12

As i have promised, this is the only excerpt from Tablo’s book that i could find on the internet.  And it is so so so so good. The prose, the simplicity of his description.. the attention he pays to the little details. It was delightful (oh no, i sound like some old granny aunty now).

Fine, fine. It rocked my socks off. It made me wonder if i could ever write anything as poignant as that. Cause, sadly and inevitably, there are some works in this world that are not worth reading at all or just stink of bias-ness (and im not naming names *cough* : the one abt the malaysian astronaut*cough*)

And that it was a waste of trees and colouring– and the electrity needed to print the pages out then bind/seal/package it, not to mention the human labour required to ensure its quality and what.not.(shit) –but this piece of writing slash art that i so abruptly fell in love with is something so extraordinary and although it has seemingly “ordinary” words, the letters and storyline practically stands up, shouts at you, would probably snap your gaze to it if it could to tell you that every part of it, every space between it’s words and flow of it’s rhythm is something worth more than you could ever think.

I present to you, Tablo, who if, by a stroke of bad, unjustifiable luck, happen to ever hate me(like he would ever acquaint himself with a freelance writer like myself), would probably send me the most brilliant “I Hate You” note ever written.

…………………………………..

"the walls of our world" (spring 2001)

A conversation with Sandra is like swimming in a Pollock painting: words, expressions and hands flutter and mix, raw and brilliant. She makes speech purely physical. I lose the meaning of her sentences and throw myself into the storm of her lips.
But I remind myself, I have a job to do.
"Tell me about last Saturday," I say. "Tell me."
Her eyes widen in excitement as if she has anticipated this very question, this chance to expose herself. Like a budding actress speaking her debut lines, she wets her lips with her tongue and draws in a long breath that threatens to inhale the whole room.
"I danced and danced, toes and heels pecking the earth like birds feeding," she answers.
Sandra always speaks like this: poetry at the speed of a subway train.
"Where was this?" I ask, watching nothing but her lips.
"In the rain. I danced between the strips of rain."
"This was Saturday?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure, Sandra? It didn't rain on Saturday."
"It didn't rain for you, maybe, but it always rains for me. The sky shatters and rains shards of glass."
"That sounds very painful."
"No, it sounds beautiful."
Everything she says is beautiful. Her lips are a fountain with words brimming; I, with my hands cupped, wait for them to overflow.
I glance over at the white booklet laid neatly on the top right-hand corner of my desk. A handbook for psychiatrists and their patients: Therapy does not involve sex. Warning signs. But when Sandra speaks, I forget about the roles we are paid to play.
"Rescue me," I say.
"What?"
Let's dance together, speak together, compose sentences that will bridge the space between my chair and your couch, between my sterile white dress shirt and your unbuttoned blouse.
"Nothing," I hurriedly say.
"You can have me," she says.
"What?"
"You can have me and take me wherever you want."
Her words make the marble pillars fall; office walls cave in; phone numbers disappear from the rolodex; and appointment cards burn to cinder, leaving nothing but Sandra and I, hand in hand, waiting to rescue each other. But it's too late for either of us to be saved.