The stars met in the celestial jar and made me of Fire, Dew, and Spirit. From the jug pours the streams of ideas into the palace of the heart and the dome of the mind. I am Aquarius, whose inspirations from the outside invoke the creative spirit from within. The impulses are like flashes of fancies in a frenzy of visions springing from the mind’s spring as though to be possessed by a jolt of magical madness like the ancient sybil or oracle of Delphi.
Writing is my hobby, and I write best when I feel like doing it without the restraint of perfect grammar or fear of infelicities of expression. Freedom and individuality are the Aquarius, and so I am. I write for leisure, which applies to three facts of Why I Write by George Orwell: (1) Sheer Egotism– I want to let the world know that I am also a practitioner of the witchcraft of writing – particularly in English – that is not a prerogative of the professional writer; (2) Aesthetic Value – The words always fascinate me, and the English language is the most excellent of all because of its richness in vocabulary and diversity in meaning. I want to write English as beautifully as Charlotte Brontë as creative as Wistawa Szymborska, or as heartfelt as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and (3) Historical Impulse – Writing on my blog and my other off-line writing will be a record of someone who lived this contemporary era that I lived and wrote something which could be attributed to archeological and anthological artifact. Who knows?
Some say depression is their Muse who awakens their creative sphere from within. David Lynch, Jim Morrison of the Doors, and Dolores O’Riordan of the Cranberries believed so. But mine is pleasantness. I don’t want to make a Mephisolean pact to be the most adored writer. I may not be the best or even famous writer or blogger, but I write on my blog because writing as a creative value is the best way to actualize the purpose of living in search of finding who I am. When I am on the ridge, looking over the Pacific Ocean from the top of the Canyon, or watching big airplanes flying the skyways, the Muses whisper in the ear, awakening the dormant spirit yearning for the pep of creative stimulation. Also, my cats Toro and Camille are reliable and the best natural Muses who invoke the creative spirit within me. One day I want to write a short story based on them.
What are your favorite physical activities or exercises?
On the top of the world
My favorite physical exercise is hiking on the top of the hill, and I love looking at the world down under and the skies high above, to which I feel closer with a touch of my hand.
The pleasure is watching the wind from faraway seas herd a flock of clouds like a celestial shepherd. And an eagle breasting the never-ending abundance of air follows a trail of the Sun Chariot to return to the castle east of the sun, west of the moon.
The delight is listening to the sussurs of the trees. It’s the wind speaking through the leaves, carrying the messages from my guardian angel I long to hear.
Hiking is not only a physical exercise but also a mental refreshment that nourishes your holistic wellness free of charge in the luxuriant Nature’s Spa. ❤️🌸✨🧚♀️
There are stairs called “Nancy’s Steps” at the London Bridge on the Thames where Nancy used to walk up and down from her den to the world, back to the den to live a life God cared less with neglect with nothing more than her untainted heart flowing milk of kindness and compassion into the neverending faith of humanity alone Even if it betrayed her and bullied her in tatters; She pitied an orphaned boy named Oliver And protected himself from the world under Until the blindfolded Goddess Fortuna span The Wheel of Fortune to the fateful turn To which all her wishes were forefeited As her already wretched body was battered With the compass of the wheel bludgeoned Her life with the heart cherished with love; With the blows upon her still young head all her hopes for the beauty of life shattered and her tears rolling down her cold cheeks turned into liquid drops of pearls and crystals, and then, with a cry of the heart, she departed. or thought she, for she knew not what happened from dusk till dawn, wandering and waiting on the fateful steps, asking if you’d seen the boy.
Of all the cats that alone walked There’s none like Tabby Toro; He is the sweet of my heart And he likes to sleep at my feet. There’s no cat in the world is half so sweet as Tabby Toro; He is the sweet of my heart And he likes to sleep at my feet.
The soft furs are like a great fluffy pillow his little heart pounding at my feet with the brilliant eyes riveting billow bright sparkles of emerald secret he keeps from the faraway star where he was once a little prince; He is the sweet of my heart And he likes to sleep at my feet.
My mother tells me all the time that I love Tabby Toro too much, And, but for him, silent I am Smiling at the taunts and sighs such; But pity not, for I am fine as long as I feel the little heart at my feet, And I know there’s Tabby Toro He is the sweet of my heart
Flame, Glass and Ink are Poems, essays, and reading notes by Stefania Joori Suh 
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