And I sang holy holy

My heart is sick of being in chains.

ARGH.

STUPID!

Thanks for the help, everyone. :) It turns out I am taking next semester off-- I'll drive myself through French, since it's an all-or-nothing tuition matter at my university.

Also, I am determined to write frequently in here, as I think it does me good. Consquently, I shall bore you all stupid with my pretensious attempts at book reviewing. (Seriously, I've always wanted to muse about books-- Ms. Chels, we must get our book club on the road)

At any rate, I recently picked up Silver Birch, Blood Moon, a collection of fairy tales. To put it mildly, I feel about fairy tales the way other people feel about Manolo stilettos (I imagine I might adore the shoes if I shared Cinderella's shoe size, but I do not). I read the book eagerly, and consumed a few stories more than once, but all in all, it's a B grade edition of the retold tale genre. There are a few stories in there that I really enjoyed-- but all in all, I'd recommed a different anthology if you're looking to buy.

"Kiss Kiss" by Tanith Lee has been criticized for weighing down the story with domestic violence issues that leaned towards the melodrama. Quite frankly, the reviewers are right, although there is a resonating tone within the story that makes me curious about how it was written. A retelling of "The Frog Prince," "Kiss Kiss" portrays the princess as a typically subjected daughter of a poorer estate and her friendship with the strangely empathetic frog that she later marries following his transformation. The story explored the loss of romantic innocence within adolescence, and that part of the story was sad and gently haunting. The rest was about how horrible men are, and that grew tiresome very, very quickly.

I'm getting very tired of the unsympathetic portrait of men in these retellings. If these writers would but notice that the very best (Robin McKinley's Beauty and Rose Garden, A.S. Byatt's Possession, and even Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine, just to pull a few of my favorites) retellings have strong, sympathetic male leads. Writing about how Men Are All Abusive and Disgusting does not grant your story anything but shallow characterization.

"Clad in Gossamer," a re-telling of "The Emperor's New Clothes," was wickedly clever. Nancy Cress has a cutting gift of characterization, and she refuses to let any character, even the little page, slip out of the story without being developed. "Arabian Phoenix," which modernizes 1001 Nights is a clever little gem lodged in the back-- it doesn't stay with you, but the story is a worth a smile. The end is a teensy bit trite, but the story does turn convention sideways. "Ivory Bones," was a brutal retelling of "Thumbelina." There has always been something a bit off with that tale, and "Ivory Bones" expounds upon that faint haunting edge that I always read in the original story. "Marsh Magic" by Robin McKinley was fairly decent, but the story seems to be missing something in the core. I could just be critical because I expect so much from McKinley, but the story seemed to meander on without ever
getting to know the main character. There is a poem by Neil Gaiman in here, and it's a great piece about a father reading "Goldilocks" to his daughter. "The Wild Heart" is a great variation on "Sleeping Beauty," and one that manages to have a feminist theme without deeming all men horrible creatures.

Notice any themes?

I'd like some advice/opinions, because I'm really torn about what to do. (Cross posted with my live journal.)

Two nights ago, my dad suggested that I not go to school next semester. There are certainly several reasons not to go. One, I'm transferring to a different university (U of U, a public school) in fall 2004 and the requirements for major/graduation are different from BYU's. Two, I came into university a sophmore because I had some 30-odd hours of AP credit. I would not be behind at all if I chose to take this next semester off. And, three, I could save up money for a car or get a little more security with future tuition.

However. The thought of this really rather frightens me. My dad has suggested that I take it off, write, have a part-time job. But . . . I go to school. This is what I do. And I don't want to be stuck in the system, but the thought of no class for six months scares the hell out of me. In addition, I am not the most disciplined person in the world. I am lazy. While I have been doing better lately, it's still hard for me to be the focused, driven person I ought to be. ;)

So. . . I honestly don't know. If I could work, perhaps I could even put some money in the bank for a semester abroad. I'd kill for a semester in London. But. . . it makes me nervous to think of not being in school. I'd get behind on my French, I couldn't take ballroom dance, and I'm starting to get back into the (forgive this pun) swing of things. So. Does anyone have any suggestions/reassurance? I'd really appreciate it.

I've got my trial by jury coming up in an hour-- I volunteered to be one of the first to have his/her (double pronouns) short story workshopped, and I'm so nervous. It's not as good as it ought to be-- I spent only 12 or so hours on it, but it could be decent if I had a few more rewrites.

But details, I don't want to put out my little monkey before critical eyes. I remember when I was little, I sewed up a poor, broken-down dolly. Her limbs flopped, her stuffing was loose, and her hair was lank. I sewed impatiently, the thick yellow thread sewing into jagged stitches along her torso and shoulders. I don't write with voice or tone or setting in mind, but I try to put together pictures of coloured glass. And it's something dear to me, really. It's a very childish attitude, but I don't want to share with them. It's shamefaced, too, because I know the oilcloth rags and the rusty hinges of the story.

Sometime when I was writing it, the story became knotted up inside me. And I don't want to give that away. I want to clothe my bit in respectability before I hold her up. Add her frills, take away the pink satin bow. And hide the stitches, the part where I stayed up past 12 trying to fit together the arm and the leg.

I'm standing in my basement, playing the Bend It Like Beckham soundtrack on my brother's discman (mine is perenially out of battery power) and listening to Jind Mahi. And I start remembering what it was like to dance all the time, to stand in the halls with my feet in third position. I was never much good, but I loved dancing. On stage. In my basement, with the dirty window for a mirror. Laughing and swaying in a dance, the lights hot on my skin, sweat and steam coming off of everyone else. I knew I looked ridiculous, but letting my body pulse, letting myself breathe, letting everyone know that I wasn't afraid right now. Feeling myself swoop down to touch the stage in my loose silk shift. My feet whimpering in too-small dance shoes. It was all about feeling. Not even really touch. Just pure sensuality, moving by myself, not caring what I looked like, just feeling the rhythms wave in the air and through the floor.

So, anyway, I danced. In my basement, alone. And damn, it felt good.

I want to start this again.

I had to stop, just for a little (a long?) while, because things were spinning out of control. Other people can't make you feel like this.

Like the rain and the apple juice?

I was going to wait for my own domain, but that'll be a little while in coming. I have to build things slowly.

I write in a scribbler a lot these days. Ostensibly for creative writing. Nothing important. At least on the surface. Waves, gathering and shrinking. Except to me. Pez witch and long white cigarettes. Bottling memories in dirty flasks, corking them with leftover cylinders of wood.

I got a letter from him (isn't there always a him?). Apologizing. Saying he understood if I didn't want to write him again. So I immediately scrawled a four page forgiving epistle. Telling him too much again. Starting the whole cycle one more time.

The next morning I got up and took the letter out of the mailbox.

I have better people to confess to. (A confessional, a metal grille, a cross in my hand, I'm not Catholic)

And my box of secrets, this time, stays closed to him.

P.S. It's good to be back.

When I drive, I get lost too much. I used to think because I never was much of a window-watcher. Even when my eyes are half-focused, trained absently on the melting blur of houses and cars and sidewalks, I'm thinking about something else. I daydream too much. As a consequence my brain fragments everyday images for nighttime. I'm too accustomed to the fantastic, I say tongue-in-cheek, but I'm not, not at all, and that's why I get lost. I want to find something marvelous, a place that's tucked away. A place I could write about.

I turn the corner will o' wisp, ready to watch for the next landmark, but somehow I'm skipping ahead. I think of ice cream parlors (Yogurt Parlor on Main Street, it's divinely small town, and I always order the same thing. Small, vanilla, with M&Ms) and video rental places (Blockbuster precedes a long line of near-identical burger joints, and Hollywood is across from Parker's, best place to get onion rings and hot fudge sundaes) American Fork sounds like something I've created. I list shops, funny dry spots of grass, the teeny-tiny brook across from the so-called 'general store.' I can't find my way around because I haven't grown up here. In the end, for all its quirks and story-worthy finishes, it is still just another place for me. Just another, and I turn on the wrong street, do a loop-dee-loop, spinning the wheel in my fingertips. I've never seen that before.