Five years ago today, I made my way home across 8000 km of sky, land, and ocean. I'd been away for 12 years. I sat suspended, tasting the feel of Time on my lips, looking down at retreating lands veiling a future being minutely drawn over with dense cloud coverage. I was but a somnambulist… Continue reading The Fifth Anniversary
What do you think of the famous questions dating back to 19th century Salons of Paris, later given the name of the Proust Questionnaire? Marcel Proust, the great author of the 7-volume life-long work "In Search of Lost Time" had answered similar questions twice, however without any part in their invention or wording. I sit, thinking,… Continue reading Proust Questionnaire
"Life is worth living, even in a prison cell" said Artur Rubinstein. These words had always caused conflicting emotions in me. While believing in their completely unhypocritical power, it had always escaped me how they're possible in hard core reality. "Life is worth living, even in a prison cell". A strong and demanding statement which few… Continue reading P.S. on Joseph Brodsky’s ‘In Praise of Boredom’
“My house cannot have wheels!” I yelled at my husband, after another long day of looking at apartments in LA and coming up with nothing. We had spent a good 2 months searching for the perfect place… Source: Life Begins At The End of Your Comfort Zone
Autumn Isn't dreary, autumn isn't a maid grown old. Autumn is a maid stripped bare. By rain, by wind, by human hand. Undressed. Left to live with bare essentials. Only thus, she shall come to know the bare essence of things. And waiting for new times she will praise these. What she's waiting for is… Continue reading A thought on Autumn
The Season of Phantasmal Peace BY DEREK WALCOTT Then all the nations of birds lifted together the huge net of the shadows of this earth in multitudinous dialects, twittering tongues, stitching and crossing it. They lifted up the shadows of long pines down trackless slopes, the shadows of glass-faced towers down evening streets, the shadow… Continue reading The Season of Phantasmal Peace
2. We never leave. We only leave behind. I had much and nothing behind me, and as much ahead. The places where we had spent certain periods of our lives seem to incorporate so many memories that as if taking on flesh at the last moment, or, as ever-faithful watchers, at the moment of our… Continue reading Flesh of a shadow 2.
1. From a distant memory there appeared to me a vision of two paths. As if there had never before been a question of going on, going upward - only to the left or right of a wide, often besanded, open main road - paths which later had come to remind me of the two ways of Proust's childhood. Burning and exhausting in the midday sun, the right, leading into and through a golden field aflame ,into the cool shades of… Continue reading Flesh of a shadow. 1