Still Working

My eyelashes kiss my bottom lids. Just as I feel the soft tremble of REM, a door barks open, bell clanging like it had mistaken itself for something much more grand. Two girls walk in. They are wearing skirts that look painted on, taut leather stretched across severe hips. Their shirts dip down low enough to see the pale flesh of two dove like breasts. They are drunk. And it is two in the afternoon. I remember that I am two streets from the Bourbon and watch quietly as one of the girls pukes into a broken washer. I listen to them mewling and moaning, I do not move.

~

The girls are leaving now. I hope they learn just as I did. Don't plant sunflowers while the house is on fire. Don't wish on damned stars, twinkling like smiling babies and just as useless. Don't give anything away, especially yourself, especially yourself.

A Little Bit More

During my lunch break, Vince and I walk to the café just down the road—the same café where I met Finn. He loops my arm through his and pretends I am his daughter, never mind that I have almond eyes and fire hair. He orders a double and I ask for Chai, but wish for a beer. Clanking, the cooler still sits wedged in the corner, though all the windows are closed today. A few locals sit on barstools, a man with a map and a Mac sits in the corner, his crinkled poncho crunched under his ass. Vince and I don't talk. He holds my hand and that says "It'll be alright." His eyes are bright and he is winking back something, maybe a tear. That says, "I love you."

I shouldn't be such a hypocrite. I know it. But, when I look at Vince I see football and meatloaf, a man with an arm around my mother's waist, hair grayed at the temple. I see a family without fracture. No Audreys or Aubreys or Step-Ford, Platinum card women with high heels and high almighty sentiment.

The last fragment of day shimmers by in a drugged fog. I move about the kitchen like the undead and serve up orders with Barbie's stolen plastic smile. The rain soaks through my jacket, leaves my hair clinging to my cheeks, and my hands purple. When I reach my apartment, I hear Sullivan yowling. The door is open, my TV gone, my windows smashed, rainwater puddled up and around like a retention pond.

I reach for the phone and find it disconnected. My computer is gone as well.

~

"Everything."

"Two months of revisions."

"All of my grad school samples."

I want to cry. I want to scream and hit things with knives and stab people with baseball bats. I want the world to stop spinning and drop like a broken elevator into an endless shaft. Everyone stupid would be crushed underneath, trapped between Antarctica and hell. Death by cold or death by fire.

A Piece of Something: Fiction

It is the summer of 1994 and I am 5. We live in California. Sunshine drips from the sky, soaking through my porcelain skin, drenching it with color. I am running through cool sprinklers, then I am alone in the rose garden. My grandfather planted eighty-five bushes in honor of my grandmother—the one he beat to death. At dusk, I like to wander in and around the blooming plants in search of fairies. I never find any. When I am twelve, I realize that nothing is magical. I begin to plan my future. My father loses his job, our minivan is repossessed, my mother begins working at Wal-Mart, and my brother is regularly harassed by a neighborhood bully. Fights and boys and bad ideas seem to flock toward me. I am vindictive, cruel, beautiful.

~

Here, in this city. Now, in 2010.

Nothing is real. Yet, people have you believe that they tell the truth. They want you to love them, to love the autumn sky, to sing and drink and sink to the lowest depths. They want you to be on their level. I try. I tried. I am trying. I tell Finn.

I tell him, "I don't believe you."

~

Sometimes, I think the world is flat. Not the whole world, just my little piece. When I seal that envelope with the payment for my college loans inside, I think I am falling. Then I remember the world is round, and everything begins again. It doesn't have to be money—though that slips through my fingers like hot sand. Other times, the sensation is induced by the squealing of squad cars moving rapidly up the cobble stone, or the feeling of cold porcelain against my skin after a rough night. I am always falling.

Sucker

French inhale and throw stones at corpses
Don't sit around and think
Talk and sit and suck smoke from stems of roses

When we walk don't touch me
Don't brush your cold body against me
You remind me of my grandfather's dentures: useful but dead

Square lights and jagged teeth or houses
Cats call at us and ask why our legs aren't bare
And we ignore, vapid, empty people

And we inhale the whole world
I imagine we could swish blue vapor through our teeth
learn from it, taste infinity

Our brains would shake our hands

Po-em

We smell urine but taste oatmeal
In summer sunrises seem too melancholy
Sunset senses the broken day

When I stand with my hands in the air
I think about trees
Spindly, reaching, wrenching the sky apart

There are a lot of shitty bathrooms
In the mid West
Words scrawled on walls, the smell of rebirth

We are wild life in a world of muses
Handle on the stopped up drain
Shards of splintered fingers dot the sink

My hands are fractured
The pen slips from my grasp
Blood and viscous ink, black and red, my high school

I smell piss, I taste it
I live in the bowels of the universe
In light of fecal perceptions

There isn't really much light

Putting off French Assignments

I just discovered that I am facing the ultimate struggle.
Who am I?
Never before have I asked myself this question. I suppose I took for granted that I've just known... To be honest, I'm slightly excited to discover the answer to this question. However, the trials of discovery are beginning to wear on me.
Don't fret. I'll survive. But, I may be persnickety, so beware.

Lately,
I've been writing in the music room.
I've been writing.
I've been complacent.
I've been waiting for April 10th!
I've been busy.
I've been dancing.
I've been tired.
I've been eating Reeses.
I've been drawing. Poorly.
I've been to meetings.
I've been missing New Orleans.
I've been thinking about cats.
I've been playing basketball.

Now,
I don't know what to say.

Therefore,
Good night.

Losing Sleep

In my eyes, there is a layer as fine as brick dust, an opaque chalk that separates one person from another. But, in the same way brick dust is made up of a million particles, so is this layer. No one truly penetrates it. It bends and folds and stretches and waves eternally. We are continually adding to it. We are continually strengthening it.

In a way, it's sad that we refuse to be closer to people.

But, I don't think we can control this. It's something we're born with. Although, I do know of instances where the fog has cleared and I've felt closer to another human being than ever before. It's nice, not to be alien all the time. That is why I listen to music, why I read. Well crafted art makes you vulnerable.

I want to be a writer because people make me happy. All different people. I want to have that mutual weakening of the boundary.

Good Read

Very cool lit mag.

http://www.coconutpoetry.org/whitej1.html

Why People Have Alter Egos (Myself Included)

Her name is Scarlet.

For a long time, basically since I watched Chicago and found that I identify with Velma Kelly more than makes me feel comfortable, I decided that all the things that I want to say or do that aren't socially acceptable could be attributed to this persona. I think of her as a beautiful man hater with money to burn and a fat cigar in her perfectly rouged lips. She wears flapper dresses and three inch heels. She downs shots in bar rooms dark enough to make a person feel alive and dead at the same time.

Then, there is Elysia. Modest, fun loving, nervous, cautious, etc.

Sometimes, I (Elysia) find that Scarlet bubbles up through the cracks in my personality like magma in a fault line. But, she doesn't embarrass me, like most may think. In fact, even though people--especially my mother--have the tendency to drop their mouths in tiny "O"s of shock when I say or do something out of the ordinary, I feel a surge of pride whenever Scarlet makes an appearance. And, although her wit parallels something closer to a faux pas in civilized society, I think of it as more of an edge to my usual softness.

We all know I am pretty bizarre at times, and for those of you who don't know me that well, this little tidbit may add another layer to the cake that is my cracked personality. But, I am not the only one with a selective split psyche.

-Miley Cyrus *Hannah Montana

-Beyonce *Sasha Fierce

-Garth Brooks *Chris Gains

-David Bowie *Ziggy Stardust

Look at writer's who have pen names, actors and actresses who play characters over and over again (Sacha Baron Cohen for example). To me, it seems that everyone needs the storage space that is an 'alter ego.' These personas have the potential to be vehicles for our desires and whims, those that are perhaps too odd for our friends and families to handle. For others, these personas are like experiments, a fake person for them to attempt something on or with, before they attribute their own fragile name to their exploits. Either way, I think everyone should keep an open mind to alter egos--even if you just keep a journal of what you'd like to do through that person. An alter ego is like an outlet. If you don't choose this route, choose another.

It's only human (and healthy) to have some form of creative expression.

NOLA

Enjoying the sunshine

Meschiya Lake and the Loose Marbles

Marie Laveau's tomb

He'll teach you to play chess for 5$

Another rag tag group we saw. They were great!

New Orleans has the most wonderful characters. Yesterday (Sunday) was the perfect day to explore the French quarter and watch the street performers. I was amazed at how talented some of them were. By far, my favorite was Meschiya Lake. She stood there, rocking back and forth on her heels, singing with enough power to draw a crowd, packing the steps of the court house on Royal. While the band took a break, I met a street performer, not pictured above, named Erica. She was a face painter/hula hooper. I asked her what made her decide to do this and she told me right off the bat, "This isn't my job. I work during the week. I have my BA in psychology and I am going to attend grad school at Tulane in the fall. I do this because I love the city and the people here."

She explained to me that most of the street performers aren't beggars. They are genuine performers and they live by "all the world's a stage...especially Royal St." However, performers aren't just found in that one area. Wandering through Jackson sq. in front of St. Louis Cathedral, we saw psychics, artists, musicians, and vendors of all different kinds. Every time I visit this city I am reminded of all the things I want to do. For me, New Orleans is the height of inspiration. When I am here, I am alive.

Ten Reasons I Shouldn't Do Stand Up...despite how inspired I was after stand up night at Motini's

Reason number 1:

I had to title this reason, "reason number 1."

2:

I have a twin sister...but she looks nothing like me. That rules out telepathy...and Mary Kate and Ashley jokes.

3:

I live in Indiana...how many jokes can you tell about corn? It's when you switch the 'c' to a 'p,' that things get interesting. But, I can't even swear in a group larger than three...so touche, self.

4:

I am a writer. Which means, I pretend to know what existentialism means...key word being "pretend." This automatically makes me pretentious and boring. If you think about it, people that use words longer than six letters are boring...except you, Mary Poppins. Forgive me.

5:

I listen to oldies. And, when I say oldies...I don't mean semi-old, like the classic rock my dad listened to at my age (but that doesn't mean you aren't old, dad). When I say oldies...think younger than Bach, whiter than Richard Simmons, and crazy for buying war bonds. Although, I do love blues and mo-town...hmmm.

6:

Oh yeah, don't forget about the opera I love...guess that negates anything slightly cool I have going for me.

7:

I am afraid of farm animals...damn you, George Orwell. Keep in mind, I live in the 4h capital of the world, and I get hives even thinking about sheep and cows.

8:

I was going to title this list, "Thirteen Reasons Why I Shouldn't Attempt Comedy," but I can't even come up with ten.

....this is getting more difficult...

9:

When I drink Coffee, my roommate has to hold my arms down, slap me around, and tell me to "stop it with the Yoda speak!"

10:

I debated stopping at reason number nine to screw with y'all...but I think I'm going to make it to 11 for that very same reason.

11:

I was mauled by a Welsh Corgi.

Attempted Manslaughter

An attempt at poetry.

This is basically why I don't write poetry. In fact, when I do write poetry I find that the words seem involuntary like ill-willed asylum patients. They lay down on the page, but do everything in their power attack each other and create chaos.

But, I gave it a shot. Sometime, I might even post something that I actually worked at...

Untitled

Why do we feel
stronger in the dark?
We fight battles in soup cans
with lima beans in our cork screw eyes.
Foment the calm with butter knives
of silent monochrome.

Why do we feel
safe in closets?
Our elbows imprinted
with the half moon stamp of a hanger.
It begrudges us privacy
among gawking turtle necks.

Why do we clench our teeth
in sunlight?
Our mouths like hissing radiators,
spill foggy heat.
We are ships docked in the bay
of a town
with no whores.

me Me ME.

Big news on the "I'm going to be published" front.

To those few big shots who don't think this is important...go strangle a pygmy goat.

Anyone else (that includes you, Dad):

I read some non-fiction at a local bar called Motini's on Monday! I wasn't what you would call a smashing success, but I did manage to move a few people (and no, I'm not talking about the souls that got up and left while I was reading), and I have been asked to return. However, whether or not that will happen soon is another matter. I am a freshman and I am not a master of the craft...but I think they like fresh perspectives.

Anywho, I have also been asked to be a junior(ish) member of the Writer's Community council(ish) thing. I am pretty stoked. For those of you not in the know, this means that I will be helping to plan the last few events of this semester. Thanks a lot to Rebbecca and Tyler for including me.

Last shout out, I swear, I want to thank all those who follow this blog. It's been pretty tough to figure out what I am doing here. It's obvious that I have lost my original perspectives about blogging. Basically, I used to think that people who blogged about their own exploits, were selfish nincompoops. Well, I have joined the throng. I think that I am going to use this blog to talk about literature and my life and my writing and me, me, me. But, that's ok. I am a writer. I am allowed that pig-headed creative license.

Last note before I sign off. I am working on a big project that I like to call "The One Inch Frame." It is merely a collection of "flash" non-fiction stories mostly about my life and relating to my generation. I haven't really written much non-fiction, but I am excited to explore the genre. Oh, and I stole my title from Anne Lamott's book, Bird by Bird. I am using the metaphorical "one inch frame" to examine and distill memories from my past into words.

Coolness Personified

Why, in the name of all things holy, are writer's so effing cool?

That less than revolutionary thought occurred to me today as I was sitting in a cramped room in the Letterman building listening to published authors read their works. The room was overstuffed with vegan, bracelet wearing, non-conformists in Chuck Taylors. The smell of narcissism polluted the air. I imagine it to be quite similar to the ambiguous scent of broccoli, because after all we are all too high-brow to actually manufacture sweat. Is this an image we, as writer's or artists, try to project? Or, are we simply, by our own standards this bad ass?

I like to think of it as a combination of both.

How the hell do you picture a writer? Hunched over a Mac in a Starbucks, hammering letters into flurries of life changing words? Maybe writers are defined by the genre they prefer--like the ever glamorous world of smut romance (or as my grandmother once said, "the books with those women that look like they could use half my sense, and the pannies I wore today.")? I like to think of these women as scorned housewives writing by the light of their clunking dryers. Regardless, writers have to be a bit off kilter. It's kind of like a selling point for them. If you're a perfectly sane person with an average life, who wants to hear what you have to say?

But really. I mean REALLY? It's not at all like there are guidelines to acting like a writer. You know,
Step 1: buy clothes at good will.
Step 2: eat things that never had a mother.
Step 3: listen to bands that are "tortured," or anything from the sixties (or the sexties...once again, thanks grandma).
Step 4: enjoy Kafka.
Step 5: drink soy milk and espresso...never together of course.

This is the biggest load of crap I have ever heard. That is why I really respect people who are genuinely screwed up. That probably sounds a lot more terrible to you than I meant but here comes the explanation...I love writers who can admit to their narcissism. I love writers that appreciate the English language so much that they give it a break and use words like cool and dick. I love writers that smell like Trader Joe's (even though I scorn vegans and vegetarians). I love writers that are lazy and disorganized. I love writers that actually have to shop at Good Will because they are "honing their craft." And the list goes on.

Writing is similar to the art of going to the bathroom...you work at it, you grunt a little and then you really have something. I couldn't imagine my life any other way, and even though I poke fun at them, I truly love every struggling writer in battered sneakers as much as the ones that wear space boots.

We are all on a journey together whether we know it or not. In the end, the road may lead to fame and fortune (fingers crossed), but it could also lead to self discovery. Which, I think is infinitely more important.

P.S. To all those who are brave enough to not eat animals or their by-products: I respect you more than you know. In fact, barring a discussion with the psychiatrist I don't have but desperately need, let's call my "scorn" a facade for despairing envy.

Cleopatra had Gas

So basically, I like to think about women in history as being human. Who doesn't? They totally were. But, because they are dead sometimes we give them just too high a pedestal...it's like we don't want to talk shit because we know they can't defend themselves from the grave. If this blog is about real women, (mostly), then lets get real.

Cleopatra had gas from time to time. She could have had terrible acne. Marie Curie could have been a very discrete slut. Pocahontas could have had cankles. Think about it.

Yet, despite all these unknowns, they still managed to accomplish wonderful achievements. Isn't that something we should be able to do? Acceptance is the first step to improvement. So, you have big hips from your mother's side...move on! It's really what you do with those hips that counts. Are you shy? Is your stride quick, because you hope no one will see the curvaceous beauty that was desired by men like Henry VIII or Alexander the great? I know that as impressionable young girls, we hear this "it's what's on the inside that matters," all the time. But, as women, we should be able to acknowledge just how true that statement is.

After acceptance, what comes next?

ACTION! Get the ball rolling. Think positive and work out your flaws through expression...

I don't know how else to say this...BE YOUR SELF.

Satisfied.

I have spent a large portion of the past two days learning about Vietnam. In fact, I will spend a large portion of this semester learning about Vietnam. It's not that I mind it...actually, I am really enjoying this study. It is an opportunity to delve into a world so very different from my own; full of people and ideas that I have never even considered.

Everyone in the US over the age of ten, knows about Vietnam--even if it's just the fact that we fought a war there. However, do they know anything about the smattering of identities that the people of Indo-China have been wading through all of their existence? Do they know that Vietnamese society functions like a large family, stemming from actual family life to the way political structure is facilitated? If they do, then good for them.

I guess, I am just amazed at all the things I am beginning to understand about cultural relativism (a great part of being an Anthropology major, is I get to throw around words like "cultural relativism," "ethnocentrism," and "enculturation"). For example, today in one of my literature classes, I connected the idea of schema to a debate about theory and opinion. Basically, a schema is a figurative map that anthropologists use to understand a culture. They take a specific event and then through observation and discussion with the people of that culture, they rank the connotative definitions of that event on this "map." In essence, it's alot like getting into the heads of the natives concerning things like family life and subsistence. Anyways, I figured that a theory must be culturally relative for it to have significance.

i.e: The theory that women would make good voters is a conquered subject. Beating a dead "cultural" horse gets us nowhere in the advancement of society through theory.

So, these epiphanies, if you will, are really reaffirming my choice in a double major. Even if I don't keep the Anth...I am still excited for the potential!

Also, today, I decided that I'd like to try to work abroad this summer. I am thinking about a job as an Au Pair, or something in Sweden with my friend Jenny. I am very ecstatic!

P.S. The next post I make will be about a woman. And readers...if you're out there in the void of cyberspace, feel free to make suggestions!

Stop. Hammer Time.------- Just kidding.

Ok. Breathe.

To my multitudinous mass of multicultural, card carrying aficionados...or my three followers, what have you, I want to warn you that this post will be a bit different than anything else I have attempted. You see, while I feel that my last five posts were examples of "decent" writing, I do not think that they impressed much meaning to those of you who read religiously...aka Dad. Yes, I stuck to my original goal--describing the aspirations of women that long before I, or even my grandmother, stepped foot on this Earth, managed to prove that women were and are worthy of competing and challenging men. However, I think that I could be a bit more creative. I mean, if you want to learn about Belle Boyd, you could go to Wikapedia just as easily as my site.

Look, what I want to say is, I want you reading my blog because you're interested in what I have to say...my perspectives and how I articulate them. I don't want you reading simply because you're curious who Joan of Arc is...grab an encyclopedia if that is the case. Don't waste your time here.

Whew...glad I got that off my chest...as cliche as that sounds.

Now, on to bigger brighter things...in a sense.

~

The thing weighing on my mind right now is the vulnerability of family, and really our whole outlook on what certain abstract emotions are--like loyalty or even love. I was sitting at my desk earlier and I was eating chocolate (of a certain brand that rhymes with above). This particular brand has an outer foil wrapper that has the brand name on the outside and a cutesy, make-you-want-to-vomit-confetti-and-pink-balloons saying on the inside. After I really noticed these sayings (I must have ripped through 15 pieces before I saw the writing), I made it a game to try to find one that made sense and actually had worth.

So, eventually, I was sick to my stomach and I had read everything from "Too much of a good thing is wonderful," to "Think of everyday as Sunday." Now clearly these two statements are misleading. Too much of a good thing...aka chocolate...gives you a stomach ache; or too much of my mother...sometimes the same response. And, what about the other? If we treated every day like a Sunday, nothing would get done. Who would build roads and buildings? Who would teach children? We might as well be pious Neanderthals.

Out of stupidity or perhaps a degraded sense of will power weakened by massive amounts of sugar, I opened one more. This one I ripped. After pushing the two pieces back together, I saw that it had said, "The most enjoyable experiences are often free." Now this, these seven words are so achingly true that I became enraged at my own lack of self control. Why had I ripped this stupid foil? Was it because I had given up...relinquished the thought that "Above" chocolate could come up with something meaningful?

Honestly, I am not sure. I could have drawn numerous deep, intellectual conclusions from that fatal mistake of my flawed, human fingers, but I didn't. Instead I thought about family.

Why is it that our families are so seemingly two faced? Like those chocolates, they are one thing for a long time and then you finally find the meaning. As children, we are so self-centered. We view the world from eyes that have only seen our mother's sweet face and our father's briefcase. To us, the world is made up of the same family dynamic we grew up with. Then, we become fledgelings...we leave and we return with new feathers and new sensibilities. This is when things change.

One thing I learned from those chocolates is that I can't be too eager, but I can't be passive aggressive. When the time comes that I can finally understand these differences between the family I knew and the pod of people seen by the outside, I must be diligent and careful. I cannot tear this new identity so the world is able to slip it's filthy, unconstrained hands into my life. I am both the outsider and the insider. I can change and make change.

It is my duty from each perspective.

P.S. I will still include some posts about women and their acheivements. I am a quasi-feminist afterall!

"Mes voix m'ont dit que l'ennemi sera le nôtre!"

Perhaps my very favorite Heroine would have to Jeanne D'Arc, or as America knows her, Joan of Arc. As the patron saint of France, martyrs, prisoners, and soldiers, Joan protects virtually millions of people in the Catholic faith. And, even though I am not Catholic, I have believed in her since I was a child. In fact, in the fourth grade, I wrote a research paper about Joan of Arc, and then I hoped she would be my patron saint of good grades. As it turns out, she was! I truly respect Joan for her sacrifices and services to the French army and the Dauphin Charles during the Hundred Years War.

To put it plainly, Joan was not your average nineteen year old girl. She didn't long for marriage or a life on the farm in her town of Doremy, France. But, she had never been a fiery daredevil, the kind of woman we can picture rescuing an entire city from enemy troops. Joan was known for her kindness and her piety. In today's world, I would hearken her to the local pastor's daughter, a wall flower, with a subtle grace and charm, her face always glowing with a semi-stupid smile, as if she knew that her life was going to be worth much more than ours.

Oh, and did I mention, she heard voices?

Joan was a quiet, simple gal on the outside, in fact, few knew of the battle raging in her psyche. It seems the personalities of Saint Michael, Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret spoke to Joan, telling her that she must help the young Dauphin. So finally, in February of 1429, Joan traveled to Chinon, to request an audience with Charles. Surprisingly, the future ruler of France listened to the ramblings of a young girl who claimed to hear the voices of Saints. Can you imagine this today?

What if someone you knew, a young woman, a teenager, marched up to Barack Obama and told him that she could rescue the capital of Pakistan because the voice of Jesus had whispered it in her ear?

That is, essentially, what Joan did. She was given troops...within a week the city of Orleans was saved by Saint Joan. And, by July, the Dauphin was on the throne of France. Despite all her success, the young king stopped listening to the holy advice of the girl. Perhaps he was too eager, perhaps he just didn't care. Either way, his ignorance led to the capture and death of Joan.

In a battle with the Burgundians (a splinter group from France, fighting for England), Joan was captured. Later, she was traded to the English and imprisoned for heresy. Eventually, she was burnt at the stake--condemned a traitor and a heretic.

However, death was not the end of Jeanne D'Arc.

She became a banner of France as it neared the end of the war. In fact, in the year 1456, when Joan would have only been 46, she was found innocent of all charges by Pope Callixtux. She was finally canonized in 1920, by Pope Benedict XV.

Trust, I believe, was Joan's greatest quality. Not once, did she question her motives or the voices of those that led her on such a quest. Now, by no means am I saying that if you hear voices telling you to go to Pakistan, you should do it. In fact, if this does happen, go to a shrink, and don't mention my name! Anyways, I am saying that if you believe in something, you should follow through.

Belief is only the first step. Action is second.

The Importance of Being a Blackmailer

Cleopatra of the Secession

Please, may I have a round of applause for Belle Boyd...Confederate spy and most importantly, WOMAN!

Negating the little fact of 'who won the civil war,' all that stuff about right and wrong, I would like to acknowledge the daring efforts of Belle Boyd, in representing her beliefs. Belle spied on enemy lines during the civil war and worked as an informant for the Confederacy. And, the most interesting fact about Belle is that she was NOT a quitter.

After her ship was captured en route to Britain, she wooed her way up the ranks and eventually won the heart of Samuel Hardinge, a union Naval officer part of the blockading fleet. For her love, Belle was banished to the cold depths of Canada (go figure...). But she tracked down her man, and they were later married after reuniting in Europe. Now, I have little doubt that this reunion was engineered by Belle and just as intricately planned as her escape from Union custody by way of the Mounties. And, I must say I do not condone the trading of sex for freedom (save for some very special and elaborate circumstances perchance involving a sale on Textbooks...I am a college student after all), however, Belle did what she thought was necessary and fate managed to catch up with her. I don't think she ever planned to fall in love with Hardinge, but she did, and had to trek from Canada to Britain just to prove it!

Belle was a daring women (a trait I think we should all possess), and she took measures that few of us would dare to take...this includes blackmailing the President.

When Samuel Hardinge was captured and incarcerated for betraying the Union (ahem, the man fell for a Confederate spy!), Belle took up a pen and paper and worked out her scorn.

She promised Lincoln that she would subdue the publication of her new book--which exposed the Union dogs for the blackhearts and scallywags they were--if he would release her husband. (A copy of the letter can be seen here: http://womenshistory.about.com/gi/o.htm?zi=1/XJ&zTi=1&sdn=womenshistory&cdn=education&tm=15&gps=301_259_1362_544&f=10&su=p897.6.336.ip_&tt=11&bt=0&bts=1&zu=http%3A//memory.loc.gov/cgi-bin/query/r%3Fammem/mal%3A@field%28DOCID%2b@lit%28d4022200%29%29) If I could, I would say that Lincoln replied by freeing her husband, but that is untrue. Instead, he took no notice and after a few more years, Hardinge was released. And, I wish I could tell you that Belle and Samuel stayed together for ever and had numerous adventures after the war, but I can't do that either.

The truth is, Belle Boyd divorced Samuel shortly after he was released. She then returned to America and remarried twice, eventually touring the country and regaling her stories from the war in full Confederate garb. Then, she died.

But, I still like the story of Belle Boyd...the adventure, romance, and folly. I appreciate that she was a real woman, and just like the rest of us, she had no idea what she wanted from life.

Though, unlike most of us, she tried to figure it out. She didn't settle for what was good at the moment, trapped forever in a loveless, hopeless void, not quite dead, but definitely not living.

Belle learned and lived, each day, one day at a time.

A good idea, don't you think?