A Winter Meme for Jefferson Davis

I was tagged by Jefferson Davis for this meme.
Ipanema, I will do yours shortly too.

For now, I'll tag Anna Hood, Atyllah the Hen, Jason Evans, Sage, Wilf's World (Addy), BluJewel & Rockdog (but up to you all!)

Five Things I Love & Hate About Winter, Winter Holidays & the like:

Love

1) A January Dusk: I love strolling along the pavements on a January dusk in London. In the last 3 years (except this one), I stayed in South Kensington and could get to my flat either on the Gloucester or Cromwell roads.

I still remember that pleasant feeling of thinning crowds and melting laughter, as diners walked to restaurants and people returned from the trains. You felt you could saunter forever into the darkness, catching faces but staying happily mollycoddled from a fleeing inner peace.

There's something special about a January dusk in London, there is. The cold air breathes a temperature that's just right for exhilaration and not at all punishing on the senses.

2) A Dress-Up: I love dressing up. Winter coats. Leather jackets and my favourite black leather gloves. I have extra pairs as I tend to drop gloves and casually lose them at unexpected moments. It's a 4-to-1 chance that if I'm lucky, someone tends to come running up afterwards, panting heavily. Yes, I'm a brisk walker even while ferrying a piping hot coffee. I often take long winter walks along the shopping and bookshop streets when in London (from Marble Arch to Leceister Square in the West End via a tempting Charing Cross road) and Melbourne (the famous Elizabeth & antiquarian Flinder streets).

3) Port: A glass of port and a good book. My favourite time in the evenings. I find winter most conducive for reading novels, psychological thrillers and some good crime. I also like memoirs, a touch of heavy history and poring over art books. I blame Hatchards - London's oldest bookshop - in Piccadilly for introducing me to this delicious sin. It's their extravagant displays that stay fatal to my wallet.

Still, everything seems to fit in with the comforting sober mood. A glass of port? No, my friends, the truth is 2 glasses of port, at least.

4) The Entertainment: I like the social activity of going to the theatre or cinema, more so in the winter than at any other time of the year. Watching a performance always makes a winter mood appear more surreal afterwards. I also enjoy stopping over for dinner with friends and choosing a good wine. I love red wine that compliments my winters very well and having a rich chicken piece or cheese to go with it. Right or wrong, that little menu is sadly, habitual now.

I would enjoy drinks in the evenings too, most days.

5) Writing: I write very well in winter more than I would at any time of the year. My senses stay constantly alert in the cold and I love that blissful feeling of achievement afterwards.

Perhaps not hate but Dislike

1) A Scary Memory: Once on a night in London on Cromwell Road, when I crossed the direction of an oncoming wind and made a sudden swerve to turn around. I don't know why I did that actually.

Though wrapped up to the nines but feeling strangely chilled to the bone, I almost froze there and then. Can't explain. I shivered violently but tried to hide it from the crowd. I could hardly stand. I braved a few steps up the nearest building to hold on to a wall.

I managed to make my way to a shop I knew and the concerned owner offered me a warm corner and a hot drink. It helped somewhat but I remembered feeling colder then I normally would, as I proceeded to gingerly trod the rest of the way back to my flat. I had to measure my footsteps slowly and carefully. Never forgot that experience.

2) Stripping: Taking off all my winter gear in a department store's tiny dressing rooms when I go shopping afterwards. And often, there's a queue. Think handbag, gloves, shawl, boots, coat, turtleneck top...oh my God, what a bother! A sales assistant in Melbourne once told me that she felt the same irritation herself and could completely empathise with me. That made me feel a whole lot better.

3) The exploitation of the festive season until the entire Christmas episode turns me into a numb block of ice.

4) Christmas made-for-tv movies that suddenly spring to life during the winter holidays and many of which are often very silly.

5) The slippery slush (only applies to England and my time spent in Rome that commands filthy slush) on pavements and cobblestoned streets. Of course, of course. All highly-dangerous for someone as clumsy as me.

A Winter Meme for Jefferson Davis

I was tagged by Jefferson Davis for this meme.
Ipanema, I will do yours shortly too.

For now, I'll tag Anna Hood, Atyllah the Hen, Jason Evans, Sage, Wilf's World (Addy), BluJewel & Rockdog (but up to you all!)

Five Things I Love & Hate About Winter, Winter Holidays & the like:

Love

1) A January Dusk: I love strolling along the pavements on a January dusk in London. In the last 3 years (except this one), I stayed in South Kensington and could get to my flat either on the Gloucester or Cromwell roads.

I still remember that pleasant feeling of thinning crowds and melting laughter, as diners walked to restaurants and people returned from the trains. You felt you could saunter forever into the darkness, catching faces but staying happily mollycoddled from a fleeing inner peace.

There's something special about a January dusk in London, there is. The cold air breathes a temperature that's just right for exhilaration and not at all punishing on the senses.

2) A Dress-Up: I love dressing up. Winter coats. Leather jackets and my favourite black leather gloves. I have extra pairs as I tend to drop gloves and casually lose them at unexpected moments. It's a 4-to-1 chance that if I'm lucky, someone tends to come running up afterwards, panting heavily. Yes, I'm a brisk walker even while ferrying a piping hot coffee. I often take long winter walks along the shopping and bookshop streets when in London (from Marble Arch to Leceister Square in the West End via a tempting Charing Cross road) and Melbourne (the famous Elizabeth & antiquarian Flinder streets).

3) Port: A glass of port and a good book. My favourite time in the evenings. I find winter most conducive for reading novels, psychological thrillers and some good crime. I also like memoirs, a touch of heavy history and poring over art books. I blame Hatchards - London's oldest bookshop - in Piccadilly for introducing me to this delicious sin. It's their extravagant displays that stay fatal to my wallet.

Still, everything seems to fit in with the comforting sober mood. A glass of port? No, my friends, the truth is 2 glasses of port, at least.

4) The Entertainment: I like the social activity of going to the theatre or cinema, more so in the winter than at any other time of the year. Watching a performance always makes a winter mood appear more surreal afterwards. I also enjoy stopping over for dinner with friends and choosing a good wine. I love red wine that compliments my winters very well and having a rich chicken piece or cheese to go with it. Right or wrong, that little menu is sadly, habitual now.

I would enjoy drinks in the evenings too, most days.

5) Writing: I write very well in winter more than I would at any time of the year. My senses stay constantly alert in the cold and I love that blissful feeling of achievement afterwards.

Perhaps not hate but Dislike

1) A Scary Memory: Once on a night in London on Cromwell Road, when I crossed the direction of an oncoming wind and made a sudden swerve to turn around. I don't know why I did that actually.

Though wrapped up to the nines but feeling strangely chilled to the bone, I almost froze there and then. Can't explain. I shivered violently but tried to hide it from the crowd. I could hardly stand. I braved a few steps up the nearest building to hold on to a wall.

I managed to make my way to a shop I knew and the concerned owner offered me a warm corner and a hot drink. It helped somewhat but I remembered feeling colder then I normally would, as I proceeded to gingerly trod the rest of the way back to my flat. I had to measure my footsteps slowly and carefully. Never forgot that experience.

2) Stripping: Taking off all my winter gear in a department store's tiny dressing rooms when I go shopping afterwards. And often, there's a queue. Think handbag, gloves, shawl, boots, coat, turtleneck top...oh my God, what a bother! A sales assistant in Melbourne once told me that she felt the same irritation herself and could completely empathise with me. That made me feel a whole lot better.

3) The exploitation of the festive season until the entire Christmas episode turns me into a numb block of ice.

4) Christmas made-for-tv movies that suddenly spring to life during the winter holidays and many of which are often very silly.

5) The slippery slush (only applies to England and my time spent in Rome that commands filthy slush) on pavements and cobblestoned streets. Of course, of course. All highly-dangerous for someone as clumsy as me.

A Winter Meme for Jefferson Davis

I was tagged by Jefferson Davis for this meme.
Ipanema, I will do yours shortly too.

For now, I'll tag Anna Hood, Atyllah the Hen, Jason Evans, Sage, Wilf's World (Addy), BluJewel & Rockdog (but up to you all!)

Five Things I Love & Hate About Winter, Winter Holidays & the like:

Love

1) A January Dusk: I love strolling along the pavements on a January dusk in London. In the last 3 years (except this one), I stayed in South Kensington and could get to my flat either on the Gloucester or Cromwell roads.

I still remember that pleasant feeling of thinning crowds and melting laughter, as diners walked to restaurants and people returned from the trains. You felt you could saunter forever into the darkness, catching faces but staying happily mollycoddled from a fleeing inner peace.

There's something special about a January dusk in London, there is. The cold air breathes a temperature that's just right for exhilaration and not at all punishing on the senses.

2) A Dress-Up: I love dressing up. Winter coats. Leather jackets and my favourite black leather gloves. I have extra pairs as I tend to drop gloves and casually lose them at unexpected moments. It's a 4-to-1 chance that if I'm lucky, someone tends to come running up afterwards, panting heavily. Yes, I'm a brisk walker even while ferrying a piping hot coffee. I often take long winter walks along the shopping and bookshop streets when in London (from Marble Arch to Leceister Square in the West End via a tempting Charing Cross road) and Melbourne (the famous Elizabeth & antiquarian Flinder streets).

3) Port: A glass of port and a good book. My favourite time in the evenings. I find winter most conducive for reading novels, psychological thrillers and some good crime. I also like memoirs, a touch of heavy history and poring over art books. I blame Hatchards - London's oldest bookshop - in Piccadilly for introducing me to this delicious sin. It's their extravagant displays that stay fatal to my wallet.

Still, everything seems to fit in with the comforting sober mood. A glass of port? No, my friends, the truth is 2 glasses of port, at least.

4) The Entertainment: I like the social activity of going to the theatre or cinema, more so in the winter than at any other time of the year. Watching a performance always makes a winter mood appear more surreal afterwards. I also enjoy stopping over for dinner with friends and choosing a good wine. I love red wine that compliments my winters very well and having a rich chicken piece or cheese to go with it. Right or wrong, that little menu is sadly, habitual now.

I would enjoy drinks in the evenings too, most days.

5) Writing: I write very well in winter more than I would at any time of the year. My senses stay constantly alert in the cold and I love that blissful feeling of achievement afterwards.

Perhaps not hate but Dislike

1) A Scary Memory: Once on a night in London on Cromwell Road, when I crossed the direction of an oncoming wind and made a sudden swerve to turn around. I don't know why I did that actually.

Though wrapped up to the nines but feeling strangely chilled to the bone, I almost froze there and then. Can't explain. I shivered violently but tried to hide it from the crowd. I could hardly stand. I braved a few steps up the nearest building to hold on to a wall.

I managed to make my way to a shop I knew and the concerned owner offered me a warm corner and a hot drink. It helped somewhat but I remembered feeling colder then I normally would, as I proceeded to gingerly trod the rest of the way back to my flat. I had to measure my footsteps slowly and carefully. Never forgot that experience.

2) Stripping: Taking off all my winter gear in a department store's tiny dressing rooms when I go shopping afterwards. And often, there's a queue. Think handbag, gloves, shawl, boots, coat, turtleneck top...oh my God, what a bother! A sales assistant in Melbourne once told me that she felt the same irritation herself and could completely empathise with me. That made me feel a whole lot better.

3) The exploitation of the festive season until the entire Christmas episode turns me into a numb block of ice.

4) Christmas made-for-tv movies that suddenly spring to life during the winter holidays and many of which are often very silly.

5) The slippery slush (only applies to England and my time spent in Rome that commands filthy slush) on pavements and cobblestoned streets. Of course, of course. All highly-dangerous for someone as clumsy as me.

Notes (3) - On writing my play

I find the notion comical where if written in the first person a story or poem appears decidedly lifelike and real and not at all the fiction that it secretly represents.

Yet it's amazing how when you use relative pronouns like he & she, the tale than turns into a promising fantasy, even if it were true.

A play offers no palpable excuse.

The characters emerge all at once, like figures from a painting or shadows stumbling down the wall.

One feels with no hesitation on scribbling dialogue, that that these suddenly odd and interesting humans, have stepped out of paper and straight into your study.

They peer over your shoulder with faintly penetrating eyes and you in turn, study your new acquaintances with a morbid curiousity.

In this way, the road is paved for me to claim passion and obsession with my script.
With the theatrical dialogue that slowly envelopes my mind for i.e. the tiny snippets that you see fashioned in Theatrics & Theatrical or a Riddle? , I'm on my way.

Yes, I'm writing a dinner party play. My dialogue currently resembles a somewhat puzzling, if not hard adult tone.

I'm going to reinvent a character I once found and lost, called Julian - as I had earlier described him to be somewhat of a cold, cynical twit.

Already, I see him pacing up and down a room while gaily dressed and looking smug. One hand lies snuggled in a pocket and the other cradles a glass measuring just that right touch of whiskey.

But I adore him dreadfully.

I'd also like to create someone else really outlandish - totally theatrical and eccentric.

Finally, I've managed to fill my word meter with my first few short words.

It's hard work, of course. I attest to that but I also musn't miss the essential point of how exhilarating, writing a play currently feels to me.

Notes (3) - On writing my play

I find the notion comical where if written in the first person a story or poem appears decidedly lifelike and real and not at all the fiction that it secretly represents.

Yet it's amazing how when you use relative pronouns like he & she, the tale than turns into a promising fantasy, even if it were true.

A play offers no palpable excuse.

The characters emerge all at once, like figures from a painting or shadows stumbling down the wall.

One feels with no hesitation on scribbling dialogue, that that these suddenly odd and interesting humans, have stepped out of paper and straight into your study.

They peer over your shoulder with faintly penetrating eyes and you in turn, study your new acquaintances with a morbid curiousity.

In this way, the road is paved for me to claim passion and obsession with my script.
With the theatrical dialogue that slowly envelopes my mind for i.e. the tiny snippets that you see fashioned in Theatrics & Theatrical or a Riddle? , I'm on my way.

Yes, I'm writing a dinner party play. My dialogue currently resembles a somewhat puzzling, if not hard adult tone.

I'm going to reinvent a character I once found and lost, called Julian - as I had earlier described him to be somewhat of a cold, cynical twit.

Already, I see him pacing up and down a room while gaily dressed and looking smug. One hand lies snuggled in a pocket and the other cradles a glass measuring just that right touch of whiskey.

But I adore him dreadfully.

I'd also like to create someone else really outlandish - totally theatrical and eccentric.

Finally, I've managed to fill my word meter with my first few short words.

It's hard work, of course. I attest to that but I also musn't miss the essential point of how exhilarating, writing a play currently feels to me.

Notes (3) - On writing my play

I find the notion comical where if written in the first person a story or poem appears decidedly lifelike and real and not at all the fiction that it secretly represents.

Yet it's amazing how when you use relative pronouns like he & she, the tale than turns into a promising fantasy, even if it were true.

A play offers no palpable excuse.

The characters emerge all at once, like figures from a painting or shadows stumbling down the wall.

One feels with no hesitation on scribbling dialogue, that that these suddenly odd and interesting humans, have stepped out of paper and straight into your study.

They peer over your shoulder with faintly penetrating eyes and you in turn, study your new acquaintances with a morbid curiousity.

In this way, the road is paved for me to claim passion and obsession with my script.
With the theatrical dialogue that slowly envelopes my mind for i.e. the tiny snippets that you see fashioned in Theatrics & Theatrical or a Riddle? , I'm on my way.

Yes, I'm writing a dinner party play. My dialogue currently resembles a somewhat puzzling, if not hard adult tone.

I'm going to reinvent a character I once found and lost, called Julian - as I had earlier described him to be somewhat of a cold, cynical twit.

Already, I see him pacing up and down a room while gaily dressed and looking smug. One hand lies snuggled in a pocket and the other cradles a glass measuring just that right touch of whiskey.

But I adore him dreadfully.

I'd also like to create someone else really outlandish - totally theatrical and eccentric.

Finally, I've managed to fill my word meter with my first few short words.

It's hard work, of course. I attest to that but I also musn't miss the essential point of how exhilarating, writing a play currently feels to me.

Poetry Thursday

From an idea on the theme: If These Walls Could Talk


Voices in the Dark

by Susan Abraham

If these walls could talk...
I would have heard the whispers in the bud
and not when they spilt onto the leaves.

If these walls could talk...
they would have soaked me in murals and paint
where I would have masqueraded
a soldier dressed in blood.

If these walls could talk...
they would have been my cosy fireplace
for when they decided to cave into my face.

If these walls could talk...
they would have shrunk right down to midget size
that I would gladly hop over for the skies.

Poetry Thursday

From an idea on the theme: If These Walls Could Talk


Voices in the Dark

by Susan Abraham

If these walls could talk...
I would have heard the whispers in the bud
and not when they spilt onto the leaves.

If these walls could talk...
they would have soaked me in murals and paint
where I would have masqueraded
a soldier dressed in blood.

If these walls could talk...
they would have been my cosy fireplace
for when they decided to cave into my face.

If these walls could talk...
they would have shrunk right down to midget size
that I would gladly hop over for the skies.

Poetry Thursday

From an idea on the theme: If These Walls Could Talk


Voices in the Dark

by Susan Abraham

If these walls could talk...
I would have heard the whispers in the bud
and not when they spilt onto the leaves.

If these walls could talk...
they would have soaked me in murals and paint
where I would have masqueraded
a soldier dressed in blood.

If these walls could talk...
they would have been my cosy fireplace
for when they decided to cave into my face.

If these walls could talk...
they would have shrunk right down to midget size
that I would gladly hop over for the skies.

Theatrics

I am a clown

tramping

the majesty of my brevity,

cartwheeling

in a battle, and

juggling the last freefall

of my destiny.

That

I may touch the ground

while

still mentally sound, or

be branded

mortally wounded for

eternity.
- susan abraham -

Theatrics

I am a clown

tramping

the majesty of my brevity,

cartwheeling

in a battle, and

juggling the last freefall

of my destiny.

That

I may touch the ground

while

still mentally sound, or

be branded

mortally wounded for

eternity.
- susan abraham -

Theatrics

I am a clown

tramping

the majesty of my brevity,

cartwheeling

in a battle, and

juggling the last freefall

of my destiny.

That

I may touch the ground

while

still mentally sound, or

be branded

mortally wounded for

eternity.
- susan abraham -

Notes (2) on writing my play

This post won't make sense to anyone, really.

But my mind is full of the play.

Been a long time since I felt like this.

Oh, I do for some of my other pieces...

But the intensity...yes, the intensity...

All kinds of things come to mind.

My own memories...

of writing radio plays and having them aired.

hearing strangers read the words I had carved so keenly.

Remembering their voices..and still sulking at a Malaysian

actress who read my short story out on Radio Malaysia

with such a pretentious British accent, she destroyed my words.

And how being the diva, I had complained loudly in the office, the next day.

cringing, recoiling, 'she spoilt my short story, with wrong accents,

next time, I want to choose my own cast..."

but sadly, it was the producer's call.

Now remembering, having joined once before too, the

Liberal Arts Society, a European theatre group in Kuala Lumpur.

We acted and sung a muscial, Captain Beaky at the British Council.

It was such an exciting time. I was happy.

But in my turbulent life, so many things had to be short-lived.

And then I wrote this really passionate stage play - only a quarter into it

but it was forming very nicely. I was inspired by British novelist, Iris Murdoch at the

time having read all her books...

I created characters ironing their differences around a table.

The only other props were goblets of wine.

One was called Julian.

Cold, cynical and a bit of a twit.

I loved the dialogue I gave him

and then became obsessed with this character's folly, his passions, his loves,

what colours did he like, what foods he ate etc.

But for those of you who read me now, I wrote a while ago

that I had been stalked for five years, and only now in this sixth year, I've

broken free from the person.

It was a horrible dark time that clashed with the bliss of my world travels.

There were also other things.

Always on the move, I ended up losing all my drafts and manuscripts.

I have to literally start again.

And cross over these terrible years back into the light of once-before...

the time of radio plays...Captain Beaky...Chris Wallis (entry below) and the character, Julian

and catch the brightside where they still lie, waiting and resting like a pretty meadow.

I have to remember how it felt, the delight of writing a play.

Now I know too much..the sadness is sharper, the darkness is blacker.

I have to search the roots of my play...

a time of introspection, reflection and self-seeking.

Notes (2) on writing my play

This post won't make sense to anyone, really.

But my mind is full of the play.

Been a long time since I felt like this.

Oh, I do for some of my other pieces...

But the intensity...yes, the intensity...

All kinds of things come to mind.

My own memories...

of writing radio plays and having them aired.

hearing strangers read the words I had carved so keenly.

Remembering their voices..and still sulking at a Malaysian

actress who read my short story out on Radio Malaysia

with such a pretentious British accent, she destroyed my words.

And how being the diva, I had complained loudly in the office, the next day.

cringing, recoiling, 'she spoilt my short story, with wrong accents,

next time, I want to choose my own cast..."

but sadly, it was the producer's call.

Now remembering, having joined once before too, the

Liberal Arts Society, a European theatre group in Kuala Lumpur.

We acted and sung a muscial, Captain Beaky at the British Council.

It was such an exciting time. I was happy.

But in my turbulent life, so many things had to be short-lived.

And then I wrote this really passionate stage play - only a quarter into it

but it was forming very nicely. I was inspired by British novelist, Iris Murdoch at the

time having read all her books...

I created characters ironing their differences around a table.

The only other props were goblets of wine.

One was called Julian.

Cold, cynical and a bit of a twit.

I loved the dialogue I gave him

and then became obsessed with this character's folly, his passions, his loves,

what colours did he like, what foods he ate etc.

But for those of you who read me now, I wrote a while ago

that I had been stalked for five years, and only now in this sixth year, I've

broken free from the person.

It was a horrible dark time that clashed with the bliss of my world travels.

There were also other things.

Always on the move, I ended up losing all my drafts and manuscripts.

I have to literally start again.

And cross over these terrible years back into the light of once-before...

the time of radio plays...Captain Beaky...Chris Wallis (entry below) and the character, Julian

and catch the brightside where they still lie, waiting and resting like a pretty meadow.

I have to remember how it felt, the delight of writing a play.

Now I know too much..the sadness is sharper, the darkness is blacker.

I have to search the roots of my play...

a time of introspection, reflection and self-seeking.

Notes (2) on writing my play

This post won't make sense to anyone, really.

But my mind is full of the play.

Been a long time since I felt like this.

Oh, I do for some of my other pieces...

But the intensity...yes, the intensity...

All kinds of things come to mind.

My own memories...

of writing radio plays and having them aired.

hearing strangers read the words I had carved so keenly.

Remembering their voices..and still sulking at a Malaysian

actress who read my short story out on Radio Malaysia

with such a pretentious British accent, she destroyed my words.

And how being the diva, I had complained loudly in the office, the next day.

cringing, recoiling, 'she spoilt my short story, with wrong accents,

next time, I want to choose my own cast..."

but sadly, it was the producer's call.

Now remembering, having joined once before too, the

Liberal Arts Society, a European theatre group in Kuala Lumpur.

We acted and sung a muscial, Captain Beaky at the British Council.

It was such an exciting time. I was happy.

But in my turbulent life, so many things had to be short-lived.

And then I wrote this really passionate stage play - only a quarter into it

but it was forming very nicely. I was inspired by British novelist, Iris Murdoch at the

time having read all her books...

I created characters ironing their differences around a table.

The only other props were goblets of wine.

One was called Julian.

Cold, cynical and a bit of a twit.

I loved the dialogue I gave him

and then became obsessed with this character's folly, his passions, his loves,

what colours did he like, what foods he ate etc.

But for those of you who read me now, I wrote a while ago

that I had been stalked for five years, and only now in this sixth year, I've

broken free from the person.

It was a horrible dark time that clashed with the bliss of my world travels.

There were also other things.

Always on the move, I ended up losing all my drafts and manuscripts.

I have to literally start again.

And cross over these terrible years back into the light of once-before...

the time of radio plays...Captain Beaky...Chris Wallis (entry below) and the character, Julian

and catch the brightside where they still lie, waiting and resting like a pretty meadow.

I have to remember how it felt, the delight of writing a play.

Now I know too much..the sadness is sharper, the darkness is blacker.

I have to search the roots of my play...

a time of introspection, reflection and self-seeking.

Notes (1) on writing my play

No dialogue yet.
Mulling on a theme.

Lots of nail-biting, thumb-twiddling.

Perhaps a monologue is the simplest but then it must be a comedy.

I'm more comfortable with a British dialogue/narrative, rather than something multi-cultural.

Deep thinking.
Remembering with relish, a children's play I wrote called Clever Mama Spider. It was almost accepted by the Unicorn Theatre in London.

(Lehane, you know this anecdote. Please bear with me.)

It's then artistic director, Chris Wallis wrote to me a few times, held on to the script and ran it around his staff members. They all read it together but felt finally it wouldn't work for their stage.

I remember being crushed with disappointment after everything looked promising.

But now, I taste that time with exhilaration.

I recall the magic of a script having gone that far and hold on to those glorious feelings for a new play.

Notes (1) on writing my play

No dialogue yet.
Mulling on a theme.

Lots of nail-biting, thumb-twiddling.

Perhaps a monologue is the simplest but then it must be a comedy.

I'm more comfortable with a British dialogue/narrative, rather than something multi-cultural.

Deep thinking.
Remembering with relish, a children's play I wrote called Clever Mama Spider. It was almost accepted by the Unicorn Theatre in London.

(Lehane, you know this anecdote. Please bear with me.)

It's then artistic director, Chris Wallis wrote to me a few times, held on to the script and ran it around his staff members. They all read it together but felt finally it wouldn't work for their stage.

I remember being crushed with disappointment after everything looked promising.

But now, I taste that time with exhilaration.

I recall the magic of a script having gone that far and hold on to those glorious feelings for a new play.

Notes (1) on writing my play

No dialogue yet.
Mulling on a theme.

Lots of nail-biting, thumb-twiddling.

Perhaps a monologue is the simplest but then it must be a comedy.

I'm more comfortable with a British dialogue/narrative, rather than something multi-cultural.

Deep thinking.
Remembering with relish, a children's play I wrote called Clever Mama Spider. It was almost accepted by the Unicorn Theatre in London.

(Lehane, you know this anecdote. Please bear with me.)

It's then artistic director, Chris Wallis wrote to me a few times, held on to the script and ran it around his staff members. They all read it together but felt finally it wouldn't work for their stage.

I remember being crushed with disappointment after everything looked promising.

But now, I taste that time with exhilaration.

I recall the magic of a script having gone that far and hold on to those glorious feelings for a new play.

by Susan Abraham

Isn't it amazing how a fountain of images like the rush of a comet suddenly rockets from the bottom of the imagination...as if they were never buried or burrowed but were having us on for a lark.

And then we run like children into the garden of the forgotten and in its lost golden sand to search a toy, a book, a friend...where once we missed the tired straggly end of a meadow below this pretty show.

Still, we hope the darkness would envelop its talons and that the bliss of the mist like a curtain graciously surrenders, in which to shoulder our tearaway affection.

"Come in, come in," it says as you follow the echo's bow in tow. "Back to your honeyed days and all raisin-ed up for a party stop..." And where already, our hands wait to catch the rusty, dusty knob.

Then once more, will remembrances light up the sorrow of the hollow, as vast as a sea of books may look, perhaps even...as safe as a yummy tea may cook.

Image credit to: Karen Whimsy's public domain images

by Susan Abraham

Isn't it amazing how a fountain of images like the rush of a comet suddenly rockets from the bottom of the imagination...as if they were never buried or burrowed but were having us on for a lark.

And then we run like children into the garden of the forgotten and in its lost golden sand to search a toy, a book, a friend...where once we missed the tired straggly end of a meadow below this pretty show.

Still, we hope the darkness would envelop its talons and that the bliss of the mist like a curtain graciously surrenders, in which to shoulder our tearaway affection.

"Come in, come in," it says as you follow the echo's bow in tow. "Back to your honeyed days and all raisin-ed up for a party stop..." And where already, our hands wait to catch the rusty, dusty knob.

Then once more, will remembrances light up the sorrow of the hollow, as vast as a sea of books may look, perhaps even...as safe as a yummy tea may cook.

Image credit to: Karen Whimsy's public domain images

by Susan Abraham

Isn't it amazing how a fountain of images like the rush of a comet suddenly rockets from the bottom of the imagination...as if they were never buried or burrowed but were having us on for a lark.

And then we run like children into the garden of the forgotten and in its lost golden sand to search a toy, a book, a friend...where once we missed the tired straggly end of a meadow below this pretty show.

Still, we hope the darkness would envelop its talons and that the bliss of the mist like a curtain graciously surrenders, in which to shoulder our tearaway affection.

"Come in, come in," it says as you follow the echo's bow in tow. "Back to your honeyed days and all raisin-ed up for a party stop..." And where already, our hands wait to catch the rusty, dusty knob.

Then once more, will remembrances light up the sorrow of the hollow, as vast as a sea of books may look, perhaps even...as safe as a yummy tea may cook.

Image credit to: Karen Whimsy's public domain images

Bad girl me!

I was labelled a chimney-smoker as a magazine journalist.

I recreated that typical image of a writer in pictures. Frowning intently while banging at - as in this case a keyboard while hating to be disturbed, drinking mugs of white coffee and smoking away.

When writing, I was lost in my stories.

For an Indian woman, the vision said - bad girl, no decent man will marry her, very unbecoming kind of thing. Tut! Tut!

I believe old ladies in Orthodox Syrian churches in Kuala Lumpur still recall my reputation in horror

I was the worst smoker in my office.
My friends still remember.

And then one day I stopped the cigarettes in 24 hours.

I resigned as a journalist to travel to Australia and the desire for an adrenalin rush was no longer there. I stopped just like that. Of course, many tumultuous events later occurred where I relied on a desperate intelligence to survive and not tobacco.

It's been 8 years and a half since I lifted a ciggy to my lips.

In winter, I stared longingly at the girls leaning against shop windows, where they would engage in quick puffs to ease the biting cold. In a pub listening to music and over a wine or beer with friends, the temptaton returned.

But I never succumbed.

Now with my problems solved and heartaches almost over, my desire to write has returned in full fury. I didn't need the ciggys for the earlier comedies and a novel manuscript and other bits that I wrote earlier this year. I was still reflecting, still being kind to myself, still unsure.

But I need them for the play.

Because the ruthless adrenalin rush to create something worthwhile has returned, the desire to meet my deadlines are finally welcomed and I'm feeling on top of things agan.

And I need my cigarettes to write my play.

So far, I can hold off the temptation but I honestly don't know for how long.

Bad girl me!

I was labelled a chimney-smoker as a magazine journalist.

I recreated that typical image of a writer in pictures. Frowning intently while banging at - as in this case a keyboard while hating to be disturbed, drinking mugs of white coffee and smoking away.

When writing, I was lost in my stories.

For an Indian woman, the vision said - bad girl, no decent man will marry her, very unbecoming kind of thing. Tut! Tut!

I believe old ladies in Orthodox Syrian churches in Kuala Lumpur still recall my reputation in horror

I was the worst smoker in my office.
My friends still remember.

And then one day I stopped the cigarettes in 24 hours.

I resigned as a journalist to travel to Australia and the desire for an adrenalin rush was no longer there. I stopped just like that. Of course, many tumultuous events later occurred where I relied on a desperate intelligence to survive and not tobacco.

It's been 8 years and a half since I lifted a ciggy to my lips.

In winter, I stared longingly at the girls leaning against shop windows, where they would engage in quick puffs to ease the biting cold. In a pub listening to music and over a wine or beer with friends, the temptaton returned.

But I never succumbed.

Now with my problems solved and heartaches almost over, my desire to write has returned in full fury. I didn't need the ciggys for the earlier comedies and a novel manuscript and other bits that I wrote earlier this year. I was still reflecting, still being kind to myself, still unsure.

But I need them for the play.

Because the ruthless adrenalin rush to create something worthwhile has returned, the desire to meet my deadlines are finally welcomed and I'm feeling on top of things agan.

And I need my cigarettes to write my play.

So far, I can hold off the temptation but I honestly don't know for how long.

Bad girl me!

I was labelled a chimney-smoker as a magazine journalist.

I recreated that typical image of a writer in pictures. Frowning intently while banging at - as in this case a keyboard while hating to be disturbed, drinking mugs of white coffee and smoking away.

When writing, I was lost in my stories.

For an Indian woman, the vision said - bad girl, no decent man will marry her, very unbecoming kind of thing. Tut! Tut!

I believe old ladies in Orthodox Syrian churches in Kuala Lumpur still recall my reputation in horror

I was the worst smoker in my office.
My friends still remember.

And then one day I stopped the cigarettes in 24 hours.

I resigned as a journalist to travel to Australia and the desire for an adrenalin rush was no longer there. I stopped just like that. Of course, many tumultuous events later occurred where I relied on a desperate intelligence to survive and not tobacco.

It's been 8 years and a half since I lifted a ciggy to my lips.

In winter, I stared longingly at the girls leaning against shop windows, where they would engage in quick puffs to ease the biting cold. In a pub listening to music and over a wine or beer with friends, the temptaton returned.

But I never succumbed.

Now with my problems solved and heartaches almost over, my desire to write has returned in full fury. I didn't need the ciggys for the earlier comedies and a novel manuscript and other bits that I wrote earlier this year. I was still reflecting, still being kind to myself, still unsure.

But I need them for the play.

Because the ruthless adrenalin rush to create something worthwhile has returned, the desire to meet my deadlines are finally welcomed and I'm feeling on top of things agan.

And I need my cigarettes to write my play.

So far, I can hold off the temptation but I honestly don't know for how long.

These little lines came to me in a dream last night - just as they are - and I'm only too glad I remembered them when I woke up. I lost some rhythmic patterns and had to re-construct. One in a while, this happens.

by Susan Abraham

And when she stirred, he
the artful dodger,
pictured her toss a pillow as
one would slip a winding nightfall out
the window
before secrets be named and shamed.
She of course, the silent exemplary saint.
And so now he went to her... ready
to embrace the halo from where she slept,
while still clasped in a waiting
angel's palm.

These little lines came to me in a dream last night - just as they are - and I'm only too glad I remembered them when I woke up. I lost some rhythmic patterns and had to re-construct. One in a while, this happens.

by Susan Abraham

And when she stirred, he
the artful dodger,
pictured her toss a pillow as
one would slip a winding nightfall out
the window
before secrets be named and shamed.
She of course, the silent exemplary saint.
And so now he went to her... ready
to embrace the halo from where she slept,
while still clasped in a waiting
angel's palm.

These little lines came to me in a dream last night - just as they are - and I'm only too glad I remembered them when I woke up. I lost some rhythmic patterns and had to re-construct. One in a while, this happens.

by Susan Abraham

And when she stirred, he
the artful dodger,
pictured her toss a pillow as
one would slip a winding nightfall out
the window
before secrets be named and shamed.
She of course, the silent exemplary saint.
And so now he went to her... ready
to embrace the halo from where she slept,
while still clasped in a waiting
angel's palm.