Categories
Narrative Essays

Bits of thoughts from a shattered heart

A river stream

It’s patience; my impatience

A river runs deep inside of me. And it takes its source from the mountain of my mind. It slowly flows, streams patiently, and on its way, it engulfs some water creatures, some aquatic plants, and loads of pebbles and soil, and this, all the while I sit on its bank, dreamily looking towards the vast sea.

It’s patience; my impatience. And yet, the river it tells me that we are one; that its course is my course, and that all of these creatures also swim within me.

But I couldn’t wait. I wanted to speed towards the vast ocean, to meet all of its creatures, and swim freely within its large mouth — when the river in me, had not even met the other tributaries.

Thus I’ve taken Darcocyte out of my riverbed, there where it was still learning to swim, and rushed till the ocean. And there I drowned. But the river and I are one — same course, same pace, same path . . . but I was too impatient, too impertinent, a foolish head.

***

There is no bright star that lives in the space of my head, granting me wishes

The other day I was brought back to the reality of things, when I realized with sheer horror that Darcocyte is filled with grammatical errors and bad syntaxes.

There is no unicorn. There is no magical fairy or lamp, no fairy dust or magical wand, no wishing well, no good fortune, no celestial guides, faith don’t move mountains; the internet is not the vast ocean, it is simply a lagoon; there is no bright star that lives in the space of my head, granting me wishes; life is real, it is not surreal. There is only patience, diligence, hard work, logic, perseverance, the reality and knowledge of things, and in-depth analysis. The rest, only fiction, thing, that I need to wrap my mind around more often.

***

I didn’t know what to do. I panicked when I realized that I had written a first book that’s filled with mistakes, thus I’ve unpublished Darcocyte.

I’ve been reading Darcocyte again with new eyes, and this, after one whole year. And my heart couldn’t take it. I am stressing all over it. I have lost my writing rhythm; I have been thinking too much. My train has derailed from its track; I am staggering. From a streaming river, I returned back to a stagnant state.

Yet, most of the great writers said that the writer should forget their manuscript for some months, as to be able to re-read it with fresh new eyes, and thus be able to discern their mistakes, and self-edit more easily. And now I can confirm that it is the truth; but came to that truth a little bit too late.

I didn’t know what to do. I panicked when I realized that I had written a first book that’s filled with mistakes, thus I’ve unpublished Darcocyte. I am to blame for not having changed my baby’s diapers and gave it a bath for all of these months😅…

Trial and errors, and now I am going through a nightmare, a nightmare on editing street; a bad dream that came true.

***

I have finished my book of poems, and yet, I still have no clue about what to do next

I have finished my book of poems, and yet, I still have no clue about what to do next. I am filled with so much doubts now; and I have nothing to hang myself to. I’ve lost my way in a maze filled with traps. I don’t even know how to write . . . see, this is all crap, just like a robot would write. Me and my mind, we are unable to create properly, I am thinking too negatively.

It has never been exotic English. Some part of it was none-sense, ugly, bad litterature. I have failed right away as an indie-author. Yet I never had bad intentions. I wanted to embrace the e-bohemian culture, the DIY culture. For it was there that we are going, isn’t it? No. It can’t be 2020.

I wanted to do it for the others out there. For those that want to write or blog, to create, but who don’t know how, where, and with what to start. But I wanted it to be the truth of my individual experience. I wanted to be that light, even as tiny as it may seem, in this vast darkness. Just because I can do it. Just because I have the necessary determination and thickness of skin. I wanted to do it for you, for you to know the different ways you can take as to arrive at your destination — though without a dim, though without the necessary talent, and the education needed. It’s not for everyone, but for a handful of bold people, of that I can attest.

I’ve hurt myself against many interesting online services that are not available for most underdeveloped or developing countries. Services where independents and freelancers can dwell and tap into, as to free themselves from this birdcage. And most online articles are about those online services that are not available for us here. That really was my mission, to collect my own writing experience data and archive it on the world wide web database.

***

Could a book have a will of its own? When it is not ready, it is not ready

Have to say that everything pointed elsewhere. But this stubbornness of mine, this stupidity of mine, this impatience of mine. First of all I hurt myself against a method of payment that was not available for my country (first locked door), then the pricing formulation was too complicate and obscure for me to understand (second locked door), then I was overwhelmed with all of these frustrations. Things were not working smoothly, I was not seeing clearly. Thus, could it be that a book has a will of its own? When it is not ready, it is not ready. Have I not again listened to my intuitions? I guess so, for everything points to the mistakes I’ve made due to my impatience.

As I am writing this blog post, I don’t know anymore what to do. This whole thing is stressing me — and I hate stressful situations. I hate it when I am stuck like that. I hate it that things are not turning out like I wished them to be. I get mad like a child that throws a tantrum when I don’t get what I want😂 especially when I’ve worked hard for that something.

I still don’t know what I had in my head when I started it all out, but surely I always had good intentions.

I want to believe again, to be again, to try again

What is perfection without our own personality attach to it? Without our own magic. I have my own style of writing, not to the taste of everyone, not, for anyone — a little bit decadent, a little bit odd and surreal, perhaps incomprehensible to many readers, but always with parts of myself. I am not a book thief, everything that I’ve written has been meticulously researched online. Perhaps my texts, even my whole ideas have been mined and sold, but I will always remain the author, it’s already in the memory of the universe, in the memory of water. I am not blind, remember, I make one with the river, a river that sees clearly.

I want to believe again, to be again, and to try again. To attest of my online writing experiences. To believe again that there is a bright star that lives in the space of my mind, granting me wishes.

Thus talked the river in me:- slowly but surely; with patience and perseverence, you’ll stream till the vast sea, and there, you’ll meet the hermits and all the crustaceans; the starfish, the giant squid, the great shark, the enormous beluga, the five hundred thousand years old giant turtle, and all of the water creatures that live in the deep sea. And as for your desperation, I am water, and water cleanse and wipe out everything, from bad memories to what aches. I am water, and you are me.

Categories
Narrative Essays

Nightmare on editing street

Note written on a notepad, pen, plastic plant, and black coffee
Notepad & Black Coffee

Today I waked up and thought about how much time and effort goes in editing my writings, and I asked myself – isn’t there any other way for me to alleviate my editing struggles? Am I condemned to never be able to spot my own grammatical errors, word dispositions, and wrong display of sentences right from the start. Also, am I condemned to go through all of these re-writings and editings, and still never end up with a perfect display of what I want to convey.

What am I doing wrong? I know that editors are the ones that bring that final touch to the finished book, but still, as an independent writer, I can’t afford to hire the services of a professional editor; and, I am sceptical of $5 or $10 *editors*… But if ever I’ll hear good recommendations about one, I’ll hire their services… that’s for sure.

Thus, during these last four weeks of Nightmare On Editing Street, I have been busy with editing a Halloween story, which by the way is a story that I wrote and supposedly edited last year, and that I haven’t been able to polish as to publish for today, and this, all the while also being busy struggling with editing my book of poems – where wrong words/sentences, grammatical errors, and non-sensical lines, keep popping up in front of my eyes, and this, each time I go though re-reads.

They are like Freddy Kruger or some other monstrous serial killer from a slasher movie, that lurk in the dark, imperceptible. You look once, they are not there, you look a second time, they are there, you look again, they’ve disappeared – which I guess is their favorite sadistic game to play, which is that of causing terror and horror in their chosen victims. And in me, it’s the terror of not being able to finish what I have started, and the horror, it comes through these mistakes that I discover after I thought that the piece was good to go.

It’s non-stop edit all the way😅.

Sometimes, I even wonder whether it was me that has really written this and that, or, even wonder paranoically whether someone around is messing with me, sabotaging my online work, because, I never seem to remember about ever committing such aberrant errors, or even, committed such a degree of omission while editing. Thing that’s very odd, even creepy, if you deeply think about it. A Nightmare On Editing Street – a haunted machine.

Perhaps I should blame my daily self-affirmations, “I write beautiful sentences, I write beautiful sentences, I write beautiful sentences” for tricking my brain to believe that what I have written is beautiful, or even, perhaps these self-affirmations might have triggered a strange phenomenon that cause my subconscious, which is slower to react than my brain, but more precise and wiser, to filter and spot the errors each time I go through the text, so that I might really write beautiful sentences… who knows how these obscure rendering works, or not😅.

Why, why, why? Other artists like painters or sculptors, they don’t need editors to edit their art! So why can’t it be like that for creative writing? Is it because I am not a native English speaker that I struggle that much with editing my own work, or, have I not practiced or read enough. What have I been doing wrong in my process? That’s so frustrating for me to have not been able to develop a personal editing strategy that would help me gain time, and as well as to end on a high note.

Suffice that I practice more, and perhaps, write slower than I actually write, as to develop this strategy of mine. Because this time, I don’t want to lose four and half years writing and editing like I did with Darcocyte. I know there has to be another way of discovering these errors right from the start of editing, or even drafting.

Or perhaps, I am putting too much pressure on myself, and I am dramatising for nothing. In the poem The Edit I wrote: This phase of edit makes my stomach churn; For it will soon be over, I confirm.

Categories
Occasional Poetry

Heal

Write, read, drink fruit & herbal black tea, contemplate flowers… heal

Today I thought of flowers blooming
Wildly, beautifully, in the fertile soil
Their strong roots fiercely stretching
Till that secret place, that wild garden

And while musing, I became a flower
That had for mother, earth, nature
And for father, the sky, the universe
I was cherished, loved, cared for
Or should I say :
I am healthy, I am becoming
I am loved, I am cherished

The evil that gnaws me, that eats my body
It suddenly disappears, it vanishes
It cowers away in the dark, in the shadow

That hungry thing, then, with my peace
I gave it away to the wind
I gave it away to the sea, to the lake
I just, gave it away, letting it fly
Where perhaps, and from the bottom of my heart,
With hope too, and wishes too
That it will find beauty on its own
That it will learn the worthiness of love
And feel all the emotions that surge
When loving, and while being loved
And slowly but surely recycle itself
Into a soothing thing, incarnating the love
That paints tears and heartaches
With the vivid divine colors
Of all these beautiful blooming flowers.

It’s been two weeks since I haven’t written down anything. I am busy editing my book of poems, and my mind is a little bit tired too. Thus, I had decided that there will be no post today. Instead, I thought of sharing on my social media last year’s poem, titled Mindscape, which I had written for Pink October Breast Cancer Awareness month. But while writing some lines in the carnet meant to appear in the picture setting for this Pink October photo, inspiration struck, and I was able to write this little poem.

I know it’s hard right now. With coronavirus and all the rest… But we need positive waves more than ever before… and I hope that I am doing my part here.

Thank you to whoever might be reading this post. I hope it gets a little bit better for you, for us, for me, for the whole humanity.

Categories
Narrative Essays

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. My brain is just consumed by the too much thinking I make as to find a way to balance my life right now. It’s still a little bit chaotic, for I still haven’t found my pace amidst life happenings.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. But a type of fear has started to consume my heart. It’s still a tiny spark, this fear – but in the long run, it might as well set ablaze whole forests in my heart, in my mind.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. No, I don’t fear criticism, because I understand that to each their own. I don’t even fear of sounding stupid, because ridiculousness never killed anyone. I don’t fear those who like to point their one finger right at me. Because I’ll snatch it out with my teeth, munch it, and then spit it out in the wild as for the vultures to chew it – see, I just wrote a horror scenario😂 also peace to everyone. Thus, I am not suffering from writer’s block.

But this fear, it concerns much more the fright of losing her … my muse … because I am not penning down lines of poems and paragraphs of stories as I used to do everyday. Yes, that’s what I fear the most right now – that she will leave me, and that I will be left to dry and wither, and finally, die a slow death inside.

I am like that passionate lover who does everything they can to prove their degree of affection and adoration to the beloved of their heart. Thus, to sit down everyday as to write is an offering to my muse, this gift of creativity. I don’t want to use my muse. I want to possess her – well, metaphorically speaking of course.

Seeing that I am not a native English speaker, I write very slowly, turtleishly, frequently stopping in the middle of a word or a sentence to think about the right English term that I should use, or even to linger on the arrangement of my words. And sitting with my muse, which to me is the only audience pleased by my amateurish writing, while thinking and focusing, is a must for me. But it takes time to make adjustments, to find the right or perfect balance between my chores, my duties, leisure, relaxation, writing a new book, blogging, imagining; to settle in a new favourable routine that’s promising for me.

And that’s where my fear stems from – the fear that in between, my muse will become dormant again, burying herself under piles of inactive feelings and random access memories agents; or even, dying out of hunger, she would leave me for another more enthusiastic and thrilling mind. That my creative influence, inspiration, will sink furtherly at the bottom pit of my mind, that same shallow area where I went to deter it, to awaken it, to activate it, while practicing vigorously for all of these years, so as to beat the odds, which by the way is my favorite game to play.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. It’s just that my brain is drowning within an ocean of thoughts, amongst which, thoughts that my muse might abandon me … thus the cause of my present fear.

No. I am not suffering from creative’s block, because today, while being Friday, I have been able to write this blog post which I’ll be revising tomorrow, to finally publish it on Sunday. And while we’re at it, I’ve also got the idea about the photo I’ll be taking to ship with this blog post, which is a little note that I’ll tape on my back yard brick wall, accompanied with some wild plants. Thus, this issue has been settled. No. I am not suffering from writer’s block.

Categories
Lyrical Poetry

Silver lines in the sky

Peace came home, to me
While I laid in my bed
Thinking, of silver lines in the sky
   They were dancing oh so freely
While they brightly burned their light

T’was morning, birds were singing merrily
When peace came home, to me
Clothed of silver lines, that shone brightly
Such elegance, it appeased my heart
Such emmited spark,
it erased the dark

The sky was plentiful of silver lines
And peace revealed its face to me
   It was hiding itself amongst
silver lines
These silver lines in the sky
While all these clouds flew by

Suddenly these silver lines shapeshifted
And peace suddenly appeared
as a being
A gigantic one, a net of silver lines
   It walked passed me,
touching my face
It was spirit, and I was all amazed

I followed it till the vast ocean
And there, it mingled with the water –
The ocean became sprightly,
filled of peace
And in my mind I ran and plunged
Where peace I breathed
within my lungs

Peace came home, to me
While I laid on my bed
Thinking, of silver lines in the sky.

                                …

I was recently shuffling through the pages of the encyclopedia of magical creatures, and those words by the mythological Morrigan instantly fired up my inspiration to write this poem, which, compared to peace, please, is more visceral, more about the personalization of the emotions I felt on the moment where I imagined those silver lines hovering in the sky, triggered by the lines ‘peace up to heaven, heaven over earth, earth under heaven, peace in everyone’.

Categories
Narrative Essays

I won’t lower down my expectations

“Garner your strength, writer, stifle the ache, for your words need to flutter”

I know that the world is shaking right now, where most of us are sad, angry, aching, mourning; and that amidst this strange and wretched time, everything appears grim, morose, and without hope – but should our own heart be alike the gloomy ambiance that’s surrounding us? That’s the question that I’ve been trying to work on since my plans changed completely during that lockdown period… since the pandemic took over our world.

And since then, I am trying to work my way through this new shift in reality, trying to adjust the sail of my ship on that new ocean vibe, reorganizing everything in my life; trying at all cost to stick with a difficult schedule, as to find time to write. Since then – well, after I came out of a whirlwind of incomprehensible deception, demotivation, and gloomy emotions – I have shaken myself up, purged my poisonous thoughts, kicked my blues away, shifted my intent, modified my plans; and after many hours of self-introspection, I have finally been able to identify the root cause of this uncontrollable deception, which clearly made no sense at all. I then knew why earth had shaken underneath my feet, causing tidal waves in my heart.

I didn’t come this far to only come this far

It was such a strange moment – that point in time when fear, doubts, what’s inconceivable, and the strangeness of my uncertainties, merged, giving birth to my distress. It was a situation forced on me, at least that’s how I felt… and I just couldn’t let those negative emotions poison my heart anymore; I couldn’t let distress overwhelm my senses and stop me from thinking; I couldn’t let distress freeze my movements – for I didn’t come this far to only come this far.

The future is not written yet, tables might turn at any point in time, and tomorrow, everything is possible, the better as the worst. Then I decided that I shall think of that tomorrow with pessimism, for I want the better tomorrows, the most exciting of all tomorrows, I want to be that glint amidst the chaos. Thus, I decided to not lower down my expectations concerning my writing ambition – that of selling my own books, books that I like, crafted things with imprints of my own sentences, and of course, to feed this blog with my thoughts and wordcrafts. I decided to continue circling my thoughts around creativity, just because I feel happy when I use writing as my main medium of expression, just because I don’t force myself to write stories nor poems, or even force myself to think about what to blog next. On the contrary, I miss creating more, I miss imagining the next story I’ll write or photos I’ll take for my web pages, or even to sit down, as to craft more poems.

In the blog post harpooning the next day, I wrote about how I overcame my doubts and my fears and of all the dramatic situation occurring … but I didn’t expressed myself on what triggered that profound and uncontrollable distress that made no sense … which I happened to understand only after I went through a series of self-introspection. Found, I’ve missed the opportunity to market Darcocyte and this blog during that period where everyone was locked up at home, with only the internet as means to butterfly and socialize. Found that my doubts and thoughts about the errors I’ve committed were stopping me from thinking clearly about what to do next. Found that I was panicking over the fact that I was making the same mistakes over and over again, with intrusive thoughts and constant feelings that I ignored my intuition once more …

"Writer, garner your strength
Don't lower your expectations
For your words need to fly
Away, into the world."

But wait! You know what? In the end I’ve understood that my overwhelming negative feelings were not even about my trials and errors concerning the business of writing … It was more about me, something more profound, something more sensitive. An opened scar. The feeling that I had lost my wings, again. How much of intense emotions I felt during such a little period of time is unbelievable. Everything shifted, mingled, and then, raptured. All that I can say here, is that it was intense, very intense indeed.

Now I am back on track, after I’ve shaken myself out of the feelings of delusion and dilemmas. I’ve gained again my sense of logic, which as you all know is necessary to live in this reality. And after I’ve spotted my errors and identified the steps that I might have skipped, or even the bridges that I might have burned, I came to accept the fact that I was bound to fail, simply because I was not well prepared – in terms of payment gateway, money, registration of intellectual property, bad devices, those wrong technical setup, my paranoid thoughts about pre-plagiarisation of my writings, not having learned in depth about the technical and marketing part of selling books online… and it goes on and on and on – all of these issues that I haven’t properly worked on, when knowingly I had emitted the intent of pursuing the journey of the independent author … but dammit it’s hard. You write the book for four years while doing intense and risky researches, exposing yourself to whatsoever they beam at you, wondering if ever the things I’ve searched for hasn’t been combed through by intelligent services or the surveillance system, yep 🤔😝😅😂🤣. Thus there were lacunas. Thus the pathway didn’t align, it didn’t flow, it didn’t set, for there were too many missing ingredients.

I am trying another route

And of course, knowing what I know now, my expectations and dreams remain intact, though I have to now take a detour. I am trying another route. It will take the time and effort needed to concretize my expectations, to concretize my dreams. I am still learning, while the fire of determination and passion burns within me. I don’t think that one remains eternally an amateur in a chosen domain, and I do think that what I am learning now will surely help me in one way or another in the future.

Also also, one of my dreams came true! Tadaaa😅 I work from home now! Tadaaa … I assist my MIL! Tadaaa … not at all on my list of expectations, but strangely, this new priority forms part in the alignment of my journey as a creative writer. Like what! My path is starting to align … be patient, I say to my heart … a little bit more of patience, I say to my heart.

Categories
Lyrical Poetry

Everything that I might be

Though able-bodied, I feel this incapacity
The incapacity to shake myself up
Right from the start, when the sun rises
For I wake up to forget, everything that I might be

I then search within my mind
This wondrous mind of mine
Forking deeply, digging, searching
For that missing piece hidden deep,
That one clue that I need to find

I want to remember when day comes
As the sun showers its light upon the world
To remember all of my movements
Of my first sound and view
Of the first waves and its foams
Reminiscing about those lost hours
And eidolons, first cities, of faces
And of the cyclope slowly opening its eye
While it sees this world for the first time,
Sinking deep to become ours

I know I’ll search endlessly
While my body and mind grows
On top of mountains, over seas and lands
Everyday I’ll learn to construct
As to one day rise up and remember
Everything that I might be.

 

I am obsessed about the beginning of existence and knowledge of one-self, fascinated by all of these layers that seem to shrink inside the smallest dot that might be.

 

Categories
Narrative Essays

Writing abates the storm in my heart

On a wooden table, a pen on an opened notebook, a hat, a mug, and flower
writing to relax

Writing abates the storm that often rages in my heart – like frustrations, anxieties, sadness, anger, unacceptance, incomprehensiveness, and all of these other emotional disaster that wrecks my all.

When I write, my heart feels lighter, my soul soars higher, I can see clearer, and I feel happier. When I am immersed within, only facing my own emotions and all of the characters that wildly run in my imagination, I feel an in-depth connection with the cosmos, where, metaphorically speaking, we work hand in hand as to give substance to what abstractly appears in my daydream mind, and where for me, it’s relaxation to peacefully reach out for these buried ectoplasm that carry memories which stem from immemorial times.

It takes time, energy, practice, and every once of concentration as to be able to dig deep inside, in search of stories and poems. Peace of mind, of the heart, and of the surrounding environment is a must, and to remain alone with yourself in a silent room, as long as possible, is what triggers the deep dive – at least for me that’s the type of exercise that helps me to write, though how difficult the craft of writing is.

“Tell me wind, tell me tempest, tell me sea water, and everything else that carries memories and murmurs of the world, if you could guide my hand and guide my heart while I write, perhaps this heartwrecking environmental disaster, this spilled oil that traps the sea and its creatures, and pollute our beach and our air, could have been prevented…”

When writing a story I never know the type of characters that I’ll meet along the way, precisely on one of these days where I am going through an emotional roller-coaster. Love, passion, creative enthusiasm, or any other overwhelming feelings trigger the necessary inspiration which helps my sentences to come alive on paper or screen.

It is an adventure that takes place in my imagination; and though the pen is in my hand, or typing the words on a keyboard, I am only an observer who is thrilled to know more, to know how the story unfolds, eager to take part in the lives of these characters.

There is something soothing that takes place when I write, or even while trying to get the necessary inspiration and ideas for stories and poems. I am unable to describe clearly what really takes place in my heart as to share it with you, readers… all that I can say is that it’s a gentle type of peace that invades my heart, but also a bit of pleasure, an once of satisfaction, and excitement too. Thus I am unable to name with exact precision the feeling that takes over my heart when I write – this emotion that calm my nerves when I feel down.

Through writing, there have been so many emotions that have been thrown away on a stormy heartfelt day, that now, I am unable to live the rest of my life without penning down my thoughts. I don’t even want a day to go by without having mused about a story, a poem, or even, without going on thinking about what to blog next.

Perhaps this all thing that I am doing might sound silly to most; where my creative state of mind and my trying as an author-blogger wouldn’t be understood by the many… I don’t know, I am just guessing, perhaps, wrongly guessing. But still, to those people I respond, or, I’ll respond, that all I know about, is that writing abates the storm that rages in my heart.

“Wind, blow through me, and lend me your memories while I write, to abate the storm that rages in your heart : to calm down the fury in my heart.”

Categories
Lyrical Poetry Narrative Poetry

Cosmic Death Of The Lover

Black white photo of flowers in a bottle, a mug of black coffee, cosmic doodles, and a handwritten note
Inspired by NEOWISE, comet that recently apperead in our sky. I hope that one day I’ll be able to see one.

The girl went on singing
Along the road, gushing
The lover merely speaking
Mesmerized, fascinated, adoring.
The girl then danced lovingly
While the moon shone brightly
And where her skin her body
Became transparent and shiny.
Suddenly the lover was scared
As the girl loved flew in the air
The lover thought it a snare
Standing at the verge of nowhere.
Her body was stellar bright
Lighting the sky of that night,
Singing prettier with all her might
Beaming to the lover a warm light.
Frightened, the lover ran away
Certain that it was a dark fay
For dark ones emit more light
That’s what they say
Thus feared to never see another day.
The cosmic body persued
As it sprinkled and spewed
Fairy dust filled of lewd
For the lover to be lured.
The lover ran and ran and ran
Horrified while it beamed closer
Terrified as it shot nearer and nearer.
She, was not anymore their lover
She was now a blazing flame
A girl now estranged.
Her long hair became a tail
A fiery comet that sailed.
In the end she burned and died,
The malefice away flied
As the lover forever cried
While their day became forever night.

Categories
Narrative Essays

Harpooning The Next Day

To be happy, make things that make you happy

I’ve been doing lots of thinking since this ill-wind blew its mortal breath upon the world. This situation, or these sequences of situations look like one of these fictional stories I watch on television, read in books, or even, same as those stories I write or daydream about . . . Sad days which surely have already inspired the writer in us.

Since lockdown, my life and my everyday habits changed suddenly, and overnight, I became the personal caregiver of my mother-in-law. I had to revise all of my priorities, and re-organise my everyday life – where I am still trying to reconcile writing my next book, blogging, parenting, my house-chores, reading, caregiving, and me-go-time on my everyday planning schedule. I had to adjust my time and even myself to this amor fati (love of one’s fate), and rethink about the basis of my own foundation. Slowly but surely, I am adapting myself to this new reality; adopting the change that came about; harpooning the next day.

I thought that I would be taken aback, or even feel dreadfully sorry about my recent decisions, while my life would be dreary . . . but it is not the case, fortunately. It is as if, my heart learned acceptance. I’ve let one of the birds that was caged within my heart flee.

Writing always haunts me, and my want to blog, write poems and fiction passionate me more than ever before. I’ve even submitted two pieces of mine during those two last months – a fiction piece, and a non-fictional one. Thus, my writing ambition has not weaken the least, on the contrary it has widened, and even perhaps, matured.

/

Right in the beginning of lockdown, doubts and darkness started to appropriate my mind – pessimistic feelings about my writing aspiration took its toll on me – I felt like a fraud, useless, stoopid, delusional. Lies lead to deception . . . and I was convincing myself that I lied to my self, because deception was gnawing my mind. My self-esteem and self-confidence took a harsh blow during this short, but yet how intense time.

The other birds in me were dying out of passion and enthusiasm.

But I am not a fraud, for I write. I am not useless; I endorse all of my responsabilities; good for others. I am not stoopid; I certainly know what I want, and certainly know what I am doing. I am not delusional; I see opportunities from my own perspective.

I’ve been doing it all wrong, of that I am sure. And though how slow I am, and how much time flowers take to bloom in me; and how slowly the birds in me learn to spread their wings, my mind is a fertile land. Perhaps I’ve seen an oasis which was only a mirage, or an oasis that they made me think was only a mirage . . . But the oasis in me is broader than this oasis, which by the way, is not a mirage.

Too bad! I guess, for I shall continue my way more individually than ever before. My fictional, poetic, and blogging happy endeavors appease my soul, and I envision a bright future filled of serenity, only because I swim inside this creative lagoon. I don’t see myself persuing these other activities that infuriate and frustrate me; that lock me up in total distress. No! I won’t give more power to negativity, for I want to live in happy places. The birds in me have the right to chirp as much as they like. I have the right to express myself, to express my creativity, and I can’t, and I WON’T, take responsability about how others personally interpret my writings – which to me is art for the sake of art.

/

If I had abandoned my creative persuit, I don’t think that I would have seen again the lagoon where I birthed out; I wouldn’t have found myself again. I would have been a total wreck. So I’ve decided that no matter what, I’ll keep trying, and if I don’t succeed, well, at least I know that I am making things that passionate me, and that I found a creative leisure that makes me happy.

Categories
Narrative Poetry

Our Anthurium Like Heart



All races give out rays of light
Under a sun that rises for everyone
And stars that shine brightly for everybody.

And what about the plants, the trees?
Same too, you see, they appeal to all of us –
We’re just different colors, sizes, & shapes
Different types of body embodiment.

The ocean rests there, extending itself till horizon
For the eye of everyone who surrenders to beauty
And for those that mesmerize at the miracle of life.

And then it dawns on everyone, everything
As our tears look alike like diamonds
That cascade down on those cheeks of us
While our Anthurium like heart blooms in same soil.

I would tell you too of the beauty of our variances,
Of all these mysteries that make us up
And of that blood like magma that streams in us –
That unfortunately erupts oftently, with ache and hate.

I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –

My whiteness, my blackness, my yellowness, my redness,
My coffeeness, my greenness, my contrasts, my uniqueness.

I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –

My querness, my disabilities, my loveliness,
Our weaknesses, our weaknesses, our weaknesses.

I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –

We are only one tiny drop in that ocean of life,
Making one member, linked, linked.

And when I finally go to rest, I return to our ocean, mingling as one.

I love you brother, I love you sister.

                             /

If you see the uniqueness, if you see beauty, if you see intelligence, if you see the richness, if you see the love, in everybody else, then you’ll be beautiful, you’ll be intelligent, you’ll be rich, you’ll be loved, you’ll be unique. These are the magical words I silently repeat everyday in my head – that one law of attraction that I try to practice, though how difficult it is.

Perhaps I am the leaf, perhaps a bud, or the root, that holds on firmly to a stem. Or perhaps a hand, a finger, a tiny cell, a little bacteria – a function of that one body!

I think that the anthurium plant is an interesting metaphor to describe the human race . . . don’t you think so?

Categories
Lyrical Poetry Occasional Poetry

A Musical World

black and white photography of an acoustic guitar laid on silky cloth
My husband’s guitar
Let the rhythmic waves 
Come through to you —
Through your chest 
Through your breath 
Annihilating your weakness.
Let these sounds dance through  
Inside out, elevating you 
Setting that mind free 
As you liberate and you escape.
Open your heart wide 
And let the music rain inside
Making one with the storm
Tuning in into it, peacefully.
Let everything become melodious 
To find that heart of yours appeased 
While you become the softness 
Through which the music irradiates.
Come with me, take my hand 
And let's bound with the rhythm 
Feel, yes feel the depth of oceans 
Rising tides that become one beat —
The ultimate musical ocean 
Where we all birthed out;
Out of the vibrational chord of liberance
Right till here, in this world 
Filled, full, and fueled, with music.
The hum of wind, the echo of rain 
The symphony of crushing waves 
All sonorous, so musical.
Let the rhythmic waves
Come through to you —
Through your chest
Through your breath
Annihilating your weakness.

Today the 21st of June, the world celebrates music day, so, Happy Music Day to everybody. In the poem the paragon of music I wrote that music stays with me, even during the worst days of my life; and in such a time of great trouble, where stressful situations and heartaches gloom the sky, we still have music, isn’t it? Music which is without barrier. Music which is without color. Music which doesn’t make us sick. Music, which is indistinctive.

Categories
Lyrical Poetry Occasional Poetry

My Mom, The Wren

red roses and a happy mothers day note
Happy mothers day to all

Your smile leads me again to where I began my life,
Your gentleness touches me deep, healing my wounds,
Your embrace, though am a grown up, cradle me tight,
And in this endless night of mine, your bright light looms.
Often, I want to creep back within your warm womb,
And become again that little baby wiggling inside of you,
As perhaps then, I dreamt of love all day through,
While I am sheltered, inside of your nurturing cocoon –
And for nine months, you safely carried me around,
In the end, you painfully delivered me to the world.
As your memories were mine to touch, my mind hurled,
And in my mouth, the milk of life springing from your breast,
Feeding me fire, where I knew I could safely rest,
As you sang to me an eternal sound, I perhaps knew then
That I would forever carry you inside of me, like a wren.

Thank you mother. I love you very much.

These days I am very busy indeed. I hope to get the time to write a blog post about the short story I’ve been writing recently, and of everything new that I’ve learned while trying to finish it in time for submission, and of the new story idea (for the Darcocyte series) that bloomed in my mind while writing it; but also about my new engagement that will be taking much of my time. Until then, take care.

Categories
Lyrical Poetry Occasional Poetry Ode Poetry

A Beautiful Enchantment

A poem for the 50th anniversary of “Earth day”

Blue lagoon and cliffs
Natural features of Earth – Le Souffleur, Mauritius
Earth, I love you, for my eternal seed roots into you 
Earth, you revolve, while the sea dissolves into you 
Earth, you evolve, while everything else dies within you 

Your belly is a jar that nurture everything that's alive
Your belly is a petri-dish where we all dive 
Your belly is a pathway, where we all drive

This little planet, pale blue dot, so fertile and damp
This little planet, rich with variances of life and lands 
This little planet, so colorful, so full with things that ramp

And your big arms, hug us, mortal as we are
And your big arms, cradle us, bad as we are 
And your big arms, protect us, fragile as we are 

How lovely for us to live inside of your dream 
How lovely to exist, just to exist, swimming in your stream
How lovely to open our eyes as to find us, in your rim 

Earth I do love everything that you contain —
The sea, the sun, the sky, the lands, this wellspring, 
You see, you hear, and I know of all the love that remain
While you watch in silence, with adoration, your everything 

Earth, what a beautiful enchantment you are 
Earth, you are a treasure chest that contains all 
Earth, your secret, the chamber inside, your half dark 
Earth, I am silent, and in this silence I watch you grow whole.

Happy Earth day to all. I hope you are all safe out there. Earth is going through a harsh winter, and where the summer, as for every other seasons, will soon come around again, and perhaps, with some new types of plant shrouding here and there. Until then, stay inside, for fairies and other magical creatures don’t like humans seeing them working on upgrades, or fixing up broken things…loll

Categories
Narrative Poetry

The Sequential Dream I Made Of An Abacus

😩I am busy these days – helping my children with their lessons at home, writing, and masterminding new plans. I made a wrong decision at the wrong time, that is, to subscribe to the premium plan when I haven’t even made a cent online, to inject further in my small biz. I don’t want to lose my .com domain – thus my decision to wait until I am sure that I’ll be able to pay for my premium plan. Fact is, if I am unable to pay for my domain name, this web address will revert to its original subdomain address, and there will be too many work that I’ll need to do, that is, changing all the urls on my social media sites and all the rest. So, I do think that it is preferable for me to wait and see.

i

I try to count –
One, two, three, four, five, six Learning calculation;
Take that one bead I found,
And plus one more around,
There you are, it makes a two.

On my wooden abacus, there I slide the beads,
Red, Blue, Yellow, Green,
Learning calculation.
There pops out the numbers in colours,
In my twinged mind filled with confusion.

These all that gives whats equal,
Trying to confuse my mind even more,
What I may say about it –
I and the world of digits don’t get along very well,
I prefer the formulations
That emanates from alphabets.

ii
The arithmetician tried to show me the realm of all his calculations,
Ideas that intersect to make a web,
The power of the alphanumeric.
But my mind dreams in images,
Which is much less boring than the mathematician’s integers;
But then, what secrets link those that see
Beyond the forms of things. Spit out,
Beyond the numbers. Chewed out,
Beyond the sentences. Flamed out.

iii
There stood I pale and incensed,
With my mind blowing out nums;
Blowing out nums I don’t logicize.
My mind’s nestle the mistake of logic,
Logic that strays into that dreamer’s eyes,
Eyes that’s black contoured of fatigue
And of the concentration to answer
to nullify or equalize,
I found it was all of a nightmare
My abacus in my bare hands
I try to count, dreamily senseless.

iv
The abacus sits on the corner of a desk
The child needs me to help them count,
My bed is still a mess when days break
And my heart pulls out like daunt
Seriously thinking that it’s no fun

I slide the colourful playful beads
On the wooden abacus that still sits
In a little corner of a white office
Whose circled panes seem to miss
Of the warmth of the throning sun

In the end, with the abacus at hand
I teach un-merry to the curious child
Some calculations that seem to bend
Unrevealed matrices that openly hide
More of coming formulations undone

The abacus sits in the corner of a desk
Alongside some books and other carnets;
Carnets that the child curiously open
Happy now am I, till the coming dusk
To read merrily, holding my pen.

Categories
Narrative Essays

My Sudden Realization Amidst The Crisis

coupe of sparkling wine, handwritten note, in front of painting.
Cheers to the aftermath…

I have always been a quiet-over-confident type of person, mainly due to my loyalty and worship of the self; and where most of my tragedy shows stem from the fact that my self-esteem has taken a harsh blow. I lose all self-control when I feel that my self-esteem has been attacked; I see red, and I lose all sight of the pathway that I’ve slowly built.

My failures, mainly when I’ve planned and masterminded everything on my own, lead me to those feelings that are very hard for me to digest – that taste of bitterness remain stuck in my mouth for endless periods of my life.

For me, there is always someone or something else that is responsible for my failures, my mind then designating a culprit behind the unrealisation of my dreams – the start of my fall inside the pit of delusions, where these persisting gloomy thoughts turn into obsession.

Everyday I’ll be obsessing about who or what is, or are behind my failure – I’ll be telling this or that to my husband, or this or that when going at my mom’s place, looking sick, mad, psychotic, delusional, and where they will all try to assure me that it’s only in my head, and where… *sigh* well, you see the picture of them panicking when I go through this delirious phase – mother, sister, husband eyes go-go😳 while am raving mad, and being paranoiac about… well, it’s much more that I am being way to over dramatic, suffering from irrationality, going through some type of disturbance due to denial of failure, a sense that I have betrayed the self, my own self. Just a delusional type of indignation.

This obsession, it clouds my mind and prevent me from seeing what I’ve achieved, that is, my success of having written a whole book, one hundred poems for the upcoming one, as well to have written all these poems and articles for this blog, and so many short stories penned and typed here and there; this persisting indignation, it also make me forget about what I can do, that is write, versus my inability to make the right decision about choosing the right platform to sell Darcocyte, or even my incompetence to market myself, my book, this blog, my writings.

Eventually, after having been very very very angry (the delusional, irrational, and irrelevant kind), while anxieties made me eat a lot😂 – the viruses suddenly appeared, and in a strange way, my anger concerning the web, Darcocyte, and everything else that were primar sources of my frustration and craziness, quieten down. It was the shock, a large baff in my face, the sudden realization that I’ve been acting like an insane paranoiac, accusing everything and everyone, blaming others for I’ve not been able to complete my dream.

Things did not went my way and as I had envisioned them to be, which caused much anxieties and a great deal of annoyance in me; even going so far as to prevent me from finding solace in everything that I have already realized, even forgetting about all the years it took me to hone the skill of writing, the long hours of practice, the analysis of the books I love, the long wait until I finally finish Darcocyte – and then, just like that, Corona came around, slapped me in the face, and life suddenly seemed too short and fragile for me to be living inside the continuous and perpetual agony of denial, delusions, and paranoia. I am way too much in love with life and of all the beauty it contains to continue inflicting myself with the heartache of failures.

It’s hard for me, as a mother, wife, daughter, sister, a family member, a friend, to face the reality of this virus that is eating us up… It’s such a harsh situation, mainly when you have loved ones. Everything and everyone has been obliged to slow down – to think, to repurpose, to….. fill in the blank here; and where I had to rethink and repurpose my plans, too, going blindly into the uncertainty, while facing whatever is coming my way.

The aftermath of this whole crisis, what would it be? I wish I was the oracle or had that crystal ball, but everything right now is so uncertain and inaccurate, thus I continue to write and blog amidst the destruction, even forgetting that there was once denial and anger, and just doing what my heart wants, hoping that my loved ones and everyone else remain safe and sound.

Categories
Lyrical Poetry Ode Poetry

My Ode To Poetry

Red book and cup of tea and saucer
On lock down days read or write poems

A poem is a river, the sea, the largeness
In which I can swim with openness
It is a deck, a station, the purgatory –
The place where the words fly away freely,
It is a landscape where all beauty escape
While the reader’s heart race as it takes a shape.

A hidden pulsating world unfolds
While it’s cold to summer, and summer to cold;
A brisk life rooting out from the void
The strange deknotting of what’s coiled,
And while your treasure chest opens wide
Your vast lagoon becomes mine.

A poem is a deep cave filled of creatures
This dark place leading to light showers
Where the noises rhyme strangely
As unspeakable hearts chant merrily;
Its obscureness, its enlightment, its evasiveness
The poem, it strikes, the everness.

A whole city is born, fiercely
Out of a burning gut, proudly
And while my mind gets high on these words
My whole heart drinks of the world
Under a bed sheet of blooming flowers
There where I forever remain immerse.

The poem is a ship that sails me away
Amidst sea, land, and sky creatures
All spheres of living, within timeless features,
And when I arrive at Harbour on a beautiful day
I lay down belly full, and happily wait
For the next ship, dying to contemplate.

A poem is a river, the sea, the largeness
In which I can swim with openness.

We celebrated poetry day on Sunday, and here I’ve tried my best to describe poetically my feelings concerning poetry, writing about how these lines carry me; carry my feelings towards the want and need for more poems.

Categories
Narrative Essays

The Dedication Amidst Anxiety

“When you’re going through hell, keep going” – anon

Creativity to equilibriate

Anxiety has always been a poison to my mind – it rules me, it makes me unproductive, it fogs my mind, I can’t see clearly. My mind is an arid land when confronted to anxieties, which most of the time change into stress, and stress to depression. Ever-since my mental breakdown, I am not anymore as I used to be – I am more fragile, more susceptible, more frustrated than ever before, falling in and out of the mental prison of anxiety, and can’t think properly when darkness takes over.

Sure, to liberate my mind and alleviate the anxiety, I practice free-writing on paper, that I immediately tear after having relieved my heart of everything that hurts… but these are scribbles penned down automatically, and where I roughly write everything that’s hidden deep, locked, these layers of chaos, these cracked feelings that I am unable to shout out or say – some ignominious unlighted sentences, quasi-demonic, I will tend to say😂 I don’t know to whom these stabbing words are meant to or for, but what’s the most important, is that afterwards I feel relieved and my heart lighter, and sometimes even get some inspirational elements from where I can extract stories, poems, or even get ideas about what to blog. I love to think about this process as a phase of transmutation, where I take my anxieties, the obscure, and transform them into creativity, into writing.

It’s the calmness, the peace, the beauty of things that I perceive, and also doing what I like freely and without frustration that render me productive. I don’t thrive amidst chaos, negativity, and stressful environment, for these lugrubrious atmosphere, they annihilate every perception that I might have of an harmonious existence. Thus amidst tension, stressing factors and all the rest, my mind basculate into the dark side, the paranoia, the mistrusts, everything that’s negative, the coldness, the heartless – and instead of creation, it’s the incarnation of destruction that takes over, the duality without balance, the Yin that completely obscure the Yang in me.

And yet while writing these words, no matter how gloomy they might hit, I feel relieved of a heavy weight, for these sentences that I am writing right now, written aesthetically and creatively, they appeal as a beautiful creative leisure to my mind, insisting that I am here, alive, in full pocession of my mind, because I am taking all of the elements that’s from the well of a dream, everything that is abstract and fractal, everything that is geometric, symbolic, and formulaic, and that I am working my way through it, that I am solving, giving that which is shaped from the depth of my mind the chance to become concrete, to exist, to fly away from the darkness, the nothingness. Materializing my thoughts with these words in full awareness and a certain kind of logic. The want and need to be, stronger than these anxieties.

Thus, writing is the only interesting activity that appease my mind (well, apart watching T.V and movies😊) in times when anxieties strike, mainly during these times of health, economic, humatarian, and sanitation crisis – for I know that I am freely doing what I like, that simply writing is not a cause of frustration in my life, and that it is the balance that equilibriate my anxious state of mind of these days, and those to come.

Creativity is my own personal response to destruction, and where amidst these dark times, all that I can bring to the table, is my dedication to writing.

And what about you? What you do to balance, tackle, or cope with anxieties?

Categories
Narrative Poetry

A Letter To …….

Black and white photo of a withered flowered branch on a handwritten letter note,  and pen
When will we gain enlightment?

We are merry-go-rounds floating above the ground,

Little shingles shining in the night;

Foams too, escaping till the landscape.

We are closed cities, yet still pretty,

Sending kisses far away, to another galaxy.

We used to bump each other’s head with bones of Mammoths,

But embraced mechanic, became megalomanic, and created weapons.

We are addicted and addictive creatures,

Easily sprinkled with made up dreams.

We are cells filled of filthyness, of excess of fats, sugar and salt,

With scars that’s hidden deep, deep.

We pretend that we know, but to fend a coconut is knowledge too.

Some of us dream to remain naked, others on the other hand dream of prudery.

We are fragile beings, easily infected, easily affected, easily ruled –

By planets, by pathogens, by tides, by other beings, and more;

Yet we pretend that we are superiority –

The dream of ruling never leaving most of our minds.

Our cutesome babies giggle and cry out loud

And we are able to love, to care, with all of our heart.

We still don’t know who we are, for we are all inflicted with amnesia when morning comes.

Our species is a very clever one, but not yet intelligent, way too material, unaware of what’s energetical,

Thus we burn while we learn, break while we learn.

Look! We’ve been able to materialize that’s what’s only blurry shapes.

We are filled of flaws, of vanity, most of the time disoriented,

We are vermines, vandals, eternal unsatisfied –

We do get easily angry too, forgetting that we are free to be,

Yet, we still beautiful, amazing, and worthy, you know –

Such fascinating living creatures.

We love to dance, to sing, to write poems and forgotten stories of us,

Though unaware of the soul connection,

We are just everything coming from everywhere,

One of the kind, a beautiful find, called the human race.

In such difficult times I always wish that there is something more superior and intelligent that’s above us – guiding, guarding, and watching over everything and everyone that makes up existence. I am not a sceptic nor a believer, I just go along with what I know from my own perceptions… an individualist who suddenly feel shaken by the threat of the Corona virus.

Categories
Narrative Essays

Metaphorical and Literal

The poetic genre I love

Tea-set, handwritten note, and decorative indoor flower pot
From abstraction to expression

When earth shakes, do snakes escape from its mouth, while all roots unroot from the soil? — how can I, the author of this sentence, be surprised by what I’ve written on my own… is it my natural ability to observe from another’s perception that brings me to that conclusion, or perhaps, let us be a little insane, odd, and whimsical, and let us say that it was a presence, the muse, that murmured it to my right ear.

A crack, an opening, the underground, catacombs — yes, I write semi-automatically, plunged emotionally inside the subconscious lagoon of my core. My poems are literal, where I let whatever wants to sprout out be — I just kind of express myself unconsciously. The moment I have a subject in mind — no matter what the subject might be, I go for it; I let my creativity take full possession of my being.

Should I say that I write while accessing my Random Access Memory, I don’t know! But what I do know on the other hand, is that when I write a poem, I completely abandon myself to my needs for art, and where the finished product needs to trigger the emotion of astonishment and puzzlement inside of me, like, is it really me that has written that oddity! Else, everything needs to be rewritten, for I am unsatisfied. I like to be the reader behind the eyes that has written the work, same as I would have read any other writings. I am out of my mind when I write, but back into the shell when drafting.

The seascape joins the shorelines, giving birth to an oneiric landscape – Literal, figurative, metaphorical — these are the main adjectives that I want my creative works to be described as, and where I try my best to construct my texts in the best possible way as I want them to be, and as well as I like them, always remembering the feelings felt when reading works written by other authors, whether good or bad.

When I write poems, I want the world to flow through me, for the world is a mystery, an everfloating debris of emotions. Thus, I want to write poems about everything that the world holds, wanting to be the medium through which the hatred, violence, love, romance, death, happiness, sadness, and all these emotions that have been given away to life (entity to me) incarnate themselves through the poetry I write.

Yesterday my husband and I we were discussing about a peculiar movie we like, and where both of us had different thoughts concerning the enigmatic ending of the movie, which I do think was a literal and poetic ending, opened to every kind of interpretation, the beauty of creative work. That’s when I realized that my poems too, or any other poems, could also be interpreted differently by the various type of readers, because precisely I write poems figuratively. But that’s my playground of interest — the metaphors, the flowery, the fanciful, the surreal, that’s how I fell in love with poetry, always, and that’s the degree of aesthetic that I thrive to ornate my poems with, so that readers that are fond of that genre of poetry might gain the ultimate satisfaction — at least I try to.

Being what I am, I am unable to write essays or any other serious subjects passionately, without getting bored… too detailed and prosaic for me, and where I have enormous respect for those that write these kind of intellectual articles meant for informational and educational purposes… not meant to tickle the fancy of readers, but where I would have been more than happy to have my poems being deconstructed by one of those literary critics, those thirsty for the psychology and logic behind literature. What would be the finds, the adjective of qualifications to describe what and how I write — dark, depressive, illogical, confusing, or else, I don’t know; puzzling and mystical, that’s what I would though.

Else, would I be criticized for appropriating the experience and life of others — a life snatcher, when all I ever do is trying to write with these emotions, calling them from the depth of my subconscious, drawing the ideas and inspiration from the well of my mind, and interconnecting and intertwining my own experience to that of the collective consciousness, the web of life.

Do my poems echo back emotions, the creation that’s voiceless, yet veiled with imagination? Are they movie projectors where the films display bits and pieces of what my imagination holds, though literal and surreal? Or, are the poems I write same as in dissection of a poem, a poem where elements of my own experiences sneak silently within the construction of the poetry I write. In the end, I just hope, and do my best, so that these poems I write are as literal, metaphorical, and as aesthetically pleasing to the reader’s mind, same as much as I have been conquered by this poetic genre.