"You know, it is hard for me to tell you how I feel. I'm just not that type of guy. You're more opposite than me." Said Degen
"Just approach that window. Pretend I am not here and let it out. Talk to the tree outside." Said Lucy
"I see fields. Daffodils and funny looking yellow plants. It is quite easy for the wind to blow each away. I find it a shame that I drift away like this sometimes." Said Boomyie
"No doubt without daydreaming there would be no fiction. Inspiration, the scientists would have you believe that imagination is a cultivation of chemicals. How do they account for that which is around us — the not man made? Nature." Said George
"They cannot. Children run through urban streets all day. Cars do not look for them; the people who drive them do. But only by accident — in the double use of the word." Said Lavanya
"Do you sometimes stare at flowers and see children's eyes?" Said Boomyie
"Only when I really get into my memories. When I search hard, right back to where I began. This is when I remember." Said Degen
"Remember what? Memories are just visions. Look at these visions and describe each; there is no need to delve or try. Undoubtedly it will come natural." Said George
"I'm not quite sure. If you haven't guessed by now (and brother, this is sarcasm), I do get quite nervous. Especially when I look and do not see the clear images that we all see. Mine are distorted. This worries me." Said Lucy
"I get scared of the future myself. Things that may or may not happen. I play the image like video feed... and then BOOM! I'm back to the present." Said Lavanya
"Neither the past nor the future is retrievable by staring through glass. Yet, when I do, the earth appears to me. I cherish it and begin to wonder; would you like me to tell you just what it is that I wonder?" Said Boomyie
Based on a true story
Kooky she called me; to send the popular written word to bed. Just like that. But in comparison — exactly what way did I invoke this reminisce? Because it's all different. Two differences are not the normal, therefore, each is the same (the differences that is). The world of the exacts. All or nothing. Built stereotypes to rhythm life.
If I press a button a sound is released (stereotype). A light too (stereotype). It says 'Stopping.' These lights should be farther but for the mud patches of the seat behind.
On the road I walked several paces with a mind of a matter of fact. Slavery was the subject of the last book I read. At least, those pages I had read. No longer I wished to continue the monotony. Too much melodrama mixed with facts. Not enough fiction. The creativity of the mind. If I wanted periods of history as bland fish sticks; I'd eat and read a tome (or two) published by Macmillan and sold to me by Blackwell's.
Though, I last read the words of Edward P. Jones a few hours prior, I engaged my mind of the work of the feminine-named Suhayl Saadi. Most probably because 'Saadi' was a girl I once knew — a female friend, shall we say. Psychoraag it's called and a dam sight more unhinged than Jones' first 50 — where I stopped. If I am not gripped then my pighead will raise dust — through a combination of gravity and release... BANG!
In a library, the slamming of a book would cause a fuss. So, I have taken the opportunity to approach a bookstore; in order to purchase my very own copy of Saadi's work. The piece that resides in my green sack (now at my home) was a hired goon. This bothers me since the volume is quite good and so I must OWN a text. As a writer myself it would do my conscience great deed to purchase the work of a fellow.
When I say I am a writer I could be broad in my spectrum — so I will define my statement. I write. Non published... thus far... but soon! The words of faith! Still aside, if all to plan; then if I expect the other to buy me then I will buy the other.
Point 2. Far from me to walk into any bookstore. No Madam, but the one to settle my fidget. The independence of my nature should be reflected to the independence of my procure. I have walked away from slavery written by a Pulitzer prize winning author BUT NOT as I lay eye witness to such, in the first hand. The slavery cast to the written prose. Chained by chains. That should speak for itself.
And back to my several steps taking the route up the Charing Cross Road passing litters of shops all claiming books as their main point of. A whole landing dedicated to crime is one. Smaller, a cornered placate while along with a few others. (Inclusive of the art book capture. Books or gallery? Logic has me on this one.)
Here we (I) are (is), passed the sets to the one I adore. My local independent bookstore (a mere 45 minutes from my abode!)
Enter, stranger! I am but a man so let me not dilly dally, here or there and get straight to the... Well, maybe a little browse then. Won't hurt.
The newly released. You see, what pains me is the knock effect/test (and I recommend that you visualise this). When next at a bookstore's 'new' section roll your arm forward, clench your fist and use some knuckles to wrap a text, gently... does it make a sound? Yes? Well that is because the cover is solid, tough, tightly packed petrified... it's hard.
Do we still live in times of rats and moisture attacks?
So then exactly why do we entertain the hard backs?
A useful tool against the broken and entered?
A raised table mat for the consumption of placenta?
Wobble no more dear table; you are on a new level...
Door opening practice, for the agoraphobe dishevelled?
There is no need for such item and only on for the want of monetary gain. In the world of the want why would such be different for that of the strung words? To read Shalimar the Clown you must purchase the new Rushdie. How? — via the hardback. Paperbacks work just as well and being more portable, I tell you, they work just as better!
In front of me, here at Foyles, is the mixture — hard and soft. Knock knock... muffle muffle! Ah! What a delight! Authors (at least some) with sense to save his reader pence! But not today as my mission is set. Browsing is foreshortened while now I bid my leave to desk of information. The Do You Have quota.
Confronted I was by a sight of attraction... play it cool... play it cool? What of my words, those of romance? My tale (kooky or not) will not engage in romancing... she was asked and she searched and she found... nothing. The book Psychoraag by Sahayl Saadi did not exist at this address. A smile. A return. A parting of ways.
How bothersome. To leave my comfort to return (later) empty handed. I thought this while edging passed the shop of crime. Hmm. That's an idea... so wondrous it cannot be true... I'll try another bookstore! Sarcasm applauds. THANK YOU, so, so kind.
On the corner of a turning I noted the little number called Quitos. That maybe pronounced Quin-toes or Quin-toss. I have not the memory to tell you for certain. I do know the owners have collected the two premises (this by 'miracle' of the poster). So they were a chain! No matter, judging by the lack of warmth (which served to add to the warmth) and the unordering of matter — this was no commercial venture. The smell too told me of comfort. Mmm, must.
'To the basement. More fiction down there' another 'miracle' displayed. I went down all the wile assessing my counterparts; two older gentlemen and a sizeable younger, youthful, sporty type. How dare he steal thunder about my image? Tis none exclusive? 'Now, now' I told myself, he has the right to the settings as the almost youthful I do.
Miracle: "SALE 50% OFF"
Well, Saadi may be positioned and if not what would be the harm? Fiction all around and at silly prices! For books, I can barely afford NOT to buy! Again, the order needed reference but at a sacrifice to the unordered female (and let's face it, she is the reader; not I or the sporty handsome fellow. We are the outliers curiously breached deviation simultaneously on a Saturday morning.)
And there it was. A dark skinned portrait of an African American. Bordered in a rectangle above the author's name and his book title. A quote also. This hit me and I had the enthusiasm of a boy and his new toy — though I had actually not. The novel I faced was not the same of the game that preoccupied my hunt. This was new meat. Middle Passage was its title and Charles Johnson was construct's creator. I picked it and examined it. There was a photo on the back representing the author looking oh so Spike Lee. Same hair, same glasses, same puffy cheeks... oh and he was African American.
From which part of the continent (that's the first A and the second) I knew not knowledge. Is it even wise to call the darker skinned humans who reside over the Atlantic as the 'African' American? Would this not be the case of their lightest pigmented 'non afro-ed' hair cohabiters to be labelled the European American? Why would they simply be the American? It's not as if they, like the darker skinned 'Afro' haired souls, are native to the land.
£2.99 and at 50% that makes it £1.49 give or take a decimal placing. Pleased I was to the filling of the hole whilst the weight not duly on my pocket. Not only for the supply of my empty hand and wallet but because of the word I caught sticking out on the blurb. Not one for reading the idiocy of a summary I had tried my best not to do so. I did, however, take in the one section and it oxymoronically pleased me, the word I must tell you. The word: slavery.
I had required a replacement. I rode travel to supply my conscience with the acquisition of a contemporary. A novel I held. Now, I must wait on another comment for that score but what I do have is the return of shunt for Mr Jones and his take on slavery. An alternative. Will it have the same drab, melodramatic tosh that pushed me from my library copy of the Pulitzer prize winning piece? Well, dear reader, that's another 'kooky' tale.
G. Haritharan says: "I was born on a Friday to Sri Lankan Tamil parents in a hospital on Denmark Hill which is in London, England. A few years later (around twenty or so) I decided I wanted to write. I started with poetry. Nobody liked it; I got a day job. More years later (around four) and I quit the day job to write a novel. In the proceeding years... I wrote two: Followers of the Dead Man and Kingdoms In Newness. Both were published under the Tamil idea of s4mT.
Comments (closed)
Suhayl Saadi
2009-11-14 10:24:03
Dear G,
I do hope you were able to locate a copy of 'Psychoraag' eventually. I'm not surprised you couldn't find it in any bookshops. As far as 'London' and 'England' are concerned, you see, my work and I do not exist. I am then, in truth, a ghost writer.
www.josephsbox.co.uk