an early (good)bye

Alas, the twoangles project has reached its premature end. yes D, we only did 60 posts - sorry.

The story of twoangles came from a very unoriginal concept, the idea of two completely two different individuals perspectives on life.

One, the guy whom in his journey to find comfort in understanding and forging self-definition, had self-proclaimed driven to boredom by conforming decisions and mediocrity expectations - dwindled by the notion of que sera sera (what will be, will be).

The other, the young lady blessed by her own need of understanding herself by understanding others, travel to great distant homes and welcoming arms of loved ones and newly kindled friends. Which in results made her sought for more questions than answers - what is love?

The twoangles project has ended merely because it has exhausted to its expiring date. Not to vast hours of arguments, deceit or lies but just another project that has run its course.

To those who has supported, Aimi, Freida, Mish, Abigail, David S, Berlin, Farahin, Fatina, Careena, Sam, Sabrina, Josephine, Fiza, Faisal (Pecai), Syue, Kat, Vie, Edmond, and many others whom we have just probably forgot to mention (sorry about that we'll make it up to you on your birthday);

Thank you so much for actually reading our rants and mumbles. Sorry if we ever offended/hurt anyone. we are but misguided fools.

We love you.

I.O
M

because hello was never enough

Morning after morning,

We've been placed in this unwanted routine - resolving one mishandled problem at a time; only to face more as the previous finishes.

A friend once said,

"The only reason why the old reminisce memories of younger days is because they're bored."

Followed by several hints and references that we are old.

While it may just be more redundant fears of losing time, it's troubling how our yesteryears had been more eventful than we are now. and some of us weren't given the luxury of traveling sixteen countries for "research". shuttup.

So this is my plea.

For goodness sake, let something interesting happen soon.


I.O
t.b.c

the avetha painting

"There are always two blank pages within my books - the first and the last page. I left them empty for all of you to flourish your own beliefs or draw blood."

David S.

-

The Avetha Painting was a piece done by an artist's obsession with expressing his passion, influences and trauma in a single painting.

Nothing new right?

Level Six.

At a brick apartment with a giant blank grey wall on the western side, he stood facing it, staring at a row of very thin paper placed side by side spanning from one end of the wall to the other. Behind him, stood a wooden table filled with an array of paint and brushes at his disposal.

He knew I was here to see him but never acknowledge my presence; as if swallowed in his own thoughts. For hours he stood there where the only movement he had was to his head pivoting left to right.

But then a flinch.

Picking up everything he needed, he ran to the farthest right empty sheet and started dabbing it with paint. As if a man possessed, his painting began. For days and nights, all his energy was spent on this painting.

Why am I here? You might be wondering by now.

His fixation was nothing new to us. A psychological aftermath of a trauma? Random strokes of genius? All there is to know for me is that I'm here to make sure he stays alive. Night after night at the very center of the table, a single bowl of wholewheat noodles and a glass of sugar water is placed. After every morning, it's emptied.

Six days and six nights, he took.

Each sheet of paper by itself were already beautiful pieces of artwork. All of them different than each other - without a single recurring theme. However if viewed from right to left, each painting's tone had slowly began to be darker and darker.

Standing there in full view, I watched him as he took down one painting at a time in a random order. Every single one was dabbed with water by hand and placed on top of each other - slowly and at precised locations. 'the devils of details', he once said.

It was then left laying there for three days as he took his much needed rest.

Today.

I stared at the painting which can only be described as a beautiful feminine structure with her right arm across her chest holding her left hand as she picks up a maroon flower. Behind her were wings-like contours drawn using words with a light scenery on one side slowly turning into a dark gloom on the other.

As he awoke from his long slumber, he stood next to me in silence.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"She was my obsession - my love." He replied.


two years ago, there was an incident.
his once then fiancé had died as victim of a hit and run whom which he had unwillingly become a full witness to. the perpetrator was never found.



the avetha painting.
by M

"smart conversations"

dean cafe. coffee with a workaholic.

"Seriously! What's the point of all these complicated math equations?"

"Okay then. You tell me, what's the point of 'Hey There Delilah'?"

silence.

desperacy, an episode with the wonderful freida

"You have one of those moments where all you do is consider about life, then there are those times when life considers you."

M

-

An afternoon with freida y. long overdue, sorry.

To be graced by the ever so elegant madame freida was no uncommon occurrence where a typical afternoon with you usually meant us babbling about random crap we could think of.
Unlike any other day however, that day, you decided to tell me your stories. not after several sidetrack occurrences.

To place my own input in your stories would've been meaningless because just from your own chosen words and expressions (deja vu?), I could tell you had made your decision and you are more than content with it.

However,

For the guilt of not writing, it is inexcusable. Despite the lack of material, your genius writing brain of yours and self-placed writer's block, I'm sure we can come up with something better than today's modern movie produced. see what i did there?


So here's to more photos, awkward lame jokes, and mind-boggling riddles. Hope to see you again soon.


For those still wondering what's the answer, it's:

"Three generations. A grandfather, a father and his son."

you're welcome.
I.O

guten abend!

"So how does it feel like living a semi-minimalist (seminimalist?) lifestyle?"

"It's not too bad. I try to do things as minimal as I possibly can."

I.O

places, dreams and adventures

After quite some time promised, Thousand £ Bend with the female Robert Langdon.

-

For once, no dramas nor stories. Just the humble company of a friend, caffeine, and an indie atmosphere.

However, I did bring along a new gift, technically more of unused than 'new', from abroad along with me. An all-in-one/travel moleskin which contains various maps of San Francisco and in it were few doodles already drawn.

After your 'skinny' latte arrived, you spoke of your own little personal project called the 'Lunch Box series'. Which is based on (how original) a tin lunch box you had bought which had stickers on it and the adventures you and 'it' will have. or something like that, sorry.
Coming from someone who studied history and literature, Islamic civilization and looks like a post-grad student; I couldn't tell if you were joking or actually serious.

So I gave you the moleskin,

"Pick a page and write something."

You laughed and actually said you used to this a long time ago back before you actually grew up and that it was childish.
After a while and after I actually said "I got color pencils", you decided to write something in glee but not before drawing a rainbow.

And so you wrote,

"It's okay to look back, it's not going to bite."

with a drawing of a mouth actually biting the word 'bite'. Followed by "I'm just a happy person ok..." and a signature.

a piece which will surprise people because it wasn't drawn by a twelve year old.


I look forward in watching your Lunch Box series turn into a movie, Yon.


I.O

'tears of my lyla'

Perhaps this is my story.

Today, I've made my peace. With? My own impossibility.

-

'Picture-perfect' nights.

I sat there looking at you.

You stood there for hours, staring at the paintings - wearing them down with your eyes.

To me, this gallery was no different than the other ones we've seen and definitely one I wouldn't visit more than once. Nothing fancy - white brick walls with a crack window at the entrance and in it stood an array of painting, sculptures, poetry and photography from a local prodigy.

You name it, the prodigy has probably thought about it. Cubism, Goth, Shakespearean, Arctic-wisdom, Palladionism, Novelistic - every seven degrees of contrast, done. Impressive but not of my liking.

Not to mention, they were insanely pricey. to me atleast.

But it was different for you.

Each one, captivated you as you analyze them - frame by frame. For hours you stood there, talking to yourself as if by talking to the artwork, you were able to understand it. To you, they were all familiar - all of them had the same face.

As I sat there looking at you looking at the picture. I finally understood why.

Each one of it was dedicated for you. Each one of it was inspired by you. Every single one was of you.

You didn't just know this 'prodigy', you're a part of him. with love.


"brilliance" written by I.O & M.

an outlet

one of those cross-continent greetings. a life experience told,

a tale of a friendship, that ended. c'est la vie.

-

We all need an outlet - a person.

A person whom we can let our aggression out, our frustration, sadness, misery, pain, and devastation. Someone who would congratulate us for our success, achievements, and overall happiness. Someone when we talk to, doesn't blank out after every third sentence.

Someone who'd heed our troubles when we weren't asking.

Unfortunately, it can't be any two-bit potato you met on a myspace thread (inside joke) because odds are they won't look twice at you if you cross paths after the first meeting. No! The bond between you and your outlet can't be forged; it is synced from an unforced source. It can be between star-crossed lovers, next-door neighbors, a parent and their child, childhood friends after long unseen. almost anyone.

Perhaps, even between two strangers ordering the same cup of coffee every Saturday morning.

As easily as this bond could be discovered, it is just as fragile for it to be destroyed. Oh. and trust me, it changes you.

Without an outlet, it makes you solid.

For every sentiment of emotion, the only output would be a rigid response. A nervous laughter to an uncanny joke. A forced smile to an otherwise cheerful moment. A stun silence to the embrace of a beloved friend.

Leaving you cold. nothing but cold.

"Today, I have made mistakes. Yes, I've made my mistakes." -Seventh

I need an outlet. seriously.


I.O
inspired by 'Seventh Entry - Days and Nights"

scirocco

"James. Why wouldn't a madmen stare through a window in the morning?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because he wouldn't have anything to do in the afternoon."

TG

so tonight i'll be your brooklyn

eighty-eight keys. each stroke, each touch is like a masterpiece of grand brilliance.

her seamless motion of elegance and novelized beauty.

"so tonight i'll be your Brooklyn."

-

I hope to see you soon.

whether, it's that quite hum of silent nights or lonely air, it's a welcoming escape.

because the next best thing, other than being part of this game, is to witness its play.

just to see how this all began,
to watch your tear-ridden eyes of joy and laughter,
to hear your brilliance in all its array,

would be enough for his content; so corny and so far away.

so let this be my escape - let it be my fire escape.
because you're not fond of me and I'm not fond of you.

so tonight i'll be your Brooklyn.

Just tell me what you want for me to say.


I.O
M

self-rendition of brooklyn

plea of the fourth

"And hush will I whisper;
in these query winters' night -
in this restless opine blight;

the monarchy returns,
solace is here."

M

rising of 'invincible'

Another project is in the 'woodwork'. Regular programming shall return soon.

For now, here's a tile of the mosaic project - invincible.

Invincible.MP3 on Rapidshare