My muse...

I finally finished reading “The Bards of Bone Plain” by Patricia A. McKillip. Seriously, this woman… I kept having to stop reading at one or other line or paragraph and just marvel at her skill and how she masters the art of painting pictures with her words that touch the soul. And she never failed to inspire me, my muse, and make me write.

So, I decided that even though I have books by Charles de Lint and Diana Wynne Jones waiting for me to read them, I will read yet another of her books because I need the inspiration.

This time it’s the turn of “Cygnet”, a compilation of two of her novels: The Sorceress and the Cygnet and The Cygnet and the Firebird. I have only read the first sentence of the book and I’m already trapped: He was a child of the horned moon.

 Anyway, more writing and less blogging.

Of loss and love...

Gamlen walked out of the room, leaving Hawke staring at the fireplace. She wished she could burn away the last images of her mother... that she could unsee, could go back in time and save her from the gruesome fate that stole her life. Her whole family was gone. Dead or taken. What had she done to bring all this loss and pain to her family? All gone...

“Oh, Maker...” a pained sob threatened to break her spirit right there but she hold it back. Anger was easier to handle. It gave her something to hold on to. But even she knew that hating the mage who had done this would not bring her mother back. He was dead, as was her mother, and that was it.

Hawke got up and went upstairs, moving as if the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders. Her eyes avoided her mother’s room altogether. She just kept them glued to the floor on the way to her bedroom and didn’t even bother to close the door behind her.

The bed welcomed her as she sat down and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her legs. She didn’t move after that. It felt like time had stopped outside her door out of respect for her loss and went on flowing as usual, touching everything except the space she inhabited. She didn’t hear Bodahn opening the estate’s door for someone. Didn’t hear the hushed voices, whispering at the entrance as if they were too scared to speak louder because they didn’t want to upset the air inside the house... even Howl was silent, no welcoming barks for the visitor. Not even the footsteps she had come to know so well coming up the stairs and approaching her bedroom touched her ears. But when he entered the room, Hawke didn’t need to turn around to know it was Sebastian who was walking towards her. He had always possessed a radiance that brought light even to the darkest emotions.

“Marion...” he whispered, unsure.

Hawke closed her eyes. “Is it my fault?” she asked, the pain and guilt in her voice crushing Sebastian’s heart.

“It is not your fault, Marion. Not even the Maker would have been able to stop this.” Sebastian’s doubts disappeared and he sat down beside her, gently, not caring about anything else but being there for her, the woman who had stood by his side and supported him when no one else had.

The warm weight of his body next to hers made her look up, her eyes looking for his. She meant to say something different but the expression in his blue eyes erased those words and put his name on her lips.

“Sebastian...”

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He placed his hand on her back in an attempt to comfort her. Hawke relaxed a little and looked down again. They remained in silence, their heads full of unspoken questions and what if’s both thought inappropriate to voice in that moment.

“Say something. Anything,” she begged when she couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

Sebastian hesitated for a second and then chose a safe answer. “Your mother is with the Maker now. She’s not suffering anymore. I will put her name on the chantry’s memorial wall tomorrow.” His voice was soft but confident, like a mother caressing a child after a fall.

For some reason, Hawke found comfort in his words. She needed to believe that it was true, that maybe mother was with father and Bethany right then, laughing and hugging and free of pain. A small smile crawled into Hawke’s face.

“Thank you, Sebastian.”


She leaned on him, needing to feel someone holding her, forgetting that maybe his vows didn’t even allow him that small freedom. Sebastian’s body tensed. It was the first time she was that close to him and strange desires he hadn’t felt in years began to stir in his heart. But he held her anyway. It would have been more wrong to not give her the comfort she needed, the support he knew she craved. He was sure the Maker would understand...

Hawke sighed when his arms surrounded her. She felt safe.

Sebastian rested his cheek on Hawke’s hair and allowed himself to close his eyes. He realized he had been dreaming about doing this for a long time now and it felt more right than he had imagined. He breathed her in and knew in that moment, deep in his soul, that his heart had finally made a choice.

We never talk about my brother...

I'm currently reading We never talk about my brother by Peter S. Beagle (author of The Last Unicorn). It's a fantasy collection of nine stories, all written by this wondrous author who never ceases to amaze me.

I wasn't planning on writing anything about this book but after the last two stories I read, I thought I really needed to say something about it.

And I'm going to start with the one I just finished, which is called The Unicorn Tapestries. It's a poem cycle based on, you probably guessed, the Unicorn Tapestries, seven hangings made around the end of the 15th century, that tell the tale of, as Beagle himself puts it, "a brutal unicorn hunt". It's hard to find the exact words to describe what these poems made me feel... They moved me almost to tears (nothing to do with the fact that I'm pretty sensitive today :p ). Beagle managed to bring the tapestries to life with the magic of his words and recreate the unicorn hunt from the point of view of a small boy, who tells this story with eyes that still see everything with the innocence of one that recognizes something sacred when he sees it and wonders "What must we look like to a unicorn?"

I have to say that if The Unicorn Tapestries would have been the only good thing about this book, I would have bought it anyway just to have the privilege to read those poems.

Fortunately, they weren't the only good things about the book. All the stories I've read so far have been good (like The Stickball Witch), some more than others. But there is one in particular that also stands out, called By Moonlight. That's the other story that made this book worth every penny. This one is about a fugitive that stumbles into a campfire in the middle of the night and there he meets a strange old man. They start talking and, when the fugitive realizes that this man claims to have visited the Faery, that other world Under the hill, he asks to listen to his story. And so the old man starts to weave the tale of his past and a life he lost so many years ago in that other land where he loved and was loved. Beautiful, I say. Haunting and beautiful.

I still have one more story to read before I finish the book but even if it happens to suck, I will still love the book and treasure it because of those two brilliant jewels that I found inside.

You are a Master of your craft, Peter S. Beagle. Yes, you are.

This moved me in ways only a few people will understand...

Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swaps of the not-quite, the not-yet and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists... it is real... it is possible... it's yours.

-Ayn Rand-

Dal centro della mia vita venne una grande fontana…

I started reading “Eat Pray Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert yesterday. I bought the book a week ago, more or less, and was saving it like those filled-with-something-delicious round chocolates I love so much; I just didn’t want to start reading it yet because I was afraid it would melt inside my mouth too soon, you know, like the chocolate.

Before moving further, it’s worth mentioning that I have seen the movie three times now and I still don’t get tired of it, not even a single moment of the movie makes me think “Oh, how boring, can I skip that part, please?” Nope. I enjoy every single line and frame from that damn film. An explanation of why I adore the movie so much would take quite some space so… let’s just say that it spoke (and still speaks) to me on so many levels that I think I’m in love with it. No, wait, I know I’m in love with it. It touched my soul, my heart, my mind. Sometimes it didn’t touch all those things but actually smacked them, kicked them in the ass and otherwise shook them really really hard. More than that, I feel like home when I watch it; a sense of peacefulness and belonging has woken up inside of me each and every time I have seen it. And no, I’m not exaggerating. So when I found out there was a book, it became obvious I had to read it.

Anyway, back to the book... Reading it has made me love the movie more than I already do. I was surprised to find out how different they are, yet how they share the same essence, the same spirit, which is exactly how I feel about Elizabeth and me. The author and I are so different in so many ways but so similar it’s unnerving. I’m on page 93 of the novel and I can already say that about us. She is like a mirror to me. Her words speak of a truth and a yearning that makes so much sense to me it’s no wonder I can’t get enough of the movie.

The message (or multiple messages) that has arrived in the form of Gilbert’s words directly into my life is full of what Jung would call synchronicity. It didn’t get here too soon or too late but precisely when I would understand and apprehend it. Because the last four months of my life have been quite a ride. A soul-shaking, heart-breaking, mind-blowing, life-changing ride. I reached the peak of that ride in an ecstatic state, scared as hell but willing, and like every ride, there came the huge and lightning fast drop into the abyss that stripped me of everything in a second. I could go on comparing my experience during this time with that freaking amusement park hell of a ride but I think you get the point: after that first horrible drop, sometimes I was up again only to go down and up and down, faster and faster, wishing it would end already, until I ended up at the bottom, shaken and unable to stand up straight. My stomach – along with my lungs and heart – abandoned somewhere along the road. I wish I could say it’s over but, to this very day, I’m still trying to get off the cart. I also wish I could say it hasn’t really been that bad but I would be lying. Don’t get me wrong, I have learned invaluable lessons that will eventually make it all worthwhile but, holy shit, I wouldn’t want to go through the experience again. No, sir.

I have the make a pause here to write this message for someone in particular cause it’s bugging me too much. So here it is: There are so many things I would like to say about you in this post but you might actually read this (although it is highly unlikely) and I’m not sure I want you to know how I feel. I’m not even sure why I don’t want you to know. I have become a pro in hiding my feelings from you. It’s ridiculous. I have been drowning in an ocean of my own tears and unbearable anxiety for a long time now, hiding that monster behind a fake smile and a sweet voice, with my everything-is-alright attitude. Which I’m not very good at, by the way. Like I said, it’s ridiculous. Letting you know how I feel isn’t going to drive you away cause I already lost you. You’re already gone. But I still don’t feel ready to break the wall of silence I have built around my feelings whenever you’re around. Maybe I will someday. Maybe you will never know. Or maybe I will write you a letter. Ha, ha. (I doubt you remember the context which would make that last statement kind of funny).

But I digress. The title of this post I got from the book. “From the center of my life, there came a great fountain…” It’s hard for me to feel it lately but I know it is there. I can feel things changing subtly inside of me, rearranging themselves in a form I can’t make sense off yet but I will when it is ready to reveal itself to me.

That’s it. The inspiration is gone and I need to go write someone a letter…

On writing...

I should write more often. It would be good for me. To shape all my fire and dreams and storms into words and weave a spell of language with them.

My inner landscape is far too overwhelming to keep it hidden and locked within me. It could destroy me, drive me crazy, if I don't let it flow through my eyes and mouth and fingers onto a page or space outside myself.

It has driven me crazy sometimes... I let it take hold of my mind and burn it, burn across my whole body until sorrow and despair is all my cells know. But there is always light behind the darkest hour and peace waiting at the edge of the battlefield...

And I am always there, at the center, watching. The Witness, with nothing but compassion on my face... And the Witness never forgets that this is just a game...

...

Una orden resuena dentro de mí:
"¡Escarba! ¿Qué es lo que vez?".
"Hombres y pájaros, agua y piedras".
"¡Escarba mas profundo! ¿Qué es lo que ves?".
"¡Ideas y sueños, fantasías y relámpagos!".
"¡Escarba más profundo! ¿Qué es lo que ves?".
"¡No veo nada! Una noche muda, tan espesa como la muerte".
"¡Escarba más profundo!".
"¡Ah! ¡No puedo penetrar la división más obscura!
Escucho voces y llanto, escucho el revoloteo de alas en la otra orilla".
"¡No llores! ¡No llores! ¡No están en la otra orilla...
las voces, el llanto y el aleteo son tu propio corazón".

~Nikos Kazantzakis