When storytelling unleashes you

It all starts when you recognise, realise, and decide that changes are good. Deprogramming can be a valued journey. And bang on – you embrace the depth of creativity within you. The fragrance of lemongrass, the taste of butterfly pea, the manipulation of Thai spices, and the connection with people of the years navigated me to a journey of ‘Mindful Scrutiny.’ The monsoon years, stream of traffic, cultural connection became the fleeting thoughts of reality.

In the understanding of co-creation and madness, awareness of human supply chain system shed so many skins that as many people fell out of creativity, I became more connected to it. Stories have helped me and so many people over the centuries to explore the adventure of literary music. The symphony of poetry and storytelling fostered the courage of expression. The scientific benefits, the gratification of words flowing, is a power play of balance. The October rains, and the swaying branches of trees whisper a new story.

Let the power of imagination and creativity enhance your expression of various lyrical notions. The October journey shares a story ‘Our homes are on the graveyard.’ Our homes are on the graveyard My home is on the graveyard and so is my neighbour’s. I walk outside this eighty year old town house. Somehow the eighty year old home has been able to be preserved and has fought its way to sustain its history. Does this mean every house here has? Do we have to reach the tabloids to sustain something?

I smell that musty and peculiar odour again. “I get it! You’re trying to make a presence here. I am still not moving out, you know,” I say out loud. Yes, there is a spirit living in my home. For some reason she lets me know when she is here leaving a musty smell. Obviously that cannot be fart. It smells so much like reminding someone about absence and the decaying of a body, many bodies – at the graveyard. I am yet another Asian who has rented this house for a year and is not scared of dead people trying to make a point. This entire modern claim is on dead people’s left overs. At least I don’t feel alone and I just do my thing, which is, write eulogies. Don’t ask me why!

It all started when I was helping my neighbour in Laos. His Peruvian wife passed away and he asked me to help him in writing one in English. Well, I was just being kind. Later that evening, I was asked to write for two more people. Seems like there was an emotional connection there. The bonding between the dead and the living were rightly associated with various expressions. I am paid well and it’s not just saying the dead will be missed.

It’s all about language devices that bring closure to oneself and knowing that someone not there anymore is listening. I am making use of my language skills. And I guess the sensation of some ghost writing when someone makes themselves needy of attention. Spirits can be attention seekers – trust me – they are! The ability of being able to read and write in five languages has made my life entertaining with emotions and mystery.

Now getting back to the musty smell and moving to the old town in Bangkok has made my days thrilling and nights musical. Time will tell how long will I be here. For this time becoming a popular eulogist and catering to various needs on my website: lacompassioneulogist.org is mounting more time for people long gone away.

I am just wondering what this lady wants from me. She obviously doesn’t need me to write her a eulogy. Considering the pasts days of her efforts from switching off my fan in the night, then the sudden blinking motion of my light bulbs, and the shivering sensations up my spine proves something – she want me to do something.

So here it goes, I stop doing everything and switch on loud music, ‘I will survive’ by Gloria Gaynor. It kind of suits the occasion. Having lived in this home for a few months now, it has rubbed on me. I like the flavour, texture, and the hidden story behind this brick home. With the way the two floored home is being built – seems like a well lived person of great choice left her presence here.

I let it be and have not done much to the interior besides hanging lamps, candle stands, fabrics and making a book shelf. It comes to my notice that the song has stopped! “Seriously, lady! Switch it back on,” I say out loud. Well nothing happens. My concern is when the spirit knows how to switch it off why can’t she switch it on. Nah, doesn’t happen. That peculiar smell again. This time it gets stronger while I hang my clothes in the balcony. I know she is there. Right next to me. “You know – I am not challenging you or something. You can just let me know what you want me to do for you. The odd smell really makes me breathless.”

Seems like I am talking to myself. She says nothing. She does nothing. Peculiar smell still stays. I pause. I try speaking in other languages I know from French – Korean – Mandarin – no response – Arabic. Oh gosh! Arabic gets her attention. The smell seems to diffuse elsewhere. I go back to hang the clothes and get back to switching on the song. To my surprise the song was not stopped and she allowed me to enjoy the good music in some peace. Minutes later, the painting on the brick wall to my left drops. The shatter of the glass frame leaves me in shock.

Well, certainly the Arabic woman needs something. I carefully pick up the glass pieces and look at the painting intently. I really never noticed it. It was a beautiful painting of nude Arabic dancers’ inside a palace looking ambience. Perhaps this explains something. Behind the painting was a yellow coined thread. Carefully untying the thread, there were two rolled up brown papers stuck behind the painting. Unrolling them were two Arabic poems.

Reading the lines from the poem ‘The prophet on love,’ by Kahlil Gibran ‘To be wounded by your own understanding of love to bleed willingly and joyfully’ got me thinking.

Unrolling the other paper was a poem by Sabah Ali. Well I never heard of this poet so checked online if I got something. Nah, nothing was found. Presuming that Sabah could probably be the previous owner of the home, I focused on reading the poem. It was a poem of depth, death, and love. ‘Bleeding and rejoicing to life’s betrayal for you left wounds waltzing inside my aching nerves I no longer dance but drink to memories…’ A devotee of love by Sabah Ali.

I was speechless. So much love and her grief of loss depicted so many things. I presumed her name was Sabah. This was a complete distraction of what I usually do. I asked, ‘Sabah, you wrote this?’ in Arabic: katabt hdha I asked again, ‘Sabah, katabt hdha’ There was silence, a sense of grief, and a strong musty and tangy smell. I knew it. She was around. The lightbulb over the painting flickered. It was really her. I just wanted to know what am I to do.

I kept the painting on the table and pinned the poems on my wooden board. It was a reminder to copy the poems and finding a new glass frame. I let the moment be and ignored what needed to be done as the flickering of the lightbulb just confirmed that it was Sabah but nothing more. That night I decided to sleep in peace. It was just a decision which did not seem to happen. I woke up fuelled with ideas that I switched on my laptop to write: ‘Sabah, the music of every night a lullaby that will be missed it’s okay to drink another night…

To my surprise realisation. I was typing in Arabic and it certainly was not me. Because it was not a eulogy, it was like I was going to write a book. Perhaps a book. I had no idea where the words were waltzing too. The rhythm was jazzy and the moment was hazy. This home and Sabah were making me travel through the ghost lines of depth and love that had unfinished business.

Oh Sabah… please stop So then this continues for hours. I had to have this come to an end. A few days later, I have completed a series of poems. I read through them over and over again. I wonder is this the eulogy with poems.

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