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09 October 2010 @ 03:39 am


I have a packet of tarot cards that, every once and a while, I like to pull out and play with. I've only ever read for myself, and one poor little girl on a train when I was fifteen: my brother had outright refused, so I became friends with the girl beside us, and offered to do her cards, reading out the definitons for her as they were written in the little book that came with my pack. They struck something in her, I think - all I remember now is her wide eyes and "Wow!" which impressed me very much back then, and makes me cringe in embarrassment of my ego, now.

I tried repeating the experience with friends, but I wasn't very good - I had a close friend who had a much better instinct for stringing the meanings together and making them sound uncanny, so that and the sinking realization that we were only interpreting what we wanted to hear, ended that particular parlor trick.

We have an aunt who married into the family - she's lovely. She used to tell us stories about the circus she grew up with, back in the seventies, and when I showed her my cards she told me about an old woman who traveled with them who's cold readings were just as uncanny as her proper ones. She (our aunt) tried to teach me some of the tricks she'd learnt in turn, but I barely remember them now.

My grandfather doesn't believe in anything like the cards, naturally; my brother doesn't want to hear it. I don't think I'll ever really pan them out for others, but they're fun to arrange and take pictures of, even if it ends up dark and blurry. :P I'm not a fortune-telling gypsy by any means, nor think I am one, but I like the idea of having them sit by my bed.

I don't know if I believe in them. I think people see what they want in them - I know I do. Every card I deal out for myself says things like, opportunities ignored, the tower's crashing down around you, you need a new adventure. Nothing I haven't thought of before, but at the very least, they are a good way to prompt an old-fashioned soul searching.
09 September 2010 @ 01:57 am

I always come to post here, and then feel as though I can't, not without some sort of offering, so here are the roses I had on my bedside table a few weeks (a month, perhaps) ago. I have an array of photos that I've taken over the last six months, thinking to post them here, but I always leave them, too fussy.

I need to check my email account more. :( I tend to stay on a very limited circle here, online, and it never occurs to me to check my email until I've signed up for something.

Hm, what else to say? I have quite a few journal pages to share. I could have posted them a long time ago, but never got around to scanning them in, since it's always such an effort and I'm a lazy creature. I started journalling daily, or trying to, a little while ago with the resolve that I would not try so hard, like I have been with my paintings in my moleskine. I wanted it to be like the diaries I kept when I was younger, when I had "Dear Kitty" at the top of the page, copying Anne Frank (who I admired painfully). Something done on pure emotion, without the need for everything to be just right. It's not quite that, haha. I still don't let go enough. I miss the days where writing down the day's events and who said what about who was the highlight of diary keeping. :P Nowdays, everything sounds either so mundane or something that I don't even want to face, not on paper, at least.
18 February 2010 @ 12:27 am

This is all about cute cute cute baby animals. :)

whiskers. downy fur. soft ears.Collapse )

17 January 2010 @ 07:30 am

The rest of the Cat family that I never did deliever on.

funny little kitties if you ever did see.Collapse )
13 January 2010 @ 11:55 pm


I think, if I had a favorite time of day - and I'm sure this isn't the first time I've ever said this - it'd be the dusk. This town transforms at dusk. It's not as harsh or ugly or boring. I like strolling around the yard, the neighborhood, admiring everyone's gardens, their homes, or just the day. Sometimes, if he's not too tired, my brother will come and we'll act stupid, play games, sword fight with sticks. When he doesn't and I'm on my own I like to stop at things - the edge of fences, watch the animals or the afternoon.

I've stopped drawing for the moment; that's how I work. I start and stop, go hard at it for a week or so, two, three, and then drop it, pick up something else and obsess with that until I get bored again. It's probably why this blog suffers so much, poor thing. Thinking of something to write or post that isn't boring is hard though, sometimes. My life is so mundane that there's nothing much to talk about, except the people in it. Truthfully, that's my personal favorite kind of blog to read - ones about people, and their lives, just the little things, so I don't know why I can't do it. Maybe if I was doing something interesting, like school, or even working, then that'd be something to share but I just muddle around here at home and it's so much of the same day in day out that there's no point in remarking on it.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm not doing enough. Being enough. I haven't traveled, I don't go to school, I can't craft jewelery, or write novels. While everyone else I know is having babies young, getting engaged, backpacking, I'm just staying in the one place. Not that I mind that - I mean, I like being here, at home with my family. Family is the most important thing to me, so this is nothing that I resent but I feel like that's the problem, that I don't want enough for myself. I just take everything one day at a time, but what if I don't plan enough? All I want, all I really want is to just potter around with my art. Being the family housewife, that doesn't bother me in the slightest. I don't mind doing things for others, not the ones I love. Plus they do so much for me.

This is vanity itself, but I think I'd like to see what I seem like to the others that know me. My brother frequently calls me an awful bitch because I'm so belligerent, apparently - but then he'll turn around and say that I've gotten so quiet since high school, that I'm not the same. A friend told me I reminded her of her grandmother, which is not something I normally think of in bad terms since my own was fierce, lady-like, but remembering the look on her face as she said it makes me think that she didn't mean it in a flattering way. I like to think that I'm funny, witty, not afraid of anything but I'm beginning to doubt the verity of my self-image. My brother's worry and resignation over me is enough, I think, to believe I need to reassess myself.

Currently I'm reading Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters. I'm enjoying it thoroughly, imagining everyone as their actor counterparts from the movie. I hope that if this reworking of Austen novels trend continues, they do Mansfield Park. That is my absolute favorite book; I love Fanny, how gentle she is. I hated how the movie had to change it, as though being a softer sort of person isn't good enough anymore, that heroines have to be stronger, braver, while having small moments of vulnerability, instead of being the other way around, with moments of strength. That was the charm of Fanny for me, honestly, because I could relate.

All this just makes me want to read the novel again, haha. I think after I'm done with Sea Monsters (and I'm close to the end, too), I'll cut myself a piece of the chocolate cake we have and curl up with Mansfield. :)
14 October 2009 @ 05:04 pm

I painted a wooden box.

01 October 2009 @ 07:53 pm



I find myself incredibly boring, these days.

I stole her heart away and put ice in its place.Collapse )

28 September 2009 @ 02:02 am




for one human being to love another;
that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks,
the ultimate,
the last test and proof,
the work for which all other work is but preparation.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

delicate things, broken things.Collapse )

27 September 2009 @ 02:18 pm
Firstly, I'm sorry. I am not the most active of LJ friends; I only come here when I have that itch, that need to write or to pour my heart out and it's very much like I'm using this as cheap therapy, which I don't like.

I just want to write today. It's sunny and beautiful outside and all the windows have been thrown open; the house is brighter and I'm alone and I don't mind, I never mind. The wind makes the trees rustle and move and there's something about sitting in a white room in the sunshine that I love.

I think I fell in love. And now I miss him.

He was an asshole. They always are, aren't they? He was an asshole and he knew just what to say to undermine everything I had to feel good about - my journal, the way I dressed, the way my hair sat. It was like he deliberately went out of his way to make people feel like crap, to take the offensive.

He always said he didn't care.

He went out of his way to flirt with anything with a skirt. He said he used to be a fat kid, once, the kind with braces, the kind that got into fights. He was far from it now, though sometimes in his face you could still see it, how it was a little round, like a reminder. He said his flirting was a way of making up for "lost time" and I had to wonder if that meant he'd been rejected once, by a girl he really liked. I told him, once, that I hated it, that it made me jealous. He said he knew and that's why he did it.

Once he offered to stop. I didn't know what to say, so I changed the topic.

He loved music. Our tastes always clashed. I don't think he ever forgave me for the mixtape I made him.

He was from Texas. He didn't have the drawl, though he'd fake it for me.

There was another girl - one "back home". Not a girlfriend, He said, but a friend. He would always compare us, though, with a tone that I never heard before and I would hate them both.

Once, he wrote me a story. Because I was predictable, he said, and he knew I'd love it. I still have that stupid thing.

He was my best friend. He found that hilarious, then admitted that yeah, I was his too. I told him I'd never let him forget that - he threatened he'd walk away if I tried.

He left anyway, back home. We didn't say goodbye. I miss him. I miss that with him, I wasn't so dependant on my family. I thought my brother would be smug about it - we had fought about him before. My brother thought my friend was a prick. I didn't talk to him for days after that, but when my friend left my brother let me cry all over him.

Now on the weekends we go out for breakfast at the bakery. And I still sit there and think of the Texan. The Cowboy, as I called him, though he had nothing to do with ranches or farms.

And my brother just sits there, and listens when I interrupt his stories to talk about it, with a patience I don't remember him having.

Today, I decided that I have to leave the cowboy behind.
04 April 2009 @ 04:27 pm

Lingerie, nighties and dresses oh my.

I love to shop.

It's a good thing I don't have a debit or credit card at the moment - I'm the kind of buyer that sees something pretty and purchases out of reflex; a fear maybe, that that pretty thing will be gone and I'll never see it again. It's almost childish, actually, like a loud I want, I want, I want.

What I want now are dolls.

Ball-jointed dolls to be exact. A Alice in Wonderland doll, American made, 12'' high. Some beautiful shy looking sweetheart on a Koren website that makes me go Aww everytime I look at her - her face sculpt, her expression, it's sweet and doe-eyed and pouty and I can't help but love it. She can be ordered with a friend that's slightly taller than her and has this grave, serious little look on his face - I adore him too and I want the both of them. I'd order them together in a heartbeat if I could, right now, if I had the money. But I don't so now I'm trying to decide whether saving and ordering them one at a time is best, where they'd go, what I'd actually do with them except sit the pair of them there and love them.

My brother has offered to lend me the money for them - well, Her for now. But it's not money I'm sure he could spare; he's saving for a new car and then a motocycle; things that he really loves, something that I know he wants just like I want those silly little dolls. It was so tempting to take him up on the offer when he made it. He sounded offhanded but I knew, know, what it'd mean and I just said no, even though I really, really, really wanted to - still do - say yes.

Sometimes I feel like I spend too much, want too much. I've just bought a hundred and thirty dollar quilt cover set - it's white and ruched and beautiful, girly, something to start me on my way to perfecting my room. There's another set that I've been thinking about as well - pink, silky soft. I'm this close to placing it on order.

I really like shopping. But now I'm making myself worry about it. I don't want to be materialistic but it's so hard not to be at times - and I like it, I like owning pretty things. It's just... how do you temper that and balance it out?

21 March 2009 @ 02:23 am

My collection of magazines fuels the need for a picket fence house. Something pretty, something small; in the country, maybe, or by the sea or in the mountains. I'd have glass chandeliers small or large, wide open windows, white curtains and roses everywhere; framed prints, in vases, growing in the garden, embroidered onto the sheets. It's a highly idealized wish; I know the up-keep of a home like that would be hard, annoying. I've never been good with housework.
But it would be nice. Perfect, even when the novelty wore off and the enthusiasm for keeping it tidy and picturesque died.

It'd have to have the same feel in the afternoons that home does now; the noise, the bussel. The golden light pouring in down the hallway, the bedrooms, the smell of grass, of coffee, of dinner. The gust of chilly air that'll wash through the entire house on those stormy afternoons. The way the curtains flutter when there's thunder coming in. All those little things that I'll know I miss if I ever break free of my stockholm syndrome and leave.