old blog – Yearning for Wonderland

A Tribute to My Muse

Tonight, I think of my Muse.

When I first saw her in the gallery, I was startled; she was so…throat-catchingly beautiful. I had seen photographs, but nothing had prepared me for the sight. It was like being struck. I was walking and I had to stop. I felt a tear slip down my cheek. She was me and yet not me. She was the me I wanted to be – serene, graceful, and entirely still…poised for the next moment.

I told myself for weeks that I couldn’t have her and grew more and more miserable as she continued to sell, moved to grace the homes and lives of others. So few and slipping away. I looked at the massive price on her and thought it a bargain, knew I would pay twice that (I, who could not afford once that).

Still, I didn’t allow myself even to hope. Every time I passed her in the gallery, I stroked a cool bronze cheek, traced the fine grooves of her hair. It became a running joke how I would hug her as I walked by. It was irresistible; I couldn’t help it. I was in love. I was Pygmalion, with a Galatea that did not have to become real to be loved, but who would very shortly not even be within sight.

And then only two weeks later, in Paris of all places (because all beautiful and solemn events happen in Paris), I am walking down the Boulevard de Picpus with my father on a sunny late June morning. We walk aimlessly, stroll past the boulangerie, the patisserie, fish and croissants and fruit so lush and gorgeous that you want to stop and take a picture of it. I spoke effusively of my Muse, for I already thought of her as “my” sculpture…for twenty minutes. When I finally paused to take a breath, my father turned to me and said, “Well, then I think you should get it.”

Words are words, but my father is good for his word. He did not buy it for me, nor would I have wanted him to do so. Instead, he helped me get the financing, allowed me to acquire her for my own. My parents have always encouraged me to believe in the impossible, to find ways to accomplish that which I never would think I could do.

Already, she inspires me. I think of her and become radiant.

Hurry, Muse.

Theatre
Frederick Hart
Bronze

The purpose of my art is to seek beauty and truth, and to explore and glorify the human being and the universe.
– Frederick Hart

[Repost from 6/29/06 -ed]

An Ozymandias Kind of Evening

I’ve decided that drunken blogging is somewhat akin to balancing a spoon on the end of your nose in public – you rarely succeed and look like a bit of a jackass in the process. Nevertheless, it is 11:38 pm and I find myself blogging while playing a game called Jigsaw World. The purpose of the game is…yes, assembling jigsaw puzzles on your computer. This could only be slightly less numbing than assembling jigsaw puzzles in real life. The only benefit I can see is that I can do the game jigsaw puzzle without taking up space on my already cluttered dining room table. Also, Jigsaw World provides me with lovely pictures, such as an arrangement of berries and cream on fine china.

I now desire delicious berries and cream on fine china.

I find it also entertaining that my typing skills are markedly degraded, but that I still go back and correct all my typos as I type. Once a copyediot, always a copyediot. And, no, that’s not a typo.

On the bright side(hi-yah, cliche), alcohol seems to cure me of my Jane Austen complex, the one that doesn’t let me publish anything unless it’s a shimmering gem of obscure and inexorable beauty. I’m fairly sure this entry will rank low in my Greatest Blog Entries list (if anyone is counting). But that’s okay – I still rank above people who blog when they are out of toothpaste (my pardons if this is you – I promise that I’m captivated by your choice of spearmint).

My father has the journal-ing habit, but he does his on pen and paper, mostly. When he does type them, he still doesn’t publish them online. They are for his eyes alone and maybe sometimes my mom. He shares them with my brothers and me if he thinks we’ll find them interesting. I think sometimes of what it will be like when I have to go through his papers and effects, when he’s gone.

Fifty plus years of journal-ing – a life captured in its complexities and frivolities, its pettiness and its beauties. I’m sure I’ll read of things I’d rather not know, but all in all I will probably find it moving how a human being reaches out to leave a record of its existence.

It only takes a handful of generations to efface all direct memory of a person. It makes me sad that anyone whom I meet now will never know my grandmothers, either of them. They will never know my grandfather, whom I called ‘Pa’. They will listen as I explain how he used to tug on my pigtails and said “Ding, ding, off at Shelby”. I would then have to explain how he rode a streetcar when he was young and they would ring the bell when they reached the ‘Shelby’ stop and say those exact words.

I got to sleep over sometimes and would tuck in with him. Before he fell asleep, he would tell me stories: Once, he and his brother bought a piece of candy. This candy made them fly. He would describe it so realistically, all the people so tiny below, pointing up at them, and I would believe it. To this day, I still sometimes look for that piece of candy that will make me fly.

I will explain these things to people, but they will only ever be abstract. One day, I will be gone, and if I am both memorable and lucky, people will maybe tell stories of their grandmother who had a grandfather who had a piece of candy that made him fly.

[Repost from 12/11/08 -ed]

On the Eve of Fireworks

I wrote this post the night before my first Fourth of July in St. Augustine. It was like my own personal renaissance; everything was new and unfamiliar. I had only been living in Florida since the August before and I was still trying to make sense of who and what I was. Everything had changed and I wasn’t really sure who “Anna” was any more. Five years later, I still relish defining who she is.

07/03/06
I step out of my door and inhale Florida – all the musty warmth, the tropically gaudy smells mingling of dead and growing flowers. I imagine I smell salt on the air, even though the ocean is almost a mile away. The same ocean that I have dreamt of living near my whole life. I am here at last. I feel like I ought to celebrate, though there are no fireworks tonight.

I step out in my oldest, washed to thinness t-shirt, in a vivid red that I know clashes with my hair. The same hair that is pulled back in an untidy ponytail. Flip-flops and jeans that are cut, really, for smaller hips than mine – more Venus Williams than Venus de Milo. And yet, despite my awareness that this is hardly a shining moment of attractiveness, I feel more me than I have in awhile. Not in pearls and suit to impress a client. Not in little black dress and heels to please a boy. I shed my skins of elegance and sexiness, cleverness and intellect. Tonight, I only have to please me.

I step out and return with a sack of Krystals (the fairly subpar White Castle alternative in Florida), the grease soaking softly through the bottom of the sack. I eat them while perched on my stool, likely chewing with my mouth open, barefoot and reading Transmetropolitan. My favorite opera aria is playing on the stereo. Sometimes I forget what it’s like to hang out with me; I spend so much time with others. I am blissfully boring tonight. For a bare handful of hours, I am not a punchline or a sexpot or a muse or a saleswoman. I am not a girlfriend or a daughter or a friend or an employee.

I am just me and, thankfully, there are no fireworks tonight.