Resistance

Martha was the pickiest eater her colleagues knew. She’d decline late-night parties and would never go to the hot dog stand. She ate from her packed lunch, often some chicken and quinoa, oatmeal and fruit, or whole-wheat tortilla with meat.

When they went for lunch treats, Martha would choose salad with dressing on the side. Her team would roll their eyes and “LOL” to each other while she’d pick on her salad, looking unperturbed.

But unknown to all, Martha had a poster of mascarpone pizza in her bedroom, right next to a photo of her obesity-stricken family.

And All’s Well Again

December 26, 2004 — a great Tsunami wrecked everything in and around the Indian Ocean. The calm sea rose above crashing into the lives of those who revered the ocean as their god.

2005 dawned unwelcome as millions mourned the loss of their love, life, and lifestyle. And yet, 12 years later, the sea shows no sign of the monstrous face it displayed then. It looks as calm as ever, unthreatening and loveable.

I wonder if there’s anything as resilient as the sea. It transcends its limits, transforming into a fierce beast, only to go back to its calm and unassuming state.

the-sea

Write like Theatre

Practice is key. A performance artist doesn’t blow us away on a whim. No one can play a part for an audience unless they’ve played the part before. For the sake of one day’s show, performers practice for days, morning and noon, under lights and beneath makeup. Nothing goes out in one day and turns out successful.

A writer is also a performer. I write copy every day for websites, blogs, ads, and social media. But I never sit down in front of my computer and write the best line the first time. My best writing doesn’t pop out of nowhere; I need a warm up run first. Every day, I need to practice for show time before I dress up. I need a rehearsal, a prelude for what I’d do for the rest of the day. Because for a performer, every day is show day. For a writer, every day is a big day.

It may seem like theatre artists just breeze out and put on the best show of their life. But spontaneity is overrated. What appears spontaneous to the audience is meticulous practice on a day-to-day basis.

Theatre artists must practice every day before the show begins. And a writer must write every day before the day’s work begins. It’s a way to flex those stiff finger muscles and ease into the task of feverish typing that awaits them through the day.

Every morning, I practice on my blog. I write to get my thoughts under control. I write to bring motion back into my palms, to stretch my arms, and to get the shit out of my head. Then I edit. I go back to the first sentence and try to make it make sense. I catch a few typos and add a couple of puns. And once I’m done, I’m confident that I’ve practised enough to do more, and better, writing.

That confidence exudes at show time. Once artists are ready, they can walk onto the stage and put on a great show. Theatre or writer, toiling efforts behind the curtains — away from the world — makes successful whatever’s in front of the curtains.

Blast From the Past

He walked down the empty corridor looking at the pictures that lined the walls. Old youngsters laughed back at him, their arms around each other, huddling behind a rusty trophy.

He read the description. “Dr. Charlie memorial soccer tournament. Class of 1935.”

Charlie’s eyes unfocused for a second before focusing again. 1935 was a long time ago. More than sixty years after he had gone. He tried to calculate when he had died, but soon remembered he’d never cleared a single mathematics examination. Giving up, he walked on.

A little further, he stopped at another picture. It was a portrait of a woman clad in graduation robes, smiling wide in joy and pride. The picture looked newer. And the woman familiar. He squinted at the description that read, “Mrs. Charlie Yaxley. Senior Professor, Mathematics.”

Realisation shot through him like current. He staggered forward, reaching out. Just as he reached his arm to caress her cheek, a stern voice rang through the corridor.

“Charlie!”

It was Tracy, his maths teacher. “This is a huge museum, stick with the group or you’ll get lost.”