The meeting

"Where are you?" the thin mental voice asked.

"I'm on the train to Rome" she thought hurriedly back.

She closed her eyes and saw her there,

sitting in a Queen Anne velvet armchair,

drinking red herb tea.

"Listen carefully for I shall speak of this only once,

we can't afford to take another chance."

"I hear you, go ahead and talk about the task

speak fast, it's only a few hours before dusk.

"The loom that weaves the cloth

which separates the worlds

is kept beyond the dying ashes

of the burning sea.

Once a year the loom weaves

the magic veil

which thins and fades as the year passes

until it can't be seen.

The night that darkenss conquers light,

the night the veil falls at witches' will,

that night we shall cross the gate

and find the loom before it starts to weave.

The candle shall burn

for hours nine

enough to brew, enough to cast the spell.

Its cogs and wheels, its threads and heddles

shall be altered beyond repair.

The newly woven veil

shall always grant us pass

to all the worlds at last.

The darkest spirits and lightest nymphs,

will be called to do our deeds,

for all I want and all you wish

we and only we shall keep the keys.

The woman drank her bitter tea,

eyes glistering

she looked at her,

the smoke had all but gone,

her smile shone back beneath the veil.

"What is it that you wish?"

"I want to roam and fly free wherever I wish,

I want people to shrink at my command

and keep them in a chocolate box

to play with when I please".

A knock was heard on the door..

"I need to go, take care.."

the smoke, the train were gone.

She placed the herb tea on the pink lace tablecloth and sighed,

twenty-two nights were not that long.

"you have a childness in you that I would like to crush"

Most people misunderstand it, others feel intimidated by it but most are absolutely envious of it.

It's the sparkle of enthusiasm that comes out as a flare and blinds the soul-dead. The unhindered laughter that echoes in the adult -club of the overworked. The life that is perceived as an infectious disease to the zombie- sedated, money-driven, self-obsessed grown-ups of today's Matrix.

"I cannot allow you to have something that I have allowed to die. You must be what I am so that I can feel good about my self."

She is pressured from all corners. Closing her eyes she takes a deep breath. Fresh baked bread from the bakery across the street, the vaccum cleaner making a racket from the flat above, the soft mush of the gutted pumkin in her hand....

Something like that never dies, it lives on even when you are dead. It leaves ripples in the pool of life that affect others for many years after. And then it is recognised for what it truly was. A strong appetite to harverst all life's potential.

-"You have a childness in you that I would like to crush"

-"Hearing you say it scares me. I'd rather go.."

getting there

I'm all set and with the best intentions. All I wanted to say is on paper, all revised and checked. The wheels are in motion, the story is on the run and there is no going back now. The characters are waiting for me to give the signal to fight to the end, more blood is going to be spilt, destinies will be decided and kingdoms will perish. Some will die, others will live and I, the all mighty God of their universe, am standing on the highest hill overlooking the battlefield waiting for the right moment.

I shouldn't have picked this outfit. This is a battlefield after all. Boots and pants would have been more appropriate but its my feeling that I will come out of it unscathed and victorious that led me choose these shoes and the white dress. I wouldn't want my characters to look better than me. I want to them to feel at ease at this dire moment.

This isn't a battle of good and evil, right and wrong, love and indifference, this is a battle of characters, of power over others, of personal fears and insecurities in a fictional land where there are no rules. Everyone is playing their game, and some games are just not good enough. In a land made of blood, death is irrelevant, physical pain is non-existent and the concept of life is negotiable.

Yet I am happy for it, therefore the shoes.

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.

Grant me a wish!

Talking about wishes this morning only brought us to a dead end.

I think that wishing for things and working towards them is a positive way to look at life because you keep discovering new things about you and the world around you but this other wise friend of mine said that wishes only bring pain, fear and anxiety. You should be happy and content with your life as it is.

I have learnt from experience that if you really want something, in the end you get it, with the condition of course that you don't give up working towards it. So why stop wishing if you know that in the end you will have what you wished for? Even in the event that your wish isn't fulfilled, because you didn't try enough or because you were really unlucky, the time you spent visualising yourself achieving your goal is time well spent. It made you happy and urged you to try harder.

I would like to hear what other people think about this. So it you come across these lines do pass your experience around for others and me of course to read.

the singing buttler

Trying hard not to fall,

What am I thinking?

I follow his steps.

Bloody rain, bloody baron, bloody song.

Raindrops the size of golf balls blur my eyes,

the silk dress is soaked, my ruined hair whips my cheek,

he's insane, look at the maid weep.

The bag...the bag is at her feet.

He sings all wrong, I can't hear a word,

Keep focused, the bag is all you want.

The stuff inside will make you rich

I hope he slips and breaks his hips.

I'll catch a cold, my feet are sore,

I am frozen to the core.

A turn of a screw is all I need

to make him fall, to steal the bling.

I watched him take it from the bank

Napoleon's necklace,

he'll sell it for some land,

the stupid baron of royal rank.

Three hundred diamonds belong to me

romantic bastard bedding ME.

I think the song is about to end.

-Let's get off this roof sweet darling, I am all spent..

take me inside, warm me up,

send these people away, we don't need them

...it's alright, look, I'll carry the bag.



Katharsis

I have never discussed the time I went there nor have I written anything about it. I think mainly this is because the whole experience is surrounded by the impression of a dream. I remember everything I did, saw and felt but I am not consciously convinced that the experience actually took place. Of course I have photos, books, an amazing mask I bought which is now above the fireplace but still its reality eludes me.

This trip is for me the only proof I have that time travel is a fact and that drugs are not necessary for a trance-like experience. She can do all that for you if you are open enough to listen to her commands. After all Venice is a sultry mistress, among other, more honourable things.

Venice: Where outside fails.

Inside Venice. That's all there is. The whole city is an interior, being inside closed doors makes you feel trapped into the familiarity of today. You need to be outside of today and inside the continuous act that the city asks you to perform. This city is beyond time and reality; beyond truth and compromise. It is a mind game.

My mind was moaning with please, my subconscious was storing senses for a decade's worth of dreams, and I fell in love with everything. I had no reason to look up. I never looked up because the sky had lost its grandeur. It was nothing but a faded old rug.

The smells of fresh vegetables under my window in the morning. The sound of the river boats, the church bells followed by wing flapping and then silence. The smell of fresh ice cream, hot bread and coffee locked in the small interior of the piazza. It flies around, sneaks inside your room, it will fill you, neither of you can escape the merge because there's nowhere to run to. The great outdoors is a lost case.