Why do I stay awake?

That’s Yusuf, standing next to the stove at 2am frying cheese and corn samoosas. He can’t sleep… actually it’s somewhere between not wanting to and just plain can’t.

“Hungry much?”
“Yes, much.”
“Can you do it in the dark? I can’t sleep with your bloody kitchen lights on.”
“Do you cook in the dark?”
“Oh shutup, I can’t talk at this hour. make some for me, I’ll have it in the morning… Taa… Taaa…”

Suddenly a conversation begins in Yusuf’s head…

Why does someone stay up at night? Why do I? What am I searching for, What’s missing that I need in order to get some bloody sleep? Maybe it’s because I work better at night… or maybe, I just have too much caffeine, well I do but that can’t be it, I’m practically immune by now.

Why am I here? No, that’s too broad a question. What do I want? that’s closer… Am I missing something I need?

Wait… why don’t I just go to sleep. I haven’t tried that. Lay down and eventually it should work, right? So why am I choosing to stay awake? Maybe I’m just screwed up… but everyone is.

What the hell is keeping me awake?

Maybe the philosopher’s had it wrong… maybe that is the ultimate question.

What keeps me awake?

Maybe I should sleep on it.

What is it with Authors named Murakami and Psycho-Sexual Thrillers?

Up until this point far I’ve read two novels by Haruki Murakami (The Wind-up Bird Chronicle and After Dark) and one by Ryu Murakami (Piercing) and I’m beginning to notice a sinister underlying theme with these Japanese authors.

Firstly, you cannot doubt the dark angle and twist of the stories involved. There is some sick twisted element to all of it which makes it both enticing but revolting at the same time. Secondly, the characters are always normal people with some deep flaw or tortured soul or whatever else it is which makes them 1) act really weird and 2) have some crazy, CRAZY thoughts.

After reading Haruki’s work and all the reviews, etc. I was intrigued and thought the books were ‘cool’ in that underbelly-of-society type of way… but after that, when all the books I’m reading by them tend to be about generally some sort of excessively deviant behaviour and just plain weird shit, I’m starting to question what the point of it all really is.

I do want a point, a moral, a lesson… something I can learn from it apart from being thoroughly freaked out by these crazy motherfuckers these authors seem to come up with.

I think I’ll try one more by Haruki before trying some other sub-cultural authors for different countries. Stieg Larsson (Swedish) also had some crazy elements but at least his work had a golden thread of a story to follow through to the end.

One thing I have to admit is the breadth of imagination these guys seem to have, albeit towards the fringes of darkness and insanity, I’m wondering if a similar movement of authors are available focusing on the more… positive side of life. The search begins.

Something Every Writer Should Know

Writer’s block is the default setting…

A “Creator’s block” sounds like something afflicting a divinity, but writer’s block is my default setting. Its opposite is miraculous. The process of learning to write fiction, for me, was one of learning to almost continually be doing it *through* the block, in spite of the block, the block becoming the accustomed place from which to work. Our traditional cultural models of creativity tend to involve the wrong sort of heroism, for me. “It sprang whole and perfect from my brow” as opposed to “I saw it mispelled, in mauve Krylon, on the side of a dumpster, and it haunted me”. I was much encouraged, when I began to write, by Manny Farber’s idea of “termite art”. – William Gibson

btw… get his new book “Zero History“, the man’s a legend. Those who’ve read Neuromancer and Burning Chrome know what I’m talking about.

Leap of Faith

He was running hard and could hear his heart beating in his ears and his breath was getting raspy, his lungs burned.  The wolves chasing him did not let down, on his heels they were the chase would be over soon.  He sees ahead that the road is running out, there’s a cliff ahead.  He comes to the cliff and in seconds jumps to cling to a branch. The wolves cry overhead and bark at him, below are violent and wild crashing waves.  The branch gives a little, his time is running out. “Dear God! Please help me!” he screams out.

And he hears a voice inside… “You will be saved. But first, let go of the branch.”

Stop Screaming.

He’s healthy. His mother loves him.  He came into this world wet, beautiful and loud. Like most babies are. He glows in his tired mother’s arms… smiles and kisses everywhere. Love fills the room.  He looks around his new world, he lives here now. This is life and his begins in noise, love and heat. 

I wish I could tell him not to be afraid of anything. That everything will be okay. I want to tell him that he needs to pay attention, though.  That sometimes he’ll feel just like the first time he came into this world. Change is scary. Change is life.  He’ll scream again. Out of desperation, frustration, anger. He’ll also scream out of joy. Emotions run high and rampant and he will ride them, everywhere.

<this is just the beginning>

Words

I hope these words spring worlds
For those who read them.

Break chains and change lanes
Amongst the current ideas which plague them.

I want to change systems
Overturn systems
Question the assumptions.

Break bread with uncertainty
And always strive for the epitome.

The poster of my life will show a huge boot
Stamping on the face of negativity, forever.
The imprint would show a path to a different future.

I’ll be standing with the strange,
Who were estranged for embracing change…
And now travel on new lanes, without chains
To different worlds
Sprung from words.

Tags: Poetry, Words, Change

Classic Works get ‘Twitterized’ – twitterature

Now this is a nice modernisation… 60 classic works of literature got re-imagined through Twitter. Everyon’es favourite publishing house, Penguin, just bought the rights to Twitterature and it includes some brilliant re-imaginings of literature.  The book won’t be published in the UK till 5 November but the book has been seen by the guys at the Guardian… check these out…

Romeo tweets his dying lament: O, I am fortune’s fool! Maybe just a tool. And so I die. BTW that other woman I was into before Juliet? Would’ve been a safer bet.

Sherlock Holmes says: Continuing investigation. Made brilliant deductions on many snorts and very little evidence. Notice salt deposits on factory owner’s shoes?

Goethe’s Young Werther emotes: Have I noted how upset I am? I am very upset. #pain #angst #suffering #sexdep.

Elizabeth Bennet muses: It’s as if the less he seems to care about me, the more drawn to him I am. This seems the opposite of how it should be? Oh well.

And then there’s Ishmael from Moby-Dick: We set out. Follow @starbuck, @queequeg for long introspective soliloquies on the human soul. Or @tashtego if you like adorable kittens.

Pretty damn cool, right?  Especially if you ever got down to reading any of the books above or at least know the work in some way. Hence the note from the author…

"There has been some misunderstanding about the book in that it’s been said it’s going to educate people, but you couldn’t do an English class with this book. The humour is heightened by having knowledge of the works."

Anyway… All of the Classic works were distilled into 20 tweets or fewer.

Love it.

Short Story: Shuffle.

“Dammit.” This reports going to take the whole bloody day. Why do I do this? Why am I here?

“He’s calling you into his office.” A colleague with general information as he passed by. I wouldn’t be irritated if it wasn’t for that smirk on his face, bastard.

Walking into ‘his’ office everything slows down. I suddenly know what’s going to happen and I smile. Eternity in a moment. I’m sitting down and he’s moving his lips but I already know what he’s going to say and then Radiohead starts to play… Radiohead and Sigur Ros. It was like having my iPod on Shuffle but the music was blending together.

It also wasn’t music…

It was all visual… I was both climbing a mountain and sailing the ocean at the same time with the voice of Thom Yorke pushing me up the mountain at the same time as the slow glacial music of Sigur Ros pushed wind into my sails.

“Are you listening to me? Why do you have that blank stare on your face? This is serious.”

It sounds like ice cream, feels like a sunset, looks like Beethoven’s ninth. I see the summit and feel the waves beneath me. What is this?

“Okay, it doesn’t look like I’m getting through… Hello? We have to let you go… I’m sorry. You can’t work here anymore.”

I’m smiling and I stand and walk out. I realised that for the last six months I’ve only ever thought about work and each day was singular. And now I realise that this was what I needed. I didn’t stop at my desk, I didn’t look back. I was outside with a smile. Floating on music and climbing my future.

I was free.

Technorati Tags: Writing, Short Story, Sigur Ros, Radiohead

Pink Stones

It was 4 carats.It was a pink stone.It had been catalogued in the collections of four generations of Scandinavian royalty. It was gone. The only clue was the Zulu spear.

It was then that Joey thought that maybe, just maybe, a Zulu warrior had actually infiltrated the fort-knox which was the local jewellery store and stole the pink stone from the unsuspecting owners. ‘Naah, it couldn’t be that…’ he told himself. ‘The owners did it!’ he screamed. ‘He was on holiday in Africa a week ago and he planted this damn spear to make us think a Zulu warrior had stole it!’ Three months later Joey was in a mental hospital… and nobody ever found out why he was shouting at the little pink sweets at the candy store… the ones next to the spear shaped jellies.

— The First Paragraph was a fragment provided by my good friend Zubair Habib :) —

I’m Tired…

I’m tired of this writers block… It’s like a catch-22 where I can’t think of anything good to write, so I don’t… but if I don’t put anything down then how will I know if it’s good or not? I’ve always said that writing about writer’s block is a cop-out but now I’m not so sure. Nobody knows where it comes from it’s just that sometimes you hit a wall.

Well it’s starting here. I’m tearing down the wall. Brick by brick, letter by letter. The stories will be written, the words will flow and all of these damn thoughts in my head will pour onto paper (or screen) and I will say what I have to say just as I always have. I know I’ve always had a bad relationship with grammar but so what, I’ll edit after the ideas are out there. I will sit and pick apart what I’ve written when I’ve actually written something. Not doing anything is not only idiot it’s insane. How can anyone expect motion without no initial force being applied?

So the last two paragraphs are like a brain massage. Re-training to shift thought to action. No more Cop-out videos with no words, the words are the tool. The videos and pictures are merely supplementary, they are NOT the real thing. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but one string of words can paint a multitude of pictures. No contest.

Let this be the mission statement.

Right… so now what should I write about?

Technorati Tags: Writing

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