I can hardly wait
to caress, at my gate
tonight, the moment that's played
on my mind for days, and then always delayed!
Friday, November 7, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
My Writing Tools
My writing tool is mental – my merry-go-round mind. It must be playful and skittish, with wery wittle worry, for me to succeed at wasabi writing … if I ever write well. When I cannot check the influx and interplay of real life, then I cannot use my mental writing tool.
My writing device is emotional. A split bag of complex tangles to share. I find that extreme experience gives me adjectival fodder. The calm, soft centre is a writer’s block for me. I must love or loathe something to write wonderful things about it.
My writing world is spatial. I can write anything anytime anywhere. But my selective writing milieu is home, with nobody else within a millivolt mile, and the TV droning on somewhere. The best writing time for me is late at night, after 2 or more stress-free hours and no need to rise up at early-elf morning.
My writing instrument is physical. It is a pen, a pencil and a notebook. The same pen, pencil and notebook for a while, in order for my creative juices to condescend to flow on-the-quick-ask. It is not a keratin keyboard – no, that’s work, not art.
My writing device is emotional. A split bag of complex tangles to share. I find that extreme experience gives me adjectival fodder. The calm, soft centre is a writer’s block for me. I must love or loathe something to write wonderful things about it.
My writing world is spatial. I can write anything anytime anywhere. But my selective writing milieu is home, with nobody else within a millivolt mile, and the TV droning on somewhere. The best writing time for me is late at night, after 2 or more stress-free hours and no need to rise up at early-elf morning.
My writing instrument is physical. It is a pen, a pencil and a notebook. The same pen, pencil and notebook for a while, in order for my creative juices to condescend to flow on-the-quick-ask. It is not a keratin keyboard – no, that’s work, not art.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Hag Agape!
Wizened, still-young-ish woman! Something tells that her personal life has been far from austere. But she ranks monstrous beneath the grace of the about-to-be-named musical instrument. She’s sitting at a high-noon banking hall with her legs yawning wide, under her long skirt, like a concertina.
Friday, October 31, 2008
A Chinese Dispenser
A little Chinese man in office clothes is idling at the car port in front of the foyer of a 4-star Accra hotel. He clears his throat in strident bursts, and leaps to one of the silver trash cans placed near the pillars (still at the entrance). He sprays his spittle into the bin with no awareness of self. As I struggle to lift my anguished jaw off the immaculate floor, he asks the doorman for the restaurant. It’s just as well that he (not I) is going to eat.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)