We bade each other farewell at graduation in 1988.
Our grown-up duty called us from the popular college band we played in.
Good bye to those nights when we smoked some weed and waxed some new tracks.
Coffee and cigarettes stained not only our teeth but also our memory.
What remained was this faded photo with all of us lined up in our flamboyant bell bottom jeans.
I took off my fogged up reading glasses, wiped off my tears and slowly sipped my herbal tea.
AFP agents were listening in to that pair of suspected criminals. All they were hearing was about domestic cleaning. Agents were frantically decoding. The report read, ‘The perfect strategy to thoroughly clean up the nation’s financial mess is to progressively detoxify its people using abrasive ethnic cleansing.’
The pair stood in trial in High Court. They were confronted with the sole evidence of live recording of their bedroom conversation. ‘The best way to clean up home kitchen is to clean as you go by using vinegar spray.’
I visited Van Gogh Alive exhibition. His art and life overwhelmed me. I was overtaken by a range of emotions. I was exhilarated by his unique vibrant earthy brush strokes and accompanied by sadness of him dying a tormented man. I was encouraged by the brotherly love which Vincent and Theo shared. He believed in him and devoted his life to support him and promote his art.
Vincent’s art to me, spoke the flesh and blood labouring and mental reality in humanity; almighty God’s undeniable beautiful creation in nature; an extraordinary gifted man’s journey in self-discovery, self-doubt and unquenchable passion in life itself.
We may be sadden by the fact that Vincent died a poor, insane and unknown artist who seemed to labour in vain.
On the other hand, we may be encouraged by the fact that his God given talent, gift and passion withstands the test of time and human limitation.
Some, if not most of us feel defeated by the fact that our writings have not been acknowledged or recognised. There are few of us will gain the approval of man while we are still alive. I don’t know about you. I can only speak for myself. My passion for writing doesn’t die just because unseen by men. It is part of who I am. My Creator who fashioned me sees me.
– Psalm 139:13-14 For You shaped me, inside and out. You knitted me together in my mother’s womb long before I took my first breath. I will offer You my grateful heart, for I am Your unique creation, filled with wonder and awe. You have approached even the smallest details with excellence; Your works are wonderful; I carry this knowledge deep within my soul.
I watched the news and saw how they keep the activists in the kettle during a protest. It reminds me of fencing the society outcasts in a so call self contained farm. There is little difference from quarantine. They are supplied with minimal essential items and expected to survive in a self sufficient way which we all know to be impossible. They are out of sight, out of mind while the rest of us wonder why sometimes we have broken sleep and experience an unexplainable sense of dread. We are all connected as inhabitants on mother earth where we share each other’s joy or suffering.
The night made its way into the depth of darkness.
In the dim light of a kerosene lamp, he plaited the corse strands into resilient strings with his nimble fingers. He fervently stretched the anaemically pale canvas onto the frame. Shades of red mixed in an aesthetic colour palette, he restored each painting with precision brush strokes.
When the twilight arrived, he hung all the art works back on and marveld at his resurrection.
Curator Chester Gallery was arrested on 13th September 1888 for the serial murders of art students in the gallery where he worked.
Sometimes it is difficult to tell a story without admitting I am a slow learner in life lessons.
My determination and commitment to love didn’t lead me to happy ever after. Instead, it triggered a series of unfortunate love affairs which I was blindsided by my own sheer faith in strong will.
And by the same strong will, I have not given up on love. With the same diligence, I have found myself like a donkey pulling a mill keep pressing on bit by bit till I pass the bend. There will be a day I see the harvest of believing in things unseen.
Grief brought winter rain to the city where his mother lied in peace. She boarded the train with the intention of giving comforting hugs and perhaps running some errands to help. To their surprise, she also brought the weather with her. Warm sun broke off the chill hanging in the crisp air. They both journeyed half life to be in that exact moment when their hearts finally embraced on that railway station platform. “Life is the train and not the station” – Paulo Coelho