World Cup 2010 | Kick-Off

… 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

Woman with a Green Parasol on a Balcony

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

Lonely Metropolitan

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

AGO and Proust’s Questionnaire

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

A Year Later…

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

Unnamed

What is she smiling at today, I’m wondering. Is the nature harmonized in her favor or is it just a mimic of something?

The huge-eyed girl wearing a black blazer and a dark burgundy tie, which is meant to be part of her uniform, looks ecstatic. While holding a heart-shaped tulip in her left hand and a wingless bird in her right, she magnifies all her surroundings. Her eye color amazingly changes minute after minute and she has yet to discover it. Is it her house behind her or is she just waiting for someone to wave her from the crooked windows? The sun is turning its color to white and the leaves on the bent stem are changing their shape accordingly. The only star in the sky is shining at the cross on top of what the girl has always known as an old cathedral. I look at the girl and she looks back at me in the same direction as the jaded clown resting beside her.

The nameless girl is nothing more than a framed painting on the brownish backdrop. Oddly she wasn’t smiling in the days that are considered as past.

S