all sumptuary laws repealed

O lordly ones that dwell
In secret places in the hollow hills,
Who have put moonlit dreams into my mind
And filled my noons with visions, from afar
I hear sweet dewfall voices...
(Fiona MacLeod)

Embroidered Hungarian dress, from Magyar.org:

If you hear a voice within you say "you cannot paint," then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced. (Vincent Van Gogh)

Soft air, flowering branches, fragrance, a view of mountains.

Bought pencils, modeling clay, pastels and a drawing pad today. I haven't handled anything artsy since...seventh grade?

Made a sketch and rather liked it.

Why not?

They say I have a good eye, you know. Why not a good eye and good fingers too, and thus, some worthwhile art?

I didn't want to sleep tonight without posting something. And when I can't think what to write, at least I can post something to see.

I found this after doing a Google image search for 'beauty' -- ready to take whatever came, and this was perfect (as everything always is):

Why is it that I wrote some beautiful poems (maybe even three or four that were truly good) in my late teens and early- to mid-twenties, but virtually nothing thereafter? The capacity has not left me. I haven't suffered brain damage. I hardly grew to perceive less beauty in the world as time went on, or less sorrow; it's not like I grew less familiar with the language, its nuances and echoes.

Nor is it that I nurtured, back then, some wild or romantic side of me that I neglect now; if anything -- sadly enough for the shy girl I was -- that side is given more freedom now (enwrapped though I still am in self-consciousness, fear, timidity, awkwardness, vague shame).

What happened? I don't know. I should have a volume of poetry written now, not three or four decent poems from ten years ago. How do I find that again? How do I call the words back to me?

It's not a matter of just writing, of settling down to do it; it never was, for me. Inspiration seized upon me, unbidden, thrilling...the words poured into my head in a fine sparkling stream as into a chalice, almost as if I didn't create them myself. And now I'm empty, empty. And it's been so long.

O Lady, Star-Kindler, Queen of light and darkness, Queen of gold and silver apples... guardian of cave and flame, spirit of wind and dew... cauldron-keeper, torch-bearer, weaver of wonder, enchanter of all the world... help me, help your grieving daughter.

I am an empty cup, forgotten, dry on a dusty shelf.

Something, anything. Something!

... An image then. Replenish the well.

_____________________________________________

For Eostre: moonstone egg

Darkness, rain. Moving air. Warm spring night, wet and secret.

Slow thunder.

Favorite words (a work in progress):

~ darkling ~ blossom ~ myriad ~ lovely ~ benison ~ within ~ starry ~ chalice ~ eldritch ~ sparkling ~ dusk ~ passion ~ spinney ~ bittersweet ~ epiphany ~ rustling ~ mellow ~ calyx ~ scatter ~ estuary ~ labyrinthine ~ faience ~

Image of the day:

This house made my heart ache with melancholy pleasure and a kind of longing:





I feel being on that porch with delight all over the back of my neck. A breeze; leafy shade; peace. Tears well in my eyes at the thought.

Something about this porch conjures up the quality of the Dream House, that is, the house from my vivid dream of several months ago.

The house in my dream was an old and somewhat crumbling red brick Victorian with dirty/weathered white stonework accents with curlicues (I don't know how to describe them); it had a front porch with a corner entrance. And it was close-held by a few trees, protected by their loving dark ancient presence. It was older than the Krippendorf Lodge, but had a similar feel somehow; the wide porch, the floorboards, the secluded setting.

In the dream, empty autumnal lawns swept downward from the house and ended in dense woods; the house was in no city. Not far from one, maybe above a city on an old road along a ridgetop, but secluded. Peace and harmony there, and space, and love, it was home. Home to me and my man. It was our home. I can't type that without crying.

It isn't a real, literal place -- my real dream home would be on a city street, and not as shabby as this house was, and it would have stained glass etc. -- but it's symbolic of something. Love? Our lives?

Why is it so difficult to write?

~It's one thing to choose beautiful things.
~It would be quite another to make beautiful things.



jewellery sculpture stained glass ceramics mosaic painting weaving embroidery metalwork glass paper wood

Trying to break the chains of self-censoring; trying to nurture my creativity through anonymity; trying to make a little hidden path in a darkling wood for my tangled thoughts, creative flashes, aesthetic raptures, absurd indulgences, whatever I want.

Wind and dew, starwoven shadow,
darkling wood and moonlit meadow...

Lead me then, lead me the way (as DH Lawrence has it).

I can scarcely believe it, but I just saw that another person has listed the word 'darkling' as an LJ interest. Identical punctuation too. What are the chances? Yet...no one but me has candle scrying, writers' biographies, or bedcurtains.