(1) Tomorrow you can see another writing of mine in publish. Like they say, “If you wake up thinking about singing today, it makes you a singer. If you wake up thinking about your writing, then you are a writer, whether you are published or not.”
By that generous definition, I am a writer. I write fictions and non-fictions with the same passion, but funnily, only my non-fictions are published in print. I quite fancy having another piece of my writing published next November, with an insane intention to write a research report on telco engineering with poetic language. A soulful research report maybe with snippets of love songs attached here and there. Yeah right. As if.
(2) I’m recovering, at last, from last week’s violent illness. Another lesson learnt: I’ll never again abuse myself.
(3) I’d rather lecture on Electromagnetic Theory than have a casual conversation with anyone. Better yet, I’d just write to myself like this. No matter how hard I try to do otherwise, seems like everytime I try to have casual conversation with a person, I end up hurting that person. This only happens with people I care about. Well of course. With people I don’t care about, I won’t spare the time to analyse whether I say something wrong or whether I use rude words. With people I care about, I can cry for hours over a single wrong word I say, over each idea taken wrongly, over each comma, over each full stop. The opposite is also true: your words can only hurt me if you are a person I care about.
(4) Seems like every step and every turn I make, always takes me back to you. Damn I miss you.
Monday, July 19, 2004
Sunday, July 11, 2004
BUT I THOUGHT WE ALL WERE PARTIALLY BLIND.
When I was a new student in a high school years ago, all of my new classmates told me astonishedly: “My, but you look EXACTLY like Ln. Even your voice is so similar to hers.”
Ln was a student in that high school too, but she moved away some time before I came. I never get to know her, but I was shown pictures of her. And yes, she looks like me. A lot.
Later I was also told that Ln is partially blind. I mean, one of her eyes doesn’t function at all. Because both of her eyes looked perfectly normal, none of her family members suspected a thing. She, of course, was too young to realize that she had something abnormal.
The moment of truth came when she was 8 years old. She was playing with her aunt one day, when she playfully covered one of her eyes with her palm and asked her aunt: “Auntie, isn’t it funny? Why can we still see when we cover this eye with our palm..but..” –then she put her palm over her other eye—“..but we can’t see when we cover this eye?”
Her aunt was terrified, and said cautiously, “What do you mean, Baby? But I can see, we all are supposed to be able to see, whichever eye we cover with our palm.”
I wonder what the hurt was like to her when “we” became “I”. “We can’t see with this eye” became “I can’t see with this eye.”
What surprise came to her when “we” became “you”. When she told others “Why can we see with only one eye?” and others told her “You see with only one eye. We don’t.”
I naturally had this exactly same opinion too, when I was younger. I thought everybody was like me. Never once it occurred to me that I was different from others. Ln was lucky that the person who broke the news to her was a kind, trusted person. I was told that I was different by a very unwise person. Whenever I looked back to that experience, I regretted that I ever trusted that person with my story. I really, really shouldn’t have done that.
Almost exactly 4 years ago, I met a man who I trusted enough with my stories. He likes thinking and analysing things to death, and his vast knowledge amazed me. Soon we had dinners together after work regularly, and our talks varied from our friends, wave-modulation (deargod, as if there wasn’t anything more interesting to talk about over dinner), and daily life. Soon we graduated to more advanced topics I don’t normally discuss with anyone. Like the years I spent studying classical music, religions, and beliefs. And we graduated even further, until I hinted that topic lightly. Just to test the water. Just to see how he would react.
I still remember how he reacted: he reached a hand across the dining table and held my elbow. Then he broke the news to me, once again changing “we” into “you”. Changing “everybody” to “only you”.
And once again I wondered whether Ln felt as alienated as I was, when she found out that not everybody was partially blind like her.
Ln was a student in that high school too, but she moved away some time before I came. I never get to know her, but I was shown pictures of her. And yes, she looks like me. A lot.
Later I was also told that Ln is partially blind. I mean, one of her eyes doesn’t function at all. Because both of her eyes looked perfectly normal, none of her family members suspected a thing. She, of course, was too young to realize that she had something abnormal.
The moment of truth came when she was 8 years old. She was playing with her aunt one day, when she playfully covered one of her eyes with her palm and asked her aunt: “Auntie, isn’t it funny? Why can we still see when we cover this eye with our palm..but..” –then she put her palm over her other eye—“..but we can’t see when we cover this eye?”
Her aunt was terrified, and said cautiously, “What do you mean, Baby? But I can see, we all are supposed to be able to see, whichever eye we cover with our palm.”
I wonder what the hurt was like to her when “we” became “I”. “We can’t see with this eye” became “I can’t see with this eye.”
What surprise came to her when “we” became “you”. When she told others “Why can we see with only one eye?” and others told her “You see with only one eye. We don’t.”
I naturally had this exactly same opinion too, when I was younger. I thought everybody was like me. Never once it occurred to me that I was different from others. Ln was lucky that the person who broke the news to her was a kind, trusted person. I was told that I was different by a very unwise person. Whenever I looked back to that experience, I regretted that I ever trusted that person with my story. I really, really shouldn’t have done that.
Almost exactly 4 years ago, I met a man who I trusted enough with my stories. He likes thinking and analysing things to death, and his vast knowledge amazed me. Soon we had dinners together after work regularly, and our talks varied from our friends, wave-modulation (deargod, as if there wasn’t anything more interesting to talk about over dinner), and daily life. Soon we graduated to more advanced topics I don’t normally discuss with anyone. Like the years I spent studying classical music, religions, and beliefs. And we graduated even further, until I hinted that topic lightly. Just to test the water. Just to see how he would react.
I still remember how he reacted: he reached a hand across the dining table and held my elbow. Then he broke the news to me, once again changing “we” into “you”. Changing “everybody” to “only you”.
And once again I wondered whether Ln felt as alienated as I was, when she found out that not everybody was partially blind like her.
Monday, July 05, 2004
WEEKEND STUDY SESSION
The faculty gathering in Puncak last weekend was nothing much, but still I learned some important lessons in those 1.5 days.
The first was when we did this merciless hiking along the edges of steep, high cliffs, on Sunday morning. The ground was all muddy and super-slippery, thanks to the previous night’s light, constant shower. At one point, my animal instinct said I really shouldn’t go further, because there was only wet, slippery, steep path as wide as my foot and there was nothing to hold on to. There were only grass and bushes around (plus that menacing cliff right next to me), no trees, nothing solid to help me balance my weight. But I pressed forward bit by bit, anyway.
For about half of the journey, L, the 2nd Vice Dean, walked ahead of me with her teenage daughter J. Every once in awhile J would protest: “Mommy, it’s too slippery, I can’t.” And L would always say, “Mommy is here. Mommy will watch out for you. Step with faith, Ci (from ‘Cici’, means ‘older sister’ in Chinese, which is apparently how J was called by her siblings), do not hesitate.”
That was my first lesson of the day. “Step with faith”, I told myself, “do not hesitate.” How could I not hesitate, when in front of me there was only a steep wet narrow path? With the risk of slipping into a cliff-- With my shoes all wet and muddy, making it so difficult to move-- With my untrained body and my tired legs-- When sometimes I couldn’t even stand upright because it was so hard to stay balanced, that I almost walked on all-four—
The same thing applies to life as a whole too. There are many a time when I find it hard to step forward in faith, knowing full well that the path ahead of me is too dangerous. Nevertheless, staying unmoved is not a wise choice either, because there is nothing worse than knowing that you have accomplished nothing because you have been to afraid to make a move. So I told myself to step with faith, and fought my way for the rest of the journey. I hope I’ll step forward with faith not only when it comes to hiking, but every step of the way in the journey of life.
The second lesson was, I wouldn’t make it if I weren’t humble enough to ask for help. R and A helped me a lot during the journey, and R especially, wouldn’t have helped me if I hadn’t asked him. But I tried to forget my big ego and admitted that I needed a pull from them when the field was too nasty. If that had happened five, or even three years ago, I know I wouldn’t ask for help, I’d stubbornly try to work things out myself.
When I was stuck in a stream, unable to move due to its muddy, slippery bottom and stones, A almost went back to get me. I couldn’t bear that, my damned big ego wouldn’t allow that, so before he did, I stepped forward and slipped ahead, dipping about knee-deep and almost fell down if it wasn’t for his strong grip from across the stream. Though I hated it, I forced myself to cooperate, to trust him, to reach out for his hand and let him help me out of the stream.
So here is lesson number two: admit your limitations, be humble enough to ask for help, and to let others help you. Damn, it wasn’t easy for me. I’m too self-reliant and I’ve always thought I could manage anything without the help of anyone. I was wrong.
Lesson number three was learnt when I took off all of my clothes after the hike: there were blood clots in my panty. My period was over about two weeks ago, and I don’t normally bleed outside my cycle. So eventhough I had fun during the hike and thought I didn’t exert myself excessively, my body didn’t agree. It was too much for my body and the first alarm was the uterus bleeding. Who knows what might come next if I dare to try something like this again without preparation. Goddamnit, I never like to be forced to deal with the bloody business outside those unavoidable 12 days in a month.
I am thankful for the very important lessons taught to me by L, R, A, and my own body. Learning all those in the space of only a short time really gave me, well, MO.
The first was when we did this merciless hiking along the edges of steep, high cliffs, on Sunday morning. The ground was all muddy and super-slippery, thanks to the previous night’s light, constant shower. At one point, my animal instinct said I really shouldn’t go further, because there was only wet, slippery, steep path as wide as my foot and there was nothing to hold on to. There were only grass and bushes around (plus that menacing cliff right next to me), no trees, nothing solid to help me balance my weight. But I pressed forward bit by bit, anyway.
For about half of the journey, L, the 2nd Vice Dean, walked ahead of me with her teenage daughter J. Every once in awhile J would protest: “Mommy, it’s too slippery, I can’t.” And L would always say, “Mommy is here. Mommy will watch out for you. Step with faith, Ci (from ‘Cici’, means ‘older sister’ in Chinese, which is apparently how J was called by her siblings), do not hesitate.”
That was my first lesson of the day. “Step with faith”, I told myself, “do not hesitate.” How could I not hesitate, when in front of me there was only a steep wet narrow path? With the risk of slipping into a cliff-- With my shoes all wet and muddy, making it so difficult to move-- With my untrained body and my tired legs-- When sometimes I couldn’t even stand upright because it was so hard to stay balanced, that I almost walked on all-four—
The same thing applies to life as a whole too. There are many a time when I find it hard to step forward in faith, knowing full well that the path ahead of me is too dangerous. Nevertheless, staying unmoved is not a wise choice either, because there is nothing worse than knowing that you have accomplished nothing because you have been to afraid to make a move. So I told myself to step with faith, and fought my way for the rest of the journey. I hope I’ll step forward with faith not only when it comes to hiking, but every step of the way in the journey of life.
The second lesson was, I wouldn’t make it if I weren’t humble enough to ask for help. R and A helped me a lot during the journey, and R especially, wouldn’t have helped me if I hadn’t asked him. But I tried to forget my big ego and admitted that I needed a pull from them when the field was too nasty. If that had happened five, or even three years ago, I know I wouldn’t ask for help, I’d stubbornly try to work things out myself.
When I was stuck in a stream, unable to move due to its muddy, slippery bottom and stones, A almost went back to get me. I couldn’t bear that, my damned big ego wouldn’t allow that, so before he did, I stepped forward and slipped ahead, dipping about knee-deep and almost fell down if it wasn’t for his strong grip from across the stream. Though I hated it, I forced myself to cooperate, to trust him, to reach out for his hand and let him help me out of the stream.
So here is lesson number two: admit your limitations, be humble enough to ask for help, and to let others help you. Damn, it wasn’t easy for me. I’m too self-reliant and I’ve always thought I could manage anything without the help of anyone. I was wrong.
Lesson number three was learnt when I took off all of my clothes after the hike: there were blood clots in my panty. My period was over about two weeks ago, and I don’t normally bleed outside my cycle. So eventhough I had fun during the hike and thought I didn’t exert myself excessively, my body didn’t agree. It was too much for my body and the first alarm was the uterus bleeding. Who knows what might come next if I dare to try something like this again without preparation. Goddamnit, I never like to be forced to deal with the bloody business outside those unavoidable 12 days in a month.
I am thankful for the very important lessons taught to me by L, R, A, and my own body. Learning all those in the space of only a short time really gave me, well, MO.
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