Today I am sovereignty,
I am Morrighan, Bouddica, Macha … I am woman
in my body, is the ancestral blood
In my mind, the ultimate inspiration
in my soul, the energy of all those who marched my breeding ground, and walked not in vain
Today I am woman,
I am the one who collects the spoils of battle, who fertilizes the earth, who curses the unworthy … I am Sovereignty
in my body, the smell of lust
In my mind, memories of dancing moments
in my soul, a mixture of energy, light, passion
Today I am a druid,
I am the one who walks among the cries of war, amidst ancient forests, between worlds … I am inspiration
in my body, seeds of creation
In my mind, the light of Awen
in my soul, magic, strength, gratitude
As you know (from my previous post), I am taking part in the National Novel Writing Month this year, (more info at http://www.nanowrimo.org/ ), and I am about to hit 7000 words, hopefully 8000 even though I had a horrible Migraine and ended up in hospital this morning.
This is the kind of thing that inspires me more and more.
Bellow is Neil Gaiman’s pep talk to all the WriMos!
(for those who want to read what I am writing, please send me a message)
I’ll leave you with Neil Gaiman now,
Aline
Originally Posted by: Chris Baty on 11/18/2007 at http://www.nanowrimo.org/node/1065561
Dear NaNoWriMo Author,
By now you’re probably ready to give up. You’re past that first fine furious rapture when every character and idea is new and entertaining. You’re not yet at the momentous downhill slide to the end, when words and images tumble out of your head sometimes faster than you can get them down on paper. You’re in the middle, a little past the half-way point. The glamour has faded, the magic has gone, your back hurts from all the typing, your family, friends and random email acquaintances have gone from being encouraging or at least accepting to now complaining that they never see you any more—and that even when they do you’re preoccupied and no fun. You don’t know why you started your novel, you no longer remember why you imagined that anyone would want to read it, and you’re pretty sure that even if you finish it it won’t have been worth the time or energy and every time you stop long enough to compare it to the thing that you had in your head when you began—a glittering, brilliant, wonderful novel, in which every word spits fire and burns, a book as good or better than the best book you ever read—it falls so painfully short that you’re pretty sure that it would be a mercy simply to delete the whole thing.
Welcome to the club.
That’s how novels get written.
You write. That’s the hard bit that nobody sees. You write on the good days and you write on the lousy days. Like a shark, you have to keep moving forward or you die. Writing may or may not be your salvation; it might or might not be your destiny. But that does not matter. What matters right now are the words, one after another. Find the next word. Write it down. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
A dry-stone wall is a lovely thing when you see it bordering a field in the middle of nowhere but becomes more impressive when you realise that it was built without mortar, that the builder needed to choose each interlocking stone and fit it in. Writing is like building a wall. It’s a continual search for the word that will fit in the text, in your mind, on the page. Plot and character and metaphor and style, all these become secondary to the words. The wall-builder erects her wall one rock at a time until she reaches the far end of the field. If she doesn’t build it it won’t be there. So she looks down at her pile of rocks, picks the one that looks like it will best suit her purpose, and puts it in.
The search for the word gets no easier but nobody else is going to write your novel for you.
The last novel I wrote (it was ANANSI BOYS, in case you were wondering) when I got three-quarters of the way through I called my agent. I told her how stupid I felt writing something no-one would ever want to read, how thin the characters were, how pointless the plot. I strongly suggested that I was ready to abandon this book and write something else instead, or perhaps I could abandon the book and take up a new life as a landscape gardener, bank-robber, short-order cook or marine biologist. And instead of sympathising or agreeing with me, or blasting me forward with a wave of enthusiasm—or even arguing with me—she simply said, suspiciously cheerfully, “Oh, you’re at that part of the book, are you?”
I was shocked. “You mean I’ve done this before?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not really.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “You do this every time you write a novel. But so do all my other clients.”
I didn’t even get to feel unique in my despair.
So I put down the phone and drove down to the coffee house in which I was writing the book, filled my pen and carried on writing.
One word after another.
That’s the only way that novels get written and, short of elves coming in the night and turning your jumbled notes into Chapter Nine, it’s the only way to do it.
So keep on keeping on. Write another word and then another.
Pretty soon you’ll be on the downward slide, and it’s not impossible that soon you’ll be at the end. Good luck…
I have been struggling to write a book for years now, and I can surely say I have ideas for 4 or 5 different ones, in my mind and small pieces of paper scattered around my house. But as I am a perfectionist and a VERY DAMN GOOD procrastinator, it never became real.
Today, while… procrastinating a little bit (for a change.LOL) I received a tweet that called my attention:
National Novel Writing Month 2009
What’s this?
National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.
and I though…well, maybe it’s just what I need!
SO, following the NaNoWriMo advice, I am spreading the word I am an official participant, so you can ask me about it during November, so I keep working hard not to feel ashamed I could not accomplish it…LOL
In case you want to add me as a NaNoWriMo buddy, here is my profile:
http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/544784
Now, HELP ME HERE:
Should I write it in Portuguese or English?
We can’t deny stories may guide our lives in ways we can’t explain, and I have to confess, the one that have been following me for a long time, is not a very happy one, but I find in it some elements that make my life magical and inspiring… so,if I could choose a poem/ fairytale, as a favourite, I would choose:
“The Lady of Shalott”, which is a Victorian ballad by the English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892). The poem talks about the Arthurian subject based on medieval sources. What is it about? (Especially for those too lazy to read a good poem!)
The Lady of Shalott lives in an island castle in a river, which flows to Camelot, but the local farmers know little about her.
She seems to be a magical and Her business is to look at the world outside her castle through a mirror, and to weave what she sees into a tapestry/loom. She is forbidden by the magic to look at the outside world directly.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
The farmers who live near her island hear her singing and know who she is, but they never see her.
The Lady sees ordinary people, loving couples, and knights in pairs reflected in her mirror.
One day, she sees the reflection of Sir Lancelot riding alone. Although she knows that it is forbidden, in love, she looks out the window at him.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot
The mirror brakes, the tapestry flies off on the wind, and the Lady feels the power of her curse.
Out flew the web and floated wide-
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
An autumn storm suddenly arises. The lady leaves her castle, finds a boat, writes her name on it, gets into the boat, sets it adrift, and sings her death song as she drifts down the river to Camelot. The locals find the boat and the body, realize whom she is, and are saddened. Lancelot, in Love, prays that God will have mercy on her soul.
Lord Alfred Tennyson’s Inspiration
This is one of Tennyson’s most popular poems. The story of the Lady of Shalott is a version of “Elaine the fair maid of Astolat”, from Thomas Malory’s Morte d’Arthur. Elaine’s naive love for Lancelot was unrequited. She died of a broken heart (committed suicide). Her dead body (with a suicide note between her hands) was floated down the Thames to Camelot.
Some late authors wrote about her, or inspired in Tennyson’s poem, such as, Agatha Christie that wrote a Miss Marple mystery entitled “The Mirror Crack’d From Side to Side”.
Other forms of art were inspired by it, like, The Pre-Raphaelites Brotherhood painters. Where a good example is Waterhouse who made three separate paintings of “The Lady of Shalott”. I have a copy of one of them hanging above my bed… LONG STORY!) CLICK TO ENLARGE
Even in a modern world, we have the exquisite work of Loreena Mckennitt in the following song:
and finally:
THE POEM
The Lady of Shalott – 1842 version
“On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road runs by
To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil’d,
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower’d Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, ” ‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance –
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right –
The leaves upon her falling light –
Thro’ the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”
“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans” John Lennon
It has been a while since I’ve tried to keep a blog, and, inevitably, I always end up abandoning my efforts.
It’s important to recognize which phase of the creative process you’re in. Be fully present while in each step, enjoy it, play with it and revel in your creative gifts.
But, you can also start to notice some common roadblocks or pitfalls that show up when you’re writing.
No matter how well you write, life’s events can temporarily stop your flow of creativity. Creative interruptions are okay, and even more common than you think.
It doesn’t have to be a big event that acts as a distraction, such as a loss, sickness, lack of job, etc. This morning I was feeling totally idealess and scattered. Simply because I was going to do something I didn’t want to do at the moment.
In my case, the interruption was brief. I was back on track in minutes. But sometimes, big life events, may trigger off a huge ebb of creativity. And let’s remember, ebb of creativity, doesn’t mean lack of inspiration.
Even though, both are intimately connected.
- Don’t let interruptions stop you!
The trick, of course, is not to let life’s events stop you completely. The only way to get something written is to either write it you or hire someone to write it. If you’re writing it yourself, you’ve simply got to put words on paper. Most people find they do this best when they stick to a writing schedule.
“Freedom is found along the guiding lines of discipline.” – Yehudi Menuhin
It’s very important to say that, sticking to a writing schedule isn’t the same thing as being a slave to it. That doesn’t work well either.
You are the only one who knows when an interruption in your writing schedule slips from understandable and acceptable to procrastination and, if you let it becomes a writer’s block.
Writing well requires, among other things, self-honesty, patience and practice. There is no easier or softer way. But the main advice is: Don’t give up!
“In order to create, we must take the bad with the good. You are bound to write many bad paragraphs along with the good ones. You can get rid of those bad paragraphs later but first you must write them. Otherwise you won’t write anything.” —Eric Maisel, Taking the Bad with the Good
In fact, writing and publication can be an entirely self-determined activity these days. So, the best you can do is carrying paper and pen with you.
We never know when creativity and inspiration might come.
Aline Writing Martins
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“Inspiration must mean just this, that the speaker or writer is uttering something that he does not wholly understand – or which he may even misinterpret when the inspiration has departed from him.” T.S. Eliot
I think Eliot and all of us doubt if the word “inspiration” has any meaning. If you are a religious believer of any denomination you know, or at least you have words for, where your inspiration comes from, however mysterious it may seem; But for many there is not much language to talk about inspiration without beginning to sound a bit mystical or relying on a Powerful source that can’t quite be named but can’t quite be ignored, and yet inspiration is a word no one is shy of using now, even though they are not that keen to explain how it might work.
I can’t answer the inspiration question well because I’m inspired by almost everything. I read as much as I can and try to always keep my eyes and ears open. Today in a brainstorm I was inspired by the Powers of Life and what in bring to us as experience.
Ultimately my belief is that anything can be inspiring.
So when I think about inspiration, I think about understanding that anything can be inspiration. Most of us grow up believing that learning must be boring. A teacher must stand in front of the class and teach us through some incredibly dry textbook (and as a teacher I must say: if the teacher is not inspired to teach, the pupil wont be inspired to learn). We get so much more out of those times when we’re engaged in an activity.
Inspiration is the kind of magic that people like to believe in, perhaps especially now, in a culture where money can buy virtually everything else of value, and science and technology can create or invent the things we most need. But, it reassures us, or at least reminds us, that some of the best things about us are beyond our control.
Inspiration may not belong to us, but it is only we who can be inspired. (and it is only we who can spoil it )
I think (and my opinion may be very disturbing here) we have glamorized inspiration, idealized the artist possessed a special vision of the world, in a way we don’t see it.
Just as you can’t try and have a dream, or decide beforehand what it will be, inspired work, just happen based on the person’s life per se.
When Keats wrote that poetry must come as easily as leaves to a tree, or Picasso said, ‘I don’t seek, I find’, they were both reminding us, that inspiration is beyond the realm of calculated intentions.
I think, all we need it to be receptive to the unfamiliar; and we need to be able to wait, without certainty, for the thing we want. This, in a sense, is the faith of the believer in artistic inspiration.
{Inspiration} lays in my mind
As a patchwork of colors.
I see it. Recorded in pieces of life,
a complete work made of moments.
If it is beauty, it´s innocence.
If it is body, it´s lust, temptation.
If I´m thirsty, it´s a spring
if I have hunger, bread.
It gives me agile fluency
If the paper wants to be empty.
It is a muse of emergency.
It comes in the night, sometimes in the day;
it’s inspiration that creates the cadence.
If it doesn’t come … the poetry is gone.
Aline Inspired Martins
PS: apart from my faith, books, music and love…there are other things worthy sharing…these things really inspire me…
When I dance (Aline-Brazil- 2008)
My cats and nature in general (Dana and Her babies 2007)
My friends (here only the girls gathered for a Tea Party, but love them all!)
My Parents
and my only Brother and Best friend Andre
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"Inspiration comes in many ways" - Aline at Serra da Cantareira -Brazil -2007
What is a poet? An unhappy man who in his heart harbors a deep anguish, but whose lips are so fashioned that the moans and cries which pass over them are transformed into ravishing music. His fate is like that of the unfortunate victims whom the tyrant Phalaris imprisoned in a brazen bull, and slowly tortured over a steady fire; their cries could not reach the tyrants ears so as to strike terror into his heart; when they reached his ears they sounded like sweet music. And men crowd about the poet and say to him, “Sing for us soon again”—which is as much as to say, “May new sufferings torment your soul, but may your lips be fashioned as before; for the cries would only distress us, but the music, the music, is delightful.” ~Søren Kierkegaard
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things. ~ T. S. Eliot
Being a poet is hard… Why? Who hasn’t been on the uncomfortable side of the conversation that goes something like
this: “So, what do you do?” “I’m a poet.” -long silence- “No, I mean what do
Dana, my librarian cat!
you do? What is your job?” As if poetry is not a job, but merely a taboo hobby. (and I think this conversation follows the same way in many other art branches)
There is also the fact that most of the time it simply doesn’t pay. Many poets must work one or more manual labor or teaching jobs (like me) to actually pay the bills. But it’s only the practical life problem.
Another reason being a poet can be difficult is the nature of composing the poems themselves. I have been writing poetry all my life it has only become more and more challenging to write, not easier. And there is no shortage of distraction, whether internal or external. There are those who argue that such distraction is necessary; others that it is detrimental. There is no doubt that it is unavoidable.
But for those of us who write poetry, the art chose us. We have no choice but pursue it (the choice consists merely of whether we will publish in our lifetime or not). And it is rewarding in its own right. No, it offers absolutely no instant gratification. Therefore, soldiers of the words, ever and onward with your mighty pen!
But still…
TODAY I AM POET
Today I am a poet again
Singing to the four winds
My rhyming verses,
Of nostalgia and heat …
Today from this hill
I see the plains,
filled with my words
growing with the rain
of my elegance…
Today I am childhood,
that wants the future
And is not afraid to age,
I offer innocence…
Today I am dementia,
of the craziest passion,
I am alive, I am yours …
Today I am paint,
Which runs through my veins,
In tangled webs
as life in an hourglass …
Today I am a poet, today I am…
Aline Poet Martins
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Once, a poet wanted to write a poem made of a single word. He was looking for a word that could translate the whole world…we never knew if he could do it. But, I think, poetry is looking for the essential word. Maybe when God made the Universe he thought: GARDEN! (or not)
A garden is the image of beauty, harmony, love, happiness. A writer, friend of mine once said that if he could choose a word to translate the world, Garden would be this word. After a long time waiting, finally, I could have my own garden. I had to wait, because gardens need a land to plant. And I didn´t have it. From my garden, I only had a dream. But one thing I know.I know, that dreams are the places where gardens start to grow, before coming to exist in “real life”.
A garden is a dream that became reality, it’s a part of our soul, being shown to the world with no shame… but the dreams are beautiful things. On their own, they can’t create much…maybe only birds with no wings…like songs that are never played, like seeds in small packs, waiting for someone to put them where they belong.
The dreams lived inside me. They were my own possession. But the land… didn’t exist. But someday, the land came to be… I know, I know it´s virtual, and we can only see from the window of this Dusty Attic, but look friends, what can you see? oh, my dream made love with the land and a garden was born! I didn´t need a gardener. They are excellent, to make real gardens beautiful. In fact, all I wanted was my garden to speak. Oh, you didn´t know gardens can speak?
The poet Guimarães Rosa- Brazilian Poet once said:
“There are many, millions of gardens, and they all talk to each other. The Birds of wind in the sky – always bring messages (…) Even now, there is a big garden, full of girls. Where a little girl, is making fairies… someday you will miss it…then you will know…”
Only those who miss something can understand the messages from the gardens, and we are the only one able to hear the message from our own garden. A garden is like a body. The nature becomes the lover in it…and it´s so good!
All I wanted was the garden from my dreams, that one that only existed because of the things I missed. Then, I was not looking for a real garden; I was looking for the poetic beauty from myself. I wanted to revive the lost happiness; the lost time…
Some time ago a friend said to another “Poor Aline, is nostalgic”. But this person didn’t realize that nostalgia doesn´t mean we stay crying all the time. To miss is the pain we feel when we realize the distance between the dream and reality. It is realizing that the happiness will only come back when reality can become a dream.
I dream of a garden. We all dream of it. In each body, there is a paradise!
We are nothing but a butterfly. Our world, our destiny, our garden. An utopia.
The Birth of a Butterfly
It´s weird to notice how light comes during the night
How a smile comes with tears.
It´s weird how a storm, can make the land fertile again
How simple steps, can make a dance
everything is change
and…then, amidst all this darkness…
It came slowly, passed by as a breeze
soft, evolving my hectic nights
and night after night, it came back, with agile fingers, and broad smiles
to plant in me, a hope that for a long time had been broken
I looked for memories that were forgotten,
feelings of past lives soaked in tears, but still, I threw my net, and got
that single drop of the sea, that was waiting for me.
I held it carefully, as a diamond… how could a diamond so fragile?
Then, it vibrated, and as a reverse tear, it went up through my face
entered the windows of my soul, and installed itself in my heart.
After a long sigh, the world became a rainbow. The pain was gone.
I could feel that breeze within me, as arms
was it spreading inside me? I can´t be that big…
So, I had to get rid of things I didn´t want anymore.
And In a frenetic whirl of colours and horrors, I tried to create space.
But there was nothing left. So, I entered my own cave.
Organized the mysteries of my soul.
Maybe, that thing that grew within me, could find its purpose.
The breeze became a storm of kisses and smiles
A storm that raised seas of tears
An earthquake of senses and touches
and there, as a metamorphosis, between earth, sea and sky
I could understand the alchemy that was happening inside me
A butterfly was born …
in my back, the most delicate wings … unique, as I had never seen.
And tonight, I´ll fly, high, in search of my spring of inspiration.
It can be anywhere, doesn´t matter its name.
I´ll recognize it when I see for it is mine and it´s is part me.
Now, dear guest and creatures from this Attic…
what can you see in this garden?
What are you missing and Nostalgic about?
Love,
Aline Butterfly Martins
PS: here is a very close friend of mine.
Every morning I cross a park when going to work, and there lives a very special being. My family calls her “grandma”. (It is an elder indeed). I have shared with her my best and worst moments… Yes, It´s a magnificent tree (From Celso Daniel´s Park- Santo André -São Paulo-Brazil)
PPS: I know this Attic is quite Hectic, but
the comment link bellow does not bite! trust me!
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I spent a good part of my childhood in my grandpa´s house.
To go in, we had to pass through a huge door. I never could understand the reason for such high doors, I used to think giants used to live there before ! When the door was open we could see a long, gloomy corridor, that ended at the stairs.
The living room, noble place of the house! inside you could see the candlesticks, the marble and crystal vases, statuettes and souvenirs from long trips, the huge mirrors, symbols of nobility displayed to visitors. In the room, the arrangement of the furniture did not give chance to doubts. The visitors were forced to sit in certain places and do certain things. There was no place there for mistakes. Everything had its place.
Then, there was a hallway leading into the private part of the house. And there were huge rooms one after the other. It was necessary to cross the first to go to the second …
The nights were haunted, governed by the carillon clock and its beat, useless information, which only served to make the insomnia even more excruciating.
It was fascinating to walk in those rooms. But what fascinated me was a THE FORBIDDEN ROOM, locked all the time.
In other times, when the house was full of children, all rooms were standard rooms. But…the children got married, the hard times came. Without use, that room was transformed into a deposit of old stuff, where neither people nor broom or duster was allowed in. It was forbidden to get in, and the key was always hidden.
To my uncles it was a place for the ugly things, the dust and spider webs. But for me it was the THE ROOM OF MYSTERY. If there was no mystery, the key would not be hidden nor, we would be forbidden to get in. The forbidden room is always the one we want to get in. We are fascinated by the mystery and the forbidden. The reason for this I do not understand, but I know that the human soul is made of it.
Well, I used to steal the key and, quietly, enter the room of mystery. The room was an enchanted place. Even what was considered horrible helped composing the scene: the accumulated dust on the furniture, the spider webs, the smell, everything was there to tell me the time had stopped there. Magic. The objects emerged from a world of dreams. The zither, with mother of pearl inlay: how long have been in that silence? And the paint palettes? covered with old paint. What was the last time a brush had touched it? A gramophone, old records …
I think my fascination for the room of mystery, was due to the fact that, inside, I AM like the room. My soul is a room where the weirdest objects are placed, without order, without any intention of doing so. In contrast to the living room, where each object is placed in a precise order in relation to others, in the room of mystery there is no order, no arrangement: each object is a COMPLETE UNIVERSE, does not depend on others.
For me every person has a living room clean and organized, open for general visitation, but also has a fascinating room of mystery which we only can get in if we steal the key. Some people think that the forbidden room is full of terrible things, corpses, excrement and horrible smell. And that is what they find, because we only find what we’re looking for. But for me, (that little girl in the forbidden place), the terrible things are just ornaments and enchanted things, frozen, asleep, out of time, such as Sleeping Beauty in the dust, with spider webs and wild plants, there, waiting for someone who will give the kiss that break the spell …
“So, this is the room of my mind. Therein lays everything: magic, poetry, insights being brewed. Just like in the Room of mystery, in my grandpa´s house… not many people will like to get in, and stay here, for it was built for enchanted ones”.
Why did I tell you that?
oh! just to say….
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