About Nude Not Naked

“Listen to this song," R said one hot Sunday afternoon.

We were our usual selves, sitting in his room, drinking lots of vodka, him smoking a joint or two, painting, talking and dreaming. His bedroom is painted in a soft shade of cream. Three paper lanterns from Ikea dangled in a corner. Soft wisp of ylang-ylang incense burnt and a deep sense of calmness swirling upwards, then down, around the whole room. Paintings, all yet to be completed, leaned against all available wall. Crayons, acrylics, tub of putty, pencils, brushes everywhere, appearing in an orderly mess.

A mess so familiar, it lent a sense of tranquillity. It was symbolic, a sense of order among chaos. A room filled with everything loved and treasured, a refuge and safety net, where secrets remain buried and hidden. Where everything can be said and would never be repeated out the door, not even a whisper.

He walked towards his laptop, flipped it open and clicked on something.

"This is your song. My song for you," R said, closing his eyes, exhaling smoke, then squatting to continue work on his painting.

I placed my craving knife on the wooden floor. Crawled into bed, dove into it and listened, word for word. It was slow, almost sleepy, almost dreamy.



And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time

And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her skies



It felt clean, introducing the voice immediately. Its tempo reminded me of a walk in a park, light and brisk. Like a naive eighteen year old, experiencing the world for the first time. Like walking in St. James Park, having lunch on a bench, feeding my hungry stomach and feeding the squirels with the crumbs. Like autumn leaves falling by the white swans, who elegantly danced in the ponds. Like the smell of gentle English rain, umbrellas and trench coats running along the streets at a fast pace. Like seeking refuge in a cafe, drinking hot coffee, warming my body and spirit. The age of innocence.

Then the sudden flush of emotions flooded my whole being as the words slowly crept into the deepest parts of my soul. "I can't take my eyes off you" repeated six times. Everything faded away, replaced by a tingling sensation oversweeping my whole body. It was the feeling of being found out. That he knew of my sins and struggles. He knew the song was washing my memories away. Trying to wash all the pain and hurt, releasing them like a trail of ylang-ylang from an incense burning. That I was trying to forgive myself.

I opened my eyes just as the violin began to echo after each line of the chorus. My eyes fell on him. His back was facing me, blowing dust off his white painting. His eyes were not on me. He was not looking. Yet his song plunged a knife into my bleeding heart. It was that precise moment that I knew he knew me. And he understood my struggles with the invisible; the ghost of my past, tormenting me for years. It felt reassuring yet surreal, lulled by dreams and nightmares of a young life made old.

I tried to breathe again. I tried to hide. Then pearls of painful tears rolled quietly onto the pillows, in the secret of the room, surrounded by Buddhas and dragonflies, waterlilies and nudes.


***
"Have you watched Closer?," he asked. It felt familiar as I looked at the easel and the table next to it. It was months ago since I sat in his bedroom on a Sunday afternoon, painting and drinking vodka. Perhaps even a year since. The ylang-ylang scent was still floating gently in the room. The paper lanterns were dangling in the corner, looking a little tired by daily usage. Paintings were nearing completion, some just birthed.

I shook my head, placed my bag on the familiar dark wooden floor and swam around the bed. He sat by his paintings. He always sat by his paintings. He poured half a glass of vodka for me, a greedy full glass for himself and greedily, he gulped half down, then sighed with gladness in his heart as the vodka mixed with his blood.

"You will like it. Watch it. Your kind of movie," he said. With one swift stroke, he drew a line on a new white wooden board. He was starting on yet another painting, completing none, always beginning a new piece every few weeks as inspirations bubbled in his glass, in the wift of smoke above his head and in his mind.

And so I did watch the movie, last night in the darkness of my bedroom at midnight. The same tingly sensation ran from my toes, glided ever so gently like silk on skin. Chills ran along my spine in the first few seconds of the movie as Natelie Portman and Jude Law walked along a street in slow motion. The song all too familiar.

The movie unfolded itself as the four key characters interacted with each other. Fuelled by desires of the flesh, the movie explores various stages of relationship. What makes a person love? What makes him/her loose it in the spark of a moment, lost in time? How do you capture your partner's attention? How you forgive him? Forgive her? How do you forgive yourself? Is it possible to love only one? Is it possible to love more than one? Does your love end at the beginning of a new? Do you hate because of betrayal? Do you drift because of monotony? Will you stay because he/she needs you? Do you run into the arms of your heart's desires?

R wrote, "often people become the people they are not, just to pursue the things that they do not need. Desire kills."

And in my head, for the pass twenty four hours, Damien Rice sang and fed my spiritual being. I get goosbumps each time he begins with, "and so it is..." in the most matter of fact sort of way. Sends chills down my spine. Everything feels slow, every thought consciously made, every breath makes me feel alive. Certain in the uncertainty, assuring me that everything in my life will be fine.

"I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes..."
~ Blower's Daughter, Damien Rice



Songs bring back lots of memories. Sweetness that I want to etch into my mind forever. Bitterness that I want to purge from my soul every day. "You are the Blower's Daughter," R said, christening the song for me and each time I hear that song, I taste all the moments of happiness, laughter, sadness and death of a spirit.

Desires of my heart. I remember the desires of my heart. Uncontrolled desires more often than not, destroy the soul, no matter what your desires promise you.





*****
Small Talk
Paused midway while writing this entry to fetch my youngest brother, whose car broke down. Rolled up my sleeves and helped push the car since the battery went flat. The alarm could not be disarmed, so brother was speeding down the highway like a madman. I was trying hard to catch up since I was given the task to trail him back home (just in case the car dies mid way or something).

Damn classy watching cars pull to the side, allowing him to pass. The only time a Proton Saga gets first priority in traffic. HAHAHA...
*****