LadyBohemia RSS

My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living. — Anaïs Nin I love that. That's why I am in constant awe of those brave men & women who dare to live, their way. To leave when it's right. Or stay, even when it isn't easy. To explore. To protect. To take that leap of faith. To gamble all.  Which has more to do with guts than cash. Tennessee Williams expressed - if I interpret him correctly - the same thing in different, equally eloquent words: If the writing is honest it cannot be separated from the man who wrote it. — T.W. Tennessee nailed it. Imagine a love song - an honest one. Or a song about loosing true love. They may not be autobiographical as such. But something from the life, soul, love or pain of that writer is there, and no-one else could have made it so. Huh. I get shivers. Clearly, it's time for bed. But tomorrow I shall tell you about a little town in the middle of nowhere, that was so holy that hugging, kissing, holding hands and especially indecent dressing (and it was specific; bearing a belly was fine, knees an absolute no-no) were strictly forbidden by city rules. And that's  a story that came to me whilst I was living it... ~*♥*~

One thing in my life that i cannot be with out... is my Chanel 5 perfume which I've used, well, always. Some ladies change their perfume based on trends, fashion, novelties etd. But Chanel 5 has always been... me. Just a little drop creates a really sensual feel as it melanges with the individual scent of your skin. And if you use just the drop, it can only be felt very close which also adds a sweet allure... I never, ever travel without my Chanel - I feel naked without it. We've even made a world tour together :) [caption id="attachment_6555" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="The crystal bottle in the background in an antique piece from the family from France, the cameé is also antique, from Italy. The pearlstring is for the hair or forehead, by the lovely Oona Elena Kassila"][/caption] This cute tiny vintage bag below has followed me through thick and thin. And it shows, in both of us... Every time we go out, tiny beautiful pearls are found everywhere. In the bed, bathtub, my hair... Yet somehow, I like how after every adventure we get a little bit more shaggy together. I conclude this little defilée of my treasures by my dearest silver ancle chain, from India of course. The delicate silver & pearl necklace is from Taxco, Mexico, and the 1940's suede gloves are from a French antique market. The new is represented by the suede heels which are a perfect shade of slightly shimmery antique gold, although the picture really doesn't do them justice. I got these as a consolation price when my Yves Saint Laurent vintage shoes were stolen - would you believe it! - practically from my feet. More on that little adventure in St. Paul de Vence can be found here. ~*♥*~

Maybe a little Nina Simone will help you pick up the pieces... Or at least make you feel a little bit less lonely whilst you're at it...

And of course, the lady does have a point. Despite all you've lost or haven't got, U got Life. ~*♥*~

Once upon a time I visited Zanzibar, on my own. The (hugely) overcrowded ferry landed just as the night fell and in a moment everything turned into the darkest shade of black. I'd booked a hotel in advance, and against all odds, even found it (my sense of direction..). They'd of course given my room away - reservations were a rather useless Western exercise - the rooms and everything else were always given to anyone who offered cash first, anyway. I was tired. More exhausted than I remembered ever having been. Having worked for half a year without break, often till the morning hours, and in rather challenging Tanzanian conditions. I hadn't slept at all the night before, to somehow wrap the huge project up. Hadn't eaten anything all day. Didn't remember when I'd even drank some water. My backpack suddenly felt too heavy for my shoulders. I knew that all the hotels of the island were full, I'd been lucky to even get this one reservation. And now. Not even a bed. I'd have to sleep on the beach and I knew it was very dangerous, everybody had warned me against it. The weight of all the backbreaking work, huge responsibility and very little sleep finally all collapsed on me. I couldn't find the force to move anymore, not one more step. I slided down to the floor of the reception and decided to stay right there until the universe would somehow fix this situation. I no longer had the energy. The poor guy at the reception panicked. He thought I was fainting. And he probably wasn't that far off. For a moment, he run around in circles, then he hopped upstairs and came back with a big gentle South African guy. Derek. It turned out he'd given my room to Derek. In rather incoherent sentences I explained to Derek that I was afraid to sleep on the beach, alone. That I'd known I couldn't find a place to sleep if I came by the last ferry but I'd had no choice.. I even explained that one can't hang a mosquito net anywhere on a beach and I'd already had malaria three times.. I didn't realise tears were rolling down my face until he wiped them off. So. The universe, in the form of this gentle giant, did arrange everything. He gave me his room. He carried my backback there. He even carried me there. Fixed my mosquito net, wished me good night and left. This (retrospectively) warm memory came to my mind when I saw the ingenious poster by Victor Egelund:

On my nightstand very recently was the book "Mighty Heart", written about the journalist Daniel Pearl by his wife Mariane - a journalist and an author, an optimist, a real-life heroine in her own right. [caption id="attachment_6999" align="aligncenter" width="356" caption="Daniel & Mariane's wedding. Picture from the book the Mighty Heart - the brave life and death of my husband Daniel Pearl."][/caption] And today, the movie of their story will be played at Channel Four (Nelonen), at 21.30. Not captivating as the book is, but nevertheless a story that deserves, no, needs to be told. Do you remember - from the news, some ten years ago? Daniel was Wall Street Journal's foreign correspondent in Pakistan shortly after 9/11. He lived and worked in Karachi with his French, very pregnant wife Mariane. Until Daniel was kidnapped - and later murdered - by terrorists. [caption id="attachment_6995" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="On the left, Daniel. On the right, the man sentenced for his murder."][/caption]

 The book is a captivating, human story of a woman's struggle to find and save her husband and the father of her unborn son. Not the easiest task for a woman in Pakistan, especially in the post 9/11 political climate and frame of mind. Mariane doesn't stop, she doesn't give up. She appeals to the president of Pakistan, to the president of the US, to the public, to the medias. To the powerful ISI (Pakistani intelligence service).  She tries to trace down the kidnappers herself.

So full of life, the strongest of emotions, hope against hope, race against time, is this book. You live every breath that Mariane takes. Her brave attempt to keep herself together, not allowing herself to collapse before her husband is home again, is as envigorating as it is heartbreaking.

It is Mariane's grace and her courage that make this book an uplifting story of true love, despite the inevitable tragedy and loss.

[caption id="attachment_6996" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Mariane with her son Adam, who never got to meet his father."][/caption]

One of the reasons why Mariane decided to write the book was to keep the life story of her husband alive for their son. So that little Adam  would know all the reasons he has to be proud of his father. Although they never got too meet each other.

 Trust me my friends, this is a book every human being should read.

Even through tears.

~*♥*~