Soujin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2005-07-27 11:59 pm
psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2005-07-27 11:59 pm
"When Will I be Loved?"
It would be nice if to-morrow were a magic sort of day.
It's very difficult to find paintings of girls like Rina. I've had far less luck than with Zara. Zara was easy.
I shall have to reread Westmark, for I don't remember enough about Montmollin. In the meantime, could someone help me brush up very quickly?
I still feel as though I were waiting. I still feel--I want to dance. I want to dance like a painting by Degas, in that sort of colours, with that sort of free, fluid motion, like a painting, with beautiful feet and beautiful movements. I want to hold my arms out and twirl to the best kind of music in the world, which nobody at all can hear except for me, secret music that's beautiful. I want to love the whole world and love myself, too, because of the dance, and I should not mind, I don't think, if I were not loved, although it would make everything even more beautiful. I want wind, and maybe soft rain, but not too much. I want a cool day like spring. That's what I feel as though I were waiting for.
Soujin has a painted world and a world of cut together film scenes. Soujin has a world that when it's properly done is the most beautiful place she's ever seen herself, better than Iceland because Iceland is part of it, better than Michigan because Michigan is part of it, better than New Mexico because New Mexico is part of it. It has the farm here in Pennsylvania and it has a montage of all the Fred Astaire films she's ever watched and it has a thousand coloured scarves and a thousand weeks of measuring cups and GoLean Kashi cereal and a dancing stage that's the silver and black stage on which she played Epimetheus for four murderously horrible performances and a deep clear stream where she wrote silly stories about les Amis with Waen when they were much smaller. It has the Adirondacks and Blue Mountain Lake, and standing on the stone at the end of the Point in the sunset, with a loon somewhere in the distance. It has laughing too hard to breathe with Waen when she and Waen used to stay up at night to-gether, and the night they made Peter Lorre in the Land of Weirdos. It has photographs of her grandmother back when her grandmother was alive, and photographs of Nana when Nana still remembered who she was, and in addition there is every photograph she was never allowed to take of her people, of Elsie and Anne and Mary and John-whom-she-rescued and Ken and Gladys and all the people who have gone now, because they died or because they left. It was her poems and her stories and the music Erin wrote for The Tragedy of the Young Composer. It has all the dances (four) that Soujin has ever been to. It has all the best friends in real life (three) that Soujin ever made. It has all the best friends (twenty-six) on the internet. It has all the books. It has Pre-Raphaelite paintings in a book of Yeats, and Edward Gorey illustrations in a book of Belloc.
In Soujin's painted world of film scenes, of course everything has not been perfect, and she is not guilted by nostalgia or by the need to make things sound The Way They Ought into pretending that the unperfect things were lovely or that looking back she doesn't mind them--but in Soujin's world of film scenes that are painted, it has often been perfect.
Because Mum is doing the flowers for the wedding of Father Julian and his pretty fiancee, we shall go. I shall get a piece of wedding cake to take home and put under my pillow, after all. It won't be an elegant combination of white and dark cake with pink creme in between the layers like the wedding on Saturday; it will be carrot cake, because that's what Father Julian's pretty fiance likes.
Perhaps to-morrow will be a magic sort of day.
It's very difficult to find paintings of girls like Rina. I've had far less luck than with Zara. Zara was easy.
I shall have to reread Westmark, for I don't remember enough about Montmollin. In the meantime, could someone help me brush up very quickly?
I still feel as though I were waiting. I still feel--I want to dance. I want to dance like a painting by Degas, in that sort of colours, with that sort of free, fluid motion, like a painting, with beautiful feet and beautiful movements. I want to hold my arms out and twirl to the best kind of music in the world, which nobody at all can hear except for me, secret music that's beautiful. I want to love the whole world and love myself, too, because of the dance, and I should not mind, I don't think, if I were not loved, although it would make everything even more beautiful. I want wind, and maybe soft rain, but not too much. I want a cool day like spring. That's what I feel as though I were waiting for.
Soujin has a painted world and a world of cut together film scenes. Soujin has a world that when it's properly done is the most beautiful place she's ever seen herself, better than Iceland because Iceland is part of it, better than Michigan because Michigan is part of it, better than New Mexico because New Mexico is part of it. It has the farm here in Pennsylvania and it has a montage of all the Fred Astaire films she's ever watched and it has a thousand coloured scarves and a thousand weeks of measuring cups and GoLean Kashi cereal and a dancing stage that's the silver and black stage on which she played Epimetheus for four murderously horrible performances and a deep clear stream where she wrote silly stories about les Amis with Waen when they were much smaller. It has the Adirondacks and Blue Mountain Lake, and standing on the stone at the end of the Point in the sunset, with a loon somewhere in the distance. It has laughing too hard to breathe with Waen when she and Waen used to stay up at night to-gether, and the night they made Peter Lorre in the Land of Weirdos. It has photographs of her grandmother back when her grandmother was alive, and photographs of Nana when Nana still remembered who she was, and in addition there is every photograph she was never allowed to take of her people, of Elsie and Anne and Mary and John-whom-she-rescued and Ken and Gladys and all the people who have gone now, because they died or because they left. It was her poems and her stories and the music Erin wrote for The Tragedy of the Young Composer. It has all the dances (four) that Soujin has ever been to. It has all the best friends in real life (three) that Soujin ever made. It has all the best friends (twenty-six) on the internet. It has all the books. It has Pre-Raphaelite paintings in a book of Yeats, and Edward Gorey illustrations in a book of Belloc.
In Soujin's painted world of film scenes, of course everything has not been perfect, and she is not guilted by nostalgia or by the need to make things sound The Way They Ought into pretending that the unperfect things were lovely or that looking back she doesn't mind them--but in Soujin's world of film scenes that are painted, it has often been perfect.
Because Mum is doing the flowers for the wedding of Father Julian and his pretty fiancee, we shall go. I shall get a piece of wedding cake to take home and put under my pillow, after all. It won't be an elegant combination of white and dark cake with pink creme in between the layers like the wedding on Saturday; it will be carrot cake, because that's what Father Julian's pretty fiance likes.
Perhaps to-morrow will be a magic sort of day.