A Fine and Private Place

Bread cloth (spring) in progress on the way to New Orleans.

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 23:17:21 GMT

Bread cloth (spring) in progress on the way to New Orleans.
Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde

The Fashion Face

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:33:15 GMT

I bid on a 1980 Superstar Barbie Fashion Face in the middle of the night after drinking too many latte’s at J.J. Mocha’s. She has actually shipped already… I’m kind of excited about seeing her.

Believe

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:26:09 GMT

I’m ready to say it. No wimping out this time.

Okay, I’ve been exploring my spirituality lately. Where I live, this is as controversial as exploring your sexuality. I have never had to do that, but believe me, I love to rebel, and would have been happy to if needs be.

For a while I read articles on Witchvox, trying to fit myself into the role as a witch or pagan. I could not really do that. It is so hard for me to accept someone else’s belief system, no matter how open-minded they really are.

I turn things over and over in my mind. I love Jesus and believe in him. I believe the Bible is a radiance which surrounds Jesus and interpret it through my best idea of him, which through my devotion and meditation will hopefully improve.

I love homosexuals. I love anyone who has found love and devotion in another person.

I love Mexican people. I want more of them to come and make a better life in this land where there is plenty, and hope they bring their beautiful language and culture along with them.

It is our responsibility to protect the Earth, our mother. God is our mother and father.

When I have tried to practice as a Wiccan, I have experienced great meditation and connection with the Divine, and more confidence in my principles of denying judgment and negativity and embracing human love.

I have felt peace and affirmation in the fact that it is most beneficial for me to be alone. If I have to be The Last Unicorn for the rest of my life, I’m okay with that.

I have explored my childhood memories of my past lives and affirmed them.

Life is too short not to believe in,

fairies

unicorns

the Goddess.

It’s too short not to try,

to become the great-grandmother in the woods making everything from scratch for her girl-children.

Book reviews

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:03:57 GMT

Available online, free download:

Autumn, by Robert Nathan. 1921. A short novel, captures the lives of individuals in small-town America mainly through the perspective of an aging schoolteacher, at a time between the world wars. I was interested by the juxtaposition between the liberal-minded schoolteacher’s perspective and that of everyone else, as well as the fairness by which the narrator played in depicting most characters.

Escape from Hungary: Three Dark, Cold Days in 1956, by Joseph Nagyvary. A short memoir written by my college biochemistry professor. Having met him personally gave the reading an extra poignancy as I learned about a historical occurrence and a region of the world about which I know almost nothing.

Mistress Anne, by Temple Bailey. 1917. Bailey became my favorite author when I was in middle school and purchased one of her novels from an antique store. I never knew what other novels she had written or hoped to read them for myself until the advent of the Internet and Project Gutenberg. I was especially moved by Geoffrey Fox, the melancholic writer who loves Anne unrequitedly and does not play fair to have her, and the Art-Nouveau Marie-Louise, who beguiles Fox and manages a good relationship with Anne. I had a strong impression of Anne as a Gibson girl and of Marie-Louise as a flapper. Shows the changing aesthetic of the time.

A Sicilian Romance, by Anne Radcliffe. 1790. Meant to entertain, does entertain with timeless elegance. The pacing and touches of melodrama were tasteful. None of the men wept excessively as in The Mysteries of Udolpho. Hero, heroine and villain all compelling. I especially like the heroine’s father, also a villain, and his touches of humanity, and of course the beautiful Italian setting of lakes and ruined castles.

The Book of Tea, by Kakuzo Okakura. 1906. This is an essential for me on Japanese culture and philosophy, to be read again and again.

Paperback:

Blackmaddie, by Jean Innes. 1992. The heroine of the novel, who carries the Maddie likeness, was compelling and vivid, and it is seldom I read a novel whose main character carries the whole story with such energy. I enjoyed her so much that I actually miss her.

Currently reading:

The Sweet Far Thing, by Libba Bray.

The Harney and Sons Guide to Tea, by Michael Harney.

Gisela, a vignette: Love

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 16:43:52 GMT

Gisela sat calmly in the aftermath of Hildegarde’s dramatic outburst, examining the folds of her rent ballgown.

Her hands felt bruised from Anton’s lingering grip.

The Markgraf entered the room suddenly, a tall, unbending figure, and just as rigidly turned to exit.

Gisela moved to her feet, Hildegarde’s ballgown spilling to the floor in a froth of azure billows. “My lord.”

At the sound of her voice he halted and looked back at her, bowing slightly. “Forgive me. I didn’t know anyone was about.”

“Do you desire to be here? I shall leave.”

He hesitated in the doorway. She could not judge his expression by his profile, only observe the hawk-like nose and firm lips.

“I should like to be here, if you have no objection. I do not wish you to go.”

With a nod, Gisela gathered the gown and resumed her seat. She felt his eyes on her.

“Did you enjoy the ball?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You left… so early.”

Gisela smiled at him simply. “I am one for quiet pleasures. Would you believe I prefer to repair a torn gown in a quiet library?”

“The seamstress can do that. You are the companion.”

She set aside needle and thread and lay back partially, impeded by the voluminous bustle of her own gown.

He began shuffling the pages of a nearby book, his tall, lank shadow spreading all the way to the ceiling, defying the furtive, almost nervous, look about him. Again he reminded her of a professor, and she stifled an amused smile.

“Did I offend you earlier this evening?”

She trailed her arm on the slender curve of the sofa. Her long white gloves, scant inches from her underarm, juxtaposed the dark wood and crimson velveteen. “I cannot imagine…” She scarcely recognized the breathless, almost flirtatious voice as it left her. It trailed away as he looked at her above the fluttering pages. “No,” she said calmly.

“You are off-duty, Gisela. Discretion not required at the moment.”

She extended her hand to him from her seated position on the sofa.

He moved so quickly that in barely a second he was at her side, kneeling on the rug, her hands in his. His gaze searched hers, and Gisela’s mind swam. Suddenly she was afraid of the storm that had come.

Gisela, a vignette: Arrival

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 16:43:31 GMT

“Since Oriente’s death, Hildegarde has been unwell.”

“I understand, sir.” Gisela calmly untied the scarf knotted about her throat, its protection no longer needed in the over-warm parlor.

“You are family. I believe I can count on your compassion and discretion.”

Gisela’s eyes widened slightly with surprise. She carefully fought it down. The Markgraf had just stated her two most important duties. She could not strike off one within the first few minutes of her arrival.

“I remember her fondly, sir. I loved her when we were children and was grieved at our parting.” She stopped suddenly, fearing to cause offense. She had been sent away from the estate because her station was unsuitable next to Hildegarde’s. They could never be side by side.

She looked closely at the man who had sent her away years ago. She had hated him for many years, and her hatred made her bold. Though she was aware of his eminence in the Black Forest, she could not cower when she felt morally superior. She found she had to look down once again as he circled the dim parlor and glared at her once more.

“You have become a fine-looking young woman.”

Gisela did not hide her astonishment at the statement. Her hair was the color of a mouse’s fur, her eyes black as soot. “Thank you, sir.”

The Markgraf crossed the parlor. He did not seem capable of staying still. He poured her a drink at the sideboard. A brandy, he explained, to warm her.

Gisela accepted the drink unprotesting but sipped little. She sat near the firelight and drew a deep breath, taking within her lungs the scents of Wolfenburg, and with them, long-dormant memories of her first home.

Wish list

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 19:04:26 GMT

There is some stuff I wanted so bad that is now missing from my Amazon wish list... Can it be? One item in particular. Am I really going to get her for Christmas? I can't wait to know.

Oriente, a vignette: The storm

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 22:42:11 GMT

It was the most volatile storm Oriente had ever experienced. Seated near the window she touched the glass pane trembling with constant thunder. Lightning rollicked in the woods and fields beyond the window, more fascinating than any magic lantern show.

There was a burst of violence in the house as well. She heard shouting, turned in alarm to the door of the morning room. Hildegarde stumbled in, her long, wet curls spilling down her bodice, followed by Helmut, the stable-man, bearing a large, awkward figure wrapped in a cloak.

Oriente’s breath rose and fell as she dreaded to see what violence had befallen the prone form.

Hildegarde’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Will he live, do you think, Helmut?”

Helmut met the gaze of the proud young mistress with a kind of dread, as did nearly all men, except her father, as he grappled with the body at her feet. “He’s not injured, Fraulein. He’s passed out, I think, from the cold and hunger.”

Oriente crossed the room awkwardly with her cane and knelt near them. She extended careful hands toward the cloak to pull it away. She looked anxiously at her sister’s face, but Hildegarde must know the victim’s identity already, for she moved to the bell rope and pulled.

The folds of the heavy cloak fell back to reveal the face of a youth, the color of snow, and glossy black hair encrusted with shards of ice. The heavy head fell immediately into her lap. She gasped softly and felt his arms stirring with muscular tension. He was not unconscious.

She met Hildegarde’s gaze. “He’s returned,” Hildegarde said. “Father will not be pleased.”

Oriente looked back at the youth’s stricken face. His nose, cheekbones and chin were large and well-formed, his lips full. He was changed, but she had known him well. He was the boy who had pushed her wheelchair when she was a child.

She broke the ice away from his hair with a hurried hand and moved convulsively to chafe his fingers.

She looked at Hildegarde, wondering why their father would be displeased. She did not know why the boy had been sent away with his mother. But Hildegarde was a confidant of the Markgraf, while Oriente was the silent daughter.

The large, long fingers curved around her own, enveloping them, and the youth opened his eyes, looking into her face. His gaze was unfocused, pain-filled.

Helmut and Hildegarde lifted him to the sofa where Oriente had lain previously, and Oriente covered his legs with her blanket, herself at his feet. She was still sitting that way when her father stalked into the room.

Oriente, a dream - a vignette

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 14:59:28 GMT

Oriente entered the morning room and drew back the curtains to view a landscape swathed in heavy snow. She sat by the window, pulling a blanket over her legs, and withdrew a journal from her pocket. She wrote quickly in a fine hand for about fifteen minutes before a maid entered the room.

The maid looked startled. “Excuse me, my lady. I didn’t know you were up and about. I’ll bring your breakfast shortly.”

Oriente sat back in the window seat and viewed the landscape, entering a reverie for a moment after the interruption. She looked down at her words with complacency.

She had had a vivid dream the night before that she wanted to capture. It had been peopled with those familiar to her in different situations, in a different time. The situations in her dream had been more volatile, the emotions burning scarlet as an opium vision.

She felt scalded by another’s passion, as though she had opened the wrong door at the wrong time in her home. Things were different now. The passions were muffled, like voices drifting through the wall.

What does it mean? she wrote. Is this a vision from the past, or like a prism for the present, turned that I may see a different side? Or perhaps it is a premonition of the future. That the passions that lay dormant now will enliven into frenzy and violence.

She looked at the snow covering the courtyard, partially melting to reveal black, hard earth. The promise of what would come could be ignored, but it would not be thwarted any more than the new growth that would succeed the spring thaw.

Vignette, Oriente, in church

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 14:24:58 GMT

She looked forward at the altar. The sun streamed behind the stained glass there, illuminating the enormous cross with distinct rays. The effect was eye-dazzling. She watched the light move in shapes, swaying with the trees behind the building.

"You noticed him also?" Hildegarde whispered. Her face was transfixed.

Oriente fell back into the present being, glancing at the figure crossing the front of the church. He was arrayed in splendid crimson and gold robes, a picture of festivity, owing to the Weihnachten season, though his features were serene and solemn. He looked quite young for a priest.

She stole a glance at her sister. She was one that would take even God's own. In answer to her question Oriente shook her head quickly and looked back at the altar.

"Darling, you are so pious. I wish I could be as you." Silence could lead so many people to so many different conclusions about her. She was like a blank easel onto which her family members painted their hopes and fears.

She wondered how her life would be if she were cured of muteness. If she could speak, would she, hearing all she had heard, knowing all she knew?

Cold winter's day

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 20:07:05 GMT

It keeps getting colder, and I just want to hibernate. I have to get this wreck of a sewing room in order. How do dolly things get so out of control?

I have the dolls I am thinking of keeping on the shelves. Madame Alexander Wendy and Candy Fashion (currently undergoing stain treatment) are definite keepers. I dressed up Victoria this morning and realized I can't let her go. Michelle, the large child doll, is missing pieces from her original costume and currently wearing something antique. I don't know if I will keep her. If I get an American Girl I will definitely sell her.

Titanic Rose as well cleaned up nicely. This brown wig is amazing on her. I may need to get more Jackie O fashions.

As far as the rest, it's a wretched mess. Every doll needs some kind of repair or hair style fix, and many of them are missing costume details. I feel overwhelmed by my huge, huge mess made worse in not knowing for sure which dolls I will keep.

Violette and Rose, in sewing room

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 19:59:31 GMT

Violette and Rose, in sewing room
Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde

Marguerite's benzoyl peroxide treatment

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 19:59:16 GMT

Marguerite's benzoyl peroxide treatment
Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde

More dolls, in sewing room

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 19:59:10 GMT

More dolls, in sewing room
Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde

Morgan le Fay, in sewing room

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 19:58:20 GMT

Morgan le Fay, in sewing room
Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde

The huge mess

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 19:57:28 GMT

The huge mess
Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde

Vignettes

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 21:40:05 GMT

Each day I want to connect with my characters, but writing linear fiction is too confusing. My thoughts and attitudes are in flux every day. These characters still live, but I am disconnected with them until I find a new way to relate to them.

I thought to create an exercise I would spend a few moments with the same character each day, as with the previous post.

Oriente is a kind of twisted Cinderella, unappreciated and neglected like Cinderella, but due to social circumstances rather than status circumstances. The love that she finds in my story is twisted, unacceptable to society.

I always find myself returning to her when I think to write a vignette. She is the more human half of Hildegarde. Hildegarde as always is a fantasy ideal I created, but a realistic depiction of the corruption the world's approbation creates.

Oriente, a vignette

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 21:23:29 GMT

She was confined in a gray room with large windows. Rain beaded on the window panes. Though nestled on a sofa with a wool blanket over her legs, she could feel the chill of the outdoors radiating through the glass.

She heard sounds from outside of the room, gaiety and laughter. Above all sounds she heard the brazen voice of her twin, Hildegarde. She realized a smile was frozen in place on her face, a smile she had forced hours ago when a maid had brought her warm tea and dinner. The girl had entered the room awkwardly, looking at Oriente as though she were a circus spectacle. Why did people do that? she wondered. Why were others so uncomfortable around her? Hildegarde was a sparkling social success, and hailed as the most beautiful maiden in the Black Forest. Oriente was identical to her physically, but because of her quietness others treated her as a freak.

Tuesday notes

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 15:02:55 GMT

Usually Monday is a good day for me, because I'm rested from the weekend and forcing my energy to get into the week. Yesterday I didn't do very much after all. I tried twice to exit to do some Christmas shopping, but spaced out both times and ended up right at the turn for home. Maybe today will be the day.

Ginny's leg fell off. The hot glue didn't work. Marguerite as well is a mess. The tights stained her legs black, and I haven't seen my Mr. Clean sponge since we moved.

eBay has a sale these two days on listing fees. I really want to get something together.

Gray swath

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 15:00:43 GMT

I love the gray woolen cloak that envelops us now. Winter makes me feel safe.

This weekend I put up Christmas decorations. Each year I alternate my scheme. One year I do a bright scheme, and the next a pale scheme. This year is the pale scheme. I swathed the wreath in a white scarf and used white lace bows and pale ball ornaments on the tree.

I affixed one of Ginny's legs last night. It worked, but I wouldn't go pulling on it. It isn't nearly as secure as the job I did on my other doll.

This week my most important goal is to establish my routine. I will feel less worried and distracted about chores if I have an established time to do them. My other efforts to do this have failed, so this week I am monitoring my energy and writing down when I was able to do what task.

My day of thanks

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 16:48:54 GMT

Little pumpkins
Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde
Reuniting with your family can be like reuniting with yourself, when you have not seen yourself in a long time.

Coming back to the place of my origins I remember things I have forgotten about the pine woods, gulf air and generous stretches of water. The homes are enveloped in a generous swath of green, so unlike the green which Nature rations scrupulously where I live.

It is hard to select the nicest of moments. The silence after all the talk was said. The moment following the moment of initial terror when I meet my mother's gaze after so long, knowing she'll know I'm different and no words to explain how, and her great joy toward me, different or same.

Listening to even more stories I have not heard before about my Dad's family -- how could there be more? -- but there are, and they're even better than the previous ones.

Vintage farm truck ♥

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 00:15:14 GMT

Matte powder blue is my favorite truck color.

Lovely Friday afternoon

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 21:30:46 GMT

I'm so glad I made it. Now for an hour or two in the bed with stuffies and novels. I am in the middle of three, can't decide which one to read first.

The Sweet Far Thing

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 14:50:19 GMT

This morning, finally reading The Sweet Far Thing and eating a pastry. I feel a little bewildered. The holidays always make me feel this way. I know I desperately need time for myself, the days of vacation stretch ahead, and there's many family obligations to fill them, mine and his.

My sewing room is becoming a special place. I've excavated my Pre-Raph paintings from my college dorm room and installed shelving. Aspen, Marguerite and Violette are happy together.

Repairs

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 18:30:21 GMT

I have not been able to throw away my broken Ginny. Everytime I look at her I am awed by her beauty, perhaps more prominent in contrast to her broken back and collar bone. Last night I tried glueing the worst break together with Super Glue. It seemed to hold. There's another smaller portion along her shoulder to repair, then I am going to buy her two new legs. I found exactly the right size. Ginny was intended for scavenging parts for another broken doll. I was able to sell that doll recently at a good price, but this Ginny, who I had always intended to throw away, works her spell on me. If I can get the breakage resolved I will place the order for her legs. I am trying to move as many older porcelain dolls out the door as possible but I keep ending up with a few pets. A few as in ten or so. Sigh...