ON THAI WRITING
By: Iris P. Concepcion
"I did not wake up to the cuckoos of chicken/
Nor was rattled by the chirps of birds/
No, I woke up/
With a brush on hand/
Where after taking a cozy dump
From it, the bathroom, speckled."
---Iris P. Concepcion
(Appendix A: "it" refers to tile brush).
I am compelled to up my ante of vertebrate/invertebrate writing. I am not aware that I, Lady UnBhagdad, is competing with Pulitzer and Booker prize winners with their characters driven away by brooms; where their butts grow pigtails; where their bed grunts mock the horror; where teardrops are tripled to rival my quadrupled eye droplets. To illustrate: !!! = !!!!
My imagination has clouded these words:
"My protagonists and antagonists, from preface to closing paragraphs, shall be best remembered for their sitting arrangements, in silent torture, eyeing each other with caution, imagining a house without chairs."
Franz Kafkan reference required, particularly Gregor's imminent transformation from a human being to a gnome bug.
I had coined the Word World first. I was not even remotely aware my two cents of lettered contribution shall spawn a novellete that could shame Jane Austen.
I never understood then why my deceased father was insanely intelligent even when knowingly flawed; shuffling pictures worth the frames; stuffing my vocabulary with words I could not even pronounce. I did not even know he had drawn Sesame Street cartoons. I did wonder why his version of Big Bird was the exact replica of the talking, feathered teacher as he had appeared on our Philips television set. I was born out from his cranium and this explains for my artistic, DNA obscurity too.
How was I, a member of kindergarten class, with pony tails and peeking ruffled underpants, sitting on top of my father's personally crafted fairy tale frogs fit for royalty, to know my lineage had originated the characters I have grown to love and adore on screen?
"Shoo fly, don't bother me (repeat 3x)
For I belong to somebody.
I feel, I feel, I feel
I feel like a morning star
I feel, I feel, I feel
I feel like a morning star."
Another one of his nursery music that is quite a notch higher than the random, A,B,C,D,E,F,G listing. This eventually appeared in a compendium of recorded music titled aptly: "All Around The World."
A visiting writer, pilgrim too untold, was dispatched all around the universe immortalizing his river, had this to speak:
"My father and your father are good friends. You see, they are both brilliant."
His eyes sparkled, lingering not on me, but to an added visitor of our conversation, proud and humbug (rightfully so) as if to declare that we had been sired from the seeds of brilliancy.
I believe, sages of the foggy mists and mountains, that dreams are pure inventions of our imagination that could, exasperation withheld, come true.
I think unknown authors and Aesop fables, unmarked paintings, unbranded and raw, travel through time faster. They too, lastingly, endure.