Category: musings

  • Pleasures in life

    Pleasures in life

    My happiness is sometimes derived from:

    The scents of acacia flowers, honeysuckle and snowdrops; the taste of greengages.

    Moments when I feel I love what I am doing: when I get excited while reading research or creative writing – and, consequently, when I feel like I can contribute to the research or I can create stories – either through words or photographs. When I am inspired – to create and to live fully.

    Meeting people I truly connect with. Everything is genuine and pure, everything flows, the masks are left aside, and no one questions another’s words or feelings. You just know what is happening, share the same smile, and are able to live, truly live in each other’s company without performing. The feeling of belonging.

    Peace of mind, in general, or moments of blissful lightheartedness. When every veil of worry, gloom or heaviness is lifted up and I feel unconditional love and self-love within. This is also when I can appreciate every simple aspect of being. It even feels like my body is lighter, like I float, just as my thoughts do.

    Wandering in fantasy worlds reminiscent of my childhood.

    Running. Setting goals and accomplishing them.

    Finding a film I am profoundly touched by. If you know me, you know how intensely I can immerse into films. I become the character, I live the films when I watch them. The pleasure consists in the experience itself, in losing and finding yourself in a concept or a story. It can be revealing, too.

    Adventures. waterfalls. explorations in nature; admiring its grandeur, but also the grandeur of an old temple or a rich urban or futuristic noir-looking area.

    Those rare moments my writing always eventually comes back to; the ones I try to grasp through words, but fail. Those surreal moments.

    Living in a place decorated by me, where I can have my own space, a secret garden where my pet would dwell, and arch-shaped windows. The decor would be elegantly dark in some rooms, fantasy-like in others, and there will be at least one room with everything in it white and light (see Valerie’s room from “Valerie and her Week of Wonders”). There would be Gothic art, paintings spanning different cultures, motifs, and ages – with a preference for Pre-Raphaelite depictions of mythological scenes, candlelit rooms at night, and classical and dark atmospheric music filling the hallway. Ideally, I’d have this variety of design styles to suit my whims.

    To mention a one-off: Hearing Sharon den Adel’s angelic voice for the first time, and seeing her on stage at Artmania Festival.

    What makes you happy?

  • Hebden Bridge ruins

    Hebden Bridge ruins

    We arrived at the Hebden Bridge train station: On our side – flowers and yellow bricks, on the other side- a wall of trees. Overall, there was an aura of dreamlike atemporality.
    Remember “Life on a train platform” by Octavian Paler. Remember that Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath graced the valleys of this town with their presence. Sylvia Plath: enrapturing writer, with a devouring lyricism wrapped around her being. I still have to finish her Unabridged Journals, having started reading them at Essex.
    They buried her in the small village of Heptonstall, not far away from Hebden Bridge. As expected, Heptonstall is my future destination, together with The Brontës’ moors. Yorkshire nature, with its trails of whispers, is full of literary references, and exploring it is a wonderful experience, bleak at times, but wonderful nonetheless.

    Sitting at the Stubbing Wharf, a pub from Hebden Bridge with Plath, Hughes writes his reflections in the eponymous poem from Birthday Letters:

    “This gloomy memorial of a valley,
    The fallen-in grave of its history,
    A gorge of ruined mills and abandoned chapels,
    The fouled nest of the Industrial Revolution
    That had flown.” – Ted Hughes, Birthday Letters

    Plath writes about the Bronte Moors:

    “There is no life higher than the grasstops
    Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
    Pours by like destiny, bending
    Everything in one direction.[…]
    The sheep know where they are,
    Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds,
    Grey as the weather.[…]
    I come to wheel ruts, and water
    Limpid as the solitudes
    That flee through my fingers.
    Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
    Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
    Of people the air only
    Remembers a few odd syllables.
    It rehearses them moaningly:
    Black stone, black stone.
    The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
    Among the horizontals.
    The grass is beating its head distractedly.
    It is too delicate
    For a life in such company;
    Darkness terrifies it.
    Now, in valleys narrow
    And black as purses, the house lights
    Gleam like small change.” – Sylvia Plath, Wuthering Heights

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