My Locus Amoenus

Sanctuary

This is in response to the Daily Post’s Word Prompt for Sanctuary.

I haven’t been around much, I know. I apologize for this, sophisticators. Things have changed in two year’s time. I have much to say and not enough pairs of ears, or rather eyes in this case. Anyway, this post is to be dedicated to the daily prompt.

So you’ve probably heard about the Locus Amoenus, right? It’s Latin for ‘pleasant place’. In fact, it’s rather more of a landscape. Now, we all know how much I love the trees and nature (a lot), so with that in mind it does become my sanctuary, but in reality I do believe my Locus Amoenus is within me…or rather in my mind.

And sometimes when I don’t follow my own thoughts, I often hear chimes in the back of my mind…as if coinciding with the strains of an angel’s harp. A nocturne plays and I find myself swayed over the borderlines of reality, a vast inception that exists deep within my imagination.

I am untouchable there. You should be too.

 

 

 

 

My Prodigal Victoria.

images

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Audience of One.”

Dearest Victoria,

You were an embolden odd little girl. That’s probably because I understand that’s not what you want to hear right off the bat, but by god was it true. While I admired your vigour, I couldn’t ever understand what kept it up. Why it kept up. Mostly because you spent all your time complai I understand some of our instances were fuelled by this notion, and I didn’t realize that as a child. That I regret. We were best decent friends.

Also, I’m sorry I never understood why you wanted to keep contact. You called at least once a week and it was thoroughly annoy I was nine. Please don’t hold that against me. Today if you called, which I somehow feel that you would if you found my contact information, I’d be very grateful and happy that you remembered me. I promise I wouldn’t come up with an excuse to get off the line. Rather, I’d be enthused by the prospect of learning how you turned out. I’m sure you’re a lovely young lady who still dotes to hear from her best friends daily. You did have class. Also I was really jealous of your long, blonde hair and the way that your mom tied it in a nice bun some mornings. Oh, and that ruby red necklace that you owned.

You were the first friend that taught me how to cheat during a jump-rope competition. Well probably because you cheated against me

How could I forget you?

Yours truly,

A Sophisticate.

The Picture of A Sophisticate.

il_570xN.457656026_nk05

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Call Me Ishmael.”

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn. From the corner of the room she stood. A Sophisticate appreciated the scent of roses as she checked the view outside, calculating the weather forecast for the day in her mind.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright desk, stood the full-length portrait of a blog of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist herself, A Sophisticate, whose pseudonym created some months ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

She picks up her mug of rich dark roast, and began typing furiously away.

As she looked at the gracious and comely form she had so skilfully mirrored in her art on screen, a smile of pleasure passed across her face, and seemed about to linger there. But she suddenly started up, and closing her eyes, placed her fingers upon the lids, as though she sought to imprison within her brain some curious dream from which she feared she might awake.

(This I’ve worked to my morning routine. The Picture of Dorian Gray it is. By Oscar Wilde.)

The Lucky Ones.

He knows it.

He knows it.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “In Good Faith.”

I can’t tell you the first time I’ve considered this notion. I’ve considered it my entire life. I’ve already explained what I believe in (visit “We Are Axioms.”). Thus, let me instead give you a quote from Richard Dawkins to ponder:

“We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains in Arabia. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the set of actual people. In the teeth of theses stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here. We privileged few, who won the lottery of birth against all odds, how dare we whine at our inevitable return to that prior state from which the vast majority have never stirred?”

I just love this so much, I’m grinning like a fool. This is a recent quote that I happened to stop upon, took a picture of and then of course as serendipity would allow, WordPress prompt came about for a chance to share it.

Like I said, I quite believe in fate.

Thoughts?

En pointe.

IMG_1659

The elegance.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I Got Skills.”

Don’t ask me why my talent would be something so redundant. It just is. I usually don’t have redundant dreams so let me indulge here for being a true girl, all right?

In truth I’m a jack of all trades, a master of none. You’ve heard that saying before, right sophisticators? It means I can do a mediocre job on just about everything, but I’ve mastered none. Nothing. There isn’t a single thing I can do with such proficiency that it can be credited to any sort of mastery.

The WordPress Gods however have endowed upon me a set of skills.

I would love to be able to dance ballet, or just have a barre regiment. I’ve been thinking about it more and more as I change up my workouts that perhaps I should incorporate this dance as it’s said to be tough. The one reason I haven’t: I don’t know a thing about dancing. I’d have to sit there for hours and hours on the internet studying movements and hoping that I get it right. It’s not simple exercising. You could very easily screw this up.

Now the why part. Why, pray tell, would A Sophisticate want to do this torture? Discipline. I admire a dancer’s discipline more than a soldiers. I admire their physique the most I think. And I hope to achieve that strong core soon. How the admiration came to be, I’m not sure. But whereas the world is divided into Type A’s and Type B’s, I’m actually scientifically credited as a Type C. As in I do what I want.

I should get that on a t-shirt.

I’d love to be a Type A.

Notice how I’m avoiding the use of the term ‘ballerina’? It’s because of it’s frilly connotation. I can’t have the people I know who read this blog to lance around saying, “A Sophisticate wants to be a ballerina everyone! What a childish dream!”

Notice I said ‘lance’.

I’m quite punny that way.

Fairy Village.

r169_457x256_3319_Tree_Town_2d_fantasy_city_mist_fog_town_village_tree_fairy_fairytale_picture_image_digital_art

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Oasis.

You may have heard of my long lost friend named Amelia. Amelia, like every intriguing teen character, lived in a village that could be compared to where the Order of the Phoenix resides. By this I mean the village only appeared when you wanted it to. That was when she wasn’t so long lost, however.

Fairy Village is my Oasis.

Tucked behind a large apartment was the most romantic little fairy village my town had to offer. Lots of old people lived there. Upon visiting for the first time I was baffled. She explained that even the postman couldn’t find her house sometimes, and often got confused, leaving their mail at the place down the street.

Fairy Village was from then on our little oasis. The name stuck. It had a courtyard in the centre with a long field of grass. Every house looked the same, but the facades were so uniquely designed that it didn’t matter. Being in the village felt like you weren’t even on the same planet–cut off from the rest of the world.

The best part of Fairy Village was her house. Number Eight. The one with the harp chimes dangling above her front door. Her house was small, and it had this ugly black wallpaper that she hated but I loved. There was something about that house that seemed so unreal, untouchable. Only later would I think it like a museum, with the oddest art pieces. Part of my attraction to that house was the piano she had in it. I’d never met a piano player before her, and she had the hands for it too I’d always thought. I asked her to play me something, she sat down and right when the song started I fell in love with that house. With Fairy Village.

We had lots of great moments in that village too. We had a sleepover once, as if we ever actually slept, and spent the night running around the village and doing things that would incur the restless minds of teenagers. That same night we went up to her room to watch sunrise. Platonic. 6AM hangouts were the norm after that.

It was the place where we first expelled our secrets to one another, and established a foundation for our friendship. There’s nothing more magical than friendship *cheesy voice*.

Fairy village was something out of a fairy tale.

I loved it.