Excerpts from 'The Mad Tibetan' -

Something about the Tibetan fascinates me. The lean, agile figure now starts to do things, strange and startling. I switch to telephoto and move in further, focusing on him, clicking; capturing his each movement, each expression. He winces, gleams at my intrusion, then ducks down into the tent. I skirt around him trying to peek inside, but see nothing. Suddenly he springs up, grinning! I shriek! Sheepishly, I step back, embarrassed at not being savvy enough to keep up with his delightful shenanigans. A little game starts to play between the Tibetan and me. He is performing, peacock-like, strutting about, showing off all his colours; the flashing of his dark narrow eyes . . . his bewitching smile! Each monkeyshine of his, I’m supposed to be alert to and capture with my lens; freeze the moment with quick flashes! Smile! Click! Duck! Click! Frown! Click! Eye-shine! Click! Hide! Click! Oops! Both giggling! This man is a performer! An actor! Perfect subject for a photographer! His face is a burnt bark-brown, squalid, wrinkled, the skin of old yaks. His eyes have the look of one who has lived many lives. Is he young, is he old, I cannot tell . . . Suddenly it begins to snow. Damn! Hurriedly I tuck the camera under my muffler. Little gossamers of white slowly start to fill the landscape, turning it to a bluish grey. The Tibetan is looking up at the sky, the smile from his eyes gone; the expression on his face now decidedly undecipherable. Suddenly he runs inside the tent, darts down to the bare ground, and fiercely begins rummaging through his things. I follow; try to peep in. Hair all over his face, he is on all fours, scrambling the floor for something. The low, grunting sound immediately puts me at unease. What could he so frantically be grabbling for? Between the grunting and grinding of his teeth, when I catch his face he appears like a wild animal, hunting . . . or hunted . . . something like that. Suddenly he springs to his feet, breathless, holding in his hand, a matchbox! His eyes are wild. He grins! A matchbox? I’m perplexed. I sort of, grin back. Inside me, I am slowly beginning to freeze . . . from the chill. My hands start to shiver. I need to rub my palms together, get the flow back. A strong wind starts up; the soft snow quickly turns to sleet. He is oblivious of my presence now: all crouched up in front of the mud stove, striking matchsticks, trying to light a fire in the falling snow. I’m befuddled. The matchsticks won’t light. He strikes again, and again, and again, ferocious as a tiger, growling fiercely, the white snowflakes falling around him, filling the roofless tent, turning it white on the inside. I step back and watch him from a distance now. The more it snows, the more desperate the he gets, trying to light a fire. The image turns surreal. He strikes a matchstick, his face lights up for just a flash of a second, he grins, then a hard, biting wind blows it away. He does it once, does it twice, then a third time . . . each time he strikes the matchstick, the wind whisks the flame away! The Tibetan smiles a metal smile, his face flushed, his eyes red, fierce, a bit crazy! I can see the blizzard rising in his head . . . ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` A frosty wind whips my face, takes my breath away. Both arms flung out, I am standing peering into the white night. Then I see him . . . the lean figure of a man in a long red coat with straggly hair falling about his face. It’s the Tibetan! Skulking in the wintry midnight, rattling the silence of the old tar road, he is sauntering in the falling snow, dragging behind him on long strings tied to his waist, a bunch of empty tin cans . . . Seeing a window open, a light flood onto the road, the Tibetan stops, looks up. I simper. He smiles. I wave. He beams. Huddled in my blanket I sit at the windowsill gazing at the road below. The Tibetan lifts his arms, swings them around, turns, looks up at me again, and begins to dance . . . Like a dervish he twirls, the exultant spirit, laughing, his flaming red robe flailing about him in layers, arms out-stretched; the tin cans held on strings, flying around him, jangling . . . Sylph-like he dances, the mad Tibetan . . . swirling on white earth . . . . I quickly grab my camera and rush back to the window, but then, I put it down. No, this is not a moment film can do justice to; this moment, I can only capture with my heart . . .

` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `

An excerpt from 'Ruth Mayberry' -

Ruth spoke slowly in her usual gentle manner and with grace, the one thing she never let go. The man chatting with her at the opening night of the new art show at MOMA suddenly looked at the lady in the black hat, with refreshed enthusiasm. ‘Really? Which films have you written?’ ‘I have written’ . . . Ruth’s face clouded. She started to look for, words. ‘I have written . . . not films . . . I mean, I have written many screenplays, but nothing has been made into a . . . film . . . as yet.’ She could hear her voice wane towards the end. The man turned around to look at the painting again.