Just recently I tried to write in Malay, a words/language that I consider sacred and absolute challenge. I envy Latiff Mohidel and Chairil Anwar. Words form naturally in front of them. Sharp observation, intuitive and often out of the conventional boundaries.
Words form on tips of my world
Moist with everything
Of course I don’t write poems. Not like I used to. Once. When I was naïve and small. Know nothing better to do then scribbling lone, loose sentences that form a group of words that can barely held anything. People nowadays know Chairil Anwar through ‘ada apa dengan cinta’ , his notoriously revolutionary ‘aku’ that jeopardy every rules of conventional poetry at that time. Equally was his legendary hedonistic lifestyle. People knew less and less about poetry. Even me. Ignorance. Poetry and me. To be naive is more important then knowledge, as knowledge, many of it was unused and wasted makes one selves ignorant and self centered. Popular culture gives major literary works the ‘pop’ it sometime deserved. But over exposure will surely stripe the works from it true nature and intention. Exploitation of the highest form. Is imitation is the highest form of flattery? I might be, it might be not.
Other then writing, I also indulged myself in a habit that might spell myopia but the result was very satisfying. Dots and dots. Layers and layers of it. Not all being arranged in any particular order, but were put in order which can change quickly with a stroke of a pen. I like drawing pictures of old people, aged by experience in sharp and hot sunlight. Wrinkles have always be the favorite subject for artist. Pretty in it own way, more beautiful then perfection. I think that what Pablo Picasso sees in his painting, cubism, a norm for him but obscene for others. His drawing was worse; girls with unsymmetrical eyes and rigid looking figures. He sees people differently, which was normal to normal people but sometimes jagged for him.