In the midst of searching for a design template about depression, I found the graphic about music and the brain that you see here. Reflecting as I am upon the television series I watched tonight, I’m reminded of Lestat and the importance of music in his life.
Of course, when you get to Queen of the Damned, he becomes a rockstar in his own right. But Louis in the AMC series also reflects that musical talent was the one thing that seemed to elevate humanity in Lestat’s eyes.
So… as I got to my fatigue-driven, post-two-episode-watching slump and started to feel down on myself, I decided, why not listen to a little more music before bed?
I can’t remember the last time I listened to Classical by choice, though I did at one point have some Classical CD’s. Tchaikovsky was a favorite of mine.
Yesterday, I was pouring over some of my own content, looking, I believe, for a specific photo, when I began to look at myself as if I were someone else. I saw all the color and variety and joie de vivre and wondered, why doesn’t she have a love? Surely, someone should love her.
The answer I received back from the depths of myself?
“Because she doesn’t love herself.”
I can be vain, but I don’t think vanity and self-love are the same thing.
I’m trying to heal. Trying to be gentle with myself as needed, and rigorous as necessary. Striving for that kind of balance.
I was reminded of a poem of mine, about depression, and why that label feels overly simplified, or like it just entirely lets me off the hook for my life choices, when maybe I need to be trying harder to feed my inner spark. I’ll admit, however, that sometimes circumstances make that challenging.
That one appears in Caught by Shadows, which you can find here:
[Bear in mind, though I later discuss Young Adult literature in this post, my poetry and fiction contain adult themes, meant for adult readers.]
Insufficient moonlight, indeed.
I caught the solar eclipse but missed the recent aurora borealis event. It’s important, I think, to mark everyday magic as often as you can.
Alice Hoffman famously said that books may be the only true magic, but I disagree, respectfully. Magic is everywhere, if you have the eyes to look for it. I would argue it’s the magic inherent in lived experience that drives the creative mind to make art and literature in the first place, to try to share their vision with the world. But I also adore the fiction of Alice Hoffman.
A high school teacher of mine once told me it’s impossible to maintain a childhood sense of wonder about the world into adulthood. I think it was in the context of the themes of a young adult novel. Several come to mind as supporting that argument. The Outsiders‘ “Nothing gold can stay,” certainly The Catcher in the Rye with Holden Caulfield trying to save children from the perceived corrupting influence of adulthood… I want to add A Separate Peace to the list but don’t recall enough of its plot to say for certain if it fits.
Is it just arrested development to hang onto childhood as an adult? Maybe not. I’m not certain. I’m trying very hard to hold the best bits, as possible.
To endeavor ending on a high note, let me add that I celebrate the luxuries of the arts in my life, and my educational experiences, and music, and (yes, of course) vampires, and fantasy of every flavor, and the legacy of Anne Rice’s gorgeous fictive worlds.
The whimsical magic and grief that threads throughout the Practical Magic book series, and the singular filmic adaptation.
My access to graphics creation software to spice up this blog, and open use photos for some variety in addition to pics I took myself.
The cat who waits up and keeps me grounded by occasionally blunty kicking me out of the computer chair because she loves it so.
Eternally, the daughter who believes in me but also laughs at poems of mine that aren’t meant to be funny, keeping me humble.
May we all stay inspired, my friends, and never stop creating, whatever form our makings might take– blog entries, recipes, you name it.
All the Bright and Sparkly Things 
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