Broken Beauty

I am fasicnating by mad people. Their brain works in an amazing way. They see different things that normal people see.

Artists are said to be mad. Or at least on the borderline of madness. I believe they are. To be able to see the beautiful, small, tiny things in this life and to then express them out is simply crazy. Or on the other hand, to be able to see the darkest of things that is hidden away in the beautiful facade is mad indeed. They have to be extra sensitive to be able to capture all the details and the put them out again, either in a canvas, in writings, sclupture, or whatever media they choose.

Even among the mad, there are The Mad. Vincent van Gogh is among them. He is so beautiful and tragic. His art is so vibrant and yet dark. His madness is famous: He cut his own earlobe, he shot himself in the stomach. He lived in a life no other could enter. Even in his time, when being a painter is something exotic (though that didn't not guarantee full stomach), he was an outcast. He spent his last days in an institution.

Have you ever seen his painting? Those strokes... those colors, those impatience slapped onto canvases. Pain is there. Beauty is there.. loneliness... hope... and...simply madness.

His yellow leaped from the canvas and attacked your eyes. It exploded and filled your senses with surprise and temporary numbness. To be able to paint so bright yet never be able to tame his own demons.

He is, to me, a Broken Beauty. Someone so misunderstood, someone so wrong for his time, someone with so many things in his mind - more than his heart and concious can bear.

JIRO!

Jiro was a name of a dog, among many, that my childhood bestbuddy Dewi had. In a time when most mothers stayed home and be housewives, Dewi's mother was already working in a bank. And they didn't have maids at home. So when everybody were out working or at school, the house would be empty. Except for those dogs. Except for THAT dog. They only had one dog at a time, actually. But there were some successions of dogs.

They have their dogs trained to be a guard dog: menacing, verocious, and definitely unfriendly to people. Even I, who came to that house so often, almost daily, knew Jiro only by reputation (some shocked newspaper boys or mailman, some badly bitten unwelcomed visitors), and by safe-distanced sight.

For fear of Jiro, we played outside most of the time. But sometimes, we did play inside, with Jiro safely "stored" in one of the rooms. His barks were a nuissance, though. And I kept my guard on every second I was inside that house.

There was an instant when I left my guard down. I walked around the house, my buddy was in the bathroom, and listened to Jiro's barks that were getting scarcier and softer. He had given up barking for that day, I thought.

I was looking at my buddy's study desk, admiring its neatness (something that I cannot accomplish even to this day: neat desk), when I was struck by stillness. Jiro is not barking anymore. And there was this funny feeling at my butt: a soft, warm, breath. I turned my head, and there he was: the mighty, meat-eating Jiro, sniffing my butt.

Time seemed bent after that. Seconds dragged and minutes never came. My buddy still in the bathroom, my fear manifested in that big lump in the throat, my heartbeat so loud I was almost deaf, and that soft, warm, breath from Jiro's nostril on my butt. Below that warm nostril was a mouth full of sharp fangs, trained to bite at a moment's notice and to stay burried in his victim's body until his master called him to stop.

I didn't know what miracle stopped him from doing harm to me. Perhaps he thought my scent as familiar. What I remembered was that I kept as still as I could be, trying with my mightiest not do make any move or sound, and prayed so hard for my buddy to come out. Which she did, and when she did, all I could do was say: Jiro.. so softly. Surprise came to her eyes. Then she understood. She approached her big, cream-fury, Japanese-Husky crossed-bred dog, and pull the necklace and put Jiro back to his room.

I never saw Jiro again. Then I lost contact with the family after they moved to other town. But Jiro is one dog I cannot forget.

Stabbed

When you stabbed someone, something would be left of it. Wound may heal, but the scar remains. Pain is stored somewhere in your memory.

Inky blue sky I saw alone

past midnight
muscle burning
heart beating
body drenched in sweat

a breeze passed
distant voices
thumping in my head

behold the sky
liquid blue ink
no star tonight

closed my eyes
body on the floor
who's there to share?

(i wonder if i dip my finger in that sky
would it stain??

midnigth of feb 4, after the party