themadhatterinalice-blog

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Spring has been a good guest this year. Staying as long as March in this tropical hell, the seasonal affectations have been kind. It is Sunday, and it is bright in its yolky glaze, while a steady wind brushes the roughened skin of the harsh winter. The sky is a swipe of the clear blue of the bluest coasts and the mango trees brimming with promises for the summer. It is a day to be out with families, out with friends, out with companions and lovers. It is one of those days where the afternoon sun allows you to soak in the warmth without being burnt. To go out for a swim, to sit by the lake and laze the afternoon away. Those who do not particularly want to be outdoors in fear of whisking away their preserved physical sanitations, they could simply sit on a porch, with lemonades and Iced potions and look at roses with the rose-colored glasses of life. You could pick up the book you have been meaning to read and sleep a little. Watch a movie perhaps, that has been all the rage for someone that Cupid has struck you with. Those in love could pick this beautiful afternoon and dissolve into the dusk together. Create a perfect Spring memory.

As for me, I have surrendered the thought of spending Sundays in companionship. I am absorbing the world around me, the comfort and solitude this day provides. I would have loved to go away somewhere, anywhere, by the lake, by the woods, by some dense shrubbery, by some lovely cafe by the city. I would have enjoyed this beautiful afternoon in the nest of my loved ones, on the dining table with my family, next to the friends of decades, and more. I would have enjoyed the simple pleasures of this life with perhaps, a little tinge of modern hedonism, had not life bound me by the chains of the mundane, the quotidian, and the melancholy.

So, I will spend this Sunday in remembrance, exerting the last ounce of energy to finish the ordeals of my occupational hazards, of academia and its wrath, and shirking away the thought of being loved on a Sunday.

What about you?

Letters To March by Alice/Ursula/PG

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Palestinian poets Samīħ al-Qāsim and Mahmoud Darwish in Ramallah, 1998.

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Alexandre Dubois-Drahonet: detail of Female nude, back view (1831)

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— Carol Rifka Brunt in Tell The Wolves I'm Home

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Bukowski//January.

#winters#newyear#loveandloss#bukowski#heartbreak#poetry

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— Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

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Emily Dickinson, “Poem 670”

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How I imagine my Autumn mornings to be. 🌸

mornings like this

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Here's to letting go

But I am lost in a void with your ghost

And our memories

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. 　　　　　Who Broke It　　　 　.

*Everyone is gathered around a coffee maker*

Comte: So... who broke it?

*silence*

Comte: I'm not mad. I just want to know.

Vincent: I did. I broke-

Comte: No, no you didn't. Arthur?

Arthur: Don't look at me. Look at Isaac.

Isaac: What? I didn't break it.

Arthur: Huh. That's weird. How'd you even know it was broken?

Isaac: Because it's sitting right in front of us and it's broken!

Arthur: [leans in to him] Suspicious.

Daizai: If it matters - probably not - but Mozart was the last one to use it.

Mozart: Liar! I don't even drink that crap!

Daizai: Oh, really? Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier?

Mozart: I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles; everyone knows that, Daizai!

Vincent: Ok, ok! Let’s not fight! I broke it, let me pay for it, Comte!

Comte: No! Who broke it??!

Isaac: [looks at Napoleon, then at Comte] Comte... Napoleon's been awfully quiet.

Napoleon: REALLY??

Isaac: Yeah! Really!

Napoleon: Oh, my God! [everyone starts arguing except Comte]

Comte: [looks at Leonardo] I broke it. It burned my hand, so I punched it. I predict ten minutes from now they'll be at each other's throats with war paint on their faces and a pig head on a stick.

Shakespeare: Valorous. T wast getting a dram chummy 'round h're.

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Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

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July, broke my spirit. Through a fog of endlessly anxious monotony, I spent humid, sickly days clinging to sweat soaked clothes and slowly losing my mind. Sodas, headaches and disappointment plagued my afternoons while at nights, every single noise seemed to irk me, like a mosquito buzzing close to your ear does; my head blistered with nauseating cacophony of noise, the voices around me demanding my attention rendered me mute while i was spilling over the brim with a million emotions which were grossly unexpressed and unspoken. After having spent an inordinate amount of time in my life, without company, warmth and effective communication, human relationships bore and confuse me. The empty rooms with night lights and silences and the wait for slumber and the television, and the books- it's alright. But July broke me. I scraped through, dirt under my fingernails, losing my hair in clumps, disfigured like a potbellied pig.

August, perhaps will let me sleep.

#dusk#moon#evenings#endofanworkday#dailythoughts#academia#romanaclef#nostalgia#literatteur#scholar#poetry#melancholia

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. 　　　　　Who Broke It　　　 　.

*Everyone is gathered around a coffee maker*

Comte: So... who broke it?

*silence*

Comte: I'm not mad. I just want to know.

Vincent: I did. I broke-

Comte: No, no you didn't. Arthur?

Arthur: Don't look at me. Look at Isaac.

Isaac: What? I didn't break it.

Arthur: Huh. That's weird. How'd you even know it was broken?

Isaac: Because it's sitting right in front of us and it's broken!

Arthur: [leans in to him] Suspicious.

Daizai: If it matters - probably not - but Mozart was the last one to use it.

Mozart: Liar! I don't even drink that crap!

Daizai: Oh, really? Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier?

Mozart: I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles; everyone knows that, Daizai!

Vincent: Ok, ok! Let’s not fight! I broke it, let me pay for it, Comte!

Comte: No! Who broke it??!

Isaac: [looks at Napoleon, then at Comte] Comte... Napoleon's been awfully quiet.

Napoleon: REALLY??

Isaac: Yeah! Really!

Napoleon: Oh, my God! [everyone starts arguing except Comte]

Comte: [looks at Leonardo] I broke it. It burned my hand, so I punched it. I predict ten minutes from now they'll be at each other's throats with war paint on their faces and a pig head on a stick.

Shakespeare: Valorous. T wast getting a dram chummy 'round h're.

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Some well nice winter sunlight caught in the kitchen this evening, a reflection created by someone opening their window in a high-rise half a mile away. At times like these london feels so deeply interconnected

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