Wednesday, April 02, 2008

Minor Details

Anastasia's Attic is a dream store.

Whenever I visit I walk with the reverence befitting a chapel. I weave in out of precious breakables and reach out my shaky fingers to touch gems and jewels and emerald hairpins and glass bell jars and tea cups and velvet hats with feathers in them. The big front door is heavy and old; it squeaks slightly when the handle is turned and the little bell at the top jingles a welcome. The first inhalation of Anastasia's air carries the heavy scent of mulberry and potpourri and soap and musky perfume.

I don't know anyone who has ever had an obsession with cake plates besides myself. The Attic is hostess to many different assortments. Each one is beautiful and unique-- irresistibly intricate and perfect. Lined carefully on white wall shelves are silver coffee pots. They make me giddy. Sachets and coin purses fill me with euphoria. I dance at the prospect of hardbound classic literature. It is all wonderful and it is all located in one place.

I was in middle school the first time I was bit by the decorative bug. It happened after Anastasia's Attic. Looking at beautiful things gives me a strange itch to recreate my known property and make it different; to make it lovely. Since that time I have covered boxes in handmade paper, sewn pillowcases and curtains, reupholstered a chair, created a homemade bed canopy and changed my sheets several thousand times.
I am on a quest to find the peace and contentment that comes from a world of beautiful places. It's the same feeling I get when I look at Pottery Barn magazines with Lindsay. It is my bed and breakfast dream. It is my bookstore vision. It is my destiny.

Pleasant things are found in unexpected places. For a beauty addict like myself, it is easy to adjust things just so and still be discontent. I want claw-footed tubs, afternoon tea in the garden, golden sunbursts, castles and marble halls. I fear that my materialistic ideals will consume me. How can I concentrate in class when my mind jumps from fondue to fondant in a matter of seconds? Shall I continue to pour over books? Or should I give up and join the ranks of women who hoard Martha Stewart suggestions in baskets and try to make a career of it?

There are many places on this Earth that I adore, but few hold such a lovely spell as this.