"It is by believing in roses that one brings them to bloom."
Damascene Rose on UNESCO’s List and in My Heart
Damascene Rose, a hybrid Rose always connected to the soil of Damascus.
Her heavenly and fertile soil has given birth to the Damascene Rose, the rose included on UNESCO's Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity List.
So let it be no wonder that I identify myself with Damascene Rose.
For I am, too, a hybrid.
A Muslim Christian Damascene Romanian hybrid. Or better said, a hybrid being in Love with Life and Roses.
One hybrid ... citizen of the world always connected to her womb, Damascus.
A womb in a womb, a story in a story is the Damascene Rose, to me.
Catalyst Damascene Rose gives herself away,
like a rose: Love
and the very sword of Heritage: Damascus Steel cuts away all the cords of codependency and hindrances blocking the self from being True Love,
Give it a beat!
gives away nourishment: the jam of roses, the water of roses for cookies and pastry products,
Give it heart!
fragrance: the expensive essence of the Damask Rose,
beauty: cosmetic lines,
the touch — of the exquisite fabric: Damasco,
inspiration: to dream and to write translated as
"She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek."
— (2.4.118) Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
The Dew of Damascus ... The Sun of Damascus...
The Love of Damascus...
As a matter of fact, this Rose, the very Damascene Rose has been my home, for years.
A decade ago, on my whereabouts, you wouldn’t hear anyone on our market, in Romania, speak of going within. Definitely, not as it is spoken of today.
In Istanbul? One could have cut through the fog of materialism, greed and lack of sentiments only with the life-restoring Damascene sword of Love.
Almost no one spoke of diving into one’s being, inhabiting it, properly.
Exploring all the chambers … or the hidden shelves and drawers of one's being.
Discovering the very essence they are made of.
Clean it off, dust it off.
That's our penthouse, that's the crib where we are safe and sound.
Within our being, the mother of our roots.
The deeper we dive, the more protected we are.
For only those willing to dive into the depth of the ocean shall meet the pearls of our heart. Don't you think?
And yet — why dive when the soul recognises its twin flame and leads them, “by the hand”, to the shell?
By God, Damascene Rose has been my "Huckleberry Finn" house in the trees ever since I’ve been.
Always alongside my childhood friend, Fares.
Of course, in time… on a whole different scale, Fares became Ken. And then, Knight. And then, OMG bitch! Rose damn it, it’s not you! This is not what I have signed for. And then, there’s the Richter Richy Rich telling you: “You ought to have your own company! You ought to this and that.” Only you had a business, at the time. But the emotionally damaged had scenarios attached to his skull and has kept vomiting his anxieties with remote control. And then, finally, after almost a decade of profiling, the lord commander decides he is into her. He is willing to do something about it, after years of "Yes, no, yes, no. Warm, cold, warm, cold. War, peace, war, peace. I want her -- I want her not. I am not quite sure. I'll do something now... oh, no, I'll wait for next summer. On, off. On, off."
You got that right, babe!
Damascene Rose is my safe haven from fools.
Her heart has twirls and whirls of intense feelings for ... whoever chosen by the Divine.
Nevertheless, why wonder or question what it's going on when I can rest my being amidst petals of velvet and silk? Easy to write, difficult to live...
If anything, Damascene Rose has been the very essence of la joie de vivre.
When I started this petaly project, I didn’t know what blogging is about. I had no clue what blog readers and bloggers desired to read. I still don't. Or can't align to anything else than what's coming out of the keyboard, as words. Most probably this is my storyboard and vox blog.
Moreover, I needed to express myself. Better put — I needed to learn how to express myself. I am still working on it.
But much more, I have had so many petals of Love to give away.
And yet — nobody would have them. So I gave them to Damascene Rose, to the very roots of my being. A process I shall care to develop on, in a different post.
As I was saying, everybody was only into money and/or possession.
Money talk. Money love. And money ... you name it. Or, I don't want a relationship, a bond or a give and take, a sharing is caring, "I want a possession". Of course, this wasn't rendered as such, out loud. I've had to figure it out, all by myself. Isn't this how the story goes, almost, every time?
And nobody had taught me that men could be sheer tramps. And nobody had told me how marriage could unfold. Or, how to deal with an international divorce. I have had to discover every bit of it, all by myself. Always choosing myself, as best as I could. And I have had to choose myself, every single time. Although, I didn't love myself much, at the time.
Of course, sapiens is exquisite on all fronts. Only, I don't have many lady friends... so I don't know the ways in which lady bitches can "bless" their counterparts with petals of ugliness. I can only imagine. And imagining is certainly not living it, being there in somebody else's shoes.
So back to writing. I have created Damascene Rose because I needed an Oasis where I could Be, Write and Twirl. It's el Flamenco, baby! The love of life.
Moreover, I needed an incentive.
I knew the very moment I’d create this virtual oasis, I’d be compelled to write. Given, I was working in a very hectic tempo.
And "they"… they need to know who you are, where you come from. They need to know everything, everything and yet — how much do they give of themselves?
It’s a bad approach.
And a bad business, habibi!
Bad and nasty.
How does one expect to receive genuineness from someone when they give away — from almost nothing to nothing, nothing at all, of themselves?
Sky blue or stormy, Damascene Rose is.
Our being is there for us, always. Isn't she?
And she is, here, with me too. And to Her, I belong.
So I sing my song amidst her corolla:
I come from a Rose, the Damascene Rose.
For how could love not be everything, everything there is?
What's your song?
"I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks;"
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 130