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

the new mantra

the roar of fireworks thunder through my glass wall marking the new year. not to mention the Shaun Micalleff's New Year Rave show on TV doing the countdown as well.

-

The clock ticks and a new day begin - a new year. (familiar?)

The new year has nothing 'new' exactly about it. You're still in the same job the following week, your bank balance doesn't just magically grow, and the sky is still blue.

But I have this childish view of the new year.

More of a school kid point of view; where you move up to a new grade, to new classes, and of course, new friends. Just this sense of a new beginning; a fresh start even? everyone knows we all need one.


I mean looking back, it wasn't so horrible. could say, it was pretty good.

I met a lot of new and colorful people. Rekindled with long loved-and-missed ones. yes, you. and you. but not you.

Went close to the sun and got burnt. Poisoned hearts and witness others' new found happiness.

And not to forget, learning more lessons in life. like a new found love for cappuccino.

et cetera.

To say it was a bumpy ride would be an understatement for everyone (oh yeah) but I'm sure somewhere along the way, we all had fun. And what's done is done! Why bother asking 'what if' right? (familiar - again?)


As for the new year? What's my new years resolution?

I'm bringing one advice a dear, dear friend told me to the new year and making it my new mantra.

We sat down and as he was telling me his stories, he ended with:

"Every good opportunity skipped, is an opportunity wasted. No matter how small it is."

It was then followed beautifully by, "So don't be a little choosy and scared prick. Go for it.". lovely

And with that, it's time for me to run up and down Swanston Street.


So here's to another better year!
We crossed that thin line, don't try to hold us here.

"Get up, get out. This is your wake up call."



written by I.O and M.

all that's left is ink

it's just one of those moments, where all you do is stare blank into space and wonder.

-

December 24th. 6pm.

One of the few rainy days in Melbourne's summers. Spent gazing through a first floor glass wall into the streets below (a new forced habit nowadays) as people rush in and out of the train station. Grasping a mug of Sprite with fingers inked in black; nothing but blank thoughts.

This sucks.

A lot of people have this idea of sitting back and let the flow of life move you. I'm one of em. And it's been a mantra for most of us for ages.

Que Sera Sera, what will be, will be.

The laymen idea of living. But seriously, its fucking boring.

A few days back, a dear friend, was glowing in a meeting. Not from radiant beauty (while she is) but from sheer progress and achievements. Deep stories of great career/educational and social success.

There's gonna be a few of you who'd think I'm talking about you. It's not you, it's ALL of you.

Now I'm not being jealous. I'm happy for all of you. seriously.

But there'd be a part of our conversation where you'd say, "What have you been up to lately, love?"

And to be honest, I couldn't find anything positive to say. So now back to the current day, that question still lingers.

The only proper response I would always say was reminded by the black ink at the edge of my fingertips; reminding me that the only achievement I could be proud of was the drawings I've been doing for the past couple of months.

Yup, the ones that twenty other people are on as well.

In conclusion, today I had a revelation on how boring I am; to the point that I am bored of myself.

So here's to next week's post, the new mantra.


Cheers.

oh, and happy holidays!
sorry for the emo rant; won't happen again.

human evolution

The idea of evolution is simple.

Darwinism, those species that were able to evolve or adapt to changing circumstances were the ones that would survive and those who weren't equip or rendered 'evolutionary dead-ends' were destined to die.

If you're in a camp with a bunch of campers and a bear attacks, you don't have to be faster than the bear. You only have to be faster than the slowest camper.



by Michael Ruppert. 'Collapse' (2009)

theirs but to do and die,

half a league, half a league,
half a league - onward,
all in the valley of death
rode six hundred:

'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!' he said;
into the valley of death
rode six hundred.

'Forward the Light Brigade!'
was there a man dismay'd?
No tho' the soldiers knew

Some one had blunder'd:

Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.

Into the valley of death, rode six hundred.


by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. "The Charge of the Light Brigade"

fall of the arisen, part two

similarity in difference, chapter thirty-two


This building stood for greatness for generations. Brilliance over brilliance for brilliance. Along these halls stood faces each different from the other, placed for their successes way beyond human expectations. Laid anonymous except for those who seek us.

In the center of the foyer stood a bronze and copper plaque, which said:

Our wisdom bear burdens to these walls and our knowledge shall lay bear our liberty - our stability.

Or at least, that's what they told me it translated to. Archaic.

-

So you were shunned; at no one's fault but you're own.

The winds felt calm up here; like a light but chill spring breeze balanced from the hint of warmth luminescence of the sun. The only reason of my presence up here are but merely as a temporary overseer - ruler by pen, as they say.

And you stood there; for the last time.

"Do you want me to explain?" You plead.

I gave you nothing but a faint sigh. Hmmph.

"I didn't want to . . ." You tried to continue, stopped as I turn to face you.

"You act as if I cared. We were there.

In the face of everyone here, you spoke so confidently, so convinced. In every word, you stood your ground. Base only but from a whisper of a right-hand, you spoke in tear-shed and sorrow.

Betrayal. Lies really.

There was no betrayal, in fact the only presence for the idea of betrayal began right after you mentioned it. And when you were called upon, you denied everything. Deciding to point finger to the liar despite words you said weeks before.

The coup never existed - never began. You created the coup, you created your own betrayal."


written by M. edited by I.O.
"based on Eon Rose and Methodical."

brunch with genii

cappuccino. three chairs and two moleskins.

-

"Do you believe in alternate universes/dimensions?" You said. the physicist.

"I guess so. In theory, it's plausible." I replied. in mind - sure I'll bite.

"You're right, in theory that is.

The common perception of alternate dimensions where everything is a complete opposite of the current existence around us (black is white, white is black) and that these dimensions are separated from the ones we live in. That's one theory.

However, there are some physicists that actually believe these dimensions aren't separated at all. Instead, in our understanding, there are actually infinite number of dimensions that overlay one another to form this web of eclectic change. " You explained.

"So in a way, they're linked?" I asked; in a vague attempt at understanding.

You moved closer towards the table and open your moleskin to a blank page where a blank Lamy pen was sitting, ready to be scribbled.

"Yes and No.

While they are basically slight vary from one existence to another, there are some that could be affected by a drastic occurrence and some wouldn't. Nevertheless, the change could be very minuscule but otherwise similar in any other way possible.

Would you like an example?"

You looked at me with a page filled with circles linked resembling the Olympics logo.

I nodded with a crooked smile as you quickly turn the page and began scribbling. sure.

"Okay. Hmm..

As a child, I've always had a passion for math and science, you know that. (Yup.) But I've always had a keen interest in engineering and how things work mechanically and had never pursue that interest.

In theory, in another dimension, I did.

Or another example,

You know how we couldn't decide whether to go here or that other place you wanted to show me but we ended up heading here because it closer. (Mhmm.)

In theory, everything lead up to that moment was exactly the same but we ended up going to the Thousand Blend, the place you wanted to show me." You said as you stared at me with high eyebrows in hopes I finally understood.

"So what you're saying is every decision, every possibility, every left instead of right turns,

Everything that could/should/would have happened, did happened somewhere?"

I replied.

"Precisely." You nodded.


written by I.O.

p.s. "So there's a dimension somewhere out there where Hitler could be ruler of the world?" M said.

and so we were summoned; as counselors, arbiters.

"We are different, in almost always every way possible.
The few similarities that we have is that we were taught to listen. To just listen."

-

Sometimes it seems that we weren't given the choice to choose what we learn. But we do, actually.

In school, we're driven. Pointed to a direction, the people who bestowed us there pray that we remember the steps we took along the way. For the most part, we do remember. However, when the time comes for us to recall them and we can't, it's not that we don't know it, it's just that we choose to remember things that we want to remember.

As counselors, we were taught many things.

We were taught never to judge and while that we are entitled to our opinions, at the end of the day, we're not facing their horrors of life. Or at least, not yet.

We were taught to understand. While some actions may seem condemned, we are there to understand their perspectives and their standings. For darkness is not evil, until we believe it is.

We were taught to listen. For them to tell us their stories, the least we could do is listen - an outlet. And we do ask questions, we're only to ask for a clearer picture, elaboration or their opinions.


There's one thing we're not taught. Instead, there's one thing we are meant to believe.

We're meant to believe that there is goodness in everyone; that everyone has the right to a second chance.

but we know that's a lie.


M