One moves with the humoured audacity of time, cherishing the hours that unfold. - susan abraham

Life makes mincemeat of the placid & agreeable. They live on the circumference of a situation and never regale in its sphere. By agreeing to everything & saying nothing, what could have been a clever mind drowns instead into the duller kind. - susan abraham

One moves with the humoured audacity of time, cherishing the hours that unfold. - susan abraham

Life makes mincemeat of the placid & agreeable. They live on the circumference of a situation and never regale in its sphere. By agreeing to everything & saying nothing, what could have been a clever mind drowns instead into the duller kind. - susan abraham

One moves with the humoured audacity of time, cherishing the hours that unfold. - susan abraham

Life makes mincemeat of the placid & agreeable. They live on the circumference of a situation and never regale in its sphere. By agreeing to everything & saying nothing, what could have been a clever mind drowns instead into the duller kind. - susan abraham

My life is to be haphazard.

After today, I should settle for some days before a rush picks up again but my lifestyle will never be subdued as from when you first knew me. It's changed.

But to feel disconnected & surreal... How does one explain the ridiculous with dignity and to search the clown from the frown. I just want to savour experiences - not countries (so don't be deceived) - and write. Though I've collected a sackful of adventures, I feel it's time for another list of colourful episodes. I desire to venture into the unknown.

My journey is a selfish one. Because of this desire to feed my life as a writer, I can be quite ruthless in achieving this goal. I'll catch up with your blogs really soon. - susan abraham

My life is to be haphazard.

After today, I should settle for some days before a rush picks up again but my lifestyle will never be subdued as from when you first knew me. It's changed.

But to feel disconnected & surreal... How does one explain the ridiculous with dignity and to search the clown from the frown. I just want to savour experiences - not countries (so don't be deceived) - and write. Though I've collected a sackful of adventures, I feel it's time for another list of colourful episodes. I desire to venture into the unknown.

My journey is a selfish one. Because of this desire to feed my life as a writer, I can be quite ruthless in achieving this goal. I'll catch up with your blogs really soon. - susan abraham

My life is to be haphazard.

After today, I should settle for some days before a rush picks up again but my lifestyle will never be subdued as from when you first knew me. It's changed.

But to feel disconnected & surreal... How does one explain the ridiculous with dignity and to search the clown from the frown. I just want to savour experiences - not countries (so don't be deceived) - and write. Though I've collected a sackful of adventures, I feel it's time for another list of colourful episodes. I desire to venture into the unknown.

My journey is a selfish one. Because of this desire to feed my life as a writer, I can be quite ruthless in achieving this goal. I'll catch up with your blogs really soon. - susan abraham

Thoughts

I am so restless today. I have to pack. I won't talk of experiences until they happen. The thirst for adventure & the unknown cradles me with an undue cosetting madness to which I succumb like a proper child of the universe everytime.

This extraordinary craving for knowledge on a strange footpath. Such a quaint charm to clothe me again slowly and steadily.

I don't even know what to write honestly. I used to know my posts beforehand but I am so impatient now - properly stressed out - with packing & planning I cannot think. In a way, I feel disconnected but I like living on the edge of episodes that have passed and with more to come - ever different yet merging one into the other; like paradoxes nestled in a prism. - susan abraham

Thoughts

I am so restless today. I have to pack. I won't talk of experiences until they happen. The thirst for adventure & the unknown cradles me with an undue cosetting madness to which I succumb like a proper child of the universe everytime.

This extraordinary craving for knowledge on a strange footpath. Such a quaint charm to clothe me again slowly and steadily.

I don't even know what to write honestly. I used to know my posts beforehand but I am so impatient now - properly stressed out - with packing & planning I cannot think. In a way, I feel disconnected but I like living on the edge of episodes that have passed and with more to come - ever different yet merging one into the other; like paradoxes nestled in a prism. - susan abraham

Thoughts

I am so restless today. I have to pack. I won't talk of experiences until they happen. The thirst for adventure & the unknown cradles me with an undue cosetting madness to which I succumb like a proper child of the universe everytime.

This extraordinary craving for knowledge on a strange footpath. Such a quaint charm to clothe me again slowly and steadily.

I don't even know what to write honestly. I used to know my posts beforehand but I am so impatient now - properly stressed out - with packing & planning I cannot think. In a way, I feel disconnected but I like living on the edge of episodes that have passed and with more to come - ever different yet merging one into the other; like paradoxes nestled in a prism. - susan abraham

Tell me the story of a Sahara craze and watch my dazed heart dance upon my lighted face. - susan abraham

Sometimes, we may become angry with the knowledge we represent. - susan abraham

Tell me the story of a Sahara craze and watch my dazed heart dance upon my lighted face. - susan abraham

Sometimes, we may become angry with the knowledge we represent. - susan abraham

Tell me the story of a Sahara craze and watch my dazed heart dance upon my lighted face. - susan abraham

Sometimes, we may become angry with the knowledge we represent. - susan abraham

My Kind of Music: : SASH's Club Sounds

SASH's techno club euromix. It reflects the way I feel about my life today. Vibrant, jazzy, lively.

My Kind of Music: : SASH's Club Sounds

SASH's techno club euromix. It reflects the way I feel about my life today. Vibrant, jazzy, lively.

My Kind of Music: : SASH's Club Sounds

SASH's techno club euromix. It reflects the way I feel about my life today. Vibrant, jazzy, lively.

Dead Sea Jordan - visited October 2002 (lowest point on earth)

And I ran like the ocean, racing the camel on the sand, which offered rides and childrens' delights in the gullied well of the deep earth's locked up land. And I saw the purple sunset wearing shiny blue hues, a garland for heaven's haloed band. And the polished mirror of the Dead Sea sparkled up mud for beauty and corals of salt that licked my heart like sugared malt. And the lights of Israel spotlighted a flicker from where burly Egyptians campfired their supper. And so I raced the camels on the sand from where the silent mother sun tenderly craved my dusty happy hand.- susan abraham
Picture Credit to: JordanDeadSea

Dead Sea Jordan - visited October 2002 (lowest point on earth)

And I ran like the ocean, racing the camel on the sand, which offered rides and childrens' delights in the gullied well of the deep earth's locked up land. And I saw the purple sunset wearing shiny blue hues, a garland for heaven's haloed band. And the polished mirror of the Dead Sea sparkled up mud for beauty and corals of salt that licked my heart like sugared malt. And the lights of Israel spotlighted a flicker from where burly Egyptians campfired their supper. And so I raced the camels on the sand from where the silent mother sun tenderly craved my dusty happy hand.- susan abraham
Picture Credit to: JordanDeadSea

Dead Sea Jordan - visited October 2002 (lowest point on earth)

And I ran like the ocean, racing the camel on the sand, which offered rides and childrens' delights in the gullied well of the deep earth's locked up land. And I saw the purple sunset wearing shiny blue hues, a garland for heaven's haloed band. And the polished mirror of the Dead Sea sparkled up mud for beauty and corals of salt that licked my heart like sugared malt. And the lights of Israel spotlighted a flicker from where burly Egyptians campfired their supper. And so I raced the camels on the sand from where the silent mother sun tenderly craved my dusty happy hand.- susan abraham
Picture Credit to: JordanDeadSea

On reading...

I am reading the Icelandic Sagas...folklore that tickles the spirit with frivolity & charm, and for me right now, a mysteriously sweetened balm. I hope the sagas will catch all sorrow and place it in the hollow of my fate that I may be reading of adventurous texts even when it is very late...when the planet may have slipped off its universal space or when the clock may have finally tripped upon its forgotten fingered face. - susan abraham

On reading...

I am reading the Icelandic Sagas...folklore that tickles the spirit with frivolity & charm, and for me right now, a mysteriously sweetened balm. I hope the sagas will catch all sorrow and place it in the hollow of my fate that I may be reading of adventurous texts even when it is very late...when the planet may have slipped off its universal space or when the clock may have finally tripped upon its forgotten fingered face. - susan abraham

On reading...

I am reading the Icelandic Sagas...folklore that tickles the spirit with frivolity & charm, and for me right now, a mysteriously sweetened balm. I hope the sagas will catch all sorrow and place it in the hollow of my fate that I may be reading of adventurous texts even when it is very late...when the planet may have slipped off its universal space or when the clock may have finally tripped upon its forgotten fingered face. - susan abraham

Reposting an episode from my travels to the Zanzibar. Here a small snippet.

By Susan Abraham

The next day, Mrs. Periammah Lewis and I continued our travels into the Zanzibar.

We were accompanied by one Valentino Rudolph The Third. Valentino was a heavy barrelled Tanzanian, who acted as Mrs. Lewis's son, Alagappan's driver in Dar-El-Salaam. Overnight, he had received his promotion papers for self-proclaimed butler and high-alert bodyguard.

Of course, welcome and goodbye hugs were out of the question.

Pardon Valentino for being rude but he was so short that had he dared attempt an embrace into Mrs. Lewis's Himalayan chest which possessed two shaky, unconquerable Everests (it was whispered that her long-dead husband had been frigid) he would have been forever suffocated and buried in burning flesh.

The Everests drooped from an ocean of fiery, frustrated wrinkles. And God knows, what would have happened to his bulbous nose had his face hit the peaks.

What had to be urgently remembered was that the Tanzanian police prowled the city like leopards. Both would have been arrested for a supposedly lewd sexual act. Please, I dare not say and can only plead that you visualise the tragedy that may have been!

What if they could not have been separated? They may have had to live like Siamese twins.

To this day, Mrs. Lewis's Everests remain unconquered.

"Take Mummy, take him and go," smiled Alagappan with relief. I suspected he wanted to get rid of us. Alaggapan was in a good mood. The swelling in his right eye had gone. The criminal Botswana born-n-bred mosquito, having escaped trial and extradiction rights, had been condemned to eternal damnation in the family dustbin. "Rot in hell," shouted Mrs. Lewis.

I wondered that she didn't give it a hug on her restless, scorching chest for a similiar effect.


I could you tell you many stories on the exotic Zanzibar and I will later. But perhaps today, one small scene.

It was a hot afternoon at 2. Mrs. Periammah Lewis, Valentino Rudolph the Third and I sat in a restaurant that resembled a thatched straw hut, close to the idyllic icing beach.

The restaurant had a curvy bar next to it. It was called The Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick Shack.

A song involving powerful African drumbeats, blared loudly. Voluptous sweet young things holidaying from Europe, sat in dangerous bikinis on bar stools. They sipped potions with fancy names like You Are a Coconut Head.

Hopeful suitors with toothpaste grins clamoured the bar like an army of red ants. Palm trees swayed on the beach next to us a little snobbishly as the wind blew lustily. Mrs. Lewis, reluctant to spend US$ 2 dollars on an orange crush, had dismissed Sharuk, our guide, for the day.

Earlier, Sharuk had taken us on a tour. I chose to take my photograph of Sharuk next to a stall selling plastic wildlife and Zanzibar spices, batteries and smuggled cigarettes.

An old man with a snowy snakish beard and white cap guarded his rackety stall. It was in shambles. He looked po-faced like a museum statue. He cheated tourists as often as he could.

On his parasol was a banner that advertised his stall. It spelt the words, Made-In-London in big, bright red letters. Everywhere on the legs of his rackety table was also painted the words, Made-In-London. The old man was surrounded by about 50 Made-In-London labels. It soon became clear that the old man himself looked like he could have been manufactured in London, back in the Dickensen era.

I thought that would be the ideal place to take a photograph of Sharuk. Sharuk exchanged a foreign dialect with the old man. We put on solemn expressions. The old man nodded his head but looked suspicious. First, we had to purchase something. I bought a few camera batteries.

Sharuk put his hand around the old man and grinned. Perhaps he too would look to the folks back home that he was a Made-In-London import. Sharuk's ambition was to be a Hollywood actor.

Then Sharuk laughed. And I laughed. And then we laughed and laughed. Until I couldn't take any more pictures. The old man's face transformed itself into a vengeful volcano. Suddenly the dragon, he pummelled a fist threateningly and shouted at us. Sharouk said he screamed out unmentionables. "Time to get out of here," shouted Sharuk. We didn't take the risk of saying thank-you. Still laughing, we ran and ran.

Now, I felt wistful, like a young lady dining somewhere in the Carribbean. I wanted to get up and dance. A powerful romantic flavour lingered in The Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick shack. Other islands would continue to have that same aromatic feel as I found out, from visiting the South Seas.

I tasted a vanilla ice-cream called Tutti-Frutti. Mrs. Lewis never ate at any outside restaurant anywhere in the world for fear that the food would be contaminated. She only ever supped at respectable Indian thosai shops. Now she and Valentino had themselves cups of tea. Valentino tried not to look at Mrs. Lewis's chest. Mrs. Lewis tried not to look at Valentino's bulbous nose.

Suddenly, a tiny African boy riding a Vespa like the Grand Prix, scootered into the shack, gatecrashing the idyllic scene.

There were two other boys hollering on the Vespa with him. They had heard rumours that the police were coming. "POLICIA, POLICIA," they shouted. "POLICIA!"

Of course, we knew nothing. The bartender looked nervous.
Waiters dropped their plates.
The hopeful suitors fled like cowards.
The girls looked surprised.
There was a lot of noise. The boys looked worried. What was their dark secret, I wondered engagingly. "No need to be a busybody," snorted Mrs. Lewis. A wildlife image immediately shot to mind.

The boys said they would help to guard the fort. They careened around. for warning signs. They heard sounds getting louder and louder but couldn't see anything. They manouvered the Vespa into the bar one more time. "POLICIA, POLICA," they shouted, vainly. They added honks and toots to heightens suspense.
It was too late.
Everyone shivered and waited.
No-one moved.
After what seemed an age, we heard the clopping of hoofs.
A puzzled farmer with a donkey on his cart ambled into The Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick shack.
It was a case of mistaken identity.The three African boys, on their Vespa, decided that a vanishing act would be smarter than an apology.
They fled.

Reposting an episode from my travels to the Zanzibar. Here a small snippet.

By Susan Abraham

The next day, Mrs. Periammah Lewis and I continued our travels into the Zanzibar.

We were accompanied by one Valentino Rudolph The Third. Valentino was a heavy barrelled Tanzanian, who acted as Mrs. Lewis's son, Alagappan's driver in Dar-El-Salaam. Overnight, he had received his promotion papers for self-proclaimed butler and high-alert bodyguard.

Of course, welcome and goodbye hugs were out of the question.

Pardon Valentino for being rude but he was so short that had he dared attempt an embrace into Mrs. Lewis's Himalayan chest which possessed two shaky, unconquerable Everests (it was whispered that her long-dead husband had been frigid) he would have been forever suffocated and buried in burning flesh.

The Everests drooped from an ocean of fiery, frustrated wrinkles. And God knows, what would have happened to his bulbous nose had his face hit the peaks.

What had to be urgently remembered was that the Tanzanian police prowled the city like leopards. Both would have been arrested for a supposedly lewd sexual act. Please, I dare not say and can only plead that you visualise the tragedy that may have been!

What if they could not have been separated? They may have had to live like Siamese twins.

To this day, Mrs. Lewis's Everests remain unconquered.

"Take Mummy, take him and go," smiled Alagappan with relief. I suspected he wanted to get rid of us. Alaggapan was in a good mood. The swelling in his right eye had gone. The criminal Botswana born-n-bred mosquito, having escaped trial and extradiction rights, had been condemned to eternal damnation in the family dustbin. "Rot in hell," shouted Mrs. Lewis.

I wondered that she didn't give it a hug on her restless, scorching chest for a similiar effect.


I could you tell you many stories on the exotic Zanzibar and I will later. But perhaps today, one small scene.

It was a hot afternoon at 2. Mrs. Periammah Lewis, Valentino Rudolph the Third and I sat in a restaurant that resembled a thatched straw hut, close to the idyllic icing beach.

The restaurant had a curvy bar next to it. It was called The Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick Shack.

A song involving powerful African drumbeats, blared loudly. Voluptous sweet young things holidaying from Europe, sat in dangerous bikinis on bar stools. They sipped potions with fancy names like You Are a Coconut Head.

Hopeful suitors with toothpaste grins clamoured the bar like an army of red ants. Palm trees swayed on the beach next to us a little snobbishly as the wind blew lustily. Mrs. Lewis, reluctant to spend US$ 2 dollars on an orange crush, had dismissed Sharuk, our guide, for the day.

Earlier, Sharuk had taken us on a tour. I chose to take my photograph of Sharuk next to a stall selling plastic wildlife and Zanzibar spices, batteries and smuggled cigarettes.

An old man with a snowy snakish beard and white cap guarded his rackety stall. It was in shambles. He looked po-faced like a museum statue. He cheated tourists as often as he could.

On his parasol was a banner that advertised his stall. It spelt the words, Made-In-London in big, bright red letters. Everywhere on the legs of his rackety table was also painted the words, Made-In-London. The old man was surrounded by about 50 Made-In-London labels. It soon became clear that the old man himself looked like he could have been manufactured in London, back in the Dickensen era.

I thought that would be the ideal place to take a photograph of Sharuk. Sharuk exchanged a foreign dialect with the old man. We put on solemn expressions. The old man nodded his head but looked suspicious. First, we had to purchase something. I bought a few camera batteries.

Sharuk put his hand around the old man and grinned. Perhaps he too would look to the folks back home that he was a Made-In-London import. Sharuk's ambition was to be a Hollywood actor.

Then Sharuk laughed. And I laughed. And then we laughed and laughed. Until I couldn't take any more pictures. The old man's face transformed itself into a vengeful volcano. Suddenly the dragon, he pummelled a fist threateningly and shouted at us. Sharouk said he screamed out unmentionables. "Time to get out of here," shouted Sharuk. We didn't take the risk of saying thank-you. Still laughing, we ran and ran.

Now, I felt wistful, like a young lady dining somewhere in the Carribbean. I wanted to get up and dance. A powerful romantic flavour lingered in The Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick shack. Other islands would continue to have that same aromatic feel as I found out, from visiting the South Seas.

I tasted a vanilla ice-cream called Tutti-Frutti. Mrs. Lewis never ate at any outside restaurant anywhere in the world for fear that the food would be contaminated. She only ever supped at respectable Indian thosai shops. Now she and Valentino had themselves cups of tea. Valentino tried not to look at Mrs. Lewis's chest. Mrs. Lewis tried not to look at Valentino's bulbous nose.

Suddenly, a tiny African boy riding a Vespa like the Grand Prix, scootered into the shack, gatecrashing the idyllic scene.

There were two other boys hollering on the Vespa with him. They had heard rumours that the police were coming. "POLICIA, POLICIA," they shouted. "POLICIA!"

Of course, we knew nothing. The bartender looked nervous.
Waiters dropped their plates.
The hopeful suitors fled like cowards.
The girls looked surprised.
There was a lot of noise. The boys looked worried. What was their dark secret, I wondered engagingly. "No need to be a busybody," snorted Mrs. Lewis. A wildlife image immediately shot to mind.

The boys said they would help to guard the fort. They careened around. for warning signs. They heard sounds getting louder and louder but couldn't see anything. They manouvered the Vespa into the bar one more time. "POLICIA, POLICA," they shouted, vainly. They added honks and toots to heightens suspense.
It was too late.
Everyone shivered and waited.
No-one moved.
After what seemed an age, we heard the clopping of hoofs.
A puzzled farmer with a donkey on his cart ambled into The Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick shack.
It was a case of mistaken identity.The three African boys, on their Vespa, decided that a vanishing act would be smarter than an apology.
They fled.

Reposting an episode from my travels to the Zanzibar. Here a small snippet.

By Susan Abraham

The next day, Mrs. Periammah Lewis and I continued our travels into the Zanzibar.

We were accompanied by one Valentino Rudolph The Third. Valentino was a heavy barrelled Tanzanian, who acted as Mrs. Lewis's son, Alagappan's driver in Dar-El-Salaam. Overnight, he had received his promotion papers for self-proclaimed butler and high-alert bodyguard.

Of course, welcome and goodbye hugs were out of the question.

Pardon Valentino for being rude but he was so short that had he dared attempt an embrace into Mrs. Lewis's Himalayan chest which possessed two shaky, unconquerable Everests (it was whispered that her long-dead husband had been frigid) he would have been forever suffocated and buried in burning flesh.

The Everests drooped from an ocean of fiery, frustrated wrinkles. And God knows, what would have happened to his bulbous nose had his face hit the peaks.

What had to be urgently remembered was that the Tanzanian police prowled the city like leopards. Both would have been arrested for a supposedly lewd sexual act. Please, I dare not say and can only plead that you visualise the tragedy that may have been!

What if they could not have been separated? They may have had to live like Siamese twins.

To this day, Mrs. Lewis's Everests remain unconquered.

"Take Mummy, take him and go," smiled Alagappan with relief. I suspected he wanted to get rid of us. Alaggapan was in a good mood. The swelling in his right eye had gone. The criminal Botswana born-n-bred mosquito, having escaped trial and extradiction rights, had been condemned to eternal damnation in the family dustbin. "Rot in hell," shouted Mrs. Lewis.

I wondered that she didn't give it a hug on her restless, scorching chest for a similiar effect.


I could you tell you many stories on the exotic Zanzibar and I will later. But perhaps today, one small scene.

It was a hot afternoon at 2. Mrs. Periammah Lewis, Valentino Rudolph the Third and I sat in a restaurant that resembled a thatched straw hut, close to the idyllic icing beach.

The restaurant had a curvy bar next to it. It was called The Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick Shack.

A song involving powerful African drumbeats, blared loudly. Voluptous sweet young things holidaying from Europe, sat in dangerous bikinis on bar stools. They sipped potions with fancy names like You Are a Coconut Head.

Hopeful suitors with toothpaste grins clamoured the bar like an army of red ants. Palm trees swayed on the beach next to us a little snobbishly as the wind blew lustily. Mrs. Lewis, reluctant to spend US$ 2 dollars on an orange crush, had dismissed Sharuk, our guide, for the day.

Earlier, Sharuk had taken us on a tour. I chose to take my photograph of Sharuk next to a stall selling plastic wildlife and Zanzibar spices, batteries and smuggled cigarettes.

An old man with a snowy snakish beard and white cap guarded his rackety stall. It was in shambles. He looked po-faced like a museum statue. He cheated tourists as often as he could.

On his parasol was a banner that advertised his stall. It spelt the words, Made-In-London in big, bright red letters. Everywhere on the legs of his rackety table was also painted the words, Made-In-London. The old man was surrounded by about 50 Made-In-London labels. It soon became clear that the old man himself looked like he could have been manufactured in London, back in the Dickensen era.

I thought that would be the ideal place to take a photograph of Sharuk. Sharuk exchanged a foreign dialect with the old man. We put on solemn expressions. The old man nodded his head but looked suspicious. First, we had to purchase something. I bought a few camera batteries.

Sharuk put his hand around the old man and grinned. Perhaps he too would look to the folks back home that he was a Made-In-London import. Sharuk's ambition was to be a Hollywood actor.

Then Sharuk laughed. And I laughed. And then we laughed and laughed. Until I couldn't take any more pictures. The old man's face transformed itself into a vengeful volcano. Suddenly the dragon, he pummelled a fist threateningly and shouted at us. Sharouk said he screamed out unmentionables. "Time to get out of here," shouted Sharuk. We didn't take the risk of saying thank-you. Still laughing, we ran and ran.

Now, I felt wistful, like a young lady dining somewhere in the Carribbean. I wanted to get up and dance. A powerful romantic flavour lingered in The Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick shack. Other islands would continue to have that same aromatic feel as I found out, from visiting the South Seas.

I tasted a vanilla ice-cream called Tutti-Frutti. Mrs. Lewis never ate at any outside restaurant anywhere in the world for fear that the food would be contaminated. She only ever supped at respectable Indian thosai shops. Now she and Valentino had themselves cups of tea. Valentino tried not to look at Mrs. Lewis's chest. Mrs. Lewis tried not to look at Valentino's bulbous nose.

Suddenly, a tiny African boy riding a Vespa like the Grand Prix, scootered into the shack, gatecrashing the idyllic scene.

There were two other boys hollering on the Vespa with him. They had heard rumours that the police were coming. "POLICIA, POLICIA," they shouted. "POLICIA!"

Of course, we knew nothing. The bartender looked nervous.
Waiters dropped their plates.
The hopeful suitors fled like cowards.
The girls looked surprised.
There was a lot of noise. The boys looked worried. What was their dark secret, I wondered engagingly. "No need to be a busybody," snorted Mrs. Lewis. A wildlife image immediately shot to mind.

The boys said they would help to guard the fort. They careened around. for warning signs. They heard sounds getting louder and louder but couldn't see anything. They manouvered the Vespa into the bar one more time. "POLICIA, POLICA," they shouted, vainly. They added honks and toots to heightens suspense.
It was too late.
Everyone shivered and waited.
No-one moved.
After what seemed an age, we heard the clopping of hoofs.
A puzzled farmer with a donkey on his cart ambled into The Tequila Kiss-Me-Quick shack.
It was a case of mistaken identity.The three African boys, on their Vespa, decided that a vanishing act would be smarter than an apology.
They fled.

Joan Baez - Diamonds and Rust

One of my favourite songs was made famous by Joan Baez who ruled the Woodstock years with her ballads. She sang Diamonds and Rust 10 years later in 1975 after her romance with Bob Dylan had cooled off. During their heyday in the 60s, Dylan had written and sung Lady Lady Lay for Baez. This haunting song with its intricate guitarwork still reaches out through time to grip me. - susan abraham

Version 1: For added colour reproduction, click on this link to hear song & see pictures of a young Baez & Dylan together. Diamonds and Rust - Joan Baez

Version 2: YouTube

Joan Baez - Diamonds and Rust

One of my favourite songs was made famous by Joan Baez who ruled the Woodstock years with her ballads. She sang Diamonds and Rust 10 years later in 1975 after her romance with Bob Dylan had cooled off. During their heyday in the 60s, Dylan had written and sung Lady Lady Lay for Baez. This haunting song with its intricate guitarwork still reaches out through time to grip me. - susan abraham

Version 1: For added colour reproduction, click on this link to hear song & see pictures of a young Baez & Dylan together. Diamonds and Rust - Joan Baez

Version 2: YouTube

Joan Baez - Diamonds and Rust

One of my favourite songs was made famous by Joan Baez who ruled the Woodstock years with her ballads. She sang Diamonds and Rust 10 years later in 1975 after her romance with Bob Dylan had cooled off. During their heyday in the 60s, Dylan had written and sung Lady Lady Lay for Baez. This haunting song with its intricate guitarwork still reaches out through time to grip me. - susan abraham

Version 1: For added colour reproduction, click on this link to hear song & see pictures of a young Baez & Dylan together. Diamonds and Rust - Joan Baez

Version 2: YouTube

Latest from AP: Distinguished author David Halberstam dies

Words by Susan Abraham

The distinguished and prolific American author, journalist and historian David Halberstam, 73, was killed instantly in a car crash in Menlo Park, 25 miles south of San Francisco last night while being driven to an interview, in a Toyota Camry by a young journalism student who escaped serious injuries. The Toyota had been broadsided by a Sedan, as it was making a left turn across opposing traffic.

Halberstam, a Harvard graduate from a wealthy family, won the Pulitizer Prize in 1964 for his work as a war correspondent in Vietnam. He continued to write a series of political and sport bestsellers in an illustrious career that spanned 50 years and had started work on a book on the 1958 NFL Championship. Halberstam had also just completed another on the Korean War, called The Coldest Winter, which was due out later this year. Read the latest from Associated Press HERE.

Latest from AP: Distinguished author David Halberstam dies

Words by Susan Abraham

The distinguished and prolific American author, journalist and historian David Halberstam, 73, was killed instantly in a car crash in Menlo Park, 25 miles south of San Francisco last night while being driven to an interview, in a Toyota Camry by a young journalism student who escaped serious injuries. The Toyota had been broadsided by a Sedan, as it was making a left turn across opposing traffic.

Halberstam, a Harvard graduate from a wealthy family, won the Pulitizer Prize in 1964 for his work as a war correspondent in Vietnam. He continued to write a series of political and sport bestsellers in an illustrious career that spanned 50 years and had started work on a book on the 1958 NFL Championship. Halberstam had also just completed another on the Korean War, called The Coldest Winter, which was due out later this year. Read the latest from Associated Press HERE.

Latest from AP: Distinguished author David Halberstam dies

Words by Susan Abraham

The distinguished and prolific American author, journalist and historian David Halberstam, 73, was killed instantly in a car crash in Menlo Park, 25 miles south of San Francisco last night while being driven to an interview, in a Toyota Camry by a young journalism student who escaped serious injuries. The Toyota had been broadsided by a Sedan, as it was making a left turn across opposing traffic.

Halberstam, a Harvard graduate from a wealthy family, won the Pulitizer Prize in 1964 for his work as a war correspondent in Vietnam. He continued to write a series of political and sport bestsellers in an illustrious career that spanned 50 years and had started work on a book on the 1958 NFL Championship. Halberstam had also just completed another on the Korean War, called The Coldest Winter, which was due out later this year. Read the latest from Associated Press HERE.

A new post today

I have my wireless broadband for another 4 days or so, still here, so I should be able to post as usual. The alternate postings will be from next week. I should be in Malaysia but in a different place for 2 weeks, and then I will go somewhere already. :-)

I have to catch the air fares before the steep summer holiday hike that starts from June and stretches till August-end. I just wanted a bit of a beach life first before heading back to a city. I don't know if this is possible.

Even now while writing this post, I think of how it felt like, sitting in a tequila shack/bar eating an ice-cream, listening to African drum beats (the loud music) and watching the oceans roll about in the Zanzibar on a hot afternoon. My heart immediately leaps with trepidation and excitement. It yearns with an ache to have that moment revived for me.

I thought my passion for travel was over but apparently not.

I am terrified...of earning my way through it all, but I'm more afraid of doing nothing and letting life pass me by. I am also fearful that I may not have time to meet all my ambitions. Life can certainly be thrilling in a strange, unknown fashion if you're up for the game.

A new post today

I have my wireless broadband for another 4 days or so, still here, so I should be able to post as usual. The alternate postings will be from next week. I should be in Malaysia but in a different place for 2 weeks, and then I will go somewhere already. :-)

I have to catch the air fares before the steep summer holiday hike that starts from June and stretches till August-end. I just wanted a bit of a beach life first before heading back to a city. I don't know if this is possible.

Even now while writing this post, I think of how it felt like, sitting in a tequila shack/bar eating an ice-cream, listening to African drum beats (the loud music) and watching the oceans roll about in the Zanzibar on a hot afternoon. My heart immediately leaps with trepidation and excitement. It yearns with an ache to have that moment revived for me.

I thought my passion for travel was over but apparently not.

I am terrified...of earning my way through it all, but I'm more afraid of doing nothing and letting life pass me by. I am also fearful that I may not have time to meet all my ambitions. Life can certainly be thrilling in a strange, unknown fashion if you're up for the game.

A new post today

I have my wireless broadband for another 4 days or so, still here, so I should be able to post as usual. The alternate postings will be from next week. I should be in Malaysia but in a different place for 2 weeks, and then I will go somewhere already. :-)

I have to catch the air fares before the steep summer holiday hike that starts from June and stretches till August-end. I just wanted a bit of a beach life first before heading back to a city. I don't know if this is possible.

Even now while writing this post, I think of how it felt like, sitting in a tequila shack/bar eating an ice-cream, listening to African drum beats (the loud music) and watching the oceans roll about in the Zanzibar on a hot afternoon. My heart immediately leaps with trepidation and excitement. It yearns with an ache to have that moment revived for me.

I thought my passion for travel was over but apparently not.

I am terrified...of earning my way through it all, but I'm more afraid of doing nothing and letting life pass me by. I am also fearful that I may not have time to meet all my ambitions. Life can certainly be thrilling in a strange, unknown fashion if you're up for the game.

How ironically uncertain my own life as a writer. I may think I'm being read even when I'm not. :)

How ironically uncertain my own life as a writer. I may think I'm being read even when I'm not. :)

How ironically uncertain my own life as a writer. I may think I'm being read even when I'm not. :)

Change in my life

Major change in my life. Moving locations. So at the moment, no wireless broadband.

Slowly going back into travelling, even against my will. :)

I travelled 8 years & was hardly in Malaysia. Then I came back to Malaysia for awhile. When all of you who read me now, knew me, I was already here but my life was very different before. It was engaging, colourful, dynamic...I lived a vibrance I took completely for granted. I also want to look up a few good friends in England and Australia who have long given up on me. At one time, I used to visit each country so often, everyone thought I was just down the road. Such was the intensity of my lifestyle. If I'm very lucky, I may still be able to do that.

A year of a sedate life has just about done it for me though. Never thought I'd say this. I'm not afraid of adversity & love adventure. In this quiet year, I started writing creatively again and rediscovered myself as a writer. I'm more focussed, more sure of the kind of work I want to produce and I have churned out lots of material in the past 13 months or so.

Now, it's time to evolve yet again. More sure of plans in mid-May. But I am already on the move in a few days time. though I'll still be in my country.

I used to live by the sea in Tanzania and also in Kovalam Beach, India. All call me back furiously. At the moment, I feel compelled to go to a beach in a different country and live the hippie life - make new friends, write, enjoy experiences...you know live and let live...before I return to civilisation somewhere in England or Australia.

I will still visit some of my blogger friends. Not to worry. If I miss your posts, I will catch up no matter where I am. There are internet cafes everywhere, even near oceans. I want to finish my play & hope to be published somewhere along the way. Cannot go back to the routine life. Not unless I have to.

So I will post on this blog once every 2 days for now. Those who read me always will know that I have been posting everyday for a year without fail. And in the last few weeks, twice a day. Such writing energy! :) Anyhow, if there is nothing tomorrow, do stop by, Wednesday.

P.S: I will still take part in the Skint Writer Writing Competition & also contribute a story for Child-Without-A-Voice, no matter where in the world I am. So if you are still reading me now, not to worry Derec & Ray.

Change in my life

Major change in my life. Moving locations. So at the moment, no wireless broadband.

Slowly going back into travelling, even against my will. :)

I travelled 8 years & was hardly in Malaysia. Then I came back to Malaysia for awhile. When all of you who read me now, knew me, I was already here but my life was very different before. It was engaging, colourful, dynamic...I lived a vibrance I took completely for granted. I also want to look up a few good friends in England and Australia who have long given up on me. At one time, I used to visit each country so often, everyone thought I was just down the road. Such was the intensity of my lifestyle. If I'm very lucky, I may still be able to do that.

A year of a sedate life has just about done it for me though. Never thought I'd say this. I'm not afraid of adversity & love adventure. In this quiet year, I started writing creatively again and rediscovered myself as a writer. I'm more focussed, more sure of the kind of work I want to produce and I have churned out lots of material in the past 13 months or so.

Now, it's time to evolve yet again. More sure of plans in mid-May. But I am already on the move in a few days time. though I'll still be in my country.

I used to live by the sea in Tanzania and also in Kovalam Beach, India. All call me back furiously. At the moment, I feel compelled to go to a beach in a different country and live the hippie life - make new friends, write, enjoy experiences...you know live and let live...before I return to civilisation somewhere in England or Australia.

I will still visit some of my blogger friends. Not to worry. If I miss your posts, I will catch up no matter where I am. There are internet cafes everywhere, even near oceans. I want to finish my play & hope to be published somewhere along the way. Cannot go back to the routine life. Not unless I have to.

So I will post on this blog once every 2 days for now. Those who read me always will know that I have been posting everyday for a year without fail. And in the last few weeks, twice a day. Such writing energy! :) Anyhow, if there is nothing tomorrow, do stop by, Wednesday.

P.S: I will still take part in the Skint Writer Writing Competition & also contribute a story for Child-Without-A-Voice, no matter where in the world I am. So if you are still reading me now, not to worry Derec & Ray.

Change in my life

Major change in my life. Moving locations. So at the moment, no wireless broadband.

Slowly going back into travelling, even against my will. :)

I travelled 8 years & was hardly in Malaysia. Then I came back to Malaysia for awhile. When all of you who read me now, knew me, I was already here but my life was very different before. It was engaging, colourful, dynamic...I lived a vibrance I took completely for granted. I also want to look up a few good friends in England and Australia who have long given up on me. At one time, I used to visit each country so often, everyone thought I was just down the road. Such was the intensity of my lifestyle. If I'm very lucky, I may still be able to do that.

A year of a sedate life has just about done it for me though. Never thought I'd say this. I'm not afraid of adversity & love adventure. In this quiet year, I started writing creatively again and rediscovered myself as a writer. I'm more focussed, more sure of the kind of work I want to produce and I have churned out lots of material in the past 13 months or so.

Now, it's time to evolve yet again. More sure of plans in mid-May. But I am already on the move in a few days time. though I'll still be in my country.

I used to live by the sea in Tanzania and also in Kovalam Beach, India. All call me back furiously. At the moment, I feel compelled to go to a beach in a different country and live the hippie life - make new friends, write, enjoy experiences...you know live and let live...before I return to civilisation somewhere in England or Australia.

I will still visit some of my blogger friends. Not to worry. If I miss your posts, I will catch up no matter where I am. There are internet cafes everywhere, even near oceans. I want to finish my play & hope to be published somewhere along the way. Cannot go back to the routine life. Not unless I have to.

So I will post on this blog once every 2 days for now. Those who read me always will know that I have been posting everyday for a year without fail. And in the last few weeks, twice a day. Such writing energy! :) Anyhow, if there is nothing tomorrow, do stop by, Wednesday.

P.S: I will still take part in the Skint Writer Writing Competition & also contribute a story for Child-Without-A-Voice, no matter where in the world I am. So if you are still reading me now, not to worry Derec & Ray.

The silence speaks strangely and sharply. It invents a brash language to talk of the unknown. From hearing nothing, you may receive knowledge that could fill a book. From asking nothing, you could receive answers to questions you hoped did not exist. The best guide to this mastery may be to watch and learn until the ear holds its truth and burns from the parachuted leap of the most feared knowledge....the sudden revelation that springs from a moment of realisation. - susan abraham

The silence speaks strangely and sharply. It invents a brash language to talk of the unknown. From hearing nothing, you may receive knowledge that could fill a book. From asking nothing, you could receive answers to questions you hoped did not exist. The best guide to this mastery may be to watch and learn until the ear holds its truth and burns from the parachuted leap of the most feared knowledge....the sudden revelation that springs from a moment of realisation. - susan abraham

The silence speaks strangely and sharply. It invents a brash language to talk of the unknown. From hearing nothing, you may receive knowledge that could fill a book. From asking nothing, you could receive answers to questions you hoped did not exist. The best guide to this mastery may be to watch and learn until the ear holds its truth and burns from the parachuted leap of the most feared knowledge....the sudden revelation that springs from a moment of realisation. - susan abraham

A Kureishi frenzy

Hanif Kureishi - British Council - Contemporary Writers

by Susan Abraham

Recently, I was involved in a debate on the Guardian Books Blog on Hanif Kureishi which I enjoyed. Indeed, it was challenging, having to articulate my thoughts and keep it steady on a sharp focus but I managed.

It was the more difficult as my views ran contrary to the majority of the others. However, I found it exhilarating making my presence felt, coming out of my shy corner and putting a stamp on what I believed in. I was out there in the middle of it all, announcing the things I thought to be right and making a statement without realisation...and the feeling after it was all over, was akin to the heady spin of a carousel.

I had agreed with Maureen Freely who wrote the post when she spoke up against the underlying censorship - which she felt was what it was - when a few days ago, the BBC had postponed a short story Kureishi had written called Wedding and Beheadings and which formed a shortlist together with 5 other authors currently competing for the £15,000 Radio 4/Prospect short story prize.

The BBC felt that the transmission for the story of a talented Middle-Eastern cameraman who turned to filming beheadings, was too close to home while their own reporter Alan Johnston was still held by kidnappers in Gaza. I couldn't see the point then.

Neither could Mark Lawson who has sat on the Man Booker jury and who was also one of the judges who selected Kureishi's story for the shortlist. He writes another article on the Guardian Blog (found on the right sidebar) protesting what he labels as the BBC's Sentimental Censorship. He invited comments and this was an off-the-cuff general view, written under my user name:

suzanabrams

April 20, 2007 4:24 PMMark,

I am in total agreement with you.

The question stays as to the supposed connection of Kureishi's story with Alan's disappearance in Gaza. And also with beheadings. I cannot spot any science to these connections - one to the other - or any relevance at all as to the power of a story to disrupt emotions that pointed to Alan's specific case.

There will always be sentiment & agony involved amongst any number of family, friends and collegues at any one time of any painful or difficult situation.

What is the point of literature which in this case is fiction, if its voice has to be subdued in a corner and only allowed to come out and play when it's safe? It is the power and mission of the written word, to be impartial and to create awareness with success especially when in an urgent time.

Why should truth no matter how barbaric or primitive, be sobered to a lukewarm weakness for the public or be eclipsed from view. I don't see the relevance in that either.

Still, I would think it a compliment for Kureishi that his story was deemed to have such power to inform the reader's imagination, it simply had to be curbed. And it doesn't matter if it came out in a 100 places beforehand. To be blocked in one place even if its temporary, is still a blockade for free speech & the looming threat of similiar encounters.

Picture credit to: SensesofCinema

A Kureishi frenzy

Hanif Kureishi - British Council - Contemporary Writers

by Susan Abraham

Recently, I was involved in a debate on the Guardian Books Blog on Hanif Kureishi which I enjoyed. Indeed, it was challenging, having to articulate my thoughts and keep it steady on a sharp focus but I managed.

It was the more difficult as my views ran contrary to the majority of the others. However, I found it exhilarating making my presence felt, coming out of my shy corner and putting a stamp on what I believed in. I was out there in the middle of it all, announcing the things I thought to be right and making a statement without realisation...and the feeling after it was all over, was akin to the heady spin of a carousel.

I had agreed with Maureen Freely who wrote the post when she spoke up against the underlying censorship - which she felt was what it was - when a few days ago, the BBC had postponed a short story Kureishi had written called Wedding and Beheadings and which formed a shortlist together with 5 other authors currently competing for the £15,000 Radio 4/Prospect short story prize.

The BBC felt that the transmission for the story of a talented Middle-Eastern cameraman who turned to filming beheadings, was too close to home while their own reporter Alan Johnston was still held by kidnappers in Gaza. I couldn't see the point then.

Neither could Mark Lawson who has sat on the Man Booker jury and who was also one of the judges who selected Kureishi's story for the shortlist. He writes another article on the Guardian Blog (found on the right sidebar) protesting what he labels as the BBC's Sentimental Censorship. He invited comments and this was an off-the-cuff general view, written under my user name:

suzanabrams

April 20, 2007 4:24 PMMark,

I am in total agreement with you.

The question stays as to the supposed connection of Kureishi's story with Alan's disappearance in Gaza. And also with beheadings. I cannot spot any science to these connections - one to the other - or any relevance at all as to the power of a story to disrupt emotions that pointed to Alan's specific case.

There will always be sentiment & agony involved amongst any number of family, friends and collegues at any one time of any painful or difficult situation.

What is the point of literature which in this case is fiction, if its voice has to be subdued in a corner and only allowed to come out and play when it's safe? It is the power and mission of the written word, to be impartial and to create awareness with success especially when in an urgent time.

Why should truth no matter how barbaric or primitive, be sobered to a lukewarm weakness for the public or be eclipsed from view. I don't see the relevance in that either.

Still, I would think it a compliment for Kureishi that his story was deemed to have such power to inform the reader's imagination, it simply had to be curbed. And it doesn't matter if it came out in a 100 places beforehand. To be blocked in one place even if its temporary, is still a blockade for free speech & the looming threat of similiar encounters.

Picture credit to: SensesofCinema

A Kureishi frenzy

Hanif Kureishi - British Council - Contemporary Writers

by Susan Abraham

Recently, I was involved in a debate on the Guardian Books Blog on Hanif Kureishi which I enjoyed. Indeed, it was challenging, having to articulate my thoughts and keep it steady on a sharp focus but I managed.

It was the more difficult as my views ran contrary to the majority of the others. However, I found it exhilarating making my presence felt, coming out of my shy corner and putting a stamp on what I believed in. I was out there in the middle of it all, announcing the things I thought to be right and making a statement without realisation...and the feeling after it was all over, was akin to the heady spin of a carousel.

I had agreed with Maureen Freely who wrote the post when she spoke up against the underlying censorship - which she felt was what it was - when a few days ago, the BBC had postponed a short story Kureishi had written called Wedding and Beheadings and which formed a shortlist together with 5 other authors currently competing for the £15,000 Radio 4/Prospect short story prize.

The BBC felt that the transmission for the story of a talented Middle-Eastern cameraman who turned to filming beheadings, was too close to home while their own reporter Alan Johnston was still held by kidnappers in Gaza. I couldn't see the point then.

Neither could Mark Lawson who has sat on the Man Booker jury and who was also one of the judges who selected Kureishi's story for the shortlist. He writes another article on the Guardian Blog (found on the right sidebar) protesting what he labels as the BBC's Sentimental Censorship. He invited comments and this was an off-the-cuff general view, written under my user name:

suzanabrams

April 20, 2007 4:24 PMMark,

I am in total agreement with you.

The question stays as to the supposed connection of Kureishi's story with Alan's disappearance in Gaza. And also with beheadings. I cannot spot any science to these connections - one to the other - or any relevance at all as to the power of a story to disrupt emotions that pointed to Alan's specific case.

There will always be sentiment & agony involved amongst any number of family, friends and collegues at any one time of any painful or difficult situation.

What is the point of literature which in this case is fiction, if its voice has to be subdued in a corner and only allowed to come out and play when it's safe? It is the power and mission of the written word, to be impartial and to create awareness with success especially when in an urgent time.

Why should truth no matter how barbaric or primitive, be sobered to a lukewarm weakness for the public or be eclipsed from view. I don't see the relevance in that either.

Still, I would think it a compliment for Kureishi that his story was deemed to have such power to inform the reader's imagination, it simply had to be curbed. And it doesn't matter if it came out in a 100 places beforehand. To be blocked in one place even if its temporary, is still a blockade for free speech & the looming threat of similiar encounters.

Picture credit to: SensesofCinema

And yet again...

5 Thinking Blogger Awards for me now. :-). Katie of Oklahoma in the States, gave me another. Thank you, Kate. The other 4 are in links, in this post.

And yet again...

5 Thinking Blogger Awards for me now. :-). Katie of Oklahoma in the States, gave me another. Thank you, Kate. The other 4 are in links, in this post.

And yet again...

5 Thinking Blogger Awards for me now. :-). Katie of Oklahoma in the States, gave me another. Thank you, Kate. The other 4 are in links, in this post.

The Endless Hour Short Fiction Contest - Online

The photographer, poet & writer Jason Evans organises another exciting 250-word online writing contest on his Clarity of Night blog, - Evans really is a professional with these contests - & this time round, there are generous Amazon gift certificates up for grabs. Called the Endless Hour Fiction Contest, the writing contestant is to concoct a tale from the intriguing picture above. For more details, submission rules, a full prize list and a larger-sized version of that cluttered kitchen sink, please click HERE. Closing date is before 11pm April 25, 2007 (Eastern Time, United States). - susan abraham

The Endless Hour Short Fiction Contest - Online

The photographer, poet & writer Jason Evans organises another exciting 250-word online writing contest on his Clarity of Night blog, - Evans really is a professional with these contests - & this time round, there are generous Amazon gift certificates up for grabs. Called the Endless Hour Fiction Contest, the writing contestant is to concoct a tale from the intriguing picture above. For more details, submission rules, a full prize list and a larger-sized version of that cluttered kitchen sink, please click HERE. Closing date is before 11pm April 25, 2007 (Eastern Time, United States). - susan abraham

The Endless Hour Short Fiction Contest - Online

The photographer, poet & writer Jason Evans organises another exciting 250-word online writing contest on his Clarity of Night blog, - Evans really is a professional with these contests - & this time round, there are generous Amazon gift certificates up for grabs. Called the Endless Hour Fiction Contest, the writing contestant is to concoct a tale from the intriguing picture above. For more details, submission rules, a full prize list and a larger-sized version of that cluttered kitchen sink, please click HERE. Closing date is before 11pm April 25, 2007 (Eastern Time, United States). - susan abraham

Poem: Lovers

susan abraham

Skin on skin.
Velvet
sheen.
Rich on sheet.

Poem: Lovers

susan abraham

Skin on skin.
Velvet
sheen.
Rich on sheet.

Poem: Lovers

susan abraham

Skin on skin.
Velvet
sheen.
Rich on sheet.

Latest from The Bookseller - Tolkien returns from the dead/Upstages Potter.

Words by Susan Abraham

JRR Tolkien's The Children of Hurin published posthumously 34 years after his death by his son Christopher Tolkien and HarperCollins, which went on sale 2 days ago and which I wrote about OVER HERE, has alredy toppled the not-yet-published Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, from the top of the Amazon.co.uk bestseller list. This soon-to-be final Harry Potter fare had reigned supreme for the 16 weeks.

Latest from The Bookseller - Tolkien returns from the dead/Upstages Potter.

Words by Susan Abraham

JRR Tolkien's The Children of Hurin published posthumously 34 years after his death by his son Christopher Tolkien and HarperCollins, which went on sale 2 days ago and which I wrote about OVER HERE, has alredy toppled the not-yet-published Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, from the top of the Amazon.co.uk bestseller list. This soon-to-be final Harry Potter fare had reigned supreme for the 16 weeks.

Latest from The Bookseller - Tolkien returns from the dead/Upstages Potter.

Words by Susan Abraham

JRR Tolkien's The Children of Hurin published posthumously 34 years after his death by his son Christopher Tolkien and HarperCollins, which went on sale 2 days ago and which I wrote about OVER HERE, has alredy toppled the not-yet-published Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, from the top of the Amazon.co.uk bestseller list. This soon-to-be final Harry Potter fare had reigned supreme for the 16 weeks.

Connection

susan abraham

A medley of confusion...in the eternal essence of our fusion...touching and embracing the core of my existence...rushing into the embers of my destruction...that I be kissed for the encumberance of my deliverance...I wait upon my blessed sedation..for this momentary revelation...that our love blown from ashes of the sea be flown to fruition...and I wait for your touch on mine...a sigh so high...in the hour that stays up late...when you come to see me...and not when you bade goodbye...when you come to me...a sigh so high...now nigh...so high...let's fly....the sky....the sky...so hiiigh and hiiiighhh and hiiiiighhhhh... and hiiiighhhh...

When you come to see me...tell me how you want me...anyway you want me...my love is free to be.

Free clip art from Designed to a T

Connection

susan abraham

A medley of confusion...in the eternal essence of our fusion...touching and embracing the core of my existence...rushing into the embers of my destruction...that I be kissed for the encumberance of my deliverance...I wait upon my blessed sedation..for this momentary revelation...that our love blown from ashes of the sea be flown to fruition...and I wait for your touch on mine...a sigh so high...in the hour that stays up late...when you come to see me...and not when you bade goodbye...when you come to me...a sigh so high...now nigh...so high...let's fly....the sky....the sky...so hiiigh and hiiiighhh and hiiiiighhhhh... and hiiiighhhh...

When you come to see me...tell me how you want me...anyway you want me...my love is free to be.

Free clip art from Designed to a T

Connection

susan abraham

A medley of confusion...in the eternal essence of our fusion...touching and embracing the core of my existence...rushing into the embers of my destruction...that I be kissed for the encumberance of my deliverance...I wait upon my blessed sedation..for this momentary revelation...that our love blown from ashes of the sea be flown to fruition...and I wait for your touch on mine...a sigh so high...in the hour that stays up late...when you come to see me...and not when you bade goodbye...when you come to me...a sigh so high...now nigh...so high...let's fly....the sky....the sky...so hiiigh and hiiiighhh and hiiiiighhhhh... and hiiiighhhh...

When you come to see me...tell me how you want me...anyway you want me...my love is free to be.

Free clip art from Designed to a T

My lie in your eye

susan abraham

I live in your eye*I swim in tears when you cry*You don't see me even as I see you not see me.*And I let my silence be*I hide with all my might*curling up tight*your eyelash fingers me like a blanket*remembering how when once we met*Now I whisper only when you say goodbye and lie to dream*....you see me in the gleam of a vision*and we embrace like fire in your meditation*and a dream seeps from a whim*and I turn your thoughts to gold*before the dawn is old* and I must return again to the corner of your eye*gazing in vain, a petulant look so sly in my stardust sigh*even as I see you not see me.*

My lie in your eye

susan abraham

I live in your eye*I swim in tears when you cry*You don't see me even as I see you not see me.*And I let my silence be*I hide with all my might*curling up tight*your eyelash fingers me like a blanket*remembering how when once we met*Now I whisper only when you say goodbye and lie to dream*....you see me in the gleam of a vision*and we embrace like fire in your meditation*and a dream seeps from a whim*and I turn your thoughts to gold*before the dawn is old* and I must return again to the corner of your eye*gazing in vain, a petulant look so sly in my stardust sigh*even as I see you not see me.*

My lie in your eye

susan abraham

I live in your eye*I swim in tears when you cry*You don't see me even as I see you not see me.*And I let my silence be*I hide with all my might*curling up tight*your eyelash fingers me like a blanket*remembering how when once we met*Now I whisper only when you say goodbye and lie to dream*....you see me in the gleam of a vision*and we embrace like fire in your meditation*and a dream seeps from a whim*and I turn your thoughts to gold*before the dawn is old* and I must return again to the corner of your eye*gazing in vain, a petulant look so sly in my stardust sigh*even as I see you not see me.*

Popcorn - Original Version

by Susan Abraham

This is the original 1969 version of Gershon Kingsley's melody, Popcorn. It was a difficult find. I remember listening to a later, smoother vision that gained immediate popularity on the charts. The harmony here feels cluttered but vibrant in that zany way. Popcorn automatically reinvents itself and has the power to shoot through time, always sounding current and never dated. You feel you could race the world listening to it. Please do have a listen.

Popcorn - Original Version

by Susan Abraham

This is the original 1969 version of Gershon Kingsley's melody, Popcorn. It was a difficult find. I remember listening to a later, smoother vision that gained immediate popularity on the charts. The harmony here feels cluttered but vibrant in that zany way. Popcorn automatically reinvents itself and has the power to shoot through time, always sounding current and never dated. You feel you could race the world listening to it. Please do have a listen.

Popcorn - Original Version

by Susan Abraham

This is the original 1969 version of Gershon Kingsley's melody, Popcorn. It was a difficult find. I remember listening to a later, smoother vision that gained immediate popularity on the charts. The harmony here feels cluttered but vibrant in that zany way. Popcorn automatically reinvents itself and has the power to shoot through time, always sounding current and never dated. You feel you could race the world listening to it. Please do have a listen.

Latest from Publisher's Weekly: Keith Richard's memoir & when I saw Keith Richards ...

by Susan Abraham

The London Book Fair is described as a little quiet this year with the exception of Rolling Stone's Keith Richard's memoir, which british literary agent Ed Victor, is shopping for him about the place. Potential publishing deals across the Atlantic could run into US$milions.

Personal Anecdote: I once met Keith Richards while walking along Oxford Street in London. It was busy with window-shoppers and I'm still surprised no one noticed. You can recognise Richards straightaway with his exquisite foxy face. He wore black sunglasses and clearly enjoyed his stroll, though you knew he was hurrying on to somewhere. He looked pint-sized and at ease with the crowd.

Because I was staring, he looked up in my direction, straightaway alert. It all felt a little strange. We kept our eyes fixed on each other in a comical fashion and spotting too, that faint whiff of interest and curiosity. It was the longest time I ever set eyes on a stranger, as we walked in opposite directions; him about to pass me from the left and I, from his right. It felt almost as if we were transfixed, cautious and biding our time, all at once. It was a moment born from pure spontaneity.

Maybe he feared I was going to approach him, to talk or ask for an autograph but I daresay he would have stopped. He looked pleasant enough that morning. I finally settled for his grateful smile when the moment came that we passed each other. I just couldn't corner Richards like that on the street and not in his private time.

Tip: By the way, Ed Victor is not an agent you'd want to post your fiction/non-fiction manuscript to, unless you're a high-profile celebrity. Save those stamps!

Picture credit to : Heckler Spray.com

Latest from Publisher's Weekly: Keith Richard's memoir & when I saw Keith Richards ...

by Susan Abraham

The London Book Fair is described as a little quiet this year with the exception of Rolling Stone's Keith Richard's memoir, which british literary agent Ed Victor, is shopping for him about the place. Potential publishing deals across the Atlantic could run into US$milions.

Personal Anecdote: I once met Keith Richards while walking along Oxford Street in London. It was busy with window-shoppers and I'm still surprised no one noticed. You can recognise Richards straightaway with his exquisite foxy face. He wore black sunglasses and clearly enjoyed his stroll, though you knew he was hurrying on to somewhere. He looked pint-sized and at ease with the crowd.

Because I was staring, he looked up in my direction, straightaway alert. It all felt a little strange. We kept our eyes fixed on each other in a comical fashion and spotting too, that faint whiff of interest and curiosity. It was the longest time I ever set eyes on a stranger, as we walked in opposite directions; him about to pass me from the left and I, from his right. It felt almost as if we were transfixed, cautious and biding our time, all at once. It was a moment born from pure spontaneity.

Maybe he feared I was going to approach him, to talk or ask for an autograph but I daresay he would have stopped. He looked pleasant enough that morning. I finally settled for his grateful smile when the moment came that we passed each other. I just couldn't corner Richards like that on the street and not in his private time.

Tip: By the way, Ed Victor is not an agent you'd want to post your fiction/non-fiction manuscript to, unless you're a high-profile celebrity. Save those stamps!

Picture credit to : Heckler Spray.com

Latest from Publisher's Weekly: Keith Richard's memoir & when I saw Keith Richards ...

by Susan Abraham

The London Book Fair is described as a little quiet this year with the exception of Rolling Stone's Keith Richard's memoir, which british literary agent Ed Victor, is shopping for him about the place. Potential publishing deals across the Atlantic could run into US$milions.

Personal Anecdote: I once met Keith Richards while walking along Oxford Street in London. It was busy with window-shoppers and I'm still surprised no one noticed. You can recognise Richards straightaway with his exquisite foxy face. He wore black sunglasses and clearly enjoyed his stroll, though you knew he was hurrying on to somewhere. He looked pint-sized and at ease with the crowd.

Because I was staring, he looked up in my direction, straightaway alert. It all felt a little strange. We kept our eyes fixed on each other in a comical fashion and spotting too, that faint whiff of interest and curiosity. It was the longest time I ever set eyes on a stranger, as we walked in opposite directions; him about to pass me from the left and I, from his right. It felt almost as if we were transfixed, cautious and biding our time, all at once. It was a moment born from pure spontaneity.

Maybe he feared I was going to approach him, to talk or ask for an autograph but I daresay he would have stopped. He looked pleasant enough that morning. I finally settled for his grateful smile when the moment came that we passed each other. I just couldn't corner Richards like that on the street and not in his private time.

Tip: By the way, Ed Victor is not an agent you'd want to post your fiction/non-fiction manuscript to, unless you're a high-profile celebrity. Save those stamps!

Picture credit to : Heckler Spray.com

And We Run Like Children Into The Garden of the Forgotten

by Susan Abraham

Isn't it amazing how a fountain of images like the rush of a comet rockets from the imagination...as if they were never really buried or burrowed but were simply 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 now to your honeyed days and raisined 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.

And We Run Like Children Into The Garden of the Forgotten

by Susan Abraham

Isn't it amazing how a fountain of images like the rush of a comet rockets from the imagination...as if they were never really buried or burrowed but were simply 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 now to your honeyed days and raisined 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.