The one about purpose...

Viktor Frankl was right: the lack of purpose and meaning will kill you. I know his theory is a lot more extensive and slightly different but in the end it all comes to this: having a purpose is the only thing that will keep you alive when all goes to shit; when you are in the darkest, deepest hole and you can’t find a single ray of light to guide you out of it. Without a purpose, without meaning, what would be the point of keep on breathing when every freaking breath hurts like a thousand knives and your heart is breaking and there seems to be no hope whatsoever?

It doesn’t have to be a grand purpose. It just has to be important enough for you that it will make you move and reach out toward it when everything else is gone.

Do you know yours?

Memory and Dream

Memory and Dream by Charles de Lint
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I am not sure how I feel about this book. I love the idea that is the essence of this novel: that Isabelle's paintings can bring ancient spirits into this world. And yet... There were some really good parts but there were also way too many -and, a lot of the times, unnecessary- detailed descriptions that I feel slowed down the pace of the story too much. It took me a while to get into it (maybe after page 100) and, even then, I never really cared much about most of the characters, which is a problem, because if you don't care about the characters, you won't care about what happens to them. One of the few exceptions was John Sweetgrass. I fell in love with that character. He saved the book for me and was probably the reason I kept reading until the end.

Now, don't get me wrong: the book wasn't bad. It just wasn't great for me, either. It didn't grab me, not until almost the very end, when the story finally starts to pick up. But it's a 400 pages book so I felt that most of it was a slow building up to a climax that took too long to arrive.

Overall, the book was alright for me. It had some moments that truly enchanted me -and that's the reason I'm giving it 3 stars instead of 2- but there weren't enough of them in a novel that is this long.


View all my reviews

Of loss and love... Chapter 8 is up.

Here's a little teaser:

 “Anders.” 

He raised his head, surprised, and looked at her, the lines of concentration on his face dissolving as his eyes focused on her face; she could see a barely contained hunger in them. 

“Hawke…” he said softly and let her name hang in the air between them; the multiple undercurrents in his voice made it hard for Hawke to guess what he was thinking.

“Hi.”

“You come alone?” he asked her, his eyes searching behind her for someone else.

“Uh… yes,” she replied, puzzled by his question. “I just came by to see if you want to help me out with a job. If you’re not busy, that is-”

“I’ll help,” he answered almost before she finished talking.

“A…alright, then. Great! Varric and Aveline are already waiting for us.”

He raised an eyebrow, “…Not Sebastian?”

Her heart winced at the mention of his name and even though there was nothing in Anders’s clinic that could possibly remind her of Sebastian, his face seemed to shape itself out of the walls, out of the very air, to haunt her. 

(Read more...) 

 To read the story from the beginning, click here.

The Cygnet and the Firebird...

I finished reading this book (by Patricia A. McKillip) a few days ago and I’m having a hard time letting it go. I can tell because days have passed and I still don’t have the heart to start a new book; I find myself holding on to the remnants of the story, of the characters that found a secret way into my bones when I wasn’t looking and now refuse to let me move on. Not yet, they seem to whisper, Let us settle down between your cells before you begin filling them with new worlds…

So I’m going to let them. I owe them that much.

Do you know the feeling when you start reading a new book before the membrane of the last one has had time to close behind you? You leave the previous book with ideas and themes—characters even—caught in the fibers of your clothes, and when you open the new book, they are still with you.

—	The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

Of loss and love... Chapter 7 is up.

Here's a little teaser:

 [...] He stopped moving completely, except for a raised eyebrow, when his gaze landed on the letter again; he had noticed on the envelope the name of the head of a noble family from one the northern Free Marches cities, the last one he had been able to visit in his ongoing campaign to retake Starkhaven. This family in particular had pledged to support him but had made no offer to help him with troops, like many other of the allies he had recruited. So Sebastian had allies, but no actual army with which to retake his city. 

Intrigued, he opened the letter and read the elegant writing arranged neatly all over the parchment, reminding him of the troops he so desperately needed. A troubled scowl painted his forehead when he finished reading it, and it took all his will not to crumble the parchment with his fingers. [...]

Rage and loathing crashed against him so hard they took all the air out of his lungs. With a shaking hand, Sebastian left the letter back on the desk and made a decision right there. He only had time to grab his shirt before he left his room, and, putting it on on his way out, went to look for the grand cleric.

(Read more...) 

 To read the story from the beginning, click here.

Of loss and love... Chapter 6 is up!

Here's a little teaser:

“Child, something is bothering you,” Elthina said as soon as Sebastian closed the Chantry’s massive doors behind them. Her clear eyes were looking at him with concern. 

Sebastian closed his eyes, his hands still resting on the carved door. Elthina knew. Of course she knew. 

“Is it that obvious, Your Grace?” he asked when he finally faced the grand cleric. 

Her smile was gentle when she replied, “Sebastian, I’ve known you for a very long time; do not think I haven’t noticed how troubled your heart has been lately.” 

He lowered his head. “You see much...” 

Hawke’s expression when he had told her he needed to accompany Elthina back to the Chantry came back to haunt him. She had seemed strangely reluctant to part from his company, and even though she hadn’t attempted to stop him with words, the way she had last looked at him had made the walk to the Chantry feel unreal, for his thoughts had strayed from his mind, following Hawke as a ship would follow the blaze coming from a lighthouse in the middle of a storm...

(Read more...) 

 To read the whole story, click here.

Where I can become who I’m supposed to be...

All my life I’ve wanted to be the kid who gets to cross over into the magical kingdom. I devoured those books by C.S. Lewis and William Dunthorn, Ellen Wentworth, Susan Cooper, and Alan Garner. When I could get them from the library, I read them out of order as I found them, and then in order, and then reread them all again, many times over. Because even when I was a child I knew it wasn’t simply escape that lay on the far side of the borders of fairyland. Instinctively I knew crossing over would mean more than fleeing the constant terror and shame that was mine at that time of my life. There was a knowledge – an understanding hidden in the marrow of my bones that only I can access ― telling me that by crossing over, I’d be coming home. That’s the reason I’ve yearned so desperately to experience the wonder, the mystery, the beauty of that world beyond the World As It Is. It’s because I know that somewhere across the border there’s a place for me. A place of safety and strength and learning, where I can become who I’m supposed to be. 

I’ve tried forever to be that person here, but whatever I manage to accomplish in the World As It Is only seems to be an echo of what I could be in that other place that lies hidden somewhere beyond the borders.

- Charles de Lint (Why, this is me.)

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

I write so as not to lose my mind

Online social networks (one in particular, actually) have taught me many things about human nature. I have learned how far people can go to feel something, even if they know it’s not real. How they can turn on each other over a fantasy and spit poison through their words and actions. How completely crazy they can get over fake things, so crazy it becomes scary to watch their reactions. And all of this over online situations and persons. Even characters.

But, most of all, I have discovered some things about my own nature that I’m not completely comfortable with. I’ve caught glimpses of the abyss and stared in shock at what I am capable of too. The funny thing is, it also fascinates me to discover that other side of me who is not who I thought I was. It scares me sometimes though.

It rings truer now that I write so as not to lose my mind. My head can be hell sometimes; hell and chaos made of a hundred voices speaking at the same time, thousands of emotions boiling inside of me, sometimes so tangled up that it’s hard for me to know what belongs to whom. Because my characters are real for me, in a way. And, boy, do they want attention. And some of them are more fucked up than I will ever be... Or are they?

Does a person like me have what it takes to be a therapist? I somehow doubt it. My mind works in mysterious ways and what fascinates me so much about Psychology is not exactly helping others. I even think characters fascinate me more than real people, in general. I don’t really care anymore what that says about me.

Until next time, silent (and probably non-existant) readers.

Don't leave me yet...

"'Aren't we running out of time?' he asks. His voice is so quiet, I feel I should lower mine so as not to break him.

'No,' my eyes fill with tears and I speak more forcefully than I intend, 'we have all the time in the world, Dad.'"

-Cecelia Ahern, Thanks for the Memories-

A post from Mraz I want to share with you.

"Top 5 Conversations Worthy of My Commitment in 2010

# 5: Buy Local or Die: I Will Support Natural & Organic Food Sources

Did you know that processing one pound of meat requires 5000 gallons of water? Did you know that 1 cow used to produce fast food and grocery store ground beef requires 35 gallons of oil (1 barrel) to support it’s force–fed life? Did you know that cows are natural herbivores (grass grazers) and are force fed corn feed, cow parts and other animal bi-products to speed up the process to where they are fat enough to be slaughtered? Did you know that for a cow to not die in this process, a cow that sleeps in its own manure, is pumped full of antibiotics and other drugs to stay “healthy?” The chemical waste of a cow is no longer suitable as fertilizer as it would kill the plants. Cow piss is toxic and of course floats downstream throughout the food chain in all forms, one way or another, to us. When you buy this meat, you are supporting a Military’s action for oil in the Middle East. You are supporting pharmaceutical companies as well as the unethical and environmentally hazardous treatment of the only home we have. Buying quick and easy meat is like biting the hand that feeds you. Modern industrial agri-business is THE #1 contributor to the dying world.

It doesn’t just stop in the beef business. Every kind of processed food that comes from a factory farm is a derivative of genetically modified corn – the growing and manufacturing of which destroys soils, covering ground with chemical fertilizers made up of ammunition seeping downward, polluting the water table, or evaporating into the air causing acid rain and adding more heavy metals to the overheated global climate crisis.

Pretty much all of the food not found in the produce section of a grocery store has no nutritional value. You’d be better off eating cardboard. Even our non-organic produce puts up with a lot of bad juju before it ever leaves the farm. This is why I choose to live on raw, organic, live or concentrated foods (powdered foods i.e. from Healthforce Nutritionals and Sunrider Brands.) Even farmed fish are forced to eat corn and are also pumped full of medicine to ensure it survives the journey (somewhat) to your dinner plate.

There is another story here about the kind of dinnerware we use. Are you using Styrofoam or Plastic Plates and Cups? Because only the most arrogant of Kings would use synthetic table settings just once before throwing them away. The more we use them, the less safe our soil and seas are as these materials fail to biodegrade adding, yep, more toxic uh-oh to our ground, river, and drinking water.

Last centuries’ ideas for efficiency (created to keep companies like McDonalds and our Military thriving) have screwed farmers and only fattened the now cancer haunted consumer. In the new decade ahead, we either boldly adopt new practices or bravely continue down the path to forgive and forget and hope that what we eat doesn’t kill us.

In addition to raising your voice about global health and environmental concerns, YOU CAN VOTE WITH YOUR FORK. The way we consume WILL dictate where and how our food is grown. Our role can be the greatest in the food chain if we pause and say a blessing once in a while, acknowledging the food itself and those who grew it, packaged and delivered it, making it safe and possible for you to eat.

If we all shifted our attention back to grass-fed meat, we would be supporting farms that participate in a natural turning of land, from sunlight to grass, grass to proteins, protein to fertilizer, rinse and repeat. Not to mention, we would be treating our divine bodies better.

Buying organic produce makes a powerful statement about how you prefer your food grown - by people, without the use of chemicals. The Best Fertilizer is a Farmer’s Footsteps. And the best place to stock your kitchen is your local Farmers Market where you can actually talk to the farmer and his wife.

This Year I Resolve to Buy Local, to Buy Organic, and to lend my voice and practices to the Family Farmers who need us."


For more info, check out his blog: http://freshnessfactorfivethousand.blogspot.com/
You won't regret it.

:D Happy Yule! Happy Holidays!

Happy Holidayz from Jason Mraz & The Voices of Prayze from Jason Mraz on Vimeo.

Sweet Darkness

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb
tonight.

The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.

You must learn one thing:
the world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes the darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

~David Whyte~



[Thank you for sharing this with me, brother. I love you.]

...

"Cada ser humano es un ermitaño condenado a vivir acurrucado en el caparazón de su identidad. La única oportunidad que tiene que abrir su alma y salir de este capullo es entregarse al ser amado... para reinventarse mutuamente".

-Jean-Claude Kaufmann-