Oh, my Suffragette City

Men are beautiful.

2008-07-17T18:43:00.000-07:00

Just as much as any woman. I submit the following evidence for your review.

Anthony Bourdain, all gristle.

The Battle of Health-who could care less

2008-07-10T20:55:00.000-07:00

*cough* There's this nagging scratch in the back of my throat that's been bothering me for months, I think it's Strep. ironycoccus. Of course, I'm not going to the doctor because I don't have health insurance, and unless I'm knocked up or faking enrollment at the university, there are very few clinics in this area available to the uninsured. As a concerned twenty-something, I'm speaking out for my rights: my right to multiple partners, to Spring Break in a hotbed of water-born illnesses, and to engage in reckless amusements like base-jumping or Russian Roulette. How am I supposed to enjoy casual sex when I'm worrying about affording the DNC to treat my abnormal pap smear?
Being election season, several solutions are floating around, though you know you have no idea what any of them are. Neither do I, and I can still hardly decide if I'm a nationalized healthcare girl or a privatized insurance with pay-ins kind of girl, but here is a list of links of varying points of view to read over while you recover from treating yourself for genital warts with a match and a nail file.
Barack "Doc Hollywood" Obama's plan
Paging Dr. Feel Good McCain
Health Care for America Now.org, the hot new hippy girl in school (and rich, they're boasting a $40 million campaign budget)
The Huffington Post dishes
I Heart Guts, purveyors of fine, plush internal organs that are too cute to donate

In which Miss Wozniak is invested as Lady Wellington

2008-05-27T12:13:00.000-07:00

I have settled in at the university's field camp, and am quite pleased to find that the rustic surroundings are punctuated by a delightful potbelly stove, Korean art from the researchers' travels and a clawfoot tub carried in on the backs of indentured graduate students. The quality of the tea has suffered, however, I am finding that coffee, though so dreadfully American, is perfect for stirring the humours in the morning. We set out from the base camp every daybreak for a rambling bird walk. The list of sightings thus far is included below. Morning is concluded with a scanty breakfast of pancakes, sausages, Portuguese Clementine's, Nicaraguan coffee, fresh bacon, muffins, and eggs from the Amish, but this is one of the many sacrifices one must make on expedition.
The new pair of Wellington boots I procured in London before departing is a lovely compliment to my field bustle, though the khaki Belgian lace of my bolero is far too bland for my complexion. We have set out traps that we might collect our precious beetles and bring them back to the laboratory. The chill is too much for their weak forms, still being nearly a frost in the late hours, and the little creatures are hardly tempted by the rotten chicken liver we have set out for them. Only one brave soul has dared to venture into our pitfall.
I find the company of these philosophers of the vital sciences refreshing, and in all the discussion of the natural place of Man and Beast, I have forgone my corset in the heat of the noontime, feeling like an Emily Davies or Josephine Butler!
American Cousin: Helping with Purdue Calumet's Field Biology class in lovely Big Falls, Wisconsin this week. The bird list so far: Purple finch, Blue Jay, American Goldfinch, Scarlet Tanager, Yellow Throat, Catbird, Ovenbird, Blue Bird, Yellow-headed Sapsucker, Nashville Warbler, Caledonian Tea Sipper, Eastern Phoebe, Eastern Wood-Peewee, Eastern Bluebird, Chipping Sparrow, Wild Turkey, Tree Swallow, Barn Swallow.
Hopefully more exciting sightings to come.
The beetle collecting has been far less successful. We've only caught one of the species we need.

Moped Diaries

2008-05-08T20:25:00.000-07:00

One of the benefits of staying in your hometown is getting to reinterpret the memories of your childhood through a finer lens. I just hung up the phone with Maripatrice, my big blonde-haired, Irish beauty best friend from growing up, and after the requisite "How's your husband" banter, we started laughing about some of the stupid-crazy shit we pulled as kids. I started with "Hey, 'member that one time...?" and she runs off with, "Oh, the tacos?" and dissolves into a pool of giggles. It's one of my favorite memories, but God, how could I have forgotten?
Me and Maripatrice were smoking friends. We'd get high in high school, or swallow a few NoDoze from the gas station after a shift at Conde's Fine Dining (somehow we managed to have the same waitressing jobs together for like, six years) and drive out to Kimmel Beach to watch the sun rise and bitch and moan and rave about waitressing, spinning wildly in the sand and kicking up wavelets until the hems of our aprons were wet. One time we just drove back to the restaurant and slept in the parking lot until our morning shift, digging up a wrinkled piece of looseleaf from my schoolbook to write "Wake us up at 7:30!!!" and sticking it in the windshield of my Nissan. Turns out the cook who opened the restaurant the next day couldn't read English, but his bright, shining, staring mug was enough to wake us up anyway. Even as we went back to serving pancakes, we still smelled like beach.
My parents went out of town for a week every February, so this one time me, Maripatrice, and...two guy friends who I can't even remember, one had a crush on her, but we all sat around in my parents living room, smoking a bowl. This was back when Taco Bell sold a package of fifty regular, soft-shelled, beef tacos for maybe ten dollars. All I remember is Maripatrice sitting Indian-style in my stepfather's recliner, wearing cute, plaid pajama pants, a pile of paper-wrapped tacos in her lap. She carefully counted each one, then looking up at us in a panic said, "Oh my God, you guys, there's only nineteen tacos left!"
Before that, back in sophomore year of high school, we had a severe addiction to Tandoor of India and their kheer dessert. It's basically a mind-blowing version of rice-pudding, but every time we'd light up, that would be the first thing we'd think of. We ate it by the quart, one for me, one for her. This was before we had cars, though, so we'd hop on my moped and putter eight miles to the restaurant.
Now that I think about it, even though it seemed like the ideal solution to what appeared to be a very important problem, we probably looked like refugees, two full-grown girls, piled on this teeny moped, one hunched over driving and one strapped to the back with two ungainly grocery bags of takeout. If I had gotten a yearbook, I bet she would have signed it with the phone number to Tandoor.

2008-05-06T15:33:00.000-07:00

From The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume 1: 1931-1934

"Am I, at bottom, that fervent little Spanish Catholic child who chastised herself for loving toys, who forbade herself the enjoyment of sweet foods, who practiced silence, who humiliated her pride, who adored symbols, statues, burning candles, incense, the caress of nuns, organ music, for whom Communion was a great event? I was so exalted by the idea of eating Jesus's flesh and drinking His blood that I couldn't swallow the host well, and I dreaded harming the it. I visualized Christ descending into my heart so realistically (I was a realist then!) that I could see Him walking down the stairs and entering the room of my heart like a sacred Visitor. That state of this room was a subject of great preoccupation for me. . . At the ages of nine, ten, eleven, I believe I approximated sainthood. And then, at sixteen, resentful of controls, disillusioned with a God who had not granted my prayers (the return of my father), who performed no miracles, who left me fatherless in a strange country, I rejected all Catholicism with exaggeration. Goodness, virtue, charity, submission, stifled me. I took up the words of Lawrence: "They stress only pain, sacrifice, suffering and death. They do not dwell enough on the resurrection, on joy and life in the present." Today I feel my past like an unbearable weight, I feel that it interferes with my present life, that it must be the cause for this withdrawal, this closing of doors. . . I am embalmed because a nun leaned over me, enveloped me in her veils, kissed me. The chill curse of Christianity. I do not confess any more, I have no remorse, yet am I doing penance for my enjoyments? Nobody knows what a magnificent prey I was for Christian legends, because of my compassion and my tenderness for human beings. Today it divides me from enjoyment in life."
p. 70-71

"As June walked towards me from the darkness of the garden into the light of the door, I saw for the first time the most beautiful woman on earth. A startling white face, burning dark eyes, a face so alive I felt it would consume itself before my eyes. Years ago I tried to imagine true beauty; I created in my mind an image of just such a woman. I had never seen her until last night. Yet I knew long ago the phosphorescent color of her skin, her huntress profile, the evenness of her teeth. She is bizarre, fantastic, nervous, like someone in a high fever. Her beauty drowned me. As I sat before her, I felt I would do anything she asked of me. Henry suddenly faded. She was color and brilliance and strangeness. By the end of the evening I had extricated myself from her power. She killed my admiration by her talk. Her talk. The enormous ego, false, weak, posturing. She lacks the courage of her personality, which is sensual, heavy with experience. Her role alone preoccupies her. She invents dramas in which she always stars. I am sure she creates genuine dramas, genuine chaos and whirlpools of feelings, but I feel that her share in it is a pose. That night, in spite of my response to her, she sought to be whatever she felt I wanted her to be. She is an actress every moment. I cannot grasp the core of June. Everything Henry has said about her is true."

I wanted to run out and kiss her fanatastic beauty and say: 'June, you have killed my sincerity too. I will never know again who I am, what I am, what I love, what I want. Your beauty has drowned me, the core of me. You carry away with you a part of me reflected in you. When your beauty struck me, it dissolved me. Deep down, I am not different from you. I dreamed you, I wished for your existance. You are the woman I want to be. I see in you that part of me which is you. I feel compassion for your childlike pride, for your trembling unsureness, your dramatization of events, your enhancing of the loves given to you. I surrender my sincerity because if I love you it means we share the same fantasies, the same madnesses"

Touché

2008-05-03T16:14:00.000-07:00

Well played, good sir, well played.

Upward Mobility

2008-05-01T10:08:00.000-07:00

A rare breed

2008-04-10T00:40:00.000-07:00

To my rare birds,

Caledon is a menagerie, a habitat for all manner of rare birds, housing only one of each specimen for study and display, each one as unique in its prismatic coloring as in its enigmatic behavior. Through this flurry of tailfeathers, one can still begin to sense an overarching commonality: the rituals of behavior and mating. However, as one would expect to see in any non-antagonistic, interspecies interactions, there is a great misunderstanding of signaling.

In the past week I've come across more than one incident in which, perhaps, my behavior has been greatly misinterpreted. It was certainly not a negative experience in any way, the dear Lord forbid I ever wax melodramatic, but I feel it bears some reflection given the novel condition of the rarest of animals, the Caledon male. Yes, there is an undue social pressure that perhaps forces you to commit valuable resources to the maintenance of 'high-quality male' fitness attributes, which, as in nature, may cause such levels of physiological stress as to effectively shorten the lifespan of said male, only differentially buffered by his increased lifetime reproductive success. But while this new paradigm has been widely accepted among naturalists within and beyond Caledon, there are a great many who hold onto Lack clutch size theory, suggesting that perhaps the value of a maximized moment measured in units of friendship felt is much more sensible for decisions involving lifetime resource allocation.

And while I may have once viciously tromped Madame Curie in a game of croquet, I am quite far behind the times in terms of theory and will always hold the outdated paradigms of friendship as the most enlightened of thinking.

"I know all those people. I have friendly, social, and criminal relations with the whole lot of them." -- Mark Twain

2008-04-07T15:03:00.000-07:00

There are a number of fine individuals in Caledon and beyond who make my day just a little brighter, the breeze a little softer, and the smell of Napalm a little sweeter.
Bedlamie Thunders is my crotchety neighbor in New Toulouse, but doubles as the town's reckless youth. Put her, Mark, LilyDay and Ellis in a room together and you got yourself a lineup.

My Merrywidows! Spinsters with hearts of gold.
Red, you beautiful, little thing you. If not heeding the authorities' warnings about pirates is wrong, I don't want to be right.
His Grace the Duke of Greystoke is a generous and enthusiastic patron of the arts. Any man willing to bet 500 prims on some redhead's crazy idea is aces in my book. Don't forget to take yer pills, ya ol' coot!
Mr. Napsterista McCray, discovering his inner nerd through SL. While I do know I have better pictures of you, this one is just so darn cute!
There are so many others like Merlot, Mr. Sapwood, and Rudolfo, I just don't have any non-targa photos of you!

SLife affirming moments

2008-04-03T22:43:00.000-07:00

Oh, my goodness!

The most incredibly, beautifully, wonderfully Better Living Through SL moment just happened! This sweet, little thing sent up an IM flare over the Organ Donation and Transplantation group chat, which is usually monkishly quiet, wanting to have a her questions about donating to a friend answered. She was just precious! We sat in Wells, a purple fairy and a ditsy redhead, 1000 miles apart and chatted away. Hopefully she makes the right decision, whatever that may be, but I'm sure we all wish her the best!

The conversation was featured below, but I recently took it off since it was just much too, much too long. However, the major lines of discussion involved finances, aftermath, insurance responsibility and the depression that follows donation. If anyone ever has *any* questions along those lines, please don't be shy!

Premier avril heureux!

2008-04-01T22:05:00.000-07:00

The Dull Wit strikes again...

My love is like to toilet paper, used and useful for a purpose(wiping breech or proboscis) to be discarded later.
My love is like to toilet paper. No doubt there is much to unroll, but I fear it is flimsy, falling apart in ones hands.
My love is like to toilet paper. Guests come in and use it, taking such that I am,leaving a hollow shell.

American Cousin Presents

2008-04-01T12:46:00.000-07:00

In response to the few requests I've received after a wrong-window slip-up on state chat, these are two photos from the performance art piece done a month ago in Chicago. It's all true. Handcuffs. 48 hours. Near strangers. All true.

This photo features the oh-so feminine hands of a well-placed and overly friendly drag queen.

Cuffs and scars.

A letter from my American cousin

2008-03-31T07:00:00.000-07:00

Your humble narrator in in receipt of a letter from her American cousin. Her Christian name is April and she is a delightful girl of 24, living in the city of Chicago (which is certainly no Caledon, I pity her education; her French is dreadful and her embroidery less than impressive). I shall share it with you now, though warn you her language is abrasive at best.
"What up, homeslice!
So today I ditched class and went to grocery store, found myself among the breakfast club crowd which ever so luckily included my favorite, little, ol' man grocery bagger guy (Note to self: marry man who will wear paperboy hats when 70), and made an ass out myself singing the words to a song because I forgot not everyone can hear my iPod like I can. Those lubricious Piggly Wiggly floors are ideal for rockin' the James Brown footwork, and thankfully I had extra-frictionless deck shoes on my feet and "Get Up Off Of That Thang" on my iPod.
I bid the retirees at the grocery store goodbye and proceeded home so that I might completely plagiarize your friend Mr. Hassanov's American cousin's Myspace page. I've included the contraband below.

Speaking of MySpace, I'm still lame enough to update my on occassion. Feel free to stop by and criticize my bad form and terrible etiquette.
http://www.Myspace.com/kidneyschmidney
Your dear Aunt Kathie will be stopping by tonight to share our regular music salon, American Idol. I've already begun hiding dirty dishes in the oven but need to catch up on my stuffing of everything else I own into a too-small closet. She has become more political lately than I have ever been privy to see her before. The other day at luncheon, while turning over her Applebee's Chimichurri slider, she turned to me and said, "I think I just might vote for Obama. I hear he's not a Muslim."
I have hope for her yet.
Give Bediesel my love (and a wedgie).
Yours faithfully,
Peace out C-Town,
April

L'Hommage aux artistes en photo

2008-03-19T12:42:00.000-07:00

This past week I was able to spend a bit more time in Caledon, having recovered from a nasty bout of aether fumes. In that precious time, I took a few tin-types of people and places that embody the creative nature of our plane.
Jun Kurdoda rocks our bodies at the Chessboard with Japanese punk.

....and this handsome chap rambled into Miss Begonia's 'Back to the Fuschia' party just in time for the DeWellsian to escape. Many thanks to people who put such time and effort into their avatars.

...Miss Lema reminds us with her gorgeous av that while 'Victorian' may allude to a specifically British person, it was global experience. Miss Riven Homewood and Mrs. CeAire Decosta of Steelhead cordially invite you to the grand opening of their incredibly well-research, massively in-depth, gorgeous, stunning, all manner of superlative library.
Be-di and Mark remind us that we're all just kids at heart, kids who now have the money and technology to shape the world as we please. Now get off my roof, you ruffians!

Well played, good sir, well played

2008-03-19T12:00:00.000-07:00

Good decisions are rarely made on impulse, especially when weapons are involved. I took a quick jaunt into Caledon between tasks and made the mistake of taking Gilbert Sapwood (heretofore to be known as 'Stone-Cold Storyteller')up on his offer of a friendly bout of En Garde. Recent jaunts into En Garde have illustrated why there is little military heritage in our tree, but Sapwood seemed about as talented as his name implies, and he does look so cavalier in those red Deadwood boots.
The mistake was made and my fate sealed, but he had to earn it. Ample trash talk in local and state chat proved an even sharper repartee than that between the blades. His victory came at the sacrifice of my dignity, and being an achingly sore loser, I plan to seek my revenge outside the pitch, with vicious gossip and slander.
I hear he eats fairies and traps furries in his basement. He hates kittens.

In which le secrétaire considers her ennui

2008-03-19T10:34:00.000-07:00

June Wozniak sits at her writing table and drums her fingers, lost not in thought, but lost in the vast emptiness of thought.
It's truly astounding how quickly one's passions can evaporate. Things once so boiling, so maddeningly moving to you at one time evoke nothing more than an ice-like blankness of thought at another. Hums and lets her eyes fall shut to think, and nothing comes but white.
My career is at a standstill in my real life, and not suprisingly, this is reflected in SL. A child full of potential has withered into a lackluster adult, and the bright shiny future is dimmer than I remember. Any thoughts of science or such nearly make my stomach roll. In the hopes that I could use my education to add to Caledon's scientific culture, I signed up to prepare a collection for the library system. It's very nearly complete, but the collecting process has unveiled feelings that I would rather keep shrouded, that maybe my childhood aspirations are gone and I've gone down the wrong road. My collection has comes to a standstill, and it's a little more than ironic to see the librarian (albeit virtual, certainly do not do that title justice in real life) suffer writer's block.
It is at these times that the skies of Caledon look a little brighter, the copper has more luster, the music rings a little lighter. Every creative endeavor is not only possible in Caledon but reaches the pinnacle of its expression. While the typist mopes in her lab, I'm discovering new parts of myself in the hopes that I can send them home to her. June shall become the artist, and she shall grow a new heart of color and music and pretty words, then she will wrap it in paper poetry and send it home to la secrétaire.
Notices the sun is particularly inviting over the bay of Wells, lays down her pen, and goes for a ramble.

Mama always said, "Watch out for those well-dressed men."

2008-03-14T10:56:00.000-07:00

The Duke of Greystoke has a knack for showin' up with a surprise. I was puttin' together a few things for the library when I get a mysterious knock at the door. The Duke requests my presence for a quick but potentially fatal adventure in his domain. He shows me to his newest archaeological dig, a longbarrow typical of Northern European cultures, for which he's commissioned the expertise of a professional. The archaeologist hasn't been seen in days, and he's begun to worry. I take up a torch and venture in to take a peek, nearly ending up a virgin-sacrifice to this enigmatic shrine!
After such a shake up, the Duke was dear enough to show me a good time back in 'Louse. A quick bout of "show you mine and show me yours" led to a trading of beads, but thank goodness for incredibly modest Victorian layers as I was lucky enough to get away with a chemise. Dont' worry, I remember what my marraine always told me, "Watch out for the those well-dressed men," and I'll be keepin' my eyes all over this one.

Shakin' up a content cocktail

2008-03-14T09:49:00.000-07:00

Bonsoir, cherie! The hallmark of SL will always be the bottom-up content creation of its citizens, cher. Now that the blurry haze of the new resident daze has passed, and now that my home in Wellsian is truly settled, I'm beginning to feel the duties required of good citizens press on my mind. How will I add to this mosaic of personal expression? And most pressing, what will I do with the rickety space in this gorgeous new ville that has become such a welcoming nest for my bad French and trashy-waitress pet names (Suga', cher, hon, babe, doll...) It was a white-knuckle wait while Mama Cre finished up the last details of the New Toulouse sim this week, so I found myself taking the time to explore the bastions of content in an attempt to refine the rough drafts of my own new projects.
Almost immediately after I started brainstorming, frantic group chat IMs were dispatched to announce AM Radio's Far North sim was about to go out in a blaze of glory. With one hour to spare, Kaye Robbiani and sister Scotti Lyle (the newest grande dames of Morgaine), and the rosebud-cheeked Eleanor Anderton made our way to the sim to gawk. Monsier Radio's name is spoken with a sacred cadence, having become the Patron Saint of All That is Visually Possible, and this exposition was a miracle of SL-Earth. Although the sim now remains only in memory and photo, he did provide several souvenirs, including a photobooth recreation of David's "The Death of Marat".
Mr. Hassanov then sent a cryptic message that I should join him in Kittiwickshire. Once I dropped in, I found him staring slack-jawed at this amazing monument to Clockwork. The back end of the statue reveals the military aspirations of bird-kind.

Iason and I have become twin brainchildren over the past few months, and he's proven to be invaluable as a sounding board for every crazy new idea that wiggles it's way into my brain. After touring 'Louse with him again, the brainstorm collected into discrete puddles. That promising little shanty, La Baraque Bleue, is going to be a fine musee. First the Josephine Baker Revue, then the Art of Voodoo, Degas in New Orleans, and maybe a showing of John Droisneau. It's amazing how once you commit, cher, the ideas just don't stop comin'.
PS-Caledon has become so admired for it's content that anthropology student Researcher Tigerpaw has committed her thesis to us! Keep an eye out for this face and lend her a helping hand.

Where y'at!

2008-03-13T23:57:00.000-07:00

Bonjour, mes amis! How's ya mamma and dem?
This past weekend we all dropped anchor at New Toulouse, the gin-soaked sim created by the that cold-blooded charmer Carricre Wind, or Mama Cre to locals. I'm stayin' in a little shotgun shanty on what mon-zer EllisDee so lovingly calls "Poverty Row". It was a regular welcome wagon all weekend, and smilin' (probably tipsy) faces peeked 'round every corner to say "hi" and make introductions.
The little ray of sunshine in the shack next door is Bedlamie Thunders. Jesus done rolled the good neighbor dice for me, cher, and I landed on snake eyes, 'cause she is just a gem and a half. She remind me of a good pecan pie: all sugar and a sweet, and a little nutty. We turned into a regular buncho of stalkers together, sitting on our stoops, waitin' for the go ahead to unpack. So if you eva' find yo'self in 'louse Nouveau late one night, suga', then listen for the chatter of two lil' betties sittin' out on the porch tellin' crazy stories about they torrid affairs, and swing on by.
Everyone got themselves big plans in 'louse already. Mon-zer Messmer got himself a swanky booze hall for all ya' dancin' needs, and so many fine ladies' shops have already settled for you to find a new pair of tail feathers. Mon-zer Montgolfier already found himself in a mess of trouble with his new case. Seems there's someone chalking up veve on his family plot in the cemetery and on the foundation of his detective agency. Been gettin' strange letters in the mail, too. Don't worry, child, I 'll keep an eye on him. Poor thing don't know what he gettin' himself into.
Our most esteemed funerary directoire, Mizz Yifu, been gettin' antsy over dere in the the cemetery. But somehow, but then end of this week, she had filled up half the plots. Hmm...

Something in the winds

2008-02-22T22:47:00.000-08:00

Today held a bounty of events, and it was a real challenge just to show up to each gathering and maintain the proper dress! This afternoon opened up the Eternal Promethea sim, and the Princess Ana was gracious enough to extend an invitation for tea and dancing. Words cannot express what a stroll through the city can, and I cannot encourage readers enough to take a moment to visit. The blinding white marble of the city structures is softened by the silky ambient light. Flowers sneak into every crevice. Prims line up dutifully under the Princess's talented command. She's prepared a beautiful sim, but has also outlined plans for a content rich community that will include an arcade along the breakwall for street performers and artists. We followed up her Highness's tour, punctuated by a walk up the cliff to take in the view 'into my dream' as she likes to say, with dancing overlooking the water gardens. Mr. Roberto Viking was kind enough to waltz me around the floor and I'm so glad, as it gave him a moment to mention his friend's recent development of an Amnesty International presence in Caledon.
After the tea, I did some quick browsing at M. Zori's in Antiquity to pick up a gown that I've eyed for so many weeks. It was a bit too Steampunky for my tastes at first, but Mr. Hassanov has opened up new horizons to me, and I used the hairpin he presented me at Valentine's Day as an excuse to buy a gown to match.
The company at the ball was a fine one, indeed, with the Loch Avie First Lancer's making up the most colorful sect of the party. And thank goodness they are so festive in their regalia as they have a lot to celebrate: Miss Diamonda Gustafson was promoted to Lieutenant this evening! It was a delightful sight, but as you can see, the authority has not gone to her head, and she remains all manner of a lady-of-quality even in her dress greens.
Mr. Craig entertained the crowd with his newest military creations, but I'm afraid my eyes wandered to Nellie. The Duchess's water horse had little fear of the warcraft taking over her harbor and quickly paddled in to claim back her territory. While the troops discussed their arms, I had a chance to question the Countess Seasong (who is looking radiant in her new marriage trousseau) about the the Relay for Life Caledon Ladies' Auction. I'm proud to announce that your humble bloggeress is now "On the block"!

This atmosphere of engineering marvels attracted an accomplished guest list, and I was lucky enough to cross paths late in the evening with a Mr. Tigerpaw of Lonicrae. Our mutual affection for animal reproduction led to an evening of charming conversation and I must say I was so much enamored by his chatter that Miss Parks had to remind me not let him 'compromise' me. I shan't let myself be compromised, but a swoon is most definately in order.

In which the young miss extols on loves lost and found and in between

2008-02-22T22:20:00.000-08:00

Miss W. sincerely wishes to better understand the nature of love in Caledon. It would seem that like in any life, love plays a starring role in the lives of our citizens. A dear friend in the colonies has just shared the details of her own affair which has, most unfortunately, come to an end, in spite of the lovers' most compatible dispositions. It was their habits that lead to the demise of the union, because although their lifestyles made for a harmonious match, these lifestyles were maintained on opposite hemispheres of the Aether, and no mistress is as cruel as time.
It was after the relating of this story that Miss W. was asked to reflect on her own experiences with romance in Caledon, of which there have been none. That is not to say that there hasn't been a delightful round of interesting gentlemen with which to share one's time, but that there has not been any serious inquiry into courtship. But once this reflection begins, it is impossible to quelch, and Miss W. has found herself analyzing the key relationships she's formed in her short time as a citizen. She found herself donning particularly more Steampunk elements in her dress when preparing for the Edison Ball, hosted by the Duchess Loch Avie, but once it was remembered that a certain Mr. H. might not be present, she forgot why she bothered to wear them at all.
Romance is a fickle friend, unreliable, but a delight when happened upon; but in the long run, a wise woman much prefers the company of the true friend, of which, in Caledon, there many.

Dispatches from the center of the Earth

2008-02-19T12:35:00.000-08:00

The recent expedition undertaken by Professor Sadovyncha has turned out to be a smashing success, as did, ironically, the premature memorial service hosted by Miss Kaye Robbiani of Fairy and Miss Elegia Underwood of Eyre. We the explorers are very grateful for the outpouring of support, and very sorry about any bets hedged against our safe return, particularly those of Mr. Jomander Trefoil, who is now thought to be running from his debtors after securing 80/20 odds for our demise. Tips as to his whereabouts may be directed to the Guvnah's office.

Short, strange trip

2008-02-19T11:36:00.000-08:00

My arrival in Caledon is not a very distant memory, but feels very much so considering how much my life has changed since crossing the threshold. I often think it a sweet coincidence that my first moments in Caledon were spent raving at the opening of the Carnivale season at the HG Wells Twelfth Night Celebration, and by the of the that whirlwind season I had made a home in the plot next door. At the bottom of this correspondence are just a few of the tin-types I've prepared in the meantime that illustrate the many friendships I've found and adventures that have only just begun.

Today is the first day of the rest of your empire

2008-02-18T22:33:00.000-08:00

I've done it again!
Caledonians are, by nature, not an excitable bunch. Our corset strings are tied too tight for that sort of business, but there is one four-letter word that will get out britches steamed: land. Mr. Thadicus Caligari has been kind enough to wait out the weekend for me so that I could purchase his hot, little plot in Regency. It's an adorable little thing, snuggled up against the the Neo-Meiji Restoration sector of Regency, so I smell the cherry blossoms floating in from Miss Chevalier's cherry tree and hear the tinkling of my neighbors' Zen ponds.
This does not come without complications, however. Because the L word is such a rarity, such an exquisite delicacy in Caledon, it may insight us to make hasty decisions with little or no forethought. I had often daydreamed of grand, open gardens and museums for my peers, but there was certainly no plan yet in motion when I bum-rushed Mr. Caligari, only a vague wish to create a public space for the betterment of Her Grace, Caledon. But now that the void of ideas has passed, an overabundace of ideas has replaced it. Decisions, decisions, such a delightful burden to bear.