Susan Abraham - Malaysia

Note - August 6, 2011

For the interim or at least for the next few weeks, please catch all my book posts at Sausan Reads where I shall be posting my thoughts. Thank you.

Picture Story - A Rush of Colour

Ireland's talented florists know how to turn any humble sidewalk into a glorious mini-garden, a carnival or even parade if you like. Seduced by the rush of colour, I fished out my Android for an amateur shot of this scene on Grafton Street, one of Dublin's more fashionable districts, tastefully moulded for both window shopping and a flamboyant cafe culture.

Photograph of flower stall on Grafton Street, Dublin © copyright of Susan Abraham

As Things Are

Its been close to two weeks since I've returned to Ireland and I think that the jet lag left me properly about four days ago. I woke up, having completely lost my fatigue and extreme bouts of sleepiness & even a couple of mild sensations of nausea - yes, it was really bad this time - and was thankfully, treated to a lot more renewed energy and a restored interest for the visions I  had planned to pursue.

I won't be sending out my manuscript submissions until the month of September when the autumn season sets in. I've just remembered that August is still very much - and possibly at its peak - England's vacation month. There is certainly a major drop to the number of book talks and signings during this time. Lest offices be half-empty, I don't fancy the increased chances of my submission for the slush pile, by having my story lost somewhere, on a thick waiting stack.  I'll use August for polishing up my manuscripts and also for engaging in other writing projects.

One thing that I'm really happy about is that with this new refreshing vibrance, about to envelop me for days on end, I have gone back to reading books with a vengence. It's not even been a fortnight yet and I have already bought several titles from the bookshops and just this morning, went along to order 5 or 6 more specialist titles with regards to Arabic literature, published by independent houses in London.

I'm a big spender when it comes to books and as one of the new luxuries in life afforded me, I stay unrepentant about this sacred joy. I believe I have contributed in a major way to the upkeep of traditional print, from my book-buying episodes here in Ireland and also elsewhere. One of my greatest passions is book-collecting which supplements my varied reading interests.

After several months of disruption - thanks to certain unwelcoming issues & circumstances in my life - I am now back to really celebrating translated Arabic and Persian fiction once more. For a while, I had completely lost the mood and inclination.  In a nutshell, my interest in books has been renewed to wanting to talk and write about them and to return to reading my favourite British book bloggers like I used to do so fervently,  in the past.

I realise too that all my deep loves never really go away. No door to a beautiful episode in the memory, is ever sealed. There will never be a closure. I say this because something very old and tender about Italy has returned to me.  Once more, I am suddenly drawn to the flamboyance and enduring charm of its old-world culture.

I remember now, that my serious interest in world literature in that very astute, grown-up way, first started when I lived in Melbourne, Australia and was often attracted to the romantic and passionate pre-war Italian films shown over the SBS channel. It didn't count that I did indulge in a fair bit of Chinese literature, back in the Nineties, while still in Kuala Lumpur. After all, Chinese culture forms an integral part of Malaysian life, so I consider my reads than a natural and certainly, the most ordinary thing. Till the present day, my passions for both world cinema and literature stay closely connected. My interest in Nigerian novels was also fuelled with the abundance of Nigerian films, I so enjoyed watching, while in Tanzania especially in the later part of 2008.

Picture Story - My Library

Here's a tiny portion of my collected books. I do love the clutter.

© Photograph copyright of Susan Abraham

Intermission

My additional Wordpress Blog, Sausan Reads

I've opened an additional books blog on Wordpress, something I've always wanted to do but never found the time and this with a far more serious intent, in my approach to world literature.

It's called Sausan Reads and aptly so. Sausan is  both the Persian and Hebrew versions of my first name, Susan. It  means the lily or lotus, but of course, my mum had told me this years ago.

I find the title really apt as it helps me pay homage in a proper perspective, to the universal arts.

Originally, I always intended Typepad to step into this role and ambition, but it's turned out to be a more personable hub on general reflections of books, writers, diary jottings and other things. But I also don't think that I was ready for serious critic. Now that I'm back in the blogger's and writer's seats, I want to push myself further as a book reviewer, reader and writer; to dare myself if you like, to think outside the box.

Now, I won't stay too much because you can read my intentions for yourself on Sausan Reads. At the moment, I've just created the shell of the blog which are the necessary introductory pages. Although it' s not an author website, I felt some personal details to fringe forthcoming posts, were necessary for a kinder intimacy; especially when faced with first-time readers.

Sausan Reads will holds lots of new thought on books and films but also act as a complete portfolio for all my favourite book reviews of the past, especially those pertaining to Iranian and Arabic literature in English.

Many of the posts there will be duplicated over here on Typepad, except that Sausan Reads does feel a lot sleeker and cleaner. However, because of the differing personalities of each blog, many of the forthcoming general posts on Typepad, will not be replayed on Sausan Reads. I won't delete any  of my really old blogs, that have been left to pasture. Let them stay on the web for posterity sake, if nothing else.  Someday in my old age and while huddled rather gaily deep into my rocking chair, I may yet steal a glance over my shoulder at my amateur posts, for an uncontrollable chuckle.

Back in a Bit

Dear Readers,

I shall be back with a book post later this evening. My bookshelves have now turned into a proper treasure island, offering a personal meditation by default.

I continue to be held stilled at the rejuvenation I soak in from a long gaze at the rows of lovely titles; some of which I shall read here, some that may play stowaways at the bottom of my travel luggage later on and yet, others that would bide their time for a distant, yearning twilight, measured in the shape of a different season, when a new hour and mood beckons, for pages to be turned.

In a nutshell, all stay my beloved companions 

Then of course, there are my films and music. The  other day, I bought some hypnotic beats that featured the Tuareg people of the Sahara and this, performed by a  popular band from the Niger. 

I was overwhelmed by the loud, harsh songs, all emotionally rendered and which immediately reminded me of Libyan novelist, Ibrahim al-Koni's memorable Sahara desert folklore of a young Tuareg man and his  piebald camel, in Gold Dust. The plot had led to a tearful end and I was still melancholic at swiftly recalling the tale and subsequently,  pondering on the harsher melodies, that appeared to fringe the protagonist's earlier lamentations.

I suppose Dublin playacts the perfect sanctuary. It is its literature that acts as a marvellous reservoir, for my rest.  Had I been in Malaysia, it would have been the superb Kinokuniya bookshop at the KLCC in Kuala Lumpur, that would have wooed my artistic passions and spoiled me rotten, in the process.  I  shall a little later on, be travelling to Australia.

I intend seriously get back to blogging with book reviews and interviews that I have promised a few. I have not logged in to Facebook since Tuesday evening and like to think that I have made a successful temporary escape until I have got my blogs and writing life, back on track. You would be most likely to understand if you observed how vibrantly I used to post links on books, writers and the publishing industry and also, interact with others.

Eventually, I sensed that energy was slipping down the wrong route and could not shake off this despondency. I encountered the sudden sharp ache of my solitary writing world which I must add, was once-upon-a-time rather enchanting; and from where  left to my own devices, I had long discerned a serene marriage to  my inner voice. My tight-lipped Muse had now begun to feel left out and finally, summoned me furiously.

And so as I tweeted yesterday, I now find silence and time finally afforded me, like prodigal diamonds, once lost in the dark but now eagerly awaiting the sound of my footsteps.

I have also managed to clean up the first half of my sidebar up to the part, that currently displays the novels & poetry, I have read so far.  The child in me that has read voraciously from childhood, has been reborn all of this year, but how that actually happened, I shall never know. Perhaps she never really went away. Still, what my sidebar list says to me, is that such a wonderful life may be had from life's simplest joys.

Captivation

Today, I fell in love with the books I bought, the glorious bookshop that housed my waiting stack so lovingly and the enchanting spring sunshine that trailed a welcome parade with colourful performance theatre and musicians in tow on Grafton Street, Dublin, which I like to think was conjured up, just for my books and me.

I may have been stranded somewhere romantic for a South Pacific Christmas, had my quaint surrealism counted for anything. But there, I was swinging my weighty little haul in a handy books bag, with miraculous strength...such are the celebrations of enthusiasm, delight and the tempting allure of a whimsical cafe culture, invented from dreams and imaginings.

I am the true bookaholic. How could I not be by now, with the vibrant burst of my uncontrollable artistic passions, for all the world to see. I think nothing of shopping for books and world art cinema, every other day, as a more feminine individual would hoard up on shoes and bags. But then again, I too, was once like that while working as  a frenzied fashion magazine journalist in Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. 

Now,  I play the sedate if not sporty dresser, preferring to read my novels with sober devotion and watching my films with apt diligence, that none may exist of a guilt trip. This afternoon, as my broadening interests would so shamlessly lend themselves, I picked up some valuable vintage Penguin paperbacks which I shall talk about another day, a fair bit of classics too that included John Conrad's sea stories and jungle adventures...think Borneo and a tome of the most delightful G.K. Chesterton omnibus.  My bookish interests and choice of subjects are growing ever the wider, no thanks to the constant travel that insists on broadening my horizons, by default.

To all, I stay enraptured.

Which is why I think from tomorrow, I shall aim to open an additional blog/site with a more serious intent than my Typepad one, could ever from now, earn a reputation for. 

I'd like to have more stringent categories that signal my present bookish tastes which now lie in the broader fields of adventure in the way of explorations, voyages and expeditions. I'm also reading a fair bit of science...especially one that would purport itself to Nature.  Today, I picked up Peter Forbes' Dazzled and Deceived, a major work on Nature, that won itself the Warwick Prize recently. Then there is Angela Saini's Geek Nation.

I find my reading interests determined to spread itself out like a fan that may still lie half-opened and poised for a dangerous stretch of the unknown. I've grown interested in Inuit (Eskimo) culture and also literature from the Far East, Asiatic, Africa and especially and always, the most overwhelming of all; the vast Middle-East region. Where films are concerned, I'm currently watching West European cinema.

Typepad is a subscribed blog and it earns fantastic listings on Google Search and also allows the blogger to receive immediate personal support, in the way of difficulties.  But common sense tells me that a free site would likely preserve my work for the entirety, long after I'm gone  from the world and no one would need to remember to pay subscriptions on my behalf.

Of course, my Typepad still goes on and the other site would be far more professional and industrious with a sharper critique. I'll run those posts here as well. I really would from now, like to build up a serious portfolio of thoughts, reviews and even the odd literary journey.  I've never had this inclination before on any of my older blogs. Of course, travel helps the individual evolve much faster than someone who prefers the quiet life in a parochial community. I have been on both sides of the coin and really marvel at the difference of my hedonistic days now, that have become so beautiful and peaceful and where  layers of thought and emotion, continue to revel in their riotous carnivals, with each ensuing day.

Credit: This wonderful picture of books is courtesy of the ever-generous FreeStockPhotos.

Back in the Game

Caption: Picture for display only

I'm still trying to get my books blog or rather, how I want to reflect my life publicly as a writer from now onwards, sorted.

At the moment, my mind would will itself to masquerade a merry whirlpool  spun to an inner zealousness, while prompted by a noisy happy gush of excitable torrents and the thick of a maddening crowd, lost in its scrabble of half-finished stories and reflective encounters.

Not for me then, I'm afraid, the long languid pose of a tranquil ocean that may shy away from a surf.

I'm still trying to get my act together and it's satisfying to know that at the moment, I'm managing well.  Yet, there is to be no rest for me as I had earlier hoped, while in Dublin. While I aim for hedonism, my passions still count for diligence and hard work.  The irony of freedom is that my only chance of relaxation now will be on an international flight, armed with a familiar caressing turbulence, a good book and headphones.  My next destination is Australia and I shall be landing upon my once favourite haunt, at the peak of winter in the Southern Hemisphere.

At the moment, with all the confidence of a traveller safely imbued within my spirit, and with my first little book of poetry and prose, Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam nicely published in England last Christmas - please see sidebar - I'm now returning to my old life as a creative writer and this mission, I'm glad to say has happened naturally.

I'm reading voraciously, watching some good world cinema and am now making an effort to concentrate on my books blog. It's a glorious spring and the outdoor beckons but the call of my writing voice is stronger. I'm also hoping to contribute to critical reviews especially with my thoughts on translated Arabic literature, as I once used to.

Honestly, I am one of those who really would appreciate being holed up somewhere, so that I could write. At the moment, I'm working on my next book but have discovered several half-finished stories, I had attempted on, while on a sudden burst of creativity in 2008. I have also dug up a long lost stage play, about 1/3's of the way already written. This proves a forgotten inspiration and over the years, I have lost many scenes.

I am regaled, excited, nervous and while working seriously on the next book, cannot wait to get to others. Last night, the state of my writing table aptly reflected what I had become. There were two laptops on my table...one which I no longer use but holds all my earlier stories. Also, it has its own charm and hoards more amateur memories. Then there is my sturdy HP. My Sony Vaio is not being used at the moment. A quick  glance also revealed a couple of reference books lovingly scattered about, a mug of half-finished coffee, pencils, pens, a cell phone,  reading glasses,  headphones and scribbled notepaper.

To my side, lay my beautiful bookshelves. At night, I tossed and turned, while generally I have no problems with sleep. I was mulling over the book I was now working on, to an extent of unneccessary stress and nervousness. But I loved the feeling and this mood of slight irritation and aggravation, I had now found myself in. I used to wear this very hat, once upon a time and while in earlier years of travel when I had lost the inclination to write, had longed for this phase to return. But now, here I am in Dublin finally shrouded by a perfect writer's environment and days of peace which feel strangely, renewed, rejuvenated and cleansed.

I'm back in the game.

Credit: Picture of old-fashioned writer's desk, courtesy of My Dear Desk.

I'm Back

Dear Readers,

I'm finally back to my superb temporary Dublin season of books and films. I'm finally back to writing on my blog again. I think my last post had been February 2 or thereabouts.

My absence had lent itself to a certain circumstance. You would never know me to stop blogging otherwise, for a length of time. Last November, I went through a certain betrayal from a fellow writer, I thought was my friend. Someone much older than myself, female and whom up to that point, I had respected greatly. Some shabby actions conducted against me behind my back, really threw me off.

I think it hurt more because I had been so generous in my support of her in recent years. But this episode which has now in the present turned to thankfully, nothing more than a shadow in the past,  also helped me greatly in making me a stronger, wiser soul. I had good friends around  - from different countries - who were there to listen and with a little help from my Christian prayers,  I finally got over it. I went through the shock of this betrayal for months - I think up to early March and my feelings of pain were greatly intensified during the time.

I couldn't write and sought escape only in books. But my travel at the time, was a wonderful ointment for distress. Travel especially to difficult continents, keeps you alert and on a high energy drive.  I'm a veteran at this so it really helped that I was at airports and in planes a lot. I was in Malaysia, Singapore and Tanzania, but I also did fly to different cities within Malaysia and East Africa.

While in Tanzania for five weeks, I took part in my favourite adventure sports and also continued with my personal charity work in the slums, that in turn, took up a great deal of time.

 So let's just say the downside was that:

a) I found it painful to write or talk about books in my blog for a good few months from January to March. I found it difficult to blog about anything at all.

b) I wasn't able to promote my newly-published book at the time, titled Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam, which had the good luck of being taken up by a small publisher in Britain. I stopped everything.

c) I was often subdued and not my usual merry self.

d) For a time, I also became ill from the shock and couldn't eat much.

 

But now for the Wonderful Upside of this Experience:

a) I became wiser, more attuned to the idea of mutual respect in all my dealings, even if they were just brief acquaintances.

b) I became more cautious in my choice of friends.

c) I no longer support unethical writers especially if by grace, I have excused their dishonest actions that have affected me directly in the past and on their part, they have continued to show no remorse.

d) I knew who my real friends were and stayed admirable of those who were loyal or willing to make a stand for me.  The rest I realised, painful as it may be, shouldn't matter in my remaining years.

e) I had more good friends than bad. I had friends everywhere who cared - those who knew I wasn't my usual self. This proved a great buffer point for me, on the subjects of calmness and inner strength.

f) While I had stopped promoting Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam, I found Google to be an excellent promoter for me. At this moment, if you google my title together with my author name, you'll find an excellent choice of international listings from online booksellers including nine Amazon countries. Not all authors published by small publishers, get lucky in this way.

g) I sought so much escape in my lovely lovely books that I bought a great deal of world literature , all the time I travelled and just can't wait to share my thoughts on all these marvellous titles with you.

h) I also renewed my love for world cinema and while Iran and the Arab nations - especially Palestinian cinema stay my passions, I have been watching some art films attributed to the Chinese and India and also of late, French, Italian and Greek. I'll be penning my thoughts on these films.

h) I'm starting once more, to promote Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam where I abruptly stopped off and am now, writing my second book.

i) I'm grand and back to my usual cheerful self.

PS: April 8th 2011: I forgot to add that one vital thing I did learn from this episode was to never discredit an admiring reader. Oh...how little one knows that with multiple book lists that abound these days, readers are increasingly difficult to find. Oh...you may get someone who pays to read you for the first couple of rounds but a reader who lasts the course with a writer....that's no easy feat at all. And for that reason alone, I shall always pay respect to any one at all who reads and likes my work for the long haul.  Such a camaraderie with all its shortcomings, is a still a gift and priceless.

 

Update

Dear Readers,

Sorry, I couldn't return.  I was ill in Kuala Lumpur with some food poisoning,  almost all of last week. I ate something wrong, although I'm sure I focussed on the most ordinary meals  in the cleanest of places and I think this is the 3rd time, its actually happened after a direct Ireland route.

I also found that unlike before, I needed a good few days to adjust to the climatic conditions. The severe humidity constantly felt like thick billowing smoke wafting all about me, while in the outdoors. I was decidedly uncomfortable.  I think this too, had a lot to do with the sudden change from being engulfed by sub-zero temperatures, for several straight weeks in Ireland.

To make matters worse, the 24-hour wireless in the hotel I'm currently staying  at, wasn't functioning. In the past, things have always been perfect. As a result, I had to rely on internet cafes as I prefer a big screen when writing. I found the closest internet cafe, offering a rather poor system and would have had to catch a train downtown, if I wanted to write all that I did on the web. Naturally, I wasn't feeling well enough, to summon up the enthusiasm.

During this time, a small string of tweets on Twitter was the best that I could manage. I also stopped Facebooking for awhile, although I hope to be back on it soon.

 Well, things are much better now. The 24-hour wireless at this little quaint hotel, has been thankfully restored to its old efficiency. The food poisoning's gone and  my vibrance returned. I've also collected my flight ticket for Africa, made the desired hotel reservations, sorted out the currency exchange, shopped for the usual outdoor gear at my favourite British India boutique - that spots just the right adventure clothes for African safaris - and attended to other oddities. I only brought one luggage with me, so that's not much to pack at all. I still have a few days handy before I leave.

I'm glad I didn't waste time during my unexpected interlude, but read a fair bit. In the last week alone, I finished four books. This being two big novels titled  Lyrics Alley by Sudanese novelist, Leila Aboulela and Leaving the Heart Behind by Malaysia's Joan Foo-Mahony. I also read one other short story collection, revolving around the elite Straits Chinese culture in Malaysia, called Kebaya Tales and written by Lee Su Kim as well as a recent Singapore publication comprising slightly erotic short stories, called Love and Lust in Singapore.

Now, I was to have gone to Singapore myself today, but wisely decided to postpone my trip until my return from Africa. The sunshine is back in Kuala Lumpur and gone are the murky days and overcast clouds. Everything looks and feels far more brighter than otherwise.

At last, I feel compelled to write. I still owe my publisher, two manuscripts. Yesterday, I picked up another Malaysian travel memoir called A Backpack and A Bit of Luck by Zhang Su Li. I felt drawn to reading this writer, who thrives on catching unexpected detail from a sensory approach. In this aspect, my reading would be considered diligent industry,  as I wanted to catch some idea of a vivid structure as to penning travel stories, especially when one travels erratically like myself and all kinds of unexpected things happen in-between.

February promises to be a hectic month for me but I am so up for the exciting ride, especially in the knowledge that my work will heap satisfying rewards in the future. I shall pen a few notes before Africa but will probably wait till I get to my next destination and start again, with my book posts.

January 28, 2011

Lady Bug Note Generators

Note

Dear Readers,

I have no blog post for today, but have written a post in my other blog, Voyage on a Page, pertaining to thoughts on travel. If you would like a read, please do click on the link. I shall have a post on books shortly.

Voyage on a Page

Dear Readers,

I have another Wordpress blog, called Voyage on a Page, that doesn't just involve books. It will hold more of my writer's personal notes, upcoming projects and travel news. However, it was opened only recently and I haven't written much in it as yet. It is so new that I also haven't yet introduced myself or my book. Still, this is ideal to describe my upcoming travel movements & activities.

I chose the colour red during the time of the snow blizzards. Perhaps subconsciously, everyting around me seemed to look too  white. I tried to change the layout, appearance and colour last night but that simply failed to work for me. I feel the bright red shade, does carry a sparkling memory of December, when my partner Des and I spent many good times together. It carries a little of my once-upon-a-time soul.

We got to know each other all over again, as he helped me through many dodgy pavements, that were covered with ice, for days and days, that turned into weeks.  So naturally, there is that romantic element. When I travel and I look at the red site, I shall remember Des, wherever I am.

I have held back from opening an author's website as yet, because I am capable of so much more than just this one book. I only made a recent comeback to writing. Hence, I shall wait a few more months and with more achievements, I feel my website would better reflect my ideals. But for now, a working Wordpress site is ideal. Typepad should be solely for books.

I'm Almost Set to Fly

Caption: Pictured is one of the books that I shall be taking with me, to read, possibly in the plane or my hotel room. It's a collection of culinary adventures worldwide, from those in the know and published by Lonely Planet. You can find out more about A Moveable Feast here. I am really keen on tying my journey, to a broad theme.  Perhaps creating a personal passage based on the celebration of colour or literature... but something quite significant and I'm still racking my brains about it.

Dublin 13-1-11: Today at noon - because I often write into the wee morning hours - I woke up to the scent of an invisible rose. My spirit felt light and  serene, my dawn rest seemed perfect and I knew it was time to fly.  I love this inner  wanderer's element when it may appear almost surreal, that far from settling on flight dates a good few months in advance; it is my calendar that mulls over my time and routes, just a week or days beforehand. 

That as a traveller, my suitcase should never be properly unpacked, that I must always be going to somewhere, having first arrived from somewhere else.  How I have managed a home in spite of my nomadic madness, is amazing.

A January dusk is a beautiful thing and strolling along the shoppers' pavements  today, I was aware of how the world was finally intent on spinning again without fuss, busy rising now, into the shape of a shiny new era. Like a  feisty baby eventually agreeing to be cajoled for yawns by a favourite lullaby;  the weather too had now started to behave itself, while  establishments and schools, began whirring into motion without fuss.

Clearly, it was time for me to go.

I am often in my element as a passenger, in airports and on planes. In the last few months, I had missed the excitement of a fervent and restless  bustle that highlighted an atmosphere of  energy and liveliness.   Once more, I would pace the soft marble feel of the departure lounges or  boarding gates, that would capture the rhythm of my footsteps, as I journeyed on against the grain of convention, feeling terribly elated.

In this I meant, moving away from predictability and so avoiding the clutter of airport baggage and surge of crowds, as may be often found, during summer vacations and festive holidays.

I'm so excited about travelling yet again for the umpteenth time...I can't even explain it. The emotion makes for a thrill that thumps at my senses. I am almost like a child,  a night before a trip to the ocean or even Disneyland.

My memories of these last few months are almost perfect. One delightful thing the snow blizzards have taught me, while measured against a barren wintry landscape of ice for miles around, is to celebrate the vibrance of colour. And for the first time, I shall also take my  published book back to Malaysia.

Now, speaking of books, which is what this blog should truly be all about, I don't think I'll have time to read any for now - maybe just one. .. and the next opened pages of a novel, should then find me already, at the airport. I do see myself  on a plane, a week from now, so that's not too far away.

But please don't give up on this blog yet. God willing that if all goes according to plan, I should be in Dubai at the start of March, for the Emirates Festival of Literature. And then I shall be able to blog all about my favourite translated Arabic literature. And also, to buy stacks of books.  Now, you may understand why I shall be leaving Ireland with a light suitcase.

Than and Now...

Dublin 10-1-11: When I was younger, still resided in Malaysia  and hadn't yet bumped into a mischevious wanderlust bug; I conjured up all of   my bookish/writerly dreams that were fastidiously drawn to a merry hilt, with a gallant imagination and a little help, from the British Council Library in Kuala Lumpur.

The library section of the British Council in Malaysia is now tragically closed but during its heyday, proved a thriving establishment for enthusiastic book lovers, all of whom stayed eager to indulge in a fair show of splendid literary works from Britain. We were allowed to reserve the newest titles in good time, which meant a reader's keen desire could easily be met.

Clearly a bookworm, I turned up as sure as day, come rain or shine with which to sum up my cheerful attendance, with as much regularity as I dared muster.  Without a doubt, I longed for those intriguing bookshelves that proved a consoling solace to propping my chin up, during a couple of tough situations that surrounded me.

Sometimes, I would even bump into old acquaintances at the library. We would make our way afterwards to the nearest cafe, down the hilly slope and up a busy thoroughfare.  Then like unperturbed wanderers from a Garfunkel song, we stayed into the long afternoons,  lost in coffee and chat.  Oh...for the good times! This normally turned out to be  the start of the weekend.  Still, it was a spell when I taught English in a college in Petaling Jaya, during a pleasant interlude, that proved one of the kinder aspects of my life.  I remember a thankful, flexible schedule. 

These times constituted for a couple of years when I went through a phase of spending almost all of my hours, with my nose happily buried in a book. I swished my skirts up to a high song. I danced, entranced, enthralled, enchanted and charmed by turns, at all the different worlds that opened up before me...at  the bunches of flowers  placed in my braids and thrown at my feet, by varied characters who partied and turned my rather humble home, into a boistrous and cheery Italian garden affair!

Call the moonlight, whistle up the serenades, hum to a guitar strum...why, they were all there!

Today, I look back upon this wistful season, as a personal chapter, heralding bliss and the embarkment of my first journey into the inner self.    Now, I realise that I had wilfully devised an industrious routine that worked excellently.

The library would only ever allow us four items at a go, including audio.

I slipped into a habit of picking up a contempary novel for the first one.  That would be my cherry on a cake, so to speak. I received endless pleasure from reading all of the late Dame Iris Murdoch novels, Kingsley Amis, his son, Martin Amis and several other memorable works, including those by Jean Rhys, Elizabeth Jane Howard, Margaret Drabble, Penelope Mortimer, Rose Tremain etc.

My second item would be poetry...this would result in slimmer bound volumes by Sylvia Plath, Vernon Jarrell, Muriel Spark, Ted Hughes, Peter Potter, T.S. Eliot and so on. My third item alternated between a stage play and an English classic. It was the moment for a luxurious dab,  akin to something as beguiling as forbidden scent.   Here, I would consider a literary experiment. 

In this classification, I read almost all of Charles Dickens, Mrs. Gaskell and the Bronte sisters.  I also tried modern classics like the  staid Elizabeth Boven and the dry caustic wit, to be found in the novels of Ivy Compton-Burnett. 

My fourth item would be subconsiously deemed a learning curve... I decided that this would be a chunky biography or any other work of non-fiction, that led me into the yet hidden ,private lives of novelists, short story writers and poets I admired.  In this category, I settled for devouring almost all of the beautiful moving letters and diaries penned by Virginia Woolf and her husband Leonard and also the biographies of the Beatles and Beatrix Potter - the famed children's writer, as a chosen few.

I would stick to this invisible timetable, with each borrowed pile and they would circle my soul  in cycled rings, steadily measuring up a dutiful efficiency.

I feel a little long in the tooth now but as my memory would so will me, here then were my swift remembrances.Perhaps the fact that I had to return these books...that I was only allowed to behold their beauty for no less than a priceless minute on borrowed time; was what made my precious stacks, all the more enticing, urgent and necessary.

Oh, what a lovely, carefree time that, the entire episode would sum up my idealistic nature to be; one that was now more sober with its many lingering introspections, but at the time, a  simply capricious mood, that would direct and coax me on to my present hedonism many years later.  Now, that I recall initial episodes and the time of friendships that wound around this fleeting spring, it was here that my dreams for books and travel, although very much a fledgling, began to seriously  sprout wings.

 Now in Dublin and on the brink of travelling to a few authentic cultures, I think I should embark on this method again. Dear readers, my reading timetable has gone completely awry. Worlds upon worlds have opened up, nestled in tempting habitats in my heart, staying close to each other, urging me on to greater adventuring and discoveries.

Now, the difference was that on that occasion many years ago, I remember being deeply passionate about British literature and staying puritanically exact with my reading choices  that did not divert from being studied and meticulous. Yet, I literally had myself a ball.

Supposing now in 2011,  I imagined that my library was not my own. And that the bookshops were all enjoyable spots, for my taking in some way or the other. I think with my interests so eclectic and bravely panned out, I should settle for the following:

10 book items at a time - at this moment, my interest wears thin on audio and plays. Notwithstanding, here's my perfect reading stack for 2011.

1. A desired contemporary novel published in Britain.
2. Either an Arabic/Turkish Diaspora or Translation - Novel/Short Stories
3. Either an South Asian or European Translation - Novel/Short Stories
4. Either African or Far East Literature - Novel/Short Stories
5. Either an Iranian diaspora or Translation. - Novel/Short Stories
6. Poetry (contemporary/pastoral)
7. English Classics - might choose a novelist & complete a series.
8. Work of Non-Fiction Pertaining to Biographies, Letters/Diaries.
9. Work of Non-Fiction Pertaining to Explorations, Voyages & Expeditions.
10. A little Arabian folklore...

This list demonstrates my broad and enduring interest in literature at the present time. This has resulted from my own inner joys, a destiny moving without complaint in the way I have cajoled it to, while embodying a spirit of thanksgiving and just my infectious thirst for life...to taste my days abundantly, in the way that I have chosen to live them.

It's really quite interesting. I've also decided that I'll be flexible in the sense that if I feel enraptured by my own reads or spiritually drawn to certain stories - and this has happened before, for instance,  when I first stepped into translated Arabic literature in mid-2008 - then I'll throw caution to the winds and just continue reading on that specific theme or subject until the warning hint of exhaustion wears me down - not in a harsh way at all, but one just knows when it's time to stop.

 

One Technique Creole Taught Me in the Art of PenningTravel Literature

Dublin 6-1-11: While lost in the rapt mood of a hushed, exciting eternity that threw itself into the tidy rolls of a new calendar date, I read and finished  Creole a 153-page novella, translated from the Portugese by Daniel Hahn and orignally sketched by the award-winning writer José Eduardo Agualusa; at one  swift sitting in the early morning hours, of New Year's Day.

I was held in awe by the seductive quality of the story and the lingering tenderness of a character's yearning, the kind-hearted aristocrat turned impulsive adventurer of the high seas; Fradique Mendez, who would eagerly tie his fate to the bliss of imagined romantic nights and fluid kisses, once  landing upon the shores of Angola.

Engaging myself with this brilliant book, that served to concern itself both with the end of the Portugese slave trade and an unexpected love  affair between the impetuous Mendez  and the unruffled but enchanting Ana Olimpia - a former slave girl - that stretched from Angola and Brazil, to Lisbon and Paris, then as hearts would be so tested; I too held my breath for the couple's sake; that their romantic fictitious destiny and because the era of the late 19th century proved a dangerous time; be kept safe.

Still, this is not a review although I will say that the plot spelling nail-biting drama and adventure, is narrated in the first person by Mendez himself and later, Olimpia in a series of letters to various sources but especially from Mendez's hand in numerous diary episodes to his grandmother.

Olimpia is saved from her slave-girl's fate by marriage to her wizened old master bearing property and all the right desires in his humble hopeful heart, with which to educate Olimpia in languages and necessary academic subjects, that she may prove a prized asset and one rightly beheld of his enduring adoration.

Sadly, he dies. This is followed by a sudden sorry state of affairs and  a series of chaotic, colourful encounters. Mendez will eventually win her heart and she will give him a good marriage, although she may from time to time appear from the outset, a little distant, well-humoured and  kindly  in disposition perhaps one more akin to a morose charwoman, rather than that of a flirtatious exotic lass, whipping up the teasing mercurial passions of a woman in love. 

The other half of the plot deals with the complex, political acumen of the slave trade facing its murky end and the eventual drawbacks, arising from the shocked rebellion of certain slave traders, smugglers and masters.

*******

Creole turned out to be a marvellous blessing for me in getting down to brass tacks for my art.  Its heaped a shiny enthusiasm on my new fervour especially towards the writing of travel literature, for a new book I'm contemplating.  There are my planned Kilimanjaro memoirs but I want something  a little more brazen to the occasion. I'm just trying to decide on the region and theme.

In this respect, I have been engulfed by mirthful reflections one way or the other, since my first book of verse was published so unexpectedly two months ago. I've been searching myself, wanting first of all to indulge in a creative writing process, that celebrates a highly broadened, liberal platform of my accompanying Christian faith. It helps that I am naturally an optimistic individual but also a sober realist, when a specific situation calls for that conduct.

From Creole, I learnt that descriptions that make for a narrator's  modest flaws and clumsy episodes would work just as well,  in transporting a reader, in  that splendid striking way, to an effective sense of place. This, without the usual enticement of a persuasive cajolery, bordering on the lure of allurement.

For example, Mendez's description of Victorino, the ancient-seeming slave master who first married his beloved, Ana, is described, not with neat politically-correct imaginings but hence in the exact straggly way that he was seen to have been.  "...He was tall, slim with a long face, a very wild, very white beard which cascaded down over his chest, an excessive contradictory character, whom I heard..." - Creole.

Now, this had me brimming with happiness, because how often the very erratic and eccentric characters, I myself have met in East Africa or even better still, Zanzibar, have been so similar in personality, not with appearance but with that recognisable wildness.

Another terrific example for instance of show-and-not-tell is of how Agualuso would paint a party crowd, far more the enthralling spectacle than a masqueraded affair and not as you would suspect, drawing on dapper outfits.  "... I was invited to the Governor's Ball... an event of great splendour, noise and show... In the halls of the palace you can see honest traders mixing with exiled criminals, children-of-the-country with blonde European adventurers, slave owners with abolitionists, monarchists with republicans, priests with masons..." - Creole. How wonderfully I snapped the picture... right on cue!

And of a bossy wicked lady, a huge, lumbering woman who kept alibino girl slaves for a sadistic hobby..."A mouth drawn so wide, that the teeth wander round it/in a state of agitation..." - Creole. Now, if this didn't remind me of Alice in Wonderland's barking Queen of Hearts. I shuddered a little to think of  this loud nervous woman, that may have been just about to pounce on me.

Agualuso also taught me of how physical beauty could be demonstrated to a dazed, willing reader  by the use of vivid imagery...and of how each exquisite feature that represented a woman's being, could possibly be drawn out with deliberate charismatic slowness...step by step, like an artificial flower being crafted with painstaking effort....a petal at a time.

Over here, Mendez describes his first impressions of Ana. "There have been moments in my life - dusk falling on the Alps, an evening in Asmera when I surprised a jaguar, right in front of me, ready to pounce, there have been moments which made me feel the proof of God... ....when I first saw her, I felt the very same emotion." - Creole.

I can't wait to employ these valuable lessons in storytelling for my own tales. Creole was of course, fiction but how realistic the descriptions of travel and adventure, of peoples met and places savoured. Now travel literature accounts for memoirs that are real, but then as they say, isn't truth itself stranger than fiction. Employing the same tricks would make truth rise to its worth...beguiling and captivating without really trying.

Feature: Nature's Gifts Don't Wait for Christmas

Dublin 1.1.11:  Oh, what delicious gifts December brought me.

I speak not of the honeymooning pair of winter wrens, who have taken up residence in the compassionate trees, laid out in gardens of old-fashioned houses, a stone's throw from where I live. 

Then a few icy weeks ago, the tiny birds' only chattering demands were for somewhere warm where wings could tenderly cover heads all huddled close and nested properly,  in between the comfy branches that entwined themselves as crooked blankets.  This, during  the carefree intervals  between those naughty blizzards

Now, to demonstrate gratitude and when a jovial mood would so prevail, they do indeed choir up the dawn every single day, atop the highest twig, swishing their short tails about, challenging the mighty gale and playacting a carnival dance.

I speak not also of another pair of lovebirds if you will; two merry blackbirds with their sunny beaks who welcomed the wrens, the female with her buxomy speckled chest, offering not jam or tea but a repertoire of birdsongs and gossip, chirped about in low, mellow tones tut-tutting about nine to the dozen - of course, I could hear every single cheep -  a thing or two about the annoying snowfalls. They too seem intent on romancing the silver skies when the ice fails to find its place.

Again, I speak not of two lovable cats with jolly bells around their  plump necks, who pad along the same trails every evening - all the time, one a stranger to the other - before disappearing into a wooded thicket  where a respective elderly mistress's stroking hand awaits, together with a crackling  fireplace and a milk bowl at supper-time.

But excercise too must be taken faithfully and so, these cats come their appointed time, must pad the ice, frost, snow or mud  with awkward gaiety, formed from habit and not at all, necessity. 

Before the winter set in, a cunning fox was to be seen dashing out the carpark, scared to death of flashing headlights but quickly regaining its composure and pretending a regal gentlemanly stroll, once it caught me spying out the window.  Well... I never!  Of course, I was doing no such thing but simply drawing the curtain that enfolded itself, from the dark dusk.

Perhaps then it was the ethereal landscape of a street I had now resided in for 3 years. A street that had in the blink of an eye, mischeviously harlequined up a harsh, romantic landscape for its Noel card scene. Oh...the long stretches of ballgown white! A dainty flutter  of a showy flake here  and a swish  of light dusting there.  Too much powder splashed on, just about everywhere. It turned out that was nothing but snow and ice for miles on end.

In fact, how perturbed the retired ginger tom would demonstrate its stout strut to be and how fearful of the snow queen, the beleagured sooty one as it anxiously surveyed the strange spectacle before making its daily leap up a stone ledge.

And I drank it all in, this beauty of nature's champagne that was given to me for free...

***********

Perhaps then literature called one icy morning when the world stood still, the snowstorm had stolen away momentarily and there lay treacherous ice everywhere. The television news had warned people to stay indoors, unless essential travel proved necessary.

My street had turned into a Christmas card, complete with tinselled glitter, courtesy of the blurred sunlight. Smoke from the chimneys, church bells peeling in the distance, restful snowflakes like icing bedding on the old-fashioned rooftops, snow doing their clumsy ballet spins on shrubs and trees, lamplights and parked cars...anywhere really, that a frozen carpet would choose to gatecrash in its lofty brazen manner and make a luxurious rug look small.

What an ethereal landscape! All around me, the bewitching scene spelt of a rugged romantic beauty.  All my childhood winter tales came flooding back.

I thought I would take a walk to the shops so I wrapped up warm and I went. With each footstep, the pathways became a little more slippery. Finally, I telephoned Des. Things were already becoming a lot worse.   I was already quite a distance from our apartment. It took Des a good 15 minutes to where I bravely stood, if one counted waiting for the lift.

Later, I would learn that many people fell and suffered fractures. That one of the Dublin hospitals had to open an additional theatre, just to ward people with bad falls. The clinic further up my street, attended to dozens of outpatient treatments than was the norm, I was told. I managed to do the wise thing, not to move any further but to stand where I was and wait for Des. He was far better than I was, at manouvering the dodgy pavements.

It was at that moment, that strange early hour of the afternoon when I finally saw Des walking towards me, calling my name and smiling... fair-haired and grinning broadly and I, held against such an extraordinary landscape with mannequin-ed patience, fell in love with three things all at once.

I fell in love with my street and my apartment. I fell in love with my suburb, lock, stock and barrel.  It had carved a special December story just for me and one that I would remember always, no matter where the world would find me in years to come. When in Malaysia and Africa, I would recall each flake with endearment. 

In that split second, I would fall head over heels in love with Des all over again, that pleasing beating of my heart armed with awed gratitude and  slip-sliding without its roller skates. My gentle hero on his way to rescue me.  I felt wound into the rhythmic motions of an Enya song.

And believe it or not, at that very moment I fell headlong in love with Artic literature!

I held on to Des's arm and we walked on slowly to the shops. He taught me how to watch out for the dangerous jagged sections and that what appeared seemingly harmless, was obviously not so.

I felt alive and rejuvenated with a new feminine energy. I was in an Enya song. I had stepped into a painting, from where as an artist, my palette brimmed over with whiter shades of pale.

Our scenery was totally alien to anything I had seen of my three years  on this homey Dublin street. The sky masked no end. Light snow was still falling to a blustery.  Few brave souls had ventured out in these sub-zero temperatures.

We were all so tightly wrapped up, only sanguine faces could be spotted.  Of course, this wasn't Dublin's normal winter gear at all. The mood turned sublime.  I felt a hushed peace with all the world but as we walked arm in arm, I could think of only one starry-eyed thing to say to Des:

That 'as soon as the ice thawed, I would be heading out to the bookshops to buy a collection of Artic literature.'   I shone  in my Pingu moment.

 

*********

Now, I must tell you that as a child I had loved Artic literature. Stories of the Eskimo (Inuit) people and their wonderful igloos would offer eternal celestial imagery. My father would buy me picture books and regale me with ticklish stories of penguin, seals, whales and the clumsy walrus.

 Later, life took over and I forgot all about those times.

I was a zealous reader deeply into British fiction.  In restless years, I felt spiritually called to it. There were many occasions when contempary British novelists would challenge my perceptions and broaden my waiting soul with daring visions of the unknown.  Such a tonic could only mean that my intuition for serious reads worked very well for me.

You see, I know my own mind very well. I'm a voracious reader but never been too good with other peoples' recommendations or compelled at any time at all,  to pay homage to nominated book lists, worshipping them as the gospel truth. 

If I do become party to these things as many readers love to engage themselves with, I lose a sense of my own inner voice. But when I make a book journey alone, my choice of titles become my greatest friends and teachers. This is how I've always lived out my destiny as a writer and reader.  Wait for that affectionate spiritual voice...that says...these are the stories for you, the worlds the universe would want you to enter.  My destiny has never failed me.

 In 2008, in Ireland, I became quite suddenly drawn to translated Arabic and Persian literature. I was watching an Iranian film One Night by Niki Karimi and I was bowled over by the  simmering atmospheric encounter of a Tehran night in the town. I entered the enchantment of the Arabian world of poetry, cinematic arts and folklore like a child spellbound by rows of transient lights. There has been no turning back. Once I embrace a passion, my passion learns to love me for a lifetime. And so it has always been. Now, that was in 2008.

Finally, here it was again, that thrilling bit of excitement that handcuffed me to literature and rocketed me to the skies. I have developed an interest in the environment...in the whole idea of global cooling. Perhaps I caught more than a safe touch of the Artic wind but now, both Antartica and the North Pole fascinated me. I had toyed with the idea of Eskimo folklore last year but now, I couldn't wait to find out more.

I did go to the bookstores just before the New Year holidays and I picked up two fascinating books. I'm a careful buyer and there was a specific science to why I chose these two books.  The bookshops will be opened once more tomorrow, so I'm going to buy more.

My focus this year will have Artic literature added on to it. I'll just show you the two books I bought for now and explain them in a new post in a day or two. They really deserve a post of their own.

How enthralling that if it wasn't for that fleeting instant on that day to the shops,  I would never have stepped into this surreal new door.

I'll just tell you one thing though. That I was the only woman, in that bookshop section the other day, looking for books on the Artic Circle.

You never know, dear readers, when life will suddenly dab you with its stardust, but nature's gifts thankfully, never wait for Christmas.

And so for me, it all happened when I  stood there, on that  glassy stretch of ice, on that strange early hour of the afternoon when I finally saw Des walking towards me, calling my name and smiling... fair-haired and grinning broadly and I, held against such an extraordinary landscape with mannequin-ed patience...

 

Credits: Free picture of wren, courtesy of ReusableArt.com. &

Picture of blackbird looking into nest from HowStuffWorks.com

 

My 2nd Reading Challenge: Foodie's Reading Challenge 2011

I found Margot's words to be terribly wise when she said that the whole aspect of a reading challenge is to push ourselves beyond what we think we can do. Thus, I'm signing up for her Foodie's Reading Challenge 2011. You can catch all the  juicy details by clicking on the link.  Basically, this flexible challenge allows for all kinds of food writing ie. cookbook, memoir, a novel that may be centered around exquisite dishes; just about anything that leans towards a mean mouthwatering curry or  a delectable pudding. I already own some exciting epicurean literature.

In this context, I'll dare myself for the Bob Vivant level.  Even studying four books would be an accomplishment for me. I'm new to this and would have chosen Nibbler but I really want  to push myself beyond a predictable scope of thought.

In the last year, I've experienced a gradual interest in culinary journeys... I adored Jamie Oliver's culinary travels through Italy but my favourite had to be Britain's celebrity chef, Gordon Ramsay and his televised series featuring ,The Great Escape.  Here, he had meandered along like a brave trooper to the little known regions of India and created an energising memorable journey, what with his many sizzling encounters with wary tribesmen and the apprehensive territorial chef on the street.

So here I go once more, with the humble omelette to cheer me on.

My First Reading Challenge for 2011: Into the Old World Reading Challenge

I am looking forward to vibrant reading challenges in 2011 in addition to personal writing projects and travel. After much careful thought, the first one, I'd like to sign up for is the prospect of a delicious encounter with endearing older reads in Into the Old World Reading Challenge. A marvellous title that tempts me already into running down a noisy time tunnel promising adventure and colourful escapades.

The challenge is being organised by the Splash of our Worlds & My Love Affair with Books blogs.

The challenge runs from January 1, 2011 to December 31st, 2011. The idea is to read books that may have just been left on the shelf a little too long. Anyone can participate, even non-bloggers and the reader is allowed to add or delete titles as they go along.  Any book published before 2009 will be accepted. Do click on the Challenge Link above, to find out more.

We have to present an initial list so here is mine... a list of 10 to start with, but in no particular order and I shall plunge into the lot as the mood wills me.  For this challenge, I shall stick to titles already on my shelf, and what a splendid idea as agreed, earlier, that a bit of spring-cleaning may be had in the process.

1. Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter.  (1984)
2. Clear Light of Day by Anita Desai  (2001)
3. The Crocodile Fury by Beth Yahp (1992, Australia)
4. Dreams of Water by Nada Awar Jarrar (Lebanese author, UK, 2007)
5. My Father's Notebook by Kader Abdolah (Iran, UK 2006)
6. The Moving Toyshop by Edmund Crispin (first pub.1946 & 2007 editions)
7. Almost Transparent Blue by Ryu Murakami (1976)
8. Anthills of the Savannah by Chinua Achebe (1987)
9. Once Upon a Time in Malaya by Chong Seck Chim (2005)
10. Abraham's Promise by Philip Jeyaretnam (Singapore, 1995).