Am I For Real?
The truth is, I don't know. Whaddaya think? Could all this be the product of wild imaginings of a jobless guy who has nothing better to do in a day except cook up some wild entries that seem to contradict themselves at certain points in the story? Could all this be somekind of a joke by some sick, twisted, perverted individual out to con women into some dubious money-making scheme to make him so rich that he could buy off Petronas cash?
The truth is, I don't know. Whaddaya think?
Does all this sound too good, or too crass to be true? Or does it sound like a fiction that's not going anywhere because the plot has played itself out, and there is no more room to insert another character without feeding the curiousity of an imaginative mind? Except Azhar Dayok, there's no more characters from the memory bank with which to move forward writing about another childhood adventures only Mark Twain or Charles Dicken could have experienced first hand. Or Frank McCourt. The question is, a Malay guy can't have a rich childhood experience like those white men?
Whaddaya think? I don't know what's the truth anymore.
Or what constitutes the truth. Or a lie. Blame it on the Internet. For the chance to remain faceless but yet unaccountable for anything that lead or mislead readers to believe that it is the truth. Or a lie. Blame the Internet for a chance to become whoever one may want to be.
Bill Clinton.
Clint Eastwood.
MGR.
Wahid Satay.
Elizabeth Taylor.
Suzanna.
Rosamund Kwan
Titiek Puspa.
Bergen Abdullah.
Blame the guy who came up with this thing called BLOG. Blame him for the chance for anybody with a finger or two to hit the letters in a keyboard to write a sentence or two about anything. Anything. Any language. Any accent. Any dialect.
And then hope for someone to leave a comment. To feel good that what you've written has been read by a total stranger. Or strangers. You can do this another way. Write your entry on A4 or A3, or 20" x 30" paper, post it on the trees around your house and then go back there tomorrow to see if anyone has left a comment on what you wrote. But we've got the Internet. And blog. Why do it the hard way when you can do all this from the comfort of your bedroom with the aircond turned up full-blast, and the music playing some familiar songs from your stereo.
Is all this for real?
The truth is, I don't know. Whaddaya think?
Does all this sound too good, or too crass to be true? Or does it sound like a fiction that's not going anywhere because the plot has played itself out, and there is no more room to insert another character without feeding the curiousity of an imaginative mind? Except Azhar Dayok, there's no more characters from the memory bank with which to move forward writing about another childhood adventures only Mark Twain or Charles Dicken could have experienced first hand. Or Frank McCourt. The question is, a Malay guy can't have a rich childhood experience like those white men?
Whaddaya think? I don't know what's the truth anymore.
Or what constitutes the truth. Or a lie. Blame it on the Internet. For the chance to remain faceless but yet unaccountable for anything that lead or mislead readers to believe that it is the truth. Or a lie. Blame the Internet for a chance to become whoever one may want to be.
Bill Clinton.
Clint Eastwood.
MGR.
Wahid Satay.
Elizabeth Taylor.
Suzanna.
Rosamund Kwan
Titiek Puspa.
Bergen Abdullah.
Blame the guy who came up with this thing called BLOG. Blame him for the chance for anybody with a finger or two to hit the letters in a keyboard to write a sentence or two about anything. Anything. Any language. Any accent. Any dialect.
And then hope for someone to leave a comment. To feel good that what you've written has been read by a total stranger. Or strangers. You can do this another way. Write your entry on A4 or A3, or 20" x 30" paper, post it on the trees around your house and then go back there tomorrow to see if anyone has left a comment on what you wrote. But we've got the Internet. And blog. Why do it the hard way when you can do all this from the comfort of your bedroom with the aircond turned up full-blast, and the music playing some familiar songs from your stereo.
Is all this for real?
posted by Bergen at
12:17 PM
14 Comments:
Most of the time i don't really care whether u'r for real, whether u'r fact or fiction cos I like what I read here at Bergentest. But then, there are times when I just wanna have a poke at the real Bergen, just to know that he really exists.
Does it really matter?
Berg - I dont really care. I like what you write and I come here to see what you have to say. You make me laugh and ponder.
And all for FREE!!!
I don't know if you are real but last night watching the Desperate Housewives, when Mike the Plumber came into frame, a name flashed in my head, hmm..Bergen.
That's the beauty of it (or beast).THis blogging. You can be what you want or not be what you want. Take your pick. But I know one thing's for sure. I hell would be sad if you don't churn all these good stories anymore be it fiction or otherwise. Its my daily feed for literature and one that I mention in my blog today. It was you who I painstackingly print out pages after pages for my lunch companion.
Don't stop!
stuff that i wrote back then ended up as kertas bungkus ikan or nasik lemak.
whether you are real or not, *pinch Bergen* i'm half in love with you already.
- Audrey Hepburn
As a person you are real. If not how can this blog exist. For all the stories, does it matter if they are UNREAL? It's up to you to fantasise or to tell real thing.
But did anyone ask you whether you are a Malay man or otherwise?
so?
for TV series, people know that things aren't real, but they still wait for the next episode.
for this Bergentest, it could be real life drama or a fiction.. i'll still follow it nway.
part of me believes that the real Bergen exists.
you just go ahead.. write.
Ola
A friend told me that the internet world is the same as real life...I suppose it is if not I wouldnt be having bloggers as friend right.
Hmm
Thinktankgal: It gets worse or does it get better? I like the idea of radio and tv.
Anedra: I know you are for real, ma'am. I saw you in a red dress on your sri kandi night. I was the car-jockey working under cover for an organization to gather information on the effect of red dress on maitre'd.
Lifebloom: Yes, ma'am. It's free...for now. LOL.
Nekbat: I do plumbing too ma'am, but I don't make house calls. LOL.
Nobee: Yes, sir. I take that as an order.
Pu1Pu3: Thank you, ma'am.
Xaviera: Audrey Hepburn, now THAT is elegance.
AuntyN: So far the question of my race hasn't developed into a topic for debate, ma'am. Keep it that way. LOL.
Ailin: I hope not, ma'am.
Sayuti: Thank you, sir.
Ubisetela: I am confused even more. LOL.
EM: The Internet if real. The content is something else. Wait, I don't mean to sound like a smart guy here. Truth is, I don't have an opinion.
Bergen, As for me I thinks it is depend on what is the intention of the writer in the blog. But sometimes good intuition will be able to tell the fake and the real one, hence follow your heart.
Who gives?
At the end of the day, none of us here know how real or how fictional the other person is. That's what blogging is, I suppose. It's up to the reader to make his or her own assessment, and the writer is under no obligation whatsoever whether to confirm or deny.
A parralel existence, this is - but one that somehow in it's contorted way, makes both writers and readers of blogs alike, happy. Keep it up, brotha.
sir, you are most welcome.
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