Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Labanotation il cantare

It was the summer of 1988 and I was just about to start third grade when I first opened the book and began my romance with the tiny island.  I devoured the book with my eyes, my imagination running wild, while my legs dangled off the side of my twin bed.  I was there.  It was pure bliss and the beginning of my fascination with romance.  The sort that builds up and and unfolds slowly.  Two characters meet and there's friction.  Tension mounts, wits are brandished, misunderstandings and dancing occur.  Tempers fly along with chalkboards or teapots or who knows what matter of bric-a-brac until finally, finally there's a happy ending.  Anne and Gilbert, Jane and Darcy, Kate and Petruchio, Beatrice and Benedick.  The hate-to-love relationship.  It starts out rocky and ends with rings and babies, and (one would assume) some really hot sex . 

Anne of Green Gables was my first love story.  Of all the characters, what I fell in love with the most was the island, Prince Edward Island. The name itself sounded romantic to me.  There I was, aged eight, my hair wrapped in braided pigtails for the entire summer due to my love of the book, with a promise made to myself.   I would go to the island, live there, and find out about love.  As soon as I finished college.  And got a job.  And moved out of the house to live in the city for a few years.  Got a promotion, a credit card, a savings account, a new car, some furniture, a couple of one night stands, a relationship with an older man, a relationship with a younger man, a few unfortunate haircuts, a couple of bridesmaid gowns, and a good dose of heartache and cock-ups.

Which brings me to today.  Today I am standing on the precipice of adventure.  Kate Bush and Don Quixote songs and sweeping sagas play out in my mind.

Or we could just sit here and have a nice cup of tea.

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