A Strolling Thought

A Strolling Thought

            He wondered what he ought to write down. Did illogical sentences come out as before? Then, he would be criticized again. Actually, he had been studying properly; but, the difficult thing was that he did not know what he would like to write.

            There is a saying which goes "Being ignorant is more difficult than having nothing". It is true; it is better not to own anything, because if one knows nothing it is a real dilemma. Today age is the knowledge age. One would be left behind if one cannot keep up with the age. Therefore, he read any sort of books. But, he could not satisfy with his own knowledge. And, he thought he still needed to be fulfilled.

            Some of his colleagues advised him that only when he knew everything and started to write down, he would be old enough. Their advice was laudable. He accepted them. But, there was one thing he had accepted that it was indispensable one should know one's art very well like filling up one's stomach.

            So, he tried to write gingerly whatever he wrote, from words, the syntax, the themes, everything he tried to manage to put them together not to be needy. He tried to choose desirable words, then, he used them. He studied distinctively what kinds of diction use in what kinds of society or communities. What was that? A slang, a colloquial, a dialect, an euphemism, and a derogatory, etc.

            Next, the syntax which is consistent with the themes, for an active situation, he uses short sentences orderly and successively; so also, for a series of events and exposition he uses longer sentences. He was accustomed to them and became habitual about it. But, the difficult thing was sometimes he could not find the theme he would write this time.

…

            So, he had read about it in a book. It was "The scariest thing for a writer is a blank sheet of paper". It was true. It might be like someone who is afraid of ghosts, when he watches a horror film, his face becomes pale, a writer who though has an idea in head, but does not know what he writes on paper and nothing comes into his head, the latter is worse than the former.

            He stopped wandering. He reviewed many popular subjects and literary forms from rhetoric texts he had read. He sat at a writing desk nonchalantly. Before him sprawled blank sheets of paper and a pen. He looked like an entrepreneur was about to embark on a business. In business, Kamma is crucial. Every risk causes excitation, right?

            People really enjoy excitement. Look at those who ride roller-coasters or faris wheels in parks. Some engage in extreme activities like a free-fall from the hills, and bridges or playing acrobats, etc.

…

            Oh, a piece of idea rushed into his head. It was the beginning of inspiration. Later, the themes to be written will be lighted. He felt happy. And he satisfied himself a bit. His studies would not become useless then. One way or other he uses them. He must use his art for his own existence. Then, he could stand as a human being.

…

            Another difficult thing became "the title".  He was at a loss giving a name to a short poem.   He read it, he measured it with checklists. It contained images, tight words, good and reflects the age. Read it, and he smiled. In fact, he wrote it from his feelings. He wanted others to feel like him. He is an expressionist.

…

            He looked up at a clock on the wall to know the time. It said: 4: 30. This time, he went out for a cup of tea. He read the poem again. He could not think out its title. He knew a man is a victim of habit. This time he did this. So, he has to do it. It is natural.

 

…

            He picked up a shirt and wore it. Before he left the room, he stacked the sheets of paper neatly. Beside them lay an untitled poem and a blue pen. He looked at them thoughtfully. Then, he closed the door carefully, and left. When he felt vexed, he knew what he should do.

            It was that to drink a cup of tea or to take a stroll.●

                                                                                                                      written by San Lin Tun

Glossary

Kamma an action or a result one gets from one does.

(A short story extracted from the short story collection titled ''A Classic Night at Cafe Blues and Other Short Stories.)

Green Grass in the Pink Plain (A Short Story)

Green Grass in the Pink Plain

Green grass survives in the pink plain. A constant breeze is blowing gently across it. Such a splendid scene to watch! Whenever the breeze comes across it, the grass is swaying gently.

                                              ‘‘Zee…zee…zee…zee…zee…zee…zee’’

The buzzing sound appears without stopping. A little bee transgresses into the pink plain. Maybe it likes to find food. Its food is nectar. It is flying over the grass, wandering here and there.

‘‘Wow! This place is really nice. But I can’t find any flowers that can give nectar I want. So, it’s no use finding food here. But, I want to enjoy its beauty,’’ mused the bee.

                                                ‘‘Zee…zee…zee…zee…zee…zee…zee’’

Finally, the flying sound of the bee diminishes into the distance.

…

Before much time has passed, there comes another sound.

                                    ‘‘Stomp…stomp…stomp…stomp…stomp…stomp…stomp’’

A farmer with a long boot approaches the edge of the plain. There are several lines on his face that show how old he is. He is carrying a rake on his shoulder. The hands that are holding the handle are really strong.

From the edge he looks into the plain.

‘‘Huh, Green grass!’’ He looks at it thoroughly. Then, a smile appears in his face. He inhales deeply. The cool breeze is coming across the grass as he puts down the rake from his shoulder. ‘‘What a pleasant smell! Is that a present from nature?’’ exclaims the farmer.

Suddenly, he remembers his wife and children who are waiting for his return. He picks the rake again and prepares to step towards the farm house. He braces himself up and goes back home. He does not go into the plain but he turns his head over his shoulder to glance at it.

…

A shadow can be visible from the distance. Not quite distinct. It was coming nearer to get more distinct. Is he a traveller? He cannot be the one. There is a camera hanging around his neck. He also has a hat on. He is the third man who has come to the edge of the plain.

When he reaches the edge, he senses the eccentricities of the place. ‘‘Oh! The plain is pink. But the grass is green. This plain is extraordinary,’’ remarked the man.

He takes out a book and writes down the geography of the place carefully. He looks out into the plain. He takes pictures of it from every corner and every perspective. He enters the plain and surveys the grass. ‘‘It is normal. Only the plain is extraordinary,’’ said the man.

An idea comes into his head. But he cannot find any solution to it. He needs to ask his friend, the painter. Because the mix of colours is not his cup of tea, only his friend can know the meaning of colours. When you mix pink and green, what colour will you get? When I meet him, I’ll ask him. He studies the plain thoroughly and then, leaves.

…

When a city man relates about the pink plain and the green grass to another fellow man, the latter thinks deeply and says, ‘‘It’s ridiculous. Nonsense. It is out of logic.’’ He denies, ‘‘this is a nonsense proposition’’. He does not accept it. Actually, he is a pragmatic. The first city man thinks that the only way to prove him the existence of the plain and grass is to bring the man there.

Logically speaking, how does the grass grow in a pink plan? It happens through nature. Then, let him ask a question. The first city man who relates about the plain says that his words are true. So, he proposes his supposition.

‘‘Ok! Suppose this proposition is impossible. But I believe it. What will you say of Darwin theory: Men are descendants of the monkey? Do you accept the fact?’’ asks the first city man.

 ‘‘I agree, of course, because the majority accept it,’’ replies the pragmatic man.

‘‘Ok. Let it be. Then, I’ll say one thing. Suppose monkeys live up in the trees. Because they are descending from the trees, they become human beings. Or if the monkeys on the trees are the origin of species, then human beings must live on the trees.’’

The pragmatic man stares at the man, and he murmurs, ‘‘Hmmm, nonsense, it’s rubbish!’’

The first city man who says about the plain feels contended with his hypothetical explanation. You might wonder if he is an environmentalist or an ideologist or a philosopher.

But, the plain really exists. The bee knows it. The farmer knows it. The journalist knows it. The first city man who tells about the plain knows it. The pragmatic man who cannot accept the existence of the plain knows it.

Then, how many people know about it?

Let it be. It is true that there are few who accept it.

Consider it. What about the pink plain and green grass? Can they change colour or can they still be the same?

The real predominant factor of the world is changing. Pink can become green. Green grass can become pink. But there is one thing for you. If you want them to believe your story, you yourself must be a writer. If not, no one can say such a thing.●

(Extracted from ‘‘A Classic Night at Café Blues and Other Stories by San Lin Tun)

A short story

A short story

Abstract

Abstract

All are blue. But not pure blue, actually mixes with red, not proportionately: spot, speck, tinge, side by side, mixed layers, trails of red, disconnected red: yellow occurs at some point, but thick enough, strong enough, except in some places thin, mixes with green, somewhere strong yellow, irregular tinge of mixed color. Actually, it is nothing, but abstract.

 San Lin Tun

(It is the extract from a short story collection "A Classic Night At Cafe Blues and Other Stories" by San Lin Tun.)