Daily (w)rite

Wordle for

Writing short stories is what I have wanted to do for quite some time. But it is a difficult genre to master, and I am not entirely persuaded it is the right genre for me and what I have to say. While the writing comes easy, I am not so sure it flows as well as some of my poems.

Here is a prose-poem kind of vignette I had done some time back. I call it “Hell Found Me” :

Hell found me. I knew it would, sooner or later, but did not know it would be quite so soon. I had become quite an artist down the years I spent here. But now I am caught.

It is here that I have to stay, chained for all time, in the middle of this mindless desert, acres of salt, and little else. The cracks left by the wind on this never-ending salty stretch are mirrored by the raw cracks on my feet. Someday the cracks on my bleached bones will mirror them. First the birds, and then of course, the sun, will have their turn. It is a long wait.

But today as I lie scorching, I am flesh and blood. I can feel the heat under my bare body and the pain from the many cuts made on it to attract vultures. For years I have traveled these lands where no man dare make his home, where there is no soil for a blade of grass. Only salt, white, grey or dirty, meets the eyes, no matter how many miles one walks.

This was my home. I was a wanderer and this entire spread belonged to me, for it was I who would guide the trader who risked his life walking into this wasteland of salt. In exchange for things that took my fancy, an amulet, a carved box, or a piece of embroidered cloth, I would offer to lead him to the best place, where the salt was pure, pristine, and so white it hurt the eye. I would guide him in and out in a day, he would not get lost in this salty desert. He would come once, twice, many times, and grow my hoard in the caves I stowed them in.

Unknown to him, it was not his possessions I was after, it was his flesh. Ah, human flesh! Salty as the air I breathe, smelling of salt as the water I drink, and warm, so warm. No animal flesh can compete, and I should know, I have tasted most I could catch. I have hunted in jungles, and I have hunted beside farms. Crippled at birth, I knew no mother and the only herd I was ever part of was a group of beggars by day and thugs by night. I have loved human blood since then, it quenched my thirst and killed the dull ache in my belly. Most nights I went hungry. There were rats to catch of course, but rats can be quick.

Besides, hunting men is far more rewarding. They are more intelligent. It needs great cunning. I earned the trust of many, and when I decided the time was ripe, my meal never knew what hit him. I hate struggles. I do not like wasting precious energy in this desert, and trust is the perfect weapon. I would always ask them, on what was to be their last trip, to bring me some good wine. I would, as always, be quiet; I do not know much of talk, and it does not amuse me. They would be merry, and drink more than I. Most of them died in their sleep, dreaming happy dreams, which ended with a quick, firm, blow to the head. It is as good a way to go as any.

But as with all good plans, mine had a flaw. News of my unseen hoard grew with each small merchant that gave me a trinket. Then, you came, the robber in the guise of a merchant. And when the robber met the hunter, the robber won. You are now a speck in the distance, carrying away all the trophies of my hunt. They do not mean much to me, and you are welcome. I am chained outside my cave, from where I can see all the bones I tore flesh from, and I am content.

As birds tear at mine, I shall think of the poison I smeared on all my treasure and how you will be writhing in agony soon. You know, I have begun to like my hell. The way I see it, it is just a few vultures having a good meal, and I do not grudge them that.

For some reason I have always wanted to turn this into a poem. Today I got an idea how. I was on Sharon Bakar’s blog when I saw this intriguing link to Wordles, a free software that lets you create word clouds of whatever text you choose to feed in.

This is the link to the Wordle I created from the text of the vignette here. (Click it to see a bigger image). I like the way all sorts of unlikely words join up in the Wordle: “chained, hunted birds”, “years drink”, “scorching treasure”, “walking pristine”….I know random poetry generators can give you much the same kind of unlikely word combinations, but I like to see the Wordle do it so visually.

I have put Google Analytics on my writing blog, just to figure out what kind of keywords get the most visitors and the visitor count, because that one is on Blogger, and does not have the kind of extras that WordPress does.

And I discovered that Google Analytics also tells me things like how many visits I have had from which city!

I have visitors from Melbourne and Stockholm, from Milan and Paris, and these I am excited about, but they are somehow the expected.

What I am really intrigued to know is that someone from Ellicot city or West Rutland in the U.S., or Kirkintilloch in the U.K. has visited me. I have a visitor from Novi Beograd in Serbia and Montenegro, I have visitors from Bandar Seri Begawan in Brunei, and I am thinking, wow, what completely fascinating names! I don’t even know whether most of these are towns or cities, what they look like, and so on, and yet, here are these people who have stopped by.

I have always known that the internet has a degree of omnipresence, and that complete strangers from across the world visit my blogs, but somehow seeing the names of those cities and towns, the date when the visits came and so on makes it so very real!

As you can see from the links, I have looked up a few of the places on the internet. I now have a new pastime (when I am taking a break between the gazillion things I have to do): every time I get a visitor from a place I have never heard of before, I will look it up, and take it from there.

For example, Wikipedia tells me: Anthony Burgess’s Brunei novel Devil of a State is set in Bandar Seri Begawan. The construction of the Sultan Omar Ali Saifuddin Mosque is a major theme in the book. Maybe I will look up the book, next time I head to the Borders bookstore!

While at my writing desk I have often wondered about the sort of view writers have from their desks when they write.

It really makes me curious as read bloggers describing biting winters, flurries of snow, or walks by the bay, as to what it really looks like from where they write. Is there a television around, a pet or babies underfoot, or the post from an office cubicle, an airport, a (Bob, from Tokyo) hotel room ? Some of the bloggers (Cliff) offer an insight into where they work from, others talk about the feelings set off by their urban lives.

I love these tantalizing bits of information, and I find myself imagining the circumstances and surroundings from where a post was written. Someday, when I have the time to spare I am going to start off a photo blog just about this!

For now however, I’ll have to be content posting a picture of the view from my window as I write. This is from the gallery of photos I have talked about in my post Writing inspired by a Digital camera on my other blog.

Sometimes, you have to wait in ambush for the next idea to appear.

And they come from the most unexpected places. Nowadays I am furiously scribbling down notes, hoping to capture ideas as they float about in my slightly strained mind.

Unfortunately, I left my dictaphone back home, so it is back to pen and paper…it is funny how unused to writing with a pen I am nowadays.

But I am waiting in ambush for ideas on writing to come my way, and strangely enough, they are coming by pretty readily. If only this continues to happen when I am back to my normal writing schedule…..

Too much of technology in our modern lives: from the cell phone, the MP3 players, the media players: there is just too much input to process, at least for me.

But there is one piece of technology I have come to really appreciate in the last few days: and that, surprisingly, is the Digital Photo Frame.

As one picture follows the other within its sleek contours, I am transported to different times, different places. Pictures of friends, romantic moments, sheer fun, of incredible beauty— all captured at different times of my life, and now displayed in a timed, unbroken chain.

Lines and snatches of writing ideas start coming to me, unbidden, out of nowhere.  Who knew a piece of digital technology would prove to be such an inspiration? But so it is.

I can see the park by the bay as I write, and it is so amusing to see all the joggers early in the morning. There are those that amble along, dragging their feet, barely awake. Probably been dragged out of bed by unforgiving spouses and shoved out of the house to jog for health reasons.

Then there are those who would jog bare-bodied, no matter how puny their bodies, heart monitors stuck across their chests and on the arm. ( A lot of Singaporean men are undeniably puny). And when they pass a woman they puff up their chests, oh, just a little. I know this because I have seen them in action when I used to be a regular morning walker myself.

There are also the athletic types, who  probably run marathons, in their very fancy nike and adidas, both men and women, their ipods letting them set their pace. They look different, even from a distance.

And it is with them that I see the most interesting dramas played out everyday.

There would be one casual jogger or another who would be running along while these chiseled marathon types effortlessly passes him or her by. Most take it cool, but there are some that take it as a personal affront. (Women somehow never seem to take it personally, perhaps because they are not as naturally physically competitive?)

Then they put everything they have into their run, and cross the athletes with a superior look. After a hundred meters, they are huffing and puffing, and have  to stop soon afterwards. The athletes pass them by without a second glance.

Not unlike in school or office, where I have seen everyone always running for the first place.

Running to win is all very well, but it cannot be done in a day. The athletes did not peak their physical condition in a day and nor can anyone else.

But this is a truth we often forget, I guess, not only while jogging, but in life itself.

Writing mostly surfaces from the subconcious, and dreams are our window to our subconcious. Some of the most wonderful ideas can strike you just as you begin to wake up, ideas not necessarily practical, but with undeniable potential to develop into a story.

From the cusp of sleep and awakening it is possible to pull out skeins that can become anything you want it to, a poem, a flash story, a short story, a novella…. the sky is the limit.

I always keep a pencil and notebook handy beside my bed, and on mornings I wake up from a memorable, yet already half-forgotten dream, I make a few notes. That is where I get most of my imagery from, even sometimes for some of my most everyday articles. I was checking the internet for people who write dream journals, and I found an interesting one that reminded me of so many things about my own dreams.

Turning dreams into reality can work out even in the most literal sense.

To write a story, look for one in your dreams.

I went for a walk today, because had to make a call and the phone gave up on me. It was early, and people were out to get their bit of exercise, sun and companionship. As I sauntered along, I saw this rather serious looking old couple, straining to keep pace with each other, both actually walking very slowly, hand in hand, both definitely past their seventies.I do not know the secret to their success, I do not know if they thought of it as such a success, biding their time one day after the other, hand in hand.

But there has to be a secret. And I knew I had to write about it, if only because writing it out would sort out some things inside my head.

I thought about my parents, the things they tried to tell me, the stories they passed on. But by the time we begin to realise that our parents were so right in some of the things they said, we have our children already who disagree with what we have to say. That is the way of the human race, I suppose, of our evolution. But I wish there were certain recipes we all learnt, as unbiased, axiomatic truth.

I wish we learned that there is no replacement for human compassion and understanding, and ultimately, love. I wish we learned how to put others before us sometimes and not always think of ourselves alone. That, being human, we all need a tangible expression of the love people bear us. That all of us need consistency from others and the only way to get it is to be it.

I somehow cannot imagine love being born. To me, it is like an endless river flowing into itself.

All life forms drink from it. All of us drink from it, and some of us do so in excess. Becoming drunk, we want to flow with it. Some of these drunken spirits become Christ or the Prophet, and some Romeo and Juliet. But the human frame of body and mind is not capable of handling the excess, so we crucify Christ and let Romeo and Juliet perish.

I realize that intense relationships have to mellow down with time or are else unsustainable. To survive, they have to end in parting or as in the extreme and well-cited cases end in demise of one or the other.

A mating of souls does not allow the bodies to survive for long as these are used up as candles to the flame, and the flame is never stronger than when the candle is at its shortest.

So we cannot all have intense loves in our daily lives; not all of us are bestowed intensity and that is good for the survival of human beings as a race.

Imagine all of us being twenty-one and killing ourselves for love!

We cannot survive it to our eighties and still be madly in love, without the aid of some form of tragedy or deprivation.

So what do that bent old man and the upright lady beside him feel as they walk side by side?

Is it a form of habit? Is it getting used to the other person as one gets used to one’s favourite armchair? I would love to ask, I but am sure there are no correct answers that hold true for each one of us. We have to inividually work out our answers, our desires, our ambition, our wishes, our fondest dreams.

For me, I for sure hope I get to walk with someone I have cherished when I am eighty and the sun on my back seems younger than I am.