Oranje Lwin

W R I T I N G

[verbsreverbs]

unintended

When love knocks on my door
 I turn to my side And slip through the side door


I'm planning my escape
 Even as you were searching Even as you found me

[verbsreverbs]

better days / deja vu

took a leisurely walk back home in the rain the sniffles came almost immediately mom saw me shivering outside the door waiting for her to open it once again I had forgotten to bring my keys out 
 she lectured me in quiet anguish and dried my hair gently with a towel all of a sudden I laughed out softly she asked me why with a smile I replied that's because, mom, I'm alive 
 < p r o l o g u e > 
 I felt the sensation of rain drops falling onto my hair, my skin, seeping through my clothes, wetting my lips 
 I heard the faint sounds of sashaying tree branches, the gentle splashes of rain drops against the pavement 
 I shivered at the sudden gusts of wind brushing past my cheeks, tasted the freshness of nature against my lips 
 I delighted at the softness of the ground, the greenness of the grass 
 even then at that moment I saw the familiar with a slight shock I let out "deja vu" 
 yet for that moment in time I felt alive

                                                   - 23 Aug 2010

[verbsreverbs]

/theReal

      Shivering in cold sweat,     I can't sense "me".

           Tears streamed down the cheeks.          The flow can't be stopped.        It won't be stopped.

    I 'm not real.   I exist because you believe.      And you,        because I believe.

                                                       -  17 Aug 2010

[verbsreverbs]

waves

2 am

two days

tear streaks

the contour

my cheeks

this loss

i lost

am losing

will lose

you

that kiss

yours

i turned

twice

withheld

away

i missed

am missing

will miss

you

[verbsreverbs]

distillation

I would usually take a long time to start painting an image on the surface of a canvas. Because I’m particular in every stage of the painting process; from laying down the plastic sheets to protect the floor from paint stains, to making sure that the canvas is satisfactorily sanded and primed with layers of gesso.

The painting process itself is a tug of war between the framework of control of painting technique and the uncontainable urge to break out of that framework by removing every stroke and every paint that has just been put on to the surface of the canvas. The resulting image, therefore, is the traces of the sum of the differences between the framework of control and the forces that break away from it.

[verbsreverbs]

ecdysis: shedding of the

a monkey metamorphoses

its tingly skin raw

the molted snake

[verbsreverbs]

About love / How to construct an art work

Making a work is like falling in love. I isolate a subject from many. Then I paint it with my body and soul [   ], to distill its essence that would interweave with my being.

When a work is finished, I no longer have the hold. I become decentred. This creates a void to be filled by another essence of being. A new subject enters.

[verbsreverbs]

One way ticket

I find myself grappling to peel away the thorns of the wire strands, from where the heart is. It is bleeding and beating. I see my hands turned into red. From the heart or from the thorns, I couldn’t tell. Then I become aware of the mingling bodies of the commuters as she announced, this is where the fire burns.

[verbsreverbs]

The pursuit

On the way to Mabillon, taking the Metro. This book was bought at Palais de Tokyo, on the day I arrived at Porte de Saint Cloud. The date was 4 December 2014, Thursday. I was reluctant to go to Palais de Tokyo but the ever present obligation to the host brought me, and I am glad that I went there. Again, on the train to Mabillon, with the intention to sit down at the Cafe le Procope, the oldest cafe in Paris within the heart of St Germain de pres, where intellectuals would meet for discussions over a cup of coffee, so I was told by a gentleman whom I met at the Metro. I did not have travel itineraries nor a destination in mind. But here I am, in Paris. And so here I am, on my way to St Germain. What will I be doing there, I wondered. Perhaps to simply soak in the atmosphere. I remembered how I spent the time outside Museé du Louvre having conversations with strangers, overlooking the sculptures through an enormous glass window and how I stood in front of Paintings by Mondrian and Rothko at Centre Pompidou intellectualising those forms and structures without having felt a tinge of emotions within. But London was different. I found what I was looking for in the paintings of Vincent van Goh and Peter Paul Rubens at the National Gallery. In them, I found the fluidity of form. I was profoundly amazed, especially by Rubens, with what he sees and feels that showed in his works. I felt, in Rubens’, the sublime.

.

Paris is decaying. A city of past glamour and grandeur, with idealistic young Parisians who still sing in its praise. But who am I at where I am here? I do not see what they see. What I see is a city that is only a shell. It is rotting and sinking slowly but surely. But who am I to say such things to all these idealistic young ones. They dream. But their dreams of making it big from small towns such as Saint May end with Paris. They could dream farther, look towards Asia where there are cities which are bustling, the cities that are alive. Perhaps then they will see. They will then see the state of their decaying city that belongs to the past, and not of the future.

.

Paris is a city to “enjoy” when you have the means to do so.

.

I have come back to the same Cafe again. As if my feet would not and could not bring me to another place. The same waiter flirted and served, but I could see only the tiredness behind his smiling face. Sitting by the large glass window, by myself. I have been alone many times throughout this travel, but never did I feel lonely. This place has expensive food and drinks. Perhaps I could have gone to the cafe at the other corner of Place du Châtelet, the one where I have become a regular, a less expensive alternative. They even had wifi, an important feature of modern life. But my feet brought me here.

.

He said, everyone wants to come here, to Paris. Because this is where the possibilities are. This is where the dreams are made of. He was enthusiastic. Proud even. I leaned into the back of my seat, mastering the art of looking interested, while listening to what he was saying. In Rue de Rivoli, you couldn’t see it, could you? This is not where the dreams are made of. This is where you see the debris of shattered dreams. This is where you see people shivering in the cold on the streets covered with nothing more than a thin blanket and you walked undisturbed because you have no concern with that homeless person. This is where you see the disparity between the races, the classes and the ages. Maybe I could have stayed longer at St Germain in spite of the rain. Maybe I could have made a more concerted effort to talk to those intellectuals at Cafe Le Procope or Cafe de Flore. But I did not. Maybe I should do it again, coming to Paris. But I am not sure. I could live in a small town like Ólafsfjörður or a bigger city like Reykjavik in Iceland. Heck, I could even live in London. But not Paris. I could not stand the stench of this place.

.

Are there angels in Paris?

There are angels in Paris.

Indeed, there are angels in Paris.

.

[verbsreverbs]

Storyteller

I would find myself looking into a distance, staring at nondescript forms moving towards where we were sitting. Often times these very forms would move away. They would completely disappear, out of our visions, my vision. He has been nervous, so honest in his thoughts and feelings. I felt a part of me chipped away. He was trying to pick that piece up, the one that has chipped away, to keep it in his grasp, before it transformed into micro granules and be swept away into a distance; scattered indefinitely by gusts of wind that I would at times be endlessly chasing. 

He wanted my story. I am not a good storyteller, I said. If I have to write a book about myself, it would be a thin one. It would have a few pages, perhaps, but nothing more. 

"Tell me anyway."

There was a girl who lived alone on a tiny planet. She had a tiny space shuttle, fitting snugly to her small frame when she sits in it. There was no button, no key or keyhole, no raised compartment that would suggest that the space shuttle could take off. She would sleep in it when she was tired and wake up when she was rested. It went on for as long as she could remember because time did not exist there. There was no such thing as day or night. What existed was only the vast horizon of planets that enveloped the atmosphere of her little planet. It was the universe of planets whose star dust was all that she breathed. 

Why did you stop, he asked. My story has ended. The little girl in me has ended. That's not true, he said, tell me more. 

There were other space shuttles that would fly past her tiny planet but that only happened on rare occasions and none of them has ever landed. She waited patiently for an astronaut from those space shuttles to stop by so she could hitchhike to the Galaxies, into the horizon of the universe of planets. But no one came.

"I'm here."

I told you about him. You remind me of him. I have been in your arms, his arms. But I would still pull myself away. 

She woke up after a rest, realising that if she were to take off into the vastness of the unknown, she has to fix the space shuttle, by herself. She closed her eyes to feel its interior with her other senses, unlike before when she used to look at its exterior for signs of otherness, something that would transport her to the other side. She was gaining confidence that she could make it happen, to take off into the unexplored spaces. At ease again, now she is herself. 

You knew that, didn't you? I have that need to go away. The need to leave something behind, to leave someone behind. I could not ask you to stay. I could never ask someone to do something that I am incapable of doing it myself. But you wanted more. 

[verbsreverbs]

May After Thermidor

There is a buzzing sound, becoming more audible by the minute. If one is to daydream the experience, it almost feels like a swarm of bees is overcrowding the place. The atmosphere is dense, with more and more people arriving from all corners. The whispers condense, coagulate and form a shape that is almost impossible to be seen with the naked eye, or rather, invisible to those who do not see. The line that forms delineates the life of the man who is lying face down in the centre, seen from their judging vision, from the eyes of these strangers. There is grease around where the body is; a bag further down to his left, and papers with inkblots covering the grey pebble stones. From his worn out shoes, one could see the toes peeping through the holes of the socks that splatter all over its darks. There is a hint of gold on his left wrist, underneath the sleeve of a well-worn black coat. But the skin is fair, almost too clean. A street hooligan perhaps, one states. No, he can't be one because he's clean shaven, said another. Others shout, maybe we should call for help! But what if he's a bad guy? Must all hooligans be bad and the clean shavens be good? A fight ensues. There is influx of human bodies, and the buzz turns into an unbearably long shriek. In the midst of the din, one slips away. He makes his way through the volatile crowd, turns left, and disappears into the nearest street corner. It doesn't take long for one to appear eh, said Number 4. He glimpses a slight nod through the smoke screen. The phone rings for the 8th time. Number 7 answers, yes, they're here. Footsteps get nearer. After a slight pause, we hear sharp knocks at the door. He's got the gold watch, the wallet and more of his own, said Number 11, after dropping the package on the floor. By now his gaze has turned from the commotion on the street, back to the room. Keep his stuff, but leave the gold watch and the wallet the bugger stole, dress him up in the usual. Our next stop, Area 8. The clock strikes at nine. A warm glow from the evening sky illuminates the smoke filled attic.

The date is 18th August 1967.

First published in "Red Herring Quarterly", Issue 03, 1967

Republished in Black Baroque Anthology, 

Recto Books, Singapore, 2009, p.17

[verbsreverbs]

A prayer of Hope in Desolation

Please do not be alarmed if I say there’s no God or I have no faith in the religion, for this is our truth.

A truth too deep to unearth and grisly to face. Such is my homeland where Justice means punishment, Legal System means public bullies and Law means suffering.

The severity, deprivation and loss made worse by Patrols, clad in black, shiny boots. Their hissing, a menace to our lives.

Such is the ugliness of racial class prevailing discrimination and segregation, made worse by the betrayal of one’s own (human)race. When will it end and save our souls from terror and grief?

I wait, my beloved country, for our faith to be restored and the dominance of the once again merciful god.

(Written for a class assignment years ago when one could barely understand English as a language medium.)

[verbsreverbs]

Outcry from a Native

What is freedom? What is democracy? When there is inequality.

Why… segregation? The practice of my land. Why… this total separation?

The cause of our exploitation, is sheltered, tended and well grown. By those who wrongfully believed that they are of a superior race class.

Is there no solution to end this suffering and racial class prevailing oppressive discrimination?

I cried, for this desolated, isolated land of my people.

(Written for a class assignment years ago when one could barely understand English as a language medium.)

[verbsreverbs]

My two cents is a penny for your thoughts

Inspired by the novel  'Cry, the Beloved Country' by Alan Paton

I say,

be it beautiful  or be it ugly, the world around me is of nothingness, absolutely meaningless. My life and its worth may be half a penny.

You say, be it sarcasm or be it simply unappreciative, trust us to whimper and fuss despite the "privileges" entrusted to us "whining swines".

The world says, Racism Capitalism -ism is an instrument, a sharp instrument and a dangerous one at that. Be it us in our struggles and anguish or be it in your hidden fear of losing your supremacy, the agony and suffering of the land remains. So do the people and their tormented souls.

(Written for a class assignment years ago when one could barely understand English as a language medium.)

[verbsreverbs]

Dusting

Inspired by the short story 'Country Lovers' by Nadine Gordimer

When we were young, we sang and danced on a farm by the river against our differences, ignoring our customs and race. The golden years of my life.

I remember a beautiful painted box which I made and gave her. And with a red plastic belt and guilt hoop earrings I handed my endless love and devotion to the girl Thebedi, or was it Sarie?

No, she was not my dream lover but a girl who trapped me with her quiet charm and with her controlled smile, she made my day. So did her skin of bronze and teeth of pearls. She to me was everything since the days of our carefree childhood until the time of our teenage years.

Yes, it has been ages. Maybe a little too long for me to remember.

(Written for a class assignment years ago when one could barely understand English as a language medium.)

[verbsreverbs]

The man who has a secret

“You still lose in the end”, she thought to herself. Her effort to keep the last bit of ice cube in the cola drink from melting under the heat of the midday sun was unsuccessful.  It has been a really hot summer. She started to fidget on the wooden bench that has been her sanctuary for the past three days.

It was 12:48 in the afternoon. The heat was beginning to get unbearable. She made a mental note to look for a seat with a better shade on subsequent days. That is if she would need to come back to the Central Park again to study him. She took out the handkerchief to wipe the slight perspiration off from her forehead. “Ahhh I dislike it when the weather gets this warm”, she sighed out loud.

Then she saw him.

He was walking steadily towards her direction as if to meet her for a prearranged private conversation. But she was well aware of the fact that once he reaches the bench that she has been sitting in anticipation of his arrival, he would walk past her in total oblivion until he finds the spot under the Banyan tree (she was not an expert in the name of the trees) that provides shade to the benches all around. He would then squat down facing the tree before reaching into his worn out wallet to take out an old photograph. Fixated, he would stare at it for about a quarter of an hour before dropping it onto the ground. That is the precise moment when she would hear a very faint sound of a man sobbing. The sound that manages to reach her ears only because a sudden gust of wind would carry it over.

It has been four days since she noticed this man. She longed to ask him what had happened that upsets him so. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask him tomorrow”, she told herself.

Soon she turned to leave, leaving him alone for the day in his private suffering.

[verbsreverbs]

Sunday morning 08:08

It is 0808 hr on a Sunday. Bright light of the morning sun casts a long rectangle at 45 degrees angle on the side of the wall that has been painted yellow. The gaps in between form striations within the rectangle, adding structural dimension to a single plane. Birds chirping at a distance. A car engine starting again and again, and failing at it. Listening attentively with eyes closed, those sounds that were not picked up before, seeped into the consciousness. Nature's sounds, people’s chatters, the sounds of vibrations from the roads, the sky, and from within the earth. Things are in motion, the constant grinding mechanics of wheels and their bearings. Eyes opened once again to trace the source of slow burning sensation on the nape of the neck, the right side of the cheeks and the tip of the nose. The sun is at 11 o’ clock, from where my position 1 is.