A storybook moment

And there she was a quiet English woman, made beautiful and clever into herself but not that anyone saw it. They pushed her around like she was a cart about to topple. She yearned to be free that she could breathe but no one saw the fire in her eyes.

She plunged from one dire situation into another and wound up the submissive bride of a mute who abused her with his thickheaded ways. And so did his parents with their cunning. She had a baby and guarded the infant with her life and thought that one day she and her beloved child would escape into the rainbow.

She dreamt dreams but years later from having read about her as a teen, I forget what they were. I remember that she was likeable...lovely to the heart.

I know that one day, friends did help her escape the loveless union and she had had a few adventures along the way. As the pages drew to a close, she found a cottage in the wide open space of the countryside, closer to her dream which now, as I say, I forget.

I believe she yearned to fly, to travel in an aeroplane.

And then one day she met a pilot the kind, she knew she would love her whole life. By then, she had collected a tiny coterie of foster children...and the book ended on that whimsical note of a carefree dance.

The man pays a visit with his wife. He promises to take her and her little brood someday soon for a ride in the plane. Both fill her home with love. She returns this favour with sincerity. Her love for him is serene, spiritual, silent.

She is grateful for any understanding and accepts all.

Peace orchestrates the end.

The book closes even as the reader realises wonderful things will happen to this character, as the pages troop on, decked in their mysterious invisibility.
- susan abraham.

(This is my hazy memory of a storybook moment inspired yesterday by writer and poet, Jason Evan's Innovative Post 'Glue' .

The British fiction was titled The Rose but I have long forgotten the name of its authoress.

A storybook moment

And there she was a quiet English woman, made beautiful and clever into herself but not that anyone saw it. They pushed her around like she was a cart about to topple. She yearned to be free that she could breathe but no one saw the fire in her eyes.

She plunged from one dire situation into another and wound up the submissive bride of a mute who abused her with his thickheaded ways. And so did his parents with their cunning. She had a baby and guarded the infant with her life and thought that one day she and her beloved child would escape into the rainbow.

She dreamt dreams but years later from having read about her as a teen, I forget what they were. I remember that she was likeable...lovely to the heart.

I know that one day, friends did help her escape the loveless union and she had had a few adventures along the way. As the pages drew to a close, she found a cottage in the wide open space of the countryside, closer to her dream which now, as I say, I forget.

I believe she yearned to fly, to travel in an aeroplane.

And then one day she met a pilot the kind, she knew she would love her whole life. By then, she had collected a tiny coterie of foster children...and the book ended on that whimsical note of a carefree dance.

The man pays a visit with his wife. He promises to take her and her little brood someday soon for a ride in the plane. Both fill her home with love. She returns this favour with sincerity. Her love for him is serene, spiritual, silent.

She is grateful for any understanding and accepts all.

Peace orchestrates the end.

The book closes even as the reader realises wonderful things will happen to this character, as the pages troop on, decked in their mysterious invisibility.
- susan abraham.

(This is my hazy memory of a storybook moment inspired yesterday by writer and poet, Jason Evan's Innovative Post 'Glue' .

The British fiction was titled The Rose but I have long forgotten the name of its authoress.

A storybook moment

And there she was a quiet English woman, made beautiful and clever into herself but not that anyone saw it. They pushed her around like she was a cart about to topple. She yearned to be free that she could breathe but no one saw the fire in her eyes.

She plunged from one dire situation into another and wound up the submissive bride of a mute who abused her with his thickheaded ways. And so did his parents with their cunning. She had a baby and guarded the infant with her life and thought that one day she and her beloved child would escape into the rainbow.

She dreamt dreams but years later from having read about her as a teen, I forget what they were. I remember that she was likeable...lovely to the heart.

I know that one day, friends did help her escape the loveless union and she had had a few adventures along the way. As the pages drew to a close, she found a cottage in the wide open space of the countryside, closer to her dream which now, as I say, I forget.

I believe she yearned to fly, to travel in an aeroplane.

And then one day she met a pilot the kind, she knew she would love her whole life. By then, she had collected a tiny coterie of foster children...and the book ended on that whimsical note of a carefree dance.

The man pays a visit with his wife. He promises to take her and her little brood someday soon for a ride in the plane. Both fill her home with love. She returns this favour with sincerity. Her love for him is serene, spiritual, silent.

She is grateful for any understanding and accepts all.

Peace orchestrates the end.

The book closes even as the reader realises wonderful things will happen to this character, as the pages troop on, decked in their mysterious invisibility.
- susan abraham.

(This is my hazy memory of a storybook moment inspired yesterday by writer and poet, Jason Evan's Innovative Post 'Glue' .

The British fiction was titled The Rose but I have long forgotten the name of its authoress.

I'm writing my theatre play too, as a mainstay to other things. Listening to several BBC plays to learn about pauses, silences, dialogue and other valuable bits.

I'm writing my theatre play too, as a mainstay to other things. Listening to several BBC plays to learn about pauses, silences, dialogue and other valuable bits.

I'm writing my theatre play too, as a mainstay to other things. Listening to several BBC plays to learn about pauses, silences, dialogue and other valuable bits.

Not eliciting sympathy! Not! Not!

I was ill yesterday. It was my tummy again. Eating foods I shouldn't be eating. These warned by doctors earlier and also a combination of other factors.
But the good thing is that illness visits like a Halloween surprise. It disappears from the scene as mysteriously as it appears, even if it was to hound and plague my senses for as long as it dared.
I hold my breath and count to ten.
I drifted in and out of sleep. It was on feeling better in the afternoon, that I made an important self-discovery.
When I awoke and life felt kinder, the first thing I wanted to do was carry on reading Alessandro Manzoni with a relish.
And I had a strong desire. To want to write all kinds of things without stopping.

I hadn't felt this way in a long time.

In the 5+ years that I was stalked by a woman in Australia/UK, my mind knotted itself into a dark cloud. I think it's important to talk about this and not to playact it didn't happen. After all, the stalking episode measured my destiny in a monumental way.

During that time, I couldn' t write a single thing. Also, I remembered reading and discovering Polynesian writers and buying several books which all still lie in a friend's flat in London. But none of the stories did anything for me. My mind at the time was constantly filled with a fear of what she would do next.

None of the stories moved me or inspired me to dream. Reading helped keep my spirit alert until it was all over.

Today, my subsconscious shuts out all my reads of the time and if it wants to jolt a memory, a sweet moment or a touch of magic, I remember reads before the time of the stalking.

When I woke up yesterday, wanting to devour Manzoni with my whole heart, wanting to write like this was the best medicine in the spiritual cabinet, I knew I was psychologically healed and on my way to reclaiming my perfect destiny again. I knew that from now, my reads would once more shape my spirit and alight it with stardust.

Not eliciting sympathy! Not! Not!

I was ill yesterday. It was my tummy again. Eating foods I shouldn't be eating. These warned by doctors earlier and also a combination of other factors.
But the good thing is that illness visits like a Halloween surprise. It disappears from the scene as mysteriously as it appears, even if it was to hound and plague my senses for as long as it dared.
I hold my breath and count to ten.
I drifted in and out of sleep. It was on feeling better in the afternoon, that I made an important self-discovery.
When I awoke and life felt kinder, the first thing I wanted to do was carry on reading Alessandro Manzoni with a relish.
And I had a strong desire. To want to write all kinds of things without stopping.

I hadn't felt this way in a long time.

In the 5+ years that I was stalked by a woman in Australia/UK, my mind knotted itself into a dark cloud. I think it's important to talk about this and not to playact it didn't happen. After all, the stalking episode measured my destiny in a monumental way.

During that time, I couldn' t write a single thing. Also, I remembered reading and discovering Polynesian writers and buying several books which all still lie in a friend's flat in London. But none of the stories did anything for me. My mind at the time was constantly filled with a fear of what she would do next.

None of the stories moved me or inspired me to dream. Reading helped keep my spirit alert until it was all over.

Today, my subsconscious shuts out all my reads of the time and if it wants to jolt a memory, a sweet moment or a touch of magic, I remember reads before the time of the stalking.

When I woke up yesterday, wanting to devour Manzoni with my whole heart, wanting to write like this was the best medicine in the spiritual cabinet, I knew I was psychologically healed and on my way to reclaiming my perfect destiny again. I knew that from now, my reads would once more shape my spirit and alight it with stardust.

Not eliciting sympathy! Not! Not!

I was ill yesterday. It was my tummy again. Eating foods I shouldn't be eating. These warned by doctors earlier and also a combination of other factors.
But the good thing is that illness visits like a Halloween surprise. It disappears from the scene as mysteriously as it appears, even if it was to hound and plague my senses for as long as it dared.
I hold my breath and count to ten.
I drifted in and out of sleep. It was on feeling better in the afternoon, that I made an important self-discovery.
When I awoke and life felt kinder, the first thing I wanted to do was carry on reading Alessandro Manzoni with a relish.
And I had a strong desire. To want to write all kinds of things without stopping.

I hadn't felt this way in a long time.

In the 5+ years that I was stalked by a woman in Australia/UK, my mind knotted itself into a dark cloud. I think it's important to talk about this and not to playact it didn't happen. After all, the stalking episode measured my destiny in a monumental way.

During that time, I couldn' t write a single thing. Also, I remembered reading and discovering Polynesian writers and buying several books which all still lie in a friend's flat in London. But none of the stories did anything for me. My mind at the time was constantly filled with a fear of what she would do next.

None of the stories moved me or inspired me to dream. Reading helped keep my spirit alert until it was all over.

Today, my subsconscious shuts out all my reads of the time and if it wants to jolt a memory, a sweet moment or a touch of magic, I remember reads before the time of the stalking.

When I woke up yesterday, wanting to devour Manzoni with my whole heart, wanting to write like this was the best medicine in the spiritual cabinet, I knew I was psychologically healed and on my way to reclaiming my perfect destiny again. I knew that from now, my reads would once more shape my spirit and alight it with stardust.

A puzzle

From This...To This...

The traditional Asian spinster who has never kissed, held hands...made love. How does one live, having had no sex in the past, no schedule for sex in the present and no prospect of sex in the future?

Just the thought drives me half-mad.

Where I live, one sees a handful drifting about heading to £10 (RM70) shops with a dying grocery list of 55 years.

They are often lizard like in appearance or oddball-shaped known for eccentricity and for talking to themselves. Some colour their hair orange... others have none. Except for the lizards, these are the ones blessed with buxomy boobs now gone to rot, wasted, plunged down into never-never land, retired and prematurely parachuted into its mental grave with no lover to mourn the absent nipple.

God wasted too much clay on the wrong day, I say, I say.

Some want to write books...are writing furiously their short stories and poetry.
Because they have now sprung to life like a jack-in-the-box...

I become infinitly curious.

What do they find to talk about...they who have never tasted the sliver of a man's finger running on skin, the feel of his lips behind their ears, a lover's intimacy of whispers in bed...

Do they get up in the mornings see their skin flaky and old, where once it was hopeful and soft, cursing only the neighbour's barking dog.

Perhaps they write about dandruff, moisturisers or Jesus embracing them on a sunbeam. Perhaps they write about cheap clocks and tailors, old-fashioned hairdressers and how many days it is left to Christmas.

Perhaps they count the days to a concert. 10 days left to go, 9 days left to go, 8 days left to go...

They can make a good fruitcake...

But they couldn't pin the flavours down to anything warm, familiar and seeking wicked temptations. Never smelt the breath of champagne, resting near his neck. No, the saddest thing...
is perhaps the missing teeth and the lifelong missing kiss.

A minute of silence, please.

A puzzle

From This...To This...

The traditional Asian spinster who has never kissed, held hands...made love. How does one live, having had no sex in the past, no schedule for sex in the present and no prospect of sex in the future?

Just the thought drives me half-mad.

Where I live, one sees a handful drifting about heading to £10 (RM70) shops with a dying grocery list of 55 years.

They are often lizard like in appearance or oddball-shaped known for eccentricity and for talking to themselves. Some colour their hair orange... others have none. Except for the lizards, these are the ones blessed with buxomy boobs now gone to rot, wasted, plunged down into never-never land, retired and prematurely parachuted into its mental grave with no lover to mourn the absent nipple.

God wasted too much clay on the wrong day, I say, I say.

Some want to write books...are writing furiously their short stories and poetry.
Because they have now sprung to life like a jack-in-the-box...

I become infinitly curious.

What do they find to talk about...they who have never tasted the sliver of a man's finger running on skin, the feel of his lips behind their ears, a lover's intimacy of whispers in bed...

Do they get up in the mornings see their skin flaky and old, where once it was hopeful and soft, cursing only the neighbour's barking dog.

Perhaps they write about dandruff, moisturisers or Jesus embracing them on a sunbeam. Perhaps they write about cheap clocks and tailors, old-fashioned hairdressers and how many days it is left to Christmas.

Perhaps they count the days to a concert. 10 days left to go, 9 days left to go, 8 days left to go...

They can make a good fruitcake...

But they couldn't pin the flavours down to anything warm, familiar and seeking wicked temptations. Never smelt the breath of champagne, resting near his neck. No, the saddest thing...
is perhaps the missing teeth and the lifelong missing kiss.

A minute of silence, please.

A puzzle

From This...To This...

The traditional Asian spinster who has never kissed, held hands...made love. How does one live, having had no sex in the past, no schedule for sex in the present and no prospect of sex in the future?

Just the thought drives me half-mad.

Where I live, one sees a handful drifting about heading to £10 (RM70) shops with a dying grocery list of 55 years.

They are often lizard like in appearance or oddball-shaped known for eccentricity and for talking to themselves. Some colour their hair orange... others have none. Except for the lizards, these are the ones blessed with buxomy boobs now gone to rot, wasted, plunged down into never-never land, retired and prematurely parachuted into its mental grave with no lover to mourn the absent nipple.

God wasted too much clay on the wrong day, I say, I say.

Some want to write books...are writing furiously their short stories and poetry.
Because they have now sprung to life like a jack-in-the-box...

I become infinitly curious.

What do they find to talk about...they who have never tasted the sliver of a man's finger running on skin, the feel of his lips behind their ears, a lover's intimacy of whispers in bed...

Do they get up in the mornings see their skin flaky and old, where once it was hopeful and soft, cursing only the neighbour's barking dog.

Perhaps they write about dandruff, moisturisers or Jesus embracing them on a sunbeam. Perhaps they write about cheap clocks and tailors, old-fashioned hairdressers and how many days it is left to Christmas.

Perhaps they count the days to a concert. 10 days left to go, 9 days left to go, 8 days left to go...

They can make a good fruitcake...

But they couldn't pin the flavours down to anything warm, familiar and seeking wicked temptations. Never smelt the breath of champagne, resting near his neck. No, the saddest thing...
is perhaps the missing teeth and the lifelong missing kiss.

A minute of silence, please.

Memory catch

Doors open and shut and shut and open and bang in the wind and hinges fall and doors open and shut and open and shut and bang about all silly in the wind and the attic of the mind nets it all in for before the next door bolts...fishing memories for the ocean of a heart that can never hold too much like a bustling mother with dinner for her brood..love is never enough and so the heartstring crew shout the memories in, wrestling against the washed-up gales of change, weighing them heavy and tugging...before the next door slams...memories are roped in as fertile as a North Sea catch. - susan abraham

Memory catch

Doors open and shut and shut and open and bang in the wind and hinges fall and doors open and shut and open and shut and bang about all silly in the wind and the attic of the mind nets it all in for before the next door bolts...fishing memories for the ocean of a heart that can never hold too much like a bustling mother with dinner for her brood..love is never enough and so the heartstring crew shout the memories in, wrestling against the washed-up gales of change, weighing them heavy and tugging...before the next door slams...memories are roped in as fertile as a North Sea catch. - susan abraham

Memory catch

Doors open and shut and shut and open and bang in the wind and hinges fall and doors open and shut and open and shut and bang about all silly in the wind and the attic of the mind nets it all in for before the next door bolts...fishing memories for the ocean of a heart that can never hold too much like a bustling mother with dinner for her brood..love is never enough and so the heartstring crew shout the memories in, wrestling against the washed-up gales of change, weighing them heavy and tugging...before the next door slams...memories are roped in as fertile as a North Sea catch. - susan abraham

When the dawn waves to an old sunset

Reading the classics, my spirit shines like a mischevious sunray bent on playfulness and no more the thoughtful, silent lantern, meditative in its corner.
Especially that in Manzoni's descriptions of the Italian countryside, of plains & valleys and lovers' mixed-up fortunes, I cannot collect enough of the magic...refuse to wait patiently for the next word but instead, devour old-fashioned sing-song lines like a wolf with excitement for its supper.
The discovery of American writers too, proves an infant celebration. Think Capote & Wharton.
How did this happen?
From my winding destiny of copywriting in a busy advertising office, of fashion journalism and coffee-morning interviews, of travel and safaris, that I in seeking my perfect bliss, have gone back to reclaiming the heart of a pensive childhood.
That I would sit in the quiet with my words, resting on thoughts of old-century paintings, Garfunkel songs, drawn curtains in low afternoon moods and the rain beating furiously on the window-pane.
That in seeking my new future, my spirit insists on visiting once more, an old acquaintance of a sunset that waits with cake and tea. A different one that spelt a happy time.
I return home at nightfall, flushed and dragging my sackful of stars.
When I next run to the lights, I expect to stop at an odd moment remembering old Dutch pictures or humming lyrics to The Dangling Conversation.
Through the classics, I may have opened one door to an inner fulfillment.

When the dawn waves to an old sunset

Reading the classics, my spirit shines like a mischevious sunray bent on playfulness and no more the thoughtful, silent lantern, meditative in its corner.
Especially that in Manzoni's descriptions of the Italian countryside, of plains & valleys and lovers' mixed-up fortunes, I cannot collect enough of the magic...refuse to wait patiently for the next word but instead, devour old-fashioned sing-song lines like a wolf with excitement for its supper.
The discovery of American writers too, proves an infant celebration. Think Capote & Wharton.
How did this happen?
From my winding destiny of copywriting in a busy advertising office, of fashion journalism and coffee-morning interviews, of travel and safaris, that I in seeking my perfect bliss, have gone back to reclaiming the heart of a pensive childhood.
That I would sit in the quiet with my words, resting on thoughts of old-century paintings, Garfunkel songs, drawn curtains in low afternoon moods and the rain beating furiously on the window-pane.
That in seeking my new future, my spirit insists on visiting once more, an old acquaintance of a sunset that waits with cake and tea. A different one that spelt a happy time.
I return home at nightfall, flushed and dragging my sackful of stars.
When I next run to the lights, I expect to stop at an odd moment remembering old Dutch pictures or humming lyrics to The Dangling Conversation.
Through the classics, I may have opened one door to an inner fulfillment.

When the dawn waves to an old sunset

Reading the classics, my spirit shines like a mischevious sunray bent on playfulness and no more the thoughtful, silent lantern, meditative in its corner.
Especially that in Manzoni's descriptions of the Italian countryside, of plains & valleys and lovers' mixed-up fortunes, I cannot collect enough of the magic...refuse to wait patiently for the next word but instead, devour old-fashioned sing-song lines like a wolf with excitement for its supper.
The discovery of American writers too, proves an infant celebration. Think Capote & Wharton.
How did this happen?
From my winding destiny of copywriting in a busy advertising office, of fashion journalism and coffee-morning interviews, of travel and safaris, that I in seeking my perfect bliss, have gone back to reclaiming the heart of a pensive childhood.
That I would sit in the quiet with my words, resting on thoughts of old-century paintings, Garfunkel songs, drawn curtains in low afternoon moods and the rain beating furiously on the window-pane.
That in seeking my new future, my spirit insists on visiting once more, an old acquaintance of a sunset that waits with cake and tea. A different one that spelt a happy time.
I return home at nightfall, flushed and dragging my sackful of stars.
When I next run to the lights, I expect to stop at an odd moment remembering old Dutch pictures or humming lyrics to The Dangling Conversation.
Through the classics, I may have opened one door to an inner fulfillment.

Writer & poet, Sara dreams up a fun 101-liner writer's game where she hopes each visiting writer will contribute a line to her story that's turning suspenseful. Sara will add on the concluding 101st line.
For your one-liner, click on: The Writer's Game.

Writer & poet, Sara dreams up a fun 101-liner writer's game where she hopes each visiting writer will contribute a line to her story that's turning suspenseful. Sara will add on the concluding 101st line.
For your one-liner, click on: The Writer's Game.

Writer & poet, Sara dreams up a fun 101-liner writer's game where she hopes each visiting writer will contribute a line to her story that's turning suspenseful. Sara will add on the concluding 101st line.
For your one-liner, click on: The Writer's Game.

My writing habit

So deep in concentration when I write these days just about anything at all, I have to have something nearest me like a schooolyard playmate. I am the baby with a rattle or a litle girl who toys with a curl, while thinking of things to say and when my fingers rest on the keyboard, my left hand starts fishing around industriously for something to hold and innocently destroy.

I have chewed on chunky marker pens with success and drunk strange beverages that were other than coffee. I have spun cds around like a top and once scratched a tablecloth cover like it had been displayed only to be damaged.

I knew I needed help when just the other day I swallowed someone else's medicine by mistake.

My writing habit

So deep in concentration when I write these days just about anything at all, I have to have something nearest me like a schooolyard playmate. I am the baby with a rattle or a litle girl who toys with a curl, while thinking of things to say and when my fingers rest on the keyboard, my left hand starts fishing around industriously for something to hold and innocently destroy.

I have chewed on chunky marker pens with success and drunk strange beverages that were other than coffee. I have spun cds around like a top and once scratched a tablecloth cover like it had been displayed only to be damaged.

I knew I needed help when just the other day I swallowed someone else's medicine by mistake.

My writing habit

So deep in concentration when I write these days just about anything at all, I have to have something nearest me like a schooolyard playmate. I am the baby with a rattle or a litle girl who toys with a curl, while thinking of things to say and when my fingers rest on the keyboard, my left hand starts fishing around industriously for something to hold and innocently destroy.

I have chewed on chunky marker pens with success and drunk strange beverages that were other than coffee. I have spun cds around like a top and once scratched a tablecloth cover like it had been displayed only to be damaged.

I knew I needed help when just the other day I swallowed someone else's medicine by mistake.

French writer, Guy de Maupassant,
one of the greatest writers of the short story.

In one of Maupassant's short stories, called An Affair of State that describes the turn of revolutionary France into a Republic, this grandmaster of the short story, also conjures up his well-versed sardonic amusement at comic characters who pursue self-centered ambitions for power and the lower working classes who regularly mock them.

This paragraph was one of many that proved memorable with the author's jesting:

"On the morning of the fifth of September, in uniform, his revolver on the table, the doctor gave consultation to an old peasant couple. The husband had suffered with a varicose vein for seven years but had waited until his wife had one too, so that they might go and hunt up a physician together, guided by the postman when he should come with the newspaper."

French writer, Guy de Maupassant,
one of the greatest writers of the short story.

In one of Maupassant's short stories, called An Affair of State that describes the turn of revolutionary France into a Republic, this grandmaster of the short story, also conjures up his well-versed sardonic amusement at comic characters who pursue self-centered ambitions for power and the lower working classes who regularly mock them.

This paragraph was one of many that proved memorable with the author's jesting:

"On the morning of the fifth of September, in uniform, his revolver on the table, the doctor gave consultation to an old peasant couple. The husband had suffered with a varicose vein for seven years but had waited until his wife had one too, so that they might go and hunt up a physician together, guided by the postman when he should come with the newspaper."

French writer, Guy de Maupassant,
one of the greatest writers of the short story.

In one of Maupassant's short stories, called An Affair of State that describes the turn of revolutionary France into a Republic, this grandmaster of the short story, also conjures up his well-versed sardonic amusement at comic characters who pursue self-centered ambitions for power and the lower working classes who regularly mock them.

This paragraph was one of many that proved memorable with the author's jesting:

"On the morning of the fifth of September, in uniform, his revolver on the table, the doctor gave consultation to an old peasant couple. The husband had suffered with a varicose vein for seven years but had waited until his wife had one too, so that they might go and hunt up a physician together, guided by the postman when he should come with the newspaper."

Healing

And so finally
then
is my mind
held
bereft of the
darkness
spinning it into the light
like a
cascading dream

- susan abraham -

Healing

And so finally
then
is my mind
held
bereft of the
darkness
spinning it into the light
like a
cascading dream

- susan abraham -

Healing

And so finally
then
is my mind
held
bereft of the
darkness
spinning it into the light
like a
cascading dream

- susan abraham -

As I study today's entry below, I think about how I am going to blend my interest in philosophy with my constant writing of sensual fiction that suggests nudity! This makes me smile.

As I study today's entry below, I think about how I am going to blend my interest in philosophy with my constant writing of sensual fiction that suggests nudity! This makes me smile.

As I study today's entry below, I think about how I am going to blend my interest in philosophy with my constant writing of sensual fiction that suggests nudity! This makes me smile.

My interest in philosophy

I signed up for an online course on the foundations of philosophy. My spirit is totally immersed in this wanting. So deeply drowning in fact, that on reading another syllabus with its listing of great books and flamboyant greek mythology, I was suddenly overcome with emotion. Seduced by the works of thinkers, I am being cajoled onto this specific road.
I sense, this extraordinary development may reshape my fiction in later years.
But it's never been the publishing market or the money for me, where serious fiction is concerned. It's always been a mirrored love for a writing that peers gingerly back.
This is just one of the roads. The other is comedy-writing and performing.
That's pure entertainment.
Also, I have steadily returned to reading the classics - something I hadn't done in a long time. Again, I am drawn more and more to ancient stories especially the Icelandic & Scandinavian.
What does it all mean? My spirit keeps its secrets. Only time will tell.

My interest in philosophy

I signed up for an online course on the foundations of philosophy. My spirit is totally immersed in this wanting. So deeply drowning in fact, that on reading another syllabus with its listing of great books and flamboyant greek mythology, I was suddenly overcome with emotion. Seduced by the works of thinkers, I am being cajoled onto this specific road.
I sense, this extraordinary development may reshape my fiction in later years.
But it's never been the publishing market or the money for me, where serious fiction is concerned. It's always been a mirrored love for a writing that peers gingerly back.
This is just one of the roads. The other is comedy-writing and performing.
That's pure entertainment.
Also, I have steadily returned to reading the classics - something I hadn't done in a long time. Again, I am drawn more and more to ancient stories especially the Icelandic & Scandinavian.
What does it all mean? My spirit keeps its secrets. Only time will tell.

My interest in philosophy

I signed up for an online course on the foundations of philosophy. My spirit is totally immersed in this wanting. So deeply drowning in fact, that on reading another syllabus with its listing of great books and flamboyant greek mythology, I was suddenly overcome with emotion. Seduced by the works of thinkers, I am being cajoled onto this specific road.
I sense, this extraordinary development may reshape my fiction in later years.
But it's never been the publishing market or the money for me, where serious fiction is concerned. It's always been a mirrored love for a writing that peers gingerly back.
This is just one of the roads. The other is comedy-writing and performing.
That's pure entertainment.
Also, I have steadily returned to reading the classics - something I hadn't done in a long time. Again, I am drawn more and more to ancient stories especially the Icelandic & Scandinavian.
What does it all mean? My spirit keeps its secrets. Only time will tell.

Aren't books like oceans in the sun, cherubs in a moonbeam, the star that beckons a rocket... The lessons we learn not with the stories as our experiences to every captured plot. Memory jolts and toffee-ed moments, why a paperback was read too early or a picture book too late and yet one more waits now on the lighted buoy. Books are a treasure hunt to one's whimsical soul, you don't think... - susan abraham

Aren't books like oceans in the sun, cherubs in a moonbeam, the star that beckons a rocket... The lessons we learn not with the stories as our experiences to every captured plot. Memory jolts and toffee-ed moments, why a paperback was read too early or a picture book too late and yet one more waits now on the lighted buoy. Books are a treasure hunt to one's whimsical soul, you don't think... - susan abraham

Aren't books like oceans in the sun, cherubs in a moonbeam, the star that beckons a rocket... The lessons we learn not with the stories as our experiences to every captured plot. Memory jolts and toffee-ed moments, why a paperback was read too early or a picture book too late and yet one more waits now on the lighted buoy. Books are a treasure hunt to one's whimsical soul, you don't think... - susan abraham

Reading, The Darling, a short story by Anton Chekhov at bedtime, I was enthralled at the universal disbandonment of the human emotion. And in this case, featuring one soul's unecessary indispensability towards another, that serves to bring only sorrow.

Olenka suffers misfortune from good fortune. A lady described sweeter than a candy bar; she thrives on love that encircles her like a peek-a-boo ring-of-roses game and so is unable to measure solitude in any given time.

She marries men, one after another, the first a theatre manager dies and so too, the dull timber manager later on and finally, she falls into the arms of a self-centered vet.

Each cheery relationship attempts to masquerade this dark truth that settles itself like fine sly thread into lazy conversations. The dialogues mould themselves on Olenka's man of the moment - his work, health, accounts etc. A sacrificial identity is telling.

She learns no lessons but continues to make herself indispensable to people who may simply tell her to shut up and go away.

The story builts a thoughtful lesson for the self that I suspect may jolly along as a vivid illustration every now and then.

Reading, The Darling, a short story by Anton Chekhov at bedtime, I was enthralled at the universal disbandonment of the human emotion. And in this case, featuring one soul's unecessary indispensability towards another, that serves to bring only sorrow.

Olenka suffers misfortune from good fortune. A lady described sweeter than a candy bar; she thrives on love that encircles her like a peek-a-boo ring-of-roses game and so is unable to measure solitude in any given time.

She marries men, one after another, the first a theatre manager dies and so too, the dull timber manager later on and finally, she falls into the arms of a self-centered vet.

Each cheery relationship attempts to masquerade this dark truth that settles itself like fine sly thread into lazy conversations. The dialogues mould themselves on Olenka's man of the moment - his work, health, accounts etc. A sacrificial identity is telling.

She learns no lessons but continues to make herself indispensable to people who may simply tell her to shut up and go away.

The story builts a thoughtful lesson for the self that I suspect may jolly along as a vivid illustration every now and then.

Reading, The Darling, a short story by Anton Chekhov at bedtime, I was enthralled at the universal disbandonment of the human emotion. And in this case, featuring one soul's unecessary indispensability towards another, that serves to bring only sorrow.

Olenka suffers misfortune from good fortune. A lady described sweeter than a candy bar; she thrives on love that encircles her like a peek-a-boo ring-of-roses game and so is unable to measure solitude in any given time.

She marries men, one after another, the first a theatre manager dies and so too, the dull timber manager later on and finally, she falls into the arms of a self-centered vet.

Each cheery relationship attempts to masquerade this dark truth that settles itself like fine sly thread into lazy conversations. The dialogues mould themselves on Olenka's man of the moment - his work, health, accounts etc. A sacrificial identity is telling.

She learns no lessons but continues to make herself indispensable to people who may simply tell her to shut up and go away.

The story builts a thoughtful lesson for the self that I suspect may jolly along as a vivid illustration every now and then.

It's a bit cold today and I think it's in the shadows of the night that one must learn to freeze into one's self. - susan abraham

It's a bit cold today and I think it's in the shadows of the night that one must learn to freeze into one's self. - susan abraham

It's a bit cold today and I think it's in the shadows of the night that one must learn to freeze into one's self. - susan abraham

To-do, to-do & how do you do & toodle-oo

Novelist Alessandro Manzoni

My to-do list which is a very tall to-do list but one that fills me with exhilaration.
And I've been naughty.
My resolutions start again in February. Or January 25.
Thank God, there's always February and January 25.

a) My entries for the Skint Writer competition (please see sidebar).
b) My novel manuscript for a publisher.
c) And perhaps to think of a way on how I can market my collection of comic fiction in the UK.
d) To look up a comedy/acting school for a course in the UK so I can act comedy in theatre and later, to do stand-up comedy acts in a cabaret in the UK. or in resorts by the sea.
I want to train for this.
e) To finish my play and have it produced in a theatre in the UK.
f) And as always, I want to turn to the reading of philosophy & the old world classics (literature) that I may grow with greater clarity and depth as a writer & individual. I'm still reading Alessandro Manzoni (please see sidebar).

My blog stays a friendly, cluttered diary to all these things.

In primary school during sports, we were divided into different house teams: red, yellow, green & blue. The assortment of our monkey faces followed the unfortunate colour.
Here is my affectionate childhood anthem...

Red red, knock your head.
Green green spit your skin.
Blue blue broken shoe.
Yellow yellow dirty fellow.

If someone told a lie:

Kutchie-rat, kutchie-rat
Die die and eat your lie
Your mother married a Sakai
In the middle of July.

To-do, to-do & how do you do & toodle-oo

Novelist Alessandro Manzoni

My to-do list which is a very tall to-do list but one that fills me with exhilaration.
And I've been naughty.
My resolutions start again in February. Or January 25.
Thank God, there's always February and January 25.

a) My entries for the Skint Writer competition (please see sidebar).
b) My novel manuscript for a publisher.
c) And perhaps to think of a way on how I can market my collection of comic fiction in the UK.
d) To look up a comedy/acting school for a course in the UK so I can act comedy in theatre and later, to do stand-up comedy acts in a cabaret in the UK. or in resorts by the sea.
I want to train for this.
e) To finish my play and have it produced in a theatre in the UK.
f) And as always, I want to turn to the reading of philosophy & the old world classics (literature) that I may grow with greater clarity and depth as a writer & individual. I'm still reading Alessandro Manzoni (please see sidebar).

My blog stays a friendly, cluttered diary to all these things.

In primary school during sports, we were divided into different house teams: red, yellow, green & blue. The assortment of our monkey faces followed the unfortunate colour.
Here is my affectionate childhood anthem...

Red red, knock your head.
Green green spit your skin.
Blue blue broken shoe.
Yellow yellow dirty fellow.

If someone told a lie:

Kutchie-rat, kutchie-rat
Die die and eat your lie
Your mother married a Sakai
In the middle of July.

To-do, to-do & how do you do & toodle-oo

Novelist Alessandro Manzoni

My to-do list which is a very tall to-do list but one that fills me with exhilaration.
And I've been naughty.
My resolutions start again in February. Or January 25.
Thank God, there's always February and January 25.

a) My entries for the Skint Writer competition (please see sidebar).
b) My novel manuscript for a publisher.
c) And perhaps to think of a way on how I can market my collection of comic fiction in the UK.
d) To look up a comedy/acting school for a course in the UK so I can act comedy in theatre and later, to do stand-up comedy acts in a cabaret in the UK. or in resorts by the sea.
I want to train for this.
e) To finish my play and have it produced in a theatre in the UK.
f) And as always, I want to turn to the reading of philosophy & the old world classics (literature) that I may grow with greater clarity and depth as a writer & individual. I'm still reading Alessandro Manzoni (please see sidebar).

My blog stays a friendly, cluttered diary to all these things.

In primary school during sports, we were divided into different house teams: red, yellow, green & blue. The assortment of our monkey faces followed the unfortunate colour.
Here is my affectionate childhood anthem...

Red red, knock your head.
Green green spit your skin.
Blue blue broken shoe.
Yellow yellow dirty fellow.

If someone told a lie:

Kutchie-rat, kutchie-rat
Die die and eat your lie
Your mother married a Sakai
In the middle of July.

Reflection: Stealing a moment from a memory

At just 5 and afterwards, I watched feature films on tv. The national station (Radio Television Malaysia) topped up surprises with its tall list of adult American and British screenings on Saturday afternoons.

Sometimes, couples kissed while they crushed grapes in Spain or sipped margaritas in Rio. At other times, I'd catch submarines, murders, monsters and ghosts. Then there were explorers who found themselves trapped in adventure, while lost in Japan or the artic circle.

Strangely, my mother respected this ritual She would add on an Ovaltine or cake for an added celebration. She would remind me that a film was on.

I never understood the vocabulary when it came to soldier talk and war jargon but my love for the English Language - that started from baby talk and picture books was so intense - I would sit glued to the screen. I soaked in the sophisticated dialogue slowly, like an aromatic essence.

Now in later years, one clip follows me everywhere. It playacts a ghost that shoulders my fantasies and threads my journey like soft footfalls down the hallway.

I must have been about 6+. Can't remember anything. Not the actor nor actress, - except that she was dark haired - and not the title. But a scene. Just one poignant scene mirrors my memory like the sparkle of daylight. I remember my mother saying to me that it all took place in England.

It was by the sea. Tall boulders, rugged cliffs. A freezing winter's day. The waves roared and crashed. The winds howled. It was raining. The weather was all wrong, but in its mismatched harmony, there stayed a sharp intrigue.

The woman came to meet the man she loved in Wellington boots & a raincoat. It would be the last time. That was their secret place. They hadn't met in a long time. I remembered that he was leaving. Going to or running away somewhere. I think he was wanted for a crime he didn't commit. The scene signalled that kind of urgency. He was never coming back. But he loved her and she him. And so they met for the last time.

I remember the way she looked at him.

Her eyes that were bright with love, that were steady with loyalty. She was a strong woman and had suffered terribly for this love. But you knew that in spite of what happened, she would go on loving him. She would never stop.

It was her self-containment while they exchanged stilted conversation and then embraced, that I found gripping. You knew, their love was true. In sadness and a reluctant farewell, its end still held that ribboned box sweetness.

How I could grasp all this at 6 in my subconscious, I have no clue but I did.

I can still see her sometimes if I close my eyes. I find the memory comforting and riverting. I want to be like this woman. I strive to be a writer with this kind of energy. Totally independent and self-contained and loving with ease and might. I want to remember my past love with the same magic possibilities.

Perhaps immerse myself in a horizon of no return. In a place like the Zanzibar where I've already been. There is an enchanting mystery in the slip-sliding wave, the long dark sky and the sharp thundercloud. They see all but never tell. I want to crayon their secrets into my heart and watercolour their bold stories for my own.

Reflection: Stealing a moment from a memory

At just 5 and afterwards, I watched feature films on tv. The national station (Radio Television Malaysia) topped up surprises with its tall list of adult American and British screenings on Saturday afternoons.

Sometimes, couples kissed while they crushed grapes in Spain or sipped margaritas in Rio. At other times, I'd catch submarines, murders, monsters and ghosts. Then there were explorers who found themselves trapped in adventure, while lost in Japan or the artic circle.

Strangely, my mother respected this ritual She would add on an Ovaltine or cake for an added celebration. She would remind me that a film was on.

I never understood the vocabulary when it came to soldier talk and war jargon but my love for the English Language - that started from baby talk and picture books was so intense - I would sit glued to the screen. I soaked in the sophisticated dialogue slowly, like an aromatic essence.

Now in later years, one clip follows me everywhere. It playacts a ghost that shoulders my fantasies and threads my journey like soft footfalls down the hallway.

I must have been about 6+. Can't remember anything. Not the actor nor actress, - except that she was dark haired - and not the title. But a scene. Just one poignant scene mirrors my memory like the sparkle of daylight. I remember my mother saying to me that it all took place in England.

It was by the sea. Tall boulders, rugged cliffs. A freezing winter's day. The waves roared and crashed. The winds howled. It was raining. The weather was all wrong, but in its mismatched harmony, there stayed a sharp intrigue.

The woman came to meet the man she loved in Wellington boots & a raincoat. It would be the last time. That was their secret place. They hadn't met in a long time. I remembered that he was leaving. Going to or running away somewhere. I think he was wanted for a crime he didn't commit. The scene signalled that kind of urgency. He was never coming back. But he loved her and she him. And so they met for the last time.

I remember the way she looked at him.

Her eyes that were bright with love, that were steady with loyalty. She was a strong woman and had suffered terribly for this love. But you knew that in spite of what happened, she would go on loving him. She would never stop.

It was her self-containment while they exchanged stilted conversation and then embraced, that I found gripping. You knew, their love was true. In sadness and a reluctant farewell, its end still held that ribboned box sweetness.

How I could grasp all this at 6 in my subconscious, I have no clue but I did.

I can still see her sometimes if I close my eyes. I find the memory comforting and riverting. I want to be like this woman. I strive to be a writer with this kind of energy. Totally independent and self-contained and loving with ease and might. I want to remember my past love with the same magic possibilities.

Perhaps immerse myself in a horizon of no return. In a place like the Zanzibar where I've already been. There is an enchanting mystery in the slip-sliding wave, the long dark sky and the sharp thundercloud. They see all but never tell. I want to crayon their secrets into my heart and watercolour their bold stories for my own.

Reflection: Stealing a moment from a memory

At just 5 and afterwards, I watched feature films on tv. The national station (Radio Television Malaysia) topped up surprises with its tall list of adult American and British screenings on Saturday afternoons.

Sometimes, couples kissed while they crushed grapes in Spain or sipped margaritas in Rio. At other times, I'd catch submarines, murders, monsters and ghosts. Then there were explorers who found themselves trapped in adventure, while lost in Japan or the artic circle.

Strangely, my mother respected this ritual She would add on an Ovaltine or cake for an added celebration. She would remind me that a film was on.

I never understood the vocabulary when it came to soldier talk and war jargon but my love for the English Language - that started from baby talk and picture books was so intense - I would sit glued to the screen. I soaked in the sophisticated dialogue slowly, like an aromatic essence.

Now in later years, one clip follows me everywhere. It playacts a ghost that shoulders my fantasies and threads my journey like soft footfalls down the hallway.

I must have been about 6+. Can't remember anything. Not the actor nor actress, - except that she was dark haired - and not the title. But a scene. Just one poignant scene mirrors my memory like the sparkle of daylight. I remember my mother saying to me that it all took place in England.

It was by the sea. Tall boulders, rugged cliffs. A freezing winter's day. The waves roared and crashed. The winds howled. It was raining. The weather was all wrong, but in its mismatched harmony, there stayed a sharp intrigue.

The woman came to meet the man she loved in Wellington boots & a raincoat. It would be the last time. That was their secret place. They hadn't met in a long time. I remembered that he was leaving. Going to or running away somewhere. I think he was wanted for a crime he didn't commit. The scene signalled that kind of urgency. He was never coming back. But he loved her and she him. And so they met for the last time.

I remember the way she looked at him.

Her eyes that were bright with love, that were steady with loyalty. She was a strong woman and had suffered terribly for this love. But you knew that in spite of what happened, she would go on loving him. She would never stop.

It was her self-containment while they exchanged stilted conversation and then embraced, that I found gripping. You knew, their love was true. In sadness and a reluctant farewell, its end still held that ribboned box sweetness.

How I could grasp all this at 6 in my subconscious, I have no clue but I did.

I can still see her sometimes if I close my eyes. I find the memory comforting and riverting. I want to be like this woman. I strive to be a writer with this kind of energy. Totally independent and self-contained and loving with ease and might. I want to remember my past love with the same magic possibilities.

Perhaps immerse myself in a horizon of no return. In a place like the Zanzibar where I've already been. There is an enchanting mystery in the slip-sliding wave, the long dark sky and the sharp thundercloud. They see all but never tell. I want to crayon their secrets into my heart and watercolour their bold stories for my own.

Mrs. Santamaria.

A delicate narration by Susan Abraham

One day, the widow, Mrs. Santamaria invited me to stay.
Mrs. Santamaria was an ambitious Catholic woman. She desired a personal meeting with Jesus Christ. Mrs. Lee Siow Fatt who visited Mrs. Santamaria on her motorcycle, had heard Christ's voice vocally.

He visited but did not stay long.
He was said to boast an attractive French accent.

Mrs. Santamaria kept her short crop a stark white to make a statement. She wore lots of beads.
Mrs. Santamaria worked as a teacher.

Once, a precocious 9 year old schoolgirl was molested by another 9 year old boy. He could not resist giving her breasts quick sharp pokes.
One for the left and one for the right.

Mrs. Santamaria was furious. "What do you think," she shouted at the grinning boy.
"That these are radios?" "That you can just switch on and off and turn left and right for FM1, SW2, .... channel 517..." Mrs. Santamaria did a wriggly Hawaian dance to emphasise her point.
The children did not like Mrs. Santamaria.

Mrs. Santamaria offered me coffee. I said I preferred Nescafe.

Mrs. Santamaria waved a 3-in-1 Chow Ah Chap sachet in my face. The coffee powder was grounded in Taiwan. I hesitated. Ministers, engineers, doctors and lawyers had all indulged and partied with Chow Ah Chap. All praised the delectable flavour and returned, when they craved Chow Ah Chap.

It was an auspicious moment. I settled for a mug.

Mrs. Santamaria asked me about my religious faith. I used words like intuition and feeling compelled to describe how I would hear Christ's voice. I sensed she was jealous.
"So he's been talking to you too?" I kept silent.

Mrs. Santamaria sobbed openly.

She was the perfect Catholic woman. At Easter, she volunteered to wash a 100 feet.She owned 20 rosaries. Never missed church. A son was studying to be a doctor in India. Her daughter had married an airline pilot who worked for Cathay Pacific. They lived in Hong Kong.

True, that the daughter's husband had once chased the visiting Mrs. Santamaria out of his house because she had complained that his cd volume of Presley's Kiss Me Quick was too loud.

Because of Elvis Presley's vulgar lyrics, Mrs. Santamaria was forced to book into a hotel. To see her own beloved daughter mind you.

Mrs. Santamaria cried for a long time. Her body heaved about like the Himalayas experiencing an earthquake. Her tiny breasts were like inquisitive badgers hoping to sniff out an identity. Now, they wondered who I was.
I stared with interest.

Mrs. Santamaria asked me if I had supernatural abilities.
I said I had the gift of discernment.
I lied.
Mrs. Santamaria threw a fit. She yelled, "Oh you think only YOOOOOUUUU HAVE THE GIFT OF DISCERNMENT....
The words roared like a tidal wave.
Think the Platters.
Oh...you think...oh you think...oh you think...
Only YOOOOOOOOOUUUU....
(Clip fingers and tap dance.)

I wondered if Mrs. Santamaria would murder me.
She brandished the knife with which she was slicing an apple.
It was night and her doors were locked.
Would I die at the hands of an ageing hippy?
Mrs. Santamaria wailed and pleaded if I could contact Christ for her, next time he visited. To save my life, I said yes.

The next day, we did a walkabout.
I went to the house of an old classmate. Faridah's mum gave me her new numbers and addy.
Mrs.Santamaria asked me to telephone Faridah.

Faridah was shocked to hear my voice.
She remembered a schoolgirl crush. And how I would blush everytime he smiled.
She said my face looked a shocking pink. Faridah kept talking about the colour pink.
She said I had made it so obvious. That I was hopelessly in love with him.

I put the phone down.
Mrs. Santamaria demanded to know why my face looked a shocking pink.

I called Mildred in Melaka.
Faridah had given me the number. Mildred was less accomodating.

She remembered when we were 15 that we had visited the house of my crush to pretend to interview his mum for a school project. The mission was to source information about my crush.

Apparently, I had made Mildred ask a couple of embarassing questions.
My crush's mum decided that Mildred was in love with her son.
Soon afterwards, she told her son and her son told his friends.
After all this time, Mildred was still fuming.
The call was a disaster. I put the phone down.

The next day, Mrs. Santamaria had a visitor.
She was very excited. She kept baking cookies for her guest.
The construction worker's name was Wong Ah Kow.
Ah Kow had seen the divine light.
Jesus Christ had appeared to him in the flesh.
Ah Kow wanted to switch from Taoism to Christianity with immediate effect.
Mrs. Santamaria was taking Ah Kow to see Mrs. Manomoney.

Mrs. Santamaria had shared bad blood with Mrs. Manomoney but now was not the time.
Mrs. Manomoney was said to have spiritual powers.
She would sort Ah Kow out and lure him to the Catholic side.
Although things hadn't felt Catholic awhile back.

Mrs. Santamaria had gossiped about Mrs. Manomoney at the church social.
The bad blood occured when Mrs. Santamaria said that she had bought a pair of Bata slippers for Mrs. Manomoney worth MR200 for a Christmas present.
Mrs. Manomoney had given Mrs. Santamaria a tin of Danish butter cookies in return.
Mrs. Manomoney had heard the gossip.

One day as Mrs. Santamaria watered her plants in the porch, a car stopped outside her gates.
A Bata slipper flew out like a flying saucer. It hit the window.
Another Bata slipper flew out like a flying saucer. It hit the roof and was kidnapped by a crow.
Think Cinderalla's stepsisters in reverse.
The car zoomed off.

Mrs. Manomoney and Mrs. Santamaria did not talk for 4 months until the priest threatened excomunication.

Mrs. Santamaria poured a glass of juice for Ah Kow.
I studied Ah Kow carefully.
Was Jesus handsome, I wanted to know.
Ah Kow afforded a romantic description. Sparkling white skin, sunset flaming hair & a clean-shaven face. And yes, he might have spoken French.
I decided eternal life was promising.

I asked Ah Kow if Jesus had told him in French to become a Catholic.
Ah Kow spoke no English. Only Malay and Mandarin.
He said that Christ spoke in Mandarin and gave him a 4-digit Lotto number.
He had struck a major prize.
That's why he decided that Christ was a useful investment.
He would do whatever he took to collect more 4-digit numbers.

Suddenly, I heard a scream in the kitchen.
I hurried to see if the cookies had burnt.
Mrs. Santamaria was yelling out Hail Marys and reciting eerie chants.
I called and called.
She appeared not to hear but carried on singing with the passion of a choir.
She looked at me with crazed eyes.
I asked her what was the matter.
She said that she had heard the conversation.
Ah Kow was a gambler.
The devil himself was now relaxing on her cushions, drinking orange juice with a prized Made-in-Switzerland straw.
Was she committing the grave sin of taking the devil to meet God?

Mrs. Santamaria telephoned Mrs. Manomoney.
Mrs. Manomoney had her own problems and was reluctant to meet Ah Kow.
Her teenage daughter had threatened to elope with a canteen worker.
Mrs. Santamaria decided she would give Mrs. Manomoney a bit of what-for.

She pleaded Ah Kow's cause.
Better he entered the Catholic church and that was one more medal for the Pope before those born-again Christian fanatics grabbed the poor lad and his soul was lost to the darkness forever.

Mrs. Manomoney's car arrived on the dot of 7.
There was no slipper throwing and no exchange of butter cookies.
Ah Kow became sweet with Mrs. Manomoney's daughter soon after and Mrs. Manomoney had a new problem on her hands.
I lost Faridah's number.
Mildred is still not talking to me.
Unless I make a full confession to eliminate my sin.
My crush's mother died 5 years ago.
Mildred suggests I meditate at her grave and beg forgiveness.
Mrs. Santamaria is also not talking to me.
I turned her line called Oh you think only YOOOOOUUUUU have the gift of discernment into a song and sent her the recording. Toodle-oo to...and with a touch of Oo-la-la.

P.S: It was rumoured recently that Mrs. Santamaria had bumped into Christ himself while chasing a cockroach. Je t'aime had come the startling voice from behind the curtains. It held a distinct French accent.
Veux-tu m' pouser? replied Mrs. Santamaria with passionate ferocity.
She crumbled to her knees and fell at the feet of her Lord. She wondered if he would like a sprinkle of Made-in-London perfumed talc. It turned out that Christ was not interested in marriage at this point. This in answer to Mrs. Santamaria's earlier proposal. He had simply whizzed in for elevenses. Who could resist a 3-in-1 Chow Ah Chup sachet. Mrs. Santamaria has since been seen wearing a beret.

Mrs. Santamaria.

A delicate narration by Susan Abraham

One day, the widow, Mrs. Santamaria invited me to stay.
Mrs. Santamaria was an ambitious Catholic woman. She desired a personal meeting with Jesus Christ. Mrs. Lee Siow Fatt who visited Mrs. Santamaria on her motorcycle, had heard Christ's voice vocally.

He visited but did not stay long.
He was said to boast an attractive French accent.

Mrs. Santamaria kept her short crop a stark white to make a statement. She wore lots of beads.
Mrs. Santamaria worked as a teacher.

Once, a precocious 9 year old schoolgirl was molested by another 9 year old boy. He could not resist giving her breasts quick sharp pokes.
One for the left and one for the right.

Mrs. Santamaria was furious. "What do you think," she shouted at the grinning boy.
"That these are radios?" "That you can just switch on and off and turn left and right for FM1, SW2, .... channel 517..." Mrs. Santamaria did a wriggly Hawaian dance to emphasise her point.
The children did not like Mrs. Santamaria.

Mrs. Santamaria offered me coffee. I said I preferred Nescafe.

Mrs. Santamaria waved a 3-in-1 Chow Ah Chap sachet in my face. The coffee powder was grounded in Taiwan. I hesitated. Ministers, engineers, doctors and lawyers had all indulged and partied with Chow Ah Chap. All praised the delectable flavour and returned, when they craved Chow Ah Chap.

It was an auspicious moment. I settled for a mug.

Mrs. Santamaria asked me about my religious faith. I used words like intuition and feeling compelled to describe how I would hear Christ's voice. I sensed she was jealous.
"So he's been talking to you too?" I kept silent.

Mrs. Santamaria sobbed openly.

She was the perfect Catholic woman. At Easter, she volunteered to wash a 100 feet.She owned 20 rosaries. Never missed church. A son was studying to be a doctor in India. Her daughter had married an airline pilot who worked for Cathay Pacific. They lived in Hong Kong.

True, that the daughter's husband had once chased the visiting Mrs. Santamaria out of his house because she had complained that his cd volume of Presley's Kiss Me Quick was too loud.

Because of Elvis Presley's vulgar lyrics, Mrs. Santamaria was forced to book into a hotel. To see her own beloved daughter mind you.

Mrs. Santamaria cried for a long time. Her body heaved about like the Himalayas experiencing an earthquake. Her tiny breasts were like inquisitive badgers hoping to sniff out an identity. Now, they wondered who I was.
I stared with interest.

Mrs. Santamaria asked me if I had supernatural abilities.
I said I had the gift of discernment.
I lied.
Mrs. Santamaria threw a fit. She yelled, "Oh you think only YOOOOOUUUU HAVE THE GIFT OF DISCERNMENT....
The words roared like a tidal wave.
Think the Platters.
Oh...you think...oh you think...oh you think...
Only YOOOOOOOOOUUUU....
(Clip fingers and tap dance.)

I wondered if Mrs. Santamaria would murder me.
She brandished the knife with which she was slicing an apple.
It was night and her doors were locked.
Would I die at the hands of an ageing hippy?
Mrs. Santamaria wailed and pleaded if I could contact Christ for her, next time he visited. To save my life, I said yes.

The next day, we did a walkabout.
I went to the house of an old classmate. Faridah's mum gave me her new numbers and addy.
Mrs.Santamaria asked me to telephone Faridah.

Faridah was shocked to hear my voice.
She remembered a schoolgirl crush. And how I would blush everytime he smiled.
She said my face looked a shocking pink. Faridah kept talking about the colour pink.
She said I had made it so obvious. That I was hopelessly in love with him.

I put the phone down.
Mrs. Santamaria demanded to know why my face looked a shocking pink.

I called Mildred in Melaka.
Faridah had given me the number. Mildred was less accomodating.

She remembered when we were 15 that we had visited the house of my crush to pretend to interview his mum for a school project. The mission was to source information about my crush.

Apparently, I had made Mildred ask a couple of embarassing questions.
My crush's mum decided that Mildred was in love with her son.
Soon afterwards, she told her son and her son told his friends.
After all this time, Mildred was still fuming.
The call was a disaster. I put the phone down.

The next day, Mrs. Santamaria had a visitor.
She was very excited. She kept baking cookies for her guest.
The construction worker's name was Wong Ah Kow.
Ah Kow had seen the divine light.
Jesus Christ had appeared to him in the flesh.
Ah Kow wanted to switch from Taoism to Christianity with immediate effect.
Mrs. Santamaria was taking Ah Kow to see Mrs. Manomoney.

Mrs. Santamaria had shared bad blood with Mrs. Manomoney but now was not the time.
Mrs. Manomoney was said to have spiritual powers.
She would sort Ah Kow out and lure him to the Catholic side.
Although things hadn't felt Catholic awhile back.

Mrs. Santamaria had gossiped about Mrs. Manomoney at the church social.
The bad blood occured when Mrs. Santamaria said that she had bought a pair of Bata slippers for Mrs. Manomoney worth MR200 for a Christmas present.
Mrs. Manomoney had given Mrs. Santamaria a tin of Danish butter cookies in return.
Mrs. Manomoney had heard the gossip.

One day as Mrs. Santamaria watered her plants in the porch, a car stopped outside her gates.
A Bata slipper flew out like a flying saucer. It hit the window.
Another Bata slipper flew out like a flying saucer. It hit the roof and was kidnapped by a crow.
Think Cinderalla's stepsisters in reverse.
The car zoomed off.

Mrs. Manomoney and Mrs. Santamaria did not talk for 4 months until the priest threatened excomunication.

Mrs. Santamaria poured a glass of juice for Ah Kow.
I studied Ah Kow carefully.
Was Jesus handsome, I wanted to know.
Ah Kow afforded a romantic description. Sparkling white skin, sunset flaming hair & a clean-shaven face. And yes, he might have spoken French.
I decided eternal life was promising.

I asked Ah Kow if Jesus had told him in French to become a Catholic.
Ah Kow spoke no English. Only Malay and Mandarin.
He said that Christ spoke in Mandarin and gave him a 4-digit Lotto number.
He had struck a major prize.
That's why he decided that Christ was a useful investment.
He would do whatever he took to collect more 4-digit numbers.

Suddenly, I heard a scream in the kitchen.
I hurried to see if the cookies had burnt.
Mrs. Santamaria was yelling out Hail Marys and reciting eerie chants.
I called and called.
She appeared not to hear but carried on singing with the passion of a choir.
She looked at me with crazed eyes.
I asked her what was the matter.
She said that she had heard the conversation.
Ah Kow was a gambler.
The devil himself was now relaxing on her cushions, drinking orange juice with a prized Made-in-Switzerland straw.
Was she committing the grave sin of taking the devil to meet God?

Mrs. Santamaria telephoned Mrs. Manomoney.
Mrs. Manomoney had her own problems and was reluctant to meet Ah Kow.
Her teenage daughter had threatened to elope with a canteen worker.
Mrs. Santamaria decided she would give Mrs. Manomoney a bit of what-for.

She pleaded Ah Kow's cause.
Better he entered the Catholic church and that was one more medal for the Pope before those born-again Christian fanatics grabbed the poor lad and his soul was lost to the darkness forever.

Mrs. Manomoney's car arrived on the dot of 7.
There was no slipper throwing and no exchange of butter cookies.
Ah Kow became sweet with Mrs. Manomoney's daughter soon after and Mrs. Manomoney had a new problem on her hands.
I lost Faridah's number.
Mildred is still not talking to me.
Unless I make a full confession to eliminate my sin.
My crush's mother died 5 years ago.
Mildred suggests I meditate at her grave and beg forgiveness.
Mrs. Santamaria is also not talking to me.
I turned her line called Oh you think only YOOOOOUUUUU have the gift of discernment into a song and sent her the recording. Toodle-oo to...and with a touch of Oo-la-la.

P.S: It was rumoured recently that Mrs. Santamaria had bumped into Christ himself while chasing a cockroach. Je t'aime had come the startling voice from behind the curtains. It held a distinct French accent.
Veux-tu m' pouser? replied Mrs. Santamaria with passionate ferocity.
She crumbled to her knees and fell at the feet of her Lord. She wondered if he would like a sprinkle of Made-in-London perfumed talc. It turned out that Christ was not interested in marriage at this point. This in answer to Mrs. Santamaria's earlier proposal. He had simply whizzed in for elevenses. Who could resist a 3-in-1 Chow Ah Chup sachet. Mrs. Santamaria has since been seen wearing a beret.