Fiction, rum, roses.
Why escapism belongs to summer is beyond me. Actually it doesn't, come to think of it. My mind has been known to wander in every season but spring. But it's the places my mind wanders in summer...and the creative collisions that surprised me the other day listening to B-sides. That is summer.
Pretty Nell the handsome cabin boy. Yes I've written that as well. But without the childbirth. Obviously I'd come up with the idea before childbirth was interesting to me. I wish I'd thought of it. Tales of ladies at sea--think even as extreme of Ann Bonny and company--are splendid, o the drama of the Regency maiden, the Moll Flanders, brought into a family way out of wedlock, what to do what to do, Yentl cut your hair and hop on a boat. Whatever was she thinking...surely I'll never survive childbirth at sea? Surely I'll make it to Tortuga within 9 months, where no one cares? A crew of sailors will make a fine family? Blackmail?
It has been said that Pirates are the first democratic societies.
The escape from strictures of polite society. The barbarity of holding up individuals as model citizens; who actually wants to participate in that nonsense? Is it so much escapism as it is a true nature of sorts? People can't be people, so we have to dream about pirates and secret gardens.
Then again, isn't it what we want because we can't have it?
How funny to think someone's dream might be a corset, perhaps an arranged marriage. To be the morally impeccable frame of society.
I'll walk the plank, thanks.
You can find me under the white rose.
That's no metaphor.
That's really where I wait for her. That was our place, away from them who would not approve. Under the ivy in my garden, only my grandmother was there and she just loved love and wanted us to meet there. And we did.
And then she scared herself and ran from the garden. And I go to my garden every night to wait, under the white rose, because maybe she'll return, maybe she forgot something, or maybe, just maybe she misses me. I'll be here in case she comes, sitting in the thunder.