Alice and her Adventures

Today I finished reading “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” by Lewis Carroll. Though it is known to many that Carroll was on drugs and Alice in Wonderland is a product of his wild story telling, I found this short little fairy tale amusing and enticing. The random happenings and absolute nonsense of the book somehow flows together into and easy read that makes me feel like a little girl again. (Plus I liked that it had pictures. heehee) Then, this afternoon while at Starbucks with some friends, I was told that Carroll was not only a drug addict, but also fancied little girls and the book was like a love note to a young girl in particular! As said by Katherine Heigl in the movie “27 Dresses,” “I feel like I just found out my favorite long song was written about a sandwich.” So of course I went to find the truth. He was very good friends with the Liddell family, and the youngest daughter was Alice. She always wanted him to write the stories he told to her, and after a few years of procrastination, it was finally published and illustrated. Though there is no sound evidence to Carroll being a pedophile, he was always better friends with the young than true adults and often took sketchy photos of little girls. That is enough for me to say that I would not sit around for an interview with this guy. Eww. It all just makes my skin crawl. Soo… anyways. Aside from the pedophile thing, this book was truly a literary masterpiece and I would recommend it to the imaginative people I know. I plan to read the sequel, “Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There.”

Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley

So this weekend has been a rather silly one. I hung out with my buddy Blake from school. She LOVES action movies and rarely watches girly movies. So, I brought one of my all time favorite movies for us to watch, Pride and Prejudice. Throughout the movie Blake giggled, gasped, hit me out of excitement, and by the end declared herself Mrs. Darcy. I was okay with that because I had previously declared myself Mrs. Bingley. (Charles Bingley is my goofy, silly, factional true love.) Blake told me she now understood me on a better level and why I am so emotionally messed up. It’s all to blame on chick flicks (ahem… excuse I mean “romantic comedies.” A girl once ate me out for calling them chick flicks.) Jane Austen is the author of this fine literature masterpiece. As I’ve said before, I sometimes pretend that Jane and I have teatime together and have girl talk. In my fantasy world she is one of my best friends. (Also in my fantasy world, chocolate never makes you gain weight and toast flies, constantly supplying you a delicious breakfast meal when need be.) Anyways, Blake and I have come to address each other, spontaneously, as Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley, talking in British accents and using big words. For instance, we were walking to gym, talking all British-like.

“Mrs. Bingley, tea with you yesterday was absolutely splendid,” she said.

“Oh yes, absolutely. But out conversation has left my head quite disheveled. I am in a state of confusion,” I said.

“Well that is often what happens when we speak of your emotional state. It is a one of great disarray,” Mrs. Darcy said.

What I Know

I often find myself at a loss of words or inspiration to write. I love writing. I truly do. But I also find myself so extremely confused and jumbled on the inside when I try to put an image in my head into the written language. Today, while lounging on an only semi-comfortable chair in Starbucks with a dear friend, I professed (which probably sounded more like complaining) my complication. She, racking deep in her head for the correct quote, told me something that knocked my heart. It knocked me like a drumstick hitting a symbol, the vibrating sound reverberating into the air around it. She said, “When you don’t know what to write, write what you know.” So, in its truest form, here is what I know. I know that Swedish Fish only taste good after the first few fish. I know that Elvis Costello’s voice is eccentric and can only be appreciated by authentic music connoisseurs. I know that my Dad is proud of our Scottish heritage, so he bought a kilt with our clan pattern. What he doesn’t know is that though it’s overwhelmingly embarrassing when he wear it in public, I’m secretly proud of him. I know that sunrises and sunsets are the purest parts of a day. I know that Audrey Hepburn was true and real and honest and she had the kind of elegance I aspire to have. I know that God forgives when we mess up. I know that my bent, broken, and contrite heart is healed and cleaned and made pure again through Him. These are some of the things that I know, pieced together from the mementoes of my fourteen years.

Melancholy tea

Maybe it’s the thin blanket of snow that lies beneath the dead Georgia grass. Maybe it’s the smell of freshly made coffee wrapping around my nose, tempting me to dive into its warm embrace. Maybe it’s that the house is empty and I’ve got ukulele music playing. It seems though, reasons aside, that I have a sense of content melancholy that makes me want to go on a walk in Barcelona, or clean my room, or open all the windows and let the 17 degree air flood the house. It seems only that I’m calmer than I’ve been in weeks. I want to capture this feeling, and lock it in a treasure box. It will float there, never-changing, never evaporating with time. And when the words stresses and the millions of decisions I have to make are choking and drowning me forcefully, I will open up the treasure box. I will then make a steaming cup of calm, content melancholy tea that has a hint of blueberry, and the stresses will melt away. Like the sun warming the iced roads, melting away the cold.