I’m sitting at an old mahogany vanity, studying the curves of my face. The softened outline of cheek and chin, the dark eyes, the girlish mouth. My hair is long, reaching the middle of my back in golden-brown ripples. It’s been unbraided, and waits only to be brushed, but my fingers are playing with a strand of pearls rather than tending to my hair.

The candle that burns nearby illuminates only a corner of the room. Wax falls in a steady rhythm from the flame. I hold my hand over the dancing heat, marveling at the way the light plays delicate patterns across my skin. Simple joys fascinate me-- a walk in the garden, an hour spent embroidering in the sun.

The pale, filmy fabric of my nightgown lies in ruffled folds across my wrists. I have a weakness for elaborate costuming, and could spend hours of my days just changing from one dress to another. I love the watery touch of silk, the sensual warmth of velvet, just lying across my skin. Amy Lowell’s poems lay nearby, and for a moment I contemplate reading one to soothe myself to sleep, but I know her poetry is sharp-edged, and keeps my heart as unsteady as my rest.

You may tire of reality, but you will never tire of dreams.

The water was the color of moonlight. Soft, elusive, shimmering in silver glory. It rose and fell gently against the sandstone shore, reflecting the twilight into a thousand fragmented jewels.

“She’s daydreaming again,” Desi’s little sister whispered loudly. I focused on her and smiled vaguely. I’d explained to her earlier that I wasn’t bored when I stared off at seemingly nothing-- I was sketching out ideas in my mind. She seemed to find this fascinating. Desi only hugged her sister close in return as her eyes shone kindred at mine, letting me know that she understood my compulsive need to drink in the horizon as it ebbed and faded into the night.

It was enough to rob you of breath.

I have always loved the water. I can sit for minutes that flow as gracefully as streams, just watching the way the translucent droplets glimmer and hang, suspended for a single moment in time. To see the seeming boundless depths of the lake beneath my humble form was frightening in its beauty. I couldn’t understand why Desi’s family could play their music so loud and chat about irrelevant things as the wind filled our ears with a purer melody.

“What do you think?” Desi asked me after my first time in the boat.

“I think. . .” I said, my voice wondering at its ability to still speak. By all fictional accounts, I ought to be trembled into silence. But the sensation was a quiet one that ran through my veins. “It’s like soaring.”

I approach things with a childlike nature, full of wonderous curiousity. I can’t explain it to most people-- the way the dew beads on golden-hearted pansies makes me laugh, the silver ripples of water brings unshed tears into my heart. Perhaps that’s why I emphasize so much with L.M. Montgomery. She knew what joy there could be found in a single whisp of a dusky cloud in the last moments of sunset. She was no stranger to sorrow or passion, but above all things, she knew beauty. My favorite of the Bohemian ideals, beauty. Truth can be knife-edged, hurting those who only wish to seek it. Freedom comes with a cost that seems unspeakably high to pay, and love . . . love is an unconquered mystery. Oh, but beauty is kindred to me like nothing else can be.

I’ve noticed it more and more since I stumbled into my friendly bed the night I came home. The way the light dances on broken fields of grass, or a narrow, winding road lined with aspens-- it’s all so unspeakably lovely in a way that just aches in my soul.

I could go on and try to describe what the trip was like, but I could only capture the rudimentary elements of nature without having the experience of thrilling from all the wonder of it. I suppose that’s the price you pay for camping sans laptop. I’ll let my stolen moments of beauty speak for me.

Elusive Light
Bridge Through Nothingness
Majesty in Sandstone
Surrealism
A Lighter Side of Nature
A Windblown Camille

To speak of prosy matters, thanks to all of my friendly neighborhood bloggers, especially Lita and Shelly, both of whom pointed out what I was too blind to see in the first place. I shouldn’t code when I’m tired.

I’ve been busy with work and sickness lately, so I haven’t been able to get online nearly as much. Tomorrow is my sister’s birthday (she’s turning 14-- I should feel properly humbled into my age, but I don’t) so I’ll most likely have it off. A small business is really a dreadful thing to create when you’re building things to sell. Suffice it to say that I love all of you-- Sea, Meri, Norah, Cordelia, Princess, Manders, Lita, Dita, Rita, Nita, and everyone else (you know who you are, even if I don’t).