In the midst of cleaning a smooth spiraled crystal vase, the telephone rang softly, in the way that it's prone to do. Jeff was on the line, asking me if I wanted to go to the college art museum with him and a friend. Of course I said yes-- one shouldn't ask me silly questions like that. So after a quick shower and change, I plaited my hair into two smooth, shoulder length braids and waited. He was late, as he usually is, in his rattling half-blue and white car that blows in relieving streams of air from the permanently opened windows. I slid into the back seat, my fingers fumbling over the too-hot metal over a seat belt. I'm like a child clinging to a faded blanket. I like the security of the tight strap of vinyl across my chest.

It was strange to watch the parking lot at the Y creep closer in squares of trim black asphalt dotted with cars. It was like watching reality slowly stand at the horizon, unfolding as the light spreads out tendrils of illumination to reveal the entire scene. And as I looked down at myself-- my favorite jean vest that came from Alise's closet, bootcut jeans and ribbed white v-neck trimmed with the sweetest bit of crocheted lace-- I felt as though I'd stepped out of my usual guise and into a perfect model of the girl I'd be on campus. It's the strangest feeling of being grown up. For a briefly lingering moment of poignance, I remembered the little girl in a light blue taffetta gown that whoosed and belled out to match her head of chemical curls.

My first impression of a museum is always icy air and stillness that settles into your bones. Even if you're greeted with an artistic absurdity like a modern piece constructed out of steel Tinkertoys, you can't help but whisper criticisms reverently to your companion. Jeff and I took the galleries leisurely, exercising wit and response to the benefit of the few passerbys. Misti eyed us doubtfully and betook herself off to study the paintings on her own.

There's too much beauty in the art gallery for a human eye to behold. After you've seen explosions of graceful colour upon a campus for many an academic minute, the wonder of it all fades into a struggle to comprehend it all. But I remember pictures sharply, drawn vividly against the neutral beige of the museum's walls. A young woman, her dress and flowers alight with colour, idly fingering the blossoms she held. The sharpness of a misty ocean shore, frothy waves pooling around my knees as I watched the rough waves dance as knife-edged waters. The way golden light falls on a murky pool of forest water, and the earthy majesty of fallen trees. A bride, her lace glimmering with pearls and impasto bits of paint-- or perhaps both, reality tends to smudge the line of fantasy like a careless hand across pastel outlines-- and the wilting roses that spilled over onto her lap.

So many, so much. Nor was it spoiled by an unpleasant companion. It's lovely to go prowling with Jeff. We don't agree on everything-- most things, actually, although art tends to be an exception that delights in proving the rule. It's enough to keep the spice fresh in a friendship, although I suspect I would quickly tire of our cheerful arguments in a relationship. But I (mostly) understand him, and he (mostly) understands me, and there are few people who I enjoy being with more than him. Nothing romantic, of course, but it's such an easy flow-- it requires no effort to talk to him.

I was going to ramble on poetically for a longer time, but I'm getting a bit tired, so I'll leave you with my lovely awards. Feel proud for me, darlings.

Describe yourself.

Acquaintances demand it, friends assume it. Every probing question that we are asked implies that we are qualified to know our own hearts. What's your favorite colour? Food? Fired off with a dizzying flash of intimacy, questions that ask me to describe myself, know myself, are frightening. I can tell you rather simply what I am. Female of eighteen, college-freshman-to-be, address, phone number, all in a sterile stream of facts. To discover who I am, though, requires a more sensitive nature.

Golden-brown haired woman-child who watches her dark eyes in the mirror, admiring the fringe of lashes that frame the closed curtains to her soul. Small hands that type rapidly, swallowing thoughts in a vicious manner. A voice that spills words like champagne on a silk dress. Treasures British movies and pearl earrings. Has a pechant for silver glitter falling from the sky. Loves dancing in the rain and lover's kisses, crushing the flower petal of a heart she dares to call her own. Dreams of scribbling bits of genius in a Parisian cafe, dropping by a pub for a good chat before heading to an artist's studio. Cushions, embroidered, and christening dresses. Good, plain cream-coloured china and unused crystal goblets that sparkle alluringly behind cut glass doors. Soft sweeps of tulle falling from the canopy above, falling down on her in a gentle embrace of clouded thoughts. Smooth twists of red and white, peppermint sticks in a jar, calla lilies, photographs, art museums, coffee shops. I live a sepia-toned life brushed over with delicate pastels.

Might I call your attention to the sidebar? I've deleted my "writings--" if you wish for a glimpse of whatever bits of fiction I post online, direct yourself to fanfiction.net for one drama-princess. Instead, I've come up with a happy solution for my dilemma with dollz-- I'm posting them one at a time on this site until I gather the energy to design a place for myself. Which will likely be never.