The only light heating the room comes from the flames burning in the fire place. The wood is burning slowly and warming up the sisters. One sitting and one standing, both naked on a thick reddish kilim, toasting their hands, while utterly hypnotized by the battle between the wood and the fire. Their orange hair matches the flames warming their immaculate faces. Even the old mirror standing beside them can’t take its eyes off.
S
Nothing is more exciting than watching a World Cup game in an English pub with fellow die-hard fans all around you. Yep, that was me yesterday. It wasn’t the best result, I know. I mean, Mr. Green, are you bloody kidding me?! However, as the Lightening Seeds said all those years ago: We still believe, we still believe… Football’s coming home… It’s coming home… It’s coming…
S
… And the frenzy continues. Just like 4 years ago, I will be covering the wicked stories of the world’s most famous cup in the next month.
Today the world witnesses the beauty coming out of a country, not like any of the so-called ‘first world’ ones, but with a heart as open and even more.
Well done, South Africa!
Oh, and just so you know, I’m supporting my one and only Brit mates from start to finish. Come on England!
S
The turquoise blue door was what initially grabbed my attention prior to anything else; followed by a deep ocean underneath an infinite sky, which really doesn’t say much. Is the sky clear or is it not? Is it well-prepared to host millions of raindrops or has it already watered the ocean by the same drops?
I then saw a faceless woman, who sits princely on a ravishing French chair on a balcony, which was once covered with the sweetest dreams. With her legs crossed, she shows off the satin ribbons on her black shoes. Her numb face isn’t much more affectionate than the unpredictable sky. Is she content or is she not? Has she grieved or is she lost? She doesn’t seem to be stunned by the view behind, nor with the room-with-a-view of many admirers.
The faceless woman has let go of her hopes. The ones that once upon a time were the main excuse of her heartbeats. And look at her now; all she holds on to is an opened green parasol to protect her memories.
S
“As far as I’m concerned, love means fighting, big fat lies, and a couple of slaps across the face.”
Just when the mind gets all cloudy and faith makes a sharp U-turn and starts fading away, he starts to make an appearance with both hands up, covering a dreamy background of an old building with breath-taking French style windows. He wears his watch on his left wrist and look at his own eyes reflecting on his very own palms pointing to the sky. Is it his own eyes’ reflection or someone else’s black, or blue, or hazel gaze looking at him, while he desperately conjures some light to wipe out the fog? He was born in nineteen thirty two, when his creator was only thirty two. He is now what? Seventy eight?
No matter what, after all these times he is still a Lonely Metropolitan in black and white, crawling towards me in all his glory like the most real mirage.
S
Nothing can beat a family date at art galleries…
Last Friday, I took my parents to the Art Gallery of Ontario, which has been glorified relatively recently by the hands of Frank Gehry, a creative mind who, according to the kind-hearted security guard, was once living a couple of blocks down the road.
I’m not an artist myself, but I can confidently call myself an art lover. I’ve been visiting hundreds and hundreds of art exhibitions around the world and each time — rambling in the high-ceiled hallways, where the collective gaze of all people is pinned to pieces from centuries ago or equally so to art nouveau — tells me beautiful tales from past times, satisfies my soul like no other, and often makes me sigh, what if I could create such beauties with my own mind.
This reminds me of a small gathering we had a few weeks ago at my friends’. After going through a decent number of wine bottles, we all decided to take the Proust questionnaire. The only think I remember is when a friend was asked: If not yourself, who would you be? His short and sweet answer of “someone more creative” never came back until a few days ago visiting the loveliness of “Sculpture As Time”, the stunning exhibit of Keifer’s Palmsonntag, and Warhol’s old black and white Liz Taylor portrait. I don’t exactly recall what my response was then, but if I take Mr. P’s quiz again, it would be something quite similar. To innovate something tangible from an idea coming out of my own imagination. Something that even in my absence attracts many eyes and moves many hearts.
S
The broken paths,
the vicious cracks,
homed the inflamed storm
heard the forbidden chimes
sucked the green bloodshed
raced behind nature, which
never failed on the rise of the sun
and they, they got lost
those darkened deceased souls
buried in the cemetery of thoughts
amongst the green lilies on the graves,
mournful and despaired, yet the ultimate nest
we shall not allow the cracks
on the cold stoned heart;
let’s follow the caravan’s trace,
restart, and praise the lights;
the light at the start of an end,
the end of an era.
S
