I often think that the heavy interconnection of parallel journeys from birth to death that form for the conditioning of the human mind, measures what leads to the flamboyant journeys we all seek to live out with magnificent results; one way or the other. Some of us pounce on gritty over-the-edge episodes with astonishing results that constantly play themselves out, nearing the end of what might have otherwise seemed a dire life, while others plod upon settled, moral platitudes moulded from decades of kindly foreseeable circumstances.
I suppose that having been imbued with an adventuring spirit for the longest time, I lean towards a theory that a bigger world capsuled within an individual personality, doesn’t just boil down to the charted mapped movements of a rambling travel plan that may yet provide for a greater perception of the senses, a broadening of knowledge and the special illumination of human insight, capped from expanding cultural insights.
There is also to be had, a stylish reinvention of the art of self-preservation that commands the human senses. No clearly is this more evident, than my reading years that have threaded worlds that often beggared belief.. both of the past and present time and hinging on a mental latitude that sometimes stetched from the deeply exploratory to a humbler kitchen sink variety.
Hence, in the same way that a mischevious child would engage itself with the act of splashing up soapy suds; that I too, would clumsily slide from memory to memory with that devil-may-care air. I may cradle the rich remembrances of a nostalgic British fiction, then dream about the Chinese before recalling my yearning for Persian and Arabic narrations. I find myself carefree in my choice of either grabbing one or the other before newer storytelling worlds continue to balloon up with relish.
For instance, I might have presumed that I had long ago parted ways with South Asian tales or abandoned the nurturing essence of serious British fiction which first shaped my use of the English languge and accompanying writing skills. Than all of a sudden as if I had turned a corner, there arrives a resurrected desire thumping its way into my spirit in the most dramatic fashion; thus compelling me to miss a long-ago author with all the recommended imaginary caresses or to embark on a familiar perfumed journey with exhilarated longing.
And so the worlds in my mind – both formed from travel and from reads – slip-slide into a noisy carousel…old worlds returning and new ones pleading temporal goodbyes. Oh…what a crowd at the gates of my deep heart and mind.
At the moment, my thoughts are held enraptured by Malaysian stories – both ancient and virginal – affliated somehow to a romantic beholden past. Never mind, that a terrible sorrow reigned once-upon-a-time in the war years. But just as I am about to focus fully on this venture, when the older loves of beloved Arabic tales return to haunt and cajole me to read once more of the Middle-East regions.
How passionately, memories of my favourite Arabic writers and their wistful, magical renditions continue to tug at my skirt. While the shaping of my novel’s plot has nothing to do with the Arab states in the least; how eagerly indeed, my storytelling friends that represent the flying pages of a book, volunteer for an endearing look-in. - susan abraham
Photo Caption: The Princess Had Great Beauty. Arabian Nights – Illustrated by Virginia Frances Sterrett. Penn Publishing Company, 1928.
