I Shut My Eyes

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

All words above from “A Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath.

Why? I hear you ask. Why a love song with these photos? It’s hard to explain. Maybe it’s because I fear that in our rush to renovate and renew we will wipe away the stories of our yesterdays. Maybe it’s because only a mad girl will go around chronicling the memories of an all-but-forgotten generation. Or it could be because I insanely wonder whether I will blink and it will all be gone.

Or it could be, just could be, that I was born with an old, old soul.

Maybe you, my friends, can help me find an answer.

Location: the streets of Valletta, April 2014

Of Fading Beauty And Summer Reads

It’s fading. The beauty of spring will soon be just a memory. Notwithstanding last week’s rain, the beautiful wildflowers are wilting, slowly relinquishing their glory. They are wise – before the burning breath of summer reaches these shores, they will be just a hazy, if colourful, memory of what was and what will be. I think I could learn to like summer if the wild flowers bloomed. But in the face of such extreme odds, they return to the earth from which they sprung and nurture the seed of life till the rains return once more.

And I, I am a bit like the spring flowers for, unlike the rest of my countrymen (and women) who seem to spend their lives outdoors during the summer months, I tend to hibernate, cocooning myself in the relative coolness of our home and only venturing outdoors in the sunlight if I absolutely have to. With time to kill, I pick up my books and call them friends.

Despite the longish into, I suppose you can say that my post picks up where this one by Suze left off. It is funny, sometimes, how the subconscious of one person seems to be in line with that of another during the same period of time. Or maybe it’s because we are all preoccupied with the same things. I have long wondered what it is that makes us pick one author over another; one blog over another. Of course, most times it is the story that draws me in. But I find that it is usually the style of writing that hooks me. Good plots and storytellers aside, I think I am most drawn to those authors who bleed their hearts out on the page; whose prose rips them asunder. Writers whose words transcend time; whose passion captures the imagination of generations.

This summer I plan to delve into the works of some writers that I have never read before. I have the following line-up in mind: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Sylvia Plath, Paulo Coelho. I would love your thoughts, if any, on these writers. Are they worth the many summer hours I will spend poring over them? Or should I just go outside and battle the pesky mosquitoes?

The Little Big Things

They say that life is not measured by the number of breaths that we take but by the moments that take our  breath away.

We are bombarded, on a daily basis, by images flashing through our senses like strobe lights – there one minute and gone the next. Hooked to our TV screens, our computer monitors, our iPads and iPhones and all shapes and sizes of gadgets that I cannot even name, we sometimes forget that real life is ‘out there’ and that we are the protagonists of our own destinies and, no matter how vicariously we live through the lives of others, we only get one shot at living our own.

Last night I felt compelled to write a note to my son, to tell him to find joy in each day; to look at the world with wide, curious eyes; to stop and smell not only the roses but the poppies and chamomile too. But above all I told him to smile; smile, smile and smile some more. Because life is about the little things. The things t hat money cannot buy.

In some ways, it was a lesson to myself, because I do tend to let circumstances drag me down. I confess that I get angry more quickly than I should and I let obnoxious people spoil my day. But only because I let them. So I am looking at life with a magnifying glass and I’ve discovered that even nature has a sense of humour. That the most detestable (to me) vegetable is innately beautiful. I’ve learnt that carrying a notebook wherever I go is a must and that although a camera can capture a moment, it is the heart that experiences and treasures it.

There are days when the smallness of this island gets to me. When I wish I had wings to be able to soar above the clouds and discover the wide open sky. But all it takes to bring me back down is a forgotten chapel, overgrown with weeds or the caress of sunshine on centuries-old stone. They are such little things. Such tiny, insignificant things and yet, against all odds, they keep me grounded; they keep me sane.

Photographed in various locations around Malta, March & April 2014