Write in the Vines: Franschhoek

A short few weeks ago, when the opportunity arose to enter a sample of my writing into a literary competition, little did I anticipate that I would be the winner of the writer's residency, and to be treated to the five day retreat, the delights of a fabulous little town named Franschhoek and a grand literary festival to follow, there.

I guess I only really believed that it was happening, when I was on the flight to Cape Town on Wednesday, 11 May.
And when I received a text from my as yet unknown co-residency writer, Verashni, that she had heard my flight boarding and that we would meet for the first time, on the other side (Cape Town Airport), the surreal was made tangible in some way. If one regards words as tangible, as I do.

Writing out in Franschhoek was nothing short of a spectacular experience. Not so much that I produced volumes, as this was not the case, but that I found my centre. I rediscovered that place inside that allows me to be one with my writing; with reason and motivation for the biography project, and with a renewed clarity of purpose. It had much to do with the people that I met from the time that I touched down in Cape Town. Verashni Pillay, a sparkling soul and talented writer, who was to be my housemate for the retreat and the gem of a woman with a passion for the musical talent in this country, Kerry Friedman, who was to transport us through the strawberry fields and vineyards to Franschhoek.

On arrival, we met our mentor and the retreat facilitator, Barbara Nussbaum. Lesley and Robert were to take care of us during our daytime hours at their guesthouse estate, Le Auberge Chanteclair; a place of beauty, designed for rest, inspiration and contemplation if I ever saw one.

By some coincidence perhaps, the four writers who had signed up for the retreat were all women, and included Michelle Watts from the UK and two Kaapenaars, Elsibe and Penny. It doesn't take years of studying group dynamic to be both enthralled and swept up in the awesomeness that was to embrace us in the days to follow.

And then, we were led to our place of rest; the 17th Century manor that Verashni and I (as the winners of the retreat) were to use as 'home' for the duration of our stay: Boekenhoutskloof Manor.
Set in the Boekenhoutskloof vineyards, in a valley encased in mountains and the scent of rejuvenation, we were treated to a rustic, beautifully decorated house fitted with all the modern luxuries imaginable. This included under-floor heating in the bathroom and a flat screen TV (the latter totally out of it's league, in my opinion). Sprawling front lawns and leafy vine-covered awnings surrounded the house to ensure that poetic content was well-balanced within artistic context. And wooden floors and gables enclosed antique four-poster beds to cradle us after a long day of writing.

Flighted as the gourmet capital of South Africa, Fanschhoek also made certain to take care of our taste buds. Allora made available ample food and transport to and from the restaurant. I'm definitely going to be trying out their Sandton branch.
The famed Reubens served us a gourmet finger lunch at Le Auberge Chanteclair on the first day. I think I just had bad luck with them afterwards, for having ordered a vegetarian meal, got served a beautiful looking salad with dried helpings of bacon chips all over it. And then the refusal, later on, to cash any of our vouchers. Still, it was generous of them to have written out so many free vouchers, whatever the resulting confusion had been. Salmon Bar's divine Franschhoek trout held some fascination as did the goodies I got to take home to Johannesburg. And in my walks around the town, I managed to discover the Village Bookshop and an local art gallery where I gathered an armful of books as well as painted greeting cards made by a local artist. She also happened to be the owner of the gallery, and when I enquired about the artist, she said, in fact that she was the 'poet' of the works. How enchanted, I was! I bought about 20 pieces, which I will write little notes of my poetry and send around to my dearest ones. I think I want to start by writing to my nieces and nephew. Just feel this urgency to pen for them; or to them. One day, they may just read all of it. Or they might feel the energy of the intention. Or something...

On the last day in Franschhoek, Verashni and I had yet to cash in our vouchers at an courtyard pub called the Elephant & Barrel, which turned out to be this convivial restaurant next to the Village Bookshop with tables and chairs set up in a courtyard behind the village shopping main road. We lunched there, with Nielfa and Razeen, and Khaya Dlanga of the twitterverse and other such media wonders, fame. Okay, not so tongue-in-cheek as it sounds. After having reached the ORT Airport, I have images of all these writer's mulling about waiting for bags to arrive, checking mobile phones and doing odd things like trolley-skating their way out of the baggage claim area ;)

Franschhoek. After those immeasurably inspired days in the vineyards of the Western Cape, I'm finding resistance in getting back into the swing of things in the city. Thanks to Razeen and Nielfa, I made my way through Maccassar on the way to the CT Airport, to stop for a few moments of contemplation at the Karamat of Sheikh Yusuf; all in keeping with the essence of the biography that I am writing, especially because there are - as I'm slowly discovering - these links between mutiny and spirituality.

I am overwhelmed, still, when I recall the events of the past week that were strung together, in the way in which they played out, and the discourse that has been lent to me. I am centred, once again, and even as the pendulum swings, I know that I will return to this, time and time again.

The writing journeys on.

Peace, Freedom and other wild fantasies

I've dreamed of peace and freedom ever since I was a little girl. That one day, things would change, and I would finally grow wings. It never happened.
But then, one day, I woke up and realised, that the thing I wanted more than anything, was to fly, and that that was never on the cards for a reason: I'm a human being, and not a bird or a unicorn or some ill-placed-in-time flying dinosaur. I'm a person.

And I learned that freedom isn't a different kind of mobility; it's a different way of being, a mind free of conditioning that's so lavishly lathered onto you from a very young age, and it's a demeanor of your own choosing. Freedom is peace. And peace, in and of yourself, is freedom.
I stopped dreaming of wings, and changed my focus.
I got wings, and dropped those ego boundaries.
I became one with Us.
You became Me.
Love became eternal.
The world reached the clouds.
Sky melted into the earth.
Life taught us Oneness. We experienced Peace. Love seeped into us.
We inherited a new legacy. We discovered anew: Freedom is.

Big Pics and Bigger Circles

I have flashbacks from my past, almost as though something from my past is repeating itself. Or just about to. You know how they say, when you reach that crucial moment in your life when it all comes together for you and you take a peek at a rushing stream of past, present and potential future moments all at once, a dizzying speed of images collide at one point. Well, not quite that, but still. That.

Without making any deliberate sense. I feel like that thing that happened then, and again later sometime, and one more time in the not too distant past, is about to happen again. Different, but the same. And I haven't the faintest clue why it is to be so. Or if it is just a figment of my imagination.

And of course, on cue, the same voice appeared out of almost nowhere, saying to me, well: this is it, happening all over again, because I didnt pay attention to the details the last time.
Oi.
Attention to detail? Are you kidding me?

Maybe it was the bigger picture that I failed to take note of.

That's it!

The bigger picture.

This is where I step back to get a better view of it all.

Breath easy :D

Lights. Camera. Action!

fail to see

you say that you cannot find me

and here i am
where i've always been

i am the poet

i am the ink

i am the bark of the tree

and that blade of grass

i am the wispy cloud
the gravel on the road
the hay stack

and the humming bird

i am the poem
and the pebble

and inevitably,
i am the rock.

i am also the
person looking
out the window
every now
and then

just
in case
you come home
again.

Faqir: short fiction lurking on my pc

The drought had lasted longer than anyone anticipated. The land was screaming for its thirst to be quenched. Cracks were appearing in the ground and on people’s faces.
Faqir Hussain’s business was to look at his hands. He lifted them up and wagged them at passers-by. The regulars were kind to him.
Modi the mithaiwala gave him ten; less if his wife was with. And Merchant sahib gave him twenty. On another day he had given him fifty. Jaggu the moneylender was too stingy to give anything. But he always asked him how he was.

Still, the drought was a bad sign. Rain made people’s hearts blossom, like roses. And their hearts dried up with the drought. Tempers flared, and friends bickered like nasty old women. It was the drought that made his hands ache for the feel of water. It was this drought that was making them ignore him on the footpath. Midday sun was burning holes in his bald head. It wasn’t that they did not have any money to give. It was the new footpath hero that they took trouble to notice today. His name was Ali.

Faqir's eyes wandered across to where Ali was perched like the last item of a street-vendors wares. He felt sorry for the boy. He had the face of a hero. A beautiful face. But he had to use his arms to move the piece of wooden board that held his torso. Two stumps pretended to be his legs. And three wheels from a rusted old supermarket trolley made the board mobile.
He was the one stealing the glances and pity from the people. He was the one causing this new drought in Faqir Hussain’s life.

Evening was already throwing a blanket over the land. Not a single coin. Not one rupee also. Faqir knew he would sleep on a feast of yawns. He leaned his back to the vandalised wall behind him. Some young goons had sprayed slogans of Aazadi on the wall. That was their only freedom. Hunger made him sleepy; it was easy to doze off. Until the sound of shouting woke him. The young boy was crying; three men kicked him, screaming for more money. They were Karim Khan’s men. It all made sense. Ali was one of the Lala gang’s victims. Faqir knew why he felt sorry for the boy. He was young and healthy. They must have broken his legs to make him more profitable. People paid for pain. They paid to make their pain go away. Faqir knew this better than the potholes on his bald head. He used the lines; “I will pray for your daughter’s happiness... May you live a long life... May Allah give your family a hundred sons.” And usually it worked. Nobody would refuse to give money if he said those kinds of things. Because what if they didn’t give money and the opposite happened? No one was willing to take chances like that.

But nothing could beat a young boy without legs. The gang knew that. He was their golden goose. Him and so many other children on the footpaths. They were all the dust on the dry pathways. It would take the rains to wash it all away. Rains would remove the drought. Young Ali was being carried off by the goons. Darkness covered the street, and people had moved to the other side to get away from Karim Khan’s men.

A drop of water trickled along the rippled skin on Faqir's head. He reached his hand out to see if it was a dream or a reality. A few more drops collected on his palm. The dry skin drank the water.

He leaned back against the wall. The gush of air from his nostrils slowed down; the pulse in his neck steady. It didn’t matter that the rain was soaking him. A body in that state doesn’t shiver. Sleep is like death. And death is like sleep. Each is a kind of freedom.


Copyright (C) Shafinaaz Hassim 2010

Notes:
Faqir - name/ direct transl: beggar (as a name refers to humility rather than ostentation.)
mithaiwala - sweetseller
Aazadi - Freedom

the circularity of blood and dust

Writing is farcical, if it is not able to create a shift in some way. It must, in some small way, undo the latch to the dusty box that is our potential, and reveal the raw material inside that seeks to become something majestic, at least.

Writing, just like anything else that we might do, is undue banter and rather superficial, if it is not accompanied by a whole range of purposeful conditions. Or at least, just one. A purpose. A need to adjust the everyday meander, dissolve the self-doubts and dissipate the fears of failing and of succeeding all at once. Writing is and must. Writing with a sense that something more must come of it. It must be loaded with that intention to do and be for the greater good; even if the path getting there is strewn with thorns. Writing is a vehicle and a weapon, a building and a bridge. Each might be used or abused; the action is fueled by the intent.

Writing, if you really think about it, is an act of worship.
It is a show of love. And a way to bribe the creative soul into production.
Writing is also a show of hate. A means to burn and destroy the wasteland of minds that prefer the route of the blissfully ignorant. It purges these, tearing unused sinews apart, washes away the rust and then forces the flow of new contemplation into the midst of these healing recesses.

Tedious tasks done, writing is the balm. The disease and the cure.
The bitterness and the sweet are found to be one.
Love is, life is, being is.
Bitter. Sweet. Bittersweet...
Living is.
Dieing is.
Bittersweet.
Living-Dieing.
Circularity breathes reason into being.
Writing gives it form.
The vehicle moves onward, transporting thought from one to another. Me to you.
A building of ideology soars skyward.
Glass shatters at a crazy altitude.
Someone slips.
Someone falls.
A grey suit hits concrete pavements of unreason; it bears the mark of the martyr. Red becomes brown.
Brown is earth.
Like ashes to ashes; like dust to dust.

Living is dieing
Dieing is living
Writing is Living-Dieing
Reviving the dust, the ashes, the blood and the being.
Re-creating, moving, becoming, seeing.

"Keep breathing. Everything else is a bonus."


Copyright 2009 Shafinaaz Hassim

*SN33ZE*

I write because its what I do. Like breathing, thinking, eating, being. Writing is something to do. It takes the dust from the sinews in the mind and scatters it just under my nose, makes me sneeze to release the collective phlegm. Get it out. And then, when the nasal passages are cleared, it allows me to breathe in the reality of a cleaner world. I take it all in. The stories from around me, and the data from within. I make notes. I present them to a greater audience. And it takes on a life of its own.

I write. Because I love the idea of feeling bloated with ideas and letting them flow through an unlikely orifice; the tips of my fingers. Like a secret door, they tap, tap, tap at the keyboard to undo the latch and let the words out. They burst forth then, spewing contempt, reason and appreciation all at once. Its a colourful blend, not always fit to smell the fresh ink of the printer's realm. But expressive and alive all the same. Sometimes the tap, tap, tap of these tips must be felt on a pressed leaf; sheaths of paper partake in their regurgitation and the force of the tapping is the inspiration for a charcoaled soul in a wooden body that must collate the tappers whispers into something solid, readable, drinkable. Pencil painstakingly carries this guarded duty, then.

I write because I must.
Drink. And be drunk on everything that life has to offer.
I write. And write. And forget to write. And then, I dream about writing. So I write.

Free writing is almost embarassing.
But. I write. Because. It's free.
Breathing should be just as free.
And thinking.
And being.
But for now, writing is.
Free.

PS: Apologies for the ramble. I'm spring-cleaning! *SN33ZE*


Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim (C) 2009

Cut

Life can cut you. And like an open fruit, you will be at some point, left bare; revealing the glory of guts to the elements. But this gross cut is a blessing in disguise. Why? Because it is at precisely this moment that it all starts to make sense.

For the first time, you are one with everything that ever was, everything that is, and everything that ever will be. Open to all that is, you will feel life flow through you. And you begin to get the idea that inspiration exists, because you do.

tests of compulsion,love and creativity

I have noticed something rather strangely appealing about the blog- and social media world in general. And that is, the worms that find their way out of the woodwork are outnumbered by the people who will leave notes of wonder and encouragement at your blog-doorstep, at precisely the moment when you need to read it most.

I have also paid attention to the trend of writing that follows the blog world, and the facebook/twitter updates that arise from various people across the globe. This is not some kind of discourse analysis of it all, just an awe-inspired sharing of my observations. I had a chat with one of my dearest friends recently, and I have to make the following comment; I believe that every person who lives on this planet, should in some way be able to sit down and write about their lives, even if it's just about one day that serves as a landmark day, their first love, animate or inanimate reference, their marriage, the birth of a child, the death or loss of a loved one. Anything. The hue of stories waiting to be told and heard are as countless as the experiences had by people in general. And once told, the shared stories will reveal a kind of continuum of life energy, humanity and spirituality that transcends the often imagined boundaries that we seem to find ourselves comforted by, and accustomed to.

I have been allowing alot of stress to filter into my life this past week or so. Which is undeniably unusual for me, because not only do I like having all my ducks in a row, but I'm a pretty easy-going girl for the most part.
Perhaps the two aren't exactly mutually exclusive; having ducks in a row makes for easy living, and less stress in the long term.

This is adrenalin on erm speed. Does that sound right? I didn't think so. Okay let me try that again. It's the good adrenalin of something that I am working towards, compounded by the not so good feeling that I may not make the self-imposed deadlines that I have now confirmed to a portion of the world at large. Makes sense? I'm being cryptic. I know. But it's temporary. Hopefully it will all be resolved, at most by the end of this week. It's yet another exciting project, about to be made manifest and one which has had some behind the scenes work for some years now. So here's hoping that it works out in the best way that it can. Taking into consideration my hectic budgetary constraints and all that.

Then onto the writing thing.
The biography project has become a slow and deliberating attempt to unveil the identity and being of a person about whom very little has been written, and we are relying on a large amount of primary data from people who held him in high esteem, but not all of them engaged with him directly. Needless to say, some worthy gems have been uncovered. One of my most trying recent interviewees looked me in the eye and asked: 'Are you serious about this work?' and 'Can you write?'
Most of these people are skeptics of a long-forgotten era. Some are high ranking people, used to business above pleasure. And many are almost 3 times my age. It's a more than forgivable skepticism. I was tested. And apparently I more than won approval at the end of it all. I was thrilled with the balance of the conversation, of course.

I'm editing more than writing, at the moment. It has been two years since my book 'Daughters are Diamonds' was launched at the Cape Town Book Fair. In that time, I have done many little things that seem to be adding up to delightful newness, and I have met myriad people of the same. Also, I have compiled two manuscripts in the last year. I am figuring out what to do with them :)

Much Love,
S

TeXTure

I met a woman who makes moleskins for a living. What an amazing way to celebrate words, I thought. And the recording of history, of course. But it's to be appreciated that this is a craft of scarcity; and more importantly, the most seasoned artisans are a rare breed.

We feel life in texture. So whether the words we read are made tangible in their way of evoking emotion, or whether it is that life grazes and grabs a hold of you, enticing you to in turn hold on tightly, we are meant to be aware of it's every moment.
Armchair travel rules the world. I believe that, firmly. Via kindle or good-ol-fashioned print runs that leave their ink on your fingers and your mind; the written word will forever stretch out into the Soul of the world and inspire in us things we may never dream of, even.

It's in wanting to feel life that life is felt out for us.

I am threading along with my beads of choice and happy to see the precious moments adding up to a worthy adornment. Life can be pretty thrilling, in it's ordinariness if we just take the time to stand back and admire it :)

S

"we are too vain to die"

roses are red, like the blood in my eyes;

violets are blue, bruised, bashed, broken as i am.

sugar is sweet; the taste of saliva and the chocolate in my mouth that hasn't been swallowed...

but life with you; a guilt edged sword making its way down my back and up again,
the tip pointing precariously towards that soft skin at the back of my neck;

waiting. to boomerang, and then to take the plunge.





ok the above was just a play on words, really.... using the already over-used roses-are-red quatrain. i am in the middle of editing my manuscript for the umpteenth time and my protagonist pain must be poured out here so that it doesn't burn a hole in my skin. so there. thats done.

first and foremost title credit goes to freelance hero. it's these words that, although gleaned from arb chat, got the wordy juices flowing. simply put, what occurred to me is that, ego is our canon of survival and transient life, but it's also what stands in the way of the soul's yearnings and wishes to reach that Closeness to a Higher Power in whatever way one might make Him out to be.

it is true, though. indeed, we are too vain to die. i can't disagree with those words. death is far easily seen as the fore-written event that we will make our way towards. He who made must unmake. it won't be of our own accord. but I am wondering about self-destructive tendencies in other walks of life... or even in this dance between life and death. we're a bunch of narcissists really. there's little choice in denying it. and so the space for vanity is further exploded. little wonder there!

like wildfire or flowing rivers.. who knows?

Kay is overwhelmed. She undid the sluice gates and now she's let the dam wall overflow. And it's been so much fun that the posts have gained momentum like a river and seem to be really making the rounds between the blogs. It all started at Kays place, a post called 'Ten things I'd like my unborn child(ren) to know'.

And a simple tag of a few names led to more of that. It's amazing what a list of things you might say to offspring can bring out the best and the worst in a person :P
Okay mostly the best.
As this little flow of words most certainly did.

Check out the stream:
In no particular order...

Antonio: The Spawn Shall Know These 10 Things

Aasia: ...Spawn of my Loins

Nooj: Lists

Waseem: No Beyonce Listeners Tolerated

Seher/AD: Baby You Hear Me?

Azra: On that Bandwagon.

MJ: Concerning Kids

Saaleha: some sage and thyme for the sprogs

KiLLa: Naseehat (Advice) to my Gunner..

Nafisa: Tag, ur it!

Sofi: The 10 Thing Tag

Freelance Hero: What shall I tell my kids

Nielfa: Listen to me and Listen well..

Organharvester: The ten lessons I would teach to my kids..

Veritas: 20 things I want my kids to know

Edge of Where: simple 10

Mangoes & Mint: Things my sprog should know...

Randomness Infinite: 10 things I want to tell my unborn kids.

Zesty: For Abdullah

Dreamlife.wordpress.com posted his at the comment section of my own (previous) post in the same thread: 10 or so things I may impart..

Hasina_S did her own review of the works and added to the fun with Womb with a View in her own eclectic and awesome style :)

If I have ommitted anyone or there are still more to come, please leave a comment at this post. I think most had fun doing this, Even those that Grrr'd at the tag ;)

Thanks Kay! This was fun. Energies were shared across the veld in a veritable Fire. And like i said, its amazing what comes of a simple ten :)

Much Love,
S

the summer of sweetness

After that night, she hated him. It took her three months to drag herself, bit by bit, out of that rut of hatred. Because the way she saw it, after all the time that they had known each other as children, it took one moment of hormonal tugging; one sordid word from the woman who wanted him, to make him cast that evil look upon her face. It burned her. Then the scar remained, revealing itself to her everytime that she looked into the mirror. Renewed loathing filled her being. Tears refused to sting her eyes; she wouldn't waste that salt on him. Not anymore. She was adamant, but still it was a struggle to fight back the waters of sadness. Her bottom lip took the brunt of it, revealing beads of red in place of simple salt water from higher up. The taste on her tongue was the same; aside from the colour, blood and tears were the same, she realised.

He wasn't her brother. Nothing tied him to her, irreverently. They weren't lovers. Love was this strange word that could so easily distort the purity of the friendship that they had cultivated since they were each less than a metre high. She supposed that such was the nature of soul connections. A knowing with certainty that the other person was a certain way, today but perhaps not tomorrow. Having an inkling of an idea that they needed to hear something said at a particular time. Or that they needed to be simply left alone. It came with time, and patience, and listening. It came with caring, because she was sure that even some married couples didn't quite get to that point. Married couples? What was she thinking, they were not a couple. They were childhood friends, thrown together at a time when innocence was the glue and adventure was the energy that grew them on the same branch of life's tree. Two unripe mango's laden with promise, and waiting only for the summer of sweetness to claim their moment in the sun; their moment of fame and glory.

It was something that everyone was entitled to: that precious time at the prime of one's life when all potential and wonders are revealed to a world that never knew of your existence. The only ones who knew were the ones who grew you to this point. With water and light and care. With tenderness. Just like he did for her, and she did for him.

And what happened then? The fork in the road. The split in their journeys. The look of disgust in his eyes. Those last words, spat out like something bitter and poisonous lingered on his tongue. And then nothing.


(Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim 2009)

bits of broken glass

bits of broken glass
lie in bitter crystals,
reflecting
odds of life
that were never had
accept in the flowing
lines of milk
that look like
a snorters envy
if u don't look carefully...

bits of glass
scattered on
the porcelain floor
were once a part of
something grand;
the pride of the
glass-blower,
the finery of the
lady of the house.

now fluted crystal
lies abandoned;
lacking arrogance,
reeling along
a shiny surface,
looking innocent
but lurking;
waiting for
bare footed carelessness
to trample over glittery specks-
now vengeful,
waiting
to reclaim
the blood and sweat
of it's maker.

bit's of glass
once fit for the mantle
are now turning to dust;
bit's of glass
once found joy in
grandiose delusion
are returning, home
to You.

I want to be!

I want to sit on the rooftops of another world while the sun spreads its wings on its flight to the other side; I want to watch as a dusky night descends from the hues of pink and lilac, and sometimes pale shades of turquoise.

I want to be overwhelmed by the confusion of wondering which side of the horizon we're standing on; and which one flies around us.

I want to merge with this one-ness of up and down; sky and ground.

I want ego to know that it will lose its place - that place is a material thing, really. I want spirit to know that it belongs to You, eternal.

How foolish is this ego trap: Spirit knows, of course...

I want to sit on rooftops of your world, still. Feeling the glory of love's raindrops washing me of my inhibitions.

I want to close my eyes and dream; and then open them to the realisation that the dream is tangible as ever.

Difficult, but not impossible.

I want to see how abstract presence can become a solid reality; feel the sand of promise run through my fingers and fall at my feet in a sea of wholeness.

I want to dream.
I want to feel.
I want to live.
I want to be.

Tick, Tock, Skull-duggery...

Tick, he said. What makes you tick?
Read me. Easy as a book.
I tick. Like that clock

of time

that wants the world to twirl its hands around me;
as I curl my hands around it...

anti-clockwise to the beat and then
in mock mimicry of the moving sun
wiping the upturned bowl finger-licking clean,

then

bopping down and up. up and down.

What makes me tick? Ha!

I think I evaded that
quite nicely;

But I can tell you in two ticks

What ticks me off!

Lol. It's all those two bit
ticks and tocks that pretend

to move

hands towards the sun
then point and flail and flounder;
the intent to tick, tacky and torn...
then fall still pointing, to the ground.

Tick. Tock.

Wonder why.

It makes me tick.

It ticks me off!

It tickles me, tog.

It toggles me, sick!

What makes me tick?

Indeed. I told you so.

Now tell me why?

:P

many elves make light words

"Jesus, where the hell is everybody when they first deliver the typing paper? Where are all the "helpers" when those boxes full of silence come in? Blank. Both sides. No clues, no instructions enclosed on how to take just twenty-six letters and endlessly rearrange them so that you can turn them into a mirror of a part of our lives. Try it sometime."

-Larry Gelbart

I loved todays quote. (Scroll down page to see my daily-writer-quote widget thingie.

Anyway, it got me thinking... About how lonely the writing process can be; and yet there's a whole new world of fantasy and creativity open to the writer. And then, when the sheaths of paper are sitting in front of you, some black and white ramblings crawling over the once blank canvas; you the writer need to do some publishing. Well, in the world of publication, you will meet two types of person.

It's not all that complicated.

There will be some who will shun your work. That's expected. There will be some who will be downright rude. You will not get any straight answers. Or you will get the worse end of it. They all fall into the broad category first kind.
And then, there will be those second category ones who will be your angels in disguise. I say disguise because they're not always obvious. But every once in a while, you will cross paths with them and feel their warmth. Simple emails, a note, a word, a comment at the right place at the right time. Whoever doesn't believe in the single thread of energy that binds us is in denial. It's really as simple as that.

Some writer friends have had some wonderful experiences in the creative world. And some have had some horrendous and heartbreaking ones. Life toughens you. But this is a whole new schoolyard!

Someone thanked me last week for a piece of simple information/advice. Simple, but relevant at the time. And since information is never our own, just more energy to be shared along the way, I did just that. Someone has done good things for me before me. And hopefully the person I passed this on to, will do the same further along the line. So then, no need for elaborate thanks. It's enough to know that the spirit will just keep going. I am rewarded every day. How else will I show my appreciation?

So, here's to writing.

The free-est thing: Eleven Minutes: p96

I forgot to mention in the previous post, that the story of Maria in Eleven Minutes, is also biographical. Paulo Coelho met her in Geneva, through his agent. here is another profound extract from Maria's diary:

"If I were to tell someone about my life today, I could do it in a way that would make them think me a brave, happy, independent woman. Rubbish: I am not even allowed to mention the only word that is more important than the eleven minutes - love.
All my life, I thought of love as some kind of voluntary enslavement. Well, that's a lie: freedom only exists when love is present. The person who gives himself or herself wholly, the person who feels freest, is the person who loves most wholeheartedly.
And the person who loves wholeheartedly feels free.
That is why, regardless of what I might experience, do or learn, nothing makes sense.
I hope this time passes quickly, so that I can resume my search for myself - in the form of a man who understands me and does not make me suffer.
But what am I saying? In love, no one can harm anyone else; we are each of us responsible for our own feelings and cannot blame someone else for what we feel.
It hurt when I lost each of the various men I fell in love with. Now, though, I am convinced that no one loses anyone, because no one owns anyone.
That is the true experience of freedom: having the most important thing in the world without owning it."

Hmm.

i am you, alright...

you are

that fresh breeze
playing with the curls in my hair,

that tinge of sunlight that
leaves gold dust on my skin,

that rustle in the wind
of the grasses before
the summer rains...

that dainty twitter
of love birds
meeting each other after
a time.

you are
that moonlight
dancing on the surface
of a crystal pond,

that gleam in the
gems that glisten on
my earlobes...

that sound of
life just awakening
to its wholeness.

you are.

i am.

and i am you.

but you are.

in my cd shuttle...

"Dhard mein, bhi yeh labbh
muskhura jaate hein...

beethein lamhein hamein
jabh bhi yaad aateh hein..."

I love that song! And I have it in three mixes. Thank heaven for little brother with his rotating CD collection.