Thursday, December 29, 2011


Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville;
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon coeur ?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits !
Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie,
Ô le chant de la pluie !

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce coeur qui s'écoeure.
Quoi ! nulle trahison ?...
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C'est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi
Sans amour et sans haine
Mon coeur a tant de peine !

Paul Verlaine


Since yesterday we had our first snow..more like a slush of flurries and rain. In the afternoon the snow was heavier. If the cold was not an issue, I would have sit on a bench in a quiet park and enjoy the peacefulness of watching snow fall under the warm lamp light. There is nothing more beautiful than a carpet of sparkling new snow.

I was highly tempted to walk under the falling snow and to taste the snow flakes with the tip of my tongue. However with my groceries that would not have been convenient. Reality over my daily reverie.

I have been reading quite a few books about food and culture lately. Some books echo issues that have crossed my mind, but to which I never gave much thoughts so full is my head of random stuffs and worries.

"In defense of food" by Micheal Pollan struck a chord in me though. I am reading this book at a time where my relationship with food is no longer pleasurable. Most "food" from the supermarkets are tasteless and full of hormones and what not. I do remember a comment from one of my mother's collegue about how although Mauritius is not like South Africa (where her kids are), nothing can equal the smell of vegetables and fruits in our local supermarkets or bazaar. How true! Unfortunately in Canada, organic or local cost an arm and a leg. I might as well plant my own vegetables once we move to a house.

I stopped buying most 0% fat etc.. items a long time ago. I did the simple test of checking the label one time and the list of ingredients in the so called healthy "food" was longer than the regular one. Stabilizers, emulsifiers, sugar sugar and sugar. I was amazed at how some food could stay in the fridge for weeks w/o a mould..scary or amazing? This book is definitely an eye opener and give you food for thought. I am sure a lot of the issues he discussed have crossed our mind at one time or another.

I'm slowly trying to get back into calligraphy and visual journaling. I need therapy because I am drained from listening to people and having no one to listen to me when I need it. Maybe "eccrire c'est crier en silence".

can I run away instead of chaining myself to things ?

Sunday, December 25, 2011

victor hugo

On vit, on parle...

On vit, on parle, on a le ciel et les nuages
Sur la tête ; on se plaît aux livres des vieux sages ;
On lit Virgile et Dante ; on va joyeusement
En voiture publique à quelque endroit charmant,
En riant aux éclats de l'auberge et du gîte ;
Le regard d'une femme en passant vous agite ;
On aime, on est aimé, bonheur qui manque aux rois !
On écoute le chant des oiseaux dans les bois
Le matin, on s'éveille, et toute une famille
Vous embrasse, une mère, une soeur, une fille !
On déjeune en lisant son journal. Tout le jour
On mêle à sa pensée espoir, travail, amour ;
La vie arrive avec ses passions troublées ;
On jette sa parole aux sombres assemblées ;
Devant le but qu'on veut et le sort qui vous prend,
On se sent faible et fort, on est petit et grand ;
On est flot dans la foule, âme dans la tempête ;
Tout vient et passe ; on est en deuil, on est en fête ;
On arrive, on recule, on lutte avec effort... --
Puis, le vaste et profond silence de la mort !

Demain, dès l'aube...

Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

Friday, December 23, 2011

I am going through an existentialism crisis..

I long to have someone interesting to talk to. The frivolities of daily life or small things bore me to death and even more when people look at me weirdly as i start to discuss ideas. I KNOW work is not the place where to have inspiring talks although I was able to do so in my former job at MCB. I do meet some interesting people but no one with whom I feel connected at an intellectual level. Ok it's true that I am not trying hard to initiate conversations as well because I feel forced to talk BS or about my private life in order to fit in.

I know small talks are necessary but it's choking me to hear over and over again the same stories, the same rambles about fashion, work gossips, what-I-bought and what not. I want to run away, to become a hermit in the mountains and have some time to ponder about the meaning of life. I'm tired of talking to people all day long on the phone and expected to be another social butterfly. It's an extroverted world out there and it's killing me. People think you're rude/weird when you're not talking nor socializing.

When I think of my life now, all I see is how I'm not going anywhere, how I've achieved nothing and the years are catching up on me. I know the regular I-want-to-get-married-and-have-kids is not for me yet I can't help being fascinated by people who have kids. I'm curious about how it feels when your life has a new meaning, when the "me" move to "them". Even relationships cannot equate a parent's love for his kids. It's weird-for lack of better words- but not in a bad way.

I guess my crisis has been so bad that for the first time in 10 years, I have not touched my art journaling stuffs nor made anything remotely artistic for months much to the joy of people who always complained that I am wasting my money and time doing these.

I want to run away. all i do is listen to sad songs to help me wake up and go through the day.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

starry nights

Night lights make me melancholic. Watching Toronto sky line brings unnamed longing to my heart. I wonder if this is loneliness? At least I can gaze at the sky and constellation. To spot Orion and Jupiter in the night sky brings some comfort.

I am attracted to the lights of condos like moths to the flame. I can't help but wonder about the people living there. A few of my neighbours have kids whose bedroom face mine and it's cute to see them jump on their bed and wait for their parents or run from room to room. It reminds me of my brothers when we were little. It's hard to realize that over 20 years have gone by and one is already married. only memories linger.

**this morning the moon was beautiful, a slit in the dark sky. For some unknown reason it made me think of 1q84 by murakami..It's a as if someone punched an incomplete hole in the sky..and if you peel it back you would see daylight. The trees along old derry road were reaching out for the moon, as if appealing to an old lover...


User Ratin

SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams,
But, rising, quits her restless bed,
And walks where some beclouded beams
Of moonlight through the hall are shed.

Obedient to the goad of grief,
Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow,
In varying motion seek relief
From the Eumenides of woe.

Wringing her hands, at intervals­
But long as mute as phantom dim­
She glides along the dusky walls,
Under the black oak rafters, grim.

The close air of the grated tower
Stifles a heart that scarce can beat,
And, though so late and lone the hour,
Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet;

And on the pavement, spread before
The long front of the mansion grey,
Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar,
Which pale on grass and granite lay.

Not long she stayed where misty moon
And shimmering stars could on her look,
But through the garden arch-way, soon
Her strange and gloomy path she took.

Some firs, coeval with the tower,
Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head,
Unseen, beneath this sable bower,
Rustled her dress and rapid tread.

There was an alcove in that shade,
Screening a rustic-seat and stand;
Weary she sat her down and laid
Her hot brow on her burning hand.

To solitude and to the night,
Some words she now, in murmurs, said;
And, trickling through her fingers white,
Some tears of misery she shed.

' God help me, in my grievous need,
God help me, in my inward pain;
Which cannot ask for pity's meed,
Which has no license to complain;

Which must be borne, yet who can bear,
Hours long, days long, a constant weight­
The yoke of absolute despair,
A suffering wholly desolate ?

Who can for ever crush the heart,
Restrain its throbbing, curb its life ?
Dissemble truth with ceaseless art,
With outward calm, mask inward strife ?'

She waited­as for some reply;
The still and cloudy night gave none;
Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh,
Her heavy plaint again begun.

' Unloved­I love; unwept­I weep;
Grief I restrain­hope I repress:
Vain is this anguish­fixed and deep;
Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss.

My love awakes no love again,
My tears collect, and fall unfelt;
My sorrow touches none with pain,
My humble hopes to nothing melt.

For me the universe is dumb,
Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind;
Life I must bound, existence sum
In the strait limits of one mind;

That mind my own. Oh ! narrow cell;
Dark­imageless­a living tomb !
There must I sleep, there wake and dwell
Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom.'

Again she paused; a moan of pain,
A stifled sob, alone was heard;
Long silence followed­then again,
Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred.

' Must it be so ? Is this my fate ?
Can I nor struggle, nor contend ?
And am I doomed for years to wait,
Watching death's lingering axe descend ?

And when it falls, and when I die,
What follows ? Vacant nothingness ?
The blank of lost identity ?
Erasure both of pain and bliss ?

I've heard of heaven­I would believe;
For if this earth indeed be all,
Who longest lives may deepest grieve,
Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call.

Oh ! leaving disappointment here,
Will man find hope on yonder coast ?
Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear,
And oft in clouds is wholly lost.

Will he hope's source of light behold,
Fruition's spring, where doubts expire,
And drink, in waves of living gold,
Contentment, full, for long desire ?

Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed ?
Rest, which was weariness on earth ?
Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed,
Served but to prove it void of worth ?

Will he find love without lust's leaven,
Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure,
To all with equal bounty given,
In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure ?

Will he, from penal sufferings free,
Released from shroud and wormy clod,
All calm and glorious, rise and see
Creation's Sire­Existence' God ?

Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes,
Will he behold them, fading, fly;
Swept from Eternity's repose,
Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky ?

If so­endure, my weary frame;
And when thy anguish strikes too deep,
And when all troubled burns life's flame,
Think of the quiet, final sleep;

Think of the glorious waking-hour,
Which will not dawn on grief and tears,
But on a ransomed spirit's power,
Certain, and free from mortal fears.

Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn,
Then from thy chamber, calm, descend,
With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn,
But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end.

And when thy opening eyes shall see
Mementos, on the chamber wall,
Of one who has forgotten thee,
Shed not the tear of acrid gall.

The tear which, welling from the heart,
Burns where its drop corrosive falls,
And makes each nerve, in torture, start,
At feelings it too well recalls:

When the sweet hope of being loved,
Threw Eden sunshine on life's way;
When every sense and feeling proved
Expectancy of brightest day.

When the hand trembled to receive
A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near,
And the heart ventured to believe,
Another heart esteemed it dear.

When words, half love, all tenderness,
Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken,
When the long, sunny days of bliss,
Only by moonlight nights were broken.

Till drop by drop, the cup of joy
Filled full, with purple light, was glowing,
And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high,
Still never dreamt the overflowing.

It fell not with a sudden crashing,
It poured not out like open sluice;
No, sparkling still, and redly flashing,
Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice.

I saw it sink, and strove to taste it,
My eager lips approached the brim;
The movement only seemed to waste it,
It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim.

These I have drank, and they for ever
Have poisoned life and love for me;
A draught from Sodom's lake could never
More fiery, salt, and bitter, be.

Oh ! Love was all a thin illusion;
Joy, but the desert's flying stream;
And, glancing back on long delusion,
My memory grasps a hollow dream.

Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling,
I never knew, and cannot learn,
Nor why my lover's eye, congealing,
Grew cold, and clouded, proud, and stern.

Nor wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting,
He careless left, and cool withdrew;
Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting,
Nor even one glance of comfort threw.

And neither word nor token sending,
Of kindness, since the parting day,
His course, for distant regions bending,
Went, self-contained and calm, away.

Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation,
Which will not weaken, cannot die,
Hasten thy work of desolation,
And let my tortured spirit fly !

Vain as the passing gale, my crying;
Though lightning-struck, I must live on;
I know, at heart, there is no dying
Of love, and ruined hope, alone.

Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour,
Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow,
And many a storm of wildest rigour
Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough.

Rebellious now to blank inertion,
My unused strength demands a task;
Travel, and toil, and full exertion,
Are the last, only boon I ask.

Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming
Of death, and dubious life to come ?
I see a nearer beacon gleaming
Over dejection's sea of gloom.

The very wildness of my sorrow
Tells me I yet have innate force;
My track of life has been too narrow,
Effort shall trace a broader course.

The world is not in yonder tower,
Earth is not prisoned in that room,
'Mid whose dark pannels, hour by hour,
I've sat, the slave and prey of gloom.

One feeling­turned to utter anguish,
Is not my being's only aim;
When, lorn and loveless, life will languish,
But courage can revive the flame.

He, when he left me, went a roving
To sunny climes, beyond the sea;
And I, the weight of woe removing,
Am free and fetterless as he.

New scenes, new language, skies less clouded,
May once more wake the wish to live;
Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded,
New pictures to the mind may give.

New forms and faces, passing ever,
May hide the one I still retain,
Defined, and fixed, and fading never,
Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain.

And we might meet­time may have changed him;
Chance may reveal the mystery,
The secret influence which estranged him;
Love may restore him yet to me.

False thought­false hope­in scorn be banished !
I am not loved­nor loved have been;
Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished,
Traitors ! mislead me not again !

To words like yours I bid defiance,
'Tis such my mental wreck have made;
Of God alone, and self-reliance,
I ask for solace­hope for aid.

Morn comes­and ere meridian glory
O'er these, my natal woods, shall smile,
Both lonely wood and mansion hoary
I'll leave behind, full many a mile.

Charlotte Bronte

frances reminds me of baudelaire:

De profundis clamavi

J'implore ta pitié, Toi, l'unique que j'aime,
Du fond du gouffre obscur où mon coeur est tombé.
C'est un univers morne à l'horizon plombé,
Où nagent dans la nuit l'horreur et le blasphème;

Un soleil sans chaleur plane au-dessus six mois,
Et les six autres mois la nuit couvre la terre;
C'est un pays plus nu que la terre polaire
— Ni bêtes, ni ruisseaux, ni verdure, ni bois!

Or il n'est pas d'horreur au monde qui surpasse
La froide cruauté de ce soleil de glace
Et cette immense nuit semblable au vieux Chaos;

Je jalouse le sort des plus vils animaux
Qui peuvent se plonger dans un sommeil stupide,
Tant l'écheveau du temps lentement se dévide!

Charles Baudelaire

I'm addicted to Le Vampyre by Charles Baudelaire as well..Where are the days where i was sitting in the library reading and copying poetry...

Monday, December 19, 2011

and it goes on

The goods:
-pay raise and bonus
-lots of goodies on my way! swiss post tote , asus prime , jade bracelet (this thing costed $$$ to be i wanted 88 beads as my lost one), craft calendar
-internet to be activated tomorrow

the bad:
-i'm on probation..17 lates for last year T_T
-lost my keys, my jade bracelet and now my clarisonic has stopped working
-a hole in my bathroom room roof
-pay taxi for 16 sundays because i start at 9 am and there is no bus
-my first overnight on christmas

well it could be worse???