My Writing Place

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2011-11-12T18:26:00.001-08:00

Story - by Robert McKee

2009-06-26T06:28:00.000-07:00

The gift of endurance

Great writers are not eclectic. Each tightly focuses his oeuvre on one idea, a single subject that ignites his passion, a subject he pursues with beautiful variation through a lifetime of work.

Hemingway, for example, was fascinated with the question of how to face death. After he witnessed the suicide of his father, it became the central theme, not only of his writing, but of his life. He chased death in war, in sport, on safari, until finally, putting a shotgun in his mouth, he found it.

Charles Dickens, whose father was imprisoned for debt, wrote of the lonely child searching for the lost father over and over in David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, and Great Expectations.

Moliere turned a critical eye on the idiocy and depravity of seventeenth-century France and made a career writing plays whose titles read like a checklist of human vices: The Miser, The Misanthrope, The Hyperchondriac.

Each of these authors found his subject and it sustained him over the long journey of the writer.

What's your favourite genre? Write in the genre that you love. Genre should be a constant source of reinspiration. Do not write something because intellectual friends think it's socially important. Do not write something you think will inspire critical praise. Be honest in your choice of genre, for of all the reasons for wanting to write, the only one that nurtures us through time is love of the work itself.

Failings

2008-01-25T23:21:00.000-08:00

The weakness of a man is unique each to his own. The implication of evil as a consequence of an impending weakness is often outside the boundary of control of the man, and its prowess lies indefectible in the hands of the perpetrator. It lies in the conscious self-will of the man to keep out of the bounds of the property of the recognised weakness, anything at all that may be associated with and may at the slightest hint arouse a suspicion as to a relation to such weakness.

It is the responsibility of the righteous mind and will of the man to stand afar off, and venture near not the beckoning weakness, which leaves room for neither high mindedness nor integrity, but seeks to destruct, destroy and annihilate any tinge of righteousness.

If I may express these in simpler terms, I would. I apologise, however for my lack of simpler words to describe the destructive power of what we fail to take hold of.

The effect of globalisation - from an Indian perspective

2008-01-09T03:10:00.000-08:00

An article on globsalisation written in an extremely personal and interesting manner... taken from the Business Times on 28 Dec 2007

A letter writer in Mumbai telephones his daughter

(MUMBAI) G P Sawant never charged the prostitutes for his letter writing services.

Not long after the women would descend on this swarming, chaotic city, they would find him at his stall near the post office, this letter writer for the unlettered. They often came hungry, battered and lonely, needing someone to convert their spoken words into handwritten letters to post back to their home villages.

The letters ferried false reassurances. The women claimed that they had steady jobs as shopkeepers and Bollywood stagehands. Saying nothing of the brothels, beatings and rapes they endured, they enclosed money orders to remit rupees agonisingly acquired. Many called Mr Sawant 'brother' and tied a string on his wrist each year in the Hindu tradition.

Sometimes, suspicious parents boarded a train to Mumbai and appeared at Mr Sawant's stall, which a daughter had listed as her address. Mr Sawant greeted them kindly but disclosed nothing about the daughter's work or whereabouts.

Such is the letter writer's honour code: when you live by writing other people's letters, you die with their secrets.
But now the professional letter writer is confronting the fate of middlemen everywhere: to be cut out. In India, the world's fastest-growing market for mobile phones, calling the village or sending a text message has all but supplanted the practice of dictating your intimacies to someone else.

And so Mr Sawant, 61, and by his own guess the author of more than 10,000 of other people's letters, was sitting idly at his stall on a recent Monday, having earned just 12 cents from an afternoon spent filling out forms, submitting money orders, wrapping parcels - the postal trivialities that have survived the evaporation of his trade.

But this is not the familiar story of the artisan flattened by the new economy, because, it turns out, his family has gained more from that economy than it has lost.

Mr Sawant has three children riding the Indian economic boom, including a daughter, Suchitra, who works at Infosys, one of the pre-eminent Indian outsourcing firms. Suchitra now earns US$9,000 a year, three times as much as her father did at his peak.

Globalisation is said to create winners and losers. For the Sawants, it created both. And that duality reflects the furious pace at which entire professions are being invented and entire professions destroyed in the rush to modernise India.

There is, on one hand, a national quest under way to excise inefficiencies - to cut out middlemen. But for every occupation that vanishes, another is born. There are now mall attendants in a nation that until lately had no malls, McDonald's cashiers in a country where cows are sacred and Porsche sales executives in a land where most people still walk. It used to be hard to obtain your own computer or telephone line in India; the country now has more software engineers and call-centre operators than just about anywhere else.

Mr Sawant entered the letter writing trade in 1982 when he won a government tender for a coveted stall inside the post office headquarters. Before long, he earned a reputation among illiterate migrants as a gifted writer of letters.

There were some letters Mr Sawant would not write. He refused, for example, to trade in romantic love. Love is fickle and dangerous, he said. Lovers lie; they cheat; they offer their love and rescind it. He refused to engage in chicanery on other people's behalf.

As Mr Sawant remembers it, 1995 happened to be the year when everything began to change.
India was emerging at that time from a long spell of economic autarky and stagnation, in which one had to reserve long-distance telephone calls days in advance, as if they were tables at a posh restaurant. With the land-line infrastructure so dreary, the mobile phone was greeted with special enthusiasm when it arrived in India in the 1990s. Phone companies, seeking to tap a vast market of 1.1 billion Indians, innovated to drop their prices to as low as one cent a minute. It did not take long for the personal letter to become obsolete.

Mr Sawant is not bitter. He said that he was happy to stay behind if his country advanced. He is happy, of course, because his four children, all of whom went to private school from the proceeds of letter writing, have pulled the Sawants into the upper middle class. His son works at a bank; one daughter works as a civil engineer in Denmark; another daughter is studying computers in college; and there is Suchitra, who is currently in New Jersey on assignment for Infosys.

Mr Sawant's mention of New Jersey prompted a suggestion. A cameraman making a videotape for this story was about to return to New York, not far from where Suchitra is working. Did Mr Sawant want to scribble a letter to his daughter for her to hand-deliver? His answer was instantaneous.

'Why would I send her a letter?' he asked, perplexed. 'I'll just call her on the phone.' - NYT

M Gov - Part 3

2007-12-05T02:45:00.000-08:00

To which I responded as such:

Thanks lots for sharing. Though my replies be short (and that's because my sphere of understanding and sensitivity to the social & political climate is elementary - but I'm hungry to learn), I catch your point.

History would reveal that it takes lots of conviction, courage and sacrifice to stand up against the tide of the apathy and the opposition of those in power and abuse thereof. I think many in the world, especially those hailing from countries with significant social disorder have dreams and hope of a better country and justice and equality for all. Or should I say - everyone has dreams - it's but a matter of belief and perspective. Take for instance, a radical left-wing Muslim person - he might believe that in order to establish social order - non-Muslim infidels should be eradicated. A reasonable man would say that's terrorism.

I would think many M'sians have a clear idea of what consitutes a just & upright government - but feel inadequate or do not have the resources to fight for it, for fear of many an opposing force and obstacles. Your suggested solutions are fabulous, and in my humble opinion, workable (may I applaud you for your keen mind and wisdom), but as you have also pointed out - would probably be thrown out the window by the current government concerned with achieving their goals at the expense of inequality for a large portion of their people and consequently disparaging the capability of their leadership. Leadership is not bestowed; it is earned. Maybe our leaders ought to consider that circumspectfully.

M Gov - Part 2

2007-12-05T02:42:00.000-08:00

When asked what would be possible solutions to restore faith, trust and respect of its people and the world at large - my learned friend responded as such:

I guess that having stayed in KL all my life until recently (excluding my 3 years of law school in the UK) and moving to Sg has given me a better perspective of the differences between the 2 countries. I'm not being pro-Sg and anti-Malaysia. It just frustrates me that Malaysia, with all its natural resources and potential, now appears moving backwards when we know it is capable of much more.

Evolution usually takes place over a number (in some cases, millions) of years, so it will be difficult to change anything overnight. Revolution, of course, can take place over a much shorter period. Haha. Pervez Musharraf "took over" Nawaz Sharif in a bloodless coup in Pakistan in 1999. Pakistan is having its fair share of problems now. But I'm digressing...

There should a return to meritocracy, first and foremost. People should be judged on the basis of their individual merits as opposed to the colour of their skin. This applies across the board to practically every aspect, from gaining entry into schools, universities, jobs, posts, political appointments, projects, allowances and so forth. Give credit where credit is due. Promote the people who are suitably qualified. Give the academically-inclined university places for the course they applied for.

This would also mean that the majority race will have to accept the fact that they will be receiving lesser hand-outs and freebies from the government. The further effect of this is also that the minority races will have a greater representation across the board but more importantly, the influence of the majority race will be lessened. Will they ever accept that? The saying goes that "All those who have power are afraid to lose it". Imagine a child being revoked his/her ice-cream/dessert privileges after a meal. S/he will probably chuck a fit. It is next to impossible for this to happen. If the government is to effect change this way, they will need to have the strength of their convictions.

To a certain extent, the minority races, mindful of the events of May 13 1969, have contributed to the present state of affairs. The Chinese for example, never want to get involved in politics, because they think it doesn't concern them. Typically, if their "rice-bowl" is not affected, they could care less about what is happening, and even if they do, they will not dare kick up any major fuss about it. The Indians recently have become braver, taking to the streets just last week in KL.

I'm not advocating riots or mass protests over this, but if you allow someone to take advantage of you, they will continue to do so until you do something about it.

The practice of meritocracy will be a start, and things should progress naturally from there.

To "restore" the faith of the world at large, the government should look at "arming" themselves and their citizens to be able to compete in the international market. This should be done not only on a governmental level, but also on an individual level. After all, personal improvement can only happen if it comes from within, no? Improve efficiency and accountability, reduce corruption. Also, political and social stability in the country. No one wants to invest in a country without that, yes? Liberalising the market so that it promotes competitive trade, and not protecting government/country-owned companies (look at what is happening to Proton now- down in the doldrums, compare that with the rival local car manufacturer who have gone on to succeed without government aid- Perodua is doing much better). Do what it takes to be able to compete at world level. Teach them to how to fish, not catch the fish for them and serve 'em on a plate.

Anyway, who is to say that my suggested solutions would be the right one? No solution will ever be fool-proof. Solutions sound good in theory, but the human element means that there will be bumps along the way and besides, for every solution there will be a further problem which will arise. You just can't please everyone.

Alas, I don't see this happening at all in the near future...

M Gov - Part 1

2007-12-05T02:36:00.000-08:00

A fellow Malaysian lawyer friend's take on the M Gov (for security purposes, let's just call him JLee):

Over the years, the government has steadily increased the toll charges and prices of petrol. Among other reasons, this wouldn't be such a big issue if the spending/buying power was stronger. Prices of the basic items have increased dramatically over the years but the salaries of the average Malaysian have not. To put this into perspective, an example will be the Malaysian legal profession itself. In 1981, the average monthly salary for a fresh, first-year-in-practice lawyer was RM1800. Today, in 2007, the average first-year lawyer's salary remains around RM1800. Take the rate of inflation into account, etc you will find that today's lawyers are worse off compared to 1981. Kuala Lumpur, by the way, isn't a cheap place to live in if you are earning RM.

Why is the spending/buying power of Malaysia weak? Ultimately you'd have to look at the Malaysian Ringgit itself. The RM just isn't strong enough compared to, for example the SGD. When one needs to convert from the RM, it becomes expensive, and this applies across the board, from the average Malaysian buying his goods, to the company using say, the US $ to purchase raw materials/items, etc. One example- international magazines. Let's just consider this dollar for dollar, assuming that RM1 equals SGD1.00. GQ magazine costs about SGD11.00 whereas in Malaysia, it costs RM24.00. For someone earning in SGD, s/he merely has to pay half of what a Malaysian would have to pay for the magazine. The buying power here is simply stronger.

The RM is weak because there isn't enough of an international demand for it. Malaysia is simply not competitive enough in international trade. Add that (among other things) with the current political climate of the country (affirmative action being exercised in favour of the majority race in the country, creating more wealth and opportunities for the majority race, but at what cost? Law grads who can barely construct a proper sentence in English (whom, by the way were granted entries into uni to study law with 5 Es in their A Levels), monies going into the pockets of cronies, etc), you have a currency that is not fulfilling its potential.

It all boils down to whether they want to be competitive. All they are more interested in is safe-guarding is the interests of their race. The affirmative action policy has made Malaysia the country it is today- rising prices, low wages, low standards, disgruntled citizens. If they continue doing so (and they will) the country will be headed further into the doldrums.

Limited worldview

2007-11-03T23:11:00.000-07:00

Is it any wonder that the nation faces constant ridicule within by its people and without by the world at large? With all due respect, in making a statement as such, Datuk Nik Aziz could have stepped out of his existing self-imposed well, view issues from a broader perspective, and weigh the consequences of his words, which in this instance reflect his biased and limited worldview. I'm inclined to think that his view is but his own and a few of his minority following, and not an accurate representation of the views of the majority in the land.

Straits Times - Nov 1, 2007

Sexy women are a distraction, says PAS leader

KUALA LUMPUR - MALAYSIA'S Muslim men are suffering sleepless nights and cannot pray properly because their thoughts are distracted by a growing number of women who wear sexy clothes in public, a prominent opposition cleric said.

Datuk Nik Aziz Nik Mat, the spiritual leader of Parti Islam SeMalaysia (PAS), said he wanted to speak about the 'emotional abuse' that men face because it is seldom discussed, the fundamentalist Islamic party reported on its website yesterday.

'We always (hear about) the abuse of children and wives in households, which is easily perceived by the eye, but the emotional abuse of men cannot be seen,' Datuk Nik Aziz said. 'Our prayers become unfocused and our sleep is often disturbed.'

He has made controversial comments about women in the past, including that women should stop wearing lipstick and perfume to lower the risk of being raped.

Women's groups have slammed his statements. They say comments like his encourage rapes because they put the blame on women.

Datuk Nik Aziz is also the Chief Minister of Kelantan, the sole Malaysian state that is not ruled by the Barisan Nasional governing coalition.
In the northern state, the Islamic party has fined Muslim women for not wearing headscarves in workplaces and implemented separate check-out lines for men and women in supermarkets.

Get over it

2007-10-27T16:55:00.000-07:00

The emotional journey of a perfectionist is turbulent and capricious – the tidal waves of the heart a subject to both external circumstances and varying opinions. Exhilarated, depressed, inspired, jaded – a tiresome swing from one extreme to the other, at the quick turn of events.

In the face of such volatility, the answer is simple – fix the mind on one thing constant. Like the fulcrum of a see-saw that remains fixed and steady, notwithstanding the vigorous rise and fall on both sides of the see-saw.

Nobel Laureates in Literature

2007-10-23T02:30:00.000-07:00

My humblest applaud and highest salution to these great laureates in literature - my resolution is to read at least a book by every single one of them below - thus far I've only fully read John Steinbeck's work!

From http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/index.html

2007 - Doris Lessing
2006 - Orhan Pamuk
2005 - Harold Pinter
2004 - Elfriede Jelinek
2003 - J. M. Coetzee
2002 - Imre Kertész
2001 - V. S. Naipaul
2000 - Gao Xingjian
1999 - Günter Grass
1998 - José Saramago
1997 - Dario Fo
1996 - Wislawa Szymborska
1995 - Seamus Heaney
1994 - Kenzaburo Oe
1993 - Toni Morrison
1992 - Derek Walcott
1991 - Nadine Gordimer
1990 - Octavio Paz
1989 - Camilo José Cela
1988 - Naguib Mahfouz
1987 - Joseph Brodsky
1986 - Wole Soyinka
1985 - Claude Simon
1984 - Jaroslav Seifert
1983 - William Golding
1982 - Gabriel García Márquez
1981 - Elias Canetti
1980 - Czeslaw Milosz
1979 - Odysseus Elytis
1978 - Isaac Bashevis Singer
1977 - Vicente Aleixandre
1976 - Saul Bellow
1975 - Eugenio Montale
1974 - Eyvind Johnson, Harry Martinson
1973 - Patrick White
1972 - Heinrich Böll
1971 - Pablo Neruda
1970 - Alexandr Solzhenitsyn
1969 - Samuel Beckett
1968 - Yasunari Kawabata
1967 - Miguel Angel Asturias
1966 - Shmuel Agnon, Nelly Sachs
1965 - Mikhail Sholokhov
1964 - Jean-Paul Sartre
1963 - Giorgos Seferis
1962 - John Steinbeck
1961 - Ivo Andric
1960 - Saint-John Perse
1959 - Salvatore Quasimodo
1958 - Boris Pasternak
1957 - Albert Camus
1956 - Juan Ramón Jiménez
1955 - Halldór Laxness
1954 - Ernest Hemingway
1953 - Winston Churchill
1952 - François Mauriac
1951 - Pär Lagerkvist
1950 - Bertrand Russell
1949 - William Faulkner
1948 - T.S. Eliot
1947 - André Gide
1946 - Hermann Hesse
1945 - Gabriela Mistral
1944 - Johannes V. Jensen
1943 - Nil
1942 - Nil
1941 - Nil
1940 - Nil
1939 - Frans Eemil Sillanpää
1938 - Pearl Buck
1937 - Roger Martin du Gard
1936 - Eugene O'Neill
1935 - Nil
1934 - Luigi Pirandello
1933 - Ivan Bunin
1932 - John Galsworthy
1931 - Erik Axel Karlfeldt
1930 - Sinclair Lewis
1929 - Thomas Mann
1928 - Sigrid Undset
1927 - Henri Bergson
1926 - Grazia Deledda
1925 - George Bernard Shaw
1924 - Wladyslaw Reymont
1923 - William Butler Yeats
1922 - Jacinto Benavente
1921 - Anatole France
1920 - Knut Hamsun
1919 - Carl Spitteler
1918 - Nil
1917 - Karl Gjellerup, Henrik Pontoppidan
1916 - Verner von Heidenstam
1915 - Romain Rolland
1914 - Nil
1913 - Rabindranath Tagore
1912 - Gerhart Hauptmann
1911 - Maurice Maeterlinck
1910 - Paul Heyse
1909 - Selma Lagerlöf
1908 - Rudolf Eucken
1907 - Rudyard Kipling
1906 - Giosuè Carducci
1905 - Henryk Sienkiewicz
1904 - Frédéric Mistral, José Echegaray
1903 - Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
1902 - Theodor Mommsen
1901 - Sully Prudhomme

In other words

2007-10-10T02:29:00.000-07:00

Hendrik van Loon (1882-1944), The Story of Mankind

I loved my mother but never had any sincere affection for my father. This aversion has gone so far that when occasionally a sincere lover of one of my books ask me for a photograph, I will send him a picture, not of my face, but of my hands, for those hands are the hands of my mother.

History is the mighty Tower of Experience, which Time has built amidst the endless fields of bygone ages. It is no easy task to reach the top of this ancient structure and get the benefit of the full view. There is no elevator, but young feet are strong and it can be done.

Charles Joseph Finger (1869-1941)

I cannot separate enjoyment from writing.

A man has to cultivate somehow a sort of zest. He has to be interested. He must go through life with a lilt, not trudge along. Above all, he must believe in himself, not seeing failure for what they are, after all, merely stumbling blocks and quite in the routine of things, but trying his experiment to the end.

Quotes by Henry Miller

2007-09-26T03:58:00.000-07:00

All growth is a leap in the dark, a spontaneous unpremeditated act without benefit of experience.

Analysis brings no curative powers in its train; it merely makes us conscious of the existence of an evil, which, oddly enough, is consciousness.

Back of every creation, supporting it like an arch, is faith. Enthusiasm is nothing: it comes and goes. But if one believes, then miracles occur.

Develop an interest in life as you see it; the people, things, literature, music - the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself.

Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such.

I have always looked upon decay as being just as wonderful and rich an expression of life as growth.

If there is to be any peace it will come through being, not having.

One's destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things.

Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything Godlike about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything.

In expanding the field of knowledge we but increase the horizon of ignorance.

In the beginning was the Word. Man acts it out. He is the act, not the actor.

In this age, which believes that there is a short cut to everything, the greatest lesson to be learned is that the most difficult way is, in the long run, the easiest.

Instead of asking 'How much damage will the work in question bring about?' why not ask 'How much good? How much joy?'

Life has to be given a meaning because of the obvious fact that it has no meaning.

Life is 440 horsepower in a 2-cylinder engine.

Life is constantly providing us with new funds, new resources, even when we are reduced to immobility. In life's ledger there is no such thing as frozen assets.

One of the reasons why so few of us ever act, instead of react, is because we are continually stifling our deepest impulses.

The moment one gives close attention to any thing, even a blade of grass it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.

Coming together

2007-09-23T06:03:00.000-07:00

The coming together of 2 persons consists of exploration of differing personalities, tension of conflict, frustration of disagreements and sometimes awkward moments of silence.

The beauty of love is it’s divine role in smoothening the complicated process of coming together in unity and mutual compromise.

The joy of writing is the release of knots within that alters one’s cluttered, fogged and often biased perspective. And this is achieved through the impetuous pondering of each word, phase and sentence drafted, the seconds held in thought like holes that permit light of truth to shine through and enlighten the darkened web.

Archie Weller - the author

2007-09-03T01:57:00.000-07:00

Archie Weller's first novel, The Day of the Dog, was written and submitted to the inaugural Australian/Vogel award within a period of six weeks in a spirit of anger after his release from Broome jail for what he regarded as a wrongful conviction. The book was highly commended by the judges and won the fiction award in the literature section of the prestigious Western Australia Week Art Awards.

Weller was 23 when he wrote The Day of the Dog and a number of his short stories had already been published. Some of those earlier published stories are included in this collection, together with more recent unpublished works. His style is characteristic and definite. Staccato conversational sections reveal characters or tell the story, supported by scenes of sudden violence which yield just as suddenly to lyrical passages. His sympathies are plainly with the underdogs of the world. Although his stories are disturbing, they are not depressing, for, as Nancy Keesing said of the novel, he 'tells his tale stylishly and with compassion, striking imagery and humour'. - Book cover review

Archie Weller has an impressive understanding of the anguish and realities of his characters… what is impressive… is the clarity and cool observing power of Archie Weller's writing. - Thomas Shapcott, Courier Mail 1981

About the author:

Archie Weller was brought up on a farm in the south-east of Western Australia. His early years were isolated until his parents divorced when he was twelve and he went with his mother to live in East Perth - in those days a semi-slum district inhabited by migrants, Aborigines and poor whites. He attended one of Western Australia's exclusive boarding schools on a scholarship, but says he always felt 'disadvantaged' because of the relevant poverty in which he and his mother lived. His real friends became the 'street kids' and petty criminals with whom he associated during school holidays and who are so finely pictured in his stories.

An observer and a wanderer, he has earned a living at such diverse occupations as dishwasher in the UK and Europe, printer's assistant in Perth, wharfie in Broome, hospital orderly in Derby, writer in residence at the ANU in Canberra, through occasional broadcasts and lecturers, and through publication of his stories.

Archie Weller on Love

2007-08-25T22:45:00.000-07:00

The first story I read while on honeymoon in Melboune was a book by Archie Weller titled "Going Home Stories". Archie Weller is a compelling, descriptive Aboriginal writer hailing from Perth, Australia. His writings evidences his deep insight into the culture, nature and makings of his people, the aboriginals.

The paragraphs below are taken from one of the stories in Going Home Stories. The story, titled "Cooley" vividly describes the life of a young boy named Cooley. Brought up in much pain, angst, poverty & prejudices, he lives his life behind thick, untrusting walls, until he met a simple, plain and lovely white girl who changed the course of his destiny.

The paragraphs below details Archie Weller's striking description of love. Take in every word he uses - it's gonna be a literary experience of love. Enjoy. ;)

Book: Going Home Stories

Author: Archie Weller

This Story: Cooley

Theme mentioned here: Love

And love, to Cooley, was a waterfall, loud and powerful and forever. So loud it made the rocks shake and mountains tremble, so a man could not talk but only stare at the dancing rainbows in the mists that swayed over the wild, white water. And love was like a mountain of flowers, of red and pink and mauve and blue, standing supremely alone in a vast, harsh, dry, red desert. And love was like the shape of swans flying into the sunrise of a cool morning, quiet and slow and rhythmic. Like the swan that gently crossed the sun’s warm red heart for an instant, then faded into the greyness of dawn, Cooley allowed himself to float into the pools of the girls’ soft green-blue eyes and their souls met.

This girl was a shy as he was. Her small dainty hands fluttered and hovered like hummingbirds and delved into the flowers of youth to get some sweet honey. Her mouth tasted like mint. The petals of her clothes folded away to reveal a flower the beauty of which had never been seen before. So soft and white like the most delicate rose, like jasmine, like a lily of the field. This was a girl whose eyes were coloured like the hearts of oceans, whose mind and soul and love was as deep as the oceans and just as secret.

Cooley’s heart felt like bursting. The girl’s pale fingers wiped away the last shards of hate and mistrust from his slanted, light eyes and her soft murmurs of passion wiped away his tension and hate so that the fortress he had built himself came crashing down and he stepped from the ruins like a prince freed from some evil spell.

The Nyoongahs down south said the swan was the soul of the dead and whenever a swan was born, another ancestor was reborn.

That day, Cooley was a swan. He would soar above the sun. He would dive to the deepest, darkest bottom of the ocean and learn all the secrets there. The whole universe was his, such was his joy. The girl’s hands, as fragile and white as eggshells, had moulded him into a new being, a peaceful gentle being.

The girl wrapped long legs around his bony body, not like a spider catching another fly, but like a cool snowflake settling onto the brown earth as it prepared for winter.

Their bodies crushed the hay beneath the scattered clothes, so the sweet scent of the straw was their perfume. And so they loved while daylight died a graceful death and purple misty clouds spread over the sky like a blanket on a bed of a flag on a coffin. All the world’s troubles were forgotten for a short while and the only world they knew was the warm feed shed and themselves.

Heroes

2007-08-03T07:35:00.000-07:00

Children accumulate stickers for exchange, men accumulate gadgets for pleasure, women accumulate stories for sharing and I accumulate heroes for inspiration. They are, by order of category:

Intellectually:
Condoleezza Rice
Lee Kuan Yew

Philanthropically:
Oprah Winfrey

Literarily:
Maya Angelou
Khaled Hosseini
Adeline Yen Mah
Sidney Poitier
Archie Weller
George Orwell

Out of the outstanding people above, there are 2 heroes who influences me deeply and I pray for the honour & privilege to meet them up close & personal one day. They are my 2 intellectual heroes - the greater of whom is one of the brightest & most brilliant man this nation is blessed with - MM Lee.

Be near me

2007-07-30T04:13:00.000-07:00

If anything, our writing are often reflective of our spiritual well-being, or under-being.

Be near me when my light is low
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.

Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time; a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.

Be near me when my faith is dry,
And when the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their pretty cells and die.

Be near me when I fade away,
To point the term of human strife,
And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.

‘In Memoriam A. H. H.’
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

From Wikipedia:

'In Memoriam A.H.H.' is a long poem by the English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and completed in 1849. It is a requiem for the poet's Cambridge friend Arthur Henry Hallam, who died suddenly of a cerebral hemorrhage in Vienna in 1833, but it is also much more. Written over a period of 17 years, it can be seen as reflective of Victorian society at the time, and the poem discusses many of the issues that were beginning to be questioned. It is the work in which Tennyson reaches his highest musical peaks and his poetic experience comes full circle. It is generally regarded as one of the great poetic works of the British 19th century.

Social Advancement

2007-07-02T04:15:00.000-07:00

My take is if you want to get out of your economic and social gut, you climb out of your pit and break out your ranks. A poor man stays poor in his current social background unless he takes steps to advance his education and career outside his pit.

If it requires you to move beyond your shores, you do that. If you can succeed locally, stay and improve first your family's economy, then the society's.

The biggest national asset is education. When people in the lower rung feel discontented, deprived and under-privileged, they rebel politically. Because what better way can they be heard than to bring it to the attention of the rulers.

Faithfulness

2007-06-28T05:44:00.000-07:00

She's a student. She came into the room and talked of doing part-time multi-level marketing. We said nay. We said first focus on your studies and prove your grades.

In saying no to her I realised I have placed a yardstick on her that I couldn't meet myself. I am struggling in my current administrative job and am crying out for new, challenging responsibilities. I hear my Master saying nay - till I learn to be diligent and fruitful in my current dead-end job, after which will I be ready for promotion to better things. And till then He's offering me no exit.

Aye, aye sir.

Interview with Khaled Hosseini

2006-12-28T21:04:00.000-08:00

Interview in Newsline (Nov 2003) with Khaled Hosseni on his New York Times Bestseller debut novel, The Kite Runner.

Returning to Afghanistan for the first time this year after 27 years in exile in America, Khaled Hosseini talks of Kabul in its heyday. His debut novel, The Kite Runner, explores the powerful relationship between a father and son during the Afghan monarchy and his hopes for a peaceful post-Taliban Afghanistan. - By Razeshta Sethna

Q: In The Kite Runner, do you create characters and events that are based on personal recollections or is the story purely fictional?

A: The story line of my novel is largely fictional. The characters were invented and the plot imagined. However, there certainly are, as is always the case with fiction, autobiographical elements woven through the narrative. Probably the passages most resembling my own life are the ones in the US, with Amir and Baba trying to build a new life for themselves. I, too, came to the US as an immigrant and I recall vividly those first few years in California, the brief time we spent on welfare, and the difficult task of assimilating into a new culture. My father and I did work for a while at the flea market and there really are rows of Afghans working there, some of whom I am related to.

I wanted to write about Afghanistan before the Soviet war because that is largely a forgotten period in modern Afghan history. For many people in the west, Afghanistan is synonymous with the Soviet war and the Taliban. I wanted to remind people that Afghans had managed to live in peaceful anonymity for decades, that the history of the Afghans in the twentieth century has been largely pacific and harmonious.

Q: What are your recollections of the last days of the Afghan monarchy and the subsequent invasion of the Soviet forces?

A: Kabul was a thriving cosmopolitan city with its vibrant artistic, intellectual and cultural life. There were poets, musicians, and writers. There was also an influx of western culture, art, and literature in the '60s and '70s. My family left Afghanistan in 1976, well before the Communist coup and the Soviet invasion. We certainly thought we would be going back. But when we saw those Soviet tanks rolling into Afghanistan, the prospect for return looked very dim. Few of us, I have to say, envisioned that nearly a quarter century of bloodletting would follow.

Q: Is Amir's youth synonymous with your adolescence?

A: I experienced Kabul with my brother the way Amir and Hassan do: long school days in the summer, kite fighting in the winter time, westerns with John Wayne at Cinema Park, big parties at our house in Wazir Akbar Khan, picnics in Paghman. I have very fond memories of my childhood in Afghanistan, largely because my memories, unlike those of the current generation of Afghans, are untainted by the spectre of war, landmines, and famine.

Q: Can you shed light on the role of women at the time?

A: I came from an educated, upper middle-class family. My mother was a Persian and history teacher at a large high school for girls. Many of the women in my extended family and in our circle of friends were professionals. In those days, women were a vital part of the economy in Kabul. They worked as lawyers, physicians, college professors, etc., which makes the tragedy of how they were treated by the Taliban that much more painful.

Q: Your novel touches on internal strife before and during the Taliban government but lacks a strong focus on women.

A: My own background is fairly liberal and so this notion of 'protecting women from outside intrusion' is not in my nature, nor in my upbringing. The Kite Runner is a story of two boys and a father, and the strange love triangle that binds them. It so happens that the major relationships in the novel are between men, dictated not by any sort of prejudice or discomfort with female characters, but rather by the demands of the narrative. The story of what has happened to women in Afghanistan, however, is a very important one, and fertile ground for fiction. I have started a second novel set in Afghanistan, and so far all of the major characters are shaping up as women.

Q: Given the present state of politics and the American agenda in the region, how do you perceive the future of Afghanistan?

A: I returned to Kabul this past March, after a 27-year absence. I came away with some optimism but not as much as I had hoped for. The two major issues in Afghanistan are a lack of security outside Kabul (particularly in the south and east) and the powerful warlords ruling over the provinces with little or no allegiance to the central government. The other rapidly rising concern is the narcotic trade which, if not dealt with, may turn Afghanistan into another Bolivia or Colombia.

Equally important is the lack of cultivable land for farmers, a profound problem when you take into account that Afghanistan has always largely been an agricultural country, and that even before the wars destroyed lands and irrigation canals, only 5 per cent of the land was cultivable. A great deal remains to be done in Afghanistan and the jury is out as to whether the international community has the commitment and the patience to see the rebuilding process through.

This last month, though, I have seen some cause for optimism. The Bush administration tripled its aid package to Afghanistan. Karzai finally (and courageously) announced that warlords will be forbidden from holding office in the future government. And finally, NATO agreed to expand the peacekeeping forces to troubled areas outside of Kabul.

Q: Why did you return after 27 years?

A: I returned to Afghanistan because I had a deep longing to see for myself how people lived, what they thought of their government, how optimistic they were about the future of their homeland. I was overwhelmed with the kindness of people and found that they had managed to retain their dignity, their pride, and their hospitality under unspeakably bleak conditions.

I did see plenty that reminded me of my childhood. I recognised my old neighbourhood, saw my old school, streets where I had played with my brother and cousins. And, like Amir, I found my father's old house in Wazir Khan.

Q: Lastly, what were the reactions of Afghans in exile in the US after reading your novel?

A: I get daily e-mails from Afghans who thank me for writing this book, as they feel a slice of their story has been told by one of their own. So, for the most part, I have been overwhelmed with the kindness of my fellow Afghans. There are, however, those who have called the book divisive and objected to some of the issues raised in the book, namely racism, discrimination, ethnic inequality etc. If this book generates any sort of dialogue among Afghans, then I think it will have done a service to the community.

Q: Can you tell me about your second novel?

A: I am not sure how it will shape up, whether it will become one woman's story or a family saga told from various women's viewpoints.

But it will also be set in Afghanistan's pre-Taliban days and, I suspect, in present-day America. I wish I could tell you more but I don't know a whole lot more myself about it.

Seize The Day

2006-10-16T09:45:00.000-07:00

By Judith Ortiz Cofer

Remember to wake early and take your time in rising.
Enter the world refreshed by the hope emitted by each atom of light,
by the bird who must sing at the sight of the sun.
Does he pity us humans,
who can choose not to break into song at dawn?

Look for small revelations all day.

Let water heal your body.
Think of bathing as a ritual of new beginnings.

Step outside and breathe deeply.
Take in the smells of life, good and foul.
Remember this day is a gift.

Be surprised by nature that shares your world of giant steps.
The bug that irks you,
the yellow butterfly that catches your eye,
and the furred thing with sharp teeth that repels you –
are all in your moment of history.

Concentrate on living hour by hour as if you were feeding coins
into a meter measuring your life.
Here is this hour, and you have already paid for it.

Love your work, and enjoy your play.
Remember, there is little lasting joy in things
done only for gold or fame.
Without love your spirit will be a flower picked without purpose
and thrown on the ground to be trampled by anyone.

Have a place and a time to sit with your thoughts.
Pray before sleep, or read a great poem.
Sacred words will clear your crowded mind.

Welcome the night.
Good sleep is your body’s mending time.
In its sweet release, the fires of worry and anger will be subdued;
and in dreams you may learn to fly above any blaze,
and let your secret self float free above a new world.
You must imagine and learn to embrace each and every day.

Love Note

2006-09-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you're in love? You mention lots about that special person. Well, I'm in love with Maya Angelou. That's why I'm currently featuring only her writings in My Writing Place.

But not to worry. I'll feature other writers as we progress along. Let me get over my current infatuation first. Haha. ;)

Even the Stars look Lonesome Sometimes

2006-09-08T12:27:00.000-07:00

By Maya Angelou

During the sixties an acquaintance of mine left her home in Mississippi. Left her family and church and social groups. Left her choir and suitors, assured by her uncommon good looks that she would find the truly high life in the big city.

She moved to Chicago, found a menial job and a very small room. To her dismay, no one took particular notice of her, because there were prettier girls who were also wittier and who dressed more smartly.

Instead of trying to re-create the ambience she had left, instead of trying to build a circle of family friends, instead of trying to find a church and join the choir, she went to singles bars, and with a sad desperation searched and company that she would take back to her pitiful room and keep overnight at any cost.

I met her at a Chicago club where she was a regular. I had a two-week contract to sing at Mr. Kelly’s, and despite my debut nerves, I noticed her on the first night.

Her clothes were too tight, her makeup too heavy, and she clapped too loudly, laughed too often, and there was a pathetic eagerness hanging about her. We met on the third night, and on the fourth night she told me her story. It sobered and saddened me. I asked why she didn’t go home. She said her relatives had died and no one else in town wanted her.

In the biblical story, the prodigal son risked and for a time lost everything he had because of an uncontrollable hunger for company. First, he asked for and received his inheritance, not caring that his father, from whom he would normally inherit, was still alive; not considering that by demanding his portion, he might be endangering the family’s financial position. The parable relates that after he took his fortune, he went off into a far country and there he found company. Wasteful living conquered his loneliness and riotous company conquered his restlessness. For a while he was fulfilled, but he lost favor in the eyes of his friends. As his money began to disappear he began to slip down that steep road to social oblivion.

His condition became so reduced that he began to have to feed the hogs. Then it further worsened until he began to eat with the hogs. It is never lonesome in Babylon. Of course, one needs to examine who – or in the prodigal son’s case, what – he has for company.

Many people remind me of the journey of the prodigal son. Many believe that they need company at any cost, and certainly if a thing is desired at any cost, it will be obtained at any cost.

We need to remember and to teach our children that solitude can be a much-to-be-desired condition. Not only is it acceptable to be alone, at times is is positively to be wished for.

It is in the interludes between being in company that we talk to ourselves. In the silence we listen to ourselves. Then we ask questions of ourselves. We describe ourselves to ourselves, and in the quietude we may even hear the voice of God.

Take Time Out

2006-09-08T12:21:00.000-07:00

By Maya Angelou

When you see them
on a freeway hitching rides
wearing beads
with packs by their sides
you ought to ask
what’s all the
warring and the jarring
and the
killing and
the thrilling
all about.

Take Time Out.

When you see him
with a band around his head
and an army surplus bunk
that makes his bed
you’d better ask
what’s all the
beating and
the cheating and
the bleeding and
the needing
all about.

Take Time Out.

When you see her walking
barefoot in the rain
and you know she’s tripping
on a one-way train
you need to ask
what’s all the
lying and the
dying and
the running and
the gunning
all about.

Take Time Out.

Use a minute
feel some sorrow
for the folks
who thinks tomorrow
is a place that they
can call up
on the phone.
take a month
and show some kindness
for the folks
who thought that blindness
was an illness that
affected eyes alone.

If you know that youth
is dying on the run
and my daughter trades
dope stories with your son
we’d better see
what all our
fearing and our
jeering and our
crying and
our lying
brought about.

Take Time Out.

Just Like Job

2006-09-05T04:02:00.000-07:00

By Maya Angelou

My Lord, my Lord,
Long have I cried out to Thee
In the heat of the sun,
The cool of the moon,
My screams searched the heavens for Thee.
My God,
When my blanket was nothing but dew,
Rags and bones
Were all I owned,
I chanted Your name
Just like Job.

Father, Father,
My life give I gladly to Thee
Deep rivers ahead
High mountains above
My soul wants only Your love
But fears gather round like wolves in the dark.
Have You forgotten my name?
O Lord, come to Your child.
O Lord, forget me not.

You said to lean on Your arm
And I’m leaning
You said to trust in Your love
And I’m trusting
You said to call on Your name
And I’m calling
I’m stepping out on Your word.

You said You’d be my protection,
My only and glorious saviour,
My beautiful Rose of Sharon,
And I’m stepping out on Your word.
Joy, joy
Your word.
Joy, joy
The wonderful word of the Son of God.

You said that You would take me to glory
To sit down at the welcome table
Rejoice with my mother in heaven
And I’m stepping out on Your word.

Into the alleys
Into the byways
Into the streets
And the roads
And the highways
Past rumor mongers
And midnight ramblers
Past the liars and the cheaters and the gamblers.
On Your word
On Your word.
On the wonderful word of the Son of God.
I’m stepping out on Your word.

Art for the Sake of the Soul

2006-09-05T03:33:00.000-07:00

By Maya Angelou

The strength of the black American to withstand the slings and arrows and lynch mobs and malignant neglect can be traced directly to the arts of literature, music, dance and philosophy that, despite significant attempts to eradicate them, remain in our communities today.

The first Africans were brought to America in 1619. We have experienced every indignity the sadistic mind of man could devise. We have been lynched and drowned and beleaguered and belittled and begrudged and befuddled. And yet, here we are. Still here. Upward of forty million, and that’s an underestimate. How, then, have we survived?

Because we create art and use our art immediately. We have even concealed ourselves and our pain in our art. Langston Hughes wrote:

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter
And my throat
Is deep with song,
You do not think
I suffer after
I have held my pain
So long.

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter
You do not hear
My inner cry
Because my feet
Are gay with dancing
You do not know
I die.

When a larger society would have us believe that we have made no contribution of consequence to the Western world – other than manual labor, of course – the healing, the sustaining and the supporting roles of art were alive and well in the black community.

Great art belongs to all people, all the time – indeed it is made for the people for the people.

I have written of the black American experience, which I know intimately. I am always talking about the human condition in general and about society in particular. What it is like to be human, and American, what makes us weep, what makes us fall and stumble and somehow rise and go on form darkness into darkness – that darkness carpeted with figures of fear and the hounds behind and the hunters behind and one more vier to cross, and oh, my God, will I ever reach that somewhere, safe getting-up morning. I submit to you that it is art that allows is to stand erect.

In that little town in Arkansas, whenever my grandmother saw me reading poetry she would say, “Sister, Mama loves to see you read the poetry because that will put starch in your backbone.” When people who were enslaved, whose wrists were bound and whose ankles were tied, sang,

I’m gonna run on,
See what the end is gonna be…
I’m gonna run on,
See what the end is gonna be…

the singer and the audience were made to understand that, however we had arrived here, under whatever bludgeoning of chance, we were the stuff out of which nations and dreams were made and that we had come here to stay.

I’m gonna run on,
See what the end is gonna be…

Had the blues been censored, we might have had no way of knowing that our looks were not only acceptable but even desirable. The larger society informed us all the time – and still does – that its idea of beauty can be contained in the cruel, limiting, ignorant and still current statement that suggests you can’t be too thin, or too rich, or too white. But we had the nineteenth-century blues in which a black man informed us, talking about the woman that he loved,

The woman I love is fat
And chocolate to the bone,
And every time she shakes,
Some skinny woman loses her home.

Some white people actually stand looking out of windows at serious snow falling like cotton rain, covering the tops of cars and streets and fire hydrants and say, “My God, it sure is a black day.”

So black people had to find ways in which to assert their own beauty. In this song the black woman sang:

He’s blacker than midnight,
Teeth like flags of truth.

He’s the finest thing in the whole St. Louis,
They say the blacker the berry,
Sweeter is the juice…

That is living art, created to encourage people to hang on, stand up, forbear, continue.

We must infuse our lives with art. Our singers, composers and musicians must be encouraged to sing the song of struggle, the song of resistance, resistance to degradation, resistance to our humiliation, resistance to eradication of all our values that would keep us going as a country. Our actors and sculptors and painters and writers and poets must be made to know that we appreciate them, that in fact it is their work that puts starch in our backbones.

We need art to live fully and to grow healthy. Without it we are dry husks drifting aimlessly on every ill wind, our futures are without promise and our present without grace.