Wednesday, 2 November 2011
Of Flappers and Philosophers
Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall
– F. Scott Fitzgerald
Oh dear I have abandoned this a little, the summer was long and heart sore and I wandered off the edge of that map… November arrived clear and golden, with starry shoes left on the doorstep beside the pumpkins but I’ve no ball to go to and today was as grey and as dark as dust even at noon and there is a wind howling around the house as strong as that hurt in my soul. But for weeks I’ve been dreaming of snow and houses I don’t yet know, that new early light filtering through the rooms, of men with steadfast hearts and a kind calmness, men made of something more earthy than that fickle sea, of days like a blank page, filled with deep comfort and hard work, of paper, ink and thought… perhaps I’ll click those heels together and find my way home.
I’m making plans and filling my days with towers of words, new plans of journeys and time better spent. The Weather Watcher is still on to brew; she’s still in love with that man and drawing the rains down, I’m gathering up charms and storing that light… I’m sketching through a new set of tales, still in that eldritch realm, still taking that fairy tale effort and a needle and thread, of women and the hardships and hearts they wore on their sleeves… There is a thesis on to boil too although it is early days yet. It all flits through my mind and won’t allow me to sit still.
Today is grey and stormy, my thoughts as discontent as the weather although I am hoping for calm days, crisp and golden… Today I love piles of blankets on the beds and stacks of books beside them, I love starry nights and content days that taste of coffee and pears, I love laughter and kindness and loathe nasty words full of impatience and spite. Today the woman I want to be has good reason to wear such shoes, she lays out under those stars someone warm and lovely beside her, she drinks coffee with her breakfast and starts the day early with ink on her fingers and jazz playing through the rooms, soft and low and someone to dance with slow and hazy on the kitchen tiles…
Look up and get lost by StgSalt on Flickr
Title from a book of stories also by Fitzgerald, and I'm feeling a little like both...