Honest to goodness...if you had told me last week this was the book I'd skip tv for to read, I'd probably have laughed. It's not that I don't find the topic interesting (Victorian times fascinate me, actually) but this biography is over 600 pages and focuses more on Victoria herself than on the mores of her time.

 

It's thanks to the Wall Street Journal "Review" section that I discovered this. Their book section is often just as good as the New York Times, if not sometimes better.

 

 Just a snippet from the review, then you can read more (if you like) through the link that follows.

 

Mr. Wilson takes on the long journey of the queen’s life with an assured, affectionate portrait written in accessible prose. His Victoria is a vivid personality, kindly, combative and impetuous by turns, deeply conscious of the dignity of her office and, for all her faults, “loveable.” He is particularly good on the queen’s childhood and German background, though the wealth of information on her extended European family may weary all but the most avid monarchists, for most of her relatives had little claim to fame apart from their titles. More absorbing is Mr. Wilson’s recording of Victoria’s relations with her ministers, from Lord Melbourne to Lord Salisbury, who advised, cajoled and sheltered a monarch who was not content to sit back and nod in compliance with the government’s wishes.

 

There are times when non-fiction suits better than fiction, where fact feels more safe and reliable and fiction is just as fluffy as a good dream from which you're rudely awakened and just to have return to reality, anyway.

 

You can read more of the review here:

 

http://online.wsj.com/articles/book-review-victoria-a-life-by-a-n-wilson-1414785148

 

 It's true the book is hefty, but the style is nice and the print is actually large enough to see without needing to request a Large Print copy.




Sometimes I turn my dreams into short stories. This was a dream I wrote about as soon as I woke one morning back when I used to have good dreams...or at least hopeful ones. I don't personally believe in reincarnation, but I do like the thought of eternal love and a small and silly romantic part of me likes to think there are mystical reasons for why we sometimes feel we've met someone before even though it's our first time to meet them. I've been keeping a dream journal for over seven years now and it not only helps me with dream recall, it helps me try and work through the bad and recurring ones.

Happily Ever After May Take Some Time

A short story

 

Once upon a time two princesses fell in love, during a time when things of this nature were not just frowned upon, but punishable by death.

Caught in the woods one day, holding hands and exchanging vows of the sort no one but the two of them could ever truly understand or value, the girls listened in fear as their fathers each made a vow of his own: they would be forever separated and kept in towers divided by kingdoms until both recanted and agreed to marry princes of their parents’ choosing.

The slightly older of the two girls, deeply protective and torn up with guilt, could not bear to see her beloved taken away only to be banished until a worst punishment was pronounced. She cried out that it was all her doing, that she had forced the younger one to play along with her, that it was all one-sided and pure evil on her part.

No one, even those who most hated and believed them to be sinners of the most unnatural kind, could deny that the two shared a real love usually reserved for that between men and women. Still, no amount of protesting would change the king’s mind.

That night, in the tower, the older girl begged for someone to help.

Soon, a fairy godmother, not her very own but one used by all in both kingdoms, appeared.



The older princess asked for her beloved to be spared, adding that she would take on both of their punishments if only the younger girl could be saved.

Agreeing reluctantly, the fairy godmother warned that the older girl would indeed suffer, suffer very much indeed, that that was the price of their true love.

Tears streaming down her face, the older girl nodded eagerly, saying, “Anything, anything, that will keep her from facing the worst.”

The fairy godmother’s face took on an expression of peace and compassion. “Very well, then. Your beloved, in order not to suffer, must have her memory completely wiped of you and your time together, of your love together. She will not fall in love with the prince she is to marry, but neither will she suffer from comparing him to the love of her life. She will be neither happy nor sad, just accepting.”

The older girl had hoped for more for the princess she loved so very much, but acceptance (she supposed) was better than unhappiness. She nodded, less eagerly this time, but just as determined.

“And what must I do on my part?” She asked quietly.

“You, unfortunately, my child, will remember everything, how much you love her, how much she loved you, how your treasured times in each other’s company meant the world to both of you. You will marry a prince and be miserable, but you will at least know you spared the suffering and death of your most beloved.”

The older princess continued to silently cry, then, when she could speak again, thanked the fairy godmother, who smiled maternally and turned to go.

Halfway across the room, she suddenly swiveled and faced the older girl once more. “There is one more part to your end of the deal, my child.”

“Yes?” The single word came out strangled and already worn and weary, as if a million years without her true love had already gone by.

“You two will meet again someday, in a far away place and time that is more accepting of your love. Unfortunately, you will have some sense of memory and love for her, a vague recollection of her wonderful soul, but, of course, you will not recognize her future human incarnation. She, however, will not remember one single second of your time nor of you and your unreturned feelings for her will torment you unless you can prove yourself once again worthy of her love.”

The older princess brushed the backs of her hands against her eyes, looking like a little child. “I do not understand.”

For the first time since she’d arrived, the fairy godmother grew peeved. “What is not to understand?”

“Well,” the older princess hesitated, as if worrying she might appear ungrateful after all her rescuer had promised. “It hardly seems fair to have to start over again after we will have already gone through so much in this lifetime.”

Now, the fairy godmother just plain snorted, amazed at both the naivete and gall of the girl. She was not so mad or unkind, though, that she couldn’t sense where the princess was coming from. “Do you love her?”

“Very much so, fairy godmother.”

“Well, then, my child, you know what they say…all is fair in love and war. You will get your day again and if all goes well and love perserves, your true love perseveres, then you will finally get the happiness you two richly deserve. But remember: nothing good comes easily.”

The older princess bowed and thanked the fairy godmother for all her help and long after she had gone thought and thought and wondered about it all. Her heart and her head hurt so much, but sleep was not an option, even if she could have found slumber.

So she thought some more and remembered the early days of their friendship and how hard, how very hard, they had tried to fight their growing romantic feelings…to no avail. And she realized that as long as her princess was okay, as long there was even the slimmest, tiniest, remotest, possibility of someday being together again, she would go through anything…tower imprisonment, parental disproval, even marriage (lasting God knows how many years) to a man she did not love.

Because, somehow, somewhere, somewhen, she knew their day would come.

Rotten Fruit is probably the most opposite extreme of what I normally like to read and yet I was strangely compelled to go on even as a slight sense of unease began to unravel within me. 

Right from the start, you're pulled in by the crisp and flowing writing style and you find both the plot and its focus on cancer very relevant, if oddly combined. The suspense builds slowly, almost deliciously. To say anything more would spoil things, but I will add this: this story is much better suited for Halloween than it ever could be for Valentine's Day.

Though it's not my favorite passage from the story, it's the one I think rings most true and speaks to a huge part of what bothers me about some parts of breast cancer awareness:


“Not to mention,” Kat added, “the fact that ‘save the boobs’ is the slogan for breast cancer. The body part that men enjoy is prioritized, as if it’s the only reason to save the woman attached to it.

After I woke up from a particularly intense nightmare this morning (it felt so real and was so vivid that it took me a few seconds upon waking to understand it was just a dream) I shuffled into my living room to look up a few things.

First I found this about reality and dreams:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/robert-lanza/are-dreams-an-extension-o_b_699075.html

Then (because I had so much trouble coming out of the nightmare) I went searching for "how to wake from a bad dream" and read this:

http://www.wikihow.com/Wake-Up-from-Your-Dream

I remember thinking (when I thought the dream was my actual life) that I would do anything to take away what happened if only I could change the outcome.

The only good thing that comes from a bad dream is that it just makes me much more determined to start the day better than I did yesterday. We can't take back time, but we can reboot and try to get a better attitude.

So I like someone who doesn't feel the same? That doesn't take away from the fact she's a neat person who brightens the day.

So I struggle (especially lately) with my relationship with my parents? I have to act, not react, with them and just hope it gets better.

So I sometimes buy into society's ideas that your self-worth is tied up with whether you have a family of your own or not? There is a huge difference between being alone and being lonely. And I am grateful for the friends I do have and the books and music that makes me feel so much better. Not everyone needs couplehood to thrive in this world.

"Automat" by Edward Hopper

For years I had this recurring dream about a woman at a diner. I only stopped having the dream after I wrote it down and then used it as part of a bigger story I was writing...a 500 page story (mostly about a woman with bipolar disorder who may or may not be all she says she is) that I honestly don't know what to do with because I have no clue if it's actually readable and if it takes away from (or is disrespectful to) the issue of depression by having a science fiction element.

It's not so much the bigger picture I'm thinking of right now as how I sometimes wonder if this is more memory than dream...minus the time travel and references to the ongoing plot of the novel I tried to write. I sometimes think (because sometimes my family would go to a diner in Baltimore after we'd been to the movies and because the dream seemed so real) that I actually did see a woman like this in a diner once and that the memory of how sad she was stayed with me.

I don't know if this is normal or not, but sometimes I can't remember things from my childhood and I wonder if some things I do remember are more dream than memory. This is just one link I found (among many) where people wonder if you can get memories and dreams mixed up:

http://ask.metafilter.com/259662/Dream

set in 1980

What would I say now that I saw her? And how I had gotten here, anyway? This kind of thing never happened in real life, therefore, this couldn’t be real life.

She had told me all kinds of mad secrets further up in the timeline, but back then I hadn’t believed her. I had wanted to, but her disease had made it too easy to dismiss as fantasy. Time travel outside of science fiction? Impossible!

“Babe” played in the diner and I couldn’t help but laugh inside. This song had begun my melodramatic fascination with all things love…and not two tables over was the love of my life, Diana McAdams.

Even from this distance I could see her bloodshot eyes, her lack of awareness of her surroundings and the claustrophobic air of defeat all around her. She sat by herself. My heart broke.

I forgot that I was trapped in the body of ten-year-old me and that I had no reason for knowing her, that I wasn’t even sure how I knew this twentysomething downtrodden woman was actually Diana.

Getting up from our table, I also forgot that I was still accountable to adults in this world, namely, my own parents.

“Where are you going?” My dad asked, not unpleasantly.

“I’m going to ask that lady for ketch-up.” And before anyone could stop me I stood beside her.

It took a few seconds for her to become aware of me. “Yes?” Her voice sounded harsh and irritated, but when she turned and saw how young I was (or so I imagined) something in her eyes softened.

“Can I borrow your ketch-up?” I sounded much younger than most ten year olds did, but my tone was confident and knowing.

She blinked, hesitated, then leaned over to get it so she could hand it to me. “Here you go, kid.”

I smiled at her and her use of “kid,” her Southern drawl (much stronger in this now) at odds with the word.

“Thank you,” I said, then added in a whisper, “Someday, things are going to be a lot better for you. I promise. You are going to be cherished and loved very much.”

And before she could say anything I slipped back to the table, where I didn’t even get to explain my actions before everything started to fade.