Today I walked in the gardens, a small pleasure with life's chaos. Versailles, my beautiful palace, feels more like a cage than ever before. Father ordered the guards to not let anyone into or out of the gates, our family included. For now, we are prisoners in our own home because of the revolution. Mother is the only one who chooses this confinement. She has spent every day inside ever since Louis Joseph died and is still racked with grief. When I asked her yesterday, "Ca va, Maman? How are you Mother?" she just motioned me forward onto her lap and held me while she cried. While we are all affected, I think the combination of events is harder on her than on the rest of us. We all love each other dearly, but she had a special place in her heart reserved just for him, her little baby boy. On a different subject, the people's patience is fading.
I took these photos early this year in Washington D.C., Massachussttes and Cape Cod. I inclued the "Unless" photo not because I think its particuarly good or even okay, but because I think it expresses a strong political statment about Global Warming. The photo was taken at the Washington D.C.'s People's March for the Climate in the spring of 2017.
This is the world we live in, child... a world of pain, suffering and death... but also a world of love, charity and kindness. This is a world of democracy... a world where the people fight for what they believe in. This is a world of good and bad... war and peace... dark and light. This is a world of hope, where life can be great... no matter what family you are born into. This is a world of freedom and dreams... where you can speak your opinion. This is a world of beauty...of nature. This is the world we live in, child... not a perfect one...not always a fair one... but one with much good... much light.
It changed everything. And now we are the last ones left. Taken from the rubble of The Lost Planet. Taught to prosper. Taught to live. And now we live in the stars, little one. For we are lucky to survive... - The Book
We are divided by the time of our birth. The ones from before are Lost. The ones from after are Found. The few Lost left, like my grandmother, are separated from us. Only to be seen on Visiting Day, for they tell stories of how there are survivors. For they make believe we are not the last ones left. Visiting Day is not meant to be celebrated. It is meant to be a day to say goodbye. It is meant to give us the elusion of freedom of rights, though we have none. Visiting Day is today. It is my favorite time of year, a time where I too can pretend we are not alone. Where I can be swept up in my grandmothers hugs once more and can hear tales of The Lost Planet.
August 3, 1773 Confinement has always been my biggest fear. Yet here I am in a cell, kidnapped by a traitor, a friend turned into an enemy. Well, I do suppose it is my own fault. I’m too trusting for my own good. Mother always said it was a good quality for a young lady of my time. She admired me for it, but look where it got me! I guess it is not as bad as could be, for one of the guardsmen was nice enough to bring me this diary (though I only think he did it because he was tired of my moping). Well, that is enough writing for today. I will be forced to get up rather early in the morning to visit the king.
Brown hair. That is the only thing I remember about her. I did not know her or anything about her. She was kind however, that much was easy to see. She was working downtown Burlington at the grocery store, and I told her I liked her necklace, like I did to most of the cashiers there. They always had pretty jewelry or at least to the eyes of a young child. My mom and I sat down at the ¨cafe¨ and started eating. Just a typical day in a typical town in typical Vermont. Suddenly she ran over to us, the angel wing necklace in her hand, a backpack on her shoulders. And she gave the necklace to me. "Someone gave me their backpack when I said I liked it, so here, I'm passing the kindness on."
“Oh gosh, they’re back!” Eugene thought. “Shoo, shoo!” he shouted as the little chipmunks scurried away. Eugene was an older gentleman, past his prime in life, yet he had never lost his dislike of chipmunks. Little devils in disguise, he called them. Everyone knew Eugene, in one way or another. The rangers knew him as Chipmunk Man. The butcher knew him as Grouchy, and his wife knew him as…well, plain old Eugene. All in all, Eugene was famous in the small town of Chester, Connecticut. All for his dislike of chipmunks. Sometimes he chased them with a broom. Sometimes he trapped them; and other times he just stood there, and the chipmunks would run off.