Sunday, October 30, 2005

Tuesday Blues

Tuesday, October 25, 2005
7:22:14 PM

People. I am so sick of them. All they talk of is other people. And not about great people mind you… All they get to talk about is ordinary, stupid people with equally stupid ideas and leading equally meaningless lives. More irritating is that when someone talks to me about ‘people’…I mean, have they nothing else to talk about? I recall a friend of mine wondering where are all the elves gone from this world…At least, we would then have some other topics to talk about. Elves. (Reminds me of Elvis…damn, included in the set of people again!).

Where are all the ideas gone? Or events, for that matter. Carnivals are great events, I tell you. And nobody talks of that either. I can’t lead this bleak life, lack of Revolution, full of limitations and failure and frustration. Sometimes I wish I could change my sex. Really. I don’t like being a girl sometimes. Makes me feel so stereotyped. And hey, that’s not me. I feel comfortable being a vagabond… Are there any female vagabonds out there??? I don’t think so. Even if there are, they can be grossly misunderstood and hence misused as whores.

I have finally started sketching…finally got hold of it again… I am looking for a model…any volunteers out there with Greek features? I don’t understand why I don’t identify much with abstract art… It’s too personal…but you can actually pass abstract messages through impressionistic art, somewhat like Leonardo (not De Caprio, especially if Hugh Grant is by any chance reading this post)… That’s much more intriguing than directly painting something abstract…you can conceal and reveal so much in impressionistic art at the same time. But as a starter, my intentions won’t be so grand and colossal…I’m just a novice.

Friday, October 07, 2005


Well, that's exactly 55 words of rubbish too...

Long ago, some entities were tagged to “write” in 55 words, causing mass failing in exam, a heretic act of murdering creativity, (=which is the only means of survival at present). The chain of events has followed till today, where certain individuals were born with a recessive allele Factor M, making them mushy by nature.

Monday, October 03, 2005

Just Being

Tuesday, October 04, 2005
1:06:53 AM

How is it that it is more important that I sleep less and keep my bed done when we don’t know a thing about how big the Universe is or why it exists? The Ultimate Question seems to be less important than what I actually do or don’t. It’s not even funny, man.

I like to be untidy. No, no, I luuuvvvv to be untidy. Gives me more time to do all sorts of things. I don’t need to spend time in keeping things orderly. And there’s so much fun in finding out stuff, cos’ you know exactly where something is. The complex structure of untidiness reminds me of pre-impressionism, post-impressionism and everything in-between. There’s a certain sense of aesthetics which we can only see in the paintings of Van Gogh, although I don’t like his paintings much. He has a signature in the piece itself, which makes him so special. But I can’t take my eyes off Renoir’s perfection and C├ęzanne’s glowing details.

Just a while ago, my mom came in for inspection, thinking I was typing a love letter. Thanks heaven that I was only being assertive of my limited knowledge of Fine Arts. Anyway, I wouldn’t be typing a love letter, I would rather write one. What’s the charm in writing a love letter electronically? The depth, pressure and flow of handwriting as par your emotions are lost.

Am listening to Dylan Unplugged. I wish I could be like him. I wish I could be Dylan, Jim Morrison or Bob Marley, any one of them. Then I could curse anybody on the microphone and people would find it quite interesting, and even aesthetic. Plus I could be untidy without show-cause. I could travel from place to place, and read any book I wanted to. There are a few lines in Dylan’s “Simple Twist of Fate” that I often ponder:

People tell me it’s a sin
To think and feel too much within
I still believe she was my queen
But I lost the ring
She was born in the spring
But I, was born today!
Blame it on, a simple twist of fate

Watch the’s so lovely! Dylan is still alive, unlike Marley and Morrison. I wish I could meet him someday. I wish I met him accidentally, like I won’t even recognize him when I come across him, and he would simply chat on with me...and I would only know it’s him when we bid adieu to each other. I wish I was born in his time, and that he never knew Joan Baez.