Of Optimism and Days

Every day, in order to improve my positive outlook, I'm going to come up with three things to be happy about. Here's today's:
1. Composition Books
2. Flowering Trees
3. Colorful Walls

Optimistically,
Rosie L.

Of Purple Houses and Plotlines

I know I have been absent for quite a while (It's already Saturday-- I can't believe it!), but I am back now, and in full swing. I've been doing backstage work for a play all week, and the rehearsals last really late, so I've just come home and crashed, then got up early again. When did I have the time? I have become less uninterested in guys lately. I try to pretend that I am fully eschewing them, but I can't help wishing that I had a boyfriend (especially My Prince). But I don't, so ah, well. What can ya' do? I'll just keep a positive outlook, and the good news is that I finally have Raspberry Beret to put here!

"She had a raspberry beret, the kind that you find in a secondhand store."

I walked past my favorite house in the world, and listened hard. It was on a street about four blocks down from mine, in the less upper-class part of the neighborhood, and it was painted a vibrant shade of purple. The weeping willows that swept their branches on the ground outside of that house had tinkly silver bells fastened to the ends of their bows, and they rang with a delightful, sugar-plum-fairy sort of sound when the slightest breeze touched them.

Today I was lucky, and an April wind was stirring the branches. I paused for a moment in front if the house, just listening. Then, with a sigh, I hoisted my bag farther up on my shoulder and continued on my way home. Apart from school, home was my least favorite place. My parents were always wondering why I wasn’t more like the next door neighbor’s girl, Julia. I always had one answer to this: Julia was a suck-up. She always did everything her parents wanted; she wore their pantyhose and loafers, their pink poly-blend sweaters. She attended their social functions, had the friends they wanted her to have, and kept her room their boring shades of beige.

When I arrived at my overly ornate, beige front door, I sighed and pulled on the doorknob. The door, to my disappointment, opened, and I trudged gloomily into the living room. My mother came rushing out to greet me. She had managed to force me into a poly-blend sweater this morning, and was ecstatic about it. I had, however, paired it with my Docs, and, somewhere throughout the day, had pinned almost half of my political button collection to it. When mom saw this, her face fell a bit, but she still said, in a good-natured voice, “Hi, Sweetie! How would you like to go shopping with Julia today?”

I just looked at her. She knew perfectly well how I felt about Julia. When she kept looking at me without relent, I muttered, “Homework,” and made an escape up to my room. When I finally got there, I closed the door and collapsed on my bed with a sigh. My room was the only part of the house that I felt comfortable in. my multi-colored walls, painted without my parent’s consent by myself and my aunt Gloria, were a welcome break from the monochromatic house. After staring at my punk band and women’s rights posters for a bit, I pulled myself up from my comforter, grabbed my bag, and elected to go out for a bit. The homework excuse hadn’t been entirely a lie: I did have plenty of homework, but it would be easier to ignore that fact for a bit than to try to bring myself to do it right then. I was in a rebellious mood (it was almost a state of mind now), and homework wasn’t rebellious enough. Maybe going out and buying another Sex Pistols CD would be. So I slipped out of my room and into the hall. I made it down the stairs before I saw my mom. She was talking to the maid, Violet, and didn’t notice as I came down.

However, when I opened the front door, she did notice me, and said, “Claire! Where are you going?”

“Cara’s house. To study.” I informed her.

“All right. Just be home by nine.” I slipped out of the door, silently thanking Cara for saving me yet again. Cara was my imaginary best friend. I had led my mom to believe she was real, so I could use her as an excuse whenever I wanted to go out to buy something or to stare at my favorite house.

When I got downtown, I drifted toward the record shop, but as I neared it, I realized I didn’t really even want another CD. I had enough of them. So, unsure of quite what else to do, but quite sure that I wouldn’t be going home, I floated around downtown, heading vaguely toward a nearby café for a well-received cup of coffee. However, as I was walking down Main Street, I noticed a shop I had never seen there before. As I practically lived downtown, I knew almost every shop there.

It must be new, I thought. When I approached it, I saw that it was in a building as old as the one that housed the café and many of the restaurants. It was cracked in many places, the yellow paint was peeling, and ivy was beginning to creep up it in many places. I looked around in the windows of the shop for some indication that it may have just recently moved there, but saw none. Not even a single faded sign with “New!” in cracking red letters. So, overcome with curiosity, I opened the door and stepped in. a string of bells rang frantically as I came in. on cue, a portly woman with a dull purple house dress (and here I had thought those went out of style in the 60’s—god knows they should have) with a matching straw hat forced down over her wildly curly dark hair. She looked me over from “Think—It’s Not Illegal Yet” button to mid-calf Doc Martens, and uttered a disapproving “can I help you?”

“No thanks,” I told her. “I’m just looking around.” She scowled, but retreated into the depths of her shop. I started into the shop, cringing and shuddering at most of the things I saw. This shop seemed to be a recreation of a 50’s store that only sold things to people over the age of forty. I preserved, however, because I knew the rules of thrifting, and the number-one rule is that you have to look hard, or all you’ll find will be crocheted sweaters with hideously deformed kittens on them and pleated khaki shorts. After sorting fruitlessly through shelves and shelves of items like these, I hit on something.

At first I overlooked it, but my long years of living in a city where secondhand shops were the body of the consumer economy had taught me well. Looking at my find, I saw that it was a wool beret the color of raspberries. I picked it up and put it on my head. When I looked in the dusty mirror that was leaning against a nearby wall, I saw that my head looked astonishingly similar to a muffin. After a little adjusting, however, I found I looked like one of those French artists that stand around in parks painting the seine.

After admiring my reflection once more, I pulled the beret off and made my way over to the counter to pay for it. The clerk looked surprised that such an item would be in her shop, but took my money anyway, and stared me out of the shop. Once on the street, I looked at my watch, and thought that maybe at last I could go home. I put the raspberry beret on my head, and stopped to adjust in front of a shop window, then continued on my way.

I was falling into a forest of red, full of raspberry bushes, with the brilliantly scarlet autumn leaves reflected in the pond, making it shine crimson, too. I hit the ground with a muffled thump, having fallen on top of a pile of autumn leaves the color of ripe strawberries. As I sat up, the world began to spin, the haze of different shades of red making my head spin. I stood up slowly and unsteadily, and tottered over to the pond. I looked in it and saw myself wearing my raspberry beret like a Parisian artist. The world kept spinning, but I didn’t notice it anymore. The raspberry beret, in the pond, was sparkling.

I woke up slowly that morning, quite without the confused jolt that usually comes after a dream. I sat up, and felt like the world was still spinning. I closed my eyes and shook my head, then opened them and looked at my The Clash poster, and the spinning stopped. I looked in my mirror, and saw myself, in my oversize t-shirt and leggings, quite without my beret. My beret, in fact, was sitting unremarkably on my bedside table, looking benign and very much not sparkling.

That's the first scene, but then I skipped a bit because there was a scene I really wanted to write.

The long crab grass pushing up between the cracks in the sidewalk scraped soles of faithful mid-calf Docs as I approached the Purple House. I didn't think about it, though, because I was right then walking past the bell-laden willow trees. I figured, as I was already fulfilling my lifelong desire, I might as well go all out. I reached out next to me and did something I had wanted to do almost my entire life. I gently grasped one of the tiny silver bells and rang it gently. The tinkly sound that followed delighted my ears and heightened my confidence, and I continued my purposeful stride down the walk.

As I approached the Purple House and rang the bell, I half expected that no one would answer the door, because this whole thing seemed almost too... opportunistic to be true. Despite my expectations, the door opened after several seconds of clacking footsteps. I looked up into the face of a tall, elegant middle-aged woman. Her face was creased around the eyes and mouth, but right then she looked very serious. She was wearing a long, black dress and an apron, and I had begun to suspect that she was a maid. The house was pretty big, after all, even if it wasn't as colossal as the mansions that I lived around (and in). I realized with a jolt that I had been standing there for almost a full minute, thinking, and that the maid had been standing there in the threshold, her expression as mild as ever. My face colored and I stuttered, "I... um... I-- I just came to..."

"Finally come to your senses, have you?" the maid asked in a voice that was slightly gravelly, but just as neutral as her expression. "Well, you'd best come with me, then." Confused, the gears of my brain working feebly to understand what was going on, I followed her. By the time we had traversed the long (but not as lengthy as in my house) corridors, past odd still lives showcasing various pieces of exotic fruit, my confusion had faded to and overwhelming, nagging curiosity to know what was going to happen next.

I looked around the room we were in now. It was a living room, and had lavender walls with dried plants framed and hung up. Two darker lilac couches in chairs formed a square around a coffee table. But what attracted my attention most was the people sitting on the chairs and couches. There were six of them. Three were brown-haired, a boy and girl who were seemed to be twins and looked about my age, and a young child, a girl with an elaborate dress and hairdo, who looked no older than seven. The other three had red hair, blonde hair, and textured dark hair. The blonde looked at me with narrowed eyes, but his eyes weren't narrowed in a menacing way, just in a contemplative way. The redhead and the twins both greeted me with friendly smiles. The child looked wary, and the dark-haired one wasn't paying any attention to me at all, but rather to an embroidery cloth she was [bent over with extreme concentration].

The maid looked around as mildly as ever, nodded once to the blonde, and left the room. As soon as the maid left, the redhead, who looked about twenty and was wearing a floaty white tunic, jumped up as soon as the maid left and said eagerly, “You’re Claire, right? Welcome, welcome! That beret used to be mine, you know!” With that, her excited smile turned alarmingly quickly into an expression of horrified realization. The blonde man glared meaningful daggers at her, and she said, “Oh, crap! Mark, I’m sorry!”

“Can’t you keep, your mouth shut, Rosie?!” the blonde, who was obviously Mark, asked meanly. “We weren’t supposed to tell her yet!”

Rosie recovered quickly, and said cheerily, though slightly anxiously, “Well, we might as well explain to her now!”

“Fine,” mark grumbled. “Go ahead.”

“Well, to start, I think some introductions are in order. First of all, who are you?” Rosie asked me.

I was very surprised. The way these people had been behaving, I had assumed (quite reasonably, I thought) that they knew who I was. I didn’t want another incident like the one with the maid, however, so I answered right away, “I’m Claire,” I said, blushing. I had always hated my name. It had been my parents’ idea (Naturally. Who else’s idea could it have been? Certainly not mine).

“Hi, Claire,” Rosie said, looking slightly surprised. People always expected me to have a name like Dahlia or Lee. Claire did not fit my character. Looking sheepish, she introduced me, “Okay, everyone, this is Claire.” Then she pointed to the young girl, the brunette twins, the blonde guy, and the embroidery girl, respectively, and said, “That’s Cassie, Marie and Sebastian, Mark, and Madrina.”

And that's all I've got so far! I've been thinking about it, but I'm still not quite sure what should happen next.

-- Rosie L.

Just a Little Poem I Wrote

I can't concentrate, and the words in my brain just won't straighten out.
I have phrases, have ideas.
I have thoughts.
I have poetry.
But I can't seem to get it out.
My pen tip flows: a waterfall of blue-black ink.
Blurring at the edges.
Agitating me more.
My ideas, though, are not like ink.
They don't flow, they won't sit on paper.
They will sit and stew in brain matter.
They will float and fly and never alight.
They will remain half-formed because they just won't cooperate
Like trying to catch doves in the morning.
They say: Write poetry. How hard can it be?
Pressure.
Pressure to win, because if I don't, what will become of my self-esteem?
Everyone else: wonderful poets.
Give me advice. They write
Amazing poems.
They write ideas, not complaints.
How? I wonder, as my pen tip flows.
They don't understand my plight.
Plight, because this is my future.
These disobedient ideas
This pressure;
I am a writer
But of fiction: without rhythm or rhyme or any of those cursed, blessed plagues.
Fiction: my straightforward fiction.
My poetic fiction.
My comfortable fiction.
Without pressure: my world of chapters and plots,
Characters, and, ultimately, inescapable ideas.
Even fiction is no longer comfortable.
Harsh editors.
Rejected by publishers.
Poetry
And fiction
The fate (and delight) of a writer.
Who was to know?

Of Daffodils and Dancing

I haven't actually written in quite a long time (a week, to be precise), due to Extreme Business on my part. But now i am writing to say that my long-term obsession with J has now come to an end. A final and complete end. An overall stop. In fact, for now I am going to be focusing on the important things: my writing, my friends, the fact that spring has indeed now sprung, and, alas, My Prince, things such as that. Speaking of spring springing (teehee), I never thought daffodils and magnolia flowers ( such as the ones blooming in my front yard), as well as the sun looming over the clouds and finally (after quite a long struggle) managing to peak out, could give as much delight as it has. Perhaps I have finally learned to enjoy the simple things in life. On the subject of enjoyment, I went to a dance last night. In past dances I have attended, I haven't actually really done any dancing. This time, however, I danced for almost the entire thing (except for the slow songs, because I don't have anyone to dance with), and had more fun than I ever have in my entire life (well, possibly). But, alas, the magnolias call me, and I feel I must get up off of this computer chair and out and about.

Delightedly,
Rosie L.

Of Floaty Lilac Dresses and Confessions

I have finally left my family's house, and I head for home today! Alas, perhaps My Prince is waiting for me there? I can only hope... actually, I have begun thinking quite a bit about... J!! Perhaps he is My Prince after all? I think I shall call him sometime soon and make a huge marvy confession and see how he reacts. Because even if he reacts badly, I will never, ever see him again. Probably. In any case, I head for home today! I hope I will finally have access to my other computer and will be capable of letting Raspberry Beret unfold on the digital pages of my blog. But one can only hope, can't they? Now I am in quite a whimsical mood (due to that last rather whimsical sentence). I feel like putting on a floaty lilac dress and prancing about the yard with a basket of flowers, with a white horse sort of galloping around me. But I don't really have a white horse, or a floaty lilac dress, or indeed a basket. I might be able to locate some flowers, but I would probably be ravaging my flower bed for the rest of the season. So I shall refrain from my whimsical tendencies and thoughts. I shall be practical and hardworking! I shall drive, drive like the wind! I shall call J, and he shall admit that he has loved me all his life (well, since I met him a couple of months ago)! I'm off!!!!

No-longer-whimsically,
Rosie L.

Of Failure and Life Completion

Today was my last day visiting my family. When I took Jordan for a walk, I looked and looked, harder than ever, but I still didn't see anyone. I've been looking, and, frankly, my fruitless results have left me slightly disheartened. I guess I'm better off finding him where I live, so that I could see him more often. I guess I can't give up now, because this is a lifetime thing and I've just started. I must press on!! At least I have finally finished my school project, so I've got that out of the way. Thank goodness!! Now I just need to finish Raspberry Beret (which I haven't really been working on), get my masters in library science (sorry-- information science), publish a book, work with Greenpeace to save endangered species, and find My Prince until my life is complete. I can't wait. I can't wait at all. Well, maybe something exciting will happen when I get home. My life is once again becoming vaire vaire boring... Maybe I should stir up some excitement by calling J. If it wouldn't be to clingy. Would it?

Confusedly,
Rosie L.

Of Princes and Red Clay

It all began yesterday evening, when I was walking my grandmother's dog. As I strolled the streets of small-town North Carolina, the red clay caking on my shoes and the 50-degree breeze chilling me through my sweater, I got to thinking. I realized, then and there, that I hadn't yet found My Prince. My Prince is The One. Everyone has a Prince (or a Princess). My Prince will have dark, floppy hair that curls up at the ends. He will be taller than me, and will wear button-down shirts and jeans, and Converses. He will be athletic, but not a jock. He will be artsy, or at least appreciate my artsiness, and he will be sweet. Most of all, he will love me no matter what, and he will NOT be a Republican. I don't care how much I can learn. Nu-uh. Not gonna happen. Anyway, as I tugged Jordan (the dog) away from people's yards, where he had his nose pressed to the vivid green grass, I looked at every house I passed, and I looked for My Prince. Needless to say, I didn't find him, but I will keep looking for ever and ever. Maybe J is My Prince, and I really should call him. Maybe not. All I know is, I WILL find him eventually. I will keep looking forever, and I will make mistakes, but in the end, he'll show up. For now, I need to go sand some furniture.

Determinedly,
Rosie L.

Of Naughty Cats and Reminders

Right now I am visiting some family in good ol' North Carolina. However, we are having a slight problem with a very naughty cat that seems to be a neatness motivator. If anyone leaves any clothes on the floor, she will automatically pee on them. At least it will help everyone remember to not leave stuff on the floor. Goodness knows i will not be leaving clothes on my room floor ever again. Some of my family are talking about putting the cat to sleep, but I think that's a bit harsh. Just stop leaving your clothes on the floor, for Pete's sake! Anyway, (although I know everyone can't wait to hear more about the cat) I am not having much luck getting over J, because right when I think I've got it, Na goes and reminds me of him! Saying I should call him and such. Should I? I have a feeling it would seem clingy, but Na doesn't think so. Giddy God Trousers, Na, shut up about J!!!

Irritatedly (I know, I know-- not a word!),
Rosie L.

Well, my schedule has once again slowed down and I find myself with much spare time to write Raspberry Beret. However, the rest of it is still on my other computer, which is currently being used. So, I am in a pinch. I suppose I'll just have to copy it down here another time. Ah, well. Dramatic things on the J front have significantly slowed down, as well, since i never see him anymore. I am trying to forget him, but the only problem is that I don't want to. I'm having some trouble thinking of a fantasy element for Raspberry Beret (this abrupt change of subject is due to the fact that I am very much not thinking about J), so if anyone actually reads this and could give me some feedback, I would really appreciate it. I am going to be very busy over spring break (I'm visiting family-- and I have a school project to do, award metals to make, and a scene i've just agreed to help a friend with to write), so i don't know how much I'll get done. I'm off!

Appreciatively,
Rosie L.