And Wrought Upon the Clothes in Patterns of the Most Jetty Black

We suffered the terrible hot weather during the whole month, but the temperatures went down on the weekend. The only inconvenience is that, unfortunately, my obligations are not leaving me too much spare time to enjoy. We´re in the last week of the month and the term exams are far, nevertheless academic tasks pile up on a essay´s ocean.

Happily, not everything is bad.

Among all these obligations some attractive loads are hidden.
My north American literature seminars has been dedicated, almost exclusively, to the life and work of E.A. Poe. The author is always a delightful pleasure in which I adore to fall once and again. And there´s not such a big thing as reading it in this season.

There´s nothing spookiest than Poe in a dark October night.

Leaves have begun to fall, rain hits the windows and I ( lucky me) read Poe´s stories with a warm tea for my classes. This drove me to a wonderful mood disposition. I can just ponder about candles and pumpkins!

I don´t know if I mentioned it, but this party is special for two reasons: on the one hand, I enjoy the spirit´s night like one more kid and, on the other hand, this year I am celebrating my seventh anniversary with The Gentle One, ( a gothic couple celebrating their anniversary in Halloween, what a cliché we are). However, unlike it can be interpreted, the date was not chosen on purpose. Destiny linked us that night, which is pretty romantic if you think about masks and red wine every year.

This time I intended to celebrate it with something special, so I started to look for new ideas and accidentally stumbled upon Neil Gaiman´s blog. He proposes to give away horror books in Halloween and turn the party into a literary event. Personally, I think it is a brilliant idea.
What do you think about it?

She Spoke and Winter Left

My friend Elisa and I on a semi-melted mood.

As my readers know, I mentioned the early coming of fall a couple of times.
It could be thought that my words played as a hocus-pocus, as long as the season magically dissapeared. Literally. One day we woke up and Father Autumn had just vanished! Its grey beard made of wind and mist was replaced by the burning sun and its lovely golden leaves cloack is not here anymore.
Usually, I smile when people say climatic change is just politic maneuvre. I had never have so strong impression about this truth. October is here but cold is not coming! Many of you can think this is a regular thing in such a warm place like Spain but not in the north. Galicia isn´t a well-known region out form our boundaries, so try to imagine a fairy-tale kingdom full of green woods and gardens, the most similar landscapes across Europe can just be found in Ireland. Evidently, the situation is uncanny.
On a personal level, one may consider the obvious consequences of unusual weather for an academic gothic-victorian lady: on first place, attending classes is a nightmare in the stuffy rooms inside the faculty building. I heave a sigh every morning while choosing an outfit and look with dreamy eyes at the vast variety of wooden shawls, soft knit jumpers and dresses. Of course, they´re not an option these days, unless you wish passing out.

My dear friend Iago getting annoyed by weather and pics.
But he stills so cute!

I am concious that many people would be glad about it, however the little spooky girl inside me is praying for her favourite season: Halloween. And honestly, I cannot conceive it without a former period of dead leaves and misty grounds for getting me ready. There are so many details to inspire me!

• A good cup of cinnamon tea or hot mint chocolate.
• Silky cashemere shawls.
• Tartan blankets.
• Sacher cake.
• Victorian tea rooms.
• Reading by the fireplace.
• Flaper hats.
• Synthetic furs.
• Twilight walks across haunted woods.

My beloved sister (who, by the way, can be read here) want me to upload some pics inspired by the romantic beauty of autumn, but I am just in the position of posting these summery impressions at the moment (sorry, darling). However, inspiration is in the air and I´ll be making my best as soon as cold comes back. One of the new projects in my mind include a wintery Victorian picnic. Just imagine a bunch of ladies and gentlemen sharing hot drinks served from silvery teapots in a magnificent park, surrounded by golden trees... I just need the proper background.

So, please, please, send the season back to me!

Habits make the man an old monk

The pleasure of learning.

Going back to rutine can consitute an unexpected pleasure.
A relatively long period far from daily life is very similar to discover an old pair of shoes in the closet which we forgot but still fitting perfect. I spent September at my parent´s, I did not suspect it when I moved away but discovered a wide range of new feelings: one can learn to value little things, even those that you normally don´t think about.
I missed my apartment, my books and films, my teapots and cups, my collection of shoes, my cds and even my sheets. But materialism is not everything. I specially felt melancholy when I thought about shared dinners and breakfasts with The Gentle One (my soulmate), naps on my little and unconfortable sofa accompanied by my two charming kitties and the never ending wine parties with friends on the living.

Autumn´s light is already here.

Fortunately, this forced holiday period is done and I went back, not only home but also to daily life. Seminars at university started on Monday (meaning to meet with my friends after a complete year of social isolation) and I returned to job this evening. The huge change of habits cannot be ignored as long as I went from being completly idle to have almost too much to do. However, being useful is always very nice.

Am I the only one with an antithetical post-holiday syndrome?

Haunted Walks Under the Big Silver Moon.

The time I resided in London museums became home.
Every single time I felt sad or melancholic inevitably tended to overpass the golden doors of an art building. Recognizing me was easy those days: a tall, pale girl with floating black hair wandering through the galleries as a spectre.

Since I was a child, I never felt really comfortable with other people.
I am not a total misanthrope (well, no too much), it´s just I rarely feel myself in the crowd. In this sense, nature made me following some uncanny mold which disables my emotional reaction to daily events and social feedback but magnify my feelings about painting, sculpture and any kind of artistic manifestation. So, as I said, I spent great quantities of my time in the UK exploring these hidden chambers full of treasures. At that time my favourite shelters were Victoria and Albert Museum and the Wallace Collection. It´s hard to explain the peaceful feel when I contemplated the inexhaustible succession of marbles, Venice cristals and pre-Raphaelite allegories.

However, everything has an ending and I had to come back to Spain for finishing my degree.
My homeland is very popular in honour of its landscapes with magic woods and cliffs and the magnificent ancient cities but - oh, alas! - we don´t have a single remakable museum.
As long as I remain here I had to look for new sources of contemplative pleasure.

It is told that wit is the father of genius, so after a reasonable time scanning different possibilities, I declined to look for more galleries and started thinking about classic buildings. This was the best I could do. One cannot ignore the huge variety of historical places around and these old fashioned haunted mannors will be always my best friends.
Walking under the charming shadow of an isolated victorian house or inside the corridors of a ballroom is one big pleasure. The best thing: absolutely free.
If you were asked for, what place would you choose as your favourite shelter?

Last Summer Days in the House of Despair

There are few things to do these days.

Summer is almost over and evenings are becoming shorter, chilly and windy. Human beings (poor little things) must leave their delightful walks under the sunshine and going back indoors. One can easily presage the winter coming.
When September arrives I do not feel Spanish anymore, the rest of the country will have one more month of shinning existence but in this small northern corner the warm season is gone. My homeland is a vission composed by wild landscapes, merciless wind, stone cities and deadly coasts dreamt by a Pre-raphaelite painter or some ancient storyteller, and we - the inhabitants - behave as sleepers.

Mornings are not usually different.
Three days ago I woke up just for finding an insidious grey daylight slipping through the curtains. Then, a sudden thunder sounded somewhere and rain began falling. With so little options and the majority of my books miles away on my apartment (I am spending the last holidays at my parent´s) I decided to sanctify this unexpected captivity to good films.
The winner was The Call of Cthulhu, a 2005´s production.

For being honest I did not expect too much from it. Normally, Lovecraft´s adaptations are poorly based on texts and too much focused on special effects. However, this one was the opposite. The project, distributed by the HP Lovecraft Historical Society, recreates the misterious universe in a terrific movie. The Call of Cthulhu was recorded by using many of the most popular techniques from the 20´s. As a consequence, the final product it´s a exquisite silent film with a strong artistic design. It is the best adaptation I´ve watched the last month by far.
So if you find yourself imprisoned by a storm at home as I did, don´t waver to give it a chance.

Reincarnation

Postmodernist critics would probably say that the web is a non-space.
I´m not gong so far, but it certainly possesses some kind of untouchable charm. This quality may come from its evident lack of physical support, or maybe just the opened possibility of hidding real identity. Whatever it is, I find particularly agreeable the idea of Omnipresence.

Everyone can fly from one place to another learning, reading, sharing or simply moved by the pleasure of anonymity.

As a single humanoid form based on carbon I also enjoy these little stupid pleasures. Unlike day by day, regeneration is always possible here and if one has the particular tendence to be reborn through the natural reformulation of ideas, then the cyberspace is the perfect drug.
What I am trying to say with all this meaningless tongue-twister is that, after a prudent time of meditation, I am able to start a new period in a new place.
Maybe this.