I have become a reborn romantic; walking the historical streets of down Charleston can do that to a woman. Last weekend's reveries and queries of old Charleston homes are dancing over and over in my head; the debutants, the horse-drawn carriages, and the grandeur. Sweet grandeur.
This remote, resonant, lingering feeling(whatever it may be)has followed me home. My newfoundlove and indiscriminate love for poetry has reignited.
I can't stop dancing to La Boheme and listening to Baracolle from "Les Contes d'Hoffman" by Offenbach (thisshortened and sweet version is astounding, and may be my favourite aria).
I want to revisit every Victorian heavies (Longfellow, Byron, Whittier, Tennyson) dutifully, and have my idyllic heart dance across the pages as it once did.
I am not sure how a 17th century city, a 18th century opera, or Victorian literature correlate, but thank you, Palmetto State, my writing subconscious seems to be waking.
