To conform in all sincerity.

Perhaps to fashion out of this an ending that there is a cure for this restlessness in the soul? In which case the act of conformity is translated from the shadows of the left and forgotten into an illuminating transcendence? To achieve something more than this, bitterness? Something more. Something good. Something worthy of love and time and effort.

And she worries whether she is unworthy of her name. If she is not, then I am even more so. For we have the same names.

Title:

A page from Jack Wohl's The Conformers (1983) 

I'll start calling it 'The Conformers' for the time being. 

Personally, I think it's a dead giveaway as to what I'm aiming to write about.

Truth be told, I'm already wavering, hence this public revelation. 

But whatever, the fruits of labour does not happen overnight.

Or really, I'm just being narcissistic.

To write? atau tulis?

"This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must", then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse."

Excerpt from Letter 1 of  Letters To A Young Poet by Rainer Maira Rilke 

So far I've only got names (aliases really) and 640 words. 

Chronology and plot be damned, I've got to start something, at some point or the other.

It's absolute crap at the moment but hey, Kerouac typing out On The Road in 3 weeks fuelled by Benzedrine? Romantic myth. He was at it for years through his journals and previous novels. The 3 week rush was a culmination point. I'm no Kerouac, just saying. Beat beat beat!

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P.S. You can read Letters To A Young Poet online here.

Surfers Paradise

Ahhh, if I've a beach in the vicinity of my place in Melbourne, I'd take a walk in the evenings every single effing day. If only. Surfers Paradise was breathtaking, the highlight of my trip to Goldcoast. 

The Sun haloed everything on the beach. The blinding white light making me squint involuntarily, fighting to open my eyes wide and burn the image into my fragile memory. The distinct salty whiff of the winds from the sea undulating with the purifying waves. White foam over the white, white sand, wiping away footprints in the sand, in my mind. The seagulls screamed ceaselessly but it was all music to me. Spidery strands of bubbles in the dying waves forming patterns that guide your view towards the glittering horizon where sea and sky mold into one. The clouds, the foamy waves, I couldn't tell which was which. As if the gates of Jannah itself is opening before my very eyes.

It was lovely and sad. Because it's beautiful and vast, empty and lonely. I understand now why explorers back then sailed away, chasing horizons. I've decided. I won't let my ambitions be molded by circumstances. The beat authors & poets didn't have it easy. They lived by their art and believed in it. Their 'new vision', I want it. Of course, they were bohemians and wantonly burnt their lives away. I'm not that foolish, I know they were wayward. All I want is for my muse to dance to the tune that theirs danced to. Again, if only.