I think my romantic sensibilities have been fed on an unhealthy diet for too long. Consider-- if you give a girl from kindergarten up access to tales and portrayals of true love, and living solely for the purpose of ideals, what else can you expect but that she can’t tolerate the grey trivialities of dating? I had a two hour chat last night on ‘shoes and ships’ with my beloved Tiffa, and among our many brushes on universal truths, we brought up love.

There’s nothing more delightfully old-fashioned than sitting in my room, just chatting. The empty chilliness of the basement would lend itself wonderfully to a softly flickering fire. All we needed last night was two mugs of hot chocolate that would swirl in delicate traces of flavour in the last of the drink. And as I rested my head against my hand and brought up the rose-red mystery of girlhood romance, I couldn’t help but feel this was the sort of scene that, properly set, would precede a meeting in a film.

But, I digress, and rather painfully too. I glanced up as we spoke to study the uneven lines of wealth that predominate my bookshelves. Jane Austen, L.M. Montgomery, Louisa May Alcott, the Brontes-- all the great romantics in history, and I hold them dear. My soul thrills to stories of shyly budding love between the poets. I replay the classic lines and moments in my head. When Colonel Brandon reads to Marianne “for there is nothing lost/that may be found/if sought. . .” with that gently brushing voice of his, and she looks up at him. Her eyes just fill with the slowly dawning realization that love is not a glimmering chance to be snatched only once in a lifetime. I’m someone who ‘can never love by halves,’ but will I survive the inevitable pain of learning ideals in favor of reality?

When Satine is lying in Christian’s arms, her eyes closed as she gently strokes his shoulder, I can’t help but dream about the kind of complete intimacy that so rarely happens across lovers in today’s world. When Rose and Jack kiss on the bow of the Titanic, I feel caught up as completely in the moment as if it was me flying into the horizon of the future as my fingers timidly touch another’s. The examples stretch the barriers of drama and comedy, but it’s always the same underlying thought. I want that.

I know people say that we should be idealists at twenty, but we’re fools if our minds haven’t conformed to realism by forty. But why should passion have to fade as the years rob every other charm of its youthful bloom? Surely it should be as natural and flowing as the cycles of the sun, rising with a pale-stained glory of cloud and light, ebbing out into a constant brilliance and drawing to a close with sunset. There’s a richer, deeper quality of the sun’s setting than its rise. Shouldn’t love echo the source of life?

I’ve never been in love. Not what I consider to be that oft dreamed of emotion, at any rate. Surely there are as many facets to love as there are those heralded diamonds? I believe it should be as wistful as a single blossom falling to the ground, tranquil like the steam that curls up from Japanese teacups, as tumultuous as a wind-tossed branch crying about in a wind, and soft like the warm scent of summer on a June afternoon.

But then, I never could live by halves. No, I either plunge headlong into something with all the creative abandon a poet could desire, or I . . . hold back. Afraid. I distrust compromises and moderates. So I refuse to dedicate my life to the pursuit of a love that will diminish to an regretful silence. Alise told me once that I would either fall deeply in love or never marry. She was right. I’ll never live a dream half-heartedly fufilled. I won’t sacrifice.

Now that I’m done being Victorian (I am really quite Victorian, aren’t I? Always dashing off italics and being too lavish with descriptions. It’s enjoyable) I’ll tell you something awful about myself.

I’m vain.

No, I really am. When Cordelia says lovely things like: “Okay, as you all know by now, I'm obsessed with Camille's blog. However, no matter what I do, I just cannot copy that beautiful, poetic style of writing that she projects in every single one of her entries” or Sea is an absolute darling about this humble heart o’ a poet, I can’t help but flush a little with pride. Surely it’s not healthy for an aspiring writer, but it’s still a great comfort!

I have to put in a good word for both of their blogs, though, not only by the virtue of returning the favor, but also the delight it is to read them. Sea’s ‘happy little serendipity’ is a mostly undiscovered corner of joy. It’s like a colourful bouquet of flowers-- a few wilting with the pressures of everyday life, but mostly half-opened blossoms that are filled with promise. Cordelia’s sunroom is scattered with Edwardian treasures and the richness of velvet. It’s a comfortable mix of prose and poetry that make up my favorite journals of bits and bytes.

This is running on two pages, and I do want to work on a few gems of fiction before I surrender to the temptation of chocolate chip cookies and a period drama, so, as the French say-- au revoir!

If someone asked me to sum up my religon in two neat sentences, I couldn't do it. Spirtuality twists and turns through my life, winding narrow paths of belief around my soul. I grew up indifferent to God-- now I tenatively wade out into the deep waters of a greater being.

It's difficult, because a good many people don't understand this is a private journey, one that does not bear companionship. I don't believe in missionary work; indeed, I disapprove of it very strongly. I think it suggests a sort of superiority in a field that ought to be humble before what we face as children of God. I don't believe in any one true religon-- I simply consider each to be different paths to a single destination. Most people don't understand that when they offer me "salvation" through their church, they're being deeply offensive. I follow my own path, as I should. Not to say, of course, anyone who's tried to convert me or give me information about their beliefs is wrong-- but I prefer that it not happen. Especially when it comes to strangers or those who are not close friends. I find even a casual acquaintance seeking to convert me to be utterly repulsive. I will listen and consider the words of someone who's companionship I value, but if that person is not a dear friend, I will not even begin to consider it.

I believe in God like someone believes in water. Translucent, flowing, delicate. . . yet strong. Twisting elegantly around rocks, surging and bubbling up in rushes of life against barren rocks. And something you have to reach out and touch, feel the cold smoothness around your fingers, until you can understand it's really there. I don't consider God to be an ever-present, personal force in my life, but rather a waiting guardian who sometimes brushes my soul. Some things are fate-- others pure chance. God is Love in the purest sense, and I believe that He welcomes all back to him when they are ready. I don't think of hell as a real place, nor do I believe in a supreme evil. Nor do I take the Bible as a commandment from God, but rather as storytelling and symbolic purpose. I believe most of it was created from human minds and not from a divine source.

I am a pacifist. I don't believe in violence until violence becomes unavoidable for matters of self-defense. So, in order to contradict an oft-heard argument, I would support fighting Hitler. I've grown very weary of these petty arguments about what I believe. I don't understand why people simply can't accept me for who I am. I don't stand on soapboxes asking people to defend their beliefs. Why should they do that to me?

I'm a strong advocate of homosexual rights. I think that the cause is biological, and that there is nothing wrong with it. I'm in favor of equality for homosexuals in every sense of the word. I will never discrimante against a person because of a sexual preferance, assuming that it is between consenting adults. I'm also pro-choice. However, this does not mean that I'm against life. I personally think abortion is horrific and would never choose to have one, regardless of the threat to my life. I also believe-- just as strongly-- that I cannot and do not have the right to interfere in what I view as a choice betweeen a woman and God, or whatever she holds as a higher power. I don't believe in gender roles or prohibiting divorce/remarriage. And finally, as far as controversial issues go, I'm absolutely in favor of preserving the enviorment.

My, that certainly got a bit vehement, didn't it? Well, I hope you all still love me/despise me/whichever you prefer. I'll leave my poor religous beliefs to rest a while before I trouble them again.

The importance of connotation cannot be over emphasized. Today I sat, surrounded by an industrious whirlwind of papers, a pen brushing my lips as I tried to decide on what classes to register for. As I did, I felt a newfound feeling of . . . change come over me. I've dreamed of college life since I was in sixth grade. And now that I'm finally going to be spending my days on a breezy campus, laden down with books, it's alarming and exhilirating, all in the same moment. I feel as if my entire life has become one university brochure. The mirror's reflection shows a young college-aged freshman, standing outside the advisement center with a smile and a trim new Jansport backpack.

I finally decided on what classes I'm taking--

Honors American History
Introductory Religon
Trigonometry
French
Italian Renaissance Art
Beginning Social Dance

Exciting, isn't it?

The satisfaction of fulfillment is entirely relative. And sometimes destiny does something funny to convince a lonely skeptic that it still maintains power over middle-class American lives. I was supposed to be in Vegas in a weekend that would spill over into a week, seeing proof that Monet really did spend long hours in his garden, delicately brushing on stroke after stroke to create a single water lily. And right now, I'd be watching flame-kissed sandstone sink into the desert horizon. Instead I'm sitting in my kitchen, watching the chilly May wind dance with neighboring trees. To speak in a prosy fashion, my graduation holiday to Vegas was canceled the morning of departure due to family issues.

Norah darling, you shouldn't have used these little footnotes so much. Now I'll be shamelessly indulging all the time. You also write beautifully with hot pink chalk, my pixie-kissed friend.

But an quirk of Fate brushed my life and spiraled me to a little street in downtown capitol, where the streets are lined with old-fashioned, picture-book trees. I found the sweetest little gem of a bookshop-- a tad shabby, with a winsome breeze blowing through the cracks in the windows-- where the shelves seemed to proclaim a kindred affinity to me. I couldn't help reaching out and touching the books, trying to determine their reality. You know the scent of new books, how it permeates your skin? I could spend the rest of my life huddled on that green and white plaid cushion, just reading.

That wasn’t it for my untouched corner of time, though. There was a bagel shop a few stores down, a chain that masqueraded as a cozy family business with umbrellas and lattice backed chairs outside. I took a bite of the smooth sweetness of honey butter as I saw the charms of pottery bits and jewelry. And there was an obscenely expensive boutique next door, filled with pretty things that just pleaded to be wrapped in rustling folds of tissue and taken home.

We drove along snaking coils of asphalt to descend into the plainness of urban reality. At the cinema, we saw The Importance of Being Earnest. Isn’t it strange, after seeing proper British films, how you go round, saying things like “take the lift, old chum” and “not at all, I assure you?”

The finale of the unreality came at dinner-- a restaurant known as the Paris Bistro to humble fame. It was the sort of dear, brick-red place you’d expect to find on cobblestone streets in Paris, windows glossed to perfection and frilled with striped beige and red curtains. Heavy, cream-coloured tablecloths and napkins that you were afraid to breathe on, and silverware polished to an expensive shine. Thick, carefully cut crystal shot the light into soft rays of crushed diamonds through purified water. I ordered pan-seared scallops and leeks, served in a thick sauce with tiny circles of caviar that slid over my tongue in a sea-sweet taste. My Italian soda was creamy and biting all in same sip, and the desert was evidence enough that I was currently residing in heaven. Warm, molten chocolate cake served in a bath of light caramel sauce, and topped with a generous scoop of hazelnut cream.

It sounds strange to say that I follow destiny’s lead in travels, but occasionally I’m thankful for twists in my road that lead into damp, mossy hollows of previously unknown beauty and joy. The day next wasn’t quite such a matter of serendipity, but it’s a tale worth telling-- tomorrow, of course, as most good stories are.