slow show

Virginia shuffled tediously to her husband's side, sipping the chardonnay in her glass without interest.


Where on earth have you been darling? I've just had the pleasure of meeting this wonderful couple.


Virginia half smiled as Leonard introduced her to mister and missus Dalloway. She strained her smile even further as she shook Mr. Dalloway's smooth hand and took note of how his wife's was significantly rougher. The next few minutes she spent in silence as Leonard talked about poetry and art with the male Dalloway, slipping into the conversation various references to painters and poets in case the Dalloways hadn't noticed how infuriatingly pretentious he already was. Virginia and I were at the Tate earlier this afternoon, we absolutely adored the showcase of recently restored Pre-Raphaelites. Mr. Dalloway remarked that his personal favorite was Gustave Moreau and she could see a hint of perspiration begin to form above Leonard's upper lip as he struggled to keep up. She despised his insecurity, his need to pander and keep up with Mr. Dalloway and she wondered if they could see what a fool he was making of himself.

Mrs. Dalloway kept her gaze first on the ceiling then on the ground and seemed to be interested in everything else except the people before her. When Virginia finally caught her eyes she ascertained a certain form of sadness, not explicit, but almost certainly there. She wondered if Clarissa Dalloway was as unhappy as she was, if there was some unifying thread that bound these two strangers together. The Dalloways were significantly older than Virginia and Leonard, although Mrs. Dalloway had a somewhat vibrant twinkle in her eyes if you looked past the wrinkles that framed them. She had small, soft lips and a rather defined jaw with cheekbones so sharp you could cut glass with them. Undoubtedly beautiful, yet there was something about her which was beginning to gnaw at Virginia. She looked excruciatingly sad, and her sadness was so expertly concealed, so gentle - like it could only come from years of acceptance. This particular sight disturbed her, but not as much as when Mr. Dalloway reached to touch her shoulder and Virginia was certain she saw her shrink away for the tiniest of seconds before returning her husband's gesture.

Making a feeble excuse which none of the men heard and which Mrs. Dalloway barely acknowledged, Virginia slipped out of the conversation and into another room which had none of the guests, none of the wine and thankfully, none of the noise. She found a wooden chair and collapsed into it as she rested her head in her hands. Upon the table were a handful of lilies in a beautiful crystal vase and the markings etched into it would have been something to marvel at had it not also reflected Virginia sobbing quietly in the corner.


Fiction however, allows the protagonist in the story to be stronger than what it reflects in real life. Virginia understands this and she takes a long deep breath before making her way back to Leonard's side. Ah, there you are darling. For a moment there I thought I'd lost you. 

my summer of love

When do we know that we've grown up? How do we tell that we've passed this invisible threshold?

The boy is standing before the frame of a door, trembling in fear, trembling in excitement. He is certain he will emerge a man - or whatever he's been told little boys eventually become. Unfeeling, uncaring, strong and rough and elegant, the splitting image of his father. Growing up is a process. We are searching for this single grand realization, that reveals not in entirety but is gentle and gradual. We attempt to trace its trajectory, attaching meaning to experience to make some sense of it all. We are molded by history, products of nurture and nature, both intertwined and inseparable. The way of grace - kind, loving, compassionate, and the way of beauty - raw, innate and selfish. The search for a catalyst proves futile, I no longer remember the experiences that have led me here. All I have is a hazy sense of the here and now. A candle that flickers against the darkening night sky, all to easy to miss, all to easy to lose track of. The only thing I understand is the present. Feeling grown up but not quite in the middle of my summer of love. Love - which has always scared me. It is the world's greatest theory, conceptualized by civilizations of man, each time differently, subject to a thousand years of trial and error, no closer to a definitive answer now than we have ever been. What I couldn't feel I kept locked away. What I felt I never received I convinced myself against needing at all. But everything slowly begins to wash away, the boy is sitting on the shore as the waves come in, gently pulling at his feet. Sadness and anger give way to love. Sadness and anger which I believed I had so much of, fades into the sea to be washed up upon some other shore. What I remember and perhaps will never forget, was what she said.

You know he loved you very much.

And there was nothing else I wanted to believe more that that.