Rianna Shaikh's Blog, page 33

Think it, feel it, paint it

Dearest,

Was there ever a time  you sat beside a scenic that beckoned you a canvas?

a palette of english colors  from the countryside en summer et a cup of tea so warm and creamy that you begin  to paint with mére plaisir.
Like the famed Mrs potter, in her maison de campagne. Except she was rather lucky, she had a rabbit to accompany her weary days. One that’s often filled with perhaps self blather, ink stains, tea, pots of such and an imaginative room of ducks, a fox, a monkey, not, a few chickens et an envious, terribly so fox. With a vest. An angry face with whiskers that needed to be captured. Or groomed.
By Nikon perhaps. Exotic really.
I sit here on the inside, stripping  my walls of framed Botticelli.  I ponder the birth of Venus, and wonder, how could he of ever envisioned such an evenly perfect vision of a being?

I am yet again redoing my abode. My husband often gets lost on the walls of our home, it’s filled with arts. Colors et beaux portraits. I am thinking my walls needed a splatter of color from perhaps a Gauguin, or Manet or even Renoir.
being a writer you are more prone to boredom. Except I merely read, I watch, listen and absorb. It’s a flourish of doltishness really.
so will you vow you’ll paint?

thinking of you at tea,

RS

Dearest Charlie

dearest Charlie,

Since time hath moved you away from the waves of life, I simply saw life so differently. The colors of the skies even whispered a tale of sorrow. It’s been like they say, trop. But like the existence of things, one must continue to change, grow, weep with the willow et accept.
hence, your tales sit not juste in the heart, it whispers on the shores of Long Island. Like at Lyold Harbour, the little boys running with their dogs, I think of you. My mental palette paints a picture of you daily.
I have tried to tell your stories but I fear like  any human, what we feel sometimes cannot measure up to the words that fight to pour. The expressions are weak, because your life was the most  profound thing to have touched the shores. I agree, I must continue. I must finish your stories. I must wipe the tears of every child that cannot tell the tales, as you have, to me.

Charlie, I hope that the colors you left me with, I will be able to paint your picture et hang it on my walls, until one day, the day that you have granted me permission, the world too shall read. They will smile, they will love et they will believe.
ne jamais partir.

Forever your Rose,

RS

c’est simple

Dearest,

I sit et stare at Piles of books, as they say manuscripts, sitting  to be revised.

I simply frown. For i’d much rather be sitting somewhere under a willow in a gown. Pretending that life isn’t at all complex, routined et terribly occupée!

Welcome  to the days of the week, to your life, your most repetitious of days. I know, I know there’s tea et if you are ever so charmed you can actually eat baked scone or fresh baguettes, croissants with jelly and butter with grapes?
or what  abouts brioche with cappuccino chaud!

It is lived and loved throughly en France. I think it will always be. So I hope that many opportune things vines itself your way.
As the days trot on by like a mirror, we watch the fleeting hands of time reflect, as we anticipate the sun will shine. And let’s face the music, there’s always a complex sentence to address. In all our lives, oui?

être bien!

Yours ever so,

RS

 

For my petite darling

Darling  Roo I made up a story, now sit witH maman, are you ready?

The world we live in is quite big it’s true but it’s also filled with things old and anew. Like… rabbits with burrows, toy makers et squirrels, lakes with gators, a mouse from an island, a Parisian tale, oh I wonder of the monkeys that chased your dad over a rail!
… and well he did wail!

“Oh no  maman!”

Well there are people of all kinds and colors,  and there are children with all kinds of differences, some may walk some may not. Some may talk, some may run. Some are different sort of like you, you see. There are many people that won’t understand you for you, oh oui?

“I See maman!”

But if you look carefully right here on this map you’ll see that we are right here, see?
It’s not Long Island, oh no, not near, but when you feel nostalgic I’ll sing you a song.
I’ll wipe your tear.
I’ll play you the sound of waves.
I’ll draw you pictures.
I’ll bake you a cake.

I will even bring you sand from the Hamptons to put on your toes. But never on your nose ( I giggle).
I promise, I promise, that home my darling is where the heart is. Oh oui?

“Oui maman. Oui. But can I have ice cream?”

You can , you will, I’ll give you a scoop but promise  made me darling, that you will say beaucoup?

BEAUCOUP. 

“I RoO promise you maman, I promise you too, I promise to love as you are. Even though the world is filled with so many  differences. And most won’t get you and like you for you. 
I love you it’s true, from A to Z.

Now ice CREAM oh please, maman give it to R00!”

#acerebralpalsypost

J’adore toi.

Your writer,

RS

Stay calme

dearest rabbits,

In the days we yearn for the quiet, the place under the wavering leaves, the scattered fields, the long paths to nothingness. Amidst the burning light of a sun.
I do  remember that a wise rabbit once said to me, “when you lady, when you pass the enormous feathering tree of danger, only then will you be able to look back et see what could have been.”

When I sit here, beside the breeze et the winds blowing calmly, I think of that rabbit and wonder would my stories have been felt or refocused on another era? Another stir. A different verge  perhaps?

I am like an old creature of belief.  I stare to the older scene to find solace, to beckon happiness et to befriend melancholy. I think when you urge to find peace in an unsettling place you truly begin to become.

The question today is are you ready to become? Or are you quite the happy that you are, as you are?
croyez en vous!

Blather under the willow,

RS

Many Couleurs

Dearest,

The past summer I sat alone, mostly in the torrents of the many colors of life. The shades of perfection are often seen after the rain storm.

The rainbows pierce the grey grouse clouds, only to give us faith. Not juste about storms but because after the storm the sky has never been more beauteous. Do you believe?

Do you believe in the sunshine after the rain?

Sit au milieu de the rainstorm et the after sun and you’ll see that somewhere, somehow out there, in here the light shines a bright.

Believe that the many couleurs exist et so does your happiness.

SOmewhere out there, it shall find you. Don’t allow despondency to be your visitor at tea.

à la prochaine.

Yours,

RS

Monsieur Sky ever so blue

Dearest you,

In life there are many instances that sways us. We are beings in the wind as a storm of identity finds us. I once lived in Long Island for the longest of my existence. I found it were indeed la maison, that eventually became a home. Too many really.

My greatest of pain was leaving. I felt like no matter the size or the esthetic of its chambers and  greenery blowing the leaves to the garden path, home is truthfully where the rabbits graze et the willows beckon. For me it’s utter seclusion. It’s vast greens, the tallest cypress way up to the near blue skies, or grey, it’s the beauty of tea in the garden whilst the bees chase you for the honey on your bitten camembert. Life is precisely the canvas, of one that looks nothing like your petit mind paints it. The reality is very few of us ever so can be a gardener, I am not one.

Je ne suis pas.

To me, I shall always keep my Long Island to my heart, close to le coeur. And I will always be a dreamer, woven in the many little villages of the Brookvilles. I’ll always see that life is indeed like a walk through the galerie d’art, hand in hand with the seasons of what cannot stay as it is.

Oui?

Et so it is we must carry on, hold on, devour our own chocolat gâteau  et sip whatever the tea that brews in your chipped tea cup. For life is what you make it. Said some fox out there in the bloody dark green forêt.

I am off to tea, where I will sing like a Pavoretti et dance like I’m ten. Obviously someone’s tea shall be overly brewed, oops. I do this daily. And I likeS!

Yours ever so,

RS

Breeches et gloves

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Dearest you,

So you were busy too, lost in the irony of rainy days, chipped teacups, unhappy blather et the routine of life. As it is. Like me, but one sweet blue sky of a day, you fell. On an ordinary kind of Monday, you’d immediately skip back up and buckle the saddle et go on. Merry on as they say.

Unfortunately today my dears the sky poured out of a blissful sunny horizon, something changed, what happened they ask. It’s an understatement to say, “Gee I fell and I simply got up, threw of my helmet, tossed my reins and walked away. As far as my Ralph Lauren riding boot allowed me. Merde!”

I sigh. I did walk, a far long distance, in the pouring rain, as tears fell, my heart was made to be like mon pére, it was, but suddenly I like, like a Mother, alone, without her mother to hold her et comfort her and say something that felt like a fresh loaf of warm baguettes that grand mére once baked.

It didn’t happen. You cry till your legs are worn out, your eyes look like, well sullen with woes, and your strong faith that once knocked every bloddy equestrian of the ring was gone, disparue.

Today it was you, and her and little you. It kind of felt of when father was told he was having a girl. Well think circumstances darlings, he was unfaithfully on the wrong side of the pond…. Hence, truth is what it is, uncomfortable et unkind and it sort of taste like sour milk et burnt reality. With a cup of cold tea.

Today my darlings was the beginning of being chased by a dark, bold, grise, hopeless looking cloud. Weary I was till I fell down, and surrendered. Sort of the thing that the poised, IRON LADY never did.

I wept. I lost my bloddy map. But all I had was hope that my breeches, my riding boot and my leather gloves, they would somehow remind me that I am not a fallen invalid but a woman with everything that once mattered.

If you are there, welcome to the depressive state of mind et heart. We all fall down and like Martika said, “like toy soldiers.”

See you at Lyold Harbour. Forever your writer.

RS

Like a Broken Child

I suffered suddenly from a panic so real, so strong, so si féroce, that stood seated beneath my horse, on the floor. Learning to breathe. Inhale et exhale at 10. Playing the voice of my silent beloved friend, Mr Millman. Oh I felt like

Sophie Becks without the Valentino, the drivers, the opulence. I felt like broken child self minus the zeal to allow affluence to direct my low self worth.

Dearest diary

Dearest you,

It’s been almost a year since I had fallen of a saddle, both emotionally and socially. I think it happened on a normal day, the clouds were blue in its perfect palette, the sun shun so brightly it made Van cleef weep, and the world was busy in its last phase of normality. I became panicked suddenly, afraid of the day, the night and the clicking big hand of time.

I suffered suddenly from a panic so real, so strong, so si féroce, that I stood seated beneath my horse, on the floor. Learning to breathe. Inhale et exhale at 10. Playing the voice of my silent beloved friend, Mr Millman. Oh I felt like Sophie Becks without the Valentino, the drivers, the opulence. I felt like broken child self minus the zeal to allow affluence to direct my low self worth. I was betrayed by most. How was I to ever get back on my saddle, ever again?

I was shaken up to my innermost core, torn to a mere torn page in its finest ink et linen. Oui, of course let’s never forget the wax R stamp.

Gee, I fell so quick, that it shook my world to its pieces. I was frail like I was when I discovered that I wasn’t the girl she said I was. She tore me on the inside, and threw me to a lion in my best breeches. Sure, why did I ever think I were to be lucky?

Un fou.

I am Rianna Shaikh, this is my diary to my readers. How I missed you darlings, terribly so.

Forever a Writer.

J’adore toi,

RS