My head is full of 18th century English manners and customs as I'm reading "Evelina" by Fanney Burney again. I love this book. Although Lord Orville is the phantom of masculine godheadedness, he beckons to all of us female folk, calling us to be his dance partner for the evening, rescuing us from ill-mannered barbarity, choosing us for our pure rustic beauty despite our station in life. I think I've had a detrimental phantom Lord Orville in my head for most of my existence (which I had to kill eventually to exchange for reality:), but, how wonderful those illusory thoughts were to a romantic young farmgirl skipping around the manure piles in the barn lot saying/feeling/imagining, "Oh Lord Orville! you do exist and how wonderful to see you again at this magnificent hall, although I'm too painfully shy and stunningly beautiful to respond to your eloquent high-brededness. Yes, you may grasp my hand in order to kiss it! etc etc"
Oh boy. I'm glad those days are over. I can see Lord Orville for what he's worth: a model of behavior that suits a silly ideal of aristocracy (fanciful and intriguing, though, for certain!). Surely I knew this when I was young? I did always like the fairy tale as opposed to the horror story, though. It seemed more acceptable to believe, yet the extraction from it is well ... another blog posting! :)
On less romantic topics: I went to a downtown festival tonight and had my heart broken. A young man who once came into my university office for a job was wandering around completely stoned, disheveled, alone, in bad shape. I last saw him working at Wal-Mart; he had been married with a kid, I think, during that time. Whatever he once possessed, it appeared to be lost. God, please be with him and help him find a good way out.
That's life in my lane.