Mantra - sunday scribblings

Still trying to get the hang of this, says girl with over 700 posts.

The word 'mantra' is close to the portuguese word to describe a light blanket 'manta', and it seems fitting to think of a mantra as something that you can use to wrap around yourself, to make you feel secure and protected from the outside world, something that comforts you.

Instead of a mantra I seem to have songs on loop in my head. My brain appears to be hypersensitive to musical patterns and even words - sometimes I hear a word somewhere and that immediately reminds me of a song with that word included and my brain starts reproducing it. Hey, I don't need an i-pod, what can I say? ;)

According to the Wikipedia the mantra is a sound, syllable, word, or group of words that are considered capable of "creating transformation" - the songs on a loop in my head certainly don't contribute to such thing, unless getting irritable is a transformation, but you also have to lookout for the negative mantra. What is it? It's that voice inside your head that keeps repeating things that are not positive for you - self-defeatist, pessimistic and many times involuntary comments we hear inside our heads. We would probably benefit from replacing these with a good mantra. A nice, soft and summery blanket.

still adjusting to my old blogging shoes...

*completely forgot where I got that photo from but it's not mine.

SS - Where in the World?

Do you feel like you belong somewhere? Is this location the place where you live right now, or the place where you grew up in?

Well, for many people it isn't, this special place isn't even remotely close to where they have lived or live now. I'm sure you know people who feel this way: some have found that their home, perhaps their spiritual home, is in India and it's only there that they've felt truly at home. Others are born with a permanent desire to move to Africa. Others have an inexplicable connection to Egypt, without even having been there in the first place. Others feel like they belong in Italy even though nothing in their personal history connects them to this country. I know innumerous people in these conditions and this has made me wonder many times before.

Their longing for these distant (or not so distant) places is apparently of no logical explanation, they have dreamed about these locations from childhood or adolescence, perhaps they've read about them or seen a particular film or documentary, which made their interest grow ever bigger...I'm guessing they didn't come across these sources by sheer coincidence.

This way, I've wondered if this phenomenon was connected to possible past lives. Because I'm not exactly an expert in the subject I tried to look at it from an astrological point of view, through a point in the birth-charts that is called the South Node. The Nodes describe an evolutionary axis of the soul, from a point where we're most comfortable with (the South Node) to a point that is our challenge for evolution in this life (the North Node). And if we look at it from the perspective of Karmic Astrology (the branch of Astrology that relies on Karma and past lives as principles), the South Node could describe our past lives and something along the lines of where our soul has been. And I found we could speculate about where our soul has been, reading a book that connects the South Node sign to various locations around the World (because countries and regions are related to signs too). This way we could perhaps understand why we feel comfortable and at home in places where we've never been before and have no apparent connection to. Just a thought. :)

More Sunday Scribblings.

ss - follow

I follow invisible threads of dreamy consistency, I watch the smoky lines jets left behind in the blue sky. I follow audacious routes circum-navigating the oceans and the simplest bus lines through the town. 

In my drowsiness the paths are unclear, seemingly complicated and trampling over any apparent logic. I follow the easy way out because there is no easy way in. I follow the tides without getting seaweed around my ankles. I follow the cycles like any other living being. I follow the paths that the archetypes tell of. I wasn't born a stalker, so I don't follow you.

What follows me? That's a different story. You follow me to my dreams and to my pillow seams. 

*lyrics are again from Smoke City's "It's Amazing". It's amazing that I evoked the same song in two different prompts, in two weeks in a row.

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SS - language

The language that you speak torments me in my sleep*

I hate repeating myself (or do I?) and I know I've posted these lyrics before. But, you see, I'm obsessed about languages, as much as I'm obsessed about certain songs. And how could I help it? It's right in the first sentence -"or do I?" - shouldn't it be "or don't I?". To be honest, I don't know but it's these crazy language hiccups that make things interesting. 

With languages it is often a case of the stranger the better. Typically, as you get to know a language and begin to master it, it gradually becomes less mysterious. It stops being something that is foreign and exterior and it becomes a part of you, an instrument of you. This has happened to me and English. I started to learn the language when I was 10 years old. Before that happened, I was so fascinated by it that I pretended to know it and tried to immitate the sounds from songs and films. 

Then began the slow process of mastering the language. It was incredibly fascinating because it was the language of all things cool. But it was also immensely frustrating wanting to use it as if it was my own - I wrote a lot of terrible phrasing before my words sounded more or less decent. It took years of practice of both reading and writing and, in the process, English became a part of me, not the language that singers sang in anymore.  I know this because I cannot help but write in English, it is now a part of my mental processes, my creativity, my writing abilities. And even though I still enjoy it, it has become too familiar to keep the previous allure, so I have to turn elsewhere for fascination.

The fascination is in the sounds, the musicality, the accents, the similarities, the differences, the meanings, the connections, the exceptions, the origins, the evolutions. Really, what is there not to like? Unless you aren't into languages, which is also an option.

As I mentioned above, I believe a language becomes a part of you when you use it frequently enough. Being the way to express yourself, you have to mold it to your preferences and to your profile. This makes me wonder if, considering how different languages can be, certain languages aren't a better fit for certain people or certain usages and expressions. Obviously every language has the ability to express the whole range of realities, but can one language trap you in your expression? Could you express a side of you more easily using a different language? Or are you able to be more 'you' in a certain language? I don't know if these questions make any sense to you. 

More Sunday Scribblings.

*lyrics by Smoke City "It's Amazing" / photo on everystockphoto.com

SS - Celebrate

* can you think of Celebrate and not think of the Kool & the Gang song? I can't, I'm afraid.

These are my reasons to celebrate:

- I finally received the results for the english exam I did a few months ago and I got an A.

- My grandmother is back home today and feeling better after months of worrying illness. 

- My football team is still top of the league and on its way to another title.

- I'm getting closer and closer to finishing my story. I don't know how it will end or how I'll manage to put the last full stop in it, but it WILL happen. 

- I'm reading an extraordinary book called The Other Side of You. It's a story told through the eyes of a psychiatrist/analyst and it's full of sentences that you want to keep to yourself / or share with the world. 

- I was graced with the Kreativ Blogger Award by Sepiru Chris and I'm very thankful for it, even though it feels a bit unfair since I haven't been that creative around here lately.

More celebrations.

*Summer Cheers on everystockphoto by JennyHuang @ Flickr

SS - Trust

Don’t you know when you’re loving anybody, baby,

You’re taking a gamble on a little sorrow*

I've come to the conclusion that you have to trust in a lot of things in order to simply live in this planet. To start off, you have to trust yourself, your abilities, your resilience - that's self-confidence. You also have to trust your feelings, your reactions, your instincts - that's self-esteem. 

Then as you try to grow up into the person you're supposed to be, you need to trust others, you need to trust the World, the future. You need to believe that good things can happen to you, that putting something out into the world will bring you positive consequences, that you can be happy no matter what you are or what has happened to you before - that's faith and optimism.

And when you want to share your life with other people, you need to trust that they will want you in return. You have to trust that they won't hurt you, that they will try to make you happy in that relationship. In short, you have to trust them with your heart - and that is love.

More Sunday Scribblings here.

*Janis Joplin - "Get it while you can"

Image - everystockphoto.com

ss - phantoms & shadows

Maybe it was the fact that I was listening to an old CD yesterday, maybe I've just lost it...but today in the middle of my sleep I came across a detail of my life of ten years ago. It was a completely useless detail, not even entirely related to me, it was about my friends and our daily routine. It served for nothing but stir other old memories. But why would I remember something so useless in the middle of my sleep?

This is just one of the subtleties of my memory. Some parts of my life seem to be buried under cement. Sometimes with a little help from what people tell me or something I wrote I can recall and recreate these events.  This forgetfulness goes  against my theory that I have a really good memory, particularly of details. I remember things I ate years ago, songs I was listening to, the sensation of certain clothes I was wearing - it's always very sensorial and if it wasn't for my senses I probably wouldn't remember anything at all. I haven't mentioned the smells but that is obviously the sense that brings out more memories and feelings.

My memories are like cotton wool. They are soft and light and often seem ready to disappear like the clouds in the sky. And when you pull one memory, others come right after, exactly like the cotton threads. Coincidentally Cotton Wool by Lamb was the song I was listening to last night.

SS - Pilgrimage

No matter where you are

No matter who you are

There is no further place you can go 

Than deep within yourself.

It is the baggage that you'll carry

regardless of space and time.

If you look inside

Really look inside

If you remove the veils

if you forget the fears

you'll be crossing the threshold of you

and you will understand 

the greatest pilgrimage 

you'll ever do 

is your life. 

Sunday Scribblings

Photo: Getty Images

richer or poorer - sunday scribblings

Some days she woke up and the world was a vast, white desert. After managing to extract herself from below the weight of the bedcovers, she would contemplate the day ahead of her mixing her cereal with milk absent-mindedly. Everything seemed incredibly present and yet fuzzy, her thoughts, unweaving like a big grey ball of wool, followed repetitive patterns that made her sigh in frustration.

Days stretched similar and never-ending but time seemed to fly by all the same. She felt worn out by time, like a rock sitting by a river with a strong, relentless current. The wear was invisible but she could feel it in her bones. 

One day she awoke with a start, heart racing and short of breath. She opened the shades and looked outside to find a lively mix of people, cars and trees. After a moment of gathering her thoughts, she jumped out of bed. She left the house without having breakfast. Suddenly the world was full of subtleties, full of layers she was able to uncover, of details she hadn't noticed before. She had to detach from the immensity of stimulae and only focus on certain details, as every small thing seemed so vivid, every cell of her body felt more alive than ever. 

She reached her destination, gave most of her savings away and, in exchange, got a ticket, a plane ticket. It wasn't a simple ticket or trip. It was the manifestation of the idea she had, of the dream she was recovering, of the wishes she had for her future. From that day on, she was poorer in her wallet but everything in her experience (what she felt and what surrounded her) was dramatically richer.

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Happy New Year!

More Sunday Scribblings.

*Image from everystockphoto.com

SS - I believe...

I believed in everything, like a child of three*

From the start I believed what my heart told me to. Pumping blood spiritedly to all the cells in my body, it didn't take no for an answer. It picked up signs and star-designed fated routes, mixed it with crazy hair and summer skin, gave it a good shake, while I stood and watched as if that wasn't really happening to me but to some foreign body I was able to assess. My heart told me it was love and naturally I believed it.

There were dimples and cheeky smiles and strong hands to be held. The Summer stretched into fresher evenings but still a lot of ideas to be discussed until sleep won over both of us, empty glasses of wine and crumpled books filled with white sand the only witnesses of our existence. 

With Autumn came the first chills of discomfort, the cold hands that didn't hold each other like they used to. There were tears and voice that weren't as soft as they used to be. But my heart didn't quaver, it is love, it said to me every time there was doubt in the air.

I wore gloves and hats, I kept my chin inside halter necks, my heart still pumped busily but the cold air didn't let me feel the same warmth. The trees were stripped of leaves just as our bond was stripped of everything but memories. Soon there was only a faint wave goodbye and my heart said, it was love. And I still believed it - why shouldn't I? 

When Spring arrives and swallows bring sounds of hope, I will still believe.

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* From the classic jazz song Blame it on my youth, which was my inspiration to write this bit.

sunday scribblings - late

One, two, one, two. She stamps her feet on the ground trying to wake them up from a near frosty death. Pulling her beanie another inch down to her ears, she looks towards the end of the road. The street is packed with cars moving slowly to avoid hitting a crazed Christmas shopper in a shopping-rush. She doesn't look at the cars near her, only to the very end of the road, where new cars come along. That's the first chance she has of seeing the car and she already knows none of those who approach her are the one she is expecting to see. 

She looks into her hands, even redder now than a minute before, and decides to throw the rest of her cake away. She only bought it to entertain herself while she was waiting but after a couple of bites it went from being a greasy, characterless cake to being an icy, greasy, characterless cake. A dark-haired man walks by holding hands with a little girl, dressed in pink from head to toe. She notices her little gloves have a small embroidered heart. A remarkable cloud of steam comes out of her mouth as she lets out a sigh. As a child she enjoyed playing with her friends pretending they were smoking. She has never stopped being amused by the steam occurence. 

She looks into her watch and then to the end of the road impatiently. Perhaps she should return to the old techniques of counting how many red cars pass by, to help time pass. After counting two cars she gives up and checks her mobile phone, to see if it's still working. 

'Hey!' a familiar voice makes her turn around. Finally! A man and a small girl are standing in front of her, faces pink with the cold and big smiles on their faces.

'You're late!' she replies, unable to stop smiling herself. 'Where have you been? I was worried!'

'Ah, you know, we found a toy shop in our way.' he replies, winking conspicuously at the little girl. 

'I thought you were bringing the car.' she says as they start walking along the road.

'It wouldn't start, so we took the subway.'

She picks the little girl up in her arms as they go along...

'So what have you been up to in the toy shop?'

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More on Sunday Scribblings.

SS - A Winter's Tale

I wake up with the roaring sound of thunder echoing through the room. I'm confused for a moment and I lift my head slightly. A lightning illuminates the walls for a split second, allowing me to locate myself in space and see the paintings that decorate this old bedroom. A thunder follows shortly and my heart leaps, oblivious to the fact that the sound always follows the flash.

I pull the blanket towards me in a gesture of self-protection, suddenly feeling like a tiny child in the middle of an enormous room of horrors. The window pane reveals big droplets of rain, growing in intensity in the subsequent seconds. I notice I'm shivering a little and start telling myself that it's only Nature doing its work outside and that I should go back to sleep.

A creaking sound from inside the house alerts me and I hesitate before I get up from my bed. I open the door and peer into the hall only to find darkness and silence. I blink a few times but nothing changes so I close the door again. When I'm getting back to bed there's a knock on the door and I jump, my usual quietness the only thing that keeps me from screaming. I open the door to find his sleepy face dimmed by the dark hallway.

'Hi!' I say, louder than I expected it to come out. He smiles and comments on the crazy storm activity outside. He scratches his head while he looks at me, his hair is completely out of place.
'Yes...it's quite severe. Did the thunders wake you up?' I ask. He nods and smiles again.
'Are you going to let me in?' he asks awkwardly.
'Oh...' I open the door further, realizing I was holding on to it to keep my hands from shaking.
'I thought you would have woken up too.' he says when he enters the room. 'Are you okay?'
I give him an amused look.
'You're frightened, aren't you?' I ask to which he replies with an unmistakable no and a funny offended look. I sit down on the bed and pat the space next to me.
'Come here, I'll tell you a bedtime story.' I smile and he obeys like a five year old boy would. He sits really close to me and I can feel the warmth of his bare legs next to mine. I wonder if he sat there on purpose or if he's just perturbed by the storm.

Another lightning invades the room but before the thunder is heard he whispers to me to turn the light off. I reach to switch off the small lampshade and when I straighten myself up I feel the nearness of his face, even though I can't distinguish exactly where he is.
'How does the story begin?' I hear him ask and I smile, the kind of smile you have when you think the other person can't see you, usually on the telephone. But he's right next to me, his knee is actually touching mine now and I can't help shivering even more. I gulp and try to get some composure back.
'Usually it starts with once upon a time...'
'That's right' he replies with a sound of approval.

There is a moment of silence when the rain seems to hesitate a little and I can hear him breathing calmly next to me. I pray he doesn't hear me because my body seems to have forgotten how to breathe regularly. I'm baffled about how assertive and calm I was only a minute ago and how quickly and dramatically everything has changed. Suddenly I'm asking questions I hadn't dared to ask all day.
'What are we doing? What's going on?'
There isn't a sound to answer me. Instead, I see him leaning his head towards me so it settles on my shoulder.
'I thought you were telling me a story.' he mumbles. I try to contain a sigh, divided between irritation and wanting to laugh. I think he notices because he's the one producing a small chuckle next.
'Ok. So, once upon a time there was a haunted house on a hill...' I start. Outside the rain seems to have made up its mind and it's bashing at the window.

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Can I let you on a little secret? I wrote this in the Summer.

ss - grateful

A week of hazy and sunny days

sunrays visible through my new shades

sharp pencils that smell good

stracciatella ice cream

a bunch of small goats running around

friends that watched the same cartoons as you did

sleeping ten more minutes, and then another ten

a prompt every friday...

25 comments on my last post

I am grateful.

Sunday Scribblings

ss - stranger

The day I became a stranger to my blog...

I don't know when it was exactly or what brought it but we've become estranged - me and my blog. I wouldn't call it a blogger's block, perhaps some kind of blog weariness. I miss the blogging interaction but things just aren't working for me right now. But worse than not blogging is blogging about not blogging so I won't bother you with that.

Strangers it is. I love strangers, they are the salt of life. No, seriously. If there were no strangers in the World...what could you aspire to? You'd never have a chance to meet anyone new. You wouldn't be able to take a bus ride and wonder about the people sitting next to you (you already knew them!), make up stories about their lives, wonder where they're going and what they're like, who's the other person they're talking to...no, none of that. You wouldn't be able to walk down the street a be surprised by someone you've seen, be amazed, be disgusted, be curious, watch someone completely distinct, doing something you've never seen before and that makes you chuckle to yourself and tell people about it when you get home from work. You wouldn't be able to wonder if there was another person in this World that shared a silly quirk with you, or that shared your ideas about grocery shopping or ate salad before the main course like you do.

So with this I have proven that strangers are the salt of life. And I blogged too.

*photo credit: Flickr "dude on the northbound" by Lex in the City

SS - Mae West said...

I don't like myself, I'm CRAZY about myself!

Well good for you, Mae. I'm following your lead, even if completely unsure of what's going to come out, but I'm risking it because I'm having a good hair day. I just caught sight of my locks a minute ago and I nodded approvingly - wow! Go hair, aren't you looking all smooth and healthy today? *insert whistle*

And why is hair so important? Well, ask the lions why they need their mane and, while you're at it, ask the Leos why they're so obsessed about their hair. For a Leo, the sign that is more concerned with their own identity and individuality, their hair is a mark of that essence, maybe even an expression of their uniqueness, if you must. That's why, for some, it's not about having beautiful hair, but having the wildest, craziest hair, having hair with a life of its own. And yes, I knew you were going to ask about the bald people. Yes, yes. Well, there are many ways of being bald, that's all I have to say (wow, I should be a politician, I'm so good with twisting words around, go me!).

So hair is an issue and Mae West had good hair, goldie locks. And, ah, quelle surprise, she was a Leo too! (I swear I didn't know, I only just googled the woman!)

Oh you want to know about me? I'm this incredibly bright person, who has great intuition and a broad vision of the Universe. (See how I started writing about Leos without knowing Mae West was one?) I thrive on my imagination and my daydreaming but I'm extremely sensible and practical when I need to be. I pick up on things around me and have an amazing ability to put myself in other people's shoes. I'm curious about the World and that is reflected on my great knowledge of various subjects. I write well and have a really great talent for languages. I'm just so brilliant you wouldn't believe!

(all of the above references are true to a point, but here they were highlighted to reach the superlative intention of the post).

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photo from Mae West found in www.lasplash.com

ss - my style

She sits on the floor with her legs bent and surrounded by books, piles of books. Her hair falls cascading on her face as she stares at a notebook with a frown. She sighs in frustration and tries to put the hair back under control. She grabs a pencil and scribbles furiously on the notebook. Hesitating again she plays with a thread of hair only seemingly calmer. She writes again and in her right hand lies the only definition of the scene. Everything else about her is blurry, aggitated and uncertain. There is a breeze that animates the whole of her presence, even though she's inside those four walls. Her pencil defines a drawing, in itself a fuzzy construction.

She lifts her head from the notebook hearing footsteps approaching the room. She sees him arriving and removing his coat and smiles, a half-smile, unsteady and nervous as though she's only learned how to do it the previous day. He walks closer to her and peers into the notebook discreetly. He kneels down and sits by her side in slow, lazy movements. She looks into her notebook thoughtfully. He leans to kiss her in the cheek and she can't help recoiling as his nose is frozen cold.

'Is it snowing?' she asks, trying to look through the window even though she can't see anything sitting on the floor.
'Not yet.' he says and shifts looking uncomfortable with the length of his legs. 'How's it going?'
They both look at her notebook solemnly and she shrugs.
'Not very well.'
'Have you tried sitting on a chair, in front of the table, facing the window...?'
She sighs frustratedly.
'No. You know that I can only create when I'm sitting in the floor.'

He is silent, he's heard that many times before but he still doesn't seem very convinced. He shifts again and ends up stretching back to lie down on the floor.
'How about lying down?' he asks, half-heartedly.
'That's not even funny...' she mumbles, letting the pencil fall off her hand to hit the floor. She exhales deeply and stretches her back making them snap. She looks back at him.
'Comfortable?'
'No.' he shakes his head smiling.
'So what are you doing there? Get up.'
He lifts his head to rest it on his hand.
'If only you wrote sitting down on the sofa...' he laments. She smiles shyly back at him, finally perceiving the strong sense of companionship that guides him.
'Not my style...too soft.' she replied. He smiles back and nods knowingly.
'Your creating process should be hard and painful.'

She shoots him an ironic look but he keeps smiling. Suddenly she can't stay still and she turns towards him, letting herself recline next to him. She lifts her hand and her fingers trace the definition of his jaw, resting finally on his cold cheek. His own hand travels to her waist and as his fingers play with the layers of her clothing she knows his hands are ice cold too and yet they fill her with an immense warmth.




(my style of writing. No matter how hard I try, I always come up with something in these lines, though not necessarily as cheesy)
Fortunately there are more styles on Sunday Scribblings.

SS - Coffee

A cup of coffee with my Mars

Devil Mood - Hi Mars! Sit down...
Mars - Hey there!

DM - Welcome back* (grin)

M - Thanks.

DM - So how are you doing?

M - Aaa, you know.... It's Libra, you know I don't like it here, it's too calm...

DM - Yeah, you don't have to tell me!

M - This is just not me, you understand? I have to be so agreeable, it's like I have to ask permission for breathing. Anything I need to do I have to ask other people.

DM - You don't have to ask...

M - Yes, but if I don't I feel miserable. I mean, you feel miserable.

DM - But it's not so bad. At least you don't make me fight with people aimlessly.

M - No. (scratches head) If you think that's better...

DM - (sigh) How about a cup of coffee?

M - You think you should be having coffee in your condition? (raised eyebrow)

DM - What do you mean?

M - You know what I mean. I'm in Libra, moody girl. It's hardly an expressive place for me to be in. If you get a lot of caffeine in your system your head might explode, for lack of somewhere else to rechannel the energy...

DM - I dance, okay Mr. know it all? I dance!

M - Pfff....

DM - What? Why are you sneering?

M - Dance. I very much doubt that does the trick.

DM - Well, that's because you've never been dancing with me. Ha!

M - Boxing, karate...that's the stuff I like.

DM - You're boring!

M - How dare you?!

DM - Ok. So let's go dancing and you'll see.

M - Deal.

*shake hands*

M - Now what does a god have to do to get a cup of coffee around here? Waiter!

*Mars returns to the place it was in the sky when you were born every two years, give and take. It's called the Mars Return and it's more or less like a special birthday. This was mine.

**photo - "ARES (Mars) LUDOVISI" from the Ludovisi Collection. This is a reproduction of a Greek original, that's why it's original named Ares (the greek name of Mars), even if it was actually done in Rome. Little baby Eros is playing at Mars' feet.

sunday scribblings - somewhere

Today I'm not here, I'm somewhere else.

It's somewhere that doesn't really exist but it's very real at the moment.

I woke up after sleeping for about three hours and couldn't get back to sleep. It was very hot and slightly thundery weather outside and my bed was a mess of twists and turns. I started thinking about my story as I do when I'm bored and also when I'm not bored.

After a while I eventually got up and wrote 3 chapters in a row, solely out of the thinking process I had done in the previous moments. I listened to a couple of CDs I hadn't touched for a long time and they inspired me. Inspired me to that amazing point of hearing a song that fits perfectly into the scene you're writing. It's annoyingly good when that happens (annoying because this is not the kind of information you can easily give to the reader - unless you include the song in the story, which doesn't always work - so you have to keep it to yourself - I find it very frustrating when I can't share a joy with someone).

I had lunch but my mind was somewhere else. People talked around me and I listened and replied but I wasn't here. I wrote some more, about that other place, the imaginary one, the one that is flexible and fluid, the one where time stops when you're not thinking about it and resumes when you do. Saturn and Neptune must be having a fight about this right now.

I have a mountain of creativity to climb. I really want to finish what I'm writing but it's still such a long way to go and I can't rely on my persistence. Sometimes I stop and wonder why the hell I waste my time writing. I really do. I mean, unless you get money from your stories, what benefit does it bring me to spend hours thinking and writing about people that don't exist? And then I think about this other place and I ask what other activity could give me the ability to be somewhere else when I want to, when it's really convenient not to be here. Drugs? Meditation? No, I don't want a list. Sleepy or tired or grumpy, this has worked for me all my life, for better or worse. I think I want to be a writer after all.

Sunday Scribblings is here.

sunday scribblings -- observations

This week my observations will be almost only visual.

I'm tired of all the verbal part of my brain.

So I'm letting myself watch fireworks and listening to dreamy music like this.

And I'm wondering if a person that works and comes up with words all the time, in their own language and others, can take time off words while on vacation...

Some jobs are never ending, it seems, no? ;)

Sometimes it's better to simply watch and be quiet, as quiet as you can (inside and out).

Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday Scribblings - Ask

This week's prompt wants us to write about the questions we want to ask, or have asked or have been asked, etc etc.

Instead of putting more questions into the World (can you imagine how many question marks are floating above our heads as we keep asking and wondering and don't always get a satisfactory answer? - oops I just added one myself, inadvertedly)...I'd like to ponder solely about the questioning act in itself.

(I've just realised it's hard to ponder on something without opening the gate to a dozen more question marks!!)

There are many states of being: serenity, wonder, sadness, joy, worry...in reality many of these are emotions. Questioning is an unique state of being, incluing possibly doubt, curiosity, uncertainty, a mix of different emotions. There are many kinds of questioning, no doubt, but in common an expectancy of an answer from outside, from someone, from the future, from the Universe. We want to know, we create a connection with something else in the Universe, expecting a reply. In some ways, a question is a communion with the Universe, we give something from ourselves, our words and our views made into a sentence (or many). It is also inherently a human state of being. Animals don't ask questions, even if sometimes they look at us in a certain way.

I wonder if that little moment when our minds are formulating a question or that other one when our mouths are preparing to express it verbally can be physiologically explained and what this explanation would tell us (you see, I could've put this into a question too but I avoided it). Because it truly is a state like no other.

Sunday Scribblings???