I took a writing class my last semester of undergrad. In it,we were assigned a multitude of tasks wherein we had to elicit sensual feelings from the reader. Sensual, of course, in the very literal sense by way of arousing the senses.
The course had a write a number of short creative non-fiction stories wherein we had to twinge the readers' sense of smell or prick the nerves to illustrate touch. I don't remember what sense I was attempting to evoke, but I wrote a paper about Little Women (Alcott). There is something magical about this book. I feel a kin to the March sisters. I love their vivacity. I love that they eat bread and milk for breakfast. And there is something absolutely romantic about their squalor. And for some reason, I secretly (now, not-so-secretly) love 1860s lower-middle class fashion.
This past weekend, I fizzled with disgust for the lack of snow. It hasn't even been sunny here these last few days. I wanted a scarf. A hat. My down vest. I wanted knee-high boots and a chunky sweater, both over black leggins. Ok, none of the aforementioned items were remotely recreated under the inspiration of 1860s fashion. Regardless!
I gps-ed the Kapolei Library and spent an afternoon wandering between the tall books and found myself leaving only a couple hours later, Little Women in hand and a night's worth of childhood regressions. And since then, this classic story has ignited every one of my senses and threaded me through the eyelet of a Victorian corset (thanks Dad). All of which is very 'agreeable'.
So back to the 1860s and my tea...
M.
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