Colorgenics

Taken from Sheila's and Saber's blog

Was it yesterday that I mentioned in my blog: 'Enough is enough' / this is starting to sound real creepy.....

Colorgenics

http://www.paulgoldin.com/colorgenics.htm

You are a very sensitive person and you try hard (perhaps a little too hard) to make favourable impressions and to be recognised by your peers. But you have that inherent need to feel appreciated and admired and you are easily hurt if all of your endeavours go by unappreciated or not acknowledged. Stop trying so hard.

In actual fact you are not willing to exert yourself in any way. You have that truly 'laid back' attitude and are unwilling to extend yourself or exert undue effort. You feel that to move forward - be it in your life style or in business relationships - would require more energy output than you are prepared to give at this time. You want to take life easy and your attitude is such that 'Enough is Enough'.

Matters are not progressing as well as you would have hoped and you are having to make concessions - but you still believe that your goals are realistic it's just that people can't seem to see your point of view. You know what you want but you'll only accept suggestions under duress.

You are frustrated and stressed. You appreciate the finer things in life but at all times you appear to stay aloof, critical of everything and everyone about you. You will not be carried away by your emotions and you refuse to trust anyone or any situation unless genuineness and integrity can be absolutely vouched for. Therefore, you keep a strict and watchful control on your feelings as you must know exactly where you stand at all times. You demand complete sincerity as a protection against your own tendency to be too trusting.

You are being very dogmatic, insisting that there is to be absolutely no equivocation whatsoever about your achievements and accomplishments.

Was it Aloe ?

        

It was five to three. Still. Lia wondered if she was in the Twilight Zone because no matter how often she looked at the alarm clock, the time seemed to change with brain-numbing slowness. Not looking at it was obviously the answer. She sat up in the bed, shook her pillow around a bit and sank back down on to the cool side of the bed, determined not to look at the time. Four minutes to three winked the luminous numbers on the clock.

 Lia felt like crying. She was exhausted and yet she couldn't sleep. The memory of her best friends weary face, Samantha, earlier that day, kept running through her mind. Sam, as she called her, and Stephen, Lia and Zack, an ill-fated foursome and their problems. And Gregory. No matter how she tried to wrench him from her mind, he was still there. Smiling wolfishly at her, eyes caressing her in a way Zack's never did.

Shit. She sat up again, feverish and furious. She had to stop thinking about bloody Greg. It was positively sickening. His presence loomed over her even when she was in bed, never mind what it did to her when she was up. Since, she'd met him, eight months ago, or was it nearly a year now, but definitely eight months since something clicked, he was everywhere: grinning at her, taunting her, eyebrows raised in amusement as if he could see the effect he was having upon her. It was no use trying to sleep. She might as well get some hot soy milk and read.

 Trying no to think how shattered she'd be after a sleepless night, Lia warmed some soy milk and brought it up to bed. Propped up with pillows, she picked her book up and tried to read. Even that didn't work.

The dashing South American polo player in Venetia's Voctory reminded her of Greg; he had the same glinting eyes, the same devil-may-care-attitude. Every time the polo player crushed Venetia to his chest with his powerful mallet-wielding arm, Lia could see herself being crushed against Greg. She threw the book down in disgust and rummaged through her bedside locker for a replacement. Her friend Sam adored blood, gore and serial killers and had been trying to get Lia read one for years. Lia had resisted until now because she hated the thought of reading about murderers preying on vulnerable women before she went to sleep. Strangely enough, the idea seemed very appealing now. Surely an axe murderer would be able to get Greg out of the picture?

By five-thirty, she was a serial thriller convert - and very, very tired. How come you can only sleep when morning is lurking around the corner? she thought exhaustedly, sinking her head on to the pillow as the birds began to sing energetically outside the window.

They appeared to be singing the same song when the alarm clock erupted with the awful salsa show at seven-fifteen. It seemed that at the same time as it erupted , her hand smashed back and silenced it forever, and at that exact instant she made a decission, it was enough, it was actually more then enough. For the past month or so, she was helping Greg, the man she so loved, save his marriage, and ruine her life, with dignity and respect. Was she supposed to feel proud and happy about it? At first , she did, but then hearing his weekly resume of his improving life, it made her sick. She gave up on him, as she did on most of the things in life that mattered to her. For what? Was it because she cared more, or was it because she was a good person? She wasn't sure of either, anymore, what she knew was that once she faced the future, she had some big steps ahead of her, and they needed her clear mind and no fantasy world.

 Did she know this a year ago, or eight months ago? Or is there a reason and time for everything in life. Well if there was a reason to start this eight months ago, there sure is a reason to stop it NOW.

Lia got out of her bed, feeling the cold floor beneath her bare feet, made it to the kitchen and sank in one of the chairs. Through her mind, the past months moved as flashes of lightnings and thunderstorms. She instantly ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it up in a pony -tale. Then she looked through the window at the blue clear skies, she got up and stood by the window, leaning her head on her arms while she watched through the pine trees all the way to the ocean and that imagionary line where the ocean met the horizon. Suddenly there was no feeling of fear of waking up without hope, or having nothing to look forward to. Maybe it was just good enough being alive. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Enough was enough and it was such a beautiful day to look forward to...even her sun-burned shoulders looked nice after aloe had eased the pain. Yes, she thought, there was no more pain, and life isn't that bad after all. Why didn't she think of aloe a couple of months back...was it aloe or was it her?

As she threw the soy milk in the bin and fetched a clean cup for her morning coffee, she said to herself:

 -' I'll think about it, tomorrow'.

A Strange Destiny of a Starfish

My daughter Ana and I have a strange hobby of putting our dreams on paper making them into stories, this is one of hers, dedicated to me, when I was in desperate need of ...well of ...brightening up, I guess. Wanted to share it with you. The story was published, with Ana's permission, as her Japanese friend did graphic design (her major) . The story has been translated in Japanese, will be soon published in Japan.This is only my poor translation in English.         *TM* A Strange Destiny of a Starfish One velvet, lilac day, one lilac starfish fell from the sea. One seahorse, said, he saw her dreaming on the bubbles of the waves, a dream woven of strawberry taste and the smell of night skies. The bubbles of the waves, carried her towards the yellow shores, like lace, slightly tickling her back. And, while the starfish dreamt of the Moon, she ordered the sea to withdraw, and the sea obeyed.  And the sleeping starfish slided from the lace foamy wave to the sand on the yellow coast. They say, it took many hours before she woke up, from her flavoured dream. So near her world, and yet so far away. While she was still very young, and made only slight moves with her starry tube like rays, no bigger that those of the circle on a muffin tray, an old wise sea shell told her stories of wonderful worlds that lay far beyond the reach of the sea, about the world that reflects upon the mirror of the sea, without touching it. The little starfish dreamt of the reverse mirror, and from time to time, it seemed that through the bubbles and colourful small fishes a ray of light reached from the other side, bringing light to the roof of her world. Now, she found herself alone and scared in a kind of in-between world, neither below, nor above her dream, while her body was drying, only her tears gave her the moist and life. And what will happen when I cry out all my tears, she asked herself, silently, and glanced through them, and for a slight moment her salty tears reminded her of the sea, from where she had been watching all her starry life.  Later, she remembered, that at that moment, she was already drifting above the sand, that one hand lifted her from her sandy prison, and was carrying her. She travelled in this hand, reading the curved lines on the hand, still crying the tears that gave her life. It seemed that she could no longer feel the presence of her home, when the salty flavour disappeared from the air, and unknown flavours spread like a shadow above her. Some, she remembered from her dreams, the smell of wild forest strawberries, and the night which was slowly falling. The hand was still carrying her gently, and lifting her further and higher from the sea.  Then suddenly, behind one cypress tree and one cloud, he appeared, in his shiny armour, and she recognised the Moon. At that moment, the sea seemed to have flown out of her soul. Watching him , night by nigh, from the sea, a strange wish would appear making her blush, making her tube like rays tremble, a wish , that at least in one of her dreams, she would become a part of his life. She felt that no one could be more powerful and more beautiful then him. He, who ruled upon her sea, she followed him through all twelve of his forms, which left secret, thousands of years old scrolls written in her soul, scrolls that smell like jasmine flower, scrolls which uncover a new life, and give her body a mysterious light. The hand, that seemed to feel and follow the fading heart beats of the starfish, carried her higher and higher, towards the top of a mountain, where they say, every 3rd and 17th night, you could feel the smell of the sky, and in rare occasions, after the rain, the air would be filled with cinnamon. While she was colouring those curved lines, inside the hand that carried her, with lilac colour, she was already riding on the back of a huge turtle, grabbing huge steps towards the sky.  Everything turned into silence, and her tears, drop by drop, became happy and shiny. Everything went still in one moment, the hand reached far beyond the sky and placed the starfish there. They say, that she still shines in her lilac colour, on the left side of the sky, just next to the Moon. The sea, keeps moving lazily below her, awaiting the starry shower, which will return her to the sea.....at least, an old seahorse, keeps telling the story.....                                                                                                                                                                                     *TM*

What makes the month of MAY so special

Strawberries and Wimbledon Tennis

In the UK strawberries are in season between May and September. During the rest of the year they are imported from countries such as Spain or the USA. Most commonly, strawberries are grown on fruit farms and shoppers buy them in supermarkets either fresh, frozen, canned or as jam. Many fruit farms encourage people to visit and pick their own fruit. Every year about 27,000 kilos of strawberries are eaten during the Wimbledon Tennis Championships, together with 7,000 litres of cream. * The popularity of serving strawberries with cream is   possibly as old as the event itself . 

                                       

The world-renowned Monaco Grand Prix is one of the most spectacular and exciting sporting events covered by the media. http://www.justunlimited.com/

                        

The Cannes Film Festival (French: le Festival international du film de Cannes or simply le Festival de Cannes) is a film festival held in the resort town of Cannes, in the south of France. It was first held in September 1939. The first festival coincided with the beginning of World War II and thus was considered to be a failure. It was revived from September 20 to October 5, 1946. Since then, it has been held annually in May with a few exceptions. The Cannes Film Festival (French: le Festival international du film de Cannes or simply le Festival de Cannes) is a film festival held in the resort town of Cannes, in the south of France. It was first held in September 1939. The first festival coincided with the beginning of World War II and thus was considered to be a failure. It was revived from September 20 to October 5, 1946. Since then, it has been held annually in May with a few exceptions.

                      

                                                         Paris in May

                                   http://www.rolandgarros.com/en_FR/index.html

        

  Les Deux Magots Named after the two wooden statues (the two magots) which still dominate the room, Les Deux Magots is one the most famous cafés in Paris. Jean-Paul Sartre, and Hemingway were both patrons in an earlier era. 

       

Buddha Bar (France) 8 Rue Boissy d' Anglais, M. Concorde, Paris, Close to the Hotel de Crillon and Place de la Concorde in the heart of the 8th Arrondissement, Buddha Bar is a temple of glitzy, kitschy style. But there's no denying its pulling power or the fact that it helped spark the ambient DJ-bar revolution. An impressive statue of the eponymous Buddha gazes down on the fashionable drinkers and diners tucking into Japanese-Californian fusion food, while they all recognise the soothe-the-senses music being spun by DJ Claude Challe: Buddha Bar CDs are everywhere and BMW drivers from Berlin to Buenos Aires have every volume in their CD racks.

                                              

                                  Lily of the valley...flower of both MAY and GEMINIS 

Name: Botanically known as Convallaria. Description: Little white bells arranged up a short delicate stem. Origin: First cultivated in 1420. Colour: White. Availability: Mainly April and May. Care Tips: Must not be left out of water too long. Keep cool and shaded. Trivia: Facts: Signifies a "return to happiness". Lily of the valley is much used in bridal arrangements for their sweet perfume. Traditionally associated with May 1st, especially in France where the "muguet" is handed out at special events.

                         What better month for romance then MAY

                              

                         .....maybe at

 

                              

                                              Cafe del Mar in IBIZA  ...and watch one of

                      

                                              the most beautiful sunsets... 

                                    Or just MAY in Montreux ..Switzerland

           

or no matter where you are , just the feeling of being in love and happy makes it all worthwhile...well for this particular matter every month will do...even October, November, December...etc.

Famous Geminis: / besides ME and MY DAUGHTER ANA/

 Naomi Campbell, Miles Davis, Lenny Kravitz ,Joseph Fiennes, Gladys Knight, John F. Kennedy, Brooke Sheilds ,Marilyn Monroe, Angelina Jolie ,Liam Neeson ,Johnny Depp ,Elizabeth Hurley, Sir Paul McCartney, Nicole Kidman, Francoise Sagan and ofcours the genious :

                          

Salvador Dali ..."The only difference between me and a madman is that I am not mad" Salvador Felip Jacint Dalí Domènech (Catalan) Salvador Felipe Jacinto Dalí Domènech (Spanish), (May 11, 1904 – January 23, 1989) was one of the most important painters of the 20th century. He is best known for his surrealist work identified by its striking, bizarre, dreamlike images, combined with his excellent draftsmanship and painterly skills influenced by the Renaissance masters. An artist of great talent and imagination, he had a love of doing unusual things to draw attention to himself. This sometimes irked those who loved his art as much as it annoyed his critics, since his eccentric theatrical manner sometimes overshadowed his artwork in public attention.

                                              ***************

A friend of mine told me a celebration of ones b/d must go on for exactly the same number of days as the number of years one is turning to be....well, if so, this will be a loooong celebration.

I will be away for some time, I wish you all a wonderful weekend, and I'll see you all soon!

They say "April showers bring May flowers" and on days like this I say to myself: "What a wonderful world

Oysters

It was one of those days  ment to be special, to be rememberd and to be cherrished forever. The temperature was hitting 33 degrees C, the day was full of surprises, the ones that made them ponder, made them go speechless, made them enjoy every single moment, flooding their bodies with overwhelming feelings. Laughter, just slight silence, and then again their voices kept them aware of just how much they needed each other, every minute, every second, every day and night. It was just amazing how much fun they always had together. They decided to go out for dinner, the night was clear and silent as they drove towards the ocean front. Their favorite restaurant. As he drove, she could not stop laughing at his jokes, kissing him , and caresing him, keeping her hand on his shoulder and slightly moving it towards his neck. She was always restless, which was a good sign, because when she went silent, that usually ment trouble. But this was no day for silence. They were just too happy enjoying their company and each other. As he parked the car, and opened the door for her, she found herself in his arms, holding her hands locked behind his neck as he slowly pulled her towards him, sliding his both hands from her back to her hips. They walked slowly towards the restaurant, his hand around her waist and her head just below his chin line, as he slightly kissed her hair. They had their ususal table, always sitting next to each other. Continuing to laugh and talk about their daily events. She would get close to him and put her hand on his shoulder, turning his head with her other hand, so that he would face her, and ever so slighly brush his cheek with her lips. He would pull her hair away from her neck and breath close to her ear and just pass his lips over her neck. The waiter came  ready to take their order, standing patiently and waiting for them to notice his presence, while they hardly even knew he was there. They both sensed his presence, he pulled slighlty away from her, while his arm  remained at her waist, refusing to look at the menu...he just   said: -' One Votka - lime, lot of ice and one martini....' She had taken her sandal off and slowly explored his ankle with her bare foot, reaching under his trousers and just slightly touching his leg. He turned towards her, and gave her that look, she loved so much. then told the waiter that would be all for now. She whispered in his ear, -'I wonder why they never throw us out form this place', and he just murmured near her lips, -'It wouldn't surprise me at all, maybe they're just used to us' Their drinks came, and as they picked up their glasses, never stoping to stare at each other, a slight smile and the first sip. As they placed their glasses back on the table and again drew close to each other, the waiter was again there, waiting for their order...and waiting, when they finally looked up at him and said, -'Just bring us the oysters' They continued talking about their day, while his hand holding her waist pulled her closer, she was touching his cheek with her fingers and drawing lines on his lips, placing her forehead next to his and brushing his nose with her lips. The oysters were served, just as they loved it, on a tray of ice with lime and the usual deco. Her bare foot was exploring his leg just above his socks as he took one oyster and brought it near her mouth...her lips slightly parted, he still held the oyster , then slowly kissed her and only then let the oyster slide in her mouth, letting the small dripps of lime slide down the sides of her mouth, making him go over them with his own lips. Her turn to take one oyster and bring it close to his lips, never stoping to stare at  him, he slowly opened his mouth, while she slighlty tuched the inner part of his lips with her finger, then letting the oyster slide slowly. The oyster shell fell on the table as her arms closed around his neck and they kissed, as if they never kissed before, as if it was their first kiss, as if they never repeated it so often..... He suddenly held her shoulders and forced her to look in his eyes, just another look, just another silent moment, he held her cheeks with both his hands , looked away from her  at the waiter and said, -'Cheque, please!

Creating a comic - my way

Thanks to DORID and her CLASSIC IMAGE CHALLANGE #4...

http://blog.360.yahoo.com/blog-Coel7o01dLSyRL43a2gag6dS?p=359

Here's my short version...just in my own way!

The Letter

She kept endlessly turning around and trying to fall asleep, there was nothing that would  keep her from looking at her alarm clock, because no matter how often she looked at the alarm clock, the time seemed to change with brainnumbing slowness. Not looking at it was obviously the answer.  She sat up in bed, shook her pillow around a bit and sank back down on to the cool side of the bed, determined not to look at the time. Four minutes to three winked the luminous numbers on the clock....but no sleep was coming to her resque. She sat up again, feverish and furious. She had to stop the boredom, as it was positively sickening. It was no use trying to sleep, she might as well get some hot milk and find something that would get rid of the endless insomnia.  Trying to think how shattered she'd be after a sleepless night, she warmed some milk and brought it up to bed. Propped up with pillows...suddenly the ideas were flooding her with delight. She knew what she needed to do, as she got up and went through her drawers. She rememberd seeing some old envelopes, somewhere there...if she could  just find them now, and that nice paper she kept as  highly valued antique piece. Oh, and then there was this old fountain pen, she kept as a treasure. Would she know what to do. Would she remember how to start a letter, what to say, was her handwritting still readable.Her mind was busy with such toughts while searching through her drawers, then in amazement she found the old pack of envelopes, and just below were some sheets of paper, she rememberd taking them from a Hotel, many years back. Somehow at the same instant the fountain pen emerged and she lifted it, holding it in her hand as a religious relic . So powerful was this treasure search and the idea of writting a letter, that her hands trembled while switching the light on her desk and carefully placing her relics. For a moment she just stood and watched the envelopes , the paper and her old fountain pen, as they glowed in the light. She sat on her chair and placed her elbow on the table, while slightly playing with a lock of her hair, swirling it and tieing knots, then letting them loose. She took her founain pen and wondered for a moment did it dry out, would she be able to use it? Slowly getting the cap off she took a note pad and drew a line, then wrote a couple of numbers...then her name. She couldn't hide her smile or the thrilling flood of emotions that invaded her body, while staring at the black ink on her note pad. She took a sheet of paper, and wondered for a moment what would she write, then just placed her left hand on top of it, and drew a continuing line around her hand. The amazement of what she looked at was, that she actually touched the paper, she actually drew her hand, she thought for a slight moment...this was real, this was a part of her...no typing , no screen, no icons...funny, she felt like going back to the last century, she was fascinated by the long lost beauty of letters, remembering some contained a drop of perfume, some a tear, a dried flower, a lock of hair, a fading photo...and endless words that would travel a long way to that someone dear, someone special. She feverishly started writting, as the words took their own flow on the paper as a wild stream ending in a waterfall...sheet by sheet, for the first time after so many years, she felt she was opening herself, she was being real, she was sharing and opening her soul. The last words, and the first  written  'I love you' in her own handwritting, left her with a cunfusing sensation...she ran and fetched her purse with make up, searching for the right colour of lipstic...she put a couple of shades on her lips...then carefully kissed the paper, leaving a perfect copy of the curves of her lips. Folding the sheets with utmost sensation, she placed them in the envelope, licked the edges carefully and closed it. The night was long gone as the first rays of sun came through her window, she dressed up and ran to the post office. She paused before she handed the letter, she held it with her both hands, covering it and tuching it before it would take its long journey, placed it on her chest, as if she couldn't part with it, then just slowly left it on the counter, payed for the stamps and kept looking at the lady who took her precious letter, stamped it a couple of times, every sound of the stamping shook her body, as she watched carefully what her letter was going through, then saw it thrown in one of the wooded pigeon holes....she turned around and walked out into the sunny street.