(Its been ages since I last posted anything here. Had tons of work to do, reports to finish, presentations to prepare, people to wallop. Haha, the last one’s not real though. But, oh well, nobody’s reading though, haha. So it doesn’t really matter, kan?)
(andohbytheway, this is a continuation of Woderland Under the Bridge. Hope you guys enjoy!)
2nd Death – Dance, Write, Sing!
He walks slowly to that place. Its been a while since he went there. ‘Cause its been a while since he had last felt that way. And by ‘that way’, he actually means feeling depressed. He thought he would never feel that way anymore.
He was wrong.
He walked on until he saw the bridge in view. There are more than one bridge in this city crossing the same river at various points, but this one is special. This one is his. His personal fav. His secret hideout, although its not hidden or so. Just the right place where he can hang out by himself, singing the songs that he had written all these years during class and exams. Or sometimes imitating any popular dance moves by any popular artist he had seen on the magic box which lay in their living room. Yes, he had been calling it the magic box since he first saw it when his father bought one back when he was five. He likes the feeling he gets when he is dancing or singing or writing expressively. And that feeling is gone, for the time being. At least that’s what he hopes.
As he grew up, he became more and more into stuff like that. Pop culture, his father once said. A culture which was started back in the sixties by the Americans. It was a trying time for them, and pop culture is the answer to their need for expression. That time had brought with it the idea of freedom of expression, freedom of speech, and freedom of perspective. It meant a whole new world where we can be sincere and truthful in a sense that we don’t have to be worried whether we are right or wrong; there is no right or wrong. There is only the mainstream followers, which are them, the pop culturists and fans, and the ones who deny the lures of pop culture, the minorities, the pious, and the ones living in places not knowing what T.V. is.
But he doesn’t like that term. Pop culture. It sounds so off to him, because what he is into is not pop culture. Rather, he looks up to the essence of the early days of pop culture: The freedom of expression and not being scared to express one’s self. He dreams to be a singer, a song-writer, not to be one of the many pop culturists, but one of those succeeding in expressing themselves and inspiring others.
But father doesn’t see so, he thought to himself.
Songs are of dreams, his father once said to him, and dreams bring nothing more than pretence and lies and false hope. It doesn’t build civilization. Books do. So do teachers, and preachers, and lecturers. Doctors do too. But not singers. They are the ones whom spread false ideas which in turn ruin civilization as we know today. Degenerating thought and implanting all the isms in the world. Racism, sexism and all the other isms in the world. That is why you must not be a singer, my son.
That is his source of depression. Father doesn’t understand, he said to himself. He doesn’t want fame or fortune. No, that’s not the reason for the path that he chose. He just wanted to be able to express himself. Who cares if nobody listens to his songs, they are not meant for them anyway. They are his and his alone. He doesn’t care if anyone wanted to share with him the joy of his out-tuned melodies and cranky lines. What matters to him is himself, and him alone appreciating art and culture in the form of songs is enough. There’s no need to hinder others who seek the path of culture through songs, he thought to himself. If you don’t like it then just leave it. Let it be. But no, father doesn’t think so. And father wouldn’t stop hindering me until I give up. Arrgghh! What should I do? More like, what can I do? Why does he think songs and singers as evil? P. Ramlee’s a singer. So does Suhaimi Mior Hassan. And father’s favourite, Ebiet G. Ade, an uprising star in the world of pop music, is also a singer and a song-writer too! So why can’t I be one? He sighs, with it a heavy feeling of uneasiness slips through his throat.
He walks down the slope of the riverbank, trying to control his balance so he won’t fall. Then, right before hitting the riverbank, he heard a humming sound. A tune, to be exact. Not catchy but quite fine. He looks pass the column of the bridge. There he sees an old man, maybe in his forties, sitting on a stool. A bongo lay between his legs. The man looks up to him and smiles.
-Welcome to wonderland, my dear child.
16th February 2011