Wordswise

AESTHETES, they really were. Poets, singers, storytellers, whiners; they exchanged roles in serenading our souls on a green linoleum made out of municipal grown grass and wrinkled fallen leaves. I sat cross-legged on a picnic mat which was already laid on the ground by some generous poet, my mind was still conscious then that I saw myself sitting with strangers underneath big trees grown at a public park somewhere in Shah Alam. The evening breeze propelled some tiny yellowy leaves sprawling on the pavement away to anywhere. Somewhere over there in the middle of the lake by the bank of a man-made island, a few white cranes stood still like stone figures under their immigrating friends which flew in their flock somewhere up there in the background of the gigantic blue dome and minarets of Sultan Abdul Aziz Mosque. Around me, besides these strangers, as the event was held near a children playground, I saw children happily played their game, joggers jogged down the jogging lane, the Aesthetes in front of me looked not for fame. I asked one of the poets about why they didn't get a microphone so that everybody can hear them. Meanwhile, at the fringe of this imaginary Colosseum, were cheap reading materials made up of compiled photocopied words written by the Aesthetes displayed on a plastic mat; for visitors to pick up, read, and purchase. 'Kepala Hotak' was one of the titles that grabbed my attention. The simplest form of the materials displayed there was entitled 'Sampah' (Rubbish) whose existence was in a form of a piece of A4 sized paper folded into a quarter; each side was printed with a few lines of poems whose sentences my timid mind could not fathom. These set things clear. They indeed were not looking for fame. No publishing house would ever want to publish scraps like these. Besides, using a microphone could bring trouble from the authority.

The Greeks clapped their hands. Democracy; I followed the majority. This meant a singing performance was just ended. The image of the female singer who never left her eyes from her cellphone's screen when singing was still vivid in my mind. What were they thinking? What was I doing? Did I get the whole thing? I swear in Shakespear's name, I faked interest in those street performances. I am a scientist, remember? How the hell a scientist became interested in wordsforging? 

"Hi Lizz," I said to the only person I knew among the Aesthetes. "This is Zani, my roommate."

"Hi!" Lizz the poet said hi to Zani cordially, waving her hand.

"He's a scientist too," I said, so that she gets the point that I was actually lost in the middle of a sweltering desert. Desert; yeah right. Maybe I was the real Bedouin. And these people were another tribe that domiciled a fertile oasis.

"You're lost huh?" said Lizz. That was the first time I met her in real life. She's a blogger just like me. Almost everybody in there were bloggers. They were not some amateurs who posted bullshit entries everyday. They were thinkers, philosophers, poets, writers, wordsmiths who put strong characters to puppets with their powerful strings. I realized that I came from a different genre, therefore I chose to clad in my anonymous cloak. I had reminded Lizz to keep my internet name a secret.

"Yes. I'm trying to blend in somehow," I answered.

The Greeks were probably pleased when Lizz suddenly introduced me to them. I saw Hippie's quality sparkles coming out of their widening eyes as they knew that there were two scientists joining in their art day out. They smiled. I smiled. I fished my cellphone from my jeans' pocket and played with it because I had nothing to say to those Greeks. I felt cold, because I was indeed in an oasis.

Then, the bulgy bellied emcee announced the name of a female poet who will recite her poem. Everybody clapped. I too clapped. It was Lizz's turn to show what she had. She walked forward and instead of sitting on a chair demurely like the one who just recited her "Dimanakau? Dimanakau??" (where art thou?) previously, Lizz chose to stand up ramrod. She introduced herself, briefly explained how her poem will sound like, convinced the audience and bystanders that she was not good enough at writing love poems. After clearing her throat, Lizz spoke up. Along the journey to the last stanza, I looked down and picked some grasses and flicked them away because Lizz stood right there in front me. Lizz was very emotional, she wept when she recited certain lines. She put the right intonation at the right place where they should belong. Lizz had a feminine voice, but the vibe of her words was like flame that mingled with a blazing tornado; she blew everybody away, setting every soul afire. I did not understand all lines, but emotion was a powerful language. She had done a powerful performance. I clapped my hands sincerely from the bottom of my heart. Lizz curtsied and walked away to wipe her tears.

I remembered that I once wrote a somewhat powerful entry that tugged the heartstrings of everyone who read it. There was a very simple secret behind the success; open up your chest and let your soul write it. Many people can write with impeccable language, but they are too prone to create a story with American Pie or Glee or Gilmore Girls' kind of atmosphere. Movie influence, I'd say. Overreacting. Slapstick. Infamous sarcasms tend to make certain individuals a fool. Hence, the outcome is, many people will praise their impeccable language in writing stories, not the storyline because the their storyline teaches their readers about nothing.

Would it be good if I let my stories enter cheap self publication like the Aesthetes just did? I may compile three or four new short stories and distribute them in events like this. I would need to change my pseudonym to 'Dengmingway'.