Monday, April 04, 2005
Singlish Express
He : You don't speak in Singlish.
She : Yes I do...
(pause)
...Lah.
*****
He glances around at the once familiar faces around him...
Something inside him tells him to run.
Run now.
Before you remember.
*****
What's a "Real Writer"?
In today's mixed up world, the word "real" seems to connote anything but quality. Reality TV - think big brother - is anything but.
I won't pretend to know what a real writer is.
But I can recognise a good one when I read him / her.
It shows in the obsessive perfectionism that burns beneath the veneer of breezy effortlessness. Or in the detached perceptiveness concealed in the most passionately voiced narratives.
It is equal parts panache and measure, a touch of overt humility blended with subtle conceit.
I don't know what a real writer is.
Mediocrity ? It's for the masses.
*****
The scent wafted insiduously across the pew. He recognised it instantly, but his stilled mind didn't kick into gear till a few seconds later.
It was a shock when it did; it threw him back a few years.
It evoked memories.
Of holding her close, feeling the comforting heat radiating off her and through the fabric of his shirt; the musty smell of her hair. Of wanting to hold her close and maybe, in retrospect, pretend that it would last forever. Perhaps subconsciously never wanting to let go what he once had, and lost without a fight. Perhaps a conditioned reflex born of prior inadequacy.
Laughter, during the better times, and the resounding silences during the poorer.
The warmth of her hand grasped in his own frozen fingers.
That warm wetness against his collar as she cried in silence, the illusions shattered at last by brutal honesty.
Always that scent - neither heavy nor overpowering, just indefinably her.
He caught himself half-turning and his eyes scanning the room. But no, not here. Not in this place.
She : Yes I do...
(pause)
...Lah.
*****
He glances around at the once familiar faces around him...
Something inside him tells him to run.
Run now.
Before you remember.
*****
What's a "Real Writer"?
In today's mixed up world, the word "real" seems to connote anything but quality. Reality TV - think big brother - is anything but.
I won't pretend to know what a real writer is.
But I can recognise a good one when I read him / her.
It shows in the obsessive perfectionism that burns beneath the veneer of breezy effortlessness. Or in the detached perceptiveness concealed in the most passionately voiced narratives.
It is equal parts panache and measure, a touch of overt humility blended with subtle conceit.
I don't know what a real writer is.
Mediocrity ? It's for the masses.
*****
The scent wafted insiduously across the pew. He recognised it instantly, but his stilled mind didn't kick into gear till a few seconds later.
It was a shock when it did; it threw him back a few years.
It evoked memories.
Of holding her close, feeling the comforting heat radiating off her and through the fabric of his shirt; the musty smell of her hair. Of wanting to hold her close and maybe, in retrospect, pretend that it would last forever. Perhaps subconsciously never wanting to let go what he once had, and lost without a fight. Perhaps a conditioned reflex born of prior inadequacy.
Laughter, during the better times, and the resounding silences during the poorer.
The warmth of her hand grasped in his own frozen fingers.
That warm wetness against his collar as she cried in silence, the illusions shattered at last by brutal honesty.
Always that scent - neither heavy nor overpowering, just indefinably her.
He caught himself half-turning and his eyes scanning the room. But no, not here. Not in this place.
