Sunday Ramblings: Where it began…
I was just thinking back to when I started my habit of writing short stories (yea, writing never crossed my mind as something that could be done till later, of course I had written before that, but those were just school assignments, and essays), and I have to attribute it to U2. It was a long while back, and I was hooked on the song Running to Stand Still for the longest time. From that spun a short story about the girl. And then begun a series of stories spun from songs, mainly U2 of course. They are an embarrassing collection really, but I discovered the fun I had imagining, creating and making these stories up.
But here’s a short para:
All her life, Greta, all she knew was the ruins she grew up in. She was born right here. Right here in the ruins of Ballymum towers, Dublin. Born where pain was a vice, born where pleasure was only known in the absence of pain. That was all she was taught, pain, and how to run away from it. She inherited nothing from her mum today, except grim, grey, dull, gnawing pain, and one way out.
Step on a steam train
Step out of the driving rain, maybe
Run from the darkness in the night
Singing ha, ah la la la de day
Ah la la la de day
Ah la la de day
So yea, thanks U2, and happy 52nd birthday Bono.
Updates? Well Ali is currently busy hurrying the printers along, and we are looking around for venue for our readings and launch. So do look out for our announcements on those…
And then to end this post, is a poem I just read this morning. Have recently began discovering chinese poetry. It was written by a Tang Dynasty poet, Du Fu (712-770) who was born to a prominent but declining family of scholar-officials. He apparently spent the last three years of his life travelling in a boat journeying down the Yangtze in sickness. Here’s the poem (from the Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry edited by Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping):
Battles, sobbing, many new ghosts.
Just an old man, I sadly chant poems.
Into the thin evening, wild clouds dip.
On swirling wind, fast dancing snow.
A ladle idles by a drained cask of green wine.
Last embers redden the empty stove.
No news, the provinces are cut off.
With one finger I write in the air, Sorrow.