Opposites attract? What attracts me to Gothic literature? Frustration, psychological horror, sexual tension, weak women, easily-duped men? It surely can't be any of those as each page turned leaves my rage-residue contempt. Instead, my attraction lies in settings: isolated castles and grand houses whose walls drip ancestral knowledge, moody weather-vanes spinning out of control during a tempest, supernatural events that defy reason, omens, etc. The grotesque, in a nutshell.
Rachel escaped the weak woman trope; she is a fabulous enchantress. Her green thumb, though, did it have a hand in Ambrose's demise? Did she hex both Ambrose AND Philip? I do enjoy the development of femme-fatale types in literature. Poor Philip sequestered himself away all those years in his Cornwall manor purposefully removing the feminine from his life, he had no chance when encountering Rachel...All those pent-up desires just simmering.
Rachel, using her power of seduction, has lazer-focus (in my mind) and has set her sights on her nexgt victim (who really knows, though). Philip, slow to the game (again, is IT a game?), both revers her and is repelled by her, when he weakens- which is often. Who are these other men? Does she have other men? Philip is so moody (dull?) and predictable, always needing confirmation. It drives him mad. It drove me mad...
Reading the book, it seemed as if it was written earlier than mid-20th Century. Perhaps that is Du Maurier's gift of prose. The slow-burn leading up to Philip's 25th birthday, and, from what I inferred to be his 'de-flowering', the start of his demise. Mistaking sex for consent to marriage... Rachel demeans him (unknowingly?), and he doesn't seem capable of recovering from this episode.
I am thoroughly enjoying the novel at this point, understanding his descent into jealousy and violence in an effort to tame 'his' wild creature. His suspicions of Rachel's foul-play over Ambrose's death turns him against her- especially when finding her garden seedlings. Poison? Adulterer? Witch? he can't help himself at the end- leading her to her death. He's left wondering, "did she or didn't she?"
Perhaps she really did love him. Perhaps she didn't poison Ambrose. I like it that we just don't know for sure. I'd like to think that Rachel was indeed a Black Widow. I mean, why not?
It's a slow read and the story doesn't really get moving until a quarter through, maybe. This is only my 2nd Du Maurier work; The Parasites was my first, and I found it to be more of a 'wacky' nature with comedic episodes entwined into a dysfunctional family dynamic. I didn't get a 'Gothic' vibe from Parasites. My cousin Rachel, however, littered with Gothic themes. Perhaps I'll be encouraged to read Rebecca now.
Heathcliff loses. Cathy loses. Isabella loses. Edgar loses. Everybody loses.
That being said, I have NEVER regretted watching a film before reading the novel as much as with Wuthering Heights! To my credit, I was at least astute enough to go with the 1939 film version.
As I've been crying myself a river of 'poor me' lately, I tricked myself into thinking I'm not able to hold down lengthy readings or whatever because I'm so lazer-focused on a goal to attain when, in fact, all along I should have been focusing on something else to absorb my mind and take me away from fretting.
Wuthering Heights put me back in the game. What a roller-coaster of emotions. After approaching the first 45 minutes with trepidation, I continued on after a long break. What a treat! I absolutely love it when I prove myself wrong about such matters. Heathcliff seemed so... sullen and subdued; sometimes a lapdog to Cathy's whims and at the same time he is willingly becoming a glutton for Hindley's punishments. Both Cathy and Heathcliff were insufferable, but then something changed.
Heathcliff found his way back to Wuthering Heights, after a long stay in America, as a 'gentleman'. Oh, the irony of experiencing the 'American Dream'. Yet, his heart returned filled with revenge and darkness. The next hour filled me with so many emotions: mostly rage and frustration at how both protagonists continued to make themselves, and others, suffer due to their inability to deal with their past complexities and so put on a front to continue on, seemingly unaffected.
This 'doomed lovers' trope isn't unusual (Romeo and Juliet, Inês de Castro and King Pedro I, Tristan and Isolt...), but it isn't usually my cup of tea. Watching to the end, I was captivated; I was invested in all the characters' lives and, at the same time, forgot about my shit going on.
The death scene where Cathy asks Edgar to bring her a bunch of heather from the moors (why?) and then Heathcliff shows up at her deathbed... well, this part was a wee-bit cheesy. It honestly pissed me off; Isabelle got fucked over. Why did she marry Heathcliff knowing that his heart was still attached to Cathy? Why does Edgar go on as if his wife is happy and satisfied? Ugh. This movie was torturous for me, and I loved it.
However, watching it made me realize that the novel would have filled me with so many more raw emotions and visualizations. With the movie now stuck in my head, I will find it more difficult to free myself from these pre-set ideas of what characters 'should be.' I will work hard to get past Laurence Olivier's Heathcliff, for sure.
The day continues on over here in the mid-Atlas Mountains, and I've moved on to Fellini's "La Strada." Imagine my surprise to see that Zampanó is also Zorba the Greek (Anthony Quinn). Yes, I'm on a short break from this movie as well.
Although it is and has been a stunning day, it was the right choice to stay home, make food, shutter the curtains and watch movies here in my Gothic cathedral while the musky scent of heather from the moors wafts in with the late afternoon breeze.
Music to accompany my words: "Moonlight Mile" by the Rolling Stones. It perfectly summarizes this illuminated path one must traverse by moonlight to find their way home.
IN THIS MOMENT, relaxation seeps through my hardening shell of existence. To get here, though, IN THIS MOMENT, I've walked through the precipitous mountaintop of my ability to give in to what I can't control or continue to try to control the uncontrollable.
I've been hiking through the dark recesses of my psyche for some time now, and I continue to find myself beguiled by strange shimmering truths hidden in the gloom of a perceived cup being half full. That is not to say that I am not thoroughly enjoying the odyssey- because I am. HERstory is weaving a tale within an odyssey with so many diverging paths that every juncture is akin to finding an Easter egg, heedless.
Fuck it. I've amassed enough Easter eggs, for now. All of them etched into my memory just as their graven colorful bodies. Each gathered nugget carefully placed into my toolbox (anybody who knows me knows that I detest this word). I only recall hearing toolbox in the past decade or so. Admittedly, I struggle to keep up with evolving vernacular.
That goes for 'moral compass' as well...I mean, it perfectly describes, metaphorically, right from wrong, yet I resist many contemporary neologisms. Why is that, I wonder. Is my moral compass pointed to True North? Should it, instead, be south-facing? Perhaps mine needs de-magnetizing. Yes, that's it!
I digress. That was a muddy path I awkwardly stumbled upon; toolbox, etc...
Returning back to my eggs, I have a story of one divergent path (is it really 'divergent' though if I don't know my destination). You know, at times running with the 'cup half empty' can be really complicating...
So, as the story goes, I have been working my way through classical literature for a long time. As with contemporary neologisms, I'm not too focused on contemporary literature, perhaps because I have this (incorrect) idea that it is associated with contemporary issues. Whatever. My mind. My ideas. I simply associate the two as being too close to our daily global lives and that feeling of 'unease' of not knowing what will happen in the future due to current geo-political events that we can't escape- try as we might using our toolboxes of indulgences to abate from reality.
Back to the story... my current attention-span is limited as I'm solely focused to complete one transaction in life that will lead to the next chapter. I'm usually a bit more unconscious with my transactions, but this one is pretty fucking cool.
Yet another digression... Logically, I can't read all works of famous literature, but I can sure try. Often I'll substitute a novel with a movie version (no need to judge; it's simply logical to do so). I still haven't read any Emily Brontë (or any of the other Bronte sisters), and since I'm in a gothic mood, I chose 1939's Wuthering Heights to abate myself from my perceived worries as other abatements I wasn't in the mood for dealing with. :) The storyline (spoiler alert: I am not enjoying it) seems to be mirroring my own gothic internal wanderings as of late.
The moors, although bountiful of heathers that Heathcliff and Cathy delight themselves in, taking in its musky scent, hide destructive (sensual?) emotions. Cathy is annoying me as she flip-flops in her desires to follow her desires (Heathcliff) or fall victim to societal norms in how a 'lady' should think (retreating to 'settling for Edgar'). As a result of her indecision (very early Gothic), my decision was to take this movie in 15-minute chunks so as to process.
I like that the movie starts with Cathy's beguiling ghost is scratching at the window, ratt-a-tat-tat, during a storm and Heathcliff is freaked out. The storyline seems to be full of emotional arson with the protagonists finding the way through the fog in the moors. It's honestly hard to watch. Here I feel that reading the novel would give me a completely different analysis. Oh well... My ghost seems to be recalling the care-less days of Santa Cruz and Maui. My memories are seeping out of Pandora's Box, vying to be first in the queue to leave an imprint in my mind of the smell of the heather in the foggy moors, calling out to me, "Holly, wake up and LET ME OUT." I do not suffer the consequences of opening Pandora's Box, though. I prevail.
Catherine's ghost calls out, ""I’ve come home: I’d lost my way on the moor!" Cathy had been wandering the moors for 20 years. Have I? I've been living outside the U.S. nearly 20 years. Have I 'come home'? Am I 'coming home'? Where is 'home'? Destination Unknown has been my anthem for long, how do I accept the possibility of Destination Known? I'm right at the point of 'cup half full' is filling up, and the pure joy of knowing this fills my vessel with the positivity that I crave.
While my ingrained 'half empty' logic whispers these escaping memories should be anathema, I change course- choosing the higher path- inviting my cup to overflow, turning my ghosts into an anthem of my journey to Destination Known. Fuck true north. My compass coordinates are fixated on 41°42′N 8°49′W (more on this later)... The escaping memories feel like a benediction in the dark. Perfect timing to get outta my head from overthinking shit I can't control.
But... a lasting Debbie Downer thought enters a chamber set deep inside my mind, yet persists on manifesting front and center: In the Thoth Tarot, the 7 of Cups is unbalanced overflow. Or, am I moving from a place of containment to a place of abundance?
Oh geeze, overthinking again. I'm going to get back to the movie and see how it ends.
A compass is a cool device. When pointing at something, it tells you which way you are going, but it doesn't imply that you are on the right path. Not even tarot cards divulge this nugget. I'll just continue to float along through my chapters to continue with HERstory because the heathers in the moors smell fucking amazing.
current conclusion: logic fails to abate the tide of memory, cup overflows with delight
NOTE: I'm not editing...
Lyrics to Moonlight Mile:
When the wind blows and the rain feels cold With a head full of snow, with a head full of snow In the window, there's a face you know Don't the nights pass slow, don't the nights pass slow
The sound of strangers sending nothing to my mind Just another mad, mad day on the road I am just living to be lying by your side But I'm just about a moonlight mile on down the road
Made a rag pile of my shiny clothes Gonna warm my bones, gonna warm my bones I got silence on my radio Let the air waves flow, let the air waves flow
Oh, I'm sleeping under strange, strange skies Just another mad, mad day on the road My dreams is fading down the railway line I'm just about a moonlight mile down the road Yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah
I'm hiding, sister, and I'm dreaming I'm riding down your moonlight mile I'm hiding, baby, and I'm dreaming I'm riding down your moonlight mile I'm riding down your moonlight mile
Let it go now, come on up, babe Yeah, let it go now Yeah, flow now, baby Yeah, home now, yeah
Yeah, I'm coming home 'Cause I'm just about a moonlight mile on down the road Down the road, down the road, yeah Yeah-yeah-yeah, baby
Back in December, a small group of us headed out to Meknes for the day to go a huge Carrefour run as it's the nearest hypermarket to us. Meknes is about an hour's drive, and the landscape changes from mountains (here in Ifrane) to the plains. As well, the Carrefour Cave (alcohol shop) is quite extensive, compared to where we dwell...
I usually have my quiver of reusable bags, but this shiny object caught my eye while waiting in line. I mean, look how colorful the bag is! Look at the Moroccan designs, and look at the football and accompanying words announcing (predicting) Morocco will be bringing home the 2025 Africa Cup of Nations (AFCON) in the championship match against Senegal.
I proudly purchased it and continued on with my day- fully knowing that the future date of 18 January, 2026 was a long, unpredictable way off...
Fast-forward to game day, Senegal had a 1-0 lead, but...towards game's end, the referee made a call that Senegal protested. Like petulant children, they stomped off the field in protest. Back on the pitch 15 minutes later, 30 minutes extra time was added to clock because the score was still 0-0 (after Senegal's previous goal was 'disallowed.'
Senegal soon after scored a goal, so now the score was 1-0. The game ended & Senegal was awarded the trophy. Soon after, Morocco officially protested, saying the the 16-minute walk-off was against rules.
On March 17, the CAF Federation Cup ruled in Morocco's favor, saying that Senegal leaving the pitch meant that they had forfeited the game. Thus, the score was changed to 3-0 Morocco, the champions...
Senegal has, so far, refused to return the trophy while they wait for some 'super judges' to make a final decision. What a pickle all involved are in!
My university students relayed the story to me last week- when I used the AFCON game as an example for something. Suddenly they all perked up and couldn't stop interrupting each other to let me know the 'real deal.'
Getting back to the picture... Every time I have used the shopping bag since Morocco 'lost', I've had to laugh- just at a company would pre-order and print up bags as such claiming the championship only to 'lose' the game. But now... they are 'winners', so I can still laugh each time I use the bag. The story's not over, so I guess we will see what happens.
It's just a little story that makes me smile. That's all.
Music to accompany my words: Round Midnight by Thelonious Monk to help express my sleeplessness becoming a state of mind...
Leonardo Da Vinci mused that the greatest joy of sleep came from the satisfaction of a day fully lived. Well, I've lived nearly a fully-lived week without a full night of sleep...Ugh
Settling back into my routine here in the mid-Atlas Mountains, it seems that the last thing to fall back into place is...sleep. How much our bodies can endure is a result of how we train not only our bodies but our psyches. As I roll along through life, I realize the increasing importance of the latter; psyche.
I'm a person who hasn't experienced a lot of fluctuations in endurance- mostly because of how I was raised- I guess. My overarching approach to life's challenges is to look at situations as challenges to conquer with both interest and pessimism. This pessimistic approach, somewhat limiting of just letting pure joy pulse through any occasion, has served me well, and is a direct result of what I consider being raised by stoic parents.
Let me explain. When new experiences/situations manifest, as they do throughout life, there is excitement, and that drug is a good drug. Bodies crave endorphins and the after-party residue remaining. I crave this, so I go into any situation at the onset looking through it in only what I can describe as the 'cup half empty'. Because I don't wish to create dis-ease for myself, I respond proactively to situations by breaking down a whole into individual parts that can potentially result- an assessment of sorts. When I understand potential challenges to anything, I work through them better- to avoid, as much as possible, unfavorable results. As a result, I am able to fill up on endorphins that I so crave. And how beautiful it is. As I analyze my behavior more (what else would I be doing at 3:30 am lying in bed), I see that I approach any situation cautiously at first, and then when I've assessed all potential 'risks', I can then feel relief and satisfaction to let pure joy fill me.
This approach, or whatever one calls it, is not only a result of my upbringing but also through a career in scientific theory. Yes, archaeology. Scientific theory also uses this approach. So, my learned behavior and my trained behavior confirm 'me'.
Now, that being said, I have worked a lifetime to train myself to ignore this logical-ness at times. Sometimes I just need to simply stop this madness of logic. Turning off the mind, consciously, takes mindfulness. For example, I go to a yoga class. I go because my body craves relief from daily stresses. One thinks you go through a series of movements to shed daily baggage one incurs where your only focus are postures, holding the postures, and breathing. This is pure bliss to experience. But... as I am breathing in and out, my mind wanders- to the scientific mechanics of yoga: What this pose is allowing my body to release with each exhalation; what muscle groups are being worked; what vibrational level is pulsing through my body. All these micro-tasks are conscious challenges. You don't just unconsciously splay out your toes so you feel completely 'grounded', you have to be conscious about it. Achieving Uddiyana Bandha ('abdominal lock') is a conscious act. Bla bla bla. My point is, to achieve the ultimate state of liberation ('nirvana' or whatever your preference), it has to be a conscious effort. That's all.
But I digress... there are a few more 'creative' ways to unlearn my learned behavior, but they are for another time. Another storytime.
All this is to say that I'm undergoing a new stress right now and adapting to its challenges. I think I've almost worked through the 'cup half empty' scenarios, so I'm ready to experience the joy of the situation! The 'cup half empty' has been manifesting itself through sleepless nights, but yesterday was a beautiful breakthrough; I got home from work and took a 2-hour nap. This is amazing for me. I woke up feeling completely exhausted, took a shower, made tea, and immediately went into my bedroom and crashed. As Jim Morrison sang, "Break on Through to the Other Side"; mission accomplished.
So, yes. I experienced the great sleep, following the great sleep deprivation. Of course, I woke up from my slumber at 3 am, and I am here now pounding my keyboard at 4:30 am. Perhaps it's time for another nap now so I can wake-up feeling 'fresh' for work. Thank goodness it's Friday!
My musical recommendation to accompany my words: This groove doesn't disappoint. Pure magic.
3:00 am
Cool crisp air. Barking dogs in the distance. As I look out my window, the man in the moon winks at me. The mountains sleep. Not I. I live for the Bewitching Hour, still. Even in such times of resistance, such as now as I've barely slept for a week now, I can't deny the playful, sensuous power of being awake during this thin porous veil separating life (awakeness) and death (sleep). Roaming the halls of my psyche, I explore ancient chambers of my pulsing vitality. Unexpected discoveries along dark paths delight my being. I learn so much about MYself during the Bewitching Hour.
Tuning out and turning inward, I get greedy; hungry with desire to possess all knowledge. Shakespeare, in Hamlet, called it "the witching time" where "churchyards yawn" and sinister things result. Silly man, but I'll give him a pass due to the religious and political taboos of his time.
Throughout time, the Bewitching Hour, specifically between 3:00 - 4:00 am, has been used as a metaphor for seduction and liberation of suppressed desires. I would add to that to encompass 'it' as a time when darkness and lightness conjoin in a union of opposites. Powerful creatively, mystically, and sensually indeed.
A paradox? Thinking cosmically (and perhaps even rationally), midnight can't considered to be 'today' or 'tomorrow'. A suspension in time. Do what you wish, conjure up your wildest fantasies, masquerade, dissolve your ego to manifest your most intimate desires creatively. No one is watching. Perhaps listening, though. Egos dissolve and what manifests to take up that constrained 'space'? Whatever it is, run with it. Pure vitality pulsing through one's being, drink up this elixir.
Poe wrote that the moonlight distorts. Where erotic meets the macabre. Things that frighten us the most (such Puritans). Jung believed repressions awaken when the ego sleeps. This resulting 'shadow' wanders around freely living its best life during the Bewitching Hour. Everything is about sexual repression with that man...I don't know enough about Jung, though. I'd like to delve into some of his specific archetypes other than the Shadow- especially the Trickster as I'm becoming more interested in analyzing some of my more vivid and confusing dreams (when I can remember them, of course).
I've long held a delightful relationship with my Bewitching Hour. It manifests. With eager participation, I enjoy the ride.
And just like that, it's 4:00 am. POOF, it's gone. Was it just a dream? A delicious dreamy dream.
It's happy hour here in the Atlas Mountains. Nothing sweeter than a Friday afternoon when you're a workhorse- working for another's horse...
Fall 2024 turned into winter, into spring, into summer, into fall, to now: 2026. Where have I been? I've been here in Morocco, and I've been in Portugal. I'll tell you where I haven't been: the U.S. More on that later, perhaps. Maybe I'll refresh my bourbon/coke first...
Speaking of bourbon. I've been foregoing my go-to, Bullet, mostly because of...tariffs. Yes, the djt tariffs. Bigly tariffs. Tariffs that 'benefit' the people. Okay, okay, enough of shitty politricks... I've turned my attention to Bulgaria's charming 'Black Ram' bourbon whisky.
*refills tumbler
We have a bit of a tradition, all of us working abroad in various Muslim countries, during Ramadan season- which is upon us currently. Weeks before we start to fret; are we fully stocked up with adult libations to last for the duration? We rally together, procure our vices (beautiful vices), and await. We patiently await for when the need arises. It's fun. It's a tradition. I love traditions.
Today is such a day- to revel in tradition. The weather has been fabulous for a week now. Although still winter here, early spring has sprouted. What a winter it has been, too. I didn't grow up in snow, but I enjoy the stuff well enough. Enough is enough, though. I can deal with it because I LOVE technical gear. I love to experience foul weather if I'm WARM.
All those trips to REI in California or Oregon or whichever state I would happen to be in; it's like you walk into an REI and you're a kid in a candy store all over again. Sure, there is Decathalon over here in this part of the world, but it doesn't hold a candle to REI... Just saying. Sometimes I still go onto their website and just put stuff in my 'basket'. Again, a tradition.
I purchased a bike at Decathalon when I first arrived to Morocco. It's been a lifesaver, but I have to say that, for the money, it's just alright. And, what a funny story that purchase was. Glinda & I made our way to Meknes with the intention of me purchasing a bike and us stocking up on groceries. We found a super cute hostel to stay at and made a weekend of it. Enroute back to Ifrane the next day, we somehow managed to find a grand taxi willing to take just us, and my new bicycle, and all our groceries back home. We, and many more, have turned Meknes and Fes day trips into a tradition where we stock up on food- as there isn't much here in town to purchase.
So, tradition seems to be my magic word of the afternoon (or maybe it is bourbon?). Tradition is life. Tradition is therapy. Tradition is constantly changing. What are your traditions?
Well, that's about it on this subject matter. THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION TO THIS MATTER (yes, you are correct- that is an infamous djt ending (tradition?) to all his ridiculous 'truth social' postings...
