:: Sacred Spaces ::

The office bustles; my cactus is yellowing at the tips, signifying an imminent death; India looms ahead: ah, next stop wonderland?; my mother is coming home; the bruise from my grandma's face is fading; my father's spirit is a muted sore; Vienna; sushi with Rene; red wine; a nagging pain at the back: the kidneys, again?; a broken friendship; Caprice!; one of my girls, joining the ranks of licensed drivers; ambient music, tingling my spine before sleep takes over; Astonishing the Gods with a double-shot mocha and An African Elegy on the train; Cem's words; conversations with T; the wisdom from the honesty of a child: if you make up, you make beauty, does it still mean you are beautiful?; the November sky, broken, sentimental; a private term of endearment in Chinese; A Sort of A Song, Williams Carlos Williams; the loss of loss; ice-cream in the rain; a special friend in December; the possibility of happiness.

Sacred spaces and mystic chords. A chorus of interlocking emotions, and never too far from my mother's wisdom: if you cannot live with sense, then love with passion and the mad freedom of youth. But love not just the warmth of a lover's hand: love the scars and flames of life; because we cannot live with sense, we love.