My realname is Elham, but my friends and famly call me Ellen. Im 28 years old and have finished my studeies in Directing -Theatre.
Im an actress on the stage, a director and also a designer. fall in love with arts and literature and philosophy.... and FAIRY TALES
I’m an autour as well and have written some pieces and playwrights for the stage, some screenplays and also a huge fantasy novel that I’m still working on it.
One of my books has been published in Iran, “Meyerhold and his Biomechanics†and I have written this book according to Meyerhold’s Biomechanics Tecnique that I’m working on it myself. I think once I was a journalist too ... sometimes write some articles and reviews for art magazines. According to all my descriptions, believe me, I don’t know yet who am I!!!
Im still looking for myself ... just If any of you should
find her, would you be so very kind as to give her back to me?... I need
her for my happiness,
later on....
Sincerely
Ellen Time Rider ;)
I know of a listtle sad fairy,
Who lives in Ocean.
a little woody pipe, plays her heart, every morning,
Slowly Slowly,
She dies of a kiss in the midnight, and wakes up of
another kiss in the morning....
Im this little sad fairy....
Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have's mine own,
Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have my dukedom got
And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell;
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands:
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant,
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free.
(by William Shakespeare - Tempest)
His Goodbye with his Dramatic World
Fairy-Land
By Edgar Allen Poe
Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over:
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down—still down—and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be—
O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing—
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light—
And then, how, deep! —O, deep,
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like—almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before,
Videlicet, a tent—
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
