mico's forest

2011-12-23T18:15:00.001-08:00

Always remember: In your heart lives a tree and a cottage. There is a River. These are indestructible.

THE DRESS

2011-11-05T20:21:00.000-07:00

I

Adele was not a pretty girl. She knew that much was true. She was tall and thin, she did not have much style. She hated her hair because it was dry and limp, and slightly faded. Boys had never paid too much attention to her back in high school. She had what her mother called ‘a tired looking face’. Adele agreed that she often looked anxious and haggard, and that her countenance was a reflection of her soul.

Adele had lived a fairly ordinary life. One could say that in her town, she had lived a far too ordinary life. She had never gone to college. She was unmarried. She was still living in the house she had been born in. She had never had a boyfriend and did not enjoy working. She did not know anything and did not want to know anything. Yet she hated herself for it.

Adele was sad a lot. She did not have much confidence. She did not trust her taste in clothing or makeup. She did not know how to talk to boys. She liked to wear the same faded floral-patterned dresses day in and day out, some of which she had inherited from her dead nana (God rest her soul). She loathed her own lack of style, her own awkwardness. Sadly, she felt vaguely judged by the people she encountered when she left the house. She felt scared because of this. Even at home, in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of coffee, or in her bedroom staring at the ceiling late at night, she felt alone and scared. She felt alone and scared.

Adele liked pearl necklaces. Adele liked antique costume jewellery. She hardly ever wore her jewellry though, but would try it on, by her dressing table, staring at her cracked mirror. She would wear a necklace, put on a ring, and look at herself. Then she would take it off very quickly. She kept all her costume jewellery inside intricate boxes, some of which were on her dressing table, some of which were stored in her mouldy cupboard. They made her feel like a woman. Sometimes.

At other times she did not feel like a woman. She did not feel like anything or anyone. Walking down the street, shuffling in her old boots, wearing the same faded floral-patterned dress, she knew that she was a parody of an old woman. Maybe she was old. She felt timid inside. Beautiful, confident women with great style filled her with rage.

One fateful day she passed by a store. It was a warm afternoon in mid-July. Adele remembered it had been a Monday, because she had gone to church the day before. She had never really paid attention to this store before, because it carried expensive designer clothing only rich women bought.

There was a dress on the mannequin. She stared curiously at the dress. It was the most stunning dress she had seen in her entire life. It was an evening gown in a majestic shade of green. What kind of green was this? She did not know anything about the colours fashion designers or artists used. It was a luminous green though, like glittering seaweed. The mannequin was a faded, porcelain woman, as cold as a tomb. Suddenly, Adele wanted to remove the dress from the mannequin.

Adele would never have normally done this, but she entered the store without thinking. This rash move surprised her. I have got to try it on, she thought. The saleswomen inside the story could not hide their amusement. They stared at her with frozen expressions, but Adele knew what they were thinking. What are you doing here? Their faces said. You’re not glamorous or pretty enough to be here. Scat!

I know that I probably cannot afford that dress, Adele thought. I know that it is silly for me to even enter this store. I know that it is silly for my worn feet to soil your pretty, expensive carpets, but I have to try on that dress. Please, let me try it on and stop staring at me like that!

“How can I help you Madame?” the first saleslady asked. Her face was frosty and her eyes were filled with something that resembled disdain. Her hair was done up in a style that Adele had seen on television, and was probably considered fashionable. Her face and makeup were perfect. Adele said nothing. Her mouth hung open and her hair covered her face.

“I’m sorry Madame, but is there anything I can help you with?” the snooty saleslady asked. She said her words more slowly this time. The saleswomen behind her exchanged amused glances.

The store was filled with expensive, glamorous gowns, day dresses, jewellery, and perfume bottles. There was a makeup counter at the back. There were oil paintings on the wall and framed photographs. Adele could hear the sound of a waterfall but there was no music. She was the only customer in this store.

Adele walked past the saleslady without a word. She went to the storefront display and pointed to the mannequin. The saleslady walked slowly towards her, with an expression suggesting that she was about to lose her patience. Finally Adele spoke.
“I want to try on that dress,” Adele said. She pointed somewhere.

“Which dress Madame?” the saleslady asked.

“The....green one,” Adele finally said. Her voice sounded so soft and frayed, like parchment covered in dust.
“Oh yes, our Oscar de la Renta aquamarine evening dress,’ the saleslady said. ‘This dress is from the designer’s latest collection and is rather popular with our clients. Unfortunately, this dress is just a display piece and is not for sale. You can order it from us though, and the designer can ship it to you from New York City”. She sounded like she was giving a lecture.

“Oh...” Adele said. She shuffled her feet and looked at the carpet.

The saleslady raised one eyebrow. She did this strange, fluttery gesture with her hands.

“I want to try it on please,’ Adele said. She was aware that her voice sounded like a piano out of tune.

‘Certainly Madame,’ the saleslady said icily. She gestured to another pretty saleslady in a beautiful dress. The other saleslady smiled at Adele and pointed her towards the dressing rooms. Adele followed the other saleslady meekly.

She walked past her reflection in a mirror. She shuddered as she stared at her bent form, messy dry hair, faded dress, and worn boots. I look like the house I was born in, she thought. I’m falling apart.

Adele resisted the urge to turn back and run out of the store. She felt a stubbornness rise in her soul, like lava oozing from a volcano. She remembered that dress, that stunning dress. She knew she’d probably look silly wearing it, but she had to try it on. She had to see herself in that dress.

Adele felt strange. Everything was becoming blurred and very dream-like. She could almost hear music in her head, like the dramatic violin passage from her favourite soap opera. The saleslady led her to a room that was well-lit. Every corner was lighted. There were full-length mirrors that allowed her to see herself from the front and the sides. She tried her best to avoid looking at herself.

The friendly saleslady smiled at Adele and Adele smiled back. ‘Wait a moment Madame,’ the saleslady said. ‘We are getting the dress for you to try on.’

Adele was left alone in the room for two minutes, but it felt like two hours. Her timid little heart began to pound inside her chest. She studied the cream wallpaper. There was a single lily inside an elongated glass vase resting on a table, and one framed photograph on the wall. The photograph was of a radiant woman wearing late 19th century clothing. She was smiling and holding a small lapdog in her hands.

The door flung open suddenly and two salesladies entered the room. The friendly one smiled at Adele. The other saleslady was holding a long cloth bag that apparently held the dress. Adele smiled for the first time inside that store.

II

Adele stared at herself in the mirror. She did not recognize herself.

She was wearing the dress. The dress. To her surprise, the dress fit her perfectly. She was thin, and the dress (or evening gown) had slipped into her as easily as a hand sliding into a glove. The friendly saleslady had done up her hair with some pins. Her face was unadorned, her body unperfumed. Her faded floral-patterned dress lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, like discarded garbage. The perspiration on her flesh had dried off, and she was standing in front of the three full-length mirrors. The old Adele felt far away all of a sudden.

The lighting had softened her features somehow. Her hair was still dry, but was pinned back in a manner that seemed almost stylish. Adele stared at her face, truly stared at her face for the first time, and felt something like hope emerge in her heart.

Her eyes looked green, almost as green as the dress she was wearing. Her lips were full, sensuous, and craved rouge. Her slightly pockmarked cheeks also craved rouge. Somehow, all her blemishes and imperfections, the lack of symmetry in her facial features, and the haggardness that seemed to cripple her countenance was fading away.
She struck a pose in the dress.
The two salesladies laughed, but not in mockery. The friendly one clapped her hands and blurted out “You look stunning!”

Adele turned around and said “I do?”

The friendly saleslady nodded her head. “Would you like to order the dress?” she asked.

The unfriendly saleslady (who Adele had secretly named Miss Icy) stood at the doorway. Her arms were folded and she looked sceptical.

Reality hit Adele suddenly like a brick through a window. “How much is the dress?” Adele asked, her meekness slowly creeping back in.

Miss Icy cleared her throat theatrically, brushed her forehead with her left hand, and adjusted her posture. “This Oscar de la Renta gown is twelve thousand dollars Madame. Would you like me to place an order?” Her voice sounded triumphant.

Adele hung her head low. She looked at herself once again in the mirror, at the dress that fit her and revealed curves she never knew existed. The evening gown exposed one shoulder and adorned the other with folds of cloth that looked like the petals of some exquisite flower. The evening gown created a tight silhouette in her mid-section, and ended at her feet in a sudden burst like waves splashing on the rocks. She looked like an actress.

Adele thought long and hard for a moment. She considered for the first time, the logic of what she was doing. A twelve thousand dollar dress, she murmured to herself. She was twenty-nine years old and she had never lived a day of her life, truly lived a day of her life. Everything at this point had been dull, pointless, and somewhat painful. She wanted to break this curse once and for all. She wanted to be free to live.

She thought of the money she was keeping at the bank. She had about thirty thousand dollars left. Her granddaddy had left her a decent amount of money when he died. She’d hardly touched that money over the years, as she and her mom had been living off the modest income they had been receiving monthly from renters at their property downtown. Would she really pay twelve thousand dollars for a dress? The sheer insanity of it!

The three salesladies stared at Adele. Adele lifted her head and addressed Miss Icy:
“Can I write a cheque?” she asked.

Miss Icy paused and did another flutter with her hands. “Certainly Madame,” she said. “We can place the order for the evening gown in your size, and the dress should arrive at our store from New York City within the next few weeks...”

“But Meredith,” the friendly saleslady said, “Madame can take this dress home today. It’s the right size and we can order several more from the designer.”

Miss Icy (or Meredith) glared at the friendly saleslady. “That’s not our policy for Oscar de la Renta gowns!” she said.

“Meredith, I think Madame would like to take this dress home today.” She turned to Adele and extended her hand. “Hi, my name is Melanie. Does Madame want to wear this dress to an event perhaps? A party or dinner perhaps?”

“No I don’t.” Adele said. “I just want this dress. Please don’t call me Madame. My name is Adele.” She smiled at Melanie.

Melanie and the other sales assistant helped Adele out of the dress and took her to the makeup counter where they applied makeup on her face. They gave her some instructions and recommended products to her. By the end of the visit, Adele had written a cheque not just for an extravagantly expensive evening gown, but for some makeup, face creams, and a bottle of perfume.

Melanie wrapped the evening gown in fine paper and inserted it inside a monogrammed box. She placed the box inside a monogrammed shopping bag. The cosmetics were carefully packed in another shopping bag, and both were handed to Adele with much ceremony. Adele felt herself beaming.

Meredith refused to make eye contact with Adele as Melanie said her goodbyes and thank yous.

Adele took Melanie’s advice and went to a hair salon located a couple of blocks away. After a detailed discussion with the hairstylist, she sat in the salon chair. The hairstylist first bleached her hair, then coloured it platinum blonde. After washing and blow drying her hair, he began snipping away with his scissors. The hairstylist had her hair washed again, and then styled her hair.

Afterwards, the hairstylist twirled Adele’s salon chair around, and made her face the mirror. “What do you think Madame?” he asked.

“Everyone’s been calling me Madame, which makes me feel really old,” Adele said with a laugh. “Please call me Adele or Miss.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Well?”

“It’s perfect. I don’t look like myself anymore.”

III

Adele took a taxi home. She had gone to a department store and bought more clothes and some accessories. She emerged from the taxi cab wearing new stilettos, a dress, and scarf. All in all, she had spent about thirteen thousand dollars today and she felt liberated.

The taxi driver helped her carry her shopping bags to the front porch. She gave him a ten dollar tip. He grinned and said thank you. As he drove off, she slipped her key inside the keyhole and braced herself. Her mother was at home, and boy would she be surprised.

Adele walked into the living room, but the television was switched off, and the dining table had been cleared. She saw a note on the dining table. Her mom had written something about going off to play bingo with some friends. Her scrawl was almost illegible.

Adele stared at her house: the dingy wallpaper peeling in corners, the grime from the kitchen, the kitschy plastic flowers on the dining table, and the weird paintings and posters on the wall. How could she renovate her life, the way she had renovated herself today?

She brought her purchases laboriously up the stairs to her room. She was exhausted but emotionally exhilarated. She placed the shopping bags on her bed. She opened the bag containing the dress. She opened the box and peeled back the fine paper.

Ceremoniously, she placed the evening gown on her bed. Even in the dull light of her night lamp, the dress looked magnificent. It shimmered.

Adele resisted the urge to wear the dress again. Instead, she hung it on a hanger and enclosed it in a protective cloth bag. She hung it her mouldy closet next to her faded old dresses. She was going to throw away those old dresses tomorrow.

As she got ready for bed, she remembered a hotel located in Long Island she had heard about on some program on television. The hotel was located near a lighthouse and the seashore. She could not remember the name of this hotel, but she had been captivated by the beauty of the lighthouse, the terraces, the cosy rooms, and the cocktail lounge.

The hotel had been so dramatic, like something out of a murder mystery. Or a romance.
She wanted a Hitchcock moment all of a sudden. She fantasized about entering the cocktail lounge in this hotel, wearing the dress that had changed her life. A fur shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, and her hair was dolled up like Kim Novak. She was the heroine in Vertigo, and there was a man in an evening jacket waiting for her in the cocktail lounge. She could not make out his face, but his hair was swept back, and she knew that he was devastatingly handsome.

She had squandered a great deal of the money her granddaddy had slaved for. Was she going to squander some more?

Adele made up her mind to find out what this hotel’s name was. She was going to reserve a room there, and stay for a few days. She wanted to walk along the seashore, staring at the cliffs, the crashing waves, and the majestic lighthouse in the distance. She wanted to meet someone.

She giggled and threw the blankets over her head.

Schrezo

2011-10-22T21:08:00.000-07:00

Somewhere

2011-10-21T19:28:00.000-07:00

The Artist

2011-10-21T19:22:00.000-07:00

Symphony in C

2011-10-21T19:14:00.001-07:00

2011-08-05T21:49:00.000-07:00

2011-07-08T20:10:00.000-07:00

2011-07-08T20:06:00.000-07:00

My Boracay Vacation

2011-06-24T21:55:00.000-07:00

I recently went on a two and a half day vacation to the island of Boracay with my brother and sister.

2011-05-28T12:20:00.000-07:00

2011-05-22T10:35:00.000-07:00

Moon Mission

2011-05-09T00:39:00.000-07:00

Cuteness

2011-05-05T20:21:00.001-07:00

Cute pictures I found on tumblr.

2011-05-05T11:47:00.000-07:00

Cows

2011-04-29T20:46:00.000-07:00

from deviantart

Childhood

2011-04-29T18:08:00.000-07:00

2011-04-28T23:22:00.001-07:00

Alexandria, Carthage, Constantinople. Visited three cities in one dream. Under the sand.

Constantinople

2011-04-28T21:01:00.001-07:00

Un Dia

2011-03-28T23:49:00.000-07:00

Un día voy a ser otra distinta,
voy a hacer cosas que no hice jamás.
No va a importarme lo que otros me digan
ni va a importarme si resultará.

Pa Negre

2011-03-27T23:49:00.000-07:00

A Place Called Silence Pt.II

2011-03-21T20:42:00.000-07:00

2011-03-07T17:36:00.000-08:00

2011-03-06T03:34:00.000-08:00

Vie Héroïque

2011-03-01T11:05:00.000-08:00

2011-02-06T17:34:00.001-08:00

Does art have any role in humanity's redemption? How can I reconcile the dual nature in man- the brutality and the beauty?

Help Me by Joni Mitchell

2011-02-05T17:20:00.000-08:00

Help me
I think I'm falling
In love again
When I get that crazy feeling, I know
I'm in trouble again
I'm in trouble
'Cause you're a rambler and a gambler
And a sweet-taIking-ladies man
And you love your lovin'
But not like you love your freedom

Help me
I think I'm falling
In love too fast
It's got me hoping for the future
And worrying about the past
'Cause I've seen some hot hot blazes
Come down to smoke and ash
We love our lovin'
But not like we love our freedom

Didn't it feel good
We were sitting there talking
Or lying there not talking
Didn't it feel good
You dance with the lady
With the hole in her stocking
Didn't it feel good
Didn't it feel good

Help me
I think I'm falling
In love with you
Are you going to let me go there by myself
That's such a lonely thing to do
Both of us flirting around
Flirting and flirting
Hurting too
We love our lovin'
But not like we love our freedom

Good Morning

2011-02-05T16:45:00.000-08:00

After a sleepless night worthy of a desert asetic, the sky starts to light up with the first flush of dawn.

List of Slovenian Scientists

2011-01-31T13:19:00.000-08:00

from my facebook account

‎1. Go to wikipedia and hit random. The first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.
2. Go to quotationspage.com and hit random. The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.
3. Go to flickr and click on “explore the last seven days”. Third picture no matter what i...t is, will be your album cover.
4.Use photoshop or similar (picnik.com is a free online photo editor) to put it all together.
5.Post it with this text in the "caption" and TAG the friends you want to join in.

Chicken Design

2011-01-31T13:03:00.000-08:00

from deviantart

2011-01-31T12:50:00.000-08:00

from deviantart

2011-01-28T15:06:00.001-08:00

Leonard Bernstein conducting Dmitri Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5.

On the Way to KL, 2010

2011-01-22T12:04:00.000-08:00

Monsieur Bovary

2011-01-22T10:32:00.000-08:00

Another boring weekend. I wish this city had more sophisticated diversions: the opera, a play at the theater or a dinner party.

It's been months since I've gone to a dinner party. What I remember about it is the good food, conversation and aromatic coffee.

Maybe I should join a book club or live in a city where there are real museums and libraries.

Maybe I should learn how to play the piano or harpsicord and eat more fresh fruit and vegetables.

I really want to travel to North Africa and the Bosphorus. I want to see St. Catherine's Monastery on Mt. Sinai and Hagia Sophia in Istanbul.

Maybe I should write a book or see a therapist. =P

Marion Cotillard

2011-01-20T12:29:00.000-08:00

2011-01-19T11:57:00.000-08:00

I don't really understand this picture but its cute in a morbid sort of way.

Diocese of Egypt

2011-01-14T00:33:00.000-08:00

The province of Egypt and Cyrenaica (Libya) during the time of the Byzantine Empire. Most of the city names are Hellenistic Greek.

Stranded on the Shores of Life

2011-01-11T09:15:00.000-08:00

No Name Face

2011-01-11T09:12:00.000-08:00

Far

2011-01-11T09:08:00.000-08:00

Battle of Actium

2011-01-11T09:02:00.000-08:00

Alexandretta

2011-01-11T08:59:00.000-08:00

2011-01-05T22:26:00.001-08:00

Nothing is sadder than a human birth with no umbilical cord.

New Year's Eve

2011-01-04T00:55:00.000-08:00

Listening

2011-01-02T00:32:00.000-08:00

Hold on to what is good even if it is a handful of Earth.
Hold on to what you believe in even if it is a tree which stands by itself.
Hold on to what you must do even if it is a long way from here….
Hold on to my hand even when
I have gone away from you.
-Nancy Wood, from Many Winters

I’m sitting here in my Aunt’s beautiful villa in Tagaytay, surrounded by trees, wild grass and exquisite flowers. It’s after New Year’s Eve, the first day of 2011 and it’s still very quite. Nobody is awake and I’m up early, enjoying a cup of coffee, butter bread and some smoked salmon. I’ve waited months for a getaway like this- a release from the oppression and constriction that is my life in polluted Makati.

I began the morning by opening the windows and inhaling the cool, icy air. It smells very fresh, this wind. It has a body and depth; I can feel the wind blowing with force through the trees, rustling the grass, playing with my skin. It feels like a friend stroking my cheeks, freezing the cavities and chambers in my broken, confused heart. There is beauty in the world after all.

With nothing else to read, I pick up an old copy of Oprah’s O magazine and peruse one amazing article after another. I may not approve of everything that Oprah does but I have to admit the magazine has some pretty constructive articles. After reading page after page about happy, successful air-brushed types, it hit me: I don’t feel successful. I have been dissatisfied with my life for a very long time. Pain and hurtful experiences keep destroying whatever hope and dignity I have left. Even amidst so much calm and beauty, one can still feel so damaged, so lost, so angry and betrayed. Reeking of the wounds that have cut through soul, skin and bone to the most sensitive places in the heart and mind.

I am unhappy and confused and have been for pretty much most of my early adult life. Nothing I do feels good enough. My life has no meaning, no direction and no dignity. Nothing I have done feels right. I have not accomplished anything and nobody pays attention to my work or gifts. I feel ignored and when I am acknowledged, the focus is usually negative.

There are so many things to say and not enough space in my heart or room in my mind to analyze and elucidate everything that troubles me: the wrong decisions made, the disappointments faced, the consequences bitterly savored. I feel like a very foolish person masquerading as an intelligent one.

What am I supposed to do with my life? What am I supposed to do with myself?
My entire life has felt like a battle with God. I can feel him when I smell the breeze. I can feel him in myself like an ocean flooding me, drowning me and then receding. I can sense him when sunlight streaks through the branches of trees and tendrils of plants into my eyes. He is a warm ray, an answer to every question. He is love, life and the author of trees and wind. He is both an earthquake and a bed of fresh grass blanketing the wet Earth. He is….the meaning and reason for my existence.

Yet God feels like a stranger, an absent parent that calls occasionally. Why is he doing this to me? Why are we fighting each other? Why is he in me, living in me and yet still chooses to remain silent?

I want 2011 to be the year I let go: let go and let God be God. I don’t want to be afraid of the things in life I fear to lose. I don’t want to lust after grandiose dreams I am not strong enough to pursue. I want to be as free and undemanding as the breeze that is blowing all over me and into me, exposing the cracks within, the absence of warmth or meaning….

I want peace. I want to breathe the breeze of life. I want healing to blow into me, destroying everything that hurts. I want God to rescue me from this misery. I have forgiven him for everything he that has happened, everything that has led to this sad, lonely place.

I just want to forget the past, throw everything into the fire, heal completely and start a fresh page with wisdom and direction.

I want warm life to flow into me; spilling into the world all around me.

2011-01-02T00:30:00.000-08:00

2010-12-20T12:39:00.000-08:00

An iconic image in the making.

Blood

2010-12-17T11:41:00.000-08:00

2010-12-13T13:00:00.000-08:00

If I keep pushing people away someday I may turn around and find myself completely alone.

2010-12-12T17:08:00.000-08:00

My petlings have been irritating me to the breaking point. Finally decided to give them a seperate room all to themselves. Merry Christmas to one and all!

Reflections on Krzystof Kieslowski’s Blue

2010-12-12T15:22:00.000-08:00

I have watched Blue repeatedly over the years. I have never gotten tired of it and remain fascinated by its enigmatic storyline. I recognize something of myself in the film’s main character. A part of me thinks I understand the story yet I remain baffled by it. As I have mentioned before, I only love something if I don’t completely understand it. The same logic can be applied to love and life.
Blue is remarkable for its innovative use of music, lights and camera work to suggest mood and idea. It’s great art and the cinematography is a language all its own.

The plot is often bizarre, but it’s the decisions made by the central character of Julie de Courcy (played by Juliette Binoche) that continues to bewitch me. Kieslowski is a gifted director and ‘Blue’ is undoubtedly his masterpiece, a testament to his knowledge of human psychology, his deep wisdom and his innovative gifts as a film director.

The story seems simple enough from the outset: a woman married to a famous composer sets off for the road one day with their daughter. Alas, tragedy strikes and their car rams into a tree. The woman loses her husband and daughter—all that she loves and holds dear—in an instant. Regaining consciousness after a brief coma, she is informed that they are gone. After failing in her half-hearted attempt at suicide, she makes a highly unusual decision: to rid herself of everything that represents her old life (friends, material things, memories, love, art), everything that has caused her to feel pain and live a new life of denial. A sort of non-existence. As she explains later in the film to her senile mother, everything crucial to happiness can disappear in an instant, so to protect herself she rejects these things.

The viewer is confronted with one of the enigmas that drive the plot of this film: is Julie’s choice to reject her past an expression of her desire for freedom or is it in essence a denial of freedom? By isolating herself from the world that continues to make demands from her, does she not become a prisoner of this isolation? She sleeps with one of her dead husband’s colleagues, Olivier (played by Benoit Regent) a man who has long been attracted to her in order to make it plain to him that she is not really all that desirable (or is this just a ruse to get to know him carnally before she disappears forever?) She moves to a nondescript part of town where she concentrates her energies in doing nothing.

The film does not give us an interior monologue; Julie’s motivations are sometimes shrouded in darkness. The movie has several mysteries. I will mention one here: right before Julie leaves her old home forever, after getting rid of all her old possessions (even money and property), she goes up to her daughter’s old room to retrieve a kind of over-hanging decoration of colored blue pebbles. Why? We never find out. The blue tone of the pebbles is reflected on her face when she examines it, a sort of aura; a reflection of her inner-world. She hangs this decorative piece in her new apartment yet damages a part of it almost as a form of accusation.

As the film progresses Julie meets new people and Olivier comes back to haunt her- threatening to finish a symphonic score her husband had been composing before his death for the unification of Europe. She is enraged. It is suggested that much of her dead husband’s brilliant music may have been composed in collaboration with him or perhaps even entirely by her, though she never takes credit and the matter is never fully clarified. Later on, by chance she discovers that her husband had been having an affair with another woman- a lawyer - and this event helps bring about her healing. She begins to accept Olivier which in turn enables her to help him finish the score. The irony is, it is only when she confronts the past does she truly become free of it, enabling her to move on. This is a lesson people can apply to their lives.

What was Kieslowski trying to tell us in this film? In his films there appears to be very little coincidence or meaningless chance. Everything is fate, synchronicity and serendipity. He speaks of duality, of the past and future and present sometimes converging. He hints of the Grand Design that governs the universe. In one unforgettable scene, Julie, who often spends time in a neighborhood café, hears a street musician play a melody that sounds eerily like a passage from her dead husband’s symphony. Coincidence? When Kieslowski was asked about this scene, he said it was done to suggest that all music exists somewhere in the universe in a coherent form and it is our jobs as human beings to ‘receive’ it. Poets take notice.
Juliette Binoche as Julie de Courcy is simply brilliant in this film. Her transformation into this reticent and difficult woman is highly believable. Kudos as well to Zbigniew Preisner for the powerful film score.

2010-12-11T11:26:00.001-08:00

Chagrin

A keen feeling of mental unease, as of annoyance or embarrassment, caused by failure, disappointment, or a disconcerting event: To her chagrin, the party ended just as she arrived.

from answers

Garrotte

2010-12-11T11:18:00.000-08:00

Because I’m slowly dying…..

I live my life vicariously
I post pictures from shadowy photo albums, torn sheets from love letters
I collect the blood secreted by broken hearts (but never my own)

I rub it on the barren dunes of my body and hope
It induces flowers

Because I am can’t remember my own name or age
I leave the television on all day and never bring the laundry in
I never throw garbage away since I believe everything is a precious gift

I am the real trash stinking up this universe,
This taffeta skirt of pain

Because I am on a train heading south
I travel light and sexy
I suppress my penis hoping the boys don’t notice
When I ogle them from the corner of my lazy eye

I haven’t touched myself
While thinking about him in a long time
I’ve also kicked my addiction to internet pornography

Because I am a shutter that filters out every color but blue
I am attracted to women who own dresses in
Garish tones of bright red and orange

I shred their dresses when they’re busy making tea for
Me and pretend
A passing troupe of mice had been the culprits

I envy statuesque women
To my chagrin

Because I am a flock of birds perched on telephone poles
While you try to make your calls,
I fantasize about suicide and penetration and winning an
Academy award while you try in vain
To contact your many acquaintances

I hope you never make your call
I hope nobody ever cares for you again

There are consequences to every action
And every sin is thrown back at you by the universe

2010-12-11T10:36:00.001-08:00

HE was the wound that never properly healed. Correction, he was the wound that never healed.

MM Paris

2010-12-04T00:09:00.000-08:00

2010-11-29T00:25:00.000-08:00

Seraphine Louis: Paintings

2010-11-28T23:47:00.000-08:00

A close-up of Seraphine Louis's paintings.

La Mer

2010-11-28T22:09:00.000-08:00

The sea,
the sea is a being with many secrets, contradictions and layers.

Tears

2010-11-28T08:20:00.000-08:00

L' Origin

2010-11-28T08:18:00.000-08:00

weeping

2010-11-28T08:13:00.000-08:00

Repentance

2010-11-28T08:00:00.000-08:00

LORD forgive me for my sins.

2010-11-25T18:16:00.000-08:00

Carnival of the Face

2010-11-24T20:22:00.000-08:00

2010-11-24T19:41:00.000-08:00

2010-11-24T18:43:00.000-08:00

The daily routine. Up at the crack of dawn. A heavy breakfast and a cup of coffee. Shadows, the absence of love or human warmth. The silence of God. The Bible that I sometimes open but often find too painful to read. The small things I must attend to: cleaning my room, going to work, arranging my things. Fighting a war with dust and dirt and sadness. The mould and ivy are hard to contain. They proliferate.

Outside, paper people in paper dresses. They are so brittle, they don't even realize they are made out of paper. How pathetic other people are.

Later in the evening work and the mask I must wear to appear presentable to others. The actor making his grand debut on the stage. Nobody sees the aching wounds or the broken person. They only see someone they want to judge and avoid.

Night brings somnolence and music. No more coffee. A light dinner: fish swimming in its own sad river and a cup of mercurial water. To bed, my capsizing wooden boat.

The harp jangles and the strings unravel.

Aimee Mann

2010-11-24T18:31:00.000-08:00

My favorite thing to do is walk around the verdant park near my house while listening to Aimee Mann on my IPOD. Life almost makes sense in times like these, with the sunlight streaming on my face and my dreams up above in the clouds.

2010-11-24T18:21:00.000-08:00

2010-11-24T18:15:00.000-08:00

2010-11-22T19:30:00.000-08:00

2010-11-22T19:22:00.000-08:00

I can't wait to watch the film Lady Chatterly, if only to watch the intelligent and enigmatic Marina Hands saunter her way into a love affair with her hired help.

2010-11-20T19:58:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think I am a bad artist and an even worse conceptual photographer. I can't get over the feeling that my work is mediocre. I think only my prose and poems are any good half of the time.

I don't know....

2010-11-20T19:37:00.000-08:00

The last few days have been very sad and lonely for me. This is an endless wilderness of a life. A desolate plain. A dry, ugly place of dust and shadows. Is there hope? respite? a way of escape?

Yesterday I watched Ingmar Bergman's Autumn Sonata and was moved by the beauty of the film. The film has a short, tight plot and is filled with characters that enjoy speaking out loud when they are alone like mad people. All this against a Scandinavian background of tall, imposing mountains, clear lakes and icy fjords. It's amazing how clean everything is in spite of how sinful people are. It's the dirt that's concealed and harder to spot unless one is looking for it.
Autumn Sonata is a deeply philosophical film; filled with pristine, metaphysical dialogue that contrasts with the rather prosaic domestic surroundings the characters inhabit. It's about a concert pianist who returns to visit the grown daughters she has more or less abandoned. The first two days of the visit are cordial enough for all parties, but then accusations and confrontations begin soon enough. The eldest daughter, Eva, recounts with grim detail the many ways her selfish mother has wounded her soul.

It struck me: Her pain, her bitterness, her imprisonment in a past that continues to determine her future. It reminded me of my own broken relationships with my step-father and natural father. Of the way I callously push my mother and everyone who cares for me away. I am going to die in this loneliness. I am going to suffer and not even God wants to comfort me.

I end this with some dialogue from the film. Eva pronounces these grim words to her devastated mother :

A mother and a daughter.
What a terrible combination
of feelings and
confusion and destruction.

Everything is possible and is done
in the name of love and solicitude.

The mother's injuries are to
be handed down to the daughter.

The mother's failures are to
be paid for by the daughter.

The mother's unhappiness is
to be the daughter's unhappiness.

It's as if the umbilical cord
had never been cut.

Is it so?

Is the daughter's misfortune
the mother's triumph?

Is my grief your
secret pleasure?

Sarah Bernhardt

2010-11-20T18:05:00.000-08:00

photos of the 19th century stage and silent-film actress Sarah Bernhardt.

Madame Arthur- Yvette Guilbert

2010-11-20T17:52:00.001-08:00

Anyone familiar with the paintings and prints of the artist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec would probably have encountered the strange, cartoonish face of the dance hall singer Yvette Guilbert. Her voice is scratchy and her music rather mawkish, but I can't help but imagine its her voice and presence that best epitomizes France's Belle Epoque era.

Our City

2010-11-14T16:33:00.000-08:00

2010-11-09T11:47:00.000-08:00

Four o'clock. Worked on 'Coming Towards the Pool' for three hours. Time flew by like eagle's wings. I haven't included the haloed angel in the forground yet. Don't know how to. My human figures are so lifeless.

I need life. Life and love.

I'm so tired but having so much fun.

2010-11-08T18:04:00.000-08:00

2010-11-06T10:24:00.000-07:00

The March of the Eggs

2010-11-06T08:53:00.000-07:00

2010-11-06T01:08:00.001-07:00

2010-11-06T01:02:00.000-07:00

2010-11-02T12:54:00.000-07:00

2010-11-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

Dream of the Jungle

2010-10-31T12:46:00.000-07:00

2010-10-28T13:59:00.000-07:00

Tree of Life

2010-10-26T12:21:00.000-07:00

Variation of Cimabue's Crucifixion.

2010-10-26T10:28:00.000-07:00

The Firebird

2010-10-25T11:05:00.000-07:00

I made these while listening to Stravinsky's The Firebird

2010-10-23T11:50:00.000-07:00

Self-Portrait Thinking of Constantinople

2010-10-21T10:38:00.000-07:00

The Milk of Sorrow

2010-10-19T23:03:00.000-07:00

I have just finished watching 'The Milk of Sorrow' for the second time. I'm stunned by its beautiful, evocative visual language; its panoramas of deserts, seas and skies. I'm moved by its flower symbolism; its poetic nuances and above all by Magaly Solier's heartbreaking performance as an emotionally damaged young woman on a quest to bury her mother's haunted past, and in doing so, perhaps reclaim herself.

Even as I type this, I can hear the music and songs from the film in my head: songs about mermaids requesting quinine and piano music floating down empty hallways.

I'm drawn to films that explore brokeness. Healing is not important to me; only the evocation of pain that comes from a damaged spirit.

Dream of Burying My Grandmother Who Has No Grave by Sharanya Manivannan

2010-10-17T08:26:00.000-07:00

We buried her upright, in the stance of warriors.
My brothers and I driving
out alone to do this, miles and miles
from the memory of warmth, lifting her
small strong body out of the vehicle
and laying it down
beside the railway track. My gloved hand
brushing frost from her face in the
Siberian winter of a dream in which I
was my mother, and she, mine.

We buried her there without
ritual, lowering her slowly into a furrow,
covering her with fistfuls of ice, hurrying
against the long wail of the approaching train
the engine of our car left
running, our shaking hands, a sorrow
blinding as snow. Near the end,
my brothers stepped away.
I was the last to see that dowager face.
The sting of the ice from her forehead
on my lips all the way back to waking.

Sometimes her love lights my body up
from the inside out, a love like a good
vodka. Grandmother whose body rose in
smoke, I carry your sweet burn within me
even into this, the frozen tundra of a life
with not a stone left standing
to bear witness.
__________________________________________________________

Sharanya Manivannan is the author of
Witchcraft, and can be found online at www.sharanyamanivannan.com.

originlly published on: http://www.pyrtajournal.com/monsoon-issue-july-2010

2010-10-17T07:37:00.000-07:00

I don't know who I am anymore. I need to stop walking alone at night staring at buildings like they're spaceships. I need to know....

...who I really am. What I was meant to do. What I am supposed to do with my life.

I was twittering this earlier when I realized I ought to be blogging my feelings and thoughts instead of twittering them. Twittering is for lazy people and a detriment for any writer serious about his craft. My problem is, I just cannot write properly right now. I do not have the passion or the drive to distill my thoughts and feelings. I feel numb, apathetic and confused. Everything I touch turns to dust while the happiness I seek eludes me.

God where are you in all of this? Don't you understand what I am going through? Please have mercy.

2010-10-11T20:42:00.001-07:00

2010-10-09T03:23:00.000-07:00

Ayo!

2010-10-06T20:14:00.000-07:00

source: deviantart

Still Dreaming

2010-10-06T20:11:00.000-07:00

source: deviantart

2010-10-05T16:20:00.000-07:00

I saw a wooden horse hover over the vault of my room and then the roof opened up to reveal a large dome.

There was a city in the distance with bells, towers and fortified walls.

There was a traveller traversing the woods: a pilgrim with a flaming heart pierced by arrows.

There were many stars in the sky and the stars were made of wood.

Below the branches gathered and thickened.

Cassandra

2010-10-01T23:18:00.000-07:00

I

She holds that crumpled piece of paper in her hand. It was fragile, damp and slightly yellowed. On it was a doctor's unmistakable penmanship---bold and schizophrenic in black ink, dashed across the page like marauding soldiers. She marvels the reckless penmanship; it was almost illegible.

She lays back in her unmade bed, inhaling the damp of her sheets, the damp of her hair, water mixed with sweat. She imagines water flowing past shiny rocks and seeds germinating in the soil, destined to become plants or flowers. She imagines herself for a moment-how she sees herself and how people see her- and notices the distortions in both. Neither radiated the complete truth.

She gets out of bed suddenly; she begins to sing. Her voice is neither melodious nor fine. Instead it is frightened and hangs still in the air before dissolving into dust. Wind blows suddenly through the wooden shutters. Her wind chimes send out peals of sound. The sunlight wanes and shadows begin to deepen like ink stains on the walls and floor.

This is a barren room, decrepit but kept orderly by their dreamy occupant. She is really neither in this room nor out there where artillery shells explode and birds fall like hail from the sky. She has no knowledge of these things: not of the people, mountains or trees that populate the background behind her shutters. She is inside herself, in a place where no one can come and seek her. She is alone in this place and there are polished stones.

She is fragile and strange. Like a reed blowing in the wind she threatens to snap and fall apart at any moment. When will the flood come to sweep her away? Where will it take her? What is she becoming?

II

She used to paint in the garden.

She also used to sketch in her room, laying her hands across her study table while working on sheets of fine paper. She did it sometimes: when the weather was good, or if she felt inspired by a passage from a novel, a piece of music she had heard or even a strange picture from a book. Sometimes inspiration came from everyday things: the vases full of seasonal flowers her mother liked to display all over the house; the religious paintings the villagers placed in their homes.

She drew with charcoal, crayon and ink. She shaded things that sprouted from the depths of her imagination- phantasmagoria that sometimes frightened her mother. Her paintings were slightly more objective: the surrounding trees, the flowers in the garden, people caught in moments of solitude. But she would add a strange element that gave her paintings a disturbing twist: purple tree trunks, clouds shaped like coffins. Her work was naive and primitive but it possessed an undeniable vigor. It made people take notice and gaze back in fear and confusion.

Her terrified mother pleaded for her to stop. In their village, no one had heard of Frida Kahlo, Picasso or the moderns. Stuff like this spooked these insular, close-minded people. So she eventually did stop- hid her paintings and drawings in the grey attic upstairs- but not on account of her mother.

No, it was done on account of a boy.

III

Did she love him? Had she ever loved him? She did not know anymore with any certainty, not that she ever did. What was love anyway, metaphors and allusions aside? Was it something only normal people felt? She felt too different from most people to believe she had ever been in love.

She was too shattered and broken and scarred and bruised and deformed to ever really love. Whatever lovely feelings she felt were being filtered through a broken window.

Her mother she adored, but loved? Again what was love? Was it something displayed in works of selflessness and devotion? Was it verified by hugs, kisses and words? She hardly ever did these things, yet she spelt a special warmth for her mother. She has once lived inside this woman after all, had grown inside her. She saw herself in her mother's tempestuous nature, in her facial features, in the way she saw the world. Yet she felt a distance from her, like a sailor viewing a lighthouse across the channel. She felt alone and rejected. The world was a cold, barren evening desert and there were no stars in the sky.

Then there was the boy, lovely in spite of his imperfections. His defects. The way his teeth gleamed slightly yellow when he laughed. The way he liked to poke fun at animals and girls with the other boys. The way he first ignored her, insulted her, disgusted her with his childishness, But that was before he grew older, grew calmer, perhaps matured. Was no longer a boy but was really a young man. But in his heart he remained a delighted child. He smiled at her, gave her flowers, admired her paintings and her journals. His compliments and empathy were lovelier than any flower, more delicious than any sweet. His eyes were the color of the sunset and a war where soldiers were dying; they were fiery and passionate and full of life. Her eyes were dim and calm, the color of dark stones in a dark riverbed, but his......they were like the moon and sun forever revolving around one another.

He was gone now. His parents had forbidden him from seeing the village freak. Talk had gone around and soon they would be of marriageable age. His parents had no desire to see this odd girl become the bride of their child so he had been sent to a school in the city. He had written before but had stopped. What were the girls like in the cities?

She cried of course. She felt like a statue of plaster that had been thrown down the stairs. Everyday she was torn apart by her own pain and beaten by strong winds. She was numb now, cynical and slightly hypnotized and she was still so young. Now she stared at every boy like a curse.

There had been talk in the village: she had been seen laughing by herself, talking out loud when no one was around. She did odd things like walk only on a certain side of the street, refused to touch certain things and muttered strange prayers. The village priest was sent to her. Once her mother even took her to see a head doctor, a 'psychiatrist' it was muttered exotically.

She had been given some pills, refused to take them, had thrown some violent fits and was now spoken badly off by the ever diligent villagers. Very soon, ashamed and in fear for her daughter's safety, her mother had begun keeping her in her room. Books, music and other diversions were limited. She was advised to pray a lot and keep her thoughts pure. She was fed lots of soup and fresh vegetables. At night, her mother could hear her crying in her room. About what or whom she did not know.

Why was this fragile young woman so broken?

IV

She had begun to notice flowers. Their fragile, poetic beauty. Their color, scent and intricate folds like a woman's psyche. She had begun to draw again, even paint a little. She painted what she saw and felt when she was gazing at a flower. She noticed them in the garden once soaked in their own dew and felt a strange kinship. They could be plucked and left in a glass full of water- left to die slowly in other words. Yet before death claimed them they were so beautiful and innocent. They denounced so clearly a violent and cruel world that wanted them to die in misery.

She is in the garden now. The walls shield her from prying eyes. She is becoming a woman now and people have started noticing her beauty when they catch glimpses of it. Her skin is as pure as milk since she is allowed so little sun. Her hair catches the fire of the sun though her eyes are still as cool as the dark pools inside her heart. She never smiles and wears long, diaphanous dresses. Her words are rare and frightening when spoken. She has no one to speak to after all.

At night she dreams of horses galloping in a moonlit desert. She dreams of dry, hard earth and the vegetation that would sprout once her tears had been shed to nourish the barren soil. She is waiting for the sun, for the light. For him or the stars in the distance, the planets hidden behind a cloak of darkness.

Late one night her mother hears the startling sound of something crashing. Something heavy and burdensome. It is coming from Cassandra's room. She goes into her daughter's room and finds all her flower vases broken on the floor. Had they all been broken at once? Cassandra is nowhere to be found and the wooden shutters bang violently in the wind.