Things-in-themselves

It's a beautiful, understandable world - all things small connected through the letters they send to the senses. That's what I gathered today - the smell of a rose is a poem she writes in the book of the days. It's her essence, the fragrant transcription of her soul, the way she would like to be understood, to be remembered. 



 

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"It's nice to have a pet mama. You can hug her."

Arcadia

Танцуваме, рисуваме, свирим на пиано, решаваме задачи, пишем стихотворения, шием сърца, чаршафи, котета, корабчета, правим склуптури, правим бъркотия, правим боклук, метем, разчистваме, подреждаме си обувките, целуваме се, караме се, разхождаме се, говорим, говорим, говорим...

Идва есен, идва зима, чакаме пролетта, лятото е късо, минава незабележимо.

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Thou shalt not abandon thy blog.

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"I have dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they've gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind."

Cathy Earnshaw, "Wuthering Heights"

August

Houses, soaked with light
And the sun, forcing its way in
As an eager, unrestrainable lover.
The streets breath in the dust
As the city makes love to the summer.

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Herron Island, a Year Later: Heaven Revisited

Petal Alphabet

Milla,

July 27, 2011

Passion

Milla went to bed in her dancing clothes so she can dance in her dreams.

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Homegrown hearts

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Home, sweet home

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Pearl Jam, Come Back

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Студ и тъга.

Milla on the Moebius Strip, Inside-Outside, Perception-Conception lecture:

"Blind people don't have an outside. They only have an inside."

100.5 F

In my next life I would learn
to play the piano -
all the Chopin's preludes,
nothing more.
More would be unnecessary excess
like all those pretty dresses we buy
and never wear, cluttering our closets.

 

 

99.5 F

If I can wash my heart

like a white shirt

bleach out the blood stains

mend the holes from the backstabbing

take out the soil and the dirt

iron the wrinkles

hang it out to dry in the mild sun

of all the past summers

with their slanting afternoon light

and the smell of roses and geraniums burning to ashes

If I can inhale once again

its clean smell -

homemade soap and cotton

kissed by the fading sun,

maybe I would be ready to live again.

Or to, happily, die.

Out of Nowhere

"Mama, my fingers are trapped in my hand."

***

Yes, our hearts are thinning out like the souls of the trees feeding on air and water.

Imaginary Houses

We were walking through our talking when we came upon our beautiful house. Even when we were walking in our house, we were still walking through our talking.

Milla,

05.02.2011

Bloody Fruit

"Mama, do you know that the fruit has blood?"
"It does?"
"Yes, it's its juice."

 

Night Vision

 

"Mama, it's to dark in the room."
"You don't need much light, Milla. When you sleep, your eyes are closed anyway."
"Yeah, we don't see anything at night except our dreams. Mama, how do people see their dreams if their eyes are closed?"

On Being Sick

 

"Mama, I feel like macaroni in the soup. I feel like spaghetti. And I am lonely." 

"Why are you lonely, Milla? I am right here, beside you." 

"Because I have nothing to do."

"That's not lonely, MIlla, that's being bored."

"OK, then I am bored."

"Sick and bored. That's not a good combination, is it?"

 

Moments

One day we bought chocolate and on the chocolate wrapper there was writing. It said enjoy the small things in life. I thought it was about bugs and other small creatures. But daddy told me it meant enjoy the small moments in life. I agreed. And during the day I got to see all the different moments that happened. In the morning I was happy because we were painting eggs. Then I was grumpy, because I like to be bossy and I wanted the eggs to be on the coffee table and my mom wanted them in the kitchen. Then in the afternoon we sat at the window and watched the sea. It was beautiful and relaxing. I could imagine what the weather was outside. I could feel what it felt like. It was like summer night, kind of windy, but warm. Then, at 11 o'clock, we went to church. It was squashy. But the music was beautiful. It was Easter. I was happy.

Life isn't one whole big moment. Many different things can happen in a day. You can be happy all day, or be grumpy or sad.  But even if you are sad, there would be all these small moments that you could enjoy.


Milla,

Easter 2011

Gravity

Went to Seattle Planetarium this afternoon. Turns out the fastest way to lose weight is to go to Pluto.

9:00 a.m.

Странни години. Апоретични. Хаотични. Издълбани. Премълчани.

The Ideal and the Real

Някой друг

Taxonomy of Love

 

- What was the name of this movie, mama?
- "The Fifth Element".
- What is the Fifth Element?
- Love.
- Isn't it supposed to be the First One?

 

 

Sonata for Rain and Piano

We met a girl today. Two years old, blue eyes, red hooded raincoat. “Hi” - I said. She stared at me for a while, then asked: “Is it me?” “Yes, it’s definitely you.” - I said. “That rain is awesome” - the girl said and started singing and dancing, clapping her little hands. I smiled. Her mother smiled. My daughter  smiled.

Somewhere in the recesses of the universe God smiled too. And the rain kept falling. 

Bloody Carrots

"Мамо, днес обядвахме хот дог и моркови. Морковите бяха меки и кървави."

 

 

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MIss my old apartment on the 14th Avenue, the attic in Sofia, all the places I have inhabited, exscribed my soul onto, then abandoned in order to move on, to exist. They inhabit me now, inscribed into memory, deeply forgotten, forever remembered, lost dwellings, cluttered in the house of memory as orphaned children in a motherless home.

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Memories are corpses of things.

Hostages of Winter

We’ve been craving for you, Spring,
As the forgotten long for the return
Of their long-lost lovers,
As a frozen boy waited,
Once upon a time
For his girlfriend’s tears
To melt the icy dungeons of
Winter.

Goodbye, Snow Queen.
So long, Winter.
“Rulers make bad lovers” –
As Stevie Nicks used to sing.
It’s over between us.
It’s over.

Here and There

Started dreaming again after a long, long dry dream spell. Where do we go at night, in our sleep? It doesn’t matter, as long as it is somewhere else, not here, not here. We need to roam through this dreamscape of ours in order to return to reality, to enter wakefulness as a warm, longed for home.

The idea of “home” can not exist outside the dichotomies “here and there”, “inside and outside”. Outside the notion of  “inside-outside” there is no outside, there is no inside, there is only a place which isn’t there. A paradox. An empty signifier. A signifier without a signified. A “no-where”. A “no-place”. In other words - placelessness, “u-topia”*. A total and unthinkable abstraction, complete abolition of reality. 

Without dreams, confined to this permanent home of a “here” without a “there”, I am homeless - drifting into the unreality of non-existence.

I am, because from the “there” of the dream I can dream that I am not here.

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Fade to Black

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Life is a deep sleep of which love is the dream.


Alfred De Musset

Long Nights

‎"Who I was before I cannot recall"

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And then again: sometimes dreams don't come true. Or we just stop dreaming. Altogether. 

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There's too much of everything. Too many people, too many cars, too many thoughts, too many dreams, too many shoes, too many books, too many busy days, too many empty nights, too many songs, too many paintings, too many things, too many. 

This world is jammed like an old woman's attic.

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Happy Valentine's Day

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Empty rooms, where we learn to live without love. Or we don't. 

Too much love will kill you just as sure as non at all, as Freddy  

used to sing.