Monthly Archives: May 2010

Le scaphandre et le papillon…

Today I feel blue… I can’t focus on this never-ending world… I don’t want to admit it but today I feel lost… And only he, from above knows why…

A few nights ago, after my cooking therapy and puffing on a cigarette, meant to be the last one for the week, I watched one of my most favourite films for the second time and it felt even better than the first one… The Diving Bell and the Butterfly… A memoir of a guy whose charm was once causing jealousy in many a man… Jean-Dominique Bauby, the editor-in-chief of French Elle magazine, whose luxurious life was covered with loveliness and surrounded with style… Until one day in his early 40s, he got hit by the hardest stroke while driving his new Jaguar with his older son sitting right beside him… He got locked inside and was left all paralyzed except in one eye, his memory, and his imagination…

The movie is an adaptation of Jean Do’s memoir, which was magically written by himself with the help of a transcriber and him blinking thousands upon thousands of times to choose the next letter of the alphabet with his one and only eyelid…

All I can say is that we are all living in a world full of surprises, where we are all tied up to the thinnest thread and our lives can be changed dramatically in a blink of an eye… So why don’t we seize the day instead of being lost and blaming this beautiful world with millions of butterflies leaving their diving bells every single day and flying around as graciously as one can ever fly…

S

The Writer’s Place

It’s Saturday, May the eight… a cold day, which screams for a cozy corner.

Last week towards the end of the class (yes, I’m finally taking a creative writing class), we were given a subject to write about: “A suitable place for writers to work”, and here I am now, at one of my favorite cafés in the city, watching people moving slowly under the rain, and hearing the bearded, long haired guy who’s playing with his guitar strings on the other end… I’m convinced that this is the place that I’d like to be left alone, quiet and calm inside and ready to put my pen to this little piece of paper of mine; well, at least on the eighth day of the month.

Funnily enough, this morning just as I woke up in the coldness of my own room, my eyes got pinned to Virginia Woolf’s “A room of one’s own” essay… oh dear lord, this had been sitting there forever, all dusty and craving attention… I curiously picked it up and started leafing through the pages… in her essay, she says: “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” and I thought to myself, today is a good day for me to start, not as a real writer, but as a woman who seeks a room warmer than hers to write her assignment journals; with or without money.

As much a cliché this may sound, I usually write, or would rather write, in a corner café where I can dream… where I’m surrounded with others and where it serves my caffeine addiction… my brain usually becomes more creative when I watch people of different races, talking in different wondrous languages… whether I understand or am left puzzled by the strangest words coming out from their mouths… in a place where I see the stunning artwork of an unknown artist hanging on the walls both behind and in front of me… and when the coffee stains on my notebook papers inspire me to fill the rest of the blank papers with the words of heart and imagination… with the past and with the present… with at times nonsense yet honest thoughts.

I am told there is no right… and there is no wrong… they’re all my true thoughts from deep inside.

S

Tell Me, Is The Rose Naked?

… Okay, I have a confession to make: I totally adore Pablo and his magical poetry…

“Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?

Why do trees conceal
the splendor of their roots?

Who hears the regrets
of the thieving automobile?

Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?”

— Pablo Neruda

Read it… three times or perhaps three hundred times? Read it over and over and try to feel and then digest it…

Happy Friday!

S

Heart of Palm

What an antic and odd world we live in… full of creatures coming from different eras… entirely different times…

Some seek praise in desperation and some feed them with attention… some dream big hopelessly, while some are engrossed in daydreaming… some smile at their future love and some learn how to hurt us and carry on… some know how to fly and some are unfaithful to the sky… their heart is black; they don’t feel white… they only see black and white… some conduct then play it hard; that’s when the king kills the knight…

… and at end of it all, they all seek a crystal heart as pleasing as the heart of palm…

S

Underground Stories | Take Four

It’s humid… she likes it sticky and humid.

Who would ever get inspired in the stickiest air, in the darkness, where the smell of old papers seldom becomes unbearable, and when the rest of the world lighting up their tobacco sticks, then sipping on their by-now empty glasses… Oh, the coldest liquids crawling down their throats at the corner bars, while getting all burnt inside out by the warmth of the May sun.

She, who sees the innocent faces in their blue carts, smiling at the strangest strangers in their eyes… she, who sees the elderly ladies, getting offered reddish seats by high school kids… and she, who sees the same guy, begging for a loonie to feed his drunken thought right after the sun fades into the darkened night… Yes, she still gets energized by many souls around and reminds her own to love the world more than the past.

The clock at her stop reads 5:36 post meridiem… It’s still humid and she likes it pretty humid!

S

Conversation #40

– The train started its journey and I’m on it.
– What are you seeing out of the window?
– Gray blocks and a blue sky, which is changing its color to match the blocks.
– Oh, blue giving way to pink?
– Kind of. Oh, and the guy in green is looking at the same sky. Stunning!
– Stunning sky or guy? Is he mixed with pink too?
– (Smile)