A teacher who worked hard to get into a director's position was experimenting at the University lab, when all of a sudden a big noise was heard. Thinking he had provoked a black out in the entire building, the director went to try find the fusil box where the shortcut was felt with a curling iron on his hands.
When he left the room, as he couldn’t see a palm in front of him, he accidentally kicked a table and then stepped onto something greasy and slippery. He broke his both arms and had his knee torn over the iron instrument, while he tried to low the impact of falling on the ground. To make the matters worst, glasses were all around the floor, and he also cut himself.
When the shortcut finally ended and the lights were on, people wearing cheering hats and with whistles in their mouths were all perplexed looking down at their teacher, the music playing out loud and the balloons dancing loose around the room.
It was not a short cut after all. One of the students, trying to make it a surprise birthday party, had the lights turned out.
They all looked to one another between tears and laughter. The disastrous professor finally said:
“Ok to heat the ground and burn the day over…but to break in your own birthday cake... THAT’s a shot cut!”
Now gratuities apart with gratitudes a part, let me graciously introduce myself, fin-ally, and form-ally to my fine allies. I am Ana Bowlova, illustrator and writer, who loves to read and write (didn't you notice IT yet?) So here I am writing for you!
Then, there in 1968, right in the "crux" of a revolution, there I was born in the Ana Costa Hospital. "Grazing in the Grass" by Hugh Masekela and "I Pretend" by Des O'Connor were number one on the radios that day. And I pretended that I really intended to make part of this crazy world.
At two days of living in this planet I was in a "milca" way predestined by the stars above, brought by my mother’s arms to an apartment in the ninth floor in a building called Cineland, right at the corner of a major avenue also named Ana Costa, which translated into English will be something like Ana Coast. And I can still recall my first five years as I walked miles and miles of distance from the shore, running to the big sea(n), like a little turtle just getting out of its egg, eager to be swallowed by a huge wave from the warm and mellow waters of the Atlantic Ocean that gently bathes the Southeast coast of Brazil.
Now I keep coming and going to swim
In the wave of the oceans in e-motions of a rare hymn
Looking for the answers to my reasonable doubts.
Running towards the sea, in and out.
To see if I can find my lost origins
I bathe myself and feel the blessing things
That would allow me to arise to the cords
Of an endless tenderly shore.
And there I write and it is just for you
And that's you who inspire me to do
For as long as I shall live
I live for "thy" and for thee only.
I leave to a breath and to a rebirth.
I live to breath and to a mirth.
I live for me, I live for thee.
I (be)lieve all lives sympathy!
Bell live(S) 'n Die(S)elf S-Well...
A Tarot Balsam's offering the Well.
I have a suggestion for a reading (besides my books, of course;0)
The Book's Name is "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" written by three British Authors: Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh and Henry Lincoln.
The Publication Date is 1983 by Dell Publishing, a division of Bantam Dell. It's not a novel (although by the lengthy and subject at times it looks like one) but I am pretty much sure that Dan Brown, author from the "Da Vinci Code" based a whole lot of his book on the one I mentioned.
I do recommend this book first because I liked it very much...Of course I have to like the subject to really be able to read the whole thing. But this in particular has a story of its own:
I was at a bookstore in Buenos Aires, looking for something Argentinean, to get a glimpse of the culture and the people there. Then, all of a sudden, I looked around and I saw the Foreign Fiction Book session as I "heard" this modest book with a black cover "calling" me and which was actually misplaced. What was my surprise to see that not only it was no fiction but also was about a subject that I have been looking for my whole life through (the "Holy Grail") at least since my teen times.
In the beginning of this year I read the "Da Vinci Code" and I particularly didn't enjoy that much...I did enjoy it at the beginning, the story and all. But then it became quite dull, for it mixed too much fact with fiction. In the end people started to believe in many things the book said and taking it so seriously that I am afraid it caused some awful events (one of them happened near here: someone in fact literally dropped a bomb in one of the "Opus Dei" Center.) Well, everything has its bright side too: people now are going more to the museum, especially to see the Mona Lisa's smile.
Although I too tend to write fictions based upon facts I hang in the last one to create a veritable condescending narrative. Nevertheless, because I love so much to go to the core of the things and get deep into the subject and try to reach the origins of all that I became an enthusiast of that book (the “Holy Blood, Holy Grail”, and not the Da Vinci’s sale, I mean, sail.) This nonfiction clarified me many things, and also gave me many doubts. This is indeed a book that makes you wonder and ponder and go to the root of it, and then meditate a little more and arrive to the conclusion that you should read more...of it or of a hundred more books about it.
So, I believe not only that Dan Brown based his book upon this original one, but also that many others enriched and opened their minds with this incredible book. No, incredible is no good term for that one: neither should I say, unbelievable, because it makes us to wanting to believe without forcing anything, on the contrary: it exposes without revealing everything. It leaves us with that taste on the mouth for more…
And that's why I recommend this book.
There is another book now in my hands which was also based upon the one I mentioned above. It's "The Woman with the Alabaster Jar: Mary Magdalen and the Holy Grail". I didn't read this one yet, but I will get back to the subject when I am done with it. I "premise" you I will! I sure am engaged onto my quest of the "Sang Royal"l!!
Yesterday, I went to have dinner at my husband’s friend. We were invited to the “ Thanksgiving Day”, the first one I would spend in the United States. And I who have so much to be thankful for!
The guy was Peruvian, my husband worked at the same multinational enterprise, which brought us here. There were only Peruvian there for his friend’s entire family seemed to be there. Oh well, not entirely, though: there was an American bachelor who didn’t have anyone in Washington D.C.
There was also another American, married to one of the Peruvian guy’s sister. He had very rude traces, a very gross manner and an undoubtedly aggressive attitude. His posture showed a clumsy sloppy personality. He was small and had a very bad habit of tucking his nose with his little finger. But yet he had beautiful green eyes and his hair shinning against the sun had a peculiar yellowish glow and a Yiddish flow revealed his dense aura. His skin was dried though, as much as his humor.
The bachelor was taller and had a classier look with an intelligent touch and a quite well studied refinement. He seemed to have built his own profile carefully, with a mathematical savoir-faire, which permeated the whole room:
He was wearing glasses at the tip of his nose, and if I didn’t know my metier so well, I almost could convince myself that he was an intellectual type. A typical unshaved guy, with his tall thin legged pair of jeans, and a large shoulder with two pale thin poles pending almost not likely as arms, which would surely not contrast at all with the white snow in the end of the year.
He looked as if he had spent the last three days on dieting over three shelves of books, eating them alive, with an insatiable thirst for culture and knowledge, and by the black circled holes, or rather bumps around his eyes, he probably did overslept and drawled over a ten thousand editions to compensate from the insomnia which caused him to vomit a page or two. Nevertheless, he still seemed to be able to take a very vivid conversation, and he appeared to be a quite charming character with his mysterious smile that makes one wonder how much can someone endure so much sillylosophy…
While the pig-head green eyed small guy went to the kitchen to reveal to his wife, a little too loud not to be heard in the room where we kept holding empty glasses, « this woman speaks a funny English » which I surely got that one was for me, without even questioning that on my mind, I kept the conversation up with the clever bachelor guy. His nodding posture almost mischief my all-so-singular punctual sharp vision.
« What do you do as a métier? »He asked it to who? To me...Me...ME!
As usual, in a social meeting like this one, we are asked the same routine of casual questions and the answers keep being the same as well. Oh, how many times I just wished to respond to that question with a smirk so cynical no one would stand being more than a hypocrite. I just wanted to spell out loud:
« Well, I eat, I dance, I sleep, I fancy, I make love, I take a nap, I amke love once again, and then I go to sleep...Oh, I can make you sleep, my friend. »
Well, what the heck: He wants to know what I do for a living? Let me get him an answer more effectively than the one in my mind:
« Ahn… » And I give a little pause for I just wanted so badly to give the other response. I bit my tongue and I smash my lips against each other, to not let my sharp tongue getting on the way to a civilized colloquium.
« I am writing a book. It is in French. »
« Oh, yeah? How amazing. What is the title of your book? » I could just sense that he was trying to tiptoe into my subconscious garbage, I mean, luggage.
« L’Amante de Victor Hugo. » I breathed deeply waiting for the torment.
« Oh ! And is she still alive, the lover of Mister Victor Hugo? » Asked that man who seemed to have such a serious regard and now off-grade I took him into a hook.
And I who took him as an intelligent guy, I judged people just a little too fast. You can get your own conclusions…
I swear you that all the responses that I get when I throw my answer to people I would never expect such a question. But I did keep the pace and as fast as lighting in torn of a roof’s house in a crazy-made cartoon town, I cut the chase right into the middle I said automatically, without thinking like a thunder 'n the grass:
"You should read my book, monsieur… "
What better answer coming from Ana-sparring writer."
(Excerpts from "The Royal Diary" available at my Virtual Bookstore):
Check out my book "Many Lives to Love...and The Eternity to Live" with plenty of stories, one of them passed in a fructuous Harbor/Beach city called Santos. And where I also describe my creative proccess:
Hier, je suis allée dîner a la maison d’un ami de mon mari. Nous étions invités pour le « Thanksgiving Day », la première Action de Grâces passe ici aux Etats-Unis. (Et moi, que j’ai beaucoup a remercier…) Le mec est péruvien, et lui et mon épouse, ils travaillent dans le meme entreprise de softwares qui a ramené mon copain ici. Il y avait que des peruvians chez lui, car toute sa famille etait la.
Eh bien, il y avait la un américain célibataire qui n’avait pas de famille a Washington. Il y en avait aussi un autre américain, marrie avec une de la sœurs de l’ami péruvien. Celui marie avait des traces bien rudes, il etait laid dans sa posture, gros et petit, pourtant il avait de beaux yeux verts et ses cheveux étaient blonds, et bien sèches, je peux conclure. L’autre etait plus mince et haut, et me paraissait plus intelligent que celui-la. Pendant que le gros garçon etait allé à la cuisine pour parler a ça femme, un peu trop haut pour être pas du tout discret, «cette femme parle un anglais amusant », ce que je m’étais affichée, mais pas du tout fâchée, j'étais autant ou plus occupée de ne pas perdre l’attention a l’autre, qui me demandait justement :
« Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici ? »
Comme toujours dans ces réunions sociales, on se demande ce qu’on fait dans la vie. Et cela ne veut jamais dire : Oui, je mange, je fais de la danse, je pis, je fais dodo, je pis de nouveau, je fais du piano, je fais l’amour, je fais des enfants, etcetera, etcetera mais, ce que tu fais pour vivre (ou, quelquefois, survivre!), son boulot, et cette question etait interroge a juste qui ? A moi, sûrement.
« Qu’est-ce que tu fais comme metier ? » il répètait, comme si je n’avais pas compris son anglais.
« Eh bah », je me donne une pause stratégique pour ne pas lui donner des autres réponses, « je suis en train d’écrire en livre en francais. C’est un roman et il s’appelle 'L’Amante de Victor Hugo'.»
« Et est-ce qu’elle est encore vivante ? » Demande l’homme qui chargeait l’air sérieux, avec ses grandes lunettes pendues dans le nez. Et moi, que quelques minutes avant, je l’avait juge si intelligent.
Je peux dire que de toutes les réponses que toujours me donnent a moi, comme en déguisant un vrai intérêt pour le sujet, je n’espérais jamais cette question. Automatiquement, sans y penser, comme un rayon de tempête, je l’ai répondu :
"Tu dois le lire, mon roman… "
Que grand abrégé venu d’une poète, d’une ecrivante étrange, étrangère et bergère.
"Ana" keep portraying pictures from behind de-scen(t)Ses:
On this time we call upon Universal Power
As many may we speak in One True Voice
May we listen to Truth upon blessing shower.
United we pray for the Great Nation’s Choice.
In a silent room with our hearts let’s unit
All four elements: Earth, Rain, Fire, Wind.
Make win he who is truly blessed and right,
Take evil away bringing long prosperity in.
Distinguish between he who is the hand of Peace
And he who is the man of only strenuous power.
Only the best shall reign and bring Nations’ bliss.
Joining the world in condescending goal at this hour.
With our hearts on what’s the benign choice
We break away the hideous spell of malign noise.
Thank you for those who stayed so faithfully on my list.
And even not “listening” to what I write, you care about it...
And that for me, mes cheries, il suffit!!
It's already so good to know that you are there for me,
As much as I am for you. That’s so much to fulfill!
A friend is a treasure so rare to find...
If you keep receiving my news all so kind,
Taking it as it comes, like pills,
Well, that's a whole lot of free will!!
And a lot more of total friendship!
Thank you so much for "hearing" my words, and allowing me to share my own experiences. I do have my limitations. I wished I were an angel, but I am a mere(?) human being. Especially because I cannot handle English as well as if I were dancing on my tiptoes, but true, I do have value. I do believe as I began Ballet with my flat feet I also can write with my flat English.
I can accomplish much with little: If God gave me a lemon, I would not only make a lemonade but keep the seeds and plant new lemon trees. Instead of crying for the lack of opportunities I take what I have and make them grow. I see potential in each small thing. So I assure you that from the little vocabulary I have I can make it a good thing if you look into another perspective; I do not have any vicious of language and no rigid style, I can be reshaped any way you direct me to. You see, I'm very flexible (thanks to my years of Ballet) and I can dance any music you play! I will dip into my words, and” find my own voice", as the Senior Editor suggested me to do:
But how am I supposed to my own voice expose and find,
if there are just so many characters also playing inside my mind?
I should give them expression and voice as well.
And write the stories they are eager to tell.
But there is a way I can easily access to my core,
and make a chorus in poetic lines flowing from each pore
It is when I sing that I give voice to my soul.
May I sing high, may I sing low.
Just the poor neighbors,
Who have to listen to my labors...
I've always loved to sing. I'm not a professional singer; in spite of all, I do my best! Hope I sing for you, and dance in your stage, and paint a beautiful picture of an editor and I together making a remarkable work soon!
When you bear a cross, you hold a sword.
That’s where it lives, your soul.
If you cannot find your voice, your word
Find yourself in the myriads of what you sow.
And from there you may as well grow!