It was a comfortably cool Spring night, the kind of cool that isn't cold enough to notice unless the wind picks up. I'd had a long day and needed some time away, so I wandered down to the lakefront, which is where I saw her. She was dancing– no, frolicking up and down the edge of the shore, kicking up a light spray of sand behind her moving feet. She spun and leapt, seeming not to know what movement would come next, but letting her body swing freely through the evening air. Her head tossed, sending her hair in a wave over her shoulder, and I caught a glimpse of her face. That picture is stuck in my memory, and I don't think anything, even the steady erosion of time, will ever fade that image. Her pale face was spread in a smile that was simply radiant. I watched in awe, wondering what could have given her this joy. She was so happy, she was almost glowing. With a start, I blinked in disbelief as I realized that she actually WAS glowing: there was a soft pale light surrounding her. Her face, arms, and the feet pointing out from under her dress were almost white with luminescence. Gradually, she grew brighter and brighter, until her features became indistinct behind the silvery sheen and it became hard to look directly at her. I raised my arm to cover my face, and the instant I could not see her the light vanished. I dropped my arm suddenly, and looked all about, but she was nowhere to be found. She was gone without a trace except for the footprints in the sand, and a light melodic laugh that echoed in the night wind.

Tunes: "I've Been High," R.E.M. (iTMS)

I've tried my hand at poetry a fair few times, and while I think that I've got a good feel for rhyming schemes and patterns of emphasis, I still feel a total amateur when faced with works of such bizarre flowing whatever as what I read from Lewis Carroll. His poetry was ever-present in my childhood: I memorized Jabberwocky for a talent show at a young age, and Dad would read to my brother and me from The Hunting of the Snark (those of you who have heard Dad preach or lecture can probably imagine what a fabulous experience that was). Dad and Pippa got me a copy of The Annotated Alice the other day from the library booksale, which thrills me especially because it contains the original John Tenniel illustrations, the same ones that were in the books I first read from.

I would love to be able to converse with Lewis Carroll at length about his poetry, because so much of its meaning is left open. I wonder if The Walrus and the Carpenter really is "an indictment of organized religion," as they say in Dogma, or whether he simply wrote it for the sake of writing it, or if there was another meaning hitherto unexplained. Robert Frost, when asked about the ulterior meaning of The Road Less Traveled, simply said, "Oh, I was just talking about the two roads there in Boston." I'm realy not sure what to make of Carroll's works, or if I should even try. But I do know that I'll be keeping and rereading this book for a very, very long time.

Tunes: "Hey Leonardo (She Likes Me)," Blessid Union of Souls; "Good Old A Cappella," The Bandersnatchers.