Boy Wonder (Home sweet home sweet home)

"How 'bout the power, 
To move you?"

The Throne of Games

Sleepy head.
Wake up, wake up.
It's the end time.

Slumber's bend, mend.
Teacher's blind man.
Childlings' scorching rant.
Dad's dead's scent.
Royal frugal blunt miscreant.

Sleepy head.
Wake up, wake up.
It's the end time.

Now the game fly.
The friars sly cry.
Come doers try.
Trials tried dry.
Sheeps blight, hail to the king.

Now awake. My dear's dead's mind.
Come king, to the throne of games.

Shine.

Nadir

 D for Demon

 Nadir

You

Hail to the king

a.k.a. The Destination

A thousand and one days (he waits)

Poor, poor, kid. :3

Ignis-fatuus

Death is the man, the agony.

Mission: Destroy the mundanes!

Mission: Destroy the mundanes! 

I wanted to play. No no you won't deny me my play.

Wabisabi

Wabisabi; oh, he's beginning to listen again.

Soliloquy

 Put up a mirror and reflect on yourself.

Fanaa

Fanaa (Arabic: فناء‎ fanāʾ ) is the Sufi term for "dissolution" or "annihilation" (of the self) or Muraqaba. It means to dissolve the ego self, while remaining physically alive.

In the language of the esoterics: "Death before death".

I remembered flirting with the concept. Death was a real fear back then. Not only as a biological-sensory-feedback but as an ethereal concept. To be 'destroyed', to be 'nonexistent'. At some point my curiosity wins over my protective buffer, driving me ahead, forging the path through the concept.

Then there is no turning back.

In some way, I was reborn.

Free Bird

And a child-like curiosity. I am an ardent believer in the preservation of the child's curiosity. It is our innate nature to be curious. Maturity should not deprave people of their curiosity but instead builds on it. I do not see maturity as a repositioning from one extreme to another but a transfiguration that does not need to be forced but to be nurtured. From the child to the adult being.

So be true, be curious, and grow to be great.

Contemporary

"I have delicate fingers...and a spacesaucer head"

 Hasn't been in this kind of state (while drawing this) for quite a while.

Vitvitskaia

Vitvitskaia

Selamat malam, sayang

Womb

Vitvitskaia is merely a symbol. A metaphor. A symbol representing an 'objective woman'. I have always marveled over the role of 'female', the 'feminine', the 'passive' force, as some esoteric teachings call. There is something about it that stirs me unceasingly. Without the passive the active has no juxtaposition. And there could be no 'neutralizing'. It always seems to me that 'active' is always celebrated and the 'passive' pushed aside. The 'passive', for me, is the door to the subtle. The departure from outward-exclusive attention into the internal.

It happens quite unintentionally for me, this collection of pieces. Now it seems like a story. There is a continuity.

But I guess I'll leave it at that.

Sehnsucht

Sehnsucht

[Divided by zero] Hiraeth. The call back home

Sound of silence

Sehnsucht

Sehnsucht is a German noun translated as "longing", "yearning", or "craving", or in a wider sense a type of "intensely missing".

In these I was trying to capture a certain 'gist'. A 'feeling'. And perhaps it could best be describe by the word 'sehnsucht'. I thought it was a beautiful word. 

White blights, Flight rites

This is for the human potential. This is for What We Are and What We Can Be. For the meditators and thinkers and artists and scientists. For the spirit that lives in us that compels us to move forward in whatever sphere we indulge ourselves in. 

This is for all of us.

This is for me.

The United States of Unity

I like smiling people. Not a smile, simply put, a facial smile. But smile. You should know what I mean if you are indeed still a fine human being.

Point is, I like, smiling people.

But I also like sad people. For the same strength that holds inside. The same chasm and cackling of their finer machinery, or you would say biology, or psychology, or spirituality. What you should in fact know is that it is far from being simply epidermic.

And so I like, love, adore, smiling people, sad people, crying people, jumping people, Asian, Caucasian, Neil Gaiman, people of the Unified Race of Humanity.

I believe in John Lennon. In the uncorrupted, unbranded, genuine article of the good old religions. In the new beacon of light of the scientific era. In whatever form it chooses to crystallize, but nonetheless, truth; unity.

I believe in truth as the language of unity. Love, unity. Goodness, unity. The forces that inspires us, unites us, that dares to listen and inquire and tolerate and help and be selfless, selfish in the sense of oneness of the all.

What is truthful needs not segregate. The existence of any kind of segregation means there are still truths in the deep, dark, unknown.

And if really we're truthful, we shouldn't be afraid. Celebrate.

Please. Reconcile.

Gently. Gently.

Please. Reconcile.

Street spirit (Fade Out)

"Street spirit is the darkest thing we've ever done, but I didn't compose it, it composed itself. We were just the messagers. All of our songs, no matter how dark they are, they always have a solution, but not this one. Is like being trapped forever, is the tunnel without the light at the end" -Thom Yorke

Sounds awfully familiar.

All these things into positions.
All these things we'll one day swallow whole.

And fade out again.
Fade out again.

Idea Space

I took a liking in how David Mack describes of it in 'Kabuki'.

"As a child I had learned Calligraphy as "The Seventh Martial Art". The kanji characters integrating word and image together and transcending both. Like calligraphy characters, each image takes on a bigger life and meaning when put next to another. Until they seem to have a movement and life of their own."

"I learn a new kind of concentration."

"I enter an Idea Space."

"In Idea Space... New ideas come faster than I can draw them or write them. More like I conduct them."

"More like they conduct me..."

"And I try to keep up."

It's definitely a peculiar way of understanding the psychology of ideas. And perhaps to the layman's it won't pass off as being genuine.

But artists know it. Artist, not as in the person who creates illustrations or sculptures or costumes or music or anything, but artist, the listener and the reproducer of his experience.

As I struggled through resistance, pen in my right hand, anxiety on my left, and a crapload of smog in my mind, I noticed it staring at me. Somewhere it didn't make sense. That I had known it from before. That I have been 'there'. That I know that I wouldn't leave.

But that's another story.

And the next moment, I am the person staring at me. I am the 'idea'. In David Mack's beautiful interpretation, entering his Idea Space.

More than I can translate them.

"Furnace". "Bitch". "Distractions". "Brain Child". A lot of doors. A me of some distant past. Or future, I can't tell. Images of this and that. Some weird way to connect things. Now 'I' am conducting my instrument, I am painting flawlessly, not in a technical sense whatsoever, but flawlessly nonetheless.

And now, now, I am amnesiac. I am back at my body and I bring what I can and yet, yet, I bloody know that it isn't enough.

I guess that's the beauty in it, though.

Bitch

For all I'm worth. Is all that I gave forth.

If it just so happens that it isn't enough. I hope that you would wait.

For I am still just a child.

In illusion of grandiose.

Perhaps, perhaps, I am the Queen of Illusions.

Bitch (Queen of Illusions)