The Writer's Creed

Fear not, my words.

Fear not the hour you were born or the piece of paper you were carefully, carelessly or precariously committed to. Fear not the thought that engendered you or the hesitation that endangered you. Fear not the fingers that typed you or the pen that scribbled you. Fear not the blocks that held you back. Fear not.

You will be read. You will be ignored. You will be celebrated, reviled and detested. You will be tested. Fear not. Fear not the eyes that take you in, or the mouths that spit you out. The blinks of disbelief, the stares of discontent, the nods of appreciation and the muted gaze of indifference. They will greet you one and the same.

Fear not the cynicism you carry or the cynics you attract. Fear not the love you foster or the fury you proclaim. There is a weight on your shoulders and it is heavy. Only a few will see it but it is there nonetheless. You’ll be great company on a good day and on another, a speck in the distance. On a bad day, you will preach. 

You will cross lines. You will pass judgment. You will condone and condemn and be the only shred of solace one has to cling to. You will skimmed through, skipped altogether or spent entire days with. You will cloud thinking and rain fresh perspective. You will crush notions and renew hope. You will not retreat. You will provoke.

Fear not the chuckles you invite or the curses that drop by anyway. They will never be enough. Fuck the distractions and the four-letter frowns. You have a purpose. To set minds spinning and enter conversations and contemplations with the subtle force of an honest intention. You will lift songs and power into speech. Speeches, someday.

You will be treasured. You will be forgotten. You will strike someone like a bolt of lightning and stay buried under an avalanche of inconsequence until someone else unearths you by accident. But, you won’t have aged. You are immortal, the bright beacon of a beating heart. You travel to places my feet will never set foot on.

Fear not the strangers you speak to or the strangeness you bring out in them. You are a plot to my mind and the key to its deceptions. You are my strongest hand and my deepest tell. Let us play like we always have. Without reason, often with. You have been my privilege to write and my pleasure to convey. You will be questioned.

I believe in you.

Tungsten

She's a young summer and a bright winter and the breeze that flows between. She's a candy floss will and a molten heart. She's a firefly.

She’s a short burst of hard laughter, the rock lead in a jazz ballad. She has aces in her eyes and a story up her sleeve. She is hard talk and small talk and no talk at all. She's a long night at a packed bar, a short flight next morning. She’s a welcome contradiction.

She’s soft cheer and sure grace. She pulls off a gown and a frown with the easiest of ease. She sways to no music, makes you swoon to her tune, she swings like no one’s watching. She dresses up and dresses down, and stuns you every time. She sports mascara but never a mask. She wears no airs.

She’s the darkest heaven and the brightest hell. She flits through time, without a thing to prove, like warm poetry on a trapeze. She leads firms, and lays terms, and takes what’s coming to her. She runs the show. She runs as deep as still waters go. She should run for president.

She’ll sting you with her honesty and nurse you with her presence. She knows no compulsion and only says what she means. She’ll flood you with answers and still leave you guessing. She walks like a tiger and runs like a child. She's pure fire and raw rain, her mind holds no regret. She’s the flicker of the filament of a bright yellow bulb. She is tungsten.

The End

At the end of this life, you will have laughed and loved, hurt and hated, fought and failed, won and waited. You will have tried and tested, cried and coped, dreamt, denied, helped and hoped. You will be learned and lonesome, wistful and wise, calm and clueless, it'll show in your eyes. You will have been anxious and affectionate, firm and furious, interesting, insecure, conscientious, curious. You will be a lot and a little you won't, you will have taken far more than you thought you could give, you will be tired but find yourself grateful, for every day you were lucky enough to live.

Light

You look radiant in the candlelight as I sit here writing these words, stealing a glimpse or two of the woman I love. I watch you smile, I see you playing with your hair, I observe you listening pensively, your chin on your palm, disinterested in what you hear but nodding in acknowledgment nonetheless, then spontaneously breaking into a laugh that places you right back in the thick of it all. I look at your hand, the hand I held a few minutes ago. I remember your touch.

And, as I gaze into you and turn away when your eyes meet mine, as I seek you out through panes of stained glass even though nothing obstructs my view, I find words. I'm at the cusp. I run the back of my finger against the brick wall to pause for a second. I want this to be real. I want my words to be true. I pause for a second second when I recall your name has much to do with the truth. I utter your name in silence, you can't see me grin after, and realise the hour is right. I'm at the cusp. No, we're at the cusp. Between a love immortal and one that never existed. Walking the thin line between hope and its lessness. I know lessness isn't an actual word but there's no reason it shouldn't be. We're on the verge of something extraordinary every single moment we're together, this one included. And in this moment, you and I are standing at the threshold of our futures. I believe they're intertwined, like our fingers are used to being.

Why did I leave that table? Sitting across you, inches apart, your feet occasionally brushing mine, I didn't have to. Conversations are a distraction, especially when the only thing on your mind is the only thing you want to talk about. Instinctively, I stood up, polished the last of my wine and stepped out. It wasn't the cigarette alone that drew me away. There would be another. It wasn't the cigarettes alone. I wanted to numb the noise, blur the whirl, and find some focus. And, I did. I lit up, looked up, and there you were. You and the candle, only. I wondered which one was illuminating the other. You threw me inspiration, I caught it. Each time the thin white haze cleared, I saw you. I see you. The way I've always seen you. You look radiant in the candlelight as I sit here writing these words, stealing a glimpse or two of the woman I love.

Ordinary

You are a waster of time
A taker of space
You are a thinker of things
A forgetter of names

You are older than yesterday
Younger than tomorrow
Taller than your standing
Smaller than your ego

You are a maker of sound
A crasher of gates
You are a flipper of coins
A feeler of pain

You are harder than cloth
Heavier than light
Better than your worst
Faster than your stride

You are a soaker of sun
A watcher of waves
You are a breather of air
A catcher of rain

You are this and that
You are one or another

The only thing you are not, however,
Is ordinary

Yes

It was quite simple, really.

If you said ‘Yes’, I’d take your dog on a walk so you could sneak in an hour of sleep,
and get back in time to watch the sight of your eyes adjusting to the light as the first
sip of freshly brewed tea kissed your lips. I’d make you breakfast.

If you said ‘Yes’, I’d ride you to work, buy you a croissant to go, even though
I secretly know you prefer muffins but are watching your sugar intake. I’d pick up
your dry cleaning, I’d offer to drop you home and hang on to every word
you said along the way.

I’d like every status update you put up just to let you know I read it. I’d make you
put up status updates just so I could like them.

I’d cover your head when it rained, wrap my jacket around you when it was cold,
hold your hand when we crossed the street, hold your hand as we weaved through
a crowd, hold your hand for no reason whatsoever and squeeze it gently
before letting go.

I’d take you to exhibitions, plays, films, festivals, concerts and carnivals.
I’d probably take you shopping. No, I would take you shopping.

I’d stay by your side when you were sick, make sure you took your medication
on time, never on an empty stomach, and take you to the doctor
if your condition worsened. I’d nurse you back to health even though it meant
I could fall ill the moment you recovered.

I’d write you a poem and ten songs to go with it. I’d sing you those songs
on days you needed to be told how beautiful you are. 

If you said ‘Yes’, I’d revel in your success, brush away your failures, push you
to try harder and give you a million reasons to refrain from entertaining the thought
of giving up. I’d be a partner to your crimes, an audience to your expression,
and the wall you often crave between you and the world.  

If you said ‘Yes’, I would do all of this and so much more, in the right amount
of moderation, so you never felt you owed me anything but always had just cause
to light up that smile. I would write a thesis about that smile.

But, you never said ‘Yes’. 

Because, I never asked.

Home

Every person is a place. Some are bus-stops, others coffee shops. Some dark alleys, others sun-kissed beaches. Every day, we shuttle in and out and around music stores, art galleries, libraries, restaurants, broadcast stations, cinema theatres, photo studios, motorcycle workshops, football academies, lofty bars with empty stools, ATMs without withdrawal limits, employment exchanges and technology hubs erected in skin and bone. Long, short, under construction, under repair, broken, one-way, two-way or toll-free, there are many roads to the same place. And, some of them aren’t places at all. They are bridges we must cross to get somewhere new. Or tunnels we must emerge from to keep our purpose true. We spend each day traveling from person to person. And when we’ve spent many hours wandering, discovering, visiting, frequenting and deserting life’s many venues, some of us just want to go home.

The Fame Paradox

The light never dies on a person of greatness. It burns immortal, a warm glow that reminds us of the stature they once occupied, and still do. The same light burns brighter for their progeny. But, not in quite the same mellow timbre

For the young of a colossus, the light is deafening. An inescapable reality, it stares them in the face from the moment their eyes open. Through night and day, it is their unrelenting Sun, a cruel reminder of life’s sole purpose. To live up to the name they’re deemed fortunate to be born with. While the rest waltz through existence in the search for meaning and a higher calling, theirs is predefined. Their benchmarks etched in the sky, finish lines drawn before they learn to say ‘go’. The light teases and taunts them at every turn, as society prods them to follow in hallowed footsteps and occupy the circle it casts

From the dawn of time, the children of famous parents have been expected to outshine them. We can observe, barring the odd exception, that famous men and women seldom come from famous parents or give birth to children who grow to become equally if not more famed.

Most of us have wondered what it would be like to be born to titans. Lives in place, world at our feet, a sizeable serving of success and its many privileges without having to raise a finger. But, we’ve overlooked the heat that is always on. And feeling it up close, the gargantuan obligation to go one better, as we squirm under the shadow of a giant we’re always being compared to, can get suffocating. For us world is no stage, it’s a rancid lot of hecklers watching our every step, waiting for us to fall, and ultimately fail.

About time I made my point?

It’s simple, and becomes evident shortly. By chasing fame and achieving it, are we building or derailing the lives of our children? Are we landing them the luxury of a struggle-free upbringing or substituting it for the greater struggle of rising to, and hopefully besting our stature? Are we securing a precipice for future generations to look down at creation from, or are we preparing them for an untimely roaring leap off the edge? Is our quest noble or is it the veneer of our vanity, our constant need for power and the recognition it begets? Does ‘I’m doing it for myself.’ have more truth in it than we imagine? Do we go for gold or settle for scraps so our children can swap silver spoons for blank slates? Are we who started with blank slates obliged to leave blank slates for those to follow? If we forsake our thirst for glory, will our children do the same for our grandchildren? Should we be grateful to our parents for underachieving (achievement is subjective, but you get the drift) or prepare to face an impending outburst from our children against the pressure we have already begun piling on them? Is it better to be born to a legend or to raise one?

I don’t have the answers. Do you?

Bye

“Planes are just not my scene, brother.”

It wasn't the beer talking. Going by the stories I've heard, and there are a million,
I belong to the small and therefore elite clique of unlucky airbenders. In fact, the only fairer-sexed company I’ve been graced with in the air, happened to be flying
into her wedding. So, resigning myself to the inevitable, I continued sipping
on my half-empty-for the-last-half-hour bottle of lager, engaging in conversations
drowned out by muffled high-intensity EDM. I had a flight to catch the next day
and much needed sleep before.

I picked 6C because it was the unreserved aisle seat closest to the entrance.
I had discarded my fascination for window seats long ago, when I gathered
the inside of an aircraft offers more than the outside promises (refer Aerodynamics).
5E was free, but it was middle. The universally scorned middle seat, a solo traveller's nightmare, seldom occupied by choice, was forever out of question.
Although, I have employed the maximum probability argument to fuel my optimism,
each of the many times I have been subjected to one. The results have been grossly
and consistently disappointing.
---

The first to occupy my half-row, I was an eager gatekeeper anxiously awaiting the arrival of two unknowns who would determine the course of my flight. But, my unfailing
anticipation died a fast death when seconds later, I found myself semi-standing,
wedged between my seat and the rotund middle-aged woman hastening her way
to the window, completely oblivious to the existence of my feet, and me.
To prevent further damage, I stood up and slid out to allow her husband in.
Resigning myself to the inevitable, a second time in 16-odd hours, I pulled out
my notepad and pen. Suddenly, there was precious work to be done and precious little
to finish it in. I had all but written my first words when the attendant announced,
“Boarding complete.” Muttering, “Yeah, I hear you.”, I reluctantly shut my tray table
and yanked out the inflight magazine hoping I could figure out what to snack on
before the altitude of the plane allowed me to finish crafting my print campaign.
On an aside, nailing a third headline can be more challenging than cracking
the campaign it is meant for. Restlessly testing the airline's instant
remedy for restlessness prescribed on page whatever, I intently rotated my right ankle
for the 10th time, left went first. Obviously, I didn't feel any different.
Then, I looked up.

She stood two feet away, straining to thrust her handbag into the bustle
of the overhead bin. She was slender, mildly tanned, with dark blonde hair
tied into a tiny bun, in a half-sleeved white blouse and skinny-fit black jeans
with zip-down ankles. Beautiful, and unconventionally so. In a blink, she was home
in seat 5D, slippers off, buckled up, feet on seat, making an On the plane.
See you soon. call. I presumed Australian, her accent didn't help. We took off.
She plugged into her iPod and descended into a head-bobbing knee-rapping trance
any lover of music would readily associate with. In the air, I put pen to paper,
stopping frequently to watch her silently mouth a few verses as she soaked
in the groove. Smiling to myself as I struggled, I concluded good work is a product
of worthy distraction. Basking thoroughly in this newfound wisdom, my eyes fell
on the empty seat beside her. 5E. I cursed my luck, briefly.

Midway through my expulsion, I watched her sink into the minimal recesses
her seat could afford. Her little eyes shut, she turned her head in my direction.
Still wired and sound asleep, she inspired me. The idea was laudable,
Playlist Exchange. How interesting would it be to swap playlists with the person
sitting in the next seat for the entire duration of a short flight? To know someone
intimately without saying a word? To capture a mood though music? To risk
insignificant revelations for fresh listening pleasure?

The minutes piled on idly. I delved back into knitting evocative nothings, her timely
wrestling to get comfortable relegated to my peripheral vision. She awoke with
the landing announcement. She stretched, strained her neck and batted her eyelids
in adjustment. I was relieved, surprisingly. My uneasy, one-sided association with her
would be over soon.
---

The flight landed on time. Deftly avoiding the desperate scurry to the shuttle bus,
I strolled in casually and wound my way to the centre, a sea of tightly-huddled bodies
on three sides and a wall to recline on. The last few passengers streamed in while
I scanned the bus. I wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. Maybe I was. Either way,
I found her. Seated in the last row. Staring out the window. Face flushed. Red-nosed.
Sobbing. Her contorted features barely reminiscent of those I’d spent a quarter-hour
trying to forget. She was a mess. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and pulled out
my handy handkerchief. I looked at her, then down at my hand, then at her,
then at my hand. The routine ran its course as I worked out my approach. It ended
when I caught her looking at me about the 29th time I looked up towards her.
Caught off guard, I swung away. And then it struck me, I was trapped. The bus
had no room for even an honest intention to squeeze through to her.
‘I’ll meet her on the way out and offer her the kerchief if she still needs it.’
We alighted, she after me. She wasn’t crying anymore. She didn’t need anything.
---

On my way to baggage claim, I mused. I whistled, within, aware of her presence
a few steps behind and assured that her personal storm had passed. I disputed
whether I should have pushed past the throng and made my offering,
whether it would have done her any good if I did, whether it would have changed
the rest of her day even though she appeared to have overcome her demons
without assistance? With these and similar wonderments humouring my brain,
I turned the corner en route the smoking room and caught her following me
from the corner of my eye. The response was swift and impulsive. Assuming she
wanted a cigarette, I held the door ajar. She didn’t, the ladies’ room
was two doors down. In seconds, I was at peace with this private embarrassment.
I sat down, shook my head, shook off the stupidity and smoked at leisure.
Ten minutes passed before I found myself at baggage claim. ‘She must have
left by now.’ Ten more minutes passed before I realised I was at the wrong counter.
---

My faculties weren’t at their sharpest that afternoon. I knew exactly
whom to blame. I finally walked down the right side of the right baggage counter,
and lo, there she was, sitting on a trolley, coloured in a familiar shade of red, anxious
and fidgety. For some reason, I was no different. ‘Ok, so the luggage isn’t here.
Now, don’t encroach her vicinity. It’ll creep her out, if she has noticed you at all.
Let’s not mull over whether she has. Besides, the motion of the belt suggests your bag
will be coming out the other end.’ An about-turn and a few steps later, I took up
a position on the near end of the conveyor, one that ensured I would get my bag
the moment it made its way into the airport, one that ensured I could get the hell out
of the airport without overstaying my arrival. In my line of sight, a billboard proclaiming superlative home loan rates loomed ominously. It didn’t take curiosity two seconds
to get the better of me, and I strayed gently sideways. She was standing now,
more upset than I had ever seen her, pretend studying the meaningless billboard
to avoid being seen by more than a handful. Scrutiny of the colourful bystanders
revealed she had no reason for worry. Everyone was caught up stressing about
luggage already long overdue. No one had noted her. None, but me.

After light years of indecision, I managed to affix myself opposite her. Once more,
I felt the urge to reach out. I decided to write her a note of empathy, which I would
convey by way of the empty, yet moving, conveyor belt. Attracting her attention
by waving hysterically, I would prompt her to pick it up when the belt brought it to her.
There were intricacies I needed to consider, however. What if someone else picked
up the note? What if she dismissed my gesturing for a severe case
of cognitive retardation? What if she followed my gestures, picked up the note,
read it, but didn’t feel any better because of it? As is my habit, I let these thoughts
run their course while I paced the floor around my erstwhile position. Presently,
I arrived at the welcome conclusion that I couldn’t care less. I looked up. She was gone.
‘Was her bag not worth the wait? Did my indiscreet and recurring presence force
her to take up another position? Maybe she’s just gone to get a glass of water.’
Again, I was a rebel without cause. But, before I could wallow once more
in that lucrative cesspool lined with dejection and self-loathing,
surprise slapped me hard. She was walking towards me, trolley in tow.

Stupefied, I watched her come, place her trolley beside me and sit on it cross-legged.
She appeared fine, I hadn’t managed to get a clean look at her face yet.
Seeing she wasn’t wired anymore, I unplugged my earphones and shoved them
in my pocket. The action wasn’t smooth and I’m sure she noticed. I stared hard
at the empty belt, stealing occasional glances at her. And predictably, I succumbed
to the intimidation that accompanies being at arm’s length from a thing of beauty.
I resumed my nervous-yet-apparently-casual-to-the-human-eye pacing,
ambling aimlessly. And while I ambled, she relapsed.

From my roving vantage point, she started out with a blank expression
that bled mild tears amidst frequent texting. It progressed into her looking
downwards with both hands on her temple. Eventually, she buried her face
between her legs. I reached into my pocket, held my kerchief firm,
walked to my spot and looked down, at her. Head still buried.
‘Give her the hanky when she looks up? Pull up a trolley of my own
and sit next to her? Open with what the airline staff might be having for lunch?’
I didn’t have the nerve. She was daunting even in her vulnerability. ‘Let’s pace around
some more. Great exercise. Let her recover. Then, we’ll see.’ I turned, walked in circles
nearby, and returned a minute later.

She was up, but a mother with her 6-year-old son had taken my place.
‘There goes that. Enough is enough. Write the damn note. Put it on the belt.
It’s still running for a reason. Lean forward, ask her to pick it up and get this
despicable urge to make her day out of your system forever.’ I took a few steps
backwards, pulled out my notebook and scribbled ‘Beautiful women
don’t look good crying.’ I crumpled the note and deposited it in the nearest bin.
Then, I wrote ‘Beautiful women shouldn’t cry. Whatever it is, it will pass. :)’
Somewhat satisfied, I folded the sheet. My loss for words was legitimate.

Turning to proceed with my humble scheme, I met her eyes, looking dead straight
into mine. A piercing glare. Shaken, I pocketed the note and looked away.
‘What’s going on? Should I just go talk? Are we waiting for another sign?’
She faced the belt, the luggage had begun streaming in. ‘She’ll get her bag before
I get mine, and leave.’

My bag came first. I took it, set it on a trolley and rummaged
within for my lighter, another custom. In the next few seconds, she got hers.
Heading to the taxi stand, she walked ten metres in front of me. Then, for some
strange reason, she pressed down on her brake handle and broke into a frantic run.
‘Was it me?’ I was awed but inertia prevailed. I didn’t allow myself
any further consternation. I stopped at an ATM, then wandered past stores,
sampling their wares in measured glimpses. Sure enough, as I idled into
the prepaid taxi queue, there she was, ahead in line. No thought this time.
I walked right into her.

“Excuse me. Hi. I saw you crying in the bus earlier and I wanted to give you
my handkerchief but I couldn’t, because there were just too many people.”

“Oh, you did? I had no idea.”

“Yeah. And then later, as we were waiting for the luggage to arrive. You looked like
you could use a word or two so I thought of writing you a note and putting it on
the conveyor belt so it would go all the way around. I’d wave ‘Hey’ from the other end
so you’d know the note was for you.”

“I’m so embarrassed but thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

“Are you alright? Is everything ok?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing. I’m just having, I’m having a very stressful day.”

“Sure. Anyway, what I wanted to do didn’t happen. But, I’ve got the note with me
and I want you to have it.”

I handed her the note.
“Have a nice day.”

I turned away and then bounced back, she was still clutching it.
“You can read it now, it’s only two lines anyway.”

I soon realised I had cut ahead in line, so I went around and took my place behind her.
The counter next to ours freed up, the man behind it beckoned me. I leaned forward.

“You’re the one having a stressful day, go.”

“Thanks.”

She wheeled her way to the window. The next second, my counter freed up.
I transacted alongside her, catching the odd strain in her voice like I would
strain to catch a tune. When I finished, she had disappeared.
---

Outside the airport, the Sun was intense, but forgiving. It was hot, I was warm.
The deed was done. My mission complete. Or, was it? Like a reflex, I sought her.
I could only hope my simplistic words would bear my earnestness. Their effects,
much like the effects of my every interaction to date, were beyond my control.
Wrapping myself in this truth, I marched towards the yellow-topped rundown chariot
that would take me home. Again, she was all that stood in between.
‘This is getting old.’

While attendants scrambled to get her the next available cab, I stood calm,
propped on the railing and gazing into the distance, certain she didn’t know I was there.
Shortly, a cab arrived. She lifted her head while picking up her bags,
and shot me in the chest.

“Bye.”

Point-blank. I reeled. One word, three letters, the answer to every question
I had asked myself that morning. Her face clear, she was radiant, grinning, settled,
a far cry from the sombre shade I had made my acquaintance with. I nodded
in acknowledgement and half-smiled right back. Her manner, her disposition,
their change, were all pleasantly unsettling.

She made her exit. I savoured my salvation. ‘You get a single precise instant in time
to push a life into the better. And when it passes, your compassion, its abundance,
your intentions, their honesty, all you feel and are capable of feeling, count for nothing.
No walk in the park, running the risk of seeming desperate and sounding stupid,
willingly signing up for judgement. Pretty darn suicidal. But, after that moment passes,
you have only yourself to live with. That, you could definitely do without.’

My taxi arrived five minutes later. Snug in my seat, I hit rewind. ‘If I see her once more,
I’ll have to stop her.’ At ‘her’, I drove past her on the highway. I didn’t pull over.
‘It wouldn’t be much of a story if we met again.’

213 (for 2013)

Life is one

Jump the gun
Finish the run

Play the cool
Stretch a rule

Tame a star
Raid the bar

Lend a hand
Claim your land

Shatter a notion
Conquer an ocean

Free a desire
Fan the fire

Wear the rain
Stir and strain

Never say die
Confess a lie

Write a song
Right a wrong

Stretch a goal
Study your soul

Make ends meet
Smile and greet

Get caught up
Adopt a pup

Pass a smoke
Master a stroke

Waste some time
Prevent a crime

Grow new thought
Forgive the lot

Flee the nest
Stop and rest

Wake at dawn
Move the pawn

Touch a cloud
Shout out loud

Earn a friend
Skip the bend 

Knock on wood
Stand for good

Toe the line
Follow the sign

Scratch an itch
Get fucking rich

Trip the wheel
Hurt and heal

Scale a gate
Cheat your fate

Age like wine
Say ‘I’m fine’

Ride the train
Pull the chain

Hold your nerve
Bell the curve

Learn to fend
Predict the end

Take by storm
Keep love warm

Fight a tear
Shift a gear

Turn the key
Hug a tree

Pick your mark
Build an ark

Raise a stink
Spill a drink

Break a sweat
Lose a bet

Do till done
Life is one