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Given some works, I sometimes feel the Stendhal syndrome. Images that flash, move him inexplicably. They give the feeling of duplication, as though the soul suddenly left the body, the sensation of near fainting. Or much more raw, the sensation of physical effort done nothing in the stomach. I may be fragile and so I feel that famous syndrome, perhaps not as violently as Stendhal himself, or Ruskin in Venice, and I'm lying Stendhal, not only before the Italian works, oh no.
For the rest, almost - silence. Everything is known.

walk through the castle, a castle even grayer than usual today because of rain that falls and falls, running into the gutter and runs down the window pane and the gray, a rainbow sky.
one who has already walked no other reason than to walk, no other wish than to place the son of the imagination and sometimes, to calm a moment of violence, known as the one can still walk like that for hours and hours, and if you meet people, suddenly surrounded, and even surrounded, and even to speak, we realize we are one and we know that they say there has not even matter, because what is not said with fever, and sometimes the bend of the corridor that you borrow when you chose to flee, one encounters someone who looks like us and we have the urge to touch his shoulder to tell him we're here. Even if he or she cares. And then, when we recall a phrase of the author ever read, because you only read this sentence, and just by chance, and it is surely a tragedy, we understand what love is, and is loving someone more than yourself , and when the truth hits the heart, then we can make a clean sweep.

Then we can go outside, see how trees grow. Grandma, you had to teach me to sow seeds at the foot of the tree to see the flowers bloom in summer as you promised, but you forgot to younger than me, before I forget thee.

And it's raining. Even stronger. Drizzle and downpour, as the poets say.
Long hours wandering through the maze inside, watching the window, playing the oldest game in the world called Make Believe.
And when it's gray in the Attic, we say that the best thing to do is to get buckets in the cellar, and then pretty bowls and earthenware pots to collect water droplets. And when it's gray, the maze can sometimes turn into a prison. But I prefer my
Maze Prison, which sometimes becomes, in a gilded cage in any How happy place in this world.

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I want Monster. ..

and nothing but monsters.
I do not want nice monsters who take me on their shoulders from day one.
I do not want any monsters who understand and offer a handkerchief on the second day.
I do not want to be an object to which it comes. I want to be intrigued and interested enough to go to them.
I do not want this one has an ice cream cone in hand, I want him to have scissors.
I do not want the other to tell me that everything will be fine, but it tells me that nothing is fixed.
I want him to sleep under the bed and slap it against the mattress if I move in my sleep. I want great
Hairy monsters, horned, one medium for one, two on each temple to the other, head of goat or dragon and lion-tailed, fish tail, and wolf teeth, gaudy or earthy, black as Satan. I want Monster.
A fantasy.
Pan and an army of fauns. Men and animals-goats to play the scapegoat. And coming into town, they destroy everything. There might be a unicorn, which would attract to itself all the little virgin. She tells them a story, because they are rare, mothers who tell stories to their children. I was told there were. Maybe. I want
Monsters make me afraid to first meeting, and that makes me laugh a second, and to which I cling to the third and forever.
Monsters who I want when I turn, threatened to eat me because they are sad.

last fantasy that is not me. I regret that. Spike Jonze and little Max Maurice Sendak, who has already come to visit me here .
Just wanted to post these images, in addition to the rest.

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They are funny,

these needs to write.

A visceral need to shout something, write it by pressing hard on the mine. And then nothing happens.

Nothing, nothing, nada, and zero. While that step behind the temples and behind the rib cage and the hand that serves the pencil until it hurts. Usually, that's how it works. And yet, nothing happens, as if all the sap had been caught, or worse, torn from my womb. The gods answered me when I asked for a little rest. The gods do not want me to make my burden. Is it Pan? They took away the words and the urgency and there is more than empty, that is where we lost and where we are drowning and we're trying desperately to fill. Because it's gotta be a way. I was told that there was always a means. Where my gaze falls, I see only sadness and death or suspected, and then ...

These two photographs of Bernd Preiml me back in the Attic. Without him, I know how the story would have ended, the plunge in ice water. It must be cold this time of year. I like these purposes like an uppercut. When the expected, it provided the plunge.
So, an old house, and another sister, certainly less important than the other, called Merricat Blackwood. She lives in the moon too, she can talk to animals, especially cats, she knows her pocket as poisons, and at night it becomes perhaps a werewolf.

Merricat like it. And the house-castle, before it burns like this. The photographs of the living and the dead on the wall, some ghosts to shake our hands as a "good clock" rather than "good day", and then stuffed animal. I do not know if Merricat home, there was this bird, but with me yes. And it frightened me at night. I do not know who had this gift. Perhaps only when the moon will enlighten, he will live. Maybe he does need that the gaze to awaken. All these birds of many colors, ready to pounce on me and wrap me their shadows.

I remember the pleasure he is not out. Do not leave. Stay there. Forever, perhaps. I shut the door the evening double-turn. Sometimes I would never reopen. Except for forest walks. Or elsewhere, somewhere where the brain is consumed, if still possible anywhere else. I have dreams in my head. Do not wish a happy new year, because I do not care. Merricat often has the urge to spit on people. But as she is well educated, she is content to kill imagination. And she has the heart suddenly much lighter, having exterminated so many people. They can continue to hum along the way, this rhyme pretty and cruel, or force her to watch them, they no longer exist. And there's nothing worse for these people, to speak in a vacuum, without an ear to pour in their venom. It's maddening. Especially adults. Children forget.

Merricat once it closes the doors of the house, her and Constance, she smiled. She hugs him and tells him how much, but now they are happy. This little lady said that Constance is pretty and young, it deserves a revival. She deserves to go out and see the beautiful world and fall in love, because it is bound to fall in love. When I look at this woman who told me that she fell down dead. Which is a shame, a shame is that she does not know.
funny dream last night. I was fine. I walked alone, barefoot in the embers, and everything was nothing. It will not change much from the outside world, that some call the real. In this void, I would lose in passing a few things I like. It's like in games of chance. No more. Despite the courage and all that crap, vomit words. And be afraid of going to bed, then.

And then? That's life. That's life said
my grandmother. A kind of resignation that I liked. Because I was cruel, I liked the show sitting on her bed and say "that's life . And she looked down. That's life and how it is. Discouragement - the despair - in all its glory and I have eleven years.

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And as stray cats, and because children with bunny ears and the rain that falls. If I could arrange the time, the rain fall all day.

Some things are very ugly. Perhaps only through the rain, they would see the beauty in horror. And horror in beauty. Like a turnstile.

A Xenia, the cyclone has destroyed everything. The worst disaster I've ever seen said Nixon.

And the hurricane, once spent, does not always mean Renewal. When the hurricane passes, it sometimes has enough power to continue to pretend, pretend that the neighbor to know that no, we did not lose our courage, we are still brave before. It can happen on good days. And then there are bad days, and when the cyclone passes through these bad days, his shoulders sagging and it is the signal to the neighbor: I have no strength. Abandoned me there.

So in Xenia, who were in the good days are gone. Let west and start again, before now is a blank page, amputated a few years. Forget. Those who have cars are gone, and those who have families have left, and those who had better things to do are gone. They all left after seeing the girl and her skull shattered. They are all gone, except the dregs of humanity. Left out, the ugly, the failures, those who had lost everything, even before the hurricane passes, and deficient, and the albino killers of cats.

While in Xenia, we pass the time as can be. Here is one circles of Hell. Xenia is forever doomed. It is born, you live there, die there. It does not escape, except by making bubbles in the bath. It is the city that people bypass property for failing to cross, and not having to see those dirty mouths, these uneducated who walk their spleen.

A dead cat, two cats dead, kill the third and Let's take him to the butcher. He must eat, and besides, we get paid. And another, to be paid, actually one, prostituted his disabled daughter. This is outrageous, so what? She may do not even realize what was happening. Perhaps. Two sisters, twin-haired White almost lost their black cat. He cries in the arms of the man next to him, this man who, like Sammy Davies Jr., combines the defects: dwarf, Jewish, gay and black.

In the street, garbage. Small bikes rolled onto the sidewalk. A boy, his nose glue. Another proudly shows off his muscles. These two others, mini cowboys Babylon, belch and break everything in the landfill. And the little guy with bunny ears and his body lean, which seems not to have eaten for days, and urinating on cars and playing the accordion, and gives a kick on the mesh. Silent for ever, perhaps, shivering, his cigarette between his fingers. He shakes with cold, or he trembles, because it is never witnessed these dead souls and sleepy, who do not know where they go, what they want, which survive without having really envy. And that's worse than anything. Lack of desire to die. And now he

nothing happens. It's like in life, or in some lives of some people. A life with many chapters, some are more annoying than others. We would like to go faster, faster as you turn the pages of a novel. You can not. It's infuriating. Many people think their lives are busy, but they have not woken up they live the dream. And when they awake, it's worse. They cry.

The little guy in the ears of rabbits can live, dream and he knows. As proof, he died under a hail of bullets imaginary. Reality, imagination. The environment does not exist, and the medium is not always fair.

In the sordid, sometimes there is beauty, especially when you do not make the offering a tissue because you will cry or scream because you're going, it's all too ugly anyway, you close your eyes. The Nameless are desperate people. Mouths shattered and grandmother on her hospital bed who no longer lives even though it breathes, and the prostitute lingered in bed, with her pretty white dress, she looks like a princess abandoned a story that no longer tells the blonde shopgirls stick tape on their nipples little girls and forget the big bad wolf, black and ivory skin, and this other case the chairs to fill the void in her soul, because almost everyone here, have only to say the violence things, and this embrace between two souls and one will end in tears, is ugly and beautiful, and it touches the heart, and only if it was lost once in the so-called real life . If others vomit, what Big deal.

they vomit. This will be the thorn in their hearts, while others will envy it rains a little more. Small, when it rained, I thought God was crying and I looked at the sky. He cries in front of the heart twisted and sterile men, women, ridiculous puppets, and dead cats, and lost children, and especially these last two, because there are more differences between a stray cat soon death and a lost boy. Yes, God weeps over the mistakes and regrets and hearts that are no longer moved by anything, hell on earth and the devil is in first class. God is experienced as others try to experiment words, the camera, and their thoughts. Sometimes there are failures. There are mostly failures. Failures and rambling stories, which nevertheless tend thread on which imaginary tightrope walk. As always. Capernaum disenchanted tend toward chaos rather than order. Not because it's funnier. But perhaps there is more room. For the heart and open arms to another, to remember that the mundane can be beautiful, to quote Diane Arbus, because there are sometimes bright, real, those who laugh. When there's nothing else to do, that the despair surrounding the despair and self-absorbed, are evil, and we have no explanation to give, there are only two solutions. Hiding the eyes, ears clog and close the mouth, or shake a bit more in the rain.

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I hear often when talking about duchesses in Bavaria, the five Roses of Bavaria, the most "frightening" among them, despite the romantic films and pink, was my beloved Sissi.

Simple perception.

she dresses in black, she has a ring with the head of a skeleton, a needle to inject cocaine, it Fuye the world and men and that emerging from a dream, she was surprised to be alive, but that is enough for some people to find it decidedly too special to be pleasant. Not consistent with what they know about her. So what they perceive as supposed madness, it puts them well uncomfortable.

And yet, if I had to choose one of them would be at the frontier of this malaise, it would be Sophie.

Sophie, considered as almost normal, if that word had a meaning. It never ceases to praise its sweetness, his understanding, his selflessness, his strength. And sacrifice, the strength, it was this day of May, which proved fatal. And courage for this little woman, agree to stay put and accept a horrible death, and her dress catches fire while she remains upright, hands clasped in silent prayer, and those flames which surround of infernal aura.

Thinking that others find morbid.

When I burn a small thing in an ashtray, and the customary thing to me, I always think to Sophie. The fire, wherever it comes, I always find fascinating. So maybe it is morbid, this dream, princess pink cheeks and blue eyes, blue that the sky may have a perfect summer morning.

That may be because the morbid strangeness of Sissi, the tempestuous force of Mary - Mary, and only one person is a heroine of the novel - are obvious, they forget to look on Mathilde and Helen, the first is cleared as the sparrow, and the second is too severe, and Sophia, which will almost borders on sainthood. Beautiful Icon, reclosing the book. Once was enough.

But how can we not realize that while it is angst and anxiety? Why not see the fragile line between the child and the woman who melancholic writhes violently hands ... ? There is, in my perception, a gap between what has the Duchess of Alencon, and what it hides in the recesses of his soul.

Sophie was born one cold February morning. In winter, like Elizabeth. It appears always absent, soft, compared to her sisters. It was always this vision of her unfortunate lover abandoned by her Prince (Ludwig), and since, melancholy devours her big blue eyes.

Child, Elizabeth melancholy underlies. She sublimates some of his poems childish. Death, already impregnated with words. She revealed to As the days and nights of Sissi, this melancholy, and she must already have suspected it will be one of her best friends. Chez Sophie, melancholy runs through his veins from the first day of his life. And more pain. Already, she gets lost. So when Ludovika, his mother told him to calm some people suffer more than she and her daughters had no reason to complain, lament and Sophie wrote in his diary, "she thinks it will soften my pain. But instead, how to be happy when so many souls are suffering more than me? "

A little soul as lonely and empath her sister winter. Never at rest. Sophie picks up something, famous open hand, fingers spread. All ran. When she has something she guessed before anyone else that this thing will not end for her. When Ludwig him to lay flowers on the desk of his piano at night, and that the whole household of this pretty ecstatic gift of the Eagle already vanished into the mountains, it is the only one to understand. " Do not you see he loves me not? .

When she attends, even though she is betrothed, the photographer Edgar Hanfstaengel, she still worries. Fad love ... and he must, of force, despite she must have felt relief at failure of engagement, to forget what people are sure to say on his way, and shame in a little redness on both cheeks for not being up to the referred to his mother, Queen of Bavaria missed.

No wonder, then, whom she married, quickly, too quickly, to forget the mistakes, the Duc d'Alencon. Sophie is already tired. With Ferdinand and his profile as that of an eagle, happy marriage is said. But Sophie rubbed shoulders with the clouds and it made a cocoon.

Her husband will be patient. Good and sweet. She does not like maybe not. He loves it. It is a military course, who loves a soldier, but he knows ill-being of his wife. So he wrote in his letters that he will do anything to tear this pain in her eyes ... even if he does not always understand. And he takes her to Italy, is to lay flowers on her bedside table, waking up, this will be the most comforting visions. He would like to see her smile.

But Sophie is still in the shade and mist. Always midwater, eyes lost in the wave, as on these faded photographs of the time before. Marry the one she missed, past the age of 20, she will not look anymore, or rarely the goal. When it does, violent sensation of encroaching on his soul, as Ludwig and his gaze rests elsewhere. These are two big eyes gnawed by anxiety. Sophie Water is both clear and abysmal. Clear because its sensitivity because it hides nothing. His emotions, his sadness, his melancholy. And yet she will never have to provide explanations on this discomfort. The younger sharing with Helen, the eldest siblings, this form of resignation that makes everything stand in silence, as if she had opened the book of life and she knew the next chapter. This resignation that will make him say in a whisper in Sissi, one night " I think we're not happy the race. "Elisabeth, who has leafed through the book, already knew that.

While Sophie is apathetic, lost in gloomy thoughts. Anecdotes abound, image Reccurent a slim young woman lying on a bed, staring at the ceiling. It seeks. God is its goal. But then we forget the extreme violence they can show. One day, Louise, his daughter, says Sissi. The child says her mother, angry, rushed into his room one night after a word after she thought inappropriate. The unkempt hair, like a Medusa, fists clenched, wild-eyed, ready to pounce on her daughter for slapping her. Then shouting, Louise took refuge in the bedroom of his father. He is sitting on the bed, his eyes full of tears. Louise feels deep affection for him at that moment. Sophie enters, quiet, and goes on these words: "You are very the daughter of your father . The violence of words is a thousand times more devastating. The case shakes

Elisabeth enough for it to take the pen and wrote a poem. She condemns his junior. Therefore, the close relationship the two sisters to fade, slowly. Sophie does not find more favor with Sissy told. What is perhaps not quite true.

She likewise condemn when in 1887 the wife of 40 years will flee after a long correspondence with Dr. Glazer, leaving spouses and children:

You have ceased to be loyal

To your good master and husband.
Thou hast pierced the heart;
Yes, heavy is your sin!

So gentlemen in white coats lock Sophie in the cell of an asylum, and rattling of the key in the lock. The thing is normal for an adulterous woman and guilty. Sissi, who flew to the rescue of Mary during her escapade love, strong double-turns too, the door of his heart. She complained. That is all.

Karl Theodore, the favorite brother behind his desk, the ticking of the clock begins to wonder if they have not all a little touch of madness in the family .

Sophie seeks the hand of God, and goes to pray in the churches. We tell her she is beautiful, kneeling and silent, it does not reveal, otherwise than in his diary, and it falls down for not having them talk to these people. Like when she was little.

Sophie is a round face that thins over the years. Quiet smile, but his eyes devouring her face, you can not see them. Something sounds wrong. The Duke loves him. Be blessed my Sophie, for all the happiness you bring . She senses. She wrote her will. It does not really know why. To a friend, she wrote that she did have long to live. The Father Stanislas visit before she goes to the Charity Bazaar, it repeated three times " goodbye, Father .

A Sophie stiffened. Too violent a desire for normality, the risk of nibbling his soul. It is force. Do not drown in the waves to l'âme too stuffy. Intoxicating. That is my impression. Sophie Anony distributes money to the poor, and Sophie, after her escape, is loyal and faithful and loving, and Sophie will go in calm and silence, all the girls in the fire, and this little Countess of Beauchamp as bad luck or fate condemn, she pressed her to his heart. But the mechanism is broken. Something in that look, is hidden.

Bourcet Margaret says she is relieved. I'd like to believe.