A White Sheet, a most formidable enemy
A White Sheet, your most willing listener
A White Sheet on which to carve with the nib
The the shape of your naked soul
A White Sheet
And our whole self to fill it
White Sheet
The Wait
Waiting is an expression of Love
Waiting is a form of bondage
Waiting is a silent prayer
Waiting is a proof of caring
Waiting is turning every instant into a gift
Waiting is valuing what’s worth for us
Waiting is offering
Ourselves
Knowing me 101
No, I am not snob, I am picky, and not by my choice.
I just end up discovering that for some things I am like that. The fact is that I end smiling more comfortably with people having something to say, challenging me but in a good way, people able to look into my eyes with no fear. People having no fear to offend me by saying what they think, and thus showing me respect, or to stay silent when there is nothing to say, without needing to babble about nothing.
I just end up feeling more comfortable with people like that, and my smile or laughter blossom in an easier fashion in their company. It is sort of normal survival, evolution. It is natural selection. I smiled an inner smile when I realised that it is for me what I call “survival of the kindest”.
So no, I am not snob, I just live my breaths, my thoughts, my dreams, I do share and communicate them and this ends up in a flow that brings me naturally into being maybe a bit selective. To protect and value what for me is important. I actually think that everyone does it.
I do value and keep precious my friends and those persons, or “things”, that grow with me. It’s that simple. Over the years I have crossed the path of persons who feels they should belong to a whatever flow, just to be part of something. More than gross, I find that sad. By doing so they often end up having to push in order to fit into clothes that do not fit them. Everyone of us should live our own flow. Everyone of us do have a place, and we have to dig inside ourselves to discover what it is and make it blossom.
It can take a lot of strength to do so. It takes/took determination and strength to me. It is something I am proud though, or at least I can claim it takes strength, so I can smile and giggle in thinking I have an excuse for being slightly “picky”
Kitty Michele …. Smiling
I paint
“I paint flowers, so they will not die”.
Those are words by “Frida Kahlo”. I love her works. She was such a WOMAN, an example, a force of nature, an example of dedication, passion, fire, believing in pursuing your ideas and dreams, and more than that.
I do paint too, I do paint with words, I do paint with how I live, I think the whole of us do paint. I do not have the skills to create beautiful paintings in the normal sense. Yet I feel I do paint too, everyone of us do it. We do paint with every action we take, every breath we take. Every word we say is a brushstroke. Then, in my case I do happen to paint … with words, as I am doing now. Maybe it is an act of exhibitionism, or maybe a need, or maybe none of the above, but is it important? Life, living and breathing it, that is the important thing, in the end.
With words I do paint my love, its sacred lust too. I do paint the holy power of sensuality, its delicacies and its fury. I do paint my dreams and my fears, my hopes and my disappointment, my rage and the tearing tenderness that needs expressed even when I’d wish it caged and hate it to exist.
I do not paint all this because to preserve it from death, I do not fear that. Nothing of this will ever die, it will all survive, in me survives the heritage of all the people who touched my life, making me who I am, so I think all of the amazing, exploding, screaming feelings and sensations I got in me, they will survive, whether I paint them or not. But I do.
Then why do I paint them ?
Why do we paint them ?
Is it because I think I am able ?
Is it because I think I am particularly good ?
Is it ego ?
Why do some people paint openly, while others do it within?
I do not know. The truth is: I humbly and stupidly do not know.
I know I cannot go without doing it, though.
I know my brushstrokes are sometimes naif, primitive. I know they are irregular, sometimes incomprehensible, imprecise. I know sometimes they cut like blades, other times they are caresses, They can be luminous, dark, dim and way too often I do feel them not be enough to depict what I feel.
This is all I know.
I do not paint because otherwise these flowers will die.
They will not.
I do paint because doing that is part of me.
Deeply felt.
Kitty
On Writing and me II
For me
“Writing a story is like playing out your dreams while you are awake, you have to be delicate and wildly daring too”.
It is not about being inspired by your dreams, it is rather consciously exploring the unconscious, drinking at it, reach for the life of it and then remould it in words, to create your own dream. This link to the dreamlike world is not something that is equally strong in all of us. I think some of us are just graced/disgraced with this fatal attraction to it. We cannot escape it, so we write, draw, compose, work, run, photograph … to find our own way to make it live in the world. Some people are sort of immune, or indifferent to it. It just work differently for them.
It can be scary, for I personally feel as if the border between this and insanity is sometimes a very thin line. A rope on which I cannot avoid stepping, to cross a chasm that I need to cross in order to be balanced. Creating these universes, these visions, “writing” this way is something I started doing since much before I jotted down a single written word in form of a “real story”. This drives me to dreamlike (#dreams) things, in a way: “to another world”.
I remember the moment it all started. I must have been 9/10 years old, I was still attending the obligatory schools. I did not know at the time but it was a life-changing experience. It was night and I woke up from a dream. Waking up that way broke the dream. I remember feeling lost and the clear sensation of having interrupted something that should have not been interrupted. It gave me a childish sense of false guilt. I left my bed in my pj to go to my parents room. That was something totally unusual for me. Once in front of their bedroom door I did not feel like going in, what if dad or mom would have been dreaming too? I got back to my bed and tried to continue the dream. I closed my eyes and laid down pieces of the dream I had. Images, moments, hints of a possible continuation. The morning after I woke after the dream sort of continued from where it left. Not quite, but it was connected. As I said I did not know at the time, but I now recognise that as the moment that changed it all. The event that then blossomed into how I write, compose, or do anything creative. The realisation that I could consciously connect to my subconscious. Yes, I know I could be considered insane for this (as many other) thing(s). Still, this is it.
Most of the times this is my mindset when writing a little story, a poem, etc. Writing let me intentionally dream while I am still awake. I can continue yesterday’s dream today, something you can’t normally do in everyday’s life. It is also a way of descending deep into my own consciousness and perceptions. Sometimes a way to understand, decrypt things buried deep in me. There are times in which it does not trigger though, not immediately. I have learnt to accept it (#acceptance). When it starts, however, it just flows, I must should handle control as I must do in life, when I totally completely trust (#trust).
Kitty Michelle's Universe 