After spending weeks in frustration and fear of the impending doom called -bleep-, I have received a request from someone who is dying for Blondie from Dragon Age: Origins to send her a letter while in Amaranthine. Dunno why it's me, but apparently the Alistair I wrote (and subsequently forgot about) sounded real. Or something. Whatever. Anyway, I had a hankering for wrangling my hair out while trying to figure out how to use the thing, so off I went, full of idiocy optimism that I can implement codices in no time!

Now, I've used the Aurora Toolset before. This was back in 2006 or something, when I was editing cutscenes for some Neverwinter Nights module. And I thought that was unwieldy, but at least the modules made sense somewhat and there were no unwieldy coding. Not that much anyway. I liked the Aurora Toolset. It didn't have a steep learning curve.

Enter Neverwinter Nights II. The new toolset was harder to use. But at least, apart from the swirling memory vortex which threatened to suck out all my ram, digest it, then tell me it wanted more, I could do what I wanted it to do. Creating meshes is a different game entirely, pun intended, but editing dialogue and setting flags wasn't that big of a deal, unless you wanted to create subroutines that led to subroutines that led to subroutines that led to... well, you get the point. Adding voiceover, if I wanted to, was no torture either.

Then there is this piece of junk.

First off, I knew something was wrong when I encountered the problem of not being able to convert the facial contour map (.mor files) to... anything else, really. So whatever Warden you managed to perfect in the character creator, well, woe be to you because you can't edit much else apart from eye colour and hair style. To create a preset you need to open the toolset, which eats up my memory like it hasn't been fed in days, make a new head morph from scratch, export it to a different file format. Argh. Which you now can't edit outside the character generator. But what if I wanted to make my handsome Cousland Warden's chin a little wider? Huh? HUH?!

Okay, fine. I gave up trying to perfect my Warden. She looked fine. But then I bumped into the problem of....

Not being able to find the source files for the expansion, Dragon Age: Awakening. Oh, I can find the erfs, but where the heck is the module? Or the area, to speak of? I need to make a placeable in the Throne Room in Vigil's Keep but I can't open Vigil's Keep, so there goes that.

Looking for tutorials has yielded scant results. I now have to edit code, which I hate doing because I usually have no idea what I'm doing, write Blondie's letter (dunno what he'd write... can he write? I'm assuming he's at least literate), implement it into the game, then create a dazip so I can distribute it.

Too much work? I'd say so. But apparently nobody wants a codex from the kennelmaster to the Commander of the Grey in Amaranthine to report how the dog is doing, oh no. It appears everyone who's either gay or female and has played that game wants some sickly letter from the blond creampuff about how he misses [insert name here] and how he wants to be by [third person gender appropriate possessive pronoun] side and whatnot. I'm sending him off to Weisshaupt, because that's what the slides showed at the end of the previous campaign.

Ugh. I guess I'll write the entry first, since I'll get to agonise over whether "trespass" would even be in Blondie's vocabulary, then figure out the implementation later.

Or should I say, plastic culture?

Disposability seems to be the keyword these days. Disposable pens. Disposable containers. Disposable clothes. And disposable people.

Don’t get me wrong. Some things are supposed to be disposable. I am not the type to keep all sorts of memos; I’m no Sherlock. And if I did that, it’s very likely I’d have already drowned in seas of papers that I’ve written on. Information is paramount in my family, which means that there are sheets and sheets of information written in various hands, located haphazardly throughout the house. A book there, a memo here, some random receipt on the piano, a post-it note from seven years ago stuck on my Bach. But that’s not the point.

The point is, things are getting too disposable.

Maybe this is just a trend occurring in the very consumerist countries. But of course, I haven’t really lived in any country but first-world, which are all becoming very consumerist. Expensive items bought cheaply, hen thrown away as soon as it’s not functional seems to be the keyword nowadays; “fixing and using” seems to be completely out of option. So there goes the cobbler that I used to frequent.I’m all for mending shoes, since many of them are good leather and I’ve worn them for years, and it is a rather common knowledge that leather shoes fit to your feet and undoubtedly become “your shoes”; meaning, they are fitted to your feet and no one else’s. But If the current cobbler that I frequent decides to close shop, I’m in serious trouble.

Shoes are one thing. But what about people?

I’ve had friends for years. Some date back to when I was still in year three. I’ve kept (semi) regular correspondence, a letter now and then, a phone call… and they know me well enough to keep in touch, despite my ups and downs that make my correspondence rather haphazard in frequencies. Relationships aren’t very disposable for me, and I’m the kind who remembers my year 1 class – everybody – by name. (Oddly enough, I don’t remember 99% of my high school class. Goes to show just how much I disliked that school, but that’s for another day.)

But that’s me; and that’s only with a handful that I’ve come to cross paths with, out of hundreds. And I mean hundreds. With the advent of Facebook, suddenly it became very easy to keep in touch… but it also meant that it was well nigh impossible for the most to keep in touch with those who didn’t. And ever since I joined the latter group, my “friends” list – a misnomer, if there ever was one – has been whittled down to about six out of six hundred. That’s 1% of the friends list. It appears, in the end, that “friends” now mean those who update regularly on Facebook, or those who have regular parties with you.

But to be entirely honest, I don’t consider those people to be “friends”. “Friends” are those who come to your rescue when you feel you are all alone and desolate, and we all have those times. “Friends” are those who remind you that they are there when you’re quite sure they’ve forgotten about you. And when it comes to that – most fail.

But surely those relationships that one had to resurrect on Facebook died for a reason. Perhaps either party wasn’t committed to keeping the relationship alive; perhaps common interest was no longer common; but the reason is there. You don’t just fall out with people for no reason. As long as each party is committed, and as long as both parties have things in common, friendships can last. Maybe it won’t be as dense; maybe it won’t be as frequent; but it won’t die.

So a friendship died for a reason. Why resurrect it? I’m not entirely sure. I’ve lost touch with James for years, and I don’t really regret it, as all we’ve had in common was school and that commonality ended when I moved away and changed schools. And what exactly is one to talk about with someone you haven’t talked to in years, who have no common interests with you? “Hi, how are you?” “Good” is probably all that the conversation amounts to… and if all you want is that, then you can do that in Starbucks.

Stanford recently released a study that Facebook users are more likely to be miserable and depressed than those who aren’t. I wasn’t surprised; these social networks create a false sense of human contact when all there is are windows into someone else’s life that you most likely won’t have much part in.

Richard Bach once said,

A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends.

Well, then maybe that last farewell you said to the person who sat next to you in year five was the last farewell because of obvious reasons. Beating a dead horse isn’t going to get one anywhere, and continuing to beat it in vain hopes that it might be resurrected is just clinging on false optimism that is bound to crash. We talk about consumerism often and how “bad” it is, but we never stop to consider “why” it’s bad; just that it’s bad. But one needs to know why it’s bad before one stops doing it, and because no one actually considers the why, we continue down the road of falsified relationships that can end with one click.

Message that I receive everyday from the silence of the phone is:

People are disposable. You are disposable.

(Many thanks to all of you who continue to write to me in my utterly selfish campaign to not use electronic communications. Your efforts are very appreciated… and I keep all your letters.)

It’s been a common complaint throughout the ages that “the younger generations are worse than us”. It was said during Marlowe’s time, Hardy’s time, Waugh’s time, my time, and probably hundred years from now. But just how much of this is the truth, really?

The truth of the matter is: in matter of things that require long time to develop, probably.

Our lives have been getting busier and busier. Back in Hardy’s day it’s rather clear a woman could learn handwriting and had time to read; then Waugh’s time came and girls were flitting around having parties; nowadays handwriting is almost virtually unheard of.

Busier and busier means less and less time. No, a day is still 24 hours, but there is less time to spend per activity. And as our lives get busier and busier, things get more mass-produced and quickly digested (seriously, how many books have you read the past month?). Reading is out. Movies and games are in. And if you read, well, congratulations, you are now a minority group. Borders is closed, Spenser is kicked off the bookshelf… if such thing even exists in people’s houses.

I’m not saying yesterday is better, but I think we had a bit more emotional capacity in the past. People used to write love letters; now skype and text have replaced them, and quite frankly, they’re about as dry and tasteless as a week old slice of bread.

Sarcasm, it seems, would be the English virtue, and not much of a virtue anywhere else. Of course, for those who consider the world to be a stage, sarcasms are just as witty as any other types of humour, and taking jibes at each other would be something that shows witticism and brevity, not a personal insult.

This would be a personal insult:

“You are ugly.”

This would be sarcasm:

“Your face is so beautiful I think I want to gouge my eyeballs out.”

The thing is, sarcasm can be taken as a way to circumspectly insult someone else, but the insult has to be received by someone who has an equal or better comprehension of the motives behind the word choices. In other words, one needs a sarcasm sensor to not get offended by it.

In many cases amongst the islanders, sarcasm is so ingrained within everyday conversations that one doesn’t even consider whether it is a personal insult or not.  This would not necessarily be meant to be hurtful, rather the acerbic tone is just a characteristic, and not meant to be taken personally. It’s a fine line that does not seem to translate, even if there are very little language barriers.

Case in point:

A: “I hate Dostoyevsky.”

B: “I find him quite interesting.”

A: “Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t read a book in your life.”

This is rather direct, and therefore meant as an insult. It better be taken as an insult, otherwise Speaker A would officially categorise Speaker B as an imbecile and any kind of discourse would be over. Oh dear, this person can’t even identify insults. He would need to be fed and taught how to sit on hind paws would be what speaker A is thinking, in all possibilities.

However:

A: “I hate Dostoyevsky.”

B: “I find him quite interesting.”

A: “You read?!”

This conversation leaves B with two choices: one, to take the final remark as an insult and get mortally offended, in which case Nesbit’s observation that a person gets angry when the truth is told might be proven true; or two, B can come back with a witticism, in which the ball is back in A’s court. Thus a lively banter continues, a competition of wit as well as patience.

However, this kind of verbal tennis requires training, of which most do not grow up with. And then they get mortally offended, and the speaker A walks away, shaking his/her head, thinking “so much for humour and esprit. What happened to the sense of wit?”

She rises, like a silver phoenix rising from the ashes of the ocean, mantled in her hair, so dark, her eyes dark, filled with the mysteries of the past.

He gazes, his green eyes focused on the future, determination and resolution shading the eyes darker than its original green to a viridian hue.

The sunlight turns into molten platinum, washing out the two stills.

She raises her head, her hair unfurling; she narrows her eyes slightly, feeling the thrums of the earth’s living pulse through her fingertips.

He lowers his head, perhaps a sign of obedience, or acknowledgement.

The two mortals awaken, the land green and verdant, the wind giving them their first breaths. Their song will be the one of ice and fire, life and death, wars and battles conquered.

She unfurls her long arms, arms like a long, white snake.

The forest awakens.

My pen fancy has struck me again, and I've been having fun with my pens and inks, partly because suddenly I have found myself inundated with correspondence and just things that requires actual writing, as opposed to e-mails and other modern technologies. There are quite a world out there that you can designate as your combination, with nib widths, ink colours, and paper.

For example, I use moleskine for my notes. A red cahier, actually, and I use Platinum Preppy and Lamy EF to write in them. My colleague uses Rhodia and Pilot. Quite a different end-product (mine definitely looks more feminine, hands down). Mine’s a bit more colourful, owing to quite a few Preppies I have at my arsenal.

It’s been a while since I’ve written this much by hand. Sure, I take my notes by hand, mark papers by hand, but they’re jotting, really, not much more than a few sentences at a time. But with these, letters included, they’re proper writing, with sitting down, thinking, picking up a pen. It’s a rather methodical process: sit down, select the ink (or make sure the ink is loaded), ponder what to write, place the ink eradicators and whatnot around, uncap the pen, begin writing. It’s a bit different from snatching a Bic from the table and jotting a few notes.

Writing (not typing, but writing), as I’ve recently rediscovered, is a rather thoughtful, meditative process. I’ve written letters – constantly, even, as Mr “I want to remain nameless” and I have kept steady correspondence across the Atlantic and across the continent for the past seven years – but only recently have I closely examined the actual process of writing, both mental and physical. Unlike word processing, you can’t really just hit backspace and delete the sentence you wrote, so you tend to get more careful as you write. Word selection becomes a little more important; penmanship becomes a little more of a concern; and unlike e-mails, there is an actual physical process of destroying letters, as opposed to just hitting delete, so each word becomes heavier.

Your emotions do show up in your penmanship. When I am distressed, my handwriting becomes a little more erratic; when I am calm, they are neater, more regular. My ink colour selection also reflects my mood; when I am feeling prim and proper, I tend to select blue; when I am feeling fanciful, brighter colours show up.

I think, as we progress through technology, we are losing more and more personal touches. Letters became phone calls, which became e-mails and instant messaging; and severing ties became easier and easier, until all it took were two buttons to hit delete. Cards became replaced with facebook messages and e-cards, which get lost in the myriad of electronic information we get bombarded with. Relationships between two people can be quickly forgotten with a few clicks, the past sealed away.

Is this a good thing? Perhaps. Perhaps it is a good thing to be able to forget the past and seal away previous acquaintances. But I am glad Mr Nameless had written me letters all this time; I’d be cleaning my room and stumble upon the bundle of letters he wrote, and I’d remember the ache. Once upon a time, he and I were happy. Those moments were forever crystallised in those penned words, and it’s much harder to rip up letters than hit delete on a phone.

Mr Nameless has taken a step further (oh dear). He has decided that pen nib, his penmanship (or a lack thereof…), and his ink colours don’t quite identify the sender as himself. And so, enter sealing waxes.

Originally, as we know, sealing waxes were designed for hand-delivered letters, to prevent tampering. It’s a bit more ceremonial these days, but I think he wants an ending action to his letter-writing. After all, he writes to me the most, and apparently, he has a sort of a ritual; a nice cup of tea, a pen, an ink colour selected out (although it’s usually blue… different shade of blue, perhaps?), good writing pad in front of him, looking out the window, music filtering out from the speakers. Writing is reaching out to the recipient through pen and paper, and the paper is actually something the writer has touched, felt; it’s different from a printed out e-mail. It is akin to what Cyrano said, in Edmond Rostand’s play Cyrano de Bergerac:

Un baiser, mais à tout prendre, qu'est-ce ?
Un serment fait d'un peu plus près, une promesse
Plus précise, un aveu qui veut se confirmer,
Un point rose qu'on met sur l'i du verbe aimer;
C'est un secret qui prend la bouche pour oreille,
Un instant d'infini qui fait un bruit d'abeille,
Une communion ayant un goût de fleur,
Une façon d'un peu se respirer le cœur,
Et d'un peu se goûter, au bord des lèvres, l'âme !

Not quite a kiss, our letters, but a promise all the same; a hug stuffed in an envelope, a kiss lovingly tucked into a page. And when he finishes tucking that hug into the paper, apparently he wants to seal it with wax and a seal that says, “it’s from me”.

And so he has his seal, and he has his samples of wax. He’s trying to decide between midnight blue, forest green, and silver. He’s leaning towards green but he also likes silver. I’ve told him to maybe mix both. He’s pondering. Another mark left on paper to tell me that he’s in my life, and that we share moments, even when we are apart.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

It’s always the models who get blamed for anything that goes wrong with the girls and weight. Girls get obsessive about weight, it’s our fault. We’re too thin. We’re setting too high of a standard. We’re ugly. E.t.c.

Now, I personally believe that models are beautiful, the same way artwork by Paul Delvaux is beautiful. The long legs, the long arms, defined eyes, small face are all phrases used to describe beautiful people (not just women). Let us take a look:

Gemma stretched her long legs; her large brown eyes stared into the distance. The small face and the delicate chin completed the look that gave her an ethereal air; her arms were white and reminded him of white snakes, unravelling to sway this way and that. Her porcelain skin was milky white in the light, and her expression told him she was feeling melancholy.

That is actually a description I wrote while watching a model shoot on youtube. Now, let’s turn Gemma into a “normal” size 10 (US) person.

Gemma stretched her legs; her brown eyes stared into the distance. There was some flesh on her jawline and her face was round; her arms were not long, and her legs, if they were long, did not appear so. Her face had some acne, made a little glaringly obvious in the light, and she just looked tired.

Gemma as a “normal person”, someone you might see at the mall. Not very appealing.

People seem to be forgetting that models are exaggerated forms that are supposed to look good from the viewfinder, not on the street. Many artworks, varying from Cranach to Delvaux, depict slim women with long arms and long legs and small faces; since the cranium is approximately the same size for most humans (unless you’re Johann Sebastian Bach), the taller you are, smaller your head would appear. There had been periods when grossly obese women (Renoir, Rembrandt) were the vogue, but that’s a minority.

Thinness is not a new vogue. Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, was about 172cm and weighed less than 50kg; she was a known beauty in Europe. Quite a few of the models from 1920s all the way to 70s were tall and thin; models are not supposed to be “cute” or “pretty”. They are supposed to be “beautiful”, or “artful”, and many of the artworks depict exaggerated forms. They are in exaggerated poses with exaggerated body forms because each photograph is supposed to be artful. This is why there are professional photographers such as Patrick Demarchelier, or Serge Lutens, or Mario Testino. They are not trying to create easily accessible, cutesy fashion spreads; they are trying to find that sparkle through the lens, which renders each photograph something that can be put up on a wall.

That is not a photograph I’d like to put up on the wall of my apartment. It’s ugly. No finesse, no poetry. Imagine framing that in stainless steel frame and putting it on the white wall. It doesn’t work.

That, however, would look nice in the same frame, up on a white wall. Sure, the woman herself might look almost disfigured in real life, but in that photograph? She looks ethereal. Each shot in fashion magazine is supposed to be an inspirational look (unless you can actually afford a Burberry coat, Prada handbag, Miu Miu pumps, and Balenciaga shirt); but it can’t just look “cute”, because people then won’t buy. After all, if you are selling products to look “average”, it won’t sell. Fashion industry is an illusion to say, “hey, if you buy this handbag, you might look as ethereal and picturesque as this woman in this photo!”.

Is it a con? Sure it is. Just as men smoking cigarettes or drinking vodka in advertisements look suave and refined. I have never seen a vodka drinker at a bar in a tux. EVER. But people aren’t yammering about that.

I’m starting to think models are up on the blame docket because women don’t want to go through the hellacious task (or Herculean, if you want to think about it that way) of losing weight. Let’s admit it, losing weight is a horrible task that denies the most basic of your bodily needs. We are constantly bombarded with chocolate, ice cream, doughnuts and other food, and you have to walk by it – almost every day – without eating it. It’s Tantalus all over again, every single day. So it’s easier to say “they’re ugly! They look weird!”.

Well, duh, they’re supposed to look like that.

What people are forgetting is that they are a select few of the population who were endowed with a certain set of genes. Small head, beautiful shoulders, long limbs, height. Trying to look like a model is akin to trying to be born into the royal family: aka, forget it. Sure, you can buy products that the royal family might use and try to emulate their lifestyle, but you will never become one of them. Being a model is the same concept. But it also comes with hard work: partying, contrary to popular beliefs, isn’t that popular (lack of sleep wreaks havoc on your skin); eating healthy is paramount to surviving in the industry; and exercising is a must.

This isn’t anything new. Balenciaga’s model from 1950s was about as slim as those we see today:

 

Is it because gay men select the models? Not really. Surprisingly (to me), quite a few fashion designers are straight; it’s just that the gay ones tend to receive the spotlight in regards to sexuality because, well, they work with women and they’re gay. But the likes of Oscar de le Renta, Ralph Lauren, and Calvin Klein are all straight. And it was Calvin Klein who used Kate Moss and started the “Twiggy is in” look again.

Men tend to look at models as “ugly” because, apparently, they’re unravelling the clothes and finding stick-thin figures underneath, and well, that isn’t really cushy and lovable in bed (I read this in gender theory book somewhere… and it completely eludes me what the title or the author’s name was). I find that highly offending. I want to be viewed as “beautiful” as a form or a creature, much as we find the slender form of a deer beautiful; I definitely don’t want to be viewed as “my, those breasts would be lovely to squish my head into”. Ugh, no thank you.

But that’s just me. And thankfully, the boys around me aren’t really looking to squish their heads into any of my body parts, but rather seems to prefer looking at me like some sculpture and appreciating it. And as long as they find me lovely, I suppose I won’t complain.

I’m reading Proust. Partly because my abdominal pain’s so awful I need something so utterly mind-numbing for me to distract the pain; partly because I’m that bored. Either way, I’d have to say A la Recherché du Temps Perdu is pretty boring. But putting that aside, it started to make me think of what it means to be cultured.

I am often called that. I suppose I can see why, although within the household I live in, the level I am at is fairly standard. There are books my parents have read that I have not, and vice versa, but we share information, and exchange opinions over the dinner table. My father knew about “Gerrymander”, and I did not (and amazingly that term is registered within my spellcheck). My father did not have a particularly defined opinion on the definition of artistry, and I did. Exchange of knowledge and opinions. That is what our conversations our made of.

But what does it actually mean to be cultured? Being cultured is one of the hallmarks of being middle class, it seems. But why is it important? Jack, I’d say, is cultured; speaking two languages, learning two more, well-read (partly because of me; we share books quite often), interested. His sphere seems rather large compared to others. He’s a classical pianist but he listens to anything (he seems to shy away from country and rap, but he also said that he’s “just not used to it… I haven’t listened to the genre enough to pass judgement”). And why is it that some arts seem to command more respect than others? If all arts are equal, then listening to Dr. Dre should be treated just the same as listening to Wagner.

Does it? Nope. Not at all. I have yet to meet someone who goes “I’ve always wanted to go to one!” when I say “I’m going to a Linkin Park concert”. But operas? Sure. All the time.

It seems that nowadays, people have very rigid, tiny definitions of “culture”. “Cultured person” seems to mean “someone who is well-read in books, who has watched and engaged with classic films, has a refined appreciation for art, etc. To be cultured is also to be educated about the world and its languages, to understand world politics and be well-read in world history”. Which translates to: doing boring things.

So I pulled out my arsenal of middle class people. According to them, “culture” is being interested in things other than your immediate sphere of interest. Reading is a prime example of it; I don’t live in France, but I read French authors to see the world from their eyes. To know what French people are like. What France is like. (That is not to say that I particularly enjoy Proust.)

But it’s undeniable that classical music gain more respect culturally than rock. Why?

Connor (my flautist friend) gave me an interesting answer. He agreed that Mozart was the 1800s Lady Gaga; he pulled up ladies’ skirts (how naughty), wrote very inappropriate music, and was just plain scandalous. But why is it that Mozart commands more respect than Lady Gaga, then?

“Well, people associate culture with it because our generation is that of popular music,” he said.

“So it's because opera and Rachmaninov and Monet are far more culturally distant that they're so valued? (apart from the amount of pure hard work we have to put in to perform them, as opposed to Katy Perry.)”

“I think that’s pretty accurate. I also think the amount of theory they used was a big thing. Mozart used musical logic to explain emotion.”

It seems that culture just really amounts to having interest in the world outside of what you know. And vaster the interest is, more cultured you become, because you naturally try to go and learn by reading, listening, seeing; I watch breakdancing, line dancing, Irish dancing, ballet. I’m only familiar with ballet myself, but others are interesting to me, and I’ve learned a few things about rhythm from all of those sub-genres.

On the other hand, there are some utter rubbish in any genre. Those should be weeded out.

During a recent discussion regarding preferred dog species, my past failed relationship, and whether Charles Ryder needs to be so utterly homosexual in the 2008 release of Brideshead Revisited, Jack made a point that there was one factor that doomed my relationship to utter failure, before I even uttered a hello.

Class.

Now, living in United States and Canada does give one a different rationalisation on class. It is based on financial assets; therefore, it does not matter whether you are a Harvard MBA or a Hollywood DJ; upper class is upper class, end of discussion, without much regards for preferences. Of course, middle class do tend to frequent Sur la Table and buy extra virgin olive oil, but that is not the hallmark of class. It is how much you have in your bank account, not which bank you use.

Not quite so in England, Jack said (which was rather old news to me). Case in point: class is determined by your priorities which you inherit from generation to generation, despite the recent degeneracy that has been occurring. Therefore, a Tory’s son would most likely be a Tory, go to Oxbridge (or Edinburgh or Durham or London, depending), drink appropriate tea brand and eat certain foods. Because that’s how it is done in the family.

“That seems a bit bizarre,” I said. “What class am I?”

“Solidly middle, I’m afraid. You are the female version of Charles, worrying about everything and hanging on in quiet desperation.”

“How dull.”

Middle Class, said Jack, is formulated by a single, underlying philosophy: long-term thinking. Being the historical supporting class of Great Britain, they are the ones who have always received the brunt of political and social upheaval, and therefore, like to be prepared for disasters. Of course, this underlying philosophy has somewhat disappeared under the pretentious (not my word, but his) formalism, but it is still there. Therefore, you eat fair trade organic (healthy food means healthy body), go to museums on weekends (I don’t quite understand this one), send children to grammars or independent (better college means better university, which means more stability in life later on), select a few choice areas in which to use money (because that, in turn, actually means less expense after all).

Now, there are few random things that middle class do spend money on, Jack said. Tea for instance. And coffee. And wine. A middle class person goes to operas and ballet, play classical instrument quite often (why?), use Wedgwood or Royal Doulton dishes, sing happy birthdays in mortified hush in restaurants, agree that Thatcher was a good idea, listen to BBC radio and watch BBC1 (or 4? I’m never too sure, I do not possess the modern discovery called television).

“Alright,” I said, a bit huffy. “Explain how ANY of that works into my failed relationship with him and my rocky yet successful, undefined relationship with you.”

“Right.” He thought. “What tea does he drink?”

“Tea?! I’m asking you to explain the doom of my love and you’re asking me about tea?!”

“Tea is a big indicator, dear.”

“Tetley’s?”

“I could have told you that your relationship would never work out, just from that. You staunchly cling onto Twining’s.”

“What about Janet?”

“She’s African by origin. Different rules.”

What was I supposed to say?! Sarah and Jack both drink Twining’s. Ugh.

“Favourite author?”

“I have no idea.”

“Wait.” Jack paused. “You’ve known this fellow for over a year and you don’t know his favourite author?”

“No.”

"How curious. Favourite pastime?”

“Video games.”

“Doom yet again. Play an instrument?”

“Bass.”

“… Double bass?”

“No. The electric one.”

“See, Gabrielle,” Jack said, in a resolute tone, “you and he are too different, it’s almost as if you live in a different world. Can you imagine Harry playing bass?”

“Double bass?”

“No, the electric one.”

I pondered. I giggled. It is very difficult to imagine Harry playing electric anything.

“But his father’s a typical middle class, I think. Master’s degree and the sorts.”

“Gabrielle,” said Jack, “a child’s class is not determined by the father. It is determined by the mother, since the child has far more exposure than the father. I can assure you that you would never have associated with that fellow in real life.”

“School?”

“You went to a local independent. I doubt he did.” (He didn’t.)

Jack continued, ignoring my flabbergasted silence. “You have to realise that class plays a far larger role than any of us would like to admit. It determines the hobbies, interests, books we read, music we listen to, tea preference, newspaper, food, wine, to educational policies. There are blurred lines but there are people who’d fit in middle class anywhere in any recent historical period. You and he had nothing in common.”

“And you and I do?”

“More than what you and that fellow had, yes.”

“Are you insinuating that my relationship ended because of tea brands?”

“That’s symptomatic, not causal. And besides, let’s postulate that his mother is indeed from a good, British middle class…”

“Define good middle class.”

“Well, you know my mother. Would you think my mother would marry someone from the Commonwealth? American, maybe, as they are undeniably world’s superpower, but can you imagine my mother marrying an Australian?”

“Now you’re making it sound like Julia Marchmain and Rex Mottram.”

“And you see how that marriage ended.”

This sounds as if the conclusion is “if the family does not drink Twining’s, stay away”. This sounds preposterous to me. But I’m starting to sound like Michael Meacher, so maybe I should shut up.

Perhaps the British population fears being labelled “middle class” because it automatically means (nowadays, anyway) that you undeservedly receive the products of wealth (music lessons, ballet and opera, good wines, cheeses, e.t.c.) without working for it. I don’t think people realise that middle class may continue buying those things even during personal financial crisis. It’s the preference that makes one middle class, Jack said, not the ability to be one.

Anyway, I compiled this quiz to determine what class you are… I am an ashamed (or upper) middle class, apparently. Ah well. Here are the original quizzes, if you are interested in looking at them. They’re supposed to be tongue-in-cheek, so please don’t come shrieking at me for whatever answer you get.

The “Which Class Are You?” Quiz (Some only applicable to British residents!)

1. The politician you most admire is...

a) Margaret Thatcher. She got Britain interested in property. (10)
b) Margaret Thatcher. She saw off the Argies. (5)
c) Margaret Thatcher. Such fine ankles. (15)

2. The best way to lose weight is:

a) Going for a bracing walk on the moors with the dogs. (15)
b) Getting the NHS to provide you with a free stomach staple and cutting back on the body-building steroids. (5)
c) Stepping up your attendance at the gym and getting a few personal-training sessions under your Lycra. (10)

3. Your TV schedule highlights are:

a) Newsnight, University Challenge, Marple and Midsomer Murders. The more inquisition, the better! (10)
b) EastEnders, The Jeremy Kyle Show or anything with an ‘X’ in it. The more fighting, the better! (5)
c) Anything involving Professor Brian Cox or Sir David Attenborough. The more nature, the better! (15)

4. Your view on tax is:

a) It’s there to be dodged. Get paid in cash. (5)
b) I pay far too much of it. (10)
c) It’s there to be dodged. Put pay in offshore trusts. (15)

5. Museums are . . .

a) Always full of dead stuff with small labels on it. (5)
b) Always a good option for the children on a rainy weekend. (10)
c) Always asking one to be on the fundraising committee. It’s good not to say yes to too many. (15)

6. Your youth was spent:

a) In the Bullingdon Club. You’ve been trying to hide the photos ever since. (15)
b) In Borstal. You’ve been trying to bury the conviction ever since. (5)
c) At Bristol University. You’ve been trying to recreate the good old days ever since. (10)

7. When you feel nostalgic for your childhood, you:

a) Buy some chintzy Cath Kidston kitchenware. (10)
b) Thank God you live in the house you grew up in. (15)
c) Call Nan to be shouted at. (5)

8. You have a day to kill with the children. You:

a) Let them run riot on a National Trust estate. (10)
b) Let them run riot on council estate — avoiding men with shotguns. (5)
c) Let them run riot on the estate — avoiding men with shotguns. (15)

9. A dapper man wears:

a) His grandfather’s Savile Row and some well-worn tweed. (15)
b) Designer gear with no collar, high-waisted trousers and trainers — like Simon Cowell. (5)
c) A decent suit. (10)

10. Your daily journey is . . .

a) From the fridge to the sofa clutching a Red Bull. It takes about two minutes. (5)
b) On a Boris bike to work. (10)
c) From the parlour to the estate office. It takes about two minutes. (15)

11. Childhood ambition:

a) To be unemployed and to sit in the pub all day with your rellies playing darts. (5)
b) To be a web entrepreneur. You have plans to sell a loss-making website for a fortune and then spend the cash on installing central heating. (15)
c) To be gainfully employed at something respectable. (10)

12. Your male influence was:

a) Your dad. (10)
b) Your mum’s last boyfriend. (5)
c) Your grandfather, a war hero. (15)

13. Your female influence was:

a) Your mum. (10)
b) Nanny. Funny, your wife looks just like her. (15)
c) Your big sister, who turned out to be your mother. (5)

14. Eyebrow and hair colours that don’t match are:

a) Weird. Like Alistair Darling. (10)
b) For badgers. (15)
c) Glamorous. Like Jordan. (5)

15. Your views on tattoos:

a) The more the merrier — but they have to be obvious.
b) Gross.
c) Quite sweet, if discreet.

16. Your idea of a perfect evening's family entertainment is:

a) Trivial Pursuit. (10)
b) Charades. (15)
c) Everyone on the sofa with their own PSP (PlayStation Portable). (5)

17. Your views on vegetables:

a) No, ta. (5)
b) Organic only. (10)
c) Grown on the home farm with plenty of pesticide. (15)

18. Nails need to be . . .

a) Tastefully plain, with plain or light pink nail varnish. (10)
b) A full set of acrylics painted green with diamanté stuck on. (5)
c) A mess. (15)

19. Make-up must-haves:

a) False eyelashes, fake tan, plumped-up lips and spidery mascara. (5)
b) Practically nothing with shiny hair and a nice, jolly lipstick. (15)
c) Fresh-faced make-up — blusher, tinted moisturiser and a dash of eyeliner. (10)

20. Your idea of fast food is:

a) Jamie Oliver’s 30-minute meals — so long as you do the chopping fast. (10)
b) Super-sized, served in a bucket and costing 99p. (5)
c) Skipping the starter and eating pheasant from your own estate. (15)

21. You live in:

a) A council house. (5)
b) A mortgaged house. (10)
c) The Big House. (15)

22. Your cousins are:

a) Your cousins. (10)
b) Locked up. (5)
c) Distant, but they all appear in Debrett’s. (15)

You’re halfway there! Have a cuppa.

23. Kate Moss-style smoking on a catwalk with your bum on show is:

a) Perfection — fame and a fag. (5)
b) A terrible example to girls. (10)
c) Who cares? Fashion people are all mad anyway. (15)

24. You will be spending this August:

a) First on the estate in Scotland; then at the house we always take in Rock: the boys do so love the surfing in Polzeath, and Rick Stein's is just a ferry ride across the estuary. (15)
b) Magaluf; Benidorm; San Antonio in Ibiza - anywhere they do proper fish 'n' chips and English lager. (5)
c) Well they do say Croatia's on the up-and-up, though I do worry there might not be enough art galleries for Jonquil and Tarquin. (10)

25. In the morning you are awoken by the gentle strains of:

a) Radio 4's John Humphrys and Jim Naughtie talking about Jordan's politics. (10)
b) Radio 1's Chris Moyles raving about Jordan's knockers. (5)
c) James, your valet, murmuring a gentle reminder that Jordan's King, Abdullah II, may be dropping by for dinner. (15)

26. At breakfast you prefer:

a) India tea, freshly squeezed orange juice, then some kedgeree washed down with a spot of fizz. (15)
b) Warm water with a squeeze of lemon juice, fresh fruit, decaffeinated coffee, organic wholemeal porridge. (10)
c) Sunny Delight, Pop-Tarts, Coco Pops and a bowl of Sugar Puffs sprinkled with sugar substitute.(5)

27. You prefer to answer the call of nature in a:

a) Toilet (5)
b) Lavatory (10)
c) Loo (15)

28. At home, the central heating is:

a)The latest eco-friendly design with thermostatic controls which maximise fuel efficiency. (10)
b)Usually on full blast. (5)
c)Never turned on until the frosts in December. (15)

29. Your perfect pair of earrings are:

a) Big-hooped golden ones from somewhere mega-posh like Gucci. (5)
b) Chic, crafty ones from somewhere hip and recherche. (10)
c) Old, diamond ones from the family safe. (15)

30. Your most oft-repeated catchphrase on your first job was:

a) 'Doors to manual', as an air stewardess.(10)
b) 'Salt 'n' vinegar?' behind the bar at the Dog And Duck.(5)
c) 'No, sorry, can't, that's when Torty and I have our ski break,' as a chalet girl in Klosters. (15)

31. How many TVs do you own?

a) A crusty old black-and-white number, bought as a novelty item shortly after John Logie Baird invented it. (15)
b) One in the sitting room, one in our bedroom, and one for the au pair. Milo keeps nagging us to get one for his room but he'll have to wait until he's 16 - screens do play havoc with a child's reading development. (10)
c) Er, how many rooms have we got, 'Chelle? Is it ten or 11? Eleven then. Unless you count the new ones we've had put into the back of our car seats, so the kids can stay happy on car journeys. (5)

32. You refer to your grandmother as:

a) Nan (5)
b) Grandma/granny (10)
c) Tootles/MinMin/Gaia/Toto/ whatever eccentric agenon-specific nickname the old girl prefers: it's not too late, after all, for her to change the inheritance. (15)

33. You sleep with:

a) Lead-paned windows wide open even when there's a blizzard outside. (15)
b) UPVC windows tight shut and the electric blanket on. (5)
c) Newly installed sash windows, opened two inches, with a burglar lock. (10)

34. Your culinary role model is:

a) Jamie Oliver (10)
b) Mrs Beeton (15)
c) Colonel Sanders (5)

35. Your dog is:

a) Your best friend; marvellous with the kids too. (10)
b) Damned fine at retrieving fallen grouse, almost as good as the last one you unfortunately had to shoot because it was worrying sheep on the estate. (15)
c) A Staffy called Tyson, and I shouldn't get any closer mate. He'll 'ave your arm off. (5)

36. Your favourite wine is:

a) That claret Daddy laid down, now what is its name? Cheval-Blanc '47, or some such. Not that one cares - it's all bloody alcohol isn't it? (15)
b) Chardonnay. What's good enough for Coleen is good enough for me. (5)
c) That rather presumptuous Riesling we picked up in Waitrose last week, with a zingy apple nose and the faint notes of tar, yam and slightly overripe lychee. (10)

37. Guacamole is:

a) A marvellous avocado dip, which goes perfectly with tortilla chips. (10)
b) Frightful stuff. Can nobody run to caviar these days? (15)
c) Terrible place, where the Americans keep them poor orange prisoners locked up. (5)

38. Your children are called:

a) Shane, Jordan, Chevelle and Shareen. (5)
b) Milo, Jack, Zac and Poppy. (10)
c) Harriet, Emily, Freddie and Xan. (15)

39. You dress your salads with:

a) Cold-pressed single estate from Henry and Annabelle's place in Tuscany: £50 a bottle if one ever had to pay for such things. (15)
b) Sainsbury's Taste The Difference Italian Extra Virgin Oil. Bit pricey but you really can taste the difference. (10)
c) Salad cream. Obviously. (5)

40. The carpets in your house are:

a) Shagpile. (5)
b) Threadbare. (15)
c) Replaced by natural oak flooring. (10)

41. When travelling by car with another couple, what would the seating arrangements be?

a) Two men in front. (5)
b) Man with his own partner in front. (10)
c) Man with the other partner in front. (15)

42. At Christmas you spend roughly how much on each of your children?

a) Less than £50. (15)
b) Between £50 and £150. (10)
c) More than £150. Spending on the kiddies. It's what Christmas is all about. (5)

43. There is egg on your chin. Do you wipe it off with:

a) A serviette? (10)
b) A napkin? (15)
c) The back of your sleeve? (5)

44. Do you send your children to:

a) An old public school? (15)
b) The local school? (5)
c) A church school near which you have moved? (10)

 

RESULTS:

0 to 250 - You are a fearful oik. The closest you can ever hope of getting to Posh is if one of your children marries into the Beckham family.

260 to 340 - You are lower-middle class. You dream of higher things but you're trying too hard. Maybe you think fish knives are smart (they're not) and you probably pronounce the letter aitch as 'haitch'. Give up now.

350 to 470 - You are desperately upper-middle class. You fret far too much about everything (global warming, your children's manners, how to cook perfect polenta). You are doomed to be sneered at as a poncey imbecile by the lower orders and despised as an incorrigible bourgeois by your social superiors.

500 to 600 - You live in a damp, unheated house. You live like a savage. You are quite possibly the victim of centuries of inbreeding. You are upper class and the perfect match for Wills and Harry.

MORE than 600 - You are hopelessly, irredeemably upper class. Even the vulgar, arriviste Windsor family are too common for you. More likely, you are a huge cheat and a ghastly social climber who looked up all the right answers.

 

Some of them make little sense and some of them I can see the reasoning behind it right away. Quite a few of them made me laugh out loud (IE: Questions 6, 8, and 14… 8 in particular, because in the original quiz choices B and C are identical). Anyway, I’m apparently a poncey imbecile/incorrigible bourgeois. What were you?

Once upon a time,
an angel and a devil fell in love.
It did not end well.

Thus starts The Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor. I read it about a year ago, and it soon turned into my favourite book. Not because of Prague; not because of the blue hair, or the fantastic creatures that show up; but because I finally felt for myself what Madrigal, the “devil”, was going through.
Almost.
The story, to be paraphrased, is simple. A female art student named Karou lives in Prague. On most days, she is a normal girl, just with a few oddities, like lapis lazuli hair and a habit to disappear. But on those few days, she acts as a fetcher for something very odd:
teeth.
She fetches them for her father-figure, a chimaera named Brimstone, who is often called The Wishmonger, as he trades teeth with wishes. But Karou has no idea how she, a human, ended up with the chimaera family, or where she is from, or what the teeth are for. She lives in this state until she is chased and nearly killed by a seraphim with eyes like flames, who calls himself Akiva.
Karou then learns her mysteries; she is no human at all; she was, in fact, a graceful, beautiful chimaera named Madrigal, who had fallen in love with an angel despite the eternal war that had been going on between those two species, and had dared to dream a world where people were free to love each other. And for loving an enemy, she was executed in front of her beloved, but Brimstone – who was not, in fact, a wishmonger, but someone who resurrected the dead – whisked her soul away and resurrected her into the human form.
Apart from the fact that I adore Laini Taylor as a writer – I first fell in love with The Fairies of Dreamdark Series – I fell in love with this book when I fell in love with - and loved - someone. Because, for the first time in my life, I emotionally understood Madrigal. I had always understood books logically; after all, I observe people for fun, and analyse them in my head all the time. But very rarely had I actually emotionally understood a character, especially one like this.
When I had met him, I had not known then, but it was just the same as when Madrigal had met her angel two years after the battle in which Madrigal had saved him as he lay, injured from battle and dying. Madrigal was just about to be betrothed – unwillingly – to the general of her people, Thiago. Unwilling but unsure, she had no idea what she was to do as she was (rather forcedly) in a dance with the general, when the angel found her.

Twice more Thiago passed her to new partners, and twice she was returned to him in due course. Each time was more unbearable than the last, so that she felt like a runaway returned home against her will. When, turned over to her next partner, she felt the firm pressure of leather gloves enfold her fingers, it was with a lightness like floating that she let herself be swept away. Misery lifted; wrongness lifted. The seraph’s hands came around her waist and her feet left the ground and she closed her eyes, giving herself over to feeling.
He set her back down, but didn’t let her go. “Hello,” she whispered, happy.
Happy.

And that was how it felt. I was fine by myself – I have friends who love me, and parents who dote on me like no other – but despite all the misgivings I had, despite all the things my parents were against about, I truly felt happy with him. I felt more complete, as if I had found my twin (obviously not my twin in any way, shape, or form, but that was how I felt). That weekend, I had smiled more than I ever had. I, who had to be told repeatedly during my Senior graduation picture to “smile”, was smiling without realising, all day long, for three days, despite the cold and all the mishaps.
In a way, I had felt loneliness all my life. Your parents would someday be gone; friends are there for you, but you will never be their first. But with him, I could dream for a future in which I’d be with someone I love and care for. For the first time in my life, I was not afraid of a male, which is truly remarkable, since I am usually terrified of them. Sexless, they are fine; they are fun to talk to, productive in conversations, logical. But as soon as they add that sexuality to themselves, I fear them, for they have the power to hurt without even realising.
There were things I had wished changes for. I wished he was more confident (for some inexplicable reason, he had an odd lack of confidences in things that really deserve no such thing). I wished he was a bit more ambitious; I wished he’d use a tissue. But I trusted him to be steadfast and loyal, because I am weak and I often crack.

“I’m hoping to be your blanket and your punching bag all at once.”

That was what he said. He promised – repeatedly – to not abandon me, for I was terrified of it. I think this stems from my past experiences when I had to leave behind all my friends and then gradually we’d fall apart and away, like rose petals that had lived for too long. Whatever closeness I can have, I cling onto them, always in fear that I am not good enough to be someone’s friend, to be loved by someone. In my head I know that I deserve all the love they give me, but in my heart there is a little voice telling me that it might be a pity-party, for how can people tolerate someone like me?
I admit. I am terrified of relationships. I am terrified of rejections. I am not exactly a likeable person; I am temperamental, weak, stubborn to the point of obstinate. I hate saying sorry. So I grab onto whatever goodwill they have for me like a starving beggar grabbing onto crumbs.
But as our story progressed, and words like marriage and children began to show up, I began to feel worry. It is easy to say “I love you”; but it is much more difficult to show it, for love is a conscious choice to sacrifice one’s self for another’s happiness. And he had told me repeatedly that he did, in fact, love me, but many of my questions were returned with the answer, “I don’t know”.

“Do you think love makes us grow?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you were Akiva, what would you feel?”
“I don’t know.”

Love is not just the moment’s decision; it happens every day, in self-control and perseverance. To not give up on another, until it is truly clear that giving up is the best option for the other person. And I felt unsure that he could persevere; life is hard. My life might be categorised into “extremely hard”. And it was doubtful that suddenly, my life would get easy, for I had never learned how to “settle” with the results. I had a truly vicious fight with Jack when we had ended the relationship; we remained friends afterwards, but only because he was as intense as I was, and we had vomited all we had to say to each other. It was hurtful on both parties, but that was the truth.
Jack had shown he could persevere. He persevered music instructions (and trust me, those are not fun until you reach a certain level; not if you want to progress fast, at least). He had persevered through our fight and had remained celibate ever since, and had said nothing when I had misunderstood that he had, in fact, lied to me and was cheating on another woman with his girlfriend (who turned out to be a gross misunderstanding on my part). He made no excuses.
He wanted to get married after he graduated. That was about three years away. I would be in graduate school, and worries mounted. It was unclear if funds were readily available. What about children? Who’d move to where? What about his education? (I wasn’t entirely sure if I’d be okay with Dr and Mr title. I am not Bernadette and it is rather clear that Howard from The Big Bang Theory isn’t really completely happy about Dr and Mr Wolowitz.) What would happen if most of my friends were Dr. XXXX and he wasn’t? I’d be living in a different world, wouldn’t I? (In fact, this is one of the common reasons why working/graduate student couple break up. Apart from not having any time.) If he had said “I don’t want a doctorate, I want to be a writer”, then that would have been fine; after all, PhDs just have PhDs in common. But the degree is a symbol of perseverance and work and not giving up. Not settling.
Divorce would not be an option; this being an international marriage, it was just going to get very messy and may, in fact, unwittingly make me into an international criminal. Divorce can be avoided, if neither party gives up. There is no “dealbreaker” except to admit defeat. And so I wanted an evidence – anything – that would show he was not going to do that. It could have been anything, really. “I overcame my least favourite subject” was really enough. But those who settle run away from problems without tackling them head-on. And those who run away admit defeat. And those who admit defeat in marriage end up in divorce.
First fight turned into our last. He gave up; refused to even listen; and, from what I learned, his entire family celebrated this “new-found freedom”. But if I was so burdensome, why didn’t he say so? And if he was the kind who do not keep their words, why did he say he was the kind to begin with? If keeping words is not important to him at all, then why bother telling me that he kept his words?
I would have loved my worries to be proven wrong (and I hate being proven wrong). But this time, I was proven right, and it brought me no joy. Just a dull ache that intensified at random times. Because I really was planning to uproot my life for him; because I had spent the last five months with him in mind most of the time (down to when I was selecting my clothes); and all those had been laughed at and trodden upon, as if my efforts were less than worthless. Because my heart and my affections had been, apparently, less than worthless, and ought to be celebrated when gotten rid of.
My friends had been wonderful to me; I got messages from Europe, Australia, even Japan, wondering if I was doing alright, if I needed to talk. Jack had offered to stand in lieu of him while I recuperated and tried to stand on my own two feet again, because I felt acutely alone, as if someone had taken away my coat in middle of winter. I needed affirmation that my affections and my efforts were worth being appreciated for, and that I deserved to be in this world. Matt and I met up in Toronto and he listened to me (over a rather expensive dish of pasta, I might say) as I rather incoherently retold my stories. Jeremy scolded me for feeling so dejected. Dietrich, Adam, and Robyn sent me messages. I really got support from all over the world, much to my amazement.
Cheating doesn’t hurt by itself; it is the shards of the broken promise, fragments of words unfulfilled, that stabs people’s hearts and rips them apart. It is the broken trust that breaks a heart. And after promising me so many times that he would not do it, he shattered what taped-up, banged-up, cracked-all-over remnants of my “heart” I possessed. And apparently, he walked away, laughing, glad to be rid of me.
And if I loved him, I should be able to celebrate his choice; but I find it difficult to do so, because it is difficult to accept and not mind that my risk and my energy had been less than nothing. Sometimes I wish I had not chosen the path of faith, because it is much easier to hate and to hope for ill than to wish well for those who rejected you. It is difficult to offer the other cheek. I keep trying to think that this was for the best, and that I should be thankful for all the sweet memories he gave me, but it’s so difficult when just his mere smile made me smile as well. When his good morning from across the border brightened my otherwise monotonous and boring day. It’s difficult not to cry when I remember myself rushing home after rehearsal so that I could talk to him for just a minute longer. Because just as Akiva’s existence had made Madrigal happy, so did he to me.
There are many things I wish; but wishes are fragile things that easily pop like bubbles. I wish I had kissed him more. I wish I had told him that I loved him (seriously, not in baby talk) far more times than I had. I wish I could have made him understand that to yearn for people is okay; and that “not hurting for company” while being in a chatroom is just trying to convince yourself that loneliness is part of you. I wish I could have told him that he wasn’t alone (although that might be arrogant of me).
Wishes are indeed fragile; but hope is much stronger. With faith, one can hope; and with hope, one can love. I had lost faith in him, waiting day after day, staring at the “offline” status, ill and alone (I’d been ill for the past six weeks), fighting nausea and pain and weight loss (that has somehow contributed to my sub-career… not really a welcome bonus), and with lost faith, I had lost hope. And if I loved him still, I should be able to hope well for him, but it is so difficult.

Until the night that he had finally seen Madrigal again, he hadn’t even known what a wishbone was. She wore one on a cord around her neck, so incongruous a thing against her silk gown, her silken skin.
“It’s a wishbone,” she’d told him, holding it out. “You hook your finger around the spur, like this, and we each make a wish and pull. Whoever gets the bigger piece gets their wish.”
“Magic?” Akiva had asked. “What bird does this come from, that its bones make magic?”
“Oh, it’s not magic. The wishes don’t really come true.”
“Then why do it?”
She shrugged. “Hope? Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there’s no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic.”

I no longer wish for those things; wishing that the past would change is futile. And I no longer hope that I can return to the state I had been in, that of bliss and happiness, because the person I had known is no longer the person I know. The virtues I loved so dearly – the steadfastness, the loyalty, the accepting, forgiving spirit – had all been overturned. Once you know, you cannot unknow. I have to start walking again, despite my skinned knees and my broken heart.
But I do hope that some day, I can truly wish happiness for him. Because then, I can say, “I truly loved him until the end.”