Let's hope she never wakes



Waiting. For Christmas, for the next holidays, for the week to be over, for the train, for my son to go to bed, for Sunday lunch, for the next movie to come out, for inspiration to come, for the next lesson, for the flu to pass, for the next trip abroad, for more time on my own.

And when all these things come, I start waiting all over again.

On the other hand, there are things that I have stopped waiting for, either because I realised they would never come or because I lost interest.

For the next drama, for the man of my dreams, for the next night out, for understanding, for revenge, for justice, for my mother to change. Some things never change regardless of how much you wait.

I see myself waiting and I try to fill the wait with here and now things. It helps my self-esteem.

Her prince must have died or lost his marbles by now. I hope she never-ever wakes.

Freckles

Marina Bychkova's doll.

It looks so real it is upsetting. A real woman trapped inside a tiny porcelain body. Her lifetime of stories and words pinned on her face, yet she cannot speak.

I feel more comfortable when a doll comes with a guilt-free certificate; then you can swing her by the leg, cut her hair and put silly clothes on her. This doll demands your respect and gets it without effort. She looks experienced, wise, tortured even and you can do nothing but stare, pamper her and wonder if you are keeping her happy.

These dolls are pure witchcraft.

If these were the middle ages, they would have been thrown in the pyre or hidden inside secret stone vaults. One or two would have survived the Inquisition. They would be afraid to break them open in the case of evil spirits being released in the world, so they would put bury them.

Some of them would be put on altars and be the witnesses of blood sacrifices and prayers. Holy men would steal them for their pleasure.. and fall madly in love with them.

These dolls provoke inspiration.

Autumn spirits

Living in a big city costs you in many ways. I watch the seasons come and go from the gardens and flower pots around me. I smell jasmin and see the fig tree in the back garden. There is an ancient almond tree that tells me when winter is close and when spring is due but it's always too soon. It think it's the extra heat that has its clock all mixed up.

When I see pictures like this I feel overwhelmed by what I am missing. The whistle of the air travelling around the trees, the rustle of the falling leaves, the colours dancing in front of your eyes and the constant change of the road in front of you as you walk down the path. The smell of moist earth, the inspiration that sneaks in your head when you close your eyes for just a second.

I miss it though I never had it, not really, not like this.

Autumn is full of emotions and memory. It's the underlying sadness that enriches it, the glorious death of beauty. Like a last firework of browns, burgundies, yellows and reds; nature's last breath, whose phoenix-like death will push the wheel of life to spin once again.