A writer’s life is often a series of droughts and floods. I’m waiting for another flood.
Quit swimming in the air, Kenny tells them, air is no place for fish.
But they refuse to listen.
During the day they forage amid the plants in their aquarium, driving him crazy most weeks because no sooner than he puts in a half-decent plant in their aquarium they set about ripping it apart. The Singapore Aquaria, set above the sparkling, man-made Sentosa beach, likes each of its aquariums to look as neat and well-groomed as Singapore parks, gardens, people and government. If Kenny, a Filipino, is to survive here he has to make sure the Blue Tialpia behave.
But the Tilapia do not know about the obsession for order that hovers about them.
Each of them can be anything, a straight line, a dusty horseshoe, an exploding seaweed, a violent flower, a taxi upturned, a vertical road, a bashed-up song, a thought without a ladder, a dancing boat, a frequency of being, an empty corridor.
So Gianni goes for a walk, calling out for Donatella Versace, for she is the only woman in his gay life, his sister, his muse, his daughter by proxy, the one who inspired crazy creations and the one who inherited his glittering empire. Perhaps he wants to ask her what she is up to with is empire, are the slashed-to-the-waist dresses selling well? Does she still do bling-bing handbags ?
Read one Paulo Coelho and you’ve read them all. I have read three, but it is basically the same thing the chap is trying to say.
But once in a while, I like reading over extracts from his writing, like this one from from “Like a flowing river”: