tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50475098719697659172024-03-13T12:53:42.869-07:00Art Is The Safest RefugeBoth strength and escapism lie in between your half-spaced dreamy lines of hope, decay and alliterations.Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-63782704243797437192022-08-30T03:11:00.005-07:002022-08-30T03:12:44.942-07:00Eulogy<p> The days blurred into one late summer day tragedy</p><p> Was it the 30th or the 31th? </p><p>When it took me airplane kilometers to touch her cold forehead</p><p>Most of the seats were empty, luckily</p><p>As I sobbed myself back into her sphere, wiping my bloodshot eyes with AirFrance tissues</p><p>A haunting stretch of time that I - 10 years after - cannot comprehend</p><p>An amalgamation of hours that felt both like seconds and aeons</p><p>Like a watercolor artist using too much water,</p><p>a drowned painting, a shallow layer,</p><p>I lost myself in a melting clockwork.</p><p><br /></p><p>It has been a decade. </p><p>A word so powerful to the young mind that it feels like a Sisyphean rock</p><p>A laughable amount of time to the veterans of Chronos</p><p>And yet, here I am</p><p>Ten years without her smile, the working class hands to carress my face, the warm embrace</p><p>“How will I ever survive?” past me looped</p><p>And yet, here I am?</p><p><br /></p><p>Time, this blessing and curse of life,</p><p>that poisons and cures,</p><p>the vial containing both water and cyanide,</p><p>the only constant that fleets.</p>Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-84746986794279981082018-06-14T04:17:00.000-07:002018-06-14T04:17:54.650-07:00Ode to Yesterday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Fifteen blooming lilac heads<br />
On an orchid stem<br />
Behead one<br />
The others wither<br />
<br />
The smell of summer<br />
Took us on a journey<br />
Beginnings are colored in pastel<br />
And middles are always molded in clay<br />
<br />
Under a Southern sun<br />
With Cacti, thirst and sunburns<br />
That make you hold hands even tighter<br />
And share the last 50 ml of water<br />
Dangling in a heated bottle from your tired waist<br />
We weathered the sandstorms.<br />
<br />
I didn't need shelter as long as you called me home.<br />
<br />
A Fata Morgana appeared<br />
And a haze clouds my vision<br />
Am I still taking steps forward?<br />
Is that still your hand in mine?<br />
A salty drop escapes<br />
Is this the storm<br />
Or you?<br />
<br />
Fire in me, around me, above me<br />
I yearn to go back to the pastel colors<br />
And the slightly scented air<br />
To the song you wrote me<br />
And the stolen kisses<br />
To the poems you wrote on my skin<br />
And the merry thoughtlessness<br />
<div style="font-family: sans-serif;">
To your hands around my waist</div>
And the Jasmine in your eyes<br />
<br /></div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-2037405273031984052018-05-28T06:55:00.000-07:002018-05-28T06:55:03.943-07:00Cracks?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Look at the sun, you told me<br />
But night fell and I wanted to bathe in the river<br />
Drown myself and feel alive<br />
You were always warm<br />
I look into what blinds the dam in me<br />
It will hold up,<br />
For now.<br />
<br />
Cracks?<br />
<br />
The waves have tried to take me<br />
I resist the thrusts<br />
Grabbing your warm hands,<br />
Help?<br />
I feel <i>naufragé.</i><br />
In a naked slumber,<br />
I think of release.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Damaged cement?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In a gaping abyss I hide </div>
<div>
Knee-hugging and slightly shaking</div>
<div>
Off lightheartedness.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Holding my breath</div>
<div>
Your fingers are lost in space</div>
<div>
I chase them</div>
<div>
But I claw at a wall of graffiti.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I sleep with two eyes open</div>
<div>
And your scent has left my pillow</div>
<div>
But your smile is as radiant as always</div>
<div>
It tears me apart.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There's a crack.</div>
<div>
Cracks?</div>
<div>
Or none?</div>
<div>
Will it hold up</div>
<div>
For now?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-12836922646176218662018-01-06T14:31:00.001-08:002018-01-06T14:54:03.931-08:00To Chaima, My Dear Student Who Left Us To Soon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Child,<br />
how is this new place to you?<br />
Have you found<br />
the rainbow behind the everblack clouds<br />
that blocked you from the future awaiting you,<br />
oh rising star ?<br />
<br />
Did you fall so hard<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_Y7Fc_lq3qv_FAHvweLxqBdI61Wfm0opvNyuANKkfN-QMfbZDmQn8dMllcvalteBRMOMK1Fvl_cSPZtZs-mwF4X_D2y_kcM4pxjlPhyphenhyphenrwnClgEmKnV8MZawlY_3S0G_QSJejMGGj34A/s1600/chaima.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_Y7Fc_lq3qv_FAHvweLxqBdI61Wfm0opvNyuANKkfN-QMfbZDmQn8dMllcvalteBRMOMK1Fvl_cSPZtZs-mwF4X_D2y_kcM4pxjlPhyphenhyphenrwnClgEmKnV8MZawlY_3S0G_QSJejMGGj34A/s400/chaima.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>
just to rise up<br />
into the great nothingness?<br />
<br />
How could I've been be so blind<br />
Oh child,<br />
will you forgive me?<br />
<br />
You only smiled and laughed<br />
Your English essays warmed my heart<br />
I told all my friends what a bright future awaited you<br />
I thought your silence was part of your quietness<br />
Wrong ?<br />
<br />
On the inside, I laughed every time the boy you liked<br />
asked me if he could attend my class<br />
just to sit beside you<br />
Of course I said yes<br />
and you spent the hour shining as bright as ever<br />
You sang along to Coldplay<br />
You would always sit in the first row and smile at me<br />
You probably didn't know but<br />
It meant so much.<br />
It meant so fucking much.<br />
<br />
I can only imagine<br />
How your empty seat haunts the school<br />
Although I left teaching, I still thought to myself<br />
One day I will meet you again and you would be a smart independent and beautiful woman<br />
But there wasn't even a goodbye<br />
One day I just received a call<br />
<br />
You jumped from the network tower.<br />
Waves of shock<br />
Wild stories<br />
Grief<br />
Facebook posts<br />
Were they too late<br />
now that you cracked your bones to death,<br />
my dear child?<br />
<br />
"Some cared, but not enough."<br />
<br />
Jumping made sense to you<br />
It fit into the suffering you felt<br />
that no one knew about or chose to not know about<br />
Was there no sign predicting this,<br />
Was there no familiar face, Chaima?<br />
Or did they turn away?<br />
Did they not hear your screams?<br />
Or did your broken spirit sink further inwards<br />
melting into your quietness?<br />
<br />
15 and dead.<br />
I still can't believe I won't ever see you again<br />
that this is a final and inevitable truth we all must helplessly gaze into<br />
that I will not hear of your success<br />
and that I won't see you on your classmate's selfies again,<br />
that you'll never sing to Coldplay again<br />
that no other teacher will have you as their student again and feel incredibly lucky<br />
having you smile at them in the morning.<br />
<br />
---<br />
Dear readers,<br />
please don't ever ignore the slightest signs of suffering.<br />
Be kind to each other. You never know what the other person went through. Try to talk things through.<br />
Don't call people who killed themselves "weak". You are only contributing to a toxic narrative. Your feeling all high-and-mighty-strong is not going to cause others to be strong. Their pain is not about you. It is not about how strong you are. It is about them and their problems. it is about their pace, their life, their perseverance. Use your strength to help them up, not to make them feel worse.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-68667378288654569032017-03-14T15:34:00.002-07:002017-03-14T15:37:37.472-07:00Jaundice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Say what you will<br />
When you live from weekend to weekend<br />
or from holiday to holiday<br />
for the sake of survival, for the sake of pleasing the unpleasable<br />
Then let me tell you,<br />
this is not a life you should be proud of<br />
You have thrown your dreams into the gutter<br />
Where is the pride in that?<br />
<br />
<br />
I feel like the nail they constantly praise<br />
That nail stuck in the wall everyone is seeking<br />
The nail that found its place among the other rusty ones<br />
In a wall, weathered by storms, missing bricks here and there<br />
The paint cracking open almost everywhere<br />
But I have found my place, they say<br />
Therefore, "shut up and be happy".<br />
Stick to the dying wall<br />
and shut it.<br />
<br />
Thus, I have ceased to speak.<br />
I have, altogether, ceased to exist.<br />
My desk, once drowning in drawings and poetry<br />
now lays barren<br />
like a pest-ridden town<br />
with lesson plans of lessons<br />
that no one gives a shit about.<br />
<br />
I have ceased to speak.<br />
They have told me this is the best place to be.<br />
They have insisted that this is a dream come true.<br />
They have warned me not to complain any more.<br />
<br />
And so, I sit in silence, under starless skies<br />
I stare at the yellow hills. They stare back, wordlessly. Mercilessly. Pitilessly.<br />
The wind howls and grains of dirt blur my vision.<br />
They howl and their words poison my heart.<br />
<br />
"I am happy." Sisyphus says as his life's work is undone, day by day.<br />
"I will escape." Icarus said as his wings caught fire.<br />
"I shall have what is mine." Tantalus says as everything he reaches out for eludes him.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTixx-1YE3kLWNNg2CVVkvAvbVjAywH3-NEhfBt48RXKVRNHkxWuniX5dHDphFz_f9IG6EGdx0KtMtDXOeNfpszOFBPm7XnW_GmoJEyu7cFUDgLBi_hUBlt4IWLNxRnfLwoROZLYNLQtY/s1600/jo+in+hyuk+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTixx-1YE3kLWNNg2CVVkvAvbVjAywH3-NEhfBt48RXKVRNHkxWuniX5dHDphFz_f9IG6EGdx0KtMtDXOeNfpszOFBPm7XnW_GmoJEyu7cFUDgLBi_hUBlt4IWLNxRnfLwoROZLYNLQtY/s400/jo+in+hyuk+2.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) Jo In Hyuk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-79654378359396400672017-02-04T14:32:00.000-08:002017-02-04T15:31:10.907-08:00Reclaiming mirrors and voices: An interview with Nicolette Barischoff, co-editor of the intersectional feminist SF anthology "Problem Daughters"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This week I had the honor to interview <span style="color: #c27ba0;"><b>Nicolette Barischoff, writer and activist.</b> </span>She is one of the co-editors of the upcoming anthology <i>Problem Daughters</i> that will be published by FutureFire.net publishing.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <b><span style="color: #c27ba0;"><i>Problem Daughters</i> will amplify the voices of women who are sometimes excluded from mainstream feminism.</span> </b>It will be an anthology of beautiful, thoughtful, unconventional speculative fiction and poetry around the theme of intersectional feminism, focusing on the lives and experiences of marginalized women, such as those who are of color, QUILTBAG, disabled, sex workers, and all intersections of these. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For more information, I provided some links below. But first, who is Nicolette Barischoff? Let's get to know her!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixAxcJbSG4Z40jO-CkGjRHWPSjFah7vS2LmdylZNLAF4gWPo0XqTc3G8-Ec3YfaC2DH-7loKeOFr3d7piKff_8i53rvQrSFIDh9rOostKeaJbA-y_v-Q0egMga_Q9BIZez-W9X14o84Mg/s1600/SoS1ZR7L_400x400+%25281%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixAxcJbSG4Z40jO-CkGjRHWPSjFah7vS2LmdylZNLAF4gWPo0XqTc3G8-Ec3YfaC2DH-7loKeOFr3d7piKff_8i53rvQrSFIDh9rOostKeaJbA-y_v-Q0egMga_Q9BIZez-W9X14o84Mg/s320/SoS1ZR7L_400x400+%25281%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #c27ba0;"><b>Nicolette Barischoff was born with spastic cerebral palsy, which has only made her more awesome.</b> </span>Her fiction has appeared in Long Hidden, Accessing the Future, The Journal of Unlikely Academia, Podcastle, and Angels of the Meanwhile. <b><span style="color: #c27ba0;">She regularly writes about disability, feminism, sex- and body-positivity, and how all these fit together.</span> </b>She’s been on the front page of CBS New York, where they called her activism public pornography and suggested her face was a Public Order Crime.</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #e06666; font-size: large;"><b style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #e06666;">"But that’s what real agency, real freedom, is. It's making the choices you feel are best, and living in full knowledge of the consequences. The true test of </span></b><b style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #e06666;">those who count themselves as allies of female agency is how they react when that agency is used to make choices they don’t agree with."</span></b></span></b></blockquote>
</blockquote>
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #e06666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>How did the idea for this anthology first invade your mind?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nicolette</b>: "For me, the inception of this book was an intersection of three things:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The first was a twitter conversation I’d had with Rivqa and Djibril about what makes a story “Feminist.”<span style="color: #a64d79;"> <b><span style="color: #c27ba0;">What metrics are we actually using when we assess a story’s value as a feminist work? How many valuable, beautiful kinds of narrative are we leaving out of the feminist conversation just because they don’t look like the feminist narratives we are used to seeing?</span></b> </span>This led us to discuss definitions of feminism generally. We think we know what Feminism looks like, but what presuppositions and cultural biases is that definition based on? Are we to believe that any woman who does not share the Western values of fierce individualism and self-actualization is not Feminist, or that her experiences have no place in the feminist world?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">At the time of this conversation, I was still fuming over the appalling way that Hollywood’s most prominent actresses (avowed feminists, all) reacted to Amnesty international’s recommendation that sex work be decriminalized, for the safety of the women who practice. It galled me that so many privileged, influential feminists could so publically oppose the safety and personal agency of a group of women whose lives they know nothing about, who have faced dangers and challenges they will never have to face. It struck me that these women have their own feminist stories to tell that anyone has yet to really listen to.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The other thing I was kind of turning over in my mind at the time was a very unproductive and disheartening Twitter chat with an able-bodied male author who’d recently made a bit of press writing about disability. I found myself in the weird position of trying to join in on a conversation about disability in literature, comprised almost entirely of able-bodied writers, and being completely ignored. I’m used to being talked over and cut off in live conversation (people usually do it without even realizing they’ve done it, even people who know me well and value what I have to say) so I don’t think it even occurred to me to feel angry about it until someone who’d been a part of the conversation DM’d me a week later to tell me how upset she was about the dismissive way I’d been treated.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And that made me think. <b><span style="color: #c27ba0;">How many women have a story like this? How often are women made the objects of conversation, rather than participants in it? Talked about rather than talked to?</span> </b>How often do we allow ourselves to become the Mcguffin in a story, in a conversation, that turns out to not really be about us at all? I’m an opinionated person, with a very strong sense of my own voice, and <b><span style="color: #c27ba0;">I allowed myself to be objectified, in the true sense of the word, without even really batting an eye. Is this a problem of not enough Own Voices, not enough women used to telling their own stories?</span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> And well… it’s not a big leap from there to an anthology like <i>Problem Daughters</i>." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJQSVc7UtaqRb5oFJnTnkQcWzRf_t19LuXCLYQdxtVJmItkkOBfFlS8Q7MRaTKWehbqkbqCpgW3AFBUDNLTJmtBNEZRA4pAS_Clyw4u3FQLyYJfHOT_jJPkJtRb1YW2G1rtJ0w8fQ4MsY/s1600/Untitled-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJQSVc7UtaqRb5oFJnTnkQcWzRf_t19LuXCLYQdxtVJmItkkOBfFlS8Q7MRaTKWehbqkbqCpgW3AFBUDNLTJmtBNEZRA4pAS_Clyw4u3FQLyYJfHOT_jJPkJtRb1YW2G1rtJ0w8fQ4MsY/s400/Untitled-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Illustration of "Dare", The Future Fire no. 26 (© 2013 Eric Asaris)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #e06666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>What inspired this very intriguing title?</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nicolette</b>: "Part of it comes from the idea that feminism as a reality is messy and complicated. A temptation that many mainstream feminist movements fall to is treating all women everywhere as a single, unified group who all share the same experiences, and make the same demands out of life. Women are tired of this. Women want to be treated this way. All women have felt this, don’t you see? Because these movements depend on uniformity for impact, it’s important to them that “all women” be united under a single set of concerns. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #a64d79;"><b><span style="color: #c27ba0;">But the feminisms that currently dominate our understanding of the word “feminism” were created in a specific kind of environment, by women at a very specific intersection of class and race</span></b> </span>(Typically white, typically Western, and typically middle-class). Most women in the world have other concerns entirely than shattering the glass ceiling at work, or overturning outdated expectations in the home. And the reality is that, while all feminist movements theoretically seek to promote female agency, not every woman in every community chooses to express her agency in the same way. Some expressions of agency might frustrate or horrify dominant models of feminism. They might not fit everybody’s idea of what a freethinking woman “ought” to do with her freedom. They’re problematic. Nobody wants to admit they’re there. But that’s what real agency, real freedom, is. It's making the choices you feel are best, and living in full knowledge of the consequences. The true test of those who count themselves as allies of female agency is how they react when that agency is used to make choices they don’t agree with.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The other thing I wanted to get at with this title is <b><span style="color: #c27ba0;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">the incredible weight of being assigned the gender of female at birth, of having expectations of what you are and what you’re to become placed upon you so early in your existence.</span> </span></b>Many of us are not very old, not very old at all, before we start to feel the hammer of those expectations, and wonder if we’re failing to live up to them. How many times as seven and eight- year-olds did we sit by ourselves in some secret spot and think: “Am I a bad girl?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Part of this anthology is dedicated to those seven and eight-year-olds, the ones seen as Daughters, even Problem Daughters, before they are seen as people."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #e06666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>How is the fundraising campaign going? Please tell us more about it and how people can help in its success.</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nicolette</b>: "As of right now, paying our authors at pro rates, we have raised enough for a small booklet of stories, about the size of a largish issue of a magazine. We do not intend to stop there! We want to include as many different voices as we can. We want many more stories, poems, essays, internal art, and maybe, just maybe, a few comics! We intend to make a book as big and bright and shining, as weird and complex and cool as the issues discussed in it deserve. If we don’t quite achieve that, my feeling, my hope, is that we’ll still come away with something awesome. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">What we really need now is for people to spread the word, especially now that we are open for fiction and poetry subs. Share, like, favorite, tweet, facebook, blog. Talk about it in your own words. Tell people we are searching for stories just like theirs. We want womanist writers, trans writers, writers from non-Western societies, disabled writers, queer writers, writers of color. We want this book to be a challenge, an answer, to the feminist narratives we’re used to hearing. We don’t want this to be a comfortable book. We want it to be a gripping one. We want contributors who don’t mind telling us what a feminist story looks like.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Also, if you’re a writer who occupies one or more of these intersections, and you’d like a platform in which to discuss an upcoming project, or any points you feel are neglected by mainstream feminisms, or anything at all, we’d love to interview you. Feel free to get in touch with me, my co-editor Rivqa Rafael, or our publisher Djibril al-Ayad." </span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #e06666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">"It would be years before I discovered I wasn’t the only woman who felt that way. I would come to learn that you don’t have to have a disabled body for your bodily autonomy to be called into question."</span></b></span></blockquote>
</blockquote>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="color: #e06666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>What triggered your involvement in the causes treated in this anthology (mainly Intersectional feminism, minorities and LGBTQIA+ rights) ?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nicolette</b>: "Like many people, my involvement in these things was spurred by personal experiences. For me, issues of agency and autonomy and personhood have always hit very close to home. As a disabled person, I often find that able-bodied people have a difficult time respecting my freedom of choice, even when they theoretically set out to do just that. Perhaps because disabled people have historically been treated as special wards of society, whether technically wards of the state or not. People who begin with an earnest desire to support and amplify my independence can become suddenly officious or controlling (often taking steps to have my legal autonomy questioned) the minute my agency takes a form they don’t like, or can’t recognize. Every disabled person has terrible stories of when they’ve made personal choices that the able-bodied people around them found inconvenient, or disturbing or strange, and their autonomy was overridden without much of a thought, sometimes to suit the preferences of a complete stranger. As a female disabled person, I have at least twice as many stories like that.</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Growing up adjacent to the Southern Californian “third-wave” feminist movements of my culture, I never really felt included in the conversation, perhaps because I knew that as soon as the conversation came around to any expression of my autonomy my feminist colleagues found distasteful, that it would morph into a discussion about my “safety” or my “well-being” and whether or not the decisions I was making were “healthy,” and any concern for my personal choices would vanish. It would be years before I discovered I wasn’t the only woman who felt that way. I would come to learn that you don’t have to have a disabled body for your bodily autonomy to be called into question. You need only to be expressing your agency in a way that the specific feminisms of your culture do not recognize as acceptable.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In the end, it was the internet and social media that did it. Coming in contact with some of the women who feel alienated and ignored by the feminist movements in my culture--sex workers, trans women, religious women, women of color, body-positive activists and artists, women from non-Western societies--is what led me to seek a more thoughtful, less rigid, less culture-specific way of looking at feminism." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="color: #e06666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Who are your favourite writers, actors or artists active in these causes or who inspired you greatly?</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nicolette</b>: "Well, there of course the writers whose female protagonists challenged my conception of what “Feminist heroine” could be-Sofia Samatar, Ellen Kushner, Cat Valente, Delia Sherman, Aliette de Bodard, Nnedi Okorafor, Amal el-Mohtar, and so many more...but<span style="color: #a64d79;"> <b><span style="color: #c27ba0;">I think the ones who inspire me to action (and for me, action usually means writing) are all the women I have met over the years who taught me everything I know about being your own kind of feminist, and making your own valued place in the world.</span></b></span> I’m talking about all the aunts and second mothers and grandmothers and sisters who around me all along, and the sex workers and healers and caregivers and soldiers I have met out in the world. These are the women I write stories for. <span style="color: #c27ba0;"><b><span style="color: #c27ba0;">These women are the reason for this book.</span></b><span style="color: #a64d79;">"</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #e06666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>When asked about her favourite quote:</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"My favorite quote concerning representation, and why I think books like <i>Problem Daughters</i> need to exist, is from Junot Diaz:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">'You guys know about vampires? You know, vampires have no reflections in a mirror? There's this idea that monsters don't have reflections in a mirror. And what I've always thought isn't that monsters don't have reflections in a mirror. It's that if you want to make a human being into a monster, deny them, at the cultural level, any reflection of themselves. And growing up, I felt like a monster in some ways. I didn't see myself reflected at all. I was like, "Yo, is something wrong with me? That the whole society seems to think that people like me don't exist? And part of what inspired me, was this deep desire that before I died, I would make a couple of mirrors. That I would make some mirrors so that kids like me might seem themselves reflected back and might not feel so monstrous for it.' "</span></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>You can contribute to the success of this anthology</b> by liking, sharing and spreading the news. Contributions to help finance this project are also extremely appreciated and wonderful rewards await contributors on the fundraiser site.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><b><u><span style="color: #e06666;">Links:</span></u></b><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://igg.me/at/problem-daughters" target="_blank">Problem Daughters IndieGogo Fundraiser</a></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://press.futurefire.net/p/problem-daughters.html" target="_blank">Call For Submissions</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://press.futurefire.net/" target="_blank">Future Fire Publishing</a></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://twitter.com/thefuturefire" target="_blank">Twitter</a></span><br />
<br /></div>
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Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-36088700884959948312016-11-05T14:09:00.000-07:002016-11-05T14:17:31.313-07:00The train that never comes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Bottle up, bottle up<br />
<div>
all your guts and</div>
<div>
all your pretty dreams</div>
<div>
Put on hold</div>
<div>
your now.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
An abandoned train station</div>
<div>
that I pass by every day</div>
<div>
stares into me.</div>
<div>
Like me, it lies</div>
<div>
in stagnation</div>
<div>
until eventual</div>
<div>
annihialtion.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The train tracks are littered</div>
<div>
I cross them,</div>
<div>
looking left, right</div>
<div>
for a train to come</div>
<div>
But never have I seen one</div>
<div>
Stagnation</div>
<div>
until eventual</div>
<div>
annihilation.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Sleep is for the dead" they say</div>
<div>
Good, at least there's that</div>
<div>
Sleep sleep sleep</div>
<div>
Stagnation stagnation stagnation</div>
<div>
All frantic movements ceased</div>
<div>
This bubble will know no bullet.</div>
<div>
Hug the bottle</div>
<div>
and sleep sleep sleep, so peacefully.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The way home is always painful.</div>
<div>
Sometimes at 2 am</div>
<div>
Your knees are your best friends.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Darkness. Light. Death. Sleep sleep sleep. Darkness. Light.</div>
<div>
Darkness. Light. Death. Sleep sleep sleep. Darkness. Light.</div>
<div>
Darkness. Light. Death. Sleep sleep sleep. Darkness. Light.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Turn the keys.</div>
<div>
Hello, darkness</div>
<div>
you were never my friend.</div>
<div>
Why don't you get the fuck out?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How much of yourself is yourself?</div>
<div>
How much have you been othered?</div>
<div>
You wanted to escape</div>
<div>
but you are good for nothing</div>
<div>
You can't even stand up for your own damn self.</div>
<div>
You good for nothing.</div>
<div>
You deceiver.</div>
<div>
You are a lie.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Darkness. Light. Death. Sleep sleep sleep. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.<br />
<br />
_________<br />
<br />
"Think for yourself you know what you need in this life<br />
See for yourself and feel your soul come alive tonight<br />
Here in the moment we share<br />
Trembling between the worlds we stare<br />
out at starlight enshrined, veiled like diamonds in..<br />
<br />
...time can be the answer, take a chance, lose it all<br />
It's a simple mistake to make<br />
To create love and to fall<br />
So rise and be your master you don't need to be a slave<br />
of memory ensnared in a web, in a cage."<br />
-- <i>A Simple Mistake</i>, Anathema<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7VZSUYDWMoJmEH-8JKsei-xGI-VY9E8GMXAZn3QAqA5hDDFqZJkL4NtgJc4Wk0uTISaxBw8OyK6Eq1ROMVdAnh2zBttrlmRj-SSkjayRL18LVaIoZwVrcdeO-a9Id9njaJSmWF9hbss/s1600/na-kim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7VZSUYDWMoJmEH-8JKsei-xGI-VY9E8GMXAZn3QAqA5hDDFqZJkL4NtgJc4Wk0uTISaxBw8OyK6Eq1ROMVdAnh2zBttrlmRj-SSkjayRL18LVaIoZwVrcdeO-a9Id9njaJSmWF9hbss/s320/na-kim.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) Na Kim<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-29892001839297472472016-08-03T09:56:00.002-07:002016-08-03T09:56:55.947-07:00There is a day that is (never) coming.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
He trapped me here.<br />
I'm merely a time bomb now.<br />
The TNT strapped to my heart detonates in<br />
Three<br />
Two<br />
One<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
Where is the bang?<br />
Or does dynamite decay as well?<br />
Impervious as I am,<br />
you can all see the smile<br />
but you fail to see the maggots<br />
cradling the detonation<br />
Rot has taken over.<br />
I do not speak.<br />
I do not bleed salt.<br />
My face is a blank slate.<br />
<br />
He trapped me here<br />
Motherless<br />
Friendless<br />
Happinessless<br />
<br />
<em><strong>One day I will. One day I will. One day I will.</strong></em><br />
<br />
That one day that I've been consoling myself with for ages<br />
That one day that just doesn't come<br />
No matter how I count the days<br />
No matter how much I twist the notions of time<br />
And no matter how much I try to fill my belly with butterflies<br />
In the end, they're all moths, drawn to the light<br />
that kills them in the end.<br />
<br />
I cannot wait to go home<br />
Away from this place<br />
Qway from this toxicity<br />
This<br />
Toxic city<br />
These<br />
Toxic streets<br />
Toxic people.<br />
<br />
Beware of living in my chest,<br />
I have become cyanide<br />
I have become someone I am not<br />
I cannot recognize myself.<br />
<br />
But I can hear the violin playing from afar.<br />
I can smell the pine trees.<br />
I can hear their joyful laughter<br />
I feel a faint touch of warmth on my cheek<br />
From where your kiss burnt me.<br />
<br />
Home is out there,<br />
Waiting for me to auto-destruct<br />
And be reborn again.<br />
<br />
Three<br />
Two<br />
.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwJp5w37IbF6vWhRcRxK8TKI_bgq2L0tvl-eyjhbJtdm5ANyLWrzYQH02MJgqrBa8gzYGvm9sJ88VrgF8CGBPAmX0j5SZQkJiPrM9aOE96i8xJPuhGqChZklo6Ref75vMxTNqzj9Kl-k/s1600/the+sky+in+your+eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwJp5w37IbF6vWhRcRxK8TKI_bgq2L0tvl-eyjhbJtdm5ANyLWrzYQH02MJgqrBa8gzYGvm9sJ88VrgF8CGBPAmX0j5SZQkJiPrM9aOE96i8xJPuhGqChZklo6Ref75vMxTNqzj9Kl-k/s640/the+sky+in+your+eyes.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(c)</div>
</div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-18473785331345952652016-07-29T07:32:00.001-07:002016-07-29T07:34:12.369-07:00Homeless<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Maybe I've been lying to myself about being okay.<br />
I mean, maybe I am really happy. But maybe I am happy without being okay and I'm just trying so hard to be happy that I didn't notice that I'm not fine.<br />
So many things around me are out of my control. I hate them. But I face them pacifically. Calmly. I still don't understand from where this calm attitude stems. Am I so numb, so impervious that I automatically shut down any violent reaction ?<br />
Maybe that's been my problem all along.<br />
Believing my Zen attitude is appropriate for every situation.<br />
Is it ?<br />
I don't know.<br />
I'm confused. I have a headache. A clump in my throat. And I am not feeling fine.<br />
Maybe it's selfish, yeah. They say I should be grateful for the life I have.<br />
But I don't have to have cancer to have my pain acknowledged.<br />
I just want to go away. Leave, far from here. This is not a home. It will never be.<br />
<br />
Lately, I've had my tears flowing easily. I'm surprised: I haven't cried on my deceased mother's birthday. Yet, now the tears fight their way through so easily. Now I feel so suffocated that I don't bear the thought of staying alone in my room, talking to nobody. I, who loves her regular bit of alone-time. I don't turn off the Internet. I'm afraid of turning off the music. I look outside the window and yearn to go out. But I stay inside. On my own.<br />
<br />
Where is the strength I used to pride myself in ?<br />
Where is the sunshine that you've all told me radiated from me?<br />
It's a cloud-stricken sky in there and I don't know how to blow into my chest and make it right.<br />
<br />
"<i>Home is where all your attempts to escape cease.</i>"</div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-29169858452330872612016-05-24T03:32:00.001-07:002016-05-24T03:35:08.943-07:00I wrote this last night when he tugged at my heartstrings (One of Many Poems to Come)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Bang bang</i><br />
<i>You shot me down</i><br />
<br />
Kill me more, darling.<br />
Under your touch,<br />
Vivaldi's <i>Four Seasons</i> pierce my veins<br />
Play me, play me<br />
Like the fiddle you enchanted me with<br />
On that spring day in April<br />
When even butterflies came to listen to us<br />
Play me, play me<br />
Like the Blood Violin you dream of<br />
Play me, play me<br />
Like all those melodies in that magical head of yours<br />
<br />
<i>Bang Bang</i><br />
<br />
Kill me more.<br />
I crave this sweet little death,<br />
The songs that escape your lips at 2 am<br />
I crave to hide in your hair<br />
To put you to sleep<br />
and wake up at 4 am<br />
to your face bathed in starlight,<br />
wondering<br />
how lucky I am to see you like this.<br />
<br />
<i>Bang Bang</i><br />
<br />
Bonfires<br />
Plane Crashes<br />
Bullets,<br />
all in my heart<br />
because of you.<br />
<br />
Inject yourself into my system<br />
Be the syringe<br />
Be the scalpel<br />
the knife<br />
my death<br />
my perdition<br />
drag me down to the nine circles of hell.<br />
<br />
“<i>I have come to lead you to the</i><br />
<i>other shore; into eternal darkness; into fire and into ice.</i>”<br />
<br />
I burn for you,<br />
in you,<br />
Lucifer,<br />
immolate me<br />
burn me<br />
I am your Lilith.<br />
Lucifer,<br />
waltz with me<br />
tha dance of the devil<br />
<br />
I am your Blood Violin.<br />
Play me, play me<br />
until I'm molten steel<br />
until I am but embers.</div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-58409706869002382272016-05-23T16:02:00.000-07:002016-05-24T03:33:39.624-07:00I wrote this eight weeks ago when I killed the past (The Last Poem Wasted on You)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lustreless<br />
but lustful,<br />
your hands grazed me<br />
and I<br />
– fool that I am –<br />
bloomed under your touch.<br />
<br />
Spirals and whirls cloud our skies now.<br />
What wouldn't I give<br />
to give you eyes<br />
without bleeding pupils.<br />
<br />
Extinguished, anguished, relinquished<br />
I shed nothing<br />
I will walk into the chaos<br />
but my free spirit will guide me<br />
Please proceed,<br />
your indifference is a mere scratch.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaAYTdOJiQzgvoBUuVupCsOj9Vlo3CtfvvyGM8JhTERbx83nNJvD5XML3uunY5ia-9aeNH3VGoanDtxrhM1dSkPDsyu9CU_TfU-wuVZthgZOWylAYWwDPMwaaJbc3MHTHf6Cv091Ec4HI/s1600/Jean-Francois+Painchaud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaAYTdOJiQzgvoBUuVupCsOj9Vlo3CtfvvyGM8JhTERbx83nNJvD5XML3uunY5ia-9aeNH3VGoanDtxrhM1dSkPDsyu9CU_TfU-wuVZthgZOWylAYWwDPMwaaJbc3MHTHf6Cv091Ec4HI/s400/Jean-Francois+Painchaud.jpg" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) Jean-Francois Painchaud</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></span></div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-23394962938956235712016-05-20T08:05:00.000-07:002016-05-20T08:05:51.311-07:00Memento Vitae I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
With your beard in my neck,<br />
supernovas in my belly<br />
and constellations of your fingertips<br />
across my bodyscape,<br />
the storms of life<br />
seem like a gentle breeze.<br />
<br />
Swept away into the lugubrious part of the woods<br />
A tenor resounds, echoes, a voice so strong<br />
The evenstar calls me<br />
and I find my way back<br />
to the clearing.<br />
The sunlight crashes through the leafwork onto your face<br />
I found my way back<br />
to you,<br />
my tenor.<br />
<br />
<i> Laer lín matha faeren.</i><br />
<br />
When night falls and the elves sing<br />
and the fireflies swarm around us<br />
Our feet are anchored to the grass<br />
Our hearts to each other<br />
and our heads reach Orion.<br />
<br />
My evenstar,<br />
Your anchor never rusts<br />
Your arms are my haven<br />
I set sail into you<br />
This is my home.<br />
<br />
Never estranged, never misplaced<br />
We sing the song of the elves<br />
We sleep on the grass<br />
Petrichor, hedgehogs and moonlight<br />
This is my home.<br />
<br />
<i>Meleth nín</i><br />
You are my home.<br />
<br />
<i>Meleth nín</i><br />
<i>Le melithon anuir.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-29700490330924645662016-05-13T07:26:00.002-07:002016-05-13T07:43:15.862-07:00Of Vengeful Mermaids, Venice and a Rising Sea: Interview with Angela Rega, author of "The Return of Melusine" <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;">
A morbidly beautiful tale of strong-willed mermaids, a journey towards finding oneself and a crumbling city</span></h3>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaFEbxy2kohAXgK8u_MF4iD1xeTWRavI-0kESXnwMjgOM4BYxt9I748oWeJUSMm6mk242nS7k__ndAFp0BuP3URlLGyXPUMfYLYNvhpsAhIuSevg0RXwC94IoEL6qRmJz-G_Qb-Q7Hpko/s1600/MariangelinaRega.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaFEbxy2kohAXgK8u_MF4iD1xeTWRavI-0kESXnwMjgOM4BYxt9I748oWeJUSMm6mk242nS7k__ndAFp0BuP3URlLGyXPUMfYLYNvhpsAhIuSevg0RXwC94IoEL6qRmJz-G_Qb-Q7Hpko/s320/MariangelinaRega.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angela Rega</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On May 1st, the anthology <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fae-Visions-Mediterranean-Anthology-Horrors/dp/0957397585" target="_blank">Fae Visions of the Meditarranean</a>, edited by Valeria Vitale and Djibril al-Ayad, was published by Futurefire.net Publishing. I am excited to share with you an interview I conducted with one of my fellow authors, Angela Rega. Angela's story "The Return of Melusine" is the exciting tale of a mermaid's struggle to acknowledge her true nature and make the right choices. The name choice for Angela's protagonist is a very interesting one: Melusine is actually a figure of European folklore. She is a feminine spirit of fresh water in a spring or river and is usually depicted as a serpent or fish from the waist down. In this interview, we will delve more into the author's world and also understand where her inspiration springs from.<br />
<br />
<b><span lang="EN-US"><i>Angela Rega is a belly dancing school librarian with a passion for folklore, fairy tales and furry creatures. She was raised in a multi-lingual household where nobody finished a sentence in the same language and still struggles with syntax. She keeps a small website here: angierega.webs.com.</i></span></b><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="color: #a64d79;">What
inflamed your passion for writing ?</span><span style="color: #cc0000;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU"><b>Angela:</b> As a child I spent more time with my
grandmother than anyone else and she was an avid storyteller. There was a story
for every experience, every lesson and for entertainment. Everything was a
narrative. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU">Later on, I discovered the written word. I
had an amazing teacher in primary school who read us <i>The Hobbit</i> and <i>The Egypt
Game</i> and I was hooked. Reading stories became an escape. Then writing them I
realised I could create my own getaways or explorations. I can’t imagine not
writing now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="color: #a64d79;">What
fascinates you about fantastic, mythic and folklore fiction?</span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-AU"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU"><b>Angela:</b> Magic. Wonder. Discovery. Possibility.
Metamorphosis. These are evident in the fantastic, the mythic and the
folkloric. I think to be able to escape into these stories knowing I will
experience one or all of these elements excites me. If stories were a fluid body of water, the
mythic and folkloric serve as a well from which I draw from.</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU"> </span><i><b><span style="color: #e06666; font-size: large;">"</span></b></i><i><b><span style="color: #e06666; font-size: large;">Reading stories became an escape. Then writing them I realised I could create my own getaways or explorations. I can’t imagine not writing now."</span></b></i></blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2KPjLqBOGestVcEhZCmqf2VLDvEgcbApU4Tccarr8mLamklG9-KE-tpCOj1z_gTXQrBNDXeyNbjKQ53veUNM8ZFNt0V31Y8A-Ak2pQjY0Hcsb9RnjQkiaTjTKVLFdpEXzcYdnBA-ep7k/s1600/justin-gedak-justin-gedak%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2KPjLqBOGestVcEhZCmqf2VLDvEgcbApU4Tccarr8mLamklG9-KE-tpCOj1z_gTXQrBNDXeyNbjKQ53veUNM8ZFNt0V31Y8A-Ak2pQjY0Hcsb9RnjQkiaTjTKVLFdpEXzcYdnBA-ep7k/s320/justin-gedak-justin-gedak%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artwork by Justin Gedak <a href="http://www.justingedak.com/" id="yiv6030034987LPlnk176102" rel="nofollow" shape="rect" style="-webkit-padding-start: 0px; background: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #196ad4; font-family: Calibri, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: start;" target="_blank" title="Cmd+Click or tap to follow the link"><span style="font-size: x-small;">http://www.justingedak.com/</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #a64d79;"><b>What
inspired you to write your story?</b></span></div>
<b><span lang="EN-AU"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU"><b>Angela:</b> My parents were migrants from Sicily and Southern
Italy. I grew up with a reverence for the sea and the mythic that it contains.
My grandmother told me stories of the Cyclops of Acitrezza and the mermaids of
the Straits of Messina. These tales are old and can be traced back as early as
Homer’s <i>The Odyssey</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU">In my twenties I visited Venice and fell in
love with this sinking water city. Completely. In. Love. I read about the Doges
of Venice who, once a year would take a trip in a gilded barge to the open sea
and there they would toss a wedding ring into the ocean to symbolise the
marriage of the city to the sea. I thought…what if…what if….there were mermaids
collecting the rings and now with the Doges long gone and Venice sinking they
were waiting to claim the water city as their own? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU">On a deeper level, it is a story about
identity and duality and in particular how these translate in
relationships. Mermaid stories often
have this theme present. How much of ourselves do we give? How much is too
much? Can you deny your true nature? This is why stories of sirens have always
fascinated me. It is something I think we can all struggle with – there is a
bit of mer creature in all of us.</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><i><span style="color: #e06666; font-size: large;">"On a deeper level, it is a story about identity and duality and in particular how these translate in relationships. Mermaid stories often have this theme present. How much of ourselves do we give?" </span></i></b></blockquote>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #a64d79;">Was there
a specific song, album or artist that helped you with your writing</span></b><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="color: #a64d79;"> <b>process?</b></span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU"><b>Angela:</b> I love listening to music – particularly
while I’m writing. I love writing to ambient music by artists such as Steve
Roach and Brian Eno and I also like listening to cello and violin or the
operatic sounds of Callas and Tebaldi – my two favourite opera singers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #a64d79;"><b><span lang="EN-AU">If you
could meet any author, alive or dead, which one would you choose and</span></b><span lang="EN-AU"> <b>why ?</b> </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU"><b>Angela:</b> Argh! Just one? I cannot limit myself to one…maybe two…no…let’s settle for
three because I have enough room for four chairs around my small table in my
Lilliputian apartment. If I could meet any author alive or dead they would be:
Italo Calvino, Haruki Muraki and Jeanette Winterson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU"><span style="color: #e06666; font-size: large;"><i><b> "If stories were a fluid body of water, the mythic and folkloric serve as a well from which I draw from."</b></i></span></span></blockquote>
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Fae Visions of the Meditarranean is available in both print and electronic formats. Here are some useful links if you want to purchase the book or if you're simply interested in following updates from the Future Fire Press:<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fae-Visions-Mediterranean-Anthology-Horrors/dp/0957397585" target="_blank">Amazon</a><br />
<a href="http://press.futurefire.net/" target="_blank">Future Fire Press Blog</a><br />
<br />
Reviews:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29490524-fae-visions-of-the-mediterranean" target="_blank">Goodreads</a><br />
<a href="http://publishersweekly.com/978-0-9573975-8-3" target="_blank">Publishers Weekly Review</a> </div>
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Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-31618738291934371502016-04-02T15:35:00.003-07:002016-04-02T15:35:20.503-07:00Strength<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When shooting stars fall<br />
We celebrate the death of light<br />
With a fingertip raised towards the sky<br />
Or a wish upon the lips.<br />
When the light died in your eyes<br />
I celebrated it<br />
By pouring oil<br />
Into my flame.<br />
<br />
I swore my light would never be extinguished.</div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-75847215302525016542016-02-25T17:08:00.002-08:002016-02-25T17:08:24.378-08:00Nocturnal Streams of Unconsciousness IV<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Astray, ablaze, aloof<br />
We wander the earth<br />
The twists of this world coiled around our indecisiveness<br />
curling up in the crevices of doubt and wanderlust<br />
Between our ribs perches a hunger<br />
While our brains only feed us the distilled<br />
Quaff from the poison, bitter soul<br />
and die a thousand deaths<br />
Young soul, you are a phoenix<br />
and cyanide is nothing against<br />
the pair of wings that rip through your back<br />
Beautiful soul, the doors of the stars are ajar<br />
Now go and burn yourself to death.<br />
<br />
Les ombres valsent autour de nous à jamais.<br />
<br />
Reach for the starry gates<br />
Again, memento mori.<br />
Swing swing swing yourself up into the fragments of time<br />
and reach for the explosives in the air<br />
for the goosebumps on her skin<br />
for the orgasms in the atoms of the universe<br />
let the black holes devour you<br />
and come back with bruises and scars<br />
that Gaïa will lick<br />
and you will heal and enchant and enthrall<br />
again.<br />
Memento mori.<br />
Go and burn yourself to death<br />
You are made to set yourself ablaze<br />
Smoke seeping through your lungs<br />
and ashes on your tongue<br />
Memento mori.<br />
Go and immolate yourself,<br />
burn burn burn,<br />
you<br />
precious<br />
human.<br />
<br />
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Image credit: http://lover-and-the-wild.deviantart.com</div>
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Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-21059753346286509322015-07-19T17:05:00.004-07:002015-07-19T17:05:39.202-07:00My First Thought On the Eve of Aid Was You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
She lies enclosed in wood<br />
Wrapped in warm brown earth<br />
As the chants resound from every wall<br />
And happiness melts into hearts<br />
Lugubrious silence melts into me<br />
In this house that is not my home<br />
Grains of dirt embrace her bones<br />
and mine.<br />
<br />
Under hot suns<br />
Cold moons<br />
Shadowless skies<br />
Wind-swept and crusty stonework<br />
It is not she who lies there<br />
Only her collagen and calcium<br />
Soaked in grief and nostalgia<br />
that I've been pouring over the epitaph<br />
for years.<br />
<br />
Is she holding hands with the stars?<br />
Does she float through nothingness?<br />
Is her home of never explored materia?<br />
Feet anchored, oscillating gaze<br />
I sense her presence.<br />
<br />
Oleanders and pine<br />
Paint that has gone grey<br />
and withering grass<br />
are your company<br />
<br />
Would that I could be the poison of the Oleander<br />
The bucket of white paint<br />
The drops of dew dripping from the pines<br />
The sap of their trunks<br />
Or leaves of grass sprouting over you<br />
<br />
Would that my soul could leap to you<br />
Just to see your smile and kiss your forehead<br />
Like I did on that last day<br />
Except your forehead would be warm again<br />
And not hard and stone cold<br />
Would that I could know where you are<br />
I hope you're better off than I<br />
Maybe happier<br />
I hope you can see me<br />
In that case, I will try to smile at the sky every day<br />
Even though the cakes I make will never contain your touch again.<br />
<br />
<br />
"I am stretched on your grave and will lie there forever<br />
With your hands held in mine I'll be sure we'd not sever."<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dead Can Dance</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">From Tumblr.</span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-84214137245630030232015-05-15T18:10:00.001-07:002015-05-15T18:23:30.554-07:00I cannot/can.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"I feel the urge to write poetry about you<br />
Yet, I cannot and it pierces me.<br />
I cannot because I haven't inhaled your scent yet<br />
Nor traced your blue veins popping out here and there<br />
Nor have I felt the pores of your skin emit something<br />
I can't quite recall<br />
I cannot because I haven't seen your 3 am frowns<br />
nor your laughter as it breaks through my grim mornings<br />
Nor have I listened to your fingers enchant the air<br />
to make the dust cry in the evening hours<br />
Just before you'd put me to sleep.<br />
Just before you'd put us to sleep.<br />
<br />
I feel the urge to write a few lines to you<br />
Writing. Which I haven't been able to do in a while<br />
The words are fleeting<br />
Just like you<br />
One moment you're an eternity<br />
and then again, you're but a wing's flutter<br />
I cannot write because I am wary and weary<br />
I cannot write unless you write me too.<br />
<br />
Fuck poetry.<br />
I feel the urge to hold you at 3 am with your frown and your brokenness<br />
to trace your veins up to your chin and hold it up<br />
Up<br />
because I wouldn't want you to shoegaze<br />
but look at the stars above you, a place where you belong<br />
I want to recognize what your pores emit and know it's more than just coincidence<br />
or destiny or whatever people would call this.<br />
This is not just some word in a dictionary. Or in any book.<br />
We're writing each other on a sheet of crumbled paper. And the ink is not smudgy.<br />
And I am not wordless, I am not weary, I am not wary<br />
But consciously awake<br />
While your ink becomes my blood<br />
While you bleed worlds into me<br />
While you inject yourself<br />
<i>Special K</i>.<br />
<br />
I want to inhale your scent and know it's the safest place to be<br />
I'll be your laughter through grim mornings<br />
and the melody that plays along to your tunes<br />
a perfect arrangement of instruments.<br />
I'll be the bass to your guitar<br />
Or vice-versa, whatever we want.<br />
And sometimes I'll sing you lullabies<br />
Just before you put me to sleep.<br />
Just before you put us to sleep.<br />
<br />
I feel the urge to write poetry about you<br />
Suddenly I can and it still pierces me."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGh7JxEEnXDVolKgwE1uGgRCZqRShw_azzdHzXoFTMHbaa1SKyPBcTnk9foHxuHpkBCrBVkIeV9e6hJAvMTLUCG7Ev6b6XLVGTGATxjUUAyeaipEvkBrRYhS3jwlQAwIMnzpUVRgZm5is/s1600/2015-03-19+11.09.09+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGh7JxEEnXDVolKgwE1uGgRCZqRShw_azzdHzXoFTMHbaa1SKyPBcTnk9foHxuHpkBCrBVkIeV9e6hJAvMTLUCG7Ev6b6XLVGTGATxjUUAyeaipEvkBrRYhS3jwlQAwIMnzpUVRgZm5is/s320/2015-03-19+11.09.09+2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(c)</div>
<br /></div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-6091085081139900802015-01-26T12:27:00.002-08:002015-01-26T12:29:03.494-08:00Carry Your Coffin and I'll Carry Mine.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You're the anti-depressant that depresses me<br />
<div>
The Lithium injected to make me mad</div>
<div>
I wish I could bleed you out of my system</div>
<div>
But there is no cure to this curse</div>
<div>
You're the hearse that I willingly chose</div>
<div>
to lead me to the altar</div>
<div>
which was but a gloomy forest.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And at the altar</div>
<div>
which was dark green pines and obscure oaks </div>
<div>
You put a crown of dead forget-me-nots</div>
<div>
on my trembling head</div>
<div>
And at the altar</div>
<div>
I held out my pumping blue veins</div>
<div>
Cut my veins to mix our blood</div>
<div>
under the sight of the Gods</div>
<div>
as I saw you step back in horror</div>
<div>
My blood dripped down on the moss-covered stones</div>
<div>
Scarlet rivers</div>
<div>
Pastel blue tears</div>
<div>
Monochromatic silence.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A few steps ahead of me I watch you walk away</div>
<div>
Only to turn around and cheer me on</div>
<div>
The moment I seem to catch up, </div>
<div>
A few steps ahead of me I watch you walk away</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I carry a coffin behind me, following you down to the stream</div>
<div>
Take my hand and drown me, I would not care</div>
<div>
As long as you take my frozen hand, frostbitten and bleeding</div>
<div>
From the ropes of the weight I am carrying</div>
<div>
Sir, would you please help me carry this burden?</div>
<div>
my voice cracks </div>
<div>
My lady, follow me you say</div>
<div>
and fool that I am, I do.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
A few steps ahead of me I watch you walk away</div>
</div>
<div>
and fool that I am, I am still dragging on and on.</div>
<div>
and fool that I am, I still think we'll reach the hollow of an oak</div>
<div>
Where we'd spend the night of the Winter solstice</div>
<div>
Wrapped up in each other</div>
<div>
Where you'd hold me in your arms and say</div>
<div>
"Stay."</div>
<div>
and tell me how much you wanted me to carry your coffin too.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
(The title is inspired from Tiamat's song title "Carry Your Cross and I'll Carry Mine")</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLa15PrYlXUvwONUUxOJj2VgpaCyaInTfGD4bqdW-1aFgDfGQrVf1uNvdaqbvLxycID6KtLVRxvxLvYMDl4uDbi7C5EmffHmls7rLcg9cPLGsTQTqEJSglFf8JrZiN6-Ahge7ez3tkHl8/s1600/the_door_of_serenity_by_grauenart-d8drx79.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLa15PrYlXUvwONUUxOJj2VgpaCyaInTfGD4bqdW-1aFgDfGQrVf1uNvdaqbvLxycID6KtLVRxvxLvYMDl4uDbi7C5EmffHmls7rLcg9cPLGsTQTqEJSglFf8JrZiN6-Ahge7ez3tkHl8/s1600/the_door_of_serenity_by_grauenart-d8drx79.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(c) http://grauenart.deviantart.com</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-76429606239677274512014-12-11T07:39:00.001-08:002014-12-11T07:41:11.406-08:00The leaves fell off our trunk, darling.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
But I didn't want and couldn't squeeze saltiness out of my eyes when the time came.<br />
You stained me<br />
and the worst is, I let you.<br />
The worst is I cannot turn back and untouch you.<br />
You cannot turn back and touch my soul - deep inside it is already freezing.<br />
The leaves fell off our trunk, darling.<br />
<br />
<div>
And I didn't want to be silent and I didn't want to glare. </div>
<div>
I didn't want to sit beside you as you wanted me to, but in front of you.<br />
I wanted to look into your eyes and find comfort in them.</div>
<div>
My friend told me today that my eyes are ones she gets lost in. Eyes of innocence.</div>
<div>
Why is it that you cannot look into them and see? </div>
<div>
See. Look. Explore. Lose yourself.<br />
Drive your fingers through my soul<br />
Carress my consciousness<br />
Undress my mind.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wanted you to touch my soul, not only my skin</div>
<div>
I wanted you to be a longer eternity. </div>
<div>
Because every moment, as short as it is, is a momentary eternity. </div>
<div>
I just wanted you to be a long one.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The auburn leaves are crunchy beneath my feet.</div>
<div>
And if you tell me that you don't know what to say,</div>
<div>
I am at loss<br />
because there is so much to say.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Is it too late for me to warm up around your campfire</div>
<div>
that the winds blew out?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBjX9gFfqhzE4pZktJ0uTOtkWypwA0hgul-CSRM3idY47ZMbH8KJ1UGwyM0s36nIKumrEdxFZx46RLsHYLMlL0iSQE-HH7MOhWnIo5aZsbKirZfuPoyQh-L4OEUPaVLXyyCmsrjEGACk/s1600/kiss+the+flame+by+juliatosi.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBjX9gFfqhzE4pZktJ0uTOtkWypwA0hgul-CSRM3idY47ZMbH8KJ1UGwyM0s36nIKumrEdxFZx46RLsHYLMlL0iSQE-HH7MOhWnIo5aZsbKirZfuPoyQh-L4OEUPaVLXyyCmsrjEGACk/s1600/kiss+the+flame+by+juliatosi.png" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(c) Julia Tosi on deviantart.</div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-53543728644517104322014-12-11T07:27:00.000-08:002014-12-11T07:40:05.335-08:00Nocturnal Stream of Unconsciousness III<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">My throat is dry and my eyelids heavy</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Will you be the Holy Water</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">That drains death</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Lingering over the remains</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Of sanity?</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br />Can a sip of you<br />Reanimate dying cells<br />And vanquish gloomy thoughts?</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAaALgbdXdb3zqn1792eJQCHWYiNt35E9tWtALQ5ynoyFsKEEk7ojuk_g_0Z_6SPyIQcTdeS2PZSgk9zqMBX03p49iQj3Y9K8ks0mO-ePXdSwRyODI0Lq45SmIF8Ta3uyQBF2Ysfmx0Ss/s1600/Lucy+Evans+Increible.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAaALgbdXdb3zqn1792eJQCHWYiNt35E9tWtALQ5ynoyFsKEEk7ojuk_g_0Z_6SPyIQcTdeS2PZSgk9zqMBX03p49iQj3Y9K8ks0mO-ePXdSwRyODI0Lq45SmIF8Ta3uyQBF2Ysfmx0Ss/s1600/Lucy+Evans+Increible.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(c) Lucy Evans</div>
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span></div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-31827276060947500952014-11-16T15:46:00.001-08:002014-11-16T15:47:09.177-08:00Shower Inspiration<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">"I want to know all about the wounds that are scars now</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">So I can kiss them even more tenderly</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Let me peek through the shutters of your soul</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">and greet the rising evening sun</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">in all its pastel watercolor splendor."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAwTA8KFrx449DWzCP8kxAIv3uF97mixeHcllhuV8r6zH_h3j5jahcvNmz1YKkUE2cNmNXnSAVW-l1F6TiARoPwULkBqJooHaCfmA4lZF9BnimrYixXn4sbYzEyX4pEuQShhyphenhyphenIDF6chVE/s1600/1508168_673062506147355_5666189186913127791_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAwTA8KFrx449DWzCP8kxAIv3uF97mixeHcllhuV8r6zH_h3j5jahcvNmz1YKkUE2cNmNXnSAVW-l1F6TiARoPwULkBqJooHaCfmA4lZF9BnimrYixXn4sbYzEyX4pEuQShhyphenhyphenIDF6chVE/s1600/1508168_673062506147355_5666189186913127791_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
From Tumblr.</div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span></div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-28278500127307643272014-11-03T12:36:00.000-08:002014-11-03T15:34:31.075-08:00Sylvan Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lythriel opened the studded wooden door and stepped out into a sea of greenness and inhaled the intense odor of the woods - the smell of sap, pines and December rain all mixed up in her nose and made her ecstatic. Never would she leave this place, she swore, a sylvan haven and home to her dreams. Here she'd sit on logs and write letters to the constellations, lean on tree trunks and daydream, make a bed of leaves and look for hazelnuts to crack open and eat just like she used to with her childhood friends - a memory long gone but nevertheless preserved in the last chamber of her heart. And he would be there to share every new memory and adorn it with his presence. He would be there to call her in when it rains and light a fire. Or to let the heaven-sent drops soak them both as their hands intertwine. She'd be there to point at tiny insects creeping beneath the beds of grass and unknown flowers whose names they'd memorize. Lythriel would play her flute everyday, wear a crown of flowers and leaves, make one for him and be an elf, his elf. They'd be immortal to each other. At least here, she can dream. At least here, they can dream. Lythriel walks to the side door to cut logs for the chimney. It will be a cold night but now that she had a home, she felt that even seven Winters cannot freeze her to death.</div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-51919466888026707342014-11-02T13:59:00.001-08:002014-11-02T15:28:27.150-08:00The Man with Antlers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the light of a Red Moon<br />
Perchance<br />
I found you in a gloomy forest, astray.<br />
Antlers grew out of your head<br />
and pierced my chest as I approached you<br />
You wreck my bones and twist my flesh<br />
You're my crucifier<br />
Lucifer that ensnares me<br />
Lucifer that wants my blood<br />
And thus, I bleed.<br />
Your love is the crucifix<br />
that I am nailed to<br />
I cannot breathe<br />
I don't want to breathe<br />
You asphyxiate me.<br />
Lick, inhale, drink the passion<br />
that seeps from bloody antlers.<br />
<br />
In the dead of night I feel serene<br />
Your chest, an ocean of pumping veins<br />
pounding against my head, gently cradles me to sleep<br />
You are like the hollow of an oak during winter -<br />
When everything freezes over<br />
You are the refuge,<br />
the place to be,<br />
the place to lay my tired heart to rest.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebww8kTBkftOdAZYBCIiCmlmq4GhpWA1meqW_dV4gXS6NgkpbOjICYdu7O9ZyQ6zVFaCWp1a6tZiUTgevcFd_kTX19ZEmhDlNARrhXkD7nRqQYZWv2kRYEsnJNShlOMFDCBIXx4dEMg4/s1600/sensitive_as_death__by_mala_lesbia-d33akc0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebww8kTBkftOdAZYBCIiCmlmq4GhpWA1meqW_dV4gXS6NgkpbOjICYdu7O9ZyQ6zVFaCWp1a6tZiUTgevcFd_kTX19ZEmhDlNARrhXkD7nRqQYZWv2kRYEsnJNShlOMFDCBIXx4dEMg4/s1600/sensitive_as_death__by_mala_lesbia-d33akc0.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Sensitive as Death by Mala Lesbia on deviantArt</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-49708323937768641522014-08-11T18:31:00.001-07:002014-12-21T09:29:31.978-08:00Aurora's Theme Lyrics [Inspired by Child of Light]<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://ytimg.googleusercontent.com/vi/LHI_yxFLw8w/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/LHI_yxFLw8w&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/LHI_yxFLw8w&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
So I got inspired and tried to write "Child of Light"-themed lyrics to this instrumental masterpiece :T<br />
It's from the perspective of the people enslaved by the Queen of the Night - a song to honor Aurora's bravery and cheer her on on her journey.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Take the stars and the moon<br />
Grab the sun and its lights<br />
Only you can save us<br />
Only you can guide us<br />
<br />
Princess Aurora climb<br />
Hills and mountains<br />
Fight the monsters<br />
Descend into darkness<br />
<br />
Fight the demons that took<br />
The light from our towns<br />
Save us and yourself<br />
From evil<br />
<br />
Take the stars and the moon<br />
Grab the sun and its lights<br />
Aurora save us from darkness<br />
Aurora shed your lights<br />
<br />
Take the stars and the moon<br />
Grab the sun and its rays<br />
Only you can save us<br />
Only you can guide us"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://31.media.tumblr.com/cc738d94f54ad44f700b7aabafbfa8da/tumblr_n1q7fgrWW91sfsk7xo1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://31.media.tumblr.com/cc738d94f54ad44f700b7aabafbfa8da/tumblr_n1q7fgrWW91sfsk7xo1_1280.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<h4 style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">by <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 25.600000381469727px; text-align: left;">http://www.pixiv.net/member.php?id=1408495</span></span></h4>
<br /></div>
Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047509871969765917.post-89183797356377006552014-08-11T15:07:00.001-07:002014-08-11T15:10:01.128-07:00Heavy Light-years<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
These past light-years<br />
Were actually heavy<br />
Years of granite-studded<br />
painstaking<br />
drought.<br />
<br />
Those seconds full of<br />
shrill laughter and mirth<br />
that you think I owned<br />
were only borrowed<br />
back<br />
then.<br />
<br />
Those hours I spent<br />
shedding shards onto<br />
the merciless tiles<br />
were hours<br />
I spiral into<br />
until<br />
now.<br />
<br />
Yet,<br />
<br />
Now I own those seconds.<br />
Now I step on the tiles instead of crawling across them.<br />
Now the light years will indeed pass as years of light<br />
and not full of a darkness I enslaved myself with.<br />
<br />
I know you are still crawling<br />
You are still borrowing smiles and collapsing into your bed<br />
as Insomnia embraces your powerless body<br />
and makes love to your darkest thoughts<br />
I know that the fields of darkness are claiming you<br />
and that your feet are blistered<br />
Here is all my light, take it<br />
If I can beam at you and guide you home<br />
Use me.<br />
Use me as long as you reach for the stars.<br />
<br />
But if your eyes are shaded and your mind is numb<br />
I cannot help you, even with the strongest will<br />
I can give you the flowers but you have to water them.<br />
<br />
And if you think that by dragging me down<br />
You can reach the light<br />
Think again.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhHK8g3VY54H7HK6MEcuXTkI4NCsYhzUHO6fr_6DNiOu1eI1DEY2B12trh6CYIqKPnpS5-33MI5BBcx3f8AtLmhmuJFtW5P-jCE5CyEhGYjHiWNBalwwuTHhXXurhNe6WNiud-nXBnfc/s1600/tumblr_n7arxeqWgH1rzlmhxo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhHK8g3VY54H7HK6MEcuXTkI4NCsYhzUHO6fr_6DNiOu1eI1DEY2B12trh6CYIqKPnpS5-33MI5BBcx3f8AtLmhmuJFtW5P-jCE5CyEhGYjHiWNBalwwuTHhXXurhNe6WNiud-nXBnfc/s1600/tumblr_n7arxeqWgH1rzlmhxo1_500.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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From Tumblr.</h4>
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Hella Grichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09258813638965650619noreply@blogger.com0