one man's madeleine is another man's valerian.

I opened the kitchen cabinet to take out some tea, and the moment of embarkation imposed itself upon me. You see, next to my bags of tea is a small bag of valerian, and its medicinal scent just poured out of the cabinet, filling up the air and momentarily taking over my space. Its aroma took me by surprise . The blast of valerian scent permeated every nook and cranny of my unsuspecting kitchen.

Ah, the way the valerian scent took over the room- that was enough to trigger my mind...


You know how Proust's mind,triggered by the wafting scent of madeleines, let itself loose and instantaneously sent Proust out on a journey of gentle and continuous travel along a long stream of childhood memories?
He had madeleine induced brain chatter.



Well, thats why I say, one man's madeleine is another man's valerian.

Immediately my mind went to the old herbalist, and of course to his granddaughter, with that gorgeously intense expression on her face. What a striking girl...But the herbalist and his granddaughter are not from the treasure chest of my own childhood memories.


They come from another treasure chest, a rather strange one that many authors seem to have in their minds.  It's filled with characters, events, scenes, dialogues and witty quotes all mixed together in a rather chaotic way - almost surreal the way they have all merged together- coexisting in that chest. The chest is actually a treasure trove of worlds seen blending together with those yet unseen, words that have been spoken dancing with the words that have yet to be uttered.
Yes, the scent of the valerian was able to unlock this chest, and out poured whirling images, scents, sounds and feelings from the chest, into my mind, as I reached to take out the tea.
Like a magnet...ZAP...my valerian attracted a particular scene to single itself out and detach itself from the plethora of sights and sounds that flew out of the freshly opened Pandora's box.
Creative brain chatter was about to begin.
The valerian scent from my cupboard must have met and mingled with the valerian aroma wafting out from the stone house of the herbalist....
and it brought me there, from my kitchen to his secluded country home, eons and miles away...and I felt his fear.

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trees in the bubble...

I guess you can call me an artist at work.
My mind is filled with stories yet to be written,  art yet to be seen, imaginary realms that await the moment to be explored.

I have a book in an embryonic phase...It is still in my head...Will it leave my head and make it's new home within the words and phrases especially chosen to house these characters and their happenings? Will they decide to take up residence there, among the punctuation marks and capital letters? Can a story take place in type? Can a character flourish in words alone?  Or is the imagination the only suitable fertile ground for characters to grow, flourish and bloom?
If, in their present state, these unwritten books had the ability to materialize into objects,  they would appear as orbs - translucent, fragile, emerging...yet with billions of thoughts racing through them like pulsating little veins seeking to feed the tree that has rooted within.... 
Yes,they would be round, wonderful spheres, fairy bubbles spun with ribbons of pale, translucent shades, that serve as cocoons for a special tree that grows within and seeks to grow, expand its breadth and flower.
This tree is the "story" - the world that comes to life from the newly created characters and their experiences.

Books in the making are fairy bubbles cocooning their very own unique sapling...