Chick With A Quill

Happy New Year

2012-01-01T23:13:00.003-05:00

I hope it's simple and bright, sweet like new hope, round with fulfilled wishes, puzzling, loving, shaking with laughter.
For you, for me, for everyone.
Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas

2011-12-22T22:53:00.004-05:00

It is almost Christmas again.

I’m listening to “The Birds Are Singing Christmas”, a CD of Christmas and classical pieces arranged with chirps, trills, caws, hoots. Sweet, sweet, sweet!

My heart is filled with bitter honey because at this time for joy, and warmth, and lights in children’s eyes there are so many, too many beings on this Earth –human or not- who suffer, who are hungry, cold, afraid, desperate, lost. And while I’m in my warm home, with my family, ordering last minute things from Amazon, packing presents, trying to write on my new laptop, baking wonders, getting all Christmassy, I cannot and do not want to not think of these less fortunate beings. I ache for them.

Since childhood, I’ve had this daydream/fantasy. I wanted magic.

I wanted it for a very specific purpose: to help any being that needs help, to be able to give them one surprise moment of sparkling joy that would make their life more bearable.

I still dream about it when, let’s say, in the supermarket’s deserted parking lot, on a freezing, grey December afternoon, I see a flock of gloomy seagulls, sitting around. What if, I think, I could just snap my fingers and each one of them would have his own little fish for dinner? Would that make them happy? And, of course, it would have to be some sort of “replicated” fish (from Star Trek’s replicators) otherwise my heart would break for all those little fishies…

Or, what if I could just snap my fingers again and that squirrel and that sparrow shivering outside in February would suddenly be surrounded by their own little sphere of warmth? Wouldn’t that be nice?

And of course that homeless woman and her dog, lying on the street, in front of that big, nice, bright store. They could do with a little warmth and a little food, couldn’t they?

Childish, of course. Indeed, because some people are doing more than just dreaming about it. I’m trying, too. But in the mean time, it is also a nice Christmas wish. Maybe Santa will grant it one day.

If I have a soul then so does every creature, big or small, and bless them all.

Merry Christmas to everybody! Be good! I love you!

Missed October

2011-11-23T22:45:00.010-05:00

I haven’t stopped in a long time to smell the roses… or the chrysanthemums… and not even the coffee steaming in my mug. I missed crisp, fiery, possibly-my-favourite-month-of-the-year October entirely –this is the first year I haven’t prepared at least one Halloween story or poem- and I am almost inconsolable… I also miss you, my blogging friends, and the creative environment of our community, and the warmth or your virtual presence… very, very, very much…

I’ve hit some dead ends in my novel and that brought me to the realization that I no longer can avoid a (detailed) outlining. It was fun for a while to make it up as I went along, to play the “archaeologist” uncovering the story and the characters, but if I want to get anywhere, in any good way for what I want to do, I really need to take the map out of my pocket. So, that’s what I’m doing now, thinking, thinking, thinking, plotting, plotting, plotting. I’m not sure it goes that well...

There is a minuscule stretch of woods next to my house, which has escaped the excavators, and which is, in its unkempt wildness, much more beautiful than the enormous houses that suffocate it. I took a few pictures there two Sundays ago and I would like to share them with you as a taste of the fine poetry of nature…

Her Eyes

2011-09-30T10:56:00.002-04:00

Look at her eyes of darkness
silent birds
shooting
through colossal redwoods
where green smells
of eternity
black fish kissing
slick foreheads of statues
drowned in forests
of kelp
whispers of foxes
scurrying
at the edge of night
on frozen tundras
such is the soul
glimpsed
in her eyes

photo by Rolf Hicker

The Cat's Out of the Bag...

2011-08-08T23:12:00.004-04:00

...and my story is up at The White Cat Magazine.

I feel humbled to be in the company of so much talent and extremely proud at the same time.

If you have some spare time, do have a look.

Random Thought

2011-08-04T23:19:00.004-04:00

If I could only start anew
shed the grey life’s carapace
step out of my unwanted self
leave it behind like a shrivelled fruit
instead of carrying it with me
- a worn coat
too modest for any banquet

oh, to fly free
oh, to hold again the hope
of all that I could be

Mr. Linden's Library

2011-06-15T17:10:00.002-04:00

I hadn’t heard of Harris Burdick and of the wonderful, teasing book by Chris Van Allsburg before my oldest daughter got as assignment in English class to write a short story inspired by the illustration below:

He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late.

I discussed it with my daughter and we came up with ideas together, and names, and setting. Then she wrote her story. This is my very quick take on it:

A Good Book

“Mr. Linden, you said I could take any book I wanted…”

The old man peered through his glasses at the old book Sarah was holding in her hands.

“This one…” he started, shaking his head. In his mind’s eye, Sarah’s face was replaced by the round face of Tommy Sparks who had held the book looking at him with the same pleading eyes… oh, so long ago. And by the faces of the other boys and girls, before Tommy. He couldn’t remember their names. Too many, too long ago.

“Please, Mr. Linden, you promised… This is exactly what I need for my school report.”

Yes, the book was exactly what anyone wanted. It was a good book. Certainly, all those disappearances had been mere coincidences. It was a good book. And it always made its way back home. Still, he felt he should warn her.

“Okay,” he said. “But just don’t read in bed. It’s not a good idea to read in bed…”

***

She had almost finished the book. The story held her in the grips of fear and delight. Several times she had to put her nose to the pages, wondering if the smells she felt were coming somehow from the old parchment. She couldn’t help rubbing her fingertips over the elaborate illustrations, amazed a how they could feel like sand, or silk, or tender sprouts of a new plant. Her eyelids were heavy and her bed was warm…

Just one more page, Sarah thought.

She fell from a great height, tumbling through icy clouds, blown by great winds, and landed on moss soft enough to make her back hurt less.

“Another one,” a voice said in contempt.

Sarah was fully awake now and looking at a boy. His clothes were more like rags from old pyjamas and his blond hair was long and tangled. His face was dirty but somehow seemed familiar. Strange. The boy had a bow and arrows. At least he wasn’t pointing them at her.

“Who are you?” she said.

“I’m Tommy. Who are you?”

“I’m Sarah. Where are we?”

“You don’t recognize it?”

Sarah sat up and looked around her. There were some hills in the distance and a building, some sort of castle or fort. Before she could answer, a low rumble climbed into her from the ground and then the whole ground was shaking.

“Run! Run! They’re coming! Run!”

The boy grabbed her hand and she had to follow him. There were rocks on the ground that hurt her bare feet as she ran over them but she wouldn’t even think of stopping. The sound and the shaking were too frightening.

“Who’s coming?”

“The Breitlings and the Duke! Come on! We have to hide.”

The Breitlings? The Evil Duke’s huge guards, half-man, half-dragon who killed or enslaved everybody in their path? But… But, she had just read about them… in the book… How…

They scrambled down a cliff then Tommy pulled her into an opening in the rock, half-hidden underneath hanging plants. It was a cave. She stopped, breathless, staring at four more boys and two girls who were all staring back at her in the flickering light of candles.

“Phew! This was close,” Tommy said.

“Where are we?” Sarah said again.

The boys and the girls were all wearing tattered pyjamas, and had long hair and dirty faces.

“In The Book, of course,” Tommy said. “Didn’t you read from it in your bed, right before you fell asleep? We’re in The Book and we’ll never get out of here.”

His words seemed so true that she felt like crying. Maybe she was dreaming. But there were cuts on her legs that hurt. And her nightgown was torn. She wasn’t dreaming.

“You’re Tommy,” she said suddenly.

“That’s what I said.”

“I know you… But you’re too young… I’ve seen your poster in Mr. Linden’s library. Your parents have been looking for you for ten years…”

“Well, you don’t grow old in The Book…”

Sarah sat down and hugged her knees. She thought of Mom and Dad, and of her little brother who came to wake her up every morning. Of what he would say when he wouldn’t find her there.

“Hey, don’t be upset,” Tommy said. “There is new hope with every new kid that falls in. Especially with the good readers. What were you reading about when you fell asleep?”

She tried hard to remember. She had been so sleepy.

“For me it was just The Tree,” Tommy said. “But it wasn’t nearly tall enough. I climbed to the top of it but I was still here. These guys have read even less. You must remember, Sarah. It won’t appear unless you remember it. I just hope it wasn’t a Breitling…”

She closed eyes and concentrated. Yes, now she knew what it was.
They waited long enough to be sure that the Breitlings had passed and that it was safe to come out. A few steps from their cave there stood a thick vine, its treelike stems braided together in an agglomeration of vivid green. Sort of like Jack’s beanstalk from another story.

They couldn’t see its top. It disappeared in the clouds.

They started climbing, Tommy first, then Sarah, then the other children. Before long, they were all in Sarah’s bedroom. Sarah reached out and slammed the book shut.

De Bello Lemures

2011-05-02T17:00:00.002-04:00

I’m not into zombies. Occasionally, I will read such a story but I would not actively look for it. I will much more likely choose vampires, or werewolves, or even angels… I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the lack of glamour in the zombies’ condition, the unspeakable tragedy of it, the fact that I cannot see them as true characters any more than a force of nature bringing disaster would be.

However, I did not hesitate one moment when buying “De Bello Lemures – or the Roman War against the Zombies of Armorica” written by Lucius Artorius Castus and translated and edited (wink!) by Thomas Brookside. I had made up my mind to buy it even before I read the fragment available online. I was sold on by the title, by the fantastic cover (when in Rome, I have put my hand inside that mouth – la Bocca della Verità, the Mouth of Truth – and it didn’t bite my hand!) and by the idea.

From the cover:

A recovered Latin text tells the story of a struggle between Roman legionaries and the undead in 185 AD.

Lucius Artorius Castus leads an expedition to Gaul to defeat a rebellion against the rule of the Emperor Commodus – and gets more than he bargained for when his enemies rise from the dead to fight again. The power of the zombie horde is amplified by the Babel of Ancient Rome’s religions and superstitions, and the terror the undead bring in their wake foreshadows the incipient medieval darkness already creeping into the world at the end of Rome’s Antonine age. Richly annotated, this mashup of survival horror and alternate history takes the reader on a bracing journey into one of ancient Rome’s dark corners.

Maybe I’m not thrilled by zombies but I certainly am by ancient history and especially by the history of the Roman Empire. Therefore, a combination of the two seemed especially intriguing to me.

I was not disappointed.

Thomas Brookside’s short novel/novella reads exactly as he has intended – a commander’s first-hand account of a Roman military campaign gone awry. The abundance of editor’s annotations does not hinder, it completes, giving the whole a taste of authenticity that makes the story just as real as any recorded by, let’s say, Dio Cassius. In fact, for me, the writing style and all the details, from military techniques to country living in the Roman Gaul, made the suspension of disbelief so high that I not once thought of the zombies (the lemures) as creatures of fantasy or of the story as anything else but a recovered anchttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifient manuscript.

In short, I loved it and I highly recommend it.

“De Bello Lemures” is self-published on Amazon’s CreateSpace and Kindle.

Thomas Brookside blogs at Annotated Horror. He has two other books out that are quite tempting to me…

Here's the excerpt from “De Bello Lemures” from Google Docs:

Just Passing

2011-04-11T17:24:00.003-04:00

Don’t worry, it’ll pass
this headache
this heartache
this rainy day
this changing of diapers
this scorching heat
this exam
this long winter
this year
this joy
this loss
this awkward youth
this pain
this love
this waiting
this life
Yeah
Everything will pass

I couldn’t resist posting this photographic proof of the passing (and especially of the lingering) of a certain rabbit through my backyard. ;-) I hope the raspberry and the roses will appreciate the ‘gift’…

Still Here

2011-02-17T22:04:00.004-05:00

It’s crazy how time disappears into the black hole of routine, of fierce struggles to do, more than to be.

I know, I know, time doesn’t exist. It’s just a measure of a passage, of our existence as well as of the stars’. It’s psychological.

However, as the second month of this year (not ‘new’ anymore, is it?) is approaching its end, I cannot help wondering if maybe there is some truth in all those speculations about the Schumann resonances and time speeding up.

It certainly feels galloping to me…

I do not have time…

I think with longing to the wonderful pleasure of reading your blogs, of pondering over your words and pictures, of writing comments in which to speak from my heart… I hope to be able to do it again, rather sooner than later…

In the mean time, I use every spare moment I have working on my novel. As my best friend said to me after she read a chapter, “it’s written in blood…”

So I got out of my little cave where I watch shadows on the wall, just to say “Hello!” and that I’m not dead yet, and that hope is always alive…

And to leave you with two pics from last Sunday in the local park…

The lake looks dreary but I know it's just snugly waiting for the spring to return...

And a place to get bit of maple syrup on ice to sweeten your heart...

Happy New Year

2011-01-03T10:10:00.003-05:00

May 2011 hold that sparkle to make it glow and grow into a fabulous year.

In 2011, may you keep or find and keep good health and good love.

May you find in your heart the hope and the tenacity to hold on to your dreams and resolutions. May they come true.

To all who read this, and to everybody else, Happy New Year!

Cheers!

Let It Snow

2010-12-22T22:19:00.003-05:00

let the sweetest joy grow
in your heart
let it warm your thoughts
and your words
let it smile for the ones
you love
be healthy, be merry, be wise

Merry Christmas!

Cardinal in Snow from Desktop Nexus

Books, Books, Books and a TV Series

2010-12-15T17:04:00.015-05:00

Let me tell you what books I’ve been reading recently.

2010 has been for me a better reading year than many previous ones. I have a notebook where I keep lists of books read every year and for 2010 the number keeps going up.

It’s true that I cheated a little bit by reading quite a few comic books but, hey, I love them! I can’t get enough of Sardine in Outer Space, the little pirate girl who brings justice to a Universe that Supermuscleman tries to control with evil, of Ariol, the little blue donkey who goes to school and, well, behaves like all school children, or Tom-Tom and Nana, the Dubouchon family kids who wreak delicious havoc at every opportunity.

Back to books, another one of my favourites, of which I’ve read as many as I could get my hands on, is Stilton, Geronimo Stilton, the pedantic gentlemouse with a huge heart and the most daring adventures. I love, love, love him! The original is Italian, but there are English and French translations available. I totally prefer the French which somehow is much funnier. I read them with my daughters and we laugh outright every time.

And then come the so-called YA books. To everyone who, at this point, might be worried about me, I say this: It’s not a return to childhood or to the teenage/young adulthood years; the thing is I’ve never left them (does this worry you even more?) and I knew it all along.

Lately I’ve been visiting quite a lot The Book Smugglers, a site where two talented young women review books in the most thoughtful and thorough manner. Their reviews are a pleasure to read and I’ve come to trust them. That’s where I’ve discovered the next two books that I want to tell you about.

“Nevermore” by Kelly Creagh has received an enthusiastic praise from The Book Smugglers. They are right in every bit.

From the cover: Cheerleader Isobel Lanley is horrified when she is paired with Varen Nethers for an English project, which is due—so unfair—on the day of the rival game. Cold and aloof, sardonic and sharp-tongued, Varen makes it clear he’d rather not have anything to do with her either. But when Isobel discovers strange writing in his journal, she can’t help but give this enigmatic boy with the piercing eyes another look.

Soon, Isobel finds herself making excuses to be with Varen. Steadily pulled away from her friends and her possessive boyfriend, Isobel ventures deeper and deeper into the dream world Varen has created through the pages of his notebook, a realm where the terrifying stories of Edgar Allan Poe come to life.

As her world begins to unravel around her, Isobel discovers that dreams, like words, hold more power than she ever imagined, and that the most frightening realities are those of the mind. Now she must find a way to reach Varen before he is consumed by the shadows of his own nightmares.

His life depends on it.

For a Poe lover, like I am, this book is a double treat. First, there is the (love) story, beautifully written, full of suspense, and then there is the fantastic world of Edgar Allan Poe, of which I can never get enough...

On the other hand, “Hush, Hush” by Becca Fitzpatrick has been highly criticised by The Book Smugglers and I (have to) agree with most of those points. Yet...

From the cover:

A sacred oath, a fallen angel, a forbidden love…This darkly romantic story features our heroine, Nora Grey, a seemingly normal teenage girl with her own shadowy connection to the Nephilim, and super-alluring bad boy, Patch, now her deskmate in biology class. Together they find themselves at the centre of a centuries-old feud between a fallen angel and a Nephilim…Forced to sit next to Patch in science class, Nora attempts to resist his flirting, though gradually falls for him against her better judgment. Meanwhile creepy things are going on with a mysterious stalker following her car, breaking into her house and attacking her best friend, Vi. Nora suspects Patch, but there are other suspects too – not least a new boy who has transferred from a different college after being wrongly accused of murdering his girlfriend. And he seems to have taken a shine to Nora…Love certainly is dangerous…and someone is going to have to make the ultimate sacrifice for it.

Yet... there is something about it... It’s true that the heroine constantly and obviously puts herself in perilous situations including her relationship with bad boy extraordinaire Patch, the Fallen Angel. It’s true that that relationship seems more than a little abusive, from the stalking to the mental intrusions, and normally anybody would run away from it, but… but… but… I don’t know… I more than liked it. Her style is fluid, vivid, the story captivating – I’m looking forward to reading the sequel, “Crescendo.”

In fact, both of these books I couldn’t put down and had to force myself to put them down because I didn’t want to finish them so quickly. I also think their covers are absolutely gorgeous.

One evening I lingered a few minutes in front of the TV – a rare thing for me – and it happened that I switched channels to HBO where they were showing True Blood. At the end of those few minutes I was totally and irrevocably hooked. The pleasure I took in watching whatever I could from the series (I’m planning on buying it on DVD pretty soon) made me look for the books by Charlaine Harris. I turned to my good friend Amazon.

I devoured the first two books, “Dead Until Dark” and “Living Dead in Dallas”, and I’m halfway through “Club Dead”. I think they are great and I love the voice of Sookie Stackhouse. I love the dark humour, and the irony, and the self-irony. I love the South, and the feel of its deep mysteries and of its decadence. Yes, the supernatural seems quite at the right place there. I know that others see it as parable for this or that, as anything can be anything, but I like it for what it is, plain and simple. I like the “very bad things.” And, of course, I love Eric Northman…

Last but far from least, I read “According to Jane” by Marilyn Brant, who blogs at Brant Flakes.

It begins one day in sophomore English class, just as Ellie Barnett's teacher is assigning Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice". From nowhere comes a quiet 'tsk' of displeasure. The target: Sam Blaine, the cute bad boy who's teasing Ellie mercilessly, just as he has since kindergarten. Entirely unbidden, as Jane might say, the author's ghost has taken up residence in Ellie's mind, and seems determined to stay there. Jane's wise and witty advice guides Ellie through the hell of adolescence and beyond, serving as the voice she trusts, usually far more than her own. Years and boyfriends come and go - sometimes a little too quickly, sometimes not nearly fast enough. But Jane's counsel is constant, and on the subject of Sam, quite insistent. Stay away, Jane demands. He is your Mr. Wickham. Still, everyone has something to learn about love - perhaps even Jane herself. And lately, the voice in Ellie's head is being drowned out by another, urging her to look beyond everything she thought she knew and seek out her very own, very unexpected, happy ending.

I must tell you that this is not my type of literature. I would probably not go into a bookstore or to my favourite store, Amazon, and buy a novel of “women’s literature.” I bought this book because I’ve come to know Marilyn from her blog and I’d like to think that we’ve become blogging friends. The book was a wonderful discovery, starting from Marilyn’s writing that is Ellie’s voice, through the unexpected love-making scenes, to bad boy Sam Blaine who is absolutely adorable. In short, I loved it.

So what’s next on my list?
"Cold in the Light" by Charles Gramlich (this is on my nightstand)
"The Monstrumologist" by Rick Yancey(this is in Santa’s bag)
"Across the Universe" by Beth Revis (this will be released on January 4th of 2011)
and I might linger a bit more among other vampires...

Hopefully, I'll tell you about them in January.

About a Little Thief

2010-12-09T16:52:00.010-05:00

At first, I thought, Why bother? Why waste my time and my energy on such a pathetic thing? And then I thought, well, to warn my friends who write poetry and others who might read this of this character. And, hopefully, to shame him or her even a little bit so that next time he or she’ll think twice before taking what belongs to others.

Well, Nevine wrote about it in a much more elaborate way. In short, Joss of Lovely and Forever has taken one of her poems. It’s too bad because Lovely and Forever is a nice name and has a nice design. I read Nevine's post and went to visit the culprit’s blog. Big surprise! (Or maybe not so big…) His “Beloved Memory” of November 25th, is a slightly modified copy of my “Beloved Delusion.”

So, if two of those poems are taken from others, wouldn’t it be normal to assume that all the others also are? Perhaps... Go and check it out, maybe you’ll find one of your poems there…

Not only has Joss done this but, once caught, he or she doesn’t even have the decency to immediately remove those posts. I asked Joss to do so but, unfortunately, I was ignored. (It seems that Nevine’s has finally been removed by Google. That’s great news!!!)

I wrote something else here initially, but an e-mail from my friend Rick has changed my mind. Thank you, Rick. I don't know what the motives behind many of our actions are and digging into someone's soul could be dangerous and hurtful. So I will say only this: I hope Joss can rebuild Lovely and Forever in his or her own way.

P.S. I keep modifying this post, a word here or there.

Joss, come say "hello" in a comment to show that you've seen this and I'll say that what you borrowed from me is my Christmas gift to you.

The Great Pumpkin Ball

2010-10-31T12:58:00.013-04:00

For your enjoyment, here are a few of the participants at this year's Great Pumpkin Ball at the Montreal Botanical Gardens.

Happy, Sweet, Spooky Halloween!

Thinking of Poe, in October

2010-10-28T21:59:00.004-04:00

what more apt than to think
of the gloomy house of Usher
about to fall
when the thunder rolled through the door
earthquake more than thunder
there was no tapping at the door
only a dismal feeling tapping at my heart
that made me wonder
if something had stirred in the air
or in the ground
or maybe it was just the thunder
but I opened the door –

Night flew inside

I have no bust of Pallas
only this deserted table of decay
where we once
sat together
and a red masque
and the extinguished candles of my soul

so that’s where I sat with the Night
and that’s where we sit
for evermore

The Magic of Lanterns

2010-10-11T22:48:00.012-04:00

Every October of this blog I have written and posted here two or three Halloween pieces - poems and little stories that some of you have read.

I don’t feel like doing it this year. This is partly because I’m reluctant to take away from the little time and energy I have for my novel. Most of all, though, it is a consequence of what happened to Rick Moore, whose story was shamelessly stolen. And his was in a published anthology...

So, although it makes me happy to know that good people, like my blog friends, are reading my work here, I’m appalled at the thought that others might have vile intentions with it... What has been posted stays... but with a bad aftertaste... For they too are my children, aren’t they? I’d hate to know that somewhere they’re treated badly...

However, I must honour the season, for I love it. Thus, I give you some pictures I took on Sunday in the Montreal Botanical Gardens.

The Chinese Garden was alight with the magic of lanterns... This year’s theme was Like a Painting, inspired by a traditional Chinese painting, Qing Ming Shang He Tu. An artist from the Song Dynasty painted it in 1127 on a 5.28-metre silk scroll. It depicts the lives of the inhabitants of the city of Bianjing on the day of the Qing Ming festival, when the Chinese honour their ancestors.

And while we stroll among the lanterns, we can always think of some traditional Chinese ghost stories...

Tall Ships in Montreal

2010-09-21T22:48:00.005-04:00

We’ve had some distinguished guests in Montreal this weekend, the Roald Amundsen, the Bounty, the Pride of Baltimore II, the Lynx, and the Unicorn. Five tall ships from the yesteryear called at the Old Port, on the Saint-Lawrence river, from September 16th to the 19th.

The weather was absolutely gorgeous on Saturday so we decided to go downtown and enjoy the day.

Unfortunately, there was no way of visiting the ships without waiting the better part of the day in slow-moving lines. Besides, the real attraction was not in rubbing elbows with visitors with digital cameras in their hands.

Unless you get to really sail on them (which can be done, as I found out on the Internet), their polished woods, their lovely worn decks are much more likely to reveal their beauty and their secrets to the imagination.

I love ships because I love the sea. Tall ships, in particular, make me think of unbound adventures, of the mysteries of the high seas, of Captain Blood and Captain Jack Sparrow (The Bounty was used in “The Pirates of the Caribbean”), of the Maps of the Ancient Sea Kings, of everything that allows the spirit and the mind to soar unhindered.

Scenes From a Marsh

2010-09-06T22:11:00.011-04:00

Come, take my hand,

I’ll walk you into
this sweet silence –

to taste it, you only have

to smell the sun,
to drink the air,

to see the warmth...

Don’t worry,
these wooden planks have

just the right amount
of... creakiness

to bring another stirring
to our souls.

We cannot
disturb this peace.

Eternity breathes
Here.

Beloved Delusion

2010-08-28T19:25:00.003-04:00

I almost got it, yeah,
I almost nailed it, framed it,
encased it in the purest amber,
whatever you want to call it,
preserved it
like the thickest, sweetest
raspberry jam,
yeah, that feeling of absolute joy,
of unconditional optimism,
that tiny sparkle that would
make for a splendid sunny day
or a glorious evening
with no ending in sight
a perpetual spring
a real flower that never withers
a love like a phoenix
a dog that never dies
Mum and Dad always being there
in warm flesh
the voices of my children
always singing and laughing

And then, puff, I lost it

I thought I had devised the method
to recall it at will
to summon it against
the coming darkness
to take just a spoonful of it
and chase away the taste of tears
I thought I was clever
I thought I had the philosopher’s stone

I was wrong

Thinking of a Dead Fish on the Shores of Lake Erie

2010-08-21T00:18:00.005-04:00

I stood there in the summer wind
Expecting to fall
In the grips of philosophy,
Where some life-altering
Revelation would hit me,
Would tumble me to tears.
Nothing more than the wind came.
I was saving ladybugs,
Caught in the fine seaweed,
Like rubies on emerald velvet,
From the flood of each tiny wave
And all the seagulls slept
And all the ducks.
The same shy surf that lapped at my shoes,
Played with the dead fish
And made it look as if it still swam.
Maybe it was swimming,
In the distant dream
Of another water.
There was a lazy, unassuming peace
In watching that fish
On the shores of Lake Erie.

Again

2010-06-07T22:27:00.005-04:00

Once you have left a place, it is very difficult to return to it, whether it is a physical place, a point in time, or a playground of your mind. I find that something that was there initially, a state of well-being, your happy childhood, the town of your first great love can never be revived by revisiting them. It’s better to leave them alone, to let them live in that untouched realm of memory where they will always be unchanged, lest you will suffer disappointment.

I was tempted to do the same thing with this blog.

I cannot. I feel I have put too much of my soul in it to just abandon it to obnoxious spamming. I feel I am in its debt too much, and mostly in the debt of the friends I’ve met through it, for what I have learned in the craft of writing. I feel that I miss these friends and the beauty they bring forth with their words.

Therefore, I am (sort of) back. (SzélsöFa, thank you for the nudge!!!) My time is – as I tried to explain a while ago – still extremely limited, or even more, if that is possible. In whatever scraps of spare time I can gather, I am writing my novel and I love it. But, I’ll clean a bit the cobwebs in this house too, put some fresh flowers in the windows… every now and then…

I haven’t had blogging on my mind for a very long time. I discovered that you must have it on your mind, to see stuff around you that you can put on the blog. For now, I give you some pics I took around my house earlier this spring and hope to see you soon…

High-Concept

2010-03-22T17:16:00.002-04:00

The other day, I was reading the New York Times review of Audrey Niffenegger’s “Her Fearful Symmetry.” I like the book and I haven’t finished it yet – it’s one of the several books I’m reading now – and the review is a good one.

I was quite intrigued by the reviewer describing the book as a “high-concept tour de force, with the flashiness that the term implies.”

I didn’t think of this right away, but then I asked myself what “high-concept” meant. I had no idea.

Of course, I turned to Google and immediately found plenty on the topic.

An article by James Bonnet, a long time writer for television and film, starts with the sentence “In Hollywood and New York, the concept is king.” And later, he writes: “a high concept is an intriguing idea that can be stated in a few words and is easily understood by all.”

This is how most of the articles that I’ve found define high-concept: an idea that is immediately accessible and appealing to many people, something that is relatable, familiar, and universal yet has a unique, interesting twist. In addition, a high-concept novel usually has a catchy title that tells the reader exactly what the novel is.

James Bonnet lists four elements that might help one build this high-concept story:
- the fascinating subject – a subject that is in itself intriguing;
- the great title – a title that also reveals the genre of the story thus whetting the reader’s appetite for the feelings associated with that genre;
- the inciting action – the onset or the cause of the problem;
- the hook - a unique aspect of the problem that suggests intriguing possibilities.

All this got me thinking…

How about you? Do you keep such elements in mind when writing your stories? Do you plan them accordingly? Does your novel have the characteristics of high-concept?

All The Lovely Snowflakes

2010-03-02T03:44:00.002-05:00

Look at all these snowflakes
Out of the blue
Out of nowhere
These fluffy pancakes
Slapping our cheeks
These spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream
Catapulted by mischievous angels
Into our once perfect hair
We’re under attack
By this snow squall
The car is just there
No, I will not wait for you to bring it over
Let us run for it
Cold, cold the kiss of snow
On my décolletage, on my bare back
This little black dress is too little
Hot, hot your hand over mine
Your black dinner jacket
Has white epaulets
When you drape it, oh, so chivalrously,
Over my wet shoulders
What about this puddle?
It’s like an ocean
With melting icebergs in it
My stilettos will not float
Are you gonna carry me over it?
Ah, yes you are
And I’m using this moment
When you’re such a gentleman
When you’re defenceless
To kiss your ear wildly
To eat this heavy candyfloss
From your face
My eyes closed
While we’re laughing, laughing
(I hope you won’t drop me in the puddle)
Under all these lovely snowflakes

A Dawn

2010-02-26T07:44:00.002-05:00

Sometimes
Things look better in the morning
Sleep, cousin of oblivion,
Has filed the sharp edges
Of all these unnameable sentiments
That have slashed your soul
Relentlessly last evening
And then has blown them away
Into the starry night
Where they now add up to that
Ever-mysterious dark matter
The promise of the sun is there
In the darkest dawn
Sometimes

I think this is quite an interesting picture... A whole different story than this silly little sad poem could be written out of it. Does anyone care for a try? :-)

End of February Update

2010-02-23T13:37:00.002-05:00

Dear Friends,

I wish I could tell you how much I miss being more present on your blogs and on mine. In a way, it is a vicious circle. For, if I post something and you, in your great kindness, read it and leave your comments, I suffer greatly that I cannot return the gesture as often as I wished to. Therefore, I mostly remain silent…

I’m not doing that great, but I’m not writing this to get consolation from you. No, not at all. On the contrary, I abhor pity. With the risk of offending you, I must ask you not to offer it.

I am not where I would like to be and I’m afraid that I’ll never get there, but I’d rather not think about it. Like Sherlock Holmes in “A Scandal in Bohemia”, I am “alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition”… no, don’t get scared! Just replace “week” with “day” and “cocaine” with “despair” and you’ll know where I am. What is better, despair or cocaine? I sometimes wish I had the latter…

Like Art in “How to Be”, I am trying to answer the question that is the movie’s title and I admit I’m failing. I wish I had the luxury of being twenty years old. I wish I weren’t obsessed with the passing of time. I wish I hadn’t wasted that much time. I wish I were less intense. I wish I were content with a “normal” life. (Well, the last two are not really true.)

So, I’m writing the novel I was mentioning a while ago, and that’s the only good, brilliant, perfect, beautifully painful thing. The rest is chores, chores, and more chores, and existential questions that are mostly rhetorical. Even the writing has to be squeezed in between these mindless chores, with horrendous efforts from me and constant opposition from the “environment”. Think of the thing that you love most in this world, one without which your existence would be nothing, and – if you have one - imagine being constantly deterred from it, being constantly denied it. That is writing for me. Sounds crazy? If it does, maybe it is… Maybe a lobotomy would help…

So, forgive me if the texts I’m posting here are mostly dark. I know that’s highly unattractive, but I just can’t help it at this point. I am what I am. Thank you for reading this. And, yes, I’ll be back…

Valentines

2010-02-12T02:13:00.000-05:00

be still, my love,
and listen
to the melody
my heart sings
in your ears

then smile, my love,
and let my hands ruffle
your sweetest thoughts
and I, in turn,
will let your lips
write their poetry
on the fine vellum
this, my skin

and thus, my love,
with tune and lyrics
we’ll twine our song
so we can dance

Winter Dream

2010-02-08T00:59:00.001-05:00

poor dryad
even her tree denies her
there is only the cold now
to embrace her
only a sleep
that murmurs
of an improbable spring
in her frozen ears

Eyes of Stone

2010-01-08T00:18:00.003-05:00

art by gex78.deviantart.com

I am not watching you
with my eyes of stone
set in my face of glass
somewhere to the north
of my heart
of metal

it is pointless to run
with the electrons
through this forest
of wired thoughts
it will get you nowhere
nowhere closer
to what you think
what you hope
you can find
behind
this façade

I am always
a stranger
there is no danger
of love
in my eyes of stone
this flesh
is only a mask
for my plastic
soul

Winter Landscape

2009-12-25T22:24:00.003-05:00

dance of snowflakes
caws of crows
pallid sunshine
on your face
smiles and kisses
hands are gloves
Merry Christmas
sweet, my love

Dear Friends, better late than never...

I am thinking of you...

I hope that your hearts are filled with joy and I wish you to share it with your loved ones... now and always...

Geese, Winter

2009-12-16T17:59:00.002-05:00

This morning
a late flock of geese
calligraphed
their timid V
on the cottony canvas
of heavens

I stood there
(with you on my mind
with you in my heart)
smiling foolishly
at such a wondrous sight
frowning in worry
at their lateness
will they still reach safely
that balmy south?

I had my feet in the grey snow
on the black ground
(and you in my heart
and you on my mind)
and some of my thoughts
up there
hoping for a trace
for an impression
of something that has been
or maybe will be
in another spring

Somewhere...

2009-12-07T00:06:00.003-05:00

My friends, I thought I should let you know about my whereabouts, just in case anybody started thinking I was dead. Well, I’m not dead but I’m not on this Earth either...

art from aerphis.deviantart.com

I’m on a spaceship, abducted – not by aliens – by an idea and a character. Bizarre things are happening there – and romantic...

So obsessed am I by this, so madly in love with my character, so deep in the entrails of this spaceship, that I can do little else. This trance is deeper than all the others...

I barely speak, I won’t read anything except for comic books, and I can only listen to certain music, much like the one written by Mark Snow for the X-Files.

So, I simply cannot descend long enough from this spaceship to get myself to write something for this blog – well, other than this post...

I don’t know where this trip will take me but I’m certainly enjoying the ride. I’ll try visiting you as much as possible and... I’ll be back sometime...

Tame

2009-11-17T00:34:00.003-05:00

“Come on, please. This is a good one.”

Couples fox-trot in a kaleidoscope of bright colours, of bare shoulders, of black or white dinner jackets, and sparkling jewellery.

“I don’t dance.”

His words fall like pieces of wet felt, a tiny, insignificant smack on the terracotta floor.

“Why?”

The music swirls in the supple waves of her hair, tickles her shoulders, goes down to her ankles, lionesses in the tall grasses, quivering with the anticipation of the rush. In her mind, she is away already. Only her soul struggles with the chill threatening to close again the fragile breach that the music opened in her prison’s walls.

“What’s the point?” he says.

How exasperating the act of pounding against opaque walls of inertia, of indolence, of plain ill will. A hopeless sea, crashing against an immutable shore, never destined to erode it.

“What’s the point of breathing?”

“Life, that’s the point of breathing.” Annoyed.

Oxygen taken to the cells by the blood. Carbon dioxide coming out. An exchange. Nothing poetic about it.

“Music is oxygen for your soul. Dance carries it.”

“Cut it out.” His voice is like a brick. “Not for me. I don’t have any use for such nonsense. Besides, we’ve discussed this before. I do not dance.”

Anger bubbles inside her.

“I can’t believe it. We didn’t even dance at our wedding.”

She notices him then, the way a mariner glimpses a lighthouse in the darkest of storms. Her heart stops, then flutters. A handsome young stranger, watching her. Surely willing to dance. She can see it in his serious eyes, in his rueful hint of a smile. How easy it could be. How impossible. Take his hand, lean into it, feel its warmth, its tender guidance. She dares another glance. He is right there, watching her quietly, the tiniest frown darkening his brow, the tiniest smile narrowing his eyes. What would she do if he came to her? Asked her to dance? Took her in his arms? She looks down at the sparkling silver, at the immaculate tablecloth.

“You’re crazy. Would you stop mentioning that stupid thing?”

The knot of regret and frustration is swelling up in her throat, menacing to reach the lakes of her eyes, to overflow them.

“But it’s true,” she says. “It ruined everything. I should’ve realised then…”

The stranger is still watching her, his gaze almost soothing. She desperately longs to be cradled in his arms.

“You’re overreacting, as always.”

“Why the hell are we even here?” Too pale a comfort found in a coarse word, when she would really like to scream.

“You wanted to come. Finish your food now. We should go. This noise gives me a headache.”

No, she cannot leave now. She needs to prolong the illusion if only for another moment. She can’t possibly discard there, like a dirty napkin, this dream of absolute happiness. She needs to float for a while longer in the cocoon of that stranger’s regard, to feel… She wants to…

“Hurry up! We paid the nanny till eleven.”

She stands up mechanically, her legs suddenly leaden, the swirl inside her nauseating. She knows it’ll swallow her soul. Again.

As they walk out, she doesn’t look at him, the handsome stranger, for she knows that if she does, and if he's still watching her, she might, she will do something desperate, and she’s afraid to shatter this perfect dream.

Not yet. One day. Next time. Next time.

Thank You, Fireblossom!

2009-11-12T11:28:00.005-05:00

I received this award from Fireblossom, a new friend in this remarkable blogosphere, whose personality and whose verse are as flamboyant as her name. Thank you, Fireblossom! I am deeply honoured.

The rules are: post seven bits of trivia about yourself. (That’s scary!) Then pass it on to seven people. (That I kinda like!)

So, in totally random order, I give you:

1. I keep a notebook – an old elegant notebook bound in red silk embroidered with arabesques of gold – in which I write the titles of all the books I read every year. It is a precious thing to me for it helps me recall moments in my life, and more than moments, feelings and nuances… I remember how I was when I was reading such and such book, what season it was, if I was content or sad… At the same time it brings me a feeling of anxiety or hopelessness when I see how little I can scratch of the vast surface of literature.

2. I’m in love with a certain vampire. ’Nough said. :-)

3. When I write, I fully immerse myself in my story. It’s so “bad” (or good!) that my pulse quickens, my vision blurs, my breathing becomes ragged, my head spins… I wonder what I looked like if anybody were to see me.

4. During my university years, I smoked. Not much, probably not more than ten cigarettes a day, mainly less. Strong ones though, mostly Camel. And then, a few years later I abandoned it. It was easy. One day I smoked, the next day I didn’t. I admit I was a bit disappointed. What? Can’t I even keep an addiction?

5. I love all life and believe that everything that’s alive has a right to live.
One day, as I was driving through a new development zone, where all natural life has been disturbed to make place to a bunch of overgrown houses, I saw a snake trying to cross the road. I can’t even think about it, let alone write about it. It was already halfway through the other half of the road when a car coming from the opposite direction just crushed it. My heart cringes even now, so many weeks later. I know that countless tragedies happen every minute all over this world, but it doesn’t mean that that snake’s is less important because of that.
Did I mention I’m a vegetarian?

6. Baroque music is among my favourites. Bach, Albinoni, Telemann, Marcello, to name just a few who take me from the peaks of joy to the abysses of despair, and back.

7. I like to drive and I like to drive very fast. I like the “high” that I get from this speed… Unfortunately, watching out for cops takes away some of the fun…

And now I get to pass the award on to other people. It wasn’t easy to decide upon only seven names. Some of you have it already, and if you don’t want to do the meme (again) that’s all right, but it’s just my way of showing how much I appreciate you. All of you are fantastic writers and amazing blog friends.

So,

Aniket
Kaye
Karen
L.A.
Marilyn
Miladysa
Rick

please pick up your award.

The Talisman - Part 2 of 2

2009-10-29T23:47:00.007-04:00

If you haven’t read Part 1, please do so first.

With only the round moon of nearly midnight as a witness, I lit a timid flame under the pile of deadwood I had gathered in the afternoon. The flame licked the twigs, started eating them, then crawled onto the thicker branches with maddening slowness. The wind toyed with it for a few seconds, spreading sparks, but the fire finally took. In the orange glow, new shadows rose to dance with the emaciated silhouettes of the trees, drawn by the cold moon.

I couldn’t believe I was there, behaving like a naïve teenager in my old age, instead of nesting in the quietness of my room. But I was doing it as a farewell to my aunt, and I used that thought to somehow warm my bones.

The instructions had been simple and I followed them dutifully, although emotion made my left hand even clumsier than usual. I spread the powder over the fire, hardly avoiding the sudden burst of flames. Then, in the foul smell that rose, I read aloud the text on the side of the box. I had glimpsed at it earlier, just to make sure I could decipher it, but still the guttural words of the dead language – in a voice that barely sounded as my own - brushed my heart with a strange foreboding.

It was an ancient Egyptian funeral incantation, written in hieratics, though not one that I had ever seen in the Spells of Going. A reversed, twisted utterance, meant to call forth the soul into another existence, not to ease its journey into the realm of the blessed dead. I have always laughed at superstition, but the thought that my aunt had in secret entertained such ideas was particularly disturbing.

When I finished, my mouth dry as if filled with sand, a grey smoke stirred in the flames. The wind played with it, allowing it to gain shape only to scatter it again shortly.

Almost deafened by my own heartbeat, I took the miniature coffer from my bag and managed to steady my fingers long enough to open it. For a stretched moment, I forgot to breathe.

Inside, on a white velvet cushion, there was a small hand, a child-sized hand, a gold ring with a tiny ruby on the index finger, the wrist bloodied as if freshly severed. Surely only a rubber moulding, the macabre prop of a prankster.

Under my rounded eyes, the hand twitched.

I almost dropped the chest.

Surely, only a trick of the flames.

Despite myself, I looked at my old stump, then at the child’s hand in the coffer, helpless before the tangled memory that rushed at me and threw me whole in the pit that had opened in my stomach. The county fair. The fortune teller Gipsy. The smiles and the money exchanged between her and Aunt Lilith. The ring the Gipsy offered the five-year old I was then. The car accident. My parents’ death. My crushed right hand that could not be recovered from the burnt wreckage. My tears for the lost ring. The recurring nightmare of my troubled sleep.

What strange, unwanted thoughts. I had no use of them.

I had a mind to throw the chest with its hideous content in the fire, when the hand twitched again. I gasped, intrigued, disgusted, scared. It couldn’t be. What was I doing there? Better to go home.

But in the moment I tried to snap the lid closed, the twitching hand jumped from the coffer. A shriek rose from the shadow in the fire, or maybe from my lips. I dropped the box and stumbled backwards, my eyes frantically searching for the hand on the ground, when I realized that it was on me, that it had somehow attached itself to my stump.

Oh, the terror when I shook my arm and couldn’t loose that child’s hand, that foreign hand! The numbing coldness of the iron tendrils piercing my wrist, holding it in a metal vice.

I pulled. I pushed. I scratched. I turned, seeking a tool to help me. A stick broke on it. In desperation, I started striking a boulder. Nothing. Nothing.

Nothing but the suffocation from the panicked struggle, from the thickening smoke.

Under my eyes, it started growing, a beautiful white hand, with silky skin, no longer a child’s hand but a young woman’s, the one I could’ve had, the ring, already too small, cutting deep into the index finger.

And then, a whisper whirred from the fire, from the wind “…dear girl…” the howling of a ghostly wolf over the moor “I’m returning your gift…” a fluttering of soft wings “we’ll always be together… I’ll be your talisman now…” a shuffling of leaves “… as you were mine…” the drumming of my blood “dear girl…” growing, twisting whispers “pull me out, dear girl… dear girl… pull me out…”

Against my battered will, I approached the fire, leaning closer, my right hand extended as if to caress the flames.

“dear girl… pull me out…”

The heat was painful on my eyes yet I didn’t lower my eyelids. There was something in the smoke, a distorted face, with miniature features. “pull me out…” Was it only my hallucination? Was it really the dark soul of my aunt balancing on the brink of hell, struggling to avoid an eternal damnation?

“pull me out…”

An arm of smoke extended from the fire, long, shaky fingers seeking the unnatural hand. One final usage of the talisman, to pull her out of Hell.

Her fortune to be passed onto me. Has she meant good fortune in addition to material one? A few more years, better years for me, luckier years for me, with Aunt Lilith always there… at an arm’s length… So tempting…

“dear girl…”

Why not?...

As I reached into the fire, I realized I could move the hand, that I could control the fingers that hadn’t been mine for sixty years. I made a fist and plunged it into the flames. The shadow-smoke contorted violently, perhaps from the pain I could not feel, perhaps from trying to grasp the hand that I would not open, and an inhuman shriek pierced the night, reverberating in my heart. I endured it, until there was nothing left but the charred bones, even beyond that, until the pain took my consciousness away.

No handshake, Aunt Lilith.

* * *

For some more Halloween fictional tricks and treats take a look at:

Bernard's Return of Demon

Charles Gramlich's Hunter's Moon

Fireblossom's Five Wolves

K.Lawson Gilbert's Once We Were Cats

Laughingwolf's H-5... 1, H-5... 2, H-5... 3, H-5... 4 and H-5... 5

And my older Little Halloween Triptych:

The Flying Dutchman

Hunger

A Mother's Gift

Happy Halloween!

The Talisman - Part 1

2009-10-26T17:22:00.003-04:00

Aunt Lilith was taking her last breath. If I were to add “finally”, I would be considered ungrateful, but I couldn’t help entertaining that adverb, somewhere at the blurry periphery of my thoughts.

The houseboy who came to fetch me was livid and panting, and seemed to have somehow lost the cheekiness with which he habitually addressed me. Was he perhaps acknowledging in me the new Mistress of the house? I threw a shawl over my achy shoulders and followed him as best I could, though didn’t force my injured leg overly.

When I reached her bedroom, her doctor came to meet me and I knew then, by his countenance, that I was too late. He resembled a grimy carrion bird, his complexion sallower than usual, his narrow shoulders stooped under the brown jacket.

The canopy bed, on the far wall, was lost in the mist of light filtered by the heavy curtains. I limped to it, passing covered mirrors (does the soul go into mirrors?) on ancient massive commodes, the sickly sweet odour of medicine and dried flowers almost overwhelming to me.

She lied on burgundy sheets, serene in her eternal sleep, still unbelievably beautiful and youthful looking. Even in death, she hugged tightly the small mahogany chest that never left her.

“She gave me this for you,” the doctor said, handing me an envelope.

I had no expectations now, more than I’ve ever had. Aunt Lilith has treated me fairly well, though barely above a housemaid. I have been tolerated, not loved. Provided for, not nurtured.

An old maid with one hand. An orphan who became a burden for her vivacious aunt.

At ninety-five, her organs failed her but she’d been lucky to have a lucid mind and physical independence up to the very last moment. Come to think of it, luck was something she’d had plenty her whole life, and with a capital L. I’d never really thought of it, but it had been present in all the circumstances of her life.

She’d lost her husband at thirty-five, in the car crash that had also cost my parents’ life and my right hand. But her husband had been a nuisance and, through his death, she avoided the divorce she’d been planning and inherited his whole fortune. She’s never remarried and has never had children of her own, but took many lovers, one richer and better looking than the other.

Throughout the years, she has miraculously escaped fires, car crashes, bankruptcies, epidemics that have thoroughly destroyed the other people touched by them.

I haven’t been that lucky. I lived, it’s true, when my parents died, but the price of my survival had been a life painted in shades of grey, a life of infirmity and renunciations.

What could she write to me? I opened the letter.

Dear girl,

Yes, despite all the perceptions and the adversities that we, or rather you, have misconstrued over the years, you were my dear girl, my dear deceased sister’s girl, the one I couldn’t have and raised as my own child.

So, dear girl, no time to waste now. Death presses me – I know - and there is one last thing I must ask of you, one of immense importance for both of us.

After you fulfill my last request, you will be a greatly rich woman, but I trust that the wisdom you acquired during all these years of modesty will continue to guide your steps.

I am grateful to you for what you have given me – if you are surprised by this, be patient a little longer and you will have your answer.

What I give you now – what dr. Abramian will give you when the time comes - are my precious chest and a pouch.

On the seventh night following my demise, you must take them and go to the crossroads at the abandoned mill. You must light a fire and, precisely at midnight, scatter the powder you’ll find in the pouch over the flames and pronounce the words carved on the side of the box.

You will have no difficulty with them, I am sure, for you are such an erudite girl. (She must have meant they were written in some dead language – these had no secrets for me for I have been “buried” for decades in the museum’s Antiquities department.)

After that, and only then, I cannot emphasize it more, you can, you must open the chest.

I conjure you to do this and give me the last peace that my soul longs for. It is a small thing to you, but something of utmost importance for my beliefs. After that, all my fortune will pass onto you.

There’s even a special gift in there for you, my dear girl, one that I know you will appreciate for the rest of your life.

After all, we have always enjoyed longevity in our family so you will have many more years to benefit from your great fortune.

Your loving aunt,

Lilith

to be continued...

October Chills

2009-10-21T18:48:00.002-04:00

under the round Moon
tears of the gone rain
glimmer
on dying leaves
like just as many diamonds
or eyes
of secret beasts
who read your soul
and wait
for
your heart
to falter
while
you hurry
your fears
home
under the round Moon

Infernal Stalking

2009-10-15T23:48:00.001-04:00

The night is wings of crows, flapping silently over my shoulders. A thousand whispers of leaves, or mice, scurrying at my heels.

Only three more streets and I’ll be home.

The wind is brother to hungry wolves. With iced fingers it seizes my eyes, tears my hair, dies quickly only to be reborn through another crevice between buildings.

An operatic voice rises behind me, too close, too loud. A tremendous bass-baritone from a tragic opera I vaguely seem to recognize. The voice is close, the instruments far, in a discarded dimension. Is it in Italian? Or German? Who listens to opera in these deep hours of the night?

I think I can hear my name. How can it call my name? The wind is meowing, mocking my ears. It must be.

Only two more streets and I’ll be home.

Again. My name. I hear it now with aching clarity. I chance a glimpse back, just as I force my march into a trot. The street is a valley of stone, with nothing animated but the white wings of abandoned newspapers, tumbleweeds blown on a prairie of asphalt. No car even sleeps by the curb. No window is alive, behind me, in front. Darkness has engulfed everything beyond the meagre streetlights. Is there a power outage?

Where does the music come from?

Only one more street and I’ll be home.

I pull my jacket tighter, unable to repel the chill in my heart. My name echoes wildly behind me, around me.

My trot morphs into a sprint, the soles of my sneakers slapping the sidewalk impossibly loud.

Finally. But my house is dark too. There’s nobody home. It takes an eternity to fumble with my keys. An eternity of operatic madness.

At last, the door shuts behind me, enclosing me in the cocoon of safety built by the familiar feels, and smells, and noises. The tic-tock of the grandfather clock, the clanging of a water pipe from the heating system, the sweet, humid smell of earth and plants. The absence of opera sounds.

The light switch is dead. I feel my way along the wall to the kitchen. A muffled humming permeates the door that leads to the lowest entrails of the house. What’s in the cellar?

Against all caution, against all hope, I open the door. A milky glow bathes the staircase. The opera music builds in a sombre crescendo from which the bass-baritone voice calls my name.

I have nowhere to go home.

I am home.

(photo from moviegoings.files.wordpress.com)

Beware of the Wolf Man!

2009-10-13T23:43:00.004-04:00

He’ll stalk you when the full moon is out!

In one of our entirely too numerous trips to the dollar store, which now has increased – if that is even possible - its fascination upon my daughters with its display of Halloween paraphernalia, I picked up the book that you can see below.

I just couldn’t pass the opportunity to buy a book with such a title for one Canadian dollar (well, 1.13 after you throw in the taxes…).

It’s a children’s book, previously sold by Toys’R’Us for 2.69, according to the label on the back. Published in 1992, is was adapted from the Universal film “The Wolf Man” by Justine Korman and illustrated by Art Ruiz.

Why am I giving these many details about it? Because it’s a surprisingly good book. It’s a small treasure.

You can read the blurb from the back cover.

I’m not suggesting you go out and seek it, however, I must say that I loved it. It is written in a relatively simple language, for the intended readers, but it is well written, suspenseful, even scary. They’re not lying in the blurb…

“The Wolf Man” is a 1941 film with Lon Chaney, Jr., a classic of the horror cinema. Imdb gives it a rating of 7.4/10, which is very good. I plan to find it and watch it. From what I read, a remake’s been filmed, with Benicio Del Torro in the main role, but hasn’t been released yet.

And in the meantime I can have fun with another “delicious” book for the season…

Myself and I

2009-10-08T18:14:00.003-04:00

photograph by Jo Whaley

I sometimes spend the better of my day
in silent conversation with myself
and any storms that happen on the way
I simply take and put them on a shelf
inside this lamentable closet of a brain
where weirdest things have long been stored:
romantic love, forgotten dreams, plenty of pain –
I might be sobbing, mad, but seldom bored.

They often surface on a whim
and sometimes, when they’re summoned, hide.
Nevertheless, they’re all inside
for I alone,
and for this paper, now and then.

Ama(i)z(e)ing Apples

2009-10-05T23:39:00.009-04:00

There is something about walking through a maze of corn that brings to my mind thoughts of dark, weird stories. Maybe it’s the forest-like feeling I get, even on a splendid summer day (make that end of September, but it still feels like summer...) , even with the happy shouts of children in the background, when I look at the crossing swords of green. A forest is a repository of eternal mysteries.

I haven’t read King’s “Children of the Corn” nor have I seen the movie, although I heard of both. In fact, just before writing this, I read a bit about them in wikipedia. However, the “Village of the Damned” type of story is not the kind that comes to my mind.

You can get in, but what if you’re not allowed to get out?

There is something menacing when you look at the sky from this perspective…

Finally, in the apple orchard…

Crunchy apples…

I wonder what their beauty’s hiding…

Hmmm, Halloween is coming…

Dreamscape

2009-09-30T07:05:00.002-04:00

art by George Grie at neosurrealismart.com

It’s been almost a year since, yet I remember everything as if it happened yesterday.

It was a fluke my first encounter with Bernard, one of the rare mistakes Eddie has ever made when sending my mind back in Time. However, just as he recognised his error and wanted to pull me back, I realised we happened upon an amazing opportunity. The brain I had reached had almost no consciousness. It was asleep. It was dreaming.

For the first time in my historical forays, I wasn't just observing the landscape but was part of it. It was strange, and wondrous, and scary.

I glided at first, shyly, nothing more than a slight electrical perturbation along the intricate network of that mind. Beneath me, there was a city of glass and stone, of colossal depths and shadows. I could see clearly only the nearby buildings and some domed rooftops, glittering like mad mirrors under incidental sunshine. The rest was mostly covered in fogs or clouds, as was the sky, a gray, heavy shadow with rare flecks of brilliant blue.

There was something going on down there, in the narrow streets, and I found myself gradually floating downwards, fear of heights forgotten under the impatience of curiosity. When I touched the cement sidewalk, I had already created a persona for me, an invented visual being that represented the internal image I had of myself, only just the slightest bit more flattering, with my hair at shoulder length instead of the ugly two-day stubble.

It felt unnerving to be suddenly at the bottom of the shadows, strangely solid ground under my feet, unknown noises filling my mind. Wobbling on my dream-legs, I took a few steps on the street. Everything seemed very real. I could see the cracks in the sidewalk, loose journal pages and caked dust in the gutter, the rough texture of the walls all around me.

At the corner, I stopped. The streets had names, written on metal plates high up on the traffic light poles. It was the 48th Street with Fifth Avenue. New York City, I thought. Midtown Manhattan.

The noise was becoming louder. Now I could attach a direction to it. Suddenly it sounded like voices. I turned left to follow them. Out of nowhere, the street became populated. A musician, on stilts, started playing a strange melancholy tune on his saxophone. I had never listened to anyone playing live an instrument of any kind, and the sounds almost brought tears to my eyes. I wanted to get closer to him and, tentatively, I took a few steps. I stopped to look behind me and was startled at the sight of the street suddenly filled with people, walking in all directions. I waited for a while, alert, tense, ready to run away at the first sign that someone had noticed me. No one did.

My audacity sparkling, I went to stand straight in front of the musician. He was at least four meters tall on his wooden legs and had to move continuously to maintain equilibrium. He graciously managed to transform this into a dance.

“My name is Bernard. Who are you?”

There was no aggression in the tone but the unexpectedness of that loud voice made my heart sink to my suddenly frozen stomach. At first, I thought it was Eddie, playing nasty jokes on me, and I opened my eyes for a split second to catch him with a big grin on his face. Eddie was dozing off in his booth, his chin almost touching his chest. I switched back to the dream. The musician's face was shining white with thick make-up.

“Hello!”

I suddenly realized it was a man who had spoken to me, standing maybe two meters to my left. For an endless moment I just stared at him, unable to utter a sound, not even sure I knew how, fighting the impulse to run away. I looked at the musician. He just went on with his music and his dance, oblivious to the rest of the world. I looked at the people on the street but they were barely more than colourful silhouettes.

The only real thing was the man beside me. He was in his late thirties, of medium height, and his blue eyes resembled the specks of light in the sky. He was amazingly handsome, in a way only darkened by his jet-black hair and his black coveralls. He smiled to me, kindly, with no impatience.

I abruptly realized it was his dream I had trespassed.

“I'm Zina,” I said tentatively, wondering if he could hear me.

“Zina,” he said slowly, maybe pondering the truthfulness of my response. My heart sank when he frowned and I was about to pull out but then he smiled again. “Where are you from, Zina?”

I was still so surprised that we could interact in his dream that I barely managed to mumble, “Oh, I'm from… Ma… Manhattan.”

“I haven't seen you around,” he said, “I would have certainly noticed you.”

“Oh, I'm from… Downtown,” I said, ignoring the compliment and the heat flushing my real cheeks. “I don't come here very often. What's going on?”

He smiled, looking around, and said, shrugging, “Not much… There is a concert in Central Park. Would you like to come?”

I surely did. The legend that was Central Park had disappeared from New York City in the early 24th century, more than four hundred years ago, engulfed by the ubiquitous power of steel and stone. That much we knew, and still, preoccupied by historical events, we had spent most of our time in conference rooms and on battlefields, ignoring monuments of nature or of the human spirit.

He took my hand and I followed him, as surprised to be walking on green grass as I was at the warmth and solidity of his hand. A lively music filled the air, pouring from all directions, without an obvious source. I had never listened to such beautiful music, serenely overwhelming my heart with joy.

We sat on the grass, next to a huge oak tree, and watched a distant concert stage and people flocking towards it. Bernard was watching me intensely, and yet I could not refrain from revelling, almost childishly, no questions asked, in the feel of the moist, crunchy grass and of the hard earth prodding at my bones. I lay there, supine, for what it seemed like a very long while. I could feel the sun warming my skin, and the strength of its light through my closed eyelids. And each time I opened my eyes I would see Bernard and would recognize the unconditional admiration in his eyes. It made me smile, and while I listened to his dream-voice, and while I watched the now cloudless sky, my heart went to him.

He spoke of himself and other things, many of which I did not understand. He had an important job, very highly positioned, in an important organization, and used the dreams both to help him solve problems of his work and to relax from the daily stress. He wanted to know about me, and I told him just some general facts, that I was a mathematician, and that I grew up in Manhattan (though I avoided mentioning which Manhattan) and a few other things like that. Even if they were just half-truths and I had to choose them carefully, words came to me easily and I didn’t remember having had such pleasure speaking to someone before. My heart sang with happiness.

I could have stayed in his dream forever but then I remembered that one period of REM-sleep didn’t last longer than twenty minutes. I had to leave before he woke up and realised my intrusion.

“You will come back, Zina, won’t you?” he said then, and I could sense a mild anxiety in his half-question half-command. It was as if he somehow knew that I was a stranger in his dream, that he could not summon me at will.

“I will come back,” I said and ran away.

extract from “Going Home”, a novella

Yummy Weekend

2009-09-25T22:41:00.003-04:00

I have no attempt at poetry or fiction for today, just something to tease your sweet tooth and maybe give you an idea for your Saturday or Sunday brunch.

We bought some of these on the street, in Brussels - one for 5 euros compared to 12 for the same thing in a restaurant - and we ate them standing, chocolate and whipped cream dripping on our chins and onto the sidewalk, just a few steps away from the famous Brussels landmark, the Mannekin Pis…

There is something for everybody here: strawberries, bananas, chocolate, whipped cream and combinations of these…

So, which one of these splendid Belgian waffles would you choose? I had the one in the upper right corner, with strawberries and whipped cream…

Have a wonderful weekend everyone!

Equinox

2009-09-22T17:23:00.005-04:00

sweet thoughts of summer
asleep on the silent pond -
welcome autumn

Of Swans on a Canal in Brugge

2009-09-16T18:04:00.004-04:00

It was in Brugge,
this Venice of the North
as some call it,
that we kissed,
thinking of that other Venice,
the real one.

We were leaning over the
little bridge
on Leeuwstraat,
imagining
how sweet life would be,
seen from a tiny garden.

Then,
hand in hand,
we watched the young swans
lazily go by,
and for a long while
we wondered
why two of them were
swimming with just one leg,
and what a coincidence
it would be
for both of them
to have lost their right leg.
(Little we knew
at the time
that swans often
do that.)

My hair brushed your face
while the dog smiled at us
from his window –
master of his perfect
Flemish landscape.

Summer was young as we,
no ripeness of age or autumn
in the air,
no thoughts of death
as we have now,
just a ripple
on the water
here and there,
just the crisp wind
from the North Sea,
the warmth of our hands,
and the young swans
on a canal, in Brugge.

Musings at the Troll’s Bridge

2009-09-09T19:19:00.003-04:00

What will jump at you
from beneath
this troll bridge?

One of your lovely fears,
to take its toll
from your shortening years?

Or is it just a grasshopper, shy,
as confused as you are,
hopping from leaf to leaf,

or a nervous young hare,
who makes your heart jump
and your eyes stare,
then sigh with relief,
then blink with relief.

But what if
it’s death herself
underneath that bridge?
What if?

Do you have
your answers ready?

Tell me, how will you
talk your way out
to the greener shore
without
paying too high
of a toll?

(And is it really greener?
And do you really have to cross it?)

The wind rustles a sweet song
and you say to yourself,
maybe it’s only a stroll in the park,
yes, that’s what it is,
no toll at all,
only a stroll.

Where I Am

2009-09-05T14:57:00.002-04:00

September is a weird place. We’re having now a taste of a summer that has never happened this year and it feels like something that you really should have done in your youth and you’re doing in your middle age as a sort of compensation. In the garden, the tomatoes are still green, the one-and-only green pepper that I had now lies on the ground, nibbled by squirrels, and the grass is covered with red and yellow maple leaves.

I’m still around. I haven’t disappeared (yet) in any personal black hole. I’m writing a little bit, and reading your blogs as much as I can, but I just haven’t had that drive to participate much in anything. Even to leave you a comment, beyond the “wow” that usually first comes to mind, seems often an impossible task. I’m very grateful to all those who still think of me, despite my absence…

Mellow – that’s a word that comes to mind. I often feel like a fly, numbed by the night’s coolness, waiting for the Sun to warm its wings again, just a few more times before the dread of winter.

I’m trying to finish a story and one moment I think it’s great and the next moment I think it’s worthless.

School has started and, since it’s a complete novelty for my youngest, it takes a heavier toll on her. Her worries don’t let her sleep well at night, she wants to be with me all the time, and she keeps asking if I’m home the next day. When I tell her that I have to go to work, she says, “Would you like to go to work one day and then stay home twenty days?” Yes, I would like that, very, very much.

So, I leave you for now with a face to these words. At least you’ll know who you’re talking to.

The picture has been taken while boating on the moat at the Chenonceau Castle, on the Loire Valley, in France. I lost there one of the gold earrings that you see in the photo – I was quite upset by this. In this castle, there was a very strange room, all decorated in black. It had belonged to Louise of Lorraine who lived there, in perpetual mourning, from 1589 when her husband, King Henry III of France, was assassinated by the monk Jacques Clement, until her own death, in 1601. Imagine living there, in that black room, with its black tapestries and its sombre furniture, while outside bloomed some of the most beautiful gardens…

A Few More Tombs

2009-08-19T23:59:00.011-04:00

In Paris, there is a place called L’hotel des Invalides, or more simply Les Invalides. King Louis XIV founded it in 1670, as a place to house and care for the disabled veterans of his wars. It is now home, among others, to the Museum of the Army and the Tomb of Napoleon.

The sarcophagus of Napoleon Bonaparte, made of red porphyry on a green granite base, lies, at Les Invalides, in the crypt of the Church of the Dome, as majestic as once was this Emperor of the French. Napoleon died and was interred on Saint Helena but, nineteen years later, in 1840, King Louis-Philippe of France returned his remains to Paris. Within the sarcophagus, Bonaparte’s body rests in five successive coffins, made of tin, mahogany, lead, lead again, and ebony.

In the Saint-Gatien Cathedral in Tours, I was very touched by the sight of this tomb, that of the children of King Charles VIII and of Anne de Bretagne - Charles Orland, dead at three in 1495 and Charles dead at 25 days in 1496. For me, the monument captures the sweetness of childhood and conveys an even more acute pain at such an early loss.

In Caen lies William the Conqueror, Duke of Normandy and King of England.

The Abbaye-aux-Hommes (Men’s Abbey) was founded by William in 1063 as penance for marrying within the prohibited degrees. For the same reason, his wife, Matilda, a distant cousin and daughter of the Count of Flanders, founded the Abbaye-aux-Dames (Ladies’ Abbey). She died in 1083 and was buried in the Trinity Abbey Church in the Abbaye-aux-Dames. He died almost four years later and was buried in the Saint-Etienne Abbey Church in the Abbaye-aux-Hommes.

William the Conqueror's original tomb, a magnificent marble mausoleum, was desecrated by Huguenots in 1562 during the religious wars. His remains were entrusted to the monks but a new intrusion of the Protestants scattered the bones of which only a hipbone was saved. In 1742, King Louis XV gave permission to the monks to transform the tomb into a simple sepulchral vault covered by a stone. In 1793, in the French Revolution, the tomb was once again desecrated. In 1801 it was replaced by the marble stone that we can see today.

In the Rouen Notre Dame Cathedral, painted many times by Claude Monet, there rest, on opposite sides of the altar, the heart of Richard the Lionheart (1157 – 1199)

and the king’s older brother, with whom he often quarreled, Henry the Young King (1155-1183), the second of the five sons of King Henry II of England and of Eleanor of Aquitaine.

The Cathedral also has the tomb of Rollo (Hròlfr or Robert) (c860-c.932), one of Richard's ancestors, founder and first ruler of Normandy.

There are several places who claim to have the head of Saint John the Baptist, among them the Amiens Cathedral, the tallest complete cathedral in France. It seems the head was brought home by Wallon de Sarton from the Fourth Crusade in Constantinople. To whomever it belonged, it’s still an impressive sight peering at you from the ornate reliquary.

And last, but not least, there is the American cemetery at Omaha Beach…

They were not kings or, on the contrary, they were…

Goodbye

2009-08-17T17:08:00.003-04:00

for Tante Paula, who could not linger

The night has taken you
under her wing.
I wish I could hope
all those stars
were candles
lit by heaven
for your beautiful soul
or…
even sisters.

But it’s cold
and I fear
it is just
nothingness.

Stop! It is Here, the Empire of Death

2009-07-31T00:12:00.010-04:00

At 3 o’clock, a man came out of the unremarkable black shelter and started counting the people standing in line. When he reached us, he said:

“You know, you might not get in today. Only two hundred people are allowed inside at any one time and the last entry is at 4 o’clock.”

We smiled at him, shrugged, and didn’t budge. For the next hour we painfully inched our way forward under the scorching sun. The line curved through the tiny park, where a rather crazy (likely homeless) woman was loudly scolding all the passing kids for disturbing the pigeons – my youngest daughter was discretely feeding them bread crumbs, and continued on the pavement under the blessed and much sought after shade of a linden tree.

As the fateful hour too quickly approached without the line having made much encouraging progress, the glimpses at our watches grew more worried. The man came back several times, counting again, not saying anything. We too started counting, fidgeting, taking trips to the entrance to have yet another look at the electronic counter that showed how many people were inside. 196. Come on, move, move! Still 196. Excruciatingly seldom, a few people were allowed in.

4 o’clock. There were five or six people still in front of us. A huge line behind us. Our friend and enemy came out again. Started counting as he allowed the trickle of the lucky ones to pass the gates. We were getting ready to plead or to protest, or both, when the miracle happened.

We were let in. Only two more behind us and that was it for the day. Unbelievable!

When the door closed behind us, it felt as if we were abruptly cut from the world of the living. Almost shaking with the emotion of our success, we descended the whirlwind of the 143 steps into the depths of the Earth.

Arrête! C’est ici l’empire de la mort. – Stop! It is here, the empire of death

It’s probably time to tell you what I am talking about. It’s the Catacombs of Paris, the municipal ossuary that occupies a very small part of the huge underground network (280 km) of ancient quarries and galleries upon which the City of Lights dangerously lies.

Towards the end of the eighteenth century, the cemeteries of Paris – then a city still of a medieval aspect and of 500,000 inhabitants - were overflowing. For instance, the ground of the Cimetière des Saint-Innocents - right next to Les Halles, a public market since 1137 – had reached ten feet above the street level. Pestilence threatened from open mass graves and improperly buried corpses of thirty generations of Parisians. In 1780, a wall of the Cimetière des Saint-Innocents gave in, dumping many bodies into the cellar of a nearby house. Rather late, the authorities decided to condemn the cemeteries within the city’s walls and move all the remains to the underground galleries.

I cannot even allow myself to think of the ghastly work of those who moved the bones at night and rearranged them here with such a morbid meticulousness. What a surreal sight that must have been. History records the nocturnal processions of hearses, covered in black palls, going from the Cimetière des Saint-Innocents to the quarries of Montrouge, in the torchlight, and accompanied by priests. The blessing and the consecration of the Catacombs took place on the 7th of April, 1786. Shortly after, the remains from Saint-Eustache and from Saint-Étienne-des-Grès were also moved there. The more recent cadavers had to be covered in quicklime to avoid putrefaction.

At first, the bones had been thrown at random in an ancient extraction well, only noting the original cemetery. It was only later that they were arranged into the long walls of bones. It appears there are more than six million skeletons in here. They have no names, obviously, but among them are the writer Jean De La Fontaine, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, the French minister of finance under the rule of Louis XIV, Jean-Philippe Rameau, one of the most important French composers of the Baroque era, and even the revolutionaries: Danton, Robespierre, and Saint-Just, who were transported here directly from the guillotine. In here, all are equal.

The Ossuary has been open to the public since mid 19th century and even Napoleon III came to visit. There is a lot more to it than the 1.7 km that can be visited. Also, the rest of the underground network is prohibited to the public under the threat of heavy fines. But it seems that there are many hidden entrances and clandestine maps available to those adventurous enough or crazy enough… It’s easy to get lost in there…

As I walked the galleries lined with bones, I touched a tibia here, stroked a skull there, took a few pictures. You can certainly find better pictures on the Internet. I didn’t use the flash, not only because it was not allowed but also because it would have felt to me as an impiety, a transgression of a careless modernity into this subdued world of the dark.

They have been what we are

Dust, toy of the wind
Fragile like men
Weak like the nothingness.

It was a hallucinating walk inside a grave, yet, despite the macabre setting and the sombre inscriptions, it was not fear or repulsion but a sense of great peace that was conveyed to me, a solidarity and a strange reassurance for the fate that awaits us all.

In the next post, I’ll take you to a few tombs of kings…

Dim

2009-07-28T12:24:00.001-04:00

indigo heart
leaking,
dripping
indigo blood
cold, rarefied
floating,
rising
smoke of illusions
into the nightmare,
the indigo night

indigo stars,
extinguished beacons,
guarding the flight
to the indigo chasm
nobody,
nothing,
darkness in glory
into the poor,
the indigo heart

Paris, Mon Amour

2009-07-22T17:13:00.013-04:00

Je cherche ton âme
ou peut-être la mienne
autour de ces pierres
parmi ces visages…

I am searching for your soul
or perhaps for mine

around these stones,
among these faces…

Ant and angel,
I cradle the weight
of History

in my heart,
and wonder
which Louis
has just stepped
onto this old new bridge,
not so long ago,
in that blink of an eye
that measures centuries.

Forever in awe
I stand,

at your light
and your darkness,

knowing that,

beyond the beauty
and the arrogance,

beyond the grandeur
and the misery,

the trees are the same,
the pigeons,
the people…

Je cherche ton âme
et la mienne…

We are old souls -
and new.

Summer Holidays

2009-06-26T06:42:00.002-04:00

Yep, it’s that time of the year again, when the tug of wanderlust is at its strongest. This year it will take us to France...

Therefore, for (at least) the next three weeks, I won’t be able to visit you but I’ll certainly think of you when I will stroll on the banks of the river Seine, loose myself in the Catacombs, or dream a dream of kings and princesses in the Loire Valley… Even at EuroDisney where we’ll take our daughters as a small redemption for the too many museums they’ll have to visit…

So, be cool, be happy, be creative (good luck to all the participants in Jason’s contest! - see my attempt below), and I’ll “see” you at the end of July.

In Vino Veritas - outside the contest

2009-06-23T00:04:00.004-04:00

I will be away at the time Jason will officially declare open his new contest, but his superb photograph told me a story that I couldn't resist. So here it is, my version of it...

“Bellissimo,” she whispered. “How old are they?”

Constellations unravelled luxuriously under the gold of candles spread on the polychrome marble floor.

“Signora, I give you the tomb of Balbillus, astrologist to the emperors Claudius, Nero and Vespasian. We are the first to see it. Tomorrow is for the world…”

“Harry…”

“Imagine, this could be the air they breathed. A bubble of perfectly preserved time…”

A sparkling table was set in the middle of the room.

“A romantic dinner in an ancient tomb. How wicked, Dr. Beecham!”

He bowed.

“Just for you, contessina.”

He worked the seal of a dusty amphora.

“Harry?”

“A taste of what they drank. Maybe a glimpse into… their Rome.

“How do you know it’s wine?”

“I accidentally broke one yesterday…”

He pointed at the bottle of Laffite on the table. “We have a backup in case it’s turned sour.”

He poured into the crystal glasses, a blood-red honey surprisingly translucent after 2000 years.

“To you, contessa.”

“To ancient Rome.”

They sipped. It was the strongest cognac, the sweetest.

She saw Harry fall before her world turned into a whirlwind.

*

Strident noises funnelling into shouts, into thundering steps. Smoke.

Harry’s voice above her, with quiet urgency. “Dearest, we must run. It’s the fire.”

At last, she understood, beyond reason.

“No, we must see if he’s… playing the fiddle.”

They stumbled, half-carrying each other, against the crowd in tunics and togas, barely shunning chariots and horses.

Before them, the Palatine loomed enormous, darkness punctuated with incandescence.

64 AD.

Times Four

2009-06-16T11:50:00.002-04:00

I really had to “steal” this from Charles Gramlich because I liked it so much and because he doesn’t do any tagging actually… :-)

I think I needed something light to match the summery mood brought on by longer, sunnier days, and by the approaching holidays.

So, here goes… (in alphabetical order, wherever possible)

Four Movies You Can See Over and Over

The Birdcage
From Dusk Till Dawn
The Party
Pulp Fiction

Four Places You Have Lived

Europe
Montreal, Canada

(sorry, I only have two…)

Four TV Shows You Love(d) to Watch (I watch extremely little TV now – I used to be addicted to it years ago but, luckily, the arrival of my first daughter cured me of that)

Cheers
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
Seinfeld
Star Trek – Enterprise (the last in the series)

Four Places You Have Been on a Vacation

Florida
Italy
Mexico
Prince Edward Island

Four of your favorite foods

Cheese
Cherries
Corn on the cob
Mushrooms

Four Websites You Visit Daily

Google
The Internet Movie Database
Amazon
As many blogs as I can

Four Places You Would Rather Be

The seaside
Manhattan
At home, writing
On a sailing boat, sailing the seven seas

Four Things You Hope to Do Before You Die

Publish a story
Go to Easter Island
Visit the pyramids of Egypt
Walk in the Amazon jungle

Four Novels You Wish You Were Reading for the First Time

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain
Dracula, by Bram Stoker
Journey to the Centre of the Earth, by Jules Verne
Rendez-vous with Rama, by Arthur C. Clarke

Tag Four People You Believe Will Respond

Absolute Vanilla (& Atyllah)
Catvibe
K.Lawson Gilbert
Laughingwolf

Thank you for playing! :-)

Summer Reverie

2009-06-12T06:59:00.004-04:00

Lupin Sunset by Eb Mueller

Darling, I’m the breeze tonight
In young petals, mauve and mellow,
I’m the moon reflecting, bright,
On the old pond in the meadow,

As I dare, perchance, to dream
It’s your hair my fingers part
And, for all sweet things agleam,
That the mirror is your heart.

Sculpture

2009-06-08T12:26:00.002-04:00

tears of statues
stream inwardly,
rivulets of bronze
or marble,
wood,
granite,
slowly returning
to the grain
of their respective
matter,
broken
into the very atoms
of grief,
or the tiny
electrons of
joy,
never betrayed
by their
rigid composure,
and hinted only
by empty eyes,
of which,
on occasion,
blood’s been
seen
to flow.

Requiem

2009-05-29T11:38:00.003-04:00

on the umpteenth anniversary
of the strawberry ice cream
and the wild run in the rain,
of her soaked braids over
her beaming face,
of his warm hands holding hers,
nothing remains -

a few shreds of hearts
that any wind takes.

photo art from viktaar.deviantart.com

In my Garden

2009-05-22T11:36:00.006-04:00

Little eerie kingdoms of beauty grace the shadows. I dream of being ant sized, about to walk through an enchanted forest,

gather fragrant pearls splattered on gowns of chlorophyll,

or hide unknown under a mallard’s wing and contemplate the world from the perspective of the spring sky.

Have a beautiful weekend, everyone!

Nothing

2009-05-17T22:37:00.003-04:00

This little thing’s been somehow inspired by Karen’s “Ain’t Got No” and “The House of the Poet", although she's definitely got it and I'm looking for it... :-)

This is not a forget-me-not, but I liked this blue flower growing out of nowhere on a white beach in Mexico, last summer...

nobody comes
to this barren county,
no flash flood fingers
patter these deep canyons,
no rain drops
kiss this dust.
wary weary birds
take detours
over greener landscapes,
the sky is a cobweb
in the corner of
a condemned room.
the groundskeeper is
almost dead,
unpaid,
very sad;
he’s still rummaging
for his blue flower,
his forgotten forget-me-not,
somewhere among the rocks
of his life,
somewhere among the debris
of his time.
he can’t even compose
a damn’ travel guide.

Another Blogiversary

2009-05-07T06:46:00.002-04:00

This baby is two years old today.

Hard to believe, in a way, that it has happened and that it’s still going on.

I would like to thank all of my dear blogfriends for their graceful presence and their unrelenting support. You are the pillars on which this (mostly) imaginary world is built.

Onward to another year.

Too Close to Home

2009-05-04T11:29:00.001-04:00

When an evil menaces or touches others, obviously there is compassion, concern, even pain that we feel, but all are somehow cushioned by the relatively safe distance from which we think we can witness the events.

This past Saturday, we got a phone call from the Public Health department (or something like that) to inform us that there’s a confirmed case of swine influenza at my older daughter’s school, and not just in her school but in her very class.

I won’t try to describe the sinking feeling that swept over us – I can do that in fiction but not in real life.

The woman who called had a very professional voice, very calm, impassionate; she described symptoms, told us what to do, etc. etc. What she wouldn’t tell was the name of the sick child. I think that the protection of privacy is badly used in this case because knowing who it is would also help us know if our daughter was in contact with that child.

While I understand the need to keep panic under control, I don’t understand the serenity of these people after all the fuss from the media and the World Health Organisation. Is it a real threat or is it not? Anyway, I don’t understand why the school – this is a private school - is not closed and how all they’re offering is a “team of doctors and nurses” to greet the children in the morning and explain to them what to do (i.e. how to wash their hands).

Well, as many other parents did, I’m sure, we decided to keep our daughter home for a while, until things are sorted out, one way or another. She’s a bit worried about missing school, but not too much. After all, she gets to watch her favourite movies all over again (this morning she was watching the third instalment of the “Pirates of the Caribbean”)…

All Life

2009-04-30T06:35:00.003-04:00

Last night, a tiny mosquito, fresh and soft, little more than a speck of soot, rested his confusion on the white wall of my bathroom.

How omnipotent I felt, against this fragile sparkle of life…

I caught him in a glass jar and sent him away, on the night wind, to tell Spring how happy I was she’s sent her heralds.

This afternoon, in the warm rain, I was again a gentle god, tiptoeing on the stone pavement, to spare the lives of young earthworms…

photo by karstenkneese

It Came From... - a fragment

2009-04-21T09:12:00.004-04:00

This is the beginning of a story that occupies my mind and my writing time these days, and one of the big reasons I haven’t been very present on your blogs or on mine. I’m sorry! I’ll try to remedy this in the following days, that is catch up with my friends’ blogs.

Keep in mind it’s just the first draft – I’m still heavily editing it. As always, constructive critique is very welcome… :-)

In his obscure and now impossible to find book, A Compendium of Bizarre Things, my great-uncle Gerardus de Kremer, the eminent anthropologist and esoterist, dedicates a miniature article to what he calls the “green hand of the Devil”, a mummified hand of normal proportions, except that the dried skin was green and it had four fingers instead of five. The brevity of the said note is rather disconcerting by comparison to the other entries where my great-uncle’s meticulousness and erudition shine through with unrelenting force. It almost feels as if he’d rather have left it out if not for his deep compulsion for rigour and truthfulness. This abandonment had much surprised me at the time, even disappointed me, given the lengths at which he had then gone to acquire its bizarre story.

There’s been more than a quarter-century since.

That I would even think of this “green hand of the Devil,” of all things, while I watched the red brick tower of Sint-Pietersstation approaching, was beyond baffling to me.

Funny how our minds tend to hop around, skidding through the most unexpected associations only to end in a place far away from where the first thought started. Or maybe not that far away. Call it premonition, if you want, or telepathy, or just plain coincidence, whichever you prefer.

I climbed down from the train that had brought me to Ghent from Paris, my little suitcase in hand, a little wobbly on my feet, like a sailor who hasn’t returned to shore for a long time. In my breast pocket I carried an envelope, the stiff reminder of what had urged me here, this long-abandoned little town of my birth.

“The time is near. Come at once to claim your legacy,” my great-uncle Gerardus had written, in his sharp, nervous handwriting. How well I remembered his harsh, authoritative manners that never suffered any disobedience yet commanded the utmost unconditional respect. The old dog! Who could think he was still alive? He’d been ancient even when I was a young boy and he dragged me with him in his wild-goose chases.

It was a crisp mid-afternoon of September. The rain had stopped just as the train was pulling into the station and, in front of Sint-Pieters, the already fading sun played into the infinite mirrors of puddles. The trees boarding Königin Maria Hendrikaplein were round and green, and the narrow houses and hotels behind them were red and yellow, and this place that had once been a part of me, seemed now only oddly familiar, like an old song giving off a vague pang of melancholy.

There were three taxis waiting at the corner, but I wanted to walk a little, not sure even if I knew what I was doing there.

I turned on Königin Astridlaan and, before I knew it, I was standing in front of the second-hand bookshop of Mr. Adhémar, my place of pilgrimage in my teenage years. I couldn’t count how many hours, days, years even, I had spent in the little store, while assisting my great-uncle. I used to be familiar with every corner, every speck of dust on those old treasures, but modernisation has brought here too its changing touches. The owners had transformed the area within the immense bay window into what seemed a cosy coffee shop; I wondered if Mr. Adhémar was still there and how he could allow the clients to browse his precious books while sipping the aromatic brew of Mrs. Adhémar.

For a moment, I wanted to turn and leave but then I allowed a whim to take me inside. With relief, I recognised Mr. Adhémar when he turned at the sound of the entrance bell, his waist hugely rounded, otherwise age clement with him.

“Oh, oh,” he said, as a recognition mixed with incredulity came over him. “My dear boy…”

He hugged me, resting his white head on my chest. His warm surprise and welcome brought discrete tears to my eyes.

How I've grown. He couldn’t believe how many years had passed since he’s last seen me, was it twenty, thirty? And what news I had about my uncle?

He’s still alive apparently, was all I could tell him.

Was I married? Did I have any children?

Yes, my wife and two sons were in Paris.

I should come teach at the fine university we have here. And I had to stay and have coffee there and a mastel, on the house of course, lest I would bring him a pain as big as his joy of seeing me again.

I agreed to this open-heartedly and I sat at one of the three tables. He returned almost immediately, the coffee steaming in the finest china cup, the mastel the biggest bun I had ever had, but then he retreated to tend to a customer.

Among the books left on the table, there lay one that caught my attention most obtrusively, due to its size and its bright yellow cover, and I took it out of the pile to flick through it. “Country Fairs and Road Shows of Western Europe in the 19th Century” was the title. It was a perfectly preserved hardcover from 1920, richly adorned with splendid sepia illustrations. Three men high, fire-eaters, fakirs sleeping on nails, sword-swallowers, giants holding dwarfs on their shoulders. I couldn’t believe the chance of falling upon such a treasure. An atlas, more, of wonders that have enchanted every child’s world. I was prepared to buy it, not only to please good Mr. Adhémar, and I turned it over to search for the price.

I don’t know how it slipped from my clumsy hands, maybe it was the high glossiness of the cover, or my unusual absentmindedness. As I dived, rather inelegantly, as not to drop it on the floor, a yellowed paper fell from the tome. I picked it up with the tips of my fingers and carefully unfolded it lest it would disintegrate.

It was an old poster – a jewel in itself - advertising the Grand Fair at Ghent, June 7 to 17, 1914. Oh! Not even the World Expo from ’13, not even the annual festival at Ghent had imprinted on the memory of the adolescent I was then as this travelling circus had. The last before the Great War. The greatest circus of them all.

I must know. I have been there. That’s where we found that “green hand of the Devil.”

Mini Bunny Gallery

2009-04-15T12:57:00.006-04:00

When words don't come easily, when Lady Inspiration is away on holiday, when time is missing (I'm sure agent Mulder knows something about it) one can always make use of one's child's drawings...

Here's hop(p)ing that, if you celebrated Easter, it was a wonderful one and that you're enjoying each moment of Spring.

I'll be back soon...

Aries

2009-04-08T06:48:00.004-04:00

time to get all mushy,
another birthday’s here.
my… ha! no, I will not say it,
let alone write it.
this denial is my cocoon,
my unblemished skin,
my dreams beaming in my eyes,
my time machine
around which
hurricanes of loss
happen
without touching me.
bring on the champagne,
bring on all the sweet illusions,
this Aries rebuffs the wisdom of age,
this Aries will just not change.

An Award and a Meme

2009-03-26T11:53:00.004-04:00

K. Lawson Gilbert from Old Mossy Moon has graciously given me the Sisterhood Award. Thank you, Kaye, from the bottom of my heart! These vibes of sisterhood, I feel them deeply when we interact in the blogosphere.
I’ve never had siblings – although I always dreamt of an older brother – but over the years I have had a few fantastic girlfriends who were to me, by choice, more than any sister, by nature, would’ve been. Physical distance keeps us apart now, but the feeling is still there, that feeling of solidarity, of belonging, of shared secrets, of complicity, if you want.

Much of the same warms my heart now when we exchange thoughts and feelings on our blogs. I’m very grateful for it. And so I’m glad for the opportunity to show a little of my appreciation by giving the award to (unfortunately only) a few of my… sisters:

Absolute Vanilla & Attilah
L.A. Mitchell
Lisa
Miladysa
Sarah Hina

Now for the meme…

Sarah has tagged me with a list of the twenty-five authors who have influenced my writing. Hmmm… It wasn't easy to assemble it, but in the end I realised there were several other writers that I would've liked to add to the list and couldn't.

This is my list, in alphabetical order:

1) Greg Bear (for “Eon”, “Eternity”, “The Forge of God”, and “Anvil of Stars”)
2) Jorge Luis Borges
3) Edgar Rice Burroughs
4) Raymond Chandler
5) Agatha Christie
6) Willkie Collins
7) Michael Crichton
8) Arthur Conan Doyle
9) Alexandre Dumas
10) Thomas Hardy
11) E.T.A. Hoffman (the German Romantic author)
12) Stephen King
13) H. P. Lovecraft
14) Thomas Mann (the German author of “Buddenbrooks”)
15) Daphne du Maurier
16) Margaret Mitchell
17) Edgar Allan Poe
18) Jean Ray (the Belgian master of the fantastic, author of “Malpertuis”)
19) William Shakespeare
20) Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
21) Robert Silverberg
22) Dan Simmons (the “Hyperion” series)
23) Bram Stoker
24) Jules Verne
25) Emile Zola

I think that Sarah has said a very wise and true thing, and I couldn’t agree more with her. I have learned tremendously from my fellow bloggers over my almost two years among them and, for this, I am very grateful.

It’s my turn now to invite Bernard, L.A. Mitchell, and Miladysa to play along.

Soon

2009-03-17T11:40:00.003-04:00

On the old porch we jumped
to the rhythm of water drops,
the tap dance played by Sun’s fingers
on the ancient snow of the roof.

Tip-tip-tap-tip-tap-tip-tip

Two empty jam containers-
red like the strawberries
they once held-
caught it,
one for “tip”, one for “tap”.

And the smell of dried wood
in the almost spring wind,
and the happy twirls of squirrels,
and even the poor snowman,
its smile somewhere at its feet,
all twined their magic notes
into this concert of our hearts.

Tip-tap-tip-tip-tap-tip-tip

Soon the Sun will loose its instrument,
soon it’ll be spring.

A Bit of Trivia

2009-03-09T20:28:00.003-04:00

As someone who is utterly obsessed with time, I can’t help seeing in the ever increasing signs of impending spring not just a reason for rejoice at nature’s rebirth but also a cause of reflection and melancholy at life’s passing. For, you see, the flowers, and the birds, and the bees that bring joy to our hearts are not the same, although they might appear to be, and we certainly are not – we are one winter older… Oh, how I wish I could regain, if only for a singular moment, a pair of child’s eyes through which to see the world.

Paradoxically, I feel at the same time paralysed and restless, and thus I’m not able to do much, if anything. If I write at one of my stories, I can’t master any discipline and jump from one scene to another in an almost random manner. If I read blogs, I often don’t have the patience to write a comment. Please, bear with me… I’m still here.

*

Among other books (I always read several at a time), I’m reading one, which I will not name, that amazes me with the negligence of the writing. It’s too bad because the idea of the story is very interesting and it could’ve been a good book. How is it, I wonder, that such books are published to the detriment of other, much better works?

*

I’m quite worried about my older daughter who, more than a month after the gastro-intestinal virus that had hit all of us, is still accusing permanent nausea and stomach pain. The doctors have still to find a cause and a remedy for this. But the nervous energy involved is tremendous and debilitating.

*

On a lighter note, about three weeks ago, my younger daughter and I found a domestic rabbit in the parking lot of her day care. A white California baby bunny who we only noticed because it hopped around among the huge snow mounds. I was very worried about it and wanted to catch it and take it home, only hesitating at the thought of an even more worried owner looking for it. I alerted the good people at the day care and they too showed a lot of concern, the directress especially, a very nice and caring woman. So they caught it the next day (the poor thing had spent the night outside in the freezing cold) and somebody from the day care took it home for a few days. They put ads everywhere hoping they would find the owner but no one came.

My daughter and I wanted her very much and the directress also wanted her very much (it turns out it’s a girl), but after those few days we took her home because that’s how it was decided in the beginning. (Children are so bizarre or so wise… Next to my older daughter’s school, there is a cemetery, hardly noticeable among the lush park-like vegetation. I had no idea my youngest knew what the place was until she told me, with complete serenity, “When the rabbit dies, we’ll bury her here.” I was speechless, I, who don’t want pets because I’m afraid of the pain at their loss, I who cried when a fish died, or a water snail...)

What a sweet, sweet, sweet bunny! We couldn’t keep her. I wish we could’ve kept her! We’ve only had her for three days and I already missed her when we gave her to the directress. Unfortunately, we don’t have a room at home that we could dedicate to her, and to supervise her continuously while she was out of her cage would have meant the end of my already diminutive spare time. But the directress and her daughter wanted to get a rabbit anyway so this one came to them just in time.

She’s doing very well and we are being given updates on her well-being and on her exploits, and very cute pictures, of which I share this one with you…

On That Warm Night

2009-03-02T07:06:00.003-05:00

oh, how you held me on that warm night,
in the gardens with the ancient trees
draped in Spanish moss,
until I knew no more what held me
your arms or the darkness

oh, how you spoke the dark words of your love
your mouth against the hollow of my neck
that spot of sweetness where life pulses,
eager and frightened,
beneath the elegant florals of my perfume
(Valentino, forever, my darling)

how I cradled your head in between
the captive bird in my chest and my bare arms,
white swan necks,
and how I loved your warmth,
underneath your exquisite dinner jacket,
and let you breathe me,
and offered myself to be breathed in

photo by Philip Gould/CORBIS

(noises reached us from the terrace as if
from an entirely different world
of strangers,
well-dressed men and women,
with their champagne and their music)

how our fingers entwined
against the rough bark of the oak tree
like roots of Spanish moss
hoping for an illusory shelter

how our lips sought the very essence
of the universe,
wildly, gently until
it was not in the galactic abysses
that we found it
but in our blood

oh, how we trembled,
how we laughed,
how we died

how impetuous we were

Doubt

2009-02-16T13:33:00.004-05:00

artwork from web.org.uk/personal/art

What we see
is not
what we see

What we love
is not
what we love

Everything is
illusion
allusion
delusion

The stars even
are not
the stars

In the desert of deceit
or self-deceit
reality is
a perpetual
Fata Morgana

Relativity
reigns
absolute

Only birth
stands true
only death

“The Historian” – a review

2009-02-10T21:32:00.005-05:00

I have just finished reading “The Historian” by Elizabeth Kostova and, although – for various reasons - I seldom write reviews of contemporary literature, this time I felt drawn to share some thoughts on it with you.

It’s a vampire book but not like others, and certainly not like the ones where vampirism is only a background for the tale. And it’s a history book, and a travel book, and a delightfully detailed account of a historian’s work.

I must admit I loved it. I felt sad and frustrated when I last closed the book, which for me is a sign that I truly loved it and didn’t want it to end. My frustration comes not from the ending, which is probably as satisfying as it could be under the circumstances, but from a feeling that I experience with other books and subjects too, and that is that I really want to know and not just to imagine...

I had started reading it a while ago and abandoned it after only a few chapters because I couldn’t stand the dread that was coming out of its pages, not a direct but a subtle one and thus much more menacing. In a certain measure, I could say it reminded me of reading Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” though no book yet has reached the pedestal of fright and wonder on which this book exists for me.

One night, while rummaging through her father’s library, a girl of sixteen makes a strange discovery: a bunch of letters, addressed to “My dear and unfortunate successor:”, and a bizarre book, all its pages blank, except for the middle.

”I can’t say even now what made me pull them down. But the image I saw at the center of the book, the smell of age that rose from it, and my discovery that the papers were personal letters all caught my attention forcibly.”

She finally gathers the courage to ask her father about it. This is how the story he will tell her starts:

”One spring night when I was still a graduate student, I was in my carrel at the university library, sitting alone very late among rows and rows of books. Looking up from my work, I suddenly realized that someone had left a book whose spine I had never seen before among my own textbooks, which sat on a shelf above my desk. The spine of this new book showed an elegant little dragon, green on pale leather.
I didn’t remember ever having seen the book there or anywhere else, so I took it down and looked through it without really thinking. The binding was soft, faded leather, and the pages inside appeared to be quite old. It opened easily to the very center. Across those two pages I saw a great woodcut of a dragon with spread wings and a long looped tail, a beast unfurled and raging, claws outstretched. In the dragon’s claws hung a banner on which ran a single word in Gothic lettering: DRAKULYA.”

Thus commences the account of the obsessive quest for the tomb of Vlad Ţepeş (pronounced Tsepesh), the Impaler, the Wallachian ruler of the 15th century, defender of Christianity against the Ottoman Turks, who – through his renowned cruelty - has apparently served as an inspiration for the figure of Dracula, the vampire.

Those were cruel times, all over the known world, and I don’t think that he was much worse than his contemporaries, his Ottoman counterpart, for instance, the Sultan Mehmet II.

Vlad is a fascinating figure. He’s lived only forty-five years, from 1431 to 1476, which is not surprising in those times of wars. He was born in Transylvania, where his father, Vlad II, was in exile, and where he’s been taught the skills of a Christian knight. He’s lived as the Sultan’s hostage in Adrianople. He’s reigned twice in Wallachia (the southern part of today’s Romania). The number of his victims is conservatively set at 40,000 during his brief six-year reign. He died at the hand of an assassin, at the end of December 1476 or in early January, 1477. The tomb in the church of Snagov Monastery, near Bucharest, thought by many as Vlad’s burial site, was found empty. The location of his real tomb is unknown.

This is history.

And this is what Bram Stoker says of him:

“He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won his name against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier of Turkeyland. If it be so, then was he no common man, for in that time, and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the 'land beyond the forest.' That mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to his grave, and are even now arrayed against us. The Draculas were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the records are such words as 'stregoica' witch, 'ordog' and 'pokol' Satan and hell, and in one manuscript this very Dracula is spoken of as 'wampyr,' which we all understand too well. There have been from the loins of this very one great men and good women, and their graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. For it is not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in all good, in soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest."

But let me return to “The Historian”.

The quest spans (eventually) over three generations and, although centred in the geographical area where Vlad had lived and fought the Ottomans, from Wallachia to Istanbul and Transylvania, it also takes us to England, Holland, France, Hungary, and Bulgaria, and back to the United States. It is now the turn of this young woman to trace the incredible mysteries that shadow her family’s past.

The mirage of old books holding within them the promise of forgotten (or forbidden) knowledge will never cease to fascinate me, and a book that tells of such books will always appeal to me.

The meanders of the quest are followed mainly through various letters written by two of the main characters, and partly by a third. One drawback here is that there are no different voices to tell these complementing stories, only one, the author’s.

If I were to bring just another objection to the novel, it would be that more than once I had the impression that coincidences drove the story forward or introduced new characters. This puzzled me at the time, even slightly bothered me, but the yarn is so enticing that I was perfectly willing to ignore them just to find out what discovery they would make next.

The writing is simple, yet elegant, and it has a deep poetry about it, one that I think comes not from the words themselves but from the elegant flow of the sentences and from the beautiful things they describe.

Elizabeth Kostova has taken Dracula from the Hollywood vampire movies and put him back where he belongs, in the history books. But a History that makes us think, and wonder,

“The Historian” is a rich, quiet, serious novel, a remarkable historical and psychological thriller, one that awes and instructs with equal ability.

Award Time

2009-02-08T16:04:00.010-05:00

I received two awards from Absolute Vanilla... (and Attylah). Vanilla, I thank you from my heart!

The first is the Lus en el alma Premio award (Light in the Soul).

The award goes to all those who have light in their souls. I know that we all do; maybe, sometimes, some show it more than others but it is always there, a gift of our lives, to give and to receive... That's why it is so painfully difficult for me to single out a few people. I know though that, if I say that I'm giving it to all those on my blog list, everybody will be too shy to take it - it happened before. So, here it is, my list:

Aine at Life is Beautiful
Catvibe at Witnessing a World of People and Places
Geraldine at My Poetic Path
Karen at Keeping Secrets
Kaye at Old Mossy Moon
L.A. Mitchell at Writing in a Vortex
Laughingwolf at Loopy Lair
Lisa at Eudaemonia
Mark at The Walking Man
Rick at The Writer and the White Cat
Sarah at Murmurs
SzélsöFa at Gondolatok az erdőben

The second award is the Superior Scribbler Award. Thank you, Vanilla!

This one needs no introduction I would say. I would like to give it to:

Akasha at Aspirations from the Dark Side
Bernard at Bernard's Blog
Catvibe at Witnessing a World of People and Places
Charles at Razored Zen
Ello at Hello Ello
Jason at The Clarity of Night
Laughingwolf at Loopy Lair
Marilyn at Brant Flakes
Miladysa at Miladysa
Paul at The Struggling Writer
Taffiny at To Taste a Peach

There is also a ...third award that I received from Cat at Witnessing a World of People and Places. Cat, I thank you very much! I am very honoured.

I would like to give this award to:

Absolute Vanilla (and Attylah) at Absolute Vanilla... (and Attylah)
Geraldine at My Poetic Path
Kaye at Old Mossy Moon
Jason at The Clarity of Night
L.A. Mitchell at Writing in a Vortex
Lisa at Eudaemonia
Miladysa at Miladysa
Paul at The Struggling Writer
Rick at The Writer and the White Cat
Sarah at Murmurs
Spyscribbler

Beautiful

2009-02-04T11:46:00.004-05:00

“Look at her,
she’s beautiful like a Gypsy,”
he told my mother,
right in front of me,
this twice-removed uncle of mine,
and my cheeks turned into red roses
at the compliment that I found then
outrageous
and now
outstanding.

It was at his older daughter’s wedding,
in a white July
a July of silver
and white peonies.
I had a blue dress,
a blue like a single tear
of some distant sea,
a blue like the sky
reflected into a single drop
of dew on a white petal.
I was twenty-three,
but I could’ve been eighteen
or sixteen,
just the same for me.

He no longer breathes
the air of this world,
this twice-removed uncle of mine,
but these particular words of his
still sing to me,
at the most unexpected moments,
always bringing
a whiff of summer with them,
of that summer when I was a young rose,
beautiful like a Gypsy.

“Beautiful like a Gypsy,” he had said
and I knew he meant the ideal Gypsy,
the free soul,
the one that dances flamencos in her
ruffled colourful skirts,
on the scapes of our hearts,
to the clicking of her castanets
and the tinkling of her gold,
not the one that begs on street corners,
or steals,
or kills.

I wonder if that beautiful Gypsy
exists anywhere other
than in the exotic notions
of romantic people
like Fleetwood Mac,
and Van Morrison,
and the likes.
But I know what he meant,
and I will always remember his words
because, for me,
she exists,
that beautiful Gypsy,
in that exquisite summer of long ago,
and in all the summers of my heart,
where I will always be,
twenty-three.

Six Words and a Few More

2009-01-31T19:35:00.012-05:00

I found very interesting the idea of a story written in just six words. It now came to me from LaughingWolf and L.A. Mitchell, but I remember seeing it at SzélsöFa's a while ago. Well, this is my attempt at it...

Ulysses and the Sirens (1891) - John William Waterhouse

Sirens sang. The cliffs are sharp.

(This, however, is not Ulysses's story. Ulysses escaped the Sirens by having all his sailors plug their ears with beeswax and tie him to the mast...)

red Attic vase from the British Museum (ca. 480-470 BC)

And now about the Lemonade Award for sites who show great attitude and/or gratitude. Thank you Kaye and Karen for having thought of me for this award! I'm very honoured, very happy, and I thank you very, very much!

These two are a wonderful addition to my first lemonade stand, and , yes, I love lemonade!

I've Seen It. And It's Seen Me

2009-01-27T21:36:00.005-05:00

art from electricsheep.com

My training was to be – naturally but somehow reluctantly – followed by practice in recognising the... target.

Archie’s was the place – where else? Besides, Laughlin sustained it was best in semi-darkness, and the bar was much better than roaming the streets at night. We didn’t have long to wait. It was midday. Two men in suits came in and took seats at a table next to the dingy wall. I could see Laughlin cringe, his hands clutching the fork so hard, he started to bend it.

“Those two... Do you see?”

His voice was so low, I had to rely on reading his lips.

“See what, Laughlin?”

“Squint. It’ll come to you... “

“But what-”

“On their left shoulder. A vapour... an emanation...”

I shook my head, disappointed, apologetic. A waiter moved to take their order and, as he did so, for a while he blocked the dull light coming from the wall lamp.

“Now!” Laughlin said, annoyed. “Now you must see it!”

“Calm down,” I whispered, not very calm myself. I narrowed my eyes, straining them, trying to see anything at all and, suddenly, I think I did. A greenish blur, a mist bearing the resemblance of an eerie face, seemingly emanating from the man’s shoulder; two eyes in it, almost luminous, like two elongated slits in a curtain of fog, a beak-like nose, no obvious mouth, a long narrow chin. Something that would appear on a moved photograph. I held my breath, appalled by the strangeness of this sight, by the cold alien malevolence I thought I could discern in those fluid features. And then I gasped, for the “double” had twisted and looked directly at me. Its mouth rounded, maybe forming a word of some sort. The next moment it was gone.

“You’ve seen it!” Laughlin shouted, with eagerness, making some heads in the bar turn to us.

“And it’s seen me...” I said, and gulped down my gin.

This is another excerpt from "Shadow on Your Shoulder", a short story. The first one was "Of a Bizarre Contraption."

Shadows on the Snow

2009-01-23T18:03:00.006-05:00

Where do you find your solace, boy?
Sweet love has withered, joy is old.
The shadows on the snow are long.
How do you patch your mangled soul?
The dark is close, the wounds are cold.

Where do you find your solace, boy?

Never the Same

2009-01-20T13:00:00.003-05:00

art by George Grie at neosurrealismart.com

You can never
grab
the moment.
It’ll pass –
even the ones
you’ll
desperately
want
to hold into
your being.

You will never feel
that overwhelming joy
again
or that
paralysing sorrow –
only shadows of them,
only ghosts –
and all the intricate feelings,
and thoughts,
and sensations
that have made up
this year
and the other,
the subtle flavour of days,
the light in your child’s
or your father’s
eyes
will be little more than a certain
kind of bittersweet nostalgia
pressed in between
the pages of a worn scrapbook,
or simply gone...

Onward we go,
we trudge
we fly,
other horizons
will lure us,
deceive us,
upon other shores
we’ll step.
Never the same,
never the same.

Ascension

2009-01-09T11:35:00.003-05:00

“Ascension”, the tenth flash fiction contest that Jason Evans is holding at The Clarity of Night, is still going on until January 14th. My entry is given below the photo that serves as an inspiration for the contest.

Ascension

Ben dashed down the moving staircase, the stolen wallet bulky in his jeans’ pocket. Behind him, in the beehive noise of the mall, shouts rose, though barely above the thunderous pounding of his heart. He jumped steps by twos, oblivious to the disapproving looks his rough flight elicited.

Midway on that endless descent, a stroller halted him, but before he could jump around it, his eyes fell on her.

She had stepped onto the bottom of the climbing staircase, a slim silhouette in a pink two-piece suit, a luminous face in the halo of blonde locks. Ben thought of swans, of roses, and rains of apple blossoms. He had never seen anything that beautiful, that elegant.

She didn’t smile, only her gleaming gaze lingered on him, a warming caress in it. He held his breath, all else forgotten. Too slowly, too quickly they got closer.

Soon their hands on the rubber handrails passed each other, the idea that his could’ve brushed hers numbing to Ben, the whiff of her perfume dizzying. Even then, she did not avert her azure eyes.

As she passed on her way up, he twirled around to watch her, a mesmerised automaton, forever in love.

When he realised she was soon going to float beyond his sight, he leaped at last, only back up, not towards freedom.

“There he is!”

He allowed Security to restrain him, struggling only to see past their shoulders. To see her, his sweet impossible unattainable angel, for a few moments more.

A Taste of Antarctica

2009-01-03T20:08:00.010-05:00

A day such as this one, with the crisp brilliance of a harsh sun over the windswept unshifting snow, always brings to my mind polar landscapes, forlorn yet majestic, and ice shelves bathed by freezing seas of exotic names, and mind sweeping mysteries forever buried in the cold.

It’s all the more suiting that I’ve just finished reading H.P. Lovecraft’s “At the Mountains of Madness,” the story of the Antarctic expedition that discovers strange fossils and unbelievable terror. Although I have known of this Master of horror for a long time, this is my first encounter with his work, prompted – I must gratefully say- by some of the comments that my story “A Harvest of the Deep” has received on this blog. How I wish I were a “real” part of that Miskatonic Expedition, and flew over those gigantic mountains, and stepped onto the stones of that Cyclopean city...

Aksel Karcher at www.splutterfish.com

"Little by little, however, they rose grimly into the western sky; allowing us to distinguish various bare, bleak, blackish summits, and to catch the curious sense of fantasy which they inspired as seen in the reddish antarctic light against the provocative background of iridescent ice-dust clouds. In the whole spectacle there was a persistent, pervasive hint of stupendous secrecy and potential revelation. It was as if these stark, nightmare spires marked the pylons of a frightful gateway into forbidden spheres of dream, and complex gulfs of remote time, space, and ultra-dimensionality. I could not help feeling that they were evil things--mountains of madness whose farther slopes looked out over some accursed ultimate abyss. That seething, half-luminous cloud background held ineffable suggestions of a vague, ethereal beyondness far more than terrestrially spatial, and gave appalling reminders of the utter remoteness, separateness, desolation, and aeon-long death of this untrodden and unfathomed austral world."

There are certain books that do this to me, books that, beyond any reasonable explanation, will always represent a never-ending fascination to me. Books that I HAVE to have, and keep close to me, and read again and again, or just touch and relish in the comfort of their presence. This is and will remain now one of them.

Another of these books is “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket” by Edgar Allan Poe, this overwhelming genius and one of my most beloved authors, and often mentioned by Lovecraft in “At the Mountains of Madness.” And its sequel of course, Jules Verne’s “Le sphinx des glaces” (“The Sphinx of the Ice Fields” – translated as “An Antarctic Mystery”). Those of you who have read Pym might remember its haunting ending.

"And now we rushed into the embraces of the cataract, where a chasm threw itself open to receive us. But there arose in our pathway a shrouded human figure, very far larger in its proportions than any dweller among men. And the hue of the skin of the figure was of the perfect whiteness of the snow."

This is where Jules Verne picks up from and expands, bringing to the fantastic and the horror of Poe the rational quality of his science fiction.

"One day I witnessed the departure of an albatross, saluted by the very best croaks of the penguins, no doubt as a friend whom they were to see no more. Those powerful birds can fly for two hundred leagues without resting for a moment, and with such rapidity that they sweep through vast spaces in a few hours. The departing albatross sat motionless upon a high rock, at the end of the bay of Christmas Harbour, looking at the waves as they dashed violently against the beach.

Suddenly, the bird rose with a great sweep into the air, its claws folded beneath it, its head stretched out like the prow of a ship, uttering its shrill cry: a few moments later it was reduced to a black speck in the vast height and disappeared behind the misty curtain of the south."

Fantastic expeditions in frozen lands, thus was my daydreaming on this frigid January day...

A New Contest - Coming Soon to The Clarity of Night

2009-01-03T20:02:00.003-05:00

To start off the New Year for everybody in a wonderfully creative way, Jason Evans, at The Clarity of Night, is preparing another one of his much anticipated contests. The rules are as always, and the photo that has to elicit our inspiration is shown below.

So we still have a little bit of time to prepare our stories or just to look forward to the many good reads.

Happy New Year!

2008-12-31T16:21:00.004-05:00

Perched on the threshold of the New Year, I'm giving you

something silly...

something blue...

something new...

with my very best wishes for you and your loved ones!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Merry Christmas

2008-12-24T09:30:00.002-05:00

chestnut hair crimson feathers
sweet siblings in the snow
december ends

Merry Christmas, dear ones! May Santa come tonight into your homes with gifts of good health, and peace, and love... I'm sure all of you've been nice enough for that, even the naughty ones. ;-)

Winter, An Instant

2008-12-21T20:37:00.002-05:00

Today,
like a heavenly paintbrush,
the wind, in our garden,
had fun with
the uncountable
geometries of snow.
Its hurried dance
of snowflakes
surprised us with ice flowers,
and polar bears,
and bushy tails
of white foxes,
and all the firs
got heavy shawls
of candyfloss.
On this day
of solstice,
we sat on the windowsill
among all
the geraniums in bloom.
You held me in your arms,
our hearts two birds
with wings entwined.
How lovely winter
sparkled,
watched from
the safety of
your embrace.
How beautiful
your words of love,
tickling my ear.
How warm your laughter,
on this cold day
of winter solstice.

Some Thoughts at the End of This Year

2008-12-18T16:55:00.002-05:00

It’s been a weird year. My mind has always been… well, elsewhere.

I’ve been waiting for something that never seemed to materialise, and it’s no wonder it didn’t since it hasn’t even had a name or a face.

At some point, it was summer I was waiting for, but summer never really arrived and then it was already gone, and now a harsh winter is upon us. I’m not mentally prepared for the cold and the snow, and for the end of another year. I simply do not know when this one has gone away. I’ve somehow missed it. This doesn’t make much sense, does it?

Needless to say, I have done nothing for this year’s resolution, which was to start writing a novel. I’ve thought of it, I have most of it in my mind, but I only wrote a few words, and I mean a few. I am embarrassed but more than that, I’m worried.

The only thought that warms me is that, maybe, just maybe, the circumstances might excuse me, although I’m not seeking such an excuse. In fact, I came to loathe this excuse: no time. Always too busy, waking up at 5:30 am to go to a full time (high-tech) job, this insanely early only so that I can leave early to pick up my daughters, one from school, one from preschool, back home then in the avalanche of all the domestic, never-ending jobs (turning a poem in my mind, or a dialogue with my characters) kitchen-related or homework-related, or simply play with these two absolutely wonderful girls, until they go to bed, and then there’s the point of collapse, mind and body, beyond which there’s just another entirely similar day.

I deliberately kept the account of my typical day into one convoluted, grammatically incorrect phrase. It can only try to convey the extent of my daily busyness. On rare occasions, if I’m strong-willed enough, I can resist past this point of collapse and write a little, but that means that I’m much more tired the next day.

I’m thinking there must be some kind of respite available, before the respite of old age. I refuse to think in terms of doing this, that or the other when I retire or when the children are grown up. I cannot think like that because that would be similar to wishing for the time to go away, when in fact what I desire is for it to stand still.

I’m afraid to promise anything, even to myself, or even more so to myself. But I will continue trudging through this forest of perceived adversities, looking for the light of that illusory glade. I have to. I couldn’t be any other way.

As for you, my dear blogging friends, I thank you for your support and understanding. Maybe I haven’t been as present on your blogs or mine as I would’ve liked to be, but you were, are, always on my (writing) mind. I thank you for the treasure of your words, so generously shared over this electronic medium. I apologise for writing about sad things so many times.

A final thought, for now. We each have our own scale on which we measure our lives and our desires. I realise that compared to the much bigger problems that confront the world, my doubts and struggles are so petty, so insignificant. There are real issues out there, and tragedies, grave illnesses, wars, death, famine, all kinds of injustices, and all the people who go through them cannot allow themselves to be blue when they’re just trying to be.

Here’s to better days for everybody!

Cartography

2008-12-16T18:17:00.006-05:00

Is there a map somewhere,
he asked,
a hydrographic wonder
for all those rivers
of tears
that mothers have cried
for their children’s fears,
that wives have shed
for husbands
who never returned
from this war
or another,
that sons have wept
for lost loves,
for fathers,
and mothers?
I would like to know
to what ocean they flow,
what unsated abyss
buries
all these rains
of grief?
This is what he asked.
My heart, I answered,
as I cried.
This is the map,
this is the hydrographic wonder,
my heart,
and his,
this is the abyss.

Of a Bizarre Contraption

2008-12-14T12:20:00.005-05:00

from deviantart.pixelcatalyst.com/art

That night he took me to his apartment.

“I have to show you something. I have to prepare you, in case…”

“Some reliable help you have…” I mumbled, half proud of getting his confidence, only hoping that the fresh crisp air would bring some clarity to my mind.

He told me to wait in the corridor and sneaked inside his apartment, with contortionist ability. He didn’t shut the door in my face, but it was obvious he didn’t want me to see the interior. However, through the slight opening of the door, I was able to catch a glimpse of a bare wall and floor, of a simple wooden table on which a pile of dirty dishes shared the space with a bizarre contraption. I could’ve pushed the door open. Instead I watched him as he put that weird thing onto a small trolley and rolled it to the entrance hall. I had to admire the swiftness with which he passed through the door and then closed it, without me seeing more than what I’d caught before. I let out a chuckle.

“Hiding something in there?”

It looked like a typewriter – I suspected he’d used parts of one to build it – badly combined with what could’ve been some cathode-ray tubes and other stuff taken from an old TV. And it had straps which made it look like a useless rucksack.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“A device I built… It misses one piece that a friend of mine is helping me find. Then, it will become a… mathematical harpoon.”

“What?”

“We deal with equations, T. This is the domain of the highest of mathematics. We can’t use a gun or a club.”

“Coles wasn’t kidnapped by an equation!”

“Yeah, but I might be able to get him back with one.”

excerpt from "Shadow on Your Shoulder", a short story

The Poetry of Titles

2008-12-11T11:23:00.004-05:00

I’ve tried this before, here and here. This is what the titles sang to me this time.

The beach fears
unnamed maps
of the ancient sea kings.
Wide sargasso sea -
beyond infinity,
the face of the waters.

Ammonites

2008-12-07T23:19:00.004-05:00

“Wait,” Jude said mysteriously.

Puzzled, I pressed my nose to the porthole. Without apparent reason, the water was clearer now, and brighter, as if sunshine penetrated the upper layers. There were immense algae around us – brown sargassum - their wide serpentine bodies undulating with the current. The corner of my eye caught a glimpse of a darker shadow. A fish, I thought, but had no time to ascertain this before it disappeared.

And then I saw them, a group of them, six or seven, passing right in front of the porthole, their coiled shells huge, striped in vivid ochres. A live diorama, I thought flabbergasted, for a second having the weird feeling I was at the museum. They swam backwards, their spotted mantles wavering with the small jets that propelled them. I saw their eyes, eyes of squids, inquisitive, and half-scaredly clutched the medallion at my neck. No Nautilus lived in sweet waters, and not in our lake; none was two feet big.

Short of breath, I turned to Uncle Jude, only to see him stare at me with an exuberant gaze, which seemed to be bursting with the question “So, what do you say?” or something like that. But my mind couldn’t form coherent words, not yet, only the buzz of excitement in a hollow of disbelief.

I pressed my nose to the glass again, but they were gone already, their tentacles disappearing swiftly at the edge of my field of vision.

excerpt from "Time of a Dive", a short story

Explanation

2008-12-04T12:01:00.006-05:00

Frozen Flower Study

OK, so
this is how (I think) it was.
A wind came first,
out of nowhere, really,
or out of
the cave of
indifference,
carrying
a hint of autumn-
ignored
or maybe just
not recognised-
a subtle chill,
a whiff of ices,
a rain,
an unexpected frost
one morning.
The rain stayed,
in guise of eyeglasses
lending grey lenses
to my weary eyes.
Missing words,
abandoned dreams,
forgotten smiles
were not sought,
offered no shelter.
Before I knew it,
my soul had shed
its fragile leaves.
Love, sadness, pity, joy,
even anger,
even desire,
lay withered at my feet.
Hope lasted longest,
such a tiny leaf,
still green
as I stomped
on it
on my way through
the daily routine.
Was it a sign that
the sky dropped then
fluffy tears?
I don’t know.
Do I care?
The snow that covers now
my feelings
holds no promise
of renewal.
No spring music can (will) thaw
my numb heart.
Forever
I am winter.

Transmutation

2008-11-28T07:25:00.004-05:00

Aydin Aghdashloo, Memories of Destruction, Sand Storm, 1980

I extend my left arm through the slimy bars, to what purpose I’m not sure anymore. I am certain I’ve tried it already. To strike him maybe, or to strangle him to death. The man hits me with a stick, again, and the wound partly reopens. A deep gash hidden among the hard itchy scales that are growing on my skin. He snaps a single word at me, a guttural rebuke, its meaning obvious despite the unknown language.

I howl and retreat in the furthest corner of my cage, pulling the dirty burnous around me, hiding my head. He’ll hit me if I show myself. I think he plans to exhibit me in a fair, and everyone who wants to see me will have to pay. Let him do it. Who cares about the few pitiful coins to be extorted from the curiosity of these deplorable beggars? The pain in my injured arm is searing, in unison with the weird malaise holding me in its grip. I must have many broken bones, or at least that’s how it feels. Even my eyes hurt. The light is too harsh. For that, the shroud is most welcome. It somehow subdues my agony, apart from hiding my shame of being such a captive. I can indulge in imagining these people aren’t here. Away from them, that’s all I want, to be away from them. I’m growing a tail, for Goodness sake.

The heat stifles me, heavy with the stench of all these bodies bustling around with antlike tenacity in this unrecognizable souk where I found myself taken as I painfully regained consciousness. It reeks of goat, undressed hides, and blood. Of incense, and spices.

Hear me! I’m here! I am Josh Buckley from Massachusetts. I only shout the words in my head, as burning tears swell uncontrollably at the corners of my eyes. I’m afraid to try again, still humiliated by the effect of my last attempt, by the memory of my mouth as it contorted horribly, with no sound leaving my chafed lips but a disgusting gurgle. Oh, how cruelly they laughed at me, these people, and threw stones at me, entertained by my comic efforts. Hit by this mysterious illness, a monster, a freak, that’s what I’m becoming.

Nightfall comes slowly. Muezzin cries call the faithful to the mosque. Gently, I rock myself to sleep, strangely soothed by the monotone chants. In the sleep, I can dream. I allow myself to remember.

excerpt from "Crossing the Lion's Lake", a short story

Lemonade, Anyone?

2008-11-24T12:26:00.003-05:00

From the lovely and very interesting Laughingwolf, at Paws and Reflect, I received this lemonade stand. Hmmm… what to do with it?

The rules (as taken from his blog) are as follows -

* Put the logo on your blog or post
* Nominate at least 10 blogs that show great Attitude and/or Gratitude!
* Be sure to link to your nominees within your post
* Let them know they have received this award by commenting on their blog
* Share the love and link to this post and to the person from whom you received your award

I must say I discarded right away that famous quote about what to do when life gives you lemonade.

I found others, more… juicy.

“For mad scientists who keep brains in jars, here's a tip: why not add a slice of lemon to each jar, for freshness?”

“If life deals you lemons, why not go kill someone with the lemons (maybe by shoving them down his throat).”

Both of the above are quotes of Jack Handy, American writer and cast member of Saturday Night Live from 1991-2003, famous for his Deep Thoughts comedy sketches.

Or these, by anonyms:

“50 lemons are a burden for 1 person, but they are treasures for 50 people”

“When life sucks and hands you lemons, I say beat the crap out of it and demand some Florida oranges as well.”

“If life gives you a bowl of lemons, go find an annoying guy with paper cuts”

“When life hands you lemons - break out the tequila and salt”

What I could do, is this: I could hypnotise you – at least those of you who have already been touched by the first nip of winter, for those who live in warmer place don’t need the suggestion – and transport you into a scorching summer day…

Like, for example, the one when I stepped among the ruins of Pompeii, at the feet of the Vesuvius.

End of July in Italy could be utterly demanding weather wise. That morning, before I entered the archaeological site, one thing stood out for me with utmost importance: the citrus stand where – for three euros, which was quite a lot – you could get a big glass of squeezed-before-your-eyes orange and lemon juice. They had lemons big as oranges and oranges big as cantaloupes. Suffice it to say that the thought of those exquisite citruses inspired and sustained my journey through lives lost to ashes and perfectly preserved by them – what an irony – on the hot stones of the past, under the omnipresent white sun. And when I finally had my glass, it was indeed perfect.

If I hypnotise you well, you too will crave an icy glass of lemonade…

This is what I dream (hope, would like) to offer to anybody who wants to stop by my lemonade stand… Please come, the lemonade is free and you are more than welcome!

And now, to pass it on, I choose all the people on my blogroll. Ha! If you’re there, you’re tagged! Because if I love to read your blogs, I would certainly love your lemonade…

Goodbye, My Love

2008-11-19T06:58:00.005-05:00

“Hey, baby… Sweet baby, where are you?”

His voice is distant, woven with static, a broken whisper, so close and too far from her ear. The phone is tiny, lost in her clumsy glove. She’s suddenly scared she’ll drop it. and then… and then…

The youth closes his hand over hers, helping her hold the cell to her ear, somewhere in her wet hair, his eyes beads of fear and compassion. She doesn’t want to see this stranger. Especially not now. Now it’s only for him.

“Where are you, baby?”

“In New York. I took an early flight. It’s snowing…”

A tiny bird chirps in her voice. Wide pale feathers descend floating in guise of cold crystals, linger on her brow only like furtive kisses. She allows them to sing on her eyelashes, blur the blinding city lights, whiten the night.

“I’m coming to get you. I can’t just sit here and wait for you.”

His voice carries the warmth she’s always seeked, always found in him.

my darling, my beautiful one

A flutter of panic wakens. Come and gone.

“No need… I’m in Times Square… I wanted to… I was going to the Central Station… I…”

warm and cold, warm and cold

“I can be there in an hour, baby. Go to Starbucks, wait for me there. Just stay warm.”

She wants to imagine herself being nestled next to him, watching him drive her home.

“Yes, you’ll come…”

“We could eat, we could do whatever you want… I won’t let you come home alone.”

i’m not coming home

His voice is fading, maybe on dying batteries.

“I can’t hear you so well. The cell…”

“You’re on a cell, sweetheart? You’ve never used a cell…”

never

“Borrowed it… They’ve coloured the Empire in red, and green, and white… Like when we first saw it… ”

The youth is crying, his hand shaking so badly it hurts her ear. The sky is a grey sieve, sifting a furious wet flour, but she still doesn’t close her eyes. not yet… not yet…

“Where are you, baby? What’s the clamour?”

He doesn’t know. How can she tell him.

my darling, my beloved

“Times Square… You know how busy… Even now… I so wish you were here…”

“I’m coming, baby. I’ll drive you home. I want to be with you.”

“Without you-“

without you i couldn’t live, how can i die

Her lips are numb, the snowflakes too heavy. The sky turns, and turns, and turns. She has to rest, just for a little moment.

The teen’s voice rises, sobbing, sobbing. Louder than her whisper, closer than the voice of her beloved. He presses the cell to her head harder, painfully, uselessly. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so sorry.

A wailing grows, from the earth, from the sky.

“What’s that, baby? An ambulance?”

She abandons herself to the snow, to the night, to the turning sky.

“Hello? Hello? Hello?”

“Sir, are you a relative?”

A man’s voice, neutrally authoritative. A stranger’s.

“What? Who’s there?”

The voice turning to unwanted, uncomprehensible compassion.

“Sir, I’m terribly sorry, there’s been an accident. Your wife… has been hit by a car… we couldn’t get here in time… a blockage… she wanted to speak to you… I’m sorry, Sir… Sir, can you come and…”

yes, I’ll come

A View to the Moon

2008-11-16T15:59:00.002-05:00

There is a skylight in my bedroom, a large one, right above the bed. It used to have a blind to cover it, but that was taken out when we did some renovations and hasn’t been replaced since. Which suits me perfectly, for I can lie in bed and watch the sky before I fall asleep.

I can see the stars, and the occasional airplane, and the grey woolly shapes of the clouds rolling by. A thunderstorm makes for a splendid show... And in the morning, squirrels pass over it, betrayed by the hurried patter of their little feet.

On Friday night, the Moon came in through the skylight, shedding its silvery light in the room, so strong that I needed not turn on the lamp on my nightstand to read. Instead, I read by the light of the Moon, which suited well the book I’m reading now, “Midnight” by Dean Koontz, which I picked up at the recommendation of William, at William's Ramblings.

Just one day past the Full Moon and its power was intact, its call relentless, its fascination upon me whole...

Have You Ever...

2008-11-12T12:31:00.000-05:00

And now on a light(er) note...

I "stole" this from Lisa, over at Eudaemonia For All.

The question is “Have you ever…?”

Bold the things you’ve done and will admit to.

1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity (not sure what counts here)
7. Been to Disneyland/world
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sang a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community (I'm not counting seeing them downtown shopping)
36. Taught yourself a new language (do video courses count?)
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal in a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted (sort of)
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Gotten flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten Caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone (I'm not counting my nose)
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee

36 out of 99! Oh, my, still so much to do, and not necessarily from this list...

How about you?...

Beloved, Dreaded Trance

2008-11-06T11:53:00.002-05:00

Photograph by Eldad Hagar

here they come
these other dimensions
these gale-force metamorphoses
these blue stars
rushing
at all my different
eyes

harshly
sweetly
they tumble me

they lure me
they thrust me
to this exquisite place

where I breathe
where I love
where I die
many times

this trance
- when I write

On a Halloween Night

2008-10-30T23:21:00.006-04:00

Harley Lever's "Haunted Moon" with a "twirl" effect

This is not my hand holding yours,
my darling, my scared one,
these are fear’s fingers,
this is fog’s hand, maybe,
just maybe...

These cold lips touching your temple
they are not mine,
my sweetheart, my scared one,
they are the wind’s, maybe,
just maybe...

These deep whispers are not
my words of love,
my beloved, my scared one,
only murmurs of grass,
or owls fluttering, maybe,
just maybe...

These flickers, these embers,
they are not my loving eyes
watching over you,
my dearest, my scared one
they are Moon’s or the stars’ maybe,
just maybe...

Hurry home,
my lover, my scared one,
hurry home,
run,
before

this forest of darkness
will close upon you,
before

these leaves of night,
this touch of ices,
will freeze your living soul...

Hurry home,
only there
I can still be,
I still am...

In the dead window
of our dead house,
I await you...

That spectre of shadows,
that semblance of light,
those are my loving face,
my lost body...

Hurry home,
my darling, my scared one,
outrun the phantoms,
the ghosts,
the revenants,
come home,
only here I can try
to protect you,
to save you,
maybe,
just maybe...

Fortune

2008-10-28T06:55:00.001-04:00

“Come back, Tommy!”

from the seer’s house...

“Don’t go, Tommy!”

to the haunted mansion...

“Tooooommy, cooome baaack!”

she’ll suck your life...

“Tooooom-myyyy...”

come back...

That new voice, a crystal’s song, he carried in his dreams. When had she arrived? He longed to return as much as he longed to prove himself, now even more.

A bet was a bet. Onward he trudged, his robe suddenly too long, every step a cliff overcome.

He stopped to draw air in, to peek back over his shoulder. They seemed far behind already and awfully tiny as seen at the bottom of that narrow flight of stone steps, and Tom wasn’t even halfway through the stairway. He looked up in the foaming darkness at which bony branches slashed to the rhythm of the unseen wind. The house stood darker than the night, its stones like tar, only its high windows inflamed with dancing shadows, as if huge fires licked the glass. He looked down again at his friends, twelve-year olds Ghost, Elf, and Death, standing with their jack-o’-lanterns and their bags for candy on the orange-lit pavement as if they were on a far-off stage and he was watching them from the gallery, right under the theatre’s roof. A Witch had joined them and Tom could’ve told who she was even from that distance, even if he hadn’t heard her voice calling him – she had a witch’s hair, no need for wigs, copper curls flowing to her waist.

He pulled at his costume, a silver skeleton painted on black velvet. The wind flapped the robe against his legs, furiously. His white mask felt too tight. There was no going back, especially now.

He turned and climbed again. Soon their shouts were eaten by the wind’s, their silhouettes erased by swaying branches.

He almost bumped into a black oak door, his nose one inch away from an iron gargoyle, perched on an iron ring. For a second, the gargoyle seemed to twitch its tiny nose, winked at him with evil glaring eyes. Just a reflection of the Moon’s, finding its way through the battered trees. Nothing else. Tom swallowed hard, then grabbed the gargoyle and knocked.

The door opened.

As if someone had been waiting for him right behind the door. That someone stood in front of him, but he couldn’t tell if it was a real person or just a trick of the shadows. He blinked at the cold sweat coating now his mask.

Behind him, the winds barked, mewed, moaned.

“Trick or treat?” he managed in a shaky voice, not his own at all.

A pale face, featureless, floated in the doorway, in a hypnotic pattern of afterimages.

“This is something for you to decide...”

He strained to see if it was the woman who sat in the fortune-teller’s booth when the carnival came to town; the boys said it was her, that she only left her house for that, that she didn’t follow the carnival, but the carnival returned to her, but how could she be, how could she be. The soothsayer was an ancient midget, a dried Incan mummy, so tiny that it could fit inside the small glass booth bathed in an orange light, and never spoke, only somehow made a note to appear with the answer to your question.

“I’ll show you...”

He was compelled to follow the invitation in the cold voice. He took a step.

Behind him, the trees weaved an ever unravelling canvas.

In front of him, a corridor receded towards a pale radiance. He followed a rustling, a darkness, a crackling, to a stone room, to a table.

In the heights of the towering vault, giant flames danced an angry saraband. He found himself seated, staring at a globe in which milky forms undulated. On the other side of it, a white skull mask, much like his own, as if he was looking at himself in a mirror.

“Do you have a wish?” the mask spoke.

The forms in the globe stirred, darkened, took the shape of the Witch, with her red hair, with her floating cape.

Tom gasped.

“Nora...”

“Do you have a wish?” the skull spoke.

In the glass globe, the Witch swirled, waltzed, her eyes closed, her lips in a timid smile.

To see those cherub lips form the words, to hear her voice.

“Is it really going to happen?”

I love you, Tommy, I love you, Tommy

“Every wish fulfilled comes with a price. How much do you want it?”

He was sure now. He had never been so sure.

“I’d give anything to hear her say that,” he said boldly.
He closed his eyes, dreaming. When he opened them, he saw the street lights, he saw the Elf, the Ghost, Death, he roared with laughter as he felt them throwing mock punches at him, as he heard them laughing, shouting.

“You did it, man!”

“What did you see?”

“What happened there?”

He felt drunk with a tingling happiness. Nora watched him, smiled to him.

They went to all the doorsteps, the four of them, till their bags of candy and their feet grew too heavy. It was time to go home.

What happened to my wish, seer?

He didn’t see the telltale headlights of the car taking the tight corner, didn’t hear the virulent spitting of the mad engine. Only the Witch, the Ghost, the Elf, and Death waving frantically, shouting, screaming. Only the wind howling its howl of rabid wolf.

“Tommy, watch out!”

“Tommy! Tommy!”

“Watch out, Tommy!”

“Tooom-myyyyy!”

How beautiful the Witch was. How much he was in love with her. At what were they playing?

The hit threw him high in the air, made him tumble like an acrobat, like a bag of old clothes.

Harsh concrete came to meet him, offering a hard bed. He was tired. He had to rest. Somebody took off his mask. The wind kissed his face.

The sky had cleared, revealing a tapestry of stars.

In the general confusion, Nora held him, spoke to him. He longed to hear her, strained to hear her. At last he understood.

“I love you,” she was saying, rivulets of tears from her green eyes eroding her green make-up. “I love you, Tommy.”

Darling Witch... Yes, he would’ve given anything for that…

I love you Tommy I love you Tommy I love you Tommy I love you Tommy I love you Tommy I love you Tommy

Until he heard no more.

Last Rose of Summer

2008-10-27T07:44:00.004-04:00

among the sweet, pitiful decay of my garden,
after a day drowned in the sky's tears,
this is what I found,
with the morning sun,
joy.

A Harvest of the Deep (part two)

2008-10-23T06:58:00.004-04:00

Without warning, he handed me the parcel.

“I think they know I have this,” he said.

I took it with trembling hands, unwrapped it with reverence. I probably held my breath in awe as I opened it, although I ached to inspire its longed for, much aged aroma. I had no doubt it was the secret edition of the fourth volume, Der Fischbuch, The Book of Fish, of Konrad Gessner’s great zoological work “History of Animals.” Not the Latin folio that had appeared at Zürich between 1551 and 1558, nor the German translation of 1563. This had been printed at the same time as the Latin original and it had remained well hidden for many centuries, for the information it contained had been considered subversive by both the Catholic Church (Gessner had been a Protestant) and the scientific community of the time.

I flicked through it almost irreverently to reach the last chapters more quickly. I was familiar with the Old German and the Gothic alphabet in which it was written. I was familiar with the grotesque images of the sea-monk, and the sea-maiden, and the sea-swine, and the hydra. But what I saw further was beyond my hopeful expectations. This is only what I could take in a frantic glimpse, before he snapped the book closed and reclaimed his possession of it. There were maps of the northern lands, of the cold seas that bathed the Scandinavian countries, all the way up to the frigid Arctic Circle. On these maps there were marks indicating spots in the seas. There were drawings of bulbous submarine towers, suspended spheres with myriad windows, foul beings floating among them. A glimpse I had – and nothing more.

“Please!” I gasped. “What is this?”

“You knew what to look for,” he said quietly.

“Gessner knew where they were… are…”

“Yes, they’ve been there for centuries, maybe millennia, the truth of their existence dismissed by mainstream science. A world parallel to our own…”

His eyes drifted into a distant dream. I waited.

“I’ve seen these cities in the sea,” he said, while his features seemed to loose consistency through the thick smoke. “I know in what chasms they hide, where they keep their servants, their sea-devils, their sea-men. We often navigate above them, oblivious to the swarming in the depths. Sometimes, they’re simply invisible, as if they had hidden onto another plane of reality. But they leave the boats alone. They let us take our fare from the sea…”

“Surely you could punish them easily,” I said, allowing for a moment resentment to overcome my scientific spirit.

“And what will happen then? The lives of these islanders are their boats and the fishing. If we harm them, they will turn against us, they will sink our boats, take away our livelihood. The kraken is with them, one with a horse’s head and a red mane.”

“This is sick,” I whispered.

"It is madness,” he echoed.

“Why don’t you leave?”

“I can’t,” he said. “Nobody can.”

What did he mean by that? Surely, something could be done for this tiny forlorn island. His strange heavy-lidded eyes on mine, he pulled down slightly his coat at the neck. Almost against my will, I looked. His skin was sagging, but where he pulled it with his fingers I noticed two boils. My heart stopped, my lungs collapsed in a maddening terror. I looked around me at those I didn’t dare to look before, discovered the deformed faces of the patrons. A tacit, unofficial quarantine, this is how the unexplainable isolation of the island was explained.

“You didn’t know,” he whispered, and I thought I could distinguish genuine compassion in his eyes. “Leprosy… Well, this is what it’s believed it is, although it’s hard to explain it in such a northern climate. I didn’t know either when I… we came here… Nobody leaves.”

I was shaking, trying to think of all the things I had touched unknowingly. There was no point.

“It comes from them?” I mumbled.

“Maybe… It’s been like that for centuries. From Gessner’s times… He mentioned it, though vaguely, but I was too eager, too impatient to ponder the hints. And now, you see, even if I could, I wouldn’t leave, my son is there, with them. I can’t leave him. I’m still too cowardly to join him, to plunge in the dark abyss, there where their cities are, but I will only leave him when I die. Soon… Not soon enough…”

My heart tightened.

“Your son… is among them?”

A distant memory brightened his face, if only for just a moment.

"We came here together, to find them… Christian was just like you, maybe a year or two older… He was daring… he… They took him.”

His voice faltered, broke miserably.

I wondered if or how many times he’d encountered his lost son, and if he’d tried to seize him from their clutches. I didn’t ask. We both knew there was no more to be said that evening.

He stood and left the tavern, walking slowly, the precious book under his arm. I followed him into the fog.

The End