Tag Archives: creative

Random Thoughts

Getting to that point again where it doesn’t feel like the tiles on the floor are cold anymore and the boiling water is missing its bubbles and the boy looks right through you and doesn’t see your eyes. The silent screaming of a girl so unaware of the fact she will rise again and will not be left behind. The notations of quotations that cannot drown but try to swim to middle earth anyways.

Walking home alone is not as bad as being with none around you with no one surrounding you and when you go to say hello they fly back and warn you that they are dangerously in love with you and it’s better to stay right there.

Your career is chosen along with your haircut and the voice in the back of your head is saying something along the lines of today will be cloudy with a chance of depression. The sunny, sunny moon is up and he is so cold, he cannot talk, and when you whisper I miss you all he hears is his own voice the only thing that matters.

9:30 is going time and I don’t see it happening and the dress is waiting and so is my heart for the three words to see if they will ever return. Today be the last day for me to consume and seven will be empty but the results will tell a better story than the change rooms did.

The man with the name that does not please me will try to tease me but realizes I own this game and the time is stopping and my mineral water bottle is empty again. The food shall last a whole weeks’ time or I might have to run away for good and not look back at all that has failed me and not focus on the fact I am exactly what I hate and try to erase the past that prevails me and run, run, run!

(found among old documents)



That’s my personal fix_ creating something. I am addicted to it – better even- I was born with it in my blood. If you ask me where did I get or inherit the fix, I would say I don’t know. I don’t remember my parents creating something aside from us. They were not even able to provide a proper home for us or a proper upbringing. What the heck they didn’t even managed to have a decent relationship with each other. It could be also that my memories are clouded with emotional and physical traumas brought by regimented fostering I cannot remember things correctly. 

Not that they don’t have the talents for it. My mother could draw anything beautifully and her aquarelles were legendary, or could be if she has dared to do something with it but as far as I can recall, I only saw her once doing it. She kept a sketchbook in her chest of clothes though full of inspiring images she I suspected created from imagination because they didn’t look like anything I’ve seen around or perhaps she might have seen them before there were us. Anyway, aside from that one occasion when she had drawn me a cow for a school project, I never witness her doing it again.  Maybe real life was difficult to combine with her art (that I can understand) maybe she had enough work with the six of us. Maybe that’s why she hated us (except one) Maybe I am exaggerating again. I don’t know. My father… my father could build a shack, on his own, using whatever available materials he could find. And he once turned a bog into a proper garden. Yes, the two of them had talents to create, if only they set their minds to it instead of… too many and too painful to mention.

Back to me.

A day without creating something beautiful and preferably tangible is a day wasted for me. I love to see things materialize before my eyes by the power of creation. I enjoy the process of designing anything that will produce beautiful results. That’s why I love gardening and why I got into design business. Mind you, I can draw and paint as well. Even better than my mother. She could not draw portraits, I can. All of us can draw but only me can do portraits. Why I didn’t do something with it? Nerves. Nerves and self-confidence. Don’t ask me. It is a long and complicated story and I hate long and complicated stories that’s why I dislike myself. I think.

Anyway, creating sits deep in my soul and has me on its grip from the cradle on. I remember finding a broken truck front light when I was young and bringing it home turning the glass upside down and made the thing into an aquarium complete with fish and water plants. My father scolded me for it saying the fish belonged in the pan not in my far-fetched vision. It didn’t stop there. I created playhouses wherever possible and decorated them with the things I could find lying around. I filled big shells with water and floated colorful flowers on the surface, collected bottles of shampoos, powder, lotions, anything I fancy that have washed up on shore and I could use to beautify my private place. I made handbags from scraps of fabrics nobody wanted and filled them with paper money I fashioned from old newspaper and pretended I was shopping or going to the bank. The pink piggy bank I bought from my Christmas money was doubled as a vase for the wild flowers I gathered from the side of the road. I see beauty in everything and believe in endless possibilities of re purposing materials. Nothing is impossible. If I can think it, then it must be doable or otherwise how can I come up with the thoughts in the first place? 

Once I was so despaired about our crumbling little shack I tried to elevate the place by planting colorful wild plants in empty milk cans I gathered from the neighborhood and put them on the front of our house at eye level so they were more pleasing to the eye. I also planted creeping ground cover in shades of purple and green placing them just under the eaves so I didn’t have to water them much for water where we lived that time was a precious commodity. Even then without proper training, I instinctively know what goes together. When it comes to design I have only one motto: If it looks good, then it’s good. I don’t care much about the process, what’s important for me is the result. Rules can go to hell, as long as the end product achieve what it needs to achieve then breaking design rules means nothing to me.   

I would like to say more about the topic but duty calls. First thing first. I will come back and edit this piece if necessary and perhaps add a sentence (or a paragraph) or two to complete the thoughts. But for now I have to go. I really, really have to. At least even with this incomplete monologue you got ideas already what create (or creating) means to me.


(first time I wrote this abbreviation and it sounds like the things those pretty girls who are working on cam will write on a piece of paper and prop against the back of a chair to let their viewers know they don’t disappear forever only indefinitely. Maybe I will tell you sometime how I come to know this. Signing off for now)  


Neat and Tidy

It’s always nice to see things arranged in a proper order. Easy on the eye. Inviting. Inspiring. Shot worthy. Last Christmas I saw in the Supermarket rows of rows of gift wrapped chocolates. I am not fond of sweets but I can’t help but admire the colourful display. They are so tempting, neatly and appropriately dressed up for the holiday.  





I‘m a songwriter with no voice.

I’m pro-life but I want choice.

My black and white pictures are mostly grey.

And in a dichotomized world I lose my way.


I am a paradox.


I’m a musician in my own mind.

And I’m evolving in my own time.

One eye on yesterday, one on today, and ears for tomorrow.

One vein of happiness, one of indifference, and one of sorrow.


I am a duality.


Consciously self-conscious and subconsciously confident.

Dependent upon people, yet deeply independent.

Eternally searching, ever finding, and always aware.

Sensory input, sensory output, sensory is everywhere.


I am complex.


Definitions, restrictions, limitations, perturbations.

Confusing, abusing, misusing, and losing.


I cannot be defined.


Innovative, creative, motivate, contemplative.

Fleeing, freeing, seeing, and being.


I will not be confined…


~ found poetry




A thing of beauty is a joy forever…

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.
The more often we see the things around us – even the beautiful and wonderful things – the more they become invisible to us. That is why we often take for granted the beauty of this world: the flowers, the trees, the birds, the clouds – even those we love. Because we see things so often, we see them less and less.

Take for example this little leaf I picked up outside my kitchen windowsill, it had been blown away by the wind and accidentally landed there. I was eating my breakfast and I could not take my eyes off it. The way the lights bounce on its surface, the intensity of colors, the complexity of the veins running through it, the playing of highlights and shadows… simply amazing.

I even took it outside and let it swim… It looked like a turtle paddling to the shore. Awesome!

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall…

Think of your blog as a mirror: what does it reveal? Consider your blog name, theme choice, design, bio, posts… what does every element tell you about yourself?

Here are the links to all the answers to the questions above. I have chosen to do it this way because to write a  single post about a vast diverse topic such as this will take long and we all know that not so many people have the time nor the interest to tackle a lengthy read, besides I already have the said article(s) at hand. So, enjoy…

“There’s not another road anywhere that looks like this road—I mean, exactly like this road. It’s one kind of place. One of a kind, like someone’s face. Like a fucked-up face.”

~ River Phoenix, My Own Private Idaho



“Writing let me escape. It let me escape the insistent tug of my family, its ongoing misery and the reality of the world outside. Writing is like slipping into the ocean, where I could move easily, where I could be nobody and anybody, visible and invisible all at once. Sitting in front of the computer, with the screen blank and the cursor blinking, is the best escape I know.”

~ good in bed



…fascinate me. They have over active vivid imagination. Look at the Brontë sisters… they could even write about things they never personally experience. But what I’m really curious about are those writers who work for television series, per episode. For example: Mr. Nygma of Gotham. He was just an ordinary dude in the beginning. Okay, granted, perhaps a bit odd but nevertheless one dimension-ally boring and harmless enough.

Then from one day to another they decided to make him more interesting by upgrading the ordinary dude into a full-blown schizophrenic psychopath (or it is sociopath… or maybe both) with multiple personalities, just like that. He is changed beyond belief and oh, so sudden. No prelude. What those writers say to each other during lunch/coffee break : ” Let’s fuck-up Mr. Nygma for fun. What do you think, guys?” Or it was their boss who gave the order (of course it’s the bosses who give orders) but not the ideas, or otherwise they will be writers themselves.

No wonder Lost (the series) gotten lost in transition. It started as promising as a new born love affair. But somehow/somewhere along the way, it lost its potentials. At the end, it was just one hell of a confusion. It goes like that I think if too many people with too many (great/sick) ideas who all trying their best (they think) to wow the audience lost touch of reality and just let go. They literally lost the way. Too much of anything is never good.

I know some actors write scenarios of the series they are involved with. Matthew Gray Gubler of Criminal Minds does it occasionally (but then again, he is really multi-talented and real life genius he even directed 8 episodes of the show so far. Do check him out) Randall Einhorn and Paul Feig are another examples.   So, what that says about them? It takes one to know one? To conjured up pretty sick scenarios take up a lot of imagination. And if one can imagine such things…

That’s why I believe that in any other circumstances, writers are a dangerous bunch. Imagine actions supporting the theories. My, we will have a situation in our hands. But so far…



My Own Private Idaho

What prompted me to have a blog didn’t come from my own thoughts but from someone else’s. I was lost that time. Tired of so many betrayals and falsehood surrounding me and was looking for a place where I can be myself without the obvious consequences but didn’t know where to go.

Then one day while browsing the net, I encountered a poem that speaks of my inner thoughts and deep buried feelings; of a glorious place where I can put down my heavy baggage, don’t have to be a part of social ethos and false sham, time is non-existent and no one holds disguises.  Where I can heal my dying soul and will find a space to be free.  

And I thought: “That’s it! That’s where I want to be.” Though the author of the poem doesn’t have a blog and not a part of anything that has something to do with social media, I know that the only place to be myself anonymously is cyber space.  It took me a while before I decided to actually create a blog page and that was some five months ago. The rest is history.

Here is the poem that inspired me to be a blogger. It was written by a woman named Lilith-Laurel. Enjoy…


Alas, my wandering soul
Looks for a peaceful haven
Away from daily tumult
Of impurities shaven

A smokeless piece of paradise
Unmarred by life’s cruel vices
Where time is non-existent
And no one holds disguises

And so I go seek the land
Which truly speaks my language
The one place where I can let go
Of all my heavy baggage

Where solely beauteous music
Can inspire me to rapture
Where purely the divine
Can come attempt my capture

Where my heart is revived
And finds again true reason
Where harmony invades all feeling
Into heavenly explosion

Vibrant once again
With the desire to live
Filling me with moonlight
That transpires through my veins

Where pain subsides as I’m
Caressed by wind’s pure murmur
And nearby swoons of all the trees
Drop in to add for nurture

Where my tears fall down
Becoming one with the alluring stream
A silent howl of anguish
Gently calmed by nature’s dream

Oh how, my angel
You careen my dying soul
And bring to it again
The essence to be whole

Oh how sweetly you sing
And answer my most desperate plight
No longer am I lonely
Or lost in this maze of life

No longer hiding in my cavern
Obliged to offer glam
To join some social ethos
To slumber in false sham

Just rolling in your hills of breath
With wild, amazing ecstasy
My chains broken, all secrets gone
I then find space to be free…


What’s in a name?

People who happened to stumble upon my blog sometimes asked me where in Idaho I am located, or if I like living there. One person even inquired about hiking trails in Idaho, and every time it happened I can’t help but laugh. I never had been in Idaho let alone in the United States. The name of my blog is derived from a movie of River Phoenix with the same title. It’s  about a homeless street kid, a metaphor for a lonely, loveless drifter who has no defense against a world that can take his money, his heart, and his life. My Own Private Idaho is a film almost unbearably sad to watch. It resonates strongly with me. 

I always have been a fan of Rio ever since I first saw him in movie adaptation of Stephen King’s book Stand By Me. The boy had depth and can convey range of emotions without being in your face. What a pity he is no longer with us.

I love the film, I adore River, Stephen King is my favourite author and I like the sound of: My-Own-Private-Idaho in my head, especially the ‘private’ part, it sums up what my blog is all about: personal thoughts, views and experiences I wish to convey to the readers for whatever reasons.

For a tagline I decided to go on the road less traveled and use the constant state of my mind instead of going the catchy way or tweaking my name into a sort of anagram. I never thought of search engines when I was creating my blog. In fact, I did not know the existence of them that time and I could not care less. I still don’t give a damn.

My tagline reads like this:

“My thoughts are colourful fast-moving screen saver’s slides show with badly connected international radio playing in the background…”

I don’t know if it’s catchy, clever, original or funny and frankly I don’t care. Like the overall design of my blog, it has to please me first before I can think of pleasing anybody. It’s my house/home after all. If I cannot be comfortable in my own abode, how can I be hospitable to others?  How can I be inspired to write if I dislike my work place? No, I believe in putting your own domain in order first before you go on exploring outside

So, that’s it. That’s how the name and tagline of my blog came to being. I hope some people could appreciate it. Let me leave you with a little nugget of wisdom from the late actor himself:

 “There’s not another road anywhere that looks like this road—I mean, exactly like this road. It’s one kind of place. One of a kind, like someone’s face. Like a fucked-up face.”

~ River Phoenix, My Own Private Idaho