even if you invite your best friends over for dinner, you still feel like you have to “deal” with things: deal with dinner, and deal with Daddy and deal with this and deal with that. You always look so put upon. Have you ever thought about relaxation, or has that word left your vocabulary? You say you want to help other people by accommodating them. Well guess what happens when you accommodate them too much? You forget about yourself and you start to feel sorry for yourself. You know what you need?
Cherryl: (suddenly interrupting) Laura, I don’t want to hear about this. I know what I need--
Laura: (cutting her off almost hysterically) No, you don’t know what you need, Mama! Because obviously you’re just so tired you don’t know how to take care of yourself anymore!! (Calming down) What you need is to be in touch with nature. Give yourself a week of comfort and relaxation. And (pointedly) stop worrying about other people’s problems. When grandma died you thought everything was going to be fine. You decided to take back your youth, by dying your hair and ridding it of the gray. Then you decided to start shopping for yourself because you had nothing to wear. You thought this was good enough, but it wasn’t. You didn’t recognize the need that people need more than just a wardrobe, children, and stable income. People need a zest for a life: something that keeps them going! You’ve locked yourself in a box, labeled “to be dealt with”. I don’t know how that box got there but it needs to be destroyed. Enough is enough.

Laura: It’s not so bad living at home, really. I can take it. You just have to keep your calm and your focus. A little restricting, but that’s alright...(With assurance) I just keep doing my work and thinking of all the good I’ll be doing for my future career! (Fading) Ok, so maybe it’s not that great. Living here is like living in Hell, but worse. I can’t stand it. It’s killing me! I can’t stand the concerned looks and– and the screaming, the start of the loss of memory and them growing older. It’s not like it was! Living here used to be fun! Each day was filled with adventure and would result in wonderful memories! But now the coughing at night and the pained looks...I tell myself..Just a little longer, just a little more and I can move out. But this house..it’s like a jail; I barely leave it and if I do it’s like I have to be..chaperoned everywhere or...guarded everywhere. I mean, what am I, a raving lunatic on the loose that I must be locked up each day? (Suddenly sits) All I see is the night. The endless black of night.

Bad Sea Monkey. No Pretty Rock for You!

2005-03-15T21:33:00.000-08:00

Hey guys, remember that geeky soiree and remember Eric's story about the gazebo? Ok well, it's stayed with me, because it's so funny. As a result, the following idea resulted: Save the universe from gazebos, by shooting arrows at them! But watch out for those big gazebos, best to defeat them with golden arrows that will be acquired as you progress in levels. Good luck!

Ok...So maybe, just maybe I'm tired of doing homework and need to do something creative. But I think that's a pretty worthwhile distraction..Shooting gazebos.

Gasp A Post?? Surely, You Jest!

2005-03-14T16:53:00.000-08:00

Well, I figured I'd post to a very small audience, anyway. I have a couple of monologues that I'd like commentary on. Seeing as I can't *talk* Grrrrrr. Oh, yeah, btw, everyone (er..all of my 2 readers) I have nodules! Yes, lucky me. -_- Funny thing, everyone wants to take some credit/blame for them. I think I'm going to put my voice in a little box, slap a bow on it and give it to a mute. So then I can forget about it. Mime, anyone?

Monologues and Scenes, (not all are edited):

Alana: (pensively) To be eighteen...It is..neither old nor young. It is the threshold to adulthood, yet I still feel that I am not an adult. But do I wish to be an adult? Seventeen, which I shall be for only a few days more was such a pleasant age. I did so enjoy being young and childish. It rather grew on me. But have I grown out of it? To turn eighteen is both advantageous and disadvantageous. It signifies that I’m growing older, and therefore closer to death. While I still have yet, many years ahead of me, I cannot help but think of it. I am (pauses to think) no longer a child. It seemed, when I was growing up, I was to be a child forever..Or at least childish forever. But now, in just a few short days I shall reach the brink of adulthood. From hereon, I shall be expected to manage myself and take care of myself. My toys, both physical and mental must be put away on a shelf to collect dust. (Pauses to reflect once more). Seventeen was such a delightful age. I carried both maturity as well as a playfulness. But will that dissipate with the turning of a year? I do hope that eighteen will prove just as fun as seventeen has. (Looks at her watch). It is almost 2am now. I still have a few days before the day of my birth. Will my friends perceive me differently now that I have added a digit to my age? Will they..say things differently, when talking around me? Or will I remain static in persona to them? Well..What if I decide not to be eighteen? Rather, to remain seventeen for another year..That would not prove too bad. I could be a child for one more year (fondly) and not have people expect things of me for one more year. I....(happily) could climb trees, and splash about in puddles and get my party dresses dirty before the party begins and.. (drifts off to staring pensively out the window). Yes, that is what I’ll do. I’ll simply not be eighteen yet. (Crosses arms). Just one more year. Yes. Yes. And now to bed.

A factory worker who packages pickles as they come off the assembly line, ponders what it would be like to have a more exciting job and to take risks.
Sally: You probably wouldn’t understand how exciting it is to package pickles each day. They really do smell wonderful you know! And..I hear they’re pretty healthy for you, too. The conditions in the factory aren’t that bad..It gets a little noisy and you’ve got people yelling at you, but that’s okay, because you just keep grabbing those jars of pickles as they come and if one jar hits the floor, well. Heh! Say goodbye to your job at Pickled Pickles! (Pauses for a minute and her chipper mood diminishes). Fine, so maybe I’m not being completely truthful. But I don’t have a lot of choice! I’ve got two kids with no father and this had good hours and it pays well enough! But you know..sometimes I wonder what would happen if one day..I let a jar of pickles crash to the floor. And ripped off my apron and cap and ran away from this hell of a life! I can only imagine what flowers must smell like...Everything always smells of pickles. And no matter how much perfume I put on when I go to the bank..It just doesn’t go away.

:random scene::
Alana: She’s asleep.
Audrey: Good. Are you okay?
Alana: I don’t like doing this.
Audrey: This job..it’s not exactly for pleasure.
Alana: I know. (Gets up) I just..can’t stand the feel of it. The smell of it..It’s disgusting!
Audrey: (Slightly edgy)You’re disgusted? Who has to clean up after her?
Alana: You don’t have to look at her each morning, watching the wrinkled skin that clings to the skull with its last threads!
Audrey: Alana, we are obligated to do this!
Alana: I’m not obligated to withstand the grotesque aspect! I hate being here! (Throws a towel on the floor). You don’t understand what it’s like for me! I grew up in this house. It was on this carpet that I danced on and this couch that I sat on. And now she’s dying. I can already see the dead look in her eyes. She has one foot in the grave, if not both. This house used to be enchanting, but now it’s walking through fire. It’s (coughs) dusty, and messy and the smell of death lingers on each and every object. (Picks up a painted porcelain cup). This used to enchant me with its colors and delicate craftsmanship. But now...Now it’s just..(suddenly throws cup against the wall. It shatters). Now it’s just dead! (Audrey moves to hug Alana). No. Don’t touch me. Because I can smell it on you, too. The essence of death is on those who have to bear it. I just...I just wish she’d hurry up and die so all this would be over.
Audrey: (comfortingly) I know you don’t mean that.
Alana: I don’t mean that?! You think I don’t mean that? (Runs to the bedroom with Mary inside). Die, god dammit! Die! (Breaks down into tears and pounds the floor). Die!

Curtain

Hola!

2005-03-03T23:29:00.000-08:00

Well...Here I am. Again, it seems. No, really I don't plan to update here at all. My real blog is my LJ, (username=blackmoonlight) but because SO many of my *other* friends have blogs on this server and *some* people don't allow annoymous comments..I created this.

Jester's Stage

Vocal Recital

Weekend Recap

Tonight Was Exciting

Real Post

Lobster Dress (working title)

M's Hell, II

Finished college apps!

Blue hair

Large Noses and Red Stockings:

Walk This Way, Master!

This Made Me Laugh

V-day

Piano lessons and tango

Audition!!!!

Suffering From a Lack of Attention to Logisitics...

Hm

Resurrecting Ze Blog

Apology

Um?

Rant

On Immortality

Rant

Just Imagine

Hyper

Amazon

hehe

On Madness

hm..

Dear Mr. X, thus far

Argggggh

Romantic Thoughts..

I have an excuse..it's january. It's time to pre-pre-pre plan

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 9

Hi, it's me..

Things I'd Like to Do Right Now That I Can't

Yay For Me!

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 8, At the Opera

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 7

Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

You Know Self..

Dear Mr. X, Chs. 1-6 (Nina made me do it;)

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 6

Wahhhhhh!

And Now, Some Memorable Moments From Boston..

Recipe for Victorian Romance

We're French, But We Speak the Queen's English..

Chatper 5 (continued)

Stopped Time

Magic?

Chapter 5: Dear Mr. X (continued)

Chapter 4: Mr. X (to be edited)

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 3: Mr. Christopher Inkwell, continued

Chapter 3:Mr. Christopher Inkwell

Dear Mr. X:Chapter 2 Mr. Andre Teaspout continued

Oh Dear God

Dear Mr. X:Chapter 2 Mr. Andre Teaspout

Dear Mr. X, Chapter 1: Mr. John Bitsworthy

No Surgery For Me!

Castle of Doom X Post

Dear Mr. X

It's July..Must Be Time for a Post

Scaramouche

One Part Finished, One Part Distraught

More Scene(s)!

More Scenes

Writing for an Ensemble...

More Monos!(logues)

Bad Sea Monkey. No Pretty Rock for You!

*Gasp* A Post?? Surely, You Jest!

Hola!

Gasp A Post?? Surely, You Jest!